24972	----	None 
24722	----	None 
923	----	(alight@mercury.interpath.net), who, as a former member of the South Carolina National Guard, has a special interest in the subject. Two related works are already online, available from Project Gutenberg and perhaps from other sources. http://www.cs.cmu.edu/Web/books.html is a good site. They are the biographies of Francis Marion by the Rev. Mason Locke Weems and by William Gilmore Simms. The Weems biography is full of errors, and is more useful as literature than as history. Weems is the same author who invented the anecdote about George Washington and the Cherry Tree. William Gilmore Simms was a prominent South Carolina author, who wrote many books of history, fiction, and poetry. His 1844 biography of Marion is the broadest in scope of the three, and probably the best for the casual reader. Of course, the interested reader should read all three biographies. (The information on Web pages, etc. is correct as of 21 May 1997.) (2) A. S. Salley's Introduction from the 1948 edition. A. S. Salley wrote several works of genealogy and S. C. local history. He also wrote this short introduction to the 1948 edition, which we have checked, and IS in the public domain. Introduction to New Edition. By A. S. Salley. But for an accident General Francis Marion probably would not have been the hero of the Revolution that he became. In June, 1775, the Provincial Congress of South Carolina, the extra-legal body of the revolting people of the province, organized three regiments of regular troops in preparation against any attempt at coercion by the British government. The first and second regiments were constituted as infantry, or foot; the third regiment as rangers, or horse. The Congress elected twenty captains to man the first and second regiments, and they took seniority according to their standing in the vote. Francis Marion was elected one of the twenty captains and stood third in the balloting and was assigned to the Second Regiment, ranking second to Capt. Barnard Elliott. In November, 1775, an artillery regiment was organized and Capt. Elliott was promoted to major thereof. In February, 1776, a regiment of rifles was organized and Major McIntosh of the Second was promoted to be lieutenant-colonel thereof, which advanced Captain Marion to the majority of the Second Regiment. On September 16, 1776, the six regular regiments of South Carolina were taken on the Continental Establishment and Colonel William Moultrie, of the Second Regiment, was promoted to brigadier general; Lieutenant-Colonel Motte was promoted to colonel and Major Marion became the lieutenant-colonel. Colonel Motte resigned September 23, 1778, and Marion became commander of the regiment. As British regiments were commanded by lieutenant-colonels, British authorities refused to exchange a captured Continental colonel for one of their lieutenant-colonels in the hands of the Americans. This complication caused the Continental Congress to cease promoting lieutenant-colonels to colonels, and so Marion remained as lieutenant-colonel of the Second Regiment, South Carolina Line, Continental Establishment, until mustered out of the service in February, 1783. While a British fleet and army were besieging Charles Town March 28 - May 12, 1780, Lieutenant Colonel Marion sprained an ankle, which rendered him unfit for active duty. Soon after General Lincoln published an order furloughing him to his plantation until able to resume active duty, but Charles Town was captured before Marion was able to return. When General Gates was sent down to Hillsboro, North Carolina, to take command of the Southern Army he published an order directing all Continental officers and men not on parole to report to him at Hillsboro. Marion was the senior officer of South Carolina to report. His regiment having been captured with the garrison of Charles Town Marion was without a command. He was directed by Gates to go down to the Santee River and assemble a militia force and destroy the ferry boats on the river to prevent the British from retreating to Charles Town or receiving aid therefrom. Marion found a willing force of militia at hand on the Santee with which he speedily drove off the guard at Murray's Ferry and captured the guard at Nelson's Ferry and also captured a convoy from Cornwallis's army taking American prisoners to Charles Town. From then on he was very active. In November, 1780, Governor Rutledge appointed him brigadier general of the Lower Brigade of the State militia and his activity knew no bounds from then to the end of the war. This history of Marion's career thereafter, accurately and authentically tells the story, for Judge James, its author, was one of Marion's active officers. Perhaps Marion's highly meritorious services would never have received the widespread attention that has been accorded them had it not been for a fictitious publication issued in 1809 by Matthew Carey, a well known publisher, of Philadelphia, entitled: _The / Life / of / Gen. Francis Marion, / a Celebrated / Partizan Officer, / in / The Revolutionary War, / against the / British and Tories, in South-Carolina and Georgia._ From documents furnished by his brother in arms, Brigadier-General P. Horry: and his nephew, the Hon. Robert Marion, Esq. of Congress. General Peter Horry, who had been one of Marion's most active colonels, had written a history of Marion's brigade, but had not readily found a publisher when he encountered Rev. Mason L. Weems, an itinerant book agent and preacher. Weems persuaded Horry to let him have the manuscript, assuring him that he would secure a publisher. Horry agreed, but admonished Weems "not to alter the sense or meaning of my work, least when it came out I might not know it; and, perverted, it might convey a very different meaning from the truth." Those were Horry's own words to Weems, as recalled by Horry to Weems in a letter dated at Georgetown, S.C., February 4, 1811. In the same letter he reminded Weems: "I requested you would (if necessary) so far alter the work as to make it read grammatically, and I gave you leave to embellish the work, but entertained not the least idea of what has happened though several of my friends were under such apprehensions, which caused my being urgent on you not to alter as above mentioned."... "Nor have the public received the real history of General Marion. You have carved and mutilated it with so many erroneous statements your embellishments, observation and remarks, must necessarily be erroneous as proceeding from false grounds. Most certainly 'tis not my history, but your romance."... "Can you suppose I can be pleased with reading particulars (though so elevated, by you) of Marion and myself, when I know such never existed." The book has been through scores of editions and printings and the falsehoods that Weems concocted--sometimes in malice--have been accepted as truth and retold throughout the United States and used in encyclopaedias and text books, government reports and political speeches. As a result, Marion has been honored by having counties and towns named for him to an extent equalled or surpassed by few of America's greatest men. Judge James's book had but a limited circulation and it has long been a very scarce book; hence it has not been the factor it should have been in correcting the fabrications in Weems's book. Judge James's book is not entirely free from error. He begins his first chapter with the statement: "Francis Marion was born at Winyaw, near Georgetown, South-Carolina, in the year 1732." Marion's family had no connection with Georgetown until six or seven years after Marion's birth, when his father moved with his family to that town from St. John's Parish, Berkeley, where he had resided since marriage. His wife's family resided in the adjoining St. James's Parish, Goose Creek, and, as there is no definite record of the place of Marion's birth, it could have been at the home of either family. The year of his birth cannot be fixed as 1732. The inscription on his tombstone gives the date of his death as February 27, 1795, "in the sixty-third year of his age." If he had been born at any time between January 1st and February 26, 1733, he would have been in the 63rd year of his age February 27, 1795. (3) For the purists: A list of changes and corrections to the text. The following changes in spelling were made, to update them. In some cases, both spellings were used, or an odd spelling was only used in one distinguishable section of the text. They are listed more or less in the order they appeared in the text. South-Carolina > South Carolina Broad-Street > Broad Street North-Carolina > North Carolina Major Weymss > Major Wemyss (both spellings given in the original) These spellings appeared only in the quotations from Lawson: staid > stayed turkies > turkeys hickorynuts > hickory nuts West-Indies > West Indies Hugonots > Huguenots (The correct spelling is the latter, but the former spelling may have some connection with the common American mispronunciation, as "Hyoo-go-nots", rather than "Hyoo-ga-nose".) intreaties > entreaties Great-Britain > Great Britain co-operate > cooperate ancle > ankle controul > control (both spellings given in text) shew > show New-Orleans > New Orleans dispair > despair (extract from Lincoln's letter, chapter I) Port-Royal > Port Royal New-York > New York Lenud's-ferry > Lenud's ferry (both spellings given in text) Black-Mingo > Black Mingo harrassed > harassed adviseable > advisable New-Jersey > New Jersey Goose-Creek > Goose Creek Wyley > Wiley (both spellings in a footnote, only Wiley in the text) downfal > downfall three pounders > three-pounders alledged > alleged swoln > swollen six pounder > six-pounder intreat > entreat (Gen. Greene's letter, Chapter III) New-England > New England True-Blue > True Blue All-Saints > All Saints These spellings appeared only in the Appendix: Your's > Yours inclose > enclose Frequently the hyphen was omitted from numbers, but not always. A few specific cases: twenty five > twenty-five twenty four > twenty-four seventy five > seventy-five thirty five > thirty-five also: coersion > coercion (in Salley's introduction) Corrections to the 1821 text: Moultrie himself was more too blame > Moultrie himself was more to blame Chapter I Paragraph 6 ^^ Maj. Benjamin Huger, an active officer, a wise statesmen, > statesman Chapter I Paragraph 7 ^ 113 men were killed of the American's > of the Americans Chapter II Paragraph 7 ^^ abhored either submission or vassalage > abhorred either... Chapter II Paragraph 8 ^^ in the the praise of his father. > in the praise of his father. Chapter II Paragraph 16 ^^^ and join Gen. Green > and join Gen. Greene Chapter II Paragraph 19 ^ moving up for that pupose > moving up for that purpose Chapter II Paragraph 19 ^ in the case of his country > in the cause of his country Chapter II Paragraph 24 ^ and and marching two or three hours > and marching two or three hours Chapter II Paragraph 25 ^^^ two days and an half > two days and a half Chapter II, Detached Narratives Paragraph 4 from Winnsborourgh > from Winnsborough Chapter III Paragraph 4 ^^ and and executed the order with great gallantry > and executed the order... Chapter III Paragraph 4 ^^^ As the navigation of the Wateree river was as that time > at that time Chapter III Paragraph 11 ^^ these were, however soon rallied > these were, however, soon rallied Chapter III Paragraph 17 ^ they run to their arms and returned.... > they ran to their arms Chapter III Paragraph 22 ^ with forces much impairied by the incessant > with forces much impaired Chapter III Paragraph 28 ^^ so strongly recommended by Machiavel > by Machiavelli Chapter III Paragraph 33 ^^ encouraged the garrison for awhile > for a while Chapter III Paragraph 34 ^^ a new charge, made by Rowdon and Balfour themselves > Rawdon and Balfour Chapter III Paragraph 41 ^ by some mistaken order be had gone to assist Washington > he had gone Chapter III Paragraph 46 ^ Thus a most favourabe opportunity > Thus a most favourable opportunity Chapter III Paragraph 46 ^ would have preplexed the narrative > would have perplexed the narrative Chapter III Paragraph 53 ^^ with the officers. commanding of thirty-eight men. > officers, commanding Chapter III, Detached Narratives Paragraph 5 ^^ supernumerary officers, who placed themseves > who placed themselves Chapter III, Detached Narratives Paragraph 7 ^ an extensive avenue of old ceder trees > old cedar trees Chapter IV Paragraph 13 ^ with a salary of about 500_l_. > with a salary of about 500 pounds. (This change has been made only to avoid confusion.) ^^^^^^ Chapter IV Paragraph 20 Final Notes: The format, but not the content, of quoted letters has been slightly changed to accommodate the format of the etext. Footnotes added by myself are always initialed (A. L.), unless they merely note the chapter and paragraph corresponding to a page number given in the text. 
31290	----	The American Negro Academy. OCCASIONAL PAPERS No 7. Right on the Scaffold, or The Martyrs of 1822. BY MR. ARCHIBALD H. GRIMKE. PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS. WASHINGTON, D. C. Published by the Academy, 1901. The Martyrs of 1822. He was black but comely. Nature gave him a royal body, nobly planned and proportioned, and noted for its great strength. There was that in his countenance, which bespoke a mind within to match that body, a mind of uncommon native intelligence, force of will, and capacity to dominate others. His manners were at once abrupt and crafty, his temper was imperious, his passions and impulses were those of a primitive ruler, and his heart was the heart of a lion. He was often referred to as an old man, but he was not an old man, when he died on a gallows at Charleston, S. C., July 2, 1822. No, he was by no means an old man, whether judged by length of years or strength of body, for he was on that memorable July day, seventy-eight years ago, not more than fifty-six years old, although the hair on his head and face was then probably white. This circumstance and the pre-eminence accorded him by his race neighbors, might account for the references to him, as to that of an old man. All things considered, he was truly an extraordinary man. It is impossible to say where he was born, or who were his parents. He was, alas! as far as my knowledge of his personal history goes, a man without a past. He might have been born of slave parentage in the West Indies, or of royal ones in Africa, where, in that case, he was kidnapped and sold subsequently into slavery in America. I had almost said that he was a man without a name. He is certainly a man without ancestral name. For the name to which he answered up to the age of fourteen, has been lost forever. After that time he has been known as Denmark Vesey. Denmark is a corruption of Telemaque, the praenomen bestowed upon him at that age by a new master, and Vesey was the cognomen of that master who was captain of an American vessel, engaged in the African slave trade between the islands of St. Thomas and Sto. Domingo. It is on board of Captain Vesey's slave vessel that we catch the earliest glimpse of our hero. Deeply interesting moment is that, which revealed thus to us the Negro lad, deeply interesting and tragical for one and the same cause. This first appearance of him upon the stage of history occurred in the year which ended virtually the war for American Independence, 1781, during the passage between St. Thomas and Cap Francais, of Captain Vesey's slave bark with a cargo of 390 slaves. The lad, Telemaque, was a part of that sad cargo, undistinguished at the outset of the voyage from the rest of the human freight. Of the 389 others, we know absolutely nothing. Not an incident, nor a token, not even a name has floated to us across the intervening years, from all that multitudinous misery, from such an unspeakable tragedy, except that the ship reached its destination, and the slaves were sold. Like boats that pass at sea, that slave vessel loomed for a lurid instant on the horizon, and was gone forever--all but Denmark Vesey. How it happened that he did not vanish with the rest of his ill-fated fellows, will be set down in this paper, which has essayed to describe the slave plot which he planned, with which his name is identified, and by which it ought to be, for all time, hallowed in the memory of every man, woman and child of Negro descent in America. On that voyage Captain Vesey was strongly attracted by the "beauty, intelligence, and alertness" of one of the slaves on board. So were the ship's officers. This particular object of interest, on the part of the slave-traders, was a black boy of fourteen summers. He was quickly made a sort of ship's pet and plaything, receiving new garments from his admirers, and the high sounding name, as I have already mentioned, of Telemaque, which in slave lingo was subsequently metamorphosed into Denmark. The lad found himself in sudden favor, and lifted above his companions in bondage by the brief and idle regard of that ship's company. Brief and idle, indeed, was the interest which he had aroused in the breasts of those men, as the sequel showed. But while it lasted it seemed doubtless very genuine to the boy, as such evidences of human regard must have afforded him, in his forlorn state, the keenest pleasure. Bitter, therefore, must have been his disappointment and grief to find, at the end, that he had, in reality, no hold whatever upon the regard of the slave traders. True he had been separated by captain and officers from the other slaves during the voyage, but this ephemeral distinction was speedily lost upon the arrival of the vessel at Cap Francais, for he was then sold as a part of the human freight. Ah! he had not been to those men so much as even a pet cat or dog, for with a pet cat or dog they would not have so lightly parted, as they had done with him. He had served their purpose, had killed for them the dull days of a dull sail between ports, and he a boy with warm blood in his heart, and hot yearnings for love in his soul. But the slave youth, so beautiful and attractive, was not to live his life in the island of Sto. Domingo, or to terminate just then his relations with the ship and her officers, however much Captain Vesey had intended to do so. For Fate, by an unexpected circumstance, threw, for better or for worse, master and slave together again, after they had apparently parted forever in the slave mart of the Cape. This is how Fate played the unexpected in the boy's life. According to a local law for the regulation of the slave trade in that place, the seller of a slave of unsound health might be compelled by the buyer to take him back, upon the production of a certificate to that effect from the royal physician of the port. The purchaser of Telemaque availed himself of this law to redeliver him to Captain Vesey on his return voyage to Sto. Domingo. For the royal physician of the town had meanwhile certified that the lad was subject to epileptic fits. The act of sale was thereupon cancelled, and the old relations of master and slave between Captain Vesey and Telemaque, were resumed. Thus, without design, perhaps, however passionately he might have desired it, the boy found himself again on board of his old master's slave vessel, where he had been petted and elevated in favor high above his fellow-slaves. I say _perhaps_ advisedly, for I confess that it is by no means clear to me whether those epileptic fits were real or whether they were in truth feigned, and therefore the initial _ruse de guerre_ of that bright young intelligence in its long battle with slavery. However, I do not mean to consume space with speculations on this head. Suffice to say that Telemaque's condition was improved by the event. Nor had Captain Vesey any cause to quarrel with the fate which returned to him the beautiful Negro youth. For it is recorded that for twenty years thereafter he proved a faithful servant to the old slave trader, who retiring in due course of time from his black business, took up his abode in Charleston, S. C, where Denmark went to live with him. There in his new home dame fortune again remembered her protege, turning her formidable wheel a second time in his favor. It was then that Denmark, grown to manhood, drew the grand prize of freedom. He was about thirty-four years old when this immense boon came to him. It is not known for how many eager and anxious months or even years, Denmark Vesey had patronized East Bay Street Lottery of Charleston prior to 1800, when he was rewarded with a prize of $1,500. With $600 of this money he bought himself of Captain Vesey. He was at last his own master, in possession of a small capital, and of a good trade, carpentry, which he practiced with great industry. He was successful, massed in time considerable wealth, became a solid man of the community in spite of his color, winning the confidence of the whites, and respect from the blacks amounting almost to reverence. He married--was much married it was said, which I see no reason to doubt, in view of the polygamous example set him by many of the respectabilities of the master-race in that remarkably pious old slave town. A plurality of children rose up, in consequence, to him from the plurality of his family ties; rose up to him, but they were not his, for following the condition of the mothers, they were, under the Slave-Code, the chattels of other men. This cruel wrong eat deep into Vesey's mind. Of course it was most outrageous for him, a black man, to concern himself so much about the human chattels of white men, albeit those human chattels were his own children. What had he, a social pariah in Christian America, to do with such high caste things as a heart and natural affections? But somehow he did have a heart, and it was in the right place, and natural affections for his own flesh and blood, like men with a white skin. 'Twas monstrous in him to be sure, but he could not help it. The slave iron had entered his soul, and the wound which it made rankled in secret there. Not alone the sad condition of his own children embittered his lot, but the sad condition of other black men's children as well. He yearned to help all to better social conditions--to that freedom which is the gift of God to mankind. He yearned to possess this God-given boon, in its fullness and entirety, for himself before he passed thence to the grave. For he possessed it not. He had indeed bought himself, but he soon learned that the right to himself which he had purchased from his master was not the freedom of a man, but the freedom accorded by the Slave-Code, to a black man, a freedom so restrictive in quantity and mean in quality that no white man, however low, could be made to live contentedly under it for a day. In judging this black man, oh! ye critics and philosophers, judge him not hastily and harshly before you have at least tried to put yourselves in his place. You may not even then succeed in doing him justice, for while he had his faults, and was sorely tempted, he was, nevertheless, in every inch of him, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, a man. At the period which we have now reached in his history, he was in possession of a fairly good education--was able to read and write, and to speak with fluency the French and English languages. He had traveled extensively over the world in his master's slave vessel, and had thus obtained a stock of valuable experiences, and a wide range of knowledge of men and things of which few inhabitants, whether black or white, in the slave community of Charleston, during the first quarter of the nineteenth century could truthfully have boasted. Yet in spite of these undeniable facts, in spite of his unquestioned ability and economic efficiency as an industrial factor in that city, he was in legal and actual ownership of precious little of that right to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" which the most ignorant and worthless white man enjoyed as a birthright. Wherever he moved or wished to move he was met and surrounded by the most galling and degrading social and civil conditions and proscriptions. True he held a bill of sale of his person, had ceased to be the chattel property of an individual, but he still wore chains, which kept him, and which were intended to keep him and such as him, slaves of the community forever, deprived of every civil right which white men, their neighbors, were bound to respect. For instance, were he wronged in his person or property by any member of the dominant race, be the offender man, woman, or child, Vesey could have had no redress in the courts, in case, the proof of his complaint or the enforcement of his claim depended exclusively upon the testimony of himself and of that of black witnesses, however respectable. Such a man, we may be sure, was conscious of the possession, notwithstanding his black skin and blacker social and civil condition, of longings, aspirations, which the Slave-Code made it a crime for him to satisfy. He must have felt the stir of forces and faculties within him, which, under the heaviest pains and penalties, he was forbidden to exercise. Thus robbed of freedom, ravished of manhood, what was he to do? Ay, what ought he to have done under the circumstances? Ought he to have done what multitudes had done before him, meek and submissive folk, generations and generations of them, borne tamely like them his chains, without an effort to break them, and break instead his lion's spirit? Ought he to have contented himself with such a woeful existence, and to have been willing at its end to mingle his ashes with the miserable dust of all those countless masses of forgotten and unresisting slaves? "Never!" replied what was bravest and worthiest of respect in the breast of this truly great-hearted man. The burning wrong which he felt against slavery had sunk in his mind below the reach of the grappling tongs of reason. It lay like a charge of giant powder, with its slow match attachment in the unplumbed depths of a soul which knew not fear; of a soul which was as hot with smouldering hate and rage as is a live volcano with its unvomited flame and lava. As well, under the circumstances, have tried to subdue the profound fury of the one with argument, as to quench the hidden fires of the other with water. He knew, none better, that his oppressors were strong and that he was weak; that he had but one slender chance in a hundred of redressing by force the wrongs of himself and race. He knew too, that failure in such a desperate enterprise could have for himself but a single issue, viz.: certain death. But he believed that success on the other hand meant for him and his the gain of that which alone was able to make their lives worth the living, to wit.: a free man's portion, his opportunity for the full development and free play of all of his powers amid that society in which was cast his lot. And for that portion, so precious, he was ready to take the one chance with all of its tremendous risks, to stake that miserable modicum of freedom which he possessed, the wealth laboriously accumulated by him, and life itself. It is impossible to fix exactly the time when the bold idea of resistance entered his brains, or to say when he began to plan for its realization, and after that to prepare the blacks for its reception. Before embarking on his perilous enterprise he must have carefully reckoned on time, long and indefinite, as an essential factor in its successful achievement. For, certain it is, he took it, years in fact, made haste slowly and with supreme discretion and self-control. He appeared to have thoroughly acquainted himself with the immense difficulties which beset an uprising of the blacks. Not once, I think, did he underestimate the strength of his foes. A past grand master in the art of intrigue among the servile population, he was equally adept in knowledge of the weak spots for attack in the defences of the slave system, knew perfectly where the masters could best be taken at a disadvantage. All the facts of his history combine to give him a character for profound acting. In the underground agitation, which during a period of three or four years, he conducted in the city of Charleston and over a hundred miles of the adjacent country, he seemed to have been gifted with a sort of Protean ability. His capacity for practicing secrecy and dissimulation where they were deemed necessary to his end, must have been prodigious, when it is considered that during the years covered by his underground agitation, it is not recorded that he made a single false note, or took a single false step to attract attention to himself and movement, or to arouse over all that territory included in that agitation and among all those white people involved in its terrific consequences, the slightest suspicion of danger. In his underground agitation, Vesey, with an instinct akin to genius, seemed to have excluded from his preliminary action everything like conscious combination or organization among his disciples, and to have confined himself strictly to the immediate business in hand at that stage of his plot, which was the sowing of seeds of discontent, the fomenting of hatred among the blacks, bond and free alike, toward the whites. And steadily with that patience which Lowell calls the "passion of great hearts," he pushed deeper and deeper into the slave lump the explosive principles of inalienable human rights. He did not flinch from kindling in the bosoms of the slaves a hostility toward the masters as burning as that which he felt toward them in his own breast. He had, indeed, reached such a pitch of race enmity that, as he was often heard to declare, "he would not like to have a white man in his presence." And so, devoured by a supreme passion, mastered by a single predominant idea, Vesey looked for occasions, and when they were wanting he created them, to preach his new and terrible gospel of liberty and hate. Thus only could he hope to render their condition intolerable to the slaves, the production of which was the indispensable first step in the consummation of his design. Otherwise what possibility of final success could a contented slave population have offered him? He needed a fulcrum on which to plant his lever. He had nowhere in such an enterprise to place it, but in the discontent and hatred of the slaves toward their masters. Therefore on the fulcrum of race hatred he rested his lever of freedom for his people. As the discontented bondsmen heard afresh with Vesey's ears the hateful clank of their chains, they would, in time, learn to think of Vesey and to turn, perhaps, to him for leadership and deliverance. Brooding over their lot as Vesey had revealed it to them, they might move of themselves to improve or end it altogether, by adopting some such bold plan as Vesey's. Meantime he would continue to wait and prepare for that moment, while they would be training in habits of deceit, of deep dissimulation, that formidable weapon of the weak in conflict with the strong, that _ars artium_ of slaves in their attempts to break their chains--a habit of smiling and fawning on unjust and cruel power, while bleeds in secret their fiery wound, rages and plots there also their passionate hate, and glows there too their no less passionate hope for freedom. Everywhere through the dark subterranean world of the slave, in Charleston and the neighboring country, went with his great passion of hate and his great purpose of freedom, this untiring breeder of sedition. And where he moved beneath the thin crust of that upper world of the master-race, there broke in his wake whirling and shooting currents of new and wild sensations in the abysses of that under world of the slave-race. Down deep below the ken of the masters was toiling this volcanic man, forming the lava-floods, the flaming furies, and the awful horrors of a slave uprising. Nowhere idle was that underground plotter against the whites. Even on the street where he happened to meet two or three blacks, he would bring the conversation to his one consuming subject, and preach to them his one unending sermon of freedom and hate. It was then as if his stern voice, with its deep organ chords of passion, was saying to those men: "Forget not, oh my brothers your misery. Remember how ye are wronged every day and hour, ye and your mothers and sisters, your wives and children. Remember the generations gone weeping and clanking heavy chains from the cradle to the grave. Remember the oppression of the living, who with heart-break and death-wounds, are treading their mournful way in bitter anguish and despair across burning desert sands, with parched soul and shriveled minds, with piteous thirsts, and terrible tortures of body and spirit. Weep for them, weep for yourselves too, if ye will, but learn to hate, ay, to hate with such hatred as blazes within me, the wicked slave-system and the wickeder white men who oppress and wrong us thus." Ever on the alert was he for a text or a pretext to advance his underground movement. Did he and fellow blacks for example, encounter a white person on the street, and did Vesey's companions make the customary bow, which blacks were wont to make to whites, a form of salutation born of generations of slave-blood, meanly humble and cringingly self-effacing, rebuking such an exhibition of sheer and shameless servility and lack of proper self-respect, he would thereupon declare to them the self-evident truth that all men were born free and equal, that the master, with his white skin, was in the sight of God no whit better than his black slaves, and that for himself he would not cringe like that to any man. Should the sorry wretches, bewildered by Vesey's boldness and dazed by his terrifying doctrines, reply defensively "we are slaves," the harsh retort "you deserve to remain so," was, without doubt, intended to sting if possible, their abject natures into sensibility on the subject of their wrongs, to galvanize their rotting souls back to manhood, and to make their base and sieve-like minds capable of receiving and retaining, at least, a single fermenting idea. And when Vesey was thereupon asked "What can we do?" he knew by that token that the sharp point of his spear had pierced the slavish apathy of ages of oppression, and that thenceforth light would find its red and revolutionary way to the imprisoned minds within. To the query "What can we do?" his invariable response was, "Go and buy a spelling book and read the fable of Hercules and the Wagoner." They were to look for Hercules in their own stout arms and backs, and not in the clouds, to brace their iron shoulders against the wheels of adversity and oppression, and to learn that self-help was ever the best prayer. At other times, in order to familiarize the blacks, I suppose, with the notion of equality, and to heighten probably at the same time his influence over them, he would select a moment when some of them were within earshot, to enter into conversation with certain white men, whose characters he had studied for his purpose, and during the shuttle-cock and battledore of words which was sure to follow, would deftly let fly some bold remark on the subject of slavery. "He would go so far," on such occasions it was said, "that had not his declarations in such situations been clearly proved, they would scarcely have been credited." Such action was daring almost to rashness, but in it is also apparent the deep method of a clever and calculating mind. The sundry religious classes or congregations with Negro leaders or local preachers, into which were formed the Negro members of the various churches of Charleston, furnished Vesey with the first rudiments of an organization, and at the same time with a singularly safe medium for conducting his underground agitation. It was customary, at that time, for these Negro congregations to meet for purposes of worship entirely free from the presence of the whites. Such meetings were afterward forbidden to be held except in the presence of at least one representative of the dominant race. But during the three or four years prior to the year 1822, they certainly offered Denmark Vesey regular, easy and safe opportunities for preaching his gospel of liberty and hate. And we are left in no doubt whatever in regard to the uses to which he put those gatherings of blacks. Like many of his race he possessed the gift of gab, as the silver in the tongue and the gold in the full or thick-lipped mouth are oftentimes contemptuously characterized. And like many of his race he was a devoted student of the Bible to whose interpretation he brought like many other Bible students, not confined to the Negro race, a good deal of imagination, and not a little of superstition, which with some natures is perhaps but another name for the desires of the heart. Thus equipped it is no wonder that Vesey, as he pored over the Old Testament Scriptures, found many points of similitude in the history of the Jews and that of the slaves in the United States. They were both peculiar peoples. They were both Jehovah's peculiar peoples, one in the past, the other in the present. And it seemed to him that as Jehovah bent his ear, and bared his arm once in behalf of the one, so would he do the same for the other. It was all vividly real to his thought, I believe, for to his mind thus had said the Lord. He ransacked the Bible for apposite and terrible texts, whose commands in the olden times, to the olden people, were no less imperative upon the new times and the new people. This new people was also commanded to arise and destroy their enemies and the city in which they dwelt, "both man and woman, young and old, * * * with the edge of the sword." Believing superstitiously, as he did, in the stern and Nemesis-like God of the Old Testament, he looked confidently for a day of vengeance and retribution for the blacks. He felt, I doubt not, something peculiarly applicable to his enterprise, and intensely personal to himself in the stern and exultant prophecy of Zachariah, fierce and sanguinary words which were constantly in his mouth: "Then shall the Lord go forth, and fight against those nations, as when he fought in the day of battle." According to Vesey's lurid exegeisis "those nations" in the text meant, beyond a peradventure, the cruel masters, and Jehovah was to go forth to fight against them for the poor slaves, and on which ever side fought that day the Almighty God, on that side would assuredly rest victory and deliverance. It will not be denied that Vesey's plan contemplated the total annihilation of the white population of Charleston. Nursing for many dark years the bitter wrongs of himself and race had filled him, without doubt, with a mad spirit of revenge, and had so given him a decided predilection for shedding the blood of his oppressors. But if he intended to kill them to satisfy a desire for vengeance, he intended to do so also on broader ground. The conspirators, he argued, had no choice in the matter, but were compelled to adopt a policy of extermination by the necessity of their position. The liberty of the blacks was in the balance of fate against the lives of the whites. He could strike that balance in favor of the blacks only by the total destruction of the whites. Therefore, the whites, men, women and children, were doomed to death. "What is the use of killing the louse and leaving the nit?" he asked coarsely and grimly on an occasion when the matter was under consideration. And again he was reported to have, with unrelenting temper, represented to his friends in secret council, that, "It was for our safety not to spare one white skin alive." And so it was unmistakably in his purpose to leave not a single egg lying about Charleston, when he was done with it, out of which might possibly be hatched another future slave-holder and oppressor of his people. "Thorough" was in truth, the merciless motto of that terrible man. All roads, on the red map of his plot, led to Rome. Every available instrument which fell in his way, he utilized to deepen and extend his underground agitation among the blacks. Wherefore it was that he seized upon the sectional struggle which was going on in Congress over the admission of Missouri, and pressed it to do service for his cause. The passionate wish, unconsciously perhaps, colored if it did not create the belief on his part, that the real cause of that great debate in Washington, and excitement in the country at large, was a movement for general emancipation of the slaves. It was said that he went so far in this direction as to put it into the heads of the blacks that Congress had actually enacted an emancipation law, and that therefore their continued enslavement was illegal. Such preaching must have certainly added fresh fuel to the deep sense of injury, then burning in the breasts of many of the slaves, and must have operated also to prepare them for the next step which Vesey's plan of campaign contemplated, viz.: a resort to force to wrest from the whites the freedom which was theirs, not only by the will of Heaven, but as well by the supreme law of the land. A period of underground agitation, such as Vesey had carried on for about three or four years, will, unless arrested, pass naturally into one of organized action. Vesey's movement reached, in the winter of 1821-22, such a stage. As far as it is known, he had up to this time done the work of agitator singlehanded and alone. Singlehanded and alone he had gone to and fro through that under world of the slave, preaching his gospel of liberty and hate. But about Christmas of 1821, the long lane of his labors made a sharp turn. This circumstance tended necessarily to throw other actors upon the scene, as shall presently appear. The first step taken at the turn of his long and laborious lane was calculated to put to the utmost test his ability as a leader, as an arch plotter. For it was nothing less momentous than the choice by him of fit associates. On the wisdom with which such a choice was made, would depend his own life and the success of his undertaking. Among thousands of disciples he had to find the right men to whom to entrust his secret purpose and its execution in co-operation with himself. The step was indeed crucial and in taking it he needed not alone the mental qualities which he had exhibited in his role of underground agitator, viz.: serpent-like cunning and intelligence under the direction of the most alert and flexible discretion, but as well a practical and profound knowledge of the human nature with which he had to deal, a keen and infallible insight into individual character. It is not too much to claim for Denmark Vesey, that his genius rose to the emergency, and proved itself equal to a surpassingly difficult situation, in the singular fitness of the five principal men on whom fell his election to associate leadership, with himself, and to the work of organizing the blacks for resistance. These five men, who became his ablest and most efficient lieutenants, were Peter Poyas, Rolla and Ned Bennett, Monday Gell and Gullah Jack. They were all slaves and, I believe, full-blooded Negroes. They constituted a remarkable quintet of slave leaders, combined the very qualities of head and heart which Vesey most needed at the stage then reached by his unfolding plot. For fear lest some of their critics might sneer at the sketch of them which I am tempted to give, as lacking in probability and truth, I will insert instead the careful estimate placed upon them severally by their slave judges. And here it is: "In the selection of his leaders, Vesey showed great penetration and sound judgment. Rolla was plausible and possessed uncommon self-possession: bold and ardent, he was not to be deterred from his purpose by danger. Ned's appearance indicated that he was a man of firm nerves and desperate courage. Peter was intrepid and resolute, true to his engagements, and cautious in observing secrecy where it was necessary; he was not to be daunted nor impeded by difficulties, and though confident of success, was careful against any obstacles or casualties which might arise, and intent upon discovering every means which might be in their favor if thought of beforehand. Gullah Jack was regarded as a sorcerer, and as such feared by the natives of Africa, who believe in witchcraft. He was not only considered invulnerable, but that he could make others so by his charms; and that he could and certainly would provide all his followers with arms. He was artful, cruel, bloody; his disposition in short was diabolical. His influence among the Africans was inconceivable. Monday was firm, resolute, discreet and intelligent." From this picture, painted by bitter enemies, who were also their executioners, could any person, ignorant of the circumstances and the history of those men, possibly guess, with the exception of Gullah Jack, to what race the originals belonged, or think you, that such a person would so much as dream that they were in fact, as they were in the eye of the law under which they lived, nothing more than so many human chattels, subject like cattle to the caprice and the cruelty of their owners? Such nevertheless was the remarkable group of blacks on whom had fallen Vesey's choice. And did they not present an assemblage of high and striking qualities? Here were coolness in action, calculation, foresight, plausibility in address, fidelity to engagements, secretiveness, intrepid courage, nerves of iron in the presence of danger, inflexible purpose, unbending will, and last though not least in its relations to the whole, superstition incarnate in the character of the Negro conjurer. Masterly was indeed the combination, and he had no ordinary gift for leadership, who was able to hit it off at one surprising stroke. As the work of organized preparation for the uprising advanced, Vesey added presently to his staff two principal and several minor recruiting agents, who operated in Charleston and in the country to the North of the city as far as the Santee, the Combahee, and Georgetown. Their exploitation in the interest of the plot extended to the South into the two large islands of James and John's, as well as to plantations across the Ashley River. Vesey himself, it was said, traveled southwardly from Charleston between seventy and eighty miles, and it was presumed by the writers that he did so on business connected with the conspiracy, which I consider altogether probable. He had certainly thrown himself into the movement with might and main. We know, that its direction absorbed finally his whole time and energy. "He ceased working himself at his trade," so ran the testimony of a witness at his trial, "and employed himself exclusively in enlisting men." The number of blacks engaged in the enterprise was undoubtedly large. It is a sufficiently conservative estimate to place this number, I think, at two or three thousand, at least. One recruiting officer alone, Frank Ferguson, enlisted in the undertaking the slaves of four plantations within forty miles of the city; and in the city itself, it was said that the personal roll of Peter Poyas embraced a membership of six hundred names. More than one witness placed the conjectural strength of Vesey's forces as high as 9,000, but I am inclined to write this down as a gross overestimate of the people actually enrolled as members of the conspiracy. Here is an example of the nice calculation and discretion of the man who was the soul of the conspiracy. It is contained in the testimony of an intensely hostile witness, a slave planter, whose slaves were suspected of complicity in the intended uprising. "The orderly conduct of the Negroes in any district of country within forty miles of Charleston," wrote this witness, "is no evidence that they were ignorant of the intended attempt. A more orderly gang than my own is not to be found in this State, and one of Denmark Vesey's directions was, that they should assume the most implicit obedience." Take another instance of the extraordinary aptitude of the slave leaders for the conduct of their dangerous enterprise. It illustrates Peter's remarkable foresight and his faculty for scenting danger, and making at the same time provision for meeting it. In giving an order to one of his assistants, said he, "Take care and don't mention it (the plot) to those waiting men who receive presents of old coats, &c., from their masters or they'll betray us." And then as if to provide doubly against betrayal at their hands, he added "I'll speak to them." His apprehension of disaster to the cause from this class was great, but it was not greater than the reality, as the sequel abundantly proved. Let me not, however, anticipate. If there were immense difficulties in the way of recruiting, there were even greater ones in the way of supplying the recruits with proper arms, or with any arms at all for that matter. But vast as were the difficulties, the leaders fronted them with buoyant and unquailing spirit, and rose, where other men of less faith and courage would have given up in despair, to the level of seeming impossibilities, and to the top of a truly appalling situation. Where were they, indeed, to procure arms? There was a blacksmith among them, who was set to manufacturing pike-heads and bayonets, and to turning long knives into daggers and dirks. Arms in the houses of the white folks they designed to borrow after the manner of the Jews from the Egyptians. But for their main supply they counted confidently upon the successful seizure, by means of preconcerted movements, of the principal places of deposit of arms within the limits of the city, of which there were several. The capture of these magazines and storehouses was quite within the range of probability, for every one of them was at the time in a comparatively unprotected state. Two large gun and powder stores, situated about three and a half miles beyond the Lines, and containing nearly eight hundred muskets and bayonets, were, by arrangement with Negro employees connected with them, at the mercy of the insurgents whenever they were ready to move upon them. The large building in the city, where was deposited the greater portion of the arms of the State, was strangely neglected in the same regard. Its main entrance, opening on the street, consisted of ordinary wooden doors, without the interposition between them and the public of even a brick wall. In the general plan of attack, the capture of this building, which held tactically the key to the defense of Charleston, in the event of a slave uprising, was assigned to Peter Poyas, the ablest of Vesey's lieutenants. Peter, probably disguised by means of false hair and whiskers, was at a given signal at midnight of the appointed day, to move suddenly with his band upon this important post. The difficulty of the undertaking lay in the vigilance of the sentinels doing a duty before this building, and its success depended upon Peter's ability to surprise and slay this man before he could sound the alarm. Peter was confident of his ability to kill the sentinel and capture the building, and I think that he had good ground for his confidence. In conversation with an anxious follower, who feared lest the watchfulness of the guard might defeat the attempt, Peter remarked that he "would advance a little distance ahead, and if he could only get a _grip at his throat he was a gone man_, for his sword was very sharp; he had sharpened it, and made it so sharp it had cut his finger." And as if to cast the last lingering doubt out of his disciple in regard to his (Peter's) ability to fix the sentinel, he showed him the bloody cut on his finger. Other leaders, at the head of their respective bands, were at the same time, and from six different quarters, to attack the city, surprising and seizing all of its strategical points, and the buildings, where were deposited its arms and ammunition. A body of insurgent horse was, meanwhile, to keep the streets clear, cutting down without mercy all white persons, and suspected blacks, whom they might encounter, in order to prevent the whites from concentrating or spreading the alarm through the doomed town. Such was Denmark Vesey's masterly and merciless plan of campaign in bare outline for the capture of Charleston, a plan, which, with such a sagacious head as was Vesey, was entirely feasible, and which would have, undoubtedly, succeeded but for the happening of the unexpected at a critical stage of its execution. Against such an occurrence as was this one, no man in Vesey's situation, however supreme might have been his ability as a leader, could have completely provided. The element of treachery could not by any device have been wholly eliminated from his chapter of accidents and chances. To do what he set out to do, with the means at his disposition, Vesey had of necessity to take the tremendous risk of betrayal at the hand of some black traitor. It was, in reality, sad to relate his greatest risk, and became the one insurmountable barrier in the way of his final success. Sunday at midnight of July 14, 1822, was fixed upon originally as the time for beginning his attack upon the city. But about the last of May, owing to indications that the plot had been discovered, he shortened the period of its preparation, and appointed instead midnight of Sunday, June 16th, of the same year. His reason for selecting the original date illustrates his careful and astute attention to details in making his plans. He had noted that the white population of Charleston was subject, to a certain extent, to regular tidal movements; that at one season of the year this movement was at high tide, and that at another it was at low tide. It was no great difficulty, under the circumstances, for a man like Denmark Vesey to forecast with reasonable accuracy these recurrent movements, and natural enough that he should have planned his attack with reference to them. And this was exactly what he did when he appointed July 14th as the original date for beginning the insurrection. At that time the city was less capable than at an earlier date to cope with a slave uprising, owing to the departure in large numbers from it, for summer resorts, of its wealthier classes. Again his selection of the first day of the week in both instances was equally the result of careful calculation on his part, as on that day large bodies of slaves from the adjacent plantations and islands were wont to visit the town without molestation, whereas on no other day could this have been done. Thus, without exciting alarm, did Vesey plan to introduce his Trojan horse or country bands into the city, where they were to be concealed until the hour for beginning the attack. But the attack, carefully planned as it was, did not take place. For the thing which Peter Poyas feared, and had vainly endeavored to provide against, came to pass. One of those very "waiting men," for whom Peter entertained such deep distrust, and against whom he had raised his voice in sharp warning, betrayed to his master the plot, the secret of which had been communicated to him by an overzealous convert, whose discretion was shorter than his tongue. All this happened on the morning of the 30th of May, and by sunset of that day the secret was in possession of the authorities of the city. Precautionary measures were quickly taken by them to guard against surprise, and to discover the full extent of the intended uprising. Luckily for the conspirators the information given by the traitor was vague and general. Nor was the city able to elicit from the informant of this man, who had been promptly arrested and subjected to examination, any disclosures of a more specific or satisfactory character. He was, in truth, in possession of but few particulars of the plot, and was therefore unable to give any greater definiteness to the government's stock of knowledge relative to the subject. Suspicion, however, lighted on Peter Poyas and Mingo Harth, one of Vesey's minor leaders. They were, thereupon apprehended, and their personal effects searched, but nothing was found to inculpate either, except an enigmatical letter not understood by the authorities at the time. This circumstance, coupled with the coolness and consummate acting of the pair of suspected leaders, perplexed and deceived the authorities to such a degree that they ordered the discharge of the prisoners. But the fright and anxiety of the city were not so readily got rid of. They held Charleston uneasy and apprehensive of danger, and so kept it suspicious and watchful. Things remained in this state of watchfulness anxiety, on both sides, for about a week. Vesey on his part remitted nothing of his preparations for the coming 16th of June, but pushed them if possible with increased vigor and secrecy. He held the while nocturnal meetings at his house on Bull street, where modified arrangements for the execution of his plans were broached and matured. How he dared at this juncture to incur such extreme hazard of detection, it is difficult to understand. But he and his confederates were men of the most indomitable purpose, and took in the desperate circumstances, in which they were then placed, the most desperate chances. They had to. They could not do otherwise. The city on its side, was listening during a part of this same week to a second confession of that poor fellow whose tongue had outmeasured his discretion. It was listening with reviving dread to the wild and incoherent disclosures of this man, whom it had flung into the black hole of the workhouse. There, crazed by misery and fear of death, he raved about a plot among the blacks to massacre the whites and to put the town to fire and pillage. This second installment of William Paul's excited disclosures, while it increased the sense of impending peril, did not put the government in better position to avert it. For groping in the dark still, it knew not yet where or whom to strike. But in this period of horrible suspense and uncertainty its suspicion fell on another one of Vesey's principal leaders. This time it was on Ned Bennett that the city's distrustful eye fastened. Like that game which children play where the object of search is hidden, and where the seekers as they approach near and yet nearer to the place of concealment, grow warm and then warmer, so was the city, in its terrible search for the source of its danger, growing hot and hotter. That was, indeed, a frightful moment for the conspirators when Ned Bennett became suspected. The city, as the children say in their game, was beginning to burn, for it seemed as if it must at the next move, thrust its iron hand into that underground world where the plot was hatching, and clutching the heart of the great enterprise, snatch it, conspiracy and conspirators, into the light of day. But it was at such a tremendous moment of danger, that the leaders, unawed by the imminency of discovery, took a step to throw the city off of their scent, so daring, dextrous and unexpected as to knock the breath out of us. Ned Bennett, whom the city was watching as a cat, before springing, watches a mouse, went voluntarily before the Intendant or Mayor of the city, and asked to be examined, if so be he was an object of suspicion to the authorities. Ned was so surprisingly cool and indifferent, and wore so naturally an air of conscious innocence, that the great man was again deceived, and the city was thus thrown a second time out of the course of its game. Ned's arrest and examination were postponed, as the authorities in their perplexity were afraid to take at the time any decisive action, lest it might prove premature and abortive. And so lying on its arms, the city waited and watched for fresh developments and disclosures, while the insurgent leaders, in their underground world watched warily too, and pushed forward with undiminished confidence their final preparations, when they would, out of the dark, strike suddenly their liberating and annihilating blow. This awful state of suspense, of the most watchful suspicion and anxiety on one side, and of wary and anxious preparations on the other, continued for about five or six days, when it was ended by a second act of treachery emanating from the distrusted class of "waiting men," whose highest aspirations did not seem to reach above their masters' cast off garments. Unlike the first, the information furnished to the authorities by the second traitor, was not lacking in definiteness. For this fellow knew what he was talking about. He knew almost all of the leaders, and many particulars connected with the plot. The city was thus placed in possession of the secret. It knew now the names of the ringleaders. But confident, apparently, of its ability to throttle the intended insurrection, it allowed two days to pass and the 16th of June, without making any arrests. Cat-like it crouched ready to spring, while it followed the unconscious movements of the principal conspirators. For Vesey and his principal officers were at that time, ignorant of the second betrayal, and therefore of the fact that they were from the 14th of June at the mercy of the police. On Saturday night, June 15th, an incident occurred, however, which warned them that they were betrayed, and that disaster was close at hand. This incident revealed as by a flash of lightning the hopelessness of their position. On that day Vesey had instructed one of his aids, Jesse Blackwood, to go into the country in the evening for the purpose of preparing the plantation slaves to enter the city on the day following, which was Sunday, June 16th, the time fixed for beginning the insurrection. Jesse was unable to discharge this mission, either on Saturday night or Sunday morning, owning to the increased strength and vigilance of the city police and of its patrol guard. He had succeeded on Sunday morning in getting by two of their lines, but at the third line he was halted and turned back into the city. When this ominous fact was reported to the Old Chief, Vesey became very sorrowful. He and the other leaders must have instantly perceived that they were caught, as in a trap, and that the end was near. It was probably on this Sunday that they destroyed their papers, lists of names and other incriminating evidence. The shadow of the approaching catastrophe deepened and spread rapidly around and above them as they watched and waited helplessly under the huge asp of slavery, which enraged and now completely coiled, was about to strike. The stroke fell first on Peter, Rolla, Ned, and Batteau Bennett. The last, although but a boy of eighteen, was one of the most active of the younger leaders of the plot. Vesey was not captured until the fourth day afterward. So secret and profound had been his methods of operations in the underground world, that the early reports of his connection with the conspiracy, were generally discredited among the whites. Jesse Blackwood was taken the next day, and four days later, on June 27th, Monday Gell was arrested. Gullah Jack eluded the search of the police until July 5th, when he too was struck by the huge slave asp. In all, there were one hundred and thirty-one blacks arrested, sixty-seven convicted, thirty-five executed, and thirty-seven banished beyond the limits of the United States. Five of these last were of the class of suspects, whom it was thought best to get rid of. Of the whole number of convictions, not one belonged to the bands of either Vesey, or Peter, or Rolla, or Ned, and but few to that of Gullah Jack's. Absolutely true did these five leaders prove to their vow of secrecy, and so died without betraying a single associate. This alas! cannot be said of Monday Gell, who brave and loyal as he was throughout the period of his arrest and trial, yet after sentence of death had been passed upon him, and under the influence of a terror-stricken companion, succumbed to temptation, and for the sake of life, consented to betray his followers. Denmark, Peter, Rolla, Ned, Batteau, and Jesse, were hanged together, July 2, 1822. Ten days later Gullah Jack suffered death on the gallows also. Upon an enormous gallows, erected on the lines near Charleston, twenty-two of the black martyrs to freedom were executed on the 22nd day of the same ill-starred month. A curious circumstance connected with this plot was the high regard in which the insurgents were held by the whites. But instead of my own, I prefer to insert in this place the remarks of the slave judges on this head. In their story of the plot they observed: "The character and condition of most of the insurgents were such as rendered them objects the least liable to suspicion. It is a melancholy truth, that the general good conduct of all the leaders, except Gullah Jack, had secured to them not only the unlimited confidence of their owners, but they had been indulged in every comfort and allowed every privilege compatible with their situation in the community; and although Gullah Jack was not remarkable for the correctness of his deportment, he by no means sustained a bad character. But not only were the leaders of good character and much indulged by their owners, but this was generally the case with all who were convicted, many of them possessed the highest confidence of their owners, and not one of bad character." Comment on this significant fact is unnecessary. It contains a lesson and a warning which a fool need not err in reading and understanding. Oppression is a powder magazine exposed always to the danger of explosion from spontaneous combustion. _Verbum sat sapienti._ Another curious circumstance connected with this history, was the trial and conviction of four white men, on indictments for attempting to incite the slaves to insurrection. They were each sentenced to fine and imprisonment, the fines ranging from $100 to $1,000, and the terms of imprisonment, from three to twelve months. And now for the concluding act of this tragedy, for a final glance at four of its black heroes and martyrs as they appeared to the slave judges who tried them, and to whose hostile pen we are indebted for this last impressive picture of their courage, their fortitude and their greatness of soul. Here it is: "When Vesey was tried, he folded his arms and seemed to pay great attention to the testimony, given against him, but with his eyes fixed on the floor. In this situation he remained immovable, until the witnesses had been examined by the court, and cross-examined by his counsel, when he requested to be allowed to examine the witnesses himself. He at first questioned them in the dictatorial, despotic manner, in which he was probably accustomed to address them; but this not producing the desired effect, he questioned them with affected surprise and concern for bearing false testimony against him; still failing in his purpose, he then examined them strictly as to dates, but could not make them contradict themselves. The evidence being closed, he addressed the court at considerable length * * * When he received his sentence the tears trickled down his cheeks." I cannot, of course, speak positively respecting the exact nature of the thought or feeling which lay back of those sad tears. But of this I am confident that they were not produced by any weak or momentary fear of death, and I am equally sure that they were not caused by remorse for the part which he had taken, as chief of a plot to give freedom to his race. Perhaps they were wrung from him by the Judas-like ingratitude and treachery, which had brought his well-laid scheme to ruin. He was about to die, and it was Wrong not Right which with streaming eyes he saw triumphant. Perhaps, in that solemn moment, he remembered the time, years before, when he might have sailed for Africa, and there have helped to build, in freedom and security, an asylum for himself and people, where all of the glad dreams of his strenuous and stormy life might have been realized, and also how he had put behind him the temptation, "because" as he expressed it, "he wanted to stay and see what he could do for his fellow creatures in bondage." At the thought of it all, the triumph of slavery, the treachery of black men, the immedicable grief which arises from wasted labors and balked purposes, and widespreading failures, is it surprising that in that supreme moment hot tears gushed from the eyes of that stricken but lion-hearted man? But to return to the last picture of the martyrs before their judges: "Rolla when arraigned affected not to understand the charge against him, and when it was at his request further explained to him, assumed with wonderful adroitness, astonishment, and surprise. He was remarkable throughout his trial, for great presence of composure of mind. When he was informed he was convicted and was advised to prepare for death, though he had previously (but after his trial) confessed his guilt, he appeared perfectly confounded, but exhibited no signs of fear. In Ned's behavior there was nothing remarkable, but his countenance was stern and immovable, even whilst he was receiving the sentence of death; from his looks it was impossible to discover or conjecture what were his feelings. Not so with Peter, for in his countenance were strongly marked disappointed ambition, revenge, indignation, and an anxiety to know how far the discoveries had extended, and the same emotions were exhibited in his conduct. He did not appear to fear personal consequences, for his whole behavior indicated the reverse: but exhibited an evident anxiety for the success of their plan, in which his whole soul was embarked. His countenance and behavior were the same when he received his sentence, and his only words were on retiring, 'I suppose you'll let me see my wife and family before I die,' and that not in a supplicating tone. When he was asked a day or two after, if it was possible he could wish to see his master and family murdered who had treated him so kindly, he only replied to the question by a smile." The unquailing courage, the stern fidelity to engagements, and the spirit of devotion and self-sacrifice which characterized so signally the leaders of this slave plot, culminated, it seems to me, in the unbending will and grandeur of soul of Peter Poyas, during those last, tragic days, in Charleston. I doubt if in six thousand years the world has produced a finer example of fortitude and greatness of mind in presence of death, than did this Negro slave exhibit in the black hole of the Charleston workhouse, when conversing with his Chief and Rolla and Ned Bennett, touching their approaching death, and the safety of their faithful and forlorn followers, he uttered thus intrepid injunction: "Do not open your lips! Die silent as you shall see me do." Such words, considering the circumstances under which they were spoken, were worthy of a son of Sparta or of Rome, when Sparta and Rome were at their highest levels as breeders of iron men. It is verily no light thing for the Negroes of the United States to have produced such a man, such a hero and martyr. It is certainly no light heritage, the knowledge, that his brave blood flows in their veins. For history does not record, that any other of its long and shining line of heroes and martyrs, ever met death, anywhere on this globe, in a holier cause or a sublimer mood, than died this Spartan-like slave, more than three quarters of a century ago. May some future Rembrandt have the courage, as the genius, to paint that tragic and imposing scene, with its deep shadows and high lights as I see it now, the dark and hideous dungeon, the sombre figures and grim faces of the four glorious black martyrs, with Peter in the midst, speaking his deathless words: "Do not open your lips! Die silent as you shall see me do." "Right forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the Throne, Yet that scaffold sways the future, And, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, Keeping watch above His own." Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. The following misprints have been corrected: "th" corrected to "the" (page 5) "Nego" corrected to "Negro" (page 11) "buiding" corrected to "building" (page 16) "New" corrected to "Ned" (page 19) "behavoir" corrected to "behavior" (page 23) 
12044	----	THE GRIMKÉ SISTERS SARAH AND ANGELINA GRIMKÉ _THE FIRST AMERICAN WOMEN ADVOCATES OF ABOLITION AND WOMAN'S RIGHTS_ By CATHERINE H. BIRNEY "The glory of all glories is the glory of self-sacrifice." 1885 PREFACE. It was with great diffidence, from inexperience in literary work of such length, that I engaged to write the biography which I now present to the public. But the diaries and letters placed in my hands lightened the work of composition, and it has been a labor of affection as well as of duty to pay what tribute I might to the memory of two of the noblest women of the country, whom I learned to love and venerate during a residence of nearly two years under the same roof, and who, to the end of their lives, honored me with their friendship. C.H.B. Washington City, Sept., 1885. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Childhood of Sarah, 7. Practical teachings, 9. Teaching slaves, 11. Sarah a godmother, 13. Their mother, 15. CHAPTER II. Thirst for knowledge, 17. Religious impressions, 19. Providence interposes, 21. Their father's death-bed, 23. Sarah and slavery, 25. Salvation by works, 27. The Friends, 29. Sarah resists the call, 31. Sarah leaves Charleston, 33. CHAPTER III. Sarah a Quaker, 35. Visit to Charleston, 37. Angelina, 39. Angelina's slave, 41. Angelina converted, 43. Sarah's heart trial, 45. CHAPTER IV. Contrasts, 47. Spiritual change, 49. Novels and finery, 51. Plain dress, 53. CHAPTER V. Angelina's progress, 55. Abandons Presbyterianism, 57. Adopts Quakerism, 59. A Quaker quarrel, 61. Angelina goes north, 63. Trimming a cap, 65. CHAPTER VI. Christian frugality, 67. Christian reproofs, 69. Faithful testimony, 71. Sitting in silence, 73. Sympathy with slaves, 75. Intercedes for a slave, 77. A sin to joke, 79. Introspection, 81. CHAPTER VII. Intellectual power, 83. Anti-slavery in 1829, 85. Bane of slavery, 87. Longs to leave home, 89. Narrow life, 91. Farewell to home, 93. CHAPTER VIII. Not in favor, 95. Doubts, 97. Benevolent activities, 99. Nullification, 101. Thomas Grimké, 103. Quaker time-serving, 105. Separation, 107. CHAPTER IX. Visits Catherine Beecher, 109. Morbid feelings, 111. Growing out of Quakerism, 113. Lane Seminary debate, 115. Death of Thomas Grimké, 117. The cause of peace, 119. CHAPTER X. Sarah Douglass, 121. The fire kindled, 123. Letter to Garrison, 125. Apology for letter, 127. Publication of letter, 129. Sarah disapproves, 131. CHAPTER XI. Practical efforts, 133. Visit to Providence, 135. The sisters differ, 137. Elizur Wright's invitation, 139. Asking advice of Sarah, 141. The last straw, 143. Sarah resolves to leave Philadelphia, 145. Angelina's A.S. feelings, 147. Her clear convictions, 149. CHAPTER XII. The sisters together, 151. A rebellious Quaker, 153. Removal to New York, 155. The anti-slavery leaders, 157. T.D. Weld, 159. Epistle to the clergy, 161. First speeches to women, 163. Lectures, 165. Disregard of the color line, 167. Henry B. Stanton, 169. Success on the platform, 171. They go to Boston, 173. CHAPTER XIII. Woman's rights, 175. Sentiment at Boston, 177. Speaking to men, 179. Women's preaching, 181. Opposition, 183. The pastoral letter, 185. Mixed audiences, 187. Hardships--eloquence, 189. Sarah prefers the pen, 191. A public debate, 193. Sarah's impulsiveness, 195. CHAPTER XIV. Catherine Beecher, 197-99. Woman and abolition, 201. Whittier's letter, 203. Weld's letter, 205. Weld's third letter, 207. How reforms fail, 209. Friendly criticism, 211. No human government-ism, 213. The sisters desist, 215. Weld on dress, 217. Henry C. Wright, 219. Friendship renewed, 221. CHAPTER XV. Crowded audiences, 223. Sickness, 225. The Massachusetts legislature, Speeches in Boston, 229. Angelina's marriage, 231. The ceremony, 233. Pennsylvania Hall, 235. The mob, 237. Last public speech, 239. Burning the hall, 241. CHAPTER XVI. Disownment, 243. The home, 245. Self-denial, 247. Sarah Douglass, 249. An ex-slave, 251. Uses of retirement, 253. Mutual love, 255. "Slavery as it is," 257. Going to church, 259. The baby, 261. Life at Belleville, 263-5. Educators, 267. Piety, 269. Christianity, 271. CHAPTER XVII. Eagleswood, 273. Sarah as teacher, 265. Sarah at sixty-two, 277. Love of children, 279. Success of the school, 281. Affliction, 283. War to end in freedom, 285. Sisterly affection, 287. The colored nephews, 289. The discovery, 291. A visit to nephews, 293. Nephews educated, 295. Voting petitions, 297. Work for charities, 299. Contented old age, 301. CHAPTER XVIII. Sarah's sickness, 303. Death of Sarah, 305. Eulogies, 307. Paralysis, 309. Sublime patience, 311. Death of Angelina, 313. Elizur Wright, 315. Wendell Phillips, 317. The lesson of two lives, 319. THE SISTERS GRIMKÉ. CHAPTER I. Sarah and Angelina Grimké were born in Charleston, South Carolina; Sarah, Nov. 26, 1792; Angelina, Feb. 20, 1805. They were the daughters of the Hon. John Fauchereau Grimké, a colonel in the revolutionary war, and judge of the Supreme Court of South Carolina. His ancestors were German on the father's side, French on the mother's; the Fauchereau family having left France in consequence of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685. From his German father and Huguenot mother, Judge Grimké inherited not only intellectual qualities of a high order, but an abiding consciousness of his right to think for himself, a spirit of hostility to the Roman Catholic priesthood and church, and faith in the Calvinistic theology. Though he exhibited, during the course of his life, a freedom from certain social prejudices general among people of his class at Charleston, he seems to have never wavered in his adhesion to the tenets of his forefathers. That they were ever questioned in his household is not probable. From a diary kept by him, it appears that his favorite subject of thought for many years was moral discipline, and he was fond of searching out and transcribing the opinions of various authors on this subject. His family was wealthy and influential, and he received all the advantages which such circumstances could give. As was the custom among people of means in those days, he was sent to England for his collegiate course, and, after being graduated at Oxford, he studied law and practised for a while in London, having his rooms in the Temple. With a fine person, a cultivated mind and a generous allowance, he became a favorite in the fashionable and aristocratic society of Great Britain; nevertheless, he did not hesitate to quit the pleasant life he was leading and return home as soon as his native country seemed to need him. He speedily raised a company of cavalry in Charleston, and cast his lot with the patriots whom he found in arms against the mother-country. We have no record of his deeds, but we know that he distinguished himself at Eutaw Springs and at Yorktown, where he was attached to Lafayette's brigade. When the war was over, Col. Grimké began the practice of law in Charleston, and rose in a few years to the front rank at the bar. He held various honorable offices before he was appointed judge of the Supreme Court of the State. Early in life Judge Grimké married Mary Smith of Irish and English-Puritan stock. She was the great granddaughter of the second Landgrave of South Carolina, and descended on her mother's side from that famous rebel chieftain, Sir Roger Moore, of Kildare, who would have stormed Dublin Castle with his handful of men, and whose handsome person, gallant manners, and chivalric courage made him the idol of his party and the hero of song and story. Fourteen children were born to this couple, all of whom were more or less remarkable for the traits which would naturally be expected from such ancestry, while in several of them the old Huguenot-Puritan infusion colored every mental and moral quality. This was especially notable in Sarah Moore Grimké, the sixth child, who even in her childhood continually surprised her family by her independence, her sturdy love of truth, and her clear sense of justice. Her conscientiousness was such that she never sought to conceal or even excuse anything wrong she did, but accepted submissively whatever punishment or reprimand was inflicted upon her. Between Sarah and her brother Thomas, six years her senior, an early friendship was formed, which was ever a source of gratification to both, and which continued without a break until his death. To the influence of his high, strong nature she attributed to a great extent her early tendency to think and reason upon subjects much beyond her age. Until she was twelve years old, a great deal of her time was passed in study with this brother, her bright, active mind eagerly reaching after the kind of knowledge which in those days was considered food too strong for the intellect of a girl. She begged hard to be permitted to study Latin, and began to do so in private, but her parents, and even her brother, discouraged this, and she reluctantly gave it up. Judge Grimké's position, character, and wealth placed his family among the leaders of the very exclusive society of Charleston. His children were accustomed to luxury and display, to the service of slaves, and to the indulgence of every selfish whim, although the father's practical common sense led him to protest against the habits to which such indulgences naturally led. He was necessarily much from home, but, when leisure permitted, his great pleasure was teaching his children and discussing various topics with them. To Sarah he paid particular attention, her superior mental qualities exciting his admiration and pride. He is said to have frequently declared that if she had been of the other sex she would have made the greatest jurist in the land. In his own habits, Judge Grimké was prudent and singularly economical, and, in spite of discouraging surroundings, endeavored to instil lessons of simplicity into his children. An extract from one of Sarah's letters will illustrate this. Referring in 1863 to her early life, she thus writes to a friend:-- "Father was pre-eminently a man of common sense, and economy was one of his darling virtues. I suppose I inherited some of the latter quality, for from early life I have been renowned for gathering up the fragments that nothing be lost, so that it was quite a common saying in the family: 'Oh, give it to Sally; she'll find use for it,' when anything was to be thrown away. Only once within my memory did I depart from this law of my nature. I went to our country residence to pass the summer with father. He had deposited a number of useful odds and ends in a drawer. Now little miss, being installed as housekeeper to papa, and for the first time in her life being queen--at least so she fancied--of all she surveyed, went to work searching every cranny, and prying into every drawer, and woe betide anything which did not come up to my idea of neat housekeeping. When I chanced across the drawer of scraps I at once condemned them to the flames. Such a place of disorder could not be tolerated in my dominions. I never thought of the contingency of papa's shirts, etc., wanting mending; my oversight, however, did not prevent the natural catastrophe of clothes wearing out, and one day papa brought me a garment to mend, 'Oh,' said I, tossing it carelessly aside, 'that hole is too big to darn.' "'Certainly, my dear,' he replied, 'but you can put a piece in. Look in such a drawer, and you will find plenty to patch with.' "But behold the drawer was empty. Happily, I had commuted the sentence of burning to that of distribution to the slaves, one of whom furnished me the piece, and mended the garment ten times better than I could have done. So I was let to go unwhipped of justice for that misdemeanor, and perhaps that was the lesson which burnt into my soul. My story doesn't sound Southerny, does it? Well, here is something more. During that summer, father had me taught to spin and weave negro cloth. Don't suppose I ever did anything worth while; only it was one of his maxims: 'Never lose an opportunity of learning what is useful. If you never need the knowledge, it will be no burden to have it; and if you should, you will be thankful to have it.' So I had to use my delicate fingers now and then to shell corn, a process which sometimes blistered them, and was sent into the field to pick cotton occasionally. Perhaps I am indebted partially to this for my life-long detestation of slavery, as it brought me in close contact with these unpaid toilers." Doubtless she had many a talk with these "unpaid toilers," and learned from them the inner workings of a system which her friends would fain have taught her to view as fair and merciful. Children are born without prejudice, and the young children of Southern planters never felt or made any difference between their white and colored playmates. The instances are many of their revolt and indignation when first informed that there must be a difference. So that there is nothing singular in the fact that Sarah Grimké, to use her own words, early felt such an abhorrence of the whole institution of slavery, that she was sure it was born in her. Several of her brothers and sisters felt the same. But she differed from other children in the respect that her sensibilities were so acute, her heart so tender, that she made the trials of the slaves her own, and grieved that she could neither share nor mitigate them. So deeply did she feel for them that she was frequently found in some retired spot weeping, after one of the slaves had been punished. She remembered that once, when she was not more than four or five years old, she accidentally witnessed the terrible whipping of a servant woman. As soon as she could escape from the house, she rushed out sobbing, and half an hour afterwards her nurse found her on the wharf, begging a sea captain to take her away to some place where such things were not done. She told me once that often, when she knew one of the servants was to be punished, she would shut herself up and pray earnestly that the whipping might be averted; "and sometimes," she added, "my prayers were answered in very unexpected ways." Writing to a young friend, a few years before her death, she says: "When I was about your age, we spent six months of the year in the back country, two hundred miles from Charleston, where we would live for months without seeing a white face outside of the home circle. It was often lonely, but we had many out-door enjoyments, and were very happy. I, however, always had one terrible drawback. Slavery was a millstone about my neck, and marred my comfort from the time I can remember myself. My chief pleasure was riding on horseback daily. 'Hiram' was a gentle, spirited, beautiful creature. He was neither slave nor slave owner, and I loved and enjoyed him thoroughly." When she was quite young her father gave her a little African girl to wait on her. To this child, the only slave she ever owned, she became much attached, treating her as an equal, and sharing all her privileges with her. But the little girl died after a few years, and though her youthful mistress was urged to take another, she refused, saying she had no use for her, and preferred to wait on herself. It was not until she was more than twelve years old that, at her mother's urgent request, she consented to have a dressing-maid. Judge Grimké, his family and connections, were all High-Church Episcopalians, tenacious of every dogma, and severe upon any neglect of the religious forms of church or household worship. Nothing but sickness excused any member of the family, servants included, from attending morning prayers, and every Sunday the well-appointed carriage bore those who wished to attend church to the most fashionable one in the city. The children attended Sabbath-school regularly, and in the afternoon the girls who were old enough taught classes in the colored school. Here, Sarah was the only one who ever caused any trouble. She could never be made to understand the wisdom which included the spelling-book, in the hands of slaves, among the dangerous weapons, and she constantly fretted because she could only give her pupils oral instruction. She longed to teach them to read, for many of them were pining for the knowledge which the "poor white trash" rejected; but the laws of the State not only prohibited the teaching of slaves, but provided fines and imprisonment for those who ventured to indulge their fancy in that way. So that, argue as she might, and as she did, the privilege of opening the storehouse of learning to those thirsty souls was denied her. "But," she writes, "my great desire in this matter would not be totally suppressed, and I took an almost malicious satisfaction in teaching my little waiting-maid at night, when she was supposed to be occupied in combing and brushing my long locks. The light was put out, the keyhole screened, and flat on our stomachs before the fire, with the spelling-book under our eyes, we defied the laws of South Carolina." But this dreadful crime was finally discovered, and poor Hetty barely escaped a whipping; and her bold young mistress had to listen to a severe lecture on the enormity of her conduct. When Sarah was about twelve years old, two important events occurred to interrupt the even tenor of her life. Her brother Thomas was sent off to Yale College, leaving her companionless and inconsolable, until, a few weeks later, the birth of a little sister brought comfort and joy to her heart. This sister was Angelina Emily, the last child of her parents, and the pet and darling of Sarah from the moment the light dawned upon her blue eyes. Sarah seems to have felt for this new baby not only more than the ordinary affection of a sister, but the yearning tenderness of a mother, and a mysterious affinity which foreshadowed the heart and soul sympathy which, notwithstanding the twelve years' difference in their ages, made them as one through life. She at once begged that she might stand godmother for her sister; but her parents, thinking this desire only a childish whim, refused. She was seriously in earnest, however, and day after day renewed her entreaties, answering her father's arguments that she was too young for such a responsibility by saying that she would be old enough when it became necessary to exercise any of the responsibility. Seeing finally that her heart was so set upon it, her parents consented; and joyfully she stood at the baptismal font, and promised to train this baby sister in the way she should go. Many years afterwards, in describing her feelings on this occasion, she said: "I had been taught to believe in the efficacy of prayer, and I well remember, after the ceremony was over, slipping out and shutting myself up in my own room, where, with tears streaming down my cheeks, I prayed that God would make me worthy of the task I had assumed, and help me to guide and direct my precious child. Oh, how good I resolved to be, how careful in all my conduct, that my life might be blessed to her!" Entering in such a spirit upon the duties she had taken upon herself, we cannot over estimate her influence in forming the character and training the mind of this "precious Nina," as she so often called her. And, as we shall see, for very many years Angelina followed closely where Sarah led, treading almost in her footsteps, until the seed sown by the older sister, ripening, bore its fruit in a power and strength and individuality which gave her the leadership, and caused Sarah to fall back and gaze with wonder upon development so much beyond her thoughts or hopes. From the first, Sarah took almost entire charge of her little god-daughter; and, as "Nina" grew out of her babyhood, Sarah continued to exercise such general supervision over her that the child learned to look up to her as to a mother, and frequently when together, and in her correspondence for many years, addressed her as "Mother." It does not appear that Judge Grimké entertained any views differing greatly from those of intelligent men in the society about him. He was a man of wide culture, varied experience of life, and a diligent student. Therefore, as he made a companion of his bright and promising daughter, he doubtless did much to sharpen her intellect, as well as to deepen her conscientiousness and sense of religious obligation. Her brother Thomas, too, added another strong influence to her mental development. She was nearly fifteen when he returned from college, bringing with him many new ideas, most of them quite original, and which he at once set to work to study more closely, with a view to putting them into practical operation. Sarah was his confidante and his amanuensis; and, looking up to him almost as to a demi-god, she readily fell in with his opinions, and made many of them her own. Of her mother there is little mention in the early part of her life. Mrs. Grimké appears to have been a very devout woman, of rather narrow views, and undemonstrative in her affections. She was, however, intelligent, and had a taste for reading, especially theological works. Her son Thomas speaks of her as having read Stratton's book on the priesthood, and inferring from its implications the sect to which the author belonged. The oldest of her children was only nineteen when Angelina was born. The burdens laid upon her were many and great; and we cannot wonder that she was nervous, exhausted, and irritable. The house was large, and kept in the style common in that day among wealthy Southern people. The servants were numerous, and had, no doubt, the usual idle, pilfering habits of slaves. All provisions were kept under lock and key, and given out with scrupulous exactitude, and incessant watchfulness as to details was a necessity. As children multiplied, Mrs. Grimké appears to have lost all power of controlling either them or her servants. She was impatient with the former, and resorted with the latter to the punishments commonly inflicted by slaveowners. These severities alienated her children still more from her, and they showed her little respect or affection. It never appears to have occurred to any of them to try to relieve her of her cares; and it is probable she was more sinned against than sinning,--a sadly burdened and much-tried woman. From numerous allusions to her in the diaries and letters, the evidence of an ill-regulated household is plain, as also the feelings of the children towards her. From Angelina's diary we copy the following:-- "On 2d day I had some conversation with sister Mary on the deplorable state of our family, and to-day with Eliza. They complain very much of the servants being so rude, and doing so much as they please. But I tried to convince them that the servants were just what the family was, that they were not at all more rude and selfish and disobliging than they themselves were. I gave one or two instances of the manner in which they treated mother and each other, and asked how they could expect the servants to behave in any other way when they had such examples continually before them, and queried in which such conduct was most culpable. Eliza always admits what I say to be true, but, as I tell her, never profits by it.... Sister Mary is somewhat different; she will not condemn herself.... She will acknowledge the sad state of the family, but seems to think mother is altogether to blame. And dear mother seems to resist all I say: she will neither acknowledge the state of the family nor her own faults, and always is angry when I speak to her.... Sometimes when I look back to the first years of my religious life, and remember how unremittingly I labored with mother, though in a very wrong spirit, being alienated from her and destitute of the spirit of love and forbearance, my heart is very sore." This unfortunate state of things prevailed until the children were grown, and with more or less amelioration after that time. Sarah's natural tenderness, and the sense of justice which, as she grew to womanhood, was so conspicuous in Angelina, drew their mother nearer to them than to her other children, though Thomas always wrote of her affectionately and respectfully. She, however, with her rigid orthodox beliefs, could never understand her "alien daughters," as she called them; and she never ceased to wonder how such strange fledglings could have come from her nest. It was only when they had proved by years of self-sacrifice the earnestness of their peculiar views that she learned to respect them; and, though they never succeeded in converting her from her inherited opinions, she was towards the last years of her life brought into something like affectionate sympathy with them. CHAPTER II. It was quite the custom in the last century and the beginning of the present one for cultivated people to keep diaries, in which the incidents of each day were jotted down, accompanied by the expression of private opinions and feelings. Women, especially, found this diary a pleasant sort of confessional, a confidante to whose pages they could entrust their most secret thoughts without fear of rebuke or betrayal. Sarah Grimké's diary, covering over five hundred pages of closely written manuscript, though not begun until 1821, gives many reminiscences of her youth, and describes with painful conscientiousness her religious experiences. She also repeatedly regrets the fact that her education, though what was considered at that time a good one, was entirely superficial, embracing only that kind of knowledge which is acquired for display. What useful information she received she owed to the conversations of her father and her brother Thomas, her "beloved companion and friend." There is no doubt that this want of proper training was to her a cause of regret during her whole life. With her, learning was always a passion; and, in passing, I may say she never thought herself too old for study and the acquisition of knowledge. As she grew up, and saw the very different education her brothers were receiving, her ambition and independence were fired, and she longed to share their advantages. But in vain she entreated permission to do so. The only answer she received was: "You are a girl; what do you want of Latin and Greek and philosophy? You can never use them." And when it was discovered that she was secretly studying law, and was ambitious to stand side by side with her brother at the bar, smiles and sneers rebuked her "unwomanly" aspirations. And though she argued the point with much spirit, unable to see why the mere fact of being a girl should confine her to the necessity of being a "doll, a coquette, a fashionable fool," she failed to secure a single adherent to her strong-minded ideas. Her nature thus denied its proper nutriment, and her most earnest desires crushed, she sought relief in another direction. Painting, poetry, general reading occupied her leisure time, while she was receiving private tuition from the best masters in Charleston. At sixteen she was introduced into society, or, as she phrases it, "initiated into the circles of dissipation and folly." In her account of the life she led in those circles she does not spare herself. "I believe," she writes, "for the short space I was exhibited on this theatre, few have exceeded me in extravagance of every kind, and in the sinful indulgence of pride and vanity, sentiments which, however, were strongly mingled with a sense of their insufficiency to produce even earthly happiness, with an eager desire for intellectual pursuits, and a thorough contempt for the trifles I was engaged in. Often during this period have I returned home, sick of the frivolous beings I had been with, mortified at my own folly, and weary of the ball-room and its gilded toys. Night after night, as I glittered now in this gay scene, now in that, my soul has been disturbed by the query, 'Where are the talents committed to thy charge?' But the intrusive thought would be silenced by the approach of some companion, or a call to join the dance, or by the presentation of the stimulating cordial, and my remorse and my hopeless desires would be drowned for the time being. Once, in utter disgust, I made a resolution to abstain from such amusements; but it was made in self-will, and did not stand long, though I was so earnest that I gave away much of my finery. I cannot look back to those years without a blush of shame, a feeling of anguish at the utter perversion of the ends of my being. But for my tutelary god, my idolized brother, my young, passionate nature, stimulated by that love of admiration which carries many a high and noble soul down the stream of folly to the whirlpool of an unhallowed marriage, I had rushed into this lifelong misery. Happily for me, this butterfly life did not last long. My ardent nature had another channel opened for it, through which it rushed with its usual impetuosity. I was converted, and turned over to doing good." Up to this time she was a communicant in the Episcopal church, and a regular attendant on its various services. But, as she records, her heart was never touched, her soul never stirred. She heard the same things preached week after week,--the necessity of coming to Christ and the danger of delay,--and she wondered at her insensibility. She joined in family worship, and was scrupulously exact in her private devotions; but all was done mechanically, from habit, and no quickening sense of her "awful condition" came to her until she went one night, on the invitation of a friend, to hear a Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Henry Kolloch, celebrated for his eloquence. He preached a thrilling sermon, and Sarah was deeply moved. But the impression soon wore off, and she returned to her gay life with renewed ardor. A year after, the same minister revisited Charleston; and again she went to hear him, and again felt the "arrows of conscience," and again disregarded the solemn warning. The journal continues:-- "After this he came no more; and in the winter of 1813-14 I was led in an unusual degree into scenes of dissipation and frivolity. It seemed as if my cup of worldly pleasure was filled to the brim; and after enjoying all the city afforded, I went into the country in the spring with a fashionable acquaintance, designing to finish my wild career there." While on this visit, she accidentally met the Rev. Dr. Kolloch, and became acquainted with him. He seems to have taken a warm interest in her spiritual welfare, and his conversations made a serious impression on her which her gay friends tried to remove. But her sensitive spirit was so affected by his admonitions, and warnings of the awful consequences of persisting in a course of conduct which must eventually lead to everlasting punishment, that she was made very miserable. She trembled as he portrayed her doom, and wept bitterly; but, though she assented to the truth of his declarations, she did not feel quite prepared to give up the pomps and vanities of her life, unsatisfactory as they were. A sore conflict began in her mind, and she could take no pleasure in anything. Dr. Kolloch's parting question to her, spoken in the most solemn tones, "Can you, then, dare to hesitate?" rang continually in her ears; and the next few days and nights were passed in a turmoil of various feelings, until, exhausted, she gave up the struggle, and acknowledged herself sensible of the emptiness of worldly gratifications, and thought she was willing to resign all for Christ. She returned home sorrowful and heavy-hearted. The glory of the world was stained, and she no longer dared to participate in its vain pleasures. She felt "loaded down with iniquity," and, almost sinking under a sense of her guilt and her danger, she secluded herself from society, and put away her ornaments, "determined to purchase Heaven at any price." But she found no relief in these sacrifices; and, after enduring much trial at her ill success, she wrote to Dr. Kolloch, informing him of her state of mind. "Over his answer," she writes, "I shed many tears; but, instead of prostrating myself in deep abasement before the Lord, and craving his pardon, I was desirous of doing something which might claim his approbation and disperse the thick cloud which seemed to hide him from me. I therefore set earnestly to work to do good according to my capacity. I fed the hungry and clothed the naked, I visited the sick and afflicted, and vainly hoped these outside works would purify a heart defiled with the pride of life, still the seat of carnal propensities and evil passions; but here, too, I failed. I went mourning on my way under the curse of a broken law; and, though I often watered my couch with my tears, and pleaded with my Maker, yet I knew nothing of the sanctifying influence of his holy spirit, and, not finding that happiness in religion I anticipated, I, by degrees, through the persuasions of companions and the inclination of my depraved heart, began to go a little more into society, and to resume my former style of dressing, though in comparative moderation." She then states how, some time after she had thus departed from her Christian profession. Dr. Kolloch came once more, and his sad and earnest rebukes made her unutterably wretched. But she tried to stifle the voice of conscience by entering more and more into worldly amusements, until she had lost nearly all spiritual sense. Her disposition became soured by incessantly yielding to temptation, and she adds:-- "I know not where I might have been landed, had not the merciful interposition of Providence stopped my progress." This "merciful interposition of Providence" was nothing less than the declining health of her father; and it affords, indeed, a curious comment on the old Orthodox teachings, that this young woman, devotedly attached to her father, and fully appreciating his value to his family, should have regarded his ill-health as sent by God for her especial benefit, to interrupt her worldly course, and compass her salvation. Judge Grimké's illness continued for a year or more; and so faithfully did Sarah nurse him that when it was decided that he should go to Philadelphia to consult Dr. Physic, she was chosen to accompany him. This first visit to the North was the most important event of Sarah's life, for the influences and impressions there received gave some shape to her vague and wayward fancies, and showed her a gleam of the light beyond the tangled path which still stretched before her. She found lodgings for her father and herself in a Quaker family whose name is not mentioned. About their life there, little is said; Sarah being too much occupied with the care of her dear invalid to take much interest in her new surroundings. Judge Grimké's health continued to decline. His daughter's account of the last days of his life is very touching, and shows not only how deep was her religious feeling, but how tender and yet how strong she was all through this great trial. The father and daughter, strangers in a strange land, drawn more closely together by his suffering and her necessary care, became friends. indeed; their attachment increasing day by day, until, ere their final separation, they loved each other with that fervent affection which grows only with true sympathy and unbounded confidence. Sarah thus wrote of it:-- "I regard this as the greatest blessing, next to my conversion, I have ever received from God, and I think if all my future life is passed in affliction this mercy alone should make me willingly, yea, cheerfully and joyously, submit to the chastisements of the Lord." During their stay in Philadelphia, she had hoped for her father's recovery, but when, by the doctor's advice, they went to Long Branch, and she saw how weak and ill he was, this hope forsook her, and she describes her agony as something never to be effaced from her memory. Doubtless this was intensified by her lone and friendless position. They were in a tavern, without one human being to soothe them or sympathize with them. "But," she writes, "let me here acknowledge the mercy of that Being whose everlasting arms supported me in this hour of suffering. After the first burst of grief I became calm, and felt an assurance that He in whom I trusted would never leave nor forsake me, and that I would have strength given me, even to the performance of the last sad duties. But the end was not yet; the disease fluctuated, some days arousing a gleam of hope, only to be extinguished by the next day's weakness. Alas! I was compelled to see that death was certainly, though slowly, approaching, and all feeling for my own suffering was sunk in anxiety to contribute to my father's comfort, and smooth his passage to the grave. And, blessed be God, I was not only able to minister to many of his temporal wants, but permitted to strengthen his hopes of a happy immortality. I prayed with him and read to him, and I cannot recollect hearing an impatient expression from him during his whole illness, or a wish that his sufferings might be lessened or abridged. He often tried to conceal his bodily pain, and to soothe me by every appearance of cheerful piety. Thus he lingered until the 6th of August, when he grew visibly worse. Many incoherent expressions escaped him, but even then how tenderly he spoke of me, I ever shall remember.... About eight o'clock I moved him to his own bed, and, sitting down, prepared to watch by him. He entreated me to lie down, and I told him when he slept I would. "'Oh, God,' he exclaimed with fervent energy, 'how sweet to sleep and wake in heaven!' This last desire was realized. He clasped one of my hands, and as I bent over him and arranged his pillow he put his arm around me. I did not stir; apparently he slept. But the relaxed grasp, the dewy coldness, the damps of death which stood upon his forehead, all told me that he was hastening fast to Jesus. Alone, at the hour of midnight, I sat by this bed of death. My eyes were fixed on that face whose calmness seemed to say, 'I rest in peace.' A gentle pressure of the hand, and a scarcely audible respiration, alone indicated that life was not extinct; at length that pressure ceased, and the strained ear could no longer hear a breath. I continued gazing on the lifeless form, closed his eyes and kissed him. His spirit, freed from the shackles of mortality, had sprung to its source, the bosom of his God. I passed the rest of the night alone." And alone, the only mourner, this brave, heart-stricken girl followed the remains of her beloved father to the grave. When all was over she went back to Philadelphia, where she remained two or three months, and then returned to Charleston. During the season of family mourning which followed, having nothing especial to do, Sarah became more than ever concerned about her spiritual welfare. She constantly deplored her lukewarmness, and regarded herself as standing on the edge of a precipice from which she had no power to withdraw. The subject of slavery began now also to agitate her mind. After her residence in Philadelphia, where doubtless she had to listen to some sharp reflections on the Southern institution, it seemed more than ever abhorrent to her, but it does not appear that she gave utterance to her feelings on more than one or two occasions. Even her diary contains only a slight and occasional reference to them. She saw, she says, how useless it was to discuss the subject, as even Angelina, the child of her own training, could see nothing wrong in the mere fact of slave-holding, if the slaves were kindly treated. Her brother Thomas, to whom she might have opened her overburdened heart, and received from his affection and good sense, comfort and strength, she saw little of; besides, he was a slave-owner, and among his numerous reform theories of education, politics, and religion, he does not seem to have thought of touching slavery. He was a leading member of the bar, very busy with his literary work, had a wife and family, and resided out of the city. Alone, therefore, Sarah brooded over her trials, and those of the slaves, "until they became like a canker, incessantly gnawing." Upon the latter she could only look as one in bonds herself, powerless to prevent or ameliorate them. Her sole consolation was teaching the objects of her compassion, within the lawful restrictions, whenever she could find the opportunity. But she began to look upon the world as a wilderness of desolation and suffering, and herself as the most miserable of sinners, fast hastening to destruction. In this frame of mind she was induced to listen to the doctrine of universal salvation, and eagerly adopted it, hoping thereby to find relief from her doubts and fears. Her mother discovered this with horror, and, trembling for her daughter's safety, she aroused herself to argue so strongly against what she termed the false and awful doctrine, that, though Sarah refused to acknowledge the force of all she said, it had its effect, and she gradually lost her hold on her new belief. But losing that, she lost all hope. "Wormwood and gall" were her portion, and, while she fulfilled the outward duties of religion, dreariness and settled despondency took possession of her mind. She writes: "Tears never moistened my eyes; to prayer I was a stranger. With Job I dared to curse the day of my birth. One day I was tempted to say something of the kind to my mother. She was greatly shocked, and reproved me seriously. I craved a hiding-place in the grave, as a rest from the distress of my feelings, thinking that no estate could be worse than the present. Sometimes, being unable to pray, unable to command one feeling of good, either natural or spiritual, I was tempted to commit some great crime, thinking I could repent and thus restore my lost sensibility. On this I often meditated, and assuredly should have fallen into this snare had not the mercy of God still followed me." I might go on for many pages painting this dreary picture of a misdirected life, but enough has been quoted at present to show Sarah Grimké's strong, earnest, impressionable nature, and the effects upon it of the teachings of the old theology, mingled with the narrow Southern ideas of usefulness and woman's sphere. Endowed with a superior intellect, with a most benevolent and unselfish disposition, with a cheerful, loving nature, she desired above all things to be an active, useful member of society. But every noble impulse was strangled at its birth by the iron bands of a religion that taught the crucifixion of every natural feeling as the most acceptable offering to a stern and relentless God. She was now twenty-eight years of age, and with the exception of the period devoted to her father she had as yet thought and worked only for herself. I do not mean that she neglected home duties, or her private charities and visits to the afflicted, but all these offices were performed from one especial motive and with the same end in view to avert from herself the wrath of her Maker. This one thought filled all her mind. All else was as nothing. Family and friends, home and humanity, were of importance only as they furthered this object. It is in this spirit that she mentioned her father's illness and death, and the heroic, self-sacrificing death, by shipwreck, of her brother Benjamin, to which she could resign herself from a conviction that the stroke was sent as a chastisement to her, and was a merciful dispensation to draw his young wife nearer to God. We read not one word of solicitude for mother, or brothers, or sisters, not a single prayer for their conversion. She was too busy watching and weeping over her own short-comings to concern herself about their doom. The long diary is filled with the reiteration of her fears, her sorrows, and her prayers. Many years afterwards she thus referred to this condition of her mind:-- "I cannot without shuddering look back to that period. How dreadful did the state of my mind become! Nothing interested me; I fulfilled my duties without any feeling of satisfaction, in gloomy silence. My lips moved in prayer, my feet carried me to the holy sanctuary, but my heart was estranged from piety. I felt as if my doom was irrevocably fixed, and I was destined to that fire which is never quenched. I have never experienced any feeling so terrific as the despair of salvation. My soul still remembers the wormwood and the gall, still remembers how awful the conviction that every door of hope was closed, and that I was given over unto death." Naturally, such a strain at last impaired her health, and, her mother becoming alarmed, she was sent in the autumn of 1820 to North Carolina, where several relatives owned plantations on the Cape Fear River. She was welcomed with great affection, especially by her aunt, the wife of her uncle James Smith, and mother of Barnwell Rhett. (This name was assumed by him on the inheritance of property from a relative of that name.) In the village near which this aunt lived there was no place of worship except the Methodist meeting-house. Sarah attended this; and under the earnest and alarming preaching she heard there, together with association with some of the most spiritual-minded of the members, she was aroused from her apathetic state, and was enabled to join in their services with some interest. She even offered up prayer with them, and at one of their love feasts delivered a public testimony to the truths of the gospel. Thus associated with them, she was induced to examine their principles and doctrines, but found them as faulty as all the rest she had from time to time investigated. She therefore soon decided not to become one of them. From her earliest serious impressions, she had been dissatisfied with Episcopacy, feeling its forms lifeless; but now, after having carefully considered the various other sects, and finding error in all, she concluded to remain in the church whose doctrines at least satisfied her as well as those of any other, and were those of her mother and her family. Of the Society of Friends she knew little, and that little was unfavorable. To a remark made one day by her mother, relative to her turning Quaker, she replied, with some warmth:-- "Anything but a Quaker or a Catholic!" Having made up her mind that the Friends were wrong, she had steadily refused, during her stay in Philadelphia, to attend their meetings or read any of their writings. Nevertheless many things about them, scarcely noticed at the time,--their quiet dress, orderly manner of life and gentle tones of voice, together with their many acts of kindness to her and her father,--came back to her after she had left them, and especially impressed her as contrasting so strongly with the slack habits and irregular discipline which made her own home so unhappy. On the vessel which carried her from Philadelphia to Charleston, after her father's death, was a party of Friends; and in the seven days which it then required to make the voyage, an intimacy sprang up between them and Sarah which influenced her whole after-life. From one of them she had accepted a copy of Woolman's works,--evidence that there must have been religious discussions between them. And that there was talk-- probably some jesting--in the family about Quakers is shown by the little incident Sarah relates of her brother Thomas presenting her, soon after her return from North Carolina, with a volume of Quaker writings he had picked up at some sale. He placed it in her hand, saying jocosely,-- "Thee had better turn Quaker, Sally; thy long face would suit well their sober dress." She was, as we have said, of a naturally cheerful disposition; but her false views of religion led her to believe that "by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better," and she shed more tears, and offered up more petitions for forgiveness, over occasional irresistible merriment than I have space to record. She accepted the book from her brother, read it, and, needing some explanation of portions of it, wrote to one of the Friends in Philadelphia whose acquaintance she had made on the vessel. A correspondence ensued, which resulted after some months in her entire conversion to Quakerism. She had now reached, she thought, a resting-place for her weary, sore-travailed spirit; and, like a tired pilgrim, she dropped all her burdens beside this fresh stream, from whose waters she expected to drink such cooling draughts. The quiet of the little meeting-house in Charleston, the absence of ornament and ceremony, the silent worship by the few members, the affectionate thee and thou, all soothed her restless soul for a while, and a sweet calm fell upon her. But she believed that God constantly spoke to her heart, directing her by the still, small voice; and the fidelity with which she obeyed this invisible guide was not only a real detriment to her spiritual progress, but the cause of much distress to her. When, as sometimes happened from various causes, she failed in obedience, her mental suffering was intense, and in abject humility she accepted as punishment any mortification or sorrow that came to her afterwards. As a sequence to this hallucination, she also had visions at various times, and saw and communed with spirits, and did not hesitate to acknowledge their influence and to respect their intimations. So marvellously real were her feelings on these points that her immediate friends, though greatly deploring their effect upon her, seldom ventured any remonstrance against them. Now, under the influence of her new belief, the impression of a divine call to be made upon her deepened, and soon took shape in the persuasion that it was to be a call to the ministry. Her soul recoiled at the very thought of work so solemn, and she prayed the Lord to spare her; but the more she prayed, the stronger and clearer the intimations became, until she felt that no loop-hole of escape was left her from obedience to her Master's will. From the publicity the work involved, she intuitively shrank. Her natural sensitiveness and all the prejudices of her life rebelled against it, and she could not look forward to it without fear and trembling. Every meeting now found her, she says, like a craven, dreading to hear the summons which would oblige her to rise and open her lips before the two or three gathered there. Vainly did she try to "hide herself from the Lord." The evidence came distinctly to her one morning that some words of admonition were required of her; but so appalling did the act appear to her that she trembled, hesitated, resisted, and was silent. Sorrow and remorse at once filled her soul; and, feeling that she had sinned against the Holy Ghost, she thought that God never could forgive her, and that no sacrifice she could ever offer could atone for this first act of disobedience. Through long and dreary years it was the spectre that never would down, but stood ready to point its accusing finger whenever she was tempted to seek the cause of her disappointments and sorrows. Thus, in the very outset of her new departure, arose apprehensions which followed her continually, robbing her religious exercises of all peace, and bringing her such a depth of misery that, she says, it almost destroyed her soul. The frequent letters of her Quaker friend, though calculated to soothe and encourage her, were all firm on the point of implicit obedience to the movements of the Spirit; and she found herself in a straight and narrow path, from which she was not allowed to deviate. To this friend, Israel Morris, Sarah seems to have confessed all her shortcomings, all her fears, until, encouraged by his sympathy, and led by her longing for a wider field of action, she began to contemplate a removal to the North. There were other causes which urged her to seek another home. The inharmonious life in her family, joined to the reproaches and ridicule constantly aimed at her, and which stung her to the quick, naturally inspired the desire to go where she would be rid of it all, and live in peace. In her religious exaltation, it was easy for her to persuade herself that she was moved to make this important change by the Lord's command. She sincerely believed it was so, and speaks of it as an unmistakable call, not to be disregarded, to go forth from that land, and her work would be shown her. Naturally, Philadelphia was the spot to which she was directed. When informed of her desires, Israel Morris not only gave his approval, but invited her to a home in his family. A door of shelter and safety being thus thrown open to her, she no longer hesitated, but at once made known her intention to her relatives. There seems to have been little or no opposition offered to a step so serious; in fact, her brothers and sisters, though much attached to her,--for her loving nature was irresistible,--evidently felt it a relief when she was gone, her strict and pious life being a constant rebuke to their worldly views and practices. Her sister Anna, at her urgent request, accompanied her on the voyage. This sister, the widow of an Episcopal clergyman, though a defender of slavery as an institution, recognized its evil influences on the society where it existed, and gladly accepted the opportunity offered to take her young daughter away from them. It was necessary, too, that she should do something to increase her slender income, and Sarah advised opening a small school in Philadelphia,--a thing which she could not have done in Charleston without a sacrifice of her own social position and of the family pride. There is nothing said of the parting, even from Angelina, though we know it must have been a hard trial for Sarah to leave this young sister, just budding into womanhood, and surrounded by all the snares whose alluring influences she understood so well. That she could consent to leave her thus is perhaps the strongest proof of her faith in the imperative nature of the summons to which she felt she was yielding obedience. The exiles reached Philadelphia without accident in the latter part of May, 1821. Lodgings were found for Mrs. Frost and her child, and Sarah went at once to the residence of her friend, Israel Morris. CHAPTER III. It is very much to be regretted that all of Sarah Grimké's letters to Angelina, and to other members of her family at this time, were, at her own request, destroyed as received. They would not only have afforded most interesting reading, but would have thrown light on much which, without them, is necessarily obscure. Nor were there more than twenty-five or thirty of Angelina's letters preserved, and they were written between the years 1826 and 1828. We therefore have but little data by which to follow Sarah's life during the five years succeeding her return to Philadelphia, and before she again went, to Charleston; or Angelina's life at home, during the same period. Sarah's diary, frequently interrupted, continues to record her religious sorrows, for these followed her even into the peaceful home at "Greenhill Farm," the name of Israel Morris's place, where she was received and treated like a near and dear relative; and it was but natural and proper that she should be so accepted by the members of Mr. Morris's family. He was literally her only friend at the North. Through his influence she had been brought into the Quaker religion, and encouraged to leave her mother and native land. She was entirely unpractised in the ways of the world, and was besides in very narrow circumstances, her only available income being the interest on $10,000, the sum left by Judge Grimké to each of his children. The estate had not yet been settled up. Add to all this the virtue of hospitality, inculcated by the Quaker doctrine, and it seems perfectly natural that Sarah should accept the offer of her friend in the spirit in which it was made, and feel grateful to her Heavenly Father that such a refuge was provided for her. The notes in her journal for that summer are rather meagre. She attended meeting regularly, but made no formal application to be received into the Society of Friends. It would hardly have been considered so soon; she must first go through a season of probation. How hard this was is told in the lamentations and prayers which she confided to her diary. The "fearful act of disobedience" of which she was guilty in Charleston lay as a heavy load on her spirit, troubling her thoughts by day and her dreams by night, until she says: "At times I am almost led to believe I shall never know good any more." Notwithstanding these trying spiritual exercises, the summer seems to have passed in more peace than she had dared to hope for. Israel Morris was a truly good man, with a strong, genial nature, which must have had a soothing effect upon Sarah's troubled spirit. But before many months her thoughts began to turn back to home. Her mother's want of spirituality, from her standpoint, grieved her greatly. The accounts she received of the disorder in the family added to her anxieties, and she felt that her influence was needed to bring about harmony, and to guide her mother on the road to Zion. She laid the case before the Lord, and, receiving no intimation that she would be doing a wrong thing, she decided to return to Charleston. Before leaving Philadelphia, however, she felt that it was her duty to assume the full Quaker dress. She had worn plain colors from the time she began to attend meeting in her native city, but the clothes were not fashioned after the Quaker style, and she still indulged herself in occasionally wearing a becoming black dress; though when she did so, she not only felt uncomfortable herself, but knew that she made many of her friends so. "Persisting in so doing," she says, "I have since been made sensible, manifested a want of condescension entirely unbecoming a Christian, and one day conviction was so strong on this subject, that, as I was dressing, I felt as if I could not proceed, but sat down with my dress half on, and these words passed through my mind: Can it be of any consequence in the sight of God whether I wear a black dress or not? The evidence was clear that it was not, but that self-will was the cause of my continuing to do it. For this I suffered much, but was at length strengthened to cast away this idol." Remembering the fashionable life she had once led, and her natural taste for the beautiful in all things, it must have been something of a sacrifice, even though sustained by her religious exaltation, to lay aside everything pretty and becoming, and, denying herself even so much as a flower from nature's own fields, to array herself in the scant and sober dress of drab, the untrimmed kerchief, and the poke bonnet. Writing from Greenhill in October, she says: "On last Fifth Day I changed my dress for the more plain one of the Quakers, not because I think making my clothes in their peculiar manner makes me any better, but because I believe it was laid upon me, seeing that my natural will revolted from the idea of assuming this garb. I trust I have made this change in a right spirit, and with a single eye to my dear Redeemer. It was accompanied by a feeling of much peace." Late in the autumn she sailed for Charleston, and was received by the home circle with affection, though her plain dress gave occasion for some slighting remarks. These, however, no longer affected her as they once had done, and she bore them in silence. Surrounded by her family, all of whom she warmly loved, in spite of their want of sympathy with her, rooming with her "precious child," with full opportunity to counsel and direct her, and intent upon carrying out reform in the household, she was for a time almost contented. She took up her old routine, her charities, and her schools, and attended meeting regularly. But a very few weeks sufficed to make her realize her utter inability to harmonize the discordant elements in her home, or to make more than a transient impression upon her mother. Day by day she became more discouraged; everything seemed to conspire to thwart her efforts for good, which were misconstrued and misunderstood. Surrounded, too, and besieged by all the familiar influences of her old life, it became harder to sustain her peculiar views and habits, and spiritual luke-warmness gained rapidly upon her. With deep humility she acknowledged the mistake she had made in going back to Charleston, which place was evidently not the vineyard in which she could labor to any profit. In July she was again in Philadelphia, a member now of the family of Catherine Morris, sister to Israel. Here she remained until after her admission into Friends' Society, when, feeling it her duty to make herself independent of the friends who had been so kind to her, she cast about her for something to do, and was mortified and chagrined to find there was nothing suited to her capacity. "Oh!" she exclaims, "had I received the education I desired, had I been bred to the profession of the law, I might have been a useful member of society, and instead of myself and my property being taken care of, I might have been a protector of the helpless, a pleader for the poor and unfortunate." The industrial avenues for women were few and narrow in those days; and for the want of some practical knowledge, the doors Sarah Grimké might have entered were closed to her, and she was finally forced to abandon her hopes of independence, and to again accept a home for the winter in Israel Morris's house, now in the city. It must not be supposed, however, that either here or at Catherine's, where she afterwards made her steady home, she was a burden or a hindrance. She was too energetic and too conscientious to be a laggard anywhere. So kind and so thoughtful was she, so helpful in sickness, so sympathetic in joy and in sorrow, that she more than earned her frugal board wherever she went. Could she only have been persuaded that it was right to yield to her naturally cheerful temper, she would have been a delightful companion at all times; but her sadness frequently affected her friends, and even drew forth an occasional reproof. The ministry, that dreadful requirement which she felt sure the Lord would make of her, was ever before her, and in fear and trembling she awaited the moment when the command would be given, "Arise and speak." This painful preparation went on year after year, but her advance towards her expected goal was very slow. She would occasionally nerve herself to speak a few words of admonition in a small meeting, make a short prayer, or quote a text of scripture, but her services were limited to these efforts. She often feared that she was restrained by her desire that her first attempt at exhorting should be a brilliant success, and place her at once where she would be a power in the meetings; and she prayed constantly for a clear manifestation, something she could not mistake, that she might not be tempted by the hope of relief from present suffering to move prematurely in the "awful work." Thus she waited, trying to restrain and satisfy her impatient yearnings for some real, living work by teaching charity schools, visiting prisons, and going through the duties of monthly, quarterly, and yearly meetings. But she could not shut out from herself the doubts that would force themselves forward, that her time was not employed as it should be. We hear nothing of her family during these years, nothing to indicate any change in their condition or in their feelings. We know, however, that Sarah kept up a frequent correspondence with her mother and with Angelina, and that chiefly through her admonitions the latter was turned from her worldly life to more serious concerns. Like Sarah, Angelina grew up a gay, fashionable girl. Her personal beauty and qualities of mind and heart challenged the admiration of all who came in contact with her. More brilliant than Sarah, she was also more self-reliant, and, though quite as sympathetic and sensitive, she was neither so demonstrative nor so tender in her feelings as her elder sister, and her manner being more dignified and positive, she inspired, even in those nearest to her, a certain degree of awe which forbade, perhaps, the fulness of confidence which Sarah's greater gentleness always invited. Her frankness and scrupulous conscientiousness were equal to Sarah's, but she always preserved her individuality and her right to think for herself. Once convinced, she could maintain her opinion against all arguments and persuasions, no matter from whom. As an illustration of this, it is related of her that when she was about thirteen years of age the bishop of the diocese called to talk to her about being confirmed. She had, of course, been baptized when an infant, and he told her she was now old enough to take upon herself the vows then made for her. She asked the meaning of confirmation, and was referred to the prayer-book. After reading the rite over, she said:-- "I cannot be confirmed, for I cannot promise what is here required." The bishop urged that it was a form which all went through who had been baptized in the Church, and expected to remain in it. Looking him calmly in the face, she said, in a tone whose decision could not be questioned:-- "If, with my feelings and views as they now are, I should go through that form, it would be acting a lie. I cannot do it." And no persuasions could induce her to consent. Like Sarah, she felt much for the slaves, and was ever kind to them, thoughtful, and considerate. She, too, suffered keenly when punishments were inflicted upon them; and no one could listen without tears to the account she gave of herself, as a little girl, stealing out of the house after dark with a bottle of oil with which to anoint the wounds of some poor creature who had been torn by the lash. Earlier than Sarah, she recognized the whole injustice of the system, and refused ever to have anything to do with it. She did once own a woman, but under the following circumstances:-- "I had determined," she writes, "never to own a slave; but, finding that my mother could not manage Kitty, I undertook to do so, if I could have her without any interference from anyone. This could not be unless she was mine, and purely from notions of duty I consented to own her. Soon after, one of my mother's servants quarrelled with her, and beat her. I determined she should not be subject to such abuse, and I went out to find her a place in some Christian family. My steps were ordered by the Lord. I succeeded in my desire, and placed her with a religious friend, where she was kindly treated." Afterwards, when the woman had become a good Methodist, Angelina transferred the ownership to her mother, not wishing to receive the woman's wages,--to take, as she said, money which that poor creature had earned. There is no evidence that, up to the time of her first visit to Philadelphia, in 1828, she saw anything sinful in owning slaves; indeed, Sarah distinctly says she did not. She took the Bible as authority for the right to own them, and their cruel treatment by their masters was all that distressed her for many years. Like most of her young companions, Angelina had great respect for the ordinary observances of religion without much devotional sense of its sacred obligations. But Sarah did not neglect her duty as godmother. Her searching inquiries and solemn warnings had their effect, and soon awakened a slumbering conscience. But its upbraidings were not accepted unquestionably by Angelina, as they had been by Sarah. They only stung her into a desire for investigation. She must know the why; and her strong self-reliance helped her judgment, and buoyed her up amid waves of doubt and anxiety that would have submerged her more timid sister. In the first letter of hers that was preserved, written in January, 1826, we are introduced to her religious feelings, and find that they were formed by the pattern set by Sarah, save that they lacked Sarah's earnestness and sincere conviction. She acknowledges herself a poor, miserable sinner, but the tone is that of confidence that she will come out all right, and that it isn't really such a dreadful thing to be a sinner after all. In this letter, too, she mentions the death of her brother Benjamin, and in the same spirit in which Sarah wrote of it. "I was in Beaufort," she says, "when the news of my dear Ben's fate arrived. You may well suppose it was a great shock to my feelings, but I did not for one moment doubt all was right. This blow has been dealt by the hand of mercy. We have been much comforted in this dispensation. I have felt that it was good for me, and I think I have been thankful for it." And further on: "If this affliction will only make Mary (Benjamin's wife) a real Christian, how small will be the price of her salvation!" Poor Ben! heroic, self-sacrificing soul, he was not a professing Christian. In this same letter she expresses the desire to become a communicant of the Episcopal Church. But she did not wait for Sarah's answer. Before it came, she and one of her sisters had joined the Church. This was in January. Before a month had passed she began to be dissatisfied, and grew more and more so as time went on. Why, it is not difficult to surmise. From having been accustomed to much society and genial intercourse, she found herself, from her own choice, shut out from it all, and imprisoned within the rigid formalism and narrow exclusiveness of a proud, aristocratic church society. The compensation of knowing herself a lamb of this flock was not sufficient. She starved, she says, on the cold water of Episcopacy, and, to her mother's distress, began going to the Presbyterian church, just as Sarah had done. In April, she writes thus to her sister:-- "O, my dear mother, I have joyful news to tell you. God has given me a new heart. He has renewed a right spirit within me. This is news which has occasioned even the angels in heaven to rejoice; surely, then, as a Christian, as my sister and my mother, you will also greatly rejoice. For many years I hardened my heart, and would not listen to God's admonitions to flee from the wrath to come. Now I feel as if I could give up all for Christ, and that if I no longer live in conformity to the world, I can be saved." She then states that this change was brought about by the preaching of Mr. McDowell, the Presbyterian minister, and that she can never be grateful enough, as his ministry had been blessed to the saving of her soul. A little further on she adds:-- "The Presbyterians, I think, enjoy so many privileges that, on this account, I would wish to be one. They have their monthly concert and prayer-meetings, Bible-classes, weekly prayer-meetings, morning and evening, and many more which spring from different circumstances. I trust, my dear mother, you will approve of what I have done. I cannot but think if I had been taking an improper step, my conscience would have warned me of it, but, far otherwise, I have gone on my way rejoicing. "Mr. Hanckel sent me a note and a tract persuasive of my remaining in his church. The latter I think the most bigoted thing I ever read. He said he would call and see me on the subject. I trust and believe God will give me words whereby to refute his arguments. Brother Tom sanctioned my change, for his liberal mind embraces all classes of Christians in the arms of charity and love, and he thinks everyone right to sit under that minister, and choose that form, which makes the deepest impression on the heart. I feel that I have begun a great work, and must be diligent. Adieu, my dear mother. You must write soon to your daughter, and tell her all your mind on this subject." There is something very refreshing in all this, after poor Sarah's pages of bitterness and self-reproach. At that time, at any rate, Angelina enjoyed her religion. It was to her the fulfilment of promise. Sarah experienced little of its satisfactions, and groaned and wept under its requirements, from a sense of her utter unworthiness to accept any of its blessings. And this difference between the sisters continued always. Angelina knew that humility was the chief of the Christian virtues, and often she believed she had attained to it; but there was too much self-assertion, too much of the pride of power, in her composition, to permit her to go down into the depths, and prostrate herself in the dust as Sarah did. She could turn her full gaze to the sun, and bask in its genial beams, while Sarah felt unworthy to be touched by a single ray, and looked up to its light with imploring but shaded eyes. In November, 1827, Sarah again visited Charleston. Her heart yearned for Angelina, whose religious state excited her tenderest solicitude, and called for her wisest counsel. For that enthusiastic young convert was again running off the beaten track, and picking flaws in her new doctrines. But there was another reason why Sarah desired to absent herself from Philadelphia for a while. I can touch but lightly on this experience of her life, for her sensitive soul quivered under any allusion to it; and though her diary contains many references to it, they are chiefly in the form of prayers for submission to her trial, and strength to bear it. But it was the key-note to the dirge which sounded ever after in her heart, mingling its mournful numbers with every joy, even after she had risen beyond her religious horrors. For months she fought against this new snare of Satan, as she termed it, this plain design to draw her thoughts from God, and compass her destruction. The love of Christ should surely be enough for her, and any craving for earthly affection was the evidence of an unsanctified heart. In a delicate reference to this, in after years, she says:-- "It is a beautiful theory, but my experience belies it, that God can be all in all to man. There are moments, diamond points in life, when God fills the yearning soul, and supplies all our needs, through the richness of his mercy in Christ Jesus. But human hearts are created for human hearts to love and be loved by, and their claims are as true and as sacred as those of the spirit." It was very soon after her first doubts concerning her worthiness to accept the happiness offered to her that she determined to go to Charleston and put her feelings to the test of absence and unbiased reflection. The entry in her diary of November 22d is as follows:-- "Landed this morning in Charleston, and was welcomed by my dear mother with tears of pleasure and tenderness, as she folded me once more to her bosom. My dear sisters, too, greeted me with all the warmth of affection. It is a blessing to find them all seriously disposed, and my precious Angelina one of the Master's chosen vessels. What a mercy!" CHAPTER IV. The strong contrast between Sarah and Angelina Grimké was shown not only in their religious feelings, but in their manner of treating the ordinary concerns of life, and in carrying out their convictions of duty. In her humility, and in her strong reliance on the "inner light," Sarah refused to trust her own judgment, even in the merest trifles, such as the lending of a book to a friend, postponing the writing of a letter, or sweeping a room to-day, when it might be better to defer it until to-morrow. She says of this: "Perhaps to some who have been led by higher ways than I have been into a knowledge of the truth, it may appear foolish to think of seeking direction in little things, but my mind has for a long time been in a state in which I have often felt a fear how I came in or went out, and I have found it a precious thing to stop and consult the mind of truth, and be governed thereby." The following incident, one out of many, will illustrate the sincerity of her conviction on this point. "In this frame of mind I went to meeting, and it being a rainy day I took a large, handsome umbrella, which I had accepted from brother Henry, accepted doubtfully, therefore wrongfully, and have never felt quite easy to use it, which, however, I have done a few times. After I was in meeting, I was much tried with a wandering mind, and every now and then the umbrella would come before me, so that I sat trying to wait on my God, and he showed me that I must not only give up this little thing, but return it to brother. Glad to purchase peace, I yielded; then the reasoner said I could put it away and not use it, but this language was spoken: 'I have shown thee what was required of thee.' It seemed to me that a little light came through a narrow passage, when my will was subdued. Now this is a marvellous thing to me, as marvellous as the dealings of the Lord with me in what may appear great things." In a note she adds: "This little sacrifice was made. I sent the umbrella with an affectionate note to brother, and believe it gave him no offence to have it returned. And sweet has been the recompense--even peace." Whenever she acted from her own impulses, she was very clever in finding out some disappointment or mistake, which she could claim as a punishment for her self-will. As sympathy was the strongest quality of her moral nature, she suffered intensely when, impelled by a sense of duty, she offered a rebuke of any kind. The tenderest pity stirred her heart for wrong-doers, and though she never spared the sinner, it was always manifest that she loved him while hating his sin. Angelina, on the other hand, was wonderfully well satisfied with her own power of distinguishing right from wrong; this power being, she believed, the gift of the Spirit to her. She sought her object, dreading no consequences, and if disaster followed she comforted herself with the feeling that she had acted according to her best light. She was a faithful disciple of every cause she espoused, and scrupulously exact in obeying even its implied provisions. In this there was no hesitancy. No matter who was offended, or what sacrifices to herself it involved, the law, the strict letter of the law, must be carried out. In the early years of her religious life, she frequently felt called upon to rebuke those about her. She did it unhesitatingly, and as a righteous and an inflexible judge. In order to make these differences between the sisters more plain, differences which harmonized singularly with their unity in other respects, I shall be obliged, at the risk of wearying the reader, to make some further extracts from their diaries, before entering upon that portion of their lives in which they became so closely identified. After Sarah's return home, in 1827, we learn more of her mother and of the family generally, and see, though with them, how far apart she really was from them. The second entry in her diary at that date shows the beginning of this. "23d. Have been favored with strength to absent myself from family prayers. A great trial this to Angelina and myself, and something the rest cannot understand. But I have a testimony to bear against will worship, and oh, that I may be faithful to this and to all the testimonies which we as a Society are called to declare. "26th. Am this day thirty-five years old. A serious consideration that I have passed so many years to so little profit. "How little mother seems to know when I am sitting solemnly beside her, of the supplications which arise for her, under the view of her having ere long to give an account of the deeds done in the body." A month later she writes: "The subject of returning to Philadelphia has been revived before me. It seems like a fresh trial, and as if, did my Master permit, here would I stay, and in the bosom of my family be content to dwell; but if he orders it otherwise, great as will be the struggle, may I submit in humble faith." By the following extracts it will be seen that living under the daily and hourly influence of Sarah, Angelina was slowly but surely imbibing the fresh milk of Quakerism, and was preparing for another great change on her spiritual journey. In March, 1828, she wrote as follows to her sister, Mrs. Frost, in Philadelphia:-- "I think I can say that it was owing in a great measure to my peculiar state of mind that I did not write to you for so long. During that time it seemed as though the Lord was driving me from everything on which I had rested for happiness, in order to bring me to Christ alone. My dear little church, in which I delighted once to dwell, seemed to have Ichabod written upon its walls, and I felt as though it was a cross for me to go into it. At times I thought the Saviour meant to bring me out of it, and I could weep at the bare thought of being separated from people I loved so dearly. Like Abraham, I had gone out from my kindred into a strange land, and I have often thought that by faith I was joined to that body of Christians, for I certainly knew nothing at all about them at that time." In the latter part of the letter she mentions the visit to her of an Episcopal minister, from near Beaufort. He asked her if she could not do something to remove the lukewarmness from the Episcopal Church, and if a real evangelical minister was sent there would she not return to it. "But," she says, "I told him I could not conscientiously belong to any church which exalted itself above all others, and excluded ministers of other denominations from its pulpit. The principle of _liberty_ is what especially endears the Presbyterian church to me. Our pulpit is open to all Christians, and, as I have often heard my dear pastor remark, our communion table is the _Lord's table_, and all his children are cheerfully received at it." About the same time Sarah says in her diary: "My dear Angelina observed to-day, 'I do not know what is the matter with me; some time ago I could talk to the poor people, but now it seems as if my lips were absolutely sealed. I cannot get the words out.' I mark with intense interest her progress in the divine life, believing she is raised up to declare the wonderful works of God to the children of men." In the latter part of March, 1828, she makes the following entry: "On the eve of my departure from home, all before me lies in darkness save this one step, to go at this time in the _Langdon Cheeves_. This seems peremptory, and at times precious promises have been annexed to obedience,--'Go, and I will be with thee.'" Angelina had been very happy during the year spent in the Presbyterian Church, all its requirements suiting her temperament exactly. Her energy and activity found full exercise in various works of charity, in visiting the prison, where she delighted to exhort the prisoners, in reading, and especially in expounding the scriptures to the sick and aged; in zealously forwarding missionary work, and in warm interest in all the social exercises of the society. She was petted by the pastor, and admired by the congregation. It was very pleasant to her to feel that she not only conformed to all her duties, but was regarded as a shining light, destined to do much to build up the church. She still retained most of her old friendships in the Episcopal church, which had not given up all hope of luring her back to its fold. Altogether, life had gone smoothly with her, and she was well satisfied. The change which she now contemplated was a revolution. It was to break up all the old habits and associations, disturb life-long friendships, and, stripping her of the attractions of society and church intercourse, leave her standing alone, a spectacle to the eyes of those who gazed, a wonder and a grief to her friends. But all this Sarah had warned her of, and all this she felt able to endure. Self-sacrifice, self-immolation, in fact, was what Sarah taught; and, although Angelina never learned the lesson fully, she made a conscientious effort to understand and practise it. She began very shortly after Sarah's arrival at home. In January her diary records the following offering made to the Moloch of Quakerism:-- "To-day I have torn up my novels. My mind has long been troubled about them. I did not dare either to sell them or lend them out, and yet I had not resolution to destroy them until this morning, when, in much mercy, strength was granted." Sarah in her diary thus refers to this act: "This morning my dear Angelina proposed destroying Scott's novels, which she had purchased before she was serious. Perhaps I strengthened her a little, and accordingly they were cut up. She also gave me some elegant articles to stuff a cushion, believing that, as we were commanded to lead holy and unblamable lives, so we must not sanction sin in others by giving them what we had put away ourselves." Angelina also says, "A great deal of my finery, too, I have put beyond the reach of anyone." An explanation of this is given in a copy of a paper which was put into the cushion alluded to by Sarah. The copy is in her handwriting. "Believing that if ever the contents of this cushion, in the lapse of years, come to be inspected (when, mayhap, its present covering should be destroyed by time and service), they will excite some curiosity in those who will behold the strange assemblage of handsome lace veils, flounces, and trimmings, and caps, this may inform them that in the winter of 1827-8, Sarah M. Grimké, being on a visit to her friends in Charleston, undertook the economical task of making a rag carpet, and with the shreds thereof concluded to stuff this cushion. Having made known her intention, she solicited contributions from all the family, which they furnished liberally, and several of them having relinquished the vanities of the world to seek a better inheritance, they threw into the treasury much which they had once used to decorate the poor tabernacle of clay. Now it happened that on the 10th day of the first month that, sitting at her work and industriously cutting her scraps, her well-beloved sister Angelina proposed adding to the collection for the cushion two handsome lace veils, a lace flounce, and other laces, etc., which were accepted, and are accordingly in this medley. This has been done under feelings of duty, believing that, as we are called with a high and holy calling, and forbidden to adorn these bodies, but to wear the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, as we have ourselves laid aside these superfluities of naughtiness, so we should not in any measure contribute to the destroying of others, knowing that we shall be called to give an account of the deeds done in the body." This was at least consistent, and in this light cannot be condemned. From that time Angelina kept up this kind of sacrifices, which were gladly made, and for which she seems to have found ample compensation in her satisfied sense of duty. One day she records: "I have just untrimmed my hat, and have put nothing but a band of ribbon around it, and taken the lace out of the inside. I do want, if I _am_ a Christian, to look like one. I think that professors of religion ought so to dress that wherever they are seen all around may feel they are _condemning_ the world and all its trifling vanities." A little later, she writes: "My attention has lately been called to the duty of Christians dressing _quite_ plain. When I was first brought to the feet of Jesus, I learned this lesson in part, but I soon forgot much of it. Now I find my views stricter and clearer than they ever were. The first thing I gave up was a cashmere mantle which cost twenty dollars. I had not felt easy with it for some months, and finally determined never to wear it again, though I had no money at the time to replace it with anything else. However, I gave it up in faith, and the Lord provided for me. This part of Scripture came very forcibly to my mind, and very sweetly, too, 'And Dagon was fallen upon his face to the ground before the ark of the Lord.' It was then clearly revealed to me that if the true ark Christ Jesus was really introduced into the temple of the heart, that every idol would fall before it." Elsewhere she mentions that she had begun with this mantle by cutting off the border; but this compromise did not satisfy conscience. But the work thus begun did not ripen until some time after Sarah's departure, though the preparation for it went daily and silently on. Sarah in the meanwhile was once more quietly settled at Catherine Morris' house in Philadelphia. But we must leave this much-tried pilgrim for a little while, and record the progress of her young disciple on the path which, through much tribulation, led her at last to her sister's side, and to that work which was even now preparing for them both. CHAPTER V. Angelina's diary, commenced in 1828, is most characteristic, and in the very beginning shows that inclination to the consideration and discussion of serious questions which in after years so distinguished her. It is rather remarkable to find a girl of twenty-three scribbling over several pages about the analogy existing between the natural and the spiritual world, or discussing with herself the question: "Are seasons of darkness always occasioned by sin?" or giving a long list of reasons why she differs from commentators upon certain texts of scriptures. She enjoyed this kind of thinking and writing, and seems to have been unwearying in her search after authorities to sustain her views. The maxims, too, which she was fond of jotting down here and there, and which furnished the texts for long dissertations, show the serious drift of her thoughts, and their clearness and beauty. From this time it is interesting to follow her spiritual progress, so like and yet so unlike Sarah's. She, also, early in her religious life, was impressed with the feeling that she would be called to some great work. In the winter of 1828, she writes:-- "It does appear to me, and it has appeared so ever since I had a hope, that there was a work before me to which all my other duties and trials were only preparatory. I have no idea what it is, and I may be mistaken, but it does seem that if I am obedient to the 'still small voice' in my heart, that it will lead me and cause me to glorify my Master in a more honorable work than any in which I have been yet engaged." Knowing Sarah's convictions at this time, it is easy to imagine the long, confidential talks she must have had with Angelina, and the loving persuasion used to bring this dear sister into the same communion with herself, and it is no marvel that she succeeded. Angelina's nature was an earnest one, and she ever sought the truth, and the best in every doctrine, and this remained with her after the rest was rejected. The Presbyterian Church satisfied her better than the Episcopal, but if Sarah or anyone else could show her a brighter light to guide her, a better path leading to the same goal, she would have thought it a heinous offence against God and her own true nature to reject it. That no desire for novelty impelled her in her then contemplated change, and that she foresaw all she would have to contend with, and the sacrifices she would have to make, is evident from several passages like the following:-- "Yesterday I was thrown into great exercise of mind. The Lord more clearly than ever unfolded his design of appointing me another field of labor, and at the same time I felt released from the cross of conducting family worship. I feel that very soon all the burdens will drop from my hands, and all the cords by which I have been bound to many Christian friends will be broken asunder. Soon I shall be a stranger among those with whom I took sweet counsel, and shall have to tread the wine press alone and be forsaken of all." A day or two after she says:-- "This morning I felt no condemnation when I went into family prayers, and did not lead as usual in the duties. I felt that my Master had stripped me of the priest's garments, and put them on my mother. May He be pleased to anoint her for these sacred duties." Her impressions may be accounted for by the influence of Sarah's feelings regarding herself, and as there was then no other field of public usefulness open to women, especially among the Quakers, than the ministry, her mind naturally settled upon that as her prospective work. But, unlike Sarah, the anticipation inspired her with no dread, no doubt even of her ability to perform the duties, or of her entire acceptance in them. It is true she craved of the Lord guidance and help, but she was confident she would receive all she needed, and in this state of mind she was better fitted, perhaps, to wait patiently for her summons than Sarah was. She gives a minute and very interesting account of the successive steps by which she was led to feel that she could no longer worship in the Presbyterian Church, and we see the workings of Sarah's influence through it all. But it was not until after Sarah left for Philadelphia that Angelina took any decided measures to release herself from the old bonds. All winter it had grieved her to think of leaving a church which she had called the cradle of her soul, and where she had enjoyed so many privileges. She loved everything connected with it; the pastor to whom she had looked up as her spiritual guide; the members with whom she had been so intimately associated, and the Sunday-school in which she was much beloved, and where she felt she was doing a good work. Again and again she asked herself: "How can I give them up?" Her friends all noticed the decline of her interest in the church work and services, and commented upon it. But she shrank for a long time from any open avowal of her change of views, preferring to let her conduct tell the story. And in this she was straightforward and open enough, not hesitating to act at once upon each new light as it was given to her. First came the putting away of everything like ornament about her dress. "Even the bows on my shoes," she says, "must go," and then continues:-- "My friends tell me that I render myself ridiculous, and expose the cause of Jesus to reproach, on account of my plain dressing. They tell me it is wrong to make myself so conspicuous. But the more I ponder on the subject, the more I feel that I am called with a high and holy calling, and that I ought to be peculiar, and cannot be too zealous. I rejoice to look forward to the time when Christians will follow the apostolical injunction to 'keep their garments unspotted from the world;' and is not every conformity to it a spot on the believer's character? I think it is, and I bless the Lord that He has been pleased to bring my mind to a contemplation of this subject. I pray that He may strengthen me to keep the resolution to dress always in the following style: A hat over the face, without any bows of ribbon or lace; no frills or trimmings on any part of my dress, and materials _not_ the finest." This simplicity in dress, and the sinfulness of every self-indulgence, she also taught to her Sunday-school scholars with more or less success, as one example out of several of a similar character will show. "Yesterday," she writes, "I met my class, and think it was a profitable meeting to all. One of them has entertained a hope for about a year. She asked me if I thought it wrong to plant geraniums? I told her _I_ had no time for such things. She then said that she had once taken great pleasure in cultivating them, but lately she had felt so much condemnation that she had given it up entirely. Another professed to have some little hope in the Saviour, and remarked that I had changed her views with regard to dress very much, that she had taken off her rings and flounces, and hoped never to wear them again. Her hat also distressed her. It was almost new, and she could not afford to get another. I told her if she would send it to me I would try to change it. Two others came who felt a little, but are still asleep. A good work is evidently begun. May it be carried triumphantly on." Towards spring she began to absent herself from the weekly prayer-meetings, to stop her active charities, and to withdraw herself more from the family and social circle. In April she writes in her diary:-- "My mind is composed, and I cannot but feel astonished at the total change which has passed over me in the last six months. I once delighted in going to meeting four and five times every week, but now my Master says, 'Be still,' and I would rather be at home; for I find that every stream from which I used to drink the waters of salvation is dry, and that I have been led to the fountain itself. And is it possible, I would ask myself to-night, is it possible that I have this day paid my last visit to the Presbyterian Church? that I have taught my interesting class for the last time? Is it right that I should separate myself from a people whom I have loved so tenderly, and who have been the helpers of my joy? Is it right to give up instructing those dear children, whom I have so often carried in the arms of faith and love to the throne of grace? Reason would sternly answer, _No_, but the Spirit whispers, 'Come out from among them!' I am sure if I refuse the call of my Master to the Society of Friends, I shall be a dead member in the Presbyterian Church. I have read none of their books for fear of being convinced of their principles, but the Lord has taught me Himself, and I feel that He who is Head over all things, has called me to follow Him into the little silent meeting which is in this city." And into the little silent meeting she went,--little, indeed, as the only regular attendants were two old men; and silent, chiefly because between these two there was a bitter feud, and the communion of spirit was naturally preferred to vocal intercession. When Angelina became aware of this state of feeling, and saw that the two old Quakers always left the meeting-house without shaking hands, as it was the custom to do, she became much troubled, and for several weeks much of the comfort of attending meeting was destroyed. "The more I thought of it," she writes to Sarah, "the clearer became the conviction that I must write to J.K. (the one with whom she was best acquainted). This I did, after asking counsel of the Lord, for full well did I know that I should expose myself to the anger and rudeness of J.K., by touching on a point which I believed was already sore from the prickings of conscience. His reply was even harsher than I expected; but, though it did wound my feelings, it convinced me that he needed just what I wrote, and that the pure witness within him condemned him. My letter, I think, was written in conformity to the direction given by Paul to Timothy, 'Rebuke not an _elder_, but entreat him as a father,' and in a spirit of love and tenderness. His answer spoke a spirit too proud to brook even the meekest remonstrance, and he tried to justify his conduct by saying that D.L. was a thief and a slave-holder, and had cheated him out of a large sum of money, etc. I answered him, expressing my belief that, let D.L.'s moral character be what it might, the Christian ought to be gentle and courteous to all men; and that we were bound to love our enemies, which was not at all inconsistent with the obligation to bear a decided testimony against all that we believed contrary to the precepts of the Bible. He sent me another letter, in which he declared D.L. was to him as a 'heathen and a publican,' and I was a 'busybody in other men's matters.' Here I think the matter will end. I feel that I have done what was required of me, and I am willing he should think of me as he does, so long as I enjoy the testimony of a good conscience." We cannot wonder that Angelina drew upon herself, as Sarah had done, the arrows of ridicule; and that taunts and sneers followed her, as she walked alone in her simple dress to her humble place of worship. But we marvel that one situated as she was,--young, naturally gay and brilliant, the centre of a large circle of fashionable friends, the ewe lamb of an influential religious society,--should have unflinchingly maintained her position under persecutions and trials that would have made many an older disciple succumb. That they were martyrdom to her proud spirit there can be no doubt; but, sustained by the inner light, the conviction that she was right, she could put every temptation behind her, and resist even the prayers and tears of her mother. Her withdrawal from the Presbyterian Church caused the most intense excitement in the community, and every effort was made to reclaim her. The Rev. Mr. McDowell, her pastor, visited her, and remonstrated with her in the most feeling manner, assuring her of his profound pity, as she was evidently under a delusion of the arch-adversary. Members of the congregation made repeated calls upon her, urging every argument they could think of to convince her she was deceived. Some expressed a fear that her mind was a little unbalanced, and shook their heads over the possible result; others declared that she was committing a great impropriety to shut herself up every Sunday with two old men. This, Angelina informed them, was a mistake, as the windows and doors were wide open, and the gate also. Others of her friends assured her with tears in their eyes that they would pray to the Lord to bring her back to the path of duty she had forsaken. The superintendent of the Sunday-school came also to plead with her, in the name of the children she was abandoning. Some of the scholars themselves came and implored her not to leave them. "But," she writes, "none of these things turn me a hair's breadth, for I have the witness in myself that I have done as the Master commanded. Some tell me this is a judgment on me for sin committed; and some say it is a chastisement to Mr. McDowell for going away last summer." (During the prevalence of an epidemic the summer before, the Presbyterian pastor had been much blamed for deserting his flock and fleeing to the sea-shore until all danger was past.) By all this it will be seen that Angelina was regarded as too precious a jewel in the crown of the Church to be relinquished without a struggle. But satisfied as was her conscience, Angelina's natural feelings could not be immediately stifled. Though not so sensitive or so affectionate as Sarah, she was quite as proud, and valued as greatly the good opinion of her family and friends. She could not feel herself an outcast, an object of pity and derision, without being deeply affected by it. Her health gave way under the pressure, and a change of scene and climate was recommended. Sarah at once urged that she join her in Philadelphia; and, this meeting the approbation of her mother, she sailed for the North in July (1828). In Sarah's diary, about this time, we find the following entry:-- "13th. My beloved Angelina arrived yesterday. Peace has, I believe, been the covering of our minds; and in thinking of her to-day, and trying to feel whether I should advise her not to adopt immediately the garb of a Quaker, the language presented itself, 'Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm.' So I dared not meddle with her." The summer was a peaceful and delightful one to Angelina. She was the guest of Catherine Morris, and was treated like a daughter by all the kind Quaker circle. The novelty of her surroundings, the fresh scenes and new ideas constantly presented before her, opened up a field of thought whose boundaries only she had until then touched, but which she soon began eagerly and conscientiously to explore. Two extracts from letters written by her at that time will show how strict she was in her Quaker principles, and also that the persuasion that she was to be given some great work to do was becoming even more firmly grounded. To Sarah, who was absent from her for a short time, she writes:-- "Dear Mother: My mind begins to be much exercised. I scarcely want to converse at all, and believe it best I should be much alone. Sister Anna is very kind in leaving me to myself. She appears to feel much for me, but I do not feel at liberty to ask her what occasions the tears which at times flow as she throws her arms around me. I sometimes think she sees more than I do about myself. I often tremble when I think of the future, and fear that I am not entirely resigned to my Master's will. Read the first chapter of Jeremiah; it rests much on my mind, and distresses me; and though I would wish to put far off the evil day, yet I am urged continually to pray that the Lord would cut short the work of preparation." Her sister Anna (Mrs. Frost) was one of those who thought Angelina was under a terrible delusion, and mourned over her wasted energies. But it is certainly singular that the chapter to which she refers, taken in connection with the work with which she afterwards became identified, should have made the impression on her mind which it evidently did, as she repeatedly alludes to it. This letter is the last in which she addresses Sarah as _mother_. Their Quaker friends all objected to the habit, and it was dropped. In another letter she describes a visit she made to a friend in the country, and says:-- "I have already had reason to feel my great need of watchfulness here. Yesterday the nurse gave me a cap to tuck and trim for the baby. My hands actually trembled as I worked on it, and yet I had not faithfulness enough to refuse to do it. This text was repeatedly presented to me, 'Happy is he who condemneth not himself in that thing which he alloweth.' While working, my heart was lifted up to the Father of mercies for strength to bear my testimony against such vanities; and when I put the cap into Clara's hands, I begged her not to give me any more such work to do, as I felt it a duty to bear my testimony against dress, and believed it sinful in me to assist anyone in doing what I was convinced was sinful, and assured her of my willingness to do any plain work. She laughed at my scruples, but my agitated mind was calmed, and I was satisfied to be thought foolish for Christ's sake. Thomas (Clara's husband) and I had along talk about Quakers yesterday. I tried to convince him that they do not reject the Bible, explained the reason of their not calling it the word of God, and got him to acknowledge that in several texts I repeated the word was the Spirit. We conversed on the ordinances. He did not argue much for them, but was immovable in his opinions. He thinks if all Quakers were like _me_, he could like them, but believes I have carried all the good of Presbyterianism into the Society, therefore they cannot be judged of by me." On the 11th of November Sarah writes: "Parted with my dearly beloved sister Angelina this afternoon. We have been one another's consolation and strength in the Lord, mingling sweetly in exercise, and bearing one another's burdens." The first entry in Angelina's diary after her return to Charleston is as follows: "Once more in the bosom of my family. My prayer is that our coming together may be for the better, not for the worse." Considering the agitation which had been going on at the North for several years concerning slavery, we must suppose that Angelina and Sarah Grimké heard it frequently discussed, and had its features brought before them in a stronger light than that in which they had previously viewed them. In Sarah's mind, absorbed as it was at that time by her own sorrows and by the deeply-rooted conviction of her prospective and dreaded call to the ministry, there appears to have been no room for any other subject, if we except the strife then going on in the Quaker Church, and which called forth all her sympathy for the Orthodox portion, and her strong denunciation of the Hicksites. But upon Angelina every word she heard against the institution which she had always abhorred, but accepted as a necessary evil, made an indelible impression, which deepened when she was again face to face with its odious lineaments. This begins to show itself soon after her return home, as will be seen by the following extract:-- "Since my arrival I have enjoyed a continuation of that rest from exercise of mind which began last spring, until to-night. My soul is sorrowful, and my heart bleeds. I am ready to exclaim, When shall I be released from this land of slavery! But if my suffering for these poor creatures can at all ameliorate their condition, surely I ought to be quite willing, and I can now bless the Lord that my labor is not all in vain, though much remains to be done yet." The secluded and inactive life she now led confirmed the opinion of her Presbyterian friends that she was a backslider in the divine life. I must reserve for another chapter the recital of Angelina's efforts to open the eyes of the members of her household to the unchristian life they were leading, and the sins they were multiplying on their heads by their treatments of those they held in bondage. CHAPTER VI. Many things about the home life which habit had prevented Angelina from remarking before, now, since her visit among Friends, struck her as sinful, and inconsistent with a Christian profession. Only a few days after her return, she thus writes in her diary:-- "I am much tried at times at the manner in which I am obliged to live here in so much luxury and ease, and raised so far above the poor, and spending so much on my board. I want to live in plainness and simplicity and economy, for so should every Christian do. I am at a loss how to act, for if I live with mother, which seems the proper place for me, I must live in this way in a great degree. It is true I can always take the plainest food, and this I do generally, believing that whether at home or abroad I ought to eat nothing I think too sumptuous for a _servant_ of Jesus Christ. For this reason, when I took tea at a minister's house a few evenings since, I did not touch the richest cakes, nor the fruit and nuts handed, after tea; and when paying a visit the other morning, I refused cake and wine, although I felt fatigued, and would have liked something plain to eat. But it is not only the food I eat at mother's, but the whole style of living is a direct departure from the simplicity that is in Christ. The Lord's poor tell me they do not like to come to such a fine house to see me; and if they come, instead of being able to read a lesson of frugality, and deadness to the world, they must go away lamenting over the inconsistency of a sister professor. One thing is very hard to bear--I feel obliged to pay five dollars a week for board, though I disapprove of this extravagance, and am actually accessory in maintaining this style of living, when I know it is wrong, and am thereby prevented from giving to the poor as liberally as I would like." She and Sarah had for several years, when at home, paid board regularly to their mother, and this was probably one thing which irritated the other members of the family, several of whom were living in idleness on their mother, doing nothing and paying nothing. The brothers at least could not but feel the implied rebuke. As we have seen, she was not at all backward in expressing her disapprobation, when she found her silent testimony was disregarded or misunderstood; and her language was generally rather forcible. This, of course, was trying to those who did not see the necessity of living according to her standard, and very trying to Angelina, whose convictions were clear, and whose interest in her relatives was as tender as it was sincere. Scarcely a day passed that something did not occur to wound her feelings, shock her religious prejudices, or arouse her righteous indignation. Slavery was always the cause of the latter, and for the others ample reason was to be found in what she styled the vain lusts of the world, and in the coldness and irritability of some members of the family. Unrestrained self-indulgence, joined to high-strung and undisciplined tempers, made of what should have been a united, bright, and charming home circle, a place of constant discord, jealousy, and unhappiness. Sarah had borne this state of things better than Angelina could, her extreme gentleness and kindness disarming all unkind feelings in others. But even she was forced to flee from it at last. The record is a most painful one, and it gives another evidence of Angelina's sense of her own power, and of her reliance on divine help, that she should for one moment have contemplated effecting any change. But the respite from those dissensions, and the rest thus given to her spirit by her visit North, softened the bitter feelings she had once entertained, and when she returned home it was with sentiments of affection for everyone, and especially for her mother, from whom she had been grievously estranged. She prayed that she might not do or say anything to alienate them further from her; but when she fully realized, as she had never yet done, the sad condition of things, she could not keep silent. She felt it her duty to speak, and she did so, kindly and affectionately, but unsparingly. She relates many incidents proving this, and showing also how badly her reproofs were received. The mistake she made, and which in after years she freely acknowledged, was in excess of zeal. But Angelina was a born radical, and if a thing was wrong, it was wrong, and she could not see why it should not be righted at once. Temporizing with a wrong, or compromising with it in any way, were things outside of her reasoning, and she never would admit that they were justifiable under any circumstances. It was, of course, difficult to apply this principle in the desired reform of her mother's inherited and life-long prejudices. Hence the incessant chafing and irritation which daily made Angelina feel more keenly her isolated position, and caused her to turn with increasing longing to the North, where her beloved sister and many dear friends were in sympathy with her. To illustrate what I have said, one or two examples will be sufficient. She was much troubled because her mother had the drawing-room repainted and handsomely papered. Mrs. Grimké doubtless selected a paper in harmony with the house and furniture, and had no suspicion that she was thereby committing a sin. But Angelina thought it entirely too fine, and felt that she could never sit in the room. When the work was at last finished, and some friends were invited to tea, and afterwards repaired to the newly-decorated apartment, Angelina did not accompany them, but remained below, reading alone, much disturbed during the evening by the talking and laughing up stairs. Her mother did not notice her absence, or ascribed it to some other cause; but Angelina explained it to her some time afterwards, when, she says, a way seemed to open for it. "I spoke to her of how great a trial it was to me to see her living in the luxury she did, and explained to her that it was not, as she seemed to think, because I did not wish to see brother John and sister Sally that I was tried at their dining here every week, but it was the parade and profusion which was displayed when they came. I spoke also of the drawing-room, and remarked it was as much my feeling about _that_ which had prevented my coming into the room when M.A. and others drank tea here, as my objection to fashionable company. She said it was very hard that she could not give her children what food she chose, or have a room papered, without being found fault with; that, indeed, she was weary of being continually blamed about everything she did, and she wished she could be let alone, for she saw no sin in these things. 'I trust,' I said, 'that I do not speak to thee, mother, in the spirit thou art now speaking to me; nothing but my conviction that I am bound to bear my testimony to the truth could induce me to find fault with thee. In doing so, I am acting with eternity in view. I am acting in reference to that awful hour when I shall stand at thy death-bed, or thou by mine.' Interrupting me, she said if _I_ was so constantly found fault with, I would not bear it either; for her part, she was quite discouraged. 'Oh, mother,' said I, 'there is something in thee so alienated from the love of Christ that thou canst not bear to be found fault with.' 'Yes,' she said, 'you and Sally always say _I_ speak in a wrong spirit, but both of you in a right one.' She then went on to say how much I was changed, about slavery, for instance, for when I was first serious I thought it was right, and never condemned it. I replied that I acted according to the light I had. 'Well, then,' she continued, 'you are not to expect everyone to think like Quakers.' I remarked that true believers had but one leader, who would, if they followed Him, guide them into all truth, and teach them the same things. She again spoke of my turning Quaker, and said it was because I was a Quaker that I disapproved of a great many things that nobody but Quakers could see any harm in. I was much roused at this, and said with a good deal of energy, 'Dear mother, what but the _power_ of God could ever have made _me_ change my sentiments?' Some very painful conversation followed about Kitty. I did not hesitate to say that no one with _Christian_ feelings could have treated her as she was treated before I took her; her condition was a disgrace to the name of Christian. She reminded me that _I_ had advised the very method that had been adopted with her. This stung me to the quick. 'Not after I professed Christianity,' I eagerly replied, 'and that I should have done so before, only proved the wretched manner of my education.' But mother is perfectly blind as to the miserable manner in which she brought us up. During the latter part of the conversation I was greatly excited, for so acute have been my sufferings on account of slavery, and so strong my feelings of indignation in looking upon its oppressions and degradations, that I cannot command my feelings in speaking of what my own eyes have seen, and thus, I believe, I lost the satisfaction I should otherwise have felt for speaking the truth." Though constantly disregarded, taunted, and thwarted, Angelina faithfully persevered in her efforts at reform, at the same time as faithfully striving after more meekness and singleness of purpose herself. After a while, she obtained two concessions from which she hoped much: one, that the servants should come to her in the library every day for religious instruction; the other, that her mother would sit with her in silence every evening for half an hour before tea. The servants came as directed, and Angelina made her instructions so interesting that soon some of the neighbors' servants asked to be admitted, and then her mother and one or two of her sisters joined the meetings; and though no very marked fruit of her labors appeared for some time, she persevered, with a firm faith that the seed she was sowing would not all be scattered to the winds. The proposal to her mother to sit in silence for a while with her every evening was in accordance with the Quaker practices. She thought they would both find it profitable, and that it would be the means of forming a bond of union between them. The mother's assent to this was certainly an amiable concession to her daughter's views, enhanced by the regularity with which she kept the appointment, although the dark, silent room must have been at times a trifle wearisome. Angelina always sat on a low seat beside her, with her head in her mother's lap, and very rarely was the silence broken. The practice was kept up until the mosquitoes obliged them to discontinue it. That it did not prove entirely satisfactory, we judge from several entries in the diary like the following:-- "I still sit in silence with dear mother, but feel very sensibly that she takes no interest at all in it; still, I do not like to relinquish the habit, believing it may yet be blessed. Eliza came this evening, as she has several times before. It was a season of great deadness, and yet I am glad to sit even thus, for where there is communion there will be some union." Her position was certainly a difficult and a painful one; for, apart from other troubles, her eyes were now fully open to all the iniquities of the slave system, and she could neither stay in nor go out without having some of its miserable features forced upon her notice. In the view of her after-work, it is interesting to note the beginning of her strong feelings on the subject, as well as her faithful crusades against it in her own family. In April, 1829, she writes as follows in her diary:-- "Whilst returning from meeting this morning, I saw before me a colored woman who in much distress was vindicating herself to two white boys, one about eighteen, the other fifteen, who walked on each side of her. The dreadful apprehension that they were leading her to the workhouse crossed my mind, and I would have avoided her if I could. As I approached, the younger said to her, 'I will have you tied up.' My knees smote together, and my heart sank within me. As I passed them, she exclaimed, 'Missis!' But I felt all I had to do was to suffer the pain of seeing her. My lips were sealed, and my soul earnestly craved a willingness to bear the exercise which was laid on me. How long, O Lord, how long wilt thou suffer the foot of the oppressor to stand on the neck of the slave! None but those who know from experience what it is to live in a land of bondage can form any idea of what is endured by those whose eyes are open to the enormities of slavery, and whose hearts are tender enough to feel for these miserable creatures. For two or three months after my return here it seemed to me that all the cruelty and unkindness which I had from my infancy seen practised towards them came back to my mind as though it was only yesterday. And as to the house of correction, it seemed as though its doors were unbarred to me, and the wretched, lacerated inmates of its cold, dark cells were presented to my view. Night and day they were before me, and yet my hands were bound as with chains of iron. I could do nothing but weep over the scenes of horror which passed in review before my mind. Sometimes I felt as though I was willing to fly from Carolina, be the consequences what they might. At others, it seemed as though the very exercises I was suffering under were preparing me for future usefulness to them; and this,--_hope_, I can scarcely call it, for my very soul trembled at the solemn thought of such a work being placed in my feeble and unworthy hands,--this idea was the means of reconciling me to suffer, and causing me to feel something of a willingness to pass through any trials, if I could only be the means of exposing the cruelty and injustice which was practised in the institution of oppression, and of bringing to light the hidden things of darkness, of revealing the secrets of iniquity and abolishing its present regulations,--above all, of exposing the awful sin of professors of religion sending their slaves to such a place of cruelty, and having them whipped so that when they come out they can scarcely walk, or having them put upon the treadmill until they are lamed for days afterwards. These are not things I have heard; no, my own eyes have looked upon them and wept over them. Such was the opinion I formed of the workhouse that for many months whilst I was a teacher in the Sunday-school, having a scholar in my class who was the daughter of the master of it, I had frequent occasion to go to it to mark her lessons, and no one can imagine my feelings in walking down that street. It seemed as though I was walking on the very confines of hell; and this winter, being obliged to pass it to pay a visit to a friend, I suffered so much that I could not get over it for days, and wondered how any real Christian could live near such a place." It may appear to some who read this biography that Angelina's expressions of feeling were over-strained. But it was not so. Her nervous organization was exceedingly delicate, and became more so after she began to give her best thoughts to the cause of humanity. In her own realization, at least, of the suffering of others there was no exaggeration. Not long after making the above record of her feelings on this subject, she narrates the following incident:-- "I have been suffering for the last two days on account of Henry's boy having run away, because he was threatened with a whipping. Oh, who can paint the horrors of slavery! And yet, so hard is the natural heart that I am constantly told that the situation of slaves is very good, much better than that of their owners. How strange that anyone should believe such an absurdity, or try to make others believe it! No wonder poor John ran away at the threat of a flogging, when he has told me more than once that when H. last whipped him he was in pain for a week afterwards. I don't know how the boy must have felt, but I know that that night was one of agony to me; for it was not only dreadful to hear the blows, but the oaths and curses H. uttered went like daggers to my heart. And this was done, too, in the house of one who is regarded as a light in the church. O Jesus, where is thy meek and merciful disposition to be found now? Are the marks of discipleship changed, or who are thy true disciples? Last night I lay awake weeping over the condition of John, and it seemed as though that was all I could do. But at last I was directed to go to H. and tenderly remonstrate with him. I sought strength, and was willing to do so, if the impression continued. To-day, was somewhat released from this exercise, though still suffering, and almost thought it would not be required. But at dusk it returned; and, having occasion to go into H.'s room for something, I broached the subject as guardedly and mildly as possible, first passing my arm around him, and leaning my head on his shoulder. He very openly acknowledged that he meant to give John such a whipping as would cure him of ever doing the same thing again, and that he deserved to be whipped until he could not stand. I said that would be treating him worse than he would treat his horse. He now became excited, and replied that he considered his horse no comparison better than John, and would _not_ treat _it_ so. By this time my heart was full, and I felt so much overcome as to be compelled to seat myself, or rather to fall into a chair before him, but I don't think he observed this. The conversation proceeded. I pleaded the cause of humanity. He grew very angry, and said I had no business to be meddling with him, that he never did so with me. I said if I had ever done anything to offend him I was very sorry for it, but I had tried to do everything to please him. He said I had come from the North expressly to be miserable myself and make everyone in the house so, and that I had much better go and live at the North. I told him that I was not ignorant that both C. and himself would be very glad if I did, and that as soon as I felt released from Carolina I would go; but that I had believed it my duty to return this winter, though I knew I was coming back to suffer. He again accused me of meddling with his private affairs, which he said I had no right to do. I told him I could not but lift up my voice against his manner of treating John. He said rather than suffer the continual condemnation of his conduct by me, he would leave mother's house. I appealed to the witness in his own bosom as to the truth of what I urged. To my surprise he readily acknowledged that he felt something within him which fully met all I asserted, and that I had harrowed his feelings and made him wretched. Much more passed. I alluded to his neglect of me, and testified that I had experienced no feeling but that of love towards him and all the family, and a desire to do all I could to oblige them; and I left the room in tears. I retired to bless my Saviour for the strength he had granted, and to implore his continued support." "7th. Surely my heart ought to be lifted to my blessed Master in emotions of gratitude and praise. His boy came home last night a short time after our conversation, and instead of punishing him, as I am certain he intended to do, he merely told him to go about his business. I was amazed last night after all my sufferings were over, and I was made willing to leave all things in my Father's hands, to see John in the house. This was a renewed proof to me how necessary it is for us to watch for the right _time_ in which to do things. If I had not spoken just when I did, I could not have done so before John's return. He has escaped entirely.... Oh, how earnestly two nights ago did I pray for a release from this land of slavery, and how my heart still pants after it! And yet, I think, I trust it is in submission to my Heavenly Father's will. I feel comfortable to-night; my relief from suffering about John is so great that other trials seem too light to name." "8th. My heart sings aloud for joy. I feel the sweet testimony of a good conscience, the reward of obedience in speaking to H. Dear boy, he has good, tender feelings naturally, but a false education has nearly destroyed them, and his own perverted judgment as to what is manly and what is necessary in the government of slaves has done the rest. Lord, open thou his eyes." On the 13th of March she says: "To-day, for the first time, I ironed my clothes, and felt as though it was an acceptable sacrifice. This seemed part of the preparation for my removal to the North. I felt fearful lest this object was a stronger incentive to me than the desire to glorify my divine Master." There was doubtless some truth in the charge brought against her by her brothers, that her face was a perpetual condemnation of them. Referring to a call she received from some friends, she says:-- "An emptiness and vapidness pervaded all they said about religion. I was silent most of the time, and fear what I did say sprang from a feeling of too great indignation. Just before they went away, I joined in a joke; much condemnation was felt, for the language to me constantly is, 'I have called _thee_ with a _high_ and _holy_ calling,' and it seems as though solemnity ought always to pervade my mind too much to allow me ever to joke, but my natural vivacity is hard to bridle and subdue." The bond between Sarah and Angelina was growing stronger every day, their separation in matters of religion from the other members of the family serving more than anything else to draw them closely and lovingly together. Every letter from Sarah was hailed as a messenger of peace and joy, and to her Angelina turned for counsel and sympathy. It is very pleasant to read such words as the following, and know that they expressed the inmost feelings of Angelina's heart:-- "Thou art, dearest, my best beloved, and often does my heart expand with gratitude to the Giver of all good for the gift of such a friend, who has been the helper of my joy and the lifter up of my hands when they were ready to hang down in hopeless despair. Often do I look back to those days of conflict and suffering through which I passed last winter, when thou alone seemed to know of the deep baptisms wherewith I was baptized, and to be qualified to speak the words of encouragement and reproof which I believe were blessed to my poor soul. "I received another long letter from thee this afternoon. I cannot tell thee what a consolation thy letters are to her who feels like an exile, a stranger in the place of her nativity, 'as unknown, and yet well known,' and one of the very least where she was once among the greatest." In one of her letters, written soon after her return home, she thus speaks of her Quaker dress:-- "I thought I should find it so trying to dress like a Quaker here; but it has been made so easy that if it is a cross I do not feel the weight of it.... It appears to me that at present I am to be little and unknown, and that the most that is required of me is that I bear a decided testimony against dress. I am literally as a wonder unto many, but though I am as a gazing-stock--perhaps a laughing-stock--in the midst of them, yet I scarcely feel it, so sensible am I of the presence and approbation of Him for whose sake I count it a high privilege to endure scorn and derision. I begin to feel that it is a solemn thing even to dress like a Quaker, as by so doing I profess a belief in the purest principles of the Bible, and warrant the expectation in others that my life will exhibit to all around those principles drawn out in living characters." There is a pride of conscience in all this, strongly contrasting with Sarah's want of self-confidence when travelling the same path. If Angelina suffered for her religion, no one suspected it, and for this very reason she was enabled to exert a stronger influence upon those about her than Sarah ever could have done. She herself saw the great points of difference between them, and frequently alluded to them. On one page of her diary she writes:-- "I have been reading dear sister's diary the last two days, and find she has suffered great conflict of mind, particularly about her call to the ministry, and I am led to look at the contrast between our feelings on the subject. I clearly saw winter before last that my having been appointed to this work was the great reason why I was called out of the Presbyterian Society, but I don't think my will has ever rebelled against it. "So far from murmuring against the appointment, I have felt exceedingly impatient at not being permitted to enter upon my work at once; and this is probably an evidence that I am not prepared for it. But it is hard for me to _be_ and to _do_ nothing. My restless, ambitious temper, so different from dear sister's, craves high duties and high attainments, and I have at times thought that this ambition was a motive to me to do my duty and submit my will. The hope of attaining to great eminence in the divine life has often prompted me to give up in little things, to bend to existing circumstances, to be willing for the time to be trampled upon. These are my temptations. For a long time it seemed to me I did everything from a hope of applause. I could not even write in my diary without a feeling that I was doing it in the hope that it would one day meet the eye of the public. Last winter I wrote more freely in it, and am still permitted to do so. Very often, when thinking of my useless state at present, something of disappointment is felt that I am as nothing, and this language has been presented with force, 'Seekest thou great things for thyself, seek them not.'" CHAPTER VII. At this time of her life, ere a single sorrow had thrown its shadow across her heart, and all her tears were shed for other's woes, we see very distinctly Angelina's peculiar characteristics. Her conscientiousness and her pride are especially conspicuous. The former, with its attendant sacrifices at the shrine of religious principle, had the effect of silencing criticism after a while, and inspiring a respect which touched upon veneration. One of her sisters, in referring to this, says:-- "Though we considered her views entirely irrational, yet so absolute was her sense of duty, her superiority to public sentiment, and her moral courage, that she seemed to us almost like one inspired, and we all came to look upon her with a feeling of awe." Of her pride--"that stumbling block," as she calls it, to Christian meekness--she herself writes:-- "My pride is my bane. In examining myself, I blush to confess this fault, so great do I find its proportions. I am all pride, and I fear I am even proud of my pride." But hers was not the pride that includes personal vanity or the desire for the applause of the multitude, for of these two elements few ever had less; neither was there any haughtiness in it, only the dignity which comes from the conscious possession of rare advantages, joined to the desire to use them to the glory of something better than self. Still it was pride, and, in her eyes, sinful, and called for all her efforts to subdue its manifestations. It especially troubled her whenever she entered into any argument or discussion, both of which she was rather fond of inviting. She knew full well her intellectual power, and thoroughly enjoyed its exercise. I regret that space does not permit me to copy her discussion with the Rev. Mr. McDowell on Presbyterianism; her answers to the questions given her when arraigned before the Sessions for having left the Church; her conversation on Orthodoxy with some Hicksites who called on her, and her arguments on silent worship. They all show remarkable reasoning power, great lucidity of thought, and great faculty of expression for so young a woman. But, interesting as is the whole history of Angelina's last year in Charleston, I may not dwell longer upon it, but hasten towards that period when the reason for all this mental and spiritual preparation was made manifest in the work in which she became as a "light upon the hill top," and, which, as long as it lasted, filled the measure of her desires full to the brim. As it is important to show just what her views and feelings about slavery were at this time, and as they can be better narrated in her own words than in mine, I shall quote from her diary and a few letters all that relates to the subject. In May, 1829, we find this short sentence in her diary:-- "May it not be laid down as an axiom, that that system must be radically wrong which can only be supported by transgressing the laws of God." "3d Mo. 20th. Could I think I was in the least advancing the glory of God by staying here, I think I would be satisfied, but I am doing nothing. Though 'the fields are white for harvest, yet am I standing idle in the market place.' I am often tempted to ask, Why am I kept in such a situation, a poor unworthy worm, feeding on luxuries my soul abhors, tended by slaves, who (I think) I would rather serve than be served by, and whose bondage I deeply deplore? Oh! why am I kept in Carolina? But the answer seems to be: 'I have set thee as a sign to the people.' Lord, give me patience to stand still." "29th. At times slavery is a heavy burden to my heart. Last night I was led to speak of this subject, of all others the sorest on which to touch a Carolinian. The depravity of slaves was spoken of with contempt, and one said they were fitted to hold no other place than the one they do. I asked what had made them so depraved? Was it not because of their degraded situations, and was it not white people who had placed them and kept them in this situation, and were _they_ not to blame for it? Was it not a fact that the minds of slaves were totally uncultivated, and their souls no more cared for by their owners than if they had none? Was it not true that, in order to restrain them from vice, coercion was employed instead of the moral restraint which, if proper instruction had been given them, would have guarded them against evil? 'I wish,' exclaimed one, 'that you would never speak on the subject.' 'And why?' I asked. 'Because you speak in such a serious way,' she replied. 'Truth cuts deep into the heart,' I said, and this is no doubt the reason why no one likes to hear me express my sentiments, but I did feel it my duty to bear a decided testimony against an institution which I believe altogether contrary to the spirit of the Gospel; for it was a system which nourished the worst passions of the human heart, a system which sanctioned the daily trampling under foot of the feelings of our fellow creatures. 'But,' said one, 'it is exceedingly imprudent in you to speak as you do.' I replied I was not speaking before servants, I was speaking only to owners, whom I wished to know my sentiments; this wrong had long enough been covered up, and I was not afraid or ashamed to have any one know my sentiments--they were drawn from the Bible. I also took occasion to speak very plainly to sister Mary about the bad feeling she had towards negroes, and told her, though she wished to get rid of them, and would be glad to see them _shipped_, as she called it, that this wish did not spring from pure Christian benevolence. My heart was very heavy after this conversation." "3d Mo. 31st. Yesterday was a day of suffering. My soul was exceedingly sorrowful, and out of the depths of it, I cried unto the Lord that He would make a way for me to escape from this land of slavery. Is there any suffering so great as that of seeing the rights and feelings of our fellow creatures trodden under foot, without being able to rescue them from bondage? How clear it is to my mind that slaves can be controlled only by one of two principles,--fear or love. As to moral restraint, they know nothing of it, for they are not taught to act from principle. I feel as though I had nothing to do in this thing, but by my manner to bear a decided testimony against such an abuse of power. The suffering of mind through which I have passed has necessarily rendered me silent and solemn. The language seems to be, 'It behooves thee to suffer these things,' and this morning I think I saw very plainly that this was a part of the preparation for the awful work of the ministry." "4th Mo. 4th. Does not this no less positive than comprehensive law under the Gospel dispensation entirely exclude slavery: 'Do unto others as you would he done by?' After arguing for some time, one evening, with an individual, I proposed the question: 'Would'st thou be willing to be a slave thyself?' He eagerly answered 'No!' 'Then,' said I, 'thou hast no right to enslave the negro, for the Master expressly says: "Do unto others as thou wouldst they should do unto thee."' Again I put the query: 'Suppose thou wast obliged to free thy slaves, or take their place, which wouldst thou do?' Of course he said he would free them. 'But why,' I asked, 'if thou really believest what thou contendest for, namely, that their situation is as good as thine?' But these questions were too close, and he did not know what to say." "4th Mo. 23d. Friend K. drank tea here last night. It seems to me that whenever mother can get anyone to argue with her on the subject of slavery, she always introduces it; but last night she was mistaken, for, to my surprise, Friend K. acknowledged that notwithstanding all that could be said for it, there was something in her heart which told her it was wrong, and she admitted all I said. Since my last argument on this subject, it has appeared to me in another light. I remarked that a Carolina mistress was literally a slave-driver, and that I thought it degrading to the female character. The mistress is as great a slave to her servants, in some respects, as they are to her. One thing which annoys me very much is the constant orders that are given. Really, when I go into mother's room to read to her, I am continually interrupted by a variety of orders which might easily be avoided, were it not for the domineering spirit which is, it seems to me, inherent in a Carolinian; and they are such fine ladies that if a shutter is to be hooked, or a chair moved, or their work handed to them, a servant must be summoned to do it for them. Oh! I do very much desire to cultivate feelings of forbearance, but I feel at the same time that it is my duty to bear an open and decided testimony against such a violation of the divine command." "28th. It seems this morning as if the language was spoken with regard to dear mother: _Thy_ work is done. My mind has been mostly released from exercises, and it seems as though I had nothing to do now but to bear and forbear with her. I can truly say I have not shunned to 'declare unto her the whole counsel of God, but she would none of my reproofs.' I stretched out my hands to her, speaking the truth in _love_, but she has not regarded. Perhaps He has seen fit not to work by me lest I should be exalted above measure." "5th Mo. 6th. Today has been one of much trial of mind, and my soul has groaned under the burden of slavery. Is it too harsh to say that a person must be destitute of Christian feelings to be willing to be served by slaves, who are actuated by no sentiment but that of fear? Are not these unfortunate creatures expected to act on principles directly opposite to our natural feelings and daily experience? They are required to do more for others than for themselves, and all without thanks or reward." "12th. It appears to me that there is a real want of natural affection among many families in Carolina, and I have thought that one great cause of it is the independence which members of families feel here. Instead of being taught to do for themselves and each other, they are brought up to be waited on by slaves, and become unamiable, proud, and selfish. I have many times felt exceedingly tried, when, in the flowings of love towards mother, I have offered to do little things for her, and she has refused to allow me, saying it was Stephen's or William's duty, and she preferred one of them should do it. The other night, being refused in this way, I said:-- "'Mother, it seems to me thou would'st at any time rather have a servant do little things for thee, than me.' She replied it was their business. 'Well,' said I, 'mother, I do not think it ever was designed that parents and children should be independent of each other. Our Heavenly Father intended that we should be dependent on each other, not on servants.' From time to time ability is granted me to labor against slavery. I may be mistaken, but I do not think it is any longer without sin in mother, for I think she feels very sensibly that it is not right, though she never will acknowledge it." _Night._ Left the parlor on account of some unpleasant occurrence, and retired to weep in solitude over the evils of slavery. The language was forcibly revived: 'Woe unto you, for you bind heavy burdens, grievous to be borne, on men's shoulders, and will not move them yourselves with one of your fingers.' I do not think I pass a single day without apprehension as to something painful about the servants." "15th. Had a long conversation with Selina last evening about servants, and expressed very freely my opinion of Henry's feelings towards them, and his treatment of John. She admitted all I said, and seemed to feel for slaves, until I said I thought they had as much right to freedom as I had. Of course she would not admit this, but I was glad an opportunity was offered for me to tell her that my life was one of such continual and painful exercise on account of the manner in which our servants were treated, that, were it not for mother, I would not stay a day longer in Carolina, and were it not for the belief that Henry would treat his servants worse if we were not here, that both Eliza and I would leave the house. Dear girl; she seemed to feel a good deal at these strictures on her husband, but bore with me very patiently." "18th. Oh, Lord! grant that my going forth out of this land may be in such a time and such a way, let what may happen after I leave my mother's house, I may never have to reproach myself for doing so. Of late my mind has been much engrossed with the subject of slavery. I have felt not only the necessity of feeling that it is sinful, but of being able to prove from Scripture that it is not warranted by God." "30th. Slavery is a system of abject selfishness, and yet I believe I have seen some of the best of it. In its worst form, tyranny is added to it, and power cruelly treads under foot the rights of man, and trammels not only the body, but the mind of the poor negro. Experience has convinced me that a person may own a slave, with a single eye to the glory of God. But as the eye is kept single, it will soon become full of light on this momentous subject; the arm of power will be broken; the voice of authority will tremble, and strength will be granted to obey the command: 'Touch not the unclean thing.'" "_Night._ Sometimes I think that the children of Israel could not have looked towards the land of Canaan with keener longing than I do to the North. I do not expect to go there and be exempt from trial, far from it; and yet it looks like a promised land, a pleasant land, because it is a land of freedom; and it seems to me that I would rather bear much deeper spiritual exercises than, day after day, and month after month, to endure the conutless evils which incessantly flow from slavery. 'Oh, to grace how great a debtor for my sentiments on this subject. Surely I may measurably adopt the language of Paul, when with holy triumph he exclaimed: 'By the grace of God I am what I am.'" A few weeks later, we read: "If I could believe that I contributed to dear mother's happiness, surely duty, yea, inclination, would lead me to continue here; but I do not. Yesterday morning I read her some papers on slavery, which had just come by the L.C. (vessel). It was greatly against her will, but it seemed to me I must do it, and that this was the last effort which would be required of me. She was really angry, but I did not feel condemned." "_Night._ Have sought a season of retirement, in order to ponder all these things in my heart, for I feel greatly burdened, and think I must open this subject to dear mother to-morrow, perhaps. I earnestly desire to do the Lord's will." "12th. This morning I read parts of dear sister's letters to mother, on the subject of my going to the North. She did not oppose, though she regretted it. My mind is in a calm, almost an indifferent, state about it, simply acquiescing in what I believe to be the divine will concerning me." Had we all of Sarah's letters written to Angelina, we should doubtless see that she fully sympathized with her in her anti-slavery sentiments; but Sarah's diary shows her thoughts to have been almost wholly absorbed by her disappointed hopes, and her trials in the ministry. As positive evidences of her continued interest in slavery, we have only the fact that, in 1829, Angelina mentions, in her diary, receiving anti-slavery documents from her sister, and the statements of friends that she retained her interest in the subject which had, in her earlier years, caused her so much sorrow. It is astonishing how ignorant of passing events, even of importance, a person may remain who is shut up as Sarah Grimké was, in an organization hedged in by restrictions which would prevent her from gaining such knowledge. She mingled in no society outside of her church; her time was so fully occupied with her various charitable and religious duties, that she frequently laments the necessity of neglecting reading and writing, which, she says, "I love so well." When a few friends met together, their conversation was chiefly of religious or benevolent matters, and it is probable that Sarah even read no newspaper but the _Friends' Journal_. That this narrow and busy life was led even after Angelina joined her we judge from what Angelina writes to her brother Thomas, thanking him for sending them his literary correspondence to read. She says: "It is very kind in thee to send us thy private correspondence. We enjoy it so much that I am sure thou would'st feel compensated for the trouble if thou could'st see us. We mingle almost entirely with a Society which appears to know but little of what is going on outside of its own immediate precincts. It is therefore a great treat when we have access to information more diffuse, or that which introduces our minds in some measure into the general interest which seems to be exciting the religious world." The fact, however, remains, that in 1829 Sarah sent to Angelina various anti-slavery publications, from which the latter drew strength and encouragement for her own arguments. Angelina also mentions reading carefully Woolman's works, which she found very helpful. But it is evident that neither she nor Sarah looked forward at all to any identification of themselves with the active opponents of slavery. For them, at that time, there seemed to be nothing more to do than to express their opinions on the subject in private, and to get as far away from the sight of its evils as possible. As Sarah had done this, so now Angelina felt that the time had come when she too must go. She had done what she could, and had failed in making the impression she had hoped to make. Why should she linger longer where her feelings were daily tortured, and where there was not one to sympathize with her or aid her, where she could neither give nor receive any good? Still there was a great struggle in her mind about leaving her mother. She thus writes of it: "Though I am favored to feel this is the right time for me to go, yet I cannot but be pained at the thought of leaving mother, for I am sure I shall leave her to suffer. It has appeared very plain to me that I never would have been taken from her again if she had been willing to listen to my remonstrances, and to yield to the requisitions of duty, as shown her by the light within. And I do not think dear sister or I will ever see her again until she is willing to give up slavery." "10th Mo. 4th. Last night E.T. took tea here. As soon as she began to extol the North and speak against slavery, mother left the room. She cannot bear these two subjects. My mind continues distressingly exercised and anxious that mother's eyes should be open to all the iniquities of the system she upholds. Much hope has lately been experienced, and it seems as though the language to me was: 'Thou hast done what was given thee to do; now go and leave the rest to _me_." Two weeks later, she writes as follows: "_Night._ This morning I had a very satisfactory conversation with dear mother, and feel considerably relieved from painful exercise. I found her views far more correct than I had supposed, and I do believe that, through suffering, the great work will yet be accomplished. She remarked that, though she had found it very hard to bear many things which sister and I had from time to time said to her, yet she believed that the Lord had raised us up to teach her, and that her fervent prayer was that, if we were right and she was wrong, she might see it. I remarked that if she was _willing_, she would, I was sure, see still more than she now did; and I drew a contrast between what she once approved and now believed right. 'Yes,' she said, 'I see very differently; for when I look back and remember what I used to do, and think nothing of it, I shrink back with horror. Much more passed, and we parted in love." Two weeks later Angelina left Charleston, never to return. The description of the parting with her mother is very affecting, but we have not room for it here. It shows, however, that Mrs. Grimké had the true heart of a mother, and loved her daughter most tenderly. She shed bitter tears as she folded her to her bosom for the last time, murmuring amid her sobs: "Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin away also!" The mother and daughter never saw each other again. CHAPTER VIII. Angelina arrived in Philadelphia in the latter part of October, 1829, and made her home with Sarah in the family of Catherine Morris. Over the next four or five years I must pass very briefly, although they were marked by many interesting incidents and some deep sorrows, and much that the sisters wrote during that time I would like to notice, if space permitted. We see Sarah still regarding herself as the vilest of sinners, against whom it seemed at times as if every door of mercy was closed, and still haunted by her horror of horrors, the ministry. Her preparation continued, but brought her apparently no nearer the long-expected and dreaded end. She was still unrecognized by the Church. First-day meetings were looked forward to without pleasure, while the Quarterly and Yearly meetings were seasons of actual suffering. Of one of the latter she says,-- "I think no criminal under sentence of death can look more fearfully to the day of execution than I do towards our Yearly Meeting." Still she would nerve herself from time to time to arise when the Spirit moved her, and say a few words, but deriving no satisfaction from the exercise, except that of obedience to the divine will. Doubtless she would have grown out of all this timidity, and would have acquitted herself more acceptably in meeting, if she had met with consideration and kindness from the elders and influential members of the Society. But, for reasons not clearly explained, her efforts do not seem to have been generally regarded with favor; and so sensibly did she feel this that she trembled in every limb when obliged even to offer a prayer in the presence of one of the dignitaries. It is probable that her ultra views on various needed reforms in the society, and declining--as she and Angelina both did--to conform to all its peculiar usages, gave offence. For instance, the sisters never could bring themselves to use certain ungrammatical forms of speech, such as _thee_ for _thou_, and would wear bonnets of a shape and material better adapted to protect them from the cold than those prescribed by Quaker style. It was also discovered that they indulged in vocal prayer in their private devotions, which was directly contrary to established usage. These things were regarded as quiet protests against customs which all members of the Society were expected to respect. As to the _principles_ of Quakerism, the sisters were more scrupulous in obeying, them than many of the elders themselves. Sarah frequently mentions the coldness and indifference with which she was treated by those from whom she had a right to look for tender sympathy and friendly counsel, and feelingly records the kindness and encouragement offered to her by many of the less conspicuous brothers and sisters. It is no doubt that to this treatment by those in authority was due the gradual waning of her interest in Quakerism, although she is far from acknowledging it. One obstacle in the way of her success as a preacher was her manner of speaking. Though a clear, forcible thinker and writer, she lacked the gift of eloquence which so distinguished Angelina, and being, besides, exceedingly self-conscious, it was difficult for her to express herself satisfactorily in words. Her speech was sometimes slow and hesitating; at others, when feeling very deeply, or at all embarrassed, rapid and a little confused, as though she was in a hurry to get through. This irregularity laid her open to the charge which was frequently brought against her, that she prepared and committed her offerings to memory before coming to meeting, an almost unpardonable offence according to the views of those making the accusation. That her earnest denial of this should be treated lightly was an additional wrong which Sarah never entirely succeeded in forgiving. In reference to this she says:-- "The suffering passed through in meeting, on account of the ministry, feeling as if I were condemned already whenever I arise; the severe reproofs administered by an elder to whom I did a little look for kindness; the cutting charge of preparing what I had to say out of meeting, and going there to preach, instead of to worship, like poor Mary Cox, was almost too much for me. It cost me hours of anguish; but Jesus allayed the storm and gave me peace; for in looking at my poor services I can truly say it is not so, although my mind is often brought under exercise on account of this work, and many are the sleepless hours I pass in prayer for preservation in it, feeling it indeed an awful thing to be a channel of communication between God and His people." Referring to the charge again, some time later, she says:-- "There are times when I greatly fear my best life will perish in this conflict. I have felt lately as if I were ready to give up all, and to question all I have known and done." As contrasting with the very different opinions she held a few years later, the following lines from her diary, about the beginning of 1830, are interesting:-- "There are seasons when my heart is so filled with apostolic love that I feel as if I could freely part with all I hold most dear, to be instrumental to the salvation of souls, especially those of the members of my own religious society; and the language often prevails, 'I am not sent but to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.' Yet woman's preaching mocks at all my reasoning. I cannot see it to be right, and I am moving on in faith alone, feeling that 'Woe is me, if I preach not the Gospel.' To see is no part of my business, but I marvel not at the unbelief of others; every natural feeling is against it." About this time, Angelina was admitted as a member of Friends' Society, and began her preparation for the ministry. But her active spirit needed stronger food to satisfy its cravings. It was not enough for her to accept the few duties assigned to her; she must make others for herself. Her restless energy, which was only her ambition to be practically useful, refused to let her sit with folded hands waiting for the Lord's work. She was too strong to be idle, too conscious of the value of the talents committed to her charge, to be willing to lay them away for safe keeping in a Quaker napkin, spotless as it might be. She never loved the Society of Friends as Sarah did. She chafed under its restrictions, questioned its authority, and rebelled against the constant admonition to "be still." On one page of her diary, dated a short time before her admission to Friends' Society, she says:-- "I have passed through some trying feelings of late about becoming a member of Friends' Society. Perhaps it is Satan who has been doing all he could to prevent my joining, by showing me the inconsistencies of the people, and persuading me that _I_ am too good to be one of them. I have been led to doubt if it was right for me ever to have worn the dress of a Quaker, for I despised the very form in my heart, and have felt it a disgrace to have adopted it, so empty have the people seemed to me, and sometimes it has seemed impossible that I should ever be willing to join them. My heart has been full of rebellion, and I have even dared to think it hard that I should have to bear the burdens of a people I did not, could not, love." Angelina's devotion to Sarah led her to resent the treatment of the latter by the elders, and came near producing a breach between Catherine Morris and the sisters. Nevertheless, she did join the Society, impelled thereto, we are forced to believe, more by love and consideration for Sarah than by religious conviction. But she constantly complains of her "leanness and barrenness of spirit," of "doubts and distressing fears" as to the Lord's remembrance of her for good, and grieves that she is such a useless member of the Church, the "activity of nature," she says, "finding it very hard to stand and wait." Her restlessness, no doubt, gave Sarah some trouble, for there are several entries in her diary like the following:-- "O Lord, be pleased, I beseech Thee, to preserve my precious sister from moving in her own will, or under the deceitful reasonings of Satan. Strengthen her, I beseech Thee, to be _still_." But though Angelina tried for a time to submit passively to the slow training marked out for her, she found no satisfaction in it. She looked to the ministry as her ultimate field of labor, but she must be doing something in the meanwhile, something outside of the missionary work which satisfied Sarah's conscience. But what should that be? The same difficulties which had humiliated and frightened Sarah into a life of quiet routine now faced Angelina. But she looked at them bravely, measured herself with them, and resolved to conquer them. The field of education was the only one which seemed to promise the active usefulness she craved; and she at once set about fitting herself to be a teacher. She was now twenty-six years old, but no ambitious girl of fifteen ever entered upon school duties with more zest than she exhibited in preparing a course of study for herself. History, arithmetic, algebra, and geometry were begun, with her sister Anna as a fellow-student, and much time was devoted to reading biography and travels. All this, however, was evening work. Her days were almost wholly given up to charities and the appointed meetings assigned to her by the society, into all of which she infused so much energy that Catherine and Sarah both began to fear that she was in danger of losing some of her spirituality. She says herself that she was so much interested in some of her work that the days were not long enough for her. There is no allusion in the diary or letters of either of the sisters, in 1829 or 1830, to the many stirring events of the anti-slavery movement which occurred after the final abolition of slavery in New York, in 1827, and which foreshadowed the earnest struggle for political supremacy between the slave power and the free spirit of the nation. The daily records of their lives and thoughts exhibit them in the enjoyment of their quiet home with Catherine Morris, visiting prisons, hospitals, and alms-houses, and mourning over no sorrow or sins but their own. Angelina was leading a life of benevolent effort, too busy to admit of the pleasures of society, and her Quaker associations did not favor contact with the world's people, or promote knowledge of the active movements in the larger reforms of the day. As to Sarah, she was still suffering keenly under the great sorrow of her life. At this time, Angelina was a most attractive young woman. Tall and graceful, with a shapely head covered with chestnut ringlets, a delicate complexion and features, and clear blue eyes, which could dance with merriment or flash with indignation, and withal a dignified, yet gentle and courteous bearing, it is not surprising that she should have had many admirers of the opposite sex, even in the limited society to which she was confined. Nor can we wonder that, with a heart so susceptible to all the finer emotions, she should have preferred the companionship of one to that of all others. But though for more than two years this friendship--for it never became an engagement--absorbed all her thoughts, to the exclusion even of her studies, I must conclude from the plain evidence in the case that it was only a warm _friendship_, at least on her side, not the strong, enduring love, based upon entire sympathy, which afterwards blessed her life. It owed its origin to her admiration for intellectuality in men, and its continuance to her womanly pity; for the object of her preference suffered much from ill-health, which at last gave way altogether in the latter part of 1832, when he died. To the various emotions naturally aroused during this long experience, and to the depression of spirits which followed the final issue, we may perhaps partially ascribe Angelina's indifference to the excited state of feeling throughout the country on the subject of that institution which "owned no law but human will." In November, 1831, Sarah Grimké once more, and for the last time, visited Charleston. In December, the slave insurrection in Jamaica--tenfold more destructive to life and property than the insurrection of Nat Turner, in Virginia, of the preceding August--startled the world; but even this is scarcely referred to in the correspondence between the two sisters. But that Angelina, at least, was interested in matters outside of her religion, we gather from a postscript to one of her letters. "Tell me," she says, "something about politics." This refers to nullification, that ill-judged and premature attempt at secession made by the Calhoun wing of the slave power, which was then the most exciting topic in South Carolina. Thomas Grimké was one of the few eminent lawyers in the State who, from the first, denounced and resisted the treasonable doctrine,--he so termed it in an open letter of remonstrance addressed to Calhoun, McDuffie, Governor Hayne, and Barnwell Rhett, his cousin and legal pupil, who was afterwards attorney-general of the State.[1] Mr. Grimké represented at that time the city of Charleston in the State Senate; and in a two days' argument he so triumphantly exposed the sophistries and false pretences of the nullifiers, that his constituents, enraged by it, gathered a mob, and with threats of personal violence attacked his house. But this descendant of the Huguenots had been seasonably warned; and, sending his family to the country, he illuminated his front windows, threw open his doors, and seated himself quietly on the porch to await his visitors. The howling horde came on, but when the man they sought boldly advanced to meet them, and announced himself ready to be mobbed for the cause he had denounced, their courage faltered; they tried to hoot, balked, broke ranks, and straggled away. [1] Mr. Grimké told Carolina that, if she persisted in her disloyalty, she would stand as a blasted tree in the midst of her sister States. A few words just here about this "beloved brother Thomas," who was always held in reverence by every member of his family, will not be out of place. As before stated, he was a graduate of Yale College, and rose to eminence at the bar and in the politics of his State. But he was a man of peculiar views on many subjects, and while his intellectual ability was everywhere acknowledged, his judgment was often impugned and his opinions severely criticised. He gained a wide reputation on account of his brilliant addresses, especially those of Peace, Temperance, and Education. He was a prominent member of the American Peace Society, and did not believe that even defensive warfare was justifiable. He was a fine classical scholar, but held that both the classics and the higher mathematics should not be made obligatory studies in a collegiate education, as being comparatively useless to the great majority of American young men. A High Church Episcopalian, and very religious, he strongly urged the necessity of establishing a Bible class for religious instruction in every school. He also attempted to make a reform in orthography by dropping out all superfluous letters, but abandoned this after publishing a small volume of essays, in which he used his amended words, which, as he gave no prefatory explanation, were misunderstood and ridiculed. In all these subjects he was much interested, and succeeded in interesting his sisters, delegating to them the supervision and correction of his addresses and essays published in Philadelphia. Strange, indeed, is it, that this very religious, liberal-minded, and conscientious man was a large slaveowner, and yet the oppressed and persecuted Cherokees of Georgia and Alabama had no more earnest advocate than he! And to this "Indian question" both Sarah and Angelina gave their cordial sympathy. The correspondence between them and Thomas was a remarkable one. It embraced the following subjects: Peace, Temperance, the Classics, the Priesthood, the Jewish Dispensation, Was the Eagle the Babylonian and Persian Standard? Catholicism, and the universality of human sacrifice, with short discussions on minor controversial topics. Into all of these Angelina especially entered with great and evident relish, and her long letters, covering page after page of foolscap, would certainly have wearied the patience of any one less interested than Thomas was in the subjects of which they treated. That which claimed Sarah's particular interest was Peace, and she held to her brother's views to the end of her life. She especially indorsed the sentiment expressed in his written reply to the question, what he would do if he were mayor of Charleston and a pirate ship should attack the city? "I would," he answered, "call together the Sunday-school children and lead them in procession to meet the pirates, who would be at once subdued by the sight." In answer to a letter written by Sarah soon after her arrival in Charleston, Angelina says:-- "I am not at all surprised at the account thou hast given of Carolina, and yet am not alarmed, as I believe the time of retribution has not yet fully come, and I cannot but hope that those most dear to us will have fled from her borders before the day of judgment arrives." This refers to nullification, which was threatening to end in bloodshed; but there is in the sentence also an evident allusion to slavery. In her next letter she describes the interest she feels in the infant school, of which she had become a teacher, and does not know which is the most absorbing,--that, or the Arch Street prison. Before closing, she says:-- "No doubt thou art suffering a double portion now, for in a land of slavery there is very much daily--yea, almost hourly,--to try the better feelings, besides that suffering which thou art so constantly enduring." Catherine Morris must have acted the part of a good mother to both Sarah and Angelina, for they frequently refer to their peaceful home with her. In one of her letters Angelina says,-- "I never valued the advantages I enjoy so much as I do now; no, nor my home, either, dear sister. Many a time of late has my heart been filled with gratitude in looking at the peaceful shelter provided for me in a strange land. It is just such a home as I would desire were I to have a choice, and I often ask why my restless heart is not quite happy in the land of ease which has been assigned me, for I do believe I shall, in after life, look back upon this winter as one of peculiar favor, a time granted for the improvement of my mind and my heart." Again: "Very often do I contrast the sweet, unbroken quiet of the home I now enjoy with the uncongenial one I was taken from." In one of her letters she asks: "Dearest, does our precious mother seem to have any idea of leaving Carolina? Such seems to be the distressing excitement there from various causes, that I think it cannot be quite safe to remain there. What does brother Thomas think will be the issue of the political contest? I find the fate of the poor Indians is now inevitable." Towards the close of the winter there are two paragraphs in her letters which show that she did at least read the daily papers. In one she asks: "Didst thou know that great efforts are making in the House of Delegates in Virginia to abolish slavery?" The other one is as follows:-- "Read the enclosed, and give it to brother Thomas from me. Do you know how this subject has been agitated in the Virginia legislature?" The question naturally arises: if a little, why not more? If she could refer to the subject of the Virginia debates, why should she not in some of her letters give expression to her own views, or answer some expressions from Sarah? The _Quaker Society_, is the only answer we can find; the Society whose rules and customs at that time tended to repress individuality in its members, and independence of thought or action; which forbade its young men and maidens to look admiringly on any fair face or manly form not framed in a long-eared cap, or surmounted by the regulation broad-brim; which did not accord to a member the right even to publish a newspaper article, without having first submitted it to a committee of its Solons. From the beginning, the Quaker Church bore its testimony against the abolition excitement. Most Friends were in favor of the Colonization Society; the rest were gradualists. Their commercial interests were as closely interwoven with those of the South as were the interests of any other class of the Northern people, and it took them years to admit, if not to discover, that there was any new light on the subject of human rights. "The mills of the gods grind slowly;" and perhaps it was all the better in the end, for the cause their advocated so grandly, that Sarah and Angelina Grimké should have gone through this long period of silence and repression, during which their moral and intellectual forces gathered power for the conflict--the great work which both had so singularly and for so many years seen was before them, though its nature was for a long time hidden. Angelina's experience in the infant school, interesting as it was to her, was discouraging so far as her success as a teacher went; and she soon gave it up and made inquiries concerning some school in which she could prepare herself to teach. Catherine Beecher's then famous seminary at Hartford was recommended, and a correspondence was opened. Several letters passed between Catherine and her would-be pupil, which so aroused Catherine's interest, that she went on to Philadelphia chiefly to make a personal acquaintance with the very mature young woman who at the age of twenty-seven declared she knew nothing and wanted to go to school again. In one of her letters to Sarah, early in the spring of 1832, Angelina says,-- "Catherine Beecher has actually paid her promised visit. She regretted not seeing thee, and seemed much pleased with me. The day after she arrived she went to meeting with me, and I think was more tired of it than any person I ever saw. It was a long, silent meeting, except a few words from J.L." When Catherine Beecher took her leave of Angelina, she cordially invited her to visit Hartford, and examine for herself the system of education there pursued. Sarah returned to Philadelphia in March, 1832, cutting short her visit at the earnest entreaty of Angelina, who was then looking forward to her first Yearly Meeting, and desired her sister's encouraging presence with her. Writing to Sarah, she says: "I have much desired that we might at that time mingle in sympathy and love. Truly we have known, might I not say, the agony of separation." Soon after Sarah's return, Angelina went to live with Mrs. Frost, in order to give that sister the benefit of her board. This separation was a great trial to both sisters, and only consented to from a sense of duty. CHAPTER IX. In July, 1832, Angelina, accompanied by a friend, set out to make her promised visit to Hartford. Her journal, kept day by day, shows her to have been at this time in a most cheerful frame of mind, which fitted her to enjoy not only the beautiful scenery on her journey, but the society of the various people she met. At times she is almost like a young girl just out of school; and we can hardly wonder that she felt so, after the monotonous life she had led so long, and the uniform character of the people with whom she had associated. She visited New Haven, with its great college, and then went to Hartford, where a week was pleasantly spent in attendance on Catherine Beecher's classes, and in visiting Lydia Sigourney, and others, to whom she had brought letters. After examining Angelina, Catherine gave her the gratifying opinion that she could be prepared to teach in six months, and she at once began to try her hand at drawing maps., and to take part in many of the exercises of the school. She could, however, make no definite arrangement until her return to Philadelphia; but she was full of enthusiasm, and utilized to the very utmost the advantages of conversation with Catherine and Harriet Beecher. She was evidently quite charmed with Harriet's bright intellect and pleasant manner, and refers particularly to a very satisfactory conversation held with her about Quakers. The people of this Society were so little known in New England at that period, that Angelina and her friend, in their peculiar dress, were objects of great curiosity where-ever they went. Catherine Beecher accompanied them back to New Tork, and saw them safely on their way to Philadelphia. But when Angelina mentioned to Friends her desire to return to Hartford and become a teacher, she was answered with the most decided disapprobation. Several unsatisfactory reasons were given--"going among strangers"--"leaving her sisters,"--"abandoning her charities," &c., the real one probably being the fear to trust their impressionable young member to Presbyterian influence. And so she must content herself to sink down in the old ruts, and plod on in work which was daily becoming more insufficient to her intellectual and spiritual needs. Her chief pleasure was her correspondence with her brother Thomas, with whom she discussed controversial Bible questions, and various moral reforms, including prison discipline; but only once does she seem to have touched the question of slavery, which absorbed the public mind to such a degree that there was scarcely a household throughout the length and breadth of the land, that did not feel its influence in some way. In 1832 the most intense excitement prevailed throughout the South, especially in South Carolina, where Mr. Calhoun had just thrown down the gauntlet to the Federal government. In this Angelina expresses some interest, though chiefly from a religious point of view, as she regards all the important events then taking place as "signs of the times," and congratulates herself and her brother that they live in "such an important and interesting era, when the laws of Christianity are interwoven with the system, of education, and with even the discipline of prisons and houses of refuge." In one of her letters we find the following:-- "I may be deceived, but the cloud which has arisen in the South will, I fear, spread over all our heavens, though it looks now so small. It will come down upon us in a storm which will beat our government to pieces; for, beautiful as it may appear, it is, nevertheless, not built upon the foundation of the apostles and the prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner-stone. We may boast of this temple of liberty, but oh, my brother, it is not of God." In this letter she speaks of being much interested in "Ramsey's Civil and Ecclesiastical Polity of the Jews," and mentions that they were studying together, in the family, "Townsend's Old Testament, chronologically arranged, with notes, a work in twenty-eight volumes." She adds:-- "Will not the study of the Bible produce a thirst for the purest and most valuable literature, as, to understand it, we must study the history of nations, natural history, philosophy, and geography." In another letter she says:-- "I am glad of thy opinions, but I cannot see that Carolina will escape. Slavery is too great a sin for justice always to sleep over, and this is, I believe, the true cause of the declining state of Carolina; this the root of bitterness which is to trouble our republic. I am not moved by fear to these reflections, but by a calm and deliberate consideration of the state of the Church, and while I believe convulsions and distress are coming upon this country, I am comforted in believing that _my_ kingdom is not of this world, nor thine either, I trust, beloved brother." To this letter Sarah adds a postscript, and says: "My fears respecting you are often prevalent, but I endeavor not to be too anxious. The Lord is omnipotent, and although I fear His sword is unsheathed against America, I believe He will remember His own elect, and shield them.... Do the planters approve or aid the Colonization Society? There have been some severe pieces published in our papers about it." At this time--that is, during the summer of 1832--Sarah lived a more than usually retired life, and her diary only records her increased depression of spirits, and her continued painful experiences in meeting. She would gladly have turned her back upon it all, and sought a home elsewhere at the North, or have returned to Charleston, but she dared not move without divine approbation, and this never seemed sufficiently clear to satisfy her. "Surely," she says, "though I cannot understand why it is so, there must be wisdom in the decree which forbids my seeking another home. Most gladly would I have remained in Charleston, but my Father's will was not so." And again she says,-- "But while the desire to escape present conflict has turned my mind there [to Charleston] with longing towards my precious mother, all the answer I can hear from the sanctuary is, 'Stay here;' and Satan adds, 'to suffer.'" According to Sarah's own views, she had thus far made little or no progress towards the great end and aim of her labors and sacrifices,--the securing of her eternal salvation; and the amount of misery she managed to manufacture for herself out of this thought, and her many fancied transgressions, is sad in the extreme. Years afterwards, in a letter to a young friend, she says,-- "I have suffered the very torments of the fabled hell, because my conscience was sore to the touch all over. I would fain have you spared such long, dark years of anguish." And to another friend, concerning this portion of her life, she writes,-- "Much of my suffering arose from a morbid conscience,--a conscience which magnified infirmities into crimes, and transformed our blessed Father in heaven into a stern judge, who punishes to the uttermost every real or imaginary departure from what we apprehend to be his requirements. Deceived by the false theological views in which I was educated, I was continually lashed by the scorpion whip of a perverted conscience." During the winter of 1832-33, the time of both sisters was much taken up in nursing a sick woman, whose friendless position stirred Angelina's sense of duty, and she had her removed to Mrs. Frost's house. She and Sarah took upon themselves all the offices of nurse, even the most menial. They read to her, and tried to cheer her during the day, sat up with her at night, and in every way devoted themselves to the poor consumptive, until death came to her relief. Such a sacrifice to a sense of duty was all the more admirable, as the invalid was unusually exacting and unreasonable, and felt apparently little appreciation of the trouble she gave. Angelina, being in the same house, was more with her than Sarah, and she could scarcely have shown her greater attention if the tenderest ties had existed between her and her charge. This was only one among the many similar acts of self-abnegation which were dotted all along Angelina's path through life; she never went out of her way to avoid them, but would travel any distance to take them up, if duty pointed her to them; and in accepting them she never seemed to think she was doing more than just what she ought to do, although they were generally of the kind which bring no honor or reward, except that sense of duty fulfilled which spreads over hearts like hers such sweet content. From many passages in the diaries, it is evident that, as the agitating questions of the time were forced upon the notice of Sarah and Angelina, their thoughts were diverted from the narrow channel to which they had so long been confined; and, in proportion as their interest in these matters increased, the cords which bound them to their religious society loosened. Angelina, as we have before remarked, never stood in the same attitude as Sarah towards the Society. To the latter, it was as the oracle of her fate, whose decrees she dared not question, much less disobey. It represented to her mind the divine will and purposes, which were wisdom entirely, and could only fail through the pride or disobedience of sinners like herself. Angelina, on the contrary, regarded it as made up of human beings with human intellects, full of weakness, and liable to err in the interpretation of the Lord's will, and, while praying for guidance and strength, believed it wise to follow her own judgment to a great extent. She could not be restrained from reasoning for herself, and would often have acted more independently, but for her affection for Sarah. The scales, however, were slowly falling from Sarah's eyes, though it was long before she saw the new light as anything but a snare of Satan, who she felt sure was bound to have her, in spite of all her struggles. Against the growing coolness towards her Society she did struggle and pray in deepest contrition. At one time she writes,-- "Satan is tempting me strongly with increased dissatisfaction with Friends; but I know if I am to be of any use it is in my own Society." And again: "I beseech thee, O God, to fill my heart with love for the Society of Friends. I shall be ruined if I listen to Satan." But all this was of no avail. Angelina was growing in knowledge, and was imparting to Sarah what she learned. The evidence is meagre, but there is enough to show that the ruling topics claimed much of their attention during that summer, and that Angelina, especially, drew upon herself more than one reproof from Catherine Morris for the interest she manifested in "matters entirely outside of the Society." In the spring, she writes in a letter to Thomas:-- "The following proposition was made at a Colonization meeting in this city: is it strictly true? 'No two nations, brought together under similar circumstances with those under which the Africans have been brought into this country, have amalgamated.' Are not the people in the West Indies principally mulatto? And how is it in South America? Did they not amalgamate there? Did not the Helots, a great many of whom were Persians, etc., taken in battle, amalgamate with the Grecians, and rise to equal privileges in the State? I ask for information. Please tell me, also, whether slavery is not an infringement of the Constitution of the United States. You Southerners have no idea of the excitement existing at the North on the subjects of abolition and colonization." This shows only the dawning of interest in the mighty subject. The evidence is full and conclusive that at this time neither Sarah nor Angelina had formed any decided opinions concerning either of the societies mentioned above, or contemplated taking any active part whatever in the cause of freedom. In February, 1834, occurred the famous debate at Lane Seminary, near Cincinnati, presided over by Dr. Lyman Beecher, which, for earnestness, ability, and eloquence, has probably never been surpassed in this country. A colonization society, composed in great part of Southern students, had been formed in 1832 in the seminary, but went to pieces during the debate, which lasted eighteen evenings, and produced a profound sensation throughout the Presbyterian Church, and even outside of it. President Beecher took no part in it, standing too much in awe of the trustees of the institution to countenance it even by his presence, although he had promised to do so. The speakers were all students, young men remarkable for their sincerity and their energy, and several of them excelling as orators. Among the latter were Henry B. Stanton and Theodore D. Weld, both possessing great powers of reasoning and natural gifts of eloquence. Of Theodore D. Weld it was said, that when he lectured on temperance, so powerfully did he affect his audiences, that many a liquor dealer went home and emptied out the contents of his barrels. Those who remember him in his best days can well believe this, while others who have had the privilege of hearing him only in his "parlor talks" can have no difficulty in understanding the impression he must have made on mixed audiences in those times when his great heart, filled from boyhood with sorrow for the oppressed, found such food for its sympathies.[2] [2] An incident of the childhood of this zealous champion of human rights, related in a letter I have, shows how early he took his stand by the side of the weak and defenceless. When he was about six years old, and going to school in Connecticut, a little colored boy was admitted as a pupil. Weld had never seen a black person before, and was grieved to find that the color of his skin caused him to be despised by the other boys, and put off on a seat by himself. The teacher heard him his lessons separately, and generally sent him back to his lonely seat with a cuff or a jeer. After witnessing this injustice for a day or two, little Weld went to the teacher and asked to have his own seat changed. "Why, where do you want to sit?" asked the teacher. "By Jerry," replied Weld. The master burst out laughing, and exclaimed: "Why, are you a nigger too?" and, "Theodore Weld is a nigger!" resounded through the school. "I never shall forget," says Mr. Weld, "the tumult in my little bosom that day. I went, however, and sat with Jerry, and played with Jerry, and we were great friends; and in a week I had permission to say my lessons with Jerry, and I have been an abolitionist ever since, and never had any prejudices to overcome." It is no disparagement to the many able and eloquent advocates of the anti-slavery cause, between 1833 and 1836, to say that public opinion placed Weld at the head of them all. In him were combined reason and imagination, wide and accurate knowledge, manly courage, a tender and sympathetic nature, a remarkable faculty of expression, and a fervent enthusiasm which made him the best platform orator of his time. As a lecturer on education, temperance, and abolition, he drew crowded houses and made many converts. The late Secretary Stanton was one of these, and often mentioned Mr. Weld as the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard; and Wendell Phillips, in a recent letter, says of him: "In the first years of the anti-slavery cause, he was our foremost advocate." Of Henry B. Stanton, a newspaper reporter once said in excuse for not reporting one of his great anti-slavery speeches, that he could not attempt to report a whirlwind or a thunderstorm. With such leaders, and with followers no less earnest if less brilliant, it is not surprising that the Lane Seminary debate arrested such general attention, and afterwards assumed so much importance in the anti-slavery struggle. The trustees, fearing its effect upon their Southern patrons, ordered that both societies should be dissolved, and no more meetings held. The anti-slavery students replied to this order by withdrawing in a body from the institution. Some went over to Oberlin; others,--and among them the two I have named--entered the field as lecturers and workers in the cause they had so ardently espoused. In September, 1834, Sarah and Angelina were gratified by a visit from their brother Thomas, who was on his way to Cincinnati, to deliver an address on Education before the College of Professional Teachers, and also to visit his brother Frederic, residing in Columbus, whom he had not seen for sixteen years. As Angelina had not seen him since her departure from Charleston in 1829, the few days of his society she now enjoyed were very precious, and made peculiarly so by after-events. The cholera was then for the second time epidemic in the West, but those who knew enough about it to be prudent felt no fear, and the sisters bade farewell to their brother, cheered by his promise to see them again on his way home. He delivered his address in Cincinnati, started for Columbus, arrived within twelve miles of it, when, at a wayside tavern, he was seized with cholera. His brother, then holding a term of the Supreme Court, was sent for. He at once adjourned court and hastened to Thomas with a physician. He was already speechless, but was able to turn upon Frederic a look of recognition, then pressed his hand, and died. Angelina, writing of her brother's death, says: "The world has lost an eminent reformer in the cause of Christian education, an eloquent advocate of peace, and one who was remarkably ready for every good work. I never saw a man who combined such brilliant talents, such diversity and profundity of knowledge, with such humility of heart and such simplicity and gentleness of manner. He was a great and good man, a pillar of the church and state, and his memory is blessed." In a letter written in 1837, referring to her brother's visit to Philadelphia, Sarah says: "We often conversed on the subject of slavery, and never did I hear from his lips an approval of it. He had never examined the subject; he regarded it as a duty to do it, and he intended devoting the powers of his mind to it the next year of his life, and asked us to get ready for him all the abolition works worth studying. But God took him away. My own views were dark and confused. Had I had my present light, I might have helped him." Angelina bore her testimony to the same effect. Referring to Thomas in a letter to a member of her family many years after his death, she says: "He was deeply interested in _every_ reform, and saw very clearly that the anti-slavery agitation which began in 1832 would shake our country to its foundation. He told me in Philadelphia that he knew slavery would be the all-absorbing subject here, and that he intended to devote a whole year to its investigation; and, in order that he might do so impartially, he requested me to subscribe for every periodical and paper, and to buy and forward to him any books, that might be published by the Anti-Slavery and Colonization societies. I asked whether he believed colonization could abolish slavery. He said: 'No, never!' but observed; 'I help that only on account of its reflex influence upon slavery here. If we can build up an intelligent, industrious community of colored people in Africa, it will do a great deal towards destroying slavery in the United States.'" The loss of her brother almost crushed Sarah, although she expresses only submission to the Lord's will. It had the effect of closing her heart and mind once more to everything but religion, and again she gave herself fully and entirely to her evangelical preparation. She expresses herself as longing to preach the everlasting Gospel, and prays that she may soon be called to be a minister, and be instrumental in turning her fellow sinners away from the wrath to come. Later, in the early part of 1835, after having re-perused her brother's works, she solemnly dedicated herself to the cause of peace, persuading herself that Thomas had left it as a legacy to her and Angelina. She resolved to use all her best endeavors to promote its advancement, and daily prayed for a blessing on her exertions and for the success of the cause. This at least served to divert her thoughts from herself, and no doubt helped her to the belief which now came to her, that at last Satan was conquered, and she was accepted of God. If she could only have been comforted also with the knowledge that her labors in the ministry were recognized, her satisfaction would have been complete, but more than ever was she tormented by the slights and sneers of the elders, and by her own conviction that she was a useless vessel. There is scarcely a page of her diary that does not tell of some humiliation, some disappointment connected with her services in meeting. CHAPTER X. Although the Quakers were the first, as a religious society, to recognize the iniquity of slavery, and to wash their hands of it, so far as to free all the slaves they owned; few of them saw the further duty of discouraging it by ceasing all commercial intercourse with slave-holders. They nearly all continued to trade with the South, and to use the products of slave-labor. After the appearance in this country of Elizabeth Heyrick's pamphlet, in which she so strongly urged upon abolitionists the duty of abstinence from all slave products, the number was increased of those who declined any and every participation in the guilt of the slave-holder, and exerted themselves to convert others to the same views; but the majority of selfish and inconsiderate people is always large, and it refused to see the good results which could be reasonably expected from such a system of self-denial. As the older members, also, of Friends' Society were opposed to all exciting discussions, and to popular movements generally, while the younger ones could not smother a natural interest in the great reforms of the day; it followed that, although all were opposed to slavery in the abstract, there was no fixed principle of action among them. In their ranks were all sorts: gradualists and immediatists, advocates of unconditional emancipation, and colonizationists, thus making it impossible to discuss the main question without excitement. Therefore all discussion was discouraged and even forbidden. The Society never counted among its members many colored persons. There were, however, a few in Philadelphia, all educated, and belonging to the best of their class. Among them was a most excellent woman, Sarah Douglass, to whom Sarah and Angelina Grimké became much attached, and with whom Sarah kept up a correspondence for nearly thirty years. The first letter of this correspondence which we have, was written in March, 1885, and shows that Sarah had known very little about her colored brethren in Philadelphia, and it also shows her inclination towards colonization. She mentions having been cheered by an account of several literary and benevolent societies among the colored residents, expresses warm sympathy with them, and gives them some good, practical advice about helping themselves. She then says:-- "I went about three weeks ago to an anti-slavery meeting, and heard with much interest an address from Robert Gordon. It was feeling, temperate, and judicious; but _one_ word struck my ear unpleasantly. He said, 'And yet it is _audaciously_ asked: What has the North to do with slavery?' The word 'audaciously,' while I am ready to admit its justice, seemed to me inconsistent with the spirit of the Gospel; although we may abhor the system of slavery, I want us to remember that the guilt of the oppressor demands Christian pity and Christian prayer. "My sister went last evening to hear George Thompson. She is deeply interested in this subject, and was much pleased with his discourse. Do not the colored people believe that the Colonization Society may prove a blessing to Africa, that it may be the means of liberating some slaves, and that, by sending a portion of them there, they may introduce civilization and Christianity into this benighted region? That the Colonization Society can ever be the means of breaking the yoke in America appears to me utterly impossible, but when I look at poor heathen Africa, I cannot but believe its efforts will be a blessing to her." In the next letter, written in April, she descants on the universal prejudice against color,--"a prejudice," she says, "which will in days to come excite as much astonishment as the facts now do that Christians--some of them I verily believe, sincere lovers of God--put to death nineteen persons and one dog for the crime of witchcraft." And yet, singularly enough, she does not, at this time, notice the inconsistency of a separate seat for colored people in all the churches. In the Quaker meeting this was especially humiliating, as it was placed either directly under the stairs, or off in a corner, was called the "negro seat," and was regularly guarded to prevent either colored people from passing beyond it, or white people from making a mistake and occupying it. Two years later, Sarah and Angelina both denounced it; but before that, though they may have privately deplored it, they seem to have accepted it as a necessary conformity to the existing feeling against the blacks. The decision of Friends' Society concerning discussion Sarah Grimké seems to have accepted, for, as we have said, there is no expression of her views on emancipation in letters or diary. But Angelina felt that her obligations to humanity were greater than her obligations to the Society of Friends; and as she listened to the eloquent speeches of George Thompson and others, her life-long interest in the slave was stimulated, and it aroused in her a desire to work for him in some way, to do something that would practically help his cause. On one of several loose leaves of a diary which Angelina kept at this time, we find the following under date, "5th Mo. 12th, 1835: Five months have elapsed since I wrote in this diary, since which time I have become deeply interested in the subject of abolition. I had long regarded this cause as utterly hopeless, but since I have examined anti-slavery principles, I find them so full of the power of truth, that I am confident not many years will roll by before the horrible traffic in human beings will be destroyed in this land of Gospel privileges. My soul has measurably stood in the stead of the poor slave, and my earnest prayers have been poured out that the Lord would be pleased to permit me to be instrumental of good to these degraded, oppressed, and suffering fellow-creatures. Truly, I often feel ready to go to prison or to death in this cause of justice, mercy, and love; and I do fully believe if I am called to return to Carolina, it will not be long before I shall suffer persecution of some kind or other." Her fast-increasing enthusiasm alarmed her cautious sister, and drew from her frequent and serious remonstrances. But that she also travelled rapidly towards the final rending of the bonds which had hitherto held her, we find from a letter to Sarah Douglass, written in the spring of 1835. Speaking of Jay's book of Colonization, which had just appeared, she says:-- "The work is written for the most part in a spirit of Christian candor and benevolence. There is here and there a touch of satire or sarcasm I would rather should have been spared. The subject is one of solemn importance to our country, and while I do desire that every righteous means may be employed to give to America a clear and convincing view of the fearful load of guilt that rests upon her for trading in the souls of men, yet I do want the friends of emancipation to take no unhallowed weapons to sever the manacles of the slave. I rejoice in the hope that all the prominent friends of abolition are peace men. My sister sends her love to thee. Her mind is deeply engaged in the cause of immediate, unconditional emancipation. I believe she does often pray for it." In July, 1835, Angelina went to visit a friend in Shrewsbury, New Jersey. In this quiet retreat she had ample time for reflection, and for the study of abolition. She could, she says, think of nothing else; and the question continually before her was, "What can I do? What can I do?" But the more she thought, the more perplexed she became. The certainty that any independent action, whatever, would not only offend her Society, but grieve her sister, stood in the way of reaching any conclusion, and kept her in a state of unrest which plainly showed itself in her letters to Sarah. Doubtless she did consider Sarah's advice, for she still looked up to her with filial regard, but before she could do more than consider it, an event occurred which made the turning point in her career, and emancipated her forever from the restrictions to which she had so unwillingly assented. The difficulty which abolitionists found in holding meetings in Boston, to be addressed by George Thompson, of England, brought out in July an Appeal to the citizens of Boston from Mr. Garrison. This reached Angelina's hands, and so touched her feelings, so aroused all her anti-slavery enthusiasm, that she could no longer keep quiet. She must give expression to her sympathy with the great cause. She wrote to the author--a brave thing for her to do--but we doubt if she could have refrained even if she could have fully realized the storm of reproach which the act brought down upon her. On account of its length, I cannot copy this letter entire, but a few extracts will give an idea of its general tone and spirit. It is dated Philadelphia, 8th Month 30th, 1835, and begins thus:-- "Respected Friend: It seems as if I was compelled at this time to address thee, notwithstanding all my reasonings against intruding on thy valuable time, and the uselessness of so insignificant a person as myself offering thee the sentiments of sympathy at this alarming crisis. "I can hardly express to thee the deep and solemn interest with which I have viewed the violent proceedings of the last few weeks. Although I expected opposition, I was not prepared for it so soon--it took me by surprise--and I greatly feared abolitionists would be driven back in the first outset, and thrown into confusion.... Under these feelings I was urged to read thy Appeal to the citizens of Boston. Judge, then, what were my feelings on finding that my fears were utterly groundless, and that thou stoodest firm in the midst of the storm, determined to suffer and to die, rather than yield one inch ... The ground upon which you stand is holy ground; never, never surrender it." She then goes on to encourage him to persevere in his work, reminding him of the persecutions of reformers in past times, and that religious persecution always began with mobs. "If," she says, "persecution is the means which God has ordained for the accomplishment of this great end, Emancipation; then, in dependence upon Him for strength to bear it, I feel as if I could say, Let It Come! for it is my deep, solemn, deliberate conviction that this is a cause worth dying for. I say so, from what I have seen, heard, and known in a land of slavery, where rests the darkness of Egypt, and where is found the sin of Sodom. Yes! Let it come--let us suffer, rather than insurrections should arise." This letter Mr. Garrison published in the Liberator, to the surprise of Angelina, and the great displeasure and grief of her Quaker friends. But she who had just counselled another to suffer and die rather than abate an inch of his principles was not likely to quail before the strongly expressed censure of her Society, which was at once communicated to her. Only over her sister's tender disapproval did she shed any tears. Her letter of explanation to Sarah shows the sweetness and the firmness of her character so conspicuously, that I offer no apology for copying a portion of it. It is dated Shrewsbury, Sept. 27th, 1335, and enters at once upon the subject:-- "My Beloved Sister: I feel constrained in all the tenderness of a sister's love to address thee, though I hardly know what to say, seeing that I stand utterly condemned by the standard which thou hast set up to judge me by--the opinion of my friends. This thou seemest to feel an infallible criterion. If it is, I have not so learned Christ, for He says, 'he that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me,' etc. I do most fully believe that had I done what I have done in a church capacity, I should justly incur their censure, because they disapprove of any intermeddling with the question, but what I did was done in a private capacity, on my own responsibility. Now, my precious sister, I feel willing to be condemned by all but thyself, _without_ a hearing; but to thee I owe the sacred duty of vindication, though hardly one ray of hope dawns on my mind that I shall be acquitted even by _thee_. If I know mine own heart, I desire _not_ to be acquitted; if I have erred, or if this trial of my faith is needful for me by Him who knoweth with what food to feed His poor dependent ones, thou hast been with me in heights and in depths, in joy and in sorrow, therefore to thee I speak. Thou knowest what I have passed through on the subject of slavery; thou knowest I am an exile from the home of my birth because of slavery--therefore, to thee I speak. "Previous to my writing that letter, I believe four weeks elapsed, during which time, though I passed through close and constant exercise, I did not read anything on the subject of abolition, except the pieces in the Friends' paper and the _Pennsylvanian_ relative to the insurrections and the bonfires in Charleston. I was afraid to read. After this, I perused the Appeal. I confess I could not read it without tears, so much did its spirit harmonize with my own feelings. This introduced my mind into deep sympathy with Wm. Lloyd Garrison. I found in that piece the spirit of my Master; my heart was drawn out in prayer for him, and I felt as if I would like to write to him, but forebore until this day four weeks ago, when it seemed to me I _must_ write to him. I put it by and sat down to read, but I could not read. I then thought that perhaps writing would relieve _my own mind_, without it being required of me to send what I wrote. I wrote the letter and laid it aside, desiring to be preserved from sending it if it was wrong to do so. On Second Day night, on my bended knees, I implored Divine direction, and next morning, after again praying over it, I felt easy to send it, and, after committing it to the office, felt anxiety removed, and as though I had nothing more to do with it. Thou knowest what has followed. I think on Fifth Day I was brought as low as I ever was. After that my Heavenly Father was pleased in great mercy to open the windows of heaven, and pour out upon my grief-bound, sin-sick soul, the showers of His grace, and in prayer at the footstool of mercy I found that relief which human hearts denied me. A little light seemed to arise. I remembered how often, in deep and solemn prayer, I had told my Heavenly Father I was willing to suffer anything if I could only aid the great cause of emancipation, and the query arose whether this suffering was not the peculiar kind required of me. Since then I have been permitted to enjoy a portion of that peace which human hands cannot rob me of, though great sadness covers my mind; for I feel as though my character had sustained a deep injury in the opinion of those I love and value most--how justly, they will best know at a future day. Silent submission is my portion, and in the everlasting strength of my Master, I humbly trust I shall be enabled to bear whatever is put upon me. "I have now said all I have to say, and I leave this text with thee: 'Judge not by appearance, but judge righteous judgment;' and again, 'Judge nothing before the time.' Farewell. In the love of the blessed Gospel of God's Son, I remain, thy afflicted sister. "A.E.G." The entry in Sarah's diary respecting this incident is as follows. The date is two days before that of Angelina's letter to her. "The suffering which my precious sister has brought upon herself by her connection with the anti-slavery cause, which has been a sorrow of heart to me, is another proof how dangerous it is to slight the clear convictions of truth. But, like myself, she listened to the voice of the tempter. Oh! that she may learn obedience by the things that she suffers. Of myself I can say, the Lord brought me up out of the horrible pit, and my prayer for her is that she may be willing to bear the present chastisement patiently." In Angelina's diary, she describes very touchingly some of her trials in this matter. Writing in September, 1835, after recording in similar language to that used in her letter to Sarah the state of feelings under which she wrote and sent the letter to Garrison, she says:-- "I had some idea it might be published, but did not feel at liberty to say it must not be, for I had no idea that, if it was, my name would be attached to it. As three weeks passed and I heard nothing of it, I concluded it had been broken open in the office and destroyed. To my great surprise, last Fourth Day, Friend B. came to tell me a letter of mine had been published in the Liberator. He was most exceeding tried at my having written it, and also at its publication. He wished me to re-examine the letter, and write to Wm. Lloyd Garrison, expressing disapproval of its publication, and altering some portions of it. His visit was, I believe, prompted by the affection he bears me, but he appeared utterly incapable of understanding the depth of feeling under which that letter was written. The editor's remarks were deeply trying to him. Friend B. seemed to think they were the ravings of a fanatic, and that the bare mention of my precious brother's name was a disgrace to his character, when coupled with mine in such a cause and such a paper, or rather in a cause advocated in such a way. I was so astonished and tried that I hardly knew what to say. I declined, however, to write to W.L.G., and said I felt willing to bear any suffering, if it was only made instrumental of good. I felt my great unworthiness of being used in such a work, but remembered that God hath chosen the weak things of this world to confound the wise. But I was truly miserable, believing my character was altogether gone among my dearest, most valued friends. I was indeed brought to the brink of despair, as the vilest of sinners. A little light dawned at last, as I remembered how often I had told the Lord if He would only prepare me to be, and make me, instrumental in the great work of emancipation, I would be willing to bear any suffering, and the question arose, whether this was not the peculiar kind allotted to me. Oh, the extreme pain of extravagant praise! to be held up as a saint in a public newspaper, before thousands of people, when I felt I was the chief of sinners. Blushing, and confusion of face were mine, and I thought the walls of a prison would have been preferable to such an exposure. Then, again, to have my name, not so much my name as the name of Grimké, associated with that of the despised Garrison, seemed like bringing disgrace upon my family, not myself alone. I felt as though the name had been tarnished in the eyes of thousands who had before loved and revered it. I cannot describe the anguish of my soul Nevertheless, I could not blame the publication of the letter, nor would I have recalled it if I could. "My greatest trial is the continued opposition of my precious sister Sarah. She thinks I have been given over to blindness of mind, and that I do not know light from darkness, right from wrong. Her grief is that I cannot see it was wrong in me ever to have written the letter at all, and she seems to think I deserve all the suffering I have brought upon myself." We approach now the most interesting period in the lives of the two sisters. A new era was about to dawn upon them; their quiet, peaceful routine was to be disturbed; a path was opening for them, very different from the one which had hitherto been indicated, and for which their long and painful probation had eminently prepared them. Angelina was the first to see it, the first to venture upon it, and for a time she travelled it alone, unsustained by her beloved sister, and feeling herself condemned by all her nearest friends. CHAPTER XI. All through the winter of 1835-36, demonstrations of violence continued to be made against the friends of emancipation throughout the country. The reign of terror inaugurated in 1832 threatened to crush out the grandest principles of our Constitution. Freedom of press and speech became by-words, and personal liberty was in constant danger. A man or woman needed only to be pointed out as an abolitionist to be insulted and assaulted. No anti-slavery meetings could be held uninterrupted by the worst elements of rowdyism, instigated by men in high position. In vain the authorities were appealed to for protection; they declared their inability to afford it. The few newspapers that dared to express disapproval of such disregard of the doctrine of equal rights were punished by the withdrawal of subscriptions and advertisements, while the majority of the public press teemed with the vilest slanders against the noble men and women who, in spite of mobs and social ostracism, continued to sow anti-slavery truths so diligently that new converts were made every day, and the very means taken to impose upon public opinion enlightened it more and more.[3] [3] Apropos of sowing anti-slavery truths, I remember seeing at the first anti-slavery fair I attended,--in 1853, I think,--a sampler made in 1836 by a little girl, a pupil in a school where evidently great pains were taken to propagate anti-slavery principles. On the sampler was neatly worked the words: "May the points of our needles prick the slave-holders' consciences." During this winter we find nothing especial to narrate concerning Sarah and Angelina. Sarah's diary continues to record her trials in meeting, and her religious sufferings, notwithstanding her recently expressed belief that her eternal salvation was secured. Angelina kept no diary at this time, and wrote few letters, but we see from an occasional allusion in these that her mind was busy, and that her warmest interest was enlisted in the cause of abolition. She read everything she could get on the subject, wrote some effective articles for the anti-slavery papers, and pondered night and day over the question of what more she could do. One practical thing she did was to write to the widow of her brother Thomas, proposing to purchase from her the woman whom she (Angelina) in her girlhood had refused to own, and who afterwards became the property of her brother. This woman was now the mother of several children, and Angelina, jointly with Mrs. Frost, proposed to purchase them all, bring them to Philadelphia, and emancipate them. But no notice was taken of the application, either by their sister-in-law or their sister Eliza, to whom Angelina repeatedly wrote on the subject. Learning from their mother that she was about to make her will, Angelina and Sarah wrote to her, asking that her slaves be included in their portions. To this she assented, but managed to dispose of all but four before she died. These were left to her two anti-slavery daughters, who at once freed them, at the same time purchasing the husband of one of them and freeing him. As she continued to study anti-slavery doctrines, one thing became very plain to Angelina--that the friends of emancipation, in order to clear their skirts of all participation in the slave-owner's sin, must cease to use the products of slave labor. To this view she tried to bring all with whom she discussed the main subject, and so important did it appear to her, that she thought of writing to some of the anti-slavery friends in New York about it, but her courage failed. After what she had gone through because of the publication of her letter to Mr. Garrison, she shrank from the risk of having another communication made public. But her mind was deeply exercised on this point, and when--in the spring--she and Sarah went to attend Yearly Meeting in Providence, R.I., an opportunity offered for her to express her views to a prominent member of the New York Society, whom she met on the boat. She begged this lady to talk to Gerrit Smith, recently converted from colonization, and others, about it, and to offer them, in her name, one hundred dollars towards setting up a free cotton factory. This was the beginning of a society formed by those willing to pledge themselves to the use of free-labor products only. In 1826 Benjamin Lundy had procured the establishment, in Baltimore, of a free-labor produce store; and subsequently he had formed several societies on the same principle. Evan Lewis had established one in Philadelphia about 1826, and it was still in existence. The sisters had been so long and so closely tied to Philadelphia and their duties there, that the relief of the visit to Providence was very great. Sarah mentions it in this characteristic way:-- "The Friend of sinners opened a door of escape for me out of that city of bonds and afflictions." In Providence she records how much more freedom she felt in the exercise of her ministerial gift than she did at home. Angelina sympathized with these sentiments, feeling, as she expresses it, that her release from Philadelphia was signed when she left for Providence. She found it delightful to be able to read what she pleased without being criticised, and to talk about slavery freely. While in Providence she was refreshed by calls upon her of several abolitionists, among them a cotton manufacturer and his son, Quakers, with whom she had a long talk, not knowing their business. She discussed the use of slave-labor, and descanted on the impossibility of any man being clean-handed enough to work in the anti-slavery cause so long as he was making his fortune by dealing in slave-labor products. These two gentlemen afterwards became her warm friends. An Anti-slavery Society meeting was held in Providence while Angelina was there, but she did not feel at liberty to attend it, though she mentions seeing Garrison, Henry B. Stanton, Osborne, "and others," but does not say that she made their acquaintance; probably not, as she was visiting orthodox Quakers who all disapproved of these men, and Angelina's modesty would never have allowed her to seek their notice. Leaving Providence, the sisters attended two Quarterly Meetings in adjacent towns, where, Angelina states, the subject of slavery was brought up, "and," she says, "gospel liberty prevailed to such an extent, that even poor I was enabled to open my lips in a few words." She neglected to say that these few words introduced the subject to the meetings, and produced such deep feeling that many hitherto wavering ones went away strengthened and encouraged. They also attended Yearly Meeting at Newport, where many friends were made; and where Angelina's conversations on the subject which absorbed all her thoughts produced such an impression that she was strongly urged to remain in New England, and become an anti-slavery missionary in the Society of Friends. But she did not feel that she could stay, as, she says, it was shown her very clearly that Shrewsbury was her right place for the summer, though why, she knew not. The reason was plainly revealed a little later. She returned to Shrewsbury refreshed and strengthened, and feeling that her various experiences had helped her to see more clearly where her duty and her work lay. But she was saddened by the conviction that if she gave herself up, as she felt she must, to the anti-slavery cause, she would be cast loose from her peaceful home, and from very many dear friends, to whom she was bound by the strongest ties of gratitude and affection. She thus writes to a friend:-- "Didst thou ever feel as if thou hadst no home on earth, except in the bosom of Jesus? I feel so now." For several weeks after her return to Shrewsbury, Angelina tried to withdraw her mind from the subject which her sister thought was taking too strong hold on it, and interfering with her spiritual needs and exercises. Out of deference to these views, she resumed her studies, and tried to become interested in a "History of the United States on Peace Principles," which she had thought some time before of writing. Then she began the composition of a little book on the "Beauty and Duty of Forgiveness, as Illustrated by the Story of Joseph," but gave that up to commence a sacred history. In this she did become much interested for a time, but her mind was too heavily burdened to permit her to remain tranquil long. Still the question was ever before her: "Is there nothing that I can do?" She tried to be cheerful, but felt at all times much more like shedding tears. And her suffering was greater that it was borne alone. The friend, Mrs. Parker, whom she was visiting, was a comparative stranger, whose views she had not yet ascertained, and whom she feared to trouble with her perplexities. Of Sarah, so closely associated with Catherine Morris, she could not make an entire confidant, and no other friend was near. Catherine, and some others in Philadelphia, anxious about her evident and growing indifference to her Society duties, tried to persuade her to open a school with one who had long been a highly-prized friend, but Angelina very decidedly refused to listen to the project. "As to S.W.'s proposal," she writes, "I cannot think of acceding to it, because I have seen so clearly that my pen, at least, must be employed in the great reformations of the day, and if I engaged in a school, my time would not be my own. No money that could be given could induce me to bind my body and mind and soul so completely in Philadelphia. There is no lack of light as to the right decision about this." For this reply she received a letter of remonstrance from Sarah, to which she thus answered:-- "I think I am as afraid as thou canst be of my doing anything to hurt my usefulness in our Society, if that is the field designed for me to labor in. But, Is it? is often a query of deep interest and solemnity to my mind. I feel no openness among Friends. My spirit is oppressed and heavy laden, and shut up in prison. What am I to do? The only relief I experience is in writing letters and pieces for the peace and anti-slavery causes, and this makes me think that my influence is to reach beyond our own limits. My mind is fully made up not to spend next winter in Philadelphia, if I can help it. I feel strangely released, and am sure I know not what is to become of me. I am perfectly blind as to the future." But light was coming, and her sorrowful questionings were soon to be answered. It was not long before Mrs. Parker saw that her guest's cheerfulness was assumed, and only thinly veiled some great trouble. As they became more intimate, she questioned her affectionately, and soon drew from her the whole story of her sorrows and her perplexities, and her great need of a friend to feel for her and advise her. Mrs. Parker became this friend, and, though differing from her on some essential points, did much to help and strengthen her. For many days slavery was the only topic discussed between them, and then one morning Angelina entered the breakfast-room with a beaming countenance, and said:-- "It has all come to me; God has shown me what I can do; I can write an appeal to Southern women, one which, thus inspired, will touch their hearts, and lead them to use their influence with their husbands and brothers. I will speak to them in such tones that they must hear me, and, through me, the voice of justice and humanity." This appeal was begun that very day, but before she had written many pages, she was interrupted in her task by a letter which threw her into a state of great agitation, and added to her perplexity. This letter was from Elizur Wright, then secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, the office of which was in New York. He invited her, in the name of the Executive Committee of the Society, to come to New York, and meet with Christian women in sewing circles and private parlors, and talk to them, as she so well knew how to do, on slavery. The door of usefulness she had been looking for so long was opened at last, but it was so unexpected, so different from anything she had yet thought of, that she was cast into a sea of trouble. Naturally retiring and unobtrusive, she shrank from so public an engagement, and this proposal frightened her so much that she could not sleep the first night after receiving it. She had never spoken to the smallest assembly of Friends, and even in meeting, where all were free to speak as the spirit moved them, she had never uttered a word; and yet, how could she refuse? She delayed her answer until she could make it the subject of prayer and consult with Sarah. Desiring to leave her sister entirely free to express her opinion, she merely wrote to her that she had received the proposition. Sarah was beginning to feel that Angelina was growing beyond her, and, may be, above her. She did not offer a word of advice, but most tenderly expressed her entire willingness to give up her "precious child," to go anywhere, and do anything she felt was right. And in a letter to a friend, alluding to this, she says:-- "My beloved sister does indeed need the prayers of all who love her. Oh! may He who laid down his life for us guide her footsteps and keep her in the hollow of His holy hand. Perhaps the Lord may be pleased to cast our lot somewhere together. If so, I feel as if I could ask no more in this world." Sarah's willingness to surrender her to whatever work she felt called to do was a great relief to Angelina. In writing to thank her and to speak more fully of Mr. Wright's letter, she says:-- "The bare idea that such a thing may be required of me is truly alarming, and that thy mind should be at all resigned to it increases the fear that possibly I may have to do it. It does not appear by the letter that it is expected I should extend my work outside of our Society. One thing, however, I do see clearly, that I am not to do it now, for I have begun to write an 'Appeal to the Christian Women of the South,' which I feel must be finished first." She then proceeds to give an account of the part of this Appeal already written, and of what she intended the rest to be, and shows that she shared the feelings common among Southerners, the anticipation of a servile insurrection sooner or later. She says:-- "In conclusion I intend to take up the subject of abolitionism, and endeavor to undeceive the South as to the supposed objects of anti-slavery societies, and bear my full testimony to their pacific principles; and then to close with as feeling an appeal as possible to them as women, as Christian women, setting before them the awful responsibility resting on them at this crisis; for if the women of the South do not rise in the strength of the Lord to plead with their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons, that country must witness the most dreadful scenes of murder and blood. "It will be a pamphlet of a dozen pages, I suppose. My wish is to submit it to the publishing committee of the A.A.S.S., of New York, for revision, to be published by them with my name attached, for I well know my _name_ is worth more than _myself_, and will add weight to it.[4] Now, dearest, what dost thou think of it? A pretty bold step, I know, and one of which my friends will highly disapprove, but this is a day in which I feel I must act independently of consequences to myself, for of how little consequence will my trials be, if the cause of truth is helped forward ever so little. The South must be reached. An address to men will not reach women, but an address to women will reach the whole community, if it can be reached at all. "I mean to write to Elizur Wright by to-morrow's mail, informing him that I am writing such a pamphlet, and that I feel as if the proposition of the committee is one of too much importance, either to accept or refuse, without more reflection than I have yet been able to give to it. The trial would indeed be great, to have to leave this sweet, quiet retreat, but if duty calls, I must go.... Many, many thanks for thy dear, long letters." [4] In a letter written some time after, she says: "I would have liked thee to join thy name to mine in my Appeal, but thought it would probably bring out so much opposition and violence, that I preferred bearing it all myself." While Angelina was thus busily employed, and buoyed up by the hope of benefiting those whose wrongs she had all her life felt so deeply, Sarah was reaching towards her, and in trying to be indulgent to her and just to her Society at the same time, she was awakening to her own false position and to some of the awful mistakes of her religious life. Through the summer, such passages as the following appear in her diary: -- "The approach of our Yearly Meeting was almost overwhelming. I felt as if I could be thankful even for sickness, for almost anything so I might have escaped attending it. But my dear Saviour opened no door, and after a season of unusual conflict I was favored with resignation. "Oh! the cruel treatment I have undergone from those in authority. I could not have believed it had I not been called to endure it. But the Lord permits it. My part is not to judge how far they have been moving under divine direction, but to receive humbly and thankfully through them the lessons of meekness, lowliness, faith, patience, and love, and I trust I may be thankful for the opportunity thus afforded to love my enemies and to pray for them, and perhaps it is to prepare me to feel for others, that I have been thus tried and afflicted." That she was thus prepared was evidenced through all the varied experiences of her after-life, for certainly no more sympathetic soul ever dwelt in a mortal frame, and more generously diffused its warmth and tenderness upon all who came within its radius. After the next First Day meeting, she writes:-- "The suffering in my own meeting is so intense that I think nothing short of a settled conviction that obedience and eternal life are closely connected could enable me to open my lips there." Two weeks later, an almost prophetic sentence is written. "Truly discouragement does so prevail that it would be no surprise to me if Friends requested me to be silent. Hitherto, I have been spared this trial, but if it comes, O Holy Father, may my own will be so slain that I may bow in reverent adoring submission." Notwithstanding all this distress, however, Sarah might still have lingered on some time longer, stifling in the dry dust of the Quaker Church, and refusing to partake of the living water Angelina proffered to her, but for an incident which occurred about this time, scarcely a fortnight after the last sentence quoted,--an incident which proved to be the last straw added to the heavy burden she had borne so submissively, if not patiently. It is best given in her own words, and I may add, it is the last entry in her most remarkable diary. "8th Mo. 3d. Went this morning to Orange Street meeting after a season of conflict and prayer. I believed the Lord required this sacrifice, but I went with a heart bowed down, praying to Jesus that I might not speak my own words, that he would be pleased to make a way for me, or, if what I had to deliver brought upon me opposition, to strengthen me to endure it. The meeting had been gathered some time when I arose, and after repeating our Lord's thrice-repeated query to Peter, 'Lovest thou me?' I remarked that it was addressed to one who had been forgiven much, and who could appeal to the Searcher of hearts that he did indeed love Him. Few of us had had the temptation to endure which overcame Peter when he denied his Lord and Master. But although few of us might openly deny the Lord who bought us, yet there is, I apprehend, in many of us an evil heart of unbelief, which alienates us from God and disqualifies from answering the query as Peter did. I had proceeded so far when Jonathan Evans rose and said: 'I hope the Friend will now be satisfied.' I immediately sat down and was favored to feel perfectly calm. The language, 'Ye can have no power at all against me unless it be given you,' sustained me, and although I am branded in the public eye with the disapprobation of a poor fellow worm, and it was entirely a breach of discipline in him to publicly silence a minister who has been allowed to exercise her gifts in her own meeting without ever having been requested to be silent, yet I feel no anger towards him. Surely the feelings that could prompt to so cruel an act cannot be the feelings of Christian love. But it seems to be one more evidence that my dear Saviour designs to bring me out of this place. How much has his injunction rested on my mind of latter time. 'When they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another.' I pray unto Thee, O Lord Jesus, to direct the wanderer's footsteps and to plant me where thou seest I can best promote thy glory. Expect to go to Burlington to-morrow." To those unacquainted with the Society of Friends fifty years ago, and its discipline at that period, so different from what it is now, this incident may seem of little consequence; but it was, on the contrary, extremely serious. Jonathan Evans was the presiding elder of the Yearly Meetings, a most important personage, whose authority was undisputed. He was sometimes alluded to as "Pope Jonathan." He had disliked Sarah from the time of her connection with the Society, and had habitually treated her and her offerings with a silent indifference most significant, and which, of course, had its effect on many who pinned their prejudices as well as their faith to the coats of the elders. It was owing entirely to this secretly-exercised but well-understood opposition, that Sarah had for nine long years used her ministerial gift only through intense suffering. She believed, against much rebellion in her own breast, that it had been given her to use in God's service, and that she had no right to withhold it; but she had been made so often to feel the condemnation under which she labored, that she was really not much surprised when the final blow came. But with all her religious humility her pride was great, and her sensitiveness to any discourtesy very keen. She may not have felt anger against Elder Evans. We can imagine, on the contrary, that her heart was filled with pity for him, but a pity largely mixed with contempt; and it is certain that the Society was made, in her view, responsible for his conduct. Every slight she had ever received in it came back to her exaggerated; all her dissatisfaction with its principles of action doubled; the grief she had always felt at its indifference to the doctrine of the atonement, and its neglect to preach "Jesus Christ and him crucified," of which she had often complained, was intensified, and her first impulse was to quit the Society, as she determined to quit Philadelphia, for ever. Angelina was greatly shocked when she learned of the treatment her sister had received, but the words, "I will break your bonds and set you free," came immediately to her mind, and so comforted her that her grief and indignation were turned to joy. She had long felt that, kind as Catherine Morris had always been, her strict orthodox principles, which she severely enforced in her household, circumscribed Sarah's liberty of thought and action, and operated powerfully in preventing her from rising out of her depressed and discouraged state. But though the question had often revolved itself in her mind, and even been discussed between her and her sister, neither had been able to see how Sarah could ever leave Catherine, bound to her as she was by such strong ties of gratitude, and feeling herself so necessary to Catherine's comfort. But now the way was made clear, and certainly no true friend of Sarah could expect her to remain longer in Philadelphia. It is surprising that Sarah had not discovered many years earlier that the attempt must be futile to engraft a scion of the Charleston aristocracy upon the rugged stock of Quaker orthodoxy. She went to Burlington, to the house of a dear friend who knew of all her trials, and there she remained for several weeks. Angelina had finished her "Appeal," and, only two days before she heard of the Evans incident, wrote to Sarah to inform her of the fact. This letter is dated "Aug. 1st, 1836." After a few affectionate inquiries, she says: "I have just finished my 'Appeal to Southern Women.' It has furnished work for two weeks. How much I wish I could have thee here, if it were only for three or four hours, that we might read it over together before I send it to Elizur Wright. I read it to Margaret, and she says it carries its own evidence with it; still, I should value thy judgment very much if I could have it, but a private opportunity offers to-morrow, and I think I had better send it. It must go just as I sent my letter to W.L.G., with fervent prayers that the Lord would do just as he pleased with it. I believe He directed and helped me to write it, and now I feel as if I had nothing to do but to send it to the Anti-Slavery Society, submitting it entirely to their judgment.... I cannot be too thankful for the change thou expressest in thy feelings with regard to the Anti-Slavery Society, and feel no desire at all to blame thee for former opposition, believing, as I do, that it was permitted in order to drive me closer to my Saviour, and into a deeper examination of the ground upon which I was standing. I am indeed thankful for it; how could I be otherwise, when it was so evident thou hadst my good at heart and really did for the best? And it did not hurt me at all. It did not alienate me from the blessed cause, for I think the same suffering that would drive us back from a bad cause makes us cling to and love a good one more ardently. O sister, I feel as if I could give up not only friends, but life itself, for the slave, if it is called for. I feel as if I could go anywhere to save him, even down to the South if I am called there. The conviction deepens and strengthens, as retirement affords fuller opportunity for calm reflection, that the cause of emancipation is a cause worth suffering for, yea, dying for, if need be. With regard to the proposed mission in New York, I can see nothing about it, and never did any poor creature feel more unfit to do anything than I do to undertake it. But what duty presses me into, I cannot press myself out of.... I sometimes feel frightened to think of how long I was standing idle in the market-place, and cannot help attributing it in a great measure to the doctrine of nothingness so constantly preached up in our Society. It is the most paralyzing, zeal-quenching doctrine that ever was preached in the Church, and I believe has produced its legitimate fruit of nothingness in reducing us to nothing, when we ought to have been a light in the Christian Church.... Farewell, dearest, perhaps we shall soon meet." The Appeal was sent to New York, and this was what Mr. Wright wrote to the author in acknowledging its receipt:-- "I have just finished reading your Appeal, and not with a dry eye. I do not feel the slightest doubt that the committee will publish it. Oh that it could be rained down into every parlor in our land. I know it will carry the Christian women of the South if it can be read, and my soul blesses that dear and glorious Saviour who has helped you to write it." When it was read some days after to the gentlemen of the committee, they found in it such an intimate knowledge of the workings of the whole slave system, such righteous denunciation of it, and such a warm interest in the cause of emancipation, that they decided to publish it at once and scatter it through the country, especially through the South. It made a pamphlet of thirty-six pages. The Quarterly Anti-Slavery Magazine for October, 1836, thus mentions it:-- "This eloquent pamphlet is from the pen of a sister of the late Thomas S. Grimké, of Charleston, S.C. We need hardly say more of it than that it is written with that peculiar felicity and unction which characterized the works of her lamented brother. Among anti-slavery writings there are two classes--one especially adapted to make new converts, the other to strengthen the old. We cannot exclude Miss Grimké's Appeal from either class. It belongs pre-eminently to the former. The converts that will be made by it, we have no doubt, will be not only numerous, but thorough-going." Mr. Wright spoke of it as a patch of blue sky breaking through the storm-cloud of public indignation which had gathered so black over the handful of anti-slavery workers. This praise was not exaggerated. The pamphlet produced the most profound sensation wherever it was read, but, as Angelina predicted, she was made to suffer for having written it. Friends upbraided and denounced her, Catherine Morris even predicting that she would be disowned, and intimating pretty plainly that she would not dissent from such punishment; and Angelina even began to doubt her own judgment, and to question if she ought not to have continued to live a useless life in Philadelphia, rather than to have so displeased her best friends. But her convictions of duty were too strong to allow her to remain long in this depressed, semi-repentant state. In a letter to a friend she expresses herself as almost wondering at her own weakness; and of Catherine Morris she says: "Her disapproval, more than anything else, shook my resolution. Nevertheless, I told her, with many tears, that I felt it a religious duty to labor in this cause, and that I must do it even against the advice and wishes of my friends. I think if I ever had a clear, calm view of the path of duty in all my life, I have had it since I came here, in reference to slavery. But I assure thee that I expect nothing less than that my labors in this blessed cause will result in my being disowned by Friends, but none of these things will move me. I must confess I value my right very little in a Society which is frowning on all the moral reformations of the day, and almost enslaving its members by unchristian and unreasonable restrictions, with regard to uniting with others in these works of faith and labors of love. I do not believe it would cost me one pang to be disowned for doing my duty to the slave." But her condemnation reached beyond the Quaker Society--even to her native city, where her Appeal produced a sensation she had little expected. Mr. Weld's account of its reception there is thus given:-- "When it (the Appeal) came out, a large number of copies were sent by mail to South Carolina. Most of them were publicly burned by postmasters. Not long after this, the city authorities of Charleston learned that Miss Grimké was intending to visit her mother and sisters, and pass the winter with them. Thereupon the mayor called upon Mrs. Grimké and desired her to inform her daughter that the police had been instructed to prevent her landing while the steamer remained in port, and to see to it that she should not communicate, by letter or otherwise, with any persons in the city; and, further, that if she should elude their vigilance and go on shore, she would be arrested and imprisoned until the return of the vessel. Her Charleston friends at once conveyed to her the message of the mayor, and added that the people of Charleston were so incensed against her, that if she should go there despite the mayor's threat of pains and penalties, she could not escape personal violence at the hands of the mob. She replied to the letter that her going would probably compromise her family; not only distress them, but put them in peril, which she had neither heart nor right to do; but for that fact, she would certainly exercise her constitutional right as an American citizen, and go to Charleston to visit her relatives, and if for that, the authorities should inflict upon her pains and penalties, she would willingly bear them, assured that such an outrage would help to reveal to the free States the fact that slavery defies and tramples alike upon constitutions and laws, and thus outlaws itself." These brave words said no more than they meant, for Angelina Grimké's moral heroism would have borne her to the front of the fiercest battle ever fought for human rights; and she would have counted it little to lay down her life if that could help on the victory. She touched as yet only the surf of the breakers into which she was soon to be swept, but her clear eye would not have quailed, or her cheek have blanched, if even then all their cruelty could have been revealed to her. CHAPTER XII. We have seen, a few pages back, that Angelina expressed her thankfulness at Sarah's change of views with respect to the anti-slavery cause. Again we must regret the destruction of Sarah's letters, which would have shown us by what chains of reasoning her mind at last reached entire sympathy with Angelina's. We can only infer that her progress was rapid after the public rebuke which caused her to turn her back on Philadelphia, and that her sister's brave and isolated position, appealing strongly to her affection, urged her to make a closer examination of the subject of abolitionism than she had yet done. The result we know; her entire conversion in a few weeks to Angelina's views. And from that time she travelled close by her sister's side in this as well as in other questions of reform, drawing her inspiration from Angelina's clearer intuitions and calmer judgment, and frankly and affectionately acknowledging her right of leadership. The last of August, 1836, the sisters were once more together, Sarah having accepted Mrs. Parker's invitation to come to Shrewsbury. The question of future arrangements was now discussed. Angelina felt a strong inclination to go to New England, and undertake there the same work which the committee in New York wished her to perform, and she even wrote to Mr. Wright that she expected to do so. Feeling also that Friends had the first right to her time and labors, and that, if permitted, she would prefer to work within the Society, she wrote to her old acquaintances, E. and L. Capron, the cotton manufacturers of Uxbridge, Massachusetts, to consult them on the subject. She mentions this in a letter to her friend, Jane Smith, saying:-- "My present feelings lead me to labor with Friends on the manufacture and use of the products of slave-labor. They excuse themselves from doing anything, because they say they cannot mingle in the general excitement, and so on. Now, here is a field of labor in which they need have nothing to do with other societies, and yet will be striking a heavy blow at slavery. These topics the Anti-Slavery Society has never acted upon as a body, and therefore no agent of theirs could consistently labor on them. I stated to E. and L. Capron just how I felt, and asked whether I could be of any use among them, whether they were prepared to have the morality of these things discussed on Christian principles. I have no doubt my Philadelphia friends will oppose my going there, but, Jane, I have realized very sensibly of late that I belong not to them, but to Christ Jesus, and that I must follow the Lamb whithersoever He leadeth.... I feel as if I was about to sacrifice every friend I thought I had, but I still believe with T.D. Weld, that this is 'a cause worth dying for.'" This is the first mention we find of her future husband, whom she had not yet seen, but whose eloquent addresses she had read, and whose ill-treatment by Western mobs had more than once called forth the expression of her indignation. The senior member of the firm to which she had written answered her letter in person, and, she says, utterly discouraged her. He said that if she should go into New England with the avowed intention of laboring among Friends on the subject of slavery in _any_ way, her path would be completely closed, and she would find herself entirely helpless. He even went so far as to say that he believed there were Friends who would destroy her character if she attempted anything of the kind. He proposed that she should go to his house for the winter, and employ her time in writing for the Anti-Slavery Society, and doing anything else she could incidentally. But this plan did not suit her. She felt it right to offer her services to Friends first, and was glad she had done so; but if they would not accept them she must take them elsewhere. Besides, when she communicated her plan to Catherine Morris, Catherine objected to it very decidedly, and said she _could not_ go without a certificate and a companion, and these she knew Friends would not grant her. "Under all these circumstances," Angelina writes, "I felt a little like the apostle Paul, who having first offered the Jews the gospel, and finding they would not receive it, believed it right for him to turn to the Gentiles. Didst thou ever hear anything so absurd as what Catherine says about the certificate and a companion? I cannot feel bound by such unreasonable restrictions if my Heavenly Father opens a door for me, and I do not mean to submit to them. She knows very well that Arch Street Meeting would grant me neither, but as the servant of Jesus Christ I have no right to bow down thus to the authority of man, and I do not expect ever again to suffer myself to be trammelled as I have been. It is sinful in any human being to resign his or her conscience and free agency to any society or individual, if such usurpation can be resisted by moral power. The course our Society is now determined upon, of crushing everything which opposes the peculiar views of Friends, seems to me just like the powerful effort of the Jews to close the lips of Jesus. They are afraid that the Society will be completely broken up if they allow any difference of opinion to pass unrebuked, and they are resolved to put down all who question in any way the doctrines of Barclay, the soundness of Fox, or the practices which are built on them. But the time is fast approaching when we shall see who is for Christ, and who for Fox and Barclay, the Paul and Apollos of our Society." Her plan of going to New England frustrated, Angelina hesitated no longer about accepting the invitation from New York. But first there was a long discussion of the subject with Sarah, who found it hard to resign her sister to a work she as yet did not cordially approve. She begged her not to decide suddenly, and pointed out all sorts of difficulties--the great responsibility she would assume, her retiring disposition, and almost morbid shrinking from whatever might make her conspicuous; the trial of going among strangers, made greater by her Quaker costume and speech, and lastly, of the almost universal prejudice against a woman's speaking to any audience; and she asked her if, under all these embarrassing circumstances, added to her inexperience of the world, she did not feel that she would ultimately be forced to give up what now seemed to her so practicable. To all this Angelina only answered that the responsibility seemed thrust upon her, that the call was God's call, and she could not refuse to answer it. Sarah then told her that if she should go upon this mission without the sanction of the "Meeting for Sufferings," it would be regarded as a violation of the established usages of the Society, and it would feel obliged to disown her. Angelina's answer to this ended the discussion. She declared that as her mind was made up to go, she could not ask leave of her Society--that it would grieve her to have to leave it, and it would be unpleasant to be disowned, but she had no alternative. Then Sarah, whose loving heart had, during the long talk, been moving nearer and nearer to that of her clear child, surprised her by speaking in the beautiful, tender language of Ruth: "If thou indeed feelest thus, and I cannot doubt it, then my mind too is made up. Where thou goest, I will go; thy God shall be my God, thy people my people. What thou doest, I will, to my utmost, aid thee in doing. We have wept and prayed together, we will go and work together." And thus fully united, heart and soul and mind, they departed for New York, Angelina first writing to inform the committee of her decision, and while thanking them for the salary offered, refusing to receive any. She also told them that her sister would accompany her and co-operate with her, and they would both bear their own expense. After this time, the sisters found themselves in frequent and intimate association with the men who, as officers of the American Anti-Slavery Society, had the direction of the movement. The marked superiority of their new friends in education, experience, culture, piety, liberality of view, statesmanship, decision of character, and energy in action, to the Philadelphia Quakers and Charleston slave-holders, must have been to them a surprise and a revelation. Working with a common purpose, these men were of varied accomplishments and qualities. William Jay and James G. Birney were cultured men of the world, trained in legal practice and public life; Arthur Tappan, Lewis Tappan, John Rankin, and Duncan Dunbar, were successful merchants; Abraham L. Cox, a physician in large practice; Theodore D. Weld, Henry B. Stanton, Alvan Stewart, and Gerrit Smith were popular orators; Joshua Leavitt, Elizur Wright, and William Goodell were ready writers and able editors; Beriah Green and Amos A. Phelps were pulpit speakers and authors, and John G. Whittier was a poet. Some of them had national reputations. Those who in December, 1835, protested against the false charges of publishing incendiary documents calculated to excite servile war, made against the Society by President Jackson, had signed names almost as well known as his, and had written better English than his message. Several of them had been officers of the American Anti-Slavery Society from its formation. Their energy had been phenomenal: they had raised funds, sent lecturers into nearly every county in the free States, and circulated in a single year more than a million copies of newspapers, pamphlets, magazines, and books. Their moderation, good judgment, and piety had been seen and known of all men. Faithful in the exposure of unfaithfulness to freedom on the part of politicians and clergymen, they denounced neither the Constitution nor the Bible. Their devotion to the cause of abolition was pure; for its sake they suppressed the vanity of personal notoriety and of oratorical display. Among them, not one can be found who sought to make a name as a leader, speaker, or writer; not one who was jealous of the reputation of co-adjutors; not one who rewarded adherents with flattery and hurled invectives at dissentients; not one to whom personal flattery was acceptable or personal prominence desirable; not one whose writings betrayed egotism, self-inflation or bombast. Such was their honest aversion to personal publicity, it is now almost impossible to trace the work each did. Some of their noblest arguments for Freedom were published anonymously. They made no vainglorious claims to the original authorship of ideas. But never in the history of reform was work better done than the old American Anti-Slavery Society did from its formation in 1833 to its disruption in 1840. In less than seven years it regained for Freedom most of the vantage-ground lost under the open assaults and secret plottings, beginning in 1829, of the Jackson administration, and in the panic caused by the Southampton insurrection; blew into flame the embers of the national anti-slavery sentiment; painted slavery as it was; vindicated the anti-slavery character of the Constitution and the Bible; defended the right of petition; laid bare the causes of the Seminole war: exposed the Texas conspiracy and the designs of the slave power for supremacy; and freed the legitimate abolition cause from "no human government," secession, and anti-constitution heresies. In short, it planted the seed which flowered and fruited in a political party, around which the nation was to gather for defence against the aggressions of the slave power. At the anti-slavery office in New York, Angelina and Sarah learned, much to their satisfaction, that the work that would probably be required of Angelina could be done in a private capacity; that it was proposed to organize, the next month (November), a National Female Anti-Slavery Society, for which women agents would be needed, and they could make themselves exceedingly useful travelling about, distributing tracts, and talking to women in their own homes. There the matter rested for a time. Writing to her friend Jane Smith in Philadelphia after their return to Shrewsbury, Angelina says:-- "I am certain of the disapproval of nearly all my friends. As to dear Catherine, I am afraid she will hardly want to see me again. I wrote to her all about it, for I wanted her to know what my prospects were. I expect nothing less than the loss of her friendship and of my membership in the Society. The latter will be a far less trial than the former.... I cannot describe to thee how my dear sister has comforted and strengthened me. I cannot regard the change in her feelings as any other than as a strong evidence that my Heavenly Father has called me into the anti-slavery field, and after having tried my faith by her opposition, is now pleased to strengthen and confirm it by her approbation." In a postscript to this letter, Sarah says:-- "God does not willingly grieve or afflict the children of men, and if my suffering or even my beloved sister's, which is harder to bear than my own, can help forward the cause of Truth and Righteousness, I may rejoice in that we are found worthy not only to believe on, but also to suffer for, the name of Jesus." Angelina adds that she shall be obliged to go to Philadelphia for a week or so, to dispose of her personal effects, and asks Jane to receive her as a boarder, as she did not think it would be right to impose herself upon either her sister, Mrs. Frost, or Catherine, on account of their disapproval of anti-slavery measures. "I never felt before," she says, "as if I had _no_ home. It seems as if the Lord had completely broken up my rest and driven me out to labor for the poor slave. It is _His_ work--I blame no one." A few weeks later, the sisters were again in New York, the guests of that staunch abolitionist, Dr. Cox, and his good wife, Abby, as earnest a worker in the cause as her husband. An anti-slavery convention had been called for the first week in the month of November, and met soon after their arrival. It was at this convention that Angelina first saw and listened to Theodore D. Weld. Writing to her friend Jane, she says:-- "The meetings are increasingly interesting, and to-day (11th) we enjoyed a moral and intellectual feast in a most noble speech from T.D. Weld, of more than two hours, on the question, 'What is slavery?' I never heard so grand and beautiful an exposition of the dignity and nobility of man in my life." She goes on to give a synopsis of the entire speech, and by her frequent enthusiastic comments reveals how much it and the speaker impressed her. She continues:-- "After the meeting was over, W.L. Garrison introduced Weld to us. He greeted me with the appellation of 'my dear sister,' and I felt as though he was a brother indeed in the holy cause of suffering humanity; a man raised up by God and wonderfully qualified to plead the cause of the oppressed. Perhaps now thou wilt want to know how this lion of the tribe of abolition _looks_. Well, at first sight, there was nothing remarkable to me in his appearance, and I wondered whether he was really as great as I had heard. But as soon as his countenance became animated by speaking, I found it was one which portrayed the noblest qualities of the heart and head beaming with intelligence, benevolence, and frankness." On the last page of her letter she says: "It is truly comforting to me to find that sister is so much pleased with the Convention, that she acknowledges the spirit of brotherly love and condescension manifest there, and that earnest desire after truth which characterizes the addresses. We have been introduced to a number of abolitionists, Thurston, Phelps, Green, the Burleighs, Wright, Pritchard, Thome, etc., and Amos Dresser, as lovely a specimen of the meekness and lowliness of the great Master as I ever saw. His countenance betrayeth that he has been with Jesus, and it was truly affecting to hear him on Sixth Day give an account of the Nashville outrage to a very large colored school.[5] "The F.A.S. Society is to have its first public meeting this week, at which we hope to hear Weld, but fear he will not have time, as he is not even able to go home to meals, and told me he had sat up until two o'clock every night since he came to New York. As to myself, I feel I have nothing to do but to attend the Convention at present. I am very comfortable, feeling in my right place, and sister seems to feel so too, though neither of us sees much ahead." [5] Amos Dresser was one of the Lane Seminary students. After leaving that institution, in order to raise funds to continue his studies, he accepted an agency for the sale of the "Cottage Bible." While peacefully prosecuting his business in Nashville, in 1834, it became known that he was an abolitionist. This was enough. He was arrested, his trunk broken open, and its contents searched and scattered. He was then taken before a vigilance committee, and without a single charge, except that of his anti-slavery principles, being brought against him, was condemned to receive twenty lashes, "well laid on," on the bare back, and then to be driven from the town. The sentence was carried out by the votes and in the presence of thousands of people, and was presided over by the mayor and the elders of the Presbyterian Church from whose hands Mr. Dresser had, the Sunday before, received the Holy Communion. In her next letter she describes the deepening interest of the Convention, and Sarah's increasing unity with its members. "We sit," she says, "from 9 to 1, 3 to 5, and 7 to 9, and never feel weary at all. It is better, _far_ better than any Yearly Meeting I ever attended. It is still uncertain when we shall adjourn, and it is so good to be here that I don't know how to look forward to the end of such a feast.... T.D. Weld is to begin his Bible argument to-morrow. It will occupy, he says, four days." The Convention adjourned the latter part of November, 1836, and we may judge how profitable its meetings had proved to Sarah Grimké, from the fact that she at once began the preparation of an "Epistle to the Clergy of the Southern States," which, printed in pamphlet form, was issued some time in December, and was as strong an argument against the stand on the subject of slavery taken by the majority of the clergy as had yet appeared. Reading it, one would little suspect how recent had been the author's opposition to just such protests as this, calculated to stir up bitter feelings and create discussion and excitement in the churches. It is written in a spirit of gentleness and persuasion, but also of firm admonition, and evidently under a deep sense of individual responsibility. It shows, too, that Sarah had reached full accord with Angelina in her views of immediate emancipation. By the time the Convention was over, the sisters, and portions of their history, had become so well known to abolitionists, that the leaders felt they had secured invaluable champions in these two Quaker women, one so logical, brilliant, and persuasive; the other so intelligent, earnest, and conscientious; and both distinguished by their ability to testify as eye-witnesses against the monstrous evils of slavery. It was proposed that they should begin to hold a series of parlor meetings, for women only, of course. But it was soon found that they had, in private conversations, made such an impression, that no parlors would be large enough to accommodate all who desired to hear them speak more at length. Upon learning this, the Rev. Mr. Dunbar, a Baptist clergyman, offered them the use of his Session room, and the Female Anti-Slavery Society embraced the opportunity to make this the beginning of regular quarterly meetings. On the Sunday previous to the meeting, notice of it was given out in four churches, without however, naming the proposed speakers. But it became known in some way that the Misses Grimké were to address the meeting, and a shock went through the whole community. Not a word would have been said if they had restricted themselves to a private parlor meeting, but that it should be transferred to such a public place as the parlor of a church made quite a different affair of it. Friends were of course as loud as Friends could properly be in their expressions of disapproval, while other denominations, not so restrained, gave Mr. Dunbar, the abolitionists, and the "two bold Southern women" an unmistakable piece of their mind. Even Gerrit Smith, always the grandest champion of woman, advised against the meeting, fearing it would be pronounced a Fanny Wright affair, and do more harm than good. Sarah and Angelina were appalled, the latter especially, feeling almost as if she was the bold creature she was represented to be. She declared her utter inability, in the face of such antagonism, to go on with the work she had undertaken, and the more she looked at it, the more unnatural and unwise it seemed to her; and when printed hand-bills were scattered about, calling attention in a slighting manner to their names, both felt as if it were humanly impossible for them to proceed any further. But the meeting had been called, and as there was no business to come before it, they did not know what to do. "In this emergency," Angelina writes, "I called upon Him who has ever hearkened unto my cry. My strength and confidence were renewed, my burden slipped off, and from that time I felt sure of God's help in the hour of need, and that He would be mouth and wisdom, tongue and utterance to us both." "Yesterday," she continues, "T.D. Weld came up, like a brother, to sympathize with us and encourage our hearts. He is a precious Christian, and bade us not to fear, but to trust in God. In a previous conversation on our holding meetings, he had expressed his full unity with our doing so, and grieved over that factitious state of society which bound up the energies of woman, instead of allowing her to exercise them to the glory of God and the good of her fellow creatures. His visit was really a strength to us, and I felt no more fear. We went to the meeting at three o'clock, and found about three hundred women there. It was opened with prayer by Henry Ludlow; we were warmly welcomed by brother Dunbar, and then these two left us. After a moment, I arose and spoke about forty minutes, feeling, I think, entirely unembarrassed. Then dear sister did her part better than I did. We then read some extracts from papers and letters, and answered a few questions, when at five the meeting closed; after the question had been put whether our sisters wished another meeting to be held. A good many rose, and Henry Ludlow says he is sure he can get his session room for us." This account of the first assembly of women, not Quakers, in a public place in America, addressed by American women, is deeply interesting, and touching from its very simplicity. We who are so accustomed to hear women speak to promiscuous audiences on any and every subject, and to hear them applauded too, can scarcely realize the prejudice which, half a century back, sought to close the lips of two refined Christian ladies, desirous only of adding their testimony against the greatest evil of any age or country. But those who denounced and ridiculed them builded better than they knew, for then and there was laid the corner-stone of that temple of equal rights for women, which has been built upon by so many brave hearts and willing hands since, and has brought to the front such staunch supporters and brilliant advocates as now adorn every convention of the Woman's Rights Associations. After mentioning some who came up and spoke to them after the meeting was over, Angelina adds:-- "We went home to tea with Julia Tappan, and Brother Weld was all anxiety to hear about the meeting. Julia undertook to give some account, and among other things mentioned that a warm-hearted abolitionist had found his way into the back part of the meeting, and was escorted out by Henry Ludlow. Weld's noble countenance instantly lighted up, and he exclaimed: 'How supremely ridiculous to think of a man's being shouldered out of a meeting, for fear he should hear a woman speak!'... "In the evening a colonizationist of this city came to introduce an abolitionist to Lewis Tappan. We women soon hedged in our expatriation brother, and held a long and interesting argument with him until near ten o'clock. He gave up so much that I could not see what he had to stand on when we left him." Another meeting, similar to the first, was held the next week, when so much interest was manifested that it was decided to continue the meetings every week until further notice. By the middle of January they had become so crowded, and were attended by such an influential class of women, that Mr. Ludlow concluded to offer his church to them. He always opened the meetings with prayer, and then retired. The addresses made by the sisters were called "lectures," but they were rather familiar talks, occasionally a discussion, while many questions were asked and answered. Angelina's confidence in herself increased rapidly, until she no longer felt the least embarrassment in speaking; though she alludes to the exhausting effect of the meetings on her physical system. Of Sarah, she says, writing to Jane Smith:-- "It is really delightful to see dear sister so happy in this work.... Some Friends come to hear us, but I do not know what they think of the meetings--or of us. How little, how very little I supposed, when I used so often to say 'I wish I were a man,' that I could go forth and lecture, that I ever would do such a thing. The idea never crossed my mind that as a woman such work could possibly be assigned to me." To this letter there is a postscript from Sarah, in which she says:-- "I would not give up my abolition feelings for anything I know. They are intertwined with my Christianity. They have given a new spring to my existence, and shed over my whole being sweet and hallowed enjoyments." Angelina's next letter to her friend is dated, "2d Mo. 4th, 1837," and continues the account of the meetings. She mentions that, at the last one, they had one male auditor, who refused to go out when told he must, so he was allowed to stay, and she says: "Somehow, I did not feel, his presence embarrassing at all, and went on just as though he had not been there. Some one said he took notes, and I think he was a Southern spy, and shall not be at all surprised if he publishes us in some Southern paper." Truly it was a risky thing for a lord of creation to intrude himself into a woman's meeting in those days! Angelina goes on to remark that more Friends are attending their meetings, and that if they were not opened with prayer, still more would come. Also, that Friends had been very kind and attentive to them in every way, and never said a discouraging word to them. She then discourses a little on phrenology, at that time quite a new thing in this country, and relates an anecdote of "Brother "Weld," as follows:-- "When he went to Fowler in this city, he disguised himself as an omnibus driver. The phrenologist was so struck with the supposed fact that an omnibus driver should have such an extraordinary head, that he preserved an account of it, and did not know until some time after that it was Weld's. He says that when he first had his head examined at Utica, he was told he was deficient in the organ of color, his eyebrow showing it. He immediately remembered that his mother often told him: 'Theodore, it is of no use to send you to match a skein of silk, for you never bring the right color.' When relating this, he observed a general titter in the room, and on inquiring the reason a candle was put near him, and, to his amazement, all agreed that the legs of his pantaloons were of different shades of green. Instead of a ridge all around his eyebrow, he has a little hollow in one spot." A society for the encouragement of abstinence from the use of slave products had just been formed in Philadelphia, and Angelina desired her friend to put her name to the pledge, but not Sarah's. In a postscript Sarah explains this, saying:-- "I do abstain from slave produce as much as I can, just because I feel most easy to do so, but I cannot say my judgment is convinced; therefore, I would rather not put my name to the pledge." Her judgment was convinced, however, very shortly afterwards, by a discussion of the subject with Weld and some others, and she then wrote to Jane Smith to set her name down, as she found her testimony in the great cause was greatly strengthened by keeping clean hands. There is much told of their meetings, and their other experiences in New York, which is very interesting, and for which I regret I have not room. Angelina describes in particular one visit they made to a poor family, that of one of her Sunday-school pupils, where they stayed to tea, being afterwards joined by Mr. Weld, who came to escort them home. She says of him:-- "I have seen him shine in the Convention and in refined circles, but never did I admire him so much. His perfect ease at this fireside of poverty showed that he was accustomed to be the friend and companion of the poor of this world." The family here mentioned was doubtless a colored one, as it was in the colored Sunday school that both sisters taught. They had already proved, by their friendship for Sarah Douglass, the Fortens, and other colored families of Philadelphia, how slight was their prejudice against color, but the above incident proves the entire sincerity of their convictions and their desire to avail themselves of every opportunity to testify to it. Still, there is no doubt that to the influence of Theodore Weld's conversations they owed much of their enlightenment on this as well as on some other points of radical abolitionism. It was after a talk with him that Angelina describes the Female Anti-Slavery Society of New York as utterly inefficient, "doing literally nothing," and ascribes its inefficiency to the sinful prejudice existing there, which shut out colored women from any share in its management, and gave little encouragement to them even to become members. She adds: "I believe it is our duty to visit the poor, white and colored, just in this way, and to receive them at our houses. I think that the artificial distinctions in society, the separation between the higher and the lower orders, the aristocracy of wealth and education, are the very rock of pauperism, and that the only way to eradicate this plague from our land will be to associate with the poor, and the wicked too, just as our Redeemer did. To visit them as our inferiors, the recipients of our bounty, is quite a different thing from going among them as our equals." In her next letter to Jane Smith, Angelina gives an interesting account of H.B. Stanton's great speech before the Committee of the Massachusetts legislature on the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia; a speech which still ranks as one of the ablest and most brilliant ever delivered in this country. There is no date to this letter, but it must have been written the last of February or first of March, 1837. She begins thus:-- "I was wondering, my dear Jane, what could be the reason I had not heard from thee, when brother Weld came in with thine and Mira's letters hanging from the paper on which they had been tied. 'I bring you,' he said, 'a good emblem of the fate of abolitionists,--so take warning;' and held them up to our view.... "Brother Garrison was here last Sixth Day and spent two hours with us. He gave us a most delightful account of recent things in Boston, which I will try to tell thee of. "When the abolitionists found how their petitions were treated in Congress, they sent in, from all parts of Massachusetts, petitions to the legislature, requesting it to issue a protest against such contempt of the people's wishes and rights. The legislature was amazed at the number and respectability of these petitions, and appointed a committee to take them under consideration. Abolitionists then asked for a hearing before that committee, not in the lobby, but in the Hall of Representatives. The request was granted, and though the day was exceedingly stormy, a good number were out. A young lawyer of Boston first spoke an hour and a half; H.B. Stanton followed, and completely astonished the audience, but could not get through by dark, and asked for another meeting. The next afternoon an overflowing audience greeted him; he spoke three hours, and did not yet finish. Another meeting was appointed for the next evening, and he says he thinks hundreds went away because they could not get in. Stanton spoke one hour and a quarter, and then broke down from the greatness of the effort, added to the unceasing labors of the winter. A profound silence reigned through the crowded hall. Not one moved to depart. At last a member of the committee arose, and asked if there was any other abolitionist present who wished to speak. Stanton said he believed not, as they now had the views of the Anti-Slavery Society. The committee were not satisfied; and one of them said if there was any abolitionist who wished to follow Mr. Stanton, they would gladly hear all he had to say, but all declined. Brother Garrison said such was the desire to hear more on this subject, that he came directly to New York to get Weld to go and speak before them, but his throat is still so much affected that it will be impossible for him to do so. Isn't this cheering news? Here are seven hundred men in the Massachusetts legislature, who, if they can be moved to protest against the unconstitutional proceedings of Congress, will shake this nation to its centre, and rock it in a revolutionary storm that must either sink it or save it." After closing their meetings in New York, the sisters held similar ones in Newark, Bloomfield, and other places in New Jersey, in all of which Sarah was as active and enthusiastic as Angelina, and from this time we hear no more of the gloom and despondency which had saddened so many of the best years of her life. But, identified completely with her sister's work, she was busy, contented and satisfied of the Lord's goodness and mercy. These meetings had all been quiet and undisturbed in every way, owing of course, to the fact that only women attended, but the newspapers had not spared them. Ridicule, sarcasm, and pity were liberally bestowed upon the "deluded ladies" by the press generally, and the Richmond Whig published several editorials about "those fanatical women, the Misses Grimké." But writing against them was the extent of the opposition at that time, and this affected them very little. From New Jersey they went up the North River with Gerrit Smith, holding interesting meetings at Hudson and Poughkeepsie. At the latter place they spoke to an assembly of colored people of both sexes, and this was the first time Angelina ever addressed a mixed audience, and it was perhaps in accordance with the fitness of things that it should have been a colored one. She often spoke of this in after years, looking back to it with pleasure. Here, also, they attended a meeting of the Anti-slavery Society of the Protestant Episcopal Methodist Church, and spoke against the sin of prejudice. In a letter to Sarah Douglass, Sarah says:-- "My feelings were so overcome at this meeting that I sat down and wept. I feel as if I had taken my stand by the side of the colored American, willing to share with him the odium of a darker skin, and I trust if I am permitted again to take my seat in Arch Street Meeting House, it will be beside thee and thy dear mother." These Hudson River meetings ended the labors of the sisters in New York for the time. They returned to the city to take a little needed rest, and to prepare for the Female Anti-Slavery Convention, which was to meet there early in May. The Society which had sent them forth had reason to be well satisfied with its experiment. Not only had they awakened enthusiasm and sincere interest in abolition, but had demonstrated the ability of women to publicly advocate a great cause, and the entire propriety of their doing so. One of the members, of the committee asserted that it would be as impossible to calculate the number of converts they had made, as to estimate the encouragement and strength their zeal and eloquence had given to abolitionists all over the country. Men were slow to believe the reports of their wives and sisters respecting Angelina's wonderful oratory, and this incredulity produced the itching ears which soon drew to the meetings where the Grimké sisters were to speak more men than women, and gave them the applause and hearty support of some of the ablest minds of New England. The Female Anti-slavery Convention opened with seventy-one delegates; the Misses Grimké, at their own request, representing South Carolina. During this convention they met many congenial souls, among whom they particularize Lydia M. Child, Mary T. Parker, and Anna Weston, as sympathizing so entirely with their own views respecting prejudice and the province of woman. The latter question had long been Sarah's pet problem, to the solution of which she had given much thought and study, ever since the time when she was denied participation in her brother's education because of her sex. It is scarcely too much to say that to her mind this question was second in importance to none, and though the word enfranchisement, as applied to woman, had not yet been uttered, the whole theory of it was in Sarah's heart, and she eagerly awaited the proper time and place to develop it. Angelina, while holding the same views, would probably have kept them in the background longer, but for Sarah's arguments, supported by the objection so frequently urged against the encouragement of their meetings,--that slavery was a political subject with which women had nothing to do. This objection she answered in a masterly paper, an "Appeal to the Women of the Nominally Free States," which was printed in pamphlet form and sent out by the Female Anti-Slavery Convention, and attracted wide attention. The chief point she took was this: "The denial of our duty to act in this cause is a denial of our right to act; and if we have no right to act, then may we well be termed 'the white slaves of the North,' for, like our brethren in bonds, we must seal our lips in silence and despair." The whole argument, covering nearly seventy pages, is remarkable in its calm reasoning, sound logic, and fervid eloquence, and will well repay perusal, even at this day. About the same time a beautiful and most feeling "Address to Free Colored Americans" was written by Sarah, and likewise circulated by the Convention. These two pamphlets made the sisters so widely known, and so increased the desire in other places to hear them speak, that invitations poured in upon them from different parts of the North and West, as well as from the New England States. It was finally decided that they should go to Boston first, to aid the brave, good women there, who, while willing to do all that women could do for the cause in a private capacity, had not yet been persuaded to open their lips for it in any kind of a public meeting. It was not contemplated, however, that the sisters should address any but assemblies of women. Even Boston was not yet prepared for a greater infringement of the social proprieties. CHAPTER XIII. The Woman's Rights agitation, while entirely separate from Abolitionism, owes its origin to the interest this subject excited in the hearts and minds of American women; and to Sarah and Angelina Grimké must be accorded the credit of first making the woman question one of reform. Their broad views, freely expressed in their New York meetings, opened up the subject of woman's duties under the existing state of public sentiment, and, in connection with the revelations made concerning the condition of her white and colored sisters at the South, and the frantic efforts used to prevent her from receiving these revelations, she soon began to see that she had some moral obligations outside of her home sphere and her private circle. At first her only idea of aid in the great cause was that of prayer, which men universally granted was her especial privilege, even encouraging her to pray for them; but it must be private prayer--prayer in her own closet--with no auditor but the God to whom she appealed. As soon as it became public, and took the form of petitions to legislatures and to Congress, the reprobation began. The enemies of freedom, fully realizing woman's influence, opposed her interference at every point; and when a Southern representative declared from his seat that women had no right to send up petitions to Congress he was sustained by the sycophantic response which came from the North, that slavery was a political question, with which women had nothing to do. Angelina Grimké answered this so fully and so eloquently in her "Appeal to Northern Women," that no doubt could have been left in the minds of those who read it, not only of woman's right, but of her duty to interfere in this matter. The appeal is made chiefly to woman's tenderest and holiest feelings, but enough is said of her rights to show whither Angelina's own reflections were leading her, and it must have turned the thoughts of many other women in the same direction. A passage or two may be quoted as examples. "Every citizen should feel an intense interest in the political concerns of the country, because the honor, happiness and well-being of every class are bound up in its politics, government, and laws. Are we aliens because we are women? Are we bereft of citizenship because we are the mothers, wives, and daughters of a mighty people? Have women no country--no interests staked on the public weal--no partnership in a nation's guilt and shame? Has woman no home nor household altars, nor endearing ties of kindred, nor sway with man, nor power at the mercy-seat, nor voice to cheer, nor hand to raise the drooping, or to bind the broken?... The Lord has raised up men whom he has endowed with 'wisdom and understanding, and knowledge,' to lay deep and broad the foundations of the temple of liberty. This is a great moral work in which they are engaged. No war-trumpet summons to the field of battle; but Wisdom crieth without, 'Whosoever is of a willing heart, let him bring an offering.' Shall woman refuse her response to the call? Was she created to be a helpmeet for man--his sorrows to divide, his joys to share, and all his toils to lighten by her willing aid, and shall she refuse to aid him with her prayers, her labors, and her counsels too, at such a time, in such a cause as this?" There had been, from the beginning of the anti-slavery agitation, no lack of women sympathizers with it. Some of the best and brightest of the land had poured forth their words of grief, of courage, and of hope through magazines and newspapers, in prose and in verse, and had proved their willingness to suffer for the slave, by enduring unshrinkingly ridicule and wrath, pecuniary loss and social ostracism. All over the country, in almost every town and village, women labored untiringly to raise funds for the printing of pamphlets, sending forth lecturers and for the pay of special agents. They were regular attendants also on the anti-slavery meetings and conventions, often outnumbering the men, and privately made some of the best suggestions that were offered. But so strong and general was the feeling against women speaking in any public place, that, up to the time when Sarah and Angelina Grimké began their crusade, it was an almost unheard of thing for a woman to raise her voice in any but a church prayer-meeting. During the sittings of the Anti-Slavery Convention in Philadelphia, in 1833, which was attended by a number of women, chiefly Friends, Lucretia Mott, though she had had experience in speaking in Quaker meetings, timidly arose one day, and, in fear lest she might offend, ventured to propose an amendment to a certain resolution. With rare indulgence and good sense, Beriah Green, the president of the convention, encouraged her to proceed; and May, in his "Recollections," says: "She made a more impressive and effective speech than any other that was made in the convention, excepting only the closing address of our president." Two other ladies, Esther Moore and Lydia White, emboldened by Mrs. Mott's example, afterwards said a few words on one or two occasions, but these were the only infringements, during all those early years of agitation, of St. Paul's oft-quoted injunction. When Sarah and Angelina Grimké accepted the invitation of the Female Anti-Slavery Society of Boston, to come and labor there, they found friends on every hand--women of the highest culture and purest religion, eager to hear them, not only concerning what their eyes had witnessed in that land of worse than Egyptian bondage, but ready to be enlightened upon their own duties and rights in the matter of moral reform, and as willing as resolute to perform them. Without experience, as the sisters were, we can hardly be surprised that they should have been carried beyond their original moorings, and have made what many of their best friends felt was a serious mistake, in uniting the two causes, thus laying upon abolitionists a double burden, and a responsibility to which the great majority of them were as much opposed as were their bitterest enemies. But no movement in this direction was made for some time. Indeed, it seems to have grown quite naturally out of, or been forced forward by, the alarm among men, and the means they took to frighten and warn women away from the dangerous topic. The Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Convention met early in June, 1837. In writing about it to Jane Smith, Angelina first touches upon the dawning feeling on this woman question. She says:-- "We had Stanton and Burleigh, Colver and Birney, Garrison and Goodell, etc. Their eloquence was no less delightful to the ear than the soundness of their doctrine was comforting to the heart.... A peace resolution was brought up, but this occasioned some difficulty on account of non-resistance here meaning a repudiation of civil government, and of course we cannot expect many to be willing to do this.... At Friend Chapman's, where we spent a social evening, I had a long talk with the brethren on the rights of women, and found a very general sentiment prevailing that it is time our fetters were broken. L. Child and Maria Chapman strongly supported this view; indeed, very many seem to think a new order of things is very desirable in this respect.... And now, my dear friend, in view of these things, I feel that it is not the cause of the slave only that we plead, but the cause of woman as a moral, responsible being, and I am ready to exclaim, 'Who is sufficient for these things?' These holy causes must be injured if they are not helped by us. I see not to what point all these things are leading us. But one thing comforts me: I do feel as though the Lord had sent us, and as if I was leaning on his arm." And in this reliance, in a meek and lowly spirit, impelled not by inclination, but by an overpowering sense of duty, these gentle women, fully realizing the singularity of their position, prepared to enter upon entirely new scenes of labor, encompassed by difficulties peculiarly trying to their delicate natures. A series of public meetings was arranged for them as soon as the Convention adjourned, and the first was held in Dorchester, in the town hall, to which they repaired upon finding the number of those who wished to hear them too great to be accommodated in a private house. Their next was in Boston on the following afternoon. Angelina's heart here almost failed her as she glanced over the assemblage of women of all classes, and thought of the responsibility resting upon her. It was at this meeting that a reverend gentleman set the example, which was followed by two or three other men, of slyly sliding into a back seat to hear for himself what manner of thing this woman's speaking was. Satisfied of its superior quality, and alarmed at its effects upon the audience, he shortly afterwards took great pains to prove that it was unscriptural for a woman to speak in public. As the meetings were held at first only in the daylight, there was little show of opposition for some time. The sisters went from one town to another, arousing enthusiasm everywhere, and vindicating, by their power and success, their right to speak. Angelina's letters to Jane Smith contain memoranda of all the meetings she and Sarah held during that summer and fall. It is surprising that they were able to endure such an amount of mental and physical labor, and maintain the constantly increasing eagerness to hear them. Before the end of the first week, she records:--"Nearly thirty men present, pretty easy to speak." A few days later the number of men had increased to fifty, with "great openness on their part to hear." After having held meetings every day, their audience numbering from one hundred and fifty to one thousand, Angelina records on the 21st July, at Lynn:-- "In the evening of the same day addressed our first mixed audience. Over one thousand present, great openness to hear, and ease in speaking." This, so briefly mentioned, was the beginning of the revolution in sentiment respecting woman's sphere, which, though it was met at the outset with much the same spirit which opposed abolitionism, soon spread and became a principle of reform as conscientiously and as ably advocated as any other, moral or political. Neither Sarah nor Angelina had any idea of starting such a revolution, but when they found it fairly inaugurated, and that many women had long privately held the same views as they did and were ready to follow in their lead, they bravely accepted, and to the end of their lives as bravely sustained all the responsibilities their opinions involved. They were the pioneers in the great cause of political freedom for women, and opened the way in the true pioneer spirit. The clear sense of justice and the broad humanity which inspired their trenchant rebukes and fervid appeals not only enlightened and encouraged other women, but led to inquiry into various wrongs practised towards the sex which had up to that time been suffered in silence and in ignorance, or in despair of any possibility of relief. The peculiar tenderness of Sarah Grimké's nature, and her overflowing sympathy with any form of suffering, led her, earlier than Angelina, to the consideration of the necessity of some organized system of protection of helpless women and children; and, from the investigation of the impositions and abuses to which they were subjected, was evolved, without much difficulty, the doctrine of woman's equality before the law, and her right to a voice on every subject of public interest, social or political. Sarah's published letters during the summer of 1837 show her to have been as deeply interested in this reform as in abolitionism, and to her influence was certainly due the introduction of the "Woman Question" into the anti-slavery discussions. That this question was as yet a secondary one in Angelina's mind is evident from what she writes to Jane Smith about this time. She says: "With regard to speaking on the rights of woman, it has really been wonderful to me that though, everywhere I go, I meet prejudice against our speaking, yet, in addressing an audience, I never think of referring to it. I was particularly struck with this two days ago. Riding with Dr. Miller to a meeting at Franklin, I found, from conversation with him, that I had a great amount of prejudice to meet at that town, and very much in his own mind. I gave him my views on women's preaching, and verily believe I converted him, for he said he had no idea so much could be adduced from the Bible to sustain the ground I had taken, and remarked: 'This will be quite new to the people, and I believe they will gladly hear these things,' and pressed me so much to speak on the subject at the close of my lecture that I was obliged to promise I would if I could remember to do so. After speaking two hours, we returned to his house to tea, and he asked: 'Why did you not tell the people why you believed you had a right to speak?' I had entirely forgotten all about it until his question revived the conversation we had on the road. Now I believe the Lord orders these things so, driving out of my mind what I ought not to speak on. If the time ever comes when this shall be a part of my public work, then I shall not be able to forget it." But to return to the meeting at Lynn. We are told that the men present listened in amazement. They were spell-bound, and impatient of the slightest noise which might cause the loss of a word from the speakers. Another meeting was called for, and held the next evening. This was crowded to excess, many going away unable to get even standing-room. "At least one hundred," Angelina writes, "stood around the doors, and, on the outside of each window, men stood with their heads above the lowered sash. Very easy speaking indeed." But now the opposers of abolitionism, and especially the clergy, began to be alarmed. It amounted to very little that (to borrow the language of one of the newspapers of the day) "two fanatical women, forgetful of the obligations of a respected name, and indifferent to the feelings of their most worthy kinsmen, the Barnwells and the Rhetts, should, by the novelty of their course, draw to their meetings idle and curious women." But it became a different matter when men, the intelligent, respectable and cultivated citizens of every town, began to crowd to hear them, even following them from one place to another, and giving them loud and honest applause. Then they were adjudged immodest, and their conduct denounced as unwomanly and demoralizing. Their devotion to principle, the purity of their lives, the justice of the cause they pleaded, the religious stand-point from which they spoke, all were overlooked, and the pitiless scorn of Christian men and women of every sect was poured down upon them. Nor should we wonder when we remember that, at that time, the Puritan bounds of propriety still hedged in the education and the training of New England women, and limited the views of New England men. Even many of the abolitionists had first to hear Sarah and Angelina Grimké to be convinced that there was nothing unwomanly in a woman's raising her voice to plead for those helpless to plead for themselves. So good a man and so faithful an anti-slavery worker as Samuel J. May confesses that his sense of propriety was a little disturbed at first. Letters of reproval, admonition, and persuasion, some anonymous, some signed by good conscientious people, came to the sisters frequently. Clergymen denounced them from their pulpits, especially warning their women members against them. Municipal corporations refused the use of halls for their meetings, and threats of personal violence came from various quarters. Friends especially felt outraged. The New England Yearly Meeting went so far as to advise the closing of meeting-house doors to all anti-slavery lecturers and the disownment the sisters had long expected now became imminent. We can well imagine how terrible all this must have been to their shrinking, sensitive, and proud spirits. But their courage never failed, nor was their mighty work for humanity stayed one instant by this storm of indignation and wrath. Angelina, writing to her dear Jane an account of some of the opposition to them, says: "And now, thou wilt want to know how we feel about all these things. Well, dear, poor enough in ourselves, and defenceless; but rich and strong in the help which our Master is pleased to give from time to time, making perfect his strength in our weakness. This is a truly humbling dispensation, but when I am speaking I am favored to forget little _I_ entirely, and to feel altogether hidden behind the great cause I am pleading. Were it not for this, I do not know how I could face such audiences and such opposition. O Jane, how good it is that we can cast all our burdens upon the Lord." And Sarah, writing to Sarah Douglass, says: "They think to frighten us from the field of duty; but they do not move us. God is our shield, and we do not fear what man can do unto us," A little further on she says: "It is really amusing to see how the clergy are arrayed against two women who are telling the story of the slave's wrongs." This was before the celebrated "Pastoral Letter" appeared. Sarah's answer to that in her letters to the N.E. Spectator shows how far the clergy had gone beyond amusing her. There were, of course, many church members of every denomination, and many ministers, in the abolition ranks. Indeed, at some of the Anti-Slavery Conventions, it was a most edifying sight to see clergymen of different churches sitting together and working together in harmony, putting behind them, for the time being, all creeds and dogmas, or, rather, sinking them all in the one creed taught by the blessed command to do unto others as they would be done by. Some of the more conservative of the clergy objected, it is true, to the great freedom of thought and speech allowed generally in the Conventions, but this was slight compared to the feeling excited by the encouragement given to women to take prominent and public part in the work, even to speaking from the platform and the pulpit. The general prejudice against this was naturally increased by the earnest eloquence with which Angelina Grimké pointed out the inconsistent attitude of ministers and church members towards slavery; by Sarah's strongly expressed views concerning a paid clergy; and the indignant protests of both sisters against the sin of prejudice, then as general in the church as out of it. The feeling grew very strong against them. They were setting public sentiment at defiance, it was said; they were seeking to destroy veneration for the ministers of the Gospel; they were casting contempt upon the consecrated forms of the Church; and much more of the same kind. Nowhere, however, did the feeling find decided public expression until the General Association of Congregational Ministers of Massachusetts saw proper to pass a resolution of censure against Sarah and Angelina Grimké, and issued a pastoral letter, which, in the light and freedom of the present day, must be regarded as a most extraordinary document, to say the least of it. The opening sentences show the degree of authority felt and exercised by the clergy at that time. It maintained that, as ministers were ordained by God, it was their place and duty to judge what food was best to feed to the flock over which they had been made overseers by the Holy Ghost; and that, if they did not preach on certain topics, as the flock desired, the flock had no right to put strangers in their place to do it; that deference and subordination were necessary to the happiness of every society, and peculiarly so to the relation of a people to their pastor; and that the sacred rights of ministers had been violated by having their pulpits opened without their consent to lecturers on various subjects of reform. All this might pass without much criticism: but it was followed by a tirade against woman-preachers, aimed at the Grimké sisters especially, which was as narrow as it was shallow. The dangers which threatened the female character and the permanent injury likely to result to society, if the example of these women should be followed, were vigorously portrayed. Women were reminded that their power was in their dependence; that God had given them their weakness for their protection; and that when they assumed the tone and place of man, as public reformers, they made the care and protection of man seem unnecessary. "If the vine," this letter fancifully said, "whose strength and beauty is to lean upon the trellis-work, and half conceal its clusters, thinks to assume the independence and the overshadowing nature of the elm, it will not only cease to bear fruit, but will fall in shame and dishonor into the dust." Sarah Grimké had just begun a series of letters on the "Province of Woman" for the _N.E. Spectator_, when this pastoral effusion came out. Her third letter was devoted to it. She showed in the clearest manner the unsoundness of its assertions, and the unscriptural and unchristian spirit in which they were made. The delicate irony with which she also exposed the ignorance and the shallowness of its author must have caused him to blush for very shame. Whittier's muse, too, found the Pastoral Letter a fitting theme for its vigorous, sympathetic utterances. The poem thus inspired is perhaps one of the very best among his many songs of freedom. It will be remembered as beginning thus:-- "So this is all! the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fetter, When laymen _think_, when women _preach_, A war of words, a 'Pastoral Letter!'" Up to this time nothing had been said by either of the sisters in their lectures concerning their views about women. They had carefully confined themselves to the subject of slavery, and the attendant topics of immediate emancipation, abstinence from the use of slave products, the errors of the Colonization Society, and the sin of prejudice on account of color. But now that they found their own rights invaded, they began to feel it was time to look out for the rights of their whole sex. The Rev. Amos Phelps, a staunch abolitionist, wrote a private letter to the sisters, remonstrating earnestly but kindly against their lecturing to men and women, and requesting permission to publish the fact of his having done so, with a declaration on their part that they preferred having female audiences only. Angelina says to Jane Smith:-- "I wish you could see sister's admirable reply to this. We told him we were entirely willing he should publish anything he felt it right to, but that we could not consent to his saying in our name that we preferred female audiences only, because in so saying we should surrender a fundamental principle, believing, as we did, that as moral beings it was our duty to appeal to all moral beings on this subject, without any distinction of sex. He thinks we are throwing a responsibility on the Anti-Slavery Society which will greatly injure it. To this we replied that we would write to Elizur Wright, and give the Executive Committee an opportunity to throw off all such responsibility by publishing the facts that we had no commission from them, and were not either responsible to or dependent on them. I wrote this letter. H.B. Stanton happened to be here at the time; after reading all the letters, he wrote to Elizur Wright, warning him by no means to publish anything which would in the least appear to disapprove of what we were doing. I do not know what the result will be. My only fear is that some of our anti-slavery brethren will commit themselves, in this excitement, against _women's rights and duties_ before they examine the subject, and will, in a few years, regret the steps they may now take. This will soon be an absorbing topic. It must be discussed whether women are moral and responsible beings, and whether there is such a thing as male and female virtues, male and female duties, etc. My opinion is that there is no difference, and that this false idea has run the ploughshare of ruin over the whole field of morality. My idea is that whatever is morally right for a man to do is morally right for a woman to do. I recognize no rights but human rights. I know nothing of men's rights and women's rights; for in Christ Jesus there is neither male nor female.... I am persuaded that woman is not to be as she has been, a mere second-hand agent in the regeneration of a fallen world, but the acknowledged equal and co-worker with man in this glorious work.... Hubbard Winslow of Boston has just preached a sermon to set forth the proper sphere of our sex. I am truly glad that men are not ashamed to come out boldly and tell us just what is in their hearts." In another letter she mentions that a clergyman gave out a notice of one of their meetings, at the request, he said, of his deacons, but under protest; and he earnestly advised his members, particularly the women, not to go and hear them. At a meeting, also, at Pepperell, where they had to speak in a barn, on account of the feeling against them, she mentions that an Orthodox clergyman opened the meeting with prayer, but went out immediately after finishing, declaring that he would as soon rob a hen-roost as remain there and hear a woman speak in public. This, however, did not prevent the crowding of the barn "almost to suffocation," and deep attention on the part of those assembled. In the face of all this censure and ridicule, the two sisters continued in the discharge of a duty to which they increasingly felt they were called from on high. The difficulties, inconveniences, and discomforts to which they were constantly subjected, and of which the women reformers of the present day know so little, were borne cheerfully, and accepted as means of greater refinement and purification for the Lord's work. They were often obliged to ride six or eight or ten miles through the sun or rain, in stages or wagons over rough roads to a meeting, speak two hours, and return the same distance to their temporary abiding-place. For many weeks they held five and six meetings a week, in a different place every time, were often poorly lodged and poorly fed, especially the latter, as they ate nothing which they did not know to be the product of free labor; taking cold frequently, and speaking when ill enough to be in bed, but sustained through all by faith in the justice of their cause, and by their simple reliance upon the love and guidance of an Almighty Father. The record of their journeyings, as copied by Angelina from her day-book for the benefit of Jane Smith, is very interesting, as showing how, in spite of continued opposition to them, anti-slavery sentiment grew under their eloquent preaching. Wendell Phillips says: "I can never forget the impulse our cause received when those two sisters doubled our hold on New England in 1837 and 1838, and made a name, already illustrious in South Carolina by great services, equally historical in Massachusetts, in the two grandest movements of our day." Angelina's eloquence must have been something marvellous. The sweet, persuasive voice, the fluent speech, and occasionally a flash of the old energy, were all we who knew her in later years were granted, to show us what had been; but it was enough to confirm the accounts given by those who had felt the power of her oratory in those early times. Says Wendell Phillips: "I well remember evening after evening listening to eloquence such as never then had been heard from a woman. She swept the chords of the human heart with a power that has never been surpassed and rarely equalled." Mr. Lincoln, in whose pulpit she lectured in Gardiner, says: "Never before or since have I seen an audience so held and so moved by any public speaker, man or woman; and never before or since have I seen a Christian pulpit so well filled, nor in the pews seen such absorbed hearers." Robert F. Walcutt testifies in the same manner. "Angelina," he says, "possessed a rare gift of eloquence, a calm power of persuasion, a magnetic influence over those who listened to her, which carried conviction to hearts that nothing before had reached. I shall never forget the wonderful manifestation of this power during six successive evenings, in what was then called the Odeon. It was the old Boston Theatre, which had been converted into a music hall; the four galleries rising above the auditorium all crowded with a silent audience carried away with the calm, simple eloquence which narrated what she and her sister had seen from their earliest days. And yet this Odeon scene, the audience so quiet and intensely absorbed, occurred at the most enflamed period of the anti-slavery contest. The effective agent in this phenomenon was Angelina's serene, commanding eloquence, a wonderful gift, which enchained attention, disarmed prejudice, and carried her hearers with her." Another, who often heard her, speaks of the gentle, firm, and impressive voice which could ring out in clarion tones when speaking in the name of the Lord to let the oppressed go free. Many travelled long distances to hear her. Mechanics left their shops, and laborers came in out of the field, and sat almost motionless throughout her meetings, showing impatience only when the lecture was over and they could hear no more. Sarah's speaking, though fully as earnest, was not nearly so effective as Angelina's. She was never very fluent, and cared little for the flowers of rhetoric. She could state a truth in clear and forcible terms, but the language was unvarnished, sometimes harsh, while the manner of speaking was often embarrassed. She understood and felt her deficiencies, and preferred to serve the cause through her pen rather than through her voice. Writing to Sarah Douglass, in September, 1837, she says:-- "That the work in which we are engaged is in a peculiar manner dear Angelina's, I have no doubt. God called and qualified her for it by deep travail of spirit. I do not think my mind ever passed through the preparation hers did, and I regard my being with her more as an evidence of our dear Saviour's care for us, than a design that I should perform a conspicuous part in this labor of love. Hence, although at first I was permitted to assist her, as her strength increased and her ability to do the work assigned her was perfected, I was more and more withdrawn from the service. Nor do I think anyone ought to regret it. My precious sister has a gift in lecturing, in reasoning and elucidating, so far superior to mine, that I know the cause is better pleaded if left entirely in her hands. My spirit has not bowed to this dispensation without prayer for resignation to being thus laid aside, but since I have been enabled to take the above view, I have been contented to be silent, believing that so is the will of God." Sarah's religious anxieties seem all to have vanished before the absorbing interest of her new work. She had no longer time to think of herself, or to stand and question the Lord on every going-out and coming-in. She relied upon Him as much as ever, but she understood Him better, and had more faith in His loving-kindness. In a letter to T. D. Weld, she says:-- "For many years I have been inquiring the way to Zion, and now I know not but I shall have to surrender all or many long-cherished points of religion, and come back to the one simple direction: 'Follow after holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord.'" All her letters show how much happier she was under her new experiences. Angelina thus writes of her:-- "Sister Sarah enjoys more real comfort of mind than I ever saw her enjoy before, and it is delightful to be thus yoked with her in this work." But with Sarah's wider, fuller sympathies came bitter regrets over the spiritual bondage which had kept her idle and useless so long. And yet, in spite of all, her heart still clung to the Society of Friends, and the struggle to give them up, to resign the long-cherished hope of being permitted to preach among them the unsearchable riches of Christ, was very great. But conscientious and true to her convictions even here, as her own eyes had been mercifully opened to the faults of this system of religion, she must do what she could to help others. Under a solemn sense of responsibility, she wrote and printed a pamphlet exposing the errors of the Quaker Church, and showing the withering influence it exerted over all moral and religious progress. For this, she doubted not, she would be at once disowned; but Friends seem to have been very loth to part with the two rebellious subjects, who had certainly given them much trouble, but in whom they could not help feeling a certain pride of ownership. They showed their willingness to be patient yet a little while longer. All through the summer and early fall, the meetings were continued with slightly decreasing opposition, and continued abuse from press and pulpit and "good society." Sarah still bore her share of the labors, frequently speaking an hour at a time, and taking charge chiefly of the legal side of the question of slavery, while the moral and religious sides were left for Angelina. At Amesbury, Angelina writes:-- "We met the mother, aunt, and sister of brother Whittier. They received us at their sweet little cottage with sincere pleasure, I believe, they being as thoroughgoing as their dear J.G.W., whom they seem to know how to value. He was absent, serving the good cause in New York." At an evening meeting they held at Amesbury, a letter was handed Angelina, which stated that some gentlemen were present, who had just returned from the South, and had formed very different opinions from those of the lecturers, and would like to state them to the meeting. Sarah read the letter aloud, and requested the gentlemen to proceed with their remarks. Two arose, and soon showed how little they really knew, and how close an affinity they felt with slave-holders. A discussion ensued, which lasted an hour, when Angelina went on with her lecture on the "Dangers of Slavery." When it was over, the two gentlemen of Southern sympathies requested that another opportunity be granted for a free discussion of the subject. This was agreed to, and the 19th of the month, August, settled upon. This was another and a great step forward, and when known gave rise to renewed denunciations, the press being particularly severe against such an unheard-of thing, which, it was declared, would not be tolerated if the Misses Grimké were not members of the Society of Friends. The abolitionists, however, rallied to their support, H.B. Stanton even proposing to arrange some meeting where he and they could speak together. But even Angelina shrank from such an irretrievable committal on his part as this would be, and did not think the time had yet come for such an anomaly. On the 19th they returned to Amesbury, and Angelina writes that great excitement prevailed, and that many had come from neighboring towns to hear two _Massachusetts men defend_ slavery against the accusations of two _Southern women_. "May the blessed Master," she adds, "stand at our right hand in this trying and uncommon predicament." Two evenings were given to the discussion, the hall being packed both evenings, many, even ladies, standing the whole time. Angelina gives no details about it, as, she says, she sends a paper with a full account to Jane Smith; but we may judge of the interest it excited from the fact that the people urged a continuance of the discussion for two more evenings, which, however, the sisters were obliged to decline. Angelina adds:-- "Everyone is talking about it; but we have given great offence on account of our womanhood, which seems to be as objectionable as our abolitionism. The whole land seems aroused to discussion on the province of woman, and I am glad of it. We are willing to bear the brunt of the storm, if we can only be the means of making a breach in the wall of public opinion, which lies right in the way of woman's true dignity, honor, and usefulness. Sister Sarah does preach up woman's rights most nobly and fearlessly, and we find that many of our New England sisters are prepared to receive these strange doctrines, feeling, as they do, that our whole sex needs emancipation from the thraldom of public opinion. What dost thou think of some of _them walking_ two, four, six, and eight miles to attend our meetings?" This preaching of the much-vexed doctrine was, however, done chiefly in private, indeed altogether so by Angelina. Sarah's nature was so impulsive that she could not always refrain from putting in a stroke for her cherished views when it seemed to fit well into the argument of a lecture. What prominent abolitionists thought of the subject in its relation to the anti-slavery cause, and especially what T.D. Weld and John G. Whittier thought, must be told in another chapter. CHAPTER XIV. Among the most prominent opposers of immediate emancipation were Dr. Lyman Beecher and the members of his remarkable family; and though they ultimately became converts to it, even so far as to allow a branch of the "underground railway" to run through their barn, their conversion was gradual, and only arrived at after various controversies and discussions, and much bitter feeling between them and the advocates of the unpopular cause. Opposed to slavery in the abstract, that is, believing it to be a sin to hold a fellow creature in bondage for the "_mere purposes of gain_," they utterly condemned all agitation of the question. The Church and the Gospel were, with them, as with so many evangelical Christians, the true means through which evils should be reached and reforms effected. All efforts outside were unwise and useless, not to say sinful. And further, as Catherine Beecher expressed it, they considered the matter of Southern slavery as one with which the North was no more called to interfere than in the abolition of the press-gang system in England, or the tithe system in Ireland. Some chapters back, the short but pleasant friendship of Catherine Beecher and Angelina Grimké was mentioned. Very soon after that little episode, the Beechers removed to Cincinnati, where the doctor was called to the Presidency of the Lane Theological Seminary. We can well understand that the withdrawal of nearly all its students after the great discussion was a sore trial to the Beechers, and intensified their already adverse feelings towards abolitionists. The only result of this with which we have to do is the volume published by Catherine Beecher during the summer of 1837, entitled "Miss Beecher on the Slave Question," and addressed to Angelina Grimké. Catherine was the true counterpart of her father, and the most intellectual of his children, but she lacked the gentle, feminine graces, and was so wanting in tenderness and sympathy that Angelina charitably implies that her heart was sunk forever with her lover, Professor Fisher of Yale, who perished in a storm at sea. With independence, striking individuality, and entire freedom from timidity of any sort, it would appear perfectly natural that Catherine should espouse the Woman's Rights reform, even though opposing that of abolitionism. But she presented the singular anomaly of a strong-minded woman, already successful in taking care of herself, advocating woman's subordination to man, and prescribing for her efforts at self-help limits so narrow that only the few favored as she was could venture within them. Her book was received with much favor by slave-holders and their apologists, though it was harshly criticised by a few of the more sensible of the former. These declared that they had more respect for abolitionists who openly denounced the system of slavery, than for those people who, in order to please the South, cloaked their real sentiments under a garb like that of Miss Beecher's book. It was also severely handled by abolitionists, and Lucretia Mott wrote a very able review of it, which Angelina, however, pronounced entirely too mild. She writes to Jane Smith: "Catherine's arguments are the most insidious things I ever read, and I feel it my duty to answer them; only, I know not how to find language strong enough to express my indignation at the view she takes of woman's character and duty." The answer was given in a number of sharp, terse, letters, sent to the _Liberator_ from various places where the sisters stopped while lecturing. A few passages will convey some idea of the spirit and style of these letters, thirteen in number. In the latter part of the second letter she says:-- "Dost thou ask what I mean by emancipation? I will explain myself in a few words. "1st. It is to reject with indignation the wild and guilty phantasy that man can hold _property_ in man. "2d. To pay the laborer his hire, for he is worthy of it. "3d. No longer to deny him the right of marriage, but to let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband, as saith the apostle. "4th. To let parents have their own children, for they are the gift of the Lord to them, and no one else has any right to them. "5th. No longer to withhold the advantages of education, and the privilege of reading the Bible. "6th. To put the slave under the protection of equitable laws. "Now why should not _all_ this be done immediately? Which of these things is to be done next year, and which the year after? and so on. _Our_ immediate emancipation means doing justice and loving mercy _to-day_, and this is what we call upon every slave-holder to do.... "I have seen too much of slavery to be a gradualist. I dare not, in view of such a system, tell the slave-holder that he is 'physically unable to emancipate his slaves.'[6] I say _he is able_ to let the oppressed go free, and that such heaven-daring atrocities ought to cease _now_, henceforth, and forever. Oh, my very soul is grieved to find a Northern woman 'thus sewing pillows under all arm-holes,' framing and fitting soft excuses for the slave-holder's conscience, whilst with the same pen she is _professing_ to regard slavery as a sin. 'An open enemy is better than such a secret friend.' "Hoping that thou mayst soon be emancipated from such inconsistency, I remain until then, "Thine _out_ of the bonds of Christian abolitionism. "A.E. GRIMKÉ." [6] The plea made by many of the apologists was that, as the laws of some of the States forbade emancipation, the masters were physically unable to free their slaves. The last letter, which Angelina says she wrote in sadness and read to her sister in tears, ends thus:-- "After endeavoring to show that woman has no moral right to exercise the right of petition for the dumb and stricken slave; no business to join, in any way, in the excitement which anti-slavery principles are producing in our country; no business to join abolition societies, etc., thou professest to tell our sisters what they are to do in order to bring the system of slavery to an end. And now, my dear friend, what does all thou hast said in many pages amount to? Why, that women are to exert their influence in private life to allay the excitement which exists on this subject, and to quench the flame of sympathy in the hearts of their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons. Fatal delusion! Will Christian women heed such advice? "Hast thou ever asked thyself what the slave would think of thy book if he could read it? Dost thou know that, from the beginning to the end, not a word of compassion for _him_ has fallen from thy pen? Recall, I pray, the memory of hours which thou spent in writing it. Was the paper once moistened by the tear of pity? Did thy heart once swell with sympathy for thy sister in _bonds_? Did it once ascend to God in broken accents for the deliverance of the captive? Didst thou even ask thyself what the free man of color would think of it? Is it such an exhibition of slavery and prejudice as will call down _his_ blessing on thy head? Hast thou thought of _these_ things? or carest thou not for the blessings and prayers of these our suffering brethren? Consider, I entreat, the reception given to thy book by the apologists of slavery. What meaneth that loud acclaim with which they hail it? Oh, listen and weep, and let thy repentings be kindled together, and speedily bring forth, I beseech thee, fruits meet for repentance, and henceforth show thyself faithful to Christ and His bleeding representative, the slave. "I greatly fear that thy book might have been written just as well, hadst thou not had the heart of a woman. It bespeaks a superior intellect, but paralyzed and spellbound by the sorcery of a worldly-minded expediency. Where, oh, where in its pages are the outpourings of a soul overwhelmed with a sense of the heinous crimes of our nation, and the necessity of immediate repentance? ... Farewell! Perhaps on a dying bed thou mayst vainly wish that '_Miss Beecher on the Slave Question_' might perish with the mouldering hand which penned its cold and heartless pages. But I forbear, and in deep sadness of heart, but in tender love though I thus speak, I bid thee again, farewell. Forgive me if I have wronged thee, and pray for her who still feels like "Thy sister in the bonds of a common sisterhood. "A.E. GRIMKÉ." While Angelina was writing these letters, Sarah was publishing her letters on the "Province of Woman" in the _Spectator_. This was a heavier dose than Boston could stand at one time; harsh and bitter things were said about the sisters, notices of their meetings were torn down or effaced, and abolitionism came to be so mixed up in the public mind with Woman's Rights, that anti-slavery leaders generally began to feel anxious lest their cause should suffer by being identified with one to which the large majority of abolitionists was decidedly opposed. Even among them, however, there was a difference of opinion, Garrison, H.C. Wright and others, non-resistants, encouraging the agitation of Woman's Rights. A few lines from one of Angelina's letters will best define the position taken by herself and Sarah. "Sister and I," she writes, "feel quite ready for the discussion about women, but brothers Whittier and Weld entreat us to let it alone for the present, because it will involve topics of such vast importance,--a paid ministry, clerical domination, etc.,--and will, they fear, divert our attention and that of the community from the anti-slavery cause; and that the wrongs of the slave are so much greater than the wrongs of woman, they ought not to be confounded. In their letters, received last week, they regret exceedingly that the letters in the _Spectator_ had been written. They think just as we do, but believe that, for the time being, a persevering, practical assertion of woman's right to speak to mixed audiences is the best one we can make, and that we had better keep out of controversies, as our hands are full. On the other hand, we fear that the leaven of the Pharisees will be so assiduously worked into the minds of the people, that if they come to hear us, they will be constantly thinking it is a _shame_ for us to speak in the churches, and that we shall lose that influence which we should otherwise have. We know that _our_ views on this subject are quite new to the _mass_ of the people of this State, and I think it best to throw them open for their consideration, just letting them have both sides of the argument to look at, at the same time. Indeed some wanted to have a meeting in Boston for us to speak on this subject now, and we went into town on purpose to hold a conference about it at Maria Chapman's. She, Mary Parker, and sister were against it for the present, fearing lest it would bring down such a storm upon our heads, that we could not work in the country, and so Henrietta Sargent and I yielded, and I suppose this is the wisest plan, though, as brother Stanton says, I am ready for the battle _now_. I am still glad of sister's letters, and believe they are doing great good. Some noble-minded women cheer her on, and she feels encouraged to persevere, the brethren notwithstanding. I tell them that this is _a part_ of the great doctrine of Human Rights, and can no more be separated from emancipation than the light from the heat of the sun; the rights of the slave and of woman blend like the colors of the rainbow. However, I rarely introduce this topic into my addresses, except to urge my sisters up to duty. Our _brethren_ are dreadfully afraid of this kind of amalgamation. I am very glad to hear that Lucretia Mott addressed the Moral Reform Society, and am earnest in the hope that _we_ are only pioneers, going before a host of worthy women who will come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty." The letters of Whittier and Weld, alluded to by Angelina, are so good and so important that I feel no reluctance in giving them here almost entire. The first is Whittier's, and is dated: "Office of Am. A.S. Soc., 14th of 8th Mo., 1837,"--and is as follows: "MY DEAR SISTERS,--I have been waiting for an opportunity to answer the letter which has been so kindly sent me. I am anxious, too, to hold a long conversation with you on the subject of _war_, human government, and church and family government. The more I reflect on this subject, the more difficulty I find, and the more decidedly am I of opinion that we ought to hold all these matters far aloof from the cause of abolition. Our good friend, H.C. Wright, with the best intentions in the world, is doing great injury by a different course. He is making the anti-slavery party responsible in a great degree, for his, to say the least, startling opinions. I do not censure him for them, although I cannot subscribe to them in all their length and breadth. But let him keep them distinct from the cause of emancipation. This is his duty. Those who subscribe money to the Anti-Slavery Society do it in the belief that it will be spent in the propagation, not of Quakerism or Presbyterianism, but of the doctrines of Immediate Emancipation. To employ an agent who devotes half his time and talents to the propagation of 'no human or no family government' doctrines in connection--_intimate connection_--with the doctrines of abolition, is a fraud upon the patrons of the cause. Just so with papers. Brother Garrison errs, I think, in this respect. He takes the 'no church, and no human government' ground, as, for instance, in his Providence speech. Now, in his prospectus, he engaged to give his subscribers an anti-slavery paper, and his subscribers made their contract with him on that ground. If he fills his paper with Grahamism and no governmentism, he defrauds his subscribers. However, I know that brother Garrison does not look at it in this light. "In regard to another subject, '_the rights of woman_,' you are now doing much and nobly to vindicate and assert the rights of woman. Your lectures to crowded and promiscuous audiences on a subject manifestly, in many of its aspects, _political_, interwoven with the framework of the government, are practical and powerful assertions of the right and the duty of woman to labor side by side with her brother for the welfare and redemption of the world. Why, then, let me ask, is it necessary for you to enter the lists as controversial writers on this question? Does it not _look_, dear sisters, like abandoning in some degree the cause of the poor and miserable slave, sighing from the cotton plantations of the Mississippi, and whose cries and groans are forever sounding in our ears, for the purpose of arguing and disputing about some trifling oppression, political or social, which we may ourselves suffer? Is it not forgetting the great and dreadful wrongs of the slave in a selfish crusade against some paltry grievance of our own? Forgive me if I have stated the case too strongly. I would not for the world interfere with you in matters of conscientious duty, but I wish you would weigh candidly the whole subject, and see if it does not _seem_ an abandonment of your first love. Oh, let us try to forget everything but our duty to God and our fellow beings; to dethrone the selfish principle, and to strive to win over the hard heart of the oppressor by truth kindly spoken. The Massachusetts Congregational Association can do you no harm if you do not allow its splenetic and idle manifesto to divert your attention from the great and holy purpose of your souls. "Finally, dear sisters, rest assured that you have my deepest and warmest sympathy; that my heart rejoices to know that you are mighty instruments in the hands of Him who hath come down to deliver. May the canopy of His love be over you, and His peace be with you! "Your friend and brother, "JNO. G. WHITTIER." Weld's first letter, written the day after Whittier's, begins by defining his own position on the disturbing question. He says: "As to the rights and wrongs of woman, it is an old theme with me. It was the first subject I ever discussed. In a little debating society, when a boy, I took the ground that sex neither qualified nor disqualified for the discharge of any functions, mental, moral, or spiritual: that there is no reason why woman should not make laws, administer justice, sit in the chair of State, plead at the Bar, or in the pulpit, if she has the qualifications, just as much as man. What I advocated in boyhood, I advocate now--that woman, in every particular, shares, equally with man, rights and responsibilities. Now that I have made this statement of my creed on this point, to show you that we fully agree, except that I probably go much further than you do, I must say I do most deeply regret that you have begun a series of articles in the papers on the rights of woman. Why, my dear sisters, the best possible advocacy which you can make is just what you are making day by day. Thousands hear you every week who have all their lives held that women must not speak in public. Such a practical refutation of the dogma which your speaking furnishes has already converted multitudes." He then goes on to urge two strong points:-- 1st. That as Southerners, and having been brought up among slaveholders, they could do more to convince the North than twenty Northern women, though they could speak as well, and that they would lose this peculiar advantage the moment they took up another subject. 2d. That almost any other women of their capacity and station could produce a greater effect on the public mind on that subject than they, because they were Quakers, and woman's right to speak and minister was a Quaker doctrine. Therefore, for these and other reasons, he urged them to leave the lesser work to others who could do it better than they, and devote, consecrate their whole souls, bodies, and spirits to the greater work which they could do far better than anybody else. He continues: "Let us all first wake up the nation to lift millions of slaves from the dust and turn them into men, and then, when we all have our hand in, it will be an easy matter to take millions of women from their knees and set them on their feet; or, in other words, transform them from _babies_ into _women_." A spirited, almost dogmatic, controversy was the result of these letters. In a letter to Jane Smith, Angelina says: "I cannot understand why they (the abolitionists) so exceedingly regret sister's having begun those letters. Brother Weld was not satisfied with writing us _one_ letter about them, but we have received two more setting forth various reasons why we should not moot the subject of woman's rights _at all_, but our judgment is not convinced, and we hardly know what to do about it, for we have just as high an opinion of Brother Garrison's views, and _he_ says, '_go on_.' ... The great effort of abolitionists now seems to be to keep every topic but slavery out of view, and hence their opposition to Henry O. Wright and his preaching anti-government doctrines, and our even writing on woman's rights. Oh, if I _only_ saw they were _right_ and _we_ were _wrong_, I would yield immediately." One of the two other letters from T.D. Weld, referred to by Angelina, is a very long one, covering over ten pages of the old-fashioned foolscap paper, and is in reply to letters received from the sisters, and which were afterwards returned to them and probably destroyed. I have concluded to make some extracts from this long letter from Mr. Weld, not only on account of the arguments used, but to show the frank, fearless spirit with which he met the reasoning of his two "sisters." When we consider that he was even then courting Angelina, his hardihood is a little surprising. After observing that he had carefully read their letters, and made an abstract on half a sheet of paper of the "positions and conclusions found therein," he continues:-- "This abstract I have been steadily looking at with great marvelling, "1st. That you should argue at length the doctrine of Woman's Rights, as though I was a _dissentient_; "2d. That you should so magnify the power of the New England clergy; "3d. That you should so misconceive the actual convictions of ministers and Christians, and almost all, as to the public speaking of women; "4th. That you should take the ground that the clergy, and the whole church government, must come down _before_ slavery can be abolished (a proposition which to my mind is absurd). "5th. That you should so utterly overlook the very _threshold_ principle upon which alone any moral reformation can be effectually promoted. Oh, dear! There are a dozen other things--marvellables--in your letters; but I must stop short, or I can say nothing on other points. "... Now, before we commence action, let us clear the decks; for if they are clogged we shall have foul play. _Overboard_ with everything that don't _belong on board_. Now, first, _what is the precise point at issue between us?_ I answer first _negatively_, that we may understand each other on all points kindred to the main one. 1st. It is _not_ whether _woman's_ rights are inferior to _man's_ rights." He then proceeded to state the doctrine of Woman's Rights very forcibly. Of _sex_, he says:-- "Its _only_ design is not to give nor to take away, nor in any respect to modify, or even touch, rights or responsibilities in any sense, except so far as the peculiar offices of each sex may afford less or more opportunity and ability for the exercise of rights, and the discharge of responsibilities, but merely to continue and enlarge the human department of God's government." For an entire page he continues in this manner of "_negatives_" to "_clear the decks_," until he has shown through seven negative specifications what do _not_ constitute the point at issue, and then goes on:-- "Well, waving further negatives, the question at issue between us _is_, whether _you_, S.M.G. and A.E.G., should engage in the public discussion of the rights of women as a distinct topic. Here you affirm, and I deny. Your reasons for doing it, as contained in your two letters, are the following:-- "1st. The _New England Spectator_ was _opened_; you were invited to write on the subject, and some of the Boston abolitionists _urged_ you to do so, and you say, 'We viewed this unexpected opportunity of throwing our views before the public, as _providential_.' "_Answer_. When the devil is hard pushed, and likely to be run down in the chase, it is an old trick of his to start some smaller game, and thus cause his pursuers to strike off from his own track on to that of one of his imps. It was certainly a very _providential_ opportunity for Nehemiah to 'throw his views before the public,' when Geshem, Sanballat, and Tobiah invited and urged him to stop building the wall and hold a public discussion as to the _right_ to build. And doubtless a great many Jews said to him, 'Unless we _establish_ the right in the first place, it will surely be taken from us utterly. This is a providential opportunity to preach truth in the very camp of the enemy.' But who got it up, God or the devil?... Look over the history of the world, and in nine cases out of ten we shall find that Satan, after being foiled in his arts to stop a great moral enterprise, has finally succeeded by diverting the reformers from the _main_ point to a _collateral_, and that too just at the _moment_ when such diversion brought ruin. Now, even if this opportunity made it the duty of _somebody_ to take up the subject (which is not proved by the fact of the opportunity), why should _you_ give _your_ views, and with _your name_? Others as able might be found, and as familiar with the subject. But you say, others 'are driven off the field, and cannot answer the objections.' I answer, your _names_ do not answer the objections.... How very easy to have helped a third person to the argument. By publicly making an onset in your own names, in a widely-circulated periodical, upon a doctrine cherished as the apple of their eye (I don't say really _believed_) by nine tenths of the church and the world; what was it but a formal challenge to the whole community for a regular set-to?" He proceeds to speak of such a "set to" and debate as "producing alienation wide-spread in our own ranks, and introducing confusion and every evil work." He urges the necessity of vindicating a right "by exercising it," instead of simply arguing for it. Of ministers he says: "True, there is a pretty large class of ministers who are fierce about it, and will fight, but a still larger class that will come over _if_ they first witness the successful practice rather than meet it in the shape of a doctrine to be swallowed. Now, if instead of blowing a blast through the newspapers, sounding the onset, and summoning the ministers and churches to surrender, you had without any introductory flourish just gone right among them and lectured, _when_ and _where_ and _as_ you could find opportunity, and paid no attention to criticism, but pushed right on, without making any ado about 'attacks,' and 'invasions,' and 'opposition,' and have let the barkers bark their bark out,--within one year you might have practically brought over five hundred thousand persons, of the very moral _élite_ of New England. You may rely upon it.... No moral enterprise, when prosecuted with ability and any sort of energy, _ever_ failed under heaven so long as its conductors pushed the _main_ principle, and did not strike off until they reached the summit level. On the other hand, every reform that ever foundered in mid-sea, was capsized by one of these gusty side-winds. Nothing more utterly amazes me than the fact that the _conduct_ of a great, a _pre-eminently_ great moral enterprise, should exhibit so little of a wise, far-sighted, comprehensive _plan_. Surely it is about plain enough to be called _self-evident_, that the only common-sense method of conducting a great moral enterprise is to _start_ with a _fundamental, plain principle, so_ fundamental as not to involve side-relations, and _so_ plain, that it cannot be denied." The main obvious principle he urges is to be pushed until the community surrenders to it. He adds:-- "Then, when you have drawn them up to the top of the general principle, you can slide them down upon all the derivative principles _all at once_. But if you attempt to start off on a derivative principle, from any other point than the summit level of the main principle, you must beat up stream--yes, up a cataract. It reverses the order of nature, and the laws of mind.... "You put the cart before the horse; you drag the tree by the top, in attempting to push your woman's rights until human rights have gone ahead and broken _the path_. * * * * * "You are both liable, it seems to me, from your structure of mind, to form your opinions upon _too slight_ data, and too narrow a range of induction, and to lay your plans and adopt your measures, rather _dazzled_ by the glare of false _analogies_ than _led on_ by the relations of cause and effect. Both of you, but especially Angelina, unless I greatly mistake, are constitutionally tempted to push for _present_ effect, and upon the suddenness and impulsiveness of the onset rely mainly for victory. Besides from _her_ strong _resistiveness_ and constitutional obstinacy, she is liable every moment to turn short from the main point and spend her whole force upon some little one-side annoyance that might temporarily nettle her. In doing this she might win a _single battle_, but _lose a whole campaign_. Add to this, great pride of character, so closely curtained as to be almost searchless to herself, with a passion for adventure and novel achievements, and she has in all an amount of temptation to poor human nature that can be overmastered only by strong conflicts and strong faith. Under this, a sense of justice so keen that violation of justice would be likely to lash up such a tide of indignation as would drive her from all anchorage. I say this to her _not_ in raillery. I _believe_ it, and therefore utter it. It is either fiction or fact. If _fiction_ it can do no hurt; if _fact_, it may not be in vain in the Lord, and then my heart's desire and prayer will be fulfilled. May the Lord have you in his keeping, my own dear sisters. "Most affectionately, your brother ever, "T.D. WELD." "One point I designed to make _more_ prominent. It is this: What is done for the _slave_ and _human rights_ in this country _must be done note, now, now_. Delay is madness, ruin, whereas woman's rights are not a life and death business, _now or never_. Why can't you have eyes to see this? The wayfaring man, though a _fool_, need not err _here_, it is so plain. What will you run a tilt at next?" And he names several things,--the tariff, the banks, English tithe system, burning widows, etc., and adds:-- "If you adopt the views of H.C. Wright, as you are reported to have done, in his official bulletin of a 'domestic scene' (where you are made to figure conspicuously among the conquests of the victor as rare spoils gracing the triumphal car), why then we are in one point of doctrine just as wide asunder as extremes can be." This letter was answered by Sarah, and with the most admirable patience and moderation. She begins by saying:-- "Angelina is so wrathy that I think it will be unsafe to trust the pen in her hands to reply to thy two last _good_ long letters. As I feel nothing but gratitude for the kindness which I am sure dictated them, I shall endeavor to answer them, and, as far as possible, allay thy uneasiness as to the course we are pursuing." She then proceeds to calmly discuss his objections, and to defend their views on the woman question, which, she says, she regards as second in importance to none, but that she does not feel bound to take up every _caviller_ who presents himself, and therefore will not notice some others who had criticised her letters in the _Spectator_. About H.C. Wright, she says: "I must say a few words concerning Brother Wright, towards whom I do not feel certain that the law of love predominated when thou wrote that part of thy letter relative to him.... We feel prepared to avow the principles set forth in the 'domestic scene.' I wonder thou canst not perceive the simplicity and beauty and consistency of the doctrine that all government, whether civil or ecclesiastical, conflicts with the government of Jehovah, and that by the Christian no other can be acknowledged, without leaning more or less on an arm of flesh. Would to God that all abolitionists put their trust where I believe H.C. Wright has placed his, in God alone.... I have given my opinions (in the _Spectator_). Those who read them may receive or reject or find fault. I have nothing to do with that. I shall let thee enjoy thy opinion, but I must wait and see the issue before I conclude it was one of Satan's providences.... I know the opposition to our views arises in part from the fact that women are habitually regarded as inferior beings, but chiefly I believe from a desire to keep them in unholy subjection to man, and one way of doing this is to deprive us of the means of becoming their equals by forbidding us the privileges of education which would fit us for the performance of duty. I am greatly mistaken if most men have not a desire that women should be silly.... I have not said half I wanted, but this must suffice for the present, as Angelina has concluded to try her hand at scolding. Farewell, dear brother. May the Lord reward thee tenfold for thy kindness, and keep thee in the hollow of His holy hand. "Thy sister in Jesus, "S.M.G." Angelina's part of the letter is not written in the sweet, Quaker spirit which prevails through Sarah's, but shows a very interesting consciousness of her power over the man she addressed. "Sister," she writes, "seems very much afraid that my pen will be transformed into a venomous serpent when I employ it to address thee, my dear brother, and no wonder, for I like to pay my debts, and, as I received ten dollars' worth of scolding,[7] I should be guilty of injustice did I not return the favor. Well! such a lecture I never before had from anyone. What is the matter with thee? One would really suppose that we had actually abandoned the anti-slavery cause, and were roving the country, preaching _nothing_ but woman's rights, when, in fact, I can truly say that whenever I lecture, I forget _everything but the slave_. He is all in all for the time being. And what is the reason _I_ am to be scolded because _sister_ writes letters in the _Spectator_? Please let every woman bear _her own burdens_. Indeed, I should like to know what I have done yet? And dost thou really think in my answer to C.E. Beecher's absurd views of woman that I had better suppress my own? If so, I will do it, as thou makest such a monster out of the molehill, but my judgment is _not_ convinced that in this incidental way it is wrong to throw light on the subject." [7] Angelina and Sarah had sent Mr. Weld ten dollars for some supposed debts. He returned it, and said if any trifling sums fell due, he would take them out in scolding, and pay himself thus. She speaks very gratefully of "Brother Lincoln, of Gardner," who rejoiced to have them speak in his pulpit, and says:-- "My _keen sense of justice_ compels me to admire such nobility. He hoped sister would give her views on this branch of the subject in the _Spectator_. He thought they were needed, and _we_ are well convinced they are, T.D.W. notwithstanding. So much for my bump of obstinacy which even thy sledge-hammer cannot beat down." The subsequent correspondence, which I regret I have not room to insert, shows that the remonstrances of Whittier and Weld were effective in restraining, for the time being, the impatience of the sisters to urge in their public meetings what, however, they faithfully preached in private--their conviction that the wrongs of woman were the root of _all_ oppression. Sarah meekly writes to "brother Weld." "After a struggle with my feelings, so severe that I was almost tempted to turn back from the anti-slavery cause, I have given up to what seemed the inevitable, and have thought little of it since. Perhaps I have done wrong, and if so, I trust I shall see it and repent it. I do not intend to make any promises, because I may have reason to regret them, but I do not know that I shall scribble any more on the objectionable topic of woman." This interesting controversy did not end until several more letters had passed back and forth, and various other topics had been brought in; but it was carried through with the same spirit of candor and love on all sides which marked the beginning. There was one subject introduced, a sort of side-question which I must notice, as it reveals in a very pleasant manner the religious principle and manly moral courage of Theodore D. Weld. At the close of one of her letters, Sarah says:-- "Now just as it has come into my head, please tell me whether thy clothing costs one hundred dollars per annum? I ask because it was insisted upon that Mr. Weld must spend that amount on his wardrobe, and I as strenuously insisted he did not. It was thought impossible a gentleman could spend less, but I think anti-slavery agents know better." To this, he answered thus, at the end of one of _his_ letters. "Oh! I forgot the wardrobe! I suppose you are going to take me to task about my shag-overcoat, linsey-woolsey coat, and cowhide shoes; for you Quakers are as notional about _quality_ as you are precise about _cut_. Well, now to the question. While I was travelling and lecturing, I think that _one_ year my clothing must have cost me nearly one hundred dollars. It was the first year of my lecturing in the West, when one entire suit and part of another were destroyed or nearly so by mobs. Since I resigned my commission as agent, which is now nearly a year, my clothing has not cost me one third that amount. I don't think it _even_ cost me fifty dollars a year, except the year I spoke of, when it was ruined by mobs, and the year 1832, when, in travelling, I lost it all with my other baggage in the Alum River. There, I believe I have answered your question as well as I can. However, I have always had to encounter the criticism and chidings of my acquaintances about my coarse dress. They will have it that I have always curtailed my influence and usefulness by such a John the Baptist attire as I have always been habited in. But I have remarked that those persons who have beset me on that score have shown in some way that they had their hearts set more or less on showing off their persons to advantage by their dress. Now I think of it, I believe you are in great danger of making a little god out of your caps and your drab color, and '_thee_' and '_thou_.' Besides, the tendency is quite questionable. The moment certain shades of color, or a certain combination of letters, or modulation of sounds, or arrangement of seams and angles, are made the _sine qua non_ of religion and principle, that moment religion and principle are hurled from their vantage-ground and become _slaves_ instead of _rulers_. I cannot get it out of my mind that these must be a fetter on the spirit that clings to such stereotyped forms and ceremonies that rustle and clatter the more because life and spirit and power do not inhabit them. Think about it, dear sisters." In Sarah's next letter to him she says:-- "Now first about the wardrobe. Thou art greatly mistaken in supposing that I meant to quiz thee; no, not I, indeed. I wish from my heart more of us who take the profession of Jesus on our lips were willing to wear shag cloaks and linsey-woolsey garments. Now I may inform thee that, notwithstanding my prim caps, etc., I am as economical as thou art. I do many things in the way of dress to please my friends, but perhaps their watchfulness is needful." Dear Aunt Sarah! these last words will make many smile who remember how scrupulously careful she was about spending more on her dress than was absolutely necessary to cleanliness and health. Every dollar beyond this she felt was taken from the poor or from some benevolent enterprise. The watchfulness of her friends was indeed needful! It appears from the above correspondence that both Sarah and Angelina had become tinctured with the doctrines of "non-resistance," which, within a few years, had gained some credit with a few "perfectionists" and active reformers in and about Boston. They had been presented by Lydia Maria Child, a genial writer, under the guise of the Scriptural doctrine of love. This sentiment was held to be adequate to the regulation of social and political life: by it, ruffians were to be made to stand in awe of virtue; thieves, burglars, and murderers were to be made ashamed of themselves, and turned into honest and amiable citizens; children were to be governed without punishment; and the world was to be made a paradise. Rev. Henry C. Wright, a man of some ability, but tossed by every wind of doctrine, embraced the new gospel. He applied its principles to public matters. From the essential sinfulness of all forms of force, if used towards human beings, he inferred that penal laws, prisons, sheriffs, and criminal courts should be dispensed with; that governments, which, of necessity, execute their decrees by force, should be abolished; that Christians should not take part in politics, either by voting or holding office; that they should not employ force, even to resist encroachment or in the defence of their wives and children; and that although slavery, being a form of force, was wrong, no one should vote against it. The slave-holder was to be converted by love. The free States should show their grief and disapprobation by seceding from the slave States, and by nullifying within their limits any unjust laws passed by the nation. All governments, civil, ecclesiastical, and family, were to disappear, so that the divine law, interpreted by each one for himself, might have free course. To this fanciful, transcendental, and anarchical theory, Mr. Wright made sundry converts, more or less thorough, including Parker Pillsbury, Wm. L. Garrison, and Stephen S. Foster. That he took a good deal of pains to capture the subjects of our biography is evident. He attended their lectures, cultivated their acquaintance, extended to them his sympathy, and made them his guests. There are certain affinities of the non-resistance doctrines with Quakerism, which made them attractive to these two women who had little worldly knowledge, and who had been trained for years in the peace doctrines of the Philadelphia Friends. It was fortunate for the anti-slavery cause that Sarah and Angelina were warned in time by their New York friends of the fatally dangerous character of the heresies they were inclined to accept. They went no further in that direction. In all their subsequent letters, journals, and papers there is not a word to show that either of them ever entertained no-government notions, or identified herself with persons who did. During the remaining months of their stay in Massachusetts, they devoted themselves to their true mission of anti-slavery work, accepting the co-operation and friendship of all friends of the slave, but avoiding compromising relations with those known as "no human government" non-resistants. This course was continued in after years, and drew upon them the disapprobation and strictures of the non-voting, non-fighting faction. In a letter from Sarah to Augustus Wattles, dated May 11, 1854, about the time of the Kansas war, she says:-- "We were fully aware of the severe criticisms passed upon us by many of those who showed their unfitness to be in the judgment seat, by the unmerciful censure they have pronounced against us when we were doing what to us seemed positive duty. They wanted us to live out Wm. Lloyd Garrison, not the convictions of our own souls, entirely unaware that they were exhibiting, in the high places of moral reform, the genuine spirit of slave-holding by wishing to curtail the sacred privilege of conscience. But we have not allowed their unreasonableness to sever us from them; they have many noble traits, have acted grandly for humanity, and it was perhaps a part of their business to abuse us. I do not think I love Garrison any the less for what he has said. His spirit of intolerance towards those who did not draw in his traces, and his adulation of those who surrendered themselves to his guidance, have always been exceedingly repulsive to me, weaknesses which marred the beauty and symmetry of his character, and prevented its symmetrical development, but nevertheless I know the stern principle which is the basis of his action. He is Garrison and nobody else, and all I ask is that he would let others be themselves." The feeling thus expressed was probably never changed until after the sisters had taken up their residence in the neighborhood of Boston, when visits were interchanged with Mr. Garrison, and friendly relations established, which ended only with death. It is certain, however, that Sarah and Angelina sympathized with the stalwart freemen who used Sharp's rifles in the defence of free Kansas, who voted the Liberty, Free Soil, and Republican ticket, who elected Abraham Lincoln President, and who shouldered muskets against the rebels. CHAPTER XV. The anti-slavery cause, and intimate association with so many of its enthusiastic advocates, had indeed done much for Sarah Grimké. Her mind was rapidly becoming purified from the dross that had clogged it so long; religious doubts and difficulties were fading away one by one, and the wide, warm sympathies of her nature now freed, expanded gladly to a new world of light and love and labor. As she expressed it, she was like one coming into a clear brisk atmosphere, after having been long shut up in a close room. Her drowsy faculties were all stirred and invigorated, and though her disappointments had left wounds whose pain must always remind her of them, she had no longer time to sit down and bemoan them. There was so much to do in the broad, fresh fields which stretched around her, and she had been idle so long! Is it any wonder that she tried to grasp too much at first? The affection between her and Angelina was growing daily more tender--perhaps a little more maternal on her part. Drawn closer together by the now complete separation from every member of their own family, and by the disapproval and coldness of their Philadelphia friends, they were an inexpressible solace and help to each other. Identified in all their trials, as now in their labors, they worked together in a sweet unity of spirit, which lessened every difficulty and lightened every burden. They continued to lecture almost uninterruptedly for five months, and though the prejudice against them as women appeared but slightly diminished, people were becoming familiarized to the idea of women speaking in public, and the way was gradually being cleared for the advance-guard of that noble army which has brought about so many changes favorable to the weak and downtrodden of its own sex. Invitations to speak came to the sisters from all parts of the State, and not even by dividing their labors among the smaller towns could they begin to respond to all who wished to hear them. Sometimes the crowds around the place of meeting were so great that a second hall or church would have to be provided, and Sarah speak in one, while Angelina spoke in the other. At one place, where over a thousand people crowded into a church, one of the joists gave way; it was propped up, but soon others began to crack, and, although the people were warned to leave that part of the building, only a few obeyed, and it was found impossible to persuade them to go, or to consent to have the speaking stopped. At another place ladders were put up at all the windows, and men crowded upon them, and tenaciously held their uncomfortable positions through the whole meeting. In one or two places they were refused a meeting-house, on account of strong sectarian feeling against them as Quakers. At Worcester they had to adjourn from a large Congregational church to a small Methodist one, because the clergyman of the former suddenly returned from an absence, and declared that if they spoke in his church he would never enter it again. At Bolton, notices of their meetings were torn down, but the town hall was packed notwithstanding, many going away, unable to get in. The church here had also been refused them. Angelina, in the course of her lecture, seized an opportunity to refer to their treatment, saying that if the people of her native city could see her lecturing in that hall because every church had been closed against the cause of God's down-trodden creatures, they would clap their hands for joy, and say, "See what slavery is doing for us in the town of Bolton!" She describes very graphically going two miles to a meeting on a dark and rainy night, when Sarah was obliged to remain at home on account of a cold, and Abby Kelly drove her in a chaise, and how nearly they came to being upset, and how they met men in flocks along the road, all going to the meeting. She says:-- "It seemed as if I could not realize they were going to hear me," and adds:-- "This was the first large meeting I ever attended without dear sister, and I wonder I did not feel desolate, for I knew not a creature there. Nevertheless, the Lord strengthened me, and I spoke with ease for an hour and a quarter." But the incessant strain upon her nervous system, together with the fatigue and exposure of almost constant travelling, began to tell seriously on her health. In October she frequently speaks of being "so tired," of being "so glad to rest a day," etc., until, all these warnings being unheeded, nature peremptorily called a halt. In the beginning of November, after a week of unusual fatigue, having lectured six times in as many different places, they reached Hingham quite worn out. Sarah, though still suffering with a cold, begged to lecture in her sister's place, but Angelina had been announced, and she knew the people would be disappointed if she failed to appear. When they entered the crowded hall, a lady seeing how unwell Angelina looked, seized both her hands and exclaimed:-- "Oh, if you will only hold out to-night, I will nurse you for a week!" She did hold out for an hour and a half, and then sank back exhausted, and was obliged to leave the lecture unfinished. This was the beginning of an illness which lasted, with its subsequent convalescence, through the remainder of the year. Their good friends, Samuel and Eliza Philbrick, brought the sisters to their beautiful home in Brookline, and surrounded them with every care and comfort kind hearts could suggest. Sarah then found how very weary she was also, and how opportune was this enforced rest. "Thus," wrote Angelina some weeks afterwards to Jane Smith, "thus ended our summer campaign. Oh, how delightful it was to stretch my weary limbs on a bed of ease, and roll off from my mind all the heavy responsibilities which had so long pressed upon it, and, above all, to feel in my soul the language, 'Well done.' It was luxury indeed, well worth the toil of months." Sarah, too, speaks of looking back upon the labors of the summer with feelings of unmixed satisfaction. That the leaven prepared in Sarah Grimké's letters on the "Province of Woman" was beginning to work was evidenced by a public discussion on woman's rights which took place at the Boston Lyceum on the evening of Dec. 4, 1837. The amount of interest this first public debate on the subject excited was shown by the fact that an audience of fifteen hundred of the most intelligent and respectable people of Boston crowded the hall and listened attentively to the end. Sarah and Angelina, the latter now almost entirely recovered, were present, accompanied by Mr. Philbrick. "A very noble view throughout," says Angelina, and adds: "The discussion has raised my hopes of the woman question. It was conducted with respect, delicacy, and dignity, and many minds no doubt were roused to reflection, though I must not forget to say it was decided against us by acclamation, our enemies themselves being judges. It was like a meeting of slave-holders deciding that the slaves are happier in their present condition than they would be freed." Soon after this, Angelina writes that some Boston women, including Maria Chapman and Lydia M. Child, were about to start a woman's rights paper, and she adds: "We greatly hope dear Maria Chapman will soon commence lecturing, and that the spark we have been permitted to kindle on the woman question will never die out." The annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society was held the latter part of January, 1838, and was notable in several respects. On the second day, the "great Texas meeting," as it was called, was held in Faneuil Hall, and the fact that this Cradle of Liberty was loaned to the abolitionists was bitterly commented upon by their opponents, while abolitionists themselves regarded it as strong evidence of the progress their cause had made. Angelina writes Jane Smith a graphic account of the speakers and speeches at this meeting, but especially mentions Henry B. Stanton, who made the most powerful speech of the whole session, and was so severe on Congress, that a representative who was present arose to object to the "hot thunderbolts and burning lava" that had been let loose on the heads of "the powers that be, of those whom we were commanded to honor and obey." These remarks were so ridiculous as to excite laughter, and the manner in which Stanton demolished the speaker by his own arguments called forth such repeated rounds of applause that the great orator was obliged to _insist_ upon silence. At this meeting, said to have been the largest ever held in Boston, several hundred women were present, a most encouraging sign to Sarah Grimké of the progress of _her_ ideas. After some parleying, the hall of the House of Representatives was granted the Society for their remaining meetings, and here Quincy, Colver, Phelps, and Wendell Phillips spoke and made a deep impression, so deep that a committee was appointed to take into consideration the petitions on the subject of slavery. Stanton, half in jest, asked Angelina if she would not like to speak before that committee, as the names of some thousands of women were before it as signers of petitions. She had never thought of such a thing, but, after reflecting upon it a day, sent Stanton word that if the friends of the cause thought well of it, she _would_ speak as he had proposed. He was surprised and troubled, for, though he was all right in the abstract on the woman question, he feared the consequences of such a manifest assertion of equality. "It seems," Angelina writes, "even the stout-hearted tremble when the woman question is to be acted out in full. Jackson, Fuller, Phelps, and Quincy were consulted. The first is sound to the core, and went right up to the State House to inquire of the chairman of the committee whether I could be heard. Wonderful to tell, he said Yes, without the least hesitation, and actually helped to remove the scruples of some of the timid-hearted abolitionists. Perhaps it is best I should bear the responsibility _wholly_ myself. I feel willing to do it, and think I shall say nothing more about it, but just let Birney and Stanton make the speeches they expect to before the committee this week, and when they have done, make an independent application to the chairman as a woman, as a Southerner, as a moral being.... I feel that this is the most important step I have ever been called to take: important to woman, to the slave, to my country, and to the world." This plan was carried out, thanks to James C. Alvord, the chairman of the committee; and the halls of the Massachusetts Legislature were opened for the first time to a woman. Wendell Phillips says of that meeting:--"It gave Miss Grimké the opportunity to speak to the best culture and character of Massachusetts; and the profound impression then made on a class not often found in our meetings was never wholly lost. It was not only the testimony of one most competent to speak, but it was the profound religious experience of one who had broken out of the charmed circle, and whose intense earnestness melted all opposition. The converts she made needed no after-training. It was when you saw she was opening some secret record of her own experience that the painful silence and breathless interest told the deep effect and lasting impression her words were making." We have not Angelina's account of this meeting, but referring to it in a letter to Sarah Douglass, she says: "My heart never quailed before, but it almost died within me at that tremendous hour." But one hearing did not satisfy her, and the committee needed no urging to grant her another. At the second meeting, the hall was literally packed, and hundreds went away unable to obtain seats. When she arose to speak, there was some hissing from the doorways, but the most profound silence reigned through the crowd within. Angelina first stood in front of the Speaker's desk, then she was requested to occupy the Secretary's desk on one side, and soon after, that she might be seen as well as heard, she was invited to stand in the Speaker's place. And from that conspicuous position she spoke over two hours without the least interruption. She says to Sarah Douglass:-- "What the effect of these meetings is to be, I know not, nor do I feel that _I_ have anything to do with it. This I know, that the chairman was in tears almost the whole time I was speaking," and she adds: "We abolition women are turning the world upside down, for during the whole meeting there was sister seated up in the Speaker's chair of state." These meetings were followed by the six evening lectures at the Odeon, to which reference has already been made. Sarah delivered the first lecture, taking for her subject the history of the country in reference to slavery. She spoke for two hours, fearlessly, as she always did, and though she says Garrison told her he trembled with apprehension, the audience of fifteen hundred people listened respectfully and attentively, frequently applauding the utterance of some strongly expressed truth, and showing no excitement even under the rebukes she administered to Edward Everett, then Governor of Massachusetts, for his speech in Congress in 1826, and to ex-Governor Lincoln for his in 1831. Both these worthies had declared their willingness to go down South to suppress servile insurrection. This was the last time Sarah spoke in public. Her throat, which had long troubled her, was now seriously affected, and entire rest was prescribed. She did not murmur, for she had increasingly felt that Angelina's speaking was more effective than hers, and now she believed the Lord was showing her that this part of the work must be left to her more gifted sister, and she gladly yielded to her the task of delivering the five succeeding lectures. In relation to these lectures, the son of Samuel Philbrick has kindly sent me the following extract from a diary kept by his father. Under date of April 23, 1838, he says:-- "In February Angelina addressed the committee of our legislature on the subject of slavery and the slave trade in the District of Columbia and Florida, and the inter-state slave trade, during three sittings of two hours each, in the Representatives' Hall in Boston, before a crowded audience, stowed as close as they could stand in every aisle and corner. Her addresses were listened to with profound attention and respect, without interruption to the last. More than five hundred people could not get seats, but stood quietly during two full hours, in profound silence. "During the last few weeks she has delivered five lectures, and Sarah one at the Odeon, before an assembly of men and women from all parts of the city. Every part of the building was crowded, every aisle filled. Estimated number, two thousand to three thousand at each meeting. There was great attention and silence, and the addresses were intensely interesting." These over, the sisters bade farewell to their most excellent Brookline friends, in whose family they had so peacefully rested for six months, and returned to Philadelphia, Sarah accepting a temporary home with Jane Smith, while Angelina went to stay with Mrs. Frost, at whose house two weeks later, that is on the 14th of May, she was united in marriage to Theodore D. Weld. No marriage could have been more true, more fitting in every respect. The solemn relation was never entered upon in more holiness of purpose or in higher resolve to hold themselves strictly to the best they were capable of. It was a rededication of lives long consecrated to God and humanity; of souls knowing no selfish ambition, seeking before all things the glory of their Creator in the elevation of His creatures everywhere. The entire unity of spirit in which they afterwards lived and labored, the tender affection which, through a companionship of more than forty years, knew no diminution, made a family life so perfect and beautiful that it brightened and inspired all who were favored to witness it. No one could be with them under the most ordinary circumstances without feeling the force and influence of their characters. Invitations were sent to about eighty persons, mostly abolitionists, of all colors, some jet black. Nearly all came; representing Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. Among them were H.B. Stanton, C.C. Burleigh, William Lloyd Garrison, Amos Dresser, H.C. Wright, Maria and Mary Chapman, Abby Kelly, Samuel Philbrick, Jane Smith, and Sarah Douglass of course, and Mr. Weld's older brother, the president of the asylum for deaf mutes. Sarah Grimké's account of the wedding, written to a friend in England, is most interesting; and one cannot but wonder if another like it ever took place. The letter was written while the then and ever after inseparable trio was at Manlius, New York, visiting Mr. Weld's family. After a slight mention of other matters, she says:-- "I must now give thee some account of my dear sister's marriage, which probably thou hast already heard of. Her precious husband is emphatically a man of God, a member of the Presbyterian Church. Of course Angelina will be disowned for forming this connection, and I shall be for attending the marriage. We feel no regret at this circumstance, believing that the discipline which cuts us off from membership for an act so strictly in conformity with the will of God, and so sanctioned by His word as is the marriage of the righteous, must be anti-Christian, and I am thankful for an opportunity to testify against it. The marriage was solemnized at the house of our sister, Anna R. Frost, in Philadelphia, on the 14th instant. By the law of Pennsylvania, a marriage is legal if witnessed by twelve persons. Neither clergyman nor magistrate is required to be present. Angelina could not conscientiously consent to be married by a clergyman, and Theodore D. Weld cheerfully consented to have the marriage solemnized in such manner as comported with her views. We all felt that the presence of a magistrate, a stranger, would be unpleasant to us at such a time, and we therefore concluded to invite such of our friends as we desired, and have the marriage solemnized as a religious act, in a religious and social meeting. Neither Theodore nor Angelina felt as if they could bind themselves to any preconceived form of words, and accordingly uttered such as the Lord gave them at the moment. Theodore addressed Angelina in a solemn and tender manner. He alluded to the unrighteous power vested in a husband by the laws of the United States over the person and property of his wife, and he abjured all authority, all government, save the influence which love would give to them over each other as moral and immortal beings. I would give much could I recall his words, but I cannot. Angelina's address to him was brief but comprehensive, containing a promise to honor him, to prefer him above herself, to love him with a pure heart fervently. Immediately after this we knelt, and dear Theodore poured out his soul in solemn supplication for the blessing of God on their union, that it might be productive of enlarged usefulness, and increased sympathy for the slave. Angelina followed in a melting appeal to our Heavenly Father, for a blessing on them, and that their union might glorify Him, and then asked His guidance and over-shadowing love through the rest of their pilgrimage. A colored Presbyterian minister then prayed, and was followed by a white one, and then I felt as if I could not restrain the language of praise and thanksgiving to Him who had condescended to be in the midst of this marriage feast, and to pour forth abundantly the oil and wine of consolation and rejoicing. The Lord Jesus was the first guest invited to be present, and He condescended to bless us with His presence, and to sanction and sanctify the union which was thus consummated. The certificate was then read by William Lloyd Garrison, and was signed by the company. The evening was spent in pleasant social intercourse. Several colored persons were present, among them two liberated slaves, who formerly belonged to our father, had come by inheritance to sister Anna, and had been freed by her. They were our invited guests, and we thus had an opportunity to bear our testimony against the horrible prejudice which prevails against colored persons, and the equally awful prejudice against the poor." This unconventional but truly religious marriage ceremony was in perfect harmony with the loyal, noble natures of Theodore Weld and Angelina Grimké, exemplifying the simplicity of their lives and the strength of their principles. No grand preparations preceded the event; no wedding bells were rung on the occasion; no rare gifts were displayed: but the blessing of the lowly and the despised, and the heart-felt wishes of co-workers and co-sufferers were the offerings which lent to the occasion its purest joy and brightest light. But though so quietly and peacefully solemnized, this marriage was to have its celebration,--one little anticipated, but according well with the experiences which had preceded it, and serving to make it all the more impressive and its promises more sacred. Refused the use of churches and lecture-rooms, and denied the privilege of hiring halls for their meetings, the abolitionists of Philadelphia, with other friends of free discussion, formed an association, and built, at an expense of forty thousand dollars, a beautiful hall, to be used for free speech on any and every subject not of an immoral character. Daniel Neall was the president of this association, and William Dorsey the secretary. The hall, one of the finest buildings in the city, was situated at the southwest corner of Delaware, Sixth, and Harris streets, between Cherry and Sassafras streets. It was opened for the first time on Angelina Grimké's wedding-day, and was filled with one of the largest audiences ever assembled in Philadelphia. As soon as the president of the association had taken his seat, the secretary arose and explained the uses and purposes the hall was expected to serve. He said:-- "A number of individuals of all sects, and those of no sect, of all parties, and those of no party, being desirous that the citizens of Philadelphia should possess a room wherein the principles of _liberty_ and _equality of civil rights_ could be freely discussed, and the evils of slavery fearlessly portrayed, have erected this building, which we are now about to dedicate to liberty and the rights of man.... A majority of the stockholders are mechanics or working-men, and (as is the case in almost every other good work) a number are women." The secretary then proceeded to read letters from John Quincy Adams, Thaddeus Stevens, Gerrit Smith, Theodore Weld, and others, who had been invited to deliver addresses, but who, from various causes, were obliged to decline. That from Weld was characteristic of the earnestness of the man. After stating that for a year and a half he had been prevented from speaking in public on account of an affection of the throat, and must therefore decline the invitation of the committee, he adds:-- "I exult in the erection of your 'temple of freedom,' and the more, as it is the first and only one, in a republic of fifteen millions, consecrated to free discussion and equal rights." "For years they have been banished from our halls of legislation and of justice, from our churches and our pulpits. It is befitting that the city of Benezet and of Franklin should be the first to open an asylum where the hunted exiles may find a home. God grant that your Pennsylvania Hall may be _free, indeed!_" "The empty name is everywhere,--_free_ government, _free_ men, _free_ speech, _free_ people, _free_ schools, and _free_ churches. Hollow counterfeits all! _Free!_ It is the climax of irony, and its million echoes are hisses and jeers, even from the earth's ends. _Free! Blot it out_. Words are the signs of _things_. The substance has gone! Let fools and madmen clutch at shadows. The husk must rustle the more when the kernel and the ear are gone. Rome's loudest shout for liberty was when she murdered it, and drowned its death shrieks in her hoarse huzzas. She never raised her hands so high to swear allegiance to freedom as when she gave the death-stab, and madly leaped upon its corpse; and her most delirious dance was among the clods her hands had cast upon its coffin. _Free!_ The word and sound are omnipresent masks and mockers. An impious lie, unless they stand for free _lynch law_ and free _murder_, for they _are_ free. "But I'll hold. The times demand brief speech, but mighty deeds. On, my brethren! uprear your temple. "Your brother in the sacred strife for all, "THEODORE D. WELD." David Paul Brown, of Philadelphia, was invited to deliver the dedicatory address, which, with other exercises, occupied the mornings and evening of three days, and included addresses by Garrison, Thomas P. Hunt, Arnold Buffum, Alanson St. Clair, and others, on slavery, temperance, the Indians, right of free discussion, and kindred topics. On the second day, an appropriate and soul-stirring poem by John G. Whittier was read by C.C. Burleigh. The first lines will give an idea of the spirit of the whole poem, one of the finest efforts Whittier ever made:-- "Not with the splendors of the days of old, The spoil of nations and barbaric gold, No weapons wrested from the fields of blood, Where dark and stern the unyielding Roman stood, And the proud eagles of his cohorts saw A world war-wasted, crouching to his law; Nor blazoned car, nor banners floating gay, Like those which swept along the Appian Way, When, to the welcome of imperial Rome, The victor warrior came in triumph home, And trumpet peal, and shoutings wild and high, Stirred the blue quiet of th' Italian sky, But calm and grateful, prayerful, and sincere, As Christian freemen only, gathering here, We dedicate our fair and lofty hall, Pillar and arch, entablature and wall, As Virtue's shrine, as Liberty's abode, Sacred to Freedom, and to Freedom's God." The Anti-Slavery Convention of American Women was then holding a session in the city, and among the members present were some of the brightest and noblest women of the day, women with courage as calm and high to dare, as with hearts tender to feel for human woe. The Convention occupied the lecture-room of Pennsylvania Hall, under the main saloon. A strong desire having been expressed by many citizens to hear some of these able pleaders for the slave, notice was given that there would be a meeting in the main saloon on the evening of the 16th, at which Angelina, E.G. Weld, Maria Chapman, and others would speak. Up to the time of this announcement, no apprehension of any disturbance had been felt by the managers of the hall. So far all the meetings had been conducted without interruption; nor could anyone have supposed it possible that in a city renowned for its order and law, and possessing a large and efficient police force, a public outrage upon an assemblage of respectable citizens, many of them women, could be perpetrated. But it was soon to be shown how deeply the spirit of slavery had infused itself into the minds of the people of the free States, leading them to disregard the rights of individuals and to wantonly violate the sacred principles guaranteed by the Constitution of the country. During the day some threats of violence were thrown out, and _written_ placards were posted about the city inviting interference with the proposed meeting, _forcibly if necessary_. But this was regarded only as the expression of malice on the part of a few, or perhaps of an individual, and occasioned no alarm. Still, the precaution was taken to request the mayor to hold his police force in readiness to protect the meeting in case of need. The day passed quietly. Long before the time announced for the meeting, the hall, capable of containing three thousand people, was thronged, and, by the time the speakers arrived, every seat was filled, every inch of standing room was occupied, and thousands went away from the doors unable to obtain admittance. The audience was for the most part a highly respectable and intelligent one, and, notwithstanding the great crowd, was exceedingly quiet. William Lloyd Garrison opened the meeting with a short but characteristic speech, during which he was frequently interrupted by hisses and groans; and when he ended, some efforts were made to break up the meeting. In the midst of the confusion, Maria W. Chapman arose, calm, dignified, and, with a wave of her hand, as though to still the noise, began to speak, but, before she had gone far, yells from the outside proclaimed the arrival there of a disorderly rabble, and at once the confusion inside became so great, that, although the brave woman continued her speech, she was not heard except by those immediately around her. Sarah Grimké thus wrote of Mrs. Chapman's appearance on that occasion: "She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw; the perfection of sweetness and intelligence being blended in her speaking countenance. She arose amid the yells and shouts of the infuriated mob, the crash of windows and the hurling of stones. She looked to me like an angelic being descended amid that tempest of passion in all the dignity of conscious superiority." Then Angelina Weld, the bride of three days, came forward, and so great was the effect of her pure, beautiful presence and quiet, graceful manner, that in a few moments the confusion within the hall had subsided. With deep solemnity, and in words of burning eloquence, she gave her testimony against the awful wickedness of an institution which had no secrets from her. She was frequently interrupted by the mob, but their yells and shouts only furnished her with metaphors which she used with unshrinking power. More stones were thrown at the windows, more glass crashed, but she only paused to ask:-- "What is a mob? What would the breaking of every window be? Any evidence that we are wrong, or that slavery is a good and wholesome institution? What if that mob should now burst in upon us, break up our meeting, and commit violence upon our persons--would this be anything compared with what the slaves endure? No, no: and we do not remember them 'as bound with them,' if we shrink in the time of peril, or feel unwilling to sacrifice ourselves, if need be, for their sake. I thank the Lord that there is yet life enough left to feel the truth, even though it rages at it--that conscience is not so completely seared as to be unmoved by the truth of the living God." Here a shower of stones was thrown through the windows, and there was some disturbance in the audience, but quiet was again restored, and Angelina proceeded, and spoke for over an hour, making no further reference to the noise without, and only showing that she noticed it by raising her own voice so that it could be heard throughout the hall. Not once was a tremor or a change of color perceptible, and though the missiles continued to fly through the broken sashes, and the hootings and yellings increased outside, so powerfully did her words and tones hold that vast audience, that, imminent as seemed their peril, scarcely a man or woman moved to depart. She sat down amid applause that drowned all the noise outside. Abby Kelly, then quite a young woman, next arose and said a few words, her first public utterances. She was followed by gentle Lucretia Mott in a short but most earnest speech, and then this memorable meeting, the first of the kind where men and women acted together as moral beings, closed. There was a dense crowd in the streets around the hall as the immense audience streamed out, but though screams and all sorts of appalling noises were made, no violence was offered, and all reached their homes in safety. But the mob remained, many of its wretched members staying all night, assaulting every belated colored man who came along. The next morning the dregs of the populace, and some respectable _looking_ men again assembled around the doomed hall, but the usual meetings were held, and even the convention of women assembled in the lecture room to finish up their business. The evening was to have been occupied by a public meeting of the Wesleyan Anti-Slavery Society of Philadelphia, but as the day waned to its close, the indications of approaching disturbance became more and more alarming. The crowd around the building increased, and the secret agents of slavery were busy inflaming the passions of the rabble against the abolitionists, and inciting it to outrage. Seeing this, and realizing the danger which threatened, the managers of the hall gave the building over to the protection of the mayor of the city, _at his request_. Of course the proposed meeting was postponed. All the mayor did was to appear in front of the hall, and, in a friendly tone, express to the mob the hope that it would not do anything disorderly, saying that he relied upon the men he saw before him, as his _policemen_, and he wished them "good evening!" The mob gave "three cheers for the mayor," and, as soon as he was out of sight, extinguished the gas lights in front of the building. The rest is soon told. Doors and windows were broken through, and with wild yells the reckless horde dashed in, plundered the Repository, scattering the books in every direction, and, mounting the stairways and entering the beautiful hall, piled combustibles on the Speaker's forum, and applied the torch to them, shrieking like demons,--as they were, for the time. A moment more, and the flames roared and crackled through the building, and though it was estimated that fifteen thousand persons were present, and though the fire companies were early on the scene, not one effort was made to save the structure so recently erected, at such great cost, and consecrated to such Christian uses. In a few hours the smouldering walls alone were left. Angelina Weld never again appeared in public. An accident soon after her marriage caused an injury of such a nature that her nervous system was permanently impaired, and she was ever after obliged to avoid all excitement or over-exertion. The period of her public labors was short, but how fruitful, how full of blessings to the cause of the slave and to the many who espoused it through her powerful appeals! Great was her grief; for, knowing now her capabilities, she had looked forward to renewed and still more successful work; but she accepted with sweet submission the cross laid upon her. Not a murmur arose to her lips. She was content to leave all to the Lord. He could find some new work for her to do. She would trust Him, and patiently wait. The loss of the services of one so richly endowed, so devoted, and so successful, was deeply felt by the friends of emancipation, and especially as at this important epoch efficient speakers were sorely needed, and two of the most efficient, Weld and Burleigh, were already, from overwork, taken from the platform. But though denied the privilege of again raising her voice in behalf of the oppressed, Angelina continued to plead for them through her pen. She could never forget the cause that could never forget her, and to her writings was transferred much of the force and eloquence of her speaking. Immediately after the destruction of Pennsylvania Hall, Mr. and Mrs. Weld, accompanied by Sarah Grimké, paid a visit to Mr. Weld's parents in Manlius, from which place, Sarah, writing to Jane Smith, says:-- "O Jane, it looks like almost too great a blessing for us three to be together in some quiet, humble habitation, living to the glory of God, and promoting the happiness of those around us; to be spiritually united, and to be pursuing with increasing zeal the great work of the abolition of slavery." The "quiet, humble habitation" was found at Fort Lee, on the Hudson, and there the happy trio settled down for their first housekeeping. CHAPTER XVI. They were scarcely settled amid their new surroundings before the sisters received a formal notice of their disownment by the Society of Friends because of Angelina's marriage. The notification, signed by two prominent women elders of the Society, expressed regret that Sarah and Angelina had not more highly prized their right of membership, and added an earnest desire that they might come to a sense of their real state, and manifest a disposition to condemn their deviations from the path of duty. Angelina replied without delay that they wished the discipline of the Society to have free course with regard to them. "It is our joy," she wrote, "that we have committed no offence for which Christ Jesus will disown us as members of the household of faith. If you regret that we have valued our right of membership so little, we equally regret that our Society should have adopted a discipline which has no foundation in the Bible or in reason; and we earnestly hope the time may come when the simple Gospel rule with regard to marriage, 'Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers,' will be as conscientiously enforced as that sectarian one which prohibits the union of the Lord's own people if their shibboleth be not exactly the same. "We are very respectfully, in that love which knows no distinction in color, clime, or creed, your friends, "A.E.G. WELD. "SARAH M. GRIMKÉ." It will be noticed that in this reply Angelina avoids the Quaker phraseology, and neither she nor Sarah ever after used it, except occasionally in correspondence with a Quaker friend. Thus ended their connection with the Society of Friends. From that time they never attached themselves to any religious organization, but rested contentedly in the simple religion of Christ, illustrating by every act of their daily lives how near they were to the heart of all true religion. As I am approaching the limits prescribed for this volume, I can, in the space remaining to me, only note with any detail the chief incidents of the years which followed Angelina's marriage. I would like to describe at length the beautiful family life the trio created, and which disproved so clearly the current assertion that interest in public matters disqualifies woman for home duties or make these distasteful to her. In the case of Sarah and Angelina those duties were entered upon with joy and gratitude, and with the same conscientious zeal that had characterized their public labors. The simplicity and frugality, too, which marked all their domestic arrangements, and which neither thought it necessary to apologize for at any time, recall to one's mind the sweet pictures of Arcadian life over which goodness, purity, and innocence presided, creating an atmosphere of perfect inward and outward peace. Sarah's letters detail their every-day occupations, their division of labor, their culinary experiments, often failures,--for of practical domestic economy they had little knowledge, though they enjoyed the new experience like happy children. She tells of rambles and picnics along the Hudson, climbing rocks to get a fine view, halting under the trees to read together for a while, taking their simple dinner in some shady nook, and returning weary but happy to their "dear little No. 3," as she designates their house. "Oh, Jane," she writes, "words cannot tell the goodness of the Lord to us since we have sat down under the shadow of our own roof, and gathered around our humble board. Peace has flowed sweetly through our souls. The Lord has been in the midst, and blessed us with his presence, and the daily aspiration of our souls is: Lord, show us thy will concerning us." And in another letter she says, "We are delighted with our arrangement to do without a girl. Angelina boils potatoes to admiration, and says she finds cooking much easier than she expected." During the summer they were gratified by a visit from their good friend Jane, who, it appears, gave them some useful and much-needed lessons in the art of cookery. But about this time Sarah became converted to the Graham system of diet, which Mr. "Weld had adopted three, and Mrs. Weld two years before. Sarah thus writes of it:-- "We have heard Graham lectures, and read Alcott's 'Young Housekeeper,' and are truly thankful that the Lord has converted us to this mode of living, and that we are all of one heart and one mind. We believe it is the most conducive to health, and, besides, it is such an emancipation of woman from the toils of the kitchen, and saves so much precious time for purposes of more importance than eating and drinking. We have a great variety of dishes, and, to our taste, very savory. We can make good bread, and this with milk is an excellent meal. This week I am cook, and am writing this while my beans are boiling and pears stewing for dinner. We use no tea or coffee, and take our food cool." She then tells of the arrival one day of two friends from the city, just as they had sat down to their simple meal of rice and molasses. "But," she says, "we were very glad to see them, and with bread and milk, and pie without shortening, and hominy, we contrived to give them enough, and as they were pretty hungry they partook of it with tolerable appetite." Answering some inquiries from Jane Smith, Angelina writes:-- "As to how I have made out with cooking, it so happens that labor (planting a garden) gives Theodore such an appetite that everything is sweet to him, so that my rice and asparagus, potatoes, mush, and Indian bread all taste well, though some might think them not fit to eat." They had but one cooking day, when enough was generally prepared to last a week, so that very little time and mind was given to creature comforts; in fact, no more than was necessary to the preservation of health. Their motto literally was "to eat to live," and this they felt to be a part of that non-conformity to the world of which the apostle speaks, and after which Sarah, at least, felt she must still strive. Their furniture corresponded with the simplicity of their table. Angelina writes shortly after her marriage:-- "We ordered our furniture to be made of cherry, and quite enjoy the cheapness of our outfit as well as our manner of life; for the less we spend, the less the Anti-Slavery Society will have to pay my Theodore for his labors as editor of all the extra publications of the Society." Thus some high or unselfish motive inspired all their conduct and influenced every arrangement. Nothing superfluous or merely ornamental found a place with these true and zealous followers of Him whose precepts guided their lives. Everything in doors and out served a special purpose of utility, or suggested some duty or great moral aim. Angelina was exceedingly fond of flowers, but refrained from cultivating them, because of the time required, which she thought could be better employed. She felt she had no right to use one moment for her own selfish gratification which could be given to some more necessary work. Therefore, though both sisters were peculiarly gifted with a love of the beautiful, as their frequent descriptions of natural scenery show, they contented themselves, from principle, with the enjoyment of "glorious sunsets," and with the flowers of the field and wayside. Later they learned a different appreciation of all the innocent pleasures of life; but at the time I am describing, they had just emerged from Quaker asceticism, and in the flush of their new religion, and looking upon their past years as almost wasted, they were eager only to make amends for them. In one of her letters to her English friend, Angelina acknowledges the present from her of a large picture of a _Kneeling Slave_, and adds:-- "We purpose pasting it on binder's boards, binding it with colored paper, and fixing it over our mantelpiece. It is just such a speaking monument of suffering as we want in our parlor, and suits my fireboard most admirably. I first covered this with plain paper, and then arranged as well as I could about forty anti-slavery pictures upon it. I never saw one like it, but we hope other abolitionists will make them when they see what an ornamental and impressive article of furniture can thus be manufactured. We want those who come into our house to see at a glance that we are on the side of the oppressed and the poor." Sarah Douglass spent a day with them in September, and as I can have no more fitting place to show how conscientious were these rare spirits in their practical testimony against the color prejudice, I will quote a few passages from a letter written to Sarah Douglass after her departure from the circle where she had been treated as a most honored guest. Sarah Grimké begins as follows:-- "Thy letter, my beloved Sarah, was truly acceptable as an evidence of thy love for us, and because it told us one of our Lord's dear children had been comforted in being with us. It would have been truly grateful to have had thee a longer time with us, and we hope thy next visit may be less brief. By the way, dear, as I love frankness, I am going to tell thee what I have thought in reading thy note. It seemed to me thy proposal 'to spend a day' with us was made under a little feeling something like this: 'Well, after all, I am not quite certain I shall be an acceptable visitor.' I can only say that it is no surprise to me that thou shouldst be beset with such a temptation, but set a strong guard against this entrance to thy heart, lest the adversary poison all the springs of comfort. I want thee to rise above the suspicions which are so naturally aroused. They are among the subtle devices of Satan, by which he alienates us from Jesus, and makes us go mourning on our way with the language in our hearts: 'Is there not a cause?'" Angelina adds:-- "MY DEAR SARAH,--I can fully unite with my precious sister in all she has said relative to thy late visit to us. Theodore and I both felt surprised and disappointed that thou proposedst spending but one day with us when we had expected a visit of a week. It was indeed a comfort to receive such a letter from thee, dear, and yet there was much of pain mingled in the feeling. Thou thankest us for our 'Christian conduct.' In what did it consist? In receiving and treating thee as an equal, a sister beloved in the Lord? Oh, how humbling to receive such thanks! What a crowd of reflections throng the mind as we inquire, _Why_ does her full heart thus overflow with gratitude? Yes, how irresistibly are we led to contemplate the woes which iron-hearted prejudice inflicts on the oppressed of our land, the hidden sorrows they endure--the full cup of bitterness which is wrung out to them by the hands of professed followers of Him who is no respecter of persons. And oh, how these reflections ought to lead us to labor and to pray that the time may soon come when thou canst no longer write _such_ a letter! The Lord in his mercy has made our little household _one_ in sentiment on this subject, and we know we have been blessed in the exercise of those Christian feelings which He hath taught us to cherish, not only towards the outraged people of color, but towards that large class of individuals who serve in families, and are, at the same time, almost completely separated from human society and sympathy so far as their employers are concerned. "Let me tell thee, dear Sarah, how much good it did me to find that thy visit had made thee love my precious husband as a brother, and afforded thee an opportunity to _feel_ what manner of spirit is his. Now I greatly want thy dear mother to know him too, and cannot but believe she will come and visit us next summer." The gratitude of Sarah Douglass for the reception given her at Fort Lee was not surprising, considering how different such kindness was from the treatment she and her excellent mother had always received from the Society of Friends, of which they were members. Scarcely anything more damaging to the Christian spirit of the Society can be found than the testimony of this mother and daughter, which Sarah Grimké obtained and wrote out, but, I believe, never published. Before his marriage, Mr. Weld lodged, on principle, in a colored family in New York, even submitting to the inconvenience of having no heat in his room in winter, and bearing with singular charity and patience what Sarah calls the sanctimonious pride and Pharisaical aristocracy of his hosts. He, also, and the sisters when they were in the city, attended a colored church, which, however, became to Sarah, at least, a place of such "spiritual famine" that she gave up going. In the winter of 1839-40, when it became necessary to have more help in the household, a colored woman, Betsy Dawson by name, was sent for. She had been a slave in Colonel Grimké's family, and, falling to the share of Mrs. Frost when the estate was settled up, was by her emancipated. She was received into the family at Fort Lee as a friend, and so treated in every respect. Sarah expresses the pleasure it was to have one as a helper who knew and loved them all, and adds: "Besides I cannot tell thee how thankful we are that our heavenly Father has put it in our power to have one who was once a slave in our family to sit at our table and be with us as a sister cherished, to place her on an entire equality with, us in social intercourse, and do all we can to show her we feel for her as we, under like circumstances, would desire her to feel for us. I don't know what M.C. [a friend from New York] thought of our having her at table and in our parlor just like one of ourselves." Some time later, Angelina writes of another of the family slaves, Stephen, to whom they gave a home, putting him to do the cooking, lest, being unaccustomed to a Northern climate, he should suffer by exposure to outdoor work. He proved an eyesore in every way, but they retained him as long as it was possible to do so, and bore with him patiently, as no one else would have him. Mrs. Weld frequently allowed him to hire out for four or five hours a day to husk corn, etc., and was glad to give him this opportunity to earn something extra while she did his work at home. In short, wherever and whenever they could testify to their convictions of duty on this point, it was done unhesitatingly and zealously, without fear or favor of any man. We might consider the incidents I have related, and a dozen similar ones I could give, as evidence only of a desire to perform a religious duty, to manifest obedience to the command to do as they would be done by, while beneath still lay the bias of early training sustained by the almost universal feeling concerning the inferiority of the negro race. With people of such pure religious dedication, and such exalted views, it was perhaps not difficult to treat their ex-slaves as human beings, and the fact that they did so may not excite much wonder. But there came a time, then far in their future, when the sincerity of their convictions upon this matter of prejudice was most triumphantly vindicated. Such a vindication even they, with all their knowledge of the hidden evils of slavery, never dreamed could ever be required of _them_, but the manner in which they met the tremendous test was the crowning glory of their lives. In all the biographies I have read, such a manifestation of the spirit of Jesus Christ does not appear. This will be narrated in its proper place. Happy as the sisters were in their home, it must not be supposed that they had settled down to a life of ease and contented privacy, abandoning altogether the great work of their lives. Far from it. The time economized from household duties was devoted chiefly to private labor for the cause, from the public advocacy of which they felt they had only stepped aside for a time. Neither had any idea that this public work was over. Angelina writes to her friend in England soon after her marriage:-- "I cannot tell thee how I love this private life--how I have thanked my heavenly Father for this respite from public labor, or how earnestly I have prayed that whilst I am thus dwelling at ease I may not forget the captives of my land, or be unwilling to go forth again on the high places of the field, to combat the giant sin of Slavery with the smooth stones of the river of Truth, if called to do so by Him who put me forth and went before me in days that are past. My dear Theodore entertains the noblest views of the rights and responsibilities of woman, and will never lay a straw in the way of my lecturing. He has many times strengthened my hands in the work, and often tenderly admonished me to keep my eye upon my great Leader, and my heart in a state of readiness to go forth whenever I am called out. I humbly trust I may, but as earnestly desire to be preserved from going before I hear a voice saying unto me, 'This is the way, walk in it, and I will be thy shield and thy buckler.' This was the promise which was given me before, and how faithfully it was fulfilled, my soul knoweth right well." Sarah too, writes to Sarah Douglass-- "I have thought much of my present situation, laid aside from active service, but I see no pointing of the divine finger to go forth, and I believe the present dispensation of rest has been granted to us not only as a reward for past faithfulness, but as a means of personal advancement in holiness, a time of deep searching of heart, when the soul may contemplate itself, and seek nearer and fuller and higher communion with its God." And again she says:-- "It is true my nature shrinks from public work, but whenever the mandate goes forth to declare on the housetops that which I have heard in the ear, I shall not dare to hold back. I conclude that whenever my Father needs my services, He will prepare me to obey the call by exercise of mind." In the meanwhile Sarah finished and published a most important contribution to the arguments on the woman's rights subject. This was a small volume of letters on the "Equality of the Sexes," commenced during her lecturing tour, and addressed to Mary S. Parker, president of the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society. Written in a gentle, reverent spirit, but clothed in Sarah's usual forcible language, they not only greatly aided the cause which lay so near her heart, but relieved and strengthened many tender consciences by their strong arguments. An extract or two from a letter written to Sarah by Angelina and Theodore early in the autumn of 1838 will show the tender relations existing between these three, and which continued undisturbed by all the changes and trials of succeeding years. In September, Sarah went to Philadelphia to attend the Annual Anti-Slavery Convention. Angelina writes to her a few days after her departure:-- "We have just come up from our evening meal, my beloved sister, and are sitting in our little study for a while before taking our moonlight ramble on the river bank. After thou left us, I cleared up the dishes, and then swept the house; got down to the kitchen just in time for dinner, which, though eaten alone, was, I must confess, very much relished, for exercise gives a good appetite, thou knowest. I then set my beans to boil whilst I dusted, and was upstairs waiting, ready dressed, for the sound of the 'Echo's' piston. Soon I heard it, and blew my whistle, which was _not_ responded to, and I began to fear my Theodore was not on board. But I blew again, and the glad response came merrily over the water, and I thought I saw him. In a little while he came, and gave me all your parting messages. On Second Day the weather was almost cold, and we were glad to take a run at noon up the Palisades and sun ourselves on the rock at the first opening. Returning, we gathered some field beans, and some apples for stewing, as our fruit was nearly out. In the evening it was so cool that we thought a fire would be more comfortable, so we sat in the kitchen, paring apples, shelling beans, and talking over the Bible argument;[8] and, as we had a fire, I thought we had better stew the apples at once. This was done to save time the next day, but I burnt them sadly. However, thou knowest they were just as nice to our Theodore, who _never_ complains of anything. Third Day evening we took a walk up the Palisades. The moon shone most beautifully, throwing her mantle of light all abroad over the blue arch of heaven, the gently flowing river, and the woods and vales around us. I could not help thinking, if earth was so lovely and bright, what must be the glories of that upper Temple which needeth not the light of the sun or of the moon. O sister, shall we ever wash our robes so white in the blood of the Lamb as to be clean enough to enter that pure and holy Temple of the Most High? We returned to our dear little home, and went to bed by the lamp of heaven; for we needed no other, so brightly did she shine through our windows. We remembered thee, dear sister, in our little seasons of prayer at the opening and closing of each day. We pray the Lord to bring thee back to us in the fulness of the blessing of the Gospel of peace, and to make our house a _home_ to thy weary, tossed, afflicted spirit. We feel it a great blessing to have thee under our roof. Thy room looks very desolate; for, though the sun shines brightly in it, I find, after all, _thou_ art the light of it." [8] This was the argument which Angelina heard Mr. Weld make before the A.S. Convention in New York two years before, and which was afterwards published by the A.A.S. Society. He was now revising it for a new edition. It made many converts to emancipation. Among them was the Rev. Dr. Brisbane of South Carolina, a slave-owner, who, after reading it, sat down to answer and refute it; but, before proceeding half way, he became convinced that he was wrong, and Weld right. Acting upon this conviction, he freed his slaves, went to Cincinnati, joined the abolition ranks, and became one of their most eloquent advocates. Theodore adds a postscript, addresses Sarah as "My dearly loved sister," and says, "As dear Angy remarks, your room does look so chill and desolate, and your place at table, and your chair in our little morning and evening circle, that we talk about it a dozen times a day. But we rejoice that the Master put it into your heart to go and give your testimony for our poor, suffering brothers and sisters, wailing under bonds, and we pray without ceasing that He who sent will teach, strengthen, and help you greatly to do for Him and the bleeding slave." Debarred from lecturing by the condition of his throat, Mr. Weld was a most untiring worker in the Anti-Slavery office in New York, from which he received a small salary. His time out of office hours was employed in writing for the different anti-slavery papers, and in various editorial duties. Soon after his marriage he began the preparation of a book, which, when issued, produced perhaps a greater sensation throughout the country than anything that had yet been written or spoken. This was, "American Slavery as it is: Testimony of a Thousand Witnesses," a book of two hundred and ten pages, and consisting of a collection of facts relating to the actual condition and treatment of slaves; facts drawn from slaveholders themselves, and from Southern publications. The design was to make the South condemn herself, and never was success more complete. Of all the lists of crimes, all the records of abominations, of moral depravity, of marvellous inhumanity, of utter insensibility to the commonest instincts of nature, the civilized world has never read anything equal to it. Placed by the side of Fox's "Book of Martyrs," it outrivals it in all its revolting characters, and calls up the burning blush of shame for our country and its boasted Christian civilization. Notwithstanding all that had been written on the subject, the public was still comparatively ignorant of the sufferings of the slaves, and the barbarities inflicted upon them. Mr. Weld thought the state of the abolition cause demanded a work which would not only prove by argument that slavery and cruelty were inseparable, but which would contain a mass of incontrovertible facts, that would exhibit the horrid brutality of the system. Nearly all the papers, most of them of recent date, from which the extracts were taken, were deposited at the office of the American Anti-Slavery Society in New York, and all who thought the atrocities described in Weld's book were incredible, were invited to call and examine for themselves. This book was the most effective answer ever given to the appeal made against free discussion, based on the Southampton massacre. It was, in fact, an offset of the horrors of that bloody affair, giving, as it did, a picture of the deeper horrors of slavery. It was the first adequate disclosure of this "bloodiest picture in the book of time," which had yet been made, and all who read it felt that, fearful as was the Virginia tragedy, the system which provoked it included many things far worse, and demanded investigation and discussion. Issued in pamphlet form, the "Testimony of a Thousand Witnesses," was extensively circulated over the country, and most advantageously used by anti-slavery lecturers and advocates; and it is not too much to say that by awakening the humanity and pride of the people to end this national disgrace, it made much easier the formation of the anti-slavery political party. In the preparation of this work, Mr. Weld received invaluable assistance from his wife and sister. Not only was the testimony of their personal observation and experience given over their own names, but many files of Southern papers were industriously examined for such facts as were needed, and which Mr. Weld arranged. Early in January, 1839, Sarah writes:-- "I do not think we ever labored more assiduously for the slave than we have done this fall and winter, and, although our work is of the kind that may be privately performed, yet we find the same holy peace in doing it which we found in the public advocacy of the cause." Referring a little later to this work, she says: "We have been almost too busy to look out on the beautiful winter landscape, and have been wrought up by our daily researches almost to a frenzy of justice, intolerance, and enthusiasm to crush the viper that is eating out the vitals of the nation. Oh, what a blessed privilege to be engaged in labor for the oppressed! We often think, if the slaves are never emancipated, we are richly rewarded by the hallowed influence of abolition principles on our own hearts." In a recent letter to me, Mr. Weld makes some interesting statements respecting this work. I will give them in his own words:-- "The fact is, those dear souls spent six months, averaging more than six hours a day, in searching through thousands upon thousands of Southern newspapers, marking and cutting out facts of slave-holding disclosures for the book. I engaged of the Superintendent of the New York Commercial Reading-Room all his papers published in our Southern States and Territories. These, after remaining upon the files one month, were taken off and sold. Thus was gathered the raw material for the manufacture of 'Slavery As It Is.' After the work was finished, we were curious to know how many newspapers had been examined. So we went up to our attic and took an inventory of bundles, as they were packed heap upon heap. When our count had reached _twenty thousand_ newspapers, we said: 'There, let that suffice.' Though the book had in it many thousand facts thus authenticated by the slave-holders themselves, yet it contained but a tiny fraction of the nameless atrocities gathered from the papers examined." Besides this absorbing occupation, the sisters busied themselves that winter getting up a petition to Congress for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia, and walked many miles, day after day, to obtain signatures, meeting with patience, humility, and sweetness the frequent rebuffs of the rude and the ignorant, feeling only pity for them, and gratitude to God who had touched and softened their own hearts and enlightened their minds. They received repeated invitations from the different anti-slavery organizations to again enter the lecture field, and great disappointment was felt by all who had once listened to them that they should have retired from public work. Sarah speaks of attending "meeting," as, from habit, she called it, and doubtless they all went regularly, as Mr. Weld was a communicant of the Presbyterian Church, and Mrs. Weld and Sarah were still sound on all the fundamental points of Christian doctrine. During some portion of every Sunday, Mrs. Weld was in the habit of visiting among the very poor, white and colored, and preaching to them the Gospel of peace and good will. In her peculiarly tender and persuasive way, she opened to those unhappy and benighted souls the promises and hopes which supported her, and lavished upon them the treasures of an eloquence that thousands had and would still have crowded to listen to. There were none to applaud in those sorrowful abodes, but her words of courage and consolation lifted many a despondent heart from the depths, while her own faith in the love and mercy of her heavenly Father brought confidence and comfort to many a benumbed and wavering soul. In December, 1839, the happiness of the little household was increased by the birth of a son, who received the name of Charles Stuart, in loving remembrance of the eminent English philanthropist, with whom Mr. Weld had been as a brother, and whom he regarded as living as near the angels as mortal man could live. The advent of this child was not only an inexpressible blessing to the affectionate hearts of the father and mother, but to Sarah it seemed truly a mark of divine love to her, compensating her for the home ties and affections once so nearly within her grasp, and still often mourned for. She describes her feelings as she pressed the infant in her arms and folded him to her breast as a rhapsody of wild delight. "Oh, the ecstacy and the gratitude!" she exclaimed: "How I opened the little blanket and peeped in to gaze, with swimming eyes, at my treasure, and looked upon that face forever so dear!" For months before the birth of her child, Mrs. Weld had read carefully different authors on the treatment of children, and felt herself prepared at every point with the best theories derived from Combes' "Physiological and Moral Management of Infancy," and kindred works. It is rather amusing to read how systematically this baby was trained, and how little he appreciated all the wise theories; how he protested against going to sleep by rule; how he wouldn't be bathed in cold water; how he was fed, a tablespoonful at a time, five times during the twenty-four hours,--at 8, 12, 4, 8, and 3 in the morning; how his fretting at last induced his Aunt Sarah to take the responsibility of giving him a little license with his bottle, when, horrified at his gluttony, she was, at the same time, convinced that the child had been slowly starving ever since his birth. Allowed more indulgence in food, he soon stopped fretting, and became a healthy, lively baby. Angelina, writing to a friend, speaks of the blessed influence the child was exerting over them all. "The idea," she says, "of a baby exercising moral influence never came into my mind until I felt its power on my own heart. I used to think all a parent's reward for early care and anxiety was reaped in after-life, save the enjoyment of an infant as a pretty plaything. But the Lord has taught me differently, and woe be unto me if I do not profit by the instructions of this little teacher sent from God." It was about this time that the injury referred to in the last chapter was received, which frustrated all Angelina's hopes and plans for continued public service for the slave, and condemned her, with all her rare intellectual gifts, to a quiet life. The sweet submission with which she bore this trial proved how great was the peace which possessed her soul, and kept her ready for whatever it seemed good for the Father to send her. Henceforth, shut out from the praises and plaudits of men, in her own home, among her neighbors and among the poor and afflicted, quietly and unobtrusively she fulfilled every law of love and duty. And though during the remainder of her life she was subject to frequent weakness and intense pain, all was borne with such fortitude and patience that only her husband and sister knew that she suffered. In the latter part of February, 1840, Mr. Weld, having purchased a farm of fifty acres at Belleville, New Jersey, removed his family there. Angelina, announcing the change to Jane Smith, says:-- "Yes, we have left the sweet little village of Fort Lee, a spot never to be forgotten by me as the place where my Theodore and I first lived together, and the birthplace of my darling babe, the scene of my happiest days. There, too, my precious sister ministered with untiring faithfulness to my wants when sick, and there, too, I welcomed _thee_ for the first time under my roof." To their new home they brought the simplicity of living to which they had adhered in their old one, a simplicity which, with their more commodious house, enabled them to exercise the broad hospitality which they had been obliged to deny themselves in a measure at Fort Lee. All the good deeds done under this sacred name of hospitality during their fourteen years' residence at Belleville can never be known. Few ever so diligently sought, or so cheerfully accepted, opportunities for the exercise of every good word and work. Scarcely a day passed that they did not feel called upon to make some sacrifice of comfort or convenience for the comfort or convenience of others; and more than once the sacrifice involved the risk of health and life. But in true humility and with an unwavering trust in God, they looked away from themselves and beyond ordinary considerations. One of their first acts, after their removal, was to take back to their service the incompetent Stephen whom they had been forced to discharge from Fort Lee, and who had lived a precarious life afterwards. They gave him work on the farm, paid him the usual wages, and patiently endeavored to correct his faults. A young nephew in delicate health was also added to their household; and, a few months later, Angelina having heard that an old friend and her daughter in Charleston were in pecuniary distress and feeble health, wrote and offered them a home with her for a year. "They have no means of support, and are anxious to leave Carolina," wrote Angelina to Jane Smith; "we will keep them until their health is recruited, their minds rested, and some situation found for them where they can earn their own living. We know not," she adds, "whom else the Lord may send us, and only pray Him to help us to fulfil His will towards all whose lot may be cast among us." The visitors to the Belleville farm--chiefly old and new anti-slavery friends--were numerous, and were always received with a cordiality which left no room to doubt its sincerity. At one time they received into their family a poor young man from Jamaica, personally a stranger, but of whose labors as a self-appointed missionary among the recently emancipated slaves of the West Indies they had heard. He had labored for three years, supporting himself as he could, until he was utterly broken down in health, when he came back to die. His friendless situation appealed to the warmest sympathy of the Welds, and he was brought to their hospitable home. The pleasantest room in the house was given to him, and every attention bestowed upon him, until death came to his relief. The people of their neighborhood soon learned to know where they could confidently turn for help in any kind of distress. It would be difficult to tell the number of times that one or the other of the great-hearted trio responded to the summons from a sick or dying bed, and gave without stint of their sympathy, their time, and their labor. Once, following only her own conviction of duty, Angelina left her home to go and nurse a wretched colored man and his wife, ill with small-pox and abandoned by everyone. She stayed with them night and day until they were so far recovered as to be able to help themselves. What a picture is this! That humble cabin with its miserable occupants--and they negroes--ill with a loathsome disease, suffering, praying for help, but deserted by neighbors and friends. Suddenly a fair, delicate face bends over them; a sweet, low voice bids them be comforted, and gentle hands lift the cooling draught to their parched lips, bathe their fevered brows, make comfortable their poor bed, and then, angel as she appears to them, stations herself beside them, to minister to them like the true sister of mercy she was. In this action, we may well suppose, Angelina was not encouraged by her husband or sister, but it was a sacred principle with them never to oppose anything which she conscientiously saw it was her duty to do. When this appeared to her so plain that she felt she could not hold back from it, they committed her to the Lord, and left their doubts and anxieties with Him. She never shrank from the meanest offices to the sick and suffering, though their performance might be followed, as was often the case, by faintness and nausea. She would return home exhausted, but cheerful, and grateful that she had been able to help "one of God's suffering children." In other ways the members of this united household were diligent in good works. If a neighbor required a few hundred dollars to save the foreclosure of a mortgage, the combined resources of the family were taxed to aid him; if a poor student needed a helping hand in his preparation for college, or for teaching, it was gladly extended to him--perhaps his board and lodging given him for six months or a year--with much valuable instruction thrown in. The instances of charity of this kind were many, and were performed with such a cheerful spirit that Sarah only incidentally alludes to the increase of their cares and work at such times. In fact, their roof was ever a shelter for the homeless, a home for the friendless; and it is pleasant to record that the return of ingratitude, so often made for benevolence of this kind, was never their portion. They always seem to have had the sweet satisfaction of knowing, sooner or later, that their kindness was not thrown away or under-estimated. Besides the work of the farm, Mr. Weld interested himself in all the local affairs of his neighborhood. His energy, common sense, and enthusiasm pushed forward many a lagging improvement, while the influence of his moral and intellectual views was felt in every household. He taught the young men temperance, and the dignity of honest labor; to the young women he preached self-reliance, contempt for the frivolities of fashion, and the duty of making themselves independent. He became superintendent of the public schools of the township, and gave to them his warmest and most active services. Sarah, although always ready to second Angelina in every charity, found her chief employment at home. She relieved her sister almost entirely of the care of the children, for in the course of years two more little ones were given to them, and she lessened the expenses by attending to household work, which would otherwise have called for another servant. After a short time, Mr. Weld's father, mother, sister, and brother, all invalids, came to live near them, claiming much of their sympathy and their care. Their niece also, the daughter of Mrs. Frost, now married, and the mother of children, took up her residence in the neighborhood, and Aunt Sai, as the children called her, and as almost every one else came, in time, to call her, found even fuller occupation for heart and hands. Her love for children was intense, and she had the rare faculty of being able to bring her intelligence down to theirs. Angelina's children were literally as her own, on whom she ever bestowed the tenderest care, and with whose welfare her holiest affections were intertwined. She often speaks of loving them with "all but a mother's love," of having them "enshrined in her heart of hearts," of "receiving through them the only cordial that could have raised a heart bowed by sorrow and crushing memories." In one of her letters she says: "I live for Theodore and Angelina and the children, those blessed comforters to my poor, sad heart," and, during an absence from home, she writes to Angelina:-- "I have enjoyed being with my friends: still there is a longing, a yearning after my children. I miss the sight of those dear faces, the sound of those voices that comes like music to my ears." In a letter to Sarah Douglass, written towards the close of their residence in Belleville, she says:--- "In our precious children my desolate heart found a sweet response to its love. They have saved me from I know not what of horrible despair, or rushing into some new and untried and unsanctified effort to let off the fire that consumed me. Crushed, mutilated, torn, they comforted and cheered me, and furnished me with objects of interest which drew me from myself. I feel that they were the gift of a pitying Father, and that to love and cherish them is my highest manifestation of love to the Giver." As the children grew, the parents began to feel the difficulty of educating them properly without other companions, and it was at last decided to take a few children into the family to be instructed with their own. This was the beginning of another important chapter in their lives. As educators Mr. and Mrs. Weld very soon developed such rare ability, that although they had thought of limiting the number of pupils to two or three, so many were pressed upon them, with such good reasons for their acceptance, that the two or three became a dozen, and were with difficulty kept at that figure. In this new life their trials were many, their labor great, and the pecuniary compensation exceedingly moderate; but it is inspiring to read from Sarah the accounts of Theodore's courage--"always ready to take the heaviest end of every burden," and of Angelina's cheerfulness; and from Angelina the frequent testimony to Sarah's patience and fidelity. It took this dear Aunt Sai many years to learn to like teaching, especially as she never had any talent for governing, save by love, and this method was not always appreciated. With their new and exacting work, the farm, of course, had to be given up, and was finally sold. In 1852 the Raritan Bay Association, consisting of thirty or forty educated and cultured families of congenial tastes, was formed at Eagleswood, near Perth Amboy, New Jersey; and a year later Mr. and Mrs. Weld were invited to join the Association, and take charge of its educational department. They accepted in the hope of finding in the change greater social advantages for themselves and their children, with less responsibility and less labor; for of these last the husband, wife, and sister, in their Belleville school, had had more than they were physically able to endure longer. Their desire and plan was to establish, with the children of the residents at Eagleswood, a school also for others, and to charge such a moderate compensation only as would enable the middle classes to profit by it. In this project, as with every other, no selfish ambition found a place. They removed to Eagleswood in the autumn of 1854. And now, as I am nearing the end of my narrative, this seems to be the place to say a few words relative to the religious views into which the two sisters finally settled. We have followed them through their various conflicts from early youth to mature age, and have seen in their several changes of belief that there was no fickleness, no real inconsistency. They sought the truth, and at different times thought they had found it. But it was the truth as taught in Christ Jesus, the simple doctrine of the Cross they wanted, the preaching and practice of love for God, and for the meanest, the weakest, the lowest of His children. The spiritual conflicts through which they passed, prepared them to see the nothingness of all outward forms, and they came at last to reject the so-called orthodox creed, and to look only to God for help and comfort. During the entire period of Sarah's connection with religious organizations, and even from her very first religious impressions, she found it difficult to accept the doctrine of the Atonement; and yet she professed and tried to think she believed it, but only because the Bible, which she accepted as a revelation from God, taught it. That her reason rebelled against it is shown in her frequent prayers to be delivered from this great temptation of the arch enemy, and her deep repentance whenever she lapsed into a state of doubt. The fear that she might come to reject this fundamental dogma was--at least up to the time when she was driven from the Quaker Church--one of her most terrible trials, causing her at intervals more agony than all else put together. But the worshipful element was so strong in Sarah that she could not, even after her reason had satisfied her conscience on this point, give up this Christ at whose feet she had learned her most precious lessons of faith and meekness and gentleness and long-suffering, and whom she had accepted and adored as her intermediary before an awful Jehovah. In her whole life there appears to me nothing more beautiful than this full, tender, abiding love of Jesus, and I believe it to have been the inspiration always of all that was loveliest and grandest in her character. In one of her letters, written while at Belleville, she says:-- "I cannot grasp the idea of an Infinite Being; but, without perplexing myself with questions which I cannot solve, everything around me proclaims the presence and the government of an intelligent, law-abiding Law-giver, and I believe implicitly in his power and his love. But I must have the Friend of sinners to rest in." And again: "In one sense, as Creator and Benefactor, I feel this Infinite Being to be my Father, but I want a Jesus whom I can approach as a fellow creature, yet who is so nearly allied to God that I can look up to Him with reverence, and love Him and lie in His bosom." And later, in a letter to Gerrit Smith, she says:-- "God is love, and whoso dwelleth in love dwelleth in God and God in him. O friends, but for this faith, this anchor to the soul both sure and steadfast, I know not what would have become of us in the sweep which there has been of what we called the doctrines of Christianity from our minds. They have passed away like the shadows of night, but the glorious truth remains that the Lord of love and mercy reigns, and great peace have they who do His will." Their increasingly liberal views, and their growing indifference to most of the established forms in religion, drew upon them the severe censure of their Charleston relatives, and finally, when, about 1847, it came to be known that they no longer considered the Sabbath in a sacred light, their sister Eliza wrote to them that all personal intercourse must end between them and her, and that her doors would be forever closed against them. Angelina's answer, covering four full pages of foolscap, was most affectionate; but, while she expressed her sorrow at the feeling excited against them, she could not regret that they had been brought from error to truth. She argued the point fully, patiently giving all the best authorities concerning the substitution of the Christian for the Jewish Sabbath, and against their sister's assertion that the former was a divine institution. "When I began to understand," she says, "what the gift of the Holy Spirit really was, then all outwardisms fell off. I did not throw them off through force of argument or example of others, but all reverence for them died in my heart. I could not help it; it was unexpected to me, and I wondered to find even the Sabbath gone. And now, to give to God alone the ceaseless worship of my life is all my creed, all my desire. Oh, for this pure, exalted state, how my soul pants after it! In my nursery and kitchen and parlor, when ministering to the common little wants of my family, and encountering the fretfulness and waywardness of my children, oh, for the pure worship of the soul which can enable me to meet and bear all the _little_ trials of life in quietness and love and patience. This is the religion of Christ, and I feel that no other can satisfy me or meet the wants of human nature. I cannot sanction any other, and I dare not teach any other to my precious children." Thus it came to pass with them and with Theodore also, that to love Jesus more, and to follow more and more after him, became the sum of their religion. With increasing years and wider experiences, their views broadened into the most comprehensive liberality, but the high worship of an infinite God, and the sweet reverence for his purest disciple never left them. CHAPTER XVII. In a letter to Dr. Harriot Hunt, Sarah Grimké thus describes Eagleswood:-- "It was a most enchanting spot. Situated on the Raritan Bay and River, just twenty-five miles from New York, and sixty miles from Philadelphia, in sight of the beautiful lower bay and of the dark Neversink Hills, all its surroundings appeal to my sense of the beautiful. In rambles through the woods or along the shore, new charms are constantly presented. The ever-varying face of the bay alone is a source of ceaseless enjoyment, and with the sound of its waves, sometimes dashing impetuously, sometimes murmuring softly, the eye, the ear, and the soul are filled with wonder and delight." In this beautiful spot a commodious stone building was erected, suitable for association purposes. One end was divided into flats for a limited number of families; the other into school-rooms, dormitories, and parlors for social uses, while the centre contained the refectory for pupils and teachers, of whom there was an efficient corps, and dining-rooms for the other residents and their visitors. Several families of intelligence and culture resided in the immediate neighborhood, adding much to the social life of the place. All who were so fortunate as to be members of the Eagleswood family during Mr. Weld's administration must often look back with the keenest pleasure to the days passed there. It seems to me there can never be such a centre to such a circle as the Welds drew around them. Here gathered, at different times, many of the best, the brightest, the broadest minds of the day. Here came James G. Birney, Wm. H. Channing, Henry W. Bellows, O.B. Frothingham, Dr. Chapin, Wm. H. Furness, Wm. Cullen Bryant, the Collyers, Horace Greeley, Gerrit Smith, Moncure D. Conway, James Freeman Clarke, Joshua R. Giddings, Youmans, and a host of others whose names were known throughout the land. Here, too, came artists and poets for a few days' inspiration, and weary men of business for a little rest and intellectual refreshment, and leaders of reform movements, attracted by the liberal atmosphere of the place. Nearly all of these, invited by Mr. Weld, gave to the pupils and their families and friends, assembled in the parlors, something of themselves,--some personal experience, perhaps, or a lecture or short essay, or an insight into their own especial work and how it was done. The amount of pleasant and profitable instruction thus imparted was incalculable; while the after discussions and conversation were as enjoyable as might be expected from the friction of such minds. Seldom, if ever, in the famous _salons_ of Europe were better things said or higher topics treated than in the Eagleswood parlors. All the rights and wrongs of humanity received here earnest consideration; while questions of general interest, politics, religion, the arts and sciences, even the last new novel or poem, had each its turn. Thoreau, also, spent many days at Eagleswood, and spoke often to the pupils; and A. Bronson Alcott gave them a series of his familiar lectures. Here, on Sundays, Theodore D. Weld delivered lay sermons, so full of divine light and love, of precious lessons of contempt for all littleness, of patience with the weaknesses of our fellow-men, that few could listen without being inspired with higher and holier purposes in life. Here James G. Birney died, in 1857, and was buried in the beautiful little cemetery on the crest of the hill. Here were brought and interred the bodies of Stevens and Hazlitt, two of John Brown's mistaken but faithful apostles. Here stirring lessons of patriotism were learned in 1860-61, and from this place went forth, at the first call, some of the truest defenders of the liberties of the nation. At Eagleswood, Mr. Weld and his faithful wife and sister passed some of their most laborious as well as some of their most pleasant and satisfactory years. They did not find the association all or even the half of what they had expected. "We had indulged the delightful hope," writes Sarah, "that Theodore would have no cares outside of the schoolroom, and Angelina would have leisure to pursue her studies and aid in the cause of woman. Her heart is in it, and her talents qualify her for enlarged usefulness. She was no more designed to serve tables than Theodore to dig potatoes. But verily, to use a homely phrase, we have jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire in point of leisure, for there are innumerable sponges here to suck up every spare moment; but dear Nina is a miracle of hope, faith, and endurance." In the new school Angelina taught history, for which she was admirably qualified, while Sarah taught French, and was also book-keeper, both of which offices were distasteful to her because of her conscious incompetency. She did herself great injustice, as the results of her work showed, but it required a great mental struggle to reconcile herself to it in the beginning. "I am driven to it," she says, "by a stern sense of duty. I feel its responsibilities and my own insufficiency so deeply, that I never hear the school bell with pleasure, and seldom enter the schoolroom without a sinking of the heart, a dread as of some approaching catastrophe. Oh, if I had only been developed into usefulness in early life, how much happier I should have been and would be now. From want of training, I am all slip-shod, and all I do, whether learning or teaching, is done slip-shod fashion. However, I must try and use the fag-end of me that is left, to the most advantage." In order to do this, although sixty-one years old, she set earnestly to work to brush up her intellectual powers and qualify herself as far as possible for her position. She took French lessons daily, that she might improve her accent and learn the modern methods of teaching, and for months after she entered the Eagleswood school her reading was confined to such books as could enlighten her most on her especial work. She was rewarded by finding her interest in it constantly increasing, and she would doubtless have learned to love it, if, as she expressed it, her heart, soul, and mind had not been so nearly absorbed by the woman movement. Age and reflection had not only modified her views somewhat on this subject, but had given her a more just appreciation of the real obstacles in the way of the enfranchisement of her sex. Speaking of Horace Mann, she says:-- "He will not help the cause of woman greatly, but his efforts to educate her will do a greater work than he anticipates. Prepare woman for duty and usefulness, and she will laugh at any boundaries man may set for her. She will as naturally fall into her right position as the feather floats in the air, or the pebble sinks in the water." And at another time she writes: "I feel more and more that woman's work is inside, that the great battle must first be fought within, and the conquest obtained over her love of admiration, her vanity, her want of moral courage, her littleness, ere she is prepared to use her rights without abusing them. Women must come into the arena with men, not to increase the number of potsherds, but to elevate the standard of right." Her ideal of womanhood was very high, and comprehended an education so different from the usual one, that she seldom ventured to unfold it. But she longed to do something towards it, and there is no doubt that but for home duties, which she felt were paramount, she would have undertaken a true missionary work of regeneration among women, especially of the lower classes. Many sleepless nights were passed pondering upon the subject. At one time she thought of editing a paper, then of studying law, that she might sometimes be able to advise and protect the weak and defenceless of her sex. She went so far in this as to consult an eminent lawyer in Philadelphia, but was discouraged by him. Then she considered the medical profession as opening to her a door of influence and usefulness among poor women. Sarah Douglass, who was a successful medical lecturer among the colored women of Philadelphia and New York, encouraged her friend in this idea, and urged her to take a course of lectures. "I would dearly like to do as you say," Sarah Grimké answered, "but it must not be in Philadelphia. I cannot draw a long breath there, intellectual or moral. Freedom to live as my conscience dictates, to give free utterance to my thoughts, to have contact with those who are pressing after progress and whose watchword is onward, is needful to me. In Philadelphia there is an atmosphere of repression that would destroy me. Ground to powder as I was, in the mill of bigotry and superstition, I shudder at the thought of encountering again the same suffering I went through there. Indeed, I wonder I was not altogether stultified and dried up beyond the power of revivification, when the spring came to my darkened soul after that long, long winter.... There must be something in this wide, progressive world for me to do, but I must wait patiently to see what the future has in store for me." All this, from a woman in her sixty-second year, shows how fresh was still her interest in humanity, and how little her desires for usefulness and improvement were dampened by age. But Angelina's continued delicate health kept her from carrying out any of her plans. She could see no way of escape consistent with duty and her devotion to the children, and she cheerfully submitted to the inevitable. But she could never bring herself to be satisfied with the Association life. She had had no ideal about it, no golden dreams, but joined it because she could not be separated from those she loved, and, with singular reasoning, she put one thousand dollars into it, because, if there was to be a failure and loss, she wished to share it with her sister and brother. But she had no affinity for living together in a great hotel, and it fretted her much, also, to see Mr. and Mrs. Weld taking constantly increasing burdens upon themselves as the school increased. Her longings, for their sake, for a little quiet home, are very pathetic. But she never allowed her anxieties to affect her intercourse in the household; on the contrary, no one was more full of life and good humor than she. Her favorite maxim was: "Bravely to meet our trials is true heroism; to bear them cheerfully, an exhibition of strength and fortitude infinitely beyond trying to get rid of them." But it is doubtful, after all, if everything else had been favorable to it, that Sarah could have brought herself to leave Angelina and the children. She says herself:-- "A separation from the darling children who have brightened a few years of my lonely and sorrowful life overwhelms me when I think of it as the probable result of any change. They seem to be the links that bind me to life, the stars that shed light on my path, the beings in whom past, present, and future enjoyments are centred, without whom existence would have no charms." All through her letters we see that, though generally cheerful, and often even merry, there were bitter moments in this devoted woman's life, moments when all the affection with which she was surrounded failed to fill the measure of her content. The old wounds would still sometimes bleed and the heart ache for home joys all her own. Writing to Jane Smith in 1852, she says: "I chide myself that I am not happier than I am, surrounded by so many blessings, but there are times when I feel as though the sun of earthly bliss had set for me. I know not what would have become of me but for Angelina's children. They have strewed my solitary path with flowers, and gemmed my sky with stars. My heart has brooded o'er sorrows untold, until life has seemed an awful blank, humanity a cheat, and myself an outcast. Then have come the soft accents of my children's voices, and they have spoken to me so lovingly, that I have turned from my bitter thoughts and have said: 'Forgive thy poor, weak servant, Lord.'" All through Sarah's life, children had a great attraction for her. Even amid her cares and doubts at Eagleswood she writes: "Surrounded by all these dear young people, and drinking in from their exuberance, and scarcely living my own life, I cannot but be cheerful." And describing an evening in the school parlor, when she joined in the Virginia reel, she says: "The children make one feel young if we will only be children with them. I owe them so much that I shall try to be cheerful to the end of my days." And in this school, where boys and girls of all ages and all temperaments mingled, "Aunt Sai" was the great comforter and counsellor. Her inexhaustible tenderness and mother-love blessed all who came near her and soothed all who had a heartache. The weak and erring found in her a frank but pitying rebuker; the earnest and good, a kind friend and wise helper, and a child never feared to go to her either to ask a favor or to confess a fault. At Eagleswood the Welds kept up as far as practicable their frugal habits, though, soon after their establishment, they all modified their Graham diet so far as to take meat once a day. Sarah's economy, especially in trifles, was remarkable, almost as much so as the untiring, almost painful industry of herself and Mrs. Weld. A penny was never knowingly wasted, a minute never willingly lost. Among other thrifty devices, she generally wrote to her friends on the backs of circulars, on blank pages of notes she received, on almost any clean scrap, in fact. Angelina often remonstrated with her, but to no avail. "It gives me a few more pennies for my love purse, and my friends won't mind," she would say. This "love purse" was well named. Into it were cast all her small economies: a car-fare when she walked instead of riding; a few pennies saved by taking a simpler lunch than she had planned, when in New York on business; the ten cents difference in the quality of a cap, ribbon, or a handkerchief,--all these savings were dropped into the love purse, to be drawn out again to buy a new book for some friend too poor to get it herself; to subscribe to a paper for another; to purchase some little gift for a sick child, or a young girl trying to keep up a neat appearance. It was a pair of cuffs to one, mittens or slippers of her own knitting to another, a collar or a ribbon to a third. All through the letters written during the last twenty years of her life, the references to such little gifts are innumerable, and show that her generosity was only equalled by her thoughtfulness, and only limited by her means. Nothing was spent unnecessarily, in the strictest sense of the word, on herself; not a dollar of her narrow income laid by. All went for kindly or charitable objects, and was gladly given without a single selfish twinge. It is scarcely necessary to say that few schools have ever been established upon such a basis of conscientiousness and love, and with such adaptability in its conductors as that at Eagleswood; few have ever held before the pupils so high a moral standard, or urged them on to such noble purposes in life. Children entered there spoiled by indulgence, selfish, uncontrolled, sometimes vicious. Their teachers studied them carefully; confidence was gained, weaknesses sounded, elevation measured. Very slowly often, and with infinite patience and perseverance, but successfully in nearly every case, these children were redeemed. The idle became industrious, the selfish considerate, the disobedient and wayward repentant and gentle. Sometimes the fruits of all this labor and forbearance did not show themselves immediately, and in a few instances the seed sown did not ripen until the boy or girl had left school and mingled with the world. Then the contrast between the common, every-day aims they encountered, and the teachings of their Eagleswood mentors, was forced upon them. Forgotten lessons of truth and honesty and purity were remembered, and the wavering resolve was stayed and strengthened; worldly expediency gave way before the magnanimous purpose, cringing subserviency before independent manliness. The letters of affection, gratitude, and appreciation of what had been done to make true men and women of them, which were received by the Welds, in many cases, years after they had parted from the writers, were treasured as their most precious souvenirs, and quite reconciled them to the trials through which such results were reached. A short time before leaving Belleville, Mrs. Weld and Sarah adopted the Bloomer costume on account of its convenience, and the greater freedom it permitted in taking long rambles, but neither of them ever admired it or urged its adoption on others. Mrs. Weld, it is true, wrote a long and eloquent letter to the Dress Reform Convention which met in Syracuse in the summer of 1857, but it was not to advocate the Bloomer, but to show the need of some dress more suitable than the fashionable one, for work and exercise. She also urged that as woman was no longer in her minority, no longer "man's pretty idol before whom he bowed in chivalric gallantry," or "his petted slave whom he coaxed and gulled with sugar-plum privileges, whilst robbing her of intrinsic rights," but was emerging into her majority and claiming her rights as a human being, and waking up to a higher destiny: as she was beginning to answer the call to a life of useful exertion and honorable independence, it was time that she dressed herself in accordance with the change. "I regard the Bloomer costume," she says, "as only an approach to that true womanly attire which will in due time be inaugurated. We must experiment before we find a dress altogether suitable.... Man has long enough borne the burden of supporting the women of the civilized world. When woman's temple of liberty is finished--when freedom for the world is achieved--when she has educated herself into useful and lucrative occupations, then may she fitly expend upon her person _her own earnings_, not man's. Such women will have an indefeasible right to dress elegantly if they wish, but they will discard cumbersomeness and a useless and absurd circumference and length." Sarah says, in a letter to a friend, that the Bloomer dress violated her taste, and was so opposed to her sense of modesty that she could hardly endure it. During the residence at Eagleswood, both sisters discarded it altogether. The John Brown tragedy was of course deeply felt by Sarah and Angelina, and the bitter and desperate feelings which inspired it fully sympathized with. Angelina was made quite ill by it, while Sarah felt her soul bowed with reverence for the deluded but grand old man. "O Sarah!" she writes to Sarah Douglass, "what a glorious spectacle is now before us. The Jerome of Prague of our country, the John Huss of the United States, now stands ready, as they were, to seal his testimony with his life's blood. Last night I went in spirit to the martyr. It was my privilege to enter into sympathy with him; to go down, according to my measure, into the depths where he has travailed, and feel his past exercises, his present sublime position." As mentioned a few pages back, two of John Brown's men, who died with him at Harper's Ferry, were brought to Eagleswood and there quietly interred. The pro-slavery people of Perth Amboy threatened to dig up the bodies, but the men and boys of Eagleswood showed such a brave front, and guarded the graves so faithfully, that the threat could not be accomplished. The breaking out of the war found the Welds in deep family sorrow, watching anxiously by the sick bed of a dear son, with scarcely a hope of his recovery. Of Sarah's absolute devotion, of her ceaseless care by day, and her tireless watching by night, during the many long and weary months through which that precious life flickered, it is needless to speak. She took the delicate mother's place beside that bed of suffering, and, strong in her faith and hope, gave strength and hope to the heart-stricken parents, sustaining them when they were ready to sink beneath the avalanche of their woe. And when at last, though life was spared, it was evident that the invalid must remain an invalid for a long time, perhaps forever, Sarah's sublime courage stood steadfast. There was no sign of faltering. With a resignation almost cheerful, she took up her fresh burden, and, intent only on cheering her dear patient and comforting the sorrow of her sister and brother, she forgot her seventy-one years and every grief of the past. "I try," she writes, "to accept this, the most grinding and bitter dispensation of my checkered life, as what it must be, educational and disciplinary, working towards a better preparation for a higher life." Chiefly on account of this son and the quiet which was necessary for him, Mr. and Mrs. Weld gave up their position at Eagleswood, to the deep regret of all who knew them and had children to educate. They settled themselves temporarily in a pleasant house in Perth Amboy. Here, between nursing their sick, and working for the soldiers, they watched the progress of events which they had long foreseen were inevitable. Sarah speaks of the war as a retribution. "Hitherto," she says, "we have never been a republic, but one of the blackest tyrannies that ever disgraced the earth." She calls attention to the fact that the South, by starting out with a definite and declared purpose, added much to its strength. "In great revolutions," she says, "confusion in popular ideas is fatal. The South avoided this. She set up one idea as paramount; she seized a great principle and uttered it. She shouted the talismanic words, 'Oppression and Liberty,' and said, 'Let us achieve our purpose or die!' The masses, blinded by falsehood, caught the spirit of the leaders, and verily believe they are struggling for freedom. We have never enunciated any great truth as the cause of our uprising. We have no great idea to rally around, and know not what we are fighting for." Later she expresses herself very strongly concerning the selfishness of the politicians, North and South. "It is true there are some," she writes, "who are waging this war to make our Declaration of Independence a fact; there is a glorious band who are fighting for human rights, but the government, with Lincoln at its head, has not a heart-throb for the slave. I want the South to do her own work of emancipation. She would do it only from dire necessity, but the North will do it from no higher motive, and the South will feel less exasperation if she does it herself." In another letter in 1862, she writes:-- "The negro has generously come forward, in spite of his multiplied wrongs, and offered to help to defend the country against those who are trying to fasten the chains on the white as well as the black. We have impiously denied him the right of citizenship, and have virtually said, 'Stand back; I am holier than thou.' I pray that victory may not crown our arms until the negro stands in his acknowledged manhood side by side in this conflict with the white man, until we have the nobility to say that this war is a war of abolition, and that no concession on the part of the South shall save slavery from destruction. Whatever Lincoln and his Cabinet are carrying on the war to accomplish, God's design is to deliver from bondage his innocent people." About this time Mrs. Weld published one of the most powerful things she ever wrote, "A Declaration of War on Slavery." She and Sarah also drew up a petition to the government for the entire abolition of slavery, and took it around themselves for signatures. Very few refused to sign it; and they were proposing to canvass, by means of agents, the entire North, when the Emancipation Proclamation was issued. With their Charleston relatives, Mrs. Weld and Sarah had always kept up a rather irregular, but, on one side, at least, an affectionate correspondence. Their mother died in 1839, retaining, to the never-ceasing grief of her Northern daughters, her slave-holding principles to the last. The few remaining members of the family were settled in and around Charleston, and were, with one exception, in comfortable circumstances at the beginning of the war. This exception was their brother John, who was infirm, and had outlived his resources and the ability to make a living. For years before the war, Sarah and Angelina sent him from their slender incomes a small annuity, sufficient to keep him from want, and it was continued, at much inconvenience during the war, until his death, which occurred in the latter part of 1863. Their sisters, Mary and Eliza, wrote very proud and defiant letters during the first two years of hostilities, and declared they were secure and happy in their dear old city. But gradually their tone changed, and they did not refuse to receive, through blockade-runners, a variety of necessary articles from their abolition sisters. As their slaves deserted them, and one piece of property after another lost its value or was destroyed, they saw poverty staring them in the face; but their pride sustained them, and it was not until they had lived for nearly a year on little else but hominy and water that they allowed their sisters to know of their condition. But in informing them of it, they still declared their willingness to die "for slavery and the Confederacy." "Blind to the truth," writes Sarah, "they religiously believe that slavery is a divine institution, and say they hope never to be guilty of disbelieving the Bible, and thus rendering themselves amenable to the wrath of God. I am glad," she adds, "to have this lesson of honest blindness. It shows me that thousands like themselves are worshipping a false god of their own creation." Of course relief was sent to these unhappy women as soon as possible; and when hostilities ceased, more than two hundred dollars' worth of necessaries of every kind was despatched to them, with an urgent invitation to come and accept a home at the North. Some time before this, however, the Welds had moved to Hyde Park, near Boston, and were delightfully located, owning their house, and surrounded by kind and congenial neighbors. But much as they all needed entire rest, and well as they had earned it, they could not afford to be idle. Sarah became housekeeper and general manager, while Mr. and Mrs. Weld accepted positions, in Dr. Dio Lewis's famous school at Lexington. They were obliged to leave home every Monday and return on Friday. The Charleston sisters refused for some time to accept the invitation given them; but so delicately and affectionately was it urged, that, goaded by necessity, they finally consented. They made their preparations to leave Charleston; but in the midst of them, the older sister, Mary, who had been very feeble for some time, was taken suddenly ill, and died. Eliza, then, a most sad and desolate woman, as we may well suppose, made the voyage to New York alone. There Sarah met her, and accompanied her to Hyde Park, where she was received with every consideration affection could devise. She seems to have soon made up her mind to make the best of her altered circumstances, and thus show her gratitude to those who had so readily overlooked her past abuse of them. Sarah writes of her in 1866:-- "My sister Eliza is well and so cheerful. She is a sunbeam in the family, but the failure of the Confederacy and the triumph of the 'Yankees' is hard to bear,--the wrong having crushed the right." This sister was tenderly cared for until arrangements were made for her return to Charleston with Mrs. Frost. There she died in 1867. This was only one of the many minor cases of retribution brought about by the Nemesis of the civil war. Sarah mentions another. The sale of lands for government taxes at Beaufort, S.C., was made from the verandah of the Edmond Rhett House, where, more than ten years before, the rebellion was concocted by the very men whose estates then (1866) were passing under the hammer. And the chairman of the tax committee was Dr. Wm. H. Brisbane, who, twenty-five years before, was driven from the State because he would liberate his slaves. Quietly settled in what she felt was a permanent home, and with, no cares outside of her family, Sarah found time not only to read, but to indulge her taste for scribbling, as she called it. She sent, from time to time, articles to the New York _Tribune_, the _Independent_, the _Woman's Journal_, and other papers, all marked by remarkable freshness as well as vigor. She also translated from the French several stories illustrative of various social reforms, and in 1867, being then seventy-five years old, she made a somewhat abridged translation of Lamartine's poetical biography of Joan of Arc. This was Sarah's most finished literary work, and aroused in her great enthusiasm. "Sometimes," she writes, "it seems to infuse into my soul a mite of that divinity which filled hers. Joan of Arc stands pre-eminent in my mind above all other mortals save the Christ." When the book was finished, Sarah was most anxious to get it published, "in order," she writes, "to revive the memory in this country of the extraordinary woman who was an embodiment of faith, courage, fortitude, and love rarely equalled and never excelled." But she had many more pressing demands on her income at that time, and had nearly given up the project, when a gentleman from Lynn called to see her, to whom she read a few pages of the narrative. He was so much pleased with it that he undertook to have it published. It was brought out in a few weeks by Adams & Co., of Boston, in a prettily bound volume of one hundred and six pages, and had, I believe, a large sale. Several long and many short notices of it appeared in papers all over the country, all highly complimentary to the venerable translator. These notices surprised Sarah as much as they delighted her, and she expressed herself as deeply thankful that she had translated the work. A letter from Sarah Grimké to Jane Smith, written in 1850, contains the following paragraph: "We have just heard of the death of our brother Henry, a planter and a kind master. His slaves will feel his loss deeply. They haunt me day and night. Sleeplessness is my portion, thinking what will become of them. Oh, the horrors of slavery!" When she penned those lines, Sarah little imagined how great a mockery was the title, "kind master," she gave her brother. She little suspected that three of those slaves whose uncertain destiny haunted her pillow were that brother's own children, and that he died leaving the shackles on them--slaves to his heir, their white brother, though he _did_ stipulate that they and their mother should never be sold. Well might Sarah exclaim: "Oh, the horrors of slavery!" but in deepest humiliation and anguish of spirit would the words have been uttered had she known the truth. Montague Grimké inherited his brothers with the rest of the human chattels. He knew they were his brothers, and he never thought of freeing them. They were his to use and to abuse,--to treat them kindly if it suited his mood; to whip them if he fancied; to sell them if he should happen to need money,--and they could not raise voice or hand to prevent it. There was no law to which they could appeal, no refuge they could seek from the very worst with which their brother might threaten them. Was ever any creature--brute or human--in the wide world so defenceless as the plantation slave! The forlorn case of these Grimké boys was that of thousands of others born as they were, and inheriting the intelligence and spirit of independence of their white parent. I have little space to give to their pitiful story. Many have doubtless heard it. The younger brother, John, was, at least as a child, more fortunate. When Charleston was at last occupied by the Union army, the two oldest, Francis and Archibald, attracted the attention of some members of the Sanitary Commission by their intelligence and good behavior, and were by them sent to Massachusetts, where some temporary work was found for them. Two vacancies happening to occur in Lincoln University, Oxford, Pennsylvania, they were recommended to fill them. Thither they went in 1866, and, eager and determined to profit by their advantages, they studied so well during the winter months, and worked so diligently to help themselves in the summer, that, in spite of the drawbacks of their past life, they rose to honorable positions in the University, and won the regard of all connected with it. Some time in February, 1868, Mrs. Weld read in the _Anti-Slavery Standard_ a notice of a meeting of a literary society at Lincoln University, at which an address was delivered by one of the students, named Francis Grimké. She was surprised, and as she had never before heard of the university, she made some inquiries about it, and was much interested in what she learned of its object and character. She knew that the name of Grimké was confined to the Charleston family, and naturally came to the conclusion, at first, that this student who had attracted her attention was an ex-slave of one of her brothers, and had, as was frequently done, adopted his master's name. But the circumstance worried her. She could not drive it from her mind. She knew so well that blackest page of slavery on which was written the wrongs of its women, that, dreadful as was the suspicion, it slowly grew upon her that the blood of the Grimkés, the proud descendants of the Huguenots, flowed in the veins of this poor colored student. The agitation into which further reflection on the subject threw her came very near making her ill and finally decided her to learn the truth if possible. She addressed a note to Mr. Francis Grimké. The answer she received confirmed her worst fears. He and his brothers were her nephews. Her nerves already unstrung by the dread of this cruel blow, Angelina fainted when it came, and was completely prostrated for several days. Her husband and sister refrained from disturbing her by a question or a suggestion. Physically stronger than she, they felt the superiority of her spiritual strength, and uncertain, on this most momentous occasion, of their own convictions of duty, they looked to her for the initiative. The silent conflict in the soul of this tender, conscientious woman during those days of prostration was known only to her God. The question of prejudice had no place in it,--that had long and long ago been cast to the winds. It was the fair name of a loved brother that was at stake, and which must be sustained or blighted by her action. "Ask me not," she once wrote to a young person, "if it is expedient to do what you propose: ask yourself if it is _right_." This question now came to her in a shape it had never assumed before, and it was hard to answer. But it was no surprise to her family when she came forth from that chamber of suffering and announced her decision. She would acknowledge those nephews. She would not deepen the brand of shame that had been set upon their brows: hers, rather, the privilege to efface it. Her brother had wronged these, his children; his sisters must right them. No doubt of the duty lingered in her mind. Those youths were her own flesh and blood, and, though the whole world should scoff, she would not deny them. Her decision was accepted by her husband and sister without a murmur of dissent. If either had any doubts of its wisdom, they were never uttered; and, as was always the case with them, having once decided in their own minds a question of duty, they acted upon it in no half-way spirit, and with no stinted measures. In the long letter which Angelina wrote to Francis and Archibald Grimké, and which Theodore Weld and Sarah Grimké fully indorsed, there appeared no trace of doubt or indecision. The general tone was just such in which she might have addressed newly-found legitimate nephews. After telling them that if she had not suspected their relationship to herself, she should probably not have written them, she questions them on various points, showing her desire to be useful to them, and adds, "I want to talk to you face to face, and am thinking seriously of going on to your Commencement in June." A few lines further on she says:-- "I will not dwell on the past: let all that go. It cannot be altered. Our work is in the present, and duty calls upon us now so to use the past as to convert its curse into a blessing. I am glad you have taken the name of Grimké. It was once one of the noblest names of Carolina. You, my young friends, now bear this _once_ honored name. I charge you most solemnly, by your upright conduct and your life-long devotion to the eternal principles of justice and humanity and religion, to lift this name out of the dust where it now lies, and set it once more among the princes of our land." Other letters passed between them until the youths had told all their history, so painful in its details that Angelina, after glancing at it, put it aside, and for months had not the courage to read it. When June came, though far from well, she summoned up strength and resolution to do as she had proposed in the spring. Accompanied by her oldest son, she attended the Lincoln University Commencement, and made the personal acquaintance of Francis and Archibald Grimké. She found them good-looking, intelligent, and gentlemanly young men; and she took them by the hand, and, to president and professors, acknowledged their claim upon her. She also invited them to visit her at her home, assuring them of a kind reception from every member of her family. She remained a week at Lincoln University, going over with these young men all the details of their treatment by their brother Montague, and of the treatment of the slaves in all the Grimké families. These details brought back freshly to her mind the horrors which had haunted her life in Charleston, and she lived them all over again, even in her dreams. She had been miserably weak and worn for some time before going to Lincoln; and the mental distress she now went through affected her nervous system to such an extent that there is no doubt her life was shortened by it. The hearty concurrence of every member of the family in the course resolved on towards the nephews shows how united they were in moral sentiment as well as in affection. There was not the slightest hesitancy exhibited. The point touching her brother's shame thrust in the background by the conviction of a higher duty, Mrs. Weld allowed it to trouble her no more, but, with her husband and sister, expressed a feeling of exultation in acknowledging the relationship of the youths, as a testimony and protest against the wickedness of that hate which had always trampled down the people of color because they were as God made them. On Angelina's return journey, Sarah, ever anxious about her, met her at Newark and accompanied her home. A few weeks later, writing to Sarah Douglass an account of the Grimké boys, she says:-- "They are very promising young men. We all feel deeply interested in them, and I hope to be able to get together money enough to pay the college expenses of the younger. I would rejoice to meet these entirely myself, but, not having the means, I intend to try and collect it somehow. Angelina has not yet recovered from the effects of her journey and the excitement of seeing and talking to those boys, the president, etc. When I met her she was so exhausted and excited that I felt very anxious, and when I found her brain and sight were so disordered that she could not see distinctly, even striking her head several times severely, and that she could not read, I was indeed alarmed. But, notwithstanding all she had suffered, she has not for a moment regretted that she went. She feels that a sacred duty has been performed, and rejoices that she had strength for it." A few weeks later, she writes: "Nina is about and always busy, often working when she seems ready to drop, sustained by her nervous energy and irresistible will. She has kept up wonderfully under our last painful trial, and has borne it so beautifully that I am afraid she is getting too good to live." I have no right to say that Angelina Weld suffered martyrdom in every fibre of her proud, sensitive nature during all the first months at least of this trial; but I cannot but believe it. She never spoke of her own feelings to any one but her husband; but Sarah writes to Sarah Douglass in August, 1869:-- "My cheerful spirit has been sorely tested for some months. Nina has been sick all summer, is a mere skeleton and looks ten or fifteen years older than she did before that fatal visit to Lincoln University. I do not think that she will ever be the same woman she was before and sometimes I feel sure her toilsome journey on this earth must be near its close. The tears will come whenever I think of it." But not so! the sisters were to work hand in hand a few years longer; the younger, in her patient suffering, leaning with filial love on the stronger arm of the older, both now gray-haired and beginning to feel the infirmities of age, but still devoted to each other and united in sympathy with every good and progressive movement. The duty, as they conceived it, to their colored nephews was as generously as conscientiously performed. They received them into the family, treated them in every respect as relatives, and exerted themselves to aid them in finishing their education. Francis studied for the ministry, and is now pastor of the 15th Street Presbyterian Church of Washington city. Archibald, through Sarah's exertions and self-denial, took the law course at Harvard, graduated, and has since practised law successfully in Boston. Both are respected by the communities in which they reside. John, the younger brother, remained in the South with his mother. Mrs. Weld and Sarah still took a warm, and, as far as it was possible, an active interest in the woman suffrage movement; and when, in February, 1870, after an eloquent lecture from Lucy Stone, a number of the most intelligent and respectable women of Hyde Park determined to try the experiment of voting at the approaching town election, Mrs. Weld and Sarah Grimké united cordially with them. A few days before the election, a large caucus was held, made up of about equal numbers of men and women, among them many of the best and leading people of the place. A ticket for the different offices was made up, voted for, and elected. At this caucus Theodore Weld made one of his old-time stirring speeches, encouraging the women to assert themselves, and persist in demanding their political rights. The 7th of March, the day of the election, a terrific snowstorm prevailed, but did not prevent the women from assembling in the hotel near the place of voting, where each one was presented, on the part of their gentlemen friends, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. At the proper time, a number of these gentlemen came over to the hotel and escorted the ladies to the polls, where a convenient place for them to vote had been arranged. There was a great crowd inside the hall, eager to see the joke of women voting, and many were ready to jeer and hiss. But when, through the door, the women filed, led by Sarah Grimké and Angelina Weld, the laugh was checked, the intended jeer unuttered, and deafening applause was given instead. The crowd fell back respectfully, nearly every man removing his hat and remaining uncovered while the women passed freely down the hall, deposited their votes, and departed. Of course these votes were not counted. There was no expectation that they would be (though the ticket was elected), but the women had given a practical proof of their earnestness, and though one man said, in consequence of this movement, he would sell his house two thousand dollars cheaper than he would have done before, and another declared he would give his away if the thing was done again, and still another wished he might _die_ if the women were going to vote, the women themselves were satisfied with their first step, and more than ever determined to march courageously on until the citadel of man's prejudices was conquered. The following summer, Sarah Grimké, believing that much good might be accomplished by the circulation of John Stuart Mill's "Subjection of Women," made herself an agent for the sale of the book, and traversed hill and dale, walking miles daily to accomplish her purpose. She thus succeeded in placing more than one hundred and fifty copies in the hands of the women of Hyde Park and the vicinity, in spite of the ignorance, narrowness, heartlessness, and slavery which, she says, she had ample opportunity to deplore. The profits of her sales were given to the _Woman's Journal_. Under date of May 25, 1871, she writes:-- "I have been travelling all through our town and vicinity on foot, to get signers to a petition to Congress for woman suffrage. It is not a pleasant work, often subjecting me to rudeness and coldness; but we are so frequently taunted with: 'Women don't want the ballot,' that we are trying to get one hundred thousand names of women who do want it, to reply to this taunt." But the work which enlisted this indefatigable woman's warmest sympathies, and which was the last active charity in which she engaged, was that of begging cast-off clothing for the destitute freedmen of Charleston and Florida. Accounts reaching her of their wretched condition through successive failures of crops, she set to work with her old-time energy to do what she could for their relief. She literally went from house to house, and from store to store, presenting her plea so touchingly that few could refuse her. Many barrels of clothing were in this way gathered, and she often returned home staggering beneath the weight of bundles she had carried perhaps for a mile. She also wrote to friends at a distance, on whose generosity she felt she could depend, and collected from them a considerable sum of money, which, went far to keep the suffering from starvation until new crops could be gathered. Writing to Sarah Douglass, she says:-- "I have been so happy this winter, going about to beg old clothing for the unfortunate freedmen in Florida. I have sent off several barrels of clothes already. Alas! there is no Christ to multiply the garments, and what are those I send among so many? I think of these destitute ones night and day, and feel so glad to help them even a little." This happiness in helping others was the secret of Sarah Grimké's unvarying contentment, and there was always some one needing the help she was so ready to give, some one whose trials made her feel, she says, ashamed to think of her own. But the infirmities of old age were creeping upon her, and though her mental faculties remained as bright as ever, she began to complain of her eyes and her hearing. In August, 1872, she writes to a friend:-- "My strength is failing. I cannot do a tithe of the walking I used to do, and am really almost good for nothing. But I don't know but I may learn to enjoy doing nothing; and if it is needful, I shall be thankful, as that has always appeared to me a great trial." Notwithstanding this representation, however, she was seldom idle a moment. She was an untiring knitter, and made quite a traffic of the tidies, cushion-covers, and other fancy articles she knitted and netted. These were purchased by her friends, and the proceeds given to the poor. Soon after she had penned the above quoted paragraph, too, she copied for the Rev. Henry Giles, the once successful Unitarian preacher, a lecture of sixty-five pages, from which he hoped to make some money. His eyesight had failed, and his means were too narrow to permit of his paying a copyist. She also managed to keep up more or less, as her strength permitted, her usual visits to the poor and afflicted; and during the hot summer of 1872 she and Angelina went daily to read to an old, bed-ridden lady, who was dying of cancer, and living almost alone. During the following winter Sarah's strength continued to fail, and she had several fainting spells, of which, however, she was kept in ignorance. But as life's pulse beat less vigorously, her heart seemed to grow warmer, and her interest in all that concerned her friends rather to increase than to lessen. She still wrote occasional short letters, and enjoyed nothing so much as those she received, especially from young correspondents. In January, 1873, she writes to an old friend:-- "Yes, dear.... I esteem it a very choice blessing that, as the outer man decays, the heart seems enlarged in charity, and more and more drawn towards those I love. Oh, this love! it is as subtle as the fragrance of the flower, an indefinable essence pervading the soul. My eyesight and my hearing are both in a weakly condition; but I trust, as the material senses fail, the interior perception of the divine may be opened to a clearer knowledge of God, and that I may read the glorious book of nature with a more heavenly light, and apprehend with clearer insight the majesty and divinity and capabilities of my own being." A few months later, she writes: "My days of active usefulness are over; but there is a passive work to be done, far harder than actual work,--namely, to exercise patience and study humble resignation to the will of God, whatever that may be. Thanks be to Him, I have not yet felt like complaining; nay, verily, the song of my heart is, Who so blest as I? In years gone by, I used to rejoice as every year sped its course and brought me nearer to the grave. But now, though the grave has no terrors for me, and death looks like a pleasant transition to another and a better condition, I am content to wait the Father's own time for my removal. I rejoice that my ideal is still in advance of my actual, though I can only look for realization in another life. I know of a truth that my immortal spirit must progress; not into a state of perfect happiness,--that would have no attractions for me; there must be deficiencies in my heaven, to leave room for progression. A realm of unqualified rest were a stagnant pool of being, and the circle of absolute perfection a waveless calm, the abstract cipher of indolence. But I believe I shall be gifted with higher faculties, greater powers, and therefore be capable of higher aspirations, better achievements, and a nobler appreciation of God and His works." The sweet tranquillity expressed in this letter, and which was the greatest blessing that could have been given to Sarah Grimké's last years, grew day by day, and shed its benign influence on all about her. She had long ceased to look back, and had long been satisfied that though she had had an ample share of sorrows and perplexities, her life had passed, after all, with more of good than evil in it, more of enjoyment than sorrow. Her experience had been rich and varied; and, while she could see, in the past, sins committed, errors of judgment, idiosyncracies to which she had too readily yielded, she felt that all had been blest to her in enlarging her knowledge of herself, in widening her sphere of usefulness, and uniting her more closely to Him who had always been her guide, and whose promises sustained and blessed her, and crowned her latter days with joy supreme. CHAPTER XVIII. Sarah Grimké had always enjoyed such good health, and was so unaccustomed to even small ailments, that when a slight attack came in the beginning of August, 1873, in the shape of a fainting-fit in the night, she did not understand what it meant. For two or three years she had had an occasional attack of the same kind, but was never before conscious of it, and as she had frequently expressed a desire to be alone when she died, to have no human presence between her and her God, she thought, as the faintness came over her, that this desire was about to be gratified. But not so: she returned to consciousness, somewhat to her disappointment, and seemed to quite recover her health in a few days. The weather, however, was extremely warm, and she felt its prostrating effects. On the 27th of August another fainting-spell came over her, also in the night, and she felt so unwell on coming out of it that she was obliged to call assistance. For several weeks she was very ill, and scarcely a hope of her recovery was entertained; but again she rallied and tried to mingle with the family as usual, though feeling very weak. Writing to Sarah Douglass of this illness, she says:-- "The first two weeks are nearly a blank. I only remember a sense of intense suffering, and that the second day I thought I was dying, and felt calm with that sweet peace which our heavenly Father gives to those who lay their heads on His bosom and breathe out their souls to Him. Death is so beautiful a transition to another and a higher sphere of usefulness and happiness, that it no longer looks to me like passing through a dark valley, but rather like merging into sunlight and joy. When consciousness returned to me, I was floating in an ocean of divine love. Oh, dear Sarah, the unspeakable peace that I enjoyed! Of course I was to come down from the mount, but not into the valley of despondency. My mind has been calm, my faith steadfast, my continual prayer that I may fulfil the design of my Father in thus restoring me to life and finish the work he must have for me to do, either active or passive. I am lost in wonder, love, and praise at the vast outlay of affection and means used for my restoration. Stuart was like a tender daughter, and all have been so loving, so patient." She continued very feeble, but insisted upon joining the family at meals, though she frequently had to be carried back to her room. Still her lively interest in every one about her showed no diminution, and she still wrote, as strength permitted, short letters to old friends. A few passages may be quoted from these letters to show how clear her intellect remained, and with what a holy calm her soul was clothed. To one nearly her own age, she says:-- "You and I and all who are on the passage to redemption know that Gethsemane has done more for us than the Mount of Transfiguration. I am sure I have advanced more in the right way through my sins than through my righteousness, and for nothing am I more fervently grateful than for the lessons of humility I have learned in this way." To another who was mourning the death of a dear child, she writes: "My whole heart goes out in unspeakable yearnings for you; not, dearest, that you may be delivered from your present trials; not only that you may be blessed with returning health, but that you may find something better, holier, stronger than philosophy to sustain you. Philosophy may enable us to _endure_; this is its highest mission; it cannot give the peace of God which passeth all understanding. This is what I covet for you. And how can you doubt of immortality when you look on your beloved's face? Can you believe that the soul which looked out of those eyes can be quenched in endless night? No; never! As soon doubt existence itself. It is this--these central truths, the existence and the love of God, and the immortality of the soul, which rob death of its terrors and shed upon it the blessed light of a hope which triumphs over death itself. Oh that you could make Christ your friend! He is so near and dear to me that more than ever does he seem to be my link to the Father and to the life everlasting." As she complained only of weakness, Sarah's friends hoped that, when the cool weather came on, she would regain her strength and be as well as usual. But though she continued to move about the house, trying to make herself useful, there was very little perceptible change in her condition as the autumn passed and winter came on. Thus she continued until the 12th of December, when she took a violent cold. She was in the habit of airing her bed every night just before retiring, turning back the cover, and opening wide her window. On that day it had rained, and the air was very damp, but she had her bed and window opened as usual, insisting that Florence Nightingale asserted that damp air never hurt anyone. That night she coughed a great deal, but in answer to Angelina's expressions of anxiety, said she felt no worse than usual. But though she still went down to her meals, it was evident that she was weaker than she had been. On Sunday, the 14th, company coming to tea, she preferred to remain in her room. She never went down again. Her breathing was much oppressed on Monday and her cough worse, but it was not until Tuesday evening, after having passed a distressing day, that she would consent to have a physician called. Everything was done for her that could be thought of, and, as she grew worse, two other physicians were sent for. But all in vain: it was evident that the summons to "come up higher" had reached her yearning soul, and that a bright New Year was dawning for her in that unseen world which she was so well prepared to enter. She lingered, suffering at times great agony from suffocation, until the afternoon of the 23d, when she was seized with the most severe paroxysm she had yet had. Her family gathered about her bed, relieved her as far as it was possible, and saw her sink exhausted into an unconscious state, from which, two hours later, she crossed the threshold of Eternity. Her "precious Nina" bent over her, caught the last breath, and exclaimed: "Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord!" The gates of heaven swung wide to admit that great soul, and the form of clay that was left lying there seemed touched with the glory that streamed forth. All traces of suffering vanished, and the placid face wore-- "The look of one who bore away Glad tidings from the hills of day." Every sorrow brings a peace with it, and Angelina's sorrow was swallowed up in joy that the beloved sister had escaped from pain and infirmity, and entered into fuller and closer communion with her heavenly Father. She and Sarah had promised each other that no stranger hands should perform the last offices to their mortal remains. How lovingly this promise was now kept by Angelina, we must all understand. The weather was very cold, and in order to give her friends at a distance opportunity to attend the funeral it did not take place until the 27th. One of the last requests of this woman, whose life had been an embodiment of the most tender chanty and the truest humility, was that she might be laid in a plain pine coffin, and the difference in price between it and the usual costly one be given as her last gift to the poor. She knew--divine soul!--that her cold form would sleep just as quietly, be guarded by the angels just as faithfully, and as certainly go to its resurrection glory from a pine box as from the richest rosewood casket. And it was like the sweet simplicity of her whole life,--nothing for show, all for God and his poor. Her request was complied with, but loving hands covered every inch of that plain stained coffin with fragrant flowers, making it rich and beautiful with those sincere tributes of affection and gratitude to one whose memory was a benediction. The funeral services were conducted by the Rev. Francis Williams, pastor of the Unitarian Church of Hyde Park, and eloquent remarks were made by him and by Wm. Lloyd Garrison. Mr. Williams could only testify to Sarah's life as he had known it since she came to live in the village. "To the last," he said, "while her mind could plan, her pen could move, and her heart could prompt, she was busy in the service of humanity,--with her might and beyond her strength, in constant nameless deeds of kindness to those in need in our own neighborhood, and far to the south, deeds which were wise and beautiful,--help to the poor, sympathy with the suffering, consolation to the dying. She has fought the good fight of right and love; she has finished her course of duty; she has kept the faith of friendship and sacrifice. "We will more truly live because she has lived among us. May her hope and peace be ours." Mr. Garrison gave a brief summary of her life, and ended by saying: "In view of such a life as hers, consecrated to suffering humanity in its manifold needs, embracing all goodness, animated by the broadest catholicity of spirit, and adorned with every excellent attribute, any attempt at panegyric here seems as needless as it must be inadequate. Here there is nothing to depress or deplore, nothing premature or startling, nothing to be supplemented or finished. It is the consummation of a long life, well rounded with charitable deeds, active sympathies, toils, loving ministrations, grand testimonies, and nobly self-sacrificing endeavors. She lived only to do good, neither seeking nor desiring to be known, ever unselfish, unobtrusive, compassionate, and loving, dwelling in God and God in her." The last look was then taken, the last kiss given, and the coffin, lifted by those who loved and honored the form it enclosed, was borne to its resting-place in Mount Hope Cemetery. "Dear friend," wrote Angelina to me, before yet the last rites had been performed, "you know what I have lost, not _a sister only_, but a mother, friend, counsellor,--everything I could lose in a woman." The longer our loved ones are spared to us, the closer becomes the tie by which we are bound to them, and the deeper the pain of separation. It was thus with Angelina. She could rejoice at her sister's blessed translation, but she keenly felt the bereavement notwithstanding. Their lives had been so bound together; they had walked so many years side by side; they had so shared each other's burdens, cares, and sorrows, that she who was left scarcely knew how to live the daily life without that dear twin-soul. And so tender, so true and sacred was the communion which had grown between them, that they could not be separated long. Angelina continued, as her feeble health permitted, to do alone the work Sarah had shared with her. The sick, the poor, the sorrowing, were looked after and cared for as usual; but as she was already weighed down by declining years, the burdens she tried to bear were too heavy. Sarah used to say: "Angelina's creed is, for herself, work till you drop; for others, spare yourself." Now, with no anxiously watchful sister to restrain her, she overtaxed every power, and brought on the result which had been long feared,--the paralysis which finally ended her life. Those who have read Mr. Weld's beautiful memorial of his wife, with the touching account of her last days, will find no fault, I am sure, if I reproduce a portion of it here, while to those who have not been so fortunate, it will show her sweet Christian spirit, mighty in its gentleness, as no words of mine could do. In vain may we look back through the centuries for a higher example of divine love and patience and heroic fortitude; and, as a friend observed, her expressions of gratitude for the long and perfect use of her faculties at the very moment when she felt the fatal touch which was to deprive her of them, was the sublimity of sweet and grateful trust. The early shattering of Angelina's nervous system rendered her always exceedingly sensitive to outward impressions. She could not look upon any form of suffering without, in a measure, feeling it herself; nor could she read or listen to an account of great physical agony without a sensation of faintness which frequently obliged her, at such times, to leave the room and seek relief in the open air. The first stroke of paralysis occurred the summer after Sarah's death, and was brought on in a singular manner. Mr. Weld's account of the incident and its consequences is thus given:-- "For weeks she had visited almost daily a distant neighbor, far gone in consumption, whose wife was her dear friend. One day, over-heated and tired out by work and a long walk in the sun, she passed their house in returning home, too much overdone to call, as she thought to do, and had gone a quarter of a mile toward home, when it occurred to her, Mr. W. may be dying now! She turned back, and, as she feared, found him dying. As she sat by his bedside, holding his hand, a sensation never felt before seized her so strongly that she at once attempted to withdraw her hand, but saw that she could not without disturbing the dying man's last moments. She sat thus, in exceeding discomfort, half an hour, with that strange feeling creeping up her arm and down her side. "At last his grasp relaxed, and she left, only able to totter, and upon getting home, she hardly knew how, declined supper, and went at once to bed, saying only, 'Tired, tired.' In the morning, when her husband rose, she said, 'I've something to tell you.' Her tone alarmed him. 'Don't be alarmed,' she said. To his anxious question, 'Pray, what is it?' she said again, 'Now you mustn't be troubled, I'm not; it's all for the best. Something ails my right side, I can't move hand or foot. It must be paralysis. Well, how thankful I should be that I have had the perfect use of all my faculties, limbs, and senses for sixty-eight years! And now, if they are to be taken from me, I shall have it always to be grateful for that I have had them so long. Why, I do think I am grateful for _this_, too. Come, let us be grateful together.' Her half-palsied husband could respond only in weakest words to the appeal of his unpalsied wife. While exulting in the sublime triumph of her spirit over the stroke that felled her, well might he feel abashed, as he did, to find that, in such a strait, he was so poor a help to her who, in all his straits, had been such a help to him. After a pause she added: 'Oh, possibly it is only the effect of my being so tired out last night. Why, it seems to me I was never half so tired. I wonder if a hard rubbing of your strong hands mightn't throw it off.' Long and strongly he plied with friction the parts affected, but no muscle responded. All seemed dead to volition and motion. Though thus crippled in a moment, she insisted upon rising, that she might be ready for breakfast at the usual hour. As the process of dressing went on, she playfully enlivened it thus: 'Well, here I am a baby again; have to be dressed and fed, perhaps lugged round in arms or trundled in a wheel-chair, taught to walk on one foot, and sew and darn stockings with my left hand. Plenty of new lessons to learn that will keep me busy. See what a chance I have to learn patience! The dear Father knew just what I needed,' etc. "Soon after breakfast she gave herself a lesson in writing with her left hand, stopping often, as she slowly scrawled on, to laugh at her 'quail tracks.' After three months of tireless persistence, she partially recovered the use of her paralyzed muscles, so that she could write, sew, knit, wipe dishes, and sweep, and do 'very shabbily,' as she insisted, almost everything that she had done before. "During the six years that remained of her life here, she had what seemed to be two other slight shocks of paralysis,--one about three years after the first, and the other only three weeks before her death. This last was manifest in the sudden sinking of her bodily powers, preeminently those of speech. During all those years she looked upon herself as 'a soldier hourly awaiting orders,' often saying with her good-night kiss, 'May be this will be the last _here_,' or, 'Perhaps I shall send back my next from the other shore;' or, 'The dear Father may call me from you before morning;' or, 'Perhaps when I wake, it may be in a morning that has no night; then I can help you more than I can now.' "Many letters received asked for her latest views and feelings about death and the life beyond,--as one expressed it, when she was entering the dark valley.' The 'valley' she saw, but no darkness, neither night nor shadow; all was light and peace. On the future life she had pondered much, but ever with a trust absolute and an abounding cheer. Fear, doubt, anxiety, suspense, she knew nothing of; none of them had power to mar her peace or jostle her conviction. While she could speak, she expressed the utmost gratitude that the dear Father was loosening the cords of life so gently that she had no pain. "When her speech failed, after a sinking in which she seemed dying, she strove to let us know that _she knew it_ by trying to speak the word 'death.' Divining her thought, I said, 'Is it death?' Then in a kind of convulsive outburst came, 'Death, death!' Thinking that she was right, that it was indeed to her death _begun_, of what _could_ die, thus _dating_ her life immortal, I said, 'No, oh no! not death, but life immortal.' She instantly caught my meaning, and cried out, 'Life eternal! E--ter--nal life.' She soon sank into a gentle sleep for hours. When she awoke, what seemed that fatal sinking had passed. "One night, while watching with her, after she had been a long time quietly sleeping, she seemed to be in pain, and began to toss excitedly. It was soon plain that what seemed bodily pain was mental anguish. She began to talk earnestly in mingled tones of pathos and strong remonstrance. She was back again among the scenes of childhood, talking upon slavery. At first, only words could be caught here and there, but enough to show that she was living over again the old horrors, and remonstrating with slave-holders upon the wrongs of slavery. Then came passages of Scripture, their most telling words given with strong emphasis, the others indistinctly; some in tones of solemn rebuke, others in those of heart-broken pathos, but most distinctly audible in detached fragments. There was one exception,--a few words uttered brokenly, with a half-explosive force, from James 5: 4: 'The--hire--of--the--laborers,--kept--back--by--fraud, --crieth:--and--the--cries--are--in--the--ears--of--the--Lord.'... "As we stood around her, straining to catch again some fragmentary word, she would turn her eyes upon our faces, one by one, as though lovingly piercing our inmost; but though all speech failed, the intense longing of that look outspoke all words.... "Then there was again a vain struggle to speak, but no words came! Only abortive sounds painfully shattered! How precious those unborn words! Oh, that we knew them!" Thus quietly, peacefully, almost joyfully, the life forces of the worn and weary toiler weakened day by day, until, on the 26th of October, 1879, the great Husbandman called her from her labors at last. She lived the life and died the death of a saint. Who shall dare to say when and where the echoes of her soul died away? Not in vain such lives as hers and her beloved sister's. They take their place with those of the heroes of the world, great among the greatest. One last thing I must mention, as strongly illustrative of Angelina's modesty, and that shrinking from any praise of man which was such a marked trait in her character. She never voluntarily alluded to any act of hers which would be likely to draw upon her commendatory notice, even from the members of her own family, and in her charities she followed out as far as possible the Bible injunction: "When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth." Her husband relates the following:-- "In November, 1839, in making provision for the _then_ to her not improbable contingency of sudden death, Angelina prepared a communication to her husband, filled with details concerning themselves alone. This was enclosed in a sealed envelope, with directions that it should be opened only after her death. When, a few days after her decease, he broke the seal, he found, among many details, this item: 'I also leave to thee the _liability_ of being called upon eventually to support in part four emancipated slaves in Charleston, S.C., whose freedom I have been instrumental in obtaining.'" It is plain from the wording of the letter that she had never stated the fact to him. She lived forty years after writing it and putting it under seal; and yet, during all those years, she never gave him the least intimation of her having freed those four slaves and contributed to their support, as she had done. Even Sarah could not have known anything of it. Her brother Henry, to whom the bill of sale was made out, as they could not be legally emancipated, was probably the only person who was aware of her generous act. He became technically their owner, responsible for them to the State, but left them free to live and work for themselves as they pleased. Angelina's funeral took place on the 29th of October, and to it came many old friends and veteran co-workers in the anti-slavery cause. The services were in keeping with the record of the life they commemorated. They were opened by that beautiful chant, "Thy will be done," followed by a touching prayer from the Rev. Mr. Morrison, who then briefly sketched the life of her who lay so still and beautiful before them. He was followed by Elizur Wright, who, overcome by the memories with which she was identified, memories of struggles, trials, perils, and triumphs, that he stood for a moment unable to speak. Then, only partially conquering his emotion, he told of what she did and what she was in those times which tried the souls of the stoutest. "There is," said he, "the courage of the mariner who buffets the angry waves. There is the courage of the warrior who marches up to the cannon's mouth, coolly pressing forward amid engines of destruction on every side. But hers was a courage greater than theirs. She not only faced death at the hands of stealthy assassins and howling mobs, in her loyalty to truth, duty, and humanity, but she encountered unflinchingly the awful frowns of the mighty consecrated leaders of society, the scoffs and sneers of the multitude, the outstretched finger of scorn, and the whispered mockery of pity, standing up for the lowest of the low. Nurtured in the very bosom of slavery, by her own observation and thought, of one thing she became certain,--that it was a false, cruel, accursed relation between human beings. And to this conviction, from the very budding of her womanhood, she was true; not the fear of poverty, obloquy, or death could induce her to smother it. Neither wealth, nor fame, nor tyrant fashion, nor all that the high position of her birth had to offer, could bribe her to abate one syllable of her testimony against the seductive system.... Let us hope that South Carolina will yet count this noble, brave, excellent woman above all her past heroes. She it was, more than all the rest of us put together, who called out what was good and humane in the Christian church to take the part of the slave, and deliver the proud State of her birth from the monster that had preyed on its vitals for a century. I have no fitting words for a life like hers. With a mind high and deep and broad enough to grasp the relations of justice and mercy, and a heart warm enough to sympathize with and cherish all that live, what a home she made! Words cannot paint it. I saw it in that old stone house, surrounded with its beautiful garden, at Belleville, on the banks of the Passaic. I saw it in that busy, bright, and cheery palace of true education at Eagleswood, New Jersey. I have seen it here, in this Mecca of the wise. Well done! Oh, well done!" Mr. Wright was followed by Robert F. Walcutt, Lucy Stone, and Wendell Phillips. "The women of to-day," said Lucy Stone, "owe more than they will ever know to the high courage, the rare insight, and fidelity to principle of this woman, by whose suffering easy paths have been made for them. Her example was a bugle-call to all other women. Who can tell how many have been quickened in a great life purpose by the heroism and self-forgetting devotion of her whose voice we shall never hear again, but who, 'being dead, yet speaketh.'" The remarks of Wendell Phillips were peculiarly affecting, and were spoken with a tenderness which, for once at least, disproved the assertion that his eloquence was wanting in pathos. "Friends," he said, "this life carries us back to the first chapter of that great movement with which her name is associated,--to 1835, '36, '37, '38, when our cities roared with riot, when William Lloyd Garrison was dragged through the streets, when Dresser was mobbed in Nashville, and Macintosh burned in St. Louis. At that time, the hatred toward abolitionists was so bitter and merciless that the friends of Lovejoy left his grave long time unmarked; and at last ventured to put, with his name, on his tombstone, only this piteous entreaty: _Jam Parce Sepulto_, 'Spare him now in his grave.' "As Friend Wright has said, we were but a handful, and our words beat against the stony public as powerless as if against the north wind. We got no sympathy from most northern men: their consciences were seared as with a hot iron. At this time a young woman came from the proudest State in the slave-holding section. She came to lay on the altar of this despised cause, this seemingly hopeless crusade, both family and friends, the best social position, a high place in the church, genius, and many gifts. No man at this day can know the gratitude we felt for this help from such an unexpected source. After this[9] came James G. Birney from the South, and many able and influential men and women joined us. At last John Brown laid his life, the crowning sacrifice, on the altar of the cause. But no man who remembers 1837 and its lowering clouds will deny that there was hardly any contribution to the anti-slavery movement greater or more impressive than the crusade of these Grimké sisters through the New England States. "When I think of Angelina, there comes to me the picture of the spotless dove in the tempest, as she battles with the storm, seeking for some place to rest her foot. She reminds me of innocence personified in Spenser's poem. In her girlhood, alone, heart-led, she comforts the slave in his quarters, mentally struggling with the problems his position wakes her to. Alone, not confused, but seeking something to lean on, she grasps the Church, which proves a broken reed. No whit disheartened, she turns from one sect to another, trying each by the infallible touchstone of that clear, child-like conscience. The two old, lonely Quakers rest her foot awhile. But the eager soul must work, not rest in testimony. Coming North at last, she makes her own religion one of sacrifice and toil. Breaking away from, rising above, all forms, the dove floats at last in the blue sky where no clouds reach.... This is no place for tears. Graciously, in loving kindness and tenderly, God broke the shackles and freed her soul. It was not the dust which surrounded her that we loved. It was not the form which encompassed her that we revere; but it was the soul. We linger a very little while, her old comrades. The hour comes, it is even now at the door, that God will open our eyes to see her as she is: the white-souled child of twelve years old ministering to want and sorrow; the ripe life, full of great influences; the serene old age, example and inspiration whose light will not soon go out. Farewell for a very little while. God keep us fit to join thee in that broader service on which thou hast entered." [9] A mistake. James G. Birney was one of the most widely known and influential leaders in the abolition cause at the time Angelina came into it. At the close of Mr. Phillips' remarks a hymn was read and sung, followed by a fervent prayer from Mr. Morrison, when the services closed with the reading and singing of "Nearer, my God to Thee." Then, after the last look had been taken, the coffin-lid was softly closed over the placidly sleeping presence beneath, and the precious form was borne to Mount Hope, and tenderly lowered to its final resting-place. There the sisters, inseparable in life, lie side by side next the "Evergreen Path," in that "dreamless realm of silence." A friend, describing the funeral, says:-- "The funeral services throughout wore no air of gloom. That sombre crape shrouded no one with its dismal tokens. The light of a glorious autumn day streamed in through uncurtained windows. It was not a house of mourning,--no sad word said, no look of sorrow worn. The tears that freely fell were not of grief, but tears of yearning love, of sympathy, of solemn joy and gratitude to God for such a life in its rounded completeness, such an example and testimony, such fidelity to conscience, such recoil from all self-seeking, such unswerving devotion to duty, come what might of peril or loss, even unto death." Florence Nightingale, writing of a woman whose life, like the lives of Sarah and Angelina Grimké, had been devoted to the service of the poor, the weak, the oppressed, says at the close:-- "This is not an _in memoriam_, it is a war-cry such as she would have bid me write,--a cry for others to fill her place, to fill up the ranks, and fight the good fight against sin and vice and misery and wretchedness as she did,--the call to arms such as she was ever ready to obey." 
36672	----	[Illustration: The room we girls were to occupy was a great square chamber with a large window looking on a cobbled street. (_Frontis_) (_Tripping with the Tucker Twins_)] TRIPPING WITH THE TUCKER TWINS BY NELL SPEED AUTHOR OF "The Molly Brown Series," "The Carter Girls Series," etc. [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1919, BY HURST & COMPANY, INC. MADE IN U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. ASSETS AND LIABILITIES 5 II. EARNING A LIVING 24 III. A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT 38 IV. WHAT ZEBEDEE SAID 48 V. A TRIP TO CHARLESTON 64 VI. THROUGH THE GRILLE 82 VII. THE ABANDONED HOTEL 98 VIII. TUCKER TACT 111 IX. CHURCHYARDS 124 X. THE HEAVENLY VISION 143 XI. THE GUITAR 161 XII. MORAL COURAGE 172 XIII. ENGAGING BOARD 189 XIV. THE CLERK OF THE COUNCIL 206 XV. WHO WON THE BET? 215 XVI. LETTERS 231 XVII. MISS ARABELLA 244 XVIII. A CHANCE FOR LOUIS 261 XIX. A RED, RED ROSE 280 XX. MORE LETTERS 287 XXI. THE SUMMING UP 300 Tripping with the Tucker Twins CHAPTER I ASSETS AND LIABILITIES After our boarding-school burned on that memorable night in March, it seemed foolish to start to school again so late in the season; at least it seemed so to the Tucker twins and me. Their father and mine were rather inclined to think we had better enter some institute of learning in Richmond or take extra classes, do something besides loaf; but we earnestly pleaded to be let off for the rest of the year, and they succumbed to our entreaties. My ankle gave me a good deal of trouble. You remember, no doubt, how I sprained it getting out of the second-story window when the false alarm of fire rang, the afternoon before the real _bona fide_ fire. Dee's first aid to the injured was all very well for the time being, but when we arrived in Richmond a surgeon had to be called to attend to it, and the ankle was put in plaster. "A sprain can be much more serious than a break," the surgeon said solemnly as he looked at the much swollen foot and ankle. "I shall have to take an X-ray of this to be sure no bones are broken, and then, young lady, you will have to be quiet for some days, how many I can't yet tell." Never having been disabled in my life, I had no idea how irksome it could become. On no account to put your foot to the ground and to feel perfectly well is about as hard a job as could be given me, an active country girl. Father came up from Milton and heartily agreed with the surgeon in charge. "I have set a carload of broken legs in my time and bandaged a wagonful of ankles, and I am sure I have had less trouble from the legs than the ankles. It is because, as a rule, a sprain is not treated seriously enough. Now, honey, you have got to sit still and take it." I sat still all right, although it nearly killed me to do it. Not even crutches were allowed for a week for fear I might be tempted to bear my weight on the offending member. The Tuckers, father and twins, were goodness itself to me. I was afraid to express a wish, because no matter how preposterous it was they would immediately rush off and try to get whatever silly thing I had in a careless moment expressed a desire for. For instance, one day Dum came in enthusiastic over a new drugstore drink she had discovered: "Vanilla ice cream with fresh pineapple mixed up with it, orange syrup and lots of bubbly soda! The best mess you ever sucked through a straw!" "Ummm-ummm! Sounds good to me! When I can trust this old limb of Satan I am going to make straight for that drugstore and drink three of them." Mr. Tucker had just arrived from the newspaper office where he labored many hours a day. He must have been tired sometimes, but he never looked it and never complained of work. Eternal youth seemed to belong to him, and undying energy. "Good? I think it sounds awful!" he exclaimed. "You girls must astonish your poor little insides with the impossible mixtures you put in 'em." "I think it sounds fine, and I am surely going to have three of them just as soon as I can toddle." Mr. Tucker laughed and left the room, and I wearily resumed a not very interesting book I was reading while Dum followed her father. I read on, hoping to come to something better. I fancy not more than ten minutes had elapsed when father and daughter burst into the room, Dum carrying two foaming soda-water glasses and Zebedee one. The dauntless pair had actually cranked up Henry Ford, as they dubbed their little old automobile, and speeded down to the drugstore where they knew how to make that particular mixture, and brought them back to me. "Your blood be on your own head if you drink them. They look pizen to me." But drink them I did, all three, much to the wonderment of Zebedee, who declared that girls were fearfully and wonderfully made. I did feel slightly fizzly, but after my kind friends had brought them to me and even braved the danger of arrest and fine for speeding, trying to get the drinks to me with the foam on, I felt it was up to me to show my appreciation. The only way to show it was to drink the soda. What if I did burst in the effort? The Tucker twins and I were almost seventeen, our birthdays coming quite near together, and their father, now Zebedee to all of us, was about thirty-seven, I think, almost thirty-eight. The Tuckers were so irresponsible in some ways that I often felt myself to be older than any of them, although I was certainly not very staid myself. Zebedee always declared he was just grown up enough to keep out of debt, but keep out of debt he would no matter what temptations he had to withstand. Tweedles regarded debt as the only lawful state, and hard they found it to keep within their allowance, but the one time when Zebedee was really severe was when they exceeded that allowance. Dum was worse about it than Dee, as her artistic temperament made it hard for her to keep up with money. "It just goes, and I don't know where!" she would exclaim. When we got back to Richmond after the fire, one day when Zebedee was in Norfolk attending a convention of newspaper men, to be gone several days, the sisters realized that a day of reckoning had arrived and they must take stock of their assets and liabilities. Each one had borrowed small sums from various friends at school, intending to pay back out of allowances forthcoming, and also expecting to realize large sums from old clothes that our washerwoman would sell on commission to the colored contingent in the village. Colored people for some unknown reason would much rather have clothes that have been worn by white people than new ones out of shops. Of course the fire had interrupted this traffic and Tweedles never expected to see the money owed them by our washerwoman's clients. "I could have worn that corduroy skirt for months longer, but I thought I could get two dollars and a half for it at least and help get out of debt," wailed Dee. "And I just loved my blue linen shirtwaist and the frayed cuffs hardly showed at all, and now the old washerwoman has got my shirt and the fifty cents, too--to say nothing of my old-rose dinner dress that I am scared to death about every night for fear Zebedee will ask me why I don't wear it. He always liked the color of it so much," and Dum looked ready to weep. "Well, girls, count it all up and see where you stand; maybe I can lend you enough to get you out," I said. "You sound like we were in jail," declared Dee ruefully. "I don't see how on earth you keep on top so yourself. You seem to do as many things as we do and always pay your share, and still you don't get in debt." "I don't know how it is," I laughed, "unless I am like the Yankee who left his wife a large fortune, much to the astonishment of his neighbors, who did not know he had anything. When questioned as to the way her husband had made the money, the wife said: 'Wal, you see my husband was powerful fond of oysters, and whenever he went up to the city he just didn't get any.' You girls don't know how free you are with money. If you buy a paper that costs a penny you always say, 'Keep the change!' And then when a tip of ten cents is all that is necessary, you invariably give twenty-five." "I know that's so," they contritely tweedled. "Count up and see where you're at," and then they figured in silence for a few minutes. "I owe five dollars and seventy-three cents," said Dee, getting hers added up first and emptying her purse; "I've got just thirty-seven cents and a street car ticket between me and the penitentiary." "And I owe seven dollars and twenty-three cents and I haven't got anything but a green trading stamp and a transfer to Ginter Park that I did not use," and Dum searched in the corners of her purse for a possible penny that might have escaped her. "I've three dollars and will have some more soon, as father is going to send me a check for a spring suit. You let me pay you both out of debt." "We just can't. It only puts off the evil hour. We can't let you give us the money, and how will we ever pay it back?" "Why don't you earn it?" I ventured. "Earn it! Splendid! But how? Dum earned fifty cents once making paper dolls to sell at the Arts and Crafts, and Zebedee pays us both to dust the books and put them back in the right places, something the housemaids are incapable of doing; but this money we must earn without letting Zebedee get on to it. Where's the morning paper?" But Dum had already got it and was poring over the want ads. Dee had to content herself with the news section, while Dum monopolized the "Help Wanted--Female" part. "What's this?" demanded Dee, reading headlines: "'Ordinance to prohibit the drivers of jitney cars!' That is a sin and a shame. I can't see why they can't let the poor men make a little money without issuing ordinances. Oh, it is only under consideration! They may not pass it---- "By the great Jumping Jingo, I've got a scheme! I'm going to turn Henry Ford into a jitney bus. Zebedee'll be away for two more days, and by the time he comes back I bet I'll have enough to pay my debts and blow us all to the swellest supper at Rueger's." Jitneys had just reached Richmond that spring, and every man or boy out of work who could beg, borrow or steal an old tumbled-down car had gone into the business of running a jitney. The streets were swarming with them, and the public, pleased with the novelty, patronized them to the neglect and chagrin of the trolleys. Of course there were some drivers who would hardly have been trusted with coal carts, and there were many accidents by reason of this. We adored the jitneys. Of course, I had not been able to ride in them because of my ankle keeping me house-bound, but I loved to see them swing around the corner, and always had my chair or sofa in the bay window where I could get a good view of them. There seemed to be such a happy, good-natured crowd of passengers; and certainly many a shopgirl and workingman got to ride in a jitney who had despaired before of ever being fortunate enough to get into an automobile. The Tuckers were strong upholders of the poor man's rights and patronized the jitneys whenever their own Henry Ford was out of commission or in use by some other member of the family. "But what will your father say?" "More than likely he will say something that won't bear repetition, but by that time I will have paid my debts." "But will they let girls run one?" "How are they going to help it? The ones who are running them are liable to be stopped any day, but so far there are no laws one way or the other about it, and I am going to get in my licks before they have time to make any. Besides, I am not going to look very feminine." "That's what I get for being a pig and snatching up the want column before you could get it. Now if I had let you have it like a lady I could have got the jitney scheme first," grumbled Dum. "What difference does that make? You can go in on it, you goose!" "But I'm not going in. I think I ought to earn something my own way. That was your scheme, and I am not going to butt in on it." "Well, you know you are welcome; but suit yourself." "But, Dee, you say you are not going to look very feminine. Surely you are not going to wear pants?" I asked, aghast at what these Heavenly Twins would do next. "Oh, no! I have no intention of landing in the pen. I'm just going to make up the upper half to look mannish. I'll wear Zebedee's big coat, which I tried to make him take to Norfolk with him and he wouldn't, just to be stubborn. Now ain't I glad?" and she put it on to show how well it fitted. "If it is a nice cool day I can keep the collar turned up so! Now there is no law about a lady's hat, and I am going to wear Zebedee's chauffeur's cap." She accordingly put it on, pulling it well down over her ears. "Now all I need is a dirty face. I've never yet seen a jitney driver who did not have a shady face. I wonder if I had not better just acquire it by the natural method of gradual accumulation, or if I could smudge it on tomorrow morning." By this time Dum and I were reduced to a pulp with the giggles. Dum had for the time being abandoned her search for a lucrative job and had entered with zest into her sister's plans. "Your hair is too lumpy-looking under your cap and it rides up too high on your head." "Well, it shall have to be cut off then. It will grow out again." "Dee! No! You mustn't! That would make your father really angry. Plait it in a tight rope and put it down your neck, inside your collar." No sooner said than done, and now the cap came down to meet the upturned collar. "You must wear Zebedee's gloves and take off your ring. Your hands look mighty sissy. You'll do fine if Henry Ford will just behave and you don't have to get out to crank him. It's too bad about the pants. You would be perfect if you could just wear pants. If you should have to get out, it would sho' be a joke if you got arrested for wearing skirts. You look terribly like a bad boy," and so she did. "And now I must get back to the task of finding a job for myself," and Dum returned wearily to the want column. Dee's delightful get-rich-quick scheme made everything else seem very colorless. "'Wanted--A mother's helper to mind four children and wash dishes.' What do you reckon the lazy thing would be doing while I was doing all that for her? 'Wanted--Woman to wash only by the day.' Does the idiot think I could keep it up all night? Here we are! 'Wanted--Twenty able-bodied young women to apply between the hours of three and five p. m. to make house-to-house canvass, selling a number of household novelties.'" Dum grabbed her hat and began to draw on her gloves. "Here, Page, cut this out for me. It is ten minutes to three now and I can just get there!" Dum was out of the house before we could say Jack Robinson, the clipping from the want column grasped tightly in her hand and her chin set in its determined, square, do-or-die lines. "When Dum looks like that she always gets what she goes after," said Dee, looking admiringly after her twin as she jumped in Henry Ford, who spent a large part of his waking life parked in front of the apartment house or newspaper office. "Maybe going in a car, even a bum one like Henry, will queer her game. If she will only have sense enough to stop a little to one side of the place!" We waited in almost breathless silence for Dum's return, Dee experimenting with her hair for the morrow's fray and I gazing out of the window at the whirling jitneys skidding around the corner, making hair-breadth escapes. "There she is!" and Henry Ford sure enough threaded his way jauntily through the crowded street, turned himself about like a graceful skater and parked himself in good order just one inch from the curb. The Tuckers were all born chauffeurs, and, like most born chauffeurs or riders or drivers, they showed their skill by going faster than the law allows. They prided themselves on being able to go very close to things without touching them, and indeed I have seen Henry Ford almost take the buttons off the fat traffic cop at Seventh and Broad. That time Zebedee was driving, and as he skimmed by the grinning policeman he called out: "If it had been after dinner I would have hit you," and the delighted officer shook his fat sides and patted his bay window with its row of gleaming buttons, showing he understood Mr. Tucker's joke. "There are two classes of persons I always keep in with--policemen and cooks. You can get into no very serious trouble when you have them on your side," Zebedee had laughed gaily. "I've got a job! I've got a job!" cried Dum, almost breathless with haste and excitement as she rushed into the room where Dee and I waited. "What is it?" "Selling household novelties, of course. I'm to report at eight in the morning. I was the third girl to get in to see the boss. You never saw such a pompadoured, gum-chewing crowd in your life. I felt so ladylike I hardly knew myself. The boss was sure some household novelty himself. He is fat and soft, looks powerful like a dough ball, wears button shoes and an embroidered vest, curly black hair done up in a roach and stewed prune eyes and a full set, upstairs and down, of false teeth that look like "'Thirty white horses on a red hill, Now they dance, now they prance, Now they stand still.'" "But, Dum, what on earth are household novelties?" I gasped. "And how much are you to get?" demanded Dee. "One at a time! There is a whole bunch of novelties: one is a little plug to keep windows from rattling; another a needle-threader; another a silver polish; another a spot-knocker; a patent batty-cake turner that makes the batty-cake do the flipflap by pressing a button--either for cakes or omelettes; then there's Mrs. Rand----" "No, not really!" Mrs. Rand was a miscellaneous implement we had taken to boarding-school that had been purchased from a street fakir and we had named for the landlady at Willoughby Beach, who had been very irate over the Tuckers having lost the one she had in the cottage they rented from her. It was a combination apple-corer, can-opener, cheese-grater, potato-parer, and what not. It was the kind of thing you could use for everything but the things it was intended for. It was a great screw-driver and tack hammer and invaluable to gouge things out of deep cracks. "I'll buy a Mrs. Rand with pleasure," I promised. "I have never ceased to regret that I did not save ours in the fire and let the pincushion Cousin Park Garnett gave me perish in the flames." "Well, that's one sale already! That means five cents. I get five cents on every sale I make." "I'll take a batty-cake turner just to see it do the flipflap, if it takes a whole trip of fares to pay for it." "Good for you, Dee! I'll ride in your jitney if my work takes me in the West End." CHAPTER II EARNING A LIVING We were up bright and early the next morning. I was dressed and tenderly cared for, with my easy chair dragged into the bay window, where I could command a view of the street east and west as far as the eye could reach. A housemaid, whose duty it was in the morning to do up the Tuckers' apartment, was cautioned to look in on me every half-hour to see that I wanted for nothing. "Zebedee would kill us for leaving you this way," declared Dum as she embraced me good-by. "Nothing but the exigencies of the case excuse us." "'My poverty and not my will consents,'" quoted Dee. "We'll be in for lunch. We've got to eat, and it might just as well be here." The maid was instructed to bring a generous supply of lunch up to the apartment at one o'clock. "If we have it up here I won't have to wash my face. I have worked so hard to make the dirt on it look casual that I can't contemplate going all over it again." Of course my meals had to be brought up to me from the café because of my old ankle, and the girls often had theirs brought up, too, although they preferred going down as a rule. They insisted they missed too many tricks by having them sent up. "No second and third helps to pie, and the one help you get too dainty for us." "Look out the window for me every ten minutes or so and pray that Henry won't get cranky and have to be cranked and have me expose my skirts to the rude gaze of the public," begged Dee as she hugged me good-by. She had to forego the kiss as she was afraid of rubbing off her dirty make-up, and I was quite willing to have it thus. Brindle, her beloved bulldog, was not so squeamish as I, however, and gave her an affectionate and disastrous lick. "Brindle can keep you company, honey. Good-by, darling," to the dog. "I'm going to take you down to your household necessity, Dum, and I am going to do it for nothing, too. I am loaded to the guards with gas. I reckon I won't put out my sign until I get downtown. I'll start my trade from down there." Dum had lettered the jitney sign for her the evening before. It was most artistic, done in large blue letters on white cardboard: ------------------ | MONUMENT AVENUE | | | | 5c JITNEY 5c | ------------------ Dee was not a day too soon in her venture, for already the authorities were taking the matter of the jitney business in hand, and the privilege of running a jitney without special license and a $5,000 bond was on the verge of being withdrawn from the legion of owners of broken-down Fords. My morning was far from dull. The attentive maid came popping in every few minutes, I had a pile of new magazines and papers, and there was the never-dying excitement of watching for Dee and her blue-and-white sign. On her return trip, after taking Dum to the household necessities, she had a lone passenger--certainly not enough money in that to pay for the gas; but on the downtown trip she caught many an early worm, and her car was actually running over. At that time there were no rules about standing on the steps and overcrowding, and Dee had taken in every one who had raised a finger. I counted thirty-five cents, which was going some for a five-passenger car. Dee had a small plaid shawl which she had wrapped around her legs to conceal her skirt. She looked as much like a boy as Zebedee himself must have at her age. She never forgot to look up at my window, and, on seeing me, would touch her cap in a most gentlemanly way, a grin on her funny, dirty face. Up to nine-thirty her downtown trips were all crowded, while her outgoing ones were but sparsely patronized. Then there was a lull in her traffic until about eleven, when the shoppers began to pour downtown. Women and babies! women and babies! Sometimes women and dogs! Brindle, who never left the window, and seemed to be watching for Dee and Henry Ford as eagerly as I was, resented the dogs very much. He felt that his rightful place was in that car, and any dog who dared get in it was to be disciplined through the window glass if he could not reach him in any other way. Every time Dee raised her dirty face and grinned at us Brindle would tremble all over with excitement and joy. I trembled, too, for fear that he would break the great pane of glass, he scratched on it with such vigor. Before the hordes of shoppers were disposed of the men and business women began to jitney their way back to their homes for luncheon. It was actually almost one o'clock. I could hardly believe it. The morning had been fraught with excitement to me as I had kept account of Dee's earnings, and in watching for her and keeping up with her gains I had had little time for literature. At one o'clock sharp, Henry Ford, shorn of his gorgeous blue-and-white placard, parked in front of the apartment house, and in a moment a breathless and excited Dee was hugging first Brindle and then me, quite careless of her make-up. "Gee, but I am tired and hungry! It is a sin to be wasting all those fares. Just see how crowded the jitneys are! But I am so hungry I'm fittin' to bust. Where's Dum? Here, count my earnings while I scrape off enough dirt to eat." She poured into my lap a pile of silver and nickels. "Four dollars and fifteen cents!" I called to her in the bathroom, where she was punishing her begrimed face. "I counted more than that; I kept watching and saw you every time you passed." "Oh, yes, I took a load of old soldiers out to the Soldiers' Home for nothing. I gave them the time of their lives. They were so tickled, I took them down and back again. That made sixty cents short." That was so like Dee and explained the many old men I had seen in the car. Dum came bursting in just as the maid brought a tray laden with food. "Lord love us, but I'm tired! I have had a rip-roaring time, though. I can get off a spiel that would sell household novelties to Fiji Islanders. Mrs. Rand has taken like hot cakes, and the batty-cake turner went with it to turn those cakes." She had with her a disreputable-looking canvas telescope that contained her samples. Her job was to go from house to house and take orders, to be delivered later. Her pocket was bursting with signed agreements to pay for said wares on delivery. "Here, Page, please count 'em up and see how rich I am. What did you make, Dee? I am dying to hear all about your morning! You tell first and then I'll tell." "I made four dollars and fifteen cents. I can't tell you about my morning now because I've got to eat with my mouth. I'm missing fares until it makes me sick," and Dee jumped into her lunch with such vim that Dum and I deemed it wiser to eat, too, for fear there would be nothing left from the voracious jitneur. "Henry did not have to be cranked but once, and that was when we were at the end of the line up at Robinson Street and there were no passengers in. I bumped over a high car track, and you know how indignant that makes old Henry. I was awfully glad I had just dumped my last fare. Not a soul saw my skirts." This was mumbled with a full mouth as Dee steadily stoked up, accomplishing in about ten minutes one of the largest meals I ever saw. "Dee, I am afraid you will have apoplexy or something," Dum remonstrated. But Dee declared that a workingman must eat a lot. She could easily digest anything she could accommodate, and she was not quite full yet. Finding I had not tasted my consommé, for being shut up as I was my appetite was nothing to boast of, Dee drank it down on top of cocoanut pie and currant jelly, the dessert she had just finished. "To fill up the cracks!" she exclaimed, and with a whirl she was out of the apartment and back in her jitney once more, alert for fares. "Isn't she a great girl, though?" said Dum, a little wistfully. "Four-fifteen was a good haul. Have you counted up my pledges yet?" "Yes, you have twenty-seven. At five cents apiece that makes one dollar thirty-five cents. That's not a bad morning's work." "No, that's not so bad, and maybe I can do better this afternoon. I am going to kick for another part of town tomorrow. They gave me the swellest part of Franklin Street, and so many of the houses were where our friends live that it was hard to be businesslike. I put it up to them as a perfectly businesslike proposition, however, and would not let them sign up unless they wanted my wares for their own sake, not mine. I had an awful time with your cousin, Park Garnett. She made out she did not know me, and I did not force my acquaintance on her, but I just talked and talked and made her look at everything I had--Mrs. Rand, batty-cake flapper, and all the needle-threaders, spot-knockers, and silver polish--and, what's more, I did not leave her ugly, ponderous old house until I had made her sign up for fifteen cents' worth of household necessities--I mean fifteen cents for me. I expatiated on Mrs. Rand until there was nothing for her to do but own one, and I played battledore and shuttlecock with her ball of gray yarn (of course she was knitting another shawl with purple scallops) and the batty-cake turner until she was dizzy and would have signed up to get me out of the house, I think. She bought some silver polish, too, because I took her fat old pug up in my lap and showed her how much his collar needed rubbing. Jeremiah, the blue-gummed butler, was fascinated by my wares, and kept tiptoeing back into the room to fix the fire or pretend he heard the bell or something. That put it into my head to make the rest of the rounds in the backs of the houses, where the servants can see my novelties, and I had fine luck. I am going to stick to the alleys and back doors all afternoon." Dum was, as usual, perfectly open and straightforward, with absolutely no idea of concealing her identity. I had not dreamed that she was contemplating going into the homes of her friends and acquaintances with her peddling job. I couldn't help wondering what Mr. Tucker would say to it. He was accustomed to the scrapes of his progeny and used to say just so long as they told the truth and kept out of jail, he could stand it; but these new escapades did seem to be a little more serious than any they had heretofore plunged into. They were certainly not doing anything wrong from a moral standpoint, but they were giving Mrs. Grundy a chance to do a lot of gabbling. I could not help laughing over Cousin Park, although I secretly wished that Dum could have started her back-door canvassing before she reached that ponderous edifice belonging to my relative. It merely meant that Mrs. Garnett would have some tangible grievance against my friends, for whom she held a prejudice that no politeness on their part seemed to do away with. Certainly Zebedee had been very kind and pleasant to her on several occasions, and he had been quite attentive to her on that memorable picnic the summer before. He had also done all that was required of him toward entertaining her guest, Mabel Binks, in the early part of the winter. In fact, Tweedles and I felt that he had done more than common politeness required toward the amusement of that flashy young woman. "Did you tell Cousin Park I was in town?" I asked. "No, indeed; I never claimed acquaintance with her, I tell you! She made out that she had never seen me before and I fell in with her mood and just be'ed an agent, only that and nothing more. Sometimes I think maybe she really did not know me. You know she won't wear glasses all the time and I believe her eye-sight is bad." I devoutly hoped this to be the case. I had not informed Cousin Park of my presence in Richmond and had father's consent to this concealment, as we both of us knew that she would be tearing around and drag me out of the Tuckers' apartment and incarcerate me in her prison-like mansion, whether I would or no. Father and I felt the same way about her house. Father always said he was afraid the butler, Jeremiah, would bite him, and every one brought up by a mammy knew that "to be bit by a blue-gummed nigger was certain death." Jeremiah was really a very nice old man in spite of his lugubrious air of officiating at your funeral while he was actually serving the very heavy viands with which Mrs. Garnett's oiled walnut table was laden. "Maybe she didn't know you, after all," I ventured cheerfully. "Well, if she didn't or did, it is all one to me. I don't have to deliver the novelties, as that is done by some trustworthy person employed steadily by the boss, and in the meantime I have earned fifteen cents at the funereal mansion. I must tear myself away now and begin a systematic visiting of the back doors of the homes fronting Monroe Park. Good-by, honey," and Dum, too, was gone. Brindle and I were left to watch for the meteoric appearances of Dee and to get through the afternoon as best we might. Dee did a thriving business. As the afternoon went on she never passed without a car full and sometimes running over. Her face was tense and as often as not she forgot to look up and salute Brindle and me. "She will be a tired little girl when the day is over," I said to Brindle, and he wagged his tail and snuffled his appreciation of my noticing him. Dee had just passed, the back seat of Henry two-deep with passengers and on the front seat a very dressy looking young woman who seemed to be sitting very close to the stern young jitneur. That was one of the times Dee had forgotten to look up and poor Brindle was in deep distress. CHAPTER III A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT It was almost dark and still the twins had not returned. The maid came in and turned on the electric light and brought me the menu from the café. I ordered a substantial dinner for the three of us and with the assistance of the good-natured girl got myself into another dress and smoothed myself up a bit. A quick step sounded in the hall just as I settled in my chair and the maid went down to order dinner. Tweedles at last--one of them, anyhow! It turned out to be Mr. Tucker, and I was covered with confusion! What on earth was I to say to him? What business did he have coming home before he was expected? "Hello, little friend! Where are those girls? You don't mean that both of them have had the heartlessness to go out at one time and leave you all by yourself? I wouldn't have thought it of them!" "Oh, they--they--I reckon they'll be in soon. I haven't been lonesome at all. Brindle and I have been looking out of the window at the jitneys--" dangerous ground! If the girls wanted to tell their father of their escapades they were to be allowed to do so, but it was not my business. Why didn't they come on in? I knew they would sooner or later divulge to their beloved Zebedee, but they had certainly meant to get all over with their schemes while he was away. "We weren't looking for you until day after tomorrow," I stammered. "Well, is that any reason why you shouldn't be glad to see me now?" "Oh, no! We are glad to see you--that is, I am." "That is to say, Tweedles will not be?" he questioned. "Of course they will be." Why, oh, why didn't they come on? Weary footsteps dragging along the hall and Dum appeared. Her hat was on one side, not at a jaunty angle but just at that hopelessly out-of-plumb slant. Her face was dirty enough to suit Dee's idea of a jitney driver. Her hair was dishevelled and her shoes very dusty. "Oh, Page, only fifteen orders in all the afternoon and I am nearly dead! I'll never be able to make a living peddling household no---- What,--you!" and her mouth formed itself into a round O as she spied her wonderful parent. "Yes, I!" "You!" "Yes, me! If you understand that better." "Oh!" "Is that all you can say when I chased back from the meeting in Norfolk expecting to find three lone ladies so glad to see me? Page greets me with an icy mitt, and now all you can say is 'You!' and 'Oh!' Where is Dee? Maybe she will at least ask me how I am." More tired footsteps dragging along the hall, and in came Dee. "I am rolling in wealth but I am so tired that nobody had better say 'boo' to me or I'll weep." "'Boo!'" said Zebedee. "Oh, you?" and Dee proceeded to burst into tears which certainly did not improve her begrimed countenance. "Great heavens! What is the matter?" he cried, turning fiercely on Dum. Dum did the most natural thing in the world for a poor little half-orphan who had been trying to pay her debts by honest toil, selling household novelties at back doors and tramping up and down cobble-stoned alleys until she had worn a blister on her heel--she just burst out crying, too. Zebedee looked hopelessly at me, evidently expecting me to be dissolved in tears, too, but the ludicrous side of things had struck my risibles and, willy-nilly, I succumbed to laughter. Brindle, however, was sympathetic with his beloved mistress, and set up such a howling as never was heard before. "By the great Jumping Jingo! What is the matter? Have I done something? Is anybody dead? What do you mean, Dee, by having on my coat and cap? What do you mean, Dum, by fifteen orders? Page, you can speak; tell me what's up." "I--I----" "Go on and tell him, Page!" tweedled the twins, trying to control their emotions. "Well, Tweedles got a little behind with their finances and the fire came along at Gresham at a rather inopportune moment as they were expecting to save up on allowances----" "And the old clothes! Don't forget the old clothes!" from a very crumpled-up Dee. "They also were negotiating some sales with the laundress, of cast-off clothing." Zebedee was looking me through and through with his ice-blue eyes. I had never had the least fear of him from the moment I had met him, but now I felt, to say the least, quite confused. He looked stern, and his eyes, which had been only the color of blue, blue ice, but always seemed warm, were now as cold as ice, too. "Well, go on!" "The fire broke out and now the old laundress has the clothes and the money, too. So Tweedles were all broken up over owing so much money and I suggested that they turn in and earn some." "You suggested it?" still very coldly. "Yes, I suggested it, and I would do the same thing again. I think it is a great deal better for people to get to work and pay off their debts at any honest labor than to keep on owing them----" I gulped and got red. I was tired of having Mr. Tucker look at me with his cold expression of a criminal judge. I had done nothing wrong, and neither had the girls, for that matter. I felt a great wave of anger rising in me, and I stood up on my bad ankle, forgetting all about having one, and faced my host, ready for battle. He looked rather startled, and the twins stopped sobbing and began to dry their eyes on two very grimy handkerchiefs. I do not often get very angry, but there was something about being looked at as Zebedee looked at me, that made me lose all control of myself. He made me feel that I was a bad little girl while he considered himself a superior old gentleman. Now up to this time the father of my two best friends had always treated me like a grown-up young lady, and had never made me feel that there was any difference to speak of between his age and mine, and he had no right with one wave of his hand to put me back in the kindergarten class. "Why, Page----" "Don't 'Why, Page' me! You came back before we expected you and startled us somewhat, as Tweedles hoped to get the money earned before you returned. The girls are dead tired and need their dinner and kind sympathy instead of being bullyragged----" "Page! Please! I only wanted to know how Tweedles went to work to make all the money you say they owe. I am not a bit angry, not the least little bit. I think you are very unkind to me." "Well, you looked at me so coldly and sneered so." "No! You are mistaken!" "Yes, you did, when I said I suggested it." "I am awfully sorry, little friend," and now his ice-blue eyes melted, literally melted, as he, too, began to leak, as the Tuckers call their free giving way to tears. You remember, it was a trait of the family. They thought no more of weeping than of laughing or sneezing. They wept when they felt weepy just as they laughed when anything amused them or sneezed when they felt sneezy. "I tell you what you do, girls: you go on and wash up and change your dresses, and then we'll have dinner, and after dinner we'll talk it all over like sensible people without getting angry or huffy or anything that we might get." Zebedee wiped his eyes and gave his girls a hug and kiss in spite of their grimy, soiled countenances, and then he turned to me as they flew to the bathroom to do his bidding. I had become conscious of my ankle as I stood there disobeying the doctor's commands, and now that it was all over I flopped back in my chair, feeling very grateful for its support. "Now you have gone and put your weight on your foot and it is all my fault." "Oh, no! Not at all!" "It is just as much my fault as that Tweedles came in worn out with making a living and had dirty faces and were hungry----" "Nobody said that was your fault!" "Well, what was my fault, then?" "It was your fault for looking at me so disapprovingly. You were what Tweedles call Mr. Tuckerish. You were so cold and grown-up and made me feel so young and naughty, and as I had not done a thing on earth but just suggest to the girls that they try to earn some money, not specifying how they should go about it, it did seem hard that you should be so hard on me. It hurt my feelings." "Well, on the other hand, little girl, how about my feelings? Here I had come tearing home from Norfolk expecting to find three charming girls, all of them overjoyed to see me, and what do I find? Nothing but 'What, yous!' from first one and then the other--stammered greetings, and then tears and flashing eyes and false accusations." At that I burst out laughing, and Zebedee did the same. It was such a tempest in a teapot! I was ahead of him, however, and by my sudden anger over nothing or almost nothing I had unwittingly turned his attention from Tweedles and their misdemeanors, and now I was sure he would be only amused over their escapade. "We are all of us mighty glad to have you back. I don't see what made you think we weren't." "Foolish of me, wasn't it? I realize now that it was excess of emotion and delight that made all of you behave as you did." CHAPTER IV WHAT ZEBEDEE SAID We ate dinner very quietly. The twins began to perk up a bit in the salad course, and by the time we got to Brown Betty and the Roman punch they were quite themselves, except for a langour that might have come from overeating as much as from overexertion. Zebedee avoided the subject of money-making with great tact. He had much to tell us of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gordon and their little home in Norfolk and their happiness and hospitality. Mrs. Gordon was or had been our beloved Miss Cox, a teacher at Gresham. She had married Mr. Gordon at Willoughby Beach the summer before while she was chaperoning us, and all of us felt that we had been instrumental in making the match and were in a measure responsible for the great happiness of the couple. The maid had removed all traces of dinner and we were seated snugly around the drop light on the library table, a table that had been converted into a dinner table when the Tuckers decided to dine in their apartment, which boasted no housekeeping arrangements. There was a deep silence broken only by a smothered yawn from Dee. Running a jitney for almost eleven hours is some sleep-provoker. "Well, girls, aren't you going to take your poor old father in out of the cold?" and Zebedee looked appealingly at his daughters. "Well, it was this way----" they started in the same breath. "One at a time, please! Dum, you begin." "Well, you see I owe seven dollars and twenty-three cents to different girls at Gresham and I didn't have a red cent and no telling how long before allowances are due, so I just thought I'd try to earn something. I found an ad for twenty young women to sell household novelties and so I applied for the job." "That was rather ambitious as a starter. Were you going to be all twenty right from the first?" "Silly and flippant! I got the job, at least one twentieth of it, and started out this morning at eight o'clock. I am to get five cents on every sale. I went up and down Franklin and Grace streets all morning, going in the front doors, but this afternoon I tried the back doors because naturally the servants are more interested in these labor-saving devices than the mistresses; besides, I saw so many people we know when I went in the front way that I was afraid if they bought from me they would do it from pity or something, and I wanted to be very businesslike and create a burning desire for the really excellent articles I am selling. I didn't want to hold up anyone." "That's right!" I was trembling for what Zebedee would say about Dum's meeting all the friends on her canvassing jaunt, but I realized that I did not really know that gentleman as well as I thought I did. He did not seem to mind in the least if perhaps everyone in Richmond knew that one of his girls had been out going from house to house in the most fashionable residential districts selling batty-cake flappers and spot-knockers. "I have made in all on commissions two dollars and ten cents, I think. I have completely worn out my shoes on the cobblestones in the alleys and have got a blister on my heel as big as all my commissions put together." "Have you collected your money yet?" "No! I don't get it until the goods are delivered and my customers pay up." "How long does your job last?" "Oh, until the whole town is combed with a fine tooth comb. Our boss wants every lady in Richmond to have the advantage of these household novelties." Dum unconsciously took on the tone usual with the house-to-house canvasser. Zebedee gave a smile but there was no divining what his real thoughts were any more than if he had been the Sphynx herself. He looked to me rather like a man who was seeing a real good show and was deeply interested but reserving his final opinion of the merits of the actors and the playwright until the curtain. "Now, Dee, let's hear from you!" "Well,--while Dum was looking at the want column, I saw on the front page that the poor men who run jitneys were in a fair way to be crowded out of their business by all kinds of ordinances and things that were likely to be put on them." "Yes, they won't have long to run without giving bonds, etc." "I just knew how much you felt for the poor men and approved of their venture, and so I just decided I'd run a jitney myself for a day or so and get myself out of debt. I owe five dollars and seventy-three cents to schoolmates and did not have but thirty-seven cents and a street car ticket. I wanted to let Dum in on my scheme but she said she would get out and earn her own money. I did not dream I could make so much, and indeed I couldn't have, if I had not speeded like fun. The cops knew Henry in spite of his sign, and I believe they knew me through the dirt and make-up, and they never once stopped me. "Of course I had to run in high a lot and it took gas, but I am going to pay for that out of my earnings. I made four dollars and fifteen cents this morning and I have not counted yet what I took in this afternoon." She turned the pockets of her father's greatcoat inside out into my lap and the bills and coin made such a showing that I thought it no wonder she had announced she was rolling in wealth. I counted six dollars and thirty-five cents. That made ten dollars and fifty cents for the day's work. "I think being a jitneur is mighty hard work. There is a nerve-racking something about it that sho' does you up. In the first place there are always some idiots on board, the kind that rock the boat, and they will sit on the doors and are liable at any time to go spinning into the street. Then there are some old ladies who always drop their nickels and then you stand chugging away, scared to death for fear Henry will give up the ghost, and that means getting out to crank up when you have got on skirts and don't want to flaunt them." "I have been wondering what you did about your skirts." "Did nothing! Just ignored them! I didn't have to crank up but once this morning, and that was when I hit a hole out on Robinson Street and Henry blinked out; but I had just got rid of my last fare and no one saw my disgrace. This afternoon I had awful bad luck. There were three funerals and every single one of them crossed my route and I had to wait for them to pass. You know how Henry gets mad and stops playing when he has to stand still too long--well, every one of those funerals got me in bad. One of them I was glad to see, as I was having an awful time. A girl dressed up to beat the band had got on the front seat with me and she was lollapalusing all over me, and I had no room to drive. She would talk to me, although I never encouraged her with anything sweeter than a grunt. I had made an awful mash and was up against it. She got me so hacked I let a fare get away from me,--man just got out and walked off without paying. I felt like Rosalind must have felt when Phebe pursued her or like Viola when Olivia got soft, but this girl was more of the Phebe type. I was afraid she was going to spend the afternoon with Henry and me. She had just intimated that she would go on downtown with us again and make a round trip when we struck the funeral. Henry chugged away and then stopped off short. I dropped the plaid shawl I had my skirts wrapped up in and climbed over the foolish virgin, and I tell you I blessed the day I was born a girl then. I wish you could have seen the minx. I cranked up and climbed back, and there was no more lollapalusing from her. She scrouged herself over into her own corner and laughed a scornful laugh. The people on the back seat had been amused by her goings-on before, but when they found out I was a girl, they roared with laughter and my mash got out on the next corner. She gave me a dime and told me I could keep the change, so I did not lose anything after all from the man who sneaked off." "You didn't really keep it?" exclaimed Dum. "Keep it! O course I did! It would have been very melodramatic to hurl it after her. I was not driving a jitney for my health. I was out for money--rocks--spondulix--tin--the coin--and that idiot's dime was just as good as any man's. Besides, she had taken up more than her share of room and owed me something for letting the sneak get off. "That dollar bill! I bet you can't guess who paid me that,--Mrs. Barton Alston. She got in and handed me the dollar and said: 'Here, boy! Just ride me until that is used up!' It was ten round trips so she was with me a good part of the afternoon. She said she never did get out in automobiles much these days, that her friends sometimes come and drive her out to the cemetery, but she is tired of graveyards and wants to cheer up some. She told me all this when we were having a little spin alone, but I heard her telling some of the fares the same thing. She was real nice and jolly and took people on her lap and did the honors of the jitneys with as much graciousness as she used to entertain before they lost their money. I was sorry she was so broad-beamed, as it was difficult to get three on the seat while she stayed with me, and of course when you are running a jitney every inch counts. When her ten round trips were up, I hated to tell her and took her another for luck. Some day let's go get her, Zebedee, and take her out to the Country Club or something and give her a good time. She is mighty tired of being supposed to be in retirement, mourning for Mr. Alston. She never did recognize me, although I talked to her quite freely. She called me 'Boy' all the time. Gee whilikins, but she can talk!" "There are others!" put in Dum. "Do you know you have not stopped once for half-an-hour?" "Well, I'm not out of gas yet." "No, I reckon not! You are some self-starter, too. Nobody has to get out and crank you up and persuade you to get going. Funerals don't stop you. You go in high all the time, go so fast a traffic cop can't see your number." "Well, I'm afraid I have monopolized the conversation some but it has been a very exciting day. I'm going to divide up with you, Dum. I believe between us we can get all of those debts paid." "Oh, Dee, that would be too good of you!" "Nonsense! You worked just as hard as I did. I believe in an equal distribution of wealth. Count up, Page, and see where we stand." "Let's see! You made ten dollars and fifty cents; Dum made two dollars and ten cents--that makes twelve dollars and sixty cents. You owe five dollars and seventy-three cents--Dum owes seven dollars and twenty-three cents. That makes twelve dollars and ninety-six cents. You are thirty-six cents short." "Oh, but I've got thirty-seven cents and a street car ticket. That leaves a penny over, to say nothing of the ticket. Hurrah! Hurrah!" and those irresponsible Tuckers, all three of them, got up and danced the lobster quadrille with me in the middle. When they stopped, completely out of breath, Dee exclaimed: "Oh, Zebedee! I am awfully sorry, but I am afraid you will have to pay for the gas after all. I charged it." And all Zebedee said was: "I'll be----" and just as Dee said would be the case, what he said does not bear repetition and certainly is not to be printed. Mrs. Barton Alston had many a treat from the Tuckers. Dum did not collect her two dollars and ten cents until she had made many trips to the boss. He tried to persuade her to accept a steady job with him as an agent for household novelties, and while she naturally could not do it, she declared it gave her a very comfortable feeling that if she should have to earn her living there was at least one avenue open to her. The day after Dee's success as a jitneur the paper came out with headlines that the jitneys were no longer within the law. Bonds must be furnished, licenses must be paid, etc. Dee had been not a day too soon in her venture. Zebedee never said one word of reproach to Tweedles. When he gave voice to the unprintable remark above he was through. "I know I ought to do something about it," he moaned to me several days after when he caught me alone. "It was a very risky thing for both of my girls--they might have got in no end of scrapes--but what am I to do? If I row with them and get Mr. Tuckerish even you get out with me, and somehow I feel as long as the girls tell me everything, that they can't get into very serious mischief. I know I have not done my part by them. If I had been the right kind of unselfish father I would have married long ago when they were tiny little tots and have had some good, sensible woman bring them up." "They don't look at it that way." "Well, you could hardly expect them to 'kiss the rod'." I laughed aloud at that. "What's the matter?" "I am wondering what the 'good, sensible woman' would think at being called a rod. I wonder if there is any woman good enough to undertake the job of rod." "Perhaps not," he said ruefully. "You see when my little Virginia died, all my friends and hers got busy and found a roomful of worthy ladies that they considered the proper persons to marry me and bring up the twins, but all of them were rather rod-like in a way, and somehow I never could make up my mind to kiss 'em either. The trouble about me is I can't grow up, and anyone whom my friends consider a suitable age for me now, I look upon as a kind of mother to me." "I think Tweedles are getting on pretty well without a stepmother," I managed to say. I felt about as bad as the twins themselves would have at the thought of Zebedee's marrying again. "They never do anything too bad to tell you, but they do lots of things I fancy they would not tell a stepmother." "Well, little friend, if you think that, I reckon I'll worry along 'in single blessedness' for a while yet." The Tucker Twins had been living in dread of a stepmother ever since they had been conscious of living at all. It was a theme with all of their relations and friends and one that was aired on every occasion. "Jeffry Tucker should marry again!" was the cry and sometimes the battle cry of every chaperone in Richmond. As Mr. Tucker said, it was always some good, settled lady who needed a home and was willing to put up with the twins who was selected as his mate. "I don't want to run an old ladies' home. If I ever marry I shall do it for some reason besides furnishing a stepmother to my family and giving a haven of refuge to some deserving lady." "I don't want to seem disloyal to Dum and Dee, but I think it might be rather salutary if you talk to them just as you have to me, I mean about stepmothers and things. It might make them a little more circumspect." "All right, I'll try; but I am afraid I have cried 'Wolf!' too often and they would just laugh at me." Tweedles did listen to him quite seriously when he broached the subject of his duty to marry again and give them the proper chaperonage. "Oh, Zebedee, please don't talk about such terrible things. We'll be good and learn how to sew," wailed Dum. "I'm going to make some shirts the very first thing." "Oh please, please spare me! I couldn't bear for you to get so good that I'd have to wear home-made shirts!" And so the threat of a stepmother was withdrawn for the time being. CHAPTER V A TRIP TO CHARLESTON My ankle improved rapidly and in another week I was able to walk and still another to dance. I had been patience itself, so my friends declared, and I am glad they thought so. I had really been impatience itself but had kept it to myself. "Girls, I've got a scheme!" exclaimed Zebedee one evening after dinner. "I want to send a special correspondent to South Carolina to write up the political situation and I am thinking about sending myself. If I do, I am going to take all of you. I have written your father, Page, and an answer came from him today. He says you may go, as he knows it would do you good. I haven't said anything about it to you girls until I was sure I could work it." "Oh goody, goody, goody! Where will we go first?" "Charleston first! I may leave you there awhile, as I have to do some knocking around, but it will not be for very long, not more than a day at a time." We plunged into shopping the very next day. Father had sent me a check for necessary clothes, and the all-important matter had to be attended to speedily. "Let's get all of our things exactly alike and pass for triplets! It would be such a scream on Zebedee," suggested Dee. "Triplets, much! We'd just look like a blooming orphan asylum and get in a book. It seems to me that every book I pick up lately is about orphan asylums. Chauffeurs and orphans and aviators form the theme for every book or magazine story I read. No, indeed! Let's get our clothes just as different as possible," said Dum, rapidly turning the pages in _Vogue_. "All right. Then we can wear each other's. I'm going to get brown." "I'm crazy for dark green, if you don't think it will make my freckles show on my nose too much. My nose and its freckles are a great trial to me." "Nonsense! You've got the cutest nose in Virginia and Zebedee says he likes freckles," said Dee, always tactful. "Well, he can have them, I'm sure I don't want them. What color are you going to get, Dum?" "Anything but blue. There is a refinement about blue that I can't stand right now. I want something dashing and indicative of my sentiments of its being my bounden duty to have a good time." "Red?" "No, red's too obvious! I think I'll get lavender or mauve. Then I can wear violets (when I can get them). I think lavender suits my mood all right. It is kind of widowish and widows when they get into lavender are always out for a good time. I tell you when widows get to widding they are mighty attractive. I don't see why they don't stay in their pretty white crêpe linings, though. They are so terribly becoming. I mean to make a stunning widow some day." "First catch your flea before you kill him," taunted Dee. "Well, I can't see the use in having your hair grow in a widow's peak on your forehead if you can't ever be a widow. It seems such a waste." "There's time yet! You are only seventeen," I laughed. "Seventeen is old enough to know what style suits me best. Weeds are my proper environment." In spite of Dum's conviction about weeds she purchased a most becoming and suitably youthful suit in a soft mauve. Dee got exactly the same style in brown and I in green. We deviated in hats, however, and each girl thought her own was the prettiest, which is a great test of hats. Hats are like treats at soda fountains: you usually wish you had ordered something you didn't order and something your neighbor did. Spring was late in making its appearance in Virginia that year, but since we were going to South Carolina we bravely donned our new suits and hats. Zebedee declared he was proud of us, we were so stylish. "I have a great mind to grow some whiskers so people won't think I am your little nephew," he said as he settled us in our section. The three of us girls were to occupy one section, two below and one above, lots to be cast how we were to dispose ourselves. "Nephew, much! You've got three gray hairs in your part now," declared Dee. "Each of you is responsible for one of them." Mr. Tucker often classed me with his own girls and really when I was with them I seemed to be a member of the family. He treated me with a little more deference than he did Tweedles because he said I seemed to be older. I was really a few days younger. Dee got the upper berth in the casting of lots and Dum and I slept in the lower, at least, Dum slept. I was conscious of much jerking and bumping of the train, and Dum seemed to be demonstrating the batty-cake flipflapper all night. We had left Richmond with a belated sprinkling of snow, but as we were nearing Charleston at about five-thirty in the morning we ran through a fine big thunder storm, and then torrents of rain descended, beating against the windows. Of course some bromide who got off the train with us, said something about "the back-bone of winter." What a rain! It seemed to be coming down in sheets, and such a thing as keeping dry was out of the question. Tweedles and I regretted our new spring suits and straw hats, but since we had been so foolhardy as to travel in them we had to make the best of it and trust to luck that they would not spot. The train had reached Charleston at six and by rights it should have been dawn, but it was as dark as pitch owing to the thunder clouds that hung low over the city. Zebedee hustled us into a creaking, swaying bus that reminded us somewhat of the one at Gresham. Other travelers were there ahead of us and as everyone was rather damp the odor of the closed vehicle was somewhat wet-doggish. We rattled over the cobblestones through narrow streets, every now and then glimpsing some picturesque bit of wall when we came to one of the few and far between lamp posts. But it was generally very dim and would have been dreary had we not been in a frame of mind to enjoy everything we saw and to look at life with what Dee called "Behind-the-clouds-the-sun's-still-shining" spirit. The bus turned into better lighted streets with smoother paving. "Meeting Street," read Dum from a sign. "Doesn't that sound romantic? Do you reckon it means lovers meet here?" "It may, but I am very much afraid it just means the many churches that abound on this street," laughed Zebedee. I wondered who the people were in the bus with us, but they seemed to take no interest at all in us. There were two pale old ladies in black crêpe veils drawn partly over their faces; a dignified old gentleman in a low-cut vest and a very high collar with turned-down flaps that seemed especially designed to ease his double chin; and a young girl about sixteen or seventeen who had evidently been in a day coach all night and was much rumpled and tousled therefrom. She seemed to belong to the pompous old gentleman, at least I gathered as much, as I had seen him meet her at the station and noticed he gave her a fatherly peck of greeting. Not a word did they utter however on that bumpy bus ride, and although the two pale old ladies in crêpe veils had stiffly inclined their shrouded heads as father and daughter entered the vehicle and they in turn had acknowledged the bow, not one word passed their lips. Evidently a public conveyance was not the proper place for Charlestonians to converse. The girl, who was very pretty in spite of being so tired and dishevelled, smiled a sympathetic smile when Dum enthused over Meeting Street. I had a feeling if we could get her by herself she would chatter away like any other girl. Perhaps the old man won't be so stiff when he gets his breakfast. It is hard to be limber on a wet morning and an empty stomach. When one has so much stomach it must be especially hard to have it empty, I thought. It seemed very impertinent of the omnibus to bump this dignified old gentleman so unmercifully. He held on to his stomach with both hands, an expression of indignation on his pompous countenance, while his double chin wobbled in a manner that must have been very trying to his dignity. The pale old ladies in crêpe veils took their bumping with great elegance and composure. When the sudden turning of a corner hurled one of them from her seat plump into Zebedee's arms, if she was the least disconcerted she did not show it. A crisp "I beg your pardon!" was all she said as she resumed her seat. She did pull the crêpe veil entirely over her face, however, as though to conceal from the vulgar gaze any emotion that she might have felt. Of course we giggled. We always giggled at any excuse, fancied or real. The pretty girl giggled, too, but turned it into a cough as her father pivoted his fat little person around and looked at her in evident astonishment. The bus backed up to our hotel where a grinning porter was in readiness to capture our bags. Our fellow travelers were evidently relieved at our departure. I saw through the window that both ladies put back their stuffy veils and that the old gentleman relaxed his dignified bearing somewhat and entered into conversation with them. The young girl, however, peered rather wistfully through the drenched pane at us as we gaily took possession of the hotel lobby. "Wasn't she sweet! Maybe we will see her again sometime," said Dee. "I couldn't see her at all from where I sat," declared Zebedee. "Her old father's embonpoint obstructed my view." The hotel where Zebedee had decided to take us was not the newest and most fashionable in Charleston, but he had heard it was the most typical and that the cooking was quite good. It had been built years before the famous earthquake, and had still marks of that calamity. The floors, many of them, had a down-hill tendency, and there were cracks under the doors and I believe not one right angle in a single wall of the house. The room we girls were to occupy was a great square chamber with a large window looking out on a cobbled street. There were picturesque doors, and walls with mysterious shuttered windows, where one could occasionally see eyes peering forth. It is against the Charleston code of manners to open shutters or raise the blinds of windows that look out on the street. The floor of our room was on a decided slant and this caused a very amusing accident. There was a large armchair with broad substantial rockers into which Dum sank to rest her weary bones until breakfast. The chair was pointed down-hill and over Dum went backwards, and nothing in the world but her fine new spring hat saved her from getting a terrible bump on her head. "It's like living in the Tower of Pisa!" she exclaimed as we pulled her up. "You had better remember to rock up-hill next time," admonished Dee. "I bet you, we will all develop a mountain leg living on such a slant. But isn't it fascinating? As soon as breakfast is over, let's go out and explore. I want to peep in the shutters all along the way and see what everybody is having for breakfast and going to have for dinner." "That's just the way I feel! If anything is shut, I want to peep in. If it is locked, I want to get in." Our hotel was run on the American plan and our grinning waiter insisted upon bringing us everything on the bill of fare. I think he saw in Zebedee the possibilities of a liberal tip. In South Carolina there is a law against tipping. In all of the rooms of hotels the guests are reminded of this by large printed placards, but like most laws of the kind it seems made only to be broken. "The tight-wads who kicked against tipping the poor colored servants now have the law on their side and can get out of it gracefully, but the people who tip because they feel that the servants have earned some little acknowledgment of their faithful services, go on tipping just as though no law had been made," said Zebedee, as he slipped some silver under the side of his plate in view of the watching darky, who pounced upon it with a practiced hand, while making a feint of removing finger bowls. "I am going to turn you girls loose now to find your way around and seek out the wonders of Charleston. I have work to do and politicians to see." "All right! Don't worry about us!" tweedled the twins. "I want to get a map of the city first," said Dee, "so we can get our bearings," but Dum and I cried down this project. "Let's find out things for ourselves and then get a map and guide book to verify us. It's lots more fun to go at it that way." "Well, all I know is that this hotel is on Meeting Street, and on our right is Church Street and on our left King. The street under your window is Queen, and if you walk south down Meeting you come to the Battery. You can't get lost and can't get in any trouble unless you try to climb the spiked fences or get over the walls covered with broken bottles. I'll meet you at luncheon at one," and Zebedee took himself off to find out things from some of the political lights of the city. We were left to our own devices. The sun had come out and if we had not been in the rain we would not have believed it could have come down in such torrents only a short while ago. Our dresses did not spot. "Let's not go in any place this morning but just walk around and see from the outside. It would be low of us to do the graveyards and things without Zebedee. He loves those things and will want to see them," said Dee. It was a strange taste for one so cheerful, but it was the truth that Mr. Tucker was especially fond of poking around musty old churches and reading epitaphs on tombstones. We walked to St. Michael's, looking longingly through the iron gates at the quaint old tombstones, but refrained from going in for Zebedee's sake. We passed many beautiful old houses, some of them in perfect repair, brave in fresh paint, with trimmed hedges and gravel walks in their lovely old gardens that we could see by peering through the wrought-iron gates. Some of the houses, though, looked as though they had not been painted since the Revolution, and their gardens were grown up with weeds, with ragged, untrimmed hedges and neglected paths. Almost every house, big or little, boasts a southern gallery or porch. The houses are built right on the street, but the large door opens from the street to the porch and not to the house. The gardens are to the side and back, and, as a rule, are surrounded by great brick walls with either iron spikes across the top or ferocious broken bottles cemented to the bricks. The windows, opening on the street, are kept shuttered closely, and iron bars give you to understand that there is no breaking into Charleston society by night or day. The corners of the houses, where the porches are, also are protected from possible interlopers by great iron spikes, a foot long and sharp enough to pierce the hide of a rhinoceros. The porches are also shuttered, partly to protect the inmates from the rude gaze of the passer-by and partly to protect them from the ruder gaze of the southern sun. There was almost no one on the street. The Charleston men had gone to their places of business, leisurely to pursue a desultory living, and Charleston ladies do not go on the street in the morning, so we were afterwards told. We met several darkies crying their wares and saw an occasional housewife making a furtive purchase from some of these hucksters. These ladies, we judged, only came out because their establishments did not boast servants. As a rule, however, the old cooks seemed to do the buying. The Charleston darky has a very peculiar lingo, so peculiar, in fact, that Tweedles and I found it difficult to understand. It is very different from the speech of our Virginia negroes. They seem to clip the words off very short, and their voices are lighter and higher than our colored people's. A shrimp seller was very interesting to us. We did not know what he had or what he was calling, and followed him down the street trying to find out. He held up high on his open hand a great flat basket and he sounded as though he were trying to give a college yell: "Rah, rah, rah, Shrimpy! Rah, rah, Shrimpy! Rah!" "What on earth are you selling?" asked Dum. "Rah shrimp! Rah shrimp! Buysome, Missy! Buysome, Missy!" Then we saw his squirming wares and understood. "But we couldn't do anything with raw shrimps," we declared regretfully. "Well den, Missy lak nig sing fer heh?" "Why, yes, that would be fine," and the boy held high his basket of squirming raw shrimps and sang in a strange falsetto the following song: "Shrimpy, Shrimpy; rah, rah, Shrimpy! Who wants Shrimp ter-day? When you hear de Shrimp man holler, Better come dis way. "Shrimpy, Shrimpy; rah, rah, Shrimpy! Sho' I'll heap de plate. Ain't I see my gal dere waitin' Stannin' by de gate? "Shrimpy, Shrimpy; rah, rah, Shrimpy! All de cooks in town, When I holler 'I got Shrimpy' Mus' be tunnin' roun'." We applauded him vigorously and each one gave him a dime, thereby doing a very foolish thing, as ever after during our stay in Charleston we were pursued by the little darkies who wanted to sing to us. CHAPTER VI THROUGH THE GRILLE None of us had ever been so far south before and the palmetto trees were a great astonishment to us. "They don't look natural to me, somehow," declared Dum, "but kind of manufactured. The trunks with that strange criss-cross effect might have been made by kindergarten children and as for the leaves--I don't believe they are real." "It does seem ridiculous for people to have these great things twenty feet high, growing in their back yards when we nurse them with such care at home and are so proud if we can get one to grow three feet. Mammy Susan has a palm, 'pa'm' she calls it, that she has tenderly cared for for four years and it is only about up to my waist now. I wish she could see these trees." "I feel like the lady from Minnesota who came on a visit to Richmond and was so overcome by the magnolia trees. She remarked: 'I have never seen such large rubber plants.' But don't these palmetto trees have a strange swishy sound? They make me feel like 'somebody's a-comin',' kind of creepy." Dee was peering into a garden belonging to one of the old houses that had not known paint since the Revolution. The garden, however, was not neglected but evidently cared for with loving hands. There were borders of snowdrops and violets; purple and white hyacinths primly marked the narrow gravel walk, and clumps of rhododendron and oleander were so well placed that one felt that a landscape gardener must have had the planting of them. Two large palmetto trees stood like sentinels on each side of the wrought-iron gate, which was hung from great square brick pillars. A massive brick wall surrounded the garden with an uninviting coping of ferocious spikes. We had our faces close to the grille trying to see a little more of the garden while the above conversation was going on. All of us longed to get in like Alice in Wonderland. How to do it was the problem! If that we could see was so enchanting, what we couldn't see must be even more so. "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore ye pipes play on." No doubt it was very rude of us to stand there peering in, but we were so enthralled by the beauty of the garden and so filled with the desire to get in that we forgot Mr. Manners entirely. Just as Dee said that the palmetto trees made her feel like somebody was coming, somebody did come. We heard a voice, a very irate voice indeed, behind the wall declaiming in masculine tones: "There is no use in discussing the matter further, Claire! I tell you I shall never give my consent to Louis' going into such a profession. Planting gardens, forsooth! That is work for negroes, negroes directed by women." "But, papa, it is a very honorable profession, and Louis has such a love for flowers and such marvelous taste in arranging them. Just see what he has done for our garden! He could do the same for others, and already he is being sought by some of the wealthy persons of Charleston to direct the planting of their gardens." The second voice evidently belonged to a young girl. There was a sweet girlishness about it and the soft, light accent of the Charlestonian was very marked. I don't know how to give an idea of how she said Charleston, but there was no R in it and in its place I might almost put an I. "Chailston" is as near as I can come and that seems 'way off. "Bah! Pish! _Nouveau riches! Parvenues!_ What business have they to ask a Gaillard to dig in their dirt? It is not many generations since they have handled picks themselves and now they want to degrade one of the first Charleston families." "But, papa, what is he to do? Louis is nineteen and you know there is no money for college. He cannot be idle any longer. He must have a profession." It was a strange thing that three girls who prided themselves on being very honorable should have deliberately stopped there and listened to a conversation not intended for their ears, but in talking over the matter later we all agreed that we did not realize what we were doing. It seemed like a bit out of a play, somehow: the setting of the garden, the strange ante-bellum sentiments of the old gentleman and all. "What is he to do? There have never been but three ways for a gentleman to earn a living: the Church, Law, the Army. Now, of course, the last avenue is closed to a Southern gentleman as he could hardly ally himself with the enemies of his land. The Church and the Law are all that are left for one of our blood. Since, as you are so quick to inform me, there is no money for Louis to go to college and a degree is quite necessary for one expecting to advance himself by practice of law, I see nothing for him to do but go into the ministry." "Louis be a preacher, papa! Why, he has not the least calling." "He has more calling to occupy a pulpit than to be down on his hands and knees planting gardens for these vulgar Yankees." "But, papa, what pulpit? Are we not Huguenots? Has not Louis been brought up in that faith and how could he preach any other? The Huguenot church here is the only one in the United States, and it has only forty members, and you know yourself now that so many of those members live in other cities that we often have a congregation of only six, counting our own family. There certainly is no room for him in that pulpit." And then the old man did what men often do when they are worsted in an argument, he became very masculine and informed the girl that she had much better attend to her household duties and leave man's business to man. "But, papa, I must say one more thing,--I think Louis is very despondent and needs encouragement. He hates to be idle and he is forced to be. I was shocked by his appearance this morning. I am very sorry I went on the visit to Aunt Maria. I am afraid he has needed me." Papa gave a snort and then we had a shock. He had evidently walked away from Claire in disgust, and suddenly there loomed in sight a familiar low-cut waistcoat enveloping the portly embonpoint of our early morning companion in the bus. We did not wait to see his double chin. The glimpse we had of the low-cut vest made us beat a hasty retreat. We walked down the street with what dignity we could assume. "I'm pretty ashamed of myself," said Dum. "Me, too! Me, too!" from Dee and me. "I don't know what made us stay and listen, it was so thrilling somehow. Aren't you sorry for Claire? And poor Louis! To think of having only one profession open to you and that to be preaching to six persons including your own family." "Yes, and no doubt there is already an incumbent," I suggested. "I'd love to know Claire. Didn't she sound spunky and at the same time respectful. I hope she can bring the old fat gentleman around." "She might bring him around, but she can't get around him, he's too fat," laughed Dee. "I tell you I'd like to know Louis. I fancy he must be interesting. Isn't their name romantic? Gaillard sounds like it ought to go with poignard: Louis Gaillard drew his poignard and defended himself from the cannaille." "Isn't it funny that we should have peeped into the very garden belonging to the pretty rumpled girl in the bus? Now I s'pose we will run against the pale old dames in the crêpe veils." I had hardly spoken before we did run against the very old ladies. They had darted out of a large shabby old house about a block from the Gaillard's home and were in the act of purchasing "Rah, rah, rah, Shrimpy! Shrimpy! Rah, rah, rah!" Their veils were off now but they still had an air of being shrouded in crêpe, although their dresses were made of black calico. It seemed to take two of them to buy a dime's worth of shrimps, and the shrimp vender stood patiently by while they picked over his wares. "They are quite small, Sam," complained the taller of the two. "Yes, Miss Laurens, but yer see dese hyar is shrimpys, dey ain't crabs, nor yit laubsters." "Poor things! I just know they have a hard time getting along," sighed Dee. "They look so frail and underfed. Just look back at their house! It is simply huge. And look at their porches! Big enough for skating rinks! Do you suppose those two little old ladies live there all by themselves?" "I fancy they must have a lot of servants," ventured Dum. "Of course they haven't any or they wouldn't be buying shrimps themselves. They live all alone in that great house and eat a dime's worth of shrimps a day. They have just been off burying their last relative who did not leave them a small legacy that they have, in a perfectly decent and ladylike way, been looking forward to. I have worked out their whole plot and mean to write 'em up some day." "Oh, Page, you are so clever! Do you really think that is the truth about them? What are they going to do now?" asked Dum. "Do? Why, of course they are going to take boarders, 'paying guests.' Don't you know that there are only two ways for a Charleston lady to make a living? The men have three according to his Eminence of the Tum Tum. Women as usual get the hot end of it and there are only two for them: taking boarders and teaching school." "Well, I only wish we could go board there. I am dying to get into one of these old houses. I bet they are lovely. Did you notice they had an ugly, new, unpainted, board gate? I wonder where their wrought-iron one is. They must have had one sometime. Their house looks as though a beautiful gate must have gone with it." Dum had an eye open for artistic things and the iron gate had taken her fancy more than anything we had yet seen in Charleston. "When I write them up I am going to use that, too, in my story. Of course they sold the gate to some of the _parvenu_ Yankees, that the old gentleman scorned so. I can write a thrilling account of their going out at night to bid the beautiful gates good-by forever, those gates that had played such an important part in their lives. Through their portals many a coach (claret-colored, I think, I will have the coaches be) has rolled, bearing to their revels the belles of the sixties. (Everyone in the sixties was a belle.) I have an idea that the smaller Miss Laurens was once indiscreet enough to kiss her lover through the bars of that gate but the taller one never got further than letting her young man lightly touch her lily hand with his lips." "Oh, Page, you are so ridiculous to make up all of that about two snuffy old ladies. Now I want you to write a real story about Claire and her brother Louis. I am sure they are interesting without making up. I still wish I could see Louis. I'd tell him to spunk up and go dig for the nice people all he wants to. I know they are nice if they are only twice removed from a pick and shovel, according to old Mr. Gaillard," said Dee, ever democratic. We had reached the Battery, a beautiful spot with fine live-oaks and palmettos. Spanish moss hung in festoons from some of the trees. It was the first any of us had seen. "They say it finally kills the trees if too much of it grows on them, but it is certainly beautiful," said Dum. "It is like these old traditions, worn out and senseless; a few of them are all right and give a charm to the South, but when they envelop one as they do his Eminence of the Tum Tum they simply prove deadly," philosophized Dee. "Good for you, Dee! Please remember what you have just said and when I get home I'm going to put it in my note book. It would come in dandy in the story I am going to write about the old ladies and their gate." I had started a note book at the instigation of Mr. Tucker, who said it might prove invaluable to me in after years if I meant to write. I believe Charleston is the only city in the United States that has a direct view of the ocean. You can look straight out from the Battery between Fort Sumter and Sullivan's Island to the open sea. Fort Moultrie is on Sullivan's Island and on the Battery is a fine statue of Sergeant Jasper who stands with hand extended, pointing to the fort where he so gallantly rescued and replaced the flag, with the words: "We cannot fight without a flag!" Fort Sumter is a spot made famous by the war between the States. It was bombarded in 1861 and I believe is noted as having stood more bombarding than any port in history up to the time of Port Arthur. "Now don't you wish we had a guide book and map? I want to know what those places are out in the harbor. Next time I am going to do my way!" exclaimed Dee, but a kindly park policeman, the only living creature on the Battery, told us all we could have got out of a guide book and more perhaps. He pointed out where the steps had been that Princess Louise descended to embark with her brilliant cortège after her memorable visit to Charleston in '83. He showed us Sullivan's Island, nothing more than a misty spot on the horizon, where Poe laid the scene of "The Gold Bug." He led us up to the old gun from the _Keokuk_, patting it lovingly and reverently. He was a charming old man and seemed to take a personal interest in everything on the Battery. His accent was fine and had the real Charleston softness. I wondered if he, too, did not belong to a fine old family and unlike Mr. Gaillard had discovered that there were more ways than three for a gentleman to earn a living. Next he showed us the bust of William Gilmore Simms, South Carolina's great author, novelist, historian, poet. And then he put my mind entirely at rest about his being somewhat out of his element in serving as a park policeman by quoting Simms at length in his beautiful poem: "THE GRAPE VINE SWING "Lithe and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see; Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing. "Yet no foe that we fear to seek, The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, And swings and sings in the noonday shade! "O giant strange of our Southern woods! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, And the Northern forest beholds thee not; I think of thee still with a sweet regret, As the cordage yields to my playful grasp, Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp?" What a dear old man he was! We could hardly tear ourselves away, but it was twelve o'clock and we had promised to meet Zebedee for a one o'clock luncheon. We told him good-by, and promised to come to see him some more and then made our way along the eastern walk of the Battery. The breezes always seem to be high down on the Charleston Battery, as it is exposed to the four winds of heaven. The sky had clouded over again and quite a sharp little east wind was blowing, whistling rather dismally through the palmetto trees that grow all along the beautiful street that runs beside the waterfront. Very handsome houses are on this street, with beautiful gardens. The walls are not so high there, and we wondered if the owners were as aristocratic as those enclosed by high walls. "Maybe every generation puts another layer of brick on the wall," suggested Dee, and I made a mental reservation that that, too, would go in my notebook about Charleston. CHAPTER VII THE ABANDONED HOTEL As we followed this street, East Bay Street it is called, we came upon a great old custard-colored house built right on the water's edge so that the waves almost lapped its long pleasant galleries. "Isn't this a jolly place?" we cried, but when we got closer to it we decided jolly was certainly not the name for it. The window panes of its many windows were missing or broken. The doors were open and swinging in the strong breeze that seemed to develop almost into a hurricane as it hit the exposed corner of the old custard-colored house. A tattered awning was flapping continuously from one end of the porch, an awning that had been gaily striped once, but now was faded to a dull gray except one spot where it had wrapped itself around one of the columns and in so doing, had protected a portion of itself from the weather to bear witness to its former glory. "What a dismal place! What could it have been?" "It is open! Let's go in and see what we can see." "It is positively weird. I am afraid of ghosts in such a place even in broad daylight," I declared half in earnest, but Tweedles wanted to go in and I was never one to hang back when a possible adventure was on foot. The creaking door swung in as if propelled by unseen hands and we found ourselves in a hall of rather fine proportions with a broad stairway leading up. Doors opening into this hall were also swinging in the wind, so we entered the room to the right, the parlor, of course, we thought. The paper was hanging in shreds from the wall, adding to the dismal swishing sound that pervaded the whole building. From this room we entered another hall that had a peculiar looking counter built on one side. "What do you fancy this thing is for?" demanded Dum. "I've got it! I've got it!" exclaimed Dee. "This is an old inn or hotel or something and that is the clerk's desk. Look, here is a row of hooks for keys and here is a rusty key still hanging on the hook." "It must have been a delightful place to stay with such a view of the harbor and those beautiful porches where one could sit and watch the ships come in. This room next must have been the dining room, and see where there is a little stage! That was for the musicians to sit on," enthused Dum. "When they finished supper they put the tables against the wall and danced like this," and Dee pirouetted around the dusty, rotting floor. "Isn't it awful to let a place like this go to pieces so? I don't believe there is a whole pane of glass in the house, and I am sure no door will stay shut. It's too gloomy for me; let's get out in the street again," I begged. "You can go, but I am going upstairs before I leave. I should think a would-be author would want to see all the things she could, and if there are any ghosts meet them," and Dee started valiantly up the creaking stairs. Of course Dum and I followed. A silence settled on us as we mounted. The wind that had been noisy enough below was simply deafening the higher we got. The paper that was hanging from the ceilings rattled ceaselessly and the wind was tugging at what was still sticking tenaciously to some of the side walls making a strange whistling sound. "Gee whiz! I feel like Jane Eyre!" whispered Dum. "No; 'The Fall of the House of Usher'!" I gasped. "Just think of such a place as this being right here in sight of all those grand houses!" "I know it's haunted! I feel a presence!" and Dee stopped suddenly on the landing. "Who's a 'fraid cat now?" I taunted. "Let the would-be author go in front. 'Infirm of purpose, give me the dagger!'" At that Dee ran lightly on ahead of us and disappeared in a room to the right. We followed in time to see her skirts vanishing through a door beyond. "This must have been the bridal chamber, it is so grand. Just look at the view of the harbor through this window," said Dum, still whispering, as there was something about the place, a kind of gruesomeness, that made one feel rather solemn. I thought of Poe's "Haunted Palace" and whispered some of the stanzas to Dum, for the moment both of us forgetting Dee, who had rushed off so precipitately. "'In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace-- Radiant palace--reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. "'But evil things in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. "'And travelers now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While like a ghastly, rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh--but smile no more.'" I had hardly finished the last stanza of what is to me the most ghastly poem in the English language, when a strange blood-curdling shriek was heard echoing through the rattle-trap old house. "Dee!" we shouted together and started on a run through the door where we had last seen her new brown suit vanishing. It opened into a long corridor with doors all down the side, evidently bedrooms. Numbers were over the doors. All the doors were shut. Where was Dee? The wind had stopped as quickly as it had started and the old house was as quiet as the grave. "Dee! Dee!" we called. "Where are you, Dee?" Our voices sounded as though we had yelled down a well. No answer! My eye fastened on the door with No. 13 over it. All of us have some superstitions, and anyone brought up by a colored mammy is certain to have many. "No. 13 is sure to be right," I thought, and pushed open the door. A strange sight met my gaze: Dee, with her arms thrown around a youth who crouched on the floor, his face buried in his hands while his whole frame was shaken with sobs! From the chandelier hung a rope with a noose tied in the dangling end, and under it a pile of bricks carefully placed as though some child had been building a house of blocks. The bricks had evidently been taken from among others that were scattered over the hearth near a chimney that had fallen in. Our relief at finding Dee and finding her unharmed was so great that nothing mattered to us. Dee put her finger on her lips and we stopped stock-still. The slender figure of the young man was still convulsed with sobs, and Dee held him and soothed him as though he had been a baby and she some grandmother. Finally he spoke, with his face still covered: "Claire must never know!" Claire? Then this was Louis Gaillard! Dee had said several times she would like to know him, but she had had no idea of her idle wish being granted so quickly and in such a manner. When the boy said "Claire must never know," Dee arose to the occasion as only Dee could and said in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone: "No, Louis, I promise you that Claire shall never know from me." This calling him by name at the time did not seem strange to him. He was under such stress of emotion that the use of his Christian name by an unknown young girl seemed perfectly natural to the stricken youth. It seems that when Dee went on ahead of us while I was so grandiloquently spouting poetry, she had flitted from room to room. The doors had been open all along the corridor except in No. 13. She had had a fancy to close them after each exploration until she had come to 13. On opening that door she had met a sight to freeze her young blood, but instead of freezing her young blood she had simply let out a most normal and healthy yell. Louis Gaillard was standing on the pile of bricks that he had placed with great precision under the chandelier, and as Dee entered he was in the act of fitting the noose around his poor young neck. His plan of course had been to slip the noose and then kick the pile of bricks from under him and there to hang until he should die. The realization of what had occurred came to Dum and me without an explanation, which Dee gave us later when we could be alone with her. Dee, in the meantime, continued to pat the boy's shoulder and hold him tight in her courageous arms until the sobs ceased and he finally looked up. Then he slowly rose to his feet. He was a tall, slender youth, every inch of him the aristocrat. His countenance was not weak, just despondent. I could well fancy him to be very handsome, but now his sombre eyes were red with weeping and his mouth trembling with emotion. "I don't know what made me be so wicked," he finally stammered. "I know. You are very despondent over your life. You are tired of idleness and see no way to be occupied because your father opposes the kind of thing you feel yourself fitted to do," and Dee, ordinarily the kind of girl who hated lollapalusing, as she called it, took the boy's nerveless hand in both of hers. She said afterwards she knew by instinct that he needed flesh and blood to hang to, something tangible to keep his reason from leaving him. He looked at her wonderingly and she continued: "Claire has been away on a trip and while she was gone your father has nagged you. He thinks working in flowers is not the work for a Gaillard and wants you to be a lawyer or preacher. You have no money to go to college, and he seems to think you can be a preacher without the education necessary to be a lawyer--which is news to me. You have offers to plant gardens right here in Charleston, but your father will not permit you to do it. You have become despondent and have lost appetite and are now suffering from a nervousness that makes you not quite yourself." "But you--how do you know all this?" "I am ashamed to tell you how I know it. I am afraid you will never be able to trust me if you know." "I not trust you! You seem like an angel from heaven to me." "Well, first let me introduce my sister and friend to you." Dee had a wonderful power of putting persons at their ease and now in these circumstances, to say the least unconventional, she turned and introduced us to Mr. Louis Gaillard with as much simplicity as she would have shown at a tennis game or in a ball-room. He, with the polished manners of his race, bowed low over our proffered hands. All of us ignored the pile of bricks and the sinister rope hanging from the chandelier. "We are twins and this is our best friend, Page Allison. We have got some real long names, but Dum and Dee are the names we go by as a rule, Dum and Dee Tucker. We are down here in Charleston with our father Jeffry Tucker, Zebedee for short. And now I want you to do us a big favor----" "Me? A favor for you?" Dee had proceeded rather rapidly and the dazed young man had some difficulty in following her. "Yes, a favor! I want you, all of us want you, to come up to the hotel and have lunch with us and meet Zebedee. It is lunch time now almost, and we promised to be back in time,--you see, if you come with us, Zebedee can't row with us about being late. He will be awfully cut up over our being late--nothing makes him so cross. I know if you are with us he will be unable to rag us. Just as soon as he gets something to eat he will be all right." What was Dee driving at? Zebedee cross! Had she caught the young man's malady and gone a little off her hooks? Dum and I looked at each other wonderingly--then a light dawned on us: she wanted to get the young man entirely away from this terrible room, and felt if she made him think that he was to go along to protect us from an irate father, he would do it from a sense of chivalry. Having more experience with an irate father than any other kind, Louis was easily persuaded. "Certainly, if I can be of any assistance!" "Well, you can! Now let's hurry!" CHAPTER VIII TUCKER TACT It was quite a walk back to the hotel but we did it in an inconceivably short time. It was only 1.10 as we stepped into the lobby. We walked four abreast wherever the sidewalk permitted it and when we had to break ranks we kept close together and chatted as gaily as usual. Louis was very quiet but very courteous. The fresh air brought some color back to his pale cheeks and the redness left his eyes. He was indeed a very handsome youth. He seemed to be in a kind of daze and kept as close to Dee as he could, as though he feared if she left him, he might again find himself in the terrible dream from which she had awakened him. What was Dee to say to her father? How account for this young man? I was constantly finding out things about the Tuckers that astonished me. The thing that was constantly impressing me was their casualness. On this occasion it was very marked. What father would simply accept a situation as Zebedee did this one? We three girls had gone out in the morning to his certain knowledge knowing not one single person in the whole city, and here we were coming back late to lunch and bringing with us a handsome, excited looking young man and introducing him as though we had known him all our lives. Mr. Tucker greeted him hospitably and took him to his room while we went to ours to doll up a bit for lunch. He had no opportunity to ask us where we got him or what we meant by picking up forlorn-looking aristocrats and bringing them home to lunch. He just trusted us. To be trusted is one of the greatest incentives in the world to be trustworthy. Anyone with half an eye could see that Louis Gaillard needed a friend, and could also see that all of us had been under some excitement. Zebedee not only had more than half an eye, but was Argus-eyed. Louis must have been very much astonished at the irate old parent he had been led to expect. Mr. Tucker never looked younger or more genial. He had had a profitable morning himself, digging up political information that he considered most valuable, and now he was through for the day and had planned a delightful afternoon to be spent with us seeing the sights of Charleston. "Was anyone in all the world ever so wonderful as our Zebedee?" asked Dum as she smoothed her bronze black hair and straightened her collar, getting ready for luncheon. "I'm so proud of him, but I knew he would do just this way! Not one questioning glance! I know he is on tenter hooks all the time, too. The cat that died of curiosity has got nothing on Zebedee. I tell you, Page, Dum and I will walk into the dining room ahead with Louis and you make out you are expecting a letter and stop at the desk and try to put him wise. He is sure to wait for you." "All right! But must I tell him everything? It will take time." "Oh, don't go into detail, but just summarize. Give a synopsis of the morning in a thumb-nail sketch. You can do it." "I can try." We found Mr. Tucker and the youth waiting for us in the lobby. The appearance of the guest was much improved by soap and water and a hair brush. Whose appearance is not? We started into the dining room, and as per arrangement I had to go back to the desk. Zebedee of course went with me, and the twins kept on with Louis. "I know you are not expecting a letter but want to tell me what's up," he whispered. "Exactly! We were peeping into a garden and overheard the old fat man we saw in the bus this morning telling the pretty daughter that he intended that his son Louis should be a preacher at the Huguenot church here, where they often have a congregation of only six, boasting a membership of forty, many of them out-of-town members. Louis wants to be a landscape gardener, anyhow, to plant gardens, for which he has a great taste, but old Tum Tum thinks that is beneath the dignity of a Gaillard. Claire, the daughter, was very uneasy about Louis, as he seemed despondent. We were ashamed of having listened. Eavesdropping is not our line, but we did it before we knew we were doing it." Zebedee smiled, and I went on talking a mile a minute. "We walked around the Battery and then went into an old deserted hotel, where all the doors were open and all the windows gone. We wandered around and then went upstairs. "Dee left us and went down a long corridor, where the bedrooms were, and when she got to Number Thirteen she went in and found Louis getting ready to hang himself. The rope was on the chandelier, and he had a pile of bricks to stand on. He was putting the noose on his neck when she opened the door, and then she screamed bloody murder, and we heard her and ran like rabbits until we got to Thirteen, and I knew it was the right door just because it was Thirteen. We found poor Louis crouching down on the floor, and Dee had her arms around him and was treating him just like a poor little sick kitten. He was sobbing to beat the band, and as soon as he could speak, he said: 'Claire must never know!' and then we knew that he was the boy who wanted to plant gardens. Dee called him Louis and talked to him in such a rational way that he pulled himself together. He seemed like some one out of his head, but we chatted away like we always do, and he kind of found himself. Dee asked him to come home to lunch to protect us from your rage at our being late. She knew you wouldn't mind, and she felt that if she put it up to him that way he would think he ought to come. She said you would not give way to anger before strangers. We are mighty proud of you for being so--so--Zebedeeish about the whole thing." "Two minutes, by the clock!" cried Zebedee, when I stopped for breath. "How I wish I had a reporter who could tell so much in such a short time! I am mighty glad you approve of me, for I certainly approve of my girls. Now we will go in and eat luncheon and Louis shall not know I know a word. I will see what I can do to help him. Gee whiz! That would make a great newspaper story, but I am a father first and then a newspaper man." We actually got in and were seated at the table before Tweedles and Louis had settled on what to order. Zebedee pretended to be very hungry and to be angry, and only his sense of propriety with a guest present seemed to hold back his rage at being kept waiting. He acted the irate, hungry parent so well that we almost exploded. Louis ate like a starving man. As is often the case after a great excitement, a desire for food had come to him. His appetite, however, was not so much larger than ours. All of us were hungry, and I am afraid the hotel management did not make much on running their place on the American plan. Wherever there was a choice of viands, we ordered all of them. "You must know Charleston pretty well, Mr. Gaillard, do you not?" asked our host, when the first pangs of hunger were allayed. "Know it? I know every stone in it, and love it. But I do wish you would not call me Mr. Gaillard." "All right, then, Louis! I wonder if you would not show us your wonderful old city this afternoon--that is, all of it we could see in an afternoon. You must not let us take up your time if you are occupied, however." "I haven't a thing to do. I finished at the high school in February, and have nothing to occupy me until the graduating exercises in June. I'd think it a great honor and privilege to show you and the young ladies all I can about Charleston," and Louis looked his delight at the prospect. "I must let my sister know first, though. She may be wondering where I am." "'Phone her!" tweedled the twins. "We haven't a telephone," simply. No telephone! We might have known to begin with that such a modern vulgarity as a telephone would not be tolerated in the house belonging to his Eminence of the Tum Tum. "You have plenty of time to walk down and tell her, and I think it would be very nice if she would consent to come with you. We should be overjoyed to have her join our party," said the ever hospitable Zebedee. "I should like that above all things if she can come." Of course we knew that the obstacle to her coming would be the old father who would no doubt demand our pedigrees before permitting a member of his family to be seen on the street with us. "Mr. Tucker, I should like to have a few minutes' talk with you when we finish luncheon." "I am through now, even if these insatiate monsters of mine have ordered pie on top of apple dumpling, so you come on with me, Louis, while they finish. No doubt they will be glad to get rid of us so they can order another help all around." "What do you reckon he wants to say to Zebedee?" said Dee, biting a comfortable wedge out of her pie, which, in the absence of Zebedee, she picked up in her fingers to eat as pie should be eaten. "Why, he is going to tell him all about this morning. Don't you see, he feels that maybe your father will not think he is a reliable person or something; anyhow, he is such a gentleman that he knows the proper thing to do is to make a clean breast of his acquaintance with us." "Well, now, how do you know that?" asked Dum. "I don't know it. I just imagine it." "Do you know, Page, I believe you will be an author. You've got so much imagination." "It is just nothing but thinking what you would do in a person's place provided you had the nature of that person. Now you are high-minded, too; fancy yourself in Louis' place--what would you do?" "Go tell Zebedee all about it, of course." "Exactly! So would anyone if he expected to continue the acquaintance begun in such a strange way." "I want to see Louis before he goes for his sister. You see, we never did tell him how we happened to know his name and all about his affairs. I must tell him that and also let him know that we came up in the bus with his father and sister this morning. He can let her know something about us without divulging the terrible thing that came so near happening at the old hotel." Dee devoured the last morsel of pie and we went to the parlor, where we found Zebedee clasping hands with Louis, who was flushed and shiny-eyed but looked very happy. "Poor boy!" exclaimed Zebedee to me, as Dee turned to Louis and drew him to a seat by the window. "He has told me the whole thing like the gentleman he is. He says he must have been demented. He has been very nervous lately, and all the time his sister was away his father has nagged him to death, and this morning, evidently after you monkeys listened to the talk in the garden, the old gentleman got him in a corner and pronounced the ultimatum: either law or the ministry. Of course, the ministry is out of the question, and the law means years of waiting, even if he had the money to go to college. He could begin and earn a livelihood tomorrow laying out these gardens and planting them, but the obdurate parent says if he does not obey he will withdraw the light of his countenance." "I'd say withdraw it; the sooner the better." "So would I; but I could not give that advice to Louis until I know more about him and his people. I hope the sister can come." She did come, although I believe she did not inform her father of what she was going to do. She was more than a year younger than her brother, and he was evidently the pride of her heart. I prayed that she might never know the terrible calamity that had come so near to her life. I believe she could never have breathed a happy breath again as long as she lived if that knowledge had been hers. Louis had just told her some Virginians whom he had met on the Battery--Mr. Tucker, his two daughters and their friend--had made friends with him, and had asked him to accompany them in their sightseeing expedition and had suggested his bringing her. He let drop that we had arrived that morning in the bus, and she immediately concluded that we were her companions in misery on that wet, bumpy drive. CHAPTER IX CHURCHYARDS Graveyards seemed a strange place to want to spend the afternoon after our experience of the morning, but the cheerful Zebedee always made for them, just as a sunbeam seems to be hunting up the dark and gloomy corners. "Saint Michael's first, as that is the nearest," suggested Louis. We entered the churchyard through massive old iron gates, and, turning to the right, followed Louis to perhaps the most unique grave stone in the world: the headboard of an old cedar bed. It is a relic of 1770. The story goes that the woman buried there insisted that her husband should go to no trouble or expense to mark her grave. She said that she had been very comfortable in that same bed and would rest very easy under it and that it would soon rot away and leave her undisturbed. She little dreamed that more than a century later that old cedar bed would be preserved, seemingly in some miraculous way, and be intact while stones, reverently placed at the same time, were crumbling away. "It seems like John Keats' epitaph: 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water.' Keats thought he was dead to the world, and see how he lives; and this poor woman's grave is the first one that tourists are taken to see," I mused aloud. "I have often thought about this woman," said Claire, in her light, musical voice. "I have an idea that she must have been very hard-worked and perhaps longed for a few more minutes in bed every morning, and maybe the husband routed her out, and when she died perhaps he felt sorry he had not given her more rest." "You hear that, Page?" asked Dum. "You had better have some mercy on me now. I may 'shuffle off this mortal coil' at any minute, and you will be so sorry you didn't let me sleep just a little while longer." (It had been my job ever since I started to room with the Tucker twins to be the waker-up. It was a thankless job, too, and no sinecure.) "See that my little brass bed is kept shiny, Zebedee dear." "I wonder why it is that no one ever seems to feel very sad or quiet in old, old graveyards?" I asked, all of us laughing at Dum's brass bed. "I think it is because all the persons who suffered at the death of the persons buried there are dead, too. No one feels very sorry for the dead; it is the living that are left to mourn. Old cemeteries are to me the most peaceful and cheerful spots one can visit," said Zebedee, leaning over to decipher some quaint epitaph. "I think so, too!" exclaimed Claire, who had fitted herself into our crowd with delightful ease. "New graves are the ones that break my heart." Louis turned away to hide his emotion. He had been too near to the Great Divide that very morning for talk of new-made graves and the sorrow of loved ones not to move him. There was much of interest in that old burying ground, and Louis proved an excellent cicerone. He told us that the church was started in 1752; that the bells and organ and clock were imported from England, and that the present organ had parts of the old organ incorporated in it. The bells were seized during the Revolution and shipped and sold in England, where they were purchased by a former Charleston merchant and shipped back again. During the Civil War they were sent to Columbia for safekeeping, but were so badly injured when Columbia was burned that they had to be again sent to England and recast in the original mold. They chimed out the hour while Louis was telling us about them as though to prove to us their being well worth all the trouble to which they had put the worthy citizens of Charleston. "Saint Philip's next, while we are in the churchly spirit," said Louis; "and then the Huguenot church." St. Philip's was a little older than St. Michael's. The chimes for that church were used for making cannon for the Confederacy, and for lack of funds up to the present time they have not been replaced. On top of the high steeple is a beacon light by which the ships find their way into the harbor. We had noticed at the hotel, both at our very early breakfast and at luncheon, a very charming couple who had attracted us greatly and who, in turn, seemed interested in us. The man was a scholarly person with kind, brown eyes, a very intelligent, comely countenance, and a tendency to baldness right on top that rather added to his intellectual appearance. His wife was quite pretty, young, and with a look of race and breeding that was most striking. Her hair was red gold, and she had perhaps the sweetest blue eyes I had ever beheld. Her eyes just matched her blue linen shirtwaist. What had attracted me to the couple was not only their interesting appearance, but the fact that they seemed to have such a good time together. They talked not in the perfunctory way that married persons often do, but with real spirit and interest. As we entered the cemetery of St. Philip's, across the street from the church, we met this couple standing by the sarcophagus of the great John C. Calhoun. The lady bowed to us sweetly, acknowledging, as it were, having seen us in the hotel. We of course eagerly responded, delighted at the encounter. We had discussed them at length, and almost decided they were bride and groom; at least Tweedles had, but I thought not. They were too much at their ease to be on their first trip together, I declared, and of course got called a would-be author for my assertion. "I hear there is a wonderful portrait of Calhoun by Healy in the City Hall," said the gentleman to Zebedee, as he courteously moved for us to read the inscription on the sarcophagus. "Yes, so I am told, but this young man who belongs to this interesting city can tell us more about it," and in a little while all of us were drawn into conversation with our chance acquaintances. Louis led us through the cemetery, telling us anything of note, and then we followed him to the Huguenot church, accompanied by our new friends. A Huguenot church has stood on the site of the present one since 1667. Many things have happened to the different buildings, but the present one, an edifice of unusual beauty and dignity, has remained intact since 1845. The preacher, a dear old man of over eighty, who is totally blind, has been pastor of this scanty flock for almost fifty years. He now conducts the service from memory, and preaches wonderful, simple sermons straight from his kind old heart. "Oh, Edwin, see what wonderful old names are on these tablets," enthused the young wife--"Mazyck, Ravenel, Porcher, de Sasure, Huger, Cazanove, L'Hommedieu, Marquand, Gaillard----" "Yes, dear, they sound like an echo from the Old World." "This Gaillard is our great, great grandfather, isn't he, Louis?" asked Claire. "My brother knows so much more about such things than I do." "Oh, is your name Gaillard?" And then the introductions followed, Zebedee doing the honors, naming all of us in turn; and then the gentleman told us that his name was Edwin Green and introduced his wife. I fancy Claire and Louis had not been in the habit of picking up acquaintances in this haphazard style, and the sensation was a new and delightful one to them. The Tuckers and I always did it. We talked to the people we met on trains and in parks, and many an item for my notebook did I get in this way. Zebedee says he thinks it is all right just so you don't pick out some flashy flatterer. Of course we never did that, but confined our chance acquaintances to women and children or nice old men, whose interest was purely fatherly. Making friends as we had with Louis was different, as there was nothing to do but help him; and his sex and age were not to be considered at such a time. "Are you to be in Charleston long?" asked Zebedee of Mr. Green. "I can't tell. We are fascinated by it, but long to get out of the hotel and into some home." "If I knew of some nice quiet place, I would put my girls there for a few days while I run over to Columbia on business. I can't leave them alone in the hotel." "I should love to look after them, if you would trust me," said Mrs. Green, flushing for fear Zebedee might think her pushing. "Trust you! Why, you are too kind to make such an offer!" exclaimed Zebedee. "We have some friends who have just opened their house for--for--guests," faltered Claire. "They live only a block from us, and are very lovely ladies. We heard only this morning that they are contemplating taking someone into their home." Tweedles and I exchanged glances; mine was a triumphant one. The would-be author had hit the nail on the head again. "Their name is Laurens." I knew it would be before Claire spoke. "Oh, Miss Gaillard, if you could introduce us to those ladies we would be so grateful to you!" said Zebedee. "You would like to stay there, wouldn't you, girls?" "Yes! Yes!" "And Mrs. Green perhaps will decide to go there, too, and she will look after you, will you not, Mrs. Green?" "I should be so happy to if the girls would like to have me for a chaperone." "Oh, we'd love it! We've never had a chaperone in our lives but once, and she got married," tweedled the twins. And so our compact was made, and Claire promised to see the Misses Laurens in regard to our becoming her "paying guests." Mr. Green, who, as we found out afterward, was a professor of English at the College of Wellington and had all kinds of degrees that entitled him to be called Doctor, seemed rather amused at his wife's being a chaperone. "She seems to me still to be nothing but a girl herself," he confided to Zebedee, "although we have got a fine big girl of our own over a year old, whom we have left in the care of my mother-in-law while we have this much talked-of trip together." "Oh, have you got a baby? Do you know, Dum and I just stood Page down that you were bride and groom!" "Molly, do you hear that? These young ladies thought we were newlyweds." "I didn't!" "And why didn't you?" smiled the young wife. "I noticed you gave separate orders at the table and did not have to pretend to like the same things. I believe a bride and groom are afraid to differ on even such a thing as food." "Oh, Edwin, do you hear that? Do you remember the unmerciful teasing Kent gave you at Fontainbleu because you pretended to like the mustard we got on our roast beef in the little English restaurant, just because I like English mustard?" "Yes, I remember it very well, and I also remember lots of other things at Fontainbleu besides the mustard." Mrs. Green blushed such a lovely pink at her husband's words that we longed to hear what he did remember. "Kent is my brother--Kent Brown." "Oh! Oh!" tweedled the twins. "Are you Molly Brown of Kentucky?" "Yes, I was Molly Brown of Kentucky." "And did you go to Wellington?" I asked. "Yes, and I still go there, as my husband has the chair of English at Wellington." "Girls! Girls! To think of our meeting Molly Brown of Kentucky! We have been hearing of you all winter from our teacher of English at Gresham, Miss Ball." "Mattie Ball! I have known her since my freshman year at college. Edwin, you remember Mattie Ball, do you not?" "Of course I do. An excellent student! She had as keen an appreciation of good literature as anyone I know of." "She used to tell us that she owed everything she knew to her professor of English at Wellington," said Dee, who knew how to say the right thing at the right time, and Professor Green's pleased countenance was proof of her tact. Then Mrs. Green had to hear all about Miss Ball and the fire at Gresham, which Tweedles related with great spirit, laying rather too much stress on my bravery in arousing the school. "I deserve no more credit than did the geese whose hissing aroused the Romans in ancient times," I declared. "Why don't you tell them how you got Miss Plympton out of the window in her pink pajamas?" The Greens laughed so heartily at our adventures that we were spurred on to recounting other happenings, telling of the many scrapes we had got ourselves in. Claire listened in open-eyed astonishment. "It must be lovely to go to boarding-school," she said wistfully. "It sounds lovelier than it is. We tell about the scrapes and the fun, but there are lots of times when it is nothing but one stupid thing after another. It's lots lovelier just to be at home with your father." Claire shook her head doubtfully, and, remembering her father, we did not wonder at her differing with Dum. "I have always held that home was the place for girls until they were old enough for college," said Mrs. Green. "That is, if they mean to go to college." "But we don't!" Zebedee and Professor Green had walked on ahead. Louis was sticking close to Dee, so close that Dum whispered to me that he must think she had him on a leash. Claire and Dum and I were having the pleasure of flocking around Mrs. Green. "You see, we haven't got a piece of mother among us, and we had to go somewhere, as Zebedee--that's our father, you know--had his hands so full of us he couldn't ply his trade of getting out newspapers. Dee and I are some improved since we first were sent off to school, and now that Gresham is burned, we don't want to break into a new school. I tell you, it is some job to break into a school. Page Allison lives in the country, and she had to go to boarding-school or not at all." "Well, why don't you go to college now? Wellington would just suit you, I am sure." "Somehow I have never been crazy to go to college. I want to do something else. You see, I want to model. I feel as though I just had to get my hands in clay and form things out of it." "And you?" said the sweet young woman, turning to me. This Molly Brown of Kentucky certainly had the charm of sympathy. You found yourself telling her all kinds of things that you just couldn't help telling her. She seemed so interested, and her eyes were so blue and so true. "Oh, I mean to be a writer!" I blurted out. "That's the reason I don't want to go to college. If I am going to write, I had better just write, I think, and not wear myself to a frazzle over higher mathematics." "That's the way I used to feel. The only good I could ever get out of that hated study was just knowing I had done my best. My best seemed so feeble by the side of the real mathematicians that it was a constant mortification to me. I used to call mathematics my hair shirt. No matter how well I got along in other things, I was always conscious of a kind of irritation that I was going to fail in that. I just did squeeze through in the end, and that was by dint of wet towels around my head and coaching and encouragement from my friends. I think it is quite natural to dislike a subject that always makes you appear at your worst. Certainly we are not fond of people who put us in that position!" I might have known our new friend would hate mathematics. I have never yet been attracted very much by any woman who did get along very well in it, except, of course, Miss Cox. I don't mean to say that female mathematicians cannot be just as lovely and charming as any other females, but I mean that I have never hit it off with them, somehow. "What are you going to write?" asked Claire. "Write short stories and long novels, when I find myself. I'm still flopping around in a sea of words. Don't you write, Mrs. Green? It seems to me Miss Ball said you did." "Yes, I write a little--that is, I write a lot, but I have published only a little. I send and send to magazine after magazine. Every mail is an event to me--either it brings back a manuscript or it doesn't bring one, and sometimes it brings an acceptance slip, and then I carry on like one demented. Edwin says he is jealous of the postman and wishes Uncle Sam would have women deliver the mail." "It must be wonderful to get into a magazine. My only taste of it is seeing myself in print in our school paper. Don't you write poetry, Mrs. Green?" "Well, I have melted into verse, but I think prose is more in my line. The first money I ever made was a prize for a real estate advertisement in poetry, and of course after that I thought that I must 'lisp in numbers' on all occasions; but it was always lisping. And you--do you write poetry, too?" "Yes, she does," broke in Dum; "and Zebedee thinks it is bully poetry. He said he was astonished that she could do it. And he is a newspaper writer and knows." "I am sure he does. Some day we will have a tournament of poetry, and you will show me yours and I will show you mine. And you, Miss Gaillard? Are you counting upon going to college?" Mrs. Green turned to Claire, who had been very quiet as we strolled along Church Street, on our way to Washington Park, which is a small enclosure by the City Hall. "Oh, no, I--I will not pursue my studies any more. I keep house for my father, who does not approve of higher education for women," and the girl sighed in spite of herself. "I could not go, anyhow," she continued, "as Louis and papa need me at home." Not one word of lack of money, which we knew was an insurmountable obstacle with the Gaillards, but I believe a Charlestonian would as soon speak of lack of ancestry as lack of money. Money is simply something they don't mention except in the bosom of the family. They don't mention ancestry much, either; not nearly as much as Virginians do. They seem to take for granted that anyone they are on speaking terms with must be well born or how did they get to be on speaking terms? The Gaillards left us at Washington Park as Claire thought she must hurry back to her papa, who no doubt by that time was in a fret and a fume over her long, unexplained absence. Mr. Gaillard was the type of man who thought a woman's place was in her home from morning until night, and any little excursion she might make from her home must be in pursuit of his, the male's, happiness. Claire promised to see the Misses Laurens and find out from them if we could get board in their very exclusive home. Louis asked to be allowed to take us to other points of interest on the morrow, and with feelings of mutual esteem we parted. CHAPTER X THE HEAVENLY VISION That little park in the heart of Charleston is a very delightful spot. It is a tiny park, but every inch of it seems teeming with interest, historical and poetical. In the center is the shaft erected by the Washington Light Infantry to their dead in '61-'65. The obelisk is in three sections of granite, representing the three companies. On the steps of the square pedestal are cut the twelve great battles of the war. Zebedee dared us to recite them, but we fell down most woefully, except Dum, who named all but Secessionville. Little darkies were playing on the steps, running around the shaft and shouting with glee as they bumped their hard heads together and rolled down the steps. "Black rascals!" exclaimed Zebedee. "If it had not been for you, that monument need never have been erected." But the little imps kept up their game with renewed glee, hoping to attract the attention of the tourists. Tourists were simply made of pennies, in the minds of the Charleston pickaninnies. Seeing we had noticed them, they flocked to where we had settled ourselves on some benches facing the monument and began in their peculiar South Carolina lingo to demand something of us--what it was it took some penetration to discover. There were five of them, about the raggedest little monkeys I ever saw. Their clothes stayed on by some miracle of modesty, but every now and then a streak of shiny black flesh could be glimpsed through the interstices. (I got that word from Professor Green, which I put down in my notebook for safekeeping.) "Do' white fo'ks wan' we-all sin' li'l' song?" "What?" from all of us. "Sin' li'l' song! La, la, la, tim chummy loo!" and the blackest and sassiest and most dilapidated of them all opened his big mouth with its gleaming teeth and let forth a quaint chant. "Oh, sing us a little song?" and we laughed aloud. "Why, yes, we do," assented Professor Green, "but don't get too close. The acoustics would be better from a short distance, I am sure." "Edwin is enough of a Yankee not to like darkies coming too close," laughed Mrs. Green. "You know a Northerner's interest in the race is purely theoretical. When it comes right down to it, we Southerners are the only ones who really understand them. I remember what one of the leaders of the negroes said: 'A Northerner loves the negro but has no use for a nigger, while a Southerner can't stand the negro but will do anything on earth for a nigger.'" "That's right, I believe," said Zebedee; "but I must say I agree with Doctor Green, and think under the circumstances that a short distance will help the acoustics." The five song birds formed a half-circle a few feet from us, and, led by the sassy black one, poured forth their souls in melody. The leader seemed to be leader because he was the only one with shoes on. His shoes were ladies' buttoned shoes, much too long and on the wrong feet, which gave their proud possessor a peculiar twisted appearance. Having good black legs of his own, he needed no stockings. "It must be a great convenience to be born with black legs," sighed Dee. "You can go bare-legged when you've a mind to, and if you should be so prissy as to wear stockings, when they get holes in them they wouldn't show." The following is the song that the little boys sang, choosing it evidently from a keen sense of humor and appreciation of fun: "How yer git on wid yer washin'? 'Berry well,' yer say? Better charge dem Yankee big price Fo' dey gits away. Dey is come hyar fer de wedder, Pockets full ob money. Some one got ter do dey washin', Glad it's me, my honey. Wen I ca'y in de basket, Eb'y week I laff Des ter see dem plunkin' out Dollah an' a ha'f. Co'se I ain't cha'ge home fo'ks dat, Eben cuff an' collah, Tro' in wid dey udder clo's-- All wash fer a dollah. Soon de Yankees will be gone, An' jes de po' fo'ke here; Cha'ge dem, honey, all yer kin Ter las' yer trou' de year." When they finished this song, which was given in a high, peculiar, chanting tune, the little boy of the shoes began to dance, cutting the pigeon wing as well as it had ever been done on a vaudeville stage, I am sure, while the other four patted with such spirit and in such excellent time that Zebedee got up and danced a little _pas seul_, and Mrs. Green declared it was all she could do to keep from joining him. "I learned to jig long before I did to waltz," she said, "and I find myself returning to the wild when I hear good patting." "So did I," I said; "Tweedles can pat as well as a darky. We will have a dancing match some day, too." The minstrels were remunerated beyond their dreams of avarice, and cantered off joyfully to buy groun'-nut cakes from the old mauma on the corner, where she sat with her basket of goodies on her lap, waving her palmetto fan, between dozes, to scare away the flies. "Who's the old cove over there with the Venus de Milo effect of arms?" asked Zebedee, pointing to a much-mutilated statue near the Meeting Street entrance of the park. "Why, that's William Pitt. Louis Gaillard told me we would find it here," explained Dee. "He said it was erected in seventeen-sixty-nine by the citizens of Charleston in honor of his promoting the repeal of the Stamp Act. His arm got knocked off by a cannon ball in the siege of Charleston." "This over here is Valentine's bust of Henry Timrod," called Dum from a very interesting-looking bronze statue that had attracted her artistic eye all the time the little nigs were singing. "Timrod! Oh, Edwin, he is the one I am most interested in in all South Carolina," and Mrs. Green joined Dum to view the bust from all angles. Of course, all of us followed. "'Through clouds and through sunshine, in peace and in war, amid the stress of poverty and the storm of civil strife, his soul never faltered,'" read Mrs. Green from the inscription on the monument of one of the truest poets of the South. "'To his poetic mission he was faithful to the end. In life and in death he was "Not disobedient unto the heavenly vision."'" I whipped out my little notebook and began feverishly to copy the tribute. I found Mrs. Green doing the same thing in a similar little book. "'Not disobedient to the heavenly vision'! I should like to have such a thing on my monument. I used to think that just so I could make a lot of money I wouldn't mind what kind of stuff I wrote; but now I do want to live up to an ideal," she exclaimed to me. "Do you feel that way?" "I don't know whether I do or not. I don't believe I could stand the stress of having my manuscript rejected time after time and the storm of returning it again and again. I am afraid I'd be willing to have written the Elsie books just to have made as much money as they say the author of them has made. I know that sounds pretty bad, but----" "I understand, my dear. I fancy my feeling as I do is something that has come to me just because the making of money is not of as much importance to me as it used to be. There was a time in my girlhood when I would have written Elsie books or even worse with joy just to make the money." "I can't quite believe it. You look so spirituelle, and I believe you have always been obedient to the heavenly vision." "Look on this side," said my new friend, laughing and blushing in such a girlish way that it seemed ridiculous to talk of her girlhood as though it had passed. "This inscription is more utilitarian: "'This memorial has been erected with the proceeds of the recent sale of a very large edition of the author's poems, by the Timrod Memorial Association, of South Carolina.' "and then: "'Genius, like Egypt's Monarch, timely wise, Erects its own memorial ere it dies.' "Oh, Edwin, look! Here is the ode that mother sings to little Mildred, here on the back of the monument. Mildred is my baby, you know," she said, in explanation to us, "and mother sings the most charming things to her." "Please read it to us, Molly; I didn't bring my glasses." That is what Professor Green said, but when we had known him longer we found out he was not so very dependent on glasses that he could not read an inscription carved in one-inch letters, but that he always made his wife read aloud when he could. When she read poetry, it was music, indeed. It seems he first realized what he felt for her when she read the "Blessed Damosel" in his class at college. He had been her instructor, as he had Miss Ball's. "This ode of Timrod's was sung for the first time on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead at Magnolia Cemetery, here in Charleston, in sixty-seven, so I am told." No wonder Professor Edwin wanted his Molly to read the poem! Her voice was the most wonderfully sympathetic and singularly fitted to the reading of poetry that I have ever heard. I longed for my father to hear her read. He could make me weep over poetry when I would go dry-eyed through all kinds of trouble, and now Mrs. Green had the same power: "'Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause. "'In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone! "'Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. "'Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths today, Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay. "'Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned!'" We were all very quiet for a moment and then St. Michael's bells rang out six-thirty o'clock, and in spite of poetical emotions we knew the pangs of hunger were due and it was time for dinner. We were to sit together at a larger table that evening at dinner, to the satisfaction of all of us. "It is a mutual mash," declared Dee, when we went to our room to don dinner clothes. "The Greens seem to like us, and don't we just adore the Greens, though!" "I believe I like him as much as I do her," said Dum. "Of course, he is not so paintable. She makes me uncertain whether I want to be a sculptor or a painter. I have been thinking how she would look in marble, and while she has good bones, all right, and would show up fine in marble, she would certainly lose out if she had to be pure white and could not have that lovely flush and those blue, blue eyes and that red-gold hair." "I don't see why you talk about Mrs. Green's bones!" exclaimed Dee, rather indignantly. "I can't see that her bones are the least bit prominent." "Well, goose, I mean her proportions. Beauty, to my mind, does not amount to a row of pins if it is only skin deep; it's got to go clean through to the bones." "Well, I don't believe it. I bet you Mrs. Green's skeleton would look just like yours or mine or Miss Plympton's or anybody else's." "You flatter yourself." "Well, girls," I cried, feeling that pacific intervention was in order, "there's no way to prove or disprove except by X-ray photography so long as we have Mrs. Green on this mundane sphere. I certainly would not have a row over it. Mrs. Green's bones are very pleasingly covered, to my way of thinking." "They are beautiful bones, or their being well covered would not make any difference. Just see here"--and Dum began rapidly sketching a skull and then piling up hair on it and putting in a nose and lips, etc.--"can't you see if the skull is out of proportion with a jimber jaw and a bulging forehead that all the pretty skin on earth with hair like gold in the sunset would not make it beautiful?" "Well, I know one thing," put in Dee: "I know you could take a hunk of clay and start to make a mouse and then change your mind and keep on piling clay on, and shaping it, and patting it, and moulding it until you had turned it into a cat. If you can do that much, I should like to know why the Almighty couldn't do the same thing. Couldn't He start with chunky bones, and then fill them out and mould the flesh, pinching in here and plumping out there until He had made a tall and slender person?" "Dee, you make me tired--you argue like a Sunday School superintendent who is thinking about turning into a preacher. The idea of the Almighty's changing His mind to start out with! Don't you know that from the very beginning of everything the Almighty has planned our proportions, such as they are, and He would no more put a little on here and pull a little off there than He would start to make a mouse and turn it into a cat?" "All right, if you think a beauty doctor can do more than the Almighty, then I think your theology needs looking after." "I know one thing," I said: "I know it is after seven and you will keep your father waiting for his dinner when we already kept him waiting for his luncheon. The Greens are to have dinner with us, and it is mighty rude to keep them waiting." Tweedles hurriedly got into their dinner dresses and were only ten minutes late, after all. "What made you girls so late?" demanded Zebedee, when we were seated around the table, encouraging our appetites with soup, which is what the domestic science lecturers say is all that soup does. "We were having a discussion, Dum and I. Page was the Dove of Peace, or we would be going it yet." "Tell us what the discussion was about and we will forgive you," said Professor Green. "It was about Mrs. Green's bones," blurted out Dum. "My bones! I thought I had them so well covered that casual observers would not be conscious of them," laughed the beautiful skeleton, who was radiant in a gray-blue crêpe de chine dress that either gave the selfsame color to her eyes or borrowed it from them, one could never make out which. "Oh, we did not mean you were skinny," and Dum explained what the trend of the argument had been, much to the amusement of the owner of the bones in question and also of her husband and Zebedee. "Miss Dum's argument reminds me of something that Du Maurier says in that rather remarkable little book, 'Trilby,'" said Professor Green. "He says that Trilby's bones were beautiful, and even when she was in the last stages of a wasting disease, the wonderful proportion of her bones kept her beautiful." "There now, Dee, consider yourself beaten!" and Dee acknowledged her defeat by helping Dum to the heart of the celery. We had a merry dinner and found our new friends as interesting as they seemed to find us. We discussed everything from Shakespeare to the movies. Professor Green was not a bit pedagogic, which was a great comfort. Persons who teach so often work out of hours--teach all the time. If preachers and teachers would join a union and make a compact for an eight-hour workday, what a comfort it would be to the community at large! "Edwin, Miss Allison----" "Please call me Page!" "Well, then, Page--it certainly does come more trippingly on my tongue--Page is meaning to write, and she, too, is putting things down in a notebook." "I advised that," said Mr. Tucker. "It seems to me that if from the beginning I had only started a notebook, I would have a valuable possession by now. As I get older my memory is not so good." When Zebedee talked about getting older it always made people laugh. He sounded somehow as little boys do when they say what they are going to do when they put on long pants. I fancy he and Professor Green were about the same age, but he certainly looked younger. He must have been born looking younger than ever a baby looked before, and eternal youth was his. "I know a man in New York, newspaper man, who began systematically keeping a scrap-book when he was a youth. He indexed it and compiled it with much care, and now that he is quite an old man he actually gets his living--and a very good living at that--out of that scrap-book," declared Zebedee. "He has information at hand for almost any subject, and the kind of intimate information one would not find in an encyclopedia. He will get up an article on any subject the editors demand, and that kind of handy man commands good pay." "It is certainly a good habit to form if you want to do certain kinds of writing, but it takes a very strong will for a writer of fiction who runs a notebook not to be coerced by that notebook. I mean in this way: make the characters do certain things or say certain things just to lead up to some anecdote that the author happens to have heard and jotted down in his notebook. Anecdotes in books should happen just as naturally as they do in life: come in because there is some reason for them. The author who deliberately makes a setting for some good story that has no bearing on the subject-matter is a bore just as the chronic joke-teller is. If you can see the writer leading up to a joke, can see the notebook method too plainly, it is bad art. I'd rather have puns--they are at least spontaneous." "Please lend me your pencil, Zebedee," I entreated. "What are you going to do with it?" "Write down what Professor Green has just said in my notebook. I think some day it may come in handy." "You mean as a warning to all young authors?" questioned the professor. "Oh, no, I think I may have my characters all sitting around a table at a hotel in Charleston and gradually work up to the point and have some one get it off." And Mrs. Green, also an advocate of the notebook system as a memory jogger, applauded me for my sauciness to her wise husband. CHAPTER XI THE GUITAR "Page," whispered Dee to me, "do you know, I can't sleep tonight unless I know that the awful rope hanging to that chandelier has been taken away. I have a terrible feeling that Louis might get despondent again and go back there and try to do the same thing. I can't call the thing by name--it seems so horrible." I knew that Dee was still laboring under quite a strain. During dinner she had been very quiet, and now that we had adjourned to the pleasant courtyard on which the dining room opened, where the gentlemen were indulging in coffee and cigars and the rest of us were contenting ourselves with just coffee, she seemed to be nervous and fidgety. Zebedee noticed it, too, and every now and then I caught him watching her with some anxiety. To catch a young man in the nick of time and keep him from making away with himself is cause for congratulation but not conducive to calmness, when one happens to be only seventeen and not overly calm at that. "Why don't you tell your father?" I whispered back. "He'll think I am silly, and then, too, I don't want him to think that I think Louis is likely to repeat his performance. It might give him an idea that Louis is weak and make him lose interest in him. I don't consider him weak, but he is so down in the mouth there is no telling how the thing will work out. Can't you make up some plan? Couldn't we sneak off and go down there? Would you be afraid?" "Afraid! Me? You know I am not afraid on the street, but I must say that old custard-colored house is some gruesome." While I was wavering as to whether I could or couldn't go into the deserted hotel at night with no one but Dee, Professor Green proposed that all of us should take a walk down on the Battery. "There is a wonderful moon rising this minute over there in the ocean and not one soul to welcome it." So we quickly got into some wraps, as we remembered what a breeze could blow on the Battery, and Dee concealed under her coat her electric flashlight and I put my scissors in my pocket. "We can shake the crowd and get our business attended to without anyone's being the wiser," I whispered. A place that is ugly by day can be beautiful by moonlight, and a place that is beautiful by day can be so wonderful by moonlight that it positively hurts like certain strains of the violin in the "Humoresque" or tones of a great contralto's voice. Charleston on that night was like a dream city. We passed old St. Michael's churchyard, where the old cedar bed loomed like a soft, dark shadow among the white tombstones. "How it shows up even at night!" said Zebedee. "It reminds me of what a friend of mine once said: that the way to make yourself heard in a noisy crowd and to attract the attention of everyone is to whisper. The noisy crowd will be quiet in a moment and everybody will try to hear what you are saying. The low-toned whisper of that old bedstead is heard above all the clamor of the snow-white, high-toned tombstones." "Humph! Isn't our pa poetical tonight!" teased Dum. "I should say I am! I bet you are, too, but you are too old to confess it. I glory in it." We turned down Tradd Street to Legare, which is, I fancy, the most picturesque street in the United States. We had learned that afternoon to pronounce Legare properly. We had naturally endeavored to give it the finest French accent, but were quietly put on the right track by Claire Gaillard. "Lagree" is the way, and now we aired our knowledge to the Greens, who were pronouncing it wrong just as we had. "Tradd Street was named for the first male child born in the Colony, so the guide-book tells me," said Mrs. Green. "If there were any females born, they did not see fit to commemorate the fact." "Perhaps the early settlers did not consider the female of the race anything to be walked on--maybe they were not the downtrodden sex that they are in the present day. A street is no good except to walk on or ride over, and surely a female's name would not be appropriate for such an object. My wife is very jealous for the rights of women, whether they be alive or dead," said Professor Green. "They might at least name something after us besides things to eat. Sally Lunn and Lady Baltimore cake are not much of a showing, to my mind," laughed Mrs. Green. "There's Elizabethan ruff, and de Medici collar, and Queen Anne cottage, and Alice blue," I suggested. "Yes, and Catherine wheels, and Minnie balls, and Molly-coddles----" "I give up! I give up! I was thinking of Charleston and the first male baby." And so we chatted on as we turned the corner into Legare. We soon came to the beautiful Smyth gateway and then to the Simonton entrance. They vie with each other in beauty of design. The shutters of all the houses on the street were tightly closed, although it was a very mild evening, but we could hear light laughter and gay talk from some of the walled gardens; and occasionally through the grilles we caught glimpses of girls in light dresses seated on garden benches among the palmettos and magnolias, their attendant swains behaving very much as attendant swains might behave in more prosaic surroundings. "I can't think of the girls who live in these walled gardens as ever being dressed in anything but diaphanous gauze, playing perhaps with grace hoops or tossing rose leaves in the air," said the professor. "It seems like a picture world, somehow." "Yes, but behind the picture no doubt there is a dingy canvas and even cobwebs, and maybe it is hung over an ugly old scar on the paper and has to stay there to hide the eye-sore--there might even be a stovepipe hole behind it," I said, sadly thinking of the Gaillards and how picturesque they were and what sad things there were in their lives. "Mercy, how forlorn we are!" exclaimed Zebedee. "Let's cheer up and merrily sing tra-la! Right around the corner here on King Street is the old Pringle House. They say there has been more jollity and revel in that mansion than almost anywhere in the South." The Pringle House looked very dignified and beautiful in the mellow light that the moon cast over it. It is of very solid and simple design, with broad, hospitable door and not quite so formidable a wall as some of its neighbors; at least one can see the entrance without getting in a flying machine. "Ike Marvel was married in that front parlor there--the room to the right, I believe it was," said Professor Green. "I wonder if he wrote his 'Reveries of a Bachelor' before or after the ceremony?" "I'd like to get in there and poke around," I sighed. "And so should I," chimed in Mrs. Green. "I am sure it is full of possible plots and counterplots for you and me, my dear." "Do you young ladies know where the Misses Laurens live?" questioned the professor. "We might take a view of our possible abode as 'paying guests' and see how it looks by moonlight." And so we left the Pringle House and wended our way back to Meeting Street, where we had only that morning seen the pale, sad ladies buying ten cents' worth of shrimps and regretting that they were not as big as lobsters. We hoped when they got the paying guests they would not be quite so economical in their purchases. The house was still and dark except for a gleam of light from an upper chamber. "A wax candle, I'll be bound, in an old silver candlestick!" I thought. The unpainted board gates were uncompromisingly ugly by moonlight as well as by day; but the old house with its long galleries and chaste front door was even more beautiful. "Oh, Edwin, do you think we will really get into that house? It is to me even lovelier than the much-vaunted Pringle place. But how sad about these gates! They look so new and ugly." "Page has a lovely story she has made up about the gates," said Dum. Dee was still quiet, with little to say on that moonlight walk. "She is sure the pale old ladies sold them for a fabulous sum to some rich Yankee. She also says she knows the younger and less pale of the old ladies used to kiss her beau through the grille of the old wrought-iron gate----" "Beau! Why, Dum Tucker, I never used such a word in connection with an inmate of this old aristocratic mansion! I said lover. Beau, indeed! I should as soon think of saying she was chewing gum or doing something else equally plebeian." "Hush! Listen! I hear a guitar," from Zebedee. From the stillness of the garden behind the high brick wall where the ugly board gate flaunted its newness we could hear the faint twanging of a guitar. It sounded faint and cracked, but very sweet and true, and then a plaintive old soprano voice began to sing. We were afraid to breathe or move. It had the quality of a lunar rainbow it was once my joy and privilege to behold: a reflection of a reflection, the raindrops reflecting the moon, the moon reflecting the sun. I can give no idea of that experience without repeating the song she sang. I could not remember it, and had never seen it in print, but Professor Green, who seemed to be a person who knew many things worth while knowing, told us it was a poem of Dinah Maria Mulock Craik's, called "In Our Boat." He sent me a copy of it after we got back to Richmond: "'Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us, Mountains in shadow and forests asleep; Down the dim river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. "'Come not, pale sorrow, flee till tomorrow; Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep; While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. "'As the waves cover the depths we glide over, So let the past in forgetfulness sleep, While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. "'Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us; All whom we love in thy tenderness keep! While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep.'" Nobody said a word. We softly crept down the street. "Now you understand how we happened to listen when Claire and her father were talking," I whispered to Zebedee. "It seemed no more real than this old lady's song did." Zebedee wiped his eyes. Of course the song and its setting had made all the Tuckers weep. Molly Brown was not dry-eyed, and one might have spied a lunar rainbow in my eyes, too. CHAPTER XII MORAL COURAGE The Battery was wonderful, wonderful, and out of all whooping. The moon was high up over the water, having made her début sooner than Professor Green had calculated. The tide was coming in, or rather rolling in, and every wave seemed to rise up to catch a little kiss from the moon. The palmettos were, as is their way, rustling and waving their leaves like ladies of olden times in swishing silks using their fans as practiced flirts. The live-oaks did very well as cavaliers bending gallantly to catch the tender nothings of the coquettes. The Spanish moss on one particularly twisted oak hung like a great beard from the chin of some ancient, and as the slender palmetto swayed in the breeze and waved her tresses provokingly near, the gray beard mingled with them for a moment. "The old rip!" exclaimed Zebedee to me. "Why, I was just thinking that! It does look just like an old man." Mr. Tucker and I, as no doubt I have remarked before, often came out with exactly the same thought almost as though we were able to read each other's minds. "Of course she should not have led him on if she did not want to be kissed. She certainly came very near chucking him under the chin. A girl can't expect a man to withstand temptation forever. Just because a man is looked upon as a gray-bearded loon is no sign he feels like one." The others had gone on ahead and were standing under the monument of Sergeant Jasper, who was still patiently pointing to Fort Moultrie. "Do you think it is a girl's fault always if a man kisses her?" "Well, no, not exactly. I certainly don't think it is a girl's fault for being kissable--but it seems to me her instinct might tell her when she is getting too kissable and she might--wear a veil--or do something to protect the poor man a little." "Why should he not put on smoked glasses or look the other way? I can't see that it is up to the poor palmetto." "Perhaps you are right," he said, more soberly, it seemed to me, than the conversation warranted. "I am going to Columbia tomorrow," rather sullenly. "Are you, really? Tweedles and I are going to miss you terribly. We do wish you didn't have to go." "'We'! Can't you ever say I? Do you have to lump yourself with Dum and Dee about everything?" What a funny, cross Zebedee this was! I looked at him in amazement. He was quite wild-eyed, with a look on his face that was new to me. If I had not known that he was a teetotaler, or almost one, I might have thought he had been drinking. I must have presented a startled appearance, for in a moment he pulled himself together. "Excuse me, Page! I think the moon must have gone to my head. The full moon makes me act queer sometimes, anyhow. You have heard of persons like that, haven't you? That's where lunatic got its name--Luna, the moon, you know," he rattled on at a most astonishing pace. "How old do you reckon Mrs. Green is? She looks very young. Do you think Professor Green is as old as I am?" "Older, I should think; but then he is so--so--high-foreheaded it makes him look older." "He was her teacher at college, so they tell me. She must have been quite young when he first knew her." "Yes, she was only sixteen when she entered Wellington, I believe." "They seem very happy," with a deep sigh that made me feel so sorry for him. "He must be thinking of his little Virginia," I thought. She had lived only a year after her marriage and had been only nineteen when she died--he only a year or so older. "I suspect the moonlight reminds him of her. I know he did not mean to pick me up so sharply, and I am just not going to notice it." Dee, who was biding her time hoping to get the crowd settled somewhere so we could slip off to the custard-colored hotel, now called to us to see the bust of William Gilmore Simms, and to tell her father about the nice, aristocratic old policeman who had so enthralled us by reciting the "Grape-Vine Swing" that morning. Finally, with much maneuvering on her part, everyone was seated on some benches looking out over the water, with a clump of palmettos protecting them from the wind and at the same time hiding the road to the old house on the corner. Professor Green and Zebedee had entered into an amicable discussion of the political situation, and Mrs. Green was in the midst of an anecdote about her friend and sister-in-law, Judy Kean, now Mrs. Kent Brown, an anecdote told especially for Dum's benefit, since it was of art and artists. "Now's the time! Hurry!" whispered Dee. In a moment we had slipped away and were sprinting along the walk to the custard-colored house. It was not much of a run, about two city blocks, I fancy, and we did it in an incredibly short time. The old house looked very peaceful and still from without, but as we entered the door we found that, as was its habit, a wind was imprisoned in its walls and was whistling dolorously. The moonlight flooded the hall and stairs, making it quite light. Dee clutched my hand, and we went up those steps very quietly and quickly, through the bridal chamber and on into the corridor beyond, on which the numbered doors opened. No. 13 was open! We paused for a moment as we approached it. Hark! Certainly there was someone in the room. It seemed to me as though I weighed a million pounds and had only the strength of a kitten. Fascinated, we crept closer, although I do not see how the kitten in me lifted the great weight I felt myself to have. There was a dim light in the room from a small kerosene lantern. Louis Gaillard was there, standing tiptoe upon the pile of bricks. Was he trying to fit that awful noose around his neck again? I felt like screaming as Dee had in the morning, but no sound would come from my dry throat. Louis' face, that could be seen in the light of the lantern, did not look like the face of one who meant to make away with himself. There was purpose in it, but it was the purpose of high resolve. Grasping the rope as high up as he could with one hand, with the other he gave it a sharp cut with a knife. Dee and I leaned against each other for support. The rope was down, and now the thing for us to do was get out of that building as fast as we could. Louis must never know we had been there. We blessed the wind, which made such a noise rattling the shutters and streamers of hanging wall paper that the boy remained absolutely unconscious of our presence. He had begun to destroy the pile of bricks as we crept away, taking them carefully back to the hearth where he had found them. We sailed down the steps of that old hotel as hungry boarders might have done in days gone by "when they heard the dinner bell." We were out on the sea-wall and racing back to our friends before Louis had finished with the bricks, I am sure. "Page," panted Dee, "don't you think Louis had lots of moral courage to go back there where he had so nearly come to grief and take down that rope and unpile those bricks?" "Courage! I should say he had! I was nearly scared to death when I saw him there, weren't you?" "I have never gone through such a moment in my life. It was worse than this morning, because this morning I did not know what to expect, while tonight I almost knew what was coming--the worst. When I saw the lantern and realized Louis was there, I could almost see him with the noose around his neck!" Dee shivered and drew her coat more closely around her. Her face looked pale and pinched in the moonlight, while I was all in a glow from our race along the sea-wall. "Dee, I believe you are all in." "Oh, I'm all right--just a bit cold." "All right, much! You are having a chill this very minute--you are, Dee--a nervous chill, and no wonder!" We had been gone such a short time that no one seemed to have missed us. Professor Green was still on the subject of initiative and referendum, and Mrs. Green had just finished a thrilling tale of art students' life in Paris when we sank on the bench beside them. Dee was shaking like an aspen, although she still insisted there was nothing the matter. "Zebedee, Dee must go home immediately. She is sick, I believe." "Dee sick?" and he sprang to his feet. "What's the matter with you, honey? Where do you feel sick? What hurts you?" "Nothing! Oh, nothing!" and poor Dee's overwrought nerves snapped and she went off into as nice a fit of hysterics as one could find outside of a big boarding-school for girls. "Dee, Dee, please tell me what is the matter!" begged her frantic father. "She can't talk, but I can! She must go home and be put to bed. She has had too much excitement for one day." "Where have you and she just been?" rather sternly, while Dee sobbed on with occasional giggles, Mrs. Brown and Dum taking turns patting her. "We have been back to the custard-colored house," I faltered. "Oh, you little geese! What did you want there, please?" "Dee could not sleep until she knew the rope was cut from the chandelier. We went back to cut it down." "Oh, I see. Did you cut it down?" "No; Louis was there cutting it down when we got there. We didn't let him see us. But at first when we saw him we thought--we thought--maybe--he--he----" I could go no further. I could not voice our apprehensions before the Greens, who knew nothing of our experience of the morning. "You poor babies! Why didn't you ask me to attend to it?" "I wanted to, but Dee said you might think it was silly of us; and then she did not want you to think that maybe Louis was not trustworthy. She felt he needed all the friends he had--not to lose any." "Loyal old Dee! Now, honey baby, you put your arm around me and I'll put my arm around you, and we will get over to the King Street car and be back to the hotel in a jiffy. The rest of you can walk, if you want to." None of us wanted to, as we felt some uneasiness about Dee, although she had calmed down to an occasional sob that might pass for a hiccough. We piled on the trolley and were back at the hotel in short order. The good breeding of the Greens was very marked during this little mix-up. Never once by word or look did they show the slightest curiosity as to what we were talking about. They were kind and courteous and anxious to help Dee have her chill and get over the hysterics, but that was all. "Hadn't I better get a doctor for Dee?" poor Zebedee inquired, almost distracted, as he always was when one of his girls had anything the matter. "I really do not think so," said Mrs. Green. "If you will let me take Dee in charge, I am sure I can pull her through. Doctor McLean, at Wellington, complains that I have lessened his practice by taking charge of so many cases where a doctor is not really needed." "You had better trust her, Tucker; she has healing in her wings." (Professor Green and Zebedee had sealed their rapidly growing friendship by calling each other Green and Tucker.) Tweedles always said that no one ever called their father Mr. Tucker longer than twenty-four hours unless he got to acting Mr. Tuckerish. So Mrs. Green came to our room and had Dee in bed after a good hot bath and a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia. She brought her own hot-water bag and put it to her feet, and then, tucking her in, gave her a motherly kiss. As she was certainly not very much older than we were, I might have said big-sisterly, but there is a difference, and that kiss was motherly. I know it was because I got one, too, and it seemed to me to be the female gender of the kind father gives to me, only on rare occasions, however, as we are not a very kissy family. "Now, dear, you must go to sleep and not dream even pleasant dreams. Don't dream at all." And our kind friend prepared to leave us. "Well, I feel fine now--but--but--I can't go to sleep until I tell you all about Louis and what happened today." "But, my dear, you need not tell me. I think you must be quiet now. You see, I told your father I would be the doctor, and I must not let you do things to excite you. Talking about a trying experience would be the worst thing in the world for you." "But I have been thinking it all over and I feel that you and Professor Green would be the ones of all others to take an interest in Louis and advise what to do about him." "All right--in the morning!" "No! Tonight. I want you to talk it over with your husband tonight." "If you feel that way about it, just shut your eyes and go to sleep; Dum and I will do the telling without your assistance," I said; and Dee, who was in the last stages of exhaustion, gave in and was asleep almost before we got the light off. Dum and I followed Mrs. Green to her room, where we told her the whole frightful business. She was all interest and solicitude. "The poor boy! I just know Edwin will think of something to do for him. Although Edwin has taught girls always, he does understand boys thoroughly. If we can get board with the Laurens ladies we will be quite near Louis and his sister, and as we get to know them we can find out how to help the boy without hurting his pride. I think all of you girls have shown the 'mettle of the pasture' in the way you have grappled with this very trying occasion." "'Twas Dee! She thought of asking Louis to lunch and everything. Dee has so much heart, I wonder she is not lop-sided," said Dum, who was as upset as Zebedee over Dee's going to pieces. "You see, Dee and I have lots of fusses, but it is almost always my fault, because I am so mean. Dee is the most wonderfullest person in the world." Mrs. Green smiled and hugged the enthusiastic Dum. "Yes, I know what a sister can be. My sister, Mildred, is not my twin in reality, but the Siamese twins cannot be closer than we are in spirit. I hardly ever see her now, either, as she lives in the northwest and I am at Wellington all winter and in Kentucky in the summer. Fortunately, love can work by wireless at any distance, so absence does not affect our affection for each other." We told our lovely lady good night, and then it was she gave us the selfsame kind of kiss she had given Dee. "Doesn't it seem ridiculous that we have known her only since this afternoon? I feel as though I had known her all my life. If I go to New York to study at the League, she is going to have me meet her sister-in-law, Mrs. Kent Brown. She is the one Miss Ball told us about who got in such funny scrapes at college--you remember, Judy Kean, who dyed her hair black?" Dum and I were in the elevator, on our way downstairs to hunt up Zebedee to tell him how Dee was faring. We found him in the lobby, still talking to Professor Green. He was greatly relieved that Dee was herself again, and I assured him that by morning she would be better than herself. "I have been telling Green all about that poor Louis Gaillard," he confessed. "I did not feel it to be a breach of confidence, after the way Dee had flopped, letting the cat out of the bag half-way, anyhow; besides, I want him to talk the matter over with his wife. I feel that perhaps they will know how to help the boy." "Molly will, I feel sure. She always sees some way to help." Dum and I burst out laughing at Professor Green's words. "That is just what she said about you," I laughed. "Dee wanted us to tell her all about Louis so she could talk it over with you, thinking there might be something you could suggest about helping him, and she said: 'Edwin will think of something to do for him. He understands boys thoroughly, if he does teach girls.'" And so ended our first day in Charleston. What a day it had been! Rain and sunshine, wind and moonlight, poetry and prose, fiction and fact! A young life saved, and friendship born! Dee going off in hysterics, and Dum and I so tired at last that we could hardly crawl back into the elevator to be borne to our room! We found Dee sleeping like a baby, and in five minutes we were sleeping like two more babies. I wonder if Louis Gaillard slept. CHAPTER XIII ENGAGING BOARD Whether Louis slept or not on that night after his near-extinction, he was with us early the next morning to bring the glad news that the Misses Laurens would consent to receive us in their home. The Greens were as delighted as we were. Zebedee was to take the first available train to Columbia, and as Professor Green had some important mail to get off, arrangements were left to the females. We were to call on the Misses Laurens at eleven o'clock, accompanied by Claire Gaillard. "Just to think that we are actually going to live in that old house!" exclaimed Mrs. Green, who was quite as enthusiastic over anything that pleased her as any of us girls. "Do you think we can ever know the one who sang, well enough to ask her to sing to us?" "I doubt it!" from Dum. "If they are as top-loftical in their home as they were in the bus the other morning, I doubt their even speaking to us. But I want to see their furniture and portraits whether they speak to us or not. I bet that house is just running over with beautiful things." Claire, whom we picked up at her home on the way to the Misses Laurens', endeavored to prepare us for the stilted dignity of our prospective hostesses. We had seen them in the bus and knew how they could conduct themselves; but we had also seen them haggling for shrimps, so we knew they had their weaknesses; and we had heard one of them sing, and knew that she at least had a heart. In answer to the bell, which, by the way, was the old-fashioned pulling kind that made a faint jangle 'way off in the most remote end of the house, a gawky, extremely black girl opened the door that led from the street to a great long porch or gallery. Steps from this porch led to a tangled old garden with palmettos and magnolias shading the walks, sadly neglected and grass-grown, that wound around flower beds long since given over to their own sweet will. A fat stone Cupid, heavily draped in cumbersome stone folds, was in the act of shooting an iron arrow at a snub-nosed Psyche some ten feet from him. There was a sun-dial in the center of the garden, and every now and then one spied an old stone bench, crumbling and moss-grown, through the tangle of vines and shrubs. "Oh!" came from all of us with one accord. It was very lovely and very pathetic, this old garden, so beautiful and so neglected and gone to seed! "Louis is wild to restore it," whispered Claire. "You know, he can do the most wonderful things with a garden." We did know, having peeped into their garden so rudely the day before, but we kept very quiet about that. The gawky black girl plunged ahead of us and ushered us into the house door. This door was smaller than the one on the street, but followed the same chaste style of architecture. The hall was astonishingly narrow, but the room we were told to "Jes' go in an' res' yo'se'fs in yander!" we found to be of fine proportions, a lofty, spacious room. The fiddle-backed chairs and the spindle-legged tables and claw-footed sofas in that room would have driven a collector green with envy. Curtains hung at the windows that were fit for bridal veils, so fine they were and so undoubtedly real. The portraits that lined the walls were so numerous and so at home that somehow I felt it an impertinence that I, a mere would-be boarder, should look at them. They belonged and I didn't, and if by good luck I could obtain an introduction to them, then I might make so bold as to raise my eyes to them, but not before. There was a dim, religious light in the room, and the portraits, many of them needing varnishing and cleaning, had almost retired into their backgrounds. They peered out at us in some indignation, those great soldiers and statesmen, those belles and beauties. I don't know why it is that ancestors always attained eminence and were great whatever they tried to do, while descendants have to struggle along in mediocrity, no matter how hard they try. The Misses Laurens glided into the room, and Claire introduced us. I don't know how the girl had accounted for her acquaintance with us. Perhaps she had not been compelled to account at all. We were received with courtesy but with a strange aloofness that made me feel as though I had just had the pleasure of being presented to one of the portraits, not real flesh and blood. Arabella and Judith were their names. To our astonishment the elder, Miss Arabella, turned out to be the sentimental one with the voice, while Miss Judith, the younger, was the sterner of the two and evidently the prime mover in this business of taking "paying guests." Usually it is the younger sister who goes off to romance and the elder who is more practical; at least, it is that way in fiction. "We have come to you, hoping you will take us to"--Mrs. Green, who was spokesman for us, faltered; could she say "board" to those two? Never!--"will let us come to stay with you." That was better. "We shall be very pleased to offer you the hospitality of our home during your stay in Charleston," from Miss Judith. "Yes, we Charlestonians are always sorry when guests to our city have to accept entertainment at a hostelry," fluttered Miss Arabella. "For a long time the better element of our community was greatly opposed to the establishment of such places. We argued that when visitors came to Charleston, if they were distinguished and worthy they should be entertained in private homes; and if they were not distinguished and not worthy, we did not care for them to sojourn here under any circumstances." "We are a party of six," continued Mrs. Green, doing her best to be businesslike in the interview. "My husband and I, these three young ladies, and Mr. Tucker, the father of these two," indicating Tweedles, who were breathing heavily, a sure sign of laughter that must come sooner or later. "Mr. Tucker is now in Columbia," she went on to explain, "but will shortly return." "We shall be pleased to see him whenever his affairs permit him to leave the capital of our State." "You will have room, then, for all of us?" "Certainly; we have entertained as many as twenty guests quite often. Not recently; but we still can accommodate that number without inconvenience or crowding." Miss Judith was spokesman now, while Miss Arabella glided from the room. In a moment the ungainly girl who had opened the door came in, evidently in response to a signal from the mistress, bearing a silver tray with a Bohemian glass decanter and beautiful glasses with slender stems and a plate of wafers that were so thin and delicate one could easily have eaten a barrel of them without feeling stuffed. "That will do, Dilsey," said Miss Judith, evidently knowing better than to trust the handmaiden, who certainly had the appearance of what Mammy Susan called "a corn fiel' nigger," with the rare old Bohemian glass. Miss Judith served us herself to apricot cordial, the most delicious thing I ever tasted. "We brewed it ourselves from a recipe that has been in our family for centuries," she said, with the simplicity that one might use in saying "like the pies mother used to make." Still there was no talk of terms or question of our viewing our rooms. Such things are not discussed with guests. The guests are simply given the best the house affords, and of course are too well-bred to do anything but be pleased. "When may we come?" ventured Dum. "At any time that suits your convenience." "After luncheon today, then, will be a good time," suggested Mrs. Green, and I thought the two ladies breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe they thought the Philistines were already upon them and come to stay. "We three girls can sleep in one room!" I exclaimed, not having opened my mouth before except to take in the cordial and wafers. My voice sounded strange and harsh to me, somehow. "We are under no necessity for crowding," quietly from Miss Judith, who looked at me, I thought, in disapproval. What business was it of guests to dictate to the hostess what their sleeping arrangements should be? I subsided. "You will have your boxes sent when it suits you. I am sorry we have no one to send for them." A boarding-house keeper to send for your luggage! What next? There seemed no reason to linger longer since the ladies made no move to show us the rooms we were to occupy, and we all of us felt that to mention money would be too brutal. Mrs. Green rose to take leave, and all of us followed suit. "We will return at about four, if that is convenient." "We shall be pleased to see you at any time." We bowed, the ladies bowed, and the portraits seemed to incline their painted heads a bit. Dilsey was standing in readiness to show us out of the street door, and the sight of her grinning human countenance did me good. She at least was alive. Once on the street, we looked at one another knowingly, but the presence of Claire barred us from saying anything. We walked the block to her house, talking of the pleasure it would be to be so near her, and expressing to her our appreciation of the trouble she had taken to place us with her friends. "Oh, we are too delighted to have you near," she declared. "Louis and I can talk of nothing else. Of course we are hoping to see a great deal of you." We wondered if the pompous old father seconded this, and how the young Gaillards would get by with us. We were not, according to his ideas, desirable acquaintances. At least we fancied we would not be. Surely, however, Mrs. Green could pass muster anywhere. "Louis wants to take you to see the old oak in Magnolia Cemetery just as soon as you feel like going." "Oh, we couldn't go to a cemetery without Zebedee," declared Dee. "He loves them so!" "Well, how about the Magnolia Gardens this afternoon? He is eager to be your guide there as well." "Is that where the azaleas are so beautiful?" asked Dum. "Yes, and they are just right to see now. I hear they were never more beautiful than now." "See them without Zebedee? Never!" Dee still objected. "He adores flowers as much as he does old tombstones." "Well, then, Sullivan's Island, where Poe's 'Gold Bug' was written?" laughed Claire. "Go somewhere that is interesting on account of Edgar Allan Poe without Zebedee! We could never be so heartless. Why, he knows Poe by heart." "Well, Dee, I don't see any place we could go without Zebedee, according to you, unless it is back at school or to a dry goods shop." "Well, Virginia Tucker, we could go see some pictures or something close by that he can run in on any time." "Certainly you could! There's the wonderful collection of paintings at the City Hall," suggested Claire courteously, wondering a little, no doubt, at Dee's persistency in waiting for her father for all sight-seeing, and at her evident impatience with Dum. When the twins called each other Virginia and Caroline, it was, as a rule, something quite serious. So we settled on the City Hall as entertainment for the afternoon before our installment in our new quarters. "Dum, I didn't mean to be grouchy," said the repentant Dee, as soon as we got out of sight of Claire. "I was trying to head off a trip where carfare would be necessary. You know Louis never has any money of his own, and he would be wanting to pay for all of us, and I know would be cut to the quick if we didn't let him. You see, Zebedee is so bumptious he just naturally steps up and pays the fare before anybody else has time even to dig down in their jeans." "My husband might have held his own with Louis," suggested Mrs. Green. "Yes, I know; I thought of that, but then I did not know whether he would go or not. I think your husband is just lovely. I didn't mean he'd be the kind to hang back." Dee spoke so ingenuously and sincerely that the young wife had to forgive any fancied slight to her Edwin. It turned out, however, that Professor Green was still writing letters, and had decided to spend the afternoon finishing them up, so he would not have been able to hold his own digging in his jeans. It was like Dee to think of that matter of carfare. She had so much sympathy for the poor and miserable of creation that she seemed to be able to put herself in their places as it were. I fancy there is no more miserable person on earth than a youth who aspires to be squire of dames and has no money to pay the fare. Professor Green was writing in the palmetto-shaded court of the hotel, and had seen us from there as we came up the street. He begged us to join him and tell him what success we had met with the Misses Laurens. "Oh, Edwin, it was lovely! You never saw such a beautiful old house and furniture. The garden is a dream, has a sun-dial and stone benches and statues!" "The portraits are splendid, and there was a Wedgewood pitcher on the mantelpiece that I wouldn't trust Zebedee alone with if I were those ladies," exclaimed Dum. "They had a lovely cat, too; so clean and soft, and he came to me in the friendliest way," from Dee. "They gave us apricot cordial in Bohemian glass tumblers, and wafers you could see through," I put in. "Well, all this sounds fine. How about the bedrooms? Were they attractive, too?" "Bedrooms! We didn't see them." "Oh, then you expect to sleep on the stone benches, perhaps." "I wanted to ask to see them, but the ladies were so funny and stiff and seemed to want us to pretend to be guests, so that naturally we just pretended." "I see. You came to terms with them, however, of course." "Terms! You mean money terms? Why, Edwin, we could no more mention money in their presence than we could rope in a house where the father has been hanged." Professor Green went off into a fit of laughter that made me think that after all maybe he was younger than Zebedee. He kissed his wife twice right before us and in plain view of the passersby on Meeting Street, but he couldn't help it. She was so adorably girlish in her reasons for engaging board from Charleston aristocrats without even seeing the bedrooms, and with absolutely no idea of what remuneration those unbending dames would expect. "I did say that Tweedles and I could sleep three in a room, and I wish you could have seen the way they jumped at me. It was Miss Judith. 'We are under no necessity for crowding,'" I mimicked her. "I did not like to insist, but of course I meant it might make our board a little cheaper. If you had been there, you would have knuckled under just like the rest of us." "Do you think it would be wise to go without knowing? I don't want to seem mercenary with all of you high-minded ladies, but I do think there would be a certain satisfaction in knowing just what one was paying for sun-dials and wafers that can be seen through." "Well, then, you can do the asking! I can't. Was there ever a moment when we could broach the subject, girls?" "Never!" we chorused loyally. "We will just go 'buying a pig in a poke,' as it were, and maybe after a night on the garden bench I can muster up courage to ask them what I owe them for the privilege," teased the professor. "I don't like betting on a certainty, but I don't believe you will be able to do it, and am willing to wager almost anything that you can't get yourself to the point any more than we could. You might ask Miss Arabella, but if you tackle Miss Judith and she looks at you as she did at me when I suggested three in a room, I bet you father's copy of Timrod's poetry that you change the subject." "Done! I bet you the volume of J. Gordon Coogler's 'Purely Original Verse' that I am living at the Maison Laurens on a purely business basis within the next seven hours. I am going to settle it before tonight." "Will it be Miss Judith?" I asked, fearing Miss Arabella might be the cause of my losing the Timrod poetry, which I was anxious to write father I had found for him at the second-hand book store. "Miss Judith and no other! I should feel very sneaky if I got my information through the easier channel of Miss Arabella. Miss Judith, and by seven o'clock." "I hope we will know before Zebedee comes back," said Dee. "We shall never hear the last of it if he finds us boarding for untold sums." "I shall feel myself a failure as a chaperone surely," remarked Mrs. Green. "We think you a tremendous success," tweedled the twins. CHAPTER XIV THE CLERK OF THE COUNCIL We had a wonderful time at the City Hall that afternoon with Louis. It was quite near our hotel, so Dee's agony over Louis' feelings about carfare was assuaged. My idea of a City Hall had always been that it was a very ugly and stiff place where City Fathers wrangled about sewerage and garbage collections, and whether they should or should not open up such and such a street or close such and such an alley,--a place where taxes were paid or evaded, and where one kicked about the size of the gas bill. The Charleston City Hall was quite different. There may have been places where discontented persons contended about gas and taxes, but we did not see them. We were told that Charleston had but recently gone through what was a real riot on the subject of the election of the Mayor, but there was a dignity and peace breathing from the very stones of that old edifice that made us doubt the possibility of dissension having been within its walls. City Fathers could not have mentioned such a thing as sewerage and garbage in the presence of those wonderful and august portraits and busts. As for opening streets that never had been opened before! Why do it? And alleys that had always been closed! Let well enough alone. Louis Gaillard was quite a friend of the Clerk of the Council, a very scholarly and interesting young man with a French name, who was kindness itself in showing us the treasures of the City Hall. He knew and loved every one of them, and Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, could not have been more eloquent in praise of her jewels. He might well be proud of them, as I doubt there being a more complete collection of things of civic and historical interest in any City Hall in all the world, certainly not in America. In the Mayor's office there hung a peculiarly interesting fragment of a painting by Sir Godfrey Kneller. It was Queen Anne's hand resting on a crown. The rest of the picture had been cut away by some vandal after the wonderful painting had gone through various vicissitudes during the Revolutionary War. Queen Anne was always a dead, dull person to my mind, and the only thing that ever interested me about her was the fact that she did have a crown, and perhaps if the picture was to be destroyed the crown was about the most interesting part to preserve. I don't want to sound like a guide-book, and I am afraid I might if I tell of all the treasures in that Council Chamber. I must mention Trumbull's portrait of Washington, however. It is very wonderful. The great general stands in Continental uniform by his white charger, every inch a soldier. "It does not look exactly like the Gilbert Stuart portraits," said Dum. "No," explained the young man ingenuously, "Stuart painted Washington after he had false teeth, and that changed his appearance a great deal. This picture is valued at $100,000, but of course no money could induce the City of Charleston to part with it." Then there was Healy's portrait of John C. Calhoun, a wonderful painting. Dum and Mrs. Green thought that from an artistic standpoint it was of more value than the Trumbull portrait of Washington. I am frankly ignorant of what is best in pictures, but I am trying to learn. I certainly liked the Healy portrait very much, though. The hands were wonderful, and Dum said that was a true test of painting; that if an artist was not a top-notcher he could not draw hands, and usually made the model sit on them or put them in his pocket, or if it happened to be a woman, covered them up with drapery. The Clerk of the Council seemed very much amused by Dum's remarks and delighted with her interest, and we noticed he addressed most of his explanations to her while we trailed along in their wake. There was a portrait of Francis Marion which rather amused us, as he is dressed in uniform with a brigadier general's hat. Now we all knew that Marion never wore anything more tony than a coon skin cap, and he looked as funny as Daniel Boone would painted in a Tuxedo with an opera hat. Portraits of President Monroe, Andrew Jackson, Zachary Taylor, General Moultrie, Beauregard, Wade Hampton, and five mayors who held the civic reins of Charleston in troublous times adorn the walls. There were many other Charlestonians of note whom their city had delighted to honor, but I am afraid of getting too guide-booky if I dwell on them. The cablegram Queen Victoria sent at the time of the earthquake, expressing her sympathy for the sufferers has been carefully preserved. It is the original autograph copy, which, together with the letters from Mayor Courtney, Secretary of State Bayard, and E. J. Phelps, United States Minister to the Court of St. James, which were written in regard to obtaining the original message, are embodied in a book and handsomely bound. The message reads: "To the President of the United States: I desire to express profound sympathy with the sufferers by the late earthquake, and await with anxiety further intelligence which, I hope, may show the effects to have been less disastrous than expected. (Signed) "VICTORIA, REGINA." We took leave of the very agreeable Clerk of the Council regretfully. He had been so pleasant, and was so interesting that we hoped we might see him again. "It seems a sin," sighed Dum, "to meet such a nice man as that and never to see him again." "I always feel that I am going to meet persons like again," said Mrs. Green; "if not here, in the hereafter. Kindred souls must manage to get together or 'What's a heaven for?'" "That's the way I like to think of heaven, a place where you find the persons you naturally like, not a place where you just naturally like all the persons you meet. I don't see why just because you are good enough to go to heaven you should lose all your discrimination. I could go to heaven a million years and not like Mabel Binks. Cat!" and Dum scowled. "Who is Mabel Binks?" laughed Mrs. Green. "Oh, she's a person Dee and I can't abide. Page hates her, too, only she won't say so. She was at Gresham with us the first year we were there, and she started in making a dead set at Zebedee and has kept it up ever since." "Is she pretty?" "Oh, she's handsome enough in a kind of oochy-koochy style, but she is too florid to suit me. There's a letter from her to Zebedee now. She's always writing to him and trying to get him into something or other." "How do you know it's from her?" I asked. I was not very joyful myself when our one-time schoolmate made too free with Mr. Tucker. I didn't really and truly think he cared a snap for her, but I well knew how persistent effort on the part of a designing female could eventually work wonders on the male heart. "How do I know? I'd like to know who but Mabel Binks writes on burnt orange paper, with brown ink, with an envelope big enough to hold all the documents in the City Hall, and that smelling like a demonstration counter of cheap perfumes. I'd hate to think Zebedee could put up with two female admirers as gaudy as she is." Dum always stormed like that when Mabel Binks was in question, or any woman under fifty who happened to like her father. Dee was walking with Louis or she, too, would have joined in the tirade against their _bête noir_. "I shouldn't think you would feel the slightest uneasiness about your father. I am sure you can trust his good taste if he should ever marry," and Mrs. Green drew Dum to her. I didn't know about that. I thought it was quite possible for the wrong person to hoodwink Zebedee into not knowing his taste from hers. I had been brought up by Mammy Susan, who was somewhat of a cynic in her way, and she used to say: "Th' ain't no countin' on what kin' er wife a widderman is goin' ter pick out. One thing you may be sho' of, a man nebber picks out two alike. If the fus' one was tall an' thin the nex' one is sho' ter be sho't an' fat. I tell yer, men is pow'ful weak an' women is mighty 'suadin'." That phrase that Mammy Susan was so fond of, "Men is weak an' women is 'suadin'," made me tremble sometimes for what the father of the twins might do. He had talked to me about marrying again, and had given me to understand many times that Mabel Binks was not his style, but sometimes I used to think that maybe "he doth protest too much." We were missing Zebedee greatly, and were very glad when we got back to the hotel to learn from a long distance message that he would be with us the next morning. CHAPTER XV WHO WON THE BET? We arrived at the Misses Laurens, bag and baggage, at the appointed hour. Those ladies greeted us with studied courtesy, but it was evident from their manner that they looked upon us as Yankee invaders. The fact that Tweedles and I were from Virginia and Mrs. Green from Kentucky, all of us with as good Confederate records as one could wish, had no weight with them. We were all clumped as Northerners in their minds. But we were guests under their ancestral roof and must be treated with punctilious politeness. Tweedles and I were shown into two large adjoining rooms, the Greens across the hall from us, with a room beyond theirs for Mr. Tucker. The beds were great four-posters that looked as though there should be little stepladders furnished to climb into them, like those the porter brings you to scramble into an upper berth. "Just 'spose you should fall out of bed! 'Twould be sure death," declared Dee. "Look at this mahogany candle-stand! Did you ever in all your life see anything quite so lovely? And look, only look at this silver candlestick! It looks like it had been looted from some old Spanish church," and Dum reverently picked up the heavy old silver to examine the quaint design beaten around its base. "But this wardrobe! I'm sure there's a skeleton in it hiding behind rustling old silks. It is big enough to go to housekeeping in. I wonder if Miss Arabella and Miss Judith ever played in it when they were children." "Old Page, always romancing." "Well, if anyone is ever going to romance she would do it here. It smells like romance even. I know there are jars of dried rose leaves in every room. I am sure there is lavender in the sheets and I am positive there is a ghost around somewhere." "Can you smell it, too? How does a ghost smell? Not like a rat, I hope," teased Dee. "How are we going to sleep? If there is a ghost flaunting his fragrance around, I hope I shall not draw the lonesome singleton," said Dum. "I'll take the room by myself," I said magnanimously, the truth of the matter being that while I approved of our custom of drawing straws or tossing up for everything, I was afraid that Dee might draw the lonesome singleton, and I did not think that after the experience she had so recently been through she should be put off by herself. I did not want to say anything about my reasons, but decided that I would simply install myself in the far room. "Are you aware of the fact, girls, that there is no gas in these rooms? These candlesticks are not meant for ornaments, but to light us to our couches. Shades of Bracken! I wonder if there is any plumbing!" Like most persons born and brought up without plumbing, I thought more of it than daily bread. I had my own great English bathtub at Bracken, but plumbingless houses were not always equipped with individual tubs. "I thought of asking Miss Arabella where the bathroom was, but somehow it was as difficult as asking her how much she charged for board, and I could not muster courage," laughed Dee. "Where does that door go? If it is not locked, we might explore a little." It yielded and proved to be the opening into an old-fashioned dressing-room that had been converted into a bathroom as an afterthought. It was big enough for four ordinary bathrooms, and had, besides the copper-lined bathtub, with plumbing that must have been the first to be installed in South Carolina, a wardrobe, bureau, washstand and several chairs. Another door opening into a narrow hall must have been meant for the other occupants of the house. "Thank goodness for the tub, even if it is reminiscent of a preserving-kettle," I sighed. "I had visions of our making out with bird dishes, and had begun to regret that I had not taken several more baths at the hotel, where the arrangements were certainly perfect." "It's an awful pity a body can't save up cleanliness like she can save up dirt," said Dee. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could take seven baths in one day at a nice hotel and then come stay a week in a delightful old house like this, delightful in every way but tubs, and not have to wash all that time?" "I knew a girl in Richmond who was one of these once-a-weekers, and she was going abroad for the summer and decided to get a Turkish bath before sailing. Do you know she saved up two weeks so as to get her money's worth? But we had better get unpacked and into our dinner dresses," and Dum began to pull things out of her suitcase with her unpacking manner--not calculated to improve the condition of clothes. We found Professor and Mrs. Green walking in the garden. "Edwin is as pleased as we were, and has forgiven us for not seeing the bedrooms, now that he finds he shall not have to sleep on a stone bench. We have a bed big enough for an old-fashioned family of fifteen to sleep in. I hope you girls are comfortably placed." "Yes, indeed, beautifully!" we exclaimed in chorus. "Only look at this old sun-dial, Molly! '_Tempus Fugit_' carved around it! I don't believe Time has flown here for many a year. I think he has stood stock-still." The garden was wondrously sweet in the soft evening light. Waxen white japonicas gleamed through the shrubbery and lilacs, lavender, purple and white were in a perfect tangle, meeting overhead, almost concealing an overgrown walk that led to a rustic summer house in the far corner. Wherever there was nothing else, there was honeysuckle. It seemed to be trying to over-run the place, but periwinkle was holding its own on the ground, asserting itself with its darker green leaves, and snow balls and syringa bushes, shaking off the honeysuckle that had tried to smother and choke it, rose superior with their masses of whiteness. Hyacinths, narcissi, lilies-of-the-valley, snowdrops and violets filled the beds to overflowing, a floral struggle for the survival of the fittest. "Won't Zebedee love it, though!" said Dee. "It seems almost as peaceful as a graveyard. Listen! Listen! A mocking-bird!" "We might have known a mocking-bird would build here," whispered Mrs. Green. "There he is on that oleander, and there's his mate still busy with her household duties, carrying straw for her nest. It must be hard to be a female bird and not to be able to pour forth your soul in song, no matter how bursting you are with the joy of living. I always thought that it was unfair. No doubt that little newlywed mocking-bird feels as deeply as the male, but all she can do to show it is just drag straw and hairs and build and build, and then sit patiently on her eggs, and then teach the little ones to fly after she has worn herself to skin and bone grubbing worms for them. No doubt if she should begin to sing she would astonish her little husband to such an extent that he would call her a suffragette, and tell her a lady bird's place was in her nest and he could make noise enough for two, thank you!" "Well, it certainly would be a pity for her to sing if she couldn't sing," objected Professor Green. "I suppose long ages of thinking she couldn't sing has put her where she can't. Perhaps she can sing, and Mr. Cock Mocking-Bird has told her she can't because he wants the floor, or rather the swinging limb, himself." "Edwin is trying to get me into an argument on feminism, but the evening is too perfect, and the mere male bird is singing too wonderfully to tempt me to bring discord into the garden." "Have you talked business yet with either of the ladies, Professor Green? I am getting ready to tell my Timrod good-by." "Well--er--not yet. I have not had an opportunity." "Why, Edwin, you have seen both of them several times since we arrived." "Yes, but the subject of our conversation was such that it did not seem an appropriate time to broach the matter of board." All of us laughed at our masculine contingent's being as bad as we had been, and I felt more secure than ever that father would get his Timrod and I would own a volume of J. Gordon Coogler. Dilsey, the corn-field hand, almost fell down the steps announcing supper. Of course we were hungry, and even though the garden was so lovely we were glad to go to supper. We hoped its loveliness would keep, and we knew that food could not be trusted to. The ladies of the house were dressed in stiff grosgrain silk. Mrs. Green knew the name of the kind of silk; we had never seen it before. She said she had an Aunt Clay in Kentucky who wore it on state occasions. They did not look nearly so funereal, as they had bits of fine old lace in necks and sleeves. Lace is a wonderful fabric for lightening up sombreness. It can cheer up dripping black. It seems that I was wrong about the Misses Laurens having suffered recent bereavement. They had the mourning habit. Claire Gaillard had told us that they had had no deaths in the family for at least ten years, but that they always wore mourning, poor old things. When we met them in the bus, the morning of our arrival, they were not coming from the funeral of a relative who had not left them the legacy they had been counting on, as I had made up about them; on the contrary, they were coming from the wedding of a young cousin in a neighboring town. So the would-be author fell down that time in her surmises. Surely persons who expect to figure in plots of stories have no business looking as though they were coming from funerals when they have been to weddings. It is hard on real authors to have to contend with such contrariness, and simply impossible for would-bes. The dining-room was even lovelier than the parlor. The walls were papered with a hunting scene that had faded very little, considering it must have been there half a century. It was a peculiar paper that seemed to have been varnished, no doubt thus preserving it. The sideboard was worth a king's ransom, whatever that is. It was not the eternal Colonial that is of course beautiful, but it has come to the pass that Americans think there is no other style worth considering. It was very old Florentine, as were also the chairs and table. The carving on the sideboard could only be equalled by the Cimabue gates, I am sure. The chairs were upholstered in deep red Genoese velvet. It seems a remote Huguenot ancestor had been United States Consul in Florence and had brought home with him this dining-room furniture. There were no pictures in this room, as with paper of that type pictures are out of place, but polychrome sconces were hung at intervals, half a dozen in all. The candles in them were not lighted, as it was still daylight, and a great silver candelabrum on the table gave what additional light was needed. The table was set with the finest Sevres china, cobweb mats and thin old teaspoons that looked a little like the old ladies themselves. The forks, however, were as big as two ordinary forks of the day; so big in fact that one might have been forgiven if, like Sam Weller, he "handled his wittles with cold steel." Miss Judith looked flushed, and I was afraid she had been cooking the supper herself, while Miss Arabella had on a fresh thumb-stall that suggested a possible burn on her thin, blue-veined old hand. Supper consisted of fried chicken, hot rolls, four kinds of preserves, the inevitable rice that is served twice a day in South Carolina, as though to encourage home industries, and gravy, of course, to go on the rice, another thing that is the rule in the best families, so I have been told. It is very funny how different sections of the country establish their aristocracy by the way certain favorite dishes are served. I heard a lady from Plymouth, Massachusetts, say once that some of her townsmen were not really very good people; they put too much molasses in their baked beans. I am sure a South Carolinian would consider any one po' white trash who liked rice cooked mushy and not dry with every grain standing out like a pearl. Certainly anywhere in the South sugar in the cornbread would label any family as not to the manor-born, while in the North sugar in the cornbread is a regular thing, born or not born. Everything was delicious on that table, and the hostesses quite warmed up into a pleasant glow of hospitality. It is difficult to be stiff, even if you have swallowed a heredity poker, when gay, happy, hungry young people are at your board, showing their appreciation of your culinary skill by devouring everything handed to them. Dilsey waited on table as though it had been set on ploughed ground, every now and then almost falling down in an imaginary furrow. The Misses Laurens completely ignored her awkwardness, although in all probability, being human, they were in agony for fear she would shoot the rolls across the room, or pour the coffee down a guest's back or do something else equally trying. Dilsey seemed delighted with her prowess, and every time she safely landed some article of food to the destination to which her mistresses had sent it, she gave a pleased cluck. She would come up to you and lean over your shoulder in a really most engaging manner, and say: "Now do hab a lil' mo' 'sarves! Try dem quinches dis time." She was especially lively with the "graby," and handed it every time there was a lull in operations. Professor Green refused it so often that it really became embarrassing, but still the girl persisted in her endeavors. "Jes' lil' graby on yo' rice!" Finally Miss Arabella interfered to prevent further persecution, and this is where Professor Green "broke his 'lasses pitcher" with the Misses Laurens. "Perhaps you do not care for gravy," she suggested. "Won't you have some butter on your rice? The butter to Professor Green, Dilsey." "Thank you, no butter! I should like some sugar and cream on my rice, however. I am very fond of it that way." "Sugar and cream! On rice!" came in gasps from both ladies. Oh, ye gods and little fishes! What had our masculine contingent done? Flown in the face of customs older than Time! Dilsey's awkward waiting, taking boarders, nothing had upset the well-bred equanimity of these descendants of ancestors like this awful alien fact. "Sugar on rice! Cream on rice! The Yankees are upon us! Hide the spoons!" That was the manner they had when almost tearfully they instructed Dilsey to pass the rice, pass the sugar and cream. The professor ate it with about as much relish as Proserpine must have eaten the dried-up pomegranate that Pluto obtained for her. He knew he had done something terrible, but, man-like, he did not know just exactly what it was. He knew that rice and sugar and cream were mixed up in it, but how? Had he realized as I did that his request for a peculiar combination of food had lost him the bet, perhaps it would have choked him outright. It was a difficult feat to accomplish at best, to tackle these old aristocrats on the subject of remuneration, but now that he had done such a terribly plebeian thing as to want his rice mushy and sweet, there was no possible way to get back in their good graces, certainly no quick way of doing it. A reconstruction period would have to be gone through with and then after much burying of many hatchets perhaps cordial relations could be re-established. Professor Green looked scared and rather boyish. His Molly was bubbling over with suppressed merriment, while Dum and I had to assume a deep gloom to keep from exploding. Dee came to the rescue, of course, with rhapsodies over the garden, jumping from that to the pictures in the City Hall and back to praise Claire Gaillard, who was evidently a favorite of the old ladies. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven and St. Michael's bells verified its strike. I looked up at Professor Green as he choked down the last of the fatal rice. "I'll give you another hour," I whispered. "Thank you, but I believe another year would not help me." I now own J. Gordon Coogler and father will have his Timrod, which, after all, had never really been in jeopardy. CHAPTER XVI LETTERS From Mrs. Edwin Green to Mrs. Kent Brown, New York City. MEETING STREET, CHARLESTON, S. C., April .., 19... MY DEAREST JUDY: No doubt you and Kent will be astonished to find that Edwin and I are actually on the long talked-of trip to this wonderful old city. Mother is taking care of little Mildred in our absence, and Dr. McLean is to be called if she sneezes or coughs or does anything in the least out of the way. She is such a blooming, rosy baby, and so thoroughly normal that I am sure it is perfectly safe to leave her. Mother says she is more like Kent than any of her babies. Charleston is more delightful even than it has been pictured. We only got here yesterday morning, and already we love it as though we belonged here. We went to a hotel for one night, but by rare good chance have found board in one of the real old Charleston homes. You will laugh when I tell you that after an acquaintance of about twenty-four hours I find myself the chaperone of three girls about seventeen years old. I know you and Kent are grinning and saying to each other: "Some more of Molly's lame ducks!" but I can assure you they are as far from being that as any girls you ever saw. They are the Tucker twins, Dum and Dee, otherwise known as Virginia and Caroline, and their friend, Page Allison--all from Virginia. They have come down here with Mr. Tucker, the father of the twins, a newspaper man from Richmond, but he has had to go to Columbia on his paper's business and I volunteered to look after the girls in his absence. He is a delightful man, and he and Edwin are already Greening and Tuckering each other, which means that they struck up quite a friendship. He is the most absurdly young person to be the father of these strapping twins. He looks younger than Edwin, but I fancy he must be a little older. You know Edwin's "high forehead" makes him look older than he is. The Tucker twins are bright, handsome, generous, original--everything you like to see in young girls. Their mother died when they were tiny babies and their young father has had the raising of them. A pretty good job he has made of it, too, although he declares he has done nothing toward bringing them up but just remove obstacles. They call their father Zebedee, because of the old joke about "Who's the father of Zebedee's children?" They say nobody ever believes he is their father. Dum is most artistic, wants to be a sculptor. She hopes to study in New York next winter. Dee is as fond of lame ducks as you used to say I was, and may make a trained nurse of herself, or perhaps a veterinary surgeon. Their friend, Page Allison, is a delightful girl. She is the daughter of a country doctor, and has been the twins' room-mate at boarding school. By the way, these girls had heard of you, and me too, from Mattie Ball, who has been teaching them English literature at Gresham. (Mattie had been most complimentary to us both, so they have an exalted idea of us.) Page is lots of fun. She is in for anything that is going, but at the same time acts as a kind of balance wheel for the twins, who are a harum-scarum pair. Page has a writing bee in her bonnet, which of course appeals to me. You would have been amused to see both of us whip out our notebooks to take down things that we did not want to forget. Mr. Tucker is evidently very much interested in this little girl, more interested than he knows himself, and she is perfectly unconscious of his feeling in any way differently from the way he feels for his own daughters. I may be mistaken, however. I know when one is so happily married as I am it is a great temptation to be constantly match-making. I fancy you and Kent are wondering why I should go to as interesting a place as Charleston and then find nothing to write about but three schoolgirls. Charleston is thrilling indeed, but you know I always did think more of people than things. We are seeing the sights very thoroughly--have deciphered every inscription on the old tombstones in three cemeteries, and are going tomorrow to Magnolia Cemetery. They say there is the most wonderful old live oak tree there in the world. Now that we are settled in a boarding-house, kept by two old befo'-the-war ladies, we may stay here quite a little while. Edwin needs this rest that the Easter recess fortunately offered him. I wish I could picture these old ladies to you, but they are too wonderful to try to describe. Whistler's mother does not belong in the frame in which her artist son placed her any more than these ladies belong in this old house. They hate boarders. You can see it in spite of their punctilious manners and old-world courtesy. I believe we are the first they have had, and if they only knew how much nicer we are than most boarders, I fancy they would not hate us quite so much. Mother always says that being a boarder changes one's whole nature--the gentlest and most generous becoming stern and exacting. At any rate, Edwin and I have not been boarders long enough to become very hateful, and these three girls could board forever and never become professionals in that line. Please write to me soon. I am so glad Kent's firm won the competition for that great hotel. Tell him it is too bad I can't be there to tell him where the closets ought to be and which way the doors should open. He and I never agree on these points, you remember. It is splendid that you keep up your painting. I have no patience with these persons who insist that a career and matrimony cannot go hand in hand. Of course my little Mildred is very engrossing, but I do not intend to let her take every moment of the day and night. I find if I am going to write, however, that I cannot sew, but you know sewing was never one of my strong points. Giving it up is like Huck Finn's giving up stealing green persimmons. If occasionally, and only occasionally, I can persuade a magazine to see how worth printing one of my stories is, and I can make an honest penny that way, it is surely no extravagance to get someone to make Mildred's little clothes and to buy mine ready-made. But Edwin is rearing and champing for me to go walking with him, and I must also look up these dear girls I am chaperoning, so good-by, my dear sister-in-law. My best love to "that 'ere Kent," as Aunt Mary used to call him. Poor old Aunt Mary! How we shall miss her! Yours with all the love in the world, MOLLY BROWN GREEN. To Dr. James Allison, Milton, Va., from Page Allison. MEETING STREET, CHARLESTON, S. C. MY DEAREST FATHER: I can't get over how good it was in you to let me go tripping with the Tuckers. It has been a wonderful experience, and we are having the most gorgeous time. Already, of course, we have plunged into adventures, as is always the case if you train with the Tucker twins. I am not going to tell you of these adventures until I come back to Bracken; they are too thrilling for mere pen and ink. As you see by the above address, we have left the hotel and are now installed in a boarding-house on Meeting Street. It seems absurd to call such a place a boarding-house--indeed, a sacrilege. It has just become a boarding-house in the last twelve hours, as I am sure we are the first "paying guests" the poor Misses Laurens have ever had. We are being chaperoned by a perfectly lovely young woman, a Mrs. Edwin Green. She and her husband were at the hotel and we scraped up an acquaintance with them, and as Mr. Tucker had to go over to Columbia on business she offered to look after us while he was away. Tweedles and I have not been chaperoned before to any great extent, as Miss Cox was our one experience, and we think chaperones are pretty nice, lots nicer than we had been led to expect. Certainly no one could be more charming than Miss Cox, unless it were this lovely Mrs. Green. In the first place, she is so sympathetic, then she is so kind, then she is so pretty, then she is so intelligent and so extremely well-bred,--on top of it all she has married one of the nicest men I ever saw; he really is almost as nice as Mr. Tucker and you. (I should have said you and Mr. Tucker, but you were an afterthought, as you well know!) Afterthought or not, I do wish you were here, my dearest father. You would delight in the quaintness of this old city. I am getting all the postal cards I can find, which I will not send you, but will bring you, and make you sit down and listen to me while I tell you all about it. I am also going to bring you a volume of Henry Timrod's poetry, which you must duly appreciate, as it was difficult to find it. It seems that although the South Carolinians are very proud of him, none of them have seen fit to get out a new edition of his poetry, and the old editions are very expensive. This I was told by the very pleasant man who has opened a second-hand book shop here. I found a book there I was crazy to get for you, but as it was a first edition, and that a limited one, I could not afford it. By an amusing chance it has since become my property. I will tell you about that some day. It is entitled "Purely Original Verse," by J. Gordon Coogler. He, too, was a South Carolinian, and such ridiculous stuff you have never imagined. The kind man who owned the shop let me copy a few of the poems before I dreamed of possessing the book. What do you think of these? A COUPLET Alas for the South, her books have grown fewer-- She was never much given to literature. BYRON Oh! thou immortal bard! Men may condemn the song That issued from thy heart sublime, Yet alas! its music sweet Has left an echo that will sound Thro' the lone corridors of time. Thou immortal Byron! Thy inspired genius Let no man attempt to smother-- May all that was good within thee Be attributed to Heaven, All that was evil--to thy mother. A PRETTY GIRL On her beautiful face there are smiles of grace That linger in beauty serene, And there are no pimples encircling her dimples As ever, as yet, I have seen. But, father dear, do not be too hard on this bard, or you will come under this ban: Oh, jealous heart that seeks to belittle my gentle muse, And blow your damnable bugle in my lonely ears; You'll lie some day in expressing your recognition Of this very song you disowned in other years. Surely you must have sympathy for the person who could write the following stanza, especially when your only child goes tripping with the Tuckers when she ought to be down in the country with her old father: I feel like some lone deserted lad, Standing on the shore of life's great ocean, Casting pebbles in its billows, as if to excite Some past emotion. Please give Mammy Susan my dearest love. I wish she could see the flower gardens down here. They are very wonderful. Every house almost has porch-boxes, and no place is too poor or mean to have some bright flowers around it. We went through some real slummy parts yesterday where no one but darkies lived; beautiful old foreign-looking houses that have belonged in days gone by to the wealthy. I don't believe a single window was without flowers. They were growing in tomato cans and old broken jars and pots, but flowers don't mind what they are in just so the people who plant them love them and know how to attend to them. They seemed to me to be making a braver show than they do when they boast brass jardinières. I can't help thinking what Cousin Park Garnett would say if she knew that Mr. Tucker had left us alone in Charleston with a perfectly strange lady to chaperone us. I reckon she would throw about a million aristocratic fits. I don't know how long we will be here. It will depend on Mr. Tucker. I think he needs a rest. He seems to me to be not quite himself. I have noticed that he is in a way irascible. That, you know, is not like him, as there never was but one better tempered man in all the world. You see, you were not an afterthought this time, but came first. I must stop now without telling you about the dear ladies where we are boarding. They are like rare editions of old forgotten poetry, or odd pieces of china no one has used for generations but has kept in a cabinet until one has forgotten whether they are meant for tea or coffee. They are very dignified with us, but I have a notion that the Tucker twins will be able to limber 'em up by hook or crook. I saw the younger one almost smile when Dee took her cat in her arms. Your devoted daughter, PAGE. CHAPTER XVII MISS ARABELLA No ghosts came to disturb my slumbers in the great four-poster, but the early morning sun awoke me long before Tweedles gave any indication of coming to life. I thought for a while I was at Bracken. It must have been the lavender in the sheets and the mocking-bird, who was singing like Caruso just outside of my window. An odor will carry more suggestion than any sight; and sound comes next, I believe. I lay there wondering how long it would be before Mammy Susan would come bringing my bath-water, devoutly praying she would not "het" it up, but let me have it stinging cold from the well. The realization that I was in Charleston came over me gradually; also, that no one would bring me bath-water, and that if I wanted first to go in the preserving-kettle I had better get up and take it. I had to go through the twins' room to get to the bathroom, and I found them sleeping like infants, looking ridiculously alike with their eyes shut and their chins snuggled down in the bed clothes. The squareness of Dum's chin and the dimple in Dee's was more of a differentiation in their case than even the eyes. Dum's were hazel while Dee's were gray, but the shape and setting were similar, if not identical. I stood a moment gazing at them, and it came over me with an added realization what their friendship had meant to me; theirs and their father's. I had known them according to the calendar only twenty months, not quite two years, but counting time by "heart throbs," I had known them since the beginning of time. God grant nothing should ever come between us! Mr. Tucker had certainly been a little snappy with me before he went to Columbia, but I was never the kind to go around with a chip on my shoulder hunting for trouble, so if it was an accident I was perfectly willing to let it go at that. The truth of the matter was, that the Tuckers had one and all spoiled me. They were so lovely to me on all occasions that a slight let-up on the part of any one of them was more noticeable because of their usual kindness. He was to come back that day, and I was very glad, as indeed all of us were, although we were expecting a good teasing for having so bravely undertaken the business of getting board and then moving in without any business arrangement. The copper tub was not so bad, after all, and the Charleston water is always a delight to bathe in. It is strangely soft, as though it had just fallen from a summer cloud, and it has a peculiar sweetish taste. I dressed in a great hurry and soon found myself in the garden. The sun that had made his way into my window had not yet reached the garden, because of the high wall. "One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed." That was what I thought as I stepped out into that wonderful old garden. There was a misty haze of early morning, and the freshness of the new-born day that few persons know of. Early rising is a habit that it is a pity ever to lose, and still it is something that the civilized world seems to fight against. Children naturally wake early, but as one grows older the sunrise is such a rarity that many grown-ups cannot remember ever having seen this wonderful spectacle which takes place every morning. Father says that one of the signs of advancing years is waking quite early in the morning and not being able to go back to sleep. When he is called in to doctor old persons, who complain of waking early, he always tells them not to try to go back to sleep, but to get up and go out in the morning and see how glorious Creation is. Nature may be asserting herself in these old persons so they can get back some of the spirit of childhood before they are called to the Great Beyond. He always tells them to eat something, however, before they go to commune with Nature. The mocking-bird was not holding the fort alone that morning, as he had the evening before. His little wife was still carrying building materials for their home, and he was helping, but every now and then he left off work, although he had heard no whistle blow to tell him it was time to stop. Then such a stream of melody as he would pour forth would put Caruso to the blush. Other birds were in the garden, and all of them very busy. A tiny song sparrow had something to say with remarkable volume considering his size, and Mr. Mocking-Bird listened intently, determined to learn the new song. A thrush broke in and then a stylish robin. I thought I heard the notes of a bobolink, but it turned out to be the mocking-bird, who seemed intent on singing down all the others. It reminded me rather of the sextette from "Lucia de Lammermoor" when the artists all seem to be trying to outdo each other and still harmony is the result. I had brought down all the combings from our three heads, well knowing how the birds delight in hair as a building material. Of course Mammy Susan had done her best all my life to keep me from letting birds get any of my hair for nests, as it is supposed to be the very worst luck that can befall one, and terrible headaches are sure to be the lot of a person whose hair helps make a nest. Nevertheless, I had always sneaked my hair to the birds at Bracken, and this morning, feeling sure that I was the only person astir, I had quite openly brought a wad of hair, Dum's burnished black, Dee's blue black, and my curly brown, all mingled together. I put some on a lilac bush and some on the path where I noticed the builders had found some straw and would no doubt soon spy the more desirable material. "I wish I had some of Molly Brown's," I said to myself. We had got in the habit of speaking of Mrs. Green as Molly Brown, and no doubt would soon begin to call her Molly to her face. "Hers would make the dear birds feel that they were weaving sunshine into their nests. I'm going to ask her for some." I made my way very slowly and quietly, so as not to disturb the busy homemakers, along the overgrown path to the summer house. I was mistaken in thinking I was the only human being astir in that enchanted garden. As I lifted a great branch of snowballs that, heavy with its own beauty, had fallen across the path, I saw that Miss Arabella was before me. She was seated in the summer house. The great gray cat was on the ground in front of her, looking up into her face with a sly expression in his round, yellow eyes. "Now, Grimalkin, I give you fair warning. If you dare so much as look at one of these birds I will shut you up in the house for the rest of the day! You hear me, sir?" "Me-i-ou----!" and he tried to slink off, deceit in every curve of his handsome body. "No, you don't, sir!" and with astonishing agility for an old lady who had swallowed a hereditary poker, she swooped forward and caught the cat up into her lap. How different this was from the Miss Arabella of the evening before! Her soft gray hair, with a glint of gold in it, was all loosened about her face. There was a little flush on her cheeks, and instead of the sombre black dress she now wore a loose lavender wrapper. If it had been possible to back out and get up the garden path without being seen, I would have done it. I felt like Peeping Tom and Lady Godiva. Somehow this was Miss Arabella's naked soul I had come on, and I was afraid she would be terribly cut up. There was nothing for me, however, but to speak. I made a little scratching on the path with my toe and shook the snowball branch. She looked up, startled, and loosened her hold on Grimalkin, who immediately took advantage of her and sprang from her lap. This was no time for dignity! The cat at liberty in the garden meant havoc for the nesting birds. "I'll catch him!" I cried, and then such a chase ensued! Grimalkin thought all the world moved as slowly as the dear ladies who had raised him, and at first scorned me as a pursuer, but I soon gave him to understand that a country girl with gym training added to her natural agility is a match for a fat old tomcat. I cornered him just as he started up the high wall, and, catching him by the back of his neck, in the proper place for a cat to be held, I carried him back to his smiling mistress, who, all unmindful of his unsheathed claws, caught him to her bosom, where he soon dropped asleep, purring away as though that was where he meant to go all the time. "You are very kind! I am exceedingly grateful to you!" "Oh, not at all! It was my fault the cat got away. I thought I was all alone in the garden and did not mean to come on you this way. I fancied the birds and I were the only creatures awake." "I always come down in the garden very early in the morning. I can't trust Grimalkin alone out here while the birds are nesting. After they have hatched and the little ones can fly they can escape from him, he is so fat, but I am always afraid he will drive the mocking-birds away. I can't sleep in the early morning, anyhow. Do you usually arise so early?" "Not always, but I am a country girl, and country people always get up earlier than city people. My friends, the Tuckers, have to be dragged out of bed unless there is some especial reason for getting up, and then they are energetic enough. I did not disturb them this morning as they were sleeping so peacefully." Miss Arabella had made a place for me on the stone bench, and was still smiling at me in a very encouraging way. Perhaps she was as eager to find out things about me as I was about her. "My sister was sleeping, too, at least she seemed to be trying to. Both of us, as a rule, awaken very early, but she lies still trying to get back to sleep, while I feel that it is best to get up and take advantage of the beautiful morning light. You must excuse my being _en déshabillé_. I did not expect to be seen." "Oh, I think you look lovely!" She didn't mind a bit, but blushed and patted my hand. "I am very fond of young girls, but never see any nowadays but Claire Gaillard. She is the only one who comes to our sad old house." "Sad! Not sad, it is too beautiful to be sad." "It is its very beauty that seems sad to me," she sighed. "And the garden! I feel like a traitor to let it get so unkempt. I am not strong enough to keep it weeded. All I have strength to do now is to keep Grimalkin from devouring the birds. Judith thinks I am very foolish. She lays more stress on having the furniture rubbed and keeping up the inside of the house, but to me the garden and birds are more important. I'd like to see the garden looking as it used to, with trim flower beds and the dead wood all cut away." Miss Arabella seemed to forget I was there, or to forget I was a stranger, perhaps. I am sure she had no intention of unburdening her soul to me. She closed her eyes and I knew she was picturing the garden as it had been years ago, and perhaps she was even seeing the lover of the past as he looked when she kissed him through the gate. A thought wave seemed to have gone from me to her. I no sooner put my mind on the iron gates that I felt sure must have been where the ugly board ones were now, ere she began talking of those very gates. The sun had reached the garden now, and was lifting the soft mist that hung over it like a tulle veil. I felt somehow that the veil of the past was being lifted, too, and Miss Arabella was letting me catch a glimpse of her true self. "I hate that ugly gate," she mused. "I miss the beautiful old grille that had been there for so many years--where our friends and ancestors had come and gone so often." "I was sure there must have been an iron gate there." "Yes, my dear, one of the most beautiful in Charleston. We had to let something go. I thought the Stuart portrait of General Laurens would be the best, but Judith felt that the gates would be the thing to give up. She rather likes having the board ones that no one can see through. I hate them, as I like to look out on the street sometimes. The gates were very valuable, being wrought-iron of a most delicate and intricate pattern. There was hardly a spot where one could so much as get a hand through." I gasped here and had a vision of Miss Arabella, young and beautiful, trying to get her hand through and ending by finding a place where her rosy lips with some pouting could reach her lover, locked out no doubt by a stern parent. "I don't know why I should speak of these things to you, child. It would provoke sister Judith very much if she knew----" "But she won't know," and I took the frail old hand in mine. "I long to hear about the gates and the garden as it used to be. It is so lovely now that I can well picture what it must have been. Please go right on and tell me everything about it, and let me be your friend, as well as Claire." And the old lady, with her eyes all soft, sat on the stone bench in that early morning, the purring Grimalkin clasped with one hand and the other holding mine, and told many wonderful tales of olden times. It was an hour never to be forgotten by me. The birds hopped close to us, some in search of the early worm and some intent on building material, stopping every now and then to pour forth the joy of living in song. They seemed to trust the lady of the garden to keep the enemy from them. I hoped the stern Miss Judith was sleeping peacefully, and would not come stalking into our dreams like a great Grimalkin herself. Miss Arabella was enjoying herself immensely. She lived in the past, and her mind was like some old chest filled with faded souvenirs of a happier time. She had opened this wonder-box for me and was having the time of her life taking out treasure after treasure, shaking out the folds of some rare silken memory, or unwrapping some quaintly set jewel of experience. I listened entranced, only occasionally dropping a word to show my interest or pressing the little hand, so thin now that perhaps it might have slipped through the grille. Dilsey, opening the shutters of the dining-room, brought us back to the present. The household was astir! Miss Judith must be up and doing by now. The sun had found the garden out with his searching rays, and the last bit of mist had disappeared. "My goodness! It must be getting quite late!" exclaimed my old new friend. "I am afraid you are sadly bored with my tales," she added penitently. "Bored! Why, Miss Arabella, it has been lovely. I do thank you for talking to me and please do it some more." "Well, another morning then, child! I must hurry in now and dress myself and be a sad old woman some more. I thank you for making me forget it for once,--being a sad old woman, I mean." She certainly did not look like a sad old woman as she tripped down the path to the house, her lavender draperies brushing the syringa and lilacs as she passed. She seemed to me more to be the spirit of eternal youth and spring. Miss Arabella might swathe herself in black again and remember to respond to the hereditary poker, but I had glimpsed the real Miss Arabella and knew now that the sad old woman was merely the body in which a radiant spirit dwelt. It was this spirit that we had heard singing that night in the garden, "Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep." Tweedles were opening their eyes when I came in, and, uncovering their chins, so they did not look so much alike. "Dressed already, Page?" yawned Dum. "Yes, dressed and out in the garden for hours! I took down all the combings for the birds and they are crazy about them. Can't you hear their hymn of thanksgiving?" "Pig! Why didn't you call me?" and Dee rolled out of bed to beat Dum to the copper-kettle-like bathtub. "I hate to wake you up when I have to, and goodness knows I am not going to do any gratuitous waking," I laughed. "Girls! I have had the time of my life, and have got to know Miss Arabella real well. She is simply a darling!" and I rummaged for my notebook. I was afraid to put off for a moment jotting down in my little book some of the impressions of the morning. If I should forget anything Miss Arabella had told me I would never forgive myself. I wrote like mad all the time the twins were dressing, but it is strange about the things Miss Arabella divulged to me that morning; although I know that what an author or a would-be author hears in this life belongs to him, and is his property to be twisted and turned in his writing as he sees fit to use it, somehow those memories I have held sacred always, and I can't believe in my writing I could ever get so hard-pressed that I'd feel at liberty to make copy of what Miss Arabella told me on that enchanted morning in the garden. CHAPTER XVIII A CHANCE FOR LOUIS Contrary to our expectations, Zebedee did not tease us at all for engaging board without knowing what it was. He said he was in thorough sympathy with all of us for shying at the subject, and for his part he was perfectly willing to trust the dear old ladies to do exactly the right thing. He blew in, his usual manner of arriving, while we were at luncheon, and as we might have known, took the Misses Laurens by storm. The hereditary pokers melted as if by magic and even Miss Judith succumbed to his charms and promised to go to a moving picture show with him some night. As for Miss Arabella: her poker was only an imitation one, anyhow, and it did not take much to limber her up. It was rather astonishing, though, to find her unbending to the extent that she and Zebedee sang Gilbert and Sullivan operas together that evening in the garden, Zebedee doing Dick Deadeye with his usual abandon and Miss Arabella singing: "I'm called little Buttercup, dear little Buttercup, Though I could never tell why-- But still I'm called Buttercup, dear little Buttercup, Sweet little Buttercup, I." "I wouldn't be at all astonished to see Miss Judith dance a jig after this," whispered Dum to me. "Isn't our young father a wonder?" He was certainly that. Professor Green looked on in envy and amazement, still bitterly regretting the sugar-on-the-rice episode. It is a strange thing what makes a "mixer." Professor Green was quite as kind as Zebedee, and quite as eager to make people happy. He was as intelligent, as well-bred, better educated, more traveled, but when the time came to make old persons forget their dignity and years or make young persons forget their youth and callowness, Zebedee certainly could put it all over the learned professor. I remember hearing one of the twins say that he could make crabs and ice cream agree, and surely I believe he could. "I have never met any one like him but once," said Mrs. Green as the singers finished a duet from "Pinafore" and began humming some tunes from "Patience," while Miss Judith sat smiling, and even occasionally supplying a missing word. "I used to know a young newspaper man named Jimmy Lufton, and he could keep a crowd happy and make the most impossible people mingle and enjoy themselves. It is only a very kind-hearted person who can do it, but of course, having a kind heart does not mean you have that power." "Thank you, my dear, for that," said Professor Green, smiling whimsically if somewhat ruefully. "I remember very well how miserable that very Jimmy Lufton made me on that hay ride we went on in Kentucky, you remember, when it poured so that the creek almost carried us away, four-horse wagon and all. He made everybody gay and happy but me. I was so green with jealousy I almost sprouted." Mrs. Green blushed one of her adorable blushes that always made her look so lovely, we did not blame her husband for gazing at her as though she were a ripe peach and meant to be eaten up that moment. "If you girls go to New York to pursue your studies I am going to write to Jimmy Lufton and send him a letter of introduction to you, that is, if you would care to meet him." "If he is anything like Zebedee, I should say we would!" exclaimed Dee. "I don't mean he is like him in every way, but just that he has that quality of mixing. I don't know how it is done. It is a talent as elusive as that of a born mayonnaise maker. I have seen persons who labored to have guests enjoy themselves, taking the greatest pains to seat them a certain way and introduce subjects congenial to all present, and still have the most dismal and doleful failures of parties; while others seem to be perfectly haphazard in their methods, and with a certain social charm make the lion and the lamb get on finely. The same way with mayonnaise makers--some people can have the oil ice cold, the eggs on ice for days, chill the bowl and the fork even, drop the oil in half a minim at the time and beat and stir like the demented, and still turn out runny dressing, not fit for axle grease. Others can waive all precautions of having everything cold and pour in oil with perfect recklessness, stirring leisurely, dump in vinegar or lemon at the psychological moment with a pinch of salt and a dash of cayenne, and, behold! a smooth, beautiful mayonnaise is the result." "Speaking of lemons! Who's here?" from Dum. It was his Eminence of the Tum Tum, in all the glory of a starched piqué vest, followed by Claire and Louis, both of them rather ill at ease in their father's presence. Miss Judith introduced the paying and non-paying guests with all the ceremony of a presentation at the Court of St. James. "Now I am afraid Mr. Tucker's mayonnaise is going back on him," whispered Mrs. Green to me; "I don't believe he and Jimmy Lufton together could beat in that old man and make him into a smooth, palatable mixture." But I was betting on Zebedee. Miss Judith and Miss Arabella were looking around for their pokers so they could swallow them again, but Zebedee had hidden them, and with his inimitable good nature and tact he drew old Mr. Gaillard into his charmed circle. By some strange legerdemain he soon had the stiff old man telling tales of Charleston before the earthquake. He drew from him his opinion of the political situation of South Carolina and agreed with him that it was a pity that politics was no longer a gentleman's game. I happened to know that he felt it was the duty of every man to make it his game, but he evidently deemed it not the part of wisdom to voice his conviction to the old man. We had agreed that we would do all in our power to make Mr. Gaillard like us, as in that way we hoped to be of some use to Louis. Zebedee and Professor Green had been discussing the boy quite seriously that very afternoon, and had thought of several ways to benefit him. They had decided, however, to make friends with the father first and not spring their plans too suddenly. Mr. Gaillard was evidently enjoying himself hugely. The Greens were most flattering in their attention as he pompously recounted his tales. Mrs. Green was looking her loveliest, and one could see with half an eye that he soon began to direct his conversation to her. He pulled down his starched vest that had an annoying way of riding up over his rotundity, and smoothed his freshly shaven double chin with the air of being quite a ladies' man. Tweedles and I drew Claire and Louis over to the summer house away from their father's disconcerting presence. Their easy manners returned then and we spent a merry, happy hour. Professor Green joined us after a while. He seemed anxious to make friends with Louis and to fathom the boy. I felt sure he had some plan for helping him and was sounding him, in a way. Louis was natural and simple in his attitude toward Professor Green, and I could see was making a very good impression. "You would like to go to college, would you not?" "Beyond everything. I am prepared to enter college now, but I am nineteen and feel if I do not go soon it will be too late. I am rather late graduating at the high school but had to miss a year because of an illness." "I think nineteen is a very proper age to enter college," said the professor kindly. "I wonder if you would like my old college, Exmoor? It is a small college, but of excellent standing." "I am sure I should like any college," and Louis sighed. "I am commissioned by the faculty of Exmoor to find a young Southern gentleman to take pity on a scholarship that has been endowed for their college. It seems that this scholarship can only be used by a Southerner, and he must be a gentleman born and bred. It was presented four years ago by a man whose only son was rescued from drowning by a daring young Southern boy. The father had more money than he could use, and he wanted to send the brave youth to college to show in some measure his appreciation of what he had done. To make the gift one that the boy could not hesitate to accept, he established a permanent scholarship at Exmoor. Of course no one is too proud or high-born to accept a scholarship. That boy graduates this year with high honors after four very creditable years at college, and now the faculty must find another Southerner to fill his place. The president asked me to be on the lookout for one while I am on this trip, and if you would like to take it, I should be proud and gratified to be the means of presenting it to you." Through this long speech Louis stood wide-eyed and flushed. Claire caught him by one hand and impulsive Dee by the other. "Oh, sir!" was all he could falter. "You must, you must!" exclaimed Dee. "Louis, Louis, if you only can!" and Claire raised his hand to her cheek. "But what will my father say?" "We are going to leave him to Mr. Tucker, at least he is going to prepare the way. I have had a long talk with Tucker this afternoon, and we have mapped out a plan of campaign." "But your father surely could have no objection," said Dum. "A scholarship is something that everybody accepts." "But father is very--very--well--proud, I might say," and poor Claire looked exceedingly uncomfortable. "Well, this can make him prouder than ever," I put in. "He can be proud that his son is chosen to have this scholarship because of his being the nice Southern gentleman he is." By this time Louis could command his voice, and he said: "I can hardly tell you, sir, how much I appreciate the interest you have shown in me and your kindness in making this offer, and I hope to be able to accept it. I wish it might have been because of something I am in myself, and not just because I am the descendant of gentlemen." "But you are what you are partly because of that descent," I insisted. "Persons of low extraction accomplish something in spite of it sometimes; but I must say it is pleasant to have scholarships thrust upon one because of being a Southern gentleman. I think in this day and generation our ancestors do precious little for us--just sit back in their gilt frames and make us uncomfortable--I am glad for some of them to be getting to work." Louis laughed and said he didn't know but that I was right. We all of us wanted to hear more of Exmoor, and Professor Green told us it was a small college, quite old and of excellent standing among educators, and that it was in walking distance of Wellington, where he occupied the chair of English. It turned out, however, that the professor was a great walker, and that Exmoor and Wellington were more than ten miles apart. "Exmoor has a very fine course in agriculture and one of the greatest landscape gardeners in the United States is a graduate of that college, and boasts that he got his start there." "Oh, Louis, that will be splendid, and you can specialize in that and come back to Charleston and do all the things you dream of doing!" exclaimed Dee, who still had Louis by the hand but was totally oblivious of the fact. She was so excited over the offer Professor Green had made her friend that she might even have hugged him without knowing she was doing it. Louis was not quite so unconscious as Dee, but was making the best of his opportunity. Dee's attitude toward Louis was very much one that she had toward Oliver, the kitten she saved from drowning our first year at boarding-school, a purely maternal feeling, looking upon herself as his protector and elderly friend (being about two years his junior). Louis, however, was tumbling head over heels in love with her, as Dum and I could plainly see. There had not been many meetings, but when there were he stuck much closer than a brother to her side. Claire could see it as plainly as we could, and no doubt went through all the heartaches an only sister would. She evidently liked Dee very much, however, and was willing to efface herself completely if it would make Louis happy. But Dee would have been quite as astonished if the kitten, Oliver, had stood up on his hind legs and sworn undying love for her; or Pharaoh's daughter, if the infant Moses had burst forth in amorous rhapsodies from his wicker basket after she had saved him from the waters of the Nile. She dropped his hand to pick up Grimalkin, and I am sure at the time she had no more sensations about the one than the other. "If I might advise you young people," said Professor Green, "I think it will be just as well to say nothing to your father yet about the scholarship, but wait and Mr. Tucker and I will formally suggest it to him and ask his permission." Of course the young Gaillards agreed heartily with Professor Green, and glad they were, no doubt, to have the office of approaching their pompous relative delegated to someone else. In the meantime, the pompous relative was making himself vastly agreeable, and the two arch conspirators, Molly and Zebedee, were doing all in their power to flatter and soft-soap him with a view to gaining his confidence and putting in an entering wedge toward helping his son. "Claire," said his Eminence of the Tum Tum, "have you extended an invitation to tea in the garden of our home to the Misses Laurens and their guests?" We had joined the rest of the party, attracted by the gay laughter and evident enjoyment of the older members. "No, father," said Claire timidly. I haven't a doubt that he had told her not to ask us until he found out whether we were worthy or not. "We shall be most pleased to have all of you to afternoon tea tomorrow." Of course we were most pleased to accept, as no doubt that would be the occasion on which Louis' fate would be decided. Zebedee and the professor could put it up to him then. "Mrs. Green, I came mighty near hugging your husband tonight," declared Dee, after the guests had departed and the dear old ladies had taken their bedroom candles and gone to their Colonial couches, with strict admonitions to Zebedee to lock up. Already they were trusting him with that sacred rite of locking up. "Why did you only come near doing it?" laughed the young wife. "Well, I just grabbed Louis' hand instead. It was so dear of him to think of giving the scholarship to Louis. He was so lovely and gentle in his way of doing it, too. Now nothing lies between Louis and certain success. I just know if he can get the chance he will do something with himself. It will develop him to get away from his old father, too. How could anybody grow with that--that ponderous weight on him?" "Mr. Gaillard is really not nearly so bad as I feared. He is very agreeable and very gallant." "Oh, Molly darling, I did not think you would be taken in by flattery," teased the husband. "But I did like him, not just because he flattered me, but because he was very nice to Miss Judith and Miss Arabella, too, and because---- Oh, just because!" The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Green had a tendency to like everybody. It amounted to almost a fault with her, but since there were degrees of liking and she did not like everybody in exactly the same way, we could not quite put it down as a fault. I must say, though, that I do like to see a little wholesome hatred possible in a character. I like people, too, lots and loads of people, but there are some kinds of people I just naturally don't like. I don't like horse-faced people with their eyes set up too high in their heads; I don't like men who wear club-toed button shoes, and I never could stand girls who toss their curls. Now Mr. Gaillard did not come under any of those heads of hatred, but somehow I did not like him one little bit: a case of Dr. Fell, I fancy. "I do not like thee, Dr. Fell! The reason why I cannot tell. But one thing 'tis, I know full well-- I do not like thee, Dr. Fell." Father had certain types he could not stand. I have heard him say: "I can stand a fool; I can stand a fat fool; but a fat fool with a little mouth I can't abide." I think Mr. Gaillard came under his ban. He was fat and had a little mouth, and certainly while he was not a fool on all subjects, he was a big enough fool on the subjects he was a fool on to spread over all the things he was not a fool on. I dreaded going to tea with the Gaillards. I had a terrible feeling that I might "sass" his Eminence of the Tum Tum. There was something about the way he pulled down his vest and wiped off his chin that deprived me of reason. I could well understand the temporary aberration that is the plea of criminals who say that some instinct over which they have no control compels them to commit murder. I could have punched Mr. Gaillard one with all the joy on earth. "I feel the same way," declared Zebedee, when I voiced the above sentiments to him. "Me, too! Me, too!" tweedled the twins. "Do you know, Green, I think if Mrs. Green likes Mr. Gaillard, she had better broach the subject of the scholarship for Louis." "Oh, Mr. Tucker! You can do it so much better than I can." "Now I don't want to be a shirker and will do it with joy, as I don't regard the old cove one way or the other. I'd just as soon ask him to come be printer's devil on my newspaper as not. But this is the thing: We want him to consent and let Louis have this chance, and I believe your husband will bear me out that it is good psychology for a person who really likes another to ask a favor rather than one who only pretends to. Now you say you like Mr. Gaillard----" "So I do--that is, I don't dislike him, and I think he has some fine points." "It would take an X-ray to discover them through all that plumpness," put in Dee flippantly. "You, as the wife of the man who was commissioned by the President of Exmoor to bestow this honor on a Southern boy, would be the appropriate person, anyhow--that is, unless Green himself will do it." "Not I! I feel toward him just as Miss Page does, and speaking of psychology--my astral body is at war with his astral body to such an extent that a pricking in my thumb tells me he will grant no request of mine and Molly must bell the cat." "All right! I am willing to do anything my lord and master puts on me, if you really think I can succeed." "Succeed! Of course you can!" we chorused. "Tomorrow afternoon, then, when we have tea with them in their garden, will be 'the time, the place, and the girl.' He will have to be nice under his own vine and fig tree," suggested Zebedee. "There is one thing I ask of you," begged Dum. "And what is that? I feel myself to be very important," and Mrs. Green wasted another beautiful blush. "Wear blue! Your own blue! I know he is the kind of old man who can't resist a beautiful woman in blue." CHAPTER XIX A RED, RED ROSE I don't know whether it was the blue of her eyes or her dress or perhaps the fact that they matched so beautifully, but at any rate Mrs. Green put the proposition up to Mr. Gaillard with such adroitness that he consented to the scholarship, and so quickly that she could hardly believe the battle was won. "I had not half used up my arguments," she said afterward, "and felt that I must go on persuading when he was already persuaded." She had started out with the premises that of course he must feel sorry for the benighted North, so sadly in need of the softening influence of the South. She descanted on how a little leaven of good manners would leaven a whole lump of bad manners, and how popular Southern students were in Northern schools and colleges because of the good manners and breeding they brought with them. (This was particularly hard on Mrs. Green, as she firmly held the opinion that people were the same all over the world, that good manners were the same everywhere. She felt, however, that she would use any argument to make Mr. Gaillard see the light.) She then told the story of the grateful man who had established the scholarship at Exmoor for the four years of the academic course and expatiated on his opinion of Southern youths. She lauded the college as having turned out such good men. Gradually she got to the subject of Louis and how close Wellington was to Exmoor, and before the old man knew what he was doing he had consented to Louis' accepting the scholarship. He did it with an air of having loaded the Yankees with benefits in allowing one of his exalted position and azure blood to stoop and mingle with them; but it made no difference to us what he felt on the subject, just so he would let Louis accept. We were having tea in their lovely garden and Louis was showing us his flowers while Mrs. Green was wheedling "papa." She looked so lovely I verily believe the old gentleman would have accepted the scholarship himself just to be only ten miles from her for four years. I believe Claire was even happier than Louis when "papa's" ultimatum was pronounced. She was going to miss him more than even she could divine, but her love for him was so deep that she was willing to give up anything for him. Louis was glad and grateful, but the truth of the matter was he was so taken up with Dee that mere college and scholarships meant little to him. "His eyes look just like Brindle's when he looks at her that way," sniffed Dum, who did not relish too much lovering toward her twin. "I shouldn't be in the least astonished if he began to whine to be taken up next." "Why, Dum, I thought you liked Louis!" "So I do. I like Brindle, too, and Oliver, the kitten; but I like them in their places, and that is not everlastingly glued to Dee's side. I must say I think he had better get out and hustle some before he comes lollapalusing around Dee." I was awfully afraid someone would hear Dum, and stirred my tea very loudly to drown her tirade. "But, Dum, Dee grabbed his hand herself last night; she said she did," I whispered, trying to set the conversation in a lower tone. "Yes, I know that! But don't you reckon I saw him holding on to it for dear life? He was mighty limp on Claire's side and mighty strenuous on Dee's. When he had to put back a lock of hair, I saw him let go of his sister's hand and swing to Dee's. And Dee with about as much feeling for him as a wooden Indian!" The Tuckers were, father and daughters, very strict about one another's admirers. I remembered how Dee had sniffed over Reginald Kent's admiration for Dum, and Zebedee, too; and how Dum and Dee carried on over any attention their father paid any female or any female paid him. Zebedee had not yet scented out Louis as a possible lover, but when he did I was sure to hear from him. They one and all brought their grievances to me. I used to think if any of them ever should unite themselves to anyone in the holy bonds of matrimony, they would have to have a triple wedding to keep the persons the Tuckers were marrying from getting their eyes scratched out. If they were all in the same boat, they would have to behave and sit steady. In the meantime, Dee's influence over Louis was certainly a wholesome one. Whether his love for her was of the undying brand or just the calf kind, it was very sincere and ardent, so ardent that Dee must soon wake up and realize that she had done a right serious thing when she put out her girlish hand and drew back that poor boy's soul just as it was getting ready for the journey to the Great Beyond. She was in a measure responsible for him now, and the time would come when she would have to be a woman and no longer a wooden Indian, have to treat Louis with a different manner from the one she had for Brindle and Oliver; that is, of course, provided Louis' love turned out to be the undying brand and not the calf kind. When it was said that Dee Tucker treated anyone like a dog, it meant the highest praise for that person. She treated all dogs with a great deal more consideration than she did most people. Every flower Dee admired, Louis immediately wanted to give her, but she persuaded him to let them go on blooming where they belonged. He had a greenhouse in the back of the garden, where some wonderful roses bloomed all the year round. A great Jaqueminot filled one side of the house, its crimson blooms beautiful to behold. Louis cut one and brought it out to Dee. I was glad I was the only one who heard him as he gave it to her, as I am sure Dum would have "acted up," as Mammy Susan calls it. Dum had gone to the tea table to put down her cup, and Mrs. Green had detained her a moment, while I wandered on in the maze of gravel walks. An oleander hid me from Louis and Dee as he handed her the marvelous open rose, and with a voice that even a wooden Indian would have remarked, he said: "When I send thee a red, red rose, The sweetest flower on earth that grows, Think, dear heart, how I love thee. Listen to what the red rose saith With its crimson leaf and fragrant breath: 'Love, I am thine in life and death! Oh, my love, doth thou love me?'" "Humph! Going some!" I thought, and backed down the walk, thereby running into Dum, who smeared a lettuce sandwich on my back in the encounter; but she did not know what I had heard. CHAPTER XX MORE LETTERS Mrs. Edwin Green, from Mrs. Kent Brown. NEW YORK, April .., 19... MOLLY DARLING: Your letter was good to get. Kent and I had begun to feel like -in-laws, it had been so long since you had written. Mother Brown, the usually faithful chronicler of all the doings and sayings of the family, had cut us off with a postal. Now that we know she is "keepin' keer" of little Mildred, we can understand her silence better. When Mother Brown does anything, she does it all over, and I am sure when she is doing such a thing as attend to anything so precious as her beloved grandchild she has no time for mere letter writing. Kent and I were greatly interested in what you had to tell us of the charming Virginians you have met in Charleston. It was almost uncanny, in a way, to hear from you of these people, as we had just been hearing of them from a very nice young man with whom Kent has struck up an acquaintance at the Y. M. C. A. gym, where Kent goes regularly to keep from getting flabby. The young man's name is Reginald Kent. It was the name Kent that they had in common (one in front and one behind) that first brought them together. They were always getting mixed up on account of it, my Kent answering when the other Kent was called, and vice versa. This young Mr. Kent is an illustrator and advertising artist. He really is very clever and very wide-awake. He was dining with us at the very time that your letter was brought to me, on the last mail. I had to open it and read part of it aloud. He had just been telling us of some cousins named Winn he visits in the country in Virginia, and of some Richmond girls whom he has met staying with Page Allison, and these girls are no other than your Tucker twins. He says the first time he met them he went on a deer hunt and that Miss Dum Tucker actually shot a deer. I was slightly incredulous, he thought, and to prove his story he took out of his pocketbook two kodak pictures, one of a very handsome, spirited-looking girl with her hair coming down and a rifle raised to her shoulder, and the other a fallen buck with a young girl kneeling beside him, her arms around his neck and her face buried on his shoulder. That one, he said, was Miss Dee, who wept buckets over the death of the buck, but managed afterward to partake of some of the venison. I have an idea Mr. Reginald Kent thinks that Miss Dum Tucker is about the most attractive person he ever met. He is certainly very attractive himself, singularly wholesome and clean in appearance and mind. He seemed very happy at the prospect of this paragon of a girl's coming to New York to study. I will be very glad to be of any use to your friends I can, and if they do decide to come I will find board for them and mother them, too, if they need it. I know you are grinning at the idea of my mothering anything--I, the harum-scarum, the flibberty-jibberty--but I am really very much settled down. I am so steady and good that Kent is afraid I am sick. Caroline is doing the work very well for us. I am the envy of all the people we know because I can boast a really, truly Kentucky Bluegrass cook. She is awfully funny about New York, but I think is beginning to like it very well. Gas scared her nearly to death for a few days. She seemed to think there was some kind of magic in it, and I had to light the stove for her a million times a day. I found she was just keeping it burning all the time to save matches, and when I told her to turn it out if she wasn't using it, she almost cried, because, it seems, she was afraid of the pop it gave when she lit it. Then she began calling on me every time she wanted to light it, but after a week or so of such humoring she has learned to do it herself, and now everything is going along swimmingly. I find she is saving the burnt matches, though, to make some kind of bracket with--something she saw back in "Kaintucky." I think the greatest shock she ever had was when she found out that in New York you had to pay for onions. "I nebber hearn tell of no sich a place. If'n you ain't made out ter grow none yo'se'f, looks ter me lak some er yo' neighbors mought be ginerous enough to gib yer a han'ful fer seasonin', not fer fryin' or b'ilin'. I wouldn' spec a whole mess er onions as a gif'--but it do seem a shame ter hab ter buy a dash er seasonin'." She almost got her head knocked off with the dumb-waiter the other day. She thought it was down, and it was up, and she put her head in the shaft to watch for it, all the time giving the most vigorous pulling to the rope. The dumb-waiter descended with great force and hit her squarely on the top of the head. I heard a great bump and flew to the kitchen. "Caroline! Caroline! What is the matter?" I cried. "'Tain't nothin' much, Miss Judy, but it mought 'a' been. That there deaf-and-dumb dining-room servant done biffed me a lick that pretty near knocked a hole in his flo'." "Did it hurt very badly?" "No'm, it didn't ter say hurt none. It jes' dizzified me a leetle. You see, Miss Judy, it jes' hit me on the haid." Just on the head! I think Caroline is almost as much afraid of Aunt Mary's disapproval now that the old woman is dead as she was in her lifetime. Whenever she passes the picture I did of Aunt Mary on the back porch of Chatsworth shelling peas, she suddenly gets in a great hurry. She is not as a rule very energetic, but at the sight of Aunt Mary she gets a great move on her. She came in the other day from some jaunt she had been on, it being her afternoon off, and said: "Looks lak wherever I goes folks seem to 'vine I'm from de Souf. I ast a colored gemman how he guessed it an' he said it was my sof' accident what gimme away. I's goin' ter try ter speak mo' Yankeefied an' see if'n I can't pass fer Noo York." Caroline's first attempt at being Yankeefied was almost fatal. She made friends with some of the white maids in the apartment house, some Scandinavians, and in her endeavor to become New Yorky she swapped recipes with them, and the next morning served for breakfast the result: corn bread with sugar in it! You can picture Kent. Kent and I are seeing some very pleasant people, but both of us are working very hard. I work every morning at the Art Students' League from 9 to 12. That means I leave the house with Kent. I go to market on the way to the League and get back to luncheon. Sometimes he comes in to luncheon, too, but he is usually too busy. In the afternoon I sew or read or go shopping or to the matinee, always something to do in New York, and then we have dinner at 6:30 and long, delightful evenings together, usually at home; but sometimes we take in a show and sometimes we dine at a restaurant. We have callers in the evening often and also return calls, but Kent is not much of a caller, as you know. We have company to dinner, too, quite often now that Caroline has found herself. Kent delights in bringing home unexpected company. He has a notion he is still living in Kentucky and that this little two-by-four flat is Chatsworth itself. Caroline is fortunately accustomed to it, but I am afraid she will soon become corrupted by these Scandinavians, who would not put up with it one moment. Of course I don't mind how many companies he brings home, and if we are short on rations I can do like the immortal Mrs. Wiggs and just put a little more water in the soup. This idiosyncrasy of my young husband, however, has taught me to keep a supply of canned soups, asparagus tips, etc., in the store-room. My friends among the young married set tell me they market day by day and never have anything like that on the shelves as it makes the servants wasteful. Maybe it does, but I feel quite safe with Caroline and the canned goods, as she has never yet learned how to use a can-opener. Please give the learned professor my best love. Kent sends his love to you both. This is such a long letter I am sure it will take two stamps to send it. Your ever devoted, JUDY KEAN BROWN. Page Allison from Dr. James Allison of Milton, Va.: BRACKEN, April .., 19... MY DEAR DAUGHTER: Mammy Susan and I were very glad to hear from you. You are a nice girl to write such a fine, long letter to a mere afterthought. If you write that splendid a letter to a mere afterthought, what would you do for a beforethought? Your new friends sound delightful. I wish I might know them. The only kick I have about being nothing but a country doctor is that I meet so few new people. Of course it is interesting work, and I am not out of love with it, but sometimes I do get a weeny, teeny bored with poor Sally Winn's aches and pains, and wish either she had some new aches or she could tell about them in a more scintillating manner. Some new people are moving into our neighborhood, the Carters. Of course, as the name indicates, they are not new people except to our neighborhood. They have taken the old overseer's cottage on the Grantly estate, leased it from the two Miss Grants for a year, and are coming bag and baggage in a few days. I don't know how many of them there are, but I believe it is quite a family of girls and one or more boys and a mother and father, one of them an invalid. More pink pump water to be concocted by yours truly, I fancy. I hope they will be agreeable, since no doubt we will have to see something of them. The cottage is in miserable repair, and I only hope it will not tumble down on them. If they are coming to our county for fresh air, they will get it there winter and summer, as there are cracks in the walls as big as those in a corn crib. Pretty lawn, though, about the prettiest I know of anywhere, and trees that make me think of Tennyson's "immemorial elms." I shall not call on these new neighbors until you come home--that is, unless I am sent for to come and bring some pink pump water. I have had a letter from General Price, Harvie's grandfather, asking for the pleasure of your company in the month of July on a house-party he is giving his grandson. It is such a dignified, ponderous epistle that I am afraid I shall have to send to Richmond for the proper stationery with which to reply. Nothing less than crested vellum could possibly carry my acceptance. The King of England could not observe more form were you being invited to put in two weeks at Windsor. It is very kind of him, however, to ask my little girl, and I hope by the aid of the dictionary to express myself with ease and verbosity in acknowledging the honor. Of course you want to go? I shall be pleased to have the volume of Henry Timrod's poems. I'd like to see the Coogler poems, too. I enjoyed the extracts immensely. I have often heard of him and remember reading some reviews of his stuff when it came out years ago, before you were born, but I have never seen any of it. His efforts were so impossible that the reviewers treated him, one and all, with mock seriousness, and I believe I have heard he took them all seriously and thought he was being praised when they were only poking fun at him. It is rather pathetic, I think, although of course he was an awful blockhead. Mammy Susan was pleased at your account of the flowers in Charleston, and hopes you can send her a few clippin's. Her things are doing very well, and her lemon verbena has grown so that I tell her we shall have to build a lean-to to keep it in. She misses you very much and is beginning to count the days to the middle of May, when I assure her you will be back with us. I hope your ankle is behaving itself. You do not mention it, so I fancy it is. Please remember me most kindly to all the Tuckers--father and daughters. I hope you are not bothering Jeffry Tucker by being with them too much. I think there is such a thing as the best friend wearing out her welcome by staying too long. I am sending you a check for your expenses. You have not divulged how much your board will be, but if I do not make the check large enough, please inform me directly. A sickly winter means a little more money in the bank in the spring for a country doctor. Thank goodness, however, the spring seems to be a healthy one. I'd like to be a Chinese doctor and be paid only when my patients stay well. Sometimes it saddens me to feel that my living depends on disease. Good-by, my dear little daughter. FATHER. CHAPTER XXI THE SUMMING UP Charleston had taken a strong hold on all our affections. The spirit of the place seemed to possess us as we lazed away the hours in Miss Arabella's tangled old garden or in Louis' more combed and brushed one. Our friendship for the Greens grew stronger and deeper, and we were soon addressing Mrs. Green as Molly and her husband as 'Fessor. All of us were staying in the beautiful old Southern city longer than we had intended. Zebedee said he had no excuse for lingering longer, as he had threshed out the political situation to his own satisfaction and the dissatisfaction of the South Carolina "ring." He should be back on his job in Richmond, but he said he felt like one of the lotus-eaters and nothing much made any difference to him. 'Fessor also had overstayed his holiday, but he declared that his assistant at Wellington could do the work as well as he could, which amused Molly greatly as she said it was the first time he had acknowledged that his assistant could do anything at all; he looked upon him usually as purely ornamental and not intended for use. I knew father and Mammy Susan were wondering if I had forgotten them entirely, but my conscience, too, was lulled to rest, and I felt as though I could spend the rest of my days dreaming and dozing. Tweedles, of course, had nothing to do but stay with a light heart as no one was expecting them home but poor Brindle; and as Brindle was left in care of the elevator boy, who spoiled him outrageously, even treating him to ice cream cones, I really believe he did not mind being left nearly so much as Dee liked to think he did. Every day we lengthened our stay in Charleston was as another pearl on the string to poor Louis, and to Claire, too, I think. Thanks to Molly and Zebedee, his Eminence of the Tum Tum had accepted the whole crowd as desirable, and that meant that we could see as much of his children as we wanted to; and as we wanted to see them all the time, we did. We went on wonderful jaunts with them, and saw everything that could be seen, Louis acting as guide. Sometimes we even persuaded one of the dear old ladies to go with us. I am sure they saw things they had not seen for a decade. We noticed one thing, that when Zebedee was along they always left their pokers behind. Sullivan's Island thrilled us, and Dum and Zebedee tried to work out the whole scene of Poe's "Gold Bug," but as the island is now a popular summer resort, it was not an easy matter to do. There is no use in trying to describe the Magnolia Gardens. The azaleas were in full bloom, and nowhere else in the world, I verily believe, is there such a sight. Some of the bushes are thirty feet high and look like giant bouquets. "I feel like the country woman at the circus the first time she saw a hippopotamus," declared Zebedee; "I don't believe there's no sich thing! It doesn't seem possible that these are growing plants and that in Richmond at Easter I have had to pay five dollars for a little azalea not much more than two feet high." The dark green of the magnolia and live-oak trees enhanced the glory of the flowers. It was so beautiful it hurt. Molly said it made her feel as she did the first time she ever saw an opera at the Metropolitan in New York. It was her freshman year at Wellington, and she had been invited to visit in New York during the Christmas holidays. "It was 'Madame Butterfly,' and the scenery was so wonderful to me I could hardly listen to the music. I fancy cherry-blossom time in Japan must be almost as beautiful as this, but I can't believe it is quite so brilliant." Magnolia Cemetery, which is just outside of Charleston and which Dee had refused to see without Zebedee, certainly would be a nice place to be buried in. It was sadder to visit because of the new graves there, and Zebedee had to abandon his usual cheerful graveyard spirits. He was quite solemn and kept his hat off all the time. Louis skirted us around the outer edge of the cemetery first and saved the great old oak for the last. It burst upon us with such force that as a crowd we were left breathless. The beauty of the azaleas at Magnolia gardens, compared to this hoary old monarch, were as a cheap obituary poem to the twenty-third psalm. And in saying that I do not mean to belittle the beauty of the gardens, but I have to put them in that category to make a place high enough in the scale of comparison for that tree. It was huge, but bent over with years like some old man, and one great limb was resting on the ground, giving it the look of one kneeling in prayer. The foliage was vigorous and glossy, deeper and richer in color than that of many younger trees, just as the wonderful words of some grand old man, John Burroughs or his ilk, will make the utterances of younger men seem pale and feeble. In kneeling and coming so in touch with Mother Earth, this Father of the Forest had borrowed of her fullness, and now his trunk and huge limbs were covered with an exquisite ferny growth. Wild violets and anemones bloomed happily in the crotches of his great arms, and I saw a tiny wild strawberry ripening on his knee, having escaped the vigilance of the many birds nesting in the upper branches. Spanish moss hung in festoons from some of the limbs, seeming like a venerable beard. I have never had anything affect me as that tree did. It was so gallant and brave, so kindly and beneficent! It had the spirit of youth and the kindliness of old age; the playfulness of a child and the wisdom of centuries. It must have seen the Indians crowded out by the white men; looked out across the harbor at the storming of Fort Moultrie, and almost a century later at the defence of Fort Sumter. Wars and rumors of wars were nothing to this veteran. While we were there a perky wren pounced down on the defenceless strawberry and gobbled it up, and I am sure the gray beard thought no more of the gobbling up of the redmen than he did of that red berry. His comparisons were of æons and not of decades or mere centuries. "There is no use in talking about it!" exclaimed Zebedee. "I've got to climb that tree, if it means one hundred dollars' fine and a month in jail." That was exactly the way I felt. It seemed to me as though I simply had to get up that tree. The park policeman was nowhere in sight, and Zebedee ran lightly up the bent back of the ancient giant, Dum after him. It was easy climbing, and I would have followed suit in spite of my ankle, that I could not yet quite trust, if I had not seen the helmet of the policeman looming up over a near-by sepulchre. Claire was shocked at what seemed to her a desecration, but Louis said afterward he knew just how Mr. Tucker felt. He had always wanted to get up that tree, and he considered it a kind of homage due the old oak. Trees were meant to climb, and it was no more a desecration to climb one even if it did happen to be in a cemetery, than it was to smell a rose that bloomed there. The policeman, all unconscious of the coons he had treed, came ambling up and stood and talked to us for quite a while until Dee tactfully drew him off to descant on the glories of the William Washington monument. Zebedee and Dum sat very still in their leafy bower, so still that Zebedee declared a bird came and tweaked some of Dum's hair out to help line his nest; but Dum said he did it himself until she had to make a noise like a catbird to make him stop. There is no telling what fine and punishment would have been imposed on the miscreants. It was not that it was such a terribly naughty thing to do, but just that it had never been done before. They slipped down, however, while the policeman's back was turned and came up smiling around the other side with the innocent expression a cat assumes when he has been in the cream jug. "It was worth it," whispered Zebedee to me; "I am so sorry you couldn't get up, too. The old fellow was glad to have us up there. He told me that no children had climbed up to hug him for at least a hundred years. I didn't tell him that I was grown up, but just let him treat me like a little child. He didn't know the difference." "I shouldn't think he would," I laughed, "when there isn't any difference." * * * * * And now it is time to stop, and I shall have to close my story of Charleston. All of us wanted to dream on there forever. It had been a wonderful time. We had made lifelong friends of Molly Brown and 'Fessor Green. We had flopped into the lives of the Gaillards and expected to stay. We had made our way into one of the most difficult and exclusive homes in the city of exclusive homes, and Miss Judith and Miss Arabella Laurens had taken us to their fluttering hearts. Their thin pocketbooks had also opened to take in a fair and generous recompense for their kind hospitality--but it had been Zebedee and not Edwin Green who had finally and tactfully completed our business arrangements. Now Zebedee said he must get back to his newspaper. He felt it calling him, as he had discovered an advertisement on the editorial page--a crime in newspaperdom that was deserving of capital punishment. He must get back and chop off somebody's head. Then 'Fessor Green began to fear his assistant was not able to do his work, and Molly couldn't wait another day to see little Mildred, her baby. I knew it was selfish for me to stay any longer from father, who did have a stupid time of it when all was told. Dee began to feel that Brindle missed her. Dum said it was because Louis had the same expression in his eyes that Brindle did and it made Dee feel that she must get back to her pet. We parted from our friends with many assurances of meeting again. The Greens asked us to visit them at Wellington or in Kentucky, where they spent their summers, and of course we asked them to come see us in Virginia. Molly was to send us letters of introduction to her friends in New York, and Louis was planning to stop in Richmond on his way to Exmoor. Parting was only planning for future meetings. I was to stay at Bracken for several months and then meet my friends at Price's Landing, so sometime I shall tell you my experiences there, in "A House Party with the Tucker Twins." THE END The Girl Scouts Series [Illustration: The Girl Scouts Canoe Trip by Edith Lavell] BY EDITH LAVELL A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK Marjorie Dean High School Series [Illustration: Marjorie Dean HIGH-SCHOOL FRESHMAN] BY PAULINE LESTER Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean College Series These are clean, wholesome stories that will be of great interest to all girls of high school age. All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL JUNIOR MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK Marjorie Dean College Series [Illustration: Marjorie Dean: College Sophomore] BY PAULINE LESTER. Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean High School Series. Those who have read the Marjorie Dean High School Series will be eager to read this new series, as Marjorie Dean continues to be the heroine in these stories. All Clothbound. Copyright Titles. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. 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Dean of Pennsylvania Military College. A new series of instructive copyright stories for boys of High School Age. Handsome Cloth Binding. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. THE GOLDEN BOYS AND THEIR NEW ELECTRIC CELL THE GOLDEN BOYS AT THE FORTRESS THE GOLDEN BOYS IN THE MAINE WOODS THE GOLDEN BOYS WITH THE LUMBER JACKS THE GOLDEN BOYS RESCUED BY RADIO THE GOLDEN BOYS ALONG THE RIVER ALLAGASH THE GOLDEN BOYS AT THE HAUNTED CAMP For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK The Jack Lorimer Series [Illustration: JACK LORIMER'S CHAMPIONS] BY WINN STANDISH For Boys 12 to 16 Years. All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; or, The Young Athlete of Millvale High. Jack Lorimer is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boys. His fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. JACK LORIMER'S CHAMPIONS; or, Sports on Land and Lake. There is a lively story woven in with the athletic achievements, which are all right, since the book has been O.K'd. by Chadwick, the Nestor of American Sporting journalism. JACK LORIMER'S HOLIDAYS; or, Millvale High in Camp. It would be well not to put this book into a boy's hands until the chores are finished, otherwise they might be neglected. JACK LORIMER'S SUBSTITUTE; or, The Acting Captain of the Team. On the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, and tobogganing. There is a good deal of fun in this book and plenty of action. JACK LORIMER, FRESHMAN; or, From Millvale High to Exmouth. Jack and some friends he makes crowd innumerable happenings into an exciting freshman year at one of the leading Eastern colleges. The book is typical of the American college boy's life, and there is a lively story, interwoven with feats on the gridiron, hockey, basketball and other clean honest sports for which Jack Lorimer stands. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained. This includes words such as sight-seeing and sightseeing. Page 10, "vllage" changed to "village" (in the village) Page 124, "Keat's" changed to "Keats'" (John Keats' epitaph) Page 164, two missing letters filled in blank space "Bal more" changed to "Baltimore" (Lady Baltimore cake) Page 217, "perserving" changed to "preserving" (of a preserving-kettle) Page 259, word "I" inserted into text (If I should forget) Page 310 "ALLENS" changed to "ALLEN'S" (AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL) 
40767	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. OLD PLANTATION DAYS [Illustration] OLD PLANTATION DAYS BEING RECOLLECTIONS OF SOUTHERN LIFE BEFORE THE CIVIL WAR BY MRS. N. B. DE SAUSSURE NEW YORK DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1909 COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY N. B. DE SAUSSURE THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK AUTHOR'S NOTE The following reminiscences are published at the request of many friends who, after reading the manuscript, have urged that the recollections be given more permanent form and a wider circulation. N. B. DESAUSSURE. OLD PLANTATION DAYS Old Plantation Days MY DEAR GRANDDAUGHTER DOROTHY: Grandmother is growing to be an old lady, and as you are still too young to remember all she has told you of her own and your mother's people, she is going to write down her recollections that you may thus gain a true knowledge of the old plantation days, now forever gone, from one whose life was spent amid those scenes. The South as I knew it has disappeared; the New South has risen from its ashes, filled with the energetic spirit of a new age. You can only know the New South, but there is a generation, now passing away, which holds in loving memory the South as it used to be. Those memories are a legacy to the new generation from the old, and it behooves the old to hand them down to the new. "The days that are no more" come crowding around me, insistent that I interpret them as I knew them; there are the happy plantation days, the recollection of which causes my heart to throb again with youthful pleasure, and near them are the days, the dreadful days, of war and fire and famine. I shrink as the memory of these draws near. The spirit of those early days is what I chiefly desire to leave with you; the bare facts are history, but just as the days come back to my recollection I will write about them, and necessarily the record will be fitful memories woven together but imperfectly. My father, your great-grandfather, was a direct descendant on his mother's side of Landgrave Smith, first Colonial Governor of South Carolina, his mother being Landgrave Smith's granddaughter; his grandfather was Pierre Robert, a Huguenot minister who emigrated to America, after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, and led the Huguenot colony to South Carolina. My father was born in 1791 in the old homestead situated forty miles up the river from Savannah. He had twelve children, and I was one of the younger members of his large family. His early life was similar to the life of any present-day boy, with school days and holidays. During the holidays he enjoyed the excellent hunting and fishing which our large plantation afforded and which gave him great skill in those sports; later in life he brought up his own sons to enjoy them with him. He used to tell us, to our great entertainment, many incidents of his childhood days. When a little boy he used to drive through the country with his grandmother in a coach and four. After he left South Carolina College he made a trip through the North on horseback, as this was before the time of railroads. It took him a month to reach Pennsylvania and New York State, and as it was in the year of 1812, he happened to ride out of Baltimore as the British rode in. We children were always delighted when father told us of his many adventures, and the strange sights he saw during his travels. One episode always greatly shocked us, which was that of his seeing men in the public bakeries in Pennsylvania mixing bread dough with their bare feet. After father returned home he married a cousin, Miss Robert. He had one son by this marriage, at whose birth the young mother died. This son returning from a Northern college on the first steamboat ever run between Charleston and New York, was drowned; for the vessel foundered and was lost off the coast of North Carolina. Father's second wife was a descendant of the Mays of Virginia, who were descendants of the Earl of Stafford's younger brother. This lady was my own dear mother and your great-grandmother. I must now tell you something about _her_ grandmother, for my mother inherited much of her wonderful character from this stalwart Revolutionary character. My great-grandmother's eldest son, at nineteen, was a captain in the Revolutionary War, and she was left alone, a widow on her plantation. When the British made a raid on her home, carrying off everything, she remained undaunted, and, mounting a horse, rode in hot haste to where the army was stationed, and asked to see the general in command. Her persistence gained admittance. She stated her case and the condition in which the British soldiers had left her home, and pleaded her cause with so much eloquence that the general ordered the spoils returned to her. Dearest child, in the intrepid spirit of this ancestor you will find the keynote to the brave spirit of the women of the South. This old lady, who was your great-great-great-grandmother, lived to be a hundred and six years old; her skin was like parchment and very wrinkled; she died at last from an accident. I have heard my mother say that she was a remarkable character, never idle, and her mind perfectly clear until the day of her death. At her advanced age she knitted socks for my eldest brother, a baby then, thus always finding something useful to employ her mind and her hands. Her son, my mother's father, was one of the most generous and benevolent of men, a pioneer of Methodism in that section of the country. He had a room in his house called "the minister's room." The ministers who went from place to place preaching were called circuit riders. These ministers always stayed at his house, hence "the minister's room" was very seldom vacant, and some ministers lived with him always. Once there was a great scarcity of corn caused by a drought. Grandfather came to the rescue of the neighborhood. He sent a raft down to Savannah, which was the nearest town, and had brought back, at his expense, two thousand bushels of corn. He then sent out word to the poor of the surrounding country to come to him for what corn they needed, making each applicant give him a note for what he received. When he had thus provided for the immediate wants of the people, he generously tore up the notes; for he had only taken them to prevent fraud. You will naturally wish me to tell you something of my mother, your great-grandmother. She was born on March 25, 1801, and was educated at the Moravian School in North Carolina, which is still in existence. I saw a very interesting description of this school in the _Tribune_ of March, 1904. Mother was well educated in all branches taught during her girlhood. Even after she was seventy-five years old she could repeat every rule of grammar and she always wrote with ease and correctness. This shows that what was taught in those days was taught with thoroughness, even if the studies were few and simple compared to the intricate and manifold ones of the present day. Mother was a woman of remarkable sweetness of disposition and intelligence, and had great executive ability, which latter quality was indispensable in the mistress of a large household of children and servants. She gave unceasing care and attention to her children, and personally supervised every detail of their education. Besides these duties, the negroes of the plantation, their food and clothing, care of their infants and the sick, all came under her control. My father and mother inherited most of their negroes, and there was an attachment existing between master and mistress and their slaves which one who had never borne such a relation could never understand. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" has set the standard in the North, and it seems useless for those who owned and loved the negroes to say there was any other method used in their management than that of strictest severity; but let me tell you that in one of my rare visits South to my own people, the old-time darkies, our former slaves, walked twenty miles to see "Miss Nancy" and her little daughter, and the latter, your dear mother, would often be surprised, when taken impulsively in their big black arms, and hugged and kissed and cried over "for ol' times' sake." When I would inquire into their welfare and present condition I heard but one refrain, "I'd never known what it was to suffer till freedom came, and we lost our master." Yes, Dorothy dear, a lot of children unprepared to enjoy the Emancipation Proclamation were suddenly confronted with life's problems. I have beside me a letter from a friend, now in South Africa. She says in part: "I am sure you, too, would have thought much on the many problems presented by this black people. It is perfectly appalling when one thinks that they are really human beings! Human beings without any humanity, and not the slightest suggestion that there is any vital spark on which to begin work, for apparently they have no affection for anybody or anything, and it is an insult to a good dog to compare them to animals." Such, my dear child, is the African in his native country at the present day, the twentieth century, and such was the imported African before he was Christianized and humanized by the people of the South. In order to show you that I am not prejudiced in favor of the Southerners' treatment of their slaves I will insert a letter from Dr. Edward Lathrop, whose daughter was an old schoolmate of mine at Miss Bonney's in Philadelphia. JULY 23, 1903. MY DEAR MRS. DE SAUSSURE: I will proceed to answer your inquiries. You know I am Southern born and raised. I am a Georgian, and although never a slaveholder I was nursed by a negro woman to whom I was most fondly attached, and who, I believe, loved me as she would her own son. I have had the opportunity to mingle freely with slaveholders of different characters and dispositions, and while I regard slavery as such an enormous evil and am heartily glad that it has been abolished in this country, I am bound in candor to say that my observation, during all these years of my residence in Georgia and South Carolina, thoroughly convinced me that in the majority of cases slaves were more kindly treated and brought into more intimate and kindly relations to white families than they are now, though free. This, of course, is not given as an apology for slavery, but it is a simple statement of facts. I might refer, for example, to what I witnessed and _felt_, while a guest, on more than one occasion, in the house of your honored father and mother. Your father seemed to me to be as watchful of the interests, both temporal and spiritual, of his slaves as of his own immediate white family. It was, to my mind, a beautiful illustration of patriarchal slavery, as it existed in the days of Abraham. Of course there were exceptions to this treatment of slaves by their owners, but, as a rule, so far as my observation extended, your father's methods were universally approved, while the cruel slaveholder was indignantly condemned and repudiated. You may remember that I was for three years the associate of Rev. Dr. Fuller, then pastor of the Baptist Church in Beaufort, S. C. Beaufort District (now county) was probably the largest slaveholding district in the State. Most that I have stated above, as to the kindly treatment of slaves was emphatically true of Beaufort. The Baptist Church, in addition to its white membership, embraced about two thousand slaves. These slaves, as church members, enjoyed equal privileges with the whites. Dr. Fuller or myself preached to them every Sunday. The Lord's Supper was administered to them and to the whites impartially and at the same time. And any grievance that they complained of, among themselves, was as patiently listened to and adjusted as was the case with the white members. In a word, all that could be done for them, in their circumstances, was promptly and cheerfully done. I could add much more of the same tenor to what I have written, but I will not weary you with a long discourse. Affectionately yours, EDWARD LATHROP. To this let me add this editorial from the New York _Sun_ of February 1, 1907, bearing on the question. "UNCLE REMUS ON THE NEGRO "We see no occasion for the astonishment that has been aroused in this part of the country by the eloquent and touching tribute to the negro's virtues by Mr. Joel Chandler Harris, of Georgia. It is by no means the first time he has spoken to the same effect, nor is he the only Southerner of his class who has proclaimed similar opinions. It ought to be perfectly well known to the entire country that the better class of whites dwell in peace and kindness and good will with their colored fellow-creatures, and that practically all of the so-called 'race conflicts' are the product of an ancient hate dating back far beyond the Civil War and involving, now as always hitherto, no one of whom either race is at all proud. "This is a flagrant truth which Northern people have had the opportunity of assimilating any time during the past forty years. The emancipation of the slaves, effected in reality after the surrender of Lee, Johnson and Kirby Smith, made no change in the purely personal relations between the freedmen and their former masters. Not even the abominable episode of reconstruction availed to eradicate the affectionate entente of the classes and turn them against each other to the evil ends of animosity and vengeance. The old slaveholders knew that their quondam servants and dependents were innocent of vicious purpose. The latter understood full well that when in need of help and sympathy and pitying ministrations the former offered them their only sure refuge and relief. No actor in this mournful tragedy has forgotten anything. No political or social transmutation has changed anything so far as these two are concerned. The quarrels and the violent and bloody clashes of which so much is made in our newspapers, whether through honest ignorance or malign intent, are far outside of the philosophy of any important element of the Southern population. "Joel Chandler Harris tells the simple truth when he says that the negroes of the South are moving onward, accumulating property, making themselves useful citizens and cementing the hallowed ties of respect and confidence between the classes which represent the South's righteousness and civilization. In this section we concern ourselves too much with the insignificant minority. We accept the testimony of the 'educated' few on the negro side--educated to little more than a fruitless smattering of vanity and conceit--and we much too easily imagine that the Southern 'cracker' stands for the ideas and illustrates the methods of the whites. No falser or more misleading hypothesis could be presented. The negro who typifies violence and barbarism is one in ten thousand. The white man who employs the shotgun and the torch is quite as unimportant. We shower our solicitudes on the pestiferous exception and overlook the wholesome rule. "Uncle Remus knows what he is talking about--knows it to its deepest depth." I think if I were to give you an account of one day as spent by my mother, it would best present an idea of the arduous duties of an old-time Southern lady on a plantation. My mother had a magnificent constitution or she could never have accomplished the amount of work required of her. I never knew her to have until her latter years a physician for herself. But for family needs we had colored nurses who, under a physician, were competent and devoted in sickness. The day was always begun with family prayers, for my father's religious principles were his staff in life, and he derived much strength from them. His devotion to Christ was unusual, and I never knew him to doubt for an instant that he himself was a child of God. Having a most affectionate disposition, he loved his wife and children intensely, and lived in and for them. Fortunately, the love he gave them was fully returned, and I doubt if there was ever a more devoted and united family. At sunset it was a sacred custom of his to go into a room in a wing of the house, removed from all noise, and kneel in prayer. Every child and grandchild would follow him to the quiet room, and as we knelt by his side, he would commend us to God's loving care, and rise from his knees to kiss each one of us, sons and daughters alike. No matter what our occupation or pleasures were, we would hasten home that we might not miss this sunset prayer, for then all differences that had grown up between us in the day would be healed, and we felt ourselves drawn into one united family again. My brothers and sisters, old men and women now, can never speak of that sacred hour without tears. I will here copy a letter received not long ago from a dear friend, Miss Morse, for years one of the faculty of Vassar College, that you may see how our home life affected "strangers within our gates." MY PRECIOUS FRIEND: In asking me to give you my recollections of that cultivated consecrated home where I spent a delightful half year, you have given me a privilege. I love to recall that period, so unique in my experience. Your father had arranged for my journey. A son came from Princeton to go with me to the steamer, and at Savannah his factor placed me in your father's boat, going up the river by night, to his plantation home. This was my first acquaintance with negroes. At first I was afraid, being the only white person on board, but as I remembered that it was your father's plan, I knew it must be safe, and gave myself up to the enjoyment of the scene. A happier set of beings than the negroes on board it would be hard to find. The night was dark, but on deck they gathered in groups about their bright fires, roasting corn and singing their quaint and wonderfully sweet plantation songs. At daybreak we reached your father's landing, where you were waiting for me in the carriage, and when we drove up to the beautiful home, there were your parents at the door, ready to give me a truly Southern welcome. Breakfast was served, and as your father asked the blessing, he prayed most earnestly that old Maum Mary might be found that day; every day the prayer was repeated, till he felt she could not be living, and then it was changed to a request that they might find her body to give it burial. She was an old negress, who had lost her mind, and, fearing she might stray away and get lost, your father had placed her daughter-in-law, a bright young negress, in the house with her, to care for her and specially to watch, lest in her mental weakness she might stray away; what he feared happened, for the daughter-in-law proved less tender and faithful than the master, and the old woman escaped. When all hope of finding her alive was gone, the prayer of the master was that they might find her body and give it burial, but even this was not granted him. It was a revelation to me of the tender care that old patriarch gave to his slaves, no wonder that they loved him. You used to ask me, almost daily, to go with you to see some feeble old woman, who might be lonely and would be looking for you to come and see her, and I could hardly help shrinking as you would allow yourself to be gathered into her arms, and the petting would be mutual. If a negro was sick, your father would always send him food from his own table, which was received with great pleasure. At the time I was there your mother had become too feeble to continue her daily rounds among the sick and feeble, taking medicine, looking after bandages on broken limbs, etc., but an older daughter had taken her place to some extent. I enjoyed very much the prayer-meeting evenings of the negroes. The Methodists had one evening and the Baptists another. They always held them in a building especially made for that purpose, and the singing, as it came through our open windows, was very sweet. Your father had to limit the time or they would have continued the services all night. On Sunday they attended the same churches as the family, the galleries being reserved for them. I might have added in telling of their prayer meeting, that when we were present they always prayed for "Ole Massa and Missus," and the various members of the family, including the "young Missus from the North." The little negro children would leave their play to gather around me as they saw me walking about the grounds. As I recall a day in that home, so filled with love and peace, I think of the morning and evening prayers where the dear old patriarch seemed to be talking to a friend whom he trusted and loved. Every morning his horse was brought to the door for him to ride over the plantation. His daughter Nannie never failed to be there to help him on with his coat, and at his return to take off his wraps, bring him his dressing-gown, and cover him as he lay down to rest. In fact, from morning till night she seemed always to have him in her thoughts, to anticipate every wish, and give him most devoted attention. I am sure it must always be a sweet memory to her that she never overlooked a possible opportunity of adding to his happiness. Few fathers receive such devoted attention from their children. Do you remember how I used to enjoy the blaze of the pine knots in the fireplace in your room at night, and how, as they burned out, you would say to Susan, your maid, "Now throw on another knot for Miss Morse?" And do you remember how I used to ride about alone on your pet horse? Oh, what a happy winter that was! The whole atmosphere was one of love--love between parents and children, and love that overflowed till it seemed to me that every negro on the place must feel the effects of it. Certainly every sick or aged one received tenderest care. I remember your mother, in telling me of her heavy duties in caring for so large a family, mentioned an instance in which she had to go every day to dress a broken arm of a negro child, because the mother was too indolent to attend to it. On Sundays your mother and her daughters used to go around to the negroes' houses to read the Bible, and teach the children Bible verses. I hope that the reading of these memories will recall to you something of the sweetness of that dear home, consecrated by your parents' prayers. Lovingly, Your "MORSIE." This has been a long digression from the one day in my mother's life I promised to depict for you, but those early scenes come into my mind so fast that the letter from my dear friend telling of them seemed most appropriately to come into the story just at that point. But to return--after breakfast it was customary for the head nurse to report any cases of sickness on the plantation to my mother. Mother's medicine chest was brought out and together they consulted about the condition of each patient. If anyone were very ill, a man was sent to call in a physician who lived several miles away. My mother then hastened to the negro quarters, and if the invalids could be removed they were brought to the sick house--a large, long building fitted with cots--where they could be better cared for. One of my earliest recollections was to follow mother with my brothers and sisters, each child carrying a plate filled with food from the table for the convalescents, and, although at this day contagious diseases are so carefully avoided, I can remember going fearlessly in and out of the cabins, carrying dainty dishes to many little ones who were suffering with what they then called putrid sore throat. It was really diphtheria, and, strange to say, not one of our family took the disease, though there were forty cases on the plantation. They were taken to the pine land, so that the good air might aid their recovery. After attending the sick, mother's next duty was to give out the daily provisions. She made a pretty picture in her quaint gown carrying a basket of keys on her arm. The Bible verse, "She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness," could well have been written of her. With twenty-five house and garden servants and the many little children to be looked after, this daily provisioning took a great deal of time, and thought. The house servants had their own kitchen and cook. The negro children were under the care of a woman in a building apart, in fact, it was like a modern day nursery, where the working mothers could leave their children in safety. The older children about the place helped in the care of the little ones. Mothers with babies were only required to do light work, such as raking leaves, spinning, or sewing, that they might be ready and in condition to nurse their babies. I can remember going to this nursery with mother frequently, for she always wanted to know that the children's food was properly prepared. They had vegetable soups with corn meal "dodgers" or dumplings, of which they were very fond. Sometimes corn bread in place of these, and as much hominy and sweet potatoes as they wanted. Father had hundreds of cattle, cows, sheep, and hogs. We milked sixty cows on the plantation, and all the milk which had been set and skimmed was given to the negroes who came to the dairy to carry it to their homes in great tubs, and the little ones trotted along carrying their "piggins," which was the name for their small wooden buckets. The milk which had turned to clabber, "bonny clabber" as the Scotch call it, was considered a most delightful dish in our hot climate. It is so refreshing when cold that you often see me eating it now for tea. Mother's vegetable gardens were then visited. These gardens were noted; they were so unusual in their beautiful arrangement that all strangers who came to the neighborhood were brought to see them. The walks were graveled and rolled, and myriads of bright flowers formed borders for the beds. The poultry yards required supervision and care and were kept in perfect order. There were many acres, so-called "runs," planted in rye and other grains, for the use of the poultry, where they roved at will with some one to follow and bring them back to the yards at night, to be locked up. I often used to hear mother say "five hundred chickens, one hundred geese, one hundred turkeys, and one hundred ducks, were necessary to be kept on hand for table use." Another care of hers was to provide clothing for all the negroes, of whom there were over five hundred. To accomplish this, seamstresses were at work all the year round; three in the house and five or six in the negro quarters. These made the men's and women's clothing. All the cutting was done under mother's supervision; and during the early part of the war, all the spinning and weaving of cloth, and even of blankets, was done on the plantation. At one time I remember seeing two thousand yards of cloth ready to make up into clothes. Fifteen years after the war, on my visit South, I saw the negro women still wearing some of the dresses which were woven at that time. The cloth went by the name of "homespun." I am giving you a rather minute account, because I want you, my darling, to gain as intimate a knowledge as possible of that life which has forever passed away. I remember seeing my mother come into the house from her morning rounds, tired, but cheered with the consciousness that no duty had been neglected. You will wonder how she found any time to give to her children; but we were busy in school all those hours. We had a schoolhouse on the plantation where we went after breakfast with our governess. In those days, as teachers were not paid well for their services, it was difficult to find refined and cultured people to fill the position. Knowing this, father paid the highest salaries and thus secured the best talent there was to be had for us. One of our teachers afterwards opened a school in Philadelphia, and another held an important position at Vassar College. Besides a governess, we also had a music teacher, so we were expected to devote many hours to practicing music, and thus we were employed while mother was busy housekeeping. The governesses were always astonished at the wonderful energy and ability shown by my mother in managing her household. I have heard them say that if Northern people could only view a Southern woman's daily life, how impressed they would be. As soon as the girls in our family were old enough they were sent North to school to finish their education, and the boys were sent to Northern colleges. I went for a time to a boarding school near Columbia, at the early age of twelve, and at fifteen went North with my sister, your great-aunt Catherine Robert. Father objected to my leaving home again, as he wanted me near him, but mother said education was all important, and the personal sacrifice had to be made. In my seventeenth year, I again went North with three brothers and a sister, thus making five of us studying at Princeton and at Philadelphia. My parents were left alone, and out of their brood of twelve not one remained in the home nest, as six elder ones had married, and one other was dead. Father said he missed us so terribly that he felt as if he could not live without one of us with him. I returned, therefore, and remained with my parents until I was married. This long residence at home will account for my knowledge of everything concerning the dear father and mother, who were so devoted to their children. Right here, speaking of my boarding-school days at Columbia, I must tell you about my pet deer. It is another digression, dear child, but I would like you to know about the pet I thought so much of, and who so dearly loved me. Our plantation was, and still is, famed for game of all kinds, particularly deer. For many miles there were hunting grounds, now owned by Northern men, who have learned how full of game that section of South Carolina is. As a child I was especially fond of pets, and knowing this, my friends often gave me birds, or animals, to which I was very devoted. One day there came to me in this way a young fawn, which had been caught by negroes. So young was this gentle little creature that I had to feed it from a bottle. I spent most of my time with it out of doors, and it became very much attached to me. My mother was always very particular about the complexion of her children, as most Southern little girls are apt to become much freckled by the hot sun. So we were all obliged to wear sunbonnets, and I can see this little deer now running along beside me, with the sunbonnet I should have been wearing tied on its head. As the fawn grew older it still remained so gentle that it would go into the house with me and follow me upstairs and lie down by the bed. As the autumn approached and the evenings grew cold, it would come into the house and lie down before the open fire just as a dog would do. Our dogs never disturbed it by day, but we were afraid to trust them at night, so Willie, for that was my pet's name, was always locked up in a little house we had for her. When she was three months old I went to boarding school, and was gone nine months. It nearly broke my heart to leave Willie, but my father, and in fact, everyone promised to take good care of her, and let nothing happen to her. Regularly I heard from her through them until near the time for my return, when the home letter ceased to speak of her. I looked forward to my home-coming with great delight, and my first question when I arrived was concerning Willie. It was then I learned that she had gone to the swamps and had frequently been seen with other deer. Occasionally she had revisited her adopted home, so they told me, coming in and out past the dogs, not seeming to be at all afraid of them. My father suggested that I should go with him into the fields where she had been most frequently seen feeding with a number of deer, and see if we could obtain a glimpse of her. Mounted on our favorite horses, we started off and rode through the open country. We had gone but a couple of miles when my father pointed in the distance to a group of his negroes, who were working in a field, saying that Willie was likely to be found near them, for he had seen her, at intervals, feeding with other deer in that vicinity. He noticed then that she would leave her companions, and approach the negroes, but would not allow them to touch her. We stopped our horses and looked around over the lovely country. Suddenly my father exclaimed, "Look, Nannie, look!" pointing toward the west. Standing before the setting sun, their graceful forms clearly outlined, were five or six deer. We approached cautiously, not wishing to frighten them. At last I dismounted and as I ventured nearer, I saw the deer lift up their startled heads, and heard the faint tinkle of Willie's bell; for I had placed a heavy leather strap with a bell around her neck, to protect her against the hunters, as no one would knowingly kill a pet deer. Father cried out to me, "Call her by name, as you used to do." I called, "Willie, Willie." At the sound of my voice the beautiful little creature lifted her head and stood still and listened, while the other deer fled; then evidently impelled by recollection, she bounded toward me. I wish I could picture the scene to you, Dorothy, and do justice to it. If anyone has ever seen a deer in full motion, he could never forget it. She came bounding toward me over the high furrows, her feet scarcely touching the ground. I ran forward to meet her, and threw my arms around her neck. The joy she manifested amazed my father. She rubbed her face all over my face and neck, and tried to show me in every way her delight in being with me again. I remained in the field petting her until nearly dark, when my father urged the necessity of our returning home. I bade her farewell for I had no thought that she would follow me, but after mounting my horse, she trotted along by my side just as a dog would do. At the entrance to our place was a high fence with eleven bars. As my father opened the gate for me to pass through, he quickly shut it against Willie, saying he wanted to see what she would do with such a barrier between us. Nothing daunted she immediately bounded over the fence, which was a remarkable jump for any animal, and followed us up to the house. When I dismounted she followed me into the yard, passing fearlessly among the hunting dogs. She remained at home with me as long as my vacation lasted, and became as docile and gentle as she was before, not making any effort to return to her wild life. After my vacation was over and I returned to school, she went back to the woods and spent the winter there. In the spring on my return, I was frequently told by the hunters that they had seen her with her fawns. She was known throughout the entire section, and being belled all could avoid shooting her. One day I was driving to church and saw her on the edge of the deep woods with her two beautiful fawns. I ordered the driver to stop quickly, and jumped out of the carriage, running toward her and calling her by her name. She stood as if she remembered my voice, but her fawns fled in terror and she went bounding after them. That was the last time I ever saw her for she died of black tongue. A hunter found her in the woods, unstrapped her bell and brought it to me, and I kept it for years, until in the war it was lost with everything else. But to return to the plantation life. This life has been written of by many authors, and "Southern hospitality" is proverbial, so you will not be surprised at my description of our way of living. English people who visited us said it was like the English country life. We kept "open house"; everybody was welcome, and our many horses were at the disposal of the guest. My father's stables held thirty horses, many of them work animals, of course, but among them were fine saddle horses, always ready for the use of our friends. Often our stables were emptied of their occupants to make room for "company horses," that is, those brought by our friends when they came to visit us. Near our house there was a two-story building built for the accommodation of gentlemen, strangers. As there were no inns in our country, and plantations were miles apart, some provision had to be made for the entertainment of travelers, who were never turned away. We often had delightful house parties and hunting parties, but our chief enjoyment was riding through the wild and beautiful country. We also went on fishing excursions, and on picnics. We thought nothing of driving ten miles to dine at a neighbor's house. Gentlemen visiting, brought their valets and dogs for hunting, and young ladies came with their own maids. It was a delightful open-hearted, open-handed way of living, my child, but it was brought to an abrupt end, as you will hear. Fortunately my mother had a fine housekeeper who relieved her of the care of the culinary department. This housekeeper was famed as a cook, and her table is still remembered by everyone who sat around it. Perhaps it would be interesting just here to explain how we came to have so competent a person in the house. During my father's early married life preparations were made to build a church in the neighborhood, (Robertville) called after the family. A contractor was engaged from the North to build the church. He brought workmen with him, and among them was a carpenter belonging to a better class of Irish than was usually found in such a trade. He brought his wife and three children with him, and during the summer contracted a violent fever. Father always thought it his duty to visit all the sick in the neighborhood; therefore, he saw him frequently, caring for his needs. When the poor man found that he could not live, he asked my father to provide for his wife and children, which my father consented to do. He kept his promise, and after the husband's death, took the three little ones home with their mother, and made them comfortable in one of the many outbuildings always found on a Southern plantation. In a few weeks the mother gave birth to a little girl and died, leaving the four little orphans in my father's care. Father wished to adopt them all, but my mother, with her usual good judgment, said she was willing to have the care of them, but would not consent to adopting them, as she did not think it well to have children of another nationality brought up as our sisters and brothers. Eventually three of these little people were adopted by those who had no children, and one remained with us. This little girl, Margian Kane, was sent to school, but when old enough to go into higher studies refused further schooling, to learn the art of housekeeping from my mother. She died only two years ago, living to be eighty-four years old. Our family took care of her until her death. She was devoted to my father, and always remembered him with gratitude. I love to linger over those happy, free-from-care days when our hospitable door, always open, brought so many interesting people among us, but I must push on to graver matters. I devoted much of my time to music, especially to the harp which was my favorite instrument. Although I had several masters in music during the years I was at home, I often went to Charleston to take extra lessons. While in Charleston I met your grandfather, Henry William De Saussure, who was a descendant of the Huguenot family of that name, and a grandson of Chancellor Henry William De Saussure. We were married at home in 1859. I have been fortunate in procuring a copy of the wedding article which appeared in the Charleston paper, the _Mercury_, 1859, which is still on file in the library there. The copy is as follows: "On the 4th inst. at Robertville church, Beaufort District, by the Rev. J. M. Bostick, Dr. H. W. De Saussure, Jr., to Miss Nannie W., daughter of B. R. Bostick, Esq. For _THE MERCURY_ THE WEDDING BREAKFAST The Daylight Scene. The Marriage Ceremony. The Surprise. The Parting. "The bright stars had not all disappeared on the morning of the 4th inst., when the sexton of the Robertville church commenced opening the same. The early hour, the studied neatness of his dress, and his hurried manner, all indicated that something unusual was about to occur. He had not yet completed his work, when carriages and buggies in quick succession were rapidly driven up to the church from various directions. The sun had just risen in unusual splendor as if more fully to witness the vows that were appointed to be taken at his appearing, and the company scarcely collected, when your fortunate townsman ---- led to the altar Miss ----. By the altar was seated a young man, who like themselves, had just entered the threshold of life. His countenance, however, would induce the belief that he was accustomed to serious reflection. And one from his appearance pronounced him a minister. He rises, his voice falters not, but betokens a deep and heartfelt emotion, and how could it be otherwise, for he is joining in holy wedlock his sister, the playmate of his childhood hours--the object in later years of his tender solicitude and prayers. And really did it seem that he would have given worlds to insure for that couple the happiness he so devoutly implored of Heaven. "But the marriage ceremony is ended, congratulations of friends over; and again start out a number of the happy company with the bride and groom. "The village is left but a short distance, when our road gradually descended into a wood too damp for cultivation, but so fertile as to grow huge live oak trees, which formed with their boughs, well-nigh a continuous arch over us, from which, in most beautiful clusters almost, but not quite in one's reach, hung the wild grapes of our forest, and as the young and merry people would unsuccessfully snatch at these beautiful bunches as they rapidly passed, we were reminded of how swiftly they would pass through life, and at how many pleasures they would vainly grasp. The fifth mile is accomplished and we are on the banks of the Savannah. We had hardly time to admire the beautiful stream, when turning to the right, imagine our surprise at seeing a beautifully spread table. Curiosity soon carried us to the spot, and our astonishment was only increased when we saw the preparations that had been made. "We soon learned that a lady who had once graced the society of Washington, and afterwards by her intelligence and accomplished manners, had delighted the society of Columbia, had sent on fishermen and cooks, and had spread this repast in honor of the new married couple, which no one would have dreamed could have been got up at such a place. "But the breakfast is over; the dew sparkling in the grass at our feet; the happy chirp of the birds as they, too, make their morning meal on the berries and insects around us, together with the mocking birds seated in the tree above our table and seemingly conscious of their powers, have come to pay their sweet tribute to the bride, all constrain us to linger. That sister too, next to the bride in years, she feels it wrong, but yet she cannot be willing to relinquish her sister to her newly made brother. Well does she remember, how on repeated occasions, that soft voice has comforted her, and she cannot trust herself to say adieu. And little Frank has lifted his blue eyes to his mother as if to inquire, 'Will that man take away my aunty?' That look has reached his mother's heart, it is too full to explain; and she stoops to kiss away the tears from his cheeks. That brother, he is much her senior in years, he is no stranger to life's conflicts, see how his heart trembles when he says 'God bless you Nannie.' "But the iron horse tarries on his way for none, the railroad is to be reached by such an hour and into the waiting boat step the bride and groom, the young minister and his mother. Scarcely had the boat left the shore when the oft-repeated charge is reiterated by that venerable mother to her children on shore, 'My children, take good care of your father.' "It has not been with her one short morning of married life. Forty years ago she stood at the altar with her husband, and with him has she shared life's sorrows and joys; and for him with woman's constancy her heart still beats truest. But adieu, young and happy couple. That your boat, as it crosses the waters of life, may guide you as smoothly as it now does across the beautiful waters of the Savannah, is the sincere wish of V.... August 10, 1859." Such, my dear Dorothy, is the account of my wedding which took place so many years ago, and with it ends the first period of my life. My husband was a physician and as we were obliged, on account of his profession, to live in a central place, my father built us a lovely home in Robertville, which we occupied about three months before the war began. We moved there on December 21, 1860. Your precious mother was born March 1, 1861. It was a turbulent time; the feeling ran high between the North and the South, and we heard rumors of war, but it seemed too far away to invade our peaceful country. When your mother was five weeks old we took her to Charleston to show her to your grandfather's parents--an important visit, as she was the first grand-baby in the family and they were eager to see her. It was an all-day journey with a drive of twenty miles to the railway. We reached Charleston about eight o'clock in the evening. My father-in-law met us, and after a warm greeting to the little stranger and ourselves, said, "You are just in time to see the fight at Fort Sumter, for it begins to-night." I was terrified and begged to be taken home, but there was no train until morning and, therefore, we had to remain. That night I was too frightened to sleep. Toward morning, about four o'clock, the first gun was fired, and it seemed to me as if it were in my room. I sprang up, as I suppose everyone else did in the city. I hurriedly dressed myself and went down to cousin Louis De Saussure's house, which is still standing on the corner of South and East Battery. From its numerous piazzas, which commanded a fine view of the harbor, we watched every gun fired from the two forts, Moultrie and Sumter. The house was crowded with excited mothers and wives, who had sons and husbands in the fight, and every hour added to their distress and excitement, as reports, which afterwards proved false, were brought to them of wounded dear ones. It was a day I can never forget. That night we returned to Grandfather De Saussure's and when morning came we spent another most anxious day following an anxious night, but when Fort Sumter took fire and the white flag was raised, our spirits rose over the Southern victory, to confidence and hope. We little realized the long years of struggle that were to follow ending in defeat, and ruined homes and country. Later on I was in Charleston several times when it was under shot and shell and heard the explosions of the shells as they shrieked over our houses. Those were sad and exciting times, the awful memories of which are still active with me. After a visit of several weeks, we returned to our home in Robertville, and my husband continued his practice, but his restlessness and anxiety to join the army was so great that I ceased to dissuade him. Physicians were needed at home, but he thought the older men should serve there, and the younger go to the front. He joined the Charleston Light Dragoons, and became surgeon of Major Trenholm's brigade. When this brigade was transferred to Virginia, he was, on account of his health, detailed to look after the hospitals on the coast. But before we left our home, the fort below our country town, Beaufort, was taken, and the Northern fleet sailed in while the inhabitants were asleep. This fight at Port Royal was the second battle of the war. When the tidings of the invasions of their town was brought to them, the people, thinking the town would be shelled, fled in their carriages, many of them not waiting to dress themselves, so great was their fright. This long procession of carriages and wagons passed through our village about dusk, the occupants not knowing what to do or where to go. Every house was thrown open to them and these first refugees remained in the neighborhood during the war. They were taken care of, until in turn we had to flee before Sherman's army. When Dr. De Saussure went into service I returned to my father's home and lived there until Sherman drove us out. I made many visits to my husband while he was in camp. I would load a wagon with provisions, and take my trusted butler, who was a good cook and equal to any emergency, and so we would arrive on the scene of action. We lived in a cabin of two rooms not more than twelve by fifteen feet, for whenever my husband was stationed at any special hospital he would tell the convalescent patients that if they would put up a little log cabin he would send for me. The officers would have their tents stationed around our little cabin and we had some pleasant times, though many anxious ones, for we never knew when we would be obliged to flee. Thus I experienced the pleasures and terrors of camp life. Your great-aunt Agnes, whom you met at the South as an old lady, was then a young lady visiting us. She was a beautiful girl with a voice like a bird. She was a great favorite with the officers and married Colonel Colcock, who was acting brigadier general of the coast. The time for her wedding was appointed and invitations sent out for a country wedding. The day came, and hour after hour we heard heavy cannonading. We knew a battle was being fought near us, but could learn no particulars. Evening came, and the wedding guests assembled, but no groom arrived. There was great uneasiness among the guests, and I persuaded Agnes to change her gown and come downstairs to see if her presence would not cheer the party. Although filled with anxiety herself, she followed my persuasion and behaved most admirably, but we had the wedding feast served as soon as possible, and the guests quickly departed. Everyone was anxious, and at two o'clock in the morning we heard the galloping of horses beneath the windows and a soldier called to us that he had some dispatches for us. It proved as we thought; there had been fighting all day and Colonel Colcock was not wounded, but would come as soon as possible. Two days afterwards he appeared in the morning and brought a minister with him. He and Agnes were married at once, and he took his bride away with him; not to the camp, but to a place where she would be more comfortable, and he could sometimes see her. Their bridal trip was spent within fortifications along the coast. Those were days of constant excitement and unrest, as you can well imagine. Husbands and sons were all away, giving their lives in defense of their "hearth fires." The trusted negroes were our only protection and they took every care of us. I well remember a scene that occurred about this time of the war. My youngest brother was a prisoner near Old Point Comfort, and finally received his liberty through the kindness of a fellow Southern soldier. They had been in prison six months together suffering all the hardships of prison life during war. Many times starvation stared them in the face, and upon some of the prisoners the death penalty was inflicted when the men playing together would accidentally slip over the so-called "death line." My brother was only about nineteen and the Benjamin of our family. The soldier with him had consumption and could live only a short time. He came to my brother and said he was going to be released because they knew he would soon die. He then offered to change clothes with my brother and take his place and name, thus letting my brother go free while he remained in prison. I heard one day cries of joy and great excitement among the negroes; hurrying to the back piazza I saw about fifty darkies, men and women crowded together bearing my brother on their shoulders, "Massa Luther, Massa's youngest boy, God bless him, God bless him," they shouted. You can imagine the scene. We hastened down to join in the jubilation, but father and mother could scarcely get near their son, as the servants had taken complete possession of him. When they finally made way for the master and mistress, my parents found that my brother's condition was such that he could not come into the house; he was covered with vermin. He was taken to an outhouse where he bathed, and his clothing was burned. Then he told us of his many adventures and his hard time in prison, where he would indeed have starved had it not been for kind friends at the North, who sent him money which enabled him to buy food, and he told us of the great sacrifice the Southern soldier had made for him. My father immediately forwarded a check for a thousand dollars to the poor family whose husband and father never returned to them. Another war incident in our family was that connected with a brother's son. At the early age of fifteen, he ran away to go into the Southern army. His mother could not make him return, so she called a young colored man, who was a devoted servant of the family, to her and said to him, "John, go with your young master, and whatever happens to him, bring him back to me, wounded or dead, bring him back to me." This young man's bravery made him known throughout the regiment. He was finally wounded, and died in North Carolina in a hospital, John never leaving him. After his death, John put him in a pine coffin roughly knocked together and started home with him. In the month of August the devoted servant reached his mistress, having been two weeks on the way. He would tell his story and beg for help to take his young master home, according to his promise to his mistress. In spite of many misrepresentations by those who can never comprehend the tender attachment existing in those days between master and slave, I want you to have a clear idea of it, and I want you to know that the Southerner understood, and understands to this day, the negro's character better than the Northerner, and is in the main kinder to, and more forbearing with him. There were countless incidents during the war of love and loyalty shown by the negroes to their former owners, which you will read of in the many stories written now by those who know the truth. The year 1864, in the month of December, found me still in the old homestead. Sherman had passed on the Georgia side of the river, to Savannah, which was taken. We wondered what would be his next move, but never for an instant thought he would retrace his steps, and go through South Carolina. The Southern troops which had guarded Savannah retreated to our neighborhood, and we cared for them for several weeks. There were at least five thousand troops on our plantation of nine thousand acres. Barbecues of whole beeves, hogs, and sheep were ordered for them. The officers were fed in the house, there being sometimes two hundred a day. The soldiers had their meals in camp. All planters in South Carolina were restricted by law in planting cotton. Only three acres were allowed to the negro worker, thus causing a large amount of corn and other such grain to be raised, because the Confederate Government wanted this to provide for the Southern army. Thousands of bushels of corn could not be housed, but were harvested and left in pens in the fields. Father had ten thousand bushels of corn on our plantation. We did not sell cotton during the war. For money we had no use, as everything was grown or manufactured on the plantation. We had a steam mill for sawing lumber, and mills for grinding corn and wheat. Sugar was made in quantities for negroes, but there was no way of refining it. Everything was bountiful and we lacked nothing, but coffee and tea. Every known and unknown substitute was used for these drinks, but none were satisfactory; otherwise we never lived with greater abundance. Our swamps yielded us all game bountifully, venison, wild turkeys, partridges, and reed birds. It was a rich country and could feed an army. I met and conversed with many of the chief officers, and consulted them about the advisability of sending my father, who was then seventy years of age, away from his home. The officers urged us to do so, as they feared the Northern army would invade our State and township. So very reluctantly father and mother left their loved home, which they were destined never to see again. They went to live with a married daughter, who had a home in an adjoining county. Some of their negroes pleaded to go with them, and about fifty followed with wagons filled with their effects. It was a wise provision that father was spared the sight of the destruction of his house and property, and possibly personal violence from the hands of the Northern soldiers, for during the raid, my uncle, an old man who was reputed to be wealthy was asked by the soldiers where he had buried his gold; and twice was he hung by them and cut down when unconscious, because he would not confess its hiding place. My child, he had no gold, his wealth lay in his land and negroes. Shortly after father and mother's departure, one morning, early, the remaining negroes came running to the house in a state of wild excitement, and said that Sherman's army was crossing the Savannah River at the next landing below my father's. I was picking oranges when the news came. Green oranges, blossoms, and ripe fruit all hung together on the tree. It was a favorite tree grown to an unusual size by the care given it, as it was always protected in winter. I have only to close my eyes at any time and see plainly the beautiful tree in all its glory of fruit and flower. We had picked from it that day a thousand oranges, the most luscious fruit, but they were left for Sherman's army to devour, for we were thrown into a panic by the news the negroes brought us, and hastily got into our carriages and fled. The negroes followed us in wagons, and we left our lovely home as if we had gone for a drive. Our flight has always reminded me of Jacob's going down into Egypt, a caravan of people, for as we fled we first took with us our dear father and mother, then as the panic spread, one married daughter with all her children joined us, and then another, until we finally numbered about forty persons journeying northward. In order that you may understand how our numbers increased so rapidly, I must tell you that father gave each of his children at marriage a plantation with negroes and a house. These homes were in an adjoining county, that of Barnwell, and as we passed through this county different members of the family would join us. On the second day of our journey your mother was taken with a sore throat and high fever, and as we had no bed to lay her on we took turns in holding her in our arms. Thus we traveled to the upper part of the State fleeing from the army of invaders at whose hands we expected no mercy of any kind. An old school friend of mine, Georgiana Dargan, daughter of the Chancellor of South Carolina, had written me repeatedly during the war to come to her. She had never married and lived in a large Southern colonial mansion situated on a beautiful estate. We, in our need, thought of her and pushed on, hoping she could receive us all. We were not disappointed, the house was thrown open to us and we received a warm welcome. It was a strange fate that Sherman followed us in our flight passing through Columbia and within ten miles of us. His scouts came in and stole all our horses, except a few which we had time to hide in the swamps. The soldiers ordered many of the negroes, choosing the best young men, to mount the horses and go with them. All of them returned to us that night; they had broken away from camp, but were on foot. But let me tell you here, Sherman's army burned Columbia. He denied it, but we know he did it for my husband's sister, Mrs. Thomas Clarkson, who lived there, was ill, and the soldiers lifted her out of bed and laid her in the street while the torch was put to her home. Then, too, only three years ago, the burning of Columbia was admitted to me by a Northern general, General Howard. These were his words: "Sherman did not burn Columbia, but I am sorry to say his troops did." They got hold of liquor and so became mercilessly destructive. Sherman may not have given the order, but he was undoubtedly responsible for the plunder and destruction engaged in by those under his command. The people of Columbia were left without shelter or food, "Only women and children to wage war against," as a venerable judge, Judge William De Saussure, an uncle of Dr. De Saussure, told Sherman in pleading for clemency. We were about fifty miles above Columbia, and as the army passed us they went on to Cheraw, a town lying on the northern border of South Carolina, forty miles above us. There your great-grandfather De Saussure, who was an old man, had fled from his home in Charleston with his five daughters. In a few days news was brought us that Cheraw had been burned, and everybody was starving. I was naturally eager to go to the assistance of my husband's people, and I went to one of my sisters-in-law asking her if she would be willing to accompany me to Cheraw, a drive of forty miles. She said she would go with me. Joe, my butler, to whom I was very much attached, agreed to drive us. We borrowed a pair of mules and started in the early morning with corn meal and bacon and flour for my husband's people. We had driven only a few miles when we came to the road passed over by Sherman only four days before. Such sights as we beheld along that road; dead horses, disemboweled cattle, dead dogs, and as it was in spring they were all decomposed because of our hot climate. At every turn of the road we expected to meet outriders from the Northern army. It was a day of great fatigue and fear. Our mules were lazy and would not move out of a walk. Joe mounted one of them, and strove in vain to urge them on faster. The day seemed endless to us, but the hours wore on, and the sun was just setting as we crawled up a final hill, when we were startled by seeing a number of men on horseback approaching, who we were sure were soldiers. My heart sank, for I expected our carriage would be confiscated as well as the mules, and we left to spend the night unprotected in the woods. As the horsemen drew nearer, I saw to my joy that there was a mixture of blue and gray uniforms. The men were evidently of our army, for Southerners often wore at this stage of the war any kind of clothing they could get hold of to cover them. One of the officers rode up to us, and to my great surprise and delight, I found he was Major Colcock, whom I well knew, as he was a brother of Colonel Colcock, sister Agnes's husband. Our surprise was mutual. He exclaimed, "Why Mrs. De Saussure, what are you doing here?" I replied, "Trying to reach Cheraw to take provisions in to the aid of my husband's father and sisters." "To Cheraw," he exclaimed, "a most difficult journey, madam; the roads are in a dreadful condition and the little flat boat that crosses the river is in such demand I doubt if you can get it." "I will not turn back, Major Colcock," I replied. "I must go on." So we parted, he going his way and I mine. After two hours of weary travel, we reached the river and were fortunate in finding the boat could carry us over the river. We crossed and reached the town of Cheraw at ten o'clock at night. A scene of desolation greeted my eyes the next morning; all the public buildings had been burned, houses alone were standing amid desolate surroundings. The De Saussure family and others had been living on scorched rice and corn, scraped from the ashes. Officers as well as soldiers had gone into houses and taken all food that could be found and burned it in the yards of the various houses; leaving the women and children to starve. My beautiful harp, which after cutting the strings, I had sent to Cheraw for safety in care of Mr. De Saussure, had narrowly escaped being taken by some officers. They asked to have the box opened for them, but Mr. De Saussure told them the harp was out of order, so they passed it by. My harp was safe, but your great-aunt Agnes was not so fortunate with her piano. It was a gift from her father when she left school, and a beautiful Steinway. When she married Colonel Colcock, he said to her: "Ship your piano to Charleston; it will be safer there than in the country." Colonel Colcock was from Charleston and had relatives to whom he wrote asking them to care for the piano, when it arrived. It reached Charleston just about the time the city fell into the hands of the enemy. Colonel Colcock's uncle went down to the station to get it, when he learned that an officer had taken it and shipped it off to the North. Twenty years after the war, this notice published in the _News and Courier_ of Charleston was sent me from different parts of the South: NOTICE A RELIC OF THE WAR Miss Nannie Bostick's Music Book in the Hands of a Federal Soldier. To the editor of the _News and Courier_: Will you insert the following in your paper, as it will be of benefit to one of South Carolina's ladies: If Miss Nannie Bostick will communicate with Captain James B. Rife, Middletown, Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, she will learn something to her advantage. I have in my possession a music book which was captured or stolen by some one during the war, and I would like to return it to her if she still lives. By so doing you will greatly oblige, Yours very truly, JAS. B. RIFE, Late Capt. U. S. A. MIDDLETOWN, DAUPHIN COUNTY, PA., January 26, 1889. The Miss Nannie Bostick above referred to afterwards married Dr. Henry De Saussure, of this city. After his death she was for a long time employed as an instructor at Vassar College, N. Y., and is now a resident of Brooklyn. The home of Colonel Bostick, the father of Mrs. De Saussure, on Black Swamp, in Beaufort (now Hampton) County, was burned by General Sherman's army in the grand "march to the sea." On reading it I was of course, much excited and wrote immediately to the gentleman in Meadsville, telling him I was the person he was looking for. I waited three weeks most anxiously, and then received a letter from his sister saying that for years her brother had been trying to find me, and that he had something to tell me which was communicated to him by a dying soldier. The sister further wrote that her brother had advertised in New York and Southern papers before, and the cause of his doing so again was that a young niece visiting them, in looking over some old books had come across a music book with my name on it. She went with it into his room, and said, "Uncle, who is Miss Nannie W. Bostick?" He sprang from his chair exclaiming, "What do you know about her?" When he learned that she knew nothing and had merely seen my name on the old music book, he said, "I will try once more to find her," and sent off the notice to the _News and Courier_ of Charleston. As fate would have it the next day, on his way to Harrisburg to make arrangements for a Cleveland procession, his horse took fright from a trolley car, and in the accident he was instantly killed. The music book was returned to me by his sister, but whatever the secret was that he had carried so many years, it died with him, for no one else knew it. After his death his sister asked me to visit her. She said my name was so often on her brother's lips, and she only knew he wanted to communicate something of importance, but what it was he had never told her. He was a prominent man in the army. She sent me his photograph and the notice of his death. You can imagine this incident brought back many memories. What could have been the dying soldier's communication that Captain Rife wished so much to tell me, and which he never intrusted to any other member of his family? And where had this very heavy, old music book, in his possession, been found? My sisters, when I met them, talked the matter over with me, and Agnes said: "I remember putting a lot of books, among them some of yours, with my piano to pack it tightly." When it was shipped North the book was found with the piano, as I have since ascertained. We wondered that the music book had ever come back to me, its rightful owner, but since I have lived at the North, even family Bibles, which were taken from the old homes, have been returned to me. Looting was the order of the day during the Civil War, and wanton destruction followed. I once went South with old Captain Berry, who for twenty years had charge of a steamer plying between Charleston and New York. Your mamma and myself were the only ladies on board, as the time was in July when the tide of travel was northward. The officers of the steamer were exceedingly kind to us, and told us many interesting stories of their seafaring lives. Captain Berry told me of a trip he made from New Orleans to New York, when General Ben Butler was there in command. A division of the army was being transferred and Captain Berry said that besides soldiers the vessel was laden with all kinds of handsome furniture, with pictures, pianos, and trunks filled with women's clothing, from a lady's bonnet to slippers. That division of the army which Captain Berry was bringing North belonged to one of the generals under Butler's command. The vessel was laden, the last soldier had stepped aboard, when just before the gangplank was lowered, a jet-black pony was hurried aboard, a perfect beauty. Then a lady was seen rapidly riding along the wharf; she quickly jumped from her horse, and went on board inquiring for the general; when he was pointed out to her she stepped up to him and said: "General ----, you have taken my husband's last gift to his little boy, the pony; I have come to ask you to return him to me." The general turned a deaf ear to her request, and as he did so, she drew her whip across his face with a stinging lash. Had he lifted his finger to her in return, Captain Berry said, the soldiers would have shot him dead. During that trip North in the silence of the night, the soldiers went down into the hold of the vessel, opened every box, cut strings on pianos, ruined pictures and other things with ashes and water, then nailed up every box carefully and put it in place again. This was done by the Northern soldiers on board who knew of and resented the wrong done to the people of New Orleans. The poor little pony never reached his destination, for he was found dead the next morning; a mysterious death, but the soldiers knew, and had had a hand in his taking off. Thus they avenged the lady to whom their sympathy had gone out. Captain Berry was a Northern man, but his frequent visits to Charleston had thrown him into intimate relations with the Southern people and he admired them greatly. We spent six months, from December, 1864, until June, 1865, at Darlington, our place of retreat. It was a hard winter; food was scarce, and little but the coarsest kind could be bought. By spring we had grown hopeless, and well I remember that while walking in the garden some one called out to me, "The war is over, Lee has surrendered." My feelings were tumultuous; joy and sorrow strove with each other. Joy in the hope of having my husband and the brothers and friends who were left, return to me, but oh, such sorrow over our defeat! In the course of time, the men of our family returned with the exception of your great-uncle Edward, my brother, who had gone through the war, but was finally killed in the last two weeks of fighting around Petersburg, Va. As one after another of the family came back to us, worn out and dispirited, our thoughts turned to the dear old home on the Savannah River, and we longed to go back. Before yielding to our desires, it was considered wise for the men of the family to go first and investigate. They found only ashes and ruin everywhere in our neighborhood, and father's place, except a few negro cabins, was burned to the ground. There were thirty buildings destroyed. The steam mill, blacksmith's shop, carpenter's shop, barns, and house--nothing was left standing except chimney and brick walls to mark the place of our once prosperous, happy home. There was but one fence paling to indicate the site of our little village. The church, too, was burned, and now negro cabins are standing where it once graced the landscape. Our beautiful lawns were plowed up and planted in potatoes and corn by the negroes, who were told we would never return. Sherman left a track of fire for three hundred miles through the State. When you hear the war song "Marching through Georgia," which stirs the hearts of the Northerner, think of the scenes of desolation and heartbreak the song recalls to the Southerner. When I left my own home in Robertville, I took the daguerreotypes of my old schoolmates, Northern girls, of whom I was fond, and opening the clasps I stood them all in a row on the mantel, hoping that should some commander find among them the face of a relative, he would spare the house for the sake of friendship. It was a vain hope, for my lovely house was destroyed with all the others. However, a soldier, brother of one of the girls, did find among the pictures the likeness of his sister and he wrote me after the war about thus seeing amid the roar of battle the likeness of his angel sister, for she was then dead. You will often hear of the "reconstruction period," the period when the situation had to be faced by the beaten Southerner, and everything had to be managed on a new and strange basis. That period in my life had now come, for we all resolved to return home and do the best we could with what we had left. Father had loaned the Confederate Government fifty horses and mules; twenty-five were returned to him, good, bad, and indifferent. We took the journey home by the aid of these animals, and our carriage was drawn by one large "raw-boned" horse helped by a little pony. We camped out at night, and drove all day. Sometimes we were able to get shelter for our parents. It was very rough traveling; the roads were destroyed, and trees had been cut down blocking the way. We finally reached the only house left standing near our former home, at eleven o'clock at night, after ten days of travel. This house was far off from all plantations, situated in a pine forest. It was used by our family for a summer retreat. It had large airy rooms; one measuring twenty-five feet, and one fifty feet. In this house, bereft of all its furniture, our family gathered. We found our negroes scattered and completely demoralized. Starvation seemed imminent. The men of our family went to work to cut timber, to be shipped to Savannah on rafts. In the meantime, before we could expect any monetary return from this industry, what else could we do to better our condition? was the question we asked one another. One of my brother's former negroes came to me and said, "I think you could make money by baking pies and bread for the colored Northern troops." Those soldiers were quartered on my father's plantation. My dear, war was nothing compared to the horrors of that reconstruction period. For six months we never went to bed without bidding one another good-by, not expecting to be alive the next morning. We sold our jewelry, all that was left, to the soldiers, and they would come to the house, march around it with bayonets drawn, and curse us with the vilest oaths. We would gather the little ones around us, bar the door, and wait, for we knew not what. When you are old enough, Dorothy, dear, read "The Leopard's Spots," which gives a better description of what we endured, than I ever can write. However, we needed money to buy food with. I, therefore, set to work making bread, and any number of green-apple pies. Tom, a negro, built us a clay oven and we secured a negro's service for the baking; I got up at four o'clock in the morning, and by ten o'clock Tom was off with the pony and wagon, to sell articles for us. We had enough to live on, but no meat except bacon. By request of every white person the Government removed the colored troops six months after the war, and sent white troops in their place. Poor grandpa would sit all day with bowed head and say over and over, "My poor daughters, my poor daughters." We tried to appear brave and cheerful and would say in reply, "Why we can manage; do not trouble about us." But father's heart was broken and though he appeared well, he instinctively felt that his days were numbered and asked to have our former pastor called. When the minister came, we and some neighbors gathered together in a little supply store that was "thrown up" after the war, and there we stood, or sat on the counters, during service. It was a touching scene. Your mother was a little girl of five years, and she feeling the sadness of it all, wept through the whole service. Father gathered her in his arms and tenderly wiped her tears away. As service closed an old church member and father advanced to shake hands with each other saying simultaneously: "We shall drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until we drink in our Father's Kingdom." It seemed in the nature of a prediction, for three days afterwards father passed peacefully away, without apparent illness. Mother lived until her eighty-seventh year, weary, sad years for her. She lived with her children, but none were able to make her comfortable. Poverty reigned everywhere, and still exists in that once luxurious country. We thanked God that father had not to endure, for long, the sight of our want and distress. Before he died, however, we left the large house in which we first took refuge, and started housekeeping separately in outhouses or cabins in the pinelands, which were formerly used for storerooms, kitchens, laundries, etc. We fitted up one of these cabins as comfortably as we could for father's and mother's use, and in another little house situated about three and a half miles from them, I lived a while with your mamma and Dr. De Saussure. In this little house we had to endure great hardships for many years, and led the most desolate lives. Your precious mother was our only comfort; she was always happy. She had few books, no school, and as my husband was an invalid, he was often too ill to see her, or to be left alone. She would study her lessons and sit outside the door of his darkened room, and when I could leave him she would recite to me what she had learned. Another time we lived in a little cabin, part of which was curtained off for the accommodation of a sister of Dr. De Saussure's and her baby. Our kitchen stove was under an open shed built against the side of the house. Heavy rain would flow over the dirt floor, and remain standing several inches deep. At this time your mother's one delight was her pony Brownie. She would drive the cows up from the swamps, and Brownie soon learned to give them a bite on their backs when they stopped to graze. "Jeff Davis" was also a great pet; he was a young calf we never allowed to leave the yard for fear the negroes would take him. Poor Jeff was sacrificed for food, but your mother's heart was broken for her pet, and she could not be induced to taste any portion of the meat. Before I undertook to make pies and bread for the colored troops, and when we were very hard pressed, as I said before, I went and spent a night with my parents. My adopted sister, the housekeeper of whom I told you, called me out of the house and taking me some distance away so we could not be heard by them, said: "We have but a pint of corn meal in the house, and if I cook that for our supper I have nothing to give father and mother for breakfast." We cried together, and wondered what we could do. One of our negro men from the plantation approached me and said, "Miss Nancy" (they called me by that name, and the grandchildren of our old negroes still use it), "the steamboat has just landed at the dock, and there are lots of boxes for you." Amazed, I exclaimed, "Why, who has sent me anything?" I looked then upon all Northern friends as enemies. I had not heard from any of them in years; the war had separated us. I told the man to take a cart and hasten to the dock. He returned laden. Still in amaze I had the boxes opened, wherein we found all sorts of provisions: hams, sugar, tea, coffee, crackers, etc., etc., and better than all a letter from a gentleman, who wrote that he had read in the papers of the great distress of Southern people; he knew nothing of my condition, but judged of it by what he read of the pitiful state of others, and he wished me to draw whatever amount we needed from his agent in Savannah to relieve our necessities. To me the heavens had opened and from them came these gifts. I saw in this relief when we most needed help the kind care of our heavenly Father, who had put into the heart of this generous man to come to our assistance. We drew enough money to enable us to buy food and to begin work on our own place. With the account of my acquaintance with this gentleman my story will close. He was an Englishman, who had settled with his family in the Bahamas. When I met him I was in my sixteenth year, and was on my way to school in Philadelphia. Agnes and three brothers were with me, one brother going to Princeton to finish his theological course, one to Lawrenceville to school, and the third to Colgate University. On the steamer was this gentleman, taking his son to Philadelphia to school. My eldest brother became acquainted with him, and introduced him to me. It took much longer in those days to make the trip, the journey comprising three and a half to four days. Agnes and I saw a great deal of the father, and the son was with my brother most of the time, so that when we reached Philadelphia, we felt well acquainted. Mr. Saunders, for that was the name of our new friend, said to my brother upon landing: "I shall be in Philadelphia a fortnight, or until my son becomes acquainted in the city. If you will allow me, I will be pleased to take your sisters driving with us, and show them the places of interest." Many pleasant drives we had together, and grew better acquainted each day. At the end of his visit he came to bid us farewell, and said to me: "Miss Nannie, I have a request to make of you, will you grant it?" I replied, "If I can, I will gladly." He had often spoken of his elder son who was studying at Oxford, England, and he continued: "In two years my son will graduate, I want you to promise me that you will wait until you see him before engaging yourself to anyone." I laughingly promised him to wait the two years. When I was seventeen years old I returned home. I had been there perhaps three years, when I went on a brief visit to a friend who lived about twenty miles away from us. My visit ended, I returned home, and as I drove up to the door, my young brother ran out to meet me and said, "Guess who is here to see you," and when I failed in guessing he said, "Mr. Saunders's son." I then met the young gentleman, a handsome, fine young man, who brought letters of introduction from leading men in his own home, and one from his father, who wrote that he had not forgotten my promise to him, but that he had been delayed in fulfilling his desire in having us meet by his son's failing to find me. He had lost the address of my home, and thinking Charleston the nearest town, his son was sent there to inquire for us. The next winter he sent him to Savannah to find me, and from there the young man was directed to my father's home. Mr. Saunders wrote that it had been his dearest wish to have me for his daughter, and he had talked so much to his son about me that he was quite willing to fall in with his father's wishes in the matter. In the meantime I had met your grandfather, and had decided that I would marry him, or no one. My father was bitterly opposed to my marrying at all, as he did not want to part with me, and therefore, I was waiting until he gave his consent. We made Mr. Saunders's visit as pleasant as possible, and I told him at once of my affection for your grandfather, as I did not wish to deceive him. The young man spent some weeks with us, and upon his return home I received another letter from his father saying he could not give up his cherished hope of having me for a daughter, and as his son had fallen in love with me, he hoped I would reconsider my decision. At the same time his son wrote of his attachment, offering himself to me. But it was useless to urge me, and though I felt grateful to be looked upon with so much affection I declined the offer. This was the beginning of a very remarkable friendship which sprang up between the father and myself. Upon receipt of the letter expressing myself as steadfast to Dr. De Saussure, he wrote in reply asking that he might consider himself as a father, and to me and your mother, who always called him grandfather, he was like a father. During the latter part of the war, I wrote to him asking if he would receive cotton through the blockade and arrange to send us in return many necessary things. We were without shoes, and were wearing clothes made from our gay silk dresses carded up and spun with cotton, thus woven into cloth by our own people. We then had an abundance of food, but other things were not to be bought. In reply he said: "Do not send your cotton, you will run a double risk; I will send you all you need, for I have more than enough for my family and yours." Never dreaming we would ever be in a position where we could not repay Mr. Saunders, I wrote to him and sent a list of needed articles, pieces of linen, merino, and silk, and stockings and shoes for us all. He sent us two thousand dollars worth of goods in gold value, thus generously supplying every child and grandchild in our family with clothes. Alas for us, the war ended disastrously, and forgetting all he had previously done for me and mine, he now sent money and provisions to aid us, which help arrived in our darkest hour. I am glad to tell you that these debts were paid, though it took us years to do it. Until Mr. Saunders's death, we corresponded regularly, and fifteen years after the war he came to see me at Vassar College, for after your grandfather's death, I came North with your darling mother who was fifteen years of age, and went first to Philadelphia, placing her in the same school where I had been educated, with the same principals still in charge, the Misses Bonney and Dillaye. I kept house in Philadelphia in a quiet way in two rooms, and had been there two years when I learned that the gentleman whom your grandfather had left in charge of my affairs had speculated and lost every cent I had in the world. Immediately I tried to find some work by which I could support your mother and myself, and through one of my former teachers, Miss Morse, who was then assistant to Dr. Raymond of Vassar College, I was offered the position of assistant principal. There I remained for five years. While at Vassar your mother took up a special course at the College and graduated from the Art Department. One day my dear old friend Mr. Saunders was announced. The last time we met, I was fifteen and he forty-five years old. This latter meeting took place twenty-five years later. It was a sad meeting for both of us. He had lost most of his property, and was comparatively poor. He took me in his arms and said; "My child, if I were able to take care of you and your daughter you would not be here one minute, for I would take you home with me and take care of you both." The last letter I received from him said: "I am nearly home and when I get there I shall watch for your coming." ADDENDUM BEAUFORT, S. C., January 8, 1906. MY DEAR AUNT NANNIE: I fear you have by this time lost all hope of hearing from me, but I have not forgotten my promise. I am afraid, however, you will be very much disappointed, as I have so little information to give about family history, and that little is very scrappy. Our branch of the family have been criminally careless about preserving records. While I have not what we lawyers would consider strict evidence of the fact, still I am quite satisfied from circumstances and inferences, which I shall not undertake in this letter to detail, that our family and the Northern family of Bostick were one and the same. Our American progenitor landed in Plymouth, Mass., sometime about the middle of the seventeenth century, coming from Chester County, England, and being probably a political refugee. His wife also came with him from England. In England the family history was both ancient and distinguished, the founder landing on English soil with William the Conqueror, in whose service he was of distinguished rank, both military and social. In England he became one of the barons of the realm. The title remained for centuries in the family, and may be still in existence, and has been adorned by many distinguished representatives in the English wars especially. The original stock in Massachusetts seems to have migrated, mine northward and some gradually drifting southward. The intermediate links I cannot supply, but finally these brothers settled, two in Carolina, the youngest being our great-grandfather Richard, and one in Georgia. In Jones's history of Georgia mention is made of Captain Littlebury Bostick, a wealthy rice planter near Savannah. He, I think, was the brother, or son of the brother who settled in Georgia. Richard was the youngest of the three. The other brother, John, bought a large landed estate near Columbia on which he lived and died quite an old man. During his life he maintained the style and reputation of a man of great wealth, but at his death it was found that his affairs were financially involved. He never married, but was known as a cultured man of decidedly literary tastes, and was a leading figure in the social life of his section. His most intimate friend was General Hampton, father of the Confederate general of same name. Richard settled in old Blackswamp, where he married three times, the last two wives being sisters, both Roberts. The last, first married Singleton, and at his death our ancestor. By the last marriage there were no children; by the second marriage to Miss Robert, we are descended through your father Benjamin Robert Bostick; by the first marriage the other Blackswamp Bosticks are descended. I have not a copy of the Bostick coat of arms, but the motto is "Always ready to serve," bestowed, or adopted, I presume, in recognition of their martial spirit exhibited on many great battlefields. The Robert family, of whom your grandmother was a member, settled in Sumter. The progenitor, Rev. Pierre Robert, led a colony of Huguenot refugees from France. Many other Huguenot families in the State claim descent on maternal lines from him. He seems to have been a man of wealth and ancient lineage. I have a copy of the French coat of arms. Your mother, who was a Maner, came of no less distinguished line. They were of Welsh descent, and probably more remotely of Norman French descent, as the progenitor was Lord de Maner. Grandma's mother was a May from an old Dutch family. The original May came to Charleston, and founded the first large importing house (tea chiefly) in copartnership with the famous Dutchman, Admiral Gillon. I presume you know, of course, that your great-grandfather, William Maner, and his brother Samuel were both captains in the famous Marion Brigade in the Revolution. Your grandfather was a captain at eighteen years of age. I may mention also, that grandma's mother, who was a May, was on her maternal side a daughter of an English Colonel Stafford. The English Staffords are also of ancient stock, I believe. I am afraid the foregoing very meager account of the family connections will give you very little that you do not know already. While I have stated the main features of the family history, as I know them, the statement is very general. If you desire more of detail with reference to any individual or any part of the family history, I may be able to give you a little more, and will take pleasure in answering any inquiries on this line. I have had to write this very hastily. With love from us all, I remain, Affectionately, A. MCIVER BOSTICK. 
15591	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15591-h.htm or 15591-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/9/15591/15591-h/15591-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/9/15591/15591-h.zip) A WOMAN NAMED SMITH by MARIE CONWAY OEMLER Author of _Slippy McGee_, etc. Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York 1919 [Frontispiece illustration: "Sophy," he said, "I have found the lost key of Hynds House"] To ELIZABETH HEYWARD OEMLER _Sometimes my Little Girl._ When you were yet an Awful Baby, And bawled o' bed-time, I said "Maybe It is not best to spank or scold her: Suppose a fairy-tale were told her?" And gave you then, to my undoing, The wolf Red Riding-Hood pursuing; Sang Mother Goose her artless rhyming; Showed Jack the Magic Beanstalk climbing; Three Little Pigs were so appealing, You set up sympathetic squealing! Then, Bitsybet, you had your mother-- _You bawled until I told another!_ The Awful Baby's gone. Here lately You bear your little self sedately. You've shed your rompers; you want dresses Prinked out with frillies; fluff your tresses; Delight your daddy, aunts, and mother; And sisterly set straight your brother. Your bib-and-tucker days abolished, Your manners and your nails are polished. One baby trait remains, thank glory! You're still a glutton for a story. Still, Bitsybet, you beg another: So here's one for you from YOUR MOTHER. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE SCARLET WITCH DEPARTS II AND ARIEL MAKES MUSIC III THE DEAR LITTLE GOD! IV THE HYNDSES OF HYNDS HOUSE V "THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF" VI GLAMOURY VII A BRIGHT PARTICULAR STAR VIII PEACOCKS AND IVORY IX THE JUDGMENT OF SPRING X THE FOREST OF ARDEN XI THE JINNEE INTERVENES XII MAN PROPOSES XIII FIRES OF YESTERDAY XIV THE TALISMAN XV THE HEART OF HYNDS HOUSE XVI THE DEVILL HIS RAINBOW XVII ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS XVIII THE GREATEST GIFT XIX DEEP WATERS XX HARBOR CHARACTERS SOPHY: A woman named Smith. ALICIA GAINES: Flower o' the Peach. NICHOLAS JELNIK: Peacocks and Ivory. DOCTOR RICHARD GEDDES: _Coeur-de-Lion._ THE AUTHOR: Himself. THE SECRETARY: A Pleasant Person. MISS EMMELINE PHELPS-PARSONS: of Boston, Massachusetts. MISS MARTHA HOPKINS: "Clothed in White Samite." JUDGE GATCHELL: The Law. SCHMETZ AND RIEDRIECH: Workmen and Visionaries. THE JINNEE: A Son of the Prophet. SOPHRONISBA SCARLETT: "The Scarlett Witch." THE HYNDSES OF HYNDS HOUSE. PAYING GUESTS. THE PEOPLE OF HYNDSVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA. MARY MAGDALEN; QUEEN-OF-SHEEBA; FERNOLIA: Important Persons. BORIS: A Russian Wolfhound. THE BLACK FAMILY: A Witch's Cat's Kittens. BEAUTIFUL DOG: Last but not Least. A WOMAN NAMED SMITH CHAPTER I THE SCARLETT WITCH DEPARTS If it had been humanly possible for Great-Aunt Sophronisba Scarlett to lug her place in Hyndsville, South Carolina, along with her into the next world, plump it squarely in the middle of the Elysian Fields, plaster it over with "No Trespassing" signs, and then settle herself down to a blissful eternity of serving writs upon the angels for flying over her fences without permission, and setting the saved by the ears in general, she would have done so and felt that heaven was almost as desirable a place as South Carolina. But as even she couldn't impose her will upon the next world, and there was nobody in this one she hated less than she did me--possibly because she had never laid eyes on me--she willed me Hynds House and what was left of the Hynds fortune; tying this string to her bequest: I must occupy Hynds House within six months, and I couldn't rent it, or attempt to sell it, without forfeiture of the entire estate. I can fancy the ancient beldam sniggering sardonically the while she figured to herself the chagrined astonishment, the helpless wrath, of her watchfully waiting neighbors, when they should discover that historic Hynds House, dating from the beginning of things Carolinian, had passed into the unpedigreed hands of a woman named Smith. I can fancy her balefully exact perception of the attitude so radically conservative a community must needs assume toward such an intruder as myself, foisted upon it, so to speak, by an enemy who never failed to turn the trick. Because I'm not a Hynds, at all. Great Aunt Sophronisba was my aunt not by blood but by marriage; she having, when she was no longer what is known as a spring chicken, met my Great-Uncle Johnny Scarlett and scandalized all Hyndsville by marrying him out of hand. I have heard that she was insanely in love with him, and I believe it; nothing short of an over-mastering passion could have induced one of the haughty Hyndses to marry a person with such family connections as his. For my father, George Smith, was a ruddy English ship-chandler who pitched upon Boston for a home, and lived with his family in the rooms above his shop; and my grandmother Smith dropped her "aitches" with the cheerful ease of one to the manner born, bless her stout old Cockney heart! I can remember her hearing me my spelling-lesson of a night, her spectacles far down on her old button of a nose, her white curls bobbing from under her cap. "What! Carn't spell 'saloon'? Listen, then, Miss: There's a hess and a hay and a hell and two hoes and a henn! Now, then, d 'ye spell it!" Not that Mrs. Johnny ever accepted us. It was borne in upon the Smiths that undesirable in-laws are outlaws. This despite the fact that my mother's pink-and-white English face was a gentler copy of what her uncle's had been in his youth; and that when I came along, some years after the dear old man's death, I was named Sophronisba at Mrs. Johnny's urgent request. After Great-Uncle Johnny died, as if the last tie which bound her to ordinary humanity had snapped, his widow retired into a seclusion from which she emerged only to sue somebody. She said the world was being turned topsyturvy by people who were allowed to misbehave to their betters, and who needed to be taught a lesson and their proper place; and that so long as she retained her faculties, she would do her duty in that respect, please God! She did her duty so well in that respect that the Hynds fortune, which even civil war and reconstruction hadn't been able altogether to wreck, dwindled to a mere fifteen thousand dollars; and she wasn't on speaking terms with anybody but Judge Gatchell, her lawyer. She would have quarreled with him, too, had she dared. To the minister, who bearded her for her soul's sake every now and then, she spoke in words brief and curt: "You here again? Wanted to see me, hey? Well, you've done it. Now get out!" And in the meantime the years passed and my own immediate family passed with them; but still the gaunt old woman lived on in her gaunt old house, becoming in time a myth to me, and to Hyndsville as well; where they referred to her, succinctly, as "the Scarlet Witch." I heard from her directly only once, and that was the year she sent me a red flannel petticoat for a Christmas present. After that, as if she'd done her worst, she ignored me altogether. My mother had wanted me to be a school-teacher, in her eyes the acme of respectability. But as it happens, there are two things I wouldn't be: one's a school-teacher, the other a minister's wife. If I had to marry the average minister, I should infallibly hate all church-goers; if I had to teach the average school-child and wrestle with the average school-board, I should end by burning joss-sticks to Herod. So I disappointed my mother by becoming a typist. After her death I secured a foothold in a New York house--I'd always wanted to live in New York--and went up, step by step, from what may be called a rookie in the outside office, to private secretary to the Head. And I'd been a business woman for all of seventeen years when Great-Aunt Sophronisba Scarlett departed at the age of ninety-eight years and eleven months, and willed that I should take up my life in the house where she had dropped hers. "Oh, Sophy!" cried Alicia Gaines, the one person in the world who didn't call me Miss Smith. "Oh, Sophy, it's like a fairy-story come true! Think of falling heir to an old, old, old lady's old, old, old house, in South Carolina! I hope there's a big old door with a fan-light, and a Greeky front with white pillars, and a big old hall, and a big old garden--" "And an old stove that smokes and old windows that rattle and an old roof that leaks, and maybe big, big old rats that squeak o' nights," I said darkly. For the first rapture of the astonishing news was beginning to wear thin, and doubt was appearing in spots. "Sophy Smith! Why, if such a wonderful, beautiful, unexpected thing had happened to _me_--" Alicia's blue eyes misted. I have known her since the day she was born, next door to us in Boston, and she is the only person I have ever seen who can cry and look pretty while she's doing it; also, she can cry and laugh at the same time, being Irish. Some foolish people, who have been deceived by Alicia Gaines's baby stare and complexion, have said she hasn't sense enough to get in out of a shower of rain. This is, of course, a libel. But what's the odds, when every male being in sight would rush to her aid with an umbrella? After her mother's death I fell heir to Alicia, who, like me, was an only child, and without relatives. Lately, I'd gotten her into our filing-department. She didn't belong in a business office, she whose proper background should have been an adoring husband and the latest thing in pink-and-white babies. "But somebody's got to think of stoves and roofs and rats and such, or there'd be no living in any old house," I reminded her, practically. "My dear girl, don't you realize that this thing isn't all beer and skittles?" Alicia wrinkled her white forehead. "Consider me, a hardy late-summer plant forced to uproot and transplant myself to a soil which may not in the least agree with me. Why, this means changing all my fixed habits, to trot off to live in an old house that is probably haunted by the cross-grained ghost of a lady of ninety-nine!" "If I were a ghost, you'd be the very last person on earth I'd want to tackle, Sophy," remarked Alicia, dimpling. "And as for that new soil, why, you'll bloom in it! You--well, Sophy dear, up to now you have been root-bound; you've never had a chance to grow, much less to blossom. Now you can do both." I who was confidential secretary to the Head, looked at the girl who was admittedly the worst file-clerk on record; and she looked back at me, nodding her bright head with young wisdom. "I hope," she said, wistfully, "that there'll be all sorts of lovely things in your house, Sophy,--old mirrors, old books, old pictures, old furniture, old china. Lord send you'll find an attic! All my life I've day-dreamed of finding an attic that's been shut up and forgotten for ages and ages, and discovering all sorts of lovely things in all sorts of hiding-places. When I think my day-dream may come true for you, Sophy, it almost reconciles me to the pain of parting from you; though what on earth I'm to do without you, goodness only knows!" She was sitting on my bed, kimonoed, slippered, and braided. And now she looked at me with a suddenly quivering chin. "Alicia," said I, "ever since I discovered that there's no mistake about that lawyer's letter--that Hynds House is unaccountably, but undoubtedly mine and I've got to live in it if I want to keep it--it has been borne in upon me that you are just about the worst file-clerk on earth. You're a navy-blue failure in a business office. Business isn't your _motif_. Now, will you resign the job you fill execrably, and accept one you can fill beyond all praise--come South with me, share half-and-half whatever comes, and help make that old house a happy home for us both?" "Don't joke." Her lips went white. "Please, please, Sophy dear, don't joke like that! I--well, I just couldn't bear it." "I never joke," I said indignantly. "You little goose, did you imagine for one minute that I contemplated leaving you here by yourself, any more than I contemplate going down there by myself, if I can help it? Stop to think for a moment, Alicia. You have been like a little sister to me, ever since you were born. And--I'm alone, except for you--and not in my first youth--and not beautiful--and not gifted." At that she hurled herself off my bed and cried upon my shoulder, with her slim arms around my neck. Those young arms were beginning to make me feel wistful. If things had been different--if I had been lovely like the Scarletts, instead of looking like the Smiths--there might have been-- Well, I don't look like the Scarletts; so there wasn't. The best I could do was to drop a kiss on Alicia's forehead, where the bright young hair begins to break into curls. And that is how, neither of us having the faintest notion of what was in store for us, Alicia Gaines and I turned our backs upon New York and set our faces toward Hynds House. CHAPTER II AND ARIEL MAKES MUSIC We had wired Judge Gatchell when to expect us, but the venerable negro hackman who was on the lookout for us explained that the judge had a "misery in the laigs" which confined him to his room, and that he advised us to go to the hotel for a while. We couldn't, for wasn't our own house waiting for us? A minute later we had bundled into the ancient hack and were bumping and splashing through unpaved streets, getting wet, gray glimpses of old houses in old gardens, and every now and then a pink crape-myrtle blushing in the pouring rain. Hyndsville was, it seemed, one of those sprawling, easy-going old Carolina towns that liked plenty of elbow-room and wasn't particular about architectural order. Hynds House itself was on the extreme edge of things. The hack presently stopped before a high iron gate in a waist-high brick wall with a spiked iron railing on top of it, the whole overrun with weeds and creepers. Of Hynds House itself one couldn't see anything but a stack of chimneys above a forest of trees. The gate creaked and groaned on its rusty hinges; then we were walking up a weedy, rain-soaked path where untrimmed branches slapped viciously at our faces, and tough brambles, like snares and gins, tried to catch our feet. On each side was a jungle. Of a sudden the path turned, widened into a fairly cleared space; and Hynds House was before us. We had expected a fair-sized dwelling-house in its garden. And there confronted us, glooming under the gray and threatening sky that seemed the only proper and fitting canopy for it, what looked like a pile reared in medieval Europe rather than a home in America. Its stained brick walls, partly covered with ivy and lichens; its smokeless chimneys; its barred doors; its many shuttered windows, like blind eyes--all appeared deliberately to thrust aside human habitancy. _A residence for woman, child, and man, A dwelling-place,--and yet no habitation; A House,--but under some prodigious ban Of Excommunication._ Yet there was nothing ruinous about it, for the Hyndses had sought to build it as the old Egyptians sought to build their temples--to last forever, to defy time and decay. It was not only meant to be a place for Hyndses to be born and live and die in: it was a monument to Family Pride, a brick-and-granite symbol of place and power. The walls were of an immense thickness, the corners further strengthened with great blocks of granite. The house had but two stories, with an attic under its sloping roofs, but it gave an effect of height as well as of solidity. Behind it was another brick building, the lower part of which had been used for stables and carriage house, and the upper portion as quarters for the house slaves, in the old days. Another smaller building, slate-roofed and ivy covered, was the spring-house, with a clear, cold little spring still bubbling away as merrily in its granite basin, as if all the Hyndses were not dead and gone. And there was a deep well, protected by a round stone wall, with a cupola-like roof supported by four slender pillars. And everything was dank and weedy and splotched with mildew and with mold. _O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear A sense of mystery the spirit daunted And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!_ When we opened the great front door, above which was the fan-light of Alicia's hope, just as the round front porch had the big pillars, a damp and moldy air met us. The house had not been opened since Sophronisba's funeral, and everything--stairs, settles, tables, cabinets, pictures, the chairs backed inhospitably against the wall as if to prevent anybody from sitting in them--was covered with a shrouding pall of dust. The hall was cross-shaped, the side passage running between the back drawing-room and library on one side, and the dining-room and two locked rooms on the other. It was a nice place, that side passage, with a fireplace and settles; and beautiful windows opening upon the tangled garden. All the down-stairs walls were paneled: precious woods were not so hard to come by when Hynds House was built. It was lovely, of course, but depressingly dark. We got one of the big windows open, and let some stale damp air out and some fresh damp air in. Then, having despatched our hackman for certain necessities, Alicia and I turned and stared at each other, another Alicia and Sophy staring back at us from a dim and dusty mirror opposite. If, at that moment, I could have heard the familiar buzzer at my elbow! If I could have heard the good everyday New York "Miss Smith, attend to this, please"! God wot, if I had not literally burned my bridges behind me--Oh, oh, I had! "The garden around this house,"--Alicia spoke in a whisper--"stretches to the end of the world and then laps over. It hasn't been trimmed since Adam and Eve moved out. But those crape-myrtle trees are quite the loveliest things left over from Paradise, and I'm glad we came here to see them with our own eyes! Brace up, Sophy! We'll feel heaps better when we've had something to eat. Aren't you frightfully hungry, and doesn't a chill suspicion strike you, somewhere around the wishbone, that if that Ancient Mariner of a hackman doesn't get back soon we shall starve?" At that moment, from somewhere--it seemed to us from up-stairs--a sudden flood of sweetest sound poured goldenly through that sad, dim, dusty house, as if a blithe spirit had slipped in unawares and was bidding us welcome. For a few wonderful moments the exquisite music filled the dark old place and banished gloom and neglect and decay; then, with a pattering scamper, as of the bare, rosy feet of a beloved and mischievous child making a rush for his crib, it went as suddenly as it had come. There was nothing to break the silence but the swishing downpour of the outside rain. When I could speak: "It came from up-stairs! Somebody's playing a violin up-stairs. I'm going up-stairs to find out who it is." Alicia demurred: "It may be a real person, Sophy!--a real person with a real violin. But I'd rather believe it's Ariel's self, come out of those pink crape-myrtles. Don't go up-stairs, please, Sophy!" "Nonsense!" said I. "Somebody's played a violin and I mean to know who he is!" And up-stairs I went, into a huge dark hall, with the cross-passage cutting it, and closed doors everywhere. At the front end was a most beautiful window, opening doorlike upon a tiny iron bird-cage of a balcony, hung up Southern fashion under the roof of the pillared front porch. At the rear a more ordinary door opened upon the broad veranda that ran the full width of the house. Both door and window were closed, and bolted on the inside, and the big, dark, dusty rooms which I resolutely entered were quite empty, their fireplaces boarded up, their windows close-shuttered. There was no sign anywhere of violin or player. I went down-stairs just as wise as I had gone up. "I told you it was Ariel!" Alicia stood by the open window--our windows are sunk into the walls, and cased with solid black walnut as Impervious to decay as the granite itself--and leaned out to the wet and dripping garden. "Sophy," said she, in her high, sweet voice that carries like a thrush's. "Sophy, the best thing about this world is, that the best things in it aren't really _real_. This is one of its enchanted places. Sycorax used to live in this house: that's what you feel about it yet. But now she's gone, her spell is lifting, and Hynds House is going to come alive and be young again!" "At least," I grumbled, "admit that the dust inside and the rain outside and the weeds and mud are real; and I'm really hungry!" "Me too!" Alicia assented instantly and ungrammatically. "Oh, for a square meal!" She thrust her charming head out far enough for the rain to splatter on her bright hair and whip it into curls, and bring a deeper shade of pink to her cheeks, and a deeper blue to her eyes. "Ariel!" she fluted, "Spirit of the Violin, I'm hungry--earthily, worm-of-the-dustly, unromantically hungry! Send us something to eat." "Why don't you rap on one of the tables," I suggested ironically, "and call up your high spirits to do your bidding?" "My high spirits won't be above making you a soothing cup of coffee just as soon as that ancient African returns. In the meantime, let's look around us." People had forests to draw from when they built rooms like those in Hynds House. There were eight of them on the first floor. On one side the two drawing-rooms, the library, and behind that a room evidently used for an office. We didn't know it then, of course, but that library was treasure trove. Almost every book and pamphlet covering the early American settlements, that is of any value at all, is in Hynds House library; we have some pamphlets that even the British Museum lacks. The rooms had enough furniture to stock half a dozen antique-shops, all of it in a shocking state, the brocades in tatters, the carvings caked with dust. You couldn't see yourself in the tarnished mirrors, the portraits were black with dirt, and most of the prints were badly stained. Alicia swooped upon a pair of china dogs with mauve eyes and black spots and sloppy red tongues, on a what-not in a corner. She said she had been aching for a china dog ever since she was born. "Oh, Sophy!" cried she, dancing, "wasn't it heavenly of that old soul to die and leave you two whole china dogs! I wouldn't want sure-enough dogs that looked like these, but as china dogs they're perfect! And cast your eyes about you, Sophy! Have you ever in all your life seen a house that needed so much done to it as this house does? "'If seven maids with seven mops, Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,' the Walrus said, 'That that would make it clear?' 'I doubt it,' said the Carpenter, 'And--' "Sophy! I shall clean some of these windows myself. Did you know that Queen Victoria, when she was a child, had the same virtuous inclination? Well, she had, and you see how she turned out!" "I don't believe it!" "Don't be skeptical!--Look at that pink mustache-cup over there on that little table! Who do you suppose had a mustache and drank out of that cup? It couldn't have been Sophronisba herself? _I_ insist that it was a black-mustached Confederate with a red sash around his waist. I adore Confederates! They're the most glamorous, romantic figures in American history. I wish a black mustache went along with the cup and the house; don't you? It would make things so much more interesting!" And she began to sing, at the top of her voice, in the sad and faded room that hadn't heard a singing voice these many, many years: "'Arrah, Missis McGraw,' the Captain said, 'Will ye make a sojer av your son Ted? Wid a g-r-rand mus-tache, an' a three-cocked hat, Wisha, Missis McGraw, wouldn't you like that! _You like that--tooroo looroo loo!_ _Wisha, Missis McGraw, wouldn't you like that!_'" If Great-Aunt Sophronisba's ghost, and the scandalized ghosts of all the haughy Hyndses ever intended to walk, now was the accepted time! And as if that graceless ballad were the signal for something to happen, upon the hall window-shutter sounded three loud, imperative knocks. Alicia dashed down the hall. "Sophy!" she called, breathlessly, "Sophy!" Framed in the open window, with the dripping trees and the slanting rain behind him, was the bizarre, the astounding figure of a gnomelike negro in a terra-cotta robe fastened about the waist with a girdle made of a twisted black shawl with the most beautiful Persian border and fringe. A striped silk scarf was bound turban-wise about his head, from which tufts of snowy wool protruded. From his ears hung crescent-shaped silver ear-rings studded with coral and turquoise; a necklace of the same barbaric magnificence was about his neck, and his arms were covered with bracelets. His deep-set eyes, his flat nose, his mouth set in a thousand fine wrinkles, the whole aspect of him, breathed a sly and impish drollery. He glanced from Alicia to me with the smiling malice of a jinnee delighted to mystify mortals. Then with a rapid movement he shifted the umbrella he carried over a large linen-covered tray, eased the latter upon the deep window-ledge, and beckoned with a very black and beringed hand. "For _us_?" breathed Alicia. With a fine flourish he swept aside the linen covering. And there was golden-brown chicken, white rice, cream gravy, hot biscuit, cool sliced tomatoes with sprigs of green parsley, fresh butter, fresh cream, a great slab of heavenly cake, a wicker basket of Elberta peaches, rain-cooled, odorous, delicious, and a pot of steaming coffee. On the edge of the tray was a cluster of rain-washed roses. "No," Alicia doubted, "this is not true: it can't be!--Sophy, do you see it, too?" He motioned her to take the tray; and his ear-rings swung, and all his bracelets set up a silver tinkling. An automobile honked outside in the street shut off by our garden trees, and a dog barked. Our jinnee cocked a cautious head and a listening ear, thrust the tray upon Alicia, and with inconceivable swiftness vanished around a corner. "Let's hurry and eat it before it, too, takes to its heels," said Alicia, practically. Without further ado we dragged forward a small table, and fell to. Aladdin probably tasted fare like that, the first time he rubbed the magic lamp. When we had polished the last chicken bone, and had that comfortable feeling that nothing can give so thoroughly as a good meal, Alicia carefully examined the china and silver. "Old blue-and-white English china; English silver initialed 'R.H.G.' Sophy, handle this prayerfully: it's an apostle spoon. Think of having a jinnee fetch you your coffee, and of stirring it with an apostle spoon." She spoke reverently. Alicia is the sort who flattens her nose against antique-shop windows, and would go without dessert for a month of Sundays and trudge afoot to save carfare, if thereby she might buy an old print, or a bit of pottery; just as I am content to admire the print or the pottery in the shop window, feeling sure that when they are finally sold to somebody better able to buy them, something else I can admire just as much will take their place. Mine is a philosophy not altogether to be despised, though Alicia rejects it. She handled the blue-and-white ware with tender hands, laid the silver together, and set the tray upon the window-ledge. Then, on a leaf of my pocket memorandum--she never carries one of her own--she scribbled the following absurdity and pinned it to the linen cover: Ariel, accept the gratitude of mortals set down hungry in the house of Sycorax. Gay and kind spirit, when we broke your bread you broke her spell: the wishbone of your chicken has cooked her goose! Maker of Music, Donator of Dinners, thanks! "And now," said she, "having been serenaded, and satisfied with nothing short of perfection, let's go up-stairs, Sophy, and decide where we shall sleep to-night." We chose the front room because of a gate-legged table that Alicia wanted to say her prayers beside, and because of the particularly fine portrait of a colonial gentleman above the mantel, a very handsome man in claret-colored satin, with a vest of flowered gold brocade, a gold-hilted sword upon which his fine fingers rested, and a pair of silk-stockinged legs of which he seemed complacently aware. "I wish you weren't dead," Alicia told him regretfully. "Your taste in clothes is above all praise, though I fancy you were somewhat too vain of your legs, sir. I never knew before that men had legs like that, did you, Sophy?" "I take no pleasure in the legs of a man." I quoted the Psalmist acridly enough. "Don't pay any attention to Sophy," Alicia advised the portrait, naughtily. "Just to prove how much we both admire you, you shall have Ariel's roses." She had brought them up-stairs with us, and now she walked over to the mantel to place them beneath the picture. "Why!" exclaimed Alicia, "why!" and she held up nothing more remarkable than a package of cigarettes, evidently left there recently, for it was not dusty. "I dare say Judge Gatchell forgot it, when he was looking over the house. That reminds me: the silver you admired so much was marked 'G.' Then, in all probability, Judge Gatchell sent us that spread, and very thoughtful it was of him, I must say." "Rheumatic old judges don't smoke superfine cigarettes, Sophy, nor send black tray-bearers in terra-cotta robes out on rainy days for the entertainment of strange ladies. No: this is something, or somebody, _young_. But since when did Ariel take to tobacco?" "Let's go down-stairs," I suggested, "and wait for that old darky, if he is a real darky and ever means to return." I did not fancy those big forlorn rooms, with their great beds that didn't seem made for people to sleep and dream in, but to stay awake and worry over their sins--and then die in. The down-stairs halls had grown darker, and the rain came down in a gray sheet, so that the open window seemed a hole cut into it. The tray we had left on the window-ledge was gone. In its place was nothing more romantic than a freshly filled and trimmed kerosene lamp, two candles, and a box of matches. When our Jehu finally returned he rummaged out some firewood from the sooty kitchen and built us a fire in the hall. He was a pleasant old negro, garrulous and kindly, by name Adam King, or, as he informed us, "Unc' Adam" to all Hyndsville folks. "Uncle Adam," Alicia asked, while he was drying himself before the blazing logs, "Uncle Adam, who's the violinist around here?" Uncle Adam looked at the Yankee lady a bit doubtfully. The old fellow was slightly deaf, but he would have died rather than admit it. "Wellum," he told us, "since ol' Mis' Scarlett's gone, folks does say de doctor is. Dat's 'cause ob de Hynds' blood in 'im. All dem Hyndses was natchelly de violentest kind o' pussons, an' Doctor, he ain't behin' de do'." He rubbed his hands and chuckled. "Lawd, yes! I know de Doctor, man an' boy, an' he suttinly rips an' ta'hs when he's riled! You ought ter seen 'im de day ol' Mis' Scarlett let fly wid 'er shot-gun an' blowed de tails spang off'n two of 'is hens an' de haid off'n 'is prize rooster! De fowls come thoo' de haidge, an' ol' Mis' grab 'er gun an' blaze away. De Doctor hear de squallation, an' come flyin' outer de office an' right ovah de haidge. I 'uz totin' fiahwood fo' ol' Mis' dat day, an' I drap een de bushes; it ain't no place fo' sensible niggahs when white folks grab shot-guns. Doctor see me an' holler: 'Adam! git outer dem bushes, you ol' fool! You my witness what dis hellion's done to my fowls!' "Ol' Mis' Scarlett she s'anter ter de winder wid 'er gun sort o' hangin' loose, an' holler: 'Adam! Come outer dem bushes 'fo' I pickle yo' hide! You my witness ob dis ruffian trispassin' on my prop'ty an' cussin' an' seducin' a ol' woman widout 'er consent,' she says. 'Has I retched my age,' says ol' Mis' Scarlett, 'to have his fowls ruinin' my gyardin', an' him whut's a dunghill rooster himself flyin' ovah my fences unbeknownst?' "'If there evah was a leather-hided ol' hen ripe foh roastin' on Beelzebub's own griddle, it's you, you gallows ol' witch!' says Doctor, shakin' 'is fist up at her. "'Aha! I got a plain case!' says ol' Mis', grim-like. 'I'll have a warrant out foh you dis day, Geddes, you owdacious villyum!' "And she done it. Yas'm. An' dey done sont de shariff atter me for witness, all two bofe o' dem." "Well, and what did you do?" I asked, curiously. I was getting a side-light on Great-Aunt Sophronisba. "Me? I got on muh knees an' wrastled wid de speret," said Uncle Adam. "I done tuck mah troubles to de Lawd, whichin He _'bleeged_ ter know I cyant deal wid ol' Mis' Scarlett an' de Doctor. Missis, I prayed!" "Oh! And what happened then?" The old man looked around him, cautiously, and lowered his voice: "Wellum, Mis' Scarlett she tuck an' went an' up an' died. Yessum! She done daid. An' next thing we-all heah, she 'd went an' lef de Hynds place to youna, 'stead ob de Doctor, or dat furriner." "She had Hynds relatives, then? I didn't know." "Wellum, de Doctor an' ol' Mis' Scarlett wuz cousins. Dat's how come dey could fight so powerful. Ain't you nevah had no relations to fight wid, ma'ams?" We explained, regretfully, that we hadn't. "Den you ain't nevah knowed, an' you ain't nevah gwine ter knew, whut real, sho-nough fightin' _is_," said Unc' Adam, with conviction. "You mentioned a foreigner," hinted Alicia. The old man shook his head deprecatingly. "Don't seem lak I evah able to rickermembah dat boy's name, nohow. His grampa' 'uz a Hynds, likewise his ma, but she 'sisted on marryin' er furriner, an' de boy takes atter de furriners 'stead er we-all. 'Taint de po' boy's fault, but ol' Mis' Scarlett hated 'im wuss 'n pizen. De only notice she take er de boy is ter warrant 'im fo' trispassin'. Dat 's how come folkses ter say--" he paused suddenly. "Well, what do folks say?" I wanted to know. "Well, Missis," he admitted, "dey say it's natchel to fight wid yo' kin whilst you 're livin', but 'taint natchel ter carry de fight inter de grave-yahd. Dat's whut she done, ma'ams. An' folks is outdone wid 'er, whichin' she ain't lef de Hynds place to de Hyndses, but done tuhn it ovah ter--uh--ah--" "To a Yankee woman named Smith?" "Yessum, dat's it." "Had either the Doctor or the foreigner any real claim or right to this property, do you know?" "No, ma'am, we-all 'lows dey ain't got no mo' law-right dan whut you's got. Ol' Mis' Scarlett ain't _'bleeged_ ter lef it to de Hyndses, but folks thinks she oughter done it, an' dey's powerful riled 'cause she ain't. Dey minds dis wuss'n all de warrantin' an' rampagin' an' rucusses she cut up whilst she wuz wid us." "I see," said I, thoughtfully. "Missises," said the old man, anxiously, "you-all ain't meanin' ter stay hyuh to-night, is you?" He seemed really distressed at the notion. "Lemme take you-all to de hotel, please, Missises! Don't stay hyuh to-night!" "Why not? What's the matter with this house?" Again he looked around him, stealthily. "It's h'anted!" said he, desperately. "Missis, listen: I 'uz comin' home from prayer-meetin', 'bout two weeks ago, walkin' back er dis same place in de dark ob de moon. An' all ob a suddin I hyuh de pianner in de pahlor, _ting-a-ling-a-ling! ting-a-ling-a-ling!_ I say, 'Who de name er Gawd in ol' Mis' Scarlett's pahlor, when dey ain't nobody in it?' I look thoo de haidge, an' dey's one weenchy light in de room, an' whilst I'm lookin', it goes out! An' de pianner, she's a-playin' right along! Yessum, de pianner, she's er tingalingin' by 'erself in de middle o' de night!" "And who was playing it, Uncle Adam?" "Dat's what I axin yit: who playin' Mis' Scarlett's pianner when dey wasn't nobody in de house?" "Why didn't you find out?" "Who, me?" cried the old man, with horror. "If I could er borried a extra pahr er laigs from er yaller dawg, I'd a did it right den, so 's I could run twict faster 'n I done!--Whichin' please, ma'ams, lemme take you-all ter de hotel." When he saw that he couldn't prevail upon us to do so, he left us regretfully, shaking his head. He would come back early in the morning to do anything we might require. But he wouldn't stay overnight in Hynds House for any consideration. No negro in the county would. "Alicia," said I, when we had had a cup of tea made over our spirit lamp, and firelight and lamplight made the place less depressing and eerie, "Alicia, that terrible old woman has played me, like an ace up her sleeve, against her neighbors and her family. She has left me a house that needs everything done to it except to burn it down and rebuild it, and a garden that will have to be cleared out with dynamite. And she has seen to it that I have the preconceived prejudice of all Hyndsville." Alicia's pretty, soft lips closed firmly. "Here we are and here we stay!" she said determinedly. "Nobody's been disinherited to make room for us. Sophy, in all our lives we have never had a chance to make a real home. Well, then, Hynds House is our chance, and I'd just like to see anybody take it away from us!" "Up, Guards, and at 'em!" said I, smiling at her tone. I am slower than she, but even more stubborn, as the English are. "Tell your admiral that if he gets in my way I will blow his ships out of the water!" said Alicia, gallantly. But when we went up-stairs, we took good care to lock our door, and bolt it, too. Alicia said her prayers kneeling by the gate-legged table, snuggled into bed between the clean sheets we had brought with us, tucked a china dog under her chin, and went to sleep like the child that she was. I said the Shepherd's Psalm and went to sleep, too. I was awakened suddenly, and found myself sitting up in bed, staring wildly about the strange room. The house was breathlessly still. My heart pounded against my ribs, the blood beat in my ears. I was oppressed with a nameless terror, an anguished sense that something had happened, something irremediable. The feeling was so strong that my throat closed chokingly. I am particular in thus setting it down, because it was an experience that all of us under that roof had to undergo. You had to fight it, shut your mind against it, oppose your will to it like a stone wall, refuse to let it master you. Then, as if defeated, it would go as suddenly, as inexplicably, as it had come. That's what I did then, more by instinct than reason. But I was exhausted when I finally got back to sleep. CHAPTER III THE DEAR LITTLE GOD! When we went over Hynds House the next morning and took stock, I began to entertain very, very peculiar feelings toward Great-Aunt Sophronisba Scarlett, who, it would appear, had given me a white elephant which I could neither hire out for its keep, nor yet sell out of hand. I had to live in Hynds House, and Hynds House as it stood wasn't to be lived in. The rain had ceased, and from the outside jungle came innumerable calls of birds, and fresh and woodsy odors; but the whole aspect of the place was grim and forbidding. At the back, where there wasn't such an overgrowth, the lane had been closed, barricaded with barbed-wire entanglements, and fairly bristled with thistles and "No Trespassing" signs. "All this house needs is a mortuary tablet set up over the front door." But Alicia demurred. "I'm not a bit disheartened," she declared stoutly. "There's just one thing to be done to this house--first make it beautiful, and then make it pay. It can be done. It's going to be done. It's _got_ to be done. And when it's done--we'll have a home. Vision it as it's going to be, Sophy--rosewood and mahogany and walnut, old brass and china and prints and portraits, the sort of things we've only been able to dream of up to now. Why, this house has been waiting for us! We were born to come here and make it over: it's _our_ house!" Alicia, has the gay courage of the Irish. The heavy iron knocker on the front door resounded clamorously. "Uncle Adam thinks we've been ha'nted out of existence, and he's hammering to wake the dead," said I. But it wasn't Uncle Adam to whom we opened the door. An enormous, square-shouldered man stood there, looking from me to Alicia with bright, keen blue eyes behind glasses. He was so big, so magnificently proportioned, that he held one's attention, at first, by mere size. Then one had time to observe that although he hadn't the sleek and careful grooming of successful New Yorkers, he wore his clothes as, say, Coeur de Lion must have worn mail. He hadn't the brisk business manner, either; but there radiated from him an assured authority, as of one used to having his orders obeyed without question. No one could pass him over with a casual eye. I have known people who hated him frankly and heartily; I have known people who adored him. I have never known any one who was lukewarm where he was concerned. "Which of you is Miss Smith?" he asked, in a very pleasant voice. "Miss Smith, I'm your next-door neighbor, house to the right: Doctor Richard Geddes, at your service." We gave him to understand, with the usual polite commonplaces, that we were pleased to make his acquaintance, and ushered him into the dilapidated drawing-room. "I'd have come over yesterday, when I learned you'd arrived, except that my cook was suddenly seized with the notion she'd been conjured, and I had to--er--stand by and persuade her she wasn't. Swore she had my lunch ready, as usual; swore she'd placed it on a tray, left it on the kitchen table for a few minutes, and when she came back from the pantry, not ten feet away, the tray was gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Nowhere to be found. She flopped on the floor and howled. She weighs two hundred and forty pounds and I hadn't a derrick handy. I had to roll her up on bed-slats. You've never had a conjured two-hundred-and-forty-pounder on your hands, have you? No? Well, then, don't. _But_ if you ever do, try a bed-slat. This morning she discovered the tray in its usual place, dishes and silver intact, nothing missing. She's looking for the end of the world." "O-o-h!" quavered Alicia, while I could feel my knees knocking together. "O-o-o-h! How very, very singular! And--and was that all?" "All! Wasn't that enough? I've had burned biscuit and muddy coffee, because my cook's got liver and nerves, and insists it's her soul," said the doctor, grimly. "I've given her to understand that if she hasn't got her soul saved before to-night, I'll physic it out of her and hang her hide on the bushes, inside out, _salted_." He added, hastily: "In the meantime, I hope you haven't fared too badly in this mildewed jail?" "Thank you, no," Alicia said demurely. "We have fared very well." "Glad to hear it." The big man looked at her with the frank pleasure all masculinity evinces at sight of Alicia. And then he asked, abruptly: "Has Jelnik called yet?--gray house on the other side of you.--No? I dare say he's off on one of his prowls then. A bit of a lunatic, but a very charming fellow, Jelnik, though your amiable predecessor, Miss Smith, chose to consider him a sort of outlawed tom-cat, and warned him off with a shot-gun." The doctor paused, stroked his beard, and regarded me earnestly. "Having heired the old girl's domain, I hope you won't consider it necessary to heir her--er--prejudices," he remarked hopefully. "Bad lot, Sophronisba. Very bad!" "Mrs. Scarlett," I reminded him gently, "was my relative only by marriage." "Cousin of mine; mother's relative. Not on speaking-, only on fighting-terms," he interjected. I remembered what Uncle Adam had told us; and I'm afraid I eyed him a bit harder than politeness warranted. "I discern by your eye, Miss Smith," said the doctor, "that you think a blood relation is more likely to walk in that old demon's footsteps than an outsider is. My dear lady, under ordinary circumstances and with _human_ neighbors, I'm as meek as Moses; I am a lamb, a veritable lamb! As for your aunt, she was a man-eating, saber-toothed tigress!" "Not my aunt, Doctor Geddes; your cousin." "Your aunt-by-marriage. It's just as bad. Anyhow, she preferred you to any of us, didn't she?" "Perhaps because she didn't know _me_." "Have it so. _But_ she did whatever she did because she was an old devil of a woman, and an old devil of a woman can give points to Satan. If," cried the doctor, vehemently, "there is one great reason why a man should be glad he's a man, it is because he will never live to be an old woman!" "That depends upon one's point of view," I told him firmly. "Now, I'm glad I'm a woman because I shall never live to be an old man. Old ladies are far, far nicer. Have you ever known an old lady who thought herself captivating? Have you ever known any old man who didn't think he could be if he wished?" "Yes," shouted the doctor, "and no!--in both cases! There is no sex in fools. There is no age limit, either." "The Talmud says: 'An old woman in the house is a blessing; but an old man is a nuisance.'" "I don't give a bobtailed scat what the Talmud says. I know what I know.--Miss Gaines, I leave it to you." "Why, I like them both, when they're nice; and I'm sorry for them both when they're not." And she added, with a naïve air of confidence: "But I think I like young men better than either, as a rule." The doctor removed his hat again, and sat down. His eyebrows went up, his eyes crinkled. "Miss Alicia Gaines," he said genially, "I perceive you are a girl-child of fine promise.--As for us, Miss Smith, what have we to do with age and foolishness, who, as yet, have neither? Let's get down to business. What are you going to do about the lane behind Hynds House? We had the use of that lane this hundred years and more, until the devil got too strong in Sophronisba and she shut it up. Now, shall you keep the lane closed, or shall you dismiss the injunctions?" "I shall have to consult Judge Gatchell." "Gatchell's a fossilized remains. He's got no more blood in his liver than a flea. Gatchell would hang his grandmother on a point of law. Why should you, or any other ordinarily intelligent person, be guided by Gatchell?" "By whom, then, shall I be guided? You?" I wondered. "That's not in my line," replied the doctor, shortly, and thrust his hands into his gloves. "In the meantime, ladies, I'm your next-door neighbor; I have no wife to gossip about you, no children to annoy you; I'm far enough away to keep you from smelling my pipe; and I shall quarrel with you only when I can't help it. In return, I have but one favor to beg of you: don't use a shot-gun on my prize chickens! Get a dog and train him to chase them home, if they get into your yard. Or catch them and throw them over the hedge. I'll pay any damages within reason. And please send for your cat." "We have a cat?" "You have. After Sophronisba's death, Mandy took her in; or rather, Mandy was afraid to turn her out, for it's bad luck to cross a witch's cat. In return for this charity the hussy immediately foisted upon us two wholly unnecessary kittens. Mandy wouldn't allow them to be decently drowned, for it's worse luck yet to tamper with a witch's cat's kittens, particularly when they're as black as the hinges of Gehenna. Mandy thinks their mother had them black as a delicate mark of respect for the late crone." "Send them over, please. Black cats will just go with this house. It was very thoughtful of that cat to have two black kittens ready for us, and very kind of you to let them stay with you until we came." "I? I abhor the whole tribe of cats!" cried the doctor. "Don't thank my kindness: thank Mandy's idiocy, of which she has more than her just share. To my mind, the best place for cats is under the grape arbor." "Let us strike a bargain. You keep your chickens in your own yard, and we'll keep our cats in our own house." "Compromise: you get a dog," suggested the doctor. "Perhaps I may. I've always wanted a poodle." "I said a _dog_!" said the doctor, lifting his lip. "A poodle! In Hynds House! The lamented Sophronisba had a bloodhound." "The lamented Sophronisba could have what she chose. This Sophronisba prefers a poodle." "_Sophronisba?_ What! Another one? Good God!" cried the doctor. "All right! Get a poodle. Keep the cats. Get a parrot--and an orphan with the itch--and a hyena--and a blunderbuss! _Her name is Sophronisba_!--I--oh, Lord, where's Jelnik? I have got to go and warn Jelnik!" And he made for the door. At that Alicia laughed. Peal upon peal, like silver bells, irrepressibly, infectiously, irresistibly, Alicia laughed. She cries with her eyes open and her mouth shut, and she laughs with her eyes shut and her mouth open. The effect is beyond all words enchanting. The doctor paused in his headlong flight. "All right: laugh!" he said, darkly. "But I shall warn Jelnik, none the less!" And muttering: "_Sophronisba!_ Lord have mercy on us! _Sophronisba!_" he departed hastily. "What a nice neighbor!" commented Alicia. She added, musingly: "Sophy, this is an enchanted place--a place where one has good meals, bad advice, and black cats showered on one, free and gratis. All one has to do is to stand still and take things as they come!" "And hope one won't follow in the footsteps of one's predecessor, who was an unmitigated old devil." "At least," said Alicia, laughing, "_he_'ll never live to be an old woman, will he, Sophy?" "The man has the tact of a cannibal--" "The shoulders of a Hercules--" "An abominable temper--" "And a beautiful beard. Somehow, Sophy, I rather approve of a beard, on somebody his size. I decidedly approve of a beard!" "If his miserable hens come over here, I shall most certainly--" "Keep the eggs. We'll tell him so when he comes again." "Comes again? What, and my name Sophronisba?" "My own grandmother had the second sight; and _I_ don't need spectacles," said Alicia. "Sophy, that man has come into our lives to stay. I feel it in my bones! It's not an unpleasant feeling," she finished gracelessly. When Unc' Adam presently put in his appearance, he was profoundly impressed and respectful: we were brisk, unhaunted, and unafraid, after a night in Hynds House! The three colored women who had come with him, induced by cupidity and curiosity to enter ol' Mis' Scarlett's ill-omened domain, at first hung back. They were plainly prepared to bolt at the first unusual noise. Of the three, one--by name Mary Magdalen--proved to be a heaven-born, predestinated cook; and her we persuaded, by bribery, cajolery, and subornation of scruples, to remain with us permanently. Only, she flatly refused to stay on the place overnight. Darkness shouldn't catch Mary Magdalen under the Scarlett Witch's roof-tree. There are certain gifted beings who possess the secret of bringing order out of chaos; for them the total depravity of inanimate objects has no terrors; inanimate objects become docile to their will. Such a one was Mary Magdalen. In two days she had transformed a sooty cavern into a clean and orderly kitchen. For she was a singing and a scourful woman, and her Sign was the speretual and the scrubbing-brush. It is true that she put a precious old Spode tea-pot on the stove and boiled the tea in it; that she hung her wig and the dish-towel on the same nail; and that she immediately asked for a white stocking foot to use as a coffee-bag. "But don't you-all go bust no new pai'h," she advised economically. "Ah 'd rathah make mah coffee in a ol' white stockin' foot any day, jes' so you ain't done wo' out de toes too much." "Sophy," said the horror-struck Alicia, "that woman must be watched until we can buy a percolater. Suppose she's got 'a ol' white stockin' foot' of her own!" Despite which there never was, never will be, such another cook as Mary Magdalen. It is true she wasn't amenable to discipline, and reason wasn't her guiding-lamp. And nothing--not bribes, threats, entreaties, prayers, orders, commands, moral suasion--could break her of doing just what she wanted to do just when and how she wanted to do it. You'd be entertaining your dearest enemies, serene in the consciousness that your house was a credit to your good management; and behold, Mary Magdalen in the drawing-room door, with her wig askew and her hands rolled in her apron: "Oh, Miss Sophy!" "Well?" say you, resignedly, with a feigned smile; "what is it, Mary Magdalen?" "Miss Sophy, you know we-all's sugah?" "Yes." "Wellum, Miss Sophy, 't ain't any." "I have already ordered more, Mary Magdalen." "An' you know ouah flouah, Miss Sophy?" "I--" "Us ain't got a Gawd's speck!" Then she would beam upon the visitors, all of whom were known to her. "Howdy, Miss Sally! How you-all comin' on? Ah comin' 'round to see de baby soon 's Ah gits chanst." Or, "Lawsy me, Miss Jinny, dat boy o' yo's is jes' natchelly bustin' outer da clo'es wid growin', ain't he? He jes' de spit o' he pa, bless 'im!" Which untoward confidence didn't seem to surprise our visitors. They had Mary Magdalens of their own. A few days later Doctor Geddes sent us Schmetz, the gardener, a gnarled little man with a peppery temper, a torrential flow of Alsatian French, and a tireless energy. I don't know why nor how Schmetz had come to Hyndsville, except that somehow he had acquired a small farm near by and couldn't get away from it. He explained to us, gently but firmly, that if we wouldn't meddle after the manner of women, but would leave his job in his own hands, it would be better for us, and for the garden. We meekly acquiescing, he called in helpers and with a wave of his hand set hoe and ax and spade to work. The weather had changed into days of deep blue skies, splendid days full of the warmth of potential power; and nights filled with fragrance, nights of fierce beauty, and the glamour of golden moons, and the thrilling melody of that feathered Israfel, the mocking-bird. Through our open windows immense moths, spirits of the summer nights, drifted in on enameled and jeweled wings and circled in a fire-worshiping dance around our light. Those were wonderful days. For that was a house of surprises, a house full of laid-by things. One never knew what one was going to find. One morning it might be a Ridgway jug all delicate vine leaves and faun heads, or an old blue-and-white English platter, or a piece of fine salt-glaze. On the top shelf of a long-locked closet, pushed back in the corner, you'd discover a full set of the most beautiful sapphire glassware, and a pagoda work-box with ivory corners; and on a lower shelf, wrapped in half a moth-eaten shawl, two glowing luster jugs in proof condition. Mary Magdalen salvaged a fine china sillabub stand, with little white-and-gold covered cups on it, from a sooty box under a kitchen cupboard. A back drawer of the dusty office desk yielded up half a dozen exquisite prints. And I'm sure Alicia will remember even in heaven the ecstasy she experienced when a battered bureau gave into her hands the adorable Bow figures of Kitty Clive and Woodward the actor, she pink-and-white, petticoated and furbelowed, lovely as when London went mad over her, and he cocked-hatted and ruffled and dandified; and neither with so much as the least littlest chip to mar their perfection. Or a hair trunk would reveal little frocks stitched by hand, and a pair of tiny flat slippers with strings gone to dust like the little feet that had worn them. With these were two dolls, one dressed in sprigged India muslin and lace, with a shepherdess hat glued on her painted head; the other dressed in a poke-bonnet, a satin sack, and a much-flounced skirt. They had evidently belonged to "Lydia, our Darling Child," whose name, in unsteady letters, was painfully set down in the printed picture-books at the bottom of the trunk. These things that had belonged to a "darling child" so long dead lent the grim old house a softening touch. Poor old house, whose little children had all gone, so long ago! It was the day we were taking up the beautiful old carpet in the back drawing-room. Alicia was rejoicing for the thousandth time over this treasure of hand-woven French art. Of a sudden, horrible yells rose from the garden, and a shrieking negro went by the window like an arrow. We caught "Murder!--Ol' Witch!--Corpses!" as he disappeared. Uncle Adam, catching his panic, bolted with him; the two negro women followed. Only Mary Magdalen, amazonian arms bare, a rolling-pin grasped in a formidable fist, stood like a rock of defense behind us. "Ah jes' wants to catch any ol' corpses trapesin' 'round mah kitchin, trackin' up mah clean flo', an Ah 'll suah settle day hash once fo' all!" trumpeted Mary Magdalen. Outside, Schmetz was jumping up and down, flapping his arms, and screaming in voluble French: "Name of a dog! Senseless Senegambians, remain! Iron-skulled offspring of the union of a black mule and a pickax, cease to fly!" "What is the matter? For heaven's sake? what is the matter?" I shouted. "We done dig up de corpses! We done fin' wha'h dat ol' witch 'oman bury de bodies!" howled a workman in reply. "Imbeciles, asses, beings without brains, listen to me!" shrieked Schmetz, this time in good English. "This corpse is not alive! Never yet was he alive! Return, sons of perdition, and assist me to raise him--may he fall upon your brain-pans of donkeys!" As if that had been all that was needed, the last wavering workman flung down his shovel and took to his heels, running like a rabbit and roaring as he ran. "Schmetz!" called a clear and peremptory voice. "Schmetz! what's the matter over there?" "Ah! It is Monsieur Jelnik!" bawled Schmetz. "_Nom de Dieu_, Monsieur Jelnik, come with a great quickness! I have dug from the earth the leetle boy of stone--you know him, _hein_? Those niggers, _sacrement_! they think they have uncovered the deceased corpse, the victim of Madame the late mistress, with which she made her spells of a sorceress." "What!" said the voice. "You've found the statue, Schmetz? Ask, my good fellow, if it is permitted that I come and view it." "Why, of course!" said I, quickly. "Thank you," said the voice. There had been a great space cleared in our garden, and on the edge of this, in removing a stubborn gum-tree, the negroes had uncovered what they supposed to be the body of one murdered. Upon our knees, with Schmetz helping us, we were trying to tear away the rotten coverings, and the dirt and mold. And there, beautiful despite the stains disfiguring him, lay the boy Love. The marble pedestal from which he had been removed lay near him. On the base, decipherable, was the sculptor's name, and on one side, in small letters, "_Brought from Italy, 1803, by R.H._" "Why, he is perfect!" cried Alicia, joyfully. "Oh, who could have been so stupid and so cruel as to hide away something so lovely? Poor dear little god, aren't you glad to get out of that grave and come back to the sun? Aren't you grateful, little god, that Sophy and I came to Hynds House?" And at that moment a tall, slim, dark-skinned young man walked up, hands behind his back, and stood there regarding us with eyes as clear and cool as mountain water when the sunlight is upon it and golden flecks come and go in its brown depths. The exquisitely aquiline features, the small black mustache, an indescribably proud and high-bred ease and grace of manner and bearing, were oddly exotic and even more oddly fascinating. His slenderness was as strong as a tempered sword-blade, his quietness was trained power in repose. And the hair of his head was so black that a purplish shadow rested upon it, and so thick that one was minded of Absalom: ... in all Israel there was none to be so much praised as Absalom for his beauty: from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him. And when he polled his head (for it was at every year's end that he polled it: because the hair was heavy on him, therefore he polled it:), he weighed the hair of his head at two hundred shekels after the king's weight. He was so vivid and so new to me that my whole being was breathless with the wonder of him. I knew, of course, that he did not belong to _my_ world at all. King's sons are for princesses, for those human birds of paradise that flash, beautiful and fortunate, in larger spheres than those prosaic paths trodden by a workaday woman named Smith. "What have you found?" he asked, in a delightful voice. Alicia looked up. Her face was like the break of day for youngness and freshness, and a wisp of a bright curl misbehaved itself on her cheek, a flirtatious curl that knew exactly how to make the most of its opportunities. The young man's eyes approved of it. "We have found Love!" cried Alicia, breathlessly. "Sophy and I have found Love in our garden! Isn't it wonderful and impossible and exciting and delightful? But it's true! And it just goes with this whole place!" cried Alicia, morning-eyed and May-faced. The young man's glance came back to me. I should hate to be untruthful, and have to meet so straight a glance! "Why, yes. It is impossible, and, like all impossible things, perfectly true," he agreed, with the golden flecks dancing in and out of his eyes and a slow and lazy smile, a sort of secret smile, curving his beautiful, mocking mouth. "Fancy finding Love, of all things, in Sophronisba's garden!" A fine black line of eyebrow went up whimsically. "And now that you have found him," said Mr. Jelnik, "hadn't you better let me help you set him up?" CHAPTER IV THE HYNDSES OF HYNDS HOUSE When the fine weather had taken the kinks out of Judge Gatchell's joints, he came to see us--a tall, thin, punctilious, saturnine old gentleman with frosty Scotch eyes and the complexion of a pair of washed khaki trousers. Chaos reigned in Hynds House then, and he was forced to pick his way, like an elderly and cautious cat, between piled-up chairs, tables, and rolls of carpet. In the most stately manner he parted the tails of his skirted coat, seated himself upon the sofa, placed his hat beside him, drew up the knees of his black broadcloth trousers, took off and wiped his spectacles with great thoroughness and deliberation upon a large silk handkerchief, replaced them upon the middle of his Roman nose, cleared his throat, pursed his lips, and drily but clearly talked business. Great-Aunt Sophronisba would have left a much larger fortune had she been less addicted to lawsuits. You wouldn't think an old soul of almost a hundred could find very much chance to brew mischief, would you? You didn't know Great-Aunt Sophronisba! I was informed that the case of Scarlett vs. Geddes had been automatically closed by the death of the plaintiff; _but_ I had inherited along with Hynds House: The case of Scarlett vs. The Vestry and Pastor of St. Polycarp's Church, from whom Mrs. Scarlett sought to recover three paintings--"Faith," "Hope," and "Charity"--which her father had commissioned a visiting artist to paint, and had then presented to St. Polycarp's, with the stipulation that they should "forever hang in the sacred edifice, reminding the brethren of the Cardinal Virtues of the Christian Religion." They did hang in the church for a century. Then, when the Ladies' Missionary Society was helping "do over" the parsonage, a faded Faith, a dulled Hope, and a fly-specked Charity were transported thither. Whereupon suit was immediately brought by the donor's daughter, who averred that the church had lost all right and title to the paintings by an action directly contrary to her father's will, and insisted that they should be turned over to herself as sole heiress. It was a nice little case, and called forth an imposing array of counsel. Mrs. Scarlett had added a codicil to her will, leaving _me_ her claim to the three paintings "fraudulently withheld by the pastor and vestrymen of St. Polycarp's Church." There was, too, the question of the lot on Lafayette Street, between Zion Church on the one hand, and the Y.M.C.A. on the other. Both had tried to buy it; and both had been refused with contumely. Instead, that nice old lady ran up extra-sized bill-boards. Every time the Zionist brethren looked out of their side windows of a Sunday, they had ample opportunity to learn considerable about the art of advertising on bill-boards. And if a circus happened to be coming to Hyndsville, they could count on every child in their Sunday school missing his lesson, unless the text, by a fortunate chance, happened to touch upon the prophet Daniel. And when the Y.M.C.A. people looked out of _their_ side windows, Sophronisba's alluring bill-boards besought them to smoke only certain cigarettes and to be sure to look for the trademark on their playing-cards. Naturally, this made the Y.M.C.A. secretaries very, very happy. A weather-beaten picket fence protected the lot upon the street front; the bill-boards formed the side attractions; and in the center front was the monument, a stone of stumbling and offense. It was a neat, plain granite obelisk, which bore this inscription: This Stone is Erected By the Affection of Sophronisba Hynds Scarlett To Commemorate the Many Virtues of The Most Perfect Gentleman in Hyndsville Her Bloodhound NIPPER "There should have been an open season for Sophronisba," Alicia said with conviction. Then she put her head down and laughed. The judge looked at her over his glasses, doubtfully. With a slight edge to his voice he referred to the several prosecutions "for wanton and wilful trespassings" upon the closed, barbed-wire lane behind Hynds House. As the strip in question was not a public thoroughfare, and Mrs. Scarlett had rock-ribbed titles covering it, she could close it; and she did, greatly to the inconvenience of her immediate neighbors, particularly Doctor Richard Geddes. "There is something to be said for Mrs. Scarlett's methods," said the judge dryly. "The Lafayette Street bill-boards are the best-paying ones in Hyndsville. As to closing the lane, Miss Smith, let me remind you that Doctor Geddes, although an estimable man and a very able physician, is not at all backward in coming forward in a quarrel. He greatly angered my late client." "Nevertheless, that barbed wire comes down. He may use the lane whenever he wants to," I decided. The judge bowed. "And now," he said, politely, "let us take up the case of Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, if you please. It was Mrs. Scarlett's wish that you should be fully informed concerning Mr. Jelnik's antecedents, that you might be on your guard." "Against Mr. Jelnik? But, good heavens, why? Why?" I was beginning to get angry. "Let me see: I am to make myself odious to Mr. Jelnik, and I am to refuse to allow a physician to run his car through a barren strip of weeds and sand, because they are her relatives and she hated her relatives. I am to vex the souls of harmless Christians with bill-posters of the world, the flesh, and the devil, and I'm to pay taxes on a lot that's been turned into a cemetery for a hound dog. I'm to fight St. Polycarp's Church, for a couple of chromos I should probably loathe.--I don't like pictures of cardinal virtues, anyhow. It altogether depends on who possesses them as to whether I can stand for the cardinal virtues themselves." "Faith looking up, and Charity looking down, and Hope hanging to an anchor, _something_ like Britannia-Rules-the-Waves. Make the church keep them, please, Sophy!" begged Alicia. Judge Gatchell made an odd noise in his throat. "One of my little granddaughters, taken to Saint Polycarp's by her mother, asked, 'Mamma, who is that big woman up there with the pick-axe?' And they told her," said the Judge, scathingly, "they told her it was _Hope_! "When the vestry came to me about the case, I reminded them that Aholah and Aholibah were damned for doting upon paintings on the wall, painted in vermilion, which in plain English is Scarlett!" A covenanting gleam shot into his frosty eyes, and the old fighting Scotch blood showed for a second in his lank cheek. He was a godly man, and when he saw confusion in the ranks of the Philistines, he rejoiced. "I can't help who was damned," said I. "My job is to live in peace with my neighbors. St. Polycarp's people may hang their Virtues wherever they please, for all of me." Did a faint, faint shade of regret flit over the parchment-like face? It seemed so to me. But he said, composedly: "You must act according to your best judgment. And now, please, let us go back to Mr. Nicholas Jelnik." We rather prided ourselves upon the possession of so pleasant a neighbor, and we said so. He had helped us with our garden, and it was he who selected the spot upon which the resurrected Love should be set up. "Ah, yes, the statue, brought from Italy by Richard Hynds, a great grandfather of his. Did he tell you anything about Richard?" asked the judge. "Nothing." "I shall have to go a long way back, more than a hundred years, to make you understand," said the judge. "When I was a boy some of the oldest folk here in Hyndsville used to say that Hynds House never should have come to Freeman Hynds, Mrs. Scarlett's father; but to Richard Hynds, his elder brother--that same Richard whose initials are cut in the base of the statue he brought in his pagan godlessness from Italy, and which his brother afterward buried, wishing to remove all trace of him and his follies. "You are to understand that it was the unwritten law of the Hyndses' that this house should come to the eldest son. Primogeniture is of course foreign to American ideas, but this is an old house, Miss Smith. When it was built, American ideas hadn't been born. And the Hyndses were a law to themselves. "The then head of the house was James Hampden Hynds, a man of an immense pride, a rigid sense of duty, and the nicest notions of honor. He had two sons, Richard, and the younger brother, Freeman. The daughters do not count: it is with these two sons we are concerned. "From every account Freeman Hynds was a good man, a quiet, God-fearing, methodical man, attentive to his affairs, and meticulously exact in all his dealings; not warm-hearted, perhaps, but just. But as if the bad blood of the entire family had come to a head in one man, Richard was born a roisterer and a spendthrift. "He grew up a magnificent young scapegrace, reckless to the point of madness, and with that inherent love of risk that is the very breath of life to such men. Despite these defects there is no doubt that his was one of those personalities that win love without effort. So of course it was a foregone conclusion that he should win the girl that his younger brother, among others, adored to distraction. "His family hoped that his love for his young wife would change him for the better. But there was something tamelessly wild in Richard Hynds. He would have done very well, very well indeed, in the _Golden Hind_ with Drake, or in the _Jesus_ with Morgan. He did not fit in a gentler generation, and a mild life had no charm for him. Gossip buzzed with his name, even in a day when gentlemen were permitted to behave pretty much as they pleased. "Up to this time there had never been anything altogether unpardonable charged against him. But one fine morning the Hynds jewels were missing. Remember that the Hyndses had always been a wealthy and powerful family. The theft of those jewels was no trumpery affair. For generations they had been adding to that collection--sometimes a lustrous pearl, sometimes a flawless emerald; once it was a sapphire that had belonged to a French queen, once a pair of rubies that had hung in the ears of a duchess beloved of King Charles. "Richard's mother happened to be a meek and quiet body, deeply religious, something of a Quakeress, so she wore them but seldom. It was upon the occasion of a ball to be given in honor of Freeman's twenty-first birthday that the question of what jewels his mother should wear came up, and the strong-box in which they were kept was opened. Only the settings remained. "When the clamor quieted and sane questions began to be asked, suspicion fastened upon Richard Hynds. His affairs were chaotic, his needs imperative and desperate. He had been heard to ask his mother if she intended wearing what he called 'the Hynds fortune' at Freeman's ball. He knew, of course, where they were kept--in the anteroom of his mother's apartment. It was not only possible but easy for him to gain access to them. "Let us consider the case without prejudice: Here is a young man--a gambler, a wastrel--with pressing debts, and clamoring creditors threatening what might be considered dishonor. Within reach of this young man's hand are certain very valuable properties which he might even consider his own, since they would in time descend to him. His mother's resources are exhausted, his father's heart steeled against further advancements. Cause and effect, you see--debts: missing jewels. "The case not only formed two factions in public opinion; it split the Hynds family itself. His two sisters, and his cousin Jessamine, raised in this house, believed him guilty. His mother and his wife believed in his innocence and refused to hear a word against him. These two things only did Richard Hynds salvage in that utter wreck and catastrophe--his mother's faith and his wife's love. "He lost his father's. This was a man, who, under his pleasant exterior of a landed gentleman, was rigid and inflexible. He had already borne a great deal, remember; but this was disgrace, an indelible stain upon a stainless name. Therefore this father, who was at the same time a just and good man, disinherited his favorite child and eldest son. House, slaves, lands, money, the great position of the head of a powerful family, came to Freeman Hynds, my late client's father, born five years later than his brother, on the twentieth day of September, 1785--a long time ago! a long time ago! "Richard was disgraced, and a beggar. And it seemed that the rod that had lain in pickle for the Hyndses for their pride, was brought forth to scourge them all. For Richard, desperate, distracted, careless of what happened to him, rode out one day through a pelting rain. Result, congested lungs; the poor wastrel, who had no wish to live, was soon satisfactorily dead. "When James Hampden got that news, he rose up from his chair, laid the book he had been reading--it was Baxter's 'Saint's Rest'--down on the library table and fell as if lightning had struck him. Apoplexy, it was said; a thrust through the heart, I should call it. Richard the sinner was none the less Richard his first-born. "Hard upon the heels of these two disasters came a third, the case of Jessamine Hynds. This Jessamine--a highly gifted, imperious creature, proud as Lucifer, after the manner of the Hyndses--was an orphan, reared in Hynds House. She was some several years older than her cousins, to whom she was greatly attached. The trouble so preyed upon her that she became melancholy, and one fine day disappeared and was never afterward found. There was great hue and cry made for her, and men riding hither and yon, for this was a Hynds woman, and her story touched popular imagination, so that she is supposed," said the lawyer dryly, "to wander around Hynds House o' nights, crying for Richard and searching for the lost jewels. "After the death of James Hampden Hynds, it was discovered that he had added a singular enough codicil to his will. This codicil provided that in the event the jewels were found intact, and Richard Hynds's innocence thereby incontrovertibly established, Hynds House as it stood should revert to him as eldest son, after the custom of the family. _But_ until the jewels were recovered, Richard and his heirs were to have exactly--nothing. And nothing is what Richard and his heirs got." "And was he really guilty?" breathed Alicia. Her sympathy was instantly with Richard. That is exactly like Alicia, who is sorry for the fatted calf, and the Egyptians drowned in the Red Sea, and Esau swindled out of his birthright; had she been one of the wise virgins she would have trimmed the lamps of all the foolish ones and waked them up in time. "In theory," said the judge, "a man is innocent until he is proved guilty. In practice, he is guilty until he can prove his innocence." "And was nothing, absolutely nothing, ever heard or known further?--nothing that would justify his mother's faith, or comfort his poor young wife's heart?" "There was but one incident to which even the most credulous could attach the slightest importance. You shall judge for yourself whether it deserved any. Freeman Hynds, riding about the plantation after his habit, was thrown from his horse and died from the injuries sustained. He recovered consciousness for a few minutes before he died; some said he never really regained it. Be that as it may, the dying man cried out, in a voice of great anguish and affliction: '_Richard! Brother Richard! The jewels--the jewels!_' He struggled to say more, and failed; looked into the concerned faces around him, with the awful look of the soul about to depart; struggled to raise himself; and fell back upon his pillow a corpse. "Some--they were in the majority--said, sensibly enough, that the pain and disgrace of his brother's downfall had haunted the poor gentleman's death-bed, and occasioned that last sad cry. Some few said he had wished to confess a thing heavy upon his conscience, who had taken his brother's place as Jacob took Esau's. Richard's wife, of course, was of these latter. She went to her grave a passionate believer in the innocence of her husband, whom she averred to have been a deeply wronged and cruelly used man; and, for heaven's sake, who do you suppose she claimed had wronged him? Freeman! She couldn't prove anything; she hadn't the ghost of a clue to hang the ghost of an accusation upon; yet, womanlike, she clung to her notion, and she taught it to her son as one teaches a holy creed. "The Hyndses were excellent haters. Freeman's daughter, born into an atmosphere of family disruption, abhorred the very memory of her uncle, and hated her uncle's wife, the woman who doubted and led others to doubt her father's honesty. This hatred she discovered for Richard's son, who, as he grew older, referred to Freeman as 'my Uncle Judas.' "This second Richard became in time a highly successful physician, a man honored and beloved by this community. There was no wildness in _him_, nor in his son, the third Richard. His granddaughter Sarah Hynds married Professor Doctor Max Jelnik, the celebrated Viennese alienist, whom she met abroad. Your next-door neighbor is Sarah's son, born somewhere in Hungary, I believe. Both the young man's parents are dead, and I understand he has led a vagrant and irresponsible life, preferring to rove about rather than follow his father's profession, to which he was educated. "My late client, indeed, held that he had inherited the deplorable characteristics of the first Richard. She asserted--she allowed herself great freedom of speech--that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. It displeased her that he should come to Hyndsville. She thought it showed a malignant nature and a peculiar shamelessness that he chose to reside next door to Hynds House, from which his great-great-grandfather had been so ignominously driven. Her first meeting with the young man bred in her an ineradicable dislike." Now what really happened is this: The fences having been neglected, and in consequence fallen down, and the hedge broken in many places, Mr. Jelnik, just come to Hyndsville, thoughtlessly and perhaps ignorantly crossed the sacred Scarlett boundaries. Up-stairs behind her blind, like an ancient spider in her web, the old lady spied him. She flung open the window and leaned out. "Who are you that prowl about other peoples' yards like a thievish cat?" she demanded peremptorily. The young man looked up, uncovering his beautiful head. "I am Nicholas Jelnik. And I pray your pardon, Madame: I did not mean to intrude," and he made as if to go. "Jelnik!" said she, in a hoarse and croaking voice. "Jelnik! Aha! I know your breed! I smell the blood in you--bad blood! rotten bad blood! You've a bad face, young man: a scoundrelly face, the face of a fellow whose grandfather robbed his house and shamed his name! And why have you come near Hynds House, at this hour of the day? He, he, he! _I_ know, _I_ know!" Lost in astonishment, Jelnik remained staring up at her. The apparition of this venerable vixen, who had hated Richard's son and now hated him of a later generation, who had seen those that had talked to Richard himself in his ill-fated lifetime, so stirred his imagination that it deprived him of utterance. All he could do was to stand still and stare and stare and stare. He had never seen anybody so old--she was nearly a hundred, and looked a thousand--and he stared at the old, old, wrinkled, yellow face, the unhuman face, in which the beady black eyes burned with wicked fire; at the nearly bald head, thinly covered with a floating wisp or so of wool-like white hair; at the claw-like, shriveled, yellow hands, the stringy neck, the whole sexless meager wreck of what had been a woman. It was a stare made up of wonder, and instinctive dislike, and human pity, and young disgust. She raised her voice: "Did you not see those signs? Scoundrel, puppy, foreign-born poacher, didn't you see my sign-boards?" And as she looked down at him--Richard's blood alive and red in a youthful and beautiful body: and _she_ what she was--she fell into one of those futile and dreadful fits of rage to which the evil old are subject; and mumbled with her skinny bags of lips, and shook and nodded her deathly head, and waved her claw-like hands, screeching insults and abuse. The pity died out of Jelnik's face. He regarded her with his father's eyes, the calm, impersonal, passionless gaze of the trained alienist. She was an unlovely exhibition, to be studied critically. In some subtle manner she understood, for she jerked herself out of her anger, and fell silent, regarding him with a glance as brilliantly, deadly bright as a tarantula's. The cold, relentless hate of that glance chilled him. He forced himself to bow to her again, and to beat a dignified retreat, when his inclination was to take to his heels like a school-boy caught pilfering apples. The next morning a bailiff presented Mr. Nicholas Jelnik with a notice forbidding him to enter the grounds of Hynds House without the written permission of the owner, and threatening prosecution should he disobey. "The Hyndses, as I have said, are good haters," finished Judge Gatchell. "And so she left Hynds House to me," said I without, I am afraid, much gratitude. "It was hers, to dispose of as she chose." The lawyer spoke crisply. "If you have any scruples, dismiss them. My late client understood that it was far better for the estate to fall into the hands of a sensible woman like yourself than into the keeping of a young man with what foolish people like to call the artistic temperament, which in plain English means a person who can't earn his salt in any useful, sensible business. "You doubt this? Let us consider this same artistic temperament and its results," continued the judge, making a wry face. "Once or twice it has been my bad fortune to meet it. One trifling scamp I have in mind, painted. A house, a fence, a barn, even a sign-board? Not at all, but messes he called 'The Sea,' one doesn't know why, save that the things slightly resembled raw oysters. However, the women raved over him. His laundress and his landlady had good cause to rave! "He wrote, too. A text-book, a title, a will, a deed, a business letter? Far from it! He wrote _poetry_, if you please! The little wretch wrote _poetry_! That's what the artistic temperament leads a man to! Bah! I hate, I despise, I abhor, the artistic temperament!" We looked at the judge, open-mouthed. "Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?" "There have been times," admitted the judge, subsiding, "when I radically disagreed with my late client; when I opposed her strongly. But when she willed her whole estate to you, Miss Smith, instead of to Nicholas Jelnik, I heartily approved. Understand, I have no personal bias, no animosity against this young man; but he is, I am told, more or less of an artist, and one might as well leave an estate to an anarchist at once. I have expressed this opinion to the town at large, and I seldom express my opinion publicly," finished the old jurist stiffly. I heard that opinion with mingled emotions. "But we like Mr. Jelnik," I said at last. "The injunction against him doesn't hold water. Personally, I feel like apologizing to him." "Oh, no! One can't afford to cuddle an old vendetta, as Abishag dry-nursed old King David. I always _hated_ Abishag!" Alicia said naïvely. "My late client," said the judge enigmatically, "hadn't counted on _you_." He almost succeeded in looking human when he said it, and his eyes upon Alicia weren't at all frosty. Then he folded his papers, replaced them in his wallet, wiped his glasses, shot his cuffs, hoped we'd find Hynds House all we'd hoped, hoped the town would be to our liking, hoped he could be of further service to us, bowed creakily, and took his departure. "Sophy," said Alicia, after a long pause, "if ever I had to rechristen this house, I'd call it Hornets' Nest." * * * * * We had not attended church on our first Sunday, because we were too tired. But on our second Sunday we plucked up heart of grace and went to St. Polycarp's. The old town wore an air of Sabbath peace and quietness infinitely soothing to the spirit. People passed and repassed us. We knew they knew who we were. The old gentlemen, indeed, bowed to us with stately uncoverings of the head; the rest regarded us with the sort of impersonal and perfunctory interest one bestows upon uninteresting passing strangers. Nobody spoke to us, though the eyes of the young men were not unaware of Alicia's fairness. In a great city, of course, one takes that sort of thing for granted; but in this small town, where everybody knew and spoke to everybody else, the effect was chilling. "Talk about the sunny South!" murmured Alicia. "Why, my teeth want to chatter!" During the services I was conscious of covert glances in our direction, but whenever a pair of feminine eyes met mine, they slid off like lizards and glided another way, with calculated Christian indifference. They weren't hostile, nor unfriendly: they were just deliberately indifferent. Nobody had the faintest notion of being heedful of us strangers among them; and I should be sorry for angels who expected to be entertained unawares in South Carolina! When the congregation had filed out and gone about its leisurely business, the minister and his wife came forward to greet us. They were a bit nervous, remembering the diabolic uproar about Faith, Hope, and Charity. Mr. Haile was a mild-mannered little man of the saved-sheep type, with box-plaited teeth and a bleating voice. His wife had the worried face and the anxious eyes of the minister's helpmeet, and the painfully ready smile for newcomers who might, or might not, prove desirable parishioners. She wanted to be nice to us as a Christian woman to women, but not too nice as the minister's wife of a church whose members looked upon us as interlopers. I had deputed Judge Gatchell to inform the trustees that the suit was dropped. I suppose Mrs. Haile was timid about broaching the delicate subject, for she ignored it with a nervous intensity that made me feel sorry for her. She and Mr. Haile would call just as soon as it was convenient for us to receive visitors; and then they shook hands with us, and I think they breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, Sophy! And we've got to keep on going there!--next Sunday, and Sunday after next Sunday, and maybe every Sunday after that until we die! Perhaps after a while some of them will bow to us, or maybe even say, 'How do you do?' _but_ we'll feel as if we'd been put in cold storage every time we enter that door!" wailed Alicia. "It is our Father's house," I reminded her. "But I don't want to be made to feel like a spanked child, in anybody's house!" Alicia said, resentfully. "You say that because you're Irish." "You say I say it because I'm Irish because you're English." Then she screwed up her mouth like a coral button, and squinted her eyes: "I'm Irish, and you're English, and we're both American. Sophy, let's join my Irish and your English to our Yankee, and teach this town a lesson!" "Barkis is willin'. But in the meantime let's go home and see what Mary Magdalen has for lunch." We walked slowly, enjoying the calm, lovely late-summer day. Hyndsville at its best was a big, green, sprawling old town, a quaint, unpainted, leisurely, flowery, bird-haunted place, with glorious trees, and do-as-they-please, independent gardens. Nobody ever seemed to be in a hurry, and at first we used to wonder how they ever got anything done, or kept pace with the moving world; yet they did. Only, they did it without haste and without noise. And they were _always_ polite. Though they should take your substance, your reputation, or even, perhaps, your life, they would do it like ladies and gentlemen. We paused a while, just inside the big brick-pillared gate, and looked up the oak-arched garden path toward our house. Of course one can't expect an old fortress of a brick house that's been neglected for more than three quarters of a century to look spick and span inside of a brief fortnight, but already Hynds House was sitting up, so to speak, and taking notice. Life had begun to flow back into it. Mary Magdalen had brought a dog with her--a yellow dog of unknown ancestry, of shamefaced demeanor, a ropy tail, splay feet, and a rolling eye; named, she and heaven alone knew why, Beautiful Dog. He shunned Alicia and me because we were white people: Beautiful Dog was intuitively aware that colored people's dogs must meet white people with suspicion, aloofness, and reserve. When we fatuously sought to make friends with him, he tucked his tail between his legs, and shivered as if we made goose-flesh come out on his spine; and once when I took him by his rope collar he fell down and shrieked. But just let Mary Magdalen roll out an unctious, "Whah is yuh, Beaut'ful Dawg?" and his ears and tail went up, he curveted, and made uncouth movements with his splay feet, and grinned from ear to ear. Doctor Geddes's Mandy had brought over the black kittens and their mother. Mary Magdalen made sure of their staying at home by the simple process of buttering their paws. In South Carolina, when you want a cat to stay in your house, you butter its paws and let it lick the butter off leisurely, the while you whisper in its left ear: "_Stay in my house for keeps, cat!_" The cat will ever thereafter play Ruth to your Naomi. Our cat was Mrs. Belinda Black, and her children were Potty Black and Sir Thomas More Black, this last being a creature of noble mien and a meditative turn of mind. "Homage and praise to Bast, the cat-headed, the wise one, the great goddess!" purred Alicia, stroking Mrs. Belinda Black's satiny head. "And may Sekhet the Cat of the Sun aid me, a devotee at her shrine, to butter the paws of some two-legged cats in Hyndsville!" "You-all's dinnah 's waitin'." Mary Magdalen stubbornly held to the notion that any meal eaten between breakfast and night was dinner; lunch being sandwiches and fried chicken taken out of a basket at church picnics and eaten out of one's hand, or lap, for choice. "What was de text to-day, Miss Sophy? Ah sort o' likes to chaw easy on a mout'ful o' text whilst Ah 'm washin' up mah dishes." We gave her the text, which happened to be one that fills every negro's heart with undiluted joy: "O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord." And we had the satisfaction of hearing her rolling out, to the clatter of pans and pots: "Dry bones in de valley, Ma-a-ah, La-a-awd! Whut yuh gwine do wid dem dry bones, Ma-ah-ah La-a-a-w-wd" while we went up-stairs to change our frocks. We were still sharing one room then, finding it more convenient. And there, in front of our door, in a nest of ferns and mosses, was a great cluster of wild flowers, summer's last and autumn's first children. They had been gathered in no ordered garden, but taken from the skirts of the fields and the bosom of the woods; and Carolina the opulent, the beautiful, the free-handed, does not deck herself niggardly. Alicia's face that had been so wistful lighted with a sudden joy. She gave a happy cry: "Ariel!" she cried, "Ariel! Oh, what a heavenly thing, what a _human_ thing to do! And to-day, too, just when we need a little bit of friendliness!" She looked around with a queer, shy smile. "Ariel!" she called, "Ariel, no matter who comes, or goes, or what happens in Hynds House, _we_ believe in you. Don't leave us, Ariel! Maker of music, bringer of blossoms, stay!" CHAPTER V "THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF" Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, with an uplift of his fine black brows and a satirical smile, once diagnosed the case of Great-Aunt Sophronisba Scarlett as "congenital Hyndsitis"; Doctor Richard Geddes said you'd only to take a glance at her house to see that she was predestined to be damned. _I_ know that she was so hidebound in her prejudices, so virulently conservative, so constitutionally opposed to change, that anything savoring of modernity was anathema to her. That old woman would as lief have had what remained of her teeth pulled out as have parted with anything once brought into Hynds House. She preserved everything, good, bad, indifferent. You'd find luster cider jugs, maybe a fine toby, old Chinese ginger jars, and the quaintest of Dutch schnapps bottles, cheek by jowl with an iron warming-pan, a bootjack, a rusty leather bellows, and a box packed with empty patent-medicine bottles, under the pantry shelf. A helmet creamer would be full of little rolls of twine, odd buttons, a wad of beeswax, a piece of asafetida, elastic bands, and corks. She had used a Ridgway platter with a view of the Hudson River on it, as a dinner plate for her hound, for we found it wrapped up, with "Nipper's platter" scrawled on the paper. By and large, it wasn't an easy task to renovate a brick barracks finished in 1735, and occupied for ninety-nine years by a lady of Sophronisba's parts; though I sha'n't tell how we had to tackle it room by room, nor of the sweating hours spent in, so to speak, separating the sheep things from the goat things. I can't help stopping for a minute, though, to gloat over the front drawing-room that presently emerged, with a cleaned carpet that proved to be a marvel of hand-woven French art, rosewood sofas and chairs upholstered in royal blue and rubbed to satiny-browny blackness, two gloriously inlaid tables, and a Venetian mirror between two windows. We gave the place of honor on the white marble mantel to a porcelain painting Alicia found in a work-box--the picture of a woman in gray brocade sprigged with pink-and-blue posies, a lace fichu about her slim shoulders, and a cap with a rose in it covering her parted brown hair. The little boy leaning against her knees had darker blue eyes, and fairer hair pushed back from a bold and manly forehead. The painting was about the size of a modern cabinet photograph, and, though pleasing and spirited, was evidently the work of a gifted amateur. What gave it potent meaning and appeal was the inscription lettered on the back: _Mrs. Lydia Hariott Hynds & Rich'd. Hynds Ag'd 7 Paint'd for Col'nl. J.H. Hynds by his Affec. Neece Jessamine_ You couldn't help loving him, the little "Richard Ag'd 7." There was that in the face which won you instantly; it was so clear-eyed, so gallant, so brave, so _honest_. So we gave him and his pretty, meek mother the place of honor in the room that had once heard his laughter and seen her tears. And we brought down-stairs the fine painting of Colonel James Hampden, who was the splendid colonial in claret-color that we had so much admired, and hung him and a smaller painting marked, "Jessamine, Aged 22" where they could look down on those two. These were the only pictures allowed in that room, and they gave to it an atmosphere flavored most sweetly of yesterday. Indeed, I think they must have approved of the room altogether, for we hadn't changed so much as we'd restored it. Even the glass shades that use'd to shield their wax candles were in their old places. There was their old-world atmosphere of stateliness; their Chinese jars, their English vases, their beautiful old Chelsea figures; and the sampler so painstakingly _Work'd by Ann Eliza Hynds Ag'd 9 Yrs. 2 Mos., Nov'r, 1757_ that had been carefully framed and mounted as a small fire-screen, perhaps for Ann Eliza's lady mama or proud grandmother. It was such human and intimate things, the mute mementoes of children who had passed, that made us begin to love Hynds House, for all its bigness and uncanniness and dilapidation. We did discover one human touch laid upon the place by Sophronisba herself. She had gathered together a full set of small, hand-colored photographs of Confederate generals, wrapped them in a hand-made Confederate flag, into which was tucked a receipt signed by Judah Benjamin for Hynds silver melted into a bar and given to the Cause, written, "The glory is departed," across the package, and hidden it. Alicia, who had a hankering after Confederates, herself, put the photographs in a leather-covered album at least as old as themselves, and kept them sacredly. She said these were America's own vanquished and vanished Trojans, and that one got a lump in the throat remembering how Fallen are those walls that were so good, And corn grows now where Troy town stood. Schmetz brought us our upholsterer, Riedriech the cabinet-maker, most cunning of craftsmen, who knew all there is to know about old furniture and just what should and shouldn't be done to it. In addition he was a grizzled, bearded, shambling old angel who clung to a reeking pipe and Utopian notions, a pestilent and whole-hearted socialist who would call the President of the United States or the president of the Plumbers' Union "Comrade" equally, and who put propagandist literature in everything but our hair. "Mr. Riedriech," you would say reproachfully, "yesterday I discovered Karl Marx and Jean Jaurès lurking behind my coffee-pot and Fourier under the butter-dish. To-day I find Karl Kautsky in ambush behind the cream-jug and Frederick Engels under the rolls." Riedriech would regard you paternally, placidly, benevolently, through his large, brass-rimmed spectacles: "So? Little by little the drop of water the granite wears away. I give you the little leaflet, the little pamphlet, _und_ by and by comes the little hole in your head." Thank heaven the doctor next door didn't hear that! Alicia knew how to handle the old visionary with innocent but consummate skill. Looking at the kind old bear with her Irish eyes: "It must be a wonderful thing to have such mastery of one's tools, to know exactly what to do and how to do it," she would sigh. "'Tisn't everybody can be a master craftsman!" "I show you in a little while what iss cabinet-making!" he said proudly. "I do more yet by you," he added charitably, "then make over for you chairs and tables and such, already: I make over for you your little mind." The old socialist did indeed show us what cabinet-making can be. He turned the office behind the library into a workroom, and from it Sophronisba's tattered and torn and forlorn old things emerged, piece by piece, in shining rosewood and walnut and mahogany majesty. If you love old furniture; if it gives you a thrill just to touch a period chair of incomparable grace, or the smooth surface of an old table, or the curve of a carved sofa, you'll understand Alicia's open rapture and my more sedate delight. The tiled fireplace in the library was really the feature of Hynds House. There wasn't any mantel: the fireplace was sunk into the wall, and above it and the book-cases on each side was a space filled with more relics than all the rest of the house contained--portraits, signed and framed documents, letters, old flags, and a whole arsenal of weapons. Above the fireplace hung the portrait of Freeman Hynds--thin, dark, austere, more like a Cameronian Scotsman than a Carolina gentleman of an easy habit of life. However, it was not portrait or relics that made the room remarkable, but the tiles, each a portrait of a Revolutionary hero. Laurens, Marion, Lafayette, Pulaski, von Steuben--there they were in buff and blue, martial, in cocked hats, and with such awe-inspiring noses! The center and largest tile was, of course, the Father of his Country, without the hat, but with the nose, and above him the original flag, with the thirteen stars for the thirteen weak-kneed little states that were to grow into the great empire of freedom that the high-nosed, high-hearted soldiers fought for and founded. Alicia and I touched those tiles with reverence. They were the pride of our hearts. As often happens in the South, there were bedrooms on the lower floor; two of them, in fact, on one side of the hall. The front one had been not only locked but padlocked; the windows had been nailed on the inside, and heavy wooden shutters nailed on the outside. So long had the room been closed that dry-rot had set in. The silk quilt on the four-poster was falling to pieces, the linen was as yellow as beeswax, and the sheets made one think of the Flying Dutchman's sails. This room was of almost monastic severity: an ascetic or a stern soldier might have occupied it. Besides the bed it contained four chairs, a clothes-press, a secretary, and a shaving-stand. On a small table near the bed were a Wedgwood mortar with a heavy pestle, a medicine glass, and a pewter candlestick turned as black as iron. The press in the corner still held a few clothes, threadbare and sleazy, and in the desk were some dry letters and a Business Book--at least, that's how it was marked--with lists of names, each having an occupation or task set down opposite it, I suppose the names of long-dead slaves. On the fly-leaf was written, in a neat and very legible hand, "_Freeman Hynds_." "Sophy!" Alicia's voice had an edge of awe. "This must have been his room. I believe he died here, in this very bed. And afterward they shut the room up; and it hasn't been opened until now." We looked at the old bed, and seemed to see him there, trying to raise himself, crying out so piteously upon dead Richard's name, only to fall back a dead man himself. What had he wanted to tell, as he lay there dying? His painted face in the library was not a bad man's face. It was proud, stern, stubborn, bigoted; a dark, unhappy face, but neither an evil nor a cruel one. What was it that really lay between those two brothers? After more than a hundred years, we were as much in the dark as they in whose day it had happened and whose lives it had wrecked. We built a fire in the long-disused chimney to take the dampness out of the room, and forced open the windows to let in the good sun and wind. Over in one corner, pushed in between the clothes-press and the side wall, was, of all things, a prie-dieu; and upon it a dusty Bible with his name on the fly-leaf. Nor was it a book kept for idle show; it plainly had been read, perhaps wept over by a tortured heart, for it fell open at that cry of all sad hearts, the Fifty-first Psalm. I was moving this prie-dieu, when my foot slipped on the bare floor and I dropped it with a crash. Fortunately it was not injured. But what had looked like a mere line of carving on the outer edge of the small shelf--rather a thick and heavy shelf now that one examined it carefully--had been struck smartly, releasing a cunning spring. There opened out a thin slit of a drawer, just big enough to hold a flat book bound in leather and stamped with two letters, "F.H." On the fly-leaf appeared, in his own neat, fine script, "_The Diary of Freeman Hynds, Esqr._" The thing seemed incredible, impossible. His own daughter had evidently been unaware of the existence of this book, which he had not had time to destroy. And we, as by a miracle, had fallen upon it--and perhaps the truth! It was written in so fine and small a hand as was only possible to the users of goose-quill pens; and this tiny, faded, brown writing on the yellowed pages covered a period of years. He had not been one to waste words. Once or twice, as we hurriedly turned the pages, appeared the name "Emily." Mostly it seemed a dry, uninteresting thing, a mere memorandum, where a single entry might cover a whole year. It was impossible for us to stop our work to read it then and there, or to do more than give it a cursory glance. We turned feverishly to those years that covered, as we figured, the period of the Hynds tragedy. And he had written: This day was Accus'd Rich'd. my Bro. of robbing us of our Jewells. He protests he knows Naught & my Mthr. believes him as doth Emily. Has a true Heart, Emily. Horrid Confusion & my Fthr. Confound'd. Impatiently I turned over the pages, raging to read the end, my heart pounding and fluttering. Two nights since dy'd Scipio, son of old Shooba's wife, the which did send for me-- Thus far had I read, Alicia and I sitting head to head on the hall stairs. In came Schmetz the gardener, raving, gesticulating, and after him old Uncle Adam, stepping delicately, and with a placating smile on his wrinkled countenance. "Those bulbs that I have planted under the windows of you," raved Schmetz, "the demon hens of _le docteur_ Geddes are with their paws upturning! They upturn with rapidity and completeness, led by a shameless hog of a rooster. Is it the orders of you that I devastate those fowls, Mademoiselle?" Schmetz was furiously angry, and small wonder. Those had been choice bulbs, some of which he had presented me from his own cherished store--freesias, daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and the starred narcissus, "such as Proserpine let fall, from Dis's wagon." "Oh, our flowers!" wailed Alicia, springing to her feet; "and we counting on those bulbs for Christmas!" I shut Freeman's diary with a snap. Hens were more immediate. "Put it in the drawer of the library table," called Alicia, running out with Schmetz at her heels. "We'll read it to-night." When I had done so, closing the door after me, I too ran outside, where some enormous black-and-white hens, led by the biggest rooster I had ever seen, were completing the utter destruction of our flower bed. We charged down upon them, and they ran to and fro, after the stupid fashion of fowls. Back and forth Alicia, Schmetz, and I chased those brutes; but Adam stood with folded hands, looking on from a safe and sane distance. He refused to have anything to do with Geddes fowls in ol' Mis' Scarlett's yard. Just then the huge rooster ran into my skirts, all but upsetting me. It was the work of a strenuous moment to seize him by the wings and so hold him. Left to their own devices, the hens scuttled back to their own domain through a break in the palings on our side of the hedge, while in my hands the rooster squawked and plunged and kicked and struggled; it was like trying to hold a feathered hyena. I was very angry. I had lost my bulb bed. I couldn't wring the neck of the raider, much as I should have liked to do so, but with an arm made strong by a just and righteous rage I lifted that big brute high above my head and hurled him over into his own yard. He sailed through the air like a black and white plane. "_Damn! Oh, damn!_" said somebody on the other side of the hedge. There was a horrible grunt, as of one getting all the wind knocked out of him, a scuffle, and the squawks of the big rooster, to which the hens dutifully added a deafening chorus. "The brute--has just about--murdered me!" grunted Doctor Richard Geddes. We stood in stricken silence. Swiftly, noiselessly, Uncle Adam faded from sight, putting a solid section of Hynds House between himself and what he felt was coming battle. Uncle Adam had no wish to have to pray me to death, and he wasn't going to run any risks with Doctor Richard Geddes. Where that irascible gentleman was concerned, Uncle Adam, like Br'er Rabbit, would "trus' no mistakes." A second later, red-faced, half-breathless, but with the light of battle in his eyes, Doctor Geddes appeared, mounted on a ladder on his side of the hedge. "Who shot off that rooster?" "_Monsieur le docteur_, the hens of you began this affray," explained Schmetz, politely. "They are fowls abandoned in their morals, horrible in their habits, and shameless in their behavior. And the husband of these wretches, Monsieur, is a bandit, a brigand, an assassin, fit only to be guillotined. Observe, Monsieur, it happened thus--" "Schmetz," snapped the doctor, "shut up!--Now then, I want to know who fired off that rooster." "I did!" I said valiantly. "Look at my bulbs! Just look at my bulbs!" "Look at my stomach!" roared the doctor. "Just look at my stomach!" "_Mon Dieu! O mon Dieu_!" cried Schmetz, dancing up and down. "Monsieur, again I implore that you will remain calm and listen to the voice of reason! Your hens, creatures malicious and accursed--" "Why should I look at your horrid stomach?" said I, outraged. "I think you had better get down off that ladder and go away!" "Why should you? Because, you jade, you've all but driven a twenty-pound rooster clean through it--beak, spurs and tail feathers--that's why!" bawled the doctor. "Gad! I shall be black and blue for a fortnight! I'm colicky now: I need a mustard-plaster!" "_Two_ mustard-plasters," I insisted severely: "one on your tongue and the other on your temper!" "Temper?" flared the doctor, and flung up his arms. "_Temper?_ Here's a minx that's all but murdered me, and yet has the stark effrontery to blather about temper! You've a bad one yourself, let me tell you! You've the worst, outside of your late aunt--" "Grand-aunt-in-law; your own cousin-by-blood, whom you greatly resemble in that same matter of family temper, I am given to understand." "Gatchell told you that!" cried the doctor, wrathfully. "Fish-blooded old mummy! _His_ place is in a Canopic jar! Gatchell hasn't had a thought since 1845." "Well, if he satisfied himself so long ago as 1845 that you have a frightful temper and that your hens are unutterable nuisances, I see no reason why he should change his mind," I said, frigidly. "You have; and your hens are; and your rooster is a _demon_!" "Straight out of the pit; undoubtedly they were hatched under Satan's wings. Monsieur, believe me, Schmetz, when I tell you so." "Didn't you ask me," I demanded, "to throw them over into your yard when they invaded my premises? Very well: I threw one over and you caught it. Why, then, should you complain?" "Oh, yes, I caught it!" A horrible sneer twisted his countenance. Schmetz fell to praying aloud. But he couldn't remember anything save the grace before meat, so he prayed that, in a sonorous voice. For he is a pious man. The doctor's nose wrinkled and his lips stretched: "_Sophronisba!_" he hissed, and, having hurled this hand-grenade, scuttled down the ladder like a boy of ten. Alicia sank upon the ground and rocked to and fro. For a minute I wanted to catch her by the shoulders and shake her soundly; but catching her eye instead, I also fell into helpless laughter. Leaning on his spade, Schmetz stared at us, shaking his grizzled head. "Name of a cat!" murmured the puzzled Alsatian, and fell to salvaging such bulbs as weren't utterly ruined. We were all busy at this, when a head again appeared over the hedge--a big, leonine head with a tossing mane and a tameless beard. An enormous pair of shoulders followed, a tree-trunk of a leg was swung over, and Doctor Richard Geddes dropped into our garden like a great cat. He strolled over, hands in pockets, and looking down at grubbing us, asked politely: "Making a garden?" "Oh, no," Alicia told him sweetly, "we're laying out a chicken-run." "Er--what I came over to say, is that I've got some fine bulbs, myself, this year, particularly fine bulbs--eh, Schmetz?--and more than I need for myself. Will you share them with me, Miss Smith? Please! I--well, I'd be really grateful if you would," said this overgrown boy. "We'll be enchanted," Alicia said instantly. "When can we have them, please?" "Now!" cried the doctor, with brightening eyes. "By jingo, I'll get 'em this minute, and plant 'em for you, too!" And he did. He was on his knees, trowel in hand, shouting to Riedriech, who had come outside for a few minutes' happy arguing with his good friend the doctor, that the socialist argument boiled down amounts to about this--that one should do without boiled eggs for breakfast now, in order that the proletariat may have baked hen for dinner in the millennium; which is lunacy; anybody with a modicum of brains-- "Brains!" snorted Riedriech. "What is it you know about brains? _No_ doctor knows what is on the inside of brains! You make tinkerings mit the inside plumbings, _Gott bewahre_! and cut up womens and cats and such-like poor little dumb beasts and says you, 'Now I know all about the brains of man.' It is right there where you are wrong, Comrade Geddes!" "_Habet!_" said Comrade Geddes. "Look you," said the old visionary, with sudden passion, "look you on the little bulb here, so dirty and ugly you hide him in the ground quick. So! But by and by comes up green shoots, and blossoms. So it is with the great thoughts of men, the deep race-thoughts, Comrade Geddes--seeds, bulbs, germs, all of them, in the ugly husks of the common people. Out of our muck and grime they come, the little green shoots which the fool will say is poison, maybe, but which the wise know and labor and make room for. I, Riedriech, and workers like me, we go into our graves nothing but husks. But it is out of the buried hearts of us comes green things growing; and then--_die Blumen! die Blumen!_" said the cabinet-maker, with a still, far-away look. "And," he finished, with a sad smile, "it is _our_ flowers that you put in vases of gold on your altars. And you say, 'Listen: Jesus the carpenter talks plain words to his fishermen friends.' And, 'Hush! Burns the plowman makes songs in the field!'" The doctor looked up, and his eyes were very tender; his smile made me wonder. With a swift, friendly hand he patted the rougher hand of the other. And it was at this opportune moment that Mary Magdalen led around a corner of Hynds House no less personages than Mrs. Haile and Miss Martha Hopkins. Their eyes fell upon Doctor Richard Geddes. They looked at each other. They looked at Alicia and me. And I knew their thoughts: "Sirens, both of you!" said Miss Hopkins's eyes. "How do you do, Doctor Geddes!" said both ladies, as demurely as cats. _I_ should have felt like a boy caught stealing jam. He went right on planting bulbs. "Hello, Martha. What's on the carpet now?" he greeted that lady, airily. "Writing another paper on 'The Ironic Note in Chivalry'? How about 'The Effect of the Pre-Raphaelites upon the Feeble-minded'? Or is it the 'Relation of the Child to Its Mother,' this time?" "You will have your little joke, Doctor," smiled Miss Hopkins, a dish-faced blonde with a cultured expression. "Joke?" The doctor stared up at her. "Joke? Gad, I'd like to believe it!" He turned to Alicia and me, politely: "Miss Hopkins," he informed us, "moves among us clothed in white samite. She is our center of culture; Hyndsville revolves around her." He went on putting a bulb in the place prepared for it. His eyebrows twitched slightly, but his mouth was smileless; Miss Hopkins was smiling, and not at all displeased. Mrs. Haile was bland and blank, as befits a minister's wife. Alicia's eyes were downcast, but a wicked dimple came and went in her cheek. She looked ravishingly pretty, the bright hair breaking into curls about her temples, her young face colored like a rose. I do not blame Doctor Richard Geddes for stopping in his work to stare at her with unabashed pleasure, but I do not think it was diplomatic. Mrs. Haile apologized for calling when we were so very busy. They had just stopped in passing, because they were reorganizing their missionary society and wanted to see if they couldn't interest us in the good work. Their day-school in Mozambique needed another teacher, and their hospital in Bechuanaland had to have more beds. Doctor Geddes got to his feet, slapped our garden soil from his knees, and shook his tawny mane. His eyes were no longer sweet. "Miss Smith and Miss Gaines, thank you for the opportunity of playing in the sand in pleasant company. Mrs. Haile, Miss Hopkins, I go to attend some home-grown niggers who of course don't need a hospital, nor even a decent school, in our Christian midst. Ladies, good afternoon!" He made a fleering motion of the hand and was gone. Mrs. Haile and Miss Hopkins smiled indulgently. Evidently, Doctor Geddes was one brother they were willing to forgive though he offended them until seventy times seven. Alicia and Miss Martha Hopkins walked down the garden path together and Mrs. Haile fell into step with me. In a low voice she thanked me, hurriedly, for having dropped that dreadful suit. And were we--she hesitated--were we going to be regular communicants? I didn't want to go to St. Polycarp's any more, and it was on the tip of my tongue to give a politely evasive reply, when our eyes met and held each other. I saw the naked truth in hers--the pitiful truth of the slim, poor, aristocratic little parish; the old church overtaken and surpassed by its more modern and middle-class rivals; and the minister's family struggling along on a salary that would have made a hod-carrier strike. She was neatly dressed; she looked like a gentle-woman, but one in straightened circumstances. I made a rapid mental calculation. "Why, yes, I think I can say we shall. Now, Mrs. Haile, I am a business woman, and if I speak bluntly you must pardon it. Miss Gaines and I can give two hundred dollars a year between us--fifty for the church; one hundred and fifty to be added to the minister's present salary." I knew what that meant to her, and she must have known I knew, but she didn't show it by so much as the quiver of an eyelash. Only a faint, faint color showed in her sallow cheek, and she bowed, half-formally, half-friendly. "Thank you, Miss Smith," said she, gallantly. And she added, with a glimmer of humor in her worried eyes: "As you say you're a business woman, may I say I hope you will get your money's worth?" At that I laughed, and she with me. We walked down our garden path, chatting innocuously and amiably, until of a sudden they caught sight of the little Love, the gay, charming, naked little Love, holding his torch above his curl-crowned head. You miss him, when you come up the broad drive from the front gate, for Nicholas Jelnik put him in the secretest, greenest, sweetest spot in all our garden, and you must go down a winding path to find him. "So it wasn't an idle tale: they did find it, really!" breathed Miss Hopkins, staring with all her eyes. And I knew with great certainty why _she_ had come to Hynds House that afternoon. "Forgotten all these many years, and now here, like the dead come to life!" murmured Mrs. Haile, abstractedly. "How strange!" "It was said he bought it for his mother, because it looked so like himself as a child," said Miss Hopkins. Then she remembered her duty, held up two fingers before her eyes, and squinted through them critically: "Charming, but don't you think the pose strained? It's an example of eighteenth-century work, placid enough, but it lacks that plastic, fluidic serenity, that divine new touch of truth, that is revivifying art since the great Rodin lighted the torch anew." Heaven knows what else she said. It sounded like a paper on art to me, and I have a terror of papers on art. They are, Alicia informs me, purple piffle. Yet Alicia drank in every word Miss Hopkins uttered, though the dimple came and went in her cheek. "You seem interested in art, Miss Gaines." Having torn the poor little peasant Love to tatters, Miss Hopkins descended to us groundlings. "I don't always seem to know what art is," admitted Alicia, dovelike. The lady who "moved among us clothed in white samite" smiled encouragingly. "That is because you are really little more than a child," she said kindly. "When you begin to _grow_, you will improve your mind." Alicia puckered her brows. "Ah, but I'm Irish!" she said, seriously, "and the Irish hate to have to improve their minds. I imagine it takes an able-bodied mind to stand intensive cultivation," she added, guilelessly. Miss Hopkins smiled: it was a masterpiece, that smile! "But why, may I ask, did you choose such a situation for the statue?" she inquired critically. "Now, _I_ should never dream of tucking it in such an out-of-the-way place!" The pucker came back to Alicia's brow. "Shouldn't you?" she wondered. "I shall make a point of mentioning that to Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, if you don't mind. You see, he chose that spot, and we rather like it, ourselves." Miss Hopkins stopped dead short, and Mrs. Haile started in spite of herself. Evidently, the situation was beyond them. Didn't we _know_? How much had Judge Gatchell seen fit to tell us? Alicia had dropped a bomb-shell that before night would detonate in every house in Hyndsville. They haven't very much to talk about in small towns, except one another, and when a plump mouse of gossip frisks about whisking his tail, why, it is cat nature to pounce upon it. "Mr. Jelnik!" said Miss Hopkins, with an accent. "Oh, I see. Well--he is a neighbor, of course. Certainly if Mr. Jelnik selected that particular spot for the statue--he of all people has the best right to do so--and to have his wishes considered." "Of course. He has lived abroad, and seen everything of art there is to see," Alicia agreed, placidly. Which wasn't at all what Miss Hopkins meant. We could see those two women turning the thing over and over in their minds--Nicholas Jelnik, last heir and descendant of Richard Hynds, tactily (perhaps even gladly; for had they not just witnessed the behavior of Doctor Richard Geddes?) accepting the interlopers in the house of his fathers! Nicholas Jelnik selecting the site for the statue Richard had brought home in pride, and Freeman had buried in sorrow! Miss Hopkins's stare dismissed me, shifted to Alicia, and discovered the cause of this shameless surrender of family pride. Her lips tightened. With politely cold hopes that we should like Hyndsville, and warmer hopes that we would join the missionary society, they left us. "Wedge Number One: The poor dear heathen, Sophy!" smiled Alicia. "The P.D.H. can be a very present help in times of social trouble, can't he? I shall attend that missionary meeting, and take stock. Incidentally (For goodness' sake, don't look so scandalized, Sophy Smith! this is a fight for our lives, so to speak!) incidentally, I shan't do the P.D.H. any harm. He won't be a bit worse than he was before, which is promising." She put two fingers before her laughing eyes, squinted through them, and drawled: "You lack subtlety, Miss Smith. Cultivate your imagination, my dear!" in Miss Hopkins's best voice. Riedriech stuck his grizzled head out at a window, cautiously: "Fräulein, she hass gone?" And seeing that the coast was clear, he added, vehemently: "Cultivate the mindt! Cultivate the imatchination! _Ach, lieber Gott! Dornröschen_, cultivate you the _heart_. It iss not what the woman thinks, but what she loves, what she feels, which makes of the world a home-place for men und _kinder_." The good old Jew nodded his head vigorously at the girl, smiled, and went back to his work. And Schmetz came and finished the bulb bed by covering it carefully with two thicknesses of chicken-wire. That night, just before we went up-stairs, I went into the library after Freeman Hynds's diary, which we were simply burning to read. I opened the table drawer in which I had placed it. The drawer was quite empty. The little flat book was gone. CHAPTER VI GLAMOURY Alicia insisted that we were living in a fairy-story, and had better enjoy every shining minute while it lasted. But, as I pointed out, the cost of restoring Hynds House was appallingly real, so real that it left a big, big hole in the bank-account. It is true that we who never really had had a home since we were little children, and then the most modest sort, had gotten such a home as comes to but few. But--one doesn't get something for nothing! We had done our part for Hynds House; now Hynds House had to do its part for us. It had to earn its keep, and ours. We had known that from the beginning, and Alicia mapped out the entire plan of how it was to be done; a plan which I at first looked upon as the fairy-storiest part of the whole thing! To-night we sat facing each other across the library table, with a great pile of receipted bills between us, the total of which made me feel pale. Alicia, however, was cheerfully figuring away on her own hook; and presently she shoved a list of addresses across to me. The first two were the head of our old firm, and the one celebrity I had ever seen or spoken to, a novelist and lecturer with record-breaking best sellers to his account. He once had some business dealings with our firm, and I attended to the details, thereby winning his cantankerous approval. He had very bad manners, of which he was totally unashamed, and very good morals, of which he was somewhat doubtful, as they didn't smack of genius; a notion that he was a superior sort of Sherlock Holmes, having the truffle-hound's flair for discovering and following up clews and unraveling mysteries, most of which didn't exist outside of his own eager mind; and such a genuine passion for old and beautiful things as Balzac had. It was upon this last foundation that Alicia was building. "He has written that the average wealthy modern home is a combination of Pullman Palace Car and Gehenna. And that the so-called crime wave which sweeps recurrently over American cities, is very likely nothing more than the inevitable reaction of our damnable house decorations upon our immature intellects." Alicia repeated it dreamily. "I have chosen for him the upper southwestern room with the sunset effect and the pineapple four-poster. It has a claw-footed desk of block mahogany, three hand-carved walnut chairs, two Rembrandt prints, and a French prie-dieu with a purple velvet cover embroidered with green and gold swastikas. He has a purple soul with gold tassels on it, himself, Sophy, and he should be willing to pay a thumping price for it. That room is worth at least two lectures and one best seller, not to mention what he'll get out of the rest of the house." "First catch your hare," I reminded her skeptically. "First set your trap, and you can reckon on hare nature to do the rest. A few good photographs of this house, along with the information that it runs back to the beginning of things American and has never been exploited, will fetch him at a hand-gallop. Add a hint that we have our own brand of family spook, and you couldn't keep him away if you tried. The only trouble is that he may walk off with your brass tongs up his trouser-leg, or a print or two tucked under his shirt." We had decided that we would have a series of photographs of the house, with all particularly good points stressed; such as, say, the library fireplace, the fan-light window at the end of the upper hall, the pillared front porch, and a corner of the drawing-room. Also--and this was the great thing, calling for a heavy outlay--we would advertise in some two or three of the ultra periodicals, the advertisement to carry a stunning little cut of our front porch. We decided to run the risk of expending more money than we could really afford, because the people that advertisement was meant to attract would in the long run pay for it. "Our prices will be predacious, piratical, prohibitive, and profitable. We shall stop just this side of highway robbery. Therefore our demands will be cheerfully, nay, willingly met; and everybody, including you and me, Sophy, will be satisfied and happy!" "_Boarders!_" said I, limply, "_boarders_--in Hynds House!" "Perish the thought! We have possibly the most interesting and beautiful old house in America. It's one of the few really historic houses left in the whole South. It has seen the Indians, it has seen the British, it has seen Sherman's men, and escaped them all. Well, then, we propose to allow certain of the elect, who can afford it, to come and live in Hynds House for a while. They will be willing to pay a round sum for the privilege. That's all." "Oh, is it, indeed! And will they?" "Won't they, though!" Alicia spoke confidently. "Now draft me a letter to the Head, setting forth the many reasons why himself, his wife, their car, and her Chow, can't afford to miss Hynds House on their trip South this season. You might explain that Mary Magdalen is our cook, and the Queen of Sheba our hand-maid. Also, please help me decide in which of these magazines we had better advertise first." "But the cost!" I wailed. "We have spent so sinfully much already! And the place is eating its head off, with nothing coming in. Since I took down those bill-boards, actually the price of that Lafayette Street lot has gone down. Nobody seems anxious to buy it any more." "Change your mind about selling it; hint that you're considering an ice-cream parlor and a movie theater," said the girl who'd been the worst file-clerk. "In the meantime, Sophy, you have sense enough to understand that we've spent so much money we've got to spend more to get some of it back.--I vote we start in this one, Sophy," and she laid her finger upon the most expensive and ultra of all the magazines! "But that is for _millionaires_!" said I, aghast. "So is Hynds House," insisted Alicia, coolly. "How much did you say was in the bank?" I was afraid to hear my own voice mention that insignificant sum; for, when one considered Hynds House, the little we had was beggarly; so I wrote it down, and pushed the paper across to her. Instead of looking scared, Alicia Gaines looked delighted! "All that?" And round chin on pink palm, she fell to studying me with as much curiosity as if she had just met me and were puzzled to get at the real Me. Then she nodded, and snatching a sheet of paper, began to figure again, pausing every now and then to regard me with slitted eyes. At the end of ten strenuous minutes she pushed the paper over to me, and watched me grow all but apoplectic as I studied it. It was an entertaining list, beginning with a hat and ending with silk stockings. With all sorts of wonderful things in between--for me, you understand. Things like "One brown frock, with something cloudy-yellow about it." ("Sophy, blondes can stand yellow wonderfully well; I suggest a bronze, instead of a duller brown.") "Why, I have plenty of clothes!" I protested. "Business-woman-of-a-certain-age, general-utility, will-stand-wear-and-tear clothes. Not a stitch of Hyndshousey clothes among them. No _happy_, glad-I'm-alive-and-a woman clothes. Here's where you cease to look merely useful, respectable, and responsible, and begin to look the Lady of the Castle. There's quite as much philosophy and good morals in looking like a butterfly as there is in resembling a caterpillar." "_Why_ should I have more clothes?" I demanded. "Because." And she added, with a fleeting smile, "And then catch your hare." "Alicia!" said I, scandalized. "Alicia Gaines, do you realize I am thirty-six years old?" "You wouldn't be if you just had sense enough to forget to remember it." This resentfully. "No? Would you mind telling me how I might become such an accomplished forgetter?" "Why, there's nothing easier! When you really wish to forget to remember something, Sophy, all you have to do is to remember to forget it!" And then, with real earnestness: "Sophy, it's the better part of wisdom to look like the job you want to hold down. Your job is holding down Hynds House. And we are up against things, Sophy, you and I. We have got to win out because it means--all this." Her eyes swept over the beautiful old room with an immense pride and affection. "We have just _got_ to keep Hynds House, if only to teach these Hyndsville women a lesson." She spoke after a pause. "Sophy, they flatten their ears and arch their backs at sight of us; and whenever there's a good chance for a wipe of a paw, why, we catch it across the nose. Now I," she admitted frankly, "am naturally full of cat feelings myself. I will not do what _you_ want to do--walk off looking aggrieved, after the fashion of Old Dog Tray. I will repay in kind, retaliate in true lady-cat manner. And these,"--she began to smile--"these shall be our weapons of offense and defense. It will be a gorgeous struggle; however, my forebears came from Kilkenny!" I laughed, but indeed I did not feel any too optimistic. Holding down Hynds House was no easy task, and the town was not disposed to make it easier for us. While we had been busy renovating, while our hands were so full of work that every minute was occupied, we hadn't felt our isolation. It was only when we had time to pause and look around us, that the stubborn, quiet hostility of the town's attitude to the new owner of Hynds House was borne in upon us. Not that anything overt was done by any one. Nor was there the slightest breach of politeness: they were as punctiliously polite when chance brought us into contact with them, as well-bred folk are to strangers whose further acquaintance they have no desire to cultivate. The vestrymen of St. Polycarp's had expressed their appreciation of Miss Smith's action in promptly dropping the suit against them; she was welcome to come and worship God in their church, and to do her duty by the heathen. Such ladies as happened to belong to the missionary society spoke to us pleasantly in the church vestibule. The minister and his wife were as sincerely, duteously courteous. But that was all. Not a house in Hyndsville opened its doors to us. They simply would not accept the interloper that the malignity of the Scarlett Witch had put in possession of that which should have gone back to Richard's last heir, or failing him, to Richard Geddes. The fact that these two descendants of the Hyndses did not seem to see and do their duty as members of that illustrious family, but shamelessly made friends with the aliens, did not raise us in the town's estimation. Quite the contrary. Nor were they even faintly angry with Mr. Jelnik and Doctor Geddes, who were, so to say, unsuspicious Israelites coaxed into the Canaanitish camp. I admit that I considered Doctor Richard Geddes undiplomatic in his behavior. It never once occurred to that lordly gentleman, who had had his own way ever since he was born, that he should stop now to consider the feelings or the prejudices of Hyndsville. It wasn't that he meant to champion _us_. It never occurred to him that we needed championing. He simply liked us because he liked us. We pleased him. That sufficed, so far as he was concerned. I had begun really to like the doctor, myself. But I wished to heaven he weren't, at that critical time, so tactless. For instance, I have been peremptorily taken by an elbow and led willy-nilly to his waiting car, on Lafayette Street, which is our principal thoroughfare, under the calm, appraising, watching eyes of all feminine Hyndsville. Not one of whom would fail to remark, casually: "Oh, _did_ you see that Miss Smith with Doctor Geddes this morning? Men are so unsuspicious, aren't they!" I couldn't explain the situation to him, of course, any more than I could explain to Mr. Nicholas Jelnik that _his_ presence in Hynds House, while pleasing to us, was disquieting and displeasing to others. It was to be expected that this handsome young man, who kept his affairs so strictly to himself that nobody knew anything about them, should arouse the avid curiosity and hold the breathless interest of a little town where everybody had always known everybody else's business. Why had he come to Hyndsville? To find the Hynds jewels, after a century? Didn't he know that the Scarlett Witch had the eye of an eagle for the glitter of gold and would long since have discovered whatever of value had been in Hynds House? Why didn't he consult older members of the community, who could furnish him with immensely interesting side-lights on the Hyndses? Mr. Jelnik never explained. He didn't ask anybody anything. He didn't even employ Hyndsville negroes, who could be expected to gossip: his household consisted of a stately bronze-colored man-servant who was reputed to be a pagan, and the huge wolf-hound, Boris, his constant companion. When Doctor Geddes was delicately sounded, the big man explained that he himself had but recently made the acquaintance of his young kinsman; Jelnik was a first-rate chap, declared the doctor; immensely clever, as befitted his father's son; altogether likeable, but a bit of a lunatic, like all the Hyndses. It was natural, too, that the young ladies in a small town where young men are at a premium should have noticed this one particularly and expected a like interest on his part. The inexplicable Jelnik failed to exhibit it. There was but one house that he visited, and that was Hynds House. Whatever his reasons for this may have been, and the town named several, the fact remains that Hynds House would never have been so beautiful, the restoration wouldn't have been so nearly perfect, had it not been for the critical taste of Mr. Jelnik. He had the European knowledge of beautiful things, and, toward the finer graces of life, the attitude of Paris, of Rome, of Vienna, rather than of New York, of Chicago, or of, say, Atlanta. There was a glamour about the man. Whatever he did or said had an indefinable, delightful significance; what he left undone was full of meaning. His mere presence ornamented and colored common moments so that they glowed, and remained in the memory with a rainbow light upon them. He was never hurried or flurried, any more than sun and sky and trees and tides are; and he was just as vital, and quite as baffling. We accepted him at first as part of the fairy-story into which Destiny had pitchforked us. He belonged to Hynds House, so to speak, and there one might meet him upon common ground. But sometimes when I happened to glance up I would find him watching us with those reflective eyes that were so full of light and at the same time so inscrutable. And then he would smile, his Dionysiac smile that made him all at once so far off and so foreign that I knew, with a sinking heart, that he didn't belong at all; that this beautiful and brilliant bird of passage was lightening for but a very brief space my sober skies. Alicia said he made her think of peacocks and ivory. He delighted and dazzled her, though he did not disquiet her as he did me, perhaps because she, too, was young and beautiful, and I--wasn't. It will be seen, then, that our position, take it by and large, wasn't one that called for flags and buntings. Life didn't look a bit rose-colored to me as I sat there that night, drafting a letter to the Head. Of a sudden arose clamor in the hall, and howls, hideously loud at that hour and in that quiet house. There came the noise of running feet, and there burst into the lighted library, with gray faces and rolling eyes, our two lately acquired colored maids, Fernolia the thin one, and Queen of Sheba, fat and brown. "Good heavens! What's the matter?" I asked, fearfully. It had been a terrible task to break in those two handmaids, to train them _not_ to take part in the conversation at table, _not_ to take off cap, and hair, not to do the thousand and one undisciplined and disorderly things they did do. "Ghostes! Sperets! Ha'nts!" chattered the colored women. "Ol' Mis' Scarlett's walkin' in de ca'iage house!" "Nonsense!" At the same time I felt myself turning pale, and goose-flesh coming out on my spine. "No, ma'am, Miss Sophy, 't ain't nonsense. It's ha'nts!" protested Fernolia. She was the brighter of the two, but given to embroidering her facts. "Yessum, I done saw 'er," corroborated Queenasheeba. (That's how one pronounced her name.) The two occupied a very pleasant room above the carriage house, a room that had overcome their unwillingness to stay overnight at Hynds House. Queenasheeba was just dozing, when she was awakened by Fernolia, who had been sitting by the window. Both of them, peering through the scrim curtains, saw a tall white figure disappear into the spring-house. A few minutes later, to their horror, they heard Something moving downstairs in the carriage house--Something like the clank of a chain--footsteps--and then silence. Almost paralyzed with terror, the two women clung together. _Anything_ might be expected of ol' Mis' Scarlett! However, nothing further happened. With shaking hands Queenasheeba relighted the lamp. Then, snatching up such clothes as they could grab, the two fled to us. Mary Magdalen and Beautiful Dog always departed after dinner. Except for the Black family and the two canaries, Alicia and I had big, lonesome Hynds House to ourselves. Mr. Jelnik's gray cottage, set amid Lombardy poplars and thick shrubberies, was some distance away, and we didn't know whether Doctor Geddes was at home or not. It is true we had firearms, a pair of pistols having been literally forced upon us by the doctor, who fretted and fumed about our staying there alone. Both of us were more afraid of those pistols than of any possible ghostly intruder. Nevertheless, I went up-stairs and fetched them. Alicia took one as she might have taken a rattlesnake, and I held the other. Armed thus, carrying torch-light and lantern, and with the two gray-faced, half-clad negro women following us, one carrying our brass poker and the other the tongs, we marched upon the carriage house. The big barnlike place, lately cleaned and whitewashed, looked painfully empty. In one of the stalls the hay purchased for our recently acquired Jersey cow gave off a pleasant odor. Over in one corner, in a neat, clean, orderly array, were Schmetz's tools. A little farther on was our chicken feed, in covered barrels. We went from empty stall to empty stall, to reassure the women; there wasn't so much as a cobweb in any of them. All the down-stairs windows were heavily barred with iron and further protected, like the doors, with heavy oaken shutters studded with iron nail-heads. The two small rooms in the rear had once been used as a jail for recalcitrant slaves; they held now nothing deadlier than Schmetz's flower pots and seedlings. Every shutter was closed, and the iron bars looked reassuringly strong; also, the walls are three feet thick. "You were dreaming, you silly women! I told you you were dreaming!" said I, and had turned to go, reassured and relieved, when Alicia's nose wrinkled. I could hardly keep from sniffing, myself. In the carriage-house was a faint, indeterminable scent, the ghost of the ghost of fragrance, so elusive that one sensed rather than smelled it, so pervasive and haunting that one could not miss it. And it certainly had nothing to do with the wholesome odor of hay and cow feed, or the smell of whitewash and oiled tools. "Yes, you were dreaming." Alicia began to edge the colored women toward the doors. "But as you've had a scare," she added pleasantly, "I'll give you a new lace collar, Queenasheeba, and you a red ribbon, Fernolia, to wear to church next Sunday, just to prove to you that being awake is heaps better than having nightmares." We padlocked the big doors after us, and went through the rooms up-stairs. They, too, had been freshly cleaned and calcimined. And they, too, were quite empty. Despite which, Fernolia and Queenasheeba were firmly, tearfully, shiveringly certain they had seen nothing less than ol' Mis' Scarlett's ha'nt. They had the worst possible opinion of ol' Miss Scarlett: she had been bad enough living--but as a spook! We had to let them lug their bedding over and sleep in the room next to ours; we had to give them sweet lavender to quiet their nerves. I am sure they would have bolted incontinently if they hadn't been too scared to venture outside. "If I could catch that ghost I'd shake it!" declared Alicia. And we went back to our figuring, with a sort of desperate courage. "_Now_ will you get those clothes, Sophy Smith?" she resumed, through her teeth, and the pink came back to her cheek, and her eyes deepened. "And do you agree to stick it out, you and I shoulder to shoulder, town or no town, ha'nts or no ha'nts; and win out?" "Yes!" said I. CHAPTER VII A BRIGHT PARTICULAR STAR Wire from The Author, New York City, to Miss S. Smith, Hyndsville, South Carolina: Photos received. Furniture noted. It's pretty, but is it art? Wire from Miss Smith to The Author: What is Art? Wire from The Author: Sometimes an invention of the devil. Is your stuff Madison Avenue or Grand Rapids? Reply. Wire from Miss Smith: Madison Avenue and Grand Rapids hadn't been invented when Hynds House was furnished. Wire from The Author: Maybe not, but mightn't be same furniture. Have been stung before. Can't be genuine. Too much of it. Wire from Miss Smith: Please yourself. Wire from The Author: Coming to investigate. Won't sleep in anything but pineapple bed; won't sit in anything but carved chair; can't pray without prie-dieu. If spurious will publicly gibbet you and probably burn your house down. Hold southwest room my arrival. Alicia laughed, and cuddled those yellow slips. "I knew this was an enchanted place!" she cried. "Oh, Sophy, it's working! He's coming, he's coming, and he's the biggest ever, and he's going to _stay_! Sophy, think of the advertising!" "He will probably be detestable. Geniuses are generally horrid to live with. And there will be something the matter with his digestion; there is always something the matter with their digestion." "From swallowing all the flattery shoveled upon them, poor dears," Alicia explained charitably. "Don't worry about his digestion: leave it to Mary Magdalen's waffles. Hooray! Hynds House stock is booming!" It was. From the head of our firm: _My dear Miss Smith_: I have your interesting letter and the delightful photographs, which have so completely charmed Mrs. Westmacote and me that we have decided it wouldn't be good business to miss Hynds House on our trip South this year. Mrs. Westmacote asks if you could also accommodate a cousin of hers, Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, a lady deeply interested in the colonial homes of America. You must allow me heartily to congratulate you upon your great good fortune in falling heir to such a wonderful old place; and to wish you many happy and prosperous years in it. I shall telegraph you when to expect us. With all good wishes, Yours faithfully, GEORGE PEABODY WESTMACOTE. Letter from Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, of Boston: _Dear Miss Smith_: My cousin Mrs. Westmacote, whom I have been visiting, showed me your letter and the enchanting photographs of your house which you were kind enough to send Mr. Westmacote. Hynds House is just the one place I have long been looking for!--an unspoiled colonial house, with historic associations! It is perfect! I must see with my own eyes those Chelsea figures on your drawing-room mantel, the luster and Washington jugs in the dining-room, and the cabinets in the hall. Sincerely yours, EMMELINE PHELPS-PARSONS. P.S. I hope it is really true that there is an Influence in Hynds House? I do so greatly long to come in contact with the Occult and the Unknown! "Somewhere on the firing-line of fifty," mused Alicia. "A lady with a soul. Don't you hear dear old Boston calling you, Sophy? Here's one to put Miss Martha Hopkins's light under a bushel basket!" We had several other inquirers; and chose from them Mr. Chetwynd Harrison-Gore and his daughter, English folk "doing" America and delighted to include a Carolina colonial house in their trip; a suffrage leader, whose throat needed a rest; and Morenas, the illustrator. It seemed that Hynds House offered to each one something that had been craved for. The Author pounced upon us two or three days before we expected him, to take stock after his own fashion. I have heard The Author commended for "the humor of his rare smile and the keen, kind intellectuality of his remarkable eyes." Well, the smile was rare enough; and of course there isn't any doubt about the man's intellectuality. For the rest, he proved to be a tall, lanky, stooping person, with a thin tanned face, outstanding ears, a high nose, and long, blue-gray eyes half-hidden under drooping lids and behind glasses. His hair was just hair. And he had the sort of mustache that bristled like a cat's when he twisted his lip. So far as monetary success, and efficacious press-agents, and the adulation, admiration, emulation, and envy of his contemporaries went, he had nothing to complain of. He was lionized, quoted, courted, flattered, reviewed, viewed through rose-colored spectacles; and disillusioned, discontented, cynical, selfish, and, of course, most horribly bored. He was gun-shy of women; he suspected them of wanting to marry him. He was wary of men; he suspected them of wanting to exploit him. He loathed children, who were generally obstreperous and unnecessary editions of parents he didn't admire. He didn't even trust the beautiful works of men's hands. They, even they, were too often faked! If you had dug up the indubitable mummy of the first Pharaoh from under the oldest of the pyramids, The Author would have turned him over on his back and hunted for the trade-mark of The Modern Mummy-makers: London, Paris, and New York; Catalogue on Request. He stalked through Hynds House with slitted eyes and bristling mustache--business of silent sleuth on the trail of the furniture-fakir! He'd pause at each door and with an eagle glance take a comprehensive survey; then, defensively, offensively, he examined things in detail. From our rambling attics to our vast and cavernous cellars did he go; and not a word crossed his lips until he had completed this conandoyley examination. Then: "Telegraph form if you have one, please," he requested briefly. "I wish to wire for my car. Put Johnson in the room next mine. Johnson's my secretary." He looked at Alicia, reflectively. "Amiable ass, Johnson," he volunteered. Then he went over to the tiled fireplace--we were in the library--and bent worshipfully before it. "The finest bit of tile-work on this continent," he said, in a hushed voice. "Absolutely perfect. And it belongs to a woman named Smith!" "We know just how you feel about it," Alicia told him sympathetically, while The Author turned red to his ears. "I have often felt like that myself, when something I particularly wanted was bought by somebody I was sure couldn't properly appreciate it. I dare say I was mistaken," admitted Alicia, "just as mistaken as you are now in thinking that Sophy and I aren't worthy of those tiles. We are--all the more so because we never before had anything like them." The spoiled darling of success looked at us intently; and a most curious change came over his clever, bad-tempered face. His eyes are as bright as ice, and have somewhat the same cold light in them. Now a thaw set in and melted them, and a mottled red spread over his sallow cheeks. "Miss Gaines," he said, abruptly, "your doll-baby face does your intelligence an injustice--Miss Smith, I apologize." And before the astonished and indignant Alicia could summon a withering retort, he added heartily: "This whole place is quite the real thing, you know--almost too good to be true and too true to be good. Would you mind telling me how you happened to think of letting me in on it, eh?" "Because we knew it _was_ the real thing," Alicia replied, truthfully. "Do you know,"--The Author was plainly pleased--"that that is one of the very nicest things that's ever been said to me? Because I really _do_ know above a bit about genuine stuff." "It must be a great relief to you to hear something pleasant about yourself that is also something true," I said with sympathy. The Author grinned like a hyena, and Alicia giggled. "Because you must be bored to extinction, having to listen to all sorts of people ascribe to you all sorts of virtues that no one man could possibly possess and remain human." I was remembering some of the fulsome flubdub I'd read about him. "Hark to her!" grinned The Author. "What! you don't believe all the nice things you've read about me?" "I do not." "You don't in the least look or write like a dehumanized saint, you know," supplemented Alicia, laughing. "What _do_ I look like, then?" He sat on the edge of a table and cuddled a bony knee. Behind his glasses his eyes began to twinkle. "You look more like yourself than you do like your photographs," decided Alicia. The Author threw up his hands. "And now, tell me this, please: How, when, where, and from whom, did you acquire the supreme art of aiding and abetting an old house to grow young again without losing its character?" "We were born," Alicia explained, "with the inherent desire to do just what we have been able to do here. This house gave us our big chance. But it wouldn't have been so--so in keeping with itself," she was feeling for the right words, "if it hadn't been for Mr. Nicholas Jelnik." The Author pricked up his intellectual ears. His eyes narrowed. "Jelnik? I knew a Jelnik, an Austrian alienist; met him at dinner at the American Ambassador's in Vienna; quiet, unassuming, pleasant man, and one of the greatest doctors in Europe." "Mr. Jelnik is Doctor Jelnik's son." "What!" shrieked The Author. And with unfeigned amazement: "In the name of high heaven, what is Jelnik's son doing _here_?" "Mr. Jelnik's mother was a Miss Hynds. She met and married your doctor abroad." That sixth sense possessed by him to an unusual degree, warned him that he was on the trail of Copy. "May I ask questions?" he demanded. "Of course." "You inherited this property from an old aunt, I believe?" "She wasn't my aunt, really. She married my mother's uncle, Johnny Scarlett." "I see. And Jelnik's mother was a Miss Hynds. How long has he been here?" "For some time before we came." "Near neighbor of yours?" "Yes," Alicia put in; "and Doctor Richard Geddes is our neighbor on the other side. His grandmother was a Miss Hynds." "Pardon a writer-man's curiosity," begged The Author, smiling. "But this house is unusual, very unusual. While I am here I shall look up its history. It should make good copy." Having a pretty shrewd idea of The Author's powers of finding out what he wanted to find out, we thought it better that he should hear that history, as we knew it. If the mystery had ever been solved, the tragedy of Hynds House would have had but passing interest for The Author. But the undiscovered piqued and puzzled him and aroused his combative egotism. From the pictured face of Freeman--dark, stern, uncommunicative--he trotted back to the drawing room to look again at the boyish face of little Richard leaning against his pretty mother's knees; at the haughty, handsome face of James Hampden; and at beautiful dark Jessamine, who had a long black curl straying across the shoulder of a blue frock, and a curled red lip, and a breast of snow. "Freeman was not a crook; his face is hard, stern, bigoted, secretive, but honest. Yet if he didn't do it himself what was he trying to tell when death cut off his wind? If he did it, where did he hide the plunder? Here in this house? His family must have known every nook and cranny as well as he did himself, and he could be sure they'd pull it to pieces in the search that would ensue. "If Richard were the thief, to whom did he give the loot? If the gems had been put upon the market, some trace of them must have been discovered. Remains: Who got them? Where did they go?" "That's what the unhappy people in this house asked a century ago, and there was no answer," I remarked, soberly. "And that poor woman Jessamine went mad trying to solve it!" he said, looking at her with commiseration. And after a pause: "And so the lady who left her husband's grandniece the house of her forebears was Freeman's daughter: and the Austrian doctor's son is Richard's great-great-grandson! I meet Jelnik _père_ in Vienna, and come to Hyndsville, South Carolina, to meet Jelnik _fils_. H'm! Decidedly, the situation has nice possibilities!" Whereupon he took note-book and fountain-pen from his coat pocket and in the most composed manner began to jot down the outstanding features of Hynds House history. "It will give me something to puzzle over while I'm here," he remarked, complacently. It did! The Author approved of Hynds House. It had all the charm of a new and quaint field of exploration and research, and there was nothing in it to offend his hypercritical judgment. I have a shrewd suspicion that Mary Magdalen's cooking played no mean part in his satisfaction. His prowess as a trencherman aroused the admiration and respect of Fernolia, who waited on table. Fernolia had learned to admire herself in her smart apron and cap, and to serve creditably enough. Only twice did she fall from grace; once was the morning The Author broke his own record for waffles. Fernolia, excited and astonished, placed the last platter before him, raised the cover with a flourish, and remarked with deep meaning: "_Dem's all!_" The second time was when we had what Mary Magdalen calls "mulatto rice," which is a dish built upon a firm foundation of small strips of bacon, onion, stewed tomatoes, and rice, and a later and last addition of deliciously browned country sausages. Fernolia, beaming upon The Author hospitably, broke her parole: "You ain't called to skimp yo'self none on dat rice," she told him confidentially. "De cook done put yo' name in de pot _big_. She say she glad we-all got man in de house to 'preciate vittles. Yes-_suh_, Ma'y Magdalen aim to make you bust yo' buttonholes whilst you hab de chanst." I am told that The Author always makes a great hit when he tells that on himself, and is considered tremendously clever because he can imitate Fernolia's soft South Carolina drawl. Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, whom he managed to meet within the week, aroused The Author's professional interest. For once his tried and tested powers of turning other people's minds inside out failed utterly. His innocent-sounding queries, his adroit leads, were smilingly turned aside. The defense, so far as Mr. Jelnik was concerned, was ridiculously simple: he didn't want to talk about himself and he didn't do it. He was perfectly willing to talk, when the humor seized him, and he did talk, brilliantly, wittily, freely, and impersonally. The egoistic "I" was conspicuous by its absence. And while he talked you could see the agile antennæ of The Author's winged mind feeling after the soul-string that might lead him through the mazes of this unusual character. That he could be deftly diverted filled The Author with chagrin mingled with wonder. He manoeuvered for an invitation to the gray cottage and secured it with suspicious ease; called, and had a glass of most excellent wine in his host's simplest of bachelor living-rooms; made the closer acquaintance of Boris--he didn't care for dogs--and of self-contained, dark-faced Daoud, Mr. Jelnik's East Indian man-servant; and came home dissatisfied and determined. He scented "copy," and a born writer after copy is, next to an Apache after a scalp or a Dyak after his enemy's head, the most ruthless of created beings. He will pick his mother's naked soul to pieces, bore into his wife's living brain, dissect his daughter's quivering heart, tear across his sister's mind, rip up his father's life and his best friend's character, lay bare the tomb itself, and make for himself an ink of tears and blood that he may write what he finds. Of such is the kingdom of Genius. And in the meantime the wondrous news that The Author himself was staying at Hynds House, percolated through Hyndsville and soaked to the bone. The Author was too big a figure to be ignored, even by South Carolina people. Something had to be done. But how shall one become acquainted with a notoriously unfriendly and gun-shy celebrity, a personage of such note that every utterance means newspaper space; and at the same time manage utterly to ignore and cast into outer darkness the people with whom the great one is staying? The town felt itself put upon its mettle. The first move was made by Miss Martha Hopkins. It was understood that if anybody could clear the way, carry a difficult position with skill and aplomb, that somebody was Miss Martha Hopkins. She didn't bear down directly upon The Author: that would have been crude. She opened her campaign by a flank movement upon Alicia and me, in her capacity of secretary and treasurer of the missionary society. Miss Hopkins sailed into Hynds House on a perfect afternoon, to discuss with us a proposed rummage-sale which was to benefit the heathen. She wasn't really worrying about the heathen: he had all the rest of his benighted life to get himself saved in, hadn't he? All the while she sat there and talked about him, she was really loaded to the muzzle with pertinent remarks to affluent authors. She had come with the hope of chancing upon the great man himself; and, failing that, she meant to pump Alicia and me of enough material to, say, enable her to use a part of her stock of pet adjectives in the paper she would prepare for the next meeting of the literary society. She had a pretty stock of adjectives--plump, purple words like _lyric_, and _liquid_, and _plastic_, and _subtile_, and _poignancy_, with every now and then a _chiaoscuro_ thrown in for good measure; and a whole melting-pot full of "rare emotional experiences," "art that was almost intuitive in its passion, so subtly did it"--oh, do all sorts of things!--and "handling the plastic outlines of the theme with rare emotional skill and mastery of technique," "purest lyricism lifted to heights of poignancy,"--all that sort of stuff, you know. Next time a writer, or, better still, a fiddler or a pianist comes to your town, look in your home paper the morning after, and you'll see it. As it happened, The Author was not at home. His secretary had arrived a day or two before, and after unloading a systemful of copy upon that faithful beast of burden, The Author had given himself a half-holiday with old Riedriech, who knew quite enough about old furniture to win his interest and affection. Miss Hopkins, then, had Alicia and me to herself. Sedately we discussed rummage-sales, and the effect of cotton shirts upon the adolescent cannibal; and all the while Miss Hopkins was stealthily watching doors and windows and hoping that high heaven would send The Author to her hands. We hadn't so much as mentioned his name. It pleased us to sit there and watch her trying to make us do so. The iron knocker on the front door sounded. And ushered in by Queenasheeba, there stood Nicholas Jelnik with great gray Boris beside him, and beauty and glamour and romance upon him like a light. Miss Hopkins had seen him on the streets, but hadn't met him personally. I don't think she relished the fact that she had to come to Hynds House to do so. Nor could she save herself from the crudity of staring with all her eyes at this handsome offshoot of the Hyndses, with what in a less polite person might well have been called avid curiosity. "Miss Leetchy," (he had gaily borrowed Fernolia's pronunciation of Alicia's name), "I have brought you the butter-scotch your soul hankers after. I fear you can never hope to grow up, Miss Leetchy, while you cherish a jejune passion for butter-scotch." "Oh, I don't know. It might have been fudge!" Alicia replied airily. "But thank you, Mr. Jelnik: it was very nice of you to remember." "Yes. I have such an excellent memory," said he, blandly. "Miss Smith, this preserved ginger is laid at your shrine. If you offer me a piece or two, I shall accept with thanks: I like preserved ginger, myself.--Boris, you'll prefer butter-scotch. You may ask Miss Gaines to give you a piece." Miss Hopkins, it appeared, despised butter-scotch, and abhorred preserved ginger. "I saw The Author hiking across lots a while since. Nice, open-hearted, neighborly man, The Author.--Oh, by the way, Miss Smith: is it, or is it not written in the Book of Darwin that the gadfly is one of the distinct evolutionary links in the descent of man?" "Good heavens, certainly not!" cried Miss Hopkins. And she looked strangely upon Mr. Nicholas Jelnik. "No? Thank you. I was in doubt," murmured Mr. Jelnik. The golden flecks danced in and out of his eyes. "But we were speaking of The Author: may I ask how The Author appeals to you as a human being, Miss Hopkins?" "I do not know him as a human being," Miss Hopkins admitted. Mr. Jelnik looked surprised. His eyebrows went up. "Oh, come, now!" he demurred. "He isn't so bad as all _that_!" "Oh, dear me, no!" Alicia protested, in a shocked voice. "He may have abrupt manners and say unexpected things, but he is perfectly respectable, Miss Hopkins! There's never been a _breath_ against his character. I thought you knew," purred the hussy, demurely. "Why, he's dined at the White House, and lunched and motored and yachted with royalties, and lectured before the D.A.R.'s themselves! And he belongs to at least a dozen societies. There are,"--Alicia was enjoying her naughty self immensely--"good authors and bad authors. Sometimes the bad authors are good, and sometimes the good authors are bad. But our author is more than either: he's It!" "You entirely and strangely misunderstand me." Miss Hopkins spoke with the deadly gentleness of suppressed fury. "I had no slightest intention of reflecting upon the character of so eminent a writer, with whose career, Miss Gaines, I am thoroughly familiar. I was merely trying to explain that I had never met him." "Oh, I see. Of course! I should have remembered that!" Miss Hopkins's entire contempt for Alicia's mentality overcame any suspicion she might have entertained. Also, she had come determined to discover what she could about The Author, and she was not one lightly to be put aside. She said, smiling tolerantly: "Of course you should! But mayn't I congratulate _you_ upon knowing him? Having him here in Hynds House almost justifies turning the old place into a boarding-house, doesn't it?" "The Author," Mr. Jelnik remarked gently, "has a very sensitive soul. I shudder to think what the effect upon him would be were he to hear himself referred to as a boarder. My dear Miss Hopkins, never, never let him hear you designate him 'boarder'!" "Who's talking about boarders?" asked a hearty voice, and Doctor Richard Geddes came in like a gale of mountain air. "Miss Hopkins. She thinks The Author's presence almost justifies the turning of Hynds House into a boarding-house," answered Mr. Jelnik. He added, thoughtfully, "Curious notion; isn't it?" "Martha has plenty more," said the doctor, bluntly. "Boarding-house? Well, supposing? What was it before? A hyena-cage, Martha, a hyena-cage, into which you'd be the last to venture your nose, my dear woman! I say, put on your bonnets, all of you, and let's have a spin in the fresh air. The roads are gorgeous. You can come too, Jelnik: there's room for five." Mr. Jelnik was desolated: he had a pressing engagement. Miss Hopkins rose precipitately. She also had an engagement; besides, she liked to walk. People needed to walk more than they did. The reason why one saw so many bad figures nowadays, was that people lolled around in automobiles instead of walking. "Well, walking is certainly good for you, Martha. It helps you to reduce," the doctor agreed. Miss Hopkins said dryly that the little walking she intended to do just then wouldn't affect her weight any. And that Doctor Geddes should himself take to walking: men always got fat as they neared fifty. "Fat! Fifty!" roared the doctor, with enraged astonishment. "Why, I'm not by some years as old as you are, Martha! You were several classes ahead of me in school, don't you remember? I am exactly thirty-nine years old, and as you know everything else, you ought to know that!" Miss Hopkins studied him with a balefully level eye. "You really can't blame anybody for forgetting it, Richard," she said, ambiguously. "You are to recollect, Geddes, that a woman is always as young as she looks," (Mr. Jelnik bowed, smilingly, to Miss Hopkins), "and a man is older than he feels," he added, for the doctor's benefit. "All right. Let's say I feel as good as Martha looks," the doctor's momentary ill humor vanished. Miss Hopkins smiled. She had stuck her claws into him and drawn blood; but her fur was still ruffled. Mr. Jelnik made his adieus, Boris offering each of us a polite paw. "And now," the doctor ordered briskly, "to your spinning, jades, to your spinning! Into my car, the three of you! No, Martha, I will _not_ take a refusal; you shall not walk: you've got to come along, if I have to tuck you under my arm. I don't care if you never reduce. What do you want to reduce for, anyhow? You're all right just as you are! There! are you satisfied?" We stood by passively while the masterful doctor heckled and hustled the unhappy Center of Culture into his car. With heaven knows what feelings, she found herself seated beside me, Sophy Smith, while Alicia, beside the doctor, tossed gay remarks over her shoulder. Miss Hopkins realized that all Hyndsville would witness what she herself knew to be high-handed capture by force, but which must hideously resemble capitulation; and she also realized that explanations never explain. I respected her misery enough to keep silent, and she made no attempt to converse. Her hat slid forward at a rakish angle over one ear, and her hair blew about her face in stringy wisps, as the doctor broke the speed laws on the long, level stretches of quiet roads. When we came to a rough spot she bounced up and down (one might hear her breath exhaled in a--well, yes, in a grunt) but she made no complaint, uttered no protest. She was a shackled and voiceless victim, until we finally drew up at her own gate, after an hour's jaunt, and allowed her to escape. "Why, Martha, our little spin has given you a fine color!" remarked the doctor, genuinely pleased. Two conspicuously red spots shone in Miss Hopkins's cheeks, and her eyes were extremely bright. "We'll have to take you out with us again," he added, genially. "Shall you, Richard?" muttered Miss Hopkins, and scuttled up her front path, Like one who in a lonesome wood Doth walk in fear and dread, Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread! By and large, I should say that the honors were with Alicia. The Author's secretary was pacing up and down the garden when we reached home, with Potty Black careering after him and every now and then dashing into the shrubbery to put to flight Beautiful Dog, who was also enamored of the young man with the nice smile and the good brown eyes. He had a great affection for animals, as they seemed to understand. Beautiful Dog laid aside, for his sake, his fear of white people, and slunk after him fawningly, wagging what did duty as a tail, and showing every tooth in an ear-to-ear grin. At sight of us, Beautiful Dog gave a dismal yelp and disappeared. "Let's sit in the library," coaxed the secretary. "I want you please to allow me to hold in my hands your copy of 'Purchas his Pilgrimes.' The Author dreams about that book out loud. Oh, yes, another thing I want to ask you: what sort of perfume do you use, and where do you get it?" My scalp prickled. "I noticed it in the upper hall last night," went on the secretary, innocently. "It was pervasive, but at the same time so delicate, so elusive, that I couldn't determine what it was. I am very sensitive to perfumes." "So are we," Alicia told him. "And if what you think you smelled is what we think we smell, it isn't a--a regular perfume. It's a--a--a something that belongs to Hynds House." The library was flooded with the ruddy light of sunset. Every bit of color in the big room stood out against a golden background, and a great golden spear fell across the dark, brooding face of Freeman Hynds above the old tiled fireplace. In that rosy glow he seemed to look down at us with living eyes. "Is that so?" The secretary stopped; and his head went up and his nose wrinkled. For the "something that belonged to Hynds House" walked upon the air with invisible feet. CHAPTER VIII PEACOCKS AND IVORY "Sophy, do you remember the night we talked it over, and decided to come here, and you were afraid of the new soil's effect upon yourself?" "Of course. Why?" "Oh, because." "Because why?" "Just because.--I wish to gracious you had a little saving vanity, Sophy Smith!" "And what, then, is _this_?" I asked ironically, and rustled my skirts. For the Westmacotes were to arrive that night, in time for dinner, and I, standing before the mirror in my room, was what Alicia called "really dressed" for the first time in my life. "From your point of view, this is a business necessity. From mine, it is applied morality. Why, Sophy, you're _stunning_! Here, sit down: I have to loosen up that hair a bit." "Now!" said she, when she had critically surveyed her finished work and found it good, "Now, Sophy Smith, you are no longer efficient and utilitarian; you are effective and decorative, thank heaven!" Really, clothes do make a tremendous difference, after all. Why, I--Well, I no longer looked root-bound. "I said you'd put out new leaves and begin to bloom!" Alicia exulted. We bowed to the Sophy in the glass, a small and slender person with quantities of fair hair, a round white chin, and steady blue eyes. For the rest, she had a short nose and the rather wide mouth of a boy. She wasn't what you'd call a beautiful person, but she wasn't displeasing to the eye. "_Vale_, plain Sophy Smith!" cried Alicia, "_Ave_, dear Lady of Hynds House! We who about to live salute you!" The Westmacotes were delighted with Alicia. The Head had noticed her just about as much as a Head notices a pale file-clerk in a white shirt-waist and a black skirt. This radiant rose-maiden--"little Dawn-rose," old Riedriech called her--was new to him; and so, I fancy, was a Miss Smith in such a frock as I was wearing. He, as well as his wife and Miss Phelps-Parsons, accepted us at our face-value, with the background of Hynds House outlining us. Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons was a lady with a soul. She said she had psychic consciousness and a clear green aura, and that she had been an Egyptian priestess in Thebes, in the time of Sesostris. In proof of this she showed us a fine little bronze Osiris holding a whip in one hand and the ankh in the other. ("My dear, the moment I saw him, I knew I had once prayed to him!") and she always wore a scarab ring. She had bought both in an antique-shop just off Washington Street. I thought this rather a far cry from Thebes, myself, but The Author insisted that if a Theban vestal of the time of Sesostris _had_ to reincarnate, she would naturally and inevitably come to life a Boston one. The Author hadn't taken any too kindly to the notion of other people coming to Hynds House. He grumbled that he had hoped he had at last found a quiet haven, a place that fitted him like a glove; he protested piercingly against having it "cluttered up with uninteresting, gobbling, gabbling, ordinary people." "You came too late. You should have been here with Great-Aunt Sophronisba," Alicia told him, tartly. "You'd have been ideal companions, both of you beware-of-the-doggy, hair-trigger-tempery, all-to-your-selfish." The Author gasped, and rubbed his eyes. Never, never, in all his pampered life, had one so spoken to him. "Why, of all the cheek!" exploded The Author. "Am I to be flouted thus by a piece of pink-and-whiteness just escaped from the nursery pap-spoon?" "Out of the mouths of babes--" insinuated Alicia. The Author grinned. And his grin is redeeming. "Sweet-and near-twenty," he explained. "I am not exactly all-to-myselfish, but I demand plenty of elbow-room in my existence. Generally speaking, my own society bores me less than the society of the mutable many. I like Hynds House. And I like you two women. You are not tiresome to the ear, wearisome to the mind, nor displeasing to the eye. I am even sensible of a distinct feeling of satisfaction in knowing that you are somewhere around the house. You belong. But I'm hanged if I want to see strangers come in. I object to strangers. Why are strangers necessary?" "For the same reason that you were." "I?" The Author's eyebrows were almost lost in his hair. "My dear, deluded child, I knew this house, and you, and Sophy Smith, before you were born! I knew you," The Author declared unblushingly, "before _I_ was born! Now, am I a stranger?" "Then you ought to know why Sophy and I have just got to have people, the sort of people who are coming." She paused. "_We_ haven't best-seller royalties piled up to the roof!" "No," said The Author, bitterly, "but I have. That's why I am forever plagued with strangers. That's why, when I discover a place and people that suit me to perfection, I can't keep 'em to myself! Oh, da--drat it all, anyhow!" "But they aren't coming to see you. They're coming to see Hynds House," Alicia reminded him soothingly. "Besides, I don't think they're the sort of folks that care much for authors," she finished, encouragingly. "They'll care about _me_" grumbled The Author glumly. "But let 'em come and be hanged to them! I shall take--" "Soothing syrup?" "Long walks!" snarled The Author. "I shall work all night and be invisible all day." The Westmacotes, as Alicia said, didn't greatly care for authors, though they sat up and took polite notice of this one. (One owed that to one's self-respect.) Only Miss Emmeline paid more than passing attention to him, though her interest really centered in Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, who was dining with us that night, as was Doctor Richard Geddes. Mr. Jelnik's presence had the effect of lightening The Author's gloom. His eyes brightened, his dejection changed into alertness, and there began that subtle game of under-the-surface thrust and parry that seemed inevitable when the two met. Mr. Westmacote listened with quiet enjoyment. His dinner was to his taste, Hynds House more than came up to his expectations, Alicia was Cinderella after the fairy's wand had passed over her, _I_ had ceased to be a mere person and become a personage; and he found here such men as Doctor Geddes, The Author, and Nicholas Jelnik. The Head smiled at his wife, and was at peace with the world. Miss Emmeline had already discovered the Lowestoft and Spode pieces in our built-in cupboards; that there were two perfect apostle jugs in the cabinet in the hall: that our Chelsea figures were lovelier than any she had heretofore seen; and that Hynds House, in which everything was genuine, had an atmosphere that appealed to her soul, or maybe matched her clear-green aura. Anyhow, the house reached out for Miss Emmeline as with hands and laid its spell upon her enduringly. She sat beside me, with Alicia's pet album of Confederate generals on her knees. "I never thought I'd have a sentimental regard for rebels," she confessed. "But, oh, they were gallant and romantic figures, when one looks at their old photographs here in Hynds House. I am Massachusetts to the bone, but I don't want to hear 'Marching through Georgia' while I'm here!" Mr. Jelnik, overhearing her, laughed. "Perhaps I may find for you something more in keeping with Hynds House," he said, and sauntered over to the old piano. Unexpectedly it came to life. And he began to sing: It was the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet, In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud: And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud. The Author shaded his eyes with his hand, his gaze riveted upon the singer. Alicia leaned forward, lips parted, face like an uplifted flower, eyes large with wonder and delight. The Confederate generals slid from Miss Emmeline's lap and lay face downward, forgotten. Westmacote's faded little wife, who had no children, crept closer to her big husband; and gently, unobtrusively, he reached out and took her hand in his warm grasp. Why did you promise love to me And not that promise keep? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep? Why did you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break? I am sure there is no lovelier and more touching ballad in all our English treasury than that sad, simple, and most beautiful old song. And he had set it to an air as simple and as perfect as its own words, an old-world air that suited it and his rich and flexible voice. "Why, Jelnik!" exclaimed Doctor Geddes, in a voice of pure astonishment, "I knew you could tinkle out a tune on a piano, but, man, I didn't dream it was in you to sing like this!" And he stared at his cousin. "I'd make bold to swear that Mr. Jelnik has a dozen more surprises up his sleeve, if he chose to let us see them," The Author said pleasantly. "My father's system of education included music. For which I praise him in the gates," Mr. Jelnik replied casually. "'Tinkle out a tune on a piano'!" breathed Alicia, and cast a look of deep disdain upon the blundering doctor. "Why, I've never in all my life heard anybody sing like that!" But I saw him through a mist, and felt my heart ache and burn in my breast, and wondered what he was doing here in my house that might have been his house, and how I was going to walk through my life after he had gone out of it. I had a wild desire to run outside into the dark night and the hushed garden, away from everybody and weep and weep, despairingly. Because a veil had been torn from my eyes this night, and I knew that the cruellest thing that can happen to a woman had happened to me. There could be but one thing more bitter--that he or anybody else in the world should know it. So I sat there, dumb, while everybody else said pleasant things to him, their voices sounding afar, far off. After a while we went into the living-room where our new piano is, and he played for us--Hungarian things, I think. Then he drifted into Chopin, and Alicia stood by and turned his music for him. "Those two," whispered Miss Emmeline, "are the most idyllic figures I have ever seen." I think she sighed as she said it. "Youth is the most beautiful thing in the world," she added. The Westmacotes, weary after a long journey, retired early. Mr. Jelnik and Doctor Geddes had gone off together. The secretary had to finish a chapter. The Author lingered to ask, oddly enough, if I had the original plan of Hynds House. Did I know who designed it? "Why don't you interview Judge Gatchell?" "I did. He was polite and friendly enough, but knows no more than is strictly legal. He told me he found Hynds House here when he arrived and expected to leave it here when he departed. And Geddes knows no more. Geddes isn't interested in Hynds House by itself," finished The Author, with a crooked smile. "Perhaps Mr. Jelnik may have some family papers." "Perhaps he may. I'd give something for a whack at those papers, Miss Smith." "Why not ask him to let you see them, then?" "Tut, tut!" said The Author, crossly, and took himself off. When I was kimonoed, braided, and slippered, Alicia in like raiment came in from her room next to mine, sat down on the floor, and leaned her head against my knees, with her cheek against my hand. For a while, as women do, we discussed the events of the evening. Both of us had deep cause for gratification; yet both of us were strangely subdued. "Sophy, Peacocks and Ivory is a very wonderful person, isn't he?" hesitated Alicia, after a long pause. She didn't lift her head; and the cheek against my hand was warmer than usual. "Yes," I agreed, quietly, "so wonderful that something never to be replaced will have gone out of our lives when he goes away, and doesn't come back any more. For that is what the Nicholas Jelniks do, my dear." "Is it?" Again she spoke after a pause. "I wonder! Somehow, I--Sophy, he belongs here. He's--why, Sophy, he's a part of the glamour." "I'm afraid glamour hasn't part nor place in plain folks' lives." "But we aren't plain folks any more, either, Sophy," she insisted. "Why--why--_we're_ part of the glamour, too!" "That is just about half true." Alicia ignored this. She asked, instead: "Did you hear what that great blundering doctor said about tinkling out a tune on a piano?" I could hear Mr. Jelnik praised by her or doubted by The Author. But somehow I could not bear any criticism of Doctor Geddes just then. I said stiffly: "I have learned to appreciate Doctor Geddes." "You are far too fair-minded not to." Presently: "Sophy?" "Uh-huh." "We aren't ever going to be sorry we came here--together--are we, Sophy? And we won't ever let anybody come between us. Not anybody. Not The Author--nor his secretary--nor whatever guests come--nor Mr. Nicholas Jelnik--nor--nor Doctor Richard Geddes." Her head pressed closer to my knees. "We came first, you and I," said Alicia, in a muffled whisper. "We are more to each other than any of them can be to us. You'll remember that, won't you?" "I will remember, you absurd Alicia!" But I did not ask my dear girl what her incoherent words might mean. I did not ask why the soft cheek against my hand was wet. As I have said before, Hynds House is but two stories high, with deep cellars under it, and an immense attic overhead; an attic all cut up into nooks and corners, and twists and turns, and sloping roofs and dormer windows, and two or three shallow steps going up here, and two or three more going down there, and passages and doors where you'd never look for them. We had never been able fully to explore our attic. It was Ali Baba's cave to us, with half its treasures unguessed and every trunk and box whispering, "Say 'Open, Sesame,' to me, and see what you'll find!" While I was sitting with Alicia's head against my knee, a light, swift footstep sounded overhead in the attic, followed by a sort of stumble, as if somebody had slipped on one of those unexpected steps. Alicia rose quickly. "Sophy," she breathed, "I have thought, once or twice, that I heard somebody walking in the attic." "We will soon find out who it is, then," said I. Noiselessly we stole out into the hall, past the sleeping Westmacotes, and Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons who so longed to come in closer contact with the occult and unknown. We moved like ghosts, ourselves, our felt-soled mules making no sound. The Author opened his door just as we approached it, and held up an imperious finger. "Did you hear it, too?" he whispered. And walking ahead of us, he stole up the cork-screw stairway at the end of the side hall, lifted the latch of the attic door, and stepped inside. It was frightfully dark up there. If you peered through the uncurtained windows you could see tree-tops tossing like black waves against the dark sky, and in between them rolling clouds, and little bright patchwork spaces of stars. And it was so quiet you could hear your heart beat, and your breathing seemed to rattle in your ears. We strained our eyes, seeking to pierce the gloom, stealing forward step by step. A board creaked, noisily; and then--I could have sworn it--then something seemed to move across one of the dormer windows. It was so vague, so shadowy, that one could not distinguish its outline; one could only think that something moved. The Author gave an exclamation and switched on his electric torch, trying to focus the circle of light upon that particular window. There was nothing there. Only, it seemed to me that something, incredibly swift and silent, flashed down one of the bewildering turns to which our attic is addicted. But when we ran forward, the passage was empty. We brought up at the red brick square of one of the chimney stacks. Almost savagely The Author flashed his light over every inch of wall and floor. Nothing. But on the close and musty air stole, not a sound, but a scent. The Author swung around and trotted back. The window across which we thought we had seen something move was fastened from the inside, and there were one or two wooden boxes and a leather-covered trunk in the dormer recess. He sniffed hound-like around these, and with an exclamation leaned over. Behind the trunk crouched--Potty Black, with a mouse clamped in her jaws. "For heaven's sake!" cried Alicia. "The cat! Sophy, what we heard was the cat!" "Let us go," said The Author. And feeling rather silly, we trailed after him. "You see," said I, "there is nothing. There never is anything." "Come in my room for a minute," The Author whispered, and there was that in his voice which made us obey. Inside his door, he opened his hand. In his palm was a soiled and crumpled scrap of tough, parchment-like paper about the size of an ordinary playing-card, so frayed and creased that one had difficulty in deciphering the writing on it. There clung to it a faint and unforgetable scent. "It was behind the trunk, partly under the cat's black paw. I smelled it when I leaned over, and I thought we might as well have a look at it." said The Author. And on the following page is what The Author had found. '"Shades of E.A. Poe, and Robert Louis the Beloved! What have we here?" cried The Author, joyously, and stood on one leg like a stork. "Was there a Hynds woman named Helen? 'Turn Hellen's Key three tens and three?' Some keyhole! I say, Miss Smith, let me keep this for a while, will you?" "Do, Sophy, let him keep it!" pleaded Alicia. {~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~} { _Turne Hellens Keye_ } { _Three Tennes & Three_ } { _Ye Watcher in ye Darke Thoult See_ } { } { (*B*) } { } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { } { _As Neede Shall Rise_ } { _So Mote It Bee_ } { } '~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~' "I'll take the best care of it, Miss Smith; indeed I will!" The Author promised. "Look here: I'll lock it in the clothes-closet, in the breast pocket of my coat." As he spoke, he opened the cedar-lined closet, that was almost as big as a modern hall bedroom, and put the paper in the breast pocket of his coat. Locking the door, he placed the key under his pillow, and beside it a new and businesslike Colt automatic. "There!" said The Author, confidently. "Nobody can get into that closet without first tackling _me_. Now you girls go to bed. To-morrow we'll tackle the unraveling." And we, remembering of a sudden that we were pig-tailed and kimonoed, and that The Author himself resembled a step-ladder with a shawl draped around it, departed hurriedly. He was late at the breakfast-table next morning. Gloom and abstraction sat visibly upon him. He left his secretary to bear the brunt of conversation with the Westmacotes and Miss Emmeline. For once he failed to do justice to Mary Magdalen's hot biscuit, and ignored Fernolia's astonished and concerned stare; even a whispered, "Honey, is you-all got a misery anywheres?" failed to rouse him. I found him, after a while, waiting for me in the library. "Miss Smith,"--The Author strode restlessly up and down--"this house has a peculiar effect upon people; a very peculiar effect. Since I came here, I have learned to walk in my sleep." And seeing my look of astonishment, "I walked in my sleep last night. And I took that bit of doggerel out of my coat pocket, locked the closet door, and replaced the key under my pillow." "How strange! And where did you put it?" I wondered. "Exactly: where did I put it?" repeated The Author, rumpling his hair with both hands. "That's what I want to know, myself. I've looked everywhere in my room, and in Johnson's, and I can't find the thing. It's gone," and he stalked out, with his shoulders hunched to his ears. I sat still, staring out at the window. There was a thing I hadn't told The Author, or even Alicia. I had no idea what the "bit of doggerel" meant, if, indeed, it meant anything. But when I had held Freeman Hynds's old diary in my hands, between the two pages following the last entry had been a creased and soiled piece of paper. I had seen it out of the tail of my eye, as the saying is. It was only a glimpse, but one trained to handle many papers, as I had been, has a quick and an accurate eye. And I knew that the paper found by The Author in the attic, and now lost again, was the paper I had seen in Freeman Hynds's diary. CHAPTER IX THE JUDGMENT OF SPRING Judge Gatchell's nephews and nieces, brought by that punctilious gentleman to call upon Miss Alicia Gaines, found her enchanting and cried it to the circumambient air. It was as if the voice of April had summoned the cohorts of Spring. For fresh-faced boys of a sudden appeared in increasing numbers; and flower-faced girls came fluttering into Hynds House like butterflies. They cared for its history and its hatreds not a fig: what has April to do with last November? The faith of Youth has a clearer-eyed wisdom, a sweeter, sounder justice than the sourer verdict of the mature. For theirs is the judgment of Spring. By this sign they conquer. Susy Gatchell enlisted Mary Meade and Helen Fenwick, and these three held all younger Hyndsville in the hollow of their pink palms. After which, as Doctor Richard Geddes told me wrathfully, you "couldn't put your foot down without running the risk of stepping on some little cockerel trying to crow around Hynds House." The tide was turning in our direction. Also, we were in daily contact with really worth-while people, people that otherwise we should have met only in books, magazines, and newspapers. And they liked us. The amazing miracle was that we, also we, were their sort of folk! I knew I was being given unbuyable things. One could not live under the same roof with thin dark Luis Morenas and view what magic his pencil worked, without learning somewhat of the holiness of creative work. One couldn't listen to The Author without being somewhat brightened by his daring wit, his glowing genius; nor live face to face with big Westmacote without revering the broadness of the American master spirit, to which Big Business is only a part of the Great Game. As for Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, it didn't take Alicia and me long to discover what real depths underlay that Boston-spinster mind of hers. And you simply couldn't breathe the same air with The Suffragist--who appeared with two trunks, three valises, and a type-writer, all covered with "Votes for Women!" stickers--without an expansion of the chest. She gave you the impression of having been dressed by machinery out of gear, and of then having been whacked flat with a shovel. When she clapped on what she called a hat, you wondered whether a heron hadn't built its nest on her head. But when she began to speak, you listened with the ears of your immortal soul stretched wide. Women worshiped her, though Mr. Jelnik's eyes danced, and Westmacote's military mustache bristled a bit, and she all but drove Doctor Richard Geddes, who had notions of his own, out of his senses. "Stop trying to argue with me, my dear man," she'd say in her rich voice, "but come and let us reason together. I haven't heard one word of reason from you yet!" And she'd let loose one of her rollicking laughs that set the doctor's teeth on edge and made The Author shudder. The Author snarled to me that she laughed like a rolling-mill and reasoned like a head-on collision. He put her in his new book, clothes and all. Just as Luis Morenas, with an edged smile on his thin lips, made rapid-fire sketches of her. _He_ called her "The Future-Maker." Now, shouldn't Alicia and I have been happy? And yet we weren't. Alicia's laugh wasn't so frequent. I would catch her watching me, with an odd, troubled, anxious speculation in her eyes. She had a habit of blushing suddenly, and as quickly paling. And quietly, but none the less surely and definitely, she had begun to avoid Doctor Richard Geddes. It wasn't that she ceased to be friendly; but she placed between herself and him one of those women-built, impalpable, impassable barriers which baffled, puzzled men are unable to tear down. It was impossible, I thought, that she should remain blind to his open passion for herself: he was anything but subtle, was Richard of the Lionheart. A blind man could have told, from the mere sound of his voice, a deaf man from the mere expression of his eyes, that Alicia had the big doctor's whole heart. On his side, he was in deep waters. His ruddy color faded; his face took on a fixed, grim intensity. And when he watched the girl flirting now with this boy, now with that, after the innocent fashion of natural girls, but always reserving a friendlier smile, a more eager greeting, for Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, I was so sorry for Doctor Richard that I couldn't help trying, covertly, to console him. It so happened that Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, daughter of the Puritans though she was, nevertheless had a distinct liking for what she termed Episcopacy. She was pleased with old St. Polycarp's. She liked Mrs. Haile, to whom she happened to mention that her opportunities for studying the life of native women and children in the East had been rather unusually good, since she had visited many missionary stations in China and India. Things were languishing just then, and Mrs. Haile looked at Miss Emmeline almost imploringly: would she, could she, give the ladies a little lecture?--tell us things first-hand, so to speak? Miss Emmeline reflected. She looked at Alicia and me. "Could we have it in your delightful library?" she wondered. "That beautiful old room has a soul which speaks to mine. Dear Miss Smith, would it be too much to ask you to let me have my little talk, a very informal little lecture, in wonderful old Hynds House?" Mrs. Haile turned a sort of greenish pink. It wasn't for her to suggest, after that, that it might be better to have the lecture in the parsonage; any more than for me to hint, without ungraciousness, that it might be just as well not to have it in Hynds House. Alicia shot me one quizzical, Irish-blue glance when I said, "Yes." And that's how, on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, all Hyndsville came to Hynds House to hear Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons tell them "How to Reach the Women of the East." Somehow, I rather think they were as curious about two Yankee women as they were about those Eastern women of whom Miss Emmeline was talking. I'm sure Hynds House was just as interesting to them as Mohammedan harems and Indian zenanas. Miss Emmeline really spoke well, and her audience was interested in her, in her theme, and in Hynds House. The Suffragist picked up the thread where the less gifted woman dropped it, and in simple, living phrases drove home the great truth of the sisterhood of all women. Which, of course, called for tea, and some of Mary Magdalen's cookies. It was the cookies that caught The Author. Coming in from a long and hungry prowl, he spied Fernolia crossing the hall with a huge platter, got one tantalizing, mouth-watering odor, and dashed after her, bent upon robbery. A second later he found himself in a room full of women. Hyndsville was meeting The Author! Alicia introduced him, pleasantly. And, "Talk about angels--" said she, gaily, "We have just this minute stopped talking about the heathen! And may I give you a cup of tea?" "And a dozen or so cookies, please. Thank heaven for the heathen! What is home without the heathen?--Without sugar, Miss Gaines, without sugar! And for charity's sake, no lemon!" He sipped his tea and munched his cookies, with his head on one side and the air of a thievish jackdaw; and proceeded, after his wont, to extract such pith as the situation offered. "Doctor Johnson," Miss Martha Hopkins remembered, as she watched him drinking his fourth cup of tea, "Doctor Johnson was also addicted to tea-drinking. Most great literary men are, I believe." "It isn't possible you consider old Johnson a great literary man!" The Author's eyebrows climbed into his hair. "Why! wasn't he?" Her eyes widened. She had as much respect for Dr. Johnson as Miss Deborah Jenkyns had, though of course she never read him. Life is too short. "Why! was he?" asked The Author. "Outside of Boswell--and _he_ was a fool--I've never known anybody who thought he amounted to much." The Suffragist looked up. "Nelson had his Southey, Boswell had his Johnson, and Mr. Modern Best-seller may well profit by their example." And she smiled grimly. The Author's lip lifted. "Oh, but you couldn't do it!" he purred. "And if I offered you the job you'd excuse your incapacity on the ground that there wasn't anything to write about. I know you!" He took another cooky. "Yes, I dare say I'd blurt out the truth. Women are like that," admitted The Suffragist. "The female of the species is more deadly than the male," conceded The Author. "Nevertheless," he raised his tea-cup gallantly, "To the ladies!" He got up, leisurely. "And now I go," said he, "to paint the lily and adorn the rose. In short, to set forth in adequate and remunerative language the wit, wisdom, virtue, beauty, and ornateness of woman as she thinks men think she is. Nature," reflected The Author, smiling at The Suffragist, "made me a writer. The devil, the editors, and the women have made me a best-seller." And he departed, a cooky in each hand. That night one of the Gatchell boys took Alicia to a dance. She was in blue and white, like an angel, and the Gatchell boy trod on air. But to me came Doctor Richard Geddes, and threw himself into a wing-chair. "Sophronisba Two," he asked, we being alone in the library, "what have I done to offend Alicia?" "Is Alicia offended?" "Isn't she?" wondered the doctor. "She won't let me get near enough to find out," he added gloomily. "And it isn't just. She ought to know that--well, that I'd rather cut off my right hand than give her real cause for offense. I'm going to ask you a straight, man question; is that girl a--a flirt? She is not a--jilt?" "Heaven forbid!" "Does she care for anybody else?" "On my honor, I don't know." "It couldn't be any of these whipper-snappers of boys: she's not that sort," worried the doctor. "Sophy, is it--Jelnik?" My heart stood still. I could make no reply. "I don't know. My dear friend, I don't know!" "It would be the most natural thing in the world," he reflected. "Jelnik looks like Prince Charming himself. And, for all his surface indolence, there's genius in the man. Why shouldn't she be taken with him?" We looked at each other. "I see," said the doctor, quietly. "Now, little friend, what concerns you and me is our dear girl's happiness. Does Jelnik care, do you think?" "I don't know!" I said again. I felt like one on the rack. It seemed to me I could hear my heart-strings stretching and snapping. "But what is one girl's affection to a man born to be loved by women?" "He is indifferent to women, for the most part," the doctor said thoughtfully. "He is so free from vanity, and at the same time so reserved, that one has difficulty in getting at his real feelings." "She, also, is free from petty vanity," I told him. "She has an innocent, happy pleasure in her own youth and prettiness, but hers is the unspoiled heart of a child." "Who should know it better than I, that am a great hulking, bad-tempered fellow twice her age!" groaned the doctor. "Yet, Sophy, _I_ could make her happier than Jelnik could. Dear and lovely as she is, she couldn't make him happy, either--Don't you think I'm a fool, Sophy?" "No," said I, smiling wanly; "I don't." "This business of being in love is a damnable arrangement. Here was I," he grumbled, "busy, reasonably happy, with a sound mind in a sound body, and a digestion that was a credit to me. And along comes a girl, and everything's changed! My work doesn't fill my days, my food is bitter in my mouth, and I wake up in the night saying to myself, 'You fool, you're chasing rainbows!' Sophy, don't you ever fall in love with somebody you know you can't have! It's hell!" I didn't tell him I knew it. One of his men came to tell him he was needed urgently. As it meant a thirty-mile trip and the night was cold, I made him wait for a cup of coffee and an omelet." "Miss Smith--" "You said 'Sophy' a while ago. 'Sophy' sounds all right to me." "It sounds fine to me, too, Sophy." And he reached out and seized my hand with a grip that made me wince. "I told you I was a bear!" he said, regretfully. When Alicia returned, she came, as usual, to my room. "I am tired!" she yawned, and curled herself up on the bed. "Didn't you have a nice time?" "Oh, I suppose so! Everybody was lovely to me, and I could have divided my dances. These Southerners are easy to love, aren't they? I find it very easy for me! And oh, Sophy, there's to be a picnic day after to-morrow, at the Meade plantation, in my honor, if you please! We go by automobile.--I never thought I could get tired dancing, Sophy. But I am. Tired!" "Go to bed and sleep it off." "Did you have time to make out that grocery list? They've been overcharging us on butter." "Yes: I finished it after Doctor Geddes left" "Oh! He was here, then?" She yawned again. "Yes. But somebody sent for him, and he had to cut his visit short." Alicia frowned. "I wonder he keeps so healthy, running out at all hours of the night; and heaven knows how he manages about meals! His cook told me that sometimes he has to rush away in the middle of a meal, and sometimes he misses one altogether." "I remembered that, so I made him wait for a cup of coffee and an omelet." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "You're always thinking about other people's comfort, Sophy." She paused, and looked at me half-questioningly: "I wish he had somebody to look after him," she said in a low voice, "somebody like you." She added, as if to herself: "He takes two lumps of sugar in his coffee, one in his tea, wants dry toast, and likes his omelet _buttered_." And when I stared at her, she slipped nearer, and laid her cheek against mine. "Sophy," in a soft whisper, "you've made up to me for my father and my mother, and for the sisters and brothers I never had. We're all sorts and conditions of folks, aren't we, Sophy?--but none like you, Sophy; not any one of them all like you!" At that moment, through the open window, there stole in on the night air the faintest whisper of music. It wasn't mournful, it wasn't joyful, but both together; a singing voice, a crying voice, wild and sweet, part of the night and the trees and the wind, and part, I think, of the secretest something in the human heart. We had no idea where it came from; out of the sky, perhaps! Somebody ran down-stairs, and a moment later the front door opened softly. The Author had heard, and was afoot. But even as he stepped outside, Ariel's ghostly music ceased. There was nothing; nobody; only the night. CHAPTER X THE FOREST OF ARDEN I had seen Alicia whirl away in the Meades' big car. I had seen the Westmacotes and Miss Emmeline off on what they termed a nature-hunt. The Author and his secretary were up to the eyes in a new chapter; The Suffragist was spreading the glad tidings; and Riedriech and Schmetz had Luis Morenas in hand for the afternoon, visioning the United States of the World, while he snatched sketches of the visionaries. The Author, Mr. Johnson, and I, lunched together. "Miss Smith," began The Author abruptly, "did you know this house was built by British and French master masons? No? Well, it was. Judge Gatchell's father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were solicitors for this estate, and the judge at last very kindly allowed me to look through a great batch of papers in his possession. From these I discovered that one of the Hyndses visited England in 1727, joined the new lodge lately established there, and brought one of the brethren, an architect, back to America with him. Another came from France. These three planned and built this house, and did it pretty well, too. "This house-builder, Walsingham Hynds, made his house a sort of lodge for the brethren, just as in later times his grandsons sheltered the brethren of those societies that fathered the American Revolution. Gatchell tells me there is a legend of the master of Hynds House entertaining British officers and at the same time hiding the forfeited rebels they were hunting. I'd like to know," The Author added, reflectively, "where he hid them." "An old house like this has dozens of places where one could be hidden without much danger of detection," remarked Mr. Johnson. "I'm pretty sure of that," agreed The Author, emphatically. "You should be, since you did a neat little bit of hiding on your own account," Mr. Johnson reminded him. The Author was nettled. He had never found the paper lost out of the closet in his own room, though he had never given up a tentative search for it. "Well, it's confoundedly odd I never did such a thing before," he grumbled. "What is odd is that I myself was waked out of my sleep that night by the most oppressive sense of misery and hopelessness I have ever experienced," Mr. Johnson said seriously. "It was so overpowering that it made me think of Saint Theresa's description of her torment in that oven in the wall of hell which had by kindly forethought on the part of the devil been arranged for her permanent tenancy. Of course, it was just a nightmare," he added, doubtfully; "or perhaps a fit of indigestion." "Indigestion takes many forms," I remarked, as lightly as I could. "And you must remember you've been warned that Hynds House is haunted. Why, the servants insist they've seen ol' Mis' Scarlett's h'ant!" "Ah!" nodded The Author. "And I smell a mysterious perfume, I walk in my sleep for the first and only time in my life, and I hide where it can't be found a paper with an uncouth jingle and some dots on it, Johnson and I have the same nightmare. And I have heard footsteps. All hallucinations, of course! I will say this much for Hynds House: I never had a hallucination until I came here. By the way, did I merely imagine I heard a violin last night?" "Oh, no: I heard it, too." Mr. Johnson looked at The Author with a concerned face. "You're getting a bit off your nerves, Chief. Anybody might play a violin." "Anybody might, but few do play it as I thought I heard it played last night. Who's the player, Miss Smith?" "I haven't the slightest idea. Alicia thinks it's a spirit that lives in the crape-myrtle trees." I was beginning to be aweary of The Author's shrewd eyes and persistent questioning, and I was heartily glad when he had to go back to his work. That was a gray and windless afternoon, and the house was full of those bluish shadows that belong to gray days; it was charged, even more than usual, with mystery: the whole atmosphere tingled with it as with electricity. I couldn't read. I have never been able to play upon any musical instrument, much as I love music. I do not sing, either, except in a small-beer voice; and when I tried to sew I pricked my fingers with the needle. I went into the kitchen, consulted with Mary Magdalen as to the evening's dinner, weighed and measured such ingredients as she needed, saw that the two maids were following instructions, tried to make friends with Beautiful Dog, until he howled with anguish and affliction and fled as from pestilence; and, unable to endure the house any longer, put on my hat and set out upon one of those aimless walks one takes in a land where all walks are lovely. Automobiles came and went upon the public road, and to escape them I crossed a wooden foot-bridge spanning a weedy ditch, struck into a path bordering a wide field followed it aimlessly for a while, and before I knew it was in the Enchanted Wood. The Enchanted Wood was carpeted with brown and sweet-smelling pine-needles, with green clumps of honeysuckle breaking out here and there in moist spots. There were cassena bushes, full of vivid scarlet berries; and crooked, gray-green cedars; and brown boles of pine-trees; and the shallowest, gayest, absurdest little thread of a brook giggling as it went about its important business of keeping a lip of woodland green. It was very, very still there, somewhat as Gethsemane might have been, I fancy. I had wanted to be alone, that I might wrestle with my trouble. Yet now that I was facing it, my spirit quailed. Never had I felt so desolate, or dreamed that the human heart could bear such anguish. If I had had the faintest warning, that I might have saved myself! If I had never come to Hynds House at all, but had lived my busy, matter-of-fact, quiet life! Yet the idea of never having seen him, never having loved him, was more cruel than the cruellest suffering that loving entailed. It was harder even than the thought that Alicia and I cared for the same man, who perhaps cared for neither of us. At that I fell into an agony of weeping. That passed. I was spent and empty. But the calm of acceptance had come. I wasn't to lose my grip, nor wear the willow. The idea of me, Sophy Smith, wearing the willow, aroused my English common-sense. I refused to be ridiculous. And then I looked up and saw him coming toward me, his great dog trotting at his side. I pulled myself together, and smiled; for Boris was thrusting his friendly nose into my palm, and rubbing his fine head against my shoulder, and his master had dropped lightly down beside me. I had not seen Mr. Jelnik for several days, and it struck me painfully that the man was pale, that his step dragged, and the brightness of his beauty was dimmed. He looked older, more careworn. If he was glad to see me, it was at first a troubled gladness, for he started, and bit his lip. I wondered, not with jealousy, but with pain, if there was somebody, some beautiful and high-born lady, at sight of whom his heart might have leaped as mine did now. Was it, perhaps, to forget such a one that he had exiled himself? "You are such a serene, restful little person!" he said presently, and a change came over his tired face; "and I am such a restless one! You soothe me like a cool hand on a hot forehead." "Restless?--you? Why, I thought you the serenest person I had ever known." His mocking, gentle smile curved his lips. But his eyes were not laughing. For a fleeting, flashing second the whirlpools and the depths were bared in them. Then the veil fell, the surface lights came out and danced. "My father was an excellent teacher," he said, indifferently. "The whole object of his training was self-control. He was really a very wonderful man, my father. But he overlooked one highly important factor in my make-up, my Hynds blood." I made no reply. I was wondering, perplexedly, how I, I of all people, should have been picked up and enmeshed in the web of these Hyndses and their fate. "Thank you," said he, gratefully, "for your silence. Most women would have talked, for the good of my soul. Why don't you talk?" "Because I have nothing to say." "You evidently inherited a God-sent reticence from your British forebears. The British have 'illuminating flashes of silence.' It is one of their saving graces." I proved it. Mr. Jelnik, with a whimsical, sidewise glance, drew nearer. "Why, instead of sitting at the foot of a pine-tree, which is also a reticent creature, are you not sitting at the feet of our friend The Author, who is perfectly willing to illumine the universe? Very bright man, The Author. How do you like his secretary?" "Mr. Johnson? Oh, very much indeed! He is charming!" "I find him so myself. But he is melting wax before the fire of feminine eyes. A man in love is a sorry spectacle!" "Is he?" "_Ach_, yes! Consider my cousin Richard Geddes, for instance." At that I winced, remembering the doctor's eyes when he had spoken of Alicia and of this man. I looked at Mr. Jelnik now, wonderingly. If he knew that much, hadn't he any heart? He stopped short. A wrinkle came between his black brows. "I am not to speak lightly of my Cousin Richard, I perceive." "No. Please, please, no!" "I hadn't meant to. Richard," said Mr. Jelnik, gravely, "is a good man." "Oh, yes! Indeed, yes! And--and he has a deep affection for _you_, Mr. Jelnik." "We Hyndses are the deuce and all for affection. We take it in such deadly earnest that we store up a fine lot of trouble for ourselves." His face darkened. I had been right, then, in supposing that there was somebody, perhaps half the world away, for whom he cared. _And he didn't care for Alicia._ I was sure of that. "Don't go!" he begged, as I stirred. "Stay with me for a little while: I need you. I am tired, I am bored, I am disgusted with things as they are. There is nothing new under the sun, and all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Also, I am fronting the forks of a dilemma: Shall I shake the dust of Hyndsville from my foot, yield to the _Wanderlust_ and go what our worthy friend Judge Gatchell calls 'tramping,' or shall I stay here yet awhile? I can't make up my mind!" "Do you want to go?" "Yes and no. Hold: let's toss for it and let the fall of the coin decide." He took from his pocket a thin silver foreign coin, and showed it me. "Heads, I go. Tails, I stay," he said, and tossed it into the air. It fell beside me, out of his reach. With a swift hand I picked it up. "Well?" he asked, indifferently. My hand shut down upon it. There was the sound of wind in my ears, and my heart pounded, and my sight blurred. Then somebody--oh, surely not I!--in a low, clear, modulated voice spoke: "_You will have to stay, Mr. Jelnik_," said the voice, pleasantly. "_It is tails._" And all the while the inside Me, the real Me, was crying accusingly: "Oh, _liar! liar! It is heads!_" Did he smile? I do not know. He did not look at me for the minute, but stared instead at the gray-blue, shadowed woods, the brown boles of the pines, the bright trickle of water playing it was a real brook. "Tails it is. I stay," he said presently. And with a swift movement he reached out and lightly patted my hand with the coin in it. "Well, it's decided. You have got me for a next-door neighbor for a while longer, Miss Smith. No, don't go yet." So I stayed, who would have stayed in the Pit to be near him, or walked out of heaven to follow him, had he called me. "Do you know," he spoke in a plaintive voice--"that I haven't had any lunch? I forgot to go home for lunch! Boris, go get me something to eat, old chap!" Boris hung out a tongue like a flag, looked in his man's eyes, and vanished, running as only the thoroughbred wolf-hound can run. "I am so tired! Should you mind if I kept my dog's place warm at your feet, Miss Smith?" And he stretched his long length on the pine-needles, his hands under his head, his face upturned. "I wish I had a pillow!" he complained. I scooped up an armful of the pine-needles, while he watched me lazily, and packed it over and between the roots of the pine-tree. "You're a Sister of Charity," said he, gratefully. "But I can't afford to scratch my neck." And coolly he took a fold of my brown silk skirt, patted it over the straw, and with a sigh of satisfaction rested his head upon it. "This is very pleasant!" he sighed. Presently: "Your hair looks just as a woman's hair ought to look, under that brown hat," he said drowsily, "soft and fair. And after this, I shall order some brown-silk cushion-covers. I never knew anything could feel so comfortable and restful!" He closed his eyes. I sat there, hands locked tightly together, and looked down at his beautiful head, his slim and boyish body; and I felt an aching sense of resentment. No man has any business to be like that, and then come into the life of a woman named Smith. He did not move, nor did I. We might have been creatures motionless under a spell, in that Enchanted Wood; until from the outside world came Boris, carrying a wicker basket, in which sandwiches, fruit, a small bottle of wine, and a silver drinking-cup had been carefully packed. "Boris is used to playing courier." His master patted him affectionately. "Come, Miss Smith. By the way, that isn't your real name, though. Your name is Woman-in-the-Woods. Mine is--" "Fortunatus." He raised his brows. "I was about to say 'Man-who-is-Hungry,'" he finished, pleasantly. "I once knew an Indian named Tail-feathers-going-over-the-Hill. It taught me the value of being explicit as to one's name. Here, you shall have the cup, and I'll drink out of the bottle. Some of these fine days, Woman-in-the-Woods, I shall take you on a jaunt with me and Boris." "It sounds promising," I admitted, cautiously. "It is more. You shall learn all the fine points of out-of-door housekeeping.--Drink your wine, Woman-in-the-Woods. You were pale, very pale, when I came upon you. I was afraid something had been troubling you." "Something troubles everybody." "Oh, bromidic Miss Smith!--Drink your wine, please. And do not look doubtfully upon that sandwich. My man knows how to build them." His man did. The sandwich was manna. The wine evidently came from heaven. "Now you have a color. I say, is Morenas going to do you, too?" "Good gracious, no! But he has sketched Alicia a dozen times at least." "And me," said Mr. Jelnik, gloomily. "There's no evading the brute. I turn like a weathercock; and there he is, with corrugated brow and slitted eyes, studying me! And the baleful eye of The Author also pursues me. Between them, I feel skinned." "Mr. Morenas says you are a rare but quite perfect type," I told him, mischievously. The young man shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "Am I a type, Woman-in-the-Woods?" he asked. "Indeed, you are absolutely different from anybody else." And then, terrified, I turned red. "Oh, I know! You didn't mean it either as a brick-bat or a bouquet, merely the truth as you see it. You are transparently truthful, fundamentally truthful, and at the same time the American business woman! You can't understand how that intrigues me!" And then, quite simply and boyishly, he began to talk about himself. I got glimpses of a boyhood spent partly in a stately home in Vienna, and partly roaming about the great Hungarian estate which his mother loved, and to which the two returned summer after summer, until her death. Then student days, and after that, foot-loose wanderings up and down the earth and across the seven seas. His grandmother had dropped courtesies to kings; and mine had dropped "aitches." His father had been a European celebrity, mine a ship-chandler in Boston, U.S.A. Yet here we two were; and he might have been a high-spirited and most beautiful little boy picnicking with a sedate and old-maidish little girl. "How old should you imagine me?" he flung the question like a challenge, as if he had divined my thoughts. "Oh, say, thirteen, going on fourteen." "Dear Woman-in-the-Woods, I am thirty-three." "You are older than I thought." "You are younger than you think. And you betray the fact," he smiled. "I have never been very young; probably I shall never be very old." "You will always be exactly the right age," said Nicholas Jelnik. "For you will always be a little girl, and a young maiden, and a grown woman, and a bit of an old maid, and something of a grandmother. That is a wonderful, a very, very wonderful combination!" I looked at him with more than doubt. But no, he was not poking fun, though the rich color had come into his cheek, and the golden lights flickered mischievously in his eyes. "And I forgot to add, also a business woman!" he finished gaily. "_Herr Gott_, but it took a business woman to tackle old Hynds House and gather together such folks as you have there now!" "Alicia was the head and front of _that_. I merely helped." "Alicia," said Mr. Jelnik, "is a darling girl. Alicia is everything a girl ought to be." But there was not in eyes or voice that light and tone that crept into Doctor Richard's when he named her. My dear girl's tender face--so true and beautiful and loving--rose before me, and all she had meant to me, been to me, crowded upon my heart. I said what I had never intended to say to any one: "Why, Alicia's my--my _child_, to me! Don't you understand?" "Dear Woman, yes!" His voice was melted gold. The ridiculous little brook went whish-whis-sssh; and the bluish shadows melted into gray; and a chill came creeping, creeping, into the air. "Before you go," said Nicholas Jelnik, "I should like to give you a talisman, to turn Miss Smith into Woman-in-the-Woods every now and then." And with his pocket-knife he cut a sharp line down the thin old coin he had tossed, worked at it for a few minutes with a pocket file and a stone, and then with his fingers that looked so slim but were strong as steel nippers. The coin broke in halves. "Half for you," said Mr. Jelnik, "and half for me, to commemorate a comradely afternoon, and to mark a decision. We'll consider it a token, a charm, a talisman--what you will. And if ever I really and truly need a Woman-in-the-Woods to help me, why, I'll send my half to her; and she'll obey the summons instantly and without question. And if ever she needs a man--like me, say--why, she'll send her half, and he'll come, instantly and without question." He was smiling as he spoke. Now he paused to look at me earnestly. "Because we are going to be real friends, you and I; are we not?" I hesitated. How could we two be real friends, when the balance between us was so uneven, so unequal? He saw the hesitation, momentary as it was, and looked at me with something of astonishment and a hint of hurt. "I have never," he said, proudly, "had to ask for friendship. Yet I do desire yours, who are such a grave, brave, true little thing, such a valiant-for-truth, stand-fast little thing! You have the one quality that I, born wanderer, foot-loose rolling-stone, need most in this world, unchanging, loyal, unquestioning steadfastness." I considered this. It is true that I hold fast, for that is the English way. "But outside of that one thing," I told him, "I have nothing else." "No?--She hasn't," said he, in a teasing tone, "anything to give, except unbuyable truth. She has nothing to offer except Friendship's very self!--this poor, poor Miss Smith!" Now, heaven alone knows why, but at that my eyes filled with foolish tears. If he saw them--and they ran down my cheek in spite of me--he mercifully gave no sign. Instead he held out his fine brown hand, and when I placed mine in it, he lifted it to his lips with foreign grace. "We two are friends, then--through thick and thin, above doubting, and without fear or reproach. That is so, _hein_?" "Yes!" I promised. So, walking slowly, as if loath to go, we two went out of the Enchanted Wood and left the Forest of Arden behind us. When I was again in my own room, and had taken off the brown frock, I held against my cheek, for a long, long minute, that fold against which his head had rested; I fingered the broken coin; I looked long and long at the hand his lips had touched; and though I had told a shameless lie, I was not at all ashamed. I have often read that women do not and cannot love men, but only love to be loved by them. Only a man could have been stupid enough to say that; and, then he didn't know. The woman hadn't told him. "I say! Haven't you got on a new frock to-night? My word, it's scrumptious!" remarked The Author, after dinner. I was wearing a black-and-blue frock, and he had seen it before, as I explained with some surprise. He adjusted his glasses, frowned, and shook his head. "I am becoming unobservant," he said crossly. "This place is playing the very deuce with my mental processes! But stay: surely your hair is arranged differently? It wasn't brought over your ears like that, the first time I saw you, I know it wasn't!" "It is curled a little and fluffed a little; that's what makes it look different," I told him patiently. "Then that frock is curled a little and fluffed a little, and that's what makes it look different, too," The Author decided, and stared at me critically. "You are improving," he told me, with condescension. "You are _not_!" I was goaded to reply. The Author merely grinned. "Do you know," he asked, "if that man Jelnik is coming to-night? I hope so. Unusual man. Can't think why he buries himself here! Our old friend Gatchell doesn't seem to admire him. I wonder why?" "I can't possibly imagine," I replied equably, "unless it is that the judge grows old." "Hah!" The Author's eyebrows went up truculently. "And is it a sign of advancing age and mental decrepitude not to admire this fellow?" But I laughed at him. "You're all alike, you women." A wicked light snapped into his eyes. "Hear, dear lady, the Bard of the Congaree, the Poet Laureate of South Carolina, Coogle for your benefit," hissed The Author, and repeated, balefully: Alas, poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire, Thy heart is often won by mankind's gay attire! So weak thou art, so very weak at best, Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest! I've seen thee ofttimes cast a-winning glance, And be carried away, as it were within a trance, By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth! He was so outrageously funny that I forgave his impertinence. His face relaxed, and his eyes twinkled. He was in high feather the remainder of the evening. He was, in fact, so good-humoredly witty that the boys and girls Alicia had brought home clustered about him like golden bees. "Miss Smith," whispered Miss Emmeline, under cover of their laughter, "may I have a word with you?" We drifted into the library; and she seated herself, folded her hands, and said tremulously: "My dear, my wish has been granted. I have really come in contact with the Unknown! I have seen something, Miss Smith!" I looked at her steadily. "Just before dawn," Miss Emmeline continued, "I woke up, with a curious, indefinable, uneasy sense of trouble, as if something had happened and I was remembering it, say. I saw how foolish it was to allow a mere nightmare to worry me, though I am not subject to nightmares, my conscience and my digestion being quite all right, thank heaven! Gradually the impression faded. I was just dropping to sleep again, when I heard the faintest imaginable footfall, almost as if somebody were walking upon the air itself. And then, Miss Smith, there stole across my room a figure. There was nothing terrifying about it: it was merely a figure, that was all, and so I was not frightened. It came from my clothes-closet, went into the next room, and vanished. For when I arose and followed, there was no trace of it. And the doors were locked. Now, was not that remarkable?" "Very," said I, with dry lips. "I should have thought I was dreaming," went on Miss Emmeline, "save that there lingered in the air, for some time, a faint and very delicate--" "Perfume," I finished. Miss Emmeline started, and seized my hand. "Then you have experienced it, too?" "I have detected the perfume," I admitted, "but I have never seen anything. Dear Miss Emmeline, would it be too much to ask you to keep this to yourself, for a while at least? People are so easily frightened; and wild stories spread and grow." Miss Emmeline nodded. "Of course I'll keep it quiet," she promised kindly. "I shall, however, write down the occurrence for the Society for Psychical Research, without giving actual names and place." To this I raised no objection. But it was with a troubled mind that I left Miss Emmeline. I was destined to hear one more confidence that night, unwittingly this time. I had gone down-stairs to place, ready to Mary Magdalen's hand in the morning, the materials for the breakfast. This entails work, but it insures successful handling of household economics. Having weighed and measured what was necessary, and seen that the inquisitive Black family occupied their proper quarters on the lower veranda, I went back up-stairs. The Author's door was slightly ajar, and I could hear him walking up and down, as he does when he dictates; for he is a restless man. "Johnson," The Author was saying as I passed, my slippered feet making no sound, "Johnson, that Sophy woman intrigues me. Hanged if she doesn't, Johnson!" "I like Miss Smith, myself. She reminds me very much of my mother," said Johnson's cordial voice in reply. "But I don't like the way things look here, at all, Johnson!" fumed The Author. "What's his game, anyhow? What's he after? What's he here for? Does she know, or suspect? Or doesn't she, Johnson?" The Author asked, earnestly. "Look here: somebody's got to protect that Sophy woman against Nicholas Jelnik!" CHAPTER XI THE JINNEE INTERVENES Just before he went back North, Luis Morenas good-naturedly agreed to exhibit his new sketches for the delectation of such folk as we cared to ask to view them--this to please Alicia, whom he called Flower o' the Peach. Now an exhibit of Morenas sketches would have been an art event in the Biggest City itself. But think of it in Hyndsville, where few worth-while things ever happened; and imagine the polite wire-pulling for invitations that ensued! It wasn't my fault that I couldn't ask the whole town to come to my house to see those brilliant sketches. I would have done so with all my heart, but there was a section of Hyndsville I couldn't reach. It was locked up behind bars of pride and prejudice of its own building; and losing by it, of course, since one can't be exclusive without at the same time being excluded. To shut other folks out you have first got to shut yourself in. For instance, figure to yourself Miss Martha Hopkins. She had visited as far north as Atlanta; and she had relatives in Charleston, as she would have condescendingly informed arch-angels, principalities, powers, thrones, and dominions. But she wasn't blessed with much of this world's goods, and most of the time she stayed home and improved her mind. She took herself with profound seriousness. She seemed to think that the better part of wisdom consists in knowing who said this and who didn't say that--"as Mr. Arnold Bennett expresses it," "as Mr. H.G. Wells remarks," "as Mr. James Huneker writes,"--she was the only person in all Hyndsville who could write up music and art, and she wasn't even afraid to use the word _sex_ in its most modern acceptance; though in South Carolina you refer to the ladies as "the fair sex" if you're a gentleman, and to the gentlemen as "the stronger sex" if you're a lady. You understand that "male and female created He them," and you let it go at that. Miss Martha Hopkins, then, was daring; she was also exclusive. I suppose if I had been younger I could have smiled at Miss Martha, as Susy Gatchell and her graceless friends did, but somehow she appeared to me a creature trying to peck at the world and peek at the stars through the bars of a bird-cage. That's why, when I met her a morning or two before the Morenas exhibit, I asked her if she wouldn't like to see it. I knew that, once asked, she could be kept away by nothing short of an earthquake or a deluge. Yet-- "Thank you, Miss Smith, I shall be glad to look over the sketches." And she added blandly: "Four o'clock, did you say? Very well, I will come. It is one's moral duty to encourage men of talent." "Whoop!" cried The Author, joyously, when I told him that. "Revenge yourself, Morenas: sketch her, man! sketch her!" Morenas laughed. "Put her in one of your books and make her talk," he suggested slyly. "You have a genius for making a woman talk like an idiot." "That's because he does the talking for her, himself," said Alicia, impudently. "It pays, it pays!" smiled The Author. "I draw from life." "Nature-fakir!" Alicia mocked. "My dear fellow, _I_ draw. _You_ draw and quarter," said Morenas. The Author flung out his arms, grandiloquently. You may as well try to change the course Of yonder sun To north, and south, As to try to subdue by criticism This heart of verse, Or close this mouth! he cried, thumping his chest. "Come on, Johnson: let's leave these knockers to fate--and Miss Martha Hopkins!" Miss Martha Hopkins came, she saw, and she had a perfectly beautiful time. As a matter of fact, everybody that could come, did come. And the very smartest and prettiest of the younger set served tea. Oh, yes, decidedly the tables were turning! Despite which, Alicia and I were not happy. It seemed to me that a veil had fallen between us, for we were shy with each other. Both suffered, and each dreaded that the other should know. I was grateful that The Author's mind was too taken up with Hynds House history to focus itself upon us. The Author spent his spare hours rummaging through such dusty and musty records as might throw some light upon the Hyndses. In the old office were many faded plantation and household books, and he was able to glean enough from these to confirm the methodical carefulness of Freeman Hynds. There were, too, dry receipts for "monies Paid by Mr. Rich. Hynds" for some old slave; or a brief notice that "By Orders Mr. Richd. Hynds, no Women shall be Whipt"; or "Bought by Mr. R. Hynds & Charg'd to his Acct., one Crippl'd Black Childe namd Scipio from Vanham's Sale, & Given to Sukey his Mother." Another time it would be a list of Christmas gifts: "One Colour'd Head Kerchief for Nancy. One Flute for Blind Sam. One Shoulder Cape for Kitty my Nurse. One Horn-handl'd Knife for Agrippa. One Pckt. Tobacco & a Jorum of Rum for Shooba." Over against these items were others: "By Orders Mr. Freeman Hynds, Juba to Receive Twenty light Lashes for Malingering; Black Tom to be Shipt to River Bottom Plantation for the Chastning of his Spiritt; Bread & Water & Irons 3 Dayes & Nights for Shooba for Frighting of his Fellowes & other Evil Behaviour." This was interesting enough, but not conclusive. All that The Author could find only deepened his uncertainty, and this made him abominably cross, an ill temper increased by the presence of Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, who came and went, unruffled, aloof, with inscrutable eyes and a gently mocking smile. The Harrison-Gores came shortly after Morenas left. The Englishman was a pink-faced old gentleman in a shabby Norfolk suit and with the very thinnest legs on record--"mocking-bird legs," Fernolia called them. His daughter was a gray-eyed Minerva with the skin of a baby and the walk of a Highland piper. They found Carolina people charming, and they secured some valuable data for their book, "The Beginnings of American History." Everything in Hynds House pleased them, even The Author. Other people who do not enter into this story came and went during that winter. But they were merely millionaires--people who motored around the lovely country, ate Mary Magdalen's hot biscuit and fried chicken, slept in our four-posters, paid their stiff bills thankfully, and went about their business as good millionaires should, and generally do. Only one out of them all was disagreeable; he wanted to buy Hynds House out of hand for a proposed club of which he was to be founder and president. "It'd be just what the bunch would like," he told me. "All we'd have to do would be to paint these wooden walls a nice cheerful light color, change one room into a smoker, another into a billiard-room, and a third into a grill, add some gun-racks and leather wing-chairs, and we'd be right up to the minute in club-houses!" When I explained that I couldn't sell he offered to compromise on two of the carved marble mantels, the library tiles, and two inlaid tables, "at double what you'd get from anybody else." And when I wouldn't even let him have these trifles, he was disgusted and took no pains to conceal it. He was rude to Alicia, who snubbed him with terrible thoroughness, a proceeding which made him call loudly for his "bill" and his car. The last we heard of him was his bullying voice bawling at his sullen chauffeur. "That pig," said The Author to me, with fury, "is undoubtedly the lineal descendant of the one Gadarene swine that hadn't decency enough to rush down the slope with the rest of the herd and drown himself." Busy as I was, it wasn't over easy for me to find time to revisit that brown and sweet-smelling spot in the Forest of Arden where on a gray afternoon, I had met Nicholas Jelnik and received from him a kiss on the palm, and a broken coin. And I wanted to go back there, as ghosts may desire to revisit the glimpses of the moon. That is why, on the first free afternoon I had, I changed into the selfsame brown frock, put on the brown hat with the yellow quill in it, and slipped out of Hynds House alone. It wasn't a gray afternoon this time, but a clear, bright, sun-shiny one, all blue and gold and green, and with the pleasantest of friendly winds a-frolicking, and a pine-scented air with a pungent and a vital bite to it. I went along the highroad for a while, crossed the weedy, ferny ditch that separated it from the fallow fields beyond, and struck into the deserted foot-path that leads to the Enchanted Wood. It was very lonesome, very peaceful. I could see the pine-trees I love swaying and rocking against the blue, blue sky; I could catch the low-hummed tune they crooned to themselves and the winds; I could sniff a thousand woodsy odors. Spears of sunlight made bright blobs on the brown grass; and every littlest bush and shrub wore a shimmering halo, as you see the blessed ones backgrounded in old pictures. There was a bird twittering somewhere; occasionally a twig snapped with a quick, secret sharpness; and once a thin brown rabbit took to his heels, right under my feet. I stopped from time to time to sense the feel of the afternoon, to drink the air and be healed. In a few minutes I should be within the forest and hear the little brook giggling to itself as it scurried over its brown pathway. And then I heard--something--and turned. The deep and weedy ditch, crowded with high stalks of last year's goldenrod and fennel, edged all that pathway, draining the entire field. Crawling snakelike through it he had followed me. And now here he was, suddenly erect on the path behind me, looking at me with narrowed eyes under his flat forehead. I wasn't afraid--at first. Nothing like him had ever crossed my path, and I stared at him with more of disgust and aversion than terror. He was tall and bony, immensely powerful, and his black skin showed with a grayish shine upon it through the rents in his rags. His gray-black, horny toes protruded through what once had been shoes, and a shapeless, colorless felt hat covered his bullet head. His corded black arms emerged from the torn sleeves of his checked shirt, and his hairy chest was naked. There came from him an indescribable reek of tobacco, whisky, filthy clothes, and the beastlike odor of an unclean body. He was beardless, and his gorilla-like nostrils twitched, his forehead wrinkled. His eyes were mere pin-points, with a sort of red glare far back in them; his mouth was like a dirty red muzzle. He was a prowling tramp, of the worst sort. Involuntarily he stopped in his tracks as I faced him, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes swept greedily over me--silver mesh-purse, wrist-watch, the brooch at my throat, the rings on my fingers. "Whut yuh doin' hyuh, w'ite lady?" he asked in a thick voice, and grinned. And quite suddenly such a fear as I had not dreamed could be felt by a mortal took me by the heart and squeezed it as with an iron hand. "Whut foh yuh come by mah field, lil w'ite lady?" he purred. "Ah'm takin' lil snooze in de ditch grass, an' dey yuh comes, wakin' me up! Whut yuh wake me up for, w'ite gal?" Leering, he began with a gliding, stealthy movement to advance. "Stop!" cried I, in a voice that wasn't mine, it was so sharp and thin and reedy. "Go back--where you came from! Don't you dare to take another step! Go back!" The hands hooked into outstretched claws. His head sunk between his shoulders. Of the eyes, only red pin-points showed in the twitching face. I stood stone-still, struck into utter immobility. My brain was trying to urge me to fly, fly! This is the Black Death, Sophy! the Black Death! He, too, stood of a sudden stone-still, as if rooted to the ground. His eyes widened, and stared, as if he saw something over and beyond me. I didn't dare turn my head. It might be a trick, to divert attention for a fatal second. The claws clenched into balled fists, the lips drew back, showing blackened and decayed teeth. Bristling like an aroused beast, his forehead wrinkling, his nostrils twitching, he made an inarticulate, growling, brute-like noise in his throat. His head twisted sideways. Of a sudden the sweat burst out upon his face, and he began to back away, warily. And then something swift and dark sped by, bounding on light and flying feet; something that must have come from my forest. It was The Jinnee! God be praised, it was The Jinnee, his dark robe giving an odd effect of flying, his eyes living vengeance, his face like Fate carved in ebony. I saw him leap, and close in upon the horror; I heard a sort of wolfish yapping. The Black Death disappeared. And then I, too, was falling, falling into infinite blackness and blankness, with one red flash when I struck my head. Half-conscious, half-hearing, altogether unseeing, I thought there were two Voices near me. I couldn't understand what they said. One of the Voices was gently and persistently applying cold and soothing applications to my forehead. Another Voice chafed my hands. I thought one said, "Achmet," and the other replied, "Sahib." I knew I must be dreaming. But it was a pleasant dream enough. Quite suddenly somebody said in good, anxious English: "Thank God! you are better!" I had opened my eyes. There was the whish-whish-whishing little brook, the good brown pines, with their heavenly odor. And there was the face of Nicholas Jelnik, bent over me. And beside him, gravely concerned and troubled, Boris. I looked from one to the other, both so clear-eyed, so kind, so _safe_; and then I remembered. "Sophy! Sophy!" He had his arms around me, in a close, protecting clasp, while Boris pawed my skirts, and cried over me in loving, honest dog fashion, and licked my wet cheek with his affectionate tongue. I slipped my arm around the big dog's neck, and clung to the two of them. And it seemed to me that while I clung thus, with my head bent and my face hidden, one of them kissed my hair. "It never occurred to me--that there might be danger for you," he was whispering. "To have that horror come near you--oh, my God! Oh, my God!" I was terrified at sight of his face, dead-white, with eyes of steel, and straight lips, and pinched nostrils; the terrible face of the avenging white man, a face as inexorable as judgment. I hid my own before it, and trembled; and yet was glad that I had seen it. I stammered: "There was--a devil--and then a Jinnee came. And I heard--sounds. Then I fell. Did--did The Jinnee--" My voice died in my throat. His eyes were ice, his mouth a grim, pale line. "That has been attended to," he said composedly. He blamed himself for having been thoughtless. "But I was so glad to have you come here, that afternoon, that I could think of nothing else!" And it seemed that this particular bit of woodland was his, bought because its quiet beauty pleased him. He was in the habit of coming here frequently; it had never occurred to him that danger could lurk near it. "I thought I heard--somebody calling somebody else 'Achmet.'" I told him, confusedly. "And there was a Jinnee, really there was. And two Voices. Who brought me here? Did you find me, over there?" "You were not hard to carry," he said evasively. "But The Jinnee?" "The Jinnee did exactly what a good Jinnee always does, his duty. Having done it, he disappeared. Didn't I tell you you're not to think of what's happened? It is finished," said Mr. Jelnik, peremptorily. I asked no more questions. "Do you think you are able to walk now?" he asked. I tried to, with shaking knees. At the edge of the field I grew faint again, and staggered, and was unpleasantly sick. "You simply cannot appear in Hynds House in this shape, and invite comment and question," said Mr. Jelnik, anxiously. His fine brows wrinkled. "I have it: you will stop at my house for a few minutes, and I'll give you a cordial, that will put you to rights." I went staggering along beside him, making desperate efforts to hold myself erect. The pathway squirmed and wriggled like a snake, the trees and bushes bowed, the sky bobbed up and down. He took me by by-paths so cunningly hidden that you might pass up and down the highroad daily and never suspect their existence. We went between cassenas and cedars and young laurels, branchy to the roots. And then I was walking down a path bordered with Lombardy poplars; and then I was sitting on a couch in Mr. Jelnik's living-room, while he bathed my face with scented water, and afterward held a small glass to my lips. The fluid I swallowed went tingling through my whole body like friendly fire. I stole a woman-glance around the room that The Author had been so anxious to investigate. It was altogether a man's room, the scoured floor partly covered with a handsome rug, and the divan on which I was sitting covered with another. On both sides of the big fireplace were crowded book-shelves, above which hung weapons gathered from the four corners of the earth. There were two or three deep, comfortable arm-chairs, a square table, a couple of Winchesters in a corner, and near the window a flat, old-fashioned desk, above which hung two small portraits, evidently his parents, for the gentleman with stars and crosses on his braided uniform, a sword at his side, and a plumed hat in his hand, bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Jelnik; and the stately blond lady had a family resemblance to Doctor Richard Geddes. Mr. Jelnik touched a bell near the door, and a tall, copper-colored man in spotless white appeared. At the merest gesture of an uplifted finger the copper-colored one bowed, vanished, and returned ten minutes later with a tiny cup of black coffee and a couple of thin wafers. "I shall have to insist upon the coffee; and I advise the wafers," said Mr. Jelnik, pleasantly. So I drank the coffee, nibbled the wafers, and felt better. The copper-colored man, standing still as a statue, waited until I had finished, took the cup, bowed, and disappeared. He was a stately impressive person, rather like a shah in disguise. Mr. Jelnik addressed him as "Daoud." I had risen. I was trying to straighten my sadly flattened brown hat, and to smooth my frock, stained with damp earth, and water. A quick step sounded on the porch, somebody knocked, and without waiting for an answer, opened the door, impatiently, and strode into the room. With a fold of my disheveled frock in my hand, I looked up and met the angry and astonished eyes of The Author. CHAPTER XII MAN PROPOSES The Author closed the door and leaned against it. His piercing glance jumped from Nicholas Jelnik's face to mine, with a prolonged and savage scrutiny. No detail of my appearance escaped him--my reddened eyelids, my pallor, my nervousness, my dishevelment. His eyes narrowed, his jaw hardened. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, roughly. "Come! At least one may hope for the truth from _you_!" Mr. Jelnik gave him a level look. There was that in it which brought an angry red to The Author's thin face. "Let me answer for her: just at present Miss Smith is getting ready to go home." The Author struggled to keep his rising temper in hand. "I asked you a plain question, Miss Smith!" His peremptory tone jangled my strained nerves. "Mr. Jelnik has answered you: I am getting ready to go home." The Author stamped. "Don't talk nonsense! Again I ask you, what are you doing here? Have you lost your senses? Why have you been weeping? It is plain that you have been weeping. Miss Smith, why do I find you here--alone?" "I do not like your manner of questioning me," I said, indignantly. "My dear fellow," protested Mr. Jelnik, "you _are_ behaving unmannerly, you know. The simple truth is, I was so fortunate as to be of assistance to Miss Smith. She had an unpleasant experience--fell and gave her head such a nasty bump, that it made her faint. I'm afraid I splashed her a bit when I was trying to revive her. I thought best to bring her here and give her a stimulant. She didn't want to stagger home and alarm the whole household unnecessarily." "Is this true?" The Author asked me, rudely. "You heard what Mr. Jelnik said!" I flamed. "One allows somewhat more license to genius than might be accorded ordinary mortals; but really, you know, there are limits," Mr. Jelnik reminded him. "You're beginning to be rather a nuisance. It's unfortunate to have to remind a man, in one's own house, that he's a nuisance." "I think you are, too!" I told The Author--"bursting into people's houses like an East-Side policeman, asking outrageous questions in an outrageous manner, and then questioning the answers one is patient enough to give you! What right have you got to ask _any_ questions?" "I'd rather like to know that, myself," put in Mr. Jelnik. The Author straightened his shoulders, drew himself up to his full height, and folded his arms. He is an impressively tall man. "Should you?" said he, quietly. "Well, I'll tell you--the right of an honest man to protect the woman he happens to want to marry." I sat down, suddenly. I'm afraid my eyes popped, and I know my mouth fell open. I had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing Mr. Nicholas Jelnik's eyes and mouth open, too. After an astounded moment: "Isn't this rather sudden?" wondered Mr. Jelnik. "Who'd suspect this fellow of volcanic possibilities?" "I do Miss Smith no dishonor when I ask her to be my wife," said The Author, haughtily. "_I_ am no adventurer. She can never suspect _me_ of ulterior motives!" "Heavens, no! Like Cæsar's wife, you are above suspicion; which, of course, gives you the right to suspect everybody else! But you were about to propose to Miss Smith in due form, were you not? Miss Smith, you will permit me to withdraw? I have never before been a third party to a proposal of marriage, and I confess I do not exactly understand what is expected of me," said Mr. Jelnik, delicately. The Author smiled wryly. "You succeed in making me appear a fool," he admitted. "That is no mean achievement, young man! I merely wished to set myself straight with Miss Smith, to leave her no room for doubt as to my absolute honesty of purpose toward her; and you," said The Author, gulping, "you have made me _bray_! I wish you'd clear out. You _are_ in the way, if you want the truth. And," he added, clenching his hands, "you can think yourself lucky that you're getting out with a whole skin, da--confound you!" Mr. Jelnik smiled so sweetly that I was terrified. "Oh, a whole skin!" he repeated, thoughtfully. "My good sir, I was born with a whole skin, and I rather expect to die with one." He looked at The Author reflectively: "Of course, I don't know what Miss Smith's feelings may be in regard to you, _but_ if I thought you were seriously annoying her, I give you my word I should pitch you out of the window without further ado. Miss Smith," he turned to me, his eyes gentling with compassion, "I am more sorry than I can say that you should be called upon to endure this further strain. You will, I trust, forgive my unwilling share in it. Now, shall I leave you?" "No, stay," said I, flatly. Mr. Jelnik sat down, and with unruffled composure, waited for The Author to unbosom himself further. "Miss Smith," The Author spoke after a pause,--and oh, I give him credit for his courage at that trying moment!--"Miss Smith, I have placed myself, and you also, in what appears to be rather an absurd position. I am sorry. But I meant exactly what I said. I base my right to question you upon the fact that I intended asking you to marry me. You need a protector, if ever woman did. I offer you the protection of my name." I sat on the divan and stared at him owlishly. He went striding up and down the room, pausing every now and then to look down at me. "When I came to Hyndsville," he went on, "nothing was farther from my thoughts than the desire to marry _anybody_. I have never considered myself a marrying man. But I find myself liking you, Miss Smith, better than I have ever liked any other woman, and for better reasons. You would make me an excellent wife, the only sort of wife a man like me could endure. And I think I should make you a good husband. I am not really so great a bear," he added, hastily, "as at times I appear to be. I should really try to make you happy. Now then, what have you to say?" What could any woman say in such circuit stances? _I_ said nothing, but slid down on Nicholas Jelnik's divan and howled. "Didn't I tell you she'd had a bad time and wasn't herself? Now I hope you're satisfied!" raged Mr. Jelnik. "It's as much your fault as mine!" snarled The Author. "Miss Smith, for heaven's sake don't cry like that! My dear girl, stop it. You run me distracted, Miss Smith!--Give her some vinegar or something, Jelnik! Confound you, Jelnik!--why don't you do something? Burn a feather under her nose! Make her stop it, Jelnik! She'll kill herself, if she keeps on crying like that! Here!" cried The Author, desperately; and tried to push back my hair and all but scalped me. "Get away!" said Mr. Jelnik. "I'll try to quiet her. Miss Smith, if you don't stop crying, I shall slap you! Do you understand me, Miss Smith? Stop it this minute, or I shall slap you!" He thrust an arm around my shoulders and pulled me erect, none too gently. "I--I--I ca-ca-ca--n't!" "You can!" he snapped. "Stop it! Sophy, _shut up!_" I was so astonished that in the middle of a howl I blinked, and gasped, and gulped, and stopped! "Ring the bell, by the door," Mr. Jelnik told The Author, curtly. And when Daoud appeared, he ordered: "Cordial--top shelf; and some ice-water." Five minutes later a forlorn and red-eyed wreck was sitting up looking at two wretched, embarrassed men. Thank Heaven, they looked just as miserable as they should have felt! Daoud brought me scented water, and I bathed my face. Then I patted into shape the hair that The Author had pulled awry, and said in the cold, accusing, I-die-a-martyr-to-your-stupidity voice that women punish men with: "I think I shall go home." With a chastened, hang-dog air The Author rose to accompany me, casting a withering look upon Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, who despised The Author for a bungling and intrusive idiot, and let his glance convey the fact. He was sorry for me, with a compassionate understanding of what I had been through. But I wanted neither his sorrow nor his compassion. He had punished The Author, but he hadn't saved _me_ from a ridiculous and painful situation. I gave him a limp hand, and had the satisfaction of leaving him thoroughly uncomfortable. When we reached our gate The Author, who had trudged beside me in gloomy silence, laid his hand upon my arm. "I shall not ask you to answer me at once. But I do ask you to consider carefully what I have said, and to realize that I mean every word of it. And--and--I'm sorry it came about in this wise, Sophy," he finished, with a touch of compunction. "So am I." And then I went up-stairs, and crept into bed. My head ached frightfully, my heart throbbed and fluttered. I was so unnerved that it seemed a burden to be alive. And then, mercifully, I fell asleep, and didn't wake until Alicia brought me a breakfast-tray the next morning. "My goodness, Sophy, you must have had a terrific headache!" she exclaimed. "Why, your lips are bloodless, and you've black circles under your eyes!" "I'm all right this morning," I said, hastily. "But you look pale, yourself. Aren't you rather overdoing things, Leetchy?" "No: I'm as sound as a trivet!" said she. And then: "Sophy, guess who was here last evening." Her eyes began to shine. "Mrs. Cheshire Scarboro; no less!" And she paused, to let that highly important statement sink in. Mrs. Cheshire Scarboro was the Leader of the Opposition. She'd had a lifelong feud with old Sophronisba, who said that when the Lord wanted to try himself out in the way of a fool, He made Cissy Scarboro. They hated each other as only relations can hate. Naturally, Mrs. Scarboro resented our presence in Hynds House. She said Hyndsville ought to show us what it thought of the outrage. Under her leadership, Hyndsville showed us. Mrs. Scarboro was a very important person in Hyndsville. She ruled the older and more conservative portion of it, and although the younger set at times rebelled and went its own way, her power was very real. That she had changed her mind, or at least her tactics, in regard to us was important news. "She came with Mr. and Mrs. Haile," Alicia continued. "It was the first time she had ever been inside Hynds House. Think of that, Sophy! There were some girls here, and a few boys, naturally, Jimmy Scarboro among them. Should you think that accounted for his mama's presence, Sophy? And we sat around like adoring mice, listening to The Author's sky-rockets going off. Doctor Geddes wouldn't let us sing, wouldn't even let us have music, because you mustn't be disturbed. He thinks a whole lot of you, Sophy." "I think a whole lot of him. I never thought I could like that man as much as I do." I was determined to show Miss Alicia Gaines that no matter how much, or for whatever reasons she had changed for the worse toward him, I, at least, had changed for the better. But she listened listlessly. For which cause, being resentful, I said not one word to her about The Author. The thought of The Author confused me. I wasn't so much flattered as astounded. He was not offering me a light honor: The Author's name meant a great deal. Who, then, was I, a woman named Smith, to say nay to this miraculous possibility? Was it not rather for me to accept, meekly, the high gift that the gods in a sportive moment chose to toss to me? Yea, verily. And yet-- My hand stole to the half of a thin old foreign coin hidden in my breast. The Author behaved with exemplary patience and dignity. He went about his own work and left me to mine, and though I knew I was under his hawklike watchfulness, his matter-of-fact manner set me at my ease. You can't dread to meet a man, of a morning, who pays more attention to his batter-cakes than to you. I was just beginning to breathe freely, when Doctor Richard Geddes came over one afternoon, and, finding me in our living-room with only the Black family to keep me company, flung himself into an arm-chair, seized Sir Thomas More Black by the scruff, and pulled his whiskers and rubbed his fur the wrong way until Sir Thomas More scratched him with thoroughness. "Get out, then, you black hellion!" growled the doctor. Sir Thomas More got out. He hadn't wanted to stay in the first place. "Shall I bind your hand for you?" I asked. But the doctor refused. He tapped his foot on the floor, and hemmed, and looked at me strangely. Then: "Sophronisba Two, you consider me a reasonably decent sort, don't you?" "That goes without saying." "Think I'd make a woman a reasonably good husband?" "I do," said I, truthfully. Whatever ailed the man? "Good! And I," the doctor said, deliberately, "know that you'd make any man more than a reasonably good wife. Should you like to be mine, Sophronisba Two?" The jump I gave threw Potty Black off my knees. "You're ill, wandering in your wits, you poor man!" I was genuinely alarmed. "Isn't there something I can do for you, doctor?" "There is: you can marry me, if you want to," replied the doctor, soberly. "Honestly, my dear girl, I'd be kind to you. I like and admire and respect you more than I can tell you, Sophy." "My dear friend," I said, when I caught my breath, "I like, admire, and respect you, too. But people who marry each other need something more than that. They--well, they need--love." His shoulders twitched. "This business of love is the devil's own invention!" he cried. "It's safer and saner to like and respect people than to love them, and lots harder. Now, what do you say to marrying me?" "I say you had no such notion in your head the last time you and I talked together. When did it seize you?" I demanded, suspiciously. "I began to think about it seriously--er--ah--some days ago," he said, reddening. "What day, to be exact?" "Well," said he, resentfully, "it occurred to me last Wednesday, if you want to be so all-fired sure!" "What happened last Wednesday to make you think of asking me to marry you?" The doctor looked at me very much as a little boy looks at a grown-up who is holding a soapy wash-cloth in one hand and an ear in the other. "What do you want to know for?" "Because. I just want to know because. Well?" He squirmed, and was silent. "Was it because you have ceased to care for Alicia, already?" His glare answered that question. "No? Why, then, didn't you ask Alicia, instead of coming to me for second choice? Look here, Doctor Richard Geddes: if I was not firmly and truly your friend, I should be furious, do you understand? Or," I added, darkly, "I might even revenge myself by taking you at your word!" "Sophronisba Two!" The doctor looked at, me piteously. "Why didn't you ask Alicia?" I persisted, inexorably. "I did!" gulped the doctor. "But she said she couldn't. She said, why didn't I care for you instead of her? You were so much better--and--and I'd be happier with you, for I'd have the most unselfish angel--" he stopped miserably. "Well?" "Well, I kept turning it over in my mind; and the more I thought of it, the clearer I perceived that with a wife like you I'd be a better and a more worth-while man. I--I think so much of you, Sophy, that I'm telling you the whole truth," he finished. "That's why I'm going to keep on being friends with you--better friends than ever," I told him. "You're going to marry me, then, Sophy?" "Didn't you just hear me tell you I meant to keep on being friends with you?" "You won't, then?" "I won't, then." "Yet there are good reasons why you might reconsider your decision," he said, after a pause. "We are so diametrically opposed it would seem inevitable we should marry each other. Why, Sophy, we've got enough to quarrel happily about for the rest of our lives. For instance, do you sleep with all your windows open?" "I close two, and leave two open." "Every window open, day and night, hot or cold, rain or shine," said the doctor, firmly. "Do you use pillows?" "Two." "None at all. Sleep with your head flat. How many blankets?" "Two, and a comfort." "One army blanket, except in extremely cold weather," said the doctor. "Do you like a pipe?" "It always makes me sick. I peculiarly and particularly loathe and detest a pipe." "A pipe, my dear, deluded woman, is a comfort, a stay, a prop to a man's soul, an aid to meditation and repose. I insist upon a pipe--within moderation, of course. Do you like parrots? Sophy, are you capable of supporting a parrot? I have already perceived your reprehensible fondness for cats." He looked at his scratched hand. "I have always wanted a parrot. I think they're the most--" "Damnable brutes!" finished the doctor. "Gad, I'd as lief live in the house with Sophronisba One! It is not moral to like a parrot. What do you think of stewed rhubarb?" I made a wry face. I abhor stewed rhubarb. Somehow, it always makes me think of orphans in long-waisted gingham dresses with white china buttons down the back. One way of punishing children for losing their parents is to make them wear dark gingham dresses with china buttons down the back and to eat stewed rhubarb for dessert. "Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you what you are," pronounced the doctor. "It's a sign of moral rectitude to eat stewed rhubarb. Now, as to science: what is your attitude toward evolution?" "Well, I think plenty of men turn themselves into monkeys, but I refuse to believe that God ever turned a monkey into a man." "Ha!" mused the doctor, pulling his nose; "I see! Do you insist upon a sacrosanct meal hour? Are your meal hours fixed, even as the laws of the Medes and the Persians?" "How else, pray, shall one run one's house with any degree of system?" I wanted to know. "Bunk!" snorted the doctor. "_I_ eat when I'm hungry! Now, lastly, sister, tell me truthfully: are you a Democrat or a Republican?" "I don't see much difference: they're both of them nothing but _men_." "I knew it!" The doctor shook his head with sad triumph. "She'd scratch Brown, because she didn't like the expression of his ears, and vote for Jones, because he had such beautiful whiskers! My dear, dear woman, can't you see that it's almost a law of nature for you and me, who don't agree about anything, to marry each other?" "I don't even agree with you as to that!" said I, and fell into helpless laughter. "It rather looks like flying in the face of Providence not to," he warned me. "In the meantime--" "In the meantime, let us be grateful Alicia didn't put the notion into your head to ask somebody who might have taken you seriously." "That means you don't, and won't." He drew a long breath. "But we're good friends; aren't we, Sophy?" "If a man never does anything worse than ask a woman to marry him, he will probably retain her friendship until she dies," I replied. "Provided she refuses him," the doctor said, gratefully. And bending down, he kissed me brotherly on the cheek, an honest and resounding smack; at which opportune moment Alicia walked in. Wholly unabashed, the doctor spoke pleasantly to Alicia, shook hands with me effusively, and went off whistling. All was right with the world. I'd refused him, you understand! Instead of being enraged and offended, I found myself giggling. That night, as Alicia didn't come in my room, I went into hers. "I know what you've come to tell me, Sophy dear," she said, directly. "I've seen it for some time. And I'm glad as glad--glad with all my heart, Sophy." Her voice was tenderness itself, her eyes melted. But the hand on my hand was cold. "I love you a great deal, Sophy," she whispered. "More than anybody else in the world, I think." "And was it because you loved me, dear girl, that you put the absurd notion of asking me to marry him into Doctor Geddes's head?" "Absurd notion?" repeated Alicia. "Absurd notion? But he asked you! Didn't he ask you?" "As to that, he told me I could marry him if I wanted to," I admitted. "Oh, Leetchy, it was funny, though! If you could have seen the poor dear, trying to martyr himself, just to oblige you--" "You _refused_ him?" breathlessly. "Of course. There wasn't anything to say but 'No.'" "But--I saw--" "You saw him kiss me on the cheek? Honey, that wasn't love: that was gratitude!" "I don't understand!" stammered Alicia, twisting her hands. "Why, you cared for him--I thought you cared." "Of course I care for him! But not like that! Good heavens, Alicia, however did you get such a notion? My dear, if I loved you less, or him more, I should never, never be able to forgive either of you. As it is, we'll forget it." At that Alicia began to cry. "Oh, what have I done?" she whimpered. "Sophy, you don't know--what I've done!" "You haven't done anything that can't be undone," said I, comfortably. "You and I, my dear, fell into a Hynds House maze. Now we're out of it!" And thinking she would be better by herself, I kissed her good night. Out of Hynds House maze, indeed! I had only to step back into my own room to have it again enmesh me. For on the prie-dieu that had once held Freeman Hynds's Bible and now held mine, was the lost diary. CHAPTER XIII FIRES OF YESTERDAY I wasn't frightened, of course. There isn't anything terrifying in finding a little old leather-covered book on a prie-dieu by one's bedside. But it was some minutes before I could induce myself to take up that yellowed old diary and examine it. It begins the year of Freeman's return from college, "a Finish'd Young Gentleman." He has refused to go abroad, considering that "our Young Gentlemen have enough Fripperies & Fopperies at Home without bringing worse Ones from Abroad." Brother Richard has been abroad more than once, and Freeman does not "find him Improv'd save in Outer Elegancies." The only person that "much Travelling hath not Spoil'd," he finds, is Mistress Emily Hope of Hope Plantation. "Shee was a Sweet Child," he remembers; and now that the dew of their youth is upon them both, he finds her "of a Graceful and Delicate Shape, with the Most Beautiful Countenance in the World, a Sweet & Modest Demeanour, a Sprightly Wit, an Accomplish'd Mind, & a Heart Fix'd upon Virtue." The estates are near each other, the families intimate friends. Emily seems to like the boy. At any rate, she doesn't repel him. And then returns Richard--the gay, the handsome, the irresistible Richard--who adds to the stalwart comeliness of a colonial gentleman the style, the grace, the cultivated manners of the Old World. Almost fiercely Freeman notes the effect he produces, and how "Women do catch an Admiration for him as't were a Pox." Then he begins to set down, grimly, "The Sums my Father hath paid for My Brother's Debts." A little later, he adds: "You Might Pour the Atlantic Ocean full of Gold through his Pocketts & Overnight would He empty Them." Richard, also, "Makes Choice of rake-hell Companions," to his father's growing unease and indignation, his mother's distress. But "Good God! how is all Forgiven the Beautiful, the Gift'd!" "Jezebel herself, that carries her Head so High, wears her Heart upon her Sleeve, een like a simple Milkmaid! 'Tis a Rare Spectacle. Sure there's a Fatality about this Man!" * * * * * "This Day dress'd I in my new Blue Cloathes, the which become me not Ill & riding over to Hope Plant'n did ask for Emily's Hand. Alas, 'Tis even as my Fears foretold! Shee loves me Not. 'Tis Richard alone hath her Heart. "I do Fear Shee will sup Sorrow & drink Tears that setts her Affection upon the Unstable. Shee's too Mild, too Tender, hath not a Firm enough Hand to restrain him. He should een have ta'en Madame Jezebel. Hath a Grand Passion for him. Will not lightly wear the Willow." * * * * * "This Day did Richard my Brother Wed Emily Hope," he records, after a six-months' silence. "All say 'tis a most Noble Mating. My Mother in a Gown from London Town, & our Finest Gems, enow to make a Dutchess envious of a Carolina Lady. My Father in high Spiritts. "I danc'd with the Bridesmaids, but Salut'd not the Bride, the Which noted Madame Jezebel. Was Handsomer than ever I did See her, many thinking her Handsomer than the Bride. Had a great Following, the which the Hussy treat'd with Disdain. "'Have you Kiss'd the Bride, Sir?' says shee, a-mocking of me after her Wont. 'What a Fine Thing is a Love-Match, Master Freeman!' "'Have you Wish'd the Bridegroom Joy?' says I. The woman anger'd me. "'May Heaven send him all the Happiness he Deserves!' cries shee. 'Sure, you'll echo that yourself, Master Freeman!' 'Tis a jibing Wench. Would to God Richard had Wedded her!" Then came dry notes of a visit to Kinsfolk in Virginia. Freeman seems to have been away from home for some time. When he returns, it is to chronicle in brief his brother's downward course. "They have sold Hope Plantation and Most of the Slaves. 'Tis an evil Chance." "I shall be Twenty-one next month, though I feel a Thousand. We shall have a Ball, after the Custom of our House. 'Tis to be a Grand Affair. I do think my Parents are somewhat Tender of Conscience to meward. Though my Father Loves me not as he Loves my Brother, yet he begins to Lean upon me more & More Heavily. My poor Mother is a Little Envious of these Dry Virtues of mine, seeing her Darling is like to come to Shipwreck for Lack of them. Yet had he Fortune & Beauty & Emily!" The next entry records the loss of the Hynds jewels. "'Tis a great Mystery!" One is sorely puzzled here. There is no getting at what Freeman really thinks. Coldly, tritely, he sets down the bald, bare facts of the tragedies that wrecked the Hyndses. With a strange lack of emotion he chronicles Richard's death, and adds: "At the Pleasure of God his Birth fell upon a Wednesday, at Sun-rising, the which was by some Accounted Favourable. His Death came upon a Friday, at Noone, it Raining heavily." Then comes his father's sudden death; and this curious item: "Despite his Anguish & Affliction of Spiritt upon that Date, he did tell me Part, after the Custom of our House, the morning of my Twenty-first Birthday. Alas, when he was Stricken, upon the News of Richard's Demise, he had no Chance to tell me All, nor was there among his Papers the Keye nor any Clue to It. When J. call'd us, he was Beyond Speech & shee Hystericall with Affright. Thus the Whole Secret perishes, since Without the Keye & his Instructions 'twould be Impossible to Proceed." * * * * * "This evening came Capt. B., the worst of the Plundering Crew that pluck'd Richard. 'Sirrah,' says he, impudently, 'thy Brother owe'd me three thousand pounds.' And he pulls me out a great fistfull of Billets. "'Sirrah,' says I, 'my Brother owes his Wife and Orphan'd Infant three thousand times more than that. There be Debts of Nature which precede so-called Debts of Honour. Each billet in thy hand, thou swindling runnigate, calls for a bullet. Begone, lest _I_ owe thee a horse-whipping.' "'Anan!' says he, 'and one of you a Thief! _That_ for Honour, in the mouth of a Hynds!' And snapp'd me his fingers under my Nose. "We arrang'd a Meeting, though 'T was Foolish to Risk myself, with the Roof tottering over my Mother's Head. My fellow Pompey, Mr. G. Dalzell, Mr. F. Mayne, & Dr. Baltassar Bobo with me. Two of his scoundrelly Associates with him. His ball graz'd my arm above the Elbow & Burnt the Linen of my Shirt. Mine Finish'd him. 'T was too great an Honour & more than he Deserv'd, to die by the Hand of a Gentleman." A little later: "This morn disappear'd my Cozen Jessamine. "Nothing discover'd of her Whereabouts," he records from time to time. "This morn saw I Emily & Richard's little Son. 'T is a Fine child, much Resembling my Brother. Emily turn'd her Face away, drawing down of her Widow's Weeds, & turn'd also the Babe's face aside. I felt Embitter'd." By this time he has taken over the whole Hynds estate as heir. He mentions his sisters' marriages, notes that they have received their dowers, and so dismisses them. His mother has been dead some time when he marries. One wonders what the bride was like, whom he commends for "Housekeeping Virtues, so that the Servants instantly Obey, there is no Pilfering & Loitering, & the House moves like Clockwork." He must have been like clockwork, himself. There seems less and less human emotion in him. The birth of his only child gets this: "This day was born Sophronisba Harriott Hynds, nam'd for her Estimable Mother. I am told 'Tis a fine healthy Child." Casually thereafter he mentions "my Daughter." Twice her mother "Requested me to Chastise her for Unchristian Temper," which chastisement he seems to have administered with thoroughness and a rattan, in his office. On the second occasion, "I whip'd her Severely & did at the same Time admonish her to Ask Pardon of God. Whereupon she Yell'd Aloud & did Seize the Calf of my Leg & Bite me, Causing me Great Physical Pain and Mental Anguish. How sharper than a Serpent's Tooth is an Ungrateful Child!" (Oh, Ungrateful Child, I do not find it in my heart to blame you overmuch. Somehow I can't feel sorry that you bit him, Sophronisba!) "This day died my Wife, an Estimable Helpmeet. I shall sadly Lack her Management of the House." In spite of which, he buys more land. Life seems to run smoothly enough. "The Lord hath bless'd me with Abundance. They that Spoke evil of me are Astonied & made Asham'd. The Lord hath done it." Then comes this last entry: "Two nights since died Scipio, son of old Shooba's last Wife, the which did send for me, Urgently entreating of my Presence. 'T was ever a Simple-minded Creature & found a faithful Servant, wherefore I did go to him. "He was greatly in Dread of Dying, for that he was in mortal Terrour of old Shooba, fearing to Meet that Evil Being outside of the Flesh. Had been with Shooba when the wretched Creature passed away, a harden'd Heathen among Convert'd & Profess'd Christians. Said he was a Snake Soul. "The man was craz'd with Fear, dreading Shooba to be even then in the Room. And indeed the Tale he whisper'd me was enough to Craze a Christian Man, & hath all but crack'd mine own Witts. If 't were not for the Paper he slip't into my Palm, I should sett it down for a Phantazy, one of old Shooba's evil Spells. Most merciful God, how came he by that Paper if the Tale be untrue? "Greatly am I upsett by this Improbable & Frightful Thing. Sure this requires Prayer & Fasting, lest I be Delud'd." Between the pages following this last entry was a piece of yellowed paper, the paper that had been lost from the Author's coat pocket, in the locked closet of his room. After a while I managed to work the slit of a drawer open, and to this hiding-place I returned Freeman's diary, and with it the faintly scented bit of paper that The Author mourned. * * * * * The failure of her matrimonial plans for me did not occasion Miss Alicia Gaines overmuch grief. She seemed to have dismissed the whole matter from her mind. Restored to her old time gaiety, she sang like a thrush as she worked. She bubbled over with the sheer joy of living, until the very sight of her gladdened one. And she simply couldn't make her feet behave! She danced with the broom one morning, to the great amusement of our scholarly old Englishman. "I'm supposed to be somewhat of an old stick myself: why not try me, instead of the broom?" he suggested slyly. Instantly she took him at his word, and danced him up and down the hall until he was breathless. "This," panted the scholar, "is a fair sample of what the Irish do to the English." "We do lead you a pretty dance, don't we, dear John Bull?" dimpled Alicia. "You do, you engaging baggage!" he admitted. "But," he added, in a tone of satisfaction, "we manage to keep step, my dear! Oh, yes, we manage to keep step!" And he trotted off, chuckling. "There are times," said The Author to me, darkly, "when the terrifying tirelessness of youth gives me a vertigo. Come away, Miss Smith. Leave that kitten to chase her own shadow up the wall." "Cross-patch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin--yarns!" chanted Alicia. "Go away, you pink-and-white delusion!" said The Author, severely. "You have made Scholarship and Wisdom put on cap and bells and prance like a morris-dancer. Isn't that mischief enough for one day?" Alicia has a round, snow-white chin, and when she tilts it the curve of her throat is distracting. "On second thoughts," said The Author, critically, "I discover that I do not wholly disapprove of you. Come outside. I wish to talk about the venerable, and yet common design that tops every outside window and door of this house.--What do you call that design, may I ask?" "Why, everybody knows the Greek fret!" said Alicia, staring at it. "It's as old as the hills." "Exactly," agreed The Author. "The Greek fret is as old as the hill. And, with the single exception of the swastika, it is the design most universally known to man. You may find it on a bit of ancient Greek pottery, or on a crumbling wall in Yucatan. Many people refer to it as the Greek key." Something began to glimmer in my mind--the vaguest, most tenuous shadow of an idea; a tantalizing, hide-and-seek phantom of a thought. "_Turne Hellens Keye Three Tennes and Three_," he quoted the doggerel verse. We looked at him mutely. "It is a tiresome truism," he went on, reflectively, "that what lies close to the eye often escapes observation. For instance, these windows have been staring at me daily, each with its nice little eyebrow of design, and I overlooked the design until my subconscious mind suggested to me that here, in all probability, lies Hellen's Keye." I remembered the entry in Freeman's diary, concerning the loss of a "Keye," which hadn't been found among his father's papers, and of a secret which had died with the older man. "I think I told you," said The Author, "that this house was built by master masons, shortly after the Grand Lodge was established in London. Thirty-three is rather a significant number. Yet, how to apply it," he paused, frowning. "Without disturbing a Watcher in the Dark?" Alicia made light of The Authors itch for mystery. "Aren't you rather forgetting the Watcher in the Dark? Teller of tales, isn't it moon-stuff you're trying to spin?" "Who talks of a Watcher in the Dark?" asked a pleasant voice. Accompanied by Mr. Johnson, Mr. Nicholas Jelnik had strolled up unperceived. "The Author," Alicia explained, mischievously, "is trying to make sense out of nonsense." "That," said Mr. Jelnik, smiling, "is not an uncommon occupation." "It's all about a bit of doggerel we found on a scrap of paper in the attic," I told him. And I quoted it, adding: "There was a column of dots under it. The Author laments that he lost it, before he had chance to unravel it." "I lost it, walking in my sleep," said The Author, disagreeably. "And now he's trying to make us believe that the design in the brick-work above our windows, just because it's the Greek fret, is Hellen's Keye," Alicia said, jestingly. "Well, you know, if a thing means _anything_, it's got to mean _something_," put in Mr. Johnson. "Ain't it the truth, though?" hissed The Author, with fury. Mr. Johnson was saved from stammering explanations by the irruption of Beautiful Dog, who at sound of his voice had wriggled, and cringed, and fawned his way out of the shrubbery, cocking a wary eye to see that none of the Black family was around. Beautiful Dog rolled his eyes at his god, swung his tail, waggled his ears, made uncouth movements with his splay feet, and grinned from ear to ear. He was so utterly absurd that he claimed everybody's amused attention. "Why, old chap! You're rather glad to see your friends, aren't you?" the secretary said in his pleasant voice. Beautiful Dog yelped with rapture, darted back into the shrubbery, and a moment later emerged and laid at his adored one's feet all his treasure, a chewed slipper. He tried to say that precious as this gift undoubtedly was, he gave it willingly, joyfully. But scenting other white people too near, he backed off, and fled. The Author's eyes followed him. "I wonder if I'd have been equal to that, myself, if I'd been born a nigger dog with an ingrained distrust of the white man?" he questioned. "Gad! it comes near being the real thing, Johnson!" The secretary looked at the slipper lying at his feet: "I wonder where he found that, now?" I was wondering the same thing, and so was Alicia. "Let's show Beautiful Dog the Chinese politeness of being decent enough not to accept his gift when he's decent enough to offer it," she suggested. "Yes, throw it into the shrubbery and let him find it. That may raise white people somewhat in his estimation," I added, hastily. Instantly Mr. Jelnik picked it up and tossed it among the bushes. His action seemed the merest polite compliance with my request, and he barely glanced at the object he cast away. Yet it was really worth a second glance. Chewed, frayed, and torn, it had once been of finest red Morocco leather; and it was such a flat and heelless slipper as no native Hyndsville foot had ever worn. It was The Jinnee's slipper. CHAPTER XIV THE TALISMAN Mrs. Cheshire Scarboro was far from the fool her cousin Sophronisba had credited her with being. She had sufficient cleverness to understand that Hyndsville wasn't big enough to hold two factions. For a faction was forming with Hynds House as its storm-center, and it was one which threatened Mrs. Scarboro's hitherto unquestioned sovereignty. Jimmy Scarboro himself, a most personable youth, was one of the ringleaders of revolt. A weaker woman would have kept up the fight. Mrs. Scarboro understood that to spend one's powers trying to hold an untenable position is a proof not of valor but of stupidity. She quietly declared a truce, sending out, in the form of an invitation to one of her sacred card-parties, tentative notice that she would consider joining forces. We recognized the olive-branch, seriously extended. The next move was ours. "There's a time to fight, and a time to leave off fighting," Alicia decided. "Here's where we disarm. When these people come from under the shade of the dear old family tree, they're quite human. We have got to let them give themselves the opportunity to discover that we're human, too." It wasn't necessary to explain things to The Author, because a portion of his brain is purely and cattily feminine. That's why he is a genius. No man is a genius whose brain isn't bisexual. "I shall have to lay aside a cherished prejudice and lend this lady the light of my countenance, although I loathe card-parties. I abhor cards, outside of draw-poker on shipboard, with a crook of sorts sitting in to lend the game a fillip. Despite the fact that poor Mrs. Scarboro couldn't lay hands on a decent crook to save her life, I think I shall go, and thereby acquire merit," he concluded, with the air of a martyr. I looked at him gratefully. "I'll wager that little Sophy thinks she wants to go because she desires to be friends and neighbors. 'Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!'--You're a transparent person, you Sophy!" "But I do desire to be friends with them. I have to live here all the rest of my life, haven't I?" "Not necessarily," replied The Author, arching his eyebrows. "For instance, you can live in New York any time you want to, Sophy." "I've never told you that you might call me Sophy," I parried, hastily. "Oh, but I like to call you Sophy," he responded airily. "And really, you shouldn't mind. I've called people lots worse things than Sophy, in my time! But then," he added, "I didn't happen to like them. As for you, I find you a very likeable being, Sophy; upon my word, extremely likeable!" "Thank you," said I. I wasn't anxious to hear The Author tell me how likable he found me; at least, not yet. * * * * * For pride's sake as well as for the sake of custom--and in South Carolina custom has all the power of a fetish--Mrs. Scarboro would have died rather than vary by one jot or tittle her usual refreshments, or wear a new frock, on that particular night. Yet the occasion, despite its mild diversions, was distinctly epochal, in that it marked the reunion of Hyndsville. Even Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, for the first time, put in his decorative appearance, to The Author's fidgety surprise. He played a highly creditable game of bridge. And after a while he sang "Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms," so exquisitely that a hushed and rapturous silence fell upon everybody, and the old ladies and gentlemen present held their hands before misty eyes. They used to sing that song when the old men were boy soldiers marching off to the tune of "The Bonnie Blue Flag," and the old ladies were ringleted girls in hoop-skirts bidding them good-by. "My dear boy," Mrs. Scarboro told him, with great feeling, "you have been forgetting that you're a cousin of mine. Your mother and I were girls together. I want you to meet some other old friends of hers and your grandfather's," and she carried him off to a group of those wonderful old ladies who grow to purest perfection in South Carolina--low-voiced lovely old ladies, dressed in black silk, with cameo brooches at their throats, and lace caps on their white hair. A little group of old gentlemen immediately foregathered with them. They knew who was and wasn't kin to Sally Hynds's son, unto the seventh generation. "They've begun on the begats," chuckled The Author, "First Book of Chronicles, Chapters One to Four." "Jelnik's really kin to them, and he ought to pay for the privilege," said Mr. Johnson. The Author looked at the old ladies, on whose delicate withered hands the wedding-rings hung loosely, and at the erect old gentlemen with white goatees, and something whimsically tender came into his clever face. "It is worth the price," he said, very gently--for him. "Now, that was your soul speaking!" said Miss Emmeline, warmly. Instantly The Author wrinkled his nose, bristled his mustache, and looked like a hyena. Miss Martha Hopkins, worshipfully observant of the great man, caught his eye at that moment and thought he was scowling at _her_. She looked so stricken that The Author presently strolled over and sat down beside her, to her fluttering delight. But discovering that she was wholly unacquainted with the original verse of J. Gordon Coogler of Columbia, he first bitterly reproached her for neglecting home-made talent, and then proceeded to make sure that she would remember the Bard of the Congaree so long as she lived. "Not know Coogler!" cried The Author, shrilly; "ignorant of the bard raised, so to speak, around your own door-step? Horrible! Listen to this!" said he, accusingly: "Fair lady, on that snowy neck and half-clad bosom Which you so publicly reveal to man, There's not a single outward stain or speck. Would that you had given but half the care To the training of your intellect and heart, As you have given to that spotless neck!" "Gracious Heavens!" gasped Miss Martha, who showed a modest salt-cellar in the mildest of Vs. "Is it possible you don't like him?" demanded The Author, amazedly. "But, my dear woman! Coogler's--why, Coogler's ginger-pop to a thirsty world!" "I--I don't drink ginger-pop!" confessed the be-deviled Center of Culture, foggily. "Alas! for the South, her books have grown fewer, She never was much given to literature," quoted The Author, pensively. She was speechless. The shameless Author, fixing upon her a last long, lingering look of sorrowful reproach, said with emotion: "From early youth to the frost of age Man's days have been a mixture Of all that constitutes in life A dark and gloomy picture." And he stalked off, leaving Miss Martha Hopkins in a state of mind. "Friend Author," Alicia murmured, as he paused beside her, "I wish you were my own dear little boy for just five merry minutes. I'd show you," she declared, divided between Irish mirth and human pity for Miss Martha, "I'd show you what a hair-brush could accomplish!" "Too late!" regretted The Author, shaking his head. "But," he suggested, brightening, "couldn't you wish to be my own dear little girl, instead?" "This is so sudden!" murmured Alicia, coyly. "Deluding devilette!" breathed The Author, "get thee behind me!" That evening was the first time I had ever heard myself called "pretty." I was used to "businesslike" and "efficient" and "trustworthy"--all excellent terms, in their way, but not such happy things, any one of them, as "pretty." "What are you thinking of, Sophy?" asked The Author. "Something over the hills and far away? Because you look as Maude Adams used to look when she first played 'Peter Pan.'" I hoped it might be true, because-- I looked up then and met Mr. Nicholas Jelnik's dark eyes. They were falcon eyes, but now there was something in them that made me, to my rage and confusion and chagrin, blush like a silly school-girl. When I again ventured to glance in his direction he was patiently and politely listening to a white-goateed, game-legged U.C.V. refight the Civil War with so fiery a zest that he presently caught another veteran a resounding crack on the funny-bone with the gold-headed stick he was flourishing. Both gentlemen half rose, the one making wry faces and rubbing his elbow, the other bowing and apologetic. "Pahdon me, Majah! My deah suh, pahdon me! But I was just tellin' this boy about the day in the Wilderness his grandfathah Hynds took a Yankee bullet out of my leg with a paih of silvah scissahs and bandaged it with the tail of his shirt. "'I've lost my niggah and my instruments, Sam,' says the doctah, 'but that's no reason why the damyankees should have the satisfaction of killin' a puffeckly good rebel, when there's not enough to go around now. Hold your leg still,' says he, rollin' up his sleeves, 'an' with the help of God and my scissahs and my shirt-tail, I'll save it for you.' An' he did. I walked home from Appomattox on that same leg, suh," said the veteran, and brought his stick down on the toes of it with a force that made him utter a muffled bellow. The other, still nursing an outraged elbow, smiled sweetly. "Thanks, Sam," he drawled. The Author chuckled appreciatively. "And to think we Americans rush abroad, when the republic of South Carolina is right next-door to us!" he murmured. A gentle change was creeping over Hynds House, perhaps because of the delightful old ladies who had begun to come there. Old gentlemen, too, formed the pleasant habit of dropping in, beguiled by the artful Author, waited upon son-like by his secretary, foregathered with as kith and kin by the Englishman, mint-juleped by the three of them, enchanted by Alicia, and teaed and caked and beloved by me. Even our cats adored them. The Black family could spot a Confederate veteran as far off as the front gate, and would rush wildly to meet him, rubbing and roaching and purring in and out of his old legs. The Author insisted that their passion for U.C.V.'s was an inherited trait with our cats, and that we ourselves were merely acquired characteristics. In April, just before Miss Emmeline was to return to Boston, and the Englishman and his daughter were to go back home, Alicia and I decided to give a farewell dance. It was to be in costume. Hyndsville was pleasantly excited. Never had there been such rummaging of attics, such searchings of old trunks! We rummaged our attic, too. I selected a yellow brocade trimmed with seed-pearls and cascades of lace, and Alicia chose a skimpy blue satin frock with a round neck, an upstanding lace collar, and absurd little puffed sleeves. The Englishman was a Puritan, his daughter a Quakeress, Mr. Johnson a Huguenot Lover, Miss Emmeline a Colonial Lady, Doctor Geddes a bearded and belted Boyar, and The Author a painfully realistic Mephistopheles, his eyebrows corked upward and his mustache waxed into points. Mr. Jelnik sent regrets. We had waxed the floors, and moved most of the furniture out of the big front drawing-room; and this and the wide halls were used for a ball-room, just as they had been used in the old days. The older people played cards in the living-room and library. Every now and then, between pauses, some masked and brilliant figure, like a bright ghost from the past, would steal in to look over their shoulders and whisper in their ears. But those grandparents weren't content to sit down and play cards while others footed it. Not they! They danced the Lancers, and a polka or two, and waltzed and dipped and bowed to "Comin' through the Rye" while all the masqueraders lined up against the walls to admire and applaud. And after the gayest sort of a buffet supper, the prizes that had been won by a belle and a trooper of '61--she in her grandmother's crinoline and he in his grandfather's gray jacket--were turned over by acclaim to a sprightly lady of seventy and her sprightlier partner of seventy-five, for coming disguised as old folks. The Author made the presentation speech. He began it by saying that in South Carolina any man might well be excused for falling in love with his grandmother. Then the oldsters began to depart, with laughter and gay good nights. It had been a delightful affair, one of those affairs that go with a swing and a rhythm all their own, and that one remembers with a pleasant taste in the mouth. Only the more indefatigable youngsters remained. They hadn't the slightest intention of foregoing half a night's dancing. They danced in the hall to the music of the victrola, while the regular musicians were being fêted in the kitchen by Mary Magdalen, Queenasheeba, and Fernolia. I missed my fan, and went into the drawing-room to look for it. The room was quite empty for the moment, and looked lonesome for all its blazing lights. A cool, sweet night wind came in through the open windows, refreshingly. And quite suddenly there was framed in one of them a figure more exotic, more bizarre, than any of our maskers had been. His dark robe was folded over his breast, and the silver shaft of a knife showed in his red girdle. His white wool stuck out from under his red fez, and his ear-rings gleamed against his black cheeks, and the bracelets on his wiry arms made a faint tinkling as he leaned forward. Emboldened by his twinkling eyes, his crooked, friendly smile, eager to question him, I drew nearer. He stretched out his hand, and slipped into mine the half of a broken coin. CHAPTER XV THE HEART OF HYNDS HOUSE I stood staring at the broken coin in my hand with a sort of stupefaction, while The Jinnee moved slowly away from the window. I had received a summons I could not ignore. Had I not promised, smilingly indeed, but sincerely, to answer that call whenever and however it should come? The music had ceased for the moment, and the big hall was quite empty, for the dancers had trooped into the dining-room, from which came laughter and chattering voices, and the chink of silver and china. The great front doors were wide open. I slipped unseen into the darkly bright, whispering night. The moon was high in the heavens, for it was past midnight; the wind was chill upon my shoulders, the dew silvery under my feet. There was an odor abroad--the ineffable odor of sleepily stirring spring, of young new leaves budding, of tender grass, growing like a baby's hair. At some distance ahead I could just distinguish the dark figure of the messenger, flitting soundless as a shadow. And then, to my infinite relief, out of the shrubbery stepped Boris, and thrust his doggy nose into my hand. I laid hold of his collar, and he trotted sedately beside me. I had half expected to be led to the gray-gabled cottage, but The Jinnee stole along in the shadow of the hedge, stopped beside the spring-house, and held up his hand. "In the name of God!" said I, involuntarily. "The compassionate, the merciful!" finished The Jinnee, and turning to the east made a profound reverence. There was something so simple and so sincere in his manner that my momentary fear subsided. "But why have I been sent for? Why are _you_ here?" I wondered. He folded his arms upon his breast, and in a sing-song voice, curiously unlike any other I had ever heard, answered parrotlike: "This is the word of the master: Take to the fair-haired lady the broken coin, my sign, and she will remember her word to me. Verily, for the sign's sake, she will follow without fear." "The master is not ill, then?" "In his body he is well. But of the spirit of man, and what help he needs, there is but one judge, namely, God." "He has need of me?" "He sends the token by me, Achmet." And he stood there with a motionless patience, waiting. Achmet! I remembered an afternoon in the Enchanted Wood, and that name ringing in my ears--Achmet! "I will follow you," I said. And instantly The Jinnee pushed open the unlocked door of the spring-house and stepped inside. I hesitated for a moment, turning my head toward Hynds House, blazing with lights. I could hear voices, laughter, snatches of song. From the kitchen Mary Magdalen's great, rich, unctuous laugh rolled out like an organ peal. Silhouetted against the lighted library window was one of our big black cats, with an arched back and an uplifted and expressive tail. "I wait," said a quiet voice. And, clutching Boris by the collar, I stepped inside the door. It was dark in there; only a faint and broken light came through the one window, set high in the wall. Boris's eyes were balls of fire, and his feet made a stealthy, scuffling sound on the flagged floor. The little spring bubbling in its stone basin was like a whispering, secretive voice. Achmet stooped down, over in one corner. Then, shading a very modern flash-light with a fold of his robe, he showed me one of the square flags lifted, and a black hole yawning in the floor. I backed away. With a crooked, sly smile, The Jinnee snapped his fingers at Boris. The big dog jerked himself free of my hand and disappeared. "Now!" said The Jinnee. And like one in a dream I gathered my lace-trimmed skirts in my hand and backed down a spider-web stairway that barely gave one foothold. Achmet waited until I reached the bottom, then he, too, backed in, and I heard the flagstone fall to over my head. There was a moment of utter and awful blackness and stillness. I was upon the point of shrieking, when something cold and friendly touched my hand: Boris was nosing me. The Jinnee, at the bottom of the steps, showed the light. We were in a circular shaft, narrowing upward like an inverted funnel. It was quite clean and dry, lined with hard cement. Branching from it were two wedge-shaped openings, just wide enough to allow one person at a time to walk through. The Jinnee plunged into one of these, and Boris and I followed. There was nothing else for us to do. "This is safest way. If I come through house, I am seen. Not want that," said Achmet, over his shoulder. I made no reply. I was wondering what The Author would have said had he seen us at that moment--The Jinnee shuffling ahead in heelless slippers and Oriental dress, upon his woolly head a red fez with a silver crescent on it, and on his breast a string of _saphies_, verses from the Koran, in exquisite Arabic script, framed in flat round pieces of silver and strung on a chain. Boris, larger and nobler even than most of his breed, paced behind him. Then came I, a slim blonde woman, with fair hair powdered, in a dress a century old. The passage wasn't quite six feet high, and so still that you could hear the beating of your heart. Achmet's slippers went _scuf-scuf-scuf_. Boris swayed from side to side, his tongue lolling, his eyes phosphorescent. He resembled those ghost-hounds of old stories, terrific beasts that follow the Wild Huntsman. We went down some steps. I shouldn't have been surprised had I found myself climbing the beanstalk after Jack. Dazedly I thought: "I'll wake up in the morning and tell them at the breakfast-table what a wonderful dream I had." I could fancy the Lady with the Soul clasping her hands, and The Author crinkling his eyes, and Alicia laughing. This last passage, which, I learned afterward, ran under the carriage house, presently crooked like an elbow and led us into a windowless and stone-floored little room, under the cellar. On the opposite side of the room was the opening of another such passage, with stone steps leading to it. On these steps sat Nicholas Jelnik. He got to his feet and stood looking at me. A momentary red rushed to his cheek, and his eyes flashed. Boris, tongue out, tail wagging, rubbed against him, and the master's hand dropped between the speaking eyes with a swift caress. "Good dog! You came with her!" "And I. Am I not also a good dog?" asked The Jinnee, jealously. Mr. Jelnik's reply I did not understand, but Achmet made a respectful salutation, and his grin was the grin of a little boy. "Sophy!" said Nicholas Jelnik, and his voice shook, "Sophy! Oh, I knew you would come!" He gave a low, pleased laugh. "And now she is here, she doesn't even ask why I have sent for her!" "The mistress," said Achmet, "should have been of the Faith. May Allah enlighten her!" "Sit down here beside me for a few minutes, Sophy, and rest," said Mr. Jelnik, seating himself. "And do not look so pale, my little comrade." "I thought--that you might be ill," I faltered. "I thought--that you needed me." "I am not ill, but I do need you," he said quickly, and took my hand in a firm clasp. The touch of that hand brought me out of my trance-like state. It was all right, and the most natural thing in the world, that I should be sitting in this windowless vault, with two candles and a shadowy lantern burning dimly in the still air, an old black Jinnee squatting on his heels watching me, a great wolf-hound stretched beside him. Wasn't Nicholas Jelnik holding my hand? "Sophy," he said directly, "I have found the lost Key of Hynds House." I looked at him dumbly. "I have reached that point where I can tell you everything, little friend. Thank Heaven you have come!" But of a sudden his-forehead was damp. "You will remember," he said, after a moment's silence, and still holding my hand--and I think that now he held it as he had once held his mother's--"when I talked to you about my childhood and my mother, I told you she had made me more of an American than an Austrian. This old home-town of her people, this old house, the mystery that blackened the Hynds name, were as real to me as the scenes and people that actually surrounded me. "When I was older, she turned over to me all her family papers, and I sifted and assorted and reduced them to system and order. I found among them Richard Hynds's own brief account of the affair, and copies of letters to his father, but the bulk of the papers consisted of such data as his son and namesake could gather. This formed a copious mass, for he had set down every least circumstance that he thought might have any bearing upon his father's case. These papers, guarded so jealously, bequeathed to his successors the sacred task of righting Richard Hynds. "In Richard's short statement, left for his little son, he, as rightful heir of Hynds House, mentions the secret passages and tells how they may be entered. He had been taught that much, himself, on reaching his majority. But there was one vital secret that hadn't been revealed to Richard, for not until the head of Hynds House knew he was about to die did he give to his successor the Key to the hidden room; the room concealed so cunningly that without the Key one could never hope to find it. They planned and built wonderfully well, those old master work-men. They meant that secret room to be the strong-box, the inviolate hiding-place which should keep what might be entrusted to it. It was, as it were, the heart of Hynds House. "Remember that Richard's father died of a stroke of apoplexy, and without speaking. Thus Freeman would know no more than Richard did. There was but one person alive who knew, and that was--" "A slave?" I whispered, remembering Freeman's diary. "A slave, an unlettered slave. How he discovered it I do not know. But he did discover it. He knew, and the Hyndses did not. In regard to this same slave, a curious item was set down by Richard's son: "'This day Black Shooba's son told me of a heathen song Shooba made before he died and swore him to forget not. 'Tis a strange chaunt: "I, Shooba, the Snake Soul, make me a Song. In the night I sing it for my Snake. My Snake showed me a Secret Thing. Two Eyes and Two Eyes looked upon One Eye. One Eye is open and sees, and sees not. This my Snake showed me, in the Dark. But the Strong Ones, the White Ones, They have no Snake. Ho! Never shall they see it!"' "Sounds like a stark raving, doesn't it? One can fancy the doctor feeling a bit ashamed of himself when he wrote it down. "I rather fancied it raving, myself, until one day I came across--" here he paused, and looked at me intently--"a yellowed slip of paper between the pages of an old diary that had been accidentally discovered. I knew then that there was really something to be discovered, and that I had not been a visionary sentimentalist when I yielded to my mother's last expressed wish that I should come here and search. "I suppose," he went on dreamily, "that it was in my blood, the desire to come here to Hyndsville, like a homing bird. But when my mother died, the ties that bound me to her country seemed to be in a measure loosened. Then, too, the _Wanderlust_ had me in its grip. I put aside the profession my father had bred me to, left my affairs in what I thought capable hands, and indulged my desire to wander up and down the earth and sail the seven seas. It was upon one of these prowls that I came upon my old Achmet here, and induced a master who didn't love him to part with him." And he looked at the old man with whimsical tenderness. "I am your slave," spoke up The Jinnee, sturdily. "I am the fostered offspring of my master's bounty. May he live a thousand years!" That shocked my Yankee ears. Achmet smiled his crooked smile. "Why did the sahiba follow when I showed her a broken coin?" he asked. "Because I knew that Mr. Jelnik needed me." "Even in the bowels of the earth?" I was silent. "Because he is the master!" said The Jinnee. "Therefore you obeyed. He is the master. Wherefore am I, Achmet, his slave." Oh, shame upon you, Sophy Smith, for there was that in you, and that not the least divine part, which was in full accord with black Achmet! "Achmet's ideas are of the immutable East," said Mr. Jelnik, with a faint smile. "He is archaic." And dismissing this persiflage with a wave of the hand, he continued: "Behold me, then, footing it up and down the highways and byways of the world. But it was as if I had disobeyed the dead, and they would give me no rest. So presently I stopped short and came to Hyndsville. "With Richard's directions in my possession, it was comparatively easy for me to find the passageways, and after the old woman's death I had chance to examine the house room by room. And sometimes, Sophy, when I have been alone in this tragic old place--" he paused, and looked at me with a puzzled frown--"it has seemed to me that there were--well, secret influences, say; things outside of our sphere. I have felt a sense of horror and despair descend upon my spirit, a weight almost too heavy to bear. Sometimes it would be so powerful, so insistent, so vivid, that I had to fly from it. "Then I happened to remember something that a gipsy, an old, old man reputed to be very wise, told me when I was a boy. He said that troubled spirits can be soothed and sent hence by music. It is the old and sure charm, as David found when he played upon the harp and drove the evil spirit out of Saul the king. I brought my violin and tried it. And," said the cosmopolitan Mr. Jelnik, "the gipsy was right." "Ah, yes, I see you know, now. It was I whom you heard playing, that first day. It was I, touched by your plight in that forlorn and dusty barracks, who gave you some slight relief. It was easy enough for me to cut across to Geddes's house, reach in through his kitchen window, lift his tray, and escape through the ragged hedges while his cook's broad back was turned. Achmet was willing enough to play the obliging Jinnee. You had your dinner, and I had a bit of harmless amusement. It pleased me to hear Alicia call me Ariel. It pleased me to stand by, to protect you, if that should be necessary. Achmet and I took turns in safeguarding you at night. "You will understand"--he gave me a straight, clear, proud look--"that it was never my desire to mystify or to frighten you. But I couldn't take you offhand into my confidence, could I? I had to find out something more about you. Remember, too, that my search in no wise jeopardizes your interests. "Day after day, night after night, Sophy, I have pored over old papers, or burrowed mole-like into the black recesses of Hynds House. Bit by bit I have pieced scraps of evidence together--Shooba's savage chant with Scipio's dying whisper in Freeman's ear, and these two with a rude verse and a line of dots. But there the thread snapped. "Do you remember the morning you told me, The Author's guess that 'Hellen's Keye' was the Greek fret, the design over all the windows and doors of Hynds House? The trail was plain then. I was to follow the line of the Greek key for three and thirty turnings, when I should come upon a sign. I tried and tried. And to-night--I reached the end of it, Sophy. I found it." Again his forehead was damp, and his pallor, if possible, deepened. I rose as if on springs. The hair of my head rose, too, I thought, and my scalp tingled. "Found what?" "The hidden room that the masters built for the master of Hynds House." He stopped, and a shudder passed over him. His hand closed upon mine, and it was deathly cold. "You have been in a secret room?--here in Hynds House?" I asked incredulously. "Yes," said he in a whisper. "I opened the door--and went in. The room hadn't been opened for a hundred years, Sophy. There was a table in one corner, and I went over to it. There was something else there, too, Sophy." He moistened his lips, and looked at me with dilated eyes. "What?" I asked; "in God's name, what?" "The thief," said Nicholas Jelnik. CHAPTER XVI THE DEVILL HIS RAINBOW I was taken with a cold grue. "Is it--murder?" It seemed to me that the still room shook and echoed to the barely whispered word, that the candles stirred and flickered as in a wind of passing wings. "Not in the sense you mean," he replied. "But whatever it may be, Sophy, this thing has got to be met and faced by us two together. It concerns you now, as well as me." He stood up as he spoke. "And now," he asked, "are you strong enough to come with me?" I gathered the living spirit within me and looked him in his eyes. "Yes," I said steadily. "Allah! but here is a woman a man may serve without shame to his beard!" quoth The Jinnee, wagging his old white head. And with Boris stretched beside him he resigned himself to wait with the tireless patience of the East. If the other passages had been narrow, that which we now entered was worse. It was so narrow that the wall on each side seemed about to close in and crush us, like those frightful sliding walls that became a living coffin for the victims of medieval cruelty. Always one was confronted by solid brick walls; and to turn back was to meet others seemingly risen to cut off all escape. For this passage follows the simple and yet intricate pattern of the Greek key. Thus: [Illustration: Plan of Passage and Secret Chamber] I fancied myself doomed to spend a frightful eternity of burrowing through brick wormholes which led nowhere. I lost all sense of location, time, and direction. I wasn't even sure of my own identity any more: things like this couldn't happen to a woman named Smith! Just when I reached the stage where I was ready to drop down and lie there unmoving until I died, he turned his head and gave me a comradely smile of assurance and trust. I plucked up heart of grace and staggered on. Of a sudden he stopped. The pale circle of the flash-light moved up, inch by inch, steadied, and stayed on one spot. I found myself staring fixedly at the old and familiar enough symbol of the rayed eye within the triangle. It was not commonplace or familiar set up there in that secret and awesome place and seen by a pale light. There was about it a stark and stern solemnity, such as suggested the winged circle of immortality carved above the rock-hewn doors of the tombs of Egyptian kings. Higher than a tall man's head, it was painted on bricks of a lighter hue than the surrounding ones, and when the light touched it it seemed to leap out of the dark like a thing alive, a thing that watched with an unwinking and terrifying intensity. I remembered Shooba's savage chant of the One Eye that his Snake had shown him; and the doggerel verse on the frayed paper in Freeman's diary. "The Watcher in the Dark!" I stammered; "the Watcher in the Dark! Why--why, that paper was the Key itself!" "Exactly. And a very simple key, though it took me a heartbreaking length of time to turn it. The cipher was easy enough. It falls apart into the figures three, five, seven, and nine; it was also the simplest train of reasoning to apply these figures to the column of dots. Only, I hadn't the remotest idea what the dots themselves represented. Nor did it occur to me that the tortuous turnings of any of the passageways of Hynds House might follow the pattern of the Greek key, until The Author called your attention to the design over the outside windows. Clever man, The Author! "I lost the paper in the attic the night you heard me stumble on the stairs. Fortunately, The Author put it in his coat in the closet and locked the door on the outside. You can enter any room in the Hynds House through those closet-walls, Sophy. They're paneled, remember. I hated to have to go through The Author's pockets like a burglar, but I had to have the key." He handed me the flash-light. "Now for the column of dots, each of which represents a brick," he said, and began to count, from the first dark brick immediately under the center of the triangle. At the third brick he paused; I could see his fingers moving around the white line that, apparently, held it in place. And that third brick, which looked so solidly placed, turned as upon a pivot and swung out sideways. Still counting from top to bottom, he paused at the fifth, the seventh, and the ninth, and they, too, behaved in the same manner. As the ninth one turned, that which had seemed a section of solid wall rose soundlessly from the floor and left in its place an opening, a door, as it were, some six feet high and about eighteen inches wide. "It is not brick at all, but painted wood. A really wonderful bit of work," explained Mr. Jelnik. I could only stare, owlishly. "You are wondering where we are?" He answered the unspoken question: "Above the library, between the outside wall and the chimney-stacks. You'd have to tear the house down to find it, without the Key." As he spoke, he was lighting two of the candles Achmet had provided us with, and although his hand was quite steady, he had become frightfully pale. I, too, felt myself growing paler, felt again the cold grue, as if the wind of death had stirred my hair. "Reach into my breast pocket and you'll find a small vial. Put a drop of the contents on your handkerchief and hold it against your mouth for a moment," said Mr. Jelnik, with a sharp glance at me. I obeyed mechanically. The scent had an indescribably tingling, spicy odor, and left a cool and grateful sensation in one's parched and dry throat. My blurred vision cleared, my dull and throbbing head was relieved. "An Alexandrine Copt gave me that," he said, watching its effect with satisfaction. "He told me he had gotten it from a temple papyrus, and that it was undoubtedly one of the lost perfumes of Punt, used by the higher priesthood in their mysteries. Once a year he sends me such a tiny vial as you see. I could hardly have survived my searchings in this house, without that saving perfume. Do you feel able to go on?" "Yes." "Come, then," and with that he stepped through the opening, and I after him. The room was not large--perhaps some nine feet high, some eight feet wide. The walls were of such exquisitely grooved and polished red mahogany that the candle-light was reflected in them as in mirrors; one seemed to be surrounded by twinkling red stars. On each side of the opening stood a tall and narrow cabinet, somewhat like a high-boy, and in one corner was a chest with iron clasps and handles. Over in another corner was a heavy, medium-sized square table, on which stood a blackened candelabrum and a tarnished silver-gilt cup. There were two chairs drawn up to this table. On one of them, fallen forward, was something. Mr. Jelnik placed the candles in the empty sconces. We two stood looking down, he with pity, I with a mounting, sick horror, at the thing before us--the poor, huddled thing that had lain there so long. For it was not, as one might suppose at first glance, a frayed and threadbare mantle flung across one corner of the table. By the long black hair it was a woman, and a young woman. She had on what must once have been a most beautiful brown silk dress, trimmed with quantities of fine lace, and looped up over a stiff brocaded petticoat. Her skeleton feet were in the smallest of low-cut shoes, the tarnished silver buckles of which were set with rhinestones. Her head rested on her arm, outflung across the table. The other arm hung limp, and the fingers pointed downward, as if accusingly. She had quantities of glorious black hair, and this alone had death respected; nothing else of her loveliness remained. Under her fleshless hand lay the soiled and yellowed papers she had written, and over which, in biting mockery, she had kept watch and ward. "Who is it? Oh, God, God!--who is it?" I gasped, and heard my voice rattling in my throat like a dying woman's. As, perhaps her voice had rattled, here in the dark. The thought of her, sitting here in awful loneliness these long, long years, while life, all unknowing, ebbed and flowed within reach of her, made me shudder. "It is Jessamine Hynds, lost Jessamine Hynds," said her kinsman of a later day, looking down upon the wreck of her with compassion. "But how--how--why did she come here? To die thus--Oh, my God! my God!" "I saw the papers under her hand, and her name written upon the first page," he said. "What further things she has written, I do not know. I waited, Sophy, until we should read it together." He smiled at me wanly. "I could bear it better, with you beside me. You see how much I need you!" And he took the papers from her and spread them upon the table. What she had written I shall insert here, as its properest place. I, Jessamine Hynds, Gentlewoman, being of sound Mind (though they do say I am mad) but of infirm Body, the which I am shortly to be rid of, do state and declare before God that it was I who did take the Hynds Jewells, being help'd thereto by black Shooba the witch doctor, who was my father's man before my Uncle James Bought him at the Publick Outcry of our Effects. As to the Why & Wherefore I have act'd thus, thou knowest, thou cruel God, who made me a beggar'd Orphan, a poor dependant in this House of Pride! Yet, God, thou knoweth I lov'd them well enow until Richard came home the last Time from Abroad, a Young Man in the Beauty of his Youth, who saw not Jessamine the poor Cozzen, but Jessamine the fair woman. He would have me sing him Ballads, he would hang Entranc'd upon the Spinet when I play'd. Now would he fetch me a flower for my hair, placing of it himself. And now 't was a knot of ribband for my dress, and himself fetch'd home broach and ear-rings for my Birthday Gift, saying in my ear no fairer woman's face had gladded his eyes since he left home. And by the clipt Hedge on a May night he kiss'd me. Alas, oh blind high God, alas, alas! 'T was Wondrous to see how even the Servants did catch the Humour, they waiting upon me Marvelous ready. Until came my dear Aunt, smiling sickly, and laying of her Hand upon my Sholder said she must speak for mine own Good. Richard was but a young Man, wild & headlong, and I a fair Woman thrown in his Way in an empty betweenwhiles ere his own true love came. See to it, Jessamine, says she, that a Boy's short-liv'd Fancy makes not a mock of thee, at thy years, that should know better! Mine Uncle ever twitt'd me for liking of Books, & laugh'd when I beg'd I might have my Chance of Becoming an Artist. "What," says he, "a Hynds woman painting of strange folks their faces? Out upon thy notion, Jessamine!" And my Cozzens laugh'd and said, Ever did Gentlemen dislike a Learn'd Female. Should have gotten me a good Husband this Ten Years since but for my Shrew's Temper & Vanity of Books. To cure me they did Cruelly bait me to Marry the Pursy Ninny that hath the Plantation beyond the Hopes, he that hath been Ogling of me for years. Could scratch the Wretch his eyes Out! Puffeth with his mouth in a way hateful to me & hath pig's jowls. Yet were all they fair mad I should marry me this Paragon. Should have a home of mine Own, worthy a Lady. Aye,--and be out of the way, lest I lead Richard Astray. Mine Uncle chid me for Ingratitude to God in that I stamp'd my foot and said No! But Richard laugh'd at the idea of Jessamine wedding yon tun. Quoth Richard, "Let Jessamine be, all of ye! she is meat for his masters." Freeman smil'd sourly, & shrug'd. I love not Freeman, nor do I hate him overmuch though he call'd me "Madame Jezebel." And then came Emily home from Visiting of her Aunts in London Town. And they made a Marriage between her and Richard, Richard that was mine. He had lov'd me an they had let us be. Once pledg'd, he had held fast to his word. Nor would I, for his own Soul's sake, have let him go. There is none, none under the sun but me alone, was strong enough to have sav'd Richard. 'T is true, as men judge such things, his Conduct to me was but Gallant Pleasantry, such as Fine Gentlemen do show to Favour'd Ladies. And he did Spare my Pride. Never did he show by word or Deed, or admit to any, that I had car'd more Deeply than he. But Emily knew. I knew she knew. Saw it in her Eyes, that look'd on me with Pity. I will not brok that any mortal Woman shall Pity me! Secretly I suffer'd, suffer'd so that a Burning fire crept & crept into my Brain and Stay'd, nor has left me, Day or Night. And in all the World was no one I might Weep before, or that would Comfort me and leave me Unasham'd, save Shooba, the witch doctor, whom the slaves Fear for that he hath a Snake-soul and makes Charms and casts Spells. 'T is true, that Shooba hath a Spiritt. When it worketh upon him he is Dull and Overcast and may not Labour untill it be gone. And then will he rise and Speak strange and sometimes Terrible things, and Prophesy. In the old times my Father smil'd, and let him be. But here 't is otherwise. When Shooba's Spiritt made him Heavy and Sleepy, and when he woke again and Spoke, mine Uncle's new Overseer had the old man Whip't. Twice did this Happen before I knew of It. Then went I to the Overseer, with Indignation, and said: "Do not whip Shooba, any more. 'T is Monstrous, to Whip an old man that hath a Spiritt! 'T is not true he makes dissentions and plots Revolt among the slaves. 'T is not true he is lazy & will not Work. There is no better Workman than Shooba. 'T is only true you are a cruel man and misuse your Power." Flick'd with his Whip his worsted Stockings. Said in a hateful voice: "'Taint your place, Miss, to be a-giving of orders to the Overseer. I take orders only from them that has the right to Give 'em. When I think that old Nigger ought to be whipt, whipt he 'll be." Then march'd he to mine Uncle and ask'd was Mistress Jessamine to oversee the Overseer, and call him hard Names for the whipping of a Troublesome Nigger? And my Uncle fell into a Fury With me. Allowed the wretch to Triumph. Shooba was whipt again. I saw his Back. Once old Shooba cur'd me of a pestilent Fever, with Simples, when I was a little Child, and our Leech had given me Over, nor did he Bleed me once. Now Shooba's Back was Bleeding, and I might not help him! Now in the night I had gone secretly to his Hut to fetch him such poor little Comforts as I might secretly get & give. He took them, & look'd at me long & long, with his brooding, deep, strange eyes. "For the man that whipt me, I have sent forth my Snake. My Snake will have a Thing to say to him. The man will die. Then laughed he, and hugg'd his knees.--And 't is true Meekins the Overseer one week later was bitten by a Serpent in the Field and died an Unlovely Death. "Missy," whispered Shooba, "in my country when I young, chief get mad with chief more stronger, not fight with spears. Call Witch doctor and make Medicine. Stronger chief, him come dead one day soon. Maybe bumbye you and me make some Medicine?" My lips curl'd somewhat. Poor old Shooba making medicine against the Hyndses. "You go now and think some. I stay here, and think some, too. Maybe one time you find medicine. Maybe one time my Snake find." I went away, smiling sadly. 'T would need strong medicine to heal me and Shooba! Now Time pass'd, and they fell to planning for Freeman's Ball. 'T was to be a Grand affair, and there was Talk of my Aunt's Frock, and wearing of the Hynds Jewells. And Richard's Wife was to be Allow'd to wear the Queen's Emerald. Came Emily to me in secret, and says she, "Come, Jessamine, be Friends with me. My Mind is Fix'd you shall Outshine all the other Ladies. I have the very Frock for you, just new come from London, a lustrous thing will make you glow & Sparkle like a Ruby. We shall make it a State Secret, Jessamine. Not a word shall be breath'd, but you shall burst upon them all like a Meteor!" I do admit that ever was something Noble & Generous in Emily, that something in myself did Honour. I had thank'd her Thought, but that Richard came in & kiss'd her for it, saying he een Lov'd her the Better for that she lov'd his haughty Cozzen. But, O God, they Two went away Hand in Hand! He forgot me for her sake, so completely that he said not even, "Good-by." That night went I to Shooba secretly, and said, "Is thy Snake awake? For A Thought is in my mind." Then took we Counsel together. Shooba is a man most cunning in all manner of Herbs and Simples. They in Hynds House began for to sleep sweetly and soundly, but felt no ill Effects. Nay, they rose betimes most pleasantly rest'd & refresh'd. Then did Shooba and I, who thus had undisturb'd Access to my Aunt's room, work swiftly until Dawn. Three nights and a half night did we two work, before our Task was compleat'd, the Kernell's filch'd from the Nuts, and the Empty Shells left for my lady's adorning of herself at my lord's birth-night Ball. Oh, 't was a rare, rare Jest! I laugh'd and old Shooba laugh'd. And I did chap them atween my hands, those flaming Bawbles, as children chap chaff. And they did sparkle & glow like the Devill his Rainbow! All day was I Happy, Hugging of my Secret to my Heart. Emily had the brown dress brought Secretly into the House, & Made for me in mine Own Room. Once was she wishful I might wear one of the Hynds Rubies, just for one Night, but I chid her, saying that already the Frock was more than Enough. Indeed 't is a beautiful Dress. Will serve me well for a Shroud. Ever came the Ball nearer & nearer, and all we a-flutter, I with my hands overfull, my hours overcrowd'd, with Helping of them. I could not have slept in peace did I not know what was a-coming. And then open'd they the Safe in my Aunt's morning-room. Shall be such a Howling from the Damn'd on the Day of Judgment as went up from Hynds House that day! Makes me to think of the text, And there shall be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Lord, how did they run Hither & Thither, what Wailing & Reproaching & Accusing & Screeching! How did my dear Aunt's eyes grow Redder than ever Mine had been! How did my Proud Uncle find his Lofty Crest Lower'd, and was in that Honour of his Scourg'd more Cruelly than ever old Shooba's Back had been! How, too, was _her_ Happiness burst like a Bubble, that had been so rainbow Bright! In that house all wept save me alone. Nor did one of them so much as dream in 's sleep of suspecting Jessamine Hynds! And then--oh, God! oh, God--Richard, my Richard, that I Lov'd more than mine own Soul, died! As a Candle is snuff'd out, so went Richard that was so comely and so strong. I had only thought to Punish him, Make them all Suffer to Pay me for mine own Suffering. Never, never, had I meant that Richard should Die. 'Twas a Thunder-bolt upon my Head, 'twas Lightning splitting my Heart. 'Twas I brought the News of Richard's death to my Uncle James. Was sitting in the Library pretending for to read. Then came I in, and clos'd the Door, and said: "_Richard is dead._" How the man star'd! Had a ruddy face, very Handsome. Before my eyes it pal'd and pinch'd. I said again: "Don't you understand? _Richard is dead._" As a tree falls, he fell. I knew his Time was come, and gently I rais'd him. He claw'd at his Breast and mouth'd "Richard--Freeman--Pocket-book--The Key, the Key!" Look'd at me piteously. 'Twould melt one's Heart to see his Eyes. I did thrust my hand into the breast of his blue Broad-cloath Coat, and draw forth his Pocket-Book. 'Twas in Dark Green leather, & upon it the Arms of our House. There were bank-notes in't, some silver, two or three folded papers, and one in a small silk Cover, put by itself. I saw his Fading Eyes brighten as I held it up. He maw'd, "Key--Freeman--" and puff'd with his Lips, and fell Unconscious. I slipt the Book back into his breast, put the silk-covered paper in mine own, and ran out of the Room, Calling Loudly for help. He dy'd that Night. And when I look'd at the "Key" 'twas naught but a silly Verse. Yet I was doubtful of Giving it to Freeman. Instead, I did show it to old Shooba. "I will ask my Snake if he knows anything of Keyes," said Shooba. And remembering the Overseer, I did not smile, but gave him the Paper. I like not to think of Shooba's Snake. Then buried we mine Uncle in the Hynds tomb and my Aunt was left to wander ghostlike, seeking for what she should never find.--Oh, why did not they leave Richard and me alone! I repent not. But I am Troubled because of Richard who comes in the Night and looks at me, and asks, without anger, only with Sorrow, "_Was it well done, Jessamine?_" I answer, weeping; "Richard, it was to be. You made me Love you, Richard, and you put me by. For which Cause, and for that their Pride was beyond Bearing, did I pull down the Roof of Hynds House over their heads, and these my Hands did push you into your Grave. But go you back to Sleep, my dearest Dear. I shall Find mine Own Grave shortly, and then I shall be able to come closer to you. When I am Dead, Richard, you will understand." Sometimes he will go, looking at me over his Sholder with Eyes so sad that for Pity I must weep mine own eyes Blind. But sometimes he will say, in a Voice none may hear but me: "Cruel, cruel Jessamine! You shall not come near me even when you are Dead: You shall be Farther from me than when we two walk'd Quick under the Sun. Never, never did you truly Love me: I know, the Dead being Wiser than the Living! 'T is Emily Lov'd me truest." And oh, thou awful, far-off God, I cannot make him Understand! And unless I can make him understand, I am lost! My misery, my misery! He will not listen. I am dying of this thing! Now did Shooba's Death-in-Life come upon him once more, and for a day and a night he lay Stark. And in the Sleep his Snake came and show'd him the untying of the Knot, and the Turning of the Keye. In proof whereof Shooba took me by the hand & Show'd me the Watcher in the Darke. "Do but one thing more for me, old Shooba: Put out the Fire in my Brain, Shooba, for I would Sleep. And I would Sleep here, in Secret, where none but the Watcher may see." For a while he ponder'd, Watching of me with still eyes. "Not good to stay awake too long. You shall Sleep," he said. Last night he Brought me the Pinch of Powder that is an Open Door. To what? I know not. But I go without Fear, because without Hope. So shall I sleep in the secret Chamber, and it maybe I shall Dream that Richard lightly Lov'd and as lightly Left me. Whereof Richard Died. And, that Freeman thinks his Brother Guilty and a Thief: A Hynds a Thief! so that Hynds House hangs Heavy above his head. And that Emily begins to Hate Freeman, who Loves her. She thinks he hath play'd Judas. I shall have Pleasant dreams! Never shall they Find where Shooba hid the Gems, between a night and a morning. Never shall any look upon my face more, nor read what I have written, nor know what I have done. I repent not, O God! What I am I am, Not I but Thou hast created me! Having liv'd mine own Life, I do die mine Own Death. JESSAMINE HYNDS. "This is the Horror that we have--felt!" I babbled. "She's been sitting here--by herself--all the time--" and my voice failed me, remembering that dark and anguished sense of guilt and ruin, of unease and terror, that at times fell upon one in the night like a smothering garment. Cold drops came upon my forehead, when I reflected that we had been living under the same roof with This, and we all unknowing. And I began to whimper: "I cannot stay even one night more under the same roof with her. I cannot! I cannot!" "Sophy," said Nicholas Jelnik's quiet voice, "I brought you here because I relied upon your courage, your common sense, and your charity." I gulped. In the most matter-of-fact manner, he gave me another whiff of that incomparable perfume, and I felt my taut nerves steady. Not untruthfully had the Coptic physician claimed magic qualities for that perfume. Mr. Jelnik said gently: "Had you been other than you are, I would not have dared call you to my aid to-night. But when I discovered the real thief--and she Jessamine Hynds--I could not bear that any other eyes than yours should see her as she is. And--I want you to be with me when I find the jewels." The jewels? I blinked at him. Immersed in the tragedy of the woman Jessamine, her piteous fate had put all thought of everything save herself out of my mind. "Shooba hid them, between a night and a morning. Shooba brought her here, between a night and a morning. Where should the jewels be but here?" At his words the grim and mocking ghost of that terrible old African, who had been whipped for falling into trances, and who had so tragically revenged himself and his slighted mistress, seemed to rise behind all that remained of her. "Yes, he would put them where she could keep watch over them. Why should she come here, make her way through those dreadful passages, save for that? Think of her stealing out of her room in the dead of night, coming alive to what she knew was her tomb, shutting that door upon herself--" I looked at the tarnished cup, and hoped that the witch doctor's potion had given her a speedy sleep. I looked at the blackened candelabrum, and wondered whether that candle had gone out before she had, or whether her head had fallen upon her arm, and she had died wide-eyed in the black, black dark. The cold grue shook me again, and I beat my hands together for terror and pity. "Do not think of that!" said Mr. Jelnik. "Death rectifies human wrongs, and all of them have long, long since been healed of their hurts. Come, let us find the jewels. We are losing time." We opened the cabinets first. They held papers that had been precious in their day--old deeds, old charters and grants, with the king's seals and the signatures of the Lords Proprietors upon them; correspondence, a casual glance at which showed Revolutionary activities--a hanging matter once, but harmless enough now; a box of foreign coins, all gold; a charge, in medieval Latin, on fine parchment, which exquisitely illuminated initial letters; a plain silver chalice and a patten; some threadbare robes and regalia, and a gavel; a most carefully done chart of the Hynds family, ending, however, with Colonel James Hampden Hynds himself; two letters, and a miniature of Charles the First; letters signed, "Yours, B. Franklin," "Yours, John Hancock"; several from "Geo. Washington." The chest held two uniforms, one British, the other buff and blue; a pair of pistols, spurs, and a sword. The buff-and-blue uniform was worn and stained, with a burnt and ragged hole in the breast. It had belonged, said the slip pinned to it, to "Captain Lewis De Lacy Hynds, my youngest Brother, the youngest of our House, who Fell Gloriously at the Battle of Cowpens." And that was all. Although we examined every inch of that floor, every board of the walls, and made the most scrupulously careful search of the cabinets and the chest. I even dared pass my hands over Jessamine herself. Shooba the witch doctor had done the unexpected. Wherever he might have hidden them between a night and a morning, he had not hidden the Hynds jewels in the secret room of Hynds House. And she who alone could have solved the mystery and told us the truth, lay there with a lipless mouth. CHAPTER XVII ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS We gave over the futile search at last. Mr. Jelnik sat down and took his head in his hands, for the moment a prey to overwhelming disappointment. I could have wept for him. Presently: "Is it so hard to lose that which you never possessed?" I ventured to ask. "It is always bitter to fail." "But you haven't really failed. You have succeeded in proving that both Richard and Freeman were the victims of an insane jealousy and a terrible revenge." "Jessamine's confession might well be set aside: insane people often accuse themselves of crimes committed only in their own disordered brains. The one indisputable proof would be the jewels in my hands." He added, with a faint smile: "I should have liked to see those accursed things made clean by your wearing them, Sophy." "I don't want them!" I said, and my head went up. "I don't care _that_ for all the Hynds jewels ever lost! I wouldn't have come here to-night for their sake or mine, not if they were worth an empire's ransom! I wanted them for Richard's sake, and--and yours." "I know, I know. At first I wanted them for him and me, too. Afterward I wanted them for him and for you, Sophy." "For me? _I_ have no right to them. What have _I_ to do with Hynds jewels?" And then I stopped. If Jessamine's confession were true--and I believed in my heart that every word Jessamine had written was the truth--what right had I to Hynds House itself? "As to that, I have no right to Hynds House, either. It is yours," I said. He stared at me thoughtfully. "It is yours," I repeated, gaining courage. "I am an outsider, to whom this house was left from motives of malice and revenge. Mr. Jelnik, this thing must be set straight. We will show Jessamine's confession and clear Richard's name. We will bring Freeman's diary forward to prove the truth of our assertions. Then you can come into your own." "Ah!" said Mr. Jelnik, gently, "I see. Quite simple, and perfectly feasible. And after I have taken Hynds House, what of you? What do you get?" "I get out," I said briefly. And a horrid qualm came over me. Leave Hynds House, forever? Go away from Hyndsville, leaving this friendlier, pleasanter, happier life behind? "You are forgetting my training," I reminded him, trying to keep my voice steady. "I can always do what I did before I came here. I--I'm really an excellent private secretary, Mr. Jelnik." "That," said Mr. Jelnik, smiling curiously, "may very well be. But I think the stars in their courses fought to bring you here. And I really do not at all relish the notion of your turning backward into a private secretary, although there is, of course, the alternative of The Author. And what of Alicia?" "Alicia's sense of justice is quite as well developed as mine," I told him proudly. "Alicia is a dear girl," he agreed. "But, my dear lady, your plan wouldn't hold water in any court. This place isn't mine, legally or morally, though the jewels would be if I could find them. If ever I do find them, which is highly improbable, I may be tempted to make you an offer of exchange." "You don't want Hynds House? Richard's house? You won't take Hynds House?" "I don't want Hynds House. I won't take Hynds House. Further, if anybody on earth but you made me such an offer, in such circumstances, I should find it hard to forgive. Even from you I hardly think I could bear it twice." A bright red showed in his cheeks for an instant, his nostrils quivered, his whole face was a blaze of pride. "What! Nicholas Jelnik accept gifts from women?" "As good and proud men as Nicholas Jelnik have accepted gifts from women, and been none the worse for it," said I, tartly. "You offered me your jewels. Why shouldn't I offer you my house?--particularly when it should have been your house. I also have my pride, Mr. Jelnik!" The hauteur went out of his face, and something sweet and quizzical and boyish flooded it. "Keep Hynds House, dear, dear Donna Quixotta," said he, gently. "You have given me something I needed a thousand times more." Now, although we had not found the jewels, we had found Jessamine Hynds, and there remained to be done a thing that called for what strength of will and courage we possessed. And we had need to make haste. Already more time had been consumed than we bargained for. Mr. Jelnik fetched a deep breath, and went over to the Thing in the chair. There was in his manner neither repugnance nor horror, nothing but an almost divine compassion. Never, never, had I respected the courage, the honor, the mercy of man so greatly as I did then. It was a ghastly task; I do not like to remember it. In the hot, dry air of the room without windows she had become, not a bleached skeleton, but a shriveled, fleshless, blackened mummy. The hair still clung tightly to the skull, the discolored skin was stretched over the bony contour of the face; the lips had shriveled away from the teeth, which showed in a sort of jeering grin. And--well, we had to tie her hair, like a rope, around her chest and arms; and I tore the ruffles off my petticoat, to tie her skirts at the knees and ankles. The brown frock was low-necked and short-sleeved, too. And the picture of her, down-stairs, showed her with so red a lip, so round an arm, so soft, so white a bosom! Thou might'st think thou hadst drunk the water of Paradise who had tasted the nectar of her lip.... The ends of her ringlets fell into the hand like as the sleeve of the generous in the hand of the needy. Oh, Jessamine! She had been so splendidly tall a woman, that as he held her grisly head upon his shoulder the little shoes that rattled upon her shriveled feet were well below his knees. One great rope of her blue-black hair escaped and fell down the back of his white coat, and as he moved it moved, too, with a lazy and languid coquettishness horribly travesting youth and beauty. It was such wonderful hair! Small wonder young Richard had praised its dark splendor, and kissed its shining folds to his undoing! "Jessamine," Nicholas Jelnik said as he bent over her, "you shall have your chance to rest. You shall sleep under the open sky. Nature shall have you, Jessamine, and make you over into something of loveliness and of peace." "Because she loved much, much shall be forgiven her," I whispered. Ah! At the last, who but Him of Galilee shall speak for us? Never, until I shall be what she was then, shall I be able to forget that return journey. Mr. Jelnik walked ahead, holding her on one arm, and carrying the flash-light with his free hand. I followed with a candle that burned with a low and reddish glare and gave off a heavy, waxy odor in the still air. Whenever the faintest draft lifted the dull flame, we two living creatures seemed to recede into darkness, while the light sought her out and stayed upon her. The motion of his body shook her lightly, and she gave forth a dry and stealthy rattling, an uneasy rustling. One hand hung down, with a loose, loose bracelet jingling on the brittle brown wrist. And her poor little feet with the rotting shoes upon them moved delicately, as if they trod the impalpable air. Once her head struck, with a hollow thud, as we turned a corner. It was almost more than flesh and blood could bear,--like things you were afraid of when you were a child in the dark--the candles melting audibly, and walls, walls, pressing us in. I think it took us years to reach the room where Achmet waited. At sight of what the master bore, The Jinnee started up and called upon God the Lord Paramount, Help of the Faithful. Then, like the fine old fighter he was, he squared his shoulders, folded his arms, and waited orders. Boris, with a deep-throated, smothered growl of fear and protest, bared his teeth and sidled against him, bristling and trembling. We consulted briefly. Mr. Jelnik was for leaving her there in the cellar room, until a fitter opportunity offered to give her sepulture. But to this I vehemently objected. I could not have stayed another hour in that house while I knew she was in it. I wanted Jessamine Hynds consigned to the grave from which she had been too long kept. I wanted her to sleep in the brown bosom of the earth, with the impartial grass to cover her, and roses to blow over her by and by, when summer should have come back to South Carolina. Achmet led the way, and presently we were in the spring-house. When I am feverish I dream of that last climb up the spidery stair, with Jessamine's jaws widened into a soundless laugh, and The Jinnee's light playing at hide-and-seek upon her. I knelt down and plunged my face into the cold spring-water, and drank and drank. How good it was! And how grateful to my lungs was the outside air, so sweet, so fresh, so clean! I loved the friendly trees waving in the good wind, I blessed the friendly stars. We stopped at Mr. Jelnik's house, and the man Daoud appeared in answer to a low-voiced summons and fetched me a most beautiful shawl, which I found extremely comfortable. A stately and stoical personage was Daoud, unlike shy black Achmet, who hid himself from observation so thoroughly that people in Hyndsville were not aware of his existence. I sat on the steps while for Jessamine Hynds was fetched a length of canvas, a linen sheet, and a gray army blanket. Achmet appeared with spades. And so we set out. The old cemetery in Hyndsville, unlike the newer one in which folks take a sort of ghastly pride, one lot differing from another lot in glory, is an unpretentious place, enclosed by crumbling walls, the iron gates of which have rusted ajar. It is a grassy, bird-haunted, tree-shaded spot, with some dozen or so old family vaults, some modest monuments that bear stately names, some raised marble slabs supported on carved and slender legs, like Death's own little card-tables, some stones let flat into the earth, with names and dates long since erased by rain and wind and fallen leaf. Nobody comes here any more. Sophronisba Scarlett was the first and last to be interred in the old cemetery within the memory of the present generation. We went down dismal paths where the night wind sighed a miserere in the cedars, and things of the dark scurried away with furtive noises, or flapped ill-omened black wings overhead. In a corner shaded by cypresses was the Hynds vault, a venerable affair with a slate roof. Outside, in an inclosed space were some marble-covered graves and in a corner the simplest of all, one marked "R.H." Emily slept beside him, and their son beside her. But on the farther side, next the wall, was room for one more sleeper. And here, while Mr. Jelnik laid down his burden, Daoud and Achmet began to dig. She lay there in the ghostly light and shade, so utterly cast aside and forgotten, so unloved, so unwept, so far removed from every human tie, that terror and pity filled my heart. While Daoud and Achmet were making ready her bed, Nicholas Jelnik and I spread out the length of canvas, and wrapped her securely in the sheet and blanket. We folded her claws upon the empty breast in which had once pulsed the passionate heart of Jessamine Hynds, and spread her hair over what had been her face. Over in a sheltered spot behind the vault clambered a huge, overgrown, briery rose, and by some sweet impatience of nature one shoot had budded before its time. I broke off the small, pale roses and placed them in her grasp. But Mr. Jelnik took from his breast a pearl and silver crucifix, and this, reverently, he laid upon hers. "It was my father's grandmother's. She held it when she was dying. She was an old saint. It would please her to know that her crucifix should stay, one holy thing, with Jessamine Hynds." "'_Verily, the gate of repentance is not nor shall be shut upon God's creatures until the sun shall rise in the west_,'" The Jinnee quoted his Prophet And he broke off two of his _saphies_, each with a holy verse written upon it, and dropped them upon her out of pure charity. Daoud, who was intelligent and orthodox where Achmet was emotional and tender, was evidently not altogether sure of the wisdom of this proceeding; but he was not too orthodox to stand up arrow-straight, face the East, and pray for her. So we wrapped her, brown silk dress and yellowed laces, and long black hair, in the strip of canvas, and gave her to the earth. The last thing we saw, thank God! before the blanket fell over her for the last time, was the silver crucifix shining out of the roses in her hands. Daoud and Achmet, their spades over their shoulders, left the cemetery, the latter the strangest, quaintest, most outlandish figure ever seen on a Carolina road. Mr. Jelnik and I, with Boris close beside us, walked more slowly. "Shall you go on with the search?" I ventured presently. "But where shall I begin now?" he wondered. "I have searched everything and every place searchable." "If Shooba hid them anywhere outside of that room, it must have been in some place that Jessamine herself knew and could get at if she wished; some particular place where nobody would dream of looking for them. Women always choose hiding-places like that, and the notion would suit Shooba's grim humor," I said. "They who knew every nook and cranny of the house searched it pretty thoroughly at the time," he reminded me. "I have fine-combed it myself." "I am so sorry! I wanted you to find them. But the fact that you didn't surely couldn't make very much difference to you. One's happiness doesn't depend upon anything so problematical." He hesitated. "Aside from their value, which is by no means inconsiderable, I--well, they would have made certain things easier for me. I should then have been in a better position to do what I want to do." "Oh! You had some definite plan which hinged upon your finding them?" He was silent for a space, as if considering within himself just how far he could admit me into his confidence. "At first, it was a matter of family pride with me to clear up this mystery. Later--I wanted to have the Hynds jewels in my possession, that I might ask the woman I love to marry me." His voice vibrated like a violin string. I took the blow standing. I did not wince, though it had come unexpectedly. Of course I had known all along that there must be some lady whom he loved, a woman of that world to which he himself belonged. But I couldn't for the life of me imagine how the finding or the not finding of the Hynds jewels could have any bearing upon the case. I couldn't understand how any woman, any real woman, could let such a thing come between her and Nicholas Jelnik. When we had walked a little farther: "Doesn't she know you care for her?" "Who knows what any woman knows or thinks? She may really care for another man." "There is another man?" "There is always another man. Her feeling for me may be nothing but pure kindness, for she is kindness itself." "Still, I think you should tell her," I said, with such a heavy heart! He shook his head. "There are reasons why my faith might be questioned, my motives doubted; and I couldn't bear that." "But if you are perfectly sure of your own feelings, if there is absolutely no doubt in your mind that you love her--" "Love her? I never thought," he said, "that any woman could mean so much to a man! I never dreamed that just one woman could be in herself all that a man needs to hold fast to! Love her? I have been all over the world and I have seen many women in many lands, but never any woman of them all, save that one, for me! It was a revelation to me, that I could care so much. Ah! I wish I could make it plain just how much I do care!" I had not known until that moment how much the heart can bear of anguish and not break. "I hope she loves you just as much in return, Mr. Jelnik. I hope with all my heart you will be happy, both of you." "I hope she does! I hope we shall!" he cried, with ardor. "Why, if I could be sure she cares for me, like that, if I could know that all other men counted as little with her as all other women count with me! But I am not sure. And I do not take it lightly, for my woman must be more to me than most women mean to most men. Well, it is on the knees of the gods." I stole a covert glance at him as he walked beside me. It seemed to me he had never been so beautiful. But his beauty hurt me. I felt old, very, very old, and sad, and tired. The salt taste of tears was in my mouth. My feet dragged. We entered that strip of land which on a time old Sophronisba barb-wired and barricaded against her neighbors, and which touched the Jelnik grounds in the rear. We were to cut through his garden and enter mine by the gap in the hedge behind the spring-house and I hoped to get into the house and up-stairs to my own room unperceived. The gray cottage lay dark and silent, but there were lights in Hynds House although the night was upon the verge of morning. A gray light, upon which was stealing a primrose tinge, was already in the sky. It was, in fact, four o'clock. I was so mortally tired that for a moment I sat down on his steps. "It's been pretty rough on you, Sophy. One woman in a thousand could have gone through this night's experience without going to pieces," said Mr. Jelnik, with feeling. And then: "Sophy!" cried a frightened and hysterical voice. "Oh, is that you, at last, Sophy?" And turning a corner of the gray cottage, Alicia, Doctor Geddes, and The Author confronted us. They were still in costume, and the Mephistophelian effect of The Author was such as would turn any actor green with envy. Ensued a pregnant pause. It was a lovely situation! It reduced me, for one, to idiocy. "Sophy! Jelnik!" exploded Doctor Geddes, with a gesture of rage and astonishment. "Yes. It is I. What is the matter? Why aren't you home and in bed? What are you doing here, at this hour?" I asked, stupidly. Here The Author, all in red tights, cape, and doublet, snatched his red cap with the cock's feather in it off his head, and bowed diabolically: "Let us ask you that same question: Why aren't _you_ home and in bed? What are _you_ doing here at this hour?" "After everybody had gone home, I ran up to your room, Sophy--and--and you were gone. You weren't in the house. I looked everywhere; and you'd disappeared, as if the earth had opened and swallowed you." Alicia's voice was trembling. "Oh, Sophy, I was so frightened, so horribly frightened! I kept thinking every minute you must come. I kept looking and waiting, and still you didn't come. I telephoned Doctor Geddes, when I couldn't stand it any longer. And then The Author came down-stairs. And oh, Sophy, there was such an unearthly, clammy, waiting sort of feeling in the house--all those lights, all those empty rooms--I felt as if something terrible must be happening!" She clung to me as she spoke, kissing me, and shook, and wept. "And when you still didn't come, and we couldn't find you anywhere, The Author suggested that we should come over here and enlist Mr. Jelnik. "When we got here, there wasn't a soul in this house. Not even the dog. We went back to Hynds House, and walked through our garden, and then came back here, because we didn't know what else to do. Oh, Sophy!" I patted her shoulders, mumbling that she mustn't cry, it was ail right. "Miss Gaines, I am dreadfully sorry you should have been frightened. But there really wasn't the least occasion for alarm. Because Miss Smith was with _me_," said Mr. Jelnik calmly. Alicia looked at him, trying to read his face in the wan light. Her world, as it were, was rocking under her feet. She looked at me; and I said nothing. To save my life I couldn't speak of Jessamine Hynds then, nor talk coherently of that night's experience. I couldn't betray Nicholas Jelnik's secrets, nor mention the Watcher in the Dark, nor that dreadful red-walled room. So I merely patted Alicia's shoulder, while she held fast to me as if I might again disappear. "That is exactly what we should like you to explain, Mr. Jelnik, if you please," said The Author, with deadly politeness. "You must pardon us if we disagree with your assertion that Miss Gaines had no real occasion for alarm." "Miss Smith and I," said Mr. Jelnik, stiffening, at the tone, "found it absolute necessary to leave Hynds House for a short while to-night, to attend to--an affair of some importance to us both, but which concerns no one else on earth." Under the grave politeness his voice had an edge of irritation. "I repeat that I am sincerely sorry Miss Alicia was frightened. For my share in that, I crave her pardon. I ask all of you to accept this apology as an explanation which is final." "I for one shall do no such thing!" cried The Author, hotly. "Are we impertinent children to be thus lightly dismissed? Of course, if Miss Smith herself--" "You have neither right nor authority to cross-question Miss Smith," interposed Mr. Jelnik, sharply. But Doctor Geddes broke in, with mounting anger and astonishment: "Of course we've got the right and the reason to question both of you! You might just as well come off your high horse; you've behaved very badly, Jelnik! To induce Sophy to scuttle off in the middle of the night, without a word to anybody, and go wild-goose-chasing with you, was an unworthy action. I wouldn't have believed it of you, Jelnik; I thought you had more common sense--not to speak of Sophy herself. Gad, I'd like to shake the pair of you!" And he stamped his feet. "Doctor Richard Geddes," said Mr. Jelnik, in dangerously low and honeyed tones, "I find you insufferable. You have the instincts and the manners of a navvy." "Mr. Jelnik!" cried The Author. "Mr. Jelnik, honor me, please, by considering my instincts and manners infinitely worse than Doctor Geddes's. I, Mr. Jelnik, at this instant feel within me the instincts of a cave man and I hone for the thigh-bone of an aurochs to prove it to you. Do you know what I think of you, Mr. Jelnik? I consider you a man without conscience and without scruples, sir!" "My faith! The man even talks like a serial!" said Mr. Jelnik, weariedly. "My dear, good sir, while we're by way of indulging in personalities permit me to inform you that you annoy me by existing. As to your behavior to Miss Smith--" "_My_ behavior to Miss Smith?" shrieked The Author, stamping with fury, "_my_ behavior to Miss Smith? You had better set about explaining _your_ behavior to Miss Smith! You're a rascal, Mr. Jelnik!" "You, my dear sir, are worse: you're an ass," said Mr. Jelnik, and fetched a sigh of tiredness. "Would to heaven somebody would fetch you a halter!" "Jelnik," choked Doctor Geddes, "a man who behaves as you're behaving to-night runs the risk of getting himself shot. You're my own cousin, but--" Mr. Jelnik turned at bay. "Doctor Geddes," said he, in a razor-edged voice, "it is no light affliction to be kin to the Hyndses!--What do you want me to explain? I have already told you it was necessary for Miss Smith and me to attend to a matter that is none of your business. In return, you hold us up like brigands. Would it make a dent in your armor of righteous meddling, if I were to remind you that you are seriously annoying Miss Smith?" "Not a dent!" roared the doctor. "And if it annoys Sophy to be asked a straight question by those who have her interest at heart, let her be annoyed and take shame to herself!" Alicia began to cry. "Oh, Sophy!" wailed Alicia, "whatever is the matter with us, anyhow? What is wrong, Sophy? Why are we quarreling? What are we quarreling about, Sophy?" I put my hands to my head. "I don't know. That is. I can't tell. I mean. I can't think, at all! "Doctor Geddes has spoken like an honest man," said The Author, standing flat-footed in his pointed red shoes. "Mr. Jelnik, I ask you plainly: Why do I find Miss Smith here at this hour? Why and wherefore the mystery? Let me remind you that I have asked Miss Smith to marry me, and that she hasn't as yet given me her answer," he finished, significantly. "Why, Sophy!" gasped Alicia. "Why, Sophy Smith!" "Holy Moses!" gasped Doctor Geddes. "What, man, you too? Well, then, if it comes to that, I can call you to account, Jelnik, because _I_ asked Sophy to marry me, too. In my case she had sense enough to say 'No' at once." "You know he did, Sophy!" Alicia corroborated him tearfully. "You told me so yourself, though you never so much as opened your mouth about The Author; and I don't think that was a bit like you, Sophy. And why you refused the doctor, I can't for the life of me imagine!" "Can't you? Well, _I_ can," snorted the doctor, and drew Alicia closer to him. She put both her hands around his arm. "What!" gulped The Author, rocking on his red toes, and wrinkling his nose until his waxed mustache stood out with infernal effect, and his corked eyebrows climbed into his hair. "What! You, Geddes? My sainted aunt! Why, man alive, I thought that you--that is I'd have sworn that you--" Here The Author's breath mercifully failed him. I was dumb as a sheep in the hands of the slayers. I could only blink at these dear people who were tormenting me. I thought of Jessamine Hynds in her brown silk frock, with the crucifix in her skeleton fingers and the earth fresh over her. And I couldn't say a word. And while I stood thus silent, Mr. Nicholas Jelnik walked up and took my hand in his warm and comforting clasp, and looked at me with kindling, starry eyes, and laughed a deep-chested laugh. "Gentlemen and Miss Gaines," said Mr. Jelnik, in a ringing and vibrant voice, "permit me to inform you that I also have asked Miss Smith to marry me. And she has done me the honor to accept me." CHAPTER XVIII THE GREATEST GIFT The Author threw his short cape backward, laid one hand upon the hilt of his sword, doffed his cap, and made a sweeping courtesy. "Prettily played, Mr. Jelnik!" said he, admiringly. "May one be permitted to congratulate you, upon your indubitably dramatic instinct?" "All things are permitted; but not all things are expedient," Mr. Jelnik replied evenly. "Oh, we know who can quote scripture!" cried The Author; and looked longingly at the other's naked throat. At which point Doctor Geddes, coming as it were out of a trance, took the situation in hand. "Have done with this nonsense!" he ordered sharply. "Alicia, get Sophy home; she looks more dead than alive. Jelnik, your declaration puts a new complexion on this affair; but let me tell you flatly I don't like your method of announcing engagements." "Suppose you waive criticism and look after Sophy," suggested Mr. Jelnik. He walked up to his cousin and looked straight in his eyes: "Richard, you're not such a fool as to dare doubt _us_?" "Eh?" blinked the doctor, "what? Doubt _Sophy_? I should say not! And you--oh, well, you're a bit of a fool yourself at times, Jelnik, and this seems to be one of the times; but I don't doubt you. However," said the doctor, grimly, "I should like to whale some sense into you with a club!" "An ax would be more to the point," murmured The Author, regretfully. "In the meantime, Richard," said Mr. Jelnik, with a faint smile, "take Sophy home, please." I have a vague recollection of swallowing something that the doctor told me to swallow. Then came blessed oblivion, a sleep so profound that I didn't even dream, and didn't awake until that afternoon; to find the tender face of Alicia again bent over me. I waited for her to ask at least one of the many questions she must have been longing to ask. But Alicia shook her head. "Sophy," said she, loyally, "you haven't got to tell me one single, solitary thing unless you really want to. But--isn't this just a bit sudden? I was--surprised." "So was I." "You see, Sophy, I never once dreamed--" "That he cared for me? Neither did I." "No. That you cared for him," Alicia puckered her brows. "My dear girl," I was trying to feel my way toward letting her have the truth, "listen: whether or not he is engaged to me, Mr. Nicholas Jelnik really loves some lady that neither you nor I know. He told me so himself." It took Alicia some moments to recover from that! "And yet you're going to marry him, Sophy?" "You heard him announce our engagement." "I can't understand!" sighed Alicia. "Oh, Sophy, sometimes I could wish we had never come to Hynds House!" "It had to be," I said dully. "And--The Author?" ventured Alicia, after a pause. "He thinks you belong to him by right of discovery. He doesn't accept Mr. Jelnik's announcement as final. He told me this morning that his offer stood until you actually married somebody else. The Author isn't used to being crossed, and he doesn't quite know how to take it." "It is on the knees of the gods," I repeated, weariedly. Came a gentle tap at the door, and following it the fresh, kind face of Miss Emmeline. "Are you trying to rival the Seven Sleepers?" she asked, gaily, and laid a bunch of carnations on my knees by way of offering. "Judge Gatchell sent them to me this morning," she explained, with an October blush. For the sallow old jurist had taken so great a liking to the Boston reincarnation of a Theban vestal, and was in consequence so rejuvenated, himself, that all Hyndsville was holding up the hands of astonishment and biting the finger of conjecture. "My dears," said Miss Emmeline, presently, "I want to tell you the singular dream I had last night, or rather this morning. I was quite tired, for I do not often dance," admitted Miss Emmeline, who had nevertheless danced with a zest that rivaled that of the youngest, "so I must have fallen asleep immediately upon retiring. Well, then, I dreamed that all those old Hyndses whose portraits are down-stairs were gathered together in the library, to bid farewell to a member of the family who was going away--that beautiful creature who disappeared and was never afterward found. Now, aren't dreams absurd? She was setting out upon a long journey dressed in a low-necked, short-sleeved brown silk dress trimmed with quantities of fine lace. And for goodness' sake what do you think that woman wore over it for a traveling-cloak? Nothing more or less than a gray army blanket, a corner of which was thrown over her head like a hood and quite concealed her face. "She moved away slowly, holding her blanket as an Indian does. And as she passed me by--for I was standing in the door--a fold slipped, and what do you think she was holding to her breast? A pearl-and-silver crucifix. You can't imagine how I felt when I saw it!" I knew how I felt when I had seen it, but that I couldn't tell Miss Emmeline. Instead, I held the carnations to my face, to hide my whitening lips. For once the Boston lady had come into actual contact with the occult and the unknown. "She went out by the back door," continued Miss Emmeline, "and I ran to the window and saw her gray-blanketed figure disappear down the lane, behind the hedge that separates Mr. Jelnik's grounds from yours. And all the Hyndses called: '_Jessamine, good-by!_' But she never turned her head once, nor spoke, nor gave a sign that she heard. She just _went_, leaving me staring after her. I stared so hard that I woke myself up. Now, my dears, wasn't that an odd sort of dream? And so vivid, too! Why, I can hear those voices yet!" "Well, I'm glad she went," said Alicia. "Ladies that do up their heads in blankets and won't answer when they're spoken to, ought to go." Mrs. Scarboro, Judge Gatchell, and one of my old ladies were dining with us that night, for which I thanked Heaven. Judge Gatchell discovered in himself a fund of sly humor that astonished everybody, and Miss Emmeline was like a November rose, sweet with a shy and belated girlishness, rarer for a touch of frost. And The Author was in a fairly good humor because they let him alone. Mr. Nicholas Jelnik dutifully put in his appearance after dinner. The Author was balefully polite to him, Alicia shyly friendly. I had on a new frock, and the knowledge that it was becoming gave me a courage I should otherwise have lacked. A new frock, pink powder, and a smile, have saved many a fainting feminine soul where prayer and fasting had failed. The gentleman who had blandly announced my engagement to himself only last night assumed no airs of proprietorship, but was placidly content to let me sit and talk to Mr. Johnson, who was holding forth on the merits of our Rhode Island Reds as against either barred Plymouth Rocks or White Leghorns, and the variety of vegetables and small fruits in our kitchen-garden, so admirably planned by Schmetz, so carefully and neighborly looked after both by him and Riedriech. From gardens, Mr. Johnson went to cattle; he had a delight in cows, and our cow was a Jersey with a cream-colored complexion, large black eyes, and the sentimental temperament. We called her the Kissing Cow, because she couldn't see the secretary without trying to bestow upon him slobbering salutes. He paused in his homely talk to smile at something The Author had just said. Then his eyes strayed to Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, being talked to by Mrs. Scarboro and an apple-faced Confederate with pellucid blue eyes and a renowned trigger-finger. "That is the most gifted--and detached--human being I have ever known," said the secretary. "But it is his misfortune to have no saving responsibilities. What he needs is to fall in love with the right woman and marry her." "You mean he should marry some great lady, some dazzling beauty? Naturally." "Heaven forbid!" said the secretary, with unexpected vigor. "No, no, Miss Smith, that is not what such a man as Nicholas Jelnik needs!" "But it may be what he wants," said I. "I should never think so, myself," Mr. Johnson replied thoughtfully; "and I have seen a good deal of him. No, Jelnik doesn't want great beauty; he has enough of it himself. For the same reason, he doesn't want brilliant qualities. He needs quiet, dependable goodness, the changeless and unswerving affection of a steadfast heart." But I could not agree with this simple-minded young man, who had in himself the qualities he named. Why, if Nicholas Jelnik asked only for a changeless love, _I_ could have given him full measure, even to the running over thereof! "What was Johnson talking to you about, that you both looked so earnest?" Mr. Jelnik wanted to know presently. "Oh, just things; flowers and fruits and animals." "And people?" "People always end by talking about people." "Johnson's opinions are generally sound, because he himself is sound to the core," said Mr. Jelnik, quietly. "Miss Emmeline says he has got a limpid soul. The Author says it's really a sound liver. However that may be, one couldn't live in the same house with him without conceiving a real affection for him. He is a very easy person to love." Mr. Jelnik's eyebrows went up. "Don't love him too much, please, Sophy. If you feel that you really ought to love somebody, love _me_." The golden lights were in his eyes. At that moment I both loved and hated him. "Mr. Jelnik," said I, in as low a tone as his own, "it isn't fair to talk to me like this. You did what you did to save me from annoyance--and--and--misunderstanding. But you are perfectly free: I have no idea of holding you to such an engagement, no, nor of feeling myself bound by it, either." "I understand, perfectly, Sophy," he said, after a pause. "And now, may I ask you one or two plain questions, please?" "I think you may." "You never cared for Geddes?" "Good heavens, no! Besides, he--" "Wants Alicia? That's obvious. But what about The Author? I'm not enamored of him, myself, but he's an immensely able and clever man. How many brilliant social lights would be willing to shine at the head of his table! What are you going to do about The Author, Sophy?" "What are _you_ going to do about the lady you are really in love with?" I countered. "I'm waiting to find out," said he, coolly. "Answer my question, please: Do you imagine you love him, Sophy?" "It is not unpleasant to me that he should wish me to do so," I admitted. "I see. You are trying to persuade yourself that you should accept him." "I am not growing younger," I said, with an effort. "Remember, too, that Alicia will be leaving me presently, and I shall then be utterly alone. That is not a pleasing prospect--not to a woman." "Nor to a man, either, but better that than a loveless marriage." He reflected for a moment. "If you are sure you care for the man, tell him truthfully every incident of last night. Otherwise, I do not feel like sharing my affairs with him; I do not want to drag Jessamine Hynds out of her grave to gratify his curiosity. For he has the curiosity of a cat, along with the obstinacy of a mule." I smiled, wanly. "I gather that I'm not to tell him anything. What further?" I wanted to know, not without irony. "This, then: that you keep on being engaged to me." I looked at him incredulously. "For the time being, Sophy, submit to my tentative claim. If you decide to let your--ah--common sense induce you to make what must be called a brilliant marriage, tell me, and I will go at once. In the meantime, Sophy, I am your friend, to whom your happiness is as dear as his own. Will you believe that?" It was not in me to doubt him. "Yes," I said. "And if--the lady you told me about--you understand--you will tell me, too, will you not? I should like to know, for your happiness is as much to me as mine could possibly be to you." "That's the most promising thing you've said yet," he said. "All right, Sophy: the minute I find out she cares more for me than she does for anybody else, I shall certainly let you know. In the meanwhile, don't let being engaged bear too heavily on your spirits. _I_ find it very pleasant and exhilarating!" "I don't think you ought to talk like that," I demurred. "I can't help it: I never was engaged before, and it goes to my tongue." "I never was, either. But it doesn't go to _mine_," I reminded him, with dignity. "Sophy, you are the only woman in the world who can reproach a man with her nose and get away with it," he said irrelevantly. "You have the most eloquent little nose, Sophy!" I looked at him reprovingly. "I adore being engaged to you, Sophy," said he, unabashed. "Being engaged to you has a naïve freshness that enchants me. It's romantic, it has the sharp tang of uncertainty, the zest of high adventure. Think how exciting it's going to be to wake o' mornings thinking: 'Here is a whole magic day to be engaged to Sophy in!' By the way, would you mind addressing me as 'Nicholas'? It is customary under the circumstances, I believe." "I do not like the name of Nicholas." "I feared so, seeing the extreme care with which you avoid it. That is why I suggest that you should immediately begin to use it. Practice makes perfect. Observe with what ease I manage to say 'Sophy' already," he said airily. "I'm glad your hair's just that blonde, and soft, Sophy. I couldn't possibly be engaged to a woman who didn't have hair like yours." I looked at his, and said with conviction: "How absurd! Black hair is incomparably more beautiful!" His eyes danced. "Sophy!" said he, in a thrilling whisper, "Sophy, _The Author's hair is brindle_!" I got up and incontinently left him. And I saw with stern joy how Mrs. Scarboro again seized upon and made him listen to tales of his grandfather, until in desperation he fled to the piano, and played Hungarian music with such effect that even The Author was moved to rapture. "Jelnik!" said The Author, enthusiastically, "I shall put you in my next book. Gad, man, what a magnificent scoundrel I shall make of you!" A remark which scandalized Mrs. Scarboro and startled my dear old lady, but didn't phase Mr. Jelnik. I found myself growing more and more confounded and confused. Was I, or wasn't I, engaged to a man who had never asked me to marry him? In the vernacular, I didn't know where I was at any more. Alicia added to this confusion. "Sophy," said she, some time later, "isn't it just possible you misunderstood Mr. Jelnik? About his being in love with somebody else, I mean." "I don't know what makes you think so." "Don't you? I'll show you," she said, and swung me around to face a mirror. "_That's_ what makes me think so. Sophy Smith, unless he's a liar--and Peacocks and Ivory couldn't be a liar to save his life--the woman Nicholas Jelnik loves looks back at you every time you look in the glass." I shook my head. I have never been able to tell pleasant lies to myself. "Well, we'll see what we'll see! I told you once before that you hadn't caught up with the change in yourself." And she kissed me and laughed. It came to me that she couldn't have cared much for him, herself, to be able to laugh that light-heartedly. * * * * * When Miss Emmeline and the English folk were leaving Hynds House, everybody in Hyndsville turned out to say "Good-by." Even our lanky old Judge was on hand, with a great bunch of carnations and a huge box of bonbons for Miss Emmeline. "Sophy," Miss Emmeline said, smiling, "I don't see anything left for me to do but come back to Hyndsville, do you?" "No, I don't. And come soon. Hynds House won't feel the same without you. I thought of all she had taught me by just being her fine, frank self, and looked at her gratefully. She looked back at me quizzically, and of a sudden she slipped her arm around my shoulders. "Sophy Smith," said she, softly, "I have met many women in my time, many far more brilliant and beautiful, and what the world calls gifted, than you. But I have met none with a greater capacity for unselfish loving. It's easy enough to win love, a harder thing to keep it, but divinest of all to give it and keep on giving it. And there's where your great gift lies, Sophy." And she kissed me, with misty eyes, and such a tender face! That put such a friendly, warm glow in my heart that I was sorry to part even with the Englishman's daughter, Athena though she was, and I mortally afraid of her. As for her father, he was bewailing the parting with Alicia, whose Irishness was a manna in the wilderness to him. "It's like saying good-by to the Fountain of Youth," he lamented. "You're more than a pretty girl: you're the eternal feminine in Irish!" "She's the Eternal Irish in proper English, that's what she is!" said The Author darkly, and looked so wise that everybody looked respectful, though nobody knew what he meant. Perhaps he didn't know, himself. After the train had gone, Doctor Geddes hustled us into his waiting car. "I'm going to take you for a quiet spin in the country, to make the better acquaintance of Madame Spring-in-Carolina," he said. A few minutes later he swung the car into a lonesome and lovely road edged with pines, and sassafras, and sumach, and cassena bushes, and festooned with vines. Madame Spring-in-Carolina had coaxed the green things to come out and grow, and the people of the sky to try their jeweled wings in her fine new sunlight. The Judas-tree was red, the dogwood white, the honey-locust a breath from Eden. A blossomy wind came out of the heart of the world, and there were birds everywhere, impudently eloquent. We didn't want to talk, or even to think; we just wanted to be alive and glad with everything else. The very car seemed to feel something of this intoxication, for as it went flying down the road it hummed and purred and sang snatches of the Song of Speed to itself. We turned a corner, I remember. And then there was a frightful lurch and jar, and the big car bounded into the air, and turned over in the ditch. I remember the rear wheels turning with a grinding, spitting noise. When I woke up, Alicia was sitting by the side of the road, with the doctor's head in her lap, and I was lying on the grass near by. Her eyes were big and blank in a bloodless face, and the curling ends of her long bright hair hung in the dust. There was a cruel red mark on her forehead. Otherwise she was quite uninjured. I wasn't conscious of any pain myself--not then, at least. "Sophy," Alicia said, impersonally, "Doctor Geddes is dead." And she fell to stroking his cheek lightly, with one finger; "quite dead. Without one word to me, Sophy!" The figure on the ground looked dreadfully still and helpless. There was something ghastly wrong in seeing so strong a man lie so still and helpless. And the road, an unfrequented one, was unutterably lonesome. There was nothing, nobody in sight--nothing but the buzzard, black against the blue sky, tipping his wings to the wind. "You must go for help," I mumbled. "I dare not leave him. I know he's dead, Sophy. But--he might open his eyes, just once more. You see, he didn't know, before he--died, that I was very much in love with him--oh, terribly in love with him, Sophy!--from the first time I saw him standing in our door. I thought you cared for him, too, Sophy dear--and I sent him away from me-- And now he has gotten himself killed." With a gentle touch she pushed back the thick reddish hair from his forehead. She looked at me imploringly: "Don't let him be dead, Sophy! For God's sake, Sophy, don't let him be dead! Make him open his eyes, Sophy!" A negro teamster came upon us, recognized the doctor, shrieked, and set off for help, lashing his mules into a mad run. But Alicia never moved, and I huddled beside her, numb and silent, looking at the white face upon her knees. With all the impatience wiped out, it was a fine face, at once strong and sweet. "Richard," said Alicia, "Richard, if I had been killed, and you begged and prayed me from your breaking heart to listen to you, to understand that you'd cared for me, only me, all along, _somehow_ I'd manage to let you know I understood. Richard, listen to me! Open your eyes, Richard. Please, please, Richard, open your eyes!" Her voice was so piteous that I fell to weeping. And, by the mercy of God, Richard opened his eyes and stared with blue blankness straight into Alicia's quivering, anguished face. "Richard," said she, bending down to him, "my dear, dear love, keep your eyes open just a little longer, until I can make you understand. Oh, Richard, I cared! Indeed, indeed, I cared!" The blue stare never wavered. It gathered intensity. "Don't, don't look at me like that, Richard!" cried Alicia, beginning to sob wildly. "Don't--don't look so--so _angelic_, dear. Look like your own self at me, Richard! Oh, darling, for our dear God's mercy's sake, please, please try to look bad-tempered just once more!" His pale lips twitched curiously. He sighed. Then he murmured something that sounded like "not sure." "Not sure?" wept Alicia. "Oh, my heart, my heart!" "I think--could die in peace--say 'I love you, Richard,'" murmured the doctor. "Oh, I do, I do love you, Richard--_frightfully_!" sobbed Alicia. "I love you with all my heart!" The corpse sat up, and for a dead man he showed considerable life. Painfully he rose, and stood staggering on his feet, big, pale, shaken, with a bump the size of an egg on the side of his head, but with such shining blue eyes! He put out a big hand and lifted Alicia from the ground. "Leetchy," said Doctor Geddes, "if you ever take back what you've said I shall be sorry I wasn't killed. But I don't mind staying alive if you'll keep on loving me. If I stay alive, will you marry me, Leetchy?" "If you don't, I can't m-m-marry any-anybody at all!" wailed Alicia. "Amen!" said the doctor. "Now stop crying, and put your hand into my pocket, and you'll find something that's been owing you this long time, Leetchy." Alicia blinked, and rubbed her eyes, then slipped her hand into his breast pocket and drew forth a small, square, satin-lined box; an inviting box. "Richard!" she exclaimed, "why, Richard!" Then: "Of all the impudence!" cried Alicia, scandalized. "Why, you haven't even _asked_ me! Whoever in this world heard of buying a girl's ring before she's said 'Yes'?" "Alicia," said Doctor Richard Geddes, "I'm your Man, and you know it. And you're my Girl, and I know it. Here, let's see if this thing fits." Meekly Alicia, the impudent, the flirt, held out her slim hand. "That's settled, thank God!" said the doctor. And he swept her clear off her feet, and kissed her with thoroughness and enthusiasm. "Richard! People are coming! They'll see you!" "Let 'em!" I sat there quietly, and stared at the two of them with a sort of vacant watchfulness. My hat was gone, my hairpins had taken unto themselves wings, and my hair, covered with dust, hung about me like a veil. I was just beginning to be conscious of pain. It was a shuddering pain, new and cruel, and I winced. The next minute Alicia was kneeling beside me, and her face had again become quite colorless. "Sophy!" her voice sounded shrill and far off. "Sophy, you said you were all right!--Richard, look at Sophy!" I felt the doctor's swift, deft hands upon me. And more pain. People were arriving now. Cars stopped, and excited men and women surrounded us. One tall figure leaped from the first car and reached us ahead of all others. "Geddes!" cried a voice. "Thank God, Geddes! We were told you'd been killed outright! Alicia all right, too?" Then: "Sophy!" This time it was a cry of terror. "Never tell me it's Sophy!" I saw his face bent over me. Then a red mist came, and then everything went dark. CHAPTER XIX DEEP WATERS Somewhere, far, far off, a faint and feeble little light glimmered, one small point of light in vast blackness. In the whole universe there wasn't anything or anybody but just that tiny light, and swift black water, and drowning me. Something deep within me--I think occultists call it the body-spirit--was clamoring frantically to hold fast to the light, because if that went under I should go under, too. I tried to keep my eyes upon the trembling spark. Whereupon the light changed to a sound, the monotonous insistence of which forced me to be worriedly aware of it. It was--why, it was a voice, calling, over and over and over again, "_Sophy! Sophy!_" Somebody was calling _me_. With an immense effort I managed to raise my eyelids. I was lying in a bed, and caught a drowsy, fleeting glimpse of four posts. Four posts upon my bed, Four angels for my head, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John Bless the bed that I lie on! Granny used to say that for me at night; only she had said "four hangels for my 'ead," at which I used to giggle into my pillows. I hadn't felt so close to Granny since I was little Sophy, in the rooms over our shop in Boston. She was somewhere around me; if I went to sleep now, she'd be there when I woke up in the morning. But the sound that was a calling voice wouldn't let me go to sleep. Slowly, heavily, I managed to get my eyes open again. "Look at me!" said the voice imperiously. Two large dark eyes caught my wavering glance and held it, as in a vise. "Sophy! Sophy! _I need you._" Said another voice, then, brokenly: "For mercy's sake, Jelnik, let her go in peace!" "No, she sha'n't die. I won't have it!--Sophy, come back! It is I who call you, Sophy. Come back!" My stiff lips moved. "Must go--sleep," I tried to say. "No, I forbid you to go to sleep, Sophy!" His dark eyes, full of life and compelling power, held my tired and dimmed ones, his firm, warm hands held my cold and inert fingers. "My love, my dear love, stay. You have got to stay, Sophy. Don't you understand? You can't go, Sophy!" My dulled brain stumblingly laid hold upon a thought: _Nicholas Jelnik was calling me. He was calling me because he loved me._ One simply can't go down into sleep and darkness, when a miracle like that is climbing like the morning-star into one's skies. "Stay!" he said, his lips against my ear. "Sophy! My love, my dear love, stay!" But although he held me close, I could feel myself being drawn away. There must have been that in my straining glance that made him aware, for of a sudden he cried out, lifted me bodily in his arms, and kissed me on the mouth. My heart quite stopped beating, as a spent runner pauses, that he may gather new strength to go on. With a sigh I fell back; but not into the water and the dark. "By God, you've pulled her through, Jelnik!" cried the voice of Richard Geddes. Came vague sounds, stirs, movements, hands upon me. Then oblivion again. I woke up one pleasant forenoon to find a brisk and capable young woman in white sitting in my room, her head bent over the piece of linen she was hemming. She was a healthy, handsome young woman, with hard, firm cheeks, hard, firm lips, and professional eyes and glasses. She glanced up and met my wan stare. "What are you doing here, if you please?" I asked politely. "I have been nursing you, Miss Smith. You have been quite ill, you know." I lay there looking at that self-contained, trained young woman, with feelings of almost ludicrous astonishment. I remembered the skidding car; and Richard Geddes lying with his head on Alicia's knees, and how we had both thought him dead; and myself sitting in the dust; and then the pain. But it was astounding news that I had been very badly hurt full three weeks ago! Alicia stole in and, seeing me awake, tried to smile, but cried instead, with a wet cheek against my hand. A few minutes later Doctor Geddes himself appeared. It was enough to scandalize any self-contained nurse to see a six-foot-three doctor behave in the most abandoned and unbedside manner! "Sophy!" gulped the doctor, "oh, deuce take you, Sophronisba Two, what do you mean by scaring honest folks half out of their wits?" The nurse was destined to receive another shock. Richard of the Lion Heart dropped down on his knees beside Alicia, and laid his bearded cheek against my wan one, and for a while couldn't speak. Alicia tried to get her slender arms around him, and couldn't. "I think," ventured the nurse, in level tones, "that the patient had better not be excited. Shall I give her a stimulant, doctor?" "The patient's on the highroad to getting well," said the doctor. "And we're the best of all stimulants, aren't we, Sophy?" When I began to get stronger, the dream which had haunted my illness came back with astonishing vividness and haunted my waking hours. I knew it was a dream, for of course I hadn't been in black water, I hadn't strained toward a light upon the flood, and of course, I hadn't really heard Nicholas Jelnik calling my name; and the kiss was part of the fantasy. I watched him stealthily, this cool, collected, impersonal young man, to whom even the efficient nurse was astonishingly respectful, and pure laughter seized me at the idea of _his_ crying aloud, being as agitated, as passionate, as fiercely insistent, as he had been in the vision. I ventured to put a part of the vagary to the acid test: "Alicia, I wasn't thrown out again, into water, was I?" "No. That was delirium, dear. You were frightfully ill for a while, Sophy." Her face paled. "So ill that The Author fled, because he wouldn't stay in the house and see--what we expected to see. He said it would permanently shatter his nerves. But he has wired every day since." "It was sensible of him to go. And it's kind of him to wire." I said no more about the water. "Everybody has been kind. And it wasn't duty kindness, either. It was kind kindness!" said Alicia, lucidly. "Do you know what they're saying in Hyndsville now? They're saying old Sophronisba played a joke on herself." She left me to digest that as best I might. It isn't pleasant to be ill anywhere. But it isn't altogether unpleasant to be on the sick list in South Carolina. Everybody is anxious about you. Old ladies with palm-leaf fans in their tireless hands come and sit with you. They aren't brilliant old ladies, you understand. I know some whose secular library consists of the Complete Works of John Esten Cooke, Gilmore Simms's War Poems of the South, and a thumbed copy of Father Ryan. But add to these the Bible, the Book of Common Prayer, and the Imitation of Christ, and it doesn't make such a bad showing. It's astonishing how soothing the companionship of women fed upon this pabulum can be, when the things of the world are of necessity set aside for a space, and the simpler things of the spirit draw near. Old gentlemen in well-brushed clothes and immaculate, exquisitely darned linen, call daily with small gifts of fruit and flowers, and send you messages from which you infer that the sun won't be able to shine properly until you come outside again. And there isn't a housekeeper of your acquaintance who hasn't got you on her mind: there are sent to you steaming bowls of perfect soup, flaky rolls and golden cake, jeweled jellies, and cool, enticing, trembly things in glass dishes. And when you can sit up for more than an hour or two at a time, why, then you know what it really means to have South Carolina neighbors. Doctor Geddes made me spend my days in the garden that Schmetz had labored upon with such loving-kindness, and that in consequence was become a marvel of bloom and scent. Every butterfly in South Carolina must have visited that garden. I hadn't known there were that many butterflies in the world. All the florist-shop windows in New York, that I had once paused before with envy and longing, were stinted and poor and pale before the living, out-o'-doors wonder of it. Florist shops haven't any bees, nor birds, nor butterflies, nor trees that wave their green branches at you like friendly hands. A flowering vine festooned the marble Love, and one great scarlet spray of bloom flamed upon his marble torch, "so lyrically," Miss Martha Hopkins said, that she was moved to write a poem about it. I thought it a very nice poem, and I said so, when she read it to us. But Doctor Geddes, who doesn't care for poetry, except Robert Burns's, rubbed his nose. "Oh, well, your grandmother and your aunts used to make antimacassars and wall-pockets and paper flowers," he ruminated. "Why shouldn't you make poetry if you feel like it?" "You are to be pitied, Richard," said Miss Martha, with crushing charity. "Such a disposition! And the older you grow the worse it gets." "Confound it, Martha!--" "I do," said she. Alicia looked at Richard with impersonal eyes. She looked at the ruffled center of culture. "Don't pay any attention to him, Miss Martha," she said, with a charming smile. "Your poem is very pretty, and he knows it." "He means well," said Miss Martha, resignedly. "Now, you look here, Martha!" the doctor said angrily, "I won't have anybody telling me to my face I mean well. You might as well call me a fool outright." "You are far from being a fool, Richard. And you do mean well. Everybody knows that." He turned appealingly to his dear Leetchy, and received his first lesson in Domestic Science. "Miss Martha is right, Richard," she decided. "Leetchy," the doctor asked, when the mollified Miss Hopkins had departed, "why did Martha go off grinning?" "How should I know?" wondered Alicia, innocently. Then she looked at him with Irish eyes: "Have you had your lunch, dear?" she asked. "Lunch?" He looked bewildered. "Because I'm going to fix Sophy's lunch now, and you may have yours with her, if you like. I love to wait on you, Richard," she added, and a beautiful color flooded her face. He caught his breath. When she went back to the house, his eyes followed her adoringly. "Sophy," he said, huskily, "what does she see in me? Do you think I'm good enough for _her_, Sophy?" "I think you are quite good enough even for Alicia." When he had gone, Alicia sat with her head against my knees. Of late a touching gravity, a sweet seriousness, had settled upon her. Her love for the big doctor was singularly clear-eyed and far-seeing. There were going to be times when every ounce of skill, tact, patience, love itself, would be called upon, for the reins must be gossamer-light, invisible, but always firm and sure, that should guide and tone down so impatient and fiery a nature as his. It was very easy to love him; it wasn't always going to be easy to live with him, and Alicia knew it. But she also knew, with a faith beyond all failing, that this was her high, destined, heaven-ordained job. "Sophy darlin', I'm deplorably young, am I not?" she sighed. "You'll get over it." "Do you think I'll make him a good wife, Sophy?" "I am absolutely certain," I said, "that you'll make him a good husband. Which is far more important." Alicia hugged my knees, and laughed. Then, seeing Mr. Nicholas Jelnik approaching, she scrambled to her feet, picked up the tray of empty dishes, and went back to the house. Neither she nor the doctor had asked me so much as one question about Mr. Jelnik. As if by tacit understanding that subject was avoided. And because I hadn't anything to tell them, I, too, held my peace. He raised my hand to his lips, dropped into a chair, and bared his forehead to the soft wind. "How good that feels!" he sighed. "Fräulein, may one smoke?" And receiving permission he smoked for a while, comfortably, leaning back with half-closed eyes. "Achmet salaams to you, _hanoum_," he said presently. "You have won his heart of a true believer. Even Daoud demands daily news of you." "I particularly like The Jinnee. I should like to have him around me. And Daoud is highly ornamental." "When is The Author coming back? Or is he coming back?" he asked abruptly. "Oh, yes. He will be here for the wedding. So will Miss Emmeline." After a long pause, and with an evident effort: "I have been thinking," he said, "that perhaps it was unfortunate I came between you and The Author. Perhaps," he added deliberately, "it would have been better had you let your common sense gain the day." I don't know why, but just at that moment the dear and haunting dream of having been lifted out of deep waters and kissed back to life, cradled in this man's arms, came to me with peculiar poignancy. Of a sudden I laughed aloud. "Oh, I'm just remembering a dream I had, when I was ill," I told him, in answer to his look of surprise. "It must have been a very amusing dream," said he, staring at me thoughtfully. "Oh, very! Quite absurd. But go on. You were by way of advising me to marry The Author, were you not?" His hands on the arms of the wicker chair clenched. He half rose, thought better of it, and sank back. "I was saying that it might have been better for you," he said, breathing quickly. "In all probability you would have accepted him, had I not been here to--blunder into the affair." "He mightn't have asked me, if you hadn't been here to blunder into the affair," said I, composedly. "Let us drop the subject, please. I shall never marry The Author." It gave me a sense of relief and freedom to hear myself say that. "I can't marry The Author." He went pale. "Sophy--you can't marry me, either," he said. "Of course not." I wondered at myself for being so calm and collected. "I knew that all along. You care for another woman. You told me so, you know." "I told you no such thing," he said. "I told you I cared for a woman, but that there was another man. Now I've just been told she has no idea of accepting the other man. In spite of all he has to offer, she isn't going to marry him." His face was at once ecstatic and tortured. "_Why_ won't you marry the other man, Sophy?" "Because of a dream I dreamed, when I was sick," I said noncommittally. "Ah! And did you dream that somebody called you--and held you--and wouldn't let you go?" "I never told you!" I cried. "No need, Sophy. It was to me you came back." Of a sudden his head drooped. "And now I can't marry you!" "Why can't you?" "Because I'm a beggar." Nicholas Jelnik a beggar couldn't find lodgment in my brain. I could only stare at him incredulously. "I learned some time ago that things were not altogether right over yonder, but I hadn't the ghost of an idea that my entire estate was involved; that while I'd been 'tramping'--I'll use Judge Gatchell's word--the men in whose hands I placed too much power had taken advantage of it. A very common, every-day story, you see. "Remains the fact that I'm stripped to the bone. The estate's wiped out. And," he added, with a grave smile, "I haven't even discovered the mythical Hynds jewels. Now you see, Sophy, why I can't marry you." "I see why you think you can't." He flushed to the roots of his black hair. Hynds-Jelnik pride rose in arms. "I should cut rather a sorry figure marrying the owner of Hynds House, in the present circumstances," he said curtly. "You will remember that The Author called me an adventurer! I have told you I have nothing." "Aren't you forgetting your profession?" "No. But I neglected that, too, Sophy. The _Wanderlust_ had me in its grip." "What do you propose to do?" "I shall leave here, put in some months of hard study, and then fight my way upward. My father was the greatest alienist of his generation, and I was trained under his eye. But in the meantime--" "Yes. In the meantime, what of _me_?" I asked. He winced as if he had been struck. "You are free," he said, in a whisper. "I am free to be free, and you're free to set me free. You never asked me to marry you, in the first place," I agreed quietly. Stupefaction seized him. He put his hands to his head. "Why, Sophy! Why, Sophy!" he stammered. Of a sudden he straightened his shoulders, and stood erect: "Miss Smith," he said, with grave politeness, "will you do me the honor to marry me?" and he waited. "It is rather a belated request, Mr. Jelnik. Besides, you haven't told me why you want to marry me," said I, sedately. "You are well aware that I love you, Sophy. And I think you care for me in return. Why did you turn that coin when it meant 'Go,' and bid me, instead, 'Stay'? Was it because you cared, Sophy?" "Yes, Mr. Jelnik: it was because I cared. I cared enough to tell a--a lie. And--I shall say yes to your other question, Mr. Jelnik." But he shook his head. "Ah, no, my dear! You'd be called upon to make too many sacrifices. I couldn't bear that!" "A man needn't be worried about the sacrifices a woman makes for him when she knows he loves her." "Not in normal circumstances; not when he can give as much as he takes." "Hynds House," I said, "is costing me a steep and bitter price, Mr. Jelnik!" "Do I not also pay?" he asked fiercely. "Oh, you have your pride!" said I, wearily; "Hynds pride!" "A poor enough possession, Sophy, but all that remains to me," he said gently. "Is it a light thing for Nicholas Jelnik to say to the woman he loves, 'I cannot marry you: I am a beggar'? Is it such a small sacrifice to give you up, Sophy?" "It would appear so." "You crucify me!" he said, in a choking voice. "Good God, don't you understand that I love you?" "I don't understand anything, except that you are going away from me. And I have waited for you all my life," I said. "And I for you! and I for you!" he said passionately. "Don't make it too hard for me, Sophy!" "If you go away from me," I gasped, "I think I shall die. Nicholas--I can't bear it! It was easier for me when I thought you loved somebody else. But now that I know you love _me_" and I paused. He took a step forward, but stopped. His arms fell to his sides. "Not as a beggar!" he said. "Not as a beggar! Never that, for Nicholas Jelnik! I love you too much for that, Sophy. I love you not only for yourself, but for my own best self, too, my dearest." For a moment he stood there, regarding me fixedly. It was a long look, of suffering, of love, of pride, of unyielding resolve. Then he lifted my hand to his lips, bowed, and left me. I sat staring over the garden. I wondered if, somewhere on the other side of things, Great-Aunt Sophronisba wasn't snickering. CHAPTER XX HARBOR "My faith, but I'm glad you're entirely well again, Sophy!" wrote The Author, in his small, fine, hypercritical script. "You make the world a pleasanter place by being alive in it. People like you should inculcate in themselves the fixed and unalterable habit of being alive. They should firmly refuse to be anything else. I call this to your attention, in the hope that you will see your bounden duty and do it. "When I thought you were going to quit, I ran away. That was a calamity I could not stand by and witness, without disaster. However, Jelnik stayed! "Your nurse (I do not like Miss Ransome, though I respect, admire, and fear her. Her emotions are carbolized, her heart is sterilized, her personality has the mathematical perfection of something turned out by a super-machine: like, say, the last word in machine-guns. None of the divine imperfection of your hand-wrought, artist-stuff there! I forgive her for existing, because she is intelligent and useful, two things that, without lying like a Christian and a gentleman, one may not say of many women, and seldom of one woman at the same time), your nurse gave me a highly interesting, impersonal, scientific account of what happened after my flight. Her testimony was all the more valuable in that she was, as she said, only 'psychologically interested.' She reminded me that Empedocles is said to have recalled a young woman from death by the same means, i.e., the insistent repetition of her name; which proved to Miss Ransome that the poor old ancients had 'anticipated, though of course unscientifically, some of the principles of modern psychology.' _Eheu!_ "It proved something else to me, Sophy--that I had too willingly underestimated Mr. Nicholas Jelnik. There is very much more to that young man than I like to admit. "He would have made such a perfect villain: I could have made a work of art of him, as a villain! And now I can't, because he isn't. This chagrins me. It upsets my notions of the fitness of things. More yet: he loves you, Sophy, more than I do, or ever could. "Does this astound you? Come and let us reason together: the spirit moves me to speak out in meeting. "You are the only woman I have ever been willing to marry. That I should wish to marry you astonished me far, far more than it did you. At the same time it delighted me by its very unexpectedness. It gave me a brand-new emotion, and brand-new emotions aren't every-day affairs, let me tell you! You brought something naïve, unusual, fresh, perplexing, into a bored existence. And then you refused to spoil it! That added to the quality of the unusualness. The ninety and nine would have subjected me to the acid test of matrimony, with the later and inevitable alimony. The saving hundredth sees to it that I shall keep my illusions! O rare dear wise Sophy! How shall I repay you? "For I shall be able to indulge in day-dreams now. I shall not grow old cynically. There _are_ unselfish, true-hearted, valiant women. There _are_ women who will not marry men for position, name, fame, power, money; no, nor for anything but love. How do I know? Because you don't love me, my dear. But you do love Nicholas Jelnik. You had not come back from the gates of death else, Sophy. "Marry him. You will bring him the quiet strength and sureness he needs. A temperamental man, a finely organized, highly gifted, sensitive, and intellectual man needs just such affection as yours, as unshakable as the sun, as faithful as the fixed stars. That you should love him almost makes me believe in the direct intervention of divine Providence in his behalf. My own innate and troublesome decency forces me to add that he is worth it. He has altogether _too_ much, confound him! "Do you know that while you lay ill, he came and told me about the finding of Jessamine Hynds, showed me her statement, told me, in short, the whole story? I was consumed with envy, malice, and all uncharitableness; to think that such a thing should or could happen right under my nose, and I all unwitting! And you, too, Sophy, went through such an experience! I'd give a year of my life to have been with you. "When Jelnik had finished, and I'd caught my breath, I apologized for having been a dam' nuisance. He explained, delicately, soothingly, with exquisite politeness, that literary folks of consequence _have_ to be dam' nuisances at times. It's the price they pay. "And now let me speak to you, my little Sophy, as your loving and loyal friend: _Hold fast to Jelnik._ I knew his father. The position he occupied wasn't exactly royal, but the elect addressed him as 'thou.' And you have learned somewhat of the Hyndses. In consequence, your Jelnik is a mixture of South-Carolina-Viennese-Hynds-Jelnik pride, beside which Satan's is as mild, meek, and innocuous as a properly raised Anglican curate. Don't meet his pride with pride. Meet it with _you_, Sophy. Most of us have been loved in our time, but how few of us have been permitted really to love! That you have in full measure this heavenliest of all powers, is your hope and his. "There are times I'm almost sorry you didn't love _me_, Sophy. I should then have passed my days in a state of pleasant bewilderment, trying to figure out how the deuce it happened. Or should I, though? H'm! I might have gotten used to being married to you, and that would have spelled boredom. The thought makes me shudder. "Johnson and I are coming down for Leetchy's wedding, of course. That pink-and-white piece of Irishry will rule Geddes to perfection. There's the steel under the velvet, the cat's claws under that satin paw of hers--more power to it! I have two prints and a piece of Cloisonné for her that I am sorely tempted to keep for myself. I have more than once bought things to give to friends, and then found myself unable to do so. I shouldn't be able to give these to anybody but one of the ladies of Hynds House. "Johnson mopes. The youngest Meade girl, she with the dimples, the pink cheeks, the fluffy hair, and the fluffier brains, is the cause. He sighs for everything and everybody. For Mary Magdalen's batter cakes. For the Black family. For the Kissing Cow, and for Beautiful Dog. Hynds House is a fatal place! "So we are coming back to it, as soon as we may. I kiss your hand, Madame, and beg you to understand that so long as we two live you are never going to be able, for any considerable length of time, to get rid of, Your affectionate friend, THE AUTHOR." I was able to read between the lines, and my heart warmed to The Author. At the same time the letter saddened me, in so far as it referred to Mr. Jelnik. Refuse to let him go? But I couldn't keep him. I knew now that he had to go, that it was the best thing, the only thing. Doctor Geddes helped me to see that. The doctor tried, at first, to keep his cousin in Hyndsville. Why shouldn't Nicholas go into partnership with him? Why shouldn't Nicholas share everything the open-hearted, open-handed doctor had? Mr. Jelnik smiled, thanked him, and put the offer by. And I knew he was right. * * * * * It had been a rainy day and was now one of those afternoons that have the rawness of autumn, though summer is still present. It was so chilly that a fire burned in the library fireplace, before which I was sitting. The wind was from the northeast, and the trees and bushes slanted before it. Potty Black and I had the library all to our alone-selves, for Alicia was spending the day with Mary Meade, one of her bridesmaids. The wedding was less than six weeks off, and preparations were under way. It was to be a home wedding, the first to take place in Hynds House since Richard's day, and somehow that lent the occasion the rose color of romance. It was thus a part of Hynds House history, something Hyndsville couldn't take lightly. Alicia's wedding was a town affair, in which everybody was delightfully interested. Besides, the bridegroom himself was a Hynds on his mother's side, as Hyndsville ladies remembered, when they sat on our front porch working on wonderful bits of embroidered things for the bride. It was then I learned in fullest detail the whole history of Hyndsville, of the Hyndses, and of Great-Aunt Sophronisba in particular. I fancy that the Witch of Endor's neighbors must have had just such an opinion of her as these Hyndsville folk had of Great-Aunt Sophronisba. South Carolina people always talk in terms of three generations. When they say something about you, they remember something about your mother or your grandfather at the same time, and they tell that, too. There is a fearsome frankness about the conversation of the born South Carolinian that The Author says is only to be matched in an English country house when the county families are gathered together. Like this, for instance: "No, my dear, I can't say I'm surprised at Sally's running away and getting married. Let's see: her grandfather was a Dampier, wasn't he? Didn't one of the Dampiers murder somebody, or something like that? It seems to me I have heard dear Mama relate some such circumstance." "Oh, _no_, Mary! It wasn't _murder_! He shot one of the Abercrombies in a duel, that's all. He was really a very fine man! They had a dispute about a horse, and Mr. Abercrombie struck Mr. Dampier's little negro groom over the head with his crop. After that, of course, there was nothing to do but challenge him. You must be thinking of Barton Bailey, Eliza DuFour's grandfather on her mother's side. _He_ was a complete scoundrel. His poor wife (she was a Garrett; very dull, poor thing, like all the Garretts, but at least the Garretts were honest, which is more than even charity can say for the Baileys) his wife led a martyr's life with him. Or maybe you're thinking of Tiger Bill Pendarvis. A most _awful_ person!--almost an out-law!" Mrs. Scarboro looked up, bit off a thread, and said placidly: "Oh, awful! He was a cousin of mine on dear Papa's side of the family. Papa and Mama used to say that they never could understand why Cousin Sophronisba Hynds didn't pick out Tiger Bill instead of pouncing upon a perfectly innocent little Englishman." I sat and listened. One thing was joyously clear and plain to me. They liked and trusted me enough now to talk about their own people before me, which is the high sign of fellowship in South Carolina. But learn, O outsider, that silence is golden, so far as _you_ are concerned. Wisely did I hold my peace, and devoutly thank the Lord that times had changed for the better. For a great deal of that change I had to thank my dear girl, so much more clever and tactful than I. And so I would not cloud her last days with me by letting her see that I was unhappy. Only, I was glad this afternoon to be by myself for a breathing-space. It rests one's face occasionally to take off one's smile. I took off mine, then, and let down the corners of my mouth. The door leading to the hall was half open. The house was full of blue-gray shadows, and had a drowsy hush upon it, a pleasanter hush than it used to know. One heard the rushing wind outside, and above it Mary Magdalen singing one of her interminable "speretuals." A slinking shadow stole through the hall, a wary yellow head appeared in the door, and Beautiful Dog sneaked into the room. Beautiful Dog had not known a happy day since the departure of Mr. Johnson. Not all the coddlings of the cook, nor the blandishments of sympathetic housemaids consoled him for the absence of his god. He grew thinner, if that could be possible. His tail hung at half-mast, his ears were a signal of mourning. Queenasheeba said he looked like "sumpin' 'at happened to a dawg." One hope sustained Beautiful Dog's drooping spirit--the hope that he might suddenly turn a corner, or enter a room, and find the adored Johnson smiling kindly at him. Wherefore he dared the to-be-shunned presence of other white people. He nerved himself to enter tabooed domains. Love sustained him. He knew he had no business there, just as our cats knew it and, whenever they caught him at it, visited swift and dire punishment upon him. Beautiful Dog dared even the cats, those black nightmares of his existence. He met my glance, paused, and cringed. But as I made no hostile movement, and seemed disposed to be friendly, Beautiful Dog grinned half-heartedly, wagged his rope of a tail dejectedly, and advanced farther. Then he paused again, head on one side, ears forlornly flopping, and made an awkward motion with his fore paws, expressive of doubtful trust and painful inquiry. His god had been wont to choose this particular room by preference. Did I know where he was? When he was coming back? Beautiful Dog glanced wistfully at the empty chair over by the window. Once or twice his god had allowed him to lie beside that chair while he read, and if Beautiful Dog happened to raise his head, a kind hand happened to fall upon it. He hadn't forgotten. His desire now was to sneak over to the chair and sniff at it. Perhaps by some exquisite miracle his man might suddenly appear in his old place. Can't miracles happen for Beautiful Dogs as well as for other folks, when times and seasons are propitious? Beautiful Dog took another step toward the chair. And then there paced into the library, and caught him in the rear, his arch enemy--Sir Thomas More Black. The great cat took one look at the nigger dog trespassing upon forbidden ground. You could see Sir Thomas More swell with rage and astonishment, and then lengthen out like an accordion. Without a sound he launched himself upon the intruder. And at the same instant and actuated by the same motive, Potty Black, who had been sweetly and peacefully dozing on my lap, rose up with slitted eyes, bottle-brushed her tail, and hurled herself into the fray. Attacked front and rear, Beautiful Dog was at hideous disadvantage. He launched himself sidewise; he didn't even have time to howl. He fell over his own splay feet as he ran, butted into chairs and tables, twisted, turned, whirled, dodged, but always presented just the right spot to be clawed. He couldn't dash to the door and escape: the cats were too swift for him. They kept their bewildered victim circling around the middle of the room. I was sorry for Beautiful Dog, for my sleek, petted, purring pussies had turned into raging black tornadoes edged with a lightning of claws. If the aristocratic Black Family had been raised in Hooligan's Alley itself, on the soft side of the ash-bins, they couldn't have behaved more villainously. Alas! they were _cats_, just as people are people. I snatched up the brass-headed poker, the readiest thing to my hand. I merely wished to shoo off the Blacks with it. But as I rose from my chair with a _scat_! upon my lips, Beautiful Dog, seeing out of the tail of his eye a chance to escape, dashed headlong into me. He came with such force that I fell backward, and the poker flew out of my hand and came _crack_! upon the sacred tiles of Hynds House library. There was an ominous clatter, for no less than the Father of his Country himself had fallen out of his place. At the same instant Beautiful Dog gained the door, with both cats upon his hind quarters; with one prolonged yell of terror he made for safety and Mary Magdalen. I picked myself and the tile up. Thank Heaven, it wasn't broken. The blow had loosened the cement that held it in place, and where it had been was a small square hole. I looked at that hole doubtfully. There oughtn't to be any hole there at all. That was a curious way to fix tiles, such precious tiles as ours. I slipped my hand in and tentatively tested the black wall, and discovered that the other tiles, as might be expected, had been properly put in; that is, against a solid background. I put my hand farther into the aperture. It was larger than might be expected, and most cunningly contrived--a hollow space some ten inches in width, and possibly a foot deep. There was something in it. Now I am mortally afraid of rats and mice, and what I had touched had the sleazy feel of frayed silk. It might be a rat's nest! I took a sliver of lightwood from the fire, and with this examined the black interior, before I ventured my fingers again. It wasn't a rat's nest in the corner. It was a package. A package, or rather a sizable buckskin bag carefully tied together with thongs of the same material, and this wrapped in a piece of silk that tore and went to pieces even as I fingered it. Even then I didn't guess! I thought it was, perhaps, a Revolutionary hoard, maybe such another collection of old coins as we had found in the room without windows. The silk dropped away like rotting leaves, but the buckskin bag was stout and in perfect condition. So many and so hard were the knots in the thongs that I had to use my penknife to cut them. And having done so, I poured the contents of the bag on the library table. It was, as I have said, a gray day. But the fires of a century's sunsets flamed and flashed in that library! Ruby, sapphire, diamond, emerald, pearl--how they glowed and glimmered! How they shone and sparkled! For the moment there fell upon me that madness that jewels bring upon women, a sort of wild delight in their hard, bright beauty, an ecstasy, an intoxication. I poured them from one hand to the other, I held the greatest to my cheek. The loveliness of them went to my head. "I did chap them atween my hands, as children chap chaff. They did glow like the Devill his rainbow," Jessamine had said. And remembering her, the delight vanished. With stunning force the meaning of this discovery came home to me. I had found the unfindable! This, this was where Shooba had hidden them between a night and a morning, Shooba the "skilfullest workman on Hynds place." One fancied him here, in the dead of night, while all Hynds House slept a drugged sleep. It would suit his sardonic humor, his impish malice, to hide them where the Hyndses must pass them daily; and, himself a slave, to hide them behind the pictured semblance of Washington. The grim irony of the thing! And not the cunning of man, but the antics of a cur, a yellow nigger dog, had outwitted the cunning of the old witch doctor! Beautiful Dog had brought to light that which Jessamine had died alone in the dark rather than reveal. There was one thing more in the buckskin bag, wrapped separately. When I got this separate package open, I found three frayed, black feathers bound together with a strand of black hair, a piece of yellow wax with two slivers of what I think was bone thrust through it crosswise, and a small semblance of a snake, rudely carved out of wood. There was, too, some dust, or powder, that must once have been leaves, or perhaps roots. These unchancy things and the bag that held them I dropped into the fire, breathing a sigh of relief to see its red tooth seize upon them. The wax made a hissing noise, and the dust of leaves, or whatever it was, burned with a bright, fierce flame. Then with feverish haste I got the Hynds jewels back into the buckskin bag. I hadn't the faintest notion as to their actual value, though I knew it must be considerable--enough to make up to Nicholas Jelnik the losses he had sustained; enough to decide his fate--and mine. Even now he was packing to go; even now there were "For Sale" signs on the gray cottage. I ran into our living-room, snatched my sewing-bag from the sewing-stand, and dropped the heavy bag into it. That looked more commonplace. The clamor from the kitchen, incident upon Beautiful Dog's having taken refuge under Mary Magdalen's skirts, had died down. I knew that Beautiful Dog was licking his wounds after defeat, and the Black cats, sedate and mild-mannered, were licking their paws after victory. I determined that from that afternoon Beautiful Dog should become an honored and important institution in Hynds House. If I had to choose a new family escutcheon, I think I should insist upon having Beautiful Dog rampant upon it! When I went outside, the garden was a gray-green gloom of flying leaves and twisting tree-branches bending before the stiff northeast gale. It was wild weather--weather that sent the blood tingling through the veins and whipped red into one's cheeks. I got into Mr. Jelnik's grounds through the hedge behind the spring-house, and ran like a hare through his garden. I had to hammer upon his door before I could make Achmet hear me, so loud and surf-like was the noise of the wind in the trees. The Jinnee stepped back and salaamed, his hands upon his breast. Then he laid a finger upon his lips, for from up-stairs came the wailing outcry of a violin. The Jinnee looked thin and old. His garments hung loose upon his shrunken frame. There was trouble in that house, he told me. The master had wished to send Daoud away. Daoud had refused to go. To leave one's lord when calamity came upon him was to shame one's beard. It was the act of the infidel, not the behavior of the faithful, and Daoud had threatened to shave his beard, put on the dress of a pilgrim, and beg his way from Hyndsville to Mecca. He was even now kneeling upon a prayer-mat reciting a four-bow prayer. As for the master, for two days he had not eaten; he merely swallowed a cup of coffee in the morning because Achmet wept. This afternoon he had fled to his violin for relief. Verily, God was afflicting them! "The bad fortune of the good turns his face to heaven, even as the good fortune of the bad bends his head to the earth. It is the will of God: _Islam_!" said The Jinnee, simply. "I must see Mr. Jelnik, now, this minute! I have news for him," I said hastily. The Jinnee looked doubtful. Plainly, he didn't want his master disturbed, even by me. "I have never seen him like this before," he told me. "Listen!" Came the cries of the violin, heart-rending cries of regret and despair, followed by furious protests; then a nobler grief, and love, and longing. "After a while it will pray for him. Then Satan the stoned, whom may God confound, will depart from him," said Achmet. "But in the meantime I must see him, immediately." "He goes to-morrow. That is why he is afflicted to-day," said The Jinnee. "I think, _hanoum_, he would go without seeing you again. It is a grievous thing to say to one's beloved, 'I leave you.' I have said it. I was young then. I am old now, but I have not forgotten." I unfastened the chain from my neck. A half-coin swung from it as a pendant. "Place this in his hand. It is a sign. It has power to lay the evil spirit which troubles this house," I told him gravely. He seized upon it with an eager hand. "In the name of God!" said The Jinnee, and fairly flew out of the room. A minute later, his violin grasped in one hand, my chain in the other, Nicholas Jelnik appeared. His appearance shocked me. The mask was off; here was stark and naked misery. "Nicholas!" I said, "Nicholas!" "You should not have come!" he said roughly. "Why have you come? I did not want you to see me--thus. Is it not enough for me to suffer?" And he made an impatient, imploring gesture. His lips quivered. "Put aside the violin, Ariel," I said. "But keep the coin." He stiffened, as if he braced himself for further blows. But he laid aside the violin, and with a supreme effort of will got himself in hand. That early training in self-control worked a miracle now. Here was no longer the wild, white-lipped musician, but a pale, proud young man who faced me with stately politeness. "I have another gift for you, Nicholas Jelnik." To save my life I couldn't keep my voice from shaking, my eyes from glittering, my cheeks from flaming. "Do not go, old Jinnee. Stay and see what gift I bring the master." Then it occurred to me that it would be dangerous should strange or greedy eyes look upon what my sewing-bag hid. The thought frightened me." "You are sure there is none to see? Achmet, there is no stranger around?" "We are alone," said the black man, quietly. Both of them seemed astonished and concerned. Reassured, I drew forth the heavy buckskin bag and placed it in Nicholas Jelnik's hands. "From Hynds House--and me--and oh, Nicholas, from Beautiful Dog, too!" I said, and laughed and cried. For the moment he didn't understand. He thought it some loving woman-foolishness of Sophy's, some woman-gift she had made for him. I knew, for he gave me a glance of tenderness. And then he opened the bag, and staggered like a drunken man, and sank into the nearest chair, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The Hynds fortune had come back to the last of Richard's blood. When the mist cleared from my eyes, I saw old Achmet on the floor, with his hands upraised and tears running down his black cheeks like rain, unashamedly and unaffectedly pouring out praises and thanksgivings to his Creator. "Hold out your skirts, Sophy!" cried Nicholas Jelnik, and poured the glittering things into my lap, boyishly. He was beautiful again, radiant and young-eyed as the choiring cherubim. There were two exquisite, pear-shaped ear-ring drops among the Hynds jewels, and these he took, threaded upon my chain on either side the broken coin, and hung around my neck. He held a ruby against my lip and turquoises near my eyes, and laughed. "These for Hynds House, Sophy!" he cried, and laughed again to see my lips tremble. "What? It is not these you want? Choose for yourself, then. I promised you the best of them, you know." "I want none of them," I said. "No? Take them, then, Achmet, and put them away," said Mr. Jelnik, in a matter-of-fact voice. "You will guard them for me, for the time being. And tell Daoud I have changed my mind about sending him away. He can change his about shaving his beard, and save himself the trouble of begging his way to Mecca." I stood up in silence, and held out my skirt apron-wise, while The Jinnee as silently removed the Hynds jewels. Then he tied the buckskin bag, concealed it in a fold of his robe, and left the room. "Now, Sophy," said Mr. Jelnik, facing me, "you offered Hynds House to me once, and I refused it because I didn't have the price. I told you at the time that if ever I had the Hynds jewels in my possession, I might be tempted to make you an offer of exchange. I am going to make you an offer now. I should like to live in Hynds House, Sophy. I don't think I could be happy anywhere else. You see, Sophy, I'm going to spend the rest of my life here in America, become an American citizen. Now, what about Hynds House?" "You may have it," I said. "At my own price?" he demanded. "At your own price. Did you think I would haggle with you?" "No. It's I who intend to haggle with you. I'm going to make a tremendous bargain. There's something that must go with the house. Something that's worth more than all the Hyndses ever had in all their lives. _You_, Sophy. My sweetheart, come!" And he stood there shining-eyed, and held out his arms. "Once I sent for you. Once I called you. And both times you came to me, Sophy. You came because you are mine. _Come!_" said Nicholas Jelnik. And the golden lights danced in and out of his eyes that were like brown mountain water when the sun is upon it, and his hair was like Absalom's. _In all Israel there was none to be so much praised as Absalom for his beauty; from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him._ And caught by the surge and power, as it were of the very wave of life itself, I was swept into those outstretched arms. 
15096	----	MY LIFE IN THE SOUTH. [Illustration: JACOB STROYER.] MY LIFE IN THE SOUTH. BY JACOB STROYER. NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION. SALEM, MASS.: Newcomb & Gauss, Printers. 1898. * * * * * Salem, Mass., September 19, 1898. Mr. Stroyer's account of his experience in slavery and during the war is of great interest and value as a trustworthy description of the condition and life of slaves _by one of themselves_. His memory is remarkably keen and his narrative vivid and at times both touching and thrilling. The book is a great credit to its author and deserves a generous reception and a wide circulation. John Wright Buckham. * * * * * August 13, 1879. In this book Mr. Stroyer has given us, with a most simple and effective realism, the inside view of the institution of slavery. It is worth reading, to know how men, intelligent enough to report their experience, felt under the yoke. The time has come when American slavery can be studied historically, without passion, save such as mixes itself with the wonder that so great an evil could exist so long as a social form or a political idol. The time has not come when such study is unnecessary; for to deal justly by white or black in the United States, their previous relations must be understood, and nothing which casts light on the most universal and practical of those relations is without value today. I take pleasure, therefore, in saying that I consider Mr. Stroyer a competent and trustworthy witness to these details of plantation life. E.C. Bolles. * * * * * City of Salem, Mayor's Office, Nov. 5, 1884. This is to certify that since the year 1876 I have known Rev. Jacob Stroyer as a preacher and minister to the colored people of this city. He is earnest, devoted and faithful. He is endeavoring by the sale of this book to realize the means to enable him, by a course of study, to better fit himself as a minister to preach in the South. I most cheerfully commend him in his praiseworthy efforts. Wm. M. Hill, _Mayor_. * * * * * Mr. Stroyer's book is a setting forth in a fresh and unique manner of the old and bitter wrongs of American slavery. It is an inside view of a phase of our national life which has happily passed away forever. Although it concerns itself largely with incidents and details, it is not without the historical value which attaches to reliable personal reminiscences. The author has made commendable progress in intellectual culture, and is worthy of generous assistance in his effort to fit himself still more perfectly for labor among his needy brethren in the South. E.S. Atwood. * * * * * PREFACE. Fourth Edition. When the author first presented his book to the public he did not anticipate the very great favor with which it would be received. The first edition was soon disposed of, a second and a third were called for, and those were as generously received as had been their predecessors. The present edition, the fourth, besides all that was in those former publications, contains some new material relating to the author's personal experiences in the Civil War. Thanking the people for the support given, and hoping that this latest effort will meet approval, the author presents the story of himself and his once oppressed brethren. CHAPTER I. My father was born in Sierra Leone, Africa. Of his parents and his brothers and sisters I know nothing. I only remember that it was said that his father's name was Moncoso, and his mother's Mongomo, which names are known only among the native Africans. He was brought from Africa when but a boy, and sold to old Colonel Dick Singleton, who owned a great many plantations in South Carolina, and when the old colonel divided his property among his children, father fell to the second son, Col. M.R. Singleton. Mother never was sold, but her parents were; they were owned by one Mr. Crough, who sold them and the rest of the slaves, with the plantation, to Col. Dick Singleton, upon whose place mother was born. I was born on this extensive plantation, twenty-eight miles southeast of Columbia, South Carolina, in the year 1849. I belonged to Col. M.R. Singleton, and was held in slavery up to the time of the emancipation proclamation issued by President Lincoln. THE CHILDREN. My father had fifteen children: four boys and three girls by his first wife and eight by his second. Their names were as follows: of the boys--Toney, Aszerine, Duke and Dezine; of the girls--Violet, Priscilla, and Lydia. Those of his second wife were as follows: Footy, Embrus, Caleb, Mitchell, Cuffey and Jacob, and of the girls, Catherine and Retta. SAND HILL DAYS. Col. M.R. Singleton was like many other rich slave owners in the South, who had summer seats four, six or eight miles from the plantation, where they carried the little negro boys and girls too small to work. Our summer seat, or the sand hill, as the slaves used to call it, was four miles from the plantation. Among the four hundred and sixty-five slaves owned by the colonel there were a great many children. If my readers had visited Col. Singleton's plantation the last of May or the first of June in the days of slavery, they would have seen three or four large plantation wagons loaded with little negroes of both sexes, of various complexions and conditions, who were being carried to this summer residence, and among them they would have found the author of this little work in his sand-hill days. My readers would naturally ask how many seasons these children were taken to the summer seats? I answer, until, in the judgment of the overseer, they were large enough to work; then they were kept at the plantation. How were they fed? There were three or four women who were too old to work on the plantation who were sent as nurses to the summer seats with the children; they did the cooking. The way in which these old women cooked for 80, and sometimes 150 children, in my sand-hill days, was this:--they had two or three large pots, which held about a bushel each, in which they used to cook corn flour, stirred with large wooden paddles. The food was dealt out with the paddles into each child's little wooden tray or tin pail, which was furnished by the parents according to their ability. With this corn flour, which the slaves called mush, each child used to get a gill of sour milk brought daily from the plantation in a large wooden pail on the head of a boy or man. We children used to like the sour milk, or hard clabber as it was called by the slaves; but that seldom changed diet, namely the mush, was hated worse than medicine. Our hatred was increased against the mush from the fact that they used to give us molasses to eat with it, instead of clabber. The hateful mixture made us anxious for Sundays to come, when our mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers would bring something from the plantation, which, however poor, we considered very nice, compared with what we had during the week days. Among the many desirable things our parents brought us the most delightful was cow pease, rice, and a piece of bacon, cooked together; the mixture was called by the slaves "hopping John." THE STORY OF GILBERT. A few large boys were sent yearly to the sand-hill among the smaller ones, as guides. At the time to which I am referring there was one by the name of Gilbert, who used to go around with the smaller boys in the woods to gather bushes and sticks for the old women to cook our food with. Gilbert was a cruel boy. He used to strip his little fellow negroes while in the woods, and whip them two or three times a week, so that their backs were all scarred, and threatened them with severer punishment if they told; this state of things had been going on for quite a while. As I was a favorite with Gilbert, I always had managed to escape a whipping, with the promise of keeping the secret of the punishment of the rest, which I did, not so much that I was afraid of Gilbert, as because I always was inclined to mind my own business. But finally, one day, Gilbert said to me, "Jake," as he used to call me, "you am a good boy, but I'm gwine to wip you some to-day, as I wip dem toder boys." Of course I was required to strip off my only garment, which was an Osnaburg linen shirt, worn by both sexes of the negro children in the summer. As I stood trembling before my merciless superior, who had a switch in his hand, thousands of thoughts went through my little mind as to how to get rid of the whipping. I finally fell upon a plan which I hoped would save me from a punishment that was near at hand. There were some carpenters in the woods, some distance from us, hewing timber; they were far away, but it was a clear morning, so we could hear their voices and the sound of the axes. Having resolved in my mind what I would do. I commenced reluctantly to take off my shirt, at the same time pleading with Gilbert, who paid no attention to my prayer, but said, "Jake, I is gwine to wip you to-day as I did dem toder boys." Having satisfied myself that no mercy was to be found with Gilbert, I drew my shirt off and threw it over his head, and bounded forward on a run in the direction of the sound of the carpenters. By the time he got from the entanglement of my garment, I had quite a little start of him. Between my starting point and the place where the carpenters were at work I jumped over some bushes five or six feet high. Gilbert soon gained upon me, and sometimes touched me with his hands, but as I had on nothing for him to hold to, he could not take hold of me. As I began to come in sight of the carpenters, Gilbert begged me not to go to them, for he knew that it would be bad for him, but as that was not a time for me to listen to his entreaties, I moved on faster. As I got near to the carpenters, one of them ran and met me, into whose arms I jumped. The man into whose arms I ran was Uncle Benjamin, my mother's uncle. As he clasped me in his arms, he said, "Bres de Lo, my son, wat is de matter?" But I was so exhausted that it was quite a while before I could tell him my trouble; when recovered from my breathless condition, I told him that Gilbert had been in the habit of stripping the boys and whipping them two or three times a week, when we went into the woods, and threatened them with greater punishment if they told. I said he had never whipped me before, but I was cautioned to keep the secret, which I had done up to this time; but he said he was going to whip me this morning, so I threw my shirt over his head and ran here for protection. Gilbert did not follow me after I got in sight of the carpenters, but sneaked away. Of course my body was all bruised and scratched by the bushes. Acting as a guide for Uncle Benjamin, I took him to where I had left my garment. At this time the children were scattered around in the woods, waiting for what the trouble would bring; They all were gathered up and taken to the sand-hill house, examined, and it was found, as I have stated, that their backs were all scarred. Gilbert was brought to trial, severely whipped, and they made him beg all the children to pardon him for his treatment to them. But he never was allowed to go into the woods with the rest of the children during that season. My sand-hill associates always thanked me for the course I took, which saved them and myself from further punishment by him. MASTER AND MISTRESS VISITING. When master and mistress were to visit their little negroes at the sand-hill, the news was either brought by the overseer who resided at the above named place, and went back and forth to the plantation, or by one of master's house servants, a day ahead. The preparation required to receive our white guests was that each little negro was to be washed, and clad in the best dress he or she had. But before this was done, the unsuccessful attempt was made to straighten out our unruly wools with some small cards, or Jim-Crows as we called them. On one occasion an old lady, by the name of Janney Cuteron, attempted to straighten out my wool with one of those Jim-crows; as she hitched the teeth of the instrument in my unyielding wool with her great masculine hand, of course I was jerked flat on my back. This was the common fate of most of my associates, whose wools were of the same nature, but with a little water and the strong application of the Jim-crow, the old lady soon combed out my wool into some sort of shape. As our preparations were generally completed three-quarters of an hour before our guests came, we were placed in line, the boys together and the girls by themselves. We were then drilled in the art of addressing our expected visitors. The boys were required to bend the body forward with head down, and rest the body on the left foot, and scrape the right foot backward on the ground, while uttering the words, "how dy Massie and Missie." The girls were required to use the same words, accompanied with a courtesy. But when Master and Mistress had left, the little African wools were neglected until the news of their next visit. Our sand-hill days were very pleasant, outside of the seldom changed diet, namely the mush, which we had sometimes to eat with molasses, the treatment of Gilbert, and the attempt to straighten out our unruly wools. I said that my father was brought from Africa when but a boy, and was sold to old Col. Dick Singleton; and when the children were of age, the Colonel divided his plantations among them, and father fell to Col. M.K. Singleton, who was the second son. On this large plantation there were 465 slaves; there were not so many when it was given to Col. M.R., but increased to the above stated number, up to the time of emancipation. My father was not a field hand; my first recollection of him was that he used to take care of hogs and cows in the swamp, and when too old for that work he was sent to the plantation to take care of horses and mules, as master had a great many for the use of his farm. I have stated that father said that his father's name in Africa was Moncoso, and his mother's Mongomo, but I never learned what name he went by before he was brought to this country. I only know that he stated that Col. Dick Singleton gave him the name of William, by which he was known up to the day of his death. Father had a surname, Stroyer, which he could not use in public, as the surname Stroyer would be against the law; he was known only by the name of William Singleton, because that was his master's name. So the title Stroyer was forbidden him, and could be used only by his children after the emancipation of the slaves. There were two reasons given by the slave holders why they did not allow a slave to use his own name, but rather that of the master. The first was that, if he ran away, he would not be so easily detected by using his own name as by that of his master. The second was that to allow him to use his own name would be sharing an honor which was due only to his master, and that would be too much for a negro, said they, who was nothing more than a servant. So it was held as a crime for a slave to be caught using his own name, a crime which would expose him to severe punishment. But thanks be to God that those days have passed, and we now live under the sun of liberty. MOTHER. Mother's name was Chloe. She belonged to Col. M.R. Singleton too; she was a field hand, and never was sold, but her parents were once. Mr. Crough who, as I have said had owned this plantation on which mother lived, had sold the plantation to Col. Dick Singleton, with mother's parents on it, before she was born. Most of the family from which mother came, had trades of some kind; some were carpenters, some were blacksmiths, some house servants, and others were made drivers over the other negroes. Of course the negro drivers would be under a white man, who was called the overseer. Sometimes the negro drivers were a great deal worse to their fellow negroes than were the white men. Mother had an uncle by the name of Esau, whom master thought more of than he did of the overseer. Uncle Esau was more cruel than was any white man master ever had on his plantation. Many of the slaves used to run away from him into the woods. I have known some of the negroes to run away from the cruel treatment of Uncle Esau, and to stay off eight or ten months. They were so afraid of him that they used to say that they would rather see the devil than to see him; they were glad when he died. But while so much was said of Uncle Esau, which was also true of many other negro drivers, the overseers themselves were not guiltless of cruelty to the defenceless slaves. I have said that most of the family from which mother came had trades of some kind; but she had to take her chance in the field with those who had to weather the storm. But my readers are not to think that those whom I have spoken of as having trades were free from punishment, for they were not; some of them had more trouble than had the field hands. At times the overseer, who was a white man, would go to the shop of the blacksmith, or carpenter, and would pick a quarrel with him, so as to get an opportunity to punish him. He would say to the negro, "Oh, ye think yourself as good as ye master, ye--" Of course he knew what the overseer was after, so he was afraid to speak; the overseer, hearing no answer, would turn to him and cry out, "ye so big ye can't speak to me, ye--," and then the conflict would begin, and he would give that man such a punishment as would disable him for two or three months. The merciless overseer would say to him, "Ye think because ye have a trade ye are as good as ye master, ye--; but I will show ye that ye are nothing but a nigger." I said that my father had two wives and fifteen children: four boys and three girls by the first, and six boys and two girls by the second wife. Of course he did not marry his wives as they do now, as it was not allowed among the slaves, but he took them as his wives by mutual agreement. He had my mother after the death of his first wife. I am the third son of his second wife. My readers would very naturally like to know whether some of the slaves did not have more than one woman. I answer, they had; for as they had no law to bind them to one woman, they could have as many as they pleased by mutual agreement. But notwithstanding, they had a sense of the moral law, for many of them felt that it was right to have but one woman; they had different opinions about plurality of wives, as have the most educated and refined among the whites. I met one of my fellow negroes one day, who lived next neighbor to us, and I said to him, "Well, Uncle William, how are you, to-day?" His answer was "Thank God, my son, I have two wives now, and must try and make out with them until I get some more." But while you will find many like him, others would rebuke the idea of having more than one wife. But, thanks be to God, the day has come when no one need to plead ignorance, for master and servant are both bound by the same law. I did not go to the sand-hill, or summer seat, my alloted time, but stopped on the plantation with father, as I said that he used to take care of horses and mules. I was around with him in the barn yard when but a very small boy; of course that gave me an early relish for the occupation of hostler, and I soon made known my preference to Col. Singleton, who was a sportsman, and an owner of fine horses. And, although I was too small to work, the Colonel granted my request; hence I was allowed to be numbered among those who took care of the fine horses, and learned to ride. But I soon found that my new occupation demanded a little more than I cared for. It was not long after I had entered my new work before they put me upon the back of a horse which threw me to the ground almost as soon as I had reached his back. It hurt me a little, but that was not the worst of it, for when I got up there was a man standing near with a switch, in hand, and he immediately began to beat me. Although I was a very bad boy, this was the first time I had been whipped by any one except father and mother, so I cried out in a tone of voice as if I would say, this is the first and last whipping you will give me when father gets hold of you. When I had got away from him I ran to father with all my might, but soon found my expectation blasted, as father very coolly said to me, "Go back to your work and be a good boy, for I cannot do anything for you." But that did not satisfy me, so on I went to mother with my complaint and she came out to the man who had whipped me; he was a groom, a white man master had hired to train the horses. Mother and he began to talk, then he took a whip and started for her, and she ran from him, talking all the time. I ran back and forth between mother and him until he stopped beating her. After the fight between the groom and mother, he took me back to the stable yard and gave me a severe flogging. And, although mother failed to help me at first, still I had faith that when he had taken me back to the stable yard, and commenced whipping me, she would come and stop him, but I looked in vain, for she did not come. Then the idea first came to me that I, with my dear father and mother and the rest of my fellow negroes, was doomed to cruel treatment through life, and was defenceless. But when I found that father and mother could not save me from punishment, as they themselves had to submit to the same treatment, I concluded to appeal to the sympathy of the groom, who seemed to have full control over me; but my pitiful cries never touched his sympathy, for things seemed to grow worse rather than better; so I made up my mind to stem the storm the best I could. I have said that Col. Singleton had fine horses, which he kept for racing, and he owned two very noted ones, named Capt. Miner and Inspector. Perhaps some of my readers have already heard of Capt. Miner, for he was widely known, having won many races in Charlestown and Columbia, S.C., also in Augusta, Ga., and New York. He was a dark bay, with short tail. Inspector was a chestnut sorrel, and had the reputation of being a very great horse. These two horses have won many thousand dollars for the the colonel. I rode these two horses a great many times in their practice gallops, but never had the opportunity to ride them in a race before Col. Singleton died, for he did not live long after I had learned so that I could ride for money. The custom was, that when a boy had learned the trade of a rider, he would have to ride what was known as a trial, in the presence of a judge, who would approve or disapprove his qualifications to be admitted as a race rider, according to the jockey laws of South Carolina at that time. I have said that I loved the business and acquired the skill very early, and this enabled me to pass my examination creditably, and to be accepted as a capable rider, but I passed through some very severe treatment before reaching that point. This white man who trained horses for Col. Singleton was named Boney Young; he had a brother named Charles, who trained for the colonel's brother, John Singleton. Charles was a good man, but Boney our trainer, was as mean as Charles was good; he could smile in the face of one who was suffering the most painful death at his hands. One day, about two weeks after Boney Young and mother had the conflict, he called me to him, as though he were in the pleasantest mood; he was singing. I ran to him as if to say by action, I will do anything you bid me, willingly. When I got to him he said, "Go and bring me a switch, sir." I answered, "yes, sir," and off I went and brought him one; then he said, "come in here, sir;" I answered, "yes, sir;" and I went into a horse's stall, but while I was going in a thousand thoughts passed through my mind as to what he wanted me to go into the stall for, but when I had got in I soon learned, for he gave me a first-class flogging. A day or to after that he called me in the same way, and I went again, and he sent me for a switch. I brought him a short stubble that was worn out, which he took and beat me on the head with. Then he said to me, "Go and bring me a switch, sir;" I answered "Yes, sir;" and off I went the second time, and brought him one very little better than the first; he broke that over my head also, saying, "Go and bring me a switch, sir;" I answered, "Yes, sir," and off I went the third time, and brought one which I supposed would suit him. Then he said to me, "Come in here, sir." I answered, "Yes, sir." When I went into the stall, he told me to lie down, and I stooped down; he kicked me around for a while, then, making me lie on my face, he whipped me to his satisfaction. That evening when I went home to father and mother, I said to them, "Mr. Young is whipping me too much now, I shall not stand it, I shall fight him." Father said to me, "You must not do that, because if you do he will say that your mother and I advised you to do it, and it will make it hard for your mother and me, as well as for yourself. You must do as I told you, my son: do your work the best you can, and do not say anything." I said to father, "But I don't know what I have done that he should whip me; he does not tell me what wrong I have done, he simply calls me to him and whips me when he gets ready." Father said, "I can do nothing more than to pray to the Lord to hasten the time when these things shall be done away; that is all I can do." When mother had stripped me and looked at the wounds that were upon me she burst into tears, and said, "If he were not so small I would not mind it so much; this will break his constitution; I am going to master about it, because I know he will not allow Mr. Young to treat this child so." And I thought to myself that had mother gone to master about it, it would have helped me some, for he and she had grown up together and he thought a great deal of her. But father said to mother, "You better not go to master, for while he might stop the child from being treated badly, Mr. Young may revenge himself through the overseer, for you know that they are very friendly to each other." So said father to mother, "You would gain nothing in the end; the best thing for us to do is to pray much over it, for I believe that the time will come when this boy with the rest of the children will be free, though we may not live to see it." When father spoke of liberty his words were of great comfort to me, and my heart swelled with the hope of a future, which made every moment seem an hour to me. Father had a rule, which was strictly carried out as far as possible under the slave law, which was to put his children to bed early; but that night the whole family sat up late, while father and mother talked over the matter. It was a custom among the slaves not to allow their children under certain ages to enter into conversation with them; hence we could take no part with father and mother. As I was the object of their sympathy, I was allowed the privilege of answering the questions about the whipping the groom gave me. When the time came for us to go to bed we all knelt down in family prayer, as was our custom; father's prayer seemed more real to me that night than ever before, especially in the words, "Lord, hasten the time when these children shall be their own free men and women." My faith in father's prayer made me think that the Lord would answer him at the farthest in two or three weeks, but it was fully six years before it came, and father had been dead two years before the war. After prayer we all went to bed; next morning father went to his work in the barn-yard, mother to hers in the field, and I to mine among the horses; before I started, however, father charged me carefully to keep his advice, as he said that would be the easiest way for me to get along. But in spite of father's advice, I had made up my mind not to submit to the treatment of Mr. Young as before, seeing that it did not help me any. Things went smoothly for a while, until he called me to him, and ordered me to bring him a switch. I told him that I would bring him no more switches for him to whip me with, but that he must get them himself. After repeating the command very impatiently, and I refusing, he called to another boy named Hardy, who brought the switch, and then taking me into the stall he whipped me unmercifully. After that he made me run back and forth every morning from a half to three quarters of an hour about two hundred and fifty yards, and every now and then he would run after me, and whip me to make me run faster. Besides that, when I was put upon a horse, if it threw me he would whip me, if it were five times a day. So I did not gain anything by refusing to bring switches for him to whip me with. One very cold morning in the month of March, I came from home without washing my face, and Mr. Young made two of the slave boys take me down to a pond where the horses and mules used to drink; they threw me into the water and rubbed my face with sand until it bled, then I was made to run all the way to the stable, which was about a quarter of a mile. This cruel treatment soon hardened me so that I did not care for him at all. A short time afterwards I was sent with the other boys about four or five miles from home, up the public road, to practice the horse, and they gave me a very wild animal to ride, which threw me very often. Mr. Young did not go with us, but sent a colored groom every morning, who was very faithful to every task alloted him; he was instructed to whip me every time the horse threw me while away from home. I got many little floggings by the colored groom, as the horse threw me, a great many times, but the floggings I got from him were very feeble compared with those of the white man; hence I was better content to go away with the colored groom than to be at home where I should have worse punishment. But the time was coming when they ceased to whip me for being thrown by horses. One day, as I was riding along the road, the horse that I was upon darted at the sight of a bird, which flew across the way, throwing me upon a pile of brush. The horse stepped on my cheek, and the head of a nail in his shoe went through my left cheek and broke a tooth, but it was done so quickly that I hardly felt it. It happened that he did not step on me with his whole weight, if he had my jaw would have been broken. When I got up the colored groom was standing by me, but he could not whip me when he saw the blood flowing from my mouth, so he took me down to the creek, which was but a short distance from the place, and washed me, and then taking me home, sent for a doctor, who dressed the wound. When Mr. Young saw my condition, he asked how it was done, and upon being told he said it ought to have killed me. After the doctor had dressed my face, of course I went home, thinking they would allow me to stay until I got well, but I had no sooner arrived than the groom sent for me; I did not answer, as my jaw pained me very much. When he found that I did not come, he came after me himself, and said if I did not come to the stable right away, he would whip me, so I went with him. He did not whip me while I was in that condition, but he would not let me lie down, so I suffered very much from exposure. When mother came that night from the farm and saw my condition, she was overcome with grief; she said to father, "this wound is enough to kill the child, and that merciless man will not let him lie down until he gets well: this is too hard." Father said to her, "I know it is very hard, but what can we do? for if we try to keep this boy in the house it will cause us trouble." Mother said, "I wish they would take him out of the world, then he would be out of pain, and we should not have to fret about him, for he would be in heaven." Then she took hold of me and said, "Does it hurt you, son?" meaning my face, and I said, "Yes, mamma," and she shed tears; but she had no little toys to give me to comfort me; she could only promise me such as she had, which were eggs and chickens. Father did not show his grief for me as mother did, but he tried to comfort mother all he could, and at times would say to me, "Never mind, my son, you will be a man bye and bye," but he did not know what was passing through my mind at that time. Though I was very small I thought that if, while a boy, my treatment was so severe, it would be much worse when I became a man, and having had a chance to see how men were being punished, it was a very poor consolation to me. Finally the time came for us to go to bed, and we all knelt in family prayer. Father thanked God for having saved me from a worse injury, and then he prayed for mother's comfort, and also for the time which he predicted would come, that is, the time of freedom, when I and the rest of the children would be our own masters and mistresses; then he commended us to God, and we all went to bed. The next morning I went to my work with a great deal of pain. They did not send me up the road with the horses in that condition, but I had to ride the old horses to water, and work around the stable until I was well enough to go with the other boys. But I am happy to say that from the time I got hurt by that horse I was never thrown except through carelessness, neither was I afraid of a horse after that. Notwithstanding father and mother fretted very much about me, they were proud of my success as a rider, but my hardships did not end here. A short time after, I was taken to Columbia and Charleston, S.C., where they used to have the races. That year Col. Singleton won a large sum of money by the well-known horse, Capt. Miner, and that was the same season that I rode my trial race. The next year, before the time of racing, Col. Singleton died at his summer seat. After master's death, mistress sold all the race horses, and that put an end to sporting horses in that family. I said that Boney Young, Col. Singleton's groom, had a brother by the name of Charles, who trained horses for the colonel's brother, John Singleton, Boney was a better trainer, but Charles was a better man to the negroes. It was against the law for a slave to buy spirituous liquors without a ticket, but Charles used to give the boys tickets to buy rum and whiskey with. He also allowed them to steal the neighbor's cows and hogs. I remember that on one occasion his boys killed a cow belonging to a man by the name of Le Brun; soon after the meat was brought to the stable, Le Brun rode up on horseback with a loaded shot gun and threatened to shoot the party with whom the beef was found. Of course the negroes' apartments were searched; but as that had been anticipated, Mr. Young had made them put the meat in his apartment, and, as it was against the law of South Carolina for a white man to search another's house, or any apartment, without very strong evidence, the meat was not found. Before searching among the negroes, Mr. Young said to Le Brun, "You may search, but you won't find your beef here, for my boys don't steal." Le Brun answered, "Mr. Young, your word might be true, sir, but I would trust a nigger with money a great deal sooner than I would with cows and hogs." Mr. Young answered, "That might be true, but you won't find your beef here." After their rooms and clothes had been searched, blood was found under some of their finger nails, which increased Le Brun's suspicion that they were of the party who stole his cow; but Mr. Young answered, "that blood is from rabbits my boys caught today." Mr. Le Brun tried to scare one of the boys, to make him say it was the blood of his cow. Mr. Young said, "Mr. Le Brun, you have searched and did not find your beef, as I told you that you would not; also I told you that the blood under their finger nails is from rabbits caught today. You will have to take my word, sir, without going to further trouble; furthermore, these boys belong to Mr. Singleton, and if you want to take further steps you will have to see him." Finding that he was not allowed to do as he wanted to, Mr. Le Brun made great oaths and threats as he mounted his horse to leave, that he would shoot the very first one of those boys he should catch near his cattle. He and Mr. Young never did agree after that. But poor Mr. Young, as good as he was to the negroes, was an enemy to himself, for he was a very hard drinker. People who knew him before I did said they never had seen him drink tea, coffee, or water, but rather rum and whiskey; he drank so hard that he used to go into a crazy fit; he finally put an end to his life by cutting his throat with a razor, at a place called O'Handly's race course, about three miles from Columbia, S.C. This was done just a few days before one of the great races. Boney Young drank, too, but not so hard as Charles. He lived until just after the late war, and, while walking one day through one of the streets of the above named city, dropped dead, with what was supposed to have been heart disease. Boney had a mulatto woman, named Moriah, who had been originally brought from Virginia by negro traders, but had been sold to several different masters later. The trouble was that she was very beautiful, and wherever she was sold her mistresses became jealous of her, so that she changed owners very often. She was finally sold to Boney Young, who had no wife; and she lived with him until freed by the emancipation proclamation. She had two daughters; the elder's name was Annie, but we used to call her sissie; the younger's name was Josephine. Annie looked just like her father, Boney Young, while Josephine looked enough like Charles to have been his daughter. It was easy enough to tell that the mother had sprung from the negro race, but the girls could pass for white. Their mother, Moriah, died in Columbia some time after the war. Annie went off and was married to a white man, but I don't know what became of Josephine. A short time before master's death he stood security for a northern man, who was cashier of one of the largest banks in the city of Charleston. This man ran away with a large sum of money, leaving the colonel embarassed, which fact made him very fretful and peevish. He had been none too good before to his slaves, and that made him worse, as you knew that the slave holders would revenge themselves on the slaves whenever they became angry. I had seen master whip his slaves a great many times, but never so severely as he did that spring before he died. One day, before he went to his summer seat, he called a man to him, stripped and whipped him so that the blood ran from his body like water thrown upon him in cupfuls, and when the man stepped from the place where he had been tied, the blood ran out of his shoes. He said to the man, "You will remember me now, sir, as long as you live." The man answered, "Yes, master, I will." Master went away that spring for the last time; he never returned alive; he died at his summer seat. When they brought his remains home all of the slaves were allowed to stop at home that day to see the last of him, and to lament with mistress. After all the slaves who cared to do so had seen his face, they gathered in groups around mistress to comfort her; they shed false tears, saying, "Never mind, missis, massa gone home to heaven." While some were saying this, others said, "Thank God, massa gone home to hell." Of course the most of them were glad that he was dead; but they were gathered there for the express purpose of comforting mistress. But after master's death mistress was a great deal worse than he had been. When the master died there was a great change of things on the plantation; the creditors came in for settlement, so all of the fine horses, and some others, such as carriage horses, and a few mules also, were sold. The slaves whom master had bought himself had to be sold, but those who had been born on the plantation, given to him by his father, old Col. Dick Singleton, could not be sold until the grandchildren were of age. As I have stated, my hardships and trials did not end with the race horses; you will now see them in another form. After all the fine horses had been sold, mistress ordered the men and boys who were taking care of the horses to be put into the field, and I was among them, though small; but I had become so attached to the horses that they could get no work out of me, so they began to whip me, but every time they whipped me I would leave the field and run home to the barn-yard. Finally mistress engaged a very bad man as overseer, in place of old Ben Usome, whose name was William Turner. Two or three days after his arrival he took me into the field and whipped me until I was sick, so I went home. I went to mistress and told her that the overseer had whipped me; she asked if I had done the work that he had given me. I told her that master had promised me that, when I got too heavy to ride race horses, he would send me to learn the carpenter's trade; she asked me if, in case she put me to a trade, I would work, and I told her I would. So she consented. But the overseer did not like the idea of having me work at the trade which was my choice. He said to mistress, "That is the worst thing you can do, madam, to allow a negro to have his choice about what he shall do. I have had some experience as an overseer for many years, and I think I am able to give a correct statement about the nature of negroes in general. I know a gentleman who allowed his negroes to have their own way about things on his plantation, and the result was that they got as high as their master. Besides that, madam, their influence rapidly spreads among the neighbors, and if such should be allowed, South Carolina would have all masters and mistresses, and no servants; and, as I have said, I know somewhat about the nature of negroes; I notice, madam, that this boy will put you to a great deal of trouble unless you begin to subdue him now while he is young. A very few years' delay will enable him to have a great influence among his fellow negroes, for that boy can read very well now, and you know, madam, it is against the law for a negro to get an education, and if you allow him to work at the carpenter's trade it will thus afford him the opportunity of acquiring a better education, because he will not be directly under the eye of one who will see that he makes no further advancement." Then mistress asked me, "Can you read, Jacob?" I did not want her to know that I had taken notice of what they were saying, so I answered, "I don't know, ma'am." The overseer said, "He does not know what is meant, madam, but I can make him understand me." Then he took a newspaper from his pocket and said to me, "Can you say these words?" I took the paper and began to read, then he took it from me. Mistress asked when I had learned to read and who had taught me. The overseer did not know, but said he would find out from me. Turning to me he took the paper from his pocket again, and said, "Jacob, who told you to say words in the book?" I answered, "Nobody, sir; I said them myself." He repeated the question three or four times, and I gave the same answer every time. Then mistress said, "I think it would be better to put him to trade than to have him in the field, because he will be away from his fellow-negroes, and will be less liable to influence them if we can manage to keep him away." The overseer said, "That might be true, madam, but if we can manage to keep him from gaining any more education he will eventually lose what little he has; and now, madam, if you will allow me to take him in hand, I will bring him out all right without injuring him." Just at this juncture a carriage drove up to the gate, and I ran as usual to open it, the overseer went about his business, and mistress went to speak to the persons in the carriage. I never had a chance to hear their conclusion. A few days after the conversation between the overseer and mistress, I was informed by one of the slaves, who was a carpenter, that she had ordered that I should go to work at the trade with him. This gave me great joy, as I was very anxious to know what they had decided to do with me. I went to my new trade with great delight, and soon began to imagine what a famous carpenter I should make, and what I should say and do when I had learned the trade. Everything seemed to run smoothly with me for about two months, when suddenly I was told one morning that I must go into the field to drop cotton seed, but I did not heed the call, as mistress was not at home, and I knew she had just put me to the trade, also that the overseer was trying to get mistress' consent to have me work out in the field. The next morning the overseer came into the carpenter's shop and said, "Did I not order ye into the field, sir?" I answered, "Yes, sir." "Well, why did ye not go?" I answered, "Mistress has put me here to learn the trade." He said, "I will give ye trade." So he stripped me and gave me a severe whipping, and told me that that was the kind of trade I needed, and said he would give me many of them. The next day I went into the field, and he put me to drop cotton seed, as I was too small to do anything else. I would have made further resistance, but mistress was very far away from home, and I had already learned the lesson that father and mother could render me no help, so I thought submission to him the easiest for me. When I had got through with the cotton seed, in about three weeks, I went back to the carpenter's shop to work; so he came there and gave me another severe whipping, and said to me, "Ye want to learn the carpenter's trade, but I will have ye to the trade of the field." But that was the last whipping he gave me, and the last of his whip. A few days after my last whipping the slaves were ordered down into the swamp across the river to clear up new grounds, while the already cleared lands were too wet from rain that had fallen that night. Of course I was among them to do my part; that is, while the men quartered up dry trees, which had been already felled in the winter, and rolled the logs together, the women, boys and girls piled the brushes on the logs and burned them. We had to cross the river in a flat boat, which was too small to carry over all the slaves at once, so they had to make several trips. Mr. Turner, the overseer, went across in the first flat; he did not ride down to the work place, but went on foot, while his horse, which was trained to stand alone without being hitched, was left at the landing place. My cousin and I crossed in the last boat. When we had got across we lingered behind the crowd at the landing; when they all were gone we went near the horse and saw the whip with which I was whipped a few days before fastened to the saddle. I said to him, "Here is the whip old Turner whipped me with the other day." He said, "It ought to be put where he will never get it to whip anybody with again." I answered my cousin, "If you will keep the secret I will put it where old Bill, as we used to call Mr. Turner, will never use it any more." He agreed to keep the secret, and then asked me how I would put the whip away. I told him if he would find me a string and a piece of iron I would show him how. He ran down to the swamp barn, which was a short distance from the margin of the river, and soon returned with the string and iron exactly suited for the work. I tied the iron to the whip, went into the flat boat, and threw it as far as I could into the river. My cousin and I watched it until it went out of sight under water; then, as guilty boys generally do after mischievous deeds, we dashed off in a run, hard as we could, among the other negroes, and acted as harmless as possible. Mr. Turner made several inquiries, but never learned what had become of his whip. A short time after this, in the time of the war, in the year 1863, when a man was going round to the different plantations gathering slaves from their masters to carry off to work on fortifications and to wait on officers, there were ten slaves sent from Mrs. Singleton's plantation, and I was among them. They carried us to Sullivan's Island at Charleston, S.C., and I was there all of that year. I thanked God that it afforded me a better chance for an education than I had had at home, and so I was glad to be on the island. Though I had no one to teach me, as I was thrown among those of my fellow negroes who were fully as lame as I was in letters, yet I felt greatly relieved from being under the eye of the overseer, whose intention was to keep me from further advancement. The year after I had gone home I was sent back to Fort Sumpter--in the year 1864. I carried my spelling book with me, and, although the northerners were firing upon us, I tried to keep up my study. In July of the same year I was wounded by the Union soldiers, on a Wednesday evening. I was taken to the city of Charleston, to Dr. Regg's hospital, and there I stayed until I got well enough to travel, when I was sent to Columbia, where I was when the hour of liberty was proclaimed to me, in 1865. This was the year of jubilee, the year which my father had spoken of in the dark days of slavery, when he and mother sat up late talking of it. He said to mother, "The time will come when this boy and the rest of the children will be their own masters and mistresses." He died six years before that day came, but mother is still enjoying liberty with her children. And no doubt my readers would like to know how I was wounded in the war. We were obliged to do our work in the night, as they were firing on us in the day, and on a Wednesday night, just as we went out, we heard the cry of the watchman. "Look out." There was a little lime house near the southwest corner of the fort, and some twelve or thirteen of us ran into it, and all were killed but two; a shell came down on the lime house and burst, and a piece cut my face open. But as it was not my time to die, I lived to enjoy freedom. I said that when I got so I could travel I was sent from Dr. Ragg's hospital in Charleston to Col. Singleton's plantation near Columbia, in the last part of the year 1864. I did not do any work during the remainder of that year, because I was unwell from my wound received in the fort. About that time Gen. Sherman came through Georgia with his hundred thousand men, and camped at Columbia, S.C. The slave holders were very uneasy as to how they should save other valuables, as they saw that slavery was a hopeless case. Mistress had some of her horses, mules, cows and hogs carried down into the swamp, while the others which were left on the plantation were divided out to the negroes for safe keeping, as she had heard that the Yankees would not take anything belonging to the slaves. A little pig of about fifty or sixty pounds was given to me for safe keeping. A few of the old horses and mules were taken from the plantation by the Union soldiers, but they did not trouble anything else. After Columbia had been burned, and things had somewhat quieted, along in the year 1865, the negroes were asked to give up the cows and hogs given them for safe keeping; all the rest gave up theirs, but mine was not found. No doubt but my readers want to know what had become of it. Well, I will tell you. You all know that Christmas was a great day with both masters and slaves in the South, but the Christmas of 1864 was the greatest which had ever come to the slaves, for, although the proclamation did not reach us until 1865, we felt that the chains which had bound us so long were well nigh broken. So I killed the pig that Christmas, gathered all of my associates, and had a great feast, after which we danced the whole week. Mother would not let me have my feast in her cabin, because she was afraid that the white people would charge her with advising me to kill the pig, so I had it in one of the other slave's cabins. When the overseer asked me for the pig given me, I told him that I killed it for my Christmas feast. Mistress said to me, "Jacob, why did you not ask me for the pig if you wanted it, rather than take it without permission?" I answered, "I would have asked, but thought, as I had it in hand, it wasn't any use asking for it." The overseer wanted to whip me for it, but as Uncle Sam had already broken the right arm of slavery, through the voice of the proclamation of 1863, he was powerless. When the yoke had been taken from my neck I went to school in Columbia, S.C., awhile, then to Charleston. Afterward I came to Worcester, Mass., in February, 1869. I studied quite a while in the evening schools at Worcester, and also a while in the academy of the same place. During that time I was licensed a local preacher of the African Methodist Episcopal church, and sometime later was ordained deacon at Newport, R.I. A short time after my ordination I was sent to Salem, Mass., where I have remained, carrying on religious work among my people, trying in my feeble way to preach that gospel which our blessed Saviour intended for the redemption of all mankind, when he proclaimed, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel." In the meantime I have been striking steady blows for the improvement of my education, in preparing myself for a field of work among my more unfortunate brethren in the South. I must say that I have been surrounded by many good friends, including the clergy, since I have been in Salem, whose aid has enabled me to serve a short term in the Wesleyan school at Wilbraham, Mass., also to begin a course of theological studies at Talladega college in Alabama, which I am endeavoring to complete by the sale of this publication. CHAPTER II.--SKETCHES. THE SALE OF MY TWO SISTERS. I have stated that my father had fifteen children--four boys and three girls by his first wife, and six boys and two girls by his second. Their names are as follows: Toney, Azerine, Duke and Dezine, of the girls, Violet, Priscilla and Lydia; those of the second wife as follows: Footy, Embrus, Caleb, Mitchell, Cuffee, and Jacob, who is the author, and the girls, Catherine and Retta. As I have said, old Col. Dick Singleton had two sons and two daughters, and each had a plantation. Their names were John, Matt, Marianna and Angelico. They were very agreeable together, so that if one wanted negro help from another's plantation, he or she could have it, especially in cotton picking time. John Singleton had a place about twenty miles from master's, and master used to send him slaves to pick cotton. At one time my master, Col. M.R. Singleton, sent my two sisters, Violet and Priscilla, to his brother John, and while they were there they married two of the men on his place. By mutual consent master allowed them to remain on his brother's place. But some time after this John Singleton had some of his property destroyed by water, as is often the case in the South at the time of May freshets, what is known in the North as high tides. One of these freshets swept away John Singleton's slave houses, his barns, with horses, mules and cows. These caused his death by a broken heart, and since he owed a great deal of money his slaves had to be sold. A Mr. Manning bought a portion of them, and Charles Login the rest. These two men were known as the greatest slave traders in the South. My sisters were among the number that Mr. Manning bought. He was to take them into the state of Louisiana for sale, but some of the men did not want to go with him, and he put those in prison until he was ready to start. My sisters' husbands were among the prisoners in the Sumterville jail, which was about twenty-five or thirty miles across the river from master's place. Those who did not show any unwillingness to go were allowed to visit their relatives and friends for the last time. So my sisters, with the rest of their unfortunate companions, came to master's place to visit us. When the day came for them to leave, some, who seemed to have been willing to go at first, refused, and were handcuffed together and guarded on their way to the cars by white men. The women and children were driven to the depot in crowds, like so many cattle, and the sight of them caused great excitement among master's negroes. Imagine a mass of uneducated people shedding tears and yelling at the top of their voices in anguish. The victims were to take the cars at a station called Clarkson turnout, which was about four miles from master's place. The excitement was so great that the overseer and driver could not control the relatives and friends of those that were going away, as a large crowd of both old and young went down to the depot to see them off. Louisiana was considered by the slaves a place of slaughter, so those who were going did not expect to see their friends again. While passing along many of the negroes left their masters' fields and joined us as we marched to the cars; some were yelling and wringing their hands, while others were singing little hymns that they had been accustomed to for the consolation of those that were going away, such as "When we all meet in heaven, There is no parting there; When we all meet in heaven, There is parting no more." We arrived at the depot and had to wait for the cars to bring the others from the Sumterville jail, but they soon came in sight, and when the noise of the cars had died away, we heard wailing and shrieks from those in the cars. While some were weeping, others were fiddling, picking banjo, and dancing as they used to do in their cabins on the plantations. Those who were so merry had very bad masters, and even though they stood a chance of being sold to one as bad or even worse, yet they were glad to be rid of the one they knew. While the cars were at the depot a large crowd of white people gathered, laughing and talking about the prospect of negro traffic; but when the cars began to start, and the conductor cried out, "All who are going on this train must get on board without delay," the colored people cried out with one voice as though the heavens and earth were coming together, and it was so pitiful that those hard-hearted white men, who had been accustomed to driving slaves all their lives, shed tears like children. As the cars moved away we heard the weeping and wailing from the slaves as far as human voice could be heard; and from that time to the present I have neither seen nor heard from my two sisters, nor any of those who left Clarkson depot on that memorable day. THE WAY THE SLAVES LIVED. Most of the cabins in the time of slavery were built so as to contain two families; some had partitions, while others had none. When there were no partitions each family would fit up its own part as it could; sometimes they got old boards and nailed them up, stuffing the cracks with rags; when they could not get boards they hung up old clothes. When the family increased the children all slept together, both boys and girls, until one got married; then a part of another cabin was assigned to that one, but the rest would have to remain with their mother and father, as in childhood, unless they could get with some of their relatives or friends who had small families, or unless they were sold; but of course the rules of modesty were held in some degrees by the slaves, while it could not be expected that they could entertain the highest degree of it, on account of their condition. A portion of the time the young men slept in the apartment known as the kitchen, and the young women slept in the room with their mother and father. The two families had to use one fireplace. One who was accustomed to the way in which the slaves lived in their cabins could tell as soon as they entered whether they were friendly or not, for when they did not agree the fires of the two families did not meet on the hearth, but there was a vacancy between them, that was a sign of disagreement. In a case of this kind, when either of the families stole a hog, cow or sheep from the master, he had to carry it to some of his friends, for fear of being betrayed by the other family. On one occasion a man, who lived with one unfriendly, stole a hog, killed it, and carried some of the meat home. He was seen by some one of the other family, who reported him to the overseer, and he gave the man a severe whipping. Sometime afterward this man who had been betrayed thought he would get even with his enemy; so about two months later he killed another hog, and, after eating a part of it, stole into the apartment of the other family and hid a portion of the meat among the old clothes. Then he told the overseer that he had seen the man go out late that night and that he had not come home until the next morning; when he did come he had called his wife to the window and she had taken something in. He did not know what it was, but if the overseer would go there right away he would find it. The overseer went and searched and found the meat, so the man was whipped. He told the overseer that the other man put it in his apartment while the family were away, but the overseer told him that every man must be responsible for his own apartment. No doubt you would like to know how the slaves could sleep in their cabins in summer, when it was so very warm. When it was too warm for them to sleep comfortably, they all slept under trees until it grew too cool, that is along in the month of October. Then they took up their beds and walked. JOE AND THE TURKEY. Joe was a boy who was waiter to his master, one Mr. King, and he and his wife were very fond of company. Mrs. King always had chickens and turkey for dinner, but at one time the company was so large that they did not leave anything for the servants; so that day, finding that all had been eaten, while mistress and master were busy with the company, Joe killed a turkey, dressed it and put it into the pot, but, as he did not cut it up, the turkey's knees stuck out of the pot, and, as he could not cover them up, he put one of his shirts over them. When Mrs. King called Joe, he answered, but did not go right away as he generally did, and when he did go his mistress said, "Joe, what was the matter with you?" he answered, "Noffing, missis." Then he went and opened the gate for the company. Soon after, Joe was back in the kitchen again, and Mrs. King went down to see what he was doing; seeing the pot on she said, "Joe, what is in that pot?" he said, "noffing, missis, but my shirt; am gwine to wash it." She did not believe him, so she took a fork and stuck it in the pot, taking out the shirt, and she found the turkey. She asked him how the turkey had got into the pot; he said he did not know but reckoned the turkey got in himself, as the fowls were very fond of going into the kitchen. So Joe was whipped because he allowed the turkey to get into the pot. THE CUSTOM OF CHRISTMAS. Both masters and slaves regarded Christmas as a great day. When the slaveholders had made a large crop they were pleased, and gave the slaves from five to six days, which were much enjoyed by the negroes, especially by those who could dance. Christmas morning was held sacred both by master and slaves, but in the afternoon, or in a part of the next day the slaves were required to devote themselves to the pleasure of their masters. Some of the masters would buy presents for the slaves, such as hats and tobacco for the men, handkerchiefs and little things for the women; these things were given after they had been pleased with them; after either dancing or something for their amusement. When the slaves came up to their masters and mistresses, the latter would welcome them, the men would take off their hats and bow and the women would make a low courtesy. There would be two or three large pails filled with sweetened water, with a gallon or two of whiskey in each; this was dealt out to them until they were partly drunk; while this was going on, those who could talk very well would give tokens of well wishing to their master and mistress, and some who were born in Africa, would sing some of their songs, or tell different stories of the customs in Africa. After this they would spend half a day in dancing in some large cotton house or on a scaffold, the master providing fiddlers who came from other plantations if there were none on the place, and who received from fifteen to twenty dollars on these occasions. A great many of the strict members of the church who did not dance would be forced to do it to please their masters; the favorite tunes were "The Fisher's Hornpipe," "The Devil's Dream," and "Black-eyed Susan." No one can describe the intense emotion in the negro's soul on those occasions when they were trying to please their masters and mistresses. After the dancing was over we had our presents, master giving to the men, and mistress to the women; then the slaves would go to their quarters and continue to dance the rest of the five or six days, and would sometimes dance until eight o'clock Sunday morning. The cabins were mostly made of logs, and there were large cracks in them so that a person could see the light in them for miles in the night, and of course the sun's rays would shine through them in the daytime, so on Sunday morning when they were dancing and did not want to stop you would see them filling up the cracks with old rags. The idea was that it would not be Sunday inside if they kept the sun out, and thus they would not desecrate the Sabbath; and these things continued until the freedom of the slaves. Perhaps my readers would like to know if most of the negroes were inclined to violate the Sabbath. They were; as the masters would make them do unnecessary work, they got into the habit of disregarding the day as one for rest, and did many things Sunday that would not be allowed in the North. At that time, if you should go through the South on those large cotton and rice plantations, while you would find some dancing on Sunday, others would be in the woods and fields hunting rabbits and other game, and some would be killing pigs belonging to their masters or neighbors. I remember when a small boy I went into the woods one Sunday morning with one of my fellow negroes whose name was Munson, but we called him Pash, and we killed one of master's pigs, hid it under the leaves until night, then took it home and dressed it. That was the only time I killed a pig, but I knew of thousands of cases like this in the time of slavery. But thank God, the year of Jubilee has come, and the negroes can return from dancing, from hunting, and from the master's pig pens on Sundays and become observers of the Sabbath, of good moral habits and men of equal rights before the law. PUNISHMENTS INFLICTED ON DIFFERENT ONES. One of my fellow negroes, who belonged to Col. M.R. Singleton, visited the plantation of the Col.'s sister; the overseer of that plantation had forbidden strangers to go there, but this man, whose name was Harry, would go. The overseer heard of him but could not catch him, but the overseer of master's place sent him to Mr. Jackson (the overseer of master's sister's place). Mr. Jackson tied him and hit him three hundred lashes and then said to him, "Harry, if you were not such a good nigger I should have given you a first class whipping, but as you are a good fellow, and I like you so well, I thought I would give you a light flogging now; you must be a good nigger and behave yourself, for if I ever have to take hold of you again, I shall give you a good whipping." When Mr. Jackson had loosed him from where he had tied him, Harry was so exhausted that he fell down, so Mr. Jackson sent him home in a cart, and he had to stay at home from work a month or two, and was never the same man again. THE PUNISHMENT AND SALE OF MONDAY. There was a man who belonged to master by the name of Monday, who was a good field hand; in summer the tasks generally performed by the slaves were more than they could do, and in consequence they were severely whipped, but Monday would not wait to be whipped, but would run away before the overseer or driver could get to him. Sometimes master would hire a white man who did nothing else but hunt runaway slaves for a living; this man would take from fifteen to twenty hounds with him to hunt Monday, but often he would be out three or four months; when he was caught and brought home, he was put in prison and was whipped every day for a week or two, but just as soon as he could he would run away again. At one time when he had been brought home, one of his arms was tied and he was put in care of a keeper who made him work with the other slaves, days, and put him in confinement nights, but for all this he got away from his keeper and went into the woods again. The last time he ran away two white men were hired to hunt him; they had about twenty-five blood hounds, but this time Monday fell in with another slave who had ran away from his master and had been in the woods seven years, and they together were able to kill a greater portion of the hounds. Finally the white men caught his companion, but did not catch Monday, though they chased him two or three days longer, but he came home himself; they did not whip him and he went to work in the field. Things went on very nicely with him for two or three weeks, until one day a white man was seen riding through the fields with the overseer; of course the slaves did not mistrust his object, as white men often visited master's plantation, but that night, when all the slaves were sleeping, the man that was seen in the daytime went to the door of Monday's cabin and called him out of his bed, and when he had come to his door, the stranger, whom he had never seen before that day, handcuffed him and said, "You now belong to me." Most of the slaves found it out, as Monday was put in a cart and carried through the streets of the negro quarters, and there was quite an excitement, but Monday was never heard from again. THE STORY OF JAMES HAY. There was a slave named James Hay, who belonged to a neighbor of master's; he was punished a great many times because he could not get his task done. The other slaves pitied him because he seemed unable to perform his task. One evening he got a severe whipping; the next morning as the slaves were having their tasks assigned them, an old lady by the name of Aunt Patience went by, and said, "Never mind, Jim, my son, the Lord will help you with your task today;" he answered, "Yes, ma'am." He began his work very faithfully and continued until it was half done, then he lay down under a tree; the others, not understanding his motive, thought he was tired and was taking a rest, but he did not return to his task until the overseer called him and asked him why he did not have his work nearer done. He said, "Aunt Patience told me dis morning that the Lord would help me today, and I thought as I did half of the task, the Lord might have finished the other half if he intended to help me at all." The overseer said "You see that the Lord did not come to help you and we shall not wait for him, but we will help you;" so Jim got a severe punishment. Sometime after this, Jim Hay was called upon by some professors of religion; they asked him if he was not tired of serving the devil, and told him that the Lord was good and had helped many of his people, and would help all who asked him and then take them home to heaven. Jim said that if the Lord would not do half an acre of his task for him when he depended on him, he did not think he could trust him, and Jim never became a Christian to my knowledge. THE STORY OF MR. USOM AND JACK. One Sunday when the boys were at the overseer's, Mr. Usom's house, as we generally were, he said to one, "Jack, don't you think that hell is a very hot place, if it is as they describe it?" Jack said, "Yes, massa." Mr. Usom said, "Well, how do you think it will be with poor fellows that have to go there?" "Well, Massa Bob, I will tell you what I tinks about it, I tinks us niggers need not trouble usselves about hell, as the white folks." "How is that, Jack?" Jack answered, "Because us niggers have to work out in the hot sun, and if we go to hell it would not be so bad for us because us used to heat, but it will be bad for white folks because they is not used to hot weather." THE STORY OF JAMES SWINE AND HIS DEATH. There was a negro who belonged to one Mr. Clarkson; he was called Jim Swine; his right name was James, but he was called Jim Swine because he loved hog meat and would often steal hogs from his master or from the neighbors; he was a very able-bodied man, weighing about two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and a very good field hand. Of course it is generally known that a great many of the slaves were poorly fed, so it was natural that they should take anything they could to sustain life. As his master had only a few hogs, he stole many from the neighbors and was punished a great many times for it. Sometimes he was punished when a hog was missing, even though they did not find the meat with him. Jim was not in the habit of running away much, but if they whipped him when he had not stolen the hog they accused him of taking, he would go away into the woods and stay until he got ready to come home. He was so strong that they were afraid of him; three or four men would not attack him when in the woods. The last time Jim stole hogs he was caught in the act of taking one from my master, Col. Singleton. They tied him, and Mr. Clarkson's overseer was sent for, who was his own son, Thomas Clarkson. Jim was taken home, whipped, and a cured middling of a hog was tied around his neck; he was then made to work along with the other slaves in the day and was put in prison in the night for two weeks. One morning when the overseer went to his place of confinement to take him into the field, he found him dead, with a large piece of meat hanging to his neck. The news of his death soon went abroad, also the cause of it, and when old Mr. Clarkson found it out he was very angry at his son Thomas, and his punishment was, that he was driven from his plantation with orders never to return, and that he should not have any of his property. This seemed to grieve Thomas very much, and he made several attempts to regain his father's affections, but failed. Finally, one night, Thomas made an outcry that he had found a pearl of great price, that the Lord had pardoned his sins, and that he was at peace with all mankind. When his father heard of this, he sent for him to come home, and he gave him quite a sum of money and willed him the portion of property that he had said he should keep from him. But poor Jim was not there to forgive him. A MAN MISTAKEN FOR A HOG. Two negroes went to steal hogs from their masters. The swine were under a barn, as in the South barns were made high enough for hogs to stand under. The man who went under the barn said to the other, you must strike the hog that goes the slowest; then he went under the barn on his knees to drive them out while the other stood with his club ready to strike, but they ran out so fast he could not hit them, except the last as he thought, which came just slow enough, and he struck. While the supposed hog was kicking, he jumped upon it to stab it with his knife but found it was his companion. CUSTOM OF WITCHES AMONG SLAVES. The witches among slaves were supposed to have been persons who worked with them every day, and were called old hags or jack lanterns. Those, both men and women, who, when they had grown old looked old, were supposed to be witches. Sometimes, after eating supper, the negroes would gather in each other's cabins which looked over the large openings on the plantation, and when they would see a light at a great distance and see it open and shut, they would say, "there is an old hag," and if it came from a direction in which those lived whom they called witches, one would say, "Dat looks like old Aunt Susan;" another would say, "No, dat look like man hag;" still another, "I tink dat look like ole Uncle Renty." When the light had disappeared they said that the witch had got into the plantation and changed itself into a person and had gone about on the place talking with the people like others until those whom it wanted to bewitch went to bed, then it would change itself to a witch again. They claimed that the witches rode human beings like horses, and that the spittle that ran on the side of the cheek when one slept, was the bridle that the witch rode with. Sometimes a baby would be smothered by its mother, and they would charge it to a witch. If they went out hunting at night and were lost, it was believed that a witch had led them off, especially if they fell into a pond or creek. I was very much troubled with witches when a little boy and am now sometimes, but it is only when I eat a hearty supper and immediately go to bed. It was said by some of the slaves that the witches would sometimes go into the rooms of the cabins and hide themselves until the family went to bed and therefore when any one claimed that he had gone into the apartment before bed time and thought he had seen a witch, if he had an old Bible in the cabin, that would be taken into the room, and the person who carried the Bible would say as he went in, "In de name of de Fader and of de Son and de Holy Gos wat you want?" Then the Bible would be put in the corner where the person thought he had seen the witch, as it was generally believed that if this were done the witch could not stay. When they could not get the Bible they used red pepper and salt pounded together and scattered in the room, but in this case they generally felt the effects of it more than the witch, for when they went to bed it made them cough all night. When I was a little boy my mother sent me into the cabin room for something, and as I got in I saw something black and white, but did not stop to see what it was, and running out said there was a witch in the room. But father, having been born in Africa, did not believe in such things, so he called me a fool and whipped me and the witch got scared and ran out the door. It turned out to be our own black and white cat that we children played with every day. Although it proved to be the cat, and father did not believe in witches, still I held the idea that there were such things, for I thought the majority of the people believed it, and that they ought to know more than could one man. Sometime after I was free, in travelling from Columbia to Camden, a distance of about thirty-two miles, night overtook me when about half way there; it was very dark and rainy, and as I approached a creek I saw a great number of lights of those witches opening and shutting. I did not know what to do and thought of turning back, but when I looked behind I saw some witches in the distance, so I said, "If I turn back those will meet me and I shall be in as much danger as if I go on", and I thought of what some of my fellow negroes had said about their leading men into ponds and creeks. There was a creek just ahead, so I concluded that I should be drowned that night; however, I went on, as I saw no chance of turning back. When I came near the creek one of the witches flew into my face. I jumped back and grasped it, but it proved to be one of those lightning bugs, and I thought that if all the witches were like that one, I should not be in any great danger from them. THE DEATH OF CYRUS AND STEPNEY. Old Col. Dick Singleton had several state places as I have mentioned. In the South, the rich men who had a great deal of money bought all the plantations they could get and obtained them very cheap. The Colonel had some ten or twenty places and had slaves settled on each of them. He had four children, and after each had received a plantation, the rest were called state places, and these could not be sold until all the grandchildren should become of age; after they all had received places, the rest could be sold. One of the places was called Biglake. The slaves on these places were treated more cruelly than on those where the owner lived, for the overseers had full sway. One day the overseer at Biglake punished the slaves so that some of them fell exhausted. When he came to the two men, Cyrus and Stepney, they resisted, but were taken by force and severely punished. A few days afterwards the overseer died, and those two men were taken up and hanged on the plantation without judge or jury. After that another overseer was hired, with orders to arm himself, and every slave who did not submit to his punishment was to be shot immediately. At times, when the overseer was angry with a man he would strike him on the head with a club and kill him instantly, and they would bury him in the field. Some would run away and come to M.R. Singleton, my master, but he would only tell them to go home and behave. Then they were handcuffed or chained and carried back to Biglake, and when we would hear from them again the greater part would have been murdered. When they were taken from master's place, they would bid us good bye and say they knew they should be killed when they got home. Oh! who can paint the sad feeling in our minds when we saw these, our own race, chained and carried home to drink the bitter cup of death from their merciless oppressors, with no one near to say, "Spare him, God made him," or to say, "Have mercy on him, for Jesus died for him." His companions dared not groan above a whisper for fear of sharing the same fate; but thanks that the voice of the Lord was heard in the North, which said, "Go quickly to the South and let my prison-bound people go free, for I have heard their cries from cotton, corn and rice plantations, saying, how long before thou wilt come to deliver us from this chain?" and the Lord said to them, "Wait, I will send you John Brown who shall be the key to the door of your liberty, and I will harden the heart of Jefferson Davis, your devil, that I may show him and his followers my power; then shall I send you Abraham Lincoln, mine angel, who shall lead you from the land of bondage to the land of liberty." Our fathers all died in "the wilderness," but thank God, the children reached "the promised land." THE WAY THE SLAVES DETECTED THIEVES AMONG THEMSELVES. The slaves had three ways of detecting thieves, one with a Bible, one with a sieve, and another with graveyard dust. The first way was this:--four men were selected, one of whom had a Bible with a string attached, and each man had his own part to perform. Of course this was done in the night as it was the only time they could attend to such matters as concerned themselves. These four would commence at the first cabin with every man of the family, and one who held the string attached to the Bible would say, "John or Tom," whatever the person's name was, "you are accused of stealing a chicken or a dress from Sam at such a time," then one of the other two would say, "John stole the chicken," and another would say, "John did not steal the chicken." They would continue their assertions for at least five minutes, then the man would put a stick in the loop of the string that was attached to the Bible, and holding it as still as he could, one would say, "Bible, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, if John stole that chicken, turn," that is, if the man had stolen what he was accused of, the Bible was to turn around on the string, and that would be a proof that he did steal it. This was repeated three times before they left that cabin, and it would take those men a month sometimes when the plantation was very large, that is if they did not find the right person before they got through the whole place. The second way they had of detecting thieves was very much like the first, only they used a sieve instead of a Bible; they stuck a pair of scissors in the sieve with a string hitched to it and a stick put through the loop of the string and the same words were used as for the Bible. Sometimes the Bible and the sieve would turn upon the names of persons whose characters were beyond suspicion. When this was the case they would either charge the mistake to the men who fixed the Bible and the sieve, or else the man who was accused by the turning of the Bible and the sieve, would say that he passed near the coop from which the fowl was stolen, then they would say, "Bro. John we see dis how dat ting work, you pass by de chicken coop de same night de hen went away." But when the Bible or the sieve turned on the name of one whom they knew often stole, and he did not acknowledge that he had stolen the chicken of which he was accused, he would have to acknowledge his previously stolen goods or that he had thought of stealing at the time when the chicken or the dress was stolen. Then this examining committee would justify the turning of the Bible or sieve on the above statement of the accused person. The third way of detecting thieves was taught by the fathers and mothers of the slaves. They said no matter how untrue a man might have been during his life, when he came to die he had to tell the truth and had to own everything he had ever done, and whatever dealing those alive had with anything pertaining to the dead, must be true, or they would immediately die and go to hell to burn in fire and brimstone. So in consequence of this, the graveyard dust was the truest of the three ways in detecting thieves. The dust would be taken from the grave of a person who had died last and put into a bottle with water. Then two of the men of the examining committee would use the same words as in the case of the Bible and the sieve, "John stole that chicken," "John did not steal that chicken," and after this had gone on for about five minutes, then one of the other two who attended to the Bible and the sieve would say, "John, you are accused of stealing that chicken that was taken from Sam's chicken coop at such a time." "In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, if you have taken Sam's chicken don't drink this water, for if you do you will die and go to hell and be burned in fire and brimstone, but if you have not you may take it and it will not hurt you." So if John had taken the chicken he would own it rather than take the water. Sometimes those whose characters were beyond suspicion would be proven thieves when they tried the graveyard dust and water. When the right person was detected, if he had any chickens he had to give four for one, and if he had none he made it good by promising that he would do so no more. If all the men on the plantation passed through the examination and no one was found guilty, the stolen goods would be charged to strangers. Of course these customs were among the negroes for their own benefit, for they did not consider it stealing when they took anything from their master. JOSH AND THE CORN. A man engaged in stripping fodder put some green ears of corn in the fire to roast as the slaves generally do in fodder stripping time, although they were whipped when caught. Before the ears were roasted enough, the overseer approached, and Josh took the ears out with some live coals stuck to them and put them in his shirt bosom. In running away his clothes took fire and Josh jumped into a creek to put it out. The overseer said to him, "Josh, what are you doing there?" He answered, "It is so warm today I taught I would go in de creek to git cool off, sir." "Well, have you got cooled off, Josh?" "Oh! yes, sir, very much cooler, sir." Josh was a very hearty eater, so that the peck of corn flour allowed the slaves for a week's ration lasted him only a half. He used to lug large sticks of wood on his shoulders from the woods, which was from a mile to a mile and a half away, to first one and then another of his fellow negroes, who gave him something to eat; and in that way he made out his week's rations. His habit was to bring the wood at night, throw it down at the cabin door, and, as he walked in, some one of the family would say, "Well, Josh, you fetched us a piece of wood." He would burst into one of his jolly laughs and answer, "Yes." Soon after they had given him something to eat, Josh would bid them good night, but when he went, the wood disappeared too. He would throw it down at another cabin door as before, go in and get something to eat; but every time when he went away the wood would be missing until he had found enough to eat, when he would leave it at the last cabin. Those to whom Josh carried the wood accused others of stealing it, and when they asked him about it, he only laughed and said that the wood was at the door when he came out. Josh continued the trick for quite a while. Finally one night he brought a stick of wood and threw it down at a cabin door, walked in and got something to eat as usual. But as he came in, the man of the family, to whom he carried the wood, bade him good night, and said that he had business out which would keep him so late, that Josh would be gone before he got back. While Josh was busy laughing and talking with the rest of the family the man went out, and secreted himself in the chimney corner of another cabin, and it was not long after he took his stand before Josh bade the family good night, came out whistling, and shouldered the wood, but as he started off the watchman cried out, "Is that you, Josh?" Josh threw the wood down and answered, "O no, tisn't me." Of course Josh was so funny one couldn't get angry with him if he wanted to; but the rest of the slaves found out after that how the wood Josh brought them, was missing. But poor Josh died at last, away from home; he was sent with some of the other negroes from Mrs. M.R. Singleton's plantation at Columbia, in the year 1864, to build fortifications as a defence, under Gen. Wade Hampton against Gen. Sherman, and while there he was taken sick and died, under the yoke of slavery, having heard of freedom but not living to enjoy it. RUNAWAY SLAVES. My readers, have, no doubt, already heard that there were men in the South who made it their business in the days of slavery to raise and train hounds especially to hunt slaves with. Most of the owners hired such men on condition that they were to capture and return their runaway slaves, without being bruised and torn by the dogs. The average sums paid hunters were ten, fifteen and twenty-five dollars for capturing a slave; very many times, these sums were taken from the overseer's salary, as they were more or less the cause of slaves running away. My readers want to know whether the runaway slaves ever returned to the overseers and their masters without being caught by the hunters. Sometimes they did and sometimes they never returned. Some stayed their lifetime; others, who would have returned, fell sick and died in the woods. My readers ask, how did the slaves at home know when their fellow negroes, the runaways, sickened or died in the woods. In general, some one on the plantation from which they ran away, or confidential friends on some other plantation, had communication with them, so that if anything happened to them the slaves at home would find out through such parties. And sometimes the masters and overseers would find out about their death, but indirectly, however, because if it was known that any one on the plantation had dealings with the runaway, he would be punished, even though the information should be gladly received by the master and overseer. Sometimes groups of runaway slaves, of eight, ten and even twenty, belonging to different owners, got together in the woods, which made it very difficult and dangerous for slave hunters to capture those whom they were hired to hunt. In such cases sometimes these runaways killed both hunters and dogs. The thick forests in which they lived could not be searched on horseback, neither could man or dog run in them. The only chances the hunters had of catching runaway slaves were either to rout them from those thick forests or attack them when they came out in the opening to seek food. Of course the runaways were mostly armed, and when attacked in the forests they would fight. My readers ask, how had they obtained arms and what were those arms, since slaves were not allowed to have deadly weapons? Some had large knives made by their fellow negroes who were blacksmiths, others stole guns from white men who were accustomed to lay them carelessly around when they were out hunting game. The runaways who stole the guns were kept in powder and shot by some of the other slaves at home, who bought such from poor white men who kept little country stores in the different parts of the South. The runaway slaves generally had fathers, brothers, cousins, or confidential friends who met them at certain appointed places, and brought them such things as were needed. The most they wanted from their fellow negroes at home was salt and a little corn flour; for they lived principally on beef and swine meat, taken either from their own masters or some other's stock. My readers ask, did not some of the slaves at home betray their fellow negroes, the runaways, to the white man? I answer, they did; but often such were well spotted, and if the runaway slaves got a chance at them while in the woods would mob or kill them. On the other hand when they met those whom they could trust, instead of injuring them, they exchanged beef and swine meat with them for bread, corn flour, and salt, such as they needed in the woods. THE RUNAWAY SLAVES IN THE HOUSE. Instead of going into the woods, sometimes runaway slaves lived right around the overseer's and master's houses for months. A slave, named Isom, ran away from Thomas Clarkson, his master's son, who was the overseer. Mr. Clarkson was satisfied, as he said, that the unaccustomed runaway, whom he thought was in the woods could not stay from home long, but finding that he stayed longer than expected, Mr. Clarkson hired a slave hunter with his dogs to hunt him. The hunter came early to the plantation and took breakfast with Mr. Clarkson on the day they began to hunt for the runaway slave. While sitting at breakfast, Mr. Clarkson said to the hunter, "My father brought up that boy as a house servant, and petted him so that it takes all the salt in the country to cure him. Father had too much religion to keep his negroes straight; but I don't believe in that. I think a negro ought to be overhauled every little while to keep him in his place, and that is just the reason why I took the overseership on this plantation." The Hunter. "Well, what caused your boy to run away, Mr. Clarkson?" Mr. Clarkson. "Well he ran away because I gave him an overhauling, to keep him in the place of a negro." Mr. Clarkson's wife. "Well, Thomas, I told you the other day, before you did it, that I didn't see any need of your whipping Isom, because I thought he was a good boy." Mr. Clarkson. "Yes, my dear, if South Carolina had many more such Presbyterians as you and Father Boston (he meant old Mr. Clarkson), in a short time there would be no slaves in the state; then who would you have to work for you?" I wish to state a fact to my readers. While there were exceptions, as a general thing the Presbyterians made better masters than did any other denomination among the slave holders in the South. Mrs. Clarkson. "Yes, Thomas, if you were such a Presbyterian as you charged Father Boston and me with being, you could have saved yourself the trouble and money which it will cost to hunt him." Mr. Clarkson. "Well, we will not discuss the matter of religion any further." (To the hunter.) "That boy has been away now for several days since I whipped him. I thought that he would have returned home long before this time, as this is the first time he has ever run away; but I rather conclude that he got with some experienced runaways. Now do you think that you can capture him without his being hurt, or torn by your dogs?" Mrs. Clarkson. "That is just what I am afraid will be done to that boy." The Hunter. "O, no fear of that, madam, I shall use care in hunting him. I have but one dog which is dangerous for tearing runaway negroes; I will chain him here until I capture your boy." The hunter blew his horn which gathered his dogs, chained the one he spoke of, then he and Mr. Clarkson started on a chase for the runaway slave, who, secreted in the house, had heard every word they had said about him. After the hunter and Mr. Clarkson had gone, Mrs. Clarkson went to her room (as a general thing the southern mistresses hardly ever knew what went on in their dining rooms and kitchens after meal hours), and Isom, the runaway slave, sat at the same table and ate his breakfast. After two or three days of vain search in the woods for the runaway slave, Mr. Clarkson asked some of the other negroes on the plantation, if they saw him, to tell him if he came home he would not whip him. Of course, as a general thing, when they stayed in the woods until they were captured, they were whipped but they were not when they came home themselves. One morning after several days of fruitless search in the woods for the runaway slave by the overseer and the hunter, while at breakfast, Isom came up to the door. As soon as Mr. Clarkson learned that the runaway slave was at the door he got up from his breakfast and went out. "Well, Isom," said Mr. Clarkson. "Well, Massa Thomas," said Isom. "Where have you been?" said Mr. Clarkson. "I been in the woods, sir," answered Isom. Of course it would not have been well for him to tell Mr. Clarkson that he was hidden and fed right in the house, for it would have made it bad for the other negroes who were house servants, among whom he had a brother and sister. Mr. Clarkson. "Isom, did you get with some other runaways?" "Yes, sir," said Isom. Of course Isom's answer was in keeping with the belief of Mr. Clarkson that he had got in with some experienced runaway in the woods. "How many were with you?" asked Mr. Clarkson. "Two," answered Isom. "What are their names, and to whom do they belong?" asked Mr. Clarkson. "I don't know, sir," said Isom. "Didn't you ask their names?" said Mr. Clarkson. "No, sir," said Isom. "Can you describe them?" asked Mr. Clarkson. "One is big, like you, and the other was little like the man who was hunting me," said Isom. "Where did you see the hunter?" asked Mr. Clarkson. "In the woods, sir," said Isom. "Isom, do you want something to eat?" asked Mr. Clarkson. "Yes, sir," said Isom. He sent him around to the kitchen and told the cook to give him something to eat. Mrs. Clarkson thought a great deal of Isom, so while he was in the kitchen eating, she went in and had a long talk with him about how he got along since he had been away, as they supposed. As I have said, in general, when runaway slaves came home themselves, they were not whipped, but were either handcuffed or put in stocks, and locked up for two or three days. While Isom was eating and talking with Mrs. Clarkson, Mr. Clarkson appeared at the kitchen door with a pistol in one hand and handcuffs in the other. Mrs. Clarkson said, "What are you going to do, Thomas?" "I want Isom as soon as he is through eating," said Mr. Clarkson. "You are not going to lock him up, are you Thomas?" said Mrs. Clarkson. Mrs. Clarkson's name was Henrietta, but her pet name was Henie. Mr. Clarkson said. "Henie, I shan't hurt Isom." Isom, who had a smooth, black, round face, full eyes, white teeth, was a very beautiful negro. When he saw the pistol and handcuffs in Mr. Clarkson's hands, those large eyes of his were stretched so wide, one could see the white, like great sheets in them. Mrs. Clarkson said, "Thomas, please don't lock up Isom; he won't run away again. You won't, will you Isom?" "No, mamma massie Henie, I won't," said Isom. "Yes, Henie," said Mr. Clarkson, "he says so, but will he not?" "Thomas," said Mrs. Clarkson, "I will take the responsibility if you do as I ask you to; I will keep Isom around the house and will assure you that he will not run away." Mr. Clarkson wanted to lock Isom up very much, but he knew what a strong will his wife had, and how hard it would be to get her right when she had got wrong, hence he complied with her request. So Isom worked around the house for a long time. The hunter was to rest a few days, and then resume his work, but Mr. Clarkson wrote to him that his services would be no longer needed, as the runaway slave whom he was employed to hunt had returned himself. I never learned whether the hunter got paid for what he had done. MR. BLACK, THE SLAVE HUNTER. There was a white man in Richland County, South Carolina, named Mr. Black, who made his living by hunting runaway slaves. I knew him as well as I did one of my fellow negroes on Col. Singleton's plantation. He was of dark complexion, short stature, spare built, with long, jet black, coarse hair. He bore the description of what some would call a good man, but he was quite the reverse; he was one of the most heartless men I have ever seen. Mr. Black was a very successful hunter, although sometimes all of his bloodhounds were killed by runaway slaves, and he barely escaped with his life. He used to ride a small bay mare in hunting, which was the only horse he owned. She was a thin, raw-boned creature and looked as though she could hardly walk, but knew the business about as well as her master; and in such troubles as above stated she used to carry him pretty fast out of danger. Mr. Black caught several runaway slaves belonging to Col. Singleton. I have known him to chase runaway slaves out of the forest right through the colonel's plantation, through a crowd of other negroes, and his dogs would never mistake any among the crowd for the ones they were after. When these hound dogs chased the runaways through farms in that way, many of them were killed and buried in the cotton or corn field by some among the crowd of negroes through which they passed. In general the slaves hated bloodhounds, and would kill them any time they got a chance, but especially on such occasions as above stated, to keep them from capturing runaways. Once eight slaves ran away from Col. Singleton's plantation, and Mr. Black, with twenty-five hound dogs, was hired to hunt them up. The dogs struck trail of the runaways late one afternoon, and chased them all that night, during which time they got scattered. Next morning three of the runaways were chased through a crowd of their fellow negroes, who were working in the cotton field. While chasing the runaways some among the crowd killed six of the dogs, including the two leading ones, and buried them in the cotton beds or rows, as we used to call them. Mr. Black, the hunter, though a mile or more off, knew that something had happened from the irregular barking of the other dogs, and also because he did not hear the yelling of the two leading dogs. So he blew his horn, called the rest of his dogs, and gave up the chase until he had replaced his leading dogs by others, which he always had on hand at home. Slave hunters generally had one or two among the pack of hound dogs, called trailers or leaders, which the others, fifty or more, were trained to follow. So if anything happened to the leaders while on chase, the rest would become confused, and could not follow the runaway. But if the leaders were hurt or killed after the runaways were captured, the rest would surround and guard them until the hunter reached them, as he was always a mile or more behind. After the leading dogs had been replaced, Mr. Black resumed the chase, and caught some of the runaways, but the rest came home themselves. The last runaway slave Mr. Black was hired to hunt belonged to Col. M.R. Singleton, and was named Dick, but instead of Dick he caught a slave belonging to a man in Sumterville county, who had been in the woods seven years. This runaway slave had another name at home, but while in the woods had assumed the name of Champion, for his success in keeping slave hunters from capturing him up to that time. Mr. Black, the hunter, chased Dick and Champion two days and nights; on the morning before the capture of the latter they swam across the Water-ree river. After they got across they were separated; the dogs followed Champion, and ran him down that morning about eleven o'clock. Champion had a gun and pistol; as the first dog ran up and opened his mouth to take hold of him he discharged the contents of the pistol in his mouth and killed him instantly. The rest of the dogs did not take hold of him, but surrounded him and held him at bay until the hunter reached the spot. When Mr. Black rode up within gunshot, Champion aimed at him with a loaded double barrel gun, but the caps of both barrels snapped from being wet by running through the bushes. Mr. Black had a gun and pistol, too; he attempted to shoot the negro, but William Turner, Col. Singleton's overseer, who hired Mr. Black to hunt Dick, the runaway from the colonel's plantation, would not let him do it. Mr. Black then attempted to strike Champion with the breech of his gun, but Champion kicked him down, and as he drew his knife to stab Mr. Black, Mr. Turner, the overseer, struck him on the back of his head with the butt of a loaded whip. This stunned him for a few moments, and by the time he had regained his senses they had handcuffed him. After the negro had been handcuffed, Mr. Black wanted to abuse him, because he had killed the dog, and attempted to shoot him, but Mr. Turner, the overseer, would not let him. Champion was taken to Col. Singleton's plantation, locked up in the dungeon under the overseer's house, and his master was notified of his capture; he was a mulatto negro, and his master, who was his father, sent for him at Col. Singleton's plantation; but I never learned whether Mr. Black, the hunter, was ever paid for capturing him. Dick, the runaway negro from Col. Singleton's place, came home himself sometime after Champion, his companion, had been captured. Mr. Black, the slave hunter, was very poor, and had a large family; he had a wife, with eight or ten helpless children, whom I knew as well as I did my fellow negroes on the colonel's plantation. But as cruel as Mr. Black was to runaway slaves, his family was almost wholly supported by negroes; I have known in some cases that they stole from their masters to help this family. The negroes were so kind to Mr. Black's family that his wife turned against him for his cruelty to runaway slaves. I have stated that some of the masters and overseers hired the hunters, on condition that they would capture and return the runaway slaves, unbruised and untorn by their dogs; while others, in a mad fit of passion, would say to them, "I want you to bring my runaway nigger home, dead or alive." All of the slave hunters used to practice cruelty upon the runaway slaves; more especially upon those whose masters would say to hunters "bring them dead or alive." But among all the slave hunters in the part of South Carolina where the author of this work lived, Mr. Black was the most cruel. It was rumored that many of the runaway slaves that were never heard of afterward, were captured and killed in the woods by Mr. Black, but no special clue to this could be found. Finally Mr. Black was hired to capture a runaway slave in Barnwell County, S.C. This slave was with another, who was thought well of by his master, but hated by the overseer. In the chase, the two runaways separated, and the dogs followed the second instead of the one whom Mr. Black had been hired to hunt. Mr. Black had another hunter with him by the name of Motley. The negro killed several of the dogs, and gave Messrs. Black and Motley a hard fight. After the negro had been captured, they killed him, cut him up and gave his remains to the living dogs. The companion of the murdered slave was not caught. A few days after the chase, while wandering around in the wood in a somewhat excited state, he came to a spot where the bushes and leaves seemed to have been in a stirred-up condition, as though there had been tussling by two parties. On looking around in this disordered spot, he found pieces of clothing here and there in rags, looking just like the suit worn by his companion, who was then a victim of a most cruel death from the hands of the hunters. On closer examination, he saw spots of blood here and there upon the leaves, which awakened his suspicion; on looking a little way from this spot, he saw some leaves which looked as though they had been moved by hands and put there, and on removing the leaves, he found that the earth had been freshly dug and filled in again. Digging down in the spot, he soon discovered pieces of the person of a dead man, whom he could not identify, but was satisfied that it was the remains of his companion, from whom he had been compelled to separate a few days before. This sight frightened the runaway negro so, that he left the woods, went home to his master and told the story; but as a negro's word was not to be taken against a white man's in the days of slavery, no special notice was taken of what he had said. Still some of the white people were secretly watching Mr. Black, the slave hunter, as he had been before suspected of killing runaway slaves in the woods. The master of the murdered negro was still ignorant of his death; he was in hopes that his slave would return. But finding that his slave did not return as expected, the master became uneasy, and offered a reward to any one who could give a clue of his negro. In the meantime, he discharged the overseer who had been the cause of his slave running away; and he also kept the overseer's salary of four hundred dollars, which was the annual pay for overseering his plantation. Mr. Black's house was in Richland county, and as he was the last who had hunted runaway slaves in Barnwell county before the murder, suspicion rested on him. Still no one said anything to him, but he was very closely watched by men of his own county, whose interest was not in the hatefulness of the crime committed, but rather in the reward offered by the master to any who could give information of his runaway slave. Sometime after the case had occurred, another white man of Richland county became quite a friend to Mr. Black, the slave hunter; this apparent friendship soon led Mr. Black to tell the secret, which speedily brought him to trial. While he and his pretended friend were on a drinking spree, in the midst of the merriment,--of course the conversation was how to control negroes, as that was the principal topic of the poor white men South, in the days of slavery. In the conversation, this friend spoke of several plans which he said, if properly carried out, "would keep a nigger in his place." After the friend had said so much to Mr. Black, the slave hunter, the latter felt that he could tell his secret without endangering himself, so he answered: "The way to show a nigger that would resist a white man, his place, is to put him among the missing. Not long since, I went to Barnwell county to hunt a runaway nigger, and my dogs struck trail of another instead of the one I wanted to capture. After quite a long chase my dogs ran him down, and before I reached him he killed several of them, and gave me a hard fight when I got to him. Motley and I were together; I shot him down, and Motley and I cut him up and gave the pieces to the remainder of my dogs; that is the way I put a nigger in his place." After the secret had been revealed, Mr. Black's friend excused himself, and the former saw him no more until he appeared as a witness against him. The companion of the murdered negro was summoned to carry the investigating party, including the murderer, to the spot where his companion had been buried. Mr. Black was tried and found to be guilty. After sentence had been passed, he confessed the commission of that crime, and also told that he had killed several runaway negroes previously in his own county. So Mr. Black and Motley, his companion, were both hanged in Barnwell county, S.C. The system of slavery outlived Mr. Black, the slave hunter, just six years. MANNING BROWN AND AUNT BETTY. A man by the name of Manning Brown was nursed by an old colored woman he called mamma Betty. She was naturally good natured and a devout Christian, and Mr. Brown gained many of her good qualities when he was under her entire control, at which time he was said to be a boy of very fine sense of feeling and quite promising. But when approaching manhood Mr. Brown fell among a class of other white men who, in the days of slavery, were unbridled in their habits. With this class of men he began to drink, and step by step in this rapid stride he soon became a confirmed drunkard. This habit so over-coated the good influence he had gained from the colored woman, that it rendered him dangerous not only to his enemies, but also to his friends. Manning Brown was feared by most of the other white men in Richland county, S.C., and, strange to say, although he was dangerous to white men, yet he never lost the respect he had for colored people in his boyhood days. He ate, drank and slept among colored people after he was a grown man, and in many cases when other white men, who were called patrols, caught colored people away from home without tickets, and were about to whip them, Mr. Brown would ride up and say, "The first man who raises a whip at one of those negroes I will blow his brains out." Knowing that he would shoot a man as quick as he would a bird, even if ten patrols were together, when Mr. Brown made such threats, they never would attempt to whip the negroes. Mr. Brown owned a plantation with forty slaves on it; his good treatment of them enabled him to get more work out of them than most owners got out of their slaves. His slaves thought so much of their "Massa Manning," as they used to call him, that they did everything in their power to please him. But while he was so good to colored people, he was dangerous to many of the white people and feared by them. A man by the name of Peter Gafney fought a duel with his brother-in-law, whose name was Dr. Kay; the former, who was quite a marksman, was killed by the latter, who was considered a very poor one. This led many who were in favor of Mr. Gafney to feel that there had been foul play by Dr. Ray, the contestant. Mr. Brown, who acted as a second for Mr. Gafney in the fight, felt the loss of his old friend very deeply. A short time after this he sent a challenge to Dr. Ray, stating, "You may either meet me at a certain time, on the spot where you killed P.T. Gafney, for a duel, or I will shoot you on first sight wherever I meet you. Yours, M. Brown." But Dr. Ray refused in the face of the threat to accept the challenge. Knowing the disposition of Mr. Brown, the people in that county were inflamed with excitement, because the doctor was liable at any moment while riding in the road to be killed. In fear of meeting Mr. Brown, the doctor gave up visiting the most of his sick patients, and almost wholly confined himself to his large plantation. At the same time Mr. Brown was closely watched by his friends to keep him from waylaying the doctor. A short time after this threat Mr. Brown commenced to drink harder than ever, so that at times he did not know his own family. But the providence of God was slowly leading Mr. Brown through the unknown paths to a sudden change of life, as we shall soon see. Mr. Brown's family consisted of a wife, one child, and Aunt Betty, the old colored woman who had brought him up. She was the only mother he knew, for his own mother had died when he was an infant, and her dying request had been that mamma Betty, the old woman, should bring up this boy, who was an only child; and when Mr. Brown got married he took Aunt Betty into his family and told her she need not do any work only what she chose to do, and that he would take care of her the balance of her days. And Mrs. Brown regarded Aunt Betty more as a mother-in-law than as a negress servant. Sometimes when Mr. Brown would not listen to his wife, he would to his mamma Betty, when he was sober enough to know her. One afternoon, while Mr. Brown was in one of those drunken fits, he went into his bedroom and lay down across the bed, talking to himself. His wife went in to speak to him, but as she entered he jumped up and got his loaded double barrelled gun and threatened to shoot her. Frightened at this, she ran out of the room and screamed saying, "Oh my God, mamma Betty, please go in and speak to your Massa Manning, for he threatened to shoot me." With that old familiar confidence in one who had often listened to her advice, Aunt Betty went into the house and to the room where she found Mr. Brown lying across the bed, with the gun by his side. On entering the room, as she was advancing toward the bed, she said, "Massa Manning, what is the matter with you? You naughty boy, what is the matter?" On saying these words, before she had reached the bed, Mr. Brown rose, with the gun in hand, and discharged the contents of both barrels at the old woman; she dropped instantly to the floor. Mr. Brown lay across the bed as before, with the gun by his side, talking to himself, and soon dropped to sleep. Mrs. Brown fainted away several times under the excitement. Aunt Betty lived about an hour. Soon after she had been shot she wanted to see Mr. Brown, but when told that she could not, she said, "O, my Lord, I wanted to see my child before I die, and I know that he would want to see his mamma Betty, too, before she leaves him." During the time she lived she prayed for Mr. Brown, and requested that he would change his course of life, become a Christian, and meet her in heaven. After singing one of her familiar hymns, Aunt Betty said to some one who stood by her bedside, "I want you to tell Massa Manning that he must not feel bad for what he did to me, because I know that if he was in his right mind he would not hurt me any more than he would himself. Tell him that I have prayed to the Lord for him that he may be a good boy, and I want him to promise that he will be a Christian and meet me in heaven." With these words Aunt Betty became speechless, dying a few moments afterwards. The doctor was sent for, but had to come from such a distance that she died before he reached there. When Mr. Brown awoke from his drunken state in the night, and learned the sad news of Aunt Betty's death, of which he had been the cause, he clasped his hands and cried out, "What! is it possible that my mamma Betty, the only mother I ever knew, was killed by my hands?" He ran into the room where the corpse was and clasped the remains of the old negress in his arms and cried, "Mamma Betty, mamma Betty, please speak to me as you used to." But that voice was hushed in death. The doctor, overseer and others tried to quiet him, but they could not. That night Mr. Brown took the train to Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, and gave himself up to the law next day. He was told that it was all right; that the old negress was his slave. But Mr. Brown was dissatisfied; he came back home and invited all the white neighbors and slaves to Aunt Betty's funeral, in which he and his family took part. After the excitement was over the message of Aunt Betty was delivered to Mr. Brown; he was told that her last request had been that he would meet her in heaven. He answered, "I will." Mr. Brown then and there took an oath that he would drink no more strong drinks. He then disposed of his slaves, but how I did not learn. Soon after this he was converted and became one of the ablest preachers in Richland county, S.C. Mr. Brown's conversion freed Dr. Ray from his threat. The doctor was so glad of this that he paid quite a large sum towards Mr. Brown's salary for preaching. CHAPTER III.--MY EXPERIENCE IN THE CIVIL WAR. My knowledge of the Civil War, extends from the time when the first gun was fired on Fort Sumter in April, 1861, to the close of the War. While the slaves were not pressed into the Confederate service as soldiers, yet they were used in all the slave-holding states at war points, not only to build fortifications, but also to work on vessels used in the war. The slaves were gathered in each state, anywhere from 6000 to 8000 or more, from different plantations, carried to some centre and sent to various war points in the state. It would be impossible to describe the intense excitement which prevailed among the Confederates in their united efforts to raise troops to meet the Union forces. They were loud in their expressions of the certainty of victory. Many of the poor white men were encouraged by the promise of from three to five negroes to each man who would serve in the Confederate service, when the Confederate government should have gained the victory. On the other hand, the negroes were threatened with an increase of the galling yoke of slavery. These threats were made with significant expressions, and the strongest assumption that the negro was the direct cause of the war. HOW SLAVES WERE GATHERED AND CARRIED TO WAR POINTS. No sooner had the war commenced in the spring of 1861, than the slaves were gathered from the various plantations, and shipped by freight cars, or boats, to some centre, and apportioned out and sent to work at different war points. I do not know just how many slaves the Confederate Government required each master to furnish for its service, but I know that 15 of the 465 slaves on my master's, Col. M.E. Singleton's, plantation, were sent to work on fortifications each year during the war. The war had been going on two years before my turn came. In the summer of 1863 with thousands of other negroes, gathered from the various parts of the state, I was freighted to the city of Charleston, South Carolina, and the group in which my lot fell was sent to Sullivan's Island. We were taken on a boat from the city of Charleston, and landed in a little village, situated nearly opposite Fort Sumter, on this island. Leaving behind us Fort Moultrie, Fort Beauregard, and several small batteries, we marched down the white sandy beach of the island, below Fort Marshall, to the very extreme point, where a little inlet of water divides Sullivan's from Long Island, and here we were quartered under Capt. Charles Haskell. From this point on the island, turning our faces northward, with Morris Island northwest of us, and looking directly north out into the channel, we saw a number of Union gun boats, like a flock of black sheep feeding on a plain of grass; while the men pacing their decks looked like faithful shepherds watching the flock. While we negroes remained upon Sullivan's Island, we watched every movement of the Union fleet, with hearts of joy to think that they were a part of the means by which the liberty of four and one-half millions of slaves was to be effected in accordance with the emancipation proclamation made the January preceding. We kept such close watch upon them that some one among us, whether it was night or day, would be sure to see the discharge of a shot from the gun boat before the sound of the report was heard. During that summer there was no engagement between the Union fleet and the Confederates at that point in South Carolina. The Union gun boats, however, fired occasional shots over us, six miles, into the city of Charleston. They also fired a few shells into a marsh between Sullivan's Island and Mount Pleasant, but with no damage to us. WHAT WORK THE NEGROES DID ON THE ISLAND. After we had reached the island, our company was divided. One part was quartered at one end of the Island, around Fort Moultrie, and we were quartered at the other end, at Fort Marshall. Our work was to repair forts, build batteries, mount guns, and arrange them. While the men were engaged at such work, the boys of my age, namely, thirteen, and some older, waited on officers and carried water for the men at work, and in general acted as messengers between different points on the island. ENGAGEMENT ON LONG ISLAND. Though there was no fighting on Sullivan's Island during my stay there, Confederate soldiers at times crossed the inlet from Sullivan's to Long Island, in the night and engaged in skirmishes with Union soldiers, who had entered the upper end of that island and camped there. Whether these Confederate scouts were ever successful in routing the Union forces on the island or not I have never learned, but I know that they were several times repulsed with considerable loss. NEGROES ESCAPE. The way the Confederates came to the knowledge that Union soldiers were on Long Island was that the group of negroes who preceded us on Sullivan's Island had found out that Union soldiers were camping on the upper end of Long Island. So one night quite a number of them escaped by swimming across the inlet that divides Sullivan's Island and Long Island, and succeeded in reaching the Union line. The next day it was discovered that they had swam across the inlet, and the following night they were pursued by a number of Confederate scouts who crossed in a flat boat. Instead of the capture of the negroes, who would have been victims of the most cruel death, the Confederate scouts were met by soldiers from the Union line, and after a hot engagement they were repulsed, as they usually were. BUILDING A BATTERY ON LONG ISLAND. Finally the Confederates took a large number of the group of which I was a member from Sullivan's to the south shore of Long Island and there built a battery, and mounted several small field guns upon it. As they were afraid of being discovered in the daytime we were obliged to work on the battery nights and were taken back to Sullivan's in the morning, until the work was completed. We were guarded by Confederate soldiers while building the battery, as, without a guard it would have been easy for any of us to have reached the Union line on the north end of Long Island. Sullivan's Island was about five miles long. A NEGRO SERVANT MURDERED. One of the most heartless deeds committed while I was on Sullivan's Island, was that of the murder of a negro boy by his master, a Confederate officer to whom the boy had been a body servant. What the rank of this officer was I am not sure, but I think he was a Major, and that he was from the state of Georgia. It was a common thing for southern men to carry dirks, especially during the war. This officer had one, and for something the boy displeased him in, he drew the knife and made a fatal stab between the boy's collar bone and left shoulder. As the victim fell at the brutal master's feet, we negroes who had witnessed the fiendish and cowardly act upon a helpless member of our race, expected an immediate interference from the hand of justice in some form or other. But we looked and waited in vain, for the horrible deed did not seem to have changed the manner of those in authority in the least, but they rather treated it as coolly as though nothing had happened. Finding that the Confederates failed to lay the hand of justice upon the officer, we, with our vague ideas of moral justice, and with our extreme confidence that God would somehow do more for the oppressed negroes than he would ordinarily for any other people, anxiously waited a short time for some token of Divine vengeance, but as we found that no such token as we desired, in the heat of our passion, came, we finally concluded to wait God's way and time, as to how, and when this, as every other wrong act, should be visited with his unfailing justice. But aside from this case we fared better on these fortifications than we had at home on the plantations. This was the case at least with those of us who were on Sullivan's Island. Our work in general on the fortifications was not hard, we had a great deal of spare time, and although we knew that our work in the Confederate service was against our liberty, yet we were delighted to be in military service. We felt an exalted pride that, having spent a little time at these war points, we had gained some knowledge which would put us beyond our fellow negroes at home on the plantations, while they would increase our pride by crediting us with far more knowledge than it was possible for us to have gained. Our daily rations from the Commissary was a quart of rice or hard-tack, and a half pound of salt pork or corn-beef. The change from the cabins and from the labor on the old plantations so filled our cup of joy that we were sorry when the two months of our stay on the island was ended. At the end of about two months, I, with the rest of my fellow negroes of that group, was sent back to the plantation again, while others took our places. MY EXPERIENCE IN FORT SUMTER. In the summer of 1864, when I was in my fourteenth year, another call was made for negro laborers for the Confederate government, and fifteen from our plantation, including myself, with thousands from other plantations, were sent down to Charleston again. There the negroes were apportioned in groups to be sent to the different fortifications. My lot fell among the group of three hundred and sixty, who were assigned to Fort Sumter. I shall never forget with what care they had to move in carrying us in a steamer from the government wharf in Charleston to John's island wharf, on account of the network of torpedo mines in Charleston Harbor. From John's island wharf they carried us in rowboats to Fort Sumter, and, as those boats could not carry many, it took all night to convey us with other freightage to Fort Sumter. The steamer which carried us from Charleston to John's island wharf had to run at night. Indeed every move the Confederates made about there near the close of the war had to be made at night because the Yankees on gunboats outside the channel and those on Morris island kept so close a watch it was very dangerous to convey us from John's island wharf to Fort Sumter because the oars dipping into the salt water at night made sparks like fire, and thus the Yankees on Morris island were able to see us. Indeed their shots oftentimes took effect. Many of the negroes were killed. Of the fifteen from our plantation, one boy of about my age was struck by a parrot shell while climbing from the boat into the fort. We were told of the perils we were to meet, both before and after we reached our destination. For one of the most disheartening things was the sad report of the survivors of those whose places we were to fill. As the rowboats left them on John's island wharf and as we were about to embark they told us of the great danger to which we would be exposed,--of the liability of some of us being killed before we reached the fort, which proved true, and of how fast their comrades were killed in Fort Sumter. A number, it was said, died from fright before reaching Sumter. THE OFFICERS AND QUARTERS. The officers who were then in command of the fort were Capt. J.C. Mitchell and Major John Johnson. The name of the overseer in charge of the negroes in the fort was Deburgh,--whether that was his right name I can not say. Deburgh was a foreigner by birth. He was one of the most cruel men I ever knew. As he and his atrocious deeds will come up later in this history, I will say no more of him here. CONDITION OF THE FORT. Fort Sumter, which previous to this, had not only been silenced by the Union forces, but also partly demolished, had but one gun mounted on it, on the west side. That cannon we used to call the "Sundown Gun," because it was fired every evening as the sun went down,--as well as at sunrise. On this west side the Confederate officers and soldiers were sheltered in the bomb-proof safe during bombardment. On the east side of the fort, facing Morris island, opposite Fort Wagner, there was another apartment called the "Rat-hole" in which we negroes were quartered. WHAT THE NEGROES DID IN FORT SUMTER. Fort Sumter had been so badly damaged by the Union forces in 1863, that unless something had been done upon the top, the continued bombardment which it suffered up to the close of the war, would have rendered it uninhabitable. The fort was being fired upon every five minutes with mortar and parrot shells by the Yankees from Morris Island. The principal work of the negroes was to secure the top and other parts against the damage from the Union guns. Large timbers were put on the rampart of the fort, and boards laid on them, then baskets, without bottoms, about two feet wide, and four feet high, were put close together on the rampart, and filled with sand by the negroes. The work could only be done at night, because, besides the bombardment from Fort Wagner which was about a mile or little less from us, there were also sharp-shooters there who picked men off whenever they showed their heads on the rampart. The mortar and parrot shells rained alternately upon Fort Sumter every five minutes, day and night, but the sharp-shooters could only fire by day-light. The negroes were principally exposed to the bombardment. The only time the few Confederate soldiers were exposed to danger was while they were putting the Chevaldefrise on the parapet at night. The "Chevaldefrise" is a piece of timber with wooden spikes pointed with iron, and used for defence on fortifications. In the late war between the Spaniards and the Americans, the former used barbed wire for the same purpose. If my readers could have been in Fort Sumter in the summer of 1864 they would have heard the sentinel cry, every five minutes, "Look out! Mortar!" Then they would have seen the negroes running about in the fort yard in a confused state, seeking places of safety from the missile sure to bring death to one or more of them. Another five minutes, and again the cry of the sentinel, "Look out," means a parrot shell, which is far more deadly than is the mortar because it comes so quickly that one has no chance to seek a place of safety. The next moment the survivors of us, expecting that it would be our turn next, would be picking up, here and there, parts of the severed bodies of our fellow negroes; many of those bodies so mutilated as not to be recognizable. DEBURGH, THE OVERSEER. Deburgh, the overseer, of whom I have spoken, was a small man, of light complexion, and very light hair. If my readers could have been in Fort Sumter in July, 1864, they would have seen Deburgh with a small bar of iron or a piece of shell in his hand, forcing the surviving portion of the negroes back into line and adding to these, other negroes kept in the Rat-hole as reserves to fill the places of those who were killed and wounded. They would also have heard him swearing at the top of his voice, while forcing the negroes to rearrange themselves in line from the base of the fort to the top. This arrangement of the negroes, enabled them to sling to each other the bags of sand which was put in the baskets on the top of the fort. My readers ask, what was the sand put on the fort for? It was to smother the fuses of such shells as reached the ramparts before bursting. After the bombardment of Port Sumter in 1863, by the Union forces, its top of fourteen or sixteen feet in thickness, built of New Hampshire granite, was left bare. From that time all through 1864, the shells were so aimed as to burst right over the fort; and it was pieces of these shells which flew in every direction that were so destructive. The fuses of many of these shells fired on Port Sumter did not burn in time to cause the shells to burst before falling. Now as the shells fell on the rampart of the fort instead of falling and bursting on the stone, they buried themselves harmlessly in the sand, which put out the fuse and also kept them from bursting. But while the destruction of life was lessened by the sand, it was fully made up by the hand of that brute, the overseer. God only knows how many negroes he killed in Port Sumter under the shadow of night. Every one he reached, while forcing the slaves back into working position after they had been scattered by the shells, he would strike on the head with the piece of iron he carried in his hand, and, as his victim fell, would cry out to some other negro, "Put that fellow in his box," meaning his coffin. Whether the superior officers in Fort Sumter knew that Deburgh was killing the negroes off almost as fast as the shells from Fort Wagner, or whether they did not know, and did not care, I never have learned. But I have every reason to believe that one of them at least, namely, Major John Johnson, would not have allowed such a wholesale slaughter, had he known. On the other hand I believe that Capt. J.C. Mitchell was not only mean enough to have allowed it, but that he was fully as heartless himself. Whatever became of Deburgh, whether he was killed in Fort Sumter or not, I never knew. OUR SUPERIOR OFFICERS. The two officers in command of Fort Sumter in July of 1864 were Capt. J.C. Mitchell, and Major John Johnson. Major Johnson was as kind, gentle, and humane to the negroes as could have been expected. On the other hand, the actions of Capt. Mitchell were harsh and very cruel. He had a bitter hatred toward the Yankees, and during the rain of shells on Fort Sumter, he sought every opportunity to expose the negroes to as much danger as he dared. I remember that one night Capt. Mitchell ordered us outside of Fort Sumter to a projection of the stone-bed upon which the Fort was built, right in front of Fort Wagner. At that place we were in far greater danger from the deadly missiles of the Union forces than we were exposed to on the inside of Sumter, and I could see no other reasons for his ordering us outside of the fort that night than that we might be killed off faster. It seems that during the incessant firing on Fort Sumter the officers held a consultation as to whether it was not best to evacuate the fort. It was at this time that it was rumored,--a rumor that we had every reason to believe,--that Capt. Mitchell plotted to lock us negroes up in our quarters in Sumter, known as the Rat-hole; and put powder to it and arrange it so that both the negroes and the Yankees should be blown up, when the latter should have taken possession after the evacuation of the fort by the Confederates. But we learned that Major John Johnson, who has since become an Episcopal minister, in Charleston, S.C., wholly refused to agree with Capt. Mitchell in such a barbarous and cowardly act, and, as though Providence were watching over the innocent and oppressed negroes, and over the Yankees as well, because they were fighting in a righteous cause, Capt. Mitchell's career and further chances of carrying out his cruel intentions were cut short. He was mortally wounded by the sharp-shooters of Fort Wagner, on the 14th of July, 1864, and died four hours afterwards. OUR RATIONS IN SUMTER. The working forces of negroes in Sumter with the exception of the boys who carried messages to the different parts of the fort day and night, were locked up days, and turned out nights, to work. We drew our rations of hard-tack and salt pork twice a day; mornings when we ceased work and turned in for the day, and again, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, so as to have supper eaten in time to go to work at dark. We often ate our salt pork raw with the hard-tack, as there were no special means of cooking in the negroes' apartment. We were not only in danger, while at work, from the continued rain of shells, but oftentimes when we were put in line to draw our rations some of us were killed or wounded. I cannot say how they got fresh water in Fort Sumter, as I do not remember seeing any brought there in boats, neither did I notice any conveniences there for the catching of rain water. The water we negroes used was kept in large hogsheads with coal tar in them; I do not know what the tar was put in the water for unless it was for our health. The "rat-hole" into which we were locked, was like a sweat box; it was so hot and close, that, although we were exposed to death by shells when we were turned out to work, we were glad to get into the fresh air. We had little cups in which they used to give us whiskey mornings when we went in, and again when we were going out to work at night. I don't know how many of the forty survivors of the three hundred and sixty of us who were carried into the Fort in the summer of 1864 besides myself are still alive. But if there are any with the keen tenderness of a negro, they cannot help joining me in an undying sense of gratitude to Major John Johnson, not only for his kind and gentle dealings with us which meant so much to a negro in the days of slavery, but also for his humane protection, which saved us from some of the danger from shells to which we were exposed in Sumter. A short time after Capt. J.C. Mitchell had been killed, Major Johnson was dangerously wounded in the head by a piece of shell. MY LAST NIGHT IN FORT SUMTER AND THE GLORIOUS END OF THE WAR. During the time we spent in Fort Sumter we had not seen a clear day or night. In harmony with the continual danger by which we were surrounded, the very atmosphere wore the pall of death; for it was always rainy and cloudy. The mutilated bodies of the negroes, mingled with the black mud and water in the fort yard, added to the awfulness of the scene. Pieces of bombshells and other pieces of iron, and also large southern pine timbers were scattered all over the yard of the fort. There was also a little lime house in the middle of the yard, into which we were warned not to go when seeking places of safety from the deadly missiles at the cry of the sentinel. The orders were that we should get as near the centre of the fort yard as possible and lie down. The reason for this was that the shells which were fired upon Sumter were so measured that they would burst in the air, and the pieces would generally fly toward the sides of the fort. But the orders were not strictly carried out, because, at the warning cries of the sentinel, we became confused. That night, at the cry of the sentinel, I ran and lay down on one of the large southern pine timbers, and several of my fellow negroes followed and piled in upon me. Their weight was so heavy that I cried out as for life. The sense of that crush I feel at certain times even now. At the next report of a shell I ran toward the lime house, but some one tripped me up, and, by the time I had got to my feet again, twelve or thirteen others were crowded into it. Another negro and I reached the doorway, but we were not more than there before a mortar shell came crushing down upon the little lime house, and all within were so mangled that their bodies were not recognizable. Only we two were saved. My companion had one of his legs broken, and a piece of shell had wounded me over my right eye and cut open my under lip. At the moment I was wounded I was not unconscious, but I did not know what had hurt me. I became almost blind from the effect of my wounds, but not directly after I was wounded, and I felt no pain for a day or so. With other wounded I was taken to the bombproof in the fort. I shall never forget this first and last visit to the hospital department. To witness the rough handling of the wounded patients, to see them thrown on a table as one would a piece of beef, and to see the doctor use his knife and saw, cutting off a leg, or arm, and sometimes both, with as much indifference as if he were simply cutting up beef, and to hear the doctor say, of almost every other one of these victims, after a leg or an arm was amputated, "Put that fellow in his box," meaning his coffin, was an awful experience. After the surgeon had asked to whom I belonged, he dressed my wounds. My readers will remember that I stated that no big boat could run to Fort Sumter at that time, on account of the bombardment. We had to be conveyed back to John's Island wharf in rowboats, which was the nearest distance a steamer could go to Fort Sumter. As one of those rowboats was pushed out to take the dead and wounded from the fort, and as the for men were put into the boat, which was generally done before they put in the latter, fortunately, just before the wounded were put in, a Parrott shell was fired into it from Fort Wagner by the Union forces, which sunk both the boat and the coffins, with their remains. My readers would ask how the Confederates disposed of the negroes who were killed in Fort Sumter. Those who were not too badly mutilated were sent over to the city of Charleston and were buried in a place which was set apart to bury the negroes. But others, who were so badly cut up by shells, were put into boxes, with pieces of iron in them, and carried out a little away from Sumter and thrown overboard. I was then taken to John's Island wharf, and from there to the city of Charleston in a steamer, and carried to Doctor Rag's hospital, where I stopped until September. Then I was sent back home to my master's plantation. Quoting the exact words of Major John Johnson, a Confederate officer under whom I was a part of the time at the above-named place, I would say: "July 7th, Fort Sumter's third great bombardment, lasting sixty days and nights, with a total of 14,666 rounds fired at the fort, with eighty-one casualties." WHAT TOOK PLACE AFTER. I said that after I got well enough to travel I was sent back home to my master's plantation, about a hundred miles from the city of Charleston, in central South Carolina. This was in September of 1864, and I, with the rest of my fellow-negroes on this extensive plantation, and with other slaves all over the South, were held in suspense waiting the final outcome of the emancipation proclamation, issued January, 1863, but as the war continued, it had not taken effect until the spring of 1865. Here I had less work than before the war, for the nearer the war approached its close the less the slaves had to do, as the masters were at the end of their wits what to do. In the latter part of 1864 Gen. Sherman, with his army of a hundred thousand men and almost as many stragglers, covered the space of about sixty miles in width while marching from Georgia through South Carolina. The army camped around Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, for a short time. Early in the spring of 1865 the commissary building first took fire, which soon spread to such extent that the whole city of Columbia was consumed; just a few houses on the suburbs were left. The commissary building was set on fire by one of the two parties, but it was never fully settled whether it was done by Gen. Sherman's men or by the Confederates, who might have, as surmised by some, as they had to evacuate the city, set it on fire to keep Gen. Sherman's men from getting the food. After this Columbia was occupied by a portion of Sherman's men, while the others marched on toward North Carolina. THE GLORIOUS END. In closing this brief sketch of my experiences in the war, I would ask my readers to go back of the war a little with me. I want to show them a few of the dark pictures of the slave system. Hark! I hear the clanking of the ploughman's chains in the fields; I hear the tramping of the feet of the hoe-hands. I hear the coarse and harsh voice of the negro driver and the shrill voice of the white overseer swearing at the slaves. I hear the swash of the lash upon the backs of the unfortunates; I hear them crying for mercy from the merciless. Amidst these cruelties I hear the fathers and mothers pour out their souls in prayer,--"O, Lord, how long!" and their cries not only awaken the sympathy of their white brothers and sisters of the North, but also mightily trouble the slave masters of the South. The firing on Fort Sumter, in April of 1861, brought hope to the slaves that the long looked for year of jubilee was near at hand. And though the South won victory after victory, and the Union reeled to and fro like a drunken man, the negroes never lost hope, but faithfully supported the Union cause with their prayers. Thank God, where Christianity exists slavery cannot exist. At last came freedom. And what joy it brought! I am now standing, in imagination, on a high place just outside the city of Columbia, in the spring of 1865. The stars and stripes float in the air. The sun is just making its appearance from behind the hills, and throwing its beautiful light upon green bush and tree. The mocking birds and jay birds sing this morning more sweetly than ever before. Beneath the flag of liberty there is congregated a perfect network of the emancipated slaves from the different plantations, their swarthy faces, from a distance, looking like the smooth water of a black sea. Their voices, like distant thunder, rend the air,-- "Old master gone away, and the darkies all at home, There must be now the kingdom come and the year of jubilee." The old men and women, bent over by reason of age and servitude, bound from their staves, praising God for deliverance. 
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45782	----	THE LITTLE BROWN JUG AT KILDARE By MEREDITH NICHOLSON THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy 12mo, Cloth $1.50 THE PORT OF MISSING MEN Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood 12mo, Cloth $1.50 ROSALIND AT RED GATE Illustrated by Arthur I. Keller 12mo, Cloth $1.50 ZELDA DAMERON Illustrated by John Cecil Clay 12mo, Cloth $1.50 THE MAIN CHANCE Illustrated by Harrison Fisher 12mo, Cloth $1.50 POEMS 12mo, Cloth Net, $1.25 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY INDIANAPOLIS [Illustration] THE LITTLE BROWN JUG AT KILDARE _By_ MEREDITH NICHOLSON WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG Oh, for you that I never knew, Only in dreams that bind you!-- By Spring's own grace I shall know your face When under the may I find you! --_H. C. Bunner_ INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1908 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY SEPTEMBER THE LITTLE BROWN JUG AT KILDARE CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Two Gentlemen Say Good-By 1 II The Absence of Governor Osborne 34 III The Jug and Mr. Ardmore 50 IV Duty and the Jug 73 V Mr. Ardmore Officially Recognized 98 VI Mr. Griswold Forsakes the Academic Life 126 VII An Affair at the State House 143 VIII The Labors of Mr. Ardmore 166 IX The Land of the Little Brown Jug 187 X Professor Griswold Takes the Field 201 XI Two Ladies on a Balcony 218 XII The Embarrassments of the Duke of Ballywinkle 235 XIII Miss Dangerfield Takes a Prisoner 257 XIV A Meeting of Old Friends 281 XV The Prisoner in the Corn-Crib 308 XVI The Flight of Gillingwater 336 XVII On the Road to Turner's 349 XVIII The Battle of the Raccoon 362 XIX In the Red Bungalow 375 XX Rosae Mundi 396 XXI Good-By to Jerry Dangerfield 414 [Illustration] THE LITTLE BROWN JUG AT KILDARE CHAPTER I TWO GENTLEMEN SAY GOOD-BY "If anything really interesting should happen to me I think I should drop dead," declared Ardmore as he stood talking to Griswold in the railway station at Atlanta. "I entered upon this life under false pretenses, thinking that money would make the game easy, but here I am, twenty-seven years old, stalled at the end of a blind alley, with no light ahead; and to be quite frank, old man, I don't believe you have the advantage of me. What's the matter with us, anyhow?" "The mistake we make," replied Griswold, "is in failing to seize opportunities when they offer. You and I have talked ourselves hoarse a thousand times planning schemes we never pull off. We are cursed with indecision, that's the trouble with us. We never see the handwriting on the wall, or if we do, it's just a streak of hieroglyphics, and we don't know what it means until we read about it in the newspapers. But I thought you were satisfied with the thrills you got running as a reform candidate for alderman in New York last year. It was a large stage and the lime-light struck you pretty often. Didn't you get enough? No doubt they'd be glad to run you again." Ardmore glanced hastily about and laid his hand heavily on his friend's shoulder. "Don't mention it--don't think of it! No more politics in mine. The world may go hang if it waits for me to set it right. What I want is something different, a real adventure--something with spice in it. I have bought everything money can buy, and now I'm looking for something that can't be tagged with a price." "There's your yacht and the open sea," suggested Griswold. "Sick of it! Sick to death of it!" "You're difficult, old man, and mighty hard to please. Why don't you turn explorer and go in for the North Pole?" "Perfectly bully! I've thought of it a lot, but I want to be sure I've cleaned up everything else first. It's always up there waiting--on ice, so to speak--but when it's done once there will be nothing left. I want to save that for the last call." "You said about the same thing when we talked of Thibet that first evening we met at the University Club, and now the Grand Lama sings in all the phonographs, and for a penny you can see him in a kinetoscope, eating his luncheon. I remember very well that night. We were facing each other at a writing-table, and you looked up timidly from your letter and asked me whether there were two _g's_ in aggravate, and I answered that it depended on the meaning--one _g_ for a mild case, two for a severe one--and you laughed, and we began talking. Then we found out how lonesome we both were, and you asked me to dinner, and then took me to that big house of yours up there in Fifth Avenue and showed me the pictures in your art gallery, and we found out that we needed each other." "Yes, I had needed you all right!" And Ardmore sniffed dolefully, and complained of the smoke that was drifting in upon them from the train sheds. "I wish you wouldn't always be leaving me. You ought to give up your job and amuse me. You're the only chap I know who doesn't talk horse or automobile or yacht, or who doesn't want to spend whole evenings discussing champagne vintages; but you're too good a man to be wasted on a college professorship. Better let me endow an institution that will make you president--there might be something in that." "It would make me too prominent, so that when we really make up our minds to go in for adventures I should be embarrassed by my high position. As a mere lecturer on _The Libeling of Sunken Ships_ in a law school, I'm the most obscure person in the world. And for another thing, we couldn't risk the scandal of tainted money. It would be nasty to have your great-grandfather's whisky deals with the Mohawk Indians chanted in a college yell." The crowd surged past them to the Washington express, and a waiting porter picked up Griswold's bags. "Wish you wouldn't go. I have three hours to wait," said Ardmore, looking at his watch, "and the only Atlanta man I know is out of town." "What did you say you were going to New Orleans for?" demanded Griswold, taking out his ticket and moving toward the gate. "I thought you exhausted the Creole restaurants long ago." "The fact is," faltered Ardmore, coloring, "I'm looking for some one." "Out with it--out with it!" commanded his friend. "I'm looking for a girl I saw from a car window day before yesterday. I had started north, and my train stopped to let a south-bound train pass somewhere in North Carolina. The girl was on the south-bound sleeper, and her window was opposite mine. She put aside the magazine she was reading and looked me over rather coolly." "And you glanced carelessly in the opposite direction and pulled down your shade, of course, like the well-bred man you are--" interrupted Griswold, holding fast to Ardmore's arm as they walked down the platform. "I did no such thing. I looked at her and she looked at me. And then my train started--" "Well, trains have a way of starting. Does the romance end here?" "Then, just at the last moment, she winked at me!" "It was a cinder, Ardy. The use of soft coal on railways is one of the saddest facts of American transportation. I need hardly remind you, Mr. Ardmore, that nice girls don't wink at strange young men. It isn't done!" "I would have you know, Professor, that this girl is a lady." "Don't be so irritable, and let me summarize briefly on your own hypothesis: You stared at a strange girl and she winked at you, safe in the consciousness that she would never see you again. And now you are going to New Orleans to look for her. She will probably meet you at the station, with her bridesmaids and wedding cake all ready for you. And you think this will lead to an adventure--you defer finding the North Pole for this--for this? Poor Ardy! But did she toss her card from the window? Why New Orleans? Why not Minneapolis, or Bangor, Maine?" "I'm not an ass, Grissy. I caught the name of the sleeper--you know they're all named, like yachts and tall buildings--the name of her car was the _Alexandra_. I asked our conductor where it was bound for, and he said it was the New Orleans car. So I took the first train back, ran into you here, and that's the whole story to date." "I admire your spirit. New Orleans is much pleasanter than the polar ice, and a girl with a winking eye isn't to be overlooked in this vale of tears. What did this alleviating balm for tired eyes look like, if you remember anything besides the wicked wink?" "She was bareheaded, and her hair was wonderfully light and fluffy, and it was parted in the middle and tied behind with a black ribbon in a great bow. She rested her cheek on her hand--her elbow on the window-sill, you know--and she smiled a little as the car moved off, and winked--do you understand? Her eyes were blue, Grissy, big and blue--and she was perfectly stunning." "There are winks and winks, Ardy," observed Griswold with a judicial air. "There is the wink inadvertent, to which no meaning can be attached. There is the wink deceptive, usually given behind the back of a third person, and a vulgar thing which we will not associate with your girl of the _Alexandra_. And then, to be brief, there is the wink of mischief, which is observed occasionally in persons of exceptional bringing up. There are moments in the lives of all of us when we lose our grip on conventions--on morality, even. The psychology of this matter is very subtle. Here you are, a gentleman of austerely correct life; here is a delightful girl, on whom you flash in an out-of-the-way corner of the world. And she, not wholly displeased by the frank admiration in your eyes--for you may as well concede that you stared at her--" "Well, I suppose I did look at her," admitted Ardmore reluctantly. "Pardonably, no doubt, just as you would look at a portrait in a picture gallery, of course. This boarding-school miss, who had never before lapsed from absolute propriety, felt the conventional world crumble beneath her as the train started. She could no more have resisted the temptation to wink than she could have refused a caramel or an invitation to appear as best girl at a church wedding. Thus wireless communication is established between soul and soul for an instant only, and then you are cut off forever. Perhaps, in the next world, Ardy--" Griswold and Ardmore had often idealized themselves as hopeless pursuers of the elusive, the unattainable, the impossible; or at least Ardmore had, and Griswold had entered into the spirit of this sort of thing for the joy it gave Ardmore. They had discussed frequently the call of soul to soul--the quick glance passing between perfect strangers in crowded thoroughfares, and had fruitlessly speculated as to their proper course in the event the call seemed imperative. A glance of the eye is one thing, but it is quite another to address a stranger and offer eternal friendship. The two had agreed that, while, soul-call or no soul-call, a gentleman must keep clear of steamer flirtations, and avoid even the most casual remarks to strange young women in any circumstances, a gentleman of breeding and character may nevertheless follow the world's long trails in search of a never-to-be-forgotten face. The fact is that Ardmore was exceedingly shy, and a considerable experience of fashionable society had not diminished this shortcoming. Griswold, on the other hand, had the Virginian's natural social instinct, but he suffered from a widely-diffused impression that much learning had made him either indifferent or extremely critical where women are concerned. Ardmore shrugged his shoulders and fumbled in his coat pockets as though searching for ideas. An austere composure marked his countenance at all times, and emphasized the real distinction of his clean-cut features. His way of tilting back his head and staring dreamily into vacancy had established for him a reputation for stupidity that was wholly undeserved. "Please limit the discussion to the present world, Professor." When Ardmore was displeased with Griswold he called him Professor, in a withering tone that disposed of the academic life. "We shall limit it to New Orleans or the universe, as you like." "I'm disappointed in you, Grissy. You don't take this matter in the proper spirit. I'm going to find that girl, I tell you." "I want you to find her, Ardy, and throw yourself at her feet. Be it far from me to deprive you of the joy of search. I thoroughly admire your resolute spirit. It smacks of the old heroic times. Nor can I conceal from you my consuming envy. If a girl should flatter me with a wink I should follow her thrice round the world. She should not elude me anywhere in the Copernican system. If it were not the nobler part for you to pursue alone, I should forsake my professorship and buckle on my armor and follow your standard-- With the winking eye For my battle-cry." And Griswold hummed the words, beating time with his stick, much to Ardmore's annoyance. "In my ignorance," Griswold continued, "I recall but one allusion to the wink in immortal song. If my memory serves me, it is no less a soul than Browning who sings: 'All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.' You seem worried, Ardy. Does the wink press so heavily, or what's the matter?" "The fact is, I'm in trouble. My sister says I've got to marry." "Which sister?" "Mrs. Atchison. You know Nellie? She's a nice girl and she's a good sister to me, but she's running me too hard on this marrying business. She's going to bring a bunch of girls down to Ardsley in a few days, and she says she'll stay until I make a choice." Griswold whistled. "Then, as we say in literary circles, you're up against it. No wonder you're beginning to take notice of the frolicsome boarding-school girl who winks at the world. I believe I'd rather take chances myself with that amiable sort than marry into your Newport transatlantic set." "Well, one thing's certain, Grissy. You've got to come to Ardsley and help me out while those people are there. Nellie likes you; she thinks you're terribly intellectual and all that, and if you'll throw in a word now and then, why--" "Why, I may be able to protect you from the crafts and assaults of your sister. You seem to forget, Ardy, that I'm not one of your American leisure class. I'm always delighted to meet Mrs. Atchison, but I'm a person of occupations. I have a consultation in Richmond to-morrow, then me for Charlottesville. We have examinations coming on, and, while I like to play with you, I've positively got to work." "Not if I endow all the chairs in the university! You've not only got to come, but you're going to be there the day they arrive." Thomas Ardmore, of New York and Ardsley, struck his heavy stick--he always carried a heavy stick--smartly on the cement platform in the stress of his feeling. He was much shorter than Griswold, to whom he was deeply attached--for whom he had, indeed, the frank admiration of a small boy for a big brother. He sometimes wondered how fully Griswold entered into the projects of adventure which he, in his supreme idleness, planned and proposed; but he himself had never been quite ready to mount horse or shake out sail, and what Griswold had said about indecision rankled in his heart. He was sorry now that he had told of this new enterprise to which he had pledged himself, but he grew lenient toward Griswold's lack of sympathy as he reflected that the quest of a winking girl was rather beneath the dignity of a gentleman wedded not merely to the law, but to the austere teaching profession as well. In his heart he forgave Griswold, but he was all the more resolved to address himself stubbornly to his pursuit of the deity of the car _Alexandra_, for only by finding her could he establish himself in Griswold's eyes as a man of action, capable of carrying through a scheme requiring cleverness and tact. Ardmore was almost painfully rich, but the usual diversions of the wealthy did not appeal to him, and, having exhausted foreign travel, he spent much time on his estate in the North Carolina hills, where he could ride all day on his own land, and where he read prodigiously in a huge library that he had assembled with special reference to works on piracy, a subject that had attracted him from early youth. It was this hobby that had sealed his friendship with Griswold, who had relinquished the practice of law, after a brilliant start in his native city of Richmond, to accept the associate professorship of admiralty in the law department of the University of Virginia. Marine law had a particular fascination for Griswold from its essentially romantic character. As a law student he had read all the decisions in admiralty that the libraries afforded, and, though faithfully serving the university, he still occasionally accepted retainers in admiralty cases of unusual importance. His lectures were constantly attended by students in other departments of the university for sheer pleasure in Griswold's racy and entertaining exposition of the laws touching the libeling of schooners and the recovery of jettisoned cargoes. Henry Maine Griswold was tall, slender and dark, and he hovered recklessly, as he might have put it, on the brink of thirty. He stroked his thin brown mustache habitually, as though to hide the smile that played about his humorous mouth--a smile that lay even more obscurely in his fine brown eyes. He did violence to the academic traditions by dressing with metropolitan care, gray being his prevailing note, though his scarfs ventured upon bold color schemes that interested his students almost as much as his lectures. The darkest fact of his life--and one shared with none--was his experiments in verse. From his undergraduate days he had written occasionally a little song, quite for his own pleasure in versifying, and to a little sheaf of these things in manuscript he still added a few verses now and then. "Don't worry, Ardy," he was saying to his friend as "all aboard" was called, "and don't be reckless. When you get through looking for the winking eye, come up to Charlottesville and we'll plan _The True Life of Captain Kidd_ that is some day going to make us famous." "I'll wire you later," replied Ardmore, clinging to his friend's hand a moment after the train began to move. Griswold leaned out of the vestibule to wave a last farewell to Ardmore, and something very kind and gentle and good to see shone in the lawyer's eyes. He went into the car smiling, for he called Ardmore his best friend, and he was amused by his last words, which were always Ardmore's last in their partings, and were followed usually by telegrams about the most preposterous things, or suggestions for romantic adventures, or some new hypothesis touching Captain Kidd and his buried treasure. Ardmore never wrote letters; he always telegraphed, and he enjoyed filing long, mysterious and expensive messages with telegraph operators in obscure places where a scrupulous ten words was the frugal limit. Griswold lighted a cigar and opened the afternoon Atlanta papers in the smoking compartment. His eye was caught at once by imperative head-lines. It is not too much to say that the eye of the continent was arrested that evening by the amazing disclosure, now tardily reaching the public, that something unusual had occurred at the annual meeting of the Cotton Planters' Association at New Orleans on the previous day. Every copy-reader and editor, every paragrapher on every newspaper in the land had smiled and reached for a fresh pencil as a preliminary bulletin announced the passing of harsh words between the Governor of North Carolina and the Governor of South Carolina. It may as well be acknowledged here that just what really happened at the Cotton Planters' convention will never be known, for this particular meeting was held behind closed doors, and as the two governors were honored guests of the association, no member has ever breathed a word touching an incident that all most sincerely deplored. Indeed, no hint of it would ever have reached the public had it not been that both gentlemen hurriedly left the convention hall, refused to keep their appointments to speak at the banquet that followed the business meetings, and were reported to have taken the first trains for their respective capitals. It was whispered by a few persons that the Governor of South Carolina had taken a fling at the authenticity of the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence; it was rumored in other quarters that the Governor of North Carolina was the aggressor, he having--it was said--declared that a people (meaning the freemen of the commonwealth of South Carolina) who were not intelligent enough to raise their own hay, and who, moreover, bought that article in Ohio, were not worth the ground necessary for their decent interment. It is not the purpose of this chronicle either to seek the truth of what passed between the two governors at New Orleans, or to discuss the points of history and agriculture raised in the statements just indicated. As every one knows, the twentieth of May (or was it the thirty-first!), 1775, is solemnly observed in North Carolina as the day on which the patriots of Mecklenburg County severed the relations theretofore existing between them and his Majesty, King George the Third. Equally well known is the fact that in South Carolina it is an article of religious faith that on that twentieth day of May, 1775, the citizens of Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, cheered the English flag and adopted resolutions reaffirming their ancient allegiance to the British crown. This controversy and the inadequacy of the South Carolina hay crop must be passed on to the pamphleteers, with such other vexed questions as Andrew Jackson's birthplace--more debated than Homer's and not to be carelessly conceded to the strutting sons of Waxhaw. Griswold read of the New Orleans incident with a smile, while several fellow-passengers discussed it in a tone of banter. One of them, a gentleman from Mississippi, presently produced a flask, which he offered to the others, remarking, "As the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina," which was, to be sure, pertinent to the hour and the discussion, and bristling with fresh significance. "They were both in Atlanta this morning," said the man with the flask, "and they would have been traveling together on this train if they hadn't met in the ticket office and nearly exploded with rage." The speaker was suddenly overcome with his own humor, and slapped his knee and laughed; then they all laughed, including Griswold. "One ought to have taken the lower berth and one the upper to make it perfect," observed an Alabama man. "I wonder when they'll get home." "They'll probably both walk to be sure they don't take the same train," suggested a commercial traveler from Cincinnati, who had just come from New Orleans. "Their friends are doing their best to keep them apart. They both have a reputation for being quick on the trigger." "Bosh!" exclaimed Griswold. "I dare say it's all a newspaper story. There's no knife-and-pistol nonsense in the South any more. They'll both go home and attend to their business, and that will be the last of it. The people of North Carolina ought to be proud of Dangerfield; he's one of the best governors they ever had. And Osborne is a first-class man, too, one of the old Palmetto families." "I guess they're both all right," drawled the Mississippian, settling his big black hat more firmly on his head. "Dangerfield spoke in our town at the state fair last year, and he's one of the best talkers I ever heard." Therefore, as no one appeared to speak for the governor of South Carolina, the drummer volunteered to vouch for his oratorical gifts, on the strength of an address lately delivered by Governor Osborne in a lecture course at Cincinnati. Being pressed by the Mississippian, he admitted that he had not himself attended the lecture, but he had heard it warmly praised by competent critics. The Mississippian had resented Griswold's rejection of the possibility of personal violence between the governors, and wished to return to the subject. "It's not only themselves," he declared, "but each man has got the honor of his state to defend. Suppose, when they met in the railway office at Atlanta this morning, Dangerfield had drawed his gun. Do you suppose, gentlemen, that if North Carolina had drawed South Carolina wouldn't have followed suit? I declare, young man, you don't know what you're talking about. If Bill Dangerfield won't fight, I don't know fightin' blood when I see it." "Well, sir," began the Alabama man, "my brother-in-law in Charleston went to college with Osborne, and many's the time I've heard him say that he was sorry for the man who woke up Charlie Osborne. Charlie--I mean the governor, you understand--is one of these fellows who never says much, but when you get him going he's terrible to witness. Bill Dangerfield may be Governor of North Car'line, and I reckon he is, but he ain't Governor of South Car'line, not by a damned good deal." The discussion had begun to bore Griswold, and he went back to his own section, having it in mind to revise a lecture he was preparing on _The Right of Search on the High Seas_. It had grown dark, and the car was brilliantly lighted. There were not more than half a dozen other persons in his sleeper, and these were widely scattered. Having taken an inventory of his belongings to be sure they were all at hand, he became conscious of the presence of a young lady in the opposite section. In the seat behind her sat an old colored woman in snowy cap and apron, who was evidently the young lady's servant. Griswold was aware that this dusky duenna bristled and frowned and pursed her lips in the way of her picturesque kind as he glanced at her, as though his presence were an intrusion upon her mistress, who sat withdrawn to the extreme corner of her section, seeking its fullest seclusion, with her head against a pillow, and the tips of her suède shoes showing under her gray traveling skirt on the further half of the section. She twirled idly in her fingers a half-opened white rosebud--a fact unimportant in itself, but destined to linger long in Griswold's memory. The pillow afforded the happiest possible background for her brown head, her cheek bright with color, and a profile clear-cut, and just now--an impression due, perhaps, to the slight quiver of her nostrils and the compression of her lips--seemingly disdainful of the world. Griswold hung up his hat and opened his portfolio; but the presence of the girl suggested Ardmore and his ridiculous quest of the alluring blue eye, and it was refreshing to recall Ardmore and his ways. Here was one man, at least, in this twentieth century, at whose door the Time Spirit might thump and thunder in vain. The black woman rose and ministered to her mistress, muttering in kind monotone consolatory phrases from which "chile" and "honey" occasionally reached Griswold's ears. The old mammy produced from a bag several toilet bottles, a fresh handkerchief, a hand mirror and a brush, which she arranged in the empty seat. The silver trinkets glowed brightly against the blue upholstery. "Thank you, Aunt Phoebe, I'm feeling much better. Just let me alone now, please." The girl put aside the white rose for a moment and breathed deeply of the vinaigrette, whose keen, pungent odor stole across the aisle to Griswold. She bent forward, took up the hand mirror, and brushed the hair away from her forehead with half a dozen light strokes. She touched her handkerchief to the cologne flask, passed it across her eyes, and then took up the rose again and settled back with a little sigh of relief. In her new upright position her gaze rested upon Griswold's newspapers, which he had flung down on the empty half of his section. One of them had fallen open and lay with its outer page staring with the bold grin of display type. TWO GOVERNORS AT WAR! WHAT DID THE GOVERNOR OF NORTH CAROLINA SAY TO THE GOVERNOR OF SOUTH CAROLINA? The color deepened in the girl's face; a slight frown gathered in her smooth forehead; then she called the colored woman and a brief colloquy followed between them. In a moment Griswold was addressed in a tone and manner at once condescending and deferential. "If yo' please, suh, would yo' all 'low my mistus t' look at yo' newspapahs?" "Certainly. Take them along." And Griswold, recalled from a passage in his lecture that dealt with contraband munitions of war, handed over the newspapers, and saw them pass into the hands of his fellow-passenger. He had read the newspapers pretty thoroughly, and knew the distribution of their contents, so that he noted with surprise the girl's immediate absorption in the telegrams from New Orleans relating to the difficulty between the two governors. As she read she lost, he thought, something of her splendid color, and at one point in her reading her face went white for a moment, and Griswold saw the paper wrinkle under the tightening grasp of her hands. The tidings from New Orleans had undoubtedly aroused her indignation, which expressed itself further in the rigid lines of her figure as she read, and in the gradual lifting of her head, as though with some new resolution. She seemed to lose account of her surroundings, and several times Griswold was quite sure that he heard her half exclaim, "Preposterous! Infamous!" When she had finished the New Orleans telegrams she cast the offending newspapers from her, then, recalling herself, summoned the black woman, and returned them to Griswold, the dusky agent expressing the elaborate thanks of her race for his courtesy. The girl had utterly ignored Griswold, and she now pulled down the curtain at her elbow with a snap and turned her face away from him. Professor Griswold's eyes wandered repeatedly from his manuscript to the car ceiling, then furtively to the uncompromisingly averted shoulder and head of the young lady, then back to his lecture notes, until he was weary of the process. He wished Ardmore were at hand, for his friend would find here a case that promised much better than the pursuit to which he had addressed himself. The girl in this instance was at least a self-respecting lady, not given to flirtations with chance travelers, and the brown eyes, of which Griswold had caught one or two fleeting glimpses, were clearly not of the winking sort. The attendance of the black mammy distinguished the girl as a person of quality, whose travels were stamped with an austere propriety. Her silver toilet articles testified to an acquaintance with the comforts if not the luxuries of life. The alligator-hide suit-case thrust under the seat bore the familiar label of a Swiss hotel where Griswold had once spent a week, and spoke of the girl's acquaintance with an ampler world. When Phoebe had brought it forth the initials "B. O." in small black letters suggested Baltimore and Ohio to Griswold's lazy speculations, whereupon he reflected that while Baltimore was plausible, the black servant eliminated Ohio; and as every Virginian knows every other Virginian, he tried to identify her with Old Dominion family names beginning with O, but without result. He finally concluded that, while her name might be Beatrice or Barbara, it could not be Bessie, and he decided that very likely the suit-case belonged to her brother Benjamin, in whom he felt no interest whatever. He went out to supper, secured the only remaining table for two, and was giving his order when the young lady appeared. She had donned her hat, and as she stood a moment in the entrance, surveying the line of tables, her distinction was undeniable. There were but two vacant places in the car, one facing Griswold, the other across the aisle at a larger table where three men were engaged in animated discussion. The girl viewed the prospect with evident disappointment as the waiter drew out the vacant chair at Griswold's table. She carried herself bravely, but wore still a _triste_ air that touched Griswold's sympathy. He rose, told the waiter that he would sit at the other table, and the girl murmured her thanks with a forlorn little smile as she took his seat. The appearance of Griswold aroused the Mississippian to a renewal of the discussion of the New Orleans incident. He was in excellent humor, and had carried to the car a quart bottle, which he pushed toward Griswold: "As the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina--" "No, thank you," and as he spoke Griswold's eyes fell upon the girl, and he saw annoyance written fleetingly on her face. "You needn't be afraid of that whisky. It's all right," the Mississippian protested. "I'm confident of that; but some other time, thank you." "Well, sir," the Mississippian declared, "after you left us a while ago we got to talking about Dangerfield and his trouble with Osborne. There's something back of this rumpus. You see, if they lived in the same state you might account for a fierce rivalry between them. Both of 'em, for example, might have the senatorial bee in their bonnets; but either one of 'em could make the senate any time he pleased. I guess they're the two biggest men in the South right now. They're too big to be touchy about any small matter; that's why I reckon there's something behind this little racket over there at New Orleans. No passing remark would send men off that way, so wild that they wouldn't travel on the same train together. Why, gentlemen--" "Please pass the salt," interposed Griswold. The Mississippian enjoyed the sound of his own voice, which boomed out above the noise of the train with broad effects of dialect that these types will not be asked to reproduce. Griswold's eyes had again met those of the girl opposite, and there was, he felt, a look of appeal in them. The discussion distressed her, just as the telegrams from New Orleans in the afternoon papers had distressed her, and Griswold began at once to entertain his table companions with his views on a number of national political issues, that were as vital to Arizona or Wyoming as to the Carolinas. He told stories to illustrate his points, and told them so well that his three companions forgot the estrangement of the belligerent governors. Griswold ran on in the low, musical voice that distinguishes the cultivated Virginian in any company anywhere in the world, and the noisy loquacity of the Mississippian went down before him. He was so intent on holding their attention that his dishes were taken from him almost untouched. The others lingered until his coffee was brought. He was so absorbed that he failed to see the smile that occasionally passed over the girl's face as some fragment of one of his stories found its way to her. He had undertaken to deflect the talk from a channel which had, it seemed, some painful association for her, but he had done more in unwittingly diverting her own thoughts by his droll humor. He did not cease until she had left the car, whereupon he followed his trio of auditors to the smoking compartment, and there suffered the Mississippian to hold uninterrupted sway. When he went back into the car at eleven o'clock he found the girl and her maid still sitting in their sections, though most of the other berths, including his own, had been made up. The train was slowing down, and, wishing a breath of air before retiring, he went to the rear platform of the sleeper, which was the last car of the train. The porter had opened the door in the vestibule to allow the brakeman to run back with his torpedoes. The baggage car had developed a hot box, and, jumping out, Griswold saw lanterns flashing ahead where the trainmen labored with the sick wheel. The porter vanished, leaving Griswold alone. The train had stopped at the edge of a small town, whose scattered houses lay darkly against the hills beyond. The platform lamps of a station shone a quarter of a mile ahead. The feverish steel yielded reluctantly to treatment, and Griswold went forward and watched the men at work for a few minutes, then returned to the end of the train. He swung himself into the vestibule and leaned upon the guard rail, gazing down the track toward the brakeman's lantern. Then he grew impatient at the continued delay and dropped down again, pacing back and forth in the road-bed behind the becalmed train. The night was overcast, with hints of rain in the air, and a little way from the rear lights it was pitch dark. Griswold felt sure that the train would not leave without the brakeman, and he was further reassured by the lanterns of the trainmen beside the baggage car. Suddenly, as he reached the car and turned to retrace his steps, a man sprang up, seemingly from nowhere, and accosted him. "I reckon y'u're the gov'nor, ain't y'u?" "Yes, certainly, my man. What can I do for you?" replied Griswold instantly. "I reckoned it was y'u when y'u fust come out on the platform. I'm app'inted to tell y'u, Gov'nor, that if y'u have Bill Appleweight arrested in South Car'lina, y'u'll get something one of these days y'u won't like. And if y'u try to find me y'u'll get it quicker. Good night, Gov'nor." "Good night!" stammered Griswold. The least irony had crept into the word governor as the man uttered it and slipped away into the darkness. The shadows swallowed him up; the frogs in the ditch beside the track chanted dolorously; then the locomotive whistled for the brakeman, whose lantern was already bobbing toward the train. As Griswold swung himself into the vestibule the girl who had borrowed his newspapers turned away hurriedly and walked swiftly before him to her section. The porter, who was gathering her things together, said, as she paused in the aisle by her seat: "Beginnin' to get ready, Miss Osbo'n. We're gwine intu Columbia thirty minutes late all account dat hot box." Griswold passed on to the smoking compartment and lighted a cigar. His acquaintances of the supper table had retired, and he was glad to be alone with his thoughts before the train reached Columbia. He dealt harshly with himself for his stupidity in not having associated the girl's perturbation over the breach between the governor of North Carolina and the governor of South Carolina with the initials on her traveling bag; he had been very dull, but it was clear to him now that she was either the daughter or some other near relative of Governor Osborne. In a few minutes she would leave the train at Columbia, where the governor lived, and, being a gentleman, he would continue on his way to Richmond, and thence to the university, and the incident would be closed. But Griswold was a lawyer, and he had an old-fashioned Southern lawyer's respect for the majesty of law. On the spur of curiosity or impulse he had received a threatening message intended for the governor of South Carolina, who, from the manner of the delivery of the message, had been expected on this train. Griswold argued that the man who had spoken to him had been waiting at the little station near which they had stopped, in the hope of seeing the governor; that the waiting messenger had taken advantage of the unexpected halt of the train, and, further, that some suggestion of the governor in his own appearance had deceived the stranger. He felt the least bit guilty at having deceived the man, but it was now clearly his duty to see that the governor was advised of the threat that had been communicated in so unusual a manner. He was pondering whether he should do this in person or by letter or telegram, when the rattle of the train over the switch frogs in the Columbia yards brought him to the point of decision. The porter thrust his head into the compartment. "Columbia, sah. Yo' berth's all ready, sah. Yo' gwine t' Richmond--yes, sah." His hands were filled with the young lady's luggage. The lettering on the suit-case seemed, in a way, to appeal to Griswold and to fix his determination. "Porter! Put my things off. I'll wait here for the morning train." CHAPTER II THE ABSENCE OF GOVERNOR OSBORNE Griswold spent the night at the Saluda House, Columbia, and rose in the morning with every intention of seeing Governor Osborne, or some one in authority at his office, as soon as possible and proceeding to Richmond without further delay. As he scanned the morning newspaper at breakfast he read with chagrin this item, prominently head-lined: Governor Osborne, who was expected home from the Cotton Planters' Convention yesterday morning has been unavoidably detained in Atlanta by important personal business. Miss Barbara Osborne arrived last night and proceeded at once to the governor's mansion. Several matters of considerable importance await the governor's return. Among these is the matter of dealing with the notorious Bill Appleweight. It is understood that the North Carolina officials are unwilling to arrest Appleweight, though his hiding-place in the hills on the border near Kildare is well known. Although he runs back and forth across the state line at pleasure, he is a North Carolinian beyond question, and it's about time Governor Dangerfield took note of the fact. However, the governor of South Carolina may be relied on to act with his usual high sense of public duty in this matter. Professor Griswold was not pleased to learn that the governor was still absent from the capital. He felt that he deserved better luck after the trouble he had taken to warn the governor. His conscience had got the better of his comfort--he knew that, and he wrote a telegram to the law firm at Richmond with which he was consultant, asking that a meeting with certain clients arranged for to-day be deferred twenty-four hours. It was now Tuesday; he had no further lectures at the university until the following Monday, and after he had taken his bearings of Columbia, where it occurred to him he had not an acquaintance, he walked toward the capitol with a well-formed idea of seeing the governor's private secretary--and, if that person appeared to be worthy of confidence, apprising him of the governor's danger. Standing in the many-pillared portico of the capitol, Griswold turned to look down upon Columbia, a city distinguished to the most casual eye by streets an acre wide! And having an historical imagination and a reverence for the past, Griswold gave himself for a moment to Memory, hearing the tramp of armed hosts, and the thunder of cannon, and seeing flames leap again in the wake of battle. It was a glorious day, and the green of late May lay like a soft scarf upon the city. The sky held the wistful blue of spring. Griswold bared his head to the faint breeze, or perhaps unconsciously he saluted the bronze figure of Hampton, who rides forever there at the head of his stubborn legion. He turned into the capitol with a little sigh, for he was a son of Virginia, and here, in this unfamiliar scene, the Past was revivified, and he felt the spell of things that were already old when he was born. It was not yet nine o'clock when he entered the governor's office. He waited in the reception-room, adjoining the official chamber, but the several desks of the clerical staff remained unoccupied. He chafed a bit as time passed and no one appeared, for his north-bound train left at eleven, and he could not fairly be asked to waste the entire day here. He was pacing the floor, expecting one of the clerks to appear at any moment, when a man entered hurriedly, walked to the closed inner door, shook it impatiently, and kicked it angrily as he turned away. He was a short, thick-set man of thirty-five, dressed in blue serge, and his movements were quick and nervous. He growled under his breath and swung round upon Griswold as though to tax him with responsibility for the closed door. "Has no one been here this morning?" he demanded, glaring at the closed desks. "If you don't count me I should answer no," replied Griswold quietly. "Oh!" The two gentlemen regarded each other for a moment, contemptuous dislike clearly written on the smaller man's face, Griswold half-smiling and indifferent. "I am waiting for the governor," remarked Griswold, thinking to gain information. "Then you're likely to wait some time," jerked the other. "The whole place seems to be abandoned. I never saw such a lot of people." "Not having seen them myself, I must reserve judgment," Griswold remarked, and the blue serge suit flung out of the room. Presently another figure darkened the entrance, and the colored servant whom Griswold had seen attending Miss Osborne on the train from Atlanta swept into the reception-room and, grandly ignoring his presence, sat down in a chair nearest the closed door of the inner chamber. Griswold felt that this was encouraging, as implying some link between the governor and his domestic household and he was about to ask the colored woman if she knew the business hours of the office when the closed door opened and Miss Osborne appeared on the threshold. The colored woman rose, and Griswold, who happened to be facing the door when it swung open with such startling suddenness, stared an instant and bowed profoundly. "I beg your pardon, but I wish very much to see Governor Osborne or his secretary." Miss Osborne, in white, trailing a white parasol in her hand, and with white roses in her belt, still stood half withdrawn inside the private office. "I am very sorry that Governor Osborne and his secretary are both absent," she answered, and the two eyed each other gravely. Griswold felt that the brown eyes into which he looked had lately known tears; but she held her head high, with a certain defiance, even. "That is unfortunate. I stopped here last night on purpose to see him, and now I fear that I must leave--" and he smiled the Griswold smile, which was one of the secrets of his popularity at the university--"I must leave Columbia in a very few minutes." "The office does not keep very early hours," remarked the girl, "but some one will certainly be here in a moment. I am sorry you have had to wait." She had not changed her position, and Griswold rather hoped she would not, for the door framed her perfectly, and the sunlight from the inner windows emphasized the whiteness of the snowy gown she wore. Her straw hat was shaped like a soldier's campaign hat, with sides pinned up, the top dented, and a single feather thrust into the side. "It was not I," said Griswold, "who so rudely shook the door. I beg that you will acquit me of that violence." The girl did not, however, respond to his smile. She poked the floor with her parasol a moment, then raised her head and asked: "Who was it, if you please?" "A gentleman with a brown beard, a red necktie, and a bad disposition." "I thought as much," she said, half to herself, and her eyes were bent again upon the point of her parasol, with which she was tracing a design in the rug. She lifted her head with the abruptness of quick decision, and looked straight at Griswold. The negress had withdrawn to the outer door, by which she sat with sphinx-like immovability. "I am Miss Osborne. Governor Osborne is my father. Would you mind telling me whether your business with my father is--" She hesitated, and her eyes met Griswold's. "Miss Osborne, as I have no acquaintances here, let me introduce myself. My name is Griswold. My home is Charlottesville. Pardon me, but you and I were fellow-passengers from Atlanta yesterday evening. I am unacquainted with your father, and I have no business with him except--" He was not yet clear in his mind whether to tell her that her father's life was threatened; it did not seem fair to alarm her when he was powerless to help; but as he weighed the question the girl came out into the reception-room and sat down near the window. "Won't you have a seat, Mr. Griswold? May I ask you again whether you know the gentleman who came in here and beat the door a while ago?" "I never saw him before in my life." "That is very well. And now, Mr. Griswold, I am going to ask you to tell me, if you will, just what it is you wish to say to my father." She was very earnest, and the request she made rang the least bit imperiously. She now held the white parasol across her lap in the tight clasp of her white-gloved hands. "I should not hesitate--" began Griswold, still uncertain what to do. "You need not hesitate in the fear that you may alarm me. I think I know"--and she half-smiled now--"I think perhaps I know what it is." "My reason for wishing to see your father is, then, to warn him that if a criminal named Appleweight is brought back from his hiding-place on the North Carolina frontier, and tried for his crimes in South Carolina, the governor of that state, your father, will be made to suffer by Appleweight's friends." "That is what I thought," said the girl, slowly nodding her head. "And now, to be quite honest about it, Miss Osborne, I must confess that I received this warning last night from a man who believed me to be the governor. To tell the truth, I told him I was the governor!" The girl's eyes made a fresh inventory of Griswold, then she laughed for the first time--a light laugh of honest mirth that would not be gainsaid. The beautiful color deepened in her cheeks; her eyes lighted merrily, as though at the drollery of Griswold standing, so to speak, _in loco parentis_. "I have my own confession to make. I heard what you said to that man. I had gone to the rear platform to see what was the matter. The stop there in that preposterous place seemed interminable. You must have known that I listened." "I didn't suppose you heard what that man said to me or what I said to him. I don't know how I came to palm myself off as the governor--I am not in the habit of doing such things, but it was due, I think, to the fact that I had just been saying to a friend of mine at Atlanta--" He ceased speaking, realizing that what he might have said to Ardmore was not germane to the point at issue. His responsibility for the life and security of Governor Osborne of the sovereign state of South Carolina was at an end, and he was entering upon a social chat with Governor Osborne's daughter. Some such thought must have passed through her mind, too, for she straightened herself in her chair and dropped the point of her parasol to the floor. But she was the least bit curious, in spite of herself. The young man before her, who held his hat and gloves so quietly and who spoke with so nice a deference in a voice so musical, was beyond question a gentleman, and he had stopped at Columbia to render her father a service. There was no reason why she should not hear what he had said to his friend at Atlanta. "What had you been saying, Mr. Griswold?" "Oh, really nothing after all! I'm ashamed of it now! But he's the most amusing person, with nothing to do but to keep himself amused. We discuss many daring projects, but we are never equal to them. I had just been telling him that we were incapable of action; that while we plan our battles the foe is already breaking down the outer defenses and beating in the gates. You see, we are both very ridiculous at times, and we talk that sort of idiocy to keep up our spirits. And having berated my friend for his irresolution, I seized the first opportunity to prove my own capacity for meeting emergencies. The man flattered me with the assumption that I was the governor of South Carolina, and I weakly fell." Distress was again written in Miss Osborne's face. She had paid little heed to the latter half of Griswold's recital, though she kept her eyes fixed gravely upon him. In a moment the gentleman in blue serge who had manifested so much feeling over the governor's absence strode again into the room. "Ah, Miss Osborne, so you are back!" He bowed over the girl's hand with a great deal of manner, then glanced at once toward the door of the private office. "Hasn't your father come in yet? I have been looking for him since eight o'clock." "My father is not home yet, Mr. Bosworth." "Not home! Do you mean to say that he won't be here to-day?" "I hardly expect him," replied the girl calmly. "Very likely he will be at home to-night or in the morning." Griswold had walked away out of hearing; but he felt that the girl purposely raised her voice so that he might hear what she said. "I must know where he is; there's an important matter waiting--a very serious matter it may prove for him if he isn't here to-day to pass on it. I must wire him at once." "Very good. You had better do so, Mr. Bosworth. He's at the Peach Tree Club, Atlanta." "Atlanta! Do you mean to say that he isn't even in this state to-day?" "No, Mr. Bosworth, and I advise you to telegraph him immediately if your business is so urgent." "It isn't my business, Barbara; it's the state's business; it's your father's business, and if he isn't here to attend to it by to-morrow at the latest, it will go hard with him. He has enemies who will construe his absence as meaning--" He spoke rapidly, with rising anger, but some gesture from the girl arrested him, and he turned frowningly to see Griswold calmly intent upon an engraving at the further end of the room. The colored woman was dozing in her chair. Before Bosworth could resume, the girl spoke, her voice again raised so that every word reached Griswold. "If you refer to the Appleweight case, I must tell you, Mr. Bosworth, that I have all confidence that my father will act whenever he sees fit." "But the people--" "My father is not afraid of the people," said the girl quietly. "But you don't understand, Barbara, how much is at stake here. If some action isn't taken in that matter within twenty-four hours your father will be branded as a coward by every newspaper in the state. You seem to take it pretty coolly, but it won't be a trifling matter for him." "I believe," replied the girl, rising, "that you have said all that I care to hear from you now or at any further time, Mr. Bosworth, about this or any other matter." "But, Barbara--" Miss Osborne turned her back and walked to the window. Bosworth stared a moment, then rushed angrily from the room. Griswold abandoned his study of the picture, and gravely inclined his head as Bosworth passed. Then he waited a minute. The girl still stood at the window, and there was, Griswold felt, something a little forlorn in her figure. It was quite time that he was off if he caught his train for Richmond. He crossed the room, and as he approached the window Miss Osborne turned quickly. "It was kind of you to wait. That man is the state's attorney-general. You doubtless heard what he said to me." "Yes, Miss Osborne, I could not help hearing. I did not leave, because I wished to say--" The associate professor of admiralty in the department of law of the University of Virginia hesitated and was lost. Miss Osborne's eyes were brown, with that hint of bronze, in certain lights, that is the distinctive possession of the blessed. Health and spirit spoke in her bright color. She was tall and straight, and there was something militant in her figure as she faced Griswold. "I beg to say, Miss Osborne, that if there is any way in which I can serve you, my time is wholly at your disposal." "I thank you. I fear that you have already given yourself too much trouble in stopping here. My father will wish to thank you on his return." Her lips trembled, and tears were bright in her eyes. Then she regained control of herself. "Mr. Griswold, I have no claim whatever on your kindness, but I am in very great distress. I don't see just where I can turn for aid to any one I know. But you as a stranger may be able to help me--if it isn't asking too much--but then I know it is asking too much!" "Anything, anything whatever," urged Griswold kindly. "Mr. Bosworth, the attorney-general, warns me that if my father does not use the power of the state to capture this outlaw Appleweight, the results will be disastrous. He says my father must act immediately. He demanded his address, and, and--I gave it to him." "But you must remember, Miss Osborne, that the attorney-general probably knows the intricacies of this case. He must have every reason for upholding your father; in fact, it's his sworn duty to advise him in such matters as this." "There's another side to that, Mr. Griswold," and the girl's color deepened; but she smiled and went on. It was quite evident that she was animated now by some purpose, and that she was resolved to avail herself of Griswold's proffered aid. "I have my own reasons for doubting Mr. Bosworth's motives; and I resent his assumption that my father is not doing his full duty. No one can speak to me of my father in that way--no one!" "Certainly not, Miss Osborne!" "This whole matter must be kept as quiet as possible. I can appeal to no one here without the risk of newspaper publicity which would do my father very great injury. But if it is not altogether too great a favor, Mr. Griswold, may I ask that you remain here until to-night--until my father returns? His secretary has been ill and is away from town. The other clerks I sent away on purpose this morning. Father had left his office keys at home, and I came in to see if I could find the papers in the Appleweight case. They are there, and on the top of the packet is a requisition on the governor of North Carolina for Appleweight's return." "Signed?" "Signed. I'm sure he had only deferred acting in the case until his return, and he should have been back to-day." "But of course he will be back; it is inconceivable that he should ignore, much less evade, a duty as plain as this--the governor of a state--it is preposterous! His business in Atlanta accounts for his absence. Governor Osborne undoubtedly knows what he is about." "My father is not in Atlanta, Mr. Griswold. He is not at the Peach Tree Club, and has not been. I have not the slightest idea where my father is!" The echoing whistle of the departing Virginia express reached them faintly as they stood facing each other before the open window in the governor's reception-room. CHAPTER III THE JUG AND MR. ARDMORE Mr. Thomas Ardmore, of New York and Ardsley, having seen his friend Griswold depart, sought a book-shop where, as in many other book-shops throughout the United States, he kept a standing order for any works touching piracy, a subject, which, as already hinted, had long afforded him infinite diversion. He had several hours to wait for his train to New Orleans, and he was delighted to find that the bookseller, whom he had known only by correspondence, had just procured for him, through the dispersion of a Georgia planter's valuable library, that exceedingly rare narrative, _The Golden Galleons of the Caribbean_, by Dominguez y Pascual--a beautifully bound copy of the original Madrid edition. With this volume under his arm Ardmore returned to the hotel where he was lodged and completed his arrangements for leaving. It should be known that Mr. Thomas Ardmore was a person of democratic tastes and habits. In his New York house were two servants whose sole business it was to keep himself and his wardrobe presentable; yet he preferred to travel unattended. He was, by nature, somewhat secretive, and his adventurous spirit rebelled at the thought of being followed about by a hired retainer. His very wealth was, in a way, a nuisance, for wherever he went the newspapers chronicled his movements, with speculations as to the object of his visit, and dark hints at large public gifts which the city honored by his presence at once imagined would be bestowed upon it forthwith. The American press constantly execrated his family, and as he was sensitive to criticism he kept very much to himself. It was a matter of deep regret to Ardmore that his great-grandfather, whose name he bore, should have trifled with the morals of the red men, but he philosophized that it was not his fault, and if he had known how to squeeze the whisky from the Ardmore millions he would have been glad to do so. His own affairs were managed by the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, and Ardmore took little personal interest in any of his belongings except his estate in North Carolina, where he dreamed his dreams, and had, on the whole, a pretty good time. When he had finished packing his trunk he went down to the dinner he had ordered to be in readiness at a certain hour, at a certain table, carefully chosen beforehand; for Ardmore was very exacting in such matters and had an eye to the comforts of life, as he understood them. As he crossed the hotel lobby on his way to the restaurant he was accosted by a reporter for the Atlanta _Palladium_, who began to question him touching various Ardmores who were just then filling rather more than their usual amount of space in the newspapers. Ardmore's family, with the single exception of his sister, Mrs. Atchison, bored him immensely. His two brothers and another sister, the Duchess of Ballywinkle, kept the family name in display type a great deal of the time, and their performances had practically driven Thomas Ardmore from New York. He felt keenly his shame in being brother-in-law to a dissolute duke, and the threatened marriage of one of his brothers to a chorus girl had added, he felt, all too great a burden to a family tree whose roots, he could not forget it, were soaked in contraband rum. The reporter was a well-mannered youth and Ardmore shook his hand encouragingly. He was rather curious to see what new incident in the family history was to be the subject of inquisition, and the reporter immediately set his mind at rest. "Pardon me, Mr. Ardmore, but is it true that your sister, the Duchess of Ballywinkle, has separated from the duke?" "You may quote me as saying that while I am not quite sure, yet I sincerely hope the reports are true. To be frank with you, I do not like the duke; in fact, strictly between ourselves, I disliked him from the first," and Ardmore shook his head gravely, and meditatively jingled the little gold pieces that he always carried in his trousers pockets. "Well, of course, I had heard that there was some trouble between you and your brother-in-law, but can't the _Palladium_ have your own exact statement, Mr. Ardmore, of what caused the breach between you?" Ardmore hesitated and turned his head cautiously. "You understand, of course, that this discussion is painful to me, extremely painful. And yet, so much has been published about my sister's domestic affairs--" "Exactly, Mr. Ardmore. What we want is to print _your_ side of the story." "Very decent of you, I'm sure. But the fact is--" and Ardmore glanced over his shoulder again to be sure he was not overheard--"the fact is--" and he paused, batting his eyes as though hesitating at the point of an important disclosure. "Yes, Mr. Ardmore," encouraged the reporter. "Well, I don't mind telling _you_, but don't print this. Let it be just between ourselves." "Oh, of course, if you say not--" "That's all right; I have every confidence in your discretion; but, if this will go no further, I don't mind telling you--" "You may rely on me absolutely, Mr. Ardmore." "Then, with the distinct understanding that this is _sub rosa_--now we _do_ understand each other, don't we?" pleaded Ardmore. "Perfectly, Mr. Ardmore," and the perspiration began to bead the reporter's forehead in his excitement over the impending revelation. "Then you shall know why I feel so bitter about the duke. I assure you that nothing but the deepest chagrin over the matter causes me to tell you what I have never revealed before--not even to members of my family--not to my most intimate friend." "I appreciate all that--" "Well, the fact is--but please never mention it--the fact is that his Grace owes me four dollars. I gave it to him in two bills--I remember the incident perfectly--two crisp new bills I had just got at the bank. His Grace borrowed the money to pay a cabman--it was the very day before he married my sister. Now let me ask you this: Can an American citizen allow a duke to owe him four dollars? The villain never referred to the matter again, and from that day to this I have made it a rule never to lend money to a duke." The reporter stared a moment, then laughed. He abandoned the idea of getting material for a sensational article and scented the possibilities of a character sketch of the whimsical young millionaire. "How about that story that your brother, Samuel Ardmore, is going to marry the chorus girl he ran over in his automobile?" "I hope it's true; I devoutly do. I'm very fond of music myself, and, strange to say, nobody in our family is musical. I think a chorus girl would be a real addition to our family. It would bring up the family dignity--you can see that." "The wires brought a story this afternoon that your cousin, Wingate Siddall--he _is_ your cousin, isn't he--?" "I'm afraid so. What's Siddy's latest?" "Why, it's reported that he's going to cross the Atlantic in a balloon. Can you tell us anything about that, from the inside?" "Well, the ocean is only four miles deep; I'd take more interest in Cousin Siddy's ballooning if you could make it a couple of miles more to the dead men's chests. And now, much as I'd like to prolong this conversation, I've got to eat or I'll miss my train." "If you don't mind saying where you are going, Mr. Ardmore?" "I'd tell you in a minute, only I haven't fully decided yet; but I shall probably take the Sambo Flyer at 9:13, if you don't make me lose it." "You have large interests in Arkansas, I believe, Mr. Ardmore?" "Yes; important interests. I'm searching for the original fiddle of the Arkansaw Traveler. When I find it I'm going to give it to the British Museum. And now you really must excuse me." Ardmore looked the reporter over carefully as they shook hands. He was an attractive young fellow, alert and good humored, and Ardmore liked him, as, in his shy way, he really liked almost every one who seemed to be a human being. "I'll tell you what I'll do with you. If you'll forget this rot we've been talking and come up to Ardsley as soon as I get home, I'll see if I can't keep you amused for a couple of weeks. I don't offer that as a bribe; my family affairs are of interest to nobody but hostlers and kitchen maids. Wire me at Ardsley when you're ready, throw away your lead-pencil, then come on and I'll show you the finest collection of books on Captain Kidd in the known world. What did you say your name is? Collins, Frank Collins? I never forget anything, so don't disappoint me." "That's mighty nice of you, but I don't have much time for vacations," replied the reporter, who was, however, clearly pleased. "If the office won't give you a couple of weeks, wire me and I'll buy the paper." The young man laughed outright. "I'll remember; I really believe you mean for me to come." "Of course I do. It's all settled; make it next week. Good-by!" Ardmore ate his dinner oblivious of the fact that people at the neighboring tables turned to look at him. He overheard his name mentioned, and a woman just behind him let it be known to her companions and any one else who cared to hear that he was the brother-in-law of the Duke of Ballywinkle. Another voice in the neighborhood kindly remarked that Ardmore was the only decent member of the family, and that he was not the one whose wife had just left him, nor yet the one who was going to marry the chorus girl whose father kept a delicatessen shop in Hoboken. It is very sad to be unable to dine without having family skeletons joggle one's elbow, and Ardmore was annoyed. The head waiter hung officiously near; the man who served him was distressingly eager; and then the voice behind him rose insistently: "--worth millions and yet he can't find anybody to eat with him." This was almost true and a shadow passed across Ardmore's face and his eyes grew grave as he humbly reflected that he was indeed a pitiable object. He waved away his plate and called for coffee, and at that moment a middle-aged man appeared at the door, scanned the room for a moment and then threaded his way among the tables to Ardmore. "I heard you were here and thought I'd look you up. How are you, Ardy?" "Very well, thank you, Mr. Billings. Have you dined? Sorry; which way are you heading?" The new-comer had the bearing of a gentleman used to consideration. He was, indeed, the secretary of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, whose business was chiefly the administration of the Ardmore estate, and Ardmore knew him very well. He was afraid that Billings had traced him to Atlanta for one of those business discussions which always vexed and perplexed him so grievously, and the thought of this further depressed his spirits. But the secretary at once eased his mind. "I'm looking for a man, and I'm not good at the business. I've lost him and I don't understand it, I don't understand it," and the secretary seemed to be half-musing to himself as he sat down and rested his arms on the table. "You might give me the job. I'm following a slight clue myself just at present." The secretary, who had no great opinion of Ardmore's mental capacity, stared at the young man vacantly. Then it occurred to him that possibly Ardmore might be of service. "Have you been at Ardsley recently?" he asked. "Left there only a few days ago." "You haven't seen your governor lately, have you?" "My governor?" Ardmore stared blankly. "Why, Mr. Billings, don't you remember that father's dead?" "I don't mean your father, Ardy," replied Billings with the exaggerated care of one who deals with extreme stupidity. "I mean the governor of North Carolina--one of the American states. Ardsley is still in North Carolina, isn't it?" "Oh, yes; of course. But bless your soul, I don't know the governor. Why should one?" "I don't know why, Ardy; but people sometimes do know governors and find it useful." "I'm not in politics any more, Mr. Billings. What's this person's name?" "Dangerfield. Don't you ever read the newspapers?" demanded the secretary, striving to control his inner rage. He was in trouble and Ardmore's opaqueness taxed his patience. And yet Tommy Ardmore had given him less trouble than any other member of the Ardmore family. The others galloped gaily through their incomes; Tommy was rapidly augmenting his inheritance from sheer neglect or inability to scatter his dividends. "No; I quit reading newspapers after the noble Duke of Ballywinkle didn't break the bank at Monte Carlo that last time. I often wish, Mr. Billings, that the Mohawks had scalped my great-grandfather before they bought his whisky. That would have saved me the personal humiliation of being brother-in-law to a duke." "You mustn't be so thin-skinned. You pay the penalty of belonging to one of the wealthiest families in America," and Billings' tone was paternal. "So I've heard, but I'm not so terribly proud of it. What about this governor?" "That's what troubles me--what of the governor?" Billings dropped his voice so that no one but Ardmore could hear. "He's missing--disappeared." "That's the first interesting thing I ever heard of a governor doing," said Ardmore. "Tell me more." "He's had a row with the governor of South Carolina at New Orleans. I was to have met him here on an important matter of business this afternoon, but he's cleared out and nobody knows what's become of him. His daughter, even, who was in New Orleans with him, doesn't know where he is." "When was she in New Orleans with him?" asked Ardmore, looking at his watch. "She--who?" asked Billings, annoyed. "Why, the daughter!" "I don't know anything about the daughter, but if I could find her father I'd give him a piece of my mind," and the secretary's face flushed angrily. "Well, I suppose she isn't the one I'm looking for, anyhow," said Ardmore resignedly. "I should hope not," blurted Billings, who had not really taken in what Ardmore said, but who assumed that it must necessarily be something idiotic. "She had fluffy hair," persisted Ardmore to this serious-minded gentleman whose life was devoted to the multiplication of the Ardmore millions. Ardmore's tone was that of a child who persists in babbling inanities to a distracted parent. "Better let girls alone, Tommy. Mrs. Atchison told me you were going to marry Daisy Waters, and I should heartily approve the match." "Did Nellie tell you that? I wonder if she's told Daisy yet? You'll have to excuse me now, for I'm taking the Sambo Flyer. I'd like to find your governor for you; and if you'll tell me when he was seen last--" "Right here, just before noon to-day, and a couple of hours before I reached town. His daughter either doesn't know where he went or she won't tell." "Ah! the daughter! She remains behind to guard his retreat." "The daughter is still here. She's a peppery little piece," and Billings looked guardedly around the room. "That's she, alone over there in the corner--the girl with the white feather in her hat who's just signing her check. There--she's getting up!" Ardmore gazed across the room intently, then suddenly a slight smile played about his lips. To gain the door the girl must pass by his table, and he scrutinized her closely as she drew near and passed. She was a little girl, and her light fluffy hair swept out from under a small blue hat in a shell-like curve, and the short skirt of her tailor-made gown robbed her, it seemed, of years to which the calendar might entitle her. "She gave me the steadiest eye I ever looked into when I asked her where her father had gone," remarked Billings grimly as the girl passed. "She said she thought he'd gone fishing for whales." "So she's Miss Dangerfield, is she?" asked Ardmore indifferently; and he rose, leaving on the plate, by a sudden impulse of good feeling toward the world, exactly double the generous tip he had intended giving. Billings was glad to be rid of Ardmore and they parted in the hotel lobby without waste of words. The secretary of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company announced his intention of remaining another day in Atlanta in the hope of finding Governor Dangerfield, and he was so absorbed in his own affairs that he did not heed, if indeed he heard, Ardmore's promise to keep an eye out for the lost governor. Like most other people the secretary of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company did not understand Ardmore, but Thomas Ardmore, having long ago found himself ill-judged by the careless world, lived by standards of his own, and these would have meant nothing whatever to Billings. Ardmore's effects had been brought down and were already piled on a carriage at the door. In his pocket was his passage to New Orleans and a state-room ticket. At the cashier's desk Miss Dangerfield paid her bill, just ahead of him. "If any telegrams come for my father please forward them to Raleigh," said the girl. The manager came out personally to show her to her carriage, and having shut the door upon her, he wished Ardmore, who stood discreetly by, a safe journey. "Off for New Orleans, are you, Mr. Ardmore?" asked the manager courteously. "No," said Ardmore, "I'm going to Raleigh to look at the tall buildings," whereat the manager returned to his duties, gravely shaking his head. At the station Ardmore caught sight of Miss Dangerfield, attended by two porters, hurrying toward the Tar Heel Express. He bought a ticket to Raleigh, and secured the last available berth from the conductor on the platform at the moment of departure. Ardmore did not like to be hurried, and this sudden change of plans had been almost too much for him, but he was consoled by the reflection that after all these years of waiting for just such an adventure he had proved himself equal to an emergency that required quick thought and swift action. He had not only found the girl with the playful eye, but he had learned her identity without, as it were, turning over his hand. Not even Griswold, who was the greatest man he knew--Griswold with his acute legal mind and ability to carry through contests of wit with lawyers of highest repute--not even Griswold, Ardmore flattered himself, could have managed better. The state-room door stood open, and from his seat at the farther end of the car Ardmore caught a fleeting glimpse of Miss Dangerfield as she threw off her jacket and hat; then she summoned the porter, gave him her tickets, bade him a smiling good night and the door closed upon her. The broad grin on the porter's face--a grin of delight as though he had spoken with some exalted deity--filled Ardmore with bitterest envy. He went back to smoke and plan his future movements. For the first time in his life he faced to-morrow with eager anticipations, resolved that nothing should thwart his high resolves, though these, to be sure, were somewhat hazy. Then, from a feeling of great satisfaction, his spirit reacted and he regretted that he had been deprived of the joy of prolonged search. If he could only have followed her until, at the last moment, when about to give up forever and accept the frugal consolations of memory, he met her somewhere face to face! These reflections led him to wonder whether he might not have been mistaken about the wink after all. Griswold, with his wider knowledge of the world, had scouted the idea. Very likely if one of those blue eyes had actually winked at him it had been out of mere playfulness, and he would never in the world refer to it when they met. Billings had applied the term peppery to her, and he felt that he should always hate Billings for this; Billings was only a financial automaton anyhow, who bought at the lowest and sold at the highest, and bored one very often with strangely-worded papers which one was never expected to understand. He did not know why Billings was so anxious to find Miss Dangerfield's father, but as between a man of Billings' purely commercial instincts and the governor of a great state like North Carolina Ardmore resolved to stand by the Dangerfields to the end of the chapter. He was proud to remember his estate at Ardsley, which was in Governor Dangerfield's jurisdiction, and had been visited by the game warden, the state forester, and various other members of the governor's official household, though Ardmore could not remember their names. He had never in his life visited Raleigh, but far down some dim vista of memory he saw Sir Walter covering a mud-puddle with his cloak for Queen Elizabeth. It was a picture of this moving incident in an old history that rose before him, as he tried vainly to recall just how it was that Sir Walter had lost his head. He wondered whether Miss Dangerfield's name was Elizabeth, though he hoped not, as the name suggested a town in New Jersey where his motor had once broken down on a rainy evening when he was carrying Griswold to Princeton to deliver a lecture. Ardmore smoked many pipes and did not turn in until after midnight. The car was hot and stuffy and he slept badly. At some hour of the morning, being again awake and restless, he fished his dressing-gown and slippers out of his bag and went out on the rear platform. His was the last car, and he found a camp-stool and crouched down upon it in a corner of the vestibule and stared out into the dark. The hum and click of the rails soothed him and he yielded himself to pleasant reveries. Griswold was well on his way back to Virginia, he remembered--"dear old Grissy!" he murmured; but he resolved to tell Griswold nothing of the prosperous course of his quest. Griswold would never, he knew, countenance so grave a performance as the following of a strange girl to her home; but this would be something for later justification. Ardmore was half-dozing when the train stopped so abruptly that he was pitched from the camp-stool into a corner of the entry. He got himself together and leaned out into the cool moist air. The porter came out and stared, for a gentleman in a blue silk wrapper who sat up all night in a vestibule was new to his experience. "What place is this, porter?" "Kildare, sah. This place is wha' we go from South C'lina into N'oth C'lina. Ain't yo' be'th comfor'ble, sah?" "Perfectly; thank you." Kildare was a familiar name, and the station, that lay at the outskirts of the town, and a long grim barracks-like building that he identified as a cotton mill, recalled the fact that he was not far from his own ample acres which lay off somewhere to westward. He had occasionally taken this route from the north in going to Ardsley, riding or driving from Kildare about ten miles to his house. In this way he was enabled to go or come without appearing at all in the little village of Ardsley. The porter left him. He felt ready for sleep now, and resolved to go back to bed as soon as the train started. Just then a dark shadow appeared in the track and a man's voice asked cautiously: "Air y'u the conductor?" The questioner saw that he was not, before Ardmore could reply, and hesitated a moment. "The porter's in the car; you can get aboard up forward," Ardmore suggested. "Be Gov'nor Dangerfield on this train?" asked the man, whom Ardmore now saw dimly outlined in the track below. "Certainly, my friend. The governor's asleep, but I'm his private secretary. What can I do for you?" "Well, hyeh's somethin' fer 'im--it's confidential. Sure, air ye, th' gov'nor's in they?" The man--a tall bearded countryman in a slouch hat, handed up to Ardmore a jug--a plain, brown, old-fashioned American gallon jug. "It's a present fer Gov'nor Dangerfield. He'll understand," and the man vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, leaving Ardmore holding the jug by its handle, and feeling a little dazed by the transaction. The train lingered, and Ardmore was speculating as to which one of the Carolina commonwealths was beneath him, when another figure appeared below in the track--that of a bareheaded, tousled boy this time. He stared up at Ardmore sleepily, having apparently been roused on the arrival of the train. [Illustration] "Air y'u the gov'nor?" he piped. "Yes, my lad; in what way can I serve you?" and Ardmore put down his jug and leaned over the guard rail. It was just as easy to be the governor as the governor's private secretary, and his vanity was touched by the readiness with which the boy accepted him in his new rôle. His costume, vaguely discernible in the vestibule light, evidently struck the lad as being some amazing robe of state affected by governors. The youngster was lifting something, and he now held up to Ardmore a jug, as like the other as one pea resembles another. "Pa ain't home and ma says hyeh's yer jug o' buttermilk." "Thank you, my lad. While I regret missing your worthy father, yet I beg to present my compliments to your kind and thoughtful mother." He had transferred his money to his dressing-gown pocket on leaving his berth, and he now tossed a silver dollar to the boy, who caught it with a yell of delight and scampered off into the night. Ardmore had dropped the jugs carelessly into the vestibule, and he was surveying them critically when the train started. The wheels were beginning to grind reluctantly when a cry down the track arrested his attention. A man was flying after the train, shouting at the top of his lungs. He ran, caught hold of the rail and howled: "The gov'nor ain't on they! Gimme back my jug." "Indian-giver!" yelled Ardmore. He stooped down, picked up the first jug that came to hand, and dropped it into the man's outstretched arms. The porter, having heard voices, rushed out upon Ardmore, who held the remaining jug to the light, scrutinizing it carefully. "Please put this away for me, porter. It's a little gift from an old army friend." Then Mr. Ardmore returned to his berth, fully pleased with his adventures, and slept until the porter gave warning of Raleigh. CHAPTER IV DUTY AND THE JUG Mr. Thomas Ardmore, one trunk, two bags, and a little brown jug reached the Guilford House, Raleigh, at eight o'clock in the morning. Ardmore had never felt better in his life, he assured himself, as he chose a room with care and intimated to the landlord his intention of remaining a week. But for the ill luck of having his baggage marked he should have registered himself falsely on the books of the inn; but feeling that this was not quite respectable he assured the landlord, in response to the usual question, that he was not Ardmore of New York and Ardsley but an entirely different person. "Well, I don't blame you for not wanting to be taken for any of that set," remarked the landlord sympathetically. "I should think not!" returned Ardmore in a tone of deep disgust. The Guilford House coffee was not just what he was used to, but he was in an amiable humor and enjoyed hugely the conversation of the commercial travelers with whom he took his breakfast. He did not often escape from himself or the burden of his family reputation, and these strangers were profoundly entertaining. It had never occurred to Ardmore that man could be so amiable so early in the day and his own spirits rallied as he passed the sugar, abused the hot bread and nodded his approval of bitter flings at the inns of other southern towns of whose existence he only vaguely knew. They spoke of the president of the United States and of various old world monarchs in a familiar tone that was decidedly novel and refreshing; and he felt that it was a great privilege to sit at meat with these blithe spirits. Commercial travelers, he now realized, were more like the strolling players, the wandering knights, the cloaked riders approaching lonely inns at night, than any other beings he had met out of books. It was with the severest self-denial that he resisted an impulse to invite them all to visit him at Ardsley or to use his house in Fifth Avenue whenever they pleased. When the man nearest him, who was having a second plate of corn cakes and syrup, casually inquired his "line," Ardmore experienced a moment of real shame, but remembering the jug he had acquired in the night he replied: "Crockery." "Mine's drugs. Do you know Billy Gallop?--he's in your line." "Should say I did," replied Ardmore unhesitatingly. "I took supper with him in Philadelphia Sunday night." "How's trade?" "Bully," replied Ardmore, reaching for the syrup, "I broke my record yesterday." The drug man turned to listen to a discussion of the row between Governors Osborne and Dangerfield precipitated by one of the company who had fortified himself with a newspaper, and Ardmore also gave ear. "Whatever did happen at New Orleans," declared a Maiden Lane jewelry representative, "you can be quite sure that Dangerfield won't get the hot end of the poker. I've seen him, right here at Raleigh, and he has all the marks of a fighting man. He'd strip at two hundred, and he's six in his socks." "Pshaw! Those big fellows are all meat and no muscle," retorted the drug man. "I doubt if there's any fight in him. Now Osborne's a different product--a tall lean cuss, but active as a cat. A man to be governor of South Carolina has got to have the real stuff in him. If it comes to a show-down you'll see Dangerfield duck and run." This discussion was continued at length, greatly to Ardmore's delight, for he felt that in this way he was being brought at once into touch with Miss Dangerfield, now domiciled somewhere in this town, and to whom he expected to be properly introduced just as soon as he could devise some means to that end. As he had not read the newspapers he did not know what the row was all about, but he instinctively aligned himself on the Dangerfield side. The Osbornes were, he felt, an inferior race, and he inwardly resented the imputations upon Governor Dangerfield's courage. "I wonder if the governor's back yet?" asked one man. "The morning paper says not, but he's expected to-day," replied the man with the newspaper. "About the first thing he'll have to do will be to face the question of arresting Appleweight. I was in Columbia the other day and everybody was talking of the case. They say"--and the speaker waited for the fullest attention of his hearers--"they say Osborne ain't none too anxious to have Appleweight arrested on his side of the line." "Why not?" demanded Ardmore. "Well, you hear all kinds of things. It was only whispered down there, but they say Osborne was a little too thick with the Appleweight crowd before he was elected governor. He was their attorney, and they were a bad lot for any man to be attorney for. But they haven't caught Appleweight yet." "Where's he hiding; don't the authorities know?" "Oh, he's up there in the hills on the state line. His home is as much on one side as the other. He spends a good deal of time in Kildare." "Kildare?" asked Ardmore, startled at the word. "Yes, it's the county seat, what there is of it. I hope you never make that town!" and the inquirer bent a commiserating glance upon Ardmore. "Well, they use jugs there, I know that!" declared Ardmore; whereat the table roared. The unanimity of their applause warmed his heart, though he did not know why they laughed. "You handle crockery?" asked a man from the end of the table. "Well, I guess Dilwell County consumes a few gross of jugs all right. But you'd better be careful not to whisper jugs too loud here. There's usually a couple of revenue men around town." They all went together to the office, where they picked up their sample cases and sallied forth for a descent upon the Raleigh merchants; and Ardmore, thus reminded that he was in the crockery business, and that he had a sample in his room, sat down under a tree on the sidewalk at the inn door to consider what he should do with his little brown jug. It had undoubtedly been intended for Governor Dangerfield, who was supposed to be on the train he had himself taken from Atlanta to Raleigh. There had been, in fact, two jugs, but one of them he had tossed back into the hands of the man who had pursued the train at Kildare. Ardmore smoked his pipe and meditated, trying to determine which jug he had tossed back; and after long deliberation, he slapped his knee, and said aloud: "I gave him the wrong one, by jing!" The boy had said that his offering contained buttermilk, a beverage which Ardmore knew was affected by eccentric people for their stomach's sake. He had sniffed the other jug and it contained, undeniably, an alcoholic liquid of some sort. Jugs had not figured prominently in Ardmore's domestic experiences; but as he sat under the tree on the curb before the Guilford House he wondered, as many other philosophers have wondered, why a jug is so incapable of innocency! A bottle, while suggestive, is not inherently wicked; but a jug is the symbol of joyous sin. Even the soberest souls, who frown at the mention of a bottle, smile tolerantly when a jug is suggested. Jugs of many centuries are assembled in museums, and round them the ethnologist reconstructs extinct races of men; and yet, even science and history, strive they never so sadly, can not wholly relieve the jug of its cheery insouciance. A bottle of inferior liquor may be dressed forth enticingly, and alluringly named; but there's no disguising the jug; its genial shame can not be hidden. There are pleasant places in America where, if one deposit a half-dollar and a little brown jug behind a certain stone, or on the shady side of a blackberry bush, jug and coin will together disappear between sunset and sunrise; but lo! the jug, filled and plugged with a corn-cob, will return alone mysteriously, in contravention of the statutes in such cases made and provided. Too rare for glass, this fluid, which bubbles out of the southern hills with as little guilt in its soul as the brooks beside which it comes into being! But, lest he be accused of aiding and abetting crime against the majesty of the law, this chronicler hastens to say that on a hot day in the harvest field, honest water, hidden away in a little brown jug in the fence corner, acquires a quality and imparts a delight that no mug of crystal or of gold can yield. As Mr. Ardmore pondered duty and the jug a tall man in shabby corduroy halted near by and inspected him carefully. Mr. Ardmore, hard upon his pipe, had not noticed him, somewhat, it seemed, to the stranger's vexation. He patrolled the sidewalk before the inn, hoping to attract Ardmore's attention, but finding that the young man's absorption continued he presently dropped into a neighboring chair under the maple tree. "Good morning," said Ardmore pleasantly. The man nodded, but did not speak. He was examining Ardmore with a pair of small, shrewd, gray eyes. In his hands he held a crumpled bit of brown paper that looked like a telegram. "Well, I reckon you jest got to town this mornin', young fella." "Yes, certainly;" Ardmore replied promptly. He had never been addressed in quite this fashion before, but it was all in keeping with his new destiny and he was immediately interested in the stranger, who was well on in middle age, with a rough grizzled beard, and a soft hat, once black, that now struggled for a compromise tint between yellow and green. "Ever been hyeh befo'?" "Never; but I'm crazy about the place and I'll be seen here a good deal hereafter." Ardmore produced his cigar-case and extended it to the stranger. The man, awed by the splendor of the case, accepted a cigar a little gingerly. "Drummer, I reckon?" "Commercial traveler, we prefer to be designated," replied Ardmore with dignity. "I guess drummer's good enough down hyeh. What y'u carry?" "Jugs. I'm in the jug business. Never had any business but jugs." The man paused in lighting his cigar, stared at Ardmore over the flaming match, drew the fire into the cigar several times, then settled back with his hands in his pockets. "Full 'r empty?" "The jugs? Oh, empty jugs; but it's no affair of mine what becomes of the jugs afterwards." "Y'u likely got samples with y'u?" "Well, not many. You see my line is so well known I don't have to carry samples any more. The trade knows our goods." "Stop at Kildare on the way up?" and the stranger looked about guardedly. "Certainly, my friend, I always 'make' Kildare," replied Ardmore, using a phrase he had acquired at breakfast. "Train runs through the' pretty late at night?" "Beastly. But I hardly ever sleep, anyhow. A man in my splendid health doesn't need sleep. It's a rotten waste of time." Silence for several minutes; then the stranger leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and said in a low tone: "I got a telegram hyeh says y'u got a jug thet y'u ain't no right t' last night at Kildare. I want thet jug, young fella." "Now that's very unfortunate. Ordinarily I should be delighted, but I really couldn't give away my Kildare jug. Now if it was one of my other jugs--even my Omaha jug, or my dear old Louisville jug--I shouldn't hesitate a minute, but that old Kildare jug! My dear man, you don't know what you ask!" "Y'll give me thet jug or it'll be the worse for y'u. Y'u ain't in thet game, young fella." "Not in it! You don't know whom you are addressing. I'm not only in the game, but I'm in to the finish," declared Ardmore, sitting upright in his chair. "You've got the wrong idea, my friend, if you think you can intimidate me. That jug was given me by a friend, a very old and dear friend--" "A friend of yourn!" The keen little gray eyes were blinking rapidly. "One of the best friends I ever had in this world," and Ardmore's face showed feeling. "He and I charged side by side through the bloodiest battles of our Civil War. I will cheerfully give you my watch, or money in any sum, but the jug--I will part with my life first! And now," concluded Ardmore, "while I should be glad to continue this conversation, my duties call me elsewhere." As he rose, the man stood quickly at his side, menacingly. "Give me thet jug or I'll shoot y'u right hyeh in the street." "No, you wouldn't do that, Old Corduroy. I can see that you are kind and good and you wouldn't shoot down an unarmed man. Besides it would muss up the street." "Y'u took thet jug from my brother by lyin' to 'im. He's telegraphed me to git it, and I'm a-goin' to do it." "Your brother sent you? It was nice of him to ask you to call on me. Why, I've known your brother intimately for years." "Knowed my brother?" and for the first time the man really seemed to doubt himself. "Wheh did y'u know Bill?" "We roomed together at Harvard, that's how I know him, if you force me to it! We're both Hasty Pudding men. Now if you try to bulldoze me further, I'll slap your wrists. So there!" Ardmore entered the hotel deliberately, climbed to his room and locked the door. Then he seized the little brown jug, drew the stopper and poured out a tumblerful of clear white fluid. He took a swallow and shuddered as the fiery liquid seemed instantly to cause every part of his being to tingle. He wiped the tears from his eyes and sat down. The corn-cob stopper had fallen to the floor, and he picked it up and examined it carefully. It had been fitted tightly into the mouth of the jug by the addition of a bit of calico, and he fingered it for a moment with a grin on his face. He was, considering his tranquil past, making history rapidly, and he wished that Griswold, whom he imagined safely away on his law business at Richmond, could see him now, embarked upon a serious adventure, that had already brought him into collision with a seemingly sane man who had threatened him with death. Griswold had been quite right about their woeful incapacity for rising to emergencies, but the episode of the jugs at Kildare was exactly the sort of thing they had discussed time and time again, and it promised well. His throat was raw, as though burned with acid, and it occurred to him for an anxious moment that perhaps he had imbibed a poison intended for the governor. He was about to replace the cob stopper when, to his astonishment, it broke in his fingers, and out fell a carefully folded slip of paper. He carried it to the window and opened it, finding that it was an ordinary telegraph blank on which was written in clear round characters these words: The Appleweight crowd never done you harm. If you have any of them arrested you will be shot down on your own doorstep. When Mr. Thomas Ardmore had read this message half a dozen times with increasing satisfaction he folded it carefully and put it away in his pocket-book. Taking half a sheet of note paper he wrote as follows: Appleweight and his gang are cowards. Within ten days those that have not been hanged will be in jail at Kildare. He studied the phraseology critically and then placed the paper in the cob stopper whose halves he tied together with a bit of twine. As the jug stood on the table it was, to all appearances, exactly as it had been when delivered to Ardmore on the rear of the train at Kildare, and he was thoroughly well pleased with himself. He changed the blue scarf with which he had begun the day for one of purple with gold bars, and walked up the street toward the state house. This venerable edifice, meekly reposing amid noble trees, struck agreeably upon Ardmore's fancy. Here was government enthroned in quiet dignity, as becomes a venerable commonwealth, wearing its years like a veteran who has known war and tumult, but finds at last tranquillity and peace. He experienced a feeling of awe, without quite knowing it, as he strolled up the walk, climbed the steps to the portico and turned to look back from the shadow of the pillars. He had never but once before visited an American public building--the New York city hall--and he felt that now, indeed, he had turned a corner and entered upon a new and strange world. He had watched army maneuvers abroad with about the same attention that he gave to a ballet, and with a like feeling of beholding a show contrived for the amusement of spectators; but there was not even a policeman here to represent arsenals and bayonets. The only minion of government in sight was the languid operator of a lawn-mower, which rattled and hummed cheerily in the shadow of the soldiers' monument. There was something fine about a people, who, as he learned from the custodian, would not shake down these historic walls obedient to the demands of prosperity and growth, but sent increased business to find lodgment elsewhere. He ascended to the toy-like legislative chambers, where flags of nation and state hung side by side, and where the very seats and desks of the law-makers spoke of other times and manners. Mr. Ardmore, feeling that he should now be about his business, sought the governor's office, where a secretary, who seemed harassed by the cares of his position, confirmed Ardmore's knowledge of the governor's absence. "I didn't wish to see the governor on business," explained Ardmore pleasantly, leaning upon his stick with an air of leisure. "He and my father were old friends, and I always promised my father that I would never pass through Raleigh without calling on Governor Dangerfield." "That is too bad," remarked the young man sympathetically, though with a preoccupation that was eloquent of larger affairs. "Could you tell me whether any members of the governor's family are at home?" "Oh, yes; Mrs. Dangerfield and Miss Jerry are at the mansion." "Miss Jerry?" "Miss Geraldine. We all call her Miss Jerry in North Carolina." "Oh, yes; to be sure. Let me see; it's over this way to the mansion, isn't it?" inquired Ardmore. "No; out the other end of the building--and turn to your right. You can't miss it." The room was quiet, the secretary a young man of address and intelligence. Here, without question, was the place for Ardmore to discharge his business and be quit of it; but having at last snatched a commission from fleeting opportunity it was not for him to throw it to another man. As he opened the door to leave, the secretary arrested him. "Oh, Mr.--pardon me, but did you come in from the south this morning?" "Yes; I came up on the Tar Heel Express from Atlanta." "To be sure. Of course you didn't sit up all night? There's some trouble brewing around Kildare. I thought you might have heard something, but of course you couldn't have been awake at two o'clock in the morning?" The secretary was so anxious to acquit him of any knowledge of the situation at Kildare that it seemed kindest to tell him nothing. The secretary's face lost its anxiety for a moment, and he smiled. "The governor has an old friend and admirer up there who always puts a jug of fresh buttermilk on board when he passes through. The governor was expected home this morning, and I thought maybe--" "You're positive it's always buttermilk, are you?" asked Ardmore with a grin. "Certainly," replied the secretary with dignity. "Governor Dangerfield's sentiments as to the liquor traffic are well known." "Of course, all the world knows that. But I'm afraid all jugs look alike to me; but then, the fact is I'm in the jug business myself. Good morning." The governor's mansion was easily found, and having walked about the neighborhood until his watch marked eleven Ardmore entered the grounds and rang the bell at the front door. Once within, the air of domestic peace, the pictures on the walls, a whip and a felt hat with a blue band, on the hall table, and a book on a chair in the drawing-room, turned down to mark the absent reader's place, rebuked him for his impudence. If he had known just how to escape he would have done so; but the maid who admitted him had said that Miss Dangerfield was at home, and had gone in search of her with Ardmore's card. He deserved to be sent to jail for entering a gentleman's house in this way. He realized now, when it was too late, that he ought to have brought letters to one of the banks and been introduced to the Dangerfields by some gentleman of standing, if he wished to know them. The very portraits on the walls, the photographs on the mantel and table frowned coldly upon him. The foundations of his character were set in sand; he knew that, because he had found it so easy to lie, and he had been told in his youth that one sin paved the way for another. He would take the earliest train for Ardsley and bury himself there for the remainder of his days. He had hardly formed this resolution when a light step sounded in the hall, and Miss Geraldine Dangerfield stood at the threshold. His good resolutions went down like a house of cards. "Miss Dangerfield," he began, "I had the pleasure of meeting your father in New Orleans the other day, and as I was passing through town unexpectedly, I thought I should give myself the pleasure of calling on him. He said that in case I found him absent I might call upon you. In fact, he wrote a line on a card for me to present, but I stupidly left it at my hotel." They faced each other in the dim, cool room for what seemed to him endless centuries. She was much younger than he had imagined; but her eyes were blue, just as he remembered them, and her abundant light hair curled away from her forehead in pretty waves, and was tied to-day with a large bow of blue ribbon. For an instant she seemed puzzled or mystified, but her blue eyes regarded him steadily. The very helplessness of her youth, the simplicity of her blue linen gown, the girlish ribbon in her hair, proclaimed him blackguard. "Won't you please sit down, Mr. Ardmore?" And when they were seated there was another pause, during which the blue eyes continued to take account of him, and he fingered his tie, feeling sure that there was something wrong with it. "It's warm, isn't it?" "I suppose it is. It's a way summer has, of being mostly warm." He was quite sure that she was laughing at him; there was a tinge of irony in the very way in which she pronounced "wa'm," lingeringly, as though to prolong her contempt for his stupidity in not finding anything better to say. She had taken the largest chair in the room, and it seemed to hide her away in its shadows, so that she could examine him at her leisure as he sat under a window in the full glare of its light. "I enjoyed meeting your father so much, Miss Dangerfield. I think we are always likely to be afraid of great men, but your father made me feel at home at once. And he tells such capital stories--I've been laughing over them ever since I left New Orleans." "Father has quite a reputation for his stories. When did you leave New Orleans, Mr. Ardmore?" "Sunday night. I stopped in Atlanta a few hours and came on through. What a fine old town Atlanta is; don't you think so?" "I certainly do not, Mr. Ardmore. It's so dreadfully northernized." When she said "no'thenized" her intonation gave the word a fine cutting edge. "I suppose, Mr. Ardmore, that you saw papa at the luncheon at the Pharos Club in New Orleans?" "Why, yes, Miss Dangerfield. It was there I met the governor!" "Are you sure it was there, Mr. Ardmore?" "Why, I think that was the place. I don't know my New Orleans as I should, but--" Ardmore was suddenly conscious that Miss Dangerfield had risen and that she stood before him, with her fair face the least bit flushed, her blue eyes alight with anger, and that the hands at her sides were clenched nervously. "My father was not at luncheon at the Pharos Club, Mr. Ardmore. You never saw my father in your life. I know why it is you came here, and if you are not out of that door in one second I shall call the servants and have them throw you out." She ceased abruptly and turned to look into the hall where steps sounded. "Is that you, Jerry?" "Yes, mama; I'll be up in just a minute. Please don't wait for me. It's only the man to see about the plumbing." The lady who had appeared for an instant at the door went on slowly up the stairs, and the girl held Ardmore silent with her steady eyes until the step died away above. "I know what you want my father for. Mr. Billings and you are both pursuing him--it's infamous, outrageous! And it isn't his fault. I would have you know that my father is an honorable man!" The bayonets were at his breast: he would ask for mercy. "Miss Dangerfield, you are quite mistaken about me. I shall leave Raleigh at once, but I don't want you to think I came here on any errand to injure or annoy your father." "You are one of _those_ Ardmores, and Mr. Billings represents you. You thought you could come here and trick me into telling where my father is. But I am not so easily caught. My mother is ill because of all this trouble, and I must go to her. But first I want to see that you leave this house!" "Oh, I'm sorry you are in trouble. On my honor, Miss Dangerfield, I know nothing of Billings and his business with your father." "I suppose you will deny that you saw Mr. Billings in Atlanta yesterday?" "Why, no. I can't exactly--" "You'd better not! I saw you there talking to him; and I suppose he sent you here to see what you could find out." The room whirled a moment as she dealt this staggering blow. Billings, of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, had said that Miss Dangerfield was peppery, but his employment of this trifling term only illustrated his weak command of the English language. It is not pleasant to be pilloried for undreamed-of crimes, and Ardmore's ears tingled. He must plunge deeper and trust to the gods of chance to save him. He brought himself together with an effort, and spoke so earnestly that the words rang oddly in his own ears. "Miss Dangerfield, you may call me anything you please, but I am not quite the scoundrel you think me. It's true that I was not in New Orleans, and I never saw your father in my life. I came to Raleigh on a mission that has absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Billings; he did not know I was coming. On the way here a message intended for your father came into my hands. It was thrown on the train at Kildare last night. I had gone out on the platform because the sleeper was hot, and a warning to your father to keep his hands off of Appleweight was given to me. Here it is. It seems to me that there is immediate danger in this, and I want to help you. I want to do anything I can for you. I didn't come here to pry into your family secrets, Miss Dangerfield, honestly I didn't!" She took the piece of paper into her slim little hands and read it, slowly nodding her head, as if the words only confirmed some earlier knowledge of the threat they contained. Then she lifted her head, and her eyes were bright with mirth as Ardmore's wondering gaze met them. "Did _you_ get the jug?" "I got two jugs, to tell the truth; but when they seemed dissatisfied and howled for me to give one back, I threw off the buttermilk." "You threw back father's buttermilk to the man who gave you the applejack? Oh! oh!" Miss Jerry Dangerfield sat down and laughed; and Ardmore, glad of an opportunity to escape, found his hat and rushed from the house. CHAPTER V MR. ARDMORE OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZED "She never did it; she never, never did!" Mr. Ardmore, from a bench in the State House park, thus concluded a long reverie. It was late afternoon, and he had forgotten luncheon in his absorption. There was no manner of use in recurring again to that episode of the lonely siding. He had found the girl--(indubitably the girl)--but not the wink! Miss Jerry Dangerfield was not the winking sort; he was well satisfied on that point, and so thoroughly ashamed into the bargain that he resolved to lead a different life and be very heedful of the cry of the poor in the future. His emotions had never been taxed as to-day, and he hoped that he might never again suffer the torture he had experienced as he waited in the governor's drawing-room for Miss Dangerfield to appear. After that agony it had been a positive relief to be ordered out of the house. Her anger when she caught him lying about having met her father in New Orleans was superior to any simulated rage he had ever seen on the stage, and no girl with a winking eye would be capable of it. He was not clever; he knew that; but if he had had the brains of a monkey he would not have risked his foolish wits against those of a girl like Geraldine Dangerfield, who had led him into an ambush and then shot him to pieces. "She threatened to have the servants throw me out!" he groaned. And her slight, tense figure rose before him, and her voice, still the voice of young girlhood, rang in his ears. As she read the threatening message from Kildare he had noted the fineness of her hands, the curve of her fair cheek, the wayward curls on her forehead, and he remembered all these things now, but more than anything else her wrath, the tiny fists, the flashing eyes as she confronted him. As he sat dejectedly on his park bench he was unaware that Miss Geraldine Dangerfield, walking hurriedly through the park on her way from the governor's mansion to the state house, passed directly behind him. His attitude was so eloquent of despair that it could not have failed to move a much harder heart than that of Miss Dangerfield, yet she made no sign; but a few minutes later the private secretary came out on the steps of the state house, and after a brief survey of the landscape crossed the lawn and called Ardmore by name. "I beg your pardon, but Miss Dangerfield wished me to say that she'd like to see you for a minute. She's at the governor's office." A prisoner, sentenced to death, and unexpectedly reprieved with the rope already on his neck, could not experience greater relief than that which brought Mr. Thomas Ardmore to his feet. "You are sure of it--that there's no mistake?" "Certainly not. Miss Dangerfield told me I was to bring you back." Enthroned at the secretary's desk, a mass of papers before her, Miss Geraldine Dangerfield awaited him. He was ready to place his head on the block in sheer contrition for his conduct, but she herself took the initiative, and her tone was wholly amiable. "This morning, Mr. Ardmore--" "Oh, please forget this morning!" he pleaded. "But I was rude to you; I threatened to have you thrown out of the house; and you had come to do us a favor." "Miss Dangerfield, I can not lie to you. You are one of the most difficult persons to lie to that I have ever met. I didn't come to Raleigh just to warn your father that his life was threatened. I can't lie to you about that--" "Then you _are_ a spy?" and Miss Dangerfield started forward in her chair so suddenly that Ardmore dropped his hat. "No! I am not a spy! I don't care anything about your father. I never heard of him until yesterday." "Well, I like that!" ejaculated Miss Dangerfield. "Oh, I mean that I wasn't interested in him--why should I be? I don't know anything about politics." "Neither does father. That's why he's governor. If he were a politician he'd be a senator. But"--and she folded her hands and eyed him searchingly--"here's a lot of telegrams from the sheriff of Dilwell County about that jug. How on earth did you come to get it?" "Lied, of course. I allowed them to think I was intimately associated in business with the governor, and they began passing me jugs. Then the man who gave the jug with that message in the cork got suspicious, and I dropped the buttermilk jug back to him." "You traded buttermilk for moonshine?" "I shouldn't exactly call it moonshine. It's more like dynamite than anything else. I've written a reply to the note and put it back in the cork, and I'm going to return it to Kildare." "What answer did you make to that infamous effort to intimidate my father?" demanded Miss Dangerfield. "I told the Appleweight gang that they are a lot of cowards, and that the governor will have them all in jail or hanged within ten days." "Splendid! Perfectly _splendid_! Did you really say that?" "What else could I do? I knew that that's what the governor would say--he'd have to say it--so I thought I'd save him the trouble." "Where's the jug now, Mr. Ardmore?" "In my room at the hotel. The gang must have somebody on guard here. A gentleman who seemed to be one of them called on me this morning, demanding the jug; and if he's the man I think he is, he's stolen the little brown jug from my room in the hotel by this time." Miss Dangerfield had picked up a spool of red tape and was unwinding it slowly in her fingers and rewinding it. They were such nice little hands, and so peaceful in their aimless trifling with the tape that he was sure his eyes had betrayed him into imagining she had clenched them in the quiet drawing-room at the mansion. This office, now that its atmosphere enveloped him, was almost as domestic as the house in which she lived. The secretary had vanished, and a Sabbath quiet was on the place. The white inner shutters swung open, affording a charming prospect of the trees, the lawn and the monument in the park outside. And, pleasantest of all, and most soothing to his weary senses, she was tolerating him now; she had even expressed approval of something he had done, and he had never hoped for this. She had not even pressed him to disclose his real purpose in visiting Raleigh, and he prayed that she would not return to this subject, for he had utterly lost the conceit of his own lying gift. Miss Dangerfield threw down the spool of tape and bent toward him gravely. "Mr. Ardmore, can you keep a secret?" "Nobody ever tried me with one, but I think I can, Miss Dangerfield," he murmured humbly. "Then please stand up." And Ardmore rose, a little sheepishly, like a schoolboy who fears blame and praise alike. Miss Dangerfield lifted one of the adorable hands solemnly. "I, acting governor of North Carolina, hereby appoint you my private secretary, and may God have mercy on your soul. You may now sit down, Mr. Secretary." "But I thought there was a secretary already. And besides, I don't write a very good hand," Ardmore stammered. "I am just sending Mr. Bassford to Atlanta to find papa. He's already gone, or will be pretty soon." "But I thought your father would be home to-night." Miss Dangerfield looked out of the open window upon the park, then into the silent outer hall, to be sure she was not overheard. "Papa will not be at home to-night, or probably to-morrow night, or the night afterward. I'm not sure we'll wait next Christmas dinner for papa." "But of course you know where he is! It isn't possible--" and Ardmore stared in astonishment into Miss Dangerfield's tranquil blue eyes. "It _is_ possible. Papa is ducking his official responsibilities. That's what's the matter with papa! And I guess they're enough to drive any man into the woods. Just look at all this!" Miss Dangerfield rested one of those diminutive hands of hers on the pile of documents, letters and telegrams the secretary had left behind him; with a nod of the head she indicated the governor's desk in the inner room, and it, too, was piled high with documents. "I supposed," faltered Ardmore, "that in the absence of the governor the lieutenant-governor would act. I think I read that once." "You must have read it wrong, Mr. Ardmore. In North Carolina, in the absence of the governor, I am governor! Don't look so shocked; when I say I, I mean I--_me!_ Do you understand what I said?" "I heard what you said, Miss Dangerfield." "I mean what I said, Mr. Ardmore. I have taken you into my confidence because I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. I don't want to know anything about you. I'd be ashamed to ask anybody I know to help me. The people of North Carolina must never know that the governor is absent during times of great public peril. And if _you_ are afraid, Mr. Ardmore, you had better not accept the position." "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you," blurted Ardmore. "I'm not asking you--I _would_ not ask you--to do anything for me. I am asking you to do it for the Old North State. Our relations, Mr. Ardmore, will not be social, but purely official. Do you accept the terms?" "I do; and I warn you now that I shall never resign." "I have heard papa say that life is short and the tenure of office uncertain. I can remove you at any time I please. Now do you understand that this is a serious business? There's likely to be a lot of trouble, and no time for asking questions, so when I say it's so it's so." "It's so," repeated Ardmore docilely. "Now, here's the sheriff at Kildare, on our side of the line, who writes to say that he is powerless to catch Appleweight. He's afraid of the dark, that man! You see, the grand jury in Dilwell County--that's Kildare, you know--has indicted Appleweight as a common outlaw, but the grand jurors were all friends of Appleweight and the indictment was only to satisfy law-and-order sentiment and appease the Woman's Civic League of Raleigh. Now, papa doesn't--I mean _I_ don't want to offend those Appleweight people by meddling in this business. Papa wants Governor Osborne to arrest Appleweight in South Carolina; but I don't believe Governor Osborne will dare do anything about it. Now, Mr. Ardmore, I am not going to have papa called a coward by anybody, particularly by South Carolina people, after what Governor Osborne said of our state." "Why, what did he say?" "He said in a speech at Charleston last winter that no people who fry their meat can ever amount to anything, and he meant us! I can never forgive him for that; besides, his daughter is the stuck-upest thing! And I'd like Barbara Osborne to tell me how _she_ got into the Colonial Dames, and what call _she_ has to be inspector-general of the Granddaughters of the Mexican War; for I've heard my grandfather Dangerfield say many a time that old Colonel Osborne and his South Carolina regiment never did go outside of Charleston until the war was over and the American army had come back home." One tiny fist this time! Ardmore was sure of it. Her indignation against the Osbornes was so sincere, the pouting petulance to which it diminished so like a child's, and the gravity of the offense so novel in his simple experiences, that Ardmore was bound in chains before her speech was finished. The little drawl with which she concluded gave heightened significance to her last three words, so that it seemed that all the veterans of the war with Mexico trudged by, bearing the flag of North Carolina and no other banner. "Governor Osborne is a contemptible ruffian," declared Ardmore with deep feeling. Miss Dangerfield nodded judicial approval, and settled back in her chair the better to contemplate her new secretary, and said: "I'm a Daughter of the Confederacy and a Colonial Dame. What are you?" "I suppose you'll never speak to me again; papa sent three expensive substitutes to the Civil War." "Three! Horrible!" "Two of them deserted, and one fell into the Potomac on his way south and was drowned. I guess they didn't do you folks much harm." "We'll forgive you that; but what did your ancestors do in the Revolution?" "I'm ashamed to say that my great-grandfather was a poor guesser. He died during Washington's second administration still believing the Revolution a failure." "Do you speak of the war of 1861 as the Rebellion or as the war between the states? I advise you to be careful what you say," and Miss Jerry Dangerfield was severe. "I don't believe I ever mentioned it either way, so I'm willing to take your word for it." "The second form is correct, Mr. Ardmore. When well-bred Southern people say Rebellion they refer to the uprising of 1776 against the British oppressor." "Good. I'm sure I shall never get them mixed. Now that you are the governor, what are you going to do first about Appleweight?" "I've written--that is to say, papa wrote before he went away, a strong letter to Governor Osborne, complaining that Appleweight was hiding in South Carolina and running across the state line to rob and murder people in North Carolina. Papa told Governor Osborne that he must break up the Appleweight crowd or he would do something about it himself. It's a splendid letter; you would think that even a coward like Governor Osborne would do something after getting such a letter." "Didn't he answer the letter?" "Answer it? He never got it! Papa didn't send it; that's the reason! Papa's the kindest man in the world, and he must have been afraid of hurting Governor Osborne's feelings. He wrote the letter, expecting to send it, but when he went off to New Orleans he told Mr. Bassford to hold it till he got back. He had even signed it--you can read it if you like." It was undoubtedly a vigorous epistle, and Ardmore felt the thrill of its rhetorical sentences as he read. The official letter paper on which it was typewritten, and the signature of William Dangerfield, governor of North Carolina, affixed in a bold hand, were sobering in themselves. The dignity and authority of one of the sovereign American states was represented here, and he handed the paper back to Miss Dangerfield as tenderly as though it had been the original draft of Magna Charta. "It's a corker, all right." "I don't much like the way it ends. It says, right here"--and she bent forward and pointed to the place under criticism--"it says, 'Trusting to your sense of equity, and relying upon a continuance of the traditional friendship between your state and mine, I am, sir, awaiting your reply, very respectfully, your obedient servant.' Now, I wouldn't trust to his sense of anything, and that traditional friendship business is just fluffy nonsense, and I wouldn't be anybody's obedient servant. I decided when I wasn't more than fifteen years old, with a lot of other girls in our school, that when we got married we'd never say obey, and we never have, though only three of our class are married yet, but we're all engaged." "Engaged?" "Of course; we're engaged. I'm engaged to Rutherford Gillingwater, the adjutant-general of this state. You couldn't be my private secretary if I wasn't engaged; it wouldn't be proper." The earth was only a flying cinder on which he strove for a foothold. She had announced her engagement to be married with a cool finality that took his breath away; and not realizing the chaos into which she had flung him, she returned demurely to the matter of the letter. "We can't change that letter, because it's signed close to the 'obedient servant' and there's no room. But I'm going to put it into the typewriter and add a postscript." She sat down before the machine and inexpertly rolled the sheet into place; then, with Ardmore helping her to find the keys, she wrote: I demand an imediate reply. "_Demand_ and _immediate_ are both business words. Are you sure there's only one _m_ in immediate? All right, if you know. I reckon a postscript like that doesn't need to be signed. I'll just put 'W. D.' there with papa's stub pen, so it will look really fierce. Now, you're the secretary; you copy it in the copying press and I'll address the envelope." "Don't you have to put the state seal on it?" asked Ardmore. "Of course not. You have to get that from the secretary of state, and I don't like him; he has such funny whiskers, and calls me little girl. Besides, you never put the seal on a letter; it's only necessary for official documents." She bade him give the letter plenty of time to copy, and talked cheerfully while he waited. She spoke of her friends, as Southern people have a way of doing, as though every one must of course know them--a habit that is illuminative of that delightful Southern neighborliness that knits the elect of a commonwealth into a single family, that neither time and tide nor sword and brand can destroy. Ardmore's humility increased as the names of the great and good of North Carolina fell from her lips; for they were as strange to him as an Abysinnian dynasty. It was perfectly clear that he was not of her world, and that his own was insignificant and undistinguished compared with hers. His spirit was stayed somewhat by the knowledge that he, and not the execrable Gillingwater, had been chosen as her coadjutor in the present crisis. His very ignorance of the royal families of North Carolina, which she recited so glibly, and the fact that he was unknown at the capital, had won him official recognition, and it was for him now to prove his worth. The political plot into which he had been most willingly drawn pleased him greatly; it was superior to his fondest dream of adventure, and now, moreover, he had what he never had before, a definite purpose in life, which was to be equal to the task to which this intrepid girl assigned him. "Well, that's done," said Miss Jerry, when the letter, still damp from the copy-press, had been carefully sealed and stamped. "Governor Osborne will get it in the morning. I think maybe we'd better telegraph him that it's coming." "I don't see much use in that, when he'll get the letter first thing to-morrow," Ardmore suggested. "It costs money to telegraph and you must have an economical administration." "The good of it would be to keep him worried and make him very angry. And if he told Barbara Osborne about it, it would make her angry, too, and maybe she wouldn't sleep any all night, the haughty thing! Hand me one of those telegraph blanks." The message, slowly thumped out on the typewriter, and several times altered and copied, finally read: RALEIGH, N. C. The Honorable Charles Osborne, Governor of South Carolina, Columbia, S. C.: Have written by to-night's mail in Appleweight matter. Your vacillating course not understood. WILLIAM DANGERFIELD, Governor of North Carolina. "I reckon that will make him take notice;" and Miss Jerry viewed her work with approval. "And now, Mr. Ardmore, here's a telegram from Mr. Billings which I don't understand. See if you know what it means." Ardmore chuckled delightedly as he read: Can not understand your outrageous conduct in bond matter. If payment is not made June first your state's credit is ruined. Where is Foster? Answer to Atlanta. GEORGE P. BILLINGS. "I don't see what's so funny about that! Mr. Bassford was walking the floor with that message when I came to the office. He said papa and the state were both going to be ruined. There's a quarter of a million dollars to be paid on bonds that are coming due June first, and there isn't any money to pay them with. That's what he said. And Mr. Foster is the state treasurer, and he's gone fishing." "Fishing?" "He left word he had gone fishing. Mr. Foster and papa don't get along together, and Mr. Bassford says he's run off just to let those bonds default and bring disgrace on papa and the state." Ardmore's grin broadened. The Appleweight case was insignificant compared with this new business with which he was confronted. He was vaguely conscious that bonds have a way of coming due, and that there is such a thing as credit in the world, and that it is something that must not be trifled with; but these considerations did not weigh heavily with him. For the first time in his uneventful life vengeance unsheathed her sword in his tranquil soul. Billings had always treated him with contempt, as a negligible factor in the Ardmore millions, and here at last was an opportunity to balance accounts. "I will show you how to fix Billings. Just let me have one of those blanks." And after much labor, and with occasional suggestions from Miss Jerry, the following message was presently ready for the wires: Your infamous imputation upon my honor and that of the state shall meet with the treatment it deserves. I defy you to do your worst. If you come into North Carolina or bring legal proceedings for the collection of your bonds I will fill you so full of buckshot that forty men will not be strong enough to carry you to your grave. "Isn't that perfectly grand!" murmured Jerry admiringly. "But I thought your family and the Bronx Loan and Trust Company were the same thing. That's what Rutherford Gillingwater told me once." "You are quite right. Billings works for us. Before I came of age he used to make me ask his permission when I wanted to buy a new necktie, and when I was in college he was always fussing over my bills, and humiliating me when he could." "But you mustn't make him so mad that he will cause papa trouble and bring disgrace on our administration." "Don't you worry about Billings. He is used to having people get down on their knees to him, and the change will do him good. When he gets over his first stroke of apoplexy he will lock himself in a dark room and begin to think hard about what to do. He usually does all the bluffing, and I don't suppose anybody ever talked to him like this telegram in all his life. Where is this man Foster?" "Just fishing; that's what Mr. Bassford said, but he didn't know where. Father was going to call a special session of the legislature to investigate him, and he was so angry that he ran off so that papa would have to look after those bonds himself. Then this Appleweight case came up, and that worried papa a great deal. Here's his call for the special session. He told Mr. Bassford to hold that, too, until he came back from New Orleans." Ardmore read Governor Dangerfield's summons to the legislature with profound interest. It was signed, but the space for the date on which the law-makers were to assemble had been left blank. "It looks to me as though you had the whole state in your hands, Miss Dangerfield. But I don't believe we ought to call the special session just yet. It would be sure to injure the state's credit, and it will be a lot more fun to catch Foster. I wonder if he took all the state money with him." "Mr. Bassford said he didn't know and couldn't find out, for the clerks in the treasurer's office wouldn't tell him a single thing." "One should never deal with subordinates," remarked Ardmore sagely. "Deal with the principals--I heard a banker say that once, and he was a man who knew everything. Besides, it will be more fun to attend to the bonds ourselves." He seemed lost in reverie for several minutes, and she asked with some impatience what he was studying about. "I was trying to think of a word they use when the government has war or any kind of trouble. It's something about a corpse, but I can't remember it." "A corpse? How perfectly horrid! Can it be possible, Mr. Ardmore, that you mean the writ of habeas corpus?" The twinkle in his eye left her unable to determine whether his ignorance was real, or assumed for his own amusement. "That's it," beamed Ardmore. "We've got to suspend it if worst comes to worst. Then you can put anybody you like into a dungeon, and nobody can get him out--not for a million years." "I wonder where they keep it?" asked Jerry. "It must be here somewhere. Perhaps it's in the safe." "I don't think it's a thing, like a lemon, or a photograph, or a bottle of ink; it's a document, like a Thanksgiving proclamation, and you order out the militia, and the soldiers have to leave their work and assemble at their armories, and it's all very serious, and somebody is likely to get shot." "I don't think it would be nice to shoot people," said Jerry. "That would do the administration a terrible lot of harm." "Of course we won't resort to extreme measures unless we are forced to it. And then, after we have exhausted all the means at our command, we can call on the president to send United States troops." He was proud of his knowledge, which had lingered in his sub-consciousness from a review of the military power of the states which he had heard once from Griswold, who knew about such matters; but he was brought to earth promptly enough. "Mr. Ardmore, how dare you suggest that we call United States troops into North Carolina! Don't you know that would be an insult to every loyal son of this state? I should have you know that the state of North Carolina is big enough to take care of herself, and if any president of the United States sends any troops down here while I'm running this office, he'll find that, while our people will gladly die, they never surrender." "Oh, I didn't mean anything like that by what I said," pleaded Ardmore, frightened almost to tears. "Of course, we've got our own troops, and we'll get through all our business without calling for help. I shouldn't any more call on the president than I'd call on the czar of Russia." She seemed satisfied with this disclaimer, and produced a diary in which Governor Dangerfield had noted his appointments far into the future. "We'll have to break a lot of engagements for papa. Here's a speech he promised to make at Wilmington at the laying of the corner-stone of the new orphan asylum. That's to-morrow, and papa can't be there, so we'll send a telegram of congratulation to be read instead. Then he was to preside at a convention of the Old Fiddlers' Association at Goldsboro the next day, and he can't do that. I guess we'd better telegraph and say how sorry he is to be delayed by important official business. And here's--why, I had forgotten about the National Guard encampment, that's beginning now." "Do you mean the state militia?" Ardmore inquired. "Why, of course. They're having their annual encampment over in Azbell County at Camp Dangerfield--they always name the camp for the governor--and father was to visit the camp next Saturday for his annual inspection. That's near your county, where your farm is; didn't you know that?" Ardmore was humble, as he always was when his ignorance was exposed, but his face brightened joyfully. "You mustn't break that engagement. Those troops ought to be inspected. Inspecting his troops is one of the most important things a governor has to do. It's just like a king or an emperor. I've seen Emperor William and King Humbert inspect their soldiers, and they go galloping by like mad, with all the soldiers saluting, and it's perfectly bully. And then there have to be maneuvers, to see whether the troops know how to fight or not, and forced marches and sham battles." "Papa always speaks to the men," suggested Jerry, a little abashed by the breadth and splendor of Ardmore's knowledge. His comparison of the North Carolina militia with the armies of Europe pleased her. "I think the ladies of the royal family inspect the troops, too, sometimes," he continued. "The queens are always honorary colonels of regiments, and present them with flags, which is a graceful thing to do." "Colonel Gillingwater never told me that, and he's the adjutant-general of the state and ought to know." "What's he colonel of?" asked Ardmore gloomily. "He was colonel in the Spanish War, or was going to be, but he got typhoid fever, and so he couldn't go to Cuba, and papa appointed him adjutant-general as a reward for his services; but everybody calls him Colonel just the same." "It looks like a pretty easy way of getting a title," murmured Ardmore. "I had typhoid fever once, and nearly died, and all my hair came out." "You oughtn't to speak that way of my fiancé. It's quite impertinent in a mere private secretary to talk so." "I beg your pardon. I forgot that you were engaged. You'll have to go to Camp Dangerfield and inspect the troops yourself, and they would a lot rather have you inspect them than have your father do it." "You mustn't say things like that! I thought I told you your appointment carried no social recognition. You mustn't talk to me as though I was a girl you really know--" "But there's no use of making-believe such things when I do know you!" "Not the least little tiny bit, you don't! Do you suppose, if you were a gentleman I knew and had been introduced to, I would be talking to you here in papa's office?" "But I pretend to be a gentleman; you certainly wouldn't be talking to me if you thought me anything else." "I can't even discuss the matter, Mr. Ardmore. A gentleman wouldn't lie to a lady." "But if you know I'm a liar why are you telling me these secrets and asking me to help you play being governor?" and Ardmore, floundering hopelessly, marveled at her more and more. "That's exactly the reason--because you came poking up to my house and told me that scandalous fib about meeting papa in New Orleans. Mr. Bassford is a beautiful liar; that's why he's papa's secretary; but you are a much more imaginative sort of liar than Mr. Bassford. He can only lie to callers about papa being engaged, or write encouraging letters to people who want appointments which papa never expects to make; but you lie because you can't help it. Now, if you're satisfied, you can take those telegrams down to the telegraph office, and you'd better mail that letter to Governor Osborne yourself, for fear the man who's running the lawn-mower will forget to come for it." The roll of drums and the cry of a bugle broke in upon the peace of the late afternoon. Miss Jerry rose with an exclamation and ran out into the broad portico of the state house. Several battalions of a tide-water regiment, passing through town on their way to Camp Dangerfield, had taken advantage of a wait in Raleigh to disembark and show themselves at the capital. They were already halted and at parade rest at the side of the street, and a mounted officer in khaki, galloping madly into view, seemed to focus the eyes of the gathering crowd. He was a gallant figure of a man; his mount was an animal that realized Job's ideal of a battle-horse; the soldiers presented arms as the horseman rode the line. Miss Dangerfield waved her handkerchief, standing eagerly on tiptoe to make her salutation carry as far as possible. "Who is that?" asked Ardmore, with sinking spirit. "Why, Rutherford Gillingwater, of course." "Fours right!" rang the command a moment later, and the militiamen tramped off to the station. It was then that Ardmore, watching the crowd disperse at the edge of the park, saw his caller of the morning striding rapidly across the street. Ardmore started forward, then checked himself so suddenly that Miss Jerry Dangerfield turned to him inquiringly. "What's the matter?" she demanded. "Nothing. I have been robbed, as I hoped to be. Over there on the sidewalk, beyond the girl in the pink sunbonnet, goes my little brown jug. That lank individual with the shabby hat has lifted it out of my room at the hotel, just as I thought he would." CHAPTER VI MR. GRISWOLD FORSAKES THE ACADEMIC LIFE Miss Osborne had asked Griswold to await the outcome of the day, and, finding himself thus possessed of a vacation, he indulged his antiquarian instincts by exploring Columbia. The late afternoon found him in the lovely cathedral churchyard, where an aged negro, tending the graves of an illustrious family, leaned upon his spade and recited the achievements and virtues of the dead. Men who had been law-makers, others who had led valiantly to battle, and ministers of the Prince of Peace, mingled their dust together; and across the crisp hedges a robin sang above Timrod's grave. As the shadows lengthened, Griswold walked back to the hotel, where he ate supper, then, calling for a horse, he rode through the streets in a mood of more complete alienation than he had ever experienced in a foreign country; yet the very scents of the summer night, stealing out from old gardens, the voices that reached him from open doorways, spoke of home. As he reached the outskirts of town and rode on toward the governor's mansion, his mood changed, and he laughed softly, for he remembered Ardmore, and Ardmore was beyond question the most amusing person he knew. It was unfortunate, he generously reflected, that Ardmore, rather than himself, had not been plunged into this present undertaking, which was much more in Ardmore's line than his own. There would, however, be a great satisfaction in telling Ardmore of his unexpected visit to Columbia, in exchange for his friend's report of his pursuit of the winking eye. He only regretted that in the nature of things Columbia is a modern city, a seat of commerce as well as of government, a place where bank clearings are seriously computed, and where the jaunty adventurer with sword and ruffles is quite likely to run afoul of the police. Yet his own imagination was far more fertile than Ardmore's, and he would have hailed a troop of mail-clad men as joyfully as his friend had he met them clanking in the highway. Thus, modern as we think ourselves, the least venturesome among us dreams that some day some turn of a street corner will bring him face to face with what we please to call our fate; and this is the manifestation of our last drop of medieval blood. The grimmest seeker after reality looks out of the corner of his eye for the flutter of a white handkerchief from the ivied tower he affects to ignore; and, in spite of himself, he is buoyed by the hope that some day a horn will sound for him over the nearest hill. Miss Osborne met him at the veranda steps. Indoors a mandolin and piano struck up the merry chords of _The Eutaw Girl_. "My young sisters have company. We'll sit here, if you don't mind." She led the way to a quiet corner, and after they were seated she was silent a moment, while the light from the windows showed clearly that her perplexity of the morning was not yet at an end. The music tinkled softly, and a breeze swept in upon them with faint odors of the garden. "I hope you won't mind, Mr. Griswold, if I appear to be ashamed of you. It's not a bit hospitable to keep you outside our threshold; but--you understand--I don't have to tell you!" "I understand perfectly, Miss Osborne!" "It seems best not to let the others know just why you are here. I told my sisters that you were an old friend--of father's--who wished to leave a message for him." "That will do first rate!" he laughed. "My status is fixed. I know your father, but as for ourselves, we are not acquainted." He felt that she was seriously anxious and troubled, and he wished to hearten her if he could. The soft dusk of the faintly-lighted corner folded her in. Behind her the vines of the veranda moved slightly in the breeze. A thin, wayward shaft of light touched her hair, as though searching out the gold. When we say that people have atmosphere, we really mean that they possess indefinite qualities that awaken new moods in us, as by that magic through which an ignorant hand thrumming a harp's strings may evoke some harmony denied to conscious skill. He heard whispered in his heart a man's first word of the woman he is destined to love, in which he sets her apart; above and beyond all other womenkind--she is different; she is not like other women! "It is nearly nine," she said, her voice thrilling through him. "My father should have been here an hour ago. We have heard nothing from him. The newspapers have telephoned repeatedly to know his whereabouts. I have put them off by intimating that he is away on important public business, and that his purpose might be defeated if his exact whereabouts were known. I tried to intimate, without saying as much, that he was busy with the Appleweight case. One of the papers that has very bitterly antagonized father ever since his election has threatened to expose what the editor calls father's relations with Appleweight. I can not believe that there is anything wrong about that; of course there is not!" She was controlling herself with an effort, and she broke off her declaration of confidence in her absent father sharply but with a sob in her voice. "I have no doubt in the world that the explanation you gave the newspapers is the truth of the matter. Your father must be absent a great deal--it is part of a governor's business to keep in motion. But we may as well face the fact that his absence just now is most embarrassing. This Appleweight matter has reached a crisis, and a failure to handle it properly may injure your father's future as a public man. If you will pardon me, I would suggest that there must be some one whom you can take into your confidence--some friend, some one in your father's administration that you can rely on?" "Yes; father has many friends; but I can not consider acknowledging to any one that father has disappeared when such a matter as this Appleweight case is an issue through the state. No; I have thought of every one this afternoon. It would be a painful thing for his best friends to know what is--what seems to be the truth." Her voice wavered a little, but she was brave, and he was aware that she straightened herself in her chair, and, when wayward gleams of light fell upon her face, that her lips were set resolutely. "You saw the attorney-general this morning," she went on. "As you suggested, he would naturally be the one to whom I should turn, but I can not do it. I--there is a reason"--and she faltered a moment--"there are reasons why I can not appeal to Mr. Bosworth at this time." She shrugged her shoulders as though throwing off a disagreeable topic, and he saw that there was nothing more to be said on this point. His heart-beats quickened as he realized that she was appealing to him; that, though he was only the most casual acquaintance, she trusted him. It was a dictum of his, learned in his study and practise of the law, that issues must be met as they offer--not as the practitioner would prefer to have them, but as they occur; and here was a condition of affairs that must be met promptly if the unaccountable absence of the governor was to be robbed of its embarrassing significance. As he pondered for a moment, a messenger rode into the grounds, and Miss Osborne slipped away and met the boy at the steps. She came back and opened a telegram, reading the message at one of the windows. An indignant exclamation escaped her, and she crumpled the paper in her hand. "The impudence of it!" she exclaimed. He had risen, and she now turned to him with anger and scorn deepening her beautiful color. Her breath came quickly; her head was lifted imperiously; her lips quivered slightly as she spoke. "This is from Governor Dangerfield. Can you imagine a man of any character or decency sending such a message to the governor of another state?" She watched him as he read: RALEIGH, N. C. The Honorable Charles Osborne, Governor of South Carolina, Columbia, S. C.: Have written by to-night's mail in Appleweight matter. Your vacillating course not understood. WILLIAM DANGERFIELD, Governor of North Carolina. "What do you think of that?" she demanded. "I think it's impertinent, to say the least," he replied guardedly. "Impertinent? It's the most contemptible, outrageous thing I ever heard of in my life! Governor Dangerfield has dilly-dallied with that case for two years. His administration has been marked from the beginning by the worst kind of incompetence. Why, this man Appleweight and his gang of outlaws only come into South Carolina now and then to hide and steal, but they commit most of their crimes in North Carolina, and they always have. Talk about a vacillating course! Father has never taken steps to arrest those men out of sheer regard for Governor Dangerfield; he thought North Carolina had some pride, and that her governor would prefer to take care of his own criminals. What do you suppose Appleweight is indicted for in this state? For stealing one ham--one single ham from a farmer in Mingo County, and he's killed half a dozen men in North Carolina." She paced the corner of the veranda angrily, while Griswold groped for a solution of the problem. The telegram from Raleigh was certainly lacking in diplomatic suavity. It was patent that if the governor of North Carolina was not tremendously aroused, he was playing a great game of bluff; and on either hypothesis a prompt response must be made to his telegram. "I must answer this at once. He must not think we are so stupid in Columbia that we don't know when we're insulted. We can go through the side door to father's study and write the message there," and she led the way. "It might be best to wait and see what his letter is like," suggested Griswold, with a vague wish to prolong this discussion, that he might enjoy the soft glow of the student lamp on her cheek. "I don't care what his letter says; it can't be worse than his telegram. We'll answer them both at once." She found a blank and wrote rapidly, without asking suggestions, with this result: The Honorable William Dangerfield, Raleigh, N. C.: Your extremely diverting telegram in Appleweight case received and filed. CHARLES OSBORNE, Governor of South Carolina. She met Griswold's obvious disappointment with prompt explanation. "You see, the governor of South Carolina can not stoop to an exchange of billingsgate with an underbred person like that--a big, solemn, conceited creature in long frock-coat and a shoestring necktie, who boasts of belonging to the common 'peo-pull.' He doesn't have to tell anybody that, when it's plain as daylight. The way to answer him is not to answer at all." "The way to answer him is to make North Carolina put Appleweight in jail, for crimes committed in that state, and then, if need be, we can satisfy the cry for vengeance in South Carolina by flashing our requisition. There is a rule in such cases that the state having the heaviest indictments shall have precedence; and you say that in this state it's only a matter of a ham. I am not acquainted with the South Carolina ham," he went on, smiling, "but in Virginia the right kind of a ham is sacred property, and to steal one is a capital offense." "I should like to steal one such as I had last winter in Richmond," and Miss Osborne forgot her anger; her eyes narrowed dreamily at an agreeable memory. "Was it at Judge Randolph Wilson's?" asked Griswold instantly. "Why, yes, it was at Judge Wilson's, Mr. Griswold. How did you know?" "I didn't know; I guessed; for I have sat at that table myself. The judge says grace twice when there's to be ham--once before soup, then again before ham." "Then thanksgiving after the ham would be perfectly proper!" Miss Osborne was studying Griswold carefully, then she laughed, and her attitude toward him, that had been tempered by a certain official reserve, became at once cordial. "Are you the Professor Griswold who is so crazy about pirates? I've heard the Wilsons speak of you, but you don't look like that." "Don't I look like a pirate? Thank you! I had an appointment at Judge Wilson's office this morning to talk over a case in which I'm interested." "I remember now what he said about you. He said you really were a fine lawyer, but that you liked to read about pirates." "That may have been what he said to you; but he has told me that the association of piracy and law was most unfortunate, as it would suggest unpleasant comments to those who don't admire the legal profession." "And you are one of those tide-water Griswolds, then, if you know the Randolph Wilsons. They are very strong for the tide-water families; to hear them talk you'd think the people back in the Virginia hills weren't really respectable." "It's undeniably the right view of the matter," laughed Griswold, "but now that I live in Charlottesville I don't insist on it. It wouldn't be decent in me. And I have lots of cousins in Lexington and through the Valley. The broad view is that every inch of the Old Dominion is holy ground." "It is an interesting commonwealth, Mr. Griswold; but I do not consider it holy ground. South Carolina has a monopoly of that;" and then the smile left her face and she returned to the telegram. "Our immediate business, however, is not with Virginia, or with South Carolina, but with the miserable commonwealth that lies between." "And that commonwealth," said Griswold, wishing to prolong the respite from official cares, "that state known in law and history as North Carolina, I have heard called, by a delightful North Carolina lady I met once at Charlottesville, a valley of humility between two mountains of conceit. That seems to hit both of us!" "North Carolina isn't a state at all," Miss Osborne declared spitefully; "it's only a strip of land where uninteresting people live. And now, what do you say to this telegram?" "Excellent. It's bound to irritate, and it leaves him in the dark as to our--I mean Governor Osborne's--intentions. And those intentions--" During this by-play he had reached a decision as to what should be done, and he was prepared to answer when she asked, with an employment of the pronoun that pleasantly emphasized their relationship: "What _are_ our intentions?" "We are going to catch Appleweight, that's the first thing--and until we get him we're going to keep our own counsel. Let me have a telegraph blank and I will try my hand at being governor." He sat down in the governor's chair, asked the name of the county seat of Mingo and wrote without erasure or hesitation this message: To the Sheriff of Mingo County, Turner Court House, S. C.: Make every possible effort to capture Appleweight and any of his gang who are abroad in your county. Swear in all the deputies you need, and if friendliness of citizens to outlaws makes this impossible wire me immediately, and I will send militia. Any delay on your part will be visited with severest penalties. Answer immediately by telegraph. CHARLES OSBORNE, Governor of South Carolina. "That's quite within the law," said Griswold, handing Barbara the message; "and we might as well put the thing through at a gallop. I'll get the telegraph company to hold open the line to Turner Court House until the sheriff answers." As Barbara read the message he saw her pleasure in the quick compression of her lips, the glow in her cheeks, and then the bright glint of her bronze-brown eyes as she finished. "That's exactly right. I didn't know just how to manage such a thing, but I see that that is the proper method." "Yes; the sheriff must have his full opportunity to act." "And what then, if the sheriff refuses to do anything?" "Then--then"--and Griswold's jaw set firmly, and he straightened himself slightly before he added in a quiet tone--"then I'm going down there to take charge of the thing myself." "Oh, that is too much! I _didn't_ ask that; and I must refuse to let you take any such responsibility on yourself, to say nothing of the personal danger. I merely wanted your advice--as a lawyer, for the reason that I dared not risk father's name even among his best friends here. And your coming to the office this morning seemed so--so providential--" He sought at once to minimize the value of his services, for he was not a man to place a woman under obligations, and, moreover, an opportunity like this, to uphold the dignity, and perhaps to exercise the power of a state, laid strong hold upon him. He knew little enough about the Appleweight case, but he felt from his slight knowledge that he was well within his rights in putting spurs to the sheriff of Mingo County. If the sheriff failed to respond in proper spirit and it became necessary to use the militia, he was conscious that serious complications might arise. He had not only a respect for law, but an ideal of civic courage and integrity, and the governor's inexplicable absence aroused his honest wrath. The idea that a mere girl should be forced to sustain the official honor and dignity of a cowardly father further angered him. And then he looked into her eyes and saw how grave they were, and how earnest and with what courage she met the situation; and the charm of her slender figure, that glint of gold in her hair, her slim, supple hands folded on the table--these things wrought in him a happiness that he had never known before, so that he laughed as he took the telegram from her. "There must be no mistake, no failure," she said quietly. "We are not going to fail; we are going to carry this through! Within three days we'll have Appleweight in a North Carolina jail or a flying fugitive in Governor Dangerfield's territory. And now these telegrams must be sent. It might be better for you to go to the telegraph office with me. You must remember that I am a pilgrim and a stranger and they might question my filing official messages." "That is perfectly true. I will go into town with you." "And if there's an official coach that everybody knows as yours, it would allay suspicions to have it," and while he was still speaking she vanished to order the carriage. In five minutes it was at the side door, and Griswold and Barbara, fortified by the presence of Phoebe, left the governor's study. "If they don't know me, everybody in South Carolina knows Phoebe," said Barbara. "A capital idea. I can see by her eye that she's built for conspiracy." Griswold's horse was to be returned to town by a boy; and when this had been arranged the three entered the carriage. "The telegraph office, Tom; and hurry." CHAPTER VII AN AFFAIR AT THE STATE HOUSE Barbara filed the messages herself with the manager of the telegraph company, who lifted the green shade from his eyes and smiled upon her. "We'll rush them, Miss Osborne. Shall I telephone the answers if they come to-night? No; your father likes his telegrams delivered, I remember." "I will call for them," said Griswold. "Governor Osborne was only at home a few hours this evening and he left me in charge of these matters." The manager's face expressed surprise. "Oh! I didn't know the governor was at home," he remarked, as he finished counting the words and charging them against the state's account. "I will send them myself, and ask the operators at the other end to look lively about the answers. You are Mr.--" "This is Major Griswold," said Barbara, conferring the title with a vague feeling that it strengthened her cause. "Major," repeated the manager, and he nodded to Griswold with an air that implied his familiarity with official secrets. "You will call? In a couple of hours, Major." As Barbara and Griswold turned to leave, a young man who had been writing a message at the standing desk in the lobby lifted his hat and addressed Barbara. He was a reporter for the Columbia _Intelligencer_, and his manner was eager. "Oh, Miss Osborne, pardon me, but I've been trying to get you on the telephone. Can you tell me where your father is to-night?" "Father was in town only a few hours, and then left on state business." The young man glanced from one to the other. He was a polite youngster and Miss Barbara Osborne was--Miss Barbara Osborne, and this, to the people of South Carolina, was a fact of weight. Still the reporter twirled his hat uncertainly. "Well, I thought I had met all the trains, but I guess I missed the governor." "No; you didn't miss him," smiled Barbara, "Father drove in from the country and went back the same way. He didn't come into town at all." The news instinct is the keenest with which man may be blessed, and the reporter scented events. Griswold, seeing the light flash in the young man's eye, felt that here was an opportunity to allay public criticism. "Governor Osborne is engaged upon important public business. He will be absent from town for a day--perhaps a week. He will not return to Columbia until the business is thoroughly disposed of." "May I ask if it's the Appleweight case? The Raleigh papers have wired for information and we'd like to know here." "I can not answer that question. It's enough that the governor is absent on state business, and that the business is important. You may print that in the _Intelligencer_ and repeat it to Raleigh. There is no harm in that, is there, Miss Osborne?" "No; certainly not," Barbara replied. "But the papers all over the state are talking about the Appleweight gang. They intimate that those people enjoy immunity from prosecution and that the governor--you will pardon me, Miss Osborne--will take no steps to arrest them for personal reasons." "Your question is quite proper," replied Griswold. "The governor's acts are subject to scrutiny at all times and it is just as well to have this matter understood now. I am employed by the governor as special counsel in some state matters. My name is Griswold. Take out your book and come to the desk here and I will give you a statement which you may publish as by the authority of the governor." The three found seats at a table and Griswold dictated while the reporter wrote, Barbara meanwhile sitting with her cheek resting against her raised hand. She was experiencing the relief we all know, of finding a strong arm to lean upon in an emergency, and she realized that Griswold was not only wise, but shrewd and resourceful. "Please print this exactly as I give it: It having been intimated in certain quarters that the Appleweight gang of outlaws, which has been terrorizing the North Carolina frontier for several years, enjoys immunity from prosecution in South Carolina owing to the fact that Governor Osborne was at some time attorney for Appleweight, Governor Osborne begs to say that steps have already been taken for the arrest of this man and his followers, dead or alive. The governor presents his compliments to those amiable critics who have so eagerly seized upon this pretext for slurring his private character and aspersing his official acts. The governor has no apologies to proffer the people of South Carolina, who have so generously reposed in him their trust and confidence. He is intent upon safe-guarding the peace, dignity and honor of the state through an honest enforcement of law and he has no other aim or ambition." Griswold took the reporter's note-book and read over this pronunciamiento; then he handed it to Barbara, who studied it carefully. "I think that sounds just right, only, why not substitute for 'honest' the word 'vigorous'?" "Excellent," assented Griswold, and thus amended the statement was returned to the reporter. "Now," said Griswold to the young man, "you are getting a pretty good item that no other paper will have. Please wire your story to Raleigh; Governor Osborne is very anxious that the people up there shall understand fully his attitude in the Appleweight matter." "I reckon this will wake up old Dangerfield all right," said the reporter, grinning. "He'll be paralyzed. May I use your name in this connection, sir?" "Not at all. My engagement with Governor Osborne is of the most confidential character and our purposes would be defeated by publicity. Remember, you get the exclusive use of this story--the return and immediate departure of the governor, his statement to the people in the Appleweight case--all with the understanding that you use what you have to the best advantage." "This is all right, is it, Miss Osborne?" asked the reporter. "Major Griswold has full authority to act, and you need question nothing he tells you," Barbara replied. "I suppose the governor didn't see the attorney-general to-day?" asked the reporter detainingly, as Barbara rose. She exchanged a glance with Griswold. "Father didn't see Mr. Bosworth at all, if that's what you mean!" "Didn't see him? Well, Bosworth didn't exactly tell me he had seen him to-day, but I asked him about the Appleweight case an hour ago at his house and he said the governor wasn't going to do anything and that was the end of it so far as the administration is concerned." "Print his story and see what happens! We have no comment to make on that, have we, Miss Osborne?" "Nothing at all," replied Barbara scornfully. "I'm at the Saluda House at present. See me to-morrow and I may have another story for you!" and Griswold shook the reporter warmly by the hand as they parted at the carriage door. "Home," said Barbara for the reporter's benefit, and then, to Griswold: "I must speak of another matter. Drive with me a little way until we can throw the reporter off." She spoke quietly, but he saw that she was preoccupied with some new phase of the situation, and as the carriage gained headway she said earnestly: "That young man told the truth--I am sure of it--about Mr. Bosworth. I knew he would do something to injure father if he could, but I did not know he had the courage to go so far." "It's only politics, Miss Osborne," said Griswold lightly. "Besides, you may be sure the _Intelligencer_ will print the governor's side of it in its largest type." "No; it is not politics. It is more despicable, more contemptible, more ungenerous even than politics. But he shall be punished, humiliated for his conduct." "You shall fix his punishment yourself!" laughed Griswold; "but the state's business first. We have a little more to do before I am satisfied with the day's work." "Yes, of course. We must leave nothing undone that father would do were he here to act for himself." "We must be even more careful in his absence to safeguard his honor than the case really requires. We not only have his public responsibility but our own into the bargain in so far as we speak and act for him. And there's always the state--the Palmetto flag must be kept flying at the masthead." Their eyes met as they passed under an electric lamp and he saw how completely she was relying on his guidance. They were now at the edge of town and she bade him stop the carriage. "We must go to the state house," said Griswold. "We must get that requisition, to guard against treason in the citadel. Assuming that Governor Osborne really doesn't want to see Appleweight punished we'd better hold the requisition anyhow. It's possible that your father had it ready--do pardon me!--for a grand-stand play, or he may have wanted to bring Appleweight into the friendlier state;--but that's all conjectural. We'd better keep out of the principal streets. That reporter has a sharp eye." She gave the necessary directions and the driver turned back into Columbia. It was pleasant to find his accomplice in this conspiracy a girl of keen wit who did not debate matters or ask tiresome questions. The business ahead was serious enough, though he tried by manner, tone and words to minimize its gravity. If the attorney-general was serving a personal spite, or whatever the cause of his attitude, he might go far in taking advantage of the governor's absence. Griswold's relation to the case was equivocal enough, he fully realized; but the very fact of its being without precedent, and so beset with pitfalls for all concerned, was a spur to action. In the present instance a duly executed requisition for the apprehension of a criminal, which could not be replaced if lost, must be held at all hazards, and Griswold had determined to make sure of the governor's warrant before he slept. "Have you the office keys?" he asked. "Yes; I have been afraid to let go of them. There's a watchman in the building, but he knows me very well. There will not be the slightest trouble about getting in." The watchman--an old Confederate veteran--sat smoking in the entrance and courteously bade them good evening. "I want to get some papers from father's office, Captain." "Certainly, Miss Barbara." He preceded them, throwing on the lights, to the governor's door, which he opened with his own pass key. "It's pretty lonesome here at night, Miss Barbara." "I suppose nobody comes at night," remarked Griswold. "Not usually, sir. But one or two students are at work in the library, and Mr. Bosworth is in his office." The veteran walked away jingling his keys. Barbara was already in the private office bending over the governor's desk. She found the right key, drew out a drawer, then cried out softly. She knelt beside the desk, throwing the papers about in her eagerness, then turned to Griswold with a white face. "The drawer has been opened since I was here this morning. The requisition and all the other papers in the case are gone." Griswold examined the lock carefully and pointed to the roughened edges of the wood. "A blade of the shears there, or perhaps the paper cutter--who knows? The matter is simple enough, so please do not trouble about it. Wait here a moment. I want to make some inquiries of the watchman." He found the old fellow pacing the portico like a sentry. He pointed out the attorney-general's office, threw on a few additional lights for Griswold's guidance, and resumed his patrol duty outside. The attorney-general's door was locked, but in response to Griswold's knock it was opened guardedly. "I am very sorry to trouble you, Mr. Bosworth," began Griswold, quietly edging his way into the room, "but one never gets wholly away from business these days." He closed the door himself, and peered into the inner rooms to be sure the attorney-general was alone. Bosworth's face flushed angrily when he found that a stranger had thus entered his office with a cool air of proprietorship; then he stared blankly at Griswold for a moment before he recalled where he had seen him before. "I don't receive visitors at night," he blurted, laying his hand on the door. "I'm engaged, and you'll have to come in office hours." He shook the door as though to call Griswold's attention to it. "Do you see this thing--it's the door!" he roared. "I have seen it from both sides, Mr. Bosworth. I intend to stay on this side until I get ready to go." "Who the devil are you? What do you mean by coming here at this time of night?" "I'm a lawyer myself, if you will force the ignoble truth from me. Now, when you are perfectly quiet, and once more the sane, reasonable human being you must be to have been trusted with the office you hold, we'll proceed to business. Meanwhile, please put on your coat. A man in his shirt-sleeves is always at a disadvantage; and we Virginians are sticklers for the proprieties." The attorney-general's fury abated when he saw that he had to deal with a low-voiced young man who seemed unlikely to yield to intimidation. Griswold had, in fact, seated himself on a table that was otherwise covered with law books, and he sniffed with pleasure the familiar atmosphere of dusty law calf, which no one who has had the slightest acquaintance with a law office ever forgets. To his infinite amusement Bosworth was actually putting on his coat, though it may have been a little absent-mindedly to give him an opportunity to decide upon a plan for getting rid of his visitor. However this may have been, Bosworth now stepped to the side of the room and snatched down the telephone receiver. Griswold caught him by the shoulder and flung him round. "None of that! By calling the police you will only get yourself into trouble. I'm bigger than you are and I should hate to have to throw you out of the window. Now"--and he caught and hung up the receiver, which was wildly banging the wall--"now let us be sensible and get down to business." "Who the devil are you?" demanded Bosworth, glaring. "I'm special counsel for Governor Osborne in the Appleweight case. There's no use in wasting time in further identification, but if you take down that volume on Admiralty Practice just behind you, you will find my name on the title page. Or, to save you the trouble, as you seem to be interested in my appearance, I will tell you that my name is Griswold and that my address is Charlottesville, Virginia." "You are undoubtedly lying. If you are smart enough to write a book you ought to know enough about legal procedure to understand that the attorney-general represents the state and special counsel would not be chosen without his knowledge." "Allow me to correct you, my learned brother. You should never misquote the opposing counsel--it's one of the rules of the game. What I said a moment ago was that I represented the governor--Governor Osborne. I didn't say I represented the state, which is a different matter, and beset with _ultra vires_ pitfalls. There is no earthly reason why a governor should not detach himself, so to speak, from his office and act _in propria persona_, as a mere citizen. His right to private remedy is not abridged by the misfortune of office-holding. Whether he can himself be made defendant in an action at law touches that ancient question, whether the monarch or the state can be sued. That's a question law students have debated from the beginning of time, but we must not confuse it with the case at issue. The governor, as a citizen, may certainly employ such counsel as he pleases, and just now I represent him. Of course, if you want me to furnish a brief--" Griswold's manner was deliberate and ingratiating. He saw that the attorney-general had not the slightest sense of humor and that his play upon legal phrases was wasted. Bosworth grinned, but not at the legal status of monarchs and states. He had thought of a clever stroke and he dealt the blow with confidence. "Let us assume," he said, "that you represent Mr. Osborne. May I ask the whereabouts of your client?" "Certainly. You may ask anything you please, but it will do you no good. It's an old rule of the game never to divulge a client's secret. Governor Osborne has his own reasons for absenting himself from his office. However, he was at home to-night." "I rather guess not, as I had all the trains watched. You'll have to do a lot better than that, Mr. Griswold." "He has issued a statement to the public since you lied to the _Intelligencer_ reporter about him to-day. I suppose it's part of your official duty to misrepresent the head of the state administration in the press, but the governor is in the saddle and I advise you to be good." The attorney-general felt that he was not making headway. His disadvantage in dealing with a stranger whose identity he still questioned angered him. He did not know why Griswold had sought him out, and he was chagrined at having allowed himself to be so easily cornered. "You seem to know a good deal," he sneered. "How did you get into this thing anyhow?" "My dear sir, I was chosen by the governor because of my superior attainments, don't you see? But I'm in a hurry now. I came here on a particular errand. I want that requisition in the Appleweight case--quick!--if you please, Mr. Bosworth." He jumped down from the table and took up his hat and stick. "Mr. Griswold, or whoever you are, you are either a fool or a blackguard. There isn't any requisition for Appleweight. The governor never had the sand to issue any, if you must know the truth! If you knew anything about the governor you would know that that's why Osborne is hiding himself. He can't afford to offend the Appleweights, if you must know the disagreeable truth. Your coming here and asking me for that requisition is funny, if you had the brains to see it. Poor old Osborne is scared to death and I doubt if he's within a hundred miles of here. You don't know the governor; I do! He's a dodger, a trimmer and a coward." "Mr. Bosworth," began Griswold deliberately, "that requisition, duly signed and bearing the seal of the secretary of state as by the statutes in such cases made and provided, was in Governor Osborne's desk this morning at the time you were so daintily kicking the door in your anxiety to see the governor. It has since been taken from the drawer where the governor left it when he went to New Orleans. You have gone in there like a sneak-thief, pried open the drawer and stolen that document; and now--" "It's an ugly charge," mocked the attorney-general. "It's all of that," and Griswold smiled. "But you forget that you represent Mr. Osborne. On the other hand I represent Governor Osborne, and if I want the Appleweight papers I had every right to them." "After office hours, feloniously and with criminal intent?" laughed Griswold. "We will assume that I have them," sneered Bosworth, "and such being the case I will return them only to the governor." "Then,"--and Griswold's smile broadened--"if it comes to concessions, I will grant that you are within your rights in wishing to place them in the governor's own hands. The governor of South Carolina is now, so to speak, _in camera_." "The governor is hiding. He's afraid to come to Columbia, and the whole state knows it." "The papers, my friend; and I will satisfy you that the governor of South Carolina is under this roof and transacting business." "Here in the state house?" demanded Bosworth, and he blanched and twisted the buttons of his coat nervously. "The governor of South Carolina, the supreme power of the state, charged with full responsibility, enjoying all the immunities, rights and privileges unto him belonging." It was clear that Bosworth took no stock whatever in Griswold's story; but Griswold's pretended employment by the governor and his apparent knowledge of the governor's affairs, piqued his curiosity. If this was really the Griswold who had written a widely accepted work on admiralty and who was known to him by reputation as a brilliant lawyer of Virginia, the mystery was all the deeper. By taking the few steps necessary to reach the governor's chambers he would prove the falsity of Griswold's pretensions to special knowledge of the governor's whereabouts and plans. He stepped to an inner office, came back with a packet of papers and thrust a revolver into his pocket with so vain a show of it that Griswold laughed aloud. "What! Do you still back your arguments with fire-arms down here? It's a method that has gone out of fashion in Virginia!" "If there's a trick in this it will be the worse for you," scowled Bosworth. "And pray, remember on your side, that you are to give those documents into the hands of the governor. Come along." They met the watchman in the corridor and he saluted them and passed on. Bosworth strode eagerly forward in his anxiety to prick the bubble of Griswold's pretensions. Griswold threw open the door of the governor's reception-room, and they blinked in the stronger light that poured in from the private office. There, in the governor's chair by the broad official desk, sat Barbara Osborne reading a newspaper. "Your Excellency," said Griswold, bowing gravely and advancing; "I beg to present the attorney-general!" "Barbara!" The papers fell from the attorney-general's hands. He stood staring until astonishment began to yield to rage as he realized that a trap had been sprung upon him. The girl had risen instantly and a smile played about her lips for a moment. She had vaguely surmised that Griswold would charge Bosworth with the loss of the papers, but her associate in the conspiracy had now given a turn to the matter that amused her. "Barbara!" blurted the attorney-general, "what game is this--what contemptible trick is this stranger playing on you? Don't you understand that your father's absence is a most serious matter and that in the present condition of this Appleweight affair it is likely to involve him and the state in scandal?" Barbara regarded him steadily for a moment with a negative sort of gaze. She took a step forward before she spoke and then she asked quickly and sharply: "What have you done, Mr. Bosworth, to avert these calamities, and what was in your mind when you pried open the drawer and took out those papers?" "I was going to use the requisition--" "How?" "Why, I expected--" "Mr. Bosworth expected to effect a _coup_ for his own glory during the governor's absence," suggested Griswold. "How?" and Barbara's voice rang imperiously and her eyes flashed. "Send this unknown person, this impostor and meddler, away and I will talk to you as old friends may talk together," and he glared fiercely at Griswold, who stood fanning himself with his hat. "I asked you how you intended to serve my father, Mr. Bosworth, because you sent me this afternoon a letter in which you threatened me--you threatened me with my father's ruin if I did not marry you. You would take advantage of my trouble and anxiety to force that question on me when I had answered it once and for all long ago. Before this stranger I want to tell you that you are a despicable coward and that if you think you can humiliate me or my father or the state by such practices as you have resorted to you are very greatly mistaken. And further, Mr. Bosworth, if I find you interfering again in this matter I shall print that letter you wrote me to-day in every newspaper in the state! Now, that is all I have to say to you, and I hope never to see you again." "Before you go, Mr. Bosworth," said Griswold, "I wish to say that Miss Osborne has spoken of your conduct with altogether too much restraint. I shall add, on my own account, that if I find you meddling again in this Appleweight case, I shall first procure your removal from office and after that I shall take the greatest pleasure in flogging you within an inch of your life. Now go!" The two had dismissed him, and before Bosworth's step died away in the hall, Griswold was running his eye over the papers. "That man will do something nasty if he is clever enough to think of anything." "He's a disgusting person," said Barbara, touching her forehead with her handkerchief. "He's all of that," remarked Griswold, as he retied the red-tape round the packet of papers. "And now, before we leave we may as well face a serious proposition. Your father's absence and this fiction we are maintaining that he is really here can not be maintained forever. I don't want to trouble you, for you, of course, realize all this as keenly as I. But what do you suppose actually happened at New Orleans between your father and the governor of North Carolina?" She leaned against her father's desk, her hands lightly resting on its flat surface. She was wholly serene now, and she smiled and then laughed. "It couldn't have been what the governor of North Carolina said to the governor of South Carolina in the old story, for father is strongly opposed to drink of all kinds. And in the story--" "I've forgotten where that story originated." "Well, it happened a long time ago, and nobody really knows the origin. But according to tradition, at the crisis of a great row between two governors, the ice was broken by the governor of North Carolina saying to the governor of South Carolina those shocking words about it's being a long time between drinks. What makes the New Orleans incident so remarkable is that father and Governor Dangerfield have always been friends, though I never cared very much for the Dangerfields myself. The only tiffs they have had have been purely for effect. When father said that the people of North Carolina would never amount to anything so long as they fry their meat it was only his joke with Governor Dangerfield--but it did make North Carolina awfully mad. And Jerry--she's the governor's daughter--refused to visit me last winter just on that account. Jerry Dangerfield's a nice little girl, but she has no sense of humor." CHAPTER VIII THE LABORS OF MR. ARDMORE While he waited for Miss Jerry Dangerfield to appear Mr. Thomas Ardmore read for the first time the constitution of the United States. He had reached the governor's office early, and, seeking diversion, he had picked up a small volume that bore some outward resemblance to a novel. This proved, however, to be Johnston's _American Politics_, and he was amazed to find that this diminutive work contained the answers to a great many questions which had often perplexed him, but which he had imagined could not be answered except by statesmen or by men like his friend Griswold, who spent their lives in study. He had supposed that the constitution of a great nation like the United States would fill many volumes, and be couched in terms bewildering and baffling; and it was perhaps the proudest moment in Mr. Ardmore's life when, in the cool and quiet of the May morning, in the historic chambers of the governor of North Carolina, it dawned upon him that the charter of American liberty filled hardly more space than the stipulations for a yacht race, or a set of foot-ball rules; and that, moreover, he understood the greater part of it, or thought he did. Such strange words as "attainder" and "capitation" he sought out in the dictionary, and this also gave him a new sensation and thrill of pleasure at finding the machinery of knowledge so simple. He made note of several matters he wished to ask Griswold about when they met again; then turned back into the body of the text and had read as far as Burr's conspiracy when Jerry came breezily in. He experienced for the first time in his life that obsession of guilt which sinks in shame the office-boy who is caught reading a dime novel. Jerry seemed to tower above him like an avenging angel, and though her sword was only a parasol, her words cut deep enough. "Well, you are taking it pretty cool!" "Taking what?" faltered Ardmore, standing up, and seeking to hide the book behind his back. "Why, this outrageous article!" and she thrust a newspaper under his eyes. "Do you mean to say you haven't seen the morning paper?" "To tell you the truth, Miss Dangerfield, I hardly ever read the papers." "What's that you were reading when I came in?" she demanded severely, withholding the paper until she should be answered. "It's a book about the government, and the powers reserved to the states and that sort of thing. I was just reading the constitution; I thought it might help us--I mean _you_--in your work." "The constitution help me? Hasn't it occurred to you before this that what I'm doing is all against the constitution and the revised statutes and all those books you see on the shelf there?" "But the constitution sounds all right. It seems remarkably reasonable. You couldn't ask anything fairer than that!" "So are the ten commandments fair enough; but you're on the wrong track, Mr. Ardmore, if you're trying to support the present administration with stupid things in books. I don't follow precedents, Mr. Ardmore; I create them." "But I should think you would have to be awfully careful not to mix up the business of the executive and judicial branches of the government. I think I heard Grissy speak of that once, though I'm not certain. Grissy knows more than almost any other living man." "I don't doubt that your friend is a well-educated person, but in times like these you've got to rise above the constitution; and just now it's more convenient to forget it. There's a constitution of North Carolina, too, if you're looking for constitutions, but in good society such things are not mentioned. Papa always refers to the constitution with tears in his eyes when he's making speeches, but papa's very emotional. If I could make a speech I should tell the people what I think of them--that they're too silly and stupid for words." "You are right, Miss Dangerfield. I have felt exactly that way about the people ever since I was defeated for alderman in New York. But let me have the paper." She turned to the morning mail while he read, and opened the envelopes rapidly. Such of the letters as she thought interesting or important she put aside, and when Ardmore finished reading a double-leaded telegram from Columbia, in which the governor of South Carolina was quoted as declaring his intention of taking immediate steps for the apprehension of Appleweight, she was still reading and sorting letters, tapping her cheek lightly meanwhile with the official paper-knife. "Here, Mr. Ardmore," she said, drawing a paper from her pocket, "is the answer to that telegram we sent yesterday evening. Suppose you read that next, and we can then decide what to do." She was making the letters into little piles, humming softly meanwhile; but he felt that there was a storm brewing. He read the message from Columbia a number of times, and if the acting governor had not been so ominously quiet he would have laughed at the terse sentences. "There must be a mistake about this. He wouldn't have used 'diverting' that way; that's insulting!" "So you appreciate its significance, do you, Mr. Ardmore? The iron enters your soul, does it? You realize that I have been insulted, do you?" "I shouldn't put it that way, Miss Dangerfield. Governor Osborne would never have sent a message like that to you--he thought he was sending it to your father." "He's insulted me and every other citizen in the Old North State; that's who he's insulted, Mr. Ardmore. Let me read it again;" and she repeated the telegram aloud: "'Your extremely diverting telegram in Appleweight case received and filed.' I think it's the _extremely_ that's so perfectly mean. The _diverting_ by itself would not hurt my feelings half so much. He's a good deal smarter man than I thought he was to think up a telegram like that. But what do you think of that piece in the newspaper?" "He says he's going to catch Appleweight dead or alive. That sounds pretty serious." "I think it's a bluff myself. That telegram we sent him yesterday must have scared him to death. He was driven into a corner and had to do something to avoid being disgraced, and it's easy enough to talk big in the newspapers when you haven't the slightest intention of doing anything at all. I've noticed that father talks the longest and loudest about things he doesn't believe at all." "Is it possible?" whispered Ardmore incredulously. "Of course it's possible! Father would never have been elected if he'd expressed his real sentiments; neither would anybody else ever be elected if he said beforehand what he really believed." "That must have been the reason I got defeated for alderman on the reform ticket. I told 'em I was for turning the rascals out." "That was very stupid of you. You've got to get the rascals to elect you first; then if you're tired of office and don't need them any more you bounce them. But that's political practice; it's a theory we've got to work out now. Governor Osborne's telegram is much more important than his interview in the newspapers, which is just for effect and of no importance at all. He doesn't say the same things in the telegram to father that he said to the reporter. A governor who really meant to do anything wouldn't be so ready to insult another governor. The newspapers are a lot of bother. I spent all yesterday evening talking to reporters. They came to the house to ask where papa was and when he would be home!" "What did you tell them?" "I didn't tell them anything. I sent out for two other girls and we all just talked to them and kept talking, and gave them lemon sherbet and ginger cookies; and Eva Hungerford played the banjo--you don't know Eva? Of course you don't know anybody, and I don't want you to, for it would spoil you for private secretary. But Eva is simply killing when she gets to cutting up, and we made those reporters sing to us, and all they say in the papers, even the opposition papers, this morning is that Governor Dangerfield is in Savannah visiting an old friend. They all tell the same story, so they must have fixed it up after they left the house. But what were you doing, Mr. Ardmore, that you didn't come around to help? It seems to me you don't appreciate the responsibilities of being secretary to a governor." "I was afraid you might scold me if I did. And besides I was glued to the long distance telephone all evening, talking to my manager at Ardsley. He read me my letters and a lot of telegrams that annoyed me very much. I wish you wouldn't be so hard on me, for I have trifling troubles of my own." "I didn't suppose you ever had troubles; you certainly don't act as though you ever had." "No one who has never been brother-in-law to a duke has the slightest idea of what trouble is." "I've seen the Duke of Ballywinkle's picture in the papers and he looks very attractive." "Well, if you'd ever seen him eat celery you'd change your mind. He's going down to Ardsley to visit me; for sheer nerve I must say my relations beat the world. I got my place over here in North Carolina just to get away from them, and now my sister--not the duchess, but Mrs. Atchison--is coming down there with a lot of girls and Ballywinkle has attached himself to the party. They'll pass through here to-day, and they'll expect to find me at Ardsley." "If the duke's really coming to our state I suppose we ought to recognize him officially," and Jerry's eyes were large with reverie as she pondered her possible duty. "Do something for him!" blazed Ardmore. "I hope _you_ don't labor under the delusion that a duke's any better than anybody else? If you'd suffered what I have from being related to a duke you'd be sorry to hear he was even passing through your state, much less stopping off for a couple of weeks." "Because you don't like him is no reason why every one else should feel the same way, is it? I've read about the Duke of Ballywinkle and he belongs to one of the oldest families in England, and I've seen pictures of Ballywinkle Castle--" "Worse than that," grinned Ardmore with rising humor, "I had to chip in to pay for it! And the plumbing isn't yet what it ought to be. The last time I was over there I caught cold and nearly died of pneumonia. I make it a rule now never to visit dukes. You never know what you'll strike when you stay in those ancestral castles, even when they've been restored with some silly American girl's grandfather's money. Those places are all full of drafts and malaria and ghosts, and they make you drink tea in the afternoon, which is worse than being haunted." "I suppose we might invite his Grace to inspect our militia," persisted Jerry. "It would sound well in the papers to have a real duke inspect the North Carolina troops." "It would sound better than he would look doing it, I can tell you that. Old Wellington may have been all right, but these new dukes were never made for horseback." "He might appear in a carriage, wearing his orders and ride the lines that way, with all the troops presenting arms." "Or you might pin his debts on him and mount him on a goat on the rifle-range and let the sharp-shooters pepper away at him! Please let us not talk about Ballywinkle any more; the thought of him gives me that sinking feeling." He had opened an atlas and was poring over it with a magnifying glass. "It's positively funny," he murmured, laughing a little to himself, "but I know something about this country over here. Here's Ardsley, in the far corner of Dilwell County, and here's Kildare." "Yes; I understand maps. Dilwell is green, and there's the state line, and that ugly watery sort of yellow is Mingo County, South Carolina, and Turner Court House is the county seat of it. Those little black marks are hills on the border, and it's right there that these Appleweight people live, and dance on the state line as though it were a skipping-rope." "That's exactly it. Now what we want to do is to arrest Appleweight and put him in jail in South Carolina, which relieves the governor of North Carolina, your honored father, of all embarrassment." She snatched the paper-cutter and took possession of the map for a moment, then pointed, with a happy little laugh. "Why, that will be only too easy. You see there's Azbell County, where the militia is encamped, just three counties away from Dilwell, and if we needed the soldiers it wouldn't hurt the troops to march that far, would it?" "Hurt them, nothing!" exclaimed Ardmore. "It will be good for them. You have to give orders to the adjutant-general, and, being engaged to him, he would be afraid not to obey your orders, even if you told him to go in balloons." "Well, of course, I'd send him an official order; and if he was disobedient I could break our engagement. When I broke my engagement with Arthur Treadmeasure, it was only because he was five minutes late coming to take me to a dance." "You were perfectly right, Miss Dangerfield. No gentleman would keep you waiting." "But he didn't keep me waiting! I was sick in bed with a sore throat, and mama wouldn't let me go; but I thought it was very careless and taking too much for granted for him to think he could come poking along any time he pleased, so I ended everything." It would have interested Ardmore to know the total of Miss Dangerfield's engagements, but the time did not seem propitious for such inquiries; and, moreover, his awe of her as a young person of great determination and force of character increased. She spoke of employing the armed forces of the state as though playing with the militia were a cheerful pastime, like horseback riding or tennis. His heart sank as he foresaw the possibility of the gallant Gillingwater coming out of the Appleweight affair with flying colors, a hero knighted on the field for valor. The remembrance of Gillingwater receiving the salutes of the militia and riding off to the wars to the beat of drums had deprived Ardmore of sleep all night. "Well, there's the map, and there's that insulting telegram; what are you going to do about it?" asked Jerry. She seemed to be honestly inviting suggestions, and the very thought of this affected him like wine. He deliberated for several minutes, while she watched him. A delicious country quiet lay upon the old state house; in the tranquil park outside the birds whistled their high disdain of law and precedent. It was no small thing to be identified with a great undertaking like this, with the finest girl in the world; and he could not help thinking of the joy of telling Griswold, the sober professor and sedate lawyer, of this adventure when it should be happily concluded. Never again should Grissy taunt him with his supineness before the open door of opportunity! "A governor," he began, "is always a dignified person who doesn't bother his head about little things like this unless everybody else has gone to sleep. Now, who's the chief of police in a county like Dilwell--what do you call him?" "Do you mean the sheriff, Mr. Ardmore?" "Certainly. Now, give me those telegraph blanks, and I'll drop him a few lines to let him know that the government at Raleigh still lives." It is in the telegram alone that we Americans approach style. Our great commanders did much to form it; our business strategists took the key from them. "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer" is not more admirable than "Cancel order our number six hundred and eighteen," or "Have drawn at sight." Through the most familiar and commonplace apparatus clicks and ticks the great American epic in phrases concise, unequivocal and apt. Von Moltke, roused at night with news of war, merely waved his hand to the long-prepared orders in his chiffonier and went to sleep again; but the great Prussian has his counterpart in the American magnate who ties up a railroad by telegraph over his after-dinner coffee. Telegrams were, however, with Mr. Thomas Ardmore, something more than a form of communication or a mere literary exercise. Letter-writing seemed to him the most formidable of human undertakings, but with a pad of telegraph blanks under his hand his spirit soared free. All untrammeled by the horror of the day tariff, whose steep slopes have wrought so much confusion and error among the economical, he gave to the wires and the wireless what he never would have confided to a stamp. He wrote and submitted to Miss Jerry Dangerfield the following: To the Sheriff of Dilwell County, Kildare, N. C.: What is this I hear about your inability to catch Appleweight and the rest of his bunch? Your inattention to your duties is a matter of common scandal, and if you don't get anxious pretty soon I shall remove you from your job and then some. I shall be down soon to see whether you are pitching quoits at the blacksmith shop or fishing for lobsters in Raccoon Creek, instead of attending to your knitting. Your conduct has annoyed me until I am something more than vexed by your behavior. The eyes of the great North State are upon you. Wire me at length just what you propose doing or not doing in this matter. WILLIAM DANGERFIELD, Governor of North Carolina. "What do you think of that?" he asked, his pride falling as she scanned the paper carefully. "Isn't it pretty expensive?" Jerry inquired, counting the words to ten and then roughly computing the rest. "I'll take care of that, Miss Dangerfield. What I want to know is whether you think that will make the sheriff sit up." "Well, here's what father sent him only about a week ago. I found it in his private letter book, and it's marked confidential in red ink." She read: "'Act cautiously in Appleweight case. Indictment by grand jury is undoubtedly faulty and Foster threatens trouble in case parties are arrested.' "And there's more like that! Papa never intended to do anything, that's as plain as daylight. Mr. Foster, the treasurer, comes from that county. He thought papa was going to have to do something, so he's holding back the payment of the state bonds just to frighten papa. You see, the state owes the Bronx Loan and Trust Company that two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and if it isn't paid June first the state will be everlastingly disgraced." "Oh, yes; I'd forgotten about that." "I don't see how you could forget about it. That must be almost as much money as there is in the world, Mr. Ardmore." "We've got to raise it, anyhow, even if we go to the pawn-shop. I pawned my watch once when I was in college and Billings--he was my guardian--had shut me off. Grissy--he's my friend--Grissy says pawnbroking is only a more vulgar form of banking. There was a fellow in my class at college who pawned his pawn ticket to get money to pay his laundress, and then gave the new ticket to a poor blind man. He's a big man in Wall Street--has a real genius for finance, they say. But please don't worry about this rascal Foster. We'll put some digitalis into the state's credit when the time comes." "I think your telegram to the sheriff is all right," said Jerry, reading it again. "If you'll go to the door and whistle for the messenger we'll get it off. I'll sign it with the rubber stamp. Papa hardly ever signs anything himself; he says if you don't sign documents yourself you can always repudiate them afterward, and papa's given prayerful thought to all such things." Ardmore addressed himself once more to the map. It was clear that the Appleweight gang was powerful enough to topple great states upon their foundations. It had, to Ardmore's own knowledge, driven a governor into exile, and through the wretched Foster, who was their friend, the credit of the state was gravely menaced. The possibilities of the game fascinated Ardmore. He was eager for action on the scene of this usurpation and defiance. Responsibility, for the first time, had placed a warrant of trust in his hands, and, thus commissioned, the spurs of duty pricked his sides. "I'll wait for the sheriff's answer, and if he shows no signs of life I'll go down there this afternoon." "Then you will undoubtedly be shot!" Jerry declared, as though announcing a prospect not wholly deplorable. "That has its disagreeable side, but a great many people have to be shot every year to keep up the average, and if the statistics need me I won't duck. I'll call up my man on the telephone this forenoon and tell him to put my forester at Ardsley to work. He's a big fellow who served in the German army, and if he's afraid of anything I haven't heard of it. If we can drive the gang into South Carolina, right along here, you see"--and Miss Dangerfield bent her pretty head over the map and saw--"if we can pass the chief outlaw on to Governor Osborne, then so much the better, and that's what we will try to do." "But you're only the private secretary, and you can't assume too much authority. I shall have to go to Kildare to visit my aunt, who is a nice old lady that lives there. The fried corn mush and syrup at her house is the best I ever tasted, and if papa should come when he sees that something is being done quite different from what he intended, then I should be there to explain. If you should be killed, Mr. Ardmore, no one would be there to identify you, and I have always thought it the saddest thing in the world for any one to die away from home--" "It would be sad; but I hope you would be sorry." "I should regret your death, and I'd make them give you a perfectly beautiful military funeral, with Chopin's funeral march, and your boots tied to the saddle of your horse." "But don't let them fuss about pulling off the boots, Miss Dangerfield, if I die with them on. It would be all right for you to visit your aunt, but I shouldn't do it if I were you. I once visited my aunt, Mrs. Covington-Burns, at Newport for a week. It was a deep game to get me to marry my aunt's husband's niece, whose father had lost his money, and the girl was beginning to bore my aunt." "Was she a pretty girl?" asked Jerry. "She was a whole basket of peaches, and I might have married her to get away from my aunt if it were not that I have made it a life-long rule never to marry the orphaned nieces of the husbands of my aunts. It's been a good rule to me, and has saved me no end of trouble. But if my sister doesn't change her mind, and if she really comes through Raleigh to-day in her car with those friends of hers, she will be delighted to have you join her for a visit at Ardsley. And then you would be near at hand in case some special edict from the governor seemed necessary." "But wouldn't your sister think it strange--" "Not in the least, Miss Dangerfield. Nothing is strange to my sister. Nobody ever sprang a surprise on Nellie yet. And besides, you are the daughter of the governor of a great state. She refuses to meet senators, because you can never be sure they are respectable, but she rather prides herself on knowing governors. Governors are very different. Since I read the constitution I can see very plainly that governors are much nearer the people, but I guess the senators are nearer the banks." "Well, I have some shopping to do, and it's ten o'clock. It would be hospitable to ask you to luncheon, but mama cries so much because she doesn't know where papa is that our meals at the executive mansion are not exactly cheerful functions. And besides"--and she eyed Ardmore severely as she rose and accepted her parasol from him--"and besides, you know our relations are purely official. You have never been introduced to me, and socially you are not known to us." CHAPTER IX THE LAND OF THE LITTLE BROWN JUG Caboose 0186, with three box-cars and a locomotive attached, lay in the southeastern yards at Raleigh late in the evening of the same day. In the observatory sat Mr. Thomas Ardmore, chatting with the conductor, while they waited for the right of way. Mr. Ardmore's pockets were filled with papers, and he held half a dozen telegrams in his hand. The freight cars behind him were locked and sealed, and a number of men lounging near appeared to be watching them. The reply of the sheriff of Dilwell County had precipitated the crisis. That official succinctly replied to Ardmore's message: Be good and acquire grace. While this dictum had aroused Miss Dangerfield's wrath and indignation, it calmed her fellow conspirator, and for hours Ardmore had poured forth orders by telegraph and telephone. No such messages as his had ever before radiated from Raleigh. The tolls would have bankrupted the commonwealth if Ardmore had not cared for them out of his private purse. His forester, with an armed posse from Ardsley, was already following the streams and beating the brush in search of Appleweight. One car of Ardmore's special train contained a machine gun and a supply of rifles; another abundant ammunition and commissary supplies, and the third cots and bags. The men who loafed about the train were a detail of strike-breakers from a detective agency, borrowed for the occasion. Cooke, the conductor of the train, had formerly been in the government secret service, and knew the Carolina hill country as he knew the palm of his hand. Ardmore had warned his manager and the housekeeper on his estate to prepare for the arrival of Mrs. Atchison, whose private car had come and gone, carrying Miss Geraldine Dangerfield on to Ardsley. Ardmore had just received a message from his sister at some way station, reporting all well and containing these sentences: "She is rather different, and I do not quite make her out. She has our noble brother-in-law a good deal bewildered." Cooke ran forward for a colloquy with the engineer over their orders; the guards climbed into one of the box-cars, and the train moved slowly out of the Raleigh yards to the main line and rattled away toward Kildare, with Mr. Ardmore, pipe in mouth, perched in the caboose cupola. A caboose, you may not know, is the pleasantest place in the world to ride. Essentially a thing of utility, it is not less the vehicle of joy. Neither the captain of a trading schooner nor the admiral of a canal fleet is more sublimely autocratic than the freight conductor in his watch-tower. The landscape is disclosed to him in leisurely panoramas; the springs beneath are not so lulling as to dull his senses. If he isn't whipped into the ditch by the humor of the engineer, or run down and telescoped by an enemy from behind, he may ultimately deliver his somber fleet to its several destinations; but he is the slave of no inexorable time-table, and his excuses are as various as his cargoes. Not Captain Kidd nor another of the dark brotherhood sailed forth with keener zest for battle than Mr. Ardmore. Indeed, the trailing smoke of the locomotive suggested a black flag, and the thought of it tickled his fancy. Above bent the bluest sky in the world; fields of corn and cotton, the brilliant crimson of German clover, and long stretches of mixed forest held him with enchantment. In a cornfield a girl plowing with a single steer--a little girl in a sunbonnet, who reached wearily up to the plow handles--paused and waved to him, and he knew the delight of the lonely mariner when a passing ship speaks to him with flags. And when night came, after the long mystical twilight, the train passed now and then great cotton factories that blazed out from their thousand windows like huge steamships. When they sought a lonely siding to allow a belated passenger train to pass, the conductor brewed coffee and cooked supper, and Ardmore called in the detectives and trainmen. The sense of knowing real people, whose daily occupations were so novel and interesting, touched him afresh with delight. These men said much in few words. The taciturnity of Cooke, the conductor, in particular, struck Ardmore as very fine, and it occurred to him that very likely men who have had the fun of doing things never talk of their performances afterward. One of the detectives chaffed Cooke covertly about some adventure in which they had been jointly associated. "I never thought they'd get the lead out of you after that business in Missouri. You were a regular mine," said the detective to Cooke, and Cooke glanced deprecatingly at Ardmore. "He's the little joker, all right." "You can't kill him," remarked the detective. "I've seen it tried." Before the train started the detectives crawled back into their car, and Cooke drew out some blankets, tossed them on a bench for Ardmore, and threw himself down without ado. Ardmore held to his post in the tower, as lone as the lookout in a crow's-nest. The night air swept more coolly in as they neared the hills, and the train's single brakeman came down as though descending from the sky, rubbed the cinders from his eyes, and returned to his vigil armed with a handful of Ardmore's cigars. For the greater part of the night they enjoyed a free track, and thumped the rails at a lively clip. Shortly after midnight Ardmore crawled below and went to sleep. At five o'clock Cooke called him. "We're on the switch at Kildare. One of your men is here waiting for you." Big Paul, the German forester, was called in, and Ardmore made his toilet in a pail of water while listening to the big fellow's report. Cooke joined in the conversation, and Ardmore was gratified to see that the two men met on common ground in discussing the local geography. The forester described in clear, straight-forward English just what he had done. He had distributed his men well through the hills, and they were now posted as pickets on points favorable for observation. They had found along the streams four widely scattered stills, and these were being watched. Paul drew a small map, showing the homes of the most active members of the Appleweight gang, and Ardmore indicated all these points as nearly as possible on the county map he had brought with him. "Here's Raccoon Creek, and my own land runs right through there--just about here, isn't it, Paul? I always remember the creek, because I like the name so much." "You are right, Mr. Ardmore. The best timber you have lies along there, and your land crosses the North Carolina boundary into South Carolina about here. There's Mingo County, South Carolina, you see." "Well, that dashes me!" exclaimed Ardmore, striking the table with his fist. "I never knew one state from another, but you must be right." "I'm positive of it, Mr. Ardmore. One of my men has been living there on the creek to protect your timber. Some of these outlaws have been cutting off our wood." "It seems to me I remember the place. There's a log house hanging on the creek. You took me by it once, but it never entered my head that the state line was so close." "It runs right through the house! And some one, years ago, blazed the trees along there, so it is very easy to tell when you step from one state to another. My man left there recently, refusing to stay any longer. These Appleweight people thought he was a spy, and posted a notice on his door warning him to leave, so I shifted him to the other end of the estate." "Did you see the sheriff at Kildare?" "I haven't seen him. When I asked for him yesterday I found he had left town and gone to Greensboro to see his sick uncle." Ardmore laughed and slapped his knee. "Who takes care of the dungeon while he's away?" "There are no prisoners in the Kildare jail. The sheriff's afraid to keep any; and he's like the rest of the people around here. They all live in terror of Appleweight." "Appleweight is a powerful character in these parts," said Cooke, pouring the coffee he had been making, and handing a tin cupful to Ardmore. "He's tolerable well off, and could make money honestly if he didn't operate stills, rob country stores, mix up in politics, and steal horses when he and his friends need them." "I guess he has never molested us any, has he, Paul?" asked Ardmore, not a little ashamed of his ignorance of his own business. "A few of our cows stray away sometimes and never come back. And for two years we have lost the corn out of the crib away over here near the deer park." "They've got the juice out of it before this," remarked Cooke. "That would be nice for me, wouldn't it?" said Ardmore, grinning--"to be arrested for running a still on my place." "We don't want to lose our right to the track, and we must get out of this before the whole community comes to take a look at us," said Cooke, swinging out of the caboose. Ardmore talked frankly to the forester, having constant recourse to the map; and Paul sketched roughly a new chart, marking roads and paths so far as he knew them, and indicating clearly where the Ardsley boundaries extended. Then Ardmore took a blue pencil and drew a straight line. "When we get Appleweight, we want to hurry him from Dilwell County, North Carolina, into Mingo County, South Carolina. We will go to the county town there, and put him in jail. If the sheriff of Mingo is weak-kneed, we will lock Appleweight up anyhow, and telegraph the governor of South Carolina that the joke is on him." "We will catch the man," said Paul gravely, "but we may have to kill him." "Dead or alive, he's got to be caught," said Ardmore, and the big forester stared at his employer a little oddly; for this lord proprietor had not been known to his employees and tenants as a serious character, but rather as an indolent person who, when he visited his estate in the hills, locked himself up unaccountably in his library and rarely had the energy to stir up the game in his broad preserves. "Certainly, sir; dead or alive," Paul repeated. Cooke came out of the station and signaled the engineer to go ahead. "We'll pull down here about five miles to an old spur where the company used to load wood. There's a little valley there where we can be hidden all we please, so far as the main line is concerned, and it might not be a bad idea to establish headquarters there. We have the tools for cutting in on the telegraph, and we can be as independent as we please. I told the agent we were carrying company powder for a blasting job down the line, and he suspects nothing." Paul left the caboose as the train started, and rode away on horseback to visit his pickets. The train crept warily over the spur into the old wood-cutters' camp, where, as Cooke had forecast, they were quite shut in from the main line by hills and woodland. "And now, Mr. Ardmore, if you would like to see fire-water spring out of the earth as freely as spring water, come with me for a little stroll. The thirsty of Dilwell County know the way to these places as city topers know the way to a bar. We are now in the land of the little brown jug, and while these boys get breakfast I'll see if the people in this region have changed their habits." It was not yet seven as they struck off into the forest beside the cheerful little brook that came down singing from the hills. Ardmore had rarely before in his life been abroad so early, and he kicked the dew from the grass in the cheerfullest spirit imaginable. Within a few days he had reared a pyramid of noble resolutions. Life at last entertained him. The way of men of action had been as fabulous to him as the dew that now twinkled before him. Griswold knew books, but here at his side strode a man who knew far more amazing things than were written in any book. Cooke had not been in this region for seven years, and yet he never hesitated, but walked steadily on, following the little brook. Presently he bent over the bank and gathered up a brownish substance that floated on the water, lifted a little of it in his palm and sniffed it. "That," said Cooke, holding it to Ardmore's nose, "is corn mash. That's what they make their liquor out of. The still is probably away up yonder on that hillside. It seems to me that we smashed one there once when I was in the service; and over there, about a mile beyond that pine tree, where you see the hawk circling, three of us got into a mix-up, and one of our boys was killed." He crossed the stream on a log, climbed the bank on the opposite shore, and scanned the near landscape for a few minutes. Then he pointed to an old stump over which vines had grown in wild profusion. "If you will walk to that stump, Mr. Ardmore, and feel under the vines on the right-hand side, your fingers will very likely touch something smooth and cool." Ardmore obeyed instructions. He thrust his hand into the stump as Cooke directed, thrust again a little deeper, and laughed aloud as he drew out a little brown jug. Cooke nodded approvingly. "We're all right. The revenue men come in here occasionally and smash the stills and arrest a few men, but the little brown jug continues to do business at the same old stand. They don't even change the hiding-places. And while we stand here, you may be pretty sure that a freckled-faced, tow-headed boy or girl is watching us off yonder, and that the word will pass all through the hills before noon that there are strangers abroad in old Dilwell. If you have a dollar handy, slip it under the stump, so they'll know we're not stingy." Ardmore was scrutinizing the jug critically. "They're all alike," said Cooke, "but that piece of calico is a new one--just a fancy touch for an extra fine article of liquor." "I'll be shot if I haven't seen that calico before," said Ardmore; and he sat down on a boulder and drew out the stopper, while Cooke watched him with interest. The bit of twine was indubitably the same that he had unwound before in his room at the Guilford House, and the cob parted in his fingers exactly as before. On a piece of brown paper that had been part of a tobacco wrapper was scrawled: This ain't yore fight, Mr. Ardmore. Wher's the guvner of North Carolina? "That's a new one on me," laughed Cooke. "You see, they know everything. Mind-reading isn't in it with them. They know who we are and what we have come for. What's the point about the governor?" "Oh, the governor's all right," replied Ardmore carelessly. "He wouldn't bother his head about a little matter like this. The powers reserved to the states by the constitution give a governor plenty of work without acting as policeman of the jungle. That's the reason I said to Governor Dangerfield, 'Governor,' I said, 'don't worry about this Appleweight business. Time is heavy on my hands,' I said. 'You stay in Raleigh and uphold the dignity of your office, and I will take care of the trouble in Dilwell.' And you can't understand, Cooke, how his face brightened at my words. Being the brave man he is, you would naturally expect him to come down here in person and seize these scoundrels with his own hands. I had the hardest time of my life to get him to stay at home. It almost broke his heart not to come." And as they retraced their steps to the caboose, it was Ardmore who led, stepping briskly along, and blithely swinging the jug. CHAPTER X PROFESSOR GRISWOLD TAKES THE FIELD Barbara and Griswold stopped at the telegraph office on their way back to the executive mansion, and were met with news that the sheriff of Mingo had refused to receive Griswold's message. "His private lines of communication with the capital are doubtless well established," said Griswold, "and Bosworth probably warned him, but it isn't of great importance. It's just as well for Appleweight and his friends, high and low, to show their hands." When they were again on the veranda, Griswold lingered for a moment with no valid excuse for delay beyond the loveliness of the night and his keen delight in Barbara's voice and her occasional low laughter, which was so pleasant to hear that he held their talk to a light key, that he might evoke it the more. Professor Griswold's last flirtation was now so remote that he would have been hard put to say whether the long-departed goddess' name had been Evelyn or Laura. He had so thoroughly surrendered himself to the exactions of the law that love and marriage held small place in his speculations of the future. He had heard himself called a bachelor professor with the humorous tolerance of one who is pretty sure of himself, and who is not yet reduced to the cynical experiment of peering beneath the top layer of his box of strawberries to find the false bottom. He recalled the slender manuscript volume of verses in his desk at home, and he felt that it would be the easiest thing in the world to write a thousand songs to-night, beside which the soundest brief ever filed in any court would be the silliest of literary twaddle. "You have done all that could be asked of you, Mr. Griswold, and I can not permit you to remain longer. Father will certainly be here to-morrow. I assure you that it is not like him to avoid his public obligations. His absence is the most unaccountable thing that ever happened. I have my difficulties here at home, for since my mother's death I have had the care of my young sisters, and it is not pleasant to have to deceive them." "Oh, but your father isn't absent! He is officially present and in the saddle," laughed Griswold. "You must not admit, even to me, that he is not here in full charge of his office. And as for my leaving the field, I have not the slightest intention of going back to Virginia until the Appleweight ghost is laid, the governor of North Carolina brought to confusion, and the governor of South Carolina visibly present and thundering his edicts again, so to speak, _ex cathedra_. My own affairs can wait, Miss Osborne. My university may go hang; my clients may be mulcted in direst damages, but just now I am your humble servant, and I shall not leave your service until my tasks are finished. I am consulting not my duty, but my pleasure. The joy of having a hand in a little affair like this, and of being able to tell my friend Tommy Ardmore about it afterward, would be sufficient. Ardmore will never speak to me again for not inviting him to a share in the game." He was more buoyant than she had seen him, and she liked the note of affection that crept into his tone as he spoke of his friend. "Ardmore is the most remarkable person alive," Griswold continued. "You remember--I spoke of him this morning. He likes to play the inscrutable idiot, and he carries it off pretty well; but underneath he's really clever. The most amazing ideas take hold of him. You never could imagine what he's doing now! I met him accidentally in Atlanta the other day, and he was in pursuit of a face--a girl's face that he had seen from a car window for only an instant on a siding somewhere." "He must have a romantic temperament," suggested Barbara. "Quite that. His family have been trying to marry him off to some one in their own set ever since I have known him, but he's extremely difficult. One of the most remarkable things about him is his amazing democracy. He owns a palace on Fifth Avenue, but rarely occupies it, for he says it bores him. He has a camp in the Adirondacks, but I have never known him to visit it. His place in North Carolina pleases him because there he commands space, and no one can crowd him or introduce him to people he doesn't want to meet. He declares that the most interesting people don't have more than a dollar a day to spend; that the most intelligent and the best-looking girls in America clerk in shops and work in factories. A philanthropic lady in New York supplies him every Christmas with a list of names of laundry girls, who seem to appeal particularly to Ardy's compassion, though he never knew one in his life, but he admires them for the zeal with which they destroy buttonholes and develop the deckle-edge cuff; and he has twenty-dollar bills mailed to them quite mysteriously, and without any hint of who Santa Claus really is." "But the girl he saw from the car window--did she also appeal to him altruistically?" "No; it was with her eye. He declared to me most solemnly that the girl winked at him!" Griswold was aware that Miss Osborne's interest in Ardmore cooled perceptibly. "Oh!" she said, with that delightful intonation with which a woman utterly extinguishes a sister. "I shouldn't have told you that," said Griswold, guiltily aware of falling temperature. "He is capable of following a winking eye at a perfectly respectful distance for a hundred years, and of being entertained all the time by the joy of pursuit." "It seems very unusual," said Barbara, with cold finality. Griswold remembered this talk as, the next day, aboard the train bound for Turner Court House, the seat of Mingo County, South Carolina, he pondered a telegram he had received from Ardmore. He read and re-read this message, chewing cigars and scowling at the landscape, and the cause of his perturbation of spirit may be roughly summarized in these words: On leaving the executive mansion the night before, he had studied maps in his room at the Saluda House, and carefully planned his campaign. He had talked by telephone with the prosecuting attorney of Mingo County, and found that official politely responsive. So much had gone well. Then the juxtaposition of Ardmore's estate to the border, and the possible use of the house as headquarters, struck in upon him. He would, after all, generously take Ardmore into the game, and they would uphold the honor and dignity of the great commonwealth of South Carolina together. The keys of all Ardmore's houses were, so to speak, in Griswold's pocket, and invitations were unnecessary between them; yet, at Atlanta Ardmore had made a point of asking Griswold down to help while away the tedium of Mrs. Atchison's house party, and as a matter of form Griswold had wired from Columbia, advising Ardmore of his unexpected descent. Even in case Ardmore should still be abroad in pursuit of the winking eye, the doors of the huge house would be open to Griswold, who had entered there so often as the owner's familiar friend. These things he pondered deeply as he read and re-read Ardmore's reply to his message, a reply which was plainly enough dated at Ardsley, but which, he could not know, had really been written in caboose 0186 as it lay on a siding in the southeastern yards at Raleigh, and thence despatched to the manager at Ardsley, with instructions to forward it as a new message to Griswold at Columbia. The chilling words thus flung at him were: Professor Henry Maine Griswold, Saluda House, Columbia, S. C.: I am very sorry, old man, but I can not take you in just now. Scarlet fever is epidemic among my tenants, and I could not think of exposing you to danger. As soon as the accursed plague passes I want to have you down. ARDMORE. An epidemic that closed the gates of Ardsley would assume the proportions of a national disaster; for even if the great house itself were quarantined, there were lodges and bungalows scattered over the domain, where a host of guests could be entertained in comfort. Griswold reflected that the very fact that he had wired from Columbia must have intimated to Ardmore that his friend was flying toward him, pursuant to the Atlanta invitation. Griswold dismissed a thousand speculations as unworthy. Ardmore had never shown the remotest trace of snobbishness, and as far as the threatened house party was concerned, Griswold knew Mrs. Atchison very well, and had been entertained at her New York house. The patronizing tone of the thing caused Griswold to flush at every reading. If the Ardsley date-line had not been so plainly written; if the phraseology were not so characteristic, there might be room for doubt; but Ardmore--Ardmore, of all men, had slapped him in the face! But, scarlet fever or no scarlet fever, the pursuit of Appleweight had precedence of private grievances. By the time he reached Turner Court House Griswold had dismissed the ungraciousness of Ardmore, and his jaws were set with a determination to perform the mission intrusted to him by Barbara Osborne, and to wait until later for an accounting with his unaccountable friend. Arrived at Turner's, Griswold strode at once toward the court house. The contemptuous rejection of his message by the sheriff of Mingo had angered Griswold, but he was destined to feel even more poignant insolence when, entering the sheriff's office, a deputy, languidly posed as a letter "V" in a swivel-chair, with his feet on the mantel, took a cob pipe from his mouth and lazily answered Griswold's importunate query with: "The sheriff ain't hyeh, seh. He's a-visitin' his folks in Tennessy." "When will he be back?" demanded Griswold, hot of heart, but maintaining the icy tone that had made him so formidable in cross-examination. "I reckon I don't know, seh." "Do you know your own name?" persisted Griswold sweetly. "Go to hell, seh," replied the deputy. He reached for a match, relighted his pipe, and carefully crossed his feet on the mantel-shelf. The moment Griswold's steps died away in the outer corridor the deputy rose and busied himself so industriously with the telephone that within an hour all through the Mingo hills, and even beyond the state line, along lonely trails, across hills and through valleys, and beside cheery creeks and brooks, it was known that a strange man from Columbia was in Mingo County looking for the sheriff, and Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet, and his men were everywhere on guard. Griswold liked the prosecuting attorney on sight. His name was Habersham, and he was a youngster with a clear and steady gray eye. Instead of the Southern statesman's flowing prince albert, he wore a sack-coat of gray jeans, and was otherwise distinguished by a shirt of white and blue check. He grinned as Griswold bent a puzzled look upon him. "I took your courses at the university two years ago, Professor, and I remember distinctly that you always wore a red cravat to your Wednesday lectures." "You have done well," replied Griswold, "for I never expected to find an old student who remembered half as much of me as that. Now, as I understood you over the telephone, Appleweight was indicted for stealing a ham in this county by the last grand jury, but the sheriff has failed or refused to make the arrest. How did the grand jury come to indict if this outlaw dominates all the hill country?" "The grand jury wanted to make a showing of virtue, and it was, of course, understood between the foreman, the leader of the gang, and the sheriff that no warrant could be served on Appleweight. I did my duty; the grand jury's act was exemplary; and there the wheels of justice are blocked. The same thing is practically true across the state line in Dilwell County, North Carolina. These men, led by Appleweight, use their intimate knowledge of the country to elude pursuers when at times the revenue men undertake a raid, and the county authorities have never seriously molested them. Now and then one of these sheriffs will make a feint of going out to look for Appleweight, but you may be sure that due notice is given before he starts. Three revenue officers have lately been killed while looking for these men, and the government is likely to take vigorous action before long." "We may as well be frank," said Griswold in his most professional voice. "I don't want the federal authorities to take these men; it is important that they should not do so. This is an affair between the governors of the two Carolinas. It has been said that neither of them dares press the matter of arrest, but I am here in Governor Osborne's behalf to give the lie to that imputation." "That has undoubtedly been the fact, as you know," and Habersham smiled at his old preceptor inquiringly. "Osborne once represented the Appleweights, and he undoubtedly saved the leader from the gallows. That was before Osborne ever thought of becoming governor, and he acted only within his proper rights as a lawyer. I don't recall that anything in professional ethics requires us to abandon a client because we know he's guilty. If such were the case we'd all starve to death." "Governor Osborne has been viciously maligned," declared Griswold. "While he did at one time represent these people--no doubt thoroughly and efficiently--he holds the loftiest ideal of public service, and it was only when his official integrity was brought into question by unscrupulous enemies that he employed me as special counsel to carry this affair through to a conclusion. That accounts for my presence here, Habersham, and, with your assistance, I propose to force Governor Dangerfield's hand. Suppose all these people were arrested in Mingo County under these indictments, what would be the result--trial and acquittal?" "Just that, in spite of any effort made to convict them." "Well, Governor Osborne is tired of this business and wants the Appleweight scandal disposed of once and for all." "That's strange," remarked Habersham, clearly surprised at Griswold's vigorous tone. "I called on the governor in his office at Columbia only ten days ago, and he put me off. He said he had to prepare an address to deliver before the South Carolina Political Reform Association, and he couldn't take up the Appleweight case; and I called on Bosworth, the attorney-general, and he grew furiously angry, and said I was guilty of the gravest malfeasance in not having brought those men to book long ago. When I suggested that he connive with the governor toward removing our sheriff, he declared that the governor was a coward. He seemed anxious to put the governor in a hole, though why he should take that attitude I can't make out, as it has been generally understood that Governor Osborne's personal friendliness for him secured his nomination and election to the attorney-generalship, and I have heard that he is engaged to the governor's oldest daughter." "He is a contemptible hound," replied Griswold with feeling, "and at the proper time we shall deal with him; but it is of more importance just now to make Appleweight a prisoner in North Carolina. If he's arrested over there, that lets us out; and if the North Carolina authorities won't arrest their own criminals we'll go over into Dilwell County and show them how to be good. The man's got to be locked up, and he'd look much better in a North Carolina jail, under all the circumstances." "That's good in theory, but how do you justify it in law?" "Oh, that's the merest matter of formulæ! My dear Habersham, all the usual processes of law go down before emergencies!" The airiness of Griswold's tone caused the prosecutor to laugh, for this was not the sober associate professor of admiralty whose lectures he had sat under at the University of Virginia, but a different person, whose new attitude toward the law and its enforcement shocked him immeasurably. "You seem to be going in for pretty loose interpretations, and if that plaster bust of John Marshall up there falls from the shelf, you need not be surprised," and Habersham still laughed. "I might be impudent and cite you against yourself!" "That would constitute contempt of court, and I can not just now spare your services long enough for you to serve a jail sentence. Go on now, and tell me what you have done and what you propose." "Well, as I told you over the telephone, we hear a great deal about Appleweight and his crowd, but we never hear much of their enemies, who are, nevertheless, of the same general stock, and equally determined when aroused. Ten of these men I have quietly called to meet at my farm out here a few miles from town, on Thursday night. They come from different points over the country, and we'll have a small but grim posse that will be ready for business. You may not know it, but the Appleweights are most religious. Appleweight himself boasts that he never misses church on Sunday. He goes also to the mid-week service on Thursday night, so I have learned, and thereby hangs our opportunity. Mount Nebo Church lies off here toward the north. It's a lonely point in itself, though it's the spiritual center and rendezvous for a wide area. If Appleweight can be taken at all, that's the place, and I'm willing to make the trial. Whether to stampede the church and make a fight, or seize him alone as he approaches the place, is a question for discussion with the boys I have engaged to go into the game. How does it strike you?" "First rate. Ten good men ought to be enough; but if it comes down to numbers, the state militia can be brought into use. The South Carolina National Guard is in camp, and we can have a regiment quick enough, if I ask it." Habersham whistled. "Osborne is certainly up and doing!" he exclaimed, chuckling. "I suppose he has tossed a quarter, and decided it's better to be good than to be senator. By the way, that was a curious story in the newspapers about Dangerfield and Osborne having a row at New Orleans. I wonder just what passed between them?" Griswold was conscious that Habersham glanced at him a little curiously, with a look that implied something that half formed itself on the prosecuting attorney's lips. "I know nothing beyond what I read in the newspapers at the time. Some political row, I fancy." "I suppose Governor Osborne hasn't discussed it with you since his return to Columbia?" asked Habersham carelessly. The shadow of a smile flitted across his face but vanished quickly as though before a returning consciousness of the fact that he was facing Henry Maine Griswold, who was first of all a gentleman, and not less a scholar and a man of the world, who was not to be trifled with. "No," replied Griswold, a little shortly. "I was appealed to in rather an unusual way in this matter of Appleweight. It is quite out of my line as a legal proposition, but there are other considerations of which I may not speak." "Pardon me," murmured Habersham; but he asked: "What was Governor Osborne doing when you left Columbia?" "When I left Columbia," remarked Griswold, and it was he that smiled now, "to the best of my knowledge and belief the governor of South Carolina was deeply absorbed in knitting a necktie, the color of which was, I think, the orange of a Blue Ridge autumn sunset. And now, if you will kindly give me pen and paper, I will communicate the Appleweight situation and our prospects to my honored chief." CHAPTER XI TWO LADIES ON A BALCONY The outer aspect of Ardsley is, frankly, feudal. The idea of a North Carolina estate had grown out of Ardmore's love of privacy and his wish to get away from New York where his family was all too frequently struck by the spot light. The great tract of land once secured he had not concerned himself about a house, but had thrown together a comfortable bungalow which satisfied him for a year. But Ardmore's gentle heart, inaccessible to demands of many sorts, was a defenseless citadel when appeals were made to his generosity. A poor young architect, lately home from the Ecole des Beaux Arts, with many honors but few friends, fell under Ardmore's eyes. The towers and battlements that soon thereafter crowned the terraced slopes at Ardsley, etching a noble line against the lovely panorama of North Carolina hills, testified at once to the architect's talent for adaptation and Ardmore's diminished balances at the Bronx Loan and Trust Company. On a balcony that commanded the sunset--a balcony bright with geraniums that hung daringly over a ravine on the west, Mrs. Atchison and Miss Jerry Dangerfield were cosily taking their tea. Their white gowns, the snowy awning stirring slightly in the hill air, the bright trifles of the tea-table mingled, in a picture of charm and contentment. "I wonder," said Mrs. Atchison abruptly, "where Tommy is." "I have no definite idea," said Jerry, pouring cream, "but let us hope that he is earning his salary." "His salary?" and Mrs. Atchison's brows contracted. "Do you mean that my brother is taking pay for this mysterious work he is doing?" "He shall be paid in money," replied Jerry with decision. "As I have only the barest acquaintance with Mr. Ardmore, never, in fact, having seen him until a few days ago, it would be very improper for me to permit him to serve me except under the rules that govern the relations of employer and employee." Mrs. Atchison smiled with the wise tolerance of a woman of the world; and she was a lady, it must be said, who had a keen perception of that sane and ample philosophy of life which proceeds, we may say, for the sake of convenience, from the sense of humor. She did not like to be puzzled; and she had never in her life been surprised, least of all by any word or deed of her singular brother Tommy. She liked and even cultivated with daring the inadvertent turns in a day's affairs. The cool fashion in which her brother had placed the daughter of the governor of North Carolina in her hands on board her car at Raleigh had amused her. She had learned nothing from Jerry of the beginnings of that young woman's acquaintance with the master of Ardsley--an acquaintance which seemed to be intimate in certain aspects but amazingly distant and opaque in others. Miss Geraldine Dangerfield, like Mrs. Atchison herself, was difficult to surprise, and Tommy Ardmore's sister admired this in any one and she particularly admired it in Jerry, who was so charming in so many other ways. Mrs. Atchison imagined that Jerry's social experience had been meager, and yet the girl accepted the conditions of life at Ardsley as a matter of course, and in the gatherings of the house party Jerry--there was no denying it--held the center of the stage. The men, including the Duke of Ballywinkle, hung upon her lightest word, which often left them staggering; and she frequently flung the ball of conversation into the blue ether with a careless ease that kept expectancy a-tiptoe in the minds and hearts of all the company. "I hope," said Mrs. Atchison, putting down her cup and gazing dreamily into the west, "that you have not given Tommy any commission in which he is likely to fail. If it were a matter of finding a fan you had left behind somewhere, or even of producing an extinct flower from the Andes, he would undoubtedly be faithful to the trust imposed on him; but in anything that is really serious, really of importance one should never depend on Tommy." This was, as the lady knew, almost vulgarly leading; but Jerry folded her arms, and spoke out with charming frankness. "I have heard my father say," said Jerry, "that incapable men often rise to great opportunities when they are pushed. Mr. Ardmore has undertaken to perform for me a service of the greatest delicacy and not unattended with danger. You have been kind to me, Mrs. Atchison, and as you are my chaperon and entitled to my fullest confidence it is right for you to know just how I came here, and why your brother is absent in my service." For once curiosity bound Mrs. Atchison in chains of steel. "Tell me nothing, dear, unless you are quite free to do so," she murmured; but her heart skipped a beat as she waited. "I should not think of doing so except of my own free will," declared Jerry, carelessly following the flight of a hawk that flapped close by toward the neighboring woods. "It may interest you to know that just now your brother, Mr. Thomas Ardmore, is the governor of North Carolina. He does not exactly know it, for at Raleigh I myself was governor of North Carolina at the time we met and I only made Mr. Ardmore my private secretary; but when it became necessary to take the field I placed him in full charge, and he is now not only governor of the Old North State, but also the commander-in-chief of her troops in the field." With a nice feeling for climax Jerry paused, picked a lump of sugar from the silver bowl on the tea-table, bit the edge of it daintily, and tossed it to the robins that hopped on the lawn beneath. Mrs. Atchison moved forward slightly, but evinced no other sign of surprise. The hour, the scene, the girl were all to her liking. She would even prolong the delight of hearing the further history of her brother's amazing elevation to supreme power in an American commonwealth--it was so foreign to all experience, so heavy with possibilities, so delicious in that it had happened to Tommy of all men in the world! "I trust," she said, smiling a little, "that Tommy will not prove unworthy of the confidence you have reposed in him." "If he does," said Jerry, slapping her hands together to free them of an imaginary sugar crumb, "I shall never, never marry him." "Then may I ask, Miss Dangerfield, if you and he are engaged?" "Not at all, Mrs. Atchison! Not only are we not engaged, but he has never even proposed to me. Besides, I am engaged to Colonel Rutherford Gillingwater, our adjutant-general." "Then if you are engaged to this military person, just wherein lies the significance of your threat never to marry my brother?" "That," said Jerry, "is perfectly easy of explanation. Your brother and I have met only a few times, and I never become engaged to any man whom I have not known for a week at least. Marriage is a serious matter and while the frequent breaking of engagements is painful in the extreme, I think one can not be too careful in assuming the marriage bond." Mrs. Atchison wondered whether the girl was amusing herself at her expense, but Jerry's tone was grave and Jerry's eyes were steady. Jerry was a new species, and she had appeared at a fortunate moment when Mrs. Atchison had almost concluded that the world is a squeezed lemon. "In view of the fact that you are engaged to Dillingwater--" began Mrs. Atchison, anxious for further disclosures touching Jerry's ideas on matrimony. "Colonel Rutherford Gillingwater, please!" corrected Jerry. "--I don't quite grasp this matter of your attitude toward my brother. Unless I misunderstood you, you remarked a moment ago that unless he succeeded in his present undertaking you would never marry him." "That is exactly what I said, and I meant ever word of it," declared Jerry. "I will not conceal from you, Mrs. Atchison, my determination that your brother shall be my second husband." There was no question of Mrs. Atchison's complete surprise now. "Your _second_ husband, child?" "My second husband, Mrs. Atchison. Life is short at best, and I was told by my old mammy when I was a little child--she turned out afterward to be a real voodoo woman--that I should be married twice. I am very superstitious and that made a great impression on my mind. It is not in keeping with my ideas of life, Mrs. Atchison, to be long a widow, so that I think it perfectly right to choose a second husband even before I am quite sure that I have chosen wisely for my first." "Has the military person weak lungs?" "No; but his mind is not strong. Anything sudden like apoplexy would be sure to go hard with him." "Then you should be careful not to shock him. It would be almost criminal to break your engagement with him." "That rests entirely with him, Mrs. Atchison. The man I love must be brave, tender and true. After our present difficulties are over I shall know whether Rutherford Gillingwater is the man I believe I am going to marry in October." "But you spoke a moment ago of Tommy's official position. Is this arrangement a matter of general knowledge in North Carolina?" "No; it is not. You and he and I are the only persons who know it. Papa does not know it yet; and when papa finds it out it may go hard with him. You see, Mrs. Atchison"--and Jerry leaned forward and rested an elbow on the tea-table and tucked her little chin into the palm of her hand--"you see, papa is very absent-minded, as great men often are, and he went away and forgot to perform some duties which the honor and dignity of the state require to be performed immediately. There are some wicked men who have caused both North Carolina and South Carolina a great deal of trouble, but they must not be punished in this state, but in South Carolina, which is just over there somewhere. There are many reasons for that which would be very tiresome to tell you about, but the principal one is that Barbara Osborne, the daughter of the governor of South Carolina, is the snippiest and stuck-upest person I have ever known, and while your brother and I are in charge of this state I have every intention of annoying her in every way I can. When Mr. Ardmore has caught those wicked men I spoke of, who really do not belong in this state at all, they will be marched straight into South Carolina and then we shall see what Governor Osborne does about it; and we will show Barbara Osborne, whose father never had to paper _his_ dining-room, after the war between the states, with bonds of the Confederacy--we will show her that there's a good deal of difference between the Dangerfields and the Osbornes, and between the proud Old North State and the state of South Carolina." "And you have placed this business, requiring courage and finesse, in Tommy's hands?" "That is exactly what I have done, Mrs. Atchison. Your brother is no great distance from here, and we have exchanged telegrams to-day; but when I told you a moment ago that I did not know his whereabouts exactly I spoke the truth. Your brother's appearance on the scene at the beginning was most providential. The stage was set, the curtain waited"--Jerry extended her arms to indicate a breadth of situation--"but there was no valiant hero. I needed a leading man, and Mr. Ardmore walked in like a fairy prince ready to take the part. And what I shall say to you further, as my chaperon, will not, I hope, cause you to think ill of me." "I love you more and more! You may tell me anything you like without fear of being misunderstood; but tell me nothing that you prefer to keep to yourself." "If you were not Mr. Ardmore's sister I should not tell you this; and I shall never tell another soul. I was coming home from a visit in Baltimore and the train stopped somewhere to let another train pass. The two trains stood side by side for a little while and in the window of the sleeper opposite me I saw a young man who seemed very sad. I thought perhaps he had buried all his friends, for he had the appearance of one lately bereaved. It has always seemed to me that we should do what we can to cheer the afflicted, and this gentleman was staring out of his window very sadly, as though he needed a friend, and as he caught my eye it seemed to me that there was an appeal in it that it would have been unwomanly for me to ignore. So, just as my train started, at the very last moment that we looked at each other, I winked at that gentleman with, I think, my right eye." Miss Geraldine Dangerfield touched the offending member delicately with her handkerchief. Mrs. Atchison bent forward and took both the girl's hands. "And that was Tommy--my brother Tommy?" "That gentleman has proved to be Mr. Thomas Ardmore. I had not the slightest idea that I should ever in the world see him again. My only hope was that he would go on his way cheered and refreshed by my sign of good-will, though he was either so depressed or so surprised, that he made no response. I never expected to see him again in this world; and when I had almost forgotten all about him he coolly sent in his card to me at the executive mansion in Raleigh. And I was very harsh with him when I learned who he was; for you know the Ardmore estate owns a lot of North Carolina bonds that are due on the first of June, and Mr. Billings had been chasing papa all over the country to know whether they will be paid; and I supposed that of course your brother was looking for papa, too, to annoy him about some mere detail of that bond business, for the state treasurer, who does not love papa, has gone away fishing and Mr. Billings is perfectly wild." "Delicious!" exclaimed Mrs. Atchison. "Perfectly delicious! And I am sure that when Tommy explained his real sentiments toward Mr. Billings you and he became friends at once." "Not at once, for I came very near having him thrown out of the house; and I laughed at him about a jug that was given to him on the train at Kildare with a message in it for papa. You know when you are governor people always give you presents--that is, your friendly constituents do. The others give you only unkind words. The temperance people send you jugs of buttermilk on board your train as you pass through the commonwealth and others send you applejack. Your brother gave back the buttermilk and kept the jug of applejack which had a warning to father in its corn-cob stopper. I thought it was very funny, and I laughed at your brother so that he was scared and ran out of the house. Then afterwards I looked out of the window of papa's office and saw Mr. Ardmore sitting on a bench in the state house yard looking ever so sad and dejected, and I sent the private secretary out to get him; and now we are, I think, the best of friends, and Mr. Ardmore is, as I have already told you, the governor of North Carolina to all intents and purposes." "May I call you Jerry? Thank you, dear. Let me tell you that I am thirty-two and you are--?" "Seventeen," supplied Jerry. "And this is the most amusing, interesting and exciting thing I have heard in all my life. It might be difficult ordinarily for me to forgive the wink, but your explanation lifts it out of the realm of social impropriety into the sphere of generous benevolence. And if, after Colonel Gillingwater has gone to his reward, you should marry my brother, I shall do all in my power to make your life in our family happy in every way." "Your brother does not seem particularly proud of his family connection," said Jerry. "He spoke of you in the most beautiful way, but he seems distressed by the actions of some of the others." Mrs. Atchison sighed. "Tommy is right about us. We are a sad lot." "But he is very hard on the duke. Since I came to Ardsley his Grace has treated me with the greatest courtesy, and he has spoken to me in the most complimentary terms. He is beyond question a man of kind heart, for he has promised me his mother's pearl necklace, which had been in her family for four hundred years." "I should not hesitate to take the necklace, Jerry, if he really produces it, for my sister, his wife, has never had the slightest glimpse of it, and it is, I believe, in the hands of certain English trustees for the benefit of the duke's creditors. I dislike to spoil one of his Grace's pretty illusions, but unless Mr. Billings softens his heart a great deal toward the duke I fear that you will not get the pearls this summer." "I must tell you as my chaperon, Mrs. Atchison, that the duke has already offered to elope with me. He told me last night as we were having our coffee on the terrace, that he would gladly give up his wife, meaning, I suppose, your sister, and the Ardmore millions for me; but while I think him fascinating I want you to feel quite safe, for I promise you I shall elope with no one while I am your guest." Mrs. Atchison's face had grown a little white and she compressed her lips in lines that were the least bit grim. "The scoundrel!" she exclaimed half under her breath. "To think that he would insult a child like you! He is hanging about us here in the hope of getting more money, while my poor sister, his wife, is in an English sanatorium half crazed by his brutality. If Tommy knew this he would undoubtedly kill him!" "That would be very unnecessary. A duke, after all, is something, and I should hate to have the poor man killed on my account. And besides, Mrs. Atchison, I am perfectly able to take care of myself." "I believe you are, Jerry. But it's a terrible thing to have that beast about, and I shall tell him to-night that he must leave this place and the country." "But first," said Jerry, "I have an engagement to ride with him after dinner to see the moon, and the opportunity of seeing a moon with a duke of ancient family, here on the sacred soil of North Carolina, is something that I can not lightly put aside." "You can not--you must not go!" "Leave it to me," said Jerry, smiling slightly; "and I promise you that the duke will never again insult an American girl. And now I think I must dress for dinner." She rose and turned her eyes dreamily to the tower above, where the North Carolina state flag flapped idly in the breeze. This silken emblem with its single star Miss Geraldine Dangerfield carried with her in her trunk wherever she traveled; and having noted Ardsley's unadorned flagstaff, she had, with her own hands, unfurled it, highly resolved that it should remain until the rightful governor returned to his own. A few minutes later, as Mrs. Atchison was reading the late mail in her sitting-room, she took up a New York newspaper of the day before and ran over the head-lines. "Lost: A Governor" was a caption that held her eye, and she read a special despatch dated Raleigh with deepest interest. Governor Dangerfield, the item hinted, had not yet returned from New Orleans where he had gone to attend the Cotton Planters' Convention, and where, moreover, he had quarreled with the governor of South Carolina. The cowardly conduct of both governors in dealing with the Appleweight band of outlaws was recited at length; and it was also intimated that Governor Dangerfield was deliberately absenting himself from his office to avoid meeting squarely the Appleweight issue. Mrs. Atchison smiled to herself; then she laughed merrily as she rang for her maid. "Little Jerry's story seemed highly plausible as she told it; and yet she is perfectly capable of spinning romance with that pretty mouth of hers, particularly when backed by those sweet and serious blue eyes. Tommy and Jerry! The combination is irresistible! If she has really turned the state of North Carolina over to my little brother something unusual will certainly happen before long." And Mrs. Atchison was quite right in her surmise, as we shall see. CHAPTER XII THE EMBARRASSMENTS OF THE DUKE OF BALLYWINKLE Mr. Frank Collins, of the Atlanta _Palladium_, trod the ties beyond Kildare with a light heart, gaily swinging a suit-case. He had walked far, but a narrow-brim straw hat, perched on the back of his head, and the cheery lilt of the waltz he whistled spoke for a jaunty spirit. As his eye ranged the landscape he marked a faint cloud of smoke rising beyond a lonely strip of wood; and coming to a dilapidated piece of track that led vaguely away into the heart of the forest, he again noted the tiny smoke-cloud. On such a day the half-gods go and the gods arrive; and the world that afternoon knew no cheerfuller spirit than the _Palladium's_ agile young commissioner. Mr. Collins was not only in capital health and spirits but he rejoiced in that delicious titillation of expectancy which is the chief compensation of the journalist's life. His mission was secret, and this in itself gave flavor to his errand; and, moreover, it promised adventures of a kind that were greatly to his liking. As the woodland closed in about him and the curving spur carried him farther from the main right of way he ceased whistling and his steps became more guarded. Suddenly a man rose from the bushes and leveled a long arm at him detainingly. "Stop, young man, stop where you are!" "Hello!" called Collins, pausing. "Well, I'm jiggered if it ain't old Cookie. I say, old man, is the untaxed juice flowing in the forest primeval or what brings you here?" Cooke grinned as he recalled the reporter, whom he remembered as a particularly irrepressible specimen of his genus whom he had met while pursuing moonshiners in Georgia. The two shook hands amiably midway of the two streaks of rust. "Young man, I think I told you once before that your legs were altogether too active. I want you to light right out of here--skip!" "Not for a million dollars. Our meeting is highly opportune, Cookie. It's not for me to fly in the face of Providence. I'm going to see what's doing down here." "All right," replied Cooke. "Take it all in and enjoy yourself; but you're my prisoner." "Oh, that will be all right! So long as I'm with you I can't lose out." "March!" called Cooke, dropping behind; and thus the two came in a few minutes to the engine, the cars and the caboose. From the locomotive a slight smoke still trailed hazily upward. Thomas Ardmore, coatless and hatless, sat on the caboose steps writing messages on a broad pad, while a telegraph instrument clicked busily within. One of his men had qualified as operator and a pile of messages at his elbow testified to Ardmore's industry. Ardmore clutched in his left hand a message recently caught from the wire which he re-read from time to time with increasing satisfaction. It had been sent from Ardsley and ran: I shall ride to-night on the road that leads south beyond the red bungalow, and on the bridle-path that climbs the ridge on the west, called Sunset Trail. A certain English gentleman will accompany me. It will be perfectly agreeable to me to come back alone. G. D. Ardmore was still writing when Cooke stood beneath him under the caboose platform. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Ardmore, but this is our first prisoner." Ardmore signed a despatch and then looked up and took the pipe from his mouth. Collins lifted his hat politely. "Ah, Mr. Ardmore, you see I have taken advantage of your exceedingly kind invitation to look you up in North Carolina." "He was looking for you very hard when I found him, Mr. Ardmore," interposed Cooke. "Your appearance delights me," said Ardmore, extending his hand to the reporter. "It was nice of you to walk out here to find me. Wouldn't they put you up at the house?" "Well, the fact is I didn't stop there. My paper sent me in this general direction on business, but I had every honorable intention of making you that visit after I finished my assignment. But Cookie here says I'm arrested." "He's a dangerous character and can't be allowed to run loose in these parts. I'm going to tie him up," said Cooke. "May I ask you, Mr. Collins, just what you are doing here?" inquired Ardmore. "You may, and I'll bet a boiled goose that Cooke and I are on the same job." "What are you looking for?" demanded Ardmore's chief of staff. "It's a big story if I get it, and I have every intention of getting it," said Collins guardedly. "Out with it!" commanded Ardmore. "The fact is, then, that I'm looking for a person of importance." "Go right on, please." "And that person is the governor of North Carolina, who is mysteriously absent from Raleigh. He attended the Cotton Planters' Convention in New Orleans. He got as far as Atlanta on his way home and then disappeared. I need not say to gentlemen of your intelligence that a lost governor is ripe fruit in my business, and I have reason to believe that for some purpose of his own the governor of North Carolina is hiding in this very neighborhood." Cooke glanced at Ardmore for instructions, but the master of Ardsley preferred to keep the matter in his own hands. "So you want to find the governor of North Carolina, do you? Well you shall not be disappointed. You are too able and zealous to be wasted on journalism. I have a feeling that you are destined to higher things. Something told me when we met in Atlanta that fate had set us apart for each other. That was why I asked you to visit me when I really didn't know but that, after learning where the spoons are kept, you would skip without leaving your subsequent address. But now there is important business on hand and the state of North Carolina will take the liberty of borrowing you from Georgia until the peace of the Old North State is restored. And now, Collins, I will make a disclosure that will undoubtedly startle you a good deal, but you are no longer employed by the Atlanta _Palladium_, and your obligations to that journal must be transferred to the state in which you now stand. You came here, Collins, to look for the governor of North Carolina, and your wits and your argus-nose for news have served you well. You have found the governor of North Carolina: I am he!" Collins had stood during this recital in the middle of the track, with his legs wide apart, calmly fanning himself with his hat; but as Ardmore proceeded the reporter's hand dropped to his side, and a grin that had overspread his face slowly yielded to a blank stare. "Would you mind repeating those last words?" "_I_ am the governor of North Carolina, Mr. Collins. The manner in which I attained that high office is not important. It must suffice that I am in sole charge of the affairs of this great state, without relief from valuation or appraisement laws and without benefit of clergy. And we have much to do here; mere social conversation must await an ampler time. I now appoint you publicity agent to the governor. Your business is to keep the people fooled--all the people all the time. In other words, you are chief liar to the administration, a position of vast responsibility, for which you have, if I am a judge of character, the greatest talents. You will begin by sending out word that Governor Dangerfield has given up all other work at present but the destruction of the Appleweight gang. These stories that the governor has hidden himself to dodge certain duties are all punk--do you understand?--he is serving the people as he has always served them, faithfully and with the noblest self-sacrifice. That's the sort of stuff I want you to jam into the newspapers all over the world. And remember--my name does not appear in the business at all--neither now nor hereafter." "But by the ghost of John C. Calhoun, don't you see that I'm losing the chance of my life in my own profession? There's a story in this that would put me to the top and carry me right into New York," and Collins glanced about for his suit-case, as though meditating flight. "Your appointment has gone into effect," said Ardmore with finality, "and if you bolt you will be caught and made to walk the plank. And so far as your future is concerned, you shall have a newspaper of your own anywhere you please as soon as this war is over." The three men adjourned to the caboose where Ardmore told Collins all that it seemed necessary for the newspaper man to know; and within half an hour the new recruit had entered thoroughly into the spirit of the adventure, though his mirth occasionally got the better of him, and he bowed his head in his hands and surrendered himself to laughter. Thereafter, until the six o'clock supper was ready, he kept the operator occupied. He sent to the _Palladium_ a thoroughly plausible story giving prominence to the Appleweight case and laying stress on Governor Dangerfield's vigorous personality and high sense of official responsibility. He sent queries to leading journals everywhere, offering exclusive news of the rumored disappearance of North Carolina's governor. His campaign of publicity for the state administration was broadly planned, though he was losing a great opportunity to beat the world with a stunning story of the amazing nerve with which Ardmore, the young millionaire, had assumed the duties of governor of North Carolina in the unaccountable absence of Governor Dangerfield from his capital. The whole thing was almost too good to be true, and Collins put away the idea of flight only upon realizing the joyous possibilities of sharing, no matter how humbly, in the fate of an administration which was fashioning the drollest of card houses. He did not know, and was not to know until long afterward, just how the young master of Ardsley had leaped into the breach; but Ardmore was an extraordinary person, whose whims set him quite apart from other men, and while, even if he escaped being shot, the present enterprise would undoubtedly lead to a long term in jail, Collins had committed himself to Ardmore's cause and would be faithful to it, no matter what happened. Ardmore took Collins more fully into his confidence during the lingering twilight, and the reporter made many suggestions that were of real value. Meanwhile Cooke's men brought three horses from the depths of the forest, and saddled them. Cooke entered the caboose for a final conference with Ardmore and a last look at the maps. "Too bad," remarked the acting governor, "that we must wait until to-morrow night to pick up the Appleweights, but our present business is more important. It's time to move, Cooke." They rode off in single file on the faintest of trails through the woods, Cooke leading and Ardmore and Collins following immediately behind him. The great host of summer stars thronged the sky, and the moon sent its soft effulgence across the night. They presently forded a noisy stream, and while they were seeking the trail again on the farther side an owl hooted a thousand yards up the creek, and while the line re-formed Cooke paused and listened. Then the owl's call was repeated farther off and so faintly that Cooke alone heard it. He laid his hand on Ardmore's rein: "There's a foot-trail that leads along that creek, and it's very rough and difficult to follow. Half a mile from here there used to be a still, run by one of the Appleweights. We smashed it once, but no doubt they are operating again by this time. That hoot of the owl is a warning common among the pickets put out by these people. Wireless telegraphy isn't in it with them. Every Appleweight within twenty miles will know in half an hour how many there are of us and just what direction we are taking. We must not come back here to-night. We must put up on your place somewhere and let them think, if they will, we are guests of yours out for an evening ride." "That's all right. Unless we complete this job in about two days my administration is a fizzle," said Ardmore, as they resumed their march through the forest. There was a wilder fling to the roll of the land now, but the underbrush was better cleared, and the trail had become a bridle-path that had known man's care. "This is some of Paul's work," said Ardmore; "and if I am not very much mistaken we are on my land now and headed straight enough for the wagon-road that leads south beyond the red bungalow. These roads in here were planned to give variety, but I never before appreciated how complicated they are." The path stretched away through the heavy forest, and they climbed to a ridge that commanded a wide region that lay bathed in silver moonlight, so softly luminous that it seemed of the stuff of shadows made light. Westward, a mile distant, lay Ardsley, only a little below the level of the ridge and touched with a faint purple as of spring twilight. Ardmore sat his saddle, quietly contemplating the great house that struck him almost for the first time as imposing. He felt, too, a little heartache that he did not quite understand. He was not sure whether it was the effect of the moon, or whether he was tired, or what it was, though he thought perhaps the moon had something to do with it. His own house, of which he was sincerely fond, seemed mistily hung between heaven and earth, in the moonlight, a thing not wholly of this world; and in his depression of spirit he reflected for a moment on his own aimless, friendless life; he knew then that he was lonely and that there was a great void in his mind and heart and soul and he knew also that Jerry Dangerfield and not the moon was the cause of his melancholy. "We'd better be moving," suggested Cooke. "It's too bad to leave that picture," remarked Collins, sighing. "Had I the lyre of Gray I should compose an _Ode on a Distant Prospect of Ardsley Castle_, which would ultimately reach the school readers and bring me fame more enduring than brass." "Did you say brass?" ironically scoffed Cooke. Whereupon the _Palladium's_ late representative laughed softly and muttered to himself, "Proud pile, by mighty Ardmore's hand upreared!" "Cut it out," commanded Cooke, "or I'll drop you into the ravine. Look below there!" Looking off from the ridge they saw a man and a woman riding along a strip of road from which the timber had been cut. The night was so still, the gray light so subdued, that the two figures moved as steadily and softly as shadow pictures on a screen. The slow even movement of the riders was interrupted suddenly. The man, who was nearer the remote observers, had stopped and bent toward the woman as though to snatch her rein, when her horse threw up its head and fell back on its haunches. Then the woman struck the man a blow with her riding-crop, and galloped swiftly away along the white ribbon-like road. In the perfect night-silence it was like a scene of pantomime. "That's all right!" cried Cooke. "Come along! We'll cut into that road at the bungalow." They swung their horses away from the ridge and back into the bridle-path, which once more dipped sharply down into heavy timber, Cooke leading the way, and three of the best hunters known to the Ardsley stables flew down the clear but winding path. The incident which the trio had witnessed required no interpretation: the girl's blow and flight had translated it into language explicit enough. Ardmore thanked his German forester a thousand times for the admirable bridle-path over which they galloped, with its certain footing beneath and clean sweep from the boughs above. The blood surged hotly through his heart, and he was angry for the first time in his life; but his head was cool, and the damp air of the forest flowing by tranquilized him into a new elation of spirit. Jerry Dangerfield was the dearest and noblest and bravest girl in the world--he knew that: and she was clever and resourceful enough to devise means for preserving her father's official and private honor; and not less quick to defend herself from insult from a titled scoundrel. She was the most inexplicable of girls; but at the same time she was beyond any question the wisest. The thought that he should now see her soon, after all the years that had passed since he had introduced her to his sister at Raleigh, filled him with wild delight, and he prayed that in her mad flight from the Duke of Ballywinkle no harm might come to her. The three men rode out into the broad highway at the red bungalow and paused to listen. "He hasn't got here yet. Only one person has passed and these must be the tracks of the girl's horse," said Cooke, who had dismounted and struck matches, the better to observe the faint hoof-prints in the hard shell road. "He'll be along in a minute. Let us get into the shadow of the bungalow, and when he comes we'll ride out and nail him. The bungalow's a sort of way house. I often stop here when I'm out on the estate and want to rest, I have the key in my pocket." As Ardmore's keys jingled in the lock Cooke cried out softly. Their quarry was riding swiftly toward them, and he drew rein before the bungalow as Cooke and Collins rode out to meet him. "I say," panted the duke. "You are our prisoner. Dismount and come into this house." "Prisoner, you fool! I'm a guest at Ardsley and I'm looking for a lady." "That's a very unlikely story. Collins, help the gentleman down;" and the reporter obeyed instructions with so much zeal that the noble gentleman fell prone, and was assisted to his feet with a fine mockery of helpfulness. "I tell you I'm looking for a lady whose horse ran away with her! I'm the Duke of Ballywinkle and brother-in-law to Mr. Ardmore. I'll have you sent to jail if you stop me here." "Come along, Duke, and we'll see what you look like," said Cooke, leading the way to the bungalow veranda. Within Ardmore was lighting lamps. There was a long room finished in black oak, with a fireplace at one end, and a table in the center. The floors were covered with handsome rugs and the walls were hung with photographs and etchings. Ardmore sat on the back of a leather settee in a pose assumed at the moment of the duke's entrance. It was a pose of entire nonchalance, and Ardmore's cap, perched on the back of his head, and his brown hair rumpled boyishly, added to the general effect of comfort and ease. The duke blinked for a moment in the lamplight, then he roared out joyously: "Ardy, old man!" and advanced toward his brother-in-law with outstretched hand. "Keep him off; he's undoubtedly quite mad," said Ardmore, staring coldly, and bending his riding-crop across his knees. "Collins, please ride on after the lady and bring her back this way." Cooke had seated the prisoner rather rudely in a chair, and the noble duke, having lost the power of speech in amazement and fright, rubbed his eyes and then fastened them incredulously on Ardmore; but there was no question about it, he had been seized with violence; he had been repudiated by his own brother-in-law--the useless, stupid Tommy Ardmore, who, at best, had only a child's mind for pirate stories and who was indubitably the most negligible of negligible figures in the drama of life as the duke knew it. "Cooke," began Ardmore, addressing his lieutenant gravely from his perch on the settee, "what is the charge against this person?" "He says he's a duke," grinned Cooke, taking his cue from Ardmore's manner. "And he says he's visiting at Ardsley." "That," said Ardmore with decision, "is creditable only to the gentleman's romantic imagination. His face is anything but dukely, and there's a red streak across it which points clearly to the recent sharp blow of a weapon; and no one would ever strike a duke. It's utterly incredible," and Ardmore lifted his brows and leaned back with his arms at length and his hands clasping the riding-crop, as he contemplated with supreme satisfaction the tell-tale red line across the duke's cheek. The Duke of Ballywinkle leaped to his feet, the color that suffused his pale face hiding for the moment the mark of the riding-stick. "What the devil is this joke, Ardy?" screamed the duke. "You know I'm a guest at your house; you know I'm your sister's husband. I was riding with Miss Dangerfield and her horse ran away with her, and she may come to harm unless I go after her. This cut on the face I got from a low limb of one of your infernal trees. You are putting me in a devil of an embarrassing position by holding me here." He spoke with dignity, and Ardmore heard him through in silence; but when he had finished, the master of Ardsley pointed to the chair. "As I understand you, you are pleading not guilty; and you pretend to some acquaintance with me; but I am unable to recall you. We may have met somewhere, sometime, but I really don't know you. The title to which you pretend is unfamiliar to me; but I will frankly disclose to you that I, sir, am the governor of North Carolina." "The what?" bleated the duke, his eyes bulging. "I repeat, that I am the governor of North Carolina, and as a state of war now exists in my unhappy kingdom, I, sir, have assumed all the powers conferred upon the three coördinate branches of government under the American system, namely, or if you prefer it, I will say, to wit: the legislative, the executive and the judicial. It is thus not only my privilege but my painful duty to pass upon your case in all its sad aspects. As I have already suspended the writ of habeas corpus and set aside the right to trial by jury we will consider that I sit here as the supreme court." "For God's sake, Ardy--" howled the duke. "That remark I will not now construe as profanity, but don't let it occur again. The first charge against you is that of insulting a woman on the Sunset Trail in the estate called Ardsley, owned by a person known in law as Thomas Ardmore. There are three witnesses to the fact that you tried to stop a woman in the road, and that streak on your face is even more conclusive. Are you guilty or not guilty?" "You are mad! You are crazy!" shouted the duke; but his face was very white now, and the mark of the crop flamed scarlet. "You are guilty, beyond any question. But the further charge against you that you pretend to be--what did he say his name was, Cooke?--that you pretend to be the Duke of Ballywinkle must now be considered. That is quite right, is it; you say you are the Duke?" "Yes; you fool!" howled the duke. "I'll have the law on you for this! I'll appeal to the British ambassador." "I advise you not to appeal to anybody," said Ardmore, "and the British ambassador is without jurisdiction in North Carolina. You have yourself asserted that you are the Duke of Ballywinkle. Why Ballywinkle? Why not Argyll; why not Westminster? Why not, if duke you must be, the noble Duke of York?" The Duke of Ballywinkle sat staring, stupefied. The whole thing was one of his silly brother-in-law's stupid jokes; there was no question of that; and Tommy Ardmore was always a bore; but in spite of the comfort he derived from these reflections the duke was not a little uneasy; for he had never seen his brother-in-law in just this mood, and he did not like it. Ardmore was carrying the joke too far; and there was an assurance in Ardmore's tone, and a light in Ardmore's eyes that were ominous. Cooke had meanwhile lighted his pipe and was calmly smoking until his chief should have his fling. Ardmore now drew from his pocket Johnston's _American Politics_ with an air of greatest seriousness. "Cooke," he said, half to himself as he turned the pages, "do you remember just what the constitution says about dukes? Oh, yes; here we are! Now, Mr. Duke of Ballywinkle, listen to what it says here in Section IX of the Constitution of the United States, which reads exactly as follows in this book: 'No title of nobility shall be granted by the United States: And no person holding any office of profit or trust under them, shall, without the consent of the Congress, accept of any present, emolument, office, or title, of any kind whatever, from any king, prince, or foreign state.' And it says in Section X that 'No state shall grant any title of nobility.' Now, Mr. Ballywinkle, it is perfectly clear that this government can't recognize anything that it can't create, for that would be foolish. As I, the governor of North Carolina, can't make a duke, I can't see one. You are therefore wholly illegal; it's against the most sacred law of the land for you to be here at all; and, painful though it is to me, it is nevertheless my duty to order you to leave the United States at once, never to return. In fact, if you ever appear in the United States again, I hereby order that you be hanged by the neck until you be dead. One of Mr. Cooke's men will accompany you to New York to-morrow and see to it that you take passage on a steamer bound for a British port. The crime of having insulted a woman will still hang over you until you are well east of Sandy Hook, and I advise you not to risk being tried on that charge in North Carolina, as my people are very impulsive and emotional and lynchings are not infrequent in our midst. You shall spend to-night in my official caboose some distance from here, and your personal effects will be brought from Ardsley, where, you have said, you are a guest of Mr. Thomas Ardmore, who is officially unknown to me. The supreme court will now adjourn." Cooke pulled the limp, bewildered duke to his feet, and dragged him from the bungalow. As they stepped out on the veranda Collins rode up in alarm. "I followed this road to a cross-road where it becomes a bridle-path and runs off into the forest. There I lost all trace of the lady, but here is her riding-crop." "Cooke, take your prisoner to the caboose; and Collins, come with me," commanded Ardmore; and a moment later he and the reporter rode off furiously in search of Jerry Dangerfield. CHAPTER XIII MISS DANGERFIELD TAKES A PRISONER A dozen men carrying rifles across their saddle-bows rode away from Habersham's farm on the outskirts of Turner Court House and struck a rough trail that led a devious course over the hills. At their head rode the guide of the expedition--a long silent man on a mule. Griswold and Habersham followed immediately behind him on horseback. Their plans had been carefully arranged before they left their rendezvous, and save for an occasional brief interchange between the prosecuting attorney and the governor's special representative, the party jogged on in silence. Habersham's recruits were, it may be said, farmers of the border, who had awaited for years just such an opportunity as now offered to avenge themselves upon the insolent Appleweights. Nearly every man of the party had some private score to settle, but they had all been sworn as special constables and were sobered by the knowledge that the power of the state of South Carolina was back of them. Thus, at the very hour that Mr. Ardmore and his lieutenants rode away from the lonely anchorage of the caboose, Professor Griswold and his cavalcade set out for Mount Nebo Church. While the master of Ardsley was revenging himself upon the Duke of Ballywinkle, his dearest friend, against whom he had closed the doors of his house, was losing no time in setting forth upon a mission which, if successful, would seriously interfere with all Mr. Ardmore's hopes and plans. Ardmore's scarlet fever telegram no longer rankled in the breast of the associate professor of admiralty of the University of Virginia, for Griswold knew that no matter what might be the outcome of his effort to uphold the dignity of the sovereign state of South Carolina, his participation in any such adventure would so cover his friend with envy that he would have him forever at his mercy. Thomas Ardsley deserved punishment--there was no doubt of that, and as Professor Griswold was not more or less than a human being, he took comfort of the reflection. The guide of the expedition pushed his mule forward at a fast walk, making no excuses to Griswold and Habersham for the roughness of the trails he chose, nor troubling to give warning of sharp turns where a horse, being less wise than a mule, tobogganed madly before finding a foothold. Occasionally a low hanging limb switched the associate professor sharply across the face, but his temper continued serene where the trail was darkest and steepest, and he found himself ignoring Habersham's occasional polite questions about the university in his effort to summon up in memory certain ways of Barbara Osborne which baffled him. He deplored the time he had given to the study of a stupid profession like the law, when, if he had applied himself with equal diligence to poetry, he might have made for himself a place at least as high in belles-lettres. In his college days he had sometimes thrummed a guitar, and there was a little song in his heart, half formed, and with only a line or two as yet tangible, which he felt sure he could write down on paper if it were not that the bugles summoned him to war; it was a song of a white rose which a lover wore in his heart, through winter and summer, and it never changed, and the flight of the seasons had no manner of effect on it. "Check up, cain't you?" snarled the man on the mule, laying hold of Griswold's rein; and thus halted, Griswold found that they had been circling round a curiously symmetrical, thickly wooded hill, and had finally come to a clearing whence they were able to gaze far off toward the north. "We are almost out of bounds," said Habersham, pointing. "Over there somewhere, across the hills, lies North Carolina. I am as thoroughly lost as you can possibly be; but these men know where they are. How far is it, Billy"--he addressed the silent guide--"to Mount Nebo?" "About four mile, and I reckon we'd better let out a leetle now or they'll sing the doxology before we git thar." "What's that light away off there?" asked Habersham. The guide paused to examine it, and the faint glow far down the vale seemed to perplex him. He spoke to one or two other natives and they viewed the light ruminatively, as is their way. "Thet must be on Ardmore's land," said the leader finally. "It shoots out all sorts o' ways round hyeh, and I reckon thet's about wheh Raccoon Creek cuts through." "That's very likely," said Habersham. "I've seen the plat of what Ardmore owns on this side the border at the court house, and I remember that there's a long strip in Mingo County that is Ardsley land. Ardmore has houses of one kind and another scattered all over the estate and those lights may be from one of them. You know the place, don't you?" "Yes; I've visited there," admitted Griswold. "But we'd better give it a wide berth. The whole estate is simply infested with scarlet fever. They're quarantined." "I guess that's a joke," said Habersham. "There's a big party on there now, and I have seen some of the guests in Turner's within a day or two." "Within how many days?" demanded Griswold, his heart sinking at the thought that Ardmore had lied to him to keep him away from Ardsley--from Ardmore's house! The thought of it really hurt him now. Could it be possible that Ardmore had guests so distinguished that he, Griswold, was not worthy to make their acquaintance! He experienced a real pang as he thought that here he was, within a short ride of the home of his dearest friend, the man whom most he loved of all men, and that he had been denied the door of that friend's house. "Come on!" called Habersham. Half the company rode ahead to gain the farther side of the church; the remainder, including Griswold and Habersham, soon dismounted and tied their horses out of sight of the country road which they had latterly been following. "We are in plenty of time," said Habersham, looking at his watch. "The rest of the boys are closing in from the other side and they will be ready for Appleweight when he finishes his devotions. We've been studying the old man's habits and he has a particular place where he ties his horse back of the church. It's a little apart from the fence where most of the congregation hitch and he chose it, no doubt, because in case of a surprise he would have plenty of room for maneuvering. Two men are going to lay for him, seize and gag him and carry him into the wood back of the church; and then we're off across the state line to lock him up in jail at Kildare and give Governor Dangerfield the shock of his life." "It sounds simple enough; but it won't be long before Appleweight's friends miss him. You must remember that they are a shrewd lot." "We've got to take our chances. Let's hope we are as shrewd as they are," replied Habersham. They moved softly through the wood and presently the faint sound of singing reached them. "Old Rabdick has finished his sermon and we'll know the worst in a few minutes." One of the party had already detached himself and crept forward toward the church, to meet his appointed comrade in the enterprise, who was to come in from the other side. The clapboard church presented in the moonlight the austerest outlines, and as the men waited, a rude though unseen hand was slamming the wooden shutters that protected the windows from impious violence. "We could do with less moon," muttered Habersham, as he and Griswold peered through the trees into the churchyard. "There goes Bill Appleweight now," whispered one of the natives at his elbow, and Griswold felt his heart-beats quicken as he watched a tall figure silhouetted against the church and moving swiftly toward the rear of the building. At the front of the church voices sounded, as the departing worshipers rode or drove slowly away. Habersham laid his hand suddenly on Griswold's arm. "They've got him! They've nailed him! See! There! They're yanking him back into the timber. They've taken him and his horse!" Griswold saw nothing but a momentary confusion of shadows, then perfect silence hung over the woods behind the little church. The congregation was slowly dispersing, riding away in little groups. Suddenly a voice called out in the road a hundred yards beyond the church: "Hey there! Where's Bill?" "Oh, he's gone long ago!" yelled another. In a moment more the church door slammed and a last figure rode rapidly away. "Now we'll see what's happened," said Habersham. "It looks almost too easy." The members of Griswold's party who had been thrown round to the farther side of the church began to appear, one at a time. There was no nervousness among any of the band--a fact that impressed Griswold. They were all risking much in this enterprise, but they were outwardly unperturbed, and chewing their tobacco silently while they awaited the return of the two active agents in the conspiracy who had dealt directly with Appleweight. Habersham counted heads, and announced all present or accounted for. The tall leader who had ridden the mule was the first to rise out of the underbrush, through which he had crawled circuitously from the rear of the church. His companion followed a few seconds later. "We've got Bill, all tied and gagged and a-settin' of his hoss," drawled the leader, "and the hoss is tied to the back fence. Rest o' his boys thought he'd gone ahead, but they may miss him and come back. He's safe enough, and ef we keep away from him we'll be ready to light out ef the gang scents trouble and comes back to look fer Bill." "You're sure he's tied up so he can't break away or yell?" "He's as good as dead, a-settin' of his hoss in the thicket back theh." "And now," said Habersham, "what we've got to do is to make a run for it and land him across the border, and stick him into a North Carolina jail, where he rightfully belongs. The question is, can we do it all in one night, or had we better lock him up somewhere on this side the line and take another night for it? The sheriff over there in Kildare is Appleweight's cousin, but we'll lock him up with Bill, to make a family party of it." "We'd better not try too much to-night," counseled Griswold. "It's a big thing to have the man himself. If it were not for the matter of putting Governor Dangerfield in a hole, I'd favor hurrying with Appleweight to Columbia, just for the moral effect of it on the people of South Carolina. We'd make a big killing for the administration that way, Habersham." "Yes, you'd make a killing all right, but you'd have Bill Appleweight on your hands, which Governor Osborne has not until lately been anxious for," replied Habersham, in a low tone that was heard by no one but his old preceptor. "You'd better get over the idea that we're afraid of this outlaw," rejoined Griswold. "The governor of North Carolina dare not call his soul his own where these hill people are concerned; but the governor of South Carolina is a different sort." "The governor of North Carolina is filling the newspapers with his own virtuous intentions in the matter," remarked Habersham, "but his sudden zeal puts one upon inquiry." "I hope you don't imply that the motives of the governor of South Carolina are not the worthiest?" demanded Griswold hotly. "Most certainly not!" returned the prosecuting attorney; but a smile flitted across his face--a smile which, in the darkness, Griswold did not see. "The two governors are very different men--wholly antipodal characters, in fact," and again Habersham smiled to himself. While they thus stood on South Carolina soil, waiting for the safe and complete dispersion of the Mount Nebo congregation before seizing the captive they had gagged and tied at the rear of the little church, the fates were ordering a very different termination of the night's business. Miss Jerry Dangerfield, galloping away from the Duke of Ballywinkle, with no thought but to widen the distance between them, turned off at the first cross-road, which began well enough, but degenerated rapidly into a miserable trail, through which she was obliged to walk her horse. Before she was aware of it she was in the midst of a clearing where laborers had lately been cutting timber, and she found, on turning to make her way out, that she was quite lost, for three trails, all seemingly alike, struck off into the forest. She spoke aloud to the horse to reassure herself, and smiled as she viewed the grim phalanx of stumps. She must, however, find her way back to Ardsley, for there were times when Jerry Dangerfield could be very serious with herself, though it rarely pleased her to be serious with other people; and she knew that the time had long passed for her return to the house. If her conspiracy with Thomas Ardmore had proved successful, the duke would not return to the great house; but her own prolonged absence was something that had not been in her program. She did not know then that three men had witnessed her flight from the duke, or that they had taken swift vengeance upon him for his unpardonable conduct in the moon-blanched road. It was not Jerry's way to accept misfortune tamely, and after circling the wall of timber that shut her in, in the hope of determining where she had entered, she chose a trail at random and plunged into the woods. She assumed that probably all the roads and paths on the estate led more or less directly to the great house or to some lodge or bungalow. She had lost her riding-crop in her mad flight, and she broke off a switch, tossing its leaves into the moonlight and laughing softly as they rained about her. Jerry began whistling gently to herself, for she had never been lost before, and it is not so bad, when you have a good horse, a fair path, sweet odorous woods and the moon to keep you company. She forded a brook that was silver to eye and ear, and let her horse stand midway of it for joy in the sight and sound. She had kept no account of time, but rather imagined that it had not been more than half an hour since the Duke of Ballywinkle left her so unceremoniously. Suddenly ahead of her through the woods floated the sound of singing--one of those strange, wavering _pieux cantiques_ peculiar to the South. She rode on, thinking to find help and a guide back to Ardsley; then the music ceased, and lights now flashed faintly before her, but she went forward guardedly. "I'm much more lost than I thought I was, for I must be away off the estate," she reflected. She turned and rode back a few rods and dismounted, and tied her horse to a sapling. She was disappointed at not finding a camp of Ardmore's wood-cutters, to whom she would unhesitatingly have confided herself; but it seemed wise now to exercise caution in drawing to herself the attention of strangers. She did not know that she had crossed the state line and was in South Carolina, or that the singing she had heard floated from the windows of Mount Nebo Church. She became now the astonished witness of a series of incidents that occurred so swiftly as fairly to take her breath away. A tall, loosely articulated man came from the direction of the church and walked toward her. She knelt at the tree and watched, the moonlight giving her a clear view of a rustic somewhat past middle age, whose chief characteristics seemed to be a grizzled beard and long arms that swung oddly at his side. The brim of his wool hat was turned up sharply from his forehead, and she had a glimpse of the small, keen, gray eyes with which he swept the forest before him. He freed a horse which she had not before noticed, and she concluded that he would not approach nearer, for she expected him to mount and ride away to join others of the congregation whom she heard making off in a road beyond the church. Then, with a quickness and deftness that baffled her eyes, two men rose beside him just as he was about to mount; there was no outcry and no sound of scuffling, so quick was the descent and so perfect the understanding between the captors. In a moment the man was gathered up, bound, and flung on his saddle. She had a better view of him, now that he was hatless, though a gag had been forced into his mouth and a handkerchief tied over his eyes, so that he presented a grotesque appearance. Jerry was so absorbed that she forgot to be afraid; never in her life had she witnessed anything so amazing as this; and now, to her more complete bewilderment, the captors, after carefully inspecting their work and finding it satisfactory, seemed to disappear utterly from the face of the earth. [Illustration] In the woods to her left she thought she heard a horse neigh; then she saw shadows moving in that direction; and again, from the road, she heard the brief debate of the two men as to the whereabouts of "Bill"; and it struck Jerry humorously that he would not soon see his friends unless they came and helped him out of his predicament. It may help to an understanding of Miss Jerry Dangerfield's character if it is recorded here that never in her short life had she failed to respond to the call of impulse. She was lost in the woods, and strange men lurked about; a man had been attacked, seized, and left sitting in a state of absurd helplessness on a horse presumably his own, and there was no guessing what dire penalty his captors had in store for him. He certainly looked deliciously funny as he sat there in the shadows, vigorously twisting his arms and head in an effort to free himself. Quiet reigned in the neighborhood of the church; the lights had blinked out; the bang of the closing shutters reassured Jerry, and she crept on her knees toward the unconscious captive, loosed his horse's rein and led it rapidly toward her own horse, a little farther back in the woods. Her blindfolded prisoner, thinking his original captors were carrying him off, renewed his efforts to free himself. He tested the ropes and straps with which he was fastened by throwing himself first to one side, then to the other, as far as his gyves would permit, at the same time frothily chewing his gag. Jerry gained her own saddle in the least bit of a panic, and when she had mounted and made sure of the leading-strap with which her prisoner's horse was provided, she rode on at a rapid walk until she reached the clearing, where the stumps again grimly mocked her. She stopped to listen, and heard through the still night first one cry and then many voices in various keys of alarm and rage. Then she bent toward the prisoner, tore the bandage from his eyes, and with more difficulty freed him of the gag. He blinked and spluttered at this unexpected deliverance, then blinked and spluttered afresh at seeing that his captor was a young woman, who was plainly not of his world. Jerry watched him wonderingly, then addressed him in her most agreeable tone. "You were caught and tied by two men over there by a church. I saw them, and when they went off and left you, I came along and brought you with me, thinking to save your life. I want to get home as quickly as possible, and though I do not know you, and am quite sure we never met before, I hope you will kindly guide me to Ardsley, and thereby render me a service I shall always deeply appreciate." Mr. Bill Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet, was well hardened to the shocks of time, but this pleasant-voiced girl, coolly sitting her horse, and holding his own lank steed by a strap, was the most amazing human being that had yet dawned on his horizon. He was not stupid, but Jerry's manner of speech had baffled more sophisticated minds than Appleweight's, and the sweet sincerity of her tone, and her frank countenance, hallowed as it was by the moonlight, wrought in the outlaw's mind a befuddlement not wholly unlike that which had possessed the wits of many young gallants south of the Potomac who had laid siege to Jerry Dangerfield's heart. But the cries behind them were more pronounced, and Appleweight was nothing if not a man of action. "Take these things off'n me," he commanded fiercely, "and I'll see y' safe to Ardsley." "Not in the least," replied Jerry, who was herself not unmindful of the voices behind. "You will kindly tell me the way, and I will accommodate my pace to that of your own somewhat ill-nourished beast. And as there's a mob looking for you back there, all ready to hang you to one of these noble forest trees, I advise you to use more haste and less caution in pointing the way." Appleweight lifted his head and took his bearings. Then he nodded toward one of the three trails which had so baffled Jerry when first she broke into the clearing. "Thet's the nighest," said Appleweight, "and we'd better git." She set the pace at a trot, and was relieved in a few minutes to pass one or two landmarks which she remembered from her flight through the woods. As they splashed through the brook she had forded, she was quite confident that the captive was playing her no trick, but that in due course she should strike the highroad to Ardsley which she had abandoned to throw off the Duke of Ballywinkle. It was now ten o'clock, and the moon was sinking behind the forest trees. Jerry took advantage of an occasional straight strip of road to go forward at a gallop, but these stretches did not offer frequently, and the two riders kept pretty steadily to a smart trot. They presented a droll picture as they moved through the forest--the girl, riding cross-saddle, with the stolen captive trailing after. Occasionally Mr. Appleweight seemed to be talking to himself, but whether he was praying or swearing Jerry did not trouble herself to decide. It was enough for her that she had found a guide out of the wilderness by stealing a prisoner from his enemies, and this was amusing, and sent bubbling in her heart those quiet springs of mirth that accounted for so much in Jerry Dangerfield. As they walked their horses through a bit of sand, the prisoner spoke: "Who air y'u, little gal?" Jerry turned in the saddle, so that Appleweight enjoyed a full view of her face. "I am perfectly willing to tell you my name, but first it would be more courteous for you to tell me yours, particularly as I am delivering you from a band of outlaws who undoubtedly intended to do you harm." "I reckon they air skeered to foller us, gal. They air afeard to tackle th' ole man, onless they jump in two t' one; and they cain't tell who helped me git away." He laughed--a curious, chuckling laugh. He had ceased to struggle at his bonds, but seemed resigned to his strange fate. He had not answered Jerry's question, and had no intention of doing so. The sudden attack at the church had aroused all his cunning. Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet, was an old wolf, and knew well the ways of the trapper; but the bold attempt to kidnap him was a new feature of the game as heretofore played along the border. He did not make it out; nor was he wholly satisfied with the girl's explanation of her own presence in that out-of-the-way place. She might be a guest at Ardsley, as she pretended, but women folk were rarely seen on the estate, and never in such remote corners of it as Mount Nebo Church. As he pondered the matter, it seemed incredible that this remarkable young person, whose innocence was so beguiling, should be in any way leagued with his foes. He had several times called out directions as they crossed other paths in the forest, and they now reached the main trunk road of the estate. The red bungalow, Jerry knew, was not far away. Her prisoner spoke again. "Little gal, I'm an ole man, and I hain't never done y'u no harm. Your haouse is only a leetle way up thar, and I cain't be no more use to y'u. I want t' go home, and if y'u'll holp me ontie this yere harness--" and he grinned as he viewed his bonds in the fuller light of the open road. Then hoof-beats thumped the soft earth of another of the trails that converged at this point, and Ardmore and Collins flashed out upon Jerry and her captive, amid a wild panic of horses. Appleweight twisted and turned in his saddle but Jerry instantly held up her hand and arrested the inquiries of her deliverers. "Mr. Ardmore, this gentleman was most rudely set upon by two strangers as he was leaving a church over there somewhere in the woods. I was lost, and as his appearance at the time and place seemed almost providential, I begged him to guide me toward home, which he has most courteously done," and Jerry, to give the proper touch to her explanation, twitched the strap by which she held her prisoner's horse, so that it danced, adding a fresh absurdity to the wobbling figure of its bound rider. "You are safe!" cried Ardmore in a low tone, to which Jerry nodded carelessly, in a way that directed attention to the more immediate business at hand. He was not at once sure of his cue, but there seemed to be something familiar in the outlines of the man on horseback, and full identification broke upon him now with astounding vividness. "Jugs," he began, addressing the prisoner smilingly, "dear old Jugs, to think we should meet again! Since you handed me that jug on the rear end of the train, a few nights ago, life has had new meanings for me, and I'm just as sorry as can be that I gave you the buttermilk. I wouldn't have done such a thing for billions in real money. And now that you have fallen into the excellent hands of Miss Dangerfield--" "Dangerfield!" screamed the prisoner, lifting himself as high in the saddle as his bonds would permit. "Certainly," replied Ardmore. "Your rescuer is none other than Miss Geraldine Dangerfield." "Why, gal," began the outlaw, "ef your pa's the guv'nor of No'th Caroline, him an' me's old frien's." "Then will you kindly tell me your name?" asked Jerry. "Allow me to complete the introductions," interrupted Collins, who had hung back in silence. "Unless my eyes deceive me, which is wholly improbable, this is a gentleman whom I once interviewed in the county jail at Raleigh, and he was known at that time as William Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet." "You air right," admitted the prisoner without hesitation, and then, addressing Jerry: "Yer pa would be glad to know his dorter had helped an ole frien' like me, gal. Ye may hev heard him speak o' me." "But how about that message in the cork of the jug you put on the train at Kildare?" demanded Ardmore. "And why did you send your brother to try to scare me to death at Raleigh?" "That is not the slightest importance," interrupted Jerry, gently playing with the tether which held Mr. Appleweight; "nor does it matter that papa and this gentleman are friends. If this is, indeed, the famous outlaw, Mr. William Appleweight, then, papa or no papa, friend or no friend, he is a prisoner of the state of North Carolina." "Pris'ner!" bawled Appleweight,--"an' you the guv'nor's gal--" "You have hit the situation exactly, Mr. Appleweight; and as far as the office of governor is concerned, it is capably filled by the young gentleman on your left, Mr. Thomas Ardmore. Let us now adjourn to his house, where, if I am not mistaken, a bit of cold fowl is usually to be found on the sideboard at this hour. But hold"--and Jerry checked her horse--"where can we lodge this gentleman, Mr. Ardmore, until we decide upon his further fate?" "We might put him in the wine cellar," suggested Ardmore. "No," interposed Collins. "I fancy that much of your fluid stock has paid revenue tax, and most of it has passed none too lightly through the custom-house. It would be unwarrantably cruel to lock Mr. Appleweight in such quarters, with the visible marks of taxation all around him. Still, the sight of the stamps would probably destroy his thirst, though his rugged independence might so far assert itself that he would smash a few of your most expensive importations out of sheer deviltry." "He shall be treated with the greatest consideration," said Jerry, and thereafter, no further adventure befalling them, they reached Ardsley, where their arrival occasioned the greatest excitement. CHAPTER XIV A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS Habersham's men had proved exceedingly timid when it came to the business of threshing the woods for Appleweight, whom they regarded with a new awe, now that he had vanished so mysteriously. They had searched the woods guardedly, but the narrow paths that led away into the dim fastnesses of Ardsley were forbidding, and these men were not without their superstitions. They had awaited for years an opportunity to strike at the Appleweight faction; they had at last taken their shot, and had seemingly brought down their bird; but their lack of spirit in retrieving the game had been their undoing. They had only aroused their most formidable enemy, who would undoubtedly lose no time in seeking revenge. They were a dolorous band who, after warily beating the woods, dispersed in the small hours of the morning, having found nothing but Appleweight's wool hat, which only added to their mystification. "We ought to have taken him away on the run," said Habersham bitterly, as he and Griswold discussed the matter on the veranda of the prosecutor's house and watched the coming of the dawn. "I didn't realize that those fellows lived in such mortal terror of the old man; but they refused to make off with him until the last of his friends had got well out of the way. I ought to have had more sense myself than to have expected the old fox to sit tied up like a calf ready for market. We had all his friends accounted for--those that weren't at prayer meeting were marked down somewhere else, and we had a line flung pretty well round the church. Appleweight's deliverance must have come from somewhere inside the Ardmore property. Perhaps the game warden picked him up." "Perhaps the Indians captured him," suggested Griswold, yawning, "or maybe some Martian came down on a parachute and hauled him up. Or, as scarlet fever is raging at Mr. Ardmore's castle,"--and his tone was icy--"Appleweight was probably seized all of a sudden, and broke away in his delirium. Let's go to bed." At eight o'clock he and Habersham rode into Turner Court House, and Griswold went at once to the inn to change his clothes. No further steps could be taken until some definite report was received as to Appleweight's whereabouts. The men who had attempted the outlaw's capture had returned to their farms, and were most demurely cultivating the soil. Griswold was thoroughly disgusted at the ridiculous failure of Habersham's plans, and not less severe upon himself for failing to push matters to a conclusion the moment the outlaw was caught, instead of hanging back to await the safe dispersion of the Mount Nebo congregation. It had been the most puerile transaction possible, and he was aware that a report of it, which he must wire at once to Miss Barbara Osborne, would not impress that young woman with his capacity or trustworthiness in difficult occasions. The iron that had already entered into his soul drove deeper. He had ordered a fresh horse, and was resolved to return to Mount Nebo Church for a personal study of the ground in broad daylight. As he crossed the musty parlor of the little hotel, to his great astonishment Miss Osborne's black Phoebe, stationed where her eyes ranged the whole lower floor of the inn, drew attention to herself in an elaborate courtesy. "Miss Barb'ra wish me t' say she done come heah on business, and she like fo' to see yo' all right away. She done bring huh seddle, and war a-gwine ridin' twell you come back. She's a-gittin' ready, and I'll go tell huh you done come. She got a heap o' trubble, thet young missis, so she hev," and the black woman's pursed lips seemed to imply that Professor Griswold was in some measure responsible for Miss Osborne's difficulties. As he stared out into the street a negro brought a horse bearing a better saddle than Mingo County had ever boasted, and hitched it near the horse he had secured for himself. An instant later he heard a quick step above, and Miss Osborne, sedately followed by the black woman, came down-stairs. She smiled and greeted him cordially, but there was trouble in her brown eyes. "I didn't warn you of my coming. I didn't want to be a nuisance to you; but there's a new--a most unaccountable perplexity. It doesn't seem right to burden you with it--you have already been so kind about helping me; but I dare not turn to our oldest friends--I have been afraid to trust father's friends at all since Mr. Bosworth acted so traitorously." "My time is entirely at your service, Miss Osborne; but I have a shameful report to make of myself. I must tell you how miserably I have failed, before you trust me any further. We--that is to say, the prosecuting attorney of this county and a party he got together of Appleweight's enemies--caught the outlaw last night--took him with the greatest ease--but he got away from us! It was all my fault, and I'm deeply disgusted with myself!" He described the capture and the subsequent mysterious disappearance of Appleweight, and confessed the obvious necessity for great caution in further attempts to take the outlaw, now that he was on guard. Barbara laughed reassuringly at the end of the story. "Those men must have felt funny when they went back to get the prisoner and found that he had gone up into the air. But there's a new feature of the case that's more serious than the loss of this man--" and the trouble again possessed her eyes. "Well, it's better not to have our problems too simple. Any lawyer can win an easy case--though I seem to have lost my first one for you," he added penitently. She made no reply, but drew from her purse a cutting from a newspaper and handed it to him. "That's from last night's Columbia _Vidette_, which is very hostile to my father." He was already running over the heavily leaded column that set forth without equivocation the fact that Governor Osborne had not been in Columbia since he went to New Orleans. It scouted the story that he was abroad in the state on official business connected with the Appleweight case--the yarn which Griswold had forced upon the friendly reporter at the telegraph office in Columbia. The governor of a state, the _Vidette_ went on to elaborate, could not vanish without leaving some trace of himself, and a _Vidette_ representative had traced the steps of Governor Osborne from New Orleans until--the italics are the _Vidette's_--he had again entered South Carolina _under cover of night and for purposes which, for the honor of the state, the Vidette hesitated to disclose_. The writer of the article had exhausted the possibilities of gentle suggestion and vague innuendo in an effort to create an impression of mystery and to pique curiosity as to further developments, which were promised at any hour. Griswold's wrath was aroused, not so much against the newspaper, which he assumed had some fire for its smothered trifle of smoke, but against the governor of South Carolina himself, who was causing the finest and noblest girl in the world infinite anxiety and pain. "The thing is preposterous," he said lightly. "The idea that your father would attempt to enter his own state surreptitiously is inconceivable in these days when public men are denied all privacy, and when it's any man's right to deceive the press if he finds it essential to his own comfort and peace; but the intimation that your father is in South Carolina for any dishonorable purpose is preposterous. One thing, however, is certain, Miss Osborne, and that is that we must produce your father at the earliest possible moment." "But"--and Barbara hesitated, and her eyes, near tears as they were, wrought great havoc in Griswold's soul--"but father must not be found until this Appleweight matter is settled. You understand without making me speak the words--that he might not exactly view the matter as we do." It was a painful subject; and the fact that she was driven by sheer force of circumstances to appeal to him, a stranger, to aid her to perform a public service in her father's name rallied all his good impulses to her standard. It was too delicate a matter for discussion; it was a thing to be ignored; and he assumed at once a lighter tone. "Come! We must solve the riddle of the lost prisoner at once, and your father will undoubtedly give an excellent account of himself when he gets ready. Meanwhile the fiction that he is personally carrying the war into the Appleweight country must be maintained, and I shall step to the railway station and wire the Columbia newspaper in his name that he is in Mingo County on the trail of the outlaws." The messages were composed by their joint efforts at the station, with not so much haste but that an associate professor of admiralty, twenty-nine years old, could defer in the most trifling matters to the superior literary taste of a girl of twenty whose brown eyes were very pleasant to meet in moments of uncertainty and appeal. He signed the messages Charles Osborne, Governor, with a flourish indicative of the increased confidence and daring which Miss Osborne's arrival had brought to the situation. "And now," said Griswold, as they rode through the meager streets of Turner's, "we will go to Mount Nebo Church and see what we can learn of Appleweight's disappearance." "The North Carolina papers are making a great deal of Governor Dangerfield's activity in trying to put down outlawry on the border," said Barbara. "Marked copies of the newspapers are pouring into papa's office. I can but hold Mr. Bosworth responsible for that. We may count upon it that he will do all in his power to annoy us"--and then, as Griswold looked at her quickly, he was aware that she had colored and averted her eyes; and while, as a lawyer, he was aware that words of two letters might be provocative of endless litigation of the bitterest sort, he had never known before that _us_, in itself the homeliest of words, could cause so sweet a distress. It seemed that an interval of several years passed before either spoke again. "We are quite near the estate of your friend, Mr. Ardmore, aren't we?" asked Barbara presently. "I fancy we are," replied Griswold, but with a tone so coldly at variance with his previous cordial references to the master of Ardsley that Barbara looked at him inquiringly. "I'm sorry that I should have given you the impression, Miss Osborne, that Mr. Ardmore and I are friends, as I undoubtedly did at Columbia. He has, for some unaccountable reason, cut my acquaintance in a manner so unlike him that I do not pretend to explain it; nor, I may add, is it of the least importance." "I was a little surprised," returned Barbara, with truly feminine instinct for mingling in the balm of consolation the bitterest and most poisonous herbs, "that you should have had for a friend a man who frankly follows girls whose appearance he fancies. Even Mr. Ardmore's democratic enthusiasm for the down-trodden laundry girl does not wholly mitigate the winking episode." "He had, only a few days ago, invited me to visit him, though I had been to his house so often that the obscurest servant knew that I was privileged even beyond the members of Mr. Ardmore's own family in my freedom of the place. When I saw that his house would be a convenient point from which to study the Appleweight situation, I wired him that I was on the way, and to my utter amazement he replied that he could not entertain me--that scarlet fever was epidemic on the estate--on those almost uncounted acres!" And with a gulp and a mist in his eyes, Griswold drew rein and pointed, from a hill that had now borne them to a considerable height, toward Ardsley itself, dreamily basking in the bright morning sunlight within its cincture of hills, meadows and forest. "I never saw the place before! It's perfectly splendid!" cried Barbara, forgetting that Griswold must be gazing upon it with the eyes of an exile viewing grim, forbidding battlements that once hailed him in welcome. "It's one of the most interesting houses in America," observed Griswold, who strove at all times to be just. "There's a flag flying--I can't make out what it is," said Barbara. "It's probably to give warning of the scarlet fever; it would be like Ardy to do that. But we must hurry on to Mount Nebo." He knew the ways of Ardsley thoroughly; better, in fact, than its owner ever had in old times; but in his anger at Ardmore he would not set foot on the estate if he could possibly avoid doing so in reaching the scene of the night's contretemps. He found without difficulty the trail taken by Habersham's men, and in due course of time they left their horses a short distance from the church and proceeded on foot. "It seems all the stupider in broad daylight," said Griswold, after he had explained just what had occurred, and how the captors, in their superstitious awe of Appleweight, had been afraid to carry him off the moment they were sure of him, but had slipped back among their fellows to wait until the coast was perfectly clear. To ease his deep chagrin Barbara laughed a good deal at the occurrence as they tramped over the scene discussing it. They went into the woods back of the church, where Griswold began to exercise his reasoning powers. "Some one must have come in from this direction and freed the man and taken him away," he declared. He knelt and marked the hoof-prints where Appleweight had been left tied; but the grass here was much trampled, and Griswold was misled by the fact, not knowing that news of Appleweight's strange disappearance had passed among the outlaw's friends by the swift telegraphy of the border, and that the whole neighborhood had been threshed over hours before. It might have been some small consolation to Griswold had he known that Appleweight's friends and accomplices were as much at a loss to know what had become of the chieftain as the men who had tried so ineffectually to kidnap him. From the appearance of the trampled grass many men had taken a hand in releasing the prisoner, and this impression did not clarify matters for Griswold. "Where does this path lead?" asked Barbara. "This is Ardsley land here, this side of the church, and that trail leads on, if I remember, to the main Ardsley highway, with which various other roads are connected--many miles in all. It's inconceivable that the deliverers of this outlaw should have taken him into the estate, where a sort of police system is maintained by the forestry corps. I don't at all make it out." He went off to explore the heavy woods on each side of the trail that led into Ardsley, but without result. When he came gloomily back he found that in his absence Barbara had followed the bridle-path for a considerable distance, and she held out to him a diminutive pocket handkerchief, which had evidently been snatched away from its owner--so Barbara explained--by a low-hanging branch of an oak, and flung into a blackberry bush, where she had found it. It was a trifle, indeed, the slightest bit of linen, which they held between them by its four corners and gravely inspected. "Feminine, beyond a doubt," pronounced Griswold sagely. "It's a good handkerchief, and here are two initials worked in the corner that may tell us something--'G. D.' It probably belongs to some guest at Ardsley. And there's a very faint suggestion of orris--it's a city handkerchief," said Barbara with finality, "but it has suffered a trifle in the laundry, as this edge is the least bit out of drawing from careless ironing." "And I should say, from a certain crispness it still retains, that it hasn't been in the forest long. It hasn't been rained on, at any rate," added Griswold. "But even the handkerchief doesn't tell us anything," said Barbara, spreading it out, "except that some woman visitor has ridden here within a few days and played drop the handkerchief with herself or somebody else to us unknown." "She may have been a scarlet fever patient from Ardsley; you'd better have a care!" And Griswold's tone was bitter. "I'm not afraid; and as I have never been so near Ardsley before, I should like to ride in and steal a glimpse. There's little danger of meeting the lord of the manor, I suppose, or any of his guests at this hour, and we need not go near the house." He saw that she was really curious, and it was not in his heart to refuse her, so they followed the bridle-path through the cool forest, and came in due course to the clearing where Jerry had first confessed herself lost, and thereafter had suffered the captured outlaw to point her the way home. "The timber has been cut here since my last visit, but I remember the bridle-paths very well. They all reach the highroad of the estate ultimately. We may safely take this one, which has been the most used and which climbs a hill that gives a fine outlook." The path he chose had really been beaten into better condition than either of the others, and they rode side by side now. A deer feeding on a grassy slope raised its head and stared at them, and a fox scampered wildly before them. It seemed that they were shut in from all the world, these two, who but a few days before had never seen each other, and it was a relief to him to find that she threw off her troubles and became more animated and cheerful than he had yet seen her. His comments on her mount, which was sorry enough, were amusing; and she paused now and then to peer into the tops of the tallest trees, under the pretense that Appleweight had probably reverted to the primordial and might be found at any minute in one of the branches above them. Her dark green habit, and the soft hat to match, with its little feather thrust into the side, spoke for real usage; and the gauntleted hand that swung lightly at her side inadvertently brushed his own once--and he knew that this must not happen again! When their eyes met it was with frank confidence on her part, and it seemed to him that they were very old friends, and that they had been riding through this forest, or one identical with it, since the world began. It is thus that a man with any imagination feels first about a woman who begins to interest him--that there was never any beginning to their acquaintance that can be reckoned as time and experience are measured, but that he has known her for countless years; and if there be a poetic vein in him, he will indulge in such fancies as that he has seen her as a priestess of Aphrodite in the long ago, dreaming upon the temple steps; or that he has watched her skipping pebbles upon the violet storied sea against a hazy background of cities long crumbled into dust. Such fancies as these are a part of love's gentle madness, and luckier than she knows is the girl who awakens in a lover this eager idealization. If he can turn a verse for her in which she is added to the sacred Nine, personifying all sweet, gentle and gracious things, so much the better. Just what he, on the other hand, may mean to her; just what form of deification he evokes in her, he can never know; for the women who write of such matters have never been those who are sincere or worth heeding, and they never will be, so long as woman's heart remains what it has been from the beginning--far-hidden, and filled with incommunicable secret beliefs and longings, and tremulous with fears that are beyond man's power to understand. Griswold had missed the white rose that he had begun to associate with Barbara, and he grew suddenly daring and spoke of it. "You haven't your rose to-day." "Oh, I'm beyond the source of supply! I have a young friend, a girl, who makes her living as a florist--not a purely commercial enterprise, for she experiments and develops new varieties, and is quite wonderful; and that white rose is her own creation--it is becoming well known. She named it for me, and she sends me at least one every day--she says it's my royalty--if that's what you lawyers call that sort of thing." "We lawyers rarely have anything so interesting as that to apply the word to! So that rose is the Barbara?" and it gave him a feeling of recklessness to find himself speaking her name aloud. "There are large conservatories on the estate, over there somewhere; I might risk the scarlet fever by attacking the gardener and demanding a Barbara for you." "I'm afraid my little flower hasn't attained to the grandeur of Ardsley," she laughed. "But pray, where are we?" They had reached the highroad much sooner than Griswold had expected, and he checked his horse abruptly, remembering that he was _persona non grata_ on this soil. "We must go back; I mustn't be seen here. The workmen are scattered all about the place, and they all know me." "Oh, just a little farther! I want to see the towers of the castle!" If she had asked him to jump into the sea he would not have hesitated; and he was so happy at being with her that his heart sang defiance to Ardmore and the splendors of Ardsley. They were riding now toward the red bungalow, where he had often sprawled on the broad benches and chaffed with Ardmore for hours at a time. Tea was served here sometimes when there were guests at the house; and Griswold wondered just who were included in the party that his quondam friend was entertaining, and how Mrs. Atchison was progressing in her efforts to effect a match between Daisy Waters and her brother. The drives were nearly all open to the public, so that by the letter of the law he was no intruder; but beyond the bungalow he must not go. Sobered by the thought of his breach with Ardmore, he resolved not to pass the bungalow whose red roof was now in sight. "It's like a fairy place, and I feel that there can be no end to it," Barbara was saying. "But it isn't kind to urge you in. We certainly are doing nothing to find Appleweight, and it must be nearly noon." It was just then--he vividly recalls the moment--as Griswold felt in his waistcoat for his watch--that Miss Jerry Dangerfield, with Thomas Ardmore at her side, galloped into view. They were racing madly, like irresponsible children, and bore boisterously down upon the two pilgrims. Jerry and Ardmore, hatless and warm, were pardonably indignant at thus being arrested in their flight, and the master of Ardsley, feeling for once the dignity of his proprietorship, broke out stormily. "I would have you know--I would have you know--" he roared, and then his voice failed him. He stared; he spluttered; he busied himself with his horse, which was dancing in eagerness to resume the race. He quieted the beast, which nevertheless arched and pawed like a war-horse, and then the master of Ardsley bawled: "Grissy! I say, Grissy!" Miss Osborne and Professor Griswold, on their drooping Mingo County nondescripts, made a tame picture before Ardmore and his fair companion on their Ardsley hunters. The daughter of the governor of South Carolina looked upon the daughter of the governor of North Carolina with high disdain, and it need hardly be said that this feeling, as expressed by glacial glances, was evenly reciprocal, and that in the contemptuous upward tilt of two charming chins the nicest judgment would have been necessary to any fair opinion as to which state had the better argument. The associate professor of admiralty was known as a ready debater, and he quickly returned his former friend's salutation, and in much the contumelious tone he would have used in withering an adversary before a jury. "Pardon me, but are you one of the employees here?" "Why, Grissy, old man, don't look at me like that! How did you--" "I owe your master an apology for riding upon his property at a time when pestilence is giving you cause for so much concern. The death-rate from scarlet fever is deplorably high--" "Oh, Grissy!" cried Ardmore. "You have addressed me familiarly, by a nickname sometimes used by intimate friends, though I can't for the life of me recall you. I want you to know that I am here in an official capacity, on an errand for the state of South Carolina." Miss Dangerfield's chin, which had dropped a trifle, pointed again into the blue ether. "You will pardon me," she said, "but an agent of the state of South Carolina is far exceeding his powers when he intrudes upon North Carolina soil." "The state of South Carolina does what it pleases and goes where it likes," declared Miss Barbara Osborne warmly, whereupon Mr. Ardmore, at a glance from his coadjutor, waxed righteously indignant. "It's one thing, sir, for you to ride in here as a sight-seer, but quite another for you to come representing an unfriendly state. You will please choose which view of the matter I shall take, and I shall act accordingly." Griswold's companion spoke to him earnestly in a low tone for a moment, and then Griswold addressed Ardmore incisively. "I don't know what you pretend to be, sir; but it may interest you to know that _I_ am the governor of South Carolina!" "And this gentleman," cried Jerry, pointing to Ardmore with her riding-crop, "though his hair is mussed and his scarf visibly untied, is none other than the governor of North Carolina, and he is not only on his own property, but in the sovereign state of which he is the chief executive." Professor Griswold lifted his hat with the least flourish. "I congratulate the state of North Carolina on having reposed authority in hands so capable. If this young lady is correct, sir, I will serve official notice on you that I have reason to believe that a person named Appleweight, a fugitive from justice, is hiding on your property and in your state, and I now formally demand that you surrender him forthwith." "If I may introduce myself," interposed Jerry, "I will say to you that my name is Geraldine Dangerfield, and that this Appleweight person is now at Mr. Ardmore's house." "I suppose," replied Miss Osborne with gentle irony, "that he has the pink parlor and leads the conversation at table." "You are quite mistaken," replied Ardmore; "but if it would afford you any satisfaction to see the outlaw you may look upon him in my wine cellar, where, only an hour ago, I left him sitting on a case of Chateau Bizet '82. My further intentions touching this scoundrelly South Carolinian I need not now disclose; but I give you warning that the Appleweight issue will soon and forever be terminated and in a manner that will greatly redound to the credit and the glory of the Old North State." Professor Griswold's hand went to his mustache with a gesture that smote Ardmore, for he knew that it hid that inscrutable smile that had always baffled him. "I trust," said Griswold, "that the prisoner, whom we can not for a moment concede to be the real Appleweight, will not be exposed to scarlet fever, pending a settlement of this matter. It is my understanding that the Bizet '82 is a fraudulent vintage that has never been nearer France than Paris, Illinois, and if the prisoner in your cellar drinks of it I shall hold you officially responsible for the consequences. And now, I have the honor to bid you both good morning." He and Barbara swung their horses round and retraced their way, leaving Ardmore and Jerry gazing after them. When the shabby beasts from the stable at Turner Court House had borne Miss Osborne and Griswold out of sight beyond the bungalow, Ardmore turned blankly to Jerry. "Have I gone blind or anything? Unless I'm crazy that was dear old Grissy, but who is that girl?" "That is Miss Barbara Osborne, and I hope she has learned such a lesson that she will not be snippy to me any more, if she _is_ the president-general of the Daughters of the Seminole War." "But where do you suppose she found Grissy?" "I don't know, I'm sure; nor, Mr. Ardmore, do I care." "He said he represented the state of South Carolina--do you suppose the governor has really employed him?" "I do not," said Jerry emphatically; "for he appears intelligent, and intelligence is something that would never appeal to Governor Osborne. It is quite possible," mused Jerry aloud, "that Miss Osborne's father has disappeared like mine, and that she is running his office with Mr. Griswold's aid. If so, we shall probably have some fun before we get through with this." "If that's true we shall have more than fun!" exclaimed Ardmore, thoroughly aroused. "You don't know Grissy. He's the smartest man alive, and if he's running this Appleweight case for Governor Osborne, he'll keep us guessing. Why did I ever send him that scarlet fever telegram, anyhow? He'll fight harder than ever for that and all I wanted was to keep him away until we had got all through with this business here so I could show him what a great man I had been and how I had been equal to an opportunity when it offered." "I wish you to remember, Mr. Ardmore, that you still have _your_ opportunity, and that I expect you to carry this matter through to a safe conclusion and to the honor of the Old North State." "I have no intention of failing, Miss Dangerfield;" and with this they turned and rode slowly back toward the house. Professor Griswold and Miss Osborne were silent until the forest again shut them in. Then, in a sequestered spot, Griswold suddenly threw up his head and laughed long and loud. "It doesn't strike me as being so amusing," remarked Miss Osborne. "They have Appleweight in their wine cellar and I don't see for the life of me how we are going to get him out." "What's funny, Miss Osborne, is Ardy--that he and I should be pitted against each other in a thing of this kind is too utterly ridiculous. Ardy acting as governor of North Carolina beats anything that ever happened on this continent. But how do you suppose he ever met Miss Dangerfield, who certainly is a self-contained young woman?" "The answer to that riddle is so simple," replied Miss Osborne, "that I am amazed that you fail to see it for yourself. Miss Dangerfield is undoubtedly the girl with the winking eye." "Oh, no!" protested Griswold. "I don't hesitate to announce that as a fact. Miss Geraldine Dangerfield, beyond any question, is the young lady whom Mr. Ardmore, your knight errant friend, went forth for to seek. Just how they met we shall perhaps learn later on. But just now it seems rather necessary for us to adopt some plan of action, unless you feel that you do not wish to oppose your friend." "Oppose him! I have got to whip him to the dust if I shake down the very towers of his stronghold! It's well we have the militia on the road. With the state army at our back we can show Tommy Ardmore a few things in state administration that are not dreamed of in his philosophy." "Do you suppose they really have Appleweight?" asked Barbara. "Not for a minute! They told us that story merely to annoy us when they found what we were looking for. That touch about the wine cellar is characteristically Ardmoresque. If they had Appleweight you may be sure they wouldn't keep him on the premises." Whereupon, they rode back to Turner Court House much faster than they had come. CHAPTER XV THE PRISONER IN THE CORN-CRIB Jerry and Ardmore sat at a long table in the commodious Ardsley library, which was a modification of a Gothic chapel. It was on the upper floor, with broad windows that had the effect of bringing the landscape indoors, and the North Carolina sky is, we must concede, a pleasant thing to have at one's elbow. A large accumulation of mail from the governor's office at Raleigh had been forwarded, and Jerry insisted that it must be opened and disposed of in some way. Governor Dangerfield was, it appeared, a subscriber to a clipping bureau, and they had been examining critically a batch of cuttings relating to the New Orleans incident. Most of them were in a frivolous key, playfully reviving the ancient query as to what the governor of North Carolina really said to the governor of South Carolina. Others sought causes for the widely-reported disappearance of the two governors; and still other reports boldly maintained that Governors Dangerfield and Osborne were at their capitals engaged in the duties of their respective offices. "It's a good thing we got hold of Collins" observed Ardmore, putting down a clipping from a New York paper in which the reports of Governor Dangerfield's disappearance were analyzed and tersely dismissed; "for he knows how to write and he's done a splendid picture of your father on his throne attending to business; and his little stingers for Osborne are the work of genius." "There's a certain finish about Mr. Collins' lying that is refreshing," replied Jerry, "and I can not help thinking that he has a brilliant future before him if he enters politics. Nothing pains me more than a careless, ill-considered, silly lie, which is the best that most people can do. But it would be very interesting to know whether Governor Osborne has really disappeared, or just how your friend the Virginia professor has seized the reins of state. Do you suppose he got a jug from somewhere, and met Miss Osborne and--" "Do you think--do you think--she may have--er possibly--closed one eye in his direction?" asked Ardmore dubiously. "Mr. Ardmore"--and Jerry pointed at him with a bronze paper-cutter to make sure of his attention--"Mr. Ardmore, if you ever imply again by act, word or deed that I winked at you I shall never, never speak to you again. I should think that a man with a nice sister like Mrs. Atchison would have a better opinion of women than you seem to have. I never saw you until you came to my father's house to tell me about the jug--and you know I didn't. And as for that Barbara Osborne, while I don't doubt that even in South Carolina a Daughter of the Seminole War might wink at a gentleman in a moment of extreme provocation, I doubt if she did, for she lacks animation, and has no more soul than a gum overshoe." The obvious inconsistency of this pronouncement caused Ardmore to frown in the stress of his thought; and he stared helplessly along the line of the accusing paper-cutter into Jerry's eyes. "Oh, cheer up!" she cried in her despair of him; "and forget it, forget it, forget it! I'll say this to you, Mr. Ardmore, that if I ever winked at you--and I never, never did--I'm sorry I did it! Some time when you haven't so much work on your hands as you have this morning just think that over and let me know where you land. And now, look at these things, please." "What is all this stuff?" he demanded, as she tossed him a pile of papers. "They refer to the application for pardon of a poor man who's going to be hanged for murder to-morrow unless we do something for him; and he has a wife and three little children, and he has never committed any other crime but to break into a smoke-house and steal a side of bacon." "Did he shoot in self-defense, or how was it?" asked Ardmore judicially. "He killed a painless dentist who pulled the wrong tooth," answered Jerry, referring to the papers. "If that's all I don't think we can stand for hanging him. I read a piece against capital punishment in a magazine once and the arguments were very strong. The killing of a dentist should not be a crime anyhow, and if you know how to pardon a man, why let's do it; but we'd better wait until the last minute, and then send telegram to the sheriff to stop the proceedings just before he pulls the string, which makes it most impressive, and gives a better effect." "I believe you are right about it," said Jerry. "There's an old pardon right here in this bundle which we can use. It was made out for another man who stole a horse that afterwards died, which papa said was a mitigating circumstance; but the week before his execution the man escaped from jail before papa could pardon him." "Suppose we don't let them hang anybody while we're running the state," suggested Ardmore; "it's almost as though you murdered a man yourself, and I couldn't tie my neckties afterwards without a guilty feeling. I can't imagine anything more disagreeable than to be hanged. I heard all of _Tristan und Isolde_ once, and I have seen half an Ibsen play, and those were hard things to bear, but I suppose hanging would be just as painful and there would be no supper afterwards to cheer you up." "You shouldn't speak in that tone of _Afterwards_, Mr. Ardmore," said Jerry severely. "It isn't religious. And while we're on the subject of religion, may I ask the really, truly wherefore of Miss Daisy Waters' sudden return to Newport?" and Jerry's tone and manner were carelessly demure. "She went home," replied Ardmore, grinning; "she left Ardsley for two reasons, one of which she stated at the breakfast table and the other she handed me privately." "She said at the breakfast table that she was called home by incipient whooping cough in the household of her brother-in-law's cousin's family." "As she has no brother-in-law, that can not be true. What she said to me privately was that the house party had grown very much larger than Mrs. Atchison had originally planned it, and that I am so busy that so many guests must be a burden." Jerry stroked her cheek reflectively. "I thought Miss Waters wouldn't last long after I asked her if rusty nail water really would remove freckles. My own freckles are exactly seven in number and I am not ashamed of them, but Miss Waters seemed very sensitive on the subject, though I thought her freckles useful in diverting attention from her drugstore hair." "Did you say seven?" inquired Ardmore, gazing eagerly into Jerry's face. "I make it only six, and there's one away over there under your left eye that seems very lonesome, as though it suffered keenly from being so far away from its brothers and sisters on the other side of your nose." "Mr. Ardmore"--and Jerry again indicated the person addressed by pointing with the paper-cutter--"Mr. Ardmore, it is downright impudent of you to talk to me about my appearance in any terms, but when you speak of my face as though it were a map in a geography and of my freckles as though they were county seats, or lakes, or strange places in China, then I must protest with all my strength. If you don't change the subject immediately I shall refuse to pardon this person who killed the painless dentist, and he shall be hanged by the neck till he be dead; and you, Mr. Thomas Ardmore, will be guilty of his murder." The discussion of Miss Jerry Dangerfield's freckles ceased abruptly on the appearance of Big Paul, the forester. "A body of South Carolina militia is marching across country from the south. One of my men heard of it down at Turner Court House last night and rode to where the troops were encamped. He learned that it was a practice march for the militia. There's several companies of infantry, so he reports, and a piece of artillery." "Bully for old Grissy!" exclaimed Ardmore. "They're coming this way, are they, Paul?" And the three bent over the map. "That is the place, sir. They seem to be planning to get around Turner's without stirring up the town. But it would take a good deal to wake up Turner's," laughed the big German. Jerry placed her finger on the state line. "If they dare cross that--if they as much as dare!" "If they dare we shall show them a few things. Take all the men you need, Paul, to watch their movements. That will do." The forester lingered. "You remember that we spoke the other day of the log house on Raccoon Creek, where the Appleweights had driven off our man?" "Yes, Paul. It is where the state line crosses the heavy woods and the farthest outpost, so to speak, on my property. When you cross the little creek, you're in South Carolina. You said some of these Appleweight fellows had been cutting off the timber down there, if I remember rightly." "Yes, sir," replied the forester, twirling his cap awkwardly. "But some of the people on the estate have said--" He broke off in an embarrassment so unlike him that Jerry and Ardmore looked at him curiously. "Well, Paul, what's the matter? If the cabin has been burned down it's no serious matter." "Why, sir; some of the men passing there at night say they see lights and hear sounds in the cabin, though no one from the estate goes there. A child died in the house last spring and--well, you know how some of these people are!" "Ghosts!" cried Ardmore. "The property is growing more valuable all the time! Tell them that whoever captures the ghost and brings it here shall have a handsome present. So far it's only a light in an abandoned house--is that it?" "Well, they say it's very strange," and it was clear that the German was not wholly satisfied to have his employer laugh off the story. "Cheer up, Paul. We have bigger business on hand than the chasing of ghosts just now. When we get through with these other things I'll go over there myself and take a look at the spook." As Paul hurried away, Jerry seized a pen and wrote this message: Rutherford Gillingwater, Adjutant-General, Camp Dangerfield, Azbell, N. C.: Move all available troops by shortest route to Kildare at once and report to me personally at Ardsley. Make no statements to newspapers. Answer. DANGERFIELD, Governor. "I guess that will bring him running," said Ardmore, calling a servant and ordering the message despatched immediately. "But when he comes, expecting to report to the governor and finds that he isn't here, what do you suppose he will do?" "Mr. Ardmore," began Jerry, in the tone of sweet tolerance with which one arraigns a hopeless child, "Mr. Ardmore, there are times when you tax my patience severely. You don't seem to grasp the idea that we are not making explanations to inferiors in our administration. Colonel Gillingwater will undoubtedly be a good deal surprised to get that message, but when the first shock is over he will obey the orders of his commander-in-chief. And the fact that he is ordered to report to Ardsley will not be lost on him, for he will see in that a possible social opportunity, and a chance to wear some of his uniforms that he has never worn before. He will think that papa is really here to test the efficiency of the troops, and that as papa is a guest at Ardsley, which we know he isn't, there will probably be some great social functions in this house, with papa's staff dressed up and all shiny in gold braid. Since Rutherford Gillingwater had the typhoid fever during the Spanish War I have not been sure that he is as much interested in fighting as he is in the purely circus work of being a soldier. I just now recall that when papa was about to order out the troops to stop a railroad strike last spring, Rutherford Gillingwater went to all the trouble of having tonsilitis and was so ill that he could hardly leave his room even after the strike had been settled by arbitration. If he knew that there was likely to be a terrible battle over here instead of nice long dinners and toasts to "The Old North State," "Our Governor," and "The Governor's Daughter," his old wounds, that he never had, might trouble him so that they'd have to wrap him up in cotton and carry him home." Before luncheon a message was received from Gillingwater, to this effect: Governor William Dangerfield, Ardsley, N. C.: En route with our entire available force in the field. I am riding ahead with all speed, and will report at Ardsley at nine o'clock. Is full military dress _de rigueur_? GILLINGWATER, Adjutant-General. "Isn't that just like Rutherford! He's afraid he won't be dressy enough; but if he knew that the South Carolina troops might shoot holes in his uniform he wouldn't be due here for a couple of weeks, instead of at nine o'clock to-night;" and Jerry laughed merrily. They debated more seriously this telegram from Collins at Raleigh sent the previous evening: Can't maintain this bluff much longer. Even the friendly newspapers are growing suspicious. State credit jeopardized by disappearance of Treasurer Foster. Billings, of Bronx Loan and Trust, here in a great fury over bond matter. Do you know governor's whereabouts? "Things are certainly growing more exciting," was Ardmore's comment. "I suppose even a gifted liar like Collins can't muzzle the press forever." "You can't go on fooling all North Carolina all the time, either," said Jerry, "and I suppose when papa gets tired of being scared he will turn up in Raleigh and tell some plausible story about where he has been and what has happened. When it comes to being plausible no one can touch papa." "Maybe he's dead," suggested Ardmore gloomily. "That's a real inspiration on your part, Mr. Ardmore; and it's very sweet of you to mention it, but I have no idea that any harm has come to papa. It's too much trouble to get elected governor, without dying in office, and besides, papa is none too friendly with the lieutenant governor and would never think of allowing such a person to succeed him. But those bonds seem rather serious and I don't like the idea of your Mr. Billings making a fuss at Raleigh." "That will be all right," remarked Ardmore, blotting the last of a number of telegrams which he had been writing, and pressing a button. "It's much more important for us to get Appleweight into a South Carolina jail; and it's not going to be so easy to do, now that Grissy is working on the other side, and angry at me about that scarlet fever telegram." "There may be trouble," said Ardmore to his guests as they sat at luncheon. "But I should hate to have it said that my guests could not be taken care of here perfectly. I beg that you will all remain." "If there's to be a row, why don't you call the police and be done with it?" asked a sad young member of the company. His motor number had so often figured in reports of speed law violations that he was known as Eighteen Eighty. "I thought you came down here for quiet and not to get into trouble, Ardy." "If I miss my steamer nine days from to-day, and meanwhile have to eat horse meat, just as they did in the siege of Paris, I shall be greatly provoked, to say the least," remarked Mrs. Atchison pleasantly; for her brother's amazing awakening delighted her and it was a cheering experience that he promised, of civil war, battle, murder and sudden death. "I think I shall spend more time in America after this," remarked Eighteen Eighty. "I did not know that amusing things ever happened over here. What did you say the name of this state is?" "The name of this state," replied Miss Dangerfield, "is North Carolina, and I have my opinion of any native American who runs around Europe all the time, and who can visit a place in this country without even knowing the name of the state he is in." "But there's really no difference between North and South Carolina, is there?" persisted Eighteen Eighty. Jerry put down her fork, and folded her hands beside her plate, while she addressed the offender. "Mr. Number Something, the difference between the Old North State and South Carolina is not merely geographical--it is also intellectual, ethical and spiritual. But may I ask you whether you know of which state you are a citizen?" A laugh rose as the sad young man flushed and looked inquiringly about. "I voted you in my precinct that time I ran for alderman in New York," said Ardmore, "but that's no sign you had a right to vote there. I shot Ballywinkle through the booth at the same time. I was a reform candidate and needed votes, but I hoped Bally would get arrested and be sent to jail. My impression is that you are really a citizen of Rhode Island, which is where Newport is." The debate as to Eighteen Eighty's legal residence was interrupted by the arrival of a summons for Ardmore, who hurriedly left the table. Big Paul awaited him below, mounted and holding a led-horse. "There's a line of the South Carolina militia crawling through the woods toward Raccoon Creek. They insist that it's a practice skirmish and that they've come over here because the landscape is naturally adapted to their purposes." "It's awfully nice of them to like my scenery. You'd better send your best man out to meet Colonel Gillingwater of the North Carolina militia, and tell him to march all his troops into the estate by the north gates, and to be in a hurry. Tell him--tell him Governor Dangerfield is anxious to have the staff present in full uniform at a grand ball at Ardsley to-night." Ardmore rode off alone toward Raccoon Creek to catch a view of the enemy. How far would Griswold go? This question he kept debating with himself. His late friend was a lawyer and a serious one whom he had not believed capable of seizing the militia of one state and using it to make a military demonstration against another. Ardmore could go as far as Griswold; yet he was puzzled to know why Griswold was in the field at all. Miss Dangerfield's suggestion that Griswold's interest in the daughter of the governor of South Carolina accounted for his presence on the border seemed plausible at first; and yet the more he thought about it the less credible it seemed, for he was sure that Griswold had talked to him about women with the frankness that had characterized all their intercourse, and Ardmore racked his brains in his effort to recall the few affairs to which the associate professor of admiralty had pleaded guilty. Memory brought these back to him slowly. There was an Old Point Comfort affair, dating back to Griswold's student days, and to which he had referred with no little feeling once or twice; and there was a York Harbor affair, that came a little later; and there was the girl he had met on a steamer, about whom Griswold had shown sensitiveness when Ardmore had made bold to twit him. But Ardmore could not account for Miss Osborne, unless his friend had been withholding his confidence while seemingly wholly frank; and the thought that this must be true widened the breach between them. And when he was saying to himself that the daughters of governors are not in the habit of picking up cavaliers and intrusting state affairs to them and that it was almost inconceivable that the conscientious Griswold, at the busiest season at the university, should have taken employment from the governor of South Carolina, he found that he had struck a stone wall, and he confessed to himself that the situation was beyond him. These reflections carried him far toward Raccoon Creek, and when he had reached that tortuous stream he dismounted and tied his horse, the more freely to examine the frontier. The Raccoon is never more than eighty feet wide, but filled with boulders round which the water foams in many curves and splashes, running away in the merriest ripples, so that it is never wholly tranquil. By jumping from boulder to boulder he crossed the turbulent tide and gained the other side with a sense of entering the enemy's country. "Now," he muttered, "I am in South Carolina." He drew out his map and held it against a tree the better to study it, reassuring himself that his own property line embraced several sections of the forest on the south side of the state boundary. "If Grissy shoots me, it will be on my own land," he said aloud. He cautiously followed the stream until, several hundred yards farther on, and overhanging the creek, he came upon the log cabin in which big Paul had reported the presence of a ghost. Paul's story had not interested him particularly, but now that he was in the neighborhood he resolved to visit the cabin and learn if possible how ghosts amuse themselves by day. He had thrust a revolver into his pocket before leaving the house and while he had no idea that ghosts may be shot, he now made sure that the weapon was in good order. As he sat on a log slipping the cylinder through his fingers he heard whistling farther along the creek, followed quickly by the snapping of twigs under a heavy tread, and a moment later a tall, slender man broke into view. The stranger was dressed like a countryman, but he was unmistakably not of the Ardsley force of workmen, for these wore a rough sort of uniform. His hands were thrust carelessly into the side pockets of a gray jeans coat. They were thrust in deep, so that the coat sagged at the pockets. His trousers were turned up from a pair of rough shoes and he wore a gray flannel shirt, the collar of which was guiltless of a tie. He was smooth shaven, and carried in his mouth a short pipe, which he paused to relight when about a dozen yards from Ardmore. Then, as he held the lighted match above the pipe bowl for an instant to make sure his tobacco was burning, Ardmore jumped up and covered him with the pistol. "I beg your pardon," said the master of Ardsley, "but you're my prisoner!" The stranger shook the flame out of the match-stick carefully and threw it away before turning toward his captor. "Young man," he said with perfect self-possession, "don't fool with that gun; it might go off." His drawl was characteristic of the region; his tone was one of amused tolerance. Ardmore was short of stature, and his knickerbockers, leggings and Norfolk jacket were not wholly consonant with the revolver, which, however, he leveled very steadily at the stranger's head. "You are an intruder on my property," said the master of Ardsley, "and unless I'm much mistaken you have been playing ghost in that cabin. I've heard about you. Your gang has been cutting off my timber about long enough, and this game of playing ghost to scare my men won't do." "Stealing your timber?" And the stranger was clearly surprised. He held his pipe in his hand with his thumb over the bowl and seemed to take a more serious interest in his captor. "And now," continued Ardmore, "I'm about tired of having this end of the country run by the Appleweights, and their disreputable gang, so I'm going to lock you up." The stranger turned toward the cabin, one corner of which was plainly visible, and shrugged his shoulders. "I have nothing to do with the Appleweights, and I assure you I am not a timber thief." "Then you must be the one who has lifted a few steers out of my herd. It makes no difference just what branch of the business you are engaged in, for we're picking up all the gang and you've got to come along with me." The captive showed signs of anger for the first time. His face flushed, and he took a step toward Ardmore, who immediately threw up the revolver so that it pointed at the man's head. "Stop right there! We've got old man Appleweight, so you've lost your leader, and I tell you the jig's up. We'll have you all in jail before another twenty-four hours has passed." "I judge from the tone of your remarks that you are Ardmore, the owner of Ardsley. Am I right?" "You are quite right. And you are a member of a disreputable gang of outlaws that has been bringing shame upon the state of North Carolina. Now, I want you to march straight ahead of me. Step lively now!" And Ardmore flourished the pistol menacingly. "March!" [Illustration] The man hesitated, flung up his head defiantly, then moved slowly forward. The flush in his face had deepened and his eyes flashed angrily; but Ardmore, his cap on the back of his head, himself presented a figure so severe, so eloquent of righteous indignation, that the stranger tamely obeyed him. "We will cross the creek right here," he ordered; "it's a pretty jump there from that boulder--there, that was bully! Now right along there over the log--see the trail! Good!" It was warm and the captive was perspiring freely. He moved along docilely, and finding that he manifested no inclination to bolt, Ardmore dropped the revolver to his side, but with his finger on the trigger. He was very proud of himself; for while to Miss Jerry Dangerfield undoubtedly belonged the honor of capturing the thief Appleweight, yet he had single-handed arrested a member of the famous gang, and he had already resolved upon a convenient method of disposing of his prisoner. They paused while Ardmore mounted his horse, silencing the captive, who took the opportunity to break out protestingly against what he termed an infamous outrage upon personal liberty. "You've taken me from one state into another without due process of law," declared the stranger, thinking to impress Ardmore, as that young gentleman settled himself in his saddle. "Go right on now; that's a good fellow," replied the master of Ardsley, lifting the revolver warningly. "Whether it's North Carolina or South Dakota--it doesn't make a particle of difference to me. As I remarked before, it's my property, I tell you, and I do what I please here." "I'll show you whether you do or not," snorted the prisoner, who was trudging along doggedly with the nose of Ardmore's horse occasionally poking his back. They soon reached a field where some laborers were at work, and Ardmore called them to him for instructions. "Boys, this is one of the timber thieves; put him in that corn-crib until I come back for him. The nights are warm; the sky is perfectly clear; and you will kindly see that he does not lack for food." Two of the men jumped forward and seized Ardmore's prisoner, who now broke forth in a torrent of wrath, struggling vigorously in the hands of the sturdy fellows who had laid violent hands on him. "That's right, boys; that's right; easy there! Now in he goes." A series of corn-cribs fringed the field, and into one of these, from which half the corn had been removed, the prisoner was thrust sprawling upon the yellow ears, and when he rose and flung himself round, the door of the corn-crib slammed in his face. He bellowed with rage now, seeing that his imprisonment was a serious matter, and that it seemed likely to be prolonged indefinitely. "They always told me you were a fool," he howled, "but I didn't know that anything as crazy as you are was loose in the world." "Thank you. The head of your gang is much more polite. He's sitting on his case of Chateau Bizet in my wine cellar, playing solitaire." "Appleweight in your wine cellar!" bawled the captive in astonishment. "Certainly. I was afraid to lock him in a room with bath for fear it might give him hydrophobia; but he's perfectly content in the wine cellar." "What are you going to do with him?" "I haven't decided yet just what to do with him, but the scoundrel undoubtedly belongs in South Carolina, and I have every intention of making his own state punish him." The prisoner leaned heavily against his prison door and glared out upon his jailer with a new, fierce interest. "I tell you I've nothing to do with the Appleweights! I don't want to reveal my identity to you, you young beggar; but I demand my legal rights." "My dear sir," retorted Ardmore, "you have no legal rights, for the writ of habeas corpus doesn't go here. You seem rather intelligent for a barn burner and timber thief. Come now, what is your name?" The prisoner gazed down upon the imperturbable figure of his captor through the slats of the corn-crib. Ardmore returned his gaze with his most bland and child-like air. Many people had been driven to the point of madness by Ardmore's apparent dullness. The prisoner realized that he must launch a thunderbolt if he would disturb a self-possession so complete--a tranquillity as sweet as the fading afternoon. "Mr. Ardmore, I dislike to do it, but your amazing conduct makes it necessary for me to disclose my identity," and the man's manner showed real embarrassment. "I knew it; I knew it;" nodded Ardmore, folding his arms across his chest. "You're either the King of Siam or the Prince of Petosky. As either, I salute you!" "No!" roared the captive, beating impotently against the door of the cage with his hands. "No! I'm the governor of South Carolina!" This statement failed, however, to produce the slightest effect on Mr. Ardmore, who only smiled slightly, a smile less incredulous than disdainful. "Oh, pshaw! that's nothing," he replied; "_I'm_ the governor of North Carolina!" and mounting his horse he gravely lifted his hat to the prisoner and galloped away. While Mr. Ardmore was securing his prisoner in the corn-crib it may be interesting to return for a moment to the haunted log cabin on Raccoon Creek, the interior of which was roughly but comfortably furnished. Above were two small sleeping-rooms, and beside the bed in each stood a suit-case and a hand-satchel. In each room hung, on convenient hooks, a long, black frock-coat, a pair of trousers of light cloth, and a broad-brim black felt hat. Coat, trousers and hat were exactly alike. In the room below sat a man in his shirt-sleeves, his feet on a cheap deal table, blowing rings from a cigar. He presented a picture of the greatest ease and contentment, as he occasionally stroked his short brown beard, or threw up his arms and clasped his hands about his head or caught lazily at the smoke rings. On the table lay an array of playing cards and poker chips. "It's too good to last forever," the lone occupant reflected aloud, stifling a yawn, and he reached out, with careless indifference, toward a bundle of newspapers tied together with a piece of twine and drew one out and spread it across his knees. He yawned again as though the thought of a world whose affairs were stamped in printer's ink bored him immensely; and then the bold head-lines that shouted at him across half a quarter of the sheet caused him to gasp, and his feet struck the bare floor of the cabin resoundingly. He now bent over the paper with the greatest eagerness, muttering as he read, and some of his mutterings were, it must be confessed, not without profane embellishment. TWO COWARDLY GOVERNORS MISSING SCANDAL AFFECTING TWO STATE EXECUTIVES IS THE APPLEWEIGHT CASE RESPONSIBLE? RUMORS OF FATAL DUEL ON STATE LINE He read breathlessly the startling story that followed the head-lines, then rose and glanced anxiously at his watch. "Am I drunk or mad? I must find Osborne and get out of this." He leaped to the open door, and gazed into the forest from a little platform that commanded all sides of the cabin. And there, to his utter amazement, he saw men in khaki emerging cautiously from the woods. They were unmistakably soldiers of some sort, for an officer was giving sharp commands, and the line opened out like a fan along the creek. The observer of this maneuver mopped his head with his handkerchief as he watched the alert movements of the figures in khaki. He was so absorbed that he failed to hear stealthy steps at the rear of the platform, but he was now rudely aroused by two uniformed youngsters with S. C. N. G. on their caps, who sprang upon him and bore him with a crash to the puncheon floor. "You're our prisoner!" shouted one of them, rising when he found that the prisoner yielded without resistance. "What for?" blurted the captive, sitting up and rubbing his elbow. "For being Bill Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet. Get up, now, and come with us to headquarters, or my instructions are to break your head." "Who in the devil are you?" panted the prisoner. "Well, if it's anything to you, we're the South Carolina militia, so you'd better get up and climb." CHAPTER XVI THE FLIGHT OF GILLINGWATER "It will be better for me to break the news to Colonel Gillingwater," said Jerry, "and you must go out and meet the troops yourself, with Mr. Cooke and that amusing Mr. Collins. There is no telling what effect my tidings will have on Rutherford, or what he will decide to do. He has never before been so near trouble as he is now, and I may have to give him first aid to the injured when he finds out that the South Carolina troops are on Raccoon Creek, all ready to march upon our sacred soil." "But suppose your adjutant-general shouldn't go back to his troops after he sees you, then what am I to do?" "If you don't see him by ten o'clock you will take personal command and exercise your own discretion as to the best method of landing Appleweight in a South Carolina jail. After that we must find papa, and it will be up to him to satisfy the newspapers and his constituents with some excuse for his strange disappearance." Collins had come from Raleigh on the evening train, and he had solemnly assured Ardmore that the present state of affairs could not be maintained another twenty-four hours. He had exhausted his professional resources, and the North Carolina newspapers of all shades of opinion were clamoring for the truth, and were insisting that, for the honor and dignity of the state, Governor Dangerfield should show himself in Raleigh. Even the metropolitan press, which Collins had filled for several days with blithe stories of the administration's vigorous policy in the Appleweight case, had refused further matter from him. "We've got to find Dangerfield or bust. Now, where is that eminent statesman, Ardmore? You can't tell me you don't know; but if you don't, Miss Dangerfield does, and she's got to tell." "She hasn't the slightest idea, but if the newspapers find out that he's really and truly missing, he will have to show up; but first we've got to take Appleweight off that case of Chateau Bizet and lodge him in the jail at Turner Court House, and let Governor Osborne have the odium of incarcerating the big chief of the border, to whom he is under the greatest political obligations." "But it's all over the country now that Osborne hasn't been seen in Columbia since he and Dangerfield had that row in New Orleans. Cranks are turning up everywhere, pretending to be governors of various states, and old Dangerfield is seen on all the outgoing steamers. There's been nothing like it since the kidnapping of Charley Ross." Ardmore drew on his riding-gloves reflectively, and a delighted grin illuminated his countenance. "I caught a lunatic down on the Raccoon this afternoon who said _he_ was the governor of South Carolina, and I locked him up." "Well, he may be Osborne," remarked Collins, with journalistic suspicion. "And he may be a Swiss admiral or the king of Mars. I guess I'm a governor myself, and I know what a governor looks like and acts like--you can't fool me. I put this impostor where he'll have a chance to study astronomy to-night." "Then he isn't on that case of Chateau Bizet with Appleweight?" "No; I locked him up in a corn-crib until I get time to study his credentials. Come along now!" Ardmore, Collins and Cooke rode rapidly away through the wide gates of the estate along the Sapphire road, over which, by his last bulletin, the adjutant-general of North Carolina was marching his troops. They had left Cooke's men with Paul's foresters to guard the house and to picket the banks of the Raccoon in the immediate neighborhood of the camp of the South Carolinians. "I guess those fellows can hold 'em till morning," said Cooke. "We've got to clean up the whole business by to-morrow night. You can't have two states at war with each other this way without shaking up the universe, and if federal troops come down here to straighten things out it won't be funny." They had ridden about a mile, when Cooke checked his horse with an exclamation. "There's somebody coming like the devil was after him. It must be Gillingwater." They drew rein and waited, the quick patter of hoofs ringing out sharply in the still night. The moonlight gave them a fair sweep of the road, and they at once saw a horseman galloping rapidly toward them. "Lordy, the man's on fire!" gasped Ardmore. "By George, you're right!" muttered Collins, moving nervously in his saddle. "It's a human sunburst." "It's only his gold braid," explained the practical Cooke. "He must have on solid gold armor, then," declared Collins. Seeing three men drawn across the road, the horseman began to check his flight. "Men!" he shouted, as his horse pawed the air with its forefeet, "is this the road to Ardsley?" "Right you are," yelled Cooke, and they were aware of a flash, a glitter that startled and dazzled the eye, and Colonel Rutherford Gillingwater thundered on. Ardmore looked at his watch. "He's undoubtedly a man of action, if I ever saw one; and I think we are to be congratulated on having so gallant a commander for our troops," said the master of Ardsley; but the sight of Rutherford Gillingwater had filled his soul with jealous forebodings. He had heard that women are prone to fall in worship before warriors in their battle armor, and he was sure that Jerry Dangerfield was a girl of infinitely kind heart, who might not, when face to face with the issue, subject the man she had engaged to marry to any severe test. They rode on, however, and saw presently the lights of camp-fires, and a little later were ceremoniously halted at the roadside by an armed guard. It had been arranged that Collins, who had once been a second lieutenant in the Georgia militia, should be presented as an officer of the regular army, detailed as special aide to Governor Dangerfield during the encampment, and that in case Gillingwater failed to return promptly he should take command of the North Carolina forces. An open field had been seized for the night's camp, and the tents already shone white in the moonlight. The three men introduced themselves to the militia officers, and Collins expressed their regret that they had missed the adjutant-general. "Governor Dangerfield wished you to move your force on to Ardsley should we fail to meet Colonel Gillingwater; and you had better strike your tents and be in readiness to advance in case he doesn't personally return with orders." Captain Collins, as he had designated himself, apologized for not being in uniform. "I lost my baggage train," he laughed, "and Governor Dangerfield is so anxious not to miss this opportunity to settle the Appleweight case that I hurried out to meet you with these gentlemen." "Appleweight!" exclaimed the group of officers in amazement. "None other than the great Appleweight!" responded Collins. "The governor has him in his own hands at last, and is going to carry him across the border and into a South Carolina bastile, as a little pleasantry on the governor of South Carolina." "He's had a sudden change of heart if he's captured Appleweight," remarked a major incredulously. "His policy has always been to let old Bill alone." "It's only a ripple of the general reform wave that's sweeping the country," suggested Ardmore cheerfully. "Turn the rascals out; put the rascals in; keep the people hopeful and the jails full. That's the Dangerfield watchword." "Well, I guess Dangerfield knows how to drive the hearse if there's got to be a funeral," observed the quartermaster. "The governor's not a man to ride inside if he can find another corpse." And they all laughed and accepted the situation as promising better diversion than they had expected from the summer maneuvers. The militia officers gave the necessary orders for breaking the half-formed camp, and then turned their attention to the entertainment of their guests. Ardmore kept track of the time, and promptly at ten o'clock Collins rose from the log by the roadside where they had been sitting. "We must obey the governor's orders, gentlemen," said Collins courteously, "and march at once to Ardsley. I, you understand, am only a courier, and your guest for the present." "If you please," asked Cooke, when the line had begun to move forward, "what is that wagon over there?" He pointed to a mule team hitched to a quartermaster's wagon that a negro was driving into position across the rough field. It was piled high with luggage, a pyramid that rose black against the heavens. One of the militia officers, evidently greatly annoyed, bawled to the driver to get back out of the way. "Pardon me," said Collins politely, "but is that your personal baggage, gentlemen?" "That belongs to Colonel Gillingwater," remarked the quartermaster. "The rest of us have a suit-case apiece." "Do you mean," demanded Ardmore, "that the adjutant-general carries all that luggage for himself?" "That is exactly it! But," continued the quartermaster loyally, "you never can tell what will happen when you take the field this way, and our chief is not a man to forget any of the details of military life." "In Washington we all think very highly of Colonel Gillingwater," remarked Collins, with noble condescension, "and in case we should become involved in war he would undoubtedly be called to high rank in the regular establishment." "It's too bad," said Cooke, as the three drew aside and waited for a battery of light artillery to rumble into place behind the infantry, "it's too bad, Collins, that it didn't occur to you to impersonate the president of the French Republic or Emperor William. You'll be my death before we finish this job." "This won't be so funny when Dangerfield gets hold of us," grinned the reporter. "We'd better cheer up all we can now. We're playing with the state of North Carolina as though it were a bean-bag. But what's that over there?" The pyramidal baggage wagon had gained the road behind them, and lingered uncertainly, with the driver asleep and waiting for orders. The conspirators were about to gallop forward to the head of the moving column, when Collins pointed across the abandoned campground to where a horseman, who had evidently made a wide detour of the advancing column, rode madly toward the baggage wagon. "The gentleman's trying to kill his horse, I should judge," murmured Ardmore. "By Jove!" "It's Gillingwater!" chorused the trio. The rider in his haste had overlooked the men in the road. He dashed through the wide opening in the fence, left by the militiamen, took the ditch by the roadside at a leap, wakened the sleeping driver on the wagon with a roar, and himself leaped upon the box and began turning the horses. "What do you think he's doing?" asked Cooke. "He's in a hurry to get back to mother's cooking," replied Ardmore. "He's seen Miss Dangerfield and learned that war is at hand, and he's going to get his clothes out of danger. Lordy! Listen to him slashing the mules!" "But you don't think--" The wagon had swung round, and already was in rapid flight. Collins howled in glee. "Come on! We can't miss a show like this!" "Leave the horses then! There's a hill there that will break his neck. We'd better stop him if we can!" cried Cooke, dismounting. They threw their reins to the driver of the wagon, who had been brushed from his seat by the impatient adjutant-general, and was chanting weirdly to himself at the roadside. The wagon, piled high with trunks and boxes, was dashing forward, Gillingwater belaboring the mules furiously, and, hearing the shouts of strange pursuers, yelling at the team in a voice shrill with fear. "Come on, boys!" shouted Ardmore, thoroughly aroused, "catch the spy and traitor!" The road dipped down into the shadow of a deep cut, where the moon's dim rays but feebly penetrated, and where the flow of springs had softened the surface; but the pursuers were led on by the rumble of the wagon, which swung from side to side perilously, the boxes swinging about noisily and toppling threateningly at the apex. Down the sharp declivity the wagon plunged like a ship bound for the bottom of the sea. The pursuers bent gamely to their task in the rough road, with Cooke slightly in the lead. Suddenly he shouted warningly to the others, as something rose darkly above them like a black cloud, and a trunk fell with a mighty crash only a few feet ahead of them. The top had been shaken off in the fall, and into it head first plunged Ardmore. "There's another coming!" yelled Collins, and a much larger trunk struck and split upon a rock at the roadside. Clothing of many kinds strewed the highway. A pair of trousers, flung fiercely into the air, caught on the limb of a tree, shook free like a banner, and hung there somberly etched against the stars. Ardmore crawled out of the trunk, screaming with delight. The fragrance of toilet water broke freshly upon the air. "It's his ammunition!" bawled Ardmore, rubbing his head where he had struck the edge of a tray. "His scent bottles are smashed, and it's only by the grace of Providence that I haven't cut myself on broken glass." "Thump! Bump!" sounded down the road. "Are those pants up there?" asked Cooke, pointing, "or is it a hole in the sky?" "This," said Collins, picking up a garment from the bush over which it had spread itself, "has every appearance of being his little nightie. How indelicate!" "No," said Ardmore, taking it from him, "it's a kimona of the most expensive silk, which the colonel undoubtedly wears when they get him up at midnight to hear the reports of his scouts." They went down the road, stumbling now and then over a bit of debris from the vanished wagon. "It's like walking on carpet," observed Cooke, picking up a feathered chapeau. "I didn't know there were so many clothes in all the world." They abandoned the idea of farther pursuit on reaching a trunk standing on end, from which a uniform dress-coat drooped sadly. "This is not our trouble; it's his trouble. I guess he's struck a smoother road down there. We'd better go back," said Cooke. "Whom the gods would destroy they first dress in glad rags," piped Collins. They sat down and laughed until the negro approached warily with the horses. "He's lost his raiment, but saved his life," sputtered Collins, climbing into his saddle. "He's lost more than that," remarked Ardmore, and his flushed countenance, noted by the others as he lighted a cigarette, was cheerfuller than they had ever seen it before. In a moment they had climbed the hill and were in hot pursuit of the adjutant-general's abandoned army. CHAPTER XVII ON THE ROAD TO TURNER'S "Who goes there?" "A jug." "What kind of a jug?" "A little brown jug from Kildare." Thus Mr. Thomas Ardmore tested his pickets with a shibboleth of his own devising. The sturdy militiamen of North Carolina patrolled the northern bank of Raccoon Creek at midnight, aware that that riotous flood alone separated them from their foes. The terraces at Ardsley bristled with the guns of the First Light Battery, while, upon a cot in the wine cellar beneath, Mr. Bill Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet, slept the sleep of the just. He was rudely aroused, however, at one o'clock in the morning by Ardmore, Cooke and Collins, and taken out through the kitchen to one of the Ardsley farm wagons. Big Paul held the reins, and four of Cooke's detectives were mounted as escort. Ardmore, Cooke and Collins were to accompany the party as a board of strategy in the movement upon Turner Court House, South Carolina. Appleweight, the terror of the border, blinked at the lanterns that flashed about him in the courtyard. He had been numbed by his imprisonment, and even now he yielded himself docilely to the inevitable. His capture in the first instance at Mount Nebo had been clear enough, and he could have placed his hand on the men who did it if he had been free for a couple of hours. This he had pondered over his solacing solitaire as he sat on the case of Chateau Bizet in the Ardsley wine cellar; but the subsequent events had been altogether too much for him. He had been taken from his original captors by a girl, and while the ignominy of this was not lost on the outlaw, his wits had been unequal to the further fact, which he had no ground for disbelieving, that this captivity within the walls of Ardsley had been due to a daughter of that very governor of North Carolina whom he had counted his friend. Why the girl had interested herself in his seizure and incarceration; why he had been carried to the great house of a New York gentleman whom he had never harmed in the least; and why, more than all, he should have been locked in a room filled with bottles bearing absurd and unintelligible titles, and containing, he had learned by much despairing experiment, liquids that singularly failed to satisfy thirst--these were questions before which Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet, bowed his head helplessly. "The road between Kildare and Turner's is fairly good," announced Cooke, "though we've got to travel four miles to strike it. Griswold evidently thinks that holding the creek is all there is of this business, and he won't find out till morning that we've crawled round his line and placed Appleweight in jail at Turner's where he belongs." "You must have a good story ready for the press, Collins," said Ardmore. "The North Carolina border counties don't want Appleweight injured, and Governor Dangerfield don't want any harm to come to him--you may be sure of that, or Bill would have been doing time long ago. The moral element in the larger cities and the people in Boston and Springfield, Massachusetts, who only hear of Appleweight in the newspapers, want him punished, and we must express to them our righteous indignation that he has been kidnapped and dragged away from our vengeance by the governor of South Carolina, who wants him in his own state merely to protect him. We can come pretty near pleasing everybody if you work it right, Collins. Our manner of handling the matter will do much to increase Governor Dangerfield's popularity with all classes." "Gentlemen, it was very impolite of you not to tell me you were ready to start!" and Jerry came briskly from the side entrance, dressed for the saddle and nibbling a biscuit. "But you are not to go! I thought that was understood!" cried Ardmore. "It may have been understood by you, Mr. Ardmore, but not by me! I should never forgive myself if, after all the trouble I have taken to straighten out this little matter, I should not be in at the finish. Will you kindly get me a horse?" Miss Dangerfield's resolution was not to be shaken, and a few minutes later the party moved out from the courtyard. Cooke rode several hundred yards ahead; then two detectives preceded the wagon, in which Appleweight sat on a cross-seat with two more of Cooke's men on a seat just behind him. He was tied and gagged, and an old derby hat (supplied by Paul) had been clapped upon the side of his head at an angle that gave him a jaunty air belied by his bonds. Though his tongue was silenced, his eyes were at once eloquent of wonderment, resignation and impotent rage. Beside the wagon rode Miss Jerry Dangerfield, alert and contented. Ardmore and Collins were immediately behind her, and she indulged the journalist in some mild chaff from time to time, to his infinite delight, though considerably to Ardmore's distress of heart; for, though no words had passed between him and Jerry as to the disgraceful flight of the adjutant-general, yet the master of Ardsley was in a jealous mood. The moon had left the conspirators to the softer radiance of the stars, but there was sufficient light for Ardmore to mark the gentle lines of Jerry's face, as she lifted it now and then to scan the bright globes above. Paul drove his team at a trot over the smooth road of the estate to a remote and little-used gate on the southern side, but still safely removed from the South Carolina pickets along the Raccoon. "It's all right over there," remarked Collins, jerking his head toward the creek. "The fronting armies are waiting for morning and battle. I suppose that when we send word to Griswold that Appleweight is in a South Carolina jail it will change the scene of operations. It will then be Governor Osborne's painful task to dance between law-and-order sentiment and the loud cursing of his border constituents. The possibilities of this rumpus grow on me, Ardmore." "There is no rumpus, Mr. Collins," said Jerry over her shoulder. "The governor of North Carolina is merely giving expression to his civic pride and virtue." Leaving Ardsley, they followed a dismal stretch of road until they reached the highway that connects Turner's and Kildare. "It's going to be morning pretty soon. We must get the prisoner into Turner's by five o'clock. Trot 'em up, Paul," ordered Cooke. They were all in capital spirits now, with a fairly good road before them, leading straight to Turner's, and with no expectation of any trouble in landing their prisoner safely in jail. A wide publication of the fact that Appleweight had been dragged from North Carolina and locked in a South Carolina jail would have the effect of clearing Governor Dangerfield's skirts of any complicity with the border outlaws, while at the same time making possible a plausible explanation by Governor Dangerfield to the men in the hills of the contemptible conduct of the governor of South Carolina in effecting the arrest of their great chief. They were well into South Carolina territory now, and were jogging on at a sharp trot, when suddenly Cooke turned back and halted the wagon. "There's something coming--wait!" "Maybe Bill's friends are out looking for him," suggested Collins. "Or it may be Grissy," cried Ardmore in sudden alarm. "Your professor is undoubtedly asleep in his camp on the Raccoon," replied Collins contemptuously. "Do not be alarmed, Mr. Ardmore." Cooke impatiently bade them be quiet. "If we're accosted, what shall we say?" he asked. "We'll say," replied Jerry instantly, "that one of the laborers at Ardsley is dead, and that we are taking his remains to his wife's family at Turner's. I shall be his grief-stricken widow." The guards already had Appleweight down on the floor of the wagon, where one of them sat on his feet to make sure he did not create a disturbance. At her own suggestion Jerry dismounted and climbed into the wagon, where she sat on the side board, with her head deeply bowed as though in grief. "Pretty picture of a sorrowing widow," mumbled Collins. Ardmore punched him in the ribs to make him stop laughing. To the quick step of walking horses ahead of them was now added the whisper and creak of leather. "Hello, there!" yelled Cooke, wishing to take the initiative. "Hey-O!" answered a voice, and all was still. "Give us the road; we're taking a body into Turner's to catch the morning train," called Cooke. "Who's dead?" "One of Ardmore's Dutchmen. Shipping the corpse back to Germany." The party ahead of them paused as though debating the case. The north-bound party was a blur in the road. Their horses sniffed and moved restlessly about as their riders conferred. "Give us the road!" shouted Cooke. "We haven't much time to catch our train." "Who did you say was dead?" "Karl Schmidt," returned Paul promptly. Ardmore's heart sank, fearful lest an inspection of the corpse should be proposed. But at this moment a wail, eerie and heart-breaking, rose and fell dismally upon the night. It was Jerry mourning her dead husband, her slight figure swaying back and forth over his body in an abandon of grief. "De poor vidow--she be mit us," called out big Paul, forsaking his usual excellent English for guttural dialect. "Who are _you_ fellows?" demanded Cooke, spurring his horse forward. The horsemen, to his surprise, seemed to draw back, and he heard a voice speak out sharply, followed by a regrouping of the riders at the side of the road. "We been to a dance at Turner's, and air goin' back home to Kildare," came the reply. "That seems all right," whispered Ardmore to Collins. "Thus," muttered Collins, "in the midst of death we are in life," and this, reaching Jerry, caused her to bend over the corpse at her feet as though in a convulsive spasm of sorrow, whereupon, to add color to their story, Paul rumbled off a few consolatory sentences in German. "Give us the road!" commanded Cooke, and without further parley they started ahead, closing about the wagon to diminish, as far as possible, the size of the caravan. Paul kept the horses at a walk, as became their sad errand, and Jerry continued to weep dolorously. They passed the horsemen at a slight rise in the rolling road. The party bound for Turner's moved steadily forward, the horsemen huddled about the wagon, with Jerry's led horse between Ardmore and Collins at the rear. At the top of the knoll hung the returning dancers, well to the left of the road, permitting with due respect the passing of the funeral party. One of the men, Ardmore could have sworn, lifted his hat until the wagon had passed. Then some one called good night, and, looking back, Ardmore saw them--a dozen men, he judged--regain the road and quietly resume their journey toward Kildare. "Pretty peaceable for fellows who've been attending a dance," suggested Collins, craning his neck to look after them. Cooke turned back with the same observation, and seemed troubled. "I was afraid to look too closely at those men. They seemed rather too sober, and I was struck with the fact that they bunched up pretty close, as though they were hiding something." "They were afraid of the corpse," remarked Collins readily. "To meet a dead man on a lonely road at this hour of the morning is enough to sober the most riotous." "One fellow lifted his hat as we passed, and I thought--" "Well, what did you think, Mr. Ardmore?" demanded Cooke impatiently. "Well, it may seem strange, but I thought there was something about that chap that suggested Grissy. It would be like Grissy to lift his hat to a corpse under any circumstances. He has spent a whole lot of time in Paris, and besides, he never forgets his manners." "But suppose it was Griswold," said Cooke, wishing to dispose of the suspicion, "what could he be doing out here? _He_ hasn't Appleweight--we know that; and he has just now missed his chance of ever getting him." They paused to allow Jerry to resume her horse, and one of the detectives joined in the conference to venture his opinion that the men they had passed were in uniform. "They looked like militia to me," and as he was a careful man, Cooke took note of his remark, though he made no comment. "Suppose they were in uniform," said Jerry lightly; "they can do no harm, and as we are now in South Carolina, and they are not our troops, it would not be proper for us to molest them. Let us go on, for Mr. Appleweight's widow is not anxious to miss her train back to the fatherland." "If they were a detail of the enemy's militia, they would have held us up," declared Cooke with finality. But as they moved on toward Turner's, Ardmore was still troubled over what had seemed to him the remarkable Parisian courtesy of the returning reveler who had lifted his hat as the corpse passed. Grissy, he kept saying over and over to himself, was no fool by any manner of means, and he was unable to conjecture why the associate professor of admiralty, known to be detached on special duty for the governor of South Carolina, should be riding to Kildare, unless he contemplated some _coup_ of importance. The stars paled under the growing light of the early summer dawn. Appleweight, with shoulders wearily drooping, contemplated the attending cortege with the gaze of one who sullenly accepts a condition he does not in the least understand. A few early risers saw the strange company enter and proceed to the jail; but before half the community had breakfasted, Bill Appleweight, the outlaw, was securely locked in jail in Turner Court House, the seat of Mingo County, in the state of South Carolina, and the jailer, moreover, was sharing the distinguished captive's thraldom. Collins, at the railway station, was announcing to the world the fact that at the very moment when Governor Dangerfield was about to seize Appleweight and punish him for his crimes, the outlaw had been kidnapped in North Carolina and taken under cover of night to a jail in South Carolina where Governor Osborne might be expected to shield him from serious prosecution with all the power of his high office. CHAPTER XVIII THE BATTLE OF THE RACCOON Mrs. Atchison met the returning adventurers at the door. "Your conduct, Jerry Dangerfield, is beyond words!" she exclaimed, seizing the girl's hands. "And so you really locked that horrid person in a real jail! Well, we shan't miss him! We have been kept up all night by the arrival here of other prisoners--brought in like parcels from the grocer's." "More prisoners!" shouted Ardmore. "Dragged here at an unearthly hour of the morning, and flung into the most impossible places by your soldiers! You can hear them yelling without much trouble from the drawing-room, and we had to give up breakfast because the racket they are making was so annoying." The captain of the battery whose guns frowned upon the terraces came up and saluted. "Mr. Ardmore," he said, "I have been trying for several hours to see Governor Dangerfield, but this lady tells me that he has left Ardsley." "That is quite true; the governor was called away last night on official business, and he will not return for an hour or two. You will kindly state your business to me." The captain was peevish from loss of sleep, and by no means certain that he cared to transact business with Mr. Ardmore. He glanced at Miss Dangerfield, whom he had met often at Raleigh, and the governor's daughter met the situation promptly. "Captain Webb, what prisoners have you taken, and why are they not gagged to prevent this hideous noise?" Seemingly from beneath the ample porte-cochère, where this colloquy occurred, rose yells, groans and curses, and the sound of thumps, as of the impact of human bodies against remote subterranean doors. "They're trying to get loose, Miss Dangerfield, and they refuse to stay tied. The fiercest row is from the fellows we chucked into the coal bins." "It's excellent anthracite, the best I can buy; they ought to be glad it isn't soft coal," replied Ardmore defensively. "Who are they?" "They're newspaper men, and they're most terribly enraged," answered Captain Webb. "We picked them up one at a time in different places on the estate. They say they're down here looking for Governor Dangerfield." Collins grinned his delight. "Oh, perfect hour!" he sang. "We'll keep them until they promise to be good and print what we tell them. The little squeaky voice you hear occasionally--hark!--that's Peck, of the Consolidated Press. He scooped me once on a lynching, and here is where I get even with him." "You have done well, Captain Webb," said Jerry with dignity, "and I shall urge your promotion upon papa at the earliest moment possible. Are these newspaper gentlemen your only prisoners?" "No; we gathered up two other parties, and one of them is in the servants' laundry; the other, a middle-aged person, I lodged in the tower, where he can enjoy the scenery." He pointed to the tower, from which the flag of North Carolina waved gently in the morning breeze. "The prisoner up there made an awful rumpus. He declares he will ruin the whole state of North Carolina for this. Here is his card, which, in a comparatively lucid interval, he gave me to hand you at the earliest possible moment," and Captain Webb placed a visiting card in Ardmore's hands. A smile struggled for possession of Ardmore's countenance, but he regained control of himself promptly, and his face grew severe. He gave the card to Jerry, who handed it to Mrs. Atchison, and that lady laughed merrily. "Your prisoner, Captain Webb, is George P. Billings, secretary of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company of New York. What was he doing when you seized him?" demanded Ardmore. "He was chasing the gentleman who's resting on the anthracite. He chased him and chased him, around a tea-house out here somewhere on the place; and finally this person in the coal hole fell, and they both rolled over together. The gentleman in the coal hole declares that he's Foster, the state treasurer of North Carolina, but his face got so scratched on the shrubbery that he doesn't look in the least like Mr. Foster." "I have sent him witch hazel and court plaster, and we can get a doctor for his wounds, if necessary," said Mrs. Atchison. A sergeant rushed up in hot haste with a demand from Colonel Daubenspeck, of the North Carolina First, to know when Governor Dangerfield could be seen. "The South Carolina pickets have been withdrawn, and our officers want orders from the governor in person," said the messenger. "Then they shall have orders!" roared Ardmore. "If our men dare abandon their outposts--" He turned and rode furiously toward the border, and in his rage he had traversed a thousand yards before he saw that Jerry was close behind him. As they passed the red bungalow the crack of scattering rifle-shots reached them. "Go back! Go back! The war's begun!" cried Ardmore; but, though he quickened the pace of his horse, Jerry clung to his side. "If there's war, and I hope there is, I shall not shrink from the firing line, Mr. Ardmore." As they dashed into their own lines they came upon the regimental officers, seated in comfortable chairs from the red bungalow, calmly engaged in a game of cards. "Great God, men!" blurted Ardmore, "why do you sit here when the state's honor is threatened? Where was that firing?" "You seem rather placid, gentlemen, to say the least," added Jerry, coldly bowing to the officers, who had risen at her approach. "Unless I am greatly mistaken, that is the flag of South Carolina I see flaunted in yonder field." And she pointed with a gauntleted hand to a palmetto flag beyond the creek. "It is, Miss Dangerfield," replied the colonel politely, "and you can see their pickets occasionally, but they have been drawn back from the creek, and I apprehend no immediate advance." "No advance! Who are we to wait for them to offer battle? Who are we to play bridge and wait upon the pleasure of a cowardly enemy?" and Jerry gazed upon the furious Ardmore with admiration, as he roared at the officers, who stood holding their caps deferentially before the daughter of their commander-in-chief. Ardmore, it was clear, they did not take very seriously, a fact which she inwardly resented. "I don't think it would be quite fair," said the colonel mildly, "to force issues to-day." "Not force issues!" yelled Ardmore. "With your brave sons of our Old North State, not force battle! In the name of the constitution, I ask you, why not?" "For the reason," replied the colonel, "that the South Carolina troops ate heavily of green apples last night in an orchard over there by their camp, and they have barely enough men to maintain their pickets this morning. These, you can see, they have withdrawn a considerable distance from the creek." "Then tell me why they have been firing upon our lines? Why have they been permitted to shoot at our helpless and unresisting men if they are not ready for war?" "They were not shooting at our men, Mr. Ardmore. Their pickets are very tired from loss of sleep, and they were trying to keep awake by shooting at a buzzard that hung over a field yonder, where there is, our scouts inform us, a dead calf lying in one of your pastures." "They shall have better meat! Buzzards shall eat the whole state of South Carolina before night! Colonel, I order you to prepare at once to move your troops across that creek." The colonel hesitated. "I regret to say, sir, that we have no pontoons!" "Pontoons! Pontoons! What, by the shade of Napoleon, do you want with pontoons when you have legs? Again, sir, I order you to advance your men!" It was at this crisis that Jerry lifted her chin a trifle and calmly addressed the reluctant colonel. "Colonel Daubenspeck, in my father's name, I order you to throw your troops across the Raccoon!" A moment later the clear notes of the bugle rose above the splash and bubble of the creek. There was no opportunity for a grand onward sweep; it must be a scramble for the southern shore over the rocks and fallen timber in that mad torrent. And the Raccoon is a stream from all time dedicated to noble uses and destined to hold mighty kingdoms in leash. One might well hesitate before crossing this wayward Rubicon. The Mississippi is merely an excuse for appropriations, the Potomac the sporting ground of congressmen and shad. No other known stream is so happily calculated as the foamy Raccoon to delight at once the gods of battle and the gentle sons of song. It marks one of those impatient flings of nature in which, bored with creating orderly, broadly-flowing streams, or varying the landscape with quiet woodlands or meadows, she abandons herself for a moment to madness and, shaking water and rock together as in a dice-box, splashes them out with joyous laughter. Jerry Dangerfield, seated upon her horse on a slight rise under a clump of trees a little way back from the stream, coolly munched a cracker and sipped coffee from a tincup. Ardmore, again calm, now that Daubenspeck had been spurred to action, smoked his pipe and watched the army prepare to advance. Beyond the creek, and somewhat removed from it on the South Carolina side, a rifle cracked, and far against the blue arch a huge, black, languorous object, rising with a last supreme effort, as though to claim refuge of heaven, fell clawing at space with sprawling wings, then collapsed and pitched earthward until the trees on the farther shore hid it from sight. A feeble cheer rose in the distance. "They sound pretty tame over there," remarked Ardmore critically. "There's no ginger in that cheer." "The ginger," suggested Colonel Daubenspeck ironically, "is probably all in their stomachs." One gun from the battery was brought down and placed on a slight eminence to support the advance, for which all was now in readiness. The bugle sang again, and the men of one company sprang forward and began leaping from rock to rock, silently, steadily moving upon the farther shore. Here and there some brown khaki-clad figure slipped and splashed into the stream with a wild confusion of brown leggings; but on they went intrepidly. The captain, leading his men through the torrent, was first to gain the southern shore. He waved his sword, and with a shout his men clambered up the bank and formed in neat alignment. This was hardly accomplished before a uniformed figure dashed from a neighboring blackberry thicket and waved a white handkerchief. He bore something in his hand, which to Ardmore's straining vision seemed to be a small wicker basket. "It's a flag of truce!" exclaimed Colonel Daubenspeck, and a sigh that expressed incontestable relief broke from that officer. "The cowards!" cried Ardmore. "Does that mean they won't fight?" "It means that hostilities must cease until we have permitted the bearer of the flag to carry his message into our lines." The man with the basket was already crossing the creek in charge of a corporal. "I have read somewhere about being careful of the Greeks bearing gifts," said Jerry. "There may be something annoying in that basket." The bearer of the basket gained the North Carolina shore and strode rapidly toward Miss Dangerfield, Ardmore and Colonel Daubenspeck. He handed the trifle of a basket to the colonel, who gazed upon its contents for a moment with unspeakable rage. The color mounted in his neck almost to the point of apoplexy, and his voice bellowed forth an oath so bleak, so fraught with peril to the human race, that Jerry shuddered and turned away her head as from a blast of flame. The colonel cast the wicker basket from him with a force that nearly tore him from his saddle. It struck against a tree, spilling upon the earth six small, hard, bright green apples. "My letter," said the emissary soberly, "is for Mr. Thomas Ardmore, and, unless I am mistaken, you are that gentleman." Ardmore seized a long envelope which the man extended, tore it open, and read: Thomas Ardmore, Esq., Acting Governor of North Carolina, In the Field: SIR--As I understand the present unhappy differences between the states of North and South Carolina, they are due to a reluctance on the part of the governor of North Carolina to take steps toward bringing to proper punishment in North Carolina an outlaw named Appleweight. I have the honor to inform you that that person is now in jail at Kildare, Dilwell County, North Carolina, properly guarded by men who will not flinch. If necessary I will support them with every South Carolinian able to bear arms. This being the case, a _casus belli_ no longer exists, and to prevent the effusion of blood I beg you to cease your hostile demonstrations on our frontier. Our men seized a few prisoners during the night, and I am willing to meet you to arrange an exchange on the terms proper in such cases. I am, sir, your obedient servant, HENRY MAINE GRISWOLD, For the Governor of South Carolina. "The nerve of it! The sublime cheek of it!" exclaimed Ardmore, though the sight of Griswold's well-known handwriting had shaken him for the moment. "As a bluffer your little friend is quite a wonder," was Jerry's only comment when she had read the letter. Ardmore promptly wrote on the back of Griswold's letter this reply: Henry Maine Griswold, Esq., Assistant Professor of Admiralty, Camp Buzzard, S. C.: SIR--Appleweight is under strong guard in the jail at Turner Court House, Mingo County, South Carolina. I shall take pleasure in meeting you at Ardsley at five o'clock this afternoon for the proposed exchange of prisoners. To satisfy your curiosity the man Appleweight will be produced there for your observation and identification. I have the honor, sir, to remain, with high regard and admiration, your obliged and obedient servant, THOMAS ARDMORE, Acting Governor of North Carolina. "Putting 'professor' on that will make him crazy," remarked Ardmore to Jerry. The messenger departed, but recrossed the Raccoon shortly with a formal note agreeing to an armistice until after the meeting proposed at Ardsley. "Colonel Daubenspeck, you may withdraw your men and go into camp until further orders," said Jerry, and the notes of the bugle singing the recall rose sweetly upon the air. "By George," said Ardmore, as he and Jerry rode away, "we'll throw it into old Grissy in a way that will jar the professor. But when it comes to the exchange of prisoners, I must tell the boys to bring up that chap I locked in the corn-crib. I had clean forgotten him." "I don't think you mentioned him, Mr. Ardmore, but I suppose he's one of the Appleweight ruffians." "Undoubtedly," replied Ardmore, whose spirits had never been higher, "though the fellow was not without his pleasant humor. He insisted with great vigor that he is the governor of South Carolina." "I wonder"--and Jerry spoke wistfully--"I wonder where papa is!" "Well, he's not in the corn-crib; be sure of that." "Papa looks every inch the statesman," replied Jerry proudly, "and in his frock-coat no one could ever mistake him for other than the patriot he is." CHAPTER XIX IN THE RED BUNGALOW "What do you think," cried Mrs. Atchison, glowing before Jerry and Ardmore on their return; "we have a new guest!" "In the coal cellar?" inquired her brother. "No, in the blue room adjoining Miss Dangerfield's! And what do you think! It is none other than the daughter of the governor of South Carolina." "Oh, Nellie!" gasped Ardmore. "Why, what's the matter?" demanded Mrs. Atchison. "I had gone in to Turner's to look at that memorial church we're building there, and I learned from the rector that Miss Osborne, with only a maid, was stopping at that wretched hole called the Majestic Hotel. I had met Miss Osborne in Washington last winter, and you may forget, Tommy, that on our mother's side I am a Daughter of the Seminole War, a society of which Miss Osborne is the president-general. I hope Miss Osborne's presence here will not be offensive to you, Miss Dangerfield. She seemed reluctant to come, but I simply would not take no, and I am to send for her at four o'clock." "Miss Osborne's presence is not only agreeable to me, Mrs. Atchison," responded Jerry, "but I shall join you in welcoming her. I have heard that the ancestor through whom Barbara Osborne derives membership in the Daughters of the Seminole War was afterward convicted of robbing an orphan of whose estate he was the trusted executor, and such being the case I feel that the commonest Christian charity demands that I should treat her with the most kindly consideration. I shall gather some roses, with your permission, and have them waiting in her room when she arrives, with my card and compliments." Ardmore had rarely been so busy as during the afternoon. Several more newspaper correspondents were found prowling about the estate, and they were added to the howling mob in the Ardsley cellars. Collins searched them and read their instructions with interest. They were all commissioned to find the lost governors of North and South Carolina; and a number were instructed to investigate a rumor that North Carolina was about to default her bonds through malfeasance of the state treasurer. It was clear from the fact that practically every newspaper in New York had sent its best man to the field that the world waited anxiously for news from the border. "It has all happened very handily for us," said Collins; "we've got the highest-priced newspaper talent in the world right under our hands, and before we turn them loose we'll dictate exactly what history is to know of these dark proceedings. Those fellows couldn't get anything out of either Kildare or Turner's for some time, as Paul's men have cut the wires and Cooke has operators at the railway stations to see that nothing is sent out." "When we've settled with Griswold and proved to him that he's lost out and that the real Mr. Appleweight is in his jail, not ours, we'll have to find Governor Dangerfield and be mighty quick about it," replied Ardmore. "Paul says there's a battery of South Carolina artillery guarding the Dilwell County jail, and that they've fooled the people into thinking they're North Carolina troops, and nobody can get within four blocks of the jail. They must have somebody in jail at Kildare. I don't like the looks of it. I hope those men we left guarding old Appleweight in the Mingo jail know their business. It would be nasty to lose that old chap after all the trouble he's given us." "They'll keep him or eat him, if I know old Cookie." Jerry--a pleasing figure to contemplate in white lawn and blue ribbons--suggested that the meeting take place in the library, as more like an imperial council chamber; but Ardmore warmly dissented from this. A peace should never be signed, he maintained, in so large a house as Ardsley. At Appomattox and in many other cases that he recalled, the opponents met in humble farmhouses. It would be well, however, to have the meeting on the estate, for the property would thus become historic, but it would never do to have it take place in the Ardsley library. "There should be great difficulty in securing pens and paper," Ardmore continued, "and we must decline to accept the swords of our fallen foes." They finally agreed on the red bungalow as convenient and sufficiently modest for the purpose. And so it was arranged. A few minutes before five the flag of North Carolina was hung from the wide veranda of the bungalow. At the door stood an armed militiaman. Colonel Daubenspeck had been invited to be present, and he appeared accompanied by several other officers in full uniform. Word of the meeting place had been sent through the lines to the enemy, and the messenger rode back with Griswold, who was followed quickly by the adjutant-general of South Carolina and half a dozen other officers. The guard saluted as Griswold ran up the steps of the veranda, and at the door Ardmore met him and greeted him formally. At the end of a long table Jerry Dangerfield sat with her arms folded. She wore, as befitting the occasion, a gray riding-dress and a gray felt hat perched a trifle to one side. She bowed coldly to Griswold, whose hand, as he surveyed the room and glanced out at the flag that fluttered in the doorway, went to his mustache with that gesture that Ardmore so greatly disliked; but Griswold again bowed gravely to his adversaries. "Miss Dangerfield, and gentlemen," began Griswold, with an air of addressing a supreme tribunal, "I believe this whole matter depends upon the arrest of one Appleweight, a well-known outlaw of North Carolina--" "I beg your pardon--" It was Jerry who interrupted him, her little fists clenching, a glint of fire in her eyes. "It is for me to ask your pardon, Miss Dangerfield! Let us agree that this person is an unworthy citizen of any state, and proceed. It has been your endeavor to see this man under arrest in South Carolina, thus relieving North Carolina or her chief executive of responsibility for him. We, on our side, have used every effort to lodge Appleweight in jail on your side of the state line. Am I correct?" Jerry nodded affirmatively. "Then, Miss Dangerfield, and gentlemen, I must tell you that you have lost your contention, for Appleweight spent last night in jail at Kildare, and to secure his safe retention there, we generously lent your state a few of our militia to guard him. The proceeding was a trifle irregular, we admit--the least bit _ultra vires_--but the peculiar situation seemed to justify us." "There are not two Bill Appleweights," remarked Colonel Daubenspeck. "I assure you that the real criminal spent last night in jail at Turner Court House, guarded by trustworthy men, and we are able to produce him." "The quickest way to settle this point, Professor Griswold, is by bringing in your man," remarked Ardmore icily. "On the other hand"--and Griswold's tone was confident--"as there is no reason for doubt that we have the real Appleweight, and as we are on your territory and in a measure your guests, it is only fair that you produce the man you believe to be Appleweight, that we may have a look at him first." "Certainly," said Jerry. "Our prisoner does not deny his identity. It gives us pleasure to produce him." At a nod from Colonel Daubenspeck the orderly at the door ran off to where Cooke and the prisoner waited. In the interval there was a general exchange of introductions at the bungalow. The adjutant-general of South Carolina was in a merry mood and began chaffing Ardmore upon the deadly character of apples found in his orchard beyond the Raccoon. "I deeply regret," said Ardmore, rubbing his chin, "that the adjutant-general of North Carolina is suffering from a severe attack of _paralysis agitans_ and will be unable to meet with us." "I deplore the fact," replied the adjutant-general of South Carolina, "for one of our scouts picked up a darky in the highway a while ago who had on a uniform dress-coat with the initials 'R. G.' sewed in the pocket." "If you will return that garment to me, General," said Ardmore, "I will see that it reaches Colonel Gillingwater by special messenger, where, upon his couch of pain, he chafes over his enforced absence from the field of danger." Steps sounded on the veranda and all rose as Cooke appeared in the door, leading his handcuffed prisoner, who stood erect and glared at the company in gloomy silence. "This man," said Ardmore, "we declare to be Bill Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet. I ask you, sir,"--he addressed the prisoner--"to state whether you are not known by one or both of these names?" The man nodded his head and grumbled a reluctant affirmative. "Professor Griswold," Ardmore went on, "the gentleman in charge of the prisoner is Roger Cooke, for many years in the secret service of the United States. He now conducts a private agency and is in my employ. Mr. Cooke, I will ask you whether you identify this man as Appleweight?" "There is no doubt of it whatever. I have known him for years. I once arrested him for moonshining and he served a year in the penitentiary as the result of that arrest. You will pardon me, sir," Cooke continued, addressing Griswold directly, "but this is undoubtedly the man you had yourself captured at Mount Nebo Church two nights ago, but who was taken from you, as you may not know, by Miss Geraldine Dangerfield. She was lost in the woods and came upon the captive much to her own surprise." Griswold lifted his brows in amazement and turned toward Jerry. "If that is the case, Miss Dangerfield, I salute you! I am sorry to confess, however, that I did not myself see the man who was captured by my friends at the church, owing, it appears, to Miss Dangerfield's prompt and daring action, and the regrettable cowardice of my men. I want to say to you, gentlemen, in all frankness, that I am greatly astonished at what you tell me. Our prisoner is about the same height as this man, has the same slight stoop in the shoulders, and the same short beard; but there the resemblance ends." Ardmore was trying not to show too plainly his joy at Griswold's discomfiture. None of the South Carolina officers had ever seen Appleweight, as they lived remote from the scene of his exploits. Habersham's men, who had so signally failed in the descent upon Mount Nebo Church, had taken to the woods on the appearance of the state soldiery along the border, and could not be found to identify the man seized at the house on the creek. Habersham had discreetly declined to support Griswold's venture at the last moment; to do so would, he pleaded, ruin his chances of political preferment in the future; or worse things might, indeed, happen if he countenanced and supported the armed invasion of North Carolina by South Carolina militia. The zealous young militiamen who had captured the stranger in the house on the creek had pronounced the man Appleweight, and their statement had been accepted and emphasized when the man was taken before Griswold, to whom he had stubbornly refused to make any statement whatever. "Now that you can not deny that we have the real Appleweight," began Jerry, "who is, you must remember, a prisoner of the state of South Carolina, and must be returned to the Mingo County jail at once, I think we may as well look at your prisoner, Professor Griswold. He may be one of Mr. Appleweight's associates in business; but as we are interested only in the chief culprit, the identity of the man you hold is of very little interest to us." "If," said Griswold, "he is not Appleweight, the original blown in the bottle--" "Jug, if you please!" interposed Ardmore very seriously. "Then we don't care about him and I shall make you a present of him." "Or," remarked Ardmore, "I might exchange him for a ruffian I captured myself down on the Raccoon. He seemed quite insane, declaring himself to be the governor of South Carolina and I locked him up in a corn-crib for safe keeping." "Any man," said Jerry, lifting her chin slightly, "who would impersonate the governor of South Carolina would, beyond question, be utterly insane and an object of compassion. Professor Griswold, will you please produce your imaginary Appleweight, as at this hour Mrs. Atchison usually serves tea. Let us therefore make haste." One of Griswold's retinue ran off to summon the prisoner, who was guarded by half a dozen soldiers near at hand. The company in the bungalow were all laughing heartily at some sally by the adjutant-general of South Carolina, who insisted upon giving a light note to the proceedings, when hurried footsteps sounded on the veranda and a sergeant appeared in the doorway and saluted. The adjutant-general, annoyed at being interrupted in the telling of a new story, frowned and bade the sergeant produce his prisoner. At once a man was thrust into the room, a tall man, with a short, dark beard and slightly stooping shoulders. The strong light at his back made it difficult for the people grouped about the table to see his face clearly, but the air somehow seemed charged with electricity, and all bent forward, straining for a sight of the captive. As he stood framed in the doorway his face was slowly disclosed to them, and there appeared to be a humorous twinkle in his eyes. Before any one spoke, he broke out in a hearty laugh. Then a cry rose piercingly in the quiet room--a cry of amazement from the lips of Jerry Dangerfield, who had taken a step forward, "Oh, papa!" she cried. "The Governor!" roared Colonel Daubenspeck, leaping across the table. "It's Governor Dangerfield!" shouted half a dozen men in chorus. At this moment Mrs. Atchison and Miss Barbara Osborne stole softly in and ranged themselves at the back of the room. The governor of North Carolina alone seemed to derive any pleasure from the confusion and astonishment caused by his appearance. He crossed to the table and took his daughter's hand. "Jerry, what part do you play in these amateur theatricals?" Jerry rose, thrusting her handkerchief into her sleeve, and her lips trembled slightly, though whether with mirth or some soberer emotion it would be difficult to say. The room at once gave her attention, seeing that she was about to speak. "Papa, before these people I am not ashamed to confess that during your absence from the seat of government I took it upon myself to fill your office to the best of my ability, finding that many important matters were pressing and that you had gone into exile without leaving your address behind. I made Mr. Ardmore, the gentleman on my left in the pearl-gray suit and lavender tie, first private secretary, and then, when occasion required, acting governor, though in reality he did nothing without my entire approval. I am happy to say that nothing has been neglected and your reputation as a great statesman and friend of the people has not suffered at our hands. We arrested Mr. Appleweight, who is standing there by the fireplace, and landed him in the Mingo County jail as a joke on Governor Osborne, and to appease the demands of the press and the Woman's Civic League of Raleigh. The copies of our correspondence on this and other matters will tell you the story more completely. And as for Governor Osborne, I have taught him a lesson in the etiquette that should obtain between governors that he is not likely to forget. You will find that we have not hesitated to grant pardons, and we have filled, in one instance, the office of justice of the peace, made vacant by resignation. The key to your desk, papa, is behind the clock on the mantel in your private room." "Ladies and gentlemen," began the governor of North Carolina, laying a hand upon the table, and with the other seizing the lapel of his rough, brown coat--a pose made familiar by all his photographs--"the jails of North Carolina are more uncomfortable than I had believed them to be, and I have taken a slight cold which compels me to be briefer than this interesting occasion demands. You have witnessed here an exhibition of filial devotion that has, I am sure, touched us all. It is well worth while for me to have suffered arrest and imprisonment to realize the depth of my daughter's love, and the jealousy with which she has safeguarded my private and public honor." He felt for a handkerchief and touched it gently to his eyes; but Collins declared afterward that Governor Dangerfield was exactly like his daughter and that one never could be sure that his mirth was genuine. "I was aware only yesterday, when I saw a newspaper for the first time in a week, that political capital was being made of my absence from Raleigh; and that my dear friend, the governor of South Carolina, also, was being called to account for flinching in the face of imperative duty." "Your friend, Governor?" cried Ardmore, unable to restrain himself. "Certainly, Mr. Ardmore," continued Governor Dangerfield. "That angry parting of ours at New Orleans was all for effect to get space in the newspapers. We had confided to each other that the cares of state had worn us to an intolerable point and that we must have rest. Brother Appleweight had, I confess, given us both a great deal of annoyance, and to be frank, neither Osborne nor I wished to take the initiative in his case. So we resolved to disappear, and go to some quiet place for rest. We outfitted with old clothes and came to the border. Governor Osborne has a farm over there somewhere in Mingo County and we made it our headquarters; but in roaming about we came upon that charming shanty of yours, Mr. Ardmore, down on the Raccoon. The house was deserted, and finding the marks of the official survey running clearly through the timber, we were amused to find that the house was partly in North, partly in South Carolina. The thing touched our fancy. A negro cooked for us--what has become of him I do not know. We cut ourselves off from the mail and telegraph and received no newspapers until a packet came yesterday, and it was only a few minutes after I saw from the head-lines of the _Vidette_ what a row was going on that I realized that strange things may happen when the king goes a-hunting." As he paused, Miss Osborne stepped forward, the men making way for her. "If this be true, Governor Dangerfield, may I ask you, sir, what has become of my father?" Governor Dangerfield smiled. "I regret, Miss Barbara, that I can not answer that question; I must refer it to my daughter." "Miss Osborne," responded Jerry, "while I should be glad, to assist you in recovering your father as a slight return for your having placed mine in the Dilwell County jail and kept him there all night, I regret that I am unable to be of the slightest help to you." The perspiration was beading Ardmore's brow, but he smiled as though in joy at Jerry's readiness. "We have taken a number of prisoners," said Ardmore, meeting the governor's glance, "and while I do not think Governor Osborne can possibly be of the number, yet I shall be glad to produce them all. There's a person in the corn-crib a little way across country whom I captured myself. I believe he's now tied to a mulberry tree a little way down the road, as he pretended to be the governor of South Carolina and I feared that he might do himself some harm." Before he ceased speaking big Paul strode in, an angry and crestfallen man following at his heels. "Oh, father!" It was Barbara Osborne's voice; but whatever of anger or joy there may have been in her words and tone was lost in the shout of laughter that broke from Governor Dangerfield. The governor of South Carolina was in no such high humor. He sputtered, swore, stamped his foot and struck the table with his clenched hand as he demanded to know the meaning of the outrageous indignity to which he had been subjected. The more his friend stormed the more Governor Dangerfield roared with laughter, but when he could control himself he laid an arresting arm on Governor Osborne's shoulder, and spoke to Barbara. "Barbara, may I ask whether you, like my own Jerry, have been protecting your father's fair name during his absence; and does that account for my night spent in the jail at Kildare? If so--" Governor Dangerfield's laughter got the better of him, but Barbara, with dignity, turned to her father. "It is quite true, that finding your absence occasioning serious remark, while your attorney-general took advantage of your absence to annoy me in a most cowardly fashion, with the kind help of Professor Griswold, I did all in my power to thwart your enemies, and to show the people of South Carolina that you were not a man to evade the responsibilities of your office. As to the details of these matters I prefer, father, to speak to you in private." "Professor Griswold?" repeated Governor Osborne haughtily. "I believe I have not the honor of the gentleman's acquaintance;" whereupon, to ease the situation, Ardmore presented his old friend. "Governor Osborne, allow me to present Professor Henry Maine Griswold, associate professor of admiralty in the University of Virginia, and the author of--" "Griswold?" The anger slowly left Governor Osborne's face. "Do I understand that you belong to the Virginia tide-water family of that name? Then, sir, without hesitation I offer you my hand." "Osborne," cried Governor Dangerfield, "we have every reason to be proud of our daughters. They have done their best for us; and they seem to have acted wisely in accepting aid from these gentlemen; and now, what is to be done with Bill Appleweight." "We have with us that requisition you left on your desk," exclaimed Barbara, turning to her father. "I'm afraid that won't help," laughed Governor Osborne, "that requisition, Barbara, is purely Pickwickian in character." "The disposition of Appleweight," said Cooke, "is a matter of delicacy for both of you gentlemen, and you will pardon me for thrusting myself forward, but that this affair may end happily for all, neither North nor South Carolina should bear the burden of prosecuting a man to whom--we may say it as between friends here--the governors of both states are under some trifling obligations." The governor of North Carolina exchanged a glance and a nod with the governor of South Carolina. "Therefore," resumed Cooke, "we must hit upon a plan of action that will eliminate both states from the controversy. I will, with your permission, turn Appleweight over to the United States revenue officers who are even now in this neighborhood looking for him." "No!" cried Jerry. "We shall do nothing of the kind! I met Mr. Appleweight under peculiar circumstances, but I must say that I formed a high opinion of his chivalry and I beg that we allow him to take a little trip somewhere until the Woman's Civic League of Raleigh and the carping Massachusetts press have found other business, and he can return in peace to his home." "That," said Governor Osborne, "meets my approval." "And I," Ardmore added, "will give him my private caboose in which to cruise the larger Canadian cities." Two more prisoners were now brought in. "Governor Dangerfield," continued Ardmore, "here is your state treasurer, who had sought to injure you by defaulting the state bonds due to-day, which is the first of June. And that frowsy person with Mr. Foster is Secretary Billings, of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, who has treated me at times with the greatest injustice and condescension. Whether Treasurer Foster has the money with which to meet those bonds I do not know; but I do know that I have to-day paid them in full through the Buckhaw National Bank of Raleigh." Colonel Daubenspeck leaped to his feet and swung his cap. He proposed three cheers for Jerry Dangerfield; and three more for Barbara Osborne; and then the two governors were cheered three times three; and when the bungalow had ceased to ring, it was seen that Ardmore and Griswold were in each other's arms. "Surely, by this time," said Mrs. Atchison, "you have adjusted enough of these weighty matters for one day, and I beg that you will all dine with us at Ardsley to-night at eight o'clock, where my brother and I will endeavor to mark in appropriate fashion the signing of peace between your neighboring kingdoms." "For Governor Osborne and myself I accept, madam," replied Governor Dangerfield, "providing the flowing frock-coats, which are the vesture and symbol of our respective offices, are still in the log house on the Raccoon where I became a prisoner." CHAPTER XX ROS� MUNDI Mrs. Atchison and Ardmore had given their last touches to the preparations for the dinner. Every window of the great house shone and a myriad of lanterns illuminated the lawns and terraces. The flags of North and South Carolina were everywhere entwined; nor were the stars and stripes neglected. They surveyed the long table in the dining-room, where gold and silver and crystal were bright upon the snowy napery. "The matter of precedence is serious, Tommy," urged Mrs. Atchison. "I can not for the life of me remember what two monarchs do about entering a room at the same time." "Nor do I, Nellie," said Ardmore; "unless they sprint for the door and the one who gets through first takes the head of the table. Still, that would be undignified, particularly if the kings were old and fat, and if they bumped going through the door and took a header it would jar the divine right." "Here in democratic America," said Griswold, joining them, "there can be no such preposterous idea of precedence." "I should think better of that notion, Professor Griswold," laughed Mrs. Atchison, "if I had never seen the goats carefully shepherded to keep them away from the lambs at functions in Washington. Democracy may be a political triumph, but it is certainly deficient socially. Personally I have always wished to bring myself in touch with the poor. Ardy is quite right that our own kind are distinctly uninteresting." "You ought to remember, Nellie, that your idea of going slumming in a purple coupé and dressed up in your best rags is not well calculated to inspire confidence and affection among the submerged. But how to handle two governors has me fussed. You are the hostess, and it's for you to decide which excellency shall take you in. I see no way out but to match for it." "That will be unnecessary," said Mrs. Atchison, "for the doors and the hall are broad enough for a dozen governors to march in abreast." "That would never do, Nellie! You don't understand these things. You can't hitch up a brace of American governors in a team and drive them like a pair of horses. At least, speaking for the Old North State, I will say that we can never consent to any such compromise." "And I, speaking for the great Palmetto Commonwealth, not less emphatically reject the idea!" declared Griswold. "Then," said Mrs. Atchison, "there is only one possible solution. When the rest of us have entered the dining-room and taken our places, a bugle will sound; the governor of North Carolina shall enter from the north door; the governor of South Carolina from the south door, and advance to seats facing each other midway of the table. Professor Griswold, you are an old friend of the family, and you shall yourself take me in to dinner." The members of Mrs. Atchison's house party, well distributed among the official guests, were still somewhat at a loss to know what had happened, but it seemed to be in the air that Tommy Ardmore had at last done something, though just what was not wholly clear. It was sufficiently obvious, however, that the little girl with blue eyes who had the drollest possible way of talking, and whom one never seemed able to take off guard, had seized strong hold upon the master of Ardsley; and she, on her part, treated him with the most provoking condescension. It was agreed by all that Miss Osborne was distinguished and lovely and that Professor Griswold did not seem out of place at her side. The talk grew general after the first restraint was over, and Mrs. Atchison dropped just the right word here and there to keep the ball rolling. Governor Osborne had generously forgotten and forgiven his painful incarceration in the corn-crib, and he and Governor Dangerfield vied with each other in avowing their determination to live up to the high standards that had been set for them by their daughters. Both governors had at almost the same moment turned down their glasses. It even seemed that they had been drilled in the part, so dexterous were they in reversing them, so nimbly did they put from them the hope of wine. The members of the house-party noted this act of the two governors with well-bred surprise; and Ardmore was grieved, feeling that in some measure the illustrious guests were criticizing his hospitality. The butler at this moment spoke to him, and much relieved he smiled and nodded. A moment later two jugs, two little brown jugs, were carried in, and one was placed quietly in front of each governor at precisely the same moment. Expectation was instantly a-tiptoe. "Gentlemen," said Ardmore, addressing the governors, "these jugs have just been left at the house by our old friend, Mr. Bill Appleweight, _alias_ Poteet, with his compliments, for the governors of the two greatest states in the Union. I note that there's a bit of pink calico around the stopper of Governor Dangerfield's jug, while Governor Osborne's is garnished with blue and white gingham." Governor Osborne rose. "In politics," he began, resting his hand gently on the jug, "it would be a fine thing if we could all live up to our noblest ideals, but unfortunately we must be all things to all men. What I have here is not merely the testimonial of a valued constituent, but something much subtler than that, ladies and gentlemen--a delicate proof that those of us who would command the good-will and suffrages of the people must keep a careful eye on the weather-vane. This jug, which you probably all believe contains the rude product of some hidden still, is as equivocal as a political platform. I will illustrate my meaning." All eyes were bent upon the governor of South Carolina as he picked up the jug, twisted the cob stopper for a moment, and then poured into a tumbler which the butler placed for him, a clear white fluid; then, turning the stopper slightly, he poured into another glass a thick milk-like liquid. "When among my constituents I almost invariably call for a gourd for drinking purposes in preference to a tumbler; but in this company I shall abandon a custom of the plain people and yield to the habits of the sons of Mammon. I am here, I take it, once more in my official capacity as governor of South Carolina, and as I am not one to offend the best sentiments of my people, I pledge you, my friends, not in the untaxed corn whisky of Appleweight's private still, but in the excellent and foamy buttermilk of Mrs. Appleweight's homely churn." As he concluded, Governor Dangerfield rose and performed exactly the same solemn rite with the jug before him, pouring whisky into one glass, buttermilk into the other, and leaning across the table he touched his tumbler of buttermilk to that extended by Governor Osborne. When the applause that greeted this exchange of courtesies had subsided, Governor Dangerfield was still standing, and in a quiet conversational tone, and with a manner engagingly frank, he said: "Before it seemed expedient to follow the reform bandwagon, I held certain principles touching the drinking habit. But the American bar has destroyed drinking as a fine art, and it has now become a vulgar habit. In the good old times no gentleman ever jumped at his liquor. He took it with a casual air, even with a sanctifying reluctance. The idea of rushing into a public place and gulping your liquor is repugnant to the most primary of the instincts that govern gentlemen. To precipitate a gill of applejack into that most delicate organism, the human stomach, without the slightest warning, is an insult to the human body,--ay, more, it is an outrage upon man's very soul. The aim of liquor, ladies and gentlemen, is to stay and lift the spirit, not to degrade it. Drinking at proper intervals ceased to be respectable at a fixed date in human progress--to be exact, at the moment when it was no longer a mere incident of personal or social recreation but had become a sociological and political issue, staggering drunkenly under a weary burden of most painful statistics." "You are eminently right, Governor Dangerfield," said the governor of South Carolina, helping himself to the salted almonds; "but you have used a phrase which piques my curiosity. Will you kindly enlighten us as to how you interpret proper intervals?" "With greatest pleasure," responded Governor Dangerfield. "I remember, as though it were yesterday, my venerable grandfather saying that no gentleman should ever approach the sideboard oftener than once before breakfast, and he was himself a very early riser. I discount this, however, because he always slept with a jug of Cuban rum--the annual offering of a West Indian friend--easily within his reach at the head of his bed. It was his practice for years to sip a little rum and water while he shaved. He was a gentleman if ever I knew one and as I look upon him as a standard authority in all matters of deportment and morals, I may safely cite him further in answer to your question. "During the long open season in our country my grandfather constantly rode over the plantation in immaculate white duck followed by a darky on a mule carrying a basket. On our ancestral estate there were many springs giving the purest and coldest of water, and these were providentially scattered at the most convenient intervals for my grandfather's comfort. And as a slight return to nature for what she had done for him in this particular, my grandfather, in his early youth, had planted mint around all these springs. I need hardly point out the advantages of this happiest of combinations--a spring of clear, icy water; the pungent bouquet of lush mint; the ample basket home by a faithful negro, and my grandfather, in his white duck suit and a Panama hat a yard wide, seated by the mossy spring, selecting with the most delicate care the worthiest of the fragrant leaves. "Now"--and Governor Dangerfield smiled--"I can see that you are all busy guessing at the number of stops made by my grandfather in the course of a day, and I hasten to satisfy your curiosity. My grandfather always started out at six o'clock in the morning, and the springs were so arranged that he had to make six stops before noon, and four in the afternoon; but at five o'clock, when he reached home all fagged out by a hard day's work and sorely needing refreshment, a pitcher of cherry bounce was waiting for him on the west gallery of the house. After that he took nothing but a night-cap on retiring for the night. To my friend, the governor of South Carolina, I need offer no apologies for my grandfather, once a senator in Congress, and a man distinguished for his sobriety and probity. He was an upright man and a gentleman, and died at ninety-two, full of years and honors, and complaining, almost with his last breath, of a distressing dusty feeling in the throat." When, as time passed, it seemed that every one had told a story or made a speech, it was Ardmore's inspiration that Griswold should sing a song. The associate professor of admiralty in the University of Virginia had already pledged the loyalty of his state to her neighbors and twin sisters, the Carolinas, and Barbara, who wore a great bunch of her own white roses, had listened to him with a new respect and interest, for he spoke well, with the special grace of speech that men of his state have, and with little turns of humor that kept the table bubbling merrily. "I shall comply with your request, my friends, if you can bear with the poor voice of one long out of tune, and if our host still has in the house a certain ancient guitar I remember from old times. But I must impose one condition, that I shall not again in this place be called by my academic title. I have known wars and the shock of battle along the Raccoon"--here his hand went to his lips in the gesture that had so often distressed Ardmore--"and I have known briefly the joy of a military title. Miss Osborne conferred on me in an emergency the noble title of major, and by it I demand hereafter to be known." The governor of South Carolina was promptly upon his feet. "Henry Maine Griswold," he said in his most official manner, "I hereby appoint you a major on my staff with all the rights, privileges and embarrassments thereunto belonging, and you shall to-morrow attend me personally in my inspection of our troops in the field." As the guitar was placed in Griswold's hands, Ardmore caused all the lights to be turned out save those on the table. In the soft candle-glow Ardmore bent his face upon Jerry, who had been merrily chaffing him at intervals, but who feigned at other times an utter ignorance of his presence on earth. As Griswold's voice rose in the mellow dusk it seemed to Ardmore that the song spoke things he could not, like his friend, put into utterance, and something fine and sweet and hallowed--that sweet sabbath of the soul that comes with first love--possessed him, and he ceased looking at Jerry, but bent his head and was lost in dreams. For the song and the voice were both beyond what the company had expected. It was an old air that Griswold sang, and it gave charm to his words, which were those of a man who loves deeply and who dares speak them to the woman he loves. They rose and fell in happy cadences, and every word rang clear. In the longer lines of the song there was a quickening of time that carried the sense of passion, and Griswold lifted his head when he uttered them and let them cry out of him. One of Barbara's white roses had fallen into her lap and she played with it idly; but after the first verse it slipped from her fingers and she folded her arms on the table and bent her gaze on the quiet flame of the candle before her. And this was the song that Griswold sang: Fair winds and golden suns Down the year's dim aisles of gray depart; But you are the dear white rose of the world That I hide in my heart. Last leaves, and the first wild snow, And the earth through an iron void is whirled; But safe from the tempest abide in my heart, O dear white rose of the world! Blithe air and flashing wing, And awakened sap that thrills and flows; But hid from the riot, and haste of the spring Sleeps one white rose. O scattered leaves of days! O low-voiced glories that fade and depart! But changeless and dear through the changing year Blooms one white rose in my heart. The last words hung tremulously, tenderly, on the air, and left a spell upon the company that no one seemed anxious to break; then there was long applause and cries of encore; but Ardmore, who knew that his friend had been greatly moved, drew attention away from him to Collins, who had just entered the room. The correspondent had been called away shortly before from the table, and he wore the serious air of one heavy with news. "I beg to report that I have just completed a treaty with the journalists assembled in the cellar." "I hope, Mr. Collins, that the journalists' convention below stairs realized that the lobster we sent them for supper was not canned, and that the mushrooms were creamed for their refreshment by Mrs. Atchison's special command. It is not for us to trifle with the dignity of the press," said Jerry. "The reputations of two governors and of two states are in their hands," said the governor of South Carolina, with feeling. "It would be a distressing end of my public services if the truth of all these matters should be known. The fact that Governor Dangerfield and I had merely withdrawn from public life for a little quiet poker in the country would sound like the grossest immorality to my exacting constituency." "Both yourself and Governor Dangerfield will be relieved to know that they have accepted my terms and all is well," responded Collins. "They will tell the waiting world that you have both been the guests of Mr. Ardmore, and that the troops assembled on the Raccoon are merely at their usual summer maneuvers. As for Appleweight, it has seemed expedient that he should be dead, and the man who has been called by that name of late is only an impostor seeking a little cheap notoriety. The boys are very sick of the cellar, and they would do even more than this to get away." "Mr. Collins," said Governor Dangerfield, rising, "your great merits shall not go unrewarded. I have carelessly neglected to appoint a delegate from North Carolina to the annual conference of the Supreme Lodge of the Society of American Liars shortly to meet at Lake Placid, New York. As a slight testimonial of my confidence and admiration, I hereby appoint you to represent the Old North State at that meeting, and your expenses shall be paid from the public purse." "The boys wish to see your excellencies before they leave," said Collins when he had acknowledged the governor's compliment; and as he spoke the sound of great cheering broke through the windows, and Mrs. Atchison promptly rose and led the way to the broad terraces which were now gay with colored lanterns. "Speech! Speech!" cried the corps of correspondents. Then Ardmore seized Governor Osborne's hand and led him forward to the balustrade; but before the governor of South Carolina could speak the group of newspaper men began chanting, in the manner of a college antiphonal: What did he say to you? What did he say to you? _What did who say?_ What did the governor of North Carolina SAY To the governor of South Carolina? "Gentlemen," began Governor Osborne, speaking with great deliberation, "I am profoundly touched by the cordiality of your greeting. (Applause.) Amid the perplexities of my official life I am deeply sensible always of the consideration and generosity of our free and untrammeled American press. (Cheers.) Without your support and approval, my best aims, my sincerest endeavors in behalf of the people, must fall short and fail of their purpose. (A voice: You're dead right about that.) I am proud of this opportunity to greet this most complimentary delegation of men distinguished in the noble profession of which Greeley, Raymond and Dana were the high ornaments. (Cheers.) I look into your upturned faces as into the faces of old friends. But I dare not--(A voice: Oh, don't be afraid, Governor!)--I dare not take too personally this expression of your good-will. It is not myself but the great state of South Carolina that you honor, and on behalf of mine own people, who have always stood sturdily for the great principles of the constitution; (Cheers) who have failed in no hour of the country's need, but have tilled their fields in peace and defended them in the dark days of war, I thank you, my friends, with all my heart, again and again." (Applause and cheers.) What did you say to him? What did you say to him? _What did who say?_ What did the governor of North Carolina SAY To the governor of South Carolina? "On an occasion so purely social as this," began Governor Dangerfield, balancing himself lightly upon the balustrade, "it would be most indelicate for me to discuss any of the great issues of the day. (A voice: Oh, I don't know!) I indorse, with all the strength of my being, and with all the sincerity of which my heart is capable, the stirring tribute paid to your noble profession by my friend, known far and near, and justly known, as the great reform governor of South Carolina. (Cheers.) I am proud that the American press is incorruptible. (Cheers.) Great commercial nation though we be, the American newspaper--the American newspaper, I say, is one thing that is never for sale. (Applause and cheers.) The temptation is strong upon me to take advantage of this gathering of representative journalists to speak--not of the fathers of the constitution, not of Jefferson or Jackson, but of living men and living issues (Cheers and cries of Let 'er go!); but the hour is late (A voice: Oh, not on Broadway, William!) and, to repeat, it would be the height of impropriety--a betrayal of the bountiful hospitality we have all enjoyed (A voice: Our lobster was all right. Another voice, with ironical inflection; _This_ lobster is all right!), a betrayal, I say, of hospitality for me to do more, gentlemen, than to thank you, and to say that in your strong hands the liberties of the people are safe indeed." (Prolonged cheering.) As the correspondents marched away to take the special train provided for them at Kildare by Ardmore, they continued to cheer, and they were still demanding, as long as their cries could be heard at Ardsley: What did he say to him? What did he say to him? _What did who say?_ What did the governor of North Carolina SAY To the governor of South Carolina? With a sigh Ardmore left them at the great gates of Ardsley and returned to the house to find Jerry; but that young woman was the center of a wide circle of admiring militia officers, and the master of Ardsley was so depressed by the spectacle that he sought a dim corner of the grounds where there was a stone bench by a fountain, and there, to his confusion, he beheld Miss Barbara Osborne and Henry Maine Griswold; and Miss Osborne, it seemed, was in the act of fastening a white rose in Professor Griswold's coat. CHAPTER XXI GOOD-BY TO JERRY DANGERFIELD The next morning Ardmore knocked at Griswold's door as early as he dared, and went in and talked to his friend in their old intimate fashion. The associate professor of admiralty was shaving himself with care. "You won't have any hard feelings about that scarlet fever business, will you, Grissy? It was downright selfish of me to want to keep the thing to myself, but I thought it would be fun to go ahead and carry it through and then show you how well I pulled it off." "Don't ever refer to it again, if you love me," spluttered Griswold amiably, as he washed off the lather. "I, too, have ruled over a kingdom, and I have seen history in the making, _quorum pars magna fui_." "But I say, Grissy, there is such a thing as fate and destiny and all that after all; don't you believe it?" "Don't I believe it! I know it!" thundered Griswold, reaching for a towel. He lifted a white rose from a glass of water where it had spent the night and regarded it tenderly. "The right rose under the right star, and the thing's done; the rose, the star and the girl,--the combination simply can't be beat, Ardy." Ardmore seized and wrung his friend's hand, for the twentieth time; but he was preoccupied, and Griswold, fastening his collar at the mirror, hummed softly the couplet: With the winking eye For my battle-cry. "Grissy!" shouted Ardmore, "she never did it!" "Oh--bless my soul, what was I saying! Why, of course she wasn't the one! Not Miss Dangerfield--never!" "Well, you like her, don't you?" demanded Ardmore petulantly. "Of course I like her, you idiot! She's wonderful. She's--" He frowned upon the scarf he had chosen with much care, snapped it to shake the wrinkles out, humming softly, while Ardmore glared at him. "She's wise," Griswold resumed, "with the wisdom of laughter--accept that, with my compliments. It's not often I do so well before breakfast. And now if you're to be congratulated before I go back to the groves of Academe pray bestir yourself. At this very moment I have an engagement to walk with a lady before breakfast--thanks, yes, that's my coat. Good-by!" Breakfast was a lingering affair at Ardsley that morning. The two governors and the national guard officers who had spent the night in the house were not in the slightest hurry to break up the party, for such a company, they all knew, could hardly be assembled again. The governors were a trifle nervous as to the attitude of the press, in spite of Collins' efforts to dictate what history should say of the affair on the Raccoon; but before they left the table the Raleigh morning papers were brought in and it was clear that the newspaper men were keeping their contract. "I congratulate you, Dangerfield," said Governor Osborne. "I only hope that the Columbia and Charleston papers have done half as well by me." Both governors had decided upon an inspection of such portions of their militia as were assembled on the Raccoon, and a joint dress parade was appointed for six o'clock. Ardmore, anxious to make every one at home, saw the morning pass without a chance to speak to Jerry; and when he was free shortly before noon he was chagrined to find that she had gone for a ride over the estate with her father, Governor Osborne, Barbara and Griswold. He went in pursuit, and to his delight found her presently sitting alone on a log by the Raccoon, having dismounted, it appeared, to rescue a fledgling robin whose cries had led her away from her companions. She pointed out the nest and directed him to climb the tree and restore the bird. This done he sat down beside her at a point where the Raccoon curved sweepingly and swung off abruptly into a new course. "I hope your father didn't scold you for anything we did," he began meekly. "No; he took it all pretty well, and promised that if I wouldn't tell mama what he had been doing--about coming down here with Governor Osborne just to settle an old score at poker--mama doesn't approve of cards, you know--that he would make me a present of a better riding horse than the one I now have, and he might even consider a trip abroad next summer." "Oh, you mustn't go abroad! It's--it's so lonesome abroad!" "How perfectly ridiculous! Has it never occurred to you that I am never lonesome, not even when I'm alone." "Well," said Ardmore, who saw that he was headed for a blind alley, "I'm glad your father was not displeased with our work." "He'll think we did pretty well after he's read our correspondence in his letter books. I told him the stamp we stamped his name with worked better with the red ink pad than with the black one, which ought, at any rate, to be clear enough to a man of papa's intelligence." "Did you tell him about that railroad lawyer from New York who wanted to suppress the law which compels all locomotive whistles to be tuned to E flat?" "No; that man sent me a ten-pound box of candy, which was highly improper, considering papa's position, and I should have scorned to accept the candy only I had forgotten to keep his card." "And besides," added Ardmore gently, "you had eaten the candy. Don't you remember that you left nothing but a few burnt almonds which you wanted to keep for eating filapenas?" "Don't be silly!" ejaculated Jerry contemptuously. "It's a good thing all this fuss about the Appleweight people is over or I should be worse than silly. My mind was not intended for such heavy work." [Illustration] "I think you have a good mind, Mr. Ardmore," said Jerry, with the air of one who makes concessions. "You really did well in all these troubles, and you did much better than I thought you would the day I hired you for private secretary. I think I could safely recommend you to any governor in need of assistance." "You talk as though you were getting ready to discharge me," said Ardmore plaintively, "and I don't want to lose my job." "You ought to have something to do," said Jerry thoughtfully. "As near as I can make out you have never done anything but study about pirates and collect pernicious books on the sinful life of Captain Kidd. You should have some larger aim in life than that and I think I know of a good position that is now open, or will be as soon as papa has cleared out the peanut shells we left in his desk. I think you would make an excellent adjutant-general with full charge of the state militia. You have already had experience in the handling of troops, and as Rutherford Gillingwater never did anything but get typhoid fever to earn the place, I see no reason why papa should not appoint you to the position." "But you have to get rid of Gillingwater first," suggested Ardmore, his heart beating fast. "If you mean that he has to be removed from office, I will tell you now, Mr. Ardmore, that Rutherford Gillingwater will no longer sign himself adjutant-general of North Carolina. I removed him myself in a general order I wrote yesterday afternoon just before I told papa that you and I could not act as governor any longer, but that he must resume the yoke." "But that must have been a matter of considerable delicacy, Miss Dangerfield, when you consider that you are engaged to marry Mr. Gillingwater." "Not in the least," said Jerry. "I broke our engagement the moment I saw that he came here the other night all dressed up to eat and not to fight, and he is now free to engage himself to that thin blonde at Goldsboro whom he thinks so highly intellectual." Jerry held up her left hand and regarded its ringless fingers judicially, while Ardmore, his heart racing hotly against all records, watched her, and with a particular covetousness his eyes studied that trifle of a hand. Then with a quick gesture he seized her hand and raised her gently to her feet. "Jerry!" he cried. "From the moment you winked at me I have loved you. I should have followed you round the world until I found you. If you can marry a worthless wretch like me, if--oh, Jerry!" She gently freed her hand and stepped to one side, bending her head like a bird that pauses alarmed, or uncertain of its whereabouts, glancing cautiously up and down the creek. "Mr. Ardmore," she said, "you may not be aware that when you asked me to be your wife--and that, I take it, was your intention--you were standing in South Carolina, while I stood with both feet on the sacred soil of the Old North State. Under the circumstances I do not think your proposal is legal. Moreover, unless you are quite positive which eye it was that so far forgot itself as to wink, I do not think the matter can go further." The slightest suggestion of a smile played about her lips, but he was very deeply troubled, and, seeing this, her eyes grew grave with kindness. "Mr. Ardmore, if your muscles of locomotion have not been utterly paralyzed, and if you will leave that particular state of the Union which, next to Massachusetts, I most deeply abhor, I will do what I can in my poor weak way--as father says in beginning his best speeches--to assist you to the answer." Then for many æons, when he had his arms about her, a kiss, which he had intended for the lips that were so near, somehow failed of its destination, and fell upon what seemed to him a rose-leaf gone to Heaven, but which was, in fact, Jerry Dangerfield's left eye. His being tingled with the most delicious of intoxications, to which the clasp of her arms about his neck added unnecessary though not unwelcome delight. Then she drew back and held him away with her finger-tips for an instant. "Mr. Thomas Ardmore," she said, with maddening deliberation, "it may not be important, but I must tell you in all candor that it was the other eye." [Illustration] 
16064	----	Transcriber's Notes: Two variations, Sewee and Seewee, are used in this book, and have been left as in the original. Where poems cross a page boundary in the original, they have been left as one stanza except where the structure clearly indicates otherwise. I have been unable to confirm with another source if stanza breaks should occur in those places or not. See the html version of this file (16064-h.htm or 16064-h.zip) to see where page breaks occur. (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/0/6/16064/16064-h/16064-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/0/6/16064/16064-h.zip) CAROLINA CHANSONS Legends of the Low Country by DuBOSE HEYWARD AND HERVEY ALLEN The MacMillan Company New York Boston Chicago Dallas Atlanta San Francisco MacMillan & Co., Limited London Bombay Calcutta Melbourne The MacMillan Co. of Canada, Ltd. Toronto 1922 TO JOHN BENNETT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The thanks of the authors are due to the editors of _The London Mercury_, _The North American Review_, _Poetry, A Magazine of Verse_, _The Reviewer_, _The Book News Monthly_, and _Contemporary Verse_ for permission to reprint many of the poems in this volume. Grateful acknowledgment is also made to many friends for first-hand information and for the loan of letters, diaries, pictures, and old newspaper clippings. PREFACE In a continent but recently settled, many parts of which have as yet little historical or cultural background, the material for this volume has been gathered from a section that was one of the first to be colonized. Here the Frenchman, Spaniard, and Englishman all passed, leaving each his legend; and a brilliant and more or less feudal civilization with its aristocracy and slaves has departed with the economic system upon which it rested. From this medley of early colonial discovery and romance, from the memories of war and reconstruction, it has been as difficult to choose coherently as to maintain restraint in selection among the many grotesque negro legends and superstitions so rich in imagery and music. Coupled with this there has been another task; that of keeping these legends and stories in their natural matrix, the semi-tropical landscape of the _Low Country_, which somehow lends them all a pensively melancholy yet fitting background. Not to have so portrayed them, would have been to sacrifice their essentially local tang. To the reader unfamiliar with coastal Carolina, the unique aspects of its landscapes may seem exaggerated in these pages; the observant visitor and the native will, it is hoped, recognize that neither the colors nor the shadows are too strong. These poems, however, are not local only, they are stories and pictures of a chapter of American history little known, but dramatic and colorful, and in the relation of an important part to the whole they may carry a decided interest to the country at large. Local color has a fatal tendency to remain local; but it is also true that the universal often borders on the void. It has been said, perhaps wisely, that the immediate future of American Poetry lies rather in the intimate feeling of local poets who can interpret their own sections to the rest of the country as Robinson and Frost have done so nobly for New England, rather than in the effort to _yawp_ universally. Hence there is no attempt here to say, "O New York, O Pennsylvania," but simply, "O Carolina." The South, however, has been "interpreted" so often, either with condescending pity or nauseous sentimentality, that it is the aim of this book to speak simply and carefully amid a babel of unauthentic utterance. Nevertheless, the contents of this volume do not pretend to exact historical accuracy; this is poetry rather than history, although the legends and facts upon which it rests have been gathered with much painstaking research and careful verification. It should be kept in mind that these poems are impressionistic attempts to present the fleeting feeling of the moment, landscape moods, and the ephemeral attitudes of the past. Legends are material to be moulded, and not facts to be recorded. Above all here is no pretence of propaganda. As some of the material touched on is not accessible in standard reference, prose notes have been included giving the historical facts or background of legend upon which a poem has been based. These notes together with a bibliography will be found at the back of the volume. If the only result of this book is to call attention to the literary and artistic values inherent in the South, and to the essentially unique and yet nationally interesting qualities of the Carolina Low Country, its landscapes and legends, the labor bestowed here will have secured its harvest. DuBOSE HEYWARD--HERVEY ALLEN. Charleston, S.C. December, 1921. CONTENTS PAGE Preface 9 _Poems_ Séance at Sunrise 17 Silences 20 Presences 23 The Pirates 25 The Sewees of Sewee Bay 34 La Fayette Lands 38 _Legend of Theodosia Burr_ The Priest and the Pirate 42 Palmetto Town 50 Carolina Spring Song 52 _The First Submarine_ The Last Crew 54 Landbound 65 Two Pages from the Book of the Sea Islands 66 1. SHADOWS 66 2. SUNSHINE 69 _Negro Poems_ Modern Philosopher 72 Upstairs-Downstairs 73 Hag-hollerin' Time 74 Macabre in Macaws 75 Gamesters All 76 Eclipse 81 _Poe_ Edgar Allan Poe 83 Alchemy 86 Osceola 88 _Ashley River Gardens_ Magnolia Gardens 89 Middleton Garden 92 _Cooper River Legends_ The Goose Creek Voice 95 The Leaping Poll 98 The Blockade Runner 101 Beyond Debate 111 Marsh Tackies 112 Back River 114 Dusk 117 _Prose Notes and Bibliography_ On the Chimes 121 On the Pirates 122 On the Sewee Indians 124 On La Fayette 125 On Theodosia Burr 126 On "The Last Crew" 127 On Edgar Allan Poe 128 On "Marsh Tackies" 130 Bibliography 131 CAROLINA CHANSONS LEGENDS OF THE LOW COUNTRY SÉANCE AT SUNRISE Place the new hands In the old hands Of the old generation, And let us tilt tables In the high room Of our imagination. Let the thick veil glow thin, At sunrise--at sunrise-- Let the strange eyes peer in, The red, the black, and the white faces Of the still living dead Of the three races. Let a quaint voice begin: _Voice of an Indian_ "Gone from the land, We leave the music of our names, As pleasant as the sound of waters; Gone is the log-lodge and the skin tepee, And moons ago the ghost-canoe brought home The latest of our sons and daughters-- Yet still we linger in tobacco smoke And in the rustling fields of maize; Faint are the tracks our moccasins have left, But they are there, down all your ways." _Voice of a Slave_ "We do not talk Of hours in the rice When days were long, Nor of old masters Who are with us here Beyond all right or wrong. Only white afternoons come back, When in the fields We reached the Mercy Seat On wings of song." _Voice of a Planter_ "Nothing moves there but the night wind, Blowing the mosses like smoke; All would be silent as moonlight But for the owl in the oak-- Stairways that lead up to nothing-- Windows like terrible scars-- Snakes on a log in the cistern Peering at stars...." _Spirit of Prophecy_ "Dawn with its childish colors Stipples the solemn vault of night; Behind the horizon the sun shakes a bloody fist; Mysteries stand naked by the lakes of mist; Spirits take flight, The medicine man, The voodoo doctor-- Witches mount brooms. The day looms. Faster it comes, Bringing young giants Who hate solitude, And march with drums-- Beat--beat--beat, Down every ancient street, The young giants! Minded like boys: Action for action's sake they love And noise for noise." _Voice of a Poet_ "The fire of the sunset Is remembered at midnight, But forgotten at dawn. While the old stars set, Let us speak of their glory Before they are gone." H.A. SILENCES[1] You who have known my city for a day And heard the music of her steepled bells, Then laughed, and passed along your vagrant way, Carrying only what the city tells To those who listen solely with their ears; You know St. Matthew's swinging harmonies, And old St. Michael's tale of golden years Far less like bells than chanted memories. Yet there is something wanting in the song Of lyric youth with voice unschooled by pain. And there are breathing stillnesses that throng Dim corners, and that only stir again When bells are dumb. Not even bronze that beats Our heart-throbs back can tell of old defeats. But you who take the city for your own, Come with me when the night flows deep and kind Along these narrow ways of troubled stone, And floods the wide savannas of the mind With tides that cool the fever of the day: One with the dark, companioned by the stars, We'll seek St. Philip's, nebulous and gray, Holding its throbbing beacon to the bars, A prisoned spirit vibrant in the stone That knew its empire of forgotten things. Then will the city know you for her own, And feel you meet to share her sufferings; While down a swirl of poignant memories, Herself shall find you in her silences. Once coaches waited row on shining row Before this door; and where the thirsty street Drank the deep shadow of the portico The Sunday hush was stirred by happy feet, Low greetings, and the rustle of brocade, The organ throb, and warmth of sunny eyes That flashed and smiled beneath a bonnet shade; Life with the lure of all its swift disguise. Then from the soaring lyric of the spire, Like the composite voice of all the town, The bells burst swiftly into singing fire That wrapped the building, and which showered down Bright cadences to flash along the ways Loud with the splendid gladness of the days. War took the city, and the laughter died From lips that pain had kissed. One after one All lovely things went down the sanguine tide, While death made moaning answer to the gun. Then, as a golden voice dies in the throat Of one who lives, but whose glad heart is dead, The bells were taken; and a sterner note Rang from their bronze where Lee and Jackson led. The rhythmic seasons chill and burn and chill, Cooling old angers, warming hearts again. The ancient building quickens to the thrill Of lilting feet; but only singing rain Flutters old echoes in the portico; Those who can still remember love it so. D.H. [1] See the note on the chimes at back of book. PRESENCES Despise the garish presences that flaunt The obvious possession of today, To wear with me the spectacles that haunt The optic sense with wraiths of yesterday-- These cobbled shores through which the traffic streams Have been the stage-set of successive towns, Where coffined actors postured out their dreams, And harlot Folly changed her thousand gowns. This corner-shop was Bull's Head Tavern, When names now dead on marble lived in clay; Its rooms were like a sanded cavern, Where candles made a sallow jest of day, And drovers' boots came grinding like a quern, While merchants drank their steaming cups of "tay." Here pock-marked Black Beard covenanted Bonnet To slit the Dons' throats at St. Augustine, And bussed light ladies, unknown to this sonnet, Whose names, no doubt, would rime with Magdalene. And English parsons, who had lost their fames, Sat tippling wine as spicy as their joke, Larding bald texts with bets on cocking mains, And whiffing pipes churchwardens used to smoke. Here _macaronis_, hands a-droop with laces, Dealt knave to knave in _picquet_ or _écarté_, In coats no whit less scarlet than their faces, While bullies hiccuped healths to King and Party, And Yankee slavers, in from Barbadoes, Drove flinty bargains with keen Huguenots. Then Meeting Street first knew St. Michael's steeple, When redcoats marched with royal drums a-banging, Or merchants stopped gowned tutors to inquire Why school let out to see a pirate hanging; And gentlemen took supper in the street, When candle-shine from tables guled the dark, While others passing by would be discreet And take the farther side without remark, Pausing perhaps to snuff the balmy savor Of turtle-soup mulled with the bay-leaves' flavor: These walls beheld them, and these lingering trees That still preempt the middle of the gutter; They are the backdrops for old comedies-- If leaves were tongues--what stories they might utter! H.A. THE PIRATES[2] I stood once where these rows of deep piazzas Frown on the harbor from their columned pride, And saw the gallant youngest of the cities Lift from the jealous many-fingered tide. Flanked by the multi-colored sweeping marshes, Among the little hummocks choked with thorn, I saw the first, small, dauntless row of buildings Give back the rose and orange of the dawn. Above them swayed the shining green palmettoes Vocal and plaintive at the winds' caress; While, at the edge of sight, the fluent silver Of sea and bay framed the wide loneliness. Out of the East came gaunt razees of commerce Troubling the dappled azure of the seas; While sleeping marsh awoke, and vanished under The thrusting open fingers of the quays. Ever, and more, came ships, while others followed. Feeling their way among unsounded bars, Heaping their freights upon the groaning wharf-heads, Filling their holds with turpentines and tars, Until the little twisting streets all vanished Into a blur of interwoven spars. II One with the rest, I saw the commerce dwindle, High-bosomed, sturdy vessels take the main And leave us, with the morning in their faces, Never to come to any port again. Slowly an ominous and pregnant silence Grew deep upon the wharves where ships had lain. Laughter rang hollow in those days of waiting, And nameless fears came drifting down the night. The tides swung in from sea, hung, and retreated, Bearing their secrets back beyond our sight; Till, like the sudden rending of a curtain, The East reeled with the lightnings of a fight. Never was a night so long with waiting. Never was the dark more prone to stay. And, in the whispering gloom, taut, listening faces Hung in a pallid line along the bay. Slowly at last the mists dissolved, revealing A fearful silhouette against the day. Blue on a saffron dawn, a frigate lifted Out of the fog that veiled her fold on fold, Taking the early sunlight on her cannon In running spurts and rings of molten gold; No flag of any nation at her masthead. Small wonder that our pulses fluttered cold. Never a shot she fired on the city, But, when the night came blowing in from sea, And our ruddy windows warmed the darkness, Through the surrounding gloom we heard the free Strong sweep and clank of rowing in the harbor, And on the wharves raw jest and revelry. She was the first, but many others followed; Insolent, keen, and swift to come-about, I have seen them go smashing down the harbor, Loud with the boom of canvas and the shout Of lusty voices at the crowded bulwarks, Where tattooed hands were swinging long-boats out. Up through the streets the roisterers would swagger, Filling the narrow ways from wall to wall, Scattering gold like ringing summer showers, Ready with song and jest and cheery call For those who passed; buying the little taverns At any cost; opening wine for all. There were rare evenings when we used to gather Down in a coffee-house beside the square. Morgan knew well our little favored corner; Black Beard the sinister was often there; And we have watched the night blur into morning While Bonnet, quiet-voiced and debonnaire, Would throw the glamor of the seas about us In archipelagoes of mad romance; Pointing a story with a line from Shakespeare, Quoting a Latin proverb; while his glance, Flashing across the eager, listening circle, Fettered--blinded--held us in a trance. Their bags of Spanish gold bribed our juries, Bought dignified officials of the Crown; Money and wine were ours for the asking; The Orient flamed out in shawl and gown, Until a sudden and unholy splendor Irradiated all the quiet town. Those were the days when there was open gaming, And roaring song in tongue of every race. Evil, as colorful as poison weeds, Bloomed in the market place. And those who should have known, shared in the revels, And passed their neighbors with averted face. Until one day a frigate entered harbor, And passed the city, with a Spanish prize, Then insolently came-about, despoiled her, And fired her before our very eyes, While the vagrant breezes left the streaming vapor Like red rust on the clean steel of the skies. III All in the sullied hours, While the pirates stood away Out of the murk and horror In a sheer white burst of spray, Leaving the wreck to settle Under its winding sheet, I felt the city shudder And stir beneath my feet. Thrilling against the morning, As audible as song, I heard the city waken Out of her night of wrong. That was a day to cherish When Rhett and a gallant few Summoned the best among us; Called for a daring crew. New and raw at the business, To the smithy's roar and clang, We drove our aching muscles And as we worked we sang, Until one blowing morning With summer on the sea, The _Henry_ to the windward, The _Sea Nymph_ down alee, Flecking the wide Atlantic With a flaring, lacy track, We went, as glad as the winds are glad, To buy our honor back. IV Over the wooded shore-line, Where the hidden rivers stray Down to the sea like timid girls, I saw in the first faint gray A burst of cloudy topsails Go blowing swiftly by, With the stars aswirl behind them Like bright dust down the sky. Gone were the days of waiting, And the long, blind search was gone; With a cheer we swung to meet them On the forefoot of the dawn. Out of the screening woodland Into the open sound The frigate crashed, then staggered Careening, fast aground. White water tugged behind us, We felt the _Henry_ reel And spin as the hard impartial sand Closed on her vibrant keel. All through the high white morning, While the lagging tide crawled out, Fate held us bound and waiting, While, turn and turn about, We manned the fuming cannon And bartered hell for hell, While the scuppers sang with coursing life Where the dead and dying fell. Till, like the break of fever When life thrills up through pain, We felt the current stirring Under the keel again. Then it was hand to cutlass, And pistols in the sash. "All hands stand by for boarding,-- Now, close abeam and lash!" But the ensign that had mocked us With its symbol of the dead Fluttered and dropped to the bloody deck, And a white square spoke instead. Home from the kill we thundered On the tail of the equinox, To the thrum of straining canvas, And the whine and groan of blocks. Leaping clear of the shallows, Chancing the creaming bars, We heard the first faint cheering As the late sun limned our spars. Safe in the lee of the city We moored in the afterglow, The _Sea Nymph_ and the _Henry_ With the buccaneers in tow. Glad we had been in the going, But God! it was good to come Out of the sky-wide loneliness To the walls and lights of home. V Under these shouldering rows of stone That notch the quiet sky; Under the asphalt's transient seal The same old mud-flats lie; And I have felt them surge and lift At night as I passed by. Yes, I have seen them sprawling nude While an Autumn moon hung chill, And the tide came shuddering in from sea, Lift by lift, until It held them under a silver mesh, Responsive to its will. Then slowly out from the crowding walls I have seen the gibbets grow, And stand against the empty sky In a desolate, windblown row, While their dancers swayed, and turned, and spun, Tripping it heel and toe; With a flash of gold where the peering moon Saw an earring as it swung, And a silver line that leapt and died Where the salt-white sea-boots hung, And the pitiful, nodding, silent heads, With half of their songs unsung. D.H. [2] See the note on the pirates. THE SEWEES OF SEWEE BAY[3] _"And these squaws, waiting in vain the return of their husbands, sought out braves among the other tribes, and so men say the Sewees have become Wandos."_ "One flask of rum for fifty muskrat skins! A horn of powder for a bear's is not enough; A whole winter's hunting for some blanket stuff-- Ugh!" said the Sewee Chief, "The pale-face is a thief!" Ever, from the north-north-east, The great winged canoes Swept landward from the shining water Into Bull's Bay, Where the poor Sewees trapped the otter, Or took the giant oysters for their feast-- Ever the ships came from the north and east. Surely, at morning, when they walked the beaches, Over the smoky-silver, whispering reaches, Where the ships came from, loomed a land, Far-off, one mountain-top, away Where the great camp-fire sun made day: "There are the pale-face lodges," they would say. So all one winter Was great hunting on that shore; Much maize was pounded, And of acorn oil great store Was tried; And collops of smoked deer meat set aside, And skins and furs, And furs and skins, And bales of furs beside. And all that winter, too, The smoke eddied From many a huge canoe, Hollowed by flame from cypress trees That with stone ax and fire The Sewee shaped to the good shape Of his desire. So when next spring The traders came from Charles Town, Bringing a gift of blankets from the king, The Sewees would not trade a pelt-- Saying, "We go to see The Great White Father in his own tepee-- Heap, heap much rum!" And then they passed the pipe of peace, And puffed it, and looked glum. The traders thought the redskins must be daft; They saw the huge canoes, And, wondering at their use, Asked, "What will you do with these?" And the chief pointed east across the seas; And then the pale-face laughed. And yet-- There was a story told By one of Black Beard's men Who had done evil things for gold, That one morning, out at sea, The fog made a sudden lift, And from the high poop, looking through the rift, He saw Twenty canoes, each with six warriors, Paddling straight toward the rising sun, Where the wind made a flaw-- He swore he saw And counted twenty hulls, Circled about by screaming gulls-- Then such a storm came down That some prayed on that hellion ship, But he did not-- He was not born to drown. This was the tale Told with much bluster, Over ale And oaths, At Charles Town. He _swore_ he saw the Indians in the dawn, And _he'd be danged!_ _And by Christ's Mother--_ _Take his rings in pawn!_ But he was hanged With poor Stede Bonnet, later on. H.A. [3] See the note at the back of the book. LA FAYETTE LANDS[4] That evening, gathered on the vessel's poop, They saw the glimmering land, And far lights moved there, As once Columbus saw them, winking, strange; Around the ship two darkies in a small canoe Paddled and grinned, and held up silver fish. Over the high ship's tumble-home A pinnace slid, Slow, lowered from the squealing davit-ropes, And from a port a-square with lantern light, The little, leather trunks were passed, Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel's side With voluble advice, _bon voyage_ and _au revoir_, The chatting Frenchmen came-- Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots, Cocked hats and merry eyes. The great ship backs its yards, With drooping sails, await, A spider-web of spars and lantern-lights, While like a pilot shark, the slim canoe, A V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws, Slides noiselessly across the swells, Leading the swinging boat's crew to the beach; And all the world slides up-- And then the stars slide down-- As ocean breathes; while evening falls, And destiny is being rowed ashore. The twilight-muffled bells of town, the bark of dogs, The distant shouts, and smell of burning wood, Fall graciously upon their sea-tired sense. Wide-trousered, barefoot sailors carry them to land, Tho' snake-voiced waves flaunt frothing up the beach; The horse-hide trunks are piled upon a dune; And there a little Frenchman takes his stand, Hawk-faced and ardent, While his brown cloak droops about him Like young falcon plumes. Gray beach, gray twilight, and gray sea-- How strange the scrub palmettoes down the coast! No purple-castled heights, like dear Auvergne, Against the background of the _Puy de Dome_, But land as level as the sea, a sandy road That twists through myrtle thickets Where the black boys lead. Far down a moss-draped avenue of oaks There is a flash of torches, and the lights Go flitting past the bottle panes; A cracked plantation bell dull-clangs; The beagles bay, Black faces swarm, with ivory eyeballs glazed-- Court dwarfs that served thick chocolate, on their knees In damasked, perfumed rooms at grand Versailles, Were all the blacks the French had ever seen. Major Huger, lace-ruffled shirt, knee-breeks, A saddle-pistol in his hand, Waits on the terrace, Ready for "hospitality" to British privateers; But now no London accent takes his ears, No English bow so low, "Good evening, _sair_; I am de la Fayette, and these, monsieur, My friends, and this, le Baron Kalb." Welcome's the custom of the time and land-- And these are noblemen of France! Now is Bartholomew for turkeycocks, Old wines decant, the chandeliers flare up, The slave row brims with lights; And horses gallop off to summon guests. After the ship--how good the spacious rooms! How strange mosquito canopies on beds! Knights of St. Louis sniff the frying yams, Venison, and turtle,-- The old green turtle died tonight-- The children's eyes grow wider on the stairs. Down in the library, The Marquis, writing back to old Auvergne, Has sanded down the ink; Again the quill pen squeaks: "A ship will sail tomorrow back to France, By special providence for you, dear wife; Tonight there will be toasts to Washington, To our good Louis and his Antoinette-- There will be toasts tonight for la Fayette...." He melts the wax; Look, how the candle gutters at the flame! And now he seals the letter with his ring. H.A. [4] See the note at the back of the book. THE PRIEST AND THE PIRATE[5] A BALLAD OF THEODOSIA BURR And must the old priest wake with fright Because the wind is high tonight? Because the yellow moonlight dead Lies silent as a word unsaid-- What dreams had he upon his bed? _Listen_--the storm! The winter moon scuds high and bare; Her light is old upon his hair; The gray priest muses in a prayer: "Christ Jesus, when I come to die Grant me a clean, sweet, summer sky, Without the mad wind's panther cry. Send me a little garden breeze To gossip in magnolia trees; For I have heard, these fifty years, Confessions muttered at my ears, Till every mumble of the wind Is like tired voices that have sinned, And furtive skirling of the leaves Like feet about the priest-house eaves, And moans seem like the unforgiven That mutter at the gate of heaven, Ghosts from the sea that passed unshriven. And it was just this time of night There came a boy with lantern light And he was linen-pale with fright; It was not hard to guess my task, Although I raised the sash to ask-- 'Oh, Father,' cried the boy, 'Oh, come! Quickly with the _viaticum_! The sailor-man is going to die!' The thirsty silence drank his cry. A starless stillness damped the air, While his shrill voice kept piping there, 'The sailor-man is going to die'-- The huge drops splattered from the sky. I shivered at my midnight toil, But took the elements and oil, And hurried down into the street That barked and clamored at our feet-- And as we ran there came a hum Of round shot slithered on a drum, While like a lid of sound shut down The thunder-cloud upon the town; Jalousies banged and loose roofs slammed, Like hornbooks fluttered by the damned; And like a drover's whip the rain Cracked in the driving hurricane. Only the lightning showed the door That like two cats we darted for; It almost gave a man a qualm To find the house inside so calm. I sloshed all dripping up the stair, Up to an attic room a-glare With candle-shine and lightning-flare-- With little draughts that moved its hair A wrinkled mummy sat a-stare, Rigid, huddling in a chair. I thought at first the thing was dead Until the eyes slid in its head. It seemed as if the Banshee storm Knocked screaming for his withered form; It shrieked and whistled like a parrot, Clucking and stuttering through the garret. With-out, the mailéd hands of hail Battered the casements, and the gale About his low roof shuddered, sighing, As if it knew that he was dying. It breathed like waiting beasts outside, While soft feet made the shingles slide. Then, like a blow upon the cheek, The mummy's voice began to speak: _'Give me a priest! I'm going to die!'_ The Banshee wind took up the cry: 'Give him a priest, he's going to die!' The old house seemed to rock with laughter, Shaking its sides and every rafter. There was a terror in that room Like faint light streaming from a tomb. I tried three times before I spoke, And then the bald words made me choke: 'Be quiet, man, for I am come To bring you the _viaticum_!'-- I made the sign of holiness. He rattled out a startled cry. I whispered low, 'Confess, confess!' His thin hands quivered with distress. It is a bitter thing to die. Just when a blast fell on the town, I felt his lean claws clutch me down. It seemed as if the hands of death Were beating at my breast for breath; His arms were like a twisted rope Of rotten strands that tugged at hope. _'Listen, my father, listen well!'_ The wind went tolling like a bell: _'She's lying fifty fathoms deep,_ _Where fishes like white birds go by_ _Through water-air in ocean-land;_ _She has a prayer-book in her hand--_ _Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke;_ _Her hair goes floating out and up,_ _Blown one way, with the water weeds,_ _Always one way, like amber smoke._ _She asks the gift she gave to me--_ _This ring--I cannot get it off!'_ His hand and hand fought like two claws-- _'I hear her calling from the sea!'_ His terror made my own heart pause. His voice went moaning with the wind, And groaned and rattled, '_I have sinned_,' And moaned and murmured at my ear Of bat-winged angels standing near. _'The little schooner "Patriot"--_ _I can't forget the vessel's name;_ _We met her rounding Naggs Head Bank;_ _We made her people walk the plank,_ _Twelve men whose faces I forgot._ _But there was one sweet lady there,_ _With lovely eyes and lovely hair,_ _Whose face has stayed like pain and care._ _For every man she made a prayer;_ _And when the last had found the sea,_ _I cried to her to pray for me._ _She prayed--and took this ring, and said:_ _"Wear this for me when I am dead."_ _She bowed her head, then steadfastly_ _She walked into the hungry sea._ _But silent words were on her lips,_ _And there was comfort in her hand;_ _It was as if she walked a bridge_ _That led into a pleasant land._ _All that was long and long ago,_ _So long ago this ring has grown_ _To be a very part of me,_ _One with my finger and the bone:'_ His voice went trailing in a moan. _'This is her ring--_ _This is her ring!_ _I dare not die and wear the thing!'_ His hand plucked at his finger thin As if to ease him of his sin. I gave a sudden gasping shout-- The wind that blew the window in Had blown the candle out. _'Quick, father, quick!_ _The ring ... her name....'_ There came a jagged spurt of flame; The window seemed a furnace door That gave upon a bed of ore; The thunder rumbled out the muttered Words that his failing tongue had uttered-- Another flash, a rending crack-- The old man crumpled like a sack; I felt his stringy arms go slack. How could he sit so dead, so still! While wind snouts snuffed along the sill? White shone his glimmering face, and dull The sodden silence of the lull, For when he died the wind had dropt; And with his heart the storm had stopt, All but a far-off mouthing sound That seemed to sough from underground; While silence paused to plan some ill, Thwarted by thunder growling still. All in the darkness of the place With lightning playing on its face, I fumbled with the corpse's ring To which the dead hands seemed to cling; The stiffening joints were loth to play-- After awhile it came away! Out, like a sneak-thief through the gloom, I tiptoed from the dead man's room; The door behind me like a hatch Banged--the white splash of my match Made shadow shapes dance on the wall As if the devil pulled the string. The light ran melting round the ring; Inside the worn script scrawled a-blur: _'J.A. to Theodosia Burr'_ Confession is a sacred thing! I'll keep his secret like the sea; The ring goes to the grave with me." H.A. [5] See the note at the back of the book. PALMETTO TOWN Sea-island winds sweep through Palmetto Town, Bringing with piney tang the old romance Of Pirates and of smuggling gentlemen; And tongues as languorous as southern France Flow down her streets like water-talk at fords; While through iron gates where pickaninnies sprawl, The sound floats back, in rippled banjo chords, From lush magnolia shade where mockers call. Mornings, the flower-women hawk their wares-- Bronze caryatids of a genial race, Bearing the bloom-heaped baskets on their heads; Lithe, with their arms akimbo in wide grace, Their jasmine nods jestingly at cares-- Turbaned they are, deep-chested, straight and tall, Bandying old English words now seldom heard, But sweet as Provençal. Dreams peer like prisoners through her harp-like gates, From molten gardens mottled with gray-gloom, Where lichened sundials shadow ancient dates, And deep piazzas loom. Fringing her quays are frayed palmetto posts, Where clipper ships once moored along the ways, And fanlight doorways, sunstruck with old ghosts, Sicken with loves of her lost yesterdays. Often I halt upon some gabled walk, Thinking I see the ear-ringed _picaroons_, Slashed with a sash or Spanish _folderols_, Gambling for moidores or for gold doubloons. But they have gone where night goes after day, And the old streets are gay with whistled tunes, Bright with the lilt of scarlet parasols, Carried by honey-voiced young octoroons. H.A. CAROLINA SPRING SONG Against the swart magnolias' sheen Pronged maples, like a stag's new horn, Stand gouted red upon the green, In March when shaggy buds are shorn. Then all a mist-streaked, sunny day The long sea-islands lean to hear A water harp that shallows play To lull the beaches' fluted ear. When this same music wakes the gift Of pregnant beauty in the sod, And makes the uneasy vultures shift Like evil things afraid of God, Then, then it is I love to drift Upon the flood-tide's lazy swirls, While from the level rice fields lift The spiritu'ls of darky girls. I hear them singing in the fields Like voices from the long-ago; They speak to me of somber worlds And sorrows that the humble know; Of sorrow--yet their tones release A harmony of larger hours From easy epochs long at peace Amid an irony of flowers. So if they sometimes seem a choir That cast a chill of doubt on spring, They have still higher notes of fire Like cardinals upon the wing. H.A. THE LAST CREW[6] I Spring found us early that eventful year, Seeming to know in her clairvoyant way The bitterness of hunger and despair That lay upon the town. Out of the sheer Thin altitudes of day She drifted down Over the grim blockade At the harbor mouth, Trailing her beauty over the decay That war had made, Gilding old ruins with her jasmine spray, Distilling warm moist perfume From chill winter shade. Out of the south She brought the whisperings Of questing wings. Then, flame on flame, The cardinals came, Blowing like driven brands Up from the sultry lands Where Summer's happy fires always burn. Old silences, that pain Had held too close and long, Stirred to the mocker's song, And hope looked out again From tired eyes. Down where the White Point Gardens drank the sun, And rippled to the lift of springing grass, The women came; And after them the aged, and the lame That war had hurled back at them like a taunt. And always, as they talked of little things, How violets were purpling the shade More early than in all remembered Springs, And how the tides seemed higher than last year, Their gaze went drifting out across the bay To where, Thrusting out of the mists, Like hostile fists, Waited the close blockade-- Then, dim to left and right, The curving islands with their shattered mounds That had been forts; Mounds, which in spite Of four long years of rending agony Still held against the light; Faint wraiths of color For the breeze to lift And flatten into faded red and white. These sunny islands were not meant for wars; See, how they curve away Before the bay, Bidding the voyager pause. Warm with the hoarded suns of centuries, Young with the garnered youth of many Springs, They laugh like happy bathers, while the seas Break in their open arms, And the slow-moving breeze Draws languid fingers down their placid brows. Even the surly ocean knows their charms, And under the shrill laughter of the surf, He booms and sings his heavy monotone. II There are rare nights among these waterways When Spring first treads the meadows of the marsh, Leaving faint footprints of elusive green To glimmer as she strays, Breaking the Winter silence with the harsh Sharp call of waterfowl; Rubbing dim shifting pastels in the scene With white of moon And blur of scudding cloud, Until the myrtle thickets And the sand, The silent streams, And the substantial land Go drifting down the tide of night Aswoon. On such a night as this I saw the last crew go Out of a world too beautiful to leave. Only a chosen few Beside the crew Were gathered on the pier; And in the ebb and flow Of dark and moon, we saw them fare Straight past the row of coffins Where the fifth crew lay Waiting their last short voyage Across the bay. And, as they went, not one among them swerved, But eyes went homing swiftly to the West, Where, faint and very few, The windows of the town called out to them Yet held them nerved And ready for the test. Young every one, they brought life at its best. In the taut stillness, not a word Was uttered, but one heard The deep slow orchestration of the night Swell and relapse; as swiftly, one by one, Cutting a silhouette against the gray, They rose, then dropped out softly like a dream Into the rocking shadows of the stream. A sudden grind of metal scarred the hush; A marsh-hen threshed the water with her wings, And, for a breath, the marsh life woke and throbbed. Then, down beneath our feet, we caught the gleam Of folded water flaring left and right, While, with a noiseless rush, A shadow darker than the rest Drew from its fellows swarming round the quay, Took an oncoming breaker, Shook its shoulders free, And faced the sea. Then came an interval that seemed to be Part of eternity. Years might have passed, or seconds; No one knew! Close in the dark we huddled, each to each, Too stirred for speech. Our senses, sharpened to an agony, Drew out across the water till the ache Was more than we could bear; Till eyes could almost see, Ears almost hear. And waiting there, I seemed to feel the beach Slip from my reach, While all the stars went blank. The smell of oil and death enveloped me, And I could feel The crouching figures straining at a crank, Knees under chins, and heads drawn sharply down, The heave and sag of shoulders, Sting of sweat; An eighth braced figure stooping to a wheel, Body to body in the stifling gloom, The sob and gasp of breath against an air Empty and damp and fetid as a tomb. With them I seemed to reel Beneath the spin and heel When combers took them fair, Bruising their bodies, Lifting black water where Their feet clutched desperate at the floor. And as each body spent out of its ebbing store Of strength and hope, I felt the forward thrust, At first so sure, Fail in its rhythm, Falter slow, And slower-- Hang an endless moment-- Till in a rush came fear-- Fear of the sea, that it might win again, Gathering one crew more, Making them pay in vain. Then through the horror of it, like a clear Sweet wind among the stars, I felt the lift And drive of heart and will Working their miracles until Spent muscles tensed again to offer all In one transcendent gift. III A sudden flood of moonlight drenched the sea, Pointing the scene in sharp, strong black and white. Sumter came shouldering through the night, Battered and grim. The curve of ships shook off their dim Vague outlines of a dream; And stood, patient as death, So certain in their pride, So satisfied To wait The slow inevitableness of Fate. Close, where the channel Narrowed to the bay, The _Housatonic_ lay Black on the moonlit tide, Her wide High sweep of spars Flaunting their arrogance among the stars. Darkness again, Swift-winged and absolute, Gulping the stars, Folding the ships and sea, Holding us waiting, mute. Then, slowly in the void, There grew a certainty That silenced fear. The very air Was stirring to the march of Destiny. One blinding second out of endless time Fell, sundering the night. I saw the _Housatonic_ hurled, A ship of light, Out of a molten sea, Hang an unending pulse-beat, Glowing, stark; While the hot clouds flung back a sullen roar. Then all her pride, so confident and sure, Went reeling down the dark. Out of the blackness wave on livid wave Leapt into being--thundered to our feet; Counting the moments for us, beat by beat, Until the last and smallest dwindled past, Trailing its pallor like a winding-sheet Over the last crew and its chosen grave. IV Morning swirled in from the sea, And down by the low river-wall, In a long unforgettable row, Man faces tremulous, old; Terrible faces of youth, Broken and seared by the war, Where swift fire kindled and blazed From embers hot under the years, While hands gripped a cane or a crutch; Patient dumb faces of women, Mothers, sisters, and wives: And the vessel hull-down in the sea, Where the waters, just stirring from sleep, Lifted bright hands to the sun, Hiding their lusty young dead, Holding them jealously close Down to the cold harbor floor. There would be eight of them. Here in the gathering light Were waiting eight women or more Who were destined forever to pay, Who never again would laugh back Into the eyes of life In the old glad, confident way. Each huddled dumbly to each; But eyes could not lift from the sea, Only hands touched in the dawn. _"He would have gone, my man;_ _He was like that. In the night_ _When I awoke with a start,_ _And brought his voice up from my dream:_ _That was goodbye and godspeed._ _I know he is there with the rest."_ Brave, but with quivering lips, Each alone in the press of the crowd, Was saying it over and over. The day flooded all of the sky; And the ships of the sullen blockade Weighed anchor and drew down the wind, Leaving their wreck to the waves. Hour heaved slowly on hour, Yet how could the city rejoice With the women out there by the wall! Night grew under the wharves, And crept through the listening streets, Until only the red of the tiles Seemed warm from the breath of the day; And the faces that waited and watched Blurred into a wavering line, Like foam on the curve of the dark, Down there by the reticent sea. What if the darkness should bring The lean blockade-runners across With food for the hungry and spent.... Who could joy in the sudden release While the faces, still-smiling, but wan, Turned slowly to hallow the town? D.H. [6] See the note at the back of the book. LANDBOUND Bring me one breath from the deep salt sea, Ye vagrant upland airs! Over your forest and field and lea, From the windy deeps that have mothered me, To the heart of one who cares. Clear to the peace of the sunlit park, You bring with your evening lull The vesper song of the meadow lark; But my soul is sick for the seething dark, And the scream of a wind-blown gull. And bring to me from the ocean's breast No crooning lullaby; But the shout of a bleak storm-riven crest As it shoulders up in the sodden West And hurtles down the sky. That, breathing deep, I may feel the sweep Of the wind and the driving rain. For so I know that my heart will leap To meet the call of the strident deep, And will thrill to life again. D.H. TWO PAGES FROM THE BOOK OF THE SEA ISLANDS PAGE ONE SHADOWS There is deliberateness in all sea-island ways, As alien to our days as stone wheels are. The Islands cannot see the use of life Which only lives for change. There days are flat, And all things must move slowly; Even the seasons are conservative-- No sudden flaunting of wild colors in the fall, Only a gradual fading of the green, As if the earth turned slowly, Or looked with one still face upon the sun As Venus does-- Until the trees, the fields, the marshes, All turn dun, dull Quaker-brown, And a mild winter settles down, And mosses are more gray. All human souls are glasses which reflect The aspects of the outer world; See what terrible gods the huge Himalayas bred! And the fierce Jewish Jaywah came From the hot Syrian deserts With his inhibitory decalogue. The gods of little hills are always tame; Here God is dull, where all things stay the same. No change on these sea-islands! The huge piled clouds range White in the cobalt sky; The moss hangs, And the strong, tiring sea-winds blow-- While day on glistering day goes by. The horses plow with hanging heads, Slow, followed by a black-faced man, Indifferent to the sun; The old cotton bushes hang with whitened heads; And there among the live-oak trees, Peep the small whitewashed cabins, Painted blue, perhaps, and scarlet-turbaned women, Ample-hipped, with voices soft and warm With the lean hounds and chocolate children swarm. Day after day the ocean pumps The awful valve-gates of his heart, Diastole and systole through these estuaries; The tides flow in long, gray, weed-streaked lines; The salt water, like the planet's lifeblood, goes As if the earth were breathing with long-taken breaths And we were very near her heart. No wonder that these faces show a tired dismay, Looking on burning suns, and scarcely blithe in May; Spring's coming is too fierce with life; And summer is too long; The stunted pine trees struggle with the sand Till the eyes sicken with their dwarfing strife. There are old women here among these island homes, With dull brown eyes that look at something gray, And tight silver hair, drawn back in lines, Like the beach grass that's always blown one way; With such a melancholy in their faces I know that they have lived long in these places. The tides, the hooting owls, the daylight moons, The leprous lights and shadows of the mosses, The funereal woodlands of these coasts, Draped like a perpetual hearse, And memories of an old war's ancient losses, Dwell in their faces' shadows like gray ghosts. And worse-- The terror of the black man always near-- The drab level of the ricefields and the marsh Lends them a mask of fear. PAGE TWO SUNSHINE This is a different page. Do you suppose the sun here lavishes his heat For nothing, in these islands by the sea? No! The great green-mottled melons ripen in the fields, Bleeding with scarlet, juicy pith deliriously; And the exuberant yams grow golden, thick and sweet; And white potatoes, in grave-rows, With leaves as rough as cat tongues; And pearly onions, and cabbages With white flesh, sweet as chicken meat. These the black boatmen bring to town On barges, heaped with severed breasts of leaves, Driven by _put-put_ engines Down the long canals, quavering with song, With hail and chuckle to the docks along, Seeing their dark faces down below Reduplicated in the sunset glow, While from the shore stretch out the quivering lines Of the flat, palm-like, reflected pines That inland lie like ranges of dark hills in lines. And so to town-- Weaving odd baskets of sweet grass, Lazily and slow, To sell in the arcaded market, Where men sold their fathers not so long ago. For all their poverty, These patient black men live A life rich in warm colors of the fields, Sunshine and hearty foods, Delighted with the gifts that earth can give, And old tales of _Plateye_ and _Bre'r Rabbit_; While the golden-velvet cornpone browns Underneath the lid among hot ashes, Where the _groundnuts_ roast, Round shadowy fires at nights, With tales of graveyard ghost, While eery spirituals ring, And organ voices sing, And sticks knock maddening rhythms on the floor To shuffling youngsters "cutting" buck-and-wing; Dogs bark; And dog-eyed pickaninnies peek about the door. Sundays, along the moss-draped roads, The beribboned black folk go to church By threes and twos, carrying their shoes, With orange turbans, ginghams, rainbow hats; Then bucks flaunt tiger-lily ties and watchet suits, Smoking cob pipes and faintly sweet cheroots. Wagons with oval wheels and kitchen chairs screech by, Where Joseph-coated white-teethed maidens sit Demurely, While the old mule rolls back the ivory of his eye. Soon from the whitewashed churches roll away Among the live oak trees, Rivers of melancholy harmonies, Full of the sorrows of the centuries The white man hears, but cannot feel. But it is always Sunday on sea-islands. Plantation bells, calling the pickers from the fields, Are like old temple gongs; And the wind tells monodies among the pines, Playing upon their strings the ocean's songs; The ducks fly in long, trailing lines; Skeows _squonk_ and marsh-hens _quank_ Among the tidal flats and rushes rank on rank; On island tufts the heron feeds its viscid young; And the quick mocker catches From lips of sons of slaves the eery snatches, And trolls them as no lips have ever sung. Oh! It is good to be here in the spring, When water still stays solid in the North, When the first jasmine rings its golden bells, And the "wild wistaria" puts forth; But most because the sea then changes tone; Talking a whit less drear, It gossips in a smoother monotone, Whispering moon-scandal in the old earth's ear. H.A. MODERN PHILOSOPHER They fight your battles for you every day, The zealous ones, who sorrow in your life. Undaunted by a century of strife, With urgent fingers still they point the way To drawing rooms, in decorous array, And moral Heavens where no casual wife May share your lot; where dice and ready knife Are barred; and feet are silent when you pray. But you have music in your shuffling feet, And spirituals for a lenient Lord, Who lets you sing your promises away. You hold your sunny corner of the street, And pluck deep beauty from a banjo chord: Philosopher whose future is today! D.H. UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS The judge, who lives impeccably upstairs With dull decorum and its implication, Has all his servants in to family prayers, And edifies _his_ soul with exhortation. Meanwhile his blacks live wastefully downstairs; Not always chaste, they manage to exist With less decorum than the judge upstairs, And find withal a something that he missed. This painful fact a Swede philosopher, Who tarried for a fortnight in our city, Remarked, one evening at the meal, before We paralyzed him silent with our pity-- Saying the black man living with the white Had given more than white men could requite. H.A. HAG-HOLLERIN' TIME Black Julius peered out from the galley fly; Behind Jim Island, lying long and dim; An infra owl-light tinged the twilight sky As if a bonfire burned for cherubim. Dark orange flames came leering through the pines, And then the moon's face, struggling with a sneeze, Along the flat horizon's level lines Her nostrils fingered with palmetto trees. Her platinum wand made water wrinkles buckle; Old Julius gave appreciative chuckle; "It's jes about hag-hollerin' time," he said. I watched the globous buckeyes in his head Peer back along the bloody moon-wash dim To see the fish-tailed water-witches swim. H.A. MACABRE IN MACAWS After the hurricane of the late forties, Peter Polite says, in the live-oak trees Were weird, macabre macaws And ash-colored cockatoos, blown overseas From Nassau and the West Indies. These hopped about like dead men's thoughts Among the draggled Spanish moss, Preening themselves, all at a loss, Preening faint _caws_, And shrieking from nostalgia-- With dull screams like a child Born with neuralgia-- And this seems true to me, Fitting the landscape's drab grotesquery. H.A. GAMESTERS ALL[7] The river boat had loitered down its way; The ropes were coiled, and business for the day Was done. The cruel noon closed down And cupped the town. Stray voices called across the blinding heat, Then drifted off to shadowy retreat Among the sheds. The waters of the bay Sucked away In tepid swirls, as listless as the day. Silence closed about me, like a wall, Final and obstinate as death. Until I longed to break it with a call, Or barter life for one deep, windy breath. A mellow laugh came rippling Across the stagnant air, Lifting it into little waves of life. Then, true and clear, I caught a snatch of harmony; Sure lilting tenor, and a drowsing bass, Elusive chords to weave and interlace, And poignant little minors, broken short, Like robins calling June-- And then the tune: "Oh, nobody knows when de Lord is goin ter call, _Roll dem bones_. It may be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall, _Roll dem bones_. But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an all-- _So roll dem bones_, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder, _Roll dem bones!_" There they squatted, gambling away Their meagre pay; Fatalists all. I heard the muted fall Of dice, then the assured, Retrieving sweep of hand on roughened board. I thought it good to see Four lives so free From care, so indolently sure of each tomorrow, And hearts attuned to sing away a sorrow. Then, like a shot Out of the hot Still air, I heard a call: "Throw up your hands! I've got you all! It's thirty days for craps. Come, Tony, Paul! Now, Joe, don't be a fool! I've got you cool." I saw Joe's eyes, and knew he'd never go. Not Joe, the swiftest hand in River Bow! Springing from where he sat, straight, cleanly made, He soared, a leaping shadow from the shade With fifty feet to go. It was the stiffest hand he ever played. To win the corner meant Deep, sweet content Among his laughing kind; To lose, to suffer blind, Degrading slavery upon "the gang," With killing suns, and fever-ridden nights Behind relentless bars Of prison cars. He hung a breathless second in the sun, The staring road before him. Then, like one Who stakes his all, and has a gamester's heart, His laughter flashed. He lunged--I gave a start. God! What a man! The massive shoulders hunched, and as he ran With head bent low, and splendid length of limb, I almost felt the beat Of passionate life that surged in him And winged his spurning feet. And then my eyes went dim. The Marshal's gun was out. I saw the grim Short barrel, and his face Aflame with the excitement of the chase. He was an honest sportsman, as they go. He never shot a doe, Or spotted fawn, Or partridge on the ground. And, as for Joe, He'd wait until he had a yard to go. Then, if he missed, he'd laugh and call it square. My gaze leapt to the corner--waited there. And now an arm would reach it. I saw hope flare Across the runner's face. Then, like a pang In my own heart, The pistol rang. The form I watched soared forward, spun the curve. "By God, you've missed!" The Marshal shook his head. No, there he lay, face downward in the road. "I reckon he was dead Before he hit the ground," The Marshal said. "Just once, at fifty feet, A moving target too. That's just about as good As any man could do! A little tough; But, since he ran, I call it fair enough." He mopped his head, and started down the road. The silence eddied round him, turned and flowed Slowly back and pressed against the ears. Until unnumbered flies set it to droning, And, down the heat, I heard a woman moaning. D.H. [7] "Contemporary Verse," prize poem for 1921. ECLIPSE Once melodies of street-cries washed these walls, Glad as the refluent song Of cheerful waters from a happy spring That shout their way along; Such cries were born in other days from lips A spirit taught to sing. Now it is gone! Memory expects those hymns for shrimp and prawn, Or the mellifluous chaunt from the black gorge Of Orpheus inside a murky skin, Who looked the gold sun in the eye While garden mists grew thin, And intoned "_Hoppin' John_!" As when the shadow of the gray eclipse Haggards the countryside, When moon-fooled birds have nothing more to say, And soft untimely bats begin to slide; As darkness sweeps the morning light away, So silence brushes music now from lips. Oh! Can it be the songless spirit of this age Has slain the ancient music, or that ears Have harsher thresholds? Only this I know: The streets grow more discordant with the years; And that which bids the huckster sing no more, Will drive the flower-woman from the door. H.A. EDGAR ALLAN POE[8] Once in the starlight When the tides were low, And the surf fell sobbing To the undertow, I trod the windless dunes Alone with Edgar Poe. Dim and far behind us, Like a fabled bloom On the myrtle thickets, In the swaying gloom Hung the clustered windows Of the barrack-room. Faint on the evening Tenuous and far As the beauty shaken From a vagrant star, Throbbed the ache and passion Of an old guitar. Life closed behind us Like a swinging gate, Leaving us unfettered And emancipate; Confidants of Destiny, Intimates of Fate. I could only cower, Silent, while the night, Seething with its planets, Parted to our sight, Showing us infinity In its breadth and height. But my chosen comrade, Tossing back his hair With the old loved gesture, Raised his face, and there Shone the agony that those Loved of God must bear. Oh, we heard the many things Silence has to say; He and I together As alone we lay Waiting for the slow, sweet Miracle of day. When the bugle's silver Spiralled up the dawn, Dew-dear, night-cool, And the stars were gone, I arose exultant, Like a man new born. But my friend and master, Heavy-limbed and spent, Turned, as one must turn at last From the sacrament; And his eyes were deep with God's Burning discontent. D.H. [8] See the note on Poe. ALCHEMY[9] Some souls are strangers in this bourne; Beauty is born from such men's discontent; Earth's grass and stones, Her seas, her forests, and her air Are seas and forests till they mirror on some pool Unusually reflecting in an exile's mind, Who tarries here protesting and alone; And then they get strange shapes from memories of other stars The banished knew, or spheres he dreams will be. Thus is the fivefold vision of the earth recast By ghostly alchemy. But there are favored spots Where all earth's moods conspire to make a show Of things to be transmuted into beauty By alchemic minds. Such is this island beach where Poe once walked, And heard the melic throbbing of the sea, With muffled sound of harbor bells-- Bells--he loved bells! And here are drifting ghosts of city chimes Come over water through the evening mist, Like knells from death-ships off the coasts of spectral lands. I think some dusk their metal voices Yet will call him back To walk upon this magic beach again, While Grief holds carnival upon the harbor bar. Heralded by ravens from another air, The master will pass, pacing here, Wrapped in a cape dark as the unborn moon. There will be lightning underneath a star; And he will speak to me Of archipelagoes forgot, Atolls in sailless seas, where dreams have married thought. H.A. [9] See the note on Poe. OSCEOLA[10] AN EPITAPH The feathers of the eagle-bonnets ride upon the north wind; The sachems and their totems have perished in the fire; Through the valleys and the rivers and the mountains that you fought for Beats the quick desire. In the happy hunting ground of proven warriors, You have passed the pipe of peace at council fire With the pale-face and the Zulus' mighty chieftains-- Rest with dead desire. H.A. [10] The Indian Chief, Osceola, lies buried at Fort Moultrie. MAGNOLIA GARDENS A PROSE-POEM In the spring when the first midges dance and warm days lure the last-year's butterfly, the scarlet of the cardinals begins to flicker through the ivory smoke of the mosses. Then the alligator leaves his winter ooze, and the widening "O" of the ripple which his gar-like nose makes, travels slowly across the sullen ponds, where the pendant gonfalons of the mosses kiss their imaginary duplicates, hanging head downward in the red water. When the first frog honks with the bull-voiced trumpet of resurgent spring, the jasmine rings its little hawk-bells, golden harp notes through the forest; and the usurping wistaria assumes the purple, reigning imperial and alone, flaunting its _palidementum_ in a cascade of lilac amid the matrix of the mosses. Its sleek, muscular vine-arms writhe round the clasped bodies of live oaks as if two lovers slept beneath a cloak, and the cloisonné pavilion of their dalliance drips a blue-glaze of shadows overhead. Underneath this motley canopy of gray and blue, lush with the early tenderness of leaves, the pink azaleas open light-shy eyes like pupils of albinos, sloughing off delicate pods that smoulder, when the wind blows, live coals among the gray of furnace ashes. Here are magenta carpets fit for leprechauns, when crescent moons glimmer upon the ocher ponds, and the slow fireflies light their phantom lanterns, weaving to and fro about the ivory-orange marble of the tomb. Each April day brings opalescent waves of birds that dart like living brands about the aisles to light the flower lamps; nonpareils, orioles, and hummingbirds, a mist of speed upon their wings, while the blue heron stands one-leggéd by the ponds, watching the garden till it seethes and flames with colors from the cloaks of mandarins. High in the ancient forest the magnolias burn the perfect alban lucence of their lamps; white are their ivory cups like priestly linen, and fragrant with the tang of foreign citrons. An esoteric, mirrored swan slides by like Cleopatra's barge, while drums of color beaten by a maniac blend with old tints of Leonardo's dreams, colors that God might see if his own lightning blasted out his eyes. This march of color chants a strange barbaric fitness of dithyrambic chords, and moves processional across the days like some encarnadined durbar, where a huge Ethiopian eunuch in red moon-shaped slippers and an orange turban walks with a glittering scimetar, leading a brace of sleepy leopards drugged and golden eyed; the caparisoned elephants swing down a latticed street; silk shawls hang from balconies, brushing the domed gilt of howdahs; and ruby-roped, the maharajahs sway behind the mahout with his peavey-goad. The stark denial of the blue-ribbed sky looks down upon this garden, where the wantonness of earth is flaunted in the spring against the face of heaven's void sterility. Here stolid faces look ashamed. When the sun leans on boreal wings, there is a month that lovers walk here justified, while flower throats cry in vast choirs, "Glory to life!" and the uplifted trumpets of vine tubas shout with noise of color set to notes of bloom. MIDDLETON GARDEN This is a garden where the Son of Heaven Well might walk, With all his dragon-broidered mandarins, To the plucked sound of tenor instruments, With peacocks, kites, and little red balloons, Mirrored with incense and rice-paper lights, And old bronze lanterns on the full moon nights, Upon the lacquered, porcelain-pink lagoons. If cardinals in sun-blood robes were here To kiss the ring of gorgeous Borgia popes; Or bold de Gama's loot from Malabar: Topaz and ruby, chrysolite and beryl, The golden idol with a thousand hands, And ropes of pearl; They would seem lesser than these flowers are, Whose masculine magnificence makes riches pale. And yet with all its oriental hue There is a touch of Holland, Of canals at Loo, Where Orange William planned a boxwood maze. The house has Flemish curves upon its eaves; Its doorways yearn for buckle-shoed young bloods, Smoking clay pipes, with lace a-droop from sleeves-- Moonlight on terraces is like a story told By sleepy link-boys 'round old sedan chairs In days when tulip bulbs were gold. The faint, crisp rustle of magnolia leaves Rasps with the crackling scratch of old brocade, The low bird-voices ripple like the laugh Of Watteau beauties coiffured, with pomade; Here ribboned dandies offered scented snuffs To other ghosts, beneath the giant trees-- Was that a flash of rose-flamingo stuffs-- Azaleas?--was a sneeze blown down the breeze? This terrace is a stage set by the years, Fit for the pageants of the centuries; That fire-scarred ruin marks an act of tears-- Charm is more winsome coped with tragedies. Here flaunted tilted hats and crinolines, Small parasols, hoopskirts, and bombazines, When turbaned slaves walked dykes in single file, And rice-fields made horizons, otherwhile. All, all has passed, but change, Gnawed by the rat-like teeth of avid years, The masters, through the door, to mysteries Beyond blind panels 'mid the moss-scarved trees, Uncanny gates, where negroes faintly bold, At high noon in the tide of summer heat, Stand in the draught of tomb-air deathly cold That flows like glacial water 'round their feet. H.A. THE GOOSE CREEK VOICE This is the low-doored house among funereal trees, Where one May dusk they brought Louise, With music slow, And sobbing low, The old slaves crooning eerily. She died asleep and weeping wearily. She had a poppy-strange disease; A beauty that was more than carnal, How durst they leave her in the charnel? She might be sleeping eerily! Hush! They have locked her in the tomb, Among the silences and wilting bloom; Life's melody of voices drifts away-- Mistaken! Was it an owlet in the thorns that moaned? The churchyard moonlight turns ash-gray-- Hush! Pale Louise! The dead must not awaken. Something a twittering cry is uttering. Is that a bird there on her breast, Lost in the fragrant gloom, Wakening to morning twilight in the tomb? No bird--it is her folded hands a-fluttering! I think I should have died to see her rise Among the withered wreaths And spider-cluttered palls Of her dead uncles' funerals, While streams of horror fed the blue lakes of her eyes. I known I would have died to see her rise. _Over the fields a voice calls from the tomb,_ _Pleading and pleading drearily,_ _But all the slaves have fled_ _And left her talking to her coffined dead,_ _And whimpering eerily._ _The young birds die_ _To see old hands thrust from the window-slit,_ _Clutching the light in handfuls of despair;_ _Stark fear has stroked the color from her hair,_ _While from the window comes_ _The babbled whisper of her prayer._ _Night is like spiders in her mouth;_ _By day they spin a film across her eyes._ _Now night; now day--_ _The birds come back;_ _It is another year:_ _The withering voice they fear_ _Has nothing more to say._ But yet once more Her kinsmen came With nodding plume and pall And music slow, And, sobbing low, They fluttered back the door, and lo!-- She leaned against the slit-window Her web-like, bony hands against the wall, And all about her, like a summer cloud Rippled her leprous hair, One bleached and shuddering shroud. H.A. THE LEAPING POLL At early morning when the earth grows cold, When river mists creep up, And those asleep are nearest death, She died. The feather would not flutter in her breath; And those who long had watched her slipped away, Too weary then to weep; They could do that next day-- They left her lonely on the bed, Under a long, glistening sheet, in feeble tallow-shine, Rigid from muffled feet to swathèd head. This in old days before the Turkish cure Had driven out the pox; Next morning, while slave carpenters Were hammering at the oblong box, The sun revived her and she breathed again, Like Lazarus, and in later years grew beautiful, And was the mother of strong men. These things her father, master of an ancient place, Pondered, and read of men in antique times Who wakened in the charnel from a trance. Often his eyes would rest on her askance, And fear grew on him, and strange dreams he had a-bed, Till waking and asleep he turned his head, Front-back, front-back, from side to side, Looking for Death. At last, one night He heard crisp footfalls in his room, And stared his soul out in the gloom, Peering until he died. But when they broke the seals upon his will, They found each codicil and long bequest Was held in trust until The heirs should carry out his last request-- To burn his body (naming witnesses); And they, all eagerness to share, Prepared to carry out this strange behest. A pile of lightwood on the river bank, Neighbors on horseback, and the slaves, With teeth as white as eyeballs, rank on rank, Watched on the pyre the form wrapped in a shroud, Lonely among the lolling tongues of flames-- The smoke streamed, trailing in a saffron cloud, The greedy noise of fire grew loud, Then, "whiff," the shroud burned with a flare: The dead man's eyes looked down Like china moons upon the crowd. They saw him slowly shake his head, The thing denied that it was dead, While from the blacks arose a babblement of prayer. Surely the head must stop-- Not till the fire caved! Then from the very top The loosened poll came with a leap, Bounding three times, it took the river-steep; Down, down the river bank--all they Ran after it like school boys for a ball. God! How the thing could roll! It seemed the devil kicked the leaping poll. At last it stopped at bay, Staring across a tidal flat, Where spider lilies frightened day. They buried it within a lonesome wood, With trembling hands, beneath a foreign stone. But there were some who said It moved its lips; And when they went away, the earth stirred And they heard it moan. Now it comes leaping down the tunnel roads Where the moss hangs like stalactites, Screaming out curses, snapping at the toads; Negroes who pass there on the moonless nights Behind them hear a sound that stops their breath. The keen wind whistles through its teeth, And the white skull goes bounding by Looking for Death. H.A. THE BLOCKADE RUNNER I Three years! Since I had seen the city, in the time We waited through the tenseness of the hours, While nerves were zither strings For fate to jar upon: All through that night we counted old St. Michael's chimes Now three o'clock-- The bells spoke as they had on marriage days, With high and silver-happy tongues Yet somehow they had gained an irony, For out across the quiet April bay Grim, new-built forts grinned at old Sumter Through the morning mist-- _One--two--three--four--_ And no sound yet! Then-- Thirty minutes like a life too long; A red flash dirked the night; I thought a voice cried, "DOOM"; That was the gun that killed a million men. God! How the city woke! With what a rush of wonder in her streets, "_Burr_" of strained voices, earthquakes of feet, Tramping to rolling drums, The crowd swept to the Battery. Roofs were black with gazing folk in knots, Leveling their spyglasses Like phalanx spears, From sea wall to the chimney tops. Over the rippling harbor came The growling, bull-dog bark of culverins, Red rockets curved and plunged Across the dawn. The world seemed drunk with confidence That day-- Some secret nervousness about the slaves; What they might think or say; But they did neither; The bugles shouted at the Citadel. Hours were punctuated by glad bells, Soon to be hid away, And gales of laughter came from gardens, Where bright tear-dashed eyes must weep farewells The braver lips refused to falter-- Mouths then seemed only made to kiss For men in gray, Who left the ancient houses of proud names, Through magic gates upon that magic day When the lost cause was still-born in its hope. II And I had gone-- It seemed no man's work then-- To buy supplies from "good friends" at the North-- Two years at old St. Louis and then down the river, Past winking lights of towns and federal rams, In flat-boats with a precious freight of barrels, Marked for the Yankees; but one night We supped past their last fort And floated down to Vicksburg through the dark. How dull the lanterns glimmered at the quay! But there was welcome, too, Proud, thankful hands, To take the medicine and powder, And unload sorghum barrels That we might change to quinine and to gold, If we could ever get them to Nassau. The column which they printed in the "News" On wall-paper, first made me think That it was worth-while man's work after all. Then, out across the miles of leaguered states, Through pine-barrens where frowsy men in gray Lay with their wounded in the haggard camps-- A glimpse of old times in Atlanta Like a last febrile glow in well-loved eyes. Now rolling in flat cars, trundling to the sea, Back of the bull-head, wood-devouring engines. At last by night to Charleston Just before the iron ring closed-- Ours was the last freight train of the war, Before the anaconda squeezed; But I had won (perhaps) if we could get Those precious barrels to England or Nassau. How changed my city was-- The grass grew in her streets, And there were blackened ruins raw with fire; A few old darkies crept along her ways; The busy thunder of the drays was gone; And ruin spoke with statue lips. Only a glimmering candle lurked in landward windows, Dim through shimmering shutter chinks-- Silence--silence was over all--no bells-- St. Michael's were in hiding, And St. Philip's spoke another voice, And rung a blatant dirge to bluecoats, far [11]In old Virginia, with Lee's batteries. The miles of cotton rotted on the wharfs, And the _Swamp Angel_ belled with distant shocks Like earthquake jars; There was heat-lightning in the sky That God had never made, From our sea-island batteries; And once a shell fell somewhere in the town With a despairing scream that hope was dead. Such were the streets-- And it was starving time in houses Where fat generosity once ran amuck, No fires in inns, no cheerful bark of hounds, Or stroke of social hoofs upon the stones. And the long docks bit the black water Like old loosened fangs that held the sea In one last grinning jaw-clamp of despair. I knew those docks When at the hour of noon A molten clangor shivered cheerful air And thousand ship-bells rang-- And now--only a drifting buoy-bell rung The knell of hope with its emphatic tongue, Cut loose by the blockaders To wander down the harbor in despair. III Close in the shadow of a warehouse lay The blockade-runner with her smokestacks gray, Back-raking like her masts, and up her hatches Came voices, and the furnace-light in patches Beat on the sails, and there alone was life-- The stevedores sang muffled snatches, and a strife Of bales and barrels streamed down her yawning hold; Cotton more valuable than money, And barrels of the St. Louis sorghum and molasses, Honey to lure the bees of English gold. Three days she lay, this arrow-pointed boat, With a light gold necklace, beaded at her throat, Something there was about her like a stoat That lies in wait to make a silent rush, And there was something in her like a thrush, For she had paddle-wheels, each like a wing. She had a long hornet stern that seemed to hold a sting. Sometimes her paddles slowly turned, For they kept steam up, waiting for a gale. It seemed as if the slim boat chafed and yearned To go hell-tearing under steam and sail. The oily water churned And made a _slap-slap_ to the paddles' stroke; And a high painted canvas screen cut off The blue haze of the lightwood smoke. On the third evening, just at sunset, came A scud of driving cloud; the lightning's flame; The sun glared from a vicious, misty socket, And in the moaning twilight curved a rocket While a blue flame blurred and frayed At Castle Pinckney; thus we knew the storm Had shifted the blockade. IV Out from the docks we shot Into the screaming night; We steered by lightning's light; The paddles beat a mad tattoo; The gridded walking-beam Pumped up, pumped down, Against the misty gleam; Faster and faster jets the stand-pipes' steam. And the white water whirls Astern in phosphorescent whorls-- It swirls And then leads backward green with light Of streaming foam across the velvet night. By the last lightning flare, That must be Sumter, bare Against a torn cloud like a rag; But now the wind begins to flag, And as it fails the engines lag; Then comes a low hail from the mast "Avast"-- Again the engines slow-- Then stop-- And we were drifting like a log As silent as a drowned corpse In the sea-set tide, Muffled in dripping fog. No word from all the ship-- She seemed asleep-- Only the cluck of water and the feel Of grim Atlantic rollers at the keel, Nuzzling two fathoms deep; They made her heel. The porpoise played about our copper lip. It seemed as if they were The only living things in all that blur, And we-- The only ship upon an ancient sea. When suddenly a laugh broke through the spell; It was so near Our pulses lapsed a heart-beat, Struck with fear. The curtains of the fog were blown apart; Stark in the sallow moonlight's metal day, The white decks of a Yankee frigate lay. I saw the glint of moonlight on her bell; She was not twenty fathoms length away. A man's face leaped out in the cherry glow Of match flame in the hands he cupped About the pipe whose curling wreaths he supped. "Clang!" like a fireman's gong Our engine signals rang; The paddles thrashed into a frothy song; Five ship's lengths we had forged along Before their bugles sang. We had ten long lengths on them Before their ship began to swerve. The rabid screw was frothing at her stern; But I could feel the verve Of our blithe timbers tremble; every nerve Of our good race-horse ship For open water seemed to yearn. That was a Titan's race; The answering rockets snaked it down the coast, Dying like scarlet worms Among the fog-wreaths; but we gained, And when her flaming cannon stabbed the mist They thundered at our ghost. So we were gone, With cotton in our furnace, Once the aft-stacks flared, And then we plied pitch-pine Dampened with turpentine, Until the black sea glared-- But we had gone-- Over the world's round shoulder Thrust the dawn, Their ugly, black masts dipping it hull down. Three days the paddles beat while we drove on! And I had won; For on the fourth day as I sat In the black coffin-shadow of a boat, The burning decks a-wash with lime-white sun, I saw the graybeard lookout swell his throat And utter forth a glad and bronze hurrah, "_Land Ho_!" he cried-- We lined the windward side To cheer the washing palm tops of Nassau. H.A. [11] See the note on the chimes at back of book. BEYOND DEBATE Out from the wrought-iron gate Miss Perdee drives in state; Miss Perdee wears the thin smile And the sleeves of 1888. Miss Perdee's face is stifled as a sonnet; Upon her wire-tight hair a duck-shaped bonnet Nests, nodding with a _cachepeigne_ Of violets on it. East Bay, some tea and talk, them home by King. The horses have an antiquated plod; The team is old, but not too old to balk If driven north of Broad. Miss Perdee wears the sure air of a queen, Which only queens and Perdees can achieve. The Perdees had blue blood in Adam's veins When Adam had the rib he gave to Eve. Back through the wrought-iron gate Miss Perdee drives in state. Miss Perdee lives down on the Battery! Beyond debate. H.A. MARSH TACKIES[12] Browsing on the salty marsh grass, Barrel-ribbed and blowsy-bellied, With a neigh as shrill as whistles And their mouths red-raw from thistles, I have seen the brown _marsh tackies_, Hiding in the swamps at Kiawah, With the gray mosquito patches Gory on their shaggy thatches. Balky, vicious, and degenerates, They are small as Spanish jennets, But their sires were with El Tarab, When he conquered Andalusia For the Prophet and the Arab; And they came with Ponce de Leon, When the Spaniard made a _peon_ And a Christian of the Carib. Peering from palmetto thickets At some fort's coquina wickets, Startled Indians saw them grazing, Thunder-stamping and amazing As the beasts from other stars, When they galloped down savannas, And their masters seemed centaurs With the new white metal blazing. Thus they came, these little beasts, With the men-at-arms and priests, In the west with Coronado When he reached the Colorado, In the east with bold De Soto In the search for El Dorado, And they packed the bells and toys That the chieftains loved like boys; Struggling through the swamps and briars After dons and tonsured friars; Dying in the forests dismal, Till the shrill of silver clarion Brought the buzzards to the carrion Round the smoke of lonely fires In a continent abysmal. So De Soto left them dying, Heedless of their human crying; Here he turned them loose to die Underneath a foreign sky; But they lived on thicket dross, On the leaves and Spanish moss-- And I wonder, and I wonder, When I hear the startled thunder Of their hoofs die down the reaches Of these Carolina beaches. H.A. [12] See the note at the back of the book. BACK RIVER "MEDWAY PLANTATION" Back River! What a name For yesterdays come back again today, Reborn to be tomorrows still the same-- A landgrave built it when the English came; Then men made houses well With cunning hands. And service wore a nearer, feudal guise-- Witness the stone where "Rose, A faithful servant," lies. _Parnassus_ stretches east, beyond that The plantation once called _Ararat_; But they have gone, Forgotten as an ancient drinking song; And the old houses, dull and roofless, Gape, with their doorways Like a dumb mouth toothless, With snake-engendering rooms that wall in fear, Silent, down forest roadways loved by deer. Sometimes at nights These skeletons of houses flash with lights, And shadow-horsemen ride, Chasing wraith-deer With eery cry of hounds And shuddering cheer; While the moon makes her rounds, Glimmering through windows dead As the dead eyes in a dead man's head; And there is heard a misty horn-- Down in the woods, Among the moss-draped solitudes, The voodoo rooster crows, While owls hoot on forlorn. But _Back River_ wears a different face; It has not changed;-- Time seems to love the place; Though all about it he has ranged, Here he has not Touched with his wand of rot-- Something of its immortal live-oak sap suffuses Its sturdy men and houses and transfuses Change into state. The sunny hours wait at strange behest. Here restless Time himself has come to rest. The golden ivory of primeval light Dwells in its Spanish moss, Falling in living cascades from the trees, And who goes there in summer hears the bees Booming among the Pride of India trees, Dull grumbling tones, A deaf man dreams, Like far-off rumbling sound of boulder-stones Washed down by headlong streams. This is Time's temple; Here he sleepy lies, Watching the buzzards circle in the skies, While shrubs slough off the pod, Making a carpet delicate Of petals strewn upon the sod, Fit for the silver slippers of the moon Upon the streets of Nod. I saw him once asleep Down by the dark ponds Where alligators creep. He had been fishing with a willow withe, And by him lay his hourglass and scythe, Resting upon the grass; They lay there in the sun, And through the glass the sands had ceased to run. H.A. DUSK They tell me she is beautiful, my City, That she is colorful and quaint, alone Among the cities. But I, I who have known Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity, Have felt her forces mould me, mind and bone, Life after life, up from her first beginning. How can I think of her in wood and stone! To others she has given of her beauty, Her gardens, and her dim, old, faded ways, Her laughter, and her happy, drifting hours, Glad, spendthrift April, squandering her flowers, The sharp, still wonder of her Autumn days; Her chimes that shimmer from St. Michael's steeple Across the deep maturity of June, Like sunlight slanting over open water Under a high, blue, listless afternoon. But when the dusk is deep upon the harbor, She finds _me_ where her rivers meet and speak, And while the constellations ride the silence High overhead, her cheek is on _my_ cheek. I know her in the thrill behind the dark When sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares. She is the glamor in the quiet park That kindles simple things like grass and trees. Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs, Bringer of dim, rich, age-old memories. Out on the gloom-deep water, when the nights Are choked with fog, and perilous, and blind, She is the faith that tends the calling lights. Hers is the stifled voice of harbor bells Muffled and broken by the mist and wind. Hers are the eyes through which I look on life And find it brave and splendid. And the stir Of hidden music shaping all my songs, And these my songs, my all, belong to her. D.H. NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY NOTES NOTE ON THE CHIMES TO ACCOMPANY "SILENCES" The bells of Charleston, like the bells of London Town, have a peculiar interest. St. Michael's bells and clock were brought from England in 1764. When the British evacuated Charleston in 1782 they took the bells with them. A Mr. Ryhineu bought them in England and returned them. They were rehung in November, 1783. During the Civil War, St. Michael's steeple was the target for Federal artillery and fleet guns. In 1861 the bells were taken to Columbia, S.C., where two of them were stolen, and the rest injured by fire when the city was burned. Those left were again sent to England, and recast in the original moulds. In March, 1867, they once again rang out from the spire. St. Phillip's Church stands in the old part of the town. During the Civil War its bells were cast into cannon. For a long time its steeple was used as a lighthouse. It is the center of forgotten things. The bells of St. Matthew's are modern and speak of a new order, but all the bells are the voice of the town. They speak for her silences, which are eloquent. NOTE ON "THE PIRATES" The many inlets and sheltering coves of the Carolina coasts very early made the "low country" seaboard a rendezvous for pirates and a shelter to refit, and to bury their treasure. As early as 1565 the French from Ribault's settlement succumbed to the temptation to plunder their rich Spanish neighbors; and in the century before the coming of the English, the lonely bays and estuaries saw strange ships from time to time. There was a pirate settlement by 1664 at Cape Fear River, where Governor Sayle did not arrive until 1670 to take formal possession for the Lords Proprietors of the colony. The Peace of Utrecht turned many privateers into pirates, ships which had been habitually preying upon Spanish commerce since Blake's victory at Santa Cruz in 1657, and these gentlemen of fortune were at first welcome in the Carolinas. Nearly all the coin in circulation then was at first brought by such doubtful adventurers, and they were regarded as the natural protectors of the Carolinas against their powerful enemy, the Spaniard, to the south. Gradually, however, this cordial attitude changed. It was a small step from attacking Spanish to plundering English commerce, and with the cultivation and export of rice and indigo, the demand for a safe sea passage grew overwhelming, while the coasts continued to be ravaged. The royal government was slow to act. In 1684 we learn that "the governor will not in all probability always reside in Charles Town, which is so near the sea as to be in danger of sudden attack by pirates;" nor was this an idle thought, for the town was blockaded by pirate ships at the harbor's mouth, and medicines and supplies demanded while citizens were held as hostages. In 1718 Governor Spotswood of Virginia sent an expedition to North Carolina, which succeeded in surprising, capturing, and beheading the notorious "Black Beard," who in company with one Stede Bonnet, had long ravaged the coast with impunity. In August of the same year word was brought to Charlestown that Bonnet with his ship the _Royal James_ was refitting in the Cape Fear River. Colonel William Rhett volunteered to attack him. With two sloops of eight guns each, the _Henry_ and the _Nymph_, and about 130 men in all, he set sail, and found Bonnet at anchor in the Cape Fear River. In making the attack, and during the encounter, all three ships ran aground. The fight raged desperately all day between the _Henry_ and the _Royal James_, the _Nymph_ being unable to get off the shoal and come to the help of her companion ship. Bonnet finally surrendered and was taken prisoner to Charlestown. It is this adventure which the poem celebrates. Bonnet escaped, but was afterwards recaptured by Colonel Rhett on Sullivan's Island. He and about thirty of his crew were hanged about the corner of Meeting and Water Streets. Bonnet, himself, was hanged later than his crew, after a masterpiece of invective by the judge, who painted hell vividly. This pirate leader was dragged fainting to the gallows, and there was much sympathy for him, as it was said, "His humor of going a-pirating proceeded from a disorder of the mind ... occasioned by some discomforts he found in the married state." NOTE ON "THE SEEWEES OF SEEWEE BAY" The Seewee Indians, who lived on the shores of what is now known as Bull's Bay, S.C., but was formerly called Seewee Bay, became discontented with the small prices obtained from the white traders for pelts. Seeing the ships constantly coming into the Bay from England, they conceived the idea of building large canoes and reaching England over the ocean. Several huge canoes, larger than any heretofore built by Indians, were accordingly constructed; these were loaded with the proceeds of a season's hunting, and, manned by all the braves of the tribe, set out in the direction from which the ships came. A gale came up and the braves were never seen again. Their squaws gradually wandered off to other tribes. This event took place about 1696. NOTE ON LA FAYETTE TO ACCOMPANY "LA FAYETTE LANDS" The Marquis de la Fayette, under the name of Gilbert du Motier, sailed from Bordeaux on the 26th of March, 1777, accompanied by the Baron Kalb and several French Army Officers. On the 14th of June, 1777, he first landed in America on North Island in Winyah Bay, near Georgetown, S.C., and was received at the house of Major Huger. In a letter to his wife, written soon after his landing, La Fayette says, "I first saw and judged of the life of the country at the house of a Major Huger." Detailed accounts of La Fayette's landing and reception still exist. NOTE ON THEODOSIA BURR TO ACCOMPANY "THE PRIEST AND THE PIRATE" In 1801 Theodosia, daughter of Aaron Burr, Vice-President of the United States, married Joseph Alston of "The Oaks," Hobcaw Barony, S.C. They had one son, Aaron Burr Alston, who died in 1812, the same year that Joseph Alston was elected Governor of the State. On December 30th, 1812, at the urgent solicitation of her father, who had just returned from Europe, and who awaited her eagerly in New York, Theodosia set sail from Georgetown, S.C., in the pilot-boat schooner, "Patriot." Those on board were never seen again. The vessel, which was being fitted out as a privateer, was carrying dismounted guns under her deck, and may have foundered in the severe gale of January 1st, 1813. In 1869, however, a Dr. W.C. Pool attended a fisher family at Naggs Head, Kittyhawk, N.C. In the fisherman's hut hung an oil painting of a beautiful woman, which had been taken from an abandoned pilot-built schooner that drifted onto the North Carolina coast in that vicinity in January, 1813. No one was aboard and the vessel had evidently been looted. Ladies' clothes were found in great disorder in the cabin. There was also a story told by a dying sailor who confessed that he had seen the crew of such a boat walk the plank, and that among them was a beautiful woman who walked into the sea with a Bible or prayer-book in her hand. The painting is in the possession of the Burr-Alston connection, and is thought by them, on account of its striking family resemblance, to be a picture of Theodosia Burr. The painting story has often been scouted, but there is too much circumstantial evidence to ignore it in treating the legend. NOTE TO "THE LAST CREW" The "Fish-Boat" of the Confederate Navy, which exhaustive research indicates to have been the first submarine vessel to sink an enemy ship in time of war, was designed by Horace L. Hundley in 1863. This boat was twenty feet long, three and one-half feet wide, and five feet deep. Her motive power consisted of eight men whose duty it was to turn the crank of the propeller shaft by hand until the target had been reached. When this primitive craft was closed for diving there was only sufficient air to support life for half an hour. Since the torpedo was attached to the boat itself there was no chance of escape. The only hope was to reach and destroy the enemy vessel before the crew were suffocated or drowned. Five successive volunteer crews died without reaching their objectives. But the sixth crew was successful in sinking the Federal blockading ship "Housatonic," their own craft being caught and crushed beneath the foundering vessel. These crews went to certain death in the night time, in such secrecy that it was often months before their own families knew the names of the men. And now, with the lapse of scarcely more than half a century, it has been possible to find the names of only sixteen of those who paid the price. Because no nation of any time can point to a more inspiring example of self-sacrifice, and because now, in a country reunited and indissoluble, the traditions of both the North and the South are a common, glorious heritage, the poem, which presents the final episode in the drama, is written as a memorial to all who gave their lives in the venture. D.H. NOTE ON POE TO ACCOMPANY "EDGAR ALLAN POE" AND "ALCHEMY" In May, 1828, Poe enlisted in the army under the name of Edgar A. Perry, and was assigned to Battery "H" of the First Artillery at Fort Independence. In October his battery was ordered to Fort Moultrie, Charleston, S.C. Poe spent a whole year on Sullivan's Island. Professor C. Alphonso Smith, the well-known Poe authority, says, "So far as I know, this was the only tropical background that Poe had ever seen." That the susceptible nature of the young poet was vastly impressed by the weirdness and melancholy scenery of the Carolina coast country, there can be very little doubt. The dank tarns and funereal woodlands of his landscapes, or at least the strong suggestion of them, may all be found here, and the scene of _The Goldbug_ is definitely laid on Sullivan's Island. Here are dim family vaults, and tracts of country in which the House of Usher might well stand. "Dim vales and shadowy floods And cloudy-looking woods Whose forms we can't discover, From the tears that drip all over" was written while Poe was in the army at Fort Moultrie, and appeared in his second volume in 1829. There are later echoes. "Around by lifting winds forgot Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie." H.A. "MARSH TACKIES" "Marsh Tackies" is the name given by the negroes to the little, wild horses of the Carolina coast country's swamps and sea islands. Early traditions say that these horses were found by the English when they first came and that they are the descendants of runaways from the Spanish settlements to the South about St. Augustine, or horses turned loose by DeSoto upon his ill-fated march to the Mississippi. These horses pick up a precarious living in out-of-the-way sections along the coast, and are occasionally taken and broken in by the negroes. They are the "poor horse trash" of the section. BIBLIOGRAPHY Alstons and Allstons of South Carolina S.C. GRAVES Annual Report of the Am. Hist. Ass. 1913 Aaron Burr, Memoirs, Life, and Letters Charleston Courier OLD FILES Charleston Mercury OLD FILES Charleston the Place and the People RAVENEL Colonial History of South Carolina LAWSON Defense of Charleston Harbor JOHNSON Diary from Dixie CHESTNUT Edgar Allan Poe WOODBURY Edgar Allan Poe, How to Know Him SMITH Edgar Allen Poe HARRISON Mobile Mercury OLD FILES Proceedings of the American Philos. Soc. VOL. XXVI Pirates, The Carolina HUGHSON, JOHNS HOPKINS PRESS PAMPHLET Submarines PAMPHLET, SMYTHE, A.T., JR. South Carolina Historical and Genealogical Magazine VOL. XIV Theodosia PIDGIN 
8181	----	Proofreading Team AN HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE COLONIES OF SOUTH CAROLINA AND GEORGIA In Two Volumes. VOL. II. By ALEXANDER HEWATT CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME CHAP. VII. _The form of legal governments._ _Sir Alexander Cumming sent out to treat of peace with the Indians._ _Brings with him to England seven Cherokees._ _Who enter into a treaty of peace and alliance._ _Speech of a Cherokee warrior._ _Robert Johnson governor._ _Several indulgences granted the people._ _Happy effects of peace and security._ _A project formed for planting a new colony._ _James Oglethorpe carries a colony to Georgia._ _He treats with Indians for a share of their lands._ _Tomochichi's speech to the King._ _His Majesty's answer._ _Indians easiest managed by gentle and fair means._ _The colony of Switzers brought Carolina._ _Eleven townships marked out._ _A struggle about lands._ _State of the colony._ _The regulation of the Trustees._ _Their impolitical restrictions._ _Two colonies of Highlanders and Germans sent out._ _Thomas Broughton Lieut.-governor of Carolina._ _Oglethorpe fortifies Georgia._ _Which gives umbrage to the Spaniards._ _The brave Chickesaws defeat the French._ _Religious state of the colony._ _The association of Presbyterians._ _Remarks on paper currency._ _Small progress of Georgia._ _Hardships of the first settlers._ _An Irish colony planted._ CHAP. VIII. _Trade obstructed by the Spaniards of Mexico._ _William Bull Lieutenant-governor._ _Oglethorpe's regiment sent to Georgia._ _The Spaniards try in vain to seduce the Creeks._ _Matters hastening to a rupture with Spain._ _Mutiny in Oglethorpe's camp._ _A negro insurrection in Carolina._ _A war with Spain._ _A project for invading Florida._ _Measures concerted for this purpose._ _General Oglethorpe marches against Florida._ _Invests Augustine._ _Raises the siege._ _A great fire at Charlestown._ _A petition in favour of the rice trade._ _Remarks on the treatment of slaves._ _The hardships of their situation._ _Oppressed with ignorance and superstition._ _James Glen governor._ _Lord Carteret's property divided from that of the Crown._ _The country much exposed to invasion._ _The Spaniards invade Georgia._ _A stratagem to get rid of the enemy._ _The Spaniards retreat to Augustine._ _Ill treatment of General Oglethorpe._ _His character cleared, and conduct vindicated._ _The Carolineans petition for three independent companies._ _The colony's advantages from Britain._ _Its advantage and importance to Britain._ CHAP. IX. _All commotions and oppressions in Europe favourable to America._ _Cultivation attended with salutary effects._ _Mean heat in Carolina._ _The diseases of the country._ _Climate favourable to the culture of indigo._ _The manner of cultivating and making indigo._ _The common methods of judging of its quality._ _Nova Scotia settled._ _The great care of Britain for these colonies._ _Low state of Georgia._ _Complaint of the people._ _Troubles excited by Thomas Bosomworth._ _With difficulty settled._ _The charter surrendered to the King._ _George Whitfield's settlement._ _Whitfield's orphan-house._ _Sketch of his character._ _A congress with Creeks._ _The Governor's speech to them._ _Malatchee's answer._ _A hurricane at Charlestown._ _The advantages of poor settlers in the province._ _The advantages of money-lenders._ _And of the borrowers._ _Great benefits enjoyed by the colonists._ _Progress of the province._ CHAP. X. _A dispute about the limits of British and French territories._ _A chain of forts raised by the French._ _The distracted state of the British colonies._ _General Braddock's defeat in Virginia._ _Colonel Johnson's success at Lake George._ _Governor Glen holds a congress with the Cherokees._ _And purchases a large tract of land from them._ _Forts built in defence of Carolina._ _Its excellent fruits and plants._ _Its minerals undiscovered._ _The British forces augmented._ _Their first success in America._ _The cause of the Cherokee war._ _Governor Lyttleton prepares to march against them._ _The Cherokees sue for peace._ _Governor Lyttleton marches against the Cherokees._ _Holds a congress at Fort Prince George._ _His speech to Attakullakulla._ _Attakullakulla's answer._ _A treaty concluded with six chiefs._ _The Governor returns to Charlestown._ _The treaty of peace broken._ _Occonostota's stratagem for killing the officer of the fort._ _The war becomes general._ _Colonel Montgomery arrives._ _And marches against the Cherokees._ _Chastises them near Etchoe._ _And returns to Fort Prince George._ _The consternation of the inhabitants from Indians._ _Great distress of the garrison at Fort Loudon._ _The terms obtained for the garrison._ _Treacherously broken by the savages._ _A proposal for attacking Fort Prince George._ _Captain Stuart escapes to Virginia._ _The war continues._ _The Highlanders return to Carolina._ _Colonel Grant marches against the Cherokees._ _Engages and defeats them._ _Destroys their towns._ _Peace with the Cherokees._ _A quarrel between the commanding officers._ _A whirlwind at Charlestown._ _Of the heat at Savanna._ CHAP. XI. _A peace, and its happy effects respecting America._ _Boundaries of East and West Florida._ _The southern provinces left secure._ _Encouragement given to reduced officers and soldiers._ _Georgia begins to flourish._ _A plan adopted for encouraging emigrations to Carolina._ _A number of Palatines seduced into England._ _Sent into Carolina._ _And settled at Londonderry._ _Some emigrate from Britain, and multitudes from Ireland._ _And from the northern colonies, resort to Carolina._ _Regulations for securing the provinces against Indians._ _John Stuart made superintendant for Indian affairs._ _Decrease of Indians, and the causes of it._ _Present state of Indian nations in the southern district._ _Mr. Stuart's first speech to the Indians, at Mobile._ _A description of Charlestown._ _The number of its inhabitants._ _A general view of the manners, &c. of the people._ _And of their way of living._ _The arts and sciences only of late encouraged._ _The militia and internal strength of the province._ _Of its societies formed for mutual support and relief._ _Of its merchants and trade._ _Of its planters and agriculture._ _An interruption of the harmony between Britain and her colonies, and the causes of it._ _The new regulations made in the trade of the colonies give great offence._ _A vote passed for charging stamp-duties on the Americans._ _Upon which the people of New England discover their disaffection to government._ _An opportunity given the colonies to offer a compensation for the stamp-duty._ _The stamp-act passes in parliament._ _Violent measures taken to prevent its execution._ _The assembly of Carolina study ways and means of eluding the act._ _Their resolutions respecting the obedience due to the British parliament._ _The people become more violent in opposition to government._ _The merchants and manufacturers in England join in petitioning for relief._ _The stamp-act repealed._ _Which proves fatal to the jurisdiction of the British parliament in America._ _And gives occasion of triumph to the colonies._ THE HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE COLONY OF SOUTH CAROLINA. CHAP. VII. [Sidenote] The form of legal governments. From that period in which the right and title to the lands of Carolina were sold, and surrendered to the King, and he assumed the immediate care and government of the province, a new aera commences in the annals of that country, which may be called the aera of its freedom, security, and happiness. The Carolineans who had long laboured under innumerable hardships and troubles, from a weak proprietary establishment, at last obtained the great object of their desires, a royal government, the constitution of which depended on commissions issued by the crown to the Governor, and the instructions which attended those commissions. The form of all provincial governments was borrowed from that of their mother country, which was not a plan of systematic rules drawn before-hand by speculative men, but a constitution which was the result of many ages of wisdom and experience. Its great object is the public good, in promoting of which all are equally concerned. It is a constitution which has a remedy within itself for every political disorder, which, when properly applied, must ever contribute to its stability and duration. After the model of this British constitution the government of Carolina now assumed a form like the other regal ones on the continent, which were composed of three branches, of a Governor, a Council, and an Assembly. The crown having the appointment of the Governor, delegates to him; its constitutional powers, civil and military, the power of legislation as far as the King possesses it; its judicial and executive powers, together with those of chancery and admiralty jurisdiction, and also those of supreme ordinary: all these powers, as they exist in the crown, are known by the laws of the realm; as they are entrusted to Governors, they are declared and defined by their commissions patent. The council, though differing in many respects from the house of peers, are intended to represent that house, and are appointed by the King during pleasure, for supporting the prerogatives of the crown in the province. The Assembly consists of the representatives of the people, and are elected by them as the House of Commons in Great Britain, to be the guardians of their lives, liberties, and properties. Here also the constitution confides in the good behaviour of the representatives; for should they presume in any respect to betray their trust, it gives the people more frequent opportunities than even in Britain, of chusing others in their stead. The Governor convenes, prorogues, and dissolves these Assemblies, and has a negative on the bills of both houses. After bills have received his assent, they are sent to Great Britain for the royal approbation, in consequence of which they have the force of laws in the province. This is a general sketch of the royal governments, which are intended to resemble the constitution of Great Britain, as nearly as the local circumstances of the provinces will admit, and which, notwithstanding its imperfections, is certainly the best form of government upon earth. By the instructions which the Governor receives from time to time from England, his power no doubt is greatly circumscribed; but it is his duty to transmit authentic accounts of the state of his province, in order that the instructions given him may be proper, and calculated for promoting not only the good of the province, but also that of the British empire. [Sidenote] Sir Alexander Cumming sent out to treat of peace with the Indians. After the purchase of the province, the first object of the royal concern was, to establish the peace of the colony on the most firm and permanent foundation; and for this purpose treaties of union and alliance with Indian nations were judged to be essentially necessary. Domestic security being first established, the colonists might then apply themselves to industry with vigour and success, and while they enriched themselves, they would at the same time enlarge the commerce and trade of the mother-country. For this purpose Sir Alexander Cumming was appointed, and sent out to conclude a treaty of alliance with the Cherokees, at this time a warlike and formidable nation of savages. These Indians occupied the lands about the head of Savanna river, and backwards among the Apalachian mountains. The country they claimed as their hunting grounds was of immense extent; and its boundaries had never been clearly ascertained. The inhabitants of their different towns were computed to amount to more than twenty thousand, six thousand of whom were warriors, fit on any emergency to take the field. An alliance with such a nation was an object of the highest consequence to Carolina, and likewise to the mother-country, now engaged for its defence and protection. [Sidenote] Brings with him to England seven Cherokees. About the beginning of the year 1730, Sir Alexander arrived in Carolina, and made preparations for his journey to the distant hills. For his guides he procured some Indian traders, well acquainted with the woods, and an interpreter who understood the Cherokee language, to assist him in his negociations. When he reached Keowee, abort three hundred miles from Charlestown, the chiefs of the lower towns there met him, and received him with marks of great friendship and esteem. He immediately dispatched messengers to the middle, the valley, and over-hill settlements, and summoned a general meeting of all their chiefs, to hold a congress with him at Nequassee. Accordingly in the month of April the chief warriors of all the Cherokee towns assembled at the place appointed. After the various Indian ceremonies were over, Sir Alexander made a speech to them, acquainting them by whose authority he was sent, and representing the great power and goodness of his sovereign King George; how he, and all his other subjects, paid a cheerful obedience to his laws, and of course were protected by him from all harm: That he had come a great way to demand of Moytoy, and all the chieftains of the nation, to acknowledge themselves the subjects of his King, and to promise obedience to his authority: and as he loved them, and was answerable to his Sovereign for their good and peaceable behaviour, he hoped they would agree to what he should now require of them. Upon which the chiefs, falling on their knees, solemnly promised fidelity and obedience, calling upon all that was terrible to fall upon them if they violated their promise. Sir Alexander then, by their unanimous consent, nominated Moytoy commander and chief of the Cherokee nation, and enjoined all the warriors of the different tribes to acknowledge him for their King, to whom they were to be accountable for their conduct. To this they also agreed, provided Moytoy should be made answerable to Sir Alexander for his behaviour to them. After which many useful presents were made them, and the congress ended to the great satisfaction of both parties. The crown was brought from Tenassee, their chief town, which with five eagle tails, and four scalps of their enemies, Moytoy presented to Sir Alexander, requesting him, on his arrival at Britain, to lay them at his Majesty's feet. But Sir Alexander proposed to Moytoy, that he should depute some of their chiefs to accompany him to England, there to do homage in person to the great King. Accordingly six of them agreed, and accompanied Sir Alexander to Charlestown, where being joined by another, they embarked for England in the Fox man of war, and arrived at Dover in June 1730. [Sidenote] Who enter into a treaty of peace and alliance. We shall not pretend to describe their behaviour at the sight of London, or their wonder and astonishment at the greatness of the city, the number of the people, and the splendour of the army and court. Being admitted into the presence of the King, they, in the name of their nation, promised to continue for ever his Majesty's faithful and obedient subjects. A treaty was accordingly drawn up, and signed by Alured Popple, secretary to the Lords Commissioners of trade and plantations, on one side; and by the marks of the six chiefs, on the other. The preamble to this treaty recites, "That whereas the six Chiefs, with the consent of the whole nation of Cherokees, at a general meeting of their nation at Nequassee, were deputed by Moytoy, their chief warrior, to attend Sir Alexander Cumming to Great Britain, where they had seen the great King George: and Sir Alexander, by authority from Moytoy and all the Cherokees, had laid the crown of their nation, with the scalps of their enemies and feathers of glory, at his Majesty's feet, as a pledge of their loyalty: And whereas the great King had commanded the Lords Commissioners of trade and plantations to inform the Indians, that the English on all sides of the mountains and lakes were his people, their friends his friends, and their enemies his enemies; that he took it kindly the great nation of Cherokees had sent them so far, to brighten the chain of friendship between him and them, and between his people and their people; that the chain of friendship between him and the Cherokees is now like the sun, which shines both in Britain and also upon the great mountains where they live, and equally warms the hearts of Indians and Englishmen; that as there is no spots or blackness in the sun, so neither is there any rust or foulness on this chain. And as the King had fastened one end to his breast, he defied them to carry the other end of the chain and fasten it to the breast of Moytoy of Telliquo, and to the breasts of all their old wise men, their captains, and people, never more to be made loose or broken. "The great King and the Cherokees being thus fastened together by a chain of friendship, he has ordered, and it is agreed, that his children in Carolina do trade with the Indians, and furnish them with all manner of goods they want, and to make haste to build houses and plant corn from Charlestown, towards the towns of Cherokees behind the great mountains: That he desires the English and Indians may live together as children of one family; that the Cherokees be always ready to fight against any nation, whether white men or Indians, who shall dare to molest or hurt the English; that the nation of Cherokees shall, on their part, take care to keep the trading path clean, that there be no blood on the path where the English tread, even though they should be accompanied with other people with whom the Cherokees may be at war: That the Cherokees shall not suffer their people to trade with white men of any other nation but the English, nor permit white men of any other nation to build any forts or cabins, or plant any corn among them, upon lands which belong to the great King: and if any such attempt shall be made, the Cherokees must acquaint the English Governor therewith, and do whatever he directs, in order to maintain and defend the great King's right to the country of Carolina: That if any negroes shall run away into the woods from their English masters, the Cherokees shall endeavour to apprehend them, and bring them to the plantation from whence they run away, or to the Governor, and for every slave so apprehended and brought back, the Indian that brings him shall receive a gun and a watch-coat: and if by any accident it shall happen, that an Englishman shall kill a Cherokee, the King or chief of the nation shall first complain to the English Governor, and the man who did the harm shall be punished by the English laws as if he had killed an Englishman; and in like manner, if any Indian happens to kill an Englishman, the Indian shall be delivered up to the Governor, to be punished by the same English laws as if he were an Englishman." This was the substance of the first treaty between the King and the Cherokees, every article of which was accompanied with presents of different kinds, such as cloth, guns, shot, vermilion, flints, hatchets, knives. The Indians were given to understand, "That these were the words of the great King, whom they had seen, and as a token that his heart was open and true to his children the Cherokees, and to all their people, a belt was given the warriors, which they were told the King desired them to keep, and shew to all their people, to their children, and children's children, to confirm what was now spoken, and to bind this agreement of peace and friendship between the English and Cherokees, as long as the rivers shall run, the mountains shall last, or the sun shall shine." [Sidenote] Speech of a Cherokee warrior. This treaty, that it might be the easier understood, was drawn up in language as similar as possible to that of the Indians, which at this time was very little known in England, and given to them, certified and approved by Sir Alexander Cumming. In answer to which, Skijagustah, in name of the rest, made a speech to the following effect:--"We are come hither from a mountainous place, where nothing but darkness is to be found--but we are now in a place where there is light.--There was a person in our country--he gave us a yellow token of warlike honour, which is left with Moytoy of Telliquo,--and as warriors we received it.--He came to us like a warrior from you.--A man he is;--his talk is upright--and the token he left preserves his memory among us.--We look upon you as if the great King were present;--we love you as representing the great King;--we shall die in the same way of thinking.--The crown of our nation is different from that which the great King George wears, and from that we saw in the tower.--But to us it is all one.--The chain of friendship shall be carried to our people.--We look upon the great King George as the Sun, and as our father, and upon ourselves as his children.--For though we are red, and you are white, yet our hands and hearts are joined together.--When we shall have acquainted our people with what we have seen, our children from generation to generation will always remember it.--In war we shall always be one with you. The enemies of the great King shall be our enemies;--his people and ours shall be one, and shall die together.--We came hither naked and poor as the worms of the earth, but you have every thing,--and we that have nothing must love you, and will never break the chain of friendship which is between us.--Here stands the Governor of Carolina, whom we know.--This small rope we show you is all that we have to bind our slaves with, and it may be broken.--But you have iron chains for yours.--However, if we catch your slaves, we will bind them as well as we can, and deliver them to our friends, and take no pay for it.--We have looked round for the person that was in our country--he is not here;--however, we must say he talked uprightly to us, and we shall never forget him.--Your white people may very safely build houses near us;--we shall hurt nothing that belongs to them, for we are children of one father, the great King, and shall live and die together." Then laying down his feathers upon the table he added: "This is our way of talking, which is the same thing to us as your letters in the book are to you, and to you beloved men we deliver these feathers in confirmation of all we have said." The Cherokees, however barbarous, were a free and independent people; and this method of obtaining a share of their lands by the general consent, was fair and honourable in itself, and most agreeable to the general principles of equity, and the English constitution. An agreement is made with them, in consequence of which the King could not only give a just title to Indian lands; but, by Indians becoming his voluntary subjects, the colonists obtained peaceable possession. The Cherokees held abundance of territory from nature, and with little injury to themselves could spare a share of it; but reason and justice required that it be obtained by paction or agreement. By such treaties mutual presents were made, mutual obligations were established, and, for the performance of the conditions required, the honour and faith of both parties were pledged. Even to men in a barbarous state such policy was the most agreeable, as will afterwards clearly appear; for the Cherokees, in consequence of this treaty, for many years, remained in a state of perfect friendship and peace with the colonists, who followed their various employments in the neighbourhood of those Indians, without the least terror or molestation. [Sidenote] Robert Johnson Governor. About the beginning of the year 1731, Robert Johnson, who had been Governor of Carolina while in the possession of the Lords Proprietors, having received a commission from the King, investing him with the same office and authority, arrived in the province. He brought back these Indian chiefs, possessed with the highest ideas of the power and greatness of the English nation, and not a little pleased with the kind and generous treatment they had received. The Carolineans, who had always entertained the highest esteem for this gentleman, even in the time of their greatest confusion, having now obtained him in the character of King's Governor, a thing they formerly had so earnestly desired, received him with the greatest demonstrations of joy. Sensible of his wisdom and virtue, and his strong attachment to the colony, they promised themselves much prosperity and happiness under his gentle administration. This new Governor, from his knowledge of the province, and the dispositions of the people, was not only well qualified for his high office, but he had a council to assist him, composed of the most respectable inhabitants. Thomas Broughton was appointed Lieutenant-governor, and Robert Wright Chief Justice. The other members of the council were, William Bull, James Kinloch, Alexander Skene, John Fenwick, Arthur Middleton, Joseph Wragg, Francis Yonge, John Hamerton, and Thomas Waring. At the first meeting of Assembly, the Governor recommended to both houses, to embrace the earliest opportunity of testifying their gratitude to his Majesty for purchasing seven-eight parts of the province, and taking it under his particular care; he enjoined them to put the laws in execution against impiety and immorality, and as the most effectual means of discouraging vice, to attend carefully to the education of youth. He acquainted them of the treaty which had been concluded in England with the Cherokees, which he hoped would be attended with beneficial and happy consequences; he recommended the payment of public debts, the establishment of public credit, and peace and unanimity among themselves as the chief objects of their attention; for if they should prove faithful subjects to his Majesty, and attend to the welfare and prosperity of their country, he hoped soon to see it, now under the protection of a great and powerful nation, in as flourishing and prosperous a situation as any of the other settlements on the continent. They in return presented to him the most loyal and affectionate addresses, and entered on their public deliberations with uncommon harmony and great satisfaction. [Sidenote] Several indulgences granted the people. For the encouragement of the people, now connected with the mother country both by mutual affection and the mutual benefits of commerce, several favours and indulgences were granted them. The restraint upon rice, an innumerated commodity, was partly taken off; and, that it might arrive more seasonably and in better condition at the market, the colonists were permitted to send it to any port southward of Cape Finisterre. A discount upon hemp was also allowed by parliament. The arrears of quit-rents bought from the Proprietors were remitted by a bounty from the Crown. For the benefit and enlargement of trade their bills of credit were continued, and seventy-seven thousand pounds were stamped and issued by virtue of an act of the legislature, called the Appropriation Law. Seventy pieces of cannon were sent out by the King, and the Governor had instructions to build one fort at Port-Royal, and another on the river Alatamaha. An independent company of foot was allowed for their defence by land, and ships of war were stationed there for the protection of trade. These and many more favours flowed to the colony, now emerging from the depths of poverty and oppression, and arising to a state of freedom, ease and affluence. [Sidenote] Happy effects of peace and security. As a natural consequence of its domestic security, the credit of the province in England increased. The merchants of London, Bristol, and Liverpool turned their eyes to Carolina, as a new and promising channel of trade, and established houses in Charlestown for conducting their business with the greater ease and success. They poured in slaves from Africa for cultivating their lands, and manufactures of Britain for supplying the plantations; by which means the planters obtained great credit, and goods at a much cheaper rate than they could be obtained from any other nation. In consequence of which the planters having greater strength, turned their whole attention to cultivation, and cleared the lands with greater facility and success. The lands arose in value, and men of foresight and judgment began to look out and secure the richest spots for themselves, with that ardour and keenness which the prospects of riches naturally inspire. The produce of the province in a few years was doubled. During this year above thirty-nine thousand barrels of rice were exported, besides deer-skins, furs, naval stores, and provisions; and above one thousand five hundred negroes were imported into it. From this period its exports kept pace with its imports, and secured its credit in England. The rate of exchange had now arisen to seven hundred _per cent. i. e._ seven hundred Carolina money was given for a bill of an hundred pounds sterling on England; at which rate it afterwards continued, with little variation, for upwards of forty years. Hitherto small and inconsiderable was the progress in cultivation Carolina had made, and the face of the country appeared like a desert, with little spots here and there cleared, scarcely discernible amidst the immense forest. The colonists were slovenly farmers, owing to the vast quantities of lands, and the easy and cheap terms of obtaining them; for a good crop they were more indebted to the great power of vegetation and natural richness of the soil, than to their own good culture and judicious management. They had abundance of the necessaries, and several of the conveniencies of life. But their habitations were clumsy and miserable huts, and having no chaises, all travellers were exposed in open boats or on horseback to the violent heat of the climate. Their houses were constructed of wood, by erecting first a wooden frame, and then covering it with clap-boards without, and plastering it with lime within, of which they had plenty made from oyster-shells. Charlestown, at this time, consisted of between five and six hundred houses, mostly built of timber, and neither well constructed nor comfortable, plain indications of the wretchedness and poverty of the people. However, from this period the province improved in building as well as in many other respects; many ingenious artificers and tradesmen of different kinds found encouragement in it, and introduced a taste for brick buildings, and more neat and pleasant habitations. In process of time, as the colony increased in numbers, the face of the country changed, and exhibited an appearance of industry and plenty. The planters made a rapid progress towards wealth and independence, and the trade being well protected, yearly increased and flourished. [Sidenote] A project formed for planting a new colony At the same time, for the relief of poor and indigent people of Great Britain and Ireland, and for the farther security of Carolina, the settlement of a new colony between the rivers Alatamaha and Savanna was projected in England. This large territory, situated on the south-west of Carolina, yet lay waste, without an inhabitant except its original savages. Private compassion and public spirit conspired towards promoting the excellent design. Several persons of humanity and opulence having observed many families and valuable subjects oppressed with the miseries of poverty at home, united, and formed a plan for raising money and transporting them to this part of America. For this purpose they applied to the King, obtained from him letters-patent, bearing date June 9th, 1732, for legally carrying into execution what they had generously projected. They called the new province Georgia, in honour of the King, who likewise greatly encouraged the undertaking. A Corporation consisting of twenty-one persons was constituted, by the name of Trustees, for settling and establishing the Colony of Georgia; which was separated from Carolina by the river Savanna. The Trustees having first set an example themselves, by largely contributing towards the scheme, undertook also to solicit benefactions from others, and to apply the money towards clothing, arming, purchasing utensils for cultivation, and transporting such poor people as should consent to go over and begin a settlement. They however confined not their views to the subjects of Britain alone, but wisely opened a door also for oppressed and indigent Protestants from other nations. To prevent any misapplication or abuse of charitable donations, they agreed to deposit the money in the bank of England, and to enter in a book the names of all the charitable benefactors, together with the sums contributed by each of them; and to bind and oblige themselves, and their successors in office, to lay a state of the money received and expended before the Lord Chancellor of England, the Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench and Common Pleas, the Master of the Rolls, and the Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer. When this scheme of the Trustees with respect to the settlement of Georgia was made public, the well-wishers of mankind in every part of Britain highly approved of an undertaking so humane and disinterested. To consult the public happiness, regardless of private interest, and to stretch forth a bountiful hand for relief of distressed fellow-creatures, were considered as examples of uncommon benevolence and virtue, and therefore worthy of general imitation. The ancient Romans, famous for their courage and magnanimity, ranked the planting of colonies among their noblest works, and such as added greater lustre to their empire than their most glorious wars and victories. By the latter old cities were plundered and destroyed; by the former new ones were founded and established. The latter ravaged the dominions of enemies, and depopulated the world; the former improved new territories, provided for unfortunate friends, and added strength to the state. The benevolent founders of the colony of Georgia perhaps may challenge the annals of any nation to produce a design more generous and praise-worthy than that they had undertaken. They voluntarily offered their money, their labour, and time, for promoting what appeared to them the good of others, leaving themselves nothing for reward but the inexpressible satisfaction arising from virtuous actions. Among other great ends they had also in view the conversion and civilization of Indian savages. If their public regulations were afterwards found improper and impracticable; if their plan of settlement proved too narrow and circumscribed; praise, nevertheless, is due to them. Human policy at best is imperfect; but, when the design appears so evidently good and disinterested, the candid and impartial part of the world will make many allowances for them, considering their ignorance of the country, and the many defects that cleave to all codes of laws, even when framed by the wisest legislators. About the middle of July, 1732, the trustees for Georgia held their first general meeting, when Lord Percival was chosen President of the Corporation. After all the members had qualified themselves, agreeable to the charter, for the faithful discharge of the trust, a common seal was ordered to be made. The device was, on one side, two figures resting upon urns, representing the rivers Alatamaha and Savanna, the boundaries of the province; between them the genius of the colony seated, with a cap of liberty on his head, a spear in one hand and a cornucopia in the other, with the inscription, COLONIA GEORGIA AUG.: on the other side was a represention of silk worms, some beginning and others having finished their web, with the motto, NON SIBI SED ALIIS; a very proper emblem, signifying, that the nature of the establishment was such, that neither the first trustees nor their successors could have any views of interest, it being entirely designed for the benefit and happiness of others. [Sidenote] James Oglethorpe carries a colony to Georgia. In November following, one hundred and sixteen settlers embarked at Gravesend for Georgia, having their passage paid, and every thing requisite for building and cultivation furnished them by the Corporation. They could not properly be called adventurers, as they run no risque but what arose from the change of climate, and as they were to be maintained until by their industry they were able to support themselves. James Oglethorpe, one of the Trustees, embarked along with them, and proved a zealous and active promoter of the settlement. In the beginning of the year following Oglethorpe arrived in Charlestown, where he was received by the Governor and Council in the kindest manner, and treated with every mark of civility and respect. Governor Johnson, sensible of the great advantage that must accrue to Carolina from this new colony; gave all the encouragement and assistance in his power to forward the settlement. Many of the Carolineans sent them provisions, and hogs, and cows to begin their stock. William Bull, a man of knowledge and experience, agreed to accompany Mr. Oglethorpe, and the rangers and scout-boats were ordered to attend him to Georgia. After their arrival at Yamacraw, Oglethorpe and Bull explored the country, and having found an high and pleasant spot of ground, situated on a navigable river, they fixed on this place as the most convenient and healthy situation for the settlers. On this hill they marked out a town, and, from the Indian name of the river which ran past it, called it Savanna. A small fort was erected on the banks of it as a place of refuge, and some guns were mounted on it for the defence of the colony. The people were set to work in felling trees and building huts for themselves, and Oglethorpe animated and encouraged them, by exposing himself to all the hardships which the poor objects of his compassion endured. He formed them into a company of militia, appointed officers from among themselves, and furnished them with arms and ammunition. To shew the Indians how expert they were at the use of arms, he frequently exercised them; and as they had been trained beforehand by the serjeants of the guards in London, they performed their various parts in a manner little inferior to regular troops. [Sidenote] He treats with Indians for a share of their lands. Having thus put his colony in as good a situation as possible, the next object of his attention was to treat with the Indians for a share of their possessions. The principal tribes that at this time occupied the territory were the Upper and Lower Creeks; the former were numerous and strong, the latter, by diseases and war, had been reduced to a smaller number: both tribes together were computed to amount to about twenty-five thousand, men, women and children. Those Indians, according to a treaty formerly made with Governor Nicolson, laid claim to the lands lying south-west of Savanna river, and, to procure their friendship for this infant colony, was an object of the highest consequence. But as the tribe of Indians settled at Yamacraw was inconsiderable, Oglethorpe judged it necessary to have the other tribes also to join with them in the treaty. To accomplish this union he found an Indian woman named Mary, who had married a trader from Carolina, and who could speak both the English and Creek languages; and perceiving that she had great influence among Indians, and might be made useful as an interpreter in forming treaties of alliance with them; he therefore first purchased her friendship with presents, and afterwards settled an hundred pounds yearly on her, as a reward for her services. By her assistance he summoned a general meeting of the chiefs, to hold a congress with him at Savanna, in order to procure their consent to the peaceable settlement of his colony. At this congress fifty chieftains were present, when Oglethorpe represented to them the great power, wisdom and wealth of the English nation, and the many advantages that would accrue to Indians in general from a connection and friendship with them; and as they had plenty of lands, he hoped they would freely resign a share of them to his people, who were come for their benefit and instruction to settle among them. After having distributed some presents, which must always attend every proposal of friendship and peace, an agreement was made, and then Tomochichi, in name of the Creek warriors, addressed him in the following manner: "Here is a little present, and, giving him a buffaloe's skin, adorned on the inside with the head and feathers of an eagle, desired him to accept it, because the eagle was an emblem of speed, and the buffalo of strength. He told him, that the English were as swift as the bird and as strong as the beast, since, like the former, they flew over vast seas to the uttermost parts of the earth; and, like the latter, they were so strong that nothing could withstand them. He said, the feathers of the eagle were soft, and signified love; the buffalo's skin was warm, and signified protection; and therefore he hoped the English would love and protect their little families." Oglethorpe accordingly accepted the present, and after having concluded this treaty limited by the nature of their government, was nevertheless great, as they always directed the public councils in all affairs relative to peace and war. It is true their young men, fond of fame and glory from warlike exploits, and rejoicing in opportunities of distinguishing themselves, will now and then, in contempt to the power of their old leaders, break out in scalping parties. To moderate and restrain the fiery passions of the young men, the sages find generally the greatest difficulties, especially as these passions are often roused by gross frauds and impositions. Unprincipled and avaricious traders sometimes resided among them, who, that they might the more easily cheat them, first filled the savages drunk, and then took all manner of advantages of them in the course of traffic. When the Indian recovered from his fit of drunkenness, and finding himself robbed of his treasures, for procuring which he had perhaps hunted a whole year, he is filled with fury, and breathes vengeance and resentment. No authority can then restrain him within the bounds of moderation. At such a juncture in vain does the leader of the greatest influence interpose. He spurns at every person that presumes to check that arm by which alone he defends his property against the hands of fraud and injustice. Among themselves indeed theft is scarcely known, and injuries of this kind are seldom committed; and had the traders observed in general the same justice and equity in their dealings with them, as they commonly practice among themselves, it would have been an easy matter with their wise and grave leaders to maintain peace in all the different intercourses between Europeans and Indians. Tomochichi acknowledged, that the Governor of the world had given the English great wisdom, power and riches, insomuch that they wanted nothing; he had given Indians great territories, yet they wanted every thing; and he prevailed on the Creeks freely to resign such lands to the English as were of no use to themselves, and to allow them to settle among them, on purpose that they might get instruction, and be supplied with the various necessaries of life. He persuaded them, that the English were a generous nation, and would trade with them on the most just and honourable terms; that they were brethren and friends, and would protect them from danger, and go with them to war against all their enemies. Some say that James Oglethorpe, when he came out to settle this colony in Georgia, brought along with him Sir Walter Raleigh's journals, written by his own hand; and by the latitude of the place, and the traditions of the Indians, it appeared to him that Sir Walter had landed at the mouth of Savanna river. Indeed during his wild and chimerical attempts for finding out a golden country, it is not improbable that this brave adventurer visited many different places. The Indians acknowledged that their fathers once held a conference with a warrior who came over the great waters. At a little distance from Savanna, there is an high mount of earth, under which they say the Indian King lies interred, who talked with the English warrior, and that he desired to be buried in the same place where this conference was held. But having little authority with respect to this matter, we leave the particular relation of it to men in circumstances more favourable for intelligence. [Sidenote] The colony of Switzers brought to Carolina. While the security of Carolina, against external enemies, by this settlement of Georgia, engaged the attention of British government, the means of its internal improvement and population at the same time were not neglected. John Peter Pury, a native of Neufchatel in Switzerland, having formed a design of leaving his native country, paid a visit to Carolina, in order to inform himself of the circumstances, and situation of the province. After viewing the lands there, and procuring all the information he could, with respect to the terms of obtaining them, he returned to Britain. The government entered into a contract with him, and, for the encouragement of the people, agreed to give lands and four hundred pounds sterling for every hundred effective men he should transport from Switzerland to Carolina. Pury, while in Carolina, having furnished himself with a flattering account of the soil and climate, and of the excellence and freedom of the provincial government, returned to Switzerland, and, published it among the people. Immediately one hundred and seventy poor Switzers agreed to follow him, and were transported to the fertile and delightful province as he described it; and not long afterwards two hundred more came over, and joined them. The Governor, agreeable to instructions, allotted forty thousand acres of lands for the use of the Swiss settlement on the north-east side of Savanna river; and a town was marked out for their accommodation, which he called Purisburgh, from the name of the principal promoter of the settlement. Mr. Bignion, a Swiss minister, whom they had engaged to go with them, having received episcopal ordination from the bishop of London, settled among them for their religious instruction. On the one hand the Governor and council, happy in the acquisition of such a force, allotted each of them his separate tract of land, and gave every encouragement in their power to the people: On the other, the poor Swiss emigrants began their labours with uncommon zeal and courage, highly elevated with the idea of possessing landed estates, and big with the hopes of future success. However, in a short time they felt the many inconveniencies attending a change of climate. Several of them sickened and died, and others found all the hardships of the first state of colonization falling heavily upon them. They became discontented with the provisions allowed them, and complained to government of the persons employed to distribute them; and, to double their distress, the period for receiving the bounty expired before they had made such progress in cultivation as to raise sufficient provisions for themselves and families. The spirit of murmur crept into the poor Swiss settlement, and the people finding themselves oppressed with indigence and distress, could consider their situation in no other light than a state of banishment, and not only blamed Pury for deceiving them, but also heartily repented their leaving their native country. [Sidenote] Eleven townships marked out. According to the new plan adopted in England for the more speedy population and settlement of the province; the Governor had instructions to mark out eleven townships, in square plats, on the sides of rivers, consisting each of twenty thousand acres, and to divide the lands within them into shares of fifty acres for each man, woman, and child, that should come over to occupy and improve them. Each township was to form a parish, and all the inhabitants were to have an equal right to the river. So soon as the parish should increase to the number of an hundred families, they were to have right to send two members of their own election to the Assembly, and to enjoy the same privileges as the other parishes already established. Each settler was to pay four shillings a year for every hundred acres of land, excepting the first ten years, during which term they were to be rent free. Governor Johnson issued a warrant to St. John, Surveyor-general of the province, empowering him to go and mark out those townships. But he having demanded an exorbitant sum of money for his trouble, the members of the council agreed among themselves to do this piece of service for their country. Accordingly eleven townships were marked out by them in the following situations; two on river Alatamacha, two on Savanna, two on Santee, one on Pedee, one on Wacamaw, one on Watcree, and one on Black rivers. [Sidenote] A struggle about lands. The old planters now acquiring every year greater strength of hands, by the large importation of negroes, and extensive credit from England, began to turn their attention more closely than ever to the lands of the province. A spirit of emulation broke out among them for securing tracts of the richest ground, but especially such as were most conveniently situated for navigation. Complaints were made to the Assembly, that all the valuable lands on navigable rivers and Creeks adjacent to Port-Royal had been run out in exorbitant tracts, under colour of patents granted by the Proprietors to Cassiques and Landgraves, by which the complainants, who had, at the hazard of their lives, defended the country, were hindered from obtaining such lands as could be useful and beneficial, at the established quit-rents, though the Attorney and Solicitor-General of England had declared such patents void. Among others, Job Rothmaller and Thomas Cooper, having been accused of some illegal practices with respect to this matter, a petition was presented to the Assembly by thirty-nine inhabitants of Granville county in their vindication. When the Assembly examined into the matter, they ordered their messenger forthwith to take into custody Job Rothmaller and Thomas Cooper, for aiding, assisting, and superintending the deputy-surveyor in marking out tracks of land already surveyed, contrary to the quit rent act. But Cooper, being taken into custody, applied to Chief Justice Wright for a writ of _habeas corpus_, which was granted. The Assembly, however, sensible of the ill consequences that would attend such illegal practices, determined to put a stop to them by an act made on purpose. They complained to the Governor and Council against the Surveyor-General, for encouraging land-jobbers, and allowing such liberties as tended to create litigious disputes in the province, and to involve it in great confusion. In consequence of which, the Governor, to give an effectual check to such practices, prohibited St. John to survey lands to any person without an express warrant from him. The Surveyor-general, however, determined to make the most of his office, and having a considerable number to support him, represented both Governor and Council as persons disaffected to his Majesty's government, and enemies to the interest of the country. Being highly offended at the Assembly, he began to take great liberties without doors, and to turn some of their speeches into ridicule. Upon which an order was issued to take St. John also into custody; and then the Commons came to the following spirited resolutions: "That it is the undeniable privilege of this Assembly to commit such persons they may judge to deserve it: That the freedom of speech and debate ought not to be impeached or questioned in any court or place out of that house: That it is a contempt and violation of the privileges of that house, to call in question any of their commitments: That no writ of _habeas corpus_ lies in favour of any person committed by that house, and that the messenger attending do yield no obedience to such; and that the Chief Justice be made acquainted with these resolutions." In consequence of which, Wright complained before the Governor and Council of these resolutions, as tending to the dissolution of all government, and charged the lower house with disallowing his Majesty's undoubted prerogative, and with renouncing obedience to his writs of _habeas corpus_. But the Council in general approved of their conduct, and were of opinion, that the Assembly of Carolina had that same privilege there, that the House of Commons had in England. In short, this affair created some trouble in the colony. For while a strong party, from motives of private interest, supported the Chief Justice; the Assembly resolved, "That he appeared to be prejudiced against the people, and was therefore unworthy of the office he held, and that it would tend to the tranquillity of the province immediately to suspend him." In this situation was the colony about the end of the year 1733. Each planter, eager in the pursuit of large possessions of land, which were formerly neglected, because of little value, strenuously vied with his neighbour for a superiority of fortune, and seemed impatient of every restraint that hindered or cramped him in his favourite pursuit. Many favours and indulgences had already been granted them from the Crown, for promoting their success and prosperity, and for securing the province against external enemies. What farther favours they expected, we may learn from the following Memorial and Representation of the state of Carolina, transmitted to his Majesty, bearing date April 9th, 1734, and signed by the Governor, the President of the Council, and the Speaker of the Commons House of Assembly. [Sidenote] State of the colony. "Your Majesty's most dutiful subjects of this province, having often felt, with hearts full of gratitude, the many signal instances of your Majesty's peculiar favour and protection, to those distant parts of your dominions, and especially those late proofs of your Majesty's most gracious and benign care, so wisely calculated for the preservation of this your Majesty's frontier province on the continent of America, by your royal charter to the Trustees for establishing the colony of Georgia, and your great goodness so timely applied, for the promoting the settlement of the Swiss at Purisburgh; encouraged by such views of your Majesty's wise and paternal care, extended to your remotest subjects, and excited by the duty we owe to your most sacred Majesty, to be always watchful for the support and security of your Majesty's interest, especially at this very critical conjuncture, when the flame of a war breaking out in Europe may very speedily be lighted here, in this your Majesty's frontier province, which, in situation, is known to be of the utmost importance to the general trade and traffic in America: we, therefore, your Majesty's most faithful Governor, Council, and Commons, convened in your Majesty's province of South Carolina, crave leave with great humility to represent to your Majesty the present state and condition of this your province, and how greatly it stands in need of your Majesty's gracious and timely succour in case of a war, to assist our defence against the French and Spaniards, or any other enemies to your Majesty's dominions, as well as against the many nations of savages which so nearly threaten the safety of your Majesty's subjects. "The province of South Carolina, and the new colony of Georgia, are the southern frontiers of all your Majesty's dominions on the continent of America; to the south and south-west of which is situated the strong castle of St. Augustine, garrisoned by four hundred Spaniards, who have several nations of Indians under their subjection, besides several other small settlements and garrisons, some of which are not eighty miles distant from the colony of Georgia. To the south-west and west of us the French have erected a considerable town, near Fort Thoulouse on the Moville river, and several other forts and garrisons, some not above three hundred miles distant from our settlements; and at New Orleans on the Mississippi river, since her late Majesty Queen Anne's war, they have exceedingly increased their strength and traffic, and have now many forts and garrisons on both sides of that great river for several hundred miles up the same; and since his most Christian Majesty has taken out of the Mississippi Company the government of that country into his own hands, the French natives in Canada come daily down in shoals to settle all along that river, where many regular forces have of late been sent over by the King to strengthen the garrisons in those places, and, according to our best and latest advices, they have five hundred men in pay, constantly employed as wood-rangers, to keep their neighbouring Indians in subjection, and to prevent the distant ones from disturbing the settlements; which management of the French has so well succeeded, that we are very well assured they have now wholly in their possession and under their influence, the several numerous nations of Indians that are situated near the Mississippi river, one of which, called the Choctaws, by estimation consists of about five thousand fighting men, and who were always deemed a very warlike nation, lies on this side the river, not above four hundred miles distant from our out-settlements, among whom, as well as several other nations of Indians, many French Europeans have been sent to settle, whom the priests and missionaries among them encourage to take Indian wives, and use divers other alluring methods to attach the Indians the better to the French alliance, by which means the French are become throughly acquainted with the Indian way, warring and living in the woods, and have now a great number of white men among them, able to perform a long march with an army of Indians upon any expedition. "We further beg leave to inform your Majesty, that if the measures of France should provoke your Majesty to a state of hostility against it in Europe, we have great reason to expect an invasion will be here made upon your Majesty's subjects by the French and Indians from the Mississippi settlements. They have already paved a way for a design of that nature, by erecting a fort called the Albama fort, alias Fort Lewis, in the middle of the Upper Creek Indians, upon a navigable river leading to Mobile, which they have kept well garrisoned and mounted with fourteen pieces of cannon, and have lately been prevented from erecting a second nearer to us on that quarter. The Upper Creeks are a nation very bold, active and daring, consisting of about two thousand five hundred fighting men, (and not above one hundred and fifty miles distant from the Choctaws), whom, through we heretofore have traded with, claimed and held in our alliance, yet the French, on account of that fort and a superior ability to make them liberal presents, have been for some time striving to draw them over to their interest, and have succeeded with some of the towns of the Creeks; which, if they can be secured in your Majesty's interest, are the only nation which your Majesty's subjects here can depend upon as the best barrier against any attempts either of the French or their confederate Indians. "We most humbly beg leave farther to inform your Majesty, that the French at Mobile perceiving that they could not gain the Indians to their interest without buying their deer-skins, (which is the only commodity the Indians have to purchase necessaries with), and the French not being able to dispose of those skins by reason of their having no vent for them in Old France, they have found means to encourage vessels from hence, New-York, and other places, (which are not prohibited by the acts of trade), to truck those skins with them for Indian trading goods, especially the British woollen manufactures, which the French dispose of to the Creeks and Choctaws, and other Indians, by which means the Indians are much more alienated from our interest, and on every occasion object to us that the French can supply them with strouds and blankets as well as the English, which would have the contrary effect if they were wholly supplied with those commodities by your Majesty's subjects trading with them. If a stop were therefore put to that pernicious trade with the French, the chief dependence of the Creek Indians would be on this government, and that of Georgia, to supply them with goods; by which means great part of the Choctaws, living next the Creeks, would see the advantage the Creek Indians enjoyed by having British woollen manufactures wholly from your Majesty's subjects, and thereby be invited in a short time to enter into a treaty of commerce with us, which they have lately made some offers for, and which, if effected, will soon lessen the interest of the French with those Indians, and by degrees attach them to that of your Majesty. "The only expedient we can propose to recover and confirm that nation to your Majesty's interest, is by speedily making them presents to withdraw them from the French alliance, and by building some forts among them your Majesty may be put in such a situation, that on the first notice of hostilities with the French, your Majesty may be able at once to reduce the Albama fort, and we may then stand against the French and their Indians, which, if not timely prepared for before a war breaks out, we have too much reason to fear we may be soon over-run by the united strength of the French, the Creeks and Choctaws, with many other nations of their Indian allies: for, should the Creeks become wholly enemies, who are well acquainted with all our settlements, we probably should also be soon deserted by the Cherokees, and a few others, small tribes of Indians, who, for the sake of our booty, would readily join to make us a prey to the French and savages. Ever since the late Indian war, the offences given us then by the Creeks have made that nation very jealous of your Majesty's subjects of this province. We have therefore concerted measures with the honourable James Oglethorpe, Esq; who, being at the head of a new colony, will (we hope) be successful for your Majesty's interest among that people. He has already by presents attached the Lower Creeks to your Majesty, and has laudably undertaken to endeavour the fixing a garrison among the Upper Creeks, the expence of which is already in part provided for in this session of the General Assembly of this province. We hope therefore to prevent the French from encroaching farther on your Majesty's territories, until your Majesty is graciously pleased further to strengthen and secure the same. "We find the Cherokee nation has lately become very insolent to your Majesty's subjects trading among them, notwithstanding the many favours the chiefs of that nation received from your Majesty in Great-Britain, besides a considerable expence which your Majesty's subjects of this province have been at in making them presents, which inclines us to believe that the French, by their Indians, have been tampering with them. We therefore beg leave to inform your Majesty, that the building and mounting some forts likewise among the Cherokees, and making them presents will be highly necessary to keep them steady in their duty to your Majesty, lest the French may prevail in seducing that nation, which they may the more readily be inclined to from the prospect of getting considerable plunder in slaves, cattle, _&c._ commodities which they very well know we have among us, several other forts will be indispensibly necessary, to be a cover to your Majesty's subjects settled backwards in this province, as also to those of the colony of Georgia, both which in length are very extensive; for though the trustees for establishing the colony of Georgia, by a particular scheme of good management, painfully conducted by the gentleman engaged here in that charitable enterprise, has put that small part of the colony, which he has not yet been able to establish, in a tenable condition, against the Spaniards of Florida which lie to the southward; yet the back exposition of those colonies to the vast number of French and Indians which border on the westward, must, in case of a war, cry greatly aloud for your Majesty's gracious and timely succour. The expense of our safety on such an occasion, we must, with all humility, acquaint your Majesty, either for men or money, can never be effected by your Majesty's subjects of this province, who, in conjunction with Georgia, do not in the whole amount to more than three thousand five hundred men, which compose the militia, and wholly consist of planters, tradesmen, and other men of business. "Besides the many dangers which by land we are exposed to from so many enemies that lie on the back of us; we further beg leave to represent to your Majesty, the defenceless condition of our ports and harbours, where any enemies of your Majesty's dominions may very easily by sea invade us, there being no fortifications capable of making much resistance. Those in Charlestown harbour are now in a very shattered condition, occasioned by the late violent storms and hurricanes, which already cost this country a great deal of money, and now requires several thousands of pounds to repair the old and build new ones, to mount the ordnance which your Majesty was graciously pleased to send us, which, with great concern, we must inform your Majesty we have not yet been able to accomplish, being lately obliged, for the defence and support of this your Majesty's province and government, to raise, by a tax on the inhabitants, a supply of above forty thousand pounds paper currency _per annum_, which is a considerable deal more than a third part of all the currency among us; a charge which your Majesty's subjects of this province are but barely able to sustain. Since your Majesty's royal instruction to your Majesty's Governor here, an entire stop has been put to the duties which before accrued from European goods imported; and if a war should happen, or any thing extraordinary, to be farther expensive here, we should be under the utmost difficulties to provide additionally for the same, lest an increase of taxes with an apprehension of danger, should drive away many of our present inhabitants, as well as discourage others from coming here to settle for the defence and improvement of your Majesty's province, there being several daily moving with their families and effects to North Carolina, where there are no such fears and burdens. "We must therefore beg leave to inform your Majesty, that, amidst our other perilous circumstances, we are subject to many intestine dangers from the great number of negroes that are now among us, who amount at least to twenty-two thousand persons, and are three to one of all your Majesty's white subjects in this province. Insurrections against us have been often attempted, and would at any time prove very fatal if the French should instigate them, by artfully giving them an expectation of freedom. In such a situation we most humbly crave leave to acquaint your Majesty, that even the present ordinary expences necessary for the care and support of this your Majesty's province and government, cannot be provided for by your Majesty's subjects of this province, without your Majesty's gracious pleasure to continue those laws for establishing the duty on negroes and other duties for seven years, and for appropriating the same, which now lie before your Majesty for your royal assent and approbation; and the further expences that will be requisite for the erecting some forts, and establishing garrisons in the several necessary places, so as to form a barrier for the security of this your Majesty's province, we most humbly submit to your Majesty. "Your Majesty's subjects of this province, with fulness of zeal, duty and affection to your most gracious and sacred Majesty, are so highly sensible of the great importance of this province to the French, that we must conceive it more than probable, if a war should happen, they will use all endeavours to bring this country under their subjection; they would be thereby enabled to support their sugar islands with all sorts of provisions and lumber by an easy navigation, which to our great advantage is not so practicable from the present French colonies, besides the facility of gaining then to their interest most of the Indian trade on the northern continent; they might then easily unite the Canadees and Choctaws, with the many other nations of Indians which are now in their interest. And the several ports and harbours of Carolina and Georgia, which now enable your Majesty to be absolute master of the passage through the Gulf of Florida, and to impede, at your pleasure, the transportation home of the Spanish treasure, would then prove for many convenient harbours for your Majesty's enemies, by their privateers or ships of war to annoy a great part of the British trade to America, as well as that which is carried on through the Gulf from Jamaica; besides the loss which Great Britain must feel in so considerable a part of its navigation, as well as the exports of masts, pitch, tar, and turpentine, which, without any dependence on the northern parts of Europe, are from hence plentifully supplied for the use of the British shipping. "This is the present state and condition of your Majesty's province of South Carolina, utterly incapable of finding funds sufficient for the defence of this wide frontier, and so destitute of white men, that even money itself cannot here raise a sufficient body of them. "With all humility we therefore beg leave to lay ourselves at the feet of your Majesty, humbly imploring your Majesty's most gracious care in the extremities we should be reduced to on the breaking out of a war; and that your Majesty would be graciously pleased to extend your protection to us, as your Majesty, in your great wisdom, shall think proper." [Sidenote] The regulations of the Trustees. In the mean time the Trustees for Georgia had been employed in framing a plan of settlement and establishing such public regulations as they judged most proper for answering the great end of the corporation. In this general plan they considered each inhabitant both as a planter and a soldier who must be provided with arms and ammunition for defence, as well as with tools and utensils for cultivation. As the strength of the province was their chief object in view, they agreed to establish such tenures for holding lands in it as they judged most favourable for a military establishment. Each tract of land granted was considered as a military fief, for which the possessor was to appear in arms, and take the field, when called upon for the public defence. To prevent large tracts from falling in process of time into one hand, they agreed to grant their lands in tail male in preference to tail general. On the termination of the estate in tail male, the lands were to revert to the trust; and such lands thus reverting were to be granted again to such persons, as the common council of the trust should judge most advantageous for the colony; only the Trustees in such a case were to pay special regard to the daughters of such persons as had made improvements on their lots, especially when not already provided for by marriage. The wives of such persons as should survive them, were to be during their lives entitled to the mansion-house, and one-half of the lands improved by their husbands. No man was to be permitted to depart the province without licence. If any part of the lands granted by the Trustees, shall not by cultivated, cleared, and fenced round about with a worm fence, or pales, six feet high, within eighteen years from the date of the grant, such part was to revert to the trust, and the grant with respect to it to be void. All forfeitures for non-residence, high-treason, felonies, _&c._ were to the Trustees for the use and benefit of the colony. The use of negroes was to be absolutely prohibited, and also the importation of rum. None of the colonists were to be permitted to trade with Indians, but such as should obtain a special licence for that purpose. [Sidenote] Their impolitical restrictions. These were some of the fundamental regulations established by the Trustees of Georgia, and perhaps the imagination of man could scarcely have framed a system of rules worse adapted to the circumstances and situation of the poor settlers, and of more pernicious consequence to the prosperity of the province. Yet, although the Trustees were greatly mistaken, with respect to their plan of settlement, it must be acknowledged their views were generous. As the people sent out by them were the poor and unfortunate, who were to be provided with necessaries at their public store, they received their lands upon condition of cultivation, and by their personal residence, of defence. Silk and wine being the chief articles intended to be raised, they judged negroes were not requisite to these purposes. As the colony was designed to be a barrier to South Carolina, against the Spanish settlement at Augustine they imagined that negroes would rather weaken than strengthen it, and that such poor colonists would run into debt, and ruin themselves by purchasing them. Rum was judged pernicious to health, and ruinous to the infant settlement. A free trade with Indians was considered as a thing that might have a tendency to involve the people in quarrels and troubles with the powerful savages, and expose them to danger and destruction. Such were probably the motives which induced those humane and generous persons to impose such foolish and ridiculous restrictions on their colony. For by granting their small estates in tail male, they drove the settlers from Georgia, who soon found that abundance of lands could be obtained in America upon a larger scale, and on much better terms. By the prohibition of negroes, they rendered it impracticable in such a climate to make any impression on the thick forest, Europeans being utterly unqualified for the heavy task. By their discharging a trade with the West Indies, they not only deprived the colonists of an excellent and convenient market for their lumber, of which they had abundance on their lands, but also of rum, which, when mixed with a sufficient quantity of water, has been found in experience the cheapest, the most refreshing, and nourishing drink for workmen in such a soggy and burning climate. The Trustees, like other distant legislators, who framed their regulations upon principles of speculation, were liable to many errors and mistakes, and however good their design, their rules were found improper and impracticable. The Carolineans plainly perceived, that they would prove unsurmountable obstacles to the progress and prosperity of the colony, and therefore from motives of pity began to invite the poor Georgians to come over Savanna river, and settle in Carolina, being convinced that they could never succeed under such impolitic and oppressive restrictions. [Sidenote] Two Colonies of Highlanders and Germans sent out. Besides the large sums of money which the Trustees had expended for the settlement of Georgia, the Parliament had also granted during the two past years thirty-six thousand pounds towards carrying into execution the humane purpose of the corporation. But after the representation and memorial from the legislature of Carolina reached Britain, the nation considered Georgia to be of the utmost importance to the British settlements in America, and began to make still more vigorous efforts for its speedy population. The first embarkations of poor people from England, being collected from towns and cities, were found equally idle and useless members of society abroad, as they had been at home. An hardy and bold race of man, inured to rural labour and fatigue, they were persuaded would be much better adapted both for cultivation and defence. To find men possessed of these qualifications, the Trustees turned their eyes to Germany and the Highlands of Scotland, and resolved to send over a number of Scotch and German labourers to their infant province. When they published their terms at Inverness, an hundred and thirty Highlanders immediately accepted them, and were transported to Georgia. A town-ship on the river Alatamaha, which was considered as the boundary between the British and Spanish territories, was allotted for the Highlanders, on which dangerous situation they settled, and built a town, which they called New Inverness. About the same time an hundred and seventy Germans embarked with James Oglethorpe, and were fixed in another quarter; so that, in the space of three years, Georgia received above four hundred British subjects, and about an hundred and seventy foreigners. Afterwards several adventurers, both from Scotland and Germany, followed their countrymen, and added further strength to the province, and the Trustees flattered themselves with the hopes of soon seeing it in a promising condition. [Sidenote] Thomas Broughton Lieut.-governor of Carolina. The same year Carolina lost Robert Johnson, her favourite Governor, whose death was as much lamented by the people, as during his life he had been beloved and respected. The province having been much indebted to his wisdom, courage and abilities, to perpetuate his memory among them, and, in testimony of their esteem, a monument was erected in their church at the public expence. After his decease the government devolved on Thomas Broughton, a plain honest man, but little distinguished either for his knowledge or valour. As the welfare of the province depended greatly on its government, no man ought to be entrusted with such a charge but men of approved virtue and capacity. There is as much danger arising to a community from a feeble and contemptible government, as from an excess of power committed to its rulers. Weak and unexperienced hands hold the reins of government with awkwardness and difficulty, and being easily imposed upon, their authority sinks into contempt. At this time many of the leading men of the colony scrupled not to practise impositions, and being eagerly bent on engrossing lands, the Lieutenant-Governor freely granted them warrants; and the planters, provided they acquired large possessions, were not very scrupulous about the legality of the way and manner in which they were obtained. [Sidenote] Oglethorpe fortifies Georgia. James Oglethorpe having brought a number of great guns with him from England, now began to fortify Georgia, by erecting strong-holds on its frontiers, where he judged they might be useful for its safety and protection. At one place, which he called Augusta a fort was erected on the banks of Savanna river, which was excellently situated for protecting the Indian trade, and holding treaties of commerce and alliance with several of the savage nations. At another place, called Frederica, on an island nigh the mouth of the river Alatamaha, another fort, with four regular bastions, was erected, and several pieces of cannon were mounted on it. Ten miles nearer the sea a battery was raised, commanding the entrance into the sound, through which all ships of force must come that might be sent against Frederica. To keep little garrisons in these forts, to help the Trustees to defray the expences of such public works, ten thousand pounds were granted by the parliament of Great Britain. [Sidenote] Which gives umbrage to the Spaniards. While James Oglethorpe was thus busily employed in strengthening Georgia, he received a message from the Governor of Augustine, acquainting him that a Spanish Commissioner from Havanna had arrived there, in order to make certain demands of him, and would meet him at Frederica for that purpose. At the same time he had advice, that three companies of foot had came along with him to that Spanish settlement. A few days afterwards this Commissioner came to Georgia by sea, and Oglethorpe, unwilling to permit him to come to Frederica, dispatched a sloop to bring him into Jekyl Sound, where he intended to hold a conference with him. Here the Commissioner had the modesty to demand, that Oglethorpe and his people should immediately evacuate all the territories to the southward of St. Helena Sound, as they belonged to the King of Spain, who was determined to maintain his right to them; and if he refuted to comply with his demand, he had orders to proceed to Charlestown and lay the same before the Governor and Council of that province. Oglethorpe endeavoured to convince him that his Catholic Majesty had been misinformed with respect to those territories, but to no purpose; his instructions were peremptory, and the conference broke up without coming to any agreement. After which Oglethorpe embarked with all possible expedition, and sailed for England. During his absence the strict law of the Trustees, respecting the rum trade, had like to have created a quarrel between the Carolineans and Georgians. The fortification at Augusta had induced some traders of Carolina to open stores at that place, so conveniently situated for commerce with Indian nations. For this purpose, land carriage being expensive, they intended to force their way by water with loaded boats up Savanna river to their stores at Augusta. But as they passed the town of Savanna, the magistrates rashly ordered the boats to be stopt, the packages to be opened, the casks of rum to be staved, and the people to be confined. Such injurious treatment was not to be suffered; the Carolineans determined to give a check to their insolence, and for that purpose deputed two persons, one from the Council and another from the Assembly, to demand of the Georgians by what authority they presumed to seize and destroy the effects of their traders, or to compel them to submit to their code of laws. The magistrates of Georgia, sensible of their error, made great concessions to the deputies, and treated them with the utmost civility and respect. The goods were instantly ordered to be returned, the people to be set at liberty, and all manner of satisfaction was given to the deputies they could have expected. Strict orders were sent to the agents of Georgia among Indians not to molest the traders from Carolina, but to give them all the assistance and protection in their power. The Carolineans, on the other hand, engaged not to smuggle any strong liquors among the settlers of Georgia, and the navigation on the river Savanna was declared equally open and free to both provinces. [Sidenote] The brave Chickesaws defeat the French. About the same time the French took the field against the Emperor; and the flames of war kindling between such powerful potentates, would, it was thought, inevitably spread, and involve all Europe in the quarrel. In case Great Britain should interfere in this matter; and declare in favour of the Emperor, orders were sent out to the Governors of Quebec and New Orleans to invade the weakest frontiers of the British settlements of America. For this purpose an army was formed in New France, and preparations were made for uniting the force of Canada and Louisiana to attack Carolina. But before this design was put in execution, advice came, that the clouds of war which threatened Europe were dispersed, and a general peace was restored, by the mediation of Britain and Holland. This put a stop to the motions of the main body in Canada; however, a detachment of two hundred French and four hundred Indians were sent down the Mississippi, to meet a party from New Orleans to cut off the Chickesaw Indians. This tribe were the firm allies of Britain, and the bravest nation of savages on the continent, but consisted only of between six and eight hundred gun-men. The French having encroached in their lands, and built some forts nigh them, had on that account drawn upon themselves their invincible enmity and resentment. The Chickesaws had long obstinately opposed their progress up the river Mississippi, and were now the chief obstacle that prevented a regular communication between Louisiana and Canada. The French determined to remove it, by extirpating this troublesome nation, and for this purpose fell down the river in boats to the place where they expected to meet their friends from New Orleans. But the party from the southward not coming up at the time appointed, and the Canadians thinking themselves strong enough for the enterprize, began the war by attacking the Chickesaw towns. Upon which the savages gathered together above three hundred warriors, gave the French battle in an open field, and, though with considerable loss, compleatly defeated them. Above forty Frenchmen and eight Indians were killed on the spot, and the rest were taken prisoners, among whom was their commander, and chief, brother to Mons. Bienville, Governor of New Orleans. Hard was the fate of the unfortunate prisoners, who for several days were kept almost perishing with hunger in the wilderness, and at last were tied to a stake, tortured, and burned to death. Another party of French from Mobile, in the same year, advanced against the Creeks, who were also unsuccessful, and obliged to retreat with considerable loss. Carolina rejoiced at those disasters, and began now more than ever to court the friendship and interest of these rude nations in their neighbourhood, considering them as the best barrier against their natural enemies. [Sidenote] Religious state of the colony. By this time the Episcopalian form of divine worship had gained ground in Carolina, and was more countenanced by the people than any other. That zeal for the right of private judgment had much abated, and those prejudices against the hierarchy, which the first emigrants carried from England with them, were now almost entirely worn off from the succeeding generation. To bring about this change, no doubt the well-timed zeal and extensive bounty of the society, incorporated for the propagation of the Gospel, had greatly contributed. At this time the corporation had no less than twelve missionaries in Carolina, each of whom shared of their bounty. Indeed, a mild church-government, together with able, virtuous, and prudent teachers, in time commonly give the establishment in every country a superiority over all sectaries. Spacious churches had been erected in the province, which were pretty well supplied with clergymen, who were paid from the public treasury, and countenanced by the civil authority, all which favoured the established church. The dissenters of Carolina were not only obliged to erect and uphold their churches, and maintain their clergy by private contributions, but also to contribute their share in the way of taxes, in proportion to their ability, equally with their neighbours; towards the maintenance of the poor, and the support of the establishment. This indeed many of them considered as a grievance, but having but few friends in the provincial assembly, no redress could be obtained for them. Besides, the establishment gave its adherents many advantageous privileges in point of power and authority over persons of other denominations. It gave them the best chance for being elected members of the legislature, and of course of being appointed to offices, both civil and military in their respective districts. Over youthful minds, fond of power, pomp and military parade, such advantages have great weight. Dissenters indeed had the free choice of their ministers, but even this is often the cause of division. When differences happen in a parish, the minority must yield, and therefore through private pique, discontent or resentment, they often conform to the establishment. It is always difficult, and often impossible for a minister to please all parties, especially where all claim an equal right to judge and chuse for themselves, and divisions and subdivisions seldom fail to ruin the power and influence of all sectaries. This was evidently the case in Carolina for many of the posterity of rigid Dissenters were now found firm adherents to the church of England, which had grown numerous on the ruins of the dissenting interest. [Sidenote] The association of Presbyterians. However, the emigrants from Scotland and Ireland, most of whom were Presbyterians, still composed a considerable party of the province, and kept up the Presbyterian form of worship in it. Archibald Stobo, of whom I have formerly taken notice, by great diligence and ability still preserved a number of followers. An association had been formed in favour of this mode of religious worship, by Messrs. Stobo, Fisher, and Witherspoon, three ministers of the church of Scotland, together with Joseph Stanyarn, and Joseph Blake, men of respectable characters and considerable fortunes. The Presbyterians had already erected churches at Charlestown, Wiltown, and in three of the maritime islands, for the use of the people adhering to that form of religious worship. As the inhabitants multiplied, several more in different parts of the province afterwards joined them, and built churches, particularly at Jacksonburgh, Indian Town, Port-Royal, and Williamsburgh. The first clergymen having received their ordination in the church of Scotland, the fundamental rules of the association were framed according to the forms, doctrines, and discipline of that establishment, to which they agreed to conform as closely as their local circumstances would admit. These ministers adopted this mode of religious worship, not only from a persuasion of its conformity to the primitive Apostolic form, but also from a conviction of its being, of all others, the most favourable to civil liberty, equality, and independence. Sensible that not only natural endowments, but also a competent measure of learning and acquired knowledge were necessary to qualify men for the sacred function, and enable them to discharge the duties of it with honour and success, they associated on purpose to prevent deluded mechanics, and illiterate novices from creeping into the pulpit, to the disgrace of the character, and the injury of religion. In different parts of the province, persons of this stamp had appeared, who cried down all establishments, both civil and religions, and seduced weak minds from the duties of allegiance, and all that the Presbytery could do was to prevent them from teaching under the sanction of their authority. But this association of Presbyterians having little countenance from government, and no name or authority in law, their success depended wholly on the superior knowledge, popular talents and exemplary life of their ministers. From time to time clergymen were afterwards sent out at the request of the people from Scotland and Ireland; and the colonists contributed to maintain them, till at length funds were established in trust by private legacies and donations, to be appropriated for the support of Presbyterian ministers, and the encouragement of that mode of religious worship and government. [Sidenote] Remarks on paper-currency. I have several times made remarks on the paper-currency of the province, which the planters were always for increasing, and the merchants and money lenders for sinking. The exchange of London, like a commercial thermometer, served to measure the rise or fall of paper-credit in Carolina; and the price of bills of exchange commonly ascertained the value of their current money. The permanent riches of the country consisted in lands, houses, and negroes; and the produce of the lands, improved by negroes, raw materials, provisions, and naval stores, were exchanged for what the province wanted from other countries. The attention of the mercantile part was chiefly employed about staple commodities; and as their great object was present profit it was natural for them to be governed by that great axiom in trade, whoever brings commodities cheapest and in the best order to market, must always meet with the greatest encouragement and success. The planters, on the other hand, attended to the balance of trade, which was turned in their favour, and concluded, that when the exports of any province exceeded its imports, whatever losses private persons might now and then sustain, yet that province upon the whole was growing rich. Let us suppose, what was indeed far from being the case, that Georgia so far advanced in improvement as to rival Carolina in raw materials, and exchangeable commodities, and to undersell her at the markets in Europe: This advantage could only arise from the superior quality of her lands, the cheapness of her labour, or her landed men being contented with smaller profits. In such a case it was the business of the Carolina merchants to lower the price of her commodities, in order to reap the same advantages with her neighbours; and this could only be done by reducing the quantity of paper-money in circulation. If gold and silver only past current in Georgia, which by general consent was the medium of commerce throughout the world, if she had a sufficient quantity of them to answer the purposes of trade, and no paper-currency had been permitted to pass current; in such case her commodities would bring their full value at the provincial market, and no more, according to the general standard of money in Europe. Supposing also that Carolina had a quantity of gold and silver in circulation, sufficient for the purposes of commerce, and that the planters, in order to raise the value of their produce, should issue paper-money equal to the quantity of gold and silver in circulation, the consequence would be, the price of labour, and of all articles of exportation would be doubled. But as the markets of Europe remained the same, and her commodities being of the same kind and quality with those of Georgia, they would not bring an higher price. Some persons must be losers, and in the fist instance this loss must fall on the mercantile interest, and moneyed men. Therefore this superabundance of paper-credit, on whose foundation the deluded province built its visionary fabric of great wealth, was not only useless, but prejudicial with respect to the community. Paper-money in such large quantities is the bane of commerce, a kind of fictitious wealth, making men by high founding language imagine they are worth thousands and millions, while a ship's load of it would not procure for the country a regiment of auxiliary troops in time of war, nor a suit of clothes at an European market in time of peace. Had America, from its first settlement, prohibited paper-money altogether, her staple commodities must have brought her, in the course of commerce, vast sums of gold and silver, which would have circulated through the continent, and answered all the purposes of trade both foreign and domestic. It is true the value of gold and silver is equally nominal, and rises and falls like the value of other articles of commerce, in proportion to the quantity in circulation. But as nations in general have fixed on these metals as the medium of trade, this has served to stamp a value on them, and render them the means not only of procuring every where the necessaries of life, but by supporting public credit, the chief means also of national protection. However, some distinction in point of policy should perhaps be made between a colony in its infancy, and a nation already possessed of wealth, and in an advanced state of agriculture and commerce, especially while the former is united to, and under the protection of the latter. To a growing colony, such as Carolina, paper-credit, under certain limitations, was useful in several respects; especially as the gold and silver always left the country, when it answered the purpose of the merchant for remittance better than produce. This credit served to procure the planter strength of hands to clear and cultivate his fields, from which the real wealth of the province arose. But in an improved country such as England, supported by labourers, manufacturers and trade, large emissions of paper-money lessen the value of gold and silver, and both cause them to leave the country, and its produce and manufactures to come dearer to market. Adventurous planters in Carolina, eager to obtain a number of negroes, always stretched their credit with the traders to its utmost pitch; for as negroes on good lands cleared themselves in a few years, they by this means made an annual addition to their capital stock. After obtaining this credit, it then became their interest to maintain their superiority in assembly, and discharge their debt to the merchants in the easiest manner they could. The increase of paper-money always proved to them a considerable assistance, as it advanced the price of those commodities they brought to the market, by which they cancelled their debts with the merchants; so that however much this currency might depreciate, the loss occasioned by it from time to time fell not on the adventurous planters, but on the merchants and money-lenders, who were obliged to take it in payment of debts, or produce, which always arose in price in proportion to its depreciation. In excuse for increasing provincial paper-money the planters always pled the exigencies of the public, such as warlike expeditions, raising fortifications, providing military stores, and maintaining garrisons; those no doubt rendered the measure sometimes necessary, and often reasonable, but private interest had also considerable weight in adopting it, and carrying it into execution. In the year 1737, a bill of exchange on London, for a hundred pounds sterling, sold for seven hundred and fifty pounds Carolina currency. Of this the merchants might complain, but from this period they had too little weight in the public councils to obtain any redress. The only resource left for them was to raise the price of negroes, and British articles of importation, according to the advanced price of produce, and bills of exchange. However, the exchange again fell to seven hundred _per cent._ at which standard it afterwards rested and remained. [Sidenote] Small progress of Georgia. By this time the poor colonists of Georgia, after trial, had become fully convinced of the impropriety and folly of the plan of settlement framed by the Trustees, which, however well intended, was ill adapted to their circumstances, and ruinous to the settlement. In the province of Carolina, which lay adjacent, the colonists discovered that there they could obtain lands not only on better terms, but also liberty to purchase negroes to assist in clearing and cultivating them. They found labour in the burning climate intolerable, and the dangers and hardships to which they were subjected unsurmountable. Instead of raising commodities for exportation, the Georgians, by the labour of several years, were not yet able to raise provisions sufficient to support themselves and families. Under each discouragements, numbers retired to the Carolina side of the river, where they had better prospects of success, and the magistrates observed the infant colony sinking into ruin, and likely to be totally deserted. The freeholders in and round Savanna assembled together, and drew up a state of their deplorable circumstances, and transmitted it to the Trustees, in which they represented their success in Georgia as a thing absolutely impossible, without the enjoyment of the same liberties and privileges with their neighbours in Carolina. In two respects they implored relief from the Trustees; they desired a fee-simple or free title to their lands, and liberty to import negroes under certain limitations, without which they declared they had neither encouragement to labour, nor ability to provide for their posterity. But the colony of Highlanders, instead of joining in this application, to a man remonstrated against the introduction of slaves. As they lay contiguous to the Spanish dominions, they were apprehensive that these enemies would entice their slaves from them in time of peace, and in time of war instigate them to rise against their masters. Besides, they considered perpetual slavery as shocking to human nature, and deemed the permission of it as a grievance, and which in some future day might also prove a scourge, and make many feel the smart of that oppression they so earnestly desired to introduce. For as the Spaniards had proclaimed freedom to them, they alledged that slaves would run away, and ruin poor planters; and at all events would disqualify them the more for defending the province against external enemies, while their families were exposed to barbarous domestics, provoked perhaps by harsh usage, or grown desperate through misery and oppression. [Sidenote] Hardships of the first settlers. Few persons who are acquainted with the country will wonder at the complaints of the poor settlers in Georgia; for if we consider the climate to which they were sent, and the labours and hardships they had to undergo, we may rather be astonished that any of them survived the first year after their arrival. When James Oglethorpe took possession of this wilderness, the whole was an immense thick forest, excepting savannas, which are natural plains where no trees grow, and a few Indian fields, where the savages planted maize for their subsistence. In the province there were the same wild animals, fishes, reptiles and insects, which were found in Carolina. The country in the maritime parts was likewise a spacious plain, covered with pine trees, where the lands were barren and sandy; and with narrow slips of oaks, hickory, cypress, cane, &c. where the lands were of a better quality. Rains, thunder-storms, hurricanes, and whirlwinds, were equally frequent in the one province as in the other. Little difference could be perceived in the soil, which in both was barren or swampy; and the same diseases were common to both. The lands being covered with wood, through which the sea-breezes could not penetrate, there was little agitation in the air, which at some seasons was thick, heavy and foggy, and at others clear, close, and suffocating, both which are very pernicious to health. The air of the swampy land was pregnant with innumerable noxious qualities, insomuch that a more unwholesome climate was not perhaps to be found in the universe. The poor settlers considered this howling wilderness to which they were brought, to have been designed by nature rather for the habitation of wild beasts than human creatures. They found that diseases, or even misfortunes were in effect equally fatal: for though neither of them might prove mortal, yet either would disable them from living, and reduce them to a state in which they might more properly be said to perish than to die. Nothing has retarded the progress and improvement of these southern settlements more than the inattention shewn to the natural productions of the soil, and the preference which has commonly been given to articles transplanted from Europe. Over the whole world different articles of produce are suited to different soils and climates. As Georgia lay so convenient for supplying the West Indies with maize, Indian pease, and potatoes, for which the demand was very great, perhaps the first planters could scarcely have turned their attention to more profitable articles, but without strength of hands little advantage could be reaped from them. It is true the West-India Islands would produce such articles, yet the planters would never cultivate them, while they could obtain them by purchase: the lands there suited other productions more valuable and advantageous. Abundance of stock, particularly hogs and black cattle, might have been raised in Georgia for the same market. Lumber was also in demand, and might have been rendered profitable to the province, but nothing could succeed there under the foolish restrictions of the Trustees. European grain, such as wheat, oats, barley, and rye, thrived very ill on the maritime parts; and even silk and wine were found upon trial by no means to answer their expectations. The bounties given for raising the latter were an encouragement to the settlers, but either no pains were taken to instruct the people in the proper methods of raising them, or the soil and climate were ill adapted for the purpose. The poor and ignorant planters applied themselves to those articles of husbandry to which probably they had been formerly accustomed, but which poorly rewarded them and left them, after all their toil, in a starved and miserable condition. The complaints of the Georgians, however ignorant they might be, ought not to have been entirely disregarded by the Trustees. Experience suggested those inconveniencies and troubles from which they implored relief. The hints they gave certainly ought to have been improved towards correcting errors in the first plan of settlement, and framing another more favourable and advantageous. Such scattered thoughts of individuals sometimes afford wise men materials for forming just judgments, and improving towards the establishment of the best and most beneficial regulations. The people governed ought never to be excluded from the attention and regard of their Governors. The honour of the Trustees depended on the success and happiness of the settlers, and it was impossible for the people to succeed and be happy without those encouragements, liberties and privileges absolutely necessary to the first state of colonization. A free title to their land, liberty to chuse it, and then to manage it in such a manner as appeared to themselves most conducive to their interest, were the principal incentives to industry; and industry, well directed, is the grand source of opulence to every country. It must be acknowledged, for the credit of the benevolent Trustees, that they sent out these emigrants to Georgia under several very favourable circumstances. They paid the expences of their passage, and furnished them with clothes, arms, ammunition, and instruments of husbandry. They gave them lands, and bought for some of them cows and hogs to begin their flock. They maintained their family during the first year of their occupancy, or until they should receive some return from their lands. So that if the planters were exposed to hazards from the climate, and obliged to undergo labour, they certainly entered on their task with several advantages. The taxes demanded, comparatively speaking, were a mere trifle. For their encouragement they wrought entirely for themselves, and for some time were favoured with a free and generous maintenance. [Sidenote] An Irish colony planted. By this time an account of the great privileges and indulgences granted by the crown for the encouragement of emigration to Carolina, had been published through Britain and Ireland, and many industrious people in different parts had resolved to take the benefit of his Majesty's bounty. Multitudes of labourers and husbandmen in Ireland, oppressed by landlords and bishops, and unable by their utmost diligence to procure a comfortable subsistence for their families, embarked for Carolina. The first colony of Irish people had lands granted them near Santee river, and formed the settlement called Williamsburgh township. But notwithstanding the bounty of the crown, these poor emigrants remained for several years in low and miserable circumstances. The rigours of the climate, joined to the want of precaution, so common to strangers, proved fatal to numbers of them. Having but scanty provisions in the first age of cultivation, vast numbers, by their heavy labour, being both debilitated in body and dejected in spirit, sickened and died in the woods. But as this township received frequent supplies from the same quarter, the Irish settlement, amidst every hardship, increased in number; and at length they applied to the merchants for negroes, who entrusted them with a few, by which means they were relieved from the severest part of the labour, then, by their great diligence and industry, spots of land were gradually cleared, which in the first place yielded them provisions, and in process of time became moderate and fruitful estates. CHAP. VIII. [Sidenote] Trade obstructed by the Spaniards of Mexico. For several years before an open rupture took place between Great Britain and Spain, no good understanding subsisted between those two different courts, neither with respect to the privileges of navigation on the Mexican seas, nor to the limits between the provinces of Georgia and Florida. On one hand, the Spaniards pretended that they had an exclusive right to some latitudes in the bay of Mexico; and, on the other, though the matter had never been clearly ascertained by treaty, the British merchants claimed the privilege of cutting logwood on the bay of Campeachy. This liberty indeed had been tolerated on the part of Spain for several years, and the British merchants, from avaricious motives, had begun a traffic with the Spaniards, and supplied them with goods of English manufacture. To prevent this illicit trade, the Spaniards doubled the number of ships stationed in Mexico for guarding the coast, giving them orders to board and search every English vessel found in those seas, to seize on all that carried contraband commodities, and confine the sailors. At length not only smugglers, but fair traders were searched and detained, so that all commerce in those seas was entirely obstructed. The British merchants again and again complained to the ministry of depredations committed, and damages sustained; which indeed produced one remonstrance after another to the Spanish court; all which were answered only by evasive promises and delays. The Spaniards flattered the British minister, by telling him, they would enquire into the occasion of such grievances, and settle all differences by way of negotiation. Sir Robert Walpole, fond of pacific measures, and trusting to such proposals of accommodation, for several years suffered the grievances of the merchants to remain unredressed, and the trade of the nation to suffer great losses. [Sidenote] William Bull Lieut.-governor. In the year 1738, Samuel Horsley was appointed Governor of South Carolina, but he dying before he left England, the charge of the province devolved on William Bull, a man of good natural abilities, and well acquainted with the state of the province. The garrison at Augustine having received a considerable reinforcement, it therefore became the business of the people of Carolina, as well as those of Georgia, to watch the motions of their neighbours. As the Spaniards pretended a right to that province, they were pouring in troops into Augustine, which gave the British colonists some reason to apprehend they had resolved to assert their right by force of arms. William Bull despatched advice to England of the growing power of Spain in East Florida, and at the same time acquainted the Trustees, that such preparations were making there as evidently portended approaching hostilities. The British ministers were well acquainted with the state of Carolina, from a late representation transmitted by its provincial legislature. The Trustees for Georgia presented a memorial to the king, giving an account of the Spanish preparations, and the feeble and defenceless condition of Georgia, and imploring his Majesty's gracious assistance. In consequence of which, a regiment of six hundred effective men was ordered to be raised, with a view of sending them to Georgia. The King having made James Oglethorpe Major-General of all the forces of the two provinces, gave him the command of this regiment and ordered him out for the protection of the southern frontiers of the British dominions in America. [Sidenote] Oglethorpe's regiment sent to Georgia. About the middle of the same year, the Hector, and Blandford ships of war sailed, to convoy the transports which carried General Oglethorpe and his regiment to that province. Forty supernumeraries followed the General to supply the place of such officers or soldiers as might sicken and die by the change of the climate. Upon the arrival of this regiment, the people of Carolina and Georgia rejoiced, and testified their grateful sense of his Majesty's paternal care in the strongest terms. The Georgians, who had been for some time harassed with frequent alarms, now found themselves happily relieved, and placed in such circumstances as enabled them to bid defiance to the Spanish power. Parties of the regiment were sent to the different garrisons, and the expence the Trustees had formerly been at in maintaining them of course ceased. The General held his head-quarters at Frederica, but raised forts on some other islands lying nearer the Spaniards, particularly in Cumberland and Jekyl islands, in which he also kept garrisons to watch the motions of his enemies. [Sidenote] The Spaniards try in vain to seduce the Creeks. While these hostile preparations were going on, it behoved General Oglethorpe to cultivate the firmest friendship with Indian nations, that they might be ready on every emergency to assist him. During his absence the Spaniards had made several attempts to seduce the Creeks, who were much attached to Oglethorpe, by telling them he was at Augustine, and promised them great presents in case they would pay him a visit at that place. Accordingly some of their leaders went down to see the beloved man, but not finding him there, they were highly offended, and resolved immediately to return to their nation. The Spanish Governor, in order to cover the fraud, or probably with a design of conveying those leaders out of the way, that they might the more easily corrupt their nation; told them, that the General lay sick on board of a ship in the harbour, where he would be extremely glad to see them. But the savages were jealous of some bad design, and refused to go, and even rejected their presents and offers of alliance. When they returned to their nation, they found an invitation from General Oglethorpe to all the chieftains to meet him at Frederica, which plainly discovered to them the insidious designs of the Spaniards, and helped not a little to increase his power and influence among them. A number of their head warriors immediately set out to meet him at the place appointed, where the General thanked them for their fidelity, made them many valuable presents, and renewed the treaty of friendship and alliance with them. At this congress the Creeks seemed better satisfied than usual, agreed to march a thousand men to the General's assistance whenever he should demand them, and invited him up to see their towns. But as he was then busy, he excused himself, by promising to visit them next summer, and accordingly dismissed them no less pleased with his kindness, than incensed against the Spaniards for their falsehood and deceit. [Sidenote] Matters hastening to a rupture with Spain. By this time the King of England had resolved to vindicate the honour of his crown, and maintain his right to those territories in Georgia, together with the freedom of commerce and navigation in the Mexican seas. The pacific system of Sir Robert Walpole had drawn upon him the displeasure of the nation, particularly of the mercantile part; and that amazing power and authority he had long maintained began to decline. The spirit of the nation was rouzed, insomuch that the administration could no longer wink at the insults, depredations, and cruelties of Spain. Instructions were sent to the British ambassador at the court of Madrid, to demand in the most absolute terms a compensation for the injuries of trade, which, upon calculation, amounted to two hundred thousand pounds sterling; and at the same time a squadron of ten ships of the line, under the command of Admiral Haddock, were sent to the Mediterranean sea. This produced an order from the Spanish Court to their ambassador, to allow the accounts of the British merchants, upon condition that the Spanish demand on the South-Sea Company be deducted: and that Oglethorpe be recalled from Georgia, and no more employed in that quarter, as he had there made great encroachments on his Catholic Majesty's dominions. These conditions were received at the court of Britain with that indignation which might have been expected from an injured and incensed nation. In answer to which the Spanish ambassador was given to understand, that the King of Great Britain was determined never to relinquish his right to a single foot of land in the province of Georgia; and that he must allow his subjects to make reprisals, since satisfaction for their losses in trade could in no other way be obtained. In this unsettled situation, however, matters remained for a little while between those two powerful potentates. [Sidenote] Mutiny in Oglethorpe's camp. In the mean time preparations were making both in Georgia and Florida, by raising fortifications on the borders of the two provinces, to hold each other at defiance. The British soldiers finding themselves subjected to a number of hardships in Georgia, to which they had not been accustomed in Britain, several of them were discontented and ungovernable. At length a plot was discovered in the camp for assassinating their general. Two companies of the regiment had been drawn from Gibraltar, some of whom could speak the Spanish language. While stationed on Cumberland island, the Spanish out-posts on the other side could approach so near as to converse with the British soldiers, one of whom had even been in the Spanish service, and not only understood their language, but also had so much of a Roman Catholic spirit as to harbour an aversion to Protestant heretics. The Spaniards had found means to corrupt this villain, who debauched the minds of several of his neighbours, insomuch that they united and formed a design first to murder General Oglethorpe, and then make their escape to Augustine. Accordingly, on a certain day a number of soldiers under arms came up to the General, and made some extraordinary demands; which being refused, they instantly cried out, one and all, and immediately one of them discharged his piece at him: and being only at the distance of a few paces, the ball whizzed over his shoulder, but the powder singed his clothes, and burnt his face. Another presented his piece, which flashed in the pan; a third drew his hanger and attempted to stab him, but the General parrying it off, an officer standing by run the ruffian through the body, and killed him on the spot. Upon which the mutineers ran, but were caught and laid in irons. A court-martial was called to try the ringleaders of this desperate conspiracy, some of whom were found guilty and condemned to be shot, in order to deter others from such dangerous attempts. Nor was this the only concealed effort of Spanish policy, another of a more dangerous nature soon followed in Carolina, which might have been attended with much more bloody and fatal effects. At this time there were above forty thousand negroes in the province, a fierce, hardy and strong race, whose constitutions were adapted to the warm climate, whose nerves were braced with constant labour, and who could scarcely be supposed to be contented with that oppressive yoke under which they groaned. Long had liberty and protection been promised and proclaimed to them by the Spaniards at Augustine, nor were all the negroes in the province strangers to the proclamation. At different times Spanish emissaries had been found secretly tampering with them, and persuading them to fly from slavery to Florida, and several had made their escape to that settlement. Of these negro refugees the Governor of Florida had formed a regiment, appointing officers from among themselves, allowing them the same pay and clothing them in the same uniform with the regular Spanish soldiers. The most sensible part of the slaves in Carolina were not ignorant of this Spanish regiment, for whenever they run away from their masters, they constantly directed their course to this quarter. To no place could negro serjeants be sent for enlisting men where they could have a better prospect of success. Two Spaniards were caught in Georgia, and committed to jail, for enticing slaves to leave Carolina and join this regiment. Five negroes, who were cattle hunters at Indian Land, some of whom belonged to Captain McPherson, after wounding his son and killing another man, made their escape. Several more attempting to get away were taken, tried, and hanged at Charlestown. [Sidenote] A negro insurrection in Carolina. While Carolina was kept in a state of constant fear and agitation from this quarter, an insurrection openly broke out in the heart of the settlement which alarmed the whole province. A number of negroes having assembled together at Stono, first surprised and killed two young men in a warehouse, and then plundered it of guns and ammunition. Being thus provided with arms, they elected one of their number captain, and agreed to follow him, marching towards the south-west with colours flying and drums beating, like a disciplined company. They forcibly entered the house of Mr. Godfrey, and having murdered him, his wife, and children, they took all the arms he had in it, set fire to the house, and then proceeded towards Jacksonsburgh. In their way they plundered and burnt every house, among which were those of Sacheveral, Nash, and Spry, killing every white person they found in them, and compelling the negroes to join them. Governor Bull returning to Charlestown from the southward, met them, and, observing them armed, quickly rode out of their way. He spread the alarm, which soon reached the Presbyterian church at Wiltown, where Archibald Stobo was preaching to a numerous congregation of planters in that quarter. By a law of the province all planters were obliged to carry their arms to church, which at this critical juncture proved a very useful and necessary regulation. The women were left in church trembling with fear while the militia, under the command of Captain Bee, marched in quest of the negroes, who by this time had become formidable from the number that joined them. They had marched above twelve miles, and spread desolation through all the plantations in their way. Having found rum in some houses, and drank freely of it, they halted in an open field, and began to sing and dance, by way of triumph. During these rejoicings the militia discovered them, and stationed themselves in different places around them, to prevent them from making their escape. The intoxication of several of the slaves favoured the assailants. One party advanced into the open field and attacked them, and, having killed some negroes, the remainder took to the woods, and were dispersed. Many ran back to their plantations, in hopes of escaping suspicion from the absence of their masters; but the greater part were taken and tried. Such as had been compelled to join them contrary to their inclination were pardoned, but all the chosen leaders and first insurgents suffered death. All Carolina was struck with terror and consternation by this insurrection, in which above twenty persons were murdered before it was quelled, and had not the people in that quarter been fortunately collected together at church, it is probable many more would have suffered. Or had it become general, the whole colony must have fallen a sacrifice to their great power and indiscriminate fury. It was commonly believed, and not without reason, that the Spaniards were deeply concerned in promoting the mischief, and by their secret influence and intrigues with slaves had instigated them to this massacre. Having already four companies of negroes in their service, by penetrating into Carolina, and putting the province into confusion, they might no doubt have raised many more. But, to prevent farther attempts, Governor Bull sent an express to General Oglethorpe with advice of the insurrection, desiring him to double his vigilance in Georgia, and seize all straggling Spaniards and negroes. In consequence of which a proclamation was issued to stop all slaves found in that province, offering a reward for every one they might catch attempting to run off. At the same time a company of rangers were employed to patrole the frontiers, and block up all passages by which they might make their escape to Florida. [Sidenote] A war with Spain. In the mean time things were hastening to a rupture in Europe, and a war between England and Spain was thought unavoidable. The plenipotentiaries appointed for settling the boundaries between Georgia and Florida, and other differences and misunderstandings subsisting between the two crowns, had met at Pardo in convention, where preliminary articles were drawn up; but the conference ended to the satisfaction of neither party. Indeed the proposal of a negotiation, and the appointment of plenipotentiaries, gave universal offence to the people of Britain, who breathed nothing but war and vengeance against the proud and arrogant Spaniards. The merchants had lost all patience under their sufferings, and became clamorous for letters of reprisal, which at length they obtained. Public credit arose, and forwarded hostile preparations. All officers of the navy and army were ordered to their stations, and with the unanimous voice of the nation war was declared against Spain on the 23rd of October, 1739. [Sidenote] A project for invading Florida. While Admiral Vernon was sent to take the command of a squadron in the West-India station, with orders to act offensively against the Spanish dominions in that quarter, to divide their force, General Oglethorpe was ordered also to annoy the subjects of Spain in Florida by every method in his power. In consequence of which, the General immediately projected an expedition against the Spanish settlement at Augustine. His design he communicated by letter to Lieutenant Governor Bull, requesting the support and assistance of Carolina in the expedition. Mr. Bull laid his letter before the provincial assembly, recommending to them to raise a regiment, and give him all possible assistance in an enterprize of such interesting consequence. The assembly, sensible of the vast advantages that must accrue to them from getting rid of such troublesome neighbours, resolved that so soon as the General should communicate to them his plan of operations, together with a state of the assistance requisite, at the same time making it appear that there was a probability of success, they would most cheerfully assist him. The Carolineans, however, were apprehensive, that as that garrison had proved such a painful thorn in their side in time of peace, they would have more to dread from it in time of war; and although the colony had been much distressed by the small-pox and the yellow fever for two years past, which had cut off the hopes of many flourishing families; the people, nevertheless, lent a very favourable ear to the proposal, and earnestly wished to give all the assistance in their power towards dislodging an enemy so malicious and cruel. [Sidenote] Measures concerted for this purpose. In the mean time General Oglethorpe was industrious in picking up all the intelligence he could respecting the situation and strength of the garrison, and finding it in great straits for want of provisions, he urged the speedy execution of his project, with a view to surprise his enemy before a supply should arrive. He declared, that no personal toil or danger should discourage him from exerting himself towards freeing Carolina from such neighbours as had instigated their slaves to massacre them, and publicly protected them after such bloody attempts. To concert measures with the greater secrecy and expedition, he went to Charlestown himself, and laid before the legislature of Carolina an estimate of the force, arms, ammunition, and provisions, which he judged might be requisite for the expedition. In consequence of which, the Assembly voted one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, Carolina money, for the service of the war. A regiment, consisting of four hundred men, was raised, partly in Virginia and partly in North and South Carolina, with the greatest expedition, and the command was given to Colonel Vanderdussen. Indians were sent for from the different tribes in alliance with Britain. Vincent Price, commander of the ships of war on that station, agreed to assist with a naval force consisting of four ships of twenty guns each, and two sloops, which proved a great encouragement to the Carolineans, and induced them to enter with double vigour on military preparations. General Oglethorpe appointed the mouth of St. John's river, on the Florida shore, for the place of rendezvous, and having finished his preparations in Carolina, set out for Georgia to join his regiment, and make all ready for the expedition. [Sidenote] General Oglethorpe marches against Florida. On the 9th of May 1740, the General passed over to Florida with four hundred select men of his regiment, and a considerable party of Indians; and on the day following invested Diego, a small fort, about twenty-five miles from Augustine, which after a short resistance surrendered by capitulation. In this fort he left a garrison of sixty men, under the command of Lieutenant Dunbar, and returned to the place of general rendezvous, where he was joined by Colonel Vanderdussen, with the Carolina regiment, and a company of Highlanders, under the command of Captain M'Intosh. But by this time six Spanish half-galleys, with long brass nine pounders, and two sloops loaded with provisions, had got into the harbour at Augustine. A few days afterwards, the General marched with his whole force, consisting of above two thousand men, regulars, provincials and Indians, to Fort Moosa, situated within two miles of Augustine, which on his approach the Spanish garrison evacuated, and retired into the town. He immediately ordered the gates of this fort to be burnt, three breaches to be made in its walls, and then proceeded to reconnoitre the town and castle. Notwithstanding the dispatch of the British army, the Spaniards, during their stay at Fort Diego, had collected all the cattle in the woods around them, and drove them into the town; and the General found, both from a view of the works, and the intelligence he had received from prisoners, that more difficulty would attend this enterprize than he at first expected. Indeed, if he intended a surprize, he ought not to have stopped at Fort Diego, for by that delay the enemy had notice of his approach, and time to gather their whole force, and put themselves in a posture of defence. The castle was built of soft stone, with four bastions; the curtain was sixty yards in length, the parapet nine feet thick; the rampart twenty feet high, casemated underneath for lodgings, arched over, and newly made bomb-proof. Fifty pieces of cannon were mounted, several of which were twenty-four pounders. Besides the castle, the town was entrenched with ten salient angles, on each of which some small cannon were mounted. The garrison consisted of seven hundred regulars, two troops of horse, four companies of armed negroes, besides the militia of the province, and Indians. [Sidenote] Invests Augustine. The General now plainly perceived that an attack by land upon the town, and an attempt to take the castle by storm would cost him dear before he could reduce the place, and therefore changed his plan of operations. With the assistance of the ships of war, which were now lying at anchor off Augustine-bar, he resolved to turn the siege into a blockade, and try to shut up every channel by which provisions could be conveyed to the garrison. For this purpose he left Colonel Palmer with ninety-five Highlanders, and forty-two Indians at Fort Moosa, with orders to scour the woods around the town, and intercept all supplies of cattle from the country by land. And, for the safety of his men, he at the same time ordered him to encamp every night in a different place, to keep strict watch around his camp, and by all means avoid coming to any action. This small party was the whole force the General left for guarding the land side. Then he sent Colonel Vanderdussen, with the Carolina regiment, over a small creek, to take possession of a neck of land called Point Quartel, above a mile distant from the castle, with orders to erect a battery upon it; while he himself, with his regiment, and the greatest part of the Indians, embarked in boats, and landed on the island of Anastatia. In this island the Spaniards had a small party of men stationed for a guard, who immediately fled to town, and as it lay opposite to the castle, from this place, the General resolved to bombard the town. Captain Pierce stationed one of his ships to guard the passage, by way of the Motanzas, and with the others blocked up the mouth of the harbour, so that the Spaniards were cut off from all supplies by sea. On the island of Anastatia batteries were soon erected, and several cannon mounted by the assistance of the active and enterprising sailors. Having made these dispositions, General Oglethorpe then summoned the Spanish Governor to a surrender; but the haughty Don, secure in his strong hold, sent him for answer, that he would be glad to shake hands with him in his castle. This insulting answer excited the highest degree of wrath and indignation in the General's mind, and made him resolve to exert himself to the utmost for humbling his pride. The opportunity of surprizing the place being now lost, he had no other secure method left but to attack it at the distance in which he then stood. For this purpose he opened his batteries against the castle, and at the same time threw a number of shells into the town. The fire was returned with equal spirit both from the Spanish fort and from six half-gallies in the harbour, but so great was the distance, that though they continued the cannonade for several days, little execution was done on either side. Captain Warren, a brave naval officer, perceiving that all efforts in this way for demolishing the castle were vain and ineffectual, proposed to destroy the Spanish gallies in the harbour, by an attack in the night, and offered to go himself and head the attempt. A council of war was held to consider of and concert a plan for that service; but, upon sounding the bar, it was found it would admit no large ship to the attack, and with small ones it was judged rash and impracticable, the gallies being covered by the cannon of the castle, and therefore that design was dropt. [Sidenote] Raises the siege. In the mean time the Spanish commander observing the besiegers embarrassed, and their operations beginning to relax, sent out a detachment of three hundred men against Colonel Palmer, who surprised him at Fort Moosa, and, while most of his party lay asleep, cut them almost entirely to pieces. A few that accidentally escaped, went over in a small boat to the Carolina regiment at Point Quartel. Some of the Chickesaw Indians coming from that fort having met with a Spaniard, cut off his head, agreeable to their savage manner of waging war, and presented it to the General in his camp: but he rejected it with abhorrence, calling them barbarous dogs, and bidding them begone. At this disdainful behaviour, however, the Chickesaws were offended, declaring, that if they had carried the head of an Englishman to the French, they would not have treated them so: and perhaps the General discovered more humanity than good policy by it, for these Indians, who knew none of the European customs and refinements in war, soon after deserted him. About the same time the vessel stationed at the Metanzas being ordered off, some small ships from the Havanna with provisions, and a reinforcement of men, got into Augustine, by that narrow channel, to the relief of the garrison. A party of Creeks having surprised one of their small boats, brought four Spanish prisoners to the General, who informed him, that the garrison had received seven hundred men, and a large supply of provisions. Then all prospects of starving the enemy being lost, the army began to despair of forcing the place to surrender. The Carolinean troops, enfeebled by the heat, dispirited by sickness, and fatigued by fruitless efforts, marched away in large bodies. The navy being short of provisions, and the usual season of hurricanes approaching, the commander judged it imprudent to hazard his Majesty's ships, by remaining longer on that coast. Last of all, the General himself, sick of a fever, and his regiment worn out with fatigue, and rendered unfit for action by a flux, with sorrow and regret followed, and reached Frederica about the 10th of July 1740. Thus ended the unsuccessful expedition against Augustine, to the great disappointment of both Georgia and Carolina. Many heavy reflections were afterwards thrown out against General Oglethorpe for his conduct during the whole enterprize. Perhaps the only chance of success he had from the beginning was by surprising this garrison in the night by some sudden attempt. He was blamed for remaining so long at fort Diego, by which means the enemy had full intelligence of his approach, and time to prepare for receiving him. He was charged with timidity afterwards, in making no bold attempt on the town. It was said, that the officer who means to act on the offensive, where difficulties must be surmounted, ought to display some courage; and that too much timidity in war is often as culpable as too much temerity. Great caution he indeed used for saving his men, for excepting those who fell by the sword in fort Moosa, he lost more men by sickness than by the hands of the enemy. Though the disaster of Colonel Palmer, in which many brave Highlanders were massacred, was perhaps occasioned chiefly by want of vigilance and a disobedience of orders, yet many were of opinion, that it was too hazardous to have left so small a party on the main land, exposed to sallies from a superior enemy, and entirely cut off from all possibility of support and assistance from the main body. In short, the Carolineans called in question the General's military judgment and skill in many respects; and protested that he had spent the time in barren deliberations, harassed the men with unnecessary marches, allowed them not a sufficient quantity of provisions, and poisoned them with breakish water. He, on the other hand, declared he had no confidence in the firmness and courage of the provincials; for that they refused obedience to his orders, and at last abandoned his camp, and retreated to Carolina. The truth was, so strongly fortified was the place, both by nature and art, that probably the attempt must have failed, though it had been conducted by the ablest officer, and executed by the best disciplined troops. The miscarriage, however, was particularly ruinous to Carolina, having not only subjected the province to a great expence, but also left it in a worse situation than it was before the attempt. [Sidenote] A great fire at Charlestown. The same year stands distinguished in the annals of Carolina, not only for this unsuccessful expedition against the Spaniards, but also for a desolating fire, which in November following broke out in the capital, and laid the half of it in ruins. This fire began about two o'clock in the afternoon, and burnt with unquenchable violence until eight at night. The houses being built of wood, and the wind blowing hard at north-west, the flames spread with astonishing rapidity. From Broad-street, where the fire kindled, to Granville's Bastion, almost every house was at one time in flames, and exhibited an awful and striking scene. The vast quantities of deerskins, rum, pitch, tar, turpentine and powder, in the different stores, served to increase the horror, and the more speedily to spread the desolation. Amidst the cries and shrieks of women and children, and the bursting forth of flames in different quarters, occasioned by the violent wind, which carried the burning shingles to a great distance, the men were put into confusion, and so anxious were they about the safety of their families, that they could not be prevailed upon to unite their efforts for extinguishing the fire. The sailors from the men of war, and ships in the harbour were the most active and adventurous hands engaged in the service. But such was the violence of the flames, that it baffled all the art and power of man, and burnt until the calmness of the evening closed the dreadful scene. Three hundred of the best and most convenient buildings in the town were consumed, which, together with lots of goods, and provincial commodities, amounted to a prodigious sum. Happily few lives were lost, but the lamentations of ruined families were heard in every quarter. In short, from a flourishing condition the town was reduced in the space of six hours to the lowest and most deplorable state. All those inhabitants whose houses escaped the flames, went around and kindly invited their unfortunate neighbours to them, so that two and three families were lodged in places built only for the accommodation of one. After the legislature met, to take the miserable state of the people under consideration, they agreed to make application to the British parliament for relief. The British parliament voted twenty thousand pounds sterling, to be distributed among the sufferers at Charlestown, which relief was equally seasonable and useful on the one side, as it was generous and noble on the other. No time should obliterate the impressions of such benevolent actions. This gift certainly deserved to be wrote on the table of every heart, in the most indelible characters. For all men must acknowledge, that it merited the warmest returns of gratitude, not only from the unfortunate objects of such bounty, but from the whole province. [Sidenote] A petition in favour of the rice trade. While the war between Great Britain and Spain continued, a bill was brought into parliament to prevent the exportation of rice, among other articles of provision, to France or Spain, with a view to distress these enemies as much as possible. In consequence of which, a representation to the following effect, in behalf of the province of Carolina, and the merchants concerned in that trade, was presented to the House of Commons while the bill was depending before them, praying that the article of rice might be excepted out of the bill, and endeavouring to prove, that the prohibiting its importation would be highly detrimental to Great Britain, and in no respect to her enemies: "The inhabitants of South Carolina have not any manufactures of their own, but are supplied from Great Britain with all their clothing, and the other manufactures by them consumed, to the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling a-year. The only commodity of consequence produced in South Carolina is rice, and they reckon it as much their staple commodity as sugar is to Barbadoes and Jamaica, or tobacco to Virginia and Maryland; so that if any stop be put to the exportation of rice from South Carolina to Europe, it will not only render the planters there incapable of paying their debts, but also reduce the government of that province to such difficulties for want of money, as at this present precarious time may render the whole colony an easy prey to their neighbours the Indians and Spaniards, and also to those yet more dangerous enemies their own negroes, who are ready to revolt on the first opportunity, and are eight times as many in number as there are white men able to bear arms, and the danger in this respect is greater since the unhappy expedition to Augustine. "From the year 1729, when his Majesty purchased South Carolina, the trade of it hath so increased, that their annual exports and imports of late have been double the value of what they were in the said year; and their exports of rice in particular have increased in a greater proportion: for, from the year 1720 to 1729, being ten years, both included, the whole export of rice was 264,488 barrels, making 44,081 tons. From the 1730 to 1739, being also ten years, the whole export of rice was 499,525 barrels, making 99,905 tons; so that the export of the latter ten years exceeded the former by 235,037 barrels, or 55,824 tons: and of the vast quantities of rice thus exported, scarcely one fifteenth part is consumed either in Great Britain or in any part of the British dominions; so that the produce of the other fourteen parts is clear gain to the nation; whereas almost all the sugar, and one fourth part of the tobacco, exported from the British colonies, are consumed by the people of Great Britain, or by British subjects; from whence it is evident, that the national gain arising from rice is several times as great in proportion, as the national gain arising from either sugar or tobacco. "This year, _viz._ 1740, in particular, we shall export from South Carolina above ninety thousand barrels of rice, of which quantity there will not be three thousand barrels used here, so that the clear national gain upon that export will be very great; for at the lowest computation, of twenty-five shillings sterling _per_ barrel, the eighty-seven thousand barrels exported will amount in value to one hundred and eight thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds, at the first hand; whereto there must be added the charge of freight, _&c._ from South Carolina to Europe, which amount to more than the first cost of the rice, and are also gain to Great Britain; so that the least gain upon this article for the present year will be two hundred and twenty thousand pounds, over and above the naval advantage of annually employing more than one hundred and sixty ships of one hundred tons each." "Rice being an enumerated commodity, it cannot be exported from South Carolina without giving bond for double the value that the same shall be landed in Great Britain, or in some of the British plantations, excepting to the southward of Cape Finisterre, which last was permitted by a law made in the year 1729; and the motive for such permission was, that the rice might arrive more seasonably and in better condition at market. We have hereunto added an account of the several quantities of rice which have been exported from South Carolina to the different European markets since the said law was made; and it will thereby appear, that we have not in those ten years been able to find sale for any considerable quantity of rice in Spain; for in all that time we have not sold above three thousand five hundred and seventy barrels to the Spaniards, making only three hundred and fifty-seven barrels annually upon a medium; nor can we in the time to come expect any alteration in favour of our rice trade there, because the Spaniards are supplied with an inferior sort of rice from Turkey, _&c._ equally agreeable to them and a great deal cheaper than ours; the truth whereof appears by the rice taken in a ship called the Baltic Merchant and carried into St. Sebastians, where it was sold at a price so much under the market rate here, or in Holland, as to encourage the sending of it thence to Holland and Hamburgh. "In France the importation of Carolina rice without licence is prohibited; and though during the last and present years there hath, by permission, been some consumption of it there, yet the whole did not exceed nine thousand barrels, and they have received from Turkey so much rice of the present year's growth, as to make that commodity five shillings _per_ 100 _lb._ cheaper at Marseilles than here, and even at Dunkirk it is one shilling and sixpence _per_ 100 _lb._ cheaper than here; so that there is not any prospect of a demand for Carolina rice in France, even if liberty could be obtained for sending the same to any port of that kingdom. "Germany and Holland are the countries where we find the best market for our rice, and there the greater part of it is consumed; so that the present intended embargo, or prohibitory law, cannot have any other effect, in relation to rice, than that of preventing our allies from using what our enemies do not want, nor we ourselves consume more than a twentieth part of, and which is of so perishable a nature, that even in a cold climate it doth not keep above a year without decaying, and in a warm climate it perishes entirely. The great consumption of rice in Germany and Holland is during the winter season, when pease and all kinds of pulse, _&c._ are scarce; and the rice intended for those markets ought to be brought there before the frost begins, time enough to be carried up the rivers; so that preventing the exportation only a few days may be attended with this had consequence, that by the frost the winter sale may be lost. "And as we have now, _viz._ since November 11th, above ten thousand barrels of old rice arrived, so we may in a few weeks expect double that quantity, besides the new crop now shipping off from Carolina; the stopping of all which, in a country where there is not any sale for it, instead of permitting the same to be carried to the only places of consumption, must soon reduce the price thereof to so low a rate, that the merchants who have purchased that rice will not be able to sell it for the prime cost, much less will they be able to recover the money they have paid for duty, freight, and other charges thereon, which amount to double the first cost: for the rice that an hundred pounds sterling will purchase in South Carolina, costs the importer two hundred more in British duties, freight, and other charges[1]." [1] An Account of Rice exported in Ten Years after the Province was purchased for the King. _Barrels._ To Portugal, - - - - - - - 83,379 To Gibraltar, - - - - - - 958 To Spain, - - - - - - - - 3,570 To France, - - - - - - - - 9,500 To Great Britain, Ireland, and the British Plantations, - - - 30,000 To Holland, Hamburgh and Bremen, including 7000 barrels to Sweden and Denmark, - - - - - - - 372,118 ------- Total quantity exported in those ten years, - - - 499,525 "Thus it appears, that by prohibiting the exportation of rice from this kingdom, the merchants who have purchased the vast quantities before mentioned will not only lose the money it cost them, but twice as much more in duties, freight, and other charges, by their having a perishable commodity embargoed in a country where it is not used. Or if, instead of laying the prohibition here, it be laid in South Carolina; that province, the planters there, and the merchants who deal with them, must all be involved in ruin; the province, for want of means to support the expense of government; the planters, for want of the means to pay their debts and provide future supplies; and the merchants, by not only losing those debts, but twice as much more in the freight, duties, and other charges, upon rice which they cannot sell. So that, in either case, a very profitable colony, and the merchants concerned in the trade of it, would be ruined for the present, if not totally lost to this kingdom, by prohibiting the exportation of rice; and all this without doing any national good in another way, for such prohibition could not in any shape distress our enemies. It is therefore humbly hoped, that rice will be excepted out of the bill now before the honourable House of Commons." As this representation contains a distinct account of the produce and trade of the province, and shews its usefulness and importance to Great Britain, we judged it worthy of the particular attention of our readers, and therefore have inserted it. With respect to the internal dangers arising from the savage nature and vast number of the slaves, mentioned in this and a former state of the province, we shall now make some remarks, in which we will be naturally led to consider their miserable condition, and the harsh treatment to which slavery necessarily subjects them. [Sidenote] Remarks on the treatment of slaves. That slavery has been practiced by many of the most civilized nations in the world, is indeed a truth evident from the history of them. In war the conquerors were supposed to have a right to the life of their captives, insomuch that they might kill, torture or enslave them, as they thought proper. Yet, though war may be justifiable on the principles of self-preservation and defence, it is no easy matter to vindicate the conqueror's right to murder or enslave a disarmed enemy. Slavery in general, like several other enormities, ought to be ascribed to the corruption and avarice of men, rather than to any principles of nature and humanity, which evidently testify against it; and that vindication which is drawn from the custom and practice of ancient nations in favour of such an institution, is equally applicable to many other enormities which are a shame and disgrace to human nature. Helpless children have been exposed to the fury of wild beasts; pride and ambition have spread their desolations far and wide; but such practices are not therefore humane and just. That many nations have encouraged slavery, and that the remains of it are still observable among the freest of them, are argument which none will plead for their honour and credit. That species of servitude which still remains in Britain among the labourers in the coal mines, _&c._ is very different from that to which the natives of Africa are subjected in the western world; because such labourers voluntarily enter on such servitude, they acquire wages as their reward, and both their persons and properties are under the protection of the laws of the realm. Upon the slightest reflection all men must confess, that those Africans, whom the powers of Europe have conspired to enslave, are by nature equally free and independent, equally susceptible of pain and pleasure, equally averse from bondage and misery, as Europeans themselves. Like all rude nations, they have a strong attachment to their native country, and to those friends and relations with whom they spent the early years of life. By this trade being torn from those nearest connections, and transported to a distant land, it is no easy thing to describe the uneasiness and pain they must endure from such violence and banishment. During the passage being loaded with irons, and cooped up in a ship, oppressed with the most gloomy apprehensions, many of them sicken and die through fear and regret. The provisions made for the voyage by the merchants and masters of ships, who consult their worldly interest more than the dictates of humanity, we may be sure are neither of the best kind, nor distributed among them in the most plentiful manner. After their arrival they are sold and delivered over to the colonists, to whose temper, language and manners they are utter strangers; where their situation for some time, in case of harsh usage, is little better than that of the dumb beasts, having no language but groans in which they can express their pains, nor any friend to pity or relieve them. Some destroy themselves through despair, and from a persuasion they fondly entertain, that, after death, they will return to their beloved friends and native country. [Sidenote] The hardships of their situation. After the sale the purchasers become vested with the absolute property of them, according to the laws, usages, and customs of the trade, and whatever hardships are thereby imposed on those foreigners, the planters are so far excusable, having the sanction of the supreme legislature for the purchase they make. The laws of England, from necessity or expediency, have permitted such labourers to be imported among them; and therefore, on their part, the purchase, however injurious, cannot be illegal. Having acquired this kind of property, it then lies with the colonists to frame laws and regulations for the future management of their slaves. In doing this, absolute obedience and non-resistance are fundamental principles established for the government of them, and enforced by the severest penalties. All laws framed with respect to them, give their masters such authority over them as is under few limitations. Their power of correction may be said to be only not allowed to extend to death. However severely beat and abused, no negro can bring an action against his owner, or appear as an evidence against white men, in any court of law or justice. Their natural rights as human creatures are entirely disregarded, and punishments are commonly inflicted according to the will of their master, however cruel and barbarous his disposition may be. A common place of correction is instituted, to which they are sent to receive such a number of stripes as their owners shall order, and such blunders have been committed in giving and executing those orders, that the innocent sometimes have suffered along with the guilty. In short, such is their miserable condition, that they are exposed defenceless to the insolence, caprice, and passions of owners, obliged to labour all their life without any prospect of reward, or any hope of an end of their toil until the day of their death. At the decease of their masters they descend, like other estates of inheritance, to the heir at law, and sometimes to thoughtless and giddy youth, habituated from their earliest days to treat them like brutes. At other times, no doubt, they are more fortunate, but their condition of life evidently subjects them to harsh usage even from the best of masters, and we leave the world to judge what they have to expect from the worst. Indeed it must be acknowledged, in justice to the planters of Carolina in general, that they treat their slaves with as much, and perhaps more tenderness, than those of any British colony where slavery exists; yet a disinterested stranger must observe, even among the best of masters, several instances of cruelty and negligence in the manner of managing their slaves. Comparatively speaking, they are well clothed and fed in that province, which while they continue in health fits and qualifies them for their task. When they happen to fall sick, they are carefully attended by a physician; in which respect their condition is better than that of the poorest class of labourers in Europe. But in the West Indies, we have been told, they are both covered with rags and have a scanty portion of provisions allowed them, in which case urgent necessity and pinching hunger must often urge them to pilfer, and commit many injuries to which otherwise they would have no inclination, and for which they incur severe punishment. In cases of violence and murder committed on these wretched creatures, it is next to impossible to have the delinquents brought to punishment; for either the grand jury refuse to find the bill, or the petty jury bring in the verdict not guilty. When they are tempted to fly to the woods to shun severe labour or punishment then they may be hunted down or shot as wild beasts. When whipped to death, the murderer, after all, is only subjected to an inconsiderable fine, or a short imprisonment, by the provincial laws. It is impossible that the Author of nature ever intended human beings for such a wretched fate; for surely he who gave life, gave also an undoubted right to the means of self-preservation and happiness, and all the common rights and privileges of nature. But there is another circumstance which renders their case still more wretched and deplorable. Good masters and mistresses, whose humanity and a sense of interest will not permit them to treat their negroes in a harsh manner, do not always reside at their plantations. Many planters have several settlements at considerable distances from the place where they usually live, which they visit perhaps only three or four times in a year. In their absence the charge of negroes is given to overseers, many of whom are ignorant and cruel, and all totally disinterested in the welfare of their charge. In such a case it can scarcely be expected that justice will be equally dispensed, or punishments properly inflicted. The negroes, however, ly entirely at the mercy of such men, and such monsters they sometimes are, as can inflict misery in sport, and hear the groans extorted from nature with laughter and triumph. All slaves under their care must yield absolute obedience to their orders, however unreasonable and difficult, or suffer punishment for their disobedience. It would rouze the anguish and indignation of a humane person to stand by while a puny overseer chastises those slaves, and behold with what piercing stripes he furrows the back of an able negro, whose greatness of soul will not suffer him to complain, and whose strength could crush his tormentor to atoms. The unmerciful whip with which they are chastised is made of cow-skin, hardened, twisted, and tapering, which brings the blood with every blow, and leaves a scar on their naked back which they carry with them to their grave. At the arbitrary will of such managers, many of them with hearts of adamant, this unfortunate race are brought to the post of correction, often no doubt through malice and wantonness, often for the most trifling offences, and sometimes, O horrid! when entirely innocent. Can it be deemed wonderful, that such unhappy creatures should now and then be tempted to assert the rights of nature? Must not such harsh usage often fire them with desires of liberty and vengeance? What can be expected but that they should sometimes give those oppressors grounds of fear, who have subjected them to such intolerable hardships. But from those labourers in the field the colonials have perhaps less danger to dread, than from the number of tradesmen and mechanics in towns, and domestic slaves. Many negroes discover great capacities, and an amazing aptness for learning trades, where dangerous tools are used; and many owners, from motives of profit and advantage, breed them to be coopers, carpenters, bricklayers, smiths, and other trades. Out of mere ostentation the colonists also keep a number of them about their families, who attend their tables, and hear their conversation, which very often turns upon their own various arts, plots, and assassinations. From such open and imprudent conversation those domestics may no doubt take dangerous hints, which, on a fair opportunity, may be applied to their owners hurt. They have also easy access to fire arms, which gives them a double advantage for mischief. When they are of a passionate and revengeful disposition, such domestic slaves seldom want an opportunity of striking a sudden blow, and avenging themselves, in case of ill usage, by killing or poisoning their owners. Such crimes have often been committed in the colonies, and punished; and there is reason to believe they have also frequently happened, when they have passed undiscovered. Prudence and self-preservation strongly dictate to the Carolineans the necessity of guarding against those dangers which arise from domestic slaves, many of whom are idle, cunning and deceitful. [Sidenote] Oppressed with ignorance and superstition. In other respects the policy of the colonists, with respect to the management and treatment of slaves is extremely defective. The hardships to which their bodies are exposed, would be much more tolerable and justifiable, were any provision made for civilizing and improving their minds. But how grievous their circumstances when we consider, that, together with their bodily toil and misery, they are also kept in heathen ignorance and darkness, destitute of the means of instruction, and excluded in a manner from the pale of the Christian church. Humanity places every rational creature upon a level, and gives all an equal title those rights of nature, which are essential to life and happiness. Christianity breathes a spirit of benevolence, gentleness, and compassion for mankind in general, of what nation or complexion soever they be. As government has tolerated and established slavery in the plantations, the supreme charge of these creatures may be regarded rather as a national than a provincial concern. Being members of a great empire, living under its supreme care and jurisdiction, and contributing to the increase of trade and commerce, to the improvement and opulence of the British dominions, they are unquestionably entitled to a share of national benevolence and Christian charity. An institution for their religious instruction was an object of such usefulness and importance, that it merited the attention of the supreme legislature; and the expence of a few superb and perhaps empty churches in England, would certainly have been better employed in erecting some neat buildings in the plantations for this beneficial purpose. To such an institution the merchants of Britain, especially those who owe a great part of their opulence to the labours of Africans, and whose plea for the trade was the bringing them within the pale of the Christian church, ought certainly to have contributed in the most liberal manner. The profits of the trade, abstracting from other considerations, could well admit of it; but every principle of compassion for the ignorant, the poor, and the unfortunate, powerfully dictates the same duty, the neglect of which, to every impartial judge, must appear in a very inexcusable and criminal light. Masters of slaves under the French and Spanish jurisdictions, are obliged by law to allow them time for instruction, and to bring them up in the knowledge and practice of the Catholic religion. Is it not a reproach to the subjects of Britain, who profess to be the freest and most civilized people upon earth, that no provision is made for this purpose, and that they suffer so many thousands of these creatures, residing in the British dominions, to live and die the slaves of ignorance and superstition? How can they expect the blessing of heaven on the riches flowing from their foreign plantations, when they are at no pains to introduce those objects of their care to the knowledge of the true God, and to make them partakers of the benefits and hopes of Christianity. The advantages of religion, like the other gifts of heaven, ought to be free and common as the air we breathe to every human creature, capable of making a proper use and improvement of them. To the honour of the society for the propagation of the Gospel it must indeed be acknowledged, that they have made some efforts for the conversion and instruction of those heathens. Not many years ago they had no less than twelve missionaries in Carolina, who had instructions to give all the assistance in their power for this laudable purpose, and to each of whom they allowed fifty pounds a-year, over and above their provincial salaries. But it is well known, that the fruit of their labours has been very small and inconsiderable. Such feeble exertions were no ways equal to the extent of the work required, nor to the greatness of the end proposed. Whether their small success ought to be ascribed to the rude and untractable dispositions of the negroes, to the discouragements and obstructions thrown in the way by their owners, or to the negligence and indolence of the missionaries themselves we cannot pretend to determine. Perhaps we may venture to assert, that it has been more or less owing to all these different causes. One thing is very certain, that the negroes of that country, a few only excepted, are to this day as great strangers to Christianity, and as much under the influence of Pagan darkness, idolatry and superstition, as they were at their first arrival from Africa. But, though neglected by the British nation, they are entitled to a share of the common privileges of humanity and Christianity, from their provincial owners. It is their duty and interest to use slaves with tenderness and compassion, and render them as happy and contented as their situation will admit. Were they to allow them certain portions of time from their labours of body for the improvement of their mind, and open the way for, and provide the means of instruction, would not kind usage be productive of many beneficial effects? The loss of labour none but avaricious wretches would grudge, and the day of rest allotted for man and beast since the beginning of the world, and properly improved for that purpose, might of itself be attended with good consequences; whereas, to encourage them to labour on that day for themselves, is not only robbing them of the opportunities of instruction, but abusing the Sunday, by making it to them the most laborious day of the week. It would strike a stranger with astonishment and indignation, to hear the excuses planters make for this criminal neglect. Some will tell you they are beings of an inferior rank, and little exalted above brute creatures; that they have no souls, and therefore no concern need be taken about their salvation. Others affirm, that they would become more expert in vice by being taught, and greater knaves by being made Christians. But such advocates for heathen ignorance and barbarism merit no serious notice, being enemies to all improvements in human nature, and all the benefits resulting to society from civilization and Christianity. Certain it is, the inhabitants of Africa have the same faculties with those of Europe. Their minds are equally capable of cultivation, equally susceptible of the impressions of religion. Ridiculous is it to imagine, that the black tincture of their skin, or the barbarous state in which they were there found, can make any material alteration. Though fortune has put the former under the power of the latter, and assigned them the portion of perpetual labour to procure the mere luxuries of life for other men; yet, if such a traffic be reasonable and just, there is no crime negroes can commit that may not be defended and justified upon the same principles. If Europe, to obtain sugar, rum, rice, and tobacco, has a right to enslave Africa; surely Africa, if she had the power, has a much better right to rob Europe of those commodities, the fruits of her children's labour. Every argument that can be brought in support of the institution of slavery, tends to the subversion of justice and morality in the world. The best treatment possible from the colonists cannot compensate for so great a loss. Freedom, in its meanest circumstances, is infinitely preferable to slavery, though it were in golden fetters, and accompanied with the greatest splendour, ease, and abundance. If then the greatest advantages are not a sufficient compensation for the loss of liberty, what shall we think of those who deny them the smallest? But one would imagine that, exclusive of every other motive, personal safety would even induce the colonists to provide for them those advantages which would render them as easy and contented as possible with their condition. Were they duly impressed with a sense of their duty to God and man; were they taught the common rules of honesty, justice, and truth; were their dispositions to humility, submission, and obedience, cultivated and improved; would not such advantages place them more on a level with hired servants, who pay a ready and cheerful obedience to their masters? Were they favoured with the privileges of Christianity, would they not be more faithful and diligent, and better reconciled to their servile condition? Besides, Christianity has a tendency to tame fierce and wild tempers. It is not an easy thing to display the great and extensive influence which the fear of God, and the expectation of a future account, would have upon their minds: Christianity enforces the obligations of morality, and produces a more regular and uniform obedience to its laws. A due sense of the divine presence, the hopes of his approbation, and the fears of his displeasure, are motives that operate powerfully with the human mind, and in fact would prove stronger barriers against trespasses, murders, plots, and conspiracies, than any number of stripes from the hands of men, or even the terrors of certain death. Whereas, to keep the minds of human creatures under clouds of darkness, neither disciplined by reason, nor regulated by religion, is a reproach to the name of Protestants, especially in a land of Christian light and liberty. Sundays and holidays are indeed allowed the negroes in Carolina, the former cannot consistent with the laws be denied them; the latter, as they are commonly spent are nuisances to the province. Holidays there are days of idleness, riot, wantonness and excess; in which the slaves assemble together in alarming crowds, for the purposes of dancing, feasting and merriment. At such seasons the inhabitants have the greatest reason to dread mischief from them; when let loose from their usual employments, they have fair opportunities of hatching plots and conspiracies, and of executing them with greater facility, from the intemperance of their owners and overseers. After all, it must be confessed, that the freemen of Carolina themselves were for many years in a destitute condition with respect to religious instruction; partly owing to their own poverty and the unhealthiness of the climate, and partly owing to troubles and divisions subsisting among them during the proprietary government. At that time the first object of their concern would no doubt be to provide for themselves and their children: but since the province has been taken under the royal care, their circumstances in every respect have changed for the better, insomuch that they are not only able to provide instruction for themselves and families, but also to extend the benefit to those living in a state of servitude among them. Now they are arrived to such an easy and flourishing situation, as renders their neglect entirely without excuse. The instruction of negroes would no doubt be a difficult, but by no means an impracticable undertaking, and the more difficult the end, the more praise and merit would be due to those who should effectually accomplish it. Even the Catholics of Spain pitied the miserable condition of negroes living among the protestant colonies, and to induce them to revolt, proffered them the advantages of liberty and religion at Augustine. Is it not a shame to a Protestant nation to keep such a number of human creatures so long among them, beings of the same nature, subjects of the same government, who have souls to be saved, and capable of being eternally happy or miserable in a future world, not only in a miserable state of slavery, but also of pagan darkness and superstition. What could be expected from creatures thus doomed to endless labour, and deprived of the natural rights of humanity and the privileges of Christianity, but that they should snatch at the least glimmering hopes and prospects of a better state, and give their task-masters reason to dread, that they would lay hold of some opportunity of forcing their way to it. This inexcusable negligence with respect to them may be considered of itself as no small source of danger to the colonists, as the hazard is greater from savage and ferocious, than mild and civilized dispositions, and, as the restraints of terror and temporal punishments are less constant and powerful than those of conscience and religion. The political and commercial connection subsisting between the mother country and the colonies, makes the charge of negroes, in reason and justice, to fall equally upon both. And whatever other men may think, we are of opinion, that an institution for their instruction was an object of the highest consequence, and that, by all the laws of God and man, that nation which brought this unfortunate race into such a situation, was bound to consult both their temporal and eternal felicity. [Sidenote] James Glen governor. About this time James Glen received a commission from his majesty, investing him with the government of South Carolina, and at the same time was appointed Colonel of a new regiment of foot to be raised in the province. He was a man of considerable knowledge, courteous, and polite; exceedingly fond of military parade and ostentation, which commonly have great force on ordinary minds, and by these means he maintained his dignity and importance in the eyes of the people. All governors invested with extensive powers ought to be well acquainted with the common and civil laws of their country; and every wise prince will guard against nominating weak or wicked persons to an high office, which affords them many opportunities of exercising their power to the prejudice of the people. When men are promoted to the government of provinces on account of their abilities and merit, and not through the interest of friends, then we may expect to see public affairs wisely managed, authority revered, and every man sitting secure under his vine, and enjoying the fruits of his industry with contentment and satisfaction. But when such offices are bestowed on ignorant or needy persons, because they happen to be favourites of some powerful and clamorous Lord at court, without any view to the interest and happiness of the people, then avarice and oppression commonly prevail on one hand, and murmur and discontent on the other. The appointment of Governor Glen was so far proper, as he possessed those qualifications which rendered his government respectable, and the people living under it for several years happy and contented. His council, consisting of twelve men, were appointed also by the King, under his sign manual. The assembly of representatives consisted of forty-four members, and were elected every third year by the freeholders of sixteen parishes. The court of chancery was composed of the Governor and Council, to which court belonged a master of chancery and a register. There was a court of vice-admiralty, the Judge, Register, and Marshal of which were appointed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty in England. The Court of King's Bench consisted of a Chief Justice appointed by the King, who sat with some assistant justices of the province; and the same judges constituted the Court of Common Pleas. There were likewise an Attorney-General, a Clerk, and Provost-Marshal. The Secretary of the province, who was also Register, the Surveyor-general of the lands, and the Receiver-general of the quit-rents, were all appointed by the Crown. The Comptroller of the customs, and three Collectors, at the ports of Charlestown, Port-Royal, and Georgetown, were appointed by the Commissioners of the Customs in England. The provincial Treasurer was appointed by the General Assembly. The clergy were elected by the freeholders of the parish. All Justices of the peace, and officers of the militia, were appointed by the Governor in Council. This is the nature of the provincial government and constitution, and in this way were the principal officers of each branch appointed or elected, under the royal establishment. [Sidenote] Ld. Carteret's property divided from that of the Crown. About the same time John Lord Carteret (now Earl of Granville) applied by petition to his Majesty, praying that the eighth part of the lands and soil granted by King Charles, and referred to him by the act of parliament establishing an agreement with the other seven Lords Proprietors for the surrender of their title and interest to his Majesty, might be set apart and allotted to him and his heirs for ever, and proposing to appoint persons to divide the same; at the same time offering to resign to the King his share of, and interest in the government, and to convey, release and confirm to his Majesty, and his heirs, the other seven parts of the province. This petition being referred to the Lords Commissioners of trade and plantations, they reported, that it would be for his Majesty's service that Lord Carteret's property should be separated from that of his Majesty, and that the method proposed by his Lordship would be the most proper and effectual for the purpose. Accordingly five commissioners were appointed on the part of the King, and five on that of Lord Carteret for separating his Lordship's share, and making it one entire district by itself. The territory allotted him was divided on the north-east by the line which separated North Carolina from Virginia; on the east by the Atlantic ocean; on the south by a point on the sea-shore, in latitude thirty-five degrees and thirty-four minutes; and, agreeable to the charter, westward from these points on the sea-shore it extended, in a line parallel to the boundary line of Virginia, to the Pacific Ocean. Not long afterwards, a grant of the eighth part of Carolina, together with all yearly rents and profits arising from it, passed the great seal, to John Lord Carteret and his heirs. But the power of making laws, calling and holding assemblies, erecting courts of justice, appointing judges and justices, pardoning criminals, granting titles of honour, making ports and havens, taking customs or duties on goods, executing the martial law, exercising the royal rights of a county palatine, or any other prerogatives relating to the administrations of government, were all excepted out of the grant. Lord Carteret was to hold this estate upon condition of yielding and paying to his Majesty and his heirs and successors, the annual-rent of one pound thirteen shillings and fourpence, on the feast of All-Saints, for ever, and also one fourth part of all the gold and silver ore found within this eighth part of the territory so separated and granted him. [Sidenote] The country much exposed to invasion. As Carolina abounds with navigable rivers, while it enjoys many advantages for commerce and trade, it is also much exposed to foreign invasions. The tide on that coast flows from six to ten feet perpendicular, and makes its way up into the flat country by a variety of channels. All vessels that draw not above seventeen feet water, may safely pass over the bar of Charlestown, which at spring-tides will admit ships that draw eighteen feet. This bar lies in thirty-two degrees and forty minutes north latitude, and seventy-eight degrees and forty-five minutes west longitude from London. Its situation is variable, owing to a sandy foundation and the rapid flux and reflux of the sea. The channel leading to George-town is twelve or thirteen feet deep, and likewise those of North and South Edisto rivers, and will admit all ships that draw not above ten or eleven feet of water. At Stono there is also a large creek, which admits vessels of the same draught of water; but Sewee and Santee rivers, and many others of less note, are for smaller craft which draw seven, eight, or nine feet. The channel up to Port Royal harbour is deep enough for the largest ships that sail on the sea; and the whole royal navy of England may ride with safety in it. Nature has evidently ordained this place for trade and commerce, by the many advantages with which she hath favoured it. It lies in thirty-two degrees and five minutes north latitude, and in longitude seventy-nine degrees five minutes. Its situation renders it an excellent station for a squadron of ships in time of war, as the run from it is short to the windward islands, but especially as it lies so convenient for distressing the immense trade coming through the Gulf of Florida. From this harbour ships may run out to the Gulf stream in one day, and return with equal ease the next, so that it would be very difficult to escape a sufficient number of cruisers stationed at Beaufort. The harbour is also defended by a small fort, built of tappy, which is a kind of cement composed of oyster-shells beat small, and mixed with lime and water, which when dry becomes hard and durable. The fort has two demi-bastions to the river, and one bastion to the land, with a gate and ditch, mounting sixteen heavy cannon, and containing barracks for an hundred men. Several leagues to the southward of Port-Royal, Savanna river empties itself into the ocean, which is also navigable for ships that draw not above fourteen feet water. At the southern boundary of Georgia the great river Alatamaha falls into the Atlantic sea, about sixteen leagues north-east of Augustine, which lies in twenty-nine degrees fifty minutes. This river admits ships of large burden as far as Frederica, a small town built by General Oglethorpe, on an eminence in Simon's Island. The island on the west end is washed by a branch of the river Alatamaha, before it empties itself into the sea at Jekyl sound. At Frederica the river forms a kind of bay. The fort General Oglethorpe erected here for the defence of Georgia had several eighteen pounders mounted on it and commanded the river both upwards and downwards. It was built of tappy, with four bastions, surrounded by a quadrangular rampart, and a palisadoed ditch, which included also the King's stores, and two large buildings of brick and timber. The town was surrounded with a rampart, in the form of a pentagon, with flankers of the same thickness with that at the fort, and a dry ditch. On this rampart several pieces of ordnance were also mounted. In this situation General Oglethorpe had pitched his camp, which was divided into streets, distinguished by the names of the several Captains of his regiment. Their little huts were built of wood, and constructed for holding each four or five men. At some distance from Frederica was the colony of Highlanders, situated on the same river, a wild and intrepid race, living in a state of rural freedom and independence. Their settlement being near the frontiers, afforded them abundance of scope for the exercise of their warlike temper; and having received one severe blow from the garrison at Augustine, they seemed to long for an opportunity of revenging the massacre of their beloved friends. [Sidenote] The Spaniards invade Georgia. The time was fast approaching for giving them what they desired. For although the territory granted by the second charter to the proprietors at Carolina extended far to the south-west of the river Alatamaha, the Spaniards had never relinquished their pretended claim to the province of Georgia. Their ambassador at the British court had even declared that his Catholic Majesty would as soon part with Madrid as his claim to that territory. The squadron commanded by Admiral Vernon had for some time occupied their attention in the West Indies so much, that they could spare none of their forces to maintain their supposed right. But no sooner had the greatest part of the British fleet left those seas, and returned to England, than they immediately turned their eyes to Georgia, and began to make preparations for dislodging the English settlers in that province. Finding that threats could not terrify General Oglethorpe to compliance with their demands, an armament was prepared at the Havanna to go against him, and expel him by force of arms from their frontiers. With this view two thousand forces, commanded by Don Antonio de Rodondo, embarked at the Havanna, under the convoy of a strong squadron, and arrived at Augustine in May 1742. But before this formidable fleet and armament had reached Augustine, they were observed by Captain Haymer, of the Flamborough man of war, who was cruising on that coast; and advice was immediately sent to General Oglethorpe of their arrival in Florida. Georgia now began to tremble in her turn. The General sent intelligence to Governor Glen at Carolina, requesting him to collect all the forces he could with the greatest expedition, and send them to his assistance; and at the same time to dispatch a sloop to the West Indies, to acquaint Admiral Vernon with the intended invasion. Carolina by this time had found great advantage from the settlement of Georgia, which had proved an excellent barrier to that province, against the incursions of Spaniards and Spanish Indians. The southern parts being rendered secure by the regiment of General Oglethorpe in Georgia, the lands backward of Port-Royal had become much in demand, and risen four times their former value. But though the Carolineans were equally interested with their neighbours in the defence of Georgia, having little confidence in General Oglethorpe's military abilities, since his unsuccessful expedition against Augustine, the planters, struck with terror, especially those on the southern parts, deserted their habitations, and flocked to Charlestown with their families and effects. The inhabitants of Charlestown, many of whom being prejudiced against the man, declared against sending him any assistance, and determined rather to fortify their town, and stand upon their own grounds in a posture of defence. In this resolution, however, it is plain they acted from bad motives, in leaving that officer to stand alone against such a superior force. At such an emergency, good policy evidently required the firmest union, and the utmost exertion of the force of both colonies; for so soon as General Oglethorpe should be crushed, the reduction of Georgia would open to the common enemy an easy access into the bowels of Carolina, and render the force of both provinces, thus divided, unequal to the public defence. In the mean time General Oglethorpe was making all possible preparations at Frederica for a vigorous stand. Message after message was sent to his Indian allies, who were greatly attached to him, and crowded to his camp. A company of Highlanders joined him on the first notice; and seemed joyful at the opportunity of retorting Spanish vengeance on their own heads. With his regiment, and a few rangers, Highlanders, and Indians, the General fixed his head quarters at Frederica, never doubting of a reinforcement from Carolina, and expecting their arrival every day; but in the mean time determined, in case he should be attacked, to sell his life as dear as possible in defence of the province. About the end of June, 1742, the Spanish fleet, amounting to thirty-two sail; and carrying above three thousand men, under the command of Don Manuel de Monteano, came to anchor off Simons's bar. Here they continued for some time sounding the channel, and after finding a depth of water sufficient to admit their ships, they came in with the tide of flood into Jekyl sound. General Oglethorpe, who was at Simons's fort, fired at them as they passed the sound, which the Spaniards returned from their ships, and proceeded up the river Alatamaha, out of the reach of his guns. There the enemy having hoisted a red flag at the mizen top-mast-head of the largest ship, landed their forces upon the island, and erected a battery, with twenty eighteen pounders mounted on it. Among their land forces they had a fine company of artillery, under the command of Don Antonio de Rodondo, and a regiment of negroes. The negro commanders were clothed in lace, bore the same rank with white officers, and with equal freedom and familiarity walked and conversed with their commander and chief. Such an example might justly have alarmed Carolina. For should the enemy penetrate into that province, where there were such numbers of negroes, they would soon have acquired such a force, as must have rendered all opposition fruitless and ineffectual. General Oglethorpe having found that he could not stop the progress of the enemy up the river, and judging his situation at Fort Simons too dangerous, nailed up the guns, burst the bombs and coehorns, destroyed the stores, and retreated to his head quarters at Frederica. So great was the force of the enemy, that he plainly perceived that nothing remained for him to achieve, with his handful of men, and therefore resolved to use his utmost vigilance, and to act only on the defensive. On all sides he sent out scouting parties to watch the motions of the Spaniards, while the main body were employed in working at the fortifications, making them as strong as circumstances would admit. Day and night he kept his Indian allies ranging through the woods, to harass the outposts of the enemy, who at length brought in five Spanish prisoners, who informed him of their number and force, and that the Governor of Augustine was commander in chief of the expedition. The General, still expecting a reinforcement from Carolina, used all his address in planning measures for gaining time, and preventing the garrison from sinking into despair. For this purpose he sent out the Highland company also to assist the Indians, and obstruct as much as possible the approach of the enemy till he should obtain assistance and relief. His provisions for the garrison were neither good nor plentiful, and his great distance from all settlements, together with the enemy keeping the command of the river, cut off entirely all prospects of a supply. To prolong the defence, however, he concealed every discouraging circumstance from his little army, which, besides Indians, did not amount to more than seven hundred men; and to animate them to perseverance, exposed himself to the same hardships and fatigues with the meanest soldier in his garrison. [Sidenote] A stratagem to get rid of the enemy. While Oglethorpe remained in this situation, the enemy made several attempts to pierce through the woods, with a view to attack the fort; but met with such opposition from deep morasses, and dark thickets, lined with fierce Indians, and wild Highlanders, that they honestly confessed that the devil himself could not pass through them to Frederica. Don Manuel de Monteano, however, had no other prospect left, and these difficulties must either be surmounted, or the design dropt; and therefore one party after another was sent out to explore the thickets, and to take possession of every advantageous post to be found in them. In two skirmishes with the Highlanders and Indians, the enemy had one captain, and two lieutenants killed, with above one hundred men taken prisoners. After which the Spanish commander changed his plan of operations, and keeping his men under cover of his cannon, proceeded with some gallies up the river with the tide of flood, to reconnoitre the fort, and draw the General's attention to another quarter. To this place Oglethorpe sent a party of Indians, with orders to lie in ambuscade in the woods, and endeavour to prevent their landing. About the same time an English prisoner escaped from the Spanish camp, and brought advice to General Oglethorpe of a difference subsisting in it, in so much that the forces from Cuba, and those from Augustine encamped in separate places. Upon which the General resolved to attempt a surprise on one of the Spanish camps, and taking the advantage of his knowledge of the woods, marched out in the night with three hundred chosen men, the Highland company, and some rangers. Having advanced within two miles of the enemy's camp, he halted, and went forward with a small party to take a view of the posture of the enemy. But while he wanted above all things to conceal his approach, a Frenchman fired his musket, run off and alarmed the enemy. Upon which Oglethorpe finding his design defeated, retreated to Frederica, and being apprehensive that the deserter would discover his weakness, began to study by what device he might most effectually defeat the credit of his informations. For this purpose he wrote a letter, addressing it to the deserter, in which he desired him to acquaint the Spaniards with the defenceless state of Frederica, and how easy and practicable it would be to cut him and his small garrison to pieces. He begged him, as his spy, to bring them forward to the attack, and assure them of success; but if he could not prevail with them to make that attempt, to use all his art and influence to persuade them to stay at least three days more at Fort Simons, for within that time, according to the advice he had just received from Carolina, he would have a reinforcement of two thousand land-forces, and six British ships of war, with which he doubted not he would be able to give a good account of the Spanish invaders. He intreated the deserter to urge them to stay, and above all things cautioned him against mentioning a single word of Vernon coming against Augustine, assuring him, that for such services he should be amply rewarded by his Britannic Majesty. This letter he gave to one of the Spanish prisoners, who for the sake of liberty and a small reward, promised to deliver it to the French deserter; but, instead of that, as Oglethorpe expected, he delivered it to the commander and chief of the Spanish army. [Sidenote] The Spaniards retreat to Augustine. Various were the speculations and conjectures which this letter occasioned in the Spanish camp, and the commander, among others, was not a little perplexed what to infer from it. In the first place he ordered the French deserter to be put in irons, to prevent his escape, and then called a council of war, to consider what was most proper to be done in consequence of intelligence, so puzzling and alarming. Some officers were of opinion, that the letter was intended to deceive, and to prevent them from attacking Frederica; others thought that the things mentioned in it appeared so feasible, that there were good grounds to believe, the English General wished them to take place, and therefore gave their voice for consulting the safety of Augustine, and dropping a plan of conquest attended with so many difficulties, and which, in the issue, might perhaps hazard the loss of both army and fleet, if not of the whole province of Florida. While the Spanish leaders were employed in these deliberations, and much embarrassed, fortunately three ships of force, which the Governor of South Carolina had sent out, appeared at some distance on the coast. This corresponding with the letter, convinced the Spanish commander of its real intent, and struck such a panic into the army, that they immediately set fire to their fort, and in great hurry and confusion embarked, leaving behind them several cannon, and a quantity of provisions and military stores. The wind being contrary, the English ships could not, during that day, beat up to the mouth of the river, and before next morning the invaders got past them, and escaped to Augustine. In this manner was the province of Georgia delivered, when brought to the very brink of destruction by a formidable enemy. Fifteen days had Don Manuel de Monteano been on the small island on which Frederica was situated, without gaining the smallest advantage over an handful of men, and in different skirmishes lost some of his bravest troops. What number of men Oglethorpe lost we have not been able to learn, but it must have been very inconsiderable. In this resolute defence of the country he displayed both military skill and personal courage, and an equal degree of praise was due to him from the Carolineans as from the Georgians. It is not improbable that the Spaniards had Carolina chiefly in their eye, and had meditated an attack where rich plunder could have been obtained, and where, by an accession of slaves, they might have increased their force in proportion to their progress. Never did the Carolineans make so bad a figure in defence of their country. When union, activity and dispatch were so requisite, they ingloriously stood at a distance, and suffering private pique to prevail over public spirit, seemed determined to risk the safety of their country, rather than General Oglethorpe, by their help, should gain the smallest degree of honour and reputation. Money, indeed, they voted for the service, and at length sent some ships, but, by coming so late, they proved useful rather from the fortunate co-operation of an accidental cause, than from the zeal and public spirit of the people. The Georgians with justice blamed their more powerful neighbours, who, by keeping at a distance in the day of danger, had almost hazarded the loss of both provinces. Had the enemy pursued their operations with vigour and courage, the province of Georgia must have fallen a prey to the invaders, and Carolina had every thing to dread in consequence of the conquest. Upon the return of the Spanish troops to the Havanna, the commander was imprisoned, and ordered to take his trial for his conduct during this expedition, the result of which proved so shameful and ignominious to the Spanish arms. Though the enemy threatened to renew the invasion, yet we do not find that after this repulse they made any attempts by force of arms to gain possession of Georgia. [Sidenote] Ill treatment of General Oglethorpe. The Carolineans having had little or no share of the glory gained by this brave defence, were also divided in their opinions with respect to the conduct of General Oglethorpe. While one party acknowledged his signal services, and poured out the highest encomiums on his wisdom and courage; another shamefully censured his conduct, and meanly detracted from his merit. None took any notice of his services, except the inhabitants in and about Port-Royal, who addressed him in the following manner: "We the inhabitants of the southern parts of Carolina beg leave to congratulate your Excellency on your late wonderful success over your and our inveterate enemies the Spaniards, who so lately invaded Georgia, in such a numerous and formidable body, to the great terror of his Majesty's subjects in these southern parts. It was very certain, had the Spaniards succeeded in those attempts against your Excellency, they would also have entirely destroyed us, laid our province waste and desolate, and filled our habitations with blood and slaughter; so that his Majesty must have lost the fine and spacious harbour of Port-Royal, where the largest ships of the British nation may remain in security on any occasion. We are very sensible of the great protection and safety we have long enjoyed, by your Excellency being to the southwards of us, and keeping your armed sloops cruising on the coast, which has secured our trade and fortunes more than all the ships of war ever stationed at Charlestown; but more by your late resolution in frustrating the attempts of the Spaniards, when nothing could have saved us from utter ruin, next to the Providence of Almighty God, but your Excellency's singular conduct, and the bravery of the troops under your command. We think it our duty to pray God to protect your Excellency, and send you success in all your undertakings for his Majesty's service; and we assure your Excellency, that there is not a man of us but would most willingly have ventured his all, in support of your Excellency and your gallant troops, had we been assisted, and put in a condition to have been of service to you; and that we always looked upon our interest to be so united to that of the colony of Georgia, that had your Excellency been cut off, we must have fallen of course." But while the inhabitants in and about Port-Royal were thus addressing General Oglethorpe, reports were circulating in Charlestown to his prejudice, insomuch that both his honour and honesty were called in question. Such malicious rumours had even reached London, and occasioned some of his bills to return to America protested. Lieutenant-Colonel William Cook, who owed his preferment to the General's particular friendship and generosity, and who, on pretence of sickness, had left Georgia before this invasion, had filed no less than nineteen articles of complaint against him, summoning several officers and soldiers from Georgia to prove the charge. As the General had, in fact, stretched his credit, exhausted his strength, and risqued his life for the defence of Carolina in its frontier colony, such a recompence must have been equally provoking, as it was unmerited. We are apt to believe, that such injurious treatment could not have arisen from the wiser and better part of the inhabitants, and therefore must be solely ascribed to some envious and malicious spirits, who are to be found in all communities. Envy cannot bear the blaze of superior virtue, and malice rejoices in the stains which even falsehood throws on a distinguished character; and such is the extensive freedom of the British form of government that every one, even the meanest, may step forth as an enemy to great abilities and an unblemished reputation. The charges of envy and malice, Oglethorpe might have treated with contempt; but to vindicate himself against the rude attacks of an inferior officer, he thought himself at this time bound in honour to return to England. [Sidenote] His character cleared, and conduct vindicated. Soon after his arrival a court-martial of general officers was called, who sat two days at the Horse Guards, examining one by one the various articles of complaint lodged against him. After the most mature examination, the board adjudged the charge to be false, malicious, and groundless, and reported the same to his Majesty. In consequence of which Lieutenant-Colonel Cook was dismissed from the service, and declared incapable of serving his Majesty in any military capacity whatever. By this means the character of General Oglethorpe was divested of those dark stains with which it had been overclouded, and began to appear to the world in its true and favourable light. Carolina owed this benefactor her friendship and love. Georgia was indebted to him for both her existence and protection. Indeed his generous services for both colonies deserved to be deeply imprinted on the memory of every inhabitant and the benefits resulting from them to be remembered to the latest age with joy and gratitude. After this period General Oglethorpe never returned to the province of Georgia, but upon all occasions discovered in England an uncommon zeal for its prosperity and improvement. From its first settlement the colony had hitherto been under a military government, executed by the General and such officers as he thought proper to nominate and appoint. But now the Trustees thought proper to establish a kind of civil government, and committed the charge of it to a president and four assistants, who were to act agreeable to the instructions they should receive from them, and to be accountable to that corporation for their public conduct. William Stephens was made chief magistrate, and Thomas Jones, Henry Parker, John Fallowfield, and Samuel Mercer, were appointed assistants. They were instructed to hold four general courts at Savanna every year, for regulating public affairs, and determining all differences relating to private property. No public money could be disposed of but by a warrant under the seal of the President and major part of the Assistants in council assembled, who were enjoined to send monthly accounts to England of money expended, and of the particular services to which it was applied. All officers of militia were continued, for the purpose of holding musters, and keeping the men properly trained for military services; and Oglethorpe's regiment was left in the colony for its defence. By this time the Trustees had transported to Georgia, at different times, above one thousand five hundred men, women and children. As the colony was intended as a barrier to Carolina, by their charter the Trustees were at first laid under several restraints with respect to the method of granting lands, as well as the settlers with respect to the terms of holding and disposing of them. Now it was found expedient to relieve both the former and latter from those foolish and impolitic restrictions. Under the care of General Oglethorpe the infant province had surmounted many difficulties, yet still it promised a poor recompense to Britain for the vast sums of money expended for its protection. The indigent emigrants, especially those from England, having little acquaintance with husbandry, and less inclination to labour, made bad settlers; and as greater privileges were allowed them on the Carolina side of the river, they were easily decoyed away to that colony. The Highlanders and Germans indeed, being more frugal and industrious, succeeded better, but hitherto had made very small progress, owing partly to wars with the Spaniards, and to severe hardships attending all kinds of culture in such an unhealthy climate and woody country. The staple commodities intended to be raised in Georgia were silk and wine, which were indeed very profitable articles; but so small was the improvement made in them, that they had hitherto turned out to little account. The most industrious and successful settlers could as yet scarcely provide for their families, and the unfortunate, the sick, and indolent part, remained in a starved and miserable condition. [Sidenote] The Carolineans petition for three independent companies. Soon after the departure of General Oglethorpe, the Carolineans petitioned the King, praying that three independent companies, consisting each of an hundred men, might be raised in the colonies, paid by Great Britain, and stationed in Carolina, to be entirely under the command of the Governor and Council of that province. This petition was referred to the Lords of his Majesty's Privy-council, and a time appointed for considering, whether the present state of Carolina was such as rendered this additional charge to the nation proper and necessary. Two reasons were assigned by the colonists for the necessity of this military force: the first was, to preserve peace and security at home; the second, to protect the colony against foreign invasions. They alledged, that as the country was overstocked with negroes, such a military force was requisite to overawe them, and prevent insurrections; and as the coast was so extensive, and the ports lay exposed to every French and Spanish plunderer that might at any time invade the province, their security against such attempts was of the highest consequence to the nation. But though they afterwards obtained some independent companies, those reasons, at this time, did not appear to the Privy-council of weight sufficient to induce them to give their advice for this military establishment. It was their opinion, that it belonged to the provincial legislature to make proper laws for limiting the importation of negroes, and regulating and restraining them when imported; rather than put the mother country to the expence of keeping a standing force in the province to overawe them: that Georgia, and the Indians on the Apalachian hills, were a barrier against foreign enemies on the western frontiers: that Fort Johnson, and the fortifications in Charlestown, were a sufficient protection for that port; besides, that as the entrance over the bar was so difficult to strangers, before a foreign enemy could land five hundred men in that town, half the militia in the province might be collected for its defence. Georgetown and Port-Royal indeed were exposed, but the inhabitants being both few in number and poor, it could not be worth the pains and risque of a single privateer to look into those harbours. For which reasons it was judged, that Carolina could be in little danger till a foreign enemy had possession of Georgia; and therefore it was agreed to maintain Oglethorpe's regiment in that settlement complete; and give orders to the commandant to send detachments to the forts in James's Island, Port-Royal, and such other places where their service might be thought useful and necessary to the provincial safety and defence. [Sidenote] The colony's advantages from Britain. Many are the advantages Carolina has derived from its political and commercial connection with Britain. Its growing and flourishing state the colony owes almost entirely to the mother-country, without the protection and indulgence of which, the people had little or no encouragement to be industrious. Britain first furnished a number of bold and enterprising settlers, who carried with them the knowledge, arts, and improvements of a civilized nation. This may be said to be the chief favour for which Carolina stands indebted to the parent state during the proprietary government. But since the province has been taken under the royal care, it has been nursed and protected by a rich and powerful nation. Its government has been stable, private property secure, and the privileges and liberties of the people have been extensive. Lands the planters obtained from the King at a cheap rate. To cultivate them the mother-country furnished them with labourers upon credit. Each person had entire liberty to manage his affairs for his own profit and advantage, and having no tythes, and very trifling taxes to pay, reaped almost the whole fruits of his industry. The best and most extensive market was allowed to the commodities he produced, and his staples increased in value in proportion to the quantity raised, and the demand for them in Europe. All British manufactures he obtained at an easy rate, and drawbacks were allowed on articles of foreign manufacture, that they might be brought the cheaper to the American market. In consequence of which frugal planters, every three or four years, doubled their capital, and their progress towards independence and opulence was rapid. Indeed, the colonists had many reasons for gratitude, and none for fear, except what arose from their immoderate haste to be rich, and from purchasing such numbers of slaves, as exposed them to danger and destruction. The plan of settling townships, especially as it came accompanied with the royal bounty, had proved beneficial in many respects. It encouraged multitudes of poor oppressed people in Ireland, Holland and Germany to emigrate, by which means the province received a number of frugal and industrious settlers. As many of them came from manufacturing towns in Europe, it might have been expected that they would naturally have pursued those occupations to which they had been bred, and in which their chief skill consisted. But this was by no means the case; for, excepting a few of them that took up their residence in Charlestown, they procured lands, applied to pasturage and agriculture, and by raising hemp, wheat and maize in the interior parts of the country, and curing hams, bacon, and beef, they supplied the market with abundance of provision, while at the same time they found that they had taken the shortest way of arriving at easy and independent circumstances. [Sidenote] Its advantage and importance to Britain. Indeed while such vast territories in Carolina remained unoccupied, it was neither for the interest of the province, nor that of the mother-country, to employ any hands in manufactures. So long as labour bestowed on lands was most profitable, no prudent colonist would direct his attention or strength to any other employment, especially as the mother-country could supply him with all kinds of manufactures at a much cheaper rate than he could make them. The surplus part of British commodities and manufactures for which there was no vent in Britain, found in Carolina a good market, and in return brought the English merchant such articles as were in demand at home, by which means the advantages were mutual and reciprocal. The exclusive privilege of supplying this market encouraged labour in England, and augmented the annual income of the nation. From the monopoly of this trade with America, which was always increasing, Britain derived many substantial advantages. These colonies consumed all her superfluities which lay upon hand, and enlarged her commerce, which, without such a market, must have been confined to its ancient narrow channel. In the year 1744, two hundred and thirty vessels were loaded at the port of Charlestown, so that the national value of the province was not only considerable in respect of the large quantity of goods it consumed, but also in respect to the naval strength it promoted. Fifteen hundred seamen at least found employment in the trade of this province, and, besides other advantages, the profits of freight must make a considerable addition to the account in favour of Britain. Nor is there the smallest reason to expect that manufactures will be encouraged in Carolina, while landed property can be obtained on such easy terms. The cooper, the carpenter, the brick-layer, the shipbuilder, and every other artificer and tradesman, after having laboured for a few years at their respective employments, and purchased a few negroes, commonly retreat to the country, and settle tracts of uncultivated land. While they labour at their trades, they find themselves dependent on their employers; this is one reason for their wishing at least to be their own masters; and though the wages allowed them are high, yet the means of subsistence in towns are also dear, and therefore they long to be in the same situation with their neighbours, who derive an easy subsistence from a plantation, which they cultivate at pleasure, and are answerable to no master for their conduct. Even the merchant becomes weary of attending the store, and risking his flock on the stormy seas, or in the hands of men where it is often exposed to equal hazards, and therefore collects it as soon as possible, and settles a plantation. Upon this plantation he sets himself down, and being both landlord and farmer, immediately finds himself an independent man. Having his capital in lands and negroes around him, and his affairs collected within a narrow circle, he can manage and improve them as he thinks fit. He soon obtains plenty of the necessaries of life from his plantation; nor need he want any of its conveniencies and luxuries. The greatest difficulties he has to surmount arise from the marshy soil, and unhealthy climate, which often cut men off in the midst of their days. Indeed in this respect Carolina is the reverse of most countries in Europe, where the rural life, when compared with that of the town, is commonly healthy and delightful. CHAP. IX. [Sidenote] All commotions and oppressions in Europe favourable to America. The war between England and France still raged in Europe, and being carried on under many disadvantages on the side of the allied army, was almost as unsuccessful as their enemies could have desired. The battle of Fontenoy was obstinate and bloody, and many thousands were left on the field on the side of the vanquished. The victorious army had little reason for boasting, having likewise bought their victory very dear. Though bad success attended the British arms on the continent at this time, yet that evil being considered as remote, the people seemed only to feel it as affecting the honour of the nation, which by some fortunate change might retrieve the glory of its arms; but a plot of a more interesting nature was discovered, which added greatly to the national perplexity and distress. A civil war broke out within the bowels of the kingdom, the object of which was nothing less than the recovery of the British crown from the house of Brunswick. Charles Edward Stuart, the young pretender, stimulated by the fire of youth, encouraged by the deceitful promises of France, and invited by a discontented party of the Scotch nation, had landed in North Britain to head the rash enterprise. Multitudes of bold and deluded Highlanders, and several Lowlanders, who owed their misfortunes to their firm adherence to that family, joined his army. He became formidable both by the numbers that followed him, and the success that at first attended his arms. But at length, after having struck a terror into the nation, he was routed at Culloden field, and his party were either dispersed, or made prisoners of war. What to make of the prisoners of war became a matter of public deliberation. To punish all, without distinction, would have been unjustifiable cruelty in any government, especially where so many were young, ignorant, and misled: to pardon all, on the other hand, would discover unreasonable weakness, and dangerous lenity. The prisoners had nothing to plead but the clemency of the King, and the tenderness of the British constitution. Examples of justice were necessary to deter men from the like attempts; but it was agreed to temper justice with mercy, in order to convince the nation of the gentleness of that constitution, which made not only a distinction between the innocent and guilty, but even among the guilty themselves, between those who were more, and those who were less criminal. The King ordered a general pardon to pass the Great Seal, in which he extended mercy to the ignorant, and misled among the rebels, which pardon comprehended nineteen out of twenty, who drew lots for this purpose, were exempted from trial, and transported to the British plantations. Among other settlements in America, the southern provinces had a share of these bold and hardy Caledonians, who afterwards proved excellent and industrious settlers. As every family of labourers is an acquisition to a growing colony, such as Carolina, where lands are plenty, and hands only wanted to improve them; to encourage emigration, a door was opened there to Protestants of every nation. The poor and distressed subjects of the British dominions, and those of Germany and Holland, were easily induced to leave oppression, and transport themselves and families to that province. Lands free of quit-rents, for the first ten years, were allotted to men, women, and children. Utensils for cultivation, and hogs and cows to begin their stock, they purchased with their bounty-money. The like bounty was allowed to all servants after the expiration of the term of their servitude. From this period Carolina was found to be an excellent refuge to the poor, the unfortunate, and oppressed. The population and prosperity of her colonies engrossed the attention of the mother-country. His Majesty's bounty served to alleviate the hardships inseparable from the first years of cultivation, and landed property animated the poor emigrants to industry and perseverance. The different townships yearly increased in numbers. Every one upon his arrival obtained his grant of land, and sat down on his freehold with no taxes, or very trifling ones, no tythes, no poor rates, with full liberty of hunting and fishing, and many other advantages and privileges he never knew in Europe. It is true the unhealthiness of the climate was a great bar to his progress, and proved fatal to many of these first settlers; but to such as surmounted this obstacle, every year brought new profits, and opened more advantageous prospects. All who escaped the dangers of the climate, if they could not be called rich during their own life, by improving their little freeholds, they commonly left their children in easy or opulent circumstances. Even in the first age being free, contented, and accountable to man for their labour and management, their condition in many respects was preferable to that of the poorest class of labourers in Europe. In all improved countries, where commerce and manufactures have been long established, and luxury prevails, the poorest ranks of citizens are always oppressed and miserable. Indeed this must necessarily be the case, otherwise trade and manufactures, which flourish principally by the low price of labour and provisions, must decay. In Carolina, though exposed to more troubles and hardships for a few years, such industrious people had better opportunities than in Europe for advancing to an easy and independent state. Hence it happened that few emigrants ever returned to their native country; on the contrary, the success and prosperity of the most fortunate, brought many adventurers and relations after them. Their love to their former friends, and their natural partiality for their countrymen, induced the old planters to receive the new settlers joyfully, and even to assist and relieve them. Having each his own property and possession, this independence produced mutual respect and beneficence, and such general harmony and industry reigned among them, that those townships, formerly a desolate wilderness, now stocked with diligent labourers, promised soon to become fruitful fields. [Sidenote] Cultivation attended with salutary effects. It has been observed, that in proportion as the lands have been cleared and improved, and scope given for a more free circulation of air, the climate has likewise become more salubrious and pleasant. This change was more remarkable in the heart of the country than in the maritime parts, where the best plantations of rice are, and where water is carefully preserved to overflow the fields; yet even in those places cultivation has been attended with salutary effects. Time and experience had now taught the planters, that, during the autumnal months, their living among the low rice plantations subjected them to many disorders, from which the inhabitants of the capital were entirely exempted. This induced the richer part to retreat to town during this unhealthy season. Those who were less able to bear the expences of this retreat, and had learned to guard against the inconveniencies of the climate, sometimes escaped; but laborious strangers suffered much during these autumnal months. Accustomed as they were in Europe to toil through the heat of the day, and expose themselves in all weathers, they followed the same practices in Carolina, where the climate would by no means admit of such liberties. Apprehensive of no ill consequences from such exposure, they began their improvement with vigour and resolution, and persevered until the hot climate and heavy toil exhausted their spirits, and brought home to them the unwelcome intimations of danger. [Sidenote] Mean heat in Carolina. In the months of July, August, and September, the heat in the shaded air, from noon to three o'clock, is often between ninety and an hundred degrees; and as such extreme heat is of short duration, being commonly productive of thunder-showers, it becomes on that account the more dangerous. I have seen the mercury in Fahrenheit's thermometer arise in the shade to ninety-six in the hottest, and fall to sixteen in the coolest season of the year; others have observed it as high as an hundred, and as low as ten; which range between the extreme heat of summer and cold in winter is prodigious, and must have a great effect upon the constitution of all, even of those who are best guarded against the climate; what then must be the situation of such as are exposed to the open air and burning sky in all seasons? The mean diurnal heat of the different seasons has been, upon the most careful observation, fixed at sixty-four in spring, seventy-nine in summer, seventy-two in autumn, and fifty-two in winter; and the mean nocturnal heat in those seasons at fifty-six degrees in spring, seventy-five in summer, sixty-eight in autumn, and forty-six in winter. [Sidenote] The diseases of the country. As this climate differs so much from that of Britain, Ireland, and Germany, and every where has great influence on the human constitution, no wonder that many of these settlers should sicken and die by the change, during the first state of colonization. In the hot season the human body is relaxed by perpetual perspiration, and becomes feeble and sickly, especially during the dog-days, when the air is one while suffocating and sultry, and another moist and foggy. Exhausted of fluids, it is perhaps not at all, or very improperly, supplied. Hence intermittent, nervous, putrid and bilious fevers, are common in the country, and prove fatal to many of its inhabitants. Young children are very subject to the worm-fever, which cuts off multitudes of them. The dry belly-ache, which is a dreadful disorder, is no stranger to the climate. An irruption, commonly called the Prickly Heat, often breaks out during the summer, which is attended with troublesome itching and stinging pains; but this disease being common, and not dangerous, is little regarded; and if proper caution be used to prevent it from striking suddenly inward, is thought to be attended even with salutary effects. In the spring and winter pleurisies and peripneumonies are common, often obstinate, and frequently fatal diseases. So changeable is the weather, that the spirits in the thermometer will often rise or fall twenty, twenty-five, and thirty degrees, in the space of twenty four hours, which must make havock of the human constitution. In autumn there is sometimes a difference of twenty degrees between the heat of the day and that of the night, and in winter a greater difference between the heat of the morning and that of noon-day. We leave it to physicians more particularly to describe the various disorders incident to this climate, together with the causes of them; but if violent heat and continual perspiration in summer, noxious vapours and sudden changes in autumn, piercing cold nights, and hot noon-days in winter, affect the human constitution, the inhabitants of Carolina, especially in the maritime parts, have all these and many more changes and hardships during the year to undergo. Not only man, but every animal, is strongly affected by the sultry heat of summer. Horses and cows retire to the shade, and there, though harassed with insects, they stand and profusely sweat through the violence of the day. Hogs and dogs are also much distressed with it. Poultry and wild fowls droop their wings, hang out their tongues, and, with open throats, pant for breath. The planter who consults his health is not only cautious in his dress and diet, but rises early for the business of the field, and transacts it before ten o'clock, and then retreats to the house or shade during the melting heat of the day, until the coolness of the evening again invites him to the field. Such is his feebleness of body and languor of spirit at noon, that the greatest pleasure of life consists in being entirely at rest. Even during the night he is often restless and depressed, insomuch that refreshing sleep is kept a stranger to his eyes. If unfortunately the poor labourer is taken sick in such weather, perhaps far removed from, or unable to employ, a physician, how great must be his hazard. In towns this heat is still rendered more intolerable by the glowing reflection from houses, and the burning sand in the streets. But how it is possible for cooks, blacksmiths, and other tradesmen, to work at the side of a fire, as many in the province do during such a season, we must leave to the world to judge. [Sidenote] Climate favourable to the culture of indigo. This hot weather, however, has been found favourable to the culture of indigo, which at this time was introduced into Carolina, and has since proved one of its chief articles of commerce. About the year 1745 a fortunate discovery was made, that this plant grew spontaneously in the province, and was found almost every where among the wild weeds of the forest. As the soil naturally yielded a weed which furnished the world with so useful and valuable a dye, it loudly called for cultivation and improvement. For this purpose some indigo seed was imported from the French West Indies, where it had been cultivated with great success, and yielded the planters immense profit. At first the seed was planted by way of experiment, and it was found to answer the most sanguine expectations. In consequence of which several planters turned their attention to the culture of indigo and studied the art of extracting the dye from it. Every trial brought them fresh encouragement. In the year 1747 a considerable quantity of it was sent to England, which induced the merchants trading to Carolina to petition parliament for a bounty on Carolina indigo. The parliament, upon examination, found that it was one of the most beneficial articles of French commerce, that their West India islands supplied all the markets of Europe; and that Britain alone consumed annually six hundred thousand weight of French indigo, which, at five shillings a pound, cost the nation the prodigious sum of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling. It was demonstrated by the merchants, that this vast expence might be saved, by encouraging the cultivation of indigo in Carolina, and commonly believed that in time the colony might bring it to such perfection, as to rival the French at the markets of Europe. This petition of the merchants was soon followed by another from the planters and inhabitants of Carolina, and others to the same effect from the clothiers, dyers, and traders of different towns in Britain. It was proved, that the demand for indigo annually increased, and it could never he expected that the planters in the West Indies would turn their hands to it, while the culture of sugar canes proved more profitable. Accordingly, an act of parliament passed, about the beginning of the year 1748, for allowing a bounty of sixpence _per_ pound on all indigo raised in the British American plantations, and imported directly into Britain from the place of its growth. In consequence of which act the planters applied themselves with double vigour and spirit to that article, and seemed to vie with each other who should bring the best kind and greatest quantity of it to the market. Some years indeed elapsed before they learned the nice art of making it as well as the French, whom long practice and experience had taught it to perfection; but every year they acquired greater skill and knowledge in preparing it, and received incredible profit as the reward of their labours. While many of them doubled their capital every three or four years by planting indigo, they in process of time brought it to such a degree of perfection, as not only to supply the mother-country, but also to undersel the French at several European markets. [Sidenote] The manner of cultivating and making indigo. Here it may not be improper to give the reader some account of the manner in which the people of Carolina cultivate this plant, and extract the dye from it. As we pretend to little knowledge of this matter ourselves, we shall give the following rules and directions of an ingenious person, who practised them for several years with great success. "As both the quantity and quality of indigo greatly depend on the cultivation of the plant, it is proper to observe, that it seems to thrive best in a rich, light soil, unmixed with clay or sand. The ground to be planted should be plowed, or turned up with hoes, some time in December, that the frost may render it rich and mellow. It must also be well harrowed, and cleansed from all grass, roots, and stumps of trees, to facilitate the hoeing after the weed appears above ground. The next thing to be considered is the choice of the seed, in which the planters should be very nice; there is great variety of it, and from every sort good indigo may be made; but none answers so well in this colony as the true Guatimala, which if good is a small oblong black seed, very bright and full, and when rubbed in the hand will appear as if finely polished. "In Carolina we generally begin to plant about the beginning of April, in the following manner: The ground being well prepared, furrows are made with a drill-plow, or hoe, two inches deep, and eighteen inches distant from each other, to receive the seed, which is sown regularly, and not very thick, after which it is lightly covered with earth. A bushel of seed will sow four English acres. If the weather proves warm and serene, the plant will appear above ground in ten or four-teen days. After the plant appears, the ground, though not grassy, should be hoed to loosen the earth about it, which otherwise would much hinder its growth. In good seasons it grows very fast, and must all the while be kept perfectly clean of weeds. Whenever the plant is in full bloom it must be cut down, without paying any regard to its height, as its leaves are then thick and full of juice, and this commonly happens in about four months after planting. But, previous to the season for cutting, a complete set of vats of the following dimensions, for every twenty acres of weed, must be provided, and kept in good order. The steeper or vat in which the weed is first put to ferment, must be sixteen feet square in the clear, and two and a half feet deep; the second vat or battery twelve feet long, ten feet wide, and four and a half feet deep from the top of the plate. These vats should be made of the best cypress or yellow-pine plank, two and a half inches thick, well fastened to the joints and studs with seven-inch spikes, and then caulked, to prevent their leaking. Vats thus made will last in Carolina, notwithstanding the excessive heat, at least seven years. When every thing is ready, the weed must be cut and laid regularly in the steeper with the stalk upward, which will hasten the fermentation; then long rails must be laid the length of the vat, at eighteen inches distance from one another, and wedged down to the weed, to prevent its buoying up when the water is pumped into the steeper. For this purpose the softest water answers best, and the quantity of it necessary must be just sufficient to cover all the weed. In this situation it is left to ferment, which will begin sooner or later in proportion to the heat of the weather, and the ripeness of the plant, but for the most part takes twelve or fifteen hours. After the water is loaded with the salts and substance of the weed, it must be let out of the steeper into the battery, there to be beat; in order to perform which operation, many different machines have been invented: but for this purpose any instrument that will agitate the water with great violence may be used. When the water has been violently agitated for fifteen or twenty minutes in the battery, by taking a little of the liquor up in a plate it will appear full of small grain or curdled; then you are to let in a quantity of lime-water kept in a vat for the purpose, to augment and precipitate the faeculae, still continuing to stir and beat vehemently the indigo water, till it becomes of a strong purple colour, and the grain hardly perceptible. Then it must be left to settle, which it will do in eight or ten hours. After which the water must be gently drawn out of the battery through plug-holes contrived for that purpose, so that the faeculae may remain at the bottom of the vat. It must then be taken up, and carefully strained through a horse-hair sieve, to render the indigo perfectly clean, and put into bags made of Osnaburghs, eighteen inches long, and twelve wide, and suspended for six hours, to drain the water out of it. After which the mouths of these bags being well fastened, it must be put into a press to be entirely freed from any remains of water, which would otherwise greatly hurt the quality of the indigo. The press commonly used for this purpose is a box of five feet in length, two and a half wide, and two deep, with holes at one end to let out the water. In this box the bags must be laid, one upon another, until it is full, upon which a plank must be laid, fitted to go within the box, and upon all a sufficient number of weights to squeeze out the water entirely by a constant and gradual pressure, so that the indigo may become a fine stiff paste; which is then taken out and cut into small pieces, each about two inches square, and laid out to dry. A house made of logs must be prepared on purpose for drying it, and so constructed that it may receive all the advantages of an open and free air, without being exposed to the sun, which is very pernicious to the dye. For here indigo placed in the sun, in a few hours will be burnt up to a perfect cinder. While the indigo remains in the drying house, it must be carefully turned three or four times in a day, to prevent its rotting. Flies should likewise be carefully kept from it, which at this season of the year are hatched in millions, and infest an indigo plantation like a plague. After all, great care must also be taken, that the indigo be sufficiently dry before it is packed, lest after it is headed up in barrels it should sweat, which will certainly spoil and rot it." In this manner indigo is cultivated and prepared in Carolina, and the richest land in the heart of the country is found to answer best for it. The maritime islands, however, which are commonly sandy, are not unfavourable for this production, especially those that contain spots of land covered with oak, and hickory trees. It is one of those rank weeds which in a few years will exhaust the strength and fertility of the best lands in the world. It is commonly cut in the West Indies six and seven times in the year, but in Carolina no more than two or three times before the frost begins. Our planters have been blamed by the English merchants for paying too much attention to the quantity, and too little to the quality of their indigo, hence the West-India indigo brings an higher price at the market. He that prefers the quality to the quantity, is very careful to cut the plant at the proper season, that is, when the weed begins to bloom; for the more luxuriant and tender the plant, the more beautiful the indigo. While it is curing, indigo has an offensive and disagreeable smell, and as the dregs of the weed are full of salts, and make excellent manure, therefore they should be immediately buried under ground when brought out of the steeper. It is commonly observed, that all creatures about an indigo plantation are starved, whereas, about a rice one, which abounds with provisions for man and beast, they thrive and flourish. The season for making indigo in Carolina ends with the first frosty weather, which puts a stop to fermentation, and then double labour is not only requisite for beating it, but when prepared it is commonly good for nothing. [Sidenote] The common methods of judging of its quality. The planters bring their indigo to market about the end of the year, and frequently earlier. The merchant judges of its quality by breaking it, and observing the closeness of its grain, and its brilliant copper, or violet blue colour. The weight in some measure proves its quality, for heavy indigo of every colour is always bad. Good indigo almost entirely consumes away in the fire, the bad leaves a quantity of ashes. In water also pure and fine indigo entirely melts and dissolves, but the heterogeneous and solid parts of the bad sink to the bottom like sand. From this period it became a staple to Carolina, and proved equally profitable as the mines of Mexico or Peru. To the mother country it was no less beneficial, in excluding the French indigo entirely from her market, and promoting her manufactures, and trade. I shall afterwards take notice of the rapid progress made in the cultivation of this article; particularly with respect to the quantity produced and yearly shipped to Britain, to supply the markets in Europe. [Sidenote] Nova Scotia settled. The great bounty and indulgence of Britain towards her American colonies increased with their progress in cultivation, and favour after favour was extended to them. Filled with the prospect of opening an excellent market for her manufactures, and enlarging her commerce and navigation, in which her strength in a great measure consisted, these colonies were become the chief objects of her care, and new ones were planted for the protection of the old. At this time the peace of Aix la Chapelle left a number of brave sailors and soldiers without employment. Good policy required that they should be rendered useful to the nation, and at the same time furnished with employment for their own subsistence. Acadia, which was ceded to Britain by the treaty of peace, changed its name to Nova Scotia, and was capable of producing every species of naval stores. The sea there abounded with excellent fish, which might furnish employment for a number of sailors, and be made an useful and advantageous branch of trade. But the excellent natural harbours which the country afforded, of all other things proved the greatest inducement for establishing a colony in it, the possession of which would not only promote trade in the time of peace, but also prove a safe station for British fleets in time of war. Besides, for the sake of commercial advantage, it was judged proper to confine the settlements in America as much as possible to the sea-coast. The parliament therefore determined to send out a colony to Nova Scotia, and, to forward the settlement, voted forty thousand pounds. The following advantageous terms were held forth to the people by government, and a number of adventurers agreed to accept them. Fifty acres of land were to be allowed to every soldier and sailor, two hundred to every ensign, three hundred to every lieutenant, four hundred and sixty to every captain, and six hundred to all officers of higher rank; together with thirty for every servant they should carry along with them. No quit-rents were to be demanded for the first ten years. They were also to be furnished with instruments for fishing and agriculture, to have their passage free, and provisions found them for the first year after their arrival. Three thousand seven hundred and sixty adventurers embarked for America on these favourable terms, and settled at Halifax, which place was fixed on as the seat of government, and fortified. The Acadians, the former inhabitants of the country, were allowed peaceably to remain in it, and having sworn never to bear arms against their countrymen, submitted to the English government, and passed under the denomination of French neutrals. The greatest difficulty which the new settlers of Nova Scotia had to surmount at this time arose from the Micmac Indians, who held that territory from nature, and for some time obstinately defended their right to their ancient possessions; and it was not without considerable loss that the British subjects at length, by force of arms, drove them away from those territories. [Sidenote] The great care of Britain for these colonies. Nor did this new settlement engross the whole attention and liberality of the parent state; the province of Georgia also every year shared plentifully from the same hands. Indeed the bounty of the mother country was extensive as her dominions, and, like the sun, cherished and invigorated every object on which it shone. All the colonies might have been sensible of her constant attention to their safety and prosperity, and had great reason to acknowledge themselves under the strongest obligations to her goodness. If she expected a future recompense by the channel of commerce, which is for the most part mutually advantageous, it was no more than she had justly merited. The colonists, we allow, carried with them the rights and liberties of the subjects of Britain, and they owed in return the duties of obedience to her laws and subjection to her government. The privileges and duties of subjects in all states have been reciprocal, and as the mother country had incurred great expence for the establishment and support of these foreign settlements; as she had multiplied her burdens for their defence and improvement; surely such protection and kindness laid a foundation for the firmest union, and the most dutiful returns of allegiance and gratitude. [Sidenote] Low state of Georgia. However, the province of Georgia, notwithstanding all that Britain had done for its population and improvement, still remained in a poor and languishing condition. Its settlers consisted of two sorts of people; first, of indigent subjects and foreigners, whom the Trustees transported and maintained; secondly, of men of some substance, whom flattering descriptions of the province had induced voluntarily to emigrate to it. After the peace Oglethorpe's regiment being disbanded, a number of soldiers accepted the encouragement offered them by government, and took up their residence in Georgia. All those adventurers who had brought some substance along with them, having by this time exhausted their small stock in fruitless experiments, were reduced to indigence, so that emigrants from Britain, foreigners, and soldiers, were all on a level in point of poverty. From the impolitic restrictions of the Trustees, these settlers had no prospects during life but those of hardship and poverty, and of consequence, at their decease, of bequeathing a number of orphans to the care of Providence. Nor was the trade of the province in a better situation than its agriculture. The want of credit was an unsurmountable obstacle to its progress in every respect. Formerly the inhabitants in and about Savanna had transmitted to the Trustees a representation of their grievous circumstances, and obtained from them some partial relief. But now, chagrined with disappointments, and dispirited by the severities of the climate, they could view the design of the Trustees in no other light than that of having decoyed them into misery. Even though they had been favoured with credit, and had proved successful, which was far from being their case; as the tenure of their freehold was restricted to heirs male, their eldest son could only reap the benefit of their toil, and the rest must depend on his bounty, or be left wholly to the charge of that Being who feeds the fowls of the air. They considered their younger children and daughters as equally entitled to paternal regard, and could not brook their holding lands under such a tenure, as excluded them from the rights and privileges of other colonists. They saw numbers daily leaving the province through mere necessity, and frankly told the Trustees, that nothing could prevent it from being totally deserted, but the same encouragements with their more fortunate neighbours in Carolina. [Sidenote: Complaint of the people.] That the Trustees might have a just view of their condition, the Georgians stated before them their grievances, and renewed their application for redress. They judged that the British constitution, zealous for the rights and liberties of mankind, could not permit subjects who had voluntarily risked their lives, and spent their substance on the public faith, to effect a settlement in the most dangerous frontiers of the British empire, to be deprived of the common privileges of all colonists. They complained that the land-holders in Georgia were prohibited from selling or leasing their possessions; that a tract containing fifty acres of the best lands was too small an allowance for the maintenance of a family, and much more so when they were refused the freedom to chuse it; that a much higher quit-rent was exacted from them than was paid for the best lands in America; that the importation of negroes was prohibited, and white people were utterly unequal to the labours requisite; that the public money granted yearly by parliament, for the relief of settlers and the improvement of the province, was misapplied, and therefore the wise purposes for which it was granted were by no means answered. That these inconveniencies and hardships kept them in a state of poverty and misery, and that the chief cause of all their calamities was the strict adherence of the Trustees to their chimerical and impracticable scheme of settlement, by which the people were refused the obvious means of subsistence, and cut off from all prospects of success. We have already observed, that the laws and regulations even of the wisest men, founded on principles of speculation, have often proved to be foreign and impracticable. The Trustees had an example of this in the fundamental constitutions of John Locke. Instead of prescribing narrower limits to the industry and ambition of the Georgians, they ought to have learned wisdom from the case of the Proprietors of Carolina, and enlarged their plan with respect to both liberty and property. By such indulgence alone they could encourage emigrations, and animate the inhabitants to diligence and perseverance. The lands in Georgia, especially such as were first occupied, were sandy and barren; the hardships of clearing and cultivating them were great, the climate was unfavourable for labourers, and dangerous to European constitutions. The greater the difficulties were with which the settlers had to struggle, the more encouragement was requisite to surmount them. The plan of settlement ought to have arisen from the nature of the climate, country, and soil, and the circumstances of the settlers, and been the result of experience and not of speculation. Hitherto Georgia had not only made small improvement in agriculture and trade, but her government was feeble and contemptible. At this time, by the avarice and ambition of a single family, the whole colony was brought to the very brink of destruction. As the concerns of these settlements are closely connected and interwoven with the affairs of Indian nations, it is impossible to attain proper views of the circumstances and situation of the people, without frequently taking notice of the relation in which they stood to their savage neighbours. A considerable branch of provincial commerce, as well as the safety of the colonists, depended on their friendship with Indians; and, to avoid all danger from their savage temper, no small share of prudence and courage was often requisite. This will appear more obvious from the following occurrence, which, because it is somewhat remarkable, we shall the more circumstantially relate. [Sidenote] Troubles excited by Thomas Bosomworth. I have already observed, that during the time General Oglethorpe had the direction of public affairs in Georgia, he had, from maxims of policy, treated an Indian woman, called Mary, with particular kindness and generosity. Finding that she had great influence among the Creeks, and understood their language, he made use of her as an interpreter, in order the more easily to form treaties of alliance with them, allowing her for her services an hundred pounds sterling a-year. This woman Thomas Bosomworth, who was chaplain to Oglethorpe's regiment, had married, and among the rest had accepted a track of land from the crown, and settled in the province. Finding that his wife laid claim to some islands on the sea-coast, which, by treaty, had been allotted the Indians as part of their hunting lands; to stock them he had purchased cattle from the planters of Carolina, from whom he obtained credit to a considerable amount. However, this plan not proving so successful as the proud and ambitious clergyman expected, he took to audacious methods of supporting his credit, and acquiring a fortune. His wife pretended to be descended in a maternal line from an Indian king, who held from nature the territories of the Creeks, and Bosomworth now persuaded her to assert her right to them, as superior not only to that of the Trustees, but also to that of the King. Accordingly Mary immediately assumed the title of an independent empress, disavowing all subjection or allegiance to the King of Great Britain, otherwise than by way of treaty and alliance, such as one independent sovereign might make with another. A meeting of all the Creeks was summoned, to whom Mary made a speech, setting forth the justice of her claim, and the great injury done to her and them by taking possession of their ancient territories, and stirring them up to defend their property by force of arms. The Indians immediately took fire, and to a man declared they would stand by her to the last drop of their blood in defence of their lands. In consequence of which Mary, with a large body of savages at her back, set out for Savanna, to demand a formal surrender of them from the president of the province. A messenger was despatched before hand, to acquaint him that Mary had assumed her right of sovereignty over the whole territories of the upper and lower Creeks, and to demand that all lands belonging to them be instantly relinquished; for as she was the hereditary and rightful queen of both nations, and could command every man of them to follow her, in case of refusal, she had determined to extirpate the settlement. The president and council, alarmed at her high pretensions and bold threats, and sensible of her great power and influence with the savages, were not a little embarrassed what steps to take for the public safety. They determined to use soft and healing measures until an opportunity might offer of privately laying hold of her, and shipping her off to England. But, in the mean time, orders were sent to all the captains of the militia, to hold themselves in readiness to march to Savanna at an hour's warning. The town was put in the best posture of defence, but the whole militia in it amounted to no more than one hundred and seventy men, able to bear arms. A messenger was sent to Mary at the head of the Creeks, while several miles distant from town, to know whether she was serious in such wild pretensions, and to try to persuade her to dismiss her followers, and drop her audacious design. But finding her inflexible and resolute, the president resolved to put on a bold countenance, and receive the savages with firmness and resolution. The militia was ordered under arms, to overawe them as much as possible, and as the Indians entered the town, Captain Jones, at the head of his company of horse, stopped them, and demanded whether they came with hostile or friendly intentions? But receiving no satisfactory answer, he told them they must there ground their arms, for he had orders not to suffer a man of them armed to set his foot within the town. The savages with great reluctance submitted, and accordingly Thomas Bosomworth, in his canonical robes, with his queen by his side, followed by the various chiefs according to their rank, marched into town, making a formidable appearance. All the inhabitants were struck with terror at the sight of the fierce and mighty host. When they advanced to the parade, they found the militia drawn up under arms to receive them, who saluted them with fifteen cannon, and conducted them to the president's house. There Thomas and Adam Bosomworth being ordered to withdraw, the Indian chiefs, in a friendly manner, were called upon to declare their intention of visiting the town in so large a body, without being sent for by any person in lawful authority. The warriors, as they had been previously instructed, answered, that Mary was to speak for them, and that they would abide by her words. They had heard, they said, that she was to be sent like a captive over the great waters, and they were come to know on what account they were to lose their queen. They assured the president they intended no harm, and begged their arms might be restored; and, after consulting with Bosomworth and his wife, they would return and settle all public affairs. To please them their muskets were accordingly given back, but strict orders were issued to allow them no ammunition, until the council should see more clearly into their dark designs. On the day following, the Indians having had some private conferences with their queen, began to be very surly, and to run in a mad and tumultuous manner up and down the streets, seemingly bent on some mischief. All the men being obliged to mount guard, the women were terrified to remain by themselves in their houses, expecting every moment to be murdered or scalped. During this confusion, a false rumour was spread, that they had cut off the president's head with a tomahawk, which so exasperated the inhabitants, that it was with difficulty the officers could prevent them from firing on the savages. To save a town from destruction, never was greater prudence requisite. Orders were given to the militia to lay hold of Bosomworth, and carry him out of the way into close confinement. Upon which Mary became outrageous and frantic, and insolently threatened vengeance against the magistrates and whole colony. She ordered every man of them to depart from her territories, and at their peril to refuse. She cursed General Oglethorpe and his fraudulent treaties, and, furiously stamping with her feet upon the ground, swore by her Maker that the whole earth on which she trode was her own. To prevent bribery, which she knew to have great weight with her warriors, she kept the leading men constantly in her eye, and would not suffer them to speak a word respecting public affairs but in her presence. The president finding that no peaceable agreement could be made with the Indians while under the baleful eye and influence of their pretended queen privately laid hold of her, and put her under confinement with her husband. This step was necessary, before any terms of negotiation could be proposed. Having secured the chief promoters of the conspiracy, he then employed men acquainted with the Indian tongue to entertain the warriors in the most friendly and hospitable manner, and explain to them the wicked designs of Bosomworth and his wife. Accordingly a feast was prepared for all the chief leaders; at which they were informed, that Mr. Bosomworth had involved himself in debt, and wanted not only their lands, but also a large share of the royal bounty, to satisfy his creditors in Carolina: that the King's presents were only intended for Indians, on account of their useful services and firm attachment to him during the former wars: that the lands adjoining the town were reserved for them to encamp upon, when they should come to visit their beloved friends at Savanna, and the three maritime islands to hunt upon, when they should come to bathe in the salt waters: that neither Mary nor her husband had any right to those lands, which were the common property of the Creek nations: that the great King had ordered the president to defend their right to them, and expected that all his subjects, both white and red, would live together like brethren; in short that he would suffer no man or woman to molest or injure them, and had ordered these words to be left on record, that their children might know them when they were dead and gone. Such policy produced the desired effect, and many of the chieftains being convinced that Bosomworth had deceived them, declared they would trust him no more. Even Malatchee, the leader of the Lower Creeks, and a relation to their pretended empress, seemed satisfied, and was not a little pleased to hear, that the great King had sent them some valuable present. Being asked why he acknowledged Mary as the Empress of the great nation of Creeks, and resigned his power and possessions to a despicable old woman, while all Georgia owned him as a chief of the nation, and the president and council were now to give him many rich clothes and medals for his services? He replied, that the whole nation acknowledged her as their Queen, and none could distribute the royal presents but one of her family. The president by this answer perceiving more clearly the design of the family of Bosomworth, to lessen their influence, and shew the Indians that he had power to divide the royal bounty among the chiefs, determined to do it immediately, and dismiss them, and the hardships the inhabitants underwent, in keeping guard night and day for the defence of the town. In the mean time Malatchee, whom the Indians compared to the wind, because of his fickle and variable temper, having, at his own request, obtained access to Bosomworth and his wife, was again seduced and drawn over to support their chimerical claim. While the Indians were gathered together to receive their respective shares of the royal bounty; he stood up in the midst of them, and with a frowning countenance, and in violent agitation of spirit, delivered a speech fraught with the most dangerous insinuations. He protested, that Mary possessed that country before General Oglethorpe; and that all the lands belonged to her as Queen, and head of the Creeks; that it was by her permission Englishmen were at first allowed to set their foot on them; that they still held them of her as the original proprietor; that her words were the voice of the whole nation, consisting of above three thousand warriors, and at her command every one of them would take up the hatchet in defence of her right; and then pulling out a paper out of his pocket, he delivered it to the president in confirmation of what he had said. This was evidently the production of Bosomworth, and served to discover in the plainest manner, his ambitious views and wicked intrigues. The preamble was filled with the names of Indians, called kings, of all the towns of the Upper and Lower Creeks, none of whom, however, were present, excepting two. The substance of it corresponded with Malatchee's speech; styling Mary the rightful princess and chief of their nation, descended in a maternal line from the emperor, and invested with full power and authority from them to settle and finally determine all public affairs and causes, relating to lands and other things, with King George and his beloved men on both sides of the sea, and whatever should be said or done by her, they would abide by, as if said or done by themselves. After reading this paper in council, the whole board were struck with astonishment; and Malatchee, perceiving their uneasiness, begged to have it again, declaring he did not know it to be a bad talk, and promising he would return it immediately to the person from whom he had received it. To remove all impression made on the minds of the Indians by Malatchee's speech, and convince them of the deceitful and dangerous tendency of this confederacy into which Bosomworth and his wife had betrayed them, had now become a matter of the highest consequence; happy was it for the province this was a thing neither difficult nor impracticable; for as ignorant savages are easily misled on the one hand, so, on the other, it was equally easy to convince them of their error. Accordingly, having gathered the Indians together for this purpose, the president addressed them to the following effect. "Friends and brothers, when Mr. Oglethorpe and his people first arrived in Georgia, they found Mary, then the wife of John Musgrove, living in a small hut at Yamacraw, having a licence from the Governor of South Carolina to trade with Indians. She then appeared to be in a poor ragged condition, and was neglected and despised by the Creeks. But Mr. Oglethorpe finding that she could speak both the English and Creek languages, employed her as an interpreter, richly clothed her, and made her the woman of the consequence she now appears. The people of Georgia always respected her until she married Thomas Bosomworth, but from that time she has proved a liar and a deceiver. In fact, she was no relation of Malatchee, but the daughter of an Indian woman of no note, by a white man. General Oglethorpe did not treat with her for the lands of Georgia, she having none of her own, but with the old and wise leaders of the Creek nation, who voluntarily surrendered their territories to the King. The Indians at that time having much waste land, that was useless to themselves, parted with a share of it to their friends, and were glad that white people had settled among them to supply their wants. He told them that the present bad humour of the Creeks had been artfully infused into them by Mary, at the instigation of her husband, who owed four hundred pounds sterling in Carolina for cattle; that he demanded a third part of the royal bounty, in order to rob the naked Indians of their right; that he had quarrelled with the president and council of Georgia for refusing to answer his exorbitant demands, and therefore had filled the heads of Indians with wild fancies and groundless jealousies, in order to breed mischief, and induce them to break their alliances with their best friends, who alone were able to supply their wants, and defend them against all their enemies." Here the Indians desired him to stop, and put an end to the contest, declaring that their eyes were now opened, and they saw through his insidious design. But though he intended to break the chain of friendship, they were determined to hold it fast, and therefore begged that all might immediatly smoke the pipe of peace. Accordingly pipes and rum were brought, and the whole congress, joining hand in hand, drank and smoked together in friendship, every one wishing that their hearts might be united in like manner as their hands. Then all the royal presents, except ammunition, with which is was judged imprudent to trust them until they were at some distance from town, were brought and distributed among them. The most disaffected were purchased with the largest presents. Even Malatchee himself seemed fully contented with his share, and the savages in general perceiving the poverty and insignificance of the family of Bosomworth, and their total inability to supply their wants, determined to break off all connection with them for ever. While the president and council flattered themselves that all differences were amicably compromised, and were rejoicing in the re-establishment of their former friendly intercourse with the Creeks, Mary, drunk with liquor, and disappointed in her views, came rushing in among them like a fury, and told the president that these were her people, that he had no business with them, and he should soon be convinced of it to his cost. The president calmly advised her to keep to her lodgings, and forbear to poison the minds of Indians, otherwise he would order her again into close confinement. Upon which turning about to Malatchee in great rage, she told him what the president had said, who instantly started from his seat, laid hold of his arms, and then calling upon the rest to follow his example, dared any man to touch his queen. The whole house was filled in a moment with tumult and uproar. Every Indian having his tomahawk in his hand, the president and council expected nothing but instant death. During this confusion Captain Jones, who commanded the guard, very seasonably interposed, and ordered the Indians immediately to deliver up their arms. Such courage was not only necessary to overawe them, but at the same time great prudence was also requisite, to avoid coming to extremities with them. With reluctance the Indians submitted, and Mary was conveyed to a private room, where a guard was set over her, and all further intercourse with savages denied her during their stay in Savanna. Then her husband was sent for, in order to reason with him and convince him of the folly of his chimerical pretensions, and of the dangerous consequences that might result from persisting in them. But no sooner did he appear before the president and council, than he began to abuse them to their face. In spite of every argument used to persuade him to submission, he remained obstinate and contumacious, and protested he would stand forth in vindication of his wife's right to the last extremity, and that the province of Georgia should soon feel the weight of her vengeance. Finding that fair means were fruitless and ineffectual, the council then determined to remove him also out of the way of the savages, and to humble him by force. After having secured the two leaders, it only then remained to persuade the Indians peaceably to leave the town, and return to their settlements. Captain Ellick, a young warrior, who had distinguished himself in discovering to his tribe the base intrigues of Bosomworth, being afraid to accompany Malatchee and his followers, thought fit to set out among the first: the rest followed him in different parties, and the inhabitants, wearied out with constant watching, and harassed with frequent alarms, were at length happily relieved. [Sidenote] With difficulty settled. By this time Adam Bosomworth, another brother of the family, who was agent for Indian affairs in Carolina, had arrived from that province, and being made acquainted with what had passed in Georgia, was filled with shame and indignation. He found his ambitious brother, not contented with the common allowance of land granted by the crown, aspiring after sovereignty, and attempting to obtain by force one of the largest landed estates in the world. His plot was artfully contrived, and had it been executed with equal courage, fatal must the consequence have been. Had he taken possession of the provincial magazine on his arrival at Savanna, and supplied the Creeks with ammunition, the militia must soon have been overpowered, and every family must of course have fallen a sacrifice to the indiscriminate vengeance of savages. Happily, by the interposition of his brother, all differences were peaceably compromised. Thomas Bosomworth at length having returned to sober reflection, began to repent of his folly, and to ask pardon of the magistrates and people. He wrote to the president, acquainting him that he was now deeply sensible of his duty as a subject, and of the respect he owed to civil authority, and could no longer justify the conduct of his wife; but hoped that her present remorse, and past services to the province, would entirely blot out the remembrance of her unguarded expressions and rash design. He appealed to the letters of General Oglethorpe for her former irreproachable conduct, and steady friendship to the settlement, and hoped her good behaviour for the future would atone for her past offences, and reinstate her in the public favour. For his own part, he acknowledged her title to be groundless, and for ever relinquished all claim to the lands of the province. The colonists generously forgave and forgot all that had past; and public tranquillity being re-established, new settlers applied for lands as usual, without meeting any more obstacles from the idle claims of Indian queens and chieftains. [Sidenote] The charter surrendered to the King. The Trustees of Georgia finding that the province languished under their care, and weary of the complaints of the people, in the year 1752 surrendered their charter to the King, and it was made a royal government. In consequence of which his Majesty appointed John Reynolds, an officer of the navy, Governor of the province, and a legislature similar to that of the other royal governments in America was established in it. Great had been the expence which the mother country had already incurred, besides private benefactions, for supporting this colony; and small had been the returns yet made by it. The vestiges of cultivation were scarcely perceptible in the forest, and in England all commerce with it was neglected and despised. At this time the whole annual exports of Georgia did not amount to ten thousand pounds sterling. Though the people were now favoured with the same liberties and privileges enjoyed by their neighbours under the royal care, yet several years more elapsed before the value of the lands in Georgia was known, and that spirit of industry broke out in it which afterwards diffused its happy influence over the country. [Sidenote] George Whitfield's settlement. In the annals of Georgia the famous George Whitfield may not be unworthy of some notice, especially as the world through which he wandered has heard so much of his Orphan-house built in that province. Actuated by religious motives, this wanderer several times passed the Atlantic to convert the Americans, whom he addressed in such a manner as if they had been all equal strangers to the privileges and benefits of religion with the original inhabitants of the forest. However, his zeal never led him beyond the maritime parts of America, through which he travelled, spreading what he called the true evangelical faith among the most populous towns and villages. One would have imagined that the heathens, or at least those who were most destitute of the means of instruction, would have been the primary and most proper objects of his zeal and compassion; but this was far from being the case. However, wherever he went in America, as in Britain, he had multitudes of followers. When he first visited Charlestown, Alexander Garden, a man of some sense and erudition, who was the episcopal clergyman of that place, to put the people upon their guard, took occasion to point out to them the pernicious tendency of Whitfield's wild doctrines and irregular manner of life. He represented him as a religious impostor or quack, who had an excellent knack of setting off to advantage his poisonous tenets. On the other hand, Whitfield, who had been accustomed to bear reproach and face opposition, recriminated with double acrimony and greater success. While Alexander Garden, to keep his flock from straying after this strange pastor, expatiated on the words of Scripture, "Those that have turned the world upside down are come hither also." Whitfield, with all the force of comic humour and wit for which he was so much distinguished, by way of reply, enlarged on these words, "Alexander the coppersmith hath done me much evil, the Lord reward him according to his works." In short, the pulpit was perverted by both into the mean purposes of spite and malevolence, and every one catching a share of the infection, spoke of the clergymen as they were differently affected. [Sidenote] Whitfield's Orphan-house. In Georgia Whitfield having obtained a track of land from the Trustees, erected a wooden house two stories high, the dimensions of which were seventy feet by forty, upon a sandy beach nigh the sea-shore. This house, which he called the Orphan-House, he began to build about the year 1740, and afterwards finished it at a great expense. It was intended to be a lodging for poor children, where they were to be clothed and fed by charitable contributions, and and trained up in the knowledge and practice of the Christian religion. The design, beyond doubt, was humane and laudable; but, perhaps, had he travelled over the whole earth, he could scarcely have found out a spot of ground upon it more improper for the purpose. The whole province of Georgia could not furnish him with a track of land of the same extent more barren and unprofitable. To this house poor children were to be sent from at least a healthy country, to be supported partly by charity, and partly by the produce of this land cultivated by negroes. Nor was the climate better suited to the purpose than the soil, for it is certain, before the unwholesome marshes around the house were fertilized, the influences of both air and water must have conspired to the children's destruction. However, Whitfield having formed his chimerical project, determined to accomplish it, and, instead of bring discouraged by obstacles and difficulties, gloried in despising them. He wandered through the British empire, persuaded the ignorant and credulous part of the world of the excellence of his design, and obtained from them money, clothes, and books, to forward his undertaking, and supply his poor orphans in Georgia. About thirty years after this wooden house was finished it was burned to the ground; during which time, if I am well informed, few or none of the children educated in it have proved either useful members of society, or exemplary in respect to religion. Some say the fire was occasioned by a foul chimney, and others by a flash of lightning; but whatever was the cause, it burnt with such violence that little of either the furniture or library escaped the flames. When I saw the ruins of this fabric, I could not help reflecting on that great abuse of the fruits of charity too prevalent in the world. That money which was sunk here had been collected chiefly from the poorest class of mankind. Most of those bibles which were here burnt had been extorted from indigent and credulous persons, who perhaps had not money to purchase more for themselves. Happy was it for the zealous founder of this institution, that he did not live to see the ruin of his works. After his death he was brought from New-England, above eight hundred miles, and buried at this Orphan-house. In his last will he left Lady Huntingdon sole executrix, who has now converted the lands and negroes belonging to the poor benefactors of Great Britain and her dominions, to the support of clergymen of the same irregular stamp with the deceased, but void of his shining talents, and it is become a seminary of dissension and sedition. [Sidenote] Sketch of his character. As George Whitfield appeared in such different lights in the successive stages of life, it is no easy matter to delineate his character without an uncommon mixture and vast variety of colours. He was in the British empire not unlike one of those strange and erratic meteors which appear now and then in the system of nature. In his youth, as he often confessed and lamented, he was gay, giddy and profligate; so fondly attached to the stage, that he joined a company of strolling actors and vagabonds, and spent a part of his life in that capacity. At this period it is probable he learned that grimace, buffoonery and gesticulation which he afterwards displayed from the pulpit. From an abandoned and licentious course of life he was converted; and, what is no uncommon thing, from one extreme he run into the other, and became a most zealous and indefatigable teacher of religion. Having studied some time at Oxford, he received ordination in the church of England; yet he submitted to none of the regulations of that or any other church, but became a preacher in churches, meeting-houses, halls, fields, in all places, and to all denominations, without exception. Though little distinguished for genius or learning, yet he possessed a lively imagination, much humour, and had acquired considerable knowledge of human nature and the manners of the world. His pretensions to humanity and benevolence were great, yet he would swell with venom, like a snake, against opposition and contradiction. His reading was inconsiderable, and mankind being the object of his study, he could, when he pleased, raise the passions, and touch the tone of the human heart to great perfection. By this affecting eloquence and address he impressed on the minds of many, especially of the more soft and delicate sex, such a strong sense of sin and guilt as often plunged them into dejection and despair. As his custom was to frequent those larger cities and towns, that are commonly best supplied with the means of instruction, it would appear that the love of fame and popular applause was his leading passion; yet in candour it must be acknowledged, that he always discovered a warm zeal for the honour of God and the happiness of men. While he was almost worshipped by the vulgar, men of superior rank and erudition found him the polite gentleman, and the facetious and jocular companion. Though he loved good cheer, and frequented the houses of the rich or more hospitable people of America, yet he was an enemy to all manner of excess and intemperance. While his vagrant temper led him from place to place, his natural discernment enabled him to form no bad judgment of the characters and manners of men wherever he went. Though he appeared a friend to no established church, yet good policy winked at all his irregularities, as he every where proved a steady friend to monarchy and the civil constitution. He knew well how to keep up the curiosity of the multitude, and his roving manner stamped a kind of novelty on his instructions. When exposed to the taunts of the scoffer, and the ridicule of the flagitious, he remained firm to his purpose, and could even retort these weapons with astonishing ease and dexterity, and render vice abashed under the lash of his satire and wit. Sometimes, indeed, he made little scruple of consigning over to damnation such as differed from him or despised him; yet he was not entirely devoid of liberality of sentiment. To habitual sinners his address was for the most part applicable and powerful, and with equal ease could alarm the secure, and confirm the unsteady. Though, in prayer, he commonly addressed the second person of the Trinity in a familiar and fulsome style, and in his sermons used many ridiculous forms of speech, and told many of his own wonderful works, yet these seemed only shades to set off to greater advantage the lustre of his good qualities. In short, though it is acknowledged he had many oddities and failings, and was too much the slave of party and vain-glory, yet in justice it cannot be denied, that religion in America owed not a little to the zeal, diligence, and oratory, of this extraordinary man. Having said so much with respect to the character which Mr. Whitfield bore in America, if we view the effects of his example and manner of life in that country, he will appear to us in a less favourable light. His great ambition was to be the founder of a new sect, regulated entirely by popular fancy and caprice, depending on the gifts of nature, regardless of the improvements of education and all ecclesiastical laws and institutions. Accordingly, after him a servile race of ignorant and despicable imitators sprung up, and wandered from place to place, spreading doctrines subversive of all public order and peace. We acknowledge the propriety and justice of allowing every reasonable indulgence to men in matters of religion. The laws of toleration being part of our happy constitution, it lies with men to learn their duty from them, and claim protection under them. But after a church has been erected and established by the most skilful architects, and for ages received the approbation of the wisest and best men, it serves only to create endless confusion to be making alterations and additions to gratify the fancy of every Gothic pretender to that art. Though Whitfield was in fact a friend to civil government, yet his followers on that continent have been distinguished for the contrary character, and have for the most part discovered an aversion to our constitution both of church and state. Toleration to men who remain peaceable subjects to the state is reasonable; but dissention, when it grows lawless and headstrong, is dangerous, and summons men in general to take shelter under the constitution, that the salutary laws of our country may be executed by its united strength. No man ought to claim any lordship over the conscience; but when the consciences of obstinate sectaries become civil nuisances, and destructive of public tranquillity, they ought to be restrained by legal authority. For certainly human laws, if they have not the primary, have, or ought to have, a secondary power to restrain the irregular and wild excesses of men in religious as well as in civil matters. [Sidenote] A congress with Creeks. About the year 1752 the flames of war broke out among some Indian nations, which threatened to involve the province of Carolina in the calamity. The Creeks having quarrelled with their neighbours for permitting some Indians to pass through their country to wage war against them, by way of revenge had killed some Cherokees nigh the gates of Charlestown. A British trader to the Chickesaw nation had likewise been scalped by a party of warriors belonging to the same nation. Governor Glen, in order to demand satisfaction for these outrages, sent a messenger to the Creeks, requesting a conference at Charlestown with their leading men. The Creeks returned for answer, that they were willing to meet him, but as the path had not been open and safe for some time, they could not enter the settlement without a guard to escort them. Upon which the Governor sent fifty horsemen, who met them at the confines of their territories, and convoyed Malatchee, with above an hundred of his warriors, to Charlestown. [Sidenote] The governor's speech to them. As they arrived on Sunday the Governor did not summon his council until the day following, to hold a congress with them. At this meeting a number of gentlemen were present, whom curiosity had drawn together to see the warriors and hear their speeches. When they entered the council-chamber the Governor arose and took them by the hand, signifying that he was glad to see them, and then addressed them to the following effect: "Being tied together by the most solemn treaties, I call you by the beloved names of friends and brothers. In the name of the great King George I have sent for you, on business of the greatest consequence to your nation. I would have received you yesterday on your arrival, but it was a beloved day, dedicated to repose and the concerns of a future life. I am sorry to hear that you have taken up the hatchet, which I flattered myself had been for ever buried. It is my desire to have the chain brightened and renewed, not only between you and the English, but also between you and other Indian nations. You are all our friends, and I could wish that all Indians in friendship with us were also friends one with another. You have complained to me of the Cherokees permitting the northern Indians to come through their country to war against you, and supplying them with provisions and ammunition for that purpose. The Cherokees, on the other hand, alledge, that it is not in their power to prevent them, and declare, that while their people happen to be out hunting those northern Indians come in to their towns well armed, and in such numbers that they are not able to resist them. "I propose that a treaty of friendship and peace be concluded first with the English, and then with the Cherokees, in such a manner as may render it durable. Some of your people have from smaller crimes proceeded to greater. First, they waylaid the Cherokees, and killed one of them in the midst of our settlements; then they came to Charlestown, where some Cherokees at the same time happened to be, and though I cautioned them, and they promised to do no mischief, yet the next day they assaulted and murdered several of them nigh the gates of this town. For these outrages I have sent for you, to demand satisfaction; and also for the murder committed in one of your towns, for which satisfaction was made by the death of another person, and not of the murderer. For the future, I acquaint you, that nothing will be deemed as satisfaction for the lives of our people, but the lives of these persons themselves who shall be guilty of the murder. The English never make treaties of friendship but with the greatest deliberation, and when made observe them with the strictest punctuality. They are, at the same time vigilant, and will not suffer other nations to infringe the smallest article of such treaties. It would tend to the happiness of your people were you equally careful to watch against the beginnings of evil; for sometimes a small spark, if not attended to, may kindle a great fire; and a slight sore, if suffered to spread, may endanger the whole body. Therefore, I have sent for you to prevent farther mischief, and I hope you come disposed to give satisfaction for the outrages already committed, and to promise and agree to maintain peace and friendship with your neighbours for the future." [Sidenote: Malatchee's answer.] This speech delivered to the Indians was interpreted by Lachlan McGilvray, an Indian trader, who understood their language. After which Malatchee, the king of the Lower Creek nation, stood forth, and with a solemnity and dignity of manner that astonished all present, in answer, addressed the Governor to the following effect: "I never had the honour to see the great King George, nor to hear his talk--But you are in his place--I have heard yours, and I like it well--Your sentiments are agreeable to my own--The great King wisely judged, that the best way of maintaining friendship between white and red people was by trade and commerce: --He knew we are poor, and want many things, and that skins are all we have to give in exchange for what we want--I have ordered my people to bring you some as a present, and, in the name of our nation, I lay them at your Excellency's feet--You have sent for us--we are come to hear what you have to say--But I did not expect to hear our whole nation accused for the faults of a few private men--Our head-men neither knew nor approved of the mischief done--We imagined our young men had gone a-hunting as usual--When we heard what had happened at Charlestown, I knew you would send and demand satisfaction--When your agent came and told me what satisfaction you required, I owned the justice of it--But it was not adviseable for me alone to grant it--It was prudent to consult with our beloved men, and have their advice in a matter of such importance--We met--we found that the behaviour of some of our people had been bad--We found that blood had been spilt at your gates--We thought it just that satisfaction should he made--We turned our thoughts to find out the chief persons concerned; (for a man will sometimes employ another to commit a crime he does not chuse to be guilty of himself) --We found the Acorn Whistler was the chief contriver and promoter of the mischief--We agreed that he was the man that ought to suffer--Some of his relations, who are here present, then said he deserved death, and voted for it--Accordingly he was put to death--He was a very great warrior, and had many friends and relations in different parts of the country--We thought it prudent to conceal for some time the true reason of his death, which was known only to the head men that concerted it--We did this for fear some of his friends in the heat of fury would take revenge on some of your traders--At a general meeting all matters were explained--The reasons of his death were made known--His relations approved of all that was done.--Satisfaction being made, I say no more about that matter--I hope our friendship with the English will continue as heretofore. "As to the injuries done to the Cherokees, which you spoke of, we are sorry for them--We acknowledge our young men do many things they ought not to do, and very often act like madmen--But it is well known I and the other head warriors did all we could to oblige them to make restitution--I rode from town to town with Mr. Bosomworth and his wife to assist them in this matter--Most of the things taken have been restored--When this was over, another accident happened which created fresh troubles--A Chickesaw who lived in our nation; in a drunken fit shot a white man--I knew you would demand satisfaction--I thought it best to give it before it was asked--The murder was committed at a great distance from me--I mounted my horse and rode through the towns with your agent--I took the head men of every town along with me--We went to the place and demanded satisfaction--It was given--The blood of the Indian was spilt for the blood of a white man--The uncle of the murderer purchased his life, and voluntarily killed himself in his stead--Now I have done--I am glad to see you face to face to settle those matters--it is good to renew treaties of friendship--I shall always be glad to call you friends and brothers." This speech throws no small light on the judicial proceedings of barbarous nations, and shews that human nature in its rudest state possesses a strong sense of right and wrong. Although Indians have little property, yet here we behold their chief magistrate protecting what they have, and, in cases of robbery, acknowledging the necessity of making restitution. They indeed chiefly injure one another in their persons or reputations, and in all cases of murder the guilty are brought to trial and condemned to death by the general consent of the nation. Even the friends and relations of the murderer here voted for his death. But what is more remarkable, they give us an instance of an atonement made, and justice satisfied, by the substitution of an innocent man in place of the guilty. An uncle voluntarily and generously offers to die in the place of his nephew, the savages accept of the offer, and in consequence of his death declare that satisfaction is made. Next to personal defence, the Indian guards his character and reputation; for as it is only from the general opinion his nation entertains of his wisdom, justice and valour, that he can expect to arrive at rank and distinction, he is exceedingly watchful against doing any thing for which he may incur public blame or disgrace. In this answer to Governor Glen, Malatchee discovers considerable talents as a public speaker, and appears to be insensible neither to his own dignity and freedom, not to the honour and independence of his nation. Genius and liberty are the gifts of heaven; the former is universal as that space over which it has scope to range, the latter inspires confidence, and gives a natural confidence to our words and actions. During the months of June, July, and August, 1752, the weather in Carolina was warmer than any of the inhabitants then alive had ever felt it, and the mercury in the shade often arose above the nintieth, and at one time was observed at the hundred and first degree of the thermometer; and, at the same time, when exposed to the sun, and suspended at the distance of five feet from the ground, it arose above the hundred and twentieth division. By this excessive heat the air becomes greatly rarified, and a violent hurricane commonly comes and restores the balance in the atmosphere. In such a case the wind usually proceeds from the north-east, directly opposite to the point from which it had long blown before. Those storms indeed seldom happen except in seasons when there has been little thunder, when the weather has been long exceeding dry and intolerably hot, and though they occasion damages to some individuals, there is reason to believe that they are wisely ordered, and productive upon the whole of good and salutary effects. Among the close and dark recesses of the woods the air stagnates, and requires some violent storm to clear it of putrid effluvia, and render it fit for respiration. At the same time the earth emits vapours which in a few days causes the finest polished metals to rust. To penetrate through the thick forest, and restore the air to a salubrious state, hurricanes may be useful and necessary. And as such storms have been observed to be productive of good effects, the want of them for many years together may be deemed a great misfortune by the inhabitants, especially such as are exposed to the noon-day heat, to the heavy fogs that fall every morning and evening, and all the severities of the climate. It is not improbable that the maritime parts of Carolina have been forsaken by the sea. Though you dig ever so deep in those places you find no stones or rocks, but every where sand or beds of shells. As a small decrease of water will leave so flat a country entirely bare, so a small increase will again cover it. The coast is not only very level, but the dangerous hurricanes commonly proceed from the north-east; and as the stream of the Gulf of Florida flows rapidly towards the same point, this large body of water, when obstructed by the tempest, recurs upon the shore, and overflows the country. [Sidenote] A hurricane at Charlestown. In the month of September, 1752, a dreadful hurricane happened at Charlestown. In the night before, it was observed by the inhabitants that the wind at north-east began to blow hard, and continued increasing in violence till next morning. Then the sky appeared wild and cloudy, and it began to drizzle and rain. About nine o'clock the flood came rolling in with great impetuosity, and in a little time rose ten feet above high water mark at the highest tides. As usual in such cases, the town was overflown, and the streets were covered with boats, boards, and wrecks of houses and ships. Before eleven all the ships in the harbour were driven ashore, and sloops and schooners were dashing against the houses of Bay-Street, in which great quantities of goods were damaged and destroyed. Except the Hornet man of war, which by cutting away her masts, rode out the storm, no vessel escaped being damaged or wrecked. The tremor and consternation which seized the inhabitants may be more easily conceived than expressed. Finding themselves in the midst of a tempestuous sea, and expecting the tide to flow till one o'clock, its usual hour, at eleven they retired to the upper stories of their houses, and there remained despairing of life. At this critical time Providence however mercifully interposed, and surprised them with a sudden and unexpected deliverance. Soon after eleven the wind shifted, in consequence of which the waters fell five feet in the space of ten minutes. By this happy change the Gulf stream, stemmed by the violent blast, had freedom to run in its usual course, and the town was saved from imminent danger and destruction. Had the water continued to rise, and the tide to flow until its usual hour, every inhabitant of Charlestown must have perished. Almost all the tiled and slated houses were uncovered, several persons were hurt, and some were drowned. The fortifications and wharfs were almost entirely demolished: the provisions in the field, in the maritime parts, were destroyed, and numbers of cattle and hogs perished in the waters. The pest-house in Sullivan's island, built of wood, with fifteen persons in it, was carried several miles up Cooper river, and nine out of the fifteen were drowned. In short, such is the low situation of Charlestown, that it is subject to be destroyed at any time by such an inundation, and the frequent warnings the people have had may justly fill them with a deep sense of their dependent condition, and with constant gratitude to Providence for their preservation. [Sidenote] The advantages of poor settlers in the province. We have seen the hardships under which the Carolineans laboured from the hot climate and low situation of the province, it may not be improper to take a view of those advantages afforded them which served to animate them amidst such difficulties to industry and perseverance. In that growing colony, where there are vast quantities of land unoccupied, the poorest class of people have many opportunities and advantages, from which they are entirely excluded in countries fully peopled and highly improved. During the first years of occupancy they are indeed exposed to many dangers in providing for themselves and families an habitation for a shelter against the rigours of the climate, and in clearing fields for raising the necessaries of life. But when they have the good fortune to surmount the hardships of the first years of cultivation, the inconveniencies gradually decrease in proportion to their improvements. The merchants being favoured with credit from Britain, are enabled to extend it to the swarm of labourers in the country. The planters having established their characters for honesty and industry, obtain hands to assist them in the harder tasks of clearing and cultivation. Their wealth consists in the increase of their slaves, stock and improvements. Having abundance of waste land, they can extend their culture in proportion to their capital. They live almost entirely on the produce of their estates, and consequently spend but a small part of their annual income. The surplus is yearly added to the capital, and they enlarge their prospects in proportion to their wealth and strength. At market if there be a great demand for the commodities they raise, this is an additional advantage, and renders their progress rapid beyond their most sanguine expectations; they labour, and they receive more and more encouragement to persevere, until they advance to an easy and comfortable state. It has been observed, on the other hand, that few or none of those emigrants that brought much property along with them have ever succeeded in that country. [Sidenote] The advantages of money lenders. Or, if the poor emigrant be an artificer, and chuses to follow his trade, the high price of labour is no less encouraging. By the indulgence of the merchants, or by the security of a friend, he obtains credit for a few negroes. He learns them his trade, and a few good tradesmen, well employed, are equal to a small estate. Having got some hands, instead of a labourer he becomes an undertaker, and enters into contract with his employer, to erect his house; to build his ship; to furnish his plantations with shoes, or the capital with bricks. In a little time he acquires some money, and, like several others in the city whose yearly gain exceeds what is requisite for the support of themselves and families, lays it out on interest. Ten and eight _per cent._ being given for money, proved a great temptation, and induced many, who were averse from the trouble of settling plantations, or were unable to bestow that attention to them which they demanded, to take this method of increasing their fortune. If the moneylender followed his employment in the capital, or reserved in his hands a sufficiency for family use, and allowed the interest to be added yearly to the capital stock, his fortune increased fast, and soon became considerable. Several persons preferred this method of accumulating riches to that of cultivation, especially those whom age or infirmity had rendered unfit for action and fatigue. Notwithstanding the extensive credit commonly allowed the planting interest by the merchants, the number of borrowers always exceeded that of the lenders of money. Having vast extent of territory, the planters were eager to obtain numbers of labourers, which raised the demand for money, and kept up the high rate of interest. The interest of money in every country is for the most part according to the demand, and the demand according to the profits made by the use of it. The profits must always be great where men can afford to take money at the rate of eight and ten _per cent._ and allow it to remain in their hands upon compound interest. In Carolina labourers on good lands cleared their first cost and charges in a few years, and therefore great was the demand for money in order to procure them. [Sidenote] And of the borrowers. Let us next take a view of those advantages in favour of the borrower of money. His landed estate he obtained from the Crown. The quit-rents and taxes were trifling and inconsiderable. Being both landlord and farmer he had perfect liberty to manage and improve his plantation as he pleased, and was accountable to none but himself for any of the fruits of his industry. His estate furnished him with game and fish, which he had freedom to kill and use at pleasure. In the woods his cattle, hogs and horses grazed at their ease, attended perhaps only by a negro boy. If his sheep did not thrive well, he had calves, hogs and poultry in abundance for the use of his family. All his able labourers he could turn to the field, and exert his strength in railing his staple commodity. The low country being every where interspersed with navigable rivers and creeks, the expence of conveying his rice to the market, which otherwise would have been intolerable, was thereby rendered easy. Having provisions from his estate to support his family and labourers, he applies his whole staple commodities for the purposes of answering the demands of the merchant and moneylender. He expects that his annual produce will not only answer those demands against him, but also bring an addition to his capital, and enable him to extend his hand still farther in the way of improvement. Hence it happened, that in proportion as the merchants extended credit to the planters, and supplied them with labourers for their lands, the profits returned to the capital yearly according to the increased number of hands employed in cultivation. It is no easy thing to enumerate all the advantages of water carriage to a fruitful and commercial province. The lands are rendered more valuable by being situated on navigable creeks and rivers. The planters who live fifty miles from the capital, are at little more expence in sending their provisions and produce to its market, than those who live within five miles of it. The town is supplied with plenty of provisions, and its neighbourhood prevented from enjoying a monopoly of its market. By this general and unlimited competition the price of provisions is kept low, and while the money arising from them circulates equally and universally through the country, it contributes, in return, to its improvement. The planters have not only water carriage to the market far their staple commodities, but on their arrival the merchant again commits them to the general tide of commerce, and receives in return what the world affords profitable to himself, and useful to the country in which he lives. Hence it happened, that no town was better supplied than Charlestown with all the necessaries, conveniencies, and luxuries of life. [Sidenote] Great benefits enjoyed by colonists. Besides these advantages arising from good lands given them by the Crown, the Carolineans received protection to trade, a ready market, drawbacks and bounties, by their political and commercial connection with the mother country. The duties laid on many articles of foreign manufacture on their importation into Britain were drawn back, sometimes the whole, almost always a great part, on their exportation to the colonies. These drawbacks were always in favour of the consumers, and supplied the provincial markets with foreign goods at a rate equally cheap as if they had been immediately imported from the place where they were manufactured. Hence the colonists were exempted from those heavy duties which their fellow-subjects in Britain were obliged to pay, on most articles of foreign manufacture which they consumed. Besides, upon the arrival of such goods in the country, the planters commonly had twelve months credit from the provincial merchant, who was satisfied with payment once in the year from all his customers. So that to the consumers in Carolina, East-India goods, German manufactures, Spanish, Portugal, Madeira and Fyal wines came cheaper than to those in Great Britain. We have known coals, salt, and other articles brought by way of ballast, sold cheaper in Charlestown than in London. But the colonists had not only those drawbacks on foreign goods imported, but they were also allowed bounties on several articles of produce exported. For the encouragement of her colonies Great Britain laid high duties on several articles imported from foreign countries, and gave the colonists premiums and bounties on the same commodities. The planting tobacco was prohibited in England, in order to encourage it in America. The bounties on naval stores, indigo, hemp, and raw silk, while they proved an encouragement to industry, all terminated in favour of the plantations. Nor ought the Carolineans to forget the perfect freedom they enjoyed with respect to their trade with the West Indies, where they found a convenient and most excellent market for their Indian corn, rice, lumber, and salt provisions, and in return had rum, unclayed sugar, coffee and molasses much cheaper than their fellow-subjects in Britain. I mention these things because many of the colonists are ignorant of the privileges and advantages they enjoy; for, upon a general view of their circumstances, and a comparison of their case with that of their fellow-subjects in Britain and Ireland, they must find they had much ground for contentment, and none for complaint. Another circumstance we may mention to which few have paid sufficient attention. It is true, Great Britain had laid the colonists under some restraints with respect to their domestic manufactures and their trade to foreign ports, but however much such a system of policy might affect the more northern colonies, it was at this time rather serviceable than prejudicial to Carolina. It served to direct the views of the people to the culture of lands, which was both more profitable to themselves and beneficial to the mother country. Though they had plenty of beaver skins, and a few hats were manufactured from them, yet the price of labour was so high, that the merchant could send the skins to England, import hats made of them, and undersell the manufacturers of Carolina. The province also furnished some wool and cotton, but before they could be made into cloth, they cost the consumer more money than the merchant demanded for the same goods imported. The province afforded leather, but before it could be prepared and made into shoes, the price was equally high, and often higher, than that of shoes imported from Britain. In like manner, with respect to many other articles, it would be for the advantage of the province as well as mother country to export the raw materials and import the goods manufactured. For while the inhabitants of Carolina can employ their hands to more advantage in cultivating waste land, it will be their interest never to wear a woollen or linen rag of their own manufacture, to drive a nail of their own forging, nor use any sort of plate, iron, brass or stationary wares of their own making. Until the province shall grow more populous, cultivation is the most profitable employment, and the labourer injures himself and family by preferring the less to the more profitable branch of industry. Few also are the restrictions upon trade, which, in effect, could be deemed hurtful; for, excepting the vessels which traded to the southward of Cape Finisterre, and were obliged to return to England to cancel their bond before they sailed for Carolina, every other restraint may be said to be ultimately in favour of the province. It was the interest of such a flourishing colony to be always in debt to Great Britain, for the more labourers that were sent to it, the more rapidly it advanced in riches. Suppose the planters this year stand much indebted to the merchants, and, by reason of an unfavourable season, are rendered unable to answer the demands against them; the merchants, instead of ruining them, indulged them for another year, and perhaps intrusted them with double the sum for which they stood indebted. This has frequently been found the most certain method of obtaining payment. In like manner the merchants must have indulgence from England, the primary source of credit. If the province could not obtain such indulgence from any part of the world as from the mother country, it must be for its interest to support its credit with those generous friends who were both able and disposed to give it. To lodge the yearly produce of the province in the hands of those English creditors as soon as possible, is the surest means of supporting this credit. Besides, the London merchants being the best judges of the markets of Europe, can of course sell the staple commodities to the best advantage. The centrical situation of that city was favourable for intelligence; her merchants are famous over the world for their extensive knowledge in trade; they well knew the ports where there was the greatest demand for the commodity; all which were manifestly in favour of the province in which it was raised. Were the planters to have the choice of their market, it is very doubtful whether such liberty would be for their interest. Were they to export their produce on their own bottom, they would certainly be great losers. Some who have made the attempt have honestly confessed the truth: While it divided their attention, it engaged them in affairs to which they were in general very great strangers. Even the provincial merchants themselves are not always perfect judges of the markets in Europe, nor could they have obtained such unlimited credit in any other channel than that circumscribed by the laws of their country. Here is a co-operation of a number of persons united for promoting the interest and advantage of one another, and placed in circumstances and situations well adapted for that purpose. So that, in fact, it is not for the interest of Carolina, in its present advancing state, to be free from debt, far less of its planters to engage in trade, or its inhabitants in manufactures. [Sidenote] Progress of the province. To form a right judgment of the progress of the province, and the mutual advantages resulting from its political and commercial connection with Britain, we need only attend to its annual imports and exports. We cannot exactly say what its imports amounted to at this time; but if they amounted to above one hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling in the year 1740, as we have already seen, they must have arisen at least to two hundred thousand pounds sterling in 1754. The quantities of rice exported this year were 104,682 barrels; of indigo, 216,924 pounds weight, which, together with naval stores, provisions, skins, lumber, _&c._ amounted in value to two hundred and forty-two thousand, five hundred and twenty-nine pounds sterling. This shews the great value and importance of the province to Britain. And while she depends on the mother country for all the manufactures she uses, and applies her attention to such branches of business as are most profitable to herself and most beneficial to Britain, Carolina must in the nature of things prosper. Without this dependence, and mutual exchange of good offices, the colony might have subsisted, but could never have thrived and flourished in so rapid a manner. CHAP. X. [Sidenote] A dispute about the limits of British and French territories. Although the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle extended to the subjects of both Britain and France residing in America, yet the boundaries of the respective territories claimed by those rival states were by no means fixed in so clear and precise a manner as to preclude all grounds of future dispute. The limits of Nova Scotia in particular, and those of the extensive back settlements of Virginia and Pennsylvania, were neither clearly understood nor accurately marked. In consequence of which, as the colonists extended their culture backwards encroachments were made, or supposed to be made, which created jealousies and differences between the British and French subjects on that continent. Some merchants trading to Virginia and Pennsylvania having formed a project for a settlement on the Ohio, obtained a grant of six hundred thousand acres of land from the King, together with an exclusive privilege of trafficking with Indian nations nigh that river. To these territories the French claimed a right; and, to keep possession, as well as to engross the Indian trade, built a fort on the banks of the Ohio river, which they called Fort Duquesne. This situation was very convenient for preserving the friendship of Indian nations, an object of the utmost importance to the French, as the subjects of Britain in America were at that time vastly more numerous and powerful than those of France. Tobacco being a plant which quickly exhausts the richest lands, the planters of Virginia were accustomed gradually to stretch backward, and occupy such fresh spots of ground as promised them the greatest returns. Some had even crossed the Allegany mountains, where they found rich vallies lying waste, upon which they settled plantations; and though the land-carriage of such a heavy and bulky commodity was expensive, yet they found that the superiority of their crops made them some compensation. To this territory beyond the mountains, as well as the other marked and measured out for the Ohio Company, the French laid claim, and sent a considerable garrison from Montreal to Fort Duquesne, to defend their pretended right. The commander in chief of Canada wrote a letter to the Governor of Virginia, complaining of encroachments made on his most Christian Majesty's territories, and demanding that such British planters and traders as had settled on those lands should withdraw, otherwise he would be obliged to seize both their properties and persons. No regard being paid to his complaints, the commandant of Fort Duquesne seized by force three British traders, and goods to a large amount, and carried them to Montreal. Upon which the Governor of Virginia determined to resent the injury, and immediately began to concert measures for the protection of the frontiers. He raised a body of militia, and sent them met the mountains to watch the motions of their troublesome neighbours, and obtained reinforcements from North and South Carolina to assist them against the French garrison. This detachment, under the command of Major Washington, encamped near Fort Duquesne, between whom and the French garrison hostilities commenced in America; and the flame of war afterwards spreading, involved Europe in the quarrel. [Sidenote] A chain of forts raised by the French. From this period the great object which the French kept in view was to strengthen their frontiers, and make all possible preparations for defending themselves against the storm which they foresaw gathering in America. Though they seemed averse from an open declaration of war, yet they continued pouring troops into the continent, and raising a line of forts to secure a communication between their colony at the mouth of the Mississippi and their great settlement in Canada. They amused the British administration with fruitless negotiations about the limits of Nova Scotia, while they were busily employed in the execution of this great plan. Their design, however, was no secret to the more discerning part of the Americans, who plainly perceived from such preparations that hostilities were approaching. In Acadia they erected a fort at Chinecto, to confine the British subjects of Nova Scotia within the peninsula. At Crown Point another was raised, on lands claimed by the King of Great Britain, well situated for harassing the back settlements of New York and Connecticut. Another was built at Niagara, on land belonging to the Six Nations in alliance with Britain. While the Canadians were falling down the Ohio river, and raising strong-holds, the forces at Pensacola and New Orleans were also forcing their way up the Mississippi, and establishing garrisons on the most advantageous posts, on purpose to meet their friends from Canada, and confine the British settlements to the space between the mountains and the Atlantic sea. The more easily to accomplish this great design, it was necessary to secure by all possible means the interest of the savage nations. For this purpose missionaries were sent among the different tribes, who conformed to the dress, manners and customs of the savages, and represented the British heretics in the most odious light, making the Indians believe that their safety and happiness depended on the total extirpation of such men from America. Though some tribes rejected their friendship, yet it is certain that many were won over by their insinuating arts and intrigues, and entered into alliances with them. When a general congress was held at Albany fewer Indians than usual at such meetings attended, which afforded grounds of suspicion, and obliged the governors of the British colonies to double their diligence for watching the motions of their enterprising neighbours. [Sidenote] The distracted state of the British colonies. At the same time the situation of some of the British colonies proved favourable to the hostile preparations and attempts of their enemies. Their clashing interests had bred jealousies and animosities among them, insomuch that it was no easy matter to bring them firmly to unite, in order to oppose a common enemy with vigour and spirit. They believed themselves unable to withstand the militia of Canada supported by some regiments of regular troops from France, and therefore in the most humble manner implored the protection of Britain. They were filled with terrible apprehensions of the French power, declaring that their vanity and ambition had nothing less in view at this period than to divide the western world with Spain, and make all its riches center in the house of Bourbon. But whether they had such a view or not, one thing is plain, that the reduction of the British empire in America would facilitate the accomplishment of such a design, as the Portuguese dominions must afterwards fall an easy prey to those two powerful potentates. Though Great Britain was sensible of the danger which threatened her colonies, yet as the number of British settlers on the continent exceeded that of the French, being not less than twenty to one, she expected that they would unite among themselves, and raise a fund for the common defence. Hitherto she had nursed and protected them, and many of the colonies had arrived at a considerable degree of opulence and strength. They had the easiest taxes of any civilized people upon earth. They had enjoyed many civil privileges, and commercial advantages, from their connection with the mother country. As their resources were considerable, it was hoped their zeal would not be wanting for their own defence. To give a check to any encroachments of the French in that quarter, Great Britain was more remotely, America herself more immediately, concerned. Instructions were therefore sent to the governors of the different provinces, to recommend unanimity to the people, and the necessity of an association for their mutual defence. But when the raising of men and money was proposed to the assemblies they fell into disputes among themselves, which became more violent in proportion as the enemy approached their habitations. Some pleaded extraordinary privileges from their charters; others started frivolous and absurd objections, insisting on punctilios as pretences for delay. In short, so different were their constitutions and forms of government, so divided were they in their views and interests, that it was found impossible to unite them together, in order to give their force its due weight. The frontiers were naked and extensive, the inhabitants upon them were thin and scattered, and utterly unequal to the service requisite without the assistance of their neighbours. The flames of war had broke out on some of them, and the neighbouring provinces could no otherwise be safe than by stretching forth their hands in helping to extinguish them. Thus, while the French were acting in concert under one commander and chief, the British colonists were spending that time in barren deliberations and private disputes which they ought to have employed in fortifying their borders and checking the progress of their enemy. What was in fact the business of every man seemed to engage the attention of none, and all kept their eyes fixed on the mother country for protection, regarding themselves as disinterested in the general safety of the empire, and very unequal to their own defence. [Sidenote] General Braddock's defeat in Virginia. While thus one province refused help to another, Great Britain, notwithstanding the extensive dominions she had to guard in different quarters of the globe, generously undertook the protection of America. As the greatest dangers seemed to hang over the province of Virginia, General Braddock was sent out with a considerable body of men to assist the Virginians in driving the French from their frontiers. This haughty and rash leader, being possessed of considerable skill in the European arts of war, entertained a sovereign contempt for an American enemy, and advanced against Fort Duquesne without even the smallest doubt of success. However, the French had intelligence of his approach, and were prepared to receive him. Having collected a large body of Indians, they had taken possession of an advantageous ground, and placed the regulars on a rising hill in front, and the savages in the dark woods on each side. General Braddock, instead of keeping small parties before the main body, to scour the woods as he advanced, and explore every dangerous pass, marched his men, according to the custom in Europe, in a close compacted body, and unfortunately fell into the snare which his enemies had laid for him. The French regulars in the front began the attack from behind a breast-work, while the Indians kept up an irregular and scattered fire from the dark thickets on each side, which surprized and confounded the British soldiers, who were utter strangers to such methods of attack. Almost every shot took effect, and the brave men observing their neighbours falling by their side, were put into confusion and fled, refusing to return to the charge against invisible assailants, notwithstanding every effort used by the officers for that purpose. Braddock with many brave officers and men fell in this field, and the remainder retreated with precipitation to Philadelphia, leaving these frontiers in a worse condition than they were in before. [Sidenote] Colonel Johnston's success at Lake George. Colonel Johnston, who marched with about three thousand men against Crown Point, was indeed more successful than this rash commander in Virginia. Being better acquainted with the woods, and the various methods of attack, he could both avail himself of the advantages, and guard against the dangers arising from the nature of the country. With cautious steps he advanced against the enemy, until he reached Lake George, where a party of his advanced guard being attacked retreated to the main body. The French pursued them, and a bloody battle ensued between the two armies, equally skilled in bush-fighting, which terminated much to the honour of the British officer. The enemy was repulsed with considerable loss, leaving Baron de Diescau wounded in the field, who, with many others, fell into Johnston's hands, and were made prisoners of war. This finall advantage gained over the French served in some measure to revive the drooping spirits of the colonists; yet still they entertained the most discouraging apprehensions of the French power in the woods, and seemed ardently to long for the relief and assistance of the mother country. While these hostilities were openly carrying on in the northern parts of America, it was judged prudent to consult the safety of the provinces to the south, and put them in the best posture of defence. To prevent the fatal influence of French emissaries among the Indian tribes, it was thought necessary to build some small forts in the heart of their country. The Indians on the Ohio river, from the success which attended their arms at Fort Duquesne, entertained the highest ideas of French courage and conduct, and were trying to seduce the Cherokees, who were at this time the firmest allies of Britain. A message was sent to Governor Glen from the chief warrior of the over-hill settlements, acquainting him that some Frenchmen and their allies were among their people, endeavouring to poison their minds, and that it would be necessary to hold a general congress with the nation, and renew their former treaties of friendship. He assured the Governor, that though he had been wounded in his younger years, and was now old, yet he would meet him half way for this purpose, if he should even be carried on the backs of his people. Accordingly, Governor Glen appointed a place for holding a congress, and agreed to meet the warrior; for as the clouds were gathering every where on the American horizon, the friendship of the Cherokees at such a time was an object of too much importance to Carolina to be overlooked or neglected. It may be remarked, that the Cherokees differ in some respects from other Indian nations that have wandered often from place to place, and fixed their habitations on separate districts. From time immemorial they have had possession of the same territory which at present they occupy. They affirm, that their forefathers sprung from that ground, or descended from the clouds upon those hills. These lands of their ancestors they value above all things in the world. They venerate the places where their bones lie interred, and esteem it disgraceful in the highest degree to relinquish these sacred repositories. The man that would refuse to take the field in defence of these hereditary possessions, is regarded by them as a coward, and treated as an outcast from their nation. To the over-hill villages the French had an easy access by means of rivers that emptied themselves into the Ohio and Mississippi. Their middle settlements and towns in the valley lay more convenient for trading with the Carolineans. Hitherto they despised the French, whom they called light as a feather, fickle as the wind, and deceitful as serpents; and, being naturally of a very grave cast, they considered the levity of that people as an unpardonable insult. They looked upon themselves as a great and powerful nation, and though their number was much diminished, yet they could bring from their different towns about three thousand men to the field. At this time they had neither arms nor ammunition to defend themselves against their enemy, and the Governor of Carolina wanted liberty to build two forts on their lands, in order to secure their friendship and trade. As the French were tampering with them, and had shewn a keenness more than common to gain some footing with them, it behoved the province to exert itself, in order to prevent if possible any alliance with its enemies. [Sidenote] Governor Glen holds a congress with the Cherokees. Accordingly, in 1755, Governor Glen met the Cherokee warriors in their own country, with a view to purchase some lands from them; and, after the usual ceremonies previous to such solemn treaties were over, the Governor sat down under a spreading tree, and Chulochcullah being chosen speaker for the Cherokee nation, came and took his seat beside him. The other warriors, about five hundred in number, stood around them in solemn silence and deep attention. Then the Governor arose, and made a speech in name of his king, representing his great power, wealth and goodness, and his particular regard for his children the Cherokees. He reminded them of the happiness they had long enjoyed by living under his protection; and added, that he had many presents to make them, and expected they would surrender a share of their territories in return for them. He acquainted them of the great poverty and wicked designs of the French, and hoped they would permit none of them to enter their towns. He demanded lands to build two forts in their country, to protect them against their enemies, and to be a retreat to their friends and allies, who furnished them with arms, ammunition, hatchets, clothes, and every thing that they wanted. When the Governor had finished his speech, Chulochcullah arose, and holding his bow in one hand, his shaft of arrows and other symbols used by them on such occasions in the other, in answer spoke to the following effect. "What I now speak our father the great king should hear--We are brothers to the people of Carolina--one house covers us all." Then taking a boy by the hand he presented him to the Governor, saying, "We, our wives and our children, are all children of the great King George--I have brought this child, that when he grows up he may remember our agreement on this day, and tell it to the next generation, that it may be known for ever." Then opening his bag of earth, and laying the same at the Governor's feet, he said, "We freely surrender a part of our lands to the great King--The French want our possessions, but we will defend them while one of our nation shall remain alive." Then shewing his bows and arrow, he added, "These are all the arms we can make for our defence--We hope the King will pity his children the Cherokees, and send us guns and ammunition--We fear not the French--Give us arms and we will go to war against the enemies of the great King." Then delivering the Governor a string of wampum in confirmation of what he had said, he added, "My speech is at an end--It is the voice of the Cherokee nation--I hope the Governor will send it to the King, that it may be kept for ever." [Sidenote] And purchases a large tract of land from them. At this congress a territory of prodigious extent was ceded and surrendered to the King. Deeds of conveyance were drawn up, and formally executed by their head men in name of the whole people. It contained not only much rich land, but there the air was more serene, and the climate more healthy, than in the maritime parts. It exhibited many pleasant and romantic scenes, formed by an intermixture of beautiful hills, fruitful vallies, rugged rocks, clear streams, and gentle water-falls. The hills were of a stiff and tenacious clay, but the vallies of a deep, fat mould, and were covered with perpetual verdure. The acquisition at that time was so far of importance to Carolina, as it removed the savages at a greater distance from the settlements, and allowed the inhabitants liberty to extend backwards, in proportion as their number increased. [Sidenote] Forts built in defence of Carolina. Soon after the cession of these lands, Governor Glen built a fort about three hundred miles from Charlestown, afterwards called Fort Prince George, which was situated on the banks of the river Savanna, and within gun-shot of an Indian town called Keowee. This fort was made in the form of a square, and had an earthen rampart about six feet high, on which stockades were fixed, with a ditch, a natural glacis on two sides, and bastions at the angles, on each of which four small cannon were mounted. It contained barracks for an hundred men, and was designed for a defence to the western frontiers of the province. About an hundred and seventy miles further down there was another strong-hold, called Fort Moore, in a beautiful commanding situation on the banks of the same river. In the year following another fort was erected, called Fort Loudon, among the Upper Cherokees, situated on Tenassee river upwards of five hundred miles distant from Charlestown; to which place it was very difficult at all times, but, in case of a war with the Cherokees, utterly impracticable to convey necessary supplies. These strong-holds, together with those of Frederica and Augusta in Georgia, were garrisoned by his Majesty's independent companies of foot, stationed there for the protection of the two provinces. After having fortified these frontiers, the settlers of Carolina began to stretch backward, and occupied lands above an hundred and fifty miles from the shore. New emigrants from Ireland, Germany and the northern colonies obtained grants in these interior parts, and introduced the cultivation of wheat, hemp, flax and tobacco, for which the soil answered better there than in the low lands nearer the sea. The cattle, sheep, hogs and horses multiplied fast, and having a country of vast extent to range over, they found plenty of provisions in it through the whole year. From different parts new settlers were invited to those hilly and more healthy parts of Carolina, where they laboured with greater safety than among the swamps, and success crowned their industry. By degrees public roads were made, and they conveyed their produce in waggons to the capital, where they found an excellent market for all their productions, but especially the provisions which they raised. [Sidenote] Its excellent fruits and plants. Although the soil and climate of the province suited the finest fruits and vegetable productions, yet the garden had long been neglected, and the orchard had engaged the attention only of a few. The people of Bermuda, not many years ago, carried to the market in Charlestown cabbages raised on that island, and the northern colonies their apples and Irish potatoes. But now the Carolineans found, by chusing a spot of land with judgment for the garden, that it would furnish them with all necessaries of this kind. Every spring and autumn brought them a crop of European peas and beans. Musk and water melons thrive exceedingly well even on the sandy maritime islands, and arrive at a degree of perfection unknown in many parts of Europe. All kinds of sallad, such as lettuce, endive, cresses, parsley, radishes, onions, will grow there in all seasons of the year, excepting one, and as nature has denied the people this kind of nourishment during the summer months, it is probable it must on that account be unwholesome. The garden also yielded abundance of cabbages, brocoli, cauliflower, turnips, spinage, cucumbers, squashes, artichokes, pompions, asparagus, _&c._ in great perfection. The climate indeed refuses the people of Carolina currants and gooseberries, as every attempt to raise them has failed; but they have oranges, figs, peaches, apricots, nectarines and strawberries in plenty, which are exceedingly agreeable and refreshing in the summer season. Olives, grapes, cherries, citrons and plumbs will grow, though not cultivated in common; but apples, pears, pomegranates, chesnuts and walnuts are, or at least may be, raised in abundance. Many physical roots and herbs, such as China-root, snake-root, sassafras, are the spontaneous growth of the woods; and sage, balm and rosemary thrive well in the gardens. The planters distil brandy of an inferior quality from peaches; and gather berries from the myrtle bushes of which they make excellent candles. The woods will also supply them with a variety of cherries, mulberries, wild grapes and nuts. In short, nature hath denied the diligent and skilful planter few of the most useful vegetables, and many delicious fruits grow to a degree of perfection exceeded by no country in Europe. Ar the same time it must be acknowledged, that some disadvantages attend the climate with respect to the vegetable kingdom. European grapes have been transplanted, and several attempts made to raise wine in Carolina; but so overshaded are the vines planted in the woods, and so foggy is the season of the year when they begin to ripen, that they seldom come to maturity. But as excellent grapes have been raised in gardens where they are exposed to the sun, we are apt to believe that proper methods have not been taken for encouraging that branch of agriculture, considering its great importance in a national view. Some tolerable wine has been made from the native vines, which do not ripen so early in the season as those transplanted from Europe; and perhaps in some future day, when the planters have acquired greater skill, and made trials of different soils and situations, the vineyard culture may succeed better than it has yet done, and turn to some national account, like other profitable articles of American husbandry. In some seasons the cold blast from the north-west proves very destructive to the orange, the olive and peach trees. In mild winters the trees blossom early, sometimes by the beginning of February, often before the middle of it. After the juices begin to rise, should the north west wind bring a cold frosty night, it commonly kills every tender shoot. Governor Glen makes mention of a frost which happened on the 7th of February, 1747, which killed almost all the orange trees in the country. The trees being ready to blossom about the time the frost came, it burst all their vessels, insomuch that not only the bark, but even the bodies of many of them were split, and all on the side next the sun. Such blasts are incredibly sharp and piercing. The Governor says he found several birds frozen to death near his house. We cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion, but we know no climate where the cold is more severely felt by the human body. [Sidenote] Its minerals undiscovered. With respect to the mineral kingdom we may say, who can tell what rich mines lie hid in Carolina, when no person has sought for them? If it be true that mountainous countries are favorable to mines, it may be presumed that this province, in which there are many extensive and high mountains, is not without its hidden treasures, no more than the other parts of the continent. Pennsylvania hath already exhibited to the world some useful minerals, and Carolina in time will probably do the same. But while the surface of the earth yields abundance of vegetable productions for the use of the inhabitants, and a plentiful livelihood can be obtained by easier means than that of digging into its bowels, it can scarcely be expected that they will apply themselves to deep and uncertain researches. It remains for a more populous and improved state, when ingenious men will probably attempt to explore those subterranean riches, which as yet lie neglected. Mineral water has been found in several parts, and such springs will help both to lead men to the important discovery, and animate them with the hopes of success. The province of Georgia, with respect to improvement, still remained little better than a wilderness, and the vast expence it had cost the mother country might perhaps have been laid out to greater advantage in other parts of the continent. In the government of that colony John Ellis, a Fellow of the Royal Society, succeeded Captain John Reynolds. The rich swamps on the sides of the rivers lay uncultivated; and the planters had not yet found their way into the interior parts of the country, where the lands not only exceeded those in the maritime parts in fertility, but where the climate was also more healthy and pleasant. Excepting vagabonds and fraudulent debtors, who fled to them from Carolina, few of the Georgians had any negroes to assist them in cultivation; so that, in 1756, the whole exports of the country were 2997 barrels of rice, 9335 lb. of indigo, 268 lib. of raw silk, which, together with skins, furs, lumber and provisions amounted only to 16,776 pounds sterling. Although the hostilities which had commenced between Great Britain and France still continued, yet both potentates remained averse from an open declaration of war. William Lyttleton, now Lord Westcot, being appointed governor of South Carolina, in his way through the Bay of Biscay, was intercepted by a French squadron under the command of Count de Guay, and carried into France; but an order from the French court came to release the ship, and permit the Governor to return to England. The British commanders at sea indeed had orders to seize all French ships and bring them into port, yet as some hopes of an accommodation still remained, the crews were only confined, and the cargoes remained entire. But so soon as the news of the bare-faced invasions of our dominions in the Mediterranean, joined with the many encroachments in America, had reached the British court, all prospects of an accommodation vanished at once, and war was publicly declared against France on the 17th of May, 1756. Before the end of that year William Pitt, who had long been distinguished in the House of Commons for a bold and powerful orator, was called to the helm, and to his uncommon popularity added the whole influence of administration. After his preferment such bold plans of operation were introduced to the council, as were calculated at once to rouze the British nation and to alarm her enemies. The city of London, having the greatest confidence in the spirit and abilities of the minister, poured in its treasures to his assistance, and so great were his resources, that his schemes, however vast, never failed for want of money. From this period vigour and decision attended almost every warlike enterprize; a martial spirit pervaded the navy and army, and every officer seemed emulous of distinction and glory in the service of his country. This new minister gave the enemy so much employment, that for the future they had scarce time to breathe, and extended the powerful arm of Britain from the centre to the extremities of the empire. In America John Earl of London had been appointed commander in chief; but such was the state of affairs on that continent, that all he could do was not sufficient to prevent the encroachments of the enemy. So disunited were the provincials, and so different were their principles, views and interests, that each colony seemed concerned only for its own defence, and determined to act independent of its neighbour; while the French were firmly united under one commander in chief, the Governor of Canada. Lord Loudon plainly saw that nothing remained for him to achieve, and therefore pitched his camp at Albany, and there determined to continue with his little army on the defensive, until a reinforcement should arrive from Britain. The French still wore the laurel, and triumphed in the forest, having every possible advantage their heart could desire from the divided state of British America. But although the campaign under Lord Loudon was opened under many disadvantages, this gallant officer was not idle during the year. Having made himself master of the state of affairs on the continent, he perceived that the French, though united and strong, were nevertheless vulnerable, and drew up a plan of operations for the ensuing campaign, which he transmitted to the minister in Britain. Immediately preparations were made for carrying it into execution. It had been proposed to raise some regiments in America, but the levies went on slowly. As many of the colonists fit for service were foreigners, and only understood their native language, it was thought proper to allow them foreign officers to command them upon their taking the oaths to government, which contributed not a little to the more speedy completion of the Royal American regiments. [Sidenote: The British forces augmented.] Early in the year following a considerable reinforcement from Britain arrived at New York. The Indians in alliance with us were furnished with arms, and encouraged to join the army. Among the British forces sent out there was a regiment of Highlanders, who were in many respects well qualified for the service. It is impossible to describe how much the savages were delighted with the dress, manners and music of this regiment. Their sprightly manner of dancing, their dexterity in the use of arms, and natural vivacity and intrepidity, the savages greatly admired, and expressed a strong inclination for attending the Scotch warriors to the field. To prevent them from joining the enemy it was not only necessity to employ those warriors, but it was thought they might be rendered useful for scouring the dark thickets before the regular army. Lieutenant Kennedy, to encourage them, entered into their humour, and, in order to head them, dressed and painted himself like an Indian. They gave him a squaw, and the nation to which she belonged having made him a king, no small service was expected from the new alliance. [Sidenote] Their first success in America. When General Abercrombie succeded Lord Loudon as commander in chief in America, the British force being considerably augmented, bolder enterprises were undertaken. It was agreed to attack the French settlements in different places. Though this commander met with a sharp repulse at Ticonderago, the French paid dear for this advantage by the loss of Cape Breton, which opened the way into Canada. Fort Frontenac next surrendered to Colonel Bradstreet, in which were found vast quantities of provision and ammunition, that had been designed for the French forces on the Ohio. The great loss sustained by the enemy at this place facilitated the reduction of Fort Duquesne, against which General Forbes was advancing with great vigilance and considerable force. This fortress the enemy, after a few skirmishes, determined to abandon; and having burnt their houses, and destroyed their works, fell down the Ohio river in boats to their strong-holds erected beyond the Cherokee mountains. No sooner was the British flag erected on Fort Duquesne, than the numerous tribes of Indians came in and made their submission; and, from a conviction of the superior valour and strength of the British army, joined the conquerors. Although the enemy lost few men at this place, yet their power in America received a heavy stroke by the division of their force which the loss of it occasioned. All communication between their settlements on the south parts and those of Canada being cut off, they could no longer act in concert, and their future exertions were rendered more feeble and ineffectual. [Sidenote] The cause of the Cherokee war. However, the flight of this French garrison to the south promised little good to Carolina. The scene of action was changed only from one place to another, and the baleful influence of those active and enterprising enemies soon appeared among the upper tribes of Cherokees. An unfortunate quarrel with the Virginians helped to forward their designs, by opening to them an easier access into the towns of the savages. In the different expeditions against Fort Duquesne, the Cherokees, agreeable to treaty, had sent considerable parties of warriors to the assistance of the British army. As the horses in those parts run wild in the woods, it was customary, both among Indians and white people on the frontiers, to lay hold on them and appropriate them to their own purposes. While the savages were returning home through the back parts of Virginia, many of them having lost their horses, laid hold of such as came in their way, never imagining that they belonged to any individual in the province. The Virginians however, instead of asserting their right in a legal way, resented the injury by force of arms, and killed twelve or fourteen of the unsuspicious warriors, and took several more prisoners. The Cherokees, with reason, were highly provoked at such ungrateful usage from allies, whose frontiers they had helped to change from a field of blood into peaceful habitations, and when they came home told what had happened to their nation. The flame soon spread through the upper towns, and those who had lost their friends and relations were implacable, and breathed nothing but fury and vengeance against such perfidious friends. In vain did the chieftains interpose their authority, nothing could restrain the furious spirits of the young men, who were determined to take satisfaction for the loss of their relations. The emissaries of France among them added fuel to the flame, by telling them that the English intended to kill every man of them, and make slaves of their wives and children. They instigated them to bloodshed, and for that purpose furnished them with arms and ammunition. The scattered families on the frontiers of Carolina lay much exposed to scalping parties of these savages, who commonly make no distinction of age or sex, but pour their vengeance indiscriminately on the innocent and guilty. The garrison of Fort Loudon, consisting of about two hundred men, under the command of Captains Demere and Stuart, first discovered the ill humour in which the Cherokee warriors returned from the northern expedition. The soldiers, as usual, making excursions into the woods, to hunt for fresh provisions, were attacked by them, and some of them were killed. From this time such dangers threatened the garrison, that every one was confined within the small boundaries of the fort. All communication with the distant settlement from which they received supplies being cut off, and the soldiers being but poorly provided, had no other prospects left but those of famine or death. Parties of young Indians took the field, and, rushing down among the settlements, murdered and scalped a number of people on the frontiers. [Sidenote] Governor Lyttleton prepares to march against them. The commanding officer at Fort Prince George having received intelligence of those acts of hostility, dispatched a messenger to Charlestown to inform Governor Lyttleton that the Cherokees were gone to war, and that it would be necessary speedily to warn the people of their danger. In consequence of which orders were given to the commanders of the militia immediately to collect their men, and stand in a posture of defence, while the Governor was making preparations in Charlestown for marching against them, in order to give a speedy check to their progress. Parties of the independent companies were brought to Charlestown for this purpoise. The militia of the country had orders to rendezvous at Congarees, where the Governor, with such a force as he could procure from the lower parts, resolved to join them, and march to the relief of the frontier settlements. [Sidenote] The Cherokees sue for peace. No sooner had the Cherokees heard of these warlike preparations at Charlestown, than thirty-two of their chiefs set out for that place; in order to settle all differences, and prevent if possible a war with the Carolineans. For although they could not restrain some of their young men from acts of violence, yet the nation in general was still inclined to friendship and peace. As they arrived at Charlestown before the Governor had set out on the intended expedition, a council was called, and the chiefs being sent for, Mr. Lyttleton, among other things, told them, "That he was well acquainted with all the acts of hostility of which their people had been guilty, and likewise those they intended against the English, and enumerated some of them; then he added, That he would soon be in their country, where he would let them know his demands, and the satisfaction he required, which he would certainly take if they refused it. As they had come to Charlestown to treat with him as friends, they should go home in safety, and not a hair of their head should be touched; but as he had many warriors in arms in different parts of the province, he could not be answerable for what might happen to them unless they marched along with his army." After this speech Occonostota, who was distinguished by the name of the Great Warrior of the Cherokee nation, began to speak by way of reply; but the Governor being determined that nothing should prevent his military expedition, declared, he would hear no talk he had to make, neither in vindication of his nation, nor any proposals with regard to peace. Lieutenant-Governor Bull, who was better acquainted with the manners of Indians, and the dangers to which the province would be exposed from a war with them, urged the necessity of hearing the Great Warrior, and the happy consequences of an agreement before more blood was spilt. But Mr. Lyttleton remained inflexible, and put an end to the conference; with which behaviour the chiefs, however, were not a little displeased. For as they had travelled so far to obtain peace, and, after all, to be not only denied liberty to speak, but also to be disappointed with respect to the chief end of their journey, chagrined them much, and created many uneasy fears and suspicions. [Sidenote] Governor Lyttleton marches against the Cherokees. A few days after holding this conference with the chieftains the governor set out for Congarees, the place of general rendezvous for the militia, and about one hundred and forty miles distant from Charlestown, where he mustered in all about one thousand four hundred men. To this place the Cherokees marched along with the army, and were to appearance contented, but in reality burning with fury and resentment. When the army moved from the Congarees, the chieftains, very unexpectedly, were all made prisoners, and, to prevent their escape to the nation, a captain's guard was mounted over them, and in this manner they were obliged to march to Fort Prince George. Being not only deprived of their liberty, which an Indian values above all things, but also compelled to accompany an enemy going against their families and friends, they could now no longer conceal their resentment. They turned exceedingly sullen, and shewed that they were stung to the heart by such base treatment. The breach of promise an Indian holds an atrocious crime. To requite good intended with real evil, they with reason deemed an unpardonable injury. But what compleated the ill usage, the thirty-two Indians, upon the arrival of the army at Fort Prince George, were all shut up in a hut scarcely sufficient for the accommodation of six soldiers, where they spent their time in concerting plots for obtaining their liberty, and satisfaction for the injuries done them. [Sidenote] Holds a congress a Fort Prince George. Governor Lyttleton's little army being not only ill armed and disciplined, but also discontented and mutinous, he therefore judged it dangerous to proceed farther into the enemy's country. Having beforehand sent for Attakullakulla, who was esteemed both the wisest man of the nation and the most steady friend of the English, to meet him at Fort Prince George, this warrior hastened to his camp from an excursion against the French, in which he had taken some prisoners, one of whom he presented to the Governor. Mr Lyttleton knew, that, for obtaining a re-establishment of peace, there was not a man in the whole nation better disposed to assist him than this old warrior, though it was observed that he cautiously avoided making any offer of satisfaction. But so small was his influence among the Cherokees at this time, that they considered him as no better than an old woman on account of his attachment to their English enemies, and his aversion from going to war against them. [Sidenote] His speech to Attakullakulla. About the 18th of December, 1759, the Governor held a congress with this warrior, and by an interpreter spoke to him to the following effect: "You told me yesterday that you had a good talk to make, and expected the same from me. You know it is the will of the great King that his subjects and your people should live together in friendship, and you have said you desire not to break the chain thereof. It is a chain which our most gracious sovereign holds at one end, and you hold at the other. You know that, in order to keep this chain from contracting rust, and hinder it from being broken, it was necessary certain conditions should be made; and as all acts of the great king are kept till time shall be no more, so I now have in my hand those very conditions made with you and your people. It was agreed, that if an Indian should kill an Englishman, he shall be delivered up to be punished as the law requires. This was the ancient talk of our fathers and your fathers, and when King George took your nation under his protection he so ordered it for the future. This treaty has been since renewed by several of our King's governors of this province from time to time. It was the mercy of the great King that this way of restitution should be established, to prevent a war which might destroy your nation; whereas, at any time, by delivering up of the guilty person, the innocent might escape, and your people be suffered to live in friendship with ours. "In the month of November, 1758, six deputies from your nation came to Charlestown, to make up all differences between our people and yours. They did then engage to observe the words of the treaty I have here, and which you know are the same with those formerly made by the great King. They received a large quantity of goods as a full compensation for the injuries done them by white people, and did solemnly promise to continue in strict friendship with all the King's subjects. Notwithstanding which they went to Statiquo under Moytoy and killed many white men, though no provocation had been given them. Thereupon I demanded satisfaction, according to the words of the great King, but they have given me none. As King Gorge loves mercy better than war, I was willing to wait; and while our people lay quietly in their houses, the Indians came, killed and scalped them. Last of all they put to death three men in the Upper nation, and drove our people, who lived in their towns to furnish them with goods, into the forts. As you know that your people have been guilty of all these crimes, and many more, I expected you would not only come down with a good talk, but also would have offered satisfaction for them. I am now come here with a great number of warriors, to take that satisfaction I have more than once demanded. Perhaps some of you thought, that, as our people put up with such injuries, they were apprehensive of your power; but you shall now see that this was owing to their patience, and not to their want of resolution. You know well the strength of our province, and that one third part of it is sufficient to destroy your nation. Besides, the white people in all the provinces are brothers, and linked together: we come not alone against you because we have suffered, for the Virginians and North Carolineans are prepared to march against you, unless satisfaction be given me. My brother the Governor of Georgia will also prevent any ammunition from coming to you. Some time ago you sent to Virginia, offering to trade with that province, and goods were on their way to you which I have stopt and they shall not proceed hither until I send directions for them. It is not necessary for me to say more to you, until you make satisfaction for killing the white people. "Attakullakulla, you have been in England, and seen the power of the great King, and the number of his warriors. You also know, that, during these five years and more, we have been at war with the French, who were once numerous over all parts of America. You know I disdain to tell you a falsehood, and I will now inform you what success our army has had. Some of the last ships that arrived at Charlestown brought me a good deal of news. Our fleet has taken many ships of war belonging to the French. A messenger has arrived with an account that the great city of Quebec is reduced, as also, that the warriors of the great king have taken all the forts on the lakes and upon the Ohio, and beat down all things in their way, as a hurricane would have done in its passage. The Indians in those parts, fearing his power, have made their peace with the great King. The Delawares, Shawanese, and all of them that live near Fort Duquesne, have desired to be in friendship with us. The Choctaws also beg to be received under the King's protection by his beloved man Mr. Aitken, upon which a great number of traders are gone into their country with all sorts of goods. If you will not believe what I say, and imagine that the French are able to supply you with the necessaries which you want, you will be deceived, for they themselves are starving, and so much undone that they cannot furnish a blanket or a gun to the Choctaws, much less to you, who are removed at so great a distance from them. "These things I have mentioned to show you that the great King will not suffer his people to be destroyed without satisfaction, and to let you know the people of this province are determined to have it. What I say is with a merciful intention. If I make war with you, you will suffer for your rashness; your men will be destroyed, and your women and children carried into captivity. What few necessaries you now have will soon be done, and you will get no more. But if you give the satisfaction I shall ask, the trade will be again opened with you, and all things go right. I have twice given you a list of the murderers; I will now tell you there are twenty-four men of your nation whom I demand to be delivered up to me, to be put to death, or otherwise disposed of as I shall think fit. Your people have killed that number of ours and more, therefore it is the least I will accept of. I shall give you till to-morrow morning to consider of it, and then I shall expect your answer. You know best the Indians concerned; several gangs at different times have been out, and I expect the twenty-four you shall deliver up will be those who have committed the murders." [Sidenote] Attakullakulla's answer. To this long speech Attakullakulla replied in words to the following effect: "That he remembered the treaties mentioned, as he had a share in making them: He owned the kindness of the province of South Carolina, but complained much of the bad treatment his countrymen had received in Virginia, which, he said, was the immediate cause of our present misunderstanding: That he had always been the firm friend of the English, of which he hoped his late fatiguing march against their enemies the French was a sufficient proof: That he would ever continue such, and would use all the influence he had to persuade his countrymen to give the Governor the satisfaction he demanded, though he believed it neither would nor could be complied with, as they had no coercive authority one over another: He desired the Governor to release some of the head men then confined in the fort to assist him; and added, that he was pleased to hear of the successes of his brothers the English, but could not help mentioning, that they shewed more resentment against the Cherokees than they had used to other nations that had disobliged them; that he remembered some years ago several white people belonging to Carolina were killed by the Choctaws, for whom no satisfaction had either been given or demanded." [Sidenote] A treaty concluded with six chiefs. Agreeable to the request of Attakullakulla, the Governor released Occonostota, Fiftoe the chief man of Keowee town, and the head warrior of Estaloe, who next day delivered up two Indians, whom Mr. Lyttleton ordered to be put in irons. After which all the Cherokees present, who knew their connections to be weak, being alarmed, fled out of the way, so that it was impossible to complete the number demanded. Attakullakulla, being then convinced that peace could not be obtained on such terms as the Governor required, resolved to go home and patiently wait the event; but no sooner was Mr. Lyttleton made acquainted with his departure, than he dispatched a messenger after him to bring him back to his camp; and being desirous of finishing the campaign with as much credit as possible, immediately on his return began to treat of peace. Accordingly a treaty was drawn up and signed by the Governor and six of the head men; in which it was agreed, that those twenty-two chieftains of the Cherokees should be kept as hostages confined in the fort, until the same number of Indians guilty of murder be delivered up to the commander in chief of the province; that trade should be opened and carried on as usual; that the Cherokees should kill, or take every Frenchman prisoner, who should presume to come into their nation during the continuance of the war; and that they should hold no intercourse with the enemies of Great Britain, but should apprehend every person, white or red, found among them, that may be endeavouring to set the English and Cherokees at variance, and interrupt the friendship and peace established between them. After having concluded this treaty with the Cherokees, the Governor resolved to return to Charlestown. But whether the Indians who put their mark to it understood the articles of agreement or not, we cannot pretend to affirm; one thing is certain, that few or none of the nation afterward paid the smallest regard to it. The treacherous act of confining their chiefs, against whom no charge could be brought, and who had travelled several hundred miles in order to obtain peace for their nation, had made a strong impression on their minds, but particularly on that of Occonostota, who breathed nothing but fury and vengeance against such false friends. Instead of permitting them to return home without hurting a hair of their head, as the Governor promised in Charlestown, they were close confined in a miserable hut, having permission neither to see their friends nor even the light of day. It was said they were kept only as hostages, until the number of criminals he demanded was completed by their nation; but if they were robbed of their liberty, it was of little consequence to them under what denomination they were confined. It was said to be done by the consent of the nation, as six of its chiefs had signed the articles of peace; but in whatever light we view the act, it appears to be one of those base and unjustifiable advantages which policy and craft commonly take of the weakness and simplicity of more unfortunate neighbours; and nothing less could have been expected, than that these wild and independent warriors would resent such base and unmerited usage on the first opportunity that offered. [Sidenote] The Governor returns to Charlestown. Scarcely had Governor Lyttleton concluded the treaty of Fort Prince George when the small-pox, which was raging in an adjacent Indian town, broke out in his camp. As few of his little army had ever gone through that distemper, and as the surgeons were totally unprovided for such an accident, his men were struck with terror, and in great haste returned to the settlements, cautiously avoiding all intercourse one with another, and suffering much from hunger and fatigue by the way. The Governor followed them, and arrived in Charlestown about the beginning of the year 1760. Though not a drop of blood had been spilt during the expedition, he was received like a conqueror, with the greatest demonstrations of joy. Addresses the most flattering were presented to him by the different societies and professions, and bonefires and illuminations testified the high sense the inhabitants entertained of his merit and services, and the happy consequences which they believed would result from his expedition. [Sidenote] The treaty of peace broken However, those rejoicings on account of the peace were scarcely over, when the news arrived that fresh hostilities hod been committed, and the Governor was informed that the Cherokees had killed fourteen men within a mile of Fort Prince George. The Indians had contracted an invincible antipathy to Captain Coytmore, the officer whom Mr. Lyttleton had left commander of that fort. The treatment they had received at Charlestown, but especially the imprisonment of their chiefs, had now converted their former desire of peace into the bitterest rage for war. Occonostota, a chieftain of great influence, had become a most implacable and vindictive enemy to Carolina, and determined to repay treachery with treachery. Having gathered a strong party of Cherokees, he surrounded Fort Prince George, and compelled the garrison to keep within their works; but finding that he could make no impression on the fort, nor oblige the commander to surrender, he contrived the following stratagem for the relief of his countrymen confined in it. [Sidenote] Occonostota's stratagem for killing the officer of the fort. As that country was every where covered with woods, he placed a party of savages in a dark thicket by the river side, and then sent an Indian woman, whom he knew to be always welcome at the fort, to inform the commander that he had something of consequence to communicate to him, and would be glad to speak with him at the river side. Captain Coytmore imprudently consented, and without any suspicions of danger walked down towards the river, accompanied by Lieutenants Bell and Foster. Occonostota appearing on the opposite side, told him he was going to Charlestown to procure a release of the prisoners, and would he glad of a white man to accompany him as a safeguard; and, the better to cover his dark design, had a bridle in his hand, and added, he would go and hunt for a horse to him. The captain replied, that he should have a guard, and wished he might find a horse, as the journey was very long. Upon which the Indian, turning quickly about, swung the bridle thrice round his head, as a signal to the savages placed in ambush, who instantly fired on the officers, shot the captain dead on the spot, and wounded the other two. In consequence of which orders were given to put the hostages in irons, to prevent any farther danger from them. But while the soldiers were attempting to execute their orders, the Indians stabbed the first man who had hold of them with a knife, and wounded two more; upon which the garrison, exasperated to the highest degree, fell on the unfortunate hostages, and butchered them in a manner too shocking to relate. [Sidenote] The war becomes general. There were few men in the Cherokee nation that did not lose a friend or a relation by this massacre, and therefore with one voice all immediately declared for war. The leaders in every town seized the hatchet, telling their followers that the spirits of murdered brothers were flying around them, and calling out for vengeance on their enemies. From the different towns large parties of warriors took the field, painted in the most formidable manner, and arrayed with all their instruments of death. All sang the song of war, and burning with impatience to imbrue their hands in the blood of their enemies, rushed down among innocent and defenceless families on the frontiers of Carolina, where men, women and children, without distinction, fell a sacrifice to their merciless fury. Such as fled to the woods, and escaped the scalping-knife, perished with hunger; and those whom they made prisoners were carried into the wilderness, where they suffered inexpressible hardships. Every day brought fresh accounts to the capital of their ravages, murders and desolations. But while the back settlers impatiently looked to their Governor for relief, the small-pox raged to such a degree in town, that few of the militia could be prevailed on to leave their distressed families to serve the public. In this extremity an express was sent to General Amherst, the commander in chief in America, acquainting him with the deplorable situation of the province, and imploring his assistance in the most pressing terms. Accordingly a battalion of Highlanders, and four companies of the Royal Scots, under the command of Colonel Montgomery, now Earl of Eglinton, were ordered immediately to embark, and sail for the relief of Carolina. In the mean time William Lyttleton being appointed Governor of Jamaica, the charge of the province devolved on William Bull, a man of great integrity and erudition. Application was made to the neighbouring provinces of North Carolina and Virginia for relief, and seven troops of rangers were raised to patrole the frontiers, and prevent the savages from penetrating farther down among the settlements. A considerable sum was voted for presents to such of the Creeks, Chickesaws and Catabaws as should join the province and go to war against the Cherokees. Provisions were sent to the families that had escaped to Augusta and Fort Moore, and the best preparations possible made for chastising their enemy, so soon as the regulars coming from New York should arrive in the province. [Sidenote] Colonel Montgomery arrives. Before the end of April, 1760, Colonel Montgomery landed in Carolina, and encamped at Monk's Corner. Great was the joy of the province upon the arrival of this gallant officer; but as the conquest of Canada was the grand object of this year's campaign in America, he had orders to strike a sudden blow for the relief of Carolina, and return to head quarters at Albany without loss of time. Nothing was therefore omitted that was judged necessary to forward the expedition. Several gentlemen of fortune, excited by a laudable zeal for the safety of their country, formed themselves into a company of volunteers, and joined the army. The whole force of the province was collected, and ordered to rendezvous at Congarees. Waggons, carts and horses were impressed for the service of his Majesty, and the colonists flattered themselves with the hopes that they would now be able to punish the insolence of their barbarous enemies. [Sidenote] And marches against the Cherokees. A few weeks after his arrival Colonel Montgomery marched to the Congarees, where he was joined by the internal strength of the province, and immediately set out for the Cherokee country. For a guide he was provided with an half-blooded Indian, who was well acquainted with the roads though the woods, and the passages through the rivers. Having little time allowed him, his march was uncommonly spirited and expeditious. After reaching a place called Twelve-mile River, he encamped on an advantageous ground, and marched with a party of his men in the night to surprize Estatoe, an Indian town about twenty miles from his camp. The first noise he heard by the way was the barking of a dog before his men, where he was informed there was an Indian town called Little Keowee, which he ordered the light infantry to surround, and, except women and children, to put every Indian in it to the sword. Having done this piece of service, he proceeded to Estatoe, which he found abandoned by all the savages, excepting a few who had not had time to make their escape. This town, which consisted of at least two hundred houses, and was well provided with corn, hogs, poultry, and ammunition, he reduced to ashes. Sugar Town, and every other settlement in the lower nation, afterwards shared the same fate. The surprize to every one of them was nearly equal; for as the army darted upon them like lightning, the savages could scarcely save themselves, far less any little property that they had. In these lower towns about sixty Indians were killed and forty made prisoners, and the rest driven to seek for shelter among the mountains. Having finished his business among these lower settlements with the small loss of three or four men, he then marched to the relief of Fort Prince George, which had been for some time invested by savages, insomuch that no soldier durst venture beyond the bounds of the fort, and where the garrison was in distress, not for the want of provisions, but of wood to prepare them. [Sidenote] Chastises them near Etchoe. While the army rested at Fort Prince George, Edmund Atkin, agent for Indian affairs, dispatched two Indian chiefs to the middle settlements, to inform the Cherokees that by suing for peace they might obtain it, as the former friends and allies of Britain. At the same time he sent a messenger to Fort Loudon, requesting Captains Demere and Stuart, the commanding officers at that place, to use their best endeavours for obtaining peace with the Cherokees in the upper towns. Colonel Montgomery finding that the savages were as yet disposed to listen to no terms of accommodation, determined to carry the chastisement a little farther. Dismal was the wilderness into which he entered, and many were the hardships and dangers he had to encounter, from dark thickets, rugged paths, and narrow passes; in which a small body of men, properly posted, might harass and tire out the bravest army that ever took the field. Having on all hands suspicious grounds, he found occasion for constant vigilance and circumspection. While he was piercing through the thick forest he had numberless difficulties to surmount, particularly from rivers fordable only at one place, and overlooked by high banks on each side, where an enemy might attack him with advantage, and retreat with safety. When he had advanced within five miles of Etchoe, the nearest town in the middle settlements, he found there a low valley, covered so thick with bushes that the soldiers could scarcely see three yards before them, and in the middle of which there was a muddy river, with steep clay banks. Through this dark place, where it was impossible for any number of men to act together, the army must necessarily march; and therefore Captain Morison, who commanded a company of rangers, well acquainted with the woods, had orders to advance and scour the thicket. He had scarcely entered it, when a number of savages sprung from their lurking den, and firing on them, killed the captain and wounded several of his party. Upon which the light infantry and grenadiers were ordered to advance and charge the invisible enemy, which they did with great courage and alacrity. A heavy fire then began on both sides, and during some time the soldiers could only discover the places where the savages were hid by the report of their guns. Colonel Montgomery finding that the number of Indians that guarded this place was great, and that they were determined obstinately to dispute it, ordered the Royal Scots, who were in the rear, to advance between the savages and a rising ground on the right, while the Highlanders marched towards the left to sustain the light infantry and grenadiers. The woods now resounded with horrible shouts and yells, but these, instead of intimidating the troops, seemed rather to inspire them with double firmness and resolution. At length the savages gave way, and in their retreat falling in with the Royal Scots, suffered considerably before they got out of their reach. By this time the Royals being in the front and the Highlanders in the rear, the enemy stretched away and took possession of a hill, seemingly disposed to keep at a distance, and always retreating as the army advanced. Colonel Montgomery perceiving that they kept aloof, gave orders to the line to face about, and march directly for the town of Etchoe. The enemy no sooner observed this movement, than they got behind the hill, and ran to alarm their wives and children. During the action, which lasted above an hour, Colonel Montgomery, who made several narrow escapes, had twenty men killed, and seventy-six wounded. What number the enemy lost is uncertain, but some places were discovered into which they had thrown several of their slain, from which it was conjectured that they must have lost a great number, as it is a custom among them to carry their dead off the field. Upon viewing the ground, all were astonished to see with what judgment and skill they had chosen it. Scarcely could the most experienced officer have fixed upon a spot more advantageous for way-laying and attacking an enemy, according to the method of fighting practised among the Indian nations. [Sidenote] And returns to Fort Prince George. This action, though it terminated much in favour of the British army, had nevertheless reduced it to such a situation as made it very imprudent, if not altogether impracticable, to penetrate farther into those woods. The repulse was far from being decisive, for the enemy had only retired from one to another advantageous situation, in order to renew their attack when the army should again advance. Humanity would not suffer the commander to leave so many wounded men exposed to the vengeance of savages, without any strong-hold in which he might lodge them, or some detachment, which he could not spare, to protect them. Should he proceed farther, he saw plainly that he must expect frequent skirmishes, which would increase the number, and the burning of so many Indian towns would be a poor compensation for the great risque and perhaps wanton sacrifice of so many valuable lives. To furnish horses for the men already wounded obliged him to throw so many bags of flour into the river, and what remained was no more than sufficient for his army during their return to Fort Prince George. Orders were therefore given for a retreat, which was made with great regularity, although the enemy continued hovering around them, and annoying them to the utmost of their power. A large train of wounded men was brought above sixty miles through a hazardous country in safety, for which no small share of honour and praise was due to the officer that conducted the retreat. Never did men endure greater hardships and fatigues with fewer complaints than this little army during the expedition. Such confidence did they repose in their leader, that they seemed to despise all difficulties and dangers which he shared along with them in the service of their King and country. [Sidenote] The consternation of the inhabitants from Indians. After Colonel Montgomery had returned to the settlements, and was preparing to embark for New York, agreeable to his orders from General Amherst, the Carolineans were again thrown under the most dreadful apprehensions from the dangers which hung over the province. This appears from the following address of the General Assembly, presented to Lieutenant-Governor Bull on the 11th of July, 1760. "We, his Majesty's most dutiful and loyal subjects, the Commons House of Assembly of this province, return your Honour our sincere thanks for the advices you have been pleased to communicate to us in the morning; and being deeply affected with the contents of Colonel Grant's letter, which imports, that Colonel Montgomery will soon embark with his Majesty's troops under his command to join General Amherst; humbly beg leave to represent to your Honour, that we apprehend the province to be in a much more dangerous situation at this juncture, than it was at the time when the said troops arrived here; as the Upper Creek Indians have since murdered several English traders in their towns, and made no offer to give up the murderers, or make any other satisfaction whatever; whence we have the greatest reason to believe they will soon break out into open war. And by what is mentioned in Colonel Grant's letter, we fear that our implacable enemies the French have already spirited up and prevailed with the Choctaws to assist the Cherokees against us. And notwithstanding the present rupture with the Cherokees has cost the province, in less than nine months, near 50,000 pounds sterling, yet all our endeavours to raise a number of forces capable of preventing the Cherokees from ravaging the back settlements have proved ineffectual. This being the situation of the province when we had only the Cherokees to contend with, how deplorable then must our case be, should Colonel Montgomery depart with the King's troops under his command, and we have the united attacks of the Cherokees, Creeks and Choctaws, (the three most powerful nations of Indians on the continent), to repel, can be better imagined than described. Being truely sensible of your Honour's good inclinations to render every service in your power to this province, we unanimously intreat your Honour to use the most pressing instances with Colonel Montgomery not to depart with the King's troops, as it may be attended with the most pernicious consequences." Accordingly the Lieutenant-Governor having given the Colonel the fullest view of those extensive dangers to which the province after his departure would be exposed, prevailed with him to leave four companies of the royal regiment, under the command of Major Frederick Hamilton, for covering the frontiers, while he embarked with the battalion of Highlanders, and sailed for New York. [Sidenote] Great distress of the garrison at Fort Loudon. [Sidenote] The terms obtained for the garrison. In the mean time the distant garrison of Fort Loudon, consisting of two hundred men, was reduced to the dreadful alternative of perishing by hunger or submitting to the mercy of the enraged Cherokees. The Governor having information that the Virginians had undertaken to relieve it, for a while seemed satisfied, and anxiously waited to hear the news of that happy event. But the Virginians were equally ill qualified with their neighbours of Carolina to send them any assistance. So remote was the fort from every settlement, and so difficult was it to march an army through the barren wilderness, where the various thickets were lined with enemies, and to carry at the same time sufficient supplies along with them, that the Virginians had dropped all thoughts of the attempt. Provisions being entirely exhausted at Fort Loudon, the garrison was reduced to the most deplorable situation. For a whole month they had no other subsistence but the flesh of lean horses and dogs, and a small supply of Indian beans, which some friendly Cherokee women procured for them by stealth. Long had the officers endeavoured to animate and encourage the men with the hopes of relief; but now being blockaded night and day by the enemy, and having no resource left, they threatened to leave the fort, and die at once by the hands of savages, rather than perish slowly by famine. In this extremity the commander was obliged to call a council of war, to consider what was proper to be done; when the officers were all of opinion that it was impossible to hold out any longer, and therefore agreed to surrender the fort to the Cherokees on the best terms that could be obtained from them. For this purpose Captain Stuart, an officer of great sagacity and address, and much beloved by all the Indians that remained in the British interest, procured leave to go to Chote, one of the principal towns in the neighbourhood, where he obtained the following terms of capitulation, which were signed by the commanding officer and two of the Cherokee chiefs. "That the garrison of Fort Loudon march out with their arms and drums, each soldier having as much powder and ball as their officer shall think necessary for their march, and all the baggage they may chuse to carry: That the garrison be permitted to march to Virginia, or Fort Prince George, as the commanding officer shall think proper, unmolested; and that a number of Indians be appointed to escort them, and hunt for provisions during their march: That such soldiers as are lame, or by sickness disabled from marching, be received into the Indian towns, and kindly used until they recover, and then be allowed to return to Fort Prince George: That the Indians do provide for the garrison as many horses as they conveniently can for their march, agreeing with the officers and soldiers for payment: That the fort great guns, powder, ball, and spare arms, be delivered to the Indians without fraud or further delay, on the day appointed for the march of the troops." [Sidenote] Treacherously broken by the savages. Agreeable to those terms stipulated, the garrison delivered up the fort, and marched out with their arms, accompanied by Occonostota, Judd's friend, the prince of Chote, and several other Indians, and that day went fifteen miles on their way to Fort Prince George. At night they encamped on a plain about two miles from Taliquo, an Indian town, when all their attendants, upon one pretence or another, left them; which the officers considered as no good sign, and therefore placed a strict guard round their camp. During the night they remained unmolested, but next morning about break of day a soldier from an out-post came running in, and informed them that he saw a vast number of Indians, armed, and painted in the most dreadful manner, creeping among the bushes, and advancing in order to surround them. Scarcely had the officer time to order his men to stand to their arms, when the savages poured in upon them a heavy fire from different quarters, accompanied with the most hideous yells, which struck a panic into the soldiers, who were so much enfeebled and dispirited that they were incapable of making any effectual resistance. Captain Demere, with three other officers, and about twenty-five private men, fell at the first onset. Some fled into the woods, and were afterwards taken prisoners and confined among the towns in the valley. Captain Stuart, and those that remained, were seized, pinioned, and brought back to Fort Loudon. No sooner had Attakullakulla heard that his friend Mr. Stuart had escaped, than he hastened to the fort, and purchased him from the Indian that took him, giving him his rifle, clothes, and all he could command, by way of ransom. He then took possession of Captain Demere's house, where he kept his prisoner as one of his family, and freely shared with him the little provisions his table afforded, until a fair opportunity should offer for rescuing him from their hands; but the poor soldiers were kept in a miserable state of captivity for some time, and then redeemed by the province at a great expence. [Sidenote] A proposal for attacking Fort Prince George. During the time these prisoners were confined at Fort Loudon, Occonostota formed a design of attacking Fort Prince George, and for this purpose dispatched a messenger to the settlements in the valley, requesting all the warriors there to join him at Stickoey old town. By accident a discovery was made of ten bags of powder, and ball in proportion, which the officers had secretly buried in the fort, to prevent their falling into the enemy's hands. This discovery had nearly proved fatal to Captain Stuart, and would certainly have cost him his life, had not the interpreter had so much presence of mind as to assure the enemy that these warlike stores had been concealed without his knowledge or consent. The Indians having now abundance of ammunition for the siege, a council was called at Chote, to which the captain was brought, and put in mind of the obligations he lay under to them for sparing his life; and as they had resolved to carry six cannon and two cohorns with them against Fort Prince George, to be managed by men under his command, they told him he must go and write such letters to the commandant as they should dictate to him. They informed him at the same time, that if that officer should refuse to surrender, they were determined to burn the prisoners one after another before his face, and try if he could be so obstinate as to hold out while he saw his friends expiring in the flames. Captain Stuart was much alarmed at his situation, and from that moment resolved to make his escape or perish in the attempt. His design he privately communicated to Attakullakulla, and told him how uneasy he was at the thoughts of being compelled to bear arms against his countrymen. He acknowledged that he had always been a brother, and hoped he would assist him to get out of his present perilous circumstances. The old warrior, taking him by the hand, told him he was his friend, he had already given one proof of his regard, and intended to give another so soon as his brother should return and help him to concert the measure. He said he was well apprized of the ill designs of his countrymen, and should he go and persuade the garrison of Fort Prince George to do as he had done, what could he expect but that they should share the same dismal fate. Strong and uncultivated minds carry their friendship, as well as their enmity, to an astonishing pitch. Among savages family friendship is a national virtue, and civilized mortals may blush when they consider how much barbarians have often surpassed them in the practice of it. The instance I am going to relate is as singular and memorable as many that have been recorded in the annals of past ages. [Sidenote] Captain Stuart escapes to Virginia. Attakullakulla claimed Captain Stuart as his prisoner, and had resolved to deliver him from danger and for this purpose there was no time to be lost. Accordingly he gave out among his countrymen that he intended to go a-hunting for a few days, and carry his prisoner along with him to eat venison, of which he declared he was exceedingly fond. At the same time the Captain went through among his soldiers, telling them that they could never expect to be ransomed by the province, if they gave the smallest assistance to the Indians against Fort Prince George. Having settled all matters, they set out on their journey, accompanied by the warrior's wife, his brother, and two soldiers, who were the only persons in the garrison that knew how to convey great guns through the woods. For provisions they depended on what they might kill by the way. The distance to the frontier settlements was great, and the utmost expedition necessary to prevent any surprize from Indians pursuing them. Nine days and nights did they travel through a dreary wilderness, shaping their course by the light of the sun and moon for Virginia, and traversing many hills, valleys and paths that had never been crossed before but by savages and wild beasts. On the tenth they arrived at the banks of Holston's river, where they fortunately fell in with a party of three hundred men, sent out by Colonel Bird for the relief of such soldiers as might make their escape that way from Fort Loudon. On the fourteenth day the Captain reached Colonel Bird's camp on the frontiers of Virginia, where having loaded his faithful friend with presents and provisions, he sent him back to protect the unhappy prisoners till they should be ransomed, and to exert his influence among the Cherokees for the restoration of peace. No sooner had Captain Stuart made his escape from the hands of the savages, than he immediately began to concert ways and means for the relief of his garrison. An express was dispatched to Lieutenant-Governor Bull, informing him of the sad disaster that had happened to the garrison of Fort Loudon, and of the designs of the enemy against Fort Prince George. In consequence of which orders were given to Major Thomson, who commanded the militia on the frontiers, to throw in provisions for ten weeks into that fort, and warn the commanding officer of his danger. At the same time a messenger was sent to Attakullakulla desiring him to inform the Cherokees that Fort George was impregnable, having vast quantities of powder buried under ground every where around it, to blow up all enemies that should attempt to come near it. Presents of considerable value were sent to redeem the prisoners at Fort Loudon, a few of whom had by this time made their escape; and afterwards not only those that were confined among the towns in the valley, but also all that had survived the hardships of hunger, disease and captivity in the upper towns were released, and delivered up to the commanding officer at Fort Prince George. [Sidenote] The war continues. It might now have been expected that the vindictive spirit of the savages would be satisfied, and that they would he disposed to listen to some terms of accommodation. This treacherous conduct to the soldiers at Fort Loudon, they intended as a satisfaction for the harsh treatment their relations had met with at Fort Prince George; and dearly had the province paid for the base imprisonment and horrid massacre of the chiefs at that place. Still, however, a great majority of the nation spurned at every offer of peace. The lower towns had all been destroyed by Colonel Montgomery; the warriors in the middle settlements had lost many friends and relations; and several Frenchmen had crept in among the uppertowns, and helped to foment their ill humour against Carolina. Lewis Latinac, a French officer, was among them, and proved an indefatigable instigator to mischief. He persuaded the Indians that the English had nothing less in view than to exterminate them from the face of the earth; and, furnishing them with arms and ammunition, urged them on to war. At a great meeting of the nation he pulled out his hatchet, and, striking it into a log of wood, called out, Who is the man that will take this up for the King of France? Saloue, the young warrior of Estatoe, instantly laid hold of it, and cried out, "I am for war. The spirits of our brothers who have been slain still call upon us to avenge their death. He is no better than a woman that refuses to follow me." Many others seized the tomahawk, yet dyed in British blood, and burnt with impatience for the field. [Sidenote] The Highlanders return to Carolina. Under the flattering appearance of a calm were those clouds again gathering; however, Lieutenant-Governor Bull, who knew well how little Indians were to be trusted on any occasion, kept the Royal Scots and militia on the frontiers in a posture of defence. But finding the province still under the most dreadful apprehensions from their savage neighbours, who continued insolent and vindictive, and ready to renew their ravages and murders, he made application a second time to General Amherst for assistance. Canada being now reduced; the commander in chief could the more easily spare a force adequate to the purpose intended. The brave Colonel Montgomery, who conducted the former expedition, having by this time embarked for England, the command of the Highlanders devolved on Lieutenant-Colonel James Grant, who received orders to return to the relief of Carolina. Early in the year 1761 he landed at Charlestown, where he took up his winter quarters, until the proper season should approach for taking the field. Unfortunately during this time many of the soldiers, by drinking brackish water, were taken sick, which afforded the inhabitants an opportunity of showing their kindness and humanity. They considered themselves, and with reason, under the strongest obligations to treat men with tenderness, who came to protect them against their enemies, and therefore they brought the sick soldiers into their houses, and nursed them with the greatest care and attention. In this campaign the province determined to exert itself to the utmost, that, in conjunction with the regular forces, a severe correction might be given to those troublesome savages. For this purpose a provincial regiment was raised, and the command of it given to Colonel Middleton. Presents were provided for the Indian allies, and several of the Chickesaws and Catabaws engaged to assist them against the Cherokees. But the Creeks, whose help was also strongly solicited, played an artful game between the English and the French, and gave the one or the other encouragement, according to the advantages they reaped from them. All possible preparations were made for supplying the army with provisions at different stages, and with such carts and horses as were thought necessary to the expedition. Great had been the expence which this quarrel with the Cherokees had already occasioned; now they flattered themselves that by one resolute exertion more they would tire the savages of war, and oblige them to accept of such terms of peace as they thought proper to dictate. As all white men in the province, of the military age, were soldiers as well as citizens, and trained in some measure to the use of arms, it was no difficult matter to complete the provincial regiment. Their names being registered in the list of militia; on every emergency they were obliged to be ready for defence, not only against the incursions of Indians, but also against the insurrection of negroes; and although the same prompt obedience to orders could not be expected from them that is necessary in a regular army, yet the provincials had other advantages which compensated for that defect. They were better acquainted than strangers with the woods, and the nature of that country in which their military service was required. They were seasoned to the climate, and had learned from experience what clothes, meat and drink were most proper to enable them to do their duty. In common occasions, when the militia was called out, the men received no pay, but when employed, as in this Cherokee war, for the public defence, they were allowed the same pay with the King's forces. [Sidenote] Colonel Grant marches against the Cherokees. So soon as the Highlanders had recovered from their sickness, and were in a condition to take the field, Colonel Grant began his march for the Cherokee territories. After being joined by the Provincial regiment and Indian allies, he mustered in all about two thousand six hundred men. Having served some years in America, and been in several engagements with Indians, he was now no stranger to their methods of making war. He was sensible how ready they were to take all advantages, by surprize, stratagem, or otherwise, that the nature of their country afforded them. Caution and vigilance were not only necessary on his part, but, to prepare an army for such services, the dress, the arms, and discipline, should all be adapted to the nature of the country, in order to give the men every advantage, according to the Indian manner of attack. The eye should be habituated to perpetual watchfulness, the body should be clothed in green, the prevailing colour of the woods, that it may be difficult to distinguish it, and equipped in such light armour as is easiest managed in a thicket. The feet and legs should be fortified against prickly briers and bushes, and those men who have been accustomed to hunt in the woods, being quick-sighted, are best qualified for scouring the dark thickets, and for guards to the main body. Europeans, who are strangers to such things, are ill prepared for military services in America. Many brave officers have suffered by inattention to them, and being ignorant of the peculiar circumstances of the country, have fallen a sacrifice to their own rashness, or the numberless snares to which they are exposed in it. On the 27th of May, 1761, Colonel Grant arrived at Fort Prince George, and Attakullakulla, having got information that he was advancing against his nation with a formidable army, hastened to his camp, to signify his earnest desire of peace. He told the Colonel that he always had been, and ever would continue to be, a firm friend to the English; that the outrages of his countrymen covered him with shame, and filled his heart with grief; yet nevertheless he would gladly interpose in their behalf, in order to bring about an accommodation. Often, he said, had he been called an old woman by the mad young men of his nation, who delighted in war and despised his counsels. Often had he endeavoured to get the hatchet buried, and the former good correspondence with the Carolineans established. Now he was determined to set out for the Cherokee towns, to persuade them to consult their safety, and speedily agree to terms of peace, and again and again begged the Colonel to proceed no farther until he returned. [Sidenote] Engages and defeats them. [Sidenote] Defeats them and destroys their towns. Colonel Grant, however, gave him no encouragement to expect that his request could be granted; but, on the 7th of June, began his march from Fort Prince George, carrying with him provisions to the army for thirty days. A party of ninety Indians, and thirty woodmen painted like Indians, under the command of Captain Quintine Kennedy, had orders to march in front and scour the woods. After them the light infantry and about fifty rangers, consisting in all of about two hundred men, followed, by whose vigilance and activity the commander imagined that the main body of the army might be kept tolerably quiet and secure. For three days he made forced marches, in order to get over two narrow and dangerous defiles, which he accomplished without a shot from the enemy, but which might have cost him dear, had they been properly guarded and warmly disputed. On the day following he found suspicious ground on all hands, and therefore orders were given for the first time to load and prepare for action, and the guards to march slowly forward, doubling their vigilance and circumspection. As they frequently spied Indians around them, all were convinced that they should that day have an engagement. At length, having advanced near to the place where Colonel Montgomery was attacked the year before, the Indian allies in the van-guard, about eight in the morning, observed a large body of Cherokees posted upon a hill on the right flank of the army, and gave the alarm. Immediately the savages, rushing down, began to fire on the advanced guard, which being supported, the enemy were repulsed, and recovered their heights. Under this hill the line was obliged to march a considerable way. On the left there was a river, from the opposite banks of which a large party of Indians fired briskly on the troops as they advanced. Colonel Grant ordered a party to march up the hill and drive the enemy from the heights, while the line faced about and gave their whole charge to the Indians that annoyed them from the side of the river. The engagement became general, and the savages seemed determined obstinately to dispute the lower grounds, while those on the hill were dislodged only to return with redoubled ardour to the charge. The situation of the troops was in several respects deplorable; fatigued by a tedious march, in rainy weather, surrounded with woods, so that they could not discern the enemy, galled by the scattered fire of savages, who when pressed always kept aloof, but rallied again and again, and returned to the ground. No sooner did the army gain an advantage over them in one quarter, than they appeared in another. While the attention of the commander was occupied in driving the enemy from their lurking-place on the river's side, the rear was attacked, and so vigorous an effort made for the flour and cattle, that he was obliged to order a party back to the relief of the rear-guard. From eight o'clock in the morning until eleven the savages continued to keep up an irregular and incessant fire, sometimes from one place and sometimes from another, while the woods resounded with hideous shouts and yells, to intimidate the troops. At length the Cherokees gave way, and, being pursued for some time, popping shots continued till two o'clock, when they disappeared. What loss the enemy sustained in this action we have not been able to learn, but of Colonel Grant's army there were between fifty and sixty men killed and wounded; and it is probable the loss of the savages could not be much greater, and perhaps not so great, owing to their manner of fighting. Orders were given not to bury the slain, but to sink them in the river, to prevent their being dug up from their graves and scalped. To provide horses for those that were wounded, several bags of flour were thrown into the river. After which the army proceeded to Etchoe, a pretty large Indian town, which they reached about midnight, and next day reduced to ashes. Every other town in the middle settlements, fourteen in number, shared the same fate. Their magazines and corn fields were likewise destroyed, and those miserable savages, with their families, were driven to seek for shelter and provisions among the barren mountains. It would be no easy matter to describe the various hardships which this little army endured in the wilderness, from heat, thirst, watching, danger and fatigue. Thirty days did Colonel Grant continue in the heart of the Cherokee territories, and, upon his return to Fort Prince George, the feet and legs of many of his army were so mangled, and their strength and spirits so much exhausted, that they were utterly unable to march farther. He resolved therefore to encamp at that place for a while, both to refresh his men and wait the resolutions of the Cherokees, in consequence of the heavy chastisement which they had received. Besides the numberless advantages their country afforded for defence, it was supposed that some French officers had been among them, and given them all the assistance in their power. It is true the savages supported their attack for some hours with considerable spirit; but being driven from their advantageous posts and thickets they were wholly disconcerted, and though the repulse was far from being decisive, yet after this engagement they returned no more to the charge, but remained the tame spectators of their towns in flames, and their country laid desolate. Such engagements in Europe would be considered as trifling skirmishes, scarcely worthy of relation, but in America a great deal is often determined by them. It is no easy matter to describe the distress to which the savages were reduced by this severe correction. Even in time of peace they are destitute of that foresight, in a great measure, which provides for future events; but in time of war, when their villages are destroyed and their fields laid desolate, they are reduced to extreme want. Being driven to the barren mountains, the hunters furnished with ammunition might indeed make some small provision for themselves, but women, children, and old men, must perish, being deprived of the means of subsistence. [Sidenote] Peace with the Cherokees A few days after Colonel Grant's arrival at Fort Prince George, Attakullakulla, attended by several chieftains, came to his camp, and expressed a desire of peace. Severely had they suffered for breaking their alliance with Britain, and giving ear to the deceitful promises of France. Convinced at last of the weakness and perfidy of the French, who were neither able to assist them in time of war, nor supply their wants in time of peace, they resolved to renounce all connection with them for ever. Accordingly terms of peace were drawn up and proposed, which were no less honourable to Colonel Grant than advantageous to the province. The different articles being read and interpreted, Attakullakulla agreed to them all excepting one, by which it was demanded, That four Cherokee Indians be delivered up to Colonel Grant at Fort Prince George, to be put to death in the front of his camp; or four green scalps be brought to him in the space of twelve nights. The warrior having no authority from his nation, declared he could not agree to this article, and therefore the Colonel sent him to Charlestown, to see whether the Lieutenant-Governor would consent to mitigate the rigour of it. Accordingly Attakullakulla and the other chieftains, being furnished with a safeguard, set out for Charlestown to hold a conference with Mr. Bull, who, on their arrival, called a council to meet at Ashley Ferry, and then spoke to the following effect. "Attakullakulla, I am glad to see you, and as I have always heard of your good behaviour, that you have been a good friend to the English, I take you by the hand, and not only you but all those with you also, as a pledge for their security whilst under my protection. Colonel Grant acquaints me that you have applied for peace; now that you are come, I have met with my beloved men to hear what you have to say, and my ears are open for that purpose." Then a fire was kindled, the pipe of peace was lighted, and all smoked together for some time in great silence and solemnity. Then Attakullakulla arose, and addressed the Lieutenant-Governor and Council to the following effect. "It is a great while since I last saw your honour; now I am glad to see you, and all the beloved men present--I am come to you as a messenger from the whole nation--I have now seen you, smoked with you, and hope we shall live together as brothers.--When I came to Keowee, Colonel Grant sent me to you--You live at the water side, and are in light--We are in darkness, but hope all will be yet clear with us.--I have been constantly going about doing good, and though I am tired, yet I am come to see what can be done for my people, who are in great distress." Here he produced the strings of wampum he had received from the different towns, denoting their earnest desire of peace; and then added, "As to what has happened, I believe it has been ordered by our Father above.--We are of a different colour from the white people--They are superior to us--But one God is father of all, and we hope what is past will be forgotten.--God Almighty made all people--There is not a day but some are coming into, and others are going out of, the world.--The great King told me the path should never be crooked, but open for every one to pass and repass.--As we all live in one land, I hope we shall all live as one people." After which peace was formally ratified and confirmed by both parties, and their former friendship being renewed, all hoped that it would last as long as the sun shall shine and the rivers run. [Sidenote] A quarrel between the commanding officers. Thus ended the Cherokee war, which was among the last humbling strokes given to the expiring power of France in North America, and Colonel Grant returned to Charlestown to wait further orders. But no sooner was peace concluded, and the province secured against external enemies, than an unhappy difference broke out between the two principal commanders of the regular and provincial forces. Colonel Grant, a native of Scotland, was naturally of an high spirit, to which he added that pride of rank which he held among those British soldiers who had carried their arms triumphant through the continent. During this expedition it is probable that he scorned to ask the advice of a provincial officer, whom he deemed an improper judge of military operations, and claimed the chief glory of having restored peace to the province. Colonel Middleton was equally warm and proud, and considering such neglect as an affront, resented it, and while some reflections were cast upon the provincial troops, being the chief in command, he thought himself bound to stand forth as a champion for the honour of the province. This ill-humour, which appeared between the officers on their return to Charlestown, was encouraged and fomented by persons delighting in broils, who, by malicious surmises and false reports, helped to widen the difference. The dispute became serious, and was carried on for some time in the public papers by mutual charges of misconduct, and at length terminated in a duel. Mr. Middleton called out Colonel Grant to the single combat, after they had both given the best proof of their courage against the common enemy. The duel, however, happily terminated without bloodshed, and not a little to the credit of the Scots officer, though his antagonist shewed no less spirit in the field of honour, falsely so called, than in defence of his country. The citizens of Charlestown seemed interested in the dispute, and each spoke of the conduct of the two officers as they were differently affected. Indeed, however much we may applaud the brave man who is first in the field in defence of his country, with justice we with-hold our praises from him that is first at the single combat with a private friend. Colonel Grant, with great reason, considered such treatment, after having brought the enemies of the colony to the most advantageous terms of peace, as a base recompence for his services. From this period a party-spirit appeared in Carolina. All the malicious aspersions and inflammatory accusations against the inhabitants of North Britain, which were at this time wantonly and wickedly published in England, were greedily swallowed by one party in the province, and industriously propagated. Prejudices were contracted, cherished, and unhappily gained ground among the people. Terms of reproach and abuse were collected from those factious publications in London, and poured indiscriminately upon all the natives of Scotland, who were by no means backward in retorting the abuse. In a growing province, where the utmost harmony and liberality of sentiment ought to have been cherished by all, as the most certain means of promoting the public strength and prosperity, such a party-spirit was attended, as might have been expected, with the most pernicious consequence. [Sidenote] A whirlwind at Charlestown. I have already observed, that the province is subject to whirlwinds, especially among the hills in the back country; but this year one of those, which was indeed the most violent and dreadful that had ever been known, passed Charlestown in the month of May. It appeared at first to the west of the town, like a large column of smoke, approaching fast in an irregular direction. The vapour of which it was composed resembled clouds rolling one over another in violent tumult and agitation, assuming at one time a dark, at another a bright flaming colour. Its motion was exceedingly swift and crooked. As it approached the inhabitants were alarmed with an uncommon sound, like the continual roaring of distant thunder, or the noise made by a stormy sea beating upon the shore, which brought numbers of people to witness the dreadful phenomenon. While it passed down Ashley river, such was its incredible velocity and force, that it plowed the waters to the bottom, and laid the channel bare. The town narrowly and providentially escaped, but it threatened destruction to a fleet consisting of no less than forty sail of loaded ships, lying at anchor in Rebellion road, about four miles below the town, and waiting a fair wind to sail for England. When it reached the fleet, five vessels were sunk in an instant by it, and his Majesty's ship the Dolphin, with eleven others, were dismasted. Such was the situation of the fleet, and so rapid was the motion of the whirlwind, that though the seaman observed it approaching, it was impossible to provide against it. In its oblique course it struck only a part of the fleet, and the damage, though computed at L. 20,000 sterling, was by no means so great as might have been expected. Nor were many lives lost, for the channel of the river not being very deep, while the ships sat down in the mud and were covered by the waves, the sailors saved themselves by running up the shrouds. The whirlwind passed the town a little before three o'clock, and before four the sky was so clear and serene, that we could scarcely have believed such a dreadful scene had been exhibited, had it not left many striking proofs behind it. Its route was not only marked in the woods, having levelled the loftiest trees, or swept them away before it like chaff, but its effects were visible in the fleet, by the number of vessels sunk and dismasted. It has been also remarked, that the province is subject to violent storms of lightning and thunder throughout the year; but from the end of April until October they are very frequent and terrible. There are few nights during the summer in which lighting is not visible in some part of the horizon. Sometimes indeed those storms are of short duration, particularly when they come attended with brisk gales of wind; but when that is not the case, they will often last for four or five hours. While the clouds are gathering, it is surprising how quickly the atmosphere, which was formerly serene, will be covered with darkness. To the inhabitants, accustomed to view such appearances, the thunder-shower is rather welcome than alarming, as it cools the air and earth, and enables them to live comfortably during the remainder of the day; but to every stranger it is exceedingly grand and awful. As the flashes of lightning from the clouds commonly strike the highest objects, and the whole country is covered with woods, the fury of the storm for the most part falls upon them, and its amazing effects are visible from the vast number of blasted trees every where appearing throughout the forest. The country being as yet but thinly peopled, the inhabitants do not suffer so severely as might be expected, considering the violence of these storms; yet few years pass without some accidents from lightning. I never knew more than five houses in the town, but others have observed nine, two churches and five ships struck with lightning during one thunder-shower. Such storms often occasion considerable damage, particularly to the ships in the harbour, and sometimes they are attended with showers of hail, or rather solid pieces of ice, which fall with such force as to beat down the corn in the fields, to break glass windows, and occasion danger to children exposed to them. But since the inhabitants have found out the method of erecting iron rods on their houses, less damage has been done to them, and fewer lives have been lost by lightning in this province. [Sidenote] Of the heat at Savanna. The climate of Georgia, like that of Carolina, is more mild and pleasant in the inland than maritime parts. Governor Ellis has left us the following account of the heat of the summer at Savanna. In the 7th of July, while he was writing in his piazza, which was open at each end, he says the mercury in Fahrenheit's thermometer stood at 102 in the shade. Twice had it risen to that height during the summer, several times to 100, and for many days together to 98; and in the night did not sink below 89. He thought it highly probable, that the inhabitants of Savanna breathed a hotter air than any other people upon earth. The town being situated on a sandy eminence, the reflection from the dry sand, when there is little or no agitation in the air, greatly increases the heat; for by walking an hundred yards from his house upon the sand, under his umbrella, with the thermometer suspended by a thread to the height of his nostrils, the mercury rose to 105. The same thermometer he had with him in the equatorial parts of Africa, in Jamaica, and in the Leeward Islands; yet by his journals he found that it had never in any of these places risen so high. Its general station was between 79 and 86. He acknowledges, however, that he felt those degrees of heat in a moist air more disagreeable than at Savanna, when the thermometer stood at 81 in his cellar, at 102 in the storey above it, and in the upper storey of his house at 105. On the 10th of December the mercury was up at 86, on then 11th down as low as 38, on the same instrument. Such sudden and violent changes, especially when they happen frequently, must make havock of the human constitution; yet he asserts that few people die at Savanna out of the ordinary course, though many were working in the open air, exposed to the sun during this extreme heat.--As this governor was a man of sense and erudition, and no doubt made his observations with great accuracy, we shall not presume to call in question the facts he relates; but we must say, we never saw the mercury rise so high in the shade at Charlestown, and believe it very seldom happens to do so in Georgia. We may add, that such is the situation of Savanna, surrounded with low and marshy lands, and so sudden and great are the changes in the weather there, as well as in Carolina, that the maritime parts of both provinces must be ranked among the most unhealthy climates in the world. CHAP. XI. [Sidenote] A peace, and its happy effects respecting America. The peace of Paris, though condemned by many in England as inadequate to the amazing success that attended the British arms during the bloody war, and below the expectation of the British nation, unquestionably placed America in the most advantageous situation. As the flames of war first kindled in that continent, by a contest about the limits of the British and French territories, to prevent all disputes of this kind for the future was made one of the first objects of attention in framing a treaty of peace. By the seventh article of this treaty it was agreed, "That, for the future, the confines between the dominions of his Britannic Majesty and those of his most Christian Majesty in that part of the world should be fixed irrevocably, by a line drawn along the middle of the river Mississippi, from its source to the river Iberville, and from thence by a line drawn along the middle of the river and the lakes Maurepas and Pontchartrain to the sea." By the twentieth article, "His Catholic Majesty ceded and guarantied in full right to his Britannic Majesty, Florida, with Fort Augustine and the Bay of Pensacola, as well as all that Spain possessed on the continent of North America to the east or south-east of the river Mississippi, and in general every thing depending on the said countries and lands, with the sovereignty, property, possession, and all rights acquired by treaties or otherwise, which the Catholic King and the Crown of Spain have had till now over the said countries, lands, places, and other inhabitants." By these articles the southern provinces were rendered perfectly secure, and, considering the nature of the country, no frontiers could be more distinctly defined. But as the French colonies in the northern district had been the chief seat of war, the conquest of which had occasioned such an immense waste of blood and treasure to Britain, it was also judged proper to guard against the return of any danger on that side. Experience had shewn the nation, that while France possesses a single stronghold on that continent, the British subjects could never enjoy perfect repose, but must be in danger of being again plunged into those calamities from which they had been with so much difficulty delivered. Therefore it was determined to remove this ambitious and enterprising enemy entirely from the neighbourhood of these colonies, and secure them beyond a possibility of future molestation. Accordingly, by the fourth article of the treaty, "His most Christian Majesty renounced all pretensions which he had heretofore formed, or might form, to Nova Scotia, or Acadia, in all its parts, and guarantied the whole of it, with all its dependencies, to the King of Great Britain; as also Canada, with all its dependencies; Cape Breton, and all the other islands and coasts in the Gulf of St. Laurence, and every thing that depends on these countries, islands, lands, places and coasts, and their inhabitants; so that the most Christian King ceded and made over the whole to the said King and Crown of Great Britain, and that in the most ample manner and form, without restriction, and without any liberty to depart from said cession and guaranty under any pretence, or to disturb Great Britain in the possessions above mentioned; reserving only the island of New Orleans, and liberty of fishing in the Gulf of St. Laurence, which was granted, upon condition that the subjects of France do not execute the said fishery but at the distance of three leagues from all the coasts belonging to Great Britain, as well those of the continent as those of the islands situated in the Gulf of St. Laurence." We do not pretend to pass any judgment on the value of these conquests in America, which were preferred to those of the West India islands at the peace. By giving up a little of the sugar trade, it was thought the nation lost only a luxury, and could be sufficiently supplied with all the sugar and rum she wanted from the islands which she possessed before the war; and therefore the precious conquests in the West Indies were sacrificed to the security of America. The vast territory to the east and south east of the great river Mississippi formed the British empire on the continent, which, for variety of climate as well as of soil was exceeded by no empire upon earth. As the trade of the mother country had uniformly increased with the population of her colonies, it was hoped that by freeing them from all molestation, they must increase in a still more rapid manner than they had hitherto done, to the great advantage of Britain; for while the colonists had liberty to extend their culture to the remotest desert, the trade of the mother country would be increased, her debt diminished, and at the same time the demand for manufactures would be so great, that all the hands she employed would scarcely be able to furnish the supply. These were thought to be the probable consequences which would flow from the security of our American colonies at the peace. [Sidenote] Boundaries of East and West Florida. With respect to the new acquisitions, great pains were taken to acquire an exact knowledge of them, not only to establish proper regulations, but also to render them as useful and flourishing as possible. They were divided into three separate independent governments, which were given to officers who had distinguished themselves during the war. The government of East Florida was bounded to the westward by the Gulf of Mexico and the river Apalachicola; to the north by a line drawn from that part of the above-mentioned river where the Catabouchee and Flint rivers meet, to the source of St. Mary's river, and by the course of the same river to the Atlantic Ocean; and to the east and south by the Atlantic Ocean; and the Gulf of Florida, including all islands within six leagues of the sea coast. The government of West Florida was bounded to the southward by the Gulf of Mexico, including all islands within six leagues of the sea coast, from the river Apalachicola to Lake Pontchartrain; to the westward by the said lake, the lake Maurepas, and the river Mississippi; to the north by a line drawn due east from that part of the river Mississippi which lies in thirty-one degrees of north latitude, to the river Apalachicola, or Catabouchee; and to the east by the said river. All the lands lying between the rivers Alatamaha and St. Mary's were annexed to the province of Georgia. [Sidenote] The southern provinces left secure. The possession of these two provinces of East and West Florida, though of themselves little better than an immense waste, was of great importance to the neighbouring provinces of Georgia and Carolina. It robbed the Spaniards of a strong-hold from which they could send out an armed force and harass these provinces, and of an easy avenue through which they had often invaded them. It removed troublesome neighbours out of their way, who had often instigated the savages against them, and made Augustine an asylum for fugitive slaves. It opened some convenient ports for trade with Britain and the West Indies, and for annoying French and Spanish ships coming through the Gulf of Florida, in case of any future rupture. It formed a strong frontier to the British dominions in that quarter, and furnished an immense track of improveable land for reduced officers, soldiers, and others, to settle and cultivate. [Sidenote] Encouragement given to reduced officers and soldiers. To testify the high sense his Majesty had of the conduct and bravery of his officers and soldiers during the late war, and to encourage the settlement of the colonies, tracks of land were offered them as the rewards of their services. Orders were given to the governors on the continent, to grant, without fee or reward, five thousand acres to every field officer who had served in America, three thousand to every captain, two thousand to every subaltern, two hundred to every non-commissioned officer, and fifty to every private man; free of quit-rents for ten years, but subject, at the expiration of that term, to the same moderate quit-rents as the lands in the other provinces, and to the same conditions of cultivation and improvement. In the new colonies, for the encouragement of the people, they were to be allowed civil establishments, similar to those of the other royal governments on the continent, so soon as their circumstances would admit, and the same provision was made for the security of their lives, liberties and properties under the new as under the old governments. [Sidenote] Georgia begins to flourish. No province on the continent felt the happy effects of this public security sooner than the province of Georgia, which had long struggled under many difficulties, arising from the want of credit from friends, and the frequent molestations of enemies. During the late war the government had been given to James Wright, who wanted neither wisdom to discern, nor resolution to pursue, the most effectual means for its improvement. While he proved a father to the people and governed the province with justice and equity, he discovered at the same time the excellence of its low lands and river swamps, by the proper management and diligent cultivation of which he acquired in a few years a plentiful fortune. His example and success gave vigour to industry, and promoted a spirit of emulation among the planters for improvement. The rich lands were sought for with that zeal, and cleared with that ardour, which the prospect of riches naturally inspired. The British merchants observing the province safe, and advancing to a hopeful and flourishing state, were no longer backward in extending credit to it, but supplied it with negroes, and goods of British manufacture, with equal freedom as the other provinces on that continent. The planters no sooner got the strength of Africa to assist them than they laboured with success, and the lands every year yielded greater and greater increase. The trade of the province kept pace with its progress in cultivation. The rich swamps attracted the attention not only of strangers, but even of the planters of Carolina, who had been accustomed to treat their poor neighbours with the utmost contempt, several of whom sold their estates in that colony, and moved with their families and effects to Georgia. Many settlements were made by Carolineans about Sunbury, and upon the great river Alatamaha. The price of produce at Savanna arose as the quantity increased, a circumstance which contributed much to the improvement of the country. The planters situated on the opposite side of Savanna river found in the capital of Georgia a convenient and excellent market for their staple commodities. In short, from this period the rice, indigo and naval stores of Georgia arrived at the markets in Europe in equal excellence and perfection, and, in proportion to its strength, in equal quantities with those of its more powerful and opulent neighbours in Carolina. To form a judgment of the progress of the colony, we need only attend to its exports. In the year 1763, the exports of Georgia consisted of 7500 barrels of rice, 9633 libs. of indigo, 1250 bushels of Indian corn, which, together with deer and beaver skins, naval stores, provisions, timber, _&c._ amounted to no more than L. 27,021 sterling; but afterwards the colony thrived and increased in a manner so rapid, that, in the year 1773, it exported staple commodities to the value of L. 121,677 sterling. [Sidenote] A plan adopted for encouraging emigrations to Carolina. No less favourable and happy were the blessings of peace and security to their neighbours of Carolina; for never did any country flourish and prosper in a more astonishing degree than this province has done since the conclusion of the late war. The government had been given to Thomas Boone, who was not only a native of the province, but had a considerable estate in it, which naturally rendered him deeply interested in its prosperity. The French and Spaniards being removed out of the way, its progress was no more retarded by any molestation from them. The assembly appropriated a large fund for bounties to foreign Protestants, and such industrious poor people of Britain and Ireland as should resort to the province within three years, and settle on the inland parts. Two townships, each containing 48,000 acres, were laid out; one on the river Savanna, called Mecklenburgh, and the other on the waters of Santee at Long Canes, called Londonderry; to be divided among emigrants, allowing one hundred acres for every man, and fifty for every woman and child, that should come and settle in the back woods. The face of the country in those interior parts is variable and beautiful, and being composed of hills and vallies, rocks and rivers, there is not that stagnation in the air, which is so exceedingly hurtful to the human constitution in the flat marshy parts of the province. The hills occasion an agitation in the atmosphere, and by collecting the air in streams, these run along the earth in pleasant breezes, and mitigate the rigour of the hot season. The climate in those inland parts is not only more mild and wholesome, but the soil, particularly in the vallies, which are covered with lofty trees and luxuriant bushes, is exceedingly fertile, and promised in the amplest manner to reward the industrious labourer. In consequence of this encouragement offered, it was hoped that multitudes would resort to Carolina, and settle those extensive and fruitful territories in the back woods, by which means the frontiers of the province would be strengthened, its produce increased, and its trade enlarged. [Sidenote] A number of Palatines seduced into England. Not long after this a remarkable affair happened in Germany, by which Carolina received a great acquisition. One Stumpel, who had been an officer in the King of Prussia's service, being reduced at the peace, applied to the British ministry for a tract of land in America, and having got some encouragement returned to Germany, where, by deceitful promises, he seduced between five and six hundred ignorant people from their native country. When these poor Palatines arrived in England, the officer finding himself unable to perform his promises, fled, leaving them in a strange land, without money, without friends, exposed in the open fields, and ready to perish through want. While they were in this starving condition, and knew no person to whom they could apply for relief, a humane clergyman, who came from the same country, took compassion on them, and published their deplorable case in the news-papers. He pleaded for the mercy and protection of government to them, until an opportunity might offer of transporting them to some of the British colonies, where he hoped they would prove useful subjects, and in time give their benefactors ample proofs of their gratitude and affection. No sooner did their unhappy situation reach the ears of a great personage, than he immediately set an example to his subjects, which served both to warm their hearts and open their hands for the relief of their distressed fellow-creatures. A bounty of three hundred pounds was allowed them; tents were ordered from the Tower for the accommodation of such as had paid their passage and been permitted to come ashore; money was sent for the relief of those that were confined on board. The public-spirited citizens of London, famous for acts of beneficence and charity, associated, and chose a committee on purpose to raise money for the relief of these poor Palatines. A physician, a surgeon, and man-midwife, generously undertook to attend the sick gratis. From different quarters benefactions were sent to the committee, and in a few days those unfortunate strangers, from the depth of indigence and distress, were raised to comfortable circumstances. The committee finding the money received more than sufficient to relieve their present distress, applied to his Majesty to know his royal pleasure with respect to the future disposal of the German Protestants. His Majesty, sensible that his colony of South Carolina had not its proportion of white inhabitants, and having expressed a particular attachment to it, signified his desire of transporting them to that province. Another motive for sending them to Carolina was the bounty allowed to foreign Protestants by the provincial assembly, so that when their source of relief from England should be exhausted, another would open after their arrival in that province, which would help them to surmount the difficulties attending the first state of cultivation. [Sidenote] Sent into Carolina. Accordingly preparations were made for sending the Germans to South Carolina. When the news was communicated to them they rejoiced, not only because they were to go to one of the most fertile and flourishing provinces on the continent, but also because many of them had friends and countrymen before them. Two ships, of two hundred tons each, were provided for their accommodation, and provisions of all kinds laid in for the voyage. An hundred and fifty stand of arms were ordered from the Tower, and given them by his Majesty for their defence after their arrival in America; all which deserve to be recorded for the honour of the British nation, which has at different times set before the world many noble examples of benevolence. Every thing being ready for their embarkation, the Palatines broke up their camp in the fields behind White-Chapel, and proceeded to the ships attended by several of their benefactors; of whom they took their leave with songs of praise to God in their mouths, and tears of gratitude in their eyes. [Sidenote] And settled at Londonderry. In the month of April, 1764, they arrived at Charlestown, and presented a letter from the Lords Commissioners for Trade and Plantations to Governor Boone, acquainting him that his Majesty had been pleased to take the poor Palatines under his royal care and protection, and as many of them were versed in the culture of silks and vines, had ordered that a settlement be provided for them in Carolina, in a situation most proper for these purposes. Though their settlement met with some obstructions from a dispute subsisting at that time between the Governor and Assembly about certain privileges of the house; yet the latter could not help considering themselves as laid under the strongest obligations to make provision for so many useful settlers. Accordingly, in imitation of the noble example set before them in London, they voted five hundred pounds sterling to be distributed among the Palatines, according to the directions of the Lieutenant-Governor, and their necessities. That they might be settled in a body, one of the two townships, called Londonderry, was allotted for them, and divided in the most equitable manner into small tracts, for the accommodation of each family. Captain Calhoun, with a detachment of the rangers, had orders to meet them by the way, and conduct them to the place where their town was to be built, and all possible assistance was given towards promoting their speedy and comfortable settlement. [Sidenote] Some emigrate from Britain, and multitudes from Ireland. Besides foreign Protestants, several persons from England and Scotland resorted to Carolina after the peace. But of all other countries none has furnished the province with so many inhabitants as Ireland. In the northern counties of that kingdom the spirit of emigration seized the people to such a degree, that it threatened almost a total depopulation. Such multitudes of husbandmen, labourers and manufacturers flocked over the Atlantic, that the landlords began to be alarmed, and to concert ways and means for preventing the growing evil. Scarce a ship sailed for any of the plantations that was not crowded with men, women and children. But the bounty allowed new settlers in Carolina proved a great encouragement, and induced numbers of these people, notwithstanding the severity of the climate, to resort to that province. The merchants finding this bounty equivalent to the expenses of the passage, from avaricious motives persuaded the people to embark for Carolina, and often crammed such numbers of them into their ships that they were in danger of being stifled during the passage, and sometimes were landed in such a starved and sickly condition, that numbers of them died before they left Charlestown. Many causes may be assigned for this spirit of emigration that prevailed so much in Ireland: some, no doubt, emigrated from a natural restlessness of temper, and a desire of roving abroad, without any fixed object in view. Others were enticed over by flattering promises from their friends and relations, who had gone before them. But of all other causes of emigration oppression at home was the most powerful and prevalent. Most men have a natural fondness and partiality for their native country, and leave it with reluctance while they are able to earn a comfortable livelihood in it. That spot where they first drew the breath of life, that society in which they spent the gay season of youth, the religion, the manners and customs of those among whom they were educated, all conspire to affect the heart, and endear their native country to them. But poverty and oppression will break through every natural tie and endearment, and compel men to rove abroad in search of some asylum against domestic hardship. Hence it happened that many poor people forsook their native land, and preferred the burning sky and unwholesome climate of Carolina, to the temperate and mild air of their mother country. The success that attended some friends who had gone before them being also industriously published in Ireland, and with all the exaggerations of travellers, gave vigour to the spirit of adventure, and induced multitudes to follow their countrymen, and run all hazards abroad, rather than starve at home. Government winked at those emigrations, and every year brought fresh strength to Carolina, insomuch that the lands in Ireland were in danger of lying waste for want of labourers, and the manufacturers of dwindling into nothing. [Sidenote] And from the northern colonies, resort to Carolina. Nor were these the only sources from which Carolina, at this time, derived strength and an increase of population. For, notwithstanding the vast extent of territory which the provinces of Virginia and Pennsylvania contained, yet such was the nature of the country, that a scarcity of improveable lands began to be felt in these colonies, and poor people could not find spots in them unoccupied equal to their expectations. Most of the richest vallies in these more populous provinces lying to the east of the Alleganny mountains were either under patent or occupied, and, by the royal proclamation at the peace, no settlements were allowed to extend beyond the sources of the rivers which empty themselves into the Atlantic. In Carolina the case was different, for there large tracks of the best lands as yet lay waste, which proved a great temptation to the northern colonists to migrate to the south. Accordingly, about this time above a thousand families, with their effects, in the space of one year resorted to Carolina, driving their cattle, hogs and horses over land before them. Lands were allotted them on the frontiers, and most of them being only entitled to small tracks, such as one, two or three hundred acres, the back settlements by this means soon became the most populous parts of the province. The frontiers were not only strengthened and secured by new settlers, but the old ones on the maritime parts began also to stretch backward and spread their branches, in consequence of which the demand for lands in the interior parts every year increased. The Governor and Council met once a-month for the purpose of granting lands and signing patents, and it is incredible what numbers of people attended those meetings in order to obtain them; so that; from the time in which America was secured by the peace, Carolina made rapid progress in population, wealth and trade, which will farther appear when we come particularly to consider its advanced state and annual exports. [Sidenote] Regulations for securing the provinces against Indians. In proportion as the province increased in the number of white inhabitants, its danger from the savage tribes grew less alarming. But to prevent any molestation from Indians, and establish the peace of the colonies on the most lasting foundation, his Majesty, by his royal proclamations after the peace, took care to fix the boundaries of their hunting lands, in as clear a manner as the nature of the country would admit. No settlements were allowed to extend any farther backward upon the Indian territories, than the sources of those great rivers which fall into the Atlantic Ocean, and all British subjects who had settled beyond these limits were ordered to remove. In this restriction his Majesty evidently made a distinction between the rights of sovereignty and those of property; having excluded his governors from all manner of jurisdiction over those lands which were not specified within the limits of their respective provinces. All private subjects were prohibited from purchasing lands from Indians; but if the latter should at any time be inclined to dispose of their property, it must for the future be done to the King, by the general consent of their nation, and at a public assembly held by British governors for that purpose. All traders were obliged to take out licences from their respective governors for carrying on commerce with Indian nations. [Sidenote] John Stuart made superintendant for Indian affairs. Such regulations were in many respects useful and necessary; for the French and Spaniards being excluded, it only remained to guard the provinces against the danger arising from Indians. And as they were liable to much abuse and oppression from private traders, it was thought necessary that the office of a superintendant should be continued for the southern as well as the northern district of America. Accordingly this office was given to Captain John Stuart, who was in every respect well qualified for the trust. Attakullakulla had signified to the Governor and Council, after the Cherokee war, that the province would receive no molestation from Indians were this officer appointed to reside among them, and to advise and direct them. The Assembly had not only thanked him for his good conduct and great perseverance at Fort Loudon, and rewarded him with fifteen hundred pounds currency, but also recommended him to the Governor as a person worthy of preferment in the service of the province. After his commission arrived from the King, the Carolineans rejoiced, and promised themselves for the future great tranquillity and happiness. Plans of lenity were likewise adopted by government with respect to those Indian tribes, and every possible precaution was taken to guard them against oppression, and prevent any rupture with them. Experience had shewn that rigorous measures, such as humbling them by force of arms, were not only very expensive and bloody, but disagreeable to a humane and generous nation, and seldom accompanied with any good effects. Such ill treatment rendered the savages cruel, suspicious and distrustful, and prepared them for renewing hostilities, by keeping alive their ferocious and warlike spirit. Their extirpation, even though it could easily be compleated, would be a cruel act, and all the while the growth and prosperity of the settlements would be much retarded by the attempt. Whereas, by treating Indians with gentleness and humanity, it was thought they would by degrees lose their savage spirit, and become more harmless and civilized. It was hoped that by establishing a fair and free trade with them, their rude temper would in time be softened, their manners altered, and their wants increased; and instead of implacable enemies, ever bent on destruction, they might he rendered good allies, both useful and beneficial to the trade of the nation. [Sidenote] Decrease of Indians, and the causes of it. It has been remarked, that those Indians on the continent of America, who were at the time of its discovery a numerous and formidable people, have since that period been constantly decreasing, and melting away like snow upon the mountains. For this rapid depopulation many reasons have been assigned. It is well known that population every where keeps pace with the means of subsistence. Even vegetables spring and grow in proportion to the richness of the soil in which they are planted, and to the supplies they receive from the nourishing rains and dews of heaven; animals flourish or decay according as the means of subsistence abound or fail; and as all mankind partake of the nature of both, they also multiply or decrease as they are fed, or have provision in plenty, luxury excluded. The Indians being driven from their possessions near the sea as the settlements multiplied, were robbed of many necessaries of life, particularly of oysters, crabs, and fish, with which the maritime parts furnished them in great abundance, and on which they must have considerably subsisted, as is apparent from a view of their camps, still remaining near the sea-shore. The women are not only much disregarded and despised, but also naturally less prolific among rude than polished nations. The men being often abroad, at hunting or war, agriculture, which is the chief means of subsistence among a civilized people, is entirely neglected by them, and looked upon as an occupation worthy only of women or slaves. That abstinence and fatigue which the men endure in their distant excursions, and that gluttony and voraciousness in which they indulge themselves in the times of plenty, are equally hurtful to the constitution, and productive of diseases of different kinds. Now that their territories are circumscribed by narrower bounds, the means of subsistence derived even from game is less plentiful. Indeed scanty and limited are the provisions they raise by planting, even in the best seasons; but in case of a failure of their crops, or of their fields being destroyed by enemies, they perish in numbers by famine. Their natural passion for war the first European settlers soon discovered; and therefore turned the fury of one tribe against another, with a view to save themselves. When engaged in hostilities, they always fought not so much to humble and conquer, as to exterminate and destroy. The British, the French and Spanish nations, having planted colonies in their neighbourhood, a rivalship for power over them took place, and each nation having its allies among the savages was zealous and indefatigable in instigating them against the allies of its neighbour. Hence a series of bloody and destructive wars has been carried on among these rude tribes, with all the rage and rancour of implacable enemies. But famine and war, however destructive, were not the only causes of their rapid decay. The smallpox having broke out among them, proved exceedingly fatal, both on account of the contageous nature of the distemper, and their harsh and injudicious attempts to cure it by plunging themselves into cold rivers during the most violent stages of the disorder. The pestilence broke out among some nations, particularly among the Pemblicos in North Carolina, and almost swept away the whole tribe. The practice of entrapping them, which was encouraged by the first settlers in Carolina, and selling them for slaves to the West India planters, helped greatly to thin their nations. But, of all other causes, the introduction of spirituous liquors among them, for which they discovered an amazing fondness, has proved the most destructive. Excess and intemperance not only undermined their constitution, but also created many quarrels, and subjected them to a numerous list of fatal diseases, to which in former times they were entire strangers. Besides those Europeans engaged in commercial business with them, generally speaking, have been so far from reforming them, by examples of virtue and purity of manners, that they rather served to corrupt their morals, and render them more treacherous, distrustful, base and debauched than they were before this intercourse commenced. In short, European avarice and ambition have not only debased the original nature and stern virtue of that savage race, so that these few Indians that now remain have lost in a great measure their primitive character; but European vice and European diseases, the consequences of vice, have exterminated this people, insomuch that many nations formerly populous are totally extinct, and their names entirely forgotten. [Sidenote] Present state of Indian nations in the southern district. The principal tribes around Carolina that now remain are, the Cherokees, the Catabaws, the Creeks, the Chickesaws, and Choctaws, and a few others that scarcely deserve to be mentioned. In 1765 the Cherokees, who inhabit the mountains to the north of Charlestown, could scarcely bring two thousand men to the field. The Catabaws have fifteen miles square allotted them for hunting lands, about two hundred miles north of Charlestown, with British settlements all around them; but they are so much reduced by a long war with the Five Nations, that they could not muster one hundred and fifty warriors. The Creeks inhabit a fine country on the south-west, between four and five hundred miles distant from Charlestown, and the number of both the Upper and Lower nations does not exceed two thousand gun-men. The Chickesaw towns lie about six hundred miles due west from Charlestown, but the nation cannot send three hundred warriors to the field, owing to the incessant wars which they have carried on against the French, by which their number has been greatly diminished. The Choctaws are at least seven hundred miles west-south-west from Charlestown, and have between three and four thousand gun-men; and as their settlements border on West Florida, the greatest part of them till the late peace remained allies of France. But as these artful and insinuating rivals were removed out of the way, and the British government had adopted prudent plans of civilizing and managing those barbarous nations, the colonies for the future were in a great measure freed from all apprehensions of danger from them. I shall therefore conclude my observations respecting Indians with a speech of Mr. Stuart the superintendant, delivered at a general congress held in Mobile, at which Governor Johnstone and many British officers and soldiers attended. For as he was so well acquainted with the humours, tempers and characters of these tribes, this speech, in which is exhibited a good specimen of the language and manner proper for addressing barbarous nations, may not be unworthy of the reader's attention. [Sidenote] Mr. Stuart's first speech to the Indians at Mobile. "Friends and brothers, the Supreme Being who made the world and all its inhabitants, has been pleased to permit many great warriors of the British and Indian nations to meet together in peace. The great King, who is the father of all white people in Great Britain and America, and defends them from danger, this day stretches out his arms to receive his red children into favour. He has been pleased to appoint me superintendent of the affairs of all Indian nations to the southward of Virginia. In his name I speak to you, and as the words you hear are his words, I hope you will listen to them with attention, and allow them to remain deeply impressed on your minds. They are calculated to promote not only your happiness, but that of your children and childrens children for ever. "When the great kings of Britain and France were at variance, the storms of war raged through this great forest, the Indian nations were divided, brothers against brothers, and your country was stained with blood. Malice and revenge went forth, all paths were made crooked, and your land was covered with darkness. Now that it has pleased the Author of life to restore the blessings of light and peace, it is our duty to make a proper use and improvement of them. As fogs gathered in the night are dispersed by the rising sun, so words dictated by the rage of war should be forgotten in the time of peace. The great King, full of wisdom and magnanimity, knows the frailty of his red children, and forgives their disobedience and rebellion. He extends his love to them all, even to those that lifted up the hatchet against him. To render them secure, he has resolved that the English and French shall be for ever separated by the great river Mississippi, and that all nations on this side of it shall have him for their common father. He commands all strife and enmity between his white and red children to cease, and expects that the allies of Britain will take those Indians, the former allies of France, by the hand, and live together like brethren of one family. That his white and red children may be near one other, and mutually supply each other's wants, he has ordered some of his good subjects to come over the great waters, and live on the fruits of this land, which the Supreme Being made for the use of mankind in general. To open this friendly intercourse, I have invited you all to meet me at this place, and I rejoice that so many brothers are come to accept of the royal favour and protection. "Ye Chickesaw warriors, I speak first to you, and I know your ears are open to my words. The great King regards you as children brought up in their father's house, who from their infancy have been dutiful and obedient, and by that means merited what you have always enjoyed, his particular care and affection. While darkness surrounded you on every side, he has defended you from all those snares and dangers to which you were exposed. Now the day is clear and unclouded. Your father continues to love you. The paths from your towns to all nations shall be made straight and plain, and nothing shall be permitted to hurt your feet. Your children shall rejoice and grow up in safety, and your houses shall be filled with abundance of corn and venison. I am come to tell you the good news, and to see that justice be done you in all commercial dealings. "In the next place I speak to you, ye warriors of the great party of the Choctaw notion. You were like sons separated from their father, and removed at a great distance from his protection; but by persisting in obedience you were entitled to his love. The great King always acknowledged you, but now he receives you into his family, and offers you all the favours and privileges of sons. While you continue dutiful and obedient, the eye of your father shall be upon you, and his hand shall be open to relieve your wants. Under his care you shall enjoy all the blessings of peace and safety. You shall receive no injuries from friends, nor be exposed to any dangers from enemies. Your arms shall be kept bright, your hunting lands no man shall be permitted to take from you, and there shall be abundance of corn about your village. "But as for you, ye Choctaw warriors of the Six Villages, you were like children early lost. While you were wandering out of the way, without knowing your brothers you blindly struck them. You found a father, indeed, who adopted you, and you have long served him with zeal, and shewn many proofs of your courage. You have received from your French father such poor rewards for your services as he could bestow; but all the while you remained under his care you were hungry, naked and miserable. He gave you many fair words and promises, and having long deceived you, at last is obliged to leave you in your present forlorn and wretched condition. Now your true father has found you, and this day stretches forth his arms to receive you under his protection. He has forgotten all your past offences. He knows your weakness, and forgives your errors. He knows your wants, and is disposed to relieve them. I have but one tongue, and always speak the truth; and as I bring you good news, I hope my words shall not be blown away by the wind. The great King is wise, generous and merciful, and I flatter myself with the hopes that you will never forget your obligations to his goodness. "It is my duty to watch over Indians, and protect them against all manner of danger and oppression. For this purpose my ears shall be always open to your complaints, and it shall be my study to redress your grievances. I must warn you to beware of all quarrels and outrages, by which you will certainly forfeit the royal favour, and plunge yourselves again into misery. I hope you will always observe my advice, and conduct yourselves accordingly, that I may be able to transmit good accounts of your behaviour to England. It is only by the permission of the great King that your wants can be supplied, and that traders can come into your villages with guns, powder, balls, knives, hatchets, flints, hoes, clothes and other necessaries. These things you cannot make for yourselves, and no other nation will be allowed to furnish you with them. Therefore the great King has a right to expect your gratitude and obedience, for all he requires is with a view to your own tranquillity and happiness. "As you are all received into the family of the great King, it is expected that Indians will not only live in friendship and peace with white men, but also with one another. In imitation of his Majesty's good example, you must forget all injuries and offences, and throw aside all national jealousies and antipathies. The King expects that the great chieftains, to whom he has given medals and gorgets, will consider them not merely as ornaments, but as emblems of the high offices they bear, and the great trust reposed in them. All presents made you are in consideration of the good services expected from you. Therefore, ye wise and great leaders, I expect you will use your authority like fathers, and restrain your young men from all acts of violence and injustice, and teach them that the only way to merit honour and preferment is to be just, honest and peaceable, and that disgrace and punishment will be the consequences of disorderly practices, such as robbing plantations, and beating or abusing white people. "Ye warriors who have no commissions, I speak to you also in name of the King, and I hope you will reverence his authority and love your brethren. Listen at all times to your wise rulers, and be careful to follow their advice and example. By their wisdom and justice they have arrived at an high pitch of preferment, and stand distinguished by great and small medals. If, like them, you wish to be great, like them, you must first be good. You must respect them as children do their father, yielding submission to their authority, and obedience to their commands. Without the favour of your chiefs, you will neither get your wants supplied nor reach the station of honour. An armourer will be sent into your nation to clean and repair your rifles, but he will have instructions to mend arms to none but such as shall be recommended by their chiefs, it being proper that such leaders should have it in their power to distinguish those that are peaceable and obedient from the obstinate and perverse. "I am to inform you all, that I will send a beloved man into your towns, who will be vested with authority to hear and determine all differences between you and the traders, to deliver all messages from me to you, and all talks from you to me. And as he will come to promote your welfare and tranquillity, I hope you will receive him kindly, protect him against all insults, and assist him in the execution of his office. "When the French governor took his leave of you, he advised you to look upon yourselves as the children of the King of Great Britain. The advice was good, I hope you will remember it for ever. The great King has warriors numerous as the trees of the forest, and stands in no need of your assistance; but he desires your friendship and alliance to render you happy. He loves peace and justice, but he will punish all murders and rebellion. Be careful, therefore, to keep your feet far from the crooked and bloody path. Shun all communication with Indian tribes who lift the hatchet against their white brethren. Their talks, their calamets, their belts of wampum, and their tobacco are all poisonous. If you receive them into your towns, be assured you will be infected with their madness, and be in danger of rushing into destruction. Be cautious; above all things, of permitting great quantities of rum to be brought into your villages. It poisons your body, enervates your mind, and, from respectable warriors, turns you into furious madmen, who treat friends and enemies alike. Mark those persons, whether they be white or red, that bring rum among you, for bad men, who violate the laws, and have nothing else in view but to cheat, and render you despicable and wretched. "Lastly, I inform you that it is the King's order to all his governors and subjects, to treat Indians with justice and humanity, and to forbear all encroachments on the territories allotted for them. Accordingly, all individuals are prohibited from purchasing any of your lands; but as you know that your white brethren cannot feed you when you visit them unless you give them grounds to plant, it is expected that you will cede lands to the King for that purpose. But whenever you shall be pleased to surrender any of your territories to his majesty, it must be done for the future at a public meeting of your nation, when the governors of the provinces, or the superintendent shall be present, and obtain the consent of all your people. The boundaries of your hunting grounds will be accurately fixed, and no settlement permitted to be made upon them. As you may be assured that all treaties with you will be faithfully kept, so it is expected that you also will be careful strictly to observe them. I have now done, and I hope you will remember the words I have spoken. Time will soon discover to you the generosity, justice and goodness of the British nation. By the bounty of the King, and a well-ordered trade with his subjects, your houses shall be filled with plenty, and your hearts with joy. You will see your men and women well clothed and fed, and your children growing up to honour you, and add strength to your nation; your peace and prosperity shall be established, and continue from generation to generation." Having now endeavoured to give some account of the rise and progress of this colony for the first century after its settlement, or rather from the time the Proprietors received their second charter in 1665 to the year 1765, we shall add a general view of its present state and condition. I have purposely delayed speaking of several things, particularly of the temper, manners and character of the people, until this period, when they come more immediately under my own notice; and such observations as I have made shall now be submitted to the public view for the use of strangers, leaving all men acquainted with provincial affairs to judge for themselves, according to the different lights in which matters may have occurred to them. [Sidenote] A description of Charlestown. With respect to the towns in Carolina, none of them, excepting one, merit the smallest notice. Beaufort, Purisburgh, Jacksonburgh, Dorchester, Camden, and George-town, are all inconsiderable villages, having in each no more than twenty, thirty, or, at most, forty dwelling houses. But Charlestown, the capital of the province, may be ranked with the first cities of British America, and yearly advances in size, riches and population. It is situated upon a neck of land at the continence of Ashley and Cooper rivers, which are large and navigable, and wash at least two third parts of the town. These rivers mingle their streams immediately below the town, and, running six or seven miles farther, empty themselves at Sullivan's island into the Atlantic Ocean. By means of such broad rivers the sea is laid open from east to southeast, and the town fanned by gentle breezes from the ocean, which are very refreshing to the inhabitants during the summer months. The tide flows a great way above the town, and occasions an agitation in the air which is also productive of salutary effects. So low and level is the ground upon which Charlestown is built, that the inhabitants are obliged to raise banks of earth, as barriers, to defend themselves against the higher floods of the sea. The streets from east to west extend from river to river, and, running in a straight line, not only open a beautiful prospect, but also afford excellent opportunities, by means of subterranean drains, for removing all nuisances; and keeping the town clean and healthy. These streets are intersected by others, nearly at right angles, and throw the town into a number of squares, with dwelling houses on the front, and office-houses and little gardens behind them. Some of the streets are broad, which in such a climate is a necessary and wise regulation, for where narrow lanes and alleys have been tolerated, they prove by their confined situation a fruitful nursery for diseases of different kinds. The town, which was at first entirely built of wood, as might be expected, has often suffered from fire; but such calamities, though they fell heavy on individuals, have given the inhabitants frequent opportunities of making considerable improvements in it. Now most houses are built of brick, three storeys high, some of them elegant, and all neat habitations; within they are genteelly furnished, and without exposed as much as possible to the refreshing breezes from the sea. Many of them are indeed encumbered with balconies and piazzas, but these are found convenient and even necessary during the hot season, into which the inhabitants retreat for enjoying the benefit of fresh air, which is commonly occasioned, and always increased, by the flux and reflux of the sea. Almost every family have their pump-wells, but the water in them being at no great distance from the salt river, and filtered only through sand, is brackish, and commonly occasions severe griping and purging to every person not accustomed to it. The town consisted at this time of, at least, twelve hundred dwelling houses, and was in at advancing state. The public buildings are, an Exchange, a State-House, an Armoury, two churches for Episcopalians, one for Presbyterians, two for French and Dutch Protestants; to which may be added, meeting-houses for Anabaptists, Independents, Quakers and Jews. Upon the sides of the rivers wharfs are built, to which all ships that come over the bar may lie close; and having stores and ware-houses erected upon them, are exceedingly convenient for importing and exporting all kinds of merchandise. The harbour is also tolerably well fortified, the King having at different times presented the province with great guns for that purpose. Towards Cooper river the town is defended by a number of batteries, insomuch that no ships of an enemy can approach it without considerable hazard. Besides these, the passage up to it is secured by Fort Johnson, built on James's Island, about two miles below the town. This fort stands in a commanding situation, within point-blank shot of the channel, through which every ship, in their way to and from Charlestown, must pass. The commander of Fort Johnson is commissioned by the King, and has authority to stop every ship coming in until the master or mate shall make oath that there is no malignant distemper on board. It has barracks for fifty men; but, in case of emergency, it obtains assistance from the militia of the island. During the late Cherokee war a plan was also formed for fortifying the town towards the land, with a horn-work built of tappy, flanked with batteries and redoubts at proper distances, and extending from river to river; but, after having spent a great sum of money on this work, peace being restored, the design was dropt. [Sidenote] The number of its inhabitants. In 1765 the number of white inhabitants in Charlestown amounted to between five and fix thousand, and the number of negroes to between seven and eight thousand. With respect to the number of white inhabitants in the province we cannot be certain, but we may form some conjecture from the militia roll; for as all male persons from sixteen to sixty are obliged by law to bear arms and muster in the regiments, and as the whole militia formed a body of between seven and eight thousand, reckoning the fifth person fit for military duty, the whole inhabitants in the province might amount to near forty thousand. But the number of negroes was not less than eighty or ninety thousand. As no exact register of the births and funerals has been kept at Charlestown for several years, we cannot ascertain the proportion between them. Formerly, when bills of mortality were annually printed, the common computation was, that, while no contagious disorder prevailed in town, one out of thirty-five died yearly, or one out of each family in the space of seven years. However, the list of deaths is often increased by the sailors and transient persons that die in the town, and by malignant distempers imported into it. It is generally believed, that the number of births among the settled inhabitants exceeds that of funerals; but we shall affirm nothing with respect to this matter without better authority than common observation and conjecture. [Sidenote] A general view of the manners _&c._ of the people. With respect to temper and character, the inhabitants of Carolina differ little from those of Great Britain and Ireland; I mean, such as derived their origin from those islands, for the descendents of other nations still retain something of the complexion, manners and customs of those countries from whence they came. In stature, the natives of Carolina are about the middle size; for in Europe we meet with men both taller and shorter. They are, generally speaking, more forward and quick in growth than the natives of cold climates. Indeed we may say, there are no boys or girls in the province, for from childhood they are introduced into company, and assume the air and behaviour of men and women. Many of them have an happy and natural quickness of apprehension, especially in the common affairs of life, and manage business with ease and discretion; but want that steadiness, application and perseverance necessary to the highest improvements in the arts and sciences. Several natives who have had their education in Britain, have distinguished themselves by their knowledge in the laws and constitution of their country; but those who have been bred in the province, having their ideas confined to a narrower sphere, have as yet made little figure as men of genius or learning. Agriculture being more lucrative than any other employment, all who possess lands and negroes apply their chief attention to the improvement of their fortune, regardless of the higher walks of science. They commonly marry early in life, and of course are involved in domestic cares and concerns before their minds have had time to ripen in knowledge and judgment. In the progress of society they have not advanced beyond that period in which men are distinguished more by their external than internal accomplishments. Hence it happens, that beauty, figure, agility and strength form the principal distinctions among them, especially in the country. Among English people they are chiefly known by the number of their slaves, the value of their annual produce, or the extent of their landed estate. For the most part they are lively and gay, adapting their dress to the nature of the climate in which they live, and discover no small taste and neatness in their outward appearance. Their intercourse and communication with Britain being easy and frequent, all novelties in fashion, dress and ornament are quickly introduced; and even the spirit of luxury and extravagance, too common in England, was beginning to creep into Carolina. Almost every family kept their chaises for a single horse, and some of the principal planters of late years have imported fine horses and splendid carriages from Britain. They discover no bad taste for the polite arts, such as music, drawing, fencing and dancing; and it is acknowledged by all, but especially by strangers, that the ladies in the province considerably outshine the men. They are not only sensible, discreet and virtuous, but also adorned with most of those polite and elegant accomplishments becoming their sex. The Carolineans in general are affable and easy in their manners, and exceedingly kind and hospitable to all strangers. There are few old men or women to be found in the province, which is a sure sign of the unhealthiness of the climate. We cannot say that there are many in the country that arrive at their sixtieth year, and several at thirty bear the wrinkles, bald head and grey hairs of old age. As every person by diligence and application may earn a comfortable livelihood, there are few poor people in the province, except the idle or unfortunate. Nor is the number of rich people great; most of them being in what we call easy and independent circumstances. It has been remarked, that there are more persons possessed of between five and ten thousand pounds sterling in the province, than are to be found any where among the same number of people. In respect of rank, all men regarded their neighbour as their equal, and a noble spirit of benevolence pervaded the society. In point of industry the town was like a bee-hive, and there were none that reaped not advantages more or less from the flourishing state of trade and commerce. Pride and ambition had not as yet crept into this community; but the province was fast advancing to that state of power and opulence, when some distinctions among men necessarily take place. [Sidenote] And of their way of living. With respect to the manner of living in Charlestown, it is nearly the same as in England; and many circumstances concur to render it neither very difficult nor expensive to furnish plentiful tables. They have tea from England, and coffee, chocolate and sugar from the West Indies, in plenty. Butter is good, especially at that season when the fields are cleared of rice, and the cows are admitted into them; and it is so plentiful that they export a good deal of it to the Leeward Islands. The province produces some flour for bread; but it being of an inferior quality, the inhabitants chiefly make use of that imported from New York and Philadelphia. In the market there is plenty of beef, pork, veal, poultry and venison, and a great variety of wild-fowls and salt-water fish. The mutton from the low lands is not so good as that from the hills in the interior parts, but as the back country is now well settled, it is hoped that the market in time will be likewise well supplied with mutton from it. They have also a variety of the finest fruits and vegetables in their season. Their principal drink is punch, or grog, which is composed of rum well diluted with water. With respect to wine, Madeira is not only best suited to the climate, in which it improves by heat and age, but also most commonly used by the people in general, though French, Spanish and Portuguese wines are likewise presented at the tables of the most opulent citizens. Besides these, they have porter and beer from England, and cyder and perry from the northern colonies. Where rum is cheap, excess in the use of it will not be uncommon, especially among the lower class of people; but the gentlemen in general are sober, industrious and temperate. In short, the people are not only blessed with plenty, but with a disposition to share it among friends and neighbours; and many will bear me witness, when I say, that travellers could scarcely go into any city where they could meet with a society of people more agreeable, intelligent and hospitable than that at Charlestown. [Sidenote] The arts and sciences only of late encouraged. Though the arts and sciences had been long neglected, and have as yet made no great progress in the province, yet of late years they have met with great encouragement. The people in general stand not only much indebted to an ingenious bookseller, who introduced many of the most distinguished authors among them, but several of the most respectable citizens also united and formed a society for the promotion of literature, having obtained a charter of incorporation for that purpose. All the new publications in London, and many of the most valuable books, both ancient and modern, have been imported for the use of this society the members of which were ambitious of proving themselves the worthy descendants of British ancestors, by transporting not only their inferior arts of industry and agriculture, but also their higher improvements in philosophy and jurisprudence. Their design was not confined to the present generation, but extended to posterity, having the institution of a college in view, so soon as the funds of the society should admit of it. News-papers were also printed, for supplying the province with the freshest and most useful intelligence of all that passed in the political and commercial world. For amusement the inhabitants of Charlestown had not only books and public papers, but also assemblies, balls, concerts and plays, which were attended by companies almost equally brilliant as those of any town in Europe of the same size. [Sidenote] The militia and internal strength of the province. Charlestown had its armoury, magazine, and militia, and every citizen, like those of ancient Sparta, joined the military to the civil character. The officers of the militia are appointed by the Governor, who commonly nominates such men from among the inhabitants to command the rest as are most distinguished for their courage and capacity. All men of the military age being registered in the militia roll, each person knows the company to which he belongs, the captain who commands it, and is obligated to keep his arms in order, and to appear properly equipped in case of any alarm or other emergency. We cannot say that the militia in general made a good appearance, or seemed expert at the use of arms; but the companies of grenadiers, light infantry, and artillery, were extravagantly gay, and tolerably well disciplined. As most of the men were equally independent as their officers, that prompt obedience to orders, necessary in a regular army, could not be expected from them; but being conscious that union of strength was necessary to the common safety, on all emergencies they appeared under arms with alacrity and expedition. By the militia law the merchants and tradesmen of the city were subjected to some temporary inconveniencies and interruptions of business; but as agriculture was chiefly carried on by slaves, and nature brought the fruits of the earth to maturity, the planters in the country had abundance of time to spare for military exercises. Their rural life, and the constant use of arms, promoted a kind of martial spirit among them, and the great dangers to which they were always exposed, habituated them to face an enemy with resolution. Fortunately a natural antipathy subsisted between Indians and negroes, and prevented the two from uniting and conspiring the destruction of the colony. Therefore, while Indians remained quiet and peaceable, it was not the interest of the province to have them removed at a great distance; for had they been driven over the Mississippi, or extirpated, their place would probably have been supplied by fugitive slaves, who, by taking shelter in the mountains, would have proved an enemy equally, if not more, cruel and formidable to Carolina than the Indians themselves; or had the savage nations given encouragement to slaves to fly to them for liberty and protection, fatal must the consequences have been to the settlement. [Sidenote] Of its societies formed for mutual support and relief. Thus exposed to barbarians, the members of this little community knew that union of strength was not only requisite to the common safety, but both interest and duty naturally led them to establish societies with a particular view of raising funds for relieving each others wants. Though every person was obliged by law to contribute, in proportion to his estate, for the relief of the poor of the province, yet, besides this, there were several societies formed and incorporated for the particular purpose of assisting such families belonging to them as might happen to be unfortunate in trade, or in any other way reduced to an indigent state. Among these there is one called The South-Carolina Society, which merits particular notice. At first it consisted not of the most opulent citizens, though many of these afterwards joined it, but of persons in moderate stations, who held it an essential duty to relieve one another in such a manner as their circumstances would admit; accordingly they united, elected officers, and, by trifling weekly contributions, donations and legacies, together with good management, in process of time accumulated a considerable stock. A common seal was provided, with the device of a hand planting a vine, and the motto _Posteritati_. The Heavens smile on humane and generous designs. Many observing the great usefulness of this society, petitioned for admission into it; and as its numbers increased its stock enlarged. In 1738, their capital amounted to no more than L.213: 16 s.; but, in 1776, it had arisen to a sum not less than L. 68,787: 10: 3, current money. All the while their works of charity have likewise been conspicuous and extensive. Many unfortunate and sinking families have been supported by them in a decent and respectable manner. Many helpless orphans have been educated, and prepared for being useful members of society. Several other societies in Charlestown have been founded upon the same plan, and on many occasions the inhabitants in general, (it may be mentioned to their honour), have discovered a benevolent and charitable spirit, not only to poor people in the province, but also to unfortunate strangers. [Sidenote] Of its merchants and trade. The merchants in Carolina are a respectable body of men, industrious and indefatigable in business, free, open and generous in their manner of conducting it. The whole warehouses in Charlestown were like one common store, to which every trader had access for supplying his customers with those kinds of goods and manufactures which they wanted. The merchants of England, especially since the late peace, observing the colonies perfectly secure, and depending on the strength of the British navy for the protection of trade, vied with each other for customers in America, and stretched their credit to its utmost extent for supplying the provinces. Hence every one of them were well furnished with all kinds of merchandise. But as the staples of Carolina were valuable, and in much demand, credit was extended to that province almost without limitation, and vast multitudes of negroes, and goods of all kinds, were yearly sent to it. In proportion as the merchants of Charlestown received credit from England, they were enabled to extend it to the planters in the country, who purchased slaves with great eagerness, and enlarged their culture. Though the number of planters had of late years much increased, yet they bore no proportion to the vast extent of territory, and lands were still easily procured, either by patent or by purchase. According to the number of hands employed in labour, agriculture prospered and trade was enlarged. An uncommon circumstance also attended this rapid progress, which was favourable to the planting interest, and proved an additional incentive to industry. The price of staple commodities arose as the quantity brought to market increased. In 1761 rice sold at forty shillings per barrel, and indigo at two shillings per lib.; but in 1771 in so flourishing a state was the commerce of this country, that rice brought at market three pounds ten shillings per barrel, and indigo three shillings per lib. At the same time the quantity increased so much, that the exports of Carolina amounted, upon an average of three years after the peace, to L. 395,666: 13: 4; but, in 1771, the exports in that year alone arose to a sum not less than L. 756,000 sterling. How great then must the imports have been, when the province, notwithstanding this amazing increase, still remained in debt to the mother country. [Sidenote] Of its planters and agriculture. To this advanced state had Carolina arrived in point of improvement. Agriculture, beyond doubt, is of such importance to every country, that, next to public security and the distribution of justice and equity, it is the interest of every government to encourage it. Nothing could more manifestly promote industry and agriculture, than that fair and equitable division of lands among the people which took place in this province. Immense tracts of ground in possession of one man, without hands to cultivate and improve them, are only unprofitable deserts: but when lands are judiciously parcelled out among the people, industry is thereby encouraged, population increased, and trade promoted. The lands first yield abundance for the inhabitants, and then more than they can consume. When this is the case, the overplus can be spared for procuring foreign articles of exchange, and the province is thereby furnished with the conveniencies and luxuries of another climate and country. Then the planter's views are turned to the advantages of trade, and the merchant's, in return, to the success of husbandry. From which time a mutual dependence subsists between them, and it is the interest of the one to encourage the other. For when the merchants receive nothing from the province, it is impossible they can afford to import anything into it. Without cultivation commerce must always languish, being deprived of its chief supplies, the fruits of the earth. Without credit from the merchant there would have been little encouragement to emigrate to Carolina. A single arm could make little impression on the forest. A poor family, depending for support on the labour of one man, would have long remained in a starving condition, and scarcely ten of an hundred emigrants, obliged to work in such a climate, would have survived the tenth year after their arrival. To what causes then shall we ascribe the prosperity of the province? The answer is plain. Under the royal care the people, being favoured with every advantage resulting from public security, an indulgent government, abundance of land, large credit, liberty to labour and to reap the whole fruits of it, protection to trade, and an excellent market for every staple, laboured with success. These were powerful motives to emigrate, strong incentives to industry, and the principal causes of its rapid advances towards maturity. No colony that ever was planted can boast of greater advantages. Few have, in the space of an hundred years, improved and flourished in an equal degree. Notwithstanding the favourable situation for agriculture in which the Carolineans stood, they remained slovenly husbandmen, and every stranger was astonished at the negligent manner in which all estates in the province were managed. Those planters who had arrived at easy or affluent circumstances employed overseers; and having little to do but to ride round their fields now and then, to see that their affairs were not neglected, or their slaves abused, indulge themselves in rural amusements, such as racing, mustering, hunting, fishing, or social entertainments. For the gun and dog the country affords some game, such as small partridges, woodcocks, rabbits, _&c._ but few of the planters are fond of that kind of diversion. To chace the fox or the deer is their favourite amusement, and they are forward and bold riders, and make their way through the woods and thickets with astonishing speed. The horses of the country, though hardy and serviceable animals, make little figure; and therefore, to improve the breed, many have been of late years imported from England. The planters being fond of fine horses, have been at great pains to raise them, so that they now have plenty of an excellent kind, both for the carriage and the turf. In every plantation great care is taken in making dams to preserve water, for overflowing the rice-fields in summer, without which they will yield no crops. In a few years after this pond is made, the planters find it stocked with a variety of fishes; but in what manner they breed, or whence they come, they cannot tell, and therefore leave that matter to philosophical inquirers to determine. Some think that the spawn of fishes is exhaled from the large lakes of fresh water in the continent, and being brought in thunder-clouds, falls with the drops of rain into these reservoirs of water. Others imagine that it must have remained every where among the sand since that time the sea left these maritime parts of the continent. Others are of opinion, that young fish are brought by water-fowls, which are very numerous, from one pond to another, and there dropt, by which means the new-made pools receive their supply. But be the cause what it will, the effect is visible and notorious all over the country. When the ponds are stocked with fishes, it becomes an agreeable amusement to catch them, by hawling a sene[*] through the pool. Parties of pleasure are formed for this purpose, so that the young planters, like gentlemen of fortune, being often abroad at these rural sports and social entertainments, their domestic affairs by such means are much neglected, and their plantations carelessly managed. [Transcriber's note: The word 'sene' appears thus in the original. Might be an uncommon misprint of 'sieve'.] But even among the most diligent and attentive planters we see not that nice arrangement and order in their fields observable in most places of Europe, probably owing to the plenty and cheapness of land. In every country where landed estates are easily procured, they engross not that care and attention requisite for making them yield the greatest returns. The freeholds in Carolina are not only easily obtained by patent or purchase, but also all alienable at pleasure; so that few of the present generation of planters regulate their system of husbandry upon any established principles or plans, much less with any views to posterity. In no country have the finest improvements been found in the first ages of cultivation. This remains for a future day, and when lands shall be more scarce and valuable, and the country better peopled; then, it is probable, Carolina will cover, like other countries, the effects of the nice art and careful management of the husbandman. At present the common method of cultivation is as follows. After the planter has obtained his tract of land, and built a house upon it, he then begins to clear his field of that load of wood with which the land is covered. Nature points out to him where to begin his labours; for the soil, however various, is every where easily distinguished, by the different kinds of trees which grow upon it. Having cleared his field, he next surrounds it with a wooden fence, to exclude all hogs, sheep and cattle from it. This field he plants with rice or indigo, year after year, until the lands are exhausted or yield not a crop sufficient to answer his expectations. Then it is forsaken, and a fresh spot of land is cleared and planted, which is also treated in like manner, and in succession forsaken and neglected. Although there are vast numbers of cattle bred in the province, yet no manure is provided for improving the soil. No trials of a different grain are made. No grass seeds are sown in the old fields for enriching the pastures, so that either shrubs and bushes again spring up in them, or they are overgrown with a kind of coarse grass, grateful or nourishing to no animal. Like farmers often moving from place to place, the principal study with the planters is the art of making the largest profit for the present time, and if this end is obtained, it gives them little concern how much the land may be exhausted. The emulation that takes place among the present generation, is not who shall put his estate in the most beautiful order, who shall manage it with most skill and judgment for posterity; but who shall bring the largest crop to the market. Let their children provide for themselves. They will endeavour to leave them plenty of labourers, and they know they can easily obtain abundance of lands; vain and absurd, therefore, would it be to bestow much pains and time in preparing this or that landed estate for them, and laying it out in fine order, which they are certain will be deserted so soon as the lands are exhausted. Such is the present method of carrying on agriculture in Carolina, and it may do for some time, but every one must clearly see that it will be productive of bad effects. The richness of the soil, and the vast quantity of lands, have deceived many, even those men who had been bred farmers in England, and made them turn out as careless husbandmen as the natives themselves. Wherever you go in this province, you may discover the ignorance of the people with respect to agriculture, and the small degree of perfection to which they have yet attained in this useful art. This will not be the case much longer, for lands will become scarce, and time and experience, by unfolding the nature of the soil, and discovering to the planters their errors, will teach them, as circumstances change, to alter also their present rules, and careless manner of cultivation. In every country improvements are gradual and progressive. In such a province as Carolina, where the lands are good, new staples will be introduced, new sources of wealth will open; and, if we may judge from what is past, we may conclude, that, if no misunderstandings or quarrels shall interrupt its future progress, it certainly promises to be one of the most flourishing settlements in the world. We have seen that its exports are already very great, even while the lands are negligently cultivated and ill managed; but how much greater will they be when the art of agriculture shall hare arrived at the same degree of perfection in that province as in England. [Sidenote] An interruption of the harmony between Britain and her colonies, and the causes of it. Such, at this period, was the happy situation of the people and province of South Carolina; safe under the royal care and protection, and advancing to an opulent state by the unlimited credit and great indulgence granted by Britain. However, if we proceed a little farther, we shall see the face of things gradually changing. We shall behold the mother country, as the wealth of her colonies increased, attempting some alteration in their political and commercial system: and the different provinces, infected with pride and ambition, aspiring after independence. Let us take a slight view of the causes of that unhappy quarrel which at this time began between them, and afterwards proceeded to such a degree of violence as to threaten a total dissolution of all political union and commercial intercourse. It might have been expected that those colonies would not soon forget their obligations to the mother country, by which they had been so long cherished and defended. As all the colonies were in themselves so many independent societies, and as in every state protection and allegiance are reciprocal and inseparable duties, one would have thought that subjects would yield obedience to the laws, and submission to the authority of that government under which they claimed protection. Such was the constitution of the provinces, that each, by its own legislature, could only regulate the internal police within the bounds of its territory. Thus far, and no farther, did its authority extend. Not one of them could either make or execute regulations binding upon another. They had no common council, empowered by the constitution, to act for and to bind all, though perhaps good policy now required the establishment of such a council, for the purpose of raising a revenue from them. Every member of the vast empire might perceive, that some common tax, regularly and impartially imposed, in proportion to the strength of each division, was necessary to the future defence and protection of the whole. In particular, the people of Great Britain, when they looked forward to the possible contingency of a new war, and considered the burdens under which they groaned, had a melancholy and dreadful prospect before them; and the parliament considered it as their indispensible duty to relieve them as much as possible, and provide for the safety of the state by a proportionable charge on all its subjects. For as the exemption of one part from this equal charge was unreasonable and unjust, so it might tend to alienate the hearts of these subjects residing in one corner of the empire from those in another, and destroy that union and harmony in which the strength of the whole consisted. Such were probably the views and designs of the parliament of Great Britain at this juncture, with respect to America. At the same time, if we consider the genius, temper and circumstances of the Americans, we will find them jealous of their liberties, proud of their strength, and sensible of their importance to Britain. They had hitherto obeyed the laws of the British parliament; but their great distance, their vast extent of territory, their numerous ports and conveniencies for trade, their increasing numbers, their various productions, and consequently their growing power, had now prepared and enabled them for resisting such laws as they deemed inconsistent with their interest, or dangerous to their liberty. Some of these colonists even inherited a natural aversion to monarchy from their forefathers, and on all occasions discovered a strong tendency towards a republican form Of government, both in church and state. So that, before the parliament began to exert its authority for raising a revenue from them, they were prepared to shew their importance, and well disposed for resisting that supreme power, and loosening by degrees their connection with the parent state. America was not only sensible of her growing strength and importance, but also of the weakness of the mother country, reduced by a tedious and expensive war, and groaning under an immense load of national debt. The colonies boasted of the assistance they had given during the war, and Great Britain, sensible of their services, was generous enough to reimburse them part of the expences which they had incurred. After this they began to over-rate their importance, to rise in their demands, and to think so highly of their trade and alliance, as to deem it impossible for Britain to support her credit without them. In vain did the mother country rely upon their gratitude for past favours, so as to expect relief with respect to her present burdens. We allow, that the first generation of emigrants retained some affection for Britain during their lives, and gloried in calling her their home and their mother country; but this natural impression wears away from the second, and is entirely obliterated in the third. Among the planters in all the colonies this was manifestly the case; the sons of Englishmen in America by degrees lost their affection for England, and it was remarkable, that the most violent enemies to Scotland were the descendants of Scotchmen. But among merchants, the attachment to any particular country is still sooner lost. Men whose great object is money, and whose business is to gather it as fast as possible, in fact retain a predilection for any country no longer than it affords them the greatest advantages. They are citizens of the world at large, and provided they gain money, it is a matter of indifference to them to what country they trade, and from what quarter of the globe it comes. England is the best country for them, so long as it allows them to reap the greatest profits in the way of traffic; and when that is not the case, a trade with France, Spain, or Holland will answer better. If the laws of Great Britain interfere with their favourite views and interests, merchants will endeavour to elude them, and smuggle in spite of legal authority. Of late years, although the trade of the colonies with the mother country had increased beyond the hopes of the most sanguine politicians, yet the American merchants could not be confined to it, but carried on a contraband trade with the colonies of France and Spain, in defiance of all the British laws of trade and navigation. This illicit trade the people had found very advantageous, having their returns in specie for their provisions and goods, and the vast number of creeks and rivers in America proved favourable to such smugglers. During the late war this trade had been made a treasonable practice, as it served to supply those islands which Britain wanted to reduce; but, after the conclusion of the war, it returned to its former channel, and increased beyond example in any past period. [Sidenote] The new regulations made in the trade of the colonies give great offence. To prevent this illicit commerce, it was found necessary, soon after the peace, to establish some new regulations in the trade of the colonies. For this purpose some armed sloops and cutters were stationed on the coasts of America, whose commanders had authority to act as revenue officers, and to seize all ships employed in that contraband trade, whether belonging to foreigners or fellow-subjects. And to render these commercial regulations the more effectual, courts of admiralty were erected, and invested with a jurisdiction more extensive than usual. In consequence of the restrictions laid on this trade, which the smugglers found so advantageous, it suffered much, and, notwithstanding the number of creeks and rivers, was almost annihilated. This occasioned some very spirited representations to be sent across the Atlantic by merchants, who declared that the Americans bought annually to the amount of three millions of British commodities: That their trade with the French and Spanish colonies took off such goods as remained an encumbrance on their hands, and made returns in specie, to the mutual advantage of both parties concerned in it. They complained, that the British ships of war were converted into Guarda Costas, and their commanders into custom-house officers; an employment utterly unworthy of the exalted character of the British navy: That naval officers were very unfit for this business in which they were employed, being naturally imperious in their tempers, and little acquainted with the various cases in which ships were liable to penalties, or in which they were exempted from detention: That that branch of trade was thereby ruined, by which alone they were furnished with gold and silver for making remittances to England; and that though the loss fell first upon them, it would ultimately fall on the commerce and revenue of Great Britain. [Sidenote] A vote passed for charging stamp-duties on the Americans. Soon after this an act of parliament was passed, which, while it in some respects rendered this commercial intercourse with the foreign settlements legal, at the same time loaded a great part of the trade with duties, and ordered the money arising from them to be paid in specie to the British exchequer. Instead of giving the colonists any relief, this occasioned greater murmurs and complaints among them, as it manifestly tended to drain the provinces of their gold and silver. At the same time another act was passed, for preventing such paper bills of credit as might afterwards be issued for the conveniency of their internal commerce, from being made a legal tender in the payment of debts. This served to multiply their grievances, and aggravate their distress. But that the provinces might he supplied with money for their internal trade, all gold and silver arising from these duties were to be reserved, and applied to the particular purpose of paying troops stationed in the colonies for their defence. Several new regulations for encouraging their trade with Great Britain were also established. In consequence of a petition for opening more ports for the rice trade, leave was granted to the provinces of South Carolina and Georgia to carry their rice for a limited time into foreign parts, on its paying British duties at the place of exportation. A bounty was given on hemp and undressed flax imported into Britain from the American colonies; and a bill was passed for encouraging the whale-fishery on the coasts of America: which advantages, it was thought, would amply compensate for any loss the colonies might sustain by the duties laid on their foreign trade. But the colonists, especially those in New England, who had advanced to such a degree of strength as rendered troops unnecessary for their defence, were too much soured in their tempers, to allow that Great Britain had any other than self-interested views in her whole conduct towards them. They murmured and complained, and resolved on a plan of retrenchment with respect to the purchasing of British manufactures; but still they presumed not openly to call in question the authority of the British legislature over them. But the time was at hand when their affection to the mother country, which was already considerably weaned, should undergo a greater trial, and when their real dispositions with respect to the obedience due to the British parliament would no longer be concealed. A vote passed in the House of Commons, and very unanimously, "That, towards the farther defraying of the necessary expences of protecting the colonies, it may he proper to charge certain stamp-duties upon them." [Sidenote] Upon which the people of New-England discover their disaffection to government. When the news of this determination reached America, all the colonies were in some degree uneasy at the thoughts of paying taxes; but the colonists of New England, as if ripe for some commotion, were alarmed with the most terrible apprehensions and suspicions, openly affirming, that the King, Lords and Commons had formed a design for enslaving them, and had now begun deliberately to put it in execution. Immediately they entered into associations for distressing the mother country, from a principle of resentment, as some thought, agreeing to purchase as few clothes and goods from her as possible, and to encourage manufactures of all kinds within themselves. They pretended that they were driven to such measures by necessity; but in reality they had nothing less in view than their favourite plan of independence, for the accomplishment of which it required time to secure the union and help of the other colonies, without which they plainly perceived all attempts of their own would be vain and fruitless. Accordingly they established a correspondence with some leading men in each colony, representing the conduct of Great Britain in the most odious light, and declaring that nothing could prevent them and their posterity from being made slaves but the firmest union and most vigorous opposition of every colony, to all laws made in Great Britain on purpose to raise a revenue in the plantations. A few discontented persons, who are commonly to be found in every legislature, joined the disaffected colonists of New England; and though at this time the party was inconsiderable, yet being more firmly cemented together by the prospect of a stamp-act, which equally affected the interest of all, it by degrees gained strength, and at length became formidable. [Sidenote] An opportunity given the colonies to offer a compensation for the stamp-duty. Such measures, however, did not intimidate the British ministers, who imagined that an association entered into from a principle of resentment would be of short duration, and that the colonies in general would be averse from any serious quarrel with the mother country, upon which they depended for safety and protection. And although they were well apprised of this sullen and obstinate disposition of the colonists before the bill was introduced, yet they took no measures for preventing that opposition, which they had reason to believe would be made to the execution of their law. On the contrary, time was imprudently given to sound the temper of the colonies with respect to it, and to give them an opportunity of offering a compensation for it in their own way, in case they were dissatisfied with that method of raising a revenue for their defence. The minister even signified to the agents of the colonies his readiness to receive proposals from them for any other tax that might be equivalent to the stamp-duty. This he did although he thought that the parliament not only had a right to tax them, but also that it was expedient and proper to exercise that right. For as the colonies had no common council empowered by their constitution to bind all, their taxing themselves equally and impartially would be a matter of great difficulty, even although they should be disposed to agree to it. But the colonies, instead of making any proposal for raising a revenue by a stamp-duty or any other way, sent home petitions to be presented to King, Lords, and Commons, questioning, in the most direct and positive terms, the jurisdiction of Parliament over their properties. [Sidenote] The stamp-act passes in parliament. In this situation of affairs, the Parliament, sensible of the heavy burden which already lay on the people of Great Britain, and of the addition to it which another war must occasion, thought it their indispensable duty to exert that authority, which before this time had never been called in question, for relieving this oppressed part of the nation, and providing for the common safety, by a charge impartially laid upon all subjects, in proportion to their abilities. The tender indulgence exercised by a parent over her children in their infant state, was now considered as both unreasonable and unnecessary in that state of maturity to which the colonies had advanced. All were obliged to confess, that the people of America were favoured with the same privileges and advantages with their fellow-subjects of Britain, and justice required that they should contribute to the necessary expences of that government under which they lived, and by which they were protected. A revenue was necessary to the future security of America; and on whom should it be raised, but those colonists who were to enjoy the benefit of such protection. Therefore the bill for laying a stamp-duty upon the colonies was brought into parliament; which, after much debate, and many strong arguments urged on both sides, passed through both houses, and received the royal assent by commission, on the 22d of March, 1765. At the same time, to compensate for the operations of the stamp-act, another was made to encourage the importation of all kinds of timber from the colonies into Britain: and as the estimated produce of the stamp-act amounted only to L. 60,000 _per annum_, and timber was so plentiful over all the plantations, it was thought that the great advantage which the colonies must reap from the latter act, would be an ample recompense for the loss they might sustain from the former. [Sidenote] Violent measures taken to prevent its execution. In the mean time the inhabitants of New England were industrious in spreading an alarm of danger over all the continent, and making all possible preparations for resistance. They had turned a jealous eye towards the mother country, where they had many friends employed to watch her conduct, who failed not to give them the earliest intelligence of what was doing in parliament. While they received the news that the stamp-act had passed, they at the same time had intelligence of that violent opposition it had met with from a strong faction in the House of Commons. And if their friends in Britain had the boldness to call in question both the right of the British legislature to impose taxes on the colonies, and the expediency of exercising that right, they thought that they had much better reason to do so; and that none deserved the blessing of liberty who had not courage to assert their right to it. Accordingly, no means were neglected that could inflame and exasperate the populace. Bold and seditious speeches were made to stir up the people to resistance; by representing the act in the most odious light, and affirming that it would be attended with consequences subversive of all their invaluable rights and privileges. They declared that silence was a crime at such a critical time, and that a tame submission to the stamp-act would leave their liberties and properties entirely at the disposal of a British parliament. Having obtained a copy of the act, they publicly burnt it. The ships in the harbours hung out their colours half-mast high, in token of the deepest mourning; the bells in the churches were muffled, and set a-ringing, to communicate the melancholy news from one parish to another. These flames, kindled in New England, soon spread through all the capital towns along the coast; so that there was scarcely a sea-port town in America in which combinations were not framed for opposing the introduction of stamp-paper. When the vessels arrived which carried those stamp-papers to America, the captains were obliged to take shelter under the stern of some ships of war, or to surrender their cargoes into the hands of the enraged populace. The gentlemen appointed to superintend the distribution of stamps, were met by the mob at their landing, and compelled to resign their office. All men suspected of having any desire of complying with the act, or of favouring the introduction of stamps into America, were insulted and abused. The governors of the provinces had no military force to support civil authority. The magistrates connived at these irregular and riotous proceedings of the people. The assemblies adopted the arguments of the minority in parliament, and took encouragement from them to resist the authority of the supreme legislature. Though each colony in respect of another was a separate and independent society, without any political connection, or any supreme head to call the representatives of the people together, to act in concert for the common good; yet in this case almost all, of their own authority, sent deputies to meet in congress at New York, who drew up and signed one general declaration of their rights, and of the grievances under which they laboured, and transmitted a petition to the King, Lords and Commons, imploring relief. [Sidenote] The assembly of Carolina study ways and means of eluding the act. Among the rest a party in South Carolina, which province at this time, from inclination, duty and interest, was very firmly attached to the mother country, entered warmly into the general opposition. Lieutenant-governor Bull, a native of the province, manifested a desire of complying with the act, and supporting the legal and constitutional dependency of the colony on the crown and parliament of Great Britain; but wanted power sufficient for maintaining the dignity and authority of his government, and carrying that act into execution. Several old and wise men joined him, and declared that they had formerly taken an active part in bringing the province under his majesty's care, but would now be very cautious of resisting the authority of parliament, and robbing it of that protection which it had so long and so happily enjoyed. The members of assembly, finding the Lieutenant-governor determined to transact no public business but in compliance with the act of parliament, began to deliberate how they might best elude it. For this purpose they addressed him, begging to be informed whether the stamp act, said to be passed in parliament, had been transmitted to him by the Secretary of State, the Lords of Trade; or any other authentic channel, since he considered himself as under obligations to enforce it. He replied, that he had received it from Thomas Boone, the Governor of the province. The assembly declared, that they could consider Mr. Boone, while out of the bounds of his government, in no other light than that of a private gentleman, and that his receiving it in such a channel was not authority sufficient to oblige him to execute so grievous an act. But Mr. Bull and his council were of opinion, that the channel in which he had received it was equally authentic with that in which he had formerly received many laws, to which they had quietly submitted. Upon which the assembly came to the following resolutions, which were signed by Peter Manigault their speaker, and ordered to be printed, that they might be transmitted to posterity, in order to shew the sense of that house with respect to the obedience due by America to the British parliament. [Sidenote] Their resolutions respecting the obedience due to the British parliament. "Resolved, That his Majesty's subjects in Carolina owe the same allegiance to the crown of Great Britain that is due from its subjects born there. That his Majesty's liege subjects of this province are entitled to all the inherent rights and liberties of his natural born subjects within the kingdom of Great Britain. That the inhabitants of this province appear also to be confirmed in all the rights aforementioned, not only by their character, but by an act of parliament, 13th George II. That it is inseparably essential to the freedom of a people, and the undoubted right of Englishmen, that no taxes be imposed on them but with their own consent. That the people of this province are not, and from their local circumstances cannot be represented in the House of Commons in Great Britain; and farther, that, in the opinion of this house, the several powers of legislation in America were constituted in some measure upon the apprehension of this impracticability. That the only representatives of the people of this province are persons chosen therein by themselves; and that no taxes ever have been, or can be, constitutionally imposed on them but by the legislature of this province. That all supplies to the Crown being free gifts of the people, it is unreasonable and inconsistent with the principles and spirit of the British constitution for the people of Great Britain to grant to his Majesty the property of the people of this province. That trial by jury is the inherent and invaluable right of every British subject in this province. That the act of parliament, entitled, An act for granting and applying certain stamp-duties and other duties on the British colonies and plantations in America, _&c._ by imposing taxes on the inhabitants of this province; and the said act and several other acts, by extending the jurisdiction of the courts of admiralty beyond its ancient limits, have a manifest tendency to subvert the rights and liberties of this province. That the duties imposed by several late acts of parliament on the people of this province will be extremely burdensome and grievous; and, from the scarcity of gold and silver, the payment of them absolutely impracticable. That as the profits of the trade of the people of this province ultimately center in Great Britain, to pay for the manufactures which they are obliged to take from thence, they eventually contribute very largely to all the supplies granted to the Crown; and besides, as every individual in this province is as advantageous at least to Great Britain as if he were in Great Britain, as they pay their full proportion of taxes for the support of his Majesty's government here, (which taxes are equal, or more, in proportion to our estates, than those paid by our fellow subjects in Great Britain upon theirs), it is unreasonable for them to be called upon to pay any further part of the charges of government there. That the assemblies of this province have from time to time, whenever requisitions have been made to them by his Majesty, for carrying on military operations, either for the defence of themselves or America in general, most cheerfully and liberally contributed their full proportion of men and money for these services. That though the representatives of the people of this province had equal assurances and reasons with those of the other provinces, to expect a proportional reimbursement of those immense charges they had been at for his Majesty's service in the late war, out of the several parliamentary grants for the use of America; yet they have obtained only their proportion of the first of those grants, and the small sum of L. 285 sterling received since. That, notwithstanding, whenever his Majesty's service shall for the future require the aids of the inhabitants of this province, and they shall be called upon for this purpose in a constitutional way, it shall be their indispensable duty most cheerfully and liberally to grant to his Majesty their proportion, according to their ability, of men and money, for the defence, security, and other public services of the British American colonies. That the restrictions on the trade of the people of this province, together with the late duties and taxes imposed on them by act of parliament, must necessarily greatly lessen the consumption of British manufactures amongst them. That the increase, prosperity and happiness of the people of this province, depend on the full and free enjoyment of their rights and liberties, and on an affectionate intercourse with Great Britain. That the readiness of the colonies to comply with his Majesty's requisitions, as well as their inability to bear any additional taxes beyond what is laid on them by their respective legislatures, is apparent from several grants of parliament, to reimburse them part of the heavy expences they were at in the late war in America. That it is the right of the British subjects of this province to petition the King, or either house of parliament. Ordered, That these votes be printed and made public, that a just sense of the liberty, and the firm sentiments of loyalty of the representatives of the people of this province, may be known to their constituents, and transmitted to posterity." [Sidenote] The people become more violent in opposition to government. Notwithstanding these resolutions, few of the inhabitants of Carolina, even the most sanguine, entertained the smallest hopes of a repeal; but expected, after all their struggles, that they would be obliged to submit. Indeed a very small force in the province at that time would have been sufficient to quell the tumults and insurrections of the people, and enforce obedience to legal authority. But to the imprudence of ministers, the faction in parliament, and the weakness of the civil power in America, the resistance of the colonies may be ascribed. Had the stamp-duty been laid on them without any previous notice of the resolution of parliament, it is not improbable that they would have received it as they had done other acts of the British legislature. Or had the parliament been unanimous in passing the act, and taken proper measures for carrying it into execution, there is little doubt but the colonies would have submitted to it. For however generally the people might be indisposed for admitting of that or any other tax, yet a great majority of them at this time were averse from calling in question the supreme authority of the British parliament. But a small flame, which at first is easily extinguished, when permitted to spread, has often been productive of great conflagrations. The riotous and turbulent party, encouraged by the minority in England, set the feeble power of government in America at defiance. The better sort of people mingled with the rioters, and made use of the arguments of their friends in England to inflame and exasperate them. At length, they not only agreed to adhere to their former illegal combinations for distressing and starving the English manufactures, but also to with-hold from British merchants their just debts. This they imagined would raise such commotions in Britain as could not fail to overturn the ministry, or intimidate the parliament. [Sidenote] The merchants and manufacturers in England join in petitioning for relief. In consequence of these disturbances and combinations in America, great evils began to be felt in England, and still greater to be feared. The temporary interruption of commercial intercourse between the mother country and the colonies was very prejudicial to both. That large body of people engaged in preparing, purchasing and sending out goods to the continent were deprived of employment, and consequently of the means of subsistence; than which nothing could be conceived more likely to excite commotions in England. The revenue suffered by the want of the export and import duties. Petitions flowed into parliament from all quarters, not only from the colonies in America, but also from the trading and manufacturing towns in Great Britain, praying for such relief as to that house might seem expedient, at a juncture so alarming. The ministers having neglected to take the proper measures to enforce their law, while the matter was easy and practicable, were now obliged to yield to the rising current, and resign their places. By the interposition of the duke of Cumberland, such a change in the administration took place as promised an alteration of measures with respect to America. Mr. Pitt, who highly disapproved of the scheme for raising a revenue from the colonies, having long been detained by indisposition from parliament, had now so much recovered as to be able to attend the house.--The history of what follows is disgraceful to Great Britain, being entirely composed of lenient concessions in favour of a rising usurpation, and of such shameful weakness and timidity in the ministry, as afterwards rendered the authority of the British parliament in America feeble and contemptible. [Sidenote] The stamp-act repealed. No sooner had this change in administration taken place, than all papers and petitions relative to the stamp-act, both from Great Britain and America, were ordered to be laid before the House of Commons. The house resolved itself into a committee, to consider of those papers, about the beginning of the year 1766. Leave was given to bring in a bill for repealing an act of last session of parliament, entitled, An act for granting and applying certain stamp-duties and other duties, in the British colonies and plantations in America, towards defraying the expenses of protecting and securing the same. When this bill came into parliament a warm debate ensued, and Mr. Pitt with several more members strongly urged the necessity of a repeal. He made a distinction between external and internal taxes, and denied not only the right of parliament to impose the latter on the colonies, but also the justice, equity, policy and expediency of exercising that right. Accordingly, while it was declared that the King, by and with the consent of the Lords spiritual and temporal, and Commons of Great Britain in parliament assembled, had, have, and of right ought to have, full power and authority to make laws and statutes of sufficient force and validity to bind the colonies and people of America, subjects of the crown of Great Britain, in all cases whatsoever; the stamp-act was repealed, because it appeared that the continuance of it would be attended with many inconveniences, and might be productive of consequences detrimental to the commercial interest of these kingdoms. [Sidenote] Which proves fatal to the jurisdiction of the British parliament in America. This concession in favour of the rising usurpation, instead of proving favourable to the commercial interests of the nation, had rather the contrary effect, and served to set the colonies in some measure free from the legislative authority of Britain. It gave such importance to the licentious party in America, and such superiority over the good and loyal subjects as had a manifest tendency to throw the colonies into a state of anarchy and confusion. It served to promote a doctrine among them subversive of all good government, which plainly implied, that the obedience of subjects was no longer due to the laws of the supreme legislature, than they in their private judgments might think them agreeable to their interest, or the particular notions which they may have framed of a free constitution. While it gave countenance and encouragement to the riotous and turbulent subjects in America, who at that time were neither an opulent nor respectable party in the colonies, it exposed the real friends of government to popular prejudice, and rendered their affections more cool, and their future endeavours in support of government more feeble and ineffectual. For after repealing the stamp-act, without any previous submission on the part of the colonies, how could it be expected that any gentleman would risque his domestic peace, his fortune, or his life, in favour of a distant government ready to desert him, and leave him subjected to all the insults and outrages of future insurgents? How could it be imagined that these colonies, that had set the power of Great Britain at defiance, and obtained what they aimed at by tumults and insurrections, would afterwards remain quiet? As they had opposed the stamp-act, assigning for reason that they were not represented in parliament, was it not evident that the same reason would extend to all other laws which the parliament might enact to bind them in times to come, or had enacted to bind them in times past? The repeal of the stamp-act upon such a principle, and in such circumstances of tumult, unquestionably served to encourage the colonies in disobedience, and to prepare their minds for asserting their independence. [Sidenote] And gives occasion of triumph to the colonies. When the news of the repeal of this act reached America, it afforded the colonists, as might have been expected, matter of great triumph. The most extravagant demonstrations of joy, by bonfires, illuminations and ringing of bells, were exhibited in every capital. The Carolineans sent to England for a marble statue of Mr. Pitt, and erected it in the middle of Charlestown, in grateful remembrance of the noble stand he had made in defence of their rights and liberties. Addresses were sent home to the King, acknowledging the wisdom and justice of his government in the repeal of the grievous act, and expressing their happiness that their former harmony and commercial intercourse, so beneficial to both countries, were restored. But soon after it appeared that the power of Great Britain in America had received a fatal blow, such as she would never be able to recover without the severest struggles and boldest exertions. For whatever fair professions of friendship some colonies might make, the strongest of them retained their natural aversion to monarchy, and were well disposed for undermining the civil establishments, and paving the way for their entire subversion. The British government, formerly so much revered, was now deemed oppressive and tyrannical. The little island, they said, had become jealous of their dawning power and splendour, and it behoved every one to watch her conduct with a sharp eye, and carefully guard their civil and religious liberties. Accordingly, for the future, we will find, that the more Great Britain seemed to avoid, the more the colonies seemed to seek for, grounds of quarrel; and the more the former studied to unite, by the ties of common interest, the more the latter strove to dissolve every political and commercial connection. Their minds and affections being alienated from the mother country, they next discovered an uneasiness under the restraints of legal authority. They quarrelled almost with every governor, found fault with all instructions from England which clashed with their leading passions and interests, and made use of every art for weakening the hands of civil government. Their friends in Britain had gloried that they had resisted; and now subjection of every kind was called slavery, and the spirit of disorder and disobedience which had broke out continued and prevailed. At length, even the navigation-act was deemed a yoke, which they wished to shake off, and throw their commerce open to the whole world. Several writers appeared in America in defence of what they were pleased to call their natural rights, who had a lucky talent of seasoning their compositions to the palate of the bulk of the people. Hence the seeds of disaffection which had sprung up in New England spread through the other colonies, insomuch that multitudes became infected with republican principles, and aspired after independence.--But here we shall stop for the present time, and leave the account of their farther struggles towards the accomplishment of this favourite plan to some future opportunity. 
18912	----	produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress, Manuscript Division) SLAVE NARRATIVES _A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves_ TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT 1936-1938 ASSEMBLED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS WASHINGTON 1941 VOLUME XIV SOUTH CAROLINA NARRATIVES PART 1 Prepared by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress Administration for the State of South Carolina +-----------------------------------------------------+ | TRANSCRIBER NOTES: | |To reflect the individual character of this document,| |inconsistencies in formatting have been retained. | | | |[HW: ] denotes a handwritten note. | +-----------------------------------------------------+ INFORMANTS Abrams, M. E. 1 Adams, Ezra 5 Adams, Mary 9 Adams, Victoria 10 Adamson, Frank 13 Andrews, Frances 17, 18 Arthur, Pete 19 Bacchus, Josephine 20 Ballard, William 26 Barber, Charley 29 Barber, Ed 34 Barber, Millie 38 Bates, Anderson 42 Bates, Millie 46 Bees, Welcome 48 Bell, Anne 51 Bevis, Caroline 55 Black, Maggie 57 Bluford, Fordon 62 Boulware, Samuel 65 Boyd, John 70 Bradley, Jane 74 Brice, Andy 75 Briggs, George 80, 89, 93 Bristow, Josephine 98 Broome, Anne 104 Brown, Hagar 107, 112, 115 Brown, Henry 118, 122 Brown, John C. 127 Brown, Mary Frances 131, 134 Brown, Sara 137, 141 Bryant, Margaret 143 Burrell, Savilla 149 Burton, C. B. 152 Butler, George Ann 153 Butler, Isaiah 155 Butler, Solbert 161 Cain, Granny 166, 168 Caldwell, Laura 169 Caldwell, Solomon 170 Cameron, Nelson 172 Campbell, Thomas 176 Cannon, Sylvia 180, 187 Caroline, Albert 197 Chisolm, Silvia 199 Chisolm, Tom 201 Cleland, Maria 204 Clifton, Peter 205 Coleman, Henry 210 Coleman, Rev. Tuff 216 Collier, Louisa 218 Collins, John 224 Corry, Bouregard 227 Craig, Caleb 229 Cunningham, Dinah 234 Daniels, Lucy 238 Davenport, John N. 240 Davenport, Moses 244 Davis, Charlie 245 Davis, Charlie 250 Davis, Heddie 254 Davis, Henry 260 Davis, Jesse 263 Davis, Lizzie 267, 288, 293 Davis, Louisa 299 Davis, Wallace 304, 306 Davis, William Henry 308 Dawkins, Elias 313 Dill, Will 319 Dixon, Thomas 324 Dorroh, Isabella 326 Downing, Laurence 329 Dozier, Washington 330 Duke, Alice 336 Durant, Silva (Sylvia) 337, 342 * * * * * Project 1885-1 From Field Notes. District No. 4. April 27, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage FOLK LORE: FOLK TALES (Negro). "Marse Glenn had 64 slaves. On Sat'day night, de darkies would have a little fun on de side. A way off from de big house, down in de pastur' dar wuz about de bigges' gully what I is ebber seed. Dat wuz de place whar us collected mos' ev'ry Sa'day night fer our lil' mite o' fun frum de white folks hearin'. Sometime it wuz so dark dat you could not see de fingers on yo' han' when you would raise it fo' your face. Dem wuz sho' schreechy nights; de schreechiest what I is ever witnessed, in all o' my born natu'al days. Den of cose, dar wuz de moonlight nights when a darky could see; den he see too much. De pastur' wuz big and de trees made dark spots in it on de brightest nights. All kind o' varmints tuck and hollered at ye as ye being gwine along to reach dat gully. Cose us would go in droves sometime, and den us would go alone to de gully sometime. When us started together, look like us would git parted 'fo we reach de gully all together. One of us see som'tin and take to runnin'. Maybe de other darkies in de drove, de wouldn't see nothin' jes den. Dats zactly how it is wid de spirits. De mout (might) sho de'self to you and not to me. De acts raal queer all de way round. Dey can take a notion to scare de daylights outtin you when you is wid a gang; or dey kin scare de whole gang; den, on de other hand, dey kin sho de'self off to jes two or three. It ain't never no knowin' as to how and when dem things is gwine to come in your path right fo your very eyes; specially when you is partakin' in some raal dark secret whar you is planned to act raal sof' and quiet like all de way through. "Dem things bees light on dark nights; de shines de'self jes like dese 'lectric lights does out dar in dat street ever' night, 'cept dey is a scaird waary light dat dey shines wid. On light nights, I is seed dem look, furs dark like a tree shad'er; den dey gits raal scairy white. T'aint no use fer white folks to low dat it ain't no haints, an' grievements dat follows ye all around, kaise I is done had to many 'spriences wid dem. Den dare is dese young niggers what ain't fit to be called darkies, dat tries to ac' eddicated, and says dat it ain't any spe'rits dat walks de earth. When dey lows dat to me, I rolls my old eyes at dem an' axes dem how comes dey runs so fas' through de woods at night. Yes sirree, dem fool niggers sees dem jes as I does. Raaly de white folks doesn't have eyes fer sech as we darkies does; but dey bees dare jes de same. "Never mindin' all o' dat, we n'used to steal our hog ever' sa'day night and take off to de gully whar us'd git him dressed and barbecued. Niggers has de mos'es fun at a barbecue dat dare is to be had. As none o' our gang didn't have no 'ligion, us never felt no scruples bout not gettin de 'cue' ready fo' Sunday. Us'd git back to de big house along in de evenin' o' Sunday. Den Marse, he come out in de yard an' low whar wuz you niggers dis mornin'. How come de chilluns had to do de work round here. Us would tell some lie bout gwine to a church 'siety meetin'. But we got raal scairt and mose 'cided dat de best plan wuz to do away wid de barbecue in de holler. Conjin 'Doc.' say dat he done put a spell on ole Marse so dat he wuz 'blevin ev'y think dat us tole him bout Sa'day night and Sunday morning. Dat give our minds 'lief; but it turned out dat in a few weeks de Marse come out from under de spell. Doc never even knowed nothin' bout it. Marse had done got to countin' his hogs ever' week. When he cotch us, us wuz all punished wid a hard long task. Dat cured me o' believing in any conjuring an' charmin' but I still kno's dat dare is haints; kaise ever time you goes to dat gully at night, up to dis very day, you ken hear hogs still gruntin' in it, but you can't see nothing. "After Marse Glenn tuck and died, all o' de white folks went off and lef' de plantation. Some mo' folks dat wuz not o' quality, come to live dare an' run de plantation. It wuz done freedom den. Wo'nt long fo dem folks pull up and lef' raal onexpected like. I doesn't recollect what dey went by, fat is done slipped my mind; but I must 'av knowed. But dey lowed dat de house wuz to draffy and dat dey couldn't keep de smoke in de chimney an' dat de doo's would not stay shet. Also dey lowed dat folks prowled aroun' in de yard in de night time a keepin' dem awake. "Den Marse Glenn's boys put Mammy in de house to keep it fer 'em. But Lawd God! Mammy said dat de furs night she stayed dare de haints nebber let her git not narr'y mite o' sleep. Us all had lowed dat wuz de raal reason dem white folks lef out so fas'. When Mammy could not live in dat big house whar she had stayed fer years, it won't no use fer nobody else to try. Mammy low dat it de Marse a lookin' fer his money what he done tuck and burried and de boys couldn't find no sign o' it. Atter dat, de sons tuck an' tacked a sign on de front gate, offering $200.00 to de man, white or black, dat would stay dar and fin' out whar dat money wuz burried. Our preacher, the Rev. Wallace, lowed dat he would stay dar and find out whar dat money wuz from de spirits. He knowed dat dey wuz tryin to sho de spot what dat money wuz. "He went to bed. A dog began running down dem steps; and a black cat run across de room dat turned to white befo' it run into de wall. Den a pair of white horses come down de stairway a rattling chains fer harness. Next a woman dressed in white come in dat room. Brother Wallace up and lit out dat house and he never went back no mo'. "Another preacher tried stayin' dar. He said he gwine to keep his head kivered plum up. Some'tin unkivered it and he seed a white goat a grinnin' at him. But as he wuz a brave man and trus' de Lawd, he lowed, 'What you want wid me nohow?' The goat said, 'what is you doin' here. Raise, I knows dat you ain't sleep.' De preacher say, 'I wants you to tell me what ole Marse don tuck and hid dat money?' De goat grin and low, 'How come you don' look under your pillar, sometime?' Den he run away. De preacher hopped up and looked under de pillar, and dar wuz de money sho nuf. Peers like it wuz de one on de lef' end o' de back porch, but I jes remembers 'bout dat." Source: Mrs. M. E. Abrams, Whitmire, S. C.; told her by old "uncle" "Mad" Griffin, Whitmire, (Col. 82 yrs.) Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. 2/25/37. Project #1655 Henry Grant Columbia, S. C. REFLECTIONS OF EZRA ADAMS EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD Ezra Adams is incapable of self-support, owing to ill health. He is very well taken care of by a niece, who lives on the Caughman land just off S. C. #6, and near Swansea, S. C. "My mammy and pappy b'long to Marster Lawrence Adams, who had a big plantation in de eastern part of Lancaster County. He died four years after de Civil War and is buried right dere on de old plantation, in de Adams family burying grounds. I was de oldest of de five chillun in our family. I 'members I was a right smart size plowboy, when freedom come. I think I must of been 'bout ten or eleven years old, then. Dere's one thing I does know; de Yankees didn't tech our plantation, when they come through South Carolina. Up in de northern part of de county they sho' did destroy most all what folks had. "You ain't gwine to believe dat de slaves on our plantation didn't stop workin' for old marster, even when they was told dat they was free. Us didn't want no more freedom than us was gittin' on our plantation already. Us knowed too well dat us was well took care of, wid a plenty of vittles to eat and tight log and board houses to live in. De slaves, where I lived, knowed after de war dat they had abundance of dat somethin' called freedom, what they could not wat, wear, and sleep in. Yes, sir, they soon found out dat freedom ain't nothin', 'less you is got somethin' to live on and a place to call home. Dis livin' on liberty is lak young folks livin' on love after they gits married. It just don't work. No, sir, it las' so long and not a bit longer. Don't tell me! It sho' don't hold good when you has to work, or when you gits hongry. You knows dat poor white folks and niggers has got to work to live, regardless of liberty, love, and all them things. I believes a person loves more better, when they feels good. I knows from experience dat poor folks feels better when they has food in deir frame and a few dimes to jingle in deir pockets. I knows what it means to be a nigger, wid nothin'. Many times I had to turn every way I knowed to git a bite to eat. I didn't care much 'bout clothes. What I needed in sich times was food to keep my blood warm and gwine 'long. "Boss, I don't want to think, and I knows I ain't gwine to say a word, not a word of evil against deir dust lyin' over yonder in deir graves. I was old enough to know what de passin' 'way of old marster and missus meant to me. De very stream of lifeblood in me was dryin' up, it 'peared lak. When marster died, dat was my fust real sorrow. Three years later, missus passed 'way, dat was de time of my second sorrow. Then, I 'minded myself of a little tree out dere in de woods in November. Wid every sharp and cold wind of trouble dat blowed, more leaves of dat tree turnt loose and went to de ground, just lak they was tryin' to follow her. It seem lak, when she was gone, I was just lak dat tree wid all de leaves gone, naked and friendless. It took me a long time to git over all dat; same way wid de little tree, it had to pass through winter and wait on spring to see life again. "I has farmed 'most all my life and, if I was not so old, I would be doin' dat same thing now. If a poor man wants to enjoy a little freedom, let him go on de farm and work for hisself. It is sho' worth somethin' to be boss, and, on de farm you can be boss all you want to, 'less de man 'low his wife to hold dat 'portant post. A man wid a good wife, one dat pulls wid him, can see and feel some pleasure and experience some independence. But, bless your soul, if he gits a woman what wants to be both husband and wife, fare-you-well and good-bye, too, to all love, pleasure, and independence; 'cause you sho' is gwine to ketch hell here and no mild climate whenever you goes 'way. A bad man is worse, but a bad woman is almost terrible. "White man, dere is too many peoples in dese big towns and cities. Dere is more of them than dere is jobs to make a livin' wid. When some of them find out dat they can't make a livin', they turns to mischief, de easy way they thinks, takin' widout pay or work, dat which b'longs to other people. If I understands right, de fust sin dat was committed in de world was de takin' of somethin' dat didn't b'long to de one what took it. De gentleman what done dis was dat man Adam, back yonder in de garden. If what Adam done back yonder would happen now, he would be guilty of crime. Dat's how 'ciety names sin. Well, what I got to say is dis: If de courts, now, would give out justice and punishment as quick as dat what de Good Master give to Adam, dere would be less crime in de land I believes. But I 'spose de courts would be better if they had de same jurisdiction as de Master has. Yes, sir, they would be gwine some then. "I tells you, dis gittin' what don't b'long to you is de main cause of dese wars and troubles 'bout over dis world now. I hears de white folks say dat them Japanese is doin' dis very thing today in fightin' them Chinamens. Japan say dat China has done a terrible crime against them and de rest of de world, when it ain't nothin' but dat they wants somethin' what don't belong to them, and dat somethin' is to git more country. I may be wrong, anyhow, dat is what I has heard. "What does I think de colored people need most? If you please sir, I want to say dis. I ain't got much learnin', 'cause dere was no schools hardly 'round where I was brung up, but I thinks dat good teachers and work is what de colored race needs worser than anything else. If they has learnin', they will be more ashame to commit crime, most of them will be; and, if they has work to do, they ain't gwine to have time to do so much wrong. Course dere is gwine to be black sheeps in most flocks, and it is gwine to take patience to git them out, but they will come out, just as sho' as you is born. "Is de colored people superstitious? Listen at dat. You makes me laugh. All dat foolishness fust started wid de black man. De reason they is superstitious comes from nothin' but stomp-down ignorance. De white chillun has been nursed by colored women and they has told them stories 'bout hants and sich lak. So de white chillun has growed up believin' some of dat stuff 'til they natchally pass it on from generation to generation. Here we is, both white and colored, still believin' some of them lies started back when de whites fust come to have de blacks 'round them. "If you wants to know what I thinks is de best vittles, I's gwine to be obliged to omit (admit) dat it is cabbage sprouts in de spring, and it is collard greens after frost has struck them. After de best vittles, dere come some more what is mighty tasty, and they is hoghead and chittlings wid 'tatoes and turnips. Did you see dat? Here I is talkin' 'bout de joys of de appetite and water drapping from my mouth. I sho' must be gittin' hongry. I lak to eat. I has been a good eater all my life, but now I is gittin' so old dat 'cordin' to de scriptures, 'De grinders cease 'cause they are few', and too, 'Those dat look out de windows be darkened'. My old eyes and teeth is 'bout gone, and if they does go soon, they ain't gwine to beat dis old frame long, 'cause I is gwine to soon follow, I feels. I hope when I does go, I can be able to say what dat great General Stonewall Jackson say when he got kilt in de Civil War, 'I is gwine to cross de river and rest under de shade of de trees'." [~HW: Ezra Adams, Swansea (about 10m. south of Columbia)~] Project 1885-1. Folk Lore District No. 4. May 27, 1937. Edited by: J. J. Murray. EX-SLAVE STORIES "Aunt" Mary Adams was swinging easily back and forth in the porch swing as the writer stopped to speak to her. When questioned, she replied that she and her mother were ex-slaves and had belonged to Dr. C. E. Fleming. She was born in Columbia, but they were moved to Glenn Springs where her mother cooked for Dr. Fleming. She remembers going with a white woman whose husband was in jail, to carry him something to eat. She said that Mr. Jim Milster was in that jail, but he lived to get out, and later kept a tin shop in Spartanburg. "Yes sir, Dr. Fleming always kept enough for us Niggers to eat during the war. He was good to us. You know he married Miss Dean. Do you know Mrs. Lyles, Mrs. Simpson, Mr. Ed Fleming? Well, dey are my chilluns. "Some man here told me one day that I was ninety years old, but I do not believe I am quite that old. I don't know how old I am, but I was walking during slavery times. I can't work now, for my feet hurt me and my fingers ain't straight." She said all of her children were dead but two, that she knew of. She said that she had a room in that house and white people gave her different things. As the writer told her good-bye, she said, "Good-bye, and may the Lord bless you". Source: "Aunt" Mary Adams, 363 S. Liberty Street, Spartanburg, S. C. Interviewer: F. S. DuPre, Spartanburg, S. C. Project #1655 Everett R. Pierce Columbia, S. C. VICTORIA ADAMS EX-SLAVE 90 YEARS OLD. "You ask me to tell you something 'bout myself and de slaves in slavery times? Well Missy, I was borned a slave, nigh on to ninety years ago, right down here at Cedar Creek, in Fairfield County. "My massa's name was Samuel Black and missus was named Martha. She used to be Martha Kirkland befo' she married. There was five chillun in de family; they was: Alice, Manning, Sally, Kirkland, and de baby, Eugene. De white folks live in a great big house up on a hill; it was right pretty, too. "You wants to know how large de plantation was I lived on? Well, I don't know 'zackly but it was mighty large. There was forty of us slaves in all and it took all of us to keep de plantation goin'. De most of de niggers work in de field. They went to work as soon as it git light enough to see how to git 'round; then when twelve o'clock come, they all stops for dinner and don't go back to work 'til two. All of them work on 'til it git almost dark. No ma'am, they ain't do much work at night after they gits home. "Massa Samuel ain't had no overseer, he look after his own plantation. My old granddaddy help him a whole heap though. He was a good nigger and massa trust him. "After de crops was all gathered, de slaves still had plenty of work to do. I stayed in de house wid de white folks. De most I had to do was to keep de house clean up and nurse de chillun. I had a heap of pretty clothes to wear, 'cause my missus give me de old clothes and shoes dat Missy Sally throw 'way. "De massa and missus was good to me but sometime I was so bad they had to whip me. I 'members she used to whip me every time she tell me to do something and I take too long to move 'long and do it. One time my missus went off on a visit and left me at home. When she come back, Sally told her that I put on a pair of Bubber's pants and scrub de floor wid them on. Missus told me it was a sin for me to put on a man's pants, and she whip me pretty bad. She say it's in de Bible dat: 'A man shall not put on a woman's clothes, nor a woman put on a man's clothes'. I ain't never see that in de Bible though, but from then 'til now, I ain't put on no more pants. "De grown-up slaves was punished sometime too. When they didn't feel like taking a whippin' they went off in de woods and stay 'til massa's hounds track them down; then they'd bring them out and whip them. They might as well not run away. Some of them never come back a-tall, don't know what become of them. We ain't had no jail for slaves; never ain't see none in chains neither. There was a guard-house right in de town but us niggers never was carried to it. You ask me if I ever see a slave auctioned off? Yes ma'am, one time. I see a little girl 'bout ten years old sold to a soldier man. Dis soldier man was married and didn't had no chillun and he buy dis little girl to be company for his wife and to help her wid de house work. "White folks never teach us to read nor write much. They learned us our A, B, C's, and teach us to read some in de testament. De reason they wouldn't teach us to read and write, was 'cause they was afraid de slaves would write their own pass and go over to a free county. One old nigger did learn enough to write his pass and got 'way wid it and went up North. "Missus Martha sho' did look after de slaves good when they was sick. Us had medicine made from herbs, leaves and roots; some of them was cat-nip, garlic root, tansy, and roots of burdock. De roots of burdock soaked in whiskey was mighty good medicine. We dipped asafetida in turpentine and hung it 'round our necks to keep off disease. "Befo' de Yankees come thru, our peoples had let loose a lot of our hosses and de hosses strayed over to de Yankee side, and de Yankee men rode de hosses back over to our plantation. De Yankees asked us if we want to be free. I never say I did; I tell them I want to stay wid my missus and they went on and let me alone. They 'stroyed most everything we had 'cept a little vittles; took all de stock and take them wid them. They burned all de buildings 'cept de one de massa and missus was livin' in. "It wasn't long after de Yankees went thru dat our missus told us dat we don't b'long to her and de massa no more. None of us left dat season. I got married de next year and left her. I like being free more better. Any niggers what like slavery time better, is lazy people dat don't want to do nothing. "I married Fredrick Adams; he used to b'long to Miss Tenny Graddick but after he was freed he had to take another name. Mr. Jess Adams, a good fiddler dat my husband like to hang 'round, told him he could take his name if he wanted to and dats how he got de name of Adams. Us had four chillun; only one livin', dat Lula. She married John Entzminger and got several chillun. My gran'chillun a heap of comfort to me." Home Address: Colonial Heights, Columbia, S. C. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. FRANK ADAMSON EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. "I 'members when you was barefoot at de bottom; now I see you a settin' dere, gittin' bare at de top, as bare as de palm of my hand. "I's been 'possum huntin' wid your pappy, when he lived on de Wateree, just after de war. One night us got into tribulation, I tells you! 'Twas 'bout midnight when de dogs make a tree. Your pappy climb up de tree, git 'bout halfway up, heard sumpin' dat once you hears it you never forgits, and dats de rattlin' of de rattles on a rattle snake's tail. Us both 'stinctly hear dat sound! What us do? Me on de ground, him up de tree, but where de snake? Dat was de misery, us didn't know. Dat snake give us fair warnin' though! Marster Sam (dats your pa) 'low: 'Frank, ease down on de ground; I'll just stay up here for a while.' I lay on them leaves, skeered to make a russle. Your pa up de tree skeered to go up or down! Broad daylight didn't move us. Sun come up, he look all 'round from his vantage up de tree, then come down, not 'til then, do I gits on my foots. "Then I laugh and laugh and laugh, and ask Marster Sam how he felt. Marster Sam kinda frown and say: 'Damn I feels like hell! Git up dat tree! Don't you see dat 'possum up dere?' I say: 'But where de snake, Marster?' He say: 'Dat rattler done gone home, where me and you and dat 'possum gonna be pretty soon!' "I b'longs to de Peays. De father of them all was, Korshaw Peay. My marster was his son, Nicholas; he was a fine man to just look at. My mistress was always tellin' him 'bout how fine and handsome-like he was. He must of got use to it; howsomever, marster grin every time she talk like dat. "My pappy was bought from de Adamson peoples; they say they got him off de ship from Africa. He sho' was a man; he run all de other niggers 'way from my mammy and took up wid her widout askin' de marster. Her name was Lavinia. When us got free, he 'sisted on Adamson was de name us would go by. He name was William Adamson. Yes sir! my brothers was: Justus, Hillyard, and Donald, and my sisters was, Martha and Lizzettie. "'Deed I did work befo' freedom. What I do? Hoed cotton, pick cotton, 'tend to calves and slop de pigs, under de 'vision of de overseer. Who he was? First one name Mr. Cary, he a good man. Another one Mr. Tim Gladden, burn you up whenever he just take a notion to pop his whip. Us boys run 'round in our shirt tails. He lak to see if he could lift de shirt tail widout techin' de skin. Just as often as not, though, he tech de skin. Little boy holler and Marster Tim laugh. "Us live in quarters. Our beds was nailed to de sides of de house. Most of de chillun slept on pallets on de floor. Got water from a big spring. "De white folks 'tend to you all right. Us had two doctors, Doctor Carlisle and Doctor James. "I see some money, but never own any then. Had plenty to eat: Meat, bread, milk, lye hominy, horse apples, turnips, collards, pumpkins, and dat kind of truck. "Was marster rich? How come he wasn't? He brag his land was ten miles square and he had a thousand slaves. Them poor white folks looked up to him lak God Almighty; they sho' did. They would have stuck their hands in de fire if he had of asked them to do it. He had a fish pond on top of de house and terraces wid strawberries, all over de place. See them big rock columns down dere now? Dats all dats left of his grandness and greatness. They done move de whippin' post dat was in de backyard. Yes sah, it was a 'cessity wid them niggers. It stood up and out to 'mind them dat if they didn't please de master and de overseer, they'd hug dat post, and de lend of dat whip lash gwine to flip to de hide of dat back of their's. "I ain't a complainin'. He was a good master, bestest in de land, but he just have to have a whippin' post, 'cause you'll find a whole passle of bad niggers when you gits a thousand of them in one flock. "Screech owl holler? Women and men turn socks and stockings wrong side out quick, dat they did, do it now, myself. I's black as a crow but I's got a white folks heart. Didn't ketch me foolin' 'round wid niggers in radical times. I's as close to white folks then as peas in a pod. Wore de red shirt and drunk a heap of brandy in Columbia, dat time us went down to General Hampton into power. I 'clare I hollered so loud goin' 'long in de procession, dat a nice white lady run out one of de houses down dere in Columbia, give me two biscuits and a drum stick of chicken, patted me on de shoulder, and say: 'Thank God for all de big black men dat can holler for Governor Hampton as loud as dis one does.' Then I hollers some more for to please dat lady, though I had to take de half chawed chicken out dis old mouth, and she laugh 'bout dat 'til she cried. She did! "Well, I'll be rockin' 'long balance of dese days, a hollerin' for Mr. Roosevelt, just as loud as I holler then for Hampton. "My young marsters was: Austin, Tom, and Nicholas; they was all right 'cept they tease you too hard maybe some time, and want to mix in wid de 'fairs of slave 'musements. "Now what make you ask dat? Did me ever do any courtin'? You knows I did. Every he thing from a he king down to a bunty rooster gits cited 'bout she things. I's lay wake many nights 'bout sich things. It's de nature of a he, to take after de she. They do say dat a he angel ain't got dis to worry 'bout. "I fust courted Martha Harrison. Us marry and jine de church. Us had nine chillun; seven of them livin'. A woman can't stand havin' chillun, lak a man. Carryin', sucklin', and 'tending to them wore her down, dat, wid de malaria of de Wateree brung her to her grave. "I sorrow over her for weeks, maybe five months, then I got to thinking how I'd pair up wid dis one and dat one and de other one. Took to shavin' again and gwine to Winnsboro every Saturday, and different churches every Sunday. I hear a voice from de choir, one Sunday, dat makes me sit up and take notice of de gal on de off side in front. Well sir! a spasm of fright fust hit me dat I might not git her, dat I was too old for de likes of her, and dat some no 'count nigger might be in de way. In a few minutes I come to myself. I rise right up, walked into dat choir, stand by her side, and wid dis voice of mine, dat always 'tracts 'tention, jined in de hymn and out sung them all. It was easy from dat time on. "I marry Kate at de close of dat revival. De day after de weddin', what you reckon? Don't know? Well, after gittin' breakfas' she went to de field, poke 'round her neck, basket on her head and picked two hundred pounds of cotton. Dats de kind of woman she is." Project 1815-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 10, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in Newberry County, S. C., near Belfast, about 1854. I was a slave of John Wallace. I was the only child, and when a small child, my mother was sold to Joe Liggins by my old master, Bob Adams. It is said that the old brick house where the Wallaces lived was built by a Eichleberger, but Dr. John Simpson lived there and sold it to Mr. Wallace. In the attic was an old skeleton which the children thought bewitched the house. None of them would go upstairs by themselves. I suppose old Dr. Simpson left it there. Sometimes later, it was taken out and buried. Marse Wallace had many slaves and kept them working, but he was not a strict master. "I married Allen Andrews after the war. He went to the war with his master. He was at Columbia with the Confederate troops when Sherman burnt the place. Some of them, my husband included, was captured and taken to Richmond Va. They escaped and walked back home, but all but five or six fell out or died. "My young master, Editor Bill Wallace, a son of Marse John, was a soldier. When he was sick at home, I fanned the flies from him with a home-made fan of peacock feathers, sewed to a long cane. "After the war, the 'bush-whackers', called Ku Klux, rode there. Preacher Pitts' brother was one. They went to negro houses and killed the people. They wore caps over the head and eyes, but no long white gowns. An old muster ground was above there about three miles, near what is now Wadsworth school." Source: Frances Andrews (col. 83), Newberry, S. C Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, Newberry, S. C. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 Sept. 22, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I live in a comfortable two-room cottage which my son owns. I can't do much work except a little washing and ironing. My grandchildren live with me. My other children help me a little when I need it. I heard about the 40 acres of land and a mule the ex-slaves would get after the war, but I didn't pay any attention to it. They never got anything. I think this was put out by the Yankees who didn't care about much 'cept getting money for themselves. "I come from the Indian Creek section of Newberry County. After about 1880 when things got natural, some of the slaves from this section rented small one-horse farms and made their own money and living. Some would rent small tracts of land on shares, giving the landlord one-half the crop for use of the land. "Everything is changed so much. I never learned to read and write and all I know is what I heard in old times. But I think the younger generation of negroes is different from what they used to be. They go where they want to and do what they want to and don't pay much attention to old folks anymore. "My mother's mother come from Virginia and my mother's father was born and raised in this county. I don't remember anything about the Nat Turner Rebellion, and never heard anything about it. We never had any slave up-risings in our neighborhood." Source: Frances Andrews (83), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. 8/11/37. Spartanburg, S. C. District No. 4 May 27, 1937. Edited by R. V. Williams [~HW: Lambrigh~] Folk Lore: Folk Tales (negro) "I was 'bout nine year ole when de big war broke loose. My pa and ma 'longed to de Scotts what libbed in Jonesville Township. When I got big 'nough to work, I was gib to de youngest Scott boy. Soon atter dis, Sherman come through Union County. No ma'm, I nebber seed Sherman but I seed some of his soldiers. Dat's de time I run off in de wood and not narry a soul knowed whar I was till de dus' had done settled in de big road. "Every Sunday, Marse Scott sent us to church in one of his waggins. White folks rid to church in de buggy and Marse went on de big saddle hoss. 'Bout dis time, Marse Scott went to Columbia to git coffee and sugar. He stay mos' two weeks, kaize he drive two fine hosses to de buggy 'long wid a long hind end to fetch things to and fro in. De roads was real muddy and de hosses haf to res' ever night. Den in Columbia, he would have a little 'joyment befo' he come back home." Source: Miss Dorothy Lambright, W. Main St., Union, S. C. (Story told her by "Uncle Peter" Arthur.) Information by Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, January 4, 1938 No. of Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- JOSEPHINE BACCHUS Ex-Slave, 75-80 Years "No, my mercy God, I don' know not one thought to speak to you bout. Seems like, I does know your face, but I been so sick all de year dat I can' hardly remember nothin. Yes, sweetheart, I sho caught on to what you want. Oh, I wishes I did know somethin bout dat old time war cause I tell you, if I been know anything, I would sho pour it out to you. I got burn out here de other day en I ain' got near a thing left me, but a pair of stockings en dat old coat dere on de bed. Dat how-come I stayin here wid Miss Celia. My husband, he dead en she took me in over here for de present. No'um, I haven't never had a nine months child. Reckon dat what ailin me now. Bein dat I never had no mother to care for me en give me a good attention like, I caught so much of cold dat I ain' never been safe in de family way. Yes, mam, I had my leg broke plenty times, but I ain' never been able to jump de time. Lord, I got a misery in my back dere. I hope it ain' de pneumonias." "Well, you see, I couldn' tell you nothin bout my mother cause I never didn' know nothin bout my mother. My Jesus, my brother tell bout when dey had my mother layin out on de coolin board, I went in de room whe' she was en axed her for somethin to eat en pushed her head dat way. You know, I wouldn' touch my hand to do nothin like dat, but I never know. Dat it, de coolin board, dat what dey used to have to lay all de dead people on, but dis day en time, de undertaker takes dem en fixes dem up right nice, I say. I tellin you, I ain' had no sense since I lost my people. Sometimes, I axes de Lord what he keepin me here for anyhow. Yes, mam, dat does come to me often times in de night. Oh, it don' look like I gwine ever get no better in dis life en if I don', I just prays to God to be saved. Yes, Lord, I prays to be lifted to a restful home." "Just like as I been hear talk, some of de people fare good in slavery time en some of dem fare rough. Dat been accordin to de kind of task boss dey come up under. Now de poor colored people in slavery time, dey give dem very little rest en would whip some of dem most to death. Wouldn' none of dem daresen to go from one plantation to another widout dey had a furlough from dey boss. Yes, mam, if dey been catch you comin back widout dat walkin paper de boss had give you, great Jeruseleum, you would sho catch de devil next mornin. My blessed a mercy, hear talk dey spill de poor nigger's blood awful much in slavery time. Hear heap of dem was free long time fore dey been know it cause de white folks, dey wanted to keep dem in bondage. Oh, my Lord, dey would cut dem so hard till dey just slash de flesh right off dem. Yes, mam, dey call dat thing dey been whip dem wid de cat o' nine tail. No, darlin, I hear talk it been made out of pretty leather plaited most all de way en den all dat part down to de bottom, dey just left it loose to do de cuttin wid. Yes, honey, dem kind of whips was made out of pretty leather like one of dese horse whips. Yes, mam, dat been how it was in slavery time." "Yankees! Oh, I hear folks speak bout de Yankees plunderin through de country plenty times. Hear bout de Yankees gwine all bout stealin white people silver. Say, everywhe' dey went en found white folks wid silver, dey would just clean de place up. Dat de blessed truth, too, cause dat exactly what I hear bout dem." "Lord, pray Jesus, de white people sho been mighty proud to see dey niggers spreadin out in dem days, so dey tell me. Yes, mam, dey was glad to have a heap of colored people bout dem cause white folks couldn' work den no more den dey can work dese days like de colored people can. Reckon dey love to have dey niggers back yonder just like dey loves to have dem dese days to do what dey ain' been cut out to do. You see, dey would have two or three women on de plantation dat was good breeders en dey would have chillun pretty regular fore freedom come here. You know, some people does be right fast in catchin chillun. Yes'um, dey must been bless wid a pile of dem, I say, en every colored person used to follow up de same name as dey white folks been hear to." "No'um, I never didn' go to none of dem cornshuckin en fodder pullin en all dem kind of thing. Reckon while dey was at de cornshuckin, I must been somewhe' huntin somethin to eat. Den dem kind of task was left to de men folks de most of de time cause it been so hot, dey was force to strip to do dat sort of a job." "Lord, I sho remembers dat earth shake good as anything. When it come on me, I was settin down wid my foots in a tub of water. Yes, my Lord, I been had a age on me in de shake. I remember, dere been such a shakin dat evenin, it made all de people feel mighty queer like. It just come in a tremble en first thing I know, I felt de difference in de crack of de house. I run to my sister Jessie cause she had been live in New York en she was well acquainted wid dat kind of gwine on. She say, 'Josie, dis ain' nothin but dem shake I been tellin you bout, but dis de first time it come here en you better be a prayin.' En, honey, everything white en colored was emptied out of doors dat night. Lord, dey was scared. Great Jeruseleum! De people was scared everywhe'. Didn' nobody know what to make of it. I tellin you, I betcha I was 30 years old in de shake." "Now, I guess time you get done gettin up all dem memorandums, you gwine have a pile. I tell you, if you keep on, you sho gwine have a bale cause dere a lot of slavery people is spring up till now. I ought to could fetch back more to speak to you bout, but just like I been tell you, I wasn' never cared for by a mother en I is caught on to a heap of roughness just on account dat I ain' never had a mother to have a care for me." "Oh, de people never didn' put much faith to de doctors in dem days. Mostly, dey would use de herbs in de fields for dey medicine. Dere two herbs, I hear talk of. Dey was black snake root en Sampson snake root. Say, if a person never had a good appetite, dey would boil some of dat stuff en mix it wid a little whiskey en rock candy en dat would sho give dem a sharp appetite. See, it natural cause if you take a tablespoon of dat bitter medicine three times a day like a person tell you, it bound to swell your appetite. Yes, mam, I know dat a mighty good mixture." "Oh, my Lord, child, de people was sho wiser in olden times den what dey be now. Dey been have all kind of signs to forecast de times wid en dey been mighty true to de word, too. Say, when you hear a cow low en cry so mournful like, it ain' gwine be long fore you hear tell of a death." "Den dere one bout de rain. Say, sometimes de old rain crow stays in de air en hollers en if you don' look right sharp, it gwine rain soon. Call him de rain crow. He hollers mostly like dis, 'Goo-oop, goo-oop.' Like dat." "De people used to have a bird for cold weather, too. Folks say, 'Don' you hear dat cold bird? Look out, it gwine be cold tomorrow.' De cold bird, he a brown bird. If you can see him, he a fine lookin bird, too. Yes'um, right large en strong lookin, but don' nobody hardly ever see him dese days." "En I reckon you hear talk bout dis one. Say, not to wash on de first day of de New Year cause if you do, you will wash some of your family out de pot. Say, somebody will sho die. Dat right, too. Den if possible, must boil some old peas on de first day of de New Year en must cook some hog jowl in de pot wid dem. Must eat some of it, but don' be obliged to eat it all. En ought to have everything clean up nicely so as to keep clean all de year. Say, must always put de wash out on de line to be sure de day fore New Years en have all your garments clean." "What my ideas bout de young folks dese days? Well, dey young folks en dey ain' young folks, I say. Cose I don' bother up wid dem none, but I think wid my own weak judgment, dey quite different from when I come along. Folks is awful funny dis day en time to my notion. Don' care what people see dem do no time. I sho think dey worser den what dey used to be. De way I say dey worser, I used to have to be back at such en such a time, if I went off, but now dey go anytime dey want to en dey comes back anytime dey want to. I sho think dey worser. De fact of it, I know dey worser." Source: Josephine Bacchus, colored, age 75-80, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Dec., 1937. Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 14, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born near Winnsboro, S. C., Fairfield County. I was twelve years old the year the Confederate war started. My father was John Ballard and my mother was Sallie Ballard. I had several brothers and sisters. We belonged to Jim Aiken, a large landowner at Winnsboro. He owned land on which the town was built. He had seven plantations. He was good to us and give us plenty to eat, and good quarters to live in. His mistress was good, too; but one of his sons, Dr. Aiken, whipped some of de niggers, lots. One time he whipped a slave for stealing. Some of his land was around four churches in Winnsboro. "We was allowed three pounds o' meat, one quart o' molasses, grits and other things each week--plenty for us to eat. "When freedom come, he told us we was free, and if we wanted to stay on with him, he would do the best he could for us. Most of us stayed, and after a few months, he paid wages. After eight months, some went to other places to work. "The master's wife died and he married a daughter of Robert Gillam and moved to Greenville, S. C. "The master always had a very big garden with plenty of vegetables. He had fifty hogs, and I helped mind the hogs. He didn't raise much cotton, but raised lots of wheat and corn. He made his own meal and flour from the mill on the creek; made home-made clothes with cards and spinning wheels. "They cooked in wide chimneys in a kitchen which was away off from the big house. They used pots and skillets to cook with. The hands got their rations every Monday night. They got their clothes to wear which they made on old spinning wheels, and wove them themselves. "The master had his own tanyard and tanned his leather and made shoes for his hands. "He had several overseers, white men, and some Negro foremen. They sometimes whipped the slaves, that is the overseers. Once a nigger whipped the overseer and had to run away in the woods and live so he wouldn't get caught. The nigger foremen looked after a set of slaves on any special work. They never worked at night unless it was to bring in fodder or hay when it looked like rain was coming. On rainy days, we shucked corn and cleaned up around the place. "We had old brick ovens, lots of 'em. Some was used to make molasses from our own sugar cane we raised. "The master had a 'sick-house' where he took sick slaves for treatment, and kept a drug store there. They didn't use old-time cures much, like herbs and barks, except sassafras root tea for the blood. "We didn't learn to read and write, but some learned after the war. "My father run the blacksmith shop for the master on the place. I worked around the place. The patrollers were there and we had to have a pass to get out any. The nigger children sometimes played out in the road and were chased by patrollers. The children would run into the master's place and the patrollers couldn't get them 'cause the master wouldn't let them. We had no churches for slaves, but went to the white church and set in the gallery. After freedom, niggers built 'brush harbors' on the place. "Slaves carried news from one plantation to another by riding mules or horses. They had to be in quarters at night. I remember my mother rode side-saddle one Saturday night. I reckon she had a pass to go; she come back without being bothered. "Some games children played was, hiding switches, marbles, and maybe others. Later on, some of de nigger boys started playing cards and got to gambling; some went to de woods to gamble. "The old cotton gins on de farms were made of wooden screws, and it took all day to gin four bales o' cotton. "I was one of the first trustees that helped build the first colored folks' church in the town of Greenwood. I am the only one now living. I married Alice Robinson, and had five sons and one daughter, and have five or six grandchildren. "Abraham Lincoln, I think, was a good man; had a big reputation. Couldn't tell much about Jefferson Davis. Booker T. Washington--Everybody thinks he is a great man for the colored race. "Of course I think slavery was bad. We is free now and better off to work. I think anybody who is any count can work and live by himself. "I joined de church when I was 17 years old, because a big preaching was going on after freedom for the colored people. "I think everybody should join the church and do right; can't get anywhere without it, and do good." Source: William Ballard (88), Greenwood, S. C. Interviewed by: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (6/10/37) Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. CHARLEY BARBER EX-SLAVE 81 YEARS OLD. Charley Barber lives in a shanty kind of house, situated on a plot of ground containing two acres all his own. It is a mile and a half southeast of Winnsboro, S. C. He lives with an anaemic daughter, Maggie, whose chief interests are a number of cats, about the premises, and a brindled, crumple-horned cow that she ties out to graze every morning and milks at evening. Charley is squat of figure, short neck, popeyed, and has white hair. He tills the two acres and produces garden truck that he finds a sale for among the employees of the Winnsboro mills, just across the railroad from his home. He likes to talk, and pricks up his ears,(so to speak), whenever anything is related as having occurred in the past. He will importune those present to hear his version of the event unusual. "Well sah, dis is a pleasure to have you call 'pon me, howsomever it be unexpected dis mornin'. Shoo! (driving the chickens out of the house) Shoo! Git out of here and go scratch a livin' for them chickens, dat's followin' you yet, and you won't wean and git to layin' again. Fust thing you know you'll be spoilin' de floor, when us is got company dis very minute. Scat! Maggie; git them cats out de chairs long 'nough for Mr. Wood to set in one whilst he's come to see me dis mornin'. "And dat's it? You wants me to talk over de days dat am gone? How dis come 'bout and how dat come 'bout, from de day I was born, to dis very hour? Let's light, up our smokestacks befo' us begin. Maybe you wants a drink of, water. Maggie, fetch de water here! "How old you think I is, sixty-five? My goodness! Do you hear dat Maggie? (Rubbing his hands; his eyes shining with pleasure) Take another look and make another guess. Seventy-five? You is growin' warm but you'll have to come again! "Bless your soul Marse Wood, you know what old Mudder Shifton say? She 'low dat: 'In de year 1881, de world to an end will surely come'. I was twenty-five years old when all de niggers and most of de white folks was believin' dat old lady and lookin' for de world to come to an end in 1881. Dat was de year dat I jined de church, 'cause I wanted to make sure dat if de end did come, I'd be caught up in dat rapture dat de white Methodist preacher was preachin' 'bout and explainin' to my marster and mistress at deir house on de piazza dat year. "I is eighty-one years old. I was born up on de Wateree River, close to Great Falls. My marster was Ozmond Barber. My mistress was name Miss Elizabeth; her de wife of Marse Ozmond. My pappy was name Jacob. My mammy went by de name of Jemima. They both come from Africa where they was born. They was 'ticed on a ship, fetch 'cross de ocean to Virginny, fetch to Winnsboro by a slave drover, and sold to my marster's father. Dat what they tell me. When they was sailin' over, dere was five or six hundred others all together down under de first deck of de ship, where they was locked in. They never did talk lak de other slaves, could just' say a few words, use deir hands, and make signs. They want deir collards, turnips, and deir 'tators, raw. They lak sweet milk so much they steal it. "Pappy care-nothin' 'bout clothes and wouldn't wear shoes in de winter time or any time. It was 'ginst de law to bring them over here when they did, I learn since. But what is de law now and what was de law then, when bright shiny money was in sight? Money make de automobile go. Money make de train go. Money make de mare go, and at dat time I 'spect money make de ships go. Yes sir, they, my pappy and mammy, was just smuggled in dis part of de world, I bet you! "War come on, my marster went out as a captain of de Horse Marines. A tune was much sung by de white folks on de place and took wid de niggers. It went lak dis: 'I'm Captain Jenks of de Horse Marines I feed my horse on corn and beans. Oh! I'm Captain Jenks of de Horse Marines And captain in de army!'" "When de Yankees come they seem to have special vengeance for my white folks. They took everything they could carry off and burnt everything they couldn't carry off. "Mistress and de chillun have to go to Chester to git a place to sleep and eat, wid kinfolks. De niggers just lay 'round de place 'til master rode in, after de war, on a horse; him have money and friends and git things goin' agin. I stay on dere 'til '76. Then I come to Winnsboro and git a job as section hand laborer on de railroad. Out of de fust money,--(I git paid off de pay train then; company run a special pay train out of Columbia to Charlotte. They stop at every station and pay de hands off at de rear end of de train in cash). Well, as I was a sayin': Out de fust money, I buys me a red shirt and dat November I votes and de fust vote I put in de box was for Governor Wade Hampton. Dat was de fust big thing I done. "De nex' big thing I done was fall in love wid Mary Wylie. Dat come 'bout on de second pay day. De other nigger gals say her marry me for my money but I never have believed it. White ladies do dat 'kalkilating' trick sometime but you take a blue-gum nigger gal, all wool on de top of her head and lak to dance and jig wid her foots, to pattin' and fiddle music, her ain't gonna have money in de back of her head when her pick out a man to marry. Her gonna want a man wid muscles on his arms and back and I had them. Usin' dat pick and shovel on de railroad just give me what it took to git Mary. Us had ten chillun. Some dead, some marry and leave. My wife die year befo' last. Maggie is puny, as you see, and us gits 'long wid de goodness of de Lord and de white folks. "I b'longs to de St. John Methodist Church in Middlesix, part of Winnsboro. They was havin' a rival (revival) meetin' de night of de earthquake, last day of August, in 1886. Folks had hardly got over de scare of 1881, 'bout de world comin' to an end. It was on Tuesday night, if I don't disremember, 'bout 9 o'clock. De preacher was prayin', just after de fust sermon, but him never got to de amen part of dat prayer. Dere come a noise or rumblin', lak far off thunder, seem lak it come from de northwest, then de church begin to rock lak a baby's cradle. Dere was great excitement. Old Aunt Melvina holler: 'De world comin' to de end'. De preacher say: 'Oh, Lordy', and run out of de pulpit. Everbody run out de church in de moonlight. When de second quake come, 'bout a minute after de fust, somebody started up de cry: 'De devil under de church! De devil under de church! De devil gwine to take de church on his back and run away wid de church!' People never stop runnin' 'til they got to de court house in town. Dere they 'clare de devil done take St. John's Church on his back and fly away to hell wid it. Marse Henry Galliard make a speech and tell them what it was and beg them to go home. Dat Mr. Skinner, de telegraph man at de depot, say de main part of it was way down 'bout Charleston, too far away for anybody to git hurt here, 'less a brick from a chimney fall on somebody's head. De niggers mostly believes what a fine man, lak Marse Henry, tell them. De crowd git quiet. Some of them go home but many of them, down in de low part of town, set on de railroad track in de moonlight, all night. I was mighty sleepy de nex' mornin' but I work on de railroad track just de same. Dat night folks come back to St. John's Church, find it still dere, and such a outpourin' of de spirit was had as never was had befo' or since. "Just think! Dat has been fifty-one years ago. Them was de glorious horse and buggy days. Dere was no air-ships, no autos and no radios. White folks had horses to drive. Niggers had mules to ride to a baseball game, to see white folks run lak de patarollers (patrollers) was after them and they holler lak de world was on fire." Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. ED BARBER EX-SLAVE 77 YEARS OLD. Ed Barber lives in a small one-room house in the midst of a cotton field on the plantation of Mr. A. M. Owens, ten miles southeast of Winnsboro, S. C. He lives alone and does his own cooking and housekeeping. He is a bright mulatto, has an erect carriage and posture, appears younger than his age, is intelligent and enjoys recounting the tales of his lifetime. His own race doesn't give him much countenance. His friends in the old days of reconstruction were white people. He presumes on such past affiliation and considers himself better than the full-blooded Negro. "It's been a long time since I see you. Maybe you has forgot but I ain't forgot de fust time I put dese lookers on you, in '76. Does you 'members dat day? It was in a piece of pines beyond de Presbyterian Church, in Winnsboro, S. C. Us both had red shirts. You was a ridin' a gray pony and I was a ridin' a red mule, sorrel like. You say dat wasn't '76? Well, how come it wasn't? Ouillah Harrison, another nigger, was dere, though he was a man. Both of us got to arguin'. He 'low he could vote for Hampton and I couldn't, 'cause I wasn't 21. You say it was '78 'stead of '76, dat day in de pines when you was dere? Well! Well! I sho' been thinkin' all dis time it was '76. "'Member de fight dat day when Mr. Pole Barnadore knock Mr. Blanchard down, while de speakin' was a gwine on? You does? Well, us come to common 'greement on dat, bless God! "Them was scary times! Me bein' just half nigger and half white man, I knowed which side de butter was on de bread. Who I see dere? Well, dere was a string of red shirts a mile long, dat come into Winnsboro from White Oak. And another from Flint Hill, over de Pea Ferry road, a mile long. De bar-rooms of de town did a big business dat day. Seem lak it was de fashion to git drunk all 'long them days. "Them red shirts was de monkey wrench in de cotton-gin of de carpet bag party. I's here to tell you. If a nigger git hungry, all he have to do is go to de white folk's house, beg for a red shirt, and explain hisself a democrat. He might not git de shirt right then but he git his belly full of everything de white folks got, and de privilege of comin' to dat trough sometime agin. "You wants me to tell you 'bout who I is, where I born, and how old I is? Well, just cross examine me and I'll tell you de facts as best I knows how. "I was born twelve miles east of Winnsboro, S. C. My marster say it was de 18th of January, 1860. "My mother name Ann. Her b'long to my marster, James Barber. Dat's not a fair question when you ask me who my daddy was. Well, just say he was a white man and dat my mother never did marry nobody, while he lived. I was de onliest child my mother ever had. "After freedom my mother raised me on de Marse Adam Barber place, up by Rocky Mount and Mitford. I stayed dere 'til all de 'citement of politics die down. My help was not wanted so much at de 'lection boxes, so I got to roamin' 'round to fust one place and then another. But wheresomever I go, I kept a thinkin' 'bout Rosa and de ripe may-pops in de field in cotton pickin' time. I landed back to de Barber place and after a skirmish or two wid de old folks, marry de gal de Lord always 'tended for me to marry. Her name was Rosa Ford. You ask me if she was pretty? Dat's a strange thing. Do you ever hear a white person say a colored woman is pretty? I never have but befo' God when I was trampin' 'round Charleston, dere was a church dere called St. Mark, dat all de society folks of my color went to. No black nigger welcome dere, they told me. Thinkin' as how I was bright 'nough to git in, I up and goes dere one Sunday. Ah, how they did carry on, bow and scrape and ape de white folks. I see some pretty feathers, pretty fans, and pretty women dere! I was uncomfortable all de time though, 'cause they was too 'hifalootin' in de ways, in de singin', and all sorts of carryin' ons. "Glad you fetch me back to Rosa. Us marry and had ten chillun. Francis, Thompkins, William, Jim, Levi, Ab and Oz is dead. Katie marry a Boykin and is livin' in New York. My wife, Rosa, die on dis place of Mr. Owens. "I lives in a house by myself. I hoes a little cotton, picks plums and blackberries but dewberries 'bout played out. "My marster, James Barber, went through de Civil War and died. I begs you, in de name of de good white folks of '76 and Wade Hampton, not to forget me in dis old age pension business. "What I think of Abe Lincoln? I think he was a poor buckra white man, to de likes of me. Although, I 'spects Mr. Lincoln meant well but I can't help but wish him had continued splittin' them fence rails, which they say he knowed all 'bout, and never took a hand in runnin' de government of which he knowed nothin' 'bout. Marse Jeff Davis was all right, but him oughta got out and fought some, lak General Lee, General Jackson and 'Poleon Bonaparte. Us might have won de war if he had turned up at some of de big battles lak Gettysburg, 'Chickenmaroger', and 'Applemattox'. What you think 'bout dat? "Yes sah, I has knowed a whole lot of good white men. Marse General Bratton, Marse Ed P. Mobley, Marse Will Durham, dat owned dis house us now settin' in, and Dr. Henry Gibson. Does I know any good colored men? I sho' does! Dere's Professor Benjamin Russell at Blackstock. You knows him. Then dere was Ouillah Harrison, dat own a four-hoss team and a saddle hoss, in red shirt days. One time de brass band at Winnsboro, S. C. wanted to go to Camden, S. C. to play at de speakin' of Hampton. He took de whole band from Winnsboro to Camden, dat day, free of charge. Ah! De way dat band did play all de way to Ridgeway, down de road to Longtown, cross de Camden Ferry, and right into de town. Dere was horns a blowin', drums a beatin', and people a shoutin': 'Hurrah for Hampton!' Some was a singin': 'Hang Dan Chamberlain on a Sour Apple Tree'. Ouillah come home and found his wife had done had a boy baby. What you reckon? He name dat boy baby, Wade Hampton. When he come home to die, he lay his hand on dat boy's head and say: 'Wade, 'member who you name for and always vote a straight out democrat ticket'. Which dat boy did!" Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. MILLIE BARBER EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. "Hope you find yourself well dis mornin', white folks. I's just common; 'spect I eats too much yesterday. You know us celebrated yesterday, 'cause it was de Fourth of July. Us had a good dinner on dis 2,000 acre farm of Mr. Owens. God bless dat white boss man! What would us old no 'count niggers do widout him? Dere's six or seven, maybe eight of us out here over eighty years old. 'Most of them is like me, not able to hit a lick of work, yet he take care of us; he sho' does. "Mr. Owens not a member of de church but he allowed dat he done found out dat it more blessed to give than to receive, in case like us. "You wants to know all 'bout de slavery time, de war, de Ku Kluxes and everything? My tongue too short to tell you all dat I knows. However, if it was as long as my stockin's, I could tell you a trunk full of good and easy, bad and hard, dat dis old life-stream have run over in eighty-two years. I's hoping to reach at last them green fields of Eden of de Promise Land. 'Scuse me ramblin' 'round, now just ask me questions; I bet I can answer all you ask. "My pa name, Tom McCullough; him was a slave of old Marster John McCullough, whose big two-story house is de oldest in Fairfield County. It stands today on a high hill, just above de banks of Dutchman Creek. Big road run right by dat house. My mammy name, Nicie. Her b'long to de Weir family; de head of de family die durin' de war of freedom. I's not supposed to know all he done, so I'll pass over dat. My mistress name, Eliza; good mistress. Have you got down dere dat old marster just took sick and die, 'cause he wasn't touched wid a bullet nor de life slashed out of him wid a sword? "Well, my pa b'longin' to one man and my mammy b'longin' to another, four or five miles apart, caused some confusion, mix-up, and heartaches. My pa have to git a pass to come to see my mammy. He come sometimes widout de pass. Patrollers catch him way up de chimney hidin' one night; they stripped him right befo' mammy and give him thirty-nine lashes, wid her cryin' and a hollerin' louder than he did. "Us lived in a log house; handmade bedstead, wheat straw mattress, cotton pillows, plenty coverin' and plenty to eat, sich as it was. Us never git butter or sweet milk or coffee. Dat was for de white folks but in de summer time, I minds de flies off de table wid the peafowl feather brush and eat in de kitchen just what de white folks eat; them was very good eatin's I's here for to tell you. All de old slaves and them dat worked in de field, got rations and de chillun were fed at de kitchen out-house. What did they git? I 'members they got peas, hog meat, corn bread, 'lasses, and buttermilk on Sunday, then they got greens, turnips, taters, shallots, collards, and beans through de week. They were kept fat on them kind of rations. "De fact is I can't 'member us ever had a doctor on de place; just a granny was enough at child birth. Slave women have a baby one day, up and gwine 'round de next day, singin' at her work lak nothin' unusual had happened. "Did I ever git a whippin'? Dat I did. How many times? More than I can count on fingers and toes. What I git a whippin' for? Oh, just one thing, then another. One time I break a plate while washin' dishes and another time I spilt de milk on de dinin' room floor. It was always for somethin', sir. I needed de whippin'. "Yes sir, I had two brothers older than me; one sister older than me and one brother younger than me. "My young marster was killed in de war. Their names was Robert, Smith, and Jimmie. My young mistress, Sarah, married a Sutton and moved to Texas. Nancy marry Mr. Wade Rawls. Miss Janie marry Mr. Hugh Melving. At this marriage my mammy was give to Miss Janie and she was took to Texas wid her young baby, Isaiah, in her arms. I have never seen or heard tell of them from dat day to dis. "De Yankees come and burn de gin-house and barns. Open de smokehouse, take de meat, give de slaves some, shoot de chickens, and as de mistress and girls beg so hard, they left widout burnin' de dwellin' house. "My oldest child, Alice, is livin' and is fifty-one years old de 10th of dis last May gone. My first husband was Levi Young; us lived wid Mr. Knox Picket some years after freedom. We moved to Mr. Rubin Lumpkin's plantation, then to George Boulwares. Well, my husband die and I took a fool notion, lak most widows, and got into slavery again. I marry Prince Barber; Mr. John Hollis, Trial Justice, tied de knot. I loved dat young nigger more than you can put down dere on paper, I did. He was black and shiny as a crow's wing. Him was white as snow to dese old eyes. Ah, the joy, de fusses, de ructions, de beatin's, and de makin' ups us had on de Ed Shannon place where us lived. Us stay dere seven long years. "Then de Klu Kluxes comed and lak to scared de life out of me. They ask where Prince was, searched de house and go away. Prince come home 'bout daylight. Us took fright, went to Marster Will Durham's and asked for advice and protection. Marster Will Durham fixed it up. Next year us moved to dis place, he own it then but Marster Arthur Owens owns it now. Dere is 2,000 acres in dis place and another 1,000 acres in de Rubin Lumpkin place 'joinin' it. "Prince die on dis place and I is left on de mercy of Marster Arthur, livin' in a house wid two grandchillun, James twelve years, and John Roosevelt Barber, eight years old. Dese boys can work a little. They can pick cotton and tote water in de field for de hands and marster say: 'Every little help'. "My livin' chillun ain't no help to me. Dere's Willie, I don't know where he is. Prince is wid Mr. Freeman on de river. Maggie is here on de place but she no good to me. "I 'spect when I gits to drawin' down dat pension de white folks say is comin', then dere will be more folks playin' in my backyard than dere is today." Project 1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. ANDERSON BATES EX-SLAVE 87 YEARS OLD. Anderson Bates lives with his son-in-law and daughter, Ed and Dora Owens, in a three-room frame house, on lands of Mr. Dan Heyward, near the Winnsboro Granite Company, Winnsboro, S. C. Anderson and his wife occupy one of the rooms and his rent is free. His son-in-law has regular employment at the Winnsboro Cotton Mills. His wife, Carrie, looks after the house. Anderson and his daughter, Dora, are day laborers on the neighborhood farms, but he is able to do very little work. "I was born on de old Dr. Furman place, near Jenkinsville, S. C., in de year, 1850. My pappy was name Nat and mammy name Winnie. They was slaves of old Dr. Furman, dat have a big plantation, one hundred slaves, and a whole lot of little slave chillun, dat him wouldn't let work. They run 'round in de plum thickets, blackberry bushes, hunt wild strawberries, blow cane whistles, and have a good time. "De old Dr. Furman house is ramshackle but it is still standin' out dere and is used as a shelter for sawmill hands dat is cuttin' down de big pines and sawin' them on de place. "Where did my pappy and mammy come from? Mammy was born a slave in de Furman family in Charleston, but pappy was bought out of a drove dat a Baltimore speculator fetch from Maryland long befo' de war. Doctor practice all 'round and 'bout Monticello, happen 'long one day, see my pappy and give a thousand dollars for him, to dat speculator. I thank God for dat! "Dr. Furman, my old marster, have a brudder called Jim, dat run de Furman School, fust near Winnsboro, then it move to Greenville, S. C. "My mistress name Nancy. Her was of de quality. Her voice was soft and quiet to de slaves. Her teach us to sing: 'Dere is a happy land, far, far 'way, Where bright angels stand, far, far 'way, Oh! How them angels sing! Oh! How them bells ring! In dat happy land, far, far 'way!' "Dere was over a thousand acres, maybe two thousand in dat old Furman place. Them sawmill folks give $30,000.00 for it, last year. "My pappy and mammy was field hands. My brudders and sisters was: Liddie, Millie, Ria, Ella, Harriet, Thomas, Smith, and Marshall. All dead but me and Marshall. "I was fifteen when de Yankees come thru. They took off everything, hosses, mules, cows, sheep, goats, turkeys, geese, and chickens. Hogs? Yes sah, they kill hogs and take off what parts they want and leave other parts bleedin' on de yard. When they left, old marster have to go up into Union County for rations. "Dat's funny, you wants to set down dere 'bout my courtship and weddin'? Well, sir, I stay on de old plantation, work for my old marster, de doctor, and fell head over heels in love wid Carrie. Dere was seven more niggers a flyin' 'round dat sugar lump of a gal in de night time when I breezes in and takes charge of de fireside cheer. I knocks one down one night, kick another out de nex' night, and choke de stuffin' out of one de nex' night. I landed de three-leg stool on de head of de fourth one, de last time. Then de others carry deir 'fections to some other place than Carrie's house. Us have some hard words 'bout my bad manners, but I told her dat I couldn't 'trol my feelin's wid them fools a settin' 'round dere gigglin' wid her. I go clean crazy! "Then us git married and go to de ten-acre quarry wid Mr. Anderson. I work dere a while and then go to Captain Macfie, then to his son, Wade, and then to Marse Rice Macfie. Then I go back to de quarry, drill and git out stone. They pay me $3.50 a day 'til de Parr Shoals Power come in wid 'lectric power drills and I was cut down to eighty cents a day. Then I say: 'Old grey hoss! Damn 'lectric toolin', I's gwine to leave.' I went to Hopewell, Virginia, and work wid de DuPonts for five years. War come on and they ask me to work on de acid area. De atmosphere dere tear all de skin off my face and arms, but I stuck it out to de end of de big war, for $7.20 a day. I drunk a good deal of liquor then, but I sent money to Carrie all de time and fetch her a roll every fourth of July and on Christmas. After de war they dismantle de plant and I come back to work for Mr. Eleazer, on de Saluda River for $2.00 a day, for five years. "Carrie have chillun by me. Dere was Anderson, my son, ain't see him in forty years. Essie, my daughter, marry Herbert Perrin. Dora, another daughter, marry Ed Owens. Ed makes good money workin' at de factory in Winnsboro. They have seven chillun. Us tries to keep them chillun in school but they don't have de good times I had when a child, a eatin' cracklin' bread and buttermilk, liver, pig-tails, hog-ears and turnip greens. "Does I 'member anything 'bout de Klu Kluxes? Jesus, yes! My old marster, de doctor, in goin' 'round, say out loud to people dat Klu Kluxes was doin' some things they ought not to do, by 'stortin' money out of niggers just 'cause they could. "When he was gone to Union one day, a low-down pair of white men come, wid false faces, to de house and ask where Dick Bell was. Miss Nancy say her don't know. They go hunt for him. Dick made a bee-line for de house. They pull out hoss pistols, fust time, 'pow'. Dick run on, secon' time, 'pow'. Dick run on, third time, 'pow' and as Dick reach de front yard de ball from de third shot keel him over lak a hit rabbit. Old miss run out but they git him. Her say: 'I give you five dollars to let him 'lone.' They say: 'Not 'nough.' Her say: 'I give you ten dollars.' They say: 'Not 'nough.' Her say: 'I give you fifteen dollars.' They say: 'Not 'nough.' Her say: 'I give you twenty-five dollars.' They take de money and say: 'Us'll be back tomorrow for de other Dick.' They mean Dick James. "Nex' day, us see them a comin' again. Dick James done load up de shotgun wid buckshot. When they was comin' up de front steps, Uncle Dick say to us all in de big house: 'Git out de way!' De names of de men us find out afterwards was Bishop and Fitzgerald. They come up de steps, wid Bishop in de front. Uncle Dick open de door, slap dat gun to his shoulder, and pull de trigger. Dat man Bishop hollers: 'Oh Lordy.' He drop dead and lay dere 'til de coroner come. Fitzgerald leap 'way. They bring Dick to jail, try him right in dat court house over yonder. What did they do wid him? Well, when Marse Bill Stanton, Marse Elisha Ragsdale and Miss Nancy tell 'bout it all from de beginnin' to de end, de judge tell de jury men dat Dick had a right to protect his home, and hisself, and to kill dat white man and to turn him loose. Dat was de end of de Klu Kluxes in Fairfield." Project 1885-1 From Field Notes Spartanburg, Dist. 4 April 28. 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage FOLK LORE: FOLK TALES (negro) "I sho members when de soldiers come home from de war. All de women folks, both black as well as white wuz so glad to see 'em back dat we jus jumped up and hollered 'Oh, Lawdy, God bless you.' When you would look around a little, you would see some widout an arm or maybe dey would be a walkin' wid a cruch or a stick. Den you would cry some widout lettin your white folks see you. But Jane, de worsest time of all fer us darkies wuz when de Ku Klux killed Dan Black. We wuz little chilluns a playin' in Dans house. We didn't know he had done nothin' ginst de white folks. Us wuz a playin by de fire jus as nice when something hit on de wall. Dan, he jump up and try to git outten de winder. A white spooky thing had done come in de doo' right by me. I was so scairt dat I could not git up. I had done fell straight out on de flo'. When Dan stick his head outten dat winder something say bang and he fell right down in de flo'. I crawles under de bed. When I got dar, all de other chilluns wuz dar to, lookin' as white as ashed dough from hickory wood. Us peeped out and den us duck under de bed agin. Ain't no bed ebber done as much good as dat one. Den a whole lot of dem come in de house. De wuz all white and scairy lookin'. It still makes de shivvers run down my spine and here I is ole and you all a settin' around wid me and two mo' wars done gone since dat awful time. Dan Black, he wo'nt no mo' kaise dey took dat nigger and hung him to a simmon tree. Dey would not let his folks take him down either. He jus stayed dar till he fell to pieces. "After dat when us chilluns seed de Ku Klux a comin', us would take an' run breakneck speed to de nearest wood. Dar we would stay till dey wuz plum out o' sight and you could not even hear de horses feet. Dem days wuz worse'n de war. Yes Lawd, dey wuz worse'n any war I is ebber heard of. "Was not long after dat fore de spooks wuz a gwine round ebber whar. When you would go out atter dark, somethin' would start to a haintin' ye. You would git so scairt dat you would mighty ni run every time you went out atter dark; even iffin you didn't see nothin'. Chile, don't axe me what I seed. Atter all dat killin' and a burnin' you know you wuz bliged to see things wid all dem spirits in distress a gwine all over de land. You see, it is like dis, when a man gits killed befo he is done what de good Lawd intended fer him to do, he comes back here and tries to find who done him wrong. I mean he don' come back hisself, but de spirit, it is what comes and wanders around. Course, it can't do nothin', so it jus scares folks and haints dem." Source: "Aunt" Millie Bates, 25 Hamlet street, Union, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. Project #1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S. C. Georgetown County FOLKLORE VISIT WITH UNCLE WELCOME BEES--AGE 104 YEARS The road is perfectly camouflaged from the King's Highway by wild plums that lap overhead. Only those who have traveled this way before could locate the 'turn in' to Uncle Welcome's house. When you have turned in and come suddenly out from the plum thicket you find your road winding along with cultivated patches on the left--corn and peas--a fenced-in garden, the palings riven out by hand, and thick dark woods on the left. A lonesome, untenanted cabin is seemingly in the way but your car swings to the left instead of climbing the door-step and suddenly you find you are facing a bog. The car may get through; it may not. So you switch off and just sit a minute, seeing how the land lies. A great singing and chopping of wood off to the left have kept the inmates from hearing the approach of a car. When you rap therefore you hear, 'Come in'. A narrow hall runs through to the back porch and off this hall on your right opens a door from beyond which comes a very musical squeaking--you know a rocking chair is going hard--even before you see it in motion with a fuzzy little head that rests on someone's shoulder sticking over the top. And the fuzzy head which in size is like a small five-cent cocoanut, belongs to Uncle Welcome's great-grand. On seeing a visitor the grand, the mother of the infant, rises and smiles greeting, and, learning your errand, points back to the kitchen to show where Uncle Welcome sits. You step down one step and ask him if you may come in and he pats a chair by his side. The old man isn't so spry as he was when you saw him in the fall; the winter has been hard. But here it is warm again and at most four in the April afternoon, he sits over his plate of hopping John--he and innumerable flies. At his feet, fairly under the front of a small iron stove, sits another great-grand with a plate of peas between her legs. Peas and rice, 'hopping John'. (Someone says peas and hominy cooked together makes "limping Lizzie in the Low-Country." But that is another story.) * * * * * "Uncle Welcome, isn't Uncle Jeemes Stuart the oldest liver on Sandy Island?" Welcome: "Jeemes Stuart? I was married man when he born. Jeemes rice-field. (Worker in rice-field) posed himself. In all kinds of weather. Cut you down, down, down. Jeemes second wife gal been married before but her husband dead. "I couldn't tell the date or time I born. Your Maussa (Master) take it down. When I been marry, Dr. Ward Fadder (Father) aint been marry yet. My mother had twelve head born Oatland. He bought my mother from Virginia. Dolly. Sam her husband name. Sam come from same course. When my mother been bought, her been young woman. Work in rice. Plow right now (Meaning April is time to plow rice fields). I do carpenter work and mind horse for plantation. Come from Georgetown in boat. Have you own carriage. Go anywhere you want to go. Oatland church build for colored people and po-buckra. I helped build that church. The boss man, Mr. Bettman. My son Isaac sixty-nine. If him sixty-nine, I one hundred four. That's my record. Maussa didn't low you to marry till you twenty-two. Ben Allston own Turkey Hill. When him dead, I was twelve years old. Me! (Knocking his chest)" Welcome Bees-- Parkersville, S. C. (Near Waverly Mills, S. C.) Age 104. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. ANNE BELL EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD. ~HW: (near Winnsboro, S. C.)~] Anne Bell lives with her niece, in a one-room annex to a two-room frame house, on the plantation of Mr. Lake Howze, six miles west of Winnsboro, S. C. Her niece's husband, Golden Byrd, is a share-cropper on Mr. Howze's place. The old lady is still spry and energetic about the cares of housekeeping and attention to the small children of her niece. She is a delightful old lady and well worth her keep in the small chores she undertakes and performs in the household. "My marster was John Glazier Rabb; us call him Marse Glazier. My mistress was Nancy Kincaid Watts; us call her Miss Nancy. They lived on a big plantation in Fairfield County and dere I come into dis world, eighty-three years ago, 10th day of April past. "My pappy name just Andy but after de freedom, he took de name of Andrew Watts. My old mammy was Harriett but she come to you if you calls her Hattie. My brudders was Jake and Rafe. My sister name Charity. They all dead and gone to glory long time ago; left me here 'lone by myself and I's settin' here tellin' you 'bout them. "My mammy was de cook at de 'Big House' for marster, Miss Nancy, and de chillun. Let me see if I can call them over in my mind. Dere was Marse John, went off to de war, color bearer at Seven Pines. Yes sir, him was killed wid de colors a flyin' in his hand. Heard tell of it many times. He lies right now in de old Buck Church graveyard. De pine trees, seven of them, cry and sob 'round him every August 6th; dat's de day he was killed. Oh, my God! "Marse James went wid old Colonel Rion. They say he got shot but bullets couldn't kill him. No, bless God! Him comed back. Then come Marse Clarence. He went wid Captain Jim Macfie, went through it all and didn't get a scratch. Next was Miss Jesse. Then come Marse Horace, and Miss Nina. Us chillun all played together. Marse Horace is livin' yet and is a fine A. R.P. preacher of de Word. Miss Nina a rich lady, got plantation but live 'mong de big bugs in Winnsboro. She married Mr. Castles; she is a widow now. He was a good man, but he dead now. "De one I minds next, is Charlie. I nussed him. He married Colonel Province's daughter. Dat's all I can call to mind, right now. "Course de white folks I b'longs to, had more slaves than I got fingers and toes; whole families of them. De carpenter and de blacksmith on de place made de bedsteads. Us had good wheat straw mattresses to sleep on; cotton quilts, spreads, and cotton pillows. No trouble to sleep but it was hard to hear dat white overseer say at day break: 'Let me hear them foots hit de floor and dat befo' I go! Be lively! Hear me?' And you had to answer, 'Yas sah', befo' he'd move on to de nex' house. I does 'member de parts of de bed, was held together by wooden pins. I sho' 'members dat! "Mammy Harriett was de cook. I didn't done no work but 'tend to de chillun and tote water. "Money? Go 'way from here, boss! Lord, no sir, I never saw no money. What I want wid it anyhow? "How did they feed us? Had better things to eat then, than now and more different kind of somethin's. Us had pears, 'lasses, shorts, middlings of de wheat, corn bread, and all kinds of milk and vegetables. "Got a whuppin' once. They wanted me to go after de turkeys and I didn't want to go past de graveyard, where de turkeys was. I sho' didn't want to go by them graves. I's scared now to go by a graveyard in de dark. I took de whuppin' and somebody else must have got de turkeys. Sho' I didn't drive them up! "Slaves spun de thread, loomed de cloth, and made de clothes for de plantation. Don't believe I had any shoes. I was just a small gal anyhow then, didn't need them and didn't want them. "Yes, I's seen nigger women plow. Church? I wouldn't fool you, all de slaves big enough and not sick, had to go to church on de Sabbath. "They give us a half Saturday, to do as we like. "I was 'bout ten years old when de Yankees come. They was full to de brim wid mischief. They took de frocks out de presses and put them on and laugh and carry on powerful. Befo' they went they took everything. They took de meat and 'visions out de smoke-house, and de 'lasses, sugar, flour, and meal out de house. Killed de pigs and cows, burnt de gin-house and cotton, and took off de live stock, geese, chickens and turkeys. "After de freedom, I stayed on wid mammy right dere, 'til I married Levi Bell. I's had two chillun. Dis my grand-daughter, I visitin'. I never 'spects to have as good a home as I had in slavery time, 'til I gits my title to dat mansion in de sky. Dats de reason I likes to sing dat old plantation spiritual, 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Jesus Gwinter Carry me Home'. Does I believe in 'ligion? What else good for colored folks? I ask you if dere ain't a heaven, what's colored folks got to look forward to? They can't git anywhere down here. De only joy they can have here, is servin' and lovin'; us can git dat in 'ligion but dere is a limit to de nigger in everything else. Course I knows my place in dis world; I 'umbles myself here to be 'zalted up yonder." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, Dist. 4 July 26, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage SLAVERY REMINISCENCES "I was raised in the wood across the road about 200 yards from here. I was very mischievous. My parents were honest and were Christians. I loved them very much. My father was William Bevis, who died at the age of eighty. Miss Zelia Hames of Pea Ridge was my mother. My parents are buried at Bethlehem Methodist Church. I was brought up in Methodism and I do not know anything else. I had two brothers and four sisters. My twin sister died last April 1937. She was Fannie Holcombe. I was in bed with pneumonia at the time of her death and of course I could not go to the funeral. For a month, I was unconscious. "When I was a little girl I played 'Andy-over' with a ball, in the moonlight. Later I went to parties and dances. Calico, chambric and gingham were the materials which our party dresses were made of. "My grandmother, Mrs. Phoebe Bevis used to tell Revolutionary stories and sing songs that were sung during that period. Grandmother knew some Tories. She always told me that old Nat Gist was a Tory ... that is the way he got rich. "Hampton was elected governor the morning my mother died. Father went in his carriage to Jonesville to vote for Hampton. We all thought that Hampton was fine. "When I was a school girl I used the blue back speller. My sweetheart's name was Ben Harris. We went to Bethlehem to school. Jeff and Bill Harris were our teachers. I was thirteen. We went together for six years. The Confederate War commenced. He was very handsome. He had black eyes and black hair. I had seven curls on one side of my head and seven on the other. He was twenty-four when he joined the 'Boys of Sixteen'. "He wanted to marry me then, but father would not let us marry. He kissed me good bye and went off to Virginia. He was a picket and was killed while on duty at Mars Hill. Bill Harris was in a tent nearby and heard the shot. He brought Ben home. I went to the funeral. I have never been much in-love since then. "I hardly ever feel sad. I did not feel especially sad during the war. I made socks, gloves and sweaters for the Confederate soldiers and also knitted for the World War soldiers. During the war, there were three looms and three shuttles in our house. "I went often to the muster grounds at Kelton to see the soldiers drill and to flirt my curls at them. Pa always went with me to the muster field. Once he invited four recruits to dine with us. We had a delicious supper. That was before the Confederacy was paralyzed. Two darkies waited on our table that night, Dorcas and Charlotte. A fire burned in our big fireplace and a lamp hung over the table. After supper was over, we all sat around the fire in its flickering light. "My next lover was Jess Holt and he was drowned in the Mississippi River. He was a carpenter and was building a warf on the river. He fell in and was drowned in a whirlpool." Source: Miss Caroline Bevis (W. 96), County Home, Union, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. (7/13/37) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, June 21, 1937 MAGGIE BLACK Ex-Slave, 79 years "Honey, I don' know wha' to tell yuh 'bout dem times back dere. Yuh see I wus jes uh young child when de free war close en I ain' know much to tell yuh. I born o'er de river dere to Massa Jim Wilkerson plantation. Don' know wha' 'come uv my ole Massa chillun a'ter dey head been gone. Yuh see, honey, Massa Jim Wilkerson hab uh heap uv slave en he hire my mudder out to Colonel Durant place right down de road dere whey Miss Durant lib now. Coase I been back o'er de river to visit 'mongest de peoples dere a'ter freedom wuz 'clare, but I ain' ne'er lib dere no more." "Gawd been good to me, honey. I been heah uh long ole time en I can' see mucha dese days, but I gettin' 'long sorta so-so. I wuz train up to be uh nu'se 'oman en I betcha I got chillun more den any 60 year ole 'bout heah now dat I nu'se when dey wuz fust come heah. No, honey, ain' got no chillun uv me own. Aw my chillun white lak yuh." "No, no'mam, dey wear long ole frock den en uh girl comin' on dere when dey ge' to be any kind uv uh girl, dey put dat frock down. Oh, my child, dey can' ge' em short 'nough dese days. Ain' hab nuthin but uh string on dese day en time. Dey use'er wear dem big ole hoop skirt dat sit out broad lak from de ankle en den dey wear little panty dat show down twixt dey skirt en dey ankle. Jes tie em 'round dey knees wid some sorta string en le' em show dat way 'bout dey ankle. I 'member we black chillun'ud go in de woods en ge' wild grape vine en bend em round en put em under us skirt en make it stand out big lak. Hadder hab uh big ole ring fa de bottom uv de skirt en den one uh little bit smaller eve'y time dey ge' closer to de waist. Ne'er hab none tall in de waist cause dat wuz s'ppose to be little bitty t'ing." "Dey weave aw de cloth dey use den right dere on de plantation. Wear cotton en woolens aw de time den. Coase de Madam, she could go en ge' de finest kind uv silk cause mos' uv her t'ing come from 'broad. Child, I c'n see my ole mammy how she look workin' dat spinning wheel jes us good uz ef dat day wuz dis day right heah. She set dere at dat ole spinning wheel en take one shettle en t'row it one way en den annuder de udder way en pull dat t'ing en make it tighter en tighter. Sumptin say zum, zum, zum, en den yuh hadder work yuh feet dere too. Dat wuz de way dey make dey cloth dat day en time." "Honey, peoples hadder work dey hand fa eve'yt'ing dey hab mos' den. Dey grew dey own rice right dere on de plantation in dem days. Hadder plant it on some uv de land wha' wuz weter den de udder land wuz. Dey hadder le' de rice ge' good en ripe en den dey'ud cut it en hab one uv dem big rice whipping days. Heap uv people come from plantation aw 'bout en help whip dat rice. Dey jes take de rice en beat it 'cross some hoes dat dey hab fix up somewhey dere on de plantation. Honey, dey hab hoss jes lak dese hoss yuh see carpenter use 'boat heah dese days. Dey'ud hab hundreds uv bushels uv dat rice dere. Den when dey ge' t'rough, dey hab big supper dere fa aw dem wha' whip rice. Gi'e em aw de rice en hog head dey is e'er wan'. Man, dey'ud hab de nicest kind uv music dere. Knock dem bones togedder en slap en pat dey hands to aw kind uv pretty tune." "Dem dey hab rice mortars right dere on de plantation wha' dey fix de rice in jes uz nice. Now dey hab to take it to de mill. Yuh see dey hab uh big block outer in de yard wid uh big hole in it dat dey put de rice in en take dese t'ing call pestles en beat down on it en dat wha' knock de shaft offen it. Coase dey ne'er hab no nice pretty rice lak yuh see dese days cause it wusn't uz white uz de rice dat dey hab 'boat heah dis day en time, but it wuz mighty sweet rice, honey, mighty sweet rice." "No'mam, didn't hab no schools tall den. Ne'er gi'e de colored peoples no l'arnin' no whey 'fore freedom 'clare. Wha' little l'arnin' come my way wuz wha' I ge' when I stay wid Miss Martha Leggett down dere to Leggett's Mill Pond. A'ter freedom 'clare, uh lady from de north come dere en Miss Leggett send we chillun to school to dat lady up on de hill dere in de woods. No, honey, yah ain' ne'er see no bresh tent 'bout heah dis day en time. Dis jes de way it waz make. Dey dig four big holes en put postes in aw four corner 'bout lak uh room. Den dey lay log 'cross de top uv dat en kiver it aw o'er wid bresh (brush) dat dey break outer de woods. Ne'er hab none uv de side shet up. En dey haul log dere en roll em under dat bresh tent fa we chillun to set on. Oh, de teacher'ud hab uh big box fa her stand jes lak uh preacher. Eve'ybody dat go to school dere hab one uv dem t'ing call slate dat yah ne'er hadder do nuthin but jes wash it offen. En dey hab dese ole l'arnin' book wha' yuh call Websters." "My white folks al'ays waz good to me, honey. Ne'er didn't nab to do no field work in aw me life. When I stay dere wid Miss Leggett, I hadder pick up little chip 'bout de yard when I fust come home from school en den I hadder go 'way up in de big field en drib de turkeys up. We didn't find dat no hard t'ing to do lak de peoples talk lak it sumptin hard to do dese days. We wuz l'arnt to work en didn't mind it neither. Al'ays minded to us own business." "Oh, gourds waz de t'ing in dem days. Dey waz wha' de peoples hab to drink outer en wash dey hominy en rice in aw de time. Dey was de bestest kind uv bowl fa we chillun to eat corn bread en clabber outer. Peoples dis day en time don' hab no sech crockery lak de people use'er hab. Honey, day hab de prettiest little clay bowls den." "Annuder t'ing de peoples do den dat yuh ain' ne'er hear 'bout nobody doing dese days, dey al'ays boil sumptin fa dey cows to eat lak peas en corn in uh big ole black pot somewhey dere in de back lot. Coase it wuz jes half cooked, but day sho' done dat. Nobody ne'er t'ought 'bout not cookin' fa dey cow den." "Dat was sho' uh different day from dis, honey. De little chillun wus jes uz foolish den cause de peoples ne'er tell dem 'bout nuthin tall in dat day en time. Aw dese little chillun 'bout heah dese days don' hab no shame 'bout em no whey. Dey hab head full uv eve'yt'ing, honey, aw sorta grown people knowings." Source: Maggie Black, ex-slave, age 79, Marion, S. C. Personal interview, June 1937 Spartanburg, S. C. June 7, 1937 FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was born in Laurens County, S. C., at the 'brick house', which is close to Newberry County line, and my master was Dr. Felix Calmes. The old brick house is still there. My daddy was Joe Grazier and my mammy, Nellie Grazier. "We had a pretty good house to live in in slavery time, and some fair things to eat, but never was paid any money. We had plenty to eat like fat meat, turnips, cabbages, cornbread, milk and pot-liquor. Master sent his corn and apples, and his peaches to old man Scruggs at Helena, near Newberry, to have him make his whiskey, brandy, and wine for him. Old man Scruggs was good at that business. The men hunted some, squirrels, rabbits, possums, and birds. "In the winter time I didn't have much clothes, and no shoes. At nights I carded and spinned on the mistress's wheels, helping my mammy. Then we got old woman Wilson to weave for us. "Master had a big plantation of several farms, near about 1,000 acres or more. It was said he had once 250 slaves on his places, counting children and all. His overseers had to whip the slaves, master told them to, and told them to whip them hard. Master Calmes was most always mean to us. He got mad spells and whip like the mischief. He all the time whipping me 'cause I wouldn't work like he wanted. I worked in the big house, washed, ironed, cleaned up, and was nurse in the house when war was going on. "We didn't have a chance to learn to read and write, and master said if he caught any of his slaves trying to learn he would 'skin them alive'. "There was a church in the neighborhood on Dr. Blackburn's place, but we didn't get to go to it much. I was 17 years old when I joined the church. I joined because the rest of the girls joined. I think everybody ought to join the church. "On Saturday afternoons the slaves had to work, and all day Sunday, too, if master wanted them. On Christmas Day we was give liquor to get drunk on, but didn't have no dinner. "When I was sick old Dr. P. B. Ruff attended me. Old Dr. Calmes, I 'member, traveled on a horse, with saddle-bag behind him, and made his own medicines. He made pills from cornbread. "I saw many slaves sold on the block--saw mammy with little infant taken away from her baby and sent away. I saw families separated from each other, some going to one white master and some to another. "I married at 14 years old to Arthur Bluford. We had 10 children. I now have about 8 grandchildren and about 7 or 8 great-grandchildren. I was married in the town of Newberry at the white folk's Methodist church, by a colored preacher named Rev. Geo. De Walt. "When freedom come, they left and hired out to other people, but I stayed and was hired out to a man who tried to whip me, but I ran away. Dat was after I married and had little baby. I told my mammy to look after my little baby 'cause I was gone. I stayed away two years 'till after Dr. Calmes and his family moved to Mississippi." Source: Gordon Bluford (92), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, 1707 Lindsey St., Newberry, S. C. Project #1655 Henry Grant Columbia, S. C. SAMUEL BOULWARE EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. Samuel Boulware's only home is one basement room, in the home of colored friends, for which no rent charges are made. He is old and feeble and has poor eyesight, yet, he is self-supporting by doing light odd jobs, mostly for white people. He has never married, hence no dependents whatever. One of the members of the house, in which Samuel lives, told him someone on the front porch wanted to talk with him. From his dingy basement room he slowly mounted the steps and came toward the front door with an irregular shamble. One seeing his approach would naturally be of the opinion, that this old darkey was certainly nearing the hundred year mark. Apparently Father Time had almost caught up with him; he had been caught in the winds of affliction and now he was tottering along with a bent and twisted frame, which for many years in the past, housed a veritable physical giant. The winds of 82 years had blown over him and now he was calmly and humbly approaching the end of his days. Humility was his attitude, a characteristic purely attributable to the genuine and old-fashion southern Negro. He slid into a nearby chair and began talking in a plain conversational way. "Dis is a mighty hot day white folks but you knows dis is July and us gits de hot days in dis month. De older I gits de more I feels de hot and de cold. I has been a strong, hard working man most all my life and if it wasn't for dis rheumatism I has in my right leg, I could work hard every day now. "Does I 'member much 'bout slavery times? Well, dere is no way for me to disremember, unless I die. My mammy and me b'long to Doctor Hunter, some called him Major Hunter. When I was a small boy, I lived wid my mammy on de Hunter plantation. After freedom, I took de name of my daddy, who was a Boulware. He b'long to Reuben Boulware, who had a plantation two and one-half miles from Ridgeway, S. C., on de road dat leads to Longtown. My mistress' name was Effie. She and marster had four sons, no girls a-tall. George, Abram, Willie, and Henry, was their names. They was fine boys, 'cause they was raised by Mistress Effie's own hands. She was a good woman and done things 'zackly right 'round de plantation. Us slaves loved her, 'cause she said kind and soft words to us. Many times I's seen her pat de little niggers on de head, smile and say nice words to them. Boss, kind treatment done good then and it sho' does good dis present day; don't you think I's right 'bout dat? Marster had a bad temper. When he git mad, he walk fast, dis way and dat way, and when he stop, would say terrible cuss words. When de mistress heard them bad words, she would bow her pretty head and walk 'way kinda sad lak. It hurt us slaves to see de mistress sad, 'cause us wanted to see her smilin' and happy all de time. "My mammy worked hard in de field every day and as I was just a small boy, I toted water to de hands in de field and fetched wood into de kitchen to cook wid. Mammy was de mother of twelve chillun; three of them die when they was babies. I's de oldest of de twelve and has done more hard work than de rest. I had five brothers and all of them is dead, 'cept one dat lives in Savannah, Georgia. I has four sisters, one living in Charleston, one in New York City, one in Ithaca, N. Y., and one in Fairfield County, dis State. "Does my folks help me along any? No sir, they sho' don't. I gits nothin' from them, and I don't expect nothin' neither. Boss, a nigger's kinfolks is worse than a stranger to them; they thinks and acts for theirselves and no one else. I knows I's a nigger and I tries to know my place. If white folks had drapped us long time ago, us would now be next to de rovin' beasts of de woods. Slavery was hard I knows but it had to be, it seem lak. They tells me they eats each other in Africa. Us don't do dat and you knows dat is a heap to us. "Us had plenty to eat in slavery time. It wasn't de best but it filled us up and give us strength 'nough to work. Marster would buy a years rations on de first of every year and when he git it, he would have some cooked and would set down and eat a meal of it. He would tell us it didn't hurt him, so it won't hurt us. Dats de kind of food us slaves had to eat all de year. Of course, us got a heap of vegetables and fruits in de summer season, but sich as dat didn't do to work on, in de long summer days. "Marster was good, in a way, to his slaves but dat overseer of his name John Parker, was mean to us sometimes. He was good to some and bad to others. He strung us up when he done de whippin'. My mammy got many whippin's on 'count of her short temper. When she got mad, she would talk back to de overseer, and dat would make him madder than anything else she could do. "Marster had over twenty grown slaves all de time. He bought and sold them whenever he wanted to. It was sad times to see mother and chillun separated. I's seen de slave speculator cut de little nigger chillun with keen leather whips, 'cause they'd cry and run after de wagon dat was takin' their mammies away after they was sold. "De overseer was poor white folks, if dats what you is askin' 'bout, and dat is one thing dat made him so hard on de slaves of de plantation. All de overseers I knowed 'bout was poor white folks; they was white folks in de neighborhood dat wasn't able to own slaves. All dis class of people was called by us niggers, poor white folks. "Us slaves had no schoolin', 'cause dere was no teacher and school nigh our plantation. I has learnt to read a little since I got grown. Spelling come to me natural. I can spell 'most any word I hears, old as I is. "Marster and mistress was Baptist in 'ligious faith, and b'long to Concord Baptist Church. Us slaves was allowed to 'tend dat church, too. Us set up in de gallery and jined in de singin' every Sunday. Us slaves could jine Concord Church but Doctor Durham, who was de preacher, would take de slaves in another room from de white folks, and git their 'fessions, then he would jine them to de church. "My daddy was a slave on Reuben Boulware's plantation, 'bout two miles from Marster Hunter's place. He would git a pass to come to see mammy once every week. If he come more than dat he would have to skeedaddle through de woods and fields from de patrollers. If they ketched him widout a pass, he was sho' in for a skin crackin' whippin'. He knowed all dat but he would slip to see mammy anyhow, whippin' or not. "Most them there patrollers was poor white folks, I believes. Rich folks stay in their house at night, 'less they has some sort of big frolic amongst theirselves. Poor white folks had to hustle 'round to make a living, so, they hired out theirselves to slave owners and rode de roads at night and whipped niggers if they ketched any off their plantation widout a pass. I has found dat if you gives to some poor folks, white or black, something a little better than they is used to, they is sho' gwine to think too high of theirselves soon, dats right. I sho' believes dat, as much as I believes I's setting in dis chair talkin' to you. "I 'members lak yesterday, de Yankees comin' 'long. Marster tried to hide the best stuff on de plantation but some of de slaves dat helped him hide it, showed de Yankee soldiers just where it was, when they come dere. They say: 'Here is de stuff, hid here, 'cause us put it dere.' Then de soldiers went straight to de place where de valuables was hid and dug them out and took them, it sho' set old marster down. Us slaves was sorry dat day for marster and mistress. They was gittin' old, and now they had lost all they had, and more that dat, they knowed their slaves was set free. De soldiers took all de good hosses, fat cattle, chickens, de meat in de smoke house, and then burnt all empty houses. They left de ones dat folks lived in. De Yankees 'pear to me, to be lookin' for things to eat, more than anything else. "Does I believe in 'ligion? Dat is all us has in dis world to live by and it's gwine to be de onliest thing to die wid. Belief in God and a 'umble spirit is how I's tryin' to live these days. I was christened fust a Methodist, but when I growed up, I jine de Presbyterian Church and has 'mained a member of dat church every since. "Thank God I's had 'nough sense not to believe in haunts and sich things. I has 'possum hunt at night by myself in graveyards and I ain't seen one yet. My mammy say she see haunts pass her wid no heads but these old eyes has never seen anything lak dat. If you has done somebody a terrible wrong, then I believes dat person when they die, will 'pear to you on 'count of dat." Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Feb. 7, 1938 Edited by: Elmer Turnage REMINISCENCES: THE RED SHIRTS [~HW: Boy~] "The Red Shirts had a big parade and barbecue in Spartanburg. They met at the courthouse. There were about 500 Red Shirts, besides others who made up a big crowd. I remember four leaders who came from Union County. One of the companies was led by Squire Gilliam Jeter, and one by Squire Bill Lyles. The company from the city was led by Capt. James Douglass and 'Buck' Kelley from Pea Ridge was there with his company. "Everything drilled in Spartanburg that day. The speakers of the day from Union were Squire Jeter and Capt. Douglass. While they were speaking, old Squire George Tucker from lower Fish Dam came with his company. Mr. Harrison Sartor, father of Will Sartor, was one of the captains. We saw Gen. Wade Hampton and old man Ben Tillman there. "About this time I was bound out to Mr. Jim Gregory, a blacksmith. The wealthy landlords bought negroes. Mr. Jim Gregory was the blacksmith for old Johnny Meador and Aunt Polly, his wife. He told me that Uncle Johnny bought a man, Heath, for $3,500. He also bought Heath's wife, Morrow, for Aunt Polly, but I don't know what he paid. The Meador house is just this side of Simstown. Aunt Polly's father, Triplett Meador, built that mansion. The brick were made in a home kiln which was near the house. Aunt Polly was a little girl when the house was built. While the brick for the sitting-room fireplace were still wet, he made little Polly step on each one of them to make the impression of her feet. So those foot prints in that fireplace are Aunt Polly's when she was five years old. She grew up there and married, and lived there until her death. "Miss Ida Knight's house (formerly the Sims house) was built not later than 1840. Dr. Thompson lived there first. Dr. Billy Sims married Dr. Thompson's sister, Miss Patsy, and that is how the house got into the Sims family. The old post office was known as Simstown, and I believe it was up near the Nat Gist mansion. Simstown was the name for the river community for years, because the Sims settled there and they were equally or more prominent than the Thompsons and Gists in that community. All the Sims men were country doctors. "To this community at the close of the Confederate War, came old man Ogle Tate, his wife, and Ben Shell, as refugees, fleeing from the Yankees. When they came into the community, Nat Gist gave them a nice house to live in on his plantation. "Mr. Gregory got all the sheet iron used on the Meador and Gist plantations, and also on the Sims and Thompson plantations. Plows were made in his blacksmith shop from 10 inch sheet iron. The sheet was heated and beaten into shape with his hammer. After cooling, the tools could be sharpened. Horse and mule shoes were made from slender iron rods, bought for that purpose. They were called 'slats', and this grade of iron was known as 'slat iron'. The shoe was moulded while hot, and beaten into the correct shape to fit the animal's foot. Those old shoes fit much better than the store-bought ones of more recent days. The horseshoe nails were made there, too. In fact, every farm implement of iron was made from flat or sheet iron. "I spun the first pants that I wore. Ma sewed them for me, and wove and finished them with her hands. She made the thread that they were sewed with by hand on the loom. I made cloth for all my shirts. I wore home-made cotton underwear in summer and winter, for we were poor. Of course my winter clothes were heavier. "We raised some sheep, and the winter woolens were made from the wool sheared from the sheep every May. Wool was taken to the factory at Bivensville and there made into yarn. Often, cotton was swapped for yarn to warp at home. Then ma ran it off on spools for her loom. 'Sleigh hammers' were made from cane gotten off the creek banks and bottoms. "Aunt Polly Meador had no patrollers on her place. She would not allow one there, for she did her own patrolling with her own whip and two bull dogs. She never had an overseer on her place, either. Neither did she let Uncle Johnny do the whipping. Those two dogs held them and she did her own whipping. One night she went to the quarter and found old 'Bill Pea Legs' there after one of her negro women. He crawled under the bed when he heard Aunt Polly coming. Those dogs pulled old 'Pea Legs' out and she gave him a whipping that he never forgot. She whipped the woman, also. "Morg was Morrow's nickname. Morg used to sit on the meat block and cut the meat for Aunt Polly to give out. Morg would eat her three pounds of raw meat right there. Uncle Johnny asked her what she would do all the week without any meat, she said that she would take the skin and grease her mouth every morning; then go on to the field or house and do her work, and wait until the next Saturday for more. "I do not know how old I am, but I well remember when Wheeler's men came to the plantation. They tore up everything. We heard that they were coming, so we dug holes and buried the meat and everything we could. We hid them so well that we could never find some of them ourselves. Wheeler and 36 men stopped on the Dick Jeter place. I think that was in 1864. The Jeter place touched Miss Polly's plantation. The Jeter place was right near Neal Shoals on Broad River. Mr. Jeter had the biggest gin house in the entire township. Old Mr. Dick was at home because he was too old to go to the war. Pa was still in the war then, of course. Ma and I and one of the other children and a few darkies were at our home. "We saw Wheeler and his men when they stopped at that gin house. They began to ransack immediately. Wheeler gave some orders to his men and galloped off towards our house. The negroes ran but ma and I stayed in the house. Wheeler rode up in front of the door and spoke to my mother. He said that he had to feed his men and horses and asked her where the corn was. She told him that the gin house and the crib which contained the corn did not belong to her, so she could not give him the keys. At that he ordered his men to remove a log from the crib. By this means they broke into the crib and got all the corn. They then ransacked the house and took everything there was to eat. They tore out the big cog wheel in the gin and camped in it for the night. Next morning they set fire to the gin and then galloped away. Soon Mr. Jeter's big gin had gone up in flames. They took all of our corn and all of the fodder, 200 bundles that we had in the barn, away with them." Source: Mr. John Boyd, County Home, Union, R. F. D. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. 1/26/38 Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in Newberry County, near the Laurens County line, above Little River. Me and my mother belonged to the Workman family. Afterwards, I belonged to Madison Workman. He was a good man to his slaves. My work was around the house and home. I was too young to work in the fields until after the war. "I can't remember much about them times. I married there and soon after come to town and lived, where I have worked ever since. I do washing and other work. "On the farm, the old folks had to cook outdoors, or in a kitchen away off from the house. They had wide fireplaces where they put their pots to cook the meals. "I remember the old Little River Presbyterian Church where people would go on Sundays. They would go in the mornings, and again in the afternoons and have preaching." Source: Jane Bradley (80), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. May 17, 1937 Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. ANDY BRICE EX-SLAVE 81 YEARS OLD. Andy Brice lives with his wife and two small children, about twelve miles east of Ridgeway, S. C., in a two-room frame building, chimney in the center. The house is set in a little cluster of pines one hundred and fifty yards north of state highway #34. Andy, since the amputation of his right leg five years ago, has done no work and is too old to learn a trade. He has a regular beggar's route including the towns of Ridgeway, Winnsboro, Woodward, and Blackstock. His amiability and good nature enable him to go home after each trip with a little money and a pack of miscellaneous gifts from white friends. "Howdy Cap'n! I come to Winnsboro dis mornin' from way 'cross Wateree, where I live now 'mongst de bull-frogs and skeeters. Seem lak they just sing de whole night thru: 'De bull-frog on de bank, and de skeeter in de pool.' Then de skeeter sail 'round my face wid de tra la, la la la, la la la part of dat old song you is heard, maybe many times. "I see a spit-box over dere. By chance, have you got any 'bacco? Make me more glib if I can chew and spit; then I 'members more and better de things done past and gone. "I was a slave of Mistress Jane. Her was a daughter of old Marster William Brice. Her marry Henry Younge and mammy was give to Marse Henry and Miss Jane. "My pappy name Tony. Mammy name Sallie. You is seen her a many a day. Marse Henry got kilt in de war. His tombstone and Mistress Jane's tombstone am in Concord Cemetery. They left two chillun, Miss Kittie and Miss Maggie. They both marry a Caldwell; same name but no kin. Miss Kittie marry Marse Joe Caldwell and move to Texas. Miss Maggie marry Marse Camel Caldwell and move to North Carolina. "My pappy die durin' de war. After freedom, mammy marry a ugly, no 'count nigger name Mills Douglas. She had one child by him, name Janie. My mammy name her dat out of memory and love for old mistress, in slavery time. I run away from de home of my step-pappy and got work wid Major Thomas Brice. I work for him 'til I become a full grown man and come to be de driver of de four-hoss wagon. "One day I see Marse Thomas a twistin' de ears on a fiddle and rosinin' de bow. Then he pull dat bow 'cross de belly of dat fiddle. Sumpin' bust loose in me and sing all thru my head and tingle in my fingers. I make up my mind, right then and dere, to save and buy me a fiddle. I got one dat Christmas, bless God! I learn and been playin' de fiddle ever since. I pat one foot while I playin'. I kept on playin' and pattin' dat foot for thirty years. I lose dat foot in a smash up wid a highway accident but I play de old tunes on dat fiddle at night, dat foot seem to be dere at de end of dat leg (indicating) and pats just de same. Sometime I ketch myself lookin' down to see if it have come back and jined itself up to dat leg, from de very charm of de music I makin' wid de fiddle and de bow. "I never was very popular wid my own color. They say behind my back, in '76, dat I's a white folks nigger. I wear a red shirt then, drink red liquor, play de fiddle at de 'lection box, and vote de white folks ticket. Who I marry? I marry Ellen Watson, as pretty a ginger cake nigger as ever fried a batter cake or rolled her arms up in a wash tub. How I git her? I never git her; dat fiddle got her. I play for all de white folks dances down at Cedar Shades, up at Blackstock. De money roll in when someone pass 'round de hat and say: 'De fiddler?' Ellen had more beaux 'round her than her could shake a stick at but de beau she lak best was de bow dat could draw music out of them five strings, and draw money into dat hat, dat jingle in my pocket de nex' day when I go to see her. "I 'members very little 'bout de war, tho' I was a good size boy when de Yankees come. By instint, a nigger can make up his mind pretty quick 'bout de creed of white folks, whether they am buckra or whether they am not. Every Yankee I see had de stamp of poor white trash on them. They strutted 'round, big Ike fashion, a bustin' in rooms widout knockin', talkin' free to de white ladies, and familiar to de slave gals, ransackin' drawers, and runnin' deir bayonets into feather beds, and into de flower beds in de yards. "What church I b'long to? None. Dat fiddle draws down from hebben all de sermons dat I understan'. I sings de hymns in de way I praise and glorify de Lord. "Cotton pickin' was de biggest work I ever did, outside of drivin' a wagon and playin' de fiddle. Look at them fingers; they is supple. I carry two rows of cotton at a time. One week I pick, in a race wid others, over 300 pounds a day. Commencin' Monday, thru Friday night, I pick 1,562 pounds cotton seed. Dat make a bale weighin' 500 pounds, in de lint. "Ellen and me have one child, Sallie Ann. Ellen 'joy herself; have a good time nussin' white folks chillun. Nussed you; she tell me 'bout it many time. 'Spect she mind you of it very often. I knows you couldn't git 'round dat woman; nobody could. De Lord took her home fifteen years ago and I marry a widow, Ida Belton, down on de Kershaw County side. "You wants me to tell 'bout dat 'lection day at Woodward, in 1878? You wants to know de beginnin' and de end of it? Yes? Well, you couldn't wet dis old man's whistle wid a swallow of red liquor now? Couldn't you or could you? Dis was de way of it: It was set for Tuesday. Monday I drive de four-hoss wagon down to dis very town. Marse John McCrory and Marse Ed Woodward come wid me. They was in a buggy. When us got here, us got twenty, sixteen shooters and put them under de hay us have in de wagon. Bar rooms was here. I had fetched my fiddle 'long and played in Marse Fred Habernick's bar 'til dinner time. Us leave town 'bout four o'clock. Roads was bad but us got home 'bout dark. Us put de guns in Marse Andy Mobley's store. Marse Ed and me leave Marse John to sleep in de store and to take care of de guns. "De nex' mornin', polls open in de little school house by de brick church. I was dere on time, help to fix de table by de window and set de ballot boxes on it. Voters could come to de window, put deir arms thru and tuck de vote in a slit in de boxes. Dere was two supervisors, Marse Thomas for de Democrats and Uncle Jordan for de Radicals. Marse Thomas had a book and a pencil, Uncle Jordan had de same. "Joe Foster, big buckra nigger, want to vote a stranger. Marse Thomas challenge dis vote. In them times colored preachers so 'furiate de women, dat they would put on breeches and vote de 'Publican radical ticket. De stranger look lak a woman. Joe Foster 'spute Marse Thomas' word and Marse Thomas knock him down wid de naked fist. Marse Irish Billy Brice, when him see four or five hindred blacks crowdin' 'round Marse Thomas, he jump thru de window from de inside. When he lit on de ground, pistol went off pow! One nigger drop in his tracks. Sixteen men come from nowhere and sixteen, sixteen shooters. Marse Thomas hold up his hand to them and say: 'Wait!' Him point to de niggers and say: 'Git.' They start to runnin' 'cross de railroad, over de hillside and never quit runnin' 'til they git half a mile away. De only niggers left on dat ground was me, old Uncle Kantz, (you know de old mulatto, club-foot nigger) well, me and him and Albert Gladney, de hurt nigger dat was shot thru de neck was de only niggers left. Dr. Tom Douglas took de ball out Albert's neck and de white folks put him in a wagon and sent him home. I drive de wagon. When I got back, de white boys was in de graveyard gittin' names off de tombstones to fill out de talley sheets, dere was so many votes in de box for de Hampton ticket, they had to vote de dead. I 'spect dat was one resurrection day all over South Carolina." Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Nov. 10, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I is gwine over to Tosch to see Maria. Everybody know Maria. She go by Rice--Maria Rice. She sont fer me to cure her misery. First, I went from my home in lower Cross Keys, across de Enoree, to see Maria. When I reached dar whar she stay, dey tell me dat her daughter over to Tosch. Done come and got her. "A kind friend dat de Lawd put in my path fetched me back across de Enoree and over to Tosch to Maria's gal's house. I is gwine straight over dar and lay my hand on Maria and rid her of dat misery dat she sont word was ailing her all dis spring. Don't make no diff'uns whar you hurts--woman, man or suckling babe--if you believes in de holler of my hand, it'll ease you, allus do it. De Bible say so, dat's why it be true. Ain't gwine to tell you nothing but de truth and de whole truth, so help me Jesus. Gone 65 years, I is been born agin dat long; right over in Padgett's Creek church, de white folks' church, dat's what de Lawd tuck my sins away and washed me clean agin wid His blood. Dat's why I allus sticks to de truth, I does. "Dey all 'lows dat I is gwine on 89, and I has facts to believe it am true. I 'longed to Marse Jesse Briggs. Did you know dat it was two Jesse Briggs? Yes sir, sho was two Jesse Briggses. "What I gwine to relate to you is true, but in respect to my old Marse, and in de case dat dem what reads dat book won't understand, you needs not to write dis statement down. My marster was called 'Black Jesse', but de reason fer dat was to keep him from gitting mixed up wid de other Jesse. Dat is de secret of de thing. Now dat's jes' fer your own light and knowledge, and not to be wrote down. He was de blacksmith fer all de Cross Keys section, and fer dat very thing he got de name by everybody, 'Black Jesse'. I allus 'longed to dat man and he was de kindest man what de countryside had knowledge of. "In Union County is whar I was born and raised, and it's whar I is gwine to be buried. Ain't never left de county but once in my life, and if de Lawd see fitten, I ain't gwine to leave it no mo', 'cept to reach de Promise Land. Lawd! Lawd! De Promise Land, dat's whar I is gwine when I leaves Union County. Dey carried me a hundred miles to cure a sick woman, onliest time I ever left Union County. I loves it and I is fit throughout and enduring de time dem Yankees tried to git de county, to save it. What is I gwine to leave it fer? Mr. Perrin and all de white folks is good to me since my marse done gone and left his earthly home. And he is waiting up dar wid Missie to see me agin. Dat I is sho of. "Listen brother, de Lawd is setting on His throne in Glory. He hear every word dat I gwine to tell you. Folks fergits dat when dey talks real often sometimes, don't dey? I put my hand on any 'flux' man or woman and removes de pain, if dey have faith in my hand. I don't tell nothing but de truth. I was born on Gist Briggs' plantation in Union County, in de lower section of Cross Keys. Marse Sexton and all dem good folks in lower Keys says dat I sho is 88. Give my name right flat, it's George Briggs; giving it round, it like dis, George McDuffie Briggs. My papa's name was Ike Wilburn, and my mother's name was Margaret Briggs. Pa 'longed to Marse Lige Wilburn. Mama 'longed to Jesse (Black Jesse) Briggs. Dey both born and raised in Union County. Dese was my brothers and sisters, coming in de order dey was born to my parents in: Charlie, Dave, Aaron, Tom, Noah, Charlotte, Polly, Fannie, Mattie, Horace, Cassie. I'm de oldest, and Cassie and me lives in Union County. Fannie and Mattie lives in Asheville, and de rest is done journeyed to de Promise Land. Yes Lawd, to de Promise Land. "Marse and Missus was good to us all. Missus name was Nancy. She die early and her grave is in Cross Keys at de Briggs graveyard. Be still! Lemme git my mind together so dat I don't git mixed up and can git you de Briggses together. Here 'tis: Cheney and Lucindy, Lucindy married a Floyd from Spartanburg, and de Floyds lived at de Burn't factory. Cheney Briggs had a son, Henry Briggs. "Not so fast, fer I'se gwine to start way back, dat time when us was lil' darky boys way back in slavery. We started to work wid de marster's mules and hosses. When us was real little, we played hoss. Befo' Cheney Briggs went to Arkansas he was our play hoss. His brother, Henry, was de wagoner and I was de mule. Henry was little and he rid our backs sometimes. Henry rid old man Sam, sometimes, and old man Sam jes' holler and haw haw at us chilluns. Dis was in sech early childhood dat it is not so I can 'zactly map out de exact age us was den; anyway, from dis we rid de gentle hosses and mules and larn't how to feed dem. Every word dat I tells you is de truth, and I is got to meet dat word somewhars else; and fer dat reason, de truth is all dat dis old man ever tells. "In dat day we lived in a log cabin or house. Sometimes us never had nothing to do. Our house had only one room, but some of de houses had two rooms. Our'n had a winder, a do', and a common fireplace. Now dey makes a fireplace to scare de wood away. In old days dey made fireplaces to take care of de chilluns in de cold weather. It warm de whole house, 'cause it was so big and dar was plenty wood. Wood wasn't no problem den, and it ain't no problem yet out in de lower Keys. In town it is, and I ain't guessing. I done seed so. "I sho can histronize de Confederates. I come along wid de Secession flag and de musterings. I careful to live at home and please de Marse. In de war, I'se mo' dan careful and I stick close to him and please him, and he mo' dan good. Us did not git mobbed up like lots of dem did. "When Tice Myers' chilluns was born, he had a house built wid a up-stairs. But never no stage coach stopped dar as I ever heard tell about, and I done saw 75 years at Padgett's Creek. "Way 'tis, from de bundle of de heart, de tongue speaketh. Been in service reg'lar since Monday. I went to Neal Greege's house but she wasn't dar. I is speaking 'bout Ria (Maria Rice). She done gone to town. At de highway, de Lawd prepared a friend to carry me to Union, and when I got dar I take and lay hands on Ria Rice, she laying down and suffering, and I sot down and laid my hand on her. We never say nothing, jes' pray. She be real quiet, and atter while, she riz up and take a breath. She kept on a setting up fer so long dat her husband make her lay back down fer fear dat she git worser. I stay dar all through de night and she sleep sound and wake up dis morning feeling like a new woman. "Befo' breakfast, here is de words of praise I lifted to de Lawd, over dar on Tosch. You set down de coser (chorus): 'First to de graveyard; den to de Jedgement bar!' Is you got dat verser (verses)? Den git dis: 'All de deacons got to go; all de members got to go; all de sinners got to go.' Mo' 'longs to it, but dat's all I takes when I is praising Him fer relieving pain through me. (He sings each line five times. He takes off his hat; bows; holds his hands over his head, and closes his eyes while singing. His hair is snow white.) "Lawd, help me dis morning! Here's another first line to one of our songs: 'All dem preachers got to go'. "Nehemiah, when he wid de king, de king axed him to reveal de wall whar his father was buried. Nehemiah did what de king had done axed him. I 'tends Galilee Baptist church in lower Cross Keys; and at Sedalia, I goes to New Hope Methodist church, but I don't know nothing else but Baptist. We peoples is barrence (barren of the Holy Spirit), but not God; He, Hisself, is born of God, and all is of de same source and by dat I means de Spirit. All has to be born of de Spirit to become chilluns of God. Romans, Chap. 6, 'lows something like dis: 'He dat is dead in sin, how is it dat he can continue in sin?' Dat tell us dat every man, white or black, is de child of God. And it is Christ dat is buried in baptism, and we shall be buried in like manner. If Christ did not rise, den our preaching is in vain. And if we is not born agin, why den we is lost and our preaching is in vain. "In picking up de New Testament, consider all dat you hear me arguing and saying is from a gift and not from edication. Romans 6, 'lows: 'Speak plain words, not round words, kaise all de round words is fer dem dat is edicated.' Jacob had twelve sons. Dey went and bundled up deir wheat, and eleven bundles bowed to de one. Dat Joseph's bundle what he done up. Other brothers up and got and sold Joseph into captivity to de Egyptians. Dat throw'd Jacob to send Reuben to Egypt. Den dey bowed to Jacob and his sons. It run on and on till dey all had to go to Egypt, and all of dem had to live under Joseph. "When I was a little shaver and come to myself. I was sleeping in a corded bed. (He scratched his head) I jes' studying fer a minute; can't 'zactly identify my grandpa, but I can identify my grandma. We all raised on de same place together. She name Cindy Briggs, but dey call her Cina kaise dar was so many Cindys 'round dar. One thing I does 'member 'bout her, if she tote me, she sho to whip me. I was raised strict. "All my life I is stayed in de fur (far) end of Union County whar it borders Laurens, wid de Enoree dividing de two counties. It is right dar dat I is plowed and hoed and raised my craps fer de past 75 years, I reckons. Lawd have mercy! No, I doesn't recalls de names of none of dem mules. Dat's so fur back dat I is jes' done forgot, dat's all. But I does recall 'fur back' things de best, sometimes. Listen good now. When I got big and couldn't play 'round at chillun's doings, I started to platting cornshucks and things fer making hoss and mule collars, and scouring-brooms and shoulder-mats. I cut hickory poles and make handles out of dem fer de brooms. Marse had hides tanned, and us make buggy whips, wagon whips, shoe strings, saddle strings and sech as dat out of our home-tanned leather. All de galluses dat was wo' in dem days was made by de darkies. "White oak and hickory was split to cure, and we made fish baskets, feed baskets, wood baskets, sewing baskets and all kinds of baskets fer de Missus. All de chair bottoms of straight chairs was made from white oak splits, and de straight chairs was made in de shop. You made a scouring brush like dis: (He put his hands together to show how the splits were held) By splitting a width of narrow splits, keep on till you lay a entire layer of splits; turn dis way; den dat way, and den bind together and dat hold dem like you want dem to stay. Last, you work in a pole as long as you want it fer de handle, and bind it tight and tie wid de purtiest knots. "I git money fer platting galluses and making boot strings and other little things. Allus first, I desires to be well qualified wid what I does. I is gwine to be qualified wid everything dat I does, iffen I does it fer money or no. Dat's de reason white people has allus give me words of encouragement. "Now I gwine to sing a song fer Miss Polly, kaise she de grand-daughter of de late Sheriff Long, and I goes to see her grandma at de Keys (Cross Keys House). Dar she come now. "How is you dis morning, Miss Polly? De Lawd sho does shower you, Miss Polly, and dat's de reason I is gwine to sing fer you dis morning. You'll be able to tell Mr. Jimmie (her father) dat Uncle George sing fer you, 'Jesus Listening All De Day Long'. "Jesus listening all de day long to hear some sinner pray. De winding sheet to wrop (wrap) dis body in, De coffin to hold you fast; Pass through death's iron do'. Come ye dat love de Lawd and let your joy be know'd; Dis iron gate you must pass through, if you gwine to be Born agin." He sang these lines over three times and then bowing, said: "Ain't it glory dat we can live whar de Lawd can use us? Dat's power. A strong man entereth in; a weak man cometh out. Dat represent Christ gwine into your heart. "Sho I can remember when dey had de mustering grounds at de Keys. Dar day mustered and den dey turn't in and practiced drilling dem soldiers till dey larn't how to march and to shoot de Yankees. Drilling, dat's de proper word, not practice, I knows, if I ain't ed'icated. Dey signed me to go to de 16th regiment, but I never reached de North. When us got to Charleston, us turn't around and de bosses fetched us right back to Union through Columbia. Us heard dat Sherman was coming, fetching fire along 'hind him. "Don't know nothing 'bout no militia to make no statement, but it went on and turn't back. Another regiment had a barbecue somewhars in Union County befo' it went off to war; might a been de 18th regiment, but I does not feel dat I can state on dat. "My soul reaches from God's foot-stool up to his heavenly home. I can histronize de poor white folks' wives and chilluns enduring de time of de Civil War fer you. When dese poor white men went to de war, dey left deir little chillun and deir wives in de hands of de darkies dat was kind and de rich wives of our marsters to care fer. Us took de best care of dem poor white dat us could under de circumstances dat prevailed. "We was sont to Sullivan's Island, but befo' we reached it, de Yankees done got it and we won't 'lowed to cross in '64. But jes' de same, we was in service till dey give Capt. Franklin Bailey 'mission to fetch us home. Dar we had to git 'mission fer everything, jes' as us niggers had to git 'mission to leave our marster's place at home in Union County. Capt. Bailey come on back to Cross Keys wid us under his protection, and we was under it fer de longest time atter we done got home. "Fer 65 years I been licensed as a preacher, and fer longer dan dat I been a member of Padgett's Creek Baptist church. Mo' work I does, mo' work I has to do. You know how to pray. Well, you does not know how to make polish out of pinders. "I ain't ed'icated yet, but even Lige what teaches school out to de Keys (de big black school), dat big black buck dat teaches de chilluns deir 'rithmetic; even he couldn't do dis here one. A heap of ed'icated folks can't give it. Here it is: 'What's de biggest figger in de figger ten?'" With his old black, rough and gnarled forefinger he drew on the table the figure 1. "Now you see dat? Dat's de figger 1. A naught ain't nothing by itself or multiplied by other naughts; but set it down in front of de figger 1, and it takes on de value 9. Dar you is got ten--one and nine is ten. Dat naught becomes something. I is old, and I ain't had narry bit of schooling, but I likes to be close to de orchard, and I knows it's dar by de smell of it. Dat's de way I is when I gits along side ed'icated folks--I knows dat dey is. "It's like dat sum dem scholars couldn't git; standing alone dat naught ain't worth nothing, but set it up against dat which is of value and it takes on value. Set a naught ag'inst dat which is one and you has ten; set up another naught dar and you has a hundred. Now if somebody was to give me a note worth $10, and I found room to add another naught along side of de first; den dem two naughts what ain't worth nothing by deirselves gives de note de value of $99 if dey is sot along wid de one. Ed'icated folks calls dat raising de note. I is ig'nant and I calls dat robbery. And dat's like you and me. We is naughts and Christ is de _One_, and we ain't nothing till we carries de Spirit of de Lawd along wid us. "On de pathway of life, may you allus keep Christ in front of you and you will never go wrong. De Lawd will den see fit to give you a soul dat will reach from His foot-stool here on earth to His dwelling place on high." He ended with a deep sob and good-bye. Source: George Briggs (88), Union, S. C. RFD 2. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. 6/9/37. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 July 20, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "Some white men called in question today about de reigning governor enduring time of de Civil War. I knowed dat, and 'cides dat, I knowed him well. It was Governor 'Bill' as us called him. "What you want to git, is history about muster grounds. Yes, it was on Jones Ferry Road, jest south of Cross Keys whar dey had what dey allus called de muster field. Now, Jones Ferry Road leads across Enoree River into Laurens County. Enoree River is de thing dat devides Union County from Laurens County, dat it is. "Well as I remember, Mr. Bill Ray was in de mustering of de 18th Regiment. Billy, Robert, Sara and Miss Nancy was Mr. Alex's chilluns. Understand me, don't think dat Bob and Sam was in de Regiment ... satisfied Billy was, kaise he used to pass our house on horse back, coming from de Laurens side where he lived. "Sixteen-year-old boys come in de same time dat I did. Course I ain't told all dat I knows, kaise dat wouldn't be proper. All I tell you, I wants it to be recognized. De better it's done, de better it'll help you. "I goes from home and stays five days or more, and don't nothing happen to a thing at my home. I does fer de sick and de Lawd blesses me. He looks atter my things while I am away. He soon shows his presence atter I gits dar. He calls fer me and I feeds Him. "Once had 26 biles (boils). Dat make me consider my disobedience against de Lawd. Den I went to Him in prayer. He told me Satan done got ahead of Him. Dat show me dat I done forgot to be particular. I got mo' 'ticular and pray mo' often, and in six weeks my biles had done all gone. "Dar is times when I gits lost fer not knowing. I can't keep up, kaise I cannot read. Man in Sunday school reads and I hears. He read de olden Testament; den he read de new Testament. Dat my schooling. I 'clar unto you, I got by all my life by praying and thinking. I sho does think a lot. ('Uncle' George's facial and scalp muscles work so when he thinks, that his straw hat moves up and down.) "When good man prays fer bad man, de Holy Ghost works on bad man's consciousness, and afo' he knows it, he's a-saying 'Lawd have Mercy' 'stead of 'G'dam', like all wicked folks says every day. He--dat de Holy Ghost dat I still is speaking of--jest penetrates de wicked man's consciousness widout him a-knowing it. Dat penetrating make de bad man say, 'Lawd have Mercy.' I hoes and I cuts sprouts, and den I plows. When you plows, mules is allus so aggravating dat dey gits you all ruffled up. Dat de devil a-working at you. Dat's all old mules is anyhow. I does not cuss, nohow, kaise it sho am wicked and I is had de Holy Spirit in my soul, now gone sixty-five years, since I jined Padgett Creek Church. When my old mule gits to de row's end, and he act mulish--kaise dat's in him and he don't know nothing else to do--I means to say either 'ha' or 'gee', and often since I jined Padgett Creek Church I finds myself saying 'Lawd have Mercy' 'stead of 'gee' or 'ha'. So you see dat de Lawd has command, whar-so-ever if I was wicked, Satan would. "A child fo God allus will agree wid de Word of God. We mens dat claim to be leaders in de Kingdom, got to step up and sho folks what dey must do. Man learns right smart from Exodus 'bout how to lead. A male child was born to rule de world. Moses still de strongest impression dat we has as rulers. God gits Hisself into de heads of men dat he wants to rule and He don't tell nobody else nothing 'bout it neither. "Mr. Roosevelt de president and he sho looks atter de po' folks. He ain't no ig'nant man neither, kaise he got de light. Folks ain't a-gwine to drown him out neither wid dere wicked words 'gainst him, kaise he strive in de Lawd's name to do His will. Mr. Roosevelt got learning like I is from de throne of God. He may have education also, but if he is, he sho knows how to keep dem both jined together. Folks reads to me how he got crippled and how he washed in dem springs in Georgia, and dat keep him a-gwine right on anyhow. It ain't dem springs by deself, but it's God a dipping his hand down dar fer de President to git well. Oh yes, suh, I knows dat he twan't de president when he was a-washing, but dem de plans dat de Lawd had done already planned and you and me never know'd nothing 'bout all dat. You and me does not know what is planned up in sto' fer us in de future neither. "I is a Baptist, and at Padgett's Creek we does not believe in no back-sliding. 'Once in de Spirit, allus in de Spirit'. A child of your'n is allus a child of your'n. Dat de way de Baptist teach--once a child of God, allus God's child. T'ain't no sech thing as drapping back. If you draps back, you ain't never been no child of de Lawd, and you never had no business being baptized. Christ was baptized in de waters of Jordan, won't (weren't) He? Well, He never drapped back, did He? He say we must follow in His footsteps, didn't He? Well, dar you is, and dat's all dar is to it. "God gits in de heads of men to help de aged and de po' also. I never axes fer nothing, but when I sets around de courthouse and informs men as I been doing dis evening, de Lawd has dem to drap a nickle or a dime or a quarter in my hand but He never gits dem to a half of a dollar." Source: George Briggs, (88) Rt. 2, Union, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. (7/12/37) Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 July 12, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "What-so-ever I can find! I traveling dat way over 73 years. If he ax de Lawd and have faith, he ken do; and iffen he don't have no faith, by den he can't. When a man comes along dat wants his own way, and he won't pay no attention to de Lawd, by den de Lawd don't pay him no mind; and so dat man jest keeps a-gwine on wid his way and he don't never reach de Cross. Jesus say, 'deny yourself, pick up de Cross and follow Me.' "I see a man in de courthouse dis morning, and he was like Nicodemus. Why dat man want to be resto'd back like he was when he was jest 21 years old. I seed him setting down dar in Mr. Perrin's office, and I knowed his troubles when he 'low dat he done been to every doctor in town. De trouble was, he never had no faith in de doctors and nobody else. How could he have faith in Jesus when he never had none in nothing else? Brother, you has to have faith in your fellowman befo' you has faith in de Lawd. I don't know how come, but dat's de way it is. My plan is working by faith. Jesus say, 'Work widout faith ain't nothing; but work wid faith'll move mountains'. "Dat man told me he gwine give me a hundred dollars if I rid him of misery. Dat show he never know nothing 'bout faith. "If Mr. Emslie Nicholson ax me to rid him of a misery, I couldn't take no money from him, and he de richest man in all Union County. Mr. Nicholson would know better dan to offer me money, kaise he has faith. You know he's a good 'Presmuterian' (Presbyterian). "Dey looks at de back of my head, and de hair on it ain't rubbed against no college and fer dat reason dese young negroes don't want me to preach. Dey wants to hear dat man preach dat can read. Man dat can read can't understand less'n some divine man guide him. I speak as my Teacher gives it to me, dat's de Lawd. In so doing, I testify de word dat no man can condemn. Dat is my plan of Salvation: to work by faith widout price or purse, as de Lawd, my Teacher has taught me. "Dar was no church on our plantation when I was a boy. All de Baptists went to Padgett's Creek, and all de Methodist went to Quaker Church and Belmont. Padgett's Creek had a section in de back of de church fer de slaves to sit. Quaker Church and Belmont both had slaves' galleries. Dar is a big book at Padgetts wid three pages of slaves' names that was members. Mr. Claude Sparks read it to me last year. All de darky members dead, but one, dat's me. "Nobody never read de Bible to me when I was little. It jest a gift of God dat teached to me through de Holy Ghost. It's de Spirit of de One in Three dat gits into you, and dat's de Holy Ghost or de Holy Spirit dat gives me my enlightment. "If I can git to de do' of Padgett's Creek Church, I can jest feel de Power of God. ('Uncle' George pats his foot and softly cries at this point, and his face takes on a calm and peaceful expression.) "If you eats befo' you gits hongry, you never will feast on dead air. I makes it a practice to feed my soul and body befo' dey gits hongry. Even I does eat by myself, dis old man take off his hat and ax de Lawd to bless his soul and body in nourishment fer de future. "I ain't never seed Mr. Lincoln, but from what I learn't dey said dat God had placed in him de revelation to give de plan dat he had fer every man. Dat plan fer every man to worship under his own vine and fig tree. From dat, we should of liked Mr. Lincoln. "Dis here 'Dick Look-Up'. No sir, I don't know him, kaise I caught his name since I come on dis side of de river. Mr. Perrin knows him, and I heard him say dat every time anybody ax him how old he is, he add on ten years. Dat's how come dey got in de paper he a hundred and twenty-five years old. Now me and Mr. Perrin doesn't speak unless we is obleeged to know dat what we is gwine to say is de truth. Us is careful, kaise us knows dat de Lawd am looking down from his throne, and dat He is checking every word dat we says. Some folks does not recall dat fact when dey speaks, or dey would be careful. "I'll say it slow so dat you can catch it; I start in time of de Confederate War. Wid dirt dug up out of de smokehouse, water was run through it so us could get salt fer bread. Hickory wood ashes was used fer soda. If we didn't have no hickory wood, we burnt red corn cobs; and de ashes from dem was used fer cooking soda. "Molasses was made from watermelons in time of de war. Dey was also made from May-apples or may-pops as some call dem, and sometimes dey was made from persimmons and from wheat brand. In Confederate days, Irish potato tops was cooked fer vegetables. Blackberry leaves was ocassionally used fer greens or fer seasoning lambs quarters. "Dis way watermelon was done: Soak watermelon twenty and four hours to de'self; strain off all juice and put on fire to bile. When dey thickens dey bees good. Yes sir, good, good. "Wid may-pops: peel de outside green off, den bust 'em open and mash up together; strain juice off and cook thick. "'Simmons and wheat bran are mashed up together and baked in water. Let set twenty and four hours and cook down to molasses. Dat winds up dat part of it. "Git plums and blackberries and de like of dat and make up in Jelly, or can fer scarce times, dat's de way we done den and folks does dat yet. Dese is some of de particularest things of de Confederate times dat I come back from Sedalia to give you, dat's right. (This old negro, who had already been interviewed by the writer, came a long way and looked-up the author to tell him some incidents which he had forgotten to tell in the first interview.) Some customs is done went by now, but dey was practiced in Sedalia, and as to whar dem was done fer off as Spartanburg, I cannot say. "In Confederate time, all wimmens stayed close home and carded and spun all de day long. Dey wove all dere own clothes. Men at home, old men, made leather shoes and shoe strings and belts and galloses. "Our darkies tried hard to be obedient to our master so dat we might obtain (keep) our pleasant home. Obedience makes it better dan sacrifice. I restes my mind dar." Source: George Briggs (88), Rt. 2, Union, S. C. Interviewed by: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. (7/7/37) Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, January 27, 1938 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- JOSEPHINE BRISTOW Ex-Slave, 73 Years "Remembers de Confederate War, Miss. Yes, mam, I'm supposed to be, if I can live to see February, bout 73 year old. What age Hester say she was? Dat what I had thought from me en her conversation. Miss, I don' remember a thing more bout de war den de soldiers comin through old Massa's plantation en we chillun was 'fraid of dem en ran. Knew dey was dressed in a different direction from us white folks. All was in blue, you know, wid dem curious lookin hats en dem brass buttons on dey bodies. No, mam, dey didn' stop nowhe' bout us. Dey was ridin on horses en it seem like dey was in a hurry gwine somewhe'. En dey didn' stop to old Massa's house neither. No, mam, not to my knowin, dey didn'. Well, we was livin out to de plantation, we calls it, en Massa en Missus was livin up here to Marion. Mr. Ferdinand Gibson, dat who been us Massa in slavery time en Miss Connie, dat what we used to call her, was us Missus. To my knowin, dey didn' have no chillun dey own, but dey sho had plenty colored people. Yes, mam, seems like to my remembrance, my Massa ran bout 30 plantations en 'sides dat, he had a lot of servants right up here to de big house, men en women." "I was real small in dem days en far as I can remember, we lived on de quarter dere to old Massa's plantation in de country. Us little tots would go every mornin to a place up on de hill, called de milk house, en get our milk 'tween meals while de old folks was off workin. Oh, dey had a old woman to see after we chillun en tend to us in de daytime. De old lady dat looked after us, her name was Mary Novlin. Lord, Mr. Gibson, he had big farms en my mother en father, dey worked on de farms. Yes'um, my mother en father, I used to never wouldn' know when dey come home in de evenin, it would be so late. De old lady, she looked after every blessed thing for us all day long en cooked for us right along wid de mindin. Well, she would boil us corn meal hominy en give us dat mostly wid milk for breakfast. Den dey would have a big garden en she would boil peas en give us a lot of soup like dat wid dis here oven bread. Oh, dem what worked in de field, dey would catch dey meals when dey could. Would have to cook way in de night or sometimes fore day. Cose dey would take dey dinner rations wid dem to de field. More or less, dey would cook it in de field. Yes'um, dey would carry dey pots wid dem en cook right dere in de field whe' dey was workin. Would boil pots en make bread, too. I don' know how long dey had to work, mam, but I hear dem say dat dey worked hard, cold or hot, rain or shine. Had to hoe cotton en pick cotton en all such as dat. I don' know, mam, but de white folks, I guess dey took it dat dey had plenty colored people en de Lord never meant for dem to do no work. You know, white folks in dem days, dey made de colored people do." "De people used to spin en weave, my Lord! Like today, it cloudy en rainy, dey couldn' work in de field en would have to spin dat day. Man, you would hear dat thing windin en I remember, I would stand dere en want to spin so bad, I never know what to do. Won' long fore I got to whe' I could use de shuttle en weave, too. I bad a grandmother en when she would get to dat wheel, she sho know what she been doin. White folks used to give de colored people task to spin en I mean she could do dat spinnin. Yes'um, I here to tell you, dey would make de prettiest cloth in dat day en time. Old time people used to have a kind of dye dey called indigo en dey would color de cloth just as pretty as you ever did see." "Den I recollects dat dey would have to shuck corn some of de days en wouldn' nobody work in de field dat day. Oh, my Lord, dey would have de big eats on dem days. Would have a big pot right out to de barn whe' dey was shuckin corn en would boil it full as it could hold wid such as peas en rice en collards. Would cook big bread, too, en would save a hog's head for dat purpose often times." "Colored people didn' have no schools nowhe' in dat day en time. No'um, us didn' go to no church neither cause we was way off dere on de plantation en wasn' any church nowhe' bout dere, Miss. I likes to be truthful en I tellin you, when we was comin up, we never didn' know nothin 'cept what we catch from de old folks." "Old Massa, he used to come to de plantation drivin his rockaway en my Lord a mercy, we chillun did love to run en meet him. Dey used to have a great big gate to de lane of de plantation en when we been hear him comin, we would go a runnin en holler, 'Massa comin! Massa comin!' En he would come ridin through de big gate en say, 'Yonder my little niggers! How my little niggers? Come here en tell me how you all.' Den we would go a runnin to him en try to tell him what he ax us. Yes'um, we was sho pleased to see old Massa cause we had to stay right dere on dat plantation all de time round bout dat old woman what tended to us. Used to hear my mother en my father speak bout dey had to get a ticket from dey boss to go anywhe' dey wanted to go off de place. Pataroller catch dem off de plantation somewhe' widout dat walkin ticket, dey would whip dem most to death. Never didn' hear bout old Massa whippin none of dem, but he was very tight on dem, my father say. Cose he give dem abundance of rations en somethin to eat all de time, but colored people sho been work for what dey would get in dem days. Didn' get nothin dey never pay for. It been like dis, what rations us parents would get, dat would be to dey house en what we chillun been get would be to de old woman's house what took care of us." "Well, Miss, some people stays here wid me, but dey works out en I tries to help dem out somehow. No, mam, we all stays right here together en while dey on de job, I tries to look out for de chillun. I just thinkin bout when we come to a certain age, honey, it tough. Chillun is a heap of trouble, I say. Well, I was de mother of five, but dey all dead 'cept one. My husband, he been dead seven years. Yes'um, dis a bad little girl settin here in my lap en dat one over dere in de bed, he a boy what a right smart larger den dis one." (Little girl just can stand alone). (Little boy wakes up). "Son, dere you wantin to get up en I don' know whe' near a rag to put on you is. Dere, you want a piece of bread fore you is dress. Who undressed you last night nohow? Boy, you got to stand dere en wait till your mamma come home cause I can' find none your rags. What de matter wid you? You so hungry, you just standin dere wid your mouth droolin dat way. Dere your bread en tea on de bureau. Gwine on en get it." (Little boy's breakfast consisted of a cold biscuit and a little cold coffee poured in an empty coffee can. The little girl sat with a clump of cold hominy in her hand on which she nibbled.) "Lord, I think what a blessin it would be if chillun dese days was raise like dey used to be, Miss. Yes, mam, we had what you call strict fathers en mothers den, but chillun ain' got dem dese days. Oh, dey would whip you en put de lash to you in dat day en time. Yes'um, Miss, if we never do right, my father would put it to us. Sho meant what he say. Wouldn' never whip you on Sunday though. Say dat he would get you tomorrow. Den when Monday come, he would knock all bout like he had forget, but toreckly he would call you up en he would sho work on you. Pa say, 'I'm not gwine let you catch me in no lie. When I tell you I gwine cut you, I gwine do it.' Miss, I is had my mother to hurt me so bad till I would just fall down en roll in de sand. Hurt! Dey hurt, dat dey did. Wouldn' whip you wid no clothes on neither. Would make you pull off. Yes, mam, I could sniffle a week, dey been cut me such licks. Thought dey had done me wrong, but dey know dey ain' been doin me wrong en I mean dey didn' play wid me." "Miss, I think folks is livin too fast in de world today. Seems to me like all de young people is worser, I say. Well, I tell you, dey be ridin out all times of night en girls meetin up wid Miss Fortune. At least, our colored girls does. En don' care what dey do neither. Don' seem to care what dey do nor how dey do. De girls nowadays, dey gets dey livin. Girls settin higher den what dey makes demselves dese days." Source: Josephine Bristow, colored, 73 years, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Jan., 1938 Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. ANNE BROOME EX-SLAVE 87 YEARS OLD. "Does you recollect de Galloway place just dis side of White Oak? Well dere's where I was born. When? Can't name de 'zact year but my ma say, no stork bird never fetch me but de fust railroad train dat come up de railroad track, when they built de line, fetched me. She say I was a baby, settin' on de cow-ketcher, and she see me and say to pa: 'Reubin, run out dere and get our baby befo' her falls off and gets hurt under them wheels! Do you know I believed dat tale 'til I was a big girl? Sure did, 'til white folks laugh me out of it! "My ma was name Louisa. My marster was Billie Brice, but 'spect God done write sumpin' else on he forehead by dis time. He was a cruel marster; he whip me just for runnin' to de gate for to see de train run by. My missus was a pretty woman, flaxen hair, blue eyes, name Mary Simonton, 'til she marry. "Us live in a two-room plank house. Plenty to eat and enough to wear 'cept de boys run 'round in their shirt tails and de girls just a one-piece homespun slip on in de summer time. Dat was not a hardship then. Us didn't know and didn't care nothin' 'bout a 'spectable 'pearance in those days. Dats de truth, us didn't. "Gran'pa name Obe; gran'ma, name Rachel. Shoes? A child never have a shoe. Slaves wore wooden bottom shoes. "My white folks went to New Hope Church. Deir chillun was mighty good to us all. Dere was Miss Martha, her marry Doctor Madden, right here at Winnsboro. Miss Mary marry Marster John Vinson, a little polite smilin' man, nice man, though. Then Miss Jane marry Marster John Young. He passed out, leavin' two lovely chillun, Kitty and Maggie. Both of them marry Caldwells. Dere was Marster Calvin, he marry Congressman Wallace's daughter, Ellen. Then dere was Marster Jim and Marster William, de last went to Florida. "It was a big place, I tell you, and heaps and heaps of slaves. Some times they git too many and sell them off. My old mistress cry 'bout dat but tears didn't count wid old marster, as long as de money come a runnin' in and de rations stayed in de smoke house. "Us had a fine carriage. Sam was de driver. Us go to Concord one Sunday and new Hope de next. Had quality fair neighbors. Dere was de Cockerells, 'Piscopalians, dat 'tend St. John in Winnsboro, de Adgers, big buckra, went to Zion in Winnsboro. Marster Burr Cockerell was de sheriff. 'Members he had to hang a man once, right in de open jailyard. Then dere was a poor buckra family name Marshall. Our white folks was good to them, 'cause they say his pappy was close kin to de biggest Jedge of our country, John Marshall. "When de slaves got bad off sick, marster send for Dr. Walter Brice, his kin folks. Some times he might send for Dr. Madden, him's son-in-law, as how he was. "When de Yankees come, all de young marsters was off in de 'Federate side. I see them now, gallopin' to de house, canteen boxes on their hips and de bayonets rattlin' by deir sides. De fust thing they ask, was: 'You got any wine?' They search de house; make us sing: 'Good Old Time 'Ligion'; put us to runnin' after de chickens and a cookin'. When they leave they burnt de gin house and everything in dere. They burn de smoke-house and wind up wid burnin' de big house. "You through wid me now, boss? I sho' is glad of dat. Help all you kin to git me dat pension befo' I die and de Lord will bless you, honey. De Lord not gwine to hold His hand any longer 'ginst us. Us cleared de forests, built de railroads, cleaned up de swamps, and nursed de white folks. Now in our old ages, I hopes they lets de old slaves like me see de shine of some of dat money I hears so much talk 'bout. They say it's free as de gift of grace from de hand of de Lord. Good mornin' and God bless you, will be my prayer always. Has you got a dime to give dis old nigger, boss?" Project #1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S. C. Georgetown County MOM HAGAR (Verbatim Conversation) Mom Hagar Brown lives in her little weathered cabin on forty odd acres left by her husband, Caleb Brown. Caleb died in Georgia where he had been sent to the penitentiary for stealing a hog that another man stole. Aunt Hagar has grands settled all around her and she and the grands divide up the acreage which is planted in corn, sweet potatoes, cotton, and some highland rice. She ministers to them all when sick, acts as mid-wife when necessary, and divides her all with her kin and friends--white and black. She wages a war on ground-moles, at which she laughs and says she resembles. Ground-mole beans almost a foot long protect and decorate her yard. She has apple and fig trees, and scuppernong grape vines grow rank and try to climb all her trees. (Monday morning she hobbles up on a stick--limping and looking sick.) Comes in kitchen door. Lillie: "Aunt Hagar, how you?" Hagar: "Painful. Doctor tell me I got the tonsil. Want to represent me one time and take them out. I say, 'No Doctor! Get in hospital, can't get out! Let me stay here till my change come.' Yeddy? I ain't wuth! Ain't wuth! Ain't got a piece o' sense. Yeddy? Ellen say she want God to take she tomorrow? When you ready it's 'God take me now! All right son!" (Greeting Zackie who enters kitchen.) Zackie: "Aunt Hagar, how you feel?" Hagar: "I ain't wuth son. How's all?" Zackie: "Need a little more grits!" Lillie: "Hear Zackie! Mom Hagar, that ain't hinder him ordering another!" (The fact that food is scarce doesn't limit Zackie's family.) Hagar: "You hear bout this Jeremiah broke in somewhere--get all kinds likker and canned things and different thing?" Zackie: "Must a broke in that place call 'Stumble Inn!' (Very seriously.) That Revenue man been there." Hagar: "I yeddy last night! Say he there in news-paper. Mary say, 'see 'em in paper!' Mrs. White gone to child funeral. That been in paper too. Mary see that in paper. Easter say old lady gone dere. Doctor say better go. Child sick. Child seven years old. Fore they get there tell 'em say, 'Child dead!' "People gone in patch to pick watermillon. Ain't want child to go. You know chillun! Child gone in. Ain't want 'em for go. You know. Child pick watermillon. Ketch up one--I forgotten what pound they say. Roll. Roll duh watermillon. Roll 'em on snake! They say, 'Snake bite 'em?' Child say, 'No. Must a scratch.' See blood run on boy leg. Child get unconscion that minute. Gone right out. Jess so. Ease out so. I cry. I cry!" Lillie: "You know 'em, Mom Hagar?" Hagar: "No! No! Lill, fever got me! Cold get me till my rump dead. Got hospital boy rouse one time say, 'Ma, less go home! Red stripe snake bite me.'" * * * * * Hagar: "Klu Klux?" (Chin cupped in hand--elbow on knee--looking way off--) "Reckon that the way them old timey people call 'em. Have to run way, you go church. Going to come in to ketch you or do any mischievous thing--come carry you place they going beat you--in suit of white. Old white man to Wilderness Plantation. Parish old man name. Treat his wife bad. Come to house, ain't crack. Come right in suit of white. Drag him out--right to Woodstock there where Mr. Dan get shoot. Put a beating on that white man there till he mess up! Oman never gone back to him yet!" "A man wuz name (I forgot what the man name wuz)--wuz a white man mess round wid a colored woman and they didn't do a God thing but gone and put a beating on you, darling! Come in. Grab you and go. Put a beating on you till you can't see. Know they got a good grub to lick you wid. They git done you can't sit down. Ain't going carry you just for play with." "Mom Hagar, you wanter vote?" Hagar: "Oh my God!" "Aunt Hagar are the colored people happier now than the old timey slavery time people?" Hagar: "Young people now got the world by force. Don't care. Got more trick than law low. Tricky! Can't beat the old people. Can't equal to 'em. Some the young people you say 'AMEN' in church they make fun o' you. Every tub stand on his own bottom. Can't truss 'em. "Ma say some dem plan to run way. Say, 'Less run! Less run!' Master ketch dem and fetch dem in. Lay 'em cross barrel. Beat dem till they wash in blood. Fetch 'em back. Place 'em cross the barrel--hogsket barrel--Christ! They ramp wash in blood! Beat Ma sister. He sister sickly. Never could clear task--like he want. My Ma have to work he self to death to help Henritta so sickly. Clear task to keep from beat. Some obersheer mean. Oaks labor. (Meaning her Ma and ma's family were laboring on Oaks Plantation--the plantation where Gov. Joseph Allston and Theodosia his wife lived on Waccamaw.) Mother Sally Doctor. Ma got four chillun. One was Emmeline, one Getty, one Katrine one Hagar! I older than Gob (Katrine). Could a call doctor for Gob if I had any sense." (Big nuff to gone for doctor when Gob born.) "Stay in the field! Stay in the field! Stay in the field till the war been end!" (This is Aunt Hagar's favorite song) Mom Hagar Brown--age 77 Murrells Inlet, S. C. July 4th, 1937. Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S. C. Georgetown County (Some recollections of Mom Hagar Brown) Visitor: "Mom Hagar, how old did you say you were?" Hagar: "Don't take care of my age! Had me gang of chillun when ma die. I had Samuel, I had Elias, I had Arthur, I had Beck. Oh, my God! Man, go way! I had Sally! I had Sally again. I didn't want to give the name 'Sally' again. Say, 'First Sally come carry girl.' Ma say, 'Gin 'em name 'Sally!' I faid (afraid) that other one come back for him. Had to do what Ma say. Had to please 'em. Ma name Sally. Ma chillun Catrine, Hagar, Emmeline, Gettie. I born Columbia. Come Freedom, when we left Columbia, ma finer till we get in Charston. Freedom come, battle till we get 'Oaks.' (Battled till they reached the 'Oaks Plantation--.')Stay there till people gin (begin) move bout. Come Watsaw. Gone 'Collins Creek.' In the 'Reb Time' you know, when they sell you bout--Massa sell you all about. Broke through them briar and branch and thing to go to church. Them patrol get you. Church 'Old Bethel.' You don't know 'em. Been gone! "I yeddy ma! (heard my mother) Ma say, 'I too glad my chillun aint been here Rebs time! Gin you task you rather drown than not done that task! Ma say Auntie poor we weak creeter, couldn't strain. Ma had to strain to fetch sister up with her task. Dere (there) in rice-field. Ma say they on flat going to islant (island), see cloud, pray God send rain! When rooster crow, say they pray God to stop 'em! Rooster crow, broke up wedder! When rooster crow, scare 'em. Broke up rain! Ma say they drag the pot in the river when the flat going cross. Do this to make it rain. Massa! Don't done you task, driver wave that whip, put you over the barrel, beat you so blood run down! I wouldn't take 'em! Ma say, 'I too glad my chillun aint born then!' "Any cash money? Where you gwine get 'em? Only cash the gospel! Have to get the gospel. Give you cloth! Give you ration! Jess (just according) many chillun you got. Ma say chillun feed all the corn to the fowl. Chillun say, 'Papa love he fowl! Papa love he fowl! Three peck a day! Three peck a day! "Parent come to door. Not a grain of corn leave! Poor people! Come, drop! Not a grain! Everybody on the hill help. One give this; one give that. Handle 'em light! (Very careful with victuals). Gone you till Saddy (Saturday.) (Will last you until Saturday when you are rationed again.) "When Ma get down, she say, 'I gone leave! I gone leave here now! But, oh, Hagar! Be a mudder and fadder for Katrine!' "I say, (I call Katrine 'Gob') I say, 'Better tell Gob to look atter me!' "Ma say, 'When I gone I ax the Master when he take me, to send drop o' rain to let true believer know I gone to Glory!' "When they lift the body to take 'em to the church, rain, 'Tit! Tit! Tit! Tit!' on the house! At the gate, moon shine out' Going to the church! Bury to the 'Oaks.' "Gob say, 'Titty, all you chillun bury at Oaks. Ma to Oaks. How come you wanter bury Watsaw?" "I say, 'When the trumpet sound, I yeddy!' (When the trumpet sounds, I'll hear it!) "I marry right to Collins Creek hill. Big dance out the door! I free! I kick up! Ma, old rebs time people!" Mom Hagar Brown Age--(She says 'Born first o' Freedom' but got her age from a contemporary and reported 77) Murrells Inlet, S. C. Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S. C. Georgetown County EX-SLAVE STORY (Verbatim) "My old man can 'member things and tell you things and he word carry. We marry to Turkey Hill Plantation. Hot supper. Cake, wine, and all. Kill cow, hog, chicken and all. That time when you marry, so much to eat! Finance wedding! Now-- "We 'lamp-oil chillun'; they 'lectric light' chillun now! We call our wedding 'lamp-oil wedding'. Hall jam full o' people; out-of-door jam full. Stand before the chimbley. "When that first war come through, we born. I don't know just when I smell for come in the world. "Big storm? Yinnah talk big storm hang people up on tree? (Noah!) Shake? I here in house. House gone, 'Rack-a-rack-a-racker!' "My husband run out--with me and my baby left in bed! Baby just come in time of the shake. "When I first have sense, I 'member I walk on the frost bare-feet. Cow-belly shoe. "My husband mother have baby on the flat going to Marion and he Auntie Cinda have a baby on that flat. "From yout (youth) I been a Brown and marry a Brown; title never change. "Old timey sing? 1. "Wish I had a hundred dog And half wuz hound! Take it in my fadder field And we run the rabbit down! Chorus: Now he hatch He hatch! He hatch! And I run the rabbit down! 2. "I wish I had a hundred head o' dog And half of them wuz hound I'd take 'em back in my bacco field And run the rabbit down. Chorus: Now he hatch--he hatch! He hatch--he hatch! Now he hatch--he hatch! And I run them rabbit down!" "That wuz a sing we used to have on the plantation. Then we make up sing--we have sing for chillun. Make 'em go sleep. Every one have his own sing. "Bye-o-baby! Go sleepy! Bye-o-baby! Go sleepy! What a big alligator Coming to catch This one boy!" "Diss here the Watson one boy child! Bye-o-baby go sleepy! What a big alligator Coming to catch this one boy!" Emmie Jordan: "Missus, I too plague with bad heart trouble to give you the sing!" Song and conversation Given by Mom Louisa Brown (Born time of 'Reb people War') Waverly Mills, S. C. Near Parkersville, S. C. Project -1655 Jessie A. Butler Charleston, S. C. Approximately 930 words FOLKLORE Stories from Ex-slaves Henry Brown Ex-slave Age 79 Henry Brown, negro caretaker of the Gibbes House, at the foot of Grove street, once a part of Rose Farm, is a splendid example of a type once frequently met with in the South. Of a rich brown complexion, aquiline of feature, there is none of the "Gullah" about Henry. He is courteous and kindly in his manner, and speaks more correctly than the average negro. "My father was Abram Brown, and my mother's name was Lucy Brown," he said. "They were slaves of Dr. Arthur Gordon Rose. My grandfather and grandmother were grown when they came from Africa, and were man and wife in Africa. I was born just about two years before the war so I don't remember anything about slavery days, and very little about war times, except that we were taken to Deer Pond, about half mile from Columbia. Dr. Rose leased the place from Dr. Ray, and took his family there for safety. My mother died while he was at Deer Pond, and was buried there, but all the rest of my people is buried right here at Rose Farm. My two brothers were a lot older than me, and were in the war. After the war my brother Tom was on the police force, he was a sergeant, and they called him Black Sergeant. My brother Middleton drove the police wagon: they used to call it Black Maria. "My father, Abram Brown, was the driver or head man at Rose plantation. Dr. Rose thought a heap of him, and during the war he put some of his fine furniture and other things he brought from England in my father's house and told him if the Yankees came to say the things belonged to him. Soon after that the soldiers came. They asked my father who the things belonged to and he said they belonged to him. The soldiers asked him who gave them to him, and he said his master gave them to him. The Yankees told him that they thought he was lying, and if he didn't tell the truth they would kill him, but he wouldn't say anything else so they left him alone and went away. "Work used to start on the plantation at four o'clock in the morning, when the people went in the garden. At eight or nine o'clock they went into the big fields. Everybody was given a task of work. When you finished your task you could quit. If you didn't do your work right you got a whipping. "The babies were taken to the Negro house and the old women and young colored girls who were big enough to lift them took care of them. At one o'clock the babies were taken to the field to be nursed, then they were brought back to the Negro house until the mothers finished their work, then they would come for them. "Dr. Rose gave me to his son, Dr. Arthur Barnwell Rose, for a Christmas present. After the war Dr. Rose went back to England. He said he couldn't stay in a country with so many free Negroes. Then his son Dr. Arthur Barnwell Rose had the plantation. Those was good white people, good white people. "The colored people were given their rations once a week, on Monday, they got corn, and a quart of molasses, and three pounds of bacon, and sometimes meat and peas. They had all the vegetables they wanted; they grew them in the gardens. When the boats first came in from Africa with the slaves, a big pot of peas was cooked and the people ate it with their hands right from the pot. The slaves on the plantation went to meeting two nights a week and on Sunday they went to Church, where they had a white preacher Dr. Rose hired to preach to them. "After the war when we came back to Charleston I went to work as a chimney-sweep. I was seven years old then. They paid me ten cents a story. If a house had two stories I got twenty cents; if it had three stories I got thirty cents. When I got too big to go up the chimneys I went back to Rose plantation. My father was still overseer or driver. I drove a cart and plowed. Afterwards I worked in the phosphate mines, then came back here to take care of the garden and be caretaker. I planted all these Cherokee roses you see round here, and I had a big lawn of Charleston grass. I aint able to keep it like I used to." Henry is intensely religious. He says "the people don't notice God now because they're free." "Some people say there aint no hell," he continued, "but I think there must be some kind of place like that, because you got to go some place when you leave this earth, and you got to go to the master that you served when you were here. If you serve God and obey His commandments then you go to Him, but if you don't pay any attention to what he tells you in His Book, just do as you choose and serve the devil, then you got to go to him. And it don't make any difference if you're poor or rich, it don't matter what the milliner (millionaire) man says." He seemed so proud of his garden, with its broad view across the Ashley River, showing his black walnut, pear and persimmon trees, grape vines and roses, that the writer said, "Henry, you know a poet has said that we are nearer God in the garden than anywhere else on earth." "Well ma'am, you see," he replied, with a winning smile, "that's where God put us in the first place." Project #1655 Augustus Ladson Charleston, S. C. EX-SLAVE BORN 1857 GRAND PARENTS CAME DIRECTLY FROM AFRICA I was nickname' durin' the days of slavery. My name was Henry but they call' me Toby. My sister, Josephine, too was nickname' an' call' Jessee. Our mistress had a cousin by that name. My oldes' bredder was a Sergeant on the Charleston Police Force around 1868. I had two other sister', Louise an' Rebecca. My firs' owner was Arthur Barnwell Rose. Then Colonel A. G. Rhodes bought the plantation who sol' it to Capen Frederick W. Wagener. James Sottile then got in possession who sol' it to the DeCostas, an' a few weeks ago Mrs. Albert Callitin Simms, who I'm tol' is a former member of Congress, bought it. Now I'm wonderin' if she is goin' to le' me stay. I hope so 'cus I'm ol' now en can't work. My pa was name' Abraham Brown; he was bo'n on Coals Islan' in Beaufort County. Colonel Rhodes bought him for his driver, then he move here. I didn't know much 'bout him; he didn't live so long afta slavery 'cus he was ol. Colonel Rhodes had a son an' a daughter. The son went back to England afta his death an' the daughter went to Germany with her husban'. They ain't never come back so the place was sol' for tax. Durin' the war we was carry to Deer Pond, twelve miles on dis side of Columbia. W'en the war was end' pa brought my sister, Louise, Rebecca, who was too small to work, Josephine an' me, home. All my people is long-lifted. My grand pa an' grand ma on pa side come right from Africa. They was stolen an' brought here. They use to tell us of how white men had pretty cloth on boats which they was to exchange for some of their o'nament'. W'en they take the o'nament' to the boat they was carry way down to the bottom an' was lock' in. They was anchored on or near Sullivan's Islan' w'ere they been feed like dogs. A big pot was use' for cookin'. In that pot peas was cook' an' lef' to cool. Everybody went to the pot with the han's an' all eat frum the pot. I was bo'n two years before the war an' was seven w'en it end. That was in 1857. I never went to school but five months in my life, but could learn easy. Very seldom I had to be tol' to do the same thing twice. The slaves had a plenty o' vegetables all the time. Master planted t'ree acres jus' for the slaves which was attended to in the mornin's before tas' time. All provision was made as to the distribution on Monday evenin's afta tas'. My master had two place: one on Big Islan' an' on Coals Islan' in Beaufort County. He didn't have any overseer. My pa was his driver. Pa say this place was given to Mr. Rhodes with a thousand acres of lan' by England. But it dwindled to thirty-five w'en the other was taken back by England. There wasn't but ten slaves on this plantation. The driver call' the slaves at four so they could git their breakfas'. They always work the garden firs' an' at seven go in the co'n an' cotton fiel'. Some finish their tas' by twelve an' others work' 'til seven but had the tas' to finish. No one was whip' 'less he needed it; no one else could whip master' slaves. He wouldn't stan' for it. We had it better then than now 'cause white men lynch an' burn now an' do other things they couldn't do then. They shoot you down like dogs now, an' nothin' said or done. No slave was suppose' to be whip' in Charleston except at the Sugar House. There was a jail for whites, but if a slave ran away an' got there he could disown his master an' the state wouldn't le' him take you. All collud people has to have a pass w'en they went travelin'; free as well as slaves. If one didn't the patrollers, who was hired by rich white men would give you a good whippin' an' sen' you back home. My pa didn't need any one to write his pass 'cause he could write as well as master. How he got his education, I didn't know. Sat'day was a workin' day but the tas' was much shorter then other days. Men didn't have time to frolic 'cause they had to fin' food for the fambly; master never give 'nough to las' the whole week. A peck o' co'n, t'ree pound o' beacon, quart o' molasses, a quart o' salt, an' a pack o' tobacco was given the men. The wife got the same thing but chillun accordin' to age. Only one holiday slaves had an' that was Christmas. Co'nshuckin' parties was conducted by a group of fa'mers who take their slaves or sen' them to the neighborin' ones 'til all the co'n was shuck'. Each one would furnish food 'nough for all slaves at his party. Some use to have nothin' but bake potatas an' some kind of vegetable. An unmarried young man was call' a half-han'. W'en he want to marry he jus' went to master an' say there's a gal he would like to have for wife. Master would say yes an' that night more chicken would be fry an' everything eatable would be prepare at master' expense. The couple went home afta the supper, without any readin' of matrimony, man an' wife. A man once married his ma en' didn't know it. He was sell from her w'en 'bout eight years old. When he grow to a young men, slavery then was over, he met this woman who he like' an' so they were married. They was married a month w'en one night they started to tell of their experiences an' how many times they was sol'. The husban' tol' how he was sol' from his mother who liked him dearly. He tol' how his ma faint' w'en they took him away an' how his master then use to bran' his baby slaves at a year ol'. W'en he showed her the bran' she faint' 'cause she then realize' that she had married her son. Slaves didn't have to use their own remedy for sickness for good doctors been hired to look at them. There was, as is, though, some weed use for fever an' headache as: blacksnake root, furrywork, jimpsin weed, one that tie' on the head which bring sweat from you like hail, an' hickory leaf. If the hickory is keep on the head too long it will blister it. W'en the war was fightin' the white men burn the bridge at the foot of Spring Street so the Yankees couldn't git over but they buil' pontoos while some make the horses swim 'cross. One night while at Deer Pond, I hear something like thunder until 'bout eleven the next day. W'en the thing I t'ought was thunder stop', master tell us that evenin' we was free. I wasn't surprise to know for as little as I was I know the Yankees was goin' to free us with the help of God. I was married twice, an' had two gals an' a boy with firs' wife. I have t'ree boys with the second; the younges' is jus' eight. Lincoln did jus' what God inten' him to do, but I think nothin' 'bout Calhoun on 'account of what he say in one of his speech 'bout collud people. He said: "keep the niggers down." To see collud boys goin' 'round now with paper an' pencil in their han's don't look real to me. Durin' slavery he would be whip' 'til not a skin was lef' on his body. My pa was a preacher why I become a Christian so early; he preach' on the plantation to the slaves. On Sunday the slaves went to the white church. He use to tell us of hell an' how hot it is. I was so 'fraid of hell 'til I was always tryin' to do the right thing so I couldn't go to that terrible place. I don't care 'bout this worl' an' its vanities 'cause the Great Day is comin' w'en I shall lay down an' my stammerin' tongue goin' to lie silent in my head. I want a house not made with han's but eternal in the Heavens. That Man up there, is all I need; I'm goin' to still trus' Him. Before the comin' of Chris' men was kill' for His name sake; today they curse Him. It's nearly time for the world to come to en' for He said "bout two thousand years I shall come again" an' that time is fas' approachin'. Source Interview with Henry Brown, 637 Grove Street. He is much concerned with the Scottsboro Case and discusses the invasion of Italy into defenseless Ethiopia intelligently. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon, Winnsboro, S. C. JOHN C. BROWN AND ADELINE BROWN EX-SLAVES 86 YEARS AND 96 YEARS OLD. John C. Brown and his wife, Adeline, who is eleven years older than himself, live in a ramshackle four-room frame house in the midst of a cotton field, six miles west of Woodward, S. C. John assisted in laying the foundation and building the house forty-four years ago. A single china-berry tree, gnarled but stately, adds to, rather than detracts from, the loneliness of the dilapidated house. The premises and thereabout are owned by the Federal Land Bank. The occupants pay no rent. Neither of them are able to work. They have been fed by charity and the W. P. A. for the past eighteen months. (John talking) "Where and when I born? Well, dat'll take some 'hear say', Mister. I never knowed my mammy. They say she was a white lady dat visited my old marster and mistress. Dat I was found in a basket, dressed in nice baby clothes, on de railroad track at Dawkins, S. C. De engineer stop de train, got out, and found me sumpin' like de princess found Moses, but not in de bulrushes. Him turn me over to de conductor. De conductor carry me to de station at Dawkins, where Marse Tom Dawkins come to meet de train dat mornin' and claim me as found on his land. Him say him had de best right to me. De conductor didn't 'ject to dat. Marse Tom carry me home and give me to Miss Betsy. Dat was his wife and my mistress. Her always say dat Sheton Brown was my father. He was one of de slaves on de place; de carriage driver. After freedom he tell me he was my real pappy. Him took de name of Brown and dat's what I go by. "My father was a ginger-bread colored man, not a full-blooded nigger. Dat's how I is altogether yallow. See dat lady over dere in dat chair? Dat's my wife. Her brighter skinned than I is. How come dat? Her daddy was a full-blooded Irishman. He come over here from Ireland and was overseer for Marse Bob Clowney. He took a fancy for Adeline's mammy, a bright 'latto gal slave on de place. White women in them days looked down on overseers as poor white trash. Him couldn't git a white wife but made de best of it by puttin' in his spare time a honeyin' 'round Adeline's mammy. Marse Bob stuck to him, and never 'jected to it. "When de war come on, Marse Richard, de overseer, shoulder his gun as a soldier and, as him was educated more than most of de white folks, him rise to be captain in de Confederate Army. It's a pity him got kilt in dat war. "My marster, Tom Dawkins, have a fine mansion. He owned all de land 'round Dawkins and had 'bout 200 slaves, dat lived in good houses and was we well fed. My pappy was de man dat run de mill and grind de wheat and corn into flour and meal. Him never work in de field. He was 'bove dat. Him 'tend to de ginnin' of de cotton and drive de carriage. "De Yankees come and burn de mansion, de gin-house and de mill. They take all de sheep, mules, cows, hogs and even de chickens. Set de slaves free and us niggers have a hard time ever since. "My black stepmammy was so mean to me dat I run away. I didn't know where to go but landed up, one night, at Adeline's mammy's and steppappy's house, on Marse Bob Clowney's place. They had been slaves of Marse Bob and was livin' and workin' for him. I knock on de door. Mammy Charity, dat's Adeline's mammy, say: 'Who dat?' I say: 'Me'. Her say: 'Who is me?' I say: 'John'. Her say: 'John who?' I say: 'Just John'. Her say: 'Adeline, open de door, dat's just some poor boy dat's cold and hungry. Charity is my fust name. Your pappy ain't come yet but I'll let dat boy in 'til he come and see what he can do 'bout it.' "When Adeline open dat door, I look her in de eyes. Her eyes melt towards me wid a look I never see befo' nor since. Mind you, I was just a boy fourteen, I 'spects, and her a woman twenty-five then. Her say: 'You darlin' little fellow; come right in to de fire.' Oh, my! She took on over me! Us wait 'til her pappy come in. Then him say: 'What us gonna do wid him?' Adeline say: 'Us gonna keep him.' Pappy say: 'Where he gonna sleep?' Adeline look funny. Mammy say: 'Us'll fix him a pallet by de fire.' Adeline clap her hands and say: 'You don't mind dat, does you boy?' I say: 'No ma'am, I is slept dat way many a time.' "Well, I work for Marse Bob Clowney and stayed wid Adeline's folks two years. I sure made myself useful in dat family. Never 'spicioned what Adeline had in her head, 'til one day I climbed up a hickory nut tree, flail de nuts down, come down and was helpin' to pick them up when she bump her head 'ginst mine and say: 'Oh, Lordy!' Then I pat and rub her head and it come over me what was in dat head! Us went to de house and her told de folks dat us gwine to marry. "Her led me to de altar dat nex' Sunday. Gived her name to de preacher as Adeline Cabean. I give de name of John Clowney Brown. Marse Bob was dere and laugh when de preacher call my name, 'John Clowney Brown'. "Our chillun come pretty fast. I was workin' for $45.00 a year, wid rations. Us had three pounds of bacon, a peck of meal, two cups of flour, one quart of 'lasses, and one cup of salt, a week. "Us never left Marse Robert as long as him lived. When us have four chillun, him increase de amount of flour to four cups and de 'lasses to two quarts. Then him built dis house for de old folks and Adeline and de chillun to live in. I help to build it forty-four years ago. Our chillun was Clarice, Jim, John, Charity, Tom, Richard, and Adeline. "I followed Marse Robert Clowney in politics, wore a red shirt, and voted for him to go to de Legislature. Him was 'lected dat time but never cared for it no more. "Adeline b'long to de church. Always after me to jine but I can't believe dere is anything to it, though I believes in de law and de Ten Commandments. Preacher calls me a infidel. Can't help it. They is maybe got me figured out wrong. I believes in a Great Spirit but, in my time, I is seen so many good dogs and hosses and so many mean niggers and white folks, dat I 'clare, I is confused on de subject. Then I can't believe in a hell and everlastin' brimstone. I just think dat people is lak grains of corn: dere is some good grains and some rotten grains. De good grains is res'rected, de rotten grains never sprout again. Good people come up again and flourish in de green fields of Eden. Bad people no come up. Deir bodies and bones just make phosphate guano, 'round de roots of de ever bloomin' tree of life. They lie so much in dis world, maybe de Lord will just make 'lie' soap out of them. What you think else they would be fit for?" Project #1655 Martha S. Pinckney Charleston, S. C. FOLKLORE Approx. 660 words INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE Age 88-90 Mary Frances Brown is a typical product of the old school of trained house servants, an unusual delicate type, somewhat of the Indian cast, to which race she is related. She is always clean and neat, a refined old soul, as individuals of that class often are. Her memory, sight and hearing are good for her advanced age. "Our home Marlboro. Mas Luke Turnage was my master--Marlboro-Factory-Plantation name 'Beauty Spot'. My missis was right particular about neat and clean. She raise me for a house girl. My missis was good to me, teach me ebbery ting, and take the Bible and learn me Christianified manners, charity, and behaviour and good respect, and it with me still. "We didn't have any hard times, our owners were good to us--no over share (overseer) and no whippin'--he couldn't stan' that. I live there 'til two year after freedom; how I come to leave, my mother sister been sick, and she ask mother to send one of us, an she send me. My mother been Miss Nancy cook. Miss Nancy was Mas Luke's mother--it take me two years learning to eat the grub they cook down here in Charleston. I had to learn to eat these little piece of meat--we had a dish full of meat; the big smoke house was lined from the top down. (Describing how the meat hung) I nebber accustom to dese little piece of meat, so--what dey got here. Missis, if you know smoke house, didn't you find it hard? My master had 'til he didn't know what to do with. My white people were Gentile." (Her tone implied that she considered them the acme of gentle folks). "I don't know what the other people were name that didn't have as much as we had--but I know my people were Gentile!" Just here her daughter and son appeared, very unlike their mother in type. The daughter is quite as old looking as her mother; the son, a rough stevedore. When the writer suggested that the son must be a comfort, she looked down sadly and said in a low tone, as if soliloquizing, "He way is he way." Going back to her former thought, she said, "All our people were good. Mas Luke was the worse one." (This she said with an indulgent smile) "Cause he was all the time at the race ground or the fair ground. "Religion rules Heaven and Earth, an there is no religion now--harricanes an washin-aways is all about. Ebberything is change. Dis new name what they call grip is pleurisy-cold--putrid sore-throat is called somethin'--yes, diptheria. Cuttin (surgery) come out in 1911! They kill an they cure, an they save an they loss. "My Gran'ma trained with Indians--she bin a Indian, an Daniel C. McCall bought her. She nebber loss a baby." (the first Indian relationship that the writer can prove). "You know Dr. Jennings? Ebberybody mus' know him. After he examine de chile an de mother, an 'ee alright, he hold de nurse responsible for any affection (infection) that took place. "Oh! I know de spiritual--but Missis, my voice too weak to sing--dey aint in books; if I hear de name I can sing--'The Promise Land', Oh, how Mas Joel Easterling (born 1796) use to love to sing dat!" "I am bound for de Promise Land! Oh! who will arise an go with me? I am bound for the Promise Land! I've got a mother in the Promise Land, My mother calls me an I mus go, To meet her in the Promise Land!" Source: Mary Frances Brown, Age 88-90, East Bay Street, Charleston, S. C. Project #-1655 Cassels R. Tiedeman Charleston, S. C. FOLKLORE INTERVIEW WITH AN EX-SLAVE Mary Frances Brown, about ninety years of age, born in slavery, on the plantation of Luke Turnage, in Marlboro County, was raised as a house-servant and shows today evidence of most careful training. Her bearing is rather a gentle refined type, seemingly untouched by the squalor in which she lives. She willingly gives freely of her small store of strength to those around her. Her happiest days seem to have been those of her early youth, for when she was questioned about the present times, and even about those closely associated with her today she bowed her head and said: "Deir way is deir way. O! let me tell you now, de world is in a haad (hard) time, wust (worse) den it eber (ever) been, but religion! It eberywhere in Hebben an' in de ert (earth) too, if you want em. De trouble is you ain't want em; 'e right dere jes de same but de time done pass when dis generation hold wid anyt'ing but de debbul. When I a gal, grown up, I had a tight missus dat raise me, you hab to keep clean round her, she good an' kind an' I lub her yet, but don't you forgit to mind what she say. "My massa, he 'low no whipping on de plantation, he talk heap an' he scold plenty, but den he hab to. Dere was haad time for two year after de war was ober (over) but after dat it better den it is now. Dis is de wust time eber. I ain't eber git use to de wittle (victual) you hab down here. I lib ober Mount Pleasant twenty five year after I come from de old place up Marlboro, den I come to Charleston. "Dey were happy time back dere. My massa, he run round ebery way, spend plenty money on horse race, he gib good time to eberybody an' tell us we mus' tek good care of de missus when he ain't dere. An de wittles we hab I ain't nebber see de lak no time. Dem were de times to lib. I old now but I ain't forgit what my missus larn (learn) me. It right here in me." Mary Frances was asked if she could sing spirituals. The following is one that she sang in a very high pitched wavering voice and then she complained of shortness of breath on account of her heart. "We got a home ober dere, Come an' let us go, Come an' let us go, Where pleasure neber (never) die. Chorus: "Oh! let us go where pleasure neber die, Neber die, Come and let us go, Where pleasure neber die, neber die. "Mother is gone ober dere, Mother is gone ober dere, Where pleasure neber die, Where pleasure neber die. Chorus: "Father is gone ober dere, Father is gone ober dere, Where pleasure neber die, Where pleasure neber die. Chorus: "Sister is gone ober dere, Sister is gone ober dere, Where pleasure neber die, Where pleasure neber die. Chorus: "Brudder is gone ober dere, Brudder is gone ober dere, Where pleasure neber die, Where pleasure neber die." Chorus: Source: Interview with Mary Frances Brown, 83 East Bay St., Charleston, S. C. (age--90) Code No. ---- Project. 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, July 8, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced From ---- words Rewritten by ---- MOM SARA BROWN Ex-Slave, 85 years "Oh, my God, de doctors have me in slavery time. Been here de startin of de first war. I belong to de Cusaac dat live 15 miles low Florence on de road what take you on to Georgetown. I recollects de Yankees come dere in de month of June en free de colored peoples." "My white folks give me to de doctors in dem days to try en learn me for a nurse. Don' know exactly how old I was in dat day en time, but I can tell you what I done. My Lord, child, can' tell dat. Couldn' never tell how many baby I bring in dis world, dey come so fast. I betcha I got more den dat big square down dere to de courthouse full of em. I nurse 13 head of chillun in one family right here in dis town. You see dat all I ever did have to do. Was learnt to do dat. De doctor tell me, say, when you call to a 'oman, don' you never hesitate to go en help her en you save dat baby en dat mother both. Dat what I is always try to do. Heap of de time just go en let em pay me by de chance. Oh, my Lord, a 'oman birth one of dem babies here bout two weeks ago wid one of dem veil over it face. De Lord know what make dat, I don', but dem kind of baby sho wiser den de other kind of baby. Dat thing look just like a thin skin dat stretch over da baby face en come down low it's chin. Have to take en pull it back over it's forehead en den de baby can see en holler all it ever want to. My blessed, honey, wish I had many a dollar as I see veil over baby face. Sho know all bout dem kind of things." "Oh, honey, I tell you de people bless dis day en time. Don' know nothin bout how to be thankful enough for what dey have dese days. I tell de truth de peoples sho had to scratch bout en make what dey had in slavery time. Baby, dey plant patches of okra en parch dat en make what coffee dey have. Den dey couldn' get no shoes like dey hab dese days neither. Just make em out of de hide of dey own cows dat dey butcher right dere on de plantation. Coase de peoples had plenty sometin to eat like meat en turkey en chicken en thing like dat. Oh, my God, couldn' see de top of de smoke house for all de heap of meat dey have in dem times. En milk en butter, honey, dey didn' never be widout plenty of dat. De peoples bout here dese days axes ten cents a quart for sweet milk en five cents a quart for old sour clabber. What you think bout dat? Dat how-come people have to hunt jobs so mucha dese days. Have to do some sorta work cause you know dey got to put sometin in dey mouth somewhe' or another. Oh, my child, slavery days was troublesome times. Sugar en salt never run free wid de peoples den neither. I know de day been here when salt was so scarce dat dey had to go to de seashore en get what salt dey had. I gwine to tell you all bout dat. Dey hitch up two horses to a wagon en den dey make another horse go in front of de wagon to rest de other horses long de way. Dey mostly go bout on a Monday en stay three days. Boil dat salty water down dere en fetch two en three of dem barrel of salt back wid em dey get dat way. It was just like dis, it take heap of salt when dey had dem big hog-killin days. En de sugar, dey make dat too. Made de sugar in lil blocks dat dey freeze just like dey freeze ice dis day en time. I know dey do dat--know it. Dey make molasses en some of it would be lighter den de other en dey freeze dat en make de prettiest lil squares just like de ice you see dese days. Dey have sometin to freeze it in. Dis here old black mammy know heap of things you ain' never hear bout. Oh, baby, de peoples sho bless dese days." "Oh, my god, de colored peoples worship to de white folks church in slavery time. You know dat Hopewell Church over de river dere, dat a slavery church. Dat whe' I go to church den wid my white folks. I had a lil chair wid a cowhide bottom dat I always take everywhe' I go wid me. If I went to church, dat chair go in de carriage wid me en den I take it in de church en set right by de side of my Miss. Dat how it was in slavery time. Oh, my Lord, dere a big slavery people graveyard dere to dat Hopewell Church." "Honey, you mind if I smoke my pipe a lil whilst I settin here talkin wid you. I worry so much wid dis high blood dese days en a ringin in my ears dat my pipe de only thing dat does seem to satisfy my soul. I tell you dat high blood a bad thing. It get such a hold on me awhile back dat I couldn' do nothin, couldn' pick cotton, couldn' say my--me, couldn' even say, God a mighty--thing pretty. Oh, I don' know. I start smokin pipe long time ago when I first start nursin babies. Had to do sometin like dat den." "No, Lord, I never believe nothin bout dat but what God put here. I hear some people say dey was conjure, but I don' pay no attention to dey talk. Dey say somebody poison em for sometin dey do, but dere ain' nobody do dat. God gwine to put you down when he get ready. Ain' nobody else do dat." "Oh, my Lord, I been here a time. I sho been here a time en I thank de Lord I here dis day en time. I can thread my needle good as ever I could en I ain' have no speck neither. Sew night en day. De chillun have dey lamp dere studyin en I hab my lamp dere sewin. My old Miss learnt me to sew when I stay right in de house wid her all de time. I stay bout white folks all my life en dat how-come I so satisfy when I wid em." Source: Mom Sara Brown, age 85, ex-slave, Marion, S. C. Personal interview, June 1937. Code No. ---- Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, September 10, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- MOM SARA BROWN Ex-Slave, 85 Years "I stay in house over dere cross Catfish Swamp on Miss Addie McIntyre place. Lives wid dis grand-daughter dat been sick in bed for four weeks, but she mendin some now. She been mighty low, child. It start right in here (chest) en run down twixt her shoulder. She had a tear up cold too, but Dr. Dibble treat her en de cough better now. She got three chillun dere dat come just like steps. One bout like dat en another like dat en de other bout like dis." "De house we stay in a two room house wid one of dese end chimney. All sleep in de same room en cook en eat in de other room. My bed on one side en Sue bed on de other side. Put chillun on quilts down on de floor in de other end of de room. Baby, whe' dem curtains you say you gwine give me? I gwine hang dese up in Sue room. Dey help me fix up de room nice en decent like." "It all on me to feed en clothe both dem chillun en de baby too. It just too much on me old as I is. Can' do nothin worth to speak bout hardly dese days. Can' hold my head down cause dis high blood worries me so much. It get too hot, can' iron. If ain' too hot, I makes out to press my things somehow en sweep my yard bout. Sometimes I helps little bit wid doctor case, but not often. Can wash de baby en de mother, but can' do no stayin up at night. No, baby, can' do no settin up at night." "I tries to catch all what little I can to help along cause dat how I was raise up. Government truck brings me little somethin once a month pack up in packages like dry milk en oatmeal en potatoes. Give dat to all dem dat can' work en ain' got nobody to help dem. Dat dry milk a good thing to mix up de bread wid en den it a help to fix little milk en bread for dem two little ones. De potatoes, I stews dem for de chillun too. Dey mighty fond of dem. Now de oatmeal, de chillun don' eat dat so I fixes it for Sue en every now en den I takes a little bit wid my breakfast." "I don' know much what to tell you bout Abraham Lincoln. I think he was a mighty great man, a mighty great man, what I hear of him." "I remembers de Yankees come dere to my white folks plantation one day en, child, dere was a time on dat place. All dem niggers was just a kickin up dey heels en shoutin. I was standin dere on de piazza lookin at dem en I say, 'I don' see why dey want to carry on like dat for. I been free all de time.' When dey get through de Yankees tell dem dey was free as dey Massa was en give dem so many bushels of corn en so much meat for dey own. Some take dey pile en go on off en some choose to stay on dere wid dey Missus. She was good to all her colored people en dey stay on dere for part de crop. Give dem so much of de crop accordin to de chillun dey had to feed. I know dis much, dey all know dey gwine get 12 bushels of corn a year, if dey ain' get no more. Dat a bushel every month. Yes, dat how it was." "O Lord, baby, I don' know a thing bout none of dat thing call conjurin. Don' know nothin bout it. Dat de devil work en I ain' bother wid it. Dey say some people can kill you, but dey ain' bother me. Some put dey trust in it, but not me. I put my trust in de Lord cause I know it just a talk de people have. No, Lord, I can' remember dat neither. I hear dem say Raw Head en Bloody Bones would catch you if you be bad, but how it started, I don' know. I know I don' know nothin bout how dey look en I don' want to see dem neither. No, child, people say dey sho to be, but I ain' see none. How dey look, I don' know." "I don' know what to think bout de times dese days. De times worse den dey used to be, child. You know dey worse. Dis here a fast time de people livin on cause everybody know de people die out heap faster den dey used to. Don' care how dey kill you up. No, child, dey sho worser. My people en yunnah people. Don' it seem so to you dat dey worser?" "Baby, I got to get up from here en leave now cause I huntin medicine dis mornin. I ain' got time to tell you nothin else dis time, but I gwine get my mind fix up on it en den your old black mammy comin back fore long en stay all day wid you en your mamma. What time dat clock say it now, honey? I got to hurry en catch de doctor fore he get away from his office en be so scatter bout till nobody can' tell whe' he is. Dr. Dibble a good doctor, a mighty good doctor. When he come, don' never come in no hurry. Takes pains wid you. Dat been my doctor. I is just devoted to him." Source: Mom Sara Brown, ex-slave, age 85, Marion, S. C. Second Report. Personal interview, September, 1937 by Annie Ruth Davis, Marion, S. C. Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S. C. Georgetown County FOLKLORE (Some recollections of 'The Reb Time day' given by Aunt Margaret Bryant) Visitor: "How are you Aunt Margaret?" Margaret: "Missus, I ain't wuth! I ain't wuth!" Visitor: "Aunt Margaret you've been here a long time. How old are you?" Margaret: "I can't tell you my age no way in the world! When freedom come, I been here. Not big nuff (enough) for work for the Reb, but I been here Reb time. Been big nuff (enough) to know when Yankee gun-boat come to Watsaw (Wachesaw). Whole gang o' Yankee come to the house and didn't do a thing but ketch (catch) a gang o' fowl and gone on. And tell the people (meaning the slaves) to take the house and go in and get what they want. The obersheer (overseer) hear the Doctor whistle to the gate and wabe (wave) him back. And then the Doctor know the Yankee been there and he gone on to the creek house and get all he gold and ting (thing) out the house and gone--Marion till Freedom then he come back. "Yankee come in that night. Moon shine lak a day. Stay in the Doctor house that night. Morning come, take a gang o' fowl and gone on!" Visitor: "Aunt Margaret, what was your name before you were married?" Margaret: "Margaret One. Brother and sister? I ain't one when I come here. Ain't meet aunty, uncle--none. Me and my brudder Michael wuz twin. I ain't meet none when I come here. All been sell. Me and my Ma One here. Mary One. Husband title, husband nichel (initial) been 'One.' Number one carpenter--give 'em that name Michael One--and he gibe 'em that name. Born Sandy Island. Been to landing to Watsaw when gun-boat come. Just a sneak long! Boat white. Hab (have) a red chimbley (chimney.) Didn't try to carry we off. Tell 'em 'Go and help youself.' Been after the buckra. (The Yankee trying to catch the buckra.) "I see my Ma dye with some bush they call 'indigo,' and black walnut bark. Big old pen for the sheep-folds. "My Pa sister, Ritta One had that job. Nuss (nurse) the chillun. Chillun house. One woman nuss (nurse) all the chillun while they ma in the field--rice field. All size chillun. Git the gipsy (gypsum) weed. Beat 'em up for worm. Give 'em when the moon change. Take a bucket and follow dem. And tell the Doctor how much a worm that one make and that one and count dem (them). When the moon change, do that. "I have one born with caul. Loss he caul. Rat carry 'em. Ain't here; he see nothin. (The custom seems to be, to preserve the caul.) "Child born feet fore-most see 'um too." (See spirit) "Talk chillun? Put duh switch. Put you 'Bull pen.' Hab 'um (have them) a place can't see you hand before you. Can't turn round good in there. Left you in there till morning. Give you fifty lash and send you to work. You ain't done that task, man and woman lick! "Couldn't manage my ma. Obersheer (overseer) want to lick ma, Mary One say, 'Going drownded meself! I done my work! Fore I take a lick, rather drownded meself.'" Obersheer gone tell the Doctor. Tie her long rope. Right to Sandy Island. Man hold the rope. Gone on. Jump in river. So Doctor say, 'You too good labor for drown. Take dem (them) to Watsaw.' Me and she and man what paddle the boat. Bring her to weave. Two womans fuh card; two spin. Ma wop 'em off. Sail duh sheckel (shuttle) through there. "Po-buckra come there and buy cloth from Ma. Buy three and four yard. Ma sell that, have to weave day and night to make up that cloth to please obersheer. Come big day time. 'Little chillun, whey (where) Mama?' Tell 'em Ma to the weaving house. Don't have money fuh pay. Bring hog and such like as that to pay. "You know Marse Allard age? Me and Marse Allard suck together. Me and Marse Allard and my brudder Michael. My ma fadder mix wid (with) the Injun. Son Larry Aikens. Stay Charston (Charlestown). Just as clean! (Meaning Larry, her Uncle, very bright skin. Mixed with Indian.) See 'em the one time. Come from Charston bring Doctor two horse." Given by Aunt Margaret Bryant Age--(Born before Freedom) Murrells Inlet, S. C. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. SAVILLA BURRELL, EX-SLAVE, 83 YEARS "Our preacher, Beaty, told me that you wanted to see me today. I walked three miles dis mornin' before the sun gits hot to dis house. Dis house is my grand daughter's house. Willie Caldwell, her husband, work down to de cotton mill. Him make good money and take good care of her, bless the Lord, I say." "My Marster in slavery time was Captain Tom Still. He had big plantation down dere on Jackson Crick. My Mistress name was Mary Ann, though she wasn't his fust wife--jest a second wife, and a widow when she captivated him. You know widows is like dat anyhow, 'cause day done had 'sperience wid mens and wraps dem 'round their little finger and git dem under their thumb 'fore the mens knows what gwine on. Young gals have a poor chance against a young widow like Miss Mary Ann was. Her had her troubles with Marse Tom after her git him, I tell you, but maybe best not to tell dat right now anyways." "Marse Tom had four chillun by his fust wife, dey was John, Sam, Henretta and I can't 'member de name of the other one; least right now. Dey teached me to call chillun three years old, young Marse and say Missie. Dey whip you if dey ever hear you say old Marse or old Missie. Dat riled dem." "My pappy name Sam. My mother name Mary. My pappy did not live on the same place as mother. He was a slave of de Hamiltons, and he got a pass sometimes to come and be with her; not often. Grandmammy name Ester and she belonged to our Marse Tom Still, too." "Us lived in a log cabin wid a stick chimney. One time de sticks got afire and burnt a big hole in de back of de chimney in cold winter time wid the wind blowing, and dat house was filled wid fire-sparks, ashes, and smoke for weeks 'fore dey tore dat chimney down and built another jest like the old one. De bed was nailed to de side of de walls. How many rooms? Jest one room." "Never seen any money. How many slaves? So many you couldn't count dem. Dere was plenty to eat sich as it was, but in the summer time before us git dere to eat de flies would be all over de food and some was swimmin' in de gravy and milk pots. Marse laugh 'bout dat, and say, it made us fat." "Dey sell one of mother's chillun once, and when she take on and cry 'bout it, Marse say, 'stop dat sniffin' dere if you don't want to git a whippin'.' She grieve and cry at night 'bout it. Clothes? Yes Sir, us half naked all de time. Grown boys went 'round bare footed and in dey shirt tail all de summer." "Marse was a rich man. 'Fore Christmus dey would kill thirty hogs and after Christmus, thirty more hogs. He had a big gin house and sheep, goats, cows, mules, hosses, turkeys, geese, and a stallion; I members his name, Stockin'-Foot. Us little niggers was skeered to death of dat stallion. Mothers used to say to chillun to quiet dem, 'Better hush, Stockin'-Foot will git you and tramp you down.' Any child would git quiet at dat." "Old Marse was de daddy of some mulatto chillun. De 'lations wid de mothers of dese chillun is what give so much grief to Mistress. De neighbors would talk 'bout it and he would sell all dem chillun away from dey mothers to a trader. My Mistress would cry 'bout dat. "Our doctor was old Marse son-in-law, Dr. Martin. I seen him cup a man once. He was a good doctor. He give slaves castor oil, bleed dem some times and make dem take pills." "Us looked for the Yankees on dat place like us look now for de Savior and de host of angels at de second comin'. Dey come one day in February. Dey took everything carryable off de plantation and burnt de big house, stables, barns, gin house and dey left the slave houses." "After de war I marry Osborne Burrell and live on de Tom Jordan place. I'se de mother of twelve chillun. Jest three livin' now. I lives wid the Mills family three miles 'bove town. My son Willie got killed at de DuPont Powder Plant at Hopewell, Virginia, during de World War. Dis house you settin' in belongs to Charlie Caldwell. He marry my grand daughter, Willie B. She is twenty-three years old." "Young Marse Sam Still got killed in de Civil War. Old Marse live on. I went to see him in his last days and I set by him and kept de flies off while dere. I see the lines of sorrow had plowed on dat old face and I 'membered he'd been a captain on hoss back in dat war. It come into my 'membrance de song of Moses; 'de Lord had triumphed glorily and de hoss and his rider have been throwed into de sea'." "You been good to listen. Dis is the fust time I can git to speak my mind like dis mornin'. All de' people seem runnin' here and yonder, after dis and after dat. Dere is a nudder old slave, I'se gwine to bring him down here Saturday and talk to you again." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, S. C. Sept. 15, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I works on de shares and makes a fair living on a rented farm; don't own no land. I was born in Newberry County, near de old Longshore store, about 12 miles northwest of Newberry Courthouse on de Henry Burton place. My parents belonged to Henry Burton in slavery time. He was our marster. I married Betty Burton, a nigger girl whose parents belonged to Marse Henry Burton, too. "We had a good marster and mistress. Dey give us a good place to sleep and lots to eat. He had a big four-acre garden where he raised lots of vegetables fer his slaves. He had plenty meat, molasses and bread. We ground our corn and wheat and made our own feed. "Marster wouldn't let anybody bother his slaves. He wouldn't 'low his overseers or de padrollers to whip 'em. He never whipped one. "We had no school and no church; but was made to go to de white folks church and set in de gallery. When Freedom come, de niggers begin to git dere own church, and built small brush huts called 'brush harbors'. "We didn't do work on Saturday afternoons, but went hunting and fishing den, while de women folks cleaned up around de place fer Sunday. De marster liked to hunt, and he hunted foxes which was plenty around dere den. Now dey is all gone. "We danced and had gigs. Some played de fiddle and some made whistles from canes, having different lengths for different notes, and blowed 'em like mouth organs." Source: C. B. Burton (79), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (9/10/37) Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County Folklore GEORGE ANN BUTLER Ex-Slave 75 Years West of the paved highway at Garnett one may reach, after several miles, the old Augusta Road that follows along the Savannah River from Augusta to a landing point a little south of Garnett. Miles from the busy highway, it passes, in quiet majesty, between fields and woods, made rich by the river's overflow and heavy dews. Nature has done her best in producing beautiful evergreen trees of immense size and much luxuriant shrubbery of many kinds. Live oaks, magnolias, yellow slash pines, hollies, and many evergreen shrubs keep the woods even in winter, a fascinating wilderness to hunters and nature lovers. On this road George Ann Butler lives, and has lived for the seventy-five years of her life. "I was born an' raised on de Greenwood place. It belonged to ole man Joe Bostick. He owned all dese places 'long dese here road. He own de Bostick place back yonder; den he own de Pipe Creek place next dat; den Oaklawn; den joinin' dat was Greenwood. De Colcock's Elmwood was next. My Husband was birth right here on de Pipe Creek, an' been here ever since. He kin tell you more'n I kin. I was George Anne Curry before I marry. "I can't remember so much 'bout slavery time. I was crawlin' over de floor when slavery time--dey tell me. But atter de war, I 'members. Couldn't find no corn seed! Couldn't find no cotton seed! Couldn't find no salt! You knows it was hard times when dere wasn't no salt to season de vegetables. Had to go down to de salt water an' get de water an' boil it for salt. Dat been a long way from here. Must be fifty or sixty mile! An' dey couldn't go so fast in dem days. Sufferin' been in de neighborhood atter de war pass! "Cotton was de thing 'way back yonder. An' right 'long dis road dey'd haul it. Haul it to Cohen's Bluff! Haul it to Matthews Bluff! Haul it to Parichucla! Don't haul it dis way no more! Send de cotton to de railroad! But in dem days it was de ships dat carried it to Savannah. Cotton seem to be play out now--dey plant so much. "I hear 'em tell 'bout de war, an' havin' to drill an' step when dey say step, an' throw up dey hands, when dey say throw up de hand. Everything had to be done jes' so! De war was sure a terrible thing." Source: George Anne Butler, R. F. D. Garnett, S. C. Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County ISAIAH [~HW: Solbert (?)~] BUTLER, EX-SLAVE 79 YEARS [~HW: See Ms. #~] "Yes, dis is Isaiah Butler, piece of him. Ain't much left of him now. Yes, I knows all 'bout dis heah country from way back. I was born and raised right on dis same place here; lived here all my life 'sides from travellin' round a little space. Dere was a rice field not far from dis house here, where I plowed up more posts that had been used as landmarks! Dis place was de Bostick place, and it jined to de Thomson place, and de Thomson place to Edmund Martin's place dat was turned over to Joe Lawton, his son-in-law. Bill Daniel had charge of de rice field I was telling you 'bout. He was overseer, on de Daniel Blake place. Den dere was de Maner place, de Trowell, de Kelly, and de Wallace places. Back in dem times dey cultivated rice. Had mules to cultivate it! But cotton and corn was what dey planted most of all; 4,000 acres I think dey tell me was on dis place. I know it supposed to be more than ten miles square. Nobody know de landmarks 'cept me. When de Bostick boys came back from out west last year, dey had to come to me to find out where dere place was. Dey didn't know nuttin' 'bout it. Dey used to use twenty plow, and de hoe hands was over a hundred, I know. "I 'member when de Yankees come through. I was no more'n a lad, nine or ten years old. Bostick had a big gin-house, barn, stables, and such like. And when de soldiers come a goat was up on de platform in front of de door to de loft of de barn. Dere were some steps leadin' up dere and dat goat would walk up dem steps same as any body. De fuss thing de Yankees do, dey shoot dat goat. Den day start and tear up eberyt'ing. All de white folks had refugeed up North, and dey didn't do nuttin' to us niggers. "Fore dat time I was jes' a little boy too young to do nuttin'. Jes' played aroun' in de street. Ole Mr. Ben Bostick used to bring clothes an' shoes to us and see dat we was well cared for. Dere was nineteen houses in de street for us colored folks. Dey wuz all left by de soldiers. But in de year 1882 dere come a cyclone (some folks call it a tornado), and knocked down every house; only left four standing. Pieces of clothes and t'ings were carried for four or five miles from here. It left our house; but it took everyt'ing we had. It took de walls of de house, jes' left de floorin', an' it wus turn 'round. Took everyt'ing! I'd jes' been married 'bout a year, and you know how dat is. We jes' had to scuffle and scuffle 'roun' till de Lord bless us. "Dere wuz plenty of deer, squirrel, possum, an' rabbits in dem times; no more dan dere is now, but dere wuz no hinderance den as now. De deer come right up to my door now; dey come all 'roun' dis house, and we cain't do nuttin'. De other day one wuz over dere by dat peachtree, an' not long ago four of 'em come walkin' right through dis yard. I don't go fishin' no more. Folks say de streams is all dried up. But I used to be a good fisherman, me an' me ole woman. She's spryer'n me now. I used to allus protect her when we wuz young, an' now its her dat's acarin' for me. We had our gardens in de ole days, too. Oh, yes'm. Little patches of collards, greens an' t'ings, but now I ain't able to do nuttin', jes' hang 'roun' de place here. "My father used to belong to General Butler, Dennis Butler was his name. My mother was a Maner, but originally she wuz draw out of de Robert estate. Ole Ben Bostick fuss wife wuz a Robert. Dey wuz sure wealthy folks. One of 'em went off to sail. Bill F. Robert wuz his name. He had so much money dat he say dat he goin' to de end of de world. He come back an' he say he went so close hell de heat draw de pitch from de vessel. But he lost his eyesight by it. Wa'n't (it was not) long after he got back dat he went stone blind. "My ole boss, preacher Joe Bostick wuz one of de best of men. He wuz hard of hearin' like I is, an' a good ole man. But de ole lady, ole "Miss Jenny", she wuz very rough. She hired all de overseers, and she do all. If'n anybody try to go to de old man wid anyt'ing, she'd talk to 'em herself an' not let 'em see de old man. "In slavery time de slaves wuz waked up every morning by de colored over-driver blowin' a horn. Ole man Jake Chisolm wuz his name. Jes' at daybreak, he'd put his horn through a crack in de upper part of de wall to his house an' blow it through dat crack. Den de under-driver would go out an' round 'em up. When dey done all dey day-work, dey come home an' cook dey supper, an' wash up. Den dey blow de horn for 'em to go to bed. Sometime dey have to out de fire an' finish dey supper in de dark. De under-driver, he'd go out den and see who ain't go to bed. He wouldn't say anyt'ing den; but next mornin' he'd report it to de overseer, an' dem as hadn't gone to bed would be whipped. "My mother used to tell me dat if any didn't do dey day's work, dey'd be put in de stocks or de bill-bo. You know each wuz given a certain task dat had to be finish dat day. Dat what dey call de day-work. When dey put 'em in de stocks dey tie 'em hand and foot to a stick. Dey could lie down wid dat. I hear of colored folks doin' dat now to dare chillun when dey don't do. Now de bill-bo wuz a stabe (stave) drove in de ground, an' dey tied dere hands and den dere feet to dat, standin' up. Dey'd work on Saturday but dey wuz give Sundays. Rations wuz give out on Mondays. Edmund Lawton went over to Louisiana to work on de Catherine Goride place, but he come back, 'cause he say dey blow dey horn for work on Sunday same as any other day, and he say he wa'n't goin' to work on no Sunday. Dey didn't have a jail in dem times. Dey'd whip 'em, and dey'd sell 'em. Every slave know what, 'I'll put you in my pocket, sir!' mean. "De slaves would walk when dey'd go anywhere. If'n dey buy a bunch of slaves in New Orleans, dey'd walk by night and day. I 'member when one young girl come back from refugin' wid de white folks, her feet were jes' ready to buss open, and dat wuz all. You couldn't travel unless de boss give you a pass. De Ku Klan had "patrol" all about in de bushes by de side of de road at night. And when dey caught you dey'd whip you almost to death! Dey'd horsewhip you. Dey didn't run away nowhere 'cause dey knowed dey couldn't. "If'n you wanted to send any news to anybody on another plantation, de overseer'd write de message for you and send it by a boy to de overseer of de other plantation, and he'd read it to de one you wrote to. "When de war wuz over, ole man Jones cone over frum Georgia and sell t'ings to de colored folks. He'd sell 'em everyt'ing. He took all de colored folks' money! "I learned to read when I wuz goin' to school when I wuz about fifteen years old, but I learned most I know after I wuz married, at night school, over on de Morrison place. De colored folks had de school, but 'course Mr. Morrison was delighted to know dey wuz havin' it. As for church, in de olden times, people used to, more or less, attend under de bush-arbor. In 1875 when I jined de church, ole man John Butler wuz de preacher. "Ghosts? I'se met plenty of um! When I wuz courtin' I met many a one--One got me in de water, once. And another time when I wuz crossing a stream, I wuz on de butt end of de log, an' dey wuz on de blossom end, an' we meet jes' as close as I is to you now. I say to him, same as to anybody, 'I sure ain't goin' to turn back, and fall off dis log. Now de best t'ing for you to do is to turn 'round and let me come atter (after) you. You jes' got to talk to 'em same as to anybody. It don't pay to be 'fraid of 'em. So he wheel 'round. (Spirits can wheel, you know.) And when he get to de end of de log, I say, 'Now you off and I off. You kin go on 'cross now.' Dey sure is a t'ing, all right! Dey look jes' like anybody else, 'cept'n it's jes' cloudy and misty like it goin' to pour down rain. But it don't do to be 'fraid of 'em. I ain't 'fraid of nuttin', myself. I never see 'em no more. Guess I jes' sorta out-growed 'em. But dere sure is sech a t'ing, all right! De white folks'd see 'em, too. I 'member hearin' ole Joe Bostick, de preacher, say to a man, by de name of Tinlin, 'Did you hear dat hog barkin' last night? Well, de spirit come right in de house. Come right up over de mantlepiece.' I wuz in de field workin' same as I allus done, and I hear'd ole Joe horse a snortin'. Ole Joe didn't want nuttin'. He jes' want to see what I wuz doin'. "Abraham Lincoln done all he could for de colored folks. But dey cain't none of 'em do nuttin' without de Lord." Source: Isaiah Butler, Garnett, S. C. Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County Approx. 800 Words SOLBERT BUTLER EX-SLAVE OF 82 YEARS Miles from the highway old Solbert Butler lives alone under the shadow of the handsome winter home of an aged northerner upon the same soil that he has seen pass from Southerner to Negro, to Southerner, to Northerner. Though shrunken and bent with age he still enjoys talking. "I lives in de Deer Country. A couple of months ago, I saw eight in a drove at one time, like a drove of sheep, or sech like. You can't raise nuthin' 'round here. Dey'll eat up your garden. And de wild turkey! And de partridge! But you can't shoot 'em without de Cassels give you a license to do it. Now he comin' next month and dere'll be more shootin'! But he aint able to hunt none hisself. He kin ride 'bout in de woods in de car. Dey are blessed people, though! "Dis used to be de Bostick place. Old Massa Ben Bostick lived fourteen miles from here. Dere was Ben Bostick, Iva Bostick, Joe Bostick, Mr. Luther, Eddie Bostick, an' Jennie Jo Bostick. De place was divided up between 'em. O-oh! I couldn't number de plantations old Mr. Bostick owned. I think he owned fifteen plantations! He was de millinery (millionaire)! Oh, de Bosticks, O-oh!! De house dey live in, dey call um--what was it dey call um--de Paradise house. No one go to dat house but only de rich. "At Christmas dey'd go up dere. And oh, I couldn't number it! Oh, it was paradise. He was good to 'em. An' he whip 'em good, too! Tie 'em to de fence post and whip 'em. But I didn't' have anythin' of dat. I was a little boy. Jes' 'bout six year old when de war broke out. But I got plenty of whippin's all right. "Massa take me as a little boy as a pet. Took me right in de carriage! Had a little bed right by his own an' take care of me. Every morning dey bring in dey tray, an' go back. My uncle was a carriage man. Dey kept two fine horses jes' for de carriage. Massa'd come up to de Street every Monday morning with big trays of rations. He'd feed his colored folk, den go on back." (Another old ex-slave from the same plantation had said that on Mondays the week's rations were given out.) "Dey planted cotton, corn, peas, potatoes, rice--an' dey'd lick you! All de time, dey'd lick you. After dey'd lick 'em until de blood come out, den dey'd rub de red pepper and salt on 'em. Oh, my God! Kin you say dem as done sech as dat aint gone to deir reward? My uncle was so whip he went into de woods, an' live dere for months. Had to learn de independent life. Mr. Aldridge was de overseer. Old Mr. Aldridge gone now. But dere can't be no rest for him. Oh my God no! He do 'em so mean dat finally ole Massa hear 'bout it. And when he do hear 'bout it, he discharged him. He had everything discharged--to de colored driver. Den he got Mr. Chisolm. After Mr. Chisolm come in, everythin' jes' as sweet an' smooth as could be! Dere's a nice set of people for you--de Chisolms. Two of 'em livin' now. One at Garnett, an' one at Luray, I believe. "I refugeed wid Massa. Dey come together in Virginia. Dey surrendered in Virginia. Set de house afire. And set all dey houses. Dey burned Massa's cotton. Over 200 bales! But if'n de colored folks begged for some, dey let 'em have some. I stayed right wid Massa. He carried me everywhere he went. Carried me all de way to Mill Haven, Georgia. "After de war de colored folks jes' took an' plant de crop an' make de livin' wid de hoe. Didn't have no mule, no ox, or thin' like dat. When ole Massa come back, he took de cotton, an' give de colored folks de corn. De Yankees kill all de hog. Kill all de cow. Kill all de fowl. Left you nothin' to eat. If de colored folk had any chicken, dey jes' had to take dat an' try to raise 'em somethin' to eat. "I'se a Methodist. I was converted under Elder Drayton--come from Georgia at St. Luke Methodist Church on de Blake Plantation. De Blake Plantation right dere. It jines dis one. De ole Methodist white folk's church where I was baptized been take down. It was called de Union Church. But de cemetery still dere. It right up dere not a mile down de road. Dere was a good ole preacher name of Rev. Winborn Asa Lawton. An' de camp meetin'! Oh, Lord, Lord! Dey had over a thousand dere. Come from Orangeburg. Come from Aiken! An' come way from Cheraw! Come from Charleston, Beaufort, and Savannah! De colored folks got a church now up here on what used to be de Pipe Creek place of ole Ben Bostick where de white folks used to have a Baptist church. De colored folks church call it Kenyon Church. Dat's de church dey white folks moved to Lawtonville, den to Estill. But when de colored folks built, dey built de church to face de East. Built on de same foundation; but face it east, facing a little road dat had sprung up and wind 'round dat way right in close to de church. But de white folks church was face west, facing de Augusta road. Dat big space twixt de road and de church was a grove. "Ghosts? I used to 'em. I see 'em all de time. Good company! I live over dere by myself, an' dey comes in my house all de time. Sometime I walk along at night an' I see 'em. An' when you see 'em you see a sight. Dey play. Dey dance 'round an' 'round. Dey happy all right. But dey'll devil you, too. When dey find out dat you scary, dey'll devil you. Dey don't do nothin' to me. Only talk to me. I'll be in my house an' dey'll come talk to me. Or I'll be walkin' down de road, an' meet 'em. Dey'll pass de time of day wid me, Like: 'Hey, Solbert! How far you goin', Solbert?' 'I'se jes' goin' down de road a little piece,' I'll say. 'Uh-huh'. "Or sometime dey'll say, 'Mornin', Solbert. How you feeling?' 'I'se jes' so so'. 'Uh-huh'. "Dey all favors. Dey all looks alike. You remembers when dat car come down de road jes' now? Well, I see a bunch of 'em right den! Dey get out de road for dat car to pass. Oh, you can't see 'em. No matter how much I shows 'em to you--you can't see 'em. But me! Dey swell wid me. I see 'em all de time. De big house up dere. It full of 'em. De white folks see 'em, too. Dat is some of de white folks. I see de other day a white man dat has to work up here start toward de house when de ghosts was comin' out thick. When I tell him you ought to see him turn an' run. One of 'em push me over in de ditch one time. I say, 'Now what you done dat for?' 'Well, dat aint nothin'' 'Aint nothin'. But don't you do dat no more.' "I talks to 'em jes' de same as if dey was somebody. Some folks outgrows 'em. But not me. You have to be born to see 'em. If'n you be born wrapped in de caul, you kin see 'em. But if you aint, you can't see 'em." Source: Solbert Butler, 82 years, R. F. D. Scotia, S. C. Project 1885-1 District #4 Spartanburg, S. C. May 31, 1937 FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was born on the other side of Maybinton, in Newberry County, South Carolina. Old Squire Kenner was my master and his wife, Lucy, my mistress. My pa was Joseph Gilliam, who was a slave of John Gilliam, and my mamma was Lou Kenner, who was a slave of Squire Kenner. I stayed with my mamma at Squire Kenner's and waited on my mistress, Mrs. Lucy Kenner, who was the best white woman I know of--just like a mother to me, wish I was with her now. I stayed there 'till my mistress died, was right by her bed. "It sure was a good place to live. Dey didn't give us money for work but we had enough to eat and place to sleep and a few clothes. Squire had a big farm he got from the Hancocks, some of his kin. He didn't have overseers; he looked after his own farms. Master had a big garden and give us lots from it to eat. We hunted 'possums, rabbits, squirrels, wild turkeys, on the river. We lived right near Broad River. "I remember de padderrolers; dey come to my pa's house and want to come in, but pa had an old musket gun and tole them if dey come in dey wouldn't go out alive--and dey went away. "After the day's work was done, the slaves would set down and talk, and on Saturday afternoons, they would stay home, go fishing or wash up, and sometimes the chaps would go to de river and watch the boats full of cotton go by. On Sundays we go to church. They made us go to Baskets church, de white folks church, and set in the gallery. On Christmas Day we would get time off and master would give us good things to eat. We never had any corn-shuckings and cotton pickings there. All of the family and the slaves do that work on moon-shiney nights. We had some games we played, like Molly Bright, Hiding Switches, Marbles. We played on Sunday, too, unless the mistress calls us in and stops us. "When a slave got sick we sent for the doctor. We never put much store in herb root tea and such like. "The Yankees went through Maybinton but didn't get over as far as us. Some say they stole cattle and burned ginhouses. "Squire Kenner was killed in the war, and when the war was over we stayed on with de mistress; she was like a mamma. She had a son who was killed in the war, too. Another son lived there and we worked for him after Mistress died, but he soon moved far away and sold out his plantation. His name was Howsen Kenner. "I married Walter Cain at Mr. Walter Spearman's house, a good white man, and the white folks give us a good supper after the wedding. I had one child, 2 grandchildren, and one great-grand-child. I joined the church before I married 'cause I wanted to do better, do right and live right, and get religion. I think everybody ought to join the church and live right. That is the reason the Lord blesses me in lots of ways today. We had good time in slavery--sometimes I wish I was back there--would have somebody to take of you and help you. If my mistress was living I would rather be back in slavery." Source: Granny Cain (90), RFD, Newberry; by G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 Sept. 22, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born near the village of Maybinton, and lived on old Squire Kenner's plantation. Squire Kenner and his wife, mistress Lucy, was good to me. My mistress was so good I wish I was living with her now, I sho wouldn't have such a hard time getting something to eat. I am old and have rheumatism and can't get about good now. "I live with some of my grand children, but they can't make so much for us. We manage to eat, though. We rent a two-room house about two miles from Newberry Courthouse. "I don't know nothing about 40 acres of land for the slaves after the war. We just stayed on with the master 'til he died, for wages; then we hired out to other people for wages. I don't know nothing 'bout slaves voting after the war. There was no slave up-risings then in our section. "Ever since the war was over, the slaves have worked for wages on plantations or moved to town and got little jobs here and there where they could. Some of the slaves would rent small farms from land owners or work the farms on shares. None of the slaves in our section come from Virginia." Source: "Granny" Cain (90), Newberry County, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. 8/10/37. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in Union County, S. C., not far from the ferry on Tyger River. My mother was a slave of George R. Tucker who lived on the Enoree River. I can't remember slavery times nor the war; but I remember about the end of the war when everybody was coming home. "My mother was a weaver, going to the white folks' houses and weaving clothes for them for small pay. Carding and spinning was done by all the white families at home. "The farms had large gardens and raised most everything to eat. Large patches of turnips, cabbage and green vegetables was the custom at that time." Source: Laura Caldwell (77), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. May 20, 1937 Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Dec. 15, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage [~HW: (Caldwell~] STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I own a little farm, about 22 acres, and I live on it wid my wife. I ain't been married but once, but we had 15 chilluns. Dey is all done married and left us. I is gitting so I can't do much work any more, 'specially plowing. I lives below Prosperity. I was born above dar, near Beaver Dam Creek on de old Davenport place. "My daddy was Alfred Caldwell and my mammy was Suella Caldwell. She was a Nelson. Dem and me belonged to Marse Gillam Davenport. Marse Gillam sho was rapid. I saw him whip my mammy till you couldn't put a hand on her shoulder and back widout touching a whelp. Marse Gillam killed a man and dey put him in Jail in Newberry, but he died befo' de trial come off. Atter dat, I was put in de hands of his son, Sam Davenport. Dis was atter freedom come. He was a purty good man, but my mammy was always careful. At night she say, 'Come in chilluns, I got to fasten de do' tight.' We lived in a little log house den. When we moved from dar we went to Dr. Welch's place, jes' dis side of it. "De niggers never had any churches till atter de war; den dey used brush arbors or some old broke-down log house. We never had schools den, not till later. I never had a chance to go a-tall. "I 'member de Ku Klux and how dey rid around in white sheets, killing all de niggers. De Red Shirts never killed but dey sometimes whipped niggers. My daddy voted de Republican ticket den, but I know'd two niggers dat was Democrats and rode wid de Red Shirts. Dey was old Zeb and old Jeff Bozard. "We had a big camp meeting sometimes at a log house dat was called 'Hannah's Church'. It was named for a nigger man of slavery time. He bought de land for de church when freedom come and give it to dem. Dis church is on de other side of Bush River, near Mr. Boulware's place. "In old times we had plenty to eat dat we raised on de farm. We had gardens, too. We raised hogs and made our own flour. We never worked on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. On Christmas we got together and tried to have extra things to eat, and maybe a few drinks. "In old times we had lots of corn-shuckings and log-rollings. De niggers all around would come and help, den we would git a feast of lamb or pig that was cooked while we was working. "Some old folks use to make medicines out of herbs. I 'member my ma would take fever grass and boil it to tea and have us drink it to keep de fever away. She used branch elder twigs and dogwood berries for chills. Another way to stop chills from coming was to dip a string in turpentine, keep it tied around de waist and tie a knot in it every time you had a chill. "Abraham Lincoln was a good man. Seems like all de niggers loved him lots. I don't know much about Jefferson Davis. Booker Washington was a good man. I 'member he was once in Newberry and I heard him preach in de old courthouse. (?) "I joined de church when I was 12 years old. In dem days de old folks made chillun go to church when dey was 12 years old, and join den. Dat was de reason I joined. I was a Methodist but I joined de Baptist later, because, well, I saw dat was de right way." Source: Solomon Caldwell (73), Newberry, S. C. RFD Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. 12/7/37. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon, Winnsboro, S. C. NELSON CAMERON EX-SLAVE 81 YEARS. Nelson Cameron and his wife, Mary, together with a widowed daughter, Rose, and her six children, live in a four-room frame house, two miles south of Woodward, S. C., about sixty yards east of US highway #21. He cultivates about eighty acres of land, on shares of the crop, for Mr. Brice, the land owner. He is a good, respectable, cheerful old darkey, and devoted to his wife and grandchildren. "Marse Wood, Ned Walker, a old Gaillard nigger says as how he was down here t'other day sellin' chickens, where he got them chickens I's not here for to say, and say you wanna see me. I's here befo' you and pleads guilty to de charge dat I'm old, can't work much any longer, and is poor and needy. "You sees dere's a window pane out of my britches seat and drainage holes in both my shoes, to let de sweat out when I walks to Bethel Church on Sunday. Whut can you and Mr. Roosevelt do for dis old Izrallite a passin' thru de wilderness on de way to de Promise Land? Lak to have a little manna and quail, befo' I gits to de river Jordan. "My old marster name Sam Brice. His wife, my mistress, tho' fair as de lily of de valley and cheeks as pink as de rose of Sharon, is called 'Darkie.' Dat always seem a misfit to me. Lily or Rose or Daisy would have suited her much more better, wid her laces, frills, flounces, and ribbons. Her mighty good to de slaves. Take deir part 'ginst de marster sometime, when him want to whup them. Sometime I sit on de door-steps and speculate in de moonlight whut de angels am like and everytime, my mistress is de picture dat come into dis old gray head of mine. You say you don't want po'try, you wants facts? "Well, here de facts: My mammy name Clara. Don't forgit dat. I come back to her directly. My young mistress was Miss Maggie. Her marry Marse Robert Clowney; they call him 'Red-head Bob.' Him have jet red hair. Him was 'lected and went to de Legislature once. No go back; he say dere too much ding dong do-nuttin' foolishness down dere for him to leave home and stay 'way from de wife and chillun half de winter months. "Marse Sam never have so pow'ful many slaves. Seem lak dere was more women and chillun than men. In them days, pa tell me, a white man raise niggers just lak a man raise horses or cows. Have a whole lot of mares and 'pendin' on other man to have de stallion. Fust thing you know dere would be a whole lot of colts kickin' up deir heels on de place. Lakwise a white man start out wid a few women folk slaves, soon him have a plantation full of little niggers runnin' 'round in deir shirt-tails and a kickin' up deir heels, whilst deir mammies was in de field a hoeing and geeing at de plow handles, workin' lak a man. You ketch de point? Well I's one of them little niggers. My pa name Vander. Him b'long to one of de big bugs, old Marse Gregg Cameron. Marse Gregg, him 'low, always have more money and niggers than you could shake a stick at, more land than you could walk over in a day, and more cuss words than you could find in de dictionary. His bark was worser than his bite, tho'. Pa was de tan-yard man; he make leather and make de shoes for de plantation. After freedom date, de way he make a livin' for mammy and us chillun was by makin' boots and shoes and half solin' them for white folks at Blackstock, S. C. Marse Sam Brice mighty glad for mammy to contact sich a man to be de pappy of her chillun. "Us live in a log house wid a little porch in front and de mornin' glory vines use to climb 'bout it. When they bloom, de bees would come a hummin' 'round and suck de honey out de blue bells on de vines. I 'members dat well 'nough, dat was a pleasant memory. Is I told you my mammy name Clara? My brothers and sisters, who they? George dead, Calvin dead, Hattie (name for pa's young mistress) dead, Samson, who got his ear scald off in a pot of hot water, is dead, too. I's existing still. I did mighty little work in slavery times. 'Members not much 'bout de Yankees. "Freedom come, pa come straight as a martin to his gourd, to mammy and us pickaninnies. They send us to school at Blackstock and us walk fourteen miles, and back, every day to school. At school I meets Mary Stroud, a gal comin' from de Gaillard quarter. Her eyes was lak twin stars. Her hair lak a swarm of bees. All my studyin' books was changed to studyin' how to git dat swarm of bees in a hive by myself. One day I walk home from school with her and git old Uncle Tom Walker to marry us, for de forty cents I saved up. Us happy ever since. Nex' year I work for Ben Calvin, a colored man on de Cockerell place, jinin' de Gaillard place. Us did dat to be near her pappy, Uncle Morris Stroud. "All thru them 'Carpet Bag' days my pappy stuck to de white folks, and went 'long wid de Ku Kluxes. His young mistress, Miss Harriet Cameron, marry de Grand Titan of all de Holy invisible Roman Empire. Him name was Col. Leroy McAfee. Pappy tell me all 'bout it. Marse Col. McAfee come down from North Ca'lina, and see Marse Feaster Cameron at old Marse Gregg Cameron's home and want Marse Feaster to take charge down in dis State. While on dat visit him fall in love wid Marse Feas's sister, Harriet, and marry her. You say Marse Tom Dixon dedicate a book to her, de Clansman? Well, well, well! To think of dat. Wish my pappy could a knowed dat, de Sundays he'd take dat long walk to Concord Church to put flowers on her grave. They all lie dere in dat graveyard, Old Marse Gregg, Marse Leroy, Miss Harriet, and Marse Feas. De day they bury Marse Feas de whole county was dere and both men and women sob when de red earth rumbled on his coffin top. Pappy had me by de hand and cried lak a baby, wid de rest of them, dat sad day. "Does you 'member de time in 1884, when my pappy made you a pair of boots for $10.00 and when you pay him, him knock off one dollar and you pay him nine dollars? You does? Well dat is fine, for I sure need dat dollar dis very day. "Does I 'member de day old Marse Gregg die? 'Course I does. It happen right here in Winnsboro. Him come down to 'tend John Robinson's Circus. Him lak Scotch liquor; de tar smell, de taste, and de 'fect, take him back to Scotland where him generate from. Them was bar-room days in Winnsboro. De two hotels had bar-rooms, besides de other nine in town. Marse Gregg had just finished his drink of Scotch. De parade of de circus was passing de hotel where he was, and de steam piano come by a tootin'. Marse Gregg jump up to go to de street to see it. When it pass, him say: 'It's a damn humbug' and drop dead." Project #1855 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. THOMAS CAMPBELL EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. "Good mornin' Marster Wood! Marster Donan McCants and Marster Wardlaw McCants both been tellin' me dat how you wants to see me but I's been so poorly and down at de heels, in my way of feelin', dat I just ain't of a mind or disposition to walk up dere to de town clock, where they say you want me to come. Take dis bench seat under de honey suckle vine. It shade you from de sun. It sho' is hot! I's surprise dat you take de walk down here to see a onery old man lak me. "Yes sir, I was born, 'cordin' to de writin' in de Book, de 15th day of March, 1855, in de Horeb section of Fairfield District, a slave of old Marster John Kennedy. How it was, I don't know. Things is a little mixed in my mind. Fust thing I 'members, and dreams 'bout sometimes yet, is bein' in Charleston, standin' on de battery, seein' a big ocean of water, wid ships and their white sails all 'bout, de waves leapin' and gleamin' 'bout de flanks of de ships in de bright sunshine, thousands of white birds flyin' 'round and sometimes lighting on de water. My mammy, her name Chanie, was a holdin' my hand and her other hand was on de handle of a baby carriage and in dat carriage was one of de Logan chillun. Whether us b'long to de Logans or whether us was just hired out to them I's unable to 'member dat. De slaves called him Marster Tom. Us come back to Fairfield in my fust childhood, to de Kennedy's. "Marster John Kennedy raise more niggers than he have use for; sometime he sell them, sometime he hire them out. Him sell mammy and me to Marster James B. McCants and I been in de McCants family ever since, bless God! "Marse James was a great lawyer in his day. I was his house boy and office boy. When I get older I take on, besides de blackin' of his boots and shoes and sweepin' out de office, de position of carriage driver and sweepin' out de church. Marster James was very 'ligious. Who my pa was? Dat has never been revealed to me. Thank God! I never had one, if they was lak I see nigger chillun have today. My white folks was all de parents I had and me wid a skin as black as ink. My belly was always full of what they had and I never suffer for clothes on my back or shoes on my feets. "Does I 'members de Yankees? Yes sir, I 'member when they come. It was cold weather, February, now dat I think of it. Oh, de sights of them days. They camp all 'round up at Mt. Zion College and stable their hosses in one of de rooms. They gallop here and yonder and burn de 'Piscopal Church on Sunday mornin'. A holy war they called it, but they and Wheeler's men was a holy terror to dis part of de world, as naked and hungry as they left it. I marry Savannah Parnell and of all our chillun, dere is just one left, a daughter, Izetta. Her in Tampa, Florida. "Does I 'members anything 'bout de Ku Klux? No sir, nothin'. I was always wid de white folks side of politics. They wasn't concerned 'bout me. Marster James have no patience for dat kind of business anyhow. Him was a lawyer and believed in lettin' de law rule in de daylight and would have nothin' to do wid work dat have to have de cover of night and darkness. "Does I 'member 'bout de red shirts? Sure I does. De marster never wore one. Him get me a red shirt and I wore it in Hampton days. What I recollect 'bout them times? If you got time to listen, I 'spect I can make anybody laugh 'bout what happen right in dis town in red shirt days. You say you glad to listen? Well, here goes. One time in '76. de democrats have a big meetin' in de court house in April. Much talk last all day. What they say or do up dere nobody know. Paper come out next week callin' de radicals to meet in de court house fust Monday in May. Marster Glenn McCants, a lawyer, was one of old marster's sons. He tell me all 'bout it. "De day of de radical republican meetin' in de court house, Marster Ed Ailen had a drug store, so him and Marster Ozmond Buchanan fix up four quart bottles of de finest kind of liquor, wid croton-oil in every bottle. Just befo' de meetin' was called to order, Marster Ed pass out dat liquor to de ring leader, tellin' him to take it in de court house and when they want to 'suade a nigger their way, take him in de side jury rooms and 'suade him wid a drink of fine liquor. When de meetin' got under way, de chairman 'pointed a doorkeeper to let nobody in and nobody out 'til de meetin' was over, widout de chairman say so. "They say things went along smooth for a while but directly dat croton-oil make a demand for 'tention. Dere was a wild rush for de door. De doorkeeper say 'Stand back, you have to 'dress de chairman to git permission to git out'. Chairman rap his gavel and say, 'What's de matter over dere? Take your seats! Parliment law 'quire you to 'dress de chair to git permission to leave de hall'. One old nigger, Andy Stewart, a ring leader shouted: 'To hell wid Parliment law, I's got to git out of here.' Still de doorkeeper stood firm and faithful, as de boy on de burnin' deck, as Marster Glenn lak to tell it. One bright mulatto nigger, Jim Mobley, got out de tangle by movin' to take a recess for ten minutes, but befo' de motion could be carried out de croton-oil had done its work. Half de convention have to put on clean clothes and de court house steps have to be cleaned befo' they could walk up them again. You ask any old citizen 'bout it. Him will 'member it. Ask old Doctor Buchanan. His brother, de judge, was de one dat help Marster Ed Aiken to fix de croton-oil and whiskey. "Well, dat seem to make you laugh and well it might, 'cause dat day been now long ago. Sixty-one years you say? How time gits along. Well, sixty-one years ago everybody laugh all day in Winnsboro, but Marster Ed never crack a smile, when them niggers run to his drug store and ask him for somethin' to ease their belly ache." Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, October 5, 1937 No. Words Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- SYLVIA CANNON, Ex-Slave, Age 85 "Yes, mam, I been a little small girl in slavery time. I just can remember when I was sold. Me en Becky en George. Just can remember dat, but I know who bought me. First belong to de old Bill Greggs en dat whe' Miss Earlie Hatchel bought me from. Never did know whe' Becky en George went. Yes, mam, de Bill Greggs had a heap of slaves cause dey had my grandmammy en my granddaddy en dey had a heap of chillun. My mammy, she belong to de Greggs too. She been Mr. Gregg's cook en I de one name after her. I remembers she didn' talk much to we chillun. Mostly, she did sing bout all de time. Most of de old people sing bout; 'O Heaven, sweet Heaven, When shall I see? If you get dere fore me, You tell my Lord I on de way. O shall I get dere? If you get dere fore I do, You tell My Lord I on de way. O Heaven, sweet Heaven, When shall I see? O when shall I get dere?' "Oh, dat be a old song what my grandmammy used to sing way back dere." "I don' know exactly how old I is cause de peoples used to wouldn' tell dey chillun how old dey was fore dey was grown. I just ain' able to say bout my right age, but I know my sister was older den me en she de one keep count us chillun age. She told me I be bout 84 or 85 years old, so my sister tell me. She done gone en left me en I try to keep count, but I don' know. Dere been bout 14 head of we chillun en dey all gone but me. I de last one. I can tell you dis much, I was just a little small girl when Miss Earlie Hatchel bought me en she wouldn' let me hold de baby cause she was 'fraid I would drop it. I just set dere on de floor en set de baby 'tween my legs, but my Lord, Miss Hatchel been so good to me dat I stay on dere wid her 8 years after freedom come. Miss Hatchel tell me I better stay on dere whe' I can get flour bread to eat. Yes, mam, never got a whippin in all my life. Miss Hatchel, she shake me by de shoulders once or twice, but never didn' whip me in all my life dat I knows of. Dat de reason, when my parents come after me, I hide under de bed. My mammy, she went in de name of Hatchel en all her chillun went in de name of Hatchel right down dere in de Effingham section." "No, honey, don' nobody be here wid me. Stays right here by myself. Digs in de garden in de day en comes in de house at night. Yes, mam, I thought dis house been belong to me, but dey tell me dis here place be city property. Rich man up dere in Florence learn bout I was worth over $1500.00 en he tell me dat I ought to buy a house dat I was gettin old. Say he had a nice place he want to sell me. I been learned dat what white folks tell me, I must settle down on it en I give him de money en tell him give me de place he say he had to sell me. I been trust white folks en he take my money en settle me down here on city property. He say, 'Mom Sylvia, you stay here long as you live cause you ain' gwine be here much longer.' I promise my God right den not to save no more money, child. People back dere didn' spend money like dey do dese days en dat how-come I had dat money. Dey would just spend money once a year in dat day en time. Yes, mam, I pay dat man over $900.00. Been payin on it long time en got it all paid but $187.00 en city find out what dat man had done. City tell me just stay on right here, but don' pay no more money out. Dey give me dat garden en tell me what I make I can have. Courthouse man tell me dat I ought to drop my thanks to de Heavenly Father dat I is free. If de town picks up any sick person, dey bring dem here en tell me do de best I can for dem. Tell me to keep good order so de people won' be shame to come en see bout me. Got two houses dere join together. Dere be four rooms in dis front one en three in de other house. Woman go up north en leave her things here en tell me if she ain' come back, I could have dem en she ain' come back yet. Been gone two years." "Yes, mam, I been married twice. First husband die en den another sick man come along en ax de city for me. I work on him en make teas for him, but he die in bout two years. I beg de town to let me go out to de poor farm en stay, but dey say I done pay too much to move. Tell me stay on here en keep de house up de best way I can. "No'um, I ain' able to do no kind of work much. No more den choppin my garden. Can' hardly see nothin on a sunny day. I raise my own seed all right cause sometimes I can' see en find myself is cut up things en dat make me has to plant over another time. City tell me do like I was raise en so I been choppin here bout 20 years." "Oh, now go way from here. My son born in de year of de earthquake en if he had lived, I would been bless wid plenty grandchillun dese days. Yes, mam, I remember all bout de shake. Dey tell me one man, Mr. Turner, give way his dog two or three days fore de earthquake come en dat dog get loose en come back de night of de shake. Come back wid chain tied round his neck en Mr. Turner been scared most to death, so dey tell me. He say, 'Oh, Mr. Devil, don' put de chain on me, I'll go wid you.' Dat was his dog come back en he thought it was de devil come dere to put de chain on him. Yes, mam, dere was such a cuttin up every which a way cause de people thought it was de Jedgment comin. I went a runnin dere to de white folks house en such a prayin en a hollerin, I ain' never see de like fore den en ain' see it since den neither. Dere was stirrin everywhe' dat night en de water in de well was just a slashin. I tried to pray like de rest of de people. Some say dey was ready to get on de old ship of Zion. I cut loose from de white folks en went in de woods to pray en see a big snake en I ain' been back since. I know dat ain' been nothin but a omen en I quit off cuttin up. I know it ain' been no need in me gwine on like dat cause I ain' never do no harms dat I knows of." "Yes, mam, white folks had to whip some of dey niggers in slavery time, dey be so mean. Hear tell bout some of dem would run away en go in de woods en perish to death dere fore dey would come out en take a whippin. Some was mean cause dey tell stories on one another en been swear to it. My mammy tell me don' never tell nothin but de truth en I won' get no whippin. I been raise up wid de white folks en I tell de truth, I can' hardly stand no colored people." "Oh, honey, dere won' no such thing as cotton mill, train, sawmill or nothin like dat in my day. People had to set dere at night en pick de seed out de cotton wid dey own hands. Didn' hear tell bout no telephone nowhe' in dem days en people never live no closer den three en four miles apart neither. Got old Massa horn right in dat room dere now dat he could talk on to people dat be 16 miles from whe' he was. Come in here, child, en I'll let you see it. See, dis old horn been made out of silver money. You talks in dat little end en what you say runs out dat big end. Man ax me didn' I want to sell it en I tell him I ain' got no mind to get rid of it cause it been belong to old Massa. Den if I get sick, I call on it en somebody come. Wouldn' take nothin for it, honey." "Times was sho better long time ago den dey be now. I know it. Yes, mam, I here frettin myself to death after dem dat gone. Colored people never had no debt to pay in slavery time. Never hear tell bout no colored people been put in jail fore freedom. Had more to eat en more to wear den en had good clothes all de time cause white folks furnish everything, everything. Dat is, had plenty to eat such as we had. Had plenty peas en rice en hog meat en rabbit en' fish en such as dat. Colored people sho fare better in slavery time be dat de white folks had to look out for dem. Had dey extra crop what dey had time off to work every Saturday. White folks tell dem what dey made, dey could have. Peoples would have found we colored people rich wid de money we made on de extra crop, if de slaves hadn' never been set free. Us had big rolls of money en den when de Yankees come en change de money, dat what made us poor. It let de white people down en let us down too. Left us all to bout starve to death. Been force to go to de fish pond en de huckleberry patch. Land went down to $1.00 a acre. White people let us clear up new land en make us own money dat way. We bury it in de ground en dat how-come I had money. I dig mine up one day en had over $1500.00 dat I been save. Heap of peoples money down dere yet en dey don' know whe' to find it." Source: Sylvia Cannon, age 85, ex-slave, Marion St., Florence, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, October, 1937. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, August 4, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- SYLVIA CANNON Ex-Slave, Age 85. Florence, S. C. "I lives here by myself cause my husband been dead three years. Moved here fore my chillun went to de war. I go to work en buy dis here home en get whe' I can' pay tax en people tell me not to move. Say, rent me bed en catch me a dollar, if it ain' a sin to rent your bed for a dollar. One of de big officers of de town tell me dat last week en he die next day. Government take my house en when dey carry sick peoples from de jail, dey bring em here fore dey die. It ain' but one night journey. Ain' gwine let dem be live enough to run away. Ain' got no kin to leave de house to en dey tell me stay on here. Dey say I work so hard to get dis house dat dey ain' gwine make me leave here." (Aunt Sylvia has a sign in her front yard. It seems she took the frame of a large picture and inserted a piece of pasteboard into it. She explained that this sign is a warning to evil doers not to molest her. She says that they must not come past this sign. The words on the sign are somewhat illegibly written. The interviewers were able to make out these words: "This is a house of the Lord. Don't go pass. This is a house of the Lord...." Sign is dated March 1, 1937). "I don' know how old I is, but I remembers I was 8 years old when freedom come. I born down dere in de Effingham section on Mr. Gregg plantation. My half-sister say I must always remember de Christmas day cause dat de day I was born. Father en mother belong to de old Bill Greggs en dat whe' Miss Earlie Hatchel buy me from. After dat, I didn' never live wid my parents any more, but I went back to see dem every two weeks. Got a note en go on a Sunday evenin en come back to Miss Hatchel on Monday. Miss Hatchel want a nurse en dat how-come she buy me. I remembers Miss Hatchel puttin de baby in my lap en tell me don' drop him. Didn' have to do no work much in dem days, but dey didn' allow me to play none neither. When de baby sleep, I sweep de yard en work de garden en pick seed out de cotton to spin. Nursed little while for Miss Hatchel en den get free." "I see em sell plenty colored peoples away in dem days cause dat de way white folks made heap of dey money. Coase dey ain' never tell us how much dey sell em for. Just stand em up on a block bout three feet high en a speculator bid em off just like dey was horses. Dem what was bid off didn' never say nothin neither. Don' know who bought my brothers, George en Earl. (She cried after this statement). I see em sell some slaves twice fore I was sold en I see de slaves when dey be travelin like hogs to Darlington. Some of dem be women folks lookin like dey gwine to get down dey so heavy." "We fare good in dat day en time. Everybody round dere fare good. My Massa always was good to his slaves cause all de colored people say he was good man to us. Dey never whip me in all my life. Tell me if I don' know how to do anything to tell dem en dey show me how. I remembers Miss Hatchel caught en shook me one time en when I tell her husband, he tell her to keep his hands off his little Nigger. Dey all was good to me. When I start home to see my mamma, dey cry after me till I come back. Many a time my Missus go work in de field en let me mind de chillun." "We live in de quarter bout ½ mile from de white folks house in a one room pole house what was daubed wid dirt. Dere was bout 20 other colored people house dere in de quarter dat was close together en far apart too. De ground been us floor en us fireplace been down on de ground. Take sticks en make chimney cause dere won' no bricks en won' no saw mills to make lumber when I come along. Oh, my white folks live in a pole house daubed wid dirt too. Us just had some kind of home-made bedstead wid pine straw bed what to sleep on in dem days. Sew croaker sack together en stuff em wid pine straw. Dat how dey make dey mattress. Didn' get much clothes to wear in dat day en time neither. Man never wear no breeches in de summer. Go in his shirt tail dat come down to de knees en a 'oman been glad enough to get one piece homespun frock what was made wid dey hand. Make petticoat out of old dress en patch en patch till couldn' tell which place weave. Always put wash out on a Saturday night en dry it en put it back on Sunday. Den get oak leaves en make a hat what to wear to church. We didn' never have but one pair of shoes a year en dey was dese here brogans wid thick soles en brass toes. Had shop dere on de plantation whe' white man made all de shoes en plows. Dey would save all de cowhide en soak it in salt two or three weeks to get de hair off it en dey have big trough hewed out whe' dey clean it after dey get de hair off it. After dat, it was turn to de man at de shop." "I remembers when night come on en we go back to de quarter, we cook bread in de ashes en pick seed from de cotton en my mamma set dere en sew heap of de time. Den I see em when dey have dem hay pullings. Dey tote torch to gather de hay by en after dey pull two or three stacks of hay, dey have a big supper en dance in de road en beat sticks en blow cane. Had to strike fire on cotton wid two rocks cause dey didn' have no match in dem days." "I tellin you my Missus sho was good to me in dat day en time. She been so good to me dat I stay dere wid her 20 year after I got free. Stay dere till I marry de old man Isenia Cannon. You see my old Massa got killed in de war. She tell me I better stay whe' I can get flour bread to eat cause she make her own flour en bake plenty biscuit in de oven. Den she kill hogs en a cow every Christmas en give us all de egg-nog en liquor we want dat day. Dig hole in de ground en roast cow over log fire. When I get hard up for meat en couldn' get nothin else, I catch rabbits en birds. Make a death trap wid a lid en bait it wid cabbage en corn en catch em dat way. Den another time, I dig deep hole in de ground en dob it wid clay en fill it up wid water. Rabbits hunt water in de night en fall in dere en drown. I used to set traps heap of times to keep de rabbits from eatin up de people gardens. Folks eat all kind of things durin de war. Eat honeysuckle off de low sweet bush after de flower falls off en pine mass dat dey get out de burr en sour weeds. Wouldn' nobody eat dem things dese days. Coase dey let de slaves have three acres of land to a family to plant for dey garden. Work dem in moonlight nights en on a Saturday evenin." "Oh, yes, dey have white overseers den. I hear some people say dey was good people. At night de overseer would walk out to see could he catch any of us walkin widout a note en to dis day, I don' want to go nowhe' widout a paper. It just like dis, de overseer didn' have to be right behind you to see dat you work in dem days. Dey have all de fields name en de overseer just had to call on de horn en tell you what field to go work in dat day. Den he come along on a Saturday evenin to see what you done. If you ain' do what he say do, he put de Nigger dog on you en he run you all night till he find you. No matter whe' you hide, he find you en hold you till de overseer get dere. Bite you up if dey get reach of you. When de overseer come, he carry you to de stables en whip you. Dey dat ain' never got no whipping, you can' do nothin wid dem dese days." "I got Miss Hatchel horn bout here now dat been through nearly 100 head of people. If you talk on it, dere de 100 head of automobiles to see what it is. I sold old Massa's sword last week for ten cents, but I ain' gwine do away wid his old horn. (4 ft. long, 15 in. cross big end 1 in. from top end. Mouth piece is gone. Catch about 15 in. from top). Can talk to anybody 15 to 16 miles away en dat how-come I don' want to sell it cause if anything happen, I can call people to come. Dis horn ain' no tin, it silver. It de old time phone. Got old Massa maul too en dis here Grandpa oxen bit dat was made at home." "De white folks didn' never help none of we black people to read en write no time. Dey learn de yellow chillun, but if dey catch we black chillun wid a book, dey nearly bout kill us. Dey was sho better to dem yellow chillun den de black chillun dat be on de plantation. Northern women come dere after de war, but dey didn' let em teach nobody nothin." "I go to church wid my white folks, but dey never have no church like dey have dese days. De bush was dey shelter en when it rain, dey meet round from one house to another. Ride to church in de ox cart cause I had to carry de baby everywhe' I go. White folks didn' have no horse den. De peoples sho been blessed wid more religion in dem days den dese days. Didn' never have to lock up nothin den en if you tell a story, you get a whippin. Now de peoples tell me to tell a story. I been cleanin up a lady porch en she tell me to tell anybody what come dere dat she ain' home. A lady come en ax fer her en I tell her she say anybody come here, tell em I ain' home. If you don' believe she here, look in de bedroom. Miss Willcox come out dere en beat me in de back. I tell her don' read de Bible en tell me to tell a story. I ain' gwine tell no story cause my white folks learnt me not to do dat. I knows people was better in dem times den dey is now. Dey teach you how you ought to treat your neighbor en never hear no bad stories nowhe'. Massa en Missus taught me to say a prayer dat go like dis: "De angels in Heaven love us, Bless mamma en bless papa, Bless our Missus, Bless de man dat feedin us, For Christ sake." "De peoples use herb medicines for dey cures in dem days dat dey get out de woods. I make a herb medicine dat good for anything out de roots of three herbs mix together. Couldn' tell you how I make it cause dat would ruin me. Town people try to buy de remedy from me, but Dr. McLeod tell me not to sell it. Dey offer me $1500.00 for it, but I never take it." "You want my mind, my heart, de truth en I gwine tell you it just like I see it. Since de colored peoples got de law, dey get in all kind of devilment. Dat how-come if I had to go back, I would go back to slavery en stay wid my white folks." Source: Sylvia Cannon, ex-slave, age 85, Florence. S. C. Personal interview by H. Grady Davis and Mrs. Lucile Young, and written up in question and answer form. Rewritten in story form by Annie Ruth Davis. FUNERAL SONG Star in de east en star in de west, I wish de star was in my breast. Mother is home, sweet home, Mother is home, sweet home, Want to join de angel here. What a blessed home, sweet home, What a blessed home, sweet home, Want to join de angel here. (You can sing bout father, brother, sister en all.) Sylvia Cannon, Ex-Slave, age 85, May 21, 1937, Florence, S. C. FUNERAL SONG Come ye dat love de Lord, En let your joys be known. Hark from de tomb, En hear my tender voice. By de grace of God I'll meet you On Canaan Happy Shore. Oh, mother, where will I meet you on Canaan Happy Shore? En by de grace of God I'll meet you on Canaan Happy Shore. (Shaking hands, marching around grave. White en Colored marched from church to graveyard. Old people in de ox cart en young people walking. Didn' have coffins like dey do now. Build de coffin en black it wid smut. Blacksmith make de nails. Could see in de box.) Sylvia Cannon, Ex-Slave, age 85, May 21, 1937, Florence, S. C. Project No. 1885-(1) Prepared by Mrs. Genevieve Chandler Place, Murrells Inlet, S. C. Date, March 25, 1937 Typed by M. C., N. Y. A. No Words ---- Reduced from Words ---- Rewritten by ---- [~HW: Georgetown Co~] [~HW: HEAVEN'S GATE CHURCH~] (Verbatim conversation by Uncle Albert Carolina.): When asked about the founding of Heaven's Gate colored Methodist church Rev. Albert Carolina answered: "In the beginning of Freedom they separate us from whites. 'Sixty one the war begun; Sixty four the war was o'er." "Rev. Zacharias Duncan wuz the man. He the one built Heaven Gate church. Brother Henry Smith and Brother David Kidd and old man Jackson Heywood wuz the old ones built it. Some more been there. Can't think of them. Old man Jim Beaty wuz one. Can't remember no more. He wuz Allston man. (That means he was a slave owned by the Allstons) Uncle Dave Kidd, he owned a tract of land in the Savannah. "Brought us up in Sabbus (Sabbath) school. Sunrise prayer-meeting. Ten o'clock Sunday school. Leven o'clock the service. Three o'clock service again. Eight at night--service again. Raise us taughen (taught) in the church. Steal off Slavery time in they own house and have class meeting. Driver come find'em, whip'em. Th' patrolls come riding down th' road. Four plait whip. Two big black dog. White pat-roller. Ketch without pass, they whip me. Crawling. (I was crawling). But I walk then and walk every since! Bo-cart. Dat's what they call it--'Bo-cart'. (Crude home made baby walker.) Bout seventy seven years since I start. Remember nother thing going on in them time. Mausser gin (give) the women a task. Didn't done it. Next day didn't done it. Saturday come, task time out! Driver! I tell yuh th' truth, you could hear those people, 'Murder! Murder!' "Judge Kershaw was a fine man. His boy William--I and William born the same day. "We never has met th' bed yet, without family prayer--and never get up without it. Didn't low them with a book in they hand. The Driver learn you at night if he like you. Try to out-wage (educate) you at night. Didn't have any school. "Mother's father Indian. Brighter than, who? Who round here bright as my Grand-father? Hannah! Hair was long. Wouldn't stay home. Lives in th' swamp. Wouldn't stay out. Grandmother wuz African. She had a little bowl make out of clay." Uncle Albert Carolina, age 87 (colored) Murrells Inlet, S. C. March 8th, 1937. (A description followed of how his grand-parents built a kiln of clay pots and baked them.) Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County SILVIA CHISOLM Ex-Slave 88 Years Old "Aunt Silvie", sitting out in the sunshine in the yard of a small negro cabin, on a warm day in January, seemed very old and feeble. Her answers to questions were rather short and she appeared to be preoccupied. "I been fifteen year old when de Yankee come--fifteen de sixth of June. I saw 'em burn down me Massa's home, an' everythin'. I 'members dat. Ole man Joe Bostick was me Massa. An' I knows de Missus an' de Massa used to work us. Had de overseer to drive us! Work us till de Yankees come! When Yankee come dey had to run! Dat how de buildin' burn! Atter dey didn't find no one in it, dey burn! De Marshall house had a poor white woman in it! Dat why it didn't burn! My Massa's Pineland place at Garnett was burn, too. Dey never did build dis un (one) back. Atter dey come back, dey build deir house at de Pineland place. "I wus mindin' de overseer's chillun. Mr. Beestinger was his name! An' his wife, Miss Carrie! I been eight year old when dey took me. Took me from me mother an' father here on de Pipe Creek place down to Black Swamp. Went down forty-two mile to de overseer! I never see my mother or my father anymore. Not 'til atter freedom! An' when I come back den I been married. But when I move back here, I stay right on dis Pipe Creek place from den on. I been right here all de time. "Atter I work for Mr. Beestinger, I wait on Mr. Blunt. You know Mr. Blunt, ain't you? His place out dere now. "Mr. Bostick was a good ole man. He been deaf. His chillun tend to his business--his sons. He was a preacher. His father was ole man Ben Bostick. De Pipe Creek Church was ole Missus Bostick's Mammy's church. When de big church burn down by de Yankees, dey give de place to de colored folks. Stephen Drayton was de first pastor de colored folks had. Dey named de church, Canaan Baptist Church. Start from a bush arbor. De white folks church was paint white, inside an' out. It was ceiled inside. Dis church didn't have no gallery for de colored folks. Didn't make no graveyard at Pipe Creek! Bury at Black Swamp! An' at Lawtonville! De people leave dat church an' go to Lawtonville to worship. Dey been worshipping at Lawtonville ever since before I could wake up to know. De Pipe Creek Church jes' stood dere, wid no service in it, 'til de Yankee burn it. De church at Lawtonville been a fine church. Didn't burn it! Use it for a hospital durin' de war! "I'se 88 year old now an' can't remember so much. An' I'se blind! Blind in both eye!" Source: Silvia Chisolm, R. F. D. Estill, S. C. Project #1655 Stiles M. Scruggs Columbia, S. C. AN EX-SLAVE WHO CLIMBED UP WITH WHITE FOLKS. Tom Chisolm, a sixty-two year old bricklayer, 11 Railroad Street, Columbia, S. C., is a son of Caesar Chisolm, who represented Colleton County in the South Carolina House of Representatives for ten years. Caesar was one of the few leading Negroes, who voted and spoke for the Democratic Party and was friendly to the leaders of white supremacy until he died in 1897. Tom relates the following story: "My daddy was born in slavery and he was always treated good by his master, de late Jimeson Chisolm, of Colleton County. He could read and figure up 'most anything, when he was set free, and he had notions of his own, too. For instance, he marry my mammy. She die soon after I was born, and daddy say to me: 'Son, your mammy is gone, but you need not fear dat any other woman will ever boss you. I's through with wives.' And he never marry again. "I come to Columbia with him, when he serve in de Legislature. When he tell de niggers and white folks, back in Colleton, dat he was not aimin' to run for de Legislature no more, they was sad. One time I go with him to Smoak's, where Congressman George D. Tillman was to speak on one of his campaigns. I felt pretty big, when Congressman Tillman smile and grasp de hand of my daddy and say: 'You's goin' to say a few words for me befo' I starts, eh, Chisolm?' 'I sho' will, if you laks,' say my daddy. Soon he mount de platform, and befo' he say a word, both de white and de niggers clap deir hands and stamp deir feets and smile. My daddy bow, smile, and say: 'Ladies and gentlemen: We, us, and company sent George Tillman to Congress long ago and knows what he has done. Now we's gwine to send him back, and I is a little in doubt as to whether he is gwine to take us to Washington, or bring Washington down here!' He say, he jus' git started. But de crowd was laughin', dancin', and huggin' de Congressman, and daddy laugh and set down. "He introduce Master Duncan Clinch Heyward at Walterboro in 1902, when Master Heyward was making his first race for governor. He raise such laughter and pay so many witty compliments to Master Heyward, dat Governor Heyward, when he was 'lected, appoint my daddy to an office in Columbia, and we come to Columbia to live in 1903. My daddy retire at de same time dat Governor Heyward quit office, in 1907. He later wrote insurance on de lives of niggers, and he prosper. "'Bout 1885, my daddy happen to be walkin' near de corner of Gervais and Pulaski streets, and two niggers meet dere at de time and begin to quarrel. My daddy stop and watch them awhile. One of them niggers kill de other, and some time afterward a nigger lawyer come to see my daddy and ask him: 'Wasn't you dere?' 'I sho' was,' say my daddy. De nigger lawyer laugh and slap daddy on de back and say: 'Come on.' Daddy come back in a few hours pretty tipsy. 'Dat lawyer spend a lot on me,' say daddy, 'but de fool never let me tell him jus' what I knows.' "A day or two afterward he was in de witness box. De nigger lawyer say: 'Now, Mister Chisolm, tell your tale in your own way.' Daddy say: 'I saw de defendant and de man, now dead, as they meet. They glare at each other and begin to talk harsh and cuss each other. Then, one strike at de other and they back 'way and begin to reach in deir hind pockets.' Daddy stop, and de nigger lawyer fairly scream: 'Yes, yes, go on!' 'That all I saw,' say my daddy, 'cause I run to cover. I made it to de next corner in nothin' flat and pick up speed afterward. So I was two blocks 'way, when I hear de shootin'!' De nigger lawyer nearly faint. He say: 'Who bought you off?' Daddy say he would have told him at de start, if he'd had de chance. "At another time, we was down on de 700 block of Wayne Street, at a nigger gatherin'. We often spend days down dere collectin' weekly insurance dues, and we knowed most of de people. Dere happen to be a young nigger dere, back from de West for a visit, and he was a great bragger. He was tellin' 'bout corn in Texas. 'Dere,' he said, 'corn grow twenty feet high, with stalks as big as the arm of John L. Sullivan, when he whupped Kilrain, and half a dozen big ears on each stalk.' De crowd was thunderstruck. "My daddy cleared his throat and say: 'Dat am nothin' in de way of corn. One day I was walkin' past a forty-acre patch of corn, on de Governor Heyward plantation by de Combahee River and de corn was so high and thick, I decide to ramble through it. 'Bout halfway over, I hears a commotion. I walks on and peeps. Dere stands a four-ox wagon backed up to de edge of de field, and two niggers was sawin' down a stalk. Finally they drag it on de wagon and drive off. I seen one of them, in a day or two, and asks 'bout it. He say: 'We shelled 366 bushels of corn from dat one ear, and then we saw 800 feet of lumber from de cob.' "Dat young man soon slip out from de crowd and has never been seen here since. I thinks daddy was outdone with me, 'cause I was not quickwitted and smart, lak him. He tell me once: 'You must learn two good trades, and I think carpenterin' and brick-layin' safest.' I done that, and I has never been sorry, 'cause I's made a good livin'. Governor Heyward was always a good friend of daddy, and he was proud to see us makin' good in de insurance business." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born near old Bush River Baptist Church, in Newberry County, S. C. I was the slave of John Satterwhite. My mother lived with them. I was a small girl when the war was on. My brother went to war with Marse Satterwhite. When de Ku Klux and paddrollers traveled around in that section, they made Mr. Satterwhite hold the niggers when they was whipped, but he most all the time let them loose, exclaiming, 'they got loose'--he did not want many of them whipped. "My mother had a kitchen way off from the house, wid a wide fireplace where she cooked victuals. There was holes in back of de chimney with iron rods sticking out of them to hold de pans, pots, kettles or boilers. "People there did not believe much in ghosts. They were not much superstitious, but one time some of the negroes thought they heard the benches in Bush River Baptist Church turn over when nobody was in the church. "Negroes most always shouted at their religious meetings. Before de negroes had their own church meetings, the slaves went to the white folks' Bush River Baptist church and set up in the gallery. I moved to Newberry when I was young, after I got married." Source: Maria Cleland, Newberry, S. C. (80 years old). Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (5/17/37) Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. PETER CLIFTON EX-SLAVE, 89 YEARS OLD. "You want me to start wid my fust memory and touch de high spots 'til dis very day? Dat'll take a long time but I glad to find someone to tell dat to; I is! I 'members when I was a boy, drivin' de calves to de pasture, a highland moccasin snake rise up in de path. I see dat forked tongue and them bright eyes right now. I so scared I couldn't move out my tracks. De mercy of de Lord cover me wid His wings. Dat snake uncoil, drop his head, and silently crawl away. Dat was on de Biggers Mobley place 'tween Kershaw and Camden, where I was born, in 1848. "My pappy name Ned; my mammy name Jane. My brudders and sisters was Tom, Lizzie, Mary, and Gill. Us live in a log house wid a plank floor and a wooden chimney, dat was always ketchin' afire and de wind comin' through and fillin' de room wid smoke and cinders. It was just one of many others, just lak it, dat made up de quarters. Us had peg beds for de old folks and just pallets on de floor for de chillun. Mattresses was made of wheat straw but de pillows on de bed was cotton. I does 'member dat mammy had a chicken feather pillow she made from de feathers she saved at de kitchen. "My grandpappy name Warren and grandmammy name Maria. De rule on de place was: 'Wake up de slaves at daylight, begin work when they can see, and quit work when they can't see'. But they was careful of de rule dat say: 'You mustn't work a child, under twelve years old, in de field'. "My master's fust wife, I heard him say, was Mistress Gilmore. Dere was two chillun by her. Master Ed, dat live in a palace dat last time I visit Rock Hill and go to 'member myself to him; then dere was Miss Mary dat marry her cousin, Dr. Jim Mobley. They had one child, Captain Fred, dat took de Catawba rifles to Cuba and whip Spain for blowin' up de Maine. You say you rather I talk 'bout old master and de high spots? Well, Master Biggers had a big plantation and a big mansion four miles southeast of Chester. He buy my mammy and her chillun in front of de court house door in Chester, at de sale of de Clifton Estate. Then he turn 'round and buy my pappy dere, 'cause my mammy and sister Lizzie was cryin' 'bout him have to leave them. Mind you I wasn't born then. Marster Biggers was a widower then and went down and courted de widow Gibson, who had a plantation and fifty slaves 'tween Kershaw and Camden. Dere is where I was born. "Marster had one child, a boy, by my mistress, Miss Sallie. They call him Black George. Him live long enough to marry a angel, Miss Kate McCrorey. They had four chillun. Dere got to be ninety slaves on de place befo' war come on. One time I go wid pappy to de Chester place. Seem lak more slaves dere than on de Gibson place. Us was fed up to de neck all de time, though us never had a change of clothes. Us smell pretty rancid maybe, in de winter time, but in de summer us no wear very much. Girls had a slip on and de boys happy in their shirt tails. "Kept fox hounds on both places. Old Butler was de squirrel and 'possum dog. What I like best to eat? Marster, dere is nothin' better than 'possum and yallow sweet 'taters. Right now, I wouldn't turn dat down for pound cake and Delaware grape wine, lak my mistress use to eat and sip while she watch my mammy and old Aunt Tilda run de spinnin' wheels. "De overseer on de place was name Mr. Mike Melton. No sir, he poor man but him come from good folks, not poor white trash. But they was cussed by marster, when after de war they took up wid de 'publican party. Sad day for old marster when him didn't hold his mouth, but I'll get to dat later. "Marster Biggers believe in whippin' and workin' his slaves long and hard; then a man was scared all de time of being sold away from his wife and chillun. His bark was worse then his bite tho', for I never knowed him to do a wicked thing lak dat. "How long was they whipped? Well, they put de foots in a stock and clamp them together, then they have a cross-piece go right across de breast high as de shoulder. Dat cross-piece long enough to bind de hands of a slave to it at each end. They always strip them naked and some time they lay on de lashes wid a whip, a switch or a strap. Does I believe dat was a great sin? No sir. Our race was just lak school chillun is now. De marster had to put de fear of God in them sometime, somehow, and de Bible don't object to it. "I see marster buy a many a slave. I never saw him sell but one and he sold dat one to a drover for $450.00, cash down on de table, and he did dat at de request of de overseer and de mistress. They was uneasy 'bout him. "They give us Christmas Day. Every woman got a handkerchief to tie up her hair. Every girl got a ribbon, every boy a barlow knife, and every man a shin plaster. De neighbors call de place, de shin plaster, Barlow, Bandanna place. Us always have a dance in de Christmas. "After freedom when us was told us had to have names, pappy say he love his old Marster Ben Clifton de best and him took dat titlement, and I's been a Clifton ever since. "Go way, white folks! What everthing mate for? De birds, de corn tassle and de silk, man and woman, white folks and colored folks mates. You ask me what for I seek out Christina for to marry. Dere was sumpin' 'bout dat gal, dat day I meets her, though her hair had 'bout a pound of cotton thread in it, dat just 'tracted me to her lak a fly will sail 'round and light on a 'lasses pitcher. I kept de Ashford Ferry road hot 'til I got her. I had to ask her old folks for her befo' she consent. Dis took 'bout six months. Everything had to be regular. At last I got de preacher, Rev. Ray Shelby to go down dere and marry us. Her have been a blessin' to me every day since. "Us have seven chillun. They's scattered east, west, north, and south. De only one left is just David, our baby, and him is a baby six foot high and fifty-one years old. "Yes sir, us had a bold, drivin', pushin', marster but not a hard-hearted one. I sorry when military come and arrest him. It was dis a way, him try to carry on wid free labor, 'bout lak him did in slavery. Chester was in military district no. 2. De whole state was under dat military government. Old marster went to de field and cuss a nigger woman for de way she was workin', choppin' cotton. She turnt on him wid de hoe and gashed him 'bout de head wid it. Him pull out his pistol and shot her. Dr. Babcock say de wound in de woman not serious. They swore out a warrant for Marster Biggers, arrest him wid a squad, and take him to Charleston, where him had nigger jailors, and was kicked and cuffed 'bout lak a dog. They say de only thing he had to eat was corn-meal-mush brought 'round to him and other nice white folks in a tub and it was ladeled out to them thru de iron railin' into de palms of dere hands. Mistress stuck by him, went and stayed down dere. The filthy prison and hard treatments broke him down, and when he did get out and come home, him passed over de river of Jordan, where I hopes and prays his soul finds rest. Mistress say one time they threatened her down dere, dat if she didn't get up $10,000 they would send him where she would never see him again. "Well, I must be goin'. Some day when de crops is laid by and us get de boll weevil whipped off de field, I'll get David to bring me and dat gal, Christina, you so curious 'bout, to Winnsboro to see you. Oh, how her gonna laugh and shake her sides when I get home and tell her all 'bout what's down on dat paper! You say it's to be sent to Washington? Why, de President and his wife will be tickled at some of them things. I's sure they will. Dat'll make Christina have a great excitement when I tell her we is to be talked 'bout way up dere. I 'spect it will keep her wake and she'll be hunchin' me and asking me all thru de night, what I give in. "Oh, well, I's thankful for dis hour in which I's been brought very near to de days of de long long ago. Maybe I'll get a pension and maybe I won't. Just so de Lord and de President take notice of us, is enough for me." Project 1885-1 From Field Notes. Spartanburg, Dist. 4 April 29, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage FOLK LORE: FOLK TALES (Negro) "I wuz born in Fairfield, dat is over yonder across Broad River, you knos what dat is, don't you? Yes sir, it wuz on Marse Johnson D. Coleman's plantation. And he had a plantation! Dese niggers here in Carlisle--and niggers is all dey is too--dey don't know what no plantation is. When I got big enough fer to step around, from de very fus, my maw took me in de big house. It still dat, cep it done bout fell down now, to what it wuz then. But some of Marse's folks, dey libs down dar still. Den you see, dey is like dese white folks up 'round here now. Dey ain't got no big money like dey had when I wuz a runnin' up. Time I got big enough fer to run aroun' in my shirt tail, my maw, she lowed one night to my paw, when he wuz settin by de fire, dat black little nigger over dar, he got to git hissef some pants kaise I'se gwine to put him up over de white fokes table. In dem times de doos and winders, dey nebber had no screen wire up to dem like dey is now. Fokes didn't know nothin bout no such as dat den. My Marster and all de other big white fokes, dey raised pea fowls. Is yu ebber seed any? Well, ev'y spring us little niggers, we coch dem wild things at night. Dey could fly like a buzzard. Dey roosted up in de pine trees, right up in de tip top. So de Missus, she hab us young uns clam up dar and git 'em when dey first took roost. Us would clam down and my maw, she would pull de long feathers out'n de tails. Fer weeks de cocks, dey wouldn't let nobody see 'em if dey could help it. Dem birds is sho proud. When dey is got de feathers, dey jus struts on de fences, and de fences wuz rail in dem days. If'n dey could see dereself in a puddle o' water after a rain, dey would stay dar all day a struttin' and carring on like nobody's business. Yes sir, dem wuz purty birds. After us got de feathers, de Missus, she'ud low dat all de nigger gals gwine to come down in de wash house and make fly brushes. Sometime de Missus 'ud gib some of de gals some short feathers to put in dere Sunday hats. When dem gals got dem hats on, I used to git so disgusted wid 'em I'd leave 'em at church and walk home by my sef. Anyway, by dat time all de new fly brushes wuz made and de Missus, she hab fans make from de short feathers for de white fokes to fan de air wid on hot days. Lawdy, I'se strayed fur from what I had started out fer to tell you. But I knowed dat you young fokes didn't know nothin' bout all dat. In dem days de dining room wuz big and had de windows open all de summer long, and all de doos stayed streched too. Quick as de mess of victuals began to come on de table, a little nigger boy was put up in de swing, I calls it, over de table to fan de flies and gnats off'en de Missus' victuals. Dis swing wuz just off'n de end of de long table. Some of de white fokes had steps a leadin' up to it. Some of 'em jus had de little boys maws to fech de young'uns up dar till dey got fru; den dey wuz fetched down again. "Well, when I got my pants, my maw fetched me in and I clumb up de steps dat Marse Johnson had, to git up in his swing wid. At fus, dey had to show me jus how to hole de brush, kaise dem peacock feathers wuz so long, iffen you didn't mind your bizness, de ends of dem feathers would splash in de gravy er sumpin nother, and den de Missus table be all spattered up. Some o' de Marsters would whorp de nigger chilluns fer dat carelessness, but Marse Johnson, he always good to his niggers. Mos de white fokes good to de niggers round bout whar I comes from. "It twad'nt long for I got used to it and I nebber did splash de feathers in no rations. But iffen I got used to it, I took to agoin to sleep up thar. Marse Johnson, he would jus git up and wake me up. All de white fokes at de table joke me so bout bein' so lazy, I soon stop dat foolishness. My maw, she roll her eyes at me when I come down atter de marster had to wake me up. Dat change like ever thing else. When I got bigger, I got to be house boy. Dey took down de swing and got a little gal to stand jus 'hind de Missus' chair and fan dem flies. De Missus low to Marse Johnson dat de style done change when he want to know how come she took de swing down. So dat is de way it is now wid de wimmen, dey changes de whole house wid de style; but I tells my chilluns, ain't no days like de ole days when I wuz a shaver. "Atter de war, I come up to Shelton and got to de 'P' Hamilton place. I wuz grown den. I seed a young girl dar what dey called 'Evvie'. Her paw, he had b'longed to de Chicks, so dats who she wuz, Evvie Chick. Dar she sets in dat room by de fire. Now us got 'leven chilluns. Dey is scattered all about. Dey is good to us in our ole age. Us riz 'em to obey de Lawd and mine us. Dats all dey knows, and iffen fokes would do dat now, dey wouldn't have no sassy chilluns like I sees here in Carlisle. "Evvie, what year wuz it we got married? Yes, dat's right. It wuz de year of de 'shake'. Is you heerd bout de 'shake'? Come out here Evvie and les tell him dat, kaise dese young fokes doan know nothin'. It wuz dark, and we wuz eatin' supper, when sumpin started to makin' de dishes fall out'n de cupboard. At fus we thought it wuz somebody a jumpin' up and down on de flo. Den we knowed dat it wuz sumpin else er makin' dem dishes fall out o' de cupboard. At fus we thought it wuz Judgment day, kaise ev'ry thing started fallin' worser and worser. De dishes fell so fast you couldn't pick'em up. Some of us went down to de spring. De white fokes, dey come along wid us and dey make us fetch things from de big house, like fine china dat de Missus didn't want to git broke up. She tole us dat it wuz er earthquake and it wasn't no day o' Judgment. Anyway, we lowed de white fokes might be wrong, so us niggers started to a prayin', and den all de niggers on de plantation dat heerd us, well de come along and jined wid us in de prayin' and singin'. Us wuz all a shakin' mos as bad as de earth wuz, kaise dat wuz a awful time dat we libbed through fer bout twenty minutes--de white fokes lowed it lasted only ten, but I ain't sho about dat. When we got back to de big house, de cupboard in de kitchen had done fell plum' down. In de nigger houses, de chimneys mos all fell in, and de chicken houses ev'rywhar wuz shuck down. While we wuz a lookin' aroun, and de wimmen fokes, dey wuz a takin' on mightily another shake come up. Us all took fer de spring agin; dis one lasted bout long as de first one. Us prayed and sung and shouted dis time. It sho stopped de earth a shakin' and a quiverin' some, kaise dat thing went on fer a whole week; ceptin de furs two wuz de heaviest. All de other ones wuz lighter. Iffen it hadn't been fur us all a beggin' de Lawd fer to sho us his mercy, it ain't no tellin' how bad dem shakes would er been. Miss Becky Levister, you know her, she live up yander in your uncle John's house now, she wuz wid us. She wuz jus a little girl den. Her paw wuz Mr. Kelly. He died for ever you wuz born. Not long ago I seed her. She lowed to me, 'uncle Henry, do you recollect in de time o' de shake? Lacken she think I'd fergit such as dat. It wuz in de time o' de worsest things dis ole nigger is ebber seed hisself, and I is gwine on 82 now. Miss Becky, she wuz a settin' in her car wid some one drivin' her, but she ain't fergot dis ole nigger. If I is up town and Miss Becky, she ride by, she look out and lows' 'Howdy uncle Henry', and I allus looks up and raises my hat. I likes mannerable white fokes, mysef, and den, I likes mannerable niggers fer as dat goes. Some of dese fokes, now both white--I hates to say it--and niggers, dey trys to act like dey ain't got no sense er sumpin'. But you know one thing I knos real fokes when I sees dem and dey can't fool me." Aunt Evvie tells the following story about her father, Rufus Chick. The story is known by all of the reliable white folks of the surrounding neighborhood also: "My paw, Rufus Chick, lived on the Union side of Broad River, the latter days of his life. Maj. James B. Steadman had goats over on Henderson Island that my paw used to care for. He went over to the Island in a batteau. One afternoon, he and four other darkies were going over there when the batteau turned over. The four other men caught to a willow bush and were rescued. My paw could not swim, and he got drowned. For three weeks they searched for his body, but they never did find it. Some years after, a body of a darky was found at the mouth of the canal, down near Columbia. The body was perfectly petrified. This was my paw's body. The canal authorities sent the body to a museum in Detroit. It was January 11, 1877 when my father got drowned. "When I wuz a young fellow I used to race wid de horses. I wuz de swifes runner on de plantation. A nigger, Peter Feaster, had a white horse of his own, and de white fokes used to bet amongst de selves as much as $20.00 dat I could outrun dat horse. De way us did, wuz to run a hundred yards one way, turn around and den run back de hundred yards. Somebody would hold de horse, and another man would pop de whip fer us to start. Quick as de whip popped, I wuz off. I would git sometimes ten feet ahead of de horse 'fore dey could git him started. Den when I had got de hundred yards, I could turn around quicker dan de horse would, and I would git a little mo' ahead. Corse wid dat, you had to be a swift man on yer feets to stay head of a fas horse. Peter used to git so mad when I would beat his ole horse, and den all de niggers would laf at him kaise de white fokes give me some of de bettin money. Sometimes dey would bet only $10.00, sometimes, $15 or $20. Den I would race wid de white fokes horses too. Dey nebber got mad when I come out ahead. After I got through, my legs used to jus shake like a leaf. So now, I is gib plum out in dem and I tributes it to dat. Evvie, she lowed when I used to do dat after we wuz married, dat I wuz gwine to give out in my legs, and sho nuf I is." "Uncle" Henry says that his legs have given out in the bone. Source: Henry Coleman and his wife, Evvie, of Carlisle, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. Project 1885-1 District #4 Spartanburg, S. C. May 31, 1937 FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was born about 1857 and my wife about 1859. I lived on Squire Keller's farm, near the Parr place, and after the squire died I belonged to Mrs. Elizabeth (Wright) Keller. My mother died when I was a boy and my father was bought and carried to Alabama. My father was Gilliam Coleman and my mother, Emoline Wright. My master and mistress was good to me. The old Squire was as fine a man as ever lived on earth. He took me in his home and took care of me. After the war the mistress stayed on the place and worked the slaves right on, giving them wages or shares. "The slaves were not whipped much; I 'member one man was whipped pretty bad on Maj. Kinard's place. He had a colored man to do whipping for him--his name was Eph. There was no whiskey on the place, never made any. Us did cooking in the kitchen wid wide fireplaces. "When the Yankees came through at the end of the war, they took all the stock we had. The mistress had a fine horse, its tail touching the ground, and we all cried when it was taken; but we got it back, as some men went after it. "I married in 1874 to Ellen T. Williams. She belonged to Bill Reagan. After I married I worked in the railroad shops at "Helena", and sometimes I fired the engine on the road, for about eight years. Then I went into the ministry. I was called by the Spirit of the Lord, gradually, and I preached 51 years. I have been superannuated two years. "I have one child, a son, who is in the pullman service at Washington, D. C. "I owned my little house and several acres and am still living on it." Source: Rev. Tuff Coleman and wife (80 and 78), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, Newberry, S. C. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, May 27, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- MOM LOUISA COLLIER Ex-Slave, 78 years. "I born en raise up dere in Colonel Durant yard en I in my 78th year now. Dat seem lak I ole, don' it? Coase Colonel Durant hab plenty udder colored peoples 'sides us, but dey ne'er lib dere in de yard lak we. Dey lib up in de quarters on de plantation. My pappy name Ben Thompson en he hadder stay dere close to de big house cause he wus de Colonel driver. De Colonel hab uh big ole carriage wha' to ride in den. It hab uh little seat in de front fa my pappy to set in en den it hab two seat 'hind de driver whey de Colonel en he family is ride. I kin see dat carriage jes uz good right now dat my white folks hab to carry em whey dey is wanna go." "Den my mammy come from de udder side uv Pee Dee en she name, Lidia Bass. She was de servant 'round de yard dere en dat count fa we to ne'er stay in de quarters wid de udder colored peoples 'fore freedom declare. I ne'er hadder do no work long uz I lib dere in de yard cause I ain' been but five year ole when freedom declare. My grandmammy lib right dere close us en Colonel Durant hab she jes to look a'ter aw de plantation chillun when dey parents wuz workin'. Aw uv de plantation peoples 'ud take dey chillun dere fa my grandmammy to nu'se." "I 'member one day dere come uh crowd uv peoples dere dat dey tell us chillun wuz de Yankees. Dey come right dere t'rough de Colonel yard en when I see em, I wuz 'fraid uv em. I run en hide under my grandmammy bed. Don' know wha' dey say cause I ain' ge' close 'nough to hear nuthin wha' dey talk 'bout. De white folks hadder herry (hurry) en put t'ings in pots en bury em or hide em somewhey when dey hear dat de Yankees wus comin' cause dey scare dem Yankees might take dey t'ings lak dey is carry 'way udder folks t'ings. I hear em say dey ne'er take nuthin from de Colonel but some uv he wood." "My white folks was well-off peoples en dey ain' ne'er use no harsh treatment on dey plantation peoples. De Colonel own aw dis land 'bout here den en he see dat he overseer on de plantation provide plenty uv eve't'ing us need aw de time. I hear tell 'bout some uv de white folks 'ud beat dey colored peoples mos' to death, but I ain' ne'er see none uv dat no whey. I is 'member when dey'ud sell some uv de colored peoples way offen to annuder plantation somewhey. Jes been bid em offen jes lak dey wuz cattle. Some uv de time dey'ud sell uh man wife 'way en den he hadder ge' annuder wife." "A'ter freedom declare, we ne'er lib dere at de big house no more. Move in de colored settlement en den we ain' eat at de big house no more neither. Dey le' us hab uh garden uv we own den en raise us own chicken en aw dat. I 'member de Colonel gi'e us so mucha t'ing eve'y week en it hadder las' us from one Saturday to de next. My mammy 'ud go to de Colonel barn eve'y week en ge' she portion uv meal en meat. Dat de way dey pay de hand fa dey work den. Ne'er gi'e em no money den." "Peoples wha' lib on Colonel Durant plantation ain' know nuthin but to lib on de fat uv de land. Dey hab plenty cows den en dey gi'e us plenty uv milk eve'y day. I 'member we chillun use'er take we tin cup en go up to de big house en ge' us milk to drink en den some uv de cows 'ud be so gentle lak dat we chillun is follow em right down side de path. Den when dere ne'er wuz nobody lak de Colonel overseer 'bout to see us, we is ketch de cow en ge' some more milk. I al'ays'ud lub to drink me milk dat way. We is eat plenty green peas en 'tatoes en fish in dem days too en dey is use 'tatoe pie right smart den." "Aw de colored peoples on Colonel Durant plantation hab good bed wha' to sleep on en good clothes to put on dey back. Coase we ne'er hab no bought fu'niture in dem days, but we hab bedstead wha' dey make right dere en benches en some uv de time dey is make wha' dey call 'way back chair. Den we is make us own bed outer hay cause de white folks ne'er spare de colored peoples no cotton den. Hadder cut de hay in de fall uv de year en dry it jes lak dey dries it fa to feed de cattle on. Den dey hadder take sack en sew em up togedder en put de hay in dese. Dey sleep right smart in dem days. Don' mucha people sleep on straw bed dese day en time en dey don' dress lak dey use'er neither. I 'member de long dress dey is wear den. Hadder hold em up when dey walk so dey won' tetch de floor 'bout em. Den some uv dem is wear wha' dey call leggens. Dey'ud gather em 'round de knee en le' em show 'bout de ankle. Dey wuz pretty, dat dey wuz. De white folks'ud make de plantation clothes outer calico en jeanes cloth en dat time. De jeanes cloth be wha' dey make de boy clothes outer. Dey is weave aw dey cloth right dere on de plantation en den dey use'er dye de thread en weave aw sorta check outer de different color thread. Wha' dey make de dye outer? Dey ge' bark outer de woods en boil de color outer it en den dey boil de thread in dat. Dat how dey is make dey dye. Ne'er see de peoples hab no hat lak dey hab now neither. Aw de colored peoples wear wha' dey call shuck hat den cause dey been make outer shuck. Dat aw de kinder hat we is hab." "Peoples use'er ge' aw kinder useful t'ing outer de woods in dem days 'way back dere. Ne'er hadder buy no me'icine tall den. Ain' ne'er been no better cough cure no whey den de one my ole mammy use'er make fa we chillun. She larnt 'bout how it made when she stay 'round de Missus en dat how come I know wha' in it. Jes hadder go in de woods en ge' some cherry, call dat wild cherry, en cut some uv de wild cherry bark fust (first) t'ing. A'ter dat yuh hadder find some uv dese long-leaf pine en ge' de bud outer dat. Den yuh hadder go to whey dere some sweet gum grow en ge' de top outer dem en ge' some mullen to put wid it. Ain' ne'er no cough stand aw dat mix up togedder in no day en time. Dey gi'e dat to de peoples fa dat t'ing wha' dey use'er call de grip cough. Den dey use'er make uh t'ing dat dey call "bone set" tea. I forge' how dey make it but dey gi'e it to de peoples when dey hab de fevers. It been so bitter dat it'ud lift yuh up 'fore yuh is ge' it aw down de t'roat. Ain' see no fever me'icine lak dat nowadays." "Yas'um, I 'members when dey hab plenty uv dem cornshucking to one annuder barn. De peoples'ud come from aw de plantation 'bout dere. Dem corn-shuckings wuz big times, dat dey wuz. Gi'e eve'body aw de "hopping-john" dey kin eat. Jes cook it aw in uh big pot dere in de yard to de big house. Ain' nuthin ne'er eat no better den dat "hopping-john" is eat." "Den de peoples use'er come from aw de plantation 'bout en hab big dancing dere. Dat when I lub to be 'bout. Dey hab uh big fire build up outer in de yard en dat wha' dey dance 'round 'bout. Call dat uh torch fire. Dey'ud hab fiddle en dey dance wha' dey call de reel dance den. I 'member I use'er lub to watch dey feet when dat fiddle 'ud ge' to playing. I jes crawl right down on me knees dere whey I'ud see dey feet jes uh going." "I ne'er hab mucha schooling 'fore freedom declare cause I been raise up on de plantation. Dis child (her daughter) pappy wuz de house boy to de big house en he ge' more schooling den I is. De Missus larnt he how to read en write she self. A'ter freedom declare, I go to school to uh white man up dere to de ole Academy en den I is go to annuder school down dere to uh blacksmith shop. I go to uh white man dere too. Ne'er hab no colored teacher den cause dey ain' hab 'nough schooling den. Dese chillun don' know nuthin 'bout dem times. I tell dese chillun I don' know wha' dey wanna run 'bout so mucha cause dere plenty t'ing to see dat pass right dere by us house eve'y day. I t'ink dis uh better day en time to lib en cause dis uh brighter day now dat we hab." Source: Mom Louisa Collier, age 78, colored, Marion, S. C Personal interview, May 1937. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. JOHN COLLINS EX-SLAVE, 85 YEARS OLD. John Collins lives in a two-room frame cottage by the side of US 21, just one mile north of the town of Winnsboro, S. C. on the right side of the highway and a few hundred yards from the intersection of US 21 and US 22. The house is owned by Mr. John Ameen. His son, John, who lives with him, is a farm hand in the employ of Mr. John Ameen, and is his father's only support. "They tells me dat I was born in Chester County, just above de line dat separates Chester and Fairfield Counties. You know where de 'dark corner' is, don't you? Well, part is in Fairfield County and part is in Chester County. In dat corner I first see de light of day; 'twas on de 29th of February, 1852. Though I is eighty-five years old, I's had only twenty-one birthdays. I ketches a heap of folks wid dat riddle. They ask me: 'How old is you Uncle John?' I say: 'I is had twenty-one birthdays and won't have another till 1940. Now figure it out yourself, sir, if you is so curious to know my age!' One time a smart aleck, jack-leg, Methodist preacher, of my race, come to my house and figured all day on dat riddle and never did git de correct answer. He scribbled on all de paper in de house and on de back of de calendar leaves. I sure laughed at dat preacher. I fears he lacked some of dat good old time 'ligion, de way he sweated and scribbled and fussed. "My daddy was name Steve Chandler. My mammy was called Nancy. I don't know whether they was married or not. My daddy was sent to Virginia, while de war was gwine on, to build forts and breastworks around Petersburg, so they say, and him never come back. I 'members him well. He was a tall black man, over six feet high, wid broad shoulders. My son, John, look just lak him. Daddy used to play wid mammy just lak she was a child. He'd ketch her under de armpits and jump her up mighty nigh to de rafters in de little house us lived in. "My mammy and me was slaves of old Marse Nick Collins. His wife, my mistress, was name Miss Nannie. Miss Nannie was just an angel; all de slaves loved her. But marster was hard to please, and he used de lash often. De slaves whisper his name in fear and terror to de chillun, when they want to hush them up. They just say to a crying child: 'Shet up or old Nick will ketch you!' Dat child sniffle but shet up pretty quick. "Marster didn't have many slaves. Best I 'member, dere was about twenty men, women, and chillun to work in de field and five house slaves. Dere was no good feelin's 'twixt field hands and house servants. De house servants put on more airs than de white folks. They got better things to eat, too, than de field hands and wore better and cleaner clothes. "My marster had one son, Wyatt, and two daughters, Nannie and Elizabeth. They was all right, so far as I 'member, but being a field hand's child, off from de big house, I never got to play wid them any. "My white folks never cared much about de slaves having 'ligion. They went to de Universalist Church down at Feasterville. They said everybody was going to be saved, dat dere was no hell. So they thought it was just a waste of time telling niggers about de hereafter. "In them days, way up dere in de 'dark corner', de white folks didn't had no schools and couldn't read or write. How could they teach deir slaves if they had wanted to? "De Yankees never come into de 'dark corner'. It was in 1867, dat us found out us was free; then we all left. I come down to Feasterville and stayed wid Mr. Jonathan Coleman. From dere, I went to Chester. While I was living dere, I married Maggie Nesbit. Us had five chillun; they all dead, 'cept John. My wife died two months ago. "I is tired now, and I is sad. I's thinking about Maggie and de days dat are gone. Them memories flood over me, and I just want to lay down. Maybe I'll see you sometime again. I feel sure I'll see Maggie befo' many months and us'll see de sunrise, down here, from de far hebben above. Good day. Glad you come to see me, sir!" Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Nov. 29, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "Time is but time, and how is I to know when I was born when everybody knows dat dey never had no calendars when I come here. Few it was dat ever seed even a Lady's Birthday Almanac. I is 75 years old. I was dat last January on de 13th day [~HW: 186~]. I was born in old Union County about 4 miles south of Gaffney. "Marse Mike Montgomery had a place dat reached from town way yonder to Broad River whar de Ninety-nine Islands lays. Now, de way de road lays, dey counts it twelve miles from Gaffney. When I was a boy it was lots further dan dat. "Never know'd why, but de Red Shirts whipped my pa, Tom Corry. Dey jes' come and got him out'n his house. He come back in de house. Chilluns was not give no privileges in dem days, so I never axed no questions, kaise I was fear'd. Chilluns jes' trots into your business dese days. "My pa say he was a slave on dem Ninety-nine Islands. All I know is what he told me. Mr. Mike Montgomery built lots of boats. Dey carried from 50 to 60 bales of cotton down at one time. De cotton was carried in de fall. De Smith place jined de Montgomery place and dat run into de Nancy Corry place. I have forded de river dar lots of times. Broad River is shallow, deepest place in it back den was at de mouth of King Creek, jes' below Cherokee Falls. It ain't so broad dar. "Pa was de boatman for Mr. Mike. De boat was big and long, and dey always started off early in de morning wid a load of cotton. Old man Dick Corry had to stand in de boat jes' behind pa. Dey had two steermen. So many rocks in de shallow water dat it kept de steermen busy dodging rooks. Dey pushed de boat off de rocks wid long poles. Dey had to work away from de rocks. Sometimes dey had to get out in de water and roll some rocks from dere path if de water wasn't cold. "Wharever night caught dem, dar dey stopped and pitched a camp. Dey fished and killed wild ducks or birds dat was plentiful den, and cooked dem along wid bread and other things fetched from home. On de way from Columbia dey had lots of store-bought things to eat. Store-bought things was a treat den. Now ducks and things is a treat. Times sho changes fast. "Spring was took up wid farming. Every man, white and black, had a family back in dem days. Dat dey did, rich or poor, white or black, all raised families. Men farmed and hauled manure and cleaned up de plantation lots and fields and grubbed in de spring. Women cooked and washed and ironed and spun and kept house and made everybody in de house clothes, and made all de bed clothes. Dey stayed home all of de time. Men got through work and set down at home wid deir wives and never run around. Now all goes. Dat's all dey does dese days is go. "We had plenty of bread and milk and we raised hogs and killed all kinds of wild things like turkey, ducks and birds, and caught fish. Men had guns dat dey used every day, and dey hit things, too. Folks kept in practice, wid guns and had shooting matches. "After dey stopped boating, wagons come in. Den things begin to change. Dey still is changing. Wagons went to Spartanburg to take cotten. Folks never went to Columbia no more. Spartanburg begin to grow and it sho still is at it." Source: Bouregard Corry (N, 75), Rt. 2, Gaffney, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. (11/22/37). Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. CALEB CRAIG EX SLAVE 86 YEARS OLD. Caleb Craig lives in a four-room house, with a hall, eight feet wide, through the center and a fireplace in each room. He lives with his grandson, who looks after him. "Who I is? I goes by de name of C. C. All de colored people speaks of me in dat way. C. C. dis and C. C. dat. I don't 'ject but my real name is Caleb Craig. Named after one of de three spies dat de Bible tell 'bout. Him give de favorite report and, 'cause him did, God feed him and clothe him all de balance of him life and take him into de land of Canaan, where him and Joshua have a long happy life. I seen a picture in a book, one time, of Joshua and Caleb, one end of a pole on Joshua's shoulder and one end on Caleb's shoulder, wid big bunches of grapes a hangin' from dat pole. Canaan must to been a powerful fertile land to make grapes lak dat. "Would you believe dat I can't write? Some of them adultery (adult) teachers come to my house but it seem a pack of foolishness; too much trouble. I just rather put my money in de bank, go dere when I want it, set dat C. C. to de check, and git what I want. "When I born? Christmas Eve, 1851. Where 'bouts? Blackstock, S. C. Don't none of us know de day or de place us was born. Us have to take dat on faith. You know where de old Bell house, 'bove Blackstock, is? Dere's where I come to light. De old stagecoach, 'tween Charlotte and Columbia, changed hosses and stop dere but de railroad busted all dat up. "My mammy name Martha. Marse John soon give us chillun to his daughter, Miss Marion. In dat way us separated from our mammy. Her was a mighty pretty colored woman and I has visions and dreams of her, in my sleep, sometime yet. My sisters would call me Cale but her never did. Her say Caleb every time and all de time. Marse John give her to another daughter of his, Miss Nancy, de widow Thompson then, but afterwards her marry a hoss drover from Kentucky, Marse Jim Jones. I can tell you funny things 'bout him if I has time befo' I go. "Us chillun was carried down to de June place where Miss Marion and her husband, Marse Ed P. Mobley live. It was a fine house, built by old Dr. June. Marse Ed bought de plantation, for de sake of de fine house, where he want to take Miss Marion as a bride. "Dere was a whole passle of niggers in de quarter, three hundred or maybe more. I didn't count them, 'cause I couldn't count up to a hundred but I can now. Ten, ten, double ten, forty-five, and fifteen. Don't dat make a hundred? Sho' it do. "Clothes? Too many dere, for to clothe them much. I b'long to de shirt-tail brigade 'til I got to be a man. Why I use to plow in my shirt-tail! Well, it wasn't so bad in de summer time and us had big fires in de winter time, inside and outside de house, whenever us was working'. 'Til I was twelve years old I done nothin' but play. "Money? Hell no! Excuse me, but de question so surprise me, I's caught off my guard. Food? Us got farm produce, sich as corn-meal, bacon, 'lasses, bread, milk, collards, turnips, 'tators, peanuts, and punkins. "De overseer was Mr. Brown. My marster was much talked 'bout for workin' us on Sunday. He was a lordly old fellow, as I 'member, but dere was never anything lak plowin' on Sunday, though I do 'member de hands workin' 'bout de hay and de fodder. "Marse Ed, a great fox hunter, kep' a pack of hounds. Sometime they run deer. Old Uncle Phil was in charge of de pack. Him had a special dog for to tree 'possums in de nighttime and squirrels in de daytime. Believe me, I lak 'possum de best. You lak 'possum? Well, I'll git my grandson to hunt you one dis comin' October. "Marse Ed didn't 'low patarollers (patrollers) on de June place. He tell them to stay off and they knowed to stay off. "Slave drovers often come to de June place, just lak mule drovers and hog drovers. They buy, sell, and swap niggers, just lak they buy, sell, and swap hosses, mules, and hogs. "Us had preachin' in de quarters on Sunday. Uncle Dick, a old man, was de preacher. De funerals was simple and held at night. De grave was dug dat day. "A man dat had a wife off de place, see little peace or happiness. He could see de wife once a week, on a pass, and jealousy kep' him 'stracted de balance of de week, if he love her very much. "I marry Martha Pickett. Why I marry her? Well, I see so many knock-knee, box-ankle, spindly-shank, flat nose chillun, when I was growin' up, dat when I come to choose de filly to fold my colts, I picks one dat them mistakes wasn't so lakly to appear in. Us have five chillun. Lucy marry a Sims and live in Winnsboro, S. C. Maggie marry a Wallace and live in Charlotte, N. C. Mary marry a Brice and live in Chester, S. C. Jane not married; she live wid her sister, Mag, in Charlotte. John lives 'bove White Oak and farms on a large place I own, not a scratch of pen against it by de government or a bank. "I live on 27 acres, just out de town of Winnsboro. I expects no pension. My grandchillun come and go, back'ards and fo'ards, and tell me 'bout cities, and high falutin' things goin' on here and dere. I looks them over sometime for to see if I didn't do sumpin' for deir figures, in s'lectin' and marryin' Martha, dat's more important to them than de land I'll leave them when I die. When Martha die, I marry a widow name Eliza but us never generate any chillun. Her dead. Not 'nough spark in me to undertake de third trip, though I still is a subject of 'tentions. "What 'bout Marse Ed and Marse Jim Jones? Well, you see, Marse Jim was close wid his money. Marse Ed was a spender. I 'tend Marse Ed to a chicken main once. Marse Jim rode up just as Marse Ed was puttin' up $300.00 on a pile brass wing rooster, 'ginst a black breasted red war hoss rooster, dat de McCarleys was backin'. Marse Ed lost de bet. But him never told Marse Jim, dat befo' he rode up, him had won $500.00 from them same men. After de main was over, Marse Jim, bein' brudder-in-law to Marse Ed, rode home to dinner wid him. After dinner they was smokin' deir cigars befo' de parlor fire dat I was 'viving up. Marse Jim lecture Marse Ed for throwin' 'way money. Marse Ed stretch out his long legs and say: 'Mr. Jones does you 'member dat day us 'tended de circus in Chester and as us got to de top of de hill a blind begger held out his cup to us and you put in a quarter?' Mr. Jones say he does 'member dat. Marse Ed went on: 'Well, Mr. Jones, I had a dream last night. I dream us comin' through de Cumberland Mountains wid a drove of mules from Kentucky. You was ridin' a piebald hoss, de same one you rode into South Carolina de fust time you come here. You had on a faded, frazzled grey shawl, 'bout lak de one you had on today. Us was in front, de outriders behind, when us got to de gap in de mountains. De drove stampede just as us git in de gap. Us was both kilt. You got to heaven befo' I did. When I did git dere, you was befo' de High Court. They examine you and turn over de leaves of a big book and find very little dere to your credit. At last they say, I think it was de 'Postle Peter dat ask de question. Him say: 'Everything is recorded in dis book. Us can find nothin'. Do you happen to 'member anything you did to your credit down dere on earth?' Then you stand up wid dat old shawl 'round your shoulders and say: 'Aha! I do 'member one thing. One day I was in Chester and put a quarter of a dollar in a blind man's tin cup.' De 'postle then tell de recording angel to see if him could find dat deed. Him turn over de leaves 'til him found it on de page. Then de twelve 'postles retire and 'liberate on your case. They come back and de judge pass sentence which was: 'The sentence of de High Court is, that in view of your great love of money, James Jones, it is de sentence of de court dat you be given back de quarter you give de blind beggar in Chester and dat you, James Jones, be sent immediate on your way to hell.' Then they both laugh over dat and Marse Jim got real happy when he find out Marse Ed quit de main wid $200.00 to de good." Address: Caleb Craig, Winnsboro, S. C. That part of the suburb of Winnsboro called "Mexico". Just east of the Southern Railway Company and north of Winnsboro Cotton Mills. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. DINAH CUNNINGHAM EX-SLAVE 84 YEARS OLD. Dinah Cunningham lives about seven miles west of Ridgeway, S. C., on the Hood place about a hundred yards off the old Devil's Race Track road. She lives with her daughter and son-in-law and their three children. They live in a two-room frame house with a shed room annex. In the annex, Dinah and the smaller children sleep. They are kind to Dinah, who is feeble and can do no farm labor. Dinah is as helpless about the home as a child. "I's come up here 'bout seventeen miles for to let you see me. 'Spect you don't see much in dis old worn out critter. Now does you? "Well, here I is, and I wants you white folks to help me, 'cause I's served you from generation to generation. Wid de help of de Lord and trustin' in Jesus de Lamb, I knows I's goin' to git help. When is they gwine to start payin' off? I's heard them say how you got to be on de roll and signed up befo' de fourth day of July. So here I is! "I was born de fust day of March, 1853, out from Ridgeway, sunrise side. My marster was David Robertson and my mistress name Sally. Her was mighty pretty. Her was a Rembert befo' she marry Marse Dave. They had one child dat I was de nurse for and her name was Luray. Her marry Marse Charlie Ray. "De onliest whippin' I got was 'bout dat child. I had de baby on de floor on a pallet and rolled over on it. Her make a squeal like she was much hurt and mistress come in a hurry. After de baby git quiet and go to sleep, she said: 'Dinah, I hates to whip you but de Good Book say, spare de rod and spoil de child.' Wid dat, she goes out and git a little switch off de crepe myrtle bush and come back and took my left hand in her left hand, dat had all de rings on de fingers, and us had it 'round dat room. I make a big holler as she 'plied dat switch on dese very legs dat you sees here today. They is big and fat now and can scarcely wobble me 'long but then, they was lean and hard and could carry me 'long like a deer in de woods. "My white folks was no poor white trash, I tells you! Good marse and good mistress had heap of slaves and overseers. One overseer name Mr. Welch. De buckra folks dat come visitin', use to laugh at de way he put grease on his hair, and de way he scraped one foot back'ards on de ground or de floor when they shake hands wid him. He never say much, but just set in his chair, pull de sides of his mustache and say 'Yas sah' and 'No sah', to them dat speak to him. He speak a whole lot though, when he git down in de quarters where de slaves live. He wasn't like de same man then. He woke everybody at daylight, and sometime he help de patrollers to search de houses for to ketch any slaves widout a pass. "Us had all us need to eat, sich as was good for us. Marse like to see his slaves fat and shiny, just like he want to see de carriage hosses slick and spanky, when he ride out to preachin' at Ainswell and sometime de Episcopal church at Ridgeway. My young mistress jine de Baptist church after she marry, and I 'member her havin' a time wid sewin' buckshots in de hem of de dress her was baptized in. They done dat, you knows, to keep de skirt from floatin' on top of de water. You never have thought 'bout dat? Well, just ask any Baptist preacher and he'll tell you dat it has been done. "When de Yankees come, they went through de big house, tore up everything, ripped open de feather beds and cotton mattresses, searchin' for money and jewels. Then they had us slaves ketch de chickens, flung open de smoke-house, take de meat, meal, flour, and put them in a four-hoss wagon and went on down to Longtown. Them was scandlous days, boss! I hope never to see de likes of them times wid dese old eyes again. "I 'member 'bout de Ku Klux just one time, though I heard 'bout them a heap. They come on de Robertson place all dressed up wid sheets and false faces, ridin' on hossback, huntin' for a republican and a radical nigger, (I forgits his name, been so long) but they didn't find him. They sho' was a sight and liked to scared us all to death. "Was I ever married? Sure I was, I marry Mack Cunningham. Us was jined in de holy wedlock by Marse Alex Matherson, a white trial justice. Ask him and he'll tell you when it was. I's got some chillun by dat husband. There is William at Charlotte, and Rosy at Ridgeway. Rosy, her marry a man name Peay. Then there is Millie Gover at Rembert and Lila Brown at Smallwood, de station where Marse Charlie Ray and my Mistress Luray was killed by a railroad train runnin' into de automobile they was in. Then there is my daughter, Delia Belton, at Ridgeway, and John L., a son livin' and farmin' at Cedar Creek. "I b'longs to de Mt. Olivet Church dat you knows 'bout. White folks comes there sometime for to hear de singin'. They say us can carry de song better than white folks. Well, maybe us does love de Lord just a little bit better, and what's in our mouth is in our hearts. "What you gwine to charge for all dat writin' you got down there? If you writes much more maybe I ain't got enough money to pay for it. I got a dollar here but if it's more than dat you'll have to wait on me for de balance. You say it don't cost nothin'? Well, glory hallelujah for dat! I'll just go 'round to de colored restaurant and enjoy myself wid beef stew, rice, new potatoes, macaroni and a cup of coffee. I wonder what they'll have for dessert. 'Spect it'll be some kind of puddin'. But I'd be more pleased if you would take half of this dollar and go get you a good dinner, too. I would like to please you dat much! "May de good Lord be a watch 'tween me and you 'til us meets again." Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County FOLKLORE LUCY DANIELS "Aunt Lucy is a tall well-built old woman who looks younger than her years. She delights in talking, and was glad to tell what she knew about the olden times. "I don't know how old I been when de war end. If I been in de world I wasn't old enough to pick up nuthin'. Miss Lulie Bowers say I'll be 78 first of March coming. Miss Lulie was my 'young Missus'. I love Miss Lulie, and I thinks she thinks a heap of me--my young Missus, and her father, my young Massa. He good to his darkies. He was a rich man--even after de war. Miss Lulie say she was de only young lady that could go off to college after de war. Miss Lulie help me powerful. She give me shoes, and beddin. She and me grow up together. She is in de bed sick now. I jes' come from dere. Had de doctor to see her. "I hear 'em tell 'bout how de soldiers burn 'em out. My mother would tell me. My father had gone off to fight. Say dey'd tie de hams an' de things on de saddle--and burn de expensive houses. White folks jes' had to hide everything. She talk 'bout all de men was gone and de women had to pile up, four or five in one house to protect deyselves. My father say when dey been 'rough-few-gieing' (refugeeing) de Beaufort Bridge been burn down. He say he been so hungry one time he stop to a old lady's house and ask her for something to eat. She say she didn't have nothing but some dry bread. He take de bread, but he say it been so hard, he threw some of it away. But he say he so hungry he wish he hadn't throw it away. It was a hard time. Used to have to weave cloth and dye thread. Had a loom to weave on and a spinning wheel. My grandmother say de Yankees come to her house and take everything, but she say one little pullet run out in de weeds and hide and de soldiers couldn't find her. She say dat pullet lay and hatch and dat how dey got start off again. Dey scramble and dey raise us some how or another. "I had nine chillun for my first husband and one for my second husband. I raise 'em all 'till dey grown; but all dead now 'cept three. My husband died last year, I had to work for my chillun. But my second husband, he help me wid 'em. "Dat's all I kin tell you, Miss. I don't remember so much. Chillun in those days weren't so bright as dey is now, you know." Source: Lucy Daniels, 78 ex-slave, Luray, S. C. Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Nov. 30, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES (John Davenport) "My family belonged in slavery time to old Marse Pierce Lake who was de Clerk of Court in town, or de Probate Judge. He lived at de old Campbell Havird House and I lived dar wid him. My mother belonged to dis Lake family and she was named Martha Lake. I don't know who my father was, but I was told he was a white man. "We slaves had good enough quarters to live in, and dey give us plenty to eat. De house I live in now is fair, but it has a bad roof. It is my wife's chillun's place. My wife had it and left it to dem. She was Ellen Gallman, a widow when I married her. Only my blind daughter now live wid me. I was married five times and had eighteen chilluns by three wives. Each of my wives died befo' I married agin. I didn't separate from any. My mother's father lived wid Marse Lake. He and his wife come from Virginia. "I was a boy in slavery and worked and piddled round de house. Sometimes I had to work de corn or in de garden. We had plenty to eat. As de old saying is, 'We lived at home and boarded at de same place.' We raised everything we had to eat, vegetables, hogs, cows and de like. Marster had a big garden, but he didn't let his slaves have any garden of deir own. We made all our clothes, homespun. My mother used to spin at night and work out all day; lots of niggers had to do dat. "Marse Lake was good to his niggers, but he had to whip dem sometimes, when dey was mean. He had six or eight slaves, some on de upper place and some on de home place. We got up at daylight and worked all day, except for dinner lunch, till it was sundown. "We never worked at night in de fields. Sometimes Marse would have corn-shuckings and de neighbors would come in and help catch up wid shucking de corn; den dey would have something to eat. De young folks would come, too, and help, and dey would dance and frolic. "I didn't learn to read and write. Marse never said anything about it. My sister learned when some of de white women school teachers boarded at Marse Lake's house. De teachers learn't my sister when she was de maid of de house, and she could read and write good. Didn't have a school or church on de plantation. Atter de war, some of de niggers started a brush arbor. Befo' de war, some of us niggers had to come to town wid de white folks and go to deir church and set in de gallery. "De patrollers was sometimes mean. If dey catch'd a nigger away from home widout a pass dey sho whipped him, but dey never got any of us. Dey come to our house once, but didn't git anybody. "We had to work all day Saturdays, but not Sundays. Sometimes de fellows would slip off and hunt or fish a little on Sunday. Women would do washing on Saturday nights, or other nights. We had three days holiday when Christmas come, and we had plenty good things to eat, but we had to cook it ourselves. De marster would give de chillun little pieces of candy. "Chillun had games like marbles and anti-over. Dey played anti-over by a crowd gitting on each side of de house and throwing a ball from one side to de other. Whoever got de ball would run around on de other side and hit somebody wid it; den he was out of de game. We never believed much in ghosts or spooks. I never saw any. "Some of de folks had remedies for curing, like making hot tea from a weed called 'bone-set'. Dat weed grows wild in de woods. It was good for chills and fever. De tea is awful bitter. Little bags of asafetida was used to hang around de little chillun's necks to ward off fever or diptheria. "We used to call de cows on de plantation like dis: 'co-winch, co-winch'. We called de mules like dis: 'co, co', and de hogs and pigs, 'pig-oo, pig-oo'. We had dogs on de place, too, to hunt wid. "When freedom come, de marster told us we could go away or stay on. Most of us stayed on wid him. Soon atter dis, he got mad at me one day and told me to git off de place. I come to town and stayed about two weeks, piddling around to git along. I found out whar my mother was--she had been sold and sent away. She was in Saluda (Old Town). I went to her and stayed two weeks; den she come to Newberry and rented a little cabin on Beaver Dam Creek, near Silver Street. "I remember hearing about de Yankees. When dey come through here dey camped in town to keep order and peace. I remember de Ku Klux, too, how some of 'em killed niggers. I voted in town on de Republican ticket. I am still a Republican. None of my friends held office, but I remember some of dem. Old Lee Nance was one, and he was killed by a white man. "Since de war, de niggers have worked mostly on farms, renting and wage-hands. Some of dem have bought little places. Some moved to town and do carpenter work, and others jes' piddle around. "Some of de dances de niggers had was, 'Jump Jim Crow'; one nigger would jump up and down while tripping and dancing in de same spot. Some times he say, 'Every time I jump, I jump Jim Crow.' We had what was called a 'Juber' game. He would dance a jig and sing, 'Juber this, Juber that, Juber killed a yellow cat'. "I never thought much about Abraham Lincoln nor Jefferson Davis. Only seed de pictures of dem. Reckon dey was all right. Don't know nothing about Booker Washington, neither. "I was 25 years old when I joined de church. I joined because I thought I ought to, people preaching Christ and him crucified; and I thought I ought to do right. Think everybody ought to join de church and be religious. "What I think of de present generation is hard to say. Dey is not like de old people was. De old generation of chilluns could be depended on, but de present niggers can't be. "No, de slaves never expected anything when de war was over, dem in de neighborhood didn't. Some say something about gitting 40 acres of land and a mule, but we never expected it. None ever got anything, not even money from de old marsters or anybody." Source: John N. Davenport (N, 89), Newberry, S. C. RFD Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (11/3/37) Project 1886-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 8, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born, March 10, 1848, on Little River in Newberry county, S. C. My master in slavery time was Gilliam Davenport. He was good to his slaves, not strict; good to his cattle, and expected his negroes to be good to them. But he was quick to resent anything from outsiders who crossed his path. "All that part of the country was good for hunting. The deer, fox, and wild turkey have gone; though a few years ago, some men brought some foxes there and turned them loose, thinking they would breed, but they gradually disappeared. The kildees were many. That was a sign of good weather. When they flew high and around in a circle, it was a sign of high winds. "Fishing in the rivers was much done. They fished with hooks on old-time canes. They had fish baskets, made of wooden splits, with an opening at the end like the wire baskets now used. If they were set anytime, day or night, a few hours afterwards would be enough time to catch some fish. "An old sign was: when the youngest child sweeps up the floor, somebody was coming to see you. If a dish-rag was dropped on the floor, somebody was coming who would be hungry." Source: Moses Davenport (89), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (5/10/37) Code No. Project, 1886-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, July 28, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- CHARLIE DAVIS Ex-Slave, 88 Years "I couldn' tell how old I is only as I ask my old Massa son en he tell me dat I was born ahead of him cause he had de day put down in he family book. I had one of dem slavery bible, but I have a burnin out so many times dat it done been burn up. I belong to Mr. George Crawford people. Mr. George de one what die up here one of dem other year not far back. Dey who been my white folks." "I can tell you a good deal bout what de people do in slavery time en how dey live den, but I can' tell you nothin bout no jump about things. My Massa didn' 'low us to study bout none of dem kind of frolickings in dat day en time." "I gwine tell you it just like I experience it in dem days. We chillun lived well en had plenty good ration to eat all de time cause my mammy cook for she Missus dere to de big house. All she chillun lived in a one room house right dere in de white folks yard en eat in de Missus big kitchen every day. Dey give my mammy en she chillun just such things as de white folks had to eat like biscuit en cake en ham en coffee en hominy en butter en all dat kind of eatin. Didn' have no need to worry bout nothin 'tall. My Massa had a heap of other colored peoples dere besides we, but dey never live dat way. Dere been bout 80 of dem dat live up in de quarter just like you see dese people live to de sawmill dese days. Dey live mighty near like us, but didn' have no flour bread to eat en didn' get no milk en ham neither cause dey eat to dey own house. Didn' get nothin from de dairy but old clabber en dey been mighty thankful to get dat. Oh, dey had a pretty good house to live in dat was furnish wid dey own things dat dey make right dere. Den dey had a garden of dey own. My Massa give every one of he plantation family so much of land to plant for dey garden en den he give em every Saturday for dey time to tend dat garden. You see dey had to work for de white folks all de other week day en dey know when dey hear dat cow horn blow, dey had to do what de overseer say do. Never couldn' go off de place widout dey get a mit (permit) from de overseer neither else dey tore up when dey come back. No 'mam, didn' dare to have nothin no time. Didn' 'low you to go to school cause if you was to pick up a book, you get bout 100 lashes for dat. No 'mam, didn' have no church for de colored peoples in dem days. Just had some of dese big oaks pile up one on de other somewhe' in de woods on dat whe' we go to church. One of de plantation mens what had more learnin den de others was de one what do de preachin dere." "My Massa wasn' never noways scraggeble to he colored peoples. Didn' cut em for every kind of thing, but I is see him beat my stepfather one time cause he run away en stay in de woods long time. Oh, he beat him wid a switch or a stick or anything like dat he could get hold of." "Didn' never know nothin bout doing no hard work in us chillun days. When I was a boy, I mind de crows out de field. Oh, crows was terrible bout pickin up peoples corn in times back dere. You see if dey let de crows eat de corn up, dey had to go to de trouble of planting it all over again en dat how-come dey send we chillun in de field to mind de crows off it. We just holler after em en scare em dat way. Crows was mighty worser in dem days den dey is dis day en time." "I sho remembers when freedom was declare cause I was bout 16 year old den. When dem Yankees talk bout comin round, my Massa take all we colored boys en all he fast horses en put em back in de woods to de canebrake to hide em from de Yankees. It been many a year since den, but I recollects dat we was settin dere lookin for de Yankees to get as any minute. Wasn' obliged to make no noise neither. Oh, we had big chunk of lightwood en cook meat en hoecake en collards right dere in de woods. Den my Massa take one of dem oldest plantation boys to de war wid him en ain' nobody never hear tell of him no more. He name Willie. O my Lord, when dey hear talk bout de Yankees comin, dey take all de pots en de kettles en hide em in holes in de fields en dey put dey silver bout some tree so dey know whe' dey bury it. Den dey hide de meat en de corn to de colored peoples house en when dey hear talk of de Yankees gwine away, dey go en get em again. Dem Yankees never destroy nothin bout dere, but dey is make my Massa give em a cart of corn en a middlin of meat. Yes'um, I look at dem Yankees wid me own eyes. Dey was all dressed up in a blue uniform en dey was just as white as you is. Oh, dey said a lot of things. Say dey was gwine free de niggers en if it hadn' been for dem, we would been slaves till yet. Coase I rather be free den a slave, but we never have so much worryations den as people have dese days. When we get out of clothes en get sick in dat day en time, we never had to do nothin but go to us Massa. Now, we have to look bout every which a way." "My Massa ask my mother was she gwine live with him any longer after freedom was declare en she say she never have no mind to leave dere. We live on dere for one year en den we studied to get another place. I believes heap of dem white folks died just on account of us get freed. Dey never didn' want us to be free." "I heard a 'oman say somebody had conjured her, but I don' believe in none of dat. I knows I got to die some of dese days en dat might come before me. I don' bother wid none of dat kind of thing, but I'll tell you bout what I has experience. I had two dogs dere en somebody poison em cause dey tell me somebody do dat. Oh, I know dey was poison. De police say de dog was poison. A 'oman do it dat had chillun what was afraid of my dog en dat how-come she poison it. I sho think she done it cause it just like dis, anything peoples tell me, I believes it." "I have seen dem things peoples say is a ghost when I was stayin here to Lake View. I plant a garden side de road en one night I hear somethin en I look out en dere was a great big black thing in me garden dat was makin right for de house. I call me wife en tell her to look yonder. De thing was comin right to de house en my wife hurry en light up de lamp. I hear de peoples say if you didn' light up de lamp when you see a spirit, dat it would sho come in en run you out. I had done paid some money on de place but after I see dat thing, I didn' have no mind to want it. Had de best garden en chickens dere I ever had, but I never bother no worry bout dat. Just pick right up en leave dere to come here en I been here ever since. I knows dat been somethin come dere to scare me out dat house. Dat ain' been nothin else but a spirit. Ain' been nothin else." Source: Charlie Davis, age 88, colored, Marion, S. C. Personal interview, July 1937. Project #1655 Henry Grant Columbia, S. C. CHARLIE DAVIS'S MUSINGS. Charlie Davis, now seventy-nine years old, was a small boy when the slaves were freed. He lives alone in one room on Miller's Alley, Columbia, S. C., and is healthy and physically capable of self-support. "I has been wonderin' what you wanted to talk to dis old nigger 'bout since I fust heard you wanted to see me. I takes it to be a honor for a white gentleman to desire to have a conversation wid me. Well, here I is, and I bet I's one of de blackest niggers you's seen for a season. Somehow, I ain't 'shame of my color a-tall. If I forgits I is dark complected, all I has to do is to look in a glass and in dere I sho' don't see no white man. "Boss, I is kinda glad I is a black man, 'cause you knows dere ain't much expected of them nowhow and dat, by itself, takes a big and heavy burden off deir shoulders. De white folks worries too much over dis and over dat. They worries 'cause they ain't got no money and, when they gits it, they worries agin 'cause they is 'fraid somebody is gwine to steal it from them. Yes, sir, they frets and fumes 'cause they can't 'sociate wid big folks and, when they does go wid them, they is bothered 'cause they ain't got what de big folks has got. "It ain't dat way wid most niggers. Nothin' disturbs them much, 'cept a empty stomach and a cold place to sleep in. Give them bread to eat and fire to warm by, then, hush your mouth; they is sho' safe then! De 'possum in his hollow, de squirrel in his nest, and de rabbit in his bed, is at home. So, de nigger, in a tight house wid a big hot fire, in winter, is at home, too. "Some sort of ease and comfort is 'bout what all people, both white and black, is strivin' for in dis world. All of us laks dat somethin' called 'tentment, in one way or de other. Many white folks and some darkies thinks dat a pile of money, a fine house to live in, a 'spensive 'motorbile, fine clothes, and high 'ciety, is gwine to give them dat. But, when they has all dis, they is still huntin' de end of de rainbow a little ahead of them. "Is de black man nervous or is he natchally scary? Well, sir, I is gwine to say yes and no to dat. A nigger gits nervous when he hears somethin' he don't understand and scared when he sees somethin' he can't make out. When he gits sho' 'nough scared, he moves right then, not tomorrow. Lak de wild animals of de woods, he ain't 'fraid of de dark, much, if he is movin' 'bout, but when he stops, no house is too tight for him, in summer or winter. If he sees a strange and curious sight at night, he don't have to ask nobody what to do, 'cause he knows dat he has foots. It is good-bye wid old clothes, bushes, and fences, when them foots gits to 'tendin' to deir business. When you hears a funny and strange noise and sees a curious and bad sight, I b'lieves you fust git nervous and then dat feelin' grows stronger fas', 'til you git scared. I knows de faster I moves, de slower I gits scared. "From my age now, you can tell dat I was mighty little in slavery time. All I knows 'bout them terrible times is what I has heard. I come pretty close to them ticklish times, but I can't help from thinkin', even now, dat I missed a 'sperience in slavery time dat would be doin' me good to dis very day. Dere ain't no doubt dat many a slave learnt good lessons dat showed them how to work and stay out of de jail or poorhouse, dat's worth a little. "I has heard my mammy say dat she b'long to de Wyricks dat has a big plantation in de northwestern part of Fairfield County and dat my daddy b'long to de Graddicks in de northern part of Richland County. Dese two plantations was just across de road from each other. Mammy said dat de patrollers was as thick as flies 'round dese plantations all de time, and my daddy sho' had to slip 'round to see mammy. Sometime they would ketch him and whip him good, pass or no pass. "De patrollers was nothin' but poor white trash, mammy say, and if they didn't whip some slaves, every now and then, they would lose deir jobs. My mammy and daddy got married after freedom, 'cause they didn't git de time for a weddin' befo'. They called deirselves man and wife a long time befo' they was really married, and dat is de reason dat I's as old as I is now. I reckon they was right, in de fust place, 'cause they never did want nobody else 'cept each other, nohow. Here I is, I has been married one time and at no time has I ever seen another woman I wanted. My wife has been dead a long time and I is still livin' alone. All our chillun is scattered 'bout over de world somewhere, and dat somewhere is where I don't know. They ain't no help to me now, in my old age. But, I reckon they ain't to be blamed much, 'cause they is young, full of warm blood and thinks in a different way from de older ones. Then, too, I 'spects they thinks deir old daddy would kinda be in deir way, and de best thing for them to do is to stay away from me. I don't know, it just seems lak de way of de world. "I come from de Guinea family of niggers, and dat is de reason I is so small and black. De Guinea nigger don't know nothin', 'cept hard work, and, for him to be so he can keep up wid bigger folks, he has to turn 'round fas'. You knows dat if you puts a little hog in a pen wid big hogs, de little one has got to move 'bout in a hurry amongst de big ones, to git 'nough to eat, and de same way wid a little person, they sho' has to hustle for what they gits. I has no head for learnin' what's in books, and if I had, dere wasn't no schools for to learn dat head, when I come 'long. I has made some money, 'long through de years, but never knowed how to save it. Now I is so old dat I can't make much, and so, I just live somehow, dat's all. "President Roosevelt has done his best to help de old, poor, and forgotten ones of us all, every color and race, while dis 'pression has been gwine on in dis country. Is us gwine to git dis new pension what is gwine 'bout, or is dat other somebody gwine to think he needs it worser than us does? Dat's de question what 'sorbs my mind most, dese days. I don't need much, and maybe I don't deserve nothin', but I sho' would lak to git hold of dat little dat's 'tended for me by dat man up yonder in Washington. (Roosevelt) "Does I b'lieve in spirits and hants? My answer to dat question is dis: 'Must my tremblin' spirit fly into a world unknown?' When a person goes 'way from dis world, dere they is, and dere they is gwine to stay, 'til judgment." Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, January 21, 1938 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- HEDDIE DAVIS Ex-Slave, 72 Years Lizzie Davis sends word for Heddie Davis to come over to her little shack to join in the conversation about old times and Heddie enters the room with these words: "Sis, I gwine hug your neck. Sis, I did somethin last night dat I oughtn't done en I can' hardly walk dis mornin. Pulled off my long drawers last night en never had none to change wid. I can' bear to get down en pray or nothin like dat, my knee does ache me so bad. I gwine up town yonder en get some oil of wintergreen en put on it. Yes'um, dat sho a good thing to strike de pain cause I heard bout dat long years ago. Sis, ain' you got no coffee nowhe' dis mornin? God knows, de Lord sho gwine bless you, Sis." "What honey? No'um, I won' here in slavery time. I was just tereckly after it. Well, I come here a Lewis, but I inherited de Davis name when I married. Old man Peter Lewis was my daddy, en my mother--she was a North Carolina woman. Oh, I heard dat man talk bout de old time war so much dat I been know what was gwine fly out his mouth time he been have a mind to spit it out. My daddy, he belonged to de old man Evans Lewis en he been de one his boss pick to carry to de war wid him. Yes'um, he stayed up dere to Fort Sumter four years a fightin en hoped shoot dem old Yankee robbers. My old man, he had one of dem old guns en I give it to his brother Jimmie. He lives way up yonder to de north en he carried dat gun wid him just cause I give it to him, he say. He marry my younger sister en she grayer den I is. Think dey say dey lives to Rockingham, North Carolina. Yes, honey, my daddy was sho in dat wash out dere to Fort Sumter. Lord, have mercy, I never hear tell of crabs en shrimps in all my life till my daddy come back en tell bout a old woman would be gwine down de street, dere to Charleston, cryin, 'Shrimps, more shrimps.' But, my Lord, I can' half remember nothin dese days. If I had de sense I used to have, I would give de Lord de praise. Honey, he said a lot of stuff bout de war. Told a whole chance of somethin. Tell us bout de parade en everything, but I is forgetful now en I just can' think. De Bible say dat in de course of your life, you will be forgetful in dat how I is. Just can' think like I used to. You see, I gwine in 70 now. "Oh, I was born dere to Mullins in January on de old man Evans Lewis' plantation. Den we moved dere to de Mark Smith place after freedom settle here. Dat long high man, dat who been us boss. His wife was name Sallie en de place was chock full of hands. No, mam, my white folks didn' care bout no quarter on dey plantation. Colored people just throwed 'bout all over de place. Oh, I tell you, it was a time cause de niggers was dere, plenty of dem. Some of dey house was settin side de road, some over in dat corner, some next de big house en so on like dat all over de place. Oh, dey lived all right, I reckon. Never didn' hear dem say dey got back none. Hear dey live den better den de people lives now. Oh, yes'um, I hear my parents say de white folks was good to de colored people in slavery time. Didn' hear tell of nobody gettin nothin back on one another neither. No, child, didn' never hear tell of nothin like dat. Seems like de people don' work dese days like dey used to nohow. Well, dey done somethin of everything in dat day en time en work bout all de time. Ain' nobody workin much to speak bout dese days cause dey walks bout too much, I say. I tell you, when I been a child gwine to school, soon as I been get home in de evenin en hit dat door-step, I had to strip en put on my everyday clothes en get to work. Had to pick up wood en potatoes in de fall or pick cotton. Had to do somethin another all de time, but never didn' nobody be obliged to break dey neck en hurry en get done in dem days. Chillun just rushes en plays too much dese days, I say. No, Lord, I don' want to rush no time. I tellin you, when I starts to Heaven, I want to take my time gettin dere. "Lord, child, I sho hope I gwine to Heaven some of dese days cause old Satan been ridin me so tough in dis here world, I ain' see no rest since I been know bout I had two feet. My husband, he treat me so mean, if he ain' in Heaven, he in de other place, I say. Den all dem chillun, Lord a mercy, dey will kill you. I raised all mine by myself en I tell you, dey took de grease out of me. "My daddy, he was a prayin man. Lord knows, he was a prayin man. Seems like de old people could beat de young folks a prayin up a stump any day. I remember, my daddy come here to de white people church to Tabernacle one night en time dem people see him, dey say, 'Uncle Peter, de Lord sho send you cause ain' nobody but you can pray dese sinners out of hell here tonight.' God knows dat man could sing en pray. Lord, he could pray. Oh, darlin child, dat man prayed bout all de time. Prayed every mornin en every night en when us would come out de field at 12 o'clock, us had to hear him pray fore he ever did allow us to eat near a morsel. Sis, I remember one day, when dey first started we chillun a workin in de field, I come to de house 12 o'clock en I was so hungry, I was just a poppin. God knows, people don' serve de Lord like dey used to." "Sis, you wants dat one patch, too. Lord Jesus, dere ain' no limit to dis one. Sis, I must be come here on Saturday cause everywhe' I goes, I has to work. Hear talk, if you born on a Saturday, you gwine have to work hard for what you get all your days. I been doin somethin ever since I been big enough to know I somebody. Remember de first thing I ever do for a white woman. Ma come home en say, 'Heddie, get up in de mornin en wash your face en hands en go up to Miss Rogers en do everything just like she say do.' I been know I had to do dat, too, cause if I never do it, I know I would been whip from cane to cane. When I got dere, I open de gate en look up en dere been de new house en dere been de old one settin over dere what dey been usin for de kitchen den. I won' thinkin bout nothin 'cept what Miss Rogers was gwine say en when I been walk in dat gate, dere a big bulldog flew up in my head. I stop en look at him en dat dog jump en knock me windin en grabbed my foot in his mouth. Yes'um, de sign dere yet whe' he gnawed me. White folks tell me I been do wrong. Say, don' never pay no attention to a dog en dey won' bother up wid you. But, honey, dat dog had a blue eye en a pink eye. Ain' never see a dog in such a fix since I been born. I tell you, if you is crooked, white folks will sho straighten you out. Dat dog taught me all I is ever wanted to know. Lord, Miss Mary, I been love dat woman. De first time I ever see her, she say, 'You ain' got no dress to wear to Sunday School, I gwine give you one.' Yes, mam, Miss Mary dress me up en de Lord knows, I ain' never quit givin her de praise yet. "Yes'um, de Yankees, I hear my daddy talk bout when dey come through old Massa's plantation en everything what dey do. Say, dere was a old woman dat was de cook to de big house en when dem Yankees come dere dat mornin, white folks had her down side de cider press just a whippin her. Say, de Yankees took de old woman en dressed her up en hitched up a buggy en made her set up in dere. Wouldn' let de white folks touch her no more neither. Oh, de place was just took wid dem, he say. What dey never destroy, dey carried off wid dem. Oh, Lord a mercy, hear talk dere was a swarm of dem en while some of dem was in de house a tearin up, dere was a lot of dem in de stables takin de horses out. Yes'um, some was doin one thing en some another. En Pa tell bout dey had de most sense he ever did see. Hitched up a cart en kept de path right straight down in de woods en carted de corn up what de white folks been hide down dere in de canebrake. Den some went in de garden en dug up a whole lot of dresses en clothes. En dere was a lady in de house sick while all dis was gwine on. Oh, dey was de worst people dere ever was, Pa say. Took all de hams en shoulders out de smokehouse en like I tell you, what dey never carried off, dey made a scaffold en burned it up. Lord, have mercy, I hopes I ain' gwine never have to meet no Yankees." Source: Heddie Davis, colored, age 72, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Jan., 1938. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. HENRY DAVIS EX-SLAVE 80 YEARS OLD. Henry Davis is an old Negro, a bright mulatto, who lives in a two-room frame house on the farm of Mr. Amos E. Davis, about two miles southwest of Winnsboro, S. C. In the house with him, are his wife, Rosa, and his grown children, Roosevelt, Utopia, and Rose. They are day laborers on the farm. At this period, Henry picks about seventy-five pounds of cotton a day. His children average one hundred and fifty pounds each. The four together are thus enabled to gather about five hundred and twenty-five pounds per day, at the rate of sixty-five cents per hundred. This brings to the family, a daily support of $3.41. This is seasonal employment, however; and, as they are not a provident household, hard times come to Henry and his folks in the winter and early summer. "I was born on de old Richard Winn plantation dat my master, Dr. W. K. Turner, owned and lived on. I was born de year befo' him marry Miss Lizzie Lemmon, my mistress in slavery time. "My mother was name Mary and took de name of Davis, 'cause befo' freedom come, her was bought by my master, from Dr. Davis, near Monticello. "I had a good many marsters and mistresses. Miss Minnie marry Dr. Scruggs. Miss Anna marry Mr. Dove. Miss Emma marry Mr. Jason Pope. Marse Willie K. marry a Miss Carroll up in York, S. C., and Marse Johnnie marry Miss Essie Zealy. My brothers and sisters was Minton, Ike, Martha, and Isabella. "Who I marry and all 'bout it? How come you want to know dat? I 'clare! You think dat gwine to loosen me up? Well, I marry de 'Rose of Sharon' or I calls her dat when I was sparkin' her, though she was a Lemmon. Her was name Rose Lemmon. Lots of times she throw dat in my face, 'Rose of Sharon' when things go wrong. Then her git uppish and sniff, 'Rose of Sharon, my eye! You treats me lak I was a dogwood rose on de hillside or worse than dat, lak I was a Jimson weed or a rag weed.' "My mammy and us chillun live in de yard not far from de kitchen. My mammy do de washin' and ironin'. Us chillun did no work. I ride 'round most of de time wid de doctor in his buggy and hold de hoss while he visit de patients. Just set up in de buggy and wait 'til him git ready to go to another place or go home. "I 'member de Yankees comin' and searchin' de house, takin' off de cows, mules, hosses, and burnin' de gin-house and cotton. They say dat was General Sherman's orders. They was 'lowed to leave de dwellin' house standin', in case of a doctor or preacher. "Miss Lizzie had a whole lot of chickens. Her always keep de finest pullets. She make pies and chicken salad out of de oldest hens. Dat February de Yankees got here, she done save up 'bout fifty pullets dat was ready to lay in March. A squad of Yankees make us chillun ketch every one and you know how they went 'way wid them pullets? They tie two on behind, in de rings of de saddle. Then they tie two pullets together and hang them on de saddle pommel, one on each side of de hosses neck. Dat throw them flankin' de hosses withers. I 'members now them gallopin' off, wid them chickens flutterin' and hollerin' whare, whare, whare, whare, whare! "After slavery time, us live on de Turner place nigh onto thirty years and then was de time I go to see Rosa and court and marry her. Her folks b'long to de Lemmons and they had stayed on at de Lemmon's place. De white folks of both plantations 'courage us to have a big weddin'. Her white folks give her a trousseau and mine give me a bedstead, cotton mattress, and two feather pillows. Dat was a mighty happy day and a mighty happy night for de 'Rose of Sharon'. Her tells young niggers 'bout it to dis day, and I just sets and smokes my pipe and thinks of all de days dat am passed and gone and wonder if de nex' world gwine to bring us back to youth and strength to 'joy it, as us did when Rose and me was young. "Does I 'members anything 'bout patrollers? 'Deed, I do! Marster didn't 'ject to his slaves gwine to see women off de place. I hear him say so, and I hear him tell more than once dat if he ever hear de patrollers a comin' wid blood hounds, to run to de lot and stick his foots in de mud and de dogs wouldn't follow him. Lots of run'ways tried it, I heard, and it proved a success and I don't blame them dogs neither." Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. JESSE DAVIS EX-SLAVE 85 YEARS OLD. Jesse Davis, one of the fast disappearing landmarks of slavery times, lives with his wife and son, in one of the ordinary two-room frame houses that dot, with painful monotony, the country farms of white landowners. The three attempt to carry on a one-horse farm of forty acres, about thirty acres in cotton and the remainder in corn. The standard of living is low. Jesse is cheerful, his wife optimistic with the expression that the Lord will provide, and their son dutiful and hopeful of the harvest. Their home is about ten miles southwest of Winnsboro, in the Horeb section of Fairfield County. "Dere is some difficulty 'bout my age. Nigh as I can place it, I was born befo' de Civil War. I 'members 'tendin' to and milkin' de cows, and keepin' de calf off, drawin' water out de well, and bringin' in wood to make fires. I 'spects I's eighty-five, mountin' up in years. "I lives on Mr. Eber Mason's place wid one of my chillun, a son name Mingo. Us all work on de place; run a farm on shares. I can't do much work and can't support myself. It's mighty hard to be 'pendent on others for your daily rations, even if them others is your own bone and flesh. I'd 'preciate sumpin' to help my son and wife carry on. Dats why I wants a pension. Do you 'spect God in His mercy will hear de prayer of dis feeble old believer? I don't beg people but de Bible give me a right to beg God for my daily bread. De Good Book say: 'Take no consarnment 'bout your raiment'. You can see from what I's got on, dat me nor nobody else, is much consarned 'bout dis raiment. "My mammy b'long to de Smiths. My master was Dr. Ira Smith. My mistress was him wife, Miss Sarah. Deir chillun was: Marse Gad, Marse Jim, and Marse Billie. Marse Jim was de baker of dis town all his life, after de way of old-time oven-cookin', 'til Boy bread and Claussen bread wagons run him out of business. Him is now on de 'lief roll and livin' in de old McCreight house, de oldest house in Winnsboro. "Dere was my young misses, Miss Lizzie and Miss Lennie. My mammy name Sarah, just lak old mistress name Sarah. Her b'long to marster and mistress but my pappy no b'long to them. Him b'long to de big bugs, de Davis family. Him was name Mingo, and after slavery him and all us take de name, de secon' name, Davis, and I's here today, Jesse Davis. See how dat work out to de name? Good Book again say: 'Good name better than riches; sweeter to de ear than honey-comb to de tongue.' "You is well 'quainted wid Marse Amos Davis, ain't you? Well, his people was pappy's people. I had a brudder name Gabriel, tho' they called him Gabe. Another one name Chap; he got kilt while clearin' up a new ground. Sister Fannie marry a Ashford nigger. Marse Ira, de doctor, have a plantation near Jenkinsville, S. C. "When de Yankees come thru, they come befo' de main army. They gallop right up, jump down and say: 'Hold dese hosses! Open dat smoke-house door!' They took what they could carry 'way. 'Bout dat time marster rode up from a sick call him been 'tendin' to. Course you know him was a doctor. They surround him, take his watch, money, and hoss, and ride 'way. "De main army come nex' day, Saturday mornin' 'bout 8 o'clock. They spread deir tents and stay and camp 'til Monday mornin'. When they leave they carry off all de cows, hogs, mules, and hosses. Then they have us ketch de chickens, got them all, 'cept one old hen dat run under de house, and they didn't wait to git her. Marster have to go 'way up to Union County, where him have kin folks, to git sumpin' to eat. "My marster was not big rich lak de Davises, de Means, and de Harpers, but him have all them people come to see him. Him know a heap of things dat they 'preciate. De way to dye cloth was one of dese secrets. Marster have a madder bed. Him take de roots of dat madder put them in de sun just lak you put out pieces of apples and peaches to make dried fruit. When them roots git right dry, him have them ground up fine as water-ground meal. He put de fine dust in a pot and boil it. When he want red cloth, he just drop de cloth in dat pot and it come out all red to suit you. Want it blue, him have a indigo patch for dat. "I never hear anything 'bout alum dese days. Well, de slaves could take peach tree leaves and alum and make yellow cloth and old cedar tops and copperas and make tan cloth. Walnut stain and copperas and make any cloth brown. Sweet-gum bark and copperas and make any cloth a purple color. I 'member goin' wid one into de woods to git barks. One day old marster come 'cross a slippery elm tree. Him turn and command me to say right fast: 'Long, slim, slick saplin' and when I say long, slim, sick slaplin', him 'most kill hisself laughin'. You try dat now! You find it more harder to say than you think it is. Him give me a piece of dat bark to chew and I run at de mouth lak you see a hoss dat been on de range of wild clover all night and slobberin' at da bits. "Yes sah, I b'longs to de church! My wife and son, Mingo, just us three in de house and de whole household jined de Morris Creek Baptist Church. What's my favorite song? None better than de one dat I'll h'ist right now. Go ahead? I thanks you. Listen: 'Am I born to die To lay dis body down A charge to keep I have A God to glorify.' "You lak dat? Yes? You is praisin' me too highly I 'spect, but since you lak dat one just listen at dis one; maybe you change your mind, 'cause I's gwine to h'ist it a wee bit higher and put more of de spiritual in it. Ready? Yes? I stand up dis time. 'All de medicine you may buy All de doctors you may try Ain't gonna save you from de tomb Some day you got to lay down and die. De blood of de Son can only Save you from de doom! Some day you got to lay down and die.' "You lak dat one? You just ought to hear my wife, Mingo, and Me, singin' dat 'round de fire befo' us go to bed. "Well, I'll toddle 'long now. Good-bye." Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, February 4, 1938 LIZZIE'S 'SPONSIBILITY I. The first scene of "Lizzie's 'Sponsibility" is that of the small, one room dwelling place of Lizzie Davis, aged colored woman of Marion, S. C. A disorderly, ill-lighted, crudely furnished room, saturated with the odor of food. Behind the front door stands a gayly colored iron bed, over which is thrown a piece of oilcloth to keep the rain from leaking on it. In the center of the room are several little quaint home-made stools and two broken rockers, while in one corner sits a roughly finished kitchen table, the dumping place of all small articles. Still in another corner, almost hidden from sight in the darkness, is the dim outline of an old trunk gaping open with worn out clothing, possibly the gift of some white person. A big fireplace in one side of the wall not only furnishes heat for the little room, but also serves as a cooking place for Lizzie to prepare her meals. On its hearth sits a large iron kettle, spider, and griddle, relics of an earlier day. The room is dimly lighted by the fire and from two small doors, together with a few tiny streaks that peep through at various cracks in the walls and top of house. It is about 9 o'clock on a cold, drizzly morning in January, 1938. The little two room house, in which Lizzie rents one room for herself, displays an appearance of extreme coldness and dilapidation, as a visitor approaches the doorway on this particular morning. It is with somewhat of an effort that the visitor finally reaches the barred door of Lizzie's room, after making a skip here and there to keep from falling through the broken places in the little porch and at the same time trying to dodge the continual dripping of the rain through numerous crevices in the porch roof. Within is the sound of little feet scuffling about on the floor, the chatter of tiny children mixed with mumblings from Lizzie, and the noise of chairs and stools being roughly shoved about on the floor. A rap on the door brings Lizzie, crippled up since she was twelve years of age, hobbling to the door. Taking her walking stick, she lifts the latch gently and the door opens slightly. A gray head appears through the crack of the door and Lizzie, peeping out from above her tiny rim spectacles, immediately recognizes her visitor. She offers her usual cheerful greeting and begins hastily to push the large wooden tubs from the door to make room for her visitor to enter, though it is with unusual hesitancy that she invites her guest to come in on this occasion. Lizzie--Come in, Miss Davis. I feelin right smart dis mornin. How you been keepin yourself? Miss Davis, I regrets you have to find things so nasty up in here dis mornin, but all dis rainy weather got me obliged to keep dese old tubs settin all bout de floor here to try en catch up de water what drips through dem holes up dere. See, you twist your head up dat way en you can tell daylight through all dem cracks. Dat how I know when it bright enough to start to stir myself on a mornin. Yes'um, I tell Miss Heddie here de other day dat I had promise you I was gwine study up some of dem old time songs to give you de next time you come back. Miss Heddie, she lookin to a right sharp age, I say. Yes'um, she been here a time, honey. I tell her to be gettin her dogs together cause I was sho gwine point her out to you de next time I see you. I tell you, Miss Davis, I got a 'sponsibility put on me here to look after all dese chillun. Yes'um, it sho a 'sponsibility cause I think dere five of dem dere, en it de truth in de Lord sight, dey has me settin up so straight to keep a eye on dem dat I can' never settle my mind on nothin. Dey won' let me keep nothin clean. Ain' no use to scrub none, I say. You see, cripple up like I is, I ain' able to get no work off nowhe' en I keeps dem while dey parents work out. Dey mammas have a job to cook out en dey brings dem here bout 6 o'clock in de mornin for me to see after till dey get home in de afternoon. Cose dey helps me along, but it takes what little dey give me to keep dem chillun warm cause I has to try en keep a fire gwine, dey be so little. Dere Bertha Lee en Joseph, dey start gwine to school dis year en I has to see dey gets fix decent en march dem off to school every mornin. Dem other three dere, dey name: Possum en June en Alfred. Ain' but just one girl en dat-- (Lizzie's attention turns to June, who comes in crying from the back yard, where all the children went to play during Lizzie's conversation with her visitor). Lizzie--What de matter wid you, June? June--Aun' Izzie, Possum knock me wid de ax. Lizzie--Great King! What a peculiar thing to hit you wid. How-come he to do dat? June--He was bustin up dem stick out dere side de wood pile. Lizzie--Oh, well, you just go en butt up on de ax. Dat ain' no fault of he own den. Clean up dat face en gwine on way from here. (June, crying to himself, remains seated on the little stool). Lizzie--Let me see now, Miss Davis, I tryin to get some of dem old time songs together to turn for you what you been axin me bout de other time you come here. Yes'um, I tryin to blow my dogs-- (Possum enters the room). Possum--Aun' Izzie, I was bustin up dem splinters dat my daddy brung for you to cook wid en June come en set right under de ax. Lizzie--Um-huh, ain' I tell you so? Whe' de ax, Possum? Fetch it here en put it in de corner. Ain' none of you had no business wid dat ax nohow. Ain' I tell you to mind your way round dat ax? (Possum runs back out in the yard). Lizzie--Like I tellin you, Miss Davis, if de people had a song in de old days, dey would put it down on a long strip called a ballad, but honey, I been through de hackles en I can' think of nothin like I used to could. Is anybody sing dis one for you, Miss Davis? It a old one, too, cause I used to hear-- (Alfred comes in to tell his tale). Alfred--Aun' Izzie, June set on Possum's pile of splinters dat he was makin en Possum let de ax fall right on June's head. Lizzie--Dey is cases, Miss Davis. I tellin you, dese chillun just gets everything off my mind. Most makes me forget to eat sometimes. Dere Miss Julia Woodberry, poor creature, she been down mighty sick en I ain' been able to go en see bout her no time. Don' know what ailin her cause I don' gets bout nowhe' much. No, mam, dese chillun don' have no manners to go visitin en I can' left dem here widout nobody to mind bout dat dey don' run-- Joseph--Aun' Izzie, I ain' gwine wear no coat to school dis mornin. Lizzie--Boy, is you crazy? What de matter wid you, ain' you know de ground been white wid Jack Frost dis mornin? En you clean up dat nose fore you get dere to school, too. You ain' say your ma send you here widout no pocket rag to wipe your nose wid? You ma, she know better den to 'spect me to hunt rags for you. Come here en let me fasten up dat coat round de neck. You look like a turkey buzzard wid it gapin open dat way. Whe' Bertha Lee? It time both you been in dat road gwine to school dere. (Bertha Lee and Joseph go out the door to leave for school). Lizzie--Lord a mercy, Miss Davis, my mind just a windin. How dat song turn what I had for you? One for Paul, En one for Sidas-- Lizzie--Joseph, how-come you ain' tell dese chillun good-bye? Joseph--Good-bye Possum, good-bye June, good-bye Alfred. Possum, June, Alfred--Good-bye Joseph. Lizzie--Is you got dat one now, Miss Davis? What de next? Great Jeruselum! Dem chillun done carry dat tune way wid dem. I can' turn dat one to save my neck. Just can' come to de turn table as de old man would say. (12 o'clock mill whistle blows, time teller for many colored people of the community). Lord a mercy, what dat whistle say? It done come 12 o'clock en dat pot ain' thought bout to kick up none yet. I tell you, honey, it sho a 'sponsibility I got put on me here to cook for all dese chillun en see dey ration is cook mighty done, too, so as dey won' be gwine round gruntin wid dey belly hurtin all de evenin. (Lizzie begins to stir up the fire to make the pot boil and her visitor decides to return later to hear the songs). Date, February 7, 1938 II It is a damp, chilly mornin about three weeks later, when Lizzie's visitor returns to hear her sing old time songs. June, Bertha Lee, and Alfred are playing in the street before the little house. Visitor--Is Aun' Lizzie at home? June, Alfred, Bertha Lee--Yes'um, she in dere. She in de house. Visitor--You children better mind how you run about in all this damp weather, it might make you sick. June--Possum's got de chicken pox. Alfred--Possum's got de chicken pox. June--Me sick, too. Bertha Lee--I got a cold. Alfred--I sick, too. Visitor--Poor little Possum. Is he sick much? Alfred--Yes'um, he stay right in dat room dere. (Room next to Lizzie's room with a separate front door). Bertha Lee--He mamma had de chicken pox first en den Possum, he took down wid it. June--Dere he now! Dere Possum! (Possum appears from around the corner of the house with both hands full of cold fish). (Alfred goes to Lizzie's door to tell her that she has a visitor) Alfred--Aun' Izzie, somebody out dere wanna see you. Lizzie--Holy Moses! Who dat out dere? Boy, you ain' tellin me no story, is you? Mind you now, you tell me a story en I'll whip de grease out you. Bertha Lee--Aun' Izzie, ain' nobody but Miss Davis out dere. (Lizzie hobbles to the door on her stick). Lizzie--How you is, Miss Davis? I ain' much to speak bout dis mornin. I tell you de truth, Miss Davis, dese chillun keeps me so worried up dat I don' know whe' half my knowin gone, I say. Great Lord a mercy, dere Possum out dere in de air now en he been puny, too. Visitor--The children tell me Possum has the chicken pox. Lizzie--No'um, he ain' got no chicken pox, Miss Davis. Dey thought he had it cause he mamma been ailin dat way, but I don' see nothin de matter wid him 'cept what wrong wid he mouth. Possum, stand back dere way from Miss Davis, I say. Yes'um, he been sorta puny like dis here last week. He mamma must been feed him too much en broke he mouth out dat-- June--Miss Davis, I know how to spell my name. Bertha Lee--I know how to spell my name, too. Me likes to go to school. Visitor--Oh, I think it is nice to like to go to school. What do you do at school? June--Pull off your hat. Bertha Lee--Us writes. Visitor--Lizzie, how about those old time songs you promised to study up for me? You ought to have a mind running over with them by this time. Lizzie--Lord, Lord, honey, I had study up a heap of dem old tunes here de other day, but I tellin you de truth, Miss Davis, dese chillun got me so crazy till nothin won stick-- (Willie, age 10, comes over to play with the children and begins to whistle.). Lizzie--Willie, ain' you know it ill manners to whistle in anybody house? Dere now, it impolite to walk by anybody house whistlin, too. You is too big a boy for dat. Ain' gwine stand for you learnin dese chillun no such manners for me to beat it out dem. No, boy, mind yourself way from here now, I got to hunt up dat tune for Miss Davis. Yes'um, I got one of dem old tune poppin now. Let me see--Great Happy! Dat pot done gwine out all my sparks. (Lizzie rushes in the house to look after a pot that she hears boilin over on the fire). June--Bertha Lee, de lady don' know whe' us sleeps, do she? Bertha Lee--Dere us house over dere. (Bertha Lee gets up to point the house out and June immediately slides into her seat on the bench next to the visitor). Bertha Lee--Move way, June. June--No, dis place whe' I been. Bertha Lee--June, go further, I say. June--No, Bertha Lee, dis whe' I been. Bertha Lee--No, go further. (June holds his place) I go tell Aun' Izzie den. Visitor--Tell Lizzie I'm waitin to hear that tune she promised to sing. Bertha Lee--Aun' Izzie, June settin in my place. Lizzie--Fetch yourself on back out dere now, Bertha Lee, en settle your own scrap. Ain' you shame of yourself en you bigger den June, too? Go way from here, I say. I ain' got no time to monkey up wid you. I got to get dese collards boilin hard, else dey ain' gwine get done time you chillun start puffin for your dinner. Go way, I tell you. Miss Davis, I comin toreckly. (Bertha Lee returns to the porch quietly and takes her place on the opposite side of the visitor, while June clings to his place). June--Miss Davis, does you know Mr. Rembert? Visitor--Is he your father? Bertha Lee and June--No, he ain' us daddy. June--Mr. Rembert, he bought me everything I got. He shoe horses. Don' you know him now? Bertha Lee--He bought June's sweater, but dem my overalls he got on. June--Dem dere pretty buttons you got on you, Miss Davis. Bertha Lee--Sho is, en dem little chain dere. June--Me got a sweater just like her coat. Bertha Lee--Ain' just like it. June--It most like it. Bertha Lee--No, it ain' cause dis here wool. (Lizzie returns to the porch and sits on a little stool near her door). Lizzie--Lord, Miss Davis, dat tune done left me. Now, de next time dat I get a tune in my mind. I gwine sho get somebody to place it for me. It de Lord truth, my mind gwine just so wid so much of chillun worryations till-- June--Me can sing. Possum--Aun' Izzie, I ain' got nothin to eat. (Lizzie returns to her room again to stir up the fire and get Possum some bread). Bertha Lee--Sing den, June. June--Un-uh, I can'. Aun' Izzie might hear me. Bertha Lee--I gwine sing den. June-- "I sees de lighthouse--amen, I sees de lighthouse--amen, I sees de lighthouse--amen." (Lizzie and Possum return to porch. Possum has three muffins). Lizzie--Clean up your nose dere, Alfred. Miss Davis, I ready. Sho got a mind to turn dat tune dis---- Alfred--Possum wouldn' fetch me no bread, Aun' Izzie. Lizzie--Dere dey go again, Miss Davis. No, you can' have none of Possum's bread. Gwine on in dere en catch you a piece out your own pan. You eat up Possum's bread en den he'll be de one howlin bout he ain' got none. (Alfred goes in the room and comes back with a biscuit). Lizzie--I pretty certain I ready now, Miss Davis. Let dem all get dey belly full en den dey head won' be turnin so sharp. Dat how-come I tries-- Possum--Aun' Izzie, Alfred eatin June's bread. Lizzie--Alfred, look here, boy, you know dat ain' none of your bread. You sho gwine get a lickin for dat. (Lizzie slaps him). Your ma, she ain' never left nothin but corn hoecake in your pan since you been born en you know dat, too. Dem chillun carries me in de clock sometimes, Miss Davis. Dis one en dat one callin me en de Lord help me, I forgets what I doin--Clean up dat nose dere, boy. June--My nose clean. Lizzie--Possum know I talkin to him. Get on in dere en tell Miss Mammie to give you a pocket rag, Possum. (Miss Mammie is Possum's aunt who came to spend the day with them). Bertha Lee-- "Peter Rabbit, Ha! Ha! Ha! Make Your Ears Go, Flop! Flop! Flop!" Lizzie--I has to ax you to bear wid me, Miss Davis. I sorry you come here on a dead shot en ain' gettin no birds. Lord knows, I tryin to get my mind-- June--Oo, Aun' Izzie, Joseph been cuttin out Willie's book. (Lizzie's attention is attracted to Willie, who looks worried about his torn book.) Lizzie--Great mercy, boy, you ought to have a pain in de chest. Look, you settin dere wid your bosom wide open. Fasten up your neck dere, I say.--Possum, come here, is you do like I tell you? Is you ax Miss Mammie for somethin to clean up dat nose wid? Possum--Yes'um. Lizzie--Look out now, I'll whip you for tellin a story. Whe' de rag? No, you ain' ax her neither. Gwine on en clean up dat nose fore I wear you out. (Possum goes around corner of house). Lizzie--Help me Lord not to forget it dis time. I sho got dat tune---- June--Aun' Izzie, Aun' Izzie, Possum fall in de tub of water what settin under de pump. (Possum appears from around the corner of the house just at that moment drenched and almost frozen). Lizzie--Great Lord a mercy! Possum, you looks like a drowned possum sho enough. Why ain' you do like I tell you to do? You know I don' never allow you chillun ramblin round dat pump tub no time. Ain' nobody want to drink out no tub you wash your snotty nose in. Fetch yourself in dere to de fire en dry yourself fore you is catch a death of cold. Gwine on, boy. Don' stand dere en watch me like a frizzle chicken. Dere Mr. John Fortune comin now. I gwine tell him to catch Possum en cook him up. Possum--I gwine run. Lizzie--You say you gwine run? Possum--No'um, I ain' say I gwine run. Lizzie--Mind you now, Possum, you know what I tell you bout a story-teller. Mammie--Miss Lizzie, I just don' believe he know right from wrong. Lizzie--Well, I gwine learn him den. Ain' nothin I despises worser den a story-teller. (Lizzie slaps Possum on the shoulder several times and sends him in the house to dry, shivering from both cold and fear.). Lizzie--Miss Davis, Mr. John Fortune helps me out wonderfully wid dese chillun. Say, when dey bad, he gwine cook dem up en eat dem. Yes, mam, I tellin de truth, honey, dese chillun keeps me settin here listenin wid all my ears en lookin wid all my eyes, but dey is right sorta entertainin like. Yes'um, dey got so much of sense till dey done took what little I is had. (Alfred comes running in and leans up on Lizzie). Lizzie--Clean up dat snotty nose, Alfred. You ought to been name Snotty wid your mouth all de time lookin like you ain' hear tell of no pocket rag. Move way from dere, June. Don' blow your nose settin side Miss Davis. Date, February 10, 1938 III It is three days later. Lizzie is sitting on her little porch enjoying the warm sunshine of a bright February day. The children have gone just across the street to play on the sidewalk and while Lizzie keeps a watchful eye on them, she is trying once more to call back to her mind some of the old time songs that she used to sing in her early days. Her visitor sits on a bench nearby ready to make notes of these old songs as she sings them. Lizzie's attention is not only distracted by the children at intervals but also by different ones of her friends constantly passing along the street in front of the small home. Lizzie--Lord, Miss Davis, look like everything a hustlin dis mornin. Yes'um, dis here Monday mornin en everybody is a bustlin gwine to see bout dey business. Seems like everything just gwine on, just gwine on. I tell you de truth, Miss Davis, I studied so hard bout dem songs de other night, I beg de Massa to show me de light en he hop me to recollect dis one for you. See, when you gets to de age I is, you is foolish-- (Joseph runs across the street to tell Lizzie something). Joseph--Aun' Izzie, Possum teachin June to hit Jerry. Lizzie--Uh-huh, I gwine sho beat him, too. (Lizzie turns to her visitor) Possum, he teachin June to knock dat little one wid de speckle coat on. Visitor--Is he another child that you are taking care of? Lizzie--No'um, he grandma raise him en de poor little creature, he don' have nobody to play wid. Look like nobody don' care when he come or whe' he go. I say, I tries to collect mine up en take care of dem cause it dis way, if you don' take time en learn chillun, dey old en dey ain' old; dey fool en dey ain' fool. Yes'um, I tryin to drill dem, Miss Davis, but it does take time en a little whip, too. Has to punish dem right smart sometimes. I tellin you, dem chillun sho a 'sponsibility. Dem what put all dem gray hair up dere on my topknot. I tell dis one en dat one to set to a certain place till I say to get up en den I'll get my studyin on somethin else en de child, he'll be out yonder-- (Heddie Davis, age 72, a neighbor of Lizzies, comes over to join in the conversation). Lizzie--Here come de hoss (horse). Come in, Miss Heddie. Miss Davis wants us to sing one of dem old back tunes dis mornin. Heddie--Well, I is studied up one tune what I been hear de old people sing when I wasn' nothin much more den a puppy--Lord a mercy, Miss Lizzie, dere dem people comin from de trial. Look, dere dey fetchin dat girl to Dr. Graham now. En my Lord, got de poor child's head all wrapped up dat way. Dat man, he ought to have he head plucked. He know better den to cut dat child so close de senses. Don' know what de matter wid de people nohow. Lizzie--Ain' nothin but de devil, Miss-- (Boy, about 8 years old, comes across the street and hands Lizzie a bundle). Pickle--Miss Lizzie, ma say dere your sewin. Lizzie--Thank you, son, thank you a thousand times again. Tell your mamma de old hen a scratchin bout out dere in de yard now huntin de nest en ain' gwine be no long time fore I can be catchin her a chicken to put in de pot. Yes, Lord, I got to start savin dem egg dis very day for de settin. (Lizzie turns to her visitor on the porch and continues her conversation). Miss Rosa, she does do all my sewin for me en I generally gives her eggs for her kindness. I sorry dere so much of huntin egg de same day. (Little boy, Pickle, looks disappointed and continues to hang around). Bertha Lee--Aun' Izzie, sing somethin. Lizzie--You want me to sing so bad, sugar, en I ain' know nothin neither. Heddie, turn me one. Heddie--Gwine on en spill dat one yourself what you been tell me bout de other mornin en quit your pickin on me. Lizzie--Well, I tryin to get myself together, but dere so much of travelin en so much of chillun, I can' collect-- Alfred--Aun' Izzie, can I go to whe' Jerry gone? Lizzie--No, boy, you know I ain' got no mind to let you go runnin off dat way. (Lizzie calls to Mammie in the room). Mammie, look dere to de clock. I gettin in a fidget to get some of dese chillun way from here. (Pickle still hangs around). Lizzie--Joseph, come here. Joseph--Un-uh. Lizzie--Boy, don' you grunt at me dat way. Come here, I say. Go dere in de chicken house en hunt dat one egg en give it to Pickle to carry to he mamma.--Got to scatter dese chillun way from here-- Joseph--Here de egg, Aun' Izzie. Lizzie--Fetch it dere to Pickle den. Boy, tell your mamma I sorry I ain' had no egg to send her 'cept just dat one nest egg. Tell her, when she buss dat egg, she better look right sharp en see is de hen ain' got it noways addle like cause-- Bertha Lee--Aun' Izzie, how my nose is? Lizzie--Look bad. Gwine on in dere en clean your face up. I know you ain' gwine to school wid all dem crumbs stuck bout on your mouth. Joseph, gwine on in de house dere en put you on some more clothes. Gwine on in dere, I say. Don' stand dere on de street en strip. Heddie--No, boy, don' pull off in no public. Bertha Lee--Aun' Izzie, I gwine carry my bread to school wid me. Lizzie--Hunt you a paper den. You can' go dere to school wid no handful of bread makin all dem chillun start mouthin round you. Joseph, get me a paper to put dis here child's bread in. Joseph--Here, Bertha Lee. Here de paper. Lizzie--Lord, Miss Davis, it a time. I tell you de truth, honey, dis here 'sponsibility got me tied both hand en foot. Ain' no rest nowhe'. I hates it you come here en ain' gettin nothin what you been aimin to catch. I gwine be ready toreckly though. Let me get dese chillun in de road en dem songs gwine start travelin out my head faster den lightnin-- Bertha Lee--Aun' Izzie, make Joseph come on. Lizzie--Joseph, get in dat road dere side Bertha Lee. Now, you chillun make your tracks dere to school straight as you can go en if you stop dere to dat lady house en get a pecan, I gwine whip you hard as I can. Joseph and Bertha Lee--Good-bye Possum, good-bye June, good-bye Alfred. Possum, June, Alfred--Good-bye Joseph, good-bye Bertha Lee. Lizzie--Here dat tune come buzzin now, Miss Davis. Is you got dis one? Sunday Mornin Band! "Oh, my sister, How you walk on de cross? Sunday mornin band! Oh, your feet might slip En your soul get lost. Sunday mornin band! Oh, what band, Oh, what band, Do you belong? What band! What band! Sunday mornin band!" Heddie--Sis, you is done took de one I been how. I been expectin you was comin out wid one of dem old time reels you used to be a singin en a jiggin bout all de time. Lizzie--Oh, I been know a heap of dem reels. Hoped sing dem behind de old folks back many a day cause us chillun wasn' never allowed to sing reels in dem days. See, old back people was more religious den dey is now. Yes, mam, dey been know what spell somethin in dat day en time. When dey would speak den, dey meant somethin, I tell you. People does just go through de motion dese days en don' have no mind to mean what dey talk. No, child, us didn' dar'sen to let us parents hear us sing no reels den. What dem old people didn' quarrel out us, dey whip out us. My father never wouldn' let we chillun go to no frolics, but us would listen from de house en catch what us could. I used to could turn a heap of dem reels, too, but he was so tight on us till everything bout left me. Lord, Heddie, give me a thought. You is de jiggin hoss. Hope me out, Heddie, hope me out. (Heddie begins song and Lizzie joins in and finishes it). "The blackest nigger I ever did see, He come a runnin down from Tennessee, His eye was red en his gum was blue, En God a mighty struck him, En his shirt tail flew. Meet me at de crossroads, For I'm gwine join de band. Um-huh! Um-huh! Um-huh!" Lizzie--Great Lord a mercy, Miss Davis, dem kind of tune, dem sinful en wicked songs, dey what I used to turn fore I been big enough to know what been in dem. No, honey, I thank de good Lord to point me way from all dat foolishness en wickedness en I ain' gwine back to it neither. "Lord, I know dat my time ain' long, Oh, de bells keep a ringin, Somebody is a dying, Lord, I know dat my time ain' long. (Repeat three times) Lord, I know dat my time ain' long, Oh, de hammer keep a knockin, Keep a knockin on somebody coffin, Lord, I know dat my time ain' long." (Repeat three times). Lizzie--Lord, I sho know my time ain' long. De Lord say de way of de righteous prevaileth to eternal life en I know I right, people. Lord, I know I right. 'Sponsibility or no 'sponsibility, Lord, I seekin de Kingdom. Source: Lizzie Davis, colored, 70-80 years, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Marion, S. C. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, December 13, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- LIZZIE DAVIS Ex-Slave, Age 70 to 80 "No, mam, I couldn' exactly tell you how old I is cause my father, he been dead over 20 years en when us had a burnin out dere to Georgetown, Pa's Bible was destroyed den. Cose I don' remember myself, say, slavery time, but I can tell dat what I is hear de olden people talk bout been gwine on in dat day en time. No, mam, I want to suggest to you de best I can cause I might have to go back up yonder en tell it to be justified some of dese days." "Oh, I been know your father en your grandfather en all of dem. Bless mercy, child, I don' want to tell you nothin, but what to please you. Lord, I glad to see your face. It look so lovin en pleasin, just so as I is always know you. Look like dere not a wave of trouble is ever roll 'cross your peaceful bosom." "Now, like I speak to you, I don' know rightly bout my age, but I can tell you when dat shake come here, I been a missie girl. Oh, my Lord, I been just as proud en crazy in dem days. Wasn' thinkin nothin bout dat dese dark days was headin here. Yes, mam, I is always been afflicted ever since I been twelve years old, so dey tell me. You see, dat muscle right back dere in my foot, it grow crooked just like a hook. De doctor, he say dat if dey had kept me movin bout, it wouldn' been grow dat way. But my poor old mammy, she die while us was livin down dere to old man Foster Brown's plantation en dere won' no other hand gwine trouble dey way no time to lift me up. Oh, my mammy, she been name Katie Brown cause my parents, dey belonged to de old man Foster Brown in dey slavery day. Dat how-come I been raise up a country child dere on Mr. Brown's plantation. Another thing, like as you might be a noticin, I ain' never been married neither. No, mam, I ain' never been married cause I is always been use a stick in walkin in my early days en never didn' nobody want me. Yes, mam, I know I every bit of 70 or gwine on 80 years old to my mind en I think it a blessin de Lord preserve me dis long to de world. Cose I often wonders why de good Massa keep me here en take dem what able to work for demselves." "Yes, honey, wid God harness on me, I come here to dis town a grown woman to live en I been livin right here by myself in dis same house near bout 20 years. Cose dere a little 12-year-old country girl dat stays here wid me while de school be gwine on so as to get some learnin. Yes'um, I pays $2.00 every month for dis here room en it ain' worth nothin to speak bout. Pap Scott's daughter stay in dat other room over dere. No, mam, dere ain' but just dese two rooms to de house. You, see, my buildin does leak en I has a big time some of dese days. See here, child, I has dis piece of oilcloth cross my bed en when it rains on a night, I sleeps in dat chair over dere en lets it drop on de oilcloth. Den when it comes a storm, my Lord, dere such a racket! I be settin here lookin for dat top up dere to be tumblin down on me de next crack en seems like it does give me such a misery in my head. Yes, mam, dat misery does strike me every time I hear tell bout dere a darkness in de cloud." "Well, drawed up as I is, I ain' able to get no work worth much to speak bout dese days. It dis way, child, don' nobody like to see no old ugly crooked up creature like me round bout whe' dey be no time. Cose I sets here en does a washin now en den whe' de people gets push up, but don' get no regular work. Now, dem people over dere, I does dey washin mostly, but dey don' never be noways particular en stylish like en I don' have nothin much to worry wid. See, de lady, she don' go bout nowhe' much." "Oh, Lord, dere my stove right dere, I say. Yes, mam, I cooks right here in de fireplace all de time. I got dat pot on dere wid some turnips a boilin now en it gettin on bout time I be mixin up dat bread, too, fore dat child be comin home from school hungry as a louse. I say, I got dis here old black iron spider en dis here iron griddle, too, what I does my bakin on cause you see, I come from way back yonder. Dem what de olden people used to cook on fore stoves ever been come here. Yes, mam, de spider got three legs dat it sets on en de griddle, dat what I makes dese little thin kind of hoecake on. See, when I wants to bake in de spider, I heaps my coals up in a pile dat way so as to set de spider on dem en pours de batter in de spider en puts de lid on. Den I rakes me up another batch of coals en covers de lid over wid dem. Do dat to make it get done on de top. Yes, mam, dat de kind of a spider dat de people used to cook dey cake in. Now, when I has a mind to cook some turnips or some collards, I makes dis here boil bread. Honey, dat somethin to talk bout eatin wid dem turnips. Ain' no trouble to mind it neither. First, I just washes my hands right clean like en takes en mixes up my meal en water together wid my hand till I gets a right stiff dough. Den I pinches off a piece de dough bout big as a goose egg en flattens it out wid my hand en drops it in de pot wid de greens. Calls dat boil dumplings. I think bout I got a mind dat I gwine cook some of dem in dat turnip pot directly, too. No, mam, I don' never eat dinner till it come bout time for de little girl to be expectin to be from school. Oh, my blessed, dem olden people sho know how to cook in dem days. Never didn' hear speak bout de cookin upsettin de people in dat day en time like it sets de people in a misery dese days. Dat how-come, I say, I ain' noways ailin in de inside cause it be dat I lives de olden way. Yes, child, de slavery people sho had de hand to cook. Dere ain' never been nothin cook nowhe' dat could satisfy a cravin like dat ash cake dat de people used to cook way back dere, I say. Oh, dey would mix up a batter just like dey was gwine make a hoecake en wrap it all up in oak leaves or a piece of dis here heavy brown paper en lay it in de hot ashes. Den dey would rake some more hot ashes all over de top of it. Yes'um, de dampness out de hoecake would keep de wrappin wet en when it would get done, de paper would peel right off it. I tell you, honey, I mighty glad I been come along in dat day en time. Mighty thankful I been a child of de olden ways." "Yes, child, de people what been raise de slavery way, dey been have a heap of curious notions en some of dem was good, I say. Yes, mam, dere one sign dat I remembers bout en I follows dat up right sharp dese days. I sho watches dat closely. Say, somebody have a mouthful of rations en sneeze, it a sign of death. I finds dat to be very true to speak bout. Yes'um, I notices dat a good one, Miss Davis." "Den I got another one comin. Always say, when you see bout a dozen buzzards moesin (flying) round a house en den dey break off en make a straight shoot for a graveyard, dere somebody out dat house gwine be bury dere soon. Cose dat what I hear talk bout, but I ain' watched dat so much." "No, mam, dat ain' half de signs what de olden people used to have cause dat all what dey know to tell dem what to do en what was gwine happen. Dem what was wise, dey followed dem signs closely, too. Yes, you come back another time, child, en I'll see can I scratch up a heap of dem other sign to tell you. When I gets to talkin to you bout old times, my mind, it just gets to wanderin over dem old fields whe' I run bout as a little small child en I can' half remember nothin to speak to you bout." Source: Lizzie Davis, colored, Marion, S. C.--Age 70 to 80. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Dec., 1937. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, December 21, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- LIZZIE DAVIS Ex-Slave, Age ---- "My parents, dey was sho raise in de South. Been come up on de old man Foster Brown's plantation. Ain' you know whe' Mr. Foster Brown used to live? Yes, mam, down dere in dat grove of pecans dat you see settin side de road, when you be gwine down next to Centenary. I remember, I hear my father tell bout dat his mammy was sold right here to dis courthouse, on dat big public square up dere, en say dat de man set her up in de wagon en took her to Georgetown wid him. Sold her right dere on de block. Oh, I hear dem talkin bout de sellin block plenty times. Pa say, when he see dem carry his mammy off from dere, it make he heart swell in his breast. "Yes'um, I hear my father talk bout how dey would shoot de great big bomb guns in slavery time. Seems like, he say dat de shootin fuss been come from Fort Sumter. Oh, my Lord, I hear talk dat de people could hear dem guns roarin all bout dis here country. I know dat word been true cause I hear my parents en de olden people speak bout dat right dere fore we chillun. Say, when dey would feel dat rumblin noise, de people would be so scared. Didn' know what was gwine happen. Cose I speak bout what I catch cause de olden people never didn' allow dey chillun to set en hear dem talk no time. No, mam, de olden people was mighty careful of de words dey let slip dey lips. "Oh, we chillun would have de most fun dere ever was romancin (roaming) dem woods in dat day en time. I used to think it was de nicest thing dat I been know bout to go down in de woods side one of dem shady branch en get a cup of right cool water to drink out de stream. I tell you, I thought dat was de sweetest water I is ever swallowed. Den we chillun used to go out in de woods wid de crowd en get dese big oak leaves en hickory leaves en make hats. Would use dese here long pine needles en thorns for de pins dat we would pick up somewhe' dere in de woods. En we would dress de hats wid all kind of wild flowers en moss dat we been find scatter bout in de woods, too. Oh, yes'um, we thought dey was de prettiest kind of bonnets. Den we would get some of dese green saplin out de woods often times to make us a ridin horse wid en would cut down a good size pine another time en make a flyin mare to ride on. Yes, mam, dat what we would call it. Well, when we would have a mind to make one of dem flyin mare, we chillun would slip a ax to de woods wid us en chop down a nice little pine tree, so as dere would be a good big stump left in de ground. Den we would chisel de top of de stump down all round de edges till we had us a right sharp peg settin up in de middle of de stump. After dat was fixed, we would cut us another pole a little bit smaller den dat one en bore a hole in de middle of it to make it set down on dat peg. Oh, my Lord, one of us chillun would get on dis end en dere another one would get on de other end en us chillun would give dem a shove dat would send dem flyin round fast as I could say mighty-me-a-life. My blessed a mercy, child, it would most bout knock de sense out dem what been on dere. Yes, mam, everybody would be crazy to ride on de flyin mare. All de neighbor's chillun would gather up en go in de woods en jump en shout bout which one turn come to ride next. I tellin you, dem was big pleasures us had in dat day en time en dey never cost nobody nothin neither." "Well, Mr. Brown, he was mighty good to his colored people, so I hear my parents say. Would allow all his niggers to go to de white people church to preachin every Sunday, Cose my father, he was de carriage driver en he would have task to drive de white folks to church on a Sunday. Yes'um, dem what been belong to Mr. Brown, dey had dey own benches to set on right up dere in de gallery to de white people church, but I hear talk dat some of dem other white people round bout dere never wouldn' let dey colored people see inside dey church no time. Lord, I talk bout how de people bless wid privilege to go to church like dey want to in dis day en time en don' have de mind to serve de Lord like dey ought to no time. Cose dere a man comes here every Sunday mornin in a car en takes me out to church. Ain' no kin to me neither. He late sometimes en de preacher be bout out wid de sermon, but I goes anyhow en gets all I can. Look like de Lord bless me somehow, cripple up as I is, I say." "De shake! Oh, I remember it well cause I been a grown girl den. Everybody thought it was de Jedgment en all de people was runnin out en a hollerin. I thought it was de last myself en I livin here to tell de people, I was sho scared. I been out to de well bout 12 o'clock de next day en I could see de water in de well just a quiverin. Lord, Lord, dat water tremble bout four weeks after dat. Such a hollerin en a prayin as de people had bout dat shake. No'um I was livin down dere to Tabernacle den en dere wasn' none of de houses round us destroyed. No, child, won' no harm done nowhe' dat I knows of only as a heap of de people been so scared, dey never didn' grow no more." "Yes'um, I think bout here de other night dat I had make you a promise to fetch you up some of dem signs de olden people used to put faith in. Dere one sign bout if you hear a dog howl or a cow low round your house on a night, it a pretty good sign you gwine lose somebody out dat house. I finds dat to be a mighty true sign cause I notices it very closely." "Den dey used to say, too, if you get up in de mornin feelin in a good humor, de devil sho gwine get you fore night fall dat same day. Cose I don' pay so much attention to dat. If I get up feelin like singin, I has to sing cause it my time to sing, I say." "Let me see, dere another one of dem omen dat I had shake up in my mind to tell you. Say, if you see a ground mole rootin round your house, it won' be long fore you gwine move from dat place. But I don' never see no ground moles hardly dese days. Don' think dey worries nobody much." "I recollects, too, way back yonder de people used to say, if you see de smoke comin out de chimney en turn down en flatten out on de ground, it a sign of rain in a few days." "Yes, mam, I think bout dis one more. If you dream bout you be travelin en come to a old rotten down buildin, it a sign of a old person death. Don' say whe' it a man or a woman, but it a sho sign dat a old person gwine die." "Den people what lives in de country believes, if a fox comes round a house barkin en a scratchin, it a sign dey gwine lose somebody out dey family. Yes'um, de fox just comes right out de woods up to de yard en barks. You see, a dog won' never run a fox dat comes bout dem barkin. No, mam, when de dog hear dat, he just stands right under de house en growls at de fox. I know dat be a true sign cause us tried dat one." "Now, I got another one of dem thought comin. Yes, my Lord, I hear talk dat if you get de broom en sweep your house out fore sunrise, you would sweep your friends out right wid de trash. Dat used to be a big sign wid de people, too. En it bad luck to take up ashes after de sun go down, dey say. Yes, I know bout plenty people won' do dat today." "Well, honey, seems like when I calls back, de people in a worser fix den when I used to get 25 cents a day. Used to could take dat en go to a country store en get a decent dress to wear to church. Sell peck of us corn en get it in trade. Didn' never pay more den 50 cents for a load of wood in dem days en I remembers just as good eggs been sell for 10 cents a dozen en 15 cents bout Christmas time. Cose I ain' exactly decided what to speak bout de times cause it dis way to my mind. De people, dey have a better privilege dis day en time, but dey don' appreciate nothin like dey did back in my dark days. Yes, mam, de people was more thankful to man en God den dey is dese days. Dat my belief bout de way de world turnin, I say." Source: Lizzie Davis, colored, age between 70 and 80, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Dec., 1937. Project #1855 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. LOUISA DAVIS EX-SLAVE 106 YEARS OLD. "Well, well, well! You knows my white folks on Jackson Creek, up in Fairfield! I's mighty glad of dat, and glad to see you. My white folks come to see me pretty often, though they lives way up dere. You wants to write me up? Well, I'll tell you all I recollect, and what I don't tell you, my daughter and de white folks can put in de other 'gredients. Take dis armchair and git dat smokin' ash tray; lay it on de window sill by you and make yourself comfortable and go ahead." "I was born in de Catawba River section. My grandpappy was a full blood Indian; my pappy a half Indian; my mother, coal black woman. Just who I b'long to when a baby? I'll leave dat for de white folks to tell, but old Marster Jim Lemon buy us all; pappy, mammy, and three chillun: Jake, Sophie, and me. De white folks I fust b'long to refuse to sell 'less Marse Jim buy de whole family; dat was clever, wasn't it? Dis old Louisa must of come from good stock, all de way 'long from de beginnin', and I is sho' proud of dat." "When he buy us, Marse Jim take us to his place on Little River nigh clean cross de county. In de course of time us fell to Marse Jim's son, John, and his wife, Miss Mary. I was a grown woman then and nursed their fust baby, Marse Robert. I see dat baby grow to be a man and 'lected to legislature, and stand up in dat Capitol over yonder cross de river and tell them de Law and how they should act, I did. They say I was a pretty gal, then, face shiny lak a ginger cake, and hair straight and black as a crow, and I ain't so bad to look at now, Marse Willie says." "My pappy rise to be foreman on de place and was much trusted, but he plowed and worked just de same, mammy say maybe harder." "Then one springtime de flowers git be blooming, de hens to cackling, and de guineas to patarocking. Sam come along when I was out in de yard wid de baby. He fust talk to de baby, and I asked him if de baby wasn't pretty. He say, 'Yes, but not as pretty as you is, Louisa.' I looks at Sam, and dat kind of foolishness wind up in a weddin'. De white folks allowed us to be married on de back piazza, and Reverend Boggs performed de ceremony." "My husband was a slave of de Sloans and didn't get to see me often as he wanted to; and of course, as de housemaid then, dere was times I couldn't meet him, clandestine like he want me. Us had some grief over dat, but he got a pass twice a week from his marster, Marse Tommie Sloan, to come to see me. Bold as Sam git to be, in after years ridin' wid a red shirt long side of General Bratton in '76, dat nigger was timid as a rabbit wid me when us fust git married. Shucks, let's talk 'bout somthing else. Sam was a field hand and drive de wagon way to Charleston once a year wid cotton, and always bring back something pretty for me." "When de war come on, Sam went wid young Marster Tom Sloan as bodyguard, and attended to him, and learned to steal chickens, geese, and turkeys for his young marster, just to tell 'bout it. He dead now; and what I blames de white folks for, they never would give him a pension, though he spend so much of his time and labor in their service. I ain't bearin' down on my kind of white folks, for I'd jump wid joy if I could just git back into slavery and have de same white folks to serve and be wid them, day in and day out." "Once a week I see de farm hands git rations at de smoke house, but dat didn't concern me. I was a housemaid and my mammy run de kitchen, and us got de same meals as my marster's folks did." "Yas sir; I got 'possum. Know how to cook him now. Put him in a pot and parboil him, then put him in a oven wid lots of lard or fat-back, and then bake him wid yaller yam potatoes, flanked round and round, and then wash him down wid locust and persimmon beer followed by a piece of pumpkin pie. Dat make de bestest meal I 'members in slavery days." "Us got fish out of Little River nigh every Saturday, and they went good Sunday morning. Us had Saturday evenin's, dat is, de farm hands did, and then I got to go to see Sam some Sundays. His folks, de Sloans, give us a weddin' dinner on Sunday after us was married, and they sho' did tease Sam dat day." "Like all rich buckra, de Lemons had hogs a plenty, big flock of sheep, cotton gin, slaves to card, slaves to spin, and slaves to weave. Us was well clothed and fed and 'tended to when sick. They was concerned 'bout our soul's salvation. Us went to church, learn de catechism; they was Presbyterians, and read de Bible to us. But I went wid Sam after freedom. He took de name of Davis, and I jined de Methodist Church and was baptized Louisa Davis." "Patroller, you ask me? 'Spect I do 'member them. Wasn't I a goodlookin' woman? Didn't Sam want to see me more than twice a week? Wouldn't he risk it widout de pass some time? Sure he did. De patrollers got after and run Sam many a time." "After de war my pappy went to Florida. He look just like a Indian, hair and all, bushy head, straight and young lookin' wid no beard. We never heard from him since." "De slaves wash de family clothes on Saturday and then rested after doin' dat. Us had a good time Christmas; every slave ketch white folks wid a holler, 'Christmas gift, Marster' and they holler it to each other. Us all hung our stockin's all 'bout de Big House, and then dere would be sumpin' in dere next mornin'. Lord, wasn't them good times!" "Now how is it dese days? Young triflin' nigger boys and gals lyin' 'round puffin' cigarets, carryin' whiskey 'round wid them, and gittin' in jail on Christmas, grievin' de Lord and their pappies, and all sich things. OH! De risin' generation and de future! What is it comin' to? I just don't know, but dere is comin' a time to all them." "I sho' like to dance when I was younger. De fiddlers was Henry Copley and Buck Manigault; and if anybody 'round here could make a fiddle ring like Buck could, wouldn't surprise me none if my heart wouldn't cry out to my legs, 'Fust lady to de right and cheat or swing as you like, and on to de right'." "Stop dat laughin'. De Indian blood in me have held me up over a hundred years, and de music might make me young again." "Oh yes, us had ghost stories, make your hair stand on end, and us put iron in de fire when us hear screech owl, and put dream book under bed to keep off bad dreams." "When de yankees come they took off all they couldn't eat or burn, but don't let's talk 'bout dat. Maybe if our folks had beat them and git up into dere country our folks would of done just like they did. Who knows?" "You see dis new house, de flower pots, de dog out yonder, de cat in de sun lyin' in de chair on de porch, de seven tubs under de shed, de two big wash pots, you see de pictures hangin' round de wall, de nice beds, all dese things is de blessin's of de Lord through President Roosevelt. My grandson, Pinckney, is a World War man, and he got in de CCC Camp, still in it in North Carolina. When he got his bonus, he come down, and say, 'Grandma, you too old to walk, supposin' I git you a automobile?" I allow, 'Son, de Indian blood rather make me want a house.' Then us laugh. 'Well,' he say, 'Dis money I has and am continuin' to make, I wants you and mama to enjoy it.' Then he laugh fit to kill heself. Then I say, 'I been dreamin' of a tepee all our own, all my lifetime; buy us a lot over in Sugartown in New Brookland, and make a home of happiness for your ma, me and you'." "And dis is de tepee you settin' in today. I feel like he's a young warrior, loyal and brave, off in de forests workin' for his chief, Mr. Roosevelt, and dat his dreams are 'bout me maybe some night wid de winds blowin' over dat three C camp where he is." Project 1885 -1- District #4 Spartanburg, S. C. May 29, 1937 FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was a slave of Bill Davis who lived at "Rich Hill", near Indian Creek, in Newberry County, S. C. I was born about 1856, I reckon. My daddy was Ivasum Davis and my mammy was Rhody Davis. Marse Bill was a good master, lived in a big house, give us a good place to live and plenty to eat. He hardly ever whipped us, and was never cruel to us. He didn't let his overseer whip us, and never hit a man. "Aw, we had good eats den. Wish I has some of dem old ash-cakes now which was cooked in de brick oven or in de ashes in de fireplace. My mistress had a big garden, and give us something to eat out of it. We used to go hunting, and killed possums, rabbit, squirrels, and birds. "We had home-made clothes 'till I was big boy. Dey was made from card and spin wheels. "Our work was light; we got up at sun-up at blowing of de horn and worked till sundown. Sometimes we worked on Saturday afternoons when we had to. On Saturday nights we had frolics--men and women. Some women would wash their clothes on Saturday afternoons. Den at night we have prayer meetings. "We had no church on our plantation, not till after freedom, but we learned to read and write and spell. "De padderrolers didn't bother us; our master always give us a pass when we go anywhere. "On Christmas Day master always give big dinners for slaves, and on New Year we had a holiday. "I married Lila Davis at de Baptist Church in Newberry. "When our slaves got sick we sent for de doctor. Some of de old folks in the neighborhood believed in giving root-herb tea or tea made from cherry barks or peach leaves. "When freedom come de master told us we was free and could go but if we wanted to stay on with him, we could stay. We stayed with him for two years and worked by day wages. "The Ku Klux was dere. I heard old folks talk about dem. Dey had white sheets over their heads and white caps on their heads. "The Yankees went through our place and stole cattle. "I thought slavery was all right, 'cause I had a good time. I had a good master. "I joined the church when I was 21 years old because I thought I'd live better. I think all ought to join the church." Source: Wallace Davis (88), Newberry, S. C.; interviewer: G. Leland Summer, Newberry, S. C. Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Oct. 15, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES OF EX-SLAVES "I live in a little two-room house beyond Helena where I work a little patch of land which I rent. I don't own anything. I make a living working de land. "I was born on Indian Creek in Newberry County, S. C. about 1856. My mammy was Rhody Davis and my pa was Ivasum Davis. We belonged in slavery to Bill Davis. He lived at de place called "Rich Hill". De old house is done tore down, but young Riser now lives in de new house on de place. "Our master was good to us, but whipped us a little sometimes. He would not allow his overseer to whip any of us. He give us enough to eat and a fair place to live in. We didn't want fer anything. Dey had plenty to eat on de farm, and sure had good eatings. Dere was a brick oven which could cook good bread and cakes. We had a big garden which de mistress looked after, and she had plenty from it which she shared wid de slaves. "De old spinning wheel was used lots of times and dey made all de clothes everybody on de place wore. "We didn't have no church to go to, but dey sometimes made some slaves go to white folks churches where dey set on de back seats. We didn't have schools and couldn't learn to read and write till after freedom come; den some niggers learned at de brush arbors. "Befo' freedom de patrollers marched up and down de road but didn't bother us. Our master always give us a pass when we went somewhere. On Christmas he give us big dinners. "I married Lilla Davis at de white folks' Baptist church in Newberry. "When slaves got sick some of dem took tree barks and made teas to drink, and some made tea from root herbs. We had doctors, too, but dey made lots of deir medicine from de barks and herbs. "I can't remember much what de Ku Klux did, but heard about dem. Just after de war de Yankees marched through our place and stole some cattle and run away wid dem. In some places dey burned down de barns and gin houses. "I had a good master and always had plenty to eat, so I thought slavery was all right. We didn't have nothing of any kind to worry about. "I don't know nothing much about Abe Lincoln or Jefferson Davis." Source: Wallace Davis (N. 88), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. (9/15/37). Project 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, August 20, 1937 WILLIAM HENRY DAVIS Ex-Slave, 72 Years "I born de first day of March in 1865 cause de white folks raise me mostly en dat how-come I know how old I ought to say I is. My father belong to de old man Jackie Davis, dat live not so far from Tabernacle, en den he fall to he son, Mr. William J. Davis. Dat whe' I was raise. My grandfather, old man Caesar, live dere too." "I never been treated exactly as de other plantation peoples was as it just like I tellin you, I be round de white folks mostly. My mamma, she do all de cooking to de big house en dere be a division in de Missus kitchen for de cook en she chillun to stay in. Sometimes my Massa make my mamma feed all de small plantation chillun dere to de kitchen from de table. Dey want de chillun to hurry en grow en dat de reason dey give em good attention at de house. Dey give us milk en clabber en corn bread to eat mostly en give us fritters some of de time. Dat was fried wheat bread what some people call pancakes. Used to give me job to mind de cows en de calves when dey was put to grazing." "All de other colored peoples live in de nigger quarter up on de hill. Just like de white people house here, de colored people house all be in row pretty much off from de big house. Oh, de people was meant to work in dat day en time. De white folks teach em en show em what dey look for em to do. Den if dey didn' do it like dey tell em do it, dey chastise em." "It just like I tellin you, de people fare wid abundance of everything in dem days. Destroy much meat in one month den as de people gets hold of in whole year dese days. It was just dis way, everybody know to have fence round bout dey plantation den en de hogs could run anywhe'. All de field land was fence en de woods was for de run of de stock. Dey mark em en some of de time, dey hear tell of stock 10 mile away. Know em by de brand." "Peoples didn' have heap of all kind of things dat dey have dese days, but somehow it look like dey have a knack of gettin along better wid what dey have den. Didn' have no stoves to cook on in dem days. Cook in clay oven en on de fireplace. Make up fire en when it die down, dey put tatoes (potatoes) in de oven en let em stay dere all night. My God, won' nothin no better den dem oven tatoes was. Some of de time, dey have wire in de chimney wid de pots hanging on dat. Folks used to make up a cake of corn bread en pat it on de hearth en when de fire burn right low, dey cover de cake all up in pile of ashes. When it get done, it be brown through de ashes en dey take it out en wash en rub all de ashes off it. Den it was ready to eat. Dat what dey call ash cake. Just seem like what de peoples used to cook be sweeter eatin den what dey cooks dis day en time." "Oh, I beat rice many a day. Yes'um, beat rice many a day for my grandmother en my mamma too. Had a mortar en a pestle dat beat rice wid. Dey take big tree en saw log off en set it up just like a tub. Den dey hollow it out in de middle en take pestle dat have block on both it end en beat rice in dat mortar. Beat it long time en take it out en fan it en den put it back. De last time it put back, tear off some shucks en put in dere to get de red part of de rice out en make it white. Ain' nobody never been born can tell you more bout dem pestles en mortars den William Henry Davis know." "Yes'um, used to go to corn shuckings en rye thrashings en pea thrashings plenty times. Oh, dey sing en have music en have big pot cookin out in de yard wid plenty rice en fresh meat for everybody. Dere be so many people some of de time, dey had to have two or three pots. Den dey have dem log rollings to clean up de land en when dey would get to rollin dem heavy logs, dey give de men a little drink of whiskey to revive em, but dey gage how much dey give em. O Lord, we had tough time den. After dey get through wid all de work, dey would eat supper den. Give us rice en corn bread en fresh meat en coffee en sweet tatoe pone. My Lord, dat sweet tatoe pone was de thing in dem days. Missie, you ain' never eat no pone bread? Dey take piece of tin en drive nails through it en grate de raw tatoes on dat. Den dey take a little flour en hot water en molasses en mix up in dem raw tatoes en bake it in de oven on de fireplace. Have lid to oven en put fire under de bottom of it en on de top to get it right done. Some of de time, dey put a little ginger in it fore it was baked. Cut it in big slices when it get done, but wouldn' never eat it till dey know it was cold. Missie, de older I gets de more I does sorrow to go back to dem old constructions dat dey used to have." "Some of de colored peoples have bresh (brush) shelter whe' dey go to church in dem days, but all us go to de white folks church. Oh, de colored peoples go in ox carts, but us white folks have teams en carriage to ride in. I recollects Mr. Davis carriage look sorta like a house wid two big horses to pull it. De family would be in de inside en have seats whe' dey set facing one another. De driver have seat on de outside in de front en on de back of de carriage was de place to set de trunks." "My daddy was de blacksmith for Mr. Jackie Davis en he could make plows en hoes en all dem kind of things. He have a circuit dat he go round en mend things on other white folks plantations. Some of de time, he bring back more den $100.00 to he boss dat he would make. Go all bout in dat part of Marion county dat be part of Florence county dose times." "I hear some peoples say dey knows dere such as ghosts, but I ain' never have no mind in dat line. All I know bout is what my mamma used to tell us big chillun when she want us to stay home wid de little chillun en mind em. Say dere was Raw Head en Bloody Bones in de woods en if us go off, de child might set de house on fire. Such as dat was to make us stay home when dey was gone." "It just dis way, I think freedom a good thing for some people while it a bad thing for de ones dat don' have a knack to shuffle for dey own self. When freedom come, some of de colored people didn' know what freedom was en dey just hang around dey white folks en look to dey Massa for what dey get right on. Wouldn' get off en make nothin for dey own self. Dat how-come I think it better for some not to be free cause so much of worryations ain' good for peoples. Colored peoples never had to worry bout nothin in slavery time." Source: William Henry Davis, age 72, ex-slave, Wahee section of Marion Co., S. C. Personal interview, August 1937. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Aug. 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "Sunday, Aug. 1, was my 82nd ~HW: 84th?~] birthday; so I was born in 1853. De very day I come into de world I do not know, but soon my marster, Starke Sims, begun to train me. Dr. Bill Sims, Marse Stark's son, was a doctor when I was born. A younger son was called Hal. When Hal was a boy he said he was gwine off, and when he got to be a man, dat is what he done; yes sirree, he got scattered off. "Dr. Bill had done started to doctoring folks befo' I got into dis world. And first thing dat I recollects is how my marster teached me to address him. He addressed me as 'Elias, Johnny Elias'. I had to answer, 'Sirs', and dat 'S' always had to be dar to please de marster. All of his slaves had to address him de same way. Sometimes we would answer, 'Sirs Marster'. "All de things my marster teached me are still a great help to me. Dis younger generation does not have de quality dat we old niggers has, because dey refuse to take de teachings of dere parents and de good white folks. De main thing dat Marse teached his slaves was mannerableness. Dat I holds to dis day; 'specially to de white people. I allus tries to be mannerable to dem. Often I looks back on dat, but both white and colored is trying to do away wid dem things. Old training is de best, and I cannot fergit my manners. Never does raal folks fergit dere raising. Dats what shows up de quality in people. I likes quality in everything, and as soon as I sees strangers and hears dem talk and looks at dere action, I can tell how much quality dey got. Dat I sho can. I never is gwine to drap my raising, don't care what de style comes to. Dat's jest one thing dat my race and de white race, too, wants to do away wid. Dey don't hold up no manners and no ra'al raising. "De school teachers tells de chilluns to say yes and no to me. Dey tells dem to say de same thing to white folks. Den dey teaches de chilluns to Mr. and Miss de own race and to call white folks by dere names widout any handle to it. Dat ain't gwine to work, and any niggers dat has self-respect jest ain't gwine to call no white folks by dere name. If you doesn't respect other folks, why den other folks ain't gwine to show no respect fer you. Why some of my grand chilluns sets up and says 'yes' and 'no' to me 'stead of 'yes sir' and 'no sir'. But I is right here to tell you dat my own chilluns don't say 'no' and 'yes' to me. I is strived wid dem and dey knows how to answer proper to dere elders and to white folks. I ain't got no time fer dese school teachers dat tells de pupils to answer in no sech insulting ways as dat. I likes manners and widout manners folks ain't quality; don't make no diffuns 'bout what color dey is or how far dey is gone in de reading books. Young'uns saying 'yes' and 'no' is jest plain ugly. It suits me to meet nice folks, and when I finds dat dey ain't got mannerableness about dem, den I concludes dat dey jest ain't nice. "I gwine to dress up tonight and go to preaching at Mt. Zion. Dey done already started running meeting dar. I used to preach amongst dem at de big meetings, but I is retracting now. "My old marse low to us, 'You is free now, yes sir, you is sho free niggers now. You is gwine out into de world on your own. Let me tell you dis: If you be's mannerable you will allus come out more dan conqueror.' I was young den, and I did not know what 'more dan conqueror' meant den. I is larn't now what it means. Thank God, I does, fer his telling me dat. I lays to de fact dat de reason I is never been in jail is dat I allus had manners. Young'uns acts biggety and den dey lands right straight in de first jail dar is. "I sho never went to no war, but I worked at de house in de corn field a-raising corn fer de war hosses. I been in only two states, North and South Carolina. I travels jest according to common sense: lets other folks be my guide. I met up wid Indians; dey wanted to claim kin wid me, but I wouldn't claim kin wid dem. He tell me bout my high cheeks or something; den he low something 'bout my nose being long. Dey close thinking people, dem Indians is. Dey don't fergit nothing. He say he see I is mixed-up, but I never is knowed jest what he was driving at. I told him I was teached from de old generation, but dat dar wasn't narry drop of Indian blood in me. Cherokee Creek whar dat old Indian place is. Dey has all kinds of things to sell dat dey makes. I ain't no Indian and I does not feel dat way, no sir, not narry bit does I feel like I is a Indian. "My mother died when I was a wee baby. Never is had no brothers or sisters. She left me wid her marster dat owned her mother, Kissy Sims. Marse Starke helped my granny to raise me. Kissy come from Virginia. Her Pa let a man buy her and three other chilluns. Marse Starke raised dem all up and dats how dey got his name. "Dis here man standing here by me is Zack Herndon. We is de oldest niggers in Cherokee County dat I knows of. De other old ones is all dead now. Oh, you knows him, does you Zack? "Never did so awful much work when I was coming up. Dey was priming me and training me. When dey call my name, I allus come. Often I hid myself to see de bad niggers whipped. Never had no 'buse in my life. Marse didn't 'low nobody to look at his niggers when dey was being whipped, kaise he hated to have to let any of dem be 'bused. Marse Starke sho never whipped no one dat was good. He never let his overseers 'buse nobody neither. I does not 'member much 'bout his overseers. One named a Briggs, one a Bishop, one a Coleman and Alley Cook was de last one; I 'members his name best. "Marse Starke was a rich man. He had in de Quarter what was know'd as a chilluns' house. A nurse stayed in it all de time to care fer all de plantation chilluns. My granny 'Kissy' acted as nurse dar some. Aunt Peggy and aunt Ciller was two mo'. Ciller was de daughter of a King in Africa, but dat story been traveling ever since she got to dese shores, and it still a-gwine. All dese helped to nurse me. Dey fed us on milk, plenty of it. We had honey, lasses and lots of good things. When I was a little bit-a boy I had a big bowl to eat out of. And us chilluns et like hogs and got fat. We allus had fine food. My marster give me a biscuit sometime from his plate and I wouldn't have tuck 25¢ fer it. He allus put butter in it or ham and gravy. He would say, 'Dat's de doctrine, Be kind!' Nobody never got no 'borious beating from our master's hands. "I been toiling here on dis earth fer a long time. De Lawd spared me to bring up a big race of chilluns myself. We is awful po' and ain't none of my chilluns got things as well as I had when my marster give it to me. My daughter and grand-daughter lives wid Mr. Nathan Littlejohn. He is rich. I stay in de house wid dem. Dey 'vides wid me dat what dey has. But dat ain't much. I has great-great-grand chilluns dat I ain't never seed. I have five chilluns living to my knowings. Last time I counted, I had 137 grand and great-grand chilluns. So you see I looks into de fourth generation of my own family. "Me and Old man Zack went to a hanging one time. Both of us clamed up into a tree so dat we could look down on de transaction from a better angle. De man, I means de sheriff, let us go up dar. He let some mo' niggers clamb up in de same tree wid us. De man dat was being hung was called Alf Walker. He was a mulatto and he had done kil't a preacher, so you see dey was hanging him fer his wickedness, sho as you born dey was. "While me and Zack up in dat tree a-witnessing dat transaction, peers like we become mo' acquainted wid one another dan we had ever been since us know'd one another. "Sheriff 'low'd, 'You is got only fifteen minutes to live in. What has you got to say?' Alf got up and talked by giving a lecture to folks about being lawful citizens. He give a lecture also to young folks who he 'low'd dat was not in sech condition as he was. He talking to dem 'bout obeying de parents and staying at home. Me and Zack exchange glances and Zack 'low, 'Alf ain't never stayed at home none since he been big enough to tramp over de country and he up dar fixing to git his neck broke fer his waryness, and trying to tell us good folks young and old how us should act. Now ain't he something to be a-telling us what to do.' "Finally, Alf had done talked his time out and de sheriff 'low, 'Now you is only got two minutes, what does you want?' Alf hollered, 'Mr. Sheriff, lemme shake hands wid somebody.' Sheriff say everybody dat wishes to may shake his hand. Me and Zack stayed up in dat tree, but some of de niggers went up and shaked hands wid Alf. "Time out! You could-a heard a pin drap. I could hear my breath a-coming. I got scared. Zack looked ra'al ashy. Nobody on de ground moved, jest stayed ra'al quiet and still. Noose drapped over de man's neck and tightened. Some one moved de block from under his foots. Dat jerked him down. Whoop! All dem in de tree fell out 'cept me and Zack, dey was so scared. Alf Walker wasn't no mo'. Me and Zack sot up in dat tree like two cranks. Us sot dar as if it hadn't tuck no 'fect on us a-tall. All de other folks got 'fected. Zack tickled me when he saw me studying. He 'low 'you act awful hard-hearted.' I 'low, 'dat man telling us how to do jest now, and dar he is hanged. Us still a-setting in dis tree, ain't we? We ain't never wanted to see no mo' hangings, is we Zack?' Zack 'low dat we ain't. "Onc't de guide low'd to de President, 'You raises your hat to a nigger?' President 'low, 'I ain't gwine to let nobody be mo' polite dan I is.' He never let nobody have mo' sense dan he did either. Dat was Washington. "Me and Zack is gwine to tell you how it is. We is old and ain't no need fer old folks to try and fool. I is too shame to beg. I wants de pension. Is you gwine to tell me 'bout it? Dis de truth, I is took a chip fer food. If I could got to school and write fast as I can shake my fist, I'd be a-giving out dat pension right fast. I likes character and principle. I got a boy turned into 64 years. He got character and principle, and he still do what I say. I never put my mouth amongst old folks when I was young. Me and Zack often talks over old times." Source: Elias Dawkins (84), Rt. 1, Gaffney, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. 8/20/37. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 3, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES OF EX-SLAVES Upon learning where an ex-slave lived, the writer walked up to a house on Pickenpack street where two old colored men were sitting on the front porch. Asked if one of them was named 'Will Dill', the blacker of the two motioned to himself and said, "Come here, come in and have a seat," at the same time touching the porch swing beside him. He acknowledged that he lived in slavery days, "but was a small boy, walking and playing around at that time". His master was Zeek Long, who lived in Anderson County not far from "Three and Twenty Mile Creek' and used to ask him:--what the rooster said, what the cow said, what the pig said; and used to get a great deal of amusement out of his kiddish replies and imitation of each animal and fowl. From his own calculation, he figured he was born in 1862 in the home of his mother who was owned by Zeek Long. His father, also, was owned by the same master, but lived in another house. He remembers when the Yankees came by and asked for something to eat. When they had gotten this, they went to the corn crib, which was chock full of corn, and took the corn out, shucked it, and gave it to their horses. All the good horses had been hidden in the woods and only two or three old poor ones were left in the stables, but the Yankees did not take these for they only wanted good horses. He remembers seeing the patrollers coming around and checking up on the 'niggers'. He had an uncle who used to slip off every night and go to see some colored girl. He had a path that he followed in going to her house. "One night Uncle Bob, he started to go see his gal, and it was pretty late, but he followed his path. There were some paterollers out looking for him, and t'rectly they saw him. Uncle Bob lit out running and the paterollers started running, too. Here they had it up and down the path. Uncle Bob, he knew there was a big ditch crossing the path, but the paterollers didn't know it; so when Uncle Bob got to the gully, he jumped right over it and run on, but one of the patrollers fell into the gully and broke his neck. After dat, Uncle Bob, he stayed in and kept quiet, for he knew the paterollers had it in for him." He asked the writer if he had ever heard a chicken talk. He said that he had, and described a scene at the house one day when a preacher was there. The chickens and guineas came around the house as usual to get their feed, but didn't get it. He "quoted" the rooster as saying; "Has the preacher gone yet?" A guinea hen answered, "not yet--not yet". He said that he often heard turkeys talk. They would ask each other questions, and another fowl would answer. He once heard a mule that was in the barn, say: "Lord! Lord! All I want is corn and fodder." Being told by the negro who was sitting beside him, that he did not believe animals and fowls could talk, he at once said: "Sure--roosters and gobblers can talk, one day there was a turkey hen and a lots of little turkeys scratching around a certain place on a hill, the little turkeys were heard to say, 'Please mam, please mam'. An old gobbler standing and strutting near, cried out, 'Get the hell out of here'. The turkey hen then moved to another place to feed." He said that he gets out in his porch early in the mornings and whistles to the birds, and that soon a large flock of birds are all around him. Offering to demonstrate his ability, he began to whistle in a peculiar way. Soon thereafter, two or three English sparrows flew into the yard from nearby trees. "See thar! See thar!" he said, pointing to them. "When the war was over," he continued, "we stayed on at Marster's plantation for some time. I grew up, and was always a fellow who liked hard work. I have railroaded, was a tree doctor, helped dig wells and did a lot of hard work. The white people was always pleased with my work and told me so. I went down a well once to help clean it out. It looked like to me that well was caving in above me; so I hollered for them to pull me out. When I got out, I told them I wasn't going down no wells any more unless somebody threw me in." He said that he had seen lots of wild turkeys when he was a boy. One day when he was going to get some "bacco" for his aunt, he saw a hen and a lot of little turkeys-- "I run after the little wild turkeys but I never kotched a one. That old mother hen would fly from one limb in a tree to another limb in another tree and call them. They was the runningest things I ever saw. I nearly run myself to death but I never did get one." Every now and them, he said, one of the men on the plantation would shoot a wild hog and we would have plenty of meat to eat. The hogs ran wild in those days, he said. "I never saw a ghost," he said, "unless it was one night when we boys was out with our dogs 'possum hunting. The dogs treed a possum in a little scrubby tree. I was always a good climber; so I went up the tree to shake the 'possum out. I shook and shook but the 'possum would not fall out of the tree. I shook so hard that my hat fell off and I told the niggers not to let the dogs tear my hat. That was no skunk in the tree, 'cause we couldn't smell anything, but when I looked again at the 'possum, or whatever it was, it got bigger and bigger. I scrambled down the tree right away, nearly falling out of it, but I wanted to get away. The dogs acted kinda scared; yet they would run up to the tree and bark. One old dog I had did not bark, he just hollered. We left the thing in the tree. I don't know what it was, but it warn't no 'possum, for I'd shook it out of the tree if it had been." In further discussing the subject of fowls in talking among themselves, he said that he had often noticed a rooster and some hens standing around in the shade talking. "The rooster will say something and the hens will listen; then answer him back, 'yes'. One day I heard a turkey hen say, 'we are poor, we are poor'. The old turkey gobbler said, 'well, who in the hell can help it.' Yes sir, they talk just like we do, but 'taint everybody can understand 'em." He said that he had fifteen children by his first wife. He remained single for thirteen years after his wife's death, and never had any children by his second wife. "Do you reckon we'll ever get a pension in our old age?" he asked. "It seems to me they would give us old fellows something to live on, for we can't work. How can we live now-a-days? When a man has done good work when he was able, the country ought to take care of him in his old age. "I was a hand for hard work all my life. I was raised that way; but now, that I can't do nothing, it looks like the state ought to take care of me. "My father told me when I was sitting up to a gal and I told him I was gwinter marry her, 'Son don't you never cut that woman across the back, for as sure as you do, that cut will be against you on Judgement Day." "When I was laid up with the misery in my side, my feet swelled up and busted, and I had a awful hurting in my side and back. People wanted me to believe I had been conjured, but I did not believe it, and I told them I would eat all the stuff that a conjure man could bring. Anybody that believes in conjuring is just a liar. God is the only a person who can bring suffering on people. He don't want to do it, but it's because we do something He don't want us to when He makes people suffer. It is the bugger man that does it." "Uncle" Will said that his father and mother were married by a "jack-leg" preacher who, when told that they wanted to get married, had them both to jump backwards and forwards over a broom. He then told them that they were man and wife. Source: Will Dill, 555 Pickenpack St., Spartanburg, S. C. Interviewer: F. S. DuPre, Spartanburg, Dist. 4 5/19/37 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S. C. THOMAS DIXON EX-SLAVE 75 YEARS OLD. Tom Dixon, a mulatto, is a superannuated minister of the Gospel. He lives in Winnsboro, S. C., at the corner of Moultrie and Crawford Streets. He is duly certified and registered as an old age pensioner and draws a pension of $8.00 per month from the Welfare Board of South Carolina. He is incapable of laborious exercise. "I was born in 1862, thirteen miles northeast of Columbia, S. C., on the border line of Kershaw and Fairfield Counties. My mother was a slave of Captain Moultrie Gibbes. My father was white, as you can see. My mother was the cook for my white folks; her name was Malinda. She was born a slave of Mr. Tillman Lee Dixon of Liberty Hill. After she learned to cook, my marster bought her from her master and paid $1,200.00 for her. After freedom, us took the name of Dixon. "My mistress in slavery time was Miss Mary. She was a Clark before she married Marse Moultrie. I was nothing but a baby when the war ended and freedom come to our race. I lived on my marster's Wateree River plantation, with mother, until he sold it and went into the hotel business at Union, S. C. "My mother then went to Columbia, S. C., and I attended Benedict College. I became a preacher in 1886, the year of the earthquake. That earthquake drove many sinners to their knees, me amongst them; and, when I got up, I resolved to be a soldier of the cross, and every since I have carried the shield of faith in my left hand and the sword of the Word in my right hand. "The night I was converted, the moon was shining brightly. We was all at a revival meeting out from Blythewood, then called Dako, S. C. First, we heard a low murmur or rolling sound like distant thunder, immediately followed by the swaying of the church and a cracking sound from the joists and rafters of the building. The women folks set up a screaming. The men folks set up a hollering: 'Oh Lordy! Jesus save me! We believe! Come Almighty King!' The preacher tried to quiet us, but we run out the church in the moonlight, men and women crying and praying. The preacher, Rev. Charlie Moore, continued the services outside and opened the doors of the church, and every blessed soul come forward and joined the church. "I married Fannie Irwin, and God blessed us all the days of her life. My daughter, Maggie, married a Collins and lives in the Harlem section of New York City. My daughter, Sallie, lives also in Harlem, Greenville Village. Malinda, named for my mother, lives and works in Columbia, S. C. "On the death of my wife, Fannie, I courted and married the widow Lizzie Williams. The house we live in is her own property. She had two children when we married, a boy and a girl. The boy got killed at the schoolhouse two years ago. The girl is working in Columbia, S. C. I am a superannuated minister of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, and receive a small sum of money from the denomination, yearly. The amount varies in different years. At no time is it sufficient to keep me in food and clothing and support. "I have taken nothing to do with politics all my life, but my race has been completely transformed, in that regard, since Mr. Roosevelt has been President. Left to a popular vote of the race, Mr. Roosevelt would get the solid South, against any other man on any ticket he might run on. He is God Almighty's gentleman. By that, I mean he is brave in the presence of the blue-bloods, kind in the presence of the common people, and gentle to the lowly and despised Negro." Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Dec. 1, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage [~HW: (Dorroh~] STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I live wid my daughter in a four-room house which we rents from Doc Hunter. He got it in charge. My husband died several years ago. "My daddy was Harvey Pratt, and he belonged to Marse Bob Pratt in Newberry. My mammy was Mary Fair, and she belonged in slavery to marse Simeon Fair. When dey married dey had a big wedding. Marse didn't make slave women marry men if dey didn't want to. Befo' my mammy and daddy married, somebody give a note to take to Mrs. Fair, her mistress. Mistress wouldn't tell what was in it, but daddy run every step of de way, he was so glad dey would let 'em marry. "Col. Simeon Fair had a big fish pond on his place down on de branch behind his house, and he had a milkhouse, too. (This is where the Margaret Hunter Park is). "My great-grandmother come from Virginia. She was bought by Marse Fair from a speculator's drove. Slaves had good places to live in and everything to eat. Old Marse sho cared for his slaves. He give 'em plenty of clothes and good things to eat. On Sundays dey had to go to de white folks' church and he made dem put on new clean clothes dat he give 'em. "I was born about two years befo' freedom, and I lost my mammy right atter de war. I remember about de Ku Klux and Red Shirts. "Everything we had was made at home, or on marster's big plantation in de country. Marse told his son, Billy, befo' he died to take care of his niggers and see dat dey didn't want for nothing. "Marse made de slaves work all day and sometimes on Saturdays, but he never let 'em work at night. Sometimes on de plantation dey had corn-shuckings and log-rollings; den dey give de hands good dinners and some whiskey to drink. "One old nigger had a weak back and couldn't work much, so he use to play marbles in de yard wid de kids most every day. "Slaves couldn't go away from de place unless dey had a pass from de marse to show de patrollers when dey caught dem out. "My daddy use to cook at de old Newberry Hotel. He was one of de finest cooks in dis part of de country. De hotel was a small wooden frame building wid a long front piazza. In de back was a small wooden two-room house dat servants lived in. Atter de war, de 'little guard house' stood jes' behind where de opera house now is. "Some of de slaves learned to read and write. Marse didn't keep dem from learning if dey wanted to. Niggers used to sing, 'I am born to die'. Dey learn't it from Marse Ramage's son, 'Jock' Ramage. He learn't 'em to sing it. "Atter de war, Marse told de niggers dey was free. Most of dem stayed on wid him and took his name. Slaves most always took de name of deir marsters. "My mother married at Thomas Pope's place, and he had old man Ned Pearson, a nigger who could read and write, to marry 'em. He married lots of niggers den. Atter de war many niggers married over agin, 'cause dey didn't know if de first marriage was good or not. "Marse Fair let his niggers have dances and frolics on his plantation, and on Saturdays dey danced till 12 o'clock midnight. Sometimes dey danced jigs, too, in a circle, jumping up and down. In dese times de young folks dance way into Sunday mornings, and nobody to stop 'em, but Marse wouldn't let his slaves dance atter 12 o'clock. "Everybody believed in ghosts. Nobody would pass by a graveyard on a dark night, and dese days dey go to cemeteries to do deir mischief, at night and not afraid. Doctors used to have home-made medicines. Old Dr. Brown made medicine from a root herb to cure rheumatism. He called it 'rhue'. He lived in what is now called Graveltown. His old house has been torn down. He made hot teas from barks for fevers. He made a liquid salve to rub on for rheumatism. "When freedom come most of de slaves stayed on. Some man come here to make a speech to de slaves. He spoke in Marse Fair's yard to a big crowd of niggers and told dem to stay on and work for wages. When de Yankees come through here, dey stole everything dey could git deir hands on. Dey went in de house and took food and articles. Marse put guards around his house to keep dem out so dey wouldn't steal all de potatoes and flour he had for his slaves. Ku Klux went around de country and caught niggers and carpetbaggers. De carpetbaggers would hunt up chillun's lands, whose daddys was killed and try to take dem. Dat was when Judge Leheigh was here, and Capt. Bone was postmaster. Dey was Republicans, but when de Democrats got in power dey stopped all dat. "When I married John Dorroh I had a big wedding. We married at de Harp place in Newberry, jes' behind de big house, in a nigger cottage. White folks and niggers come. I was known amongst de best white families 'cause I served as cook for dem. I was married by Rev. J. K. Walls, a nigger preacher from Charleston. "I think slavery ended through de work of Almighty God. My mother always said dat was it. My daddy left here and went to Memphis when I was five years old. He sent home $40. He was in de army wid Major James Baxter. He took care of de guns and things of de Major." Source: Isabella Dorroh (N, 75), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S. C. 11/22/27. Project 1885-1 Spartanburg, S. C. May 31, 1937 Edited by: Martha Ritter FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was born in Newberry County, S. C. below Prosperity on Capt. George De Walt's place. My daddy and mammy was Giles and Lizzie De Walt Downing. My daddy belonged to de Outz family, but changed his name to Downing--his master was Downing Outz. I was born about 1857. My mother had 16 children, some died young. I was a little chap when the war was here, but I remember de soldiers coming home from de war. De Yankees went through here and stole all the cattle and all the eats. De Ku Klux marched down de road dressed in white sheets. Freedom come and most of the slaves went away, but I stayed on wid Marse De Walt. Daddy worked wid Downing Outz for wages. When I was 15 years old I worked in de fields like grown folks. I never learned to read and write. We had no schools then for colored people. De only church we had after freedom come was a small "brush arbor" church. "We hunted rabbits, 'possums, squirrels, wild turkeys, doves and partridges there. "I joined de church when I was 20 years old, 'cause I thought times would be better for me then. Of course, I kind of back-slided little afterwards, but always tried to do right. Source: Laurence Downing (80), Newberry, S. C. Interviewer: G. Leland Sumer, Newberry, S. C. Project 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, Jane 23, 1937 WASHINGTON DOZIER Ex-Slave, 90 years "Dis heah sho' Washington Dozier. Dat is wha' de hard time left uv him. I born en raise dere in Florence County de 18th uv December, 1847. Don' know 'xactly wha' my father name, but my mudder tell me he wuz name Dozier. My mudder wuz Becky en she b'long to ole man Wiles Gregg dere on de Charleston road. I hab two sisters en one brother, but not uv one father. I s'ppose brother Henry wuz me whole brother en Fannie en Ca'oline wuz jes me half sister." "Well, dey ne'er hab so mucha sumptin, but I recollect dey make dey own produce den. Oh, dey lib very well. We call it good libin' at dat time. Coase de bedding de colored peoples hab wasn't much cause dey jes hab some kind uv home-made stuff den. We raise in a t'ree room house wha' hab floor on two uv de room. Hab house right dere on de Gregg plantation. Family went from age to age in dat day en time wid dey own Massa name. I 'member my gra'mudder was name Fannie Gregg. Now, I tell yuh how I 'count fa me hab de name Dozier, I jes s'ppose dat come from me father." "Hadder do some sorta work in dem days lak hoe corn en replant en so on lak dat, but ne'er didn't do no man work. Wuz jes uh half hand, dat is 'bout so. Dey gi'e us plenty sumptin to eat den, but ne'er pay us no money. Coase dey didn't 'low us no choice uv wha' we eat at dat time. Hab plenty meat en corn bread en molasses mos' aw de time. Den dey le' us hab uh garden uv we own en we hunt possum many uh time en ketch fish too. Meat was de t'ing dat I lak mostly." "Dey gi'e us good clothes to put on us back wha' dey hab make on de plantation en in de winter, dey gi'e us good warm clothes. Jes wear wha'e'er de white folks gi'e us. Didn't take no 'ffect tall 'bout Sunday clothes." "Fust time I marry I hab uh very good wedding. Marry ole man Gurley daughter o'er in Florence County. Don' know 'xactly how ole I was den, but I c'n tell yah dis much, I wasn't in no herry to marry. Aw colored peoples hadder do to marry den wuz to go to dey Massa en ge' uh permit en consider demselves man en wife. I recollect dat we hab a very good wedding supper dere. I marry Georgeanna de second time en I hab four head uv chillun by me fust wife en four head uv chillun by me second wife. Ne'er couldn't tell how many gran'chillun I got." My Massa en Missus wuz mighty pious good people. Dey go to preachin' dere to Hopewell Presbyterian Chu'ch aw de time. De man wha' wuz de preacher dere den wuz name Frierson. De colored peoples go dere to dat same chu'ch en sot en de gallery. Yuh know dere spirituals hymns en dere reels. I c'n sing one uv dem dat I use'er sing in my slumberin' hours. It go lak dis: Chillun, wha' yuh gwinna do in de jedgment mornin'? Chillun, wha' yuh gwinna do in de jedgment mornin'? Oh Chillun, wha' yuh gwinna do in de jedgment mornin' When ole Gable go down on de seashore? He gwinna place one foot in de sea En de udder on de land, En declare tha' time would be no more, Chillun, wha' yuh gwinna do? Chillun, wha' yah gwinna do in de jedgment mornin'? Chillun, wha' yah gwinna do in de jedgment mornin'? Then chillun, wha' yuh gwinna do When ole Gable go down on de seashore? He gwinna place one foot in de sea En de udder on de land, En declare tha' time would be no more, Then chillun, wha' yuh gwinna do in de jedgment mornin'? "Now de angels sing dat to me in my slumberin' hour en dey sing it dat I might gi'e it to de libin' heah on dis earth. Well, I know right smart uv dem song cause accordin' to my 'sperience, de hymn book wha' to fence de human family in. I got ah good set uv lungs en I wuz de one wha' lead de flock den. Dere jes one grand reason why I can' sing right well dis a'ternoon, yuh is take me on de surprise lak." "I was jes uh chap in slavery time en I hadder stay dere home aw de time whey dere didn't no harm come 'bout me. Dey le' we chillun play marbles en ball aw we wanna den. Jes chunk de ball to one annuder o'er de house. Dat how we play ball in dem times. My white folks didn't do nuthin but stay home en go to chu'ch meetin's. Dey ne'er didn't punish none uv dey colored peoples en didn' 'low no udder people to do it neither. I couldn't tell yah how many slave dey own but dey hab more slave by de increase uv dey families. Dey hab so many dat some uv de time dey'ud hire some uv dem out to annuder plantation. Ne'er didn't see em sell none uv dey colored peoples. I know dis much, dat wuz uh right good place to lib." "I heared tell uv trouble 'tween de whites en de colored peoples, but dere wuzn't none uv dat 'round whey I stay. Dey say some uv de slave run 'way fa bad treatment en stay in de woods. Didn't hab no jails den en when dey'd ketch em, dey'ud buff em en gag em en hoss whip em. Now, I ne'er see none uv dat but I heared tell uv it." "My Massa ne'er didn't work us hard lak. Coase uz de day' ud come, de hands hadder go up to de big house en go 'bout dey business, but dey al'ays knock offen early on uh Saturday evenin' en le' everbody do jes wha' dey wanna dere on de plantation. Ne'er didn't use no horn to wake dey colored peoples up en didn't wake em work en de big Christmus day en New Years' neither. Ne'er hab no udder holidays but dem two. My Massa gi'e aw his colored peoples uh big Christmus dinner to de white folks house. Jes hab plenty uv fresh meat en rice en biscuit en cake fa eve'ybody dat day." "Dey hab funeral fa de colored peoples den jes lak dey hab dese days 'cept dey ne'er hab no preacher 'bout. Aw de slaves stop workin' fa de funeral en dey'ud jes carry de body en permit it to de ground uz wuz de usual t'ing dey do. Coase dey hab plenty singin' dere." "Dem t'ing wha' people call ghostes, dey is evil walks. I know dis much, de sperit uv de body travels en dat de truth sho' uz I libin' heah. Coase I ain' ne'er see none uv dem t'ing en I ain' scared uv nuthin neither. Don' ne'er pay no 'ttention to no black cat en t'ing lak dat. Ain' bother wid none uv dem charm neither. De peoples use'er hab dey own doc'or book en dey search dat en use wha' it say do. Dey ne'er use no me'icine tall den but calomel en castor oil en turpentine." "I sho' 'member when de fust gun shoot dere to Fort Sumter. Us fer uz I c'n recollect, it wuz in June. De Yankees come t'rough dere en to my knowin', dey 'haved very well. Jes ax my Massa fa sumptin to eat en dat wuz aw dey done. Dere sho' wuz uh rejoicing 'mongest some uv de colored peoples when dey tell em dey wuz free uz de white folks wuz. Some uv dem leab dey Massa plantation jes uz soon uz dey know'd dey wuz free, but we ne'er do dat. Jes stayed right on dere wid Mr. Gregg en work fa one-third uv wha' dey make. Coase de white folks furnish aw de wear en tear uv eve't'ing." "Dey ain' ne'er hab no schools fa de colored peoples no whey 'bout whey I stay 'fore freedom come heah. Won' long a'ter de war dat free schools wuz open up dere. It jes lak dis, I ain' bother wid dem schools mucha den, but I c'n read right smart. Jes ketch it uz I come 'long en wha' I kotch, I put dat to work. I is went to one uv dese night schools dey hab 'bout heah not long gone." "Mr. Abraham Lincoln, I ain' ne'er see him, but I know he wuz de President uv de United States. Ain' ne'er see Mr. Jefferson Davis neither. Dey wus oppositionalist den, I sho' know dat." "It jes lak dis, I t'ink dis uh better day we lib in dese times. When we b'long to de white folks, we lib, en a'ter we wuz free we lib right on. I t'ink being free de best time to lib. Better to be loose den tied cause don' care how good yo' owner, yuh hadder be under dey jurisdiction. Ain' dat right?" Source: Washington Dozier, age 90, colored, Pee Dee, Marion Co. (Personal interview, June 1937). Project 1885-1 Spartanburg Dist. 4 Sept. 22, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES [~HW: Duk~] "Vinie Wilkins is my daughter's name dat live wid me. My son owns dis house and he keeps it up fer me and his sister. I's born on de bank of Cherokee Creek, but I jest 'members how many years I stayed dar. Atter Freedom had been a long time, we moved to Mr. Chesterfield Scruggs' plantation whar we share cropped. It was on de old Spartanburg road from here to Spartanburg. "I was purtty good-size chile when de Ku Klux come and tried to git my daddy. Dey whipped him; den he run off and stayed off fer over seven years. Dem Ku Klux was in all kinds of shapes, wid horns and things on dere heads. Dey was so scary looking dat I ain't never fergot dem. Dem's de awfulest 'boogers' I is ever see'd befo' or since. I was in de bed and so was Pa, but dey broke in our do' and got him. I kivvered up my head and did not make narry a sound. Dat's all dat I can recollect now." Source: Alice Duke (72), 401 Woods St., Gaffney, S. C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S. C. 9/16/37 Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, June 9, 1937 AUNT SILVA DURANT Ex-Slave "I don' know 'xactly when I wuz born but I hear my white folks say dat I wuz born de fust (first) year uv freedom. I I c'n tell yuh dis much dat I wuz uh grown 'oman when de shake wuz. Aw de older peoples wuz at de chu'ch en ha' left us home to take care uv aw dem little chillun. Fust t'ing we is know de house 'gin to quiver lak. We ne'er know wha' been to matter en den de house 'gin to rock en rock en rock. We wuz so scare we run outer in de yard en eve't'ing outer dere wuz jes uh shaking jes lak de house wuz. We ne'er know wha' to do. Den we heared de peoples comin' from de chu'ch jes uh runnin' en uh hollerin'. Didn't nobody know wha' make dat. I tellin yuh jes lak dat wuz, de jedgment ain' ne'er been no closer come heah den when dat shake was." "My mudder wuz name Clorrie en she b'long to Miss Millie Gasque up de road dere. I born in Miss Millie yard en I stay dere till I wuz six year old. My pa say I wuz six year old. He been ole man Vidger Hanes en b'long to Mr. Wesley White o'er dere 'bout laughin 'fore freedom 'clare. A'ter dat we move on de hill en my pa hire me dere to Colonel Durant to wash dishes en help 'bout de kitchen. Den dey put me to do de washin' en I been uh washin' en uh washin' mos' e'er since. Dats de way I done till I ge' so I ne'er couldn't make it en den I hadder quit offen. Dat how come I hab aw dese pretty flowers. Miss Durant gi'e me aw dem dahlia wha' yuh see in dat yard right dere. Dat how I ge' wha' little bit uv money I hab dese day en time. Dem white folks up dere in town comes down heah en begs em from me." "Dey tell me some uv de peoples ge' 'long good en den some uv dem ge' 'long bad back dere in slavery day. Don' care how good peoples is dere sho' be uh odd'un de crowd some uv de time. Dey say some uv de colored peoples'ud run 'way from dey Massa en hide in de woods. Den dey slip back to de plantation in de night en ge' green corn outer de white folks field en carry em back in de woods en cook em dere. I hear Tom Bostick tell 'bout when he run 'way one time. Say he use'er run 'way en hide in de woods aw de time. Den de o'erseer ketch him one time when he been come back en wuz grabblin' 'bout de tatoe patch. Say he gwinna make Tom Bostick stay outer de woods ur kill him 'fore sun up dat day. Tom say dey take him down 'side de woods en strip he clothes offen him. (I hear em say dere plenty people bury down 'side dem woods dat dere ain' nobody know 'bout). Den he say dey tie him to uh tree en take uh fat light'ud torch en le' de juice drap outer it right on he naked body. He say he holler en he beg en he ax em hab mercy but dat ne'er didn't do no good. He mock how de tar make uh racket when it drap on he skin. Yuh know it gwinna make uh racke't. Dat t'ing gwinna make uh racket when it drap on anyt'ing wha' fresh. Ain' yuh ne'er hear no hot grease sizzle lak? Yas'um, hear Tom Bostick tell dat more times den I got fingers en toe." "Den dey'ud hab sale en sell some uv de colored peoples offen to annuder plantation hundred mile 'way some uv de time. 'Vide man en he wife. Dey sho' done it. I hear pa tell 'bout dat. Make em stand up on uh stump en bid em offen dere jes lak dey wuz hoss. Pa say dey sell he brother Elic wife 'way wid de onlyest child dey hab. Ne'er didn't see dat wife en child no more." "Coase de le' de colored peoples visit 'round from one plantation to annuder but dey hadder hab uh ticke' wid em. Effen dey meet em in de road en dey ne'er hab dat ticke' somewhey 'bout on em, dey hadder take wha' follow. Ne'er 'low em to hab no udder paper 'bout em no whey. Effen dey see em wid uh paper, dey ax em 'bout it en effen it ne'er been uh ticke', dey mighty apt to gi'e em uh good t'rashin'." "Dey tell me some uv de colored peoples use'er take t'ing from dey Massa, but I ain' ne'er see em do none uv dat on my white folks plantation. Ne'er hadder take nuthin dere. Ge' 'nough meal en meat dere to de big house eve'y Friday to las' em aw t'rough de week. Reckon de ration wuz more wholesome den in dat day en time cause dey take time en cook dey t'ing done. Hadder cook in de fireplace. Dat how dey done. I 'member wha' good t'ings my ole mammy use'er cook in dat spider. Jes set it on de coals en keep uh turnin' it 'bout wid de handle. Dere ain' ne'er nuthin eat no better den dat ash cake she use'er make fa we chillun. Yuh ain' ne'er hear tell 'bout dat. Jes ster (stir) up uh nice hoecake en wrap it up in oak leaves wha' right sorta wet. Den yuh rake uh heap uv ash togedder en lay yuh hoecake on dat en kiver it up wid some more ash. Yuh le' it cook right done en den yuh take it up en wash it offen en it ready to eat. Us chillun lub dat den." "Annuder t'ing dat eat right smart in dem days wuz dat t'ing call big hominy. Dey jes ge' some whole grain corn en put it in de pot en boil it long time. Den dey take it offen de fire en pour lye water aw o'er it. Dey do dat to ge' de husk offen it. Soak ash outer de fire en ge' dat lye water. Den dey hadder take it to de well outer in de yard en wash it uh heap uv time to ge' dat lye outer it. A'ter dat dey season it wid salt en pepper en cook it annuder time. No 'mam, dey ne'er eat it wid no butter. Jes drap it in de grease wha' left in de pan a'ter dey fry de meat en make it right brown lak. Dat de way dey cook dey big hominy." "Folks don' hab time to do t'ings in de right way lak dey use'er cause de world gwine too fas' dese day en time. Dese people comin' up 'bout heah dese days ain' gwinna ne'er quit habin' so mucha belly ache long uz dey ain' stop eatin' aw dem half done ration dey is eat. Coase de peoples wiser now but dey weaker. De peoples wuz more humble in dem days. When dey didn't hab no rain, dey ge' togedder en pray fa rain en dey ge' it too. I tellin' yuh peoples gotta work effen dey gwinna ge' to de right place when dey leab heah. Effen de peoples ne'er didn't go to chu'ch in dem days, dey stay home. Ne'er see chillun in de road on Sunday eve'y which uh way lak yunnah see em dese days. My pa say yuh mus' train up uh child in de way he oughta go en den effen dey stray 'way, dey sho' come back a'ter while. I tellin' yuh de peoples ain' lak dey use'er wuz. Dey sho' wickeder en worser in dis day en time den when I raise up. Dey wuz more friendly den en do more favor fa peoples. It jes lak dis, I ain' gwinna do nobody no harm. Effen I can' do em no good, ain' gwinna do no harm en ain' gwinna 'buse em neither." Source: Aunt Silva Durant, colored, Marion, S. C. Personal interview, May 1937. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S. C. Date, October 21, 1937 SYLVIA DURANT Ex-Slave, 72 Years "Well, I tell you just like it been. Dat was an unexpectin trip when you come here dat day en I wasn' thinkin bout much dat I had know to tell you. It been kind o' put me on a wonder." "You see, child, I never didn' see my grandfather cause when I was born, dey had done sold him away. I hear tell dat sometimes dey would take de wife from dey husband en another time dey would take de husband from dey wife en sell dem off yonder somewhe' en never didn' see dem no more neither. Yes, I sho know dat cause I hear my father speak bout dat plenty times. Yes, mam, dey sold my uncle's wife away en he never didn' see her no more till after freedom come en he done been married again den. Speculators carried my mother's first husband off en den she married again. Cose I was born of de second husband en dat ain' been yesterday." "I hear talk bout dat didn' none of de colored people have nothin in slavery time en heap of dem wasn' allowed to pick up a paper or nothin no time. Often hear dem talk dat some of de niggers was freed long time fore dey know bout it. Hear dem say some white folks hold dem long time till dey could make out to get somethin for demselves. Don' think so. Don' think so. No, mam, don' think so. Dey might been intended for dem to get somethin when dey was freed, but I never learn of nobody gettin nothin. Cose I often heard my father say some white folks thought more bout dey colored people den others en hope dem out more. Hear tell dat didn' none of dem have no clothes much den. No, mam, colored people won' bless wid no clothes much in dem days. I remember dey had to wear dese old big shoes, call brogans, wid brass all cross de toes here. Nobody don' wear nothin like dat now. Dey was coarse shoes. Some say plenty of de people had to go barefooted all de time in dem days. Reckon dat would kill de people in dis day en time. Couldn' stand nothin like dat. Yes, mam, see Tom Bostick walk right cross dat field many a day just as barefooted as he come in de world en all de ground would be covered over wid ice en snow. De people get after him en he say, 'Well, I had worser den dis to go through wid in slavery time.' Say he come up dat way en he never know no difference den dat he had thick shoe on his foot." "Well, you see, some of de white folks would spare dey colored people so much ration when dey knock off work on a Saturday to last dem till de next Saturday come. Hear tell dey give dem a peck of meal en a little molasses en a hog jowl en dat had to last dem all de week. Dem what use a little tobacco, give dem a plug of dat en give dem a little flour for Sunday. Didn' nobody have to work on Sunday en den dey would allow dem two days off for Christmas too. I tellin you bout how my white folks would do, but dem what had a rough Massa, dey just got one day. I hear dem say dey always had a little flour on Christmas. Don' know what else dey give dem, but won' nothin much. I know dat. Sho know dat." "I hear say two intelligent people didn' live so far apart en one never treat dey colored people right en being as dey wasn' allowed to go from one place to another widout dey had a ticket wid dem, dey would steal somethin en run away. Say de just man tell dat other man dat if he would feed his niggers right, dey wouldn' have no need to be stealin so much things. No'um, I does hate to tell dat. Cose dey say dey done it. Say de overseer would beat dem up dat never do what he tell dem to do mighty bad en wouldn' be particular bout whe' dey was buried neither. Hear talk dat dey bury heap of dem in a big hole down side de woods somewhe'. Cose I don' know whe' dat word true or not, but dat what dey tell me." "Oo--oo--yes, mam, dey sho whip de colored women in dem days. Yes, mam, de overseer done it cause I hear dem say dat myself. Tell dat dey take de wives en whip de blood out dem en de husband never didn' dare to say nothin. Hear dey whip some so bad dey had to grease dem. If de colored people didn' do to suit de white folks, dey sho whip dem. No, mam, if dey put you out to work, ain' nobody think dey gwine lay down under de bresh (brush) en stay dere widout doin dey portion of work. Yes, child, hear bout dat more times, den I got fingers en toes." "Oh, de times be worser in a way dese days. Yes, mam, dey sho worser in a way. De people be wiser now den what dey used to be, but dere so much gwine on, dey ain' thinkin bout dey welfare no time en dat'll shorten anybody days. Oh, honey, we livin in a fast world dese days. Peoples used to help one another out more en didn' somebody be tryin to pull you down all de time. When you is found a wicked one in dat day en time, it been a wicked one. Cose de people be more intelligent in learnin dese days, but I'm tellin you dere a lot of other things got to build you up 'sides learnin. Dere one can get up to make a speech what ain' got no learnin en dey can just preach de finest kind of speech. Say dey ain' know one thing dey gwine say fore dey get up dere. Folks claim dem kind of people been bless wid plenty good mother wit. Den another time one dat have de learnin widout de mother wit can get up en seem like dey just don' know whe' to place de next word. Yes, mam, I hear dat often." "What I meant by what I say bout de wicked one? I meant when you found a wild one, it been a wild one for true. I mean you better not meddle wid one like dat cause dey don' never care what dey do. People look like dey used to care more for dey lives den dey do dese days. Dat what I meant, but you can weigh dat like you want to. You see, dere be different ways for people to hurt demselves." "Oh, my soul, hear talk bout dere be ghosts en hants, but I never didn' experience nothin like dat. Yes, mam, I hear too much of dat. Been hearin bout dat ever since I been in a manner grown, you may say. I hear people say dey see dem, but I ain' take up no time wid nothin like dat. I have a mind like dis, if such a thing be true, it ain' intended for everybody to see dem. I gwine tell you far as I know bout it. I hear dese old people say when anybody child born wid a caul over dey face, dey can always see dem things en dem what ain' born dat way, dey don' see dem. Cose I don' know nothin bout what dat is en I is hate to tell it, but I hear lot of people say dey can see hants en ghosts all time of a night. Yes'um, I hear de older people say dat, but I don' know whe' it true or no. I know I don' see nothin myself, but de wind. Don' see dat, but I feels it." "Oh, my God, some people believe in dat thing call conjurin, but I didn' never believe in nothin like dat. Never didn' understand nothin like dat. Hear say people could make you leave home en all dat, but I never couldn' see into it. Never didn' believe in it." "Yes, mam, I see plenty people wear dem dimes round dey ankle en all kind of things on dey body, but never didn' see my mother do nothin like dat. I gwine tell you it just like I got it. Hear talk dat some would wear dem for luck en some tote dem to keep people from hurtin dem. I got a silver dime in de house dere in my trunk right to dis same day dat I used to wear on a string of beads, but I took it off. No, mam, couldn' stand nothin like dat. Den some peoples keeps a bag of asafetida tied round dey neck to keep off sickness. Folks put it on dey chillun to keep dem from havin worms. I never didn' wear none in my life, but I know it been a good thing for people, especially chillun. Let me see, dere a heap of other things dat I learn bout been good for people to wear for sickness. Dere been nutmeg dat some people make a hole in en wear it round dey neck. I forget whether it been good for neuralgia or some of dem other body ailments, but I know it won' for no conjurin." "Honey, pa always say dat you couldn' expect no more from a child den you puts in dey raisin. Pa say, 'Sylvia, raise up your chillun in de right way en dey'll smile on you in your old age.' Honey, I don' see what dese people gwine expect dey chillun to turn out to be nohow dese days cause dey ain' got no raisin en dey ain' got no manners. I say, I got a feelin for de chillun cause dey parents ain' stay home enough of time to learn dem nothin en dey ain' been know no better. Remember when my parents went off en tell us to stay home, we never didn' darsen to go off de place. Den when dey would send us off, we know we had to be back in de yard fore sunup in de evenin. Yes, child, we all had to be obedient to our parents in dat day en time. I always was sub-obedient myself en I never had no trouble nowhe'. Yes, mam, when we went off anywhe', we ax to go en we been back de hour dey expect to see us. Yes, mam, chillun was more obedient den. None of us didn' sass us parents. Won' raise dat way. I remember when I was young, I used to tote water en make fire to de pot for my mother to wash plenty times. Den dey learn me how to use a hoe en when I was married en left home, won' nothin strange to me." "No, mam, I didn' have no weddin when I was married, but everything was pleasant en turned out all right. Yes, mam, everybody don' feel so good leavin home, but I felt all right, I was married over dere in Bethel M. E. Church en served a little cake en wine dere home afterwards en dat ain' no weddin. Didn' have nothin but pound cake en wine. Had three plain cakes. Two was cut up dere home en I remember I carried one wid me over Catfish dere to de Reaves place." Source: Sylvia Durant, ex-slave, age about 72, Marion, S. C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Oct., 1937. 
843	----	THE LIFE OF FRANCIS MARION By W. Gilmore Simms Author of "Yemassee", "History of South Carolina", etc. "The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told." --Bryant. [Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are capitalized. Some obvious errors have been corrected.] [William Gilmore Simms, American (South Carolinian) Writer. 1806-1870.] Contents. Chapter 1. Introduction--The Huguenots in South Carolina. Chapter 2. The Marion Family--Birth of Francis Marion--His Youth--Shipwreck. Chapter 3. Marion a Farmer--Volunteers in the Cherokee Campaign. Chapter 4. Cherokee War continues--Marion leads the Forlorn Hope at the Battle of Etchoee. Chapter 5. Marion is returned for the Provincial Congress from St. John's, Berkeley--Made Captain in the Second Regiment--Fort Johnson taken--Battle of Fort Moultrie. Chapter 6. From the Battle of Fort Moultrie to that of Savannah--Anecdote of Jasper--His Death. Chapter 7. From the Battle of Savannah to the Defeat of Gates at Camden. Chapter 8. Organization of "Marion's Brigade"--Surprise of Tories under Gainey--Defeat of Barfield--Capture of British Guard with Prisoners at Nelson's Ferry. Chapter 9. Marion retreats before a superior Force--Defeats the Tories at Black Mingo--Surprises and disperses the Force of Colonel Tynes at Tarcote--Is pursued by Tarleton. Chapter 10. Marion attempts Georgetown--Horry defeats Merritt--Melton defeated by Barfield--Gabriel Marion taken by the Tories and murdered--Marion retires to Snow's Island. Chapter 11. Marion's Camp at Snow's Island--The Character of his Warfare--Of his Men--Anecdotes of Conyers and Horry-- He feasts a British Officer on Potatoes--Quells a Mutiny. Chapter 12. General Greene assumes Command of the Southern Army--His Correspondence with Marion--Condition of the Country--Marion and Lee surprise Georgetown--Col. Horry defeats Gainey--Marion pursues McIlraith--Proposed Pitched Battle between Picked Men. Chapter 13. Watson and Doyle pursue Marion--He baffles and harasses them--Pursues Doyle--His Despondency and final Resolution. Chapter 14. Marion renews his Pursuit of Doyle--Confronts Watson--Is joined by Col. Lee--Invests and takes Fort Watson--Fort Motte taken--Anecdote of Horry and Marion. Chapter 15. Correspondence of Marion and Greene--Anecdote of Colonel Snipes--Marion takes Georgetown--Attempt of Sumter and Marion on Col. Coates--Battle of Quinby Bridge. Chapter 16. Marion moves secretly to Pon-Pon--Rescues Col. Harden--Defeats Major Frazier at Parker's Ferry--Joins the main Army under Greene--Battle of Eutaw. Chapter 17. Retreat of the British from Eutaw--Pursuit of them by Marion and Lee--Close of the Year. Chapter 18. Marion summoned to the Camp of Greene--Defeats the British Horse at St. Thomas--Leaves his Command to Horry, and takes his Seat in the Assembly at Jacksonborough, as Senator from St. John's, Berkeley--Proceedings of the Assembly--Confiscation Act--Dispute between Cols. Mayham and Horry--The Brigade of Marion surprised, during his absence, by a Detachment from Charleston--Marion's Encounter with the British Horse--Conspiracy in the Camp of Greene. Chapter 19. Marion summoned with his Force to that of Greene--Insurrection of the Loyalists on the Pedee--Marches against them--Subdues them--Treats with Gainey--Fanning-- Protects the Tory, Butler, from his Men--Returns to the Country between the Santee and the Cooper--Moves to protect Georgetown from the British Fleet--Takes post at Watboo, on Cooper River--Defeats the British Cavalry under Major Frasier. Chapter 20. The British propose Terms of Pacification-- Rejected by the Civil Authorities--They penetrate the Combahee with their Fleet--Death of Col. Laurens--Anecdote of Marion--Death of Wilmot--The British evacuate Charleston-- Marion separates from his Brigade at Watboo--His Military Genius. Chapter 21. Marion retires to his Farm, which he finds in Ruins--Is returned to the Senate from St. John--His Course on the Confiscation Act--Anecdotes--Is made Commandant at Fort Johnson--His Marriage--A Member of the State Convention in 1794--Withdraws from Public Life--His Death. Appendix A. Notes on the Electronic Text. Appendix B. Song of Marion's Men. By William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]. Note. In preparing this biography, the following works have been consulted: 1. A Sketch of the Life of Brig. Gen. Francis Marion, and a History of his Brigade, &c. By Wm. Dobein James, A.M. Charleston, S.C. 1821. 2. The Life of Gen. Francis Marion, &c. By Brig. Gen. P. Horry, and M. L. Weems. Philadelphia. 1833. 3. A MS. Memoir of the Life of Brig. Gen. P. Horry. By Himself. 4. Sketches of the Life and Correspondence of Nathanael Greene, &c. By William Johnson. Charleston. 1822. 5. Memoirs of the American Revolution, &c. By William Moultrie. New York. 1802. 6. Anecdotes of the Revolutionary War in America (1st and 2d series). By Alex. Garden. 1822 and 1828. 7. Memoirs of the War in the Southern Department of the United States. By Henry Lee, &c. Philadelphia. 1812. 8. Memoirs of the American Revolution, &c., as relating to the State of South Carolina, &c. By John Drayton, LL.D. Charleston. 1821. 9. The History of South Carolina, &c. By David Ramsay. Charleston. 1809. 10. The History of Georgia, &c. By Capt. Hugh M'Call. Savannah. 1811. 11. A History of the Campaigns of 1780 and 1781, in the Southern Provinces of North America. By Lieut. Col. Tarleton, Commandant of the late British Legion. London. 1797. 12. Strictures on Lieut. Col. Tarleton's History, &c. By Roderick Mackenzie, late Lieutenant in the 71st Regiment, &c. London. 1787. 13. History of the Revolution of South Carolina from a British Province to an Independent State. By David Ramsay, M.D. Trenton. 1785. 14. An Historical Account of the Rise and Progress of the Colonies of South Carolina and Georgia. (Hewatt.) London. 1779. 15. A New Voyage to Carolina, &c. By John Lawson, Gent., Surveyor-General of North Carolina. London. 1709. 16. The History of the Rise, Progress, and Establishment of the Independence of the United States of America, &c. By William Gordon, D.D. New York. 1789. 17. Five volumes of MS. Letters from distinguished officers of the Revolution in the South. From the Collection of Gen. Peter Horry. Preface. The facts, in the life of Francis Marion, are far less generally extended in our country than his fame. The present is an attempt to supply this deficiency, and to justify, by the array of authentic particulars, the high position which has been assigned him among the master-workers in our revolutionary history. The task has been a difficult, but I trust not entirely an unsuccessful one. Our southern chronicles are meagre and unsatisfactory. South Carolina was too long in the occupation of the British--too long subject to the ravages of civil and foreign war, to have preserved many of those minor records which concern only the renown of individuals, and are unnecessary to the comprehension of great events; and the vague tributes of unquestioning tradition are not adequate authorities for the biographer, whose laws are perhaps even more strict than those which govern the historian. Numerous volumes, some private manuscripts, and much unpublished correspondence, to which reference has been more particularly made in the appendix, have been consulted in the preparation of this narrative. The various histories of Carolina and Georgia have also been made use of. Minor facts have been gathered from the lips of living witnesses. Of the two works devoted especially to our subject, that by the Rev. Mr. Weems is most generally known--a delightful book for the young. The author seems not to have contemplated any less credulous readers, and its general character is such as naturally to inspire us with frequent doubts of its statements. Mr. Weems had rather loose notions of the privileges of the biographer; though, in reality, he has transgressed much less in his Life of Marion than is generally supposed. But the untamed, and sometimes extravagant exuberance of his style might well subject his narrative to suspicion. Of the "Sketch" by the Hon. Judge James, we are more secure, though, as a literary performance, it is quite as devoid of merit as pretension. Besides, the narrative is not thorough. It dwells somewhat too minutely upon one class of facts, to the neglect or the exclusion of others. I have made both of these works tributary to my own whenever this was possible. Woodland, S.C., May 25, 1844. THE LIFE OF FRANCIS MARION Chapter 1. Introduction--The Huguenots in South Carolina. The name of FRANCIS MARION is identified, in the history of South Carolina, his parent state, with all that is pleasing and exciting in romance. He is, par excellence, the famous partisan of that region. While Sumter stands conspicuous for bold daring, fearless intrepidity and always resolute behavior; while Lee takes eminent rank as a gallant Captain of Cavalry, the eye and the wing of the southern liberating army under Greene; Marion is proverbially the great master of strategy--the wily fox of the swamps--never to be caught, never to be followed,--yet always at hand, with unconjectured promptness, at the moment when he is least feared and is least to be expected. His pre-eminence in this peculiar and most difficult of all kinds of warfare, is not to be disputed. In his native region he has no competitor, and it is scarcely possible to compute the vast influence which he possessed and exercised over the minds and feelings of the people of Carolina, simply through his own resources, at a period most adverse to their fortunes, and when the cause of their liberties, everywhere endangered, was almost everywhere considered hopeless. His name was the great rallying cry of the yeoman in battle--the word that promised hope--that cheered the desponding patriot--that startled, and made to pause in his career of recklessness and blood, the cruel and sanguinary tory. Unprovided with the means of warfare, no less than of comfort--wanting equally in food and weapons--we find him supplying the one deficiency with a cheerful courage that never failed; the other with the resources of a genius that seemed to wish for nothing from without. With a force constantly fluctuating and feeble in consequence of the most ordinary necessities--half naked men, feeding upon unsalted pottage,--forced to fight the enemy by day, and look after their little families, concealed in swamp or thicket, by night--he still contrived,--one knows not well how,--to keep alive and bright the sacred fire of his country's liberties, at moments when they seemed to have no other champion. In this toil and watch, taken cheerfully and with spirits that never appeared to lose their tone and elasticity, tradition ascribes to him a series of achievements, which, if they were small in comparison with the great performances of European war, were scarcely less important; and which, if they sometimes transcend belief, must yet always delight the imagination. His adventures have given a rich coloring to fable, and have stimulated its performances. The language of song and story has been employed to do them honor, and our children are taught, in lessons that they love, to lisp the deeds and the patriotism of his band. "Marion"--"Marion's Brigade" and "Marion's men", have passed into household words, which the young utter with an enthusiasm much more confiding than that which they yield to the wondrous performances of Greece and Ilium. They recall, when spoken, a long and delightful series of brilliant exploits, wild adventures, by day and night, in swamp and thicket, sudden and strange manoeuvres, and a generous, unwavering ardor, that never found any peril too hazardous, or any suffering too unendurable. The theme, thus invested, seems to have escaped the ordinary bounds of history. It is no longer within the province of the historian. It has passed into the hands of the poet, and seems to scorn the appeal to authentic chronicles. When we look for the record we find but little authority for a faith so confiding, and seemingly so exaggerated. The story of the Revolution in the southern colonies has been badly kept. Documentary proofs are few, bald and uninteresting. A simple paragraph in the newspapers,--those newspapers issued not unfrequently in cities where the enemy had power, and in the control of Editors, unlike the present, who were seldom able to expatiate upon the achievement which they recorded;--or the brief dispatches of the Captain himself, whose modesty would naturally recoil from stating more than the simple result of his performances;--these are usually the sum total of our authorities. The country, sparsely settled, and frequently overrun by the barbarous enemy, was incapable of that patient industry and persevering care, which could chronicle the passing event, give place and date to the brilliant sortie, the gallant struggle, the individual deed of audacity, which, by a stroke, and at a moment, secures an undying remembrance in the bosoms of a people. The fame of Marion rests very much upon tradition. There is little in the books to justify the strong and exciting relish with which the name is spoken and remembered throughout the country. He was not a bloody warrior. His battle fields were never sanguinary. His ardor was never of a kind to make him imprudent. He was not distinguished for great strength of arm, or great skill in his weapon. We have no proofs that he was ever engaged in single combat: yet the concurrent testimony of all who have written, declare, in general terms, his great services: and the very exaggeration of the popular estimate is a partial proof of the renown for which it speaks. In this respect, his reputation is like that of all other heroes of romantic history. It is a people's history, written in their hearts, rather than in their books; which their books could not write--which would lose all its golden glow, if subjected to the cold details of the phlegmatic chronicles. The tradition, however swelling, still testifies to that large merit which must have been its basis, by reason of which the name of the hero was selected from all others for such peculiar honors; and though these exaggerations suggest a thousand difficulties in the way of sober history, they yet serve to increase the desire, as well as the necessity, for some such performance. ***** The family of Marion came from France. They emigrated to South Carolina somewhere about the year 1685, within twenty years after the first British settlement of the province. They belonged, in the parent country, to that sect of religious dissenters which bore the name of Huguenots; and were among those who fled from the cruel persecutions which, in the beginning of the reign of Louis XIV., followed close upon the re-admission of the Jesuits into France. The edict of Nantz, which had been issued under the auspices of Henri IV., and by which the Huguenots had been guaranteed, with some slight qualifications, the securities of the citizen, almost in the same degree with the Catholic inhabitants, had, under the weak and tyrannous sway of the former monarch, proved totally inadequate to their protection. Long before its formal revocation, the unmeasured and inhuman persecutions to which they were subjected, drove thousands of them into voluntary banishment. The subsequent decree of Louis, by which even the nominal securities of the Huguenots were withdrawn, increased the number of the exiles, and completed the sentence of separation from all those ties which bind the son to the soil. The neighboring Protestant countries received the fugitives, the number and condition of whom may be estimated by the simple fact, not commonly known, that England alone possessed "eleven regiments composed entirely of these unhappy refugees, besides others enrolled among the troops of the line. There were in London twenty French churches supported by Government; about three thousand refugees were maintained by public subscription; many received grants from the crown; and a great number lived by their own industry.* Some of the nobility were naturalized and obtained high rank; among others, Ruvigny, son of the Marquis, was made Earl of Galway, and Schomberg received the dignity of Duke."** * Memoires et Observations faites par un Voyageur en Angleterre, 12mo. La Haye, 1698, p. 362. Quoted by Browning in his History of the Huguenots. ** Browning, [William Shergold]: History of the Huguenots. London: Whittaker and Co. 1840. p. 256. Of the Refugees from France, Hume says, "near fifty thousand passed over into England;" and Voltaire writes that "one of the suburbs of London was entirely peopled with French workers of silk." [W. S. Browning was uncle to the poet, Robert Browning. A. L., 1996.] America, the new world, was naturally a land of refuge, and soon received her share of these unhappy fugitives. The transition was easy from England to her colonies. Every facility was afforded them for transportation, and the wise policy which encouraged their settlement in the new countries was amply rewarded by the results. Altogether, the Huguenots were a much better sort of people than those who usually constituted the mass of European emigrants. The very desperation of their circumstances was a proof of their virtues. They were a people of principle, for they had suffered everything for conscience sake. They were a people of pure habits, for it was because of their religion that they suffered banishment. In little patriarchal groups of sixty, seventy, or eighty families, they made their way to different parts of America; and with the conscious poverty of their own members, were generally received with open arms by those whom they found in possession of the soil. The English, as they beheld the dependent and destitute condition of the fugitives, forgot, for a season, their usual national animosities; and assigning ample tracts of land for their occupation, beheld them, without displeasure, settling down in exclusive colonies, in which they sought to maintain, as far as possible, the pious habits and customs of the mother country. One of these communities, comprising from seventy to eighty families, found their way to the banks of the Santee in South Carolina.* From this point they gradually spread themselves out so as to embrace, in partial settlements, the spacious tract of country stretching to the Winyah, on the one hand, and the sources of Cooper River on the other; extending upward into the interior, following the course of the Santee nearly to the point where it loses its identity in receiving the descending streams of the Wateree and Congaree. These settlers were generally poor. They had been despoiled of all their goods by the persecutions which had driven them into exile. This, indeed, had been one of the favorite modes by which this result had been effected. Doubtless, also, it had been, among the subordinates of the crown, one of the chief motives of the persecution. It was a frequent promise of his Jesuit advisers, to the vain and bigoted Louis, that the heretics should be brought into the fold of the Church without a drop of bloodshed; and, until the formal revocation of the edict of Nantz, by which the Huguenots were put without the pale and protection of the laws, spoliation was one of the means, with others, by which to avoid this necessity. These alternatives, however, were of a kind not greatly to lessen the cruelties of the persecutor or the sufferings of the victim. It does not fall within our province to detail them. It is enough that one of the first and most obvious measures by which to keep their promise to the king, was to dispossess the proscribed subjects of their worldly goods and chattels. By this measure a two-fold object was secured. While the heretic was made to suffer, the faithful were sure of their reward. It was a principle faithfully kept in view; and the refugees brought with them into exile, little beyond the liberties and the virtues for which they had endured so much. But these were possessions, as their subsequent history has shown, beyond all price. * Dalcho, in his Church History, says, "upwards of one hundred families." Our humble community along the Santee had suffered the worst privations of their times and people. But, beyond the necessity of hard labor, they had little to deplore, at the outset, in their new condition. They had been schooled sufficiently by misfortune to have acquired humility. They observed, accordingly, in their new relations, a policy equally prudent and sagacious. More flexible in their habits than the English, they conciliated the latter by deference; and, soothing the unruly passions of the Indians--the Santee and Sewee tribes, who were still in considerable numbers in their immediate neighborhood--they won them to alliance by kindness and forbearance. From the latter, indeed, they learned their best lessons for the cultivation of the soil. That, upon which they found themselves, lay in the unbroken forest. The high lands which they first undertook to clear, as less stubborn, were most sterile; and, by a very natural mistake, our Frenchmen adopted the modes and objects of European culture; the grains, the fruits and the vegetables, as well as the implements, to which they had been accustomed. The Indians came to their succor, taught them the cultivation of maize, and assisted them in the preparation of their lands; in return for lessons thought equally valuable by the savages, to whom they taught, along with gentler habits and morals, a better taste for music and the dance! To subdue the forest, of itself, to European hands, implied labors not unlike those of Hercules. But the refugees, though a gentle race, were men of soul and strength, capable of great sacrifices, and protracted self-denial. Accommodating themselves with a patient courage to the necessities before them, they cheerfully undertook and accomplished their tasks. We have more than one lively picture among the early chroniclers of the distress and hardship which they were compelled to encounter at the first. But, in this particular, there was nothing peculiar in their situation. It differed in no respect from that which fell to the lot of all the early colonists in America. The toil of felling trees, over whose heavy boughs and knotty arms the winters of centuries had passed; the constant danger from noxious reptiles and beasts of prey, which, coiled in the bush or crouching in the brake, lurked day and night, in waiting for the incautious victim; and, most insidious and fatal enemy of all, the malaria of the swamp, of the rank and affluent soil, for the first time laid open to the sun; these are all only the ordinary evils which encountered in America, at the very threshold, the advances of European civilisation. That the Huguenots should meet these toils and dangers with the sinews and the hearts of men, was to be expected from their past experience and history. They had endured too many and too superior evils in the old world, to be discouraged by, or to shrink from, any of those which hung upon their progress in the new. Like the hardy Briton, whom, under the circumstances, we may readily suppose them to have emulated, they addressed themselves, with little murmuring, to the tasks before them. We have, at the hands of one of their number,--a lady born and raised in affluence at home,--a lively and touching picture of the sufferings and duties, which, in Carolina, at that period, neither sex nor age was permitted to escape. "After our arrival," she writes, "we suffered every kind of evil. In about eighteen months our elder brother, unaccustomed to the hard labor we were obliged to undergo, died of a fever. Since leaving France, we had experienced every kind of affliction, disease, pestilence, famine, poverty and hard labor! I have been for six months together without tasting bread, working the ground like a slave; and I have even passed three or four years without always having it when I wanted it. I should never have done were I to attempt to detail to you all our adventures."* * The narrative of Mrs. Judith Manigault, wife of Peter Manigault, as quoted by Ramsay.--Hist. S. C. Vol. I., p. 4. For a graphic detail of the usual difficulties and dangers attending the escape of the Huguenots from France, at the period of migration, see the first portion of this letter.-- We may safely conclude that there was no exaggeration in this picture. The lot of all the refugees seems to have been very equally severe. Men and women, old and young, strove together in the most menial and laborious occupations. But, as courage and virtue usually go hand in hand with industry, the three are apt to triumph together. Such was the history in the case of the Carolina Huguenots. If the labor and the suffering were great, the fruits were prosperity. They were more. Honors, distinction, a goodly name, and the love of those around them, have blessed their posterity, many of whom rank with the noblest citizens that were ever reared in America. In a few years after their first settlement, their forest homes were crowned with a degree of comfort, which is described as very far superior to that in the usual enjoyment of the British colonists. They were a more docile and tractable race; not so restless, nor--though this may seem difficult to understand to those who consider their past history--so impatient of foreign control. Of their condition in Carolina, we have a brief but pleasing picture from the hands of John Lawson, then surveyor-general of the province of North Carolina.* This gentleman, in 1701, just fifteen years after its settlement, made a progress through that portion of the Huguenot colony which lay immediately along the Santee. The passages which describe his approach to the country which they occupied, the hospitable reception which they gave him, the comforts they enjoyed, the gentleness of their habits, the simplicity of their lives, and their solicitude in behalf of strangers, are necessary to furnish the moral of those fortunes, the beginning of which was so severe and perilous. "There are," says he, "about seventy families seated on this river, WHO LIVE AS DECENTLY AND HAPPILY AS ANY PLANTERS IN THESE SOUTHWARD PARTS OF AMERICA. THE FRENCH BEING A TEMPERATE, INDUSTRIOUS PEOPLE, some of them bringing very little of effects, YET, BY THEIR ENDEAVORS AND MUTUAL ASSISTANCE AMONG THEMSELVES (which is highly to be commended), HAVE OUTSTRIPT OUR ENGLISH, WHO BROUGHT WITH THEM LARGER FORTUNES, though (as it seems) less endeavor to manage their talent to the best advantage. 'Tis admirable to see what time and industry will (with God's blessing) effect," &c.... ... "We lay all that night at Mons. EUGEE'S (Huger), and the next morning set out farther, to go the remainder of our voyage by land. At ten o'clock we passed over a narrow, deep swamp, having left the three Indian men and one woman, that had piloted the canoe from Ashley river, having hired a Sewee Indian, a tall, lusty fellow, who carried a pack of our clothes, of great weight. Notwithstanding his burden, we had much ado to keep pace with him. At noon we came up with several French plantations. Meeting with several creeks by the way, THE FRENCH WERE VERY OFFICIOUS IN ASSISTING US WITH THEIR SMALL DORIES TO PASS OVER THESE WATERS: whom we met coming from their church, BEING ALL OF THEM VERY CLEAN AND DECENT IN THEIR APPAREL; their HOUSES AND PLANTATIONS SUITABLE IN NEATNESS AND CONTRIVANCE. They are all of the same opinion with the church of Geneva,** there being no difference among them concerning the punctilios of their Christian faith; WHICH UNION HATH PROPAGATED A HAPPY AND DELIGHTFUL CONCORD IN ALL OTHER MATTERS THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD; LIVING AMONGST THEMSELVES AS ONE TRIBE OR KINDRED, EVERY ONE MAKING IT HIS BUSINESS TO BE ASSISTANT TO THE WANTS OF HIS COUNTRYMEN, PRESERVING HIS ESTATE AND REPUTATION WITH THE SAME EXACTNESS AND CONCERN AS HE DOES HIS OWN: ALL SEEMING TO SHARE IN THE MISFORTUNES, AND REJOICE AT THE ADVANCE AND RISE OF THEIR BRETHREN." Lawson fitly concludes his account of the settlers upon the Santee, by describing them as "a very kind, loving, and affable people"--a character which it has been the happy solicitude of their descendants to maintain to the present day.*** * Lawson's "Journal of a Thousand Miles' Travel among the Indians, from South to North Carolina", is a work equally rare and interesting. This unfortunate man fell a victim to his official duties. He was confounded, by the savages, with the government which he represented, and sacrificed to their fury, under the charge of depriving them, by his surveys, of their land. He was made captive with the Baron de Graffenreid. The latter escaped, but Lawson was subjected to the fire-torture. ** "The inhabitants [of St. James, otherwise French Santee] petitioned the Assembly, in 1706, to have their settlement made a parish; and, at the same time, expressed their desire of being united to the Church of England, whose doctrines and discipline they professed highly to esteem. The Assembly passed an act, April 9, 1706, to erect the French settlement of Santee into a parish."--'Dalcho's Historical Account', ch. 9, p. 295. *** See "A new Voyage to Carolina, containing the exact description and natural history of that country, &c.; and a journey of a thousand miles, travelled through several nations of Indians. By John Lawson, Gent., Surveyor-General of North Carolina. London, 1709."-- A more delightful picture than this of Mr. Lawson, could not well be drawn by the social perfectionist. The rational beauty of the voluntary system could not find a happier illustration; and, duly impressed with its loveliness, we shall cease to wonder at the instances of excellence, equally frequent and admirable, which rose up among this little group of exiles, to the good fortune of the country which gave them shelter, and in attestation of their own virtues. But this happy result was due entirely to their training. It would be wonderful, indeed, if such an education, toil and watch, patient endurance of sickness and suffering, sustained only by sympathy with one another and a humble reliance upon divine mercy, should not produce many perfect characters--men like Francis Marion, the beautiful symmetry of whose moral structure leaves us nothing to regret in the analysis of his life. Uncompromising in the cause of truth, stern in the prosecution of his duties, hardy and fearless as the soldier, he was yet, in peace, equally gentle and compassionate, pleased to be merciful, glad and ready to forgive, sweetly patient of mood, and distinguished throughout by such prominent virtues, that, while always sure of the affections of followers and comrades, he was not less secure in the unforced confidence of his enemies, among whom his integrity and mercy were proverbial. By their fruits, indeed, shall we know this community, the history of which furnishes as fine a commentary upon the benefit of good social training for the young--example and precept happily keeping concert with the ordinary necessities and performances of life, the one supported by the manliest courage, the other guided by the noblest principle--as any upon record.* * It is one of the qualifications of the delight which an historian feels while engaged in the details of those grateful episodes which frequently reward his progress through musty chronicles, to find himself suddenly arrested in his narrative by some of those rude interruptions by which violence and injustice disfigure so frequently, in the march of history, the beauty of its portraits. One of these occurs to us in this connection. Our Huguenot settlers on the Santee were not long suffered to pursue a career of unbroken prosperity. The very fact that they prospered-- that, in the language of Mr. Lawson, "they outstript our English," when placed in like circumstances--that they were no longer desolate and dependent, and had grown vigorous, and perhaps wanton, in the smiles of fortune--was quite enough to re-awaken in the bosoms of "our English" the ancient national grudge upon which they had so often fed before. The prejudices and hostilities which had prevailed for centuries between their respective nations, constituted no small part of the moral stock which the latter had brought with them into the wilderness. This feeling was farther heightened, at least maintained, by the fact that France and England had contrived to continue their old warfare in the New World; and, while French emissaries were busy in the back parts of the colony, stimulating the Creeks and Cherokees to hostility, it was perhaps natural enough that the English, whose frontiers were continually ravaged in consequence, should find it easy to confound the "parley- vous", their enemies, with those, their neighbors, who spoke the same unpopular language. It is not improbable, on the other hand, that the Huguenot settlers were a little too exclusive, a little too tenacious of their peculiar habits, manners, and language. They did not suffer themselves to assimilate with their neighbors; but, maintaining the policy by which they had colonized in a body, had been a little too anxious to preserve themselves as a singular and separate people. In this respect they were not unlike the English puritans, in whom and their descendants, this passion for homogeneousness has always been thought a sort of merit, appealing very much to their self-esteem and pride. In the case of the French colonists, whether the fault was theirs or not, the evil results of being, or making themselves, a separate people, were soon perceptible. They were subjected to various political and social disabilities, and so odious had they become to their British neighbors, that John Archdale, one of the proprietors, a man like Wm. Penn (and by Grahame, the historian, pronounced very far his superior), equally beloved by all parties, as a man just and fearless, was, when Governor of the colony, compelled to deny them representation in the colonial Assembly, under penalty of making invalid all his attempts at proper government. Under this humiliating disability the Huguenots lived and labored for a considerable period, until the propriety of their lives, the purity of their virtues, and their frequently-tried fidelity in the cause of the country, forced the majority to be just. An act, passed in 1696, making all aliens, THEN inhabitants, free--enabling them to hold lands and to claim the same as heirs--according liberty of conscience to all Christians (except Papists), &c.--placed our refugees on a footing of equality with the rest of the inhabitants, and put an end to the old hostilities between them.-- When our traveller turned his back upon this "kind, loving, and affable people," to pursue his journey into North Carolina, his first forward step was into a howling wilderness. The Santee settlement, though but forty miles distant from Charleston, was a frontier--all beyond was waste, thicket and forest, filled with unknown and fearful animals, and "sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful,"-- which the footstep of man dreaded to disturb. Of the wild beasts by which it was tenanted, a single further extract from the journal of Mr. Lawson will give us a sufficient and striking idea. He has left the Santee settlements but a single day--probably not more than fifteen miles. His Indian companion has made for his supper a bountiful provision, having killed three fat turkeys in the space of half an hour. "When we were all asleep," says our traveller, "in the beginning of the night, we were awakened with the dismallest and most hideous noise that ever pierced my ears. This sudden surprisal incapacitated us of guessing what this threatening noise might proceed from; but our Indian pilot (who knew these parts very well) acquainted us that it was customary to hear such musick along that swamp-side, there being endless numbers of panthers, tygers, wolves, and other beasts of prey, which take this swamp for their abode in the day, coming in whole droves to hunt the deer in the night, making this frightful ditty till day appears, then all is still as in other places." (Page 26.) Less noisy, except in battle, but even more fearful, were the half-human possessors of the same regions, the savages, who, at that period, in almost countless tribes or families, hovered around the habitations of the European. Always restless, commonly treacherous, warring or preparing for war, the red men required of the white borderer the vigilance of an instinct which was never to be allowed repose. This furnished an additional school for the moral and physical training of our young Huguenots. In this school, without question, the swamp and forest partisans of a future day took some of their first and most valuable lessons in war. Here they learned to be watchful and circumspect, cool in danger, steady in advance, heedful of every movement of the foe, and--which is of the very last importance in such a country and in such a warfare as it indicates--happily dextrous in emergencies to seize upon the momentary casualty, the sudden chance--to convert the most trivial circumstance, the most ordinary agent, into a means of extrication or offence. It was in this last respect particularly, in being quick to see, and prompt to avail themselves of the happy chance or instrument, that the partisans of the revolution in the southern colonies, under Marion and others, asserted their vast superiority over the invader, and maintained their ground, and obtained their final triumph, in spite of every inequality of arms and numbers. Chapter 2. The Marion Family--Birth of Francis Marion--His Youth-- Shipwreck. We have dwelt upon the Huguenot Settlement in Carolina, somewhat more largely than our immediate subject would seem to require. Our apology must be found in the obvious importance and beauty of the fact, could this be shown, that the character of Francis Marion was in truth a remarkable illustration, in all its parts, of the moral nature which prevailed in this little colony of exiles: that, from the harmony existing among them, their purity of conduct, propriety of sentiment, the modesty of their deportment and the firmness of their virtues, he most naturally drew all the components of his own. His hardihood, elasticity, great courage and admirable dexterity in war, were also the natural results of their frontier position. We do not pretend that his acquisitions were at all peculiar to himself. On the contrary, we take for granted, that every distinguished person will, in some considerable degree, betray in his own mind and conduct, the most striking of those characteristics, which mark the community in which he has had his early training; that his actions will, in great measure, declare what sort of moral qualities have been set before his eyes, not so much by his immediate family, as by the society at large in which he lives; that he will represent that society rather than his immediate family, as it is the nature of superior minds to rush out of the narrow circles of domestic life; and that his whole after-performances, even where he may appear in the garb and guise of the reformer, will indicate in numerous vital respects, the tastes and temper of the very people whose alteration and improvement he seeks. The memoir upon which we are about to enter, will, we apprehend, justify the preliminary chapter which has been given to the history of the Huguenots upon the Santee. Gabriel Marion, the grandfather of our subject, was one of those who left France in 1685. His son, named after himself, married Charlotte Cordes, by whom he had seven children, five of whom were sons and two daughters.* Francis Marion was the last. He was born at Winyah, near Georgetown, South Carolina, in 1732; a remarkable year, as, in a sister colony (we are not able to say how nearly at the same time), it gave birth to GEORGE WASHINGTON. This coincidence, which otherwise it might seem impertinent to notice here, derives some importance from the fact that it does not stand alone, but is rendered impressive by others, to be shown as we proceed; not to speak of the striking moral resemblances, which it will be no disparagement to the fame of the great Virginian to trace between the two. * Weems speaks of six children only, naming all the sons and one of the daughters. Of her, he frankly says, "I have never heard what became; but for his four brothers, I am happy to state, that though not formidable as soldiers, they were very amiable as citizens." James tells us of two daughters, not naming either, but describing them as "grandmothers of the families of the Mitchells, of Georgetown, and of the Dwights, formerly of the same place, but now of St. Stephen's parish." Such particularity might be presumed to settle the question.-- The infancy of Marion was unpromising. At birth he was puny and diminutive in a remarkable degree. Weems, in his peculiar fashion, writes, "I have it from good authority, that this great soldier, at his birth, was not larger than a New England lobster, and might easily enough have been put into a quart pot." It was certainly as little supposed that he should ever live to manhood, as that he should then become a hero. But, by the time that he had reached his twelfth year, his constitution underwent a change. His health became good. The bracing exercises and hardy employments of country life invigorated his frame, and with this improvement brought with it a rare increase of energy. He grew restless and impatient. The tendency of his mind, which was so largely developed in the partisan exercises of after years, now began to exhibit itself. Under this impulse he conceived a dislike to the staid and monotonous habits of rural life, and resolved upon seafaring as a vocation. Such, it may be remarked, was also the early passion of Washington; a passion rather uncommon in the history of a southern farmer's boy. In the case of Washington the desire was only overcome at the solicitations of his mother. The mother of Marion, in like manner, strove to dissuade her son from this early inclination. She did not succeed, however, and when scarcely sixteen, he embarked in a small vessel for the West Indies. The particulars of this voyage, with the exception of the mode in which it terminated, have eluded our inquiry. We have looked for the details in vain. The name of the vessel, the captain, the port she sailed from, have equally escaped our search. To the wanton destruction of private and public records by the British, together with the heedless improvidence of heads of families in the South, we owe this poverty of historical resource. The voyage must have been taken somewhere about the year 1747-8. At that period there were perils of the sea to which the mariner is not often exposed at the present day. The waters of the Gulf of Mexico, in particular, were covered with pirates. The rich produce of New Spain, the West Indies, and the Southern Colonies of the English, were rare temptations. The privateers of Spain and France, a sort of legalized pirates, hung about the ports of Carolina, frequently subjecting them to a condition of blockade, and sometimes to forced contributions. In the occasional absence of the British armed vessels appointed for the protection of these ports, the more enterprising and spirited among their citizens frequently fitted out their own cruisers, drawing them, for this purpose, from the merchant service; manning them in person, and requiting themselves for their losses of merchandise by the occasional capture of some richly laden galleon from New Spain. No doubt the imagination of young Marion was fired by hearing of these exploits. The sensation produced in the community, by the injuries done to its commerce, in all probability gave the direction to his already excited and restless disposition. It does not appear, however, that Marion's first and only voyage was made in an armed vessel. Such, we may well suppose, would have been his desire; but the period when he set forth to procure service upon the seas, may not have been auspicious. He may have reached the seaport a moment too soon or too late, and the opportunities of this kind were necessarily infrequent in a small and frontier city, whose commerce lay mostly in the hands of strangers. His small size and puny appearance must have operated very much against his hopes of obtaining employment in a service which particularly calls for manhood and muscle. In what capacity, or in what sort of vessel he obtained a berth, we are left wholly to conjecture. Choosing the sea as a vocation, and laudably resolved on acquiring a proper knowledge of his business (as from what we know of his character, we may suppose was the case), he most probably went before the mast. His first and only voyage was unfortunate. The ship in which he sailed was no doubt equally frail and small. She foundered at sea, whether going or returning is not said; in consequence, we are told, of injuries received from the stroke of a whale, of the thornback species. So suddenly did she sink, that her crew, only six in number, had barely time to save themselves. They escaped to the jolly boat, saving nothing but their lives. They took with them neither water nor provisions; and for six days, hopeless of succor, they lay tossing to and fro, upon the bald and cheerless ocean. A dog, which swam to them from the sinking vessel, was sacrificed to their hunger. His raw flesh was their only food, his blood their only drink, during this distressing period. Two of their number perished miserably.* The survivors, on the seventh day, were found and taken up by a passing vessel, nourished carefully and finally restored to their homes. * Weems represents the captain and mate, as throwing themselves overboard in a state of phrenzy, and there is nothing improbable or unnatural in the statement. Privation of food, the use of salt water, and exposure in an open boat to a burning sun, might very well produce such an effect. The only difficulty, however, consists in the simple fact that we have no other authority for the statement. James is silent on the point, and contents himself with simply stating the death of two of the crew. Weems, however, adds that of two others, whose end receives, as usual, quite a dramatic finish at his hands. He suffers none to live but "little Marion", and, in the exuberance of his imagination, actually goes so far as to describe the particular food, "chocolate and turtle broth", by which the youthful hero is recruited and recovered. By this he designs to show, more emphatically, the immediate interposition, in his behalf, of an especial providence. The truth is, that any attempt at details where so little is known to have been preserved, must necessarily, of itself, subject to doubt any narrative not fortified by the most conclusive evidence. Unfortunately for the reverend historian, his known eccentricities as a writer, and fondness for hyperbole, must always deprive his books--though remarkably useful and interesting to the young--of any authority which might be claimed for them as histories. As fictions from history, lively and romantic, they are certainly very astonishing performances; have amused and benefited thousands, and entitle the writer to a rank, in a peculiar walk of letters, which has not yet been assigned him.-- Francis Marion was one of these survivors. The puny boy lived through the terrors and sufferings under which the strong men perished. So intense were their sufferings, so terrible the trial, that it will not greatly task the imagination to recognize in the preservation of the youth,--looking to his future usefulness--the agency of a special providence. The boy was preserved for other times and fortunes; and, in returning to his mother, was perhaps better prepared to heed her entreaties that he should abandon all idea of an element, from which his escape had been so hazardous and narrow. It was well for himself and country that he did so. It can scarcely be conjectured that his achievements on the sea would have been half so fortunate, or half so honorable to himself and country, as those which are now coupled with his name. Returning to his home and parents, young Marion sunk once more into the humble condition of the farmer. His health and strength had continued to improve. His adventures by sea had served, seemingly, to complete that change for the better, in his physical man, which had been so happily begun on land; and, subduing his roving inclinations, we hear of him only, in a period of ten years, as a tiller of the earth. In this vocation he betrayed that diligent attention to his duties, that patient hardihood, and calm, equable temper, which distinguished his deportment in every part of his career. He is represented as equally industrious and successful as a farmer. The resources of his family seem to have been very moderate. There were several children, and before Francis was yet twenty-five years of age, he lost his father. In 1758 he was planting with his mother and brother Gabriel, near Friersons Lock on the Santee Canal. In 1759 they separated. Gabriel removed to Belle Isle--the place where the mortal remains of Francis Marion now repose--while the latter settled at a place called Pond Bluff in the Parish of St. John.* This place he continued to hold during life. It is still pointed out to the traveller as Marion's plantation, and is the more remarkable, as it lies within cannon shot of the battle ground of Eutaw, which his valor and conduct contributed to render so justly famous in the history of his native state. During this long period of repose--the interval between his shipwreck, and removal to Pond Bluff,--we are only left to conjecture his employments. Beyond his agricultural labors, we may suppose that his chief tasks were the cultivation of his mind, by close application to those studies which, in the condition of the country, sparsely settled, and without teachers, were usually very inadequately urged. It does not appear that his acquisitions in this respect were more valuable than could be afforded at the present day by the simplest grammar-school of the country. Here again we may trace the resemblance between his career and that of Washington. Equally denied the advantages of education, they equally drew from the great mother-sources of nature. Thrown upon their own thoughts, taught by observation and experience--the same results of character,--firmness, temperance, good sense, sagacious foresight, and deliberate prudence--became conspicuous in the conduct and career of both. In the fortunes of neither--in the several tasks allotted to them,--in their various situations,--did their deficiencies of education appear to qualify their successes, or diminish the respect and admiration of those around them,--a singular fact, as indicative equally of the modesty, the good sense, and the superior intrinsic worth of both of these distinguished persons. In the case of Marion, his want of education neither lessened his energies, his confidence in himself, nor baffled any of his natural endowments. On the contrary, it left his talents free to their natural direction. These, it is probable, were never of a kind to derive, or to need, many advantages from a very superior or scientific education. His mind was rather practical than subtile--his genius prompted him to action, rather than to study,--and the condition and necessities of the country, calling for the former rather than the latter character, readily reconciled him to a deficiency the importance of which he did not feel. * Pond Bluff now lies at the bottom of Lake Marion. --A.L., 1996. Chapter 3. Marion a Farmer--Volunteers in the Cherokee Campaign. From the readiness with which young Marion yielded himself to the entreaties of his mother, and resumed the occupations of agriculture, and from the quiet and persevering industry with which he pursued them for a period of nearly or quite ten years, it might be supposed that the impatience and restlessness of mood, which had formerly led him to revolt at the staid drudgery of rural life, had been entirely extinguished in his bosom. But such was not the case. It was only subdued, and slumbering for a season, ready to awaken at the first opportunity, with all the vigor and freshness of a favorite passion. That opportunity was at hand. Events were in progress which were to bring into the field, and prepare by the very best sort of training, for the most noble trials, the great military genius of the Partisan. At the opening of the year 1759, the colony of South Carolina was on the eve of an Indian war. The whole frontier of the Southern Provinces, from Pennsylvania to Georgia, was threatened by the savages, and the scalping-knife had already begun its bloody work upon the weak and unsuspecting borderers. The French had been conquered upon the Ohio. Forts Frontenac and Duquesne had fallen. British and Provincial valor, aided by strong bodies of Cherokee warriors, had everywhere placed the flag of Britain above the fortresses of France. With its elevation, the Indian allies of the French sent in their adhesion to the conquerors; and, their work at an end, the Cherokee auxiliaries of Britain prepared to return to their homes, covered with their savage trophies, and adequately rewarded for their services. It happened, unfortunately, that, while passing along the frontiers of Virginia, the Cherokees, many of whom had lost their horses during the campaign, supplied themselves rather unscrupulously from the pastures of the colonists. With inconsiderate anger, the Virginians, forgetting the late valuable services of the savages, rose upon their footsteps, slew twelve or fourteen of their warriors, and made prisoners of as many more. This rash and ill-advised severity aroused the nation. The young warriors flew to arms, and pouring their active hordes upon the frontier settlements, proceeded to the work of slaughter, without pausing to discriminate between the offending and the innocent. The emergency was pressing, and Governor Lyttleton, of South Carolina, called out the militia of the province. They were required to rendezvous at the Congarees, about one hundred and forty miles from Charleston. To this rendezvous Francis Marion repaired, in a troop of provincial cavalry commanded by one of his brothers.* But he was not yet to flesh his maiden valor upon the enemy. The prompt preparation of the Carolinians had somewhat lessened the appetite of the savages for war. Perhaps their own preparations were not yet sufficiently complete to make them hopeful of its issue. The young warriors were recalled from the frontiers, and a deputation of thirty-two chiefs set out for Charleston, in order to propitiate the anger of the whites, and arrest the threatened invasion of their country. Whether they were sincere in their professions, or simply came for the purpose of deluding and disarming the Carolinians, is a question with the historians. It is certain that Governor Lyttleton doubted their sincerity, refused to listen to their explanations, and, carrying them along with him, rather as hostages than as commissioners in sacred trust, he proceeded to meet the main body of his army, already assembled at the Congarees. The treatment to which they were thus subjected, filled the Cherokee deputies with indignation, which, with the usual artifice of the Indian, they yet contrived to suppress. But another indiscreet proceeding of the Governor added to the passion which they felt, and soon baffled all their powers of concealment. In resuming the march for the nation, he put them into formal custody, placed a captain's guard over them, and in this manner hurried them to the frontiers. Whatever may have been the merits of this movement as a mere military precaution, it was of very bad policy in a civil point of view. It not only degraded the Indian chiefs in their own, but in the eyes of their people. His captives deeply and openly resented this indignity and breach of faith; and, brooding in sullen ferocity over the disgrace which they suffered, meditated in silence those schemes of vengeance which they subsequently brought to a fearful maturity. But though thus impetuous and imprudent, and though pressing forward as if with the most determined purposes, Lyttleton was in no mood for war. His policy seems to have contemplated nothing further than the alarm of the Indians. Neither party was exactly ripe for the final issue. The Cherokees needed time for preparation, and the Governor, with an army ill disciplined and imperfectly armed, found it politic, when on the very confines of the enemy's country, to do that which he might very well have done in Charleston--listen to terms of accommodation. Having sent for Attakullakullah, the wise man of the nation, who had always been the staunch friend of the whites, he made his complaints, and declared his readiness for peace;--demanding, however, as the only condition on which it could be granted, that twenty-four men of the nation should be delivered to him, to be disposed of as he should think proper, by death or otherwise, as an atonement for that number of Carolinians, massacred in the late foray of the savages. A treaty was effected, but with some difficulty, on these terms. Compliance with this requisition was not so easy, however, on the part of the Cherokee chiefs. The moment it was understood, the great body of their people fled to the mountains, and the number of hostages could be secured only by the detention of twenty-two of those chiefs already in the Governor's custody. The captives were placed, for safe keeping, at the frontier fort of Prince George. * Judge James' Life of Marion, p. 17.-- But the natural sense of the savage is not inferior to that by which the laws of the civilized are prescribed, in their dealings with one another. The treaty thus extorted from their leaders, while in a state of duress, was disregarded by the great body of the nation. They watched their opportunity, and, scarcely had the Governor disbanded his forces, when the war-whoop resounded from the frontiers. Fort Prince George was one of the most remote of a chain of military posts by which the intercourse was maintained between the several white settlements of the seaboard and the interior. It stood on the banks of the Isundiga River, about three hundred miles from Charleston, within gunshot of the Indian town of Keowee. This post, to which the Cherokee hostages were carried, was defended by cannon, and maintained by a small force under Colonel Cotymore. It was in this neighborhood, and, as it were in defiance of this force, that the war was begun. Fourteen whites were massacred at a blow, within a mile of this station. This was followed up by a stratagem, by which Occonostota, one of the principal warriors, aimed to obtain possession of the fort. Pretending to have something of importance to communicate to the commander, he dispatched a woman who had usually obtained access to the station, to solicit an interview with him. This was to take place on the banks of the river. Meanwhile the savage prepared his ambush. Cotymore imprudently assented to the meeting, and, attended by Lieutenants Bell and Foster, walked down towards the river, from the opposite side of which Occonostota addressed him. While they spoke, the Indian was seen to wave a bridle over his head. This was the signal agreed upon with the ambushed warriors. At this signal they rose and poured in their fire. Cotymore was slain on the spot, and his companions wounded. But the savages failed to get possession of the fort. Suspecting a concerted movement among the hostages, by which they would cooperate with the assailing foe without, the officer in command of the fort gave orders to secure them with irons. The attempt to obey these orders ended in a bloody tragedy. The Indians resisted with arms, and, stabbing three of the soldiers, so exasperated the rest, already excited by the murder of their captain, that they fell upon the miserable wretches and butchered them to a man. This unhappy event, completing what the indiscreet severities of Governor Lyttleton had begun, united the whole nation of Cherokees in war. There had been a strong party favorable to peace, and friendly to the whites. This unfortunate proceeding involved the loss of this party. The hostages were among their chief men, and scarcely a family in the nation but lost a relative or friend in their massacre. They were now unanimous for battle; and, numerous parties rushing simultaneously down upon the frontiers, baffled the courage and prevented the flight of the fugitives. They fell without distinction upon men, women and children. "Such as fled to the woods and escaped the scalping-knife, perished of hunger.... Every day brought fresh accounts to the capital of their ravages, murders and desolations. But while the back settlers looked to their governor for relief, the small-pox raged to such a degree in town that few of the militia could be prevailed upon to leave their distressed families to serve the public."* Lyttleton, meanwhile, by whom all the mischief was occasioned, was made Governor of Jamaica, and the charge of the colony devolved on William Bull, a native--"a man of great integrity and erudition." In the almost hopeless condition of the province, her sisters, North Carolina and Virginia, raised seven troops of rangers for the frontiers; and Colonel Montgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglintoun, was dispatched from Canada, with a battalion of Highlanders and four companies of Royal Scots. Before the end of April, 1760, the camp of rendezvous for a new invasion of the Cherokee territories was established at Monk's Corner. Meanwhile, the health of Carolina had undergone some improvement, and the gentlemen of the country were not idle. They turned out in force as volunteers, and under the spirited direction of Governor Bull, the whole disposable force of the province was put in requisition. Among these, it is not so sure, but is believed, that Francis Marion once more made his appearance as a volunteer. From what we know of his character, his temperament, and that unsatisfied craving which he seems to have shown from the beginning for such excitements, it is reasonable to infer his presence in the field. But, though asserted by tradition, we confess that the records are silent on the subject. Unsatisfactory as at that period they generally are, on this point they are particularly so; and but that his share in this war, before its final conclusion, was not only unquestionable but conspicuous, we should pass over the campaign of Montgomery, with a simple reference to its results. * Hewatt's Hist. S.C.-- The Cherokees, meanwhile, were not unobservant of the preparations and approaches of the Carolinians. They gathered themselves up for defence, and in silence matured their half civilized, half primitive modes of warfare. This people, at the period of which we write, were a people of very superior endowments and resources to any of the neighboring savage nations. If less warlike, in the simple sense of the word, than their rivals the Creeks, they were really more to be feared, as it was in consequence of their superior civilisation that they had lost some of their brute ferocity. If they were less reckless, they were better skilled; if less frantic in their fury, they coupled it with a wary vindictiveness which rendered the blow more fatal when it fell. The advances which they had made in civilisation had naturally increased their numbers; while the novel tastes by which their wandering habits were diminished, had necessarily added to their love of country, in adding to the resources and improvements by which its comforts and delights were increased. Thus, neither degraded by the lowest condition in which we find the human animal, nor enervated by the superior luxuries to which he may attain, the Cherokee was perhaps at this time in possession of his greatest vigor; not very remote, in his moral and physical condition, from the Roman when he overcame his Etrurian and Sabine neighbors. The Cherokees occupied a country equally broad and beautiful. It lay in fertile valleys, green meadows, sunny slopes, and mighty forests, along the sides of lofty summits, that circled their extensive territory with natural fortresses of giant grandeur. Spreading from the Broad, or Cherokee river, beyond the Tennessee and the Savannah, it comprised every variety of soil and surface, and while adapted in a high degree to the hands of the agriculturist, seemed almost as easily made secure against the footsteps of invasion. Its apparent securities had made them insolent. Their mountain recesses had never known the presence of this foe. Their fruits and fields, their villages and towns, with the exception of a district that lay upon the Atlantic slopes, were generally fenced in, and admirably protected, by wild and rugged masses of rocky mountains, natural defences, impenetrable, unless through certain passes which a few determined hearts might easily make good against twenty times their number. But the numerical force of this great aboriginal people, seemed of itself sufficiently strong to promise security to their country. At the time of Montgomery's invasion they had no less than sixty-four towns and villages. In an emergency, they could send six thousand warriors into the field. Many of these were armed with the weapons of European warfare--were accustomed to that warfare, and were thus doubly prepared to encounter the enemy in whose ranks they had received their best military lessons. Such a force very far exceeded that of the Carolinians. Mustering but two thousand men, Col. Montgomery found it advisable to urge his march upon the nation with equal celerity and caution. Having reached a place called Twelve-mile River, within twenty miles of the Indian town of Estatoee, he advanced by night upon it, secretly, and with a view to its surprise. In his march, surrounding the town of Little Keowee, not a warrior of the Cherokees escaped the sword. His success was less complete at Estatoee. The Indians, apprised of his approach, with few exceptions, succeeded in making their escape; but the town, consisting of more than two hundred houses, and well stored with corn, hogs, poultry and ammunition, perished in the flames. Shugaw Town and every other settlement in the "Lower Nation", shared the same fate. The lightning-like rapidity of the march had taken the savages everywhere, in this part of the country, by surprise. They fled rather than fought, and while they lost everything in the shape of property, but few of them were slain. They sought for shelter among their more numerous and better protected brethren of the mountains; a people neither so easily approached, nor so easily overcome. Montgomery, having finished this part of his work so successfully, hurried on to the relief of Fort Prince George, which, from the time when their Chiefs were so cruelly butchered within its walls, had been closely invested by a formidable force of Cherokees. The fort was relieved. The Indians fled at his approach; and, thinking that the severe chastisement which he had inflicted upon them, had inclined their hearts to peace, the General of the Carolinians paused in his progress, to give them an opportunity to sue for it, as the former friends and allies of the English. But he had mistaken the stubborn nature of his foe. They were not sufficiently humbled, and it was resolved to march upon the "middle settlements". To this task, that which had been performed was comparatively easy. They were now to enter upon a different country, where the Indians were better prepared for them--nay, where they HAD prepared for them,--in all probability, to the neglect of the lower towns. Toilsome and full of peril was this march. Dismal and dense was the wilderness which they were now to penetrate. Rugged paths, narrow passes, gloomy thickets and dark ravines, encountered them in their hourly progress, calling for constant vigilance and the maintenance of all their courage. Rivers, fordable in unfrequent places and overlooked by precipitous banks on either side, crowned most commonly by dense and intricate masses of forest, through which and without a guide, our little army was compelled to pass,--presented opportunities for frequent ambush and attack, in which, very inferior forces, if properly commanded, might, with little danger to themselves, overwhelm and utterly destroy an advancing enemy. It was in such a region that the Cherokees made their first and formidable stand. Within five miles of Etchoee, the nearest town of the middle settlements, the army of Montgomery approached a low valley, clothed with a thicket so dense that the soldiers could scarcely discern objects three paces ahead. Through this thicket ran a muddy river, enclosed between steep banks of clay. This passage, where but few men could act in unison, was that through which it became necessary that the army should proceed. It was the very spot, which, over all others, a sagacious warrior would choose in which to place an ambush, or meet a superior assailant. Montgomery knew his enemy, and prepared for the encounter. Captain Morrison, commanding a company of rangers, native marksmen and well acquainted with the forest--was sent forward to scour the thicket. His advance was the signal for battle. Scarcely had he entered upon the dismal passage when the savages rose from their hiding-places and poured in a severe fire. Morrison, with several of his men, perished at the first discharge. They were sustained by the light Infantry and Grenadiers, who boldly advanced upon the wood in the face of the invisible foe. A heavy fire followed on both sides, the Cherokees, each with his eye upon his man, the Carolinians aiming at the flash of the enemy's guns. The pass was disputed by the savages with a degree of conduct and courage, which left the issue doubtful. The necessity was apparent for extraordinary effort. The Royal Scots, who were in the rear, were now pushed forward to take possession of a rising ground on the right, while the Highlanders were marched forward to the immediate support of the Infantry and Grenadiers. This movement had the effect of bringing the enemy into close action. The bayonet stirred and laid bare the thicket. The woods resounded with the shouts and yells of the Cherokees, but they no longer fell with terror upon the ear of the whites. They had grown familiar. The savages yielded slowly as the bayonet advanced. Suffering severely as they fled, they yet displayed the native obstinacy of their race,--turning upon the pursuer when they could, availing themselves of tree or thicket to retard, by shot or stroke, the assailants; and, even in flight, only so far keeping ahead of the bayonet as to avoid its stroke. As he beheld this, Montgomery changed the head of his army, and advanced upon the town of Etchoee, which it had been their purpose to defend, and from which they now strove to divert him. This movement alarmed them for their wives and children. Their retreat became a flight; and, satisfied with having inflicted upon them this measure of punishment, the British General prepared to march back to Fort Prince George. This decision was the result of his exigencies. The situation of his army was neither a safe nor an agreeable one. The victory was with the Carolinians, yet the affair was very far from decisive in its consequences. The enemy had only retired from one advantageous position to another. They waited his approach only to renew a conflict in which even victory might be without its fruits. To gain a battle, unless a final one, was, with a force so small as his, a matter of very doubtful advantage. He was already encumbered with his wounded, to furnish horses for whom, he was compelled to discard, and to destroy, a large quantity of the provisions necessary for the army. What remained was measured with a nice reference to their absolute wants on the return march to Prince George. Under these suggestions of prudence the retreat was begun. It was conducted with admirable regularity. The Cherokees, meanwhile, hung upon the retiring footsteps of the invaders, annoying them to the utmost of their power. Sixty miles of mountainous country were traversed in this manner, and under various hardships, with a skill and intrepidity which confer the highest credit upon the English captain. A large train of wounded was brought to the frontier without the loss of a man. We have admitted an uncertainty as to the presence of Marion in this campaign. It would be impertinent and idle, therefore, to speculate upon his performances, or the share which he might have taken in its events. Tradition simply assures us that he distinguished himself. That, if present, he did his duty, we have no question; and, enduring with becoming resolution the worst severities of the march, proved himself possessed of the first great requisite for soldiership in Indian warfare. Chapter 4. Cherokee War continues--Marion leads the Forlorn Hope at the Battle of Etchoee. The Cherokees were very far from being subdued or satisfied. The snake had been "scotched not killed", and stung, rather than humbled by the chastisement they received, they prepared to assume the offensive with sudden vigor. Concentrating a numerous force upon the distant garrison of Fort Loudon, on the Tennessee river, they succeeded in reducing it by famine. Here they took bloody revenge for the massacre of their chiefs at Prince George. The garrison was butchered, after a formal surrender upon terms which guaranteed them protection. This wholesale and vindictive barbarity, while it betrayed the spirit which filled the savages, had the still farther effect of encouraging them in a warfare which had so far gratified very equally their appetites for blood and booty. In addition to this natural effect, the result of their own wild passions, there were other influences, from without, at work among them. Certain French emissaries had crept into their towns and were busily engaged, with bribes and arguments, in stimulating them to continued warfare. This, in all probability, was the secret influence, which, over all, kept them from listening, as well to their own fears, as to the urgent suggestions of the British authorities, for peace. Hitherto, the Cherokees had given no ear to the temptations of the French, whom they considered a frivolous people, and whose professions of faith they were very likely to have regarded with distrust. But the labors of their emissaries at this juncture, harmonizing with the temper of the nation, were necessarily more than usually successful. One of these emissaries, Louis Latinac, an officer of considerable talent, proved an able instigator to mischief. He persuaded them, against the better reason of their older chiefs, to the rejection of every overture for peace. Their successes at Fort Loudon were, perhaps, sufficient arguments for the continuance of war, but there were others not less potent. The king of France was now to be their ally in place of him of Great Britain. The one "great father" was no less able than the other to minister to their appetites and necessities. His arms and ammunition replaced those which had been withdrawn by the latter; and we may suppose that the liberality of the new allies was such as to admit of very favorable comparison and contrast with that which they had experienced at the hands of the British. Their very excesses in the war were favorable to its continuance; as they might very well doubt the binding force of treaties between parties, the bad faith of whom had been written so terribly in blood. At a great meeting of the nation, at which Louis Latinac was present, he, with something of their own manner, seizing suddenly upon a hatchet, struck it violently into a block of wood, exclaiming, as he did so, "Who is the warrior that will take this up for the king of France?" Salouee, a young chief of Estatoee, instantly tore the weapon from the tree. He declared himself for instant and continued war. "The spirits of our slain brothers," was his cry, "call upon us to avenge their massacre. He is a woman that dares not follow me!" Such being the spirit of the savages, the Carolinians had no alternative but to resume their arms. Col. Montgomery having gone to England, the command devolved upon Colonel Grant, and the Highlanders were once more ordered to the relief of the province. The Carolinians were now somewhat better prepared to cooperate with their allies. A native regiment of twelve hundred men was raised, and the command given to Col. Middleton, a brave and accomplished provincial officer. To this regiment Marion was attached, under the immediate command of Moultrie. Many of his associates in this Cherokee war became subsequently, like himself, distinguished in the war with Great Britain. Among these may be mentioned the names of Moultrie,* Henry Laurens, Andrew Pickens and Isaac Huger. These were all officers, even in that early day, and Marion himself held a lieutenancy--some proof that, however little we may know of the circumstances by which he secured the confidence of his neighbors, he was already in full possession of it. How much of the future acts and successes of these brave men was due to the exercises and events of this Cherokee war, may reasonably be conjectured by every reader who knows the value of a stern apprenticeship to a hazardous profession. Its successive campaigns against no inferior enemy, and under circumstances of peril and privation of no common order, were such as must have afforded them frequent opportunity of making themselves familiar equally with the exigencies and responsibilities of command. * Moultrie in his Memoirs, vol. 2, p. 223, would seem to settle the question in the negative, whether Marion was or was not in the preceding campaign. He says, "General Marion and myself ENTERED THE FIELD OF MARS TOGETHER, in an expedition against the Cherokee Indians, under the command of Colonel James Grant, in 1761, when I had the honor to command a light infantry company in a provincial regiment; he was my first lieutenant. He was an active, brave and hardy soldier, and an excellent partisan officer." This is very far however from being conclusive, inasmuch as we have seen that Marion 'entered the field of Mars' two years before, under the command of his brother, in the first campaign of Lyttleton against the Indians. This latter fact is settled beyond all question.-- To the united forces of Colonels Grant and Middleton, were added a certain number of Chickasaw and Catawba Indians; making a total of twenty-six hundred men. This army reached Fort Prince George on the 29th of May, 1761. On the 7th of June following, it took up the line of march for the enemy's country. The advance was conducted with caution, but without molestation, until it reached the place where Montgomery, in the previous campaign, had encountered the Indians, near the town of Etchoee. Here the Cherokees were again prepared to make a stand, and to dispute a pass which, above all others, seemed to be admirably designed by nature for the purposes of defence. Their position was not exactly what it had been on the previous occasion, but its characteristic advantages were the same. Hitherto, the Indians had shown considerable judgment in the selection of their battle-grounds, and in the general employment of their strength. This judgment they probably owed in great part to their present adversaries. Quick in their instinct, and surprisingly observant, they had soon learned the use of European weapons. The various lessons of European tactics, the modes of attack and defence, were, in their united struggles with the French, equally open to their study and acquisition. They had not suffered these lessons to escape them. But they probably owed something of their skill in the present war to the active counsels of the French emissaries. The fact is not recorded by the historian, but there is no reason to suppose that the officers who counselled the war, would withhold themselves when the opportunity offered, from giving directions in the field. The French had frequently distinguished themselves, by leading on forces entirely composed of Indians. The practice was common. Even at the defeat of Braddock, the French troops bore but a small proportion to their Indian allies. There is no reason to suppose that Louis Latinac was not present at one or both of the bloody fields of Etchoee. The provincial army marched in good order upon the suspected position. The Indian auxiliaries, who were in the van, first discovered signs of an enemy. The Cherokees were in possession of a hill, strongly posted, and in considerable force, upon the right flank of the army. Finding themselves discovered, they opened their fire upon the advanced guard, and followed it up with a gallant charge. But the van being vigorously and promptly supported, they were driven back, and resumed their position upon the hill. Under this hill the line of march lay for a considerable distance. To attempt, therefore, to continue the march before dislodging the enemy in possession of it, would be to expose the troops to a protracted fire, the more murderous, as it would be delivered by a foe in a position of perfect security. The advanced guard was ordered upon this duty, and from this body a forlorn-hope of thirty men was chosen, to force the perilous entrance to the foe. The command of this devoted corps was assigned to Francis Marion, still a lieutenant under the command of Moultrie, in the provincial regiment of Middleton. The ascent of the hill was by means of a gloomy defile, through which the little band, headed gallantly by their leader, advanced with due rapidity; a considerable body of the army moving forward at the same time in support of the advance. Scarcely had the detachment penetrated the defile, when the war-whoop gave the signal. The savages, still concealed, poured in a deadly fire, by which no less than twenty-one of this fated band were prostrated.* Fortunately their leader was not among them. He seems, like Washington, to have been the special care of Providence. The residue were only saved from destruction by the proximity of the advance, whose hurried approach, while giving them safety, brought on the main action. The battle was fought with great carnage on both sides. The Cherokees were not only well posted, but they were in great numbers. Repeatedly dislodged by the bayonet, they as repeatedly returned to the attack; and, driven from one quarter, rallied upon another, with a tenacious and unshaken valor becoming in men who were defending the passes to the bosom of their country. From eight in the morning until noon, the fight was continued, not only without intermission, but seemingly without any decisive results on either side. But, at length, the patient resolution of the whites prevailed; and, about two o'clock in the day, the field was yielded by the reluctant Cherokees to their superior foes. This victory determined the fate of Etchoee, a town of considerable size, which was reduced to ashes. * Weems, p. 21. Horry's MS. Memoir, p. 58.-- The result of this fierce engagement seems to have broken the spirit of the nation. They had chosen the position of greatest strength to make their stand, and brought to the struggle their best spirits and bravest warriors. In the issue, they had shown, by their dogged and determined valor, the great importance which it carried in their eyes. The day once decided against them, they appeared to be equally without heart and hope; they no longer appeared in arms--no longer offered defence--and the army of the Carolinians marched through the heart of the nation, searching its secret settlements, and everywhere inflicting the severest penalties of war. The rest of the campaign was an easy progress, and terrible was the retribution which it brought with it. No less than fourteen of their towns, in the middle settlements, shared the fate of Etchoee. Their granaries were yielded to the flames, their cornfields ravaged, while the miserable fugitives, flying from the unsparing sword, took refuge, with their almost starving families, among the barren mountains, which could yield them little but security. A chastisement so extreme was supposed to be necessary, in order to subdue for ever that lively disposition for war, upon the smallest provocation, which, of late years, the Cherokees had manifested but too frequently; but it may be doubted whether the means which were employed for administering this admonitory lesson, were of the most legitimate character. We must always continue to doubt that humanity required the destruction of towns and hamlets, whose miserable walls of clay and roofs of thatch could give shelter to none but babes and sucklings--women with their young--those who had never offended, and those who could not well offend--the innocent victims to an authority which they never dared oppose. The reckless destruction of their granaries--fields yet growing with grain--necessarily exposed to the worst privations of famine only those portions of the savage population who were least guilty. The warrior and hunter could readily relieve himself from the gnawing necessities of hunger. He could wander off to remote tribes, and, armed with rifle or bow, could easily secure his game, sufficient for his own wants, from the contiguous forest. But these were resources inaccessible to the weak, the old, the timid, and the imbecile. Surely, it was a cruel measure of war, and if necessary to the safety of the whites, renders still more criminal the wanton excesses of the latter, by which it was originally provoked. It is pleasing to be able to show that Marion felt, in this matter, as became that rare humanity which was one of the most remarkable and lovely traits in his character,--the more remarkable, indeed, as shining out among endowments which, in particular, designated him for a military life--a life which is supposed to need for its stimulus so much that is sanguinary, if not brutal, in one's nature. It is recorded of him, that the severities practised in this campaign filled him, long after, with recollections of sorrow. Writing to a friend,* he gives a brief description of the calamities of the war, in terms equally touching and picturesque. "We arrived," he writes, "at the Indian towns in the month of July. As the lands were rich, and the season had been favorable, the corn was bending under the double weight of lusty roasting ears and pods of clustering beans. The furrows seemed to rejoice under their precious loads--the fields stood thick with bread. We encamped the first night in the woods, near the fields, where the whole army feasted on the young corn, which, with fat venison, made a most delicious treat. * In a letter quoted by Weems. [The poetic language here suggests the possibility that this letter may be one of Weems' inventions.--A. L., 1996.]-- "The next morning we proceeded, by order of Colonel Grant, to burn down the Indian cabins. Some of our men seemed to enjoy this cruel work, laughing very heartily at the curling flames as they mounted, loud-crackling, over the tops of the huts. But to me it appeared a shocking sight. "Poor creatures!" thought I, "we surely need not grudge you such miserable habitations." But when we came, ACCORDING TO ORDERS, to cut down the fields of corn, I could scarcely refrain from tears. For who could see the stalks that stood so stately, with broad green leaves and gaily-tasselled shocks, filled with sweet milky fluid, and flour, the staff of life--who, I say, without grief, could see these sacred plants sinking under our swords, with all their precious load, to wither and rot untasted, in their mourning fields! "I saw everywhere around the footsteps of the little Indian children, where they had lately played under the shelter of the rustling corn. No doubt they had often looked up with joy to the swelling shocks, and gladdened when they thought of their abundant cakes for the coming winter. When we are gone, thought I, they will return, and peeping through the weeds with tearful eyes, will mark the ghastly ruin poured over their homes, and the happy fields where they had so often played. 'Who did this?' they will ask their mothers. 'The white people, the Christians did it!' will be the reply." "It would be no easy matter," says Hewatt, the earliest regular historian of Carolina, "to describe the hardships which this little army endured, in the wilderness, from heat, thirst, watching, danger, and fatigue. Thirty days did Colonel Grant continue in the heart of the Cherokee territories, and upon his return to Fort Prince George, the feet and legs of many of his army were so mangled, and their strength and spirits so much exhausted, that they were unable to march farther." But the chastisement which the Indians had received, secured the object for the attainment of which it was inflicted. The Cherokees sued for peace, and Marion once more retired to the obscurity of rural life; we may well believe with a human sense of satisfaction, that the painful duty upon which he had been engaged was at length over. Unhappily, the details of the war, beyond those which we have given, do not enable us to ascertain the extent of his services. We are simply told that he behaved well, with skill and spirit. More than this perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect from any degree of talent, in the subordinate situation which he at that time occupied. Chapter 5. 1775. Marion is returned for the Provincial Congress from St. John's, Berkeley--Made Captain in the Second Regiment --Fort Johnson taken--Battle of Fort Moultrie. Engaged in rural and domestic occupations we hear no more of Marion, except as a citizen and farmer, until the beginning of the year 1775. In the latter capacity he is reputed to have been successful; and between the labors and sports of the field, the more violent humors of youth seem to have been dissipated in exercises which are seldom followed by reproach. He was very fond of angling and hunting, and with rod or gun, his leisure was employed in a way that would not have displeased the gentle Isaak Walton. These constituted his chief pastimes for the fourteen years that had elapsed since his Cherokee campaigns. His connection with public events had long since ceased; but, from all accounts, he still continued, in some degree, to fill the eyes of his countrymen. His firmness and purity of character, his gentle temper, known bravery, and the conduct which he had already manifested in war, had secured to him the confidence and the affections of his neighbors. He had attained that place in their esteem which naturally brought him conspicuously before their eyes in the moment of emergency. Emergencies were now approaching of a kind well calculated to bring into the field all the energies, with all the patriotism of the country. The great struggle was at hand between the colonies and that mighty empire by which they had been established. Of the part taken by South Carolina in this conflict, history has already sufficiently informed us. Her movements were made without reserve--her resolves taken promptly, and steadily maintained with her best blood and treasure. Her battles were among the boldest and bloodiest, as they were among the first and last of the revolution. Of the political steps by which she committed herself to that event, it does not need that we should enter into details. These belong rather to general history than to biography. It will be enough to exhibit those particulars only, of her progress, in which the subject of our memoir was more immediately interested. That he took an early and deep concern in the contest may be inferred from his character. That he should not have become an active politician may also be inferred from his known modesty, and the general reserve of his deportment in society. He was no orator, and no doubt felt quite as awkward in debate as Washington. But his opinions were well known; he was not the person about whose ways of thinking, in trying times, his neighbors could entertain either doubt or discussion. He formed his opinions as promptly as he fought for them, and his character was above concealment. We find him accordingly, in 1775, returned to the Provincial Congress of South Carolina, as a member from St. John, Berkeley.* This Congress distinguished itself by committing the people of South Carolina to the final destinies of the Revolution. It adopted the American Bill of Rights, as declared by the Continental Congress--adopted the famous "act of association", recommended by the same federative body to all the colonies, by which the subscribers bound themselves to refuse and to prevent the importation of goods, wares and merchandise, from the mother country; established committees of safety throughout the province, and, in short, in possession of almost dictatorial powers, did not hesitate to use them for the public welfare. It was at particular pains to infuse a martial spirit among the people; and, influenced by this spirit, and under the immediate suggestion, and by direct participation, of this assembly, certain overt acts of treason were committed. The public armory in Charleston was broken open by night, and eight hundred stand of arms, two hundred cutlasses, besides cartouches, flints, matches and other necessary materials of war, were withdrawn without discovery. One party possessed itself of the public powder at Hobcau; another emptied Cochran's Magazine, while a third, as above stated, relieved the state armory of its contents. In all these proceedings, the members of the Provincial Congress displayed the energies of men, who, having once set their hands to the plough, have resolved not to be turned away from it. Under that bolder policy which, by provoking the danger, compels the timid to a part in it from which they might otherwise shrink in terror, they were personally engaged in these acts of treason. We may reasonably conclude that, however silent as a member, Francis Marion was not the person to forbear taking active part in the more hazardous duties which distinguished the doings of the body to which he belonged. There was a generous impulse in his character, which hurried him into performance, whenever work was to be done, or daring became necessary. He could approach such duties with a degree of cheerfulness, which to the ordinary mind, thoughtful only of the consequences and responsibilities of action, seemed to partake of levity and recklessness. There was, indeed, an element of playfulness, we had almost said fun, in his character; a quiet and unobtrusive humor, which enlivened his utterance, and softened, with a gentle aspect, a countenance that might otherwise have been esteemed severe. We have no doubt that the native courage, and the elastic spirit of his temperament made him an active participant in all those deeds of decision, which the deliberations of the body to which he belonged, deemed it necessary should be done. We can very well imagine him conspicuous among those masked and midnight bands, commissioned to do mischief for the public good, by which the arsenals were stripped of their contents, and the tea-chests tumbled into Cooper river.** * "For St. John's, Berkeley County--James Ravenel, Daniel Ravenel, JOB MARION, John Frierson, Esqrs., Mr. Gabriel Gignilliat, MR. FRANCIS MARION." Journals of the Provincial Congress of South Carolina. ** It is not so generally known that South Carolina did her part, as well as Massachusetts, in destroying teas and stamped paper.-- The Provincial Congress having thus committed the country, without doubt, to the destinies of war, and having, to some extent, provided against its consequences, adjourned to re-assemble on the 20th June, 1775. But this interval was shortened by the occurrence of events equally unexpected and important. The battle of Lexington, in the meantime, had taken place, and any hopes which might have been entertained, of a final reconciliation between the two countries, without a trial of strength, was fairly dismissed from every reflecting, if not every loyal mind. Instead of the 20th of June, the Provincial Congress was brought together on the first day of that month.* * A letter from ISAAC MARION, one of the brothers of our subject, who dwelt at Little River, the Northern boundary of the province, is worthy of quotation, as serving to show that he was animated with the same public spirit that possessed his more distinguished kinsman. It was written to accompany the express, which brought the news of the battle of Lexington. A letter to him, from R. Howe, of N.C., forwarding the express, remarking, "I know you stand in no need of being prompted when your country requires your service"--would seem to show that he too had shared in the reputation of his brother. The following is the letter of Isaac Marion, addressed to the Committee of Safety of Little River. Boundary, May 9, 1775, Little River. Gentlemen of the Committee;--I have just now received an express, from the Committee of the Northern Provinces, desiring I would forward the enclosed packet to the Southern Committees. As yours is the nearest, I request FOR THE GOOD OF YOUR COUNTRY, AND THE WELFARE OF OUR LIVES, LIBERTIES, AND FORTUNES, you'll not lose a moment's time, but dispatch the same to the Committee of Georgetown, to be forwarded to Charleston. In meantime, am, gentlemen, Your obliged humble servant, &c. Isaac Marion. To Danness, Hawkins and others.-- The members of this body, assembling according to summons, proceeded, with the utmost vigor, to the consideration of the subjects before them. They approached their tasks with equal speed and solemnity. Their labors were commenced with Divine Service, and an act of association was then passed, though not without considerable opposition. This act ran as follows:-- "The actual commencement of hostilities against this Continent by the British troops, in the bloody scene of the 19th of April last, near Boston--the increase of arbitrary imposition from a wicked and despotic ministry--and the dread of insurrections in the Colonies--are causes sufficient to drive an oppressed people to the use of arms. We, therefore, the subscribers, inhabitants of South Carolina, holding ourselves bound by that most sacred of all obligations, the duty of good citizens to an injured country, and thoroughly convinced, that, under our present distressed circumstances, we shall be justified before God and man, in resisting force by force--do unite ourselves, under every tie of religion and honor, and associate as a band in her defence, against every foe--hereby solemnly engaging, that, whenever our Continental and Provincial Councils shall deem it necessary, we will go forth, and be ready to sacrifice our lives and fortunes to secure her freedom and safety. This obligation to continue in force, until a reconciliation shall take place between Great Britain and America, upon Constitutional principles--an event which we most ardently desire. And, we will hold all those persons inimical to the liberty of the Colonies, who shall refuse to subscribe to this association."* * Drayton's Memoirs, Vol. 1, p. 28.-- This open declaration was followed up with measures equally fearless and decisive. On the fourth day of the session, the Provincial Congress resolved to raise fifteen hundred infantry, rank and file, in two regiments; and four hundred and fifty horse, constituting another regiment. The troops so to be raised, were to be subjected to military discipline, and to the articles of war, in like manner with the British. On the fourteenth day of their session, a million of money was voted, and a council of safety was elected, vested with the executive power of the colony. Among other acts of this body, non-subscribers to the association were made amenable to the General Committee, and punishable ACCORDING TO SOUND POLICY. Absentees having estates, were, with certain exceptions, required to return; and it was further resolved that no persons ought to withdraw from the service of the Colony, without giving good and sufficient reasons to the Provincial Congress. Military duty was performed day and night, as in a state of actual warfare, by the militia companies in rotation; and thus, having placed the province in a state of preparation, with arms in the hands of the people, and given to the newly arrived Governor, Lord William Campbell, a reception which boded small repose to his authority, the Provincial Congress adjourned itself on the 22d day of June, leaving their authority, in great part, to the Council of Safety and General Committee. It has been seen that the only share which Marion had in the proceedings of this body, was that of an assenting member. He was not endowed with those talents which could have rendered him conspicuous in a deliberative assembly. But he is not the less entitled to his share in the merit of those proceedings, which so admirably declared and illustrated the patriotism and the spirit of the province; and one of the last, decisive measures of the Provincial Congress, happily enabled him to appear in the character upon which he was more likely to confer distinction, than that of the orator. He was elected a captain in the Second Regiment, of which William Moultrie, formerly his captain in the Cherokee campaign, was made Colonel. The duties of this appointment were immediately begun, with a promptness at once due to the necessities of the case, and his own character. As a proof of the zeal by which the newly made officers were distinguished, we find them seeking recruits so early as the 20th of June, and while the body to which they belonged were still engaged in the most laborious duties of the session.* * Drayton's Memoirs, vol. 1, p. 265. NOTE.-- Marion's commission was made out on the 21st June. Weems, in his life of our subject, gives us some pictures, equally lively and ludicrous, of his progress in the business of recruiting, upon which, in connection with his friend, Captain Horry, he at once begun. This gentleman received his appointment as captain at the same time, and in the same regiment, with Marion. The Provincial Congress had voted a million of money, by which to carry out their measures, but this was yet to be procured, and, as it appears, rather more upon the credit of individuals than that of the colony. But money, in times of danger, seems to have an instinct of its own, by which it hides itself readily from sight and touch. It was no easy matter for our captains to obtain the requisite sums. But faith and zeal did more for them, and for the cause, than gold and silver; and with very inadequate supplies, but in fresh and showy uniforms, our young officers set forth on the recruiting service. Their route lay in the several neighborhoods of Georgetown, Black River, and the Great Pedee. In these parts both of them were known. Here, indeed, Marion was already a favorite. Accordingly, they succeeded beyond their expectations, and were soon enabled to complete the full number for their two companies, of fifty men each. Another circumstance, apart from their personal popularity, probably facilitated their objects. Some of the settlements into which they penetrated were originally founded by the Irish. The bitter heritage of hate to the English, which they brought with them to America, was transmitted with undiminished fervor to their descendants. It was easy to show that the power which had trampled upon the affections of their fathers, and tyrannized over their rights in the old world, was aiming at the same objects in the case of their children in the new. At one remove only from the exiled and suffering generation, the sons had as lively a recollection of the tyrannies of Britain as if the experience had been immediately their own. To this cause our recruiting officers owed some of their success in the present expedition. Some of the bravest fellows of the second regiment were picked up on this occasion. It was the spirit which they brought, and to which the genius of Marion gave lively exercise, that imparted a peculiar vitality at all times to his little brigade. Among these gallant young men there were two in particular, of whom tradition in Carolina will long retain a grateful recollection; these were Jasper and Macdonald. Of these two, both of whom sealed their patriotism with their blood, we shall yet have something further to deliver. While the friends of liberty were thus active, the adherents of the crown, in the colony, were not less so. These, in many parts of the country, were equally numerous and influential. They possessed, indeed, certain advantages in the discussion, which, in some degree, served to counterbalance the impelling and stimulating influences which always belong to a 'mouvement' party. They carried with them the PRESTIGE of authority, of the venerable power which time and custom seemed to hallow; they appealed to the loyalty of the subject; they dwelt upon the dangers which came with innovation; they denounced the ambition of the patriot leaders; they reminded the people of the power of Great Britain--a power to save or to destroy--which had so frequently and so successfully been exerted in their behalf in their numerous and bloody conflicts with the Indians, and which might be brought, with such fearful emphasis, upon their own heads. They reminded the people that the Indians were not exterminated, that they still hung in numerous hordes about the frontiers, and that it needed but a single word from the Crown, to bring them, once more, with tomahawk and scalping-knife, upon their defenceless homes. Already, indeed, had the emissaries of Great Britain taken measures to this end. The savage was already shaking off his apathy, scenting the carnage from afar, and making ready for the onset. The assurance, that such was the case, was doing the work of numerous arguments among the timid and the exposed. Such were the suggestions, appealing equally to their fears and gratitude, which the leading loyalists addressed to the people. They were supported by other suggestions, scarcely less potent, which naturally flowed from their own thoughts. Why should they dare the conflict with Great Britain? There was no such reason for it as in the case of the northern colonies. They had known her chiefly by benefactions; they did not conflict with her in shipping or in manufactures; and the arguments for discontent and resistance, as urged by the patriot leaders, did not reach them with sufficient force. What was the tax on tea, of which they drank little, and the duty on stamps, when they had but little need for legal papers? And why should not taxes follow protection, which Great Britain had not often withheld in the need of a favorite colony, as South Carolina had unquestionably been? Let us do justice to this people. The loyalists--or, as they were more commonly called, and as we shall hereafter be compelled to call them, the Tories--were, probably, in the majority of cases, governed by principle, by a firm and settled conviction, after deliberate examination of the case. That they might have thought otherwise, nay, would gradually have adopted the opinions of the patriots, is not improbable, had more time been allowed them, and had the course of the latter been more indulgent and considerate. Unfortunately, this was not the case; and the desire to coerce where they could not easily convince, had the effect of making a determined and deadly, out of a doubtful foe. This was terribly proved by the after history. To this cause we may ascribe, in some degree, the terrors of that sanguinary strife, in which, to use the language of a distinguished officer, they "pursued each other rather like wild beasts than men."* We shall see something of this history as we proceed in ours. * Letter of General Greene. See Johnson's Greene.-- There was yet another circumstance which tended, in some degree, to give courage to the Tories. It was the somewhat temporizing policy of the patriots. There was still a feeling of doubt, a hesitancy, on the part of the latter, as the prospects grew stronger of a final breach with Great Britain. There were many who still clung to the hope that the differences of the two nations might yet be reconciled; and though the means of such reconciliation did not make themselves obvious, they yet fondly cherished the conviction that something might turn up, at the last moment, to prevent the absolute necessity of bloodshed. This portion of the patriots necessarily influenced the rest; those who, looking beyond the moment, saw the true issue, and properly regarded the declared objects of difference as pretexts which must suffice when the better reasons might not be expressed. They dared not openly broach the idea of national independence, which, there is very little question that the noblest of the American patriots everywhere, though secretly, entertained from the beginning. The people were not prepared for such a revelation--such a condition; and appearances were still to be maintained. Their proceedings, accordingly, still wore, however loosely, a pacific aspect. Though actively preparing for war, the professions of the patriots declared their measures to be precautionary only--a refuge, an alternative, in the event of greater oppression. They still spoke the language of loyalty, still dealt in vague assurances of devotion to the crown. But such professions deceived nobody, and least of all the loyalists. They derived courage from the reluctance of the patriots to embark in a struggle, for the fruits of which, if successful, they evidently longed. They were not less active--nay, in the interior, they were even more active--than their opponents; had already taken arms, and gained advantages, which nothing but decisive movements on the part of the people along the seaboard could possibly induce them to forego. This necessity was apparent for other reasons. In consequence of the temporizing policy already mentioned, the crown was still in possession of most of the shows of power in and about Charleston. The royal governor was still in the city, and in some degree exerting his authority. Fort Johnson, on James' Island, was suffered to remain in the hands of the king's troops for more than three months after the Provincial Congress had ordered a levy of troops, and had resolved on taking up arms. Two British armed vessels, the Tamar and Cherokee, lay in Rebellion Roads, opposite Sullivan's Island. This force was quite sufficient, under existing circumstances, to have destroyed the town. But the royal leaders were not prepared for this issue; they shared the reluctance of the patriots to begin a conflict, the issues of which were so extreme. Their policy, like that of the patriots--influencing it, and possibly influenced by it--was equally halting and indecisive. It was sufficiently satisfactory if, by the presence of such a force, the citizens should be overawed and kept from action. This condition of things could not continue. The very nature of the movement was adverse to indecision. It needed but a first step--a first stroke--and this was to be taken by the patriots. They brooked impatiently the humiliating position in which the city stood, controlled by an inferior enemy; and it was resolved that Fort Johnson should be subdued. It was on this occasion that Marion first drew his sword against the British. He was one of those Captains who, with their companies, were dispatched on this expedition. The command was given to Col. Moultrie. A strong resistance was expected, as, but a short time before, the garrison had been reinforced from the armed vessels. At midnight on the fourteenth of September, 1775, the detachment crossed to James' Island. The disembarkation was effected with delay and difficulty, occasioned by the inadequate size and number of the boats. The forlorn hope, consisting of a detachment from the grenadiers of Capt. Pinckney, joined by the Cadets, and led by Lieut. Mouatt, were to scale the walls of the fort on its south bastion; Col. Moultrie with the rest of Pinckney's Grenadiers, and Marion's Light Infantry, were to enter or force the gates over the ravelin; while Capt. Elliott, with his grenadiers, penetrated the lower battery over the left flank. It was broad daylight before the landing was effected; and on making the assault they were surprised by an easy victory. The fort was abandoned. The enemy had probably been apprised of the attack. A detachment from the ships had landed some hours before--had dismantled the fort, dismounted the cannon, and withdrawn the garrison; retreating in safety to the ships. A gunner and three men only, fell into the hands of the provincials. The very day that this event occurred, Lord William Campbell, the Governor, fled to the Tamar sloop of war. His flight was no doubt hastened by a proceeding so decisive. That evening he dispatched his secretary to Fort Johnson, which he was not permitted to enter. He was met at the water-side by Capt. Pinckney, of whom he demanded, in the name of the Governor, by what authority he had taken and held possession of the fortress. The answer to this demand brought up the vessels of war, which, on the seventeenth of September, presented themselves within point blank shot of the fort. Up to this time, but three of the dismantled cannon had been remounted and put in order for action. With these, the provincials prepared for battle, relying, however, less upon their cannon than upon their ability to oppose the landing of any body of men. But the demonstration of the squadron was without fruits. They hauled off without a shot, and resumed their former less offensive position. Here, however, the popular leaders were not disposed to suffer them to remain. Still they hesitated at coming to blows. They adopted a middle course, which, in such cases, is generally the worst. They ordered that the ships should not be victualled or supplied with water from the city, except from day to day. This produced a threat from Captain Thornborough that, unless supplied as before, he should prevent the ingress, or departure, of any vessel from the harbor. A menace of this kind, to have been properly met, should have been answered from the eighteen pounders of Fort Johnson. And, but for the reluctance of several highly esteemed patriots, such would have been the mode of answer. This temporizing policy continued to prevail until the 9th November, 1775, when the Provincial Congress resolved, "by every military operation, to oppose the passage of any British Armament." Such were the orders issued to the officer commanding at Fort Johnson. This fort had now been in possession of the popular party for nearly two months. It was in some degree prepared for use. It was well manned with a portion of those brave fellows who afterwards fought the good fight of Fort Sullivan. They would have done as good service here. The resolution of the Province once adopted, it was communicated as well to the commanders of the British vessels, as to the officers of the fort. There was still an open passage, through Hog-Island channel, by which the British vessels might approach the town without incurring any danger from the Fort. This passage it was determined to obstruct; and an armed schooner, called the Defence, fitted up for the occasion, was ordered to cover and protect a party which was employed to sink a number of hulks in that narrow strait. This drew upon them the fire of the British. It was returned by the "Defence", but with little injury to either side. The garrison at Fort Johnson endeavored to take part in this little action, but the distance was too great for any decisive results from its fire. Some of the shots took effect, but after a few rounds the fire was discontinued. Meanwhile, the alarm was beat in Charleston, where the troops stood to their arms, and every heart throbbed with the expectation of a close and bloody fight. But the time was not yet. Indecisive in itself, this brief combat was of great importance in one point of view. It was the beginning of the game. The blow for which all parties had been waiting, was now fairly struck. The sword had been drawn from the scabbard, not again to be sheathed, till the struggle was concluded. The local Congress proceeded vigorously. Ships were impressed for the purpose of war, new troops were enlisted and armed, and bills of credit issued. The British vessels, meanwhile, became more than ever troublesome, and, carrying out the menace of Captain Thornborough, proceeded to the seizure of all vessels within their reach, whether going from or returning to the port. It became necessary to drive them from the roadstead. To effect this, Col. Moultrie, with a party of newly raised Provincials and the Charleston Artillery, took post on Haddrill's Point, and, mounting a few pieces of heavy artillery, opened upon them with a well-directed fire, which drove them out to sea. This step was followed by one of preparation. The fortifications at Fort Johnson and Haddrill's Point were completed--the city was fortified--a new fort was raised on James', and another begun on Sullivan's Island. The militia were diligently trained, the provincial troops augmented and disciplined, and all means within the power of the Colony were put in requisition to prepare it for defence. Among other preparations, a military post was established at the town of Dorchester, and strongly fortified. This post was nearly at the head of navigation, on Ashley river, about twenty miles from Charleston. Though now utterly desolate, Dorchester was, prior to the Revolution, a town of considerable population and importance. Its abandonment may be ascribed to the Revolution, during which it was maintained as a military post by the Americans or British. To this place the public stores and records were in great part transferred from Charleston, as to a place of safe-keeping. The command was given to Marion. While in this command we do not find the occurrence of any events of importance. A couple of his original letters, dated from this post, lie before us. They refer only to ordinary events, but contain some expressions which denote the ardency of his patriotism, and the disappointments to which it was not unfrequently subjected in consequence of the apathy of others. Referring to the reluctance shown by many, of whom the utmost patriotism was expected, to rally around the flag of the country, he exclaims--in a partial perversion of Scripture language, but without irreverence, "Tell this not in the streets of Charleston," &c. From this post Marion was removed to Charleston, very probably at his own solicitation. Events were ripening in that quarter, of a nature calculated to give becoming employment to a mind always active, and desiring nothing more than to serve his country. From Charleston, he was dispatched to Fort Johnson, where he was busily employed in completing the defences of that place. Weems preserves an anecdote of him, while in command of this fort, in January, 1776, which pleasantly describes the quiet and not unamiable sort of humor in which Marion was frequently said to indulge. While exceedingly busy in his preparations for defence, there came to him a thoughtless young officer, who loved the cockpit much better than consisted entirely with his duties. Christmas and New Year's Holidays were famous at that early period, for the exercise of this cruel sport in some parts of Carolina. To obtain leave of absence, however, on any holiday pretence, the young officer very well knew was impossible. Approaching his Commander with a lie in his mouth, he obtained the desired permission, in order to receive the last blessing of a dying father; and, exulting in the unworthy artifice, he hurried to Dorchester, which, on that occasion, was to be the scene of his recreation. During his absence, Marion arrived at the truth of the story, but said nothing. When the youth returned, which he did after two weeks' absence, he proceeded to the marquee of his Commander, to report himself, and began a tedious apology for having stayed, so long. Marion gently interrupted him, and, with a smile, in the presence of all the officers, replied--"Never mind it, Lieutenant--there's no harm done--we never missed you." The effect of this sarcasm is said to have been admirable; and to have resulted in the complete reform of the offender, who, from being a trifling, purposeless, and unscrupulous young man, grew considerate equally of his duties and his word, and, by a career of industry, sobriety and modesty, made ample amends, in future days, for all the errors of the past. With the formation of new regiments, under the resolves of the Council of Safety, Marion was promoted to a Majority. This appointment materially enlarged the sphere of his duties. But he was one of those remarkable men, who, without pretension, prove themselves equal to any trust which may be imposed upon them. Without the presence of an actual enemy, he addressed himself to the task of preparing his men for the encounter with them. He was constantly on parade, at the drill, closely engaged in the work of training, in which business, while very gentle, he was very exact; and, in such a degree had he improved the officers and men immediately under his charge, that they were very soon regarded as a model for all the rest. He was called the "architect of the Second Regiment". Weems, speaking for Col. Horry, says, "Indeed, I am not afraid to say that Marion was the ARCHITECT of the Second Regiment, and laid the foundation of that excellent discipline and confidence in themselves, which gained them such reputation whenever they were brought to face their enemies." The value of this training was very soon to be subjected to the most thorough of all possible tests. He was ordered with his Regiment, under command of Col. Wm. Moultrie, to take post at Fort Sullivan, on the island of that name, which stands at the entrance of Charleston harbor, and within point blank shot of the channel. The difficulties and deficiencies of this post, furnished some admirable preparatory lessons for the great conflict which was to follow. They imposed the necessity of diligent industry and hard labor, equally on men and soldiers. This was one of the famous schools of Roman discipline. Fort Sullivan, better known as Fort Moultrie--was yet to be built. When the Second Regiment entered it, it was little more than an outline. Its shape was described upon the sand, and the palmetto rafts lay around it, waiting to be moulded into form. The structure was an inartificial one--a simple wall, behind which young beginners might train guns to do mischief to a veteran enemy in front. Its form was square, with a bastion at each angle, sufficiently large, when finished, to cover a thousand men. It was built of logs, laid one upon another in parallel rows, at a distance of sixteen feet, bound together at frequent intervals with timber, dovetailed and bolted into the logs. The spaces between were filled up with sand. The merlons were walled entirely by palmetto logs, notched into one another at the angles, well bolted together and strengthened with pieces of massy timber. Such was the plan of the work; but, with all the diligence of the officers, and all the industry of the men, it remained unfinished at the perilous moment when a powerful British fleet appeared before its walls. The defence was confided to Col. Moultrie. The force under his command was four hundred and thirty-five men, rank and file, comprising four hundred and thirteen of the Second Regiment of Infantry, and twenty-two of the Fourth Regiment of Artillery. The whole number of cannon mounted on the fortress was thirty-one, of these, nine were French twenty-sixes; six English eighteens; nine twelve and seven nine pounders.* * Weems, in his Life of Marion, represents the cannon as made up principally of TWENTY-FOUR and THIRTY-SIX pounders; but the official accounts are as I have given them. See Drayton's Memoirs, vol. 2, pp. 290-1.-- General Charles Lee, who had been dispatched by the Continental Congress, to take command of the Army of the South, would have abandoned the fortress even before the appearance of the enemy. He was unwilling, in such a position, to abide the conflict. He seems, naturally enough for an officer brought up in a British Army, to have had an overweening veneration for a British fleet, in which it is fortunate for the country that the Carolinians did not share. In the unfinished condition of the fort, which really presented little more than a front towards the sea, his apprehensions were justifiable, and, could the fort have been enfiladed, as the British designed, it certainly would have been untenable. From the moment of his arrival, to the very moment when the action was raging, his chief solicitude seems to have been to ensure the defenders of the fortress a safe retreat. It is to their immortal honor that this mortifying measure was unnecessary. On the 20th of June, 1776, a day ever memorable in the annals of Carolina, the British ships of war, nine in number,*1* commanded by Sir Peter Parker, drew up abreast of the fort, let go their anchors, with springs upon their cables, and commenced a terrible bombardment. The famous battle which followed makes one of the brightest pages in our history. Its events, however, are too generally known to make it necessary that we should dwell upon them here. A few, however, belong properly and especially to our pages. The subject of this memoir was a conspicuous sharer in its dangers and in its honors. The fire of the enemy was promptly answered, and with such efficiency of aim as to be long remembered by the survivors. Having but five thousand pounds of powder, with which to maintain a conflict that raged for eleven hours, with unabated violence, it became necessary, not only that the discharge from the fort should be timed, but that every shot should be made to do execution. In order to do this the guns were trained by the field-officers in person; hence, perhaps, the terrible fatality of their fire. The Bristol, 50 gun ship, Commodore Sir Peter Parker, lost 44 men killed and thirty*2* wounded. Sir Peter himself lost an arm. The Experiment, another 50 gun ship, had 57 killed and 30 wounded.*3* To these two vessels in particular, the attention of the fort was directed. The words, passed along the line by officers and men, were--"Look to the Commodore--look to the fifty gun ships."*4* The smaller vessels suffered comparatively little. Their loss of men was small. The injury to the vessels themselves was greater, and one of them, the Acteon, run aground, and was subsequently burnt. The Carolinians lost but twelve men killed and twice that number wounded. One of the former was the brave fellow Macdonald, of whom we have already spoken. When borne from the embrasure where he received his mortal wound, he cried out to those around him--"Do not give up--you are fighting for liberty and country." The want of powder was severely felt. But for this, judging from the effects of the fire from the fort, the British Commodore must have struck, or his fleet must have been destroyed. So slow, at one time, were the discharges--so great the interval of time between them,--that the British were of opinion that the place was abandoned. But a new supply of powder was obtained by Marion, who, with a small party, leaving the fort, proceeded to the armed schooner Defence, lying in Stop Gap Creek, and seized upon her powder, by which the fire was kept up until a supply of five hundred weight was received from the city.*5* This caused a renewal of the conflict in all its fury. The garrison fought with a coolness which would have done honor to veterans. The day was very warm, and the men partially stripped to it. Moultrie says, "When the action begun (it being a warm day), some of the men took off their coats and threw them upon the top of the merlons. I saw a shot take one of them and throw it into a small tree behind the platform. It was noticed by our men, and they cried out, "look at the coat!" A little incident that speaks volumes for their coolness. Moultrie himself and several of his officers smoked their pipes during the action, only removing them when it became necessary to issue orders. In the hottest fire of the battle the flag of the fort was shot away, and fell without the fort. Jasper, with whom we have already brought the reader acquainted as one of Marion's men, instantly sprang after it upon the beach, between the ramparts and the enemy, and binding it to a sponge staff, restored it to its place, and succeeded in regaining his own in safety. We shall hear more hereafter, of this gallant fellow.*6* The coolness--nay the cavalier indifference--displayed by the Carolinians throughout the combat, is not its least remarkable feature. There is something chivalric in such deportment, which speaks for larger courage than belongs to ordinary valor. Mere bull-dog resolution and endurance is here lifted, by a generous ardor of soul, into something other than a passive virtue. The elasticity of spirit which it shows might be trained to any performance within the compass of human endowment. *1* Two ships of fifty guns; five of twenty-eight; 1 of twenty-six and a bomb-vessel. Moultrie, vol. 1 pp. 174-5. *2* Weems says 100. *3* British account. *4* Moultrie, Memoirs, Vol. 1, NOTE, p. 177. *5* MS. Life of Brig.-Gen. Peter Horry, p. 21. *6* Gen. Horry (then a captain) thus relates the incident: "I commanded an eighteen pounder in the left wing of the fort. Above my gun on the rampart, was a large American flag hung on a very high mast, formerly of a ship; the men of war directing their fire thereat, it was, from their shot, so wounded, as to fall, with the colors, over the fort. Sergeant Jasper of the Grenadiers leapt over the ramparts, and deliberately walked the whole length of the fort, until he came to the colors on the extremity of the left, when he cut off the same from the mast, and called to me for a sponge staff, and with a thick cord tied on the colors and stuck the staff on the rampart in the sand. The Sergeant fortunately received no hurt, though exposed for a considerable time, to the enemy's fire. Governor Rutledge [after the battle], as a reward, took his small sword from his side, and in presence of many officers, presented it to Sergeant Jasper, telling him to wear it in remembrance of the 28th June, and in remembrance of him. He also offered Jasper a Lieutenant's commission, but as he could neither read nor write, he modestly refused to accept it, saying, 'he was not fit to keep officers' company, being only bred a Sergeant.'"--MS. Life of Brig.-Gen. Peter Horry, pp. 19- 20.-- Tradition ascribes to the hand and eye of Marion, the terrible effect of the last shot which was fired on this bloody day. It was aimed at the Commodore's ship, which had already received something more than her due share of the attention of the fort. This shot, penetrating the cabin of the vessel, cut down two young officers who were drinking, we may suppose, to their fortunate escape from a conflict which seemed already over--then ranging forward, swept three sailors from the maindeck into eternity, and finally buried itself in the bosom of the sea. This curious particular was derived from five sailors who deserted from the fleet that very night. Chapter 6. 1777-8-9. From the Battle of Fort Moultrie to that of Savannah-- Anecdote of Jasper--His Death. The battle of Fort Sullivan was of immense importance, not merely to Carolina, but to all the confederated colonies. It saved the former, for three years, from the calamities of invasion; a respite of the last value to a country so greatly divided in public feeling and opinion. The battle preceded the declaration of Independence, and, though not generally known to have taken place before that decisive measure was resolved upon, it came seasonably to confirm the patriots in those principles which they had so solemnly and recently avowed. Its farther effect was to dissipate that spell of invincibility, which, in the minds of the Americans, seemed to hover about a British armament;--to heighten the courage of the militia, and to convince the most sceptical, that it needed only confidence and practice, to make the American people as good soldiers as any in the world. The Carolina riflemen were not a little elated to discover that they could handle twenty-six pounders as efficiently as the smaller implements of death, to which their hands were better accustomed. To the defenders of the fortress, their victory brought imperishable laurels. They had shown the courage and the skill of veterans, and their countrymen gloried in the reputation in which they necessarily shared. Moultrie received the thanks of Congress, of the Commander-in-Chief, and of his fellow citizens. The fort was thenceforth called by his name, and he was made a Brigadier-General. His Major, Marion, necessarily had his share in these public honors, and was raised by Congress to the rank of Lieut.-Colonel in the regular service. Two days after the battle, General Lee reviewed the garrison at Fort Moultrie, and thanked them "for their gallant defence of the fort against a fleet of eight men-of-war and a bomb, during a cannonade of eleven hours, and a bombardment of seven." At the same time, Mrs. Barnard Elliott presented an elegant pair of embroidered colors to the Second Regiment, with a brief address, in which she expressed her conviction that they would "stand by them as long as they can wave in the air of liberty." It was in fulfilling the pledge made by General Moultrie, on this occasion, in behalf of the regiment, that the brave Jasper lost his life before the walls of Savannah. The three years' respite from the horrors of war, which this victory secured to Carolina, was not, however, left unemployed by her citizen soldiery. The progress of events around them kept their services in constant requisition. While a part of them, in the interior, were compelled to take arms against the Cherokee Indians, the troops of the lower country were required against the Tories in Florida and Georgia. Governor Tonyn of the former, an active loyalist, proved a formidable annoyance to the patriots of the latter province. Florida, under his administration, was the secure refuge and certain retreat for all the malcontents and outlaws of the neighboring colonies. He gave them ample encouragement, put arms into their hands, and even issued letters of marque against the property of the colonists, in anticipation of the act for that purpose, in the British parliament. General Lee marched upon Florida with the Virginia and North Carolina troops. He was subsequently joined by those of South Carolina; but, owing to his own ill-advised and improvident movements, the expedition was a total failure.* This result necessarily gave encouragement to the Tories; and, though in too small numbers to effect any important objects without the cooperation of a British force, they were yet sufficiently active to invite the presence of one. They formed themselves into little squads, and, moving through the country with celerity, pursued their marauding habits at little risk, as they sought only unsuspecting neighborhoods, and promptly fled to the fastnesses of Florida on the approach of danger. To direct and properly avail themselves of these parties, the British commanders in America addressed their attention to Georgia. The infancy of that colony necessarily led them to hope for an easy conquest in attempting it. In February, 1777, General Howe, then commanding the troops in North Carolina and Georgia, was advised of the approach of Colonel Fuser, to the invasion of Georgia. He hurried on immediately to prepare Savannah for defence; while Marion, with a force of 600 men, in several vessels, provided with cannon and ammunition, was dispatched, by the inland passage, to his assistance. Marion left Charleston on the 28th of February, but his approach had no farther effect than to precipitate the flight of the enemy, who, meeting with a stout opposition from Colonel Elbert, at Ogechee ferry, had already desisted from farther advance. The British attempts on Georgia were deferred to a later period. But the loyalists were busy, particularly that portion of them, which took the name of Scopholites, after one Scophol, a militia Colonel, whom Moultrie describes as an "illiterate, stupid, noisy blockhead". He proved not the less troublesome because of his stupidity. * Drayton's Memoirs, vol. 2, p. 336.-- Marion was more or less employed during this period, in various situations. He was never unemployed. We find him at length in command of the fort which he had formerly contributed to defend and render famous. He was placed in charge of the garrison at Fort Moultrie. The value of this fort was estimated rather according to its celebrity, than its real usefulness. Subsequent events have shown that its capacity was not great in retarding the approach of an enemy's fleet to the city. It was the error of Sir Peter Parker--obeying an old but exploded military maxim, not to leave an armed post of the enemy in his rear--to pause before a fortress, the conquest of which could in no wise contribute to his success,--and defeat before which, must necessarily endanger his final objects. It was still the impression of the Carolinians that Fort Moultrie must be assailed as a preliminary step to the conquest of Charleston, and the post, as one of the highest honor and danger, was conferred upon Marion.* It was not known, indeed, at what moment the gallantry of the garrison might be put to the proof. The British were known to be making large marine and military preparations at New York, intended, as it was generally understood, for the south. Charleston or Savannah, were supposed indifferently to be the places of its destination. It might be very well supposed that the enemy would seek, at the former place, to recover those honors of war of which its gallant defenders had deprived him. * When the British under Prevost, were in possession of the neighboring islands, Moultrie writes, "we were apprehensive the enemy would attempt to surprise Fort Moultrie; we, therefore, always kept a strong garrison there under General Marion."-- But, any doubt as to the destination of the British fleet was soon removed. In December, 1778, thirty-seven sail appeared before Savannah, and four thousand British regulars were disembarked. The American force left in defence of Savannah was a feeble one, of six or seven hundred men, under General Howe. General Howe was but little of a soldier. Instead of withdrawing this force, he suffered it to be sacrificed. Badly posted, he was surprised, and his troops beaten and dispersed with little difficulty. Savannah fell at once into the hands of the enemy, and the whole colony very shortly after. General Prevost was in command of the British. Opposed to him was Major-General Lincoln, of the Continental army. While Prevost occupied the posts of Savannah, Ebenezer, Abercorn, and other places, he was active in pushing select parties forward to Augusta, and other commanding points in the interior. The force under Lincoln did not enable him to offer any active opposition to their progress. His headquarters were at Purysburg, on the Savannah river, but a few miles from Abercorn, where Colonel Campbell lay with the main body of the enemy. General Ashe, of the Americans, occupied the post at Brier Creek, and, thus placed, the opposing commanders seemed disposed for a while to rest upon their arms, waiting events and reinforcements. It was while the second South Carolina regiment lay at Purysburg, that an adventure occurred, which has so often been repeated in connection with the name and life of Marion, that we should scarcely be excused from introducing it here, as properly in place in this memoir. Weems asserts that Marion was present at this time with his regiment at Purysburg. It is impossible to say whether he was or not. It is not improbable that he was with his regiment, and yet the weight of evidence inclines us to the opinion that he was still at Fort Moultrie. It is not unlikely, however, that, when the direction of the British fleet was known, and it was ascertained that Savannah and not Charleston was its object, he immediately joined his regiment at Purysburg, leaving Fort Moultrie in the charge of some less distinguished officer. At all events the point is not of importance to the anecdote we have to relate. Personally, Marion had nothing to do with it. It was only because the actors in the adventure belonged to his regiment, and were of "Marion's men", that tradition has insisted on associating his name with theirs. It is not for us to have it otherwise. The reader is already somewhat acquainted with the name of William Jasper--perhaps Sergeant Jasper is the better known. This brave man possessed remarkable talents for a scout. He could wear all disguises with admirable ease and dexterity. Garden styles him "a perfect Proteus".* He was equally remarkable for his strategy as for his bravery; and his nobleness and generosity were, quite as much as these, the distinguishing traits of his character. Such was the confidence in his fidelity and skill that a roving commission was granted him, with liberty to pick his associates from the Brigade. Of these he seldom chose more than six. "He often went out," says Moultrie, "and returned with prisoners, before I knew that he was gone. I have known of his catching a party that was looking for him. He has told me that he could have killed single men several times, but he would not; he would rather let them get off. He went into the British lines at Savannah, as a deserter, complaining, at the same time, of our ill-usage of him; he was gladly received (they having heard of his character) and caressed by them. He stayed eight days, and after informing himself well of their strength, situation and intentions, he returned to us again; but that game he could not play a second time. With his little party he was always hovering about the enemy's camp, and was frequently bringing in prisoners."** We have seen what reason was alleged by this brave fellow for not accepting the commission tendered to him by Governor Rutledge, for his gallantry in the battle of Fort Moultrie. The nature of his services was no less a reason why he should reject the commission. The fact that he seldom allowed himself a command of more than six men declared sufficiently the degree of authority to which he thought his talents were entitled. * "He was a perfect Proteus, in ability to alter his appearance; perpetually entering the camp of the enemy, without detection, and invariably returning to his own, with soldiers he had seduced, or prisoners he had captured." ** Moultrie's Mem., vol. 2, p. 24.-- It was while in the exercise of his roving privileges that Jasper prepared to visit the post of the enemy at Ebenezer. At this post he had a brother, who held the same rank in the British service, that he held in the American. This instance was quite too common in the history of the period and country, to occasion much surprise, or cause any suspicion of the integrity of either party. We have already considered the causes for this melancholy difference of individual sentiment in the country, and need not dwell upon them here. William Jasper loved his brother and wished to see him: it is very certain, at the same time, that he did not deny himself the privilege of seeing all around him. The Tory was alarmed at William's appearance in the British camp, but the other quieted his fears, by representing himself as no longer an American soldier. He checked the joy which this declaration excited in his brother's mind, by assuring him that, though he found little encouragement in fighting for his country, "he had not the heart to fight against her." Our scout lingered for two or three days in the British camp, and then, by a 'detour', regained that of the Americans; reporting to his Commander all that he had seen. He was encouraged to repeat his visit a few weeks after, but this time he took with him a comrade, one Sergeant Newton, a fellow quite as brave in spirit, and strong in body as himself. Here he was again well received by his brother, who entertained the guests kindly for several days. Meanwhile, a small party of Americans were brought into Ebenezer as captives, over whom hung the danger of "short shrift and sudden cord". They were on their way to Savannah for trial. They had taken arms with the British, as hundreds more had done, when the country was deemed reconquered; but, on the approach of the American army, had rejoined their countrymen, and were now once more at the mercy of the power with which they had broken faith. "It will go hard with them," said the Tory Jasper to his Whig brother; but the secret comment of the other was, "it shall go hard with me first." There was a woman, the wife of one of the prisoners, who, with her child, kept them company. William Jasper and his friend were touched by the spectacle of their distress; and they conferred together, as soon as they were alone, as to the possibility of rescuing them. Their plan was soon adopted. It was a simple one, such as naturally suggests itself to a hardy and magnanimous character. The prisoners had scarcely left the post for Savannah, under a guard of eight men, a sergeant and corporal, when they took leave of their host, and set forth also, though in a different direction from the guard. Changing their course when secure from observation, they stretched across the country and followed the footsteps of the unhappy captives. But it was only in the pursuit that they became truly conscious of the difficulty, nay, seeming impossibility, of effecting their object. The guard was armed, and ten in number; they but two and weaponless. Hopeless, they nevertheless followed on. Two miles from Savannah there is a famous spring, the waters of which are well known to travellers. The conjecture that the guard might stop there, with the prisoners, for refreshment, suggested itself to our companions; here, opportunities might occur for the rescue, which had nowhere before presented themselves. Taking an obscure path with which they were familiar, which led them to the spot before the enemy could arrive, they placed themselves in ambush in the immediate neighborhood of the spring. They had not long to wait. Their conjecture proved correct. The guard was halted on the road opposite the spring. The corporal with four men conducted the captives to the water, while the sergeant, with the remainder of his force, having made them ground their arms near the road, brought up the rear. The prisoners threw themselves upon the earth--the woman and her child, near its father. Little did any of them dream that deliverance was at hand. The child fell asleep in the mother's lap. Two of the armed men kept guard, but we may suppose with little caution. What had they to apprehend, within sight of a walled town in the possession of their friends? Two others approached the spring, in order to bring water to the prisoners. Resting their muskets against a tree they proceeded to fill their canteens. At this moment Jasper gave the signal to his comrade. In an instant the muskets were in their hands. In another, they had shot down the two soldiers upon duty; then clubbing their weapons, they rushed out upon the astonished enemy, and felling their first opponents each at a blow, they succeeded in obtaining possession of the loaded muskets. This decided the conflict, which was over in a few minutes. The surviving guard yielded themselves to mercy before the presented weapons. Such an achievement could only be successful from its audacity and the operation of circumstances. The very proximity of Savannah increased the chances of success. But for this the guard would have taken better precautions. None were taken. The prompt valor, the bold decision, the cool calculation of the instant, were the essential elements which secured success. The work of our young heroes was not done imperfectly. The prisoners were quickly released, the arms of the captured British put into their hands, and, hurrying away from the spot which they have crowned with a local celebrity not soon to be forgotten, they crossed the Savannah in safety with their friends and foes. This is not the last achievement of the brave Jasper which we shall have occasion to record. The next, however, though not less distinguished by success, was unhappily written in his own blood. The campaign which followed was distinguished by several vicissitudes, but the general result was the weakening and dispiriting of the American forces. Brigadier General Ashe was surprised in his camp and utterly defeated, and the British army not only penetrated into Georgia, but made its appearance at Beaufort in South Carolina. Here it was met by Moultrie in a spirited encounter, which resulted in a drawn battle. Meanwhile, General Lincoln found the militia refractory. They refused to submit to the articles of war, and desired to serve only under those laws by which the militia was governed. Chagrined with this resistance, Lincoln transferred the militia to Moultrie, and, at the head of about 2000 troops of the regular service, he marched up the country to Augusta, proposing by this course to circumscribe the progress of the enemy in that quarter. Taking advantage of this movement, by which the regular troops were withdrawn from the seaboard, the British General, Prevost, immediately crossed the Savannah with the intention of surprising Moultrie, who, with 1200 militia-men, lay at Black Swamp. But Moultrie, advised of his enemy, retired to Coosawhatchie, where he placed his rear guard; his headquarters being pitched on the hill, east of Tuliffinnee, two miles in advance, and on the route to Charleston. Here the rear-guard, under Colonel Laurens, engaged the enemy's advance, and was driven before it. Moultrie gradually retired as Prevost advanced, and the contest which followed between the two, seemed to be which should reach Charleston first. The defenceless condition of that city was known to the British General, whose object was to take it by 'coup de main'. Moultrie erred in not making continued fight in the swamps and strong passes, the thick forests and intricate defiles, which were numerous along the route of the pursuing army. His policy seems to have been dictated by an undue estimate of the value of the city, and the importance of its safety to the state. But for this, even an army so much inferior as his, could have effectually checked the enemy long before the city could have been reached. Moultrie continued in advance of Prevost, and reached Charleston a few hours before him; just in season to establish something like order, and put the place in a tolerable state of defence. The fire from the lines arrested the British advance. The place was summoned, and defiance returned. Night followed, and the next morning the enemy had disappeared. His object had been surprise. He was unprepared for the assault, having no heavy artillery, and his departure was hastened by intercepted advices from Lincoln and Governor Rutledge, which announced to the garrison the approach of the regular troops and the country militia. Prevost retired to the neighboring islands, and established himself in a strong fort at Stono ferry. Here he was attacked by General Lincoln in a spirited but unsuccessful affair, in which the latter was compelled to retreat. The attack of Lincoln was followed by one of Moultrie, in galleys. The situation of the British became unpleasant, and they did not wait a repetition of these assaults, but retreated along the chain of islands on the coast, until they reached Beaufort and Savannah. Both of these places they maintained; the latter with their main army, the former with a strong body of troops, apart from their sick, wounded and convalescent. Here they were watched by General Lincoln, in a camp of observation at Sheldon, until the appearance of a French fleet on the coast led to renewed activity, and hopes, on the part of the Americans, which were destined to bitter disappointment. Marion was certainly with his regiment at Sheldon, and when it became probable that there was some prospect of battle, we find him at Fort Moultrie, when Prevost was in possession of the contiguous islands. But a junction of the French and American forces, necessarily compelling the concentration of the whole of the southern invading army at Savannah, lessened the necessity of his remaining at a post which stood in no manner of danger. Early in September, 1779, the French admiral, Count D'Estaign, with a fleet of twenty sail, appeared upon the coast. As soon as this was certainly known, General Lincoln put his army in motion for Savannah. But the French forces had disembarked before his arrival, and the impatience and imprudence of their admiral did not suffer him to wait the coming of the American. He was a rash man, and, as it appears, on bad terms with his subordinate officers, who were, indeed, not subordinate.* He proceeded to summon the place. The answer to his demand was, a request of twenty-four hours for consideration. By a singular error of judgment the French admiral granted the time required. His only hope had been in a 'coup de main'. He had neither the time nor the material necessary for regular approaches; nor, had he acted decisively, do these seem to have been at all necessary. The place was not tenable at the period of his first summons. The prompt energies of the British commander soon made it so. Instead of considering, he consumed the twenty-four hours in working. The arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Cruger, with a small command, from Sunbury, and the force of Lieutenant-Colonel Maitland, from Beaufort, soon put the fortress in such a condition of defence as to enable its commander to return his defiance to the renewed summons of the combined armies. There seems to have been but one opinion among the Americans as to the mistake of D'Estaign, in granting the required indulgence. Weems, speaking for General Horry, says, "I never beheld Marion in so great a passion. I was actually afraid he would have broken out on General Lincoln. 'My God!' he exclaimed, 'who ever heard of anything like this before? First allow an enemy to entrench, and then fight him! See the destruction brought upon the British at Bunker's Hill--yet our troops there were only militia; raw, half-armed clodhoppers, and not a mortar, or carronade, not even a swivel--only their ducking-guns! What, then, are we to expect from regulars, completely armed, with a choice train of artillery, and covered by a breastwork.'" * Major-General T. Pinckney's account of the siege of Savannah, quoted by Garden.-- The anticipations of Marion were fully realized. When the junction of the French and American armies was effected, it was determined to reduce the place by siege. Batteries were to be erected, and cannon brought from the ships, a distance of several miles. Meanwhile, the works of the besieged were undergoing daily improvements, under an able engineer. Several hundred negroes were busy, day and night, upon the defences, stimulated, when necessary, to exertion, by the lash. On the 4th of October the besiegers opened with nine mortars and thirty-seven pieces of cannon from the land side, and sixteen from the water. They continued to play for several days, with little effect, and the anxiety of the French admiral to leave the coast, at a season of the year when it is particularly perilous to shipping to remain, determined the besiegers to risk everything upon an assault. The morning of the 9th October was fixed upon for the attack. The American army was paraded at one o'clock that morning, but it was near four before the head of the French column reached the front. "The whole army then marched towards the skirt of the wood in one long column, and as they approached the open space, was to break off into the different columns, as ordered for the attack. But, by the time the first French column had arrived at the open space, the day had fairly broke; when Count D'Estaign, without waiting until the other columns had arrived at their position, placed himself at the head of his first column, and rushed forward to the attack."* This was creditable to his gallantry, if not to his judgment. But it was valor thrown away. "The column was so severely galled by the grape-shot from the batteries, as they advanced, and by both grape-shot and musketry, when they reached the abbatis, that, in spite of the efforts of the officers, it got into confusion, and broke away to their left, toward the wood in that direction; the second and third French columns shared, successively, the same fate, having the additional discouragement of seeing, as they marched to the attack, the repulse and loss of their comrades who had preceded them. Count Pulaski, who, with the cavalry, preceded the right column of the Americans, proceeded gallantly, until stopped by the abbatis; and before he could force through it received his mortal wound."** The American column was much more successful. It was headed by Colonel Laurens, with the Light Infantry, followed by the Second South Carolina Regiment, of which Marion was second in command, and the first battalion of Charleston militia. This column pressed forward, in the face of a heavy fire, upon the Spring Hill redoubt, succeeded in getting into the ditch, and the colors of the second regiment were planted upon the berm. But the parapet was too high to be scaled under such a fire as proceeded from the walls, and, struggling bravely but vainly, the assailants were, after suffering severe slaughter, driven out of the ditch. This slaughter was increased in the effort to retain and carry off in safety the colors of the regiment. * Major-General Thomas Pinckney, in a letter quoted by Garden. ** Major-General Thomas Pinckney. See Garden.-- These colors, as we have seen, were the gift of a lady. Moultrie, in the name of the regiment, had promised to defend them to the last. The promise was faithfully remembered in this moment of extremity. One of them was borne by Lieutenant Bush, supported by Sergeant Jasper; the other by Lieutenant Grey, supported by Sergeant M'Donald. Bush being slightly wounded early in the action delivered his standard to Jasper, for better security. Jasper a second time and now fatally wounded, restored it to the former. But at the moment of taking it, Bush received a mortal wound. He fell into the ditch with his ensign under him, and it remained in possession of the enemy. The other standard was more fortunate. Lieutenant Grey, by whom it was borne, was slain, but M'Donald plucked it from the redoubt where it had been planted, the moment the retreat was ordered, and succeeded in carrying it off in safety. The repulse was decisive. The slaughter, for so brief an engagement, had been terrible, amounting to nearly eleven hundred men; 637 French, and 457 Americans. Of the former, the Irish Brigade, and of the latter the 2d South Carolina Regiment, particularly distinguished themselves and suffered most. The loss of the British was slight; the assailants made no impression on their works. "Thus was this fine body of troops sacrificed by the imprudence of the French General, who, being of superior grade, commanded the whole.* In this battle Jasper was mortally wounded. He succeeded in regaining the camp of the Americans. The fatal wound was received in his endeavor to secure and save his colors." Another distinguished personage who fell in this fatal affair, was Col. Count Pulaski, a brave and skilful captain of cavalry, better known in history for his attempt upon the life of Stanislaus Poniatowski, King of Poland. * Major-General T. Pinckney.-- Chapter 7. From the Battle of Savannah to the Defeat of Gates at Camden. The failure of the combined forces of France and America before the walls of Savannah, left the cause of the latter, in the South, in much worse condition than before. The event served to depress the Carolinians, and in the same degree, to elevate and encourage the enemy. The allies withdrew to their ships, and, shortly after, from the coast. General Lincoln, with the American army, retreated to the heights of Ebenezer, and thence to Sheldon. Proceeding from this place to Charleston, he left Marion in command of the army. On the thirty-first of January, 1780, he writes to the latter as follows: "The state of affairs is such as to make it necessary that we order our force to a point as much and as soon as possible. No troops will be kept in the field except two hundred Light Infantry and the Horse (Washington's). You will therefore please to select from the three regiments with you, two hundred of your best men, and those who are best clothed, and organize them into corps, with proper officers. All the remainder, with the baggage of the whole (saving such as is absolutely necessary for light troops), will march immediately for this town. You will please take command of the light infantry until Lieut. Col. Henderson arrives, which I expect will be in a few days. After that, I wish to see you as soon as possible in Charleston." In the February following, Marion was dispatched to Bacon's Bridge on Ashley river, where Moultrie had established a camp for the reception of the militia of the neighborhood, as well as those which had been summoned from the interior. It was to Marion that Lincoln chiefly looked for the proper drilling of the militia. In his hands they lost the rude and inefficient character, the inexpert and spiritless manner, which, under ordinary commanders, always distinguish them. Feeling sure of their Captain, he, in turn, rendered them confident of themselves. Speaking of Marion's "PATIENCE with the militia"--a phrase of great importance in this connection--Horry, in his own memoirs, which now lie before us, adds, "No officer in the Union was better calculated to command them, and to have done more than he did."* Lincoln knew his value. The admirable training of the Second South Carolina Regiment had already done high honor to his skill as a disciplinarian. He discovered the secret which regularly bred military men are slow to discern, that, without patience, in the training of citizen soldiers for immediate service, they are incorrigible; and patience with them, on the part of a commanding officer, is neither inconsistent with their claims nor with their proper efficiency. * MS. Memoir of Gen. Horry, p. 55.-- The accumulation of troops at Bacon's Bridge was made with the view to the defence of Charleston, now threatened by the enemy. Many concurring causes led to the leaguer of that city. Its conquest was desirable on many accounts, and circumstances had already shown that this was not a matter of serious difficulty. The invasion of Prevost the year before, which had so nearly proved successful; the little resistance which had been offered to him while traversing more than one hundred miles of country contiguous to the Capital; and the rich spoils which, on his retreat, had been borne off by his army, betrayed at once the wealth and weakness of that region. The possession of Savannah, where British Government had been regularly re-established, and the entire, if not totally undisturbed control of Georgia, necessarily facilitated the invasion of the sister province. South Carolina was now a frontier, equally exposed to the British in Georgia, and the Tories of Florida and North Carolina. The means of defence in her power were now far fewer than when Prevost made his attempt on Charleston. The Southern army was, in fact, totally broken up. The Carolina regiments had seen hard service, guarding the frontier, and contending with the British in Georgia. They were thinned by battle and sickness to a mere handful. The Virginia and North Carolina regiments had melted away, as the term for which they had enlisted, had expired. The Georgia regiment, captured by the British in detail, were perishing in their floating prisons. The weakness of the patriots necessarily increased the audacity, with the strength, of their enemies. The loyalists, encouraged by the progress of Prevost, and the notorious inefficiency of the Whigs, were now gathering in formidable bodies, in various quarters, operating in desultory bands, or crowding to swell the columns of the British army. All things concurred to encourage the attempt of the enemy on Charleston. Its possession, with that of Savannah, would not only enable them to complete their ascendency in the two provinces to which these cities belonged, but would probably give them North Carolina also. Virginia then, becoming the frontier, it would be easy, with the cooperation of an army ascending the Chesapeake, to traverse the entire South with their legions, detaching it wholly from the federal compact. Such was the British hope, and such their policy. There was yet another motive for the siege of Charleston, considered without reference to collateral or contingent events. Esteemed erroneously as a place of great security--an error that arose in all probability from the simple fact of the successful defence of Fort Moultrie--it was crowded with valuable magazines. As a trading city, particularly while the commerce of the North remained interrupted, it had become a place of great business. It was a stronghold for privateers and their prizes, and always contained stores and shipping of immense value. The temptations to its conquest were sufficiently numerous. Ten thousand choice troops, with a large and heavy train of artillery, were accordingly dispatched from New York for its investment, which was begun in February, 1780, and conducted by the Commander-in-Chief of the British forces, Sir Henry Clinton, in person. He conducted his approaches with a caution highly complimentary to the besieged. The fortifications were only field works, and might have been overrun in less than five days by an audacious enemy. The regular troops within the city were not above two thousand men. The citizen militia increased the number to nearly four thousand. For such an extent of lines as encircled the place, the adequate force should not have been less than that of the enemy. The fortifications, when the British first landed their 'materiel', were in a dilapidated and unfinished state, and, at that time, the defenders, apart from the citizens, scarcely exceeded eight hundred men; while the small pox, making its appearance within the walls, for the first time for twenty years--an enemy much more dreaded than the British,--effectually discouraged the country militia from coming to the assistance of the citizens. Under these circumstances, the conquest would have been easy to an active and energetic foe. But Sir Henry does not seem to have been impatient for his laurels. He was willing that they should mature gradually, and he sat down to a regular and formal investment. It was an error of the Carolinians, under such circumstances, to risk the fortunes of the State, and the greater part of its regular military strength, in a besieged town; a still greater to do so in defiance of such difficulties as attended the defence. The policy which determined the resolution was a concession to the citizens, in spite of all military opinion. The city might have been yielded to the enemy, and the State preserved, or, which was the same thing, the troops. The loss of four thousand men from the ranks of active warfare, was the great and substantial loss, the true source, in fact, of most of the miseries and crimes by which the very bowels of the country were subsequently torn and distracted. It was the great good fortune of the State that Francis Marion was not among those who fell into captivity in the fall of Charleston. He had marched into the city from Dorchester, when his active services were needed for its defence; but while the investment was in progress, and before it had been fully completed, an event occurred to him, an accident which was, no doubt, very much deplored at the time, by which his services, lost for the present, were subsequently secured for the country. Dining with a party of friends at a house in Tradd-street, the host, with that mistaken hospitality which has too frequently changed a virtue to a vice, turned the key upon his guests, to prevent escape, till each individual should be gorged with wine. Though an amiable man, Marion was a strictly temperate one. He was not disposed to submit to this too common form of social tyranny; yet not willing to resent the breach of propriety by converting the assembly into a bull-ring, he adopted a middle course, which displayed equally the gentleness and firmness of his temper. Opening a window, he coolly threw himself into the street. He was unfortunate in the attempt; the apartment was on the second story, the height considerable, and the adventure cost him a broken ankle. The injury was a severe and shocking one, and, for the time, totally unfitted him for service. He left the city in a litter, while the passage to the country still remained open for retreat, in obedience to an order of General Lincoln for the departure of all idle mouths, "all supernumerary officers, and all officers unfit for duty." Marion retired to his residence in St. John's parish. Here, suffering in mind and body, he awaited with impatience the progress of events, with which, however much he might sympathize, he could not share. His humiliation at this unavoidable but melancholy inaction, may be imagined from what we know of his habits and his patriotism. The siege of Charleston, in consequence of the firm bearing of the besieged, and the cautious policy of the British Government, was protracted long after the works had been pronounced untenable. It was yielded unwillingly to the conqueror, only after all resistance had proved in vain. It fell by famine, rather than by the arms of the enemy. The defence was highly honorable to the besieged. It lasted six weeks, in which they had displayed equal courage and endurance. The consequences of this misfortune leave it somewhat doubtful, whether the determination to defend the city to the last extremity, was not the result of a correct policy; considering less its own loss, and that of the army, than the effect of the former upon the rustic population. Certainly, the capture of the army was a vital misfortune to the southern States; yet the loss of the city itself was of prodigious effect upon the scattered settlements of the country. The character and resolve of the capital cities, in those days, were very much the sources of the moral strength of the interior. Sparsely settled, with unfrequent opportunities of communion with one another, the minds of the forest population turned naturally for their tone and direction to the capital city. The active attrition of rival and conflicting minds, gives, in all countries, to the population of a dense community, an intellectual superiority over those who live remote, and feel none of the constant moral strifes to which the citizen is subject. In South Carolina, Charleston had been the seat of the original 'movement', had incurred the first dangers, achieved the first victories, and, in all public proceedings where action was desirable, had always led off in the van. To preserve intact, and from overthrow, the seat of ancient authority and opinion, was surely a policy neither selfish nor unwise. Perhaps, after all, the grand error was, in not making the preparations for defence adequate to the object. The resources of the State were small, and these had been diminished wofully in succoring her neighbors, and in small border strifes, which the borderers might have been taught to manage for themselves. The military force of the State, under any circumstances, could not have contended on equal terms with the ten thousand well-appointed regulars of Sir Henry Clinton. The assistance derived from Virginia and North Carolina was little more than nominal, calculated rather to swell the triumph of the victor than to retard his successes. If the movements of the British were slow, and deficient in military enterprise, where Sir Henry Clinton commanded in person, such could not be said of them, after the conquest of Charleston was effected. The commander-in-chief was succeeded by Earl Cornwallis, and his career was certainly obnoxious to no such reproaches. We shall have more serious charges to bring against him. Of the gross abuse of power, wanton tyrannies, cruel murders, and most reckless disregard of decency and right, by which the course of the British was subsequently distinguished, we shall say no more than will suffice to show, in what dangers, through what difficulties, and under what stimulating causes, Francis Marion rose in arms, when everything appeared to be lost. Charleston in possession of the enemy, they proceeded with wonderful activity to use all means in their power, for exhausting the resources, and breaking down the spirit of the country. Their maxim was that of habitual tyranny--"might is right". They seemed to recognize no other standard. The articles of capitulation, the laws of nations, private treaty, the dictates of humanity and religion, were all equally set at naught. The wealth of private families,--slaves by thousands,--were hurried into the waists of British ships, as the legitimate spoils of war. The latter found a market in the West India islands; the prisoners made by the fall of Charleston were, in defiance of the articles of capitulation, crowded into prison-ships, from whence they were only released by death, or by yielding to those arguments of their keepers which persuaded them to enlist in British regiments, to serve in other countries. Many yielded to these arguments, with the simple hope of escape from the horrors by which they were surrounded. When arts and arguments failed to overcome the inflexibility of these wretched prisoners, compulsion was resorted to, and hundreds were forced from their country, shipped to Jamaica, and there made to serve in British regiments.* Citizens of distinction, who, by their counsel or presence, opposed their influence over the prisoners, or proved themselves superior to their temptations, were torn from their homes without warning, and incarcerated in their floating dungeons. Nothing was forborne, in the shape of pitiless and pitiful persecution, to break the spirits, subdue the strength, and mock and mortify the hopes, alike, of citizen and captive. * Moultrie's Memoirs, Vol. 2, 'Correspondence'.-- With those who kept the field the proceedings were more summary, if not more severe. The fall of Charleston seems necessarily to have involved the safety of the country from the Savannah to the Pedee. In a few weeks after the capture of the city, the British were in peaceable possession of the space between these limits, from the seaboard to the mountains. They had few opponents--an isolated body of continentals, a small squad of militia, for the first time drilling for future service, or a little troop of horse--and these were quickly overcome. On these occasions the British were generally led by Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton. This officer acquired for himself an odious distinction in his progress through the South in the campaigns which followed. He was rather an active than a skilful commander. Rapid in his movements, he gave little heed to the judicious disposition of his troops, and aiming more at impressing the fears of his enemy, than overcoming him by science, his chief successes were the result of the panic which his surprises and his butcheries inspired. He seems never to have been successful against an equal and resolute foe. But, as courage and activity are, perhaps, after all, and before all, the most necessary requisites for a soldier, Tarleton's services were inappreciable to the invading army. In one month after its arrival, his legion was mounted and began its career of slaughter. While yet the city was sustaining the siege, he penetrated the country, in pursuit of those bands of militia horse, which, by direction of the American commander, still kept the open field. On the 18th of March, he surprised a company of militia at Salkehatchie Bridge, killed and wounded several and dispersed the rest. Five days after, another party at Pon-Pon shared the same fortune. He was not so successful at Rantowles on the 23d of the same month, where in a rencounter with Col. Washington, his dragoons were roughly handled, and retreated with loss. He avenged himself, however, on Washington, in less than a month after, by surprising him at Monk's Corner. Col. White soon after took command of the southern cavalry, and obtained some trifling successes, but suffered himself to be surprised at Lenud's ferry on the Santee. These events all took place prior to the surrender of the city. The activity of Tarleton, with the general remissness, and want of ordinary military precautions on the part of the militia which opposed itself to him, made his progress easy, and thus enabled him to cut off every party that was embodied in the field. He was now to succeed in a much more important and much more bloody enterprise. A Continental force from Virginia of four hundred men, under Col. Beaufort,* had been dispatched to the relief of Charleston. Beaufort had reached Camden before he was apprised of the surrender of that city. This event properly determined him to retreat. Earl Cornwallis, meanwhile, had taken the field with a force of twenty-five hundred men, and was then in rapid progress for the Santee. Hearing of the advance of Beaufort, he dispatched Tarleton in quest of him, with a select body of infantry and cavalry, in all, seven hundred men. Beaufort was overtaken near the Waxhaw settlements, and summoned to surrender. This person does not seem to have been designed by nature for military operations. He halted at the summons, hesitated awhile, sent his wagons ahead, consulted with his officers, and did little or nothing farther, either for flight or conflict. While thus halting and hesitating he was attacked by the impetuous Tarleton, offered a feeble resistance, unmarked by conduct or spirit, suffered the enemy to gain his rear, and finally grounded his arms. He either did this too soon or too late. His flag was disregarded in the flush of battle, the bearer of it cut down by the hand of Tarleton, and the British infantry, with fixed bayonets, rushed upon the inactive Americans. Some of Beaufort's men, seeing that their application for quarter was disregarded, resolved to die like men, and resumed their arms. Their renewed fire provoked the massacre of the unresisting. A terrible butchery followed. The British gave no quarter. From that day, "Tarleton's Quarters", implying the merciless cutting down of the suppliant, grew into a proverbial phrase, which, in the hour of victory, seemed to embitter the hostility with which the American strove to avenge his slaughtered comrades. * Generally given as Buford in other documents. Simms also states "the Warsaw settlements" in the original text, but Waxhaw is correct. According to local tradition, the mother of Andrew Jackson, the future president, was one of those who aided the survivors. Jackson himself later served, at the age of 13, in Davie's cavalry, as a messenger, and was the only member of his family to survive the war. --A. L., 1996.-- The defeat of Beaufort, with the only regular force remaining in the State, following so close upon the fall of Charleston, paralyzed the hopes of the patriots. The country seemed everywhere subdued. An unnatural and painful apathy dispirited opposition. The presence of a British force, sufficient to overawe the neighborhood, at conspicuous points, and the awakened activity of the Tories in all quarters, no longer restrained by the presence in arms of their more patriotic countrymen, seemed to settle the question of supremacy. There was not only no head against the enemy, but the State, on a sudden, appeared to have been deprived of all her distinguished men. Moultrie and others who might have led, were prisoners of war. Governor Rutledge, a noble spirit and famous orator--the Patrick Henry of Carolina,--had withdrawn to the North State, to stimulate the energies of the people in that quarter and gain recruits. His example was followed by Sumter, Horry and others,--by all, in fact, who, escaping captivity, were in condition to fly. The progress of Cornwallis and Tarleton left mere distinction, unsupported by men, with few places of security. Marion, meanwhile, incapable of present flight, was compelled to take refuge in the swamp and forest. He was too conspicuous a person, had made too great a figure in previous campaigns, and his military talents were too well known and too highly esteemed, not to render him an object of some anxiety as well to friends as foes. Still suffering from the hurts received in Charleston, with bloody and malignant enemies all around him, his safety depended on his secrecy and obscurity alone. Fortunately he had "won golden opinions from all sorts of people." He had friends among all classes, who did not permit themselves to sleep while he was in danger. Their activity supplied the loss of his own. They watched while he slept. They assisted his feebleness. In the moment of alarm, he was sped from house to house, from tree to thicket, from the thicket to the swamp. His "hair-breadth 'scapes" under these frequent exigencies, were, no doubt, among the most interesting adventures of his life, furnishing rare material, could they be procured, for the poet and romancer. Unhappily, while the chronicles show the frequent emergency which attended his painful condition, they furnish nothing more. We are without details. The melancholy baldness and coldness with which they narrate events upon which one would like to linger is absolutely humbling to the imagination; which, kindled by the simple historical outline, looks in vain for the satisfaction of those doubts and inquiries, those hopes and fears, which the provoking narrative inspires only to defraud. How would some old inquisitive Froissart have dragged by frequent inquiry from contemporaneous lips, the particular fact, the whole adventure, step by step, item by item,--the close pursuit, the narrow escape,--and all the long train of little, but efficient circumstances, by which the story would have been made unique, with all its rich and numerous details! These, the reader must supply from his own resources of imagination. He must conjecture for himself the casual warning brought to the silent thicket, by the devoted friend, the constant woman, or the humble slave; the midnight bay of the watch dog or the whistle of the scout; or the sudden shot, from friend or foe, by which the fugitive is counselled to hurry to his den. A thousand events arise to the imagination as likely to have occurred to our partisan, in his hours of feebleness and danger, from the rapid cavalry of Tarleton, or the close and keen pursuit of the revengeful Tories. To what slight circumstances has he been indebted for his frequent escape! What humble agents have been commissioned by Providence to save a life, that was destined to be so precious to his country's liberties! How long he remained in this situation is not exactly known,--probably several months. As soon as he was able to mount his horse, he collected a few friends, and set out for North Carolina. A Continental force was on its way from Virginia under Baron De Kalb. His purpose was to join it. It was while on this route, and with this object, that he encountered his old friend and long tried associate in arms, Col. P. Horry.* * There were two Horrys, brothers, both of whom were very brave and distinguished adherents of our partisan. Peter Horry held a captain's commission in the same regiment with Marion, at the battle of Fort Moultrie. Hugh Horry was the particular favorite of his General. A life of Marion, purporting to be in part by the former, but really composed entirely by the Rev. M. L. Weems, from facts furnished by Horry, is already well known to the public. A MS. life of Peter Horry is now before me, and has furnished me with several illustrations of the war, during this narrative. Both of these brothers served under Marion, to the close of the war, with equal courage and fidelity.-- Horry describes his ankle, at this meeting, as still "very crazy"--so much so that it required his help and that of Marion's servant to lift him from his horse. But his spirits were good. He was still cheerful, and possessed that rare elasticity of character which never loses its tone under privations and disappointments. Weems, who, we are compelled to admit, very frequently exercised the privilege of the ancient historian, of putting fine speeches into the mouth of his hero, tells us that he jeered at the doleful expressions of his companion, Horry, who, discussing the condition of the country, lamented that their "happy days were all gone." "Our happy days all gone, indeed!" answered Marion--"on the contrary, they are yet to come. The victory is still sure. The enemy, it is true, have all the trumps, and if they had but the spirit to play a generous game, they would certainly ruin us. But they have no idea of that game. They will treat the people cruelly, and that one thing will ruin them and save the country." Weems, speaking for Horry, describes in ludicrous terms, their journey through North Carolina,--through a region swarming with Tories, but, fortunately for our travellers, who were venomous without being active. Our fugitives were without money and without credit, and "but for carrying a knife, or a horse fleam, or a gun-flint, had no more use for a pocket than a Highlander has for a knee-buckle. As to hard money we had not seen a dollar for years." In this resourceless condition--a condition, which, it may be well to say in this place, continued throughout the war, they made their way with difficulty until they joined the Continental army. Gates had superseded De Kalb in its command, and was pressing forward, with the ambition, seemingly, of writing a dispatch like Caesar's, announcing, in the same breath, the sight and conquest of his enemy. Marion and his little troop of twenty men, made but a sorry figure in the presence of the Continental General. Gates was a man of moderate abilities, a vain man, of a swelling and ostentatious habit, whose judgment was very apt to be affected by parade, and the external show of things. Some of his leading opinions were calculated to show that he was unfit for a commander in the South. For example, he thought little of cavalry, which, in a plain country, sparsely settled, was among the first essentials of success, as well in securing intelligence, as in procuring supplies. It was not calculated therefore to raise the troop of our partisan in his esteem, to discover that they were all good riders and well mounted. Marion, himself, was a man equally modest in approach and unimposing in person. His followers may have provoked the sneer of the General, as it certainly moved the scorn and laughter of his well-equipped Continentals. We have a description of them from the pen of an excellent officer, the Adjutant General of Gates' army. He says, "Col. Marion, a gentleman of South Carolina, had been with the army a few days, attended by a very few followers, distinguished by small leather caps, and the wretchedness of their attire; their number did not exceed twenty men and boys, some white, some black, and all mounted, but most of them miserably equipped; their appearance was in fact so burlesque, that it was with much difficulty the diversion of the regular soldiery was restrained by the officers; and the General himself was glad of an opportunity of detaching Col. Marion, at his own instance, towards the interior of South Carolina, with orders to watch the motions of the enemy and furnish intelligence."* * Narrative of the Campaign of 1780, by Col. Otho Williams.-- From such small and insignificant beginnings flow greatness and great performances. We, who are in possession of all the subsequent events--who see this proud, vain Commander, hurrying on with the rapidity of madness to his own ruin--can but smile in the perusal of such a narrative, not at the rags of Marion's men, but at the undiscerning character of those who could see, in the mean equipment, the imperfect clothing, the mixture of man and boy, and white and black, anything but a noble patriotism, which, in such condition, was still content to carry on a war against a powerful enemy. The very rags and poverty of this little band, which was afterwards to become so famous, were so many proofs of their integrity and virtue, and should have inspired respect rather than ridicule. They were so many guarantees of good service which they were able and prepared to render. It was in defiance of the temptations and the power of the foe, that these men had taken the field against him, and had Gates been a wise commander, he would have seen even through their rags and destitution, the small but steady light of patriotism; which, enkindled throughout the State by the example of Marion, Sumter, and a few others, was to blaze out finally into that perfect brightness before which the invader was to shrink confounded. Gates was wise enough to take counsel of Marion, if nothing more; and even this might not have been done, but for the suggestions of Governor Rutledge, who, at that time in the camp of the Continentals, might very well have informed him of the value of the man whose followers inspired only ridicule. It was with Marion that the plan was concerted, and not improbably at his suggestion, for moving into the very heart of the State. This, subsequently, was the policy of Greene, and had Gates adopted the deliberate caution of that commander, his successes would unquestionably have been the same. The object of such a movement was to give an opportunity to the native patriots to rally--to compel the British to concentrate their scattered forces, call in their detached parties, and thus circumscribe their influence, within the State, to the places where they still remained in force. To effect these objects, the Fabian maxims of warfare should have been those of the American General. Few of his militia had ever seen an enemy. He had but recently joined his troops, knew nothing of them, and they as little of him. Their march had been a fatiguing one. Time and training were necessary pre-requisites for their improvement and his success. Unhappily, these were the very agents with which the vanity of the unfortunate commander made him most willing to dispense. The victory at Saratoga had spoiled him for ever, and thinking too much of himself, he committed the next great error of a military man, of thinking too lightly of his foe. It would be idle and perhaps impertinent, to suggest that if Marion had been suffered to remain with him, the issue of this march might have been more fortunate. Gates was quite too vain-glorious to listen and Marion quite too moderate to obtrude his opinions; and yet Marion was a man of equal prudence and adroitness. He could insinuate advice, so that it would appear to self-conceit the very creature of its own conceptions. Had Marion remained, could Gates have listened, we are very sure there would have been no such final, fatal disaster as suddenly stopped the misdirected progress of the Continental army. There would have been some redeeming circumstances to qualify the catastrophe. All would not have been lost. At all events, with Marion at their head, the militia would have fought awhile,--would have discharged their pieces, once, twice, thrice, before they fled. They would have done for the born-leader of militia, what they refused to do for a commander who neither knew how to esteem, nor how to conduct them. It was while Marion was in the camp of Gates, that a messenger from the Whigs of Williamsburg, then newly risen in arms, summoned him to be their leader. It was in consequence of this invitation, and not because of the awkwardness of his position there, that he determined to penetrate into South Carolina, in advance of the American army. Such an invitation was not to be neglected. Marion well knew its importance, and at once accepted the commission conferred upon him by Governor Rutledge. He took leave of Gates accordingly, having received, as is reported, certain instructions from that unhappy commander, to employ his men in the destruction of all the scows, boats, ferry-flats and barges on the route, by which the enemy might make his escape. The fancy of the American General already beheld the army of Lord Cornwallis in full flight. His great solicitude seems to have been how to secure his captives. He had, strangely enough for a military man, never taken counsel of the farm-yard proverb, which we need not here repeat for the benefit of the reader.* With the departure of Marion, his better genius left him,--the only man, who, in command of the militia, might have saved him from destruction. Leaving our partisan, with his little squad, to make his way cautiously through a country infested with Tories, we follow for the present the progress of the Continental army. On the night of the fifteenth of August, 1780, the Americans moved from Rugely's Mills. At midnight, without dreaming of an enemy, they encountered him. The first intelligence communicated to either army of the presence of the other, was from the fire of the British advance upon the Americans. The two armies recoiled and lay upon their arms the rest of the night. So far the affair was indecisive. The Americans had sustained themselves in the face of some disadvantages, chiefly the result of their leader's imprudence. A night march of raw militia in the face of a foe, and in column of battle, was itself an error which a sagacious commander would never have made. It is not to be denied, that the Americans were not satisfied with their situation. Some of their officers openly declared their discontent. But it was too late for a retrograde movement, nor is it likely, feeling as he did and sanguine as he was, that Gates would have believed any such movement necessary. The ground was equally unknown to both commanders; but Cornwallis had one advantage: he was in the command of veterans, who are generally cool enough in such situations to look about them, and make the most of their exigencies. The American line was soon formed and in waiting for the dawn and the enemy. The first Maryland division, including the Delawares under De Kalb, was posted on the right; the Virginia militia under Stevens on the left; the North Carolinians, led by Caswell in the centre; and the artillery, in battery, upon the road. Both wings rested on morasses, and the second Maryland brigade was posted as a reserve, a few hundred yards in the rear of the first. The British formed a single line, with each wing covered and supported by a body in reserve. They were much less numerous than the Americans, but they were picked men, the choice of the regiments in Charleston and Camden. The American militia, of which the greater part of Gates' army consisted, had never felt an enemy's fire. The Maryland and Delaware troops were good soldiers, well trained and in confidence of their leaders. With the break of day, and the advance of the American left, the action began. This division of the army consisted of Virginia militia under Stevens. Handled with unexpected severity by the British fire, they yielded before it and fled in panic, many of them without even discharging their pieces. The wretched example was followed by the North Carolina militia, with the exception of a single corps, commanded by Major Dixon. The cavalry under Armand, a foreign adventurer, broke at nearly the same moment; and a charge of the British cavalry, happily timed, put an end to all hope of rallying the terror-stricken fugitives. The devoted Continentals alone kept their ground and bore the brunt of the action. They were led by the veteran De Kalb--the Commander-in-Chief having hurried from the field in a vain attempt to bring the militia back. The artillery was lost, the cavalry dispersed;--the regulars, numbering but nine hundred men, were required to bear the undivided pressure of two thousand of the best troops in the British service. With the example before them, the desertion of their General, and their own perfect isolation, they would have been justified by the necessity of the case, in instant flight. But, as if the cowardice of their countrymen had stung them into a determination to show, at all hazards, that they, at least, were made of very different stuff, they not only resisted the attack of the enemy, but carried the bayonet into his ranks. The combatants rushed and reeled together with locked weapons. But this struggle could not last. The conflict was prolonged only until the British cavalry could return from pursuing the fugitives. Their sabres gave the finishing stroke to the affair. De Kalb had fallen under eleven wounds, and nothing remained, but flight, to save this gallant body from the mortification of surrender on the field of battle. It was no consolation to Gates, while fleeing to North Carolina, to be overtaken by messengers from Sumter, announcing a gallant achievement of that brave partisan, by which forty wagons of booty and nearly three hundred prisoners had fallen into his hands. Such tidings only mocked his own disaster. He could only, in reply, relate his own irretrievable defeat, point to his fugitives, and counsel Sumter to immediate retreat from his triumphant and now returning enemy. Unhappily, ignorant of Gates' disaster, and of a bold, incautious temper, Sumter was approaching, rather than hastening from, danger. His flight, when he did retire, was not sufficiently rapid, nor sufficiently prudent. He was one of those men who too quickly feel themselves secure. He was surprised by Tarleton, but two days after, his troops utterly dispersed, he, too, a fugitive like Gates, with all the fruits of his late victory taken from his grasp. In almost every instance where the Americans suffered defeat, the misfortune was due to a want of proper caution--an unobservance of some of the simplest rules of military prudence. In a brilliant sortie, a manful charge, a sudden onslaught, no troops could have surpassed them--nay, we find as many examples of the sternest powers of human endurance, under the severest trials of firmness, in their military history, as in that of any other people. But to secure what they had won--to be consistently firm--always on their guard and beyond surprise,--were lessons which they were slow to acquire--which they learned at last only under the heaviest penalties of blood. Marion was one of the few Captains of American militia, that never suffered himself to be taken napping. * As farm-yards are becoming rare, it may benefit future readers to know that this proverb is almost certainly, "Don't count your chickens before they hatch."--A. L., 1996.-- Chapter 8. Organization of "Marion's Brigade"--Surprise of Tories under Gainey--Defeat of Barfield--Capture of British Guard with Prisoners at Nelson's Ferry. The people of Williamsburg, by whom Marion was summoned from the camp of Gates, were sprung generally from Irish parentage. They inherited, in common with all the descendants of the Irish in America, a hearty detestation of the English name and authority. This feeling rendered them excellent patriots and daring soldiers, wherever the British Lion was the object of hostility. Those of whom we are now to speak, the people of Williamsburg, were men generally of fearless courage, powerful frame, well-strung nerves, and an audacious gallantry that led them to delight in dangers, even where the immediate objects by no means justified the risk. They felt that "rapture of the strife", in which the Goth exulted. In addition to these natural endowments for a brave soldiery, they were good riders and famous marksmen--hunters, that knew the woods almost as well by night as by day--could wind about and through the camp of an enemy, as free from suspicion as the velvet-footed squirrel, who, from the lateral branches of the pine, looks over their encampment. They possessed resources of knowledge and ingenuity, while in swamp and thicket, not merely to avoid the danger, but, in not unfrequent instances, to convert it to their own advantage. Nothing but the training and direction of such a mind as Marion's was needed to make, of these men, the most efficient of all partisan soldiery. The formation of the brigade of which he now prepared to take command, has a history of its own which is worth telling. The fame which it subsequently acquired in connection with its leader's name, and which the local traditions will not willingly let die, will justify us in the narration. Some few preliminary facts are necessary. The fall of Charleston, and the dispersion or butchery of those parties which had kept the field after that event, necessarily depressed the spirits and discouraged the attempt of the scattered patriots who still yearned to oppose the invaders. The captivity of many of the leaders to whom they were accustomed to look for counsel and direction, and the flight of others, served still further to dissipate any hopes or purposes which they might have had of concentration. Thousands fled to the North, and embodied themselves under Washington and other American Generals, despairing of the cause at home. Everything appeared to be lost, and a timely proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton, a few days after the surrender of Charleston, tended yet more to subdue the spirit of resistance. The proclamation proffered "pardon to the inhabitants" with some few exceptions, "for their past treasonable offences, and a reinstatement in their rights and immunities heretofore enjoyed, exempt from taxation, except by their own legislature." This specious offer, made at a moment when his power was at its height, everywhere unquestioned and unopposed, indicated a degree of magnanimity, which in the case of those thousands in every such contest, who love repose better than virtue, was everywhere calculated to disarm the inhabitants. To many indeed it seemed to promise all for which they had been contending. It offered security from further injury, protection against the Tories who were using the authority of the British for their own purposes of plunder and revenge, a respite from their calamities, and a restoration of all their rights. With the immunities thus proffered, with the further conviction that further struggle against British power was hopeless, with the assurance, indeed, which was industriously conveyed to them from all quarters, that Congress, not able to assist, had resolved upon yielding the provinces of South Carolina and Georgia to the enemy, as considerations for the independence of the other colonies--they accepted the terms thus offered them by the British commander, and, in great numbers, signed declarations of allegiance, received protection as subjects of the crown, or, as prisoners of war, were paroled to their plantations. Could the British have persevered in this policy, had they kept faith with the inhabitants, they might much longer have held possession of the country. But, either they were not sincere in their first professions, or their subsequent necessities compelled them to adopt a less rational policy. Twenty days had not elapsed from the publication of the first proclamation when it was followed by another, which so entirely qualified and impaired the character of the former, as to revolt the people whom it had invited, and to impress them with the conviction that they had been imposed upon--that the first measure was a mere decoy,--a trap involving their pledges, yet withholding the very securities for which they had been given. This second proclamation, premising that it was necessary for all good citizens to uphold his Majesty's Government, proceeded to discharge from protection and parole all persons to whom such papers had been accorded. All persons not absolutely prisoners of war, taken in arms, were to be reinstated in their former positions as citizens--but, as citizens of the British Empire. In this relation the farther inferences were inevitable. They were now actually to support his Majesty's Government. The proclamation ended with the usual penalties--all who neglected to return to their allegiance were to be treated as rebels. The policy thus adopted by the British commander soon made them so. The object of the Carolinians, in taking protections and paroles, was to avoid further warfare. The second proclamation of the British General required them to take up arms for his Majesty, and against their countrymen. This was a hopeful plan by which to fill the British regiments, to save farther importations of Hessians, farther cost of mercenaries, and, as in the case of the Aborigines, to employ the Anglo-American race against one another. The loyalists of the South were to be used against the patriots of the North, as the loyalists of the latter region had been employed to put down the liberties of the former. It was a short and ingenious process for finishing the rebellion; and, could it have entirely succeeded, as in part it did, it would have entitled Sir Henry Clinton to very far superior laurels, as a civilian, than he ever won as a soldier. The value of the Americans, as soldiers, was very well known to the British General. Some of the most sanguinary battles of the Revolution were those in which the combatants on both sides were chiefly natives of the soil, upon which a portion of them but too freely shed their blood in a sincere desire to bolster up that foreign tyranny that mocked the generous valor which it employed. The effect of this second proclamation of the British commander was such as he scarcely anticipated. The readiness with which numbers of the people had accepted paroles and protections, declared, at most, nothing but their indifference to the contest--declared no preference for British domination. In this lay the error of the conqueror. The natural feeling of the people, thus entrapped, was that of indignation. Their determination might have been conjectured by any reasoning mind. Compelled to take up arms--not permitted to enjoy that repose with their families, for which they sought the offered immunities of the British--it was more easy to espouse the cause of their countrymen, to which their affections were really given, than that of the invader. They had committed a great and humbling error in the endeavor to escape the conflict--in taking the proffered protection of a power which had seized with violence upon their native land. It was with some eagerness, therefore, that they threw aside its obligations, and, as opportunity presented itself, girded on their armor, and sallied forth to join their countrymen. Among the first to do so were the men by whom Marion was summoned from the camp of Gates. These brave fellows, occupying a portion of the country stretching from the Santee to the Pedee, including the whole of the present district of Williamsburg, and a part of Marion, were not altogether prepared to understand these British proclamations. They were no great politicians, had no love of blind vassalage, and naturally suspected all liberality of British origin. They wished for certain explanations before they sent in their adhesion. Not that they calculated upon resistance. This, no doubt, seemed to them as hopeless as it appeared in all other parts of the State. But their insulated position, which left them uninformed as to the true condition of things, was, at the same time, a source of their courage and indifference. As yet, the arms of the British had not penetrated into their settlements. They were naturally anxious to prevent their doing so. Under these circumstances, they held a gathering of their best men for the purpose of consulting upon their affairs. The twin proclamations--how unlike!--of the British commander, were before them: and, in their primitive assembly, they sat down to discuss their separate merits. These confused rather than enlightened them, and it was resolved to send one of their number, in whom they had most confidence, to the nearest British authority, in order that their difficulties should be explained and their doubts satisfied. There was one sterling family among them of the name of James. Of this family there were five brothers, John, William, Gavin, Robert and James. No men under Marion were braver or truer than these. Fearless, strong and active, they were always ready for the foe; the first in attack, the last in retreat. There were other branches of this family who partook largely of the qualities of the five brothers. Of these, the eldest, Major John James, was chosen the representative of the men of Williamsburg. This gentleman had been their representative in the provincial assembly--he was in command of them as State militia. They gave him their fullest confidence, and he deserved it. Under this appointment, Major James repaired to Georgetown, the nearest British post, which was then under the command of one Captain Ardesoif. Attired as a plain backwoodsman, James obtained an interview with Ardesoif, and, in prompt and plain terms, entered at once upon the business for which he came. But when he demanded the meaning of the British protection, and asked upon what terms the submission of the citizens was to be made, he was peremptorily informed that "the submission must be unconditional." To an inquiry, whether the inhabitants were to be allowed to remain upon their plantations, he was answered in the negative. "His Majesty," said Ardesoif, "offers you a free pardon, of which you are undeserving, for you all ought to be hanged; but it is only on condition that you take up arms in his cause." James, whom we may suppose to have been very far from relishing the tone and language in which he was addressed, very coolly replied, that "the people whom he came to REPRESENT, would scarcely submit on such conditions." The republican language of the worthy Major provoked the representative of Royalty. The word 'represent', in particular, smote hardly on his ears; something, too, in the cool, contemptuous manner of the Major, may have contributed to his vexation. "REPRESENT!" he exclaimed in a fury--"You d----d rebel, if you dare speak in such language, I will have you hung up at the yard-arm!" Ardesoif, it must be known, was a sea captain. The ship which he commanded lay in the neighboring river. He used only a habitual form of speech when he threatened the "yard-arm", instead of the tree. Major James gave him no time to make the correction. He was entirely weaponless, and Ardesoif wore a sword; but the inequality, in the moment of his anger, was unfelt by the high-spirited citizen. Suddenly rising, he seized upon the chair on which he had been sitting, and floored the insolent subordinate at a blow; then hurrying forth without giving his enemy time to recover, he mounted his horse, and made his escape to the woods before pursuit could be attempted. His people were soon assembled to hear his story. The exactions of the British, and the spirit which James had displayed, in resenting the insolence of Ardesoif, at once aroused their own. Required to take the field, it did not need a moment to decide "under which king". The result of their deliberations was the formation of "Marion's Brigade". Four captains were chosen for as many companies. These were, Captains William M'Cottry, Henry Mouzon, John James (of the Lake, a cousin of Major James), and John M'Cauley. These were all under the one command of our representative to Ardesoif. He instantly put them into motion, and, after some petty successes against small parties of British and Tories, he advanced one of the four companies, M'Cottry's, to the pass of Lynch's Creek, at Witherspoon's Ferry. Here M'Cottry heard of Col. Tarleton, and proceeded to encounter him. Tarleton had been apprised of the gatherings at Williamsburg, and, at the head of some seventy men, was pressing forward with the hope of surprising James. M'Cottry, more brave perhaps than prudent, after sending back to James for a reinforcement, set forward to give Tarleton battle. The British Colonel had taken post at Kingstree. M'Cottry approached him at midnight. It happened, perhaps fortunately for the former, that Tarleton had received some very exaggerated accounts of M'Cottry's force, which the boldness of his approach seemed to confirm. Taking the alarm accordingly, he disappeared in season, leaving to M'Cottry the 'eclat' which necessarily attended his attempt. The excesses of Tarleton, while on this progress, and the crimes committed in the same neighborhood by other British captains about the same time, completed the movement which the native spirit of patriotism in the men of Williamsburg had so happily begun. The whole country was soon awakened--individuals and groups everywhere beginning to show themselves in arms, and nothing was needed but an embodied force of the Americans, upon which they could concentrate themselves and rally with effect. It was on the 10th or 12th of August, some four days before the defeat of Gates, that Marion reached the post at Lynch's Creek, where M'Cottry had taken his position. He was commissioned by Governor Rutledge to take command of the country in this quarter, and we will henceforth distinguish him as General Marion, although it is not so certain at what period he actually received this promotion;--we find him in possession of it in the following December. Of his personal appearance at this time we have a brief but striking account from the hands of the venerable Judge James--a son of the Major--who had the honor to serve under Marion at the age of fifteen. "He was a stranger," says the Judge, "to the officers and men, and they flocked about him to obtain a sight of their future commander. He was rather below the middle stature, lean and swarthy. His body was well set, but his knees and ankles were badly formed, and he still limped upon one leg. He had a countenance remarkably steady; his nose was aquiline, his chin projecting; his forehead large and high, and his eyes black and piercing. He was then forty-eight years of age, with a frame capable of enduring fatigue and every privation." Of his dress, by which we may form some idea of that costume which had provoked the laughter of Gates' veterans, we have a description also, furnished us by the same excellent authority. We know not but that this description will provoke the smile of the reader. But, of such persons, in the language of the Judge, "even trifles become important." "He (Marion) was dressed in a close round-bodied crimson jacket, of a coarse texture, and wore a leather cap, part of the uniform of the second regiment, with a silver crescent in front, inscribed with the words, 'Liberty or Death!'" Such regimentals show rather the exigencies than the tastes of our partisan. This scarlet cloth, of which his vest was made, was almost the only kind of color which the Carolinians could procure after the conquest of Charleston. The British seemed to distribute it with the protections and pardons, perhaps as a popular mode of disseminating their principles. Moultrie somewhere tells a ludicrous anecdote of some Americans (prisoners on parole) who were nearly cut to pieces by a party of their countrymen, in consequence of their scarlet jackets. They had taken the precaution to dye them with some native roots, but the dye had disappeared, leaving the original color nearly as vivid as before. According to Weems, Marion made rather a theatrical display on taking command of his brigade. He swore them in a circle upon their swords, never to yield the contest until they had secured their own and the liberties of their country. There is no authority for this statement, either in the work of James, in the MS. of Horry, or in any of the authorities. There is no doubt that such were his own sentiments, and such the sentiments which he strove to impart to all his followers; but the scene as described by the reverend historian was quite too artificial and theatrical for the tastes of Marion. It does not accord with what we know of his modesty, his unaffected nature, and the general simplicity of his manners. He instilled his lessons by examples rather than by speeches. His words were usually very few. He secured the fidelity of his men by carrying them bravely into action, and bringing them honorably out of it. Marion's career of activity commenced with his command. Though always prudent, he yet learned that prudence in military life must always imply activity. The insecurity of the encampment, with a militia force, is always greater than that of battle. The Roman captains of celebrity were particularly aware of this truth. But the activity of Marion was necessarily straitened by the condition in which he found his men. They were wretchedly deficient in all the materials of service. His first effort to supply some of their wants, was in sacking the saw-mills. The saws were wrought and hammered by rude blacksmiths into some resemblance to sabres, and thus provided, Marion set his men in motion, two days after taking the command. Crossing the Pedee at Port's Ferry, he advanced upon a large body of Tories commanded by Major Gainey, who held a position upon Britton's Neck. Gainey was considered by the British an excellent partisan officer, but he was caught napping. Marion moved with equal secrecy and celerity. After riding all night, he came upon the enemy at dawn in the morning. The discovery and the attack were one. The surprise was complete. A captain and several privates were slain, and the party dispersed. Marion did not lose a man, and had but two wounded. In this engagement, our representative, Major James, distinguished himself, by singling out Major Gainey for personal combat. But Gainey shrank from his more powerful assailant, and sought safety in flight. James pursued for a distance of half a mile. In the eagerness of the chase he did not perceive that he was alone and unsupported. It was enough that he was gaining upon his enemy, who was almost within reach of his sword, when the chase brought them suddenly upon a body of Tories who had rallied upon the road. There was not a moment to be lost. Hesitation would have been fatal. But our gallant Major was not to be easily intimidated. With great coolness and presence of mind, waving his sword aloft, he cried out, "come on, boys! here they are!" and rushed headlong upon the group of enemies, as if perfectly assured of support. The ruse was successful. The Tories broke once more, and sought safety from their individual enemy in the recesses of Pedee swamp. Marion did not suffer the courage of his men to cool. In twenty-four hours after this event, he was again in motion. Hearing of the proximity of another body of Tories, under Captain Barfield, he advanced against him with as much celerity and caution as before. But he found Barfield strongly posted, in greater force than he expected; warned of his approach and waiting for him. It was no part of Marion's practice to expose his men unnecessarily. He had too few, to risk the loss of any precious lives, where this was to be avoided. He determined upon a different mode of managing his enemy, and resorted to a stratagem, which, subsequently, he frequently made use of. Putting a select party of his men in ambush near the Blue Savannah, he feigned retreat with another, and thus beguiled his enemy from his strong position. The result accorded with his wishes. Barfield followed and fell into the snare. The defeat was equally complete with that of Gainey. The conduct and skill, in managing his raw militia-men, which these two achievements displayed, naturally inspired his followers with confidence in themselves and their leader. They produced a corresponding effect upon the people of the country, and were productive of no small annoyance to the Tories, who were thus suddenly reminded that there might be retribution for crime even when sheltered under the dragon folds of England. Another benefit from these occurrences was in better providing the brigade with some of the proper weapons and munitions of war. Among the recent captures of Marion were two old field-pieces. Returning to Port's Ferry, he threw up a redoubt on the east bank of the Pedee, upon which he mounted them. He seldom troubled himself with such heavy baggage, and probably disposed of them in this way, quite as much to disencumber himself of them, as with any such motive, as was alleged, when placing them in battery, of overawing the Tories by their presence. Movements of so rapid a kind, and so frequently made as his, requiring equal dispatch and secrecy, forbade the use of artillery; and he very well knew, that, to employ men for the maintenance of isolated posts--such posts as he could establish,--would have no other effect than to expose his brigade to the chances of being cut up in detail. On the 17th August, the day following the defeat of Gates,--of which event he was as yet wholly ignorant--he dispatched Col. Peter Horry, with orders to take command of four companies, Bonneau's, Mitchell's, Benson's and Lenud's, near Georgetown, on the Santee; to destroy all the boats and canoes on the river from the lower ferry to Lenud's--to break up and stop all communications with Charleston, and to procure, if possible, supplies of gunpowder, flints and bullets. "Twenty-five weight of gunpowder, ball or buckshot," is the language of his orders. This will show how scanty were the supplies which were to be procured of the material upon which everything depended. Marion frequently went into action with less than three rounds to a man--half of his men were sometimes lookers on because of the lack of arms and ammunition--waiting to see the fall of friends or enemies, in order to obtain the necessary means of taking part in the affair. Buck-shot easily satisfied soldiers, who not unfrequently advanced to the combat with nothing but swan-shot in their fowling-pieces. While Horry proceeded towards Georgetown, Marion marched to the upper Santee. On this march he was advised of the defeat of Gates; but, fearing its effect upon his men, without communicating it, he proceeded immediately toward Nelson's Ferry. This was a well known pass on the great route, the "war-path", from Charleston to Camden. Here his scouts advised him of the approach of a strong British guard, with a large body of prisoners taken from Gates. The guards had stopped at a house on the east side of the river. Informed of all necessary particulars, Marion, a little before daylight, detached Col. Hugh Horry, with sixteen men, to gain possession of the road, at the pass of Horse Creek, in the swamp, while the main body under himself was to attack the enemy's rear. The attempt was made at dawn, and was perfectly successful. A letter from Marion himself, to Col. P. Horry, thus details the event:--"On the 20th inst. I attacked a guard of the 63d and Prince of Wales' Regiment, with a number of Tories, at the Great Savannah, near Nelson's Ferry; killed and took twenty-two regulars, and two Tories prisoners, and retook one hundred and fifty Continentals of the Maryland line, one wagon and a drum; one captain and a subaltern were also captured. Our loss is one killed, and Captain Benson is slightly wounded on the head." It will scarcely be believed that, of this hundred and fifty Continentals, but three men consented to join the ranks of their liberator. It may be that they were somewhat loth to be led, even though it were to victory, by the man whose ludicrous equipments and followers, but a few weeks before, had only provoked their merriment. The reason given for their refusal, however, was not deficient in force. "They considered the cause of the country to be hopeless. They were risking life without an adequate object." The defeat of Gates, and his bad generalship, which they had so recently witnessed, were, perhaps, quite sufficient reasons to justify their misgivings. This disastrous event did not produce like despondency in our partisan or his followers, though it furnished reasons for the greatest circumspection. At this moment Marion's was the only body of American troops in the State, openly opposed to the triumphant progress of the British. The Continentals were dispersed or captured; the Virginia and North Carolina militia scattered to the four winds; Sumter's legion cut up by Tarleton, and he himself a fugitive, fearless and active still, but as yet seeking, rather than commanding, a force. Though small and seemingly insignificant, the force of Marion had shown what might be done, with the spirit and the personnel of the country, under competent leaders. The cruelties of the British, who subjected the vanquished to the worst treatment of war, helped his endeavors. Shortly after the victory over Gates, Lord Cornwallis addressed an order to the British commandants at the several posts throughout the country, of which the following are extracts: "I have given orders that all of the inhabitants of this province who have subscribed, and have taken part in this revolt, should be punished with the greatest rigor; and also those who will not turn out, that they may be imprisoned and their whole property taken from them or destroyed.... I have ordered in the most positive manner that every militia man, who has borne arms with us, and afterwards joined the enemy, shall be immediately hanged!" This gentleman has been called, by some of the American writers, the "amiable Cornwallis". It is rather difficult to say for which of his qualities this dulcet epithet was bestowed. The preceding may well justify us in the doubt we venture to express, whether it was not given as much in mockery as compliment. But, lest his commands should not be understood, as not sufficiently explicit, his Lordship proceeded to furnish examples of his meaning, which left his desires beyond reasonable question. Immediately after his return to Camden, he stained the laurels of his recent victory, and celebrated his triumph over Gates, by hanging some twelve or fifteen wretched prisoners, old men and boys, who were only suspected of treachery to the royal cause. Similar barbarities were practised by subordinate officers, emulative of this example of their superior, or in obedience to his orders. But, fortunately for the country, even this brutality, which was intended to alarm the fears of the people, and do that which the arts of their conqueror had failed to effect, was not productive of the desired results. It drove the indignant into the field--it shamed the unwilling into decision--it spurred on the inert and inactive to exertion, and armed the doubtful and the timid with resolution. It sent hundreds, whom nothing had moved before, into the ranks of Marion and Sumter. The moment of defeat and greatest despondency--the dark before the dawn--was that when the people of the country were preparing to display the most animating signs of life. The very fact that the force of Marion was so insignificant, was something in favor of that courage and patriotism, that confidence in his own resources and his men, which, defying all the inequalities of force, could move him to traverse the very paths of the conqueror, and pluck his prisoners from his very grasp. The audacity and skill of Marion, exhibited in numerous small achievements of which history furnishes no particulars, extorted a reluctant confession from the enemy, whose unwilling language will suffice for our own. Tarleton writes: "MR. Marion,* by his zeal and abilities, showed himself capable of the trust committed to his charge. He collected his adherents at the shortest notice, and, after making excursions into the friendly districts, or threatening the communications, to avoid pursuit he disbanded his followers. The alarms occasioned by these insurrections, frequently retarded supplies on their way to the army; and a late report of Marion's strength delayed the junction of the recruits who had arrived from New York for the corps in the country." The 64th Regiment of Infantry was ordered to Nelson's Ferry from Charleston, and directions were given to Lieut. Col. Tarleton to pass the Wateree to awe the insurgents.** Cornwallis writes to Tarleton: "I most sincerely hope that you will get at MR. Marion." In short, to use the further language of the British Colonel, Marion completely overran the lower districts. He cut off supplies from the army, broke up the Tories, destroyed recruiting parties, intercepted and interrupted communications, and, darting to and fro between the British posts, which he had not the power to overcome, showed that nothing but that power was necessary to enable him to challenge with them the possession of the soil. That he should disband his men at one moment, and be able by a word to bring them together when they were again wanted, proves a singular alliance between the chieftain and his followers, which is characteristic only of the most romantic history. It shows a power, on the part of the former, such as we ascribe to the winding of the magic horn of Astolfo, which few commanders of militia have ever had the skill to produce. Evidently, the personal and patriotic influences were very equally strong, to occasion such prompt fidelity, in his case, on the part of his followers. * The British officers betrayed a singular reluctance to accord to the Americans their military titles. The reader will recollect the letter of General Gage to MR. Washington, which the latter very properly refused to receive. The very attempt here made to sneer away the official, adds to the personal importance of the individual; and we yield to plain Mr. Marion, with his ragged followers, who, untitled, could give such annoyance to His Majesty's officers, a degree of respect which his title might not otherwise have commanded. ** Tarleton's Campaigns, 4to ed. p. 171.-- Chapter 9. Marion retreats before a superior Force--Defeats the Tories at Black Mingo--Surprises and disperses the Force of Colonel Tynes at Tarcote--Is pursued by Tarleton. The solicitude manifested by the British commander in the South to get Marion from his path, soon set the legion of Tarleton, and a strong force under Major Wemyss, in motion for his retreats. The progress of Tarleton was somewhat delayed, and his cooperation with Wemyss prevented. The latter pushed his advance with equal spirit and address. Marion had with him but one hundred and fifty men, when he heard of the approach of his enemies. His force, it must be remembered, was of a peculiar kind, and was constantly fluctuating. His men had cares other than those of their country's liberties. Young and tender families were to be provided for and guarded in the thickets where they found shelter. These were often threatened in the absence of their protectors by marauding bands of Tories, who watched the moment of the departure of the Whigs, to rise upon the weak, and rob and harass the unprotected. The citizen soldiery were thus doubly employed, and had cares to endure, and duties to perform, from which regular troops are usually exempt, and for which regular officers seldom make allowance. The good judgment of Marion, taking these necessities into consideration, exercised that patience with the militia which secured their fidelity. When he found this or that body of men anxious about their families, he yielded most generally without reluctance to their wishes. This indulgence had its effects. Their return was certain. They seldom lingered beyond the time at which they had pledged themselves to reappear. It was in consequence of this indulgence that his force was thus reduced when the British approach was known. Wemyss was in command of the 63d regiment. He was accompanied by a large body of Tories under Major Harrison. They moved with caution and speed, but the American General was on the alert. He dispatched Major James with a select body of volunteers to reconnoitre. His various outposts were called in, and with his whole present strength, thus united, Marion followed on the footsteps of James, prepared, if the chances promised him success, for doing battle with his enemy. Major James, meanwhile, who was equally bold and skilful, pressed forward fearlessly till he became aware of the proximity of the British. He was resolved to make sure of his intelligence. He placed himself in a thicket on their line of march, and by a bright moon, was readily enabled to form a very correct notion of their character and numbers. But as the rear-guard passed by, his courageous spirit prompted further performances. He was not content to carry to his general no other proofs of his vigilance but the tidings which he had obtained. His perfect knowledge of the ground, his confidence in the excellent character of his men, and the speed of their horses, moved him to greater daring; and, bursting from his hiding-place, with a terrible shout, he swooped down with his small party upon the startled stragglers in the rear of the Tory march, carrying off his prisoners in the twinkling of an eye, without stopping to slay, and without suffering the loss of a man. Before the enemy could rally, and turn upon his path, the tread of the partisan's horse no longer sounded in his ears. The intelligence which James bore to his commander was scarcely so encouraging. He reported the British regulars to be double their own force in number, while the Tories in the rear were alone estimated at five hundred men. Retreat, perhaps dispersion, was now inevitable. This was the sort of game, which, in his feebleness, and under the pressure of a very superior foe, our partisan was compelled to play. It was sometimes a humiliating one, and always attended with some discouragements. The evil effects, however, were only temporary. His men never retired beyond his reach. They came again at a call, refreshed by the respite, and assured by the conviction that their commander was quite as careful of their lives as themselves. Such a game was not without its interest, and its peculiarities were such as to give animation to the valor which it exercised. In these peculiarities of his warfare, lies that secret charm which has made tradition, in the southern country, linger so long and so fondly upon the name of Marion. Judge James gives us, in few words, a lively idea of the consultation which followed the return and the report of Major James. "About an hour before day, Marion met the Major half a mile from his plantation. The officers immediately dismounted and retired to consult; the men sat on their horses in a state of anxious suspense. The conference was long and animated. At the end of it, an order was given to direct the march back to Lynch's Creek (the route to North Carolina), and no sooner was it given than a bitter groan might have been heard along the whole line. A bitter cup had now been mingled for the people of Williamsburg and Pedee, and they were doomed to drain it to the dregs, but in the end it proved a salutary medicine." The evil here deplored was the temporary abandonment, for the first time, of this particular section of country. Hitherto, the enemy had never appeared in their neighborhood with such a force as enabled them to overrun it without fear of opposition. Now, they were destined to suffer from those tender mercies of British and Tories, which had written their chronicles in blood and flame, wherever their footsteps had gone before. Bitter, indeed, was the medicine, to whom its taste was new. But, as writes the venerable biographer, it was salutary in the end. It strengthened their souls for the future trial. It made them more resolute in the play. With their own houses in smoking ruins, and their own wives and children homeless and wandering, they could better feel what was due to the sufferings of their common country. It was at sunset the next evening that Marion commenced his flight to North Carolina. He kept with him only sixty men. The rest dropped off by degrees as they approached their several hiding-places, lying snug, until they again heard the signal of their commander,--frequently nothing but a whisper,--which once more brought them forth, to turn the pursuit upon their enemies and avenge themselves by sudden onslaught for the ruin of their homesteads. On this retreat, Marion took with him the two field-pieces which we found him placing in battery on the Pedee a short time before. His desire to save these pieces was due rather to the supposed effect which their possession had upon the minds of the Tories, than because of any real intrinsic use which they possessed in his hands. They encumbered his flight, however, and he disposed of them, finally, without compunction. Wheeling them into a swamp he left them, where, possibly, they remain to this day, the object of occasional start and wonderment to the stalking deer-hunter. This, says Judge James, "was the last instance of military parade evinced by the General." Marching day and night he arrived at Amy's Mill, on Drowning Creek. From this place, he sent forth his parties, back to South Carolina, to gain intelligence and rouse the militia. He himself continued his march. He pitched his camp finally, on the east side of the White Marsh, near the head of the Waccamaw. There may have been a motive, other than the desire for safety, which led Marion to choose and retain this position. The borders of North Carolina swarmed with Tories, chiefly descendants of the Scotch, who constituted, on frequent subsequent occasions, the perplexing enemies with whom our partisan had to contend. It is not improbable, though history does not declare the fact, that he chose the present occasion for overawing the scattered parties, who were always stretching with lawless footsteps from Cape Fear to the Great Pedee. It was while he lay at this place, that the venerable Judge James, then a boy of sixteen, had the honor, for the first time, to dine with Marion. It was in the absence of Major James, the father of the boy, who was one of the volunteers sent back to South Carolina. The artless description which the Judge has given us of this event, so characteristic of Marion, and of the necessities to which he was habitually compelled to submit, will better please than a much more elaborate narrative. "The dinner was set before the company by the General's servant, Oscar, partly on a pine log and partly on the ground. It consisted of lean beef, without salt, and sweet potatoes. The author had left a small pot of boiled hominy in his camp, and requested leave of his host to send for it, and the proposal was gladly acquiesced in. The hominy had salt in it, and proved, though eaten out of the pot, a most acceptable repast. The General said but little, and that was chiefly what a son would be most likely to be gratified by, in the praise of his father. We had nothing to drink but bad water; and all the company appeared to be rather grave." That the party should be rather grave, flying from their homes and a superior foe, eating unsalted pottage, and drinking bad water, was, perhaps, natural enough. That this gravity should appear doubly impressive to a lad of sixteen, in a presence which he was taught to venerate, was still more likely to be the case. But Marion, though a cheerful man, wore ordinarily a grave, sedate expression of countenance. Never darkened by gloom, it was seldom usurped by mere merriment. He had no uproarious humor. His tastes were delicate, his habits gentle, his sensibilities warm and watchful. At most a quiet smile lighted up his features, and he could deal in little gushes of humor, of which there was a precious fountain at the bottom of his heart. That he was capable of a sharp sarcasm, was also generally understood among his friends. Horry remarks, that few men ever excelled him at retort. But he was singularly considerate of the sensibilities of others, and had his temper under rare command. His powers of forbearance were remarkable. His demeanor, whether in triumph or despondency, was equally quiet and subdued. He yielded to few excitements, was seldom elevated by successes to imprudence--as seldom depressed by disappointments to despondency. The equable tone of his mind reminds us again of Washington. It was while Marion remained at White Marsh, that one of his captains, Gavin Witherspoon, whom he had sent out with four men, achieved one of those clever performances, that so frequently distinguished the men of Marion. He had taken refuge in Pedee Swamp from the pursuit of the enemy, and, while hiding, discovered one of the camps of the Tories who had been in pursuit of him. Witherspoon proposed to his four comrades to watch the enemy's camp, until the Tories were asleep. But his men timidly shrunk from the performance, expressing their dread of superior numbers. Witherspoon undertook the adventure himself. Creeping up to the encampment, he found that they slept at the butt of a pine tree, which had been torn up by the roots. Their guns were piled against one of its branches at a little distance from them. These he first determined to secure, and, still creeping, with the skill and caution of an experienced scout, he succeeded in his object. The guns once in his possession, he aroused the Tories by commanding their surrender. They were seven in number, unarmed, and knew nothing of the force of the assailant. His own more timid followers drew near in sufficient time to assist in securing the prisoners. There was another Witherspoon with Marion, John, a brother of Gavin, and like him distinguished for great coolness, strength, and courage. Both of the brothers delighted in such adventures, and were always ready to engage in them,--the rashness of the attempt giving a sort of relish to the danger, which always sweetened it to the taste of our partisans. The return of the various scouting parties which Marion sent out, soon set his little brigade in motion. The intelligence which they brought was well calculated to sting his soldiers, as well as himself, into immediate activity. The medicine which the British had administered to the country they abandoned, had not been suffered to lose any of its bitterness. As had been feared, the Tories had laid waste the farms and plantations. The region through which Major Wemyss had passed, for seventy miles in length and fifteen in breadth, displayed one broad face of desolation. It had been swept by sword and fire. Havoc had exercised its most ingenious powers of destruction. On most of the plantations the houses were given to the flames, the inhabitants plundered of all their possessions, and the stock, especially the sheep, wantonly shot or bayoneted. Wemyss seems to have been particularly hostile to looms and sheep, simply because they supplied the inhabitants with clothing. He seldom suffered the furniture to be withdrawn from a dwelling which he had doomed to be destroyed: Presbyterian churches he burnt religiously, as so many "sedition-shops". It was fortunate for the wretched country, thus ravaged, that the corn was not generally housed; it was only in part destroyed. Had the Tories played the same game in the cornfields of the patriots, that Grant's men had done in those of the Cherokees, as recorded in an early page of this volume,* the devastation would have been complete. They had not limited their proceedings to these minor crimes. They had added human butchery and hanging to those other offences for which vengeance was in store. The wife and children of one Adam Cusack, threw themselves across the path of Wemyss to obtain the pardon of the husband and the father. The crime of Cusack was in having taken arms against the enemy. Their prayers were in vain. But for the interference of his own officers, the ruthless Briton would have ridden over the kneeling innocents. This was not the only savage murder of the same description which this wretched people had to endure. But such atrocities were sharp medicines, benefits in disguise, good against cowardice, selfishness, double-dealing, and deficient patriotism. They worked famously upon the natives, while they proved the invader to be as little capable of good policy, as of ordinary humanity. They roused the spirit of the militia, whet their anger and their swords together, and, by the time that Marion reappeared, they were ready for their General. He asked for nothing more. He re-entered South Carolina by a forced march. Travelling night and day, he hurried through the Tory settlements on Little Pedee, a space of sixty miles, on the second day of his journey. At Lynch's Creek he was joined by Captains James and Mouzon, with a considerable body of men. He was prepared to give them instant employment. Major Wemyss had retired to Georgetown, but Marion was advised of a large body of Tories at Black Mingo, fifteen miles below, under the command of Capt. John Coming Ball. Marion was in expectation, every moment, of additional troops, but he determined not to wait for them. He found his men in the proper mood for fight, and at such times small inequalities of force are not to be regarded. He resolved to give the humor vent, and at once commenced his march for the enemy's encampment. He found the Tories strongly posted at Shepherd's Ferry, on the south side of the Black Mingo, on a deep navigable stream, the passage of which they commanded. There was but one other approach to them, about a mile above their position, through a boggy causeway, and over a bridge of planks. It was nearly midnight when Marion's troops reached this pass. While the horses were crossing the bridge, an alarm-gun was heard from the Tory camp. Celerity now became as necessary to success as caution, and Marion ordered his men to follow him at full gallop. When they reached the main road, about three hundred yards from the enemy, the whole force, with the exception of a small body acting as cavalry, dismounted. A body of picked men, under Captain Waties, was ordered down the road to attack Dollard's house, where the Tories had been posted. Two companies, under Col. Hugh Horry, were sent to the right, and the cavalry to the left, to support the attack, Marion himself bringing up the reserve. It so happened, however, that the Tories had taken the alarm, and having withdrawn from the house, had chosen a strong position in an old field near it. Here they encountered Horry's command, on the advance, with a fire equally severe and unexpected. The effect was that of a surprise upon the assailants. Horry's troops fell back in confusion, but were promptly rallied and brought to the charge. The battle was obstinate and bloody, but the appearance of the corps under Waties, suddenly, in the rear of the Tories, soon brought it to a close. Finding themselves between two fires, the enemy gave way in all directions, and fled for refuge to the neighboring swamp of Black Mingo. So warmly contested was this affair, that, though soon over, fully one third of the men brought into the field were put 'hors de combat'. The loss of Marion was proportionably very considerable. Captain Logan was among his slain; and Captain Mouzon and Lieut. Scott so severely wounded as to be unfit for future service. The force of the Tories was almost twice as great as that of the Whigs. They lost their commander, and left nearly half their number, killed and wounded, on the ground. But for the alarm given by the tread of Marion's horses, while crossing the neighboring bridge, the Tories would most probably have been surprised. At any rate, the affair would have been settled without subjecting the brigade to the severe loss which it sustained. After this event Marion adopted the precaution, whenever about to cross a bridge by night, with an enemy near, to cover the planks with the blankets of his men. But he generally preferred fords, where they could possibly be had, to bridges. * See ante, pp. 50-52 [End of Chapter 4].-- This victory was very complete. Many of the Tories came in, and joined the ranks of the conqueror. Those who did not, were quite too much confounded to show much impatience in taking up arms against him. His uniform successes, whenever he struck, had already strongly impressed the imaginations of the people. His name was already the rallying word throughout the country. To join Marion, to be one of Marion's men, was the duty which the grandsire imposed upon the lad, and to the performance of which, throwing aside his crutch, he led the way. We have already shown why the force of Marion was so liable to fluctuation. The necessity of providing for, and protecting destitute families, starving wives and naked children, was more imperative than that of a remote and fancied liberty. These cases attended to, the militia came forth, struck a few blows, and once more returned to their destitute dependents. The victory over the Tories of Black Mingo, was, from this cause, followed by a more than usually prolonged inactivity of our partisan. His men demanded a respite to go and see their families. He consented, with some reluctance, for the business of the campaign was only beginning to open itself before him. They promised him, as usual, to return in season; but remained so long absent, that, for the first time, he now began to doubt and despair of them. This feeling was not natural with him. It was probably only due now to some derangement of his own health, some anxiety to achieve objects which presented themselves prominently to his mind. He had probably heard of the advance of General Greene, who, having succeeded to Gates, was pressing forward with fresh recruits, and the remnant of the fugitives who survived, in freedom, the fatal battle of Camden. A laudable anxiety to be active at such a time, to show to the approaching Continentals that there was a spirit in the State which they came to succor, of which the most happy auguries might be entertained, prompted his morbid impatience at the long delay of his absentees. There were other causes which led him to feel this delay more seriously now than at other times. The Tories were again gathering in force around him. Under these circumstances, and with these feelings, he consulted with his officers whether they should not leave the State and join the approaching army of Greene. Hugh Horry counselled him strenuously against it. His counsel was seconded by the rest. They prevailed with him. It was fortunate that they did so; for the great efficiency of Marion was in the independence of his command. While the matter was yet in debate, the militia began to reappear. He had not sufficiently allowed for their exigencies, for the scattered homes and hiding-places of famishing hundreds, living on precarious supplies, in swamp and thicket. How could he reproach them--fighting as they were for love of country only, and under such privations--that country yielding them nothing, no money, no clothes, no provisions,--for they were nothing but militia. They were not enrolled on the Continental pay list. That they should seek the field at all, thus circumstanced, will be ever a wonder to that class of philosophers who found their systems upon the simple doctrine of human selfishness. True to their chief, he rejoiced once more in their fidelity; and, marching into Williamsburg, he continued to increase his numbers with his advance. His present object was the chastisement of Col. Harrison, who was in force upon Lynch's Creek; but his progress in this direction was suddenly arrested by his scouts, who brought him tidings of large gatherings of Tories in and about Salem and the fork of Black River. In this quarter, one Colonel Tynes had made his appearance, and had summoned the people generally, as good subjects of his majesty, to take the field against their countrymen. It was necessary to check this rising, and to scatter it before it gained too much head; to lessen the influence of Tynes and his party, over those who were doubtful, and afford the friends of the patriots an opportunity to come out on the proper side. There were other inducements to the movement. Col. Tynes had brought with him from Charleston, large supplies of the materials of war and comfort--commodities of which the poor patriots stood grievously in need. They hungered at the tidings brought by the scouts, of new English muskets and bayonets, broad-swords and pistols, saddles and bridles, powder and ball, which the provident Colonel had procured from Charleston for fitting out the new levies. To strike at this gathering, prevent these new levies, and procure the supplies which were designed for them, were controlling objects to which all others were made to yield. The half naked troops of the brigade found new motives to valor in the good things which the adventure promised. Tynes lay at Tarcote, in the forks of Black River, and, as Marion was advised, without exercising much military watchfulness. The head of his column was instantly turned in this direction. Crossing the lower ford of the northern branch of Black River, at Nelson's plantation, he came upon the camp of Tynes at midnight. A hurried, but satisfactory survey, revealed the position of the enemy. No preparation had been made for safety, no precautions taken against attack. Some of the Tories slept, others feasted, and others were at cards--none watched. Marion made his arrangements for the attack without obstacle or interruption. The surprise was complete,--the panic universal. A few were slain, some with the cards in their hands. Tynes, with two of his officers, and many of his men, were made prisoners, but the greater number fled. Few were slain, as scarcely any resistance was offered, and Tarcote Swamp was fortunately nigh to receive and shelter the fugitives, many of whom shortly after made their appearance and took their places in the ranks of the conqueror. Marion lost not a man. The anticipations of his people were gratified with the acquisition of no small store of those supplies, arms and ammunition, of which they had previously stood in so much need. These spirited achievements, however small, were so cleverly executed, so unexpectedly, and with such uniform success, as to occasion a lively sensation through the country. Hope everywhere began to warm the patriots of the State, bringing courage along with it. The effect upon the enemy, of an opposite temper and tendency, was quite as lively. Cornwallis, whom we have already seen urging Tarleton to the pursuit of our partisan, frankly acknowledged his great merits, and was heard to say that "he would give a good deal to have him taken."* His language to Sir Henry Clinton, in a letter dated from his camp at Winnsborough, December 3d, 1780, of a different tone, indeed, was of like tenor. It spoke for the wonderful progress and influence of our hero--a progress and influence not to be understood by the reader, from the meagre account which we are enabled to give of the battles, skirmishes and happy stratagems, in which his men were constantly engaged. Cornwallis writes,--"Col. Marion had so wrought on the minds of the people, partly by the terror of his threats and cruelty of his punishments, and partly by the promise of plunder, that THERE WAS SCARCELY AN INHABITANT BETWEEN THE SANTEE AND PEDEE, THAT WAS NOT IN ARMS AGAINST US. SOME PARTIES HAD EVEN CROSSED THE SANTEE, AND CARRIED TERROR TO THE GATES OF CHARLESTON." * Moultrie's Memoirs.-- Where his lordship speaks of the successes of Marion, his great influence over the people, and the audacity with which they urged their progress through all parts of that section of country, which had been yielded to his control by Governor Rutledge, his statement is true to the very letter. It sums up very happily the results of his activity and conduct. But, when his lordship alleges cruelty and threats, and the hopes of plunder, as the means by which these results were produced, we meet his assertion with very flat denial. All the testimonies of the time, but his own, show that, in this respect, he wandered very widely from the truth. No single specification of cruelty was ever alleged against the fair fame of Francis Marion. His reputation, as a humane soldier, is beyond reproach, and when questioned, always challenged and invited investigation. The charge made by Cornwallis was urged by Lt.-Col. Balfour, commandant of Charleston, in a correspondence with General Moultrie. The latter answered it in a frank and confident manner, which showed what he thought of it. "I am sorry," he writes to Balfour, "to hear that General Marion should use his prisoners ill. IT IS CONTRARY TO HIS NATURAL DISPOSITION: I KNOW HIM TO BE GENEROUS AND HUMANE."*1* He adds elsewhere: "General Marion always gave orders to his men that there should be no waste of the inhabitants' property, and no plundering."*2* Marion had lived in the family of Moultrie,*3* had repeatedly served under him, and if any man knew thoroughly his true disposition, the hero of Fort Sullivan was certainly that man. But the testimony of all who knew him was to the same effect. Indeed, the gentleness of his nature made him a favorite wherever known. Touching the lessons and hopes of plunder, which his men are said to have received, this scarcely requires any answer. We have seen, and shall see hereafter, the state of poverty and privation in which the brigade of Marion subsisted. A few little facts will better serve to show what their condition was. During the whole period in which we have seen him engaged, and for some months later, Marion himself, winter and summer, had slept without the luxury of a blanket. He had but one, on taking command of the "Brigade", and this he lost by accident. Sleeping soundly, after one of his forced marches, upon a bed of pine straw, it took fire, his blanket was destroyed, and he himself had an escape so narrow, that one half of the cap he wore was shrivelled up by the flames. His food was hominy or potatoes; his drink vinegar and water, of which he was fond. He had neither tea nor coffee, and seldom tasted wine or spirits. And this moderation was shown at a time when he held in his possession a power from Governor Rutledge, to impress and appropriate whatever he thought necessary to his purposes.*4* The charge against him of cruelty and plunder is perfectly absurd, and rests on the vague assertions of an enemy, who specifies no offence and offers no sort of evidence. It was but natural that such charges should be made by an astonished and disappointed foe--natural that the conqueror should ascribe to any but the right cause the reluctance of a people to submit to a monstrous usurpation, and their anxiety to avail themselves, by the presence of a favorite leader, of a principle and prospects to which their affections were really surrendered. Could the British commanders in America have really been brought to admit that the affections of the people were not with their sovereign, the war must have found a finish much sooner than it did. Their hopes were built upon this doubt; and hence their anxiety to show the coercive measures of the chieftains by whom this control, adverse to their wishes, was maintained over the minds of the people. The great influence of Marion was due to other acts. It was by the power of love, and not of terror, that he managed his followers. They loved him for himself, and loved his cause for their country. His rare command of temper, his bland, affectionate manner, his calm superiority, and that confidence in his courage and conduct, as a leader, without which militia-men are never led to victory,--these were the sources of his influence over them, and of their successes against the enemy. It was through these that he "carried terror to the very gates of Charleston." We shall see indeed, that, under Marion, the militia were never conducted to defeat. *1* Memoirs, vol. 2, p. 174. *2* Moultrie, vol. 2, p. 236. *3* MS. Memoirs of General Horry. *4* James' Memoir, p. 122.-- Whatever may have been the causes of his victories, first over the minds of his people, and next over their foes, the British found it necessary that his influence should be restrained, and his farther progress arrested. Cornwallis, as we have seen, was willing to "give a good deal to have him taken." Tarleton is affectionately invoked to this pleasant duty, by the sincere hope that he would "get at Mr. Marion." This, however desirable, was no easy matter. Marion was a very "will o' the wisp" in military affairs, almost as difficult to find, at times, by his own followers, as by the enemy. He was the true model of a partisan in a country, like ours, of swamp and thicket; leading the pursuing foe, like Puck, "through bog and through briar," till he wearied out his patience, exhausted his resources, and finally laid him open for defeat. He seldom lingered long in any one spot, changing his ground frequently, with Indian policy; his scouts, well chosen, were always on the alert; and, by constant activity and enterprise, he not only baffled pursuit, but deprived retreat of its usual mortifications. The employment which he thus gave his men, not only hardened them against every turn of fortune, but kept them always in good spirits. Tarleton rose from a sick bed to undertake his capture. He had been confined for some time in Charleston with fever. The first moment of convalescence was seized upon for carrying into effect the wishes of Cornwallis. He concerted his plans before he left the city. His legion, which was at Camden, were instructed to meet him, while with a troop of horse he set forward for some point upon the Wateree. From this point he was to descend the Wateree in quest of our partisan. His plan of pursuit, as furnished by his own pen, will be seen hereafter. Marion was not unadvised of his progress, but, either from the rapidity of Tarleton's movements, or some error in the report of his scouts, he failed of success in the object which he aimed at. This was the capture of Tarleton, while, with his troop of horse, he was on his way to join the legion. With this object he pressed his march for Nelson's Ferry on the Santee, and placed his men in ambush in the river swamp. He arrived too late. Tarleton had already crossed fully two days before. Marion passed the river in pursuit, advancing with some earnestness on the footsteps of his foe, still under the impression that Tarleton was only in command of the small troop with which he had marched from Charleston. But the British commander had already effected the junction with his legion, and was at hand in greater force than our partisan dreamed of. At night, having reached a strong position in the woods, Marion was taking his usual precautions for making his camp. He was suddenly struck with a great light, seemingly at the plantation of General Richardson. This awakened his anxieties, and led him at once to suspect the presence of his enemy in that quarter. The progress of the British was thus usually distinguished when they reached a settlement of the patriots. The suspicions of Marion were soon confirmed by the arrival of Colonel Richardson, from whom he learned that Tarleton was really at the plantation, the fires of which he saw, in force with his whole legion, and two field-pieces. The strength of the British was double his own, and, to increase his anxieties, it was discovered that one of his men,--probably one of the late converts, who had joined the ranks after the defeat of Tynes,--had deserted to the enemy. In command of a force so superior, and in possession of a guide well acquainted with the country, Tarleton was too strong to be withstood. The position of Marion was no longer safe. He at once fell back, and crossing in silence and darkness a dense and gloomy swamp of vast extent, called the "wood-yard", halted on Jack's creek, a distance of six miles from his late encampment. This post was temporarily a secure one. Tarleton, meanwhile, was conducted faithfully by the deserter into the "wood-yard",--but the bird had flown. He pressed the pursuit the next day, with that hot haste by which he was quite as much distinguished as by his cruelties. But Marion knew his foe, and had already changed his ground. Pushing his way through a wild extent of country, full of bogs and swamps, he reached Benbow's Ferry, about ten miles above Kingstree, where, taking a strong position, he resolved to defend himself. The place was one with which himself and men were familiar. It was not only eligible in itself, commanding the passage of the river, but it was one in which defeat was not necessarily final. It had resources, and means of rally, which are always important considerations to a militia command. There were three difficult passes, through the swamp, in Marion's rear, at each of which, if driven by the enemy, his men could make a stubborn fight. His position taken, he proceeded promptly to strengthen its natural defences by art. Trees were felled across the track, and the post so improved as to reconcile the inequalities of his own with the pursuing force of Tarleton. Had the latter made his appearance, as Marion fully hoped and expected, the fatal rifles of the "Brigade" thus planted, would have very quickly emptied his best saddles. But the commander of the legion grew weary of the chase, at the very moment when it halted to await him. Of the pursuit he has given us a somewhat vainglorious description. He represents himself as having been nearly successful, by means of his great adroitness and the excellence of his strategy. He says--"According to the reports of the country, General Marion's numbers were hourly increasing, which induced Lt.-Col. Tarleton to move his corps, for a short time, in a very compact body, lest the Americans should gain any advantage over patrols or detachments. But as soon as he found that the account of numbers was exaggerated, and that the enemy declined an engagement, he divided his corps into several small parties, publishing intelligence that each was on patrol, and that the main body of the King's troops had countermarched to Camden. Notwithstanding the divisions scattered throughout the country, to impose upon the enemy, Lt.-Col. Tarleton took care that no detachment should be out of the reach of assistance; and that the whole formed after dark every evening a solid and vigilant corps during the night. This stratagem had not been employed more than three days, before General Marion was on the point of falling a sacrifice to it. He advanced on the 10th before day, with five hundred militia, to attack Lt.-Col. Tarleton (who had notice of his approach), and arrived within two miles of his post, when a person of the name of Richardson discovered to him his misconception of the British force." But, as we have seen, Marion's advance upon Tarleton was only the continuation of the pursuit which he began under the impression that the latter was still forcing his way to Camden with the small force with which he had crossed the Santee. Of the descent of the legion from above, he knew nothing, and the three days' strategy of Tarleton were wasted upon him. The caution of the British Colonel in all this time might have been spared. It influenced the course of Marion in no respect. We have seen that, when the latter discovered his enemy, it was before day had closed, and not just before day. We have also seen that Tarleton's own bonfires had already revealed the secret of his presence, in strength, to his wary antagonist. If Col. Richardson had never entered the camp of Marion, the blazing dwellings of the Richardson family would have led to such precautions, on the side of the partisan, as must have effectually baffled the objects of the British Colonel. This indulgence in the usual British passion for burning the homesteads of women and children, which Tarleton could not resist, even though his immediate aim required the utmost watchfulness and secrecy, at once revealed to Marion not only that his enemy was there, but that he was there, with a force, in the strength of which he had the utmost confidence. It is not to be supposed that a small detachment, a scouting party of horse, a troop sent out for intelligence,--such as the British Colonel represents his several parties to have been, when his force was broken up in detail, to beguile the partisan,--would be likely to commit such excesses as to draw the eye of the country suddenly upon them, at a time, too, when a wary adversary was within two miles with a force of five hundred men. Tarleton proceeds: "A pursuit was immediately commenced, and continued for seven hours, through swamps and defiles. Some prisoners fell into the possession of the legion dragoons, who gained ground very fast, and must soon have brought the enemy to action, when an express from Earl Cornwallis, who had followed the tracks of the march, recalled Lt.-Col. Tarleton." Such is the British narrative. We have reason to think it faulty in several respects. We doubt that it was the express of Earl Cornwallis that arrested the pursuit of our Legionary Colonel. We are disposed to ascribe it to his own weariness of the game. The dispatch of Cornwallis to which he refers, was dated at Winnsboro' on the 9th of the month. It was on the night of the 10th, as we see by Tarleton's own statement, that he commenced the close and earnest pursuit of Marion. The distance from Winnsboro' to the 'wood-yard', even allowing that the instincts and information of the express should bring him directly upon the trail of the Legion, would have employed him fully two days to overcome. These two days would have brought him to the close of the twelfth, up to which period, had Tarleton continued the chase, he might have enjoyed the satisfaction of shaking hands with his antagonist in his defences at Benbow's Ferry. There, at the first proper position in which he might, with any hopes of success, oppose his adversary, had Marion taken his stand. There, having entrenched himself, he was busy in bringing together his forces. "Had Tarleton," says Judge James, "proceeded with his jaded horses to Benbow's, he would have exposed his force to such sharp shooting as he had not yet experienced, and that in a place where he could not have acted with either his artillery or cavalry." But Tarleton had tired of the adventure. After a pursuit of twenty-five miles, he found his progress arrested by a swamp, wide and deep, through which his eye could discern no beaten road. But this should have discouraged no resolute commander, having his enemy before him. Marion had already preceded him in the passage, and was then within ten miles, awaiting his approach. He could have reached him in three hours, and four might have sufficed for the march and conflict. The express of Cornwallis might have yielded that time, since it was not on the necessity of the Earl that he had written. Tarleton insinuates that the sole desire of Marion was to save himself. Now, one fact will suffice to show the incorrectness of this notion. For a distance of twelve miles on his retreat, the course of the partisan skirted the south branch of Black River. He could, at any time and in a few minutes, have plunged into it, and no regular body of cavalry could have followed him. Besides, so close, we are told, was the pursuit, that the dragoons were taking prisoners. The enemy must have been overtaken, but for the express. Under such circumstances it seems strange that Tarleton should show such singular deference to the express as to forbear the blow, when his sabre was already uplifted, and one of his most troublesome enemies was actually beneath it. It is scarcely possible that, with his dragoons so close on the heels of the fugitives and informed by prisoners of the proximity of his foe, he should not have heard that he was finally posted and in waiting for him. We will suppose, however, that he did not. He turned the head of his column at the very moment when his object was attainable. Popular tradition represents him as expressing himself discouraged at the sight of Ox swamp, and exclaiming, "Come, my boys! let us go back. We will soon find the 'Game Cock' (meaning Sumter), but as for this d----d 'Swamp Fox', the devil himself could not catch him." From this speech of Tarleton, we are given to understand that the two popular names were derived, by which Sumter and Marion were ever after known by their followers. Tarleton gained nothing by the pursuit of his wily antagonist. Marion remained in perfect mastery over the whole territory which he had been wont to overrun, with a strength somewhat increased by the fact that he had succeeded in baffling and eluding the attempts of one who had hitherto been successful in all his enterprises. From this moment the career of Tarleton ceased to be fortunate. His failure to capture Marion was the first in a long train of disappointments and disasters, some of which were also attended by the most disgraceful and humbling defeats. Chapter 10. Marion attempts Georgetown--Horry defeats Merritt-- Melton defeated by Barfield--Gabriel Marion taken by the Tories and murdered--Marion retires to Snow's Island. Failing to overtake Marion in his retreat, and unwilling to press upon him in his stronghold, Tarleton turned the heads of his columns in the search after the other famous partisan of Carolina, General Sumter. This gentleman, after the surprise and dispersion of his force, which had followed so closely the defeat of Gates, had fallen back, with the wreck of his command, to the neighborhood of the mountains. But, no sooner was it understood that a second Continental army was on its march for Carolina, than he emerged from his retreat, and renewed his enterprises with as much activity as ever. It was to direct his arms against this enemy, and to restrain his incursions, that Tarleton was recalled from the pursuit of Marion by Earl Cornwallis. The force under Sumter had increased to about five hundred men when he approached, and took post within twenty-eight miles of the encampment of Cornwallis at Winnsboro'. This approach, particularly as Sumter, unlike Marion, was apt to linger some time in a favorite position, induced the British commander to attempt his surprise. Col. Wemyss was accordingly sent against him with a strong body of British infantry. But Wemyss was defeated, severely wounded himself, and fell into the hands of the Americans. The failure of Wemyss, and the audacity of Sumter, provoked the anxiety and indignation of Cornwallis. Tarleton promptly seconded the wishes of his superior, and rapidly advanced upon his adversary. Sumter, hearing of his approach, and with a force very far superior to his own, commenced his retreat, and threw the Tyger River between himself and his pursuer. Apprehensive only of losing his prey, and not at all doubtful of his victory, Tarleton continued the pursuit with about four hundred mounted men, leaving the main body of his infantry and artillery to follow. As soon as Sumter discovered that the whole of the British army was not at his heels, he discontinued his flight, and waited for his enemy at the house and farm of one Blackstock, on the banks of the Tyger. Here an action followed, in which the British were defeated. Tarleton lost ninety-two slain and one hundred wounded. The Americans lost three men slain and as many wounded. But among the latter was their commander. The wound of Sumter was in the breast, and a very severe one. He was wrapped up in the raw hide of a bullock, suspended between two horses, and, guarded by a hundred faithful followers,* was conveyed in safety to North Carolina, where, unhappily, he lay for some time totally incapacitated from active performance. * Judge James says "a guard of five men".--A. L., 1996.-- This event was preceded and followed by others quite as encouraging to the American cause. The battle of King's Mountain took place on the 7th October, 1780, in which the British, under Major Ferguson, experienced a total defeat; Ferguson being slain, and the killed, wounded and captured of his army, amounting to eleven hundred men. Meanwhile, the example of Marion and Sumter had aroused the partisan spirit in numerous other places; and every distinct section of the country soon produced its particular leader, under whom the Whigs embodied themselves, striking wherever an opportunity offered of cutting off the British and Tories in detail, and retiring to places of safety, or dispersing in groups, on the approach of a superior force. This species of warfare was, of all kinds, that which was most likely to try the patience, and baffle the progress, of the British commander. He could overrun the country, but he made no conquests. His great armies passed over the land unquestioned, but had no sooner withdrawn, than his posts were assailed, his detachments cut off, his supplies arrested, and the Tories once more overawed by their fierce and fearless neighbors. Marion's brigade, in particular, constantly in motion,--moving by night as frequently as by day, singularly well informed by its scouts, and appearing at the least expected moment,--was always ready to prevent the gathering, into force and strength, of the loyalists. And this activity was shown, and this warfare waged, at a time, when, not only was the State without an army, without any distinct embodiment of its own, or of its confederates,--but when it was covered everywhere with strong and well appointed posts of the enemy. The position of Earl Cornwallis at Winnsboro', completed his chain of posts from Georgetown to Augusta, in a circle, the centre of which would have been about Beaufort, in South Carolina, equidistant from Charleston and Savannah. These posts consisted of Georgetown, Camden, Winnsboro', Ninety-Six and Augusta. Within this circle was an interior chain, at the distance of half the radius, consisting of Fort Watson on the road to Camden, Motte's house, and Granby on the Congaree. Dorchester and Orangeburgh, on the road both to Ninety-Six and Granby, were fortified as posts of rest and deposit, on the line of communication; as was Monk's Corner, or Biggin Church, and some other small posts on that to Camden. These posts were all judiciously chosen, both for arming the country and obtaining subsistence.* * Johnson's Greene, vol. 1.-- Penetrating between these posts, and snatching their prey, or smiting the enemy's detachments, under the very jaws of their cannon, our partisans succeeded in embodying public opinion, through the very sense of shame, against their enemies. The courage of the Whigs was ennobled, and their timidity rebuked, when they beheld such a daring spirit, and one so crowned by frequent successes, in such petty numbers. The 'esprit de corps', which these successes, and this spirit, awakened in the brigade of Marion, necessarily imparted itself to the region of country in which he operated; and the admiration which he inspired in the friendly, and the fear which he taught to the adverse, uniting in their effects, brought equally the faithful and the doubtful to his ranks. From the moment that he eluded the arts, and baffled the pursuit of Tarleton, the people of that tract of country, on a line stretching from Camden, across, to the mouth of Black Creek on the Pedee, including generally both banks of the Wateree, Santee and Pedee, were now (excepting Harrison's party on Lynch's Creek) either ready, or preparing to join him. Under these auspices, with his brigade increasing, Marion began to prepare for new enterprises. The British post at Georgetown was one of considerable strength and importance. It was of special importance to Marion. From this place he procured, or expected to procure, his supplies of salt, clothing, and ammunition. Of these commodities he was now grievously in want. To surprise Georgetown became as desirable as it was difficult. Marion determined to attempt it. It was only by a surprise that he could hope to be successful, and he made his plans accordingly. They were unfortunate, and the event was particularly and personally distressing to himself. To expedite his schemes, he crossed Black river, at a retired place, called Potato Ferry, and proceeded by the "Gap-way" towards the object of his aim. Three miles from the town there is an inland swamp, called "White's Bay", which, discharging itself by two mouths, the one into Black river, the other into Sampit, completely insulates the town, which stands on the north side of the latter river near its junction with Winyaw bay. Over the creek which empties into the Sampit, there is a bridge, two miles from Georgetown. In the rear of these swamps, Marion concealed himself with the main body of his force, sending out two parties to reconnoitre. One of these parties was commanded by Col. P. Horry, the other by Capt. Melton. These officers both encountered the enemy, but they were not both equally fortunate in the result. Horry may be allowed to tell his own story. "I was sent," he writes, "by Gen. Marion to reconnoitre Georgetown. I proceeded with a guide through the woods all night. At the dawn of day, I drew near the town. I laid an ambuscade, with thirty men and three officers, near the road. About sunrise a chair appeared with two ladies escorted by two British officers. I was ready in advance with an officer to cut them off, but reflecting that they might escape, and alarm the town, which would prevent my taking greater numbers, I desisted. The officers and chair halted very near me, but soon the chair went on, and the officers gallopped in retrograde into the town. Our party continued in ambush, until 10 o'clock A.M. "Nothing appearing, and men and horses having eaten nothing for thirty-six hours, we were hungered, and retired to a plantation of my quarter-master's, a Mr. White, not far distant. There a curious scene took place. As soon as I entered the house... four ladies appeared, two of whom were Mrs. White and her daughter. I was asked what I wanted. I answered, food, refreshment. The other two ladies were those whom I had seen escorted by the British officers. They seemed greatly agitated, and begged most earnestly that I would go away, for the family was very poor, had no provisions of any sort,--that I knew that they were Whigs, and surely would not add to their distress. So pressing were they for my immediately leaving the plantation, that I thought they had more in view than they pretended. I kept my eye on Mrs. White, and saw she had a smiling countenance, but said nothing. Soon she left the room, and I left it also and went into the piazza, laid my cap, sword and pistols on the long bench, and walked the piazza;--when I discovered Mrs. White behind the house chimney beckoning me. I got to her undiscovered by the young ladies, when she said: 'Colonel Horry, be on your guard; these two young ladies, Miss F----and M----, are just from Georgetown; they are much frightened, and I believe the British are leaving it and may soon attack you. As to provisions, which they make such a rout about, I have plenty for your men and horses in yonder barn, but you must affect to take them by force. Hams, bacon, rice, and fodder, are there. You must insist on the key of the barn, and threaten to split the door with an axe if not immediately opened.' I begged her to say no more, for I was well acquainted with all such matters--to leave the ladies and everything else to my management. She said 'Yes; but do not ruin us: be artful and cunning, or Mr. White may be hanged and all our houses burnt over our heads.' We both secretly returned, she to the room where the young ladies were, and I to the piazza I had just left."*1* This little narrative will give some idea of the straits to which the good whig matrons of Carolina were sometimes reduced in those days. But no time was allowed Horry to extort the provisions as suggested. He had scarcely got to the piazza when his videttes gave the alarm. Two shots warned him of the approach of the foe, and forgetting that his cap, sabre and pistols, lay on the long bench on the piazza, Horry mounted his horse, left the enclosure, and rushed into the melee. The British were seventeen in number, well mounted, and commanded by a brave fellow named Merritt. The dragoons, taken by surprise, turned in flight, and, smiting at every step, the partisans pursued them with fatal earnestness. But two men are reported to have escaped death or captivity, and they were their captain and a sergeant. It was in approaching to encounter Merritt that Horry discovered that he was weaponless. "My officers," says he, "in succession, came up with Captain Merritt, who was in the rear of his party, urging them forward. They engaged him. He was a brave fellow. Baxter, with pistols, fired at his breast, and missing him, retired; Postelle and Greene, with swords, engaged him; both were beaten off. Greene nearly lost his head. His buckskin breeches were cut through several inches.... I almost blush to say that this one British officer beat off three Americans."*2* The honor of the day was decidedly with Merritt, though he was beaten. He was no doubt a far better swordsman than our self-taught cavalry, with broadswords wrought out of mill saws. Merritt abandoned his horse, and escaped to a neighboring swamp, from whence, at midnight, he got into Georgetown.*3* Two of Horry's prisoners proved to be American soldiers; "the sergeant belonged to the 3d Regiment of South Carolina Continentals, and a drummer formerly belonged to my own Regiment (the 5th). The drummer was cruelly wounded on the head; the sergeant was of Virginia, and wounded on the arm. They said they had enlisted from the Prison Ship to have a chance of escaping and joining their countrymen in arms,"*4* and would have done so that day but that the British captain was in the rear, and they dared not. Horry rejoined Marion in safety with his prisoners. *1* MS. Life of Horry by himself, pp. 84-87. *2* MS. of Horry, p. 89. *3* Weems, speaking for Horry, tells us that he met with Captain Merritt after the war in New York, who recognized him, and told him that he had never had such a fright in all his life as upon that occasion. "Will you believe me, sir," said he, "when I assure you that I went out that morning with my locks of as bright an auburn as ever curled upon the forehead of youth, and by the time I had crawled out of the swamp into Georgetown that night, they were as grey as a badger!" *4* MS. of Horry.-- Captain Melton was not so fortunate. He came in contact with a party of Tories, much larger than his own force, who were patrolling, under Captain Barfield, near White's Bridge. A sharp, but short action followed, in which Melton was compelled to retreat. But Gabriel Marion, a nephew of the General, had his horse shot under him, and fell into the hands of the Tories. As soon as he was recognized he was put to death, no respite allowed, no pause, no prayer.* His name was fatal to him. The loss was severely felt by his uncle, who, with no family or children of his own, had lavished the greater part of his affections upon this youth, of whom high expectations had been formed, and who had already frequently distinguished himself by his gallantry and conduct. He had held a lieutenancy in the Second South Carolina Regiment, and was present at the battle of Fort Moultrie. Subsequently, he had taken part in most of the adventures of his uncle. Marion felt his privation keenly; but he consoled himself by saying that "he should not mourn for him. The youth was virtuous, and had fallen in the cause of his country!" But this event, with some other instances of brutality and murder on the part of the Tories, happening about this time, gave a more savage character than ever to the warfare which ensued. Motives of private anger and personal revenge embittered and increased the usual ferocities of civil war; and hundreds of dreadful and desperate tragedies gave that peculiar aspect to the struggle, which led Greene to say that the inhabitants pursued each other rather like wild beasts than like men. In the Cheraw district, on the Pedee, above the line where Marion commanded, the Whig and Tory warfare, of which we know but little beyond this fact, was one of utter extermination. The revolutionary struggle in Carolina was of a sort utterly unknown in any other part of the Union. * Judge James writes: "Gabriel Marion... was taken prisoner; but as soon as his name was announced, he was inhumanely shot. The instrument of death was planted so near that it burnt his linen at the breast."--A. L., 1996.-- The attempt upon Georgetown was thus defeated. The British had taken the alarm, and were now in strength, and in a state of vigilance and activity, which precluded the possibility of surprise. Marion's wishes, therefore, with regard to this place, were deferred accordingly to a more auspicious season. He retired to Snow's Island, where he made his camp. This place acquired large celebrity as the "camp of Marion". To this day it is pointed out with this distinguishing title, and its traditionary honors insisted upon. It was peculiarly eligible for his purposes, furnishing a secure retreat, a depot for his arms, ammunition, prisoners and invalids--difficult of access, easily guarded, and contiguous to the scenes of his most active operations. "Snow's Island" lies at the confluence of Lynch's Creek and the Pedee. On the east flows the latter river; on the west, Clark's Creek, issuing from Lynch's, and a stream navigable for small vessels; on the north lies Lynch's Creek, wide and deep, but nearly choked by rafts of logs and refuse timber. The island, high river swamp, was spacious, and, like all the Pedee river swamp of that day, abounded in live stock and provision. Thick woods covered the elevated tracts, dense cane-brakes the lower, and here and there the eye rested upon a cultivated spot, in maize, which the invalids and convalescents were wont to tend. Here Marion made his fortress. Having secured all the boats of the neighborhood, he chose such as he needed, and destroyed the rest. Where the natural defences of the island seemed to require aid from art, he bestowed it; and, by cutting away bridges and obstructing the ordinary pathways with timber, he contrived to insulate, as much as possible, the country under his command. From this fortress, his scouting parties were sent forth nightly in all directions. Enemies were always easy to be found. The British maintained minor posts at Nelson's Ferry and Scott's Lake, as well as Georgetown; and the Tories on Lynch's Creek and Little Pedee were much more numerous, if less skilfully conducted, than the men of Marion. Marion's encampment implied no repose, no forbearance of the active business of war. Very far from it. He was never more dangerous to an enemy, than when he seemed quietly in camp. His camp, indeed, was frequently a lure, by which to tempt the Tories into unseasonable exposure. The post at Snow's Island gave him particular facilities for this species of warfare. He had but to cross a river, and a three hours' march enabled him to forage in an enemy's country. Reinforcements came to him daily, and it was only now, for the first time, that his command began to assume the appearance, and exhibit the force of a brigade.* He became somewhat bolder in consequence, in the tone which he used towards the Tories. We find him at this period,** sending forth his officers with orders of a peremptory nature. He writes to Adjutant Postelle: "You will proceed with a party down Black river, from Black Mingo to the mouth of Pedee, and come up to this place. You will take all the boats and canoes from Euhaney up, and impress negroes to bring them to camp--put some men to see them safe. You will take every horse, to whomsoever he may belong, whether friend or foe. You will take all arms and ammunition for the use of our service. You will forbid all persons from carrying any grains, stock, or any sort of provisions to Georgetown, or where the enemy may get them, on pain of being held as traitors, and enemies to the Americans. All persons who will not join you, you will take prisoners and bring to me, &c." * December 30, 1780. ** Correspondence of Marion, quoted by James.-- He then laid the country under martial law, the proper measure for straitening an enemy, and compelling sluggish and doubtful friends to declare themselves. In this proceeding he was justified by the authority of Governor Rutledge, from whom, with a brigadier's commission, he had received military command over a region of country of vast extent, which the indefatigable partisan contrived to compass and coerce, if not altogether to command and control. Similar orders with those which were given to Postelle, were addressed to Col. P. Horry; and they were both dispatched; the one, as we have seen, between Black and Pedee rivers, the other to Waccamaw Creek. Other parties were sent out in other quarters, with like objects; and, with the whole contiguous country thus placed under the keenest surveillance, Marion hailed the close of the year in his swamp fortress. All these parties were more or less engaged with the enemy, at different periods, while on their scouting expeditions. Several small, but spirited achievements, of which history condescends to furnish no details, occurred among them, in which, however, the partisans were not always successful. One instance may be mentioned. Lieutenant Roger Gordon had been dispatched with a small party to patrol on Lynch's Creek. He suffered himself, while taking refreshments at a house, to be surrounded by a party of Tories, under Capt. Butler. The enemy made good his approaches to the house, and set it on fire. Finding himself greatly outnumbered, and perceiving that resistance would be useless, Gordon surrendered upon terms; but as soon as his party had yielded up their arms, they were murdered to a man. These bloody events were accompanied and followed by others of a like character. Nor were the Tories always, or exclusively guilty. The sanguinary warfare began with them, but it was perpetuated by mutual excesses. Shortly after the murder of Gabriel Marion, the person who was supposed to have been guilty of the savage crime, was taken prisoner by Horry. While on the road, returning to the camp, environed by his guards, the prisoner was shot down by an officer, who escaped detection under cover of the night. Prisoners, after this, were seldom made on either side, where the Whigs and Tories came in conflict. No quarter was given. Safety lay in victory alone, and the vanquished, if they could not find refuge in the swamps, found no mercy from the conqueror. Even where, under the occasional influence of a milder mood, or milder captain, the discomfited were admitted to present mercy, there was still no security for their lives. There were a few infuriated men, who defied subordination, by whom, on both sides, the unhappy captives were sure to be sacrificed. We need not say, in behalf of Marion, and his superior officers, that, where he or they commanded in person, no countenance was given to these bloody principles and performances. Marion was notoriously the most merciful of enemies. The death of the prisoner in the ranks of Horry, though the unhappy man was charged with the murder of his favorite nephew, was a subject of the greatest soreness and annoyance to his mind; and he warmly expressed the indignation which he felt, at an action which he could not punish. Chapter 11. Marion's Camp at Snow's Island--The Character of his Warfare--Of his Men--Anecdotes of Conyers and Horry--He feasts a British Officer on Potatoes--Quells a Mutiny. Marion's career as a partisan, in the thickets and swamps of Carolina, is abundantly distinguished by the picturesque; but it was while he held his camp at Snow's Island, that it received its highest colors of romance. In this snug and impenetrable fortress, he reminds us very much of the ancient feudal baron of France and Germany, who, perched on castled eminence, looked down with the complacency of an eagle from his eyrie, and marked all below him for his own. The resemblance is good in all respects but one. The plea and justification of Marion are complete. His warfare was legitimate. He was no mountain robber,--no selfish and reckless ruler, thirsting for spoil and delighting inhumanly in blood. The love of liberty, the defence of country, the protection of the feeble, the maintenance of humanity and all its dearest interests, against its tyrant--these were the noble incentives which strengthened him in his stronghold, made it terrible in the eyes of his enemy, and sacred in those of his countrymen. Here he lay, grimly watching for the proper time and opportunity when to sally forth and strike. His position, so far as it sheltered him from his enemies, and gave him facilities for their overthrow, was wonderfully like that of the knightly robber of the Middle Ages. True, his camp was without its castle--but it had its fosse and keep--its draw-bridge and portcullis. There were no towers frowning in stone and iron--but there were tall pillars of pine and cypress, from the waving tops of which the warders looked out, and gave warning of the foe or the victim. No cannon thundered from his walls; no knights, shining in armor, sallied forth to the tourney. He was fond of none of the mere pomps of war. He held no revels--"drank no wine through the helmet barred," and, quite unlike the baronial ruffian of the Middle Ages, was strangely indifferent to the feasts of gluttony and swilled insolence. He found no joy in the pleasures of the table. Art had done little to increase the comforts or the securities of his fortress. It was one, complete to his hands, from those of nature--such a one as must have delighted the generous English outlaw of Sherwood forest--isolated by deep ravines and rivers, a dense forest of mighty trees, and interminable undergrowth. The vine and briar guarded his passes. The laurel and the shrub, the vine and sweet scented jessamine, roofed his dwelling, and clambered up between his closed eyelids and the stars. Obstructions, scarcely penetrable by any foe, crowded the pathways to his tent;--and no footstep, not practised in the secret, and 'to the manner born', might pass unchallenged to his midnight rest. The swamp was his moat; his bulwarks were the deep ravines, which, watched by sleepless rifles, were quite as impregnable as the castles on the Rhine. Here, in the possession of his fortress, the partisan slept secure. In the defence of such a place, in the employment of such material as he had to use, Marion stands out alone in our written history, as the great master of that sort of strategy, which renders the untaught militia-man in his native thickets, a match for the best drilled veteran of Europe. Marion seemed to possess an intuitive knowledge of his men and material, by which, without effort, he was led to the most judicious modes for their exercise. He beheld, at a glance, the evils or advantages of a position. By a nice adaptation of his resources to his situation, he promptly supplied its deficiencies and repaired its defects. Till this was done, he did not sleep;--he relaxed in none of his endeavors. By patient toil, by keenest vigilance, by a genius peculiarly his own, he reconciled those inequalities of fortune or circumstance, under which ordinary men sit down in despair. Surrounded by superior foes, he showed no solicitude on this account. If his position was good, their superiority gave him little concern. He soon contrived to lessen it, by cutting off their advanced parties, their scouts or foragers, and striking at their detachments in detail. It was on their own ground, in their immediate presence, nay, in the very midst of them, that he frequently made himself a home. Better live upon foes than upon friends, was his maxim; and this practice of living amongst foes was the great school by which his people were taught vigilance. The adroitness and address of Marion's captainship were never more fully displayed than when he kept Snow's Island; sallying forth, as occasion offered, to harass the superior foe, to cut off his convoys, or to break up, before they could well embody, the gathering and undisciplined Tories. His movements were marked by equal promptitude and wariness. He suffered no risks from a neglect of proper precaution. His habits of circumspection and resolve ran together in happy unison. His plans, carefully considered beforehand, were always timed with the happiest reference to the condition and feelings of his men. To prepare that condition, and to train those feelings, were the chief employment of his repose. He knew his game, and how it should be played, before a step was taken or a weapon drawn. When he himself, or any of his parties, left the island, upon an expedition, they advanced along no beaten paths. They made them as they went. He had the Indian faculty in perfection, of gathering his course from the sun, from the stars, from the bark and the tops of trees, and such other natural guides, as the woodman acquires only through long and watchful experience. Many of the trails, thus opened by him, upon these expeditions, are now the ordinary avenues of the country. On starting, he almost invariably struck into the woods, and seeking the heads of the larger water courses, crossed them at their first and small beginnings. He destroyed the bridges where he could. He preferred fords. The former not only facilitated the progress of less fearless enemies, but apprised them of his own approach. If speed was essential, a more direct, but not less cautious route was pursued. The stream was crossed sometimes where it was deepest. On such occasions the party swam their horses, Marion himself leading the way, though he himself was unable to swim. He rode a famous horse called Ball, which he had taken from a loyalist captain of that name. This animal was a sorrel, of high, generous blood, and took the water as if born to it. The horses of the brigade soon learned to follow him as naturally as their riders followed his master. There was no waiting for pontoons and boats. Had there been there would have been no surprises. The secrecy with which Marion conducted his expeditions was, perhaps, one of the reasons for their frequent success. He entrusted his schemes to nobody, not even his most confidential officers. He consulted with them respectfully, heard them patiently, weighed their suggestions, and silently approached his conclusions. They knew his determinations only from his actions. He left no track behind him, if it were possible to avoid it. He was often vainly hunted after by his own detachments. He was more apt at finding them than they him. His scouts were taught a peculiar and shrill whistle, which, at night, could be heard at a most astonishing distance. We are reminded of the signal of Roderick Dhu:-- ----"He whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill, Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag, the signal flew." His expeditions were frequently long, and his men, hurrying forth without due preparation, not unfrequently suffered much privation from want of food. To guard against this danger, it was their habit to watch his cook. If they saw him unusually busied in preparing supplies of the rude, portable food, which it was Marion's custom to carry on such occasions, they knew what was before them, and provided themselves accordingly. In no other way could they arrive at their general's intentions. His favorite time for moving was with the setting sun, and then it was known that the march would continue all night. Before striking any sudden blow, he has been known to march sixty or seventy miles, taking no other food in twenty-four hours, than a meal of cold potatoes and a draught of cold water. The latter might have been repeated. This was truly a Spartan process for acquiring vigor. Its results were a degree of patient hardihood, as well in officers as men, to which few soldiers in any periods have attained. These marches were made in all seasons. His men were badly clothed in homespun, a light wear which afforded little warmth. They slept in the open air, and frequently without a blanket. Their ordinary food consisted of sweet potatoes, garnished, on fortunate occasions, with lean beef. Salt was only to be had when they succeeded in the capture of an enemy's commissariat; and even when this most necessary of all human condiments was obtained, the unselfish nature of Marion made him indifferent to its use. He distributed it on such occasions, in quantities not exceeding a bushel, to each Whig family; and by this patriarchal care, still farther endeared himself to the affection of his followers. The effect of this mode of progress was soon felt by the people of the partisan. They quickly sought to emulate the virtues which they admired. They became expert in the arts which he practised so successfully. The constant employment which he gave them, the nature of his exactions, taught activity, vigilance, coolness and audacity. His first requisition, from his subordinates, was good information. His scouts were always his best men. They were generally good horsemen, and first rate shots. His cavalry were, in fact, so many mounted gunmen, not uniformly weaponed, but carrying the rifle, the carbine, or an ordinary fowling-piece, as they happened to possess or procure them. Their swords, unless taken from the enemy, were made out of mill saws, roughly manufactured by a forest blacksmith. His scouts were out in all directions, and at all hours. They did the double duty of patrol and spies. They hovered about the posts of the enemy, crouching in the thicket, or darting along the plain, picking up prisoners, and information, and spoils together. They cut off stragglers, encountered patrols of the foe, and arrested his supplies on the way to the garrison. Sometimes the single scout, buried in the thick tops of the tree, looked down upon the march of his legions, or hung perched over the hostile encampment till it slept, then slipping down, stole through the silent host, carrying off a drowsy sentinel, or a favorite charger, upon which the daring spy flourished conspicuous among his less fortunate companions. The boldness of these adventurers was sometimes wonderful almost beyond belief. It was the strict result of that confidence in their woodman skill, which the practice of their leader, and his invariable success, naturally taught them to entertain. The mutual confidence which thus grew up between our partisan and his men, made the business of war, in spite of its peculiar difficulties and privations, a pleasant one. As they had no doubts of their leader's ability to conduct them to victory, he had no apprehension, but, when brought to a meeting with the enemy, that they would secure it. His mode of battle was a simple one; generally very direct; but he was wonderfully prompt in availing himself of the exigencies of the affair. His rule was to know his enemy, how posted and in what strength,--then, if his men were set on, they had nothing to do but to fight. They knew that he had so placed them that valor was the only requisite. A swamp, right or left, or in his rear; a thicket beside him;--any spot in which time could be gained, and an inexperienced militia rallied, long enough to become reconciled to the unaccustomed sights and sounds of war,--were all that he required, in order to secure a fit position for fighting in. He found no difficulty in making good soldiers of them. It caused him no surprise, and we may add no great concern, that his raw militia men, armed with rifle and ducking gun, should retire before the pushing bayonets of a regular soldiery. He considered it mere butchery to expose them to this trial. But he taught his men to retire slowly, to take post behind the first tree or thicket, reload, and try the effect of a second fire; and so on, of a third and fourth, retiring still, but never forgetting to take advantage of every shelter that offered itself. He expected them to fly, but not too far to be useful. We shall see the effect of this training at Eutaw, where the militia in the advance delivered seventeen fires, before they yielded to the press of the enemy. But, says Johnson, with equal truth and terseness, "that distrust of their own immediate commanders which militia are too apt to be affected with, never produced an emotion where Marion and Pickens commanded."* The history of American warfare shows conclusively that, under the right leaders, the American militia are as cool in moments of danger as the best drilled soldiery in the universe. But they have been a thousand times disgraced by imbecile and vainglorious pretenders. * History of Greene, p. 225, vol. 2.-- Marion was admirably supported by his followers. Several officers of the brigade were distinguished men. Of Major John James we have already seen something. All the brothers were men of courage and great muscular activity. The Witherspoons were similarly endowed. His chief counsellors were the brothers Horry, and Postelle,--all like himself descended from Huguenot stocks. To the two last (the brothers Postelle) it has been remarked, that "nothing appeared difficult."* Captains Baxter and Conyers were particularly distinguished,--the first for his gigantic frame, which was informed by a corresponding courage; the latter by his equal bravery and horsemanship. He was a sort of knight-errant in the brigade, and his behavior seemed not unfrequently dictated by a passion for chivalrous display. An anecdote, in connection with Conyers, is told, which will serve to show what was the spirit of the patriotic damsels of the revolution. Marion had environed Colonel Watson, at a plantation where Mary, the second daughter of John Witherspoon, was living at the time. She was betrothed to Conyers. The gallant captain daily challenged the British posts, skirmishing in the sight of his mistress. His daring was apparent enough--his great skill and courage were known. He presented himself frequently before the lines of the enemy, either as a single champion or at the head of his troop. The pride of the maiden's heart may be imagined when she heard the warning in the camp, as she frequently did--"Take care,--there is Conyers!" The insult was unresented: but, one day, when her lover appeared as usual, a British officer, approaching her, spoke sneeringly, or disrespectfully, of our knight-errant. The high spirited girl drew the shoe from her foot, and flinging it in his face, exclaimed, "Coward! go and meet him!" The chronicler from whom we derive this anecdote is particularly careful to tell us that it was a walking shoe and not a kid slipper which she made use of; by which we are to understand, that she was no ways tender of the stroke. * Judge James' Sketch of Marion.-- The Horrys were both able officers. Hugh was a particular favorite of Marion. For his brother he had large esteem. Of Peter Horry we have several amusing anecdotes, some of which we gather from himself. It is upon the authority of his MS. memoir that we depend for several matters of interest in this volume. This memoir, written in the old age of the author, and while he suffered from infirmities of age and health, is a crude but not uninteresting narrative of events in his own life, and of the war. The colonel confesses himself very frankly. In his youth he had a great passion for the sex, which led him into frequent difficulties. These, though never very serious, he most seriously relates. He was brave, and ambitious of distinction. This ambition led him to desire a command of cavalry rather than of infantry. But he was no rider--was several times unhorsed in combat, and was indebted to the fidelity of his soldiers for his safety.* On one occasion his escape was more narrow from a different cause. He gives us a ludicrous account of it himself. Crossing the swamp at Lynch's Creek, to join Marion, in the dark, and the swamp swimming, he encountered the bough of a tree, to which he clung, while his horse passed from under him. He was no swimmer, and, but for timely assistance from his followers, would have been drowned. Another story, which places him in a scarcely less ludicrous attitude, is told by Garden.** He was ordered by Marion to wait, in ambush, the approach of a British detachment. The duty was executed with skill; the enemy was completely in his power. But he labored under an impediment in his speech, which, we may readily suppose, was greatly increased by anxiety and excitement. The word "fire" stuck in his throat, as "amen" did in that of Macbeth. The emergency was pressing, but this only increased the difficulty. In vain did he make the attempt. He could say "fi-fi-fi!" but he could get no further--the "r" was incorrigible. At length, irritated almost to madness, he exclaimed, "SHOOT, d----n you, SHOOT! you know what I would say! Shoot, and be d----d to you!" He was present, and acted bravely, in almost every affair of consequence, in the brigade of Marion. At Quinby, Capt. Baxter, already mentioned, a man distinguished by his great strength and courage, as well as size, and by equally great simplicity of character, cried out, "I am wounded, colonel!" "Think no more of it, Baxter," was the answer of Horry, "but stand to your post." "But I can't stand," says Baxter, "I am wounded a second time." "Lie down then, Baxter, but quit not your post." "They have shot me again, colonel," said the wounded man, "and if I stay any longer here, I shall be shot to pieces." "Be it so, Baxter, but stir not," was the order, which the brave fellow obeyed, receiving a fourth wound before the engagement was over. * MS. Memoir, p. 51. ** Anecdotes, first series, p. 30.-- It was while Marion was lying with his main force at the camp at Snow's Island, that two circumstances occurred which deserve mention, as equally serving to illustrate his own and the character of the warfare of that time and region. One of these occurrences has long been a popular anecdote, and, as such, has been made the subject of a very charming picture, which has done something towards giving it a more extended circulation.* The other is less generally known, but is not less deserving of the popular ear, as distinguishing, quite as much as the former, the purity, simplicity, and firmness of Marion's character. It appears that, desiring the exchange of prisoners, a young officer was dispatched from the British post at Georgetown to the swamp encampment of Marion, in order to effect this object. He was encountered by one of the scouting parties of the brigade, carefully blindfolded, and conducted, by intricate paths, through the wild passes, and into the deep recesses of the island. Here, when his eyes were uncovered, he found himself surrounded by a motley multitude, which might well have reminded him of Robin Hood and his outlaws. The scene was unquestionably wonderfully picturesque and attractive, and our young officer seems to have been duly impressed by it. He was in the middle of one of those grand natural amphitheatres so common in our swamp forests, in which the massive pine, the gigantic cypress, and the stately and ever-green laurel, streaming with moss, and linking their opposite arms, inflexibly locked in the embrace of centuries, group together, with elaborate limbs and leaves, the chief and most graceful features of Gothic architecture. To these recesses, through the massed foliage of the forest, the sunlight came as sparingly, and with rays as mellow and subdued, as through the painted window of the old cathedral, falling upon aisle and chancel. Scattered around were the forms of those hardy warriors with whom our young officer was yet destined, most probably, to meet in conflict,--strange or savage in costume or attitude--lithe and sinewy of frame--keen-eyed and wakeful at the least alarm. Some slept, some joined in boyish sports; some with foot in stirrup, stood ready for the signal to mount and march. The deadly rifle leaned against the tree, the sabre depended from its boughs. Steeds were browsing in the shade, with loosened bits, but saddled, ready at the first sound of the bugle to skirr through brake and thicket. Distant fires, dimly burning, sent up their faint white smokes, that, mingling with the thick forest tops, which they could not pierce, were scarce distinguishable from the long grey moss which made the old trees look like so many ancient patriarchs. But the most remarkable object in all this scene was Marion himself. Could it be that the person who stood before our visitor--"in stature of the smallest size, thin, as well as low"**--was that of the redoubted chief, whose sleepless activity and patriotic zeal had carried terror to the gates of Charleston; had baffled the pursuit and defied the arms of the best British captains; had beaten the equal enemy, and laughed at the superior? Certainly, if he were, then never were the simple resources of intellect, as distinguishable from strength of limb, or powers of muscle, so wonderfully evident as in this particular instance. The physical powers of Marion were those simply of endurance. His frame had an iron hardihood, derived from severe discipline and subdued desires and appetites, but lacked the necessary muscle and capacities of the mere soldier. It was as the general, the commander, the counsellor, rather than as the simple leader of his men, that Marion takes rank, and is to be considered in the annals of war. He attempted no physical achievements, and seems to have placed very little reliance upon his personal prowess.*** * General Marion, in his swamp encampment, inviting the British officer to dinner. Painted by J. B. White; engraved by Sartain; published by the Apollo Association. ** Henry Lee's Memoirs. He adds: "His visage was not pleasing, and his manners not captivating. He was reserved and silent, entering into conversation only when necessary, and then with modesty and good sense. He possessed a strong mind, improved by its own reflections and observations, not by books or travel. His dress was like his address-- plain, regarding comfort and decency only. In his meals he was abstemious, eating generally of one dish, and drinking water mostly. He was sedulous and constant in his attention to the duties of his station, to which every other consideration yielded. Even the charms of the fair, like the luxuries of the table and the allurements of wealth, seemed to be lost upon him. The procurement of subsistence for his men, and the continuance of annoyance for his enemy, engrossed his entire mind. He was virtuous all over; never, even in manner, much less in reality, did he trench upon right. Beloved by his friends, and respected by his enemies, he exhibited a luminous example of the beneficial effects to be produced by an individual who, with only small means at his command, possesses a virtuous heart, a strong head, and a mind directed to the common good."--Appendix to 'Memoirs', vol. 1 p. 396. *** The dislike or indifference of Marion, to anything like mere military display, was a matter of occasional comment, and some jest, among his followers. Among other proofs which are given of this indifference, we are told, that, on one occasion, attempting to draw his sword from the scabbard, he failed to do so in consequence of the rust, the result of his infrequent employment of the weapon. Certainly, a rich event in the life of a military man. The fact is, that Marion seldom used his sword except in battle, or on occasions when its employment was inseparable from his duties. Long swords were then in fashion, but he continued to wear the small cut and thrust of the second regiment. Such a weapon better suited his inferior physique, and necessarily lessened the motives to personal adventure.-- The British visitor was a young man who had never seen Marion. The great generals whom he was accustomed to see, were great of limb, portly, and huge of proportion. Such was Cornwallis, and others of the British army. Such, too, was the case among the Americans. The average weight of these opposing generals, during that war, is stated at more than two hundred pounds. The successes of Marion must naturally have led our young Englishman to look for something in his physique even above this average, and verging on the gigantic. Vastness seems always the most necessary agent in provoking youthful wonder, and satisfying it. His astonishment, when they did meet, was, in all probability, not of a kind to lessen the partisan in his estimation. That a frame so slight, and seemingly so feeble, coupled with so much gentleness, and so little pretension, should provoke a respect so general, and fears, on one side, so impressive, was well calculated to compel inquiry as to the true sources of this influence. Such an inquiry was in no way detrimental to a reputation founded, like Marion's, on the successful exercise of peculiar mental endowments. The young officer, as soon as his business was dispatched, prepared to depart, but Marion gently detained him, as he said, for dinner, which was in preparation. "The mild and dignified simplicity of Marion's manners had already produced their effects, and, to prolong so interesting an interview, the invitation was accepted. The entertainment was served up on pieces of bark, and consisted entirely of roasted potatoes, of which the general ate heartily, requesting his guest to profit by his example, repeating the old adage, that 'hunger is the best sauce.'" "But surely, general," said the officer, "this cannot be your ordinary fare." "Indeed, sir, it is," he replied, "and we are fortunate on this occasion, entertaining company, to have more than our usual allowance."* The story goes, that the young Briton was so greatly impressed with the occurrence, that, on his return to Georgetown, he retired from the service, declaring his conviction that men who could with such content endure the privations of such a life, were not to be subdued. His conclusion was strictly logical, and hence, indeed, the importance of such a warfare as that carried on by Marion, in which, if he obtained no great victories, he was yet never to be overcome. * Garden--Anecdotes--First Series, p. 22.-- The next anecdote, if less pleasing in its particulars, is yet better calculated for the development of Marion's character, the equal powers of firmness and forbearance which he possessed, his superiority to common emotions, and the mingled gentleness and dignity with which he executed the most unpleasant duties of his command. Marion had placed one of his detachments at the plantation of a Mr. George Crofts, on Sampit Creek. This person had proved invariably true to the American cause; had supplied the partisans secretly with the munitions of war, with cattle and provisions. He was an invalid, however, suffering from a mortal infirmity, which compelled his removal for medical attendance to Georgetown, then in possession of the enemy.* During the absence of the family, Marion placed a sergeant in the dwelling-house, for its protection. From this place the guard was expelled by two officers of the brigade, and the house stripped of its contents. The facts were first disclosed to Marion by Col. P. Horry, who received them from the wife of Crofts. This lady pointed to the sword of her husband actually at the side of the principal offender. The indignation of Marion was not apt to expend itself in words. Redress was promised to the complainant and she was dismissed. Marion proceeded with all diligence to the recovery of the property. But his course was governed by prudence as well as decision. The offenders were men of some influence, and had a small faction in the brigade, which had already proved troublesome, and might be dangerous. One of them was a major, the other a captain. Their names are both before us in the MS. memoir of Horry, whose copious detail on this subject leaves nothing to be supplied. We forbear giving them, as their personal publication would answer no good purpose. They were in command of a body of men, about sixty in number, known as the Georgia Refugees. Upon the minds of these men the offenders had already sought to act, in reference to the expected collision with their general. Marion made his preparations with his ordinary quietness, and then dispatched Horry to the person who was in possession of the sword of Croft; for which he made a formal demand. He refused to give it up, alleging that it was his, and taken in war. "If the general wants it," he added, "let him come for it himself." When this reply was communicated to Marion he instructed Horry to renew the demand. His purpose seems to have been, discovering the temper of the offender, to gain the necessary time. His officers, meanwhile, were gathering around him. He was making his preparations for a struggle, which might be bloody, which might, indeed, involve not only the safety of his brigade, but his own future usefulness. Horry, however, with proper spirit, entreated not to be sent again to the offender, giving, as a reason for his reluctance, that, in consequence of the previous rudeness of the other, he was not in the mood to tolerate a repetition of the indignity, and might, if irritated, be provoked to violence. Marion then dispatched his orderly to the guilty major, with a request, civilly worded, that he might see him at head quarters. He appeared accordingly, accompanied by the captain who had joined with him in the outrage, and under whose influence he appeared to act. Marion renewed his demand, in person, for the sword of Croft. The other again refused to deliver it, alleging that "Croft was a Tory, and even then with the enemy in Georgetown." * The brigade of Marion was for a long period without medical attendance or a surgeon to dress his wounded. If a wound reached an artery the patient bled to death. To illustrate the fierce hostility of Whigs and Tories, a single anecdote will suffice. On one occasion, Horry had three men wounded near Georgetown. A surgeon of the Tories was then a prisoner in his ranks, yet he positively refused to dress the wounds, and suffered a fine youth named Kolb, to bleed to death before his eyes, from a slight injury upon the wrist.-- "Will you deliver me the sword or not, Major------?" was the answer which Marion made to this suggestion. "I will not!" was the reply of the offender. "At these words," says Horry in the MS. before us, "I could forbear no longer, and said with great warmth, 'By G--d, sir, did I command this brigade, as you do, I would hang them both up in half an hour!' Marion sternly replied,--'This is none of your business, sir: they are both before me!--Sergeant of the guard, bring me a file of men with loaded arms and fixed bayonets!'--'I was silent!' adds Horry: 'all our field officers in camp were present, and when the second refusal of the sword was given, they all put their hands to their swords in readiness to draw. My own sword was already drawn!'" In the regular service, and with officers accustomed to, and bred up in, the severe and stern sense of authority which is usually thought necessary to a proper discipline, the refractory offender would most probably have been hewn down in the moment of his disobedience. The effect of such a proceeding, in the present instance, might have been of the most fatal character. The 'esprit de corps' might have prompted the immediate followers of the offender to have seized upon their weapons, and, though annihilated, as Horry tells us they would have been, yet several valuable lives might have been lost, which the country could ill have spared. The mutiny would have been put down, but at what a price! The patience and prudence of Marion's character taught him forbearance. His mildness, by putting the offender entirely in the wrong, so justified his severity, as to disarm the followers of the criminals. These, as we have already said, were about sixty in number. Horry continues: "Their intentions were, to call upon these men for support--our officers well knew that they meant, if possible, to intimidate Marion, so as to [make him] come into their measures of plunder and Tory-killing." The affair fortunately terminated without bloodshed. The prudence of the general had its effect. The delay gave time to the offenders for reflection. Perhaps, looking round upon their followers, they saw no consenting spirit of mutiny in their eyes, encouraging their own; for, "though many of these refugees were present, none offered to back or support the mutinous officers;"--and when the guard that was ordered, appeared in sight, the companion of the chief offender was seen to touch the arm of the other, who then proffered the sword to Marion, saying, "General, you need not have sent for the guard."* Marion, refusing to receive it, referred him to the sergeant of the guard, and thus doubly degraded, the dishonored major of Continentals--for he was such--disappeared from sight, followed by his associate. His farther punishment was of a kind somewhat differing from those which are common to armies, by which the profession of arms is sometimes quite as much dishonored as the criminal. Marion endeavored, by his punishments, to elevate the sense of character in the spectators. He had some of the notions of Napoleon on this subject. He was averse to those brutal punishments which, in the creature, degrade the glorious image of the Creator. In the case of the two offenders, thus dismissed from his presence, the penalty was, of all others, the most terrible to persons, in whose minds there remained the sparks even of a conventional honor. These men had been guilty of numerous offences against humanity. Marion expelled them from his brigade. Subsequently, their actions became such, that he proclaimed their outlawry through the country.** By one of these men he was challenged to single combat, but he treated the summons with deserved contempt. His composure remained unruffled by the circumstance. * Horry's MS., from which the several extracts preceding have been made.--pp. 100-103. ** He set up on trees and houses, in public places, proclamations in substance thus, that Major----and Capt. ---- did not belong to his brigade, that they were banditti, robbers and thieves,--were hereby deemed out of the laws, and might be killed wherever found.--Horry's MS. pp. 104, 105.-- In this affair, as in numerous others, Marion's great knowledge of the militia service, and of the peculiar people with whom he sometimes had to deal, enabled him to relieve himself with little difficulty from troublesome companions. Of these he necessarily had many; for the exigencies of the country were such that patriotism was not permitted to be too nice in the material which it was compelled to employ. The refugees were from various quarters--were sometimes, as we have seen, adopted into his ranks from those of the defeated Tories, and were frequently grossly ignorant, not only of what was due to the community in which they found themselves, but still more ignorant of the obligations of that military law to which they voluntarily put themselves in subjection. Marion's modes of punishment happily reached all such cases without making the unhappy offender pay too dearly for the sin of ignorance. On one occasion, Horry tells us that he carried before him a prisoner charged with desertion to the enemy. "Marion released him, saying to me, 'let him go, he is too worthless to deserve the consideration of a court martial.'" Such a decision in such a case, would have shocked a military martinet, and yet, in all probability, the fellow thus discharged, never repeated the offence, and fought famously afterwards in the cause of his merciful commander. We have something yet to learn on these subjects. The result of a system in which scorn is so equally blended with mercy, was singularly good. In the case of the person offending (as is frequently the case among militia) through sheer ignorance of martial law, it teaches while it punishes, and reforms, in some degree, the being which it saves. Where the fault flows from native worthlessness of character the effect is not less beneficial. One of Marion's modes of getting rid of worthless officers, was to put them into coventry. In this practice his good officers joined him, and their sympathy and cooperation soon secured his object. "He kept a list of them," said Horry, "which he called his Black List. This mode answered so well that many resigned their commissions, and the brigade was thus fortunately rid of such worthless fellows." The values of such a riddance is well shown by another sentence from the MS. of our veteran. "I found the men seldom defective, were it not for the bad example set them by their officers."* * MS. p. 55.-- Chapter 12. General Greene assumes Command of the Southern Army--His Correspondence with Marion--Condition of the Country-- Marion and Lee surprise Georgetown--Col. Horry defeats Gainey--Marion pursues McIlraith--Proposed Pitched Battle between Picked Men. The year 1781 opened, with new interest, the great drama of war in South Carolina. In that State, as we have seen, deprived of a large portion of her military effectives, opposition had never entirely ceased to the progress of the invader. New and more strenuous exertions, on the part of Congress, were made to give her the necessary assistance. Without this, the war, prolonged with whatever spirit by the partisans, was not likely, because of their deficient materiel and resources, to reach any decisive results. We may yield thus much, though we are unwilling to admit the justice of those opinions, on the part of General Greene and other officers of the regular army, by which the influence of the native militia, on the events of the war, was quite too much disparaged. But for this militia, and the great spirit and conduct manifested by the partisan leaders in Carolina, no regular force which Congress would or could have sent into the field, would have sufficed for the recovery of the two almost isolated States of South Carolina and Georgia. Indeed, we are inclined to think that, but for the native spirit which they had shown in the conquest, no attempt would have been made for their recovery. We should be at a loss, unless we recognized the value of this native spirit, and the importance of its achievements, however small individually, to determine by what means these States were finally recovered to the American confederacy. In no single pitched battle between the two grand armies did the Americans obtain a decided victory. The fruits of victory enured to them, quite as much in consequence of the active combination of the partisan captains, as by the vigor of their own arms. By these the enemy were harassed with unparalleled audacity--their supplies and convoys cut off, their detachments captured or cut to pieces, their movements watched, and their whole influence so narrowed and restrained, as to be confined almost entirely to those places where they remained in strength. It is not meant by this, to lessen in any degree the value of the services rendered by the Continental forces. These were very great, and contributed in large measure to bring the war to an early and a happy issue. It is only intended to insist upon those claims of the partisans, which, unasserted by themselves, have been a little too irreverently dismissed by others. But for these leaders, Marion, Sumter, Pickens, Davie, Hampton, and some fifty more well endowed and gallant spirits, the Continental forces sent to Carolina would have vainly flung themselves upon the impenetrable masses of the British. It was the vitality thus exhibited by the country, by the native captains and people, that persuaded Congress, though sadly deficient in materials and men, to make another attempt to afford to the South, the succor which it asked. The wreck of the army under Gates had been collected by that unfortunate commander at Charlotte, North Carolina. He was superseded in its command by General Greene, a soldier of great firmness and discretion, great prudence and forethought--qualities the very opposite of those by which his predecessor seems to have been distinguished. New hopes were awakened by this change of command, which, though slow of fruition, were not finally to be disappointed. Greene's assumption of command was distinguished by a happy augury. In a few hours after reaching camp Charlotte, he received intelligence of the success of Lt.-Col. Washington, against the British post held at Clermont, South Carolina, by the British Colonel Rugely. Rugely was well posted in a redoubt, which was tenable except against artillery. Washington's force consisted only of cavalry. A pleasant 'ruse de guerre' of the latter, which produced some little merriment among the Americans at the expense of the British colonel, enabled Washington to succeed. A pine log was rudely hewn into the appearance of a cannon, and, mounted upon wagon wheels, was advanced with solemnity to the attack. The affair looked sufficiently serious, and Rugely, to avoid any unnecessary effusion of blood, yielded the post. Cornwallis, drily commenting on the transaction, in a letter to Tarleton, remarks, "Rugely will not be made a brigadier." Greene proceeded in the duties of his command with characteristic vigilance and vigor. He soon put his army under marching orders for the Pedee, which river he reached on the 26th of December. He took post near Hicks' Creek, on the east side of the river. Before leaving camp Charlotte, he had judiciously made up an independent brigade for General Morgan, composed of his most efficient soldiers. It consisted of a corps of light infantry, detached from the Maryland line, of 320 men; a body of Virginia militia of 200 men, and Washington's cavalry, perhaps one hundred more. Morgan was to be joined, on reaching the tract of country assigned to his operations in South Carolina, by the militia lately under Sumter; that gallant leader being still 'hors de combat', in consequence of the severe wound received at Blackstock's. The force of Morgan was expected to be still farther increased by volunteer militia from North Carolina; and he received a powerful support in the cooperation of Col. Pickens, with the well exercised militia under his command. The object of this detachment was to give confidence and encouragement to the country, to inspirit the patriots, overawe the Tories, and facilitate the accumulation of the necessary provisions. The main army at Hicks' Creek, meanwhile, formed a camp of repose. This was necessary, as well as time and training, to its usefulness. It was sadly deficient in all the munitions and materials of war--the mere skeleton of an army, thin in numbers, and in a melancholy state of nakedness. "Were you to arrive," says Greene, in a letter to Lafayette, dated December 29, "you would find a few ragged, half-starved troops in the wilderness, destitute of everything necessary for either the comfort or convenience of soldiers." The department was not only in a deplorable condition, but the country was laid waste. Such a warfare as had been pursued among the inhabitants, beggars description. The whole body of the population seems to have been in arms, at one time or another, and, unhappily, from causes already discussed, in opposite ranks. A civil war, as history teaches, is like no other. Like a religious war, the elements of a fanatical passion seem to work the mind up to a degree of ferocity, which is not common among the usual provocations of hate in ordinary warfare. "The inhabitants," says Greene, "pursue each other with savage fury.... The Whigs and the Tories are butchering one another hourly. The war here is upon a very different scale from what it is to the northward. It is a plain business there. The geography of the country reduces its operations to two or three points. But here, it is everywhere; and the country is so full of deep rivers and impassable creeks and swamps, that you are always liable to misfortunes of a capital nature." The geographical character of the country, as described by Greene, is at once suggestive of the partisan warfare. It is the true sort of warfare for such a country. The sparseness of its settlements, and the extent of its plains, indicate the employment of cavalry--the intricate woods and swamps as strikingly denote the uses and importance of riflemen. The brigade of Marion combined the qualities of both. General Greene, unlike his predecessor, knew the value of such services as those of Marion. On taking command at Charlotte, the very day after his arrival, he thus writes to our partisan: "I have not," says he, "the honor of your acquaintance, but am no stranger to your character and merit. Your services in the lower part of South Carolina, in awing the Tories and preventing the enemy from extending their limits, have been very important. And it is my earnest desire that you continue where you are until farther advice from me. Your letter of the 22d of last month to General Gates, is before me. I am fully sensible your service is hard and sufferings great, but how great the prize for which we contend! I like your plan of frequently shifting your ground. It frequently prevents a surprise and perhaps a total loss of your party. Until a more permanent army can be collected than is in the field at present, we must endeavor to keep up a partisan war, and preserve the tide of sentiment among the people in our favor as much as possible. Spies are the eyes of an army, and without them a general is always groping in the dark, and can neither secure himself, nor annoy his enemy. At present, I am badly off for intelligence. It is of the highest importance that I get the earliest intelligence of any reinforcement which may arrive at Charleston. I wish you, therefore, to fix some plan for procuring such information and conveying it to me with all possible dispatch. The spy should be taught to be particular in his inquiries and get the names of the corps, strength and commanding officer's name--place from whence they came and where they are going. It will be best to fix upon somebody in town to do this, and have a runner between you and him to give you the intelligence; as a person who lives out of town cannot make the inquiries without being suspected. The utmost secrecy will be necessary in the business." This letter found Marion at one of his lurking places on Black river. It was properly addressed to him. He was the man who, of all others, was not only best acquainted with the importance of good information, furnished promptly, but who had never been without his spies and runners, from the first moment when he took the field. He readily assumed the duty, and upon him Greene wholly relied for his intelligence of every sort. Every occurrence in Charleston, Georgetown, and the whole low country, was promptly furnished to the commander, to whom, however, Marion complains generally of the embarrassment in procuring intelligence, arising from the want of a little hard money--but this want was quite as great in the camp of Greene as in that of the partisan. It is probable that Marion had communicated to General Gates a desire to strengthen his militia with a small force of regular troops. With such a force, it was expected that something of a more decisive nature could be effected. His eye was upon Georgetown. The capture of that post was particularly desirable on many accounts; and if his views and wishes were not communicated to Gates, they were to Greene, who subsequently made his dispositions for promoting them. While the latter was moving down to his camp at Hicks' Creek, Marion was engaged in some very active movements against a party under McArthur and Coffin, and between that and the High Hills of the Santee. To cut off his retreat by the Pedee, a strong detachment had been pushed on from Charleston to Georgetown, intended to intercept him by ascending the north bank of the Pedee river. But Marion, informed of the movement, readily divined its object, and, retiring across the country, took a strong position on Lynch's Creek, in the vicinity of his favorite retreat at Snow's Island, where he always kept a force to guard his boats and overawe the Tories. The moment his pursuers had left the ground, Marion resumed offensive operations upon it. In a short time, his parties were pushed down to the immediate neighborhood of Georgetown, on all the rivers that flow into the bay of Winyaw. His smaller parties were actively busy in collecting boats and transferring provisions to Snow's Island. This was with the twofold purpose of straitening the enemy, and supplying the Continental army. In the meantime, with a respectable force of mounted infantry, he himself pressed closely upon the town, watching an opportunity when he might attempt something with a prospect of success. But the British confined themselves to their redoubts. Marion had neither bayonets nor artillery. With one hundred Continental troops--he writes with his usual modesty to Greene--he should be able to render important services. While thus employed, he received intelligence that the loyalists were embodying above him, in great force, under Hector McNeill. They were at Amy's Mill on Drowning Creek, and were emboldened by a knowledge of the fact that the main army was entirely destitute of cavalry. Marion was not able to detach a force sufficient for their dispersion, and it would have been fatal to his safety to suffer them to descend upon him while his detachments were abroad. His first measures were to call in his scattered parties. He then communicated to Greene the necessity of reinforcing him against his increasing enemies, and, in particular, of addressing himself to the movements of McNeill, as he supposed them to be directed, in part, against the country between the Waccamaw and the sea-coast, which had never been ravaged, and which, at this time, held abundance of provisions. To this communication Greene replies: "I have detached Major Anderson with one thousand regulars, and one hundred Virginia militia, to attack and disperse the Tories at Amy's Mill, on Drowning Creek. The party marched yesterday with orders to endeavor to surprise them; perhaps you might be able to make some detachment that would contribute to their success.... I wish your answer respecting the practicability of surprising the party near Nelson's; the route, and force you will be able to detach. This inquiry is a matter that requires great secrecy." Another letter of Greene's, three days after (January 22d), refers to some "skirmishes between your people and the enemy, which," says Greene, "do them honor,"--but of which we have no particulars. The same letter begs for a supply of horses. "Get as many as you can, and let us have fifteen or twenty sent to camp without loss of time, they being wanted for immediate service." By another letter, dated the day after the preceding, Greene communicates to Marion the defeat of Tarleton by Morgan, at the celebrated battle of the Cowpens. "On the 17th at daybreak, the enemy, consisting of eleven hundred and fifty British troops and fifty militia, attacked General Morgan, who was at the Cowpens, between Pacolet and Broad rivers, with 290 infantry, eighty cavalry and about six hundred militia. The action lasted fifty minutes and was remarkably severe. Our brave troops charged the enemy with bayonets and entirely routed them, killing nearly one hundred and fifty, wounding upwards of two hundred, and taking more than five hundred prisoners, exclusive of the prisoners with two pieces of artillery, thirty-five wagons, upwards of one hundred dragoon horses, and with the loss of only ten men killed and fifty-five wounded. Our intrepid party pursued the enemy upwards of twenty miles. About thirty commissioned officers are among the prisoners. Col. Tarleton had his horse killed and was wounded, but made his escape with two hundred of his troops." Before receiving this grateful intelligence Marion had been joined by Lieut.-Col. Lee, at the head of a legion which acquired high reputation for its spirit and activity during the war. Lee tells us that it was no easy matter to find our partisan. "An officer, with a small party, preceded Lee a few days' march to find out Marion, who was known to vary his position in the swamps of the Pedee; sometimes in South Carolina, sometimes in North Carolina, and sometimes on the Black river. With the greatest difficulty did this officer learn how to communicate with the brigadier; and that by the accident of hearing among our friends on the south side of the Pedee, of a small provision party of Marion's being on the same side of the river. Making himself known to this party he was conveyed to the general, who had changed his ground since his party left him, which occasioned many hours' search even before his own men could find him."* * Lee's Memoirs, vol. 1, p. 164. [Note: This Lieut.-Col. Henry Lee--"Light-Horse Harry"-- later became the father of Gen. Robert Edward Lee.--A. L., 1996.]-- This anecdote illustrates the wary habits of our partisan, and one of the modes by which he so successfully baffled the numerous and superior parties who were dispatched in his pursuit. We have given, elsewhere, from Col. Lee's memoirs, a brief description of Marion and his mode of warfare, taken from the appendix to that work. But another occurs, in the text before us, which, as it is brief, differing somewhat in phrase, and somewhat more comprehensive, than the former, will no doubt contribute to the value and interest of our narrative. "Marion," says Lee, "was about forty-eight years of age, small in stature, hard in visage, healthy, abstemious and taciturn. Enthusiastically wedded to the cause of liberty, he deeply deplored the doleful condition of his beloved country. The common weal was his sole object; nothing selfish, nothing mercenary soiled his ermine character. Fertile in stratagem, he struck unperceived, and retiring to those hidden retreats selected by himself, in the morasses of Pedee and Black rivers, he placed his corps, not only out of the reach of his foe, but often out of the discovery of his friends. A rigid disciplinarian, he reduced to practice the justice of his heart; and during the difficult course of warfare through which he passed calumny itself never charged him with molesting the rights of person, property or humanity. Never avoiding danger, he never rashly sought it; and, acting for all around him as he did for himself, he risked the lives of his troops only when it was necessary. Never elated with prosperity, nor depressed by adversity, he preserved an equanimity which won the admiration of his friends and exalted the respect of his enemies."* * Lee's Memoirs, vol. 2 p. 164.-- Such were Lee's opinions of the partisan, to whose assistance he was dispatched by Greene, with his legion, consisting of near three hundred men, horse and foot. The junction of Lee's troops with those of Marion led to the enterprise which the other had long since had at heart, the capture of the British garrison at Georgetown. Georgetown was a small village, the situation and importance of which have already been described. The garrison consisted of two hundred men commanded by Colonel Campbell. His defences in front were slight, and not calculated to resist artillery. "Between these defences and the town, and contiguous to each, was an enclosed work with a frieze and palisade, which constituted his chief protection."* It was held by a subaltern guard. "The rest of the troops were dispersed in light parties in and near the town, and looking towards the country." It was planned by the assailants to convey a portion of their force secretly down the Pedee, and land them in the water suburb of the town, which, being deemed secure, was left unguarded. This body was then to move in two divisions. The first was to force the commandant's quarters--the place of parade--to secure him, and all others who might flock thither on the alarm. The second was designed to intercept such of the garrison as might endeavor to gain the fort. The partisan militia, and the cavalry of the legion, led by Marion and Lee in person, were to approach the place in the night, to lie concealed, and when the entrance of the other parties into the town should be announced, they were to penetrate to their assistance, and put the finishing stroke to the affair. * Lee, vol. 1 p. 249.-- The plan promised well, but the attempt was only partially successful. Captain Carnes, with the infantry of the legion, in boats, dropped down the Pedee, sheltered from discovery by the deep swamps and dense forests which lined its banks, until he reached an island at its mouth within a few miles of Georgetown. Here he landed, and lay concealed during the day. The night after, Marion and Lee proceeded to their place of destination, which they reached by twelve o'clock, when, hearing the expected signal, they rushed into the town, Marion leading his militia, and Lee his dragoons, prepared to bear down all opposition; but they found all the work already over which it was in the power of the present assailants to attempt. The two parties of infantry, the one led by Carnes the other by Rudolph, had reached their places, but perhaps not in good season. The surprise was incomplete. They delayed too long upon the way, instead of pushing up directly upon the redoubt. They were also delayed by the desire of securing the person of the commandant--an unimportant consideration, in comparison with the stronghold of the garrison, which, assailed vigorously at the first alarm, must have fallen into their hands. The commandant was secured, and Carnes judiciously posted his division for seizing such parties of the garrison as might flock to the parade-ground. Rudolph had also gained his appointed station in the vicinity of the fort, and so distributed his corps as to prevent all communication with it. But this was not probably achieved with sufficient rapidity, and the garrison was strengthening itself while the Americans were busy in catching Campbell, and cutting down the fugitives. When Marion and Lee appeared, there was nothing to be done--no enemy to be seen. Not a British soldier appeared on parade--no one attempted either to gain the fort or repair to the commandant. The troops of the garrison simply hugged their respective quarters, and barricaded the doors. The assailants were unprovided with the necessary implements for battering or bombarding. The fort was in possession of the British, and daylight was approaching. And thus this bold and brilliant attempt was baffled--it is difficult, at this time of day, to say how. Lee was dissatisfied with the result. Marion, more modestly, in a letter to Greene, says: "Col. Lee informed you yesterday, by express, of our little success on Georgetown, which could not be greater without artillery." Lee says: "If, instead of placing Rudolph's division to intercept the fugitives, it had been ordered to carry the fort by the bayonet, our success would have been complete. The fort taken, and the commandant a prisoner, we might have availed ourselves of the cannon, and have readily demolished every obstacle and shelter." There were probably several causes combined, which baffled the perfect success of the enterprise: the guides are said to have blundered; there was too much time lost in capturing Campbell, and probably in the prosecution of some private revenges. A circuitous route was taken by Carnes, when a direct one might have been had, by which his entrance into the town was delayed until near daylight; and, by one account, the advance of Marion and Lee was not in season. The simple secret of failure was probably a want of concert between the parties, by which the British had time to recover from their alarm, and put themselves in a state of preparation. Many of the British were killed, few taken; among the former was Major Irvine, who was slain by Lieut. Cryer, whom, on a former occasion, he had subjected to a cruel punishment of five hundred lashes. Lieut.-Col. Campbell was suffered to remain on parole. Though failing of its object, yet the audacity which marked the enterprise, and the partial success of the attempt, were calculated to have their effect upon the fears of the enemy. It was the first of a series of movements against their several fortified posts, by which their power was to be broken up in detail. Its present effect was to discourage the removal of forces from the seaboard to the interior, to prevent any accession of strength to the army of Cornwallis, who now, roused by the defeat of Tarleton, was rapidly pressing, with all his array, upon the heels of Morgan. The American plan of operations, of which this 'coup de main' constituted a particular of some importance, had for its object to keep Cornwallis from Virginia--to detain him in South Carolina until an army of sufficient strength could be collected for his overthrow. This plan had been the subject of much earnest correspondence between Greene, Marion, and others of the American officers. That part of it which contemplated the conquest of Georgetown harmonized immediately with the long cherished objects of our partisan. Halting but a few hours to rest their troops, Marion and Lee, after the attempt on Georgetown, moved the same day directly up the north bank of the Santee towards Nelson's Ferry. Their object was the surprise of Col. Watson, who had taken post there. But, though the march was conducted with equal caution and celerity, it became known to the threatened party. Watson, consulting his fears, did not wait to receive them; but, throwing a garrison of about eighty men into Fort Watson, five miles above the ferry, hurried off to Camden. Upon the defeat of Tarleton by Morgan, General Greene hastened to put himself at the head of the force conducted by the latter, which was then in full flight before the superior army of Cornwallis. Orders from Greene to Lee found him preparing for further cooperations with Marion, which they arrested. Lee was summoned to join the commander-in-chief with his whole legion, and Marion was thus deprived of the further use, which he so much coveted, of the Continentals. But this diminution of force did not lessen the activity of the latter. On the 29th January, he sent out two small detachments of thirty men each, under Colonel and Major Postelle, to strike at the smaller British posts beyond the Santee. These parties were successful in several affairs. A great quantity of valuable stores were burnt at Manigault's Ferry, and in the vicinity. At Keithfield, near Monk's Corner, Major Postelle captured forty of the British regulars without the loss of a man. Here also fourteen baggage wagons, with all their stores, were committed to the flames. The proceedings of these parties, conducted with caution and celerity, were exceedingly successful. In giving his instructions to the officers entrusted with these duties, Marion writes--"You will consider provisions of all kinds British property. The destruction of all the British stores in the above-mentioned places, is of the greatest consequence to us, and only requires boldness and expedition." About this time Marion organized four new companies of cavalry. This proceeding was prompted by the scarcity of ammunition. His rifles were comparatively useless, and the want of powder and ball rendered it necessary that he should rely upon some other weapons. To provide broadswords for his troops, he was compelled once more to put in requisition the mill saws of the country, and his blacksmiths were busy in manufacturing blades, which, as we are told by a contemporary, were sufficiently keen and massy to hew a man down at a blow. This body of cavalry he assigned to the command of Col. P. Horry. Horry was an admirable infantry officer. His ability to manage a squadron of cavalry was yet to be ascertained. He labored under one disqualification, as he plainly tells us in his own manuscript. He was not much of a horseman. But he had several excellent officers under him. As the brigade was not strong enough to allow of the employment, in body, of his whole command, its operations were commonly by detachment. The colonel, at the head of one of his parties consisting of sixty men, had soon an opportunity of testing his capacity and fortune in this new command. We glean the adventure from his own manuscript. He was sent to the Waccamaw to reconnoitre and drive off some cattle. After crossing Socastee swamp, a famous resort for the Tories, he heard of a party of British dragoons under Colonel Campbell. Horry's men had found a fine English charger hid in a swamp. This he was prevailed upon to mount, in order to spare his own. It so happened, somewhat unfortunately for him, that he did so with an enemy at hand. With his own horse he was sufficiently familiar to escape ordinary accidents. It will be seen that he incurred some risks with the more spirited quadruped. His patrol had brought in a negro, whom he placed under guard. He had in his command a Captain Clarke, who, knowing the negro, set him free during the night. "Reader," says our colonel, with a serenity that is delightful, "behold a militia captain releasing a prisoner confined by his colonel commandant, and see the consequence!" The negro fell into the hands of the British, and conducted them upon the steps of our partisan. It so happened that the same Captain Clarke, who seems to have been a sad simpleton, and something of a poltroon, had been sent in front with five horsemen as an advanced guard. Near the great Waccamaw road, the bugles of the British were heard sounding the charge. Horry was fortunately prepared for the enemy, but such was not the case with Clarke. He confounded the martial tones of the bugle with the sylvan notes of the horn. "Stop," says our militia captain, to his men--"stop, and you will see the deer, dogs and huntsmen, as they cross the road." He himself happened to be the silly deer. The huntsmen were upon him in a few moments, and he discovered his mistake only when their broadswords were about his ears. He was taken, but escaped. A short encounter followed between Campbell and Horry, in which the former was worsted. Six of his men fell at the first fire, three slain, and as many wounded. Horry's pieces were common shot guns, and the only shot that he had were swan shot, or the mischief would have been greater. Campbell's horse was killed under him, and he narrowly escaped. Horry was dismounted in the encounter,--in what manner we are not told,--and would have been cut down by a British sergeant, but for his wearing a uniform that resembled that of a British colonel. He was helped to a horse at a most fortunate moment. He did not know, in consequence of the blunder of Clarke, that the dragoons whom he had fought and beaten, were only an advanced guard of a body of infantry. Horses and men were in his hands, and, dividing his force, he sent off one party of his men in charge of the prisoners and trophies. A sudden attack of the British infantry took the small party which remained with him totally by surprise. They broke and left him almost alone, with nothing but his small sword in his hand. It was at this moment that a brave fellow of the second regiment, named McDonald, yielded his own pony to his commander, by which he escaped. McDonald saved himself by darting into the neighboring swamp. The British, dreading an ambuscade, did not pursue, and Horry rallied his men, and returned, with a reinforcement sent by Marion, to the scene of battle; but the enemy had left it and retired to Georgetown. Horry proceeded to Sand Hill, where, finding himself in good quarters, among some rich and friendly Whigs, living well on their supplies, he proceeded to entrench himself in a regular redoubt. But from this imposing situation Marion soon and sensibly recalled him. "He wrote me," says Horry, "that the open field was our play--that the enemy knew better how to defend forts and entrenched places than we did, and that if we attempted it, we should soon fall into their hands." Marion's farther instructions were to join him immediately, with every man that he could bring, for that it was his purpose to attack the enemy as soon as possible. Horry admits that he quitted his redoubt and good fare very reluctantly. He set out with eighty men, but when he joined his commander in Lynch's Creek Swamp, they were reduced to eighteen. It seems that his force had been made up in part of new recruits, who had but lately joined themselves to Marion. Horry calls them "wild Tories or half-made new Whigs--volunteers, assuredly, not to fight, but plunder,--who would run at the sight of the enemy." His recent surprise and danger had rendered the colonel sore. It was on this occasion, that, as we have already related, he was nearly drowned, and only saved by clinging to the impending branches of a tree. While Horry was skirmishing with Campbell, Major John Postelle, who was stationed to guard the lower part of the Pedee, succeeded in capturing Captain Depeyster, with twenty-nine grenadiers. Depeyster had taken post in the dwelling-house of Postelle's father. The latter had with him but twenty-eight militia, but he knew the grounds, and gaining possession of the kitchen, fired it, and was preparing to burn the house also, when Depeyster submitted. We find, at this time, a correspondence of Marion with two of the British officers, in relation to the detention, as a prisoner, of Captain Postelle, who, it seems, though bearing a flag, was detained for trial by the enemy. Portions of these letters, in which Marion asserts his own humanity in the treatment of prisoners, we quote as exhibiting his own sense, at least, of what was the true character of his conduct in such matters. The reader will not have forgotten the charges made against him, in this respect, in an earlier part of this volume by Lt.-Col. Balfour, in a letter to General Moultrie. One of the present letters of Marion is addressed to Balfour. "I am sorry to complain of the ill treatment my officers and men meet with from Captain Saunders. The officers are closely confined in a small place where they can neither stand nor lie at length, nor have they more than half rations. I have treated your officers and men who have fallen into my hands, in a different manner. Should these evils not be prevented in future, it will not be in my power to prevent retaliation. Lord Rawdon and Col. Watson have hanged three men of my brigade for supposed crimes, which will make as many of your men, in my hands, suffer." Again, on the same subject, in a letter to Col. Watson--"The hanging of prisoners and the violation of my flag, will be retaliated if a stop is not put to such proceedings, which are disgraceful to all civilized nations. All of your officers and men, who have fallen into my hands, have been treated with humanity and tenderness, and I wish sincerely that I may not be obliged to act contrary to my inclination." The British officers thus addressed, alleged against Postelle that he had broken his parole. If this were so, it was a just cause of detention; but it will be remembered that the British themselves revoked these paroles on the assumption that the province was conquered, and when, as citizens, they wished to exact military service from the people. In these circumstances the virtue of the obligation was lost, and ceased on the part of the citizen, because of the violation on the part of the conqueror, of the immunities which he promised. Marion took decisive measures for compelling the necessary respect to his flag, by seizing upon Captain Merritt, the bearer of a British flag, and putting him in close keeping as a security for Postelle. We do not know that he retaliated upon the British soldiers the cruel murders, by hanging, which had been practised upon his own. His nature would probably recoil from carrying his own threat into execution. In answer to one of Marion's reproaches, we are told by Col. Watson, that "the burning of houses and the property of the inhabitants, who are our enemies, is customary in all civilized nations." The code of civilisation is certainly susceptible of liberal constructions. Its elasticity is not the least of its many merits. Cornwallis pursued Greene into North Carolina, and after much manoeuvering between the armies, they met at Guilford on the 15th of March, 1781. The honors of the victory, small as it was, lay with the British. Their loss, however, was such, that the advantages of the field enured to the Americans. From this field, Cornwallis took his way to Virginia, and his career as a commander in America was finally arrested at the siege of York. During the absence of Greene from South Carolina, Marion's was the only force in active operation against the British. An opportunity so favorable for harassing and distressing the enemy, as that afforded by the absence of their main army in North Carolina, was not neglected; and, calling in his detachments, he once more carried dismay into the heart of the Tory settlements, on both sides of the Santee. His incursions, and those of his officers, were extended as far as the confluence of the Congaree and Wateree, and as low down as Monk's Corner,--thus breaking up the line of communication between Charleston and the grand army, and intercepting detachments and supplies, sent from that place to the line of posts established through the country. This sort of warfare, which seldom reaches events such as those which mark epochs in the progress of great bodies of men, is yet one which calls for constant activity. We have details of but few of the numerous conflicts which took place between our partisan and the Tory leaders. These were scattered over the country, living by plunder, and indulging in every species of ferocity. Greene writes, "The Whigs and Tories are continually out in small parties, and all the middle country is so disaffected, that you cannot lay in the most trifling magazine or send a wagon through the country with the least article of stores without a guard." In addressing himself to this sort of warfare, Marion was pursuing a course of the largest benefit to the country. In overawing these plunderers, subduing the savage spirit, and confining the British to their strong places, he was acquiring an importance, which, if we are to estimate the merits of a leader only by the magnitude of his victories, will leave us wholly at a loss to know by what means his great reputation was acquired. But the value of his services is best gathered from the effect which they had upon the enemy. The insults and vexations which he unceasingly occasioned to the British, were not to be borne; and Col. Watson was dispatched with a select force of five hundred men to hunt him up and destroy him. We have seen Tarleton and others engaged in the pursuit, but without success. Watson was destined to be less fortunate. In the meanwhile, and before Watson came upon his trail, Col. Peter Horry had been engaged in a series of petty but rather amusing skirmishes, in the neighborhood of Georgetown. A party of the British were engaged in killing beeves at White's bridge near Georgetown. Horry's men charged them while at this employment, and killing some, pursued the rest towards that place. The firing was heard in the town, and the facts of the case conjectured. This brought out a reinforcement, before which the detachment of Horry was compelled to retreat. But, on gaining the woods, they were joined also by their friends; and the fight was resumed between the Sampit and Black river roads, with a dogged fierceness on both sides, that made it particularly bloody. In the course of the struggle, Horry at one moment found himself alone. His men were more or less individually engaged, and scattered through the woods around him. His only weapon was his small sword. In this situation he was suddenly assailed by a Tory captain, named Lewis, at the head of a small party. Lewis was armed with a musket, and in the act of firing, when a sudden shot from the woods tumbled him from his horse, in the very moment when his own gun was discharged. The bullet of Lewis took effect on Horry's horse. The shot which so seasonably slew the Tory, had been sent by the hands of a boy named Gwin. The party of Lewis, apprehending an ambush, immediately fell back and put themselves in cover. The conflict lasted through the better part of the day, one side gaining ground, and now the other. It closed in the final defeat of the enemy, who were pursued with a savage and unsparing spirit. One half of their number were left dead upon the ground. Their leader was Major Gainey. Great expectations were formed of his ability to cope with Marion. On this occasion, though he made his escape, his mode of doing so was characterized by a peculiar circumstance, which rendered it particularly amusing to one side and annoying to the other. He was singled out in the chase by Sergeant McDonald, a fierce young fellow, who was admirably mounted. Gainey was fortunate in being well mounted also. McDonald, regarding but the one enemy, passed all others. He himself said that he could have slain several in the chase. But he wished for no meaner object than their leader. One man alone who threw himself in the way of the pursuit became its victim. Him he shot down, and, as they went at full speed down the Black river road, at the corner of Richmond fence, the sergeant had gained so far upon his enemy, as to be able to plunge his bayonet into his back. The steel separated from his gun, and, with no time to extricate it, Gainey rushed into Georgetown, with the weapon still conspicuously showing how close and eager had been the chase, and how narrow the escape. The wound was not fatal. The next affair was with Col. Tynes, who had been defeated by Marion some time before, made prisoner and sent to North Carolina. But the North Carolina jailors seem to have been pretty generally Tories, for we find Horry complaining that they discharged the prisoners quite as fast as they were sent there; and it was the complaint of some of Marion's officers that they had to fight the same persons in some instances, not less than three or four times. Tynes had collected a second force, and, penetrating the forests of Black river, was approaching the camp of our partisan. Marion went against him, fell upon him suddenly, completely routed him, taking himself and almost his whole party prisoners. He made his escape a second time from North Carolina, and with a third and larger force than ever, reappeared in the neighborhood of Marion's camp. Horry was sent against him with forty chosen horsemen. He travelled all night, and stopped the next day at the house of a Tory, where he obtained refreshments. His men succeeded in obtaining something more. The Tory most liberally filled their canteens with apple-brandy; and when the Colonel got within striking distance of Tynes and his Tories, scarcely one of his troops was fit for action. He prudently retreated, very much mortified with the transaction. Marion captured a part of Tynes' force a few days after, and this luckless loyalist seems to have disappeared from the field from that moment. Watson's march against Marion was conducted with great caution. The operations of the partisan, meanwhile, were continued without interruption. About the middle of February, he was apprised of the march of Major McIlraith from Nelson's Ferry, at the head of a force fully equal to his own. This British officer seems to have been singularly unlike his brethren in some remarkable particulars. He took no pleasure in burning houses, the hospitality of which he had enjoyed; he destroyed no cattle wantonly, and hung no unhappy prisoner. The story goes that while Marion was pressing upon the steps of the enemy, he paused at the house of a venerable lady who had been always a friend to the Whigs, and who now declared her unhappiness at seeing him. Her reason being asked, she declared that she conjectured his purpose--that he was pursuing McIlraith, and that so honorable and gentle had been the conduct of that officer, on his march, that she was really quite unwilling that he should suffer harm, though an enemy. What he heard did not impair Marion's activity, but it tended somewhat to subdue those fiercer feelings which ordinarily governed the partisans in that sanguinary warfare. He encountered and assailed McIlraith on the road near Half-way Swamp, first cutting off two picquets in his rear in succession, then wheeling round his main body, attacked him at the same moment in flank and front. McIlraith was without cavalry, and his situation was perilous in the extreme. But he was a brave fellow, and Marion had few bayonets. By forced marches and constant skirmishing, the British major gained an open field upon the road. He posted himself within the enclosure upon the west of the road. Marion pitched his camp on the edge of a large cypress pond, which lay on the east, and closely skirted the highway. Here McIlraith sent him a flag, reproaching him with shooting his picquets, contrary, as he alleged, to all the laws of civilized warfare, and concluded with defying him to combat in the open field. The arguments of military men, on the subject of the laws of civilized warfare, are sometimes equally absurd and impertinent. Warfare itself is against all the laws of civilisation, and there is something ludicrous in the stronger reproaching the feebler power, that it should resort to such means as are in its possession, for reconciling the inequalities of force between them. Marion's reply to McIlraith was sufficiently to the purpose. He said that the practice of the British in burning the property of those who would not submit and join them, was much more indefensible than that of shooting picquets, and that while they persisted in the one practice, he should certainly persevere in the other. As to the challenge of McIlraith, he said that he considered it that of a man whose condition was desperate; but concluded with saying that if he, McIlraith, wished to witness a combat between twenty picked soldiers on each side, he was not unwilling to gratify him. Here was a proposal that savored something of chivalry. McIlraith agreed to the suggestion, and an arrangement was made for a meeting. The place chosen for the combat was in a part of a field, which is very well known, south of an old oak tree, which was still, up to the year 1821, pointed out to the stranger. It may be standing to this day, for the oak outlasts many generations of brave men. Marion chose for the leader of his band, Major John Vanderhorst, then a supernumerary officer in his brigade. The second in command was Capt. Samuel Price, of All Saints. The names of the men were written on slips of paper and handed to them severally. Gavin Witherspoon received the first. The names of the others are not preserved. Not one of them refused. When they were separated from their comrades, they were paraded near the fence, and Marion addressed them in the following language: "My brave soldiers! you are twenty men picked this day out of my whole brigade. I know you all, and have often witnessed your bravery. In the name of your country, I call upon you once more to show it. My confidence in you is great. I am sure it will not be disappointed. Fight like men, as you have always done--and you are sure of the victory." The speech was short, but it was effectual. It was, perhaps, a long one for Marion. His words were usually few, but they were always to the purpose. More words were unnecessary here. The combatants heard him with pride, and hailed his exhortations with applause. While their cheers were loudest, Marion transferred them to their leader. Vanderhorst now asked Witherspoon, "at what distance he would prefer, as the most sure to strike with buckshot?" "Fifty yards, for the first fire," was the answer. "Then," said Vanderhorst, "when we get within fifty yards, as I am not a good judge of distances, Mr. Witherspoon will tap me on the shoulder. I will then give the word, my lads, and you will form on my left opposite these fellows. As you form, each man will fire at the one directly opposite, and my word for it, few will need a second shot." Nothing, indeed, was more certain than this; and how McIlraith proposed to fight with any hope of the result, knowing how deadly was the aim of the Americans, is beyond conjecture. If he relied upon the bayonet, as perhaps he did, his hope must have rested only upon those who survived the first fire; and with these, it was only necessary for the Americans to practise the game of the survivor of the Horatii, in order to gain as complete a victory. They had but to scatter and re-load--change their ground, avoid the push of the bayonet, till they could secure a second shot, and that certainly would have finished the business. But McIlraith had already reconsidered the proceeding. His men were formed in a straight line in front of the oak. Vanderhorst was advancing and had got within one hundred yards, when a British officer was seen to pass hurriedly to the detachment, and the next moment the men retreated, with a quick step, towards the main body. Vanderhorst and his party gave three huzzas, but not a shot was fired. McIlraith committed two errors. He should not have made the arrangement, but, once made, he should have suffered it to go on at all hazards. The effect was discreditable to himself, and detrimental to the efficiency of his men. Marion would have fought his enemy all day on the same terms. His followers were on their own ground, with a familiar weapon, while the soldiers of the British were deprived of all their usual advantages--the assurance of support after the fire of the enemy was drawn. The militia seldom stood the encounter of the bayonet, but they as seldom failed to do famous execution with the first two or three discharges. That night McIlraith abandoned his heavy baggage, left fires burning, and retreating silently from the ground, hurried, with all dispatch, along the river road towards Singleton's Mills, distant ten miles. Marion discovered the retreat before daylight, and sent Col. Hugh Horry forward with one hundred men, to get in advance of him before he should reach the mill. But Horry soon found this to be impossible, and he detached Major James, at the head of a select party, well mounted on the swiftest horses, with instructions to cross the mill-pond above, and take possession of Singleton's houses. These standing on a high hill, commanded a narrow defile on the road between the hill and the Wateree swamp. James reached the house as the British advanced to the foot of the hill. But here he found a new enemy, which his foresters dreaded much more than the British or Tories--the small-pox. Singleton's family were down with it, and James shrank from availing himself of any advantage offered by the situation. But before he retired, one of his men, resting his rifle against a tree, shot the commander of the British advance. He was mortally wounded, and died the next day. Marion was displeased with this achievement. The forbearance of McIlraith, while passing through the country, had touched his heart. He withdrew his forces, not displeased that his enemy had secured a stronghold in Singleton's Mill. The conscientiousness of the British officer is said to have incurred the displeasure of his commander, and that of his brother officers. When he reached Charleston he was put into coventry. Our authorities ascribe this to his gratuitous humanity, his reluctance to burn and plunder, with such excellent examples before him, as Cornwallis and Tarleton. We rather suspect, however, that it was in consequence of the unfortunate issue of the pitched battle, as agreed upon between himself and Marion; a more probable cause of odium among his comrades, than any reluctance, which he might express, to violate the common laws of humanity. Chapter 13. Watson and Doyle pursue Marion--He baffles and harasses them--Pursues Doyle--His Despondency and final Resolution. The preparations of Col. Watson for pursuing and destroying our partisan in his stronghold, were at length complete. He sallied forth from Fort Watson about the first of March, and, with a British regiment and a large body of loyalists--a force quite sufficient, as was thought, for the desired object--marched down the Santee, shaping his course for Snow's Island. At the same time, Col. Doyle, at the head of another British regiment, intended for cooperation with Watson, was directed to proceed by way of M'Callum's Ferry, on Lynch's, and down Jeffers' Creek, to the Pedee. Here they were to form a junction. Marion had no force to meet these enemies in open combat. His number did not much exceed three hundred, but he had other resources of his own which better served to equalize them. Doyle's approach was slow, and it seems partially unsuspected. In fact, in order to meet his enemies, and make the most of his strength, Marion had generally called in his scouting parties. Of Watson's movements he had ample information. His scouts, well provided with relays of horses, traversed the country between his camp and Camden. Advised correctly of Watson's progress, he made one of those rapid marches for which he was famous, and met him at Wiboo Swamp, about midway between Nelson's and Murray's ferries. At this place commenced a conflict as remarkable as it was protracted. The advance of Watson consisted of the Tory horse, under Col. Richboo. Col. Peter Horry led Marion's advance, consisting of about thirty men. The remainder of the brigade lay in reserve. The encounter of the two advanced parties produced a mutual panic, both recoiling upon their main bodies; but that of Horry was the first to recover; and the command to charge, given by Marion himself, produced the desired effect. Horry was at length driven back by Watson's regulars, and the field-pieces, which finally dislodged him. They were pursued by the Tory horse of Harrison, which, pressing upon the main body, gained some advantages; and, in the uncertainty of the event, while there was some confusion, afforded an opportunity for several instances of great individual valor. As the column of Harrison pressed over the causeway, which was narrow, Gavin James, a private of great spirit and gigantic size, mounted on a strong grey horse, and armed with musket and bayonet, threw himself in advance of his comrades, and directly in the path of the enemy. Taking deliberate aim, he fired his piece, dropped his man, and drew a volley from those in front of him, not a shot of which took effect. His determined position and presence, in the centre of the narrow causeway, produced a pause in the advance. A dragoon rushed upon him, and was stricken down by the bayonet. A second, coming to the assistance of his comrade, shared the same fate, but, in falling, laid hold of the muzzle of James' musket, and was dragged by him in the retreat some forty or fifty paces. This heroism was not without its effect. If the men of Marion faltered for a moment, such examples, and the voice of their general, re-invigorated their courage. Capts. Macauley and Conyers, at the head of the cavalry, arrested the advance of the Tories; and Harrison himself fell, mortally wounded, by the hands of Conyers. The Tories were dispersed, and sought shelter from the infantry of Watson, before the advance of which Marion deemed it prudent for the time to retire. Marion lost nothing by this meeting. Its effect upon the Tories was highly beneficial. They had suffered severely in killed and wounded, and were thus intimidated at the outset. Watson encamped that night on the field of battle, and Marion a few miles below. The next morning the pursuit was resumed. Watson marched down the river, Marion keeping just sufficiently ahead of him to be able to post an ambuscade for him at the first point that seemed suitable for such a purpose. At Mount Hope, Watson had to build up the bridges, and sustain a second conflict with a chosen party of Marion's, led by Col. Hugh Horry. By bringing forward his field-pieces, and drilling the swamp thickets with grape, he succeeded in expelling Horry, and clearing the way for his column. But the same game was to be renewed with every renewal of the opportunity. When Watson drew near to Murray's Ferry, he passed the Kingstree road; and, coming to that of Black river, which crosses at the lower bridge, he made a feint of still continuing along the Santee; but soon after wheeled about, and took the former route. This manoeuvre might have deceived a less wary antagonist than Marion. He was soon aware of the enemy's intention. Detaching Major James, at the head of seventy men, thirty of whom were M'Cottry's rifles, he ordered him to destroy the bridge, and so post himself as to command it. He himself kept his eye fixed upon Watson. This bridge was on the main pass to Williamsburg, and the men chosen for its defence were judiciously taken from that part of the country. It was naturally supposed that, in sight of their cottage smokes, they would struggle manfully against the enemy's forces. James proceeded with great rapidity, and, avoiding the road, crossed the river by a shorter route. He reached the bridge in time to throw down two of the middle arches, and to fire the string pieces at the eastern extremity. As soon as the chasm was made, he placed M'Cottry's riflemen at the end of the bridge and on each side of the ford. The rest of his detachment were so stationed as to cooperate, when required, with their comrades. Marion arriving soon after, strengthened the force of James with the Pedee company under Captain Potts, and took post himself, with the main body, in the rear. These arrangements had scarcely been effected when Watson made his appearance. At this place the west bank of the river is considerably higher than the east. The latter is low and somewhat swampy. On the west, the road passes to the bridge through a ravine. The river was forty or fifty yards wide, and though deep, was fordable below the bridge. The ravine was commanded by M'Cottry's rifles. As soon as Watson approached the river, which he did from the west, his field-pieces opened upon the passage which conducted to the ford. But the position assigned to Marion's men, on the eastern side of the river, effectually protected them. To bring the field-pieces to bear upon the low grounds which they occupied, was to expose the artillerists, upon the elevated banks which they occupied, to the deliberate and fatal fire of the riflemen. Watson was soon made aware of the difficulties of the passage. Not a man approached within gun-shot that did not pay the penalty of his rashness; and those who drew nigh to succor or carry off the wounded, shared the same fate. It was determined to attempt the ford, and the advance was put forward, as a forlorn hope, with this desperate purpose. The officer leading it, came on very gallantly, waving his sword aloft and loudly encouraging his men. His progress was fatally arrested by M'Cottry's rifle. The signal drew the fire of the riflemen and musketeers, with whom the banks were lined, and the heavy and deliberate discharge drove back and dispersed the British advance, nor did the reserve move forward to its assistance. Four brave fellows attempted to carry off the officer who had fallen, but they remained with him. Watson was terrified. He was heard to say that "he had never seen such shooting in his life." There was no effecting the passage in the face of such enemies, and stealing down to the banks of the river, on the side which they occupied, and wherever the woods afforded shelter, the British skirmished with Marion's flankers across the stream until night put an end to the conflict. The next morning Watson sent that dispatch to Marion which, from its lugubrious tenor, has acquired a degree of notoriety much greater than the name of the officer from whom it emanated. He complained to Marion of his modes of fighting, objected to the ambuscades of the partisan, and particularly complained that his picquets and sentinels should be shot down when they had no suspicion of danger. He concluded by urging upon Marion to come out and fight him like a gentleman and Christian, according to the laws of civilized warfare. While the tone of the letter was thus lugubrious, its language was offensive. He applied to the partisans the epithets "banditti and murderers". Marion returned no answer to this precious document, but renewed his order to his nightly patrols, to shoot the sentinels and cut off the picquets as before. He thought the measure quite as legitimate in such a war, as the burning the house and hanging the son of the widow. But though Marion returned no answer by the flag, to the letter of Watson, there was a dispatch by one of the brigade, of a somewhat curious character. There was a sergeant in the brigade by the name of McDonald, of whom something has been heard before. He was the same bold fellow who had so closely pursued Major Gainey into Georgetown, leaving his bayonet in the possession and person of the latter. He was distinguished by his great coolness and courage, an extraordinary degree of strength, and a corresponding share of agility. He was as notorious among the enemy for his audacity, as he was among his comrades for his great modesty and goodness of heart. It appears that, among some of Watson's captures, while pressing hard upon our partisans, had been the entire wardrobe of McDonald. The sergeant felt it as something more than a loss of property that his clothes should be taken by the enemy. It was a point of honor that he should recover them. His message to Watson was of this purport. He concluded with solemnly assuring the bearer of the flag, that if the clothes were not returned he would kill eight of his men. Watson was furious at a message which increased the irritation of his late discomfiture. Knowing nothing himself of McDonald, he was disposed to treat the message with contempt; but some of his officers, who knew better the person with whom they had to deal, begged that the clothes of the sergeant might be returned to him, for that he would most certainly keep his word if they were not. Watson complied with the suggestion. When the clothes appeared, McDonald said to the bearer, "Tell Col. Watson, I will now kill but four of his men." Two days after he shot Lieut. Torriano through the knee with a rifle, at a distance of three hundred yards. Marion, the next day, took post on a ridge below the ford of the river, which is still popularly called "The General's Island". His rifles still effectually commanded the passage and baffled every attempt of Watson to cross. Pushing M'Cottry and Conyers over the river, they exercised themselves in cutting off his patrols and picquets. To save himself from these annoyances, Watson retreated a little higher up the river and pitched his camp at Blakeley's plantation, in the most open field that he could find. Here he remained for ten days almost environed by his adroit and active enemy. Night and day was he kept in a condition of alarm and apprehension. The cavalry beat up his quarters when he slept, while the riflemen picked off his men the moment they exposed themselves. It was while he was in this situation that the brave Capt. Conyers presented himself daily before the lines of the enemy, either as a single cavalier, or at the head of his troop, demanding an opponent. The anecdote has been already narrated in another chapter. The temper of Watson was very much subdued by this sort of warfare. His next letter to Marion was of very different tone from that sent but a few days before. He now solicits a pass from his enemy for Lieut. Torriano and others wounded, whom he desired to send to Charleston. This was promptly granted. Meanwhile he employed a negro from Chevin's plantation to carry a letter to the commandant at Georgetown. In endeavoring to make his way, the negro was killed and the letter fell into the hands of Marion. It contained a woful complaint of the unfair mode of fighting pursued by the partisans, and implored a reinforcement.* In fact Watson was literally besieged. His supplies were cut off, his progress arrested, and so many of his men perished in the continual skirmishing, that he is reported by tradition to have sunk them in Black river in order to conceal their numbers. He was finally compelled to decamp. If his path was beset with dangers, it was death to remain in his present situation. Making a forced march down the Georgetown road, he paused when he reached Ox swamp, six miles below the lower bridge. His flight had been harassed by light parties of the Americans; but here he found them prepared for, and awaiting him. The road through which he was to pass, was skirted by a thick boggy swamp, and before him the causeway was covered with trees which had been felled to obstruct his passage. The bridges were destroyed, and Marion lay directly in his path, prepared for a final encounter. Watson shrunk from the prospect, and determined upon another route. Wheeling to the right he dashed through the open pine woods, for the Santee road, about fifteen miles. When overtaken by Marion upon this road, his infantry were hurrying forward, like horses, at a full trot. But few natural obstacles attended his progress on this path, and the extraordinary rapidity of his flight had put him considerably ahead of his pursuers. But he was not yet to escape. The cavalry of Horry, and the riflemen of M'Cottry, galled him at every step in flank and rear. When he reached Sampit bridge a last skirmish took place, which might have terminated in the complete defeat of the enemy, but for the cowardice of a Lieut. Scott, of Horry's detachment. Watson was attacked fiercely in the flank and rear by the whole force of Marion. His horse was killed, and his own life endangered. The affair was equally short and sharp, and had it not been that the ambush placed by Horry failed to discharge its duty, Watson would, in all probability, never have reached Georgetown, or only reached it on parole. He gained it finally in safety, thoroughly harassed and discomfited by the subtle enemy whom he had gone forth, with a superior force, and a confident hope, to destroy or capture. * Horry's MS.-- But the success of our partisan against Watson did not necessarily dispose of his enemies. While he had been engaged in the events, as just given, Col. Doyle had succeeded in penetrating to his haunts on Snow's Island. That famous retreat had been entrusted to a small body of men under the command of Col. Ervin. Ervin was defeated, and Doyle obtained possession of all Marion's stores. Arms and ammunition were emptied into Lynch's Creek, and this at a period, when every ounce of powder, and pound of shot, were worth, to our partisans, their weight in gold. It was while moving from Sampit towards Snow's Island, that Marion was apprised of this mortifying intelligence. It was a matter to be deplored certainly, but it was one of those events that could not have been prevented. The force of Marion was too small to suffer him to play the admirable game, already described, with Watson, yet leave a sufficient body of men in camp for its protection. He had only to console himself by taking his revenge, and he turned the head of his columns in pursuit of Doyle. This officer made his way to Witherspoon's Ferry, on Lynch's Creek, where he lay in a good position on the north side of the Ferry. Marion approached him cautiously, with M'Cottry's mounted riflemen in advance. Arriving at the creek a detachment of the British was found on the opposite side, engaged in scuttling the ferry boat. The riflemen drew nigh unperceived, and poured in a well directed and deadly fire, which produced the utmost consternation. The fire was returned in volleys, but the limbs and branches of the trees suffered infinitely more than the riflemen who lay behind them. Marion now made his arrangements for crossing the stream. But this was not to be done in the face of the enemy, with the creek before him wide and swollen. Marion moved rapidly up the creek, which he swam at the first favorable point some five miles above Witherspoon's. This brought him nearer to Doyle's position, but the latter had not waited for him. Whether it was that he had little taste for the sort of annoyances to which Watson had been subjected, or that he had received instructions from Lord Rawdon to join him at Camden, in all haste, it is certain that he made the greatest speed in hurrying in that direction. It was at this period that Marion held a consultation with Horry, in which he is represented by that officer as in an unusual state of despondency. His enemies were accumulating around him with unwonted rapidity, and in greater force than ever. Watson, furious at his late disasters, and mortified with the result of his confident anticipations, had sallied forth from Georgetown with a reinforcement. He had gone towards the Pedee, where he strengthened himself with the large body of Tories which Gainey had commanded. Horry tells us of a third body of men at the same time in the field, with Doyle and Watson, and all addressing themselves to the same object, his utter expulsion from the country. At that moment the expulsion of our Partisan would leave the conquest of the State complete. In these emergencies, with these foes accumulating around him, the mind of Marion naturally addressed itself with more gravity than usual to the task of his extrication from his enemies. His countenance, as Horry describes it, was troubled. But, with his usual taciturnity, he said nothing on the subject of his anxieties. Seeing him walking alone, and in deep revery, Horry approached him, and said-- "General, our men are few, and, if what I hear be true, you never wanted them more." Marion started, and replied-- "Go immediately to the field officers, and know from them, if, in the event of my being compelled to retire to the mountains, they will follow my fortunes, and with me carry on the war, until the enemy is forced out of the country. Go, and bring me their answer without delay." It was a peculiarity in Marion's character, that he should have entrusted such a commission to a subordinate. But it accords with all that we have seen of the reserve and shyness of his moods. The simple remark to Horry indicates his admirable firmness, his calculations, even of possible necessities long in advance, and his instinctive mode of encountering them as he best might. His determination, on his own account, to carry on the war against the enemy in the mountains, till they or himself were expelled from the country, denotes the unsubmitting patriot. The reader must not forget that, at this moment, there was no force in the State but his own, arrayed against the British. Sumter was still 'hors de combat' from his wound. The army of Greene, having with it Pickens, and other native militia, was in North Carolina, watching the movements of Cornwallis. Lord Rawdon, with a strong British garrison, held Camden. Charleston and Georgetown, Ninety-Six and Granby, Forts Watson and Motte, were all held, with numerous other conspicuous points, by the British; and with Watson, whose force now numbered a thousand men, Doyle half that number, and several active and large bodies of Tories prepared to cooperate with these against our partisan, the danger of Marion's situation, and his patriotic resolve of character, are conspicuous at a glance. Horry sought the officers, and promptly returned to his commander. To a man they had pledged themselves to follow his fortunes, however disastrous, while one of them survived, and until their country was freed from the enemy. Marion's countenance instantly brightened--we cannot forbear the use of Horry's own language, though it may provoke a smile--"he was tip-toed"--(i.e.)--he rose upon his toes--and said "I am satisfied--one of these parties shall soon feel us."* * Horry's MS., pp. 59, 60.-- Chapter 14. Marion renews his Pursuit of Doyle--Confronts Watson--Is joined by Col. Lee--Invests and takes Fort Watson--Fort Motte taken--Anecdote of Horry and Marion. Marion instantly put his men in motion in pursuit of Doyle. In crossing the swamp of Lynch's Creek, during the night, several of the soldiers lost their arms, in consequence of the freshet. The swamp was inundated, and it required all their dexterity and promptitude to save themselves. Snatching a hasty breakfast, the pursuit was continued all day, and resumed the next morning until ten o'clock, when they found such signs of the superior speed and haste of the enemy, as to preclude all possibility of overtaking him. They had been necessarily delayed by the passage of the swamp, and had not made sufficient allowance for the speed with which an enemy might run when there was occasion for it. Here they found that Doyle had destroyed all his heavy baggage, and had sped in such confusion towards Camden, that his encampment, and the road which he traversed, were strewn with canteens and knapsacks, and everything, not necessary to defence, which might retard his progress. Marion, somewhat surprised at a flight for which he could not then account, for his own force was far inferior to that of Doyle, yet saw that the fugitive was beyond present pursuit. He wheeled about, accordingly, and set his men in motion for another meeting with Watson. That commander, now strengthened, and just doubling the numbers of our partisan, with fresh supplies of provisions and military stores, had once more pushed for the Pedee. He took the nearest route across Black river, at Wragg's Ferry, and, crossing the Pedee at Euhaney, and the Little Pedee at Potato Ferry, he halted at Catfish Creek, one mile from the present site of Marion Courthouse. Marion crossed the Pedee, and encamped at the Warhees, within five miles of the enemy. Here he planted himself, in vigilant watch of the force which he could not openly encounter. In addition to the want of men, he labored under a still greater want of ammunition. When asked by Capt. Gavin Witherspoon, whether he meant to fight Watson--a measure which Witherspoon thought particularly advisable--before he was joined by any more bodies of Tories, he answered, "That would be best, but we have not ammunition." "Why, general," said Witherspoon, "my powder-horn is full." "Ah, my friend!" was the reply of Marion, "YOU are an extraordinary soldier; but for the others, there are not two rounds to a man." Thus stood the two parties; and thus it but too frequently stood with our partisan--wanting the most simple resources by which to make his own genius and the valor of his men apparent. That the former was alive and equal to emergencies, even in such a condition of necessity, may be inferred from the fact, that he should dare take such a position, so immediately contiguous to an enemy double his own force, and abounding in all the requisite materials of war. The inactivity of Watson is only to be accounted for by his total ignorance of the resourceless state of Marion's rifles. While Marion and Watson were thus relatively placed, the former was apprised of the return of Greene to South Carolina. This intelligence accounted for the hasty retreat of Doyle. He was summoned by Lord Rawdon to Camden, to strengthen that position against the American force, which was advancing in that direction. The reappearance of Greene was a source of heartfelt joy to those who, but a little while before, had anticipated the necessity of flying before the foe, and taking shelter in the mountains. It was because of the absence of the American army that Rawdon was enabled, as we have seen, to concentrate his chief force upon Marion. The presence of Greene, which had caused the recall of Doyle, must, as Marion well knew, effect that of Watson also. He was preparing himself accordingly, when further advices brought him news of the approach of Colonel Lee, with the Continental Legion, to his own assistance. He dispatched a guide to Lee, and by means of boats, which he always kept secreted, the Legion was transported over the Pedee, and a junction with Marion's force was effected on the fourteenth of April. The tidings which had brought such gratification to the camp of Marion, had as inspiring, though not as grateful an effect in that of Watson. He lost no time in breaking up his encampment. The safety of Rawdon and Camden was paramount, and, wheeling his two field-pieces into Catfish Creek, and burning his baggage, as Doyle had done, he sped, with similar precipitation, in the same direction. The route taken in his flight declared his apprehensions of Marion. He trembled at the recollection of the recent race between them--the harassings and skirmishings night and day--the sleepless struggles, and unintermitting alarms. Recrossing the Little Pedee, and avoiding Euhaney, he passed the Waccamaw at Greene's Ferry, and, retreating through the Neck, between that river and the sea, crossed Winyaw Bay, three miles in width, and, in this manner, arrived in Georgetown. A slight glance at any map of the country, keeping in mind that Watson's object was really Camden, will show the reader the extent of his fears of that wily and indefatigable enemy from whom he had previously escaped with so much difficulty. Marion was exceedingly anxious to pursue Watson, but Lee, though subordinate, succeeded in preventing this desire. Instructions which he brought from Greene, and which he earnestly dwelt upon, required their cooperation against the British posts below Camden. Lee urged, also, that such a pursuit would take them too far from Greene, with the movements of whose army it was important that Marion's force should act as intimately as possible. Marion yielded the point with great reluctance, and was heard repeatedly after to regret that his orders did not permit him to follow the dictates of his own judgment. Had he done so, with his force strengthened by the Continental bayonets, and new supplies of powder for his rifles, Watson's flight to Georgetown, which he could scarcely have reached, would have been far more uncomfortable than he found it on the previous occasion. Lee led the way with his legion towards the Santee, while Marion, placing Witherspoon with a small party on the trail of Watson, pursued his line of march through Williamsburg. Having once resolved, Marion's movements were always rapid and energetic. On the fifteenth of April, only a day after the junction with Lee, he was before Fort Watson. This was a stockade fort, raised on one of those remarkable elevations of an unknown antiquity which are usually recognized as Indian mounds. It stands near Scott's Lake on the Santee river, a few miles below the junction of the Congaree and Wateree. The mound is forty feet in height, and remote from any other elevation by which it might be commanded. The garrison at this post consisted of eighty regular troops, and forty loyalists. It was commanded by Lieut. McKay, a brave officer, of the regular service. To the summons of Marion he returned a manly defiance, and the place was regularly invested. Besieged and besiegers were alike without artillery; with a single piece, the former might well have defied any force which Marion could bring against him. The place would have been impregnable to the Americans. As it was, its steep sides and strong palisades forbade any attempt to storm. To cut off the garrison from Scott's Lake, where it procured water, was the first step taken by the besiegers. But the besieged, by sinking a well within the stockade, below the level of the contiguous water, counteracted the attempt. For a moment, the assailants were at fault, and, without artillery, the prospect was sufficiently discouraging. But while doubting and hesitating, Col. Mayham, of the brigade, suggested a mode of overawing the garrison which was immediately adopted. At a short distance from the fort there grew a small wood, a number of the trees of which were hewn down, and transported upon the shoulders of the men within a proper distance of the mound. Here, during the night, all hands were actively employed in piling the wood thus brought, in massive and alternate layers, crosswise, until the work had reached a sufficient elevation. At dawn, the garrison were confounded to find themselves, at wakening, under a shower of rifle bullets. Thus overlooked, the fort was no longer tenable; and a party of volunteers from the militia, headed by Ensign Baker, and another of Continentals, from the legion, led by Mr. Lee, a volunteer, ascended the mound with great intrepidity, and gained the abbatis, which they proceeded to destroy. This movement brought the garrison to terms, and a capitulation immediately followed. But the leaguer had consumed eight days, the progress of which had been watched with equal anxiety by both parties. The Americans apprehended, and the garrison anticipated, the approach of Watson with an overwhelming force for the relief of the besieged. But Watson did not appear. He no longer had an overwhelming force. His flight to Georgetown was marked by loss and desertion. It appears that his panic, or his sense of duty, led him rather to avoid Marion and to reach Camden without interruption. He very prudently, therefore, after crossing the Santee, on the route from Georgetown, moved down by Monk's Corner, added to his force the garrison of that place, and then cautiously advanced to the Santee. He resolved rather to leave Fort Watson to its fate, than risk a force which might be necessary to the exigencies of Rawdon. Watson was considered by the British one of their best partisans, yet never had poor warrior been so worried and harassed, as, with a superior force, he had been by Marion. Yet, in his second expedition in pursuit of the latter, had he been able to cooperate with Doyle, with the Tories of Harrison and Gainey, all preparing for the same object, the escape of our partisan would have been miraculous. At no time, during their pursuit of him, was his force equal to the smallest one of theirs. He must have been expelled the country, as he himself seemed to apprehend, or he must have fallen in the conflict. We have so little at the hands of Marion, in the shape of correspondence, that we are tempted to give his official letter to General Greene, apprising him of the fall of Fort Watson. It is dated-- Fort Watson (Scott's Lake), April 23, 1781. Sir-- Lieut.-Col. Lee made a junction with me at Santee, the 14th inst., after a rapid march from Ramsay's mill, on Deep River, which he performed in eight days. The 15th we marched to this place and invested it. Our hope was to cut off their water. Some riflemen and Continentals immediately took post between the fort and the lake. The fort is situated on a small hill, forty feet high, stockaded, and with three rows of abbatis round it. No trees near enough to cover our men from their fire. The third day after we had invested it, we found the enemy had sunk a well near the stockade which we could not prevent them from [doing]; as we had no entrenching tools to make our approach, we immediately determined to erect a work equal in height to the fort. This arduous work was completed this morning by Major Maham, who undertook it. We then made a lodgment on the side of the mound, near the stockade. This was performed with great spirit and address by Ensign Johnson, and Mr. Lee, a volunteer in Col. Lee's legion, who with difficulty ascended the hill and pulled away the abbatis, which induced the commandant to hoist a flag. Col. Lee and myself agreed to the enclosed capitulation, which I hope may be approved by you. Our loss on this occasion is two killed, and three Continentals and three militia wounded. I am particularly indebted to Col. Lee for his advice and indefatigable diligence in every part of these tedious operations, against as strong a little post as could well be made, and on the most advantageous spot that could be wished for. The officers and men of the legion and militia performed everything that could be expected; and Major Maham of my brigade, had, in a particular manner, a great share of this success by his unwearied diligence in erecting the tower which principally occasioned the reduction of the fort. In short, sir, I have had the greatest assistance from every one under my command. Enclosed is a list of the prisoners and stores taken, and I shall, without loss of time, proceed to demolish the fort; after which I shall march to the high hills of Santee, encamp at Capt. Richardson's, and await your orders. (Signed) Francis Marion. In taking post at the Santee Hills, the object of Marion was to take such a position as would enable him to watch all the several roads by which Watson could make his way to Camden. It was important, if possible, to prevent his junction with Lord Rawdon, thus increasing the ability of that commander to cope with Greene's army, which now lay before that place. But Marion was not able to encounter Watson without assistance. Lee, with his legion, had been withdrawn by Greene soon after the capture of Fort Watson, and our partisan's force in camp, from concurring circumstances, was now reduced to about eighty men. Eighty of his brigade were detached under Col. Irvine to Rafting Creek, in order to cut off supplies from Camden. Another party was engaged in watching a rising of the Tories on the Pedee, who, in the absence of Marion himself, had manifested a disposition to resume the offensive; Col. Harden, with another detachment, was on the Salkehatchie, having first succeeded in the capture of Fort Balfour at Pocotaligo, in which he made nearly a hundred prisoners. Other small detachments had thinned the little army of our partisan to such a degree that it was of small efficiency where it was; and, just at this juncture, numerous desertions took place from two concurring circumstances. The approach of Marion to the hills had brought on the battle of Camden. Unwilling that Greene's force should be increased by the militia of the former, Rawdon had resolved not to wait for Watson, but to march out and give battle before the coming of either. He did so. The affair was not decisive, but Greene was compelled to yield the field to his enemy. He lost nothing, whether of honor or position, by this result. But, as the news spread, the defeat was exaggerated. It was supposed to be another affair such as that of Gates, and Marion's small body of men was still farther lessened by desertion. There was still another reason for its present feebleness. The time of the year was the very height of the planting season, and the farmer-soldiers, in numbers, left the camp in order to hurry to their homes and set their crops. This, though not allowed by the regular disciplinarian, was, in the mind of the militia-man, a duty quite as imperative as any that he owed to his family. Indeed, it was inseparable from his necessities that, where the Government did not give him bread, he must make it for himself. His family could not starve, and if he could fight without pay, it was not possible that he should do so without food. In the sort of warfare which Marion had hitherto carried on, he had been willing to recognize these necessities on the part of his followers. Cooperating with an army differently constituted, it was scarcely possible to do so, with any hope of their permanent usefulness. Just at this juncture, in particular, he felt the peculiarly mortifying character of his situation. To enable Marion to contend with Watson, Greene dispatched Major Eaton, with a body of Continentals, to his assistance, with instructions to throw himself across the path of Watson. But Eaton, by an unhappy misunderstanding of his duty, failed to reach him in season for this object. When he did join him, which was on the evening of the 2d of May, it was too late. Marion, writing to Greene, says, "Major Eaton's not coming up sooner has made me lose a great deal of precious time. I shall cross the Santee at Wright's Bluff to-morrow." He did so, but Watson had already passed, and succeeded in eluding Greene also, and in reaching Camden in safety. We have spoken of Col. Harden's proceedings against Fort Balfour, and the capture of that post. This officer was a very brave and active gentleman, rapid in his movements, and resolute in his objects. As soon as Marion had received intelligence of Greene's approach to South Carolina, he had dispatched Harden with seventy select men, well mounted, to penetrate through the country, and crossing the enemy's lines of communication, to stir up the people in all that region which lies southwest of Charleston. So rapid and unexpected were his movements, that he took the enemy everywhere by surprise, and rendered himself, for the time, the very terror of the loyalists upon the route. His force increased with its progress. The inhabitants yearned for an escape from British authority, and joined his troop. His seventy men soon became two hundred, and while he baffled the pursuit of the superior, he visited with sudden and severe chastisement the disaffected, along and on both sides of the Savannah river. Ascending this, he soon communicated with Pickens, then operating against Augusta and Ninety-Six. Nothing now was wanting but the fall of the enemy's chain of posts, to complete the recovery of the whole country within thirty miles of the sea. In contributing to this desirable object Marion, now strengthened by the Continentals of Lee and Eaton, invested Fort Motte on the river Congaree. This post was the principal depot of the convoys from Charleston to Camden, and sometimes of those destined for Forts Granby and Ninety-Six. A large new mansion-house belonging to Mrs. Motte, situated on a high and commanding hill, had been chosen for this establishment. It was surrounded with a deep trench, along the inner margin of which a strong and lofty parapet was raised. To this post had been assigned a sufficient garrison of one hundred and fifty men. This force was increased by a small detachment of dragoons from Charleston, which had been thrown into it a few hours before the appearance of the Americans. The garrison was commanded by Capt. McPherson, a firm and gallant officer. Opposite to Fort Motte, to the north, stood another hill, where Mrs. Motte, who had been expelled from her dwelling, resided in an old farm-house. On this, Lee took position with his corps: Marion's men occupied the eastern declivity of the same ridge on which stood the fort. The place was very soon invested. The six pounder with which Greene had furnished Marion, was mounted on a battery raised in the quarter which he occupied, for the purpose of raking the northern face of the enemy's parapet. McPherson was in the possession of a wall-piece, but he had not been able to adapt it for use before the investment took place. It does not seem to have been even used during the siege. His chief hopes lay in being relieved by a detachment from Camden, not doubting its arrival before his assailant could push his preparations to maturity. The works of the latter advanced rapidly, and the place was summoned on the 20th of May. The reply declared the determination of the besieged to try the strength and patience of the besiegers. These had now every motive for perseverance. They were advised of the approach of Rawdon, with all his force, to the relief of the fort. That stern commander, finding Camden was no longer tenable against the increasing forces of the Americans, and unable to maintain his several posts with his diminished strength, was aiming to contract his scattered bodies into narrower limits. Having made a second, but unsatisfactory, demonstration upon Greene, he destroyed his unnecessary baggage, and, leaving Camden in flames, he once more abandoned it to the Americans. Greene advised Marion of his retreat, and urged him to expedition. On the next night he reached the country opposite Fort Motte, and his numerous fires on the highest grounds on his route, encouraged the garrison with hopes of success, which were not to be realized. What was to be done, was to be done quickly, on the part of the besiegers. The process of battering by cannon would be too slow. Some shorter mode was to be adopted, to anticipate the approach of Rawdon. The ready thought of our partisan suggested this process. It was known that the large mansion of Mrs. Motte occupied the greater part of the area of the fort; but a few yards of ground within the works remained uncovered by it. To burn the house by fire would compel the surrender of the garrison. The necessity was very reluctantly communicated to the widow by whom the property was owned. But she was one of those glorious dames of the Revolution, to whom the nation is so largely indebted for the glory of that event. She had received the American officers with a hospitality which made them almost shrink from suggesting their purposes; but as soon as they were made known, she put them perfectly at ease upon the subject. With something more than cheerfulness--with pride--that any sacrifice on her part should contribute to the success of her countrymen, in so dear an object, she herself produced a bow, with all the necessary apparatus, which had been brought from India,* and which she had preserved. By the arrows from this bow the fire was to be communicated to her dwelling. * The origin of this bow, though unimportant, is nonetheless the subject of great differences. James says an "Indian bow and arrows", though one would expect he meant "American Indian" from the context. Weems implies that it was from Africa.--A. L., 1996.-- Everything being in readiness, the lines were manned and an additional force stationed at the batteries, lest the enemy, in the moment of desperation, might prefer risking an assault, rather than endure the mortification of a surrender. A flag was sent to McPherson, but the sight of Rawdon's fires on the other side of the river encouraged him with the belief that he might still resist successfully. The bow was put into the hands of Nathan Savage, a private in Marion's brigade. It was noon when the attempt was made. The scorching rays of the noonday sun had prepared the roof for the conflagration. Balls of blazing rosin and brimstone were attached to the arrows, and three several shafts were sent by the vigorous arm of the militia-man against the roof. They took effect, in three different quarters, and the shingles were soon in a blaze. McPherson immediately ordered a party to the roof, but this had been prepared for, and the fire of the six-pounder soon drove the soldiers down. The flames began to rage, the besiegers were on the alert, guarding every passage, and no longer hopeful of Rawdon, McPherson hung out the white flag imploring mercy. The gentle nature of Marion readily yielded to his prayer, though, as Lee tells us, "policy commanded death." In this siege Marion lost two brave fellows, one of whom has been more than once conspicuous in this narrative--the daring Sergeant McDonald, and Lieutenant Cruger. McDonald had reached a lieutenancy before he fell. The prisoners were paroled, but their officers before leaving partook of a sumptuous dinner given by Mrs. Motte to the victors. This noble lady, whose grace of demeanor is represented as quite equal to her patriotism, presided at her table, in such a manner as to render all parties at home. Col. P. Horry tells us of some of the incidents which took place at the dinner. A captain of the British army, taken among the prisoners, on finding himself near Horry, said to him: "You are Col. Horry, I presume, sir." Horry answered in the affirmative. "Well," said the other, "I was with Col. Watson when he on Sampit fought your General Marion. I think I saw you there with a party of horse. I think you were also at Nelson's Ferry, when Marion surprised our party at the house? But," added the officer, "I was hid in high grass and escaped. Were you not there also?" Horry answered, "No! It was my brother Hugh." "Well," said the captain, "YOU were fortunate in your escape [at Sampit] for Watson and Small had 1200 men." "If so," said Horry, "I certainly was fortunate, for I did not suppose they had more than half that number." The captain then added--"I consider myself equally fortunate in escaping at Nelson's old field." "Truly, you were," answered Horry drily; "for Marion had but 30 militia on that occasion." "At this," says our worthy Colonel, "the captain's countenance fell, and he retired, and avoided me the rest of the day. General Greene, the next day (Greene had reached Marion's camp that night) said to me, 'Col. Horry, how came you to affront Capt. Ferguson?' I answered, he affronted himself by telling his own story. It militated so greatly against himself as to compel the officers who were near to laugh. The captain and I, sir, agreed that we were both equally fortunate in war. Greene replied, 'Capt. Ferguson's memory was only too good.'"* * Horry's MS. Narrative, pp. 74-75.-- While at the hospitable table of Mrs. Motte, it was whispered in Marion's ears, that Col. Lee's men were even then engaged in hanging certain of the Tory prisoners. Marion instantly hurried from the table, seized his sword, and running with all haste, reached the place of execution in time to rescue one poor wretch from the gallows. Two were already beyond rescue or recovery. With drawn sword and a degree of indignation in his countenance that spoke more than words, Marion threatened to kill the first man that made any further attempt in such diabolical proceedings.* * Horry's MS. Narrative, p. 75.-- Chapter 15. Correspondence of Marion and Greene--Anecdote of Colonel Snipes--Marion takes Georgetown--Attempt of Sumter and Marion on Col. Coates--Battle of Quinby Bridge. It was while Marion was most actively engaged in the investment of Fort Motte, that a correspondence took place between himself and General Greene, which had nearly resulted in the loss of his invaluable services to the country. A pure and noble spirit, Marion was particularly sensitive to reproach, and felt deeply its injustice. From the moment that Greene took command of the southern army, he had yielded the most profound deference to his wishes, had seconded his slightest suggestions, timed his own movements with a studied regard to those contemplated by the commander, and, whenever the service would allow, had devoted his little band to such duties as would lead to the promotion of all those larger plans which were contemplated for the execution of the grand army. His scouts had served for pioneers, his cavalry procured provisions for the camp, and it was to Marion alone that Greene looked for all his intelligence. But there was one favorite object which Greene had in view, to which our partisan could contribute little. The want of a cavalry force had been particularly felt by the former, and he had been sedulous in the endeavor to supply this want, from the very first of his southern campaigns. He had been pressingly calling upon Sumter, Marion, and every officer, who might be thought able to procure him a supply of horses; and active agents of his own had been scouring every quarter of the country in search of this indispensable agent of all great military operations. His quest had been comparatively vain. The British had been before him throughout the country. The dragoons of Tarleton had swept the stables; and, where this was not the case, the horses were held by militia men, to whom they were quite as indispensable as to the grand army. Marion's troopers could only be of service while in possession of their horses--they had large and extensive tracts of country to traverse--could procure no intelligence without--and, any attempt to dismount a soldier from his favorite steed, would be to produce a degree of discontent in his mind which would most certainly deprive the country of his services. To expect that the partisan militia under Marion and Sumter, who had been constantly on horseback, in the face of the enemy, should deliver their horses up to others who possessed no higher claim upon the country than themselves, was to expect more largely than was altogether reasonable, from the liberality or the patriotism of any set of men. A few, such as could be spared, had been supplied by Marion. He never, for an instant, contemplated the dismounting of his troopers--those hardy fellows who had been constant in all vicissitudes--who had murmured at no tasks--shrunk from no adventures--and spared neither themselves nor their property, when the necessities of the country required, at periods when there was no grand army to divide with themselves the honors and the dangers of the war. Nay, to dismount them was, in fact, to disarm himself. It appears, however, that this was expected of him. An unfortunate letter of Col. Lee, dated the 23d May, and addressed to Greene, contained this paragraph: "General Marion," says the letter, "can supply you, if he will, with one hundred and fifty good dragoon horses, most of them impressed horses. He might, in my opinion, spare sixty, which would be a happy supply." The effect of this communication upon Greene was immediate and painful. Believing that he had been ill-used, and vexed that Marion, knowing his necessities, and with the power to relieve them, should yet have forborne to do so, though urgently exhorted, he frankly declared his feelings in the very next letter to our partisan. Marion did not dissemble his indignation in his reply. He repels the charge that he had ever withheld supplies which he might have furnished, and concludes his letter by requesting permission to resign--firmly, but respectfully, intimating his resolution to retire from service as soon as Fort Motte should be reduced. Greene, in an instant, from this reply, perceived the mischief that he had done. He wrote instantly to Marion, and succeeded, though with difficulty, in overcoming his resolution. He says: "My reason for writing so pressingly for the dragoon horses, was from the distress we were in. It is not my wish to take the horses from the militia, if it will injure the public service. The effects and consequences you can better judge of than I can. You have rendered important services to the public with the militia under your command, and have done great honor to yourself, and I would not wish to render your situation less agreeable with them, unless it is to answer some very great purpose; and this, I persuade myself, you would agree to, from a desire to promote the common good."... From the same letter, we make another extract: "I shall always be happy to see you at headquarters, but cannot think you seriously mean to solicit leave to go to Philadelphia. It is true, your task has been disagreeable, but not more so than others. It is now going on seven years since the commencement of this war. I have never had leave of absence one hour, nor paid the least attention to my own private affairs. Your State is invaded--your all is at stake. What has been done will signify nothing, unless we persevere to the end. I left a family in distress, and everything dear and valuable, to come and afford you all the assistance in my power, to promote the service. It must throw a damp upon the spirits of the army, to find that the first men in the State are retiring from the busy scene, to indulge themselves in more agreeable amusements. However, your reasons for wishing to decline the command of the militia, and go to Philadelphia, may be more pressing than I imagine; I will, therefore, add nothing more on this subject till I see you." The adroit mixture of reproach with commendation, was not done without reflection. Greene seems to have understood the character of Marion. But there was some oblique injustice in his letter. A man's patriotism is not to be reproached, because he wishes to escape injustice and indignity. The best of patriots will be apt to become disgusted with a service in which their claims are neglected, their performances slurred over, and their motives impeached; and this, too, at a period, and after long periods, of service, in which they have watched, toiled, and fought, without hope or prospect of reward. When General Greene compared the disagreeableness of Marion's toils with those of others, he certainly overlooked, not only the peculiar character of those toils, but the peculiar privations which distinguished the career of Marion's men, and the particularly painful duties which so frequently belonged to it. His own previously expressed opinions with regard to the warfare, as carried on between Whig and Tory in the south, will be found to furnish a sufficient commentary upon the comparison which he thus makes. Greene himself, by the way, is not without blame in some respects, in relation to the southern commanders of militia. The slighting manner in which he spoke of them, and of their services, in letters not intended to be public, was such, that some of them, Sumter for example, never forgave him. His prejudices were those of the regular service, the policy of which is always to disparage the militia. To Marion himself, his language was of a different character. Take the following extract of a letter, written to the latter only one month before the correspondence above referred to. This letter is dated, from the camp before Camden, April 24, 1781, and will give a faint idea of the true claims of Marion upon the regard of his country. "When I consider," writes Greene, "how much you have done and suffered, and under what disadvantage you have maintained your ground, I am at a loss which to admire most, your courage and fortitude, or your address and management. Certain it is, no man has a better claim to the public thanks than you. History affords no instance wherein an officer has kept possession of a country under so many disadvantages as you have. Surrounded on every side with a superior force, hunted from every quarter with veteran troops, you have found means to elude their attempts, and to keep alive the expiring hopes of an oppressed militia, when all succor seemed to be cut off. TO FIGHT THE ENEMY BRAVELY WITH THE PROSPECT OF VICTORY, IS NOTHING; BUT TO FIGHT WITH INTREPIDITY UNDER THE CONSTANT IMPRESSION OF DEFEAT, AND INSPIRE IRREGULAR TROOPS TO DO IT, IS A TALENT PECULIAR TO YOURSELF. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to do justice to your merit, and I shall miss no opportunity of declaring to Congress, to the commander-in-chief of the American army, and to the world, the great sense I have of your merit and your services." The correspondence of Greene with Marion, on the subject of the horses, closed with a letter on the part of the latter, in which he turned off the affair on grounds that proved his feelings tranquillized. A present of a fine horse, for Greene's own use, accompanied this letter. It has been shown that, on the day of the capture of Fort Motte, Greene rode into the camp of Marion, at that place. We can conceive of no other motive for his presence here, than a desire to make his reconciliation perfect. He brought no force with him to promote the object of the besiegers, and his stay was limited to a brief interview. But the evil effect of this affair did not end here. The militia, alarmed at the idea of having their horses taken from them, soon began to scatter, and, pleading the planting season upon which they had entered--some, indeed, without any plea,--they left the camp in numbers, and before the leaguer was well over, the force of Marion was reduced to something less than two hundred men. With this remnant of his brigade, as soon as Fort Motte was yielded, Marion detached himself from the regular troops and struck down towards Monk's Corner, hanging upon the skirts of Lord Rawdon's army, then in full retreat from Camden. Perhaps the most interesting portions of our traditionary history in the South, will be found to have occurred to the scattered bodies of the partisan cavalry, while on their return movements to and from the army, after such a dispersion as that from which the brigade of Marion was now suffering. It was no easy matter for the small group, or the single trooper, to regain the family homestead, or the friendly neighborhood in which their wives and little ones were harbored. Every settlement through which they passed had its disaffected population. It might be small or large, but its numbers did not affect its activity, and, with the main body of the Whigs in camp, or on the road, the Tories, in remote sections of the country, were generally equally strong and daring. These waylaid the customary pathways, and aware of all the material movements of the regular troops, made their arrangements to cut off stragglers or small detached bodies. When we consider the active malignity by which the civil war in Carolina was marked; the wild forests in which it took place; the peculiar ferocity which it stimulated, and the various characteristics of the local modes of warfare, the chase and the surprise, we shall have no occasion for wonder at the strange and sometimes terrible events by which it was distinguished. One of these, which occurred to Captain, afterwards Colonel Snipes, of Marion's brigade, is a remarkable instance; and, as it has been told elsewhere, in connection with the life of Marion, it may well claim a place in this narrative. Snipes was a Carolinian, of remarkable strength and courage. He was equally distinguished for his vindictive hatred of the Tories. He had suffered some domestic injuries at their hands, and he was one who never permitted himself to forgive. His temper was sanguinary in the extreme, and led him, in his treatment of the loyalists, to such ferocities as subjected him, on more than one occasion, to the harshest rebuke of his commander. It is not certain at what period in the war the following occurrence took place, but it was on one of those occasions when the partisan militia claimed a sort of periodical privilege of abandoning their general to look after their families and domestic interests. Availing himself of this privilege, Snipes pursued his way to his plantation. His route was a circuitous one, but it is probable that he pursued it with little caution. He was more distinguished for audacity than prudence. The Tories fell upon his trail, which they followed with the keen avidity of the sleuth-hound. Snipes reached his plantation in safety, unconscious of pursuit. Having examined the homestead and received an account of all things done in his absence, from a faithful driver, and lulled into security by the seeming quiet and silence of the neighborhood, he retired to rest, and, after the fatigues of the day, soon fell into a profound sleep. From this he was awakened by the abrupt entrance and cries of his driver. The faithful negro apprised him, in terror, of the approach of the Tories. They were already on the plantation. His vigilance alone prevented them from taking his master in bed. Snipes, starting up, proposed to take shelter in the barn, but the driver pointed to the flames already bursting from that building. He had barely time to leave the house, covered only by his night shirt, and, by the counsel of the negro, to fly to the cover of a thick copse of briars and brambles, within fifty yards of the dwelling, when the Tories surrounded it. The very task of penetrating this copse, so as to screen himself from sight, effectually removed the thin garment which concealed his nakedness. The shirt was torn from his back by the briars, and the skin shared in its injuries. But, once there, he lay effectually concealed from sight. Ordinary conjecture would scarcely have supposed that any animal larger than a rabbit would have sought or found shelter in such a region. The Tories immediately seized upon the negro and demanded his master, at the peril of his life. Knowing and fearing the courage and the arm of Snipes, they did not enter the dwelling, but adopted the less valorous mode of setting it on fire, and, with pointed muskets, surrounded it, in waiting for the moment when their victim should emerge. He, within a few steps of them, heard their threats and expectations, and beheld all their proceedings. The house was consumed, and the intense heat of the fire subjected our partisan, in his place of retreat, to such torture, as none but the most dogged hardihood could have endured without complaint. The skin was peeled from his body in many places, and the blisters were shown long after, to persons who are still living.* But Snipes too well knew his enemies, and what he had to expect at their hands, to make any confession. He bore patiently the torture, which was terribly increased, when, finding themselves at fault, the Tories brought forward the faithful negro who had thus far saved his master, and determined to extort from him, in the halter, the secret of his hiding-place. But the courage and fidelity of the negro proved superior to the terrors of death. Thrice was he run up the tree, and choked nearly to strangulation, but in vain. His capability to endure proved superior to the will of the Tories to inflict, and he was at length let down, half dead,--as, in truth, ignorant of the secret which they desired to extort. What were the terrors of Snipes in all this trial? What his feelings of equal gratitude and apprehension? How noble was the fidelity of the slave--based upon what gentle and affectionate relationship between himself and master--probably from boyhood! Yet this is but one of a thousand such attachments, all equally pure and elevated, and maintained through not dissimilar perils. * See a biographical sketch of Tarlton Brown, of Barnwell, S.C., a soldier in the revolutionary army. Charleston, 1844, p. 8.-- While Marion was operating against Forts Watson and Motte, Sumter, with like success, had besieged the British posts at Orangeburg and Granby. It was the loss of these posts, and the dread of the subsequent concentration of the whole American force against Camden, that had prompted the destruction and abandonment of that place by Lord Rawdon. This was the plan and object of Greene. The precipitate movements of Rawdon, who anticipated the purpose of the former, necessarily defeated it. Pickens was operating against Augusta; while Sumter, leaving the investment of Granby, the conquest of which was considered sure, to Col. Taylor, proceeded down the country, with the two-fold object of harassing the descent of the British army, and to prevent them from carrying off the cattle of the inhabitants. In the former object, neither Marion nor himself had much success. They did not succeed in effecting a junction, and the sanguine desire of Sumter, with united forces, to operate boldly upon the retreating army of Rawdon, was not encouraged by Greene, who preferred a safe and sure, though slow progress, to any attainment of his end by a hazardous attempt, however glorious. The task of holding Rawdon in check, was confided to Marion and Sumter, while Greene proceeded with his whole army, to the investment of the post of Ninety-Six, at the village of Cambridge. In the execution of their duties, the two partisans closed in upon the British commander, until he established a line of fortified posts, extending from Georgetown, by Monk's Corner, Dorchester, &c., to Coosawhatchee. Within this line our partisans continually made incursions, keeping the enemy in constant check and apprehension. They were not in force to do more. Georgetown, however, separated by water courses and swamps of great magnitude, from the other posts, was left with a garrison so feeble, as to tempt Marion to proceed against it. The parishes that lie along the Santee, on both sides, towards its mouth, had turned out with so much zeal on his return into their neighborhood, that he soon found himself in sufficient force to cover the country with a strong detachment under Col. Mayham, while, with his main body, he went against Georgetown. He appeared before this place on the 6th of June, and instantly began his approaches. But his simple demonstration was sufficient. The enemy made but a show of resistance. As the attempt was pressed, the garrison fled to their galleys, and took a position in the bay beyond the reach of the Americans. They finally abandoned the harbor altogether. It was not in the power of Marion to man the post efficiently, and his policy forbade that he should do it inadequately. Accordingly, he deliberately removed the military stores and public property, up the Pedee, then, demolishing the works, returned to join his detachment in St. Stephens. While at Georgetown, however, it is recorded that he replenished his wardrobe, and fitted himself out with a becoming suit of regimentals. This was an event, in the career of our partisan, to be remembered by his followers. He indulged, it seems, for the first time, in some other of the luxuries of the campaigner. A couple of mules were employed for the transportation of his baggage, and his usual beverage of vinegar and water was occasionally diversified by a bowl of coffee at breakfast. A little before this,--perhaps soon after General Greene had penetrated the State,--he had appointed himself a couple of secretaries for the purpose of greater dispatch in letter writing--his correspondence necessarily increasing, in consequence of his connection with the more expanded operations of the army. State, he did not affect, and the simplicity and modesty of his character may be easily inferred from this petty enumeration of the aids and comforts which he thought proper to draw from his successes. While Marion, in person, proceeded against Georgetown, Col. Peter Horry was dispatched with a strong body of men against the loyalists on the Pedee, a wild and bloodthirsty band of borderers, under the conduct of Major Gainey, of whom we have had occasion to speak already. Horry succeeded in awing Gainey into submission, and in extorting from him a treaty by which he consented, with his officers and men, to maintain a condition of neutrality. This submission, though complete, was but temporary. It required subsequently the decisive proceedings of Marion, and his personal presence, to enforce its provisions. But of this hereafter. While Greene, with the main American army, was proceeding against Ninety-Six, preparations were made by the British in Charleston, for ravaging the country on the south side of the Santee. The people of St. John's and St. Stephen's parishes, had shown too active a zeal in the cause of liberty, to escape punishment, and it was resolved that their country should be laid waste. The loyalists of Charleston, and that vicinity, had been embodied in a regiment, and, under Col. Ball, prepared to carry this design into execution. But Marion, apprised by his scouts and spies of every movement in the city, and unable with his present force to meet with that of Ball, determined, however painful the necessity, to anticipate his proceedings; and, with his usual celerity, he laid waste the country himself; removing across the Santee to places of safety, not only all the stock and cattle, but all the provisions, that could be collected. They were thus saved, as well for the subsistence of his men, as for the proprietor. Anxious to oppose himself more actively to the enemy, he sent pressing dispatches to Greene for assistance in covering the country. Col. Washington, with his admirable corps of cavalry, was accordingly dispatched to his assistance. We have seen that the commander-in-chief had proceeded in person against the British post at Ninety-Six. To Sumter and Marion had been entrusted the care of Rawdon. They were required to check and prevent his progress in the event of any attempt which he might make to relieve the post. They were unsuccessful in doing so. The arrival of a British fleet with reinforcements, comprising three fresh regiments from Ireland, enabled Rawdon to despise any attempts, which, with their inferior force, our partisans might make. Some idea of the diligence of Marion and the excellence of his plans for procuring intelligence, may be gathered from the fact that the Charleston paper of the 2d of June, announcing the arrival of these regiments, was in his possession the very day on which it was printed, and transmitted instantly, through Sumter's command, to Greene.* Greene was unsuccessful in his attempts on Ninety-Six. The place was relieved, after an obstinate defence, by Rawdon, who, with his new troops, by forced marches, arrived in time for its deliverance. Greene was compelled to retreat after much sanguinary fighting. He was pursued by Rawdon for a small distance; but the latter, contenting himself with having rescued, withdrew the garrison, and abandoned the place to the Americans. He was in no condition to pursue his enemy or to maintain his position. His Irish regiments were not to be trusted, and the maintenance of the city and the seaboard were paramount considerations. With such active and enterprising foes as Marion and Sumter, between his army and his garrison, he felt the insecurity of his hold upon the country. His posts in the interior had now everywhere fallen into the hands of the Americans. Augusta, with the three posts, Cornwallis, Grierson and Galphin, had just been yielded to the arms of Pickens and Lee. There were no longer any intermediate posts of defence, from Orangeburg to Ninety-Six, and the latter was now so thoroughly isolated, that prudence led to its abandonment. This necessity brought with it another, which was much more painful and humiliating to the unfortunate loyalists of that country, who had so long sided with the British arms against their countrymen. They were compelled to abandon their homes and share the fortunes of the retreating army. They were without refuge, and the spirit of the warfare had been such as to leave them hopeless of mercy in any encounter with the Whigs. A mournful cavalcade followed in the train of the British army, and retarded its progress. Greene, as he discovered Rawdon's movements to be retrograde, turned upon his retreating footsteps. His cavalry harassed the enemy and hastened his flight. At Ancrum's ferry on the Congaree, Greene, in advance of his army, joined Marion and Washington, the latter with his cavalry, the former with four hundred mounted militia; and, at the head of these two corps, pressing down the Orangeburg road, on the 6th of July, he succeeded in passing Lord Rawdon. Retaining command of Washington's cavalry, he dispatched Marion with his mounted militia to intercept a valuable convoy, freighted not only for relief of Rawdon's army, but with all the various supplies and material necessary for the establishment of the British post at Granby. Marion was unsuccessful. The convoy under Lieut.-Col. Stewart escaped without being conscious of its danger. He had taken one of two roads, while Marion watched for him upon the other. On the morning of the 8th, Stewart and Rawdon effected a junction in Orangeburg. The condition of the British army on that day is thus described in a letter of Marion to Greene: * Johnson's Greene, vol. 2, p. 146.-- "Their troops are so fatigued they cannot possibly move. Three regiments were going to lay down their arms, and it is believed they will to-day, if they are ordered to march. They have no idea of any force being near them." At Orangeburg, Rawdon was too strongly posted for any attempts of Greene. Here, with his own force and that of Stewart, numbering fifteen hundred men, he was joined by Col. Cruger from Ninety-Six, with thirteen hundred more. Orangeburg is situated on the east bank of the North Edisto, which half encircles it. North and south are swamps and ravines, which so nearly approach each other as to leave but a narrow and broken passage on the east side. The gaol, a strong brick building of two stories, not inferior to a strong redoubt, with some other buildings, commanded the approach. "The crown of the hill on which it stood, was sufficiently spacious for manoeuvering the whole British army, and the houses and fences afforded shelter against all attempts of the American cavalry or mounted militia," while, in case of defeat, the bridge in their rear afforded as secure means of retreat. An attempt upon such a position, with a force consisting chiefly of mounted infantry, would have been folly, and Greene, after a brief demonstration, determined to withdraw one half of his army towards the Congaree, while the other was sent forward upon that memorable incursion into the lower country, by which the enemy, from all quarters, were driven into Charleston; and, with the exception of the force at Orangeburg, for a brief period, every vestige of British power was swept away, down to the very gates of the former place. The command of this detachment was given to Sumter. Acting under him, were Marion, Lee, the Hamptons, Taylor, Horry, Mayham, and others of those active partisans who had kept alive the war from the beginning. The command consisted of all the State troops, Lee's legion, and a detachment of artillery, with one field piece; in all about a thousand men. The object of this movement was not only to strike at the British line of posts, but to divert the attention of Rawdon from the Congaree, where it was his policy to re-establish himself in force. The force under Sumter, as it approached the scene of operations, was broken into separate detachments. Dorchester was yielded without resistance to the corps under Lee, while Col. Wade Hampton, pressing to the very lines of Charleston, captured the guard and patrol at the Quarter House, and spread terror through the city. Sumter and Marion then proceeded against the post at Biggin, held by Col. Coates of the British army, a spirited officer, with a garrison of five hundred infantry, one hundred and fifty horse, and one piece of artillery. The post at Biggin consisted of a redoubt at Monk's Corner, and the church, about a mile distant, near Biggin Bridge. This church was a strong brick building, which covered the bridge, and secured the retreat at that point, by way of Monk's Corner. Biggin Creek is one of many streams which empty into Cooper river. Of these, it is the most northwardly. On the east of this creek, the road to Charleston crosses Watboo and Quinby Creeks. The destruction of Watboo bridge rendered impracticable the retreat by the eastern route, and this bridge, accordingly, became an important object to both the British and Americans. A detachment of Marion's men, under Col. Mayham, was sent forward to destroy the Watboo bridge, and thus cut off the retreat of the enemy. But the position and force of Col. Coates prevented the approach of Mayham, and he waited the advance of the main body. On the 16th July, he was reinforced by a detachment under Col. Peter Horry, who, assuming the command, proceeded to the attempt upon the bridge. The enemy's cavalry opposed themselves to the attempt; a short action ensued; they were defeated, and driven back with loss. The mounted riflemen broke through them, and a number of prisoners were taken. Horry then dispatched a party to destroy the bridge, and remained to cover the men engaged in the work. But the enemy soon reappeared in force, and Horry, with his working party, was compelled to retire, in turn, upon the main body. Sumter, believing that Coates had marched out to give him battle, took post in a defile, and awaited him; but the purpose of the enemy was only to gain time--to wear out the day, amusing him, while they made secret preparations for flight. Their stores were accumulated in the church, which had been their fortress, and, at midnight, the flames bursting through the roof of the devoted building announced to the Americans the retreat of the foe. The pursuit was immediately commenced, and, in order that it might not be impeded, the only piece of artillery which Sumter had, was unfortunately left behind, under Lieut. Singleton. Lee and Hampton led the pursuit until, having passed the Watboo, they discovered that the cavalry of the enemy had separated from the infantry, taking the right hand route. Hampton then struck off in pursuit of the former, in hope to overtake them before they could reach the river; but he urged his panting horses in vain. They had completed their escape, and secured the boats on the opposite side, before he could come up with them. Marion's cavalry, meanwhile, under Col. Mayham, had joined the Legion cavalry in pursuit of the infantry. About a mile to the north of Quinby Creek, the rearguard of the retreating army was overtaken. With this body, which consisted of one hundred men, under Capt. Campbell, was nearly all the baggage of the British army. Terrified by the furious charge of the Americans, they threw down their arms without firing a gun. Favored by this circumstance, the cavalry of Mayham, and the Legion, pressed forward. Coates had passed Quinby Bridge, and made dispositions for its demolition, as soon as the rear-guard and baggage should have passed. The planks which covered the bridge had been loosened from the sleepers, and a howitzer, at the opposite extremity, was placed to check the pursuit. But, as the rear-guard had been captured without firing a shot, their commander was unapprised of their fate, and unprepared for immediate defence. Fortunately for his command, he was present at the bridge when the American cavalry came in view. His main body, at this moment, was partly on the causeway, on the south side of the bridge, and partly pressed into a lane beyond it--in both situations so crowded as to be almost wholly incapable of immediate action. Coates, however, coolly took measures for his safety. Orders were dispatched to them to halt, form, and march up, whilst the artillerists were summoned to the howitzer, and the fatigue party to the destruction of the bridge. The legion cavalry were in advance of Mayham's command. Captain Armstrong led the first section. Their approach to the bridge was marked by all the circumstances of danger. They were pressing upon each other into a narrow causeway, the planks of the bridge were fast sliding into the water, and the blazing port-fire hung over the howitzer. The disappearance of the fatigue party from the bridge would be the signal for it to vomit death upon the ranks of the approaching Americans. There was no time for deliberation. Armstrong, followed close by his section, dashed over the bridge and drove the artillerists from the gun. Lieutenant Carrington followed, but the third section faltered. Mayham, of Marion's cavalry, feeling the halt, charged by them; but the death of his horse arrested his career. Captain Macauley, who led his front section, pressed on and passed the bridge. The causeway was now crowded; the conflict was hand to hand. Some of the working party, snatching up their guns, delivered a single fire and fled. Two of the legion dragoons were slain at the mouth of the howitzer, several wounded. But the officers remained unhurt. Coates, with several of the British, covered by a wagon, opposed them with their swords, while their troops were hurrying forward to where they could display. Meanwhile, Lee, with the rest of the legion, had reached the bridge, which they proceeded to repair. A momentary pause for reflection, a glance before and around them, revealed to Armstrong and Macauley, the fact that they were almost alone, unsupported by their party, and with the British recovering themselves in front. They reflected that, only while the British officers were in their rear, should they be secure from the fire of the enemy in front; and, urging their way through the flying soldiers on the causeway, they wheeled into the woods on their left, and escaped by heading the stream. Had they been followed by the whole party, boldly charging across the bridge, the entire force of the enemy must have laid down their arms. The British were so crowded in the lane and causeway, in such inextricable confusion, without room to display or to defend themselves, that they must have yielded by spontaneous movement to avoid being cut to pieces. The reproach lies heavily against the halting cavalry, that could leave to their fate the brave fellows who had crossed the bridge. Colonel Coates dared not longer trust himself in the open country in the face of a cavalry so active and powerful. Retiring to Shubrick's plantation, after destroying the bridge, he resolved to defend himself under cover of the buildings. These were situated on a rising ground, and consisted of a dwelling-house of two stories, with outhouses and fences. They afforded security against cavalry, and a good covering from the American marksmen. It was not till 3 o'clock, P.M., that Sumter, with the main body of the Americans, reached the ground. He found the British drawn up in a square in front of the house, and ready to receive him. As he had very few bayonets, to march directly up to the attack would have been out of the question. He divided his force into three bodies. His own brigade, led by Cols. Middleton and Polk, Taylor and Lacy, advanced in front, under shelter of a line of negro houses, which they were ordered to occupy. Marion's brigade, thrown into two divisions, was ordered to advance on the right of the British, where there was no shelter but that of fences, and those within forty or fifty yards of the houses held by the enemy. The cavalry constituted a reserve, to cover the infantry from pursuit. Sumter's brigade soon gained the negro houses, from whence they delivered their rifles with great effect. Col. Taylor with about forty-five men of his regiment, pressing forward to the fences on the enemy's left, drew upon him the bayonets of the British, before which they yielded. Marion's men, in the meantime, seeing the danger of Taylor's party, with a degree of firmness and gallantry which would have done honor to any soldiers, rushed through a galling fire and extricated them; and, notwithstanding the imperfect covering afforded them by the rail fence along which they ranged themselves, they continued to fight and fire as long as a single charge of ammunition remained with the corps. The brunt of the battle fell upon them, and they maintained in this, the reputation acquired in many a border struggle. More than fifty men, all of Marion's, were killed or wounded in this affair, but the loss did not dispirit the survivors. They were drawn off in perfect order, only when their ammunition was expended. The fight lasted three hours, from four o'clock until dark. Seventy of the British fell. But the want of the field-piece left behind with Singleton, and the failure of their ammunition, not a charge of which remained with the Americans at the close of the fight, saved the enemy, whose infantry alone, according to Sumter, was superior to his whole force. The Americans attacked them with half their number. But Coates held his position, and tidings of the approach of Rawdon, who had left Orangeburg, prompted Sumter to retreat across the Santee. His expedition had not been successful. It does not concern us to inquire by whose errors or defects it failed. Enough, that, in all things, where Marion and his men were concerned, they acquitted themselves in a manner calculated to sustain their former reputation. The attack upon Coates at the house, we are told, was made against Marion's opinion, who blamed Sumter for wasting the lives of his men. Without a field-piece, it was scarcely possible that an inferior should have succeeded against a superior force, in a strong position. Sumter was courageous to rashness. His spirit could not be restrained in sight of the enemy. With a brave force at his command, he was not satisfied to be idle, and his courage was frequently exercised at the expense of his judgment. The men of Marion complained that they had been exposed unnecessarily in the conflict. It is certain that they were the only sufferers. Had Sumter but waited for his artillery, and simply held the enemy in check, the victory must have been complete, and this victory was of the last importance to the Americans. It would have involved the loss of one entire British regiment, at a moment when, two others having been required at New York from South Carolina, the force remaining with Rawdon would have been barely adequate to the retention of Charleston. This necessity would have withdrawn the latter general at once from Orangeburg, and the subsequent bloody battle of Eutaw would have been averted accordingly. Greene, speaking of this combat, writes:--"The affair was clever, but by no means equal to what it ought to have been. The whole regiment of six hundred men would have been captured, if General Sumter had not detailed too much, and had not mistaken a covering party for an attack." It may be added, that the party actually engaged in the attack on Coates, were almost exclusively South Carolina militia. Under favorite leaders they had betrayed no such apprehensions as are natural enough to men who lack confidence in themselves and captains. They had shown the courage of veterans, though they may have failed of that entire success which is usually supposed to follow from a veteran experience. Chapter 16. Marion moves secretly to Pon-Pon--Rescues Col. Harden-- Defeats Major Frazier at Parker's Ferry--Joins the main Army under Greene--Battle of Eutaw. After the battle of Quinby the joint forces of Sumter and Marion were separated. The former retired up the Congaree; the latter took charge of the country on the Santee; while Greene placed himself in a camp of rest at the High Hills in the district which has since taken the name of Sumter. His troops were in a wretched state of incapacity, in consequence of sickness. The region to which he retired was famous for its salubrity, and the intense heat of the season effectually forbade much military activity. The opposing generals were content to watch each other. It was while he held this position that Col. Hayne, of the militia, was executed as a traitor by the British. The case of this gentleman was that of many in the State. He had taken parole at a time when the country was overrun by the enemy. This parole was subsequently withdrawn by the conquerors, when they supposed the people to have been subdued, and desired their services as militia. But the British were in turn driven from the field. The Americans acquired the ascendant. The section of the country in which Hayne resided was overrun by a detachment of Marion, under Col. Harden, and Hayne availed himself of the occasion to take up arms for his country. He was a popular gentleman, and soon gathered a strong party of militia. His career was distinguished by some small successes, and, with a party of Col. Harden's horse, by a sudden dash in the vicinity of Charleston, he succeeded in taking prisoner General Williamson, formerly of the Americans, whose life was forfeited to the country. The capture of Williamson put all the available cavalry of the British into activity, and by an unfortunate indiscretion, Hayne suffered himself to be overtaken. His execution soon followed his capture. This was a proceeding equally barbarous and unjustifiable--neither sanctioned by policy nor propriety. It took place after a brief examination, and without any trial. The proceeding was equally unauthorized by civil and martial law. It was not long before this, as the reader will remember, that Marion, in consequence of the execution of some of his men by the British, had threatened them with retaliation. Greene, who knew the decisive character of Marion, and was apprehensive that this wanton crime would render him as prompt as he was fearless, in avenging it, thus writes to prevent him: "Do not take any measures in the matter towards retaliation, for I do not intend to retaliate upon the TORY officers, but the BRITISH. It is my intention to demand the reasons of the Colonel's being put to death; and if they are unsatisfactory, as I am sure they will be, and if they refuse to make satisfaction, as I expect they will, to publish my intention of giving no quarter to British officers, of any rank, that fall into our hands. Should we attempt to retaliate upon their militia officers, I am sure they would persevere in the measure, in order to increase the animosity between the Whigs and Tories, that they might stand idle spectators, and see them butcher each other. As I do not wish my intentions known to the enemy but through an official channel, and as this WILL BE DELAYED FOR SOME FEW DAYS TO GIVE OUR FRIENDS IN ST. AUGUSTINE TIME TO GET OFF, I wish you not to mention the matter to any mortal out of your family." Weems represents Marion as being greatly averse to this measure of retaliation, and as having censured those officers of the regular army who demanded of Greene the adoption of this remedy. But the biographer wrote rather from his own benevolent nature than from the record. Marion had no scruples about the necessity of such a measure in particular cases; and, however much he might wish to avoid its execution, he was yet fully prepared to adopt it whenever the policy of the proceeding was unquestionable. Fortunately, the decisive resolutions which were expressed by the Americans, their increasing successes, the fact that they had several British officers of reputation in their hands,--all conspired to produce, in the minds of the enemy, a greater regard to the rights of justice and humanity. As retaliation in such cases is justifiable only as a preventive and remedial measure, it now ceased to be necessary; and, with proper views of the affair, the resolves of Greene and Marion were suffered to remain unexpunged, in proof of their indignation, rather than their purpose. But a few days had elapsed after the execution of Hayne when a party of Marion's men, under Captain Ervine, fell in with and captured a favorite British officer, Captain Campbell, with two subalterns, in charge of a convoying detachment. They were at once committed to the provost guard, and soon communicated their apprehensions to Charleston. A meeting of British officers was held, and their dissatisfaction at this new feature, introduced into the warfare of the country, was expressed in such terms, as contributed, along with the prompt proceedings of the Americans, to bring Balfour, the commandant of Charleston, under whose authority the execution of Hayne had taken place, to a better sense of mercy and prudence. We shall have no farther occasion to refer to these proceedings. It is enough that the threat of retaliation, followed up by such decided movements as left no doubt of the resolution of the Americans, produced all the beneficial effects which could have accrued from its execution. The incursion of Sumter and Marion into the low country, drew Lord Rawdon from Orangeburg, with five hundred men, to Charleston, from which place, after lingering just long enough to witness the death of Hayne, he sailed for New York. He left Lieut.-Col. Stewart in command at Orangeburg. From this post, Stewart moved to McCord's ferry, on the Congaree, on the south side of which he took post, amidst the hills near the confluence of the Wateree and Congaree. Greene's camp lay directly opposite, and the fires of the mutual armies were distinctly seen by each other. The heat of the weather suspended all regular military operations. Two large rivers intervening secured each from sudden attack, and their toils were confined to operating in small detachments, for foraging or convoy. In this service, on the American side, Col. Washington was detached--as soon as the course of Stewart was ascertained--down the country across the Santee; Lee was sent upward, along the north bank of the Congaree; the latter to operate with Col. Henderson, then in command of Sumter's brigade, at Fridig's ferry, and the former to strike at the communication between the enemy and Charleston, and to cooperate with Marion and Mayham, in covering the lower Santee. Col. Harden, at the same time, with a body of mounted militia, had it in charge to straiten the enemy upon the Edisto. The activity of these several parties and their frequent successes, were such that Stewart was compelled to look for his supplies to the country below him. This necessity caused him to re-establish and strengthen the post at Dorchester, in order to cover the communication by Orangeburg; and to place a force at Fairlawn, near the head of the navigation of Cooper river, from which supplies from Charleston were transported to headquarters over land. As this route was watched by Marion, Washington and Mayham, the British commander was compelled, in order to secure the means of communication with the opposite bank of the Congaree and to draw supplies from thence, to transport boats adapted to the purpose, on wagon-wheels, from Fairlawn to the Congaree. Such were the relative positions of the two armies until the 22d of August, when Greene, calling in all his detachments except those under Marion, Mayham and Harden, broke up his camp at the High Hills and proceeded to Howell's ferry, on the Congaree, with the intention immediately to cross it and advance upon Stewart. That officer, on hearing of the movement of the Americans, fell back upon his reinforcements and convoys, and took up a strong position at the Eutaw Springs. Meanwhile, Marion disappeared from the Santee on one of those secret expeditions in which his wonderful celerity and adroit management conducted his men so frequently to success. His present aim was the Pon-Pon. Col. Harden was at this time in that quarter, and closely pressed by a superior British force of five hundred men. Detaching a party of mounted militia to the neighborhood of Dorchester and Monk's Corner, as much to divert the enemy from his own movements as with any other object, he proceeded with two hundred picked men on his secret expedition. By a forced march, he crossed the country from St. Stephen's to the Edisto--passing through both lines of the enemy's communication with Charleston, and reached Harden--a distance of one hundred miles--in season for his relief. His approach and arrival were totally unsuspected by the enemy, for whom he prepared an ambush in a swamp near Parker's ferry. A small body of his swiftest horse were sent out to decoy the British into the snare. A white feather, rather too conspicuously worn by one of his men in ambush, had nearly defeated his design. Some Tories passing, discovered this unnecessary plumage, and one of them fired upon the wearer. This led to an exchange of shots; but Major Frazier, by whom the British were commanded, assuming the party thus concealed to be that of Harden, whom it was his aim to find, pursued the horsemen whom Marion had sent out to entice him to the ambuscade. His cavalry was led at full charge within forty yards of the concealed riflemen. A deadly fire was poured in, under which the British recoiled; attempting to wheel and charge the swamp, they received a second; and, closely wedged as their men were upon the narrow causeway over which they came, every shot bore its warrant. There was no retreating, no penetrating the ambush, and the British cavalry had but to go forward, along the road to the ferry, thus passing the entire line of the ambuscade. The corps was most effectually thinned by the time it got beyond rifle reach; and still more fatal would have been the affray to the advancing infantry of Frazier--a large body, with a field-piece--but for one of those lamentable deficiencies of materiel, which so frequently plucked complete success from the grasp of the Americans. The ammunition of our partisan failed him, and he was compelled to yield the ground to the enemy, who was otherwise wholly in his power. The British loss was unknown. Twenty-seven dead horses were counted on the field the day after; the men had all been buried. As Marion's men fired with either a ball or heavy buck-shot, and as none would aim at horses, the loss of the British must have been very great. Nine days after, at the battle of Eutaw, they had few cavalry in the field. But, though the victory was incomplete, Marion had attained his object. He had rescued Harden, without loss to himself. He had traversed more than two hundred miles of country, through a region held by the enemy; returned by the same route,--delivered his prisoners to the care of Mayham,--returned twenty miles below the Eutaw, in order to watch the communication between that place and Fairlawn--then, at the call of Greene, made a circuit and passed the British army, so as to reach a position on the south side of the Santee, in the track of Greene's advance; and all this in the brief compass of six days. Yet, of these movements, which merited and received the particular thanks of Congress, we are without any data in our records. The complimentary resolution of Congress fixes the battle at Parker's ferry on the 31st August. Seventeen miles from Eutaw Springs, at Lauren's plantation, Marion effected a junction with the commander-in-chief. Greene was pressing forward to a meeting with Stewart. Of this object the latter seemed to have been profoundly ignorant up to this moment. But the day before, he knew that Marion was twenty miles below him, and did not conjecture that, by marching the whole night, he had thrown himself above him to join with Greene. Without this junction he had no apprehension that the latter, with an inferior force, would venture an attack upon him, in the strong position which he held. On the afternoon of the 7th September, the army reached Burdell's tavern on the Congaree road, seven miles from the Eutaws. The force under Greene amounted to two thousand men, all told. That under General Stewart was probably about the same. It is estimated to have been two thousand three hundred. These were all disciplined troops, and a large proportion of the old regiments consisted of native marksmen from the ranks of the loyalists. In cavalry, Greene had the advantage, but a great portion of his men were militia. In artillery the two armies were equal. The British had five and the Americans four pieces. The memorable battle of the Eutaw Springs was fought on the 8th September. At four o'clock in the morning the Americans moved from their bivouac down to the attack. The day was fair, but intensely hot; but the combatants at the commencement of the battle were relieved by the shade of the woods. The South Carolina State troops and Lee's legion formed the advance under Colonel Henderson. The militia, both of South and North Carolina, moved next, under Marion. Then followed the regulars under Gen. Sumner; and the rear was closed by Washington's cavalry, and Kirkwood's Delawares, under Col. Washington. The artillery moved between the columns. The troops were thus arranged in reference to their order of battle. Of the approach of the Americans Stewart was wholly ignorant on the evening of the 7th. The only patrol which had been sent up the Congaree road had been captured during the night, and Stewart himself says, in excuse, that "the Americans had waylaid the swamps and passes in such a manner as to cut off every avenue of intelligence." So entirely secure had he felt himself in his position, which was a strong one, that he had sent out an unarmed party of one hundred men, in the very direction of Greene's advance, to gather sweet potatoes. This party, called a rooting party, after advancing about three miles, had pursued a road to the right, which led to the river plantations. Advised, by two deserters from the North Carolina militia, of Greene's approach, Stewart dispatched Captain Coffin, with his cavalry, to recall the rooting party, and to reconnoitre the Americans. Before Coffin could effect either object, he encountered the American advance, and, in total ignorance of its strength, charged it with a degree of confidence, which led Greene to imagine that Stewart with his whole army was at hand. Coffin was easily repulsed; the rooting party, alarmed by the firing, hurried from the woods, and were all made prisoners. Meanwhile, Stewart, now thoroughly aware of the proximity of his enemy, pushed forward a detachment of infantry, a mile distant from the Eutaw, with orders to engage and detain the American troops while he formed his men and prepared for battle. But Greene, whom the audacity of Coffin had deceived, halted his columns where they stood, and proceeded to display them. The column of militia formed the first line; the South Carolina militia in equal divisions on the right and left, and the North Carolinians in the centre. General Marion commanded the right, General Pickens the left, and Col. Malmedy the centre. Col. Henderson, with the State troops, including Sumter's brigade, covered the left of this line, and Col. Lee, with his legion, the right. The column of regulars also displayed in one line. The North Carolinians, under Gen. Sumner, occupied the right; the Marylanders, under Col. Williams, the left; the Virginians, under Col. Campbell, the centre. Two pieces of artillery were assigned to each line. Col. Washington moved in column in the rear, keeping himself in reserve. In this order, the troops pressed forward slowly, as the country on both sides of the road was in wood, and prevented much expedition. Moving thus, the first line encountered the advance parties of Stewart, and drove them before it, until the entire line of the British army, displayed in order of battle, received, and gave shelter to, the fugitives. The troops of Stewart were drawn up in one line at about two hundred yards west of the Eutaw Springs; the Buffs on the right, Cruger's corps in the centre, and the 63d and 64th on the left. Major Marjoribanks, with three hundred of his best troops, was strongly posted, so as to flank the Buffs, under shelter of a thick wood on the Eutaw Creek, which covered the right of the whole line; the left was, in military 'parlance', 'in air'--resting in the wood, and supported by Coffin's cavalry--reduced to a very small number--and a respectable detachment of infantry. His ground was altogether in wood, but, at a small distance, in the rear of his line, was an open field, on the edge of which stood a strong brick dwelling, with offices, out-houses, and a palisadoed garden, in all of which a stout resistance might be made. On this brick house, Stewart had already cast his eyes, as the means of saving his army in any 'dernier' necessity. The house was of two stories, and abundantly strong to resist small arms. Its windows commanded all the open space around. Major Sheridan was ordered to throw himself into it, with his command, in case of an unfavorable issue to the fight; and in this position to overawe the Americans, and cover the army. Feeble in cavalry, in which the Americans were strong, there was no other means for retreat and support in the event of a capital misfortune. The American approach was from the west. The first line, consisting wholly of militia, went into action, and continued in it with a coolness and stubbornness which, says Greene, "would have graced the veterans of the great king of Prussia." Such conduct was almost invariable on their part, wherever Marion or Pickens commanded. Steadily and without faltering, they advanced into the hottest of the enemy's fire, with shouts and exhortations, which were not lessened by the continual fall of their comrades around them. Their line was all the while receiving the fire of double their number--they were opposed to the entire line of the British. The carnage was severe, and very equal on both sides. The two pieces of artillery were at length disabled, and after exchanging seventeen rounds with the enemy, the militia began to falter. Gen. Sumner was ordered up to their support, with the North Carolina Continentals. With the advance of Sumner, Stewart brought into line on his left, the infantry of his reserve, and the battle, between fresh troops on both sides, raged with renewed fury. From the commencement of the action, the infantry of the American covering parties, right and left, had been steadily engaged. The State troops, under Henderson, had suffered greatly. The American left, which they flanked, falling far short of the British right in length, they were exposed to the oblique fire of a large proportion of the British left, and particularly of the battalion commanded by Marjoribanks. Henderson himself was disabled, and his men, denied to charge the enemy under whose fire they were suffering--for they were necessary to the safety of the artillery and militia--were subjected to a trial of their constancy, which very few soldiers, whatever may have been their training, would have borne so well. Meanwhile, the brigade of Sumner recoiled from the fire of the greater numbers opposed to them in front. At this sight, the exultation of the British Left hurried them forward, assured of certain victory. Their line became deranged, and the American general, promptly availing himself of the opportunity, issued his command to Col. Williams, who had in charge the remaining portion of his second line, to "advance, and sweep the field with his bayonets." The two battalions obeyed the order with a shout. The Virginians, when within forty yards of the enemy, poured in a destructive fire, and the whole second line with trailed arms pressed on to the charge. The advanced left of the British recoiled, and, just at this juncture, the legion infantry delivered an enfilading fire, which threw them into irretrievable disorder. The British centre, pressed upon by the fugitives, began to give way from left to right, and the fire of the Marylanders, poured in at the proper moment, completed their disaster. Their whole front yielded, and the shouts of the Americans declared their exultation, as at a victory already won. Unquestionably, the day was theirs. The enemy had fled from the battle. But a new one was to begin, in which victory, at present so secure, was taken from their grasp. In the effort to prevent the enemy from rallying, and to cut him off from the brick dwelling, into which Sheridan, obeying the commands of Stewart, had thrown himself as soon as the necessity became apparent, the greatest loss of the Americans was sustained. Marjoribanks still held his ground, with his entire battalion, in the thick woods which skirted Eutaw Creek, and so well covered was he that, in an attempt to penetrate with his cavalry, Col. Washington became entangled in the thicket, and fell into the hands of the enemy, while his men suffered severely from their fire, and his troop was routed. A second time were they brought to the charge, but with no better success than before. Marjoribanks still maintained his position, watching the moment when to emerge from the thicket with the best prospect of safety to himself, and hurt to the Americans. He was soon to have an opportunity. The British line had yielded and broken before the American bayonet. The latter pressed closely upon their heels, made many prisoners, and might have cut them off, and, by isolating Marjoribanks, forced him to surrender, but for one of those occurrences which so frequently in battle change the fortunes of the day. The course of the fugitives led them directly through the British encampment. There everything was given up for lost. The tents were all standing, the commissaries had abandoned their stores, and the numerous retainers of the army were already in full flight for Charleston. When the pursuing Americans penetrated the encampment, they lost sight of the fugitives in the contemplation of various objects of temptation which, to a half-naked and half-starved soldiery, were irresistible. The pursuit was forborne; the Americans fastened upon the liquors and refreshments scattered among the tents; and the whole army, with the exception of one or two corps, then fell into confusion. Yet, so closely had the British been pursued to the shelter of the house, and so narrow was their escape, that some of the Americans had nearly obtained entrance with them. It was only by shutting the door against some of their own officers, that they made it secure against the enemy; and in retiring from the house, now a citadel, the Americans only found safety by interposing the bodies of the officers, thus made captive at the entrance, between themselves and the fire from the windows. One ludicrous incident is told of Major Barry, who was taken in this manner, and made use of as a shield by Lieut. Manning, as he retreated from before the house, which otherwise he could not have left in safety. Without struggling or making the slightest effort for his extrication, Barry only enumerated his own titles with a profound solemnity. "Sir, I am Henry Barry, Deputy Adjutant General of the British army, Secretary to the Commandant of Charleston, Captain in the 52d regiment," &c. "Enough, enough, sir," answered Manning. "You are just the man I was looking for. Fear nothing: you shall SCREEN ME from danger, and I shall take special care of you." Manning escaped in safety with his prisoner. But there were many brave officers far less fortunate. Many were destined to perish in the miserable after struggle, who had gone gloriously through the greater dangers of the fight. The British tents had done what the British arms had failed to do. Victory was lost to the Americans. Scattered throughout the encampment, the soldiers became utterly unmanageable. The enemy, meanwhile, had partially recovered from their panic. The party of Sheridan were in possession of the house. Another party held possession of the palisaded garden. Coffin was active with his remnant of cavalry, and Marjoribanks still held a formidable position in the thicket on Eutaw Creek. From the upper windows of the house, the musketry of Sheridan traversed the encampment, which the Americans now trembled to leave, lest they should suffer from their fire. Every head that emerged from a tent was a mark for their bullets. Aware, by this time, of the extent of his misfortune, Greene ordered a retreat, which Hampton's cavalry was commanded to cover. In the execution of this duty Hampton encountered the British cavalry. A sharp action ensued; the latter fled, and in the ardor of pursuit, the American horse approached so near to the position of Marjoribanks as to receive a murderous fire, which prostrated one-third of their number and scattered the rest. Before they could again be brought together, Marjoribanks, seizing upon the chance afforded by a temporary clearing of the field, emerged from the wood, at a moment which enabled him to put a successful finish to the labors of the day. Two six-pounders, which had been abandoned by the British, had been turned upon the house by the Americans; but in their eagerness they had brought the pieces within the range of fire from the windows of the house. The artillerists had been shot down; and, in the absence of the American cavalry, Marjoribanks was enabled to recover them. Wheeling them under the walls of the house, he took a contiguous position, his own being almost the only portion of the British army still in a condition to renew the action. The Americans yielded the ground about the house, but were promptly rallied in the skirts of the wood. The British were too much crippled to pursue; and the respite was gladly seized upon by the Americans to plunge headlong into the neighboring ponds, to cool the heat and satisfy the intense thirst occasioned by such efforts under the burning sun of a Carolina September. Both sides claimed the victory, and with equal reason. In the first part of the day it was clearly with the Americans. They had driven the enemy from the field, in panic and with great loss. They were in possession of five hundred prisoners, nearly all of whom they retained. They had taken two out of the five pieces of artillery which the British had brought into the action; and, something more to boast, considering the proverbial renown of the British with this weapon, it was at the point of the bayonet that they had swept the enemy from the ground. The British took shelter in a fortress from which the Americans were repulsed. It is of no consequence to assert that the latter might have taken it. They might--it was in their power to have done so,--but they did not; and the promptitude with which the British availed themselves of this security, entitles them to the merit which they claim. We are constrained to think that the business of the field was strangely blundered by the Americans at the sequel. This may have arisen from the carnage made at this period among their officers, particularly in their persevering, but futile endeavors, to extricate the soldiers from their tents. Under cover of a contiguous barn, the artillery presented the means of forcing the building and reducing the garrison to submission. The attempts made at this object, by this arm of the Americans, were rash, badly counselled, and exposed to danger without adequate protection. The British were saved by this error, by the luxuries contained within their tents, by the spirited behavior of Coffin, and the cool and steady valor of Marjoribanks. Chapter 17. Retreat of the British from Eutaw--Pursuit of them by Marion and Lee--Close of the Year. That the results of victory lay with the Americans, was shown by the events of the ensuing day. Leaving his dead unburied, seventy of his wounded to the enemy, breaking up a thousand stand of arms, and destroying his stores, General Stewart commenced a precipitate retreat towards Fairlawn. The British power in Carolina was completely prostrated by this battle. Five hundred prisoners fell into the hands of the Americans, and it was Greene's purpose to have renewed the fight on the next day; but the flight of Stewart anticipated and baffled his intentions. He commenced pursuit, and detached Marion and Lee, by a circuitous route, to gain the enemy's front, and interpose themselves between him and the post at Fairlawn, from which Major M'Arthur had been summoned, with five hundred men, to cover the retreat. But this plan was unsuccessful. So precipitate was the march of Stewart, and so happily concerted the movements of the two British officers, that they effected a junction before Marion and Lee could reach Ferguson's Swamp, their place of destination. The cavalry of the enemy's rear-guard fell into the hands of the Americans, but Stewart was beyond pursuit. In this flight, amongst others, the British lost the brave Major Marjoribanks, who died of a fever, and was buried on the road. While they admitted a loss, in killed, wounded, and missing, of half the number brought into the field, that of the Americans was nearly equally severe, and fell with particular severity upon the officers. Sixty-one of these were killed or wounded; twenty-one died upon the field. The returns exhibit a loss of one hundred and fourteen rank and file killed, three hundred wounded, and forty missing--an aggregate exceeding a fourth of all who marched into battle. Many of Marion's men were killed, though not so many as he lost in the affair of Quinby. Among his officers, Capt. John Simons, of Pedee, was slain, and Col. Hugh Horry wounded. Greene retired to the high hills of Santee, while Marion proceeded to encamp at Payne's plantation, on Santee river swamp. This was one of his favorite places of retreat. Here, in the depths of a cane-brake, within a quarter of a mile from the Santee, he made himself a clearing, "much," says Judge James, "to his liking," and, with the canes, thatched the rude huts of his men. The high land was skirted by lakes, which rendered the approach difficult; and here, as in perfect security, he found forage for his horses, and provisions in abundance for his men. Such a place of encampment, at such a season, would hardly commend itself now to the citizen of Carolina. The modes and objects of culture, and probably the climate, have undergone a change. The time was autumn, the most sickly period of our year; and, to sleep in such a region now, even for a single night, would be considered certain death to the white man. It does not seem, at that period, that much apprehension of malaria was felt.* * Judge James refers to this place as Peyre's, not Payne's, plantation, and notes "It appears now there was very little sickness at that day." In a footnote, he goes on to say: "Very soon after the revolutionary war, this scene was entirely changed. Planters, in clearing their land, had rolled logs and other rubbish from their fields, into the lakes and creeks leading from the river, and many threw trees into it to get them quickly out of the way.... The waters below being obstructed, they flooded the low grounds. ..." This would explain the early absence, and later presence, of malaria, as the mosquitoes necessary for transmitting it would thrive in the still waters created by the planters.--A. L., 1996.-- But Marion did not linger long in any one situation. Hearing that the British were about to send their wounded from Fairlawn to Charleston, his restless enterprise prompted him to aim at the capture of the detachment. Moving rapidly by night, he threw himself below the former place, on the opposite bank of the river, and would certainly have intercepted them, but for a slave of one of the plantations, who, hastening to the British camp, reported his proximity. The arrival of a superior force compelled him to steal away with a caution like that which marked his approach. The command of the British army, in consequence of a wound received by General Stewart at Eutaw, had devolved on Major Doyle. This army, recruited by the force of M'Arthur, was still, after all its losses, fully two thousand men. That of Greene, reduced by wounds and sickness, could not muster one thousand fit for duty. His cavalry had been greatly thinned by the late battle, and it was not until the cavalry of Sumter's brigade could be brought together, with Marion's mounted infantry, and the horse of Horry and Mayham, that the superiority of the American general could be restored. Doyle had taken post at Fludd's plantation, three miles above Nelson's Ferry, on the Santee, with the main body of the British; M'Arthur held the post at Fairlawn, with a detachment of three hundred. Doyle, with some instinctive notion that his time was short, busied himself in a career of plunder which threatened to strip the plantations south of the Santee and Congaree, and westward to the Edisto, not only of every negro which they contained, but of all other kinds of property. Over this region, the feebleness of the American forces, and their present deficiency in cavalry, gave him almost entire control. The opposite banks were guarded by Marion and Hampton, who afforded protection to everything that could be moved across, and presented themselves at every point to the enemy, whenever he attempted the passage of the river. Marion was at this time an invalid, but, however much he might need, he asked for no repose or exemption from service when the enemy was in the field. His force was also reduced by sickness. Col. Mayham alone had no less than one hundred men unfit for duty. Other circumstances kept the militia from coming to the summons of Marion. Those on the borders of North Carolina were detained to meet and suppress a rising of the loyalists of that State under Hector M'Neil, and even those in his camp were unprovided with ammunition. Early in October, we find him writing pressingly to General Greene and Governor Rutledge for a supply. Rutledge answers, on the 10th of that month, "I wish to God it was in my power to send you ammunition instantly, but it is not." Col. Otho Williams, in the temporary absence of Greene, writes, in answer: "Our stock of ammunition is quite exhausted--we have not an ounce of powder, or a cartridge, in store." And yet, it was under similar deficiencies that the men of Marion had labored from the beginning; and half the time had they gone into battle with less than three rounds of powder to a man. Williams further writes: "His Excellency, Governor Rutledge, has intimated that you meditate an expedition over the Santee. In making your determination, if it is not settled, permit me to recommend to your consideration, that THE GENERAL DEPENDS UPON YOU ENTIRELY FOR INTELLIGENCE OF THE ENEMY'S MOTIONS." The activity of our partisan, his elasticity of character, his independence of resources, and usefulness to others, are all to be gathered from these two extracts. Late in September of this year, Governor Rutledge issued a proclamation, requiring that the disaffected should come in within thirty days, and perform a six months tour of duty. The condition of pardon for all previous offences was attached to this requisition. The idea of this proclamation was borrowed from similar ones of the British generals, when they first overran the country. The object was to secure those persons, of whom there were numbers, who, in the declining fortunes of the British, were not unwilling to turn upon and rend their old friends, no longer capable of protecting or providing for them. The measure was of doubtful policy, since it appealed to the basest feelings of humanity. Its effects were considerable, however; numbers presented themselves in the ranks of Marion, showing finely in contrast with his ancient and half-naked veterans. "Their new white feathers," says James, "fine coats, new saddles and bridles, and FAMISHED horses, showed that they had lately been in the British garrison." Their appearance, not to speak of their previous career, naturally inspired distrust in the minds of those whose scars and nakedness were the proofs of their virtue; and another measure, which was adopted about this time, had the further effect of impairing the value of that efficient brigade upon which Marion had been accustomed to rely. In order to promote the growth of the new regiments, it was permitted to all such persons as could hire a substitute, to claim exemption from military duty. This was a temptation too great to be resisted by those old soldiers who had served from the first, who had left their families in wretched lodgings, in poverty and distress, and from whose immediate neighborhood the presence of the war was withdrawn. The six months men were easily bought up to fill their places. The result was very injurious to the 'morale' of the brigade, and the evil effects of the measure were soon felt in the imperfect subordination, the deficient firmness, and the unprincipled character of the new recruits. It was productive also of differences between two of Marion's best officers, Horry and Mayham, which wrought evil consequences to the country. Being commissioned on the same day as colonels of the new regiments, they quarrelled about precedency. The fruits of this difference will be seen hereafter. As the winter set in, the army began to recruit, and the militia to embody under their several commanders. Greene was joined by Cols. Shelby and Sevier, with five hundred mountaineers, and these, with Horry and Mayham, were ordered to place themselves under Marion, to operate in the country between the Santee and Charleston. Sumter, at the same time, with a brigade of State troops and some companies of militia, was ordered to take post at Orangeburg, to cover the country from the inroads of the loyalists from Charleston. Pickens, in the meantime, with his regiments, traversed the border country, keeping in awe the Indians, and suppressing the predatory movements of the Tories. About the 1st November, the separate commands of Marion and Sumter crossed the rivers, and advanced in the direction of the enemy. The latter soon fell in with Cunningham's loyalists in force, and found it prudent to fall back. But he kept Cunningham in check with a body of men fully equal to his own. Marion, also, was compelled to come to a halt, by encountering General Stewart, posted at Wantoot, with nearly two thousand men. Stewart was at this time following up the peculiar labors which had been undertaken by Major Doyle when in temporary charge of the army. He was collecting slaves and laying in provisions, preparing for siege in, and subsequent flight from, Charleston. The fall of Cornwallis, at Yorktown, was known in the American camp on the 9th of November. It had been anticipated in the British some time before. With the fate of that commander, virtually terminated the British hope of re-conquering the country, and the proceedings of their officers in the south, as elsewhere, looked forward to the approaching necessity of flight. It was only becoming that they should spoil the Egyptians previous to their departure. The capture of Cornwallis produced a jubilee in the American camp. In that of Marion the ladies of Santee were permitted to partake. He gave them a fete--we are not told what were the refreshments--at the house of Mr. John Cantey. "The General," says James, "was not very susceptible of the gentler emotions; he had his friends, and was kind to his inferiors, but his mind was principally absorbed by the love of country;" and the Judge rather insinuates that the pleasure he felt on this occasion arose more from the fall of Cornwallis than from the presence of the ladies. On the same day, the 9th October,* he received the thanks of Congress for "his wise, decided, and gallant conduct, in defending the liberties of his country, and particularly for his prudent and intrepid attack on a body of British troops on the 31st August last; and for the distinguished part he took in the battle of the 8th September." * This date is given in both Simms's and James's accounts-- both say that Marion received the thanks of Congress on the 9th October, while celebrating the defeat of Cornwallis. But Cornwallis was defeated on the 19th of that month. This date should probably be the 9th November, and is most likely a repetition of James's error.--A. L., 1996.-- On the 18th November, the camp of the Hills was broken up, and General Greene advanced with his army to the Four Holes, on the Edisto, in full confidence that the force under Marion would be adequate to keep General Stewart in check. But, by the 25th of the same month, our partisan was abandoned by all the mountaineers under Shelby and Sevier, a force of five hundred men. This was after a three weeks' service. This miserable defection was ascribed to the withdrawal of Shelby from the army on leave of absence. But, in all probability, it was due to their impatience of the wary sort of warfare which it was found necessary to pursue. The service was not sufficiently active for their habits. Marion had been warned that he must keep them actively employed, but all his efforts to do so had been unsuccessful. He had approached Stewart at Wantoot, but, though the force of the latter was nominally far superior to that of the partisan, he could not be drawn out of his encampment. This was a subject of equal surprise and chagrin to Marion. Subsequently, the reason of this timidity on the part of the British general was discovered. A return, found on an orderly-sergeant who fell into Marion's hands, showed that, out of two thousand two hundred and seventy-two men, Stewart had nine hundred and twenty-eight on the sick list. The only services in which the mountaineers were employed, while with Marion, were in attacks on the post at Fairlawn, and the redoubts at Wappetaw; and these required detachments only. The movement against the latter was instantly successful--the enemy abandoned it on the approach of the Americans. But the post at Fairlawn was of more value, in better condition of defence, a convenient depot, and, being in the rear of the British army, then stationed at Wantoot, promised a stout resistance. The American detachment against this place was led by Mayham. In passing the post at Wantoot, he was ordered to show himself, and, if possible, to decoy the British cavalry into the field. The manoeuvre did not succeed, but it brought out a strong detachment, which followed close upon his heels, and required that what he should undertake should be done quickly. On approaching Fairlawn, he found everything prepared for defence. He lost no time in making his advances. A part of his riflemen were dismounted, and, acting as infantry, approached the abbatis, while his cavalry advanced boldly and demanded a surrender. The place, with all its sick, three hundred stand of arms, and eighty convalescents, was yielded at discretion. With these small affairs ended the service of the mountaineers in Marion's army. They retired to their native hills, leaving Marion and Greene enmeshed in difficulties. It was on the strength of this force, chiefly, that the latter had descended from the hills, and he was now unable to recede. Marion, too, relying upon their support, had crossed the Santee and placed himself in close proximity on the right of the enemy. But the feebleness and timidity of Stewart, and his ignorance of the state of affairs in Marion's camp, saved these generals from the necessity of a retreat which would have been equally full of danger and humiliation. The movement of Greene across the Congaree induced him to draw towards Charleston, and Marion was left in safety. The timidity shown by the enemy encouraged Greene, and, dispatching a select party of horse under Wade Hampton, he followed hard upon their steps with as many chosen infantry. His purpose was the surprise of Dorchester. Stewart was descending to the city by another route. Hampton's advance fell in with a reconnoitring party of fifty men, and suffered few to escape; and though Greene did not succeed in surprising the post at Dorchester, his approach had the effect of producing its abandonment. During the night, the garrison destroyed everything, threw their cannon into the river, and retreated to Charleston. Greene did not venture to pursue, as the enemy's infantry exceeded five hundred men. Meanwhile, Stewart had hurried on by Goose Creek Bridge, and, joining the fugitives from Dorchester, halted at the Quarter House, and prepared to encounter the whole army of Greene, which, in their panic, was supposed to be upon their heels. Such was the alarm in Charleston that General Leslie, who now succeeded Stewart, proceeded to embody the slaves, in arms, for the defence of that place,--a measure which was soon repented of, and almost as soon abandoned. Greene fell back upon his main army, which had now advanced to Saunders' plantation on the Round O., while Marion, pressing nearer to Charleston, kept the right of the enemy in check. The movements of our partisan were left to his own discretion. Greene, in all cases, not only suffers the judgment of the former to determine for himself his course, giving him a thoroughly independent command, but he betrays the most respectful desire on frequent occasions to have his opinion. Thus, on the 5th of November, he writes to him:--"Gen. Sumter has orders to take post at Orangeburgh, to prevent the Tories in that quarter from conveying supplies to town, and his advanced parties will penetrate as low as Dorchester; therefore, you may act in conjunction with him, or employ your troops on the enemy's left, as you may find from information they can be best employed. Please to give me your opinion on which side they can be most useful." On the 15th of the same month, he writes again: "You are at liberty to act as you think advisedly. I have no particular instructions to give you, and only wish you to avoid surprise." The latter caution to a soldier of Marion's character and prudence was scarcely necessary, but he was so near the enemy, and the latter in such superior force, that the suggestion, on the part of Greene, was only natural. Where Greene himself lay, two rivers ran between his army and that of the British. Without ammunition himself, and informed of reinforcements which the enemy had received, to preserve a respectful distance between them, was, on the part of the American commander, only a becoming caution. It was now December, and the troops, both of Greene and Marion, were without the necessary clothing. They had neither cloaks nor blankets. On the 14th of that month, Greene received a supply of ammunition, ALL of which he sent to Marion--no small proof of the confidence which he felt that, in such hands, it would not be thrown away. Thus closed the campaign of 1781. By manoeuvre, and a successful combination of events, the British troops had been driven down the country and restrained within the narrow neck of land contiguous to Charleston. The encampment of the main army continued at the Round O. Marion was at Watboo on Cooper river, watching the enemy's right; Sumter held Orangeburg and the bridge at Four Holes; Hampton with fifty State cavalry kept open the communication between Marion and the commander-in-chief; Cols. Harden and Wilkinson watched the enemy's movements on the south between Charleston and Savannah: and Col. Lee, posted in advance, with a light detachment, kept him from prying into the real weakness of the American army. In the ignorance of the British general, lay the security of the American; for, at this particular time, there were not eight hundred men at Greene's headquarters. A glance at any map of South Carolina will show the judgment with which these several posts were taken, at once for easy cooperation of the Americans, as for the control of all the country above the positions actually held by the British. The territory of the State, with the exception of that neck of land which lies twelve or fifteen miles up from Charleston, between the approaching rivers Ashley and Cooper, had all been recovered from the enemy. But the necessities of the Americans, the want of military 'materiel', the thinness of the regiments, and the increasing strength of the British, derived from foreign troops and accessions from other posts in America, left it doubtful, under existing circumstances, whether it could be long retained. But this misgiving was not allowed to prejudice or impair the popular hope, resulting from the apparent successes of their arms; and one of the modes adopted for contributing to this conviction was the formal restoration of the native civil authority. The members of the State Assembly, of whom Marion was one, were accordingly required by the proclamation of Governor Rutledge--who had held almost dictatorial powers from the beginning of the war--to convene at Jacksonborough at an early day of the ensuing year. Chapter 18. Marion summoned to the Camp of Greene--Defeats the British Horse at St. Thomas--Leaves his Command to Horry, and takes his Seat in the Assembly at Jacksonborough, as Senator from St. John's, Berkeley--Proceedings of the Assembly-- Confiscation Act--Dispute between Cols. Mayham and Horry-- The Brigade of Marion surprised, during his absence, by a Detachment from Charleston--Marion's Encounter with the British Horse--Conspiracy in the Camp of Greene. While the army of Greene lay at Round O., considerable alarm was excited in the American camp by tidings of large reinforcements made to the British strength in Charleston. General Leslie was now in command of the latter. The contraction of the American military 'cordon' had very greatly straitened the resources and comforts of the British general. The numerous refugees who had taken shelter in the city with their families, the great accumulation of horses within the lines, and the vigilant watch which was maintained over the islands and the neck by the American light detachments, soon contributed to lessen the stock of provisions in the capital, and to cut off its supplies. One consequence of this condition was to compel Leslie to put two hundred of his horses to death; while, by all other possible means, he collected his provisions from the surrounding country. Considerable parties were kept upon the alert for this object, and, to facilitate the movements of these parties, strong posts were established at Haddrel's Point and Hobcaw. The situation of these posts, on the extremities of tongues of land, to which assistance might easily be conveyed by water, and from which retreat, to an attacking enemy, was difficult, rendered them comparatively safe, for the present, against the Americans. But the situation of Leslie was one of uncomfortable constraint, and it was natural that he should avail himself of any prospect which might promise him relief. It was readily believed, therefore, in the American camp, that, with the acquisition of new strength, by the arrival of reinforcements from abroad, Leslie would seek to break through the cordon put around him. The rumor of his approach, in strength, caused Greene to issue his orders to Marion to repair to headquarters with all the force he could draw after him. Our partisan promptly obeyed the summons; but, on his way to join with Greene, he left a detachment of mounted infantry in the neighborhood of Monk's Corner, to watch the motions of the enemy. But Leslie's purpose was mistaken. His strength had been exaggerated. He had no designs upon the camp of Greene, being no doubt quite as ignorant of his weakness as the latter was of the British strength. But the detachment left by Marion near Monk's Corner caught the attention of the enemy, and, in the absence of the partisan, it was thought accessible to a proper attempt from Charleston. In all the movements of the British, it is very evident that they attached no small importance to the presence of this chief. A detachment of three hundred men, cavalry and infantry, was transported by water to the north bank of the Wando river. This body moved with equal secrecy and celerity. But they were disappointed in their aim. Marion had returned from the Continental camp to his own. The storm which threatened the former was overblown, and he was in season to avert that by which the latter was threatened. His force was scarcely equal to that of the enemy. He nevertheless resolved upon attacking them. In order to keep them in play, while he advanced with his main body, Cols. Richardson and Scriven, with a part of Mayham's horse, were dispatched with orders to throw themselves in front of the British, and engage them until he could come up. This order was gallantly executed. They encountered the enemy's advance near the muster-house of St. Thomas, charged them vigorously, and succeeded in putting them to flight, with some slaughter. Capt. Campbell, of the British, and several others, were killed. But the pursuit was urged too far. The cavalry of Mayham, by which this success had been obtained, was of new organization. Their training had been partial only. It was seen that, though they drove the British horse before them, their own charge was marked by disorder. Hurried forward by success, they rushed into the jaws of danger, and were only brought to their senses by an encounter with the whole of the British infantry. A volley from this body drove them back in confusion, while the cavalry, which had been flying before them, encouraged by the presence of the infantry, rallied upon the steps of the pursuers, and drove them in turn. They suffered severely, wedged upon a narrow causeway, which gave them as little room for escape as evolution. Twenty-two fell upon the spot, by the fire of the infantry. The rest were rallied when sufficiently far from the more formidable enemy, and, turning upon the British cavalry, once more put them to flight. But the event left Marion too weak to press the encounter. He contented himself with watching the motions of the British, and they were sufficiently respectful not to press him to any less pacific performance. They were satisfied to pursue their march, and, gathering a few head of cattle, to retire to Haddrell's, foregoing the more important object of their incursion. The field clear, Marion left his brigade in charge of Horry, and repaired to Jacksonborough, to attend the Assembly, to which he had been elected a member from St. John, Berkeley, the same parish which he represented in the Provincial Congress at the beginning of the war. This was early in the year 1782. The Legislature met at Jacksonborough, a little village on the Edisto or Pon-Pon river, on the 18th January of this year. This position, almost within striking distance of the British army at Charleston, was chosen with particular reference to the moral influence which the boldness of such a choice would be likely to have upon the people, and the confidence which it seemed to declare in the ability of the American army to render the place secure. To make it so, Greene moved his troops across the Edisto, and took post at Skirving's plantation, six miles in advance of Jacksonborough, and on the road which leads to Charleston. There was yet another step necessary to this object. The British, in addition to Charleston and the "Neck", held possession of two islands, James and John, which belong to that inner chain of isles which stretches along the coast from Charleston to Savannah, separated from the main by creeks and marshes, and from one another by the estuaries of rivers, sounds, or inlets. On John's Island, which is fertile, extensive, and secure, the enemy held a very respectable force under Col. Craig. Jacksonborough was within striking distance of this force. It could be approached by boats or galleys, in a single tide. It was equally assailable from this point by land. As a matter of precaution, it was considered necessary to disperse this force, and it was soon ascertained, not only that the island was accessible, but that the enemy, relying upon the protection of his armed galleys, was unapprehensive of attack. The attempt was entrusted to Cols. Lee and Laurens, who, with separate parties, were to reach the point of destination by different routes. One of the parties lost the road, and failed to cooperate with the other. The movement was only partially successful. A second was designed, and succeeded. The galleys were driven from their station by the artillery, and Laurens penetrated to Craig's encampment. But the latter had already abandoned it. A few stragglers fell into the hands of the Americans, but nothing more. The preceding attempt had just sufficed to convince Craig of the insecurity of the place, and he had taken timely precautions against suffering from a repetition of the attempt. The Legislature assembled according to appointment. The proclamation of the Governor, to whom, from the beginning of the war, had been accorded almost dictatorial powers, precluded from election and suffrage all persons who had taken British protections; and, as those who were true to the State had been very generally active in the ranks of her military, it followed, as a matter of course, that a great proportion of the members were military men. Among these were Sumter and Marion. The former, about this time, yielded his commission to the authorities, on account of some slight or injustice to which he had been subjected, and left the army when he took his seat in the Assembly. General Henderson succeeded to his command. The Jacksonborough Assembly was highly distinguished, as well for its talent as for its worth and patriotism. Its character was, perhaps, rather military than civil. Constituting as they did, in a slave community, a sort of feudal aristocracy, and accustomed, as, for so long a time they had been, to the use of the weapons of war, its members wore the deportment of so many armed barons, gathered together quite as much for action as resolve. It was not only unavoidable, but highly important at this juncture, that such should be the character of this body. Who could so well determine what were the necessities of the country--what the exigencies of the people--what the local resources and remedies--as those who had fought its battles, traversed every acre of its soil, and represented its interests and maintained its rights when there was no civil authority? What legislators so likely to wield the popular will, as men who, like Marion and Sumter, had become its rallying leaders--whom the people had been accustomed to obey and follow, and by whom they had been protected. It was equally important that the legislation should come from such sources, when we consider the effect upon the enemy, still having a foothold in the State. They might reasonably apprehend that the laws springing from such a body would be marked by a stern directness and decision of purpose which would leave nothing to be hoped by disaffection or hostility; and their proceedings did not disappoint the expectations of friend or foe. The measures of this Assembly were marked by equal prudence and resolve. They passed a new act respecting the militia, and one for raising the State quota of Continental troops. One of their measures has been questioned as unwise and impolitic--that, namely, for amercing and confiscating the estates of certain of the loyalists, and for banishing the most obnoxious among them. Something, certainly, is to be said in favor of this act. If vindictive, it seems to have been necessary. It must be remembered that, in consequence of a previous proclamation of the Governor, none but the most implacable and virulent of the Tories were liable to its operation--none but those who had rejected very liberal offers of indulgence and conciliation. This proclamation had opened the door to reconciliation with the State, on very easy terms to the offenders. It gave them timely warning to come in, enrol themselves in the American ranks, and thus assure themselves of that protection and safety which they had well forfeited. Their neglect or refusal to accept this proffer of mercy, properly incurred the penalties of contumacy. These penalties could be no other than confiscation of property and banishment of person. Reasons of policy, if not of absolute necessity, seemed to enforce these penalties. How was the war to be carried on? Marion's men, for example, received no pay, no food, no clothing. They had borne the dangers and the toils of war, not only without pay, but without the hope of it. They had done more--they had yielded up their private fortunes to the cause. They had seen their plantations stripped by the enemy, of negroes, horses, cattle, provisions, plate--everything, in short, which could tempt the appetite of cupidity; and this, too, with the knowledge, not only that numerous loyalists had been secured in their own possessions, but had been rewarded out of theirs. The proposed measure seemed but a natural and necessary compliance with popular requisition. Besides, the war was yet to be carried on. How was this to be done? How long was it yet to last? What was to be its limit? Who could predict? Congress was without money--the State without means. For a space of three years, South Carolina had not only supported the war within, but beyond her own borders. Georgia was utterly destitute, and was indebted to South Carolina for eighteen months for her subsistence; and North Carolina, in the portions contiguous to South Carolina, was equally poor and disaffected. The Whigs were utterly impoverished by their own wants and the ravages of the enemy. They had nothing more to give. Patriotism could now bestow little but its blood. It was with an obvious propriety resolved, by the Jacksonborough Assembly, that those who had proved false to the country should be made to suffer in like degree with those who had been true, and who were still suffering in her defence. As a measure of prolonged policy--contemplated beyond the emergency--there may be objections to the Confiscation Act; but the necessities of the time seemed to demand it, and it will be difficult for any judgment, having before it all the particulars of the cruel civil war through which the country had gone--not to speak of the army, and the present and pressing necessity for maintaining it--to arrive at any other conclusion, or to censure the brave men who urged and advocated the measure. The proceeding seems perfectly defensible on general principles, though in particular instances--as in the application of all general principles--it may have been productive of injury. The estates of the loyalists, by this measure, were seized upon as a means for building up the credit of the State, supplying it with the necessary funds for maintaining order as well as war, and for requiting and supporting that army which was still required to bleed in its defence. What part was taken in this act by Marion, is not known. Though kind and indulgent in his nature, he was stern and resolute in war. We have no reason to suppose that he entertained any scruples about a proceeding, the necessity of which, at the time, seems to have been beyond all dispute. The absence of our partisan from his brigade, was almost fatal to it. He left it with reluctance, and only with the conviction that his presence in the Senate was important to the interests equally of the army and the country. Indeed, without him there would not have been a quorum. There were only thirteen Senators present. He was interested, besides, in the passage of the new Militia Act, and in one designed to raise the State quota of Continental troops. These were sufficient to compel his presence. But he remained with reluctance. His letters from Jacksonborough betray the most constant anxiety about his brigade. He had yielded it to Horry with the most earnest exhortations to caution. By his orders, the latter, the more completely to ensure its safety, removed to a position on the north side of Wambaw, a creek emptying into the Santee. Here, in an angle formed by the two roads which pass from Lenud's Ferry road to Horry's plantation, about a quarter of a mile from the bridge, Horry occupied a post which caution might have rendered safe. In his rear was a wood. His newly raised regiment, not half complete, lay at Durant's plantation, about a mile above, under the command of Major Benson. Horry does not seem to have been remiss in his duties, but about this time he fell sick, and, for some time before, he had been, and still was, somewhat wilful. There was an unhappy dispute between himself and Col. Mayham, touching rank and precedence. The latter refused to be commanded by the former, claiming to be equal in commission, and, when Marion went to Jacksonborough, separated his corps from the brigade, posted them higher up the river, and, being a member of the Legislature, proceeded to Jacksonborough also. Greene was not unwilling, in the present juncture of affairs, that the native officers should be present at the deliberations of this body. The civil objects were just then even more important than the military. The contumacy of Mayham was a subject of the most earnest discussion. Both Marion and Greene decided against him; yet both were reluctant to offend him, as they knew his value as a cavalry officer. Mayham seems to have acted under some erroneous impressions of the independence of a legionary brigade, as he claimed his to be. He also complained of the free use which Marion made of his cavalry, and the severe duties he was required to perform. To this, Greene replies: "You are to consider how extensive the country he has to guard, and how much he depends upon your corps. This will account for the hard service you have been put to. The general is a good man, and when you consider his difficulties, and make just allowances, perhaps you will have little to complain of but the hard necessity of the service." But this reply did not produce its effect, and Mayham certainly erred, as a soldier, in complaining of the severity of his tasks. In the old chivalrous periods, the peculiar severity of the duties assigned to knighthood was recognized gratefully, as a matter of compliment and trust. He still held off; and Marion promptly demanded, that, if Mayham had any independent right of command, while nominally under him, he might be at once withdrawn from the brigade. Mayham's manner and tone were quite respectful, but tenacious; and while the discussion was in progress, and he holding off from Horry, events were brewing which were destined to terminate the unfortunate dispute by a capital misfortune. Again taking advantage of the absence of Marion, an expedition was set on foot in Charleston, against Horry. A detachment of two hundred horse, five hundred infantry, and two pieces of artillery, under Col. Thomson (better known in after-times as Count Rumford), prepared to ascend Cooper river. Its preparations were not conducted with such caution, however, but that they became known to the vigilant friends of the Americans in and about the city. The army was warned of their preparations. Greene hinted to Marion the necessity of returning to his command. The latter replies, by declaring his great anxiety to do so, but urges the impossibility of leaving the Senate, lest the Assembly should be broken up--an event which might be of fatal importance to the cause, unless the great business of the session were first disposed of. He promises to move as soon as this should be the case. The actual movement of the British detachment made it impossible that Marion should longer delay to rejoin his brigade, and, accompanied by Col. Mayham, he reached the ground on which the regiment of the latter was encamped, by a circuitous route and rapid riding, on the 24th February. Here they were unhappily told that the enemy was retiring. Marion, accordingly, remained to rest and refresh himself, while Mayham paid a visit to his own plantation. In a few hours after Mayham's departure, an express arrived with the mortifying intelligence that the brigade had been surprised and dispersed. Marion, instantly putting himself at the head of Mayham's regiment, hurried on toward Wambaw, the scene of the event, to check pursuit and collect and save the fugitives. We have seen the position of Horry. He had sent out his scouts on all the roads by which the approach of an enemy might be apprehended. Feeling himself secure, and being sick, he went over the river on the 24th, the day of the catastrophe, to his plantation, leaving the brigade under the command of Col. M'Donald. Major Benson, as will be remembered, held a position, with the incomplete regiment of Horry, at Durant's plantation, about a mile above that of the brigade. By some unaccountable remissness of patrols or videttes, the British cavalry, under Coffin, surprised the latter post. Benson, it is said, had been told by Capt. Bennett, who commanded the scouts in St. Thomas's, that the enemy was approaching; but the information was brought to him while at dinner, and a keen appetite made him slow to believe tidings which might have lessened the enjoyment of the meal. Bennett proceeded to Horry's headquarters, where Col. M'Donald happened to be at dinner also. He proved equally incredulous, but desired Major James, who had just arrived in camp, to take command of his regiment. The surprise of Benson was complete, and he paid for his remissness or indifference with his life. The firing at Durant's convinced M'Donald of his error; but, in all probability, the surprise was quite as complete in the one command as in the other. There were two regiments of "six-months' men"--that is to say, "reformed Tories"--persons who had come in under the proclamation issued by Governor Rutledge. These broke at the first encounter with the enemy. In their flight, and to prevent pursuit, they threw off the planks from Wambaw bridge. Fortunately, a strong body, under Major James, checked the pursuit for a space, and gave an opportunity for the fugitives to save themselves. Many of them crossed the river by swimming, but some were drowned in the attempt. The thickets saved the infantry. No prisoners were taken. The British gave no quarter. Successful against Benson and M'Donald, the enemy pressed forward in the direction of Marion's approach, but without having any knowledge of his proximity. He had halted with the cavalry of Mayham, at the house of Mrs. Tydiman, about four miles from the scene of the disaster, to refresh his men and horses. The latter were unbitted and feeding, when the whole of the enemy's cavalry made their appearance. It would seem, from the indecision of their commander, that he was no less surprised at falling in with this body of Marion's men, than was our partisan at his sudden appearance. His hesitation under this surprise gave the Americans an opportunity to recover themselves. It was the opinion of Mayham, that, had the charge been sounded the moment that he came in view, the whole regiment must have been lost. There was no retreat, save by the river, and by the lane through which they had entered the plantation, and of this the enemy had full command. The halt and hesitation of the British--their seeming alarm--at once afforded Marion the means of extrication from his predicament. To bit and mount their horses, was, for his cavalry, the work of a moment. Though not counting half the numbers of the enemy, Marion's instant resolution was to issue forth by the lane, and attack them. They had displayed themselves in front of it. Just before the lane was an old field, and a little to the right a pond of water. Marion, placing a small body of infantry to great advantage along the fence, ordered his column of cavalry to advance through the lane to the attack. His men were well mounted; in this respect, if inferior in numbers, they had a manifest advantage over the British. The latter had been too long cooped up in the walls of Charleston, on short commons, to be very serviceable; and the cavalry of Mayham, though somewhat too much crowded with the "new-made Whigs", were yet confident, from long experience, in their ability to contend with the enemy. Marion himself was confident, but was destined, in this instance, to lose, what he himself, in his dispatches, has styled, "a glorious opportunity of cutting up the British cavalry." His men moved to the extremity of the lane, before which the enemy had halted, with a firm and promising countenance. The front section was led by Capt. Smith, an officer of approved courage, who, in a very recent affair at St. Thomas' muster-house, had signally distinguished himself. Yet, seized with a sudden panic, the moment that he reached the end of the lane, he dashed into the woods on the right, and drew after him the whole regiment. Marion himself, who was near the head of the column, was borne away by the torrent, which he in vain struggled to withstand. The rush was irresistible--the confusion irretrievable. All efforts to restrain or recover the fugitives were idle, until they had reached the woods. There Marion succeeded in rallying a party, and at this point the pursuit of the enemy was checked, and the fugitives partly rallied. They had sustained but little loss in lives; but the shame, the disgrace of such a panic, were immeasurably humiliating. The British showed no eagerness in the pursuit. They seemed to doubt the bloodless victory which they had won, and, content with their own escape, were not unreasonably urgent with fortune to make their victory complete. They subsequently, after they had fully recovered from their panic, contrived greatly to exaggerate the importance of the event. One of the newspapers of the day has the following:--"Things bear a better prospect than they did. Colonel Thomson has defeated General Marion in South Carolina, killed one hundred men, and Marion was drowned, attempting to escape." The only officer drowned in the flight, was Lieut. Smyzer of Horry's cavalry. The loss of the brigade in horses and accoutrements was greater than in men. Their greater loss, however, was of that confidence in themselves and one another, which it was one of the greatest objects of Marion's training to inspire. The true secret of the superiority of regulars over militia-men lies in the habit of mutual reliance. They feel each other's elbows, in military parlance--they are assured by the custom of mutually depending one upon the other. This habit impresses them with a conviction, which the terrors of conflict do not often impair, that they will not be deserted; and, thus assured, they hurry into the battle, and remain in it so long as the body with which they move can act together. Once broken, however, the cry is 'sauve qui peut'. Not so with militia-men. They never forget their individuality. The very feeling of personal independence is apt to impair their confidence in one another. Their habit is to obey the individual impulse. They do not wait to take their temper from their neighbor right and left. Hence their irregularity--the difficulty of restraining them--of making them act in routine, and with entire reference to the action of other bodies. So far from deriving strength from feeling another's elbow, they much prefer elbow room. Could they be assured of one another, they were the greatest troops in the world. They ARE the greatest troops in the world--capable of the most daring and heroic achievements--wherever the skill of the commander can inspire this feeling of mutual reliance. Frequent cooperation of the same persons under the same leader produces it, and makes them veterans. The old soldiers of the brigade had it in perfection. It was one of the excellences of Marion that it followed so certainly and rapidly from his peculiar training. That it should be lost or impaired, was a most serious evil. That it would not have been endangered, we are sure, had it not been that the brigade no longer consisted of the brave fellows who had clung to him through the campaigns of the last two years. The new recruits were, in all probability, to blame for the mischance; and something, perhaps, is due to the unhappy quarrel between Mayham and Horry. The former was terribly mortified by the affair--mortified that Marion should have hurried to the scene of action without apprising him, and vexed that his own regiment should have behaved so badly. He complains that others should "expend the strength of the regiment without giving HIM the satisfaction of being present." Captain John Caraway Smith, the officer who led the column thus disastrously aside, resigned the day after the affair. His conduct had been habitually brave. But a short time before, as already shown, he had behaved with the most determined and audacious gallantry at the head of the same troop. That their training was defective is beyond question, but no imputation rested upon their courage or his own. Nevertheless, we have Napoleon's authority for the opinion that every man has his 'moment de peur'. No man is equally firm on all occasions. There are moods of weakness and irresolution in every mind, which is not exactly a machine, which impair its energies, and make its course erratic and uncertain. The truth was known in earlier ages. The old poets ascribed it to supernatural influence. Envious deities interposed between valor and its victim, paralysing the soul of the one and strengthening that of the other. Thus we find even Hector, upon occasion, the slave of panic, and Paris, on the other hand, almost emulating the spirit of his brother. The conduct of Captain Smith, in this affair, has been excused by Mayham. He ascribes it to an error of Marion himself. He says that, "Marion (who was an infantry officer) gave the order to 'file off from the house to the right,' instead of ordering 'to charge!' This induced his officers to believe that they were to retreat and not to fight." This may be true; but it is scarcely probable. Retreat from the house, except into the river, seems to have been cut off. The only other avenue was the lane. At the end of this was the enemy, drawn out in order of battle. Upon these the advance was ordered. We have seen that Marion himself exulted in the conviction that the enemy was in his power. His exultation could not have been entirely concealed from his officers. It must have declared itself in some way. The halt and hesitation of the British were perceptible to all. They were in superior numbers, and when they reached the head of the lane, the horses of the American cavalry were unbitted and feeding. A sudden and resolute charge, according to Mayham, on the part of the British, would have resulted in the entire defeat of the regiment. That they did not order this charge betrayed their apprehensions, and should have encouraged, in similar degree, the Americans--DID encourage them, and hence the resolve of Marion to advance upon them. That it should be supposed he would hurry forward, in the very teeth of the enemy, only to dash aside in confusion from the struggle, is scarcely reasonable. But Mayham was offended with Marion. The latter had decided against him in the controversy with Horry; and the subsequent movement against the British, without stopping to require his presence, was another mortifying circumstance which he was not likely to forget. Biased by his feelings, he was not willing to believe that the seeming slight was in reality due to the emergency of the case, which would not allow a moment's hesitation in Marion's movement at such a juncture. As soon as the presence of Marion was known, the fugitives gathered around him. But for his absence they had never been dispersed. Horry's regiment was very much crippled; Mayham's in equally bad condition. Of M'Donald's, and the brigade, a few hundred were soon brought together; and with his deranged and dispirited band, our partisan retired beyond the Santee to repair and recruit his strength, and revive the confidence of his men in their leaders and themselves. In the meanwhile, the country which he had so recently covered and protected was harried by the British. They improved the interval of his absence by successful incursions. The cattle had been already put beyond their power, on the other side the Santee; but they stripped the plantations within their reach, as well of slaves as of provisions. Greene could do nothing to prevent them. His own army was in a state of convulsion and commotion; suffering from distress and discontent, and threatened with dissolution. Recent occurrences had awakened his fears for his own security. One result of Marion's recent disaster was to put an end to the dispute between Horry and Mayham. Their respective regiments were so reduced, after the affair at Wambaw, that it was deemed advisable to amalgamate them. Having resolved upon this measure, Gov. Mathews, who had succeeded Rutledge, applied to Marion to know who of the two was the best cavalry officer--an opinion which Marion yielded with great reluctance. His personal preferences went with Horry, but he could not hesitate in declaring for Mayham. Horry, with the ambition of a spirited soldier, eagerly desired a command of cavalry,--was a good infantry officer, and had all the requirements of skill and bravery. But he was no horseman, and it is said that, in several of his charges, he was indebted to some one or other of his men for his own safety, being commonly unhorsed. His gallantry and patriotism were equally unquestionable. They had been displayed from the beginning of the war. The preference shown Mayham caused Horry's resignation from the service; but to console him for the mortification, Marion made him commandant of Georgetown, a post which united the responsibilities and duties of a military and civil service. With the adjournment of the Assembly at Jacksonborough, the army of Greene moved down from Skirving's plantation to Bacon's bridge, at the head of Ashley river. Here, within twenty miles of the enemy, a dangerous conspiracy ripened almost to maturity among the Pennsylvania troops, composed in part of the very mutineers who had triumphed over government in the insurrection in Jersey, and who, as Lafayette observed,* "had been well paid and well clothed in consequence of it." This, we believe, was the only body of troops furnished to the Southern army, during the Revolution, from any of the States north of Maryland and Delaware. We make this remark with the view to the correction of a very general error, arising from the vague manner in which it is customary for our historians to speak of the sources of the personnel of the Southern army. The armies led by Gates and Greene, to the defence of Carolina, were truly from States north of her, but they were not Northern States. Two fine bodies of troops came from Maryland and Delaware, but the rest were from Virginia and North Carolina,--with the exception of the Pennsylvania line, of which we have now to speak. These, as we have seen, had been refractory in Jersey, and instead of being punished, were paid for their sedition. It was natural that they should endeavor to renew an experiment which had already proved so profitable. The mutineers were directed by one Sergeant Gornell. Their number is unknown. They were solely of the Pennsylvania line, and might have been successful but for an attempt which they made upon the fidelity of the Marylanders. Their purpose was to deliver Greene to the enemy, and otherwise facilitate the objects of the latter, who were to make a concerted movement, in force, upon the American army, at a prescribed moment. The integrity of the Marylanders, whom Gornell approached, was not to be shaken; and to their fidelity and the quick ears of one of the camp-women, the army was indebted for its safety. The circumstances were all in favor of the success of the conspirators. There was a general discontent in the army. The troops were badly fed and clothed--were unpaid, doubtful of pay, and suffering present distresses. They were inactive. Many of them were new recruits. Greene was no longer surrounded by the tried and true men and officers, who had borne the brunt of the contest. The term of service of the former had in great part expired, some of his best officers were on furlough, and he had offended others. Sumter had left the army in disgust; Pickens was operating against the Indians; Marion was recruiting his brigade on the Santee; Williams had gone home; Howard was in Maryland, scarcely recovered from his wounds; Wayne was in Georgia, doing good service in that quarter; St. Clair was absent on leave; Lee had gone to Virginia to get married, and his legion was almost shorn of officers; Eggleston had gone with him to Virginia, and the brave fellows, Armstrong and Carrington, had fallen into the hands of the enemy. The time was well chosen for mutiny, and as the hour drew near for the consummation of the purpose of the conspirators, the British army was set in motion from below,--not so secretly, however, but that their movements were made known to the Americans. Symptoms of mutiny became apparent in the camp, and it was necessary to proceed with vigor. Doubtful of a large number of those around him, Greene summoned Marion with all his force from the Santee, while his own army was kept in order of battle. The arrest of Gornell, with that of four others, all sergeants of the Pennsylvania line, took place the night before the conspiracy was to take effect. Gornell was tried and executed; the others were sent under guard into the interior. This proceeding was the signal for the flight of at least a dozen more, who, having been committed, broke away on the night of Gornell's seizure, and found protection with the enemy, who advanced in force to receive them. This prompt proceeding suppressed the mutiny. The development of the conspiracy, the state of preparedness in the camp of Greene, and the movement of Marion, had the effect of discouraging the farther advance of the British army; and Marion, while yet in motion for the camp of Greene, from which he was but eight miles distant, was summoned in haste to the protection of Georgetown, against which the enemy was reported to have sailed from Charleston. A forced march of four days brought him to White's Bridge, when it was discovered that the alarm was unfounded. The enemy had not shown himself, and was not nigh. In this march of one hundred and sixty miles, Marion's men had but a single ration of rice. Their sole food, with this exception, was lean beef. The march took place in April, when there is no forage for cattle, and when such as survive the winter, are compelled to wander far in the swamps and thickets in search of the scanty herbage which sustains them. The march of our partisan in these two expeditions was conducted solely on foot. The country south of the Santee had been so completely foraged by the British, during his vacation of it, that he was compelled to dismount his infantry in his movements until the spring herbage should enable him to feed his horses. His force was reduced to two hundred militia and one hundred and twenty horse. It was the wish of General Greene that he should take post as near the enemy as possible, in order both to shorten his limits beyond Cooper river, and to enable Col. Laurens, who now commanded the legion of Lee, to pass the Ashley, and close upon the British between the latter river and Goose Creek. But with his infantry dismounted, he dared not venture so completely within the reach of an enemy so superior; and with the double purpose of securing a retreat, if necessary, and of forming a junction with any party when desirable, either at Huger's Bridge, over the west branch of Cooper river, or at Strawberry Ferry, he took post at Sinkler's plantation on the Santee. This left him within twenty-five miles of each of these designated routes. His cavalry meanwhile patrolled the country as low as Haddrell and Hobcaw, and in sight of the British posts at those places. They thus procured the earliest news of the enemy's movements, and checked his incursions in that quarter. The effect of Marion's presence with his brigade was soon felt, as well by his people as by the British. By the latter it was deemed important to relieve themselves from a neighbor at once so vigilant and inconvenient. A messenger, feigning to be a deserter, was dispatched by General Leslie, whose plan was to make his way through the scouts of Marion, to the Scotch and loyal settlements on the borders of North Carolina. These were to be stirred up to insurrection, and Marion was to be diverted from a quarter in which his presence was particularly annoying. The messenger succeeded in his object, but was less fortunate in his return. He had done the mischief required at his hands, fomented the insurrection, and set the loyalists in motion. The proofs were conclusive against him, and he perished by military execution. The timely notice which Marion obtained of his labors enabled him to prepare against the event. * Johnson's Life of Greene, Vol. 2, p. 319.-- Chapter 19. Marion summoned with his Force to that of Greene-- Insurrection of the Loyalists on the Pedee--Marches against them--Subdues them--Treats with Gainey--Fanning --Protects the Tory, Butler, from his Men--Returns to the Country between the Santee and the Cooper--Moves to protect Georgetown from the British Fleet--Takes post at Watboo, on Cooper River--Defeats the British Cavalry under Major Frasier. Meanwhile, the main body of the army under Greene continued to suffer diminution. On the first of May a large proportion of the North Carolina troops were entitled to and claimed their discharge. No recruits were expected from the North, and it became necessary to draw together all the force that South Carolina could afford. The Government of this State, from its first re-organization, had faithfully endeavored to re-establish the South Carolina line, but without money or means, with very little corresponding success. A few recruits were obtained from among those who had recently received their discharge, but the service had been of a kind to baffle all the temptations and arguments of the recruiting officers. In the emergency of the case, it became indispensable to look to the militia under Marion, Pickens and Henderson; and these leaders were accordingly required to repair to headquarters. The withdrawal of the former, with his troops, from the region of country which they had so lately covered, was the signal for that rising of the loyalists upon the Pedee, to instigate which the unfortunate emissary of General Leslie had been dispatched from Charleston. The absence of Marion was considered auspicious to the new movement. He had scarcely reached Dorchester when his ancient enemy, Major Gainey, appeared in arms at the head of a considerable body of troops, both cavalry and infantry. A small command under Col. Baxter, which had been left by Marion to observe their movements, was too feeble to make head against them, and it became necessary for Marion himself to retrace his steps, and arrest the progress of the insurrection. Placing himself at the head of Mayham's cavalry, he promptly advanced in the direction of the enemy. So rapid were his movements, so vigilant his watch, so well devised his plans, that he reached the Pedee country long before his approach was suspected. His presence, on the present occasion, was a surprise. It had long been a terror; so much so that but for his remoteness at the camp of Greene, they had, in all probability, never ventured to resume their arms. Three separate bodies of men, by a judicious arrangement of our partisan, were prepared to enter their country at the same moment. These were so placed, that, though operating separately, they might yet be made to cooperate if desired. The effect was such as to paralyse the incipient resolution of the loyalists. They showed no disposition for fight; and feeling their temper, conscious of his difficulties, and now no longer hopeful of help from the British, Gainey dispatched a flag to Marion with proposals to treat for a pacification. He was not unwilling to renew the treaty which, just one year before, he had entered into with Horry, who then acted as the lieutenant of our partisan. This treaty, influenced by British emissaries, the Tories had very imperfectly kept. In small squads they had been perpetually rising, and committing trespasses upon their neighbors whenever the withdrawal of Marion's men afforded them opportunity. They had now everything to fear from his anger; but they also knew his willingness to forgive. Relying upon this, and making a merit of necessity, the communication of Gainey expressed the warmest solicitude for peace. To this Marion was prepared to listen. Commissioners were appointed on both sides. They met, but, unhappily, they recognized in each other well known personal opponents. They had often met in strife, and could not forbear alluding to their encounters. The conversation grew warm, the parties excited, and instead of coming to terms, the commissioners almost came to blows. They separated with increased resentment. A fierce skirmish followed, and the attempt to adjust their differences was renewed between the respective commanders. Marion was anxious to effect a pacification. His services were required below on the Santee and Cooper, to check the incursions of the British, and he consented to meet and confer with Gainey in person. This determination was censured by some of his officers. They denounced Gainey as a leader of banditti; and, certainly, his conduct, on many occasions, deserved the reproach. They reproached Marion for committing his dignity in treating with such a person. But this suggestion did not affect him. He was governed by views and principles very far superior to those which influence the ordinary soldier. His pride did not suffer from such censures. His reply was equally prompt and conclusive. He told them that he "aimed at no higher dignity than that of essentially serving his country." The result was satisfactory to our partisan. Making a merit of necessity, Gainey yielded without requiring any farther resort to blows. At the Bowling Green, between the Great and Little Pedee, more than five hundred men laid down their arms, submitting to conditions which were rather strict than severe. Marion and Gainey met at Birch's mill on the 8th June, when a treaty was drawn up having for its basis the articles of the preceding arrangement with Horry. By this treaty, Gainey and his men were to lay down their arms and not to resume them unless ordered to do so by the authorities of the State; they bound themselves to deliver up all negroes, horses, cattle and other property of which they had dispossessed the people of this or any other State--to demean themselves as peaceable citizens, and submit to the laws of the State--to deliver up all contumacious and rebellious persons within their district--to deliver up all deserters from the regular service--to sign a declaration of allegiance to the United States, and to South Carolina in particular, and to abjure the British crown, and to surrender all British property. Compliance with these conditions, was to ensure them full pardon for their treasons to the State, and the enjoyment of their property as citizens within it; while individuals not choosing to comply, were to be permitted, with their wives and children, a safe progress to the British lines. From the benefits of this treaty, some few atrocious offenders were excepted. Major Gainey removed with those who preferred to adhere to the fortunes of the British. He did not side with their determination, but he deemed it a duty to see that those who had followed his arms, should be put in safety beyond the reach of their enemies: an honorable resolve certainly. Before his departure he waited upon Marion and said: "Honor, sir, requires that I should yield my commission to Col. Balfour, from whom I received it; but this done, I shall immediately return to the country and seek your protection." This was frankly promised him, and with every confidence in the assurance of Marion, as soon as he had concluded his affairs in Charleston, he promptly returned and enrolled himself in the American ranks. One of the loyalists, specially exempted from the privileges of the treaty with Gainey, was a notorious marauder by the name of Fanning. He was a sanguinary ruffian, with considerable talents, but brutal, reckless, and most inveterate in his hostility to the American cause. Shortly after the treaty with Gainey, this person appeared in the truce ground at the head of a small party. It was feared that he would stir up the revolt anew. He came for that purpose. Marion was at once upon the alert. His force, divided into three bodies, occupied various parts of the lately disaffected districts, and overawed the spirit of revolt, if it yet existed. Finding the cause hopeless in that quarter, Fanning sent a flag to Marion with a request that he would grant a safe-conduct to his wife, and some property, to the British garrison in Charleston. Against any such concession the officers of Marion expostulated. They were unwilling that so cruel a ruffian should receive any indulgence. But Marion looked more deeply into the matter, and yielded a prompt compliance with the request. "Let but his wife and property reach the British lines, and Fanning will follow. Force them to remain, and we only keep a serpent in our bosom." Such was his reasoning, and the truth of it was very soon apparent. Finding the hope of insurrection fruitless, Fanning fled the country, and was as soon in Charleston as his wife. The disaffected district was now covered by his troops, busied in securing all persons who, declining to retire to the British, still withheld their submission from the American authorities. In the execution of this duty, some licentiousness followed--such irregularities as are apt to occur where soldiers traverse a subdued territory. Intimations of these irregularities reached the ears of the partisan. No individual was charged with offence, and no particulars were given; but Marion took occasion to declare his indignation in the presence of officers and men. "I have heard insinuations," said he, "which, if true, would disgrace my command; no accusation has been made; but I wish you clearly to know that let officer or soldier be proved guilty of crime, and he shall hang on the next tree." His firmness and sincerity were known; and he heard of no more license. While engaged in the irksome duty of arresting the recusant, he was equally busy in granting written protections to those who subscribed frankly to the conditions of the treaty. The judicious disposition and immediate presence of his force--the terror inspired by his successes--the knowledge which they had of his mercy, and their evident abandonment by the British--had the effect of bringing crowds to his camp, trebling the number of his own troops, seeking the proffered securities. Such was the consumption of paper on this occasion, or rather such the poverty at headquarters, that old letters were torn up, the backs of which were put in requisition for this object. While at Birch's mills, on the Pedee, among others who sought the protection of Marion was one Capt. Butler, who had made himself particularly odious by his crimes and ferocity. He had been conspicuous as the oppressor of the Whig inhabitants of the Pedee. He was not ignorant of the detestation in which he was held, and it was with some misgivings that he sought the required protection. His appearance in the American camp was the signal for a commotion. There were among the men of Marion some who were connected with persons who had suffered by the atrocities of Butler. They determined to avenge their friends. They resolved that no protection should save him, and an intemperate message to that effect was sent to Marion. Marion instantly took Butler to his own tent, and firmly answered those by whom the message was brought: "Relying on the pardon offered, the man whom you would destroy has submitted. Both law and honor sanction my resolution to protect him with my life." A still more intemperate message reached him, declaring that "Butler should be dragged to death from his tent--that to defend such a wretch was an insult to humanity." To this Marion made no reply, but calling around him the members of his family, and some of his most trusty followers, he gave them to understand that he should expect their cooperation at all hazards in protecting the culprit from violence. "Prepare to give me your assistance, for though I consider the villainy of Butler unparalleled, yet, acting under orders as I am, I am bound to defend him. I will do so or perish." The mutiny threatened to be formidable, and that night, Marion succeeded with a strong guard in conveying the prisoner to a place of safety. The treaty with Gainey put an end to the domestic feuds upon the Pedee, and anxious to regain the local confidence which they had forfeited, numbers of the loyalists of this quarter, following the example of their leader, entered the ranks of the Americans, and though too late to be of effectual service in the war, yet furnished sufficient proofs of their fidelity. No farther necessity appearing for the longer stay of Marion on the Pedee, he prepared to return to his former range along the rivers Cooper and Santee. His absence from this region afforded an opportunity for the enemy to renew their depredations from Charleston. Marion had left Colonel Ashby in command of his infantry, when, at the head of Mayham's horse, he hurried to encounter Gainey, and quell his insurrection. Ashby, pressed by a superior British force, had been compelled to yield before it, and this intelligence left our partisan no moment of respite after quelling the commotions on the Pedee, before he was required to return and cover the country which had so long been indebted to his vigilance for protection. In leaving the Pedee, with still some doubts of the newly converted loyalists of that quarter, he left Col. Baxter with one hundred and fifty trusty men, to maintain the ascendency which he had just acquired. This object was of the last importance, not only with reference to the doubtful 'personnel' of the country, but the valuable 'materiel', cattle and provisions, which might have been carried off to the enemy. Suspicious of the fidelity of the loyalists, there was every reason to fear that it might be too strongly tested. The British were known to be preparing a fleet of small vessels for some enterprises directed northwardly, and no object of importance seemed more obvious than that of renewing the disturbances on the Pedee and possessing themselves of the immense plunder which that region of country might still afford. All precautions taken, our partisan hurried his return. But had he not been joined by a newly raised corps under Major Conyers, he must have marched alone. So rapid had been his movements, so unremitting his duties, that the cavalry of Mayham which he led, were completely broken down. He was compelled to leave them behind him to recruit. At Murray's Ferry, on the Santee, he halted to collect his militia, and await the arrival of Mayham's corps. Here he consolidated the commands of Mayham and Conyers into one regiment; and about the middle of July was enabled once more to cross the Santee with a force of three hundred dismounted infantry, and a respectable body of horse. With these he took post on the Wassamasaw, in a position which, while it was secure, enabled him to cooperate with the detachments of the main army in covering the country. Here his vigilance was again conspicuous. His parties were constantly busy. His own movements to and fro, wherever an enemy could approach, or was suspected, were continual, from the Cooper to the Santee. His objects were threefold--to check the irruptions of the enemy, to cut off their supplies, and to provide for his own people. His scouting parties penetrated in every hostile direction--sometimes as low as Daniel's Island and Clement's Ferry--points almost within the ken of the British garrison. But the enemy was no longer enterprising. They were not often met. Their cavalry was few and inferior, and their exigencies may be inferred from their uniforming and converting some of their captured negroes into troopers. One corps of these black dragoons, consisting of twenty-six men, was cut to pieces by one of Marion's scouting parties of twelve, commanded by Capt. Capers. The British, tired of the war, were preparing to evacuate the country. Preparatory to this, it was necessary that they should lay in sufficient store of provisions. General Leslie had been preparing for this necessity and, late in July, a numerous fleet of small vessels, conveying eight hundred men, and convoyed by galleys and armed brigs, left Charleston to proceed, as it was conjectured, against Georgetown. This compelled Marion to hasten in that direction. Here he made every arrangement for moving the public stores to a place of safety. Black Mingo was preferred as the depot, for the honorable reason, as given in Marion's own words, that it was "a settlement of good citizens and of my earliest and most faithful followers." But the enterprise of the enemy was less hazardous. The collection of rice was their object. This was to be found in the greatest quantity on the Santee, from the banks of which river they carried off about six hundred barrels. Marion's force was thrown over the Sampit so as to intercept their march to Georgetown, but he could not impede their progress up the South Santee, protected as they were under the guns of their galleys. With the departure of the enemy from the river, the completion of his arrangements for the removal of the stores at Georgetown, and the defence of that place, Marion again recrossed the Santee and hurried to Watboo, on the Cooper. This river, leading to Charleston, to which the fleet of the enemy had returned, was naturally thought to be the next which they would attempt to penetrate. He had left a small body of infantry at this place, but this was deemed inadequate to the required duties. But they were sufficient at least to attract the attention of the British. Ignorant of Marion's return, believing him to be still at Georgetown, whither, it was known, he had taken all his cavalry,--a detachment of dragoons, more than one hundred strong, was sent from Charleston, under Major Frasier, against the post at Watboo. The rapidity of Marion's movements brought him back in season for its safety. It happened unfortunately, that, when he heard of the approach of this detachment, his cavalry were absent, patrolling down the river, maintaining their watch for the British fleet, which was the chief subject of apprehension. This fleet, meanwhile, had gone southwardly, pursuing the object of its former quest up the waters of the Combahee. With the approach of Frasier, Marion dispatched his messengers in search of his cavalry, and to call in his pickets. Some of the latter had joined him before the enemy appeared. Frasier exhibited considerable conduct in making his approaches. He had taken an unfrequented route, and had succeeded in capturing some of the out-sentinels of our partisan. He advanced upon him in the fullest confidence of effecting a surprise--not of Marion, but of the smaller force under Col. Ashby, which he still believed to be the only force opposed to him. He was soon undeceived and found his enemy rather stronger than he expected, and drawn up in readiness for his reception. It was about the 25th of August. Marion lay at the plantation of Sir John Colleton, on the south side of Watboo Creek, and a little above the bridge. The situation pleased him, and it was one of his frequent places of encampment when he happened to be operating in the vicinity. The owner was a loyalist and had left the country. The mansion and his extensive range of negro houses afforded ample shelter for such a force as that which Marion commanded. With the gradual advance of Frasier, Marion seems to have been acquainted, but in the absence of his cavalry his only mode of obtaining intelligence was through his officers. These alone, of all the party in camp, were provided with horses. Of these, he ordered out a party under Capt. Gavin Witherspoon to reconnoitre. While they were absent, Marion put his infantry in order of battle. The main body occupied an avenue of venerable cedars, which, neglected during the war, in their untrimmed state, stood overgrown with branches, their long boughs trailing almost to the ground. His left, by which the enemy was compelled to advance, were placed under cover of some of the out-buildings. Thus prepared, he waited the approach of the British, though not without sundry misgivings. It must be confessed that, at this juncture, he had not the most perfect confidence in the force under his command. They consisted, in great proportion, of those who, in that day, were known as new-made Whigs--men who had deserted the enemy and been cleansed of their previous treasons by the proclamation of Governor Rutledge, which, not long before, had promised immunity to all who came in promptly with their adhesion and joined the American ranks. There were also present some of those who, under Gainey, had recently received the protection of Marion, on the truce ground of Pedee. Major Gainey himself was among them, and with forty of his people, was placed conspicuously in the column in preparation for the British approach. Well might Marion feel some uneasiness at his situation, particularly in the absence of the cavalry on which he could rely. But our partisan had the art of securing the fidelity of those around him, in quite as great a degree as he possessed that other great military art, of extracting good service out of the most doubtful materials. He concealed his apprehensions, while he endeavored to dissipate those of his men. Meanwhile, Witherspoon, with the reconnoitring party, advanced but a little distance in the woods, when they were met by the enemy's cavalry and instantly charged. A long chase followed, which soon brought the pursuers into view of the partisan. His men were half concealed behind the thick boughs of the cedars beneath which they were drawn up. The interest of the chase, as they drew more near, was increased by a little incident which was greatly calculated to encourage the militia. When in full view, the horse of Witherspoon failed him, or his rider purposely fell behind to bring up the rear of his little escort. At this sight a British dragoon darted forward to cut him down. Witherspoon coolly suffered him to advance until he was almost within striking distance. With sword uplifted, the assailant had already risen in his stirrups to smite, when, quick as lightning, Witherspoon, who had watched him narrowly, poured the contents of his carbine into his breast. This was followed by a shout from the Americans, and, with furious yells, the British dashed forward upon Marion's left. The reconnoitring party melted before them, and the infantry delivered their fire with fatal effect. A dozen saddles were instantly emptied, Capt. Gillies of the British, who led the charge, being one of the first victims. The enemy soon rallied, and attempted first his right and then his left flank; but the evolutions of Marion were quite as ready, and, by changing his front promptly, and availing himself of the cover afforded by the houses and the fences, he showed the hazard of attempting a second charge to be too great for such a force as that of Frasier. For an hour after, the British manoeuvred around them, but without discovering any opportunity of retrieving or revenging their disaster. A single fire terminated this affair, and seldom has a single fire, where so small a front has been engaged, done such considerable execution. One officer and eight men were instantly killed; three officers and eight men wounded; five horses fell dead upon the field, a few were taken and many wounded. The discharge took place at thirty paces, and Marion's men usually fired with heavy buck-shot. His new-made Whigs stood the test bravely, showing a steadiness and courage, whilst opposed to their old allies, which soon set the heart of our partisan at ease. They had very good reasons for steadiness and valor. They fought with halters about their necks. Not a man of them, if taken, would have escaped the cord and tree. Marion did not lose a man, but he suffered a very serious loss of another sort. In the midst of the confusion of the fight, the driver of his ammunition wagon took fright, and made off with his charge in a direction which betrayed its flight to the enemy, who immediately sent a small detachment, by which it was taken. Marion had no cavalry to recover it; but five of his men, armed with the broad-swords of the British whom they had just slain, and mounted on their captured horses, volunteered to recover it. They actually succeeded in rescuing it from the detachment by which it was taken, but could retain it only till the fugitives could reach their main body and return with a force to which our volunteers could oppose no resistance. They were compelled to abandon the prize, which, had fortune seconded their endeavors, was certainly due to their merits. This little affair is a sample of that generous service which it was the happy faculty of our partisan to extract from his followers. It is to tradition that we owe the vague memory of numerous like advantages, of which history preserves no records. Under his guidance, his men seldom suffered panic. They fancied themselves invincible when he led. In the present instance he declared that not a man faltered--that he even had to restrain their eagerness, and prevent them rushing out into the open field, to meet the charge of the cavalry. His own coolness never deserted him. He never lost sight of the whole field, in the vehement action of a part. His keenness of vision, his vigilance of watch, his promptness in opposing his best resources to the press of danger, of covering his weak points, and converting into means and modes of defence and extrication, all that was available in his situation--were remarkable endowments, which soon fixed the regards of his followers, and upon which they unhesitatingly relied. In the absence of his cavalry, a defeat would have been a rout; his infantry would have been cut to pieces, and his cavalry subsequently exposed to similar disaster. Had the latter been present, the safety of the British must have depended solely on the fleetness of their steeds. With this affair ended the actual conflicts of our partisan. His men were not yet disbanded. He himself did not yet retire from the field which he had so often traversed in triumph. But the occasion for bloodshed was over. The great struggle for ascendancy between the British crown and her colonies was understood to be at an end. She was prepared to acknowledge the independence for which they had fought, when she discovered that it was no longer in her power to deprive them of it. She will not require any eulogium of her magnanimity for her reluctant concession. Chapter 20. The British propose Terms of Pacification--Rejected by the Civil Authorities--They penetrate the Combahee with their Fleet--Death of Col. Laurens--Anecdote of Marion--Death of Wilmot--The British evacuate Charleston--Marion separates from his Brigade at Watboo--His Military Genius. Though the war in Carolina was understood to be nearly at an end, and the toils and dangers of the conflict well nigh over, yet motives for vigilance still continued. There was ample room for vicissitudes. The British still held possession of Charleston and its harbor, but they were confined to these narrow limits. Here, watched on all sides by the impatient Americans, they made their preparations for a reluctant departure. The sole remaining contest between the opposing armies lay, in the desire of the one to bear with them as much of the spoils of war as possible, and of the other to prevent them. The greater motives for the war on both sides were at an end. The mother country had declared her willingness to forego the exercise of her ancient authority, and the Colonies were admitted to the freedom which they sought. In this state of things neither army attempted enterprises, the result of which could not affect the objects of either nation. Thus was spared the unnecessary shedding of blood. The forces under Greene continued gradually to contract their limits; while those of General Leslie remained comparatively quiescent. The British officer was governed by a proper wisdom. As the evacuation of Charleston was determined on, there was little use in keeping up the appearances of a struggle which had virtually ceased to exist. He suggested accordingly to Greene, that an intercourse should be established between town and country, by which the troops in the former might procure their necessary supplies in barter with the people. To provision his fleet and army was his object. For this he proposed a cessation of hostilities. It is to be regretted that this pacific proposition was not entertained. Some valuable lives might have been saved to the country--we may instance that of Col. Laurens. General Greene was not adverse to the proposition, but the civil authorities objected. Their reasons for opposing this humane suggestion are scarcely satisfactory. They believed that Leslie only aimed to accumulate provisions for the support of the British forces in the West Indies, and thus enable them to prosecute the war more vigorously against our French allies. This was an objection rather urged than felt. There was probably some feeling, some impatience of temper at the bottom, which prompted them to dispute, at the point of the sword, rather than yield to any suggestions of an enemy at whose hands they had suffered such protracted injuries. A little more coolness and reflection might have shown them, that, by refusing the application of Leslie, they only rendered it necessary that the British should pay in blood for those supplies for which they were not unwilling to pay in money. And blood usually calls for blood. The combat is never wholly on one side. It was virtually saying we can spare a few more citizens. The concession might have been made to the wishes of the British commander not only without any detriment to the service, but with absolute benefit to the people and the army. The provisions which the enemy required would have found a good market in Charleston, and the clothing, in lack of which the army was suffering severely, might have been procured for them at the same place on the most reasonable terms. Besides, the rejection of the overture was not necessarily a prevention of the purpose of the British. The American army was quite too feeble either to expel them from the country, or to arrest their foraging parties. The only effect of the rejection of the humane and pacific proposition of the British commander, was to compel the preparation of that fleet of small craft, which, under the guns of his galleys, was now penetrating the rivers, and rifling the grain from the wealthy plantations. We have seen Marion opposing himself to this fleet at Georgetown, and have witnessed their success upon the South Santee. The prompt return of our partisan to the head waters of Cooper river, in all probability, preserved that neighborhood from the foragers. With the tidings of their progress up the Combahee, the American light brigade, under General Gist, was ordered to oppose them. It was here that one of those events took place which furnished a conclusive commentary upon the ill-judged resolution by which the cessation of hostilities was rejected, and the British denied the privilege of procuring supplies in a pacific manner. Hearing of the movement of Gist, Col. Laurens, who was attached to his brigade, and was always eager for occasions of distinction, rose from a sick bed to resume the command of his division. He overtook the brigade on the north bank of the Combahee river, near the ferry. Twelve miles below, the extreme end of Chehaw neck protrudes into the bed of the river, which, between these points, is bounded by extensive swamps and rice fields. At this point a redoubt had been thrown up by General Gist. The enemy was already above, on the opposite side of the stream. Laurens solicited the command of this post for the purpose of annoying them in their retreat. Meanwhile, the American cavalry under Major Call, had been ordered round by Salkehatchie bridge, to join with the militia collected in that quarter for the purpose of striking at the enemy. With a howitzer, some matrosses and fifty infantry, Laurens moved down the river, and on the evening of the 26th reached the place of Mrs. Stock, sufficiently near to Chehaw Point to take post there by daylight the next morning. But the British were there before him. Baffled by the light brigade of Gist, in procuring provisions on the south side of the river, they had crossed it, and, apprised of the movements of Laurens, placed an ambush for him on his road to the Point. That night was spent by Laurens among the ladies of the place where he lingered. It is recorded that the company did not separate until a couple of hours before the time when the detachment was set in motion. The prospect of his encounter was the topic of conversation, and with the cheery, elastic spirit of youth, he gaily offered the ladies a conspicuous place from which they might enjoy a sight of the action without incurring its dangers. Before sunrise his voice was hushed for ever. Unsuspicious of an enemy, he rode at the head of his command. The British were posted in a place thickly covered with fennel and high grass. With the advance guard when they were discovered, he promptly ordered a charge, gallantly leading which, he fell at the first fire. Laurens was one of those brave and ardent spirits, generous, high-souled, and immaculate, which, in times of sordid calculation and drilled soldiership, recall to our minds the better days of chivalry. He was the Bayard of the southern youth in the war of the revolution, uniting all the qualities of the famous chevalier, 'sans peur et sans reproche'. That he should have fallen, unnecessarily, at the close of the war, when nothing was to be gained, and nothing to be saved, by valor,--and in an obscure encounter on a field of mere predatory warfare, doubles the mortification of such a close to a noble and admirable career. A lesson from the pure and correct code of Marion's military morals would have saved this precious blood, and preserved this gallant youth for nobler fortunes. The following anecdote will illustrate the admirable character of his mode of thinking on such subjects. While he held his position at Watboo, after he had beaten Frasier, he was advised that a British party, which had been dispatched to procure water at Lempriere's Point, could be cut off with little difficulty. The British were then preparing for embarkation. A parting blow was recommended, as calculated to hurry their movements, as well as to add something to the measure of patriot revenge for the wrongs and resentments of the past. But Marion resolutely refused to sanction the enterprise. His answer proves equally the excellence of his judgment and the benevolence of his heart. "My brigade," said he, "is composed of citizens, enough of whose blood has been shed already. If ordered to attack the enemy, I shall obey; but with my consent, not another life shall be lost, though the event should procure me the highest honors of the soldier. Knowing, as we do, that the enemy are on the eve of departure, so far from offering to molest, I would rather send a party to protect them." This noble feeling would have saved the lives of Laurens, Wilmot, Moore, and other gallant young men, who were sacrificed at the last hour when all provocations to strife had ceased--when the battle was already won--when the great object of the war had been attained by the one party, and yielded, however reluctantly, by the other. Capt. Wilmot, with a small command, was stationed to cover John's Island, and to watch the passage by Stono. Fond of enterprise he was tempted occasionally to cross the river and harass the enemy on James' Island. In one of these adventures, undertaken in conjunction with the celebrated Kosciusko, against an armed party of the enemy's wood-cutters, he fell into an ambuscade, was himself slain, while his second in command, Lieut. Moore, severely wounded, fell into the hands of the British. This was the last blood shed in the American revolution. It need not to have been shed. The denouement of the protracted drama had already taken place. The conquest of the Indians by Pickens was complete; the Tories no longer appeared in bodies, though, for some time after, individuals of the scattered bands occasionally continued the habits of outlawry which the war had taught them, and dealt in deeds of midnight robbery and crime;--and the British armies were simply preparing to depart. On the 14th of December, while the American columns entered the city from the neck, those of the British retired to their ships; the movements of which, as their white sails distended to the breeze, presented, in the language of Moultrie, "a grand and pleasing sight." It was a sight, however, which the militia, always undervalued, always misunderstood and misrepresented, were not permitted to behold. They had fought the battle, it was true, "but the civil authority" conceived their uses to be over, and "they were excluded as dangerous spectators;" an unworthy and most ungrateful decision, in which, we are pleased to learn from a self-exculpatory letter of General Greene, he had no participation, and which he did not approve. The forces of the British withdrawn from the shores of Carolina, the country, exhausted of resources, and filled with malcontents and mourners, was left to recover slowly from the hurts and losses of foreign and intestine strife. Wounds were to be healed which required the assuasive hand of time, which were destined to rankle even in the bosoms of another generation, and the painful memory of which is keenly treasured even now. But the civil authority takes the place of the military, and with the disappearance of the invader, the warrior lays aside his sword,--satisfied if he may still retain the laurels which his valor has won. Our partisan, yielding himself at the call of his country, was not the man to linger unnecessarily long upon the stage. The duties which had called him into the field were faithfully performed; how faithfully it has been the effort of this humble narrative to show. The time was come when he was to part with his brigade forever--when he was to take leave of those brave fellows, whom he had so frequently led to victory, never to dishonor. The separation was touching, but without parade. On this occasion his deportment was as modest as it had been through the whole period of their connection. Gathered around him among the cedars at his Watboo encampment, his followers were assembled to receive his last farewell. The simplicity which had marked his whole career, distinguished its conclusion. His address was brief but not without its eloquence--such eloquence as belongs to the language of unaffected and unadulterated truth. He acknowledged, with thanks, the services of the officers and men; dwelt passingly upon particular events of which they had reason to be proud, and bade them a friendly and affectionate farewell. The brief review which he made of their campaigns was well calculated to awaken the most touching recollections. He had been their father and protector. No commander had ever been more solicitous of the safety and comfort of his men. It was this which had rendered him so sure of their fidelity, which had enabled him to extract from them such admirable service. His simple entreaty stayed their quarrels; and the confidence which they yielded to his love of justice, made them always willing to abide the decisions of his judgment. Officers and men equally yielded to the authority of his opinion, as they did to that which he exercised in the capacity of their commander. No duel took place among his officers during the whole of his command. The province which was assigned to his control by Governor Rutledge, was the constant theatre of war. He was required to cover an immense extent of country. With a force constantly unequal and constantly fluctuating, he contrived to supply its deficiencies by the resources of his own vigilance and skill. His personal bravery was frequently shown, and the fact that he himself conducted an enterprise, was enough to convince his men that they were certain to be led to victory. In due degree with their conviction of his care and consideration for themselves, was their readiness to follow where he commanded. He had no lives to waste, and the game he played was that which enabled him to secure the greatest results, with the smallest amount of hazard. Yet, when the occasion seemed to require it, he could advance and strike with an audacity, which, in the ordinary relations of the leader with the soldier, might well be thought inexcusable rashness. We have, already, in the opening of this biography, adverted to the melancholy baldness of the memorials upon which the historian is compelled to rely for the materials of his narrative. The reader will perceive a singular discrepancy between the actual events detailed in the life of every popular hero, and the peculiar fame which he holds in the minds of his countrymen. Thus, while Marion is everywhere regarded as the peculiar representative in the southern States, of the genius of partisan warfare, we are surprised, when we would trace, in the pages of the annalist, the sources of this fame, to find the details so meagre and so unsatisfactory. Tradition mumbles over his broken memories, which we vainly strive to pluck from his lips and bind together in coherent and satisfactory records. The spirited surprise, the happy ambush, the daring onslaught, the fortunate escape,--these, as they involve no monstrous slaughter--no murderous strife of masses,--no rending of walled towns and sack of cities, the ordinary historian disdains. The military reputation of Marion consists in the frequent performance of deeds, unexpectedly, with inferior means, by which the enemy was annoyed and dispirited, and the hearts and courage of his countrymen warmed into corresponding exertions with his own. To him we owe that the fires of patriotism were never extinguished, even in the most disastrous hours, in the low country of South Carolina. He made our swamps and forests sacred, as well because of the refuge which they gave to the fugitive patriot, as for the frequent sacrifices which they enabled him to make, on the altars of liberty and a becoming vengeance. We are in possession of but few of the numerous enterprises in which he was engaged; imperfect memories of the aged give us glimpses of deeds for the particulars of which we turn in vain to the dusty pages of the chronicler. But we need not generalize farther upon the traits of his military character. We have endeavored to make these speak for themselves, page by page, in the narration of the events, so far as we know them, by which his reputation was acquired. It is enough that his fame has entered largely into that of his country, forming a valuable portion of its sectional stock of character. His memory is in the very hearts of our people. Of the estimation in which he was held by contemporaries more might be said, but these pages bear ample testimony of the consideration which he commanded from friend and foe. The testimonials of Moultrie, Greene, Lee and others, are conclusive of that rare worth and excellence--that combination of military and civil virtues--which biography cannot easily be found to excel. Chapter 21. Marion retires to his Farm, which he finds in Ruins--Is returned to the Senate from St. John--His Course on the Confiscation Act--Anecdotes--Is made Commandant at Fort Johnson--His Marriage--A Member of the State Convention in 1794--Withdraws from Public Life--His Death. It was with no reluctance but with the cheerful preference which Marion had always given, since manhood, to the life of the farmer, that he returned to its simple but attractive avocations. But the world with him was, as it were, to be begun anew; no easy matter to one whose habits had been necessarily rendered irregular by the capricious and desultory influences of a military career; still more difficult in the case of one who has entered upon the last period of life. The close of the Revolution found him destitute of means, almost in poverty, and more than fifty years old. His health was good, however; his frame elastic; his capacity for endurance, seemingly, as great as ever. But his little fortune had suffered irretrievably. His interests had shared the fate of most other Southern patriots, in the long and cruel struggle through which the country had gone. His plantation in St. John's, Berkeley, lay within a mile of one of the ordinary routes of the British army, and his career was not calculated to move them to forbearance in the case of one, whose perpetual activity and skill so constantly baffled their designs. His estate was ravaged, and subjected to constant waste and depredation. One-half of his negroes were taken away, and the rest only saved to him by their fidelity. The refuge in swamp and forest was as natural to the faithful negro, on the approach of the British uniforms, as to the fugitive patriot. Ten workers returned to him, when he was prepared to resume his farm, but he was destitute of everything beside. The implements of culture, plantation utensils, household furniture, stock, cattle and horses, clothes and provisions for his people, were all wanting, and all to be purchased, and he penniless. He received no compensation for his losses, no reward for his sacrifices and services. The hope of half pay was held out to him by his more sanguine friends, but this promise was never realized. But, with that cheerful spirit which hopes all things from time, and a meek compliance with what it brings, Marion proceeded to work out his deliverance by manly industry, and a devotion to his interests as true as that which he had yielded to the interests of his country. He had become fond of rural life, and the temporary estrangement of war seemed only to increase his desire for that repose in action, which the agricultural life in the South so certainly secures. But he was not permitted to retire from public service. The value of his services was too well known, and there was too much yet to be done, towards the repose and security of the country, to suffer them to be dispensed with. He was again returned to the Senate of the State by the people of St. John's. In this situation, he still maintained those noble and disinterested characteristics which had made him equally beloved and venerated. Two anecdotes are preserved of him in his official character, which deserve mention. Both of these grew out of the events of the war. The importance of the Confiscation Act, passed at the session of January, 1782, at Jacksonborough, arose chiefly from the necessity of providing for the emergencies of the State and military, during the continuance of the war. Under existing circumstances, the measure was sustained by our partisan. But the case was altered when the British ministry abandoned their pretensions to the country, and when it was left by their armies. It was then that numerous offenders--those who had been least conspicuous for their Tory predilections--applied for the indulgence and forbearance of the State. Petitions were poured into the Legislature, sustained by such pleas and friends as the circumstances of the suppliants could procure--excusing their conduct, asserting their repentance, and imploring the restoration of their possessions. Marion's course in regard to these suppliants may be inferred from his previous character. There was nothing vindictive in his nature. He was superior to the baser cravings of a dogged vengeance, and his vote and voice declared his magnanimity. It so happened that the first of these petitions upon which he was called to act, came from one of that class of timid, time-serving persons, who, with no predilections for virtue, no sympathy for principles or country, simply shape their course with regard to safety. He was a man of wealth, and the effect of wealth in perilous times is but too frequently to render selfishness equally cowardly and dishonest. The amount of his offence consisted in trimming, while the strife was doubtful, between Whig and Tory, and siding with the latter when the British gained the ascendency. He did not take up arms, took no active part in public affairs, and was content to shelter his person and possessions under a cautious insignificance. About eighteen months before, Marion had met the petitioner at a gathering of the people. The latter approached and offered our partisan his hand. But the juncture was one in which it behooveth patriotism to speak out at all hazards. The struggle was for life and death, on the part equally of Whig and Tory. Marion knew the character of the person, and disdained it. To the surprise of all, who knew how scrupulous of insult he was,--how indulgent and forbearing,--he turned away from the trimmer and the sycophant without recognition. This treatment was greatly censured at the time, and when Marion rose in the Senate, to speak on the subject of the petition of the man whom he had so openly scorned, it was taken for granted that he would again give utterance to feelings of the sort which moved him then. The miserable offender, who was himself present, grew pale, trembled, and gave up his cause as lost. What was his surprise and delight to hear the venerable patriot advocate his application! He was successful in obtaining for the suppliant the mercy which he implored. The opponents of the petitioner, some of whom were of that class of patriots who hunger for the division of the spoils, were aghast, and having counted on Marion's support, now loudly proclaimed his inconsistency. But to these his answer was equally prompt and satisfactory. His reasons were true to his principles. He had been governed in his previous views by the necessity of the case. With the disappearance of that necessity he recognized other laws and influences. "Then," said he, "it was war. It is peace now. God has given us the victory; let us show our gratitude to heaven, which we shall not do by cruelty to man." The expediency of humanity was always the uppermost sentiment with Marion. A nobler expression of it never fell from the lips of mortal. The next anecdote of the legislative career of Marion is one which directly related to himself. At an early period in the action of the Assembly, after the war, it was deemed advisable to introduce a bill by which to exempt from legal investigation the conduct of the militia while the war had lasted. It was thought, justly enough, that, from the nature of the services in which they were engaged, and the necessities which coerced them, they might need, in numerous instances, to be sheltered from legal persecution. They had been compelled to war with a heavy hand, to seize frequently upon private property, and subject the possessions of the citizen to the exigencies of the community. The necessities of the service being recognized, the Legislature were ready to justify them; and the Act which was prepared for the purpose, included amongst others, thus specially exempted, the name of Marion. But, scarcely had it been announced from the paper, when the venerable man arose, and with flushed cheeks and emphatic brevity, demanded that his name should be expunged from the catalogue. He declared himself friendly to the Bill--he believed it to be equally just and necessary; but for his own part, as he was not conscious of any wrong of which he had been guilty, he was not anxious for any immunity. "If," said he, "I have given any occasion for complaint, I am ready to answer in property and person. If I have wronged any man I am willing to make him restitution. If, in a single instance, in the course of my command, I have done that which I cannot fully justify, justice requires that I should suffer for it." So proud was his integrity, so pure and transparent was his happy consciousness of a mind fixed only on good, and regulated by the sternest rules of virtue, and the nicest instincts of gentleness and love! The Bill passed into a law, but the name of Marion, omitted at his requisition, is nowhere present, as showing that he needed other security than that which is afforded to the meanest citizen under the keenest scrutiny of justice. Marion did not confine his objections to the continued operation of the Confiscation Act, to the single instance which we have given. We have reason to believe that his labors to remedy its hardships, and restrain its severities, were uniform and unremitting. There is no doubt that he favored the original bill. He considered it a war measure, and necessary to the prosecution of the war. The propriety of the distinction which he made just after the war was over, obvious enough to us now, was not so evident at a season when the victors were looking after the division of the spoils. The subject became one of considerable excitement, and we may say in this place, that, after time had mollified the popular feeling in some degree, the State admitted the greater number of the offenders to mercy and restored their estates. But there is reason to believe that the humane sentiments which Marion taught, were not universal, and met with most violent opposition. His feelings on the subject were not only declared with frankness, but with warmth and energy. Dining at the table of Governor Matthews, while the strife was highest, he was called upon by his Excellency for a toast. Lifting his glass, with a smile, he promptly gave the following,--"Gentlemen, here's damnation to the Confiscation Act." Though, in the language of Moultrie, "born a soldier", and yielding so many of his youthful and maturer years to the habits of the camp and field, there was nothing of a harsh or imperious nature in his temper or his manner. The deportment of the mere soldier seems to have been his aversion. He preferred the modest and forbearing carriage which is supposed to belong more distinctly to civil than to military life. No novelty of situation, no provocation of circumstance, nothing in the shape of annoyance or disaster, was suffered so to ruffle his mood as to make him heedless or indifferent to the claims or sensibilities of others. He never conceived that any of his virtues gave him a right to trespass upon the proprieties of social or public life. An anecdote is related of him which illustrates the veneration which he entertained for the regulations of society and law. It appears that, when the war was over, one of his closest intimates and nearest friends--one whom he had trusted long, and who had shared with him in all his campaigns, stood within the perils of the law for some offence of which the facts have not been preserved. Presuming upon his well-known services, and the favor in which he was held by the public, he refused to submit to the ordinary legal process, and bade defiance to the sheriff. While maintaining this position, Marion sought him out. He used no argument to convince the offender of his error, for that, he felt assured, the other sufficiently knew. But he addressed him in a style, and with words, which conveyed much more than any ordinary argument. "Deliver yourself," said he, "into the hands of justice--submit to the process of the sheriff, and my heart and hand are yours as before; --resist,--refuse,--and we are separated for ever." It need not be said that under such an exhortation the refractory spirit was subdued. How much to be regretted it is that so few anecdotes have been preserved of his character, illustrating a life which, according to all testimony, was consistent throughout in a just appreciation of all that was pure, virtuous and becoming, in the character of the individual man. Early in the year 1783, the following resolutions passed in the Senate of South Carolina, Marion, who was a member, not being present at the time: Senate, South Carolina, February 26, 1783. "RESOLVED, nem. con., That the thanks of this House be given to Brigadier General Marion, in his place, as a member of this House, for his eminent and conspicuous services to his country. "RESOLVED, nem. con., That a gold medal be given to Brigadier General Marion, as a mark of public approbation for his great, glorious, and meritorious conduct." Two days after, Marion being in his place in the Senate, the President took occasion to convey to him the sense of these resolutions, in a neat and highly laudatory speech. He said, among other things-- "When I consider the occasion which calls me to address you, I am filled with inexpressible pleasure; but when I reflect on the difficulty of doing justice to your distinguished merit, I feel my own inefficiency. What sentiments or words shall I make use of equal to the task! I scarce dare trust my own, especially after what has been said by several honorable persons on this floor, respecting your great, your glorious, and meritorious conduct; and I most earnestly wish, for my own sake, for yours, Sir, and for the honor of this House, that I could avail myself of their eloquence.... Your conduct merits the applause of your countrymen--your courage, your vigilance, and your abilities have exceeded their most sanguine expectations; and have answered all their hopes. Whilst the virtue of gratitude shall form a part of our national character, your important services to this country can never be forgotten," &c. To this Marion replied with simple brevity: "MR. PRESIDENT: The approbation which this House have given of my conduct, in the execution of my duty, gives me very pleasing and heartfelt satisfaction. The honor which they have conferred on me this day, by their thanks, will be remembered with gratitude. I shall always be ready to exert my abilities for the good of the state and the liberties of her inhabitants. I thank you, Sir, for the polite manner in which you have conveyed to me the thanks of the Senate." Whether the medal was really given, or only voted, is a fact that we have no means of ascertaining. It is to be feared that the action of the Senate went no farther than the resolution and the speech. It probably remains a reproach against the republic, in this, as in numerous other instances, that, knowing what gratitude required, we would yet forego the satisfaction of the debt. Cheaply, at best, was our debt to Marion satisfied, with a gold medal, or the vote of one, while Greene received ten thousand guineas and a plantation. We quarrel not with the appropriation to Greene, but did Marion deserve less from Carolina? Every page of her history answers "No!" By the Legislative session of 1784, Fort Johnson, in the harbor of Charleston, was fitted up and garrisoned by the State. In the unstable condition of things, so immediately after the war, some such fortress might well be deemed essential to the security of the port. Marion was appointed Commandant of the Fort, with an annual salary of 500 Pounds. The office was in all probability made for him. His necessities were known, and its salary was intended to compensate him for his losses during the war. But the duties of the office were nominal. Even its possible uses soon ceased to be apparent; and, with a daily increasing sense of security, the people murmured at an appropriation which they considered unnecessarily burdensome. The common mind could not well perceive that the salary was not so much yielded for what was expected of the office, as for what had already been performed. It was not given for present, but for past services. It was the payment of a debt incurred, not a simple appropriation for the liquidation of one growing out of current performances. Legislative reformers waged constant war against it, and it was finally cut down to five hundred dollars. A smile of fortune,--one of the fairest perhaps, that had ever shone on our hero,--just then relieved him from the mortifying necessity of holding a sinecure which his fellow citizens pronounced an encumbrance. It had been observed by his friends that there was a lady of good family and considerable wealth, who appeared to take a more than ordinary interest in hearing of his exploits. Modest and reserved himself, Marion was not conscious of the favorable impression which he had made upon this lady. It was left for others to discover the state of her affections. They remarked the delight with which, like "The gentle lady wedded to the Moor," she listened to the tale of his achievements, his "Hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe."-- and they augured favorably of the success of any desire which he might express to make her the sharer in his future fortunes. On this hint he spake. Miss Mary Videau, like himself, came of the good old Huguenot stock, the virtues of which formed our theme in the opening chapter of this narrative. He proposed to her and was accepted. Neither of them was young. It was not in the heyday of passion that they loved. The tie that bound them sprang from an affection growing out of a just appreciation of their mutual merits. She is reported to have somewhat resembled him as well in countenance as character. She certainly shared warmly in his interests and feelings. She readily conformed to his habits no less than his wishes--partook of his amusements, shared his journeys--which were frequent--and still, in his absence, could listen with as keen a zest to his praises, as before their marriage. During the summer months, it was his almost yearly custom to retire to the mountains of the interior. She was always his companion. On such occasions, he was guilty of a piece of military ostentation of which nobody could have accused him while a military man. He had preserved carefully, as memorials of an eventful history, his marquee, camp bed, and cooking utensils, just as he had done while in the Brigade, during the last twelve months of his military life. These were carefully taken with him; and, with his faithful servant Oscar, and his two sumpter mules, were still the companions of his wanderings. They were coupled no doubt with many associations as interesting to his heart as they were trying to his experience. They were, perhaps, doubly precious, as they constituted the sum total of all that he had gathered--besides an honorable fame--from his various campaignings. The marriage of Marion, like that of Washington, was without fruits. This may have baffled some hopes, and in some degree qualified his happiness, but did not impair his virtues. He adopted the son of a relative, to whom he gave his own name, in the hope of perpetuating it in the family, but even this desire has been defeated, since the heir thus chosen, though blessed with numerous children, was never so fortunate as to own a son. In the decline of life, in the modest condition of the farmer, Marion seems to have lived among his neighbors, very much as the ancient patriarch, surrounded by his flock. He was honored and beloved by all. His dwelling was the abode of content and cheerful hospitality. Its doors were always open; and the chronicler records that it had many chambers. Here the stranger found a ready welcome, and his neighbors a friendly counsellor, to the last. His active habits were scarcely lessened in the latter years of life. His agricultural interests were managed judiciously, and his property underwent annual increase. Nor did his domestic interests and declining years prevent him from serving the public still. He still held a commission in the militia, and continued to represent the parish of St. John's, in the Senate of the State. In May, 1790, we find him sitting as a member of the Convention for forming the State Constitution; but from this period he withdrew from public life, and, in 1794, after the reorganization of the State militia, he resigned his commission in that service to which he had done so much honor. On this occasion he was addressed by an assembly of the citizens of Georgetown, through a special committee of four, in the following language.* * The committee consisted of Messrs. William D. James, Robert Brownfield, Thomas Mitchell, and Joseph Blythe.-- "CITIZEN GENERAL--At the present juncture, when the necessity of public affairs requires the military of this State to be organized anew, to repel the attacks of an enemy from whatever quarter they may be forced upon us; we, the citizens of the district of Georgetown, finding you no longer at our head, have agreed to convey to you our grateful sentiments for your former numerous services. In the decline of life, when the merits of the veteran are too often forgotten, we wish to remind you that yours are still fresh in the remembrance of your fellow citizens. Could it be possible for men who have served and fought under you, to be now forgetful of that General, by whose prudent conduct their lives have been saved and their families preserved from being plundered by a rapacious enemy? We mean not to flatter you. At this time it is impossible to suspect it. Our present language is the language of freemen, expressing only sentiments of gratitude. Your achievements may not have sufficiently swelled the historic page. They were performed by those who could better wield the sword than the pen--by men whose constant dangers precluded them from the leisure, and whose necessities deprived them of the common implements of writing. But this is of little moment. They remain recorded in such indelible characters upon our minds, that neither change of circumstances, nor length of time, can efface them. Taught by us, our children shall hereafter point out the places, and say, 'HERE, General Marion, posted to advantage, made a glorious stand in defence of the liberties of his country--THERE, on disadvantageous ground, retreated to save the lives of his fellow citizens.' What could be more glorious for the General, commanding freemen, than thus to fight, and thus to save the lives of his fellow soldiers? Continue, General, in peace, to till those acres which you once wrested from the hands of an enemy. Continue to enjoy dignity accompanied with ease, and to lengthen out your days blessed with the consciousness of conduct unaccused of rapine or oppression, and of actions ever directed by the purest patriotism." The artless language of this address was grateful to the venerable patriot. In its truth and simplicity lay its force and eloquence. It had truly embodied in a single sentence the noble points of his career and character. He lived in the delightful consciousness of a pure mind, free from accusation--and no higher eulogy could be conferred upon the captain of citizen soldiers, than to say, he never wantonly exposed their lives, but was always solicitous of their safety. To this address his answer was verbal. He no longer used the pen. The feebleness of nature was making itself understood. That he felt himself failing may be inferred from his withdrawal from all public affairs. But his mind was cheerful and active to the last. He still saw his friends and neighbors, and welcomed their coming--could still mount his horse and cast his 'eye over his acres.' The progress of decline, in his case, was not of that humiliating kind, by which the faculties of the intellect are clouded, and the muscles of the body made feeble and incompetent. He spoke thoughtfully of the great concerns of life, of death, and of the future; declared himself a Christian, a humble believer in all the vital truths of religion. As of the future he entertained no doubt, so of the awful transition through the valley and shadow of death, he had no fear. "Death may be to others," said he, "a leap in the dark, but I rather consider it a resting-place where old age may throw off its burdens." He died, peaceful and assured, with no apparent pain, and without regret, at his residence in St. John's parish, on the 27th day of February, 1795, having reached the mature and mellow term of sixty-three years. His last words declared his superiority to all fears of death; "for, thank God," said he, "I can lay my hand on my heart and say that, since I came to man's estate, I have never intentionally done wrong to any." Thus died Francis Marion, one of the noblest models of the citizen soldier that the world has ever produced. Brave without rashness, prudent without timidity, firm without arrogance, resolved without rudeness, good without cant, and virtuous without presumption. His mortal remains are preserved at Belle-Isle, in St. John's parish. The marble slab which covers them bears the following inscription:--"Sacred to the memory of Brigadier-General Francis Marion, who departed this life on the 29th of Feb., 1795, in the sixty-third year of his age, deeply regretted by all his fellow citizens. History will record his worth, and rising generations embalm his memory, as one of the most distinguished patriots and heroes of the American Revolution; which elevated his native country to honor and Independence, and secured to her the blessings of liberty and peace. This tribute of veneration and gratitude is erected in commemoration of the noble and disinterested virtues of the citizen, and the gallant exploits of the soldier, who lived without fear, and died without reproach." This inscription was the tribute of an individual, not of the country. The State of South Carolina has conferred his name upon one of its district divisions. But a proper gratitude, not to speak of policy, would seem to require more "If it be we love His fame and virtues, it were well, methinks, To link them with his name i' the public eye, That men, who in the paths of gainful trade, Do still forget the venerable and good, May have such noble monitor still nigh, And, musing at his monument, recall, Those precious memories of the deeds of one Whose life were the best model for their sons." [End of original text.] Appendix A. Notes on the electronic text. The great majority of changes in this electronic edition, from the original, are in spelling (some words are spelled both ways in the original). To wit: partizan :: partisan. merchandize :: merchandise. duresse :: duress. ancle :: ankle. swamp-fox :: swamp fox. (The modern spelling.) co-operate :: cooperate. bivouack :: bivouac. head-quarters :: headquarters. secresy :: secrecy. patrole :: patrol. A number of spellings which might be considered errors, and might not, have been retained, where they are less likely to interfere with reading. When the true facts were known, either from context or outside reading, a few other errors were corrected. A couple are footnoted in the text. Otherwise, the larger changes are: Chapter 5 (p. 59 of the original): "Weems, in his life of our author" has been changed to "Weems, in his life of our subject". Chapter 6 (p. 80): "while the second North Carolina regiment" has been changed to "while the second South Carolina regiment". Chapter 14, last paragraph (p. 239): "Mrs. Moultrie" has been changed to "Mrs. Motte". These errors are not merely represented here for their scholastic interest, but also to give the reader an appreciation of the types of errors which Simms was frequently subject to make. Many have most certainly not been caught--if I had not lived in the Waxhaw area, I certainly would not have known of the error (footnoted in the text) which replaced 'Waxhaw' with 'Warsaw'--two very different regions. Names are particularly prone to error, not only by Simms, but from the whole revolutionary era in the South--many of the people were only semi-literate, if literate at all, and many of the names have been spelled several, even a dozen ways--sometimes even by the individual named. For all this, the errors of Simms are generally minor, and will not prevent the reader from a true appreciation of both Marion and Simms. Alan R. Light, Birmingham, Alabama. December, 1996. Appendix B. Song of Marion's Men. By William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]. As this poem is quoted in part by Simms at the very beginning of the book, I have considered it appropriate to include the whole here: Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again. And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our shore. 
26240	----	THE CLANSMAN ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Illustrations Shown in This Edition Are Reproductions of Scenes from the Photo-Play of "The Birth of a Nation" Produced and Copyrighted by The Epoch Producing Corporation, to Whom the Publishers Desire to Express Their Thanks and Appreciation for Permission to Use the Pictures. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: THE REIGN OF THE KLAN] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CLANSMAN An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan By THOMAS DIXON Author Of The Leopard's Spots, Comrades, Etc. Illustrated With Scenes From The Photo-Play THE BIRTH OF A NATION Produced And Copyrighted By Epoch Producing Corporation GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers :: New York ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright, 1905 BY THOMAS DIXON, JR. The Country Life Press, Garden City, N. Y. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- TO THE MEMORY OF A SCOTCH-IRISH LEADER OF THE SOUTH MY UNCLE, COLONEL LEROY MCAFEE GRAND TITAN OF THE INVISIBLE EMPIRE KU KLUX KLAN ------------------------------------------------------------------------- TO THE READER "The Clansman" is the second book of a series of historical novels planned on the Race Conflict. "The Leopard's Spots" was the statement in historical outline of the conditions from the enfranchisement of the negro to his disfranchisement. "The Clansman" develops the true story of the "Ku Klux Klan Conspiracy," which overturned the Reconstruction régime. The organization was governed by the Grand Wizard Commander-in-Chief, who lived at Memphis, Tennessee. The Grand Dragon commanded a State, the Grand Titan a Congressional District, the Grand Giant a County, and the Grand Cyclops a Township Den. The twelve volumes of Government reports on the famous Klan refer chiefly to events which occurred after 1870, the date of its dissolution. The chaos of blind passion that followed Lincoln's assassination is inconceivable to-day. The revolution it produced in our Government, and the bold attempt of Thaddeus Stevens to Africanize ten great States of the American Union, read now like tales from "The Arabian Nights." I have sought to preserve in this romance both the letter and the spirit of this remarkable period. The men who enact the drama of fierce revenge into which I have woven a double love story are historical figures. I have merely changed their names without taking a liberty with any essential historic fact. In the darkest hour of the life of the South, when her wounded people lay helpless amid rags and ashes under the beak and talon of the Vulture, suddenly from the mists of the mountains appeared a white cloud the size of a man's hand. It grew until its mantle of mystery enfolded the stricken earth and sky. An "Invisible Empire" had risen from the field of Death and challenged the Visible to mortal combat. How the young South, led by the reincarnated souls of the Clansmen of Old Scotland, went forth under this cover and against overwhelming odds, daring exile, imprisonment, and a felon's death, and saved the life of a people, forms one of the most dramatic chapters in the history of the Aryan race. Thomas Dixon, Jr. Dixondale, Va. December 14, 1904. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS BOOK I THE ASSASSINATION CHAPTER PAGE I. The Bruised Reed 3 II. The Great Heart 19 III. The Man of War 33 IV. A Clash of Giants 38 IV. The Battle of Love 56 VI. The Assassination 61 VII. The Frenzy of a Nation 80 BOOK II THE REVOLUTION CHAPTER PAGE I. The First Lady of the Land 90 II. Sweethearts 101 III. The Joy of Living 112 IV. Hidden Treasure 115 V. Across the Chasm 120 VI. The Gauge of Battle 131 VII. A Woman Laughs 136 VIII. A Dream 148 IX. The King Amuses Himself 152 X. Tossed by the Storm 162 XI. The Supreme Test 165 XII. Triumph in Defeat 179 BOOK III THE REIGN OF TERROR CHAPTER PAGE I. A Fallen Slaveholder's Mansion 187 II. The Eyes of the Jungle 204 III. Augustus Cæsar 209 IV. At the Point of the Bayonet 218 V. Forty Acres and a Mule 235 VI. A Whisper in the Crowd 244 VII. By the Light of a Torch 254 VIII. The Riot in the Master's Hall 263 IX. At Lover's Leap 276 X. A Night Hawk 284 XI. The Beat of a Sparrow's Wing 297 XII. At the Dawn of Day 305 BOOK IV THE KU KLUX KLAN CHAPTER PAGE I. The Hunt for the Animal 309 II. The Fiery Cross 318 III. The Parting of the Ways 327 IV. The Banner of the Dragon 337 V. The Reign of the Klan 341 VI. The Counter Stroke 351 VII. The Snare of the Fowler 358 VIII. A Ride for a Life 362 IX. "Vengeance Is Mine" 369 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY Scene: Washington and the Foothills of the Carolinas. Time: 1865 to 1870. Ben Cameron Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan Margaret His Sister Mrs. Cameron His Mother Dr. Richard Cameron His Father Hon. Austin Stoneman Radical Leader of Congress Phil His Son Elsie His Daughter Marion Lenoir Ben's First Love Mrs. Lenoir Her Mother Jake A Faithful Man Silas Lynch A Negro Missionary Uncle Aleck The Member from Ulster Cindy His Wife Colonel Howle A Carpet-bagger Augustus Cæsar Of the Black Guard Charles Sumner Of Massachusetts Gen. Benjamin F. Butler Of Fort Fisher Andrew Johnson The President U. S. Grant The Commanding General Abraham Lincoln The Friend of the South ------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CLANSMAN ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Book I--The Assassination CHAPTER I THE BRUISED REED The fair girl who was playing a banjo and singing to the wounded soldiers suddenly stopped, and, turning to the surgeon, whispered: "What's that?" "It sounds like a mob----" With a common impulse they moved to the open window of the hospital and listened. On the soft spring air came the roar of excited thousands sweeping down the avenue from the Capitol toward the White House. Above all rang the cries of struggling newsboys screaming an "Extra." One of them darted around the corner, his shrill voice quivering with excitement: "_Extra! Extra! Peace! Victory!_" Windows were suddenly raised, women thrust their heads out, and others rushed into the street and crowded around the boy, struggling to get his papers. He threw them right and left and snatched the money--no one asked for change. Without ceasing rose his cry: "_Extra! Peace! Victory! Lee has surrendered!_" At last the end had come. The great North, with its millions of sturdy people and their exhaustless resources, had greeted the first shot on Sumter with contempt and incredulity. A few regiments went forward for a month's outing to settle the trouble. The Thirteenth Brooklyn marched gayly Southward on a thirty days' jaunt, with pieces of rope conspicuously tied to their muskets with which to bring back each man a Southern prisoner to be led in a noose through the streets on their early triumphant return! It would be unkind to tell what became of those ropes when they suddenly started back home ahead of the scheduled time from the first battle of Bull Run. People from the South, equally wise, marched gayly North, to whip five Yankees each before breakfast, and encountered unforeseen difficulties. Both sides had things to learn, and learned them in a school whose logic is final--a four years' course in the University of Hell--the scream of eagles, the howl of wolves, the bay of tigers, the roar of lions--all locked in Death's embrace, and each mad scene lit by the glare of volcanoes of savage passions! But the long agony was over. The city bells began to ring. The guns of the forts joined the chorus, and their deep steel throats roared until the earth trembled. Just across the street a mother who was reading the fateful news turned and suddenly clasped a boy to her heart, crying for joy. The last draft of half a million had called for him. The Capital of the Nation was shaking off the long nightmare of horror and suspense. More than once the city had shivered at the mercy of those daring men in gray, and the reveille of their drums had startled even the President at his desk. Again and again had the destiny of the Republic hung on the turning of a hair, and in every crisis, Luck, Fate, God, had tipped the scale for the Union. A procession of more than five hundred Confederate deserters, who had crossed the lines in groups, swung into view, marching past the hospital, indifferent to the tumult. Only a nominal guard flanked them as they shuffled along, tired, ragged, and dirty. The gray in their uniforms was now the colour of clay. Some had on blue pantaloons, some, blue vests, others blue coats captured on the field of blood. Some had pieces of carpet, and others old bags around their shoulders. They had been passing thus for weeks. Nobody paid any attention to them. "One of the secrets of the surrender!" exclaimed Doctor Barnes. "Mr. Lincoln has been at the front for the past weeks with offers of peace and mercy, if they would lay down their arms. The great soul of the President, even the genius of Lee could not resist. His smile began to melt those gray ranks as the sun is warming the earth to-day." "You are a great admirer of the President," said the girl, with a curious smile. "Yes, Miss Elsie, and so are all who know him." She turned from the window without reply. A shadow crossed her face as she looked past the long rows of cots, on which rested the men in blue, until her eyes found one on which lay, alone among his enemies, a young Confederate officer. The surgeon turned with her toward the man. "Will he live?" she asked. "Yes, only to be hung." "For what?" she cried. "Sentenced by court-martial as a guerilla. It's a lie, but there's some powerful hand back of it--some mysterious influence in high authority. The boy wasn't fully conscious at the trial." "We must appeal to Mr. Stanton." "As well appeal to the devil. They say the order came from his office." "A boy of nineteen!" she exclaimed. "It's a shame. I'm looking for his mother. You told me to telegraph to Richmond for her." "Yes, I'll never forget his cries that night, so utterly pitiful and childlike. I've heard many a cry of pain, but in all my life nothing so heartbreaking as that boy in fevered delirium talking to his mother. His voice is one of peculiar tenderness, penetrating and musical. It goes quivering into your soul, and compels you to listen until you swear it's your brother or sweetheart or sister or mother calling you. You should have seen him the day he fell. God of mercies, the pity and the glory of it!" [Illustration: "YOUR BROTHER SPRANG FORWARD AND CAUGHT HIM IN HIS ARMS."] "Phil wrote me that he was a hero and asked me to look after him. Were you there?" "Yes, with the battery your brother was supporting. He was the colonel of a shattered rebel regiment lying just in front of us before Petersburg. Richmond was doomed, resistance was madness, but there they were, ragged and half starved, a handful of men, not more than four hundred, but their bayonets gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. In the face of a murderous fire he charged and actually drove our men out of an entrenchment. We concentrated our guns on him as he crouched behind this earthwork. Our own men lay outside in scores, dead, dying, and wounded. When the fire slacked, we could hear their cries for water. "Suddenly this boy sprang on the breastwork. He was dressed in a new gray colonel's uniform that mother of his, in the pride of her soul, had sent him. "He was a handsome figure--tall, slender, straight, a gorgeous yellow sash tasselled with gold around his waist, his sword flashing in the sun, his slouch hat cocked on one side and an eagle's feather in it. "We thought he was going to lead another charge, but just as the battery was making ready to fire he deliberately walked down the embankment in a hail of musketry and began to give water to our wounded men. "Every gun ceased firing, and we watched him. He walked back to the trench, his naked sword flashed suddenly above that eagle's feather, and his grizzled ragamuffins sprang forward and charged us like so many demons. "There were not more than three hundred of them now, but on they came, giving that hellish rebel yell at every jump--the cry of the hunter from the hilltop at the sight of his game! All Southern men are hunters, and that cry was transformed in war into something unearthly when it came from a hundred throats in chorus and the game was human. "Of course, it was madness. We blew them down that hill like chaff before a hurricane. When the last man had staggered back or fallen, on came this boy alone, carrying the colours he had snatched from a falling soldier, as if he were leading a million men to victory. "A bullet had blown his hat from his head, and we could see the blood streaming down the side of his face. He charged straight into the jaws of one of our guns. And then, with a smile on his lips and a dare to death in his big brown eyes, he rammed that flag into the cannon's mouth, reeled, and fell! A cheer broke from our men. "Your brother sprang forward and caught him in his arms, and as we bent over the unconscious form, he exclaimed: 'My God, doctor, look at him! He is so much like me I feel as if I had been shot myself!' They were as much alike as twins--only his hair was darker. I tell you, Miss Elsie, it's a sin to kill men like that. One such man is worth more to this nation than every negro that ever set his flat foot on this continent!" The girl's eyes had grown dim as she listened to the story. "I will appeal to the President," she said firmly. "It's the only chance. And just now he is under tremendous pressure. His friendly order to the Virginia Legislature to return to Richmond, Stanton forced him to cancel. A master hand has organized a conspiracy in Congress to crush the President. They curse his policy of mercy as imbecility, and swear to make the South a second Poland. Their watchwords are vengeance and confiscation. Four fifths of his party in Congress are in this plot. The President has less than a dozen real friends in either House on whom he can depend. They say that Stanton is to be given a free hand, and that the gallows will be busy. This cancelled order of the President looks like it." "I'll try my hand with Mr. Stanton," she said with slow emphasis. "Good luck, Little Sister--let me know if I can help," the surgeon answered cheerily as he passed on his round of work. Elsie Stoneman took her seat beside the cot of the wounded Confederate and began softly to sing and play. A little farther along the same row a soldier was dying, a faint choking just audible in his throat. An attendant sat beside him and would not leave till the last. The ordinary chat and hum of the ward went on indifferent to peace, victory, life, or death. Before the finality of the hospital all other events of earth fade. Some were playing cards or checkers, some laughing and joking, and others reading. At the first soft note from the singer the games ceased, and the reader put down his book. The banjo had come to Washington with the negroes following the wake of the army. She had laid aside her guitar and learned to play all the stirring camp songs of the South. Her voice was low, soothing, and tender. It held every silent listener in a spell. As she played and sang the songs the wounded man loved, her eyes lingered in pity on his sun-bronzed face, pinched and drawn with fever. He was sleeping the stupid sleep that gives no rest. She could count the irregular pounding of his heart in the throb of the big vein on his neck. His lips were dry and burnt, and the little boyish moustache curled upward from the row of white teeth as if scorched by the fiery breath. He began to talk in flighty sentences, and she listened--his mother--his sister--and yes, she was sure as she bent nearer--a little sweetheart who lived next door. They all had sweethearts--these Southern boys. Again he was teasing his dog--and then back in battle. At length he opened his eyes, great dark-brown eyes, unnaturally bright, with a strange yearning look in their depths as they rested on Elsie. He tried to smile and feebly said: "Here's--a--fly--on--my--left--ear--my--guns--can't--somehow-- reach--him--won't--you--" She sprang forward and brushed the fly away. Again he opened his eyes. "Excuse--me--for--asking--but am I alive?" "Yes, indeed," was the cheerful answer. "Well, now, then, is this me, or is it not me, or has a cannon shot me, or has the devil got me?" "It's you. The cannon didn't shoot you, but three muskets did. The devil hasn't got you yet, but he will unless you're good." "I'll be good if you won't leave me----" Elsie turned her head away smiling, and he went on slowly: "But I'm dead, I know. I'm sleeping on a cot with a canopy over it. I ain't hungry any more, and an angel has been hovering over me playing on a harp of gold----" "Only a little Yankee girl playing the banjo." "Can't fool me--I'm in heaven." "You're in the hospital." "Funny hospital--look at that harp and that big trumpet hanging close by it--that's Gabriel's trumpet----" "No," she laughed. "This is the Patent Office building, that covers two blocks, now a temporary hospital. There are seventy thousand wounded soldiers in town, and more coming on every train. The thirty-five hospitals are overcrowded." He closed his eyes a moment in silence, and then spoke with a feeble tremor: "I'm afraid you don't know who I am--I can't impose on you--I'm a rebel----" "Yes, I know. You are Colonel Ben Cameron. It makes no difference to me now which side you fought on." "Well, I'm in heaven--been dead a long time. I can prove it, if you'll play again." "What shall I play?" "First, '_O Jonny Booker Help dis Nigger_.'" She played and sang it beautifully. "Now, '_Wake Up in the Morning_.'" Again he listened with wide, staring eyes that saw nothing except visions within. "Now, then, '_The Ole Gray Hoss_.'" As the last notes died away he tried to smile again: "One more--'_Hard Times an' Wuss er Comin'_.'" With deft, sure touch and soft negro dialect she sang it through. "Now, didn't I tell you that you couldn't fool me? No Yankee girl could play and sing these songs, I'm in heaven, and you're an angel." "Aren't you ashamed of yourself to flirt with me, with one foot in the grave?" "That's the time to get on good terms with the angels--but I'm done dead----" Elsie laughed in spite of herself. "I know it," he went on, "because you have shining golden hair and amber eyes instead of blue ones. I never saw a girl in my life before with such eyes and hair." "But you're young yet." "Never--was--such--a--girl--on--earth--you're--an----" She lifted her finger in warning, and his eyelids drooped In exhausted stupor. "You musn't talk any more," she whispered, shaking her head. A commotion at the door caused Elsie to turn from the cot. A sweet motherly woman of fifty, in an old faded black dress, was pleading with the guard to be allowed to pass. "Can't do it, m'um. It's agin the rules." "But I must go in. I've tramped for four days through a wilderness of hospitals, and I know he must be here." "Special orders, m'um--wounded rebels in here that belong in prison." "Very well, young man," said the pleading voice. "My baby boy's in this place, wounded and about to die. I'm going in there. You can shoot me if you like, or you can turn your head the other way." She stepped quickly past the soldier, who merely stared with dim eyes out the door and saw nothing. She stood for a moment with a look of helpless bewilderment. The vast area of the second story of the great monolithic pile was crowded with rows of sick, wounded, and dying men--a strange, solemn, and curious sight. Against the walls were ponderous glass cases, filled with models of every kind of invention the genius of man had dreamed. Between these cases were deep lateral openings, eight feet wide, crowded with the sick, and long rows of them were stretched through the centre of the hall. A gallery ran around above the cases, and this was filled with cots. The clatter of the feet of passing surgeons and nurses over the marble floor added to the weird impression. Elsie saw the look of helpless appeal in the mother's face and hurried forward to meet her: "Is this Mrs. Cameron, of South Carolina?" The trembling figure in black grasped her hand eagerly: "Yes, yes, my dear, and I'm looking for my boy, who is wounded unto death. Can you help me?" "I thought I recognized you from a miniature I've seen," she answered softly. "I'll lead you direct to his cot." "Thank you, thank you!" came the low reply. In a moment she was beside him, and Elsie walked away to the open window through which came the chirp of sparrows from the lilac bushes in full bloom below. The mother threw one look of infinite tenderness on the drawn face, and her hands suddenly clasped in prayer: "I thank Thee, Lord Jesus, for this hour! Thou hast heard the cry of my soul and led my feet!" She gently knelt, kissed the hot lips, smoothed the dark tangled hair back from his forehead, and her hand rested over his eyes. A faint flush tinged his face. "It's you, Mamma--I--know--you--that's--your--hand--or--else--it's--God's!" She slipped her arms about him. "My hero, my darling, my baby!" "I'll get well now, Mamma, never fear. You see, I had whipped them that day as I had many a time before. I don't know how it happened--my men seemed all to go down at once. You know--I couldn't surrender in that new uniform of a colonel you sent me--we made a gallant fight, and--now--I'm--just--a--little--tired--but you are here, and it's all right." "Yes, yes, dear. It's all over now. General Lee has surrendered, and when you are better I'll take you home, where the sunshine and flowers will give you strength again." "How's my little sis?" "Hunting in another part of the city for you. She's grown so tall and stately you'll hardly know her. Your papa is at home, and don't know yet that you are wounded." "And my sweetheart, Marion Lenoir?" "The most beautiful little girl in Piedmont--as sweet and mischievous as ever. Mr. Lenoir is very ill, but he has written a glorious poem about one of your charges. I'll show it to you to-morrow. He is our greatest poet. The South worships him. Marion sent her love to you and a kiss for the young hero of Piedmont. I'll give it to you now." She bent again and kissed him. "And my dogs?" "General Sherman left them, at least." "Well, I'm glad of that--my mare all right?" "Yes, but we had a time to save her--Jake hid her in the woods till the army passed." "Bully for Jake." "I don't know what we should have done without him." "Old Aleck still at home and getting drunk as usual?" "No, he ran away with the army and persuaded every negro on the Lenoir place to go, except his wife, Aunt Cindy." "The old rascal, when Mrs. Lenoir's mother saved him from burning to death when he was a boy!" "Yes, and he told the Yankees those fire scars were made with the lash, and led a squad to the house one night to burn the barns. Jake headed them off and told on him. The soldiers were so mad they strung him up and thrashed him nearly to death. We haven't seen him since." "Well, I'll take care of you, Mamma, when I get home. Of course I'll get well. It's absurd to die at nineteen. You know I never believed the bullet had been moulded that could hit me. In three years of battle I lived a charmed life and never got a scratch." His voice had grown feeble and laboured, and his face flushed. His mother placed her hand on his lips. "Just one more," he pleaded feebly. "Did you see the little angel who has been playing and singing for me? You must thank her." "Yes, I see her coming now. I must go and tell Margaret, and we will get a pass and come every day." She kissed him, and went to meet Elsie. "And you are the dear girl who has been playing and singing for my boy, a wounded stranger here alone among his foes?" "Yes, and for all the others, too." Mrs. Cameron seized both of her hands and looked at her tenderly. "You will let me kiss you? I shall always love you." She pressed Elsie to her heart. In spite of the girl's reserve, a sob caught her breath at the touch of the warm lips. Her own mother had died when she was a baby, and a shy, hungry heart, long hidden from the world, leaped in tenderness and pain to meet that embrace. Elsie walked with her to the door, wondering how the terrible truth of her boy's doom could be told. She tried to speak, looked into Mrs. Cameron's face, radiant with grateful joy, and the words froze on her lips. She decided to walk a little way with her. But the task became all the harder. At the corner she stopped abruptly and bade her good-bye: "I must leave you now, Mrs. Cameron. I will call for you in the morning and help you secure the passes to enter the hospital." The mother stroked the girl's hand and held it lingeringly. "How good you are," she said softly. "And you have not told me your name?" Elsie hesitated and said: "That's a little secret. They call me Sister Elsie, the Banjo Maid, in the hospitals. My father is a man of distinction. I should be annoyed if my full name were known. I'm Elsie Stoneman. My father is the leader of the House. I live with my aunt." "Thank you," she whispered, pressing her hand. Elsie watched the dark figure disappear in the crowd with a strange tumult of feeling. The mention of her father had revived the suspicion that he was the mysterious power threatening the policy of the President and planning a reign of terror for the South. Next to the President, he was the most powerful man in Washington, and the unrelenting foe of Mr. Lincoln, although the leader of his party in Congress, which he ruled with a rod of iron. He was a man of fierce and terrible resentments. And yet, in his personal life, to those he knew, he was generous and considerate. "Old Austin Stoneman, the Great Commoner," he was called, and his name was one to conjure with in the world of deeds. To this fair girl he was the noblest Roman of them all, her ideal of greatness. He was an indulgent father, and while not demonstrative, loved his children with passionate devotion. She paused and looked up at the huge marble columns that seemed each a sentinel beckoning her to return within to the cot that held a wounded foe. The twilight had deepened, and the soft light of the rising moon had clothed the solemn majesty of the building with shimmering tenderness and beauty. "Why should I be distressed for one, an enemy, among these thousands who have fallen?" she asked herself. Every detail of the scene she had passed through with him and his mother stood out in her soul with startling distinctness--and the horror of his doom cut with the deep sense of personal anguish. "He shall not die," she said, with sudden resolution. "I'll take his mother to the President. He can't resist her. I'll send for Phil to help me." She hurried to the telegraph office and summoned her brother. CHAPTER II THE GREAT HEART The next morning, when Elsie reached the obscure boarding-house at which Mrs. Cameron stopped, the mother had gone to the market to buy a bunch of roses to place beside her boy's cot. As Elsie awaited her return, the practical little Yankee maid thought with a pang of the tenderness and folly of such people. She knew this mother had scarcely enough to eat, but to her bread was of small importance, flowers necessary to life. After all, it was very sweet, this foolishness of these Southern people, and it somehow made her homesick. "How can I tell her!" she sighed. "And yet I must." She had only waited a moment when Mrs. Cameron suddenly entered with her daughter. She threw her flowers on the table, sprang forward to meet Elsie, seized her hands and called to Margaret. "How good of you to come so soon! This, Margaret, is our dear little friend who has been so good to Ben and to me." Margaret took Elsie's hand and longed to throw her arms around her neck, but something in the quiet dignity of the Northern girl's manner held her back. She only smiled tenderly through her big dark eyes, and softly said: "We love you! Ben was my last brother. We were playmates and chums. My heart broke when he ran away to the front. How can we thank you and your brother!" "I'm sure we've done nothing more than you would have done for us," said Elsie, as Mrs. Cameron left the room. "Yes, I know, but we can never tell you how grateful we are to you. We feel that you have saved Ben's life and ours. The war has been one long horror to us since my first brother was killed. But now it's over, and we have Ben left, and our hearts have been crying for joy all night." "I hoped my brother, Captain Phil Stoneman, would be here to-day to meet you and help me, but he can't reach Washington before Friday." "He caught Ben in his arms!" cried Margaret. "I know he's brave, and you must be proud of him." "Doctor Barnes says they are as much alike as twins--only Phil is not quite so tall and has blond hair like mine." "You will let me see him and thank him the moment he comes?" "Hurry, Margaret!" cheerily cried Mrs. Cameron, reëntering the parlour. "Get ready; we must go at once to the hospital." Margaret turned and with stately grace hurried from the room. The old dress she wore as unconscious of its shabbiness as though it were a royal robe. "And now, my dear, what must I do to get the passes?" asked the mother eagerly. Elsie's warm amber eyes grew misty for a moment, and the fair skin with its gorgeous rose tints of the North paled. She hesitated, tried to speak, and was silent. The sensitive soul of the Southern woman read the message of sorrow words had not framed. "Tell me, quickly! The doctor--has--not--concealed--his--true--condition--from--me?" "No, he is certain to recover." "What then?" "Worse--he is condemned to death by court-martial." "Condemned to death--a--wounded--prisoner--of--war!" she whispered slowly, with blanched face. "Yes, he was accused of violating the rules of war as a guerilla raider in the invasion of Pennsylvania." "Absurd and monstrous! He was on General Jeb Stuart's staff and could have acted only under his orders. He joined the infantry after Stuart's death, and rose to be a colonel, though but a boy. There's some terrible mistake!" "Unless we can obtain his pardon," Elsie went on in even, restrained tones, "there is no hope. We must appeal to the President." The mother's lips trembled, and she seemed about to faint. "Could I see the President?" she asked, recovering herself with an effort. "He has just reached Washington from the front, and is thronged by thousands. It will be difficult." The mother's lips were moving in silent prayer, and her eyes were tightly closed to keep back the tears. "Can you help me, dear?" she asked piteously. "Yes," was the quick response. "You see," she went on, "I feel so helpless. I have never been to the White House or seen the President, and I don't know how to go about seeing him or how to ask him--and--I am afraid of Mr. Lincoln! I have heard so many harsh things said of him." "I'll do my best, Mrs. Cameron. We must go at once to the White House and try to see him." The mother lifted the girl's hand and stroked it gently. "We will not tell Margaret. Poor child! she could not endure this. When we return, we may have better news. It can't be worse. I'll send her on an errand." She took up the bouquet of gorgeous roses with a sigh, buried her face in the fresh perfume, as if to gain strength in their beauty and fragrance, and left the room. In a few moments she had returned and was on her way with Elsie to the White House. It was a beautiful spring morning, this eleventh day of April, 1865. The glorious sunshine, the shimmering green of the grass, the warm breezes, and the shouts of victory mocked the mother's anguish. At the White House gates they passed the blue sentry pacing silently back and forth, who merely glanced at them with keen eyes and said nothing. In the steady beat of his feet the mother could hear the tramp of soldiers leading her boy to the place of death! A great lump rose in her throat as she caught the first view of the Executive Mansion gleaming white and silent and ghostlike among the budding trees. The tall columns of the great facade, spotless as snow, the spray of the fountain, the marble walls, pure, dazzling, and cold, seemed to her the gateway to some great tomb in which her own dead and the dead of all the people lay! To her the fair white palace, basking there in the sunlight and budding grass, shrub, and tree, was the Judgment House of Fate. She thought of all the weary feet that had climbed its fateful steps in hope to return in despair, of its fierce dramas on which the lives of millions had hung, and her heart grew sick. A long line of people already stretched from the entrance under the portico far out across the park, awaiting their turn to see the President. Mrs. Cameron placed her hand falteringly on Elsie's shoulder. "Look, my dear, what a crowd already! Must we wait in line?" "No, I can get you past the throng with my father's name." "Will it be very difficult to reach the President?" "No, it's very easy. Guards and sentinels annoy him. He frets until they are removed. An assassin or maniac could kill him almost any hour of the day or night. The doors are open at all hours, very late at night. I have often walked up to the rooms of his secretaries as late as nine o'clock without being challenged by a soul." "What must I call him? Must I say 'Your Excellency?'" "By no means--he hates titles and forms. You should say 'Mr. President' in addressing him. But you will please him best if, in your sweet, homelike way, you will just call him by his name. You can rely on his sympathy. Read this letter of his to a widow. I brought it to show you." She handed Mrs. Cameron a newspaper clipping on which was printed Mr. Lincoln's letter to Mrs. Bixby, of Boston, who had lost five sons in the war. Over and over she read its sentences until they echoed as solemn music in her soul: "I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom. "Yours very sincerely and respectfully, "ABRAHAM LINCOLN." "And the President paused amid a thousand cares to write that letter to a broken-hearted woman?" the mother asked. "Yes." "Then he is good down to the last secret depths of a great heart! Only a Christian father could have written that letter. I shall not be afraid to speak to him. And they told me he was an infidel!" Elsie led her by a private way past the crowd and into the office of Major Hay, the President's private secretary. A word from the Great Commoner's daughter admitted them at once to the President's room. "Just take a seat on one side, Miss Elsie," said Major Hay; "watch your first opportunity and introduce your friend." On entering the room, Mrs. Cameron could not see the President, who was seated at his desk surrounded by three men in deep consultation over a mass of official documents. She looked about the room nervously and felt reassured by its plain aspect. It was a medium-sized, officelike place, with no signs of elegance or ceremony. Mr. Lincoln was seated in an armchair beside a high writing-desk and table combined. She noticed that his feet were large and that they rested on a piece of simple straw matting. Around the room were sofas and chairs covered with green worsted. When the group about the chair parted a moment, she caught the first glimpse of the man who held her life in the hollow of his hand. She studied him with breathless interest. His back was still turned. Even while seated, she saw that he was a man of enormous stature, fully six feet four inches tall, legs and arms abnormally long, and huge broad shoulders slightly stooped. His head was powerful and crowned with a mass of heavy brown hair, tinged with silver. He turned his head slightly and she saw his profile set in its short dark beard--the broad intellectual brow, half covered by unmanageable hair, his face marked with deep-cut lines of life and death, with great hollows in the cheeks and under the eyes. In the lines which marked the corners of his mouth she could see firmness, and his beetling brows and unusually heavy eyelids looked stern and formidable. Her heart sank. She looked again and saw goodness, tenderness, sorrow, canny shrewdness, and a strange lurking smile all haunting his mouth and eye. Suddenly he threw himself forward in his chair, wheeled and faced one of his tormentors with a curious and comical expression. With one hand patting the other, and a funny look overspreading his face, he said: "My friend, let me tell you something----" The man again stepped before him, and she could hear nothing. When the story was finished, the man tried to laugh. It died in a feeble effort. But the President laughed heartily, laughed all over, and laughed his visitors out of the room. Mrs. Cameron turned toward Elsie with a mute look of appeal to give her this moment of good-humour in which to plead her cause, but before she could move a man of military bearing suddenly stepped before the President. He began to speak, but seeing the look of stern decision in Mr. Lincoln's face, turned abruptly and said: "Mr. President, I see you are fully determined not to do me justice!" Mr. Lincoln slightly compressed his lips, rose quietly, seized the intruder by the arm, and led him toward the door. "This is the third time you have forced your presence on me, sir, asking that I reverse the just sentence of a court-martial, dismissing you from the service. I told you my decision was carefully made and was final. Now I give you fair warning never to show yourself in this room again. I can bear censure, but I will not endure insult!" In whining tones the man begged for his papers he had dropped. "Begone, sir," said the President, as he thrust him through the door. "Your papers will be sent to you." The poor mother trembled at this startling act and sank back limp in her seat. With quick, swinging stride the President walked back to his desk, accompanied by Major Hay and a young German girl, whose simple dress told that she was from the Western plains. He handed the secretary an official paper. "Give this pardon to the boy's mother when she comes this morning," he said kindly to the secretary, his eyes suddenly full of gentleness. "How could I consent to shoot a boy raised on a farm, in the habit of going to bed at dark, for falling asleep at his post when required to watch all night? I'll never go into eternity with the blood of such a boy on my skirts." Again the mother's heart rose. "You remember the young man I pardoned for a similar offence in '62, about which Stanton made such a fuss?" he went on in softly reminiscent tones. "Well, here is that pardon." He drew from the lining of his silk hat a photograph, around which was wrapped an executive pardon. Through the lower end of it was a bullet-hole stained with blood. "I got this in Richmond. They found him dead on the field. He fell in the front ranks with my photograph in his pocket next to his heart, this pardon wrapped around it, and on the back of it in his boy's scrawl, '_God bless Abraham Lincoln_.' I love to invest in bonds like that." The secretary returned to his room, the girl who was waiting stepped forward, and the President rose to receive her. The mother's quick eye noted, with surprise, the simple dignity and chivalry of manner with which he received this humble woman of the people. With straightforward eloquence the girl poured out her story, begging for the pardon of her young brother who had been sentenced to death as a deserter. He listened in silence. How pathetic the deep melancholy of his sad face! Yes, she was sure, the saddest face that God ever made in all the world! Her own stricken heart for a moment went out to him in sympathy. The President took off his spectacles, wiped his forehead with the large red silk handkerchief he carried, and his eyes twinkled kindly down into the good German face. "You seem an honest, truthful, sweet girl," he said, "and"--he smiled--"you don't wear hoop skirts! I may be whipped for this, but I'll trust you and your brother, too. He shall be pardoned." Elsie rose to introduce Mrs. Cameron, when a Congressman from Massachusetts suddenly stepped before her and pressed for the pardon of a slave trader whose ship had been confiscated. He had spent five years in prison, but could not pay the heavy fine in money imposed. The President had taken his seat again, and read the eloquent appeal for mercy. He looked up over his spectacles, fixed his eyes piercingly on the Congressman and said: "This is a moving appeal, sir, expressed with great eloquence. I might pardon a murderer under the spell of such words, but a man who can make a business of going to Africa and robbing her of her helpless children and selling them into bondage--no, sir--he may rot in jail before he shall have liberty by any act of mine!" Again the mother's heart sank. Her hour had come. She must put the issue of life or death to the test, and as Elsie rose and stepped quickly forward, she followed; nerving herself for the ordeal. The President took Elsie's hand familiarly and smiled without rising. Evidently she was well known to him. "Will you hear the prayer of a broken-hearted mother of the South, who has lost four sons in General Lee's army?" she asked. Looking quietly past the girl, he caught sight, for the first time, of the faded dress and the sorrow-shadowed face. He was on his feet in a moment, extended his hand and led her to a chair. "Take this seat, Madam, and then tell me in your own way what I can do for you." In simple words, mighty with the eloquence of a mother's heart, she told her story and asked for the pardon of her boy, promising his word of honour and her own that he would never again take up arms against the Union. "The war is over now, Mr. Lincoln," she said, "and we have lost all. Can you conceive the desolation of _my_ heart? My four boys were noble men. They may have been wrong, but they fought for what they believed to be right. You, too, have lost a boy." The President's eyes grew dim. "Yes, a beautiful boy----" he said simply. "Well, mine are all gone but this baby. One of them sleeps in an unmarked grave at Gettysburg. One died in a Northern prison. One fell at Chancellorsville, one in the Wilderness, and this, my baby, before Petersburg. Perhaps I've loved him too much, this last one--he's only a child yet----" "You shall have your boy, my dear Madam," the President said simply, seating himself and writing a brief order to the Secretary of War. The mother drew near his desk, softly crying. Through her tears she said: "My heart is heavy, Mr. Lincoln, when I think of all the hard and bitter things we have heard of you." "Well, give my love to the people of South Carolina when you go home, and tell them that I am their President, and that I have never forgotten this fact in the darkest hours of this awful war; and I am going to do everything in my power to help them." "You will never regret this generous act," the mother cried with gratitude. "I reckon not," he answered. "I'll tell you something, Madam, if you won't tell anybody. It's a secret of my administration. I'm only too glad of an excuse to save a life when I can. Every drop of blood shed in this war North and South has been as if it were wrung out of my heart. A strange fate decreed that the bloodiest war in human history should be fought under my direction. And I--to whom the sight of blood is a sickening horror--I have been compelled to look on in silent anguish because I could not stop it! Now that the Union is saved, not another drop of blood shall be spilled if I can prevent it." "May God bless you!" the mother cried, as she received from him the order. She held his hand an instant as she took her leave, laughing and sobbing in her great joy. "I must tell you, Mr. President," she said, "how surprised and how pleased I am to find you are a Southern man." "Why, didn't you know that my parents were Virginians, and that I was born in Kentucky?" "Very few people in the South know it. I am ashamed to say I did not." "Then, how did you know I am a Southerner?" "By your looks, your manner of speech, your easy, kindly ways, your tenderness and humour, your firmness in the right as you see it, and, above all, the way you rose and bowed to a woman in an old, faded black dress, whom you knew to be an enemy." "No, Madam, not an enemy now," he said softly. "That word is out of date." "If we had only known you in time----" The President accompanied her to the door with a deference of manner that showed he had been deeply touched. "Take this letter to Mr. Stanton at once," he said. "Some folks complain of my pardons, but it rests me after a hard day's work if I can save some poor boy's life. I go to bed happy, thinking of the joy I have given to those who love him." As the last words were spoken, a peculiar dreaminess of expression stole over his careworn face, as if a throng of gracious memories had lifted for a moment the burden of his life. CHAPTER III THE MAN OF WAR Elsie led Mrs. Cameron direct from the White House to the War Department. "Well, Mrs. Cameron, what did you think of the President?" she asked. "I hardly know," was the thoughtful answer. "He is the greatest man I ever met. One feels this instinctively." When Mrs. Cameron was ushered into the Secretary's Office, Mr. Stanton was seated at his desk writing. She handed the order of the President to a clerk, who gave it to the Secretary. He was a man in the full prime of life, intellectual and physical, low and heavy set, about five feet eight inches in height and inclined to fat. His movements, however, were quick, and as he swung in his chair the keenest vigour marked every movement of body and every change of his countenance. His face was swarthy and covered with a long, dark beard touched with gray. He turned a pair of little black piercing eyes on her and without rising said: "So you are the woman who has a wounded son under sentence of death as a guerilla?" "I am so unfortunate," she answered. "Well, I have nothing to say to you," he went on in a louder and sterner tone, "and no time to waste on you. If you have raised up men to rebel against the best government under the sun, you can take the consequences----" "But, my dear sir," broke in the mother, "he is a mere boy of nineteen, who ran away three years ago and entered the service----" "I don't want to hear another word from you!" he yelled in rage. "I have no time to waste--go at once. I'll do nothing for you." "But I bring you an order from the President," protested the mother. "Yes, I know it," he answered with a sneer, "and I'll do with it what I've done with many others--see that it is not executed--now go." "But the President told me you would give me a pass to the hospital, and that a full pardon would be issued to my boy!" "Yes, I see. But let me give you some information. The President is a fool--a d---- fool! Now, will you go?" With a sinking sense of horror, Mrs. Cameron withdrew and reported to Elsie the unexpected encounter. "The brute!" cried the girl. "We'll go back immediately and report this insult to the President." "Why are such men intrusted with power?" the mother sighed. "It's a mystery to me, I'm sure. They say he is the greatest Secretary of War in our history. I don't believe it. Phil hates the sight of him, and so does every army officer I know, from General Grant down. I hope Mr. Lincoln will expel him from the Cabinet for this insult." When, they were again ushered into the President's office, Elsie hastened to inform him of the outrageous reply the Secretary of War had made to his order. "Did Stanton say that I was a fool?" he asked, with a quizzical look out of his kindly eyes. "Yes, he did," snapped Elsie. "And he repeated it with a blankety prefix." The President looked good-humouredly out of the window toward the War Office and musingly said: "Well, if Stanton says that I am a blankety fool, it must be so, for I have found out that he is nearly always right, and generally means what he says. I'll just step over and see Stanton." As he spoke the last sentence, the humour slowly faded from his face, and the anxious mother saw back of those patient gray eyes the sudden gleam of the courage and conscious power of a lion. He dismissed them with instructions to return the next day for his final orders and walked over to the War Department alone. The Secretary of War was in one of his ugliest moods, and made no effort to conceal it when asked his reasons for the refusal to execute the order. "The grounds for my action are very simple," he said with bitter emphasis. "The execution of this traitor is part of a carefully considered policy of justice on which the future security of the Nation depends. If I am to administer this office, I will not be hamstrung by constant Executive interference. Besides, in this particular case, I was urged that justice be promptly executed by the most powerful man in Congress. I advise you to avoid a quarrel with old Stoneman at this crisis in our history." The President sat on a sofa with his legs crossed, relapsed into an attitude of resignation, and listened in silence until the last sentence, when suddenly he sat bolt upright, fixed his deep gray eyes intently on Stanton and said: "Mr. Secretary, I reckon you will have to execute that order." "I cannot do it," came the firm answer. "It is an interference with justice, and I will not execute it." Mr. Lincoln held his eyes steadily on Stanton and slowly said: "Mr. Secretary, it will have to be done." Stanton wheeled in his chair, seized a pen and wrote very rapidly a few lines to which he fixed his signature. He rose with the paper in his hand, walked to his chief, and with deep emotion said: "Mr. President, I wish to thank you for your constant friendship during the trying years I have held this office. The war is ended, and my work is done. I hand you my resignation." Mr. Lincoln's lips came suddenly together, he slowly rose, and looked down with surprise into the flushed angry face. He took the paper, tore it into pieces, slipped one of his long arms around the Secretary, and said in low accents: "Stanton, you have been a faithful public servant, and it is not for you to say when you will no longer be needed. Go on with your work. I will have my way in this matter; but I will attend to it personally." Stanton resumed his seat, and the President returned to the White House. CHAPTER IV A CLASH OF GIANTS Elsie secured from the Surgeon-General temporary passes for the day, and sent her friends to the hospital with the promise that she would not leave the White House until she had secured the pardon. The President greeted her with unusual warmth. The smile that had only haunted his sad face during four years of struggle, defeat, and uncertainty had now burst into joy that made his powerful head radiate light. Victory had lifted the veil from his soul, and he was girding himself for the task of healing the Nation's wounds. "I'll have it ready for you in a moment, Miss Elsie," he said, touching with his sinewy hand a paper which lay on his desk, bearing on its face the red seal of the Republic. "I am only waiting to receive the passes." "I am very grateful to you, Mr. President," the girl said feelingly. "But tell me," he said, with quaint, fatherly humour, "why you, of all our girls, the brightest, fiercest little Yankee in town, so take to heart a rebel boy's sorrows?" Elsie blushed, and then looked at him frankly with a saucy smile. "I am fulfilling the Commandments." "Love your enemies?" "Certainly. How could one help loving the sweet, motherly face you saw yesterday." The President laughed heartily. "I see--of course, of course!" "The Honourable Austin Stoneman," suddenly announced a clerk at his elbow. Elsie started in surprise and whispered: "Do not let my father know I am here. I will wait in the next room. You'll let nothing delay the pardon, will you, Mr. President?" Mr. Lincoln warmly pressed her hand as she disappeared through the door leading into Major Hay's room, and turned to meet the Great Commoner who hobbled slowly in, leaning on his crooked cane. At this moment he was a startling and portentous figure in the drama of the Nation, the most powerful parliamentary leader in American history, not excepting Henry Clay. No stranger ever passed this man without a second look. His clean-shaven face, the massive chiselled features, his grim eagle look, and cold, colourless eyes, with the frosts of his native Vermont sparkling in their depths, compelled attention. His walk was a painful hobble. He was lame in both feet, and one of them was deformed. The left leg ended in a mere bunch of flesh, resembling more closely an elephant's hoof than the foot of a man. He was absolutely bald, and wore a heavy brown wig that seemed too small to reach the edge of his enormous forehead. He rarely visited the White House. He was the able, bold, unscrupulous leader of leaders, and men came to see him. He rarely smiled, and when he did it was the smile of the cynic and misanthrope. His tongue had the lash of a scorpion. He was a greater terror to the trimmers and time-servers of his own party than to his political foes. He had hated the President with sullen, consistent, and unyielding venom from his first nomination at Chicago down to the last rumour of his new proclamation. In temperament a fanatic, in impulse a born revolutionist, the word conservatism was to him as a red rag to a bull. The first clash of arms was music to his soul. He laughed at the call for 75,000 volunteers, and demanded the immediate equipment of an army of a million men. He saw it grow to 2,000,000. From the first, his eagle eye had seen the end and all the long, blood-marked way between. And from the first, he began to plot the most cruel and awful vengeance in human history. And now his time had come. The giant figure in the White House alone had dared to brook his anger and block the way; for old Stoneman was the Congress of the United States. The opposition was too weak even for his contempt. Cool, deliberate, and venomous alike in victory or defeat, the fascination of his positive faith and revolutionary programme had drawn the rank and file of his party in Congress to him as charmed satellites. The President greeted him cordially, and with his habitual deference to age and physical infirmity hastened to place for him an easy chair near his desk. He was breathing heavily and evidently labouring under great emotion. He brought his cane to the floor with violence, placed both hands on its crook, leaned his massive jaws on his hands for a moment, and then said: "Mr. President, I have not annoyed you with many requests during the past four years, nor am I here to-day to ask any favours. I have come to warn you that, in the course you have mapped out, the executive and legislative branches have come to the parting of the ways, and that your encroachments on the functions of Congress will be tolerated, now that the Rebellion is crushed, not for a single moment!" Mr. Lincoln listened with dignity, and a ripple of fun played about his eyes as he looked at his grim visitor. The two men were face to face at last--the two men above all others who had built and were to build the foundations of the New Nation--Lincoln's in love and wisdom to endure forever, the Great Commoner's in hate and madness, to bear its harvest of tragedy and death for generations yet unborn. "Well, now, Stoneman," began the good-humoured voice, "that puts me in mind----" The old Commoner lifted his hand with a gesture of angry impatience: "Save your fables for fools. Is it true that you have prepared a proclamation restoring the conquered province of North Carolina to its place as a State in the Union with no provision for negro suffrage or the exile and disfranchisement of its rebels?" The President rose and walked back and forth with his hands folded behind him before answering. "I have. The Constitution grants to the National Government no power to regulate suffrage, and makes no provision for the control of 'conquered provinces.'" "Constitution!" thundered Stoneman. "I have a hundred constitutions in the pigeonholes of my desk!" "I have sworn to support but one." "A worn-out rag----" "Rag or silk, I've sworn to execute it, and I'll do it, so help me God!" said the quiet voice. "You've been doing it for the past four years, haven't you!" sneered the Commoner. "What right had you under the Constitution to declare war against a 'sovereign' State? To invade one for coercion? To blockade a port? To declare slaves free? To suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_? To create the State of West Virginia by the consent of two states, one of which was dead, and the other one of which lived in Ohio? By what authority have you appointed military governors in the 'sovereign' States of Virginia, Tennessee, and Louisiana? Why trim the hedge and lie about it? We, too, are revolutionists, and you are our executive. The Constitution sustained and protected slavery. It _was_ 'a league with death and a covenant with hell,' and our flag 'a polluted rag!'" "In the stress of war," said the President, with a far-away look, "it was necessary that I do things as Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy to save the Union which I have no right to do now that the Union is saved and its Constitution preserved. My first duty is to re-establish the Constitution as our supreme law over every inch of our soil." "The Constitution be d----d!" hissed the old man. "It was the creation, both in letter and spirit, of the slaveholders of the South." "Then the world is their debtor, and their work is a monument of imperishable glory to them and to their children. I have sworn to preserve it!" "We have outgrown the swaddling clothes of a babe. We will make new constitutions!" "'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,'" softly spoke the tall, self-contained man. For the first time the old leader winced. He had long ago exhausted the vocabulary of contempt on the President, his character, ability, and policy. He felt as a shock the first impression of supreme authority with which he spoke. The man he had despised had grown into the great constructive statesman who would dispute with him every inch of ground in the attainment of his sinister life purpose. His hatred grew more intense as he realized the prestige and power with which he was clothed by his mighty office. With an effort he restrained his anger, and assumed an argumentative tone. "Can't you see that your so-called States are now but conquered provinces? That North Carolina and other waste territories of the United States are unfit to associate with civilized communities?" "We fought no war of conquest," quietly urged the President, "but one of self-preservation as an indissoluble Union. No State ever got out of it, by the grace of God and the power of our arms. Now that we have won, and established for all time its unity, shall we stultify ourselves by declaring we were wrong? These States must be immediately restored to their rights, or we shall betray the blood we have shed. There are no 'conquered provinces' for us to spoil. A nation cannot make conquest of its own territory." "But we are acting outside the Constitution," interrupted Stoneman. "Congress has no existence outside the Constitution," was the quick answer. The old Commoner scowled, and his beetling brows hid for a moment his eyes. His keen intellect was catching its first glimpse of the intellectual grandeur of the man with whom he was grappling. The facility with which he could see all sides of a question, and the vivid imagination which lit his mental processes, were a revelation. We always underestimate the men we despise. "Why not out with it?" cried Stoneman, suddenly changing his tack. "You are determined to oppose negro suffrage?" "I have suggested to Governor Hahn of Louisiana to consider the policy of admitting the more intelligent and those who served in the war. It is only a suggestion. The State alone has the power to confer the ballot." "But the truth is this little 'suggestion' of yours is only a bone thrown to radical dogs to satisfy our howlings for the moment! In your soul of souls you don't believe in the equality of man if the man under comparison be a negro?" "I believe that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which will forever forbid their living together on terms of political and social equality. If such be attempted, one must go to the wall." "Very well, pin the Southern white man to the wall. Our party and the Nation will then be safe." "That is to say, destroy African slavery and establish white slavery under negro masters! That would be progress with a vengeance." A grim smile twitched the old man's lips as he said: "Yes, your prim conservative snobs and male waiting-maids in Congress went into hysterics when I armed the negroes. Yet the heavens have not fallen." "True. Yet no more insane blunder could now be made than any further attempt to use these negro troops. There can be no such thing as restoring this Union to its basis of fraternal peace with armed negroes, wearing the uniform of this Nation, tramping over the South, and rousing the basest passions of the freedmen and their former masters. General Butler, their old commander, is now making plans for their removal, at my request. He expects to dig the Panama Canal with these black troops." "Fine scheme that--on a par with your messages to Congress asking for the colonization of the whole negro race!" "It will come to that ultimately," said the President firmly. "The negro has cost us $5,000,000,000, the desolation of ten great States, and rivers of blood. We can well afford a few million dollars more to effect a permanent settlement of the issue. This is the only policy on which Seward and I have differed----" "Then Seward was not an utterly hopeless fool. I'm glad to hear something to his credit," growled the old Commoner. "I have urged the colonization of the negroes, and I shall continue until it is accomplished. My emancipation proclamation was linked with this plan. Thousands of them have lived in the North for a hundred years, yet not one is the pastor of a white church, a judge, a governor, a mayor, or a college president. There is no room for two distinct races of white men in America, much less for two distinct races of whites and blacks. We can have no inferior servile class, peon or peasant. We must assimilate or expel. The American is a citizen king or nothing. I can conceive of no greater calamity than the assimilation of the negro into our social and political life as our equal. A mulatto citizenship would be too dear a price to pay even for emancipation." "Words have no power to express my loathing for such twaddle!" cried Stoneman, snapping his great jaws together and pursing his lips with contempt. "If the negro were not here would we allow him to land?" the President went on, as if talking to himself. "The duty to exclude carries the right to expel. Within twenty years we can peacefully colonize the negro in the tropics, and give him our language, literature, religion, and system of government under conditions in which he can rise to the full measure of manhood. This he can never do here. It was the fear of the black tragedy behind emancipation that led the South into the insanity of secession. We can never attain the ideal Union our fathers dreamed, with millions of an alien, inferior race among us, whose assimilation is neither possible nor desirable. The Nation cannot now exist half white and half black, any more than it could exist half slave and half free." "Yet 'God hath made of one blood all races,'" quoted the cynic with a sneer. "Yes--but finish the sentence--'and fixed the bounds of their habitation.' God never meant that the negro should leave his habitat or the white man invade his home. Our violation of this law is written in two centuries of shame and blood. And the tragedy will not be closed until the black man is restored to his home." "I marvel that the minions of slavery elected Jeff Davis their chief with so much better material at hand!" "His election was a tragic and superfluous blunder. I am the President of the United States, North and South," was the firm reply. "Particularly the South!" hissed Stoneman. "During all this hideous war they have been your pets--these rebel savages who have been murdering our sons. You have been the ever-ready champion of traitors. And you now dare to bend this high office to their defence----" "My God, Stoneman, are you a man or a savage!" cried the President. "Is not the North equally responsible for slavery? Has not the South lost all? Have not the Southern people paid the full penalty of all the crimes of war? Are our skirts free? Was Sherman's march a picnic? This war has been a giant conflict of principles to decide whether we are a bundle of petty sovereignties held by a rope of sand or a mighty nation of freemen. But for the loyalty of four border Southern States--but for Farragut and Thomas and their two hundred thousand heroic Southern brethren who fought for the Union against their own flesh and blood, we should have lost. You cannot indict a people----" "I do indict them!" muttered the old man. "Surely," went on the even, throbbing voice, "surely, the vastness of this war, its titanic battles, its heroism, its sublime earnestness, should sink into oblivion all low schemes of vengeance! Before the sheer grandeur of its history our children will walk with silent lips and uncovered heads." "And forget the prison pen at Andersonville!" "Yes. We refused, as a policy of war, to exchange those prisoners, blockaded their ports, made medicine contraband, and brought the Southern Army itself to starvation. The prison records, when made at last for history, will show as many deaths on our side as on theirs." "The murderer on the gallows always wins more sympathy than his forgotten victim," interrupted the cynic. "The sin of vengeance is an easy one under the subtle plea of justice," said the sorrowful voice. "Have we not had enough bloodshed? Is not God's vengeance enough? When Sherman's army swept to the sea, before him lay the Garden of Eden, behind him stretched a desert! A hundred years cannot give back to the wasted South her wealth, or two hundred years restore to her the lost seed treasures of her young manhood----" "The imbecility of a policy of mercy in this crisis can only mean the reign of treason and violence," persisted the old man, ignoring the President's words. "I leave my policy before the judgment bar of time, content with its verdict. In my place, radicalism would have driven the border States into the Confederacy, every Southern man back to his kinsmen, and divided the North itself into civil conflict. I have sought to guide and control public opinion into the ways on which depended our life. This rational flexibility of policy you and your fellow radicals have been pleased to call my vacillating imbecility." "And what is your message for the South?" "Simply this: 'Abolish slavery, come back home, and behave yourself.' Lee surrendered to our offers of peace and amnesty. In my last message to Congress I told the Southern people they could have peace at any moment by simply laying down their arms and submitting to National authority. Now that they have taken me at my word, shall I betray them by an ignoble revenge? Vengeance cannot heal and purify: it can only brutalize and destroy." Stoneman shuffled to his feet with impatience. "I see it is useless to argue with you. I'll not waste my breath. I give you an ultimatum. The South is conquered soil. I mean to blot it from the map. Rather than admit one traitor to the halls of Congress from these so-called States I will shatter the Union itself into ten thousand fragments! I will not sit beside men whose clothes smell of the blood of my kindred. At least dry them before they come in. Four years ago, with yells and curses, these traitors left the halls of Congress to join the armies of Catiline. Shall they return to rule?" "I repeat," said the President, "you cannot indict a people. Treason is an easy word to speak. A traitor is one who fights and loses. Washington was a traitor to George III. Treason won, and Washington is immortal. Treason is a word that victors hurl at those who fail." "Listen to me," Stoneman interrupted with vehemence. "The life of our party demands that the negro be given the ballot and made the ruler of the South. This can be done only by the extermination of its landed aristocracy, that their mothers shall not breed another race of traitors. This is not vengeance. It is justice, it is patriotism, it is the highest wisdom and humanity. Nature, at times, blots out whole communities and races that obstruct progress. Such is the political genius of these people that, unless you make the negro the ruler, the South will yet reconquer the North and undo the work of this war." "If the South in poverty and ruin can do this, we deserve to be ruled! The North is rich and powerful--the South a land of wreck and tomb. I greet with wonder, shame, and scorn such ignoble fear! The Nation cannot be healed until the South is healed. Let the gulf be closed in which we bury slavery, sectional animosity, and all strifes and hatreds. The good sense of our people will never consent to your scheme of insane vengeance." "The people have no sense. A new fool is born every second. They are ruled by impulse and passion." "I have trusted them before, and they have not failed me. The day I left for Gettysburg to dedicate the battlefield, you were so sure of my defeat in the approaching convention that you shouted across the street to a friend as I passed: 'Let the dead bury the dead!' It was a brilliant sally of wit. I laughed at it myself. And yet the people unanimously called me again to lead them to victory." "Yes, in the past," said Stoneman bitterly, "you have triumphed, but mark my word: from this hour your star grows dim. The slumbering fires of passion will be kindled. In the fight we join to-day I'll break your back and wring the neck of every dastard and time-server who fawns at your feet." The President broke into a laugh that only increased the old man's wrath. "I protest against the insult of your buffoonery!" "Excuse me, Stoneman; I have to laugh or die beneath the burdens I bear, surrounded by such supporters!" "Mark my word," growled the old leader, "from the moment you publish that North Carolina proclamation, your name will be a by-word in Congress." "There are higher powers." "You will need them." "I'll have help," was the calm reply, as the dreaminess of the poet and mystic stole over the rugged face. "I would be a presumptuous fool, indeed, if I thought that for a day I could discharge the duties of this great office without the aid of One who is wiser and stronger than all others." "You'll need the help of Almighty God in the course you've mapped out!" "Some ships come into port that are not steered," went on the dreamy voice. "Suppose Pickett had charged one hour earlier at Gettysburg? Suppose the _Monitor_ had arrived one hour later at Hampton Roads? I had a dream last night that always presages great events. I saw a white ship passing swiftly under full sail. I have often seen her before. I have never known her port of entry, or her destination, but I have always known her Pilot!" The cynic's lips curled with scorn. He leaned heavily on his cane, and took a shambling step toward the door. "You refuse to heed the wishes of Congress?" "If your words voice them, yes. Force your scheme of revenge on the South, and you sow the wind to reap the whirlwind." "Indeed! and from what secret cave will this whirlwind come?" "The despair of a mighty race of world-conquering men, even in defeat, is still a force that statesmen reckon with." "I defy them," growled the old Commoner. Again the dreamy look returned to Lincoln's face, and he spoke as if repeating a message of the soul caught in the clouds in an hour of transfiguration: "And I'll trust the honour of Lee and his people. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when touched again, as they surely will be, by the better angels of our nature." "You'll be lucky to live to hear that chorus." "To dream it is enough. If I fall by the hand of an assassin now, he will not come from the South. I was safer in Richmond, this week, than I am in Washington, to-day." The cynic grunted and shuffled another step toward the door. The President came closer. "Look here, Stoneman; have you some deep personal motive in this vengeance on the South? Come, now, I've never in my life known you to tell a lie." The answer was silence and a scowl. "Am I right?" "Yes and no. I hate the South because I hate the Satanic Institution of Slavery with consuming fury. It has long ago rotted the heart out of the Southern people. Humanity cannot live in its tainted air, and its children are doomed. If my personal wrongs have ordained me for a mighty task, no matter; I am simply the chosen instrument of Justice!" Again the mystic light clothed the rugged face, calm and patient as Destiny, as the President slowly repeated: "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives me to see the right, I shall strive to finish the work we are in, and bind up the Nation's wounds." "I've given you fair warning," cried the old Commoner, trembling with rage, as he hobbled nearer the door. "From this hour your administration is doomed." "Stoneman," said the kindly voice, "I can't tell you how your venomous philanthropy sickens me. You have misunderstood and abused me at every step during the past four years. I bear you no ill will. If I have said anything to-day to hurt your feelings, forgive me. The earnestness with which you pressed the war was an invaluable service to me and to the Nation. I'd rather work with you than fight you. But now that we have to fight, I'd as well tell you I'm not afraid of you. I'll suffer my right arm to be severed from my body before I'll sign one measure of ignoble revenge on a brave, fallen foe, and I'll keep up this fight until I win, die, or my country forsakes me." "I have always known you had a sneaking admiration for the South," came the sullen sneer. "I love the South! It is a part of this Union. I love every foot of its soil, every hill and valley, mountain, lake, and sea, and every man, woman, and child that breathes beneath its skies. I am an American." As the burning words leaped from the heart of the President the broad shoulders of his tall form lifted, and his massive head rose in unconscious heroic pose. "I marvel that you ever made war upon your loved ones!" cried the cynic. "We fought the South because we loved her and would not let her go. Now that she is crushed and lies bleeding at our feet--you shall not make war on the wounded, dying, and the dead!" Again the lion gleamed in the calm gray eyes. CHAPTER IV THE BATTLE OF LOVE Elsie carried Ben Cameron's pardon to the anxious mother and sister with her mind in a tumult. The name on these fateful papers fascinated her. She read it again and again with a curious personal joy that she had saved a life! She had entered on her work among the hospitals a bitter partisan of her father's school, with the simple idea that all Southerners were savage brutes. Yet as she had seen the wounded boys from the South among the men in blue, more and more she had forgotten the difference between them. They were so young, these slender, dark-haired ones from Dixie--so pitifully young! Some of them were only fifteen, and hundreds not over sixteen. A lad of fourteen she had kissed one day in sheer agony of pity for his loneliness. The part her father was playing in the drama on which Ben Cameron's life had hung puzzled her. Was his the mysterious arm back of Stanton? Echoes of the fierce struggle with the President had floated through the half-open door. She had implicit faith in her father's patriotism and pride in his giant intellect. She knew that he was a king among men by divine right of inherent power. His sensitive spirit, brooding over a pitiful lameness, had hidden from the world behind a frowning brow like a wounded animal. Yet her hand in hours of love, when no eye save God's could see, had led his great soul out of its dark lair. She loved him with brooding tenderness, knowing that she had gotten closer to his inner life than any other human being--closer than her own mother, who had died while she was a babe. Her aunt, with whom she and Phil now lived, had told her the mother's life was not a happy one. Their natures had not proved congenial, and her gentle Quaker spirit had died of grief in the quiet home in southern Pennsylvania. Yet there were times when he was a stranger even to her. Some secret, dark and cold, stood between them. Once she had tenderly asked him what it meant. He merely pressed her hand, smiled wearily, and said: "Nothing, my dear, only the Blue Devils after me again." He had always lived in Washington in a little house with black shutters, near the Capitol, while the children had lived with his sister, near the White House, where they had grown from babyhood. A curious fact about this place on the Capitol hill was that his housekeeper, Lydia Brown, was a mulatto, a woman of extraordinary animal beauty and the fiery temper of a leopardess. Elsie had ventured there once and got such a welcome she would never return. All sorts of gossip could be heard in Washington about this woman, her jewels, her dresses, her airs, her assumption of the dignity of the presiding genius of National legislation and her domination of the old Commoner and his life. It gradually crept into the newspapers and magazines, but he never once condescended to notice it. Elsie begged her father to close this house and live with them. His reply was short and emphatic: "Impossible, my child. This club foot must live next door to the Capitol. My house is simply an executive office at which I sleep. Half the business of the Nation is transacted there. Don't mention this subject again." Elsie choked back a sob at the cold menace in the tones of this command, and never repeated her request. It was the only wish he had ever denied her, and, somehow, her heart would come back to it with persistence and brood and wonder over his motive. The nearer she drew, this morning, to the hospital door, the closer the wounded boy's life and loved ones seemed to hers. She thought with anguish of the storm about to break between her father and the President--the one demanding the desolation of their land, wasted, harried, and unarmed!--the President firm in his policy of mercy, generosity, and healing. Her father would not mince words. His scorpion tongue, set on fires of hell, might start a conflagration that would light the Nation with its glare. Would not his name be a terror for every man and woman born under Southern skies? The sickening feeling stole over her that he was wrong, and his policy cruel and unjust. She had never before admired the President. It was fashionable to speak with contempt of him in Washington. He had little following in Congress. Nine tenths of the politicians hated or feared him, and she knew her father had been the soul of a conspiracy at the Capitol to prevent his second nomination and create a dictatorship, under which to carry out an iron policy of reconstruction in the South. And now she found herself heart and soul the champion of the President. She was ashamed of her disloyalty, and felt a rush of impetuous anger against Ben and his people for thrusting themselves between her and her own. Yet how absurd to feel thus against the innocent victims of a great tragedy! She put the thought from her. Still she must part from them now before the brewing storm burst. It would be best for her and best for them. This pardon delivered would end their relations. She would send the papers by a messenger and not see them again. And then she thought with a throb of girlish pride of the hour to come in the future when Ben's big brown eyes would be softened with a tear when he would learn that she had saved his life. They had concealed all from him as yet. She was afraid to question too closely in her own heart the shadowy motive that lay back of her joy. She read again with a lingering smile the name "Ben Cameron" on the paper with its big red Seal of Life. She had laughed at boys who had made love to her, dreaming a wider, nobler life of heroic service. And she felt that she was fulfilling her ideal in the generous hand she had extended to these who were friendless. Were they not the children of her soul in that larger, finer world of which she had dreamed and sung? Why should she give them up now for brutal politics? Their sorrow had been hers, their joy should be hers, too. She would take the papers herself and then say good-bye. She found the mother and sister beside the cot. Ben was sleeping with Margaret holding one of his hands. The mother was busy sewing for the wounded Confederate boys she had found scattered through the hospital. At the sight of Elsie holding aloft the message of life she sprang to meet her with a cry of joy. She clasped the girl to her breast, unable to speak. At last she released her and said with a sob: "My child, through good report and through evil report my love will enfold you!" Elsie stammered, looked away, and tried to hide her emotion. Margaret had knelt and bowed her head on Ben's cot. She rose at length, threw her arms around Elsie in a resistless impulse, kissed her and whispered: "My sweet sister!" Elsie's heart leaped at the words, as her eyes rested on the face of the sleeping soldier. CHAPTER VI THE ASSASSINATION Elsie called in the afternoon at the Camerons' lodgings, radiant with pride, accompanied by her brother. Captain Phil Stoneman, athletic, bronzed, a veteran of two years' service, dressed in his full uniform, was the ideal soldier, and yet he had never loved war. He was bubbling over with quiet joy that the end had come and he could soon return to a rational life. Inheriting his mother's temperament, he was generous, enterprising, quick, intelligent, modest, and ambitious. War had seemed to him a horrible tragedy from the first. He had early learned to respect a brave foe, and bitterness had long since melted out of his heart. He had laughed at his father's harsh ideas of Southern life gained as a politician, and, while loyal to him after a boy's fashion, he took no stock in his Radical programme. The father, colossal egotist that he was, heard Phil's protests with mild amusement and quiet pride in his independence, for he loved this boy with deep tenderness. Phil had been touched by the story of Ben's narrow escape, and was anxious to show his mother and sister every courtesy possible in part atonement for the wrong he felt had been done them. He was timid with girls, and yet he wished to give Margaret a cordial greeting for Elsie's sake. He was not prepared for the shock the first appearance of the Southern girl gave him. When the stately figure swept through the door to greet him, her black eyes sparkling with welcome, her voice low and tender with genuine feeling, he caught his breath in surprise. Elsie noted his confusion with amusement and said: "I must go to the hospital for a little work. Now, Phil, I'll meet you at the door at eight o'clock." "I'll not forget," he answered abstractedly, watching Margaret intently as she walked with Elsie to the door. He saw that her dress was of coarse, unbleached cotton, dyed with the juice of walnut hulls and set with wooden hand-made buttons. The story these things told of war and want was eloquent, yet she wore them with unconscious dignity. She had not a pin or brooch or piece of jewellery. Everything about her was plain and smooth, graceful and gracious. Her face was large--the lovely oval type--and her luxuriant hair, parted in the middle, fell downward in two great waves. Tall, stately, handsome, her dark rare Southern beauty full of subtle languor and indolent grace, she was to Phil a revelation. The coarse black dress that clung closely to her figure seemed alive when she moved, vital with her beauty. The musical cadences of her voice were vibrant with feeling, sweet, tender, and homelike. And the odour of the rose she wore pinned low on her breast he could swear was the perfume of her breath. Lingering in her eyes and echoing in the tones of her voice, he caught the shadowy memory of tears for the loved and lost that gave a strange pathos and haunting charm to her youth. She had returned quickly and was talking at ease with him. "I'm not going to tell you, Captain Stoneman, that I hope to be a sister to you. You have already made yourself my brother in what you did for Ben." "Nothing, I assure you, Miss Cameron, that any soldier wouldn't do for a brave foe." "Perhaps; but when the foe happens to be an only brother, my chum and playmate, brave and generous, whom I've worshipped as my beau-ideal man--why, you know I must thank you for taking him in your arms that day. May I, again?" Phil felt the soft warm hand clasp his, while the black eyes sparkled and glowed their friendly message. He murmured something incoherently, looked at Margaret as if in a spell, and forgot to let her hand go. She laughed at last, and he blushed and dropped it as though it were a live coal. "I was about to forget, Miss Cameron. I wish to take you to the theatre to-night, if you will go?" "To the theatre?" "Yes. It's to be an occasion, Elsie tells me. Laura Keene's last appearance in 'Our American Cousin,' and her one-thousandth performance of the play. She played it in Chicago at McVicker's, when the President was first nominated, to hundreds of the delegates who voted for him. He is to be present to-night, so the _Evening Star_ has announced, and General and Mrs. Grant with him. It will be the opportunity of your life to see these famous men--besides, I wish you to see the city illuminated on the way." Margaret hesitated. "I should like to go," she said with some confusion. "But you see we are old-fashioned Scotch Presbyterians down in our village in South Carolina. I never was in a theatre--and this is Good Friday----" "That's a fact, sure," said Phil thoughtfully. "It never occurred to me. War is not exactly a spiritual stimulant, and it blurs the calendar. I believe we fight on Sundays oftener than on any other day." "But I'm crazy to see the President since Ben's pardon. Mamma will be here in a moment, and I'll ask her." "You see, it's really an occasion," Phil went on. "The people are all going there to see President Lincoln in the hour of his triumph, and his great General fresh from the field of victory. Grant has just arrived in town." Mrs. Cameron entered and greeted Phil with motherly tenderness. "Captain, you're so much like my boy! Had you noticed it, Margaret?" "Of course, Mamma, but I was afraid I'd tire him with flattery if I tried to tell him." "Only his hair is light and wavy, and Ben's straight and black, or you'd call them twins. Ben's a little taller--excuse us, Captain Stoneman, but we've fallen so in love with your little sister we feel we've known you all our lives." "I assure you, Mrs. Cameron, your flattery is very sweet. Elsie and I do not remember our mother, and all this friendly criticism is more than welcome." "Mamma, Captain Stoneman asks me to go with him and his sister to-night to see the President at the theatre. May I go?" "Will the President be there, Captain?" asked Mrs. Cameron. "Yes, Madam, with General and Mrs. Grant--it's really a great public function in celebration of peace and victory. To-day the flag was raised over Fort Sumter, the anniversary of its surrender four years ago. The city will be illuminated." "Then, of course, you can go. I will sit with Ben. I wish you to see the President." At seven o'clock Phil called for Margaret. They walked to the Capitol hill and down Pennsylvania Avenue. The city was in a ferment. Vast crowds thronged the streets. In front of the hotel where General Grant stopped the throng was so dense the streets were completely blocked. Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, at every turn, in squads, in companies, in regimental crowds, shouting cries of victory. The display of lights was dazzling in its splendour. Every building in every street, in every nook and corner of the city, was lighted from attic to cellar. The public buildings and churches vied with each other in the magnificence of their decorations and splendour of illuminations. They turned a corner, and suddenly the Capitol on the throne of its imperial hill loomed a grand constellation in the heavens! Another look, and it seemed a huge bonfire against the background of the dark skies. Every window in its labyrinths of marble, from the massive base to its crowning statue of Freedom, gleamed and flashed with light--more than ten thousand jets poured their rays through its windows, besides the innumerable lights that circled the mighty dome within and without. Margaret stopped, and Phil felt her soft hand grip his arm with sudden emotion. "Isn't it sublime!" she whispered. "Glorious!" he echoed. But he was thinking of the pressure of her hand on his arm and the subtle tones of her voice. Somehow he felt that the light came from her eyes. He forgot the Capitol and the surging crowds before the sweeter creative wonder silently growing in his soul. "And yet," she faltered, "when I think of what all this means for our people at home--their sorrow and poverty and ruin--you know it makes me faint." Phil's hand timidly sought the soft one resting on his arm and touched it reverently. "Believe me, Miss Margaret, it will be all for the best in the end. The South will yet rise to a nobler life than she has ever lived in the past. This is her victory as well as ours." "I wish I could think so," she answered. They passed the City Hall and saw across its front, in giant letters of fire thirty feet deep, the words: "UNION, SHERMAN, AND GRANT" On Pennsylvania Avenue the hotels and stores had hung every window, awning, cornice, and swaying tree-top with lanterns. The grand avenue was bridged by tri-coloured balloons floating and shimmering ghostlike far up in the dark sky. Above these, in the blacker zone toward the stars, the heavens were flashing sheets of chameleon flames from bursting rockets. Margaret had never dreamed such a spectacle. She walked in awed silence, now and then suppressing a sob for the memory of those she had loved and lost. A moment of bitterness would cloud her heart, and then with the sense of Phil's nearness, his generous nature, the beauty and goodness of his sister, and all they owed to her for Ben's life, the cloud would pass. At every public building, and in front of every great hotel, bands were playing. The wild war strains, floating skyward, seemed part of the changing scheme of light. The odour of burnt powder and smouldering rockets filled the warm spring air. The deep bay of the great fort guns now began to echo from every hilltop commanding the city, while a thousand smaller guns barked and growled from every square and park and crossing. Jay Cooke & Co's. banking-house had stretched across its front, in enormous blazing letters, the words: "THE BUSY B'S--BALLS, BALLOTS, AND BONDS" Every telegraph and newspaper office was a roaring whirlpool of excitement, for the same scenes were being enacted in every centre of the North. The whole city was now a fairy dream, its dirt and sin, shame and crime, all wrapped in glorious light. But above all other impressions was the contagion of the thunder shouts of hosts of men surging through the streets--the human roar with its animal and spiritual magnetism, wild, resistless, unlike any other force in the universe! Margaret's hand again and again unconsciously tightened its hold on Phil's arm, and he felt that the whole celebration had been gotten up for his benefit. They passed through a little park on their way to Ford's Theatre on 10th Street, and the eye of the Southern girl was quick to note the budding flowers and full-blown lilacs. "See what an early spring!" she cried. "I know the flowers at home are gorgeous now." "I shall hope to see you among them some day, when all the clouds have lifted," he said. She smiled and replied with simple earnestness: "A warm welcome will await your coming." And Phil resolved to lose no time in testing it. They turned into 10th Street, and in the middle of the block stood the plain three-story brick structure of Ford's Theatre, an enormous crowd surging about its five doorways and spreading out on the sidewalk and half across the driveway. "Is that the theatre?" asked Margaret. "Yes." "Why, it looks like a church without a steeple." "Exactly what it really is, Miss Margaret. It was a Baptist church. They turned it into a playhouse, by remodelling its gallery into a dress-circle and balcony and adding another gallery above. My grandmother Stoneman is a devoted Baptist, and was an attendant at this church. My father never goes to church, but he used to go here occasionally to please her. Elsie and I frequently came." Phil pushed his way rapidly through the crowd with a peculiar sense of pleasure in making a way for Margaret and in defending her from the jostling throng. They found Elsie at the door, stamping her foot with impatience. "Well, I must say, Phil, this is prompt for a soldier who had positive orders," she cried. "I've been here an hour." "Nonsense, Sis, I'm ahead of time," he protested. Elsie held up her watch. "It's a quarter past eight. Every seat is filled, and they've stopped selling standing-room. I hope you have good seats." "The best in the house to-night, the first row in the balcony dress-circle, opposite the President's box. We can see everything on the stage, in the box, and every nook and corner of the house." "Then I'll forgive you for keeping me waiting." They ascended the stairs, pushed through the throng standing, and at last reached the seats. What a crowd! The building was a mass of throbbing humanity, and, over all, the hum of the thrilling wonder of peace and victory! The women in magnificent costumes, officers in uniforms flashing with gold, the show of wealth and power, the perfume of flowers and the music of violin and flutes gave Margaret the impression of a dream, so sharp was the contrast with her own life and people in the South. The interior of the house was a billow of red, white, and blue. The President's box was wrapped in two enormous silk flags with gold-fringed edges gracefully draped and hanging in festoons. Withers, the leader of the orchestra, was in high feather. He raised his baton with quick, inspired movement. It was for him a personal triumph, too. He had composed the music of a song for the occasion. It was dedicated to the President, and the programme announced that it would be rendered during the evening between the acts by a famous quartet, assisted by the whole company in chorus. The National flag would be draped about each singer, worn as the togas of ancient Greece and Rome. It was already known by the crowd that General and Mrs. Grant had left the city for the North and could not be present, but every eye was fixed on the door through which the President and Mrs. Lincoln would enter. It was the hour of his supreme triumph. [Illustration: THE ASSASSINATION.] What a romance his life! The thought of it thrilled the crowd as they waited. A few years ago this tall, sad-faced man had floated down the Sangamon River into a rough Illinois town, ragged, penniless, friendless, alone, begging for work. Four years before he had entered Washington as President of the United States--but he came under cover of the night with a handful of personal friends, amid universal contempt for his ability and the loud expressed conviction of his failure from within and without his party. He faced a divided Nation and the most awful civil convulsion in history. Through it all he had led the Nation in safety, growing each day in power and fame, until to-night, amid the victorious shouts of millions of a Union fixed in eternal granite, he stood forth the idol of the people, the first great American, the foremost man of the world. There was a stir at the door, and the tall figure suddenly loomed in view of the crowd. With one impulse they leaped to their feet, and shout after shout shook the building. The orchestra was playing "Hail to the Chief!" but nobody heard it. They saw the Chief! They were crying their own welcome in music that came from the rhythmic beat of human hearts. As the President walked along the aisle with Mrs. Lincoln, accompanied by Senator Harris' daughter and Major Rathbone, cheer after cheer burst from the crowd. He turned, his face beaming with pleasure, and bowed as he passed. The answer of the crowd shook the building to its foundations, and the President paused. His dark face flashed with emotion as he looked over the sea of cheering humanity. It was a moment of supreme exaltation. The people had grown to know and love and trust him, and it was sweet. His face, lit with the responsive fires of emotion, was transfigured. The soul seemed to separate itself from its dreamy, rugged dwelling-place and flash its inspiration from the spirit world. As around this man's personality had gathered the agony and horror of war, so now about his head glowed and gleamed in imagination the splendours of victory. Margaret impulsively put her hand on Phil's arm: "Why, how Southern he looks! How tall and dark and typical his whole figure!" "Yes, and his traits of character even more typical," said Phil. "On the surface, easy friendly ways and the tenderness of a woman--beneath, an iron will and lion heart. I like him. And what always amazes me is his universality. A Southerner finds in him the South, the Western man the West, even Charles Sumner, from Boston, almost loves him. You know I think he is the first great all-round American who ever lived in the White House." The President's party had now entered the box, and as Mr. Lincoln took the armchair nearest the audience, in full view of every eye in the house, again the cheers rent the air. In vain Withers' baton flew, and the orchestra did its best. The music was drowned as in the roar of the sea. Again he rose and bowed and smiled, his face radiant with pleasure. The soul beneath those deep-cut lines had long pined for the sunlight. His love of the theatre and the humorous story were the protest of his heart against pain and tragedy. He stood there bowing to the people, the grandest, gentlest figure of the fiercest war of human history--a man who was always doing merciful things stealthily as others do crimes. Little sunlight had come into his life, yet to-night he felt that the sun of a new day in his history and the history of the people was already tingeing the horizon with glory. Back of those smiles what a story! Many a night he had paced back and forth in the telegraph office of the War Department, read its awful news of defeat, and alone sat down and cried over the list of the dead. Many a black hour his soul had seen when the honours of earth were forgotten and his great heart throbbed on his sleeve. His character had grown so evenly and silently with the burdens he had borne, working mighty deeds with such little friction, he could not know, nor could the crowd to whom he bowed, how deep into the core of the people's life the love of him had grown. As he looked again over the surging crowd his tall figure seemed to straighten, erect and buoyant, with the new dignity of conscious triumphant leadership. He knew that he had come unto his own at last, and his brain was teeming with dreams of mercy and healing. The President resumed his seat, the tumult died away, and the play began amid a low hum of whispered comment directed at the flag-draped box. The actors struggled in vain to hold the attention of the audience, until finally Hawk, the actor playing Dundreary, determined to catch their ear, paused and said: "Now, that reminds me of a little story, as Mr. Lincoln says----" Instantly the crowd burst into a storm of applause, the President laughed, leaned over and spoke to his wife, and the electric connection was made between the stage, the box, and the people. After this the play ran its smooth course, and the audience settled into its accustomed humour of sympathetic attention. In spite of the novelty of this, her first view of a theatre, the President fascinated Margaret. She watched the changing lights and shadows of his sensitive face with untiring interest, and the wonder of his life grew upon her imagination. This man who was the idol of the North and yet to her so purely Southern, who had come out of the West and yet was greater than the West or the North, and yet always supremely human--this man who sprang to his feet from the chair of State and bowed to a sorrowing woman with the deference of a knight, every man's friend, good-natured, sensible, masterful and clear in intellect, strong, yet modest, kind and gentle--yes, he was more interesting than all the drama and romance of the stage! He held her imagination in a spell. Elsie, divining her abstraction, looked toward the President's box and saw approaching it along the balcony aisle the figure of John Wilkes Booth. "Look," she cried, touching Margaret's arm. "There's John Wilkes Booth, the actor! Isn't he handsome? They say he's in love with my chum, a senator's daughter whose father hates Mr. Lincoln with perfect fury." "He is handsome," Margaret answered. "But I'd be afraid of him, with that raven hair and eyes shining like something wild." "They say he is wild and dissipated, yet half the silly girls in town are in love with him. He's as vain as a peacock." Booth, accustomed to free access to the theatre, paused near the entrance to the box and looked deliberately over the great crowd, his magnetic face flushed with deep emotion, while his fiery inspiring eyes glittered with excitement. Dressed in a suit of black broadcloth of faultless fit, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet he was physically without blemish. A figure of perfect symmetry and proportion, his dark eyes flashing, his marble forehead crowned with curling black hair, agility and grace stamped on every line of his being--beyond a doubt he was the handsomest man in America. A flutter of feminine excitement rippled the surface of the crowd in the balcony as his well-known figure caught the wandering eyes of the women. He turned and entered the door leading to the President's box, and Margaret once more gave her attention to the stage. Hawk, as Dundreary, was speaking his lines and looking directly at the President instead of at the audience: "Society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old woman, you darned old sockdologing man trap!" Margaret winced at the coarse words, but the galleries burst into shouts of laughter that lingered in ripples and murmurs and the shuffling of feet. The muffled crack of a pistol in the President's box hushed the laughter for an instant. No one realized what had happened, and when the assassin suddenly leaped from the box, with a blood-marked knife flashing in his right hand, caught his foot in the flags and fell to his knees on the stage, many thought it a part of the programme, and a boy, leaning over the gallery rail, giggled. When Booth turned his face of statuesque beauty lit by eyes flashing with insane desperation and cried, "_Sic semper tyrannis_," they were only confirmed in this impression. A sudden, piercing scream from Mrs. Lincoln, quivering, soul harrowing! Leaning far out of the box, from ashen cheeks and lips leaped the piteous cry of appeal, her hand pointing to the retreating figure: "The President is shot! He has killed the President!" Every heart stood still for one awful moment. The brain refused to record the message--and then the storm burst! A wild roar of helpless fury and despair! Men hurled themselves over the footlights in vain pursuit of the assassin. Already the clatter of his horse's feet could be heard in the distance. A surgeon threw himself against the door of the box, but it had been barred within by the cunning hand. Another leaped on the stage, and the people lifted him up in their arms and over the fatal railing. Women began to faint, and strong men trampled down the weak in mad rushes from side to side. The stage in a moment was a seething mass of crazed men, among them the actors and actresses in costumes and painted faces, their mortal terror shining through the rouge. They passed water up to the box, and some tried to climb up and enter it. The two hundred soldiers of the President's guard suddenly burst in, and, amid screams and groans of the weak and injured, stormed the house with fixed bayonets, cursing, yelling, and shouting at the top of their voices: "Clear out! Clear out! You sons of hell!" One of them suddenly bore down with fixed bayonet toward Phil. Margaret shrank in terror close to his side and tremblingly held his arm. Elsie sprang forward, her face aflame, her eyes flashing fire, her little figure tense, erect, and quivering with rage: "How dare you, idiot, brute!" The soldier, brought to his senses, saw Phil in full captain's uniform before him, and suddenly drew himself up, saluting. Phil ordered him to guard Margaret and Elsie for a moment, drew his sword, leaped between the crazed soldiers and their victims and stopped their insane rush. Within the box the great head lay in the surgeon's arms, the blood slowly dripping down, and the tiny death bubbles forming on the kindly lips. They carried him tenderly out, and another group bore after him the unconscious wife. The people tore the seats from their fastenings and heaped them in piles to make way for the precious burdens. As Phil pressed forward with Margaret and Elsie through the open door came the roar of the mob without, shouting its cries: "The President is shot!" "Seward is murdered!" "Where is Grant?" "Where is Stanton?" "To arms! To arms!" The peal of signal guns could now be heard, the roll of drums and the hurried tramp of soldiers' feet. They marched none too soon. The mob had attacked the stockade holding ten thousand unarmed Confederate prisoners. At the corner of the block in which the theatre stood they seized a man who looked like a Southerner and hung him to the lamp-post. Two heroic policemen fought their way to his side and rescued him. If the temper of the people during the war had been convulsive, now it was insane--with one mad impulse and one thought--vengeance! Horror, anger, terror, uncertainty, each passion fanned the one animal instinct into fury. Through this awful night, with the lights still gleaming as if to mock the celebration of victory, the crowds swayed in impotent rage through the streets, while the telegraph bore on the wings of lightning the awe-inspiring news. Men caught it from the wires, and stood in silent groups weeping, and their wrath against the fallen South began to rise as the moaning of the sea under a coming storm. At dawn black clouds hung threatening on the eastern horizon. As the sun rose, tingeing them for a moment with scarlet and purple glory, Abraham Lincoln breathed his last. Even grim Stanton, the iron-hearted, stood by his bedside and through blinding tears exclaimed: "Now he belongs to the ages!" The deed was done. The wheel of things had moved. Vice-President Johnson took the oath of office, and men hailed him Chief; but the seat of Empire had moved from the White House to a little dark house on the Capitol hill, where dwelt an old club-footed man, alone, attended by a strange brown woman of sinister animal beauty and the restless eyes of a leopardess. CHAPTER VII THE FRENZY OF A NATION Phil hurried through the excited crowds with Margaret and Elsie, left them at the hospital door, and ran to the War Department to report for duty. Already the tramp of regiments echoed down every great avenue. Even as he ran, his heart beat with a strange new stroke when he recalled the look of appeal in Margaret's dark eyes as she nestled close to his side and clung to his arm for protection. He remembered with a smile the almost resistless impulse of the moment to slip his arm around her and assure her of safety. If he had only dared! Elsie begged Mrs. Cameron and Margaret to go home with her until the city was quiet. "No," said the mother. "I am not afraid. Death has no terrors for me any longer. We will not leave Ben a moment now, day or night. My soul is sick with dread for what this awful tragedy will mean for the South! I can't think of my own safety. Can any one undo this pardon now?" she asked anxiously. "I am sure they cannot. The name on that paper should be mightier dead than living." "Ah, but will it be? Do you know Mr. Johnson? Can he control Stanton? He seemed to be more powerful than the President himself. What will that man do now with those who fall into his hands." "He can do nothing with your son, rest assured." "I wish I knew it," said the mother wistfully. * * * * * A few moments after the President died on Saturday morning, the rain began to pour in torrents. The flags that flew from a thousand gilt-tipped peaks in celebration of victory drooped to half-mast and hung weeping around their staffs. The litter of burnt fireworks, limp and crumbling, strewed the streets, and the tri-coloured lanterns and balloons, hanging pathetically from their wires, began to fall to pieces. Never in all the history of man had such a conjunction of events befallen a nation. From the heights of heaven's rejoicing to be suddenly hurled to the depths of hell in piteous helpless grief! Noon to midnight without a moment between. A pall of voiceless horror spread its shadows over the land. Nothing short of an earthquake or the sound of the archangel's trumpet could have produced the sense of helpless consternation, the black and speechless despair. The people read their papers in tears. The morning meal was untouched. By no other single feat could death have carried such peculiar horror to every home. Around this giant figure the heartstrings of the people had been unconsciously knit. Even his political enemies had come to love him. Above all, in just this moment he was the incarnation of the Triumphant Union on the altar of whose life every house had laid the offering of its first-born. The tragedy was stupefying--it was unthinkable--it was the mockery of Fate! Men walked the streets of the cities, dazed with the sense of blind grief. Every note of music and rejoicing became a dirge. All business ceased. Every wheel in every mill stopped. The roar of the great city was hushed, and Greed for a moment forgot his cunning. The army only moved with swifter spring, tightening its mighty grip on the throat of the bleeding prostrate South. As the day wore on its gloomy hours, and men began to find speech, they spoke to each other at first in low tones of Fate, of Life, of Death, of Immortality, of God--and then as grief found words the measureless rage of baffled strength grew slowly to madness. On every breeze from the North came the deep-muttered curses. Easter Sunday dawned after the storm, clear and beautiful in a flood of glorious sunshine. The churches were thronged as never in their history. All had been decorated for the double celebration of Easter and the triumph of the Union. The preachers had prepared sermons pitched in the highest anthem key of victory--victory over death and the grave of Calvary, and victory for the Nation opening a future of boundless glory. The churches were labyrinths of flowers, and around every pulpit and from every Gothic arch hung the red, white, and blue flags of the Republic. And now, as if to mock this gorgeous pageant, Death had in the night flung a black mantle over every flag and wound a strangling web of crape round every Easter flower. When the preachers faced the silent crowds before them, looking into the faces of fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and lovers whose dear ones had been slain in battle or died in prison pens, the tide of grief and rage rose and swept them from their feet! The Easter sermon was laid aside. Fifty thousand Christian ministers, stunned and crazed by insane passion, standing before the altars of God, hurled into the broken hearts before them the wildest cries of vengeance--cries incoherent, chaotic, unreasoning, blind in their awful fury! The pulpits of New York and Brooklyn led in the madness. Next morning old Stoneman read his paper with a cold smile playing about his big stern mouth, while his furrowed brow flushed with triumph, as again and again he exclaimed: "At last! At last!" Even Beecher, who had just spoken his generous words at Fort Sumter, declared: "Never while time lasts, while heaven lasts, while hell rocks and groans, will it be forgotten that Slavery, by its minions, slew him, and slaying him made manifest its whole nature. A man cannot be bred in its tainted air. I shall find saints in hell sooner than I shall find true manhood under its accursed influences. The breeding-ground of such monsters must be utterly and forever destroyed." Dr. Stephen Tyng said: "The leaders of this rebellion deserve no pity from any human being. Now let them go. Some other land must be their home. Their property is justly forfeited to the Nation they have attempted to destroy!" In big black-faced type stood Dr. Charles S. Robinson's bitter words: "This is the earliest reply which chivalry makes to our forbearance. Talk to me no more of the same race, of the same blood. He is no brother of mine and of no race of mine who crowns the barbarism of treason with the murder of an unarmed husband in the sight of his wife. On the villains who led this rebellion let justice fall swift and relentless. Death to every traitor of the South! Pursue them one by one! Let every door be closed upon them and judgment follow swift and implacable as death!" Dr. Theodore Cuyler exclaimed: "This is no time to talk of leniency and conciliation! I say before God, make no terms with rebellion short of extinction. Booth wielding the assassin's weapon is but the embodiment of the bowie-knife barbarism of a slaveholding oligarchy." Dr. J. P. Thompson said: "Blot every Southern State from the map. Strip every rebel of property and citizenship, and send them into exile beggared and infamous outcasts." Bishop Littlejohn, in his impassioned appeal, declared: "The deed is worthy of the Southern cause which was conceived in sin, brought forth in iniquity, and consummated in crime. This murderous hand is the same hand which lashed the slave's bared back, struck down New England's senator for daring to speak, lifted the torch of rebellion, slaughtered in cold blood its thousands, and starved our helpless prisoners. Its end is not martyrdom, but dishonour." Bishop Simpson said: "Let every man who was a member of Congress and aided this rebellion be brought to speedy punishment. Let every officer educated at public expense, who turned his sword against his country, be doomed to a traitor's death!" With the last note of this wild music lingering in the old Commoner's soul, he sat as if dreaming, laughed cynically, turned to the brown woman and said: "My speeches have not been lost after all. Prepare dinner for six. My cabinet will meet here to-night." While the press was reëchoing these sermons, gathering strength as they were caught and repeated in every town, village, and hamlet in the North, the funeral procession started westward. It passed in grandeur through the great cities on its journey of one thousand six hundred miles to the tomb. By day, by night, by dawn, by sunlight, by twilight, and lit by solemn torches, millions of silent men and women looked on his dead face. Around the person of this tall, lonely man, rugged, yet full of sombre dignity and spiritual beauty, the thoughts, hopes, dreams, and ideals of the people had gathered in four years of agony and death, until they had come to feel their own hearts beat in his breast and their own life throb in his life. The assassin's bullet had crashed into their own brains, and torn their souls and bodies asunder. The masses were swept from their moorings, and reason destroyed. All historic perspective was lost. Our first assassination, there was no precedent for comparison. It had been over two hundred years in the world's history since the last murder of a great ruler, when William of Orange fell. On the day set for the public funeral twenty million people bowed at the same hour. When the procession reached New York the streets were lined with a million people. Not a sound could be heard save the tramp of soldiers' feet and the muffled cry of the dirge. Though on every foot of earth stood a human being, the silence of the desert and of death! The Nation's living heroes rode in that procession, and passed without a sign from the people. Four years ago he drove down Broadway as President-elect, unnoticed and with soldiers in disguise attending him lest the mob should stone him. To-day, at the mention of his name in the churches, the preachers' voices in prayer wavered and broke into silence while strong men among the crowd burst into sobs. Flags flew at half-mast from their steeples, and their bells tolled in grief. Every house that flew but yesterday its banner of victory was shrouded in mourning. The flags and pennants of a thousand ships in the harbour drooped at half-mast, and from every staff in the city streamed across the sky the black mists of crape like strange meteors in the troubled heavens. For three days every theatre, school, court, bank, shop, and mill was closed. And with muttered curses men looked Southward. Across Broadway the cortège passed under a huge transparency on which appeared the words: "A Nation bowed in grief Will rise in might to exterminate The leaders of this accursed Rebellion." Farther along swung the black-draped banner: "Justice to Traitors is Mercy to the People." Another flapped its grim message: "The Barbarism of Slavery. Can Barbarism go Further?" Across the Ninth Regiment Armoury, in gigantic letters, were the words: "Time for Weeping But Vengeance is not Sleeping!" When the procession reached Buffalo, the house of Millard Fillmore was mobbed because the ex-President, stricken on a bed of illness, had neglected to drape his house in mourning. The procession passed to Springfield through miles of bowed heads dumb with grief. The plough stopped in the furrow, the smith dropped his hammer, the carpenter his plane, the merchant closed his door, the clink of coin ceased, and over all hung brooding silence with low-muttered curses, fierce and incoherent. No man who walked the earth ever passed to his tomb through such a storm of human tears. The pageants of Alexander, Cæsar, and Wellington were tinsel to this. Nor did the spirit of Napoleon, the Corsican Lieutenant of Artillery who once presided over a congress of kings whom he had conquered, look down on its like even in France. And now that its pomp was done and its memory but bitterness and ashes, but one man knew exactly what he wanted and what he meant to do. Others were stunned by the blow. But the cold eyes of the Great Commoner, leader of leaders, sparkled, and his grim lips smiled. From him not a word of praise or fawning sorrow for the dead. Whatever he might be, he was not a liar: when he hated, he hated. The drooping flags, the city's black shrouds, processions, torches, silent seas of faces and bared heads, the dirges and the bells, the dim-lit churches, wailing organs, fierce invectives from the altar, and the perfume of flowers piled in heaps by silent hearts--to all these was he heir. And more--the fierce unwritten, unspoken, and unspeakable horrors of the war itself, its passions, its cruelties, its hideous crimes and sufferings, the wailing of its women, the graves of its men--all these now were his. The new President bowed to the storm. In one breath he promised to fulfil the plans of Lincoln. In the next he, too, breathed threats of vengeance. The edict went forth for the arrest of General Lee. Would Grant, the Commanding General of the Army, dare protest? There were those who said that if Lee were arrested and Grant's plighted word at Appomattox smirched, the silent soldier would not only protest, but draw his sword, if need be, to defend his honour and the honour of the Nation. Yet--would he dare? It remained to be seen. The jails were now packed with Southern men, taken unarmed from their homes. The old Capitol Prison was full, and every cell of every grated building in the city, and they were filling the rooms of the Capitol itself. Margaret, hurrying from the market in the early morning with her flowers, was startled to find her mother bowed in anguish over a paragraph in the morning paper. She rose and handed it to the daughter, who read: "Dr. Richard Cameron, of South Carolina, arrived in Washington and was placed in jail last night, charged with complicity in the murder of President Lincoln. It was discovered that Jeff Davis spent the night at his home in Piedmont, under the pretence of needing medical attention. Beyond all doubt, Booth, the assassin, merely acted under orders from the Arch Traitor. May the gallows have a rich and early harvest!" Margaret tremblingly wound her arms around her mother's neck. No words broke the pitiful silence--only blinding tears and broken sobs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Book II--The Revolution CHAPTER I THE FIRST LADY OF THE LAND The little house on the Capitol hill now became the centre of fevered activity. This house, selected by its grim master to become the executive mansion of the Nation, was perhaps the most modest structure ever chosen for such high uses. It stood, a small, two-story brick building, in an unpretentious street. Seven windows opened on the front with black solid-panelled shutters. The front parlour was scantily furnished. A huge mirror covered one wall, and on the other hung a life-size oil portrait of Stoneman, and between the windows were a portrait of Washington Irving and a picture of a nun. Among his many charities he had always given liberally to an orphanage conducted by a Roman Catholic sisterhood. The back parlour, whose single window looked out on a small garden, he had fitted up as a library, with leather-upholstered furniture, a large desk and table, and scattered on the mantel and about its walls were the photographs of his personal friends and a few costly prints. This room he used as his executive office, and no person was allowed to enter it without first stating his business or presenting a petition to the tawny brown woman with restless eyes who sat in state in the front parlour and received his visitors. The books in their cases gave evidence of little use for many years, although their character indicated the tastes of a man of culture. His Pliny, Cæsar, Cicero, Tacitus, Sophocles, and Homer had evidently been read by a man who knew their beauties and loved them for their own sake. This house was now the Mecca of the party in power and the storm-centre of the forces destined to shape the Nation's life. Senators, representatives, politicians of low and high degree, artists, correspondents, foreign ministers, and cabinet officers hurried to acknowledge their fealty to the uncrowned king, and hail the strange brown woman who held the keys of his house as the first lady of the land. When Charles Sumner called, a curious thing happened. By a code agreed on between them, Lydia Brown touched an electric signal which informed the old Commoner of his appearance. Stoneman hobbled to the folding-doors and watched through the slight opening the manner in which the icy senator greeted the negress whom he was compelled to meet thus as his social equal, though she was always particular to pose as the superior of all who bowed the knee to the old man whose house she kept. Sumner at this time was supposed to be the most powerful man in Congress. It was a harmless fiction which pleased him, and at which Stoneman loved to laugh. The senator from Massachusetts had just made a speech in Boston expounding the "Equality of Man," yet he could not endure personal contact with a negro. He would go secretly miles out of the way to avoid it. Stoneman watched him slowly and daintily approach this negress and touch her jewelled hand gingerly with the tips of his classic fingers as if she were a toad. Convulsed, he scrambled back to his desk and hugged himself while he listened to the flow of Lydia's condescending patronage in the next room. "This world's too good a thing to lose!" he chuckled. "I think I'll live always." When Sumner left, the hour for dinner had arrived, and by special invitation two men dined with him. On his right sat an army officer who had been dismissed from the service, a victim of the mania for gambling. His ruddy face, iron-gray hair, and jovial mien indicated that he enjoyed life in spite of troubles. There were no clubs in Washington at this time except the regular gambling-houses, of which there were more than one hundred in full blast. Stoneman was himself a gambler, and spent a part of almost every night at Hall & Pemberton's Faro Palace on Pennsylvania Avenue, a place noted for its famous restaurant. It was here that he met Colonel Howle and learned to like him. He was a man of talent, cool and audacious, and a liar of such singular fluency that he quite captivated the old Commoner's imagination. "Upon my soul, Howle," he declared soon after they met, "you made the mistake of your life going into the army. You're a born politician. You're what I call a natural liar, just as a horse is a pacer, a dog a setter. You lie without effort, with an ease and grace that excels all art. Had you gone into politics, you could easily have been Secretary of State, to say nothing of the vice-presidency. I would say President but for the fact that men of the highest genius never attain it." From that moment Colonel Howle had become his charmed henchman. Stoneman owned this man body and soul, not merely because he had befriended him when he was in trouble and friendless, but because the colonel recognized the power of the leader's daring spirit and revolutionary genius. On his left sat a negro of perhaps forty years, a man of charming features for a mulatto, who had evidently inherited the full physical characteristics of the Aryan race, while his dark yellowish eyes beneath his heavy brows glowed with the brightness of the African jungle. It was impossible to look at his superb face, with its large, finely chiselled lips and massive nose, his big neck and broad shoulders, and watch his eyes gleam beneath the projecting forehead, without seeing pictures of the primeval forest. "The head of a Cæsar and the eyes of the jungle" was the phrase coined by an artist who painted his portrait. His hair was black and glossy and stood in dishevelled profusion on his head between a kink and a curl. He was an orator of great power, and stirred a negro audience as by magic. Lydia Brown had called Stoneman's attention to this man, Silas Lynch, and induced the statesman to send him to college. He had graduated with credit and had entered the Methodist ministry. In his preaching to the freedmen he had already become a marked man. No house could hold his audiences. As he stepped briskly into the dining-room and passed the brown woman, a close observer might have seen him suddenly press her hand and caught her sly answering smile, but the old man waiting at the head of the table saw nothing. The woman took her seat opposite Stoneman and presided over this curious group with the easy assurance of conscious power. Whatever her real position, she knew how to play the role she had chosen to assume. No more curious or sinister figure ever cast a shadow across the history of a great nation than did this mulatto woman in the most corrupt hour of American life. The grim old man who looked into her sleek tawny face and followed her catlike eyes was steadily gripping the Nation by the throat. Did he aim to make this woman the arbiter of its social life, and her ethics the limit of its moral laws? Even the white satellite who sat opposite Lynch flushed for a moment as the thought flashed through his brain. The old cynic, who alone knew his real purpose, was in his most genial mood to-night, and the grim lines of his powerful face relaxed into something like a smile as they ate and chatted and told good stories. Lynch watched him with keen interest. He knew his history and character, and had built on his genius a brilliant scheme of life. This man who meant to become the dictator of the Republic had come from the humblest early conditions. His father was a worthless character, from whom he had learned the trade of a shoemaker, but his mother, a woman of vigorous intellect and indomitable will, had succeeded in giving her lame boy a college education. He had early sworn to be a man of wealth, and to this purpose he had throttled the dreams and ideals of a wayward imagination. His hope of great wealth had not been realized. His iron mills in Pennsylvania had been destroyed by Lee's army. He had developed the habit of gambling, which brought its train of extravagant habits, tastes, and inevitable debts. In his vigorous manhood, in spite of his lameness, he had kept a pack of hounds and a stable of fine horses. He had used his skill in shoemaking to construct a set of stirrups to fit his lame feet, and had become an expert hunter to hounds. One thing he never neglected--to be in his seat in the House of Representatives and wear its royal crown of leadership, sick or well, day or night. The love of power was the breath of his nostrils, and his ambitions had at one time been boundless. His enormous power to-day was due to the fact that he had given up all hope of office beyond the robes of the king of his party. He had been offered a cabinet position by the elder Harrison and for some reason it had been withdrawn. He had been promised a place in Lincoln's cabinet, but some mysterious power had snatched it away. He was the one great man who had now no ambition for which to trim and fawn and lie, and for the very reason that he had abolished himself he was the most powerful leader who ever walked the halls of Congress. His contempt for public opinion was boundless. Bold, original, scornful of advice, of all the men who ever lived in our history he was the one man born to rule in the chaos which followed the assassination of the chief magistrate. Audacity was stamped in every line of his magnificent head. His choicest curses were for the cowards of his own party before whose blanched faces he shouted out the hidden things until they sank back in helpless silence and dismay. His speech was curt, his humour sardonic, his wit biting, cruel, and coarse. The incarnate soul of revolution, he despised convention and ridiculed respectability. There was but one weak spot in his armour--and the world never suspected it: the consuming passion with which he loved his two children. This was the side of his nature he had hidden from the eyes of man. A refined egotism, this passion, perhaps--for he meant to live his own life over in them--yet it was the one utterly human and lovable thing about him. And if his public policy was one of stupendous avarice, this dream of millions of confiscated wealth he meant to seize, it was not for himself but for his children. As he looked at Howle and Lynch seated in his library after dinner, with his great plans seething in his brain, his eyes were flashing, intense, and fiery, yet without colour--simply two centres of cold light. "Gentlemen," he said at length. "I am going to ask you to undertake for the Government, the Nation, and yourselves a dangerous and important mission. I say yourselves, because, in spite of all our beautiful lies, self is the centre of all human action. Mr. Lincoln has fortunately gone to his reward--fortunately for him and for his country. His death was necessary to save his life. He was a useful man living, more useful dead. Our party has lost its first President, but gained a god--why mourn?" "We will recover from our grief," said Howle. The old man went on, ignoring the interruption: "Things have somehow come my way. I am almost persuaded late in life that the gods love me. The insane fury of the North against the South for a crime which they were the last people on earth to dream of committing is, of course, a power to be used--but with caution. The first execution of a Southern leader on such an idiotic charge would produce a revolution of sentiment. The people are an aggregation of hysterical fools." "I thought you favoured the execution of the leaders of the rebellion?" said Lynch with surprise. "I did, but it is too late. Had they been tried by drum-head court-martial and shot dead red-handed as they stood on the field in their uniforms, all would have been well. Now sentiment is too strong. Grant showed his teeth to Stanton and he backed down from Lee's arrest. Sherman refused to shake hands with Stanton on the grandstand the day his army passed in review, and it's a wonder he didn't knock him down. Sherman was denounced as a renegade and traitor for giving Joseph E. Johnston the terms Lincoln ordered him to give. Lincoln dead, his terms are treason! Yet had he lived, we should have been called upon to applaud his mercy and patriotism. How can a man live in this world and keep his face straight?" "I believe God permitted Mr. Lincoln's death to give the great Commoner, the Leader of Leaders, the right of way," cried Lynch with enthusiasm. The old man smiled. With all his fierce spirit he was as susceptible to flattery as a woman--far more so than the sleek brown woman who carried the keys of his house. "The man at the other end of the avenue, who pretends to be President, in reality an alien of the conquered province of Tennessee, is pressing Lincoln's plan of 'restoring' the Union. He has organized State governments in the South, and their senators and representatives will appear at the Capitol in December for admission to Congress. He thinks they will enter----" The old man broke into a low laugh and rubbed his hands. "My full plans are not for discussion at this juncture. Suffice it to say, I mean to secure the future of our party and the safety of this nation. The one thing on which the success of my plan absolutely depends is the confiscation of the millions of acres of land owned by the white people of the South and its division among the negroes and those who fought and suffered in this war----" The old Commoner paused, pursed his lips, and fumbled his hands a moment, the nostrils of his eagle-beaked nose breathing rapacity, sensuality throbbing in his massive jaws, and despotism frowning from his heavy brows. "Stanton will probably add to the hilarity of nations, and amuse himself by hanging a few rebels," he went on, "but we will address ourselves to serious work. All men have their price, including the present company, with due apologies to the speaker----" Howle's eyes danced, and he licked his lips. "If I haven't suffered in this war, who has?" "Your reward will not be in accordance with your sufferings. It will be based on the efficiency with which you obey my orders. Read that----" He handed to him a piece of paper on which he had scrawled his secret instructions. Another he gave to Lynch. "Hand them back to me when you read them, and I will burn them. These instructions are not to pass the lips of any man until the time is ripe--four bare walls are not to hear them whispered." Both men handed to the leader the slips of paper simultaneously. "Are we agreed, gentlemen?" "Perfectly," answered Howle. "Your word is law to me, sir," said Lynch. "Then you will draw on me personally for your expenses, and leave for the South within forty-eight hours. I wish your reports delivered to me two weeks before the meeting of Congress." As Lynch passed through the hall on his way to the door, the brown woman bade him good-night and pressed into his hand a letter. As his yellow fingers closed on the missive, his eyes flashed for a moment with catlike humour. The woman's face wore the mask of a sphinx. CHAPTER II SWEETHEARTS When the first shock of horror at her husband's peril passed, it left a strange new light in Mrs. Cameron's eyes. The heritage of centuries of heroic blood from the martyrs of old Scotland began to flash its inspiration from the past. Her heart beat with the unconscious life of men and women who had stood in the stocks, and walked in chains to the stake with songs on their lips. The threat against the life of Doctor Cameron had not only stirred her martyr blood: it had roused the latent heroism of a beautiful girlhood. To her he had ever been the lover and the undimmed hero of her girlish dreams. She spent whole hours locked in her room alone. Margaret knew that she was on her knees. She always came forth with shining face and with soft words on her lips. She struggled for two months in vain efforts to obtain a single interview with him, or to obtain a copy of the charges. Doctor Cameron had been placed in the old Capitol Prison, already crowded to the utmost. He was in delicate health, and so ill when she had left home he could not accompany her to Richmond. Not a written or spoken word was allowed to pass those prison doors. She could communicate with him only through the officers in charge. Every message from him was the same. "I love you always. Do not worry. Go home the moment you can leave Ben. I fear the worst at Piedmont." When he had sent this message, he would sit down and write the truth in a little diary he kept: "Another day of anguish. How long, O Lord? Just one touch of her hand, one last pressure of her lips, and I am content. I have no desire to live--I am tired." The officers repeated the verbal messages, but they made no impression on Mrs. Cameron. By a mental telepathy which had always linked her life with his her soul had passed those prison bars. If he had written the pitiful record with a dagger's point on her heart, she could not have felt it more keenly. At times overwhelmed, she lay prostrate and sobbed in half-articulate cries. And then from the silence and mystery of the spirit world in which she felt the beat of the heart of Eternal Love would come again the strange peace that passeth understanding. She would rise and go forth to her task with a smile. In July she saw Mrs. Surratt taken from this old Capitol Prison to be hung with Payne, Herold, and Atzerodt for complicity in the assassination. The military commission before whom this farce of justice was enacted, suspicious of the testimony of the perjured wretches who had sworn her life away, had filed a memorandum with their verdict asking the President for mercy. President Johnson never saw this memorandum. It was secretly removed in the War Department, and only replaced after he had signed the death warrant. In vain Annie Surratt, the weeping daughter, flung herself on the steps of the White House on the fatal day, begging and praying to see the President. She could not believe they would allow her mother to be murdered in the face of a recommendation of mercy. The fatal hour struck at last, and the girl left the White House with set eyes and blanched face, muttering incoherent curses. The Chief Magistrate sat within, unconscious of the hideous tragedy that was being enacted in his name. When he discovered the infamy by which he had been made the executioner of an innocent woman, he made his first demand that Edwin M. Stanton resign from his cabinet as Secretary of War. And for the first time in the history of America, a cabinet officer waived the question of honour and refused to resign. With a shudder and blush of shame, strong men saw that day the executioner gather the ropes tightly three times around the dress of an innocent American mother and bind her ankles with cords. She fainted and sank backward upon the attendants, the poor limbs yielding at last to the mortal terror of death. But they propped her up and sprung the fatal trap. A feeling of uncertainty and horror crept over the city and the Nation, as rumours of the strange doings of the "Bureau of Military Justice," with its secret factory of testimony and powers of tampering with verdicts, began to find their way in whispered stories among the people. Public opinion, however, had as yet no power of adjustment. It was an hour of lapse to tribal insanity. Things had gone wrong. The demand for a scapegoat, blind, savage, and unreasoning, had not spent itself. The Government could do anything as yet, and the people would applaud. Mrs. Cameron had tried in vain to gain a hearing before the President. Each time she was directed to apply to Mr. Stanton. She refused to attempt to see him, and again turned to Elsie for help. She had learned that the same witnesses who had testified against Mrs. Surratt were being used to convict Doctor Cameron, and her heart was sick with fear. "Ask your father," she pleaded, "to write President Johnson a letter in my behalf. Whatever his politics, he can't be _your_ father and not be good at heart." Elsie paled for a moment. It was the one request she had dreaded. She thought of her father and Stanton with dread. How far he was supporting the Secretary of War she could only vaguely guess. He rarely spoke of politics to her, much as he loved her. "I'll try, Mrs. Cameron," she faltered. "My father is in town to-day and takes dinner with us before he leaves for Pennsylvania to-night. I'll go at once." With fear, and yet boldly, she went straight home to present her request. She knew he was a man who never cherished small resentments, however cruel and implacable might be his public policies. And yet she dreaded to put it to the test. "Father, I've a very important request to make of you," she said gravely. "Very well, my child, you need not be so solemn. What is it?" "I've some friends in great distress--Mrs. Cameron, of South Carolina, and her daughter Margaret." "Friends of yours?" he asked with an incredulous smile. "Where on earth did you find them?" "In the hospital, of course. Mrs. Cameron is not allowed to see her husband, who has been here in jail for over two months. He cannot write to her, nor can he receive a letter from her. He is on trial for his life, is ill and helpless, and is not allowed to know the charges against him, while hired witnesses and detectives have broken open his house, searched his papers, and are ransacking heaven and earth to convict him of a crime of which he never dreamed. It's a shame. You don't approve of such things, I know?" "What's the use of my expressing an opinion when you have already settled it?" he answered good-humouredly. "You _don't_ approve of such injustice?" "Certainly not, my child. Stanton's frantic efforts to hang a lot of prominent Southern men for complicity in Booth's crime is sheer insanity. Nobody who has any sense believes them guilty. As a politician I use popular clamour for my purposes, but I am not an idiot. When I go gunning, I never use a popgun or hunt small game." "Then you will write the President a letter asking that they be allowed to see Doctor Cameron?" The old man frowned. "Think, father, if you were in jail and friendless, and I were trying to see you----" "Tut, tut, my dear, it's not that I am unwilling--I was only thinking of the unconscious humour of _my_ making a request of the man who at present accidentally occupies the White House. Of all the men on earth, this alien from the province of Tennessee! But I'll do it for you. When did you ever know me to deny my help to a weak man or woman in distress?" "Never, father. I was sure you would do it," she answered warmly. He wrote the letter at once and handed it to her. She bent and kissed him. "I can't tell you how glad I am to know that you have no part in such injustice." "You should not have believed me such a fool, but I'll forgive you for the kiss. Run now with this letter to your rebel friends, you little traitor! Wait a minute----" He shuffled to his feet, placed his hand tenderly on her head, and stooped and kissed the shining hair. "I wonder if you know how I love you? How I've dreamed of your future? I may not see you every day as I wish; I'm absorbed in great affairs. But more and more I think of you and Phil. I'll have a big surprise for you both some day." "Your love is all I ask," she answered simply. Within an hour, Mrs. Cameron found herself before the new President. The letter had opened the door as by magic. She poured out her story with impetuous eloquence while Mr. Johnson listened in uneasy silence. His ruddy face, his hesitating manner, and restless eyes were in striking contrast to the conscious power of the tall dark man who had listened so tenderly and sympathetically to her story of Ben but a few weeks before. The President asked: "Have you seen Mr. Stanton?" "I have seen him once," she cried with sudden passion. "It is enough. If that man were God on His throne, I would swear allegiance to the devil and fight him!" The President lifted his eyebrows and his lips twitched with a smile: "I shouldn't say that your spirits are exactly drooping! I'd like to be near and hear you make that remark to the distinguished Secretary of War." "Will you grant my prayer?" she pleaded. "I will consider the matter," he promised evasively. Mrs. Cameron's heart sank. "Mr. President," she cried bitterly, "I have felt sure that I had but to see you face to face and you could not deny me. Surely it is but justice that he have the right to see his loved ones, to consult with counsel, to know the charges against him, and defend his life when attacked in his poverty and ruin by all the power of a mighty government? He is feeble and broken in health and suffering from wounds received carrying the flag of the Union to victory in Mexico. Whatever his errors of judgment in this war, it is a shame that a Nation for which he once bared his breast in battle should treat him as an outlaw without a trial." "You must remember, madam," interrupted the President, "that these are extraordinary times, and that popular clamour, however unjust, will make itself felt and must be heeded by those in power. I am sorry for you, and I trust it may be possible for me to grant your request." "But I wish it now," she urged. "He sends me word I must go home. I can't leave without seeing him. I will die first." She drew closer and continued in throbbing tones: "Mr. President, you are a native Carolinian--you are of Scotch Covenanter blood. You are of my own people of the great past, whose tears and sufferings are our common glory and birthright. Come, you must hear me--I will take no denial. Give me now the order to see my husband!" The President hesitated, struggling with deep emotion, called his secretary, and gave the order. As she hurried away with Elsie, who insisted on accompanying her to the jail door, the girl said: "Mrs. Cameron, I fear you are without money. You must let me help you until you can return it." "You are the dearest little heart I've met in all the world, I think sometimes," said the older woman, looking at her tenderly. "I wonder how I can ever pay you for half you've done already." "The doing of it has been its own reward," was the soft reply. "May I help you?" "If I need it, yes. But I trust it will not be necessary. I still have a little store of gold Doctor Cameron was wise enough to hoard during the war. I brought half of it with me when I left home, and we buried the rest. I hope to find it on my return. And if we can save the twenty bales of cotton we have hidden we shall be relieved of want." "I'm ashamed of my country when I think of such ignoble methods as have been used against Doctor Cameron. My father is indignant, too." The last sentence Elsie spoke with eager girlish pride. "I am very grateful to your father for his letter. I am sorry he has left the city before I could meet and thank him personally. You must tell him for me." At the jail the order of the President was not honoured for three hours, and Mrs. Cameron paced the street in angry impatience at first and then in dull despair. "Do you think that man Stanton would dare defy the President?" she asked anxiously. "No," said Elsie, "but he is delaying as long as possible as an act of petty tyranny." At last the messenger arrived from the War Department permitting an order of the Chief Magistrate of the nation, the Commander-in-Chief of its Army and Navy, to be executed. The grated door swung on its heavy hinges, and the wife and mother lay sobbing in the arms of the lover of her youth. For two hours they poured into each other's hearts the story of their sorrows and struggles during the six fateful months that had passed. When she would return from every theme back to his danger, he would laugh her fears to scorn. "Nonsense, my dear, I'm as innocent as a babe. Mr. Davis was suffering from erysipelas, and I kept him in my house that night to relieve his pain. It will all blow over. I'm happy now that I have seen you. Ben will be up in a few days. You must return at once. You have no idea of the wild chaos at home. I left Jake in charge. I have implicit faith in him, but there's no telling what may happen. I will not spend another moment in peace until you go." The proud old man spoke of his own danger with easy assurance. He was absolutely certain, since the day of Mrs. Surratt's execution, that he would be railroaded to the gallows by the same methods. He had long looked on the end with indifference, and had ceased to desire to live except to see his loved ones again. In vain she warned him of danger. "My peril is nothing, my love," he answered quietly. "At home, the horrors of a servile reign of terror have become a reality. These prison walls do not interest me. My heart is with our stricken people. You must go home. Our neighbour, Mr. Lenoir, is slowly dying. His wife will always be a child. Little Marion is older and more self-reliant. I feel as if they are our own children. There are so many who need us. They have always looked to me for guidance and help. You can do more for them than any one else. My calling is to heal others. You have always helped me. Do now as I ask you." At last she consented to leave for Piedmont on the following day, and he smiled. "Kiss Ben and Margaret for me and tell them that I'll be with them soon," he said cheerily. He meant in the spirit, not the flesh. Not the faintest hope of life even flickered in his mind. In the last farewell embrace a faint tremor of the soul, half sigh, half groan, escaped his lips, and he drew her again to his breast, whispering: "Always my sweetheart, good, beautiful, brave, and true!" CHAPTER III THE JOY OF LIVING Within two weeks after the departure of Mrs. Cameron and Margaret, the wounded soldier had left the hospital with Elsie's hand resting on his arm and her keen eyes watching his faltering steps. She had promised Margaret to take her place until he was strong again. She was afraid to ask herself the meaning of the songs that were welling up from the depth of her own soul. She told herself again and again that she was fulfilling her ideal of unselfish human service. Ben's recovery was rapid, and he soon began to give evidence of his boundless joy in the mere fact of life. He utterly refused to believe his father in danger. "What, my dad a conspirator, an assassin!" he cried, with a laugh. "Why, he wouldn't kill a flea without apologising to it. And as for plots and dark secrets, he never had a secret in his life and couldn't keep one if he had it. My mother keeps all the family secrets. Crime couldn't stick to him any more than dirty water to a duck's back!" "But we must secure his release on parole, that he may defend himself." "Of course. But we won't cross any bridges till we come to them. I never saw things so bad they couldn't be worse. Just think what I've been through. The war's over. Don't worry." He looked at her tenderly. "Get that banjo and play 'Get out of the Wilderness!'" His spirit was contagious and his good humour resistless. Elsie spent the days of his convalescence in an unconscious glow of pleasure in his companionship. His handsome boyish face, his bearing, his whole personality, invited frankness and intimacy. It was a divine gift, this magnetism, the subtle meeting of quick intelligence, tact, and sympathy. His voice was tender and penetrating, with soft caresses in its tones. His vision of life was large and generous, with a splendid carelessness about little things that didn't count. Each day Elsie saw new and striking traits of his character which drew her. "What will we do if Stanton arrests you one of these fine days?" she asked him one day. "Afraid they'll nab me for something?" he exclaimed. "Well, that is a joke. Don't you worry. The Yankees know who to fool with. I licked 'em too many times for them to bother me any more." "I was under the impression that you got licked," Elsie observed. "Don't you believe it. We wore ourselves out whipping the other fellows." Elsie smiled, took up the banjo, and asked him to sing while she played. She had no idea that he could sing, yet to her surprise he sang his camp songs boldly, tenderly, and with deep, expressive feeling. As the girl listened, the memory of the horrible hours of suspense she had spent with his mother when his unconscious life hung on a thread came trooping back into her heart and a tear dimmed her eyes. And he began to look at her with a new wonder and joy slowly growing in his soul. CHAPTER IV HIDDEN TREASURE Ben had spent a month of vain effort to secure his father's release. He had succeeded in obtaining for him a removal to more comfortable quarters, books to read, and the privilege of a daily walk under guard and parole. The doctor's genial temper, the wide range of his knowledge, the charm of his personality, and his heroism in suffering had captivated the surgeons who attended him and made friends of every jailer and guard. Elsie was now using all her woman's wit to secure a copy of the charges against him as formulated by the Judge Advocate General, who, in defiance of civil law, still claimed control of these cases. To the boy's sanguine temperament the whole proceeding had been a huge farce from the beginning, and at the last interview with his father he had literally laughed him into good humour. "Look here, pa," he cried. "I believe you're trying to slip off and leave us in this mess. It's not fair. It's easy to die." "Who said I was going to die?" "I heard you were trying to crawl out that way." "Well, it's a mistake. I'm going to live just for the fun of disappointing my enemies and to keep you company. But you'd better get hold of a copy of these charges against me--if you don't want me to escape." "It's a funny world if a man can be condemned to death without any information on the subject." "My son, we are now in the hands of the revolutionists, army sutlers, contractors, and adventurers. The Nation will touch the lowest tide-mud of its degradation within the next few years. No man can predict the end." "Oh, go 'long!" said Ben. "You've got jail cobwebs in your eyes." "I'm depending on you." "I'll pull you through if you don't lie down on me and die to get out of trouble. You know you _can_ die if you try hard enough." "I promise you, my boy," he said with a laugh. "Then I'll let you read this letter from home," Ben said, suddenly thrusting it before him. The doctor's hand trembled a little as he put on his glasses and read: _My Dear Boy_: I cannot tell you how much good your bright letters have done us. It's like opening the window and letting in the sunlight while fresh breezes blow through one's soul. Margaret and I have had stirring times. I send you enclosed an order for the last dollar of money we have left. You must hoard it. Make it last until your father is safe at home. I dare not leave it here. Nothing is safe. Every piece of silver and everything that could be carried has been stolen since we returned. Uncle Aleck betrayed the place Jake had hidden our twenty precious bales of cotton. The war is long since over, but the "Treasury Agent" declared them confiscated, and then offered to relieve us of his order if we gave him five bales, each worth three hundred dollars in gold. I agreed, and within a week another thief came and declared the other fifteen bales confiscated. They steal it, and the Government never gets a cent. We dared not try to sell it in open market, as every bale exposed for sale is "confiscated" at once. No crop was planted this summer. The negroes are all drawing rations at the Freedman's Bureau. We have turned our house into a hotel, and our table has become famous. Margaret is a treasure. She has learned to do everything. We tried to raise a crop on the farm when we came home, but the negroes stopped work. The Agent of the Bureau came to us and said he could send them back for a fee of $50. We paid it, and they worked a week. We found it easier to run a hotel. We hope to start the farm next year. Our new minister at the Presbyterian Church is young, handsome, and eloquent--Rev. Hugh McAlpin. Mr. Lenoir died last week--but his end was so beautiful, our tears were half joy. He talked incessantly of your father and how the country missed him. He seemed much better the day before the end came, and we took him for a little drive to Lovers' Leap. It was there, sixteen years ago, he made love to Jeannie. When we propped him up on the rustic seat, and he looked out over the cliff and the river below, I have never seen a face so transfigured with peace and joy. "What a beautiful world it is, my dears!" he exclaimed, taking Jeannie and Marion both by the hand. They began to cry, and he said with a smile: "Come now--do you love me?" And they covered his hands with kisses. "Well, then you must promise me two things faithfully here, with Mrs. Cameron to witness!" "We promise," they both said in a breath. "That when I fall asleep, not one thread of black shall ever cloud the sunlight of our little home, that you will never wear it, and that you will show your love for me by making my flowers grow richer, that you will keep my memory green by always being as beautiful as you are to-day, and make this old world a sweeter place to live in. I wish you, Jeannie, my mate, to keep on making the young people glad. Don't let their joys be less even for a month because I have laid down to rest. Let them sing and dance----" "Oh, Papa!" cried Marion. "Certainly, my little serious beauty--I'll not be far away, I'll be near and breathe my songs into their hearts, and into yours--you both promise?" "Yes, yes!" they both cried. As we drove back through the woods, he smiled tenderly and said to me: "My neighbour, Doctor Cameron, pays taxes on these woods, but I own them! Their sighing boughs, stirred by the breezes, have played for me oratorios grander than all the scores of human genius. I'll hear the Choir Invisible play them when I sleep." He died that night suddenly. With his last breath he sighed: "Draw the curtains and let me see again the moonlit woods!" They are trying to carry out his wishes. I found they had nothing to eat, and that he had really died from insufficient nourishment--a polite expression meaning starvation. I've divided half our little store with them and send the rest to you. I think Marion more and more the incarnate soul of her father. I feel as if they are both my children. My little grandchick, Hugh, is the sweetest youngster alive. He was a wee thing when you left. Mrs. Lenoir kept him when they arrested your father. He is so much like your brother Hugh I feel as if he has come to life again. You should hear him say grace, so solemnly and tenderly, we can't help crying. He made it up himself. This is what he says at every meal: "God, please give my grandpa something good to eat in jail, keep him well, don't let the pains hurt him any more, and bring him home to me quick, for Jesus' sake. Amen." I never knew before how the people loved the doctor, nor how dependent they were on him for help and guidance. Men, both white and coloured, come here every day to ask about him. Some of them come from far up in the mountains. God alone knows how lonely our home and the world has seemed without him. They say that those who love and live the close sweet home life for years grow alike in soul and body, in tastes, ways, and habits. I find it so. People have told me that your father and I are more alike than brother and sister of the same blood. In spirit I'm sure it's true. I know you love him and that you will leave nothing undone for his health and safety. Tell him that my only cure for loneliness in his absence is my fight to keep the wolf from the door, and save our home against his coming. Lovingly, your Mother. When the doctor had finished the reading, he looked out the window of the jail at the shining dome of the Capitol for a moment in silence. "Do you know, my boy, that you have the heritage of royal blood? You are the child of a wonderful mother. I'm ashamed when I think of the helpless stupor under which I have given up, and then remember the deathless courage with which she has braved it all--the loss of her boys, her property, your troubles and mine. She has faced the world alone like a wounded lioness standing over her cubs. And now she turns her home into a hotel, and begins life in a strange new world without one doubt of her success. The South is yet rich even in its ruin." "Then you'll fight and go back to her with me?" "Yes, never fear." "Good! You see, we're so poor now, pa, you're lucky to be saving a board bill here. I'd 'conspire' myself and come in with you but for the fact it would hamper me a little in helping you." CHAPTER V ACROSS THE CHASM When Ben had fully recovered and his father's case looked hopeful, Elsie turned to her study of music, and the Southern boy suddenly waked to the fact that the great mystery of life was upon him. He was in love at last--genuinely, deeply, without one reservation. He had from habit flirted in a harmless way with every girl he knew. He left home with little Marion Lenoir's girlish kiss warm on his lips. He had made love to many a pretty girl in old Virginia as the red tide of war had ebbed and flowed around Stuart's magic camps. But now the great hour of the soul had struck. No sooner had he dropped the first tender words that might have their double meaning, feeling his way cautiously toward her, than she had placed a gulf of dignity between them, and attempted to cut every tie that bound her life to his. It had been so sudden it took his breath away. Could he win her? The word "fail" had never been in his vocabulary. It had never run in the speech of his people. Yes, he would win if it was the only thing he did in this world. And forthwith he set about it. Life took on new meaning and new glory. What mattered war or wounds, pain or poverty, jails and revolutions--it was the dawn of life! He sent her a flower every day and pinned one just like it on his coat. And every night found him seated by her side. She greeted him cordially, but the gulf yawned between them. His courtesy and self-control struck her with surprise and admiration. In the face of her coldness he carried about him an air of smiling deference and gallantry. She finally told him of her determination to go to New York to pursue her studies until Phil had finished the term of his enlistment in his regiment, which had been ordered on permanent duty in the West. He laughed with his eyes at this announcement, blinking the lashes rapidly without moving his lips. It was a peculiar habit of his when deeply moved by a sudden thought. It had flashed over him like lightning that she was trying to get away from him. She would not do that unless she cared. "When are you going?" he asked quietly. "Day after to-morrow." "Then you will give me one afternoon for a sail on the river to say good-bye and thank you for what you have done for me and mine?" She hesitated, laughed, and refused. "To-morrow at four o'clock I'll call for you," he said firmly. "If there's no wind, we can drift with the tide." "I will not have time to go." "Promptly at four," he repeated as he left. Ben spent hours that night weighing the question of how far he should dare to speak his love. It had been such an easy thing before. Now it seemed a question of life and death. Twice the magic words had been on his lips, and each time something in her manner chilled him into silence. Was she cold and incapable of love? No; this manner of the North was on the surface. He knew that deep down within her nature lay banked and smouldering fires of passion for the one man whose breath could stir it into flame. He felt this all the keener now that the spell of her companionship and the sweet intimacy of her daily ministry to him had been broken. The memory of little movements of her petite figure, the glance of her warm amber eyes, and the touch of her hand--all had their tongues of revelation to his eager spirit. He found her ready at four o'clock. "You see I decided to go after all," she said. "Yes, I knew you would," he answered. She was dressed in a simple suit of navy-blue cloth cut V-shaped at the throat, showing the graceful lines of her exquisite neck as it melted into the plump shoulders. She had scorned hoop skirts. He admired her for this, and yet it made him uneasy. A woman who could defy an edict of fashion was a new thing under the sun, and it scared him. They were seated in the little sailboat now, drifting out with the tide. It was a perfect day in October, one of those matchless days of Indian summer in the Virginia climate when an infinite peace and vast brooding silence fill the earth and sky until one feels that words are a sacrilege. Neither of them spoke for minutes, and his heart grew bold in the stillness. No girl could be still who was unmoved. She was seated just in front of him on the left, with her hand idly rippling the surface of the silvery waters, gazing at the wooded cliff on the river banks clothed now in their gorgeous robes of yellow, purple, scarlet, and gold. The soft strains of distant music came from a band in the fort, and her hand in the rippling water seemed its accompaniment. Ben was conscious only of her presence. Every sight and sound of nature seemed to be blended in her presence. Never in all his life had he seen anything so delicately beautiful as the ripe rose colour of her cheeks, and all the tints of autumn's glory seemed to melt into the gold of her hair. And those eyes he felt that God had never set in such a face before--rich amber, warm and glowing, big and candid, courageous and truthful. "Are you dead again?" she asked demurely. "Well, as the Irishman said in answer to his mate's question when he fell off the house, 'not dead--but spacheless.'" He was quick to see the opening her question with its memories had made, and took advantage of it. "Look here, Miss Elsie, you're too honest, independent, and candid to play hide-and-seek with me. I want to ask you a plain question. You've been trying to pick a quarrel of late. What have I done?" "Nothing. It has simply come to me that our lives are far apart. The gulf between us is real and very deep. Your father was but yesterday a slaveholder----" Ben grinned: "Yes, your slave-trading grandfather sold them to us the day before." Elsie blushed and bristled for a fight. "You won't mind if I give you a few lessons in history, will you?" Ben asked softly. "Not in the least. I didn't know that Southerners studied history," she answered, with a toss of her head. "We made a specialty of the history of slavery, at least. I had a dear old teacher at home who fairly blazed with light on this subject. He is one of the best-read men in America. He happens to be in jail just now. But I haven't forgotten--I know it by heart." "I am waiting for light," she interrupted cynically. "The South is no more to blame for negro slavery than the North. Our slaves were stolen from Africa by Yankee skippers. When a slaver arrived at Boston, your pious Puritan clergyman offered public prayer of thanks that 'A gracious and overruling Providence had been pleased to bring to this land of freedom another cargo of benighted heathen to enjoy the blessings of a gospel dispensation----'" She looked at him with angry incredulity and cried: "Go on." "Twenty-three times the Legislature of Virginia passed acts against the importation of slaves, which the king vetoed on petition of the Massachusetts slave traders. Jefferson made these acts of the king one of the grievances of the Declaration of Independence, but a Massachusetts member succeeded in striking it out. The Southern men in the convention which framed the Constitution put into it a clause abolishing the slave trade, but the Massachusetts men succeeded in adding a clause extending the trade twenty years----" He smiled and paused. "Go on," she said, with impatience. "In Colonial days a negro woman was publicly burned to death in Boston. The first Abolition paper was published in Tennessee by Embree. Benjamin Lundy, his successor, could not find a single Abolitionist in Boston. In 1828 over half the people of Tennessee favoured Abolition. At this time there were one hundred and forty Abolition Societies in America--one hundred and three in the South, and not one in Massachusetts. It was not until 1836 that Massachusetts led in Abolition--not until all her own slaves had been sold to us at a profit and the slave trade had been destroyed----" She looked at Ben with anger for a moment and met his tantalizing look of good humour. "Can you stand any more?" "Certainly, I enjoy it." "I'm just breaking down the barriers--so to speak," he said, with the laughter still lurking in his eyes, as he looked steadily ahead. "By all means go on," she said soberly. "I thought at first you were trying to tease me. I see that you are in earnest." "Never more so. This is about the only little path of history I'm at home in--I love to show off in it. I heard a cheerful idiot say the other day that your father meant to carry the civilization of Massachusetts to the Rio Grande until we had a Democracy in America. I smiled. While Massachusetts was enforcing laws about the dress of the rich and the poor, founding a church with a whipping-post, jail, and gibbet, and limiting the right to vote to a church membership fixed by pew rents, Carolina was the home of freedom where first the equal rights of men were proclaimed. New England people worth less than one thousand dollars were prohibited by law from wearing the garb of a gentleman, gold or silver lace, buttons on the knees, or to walk in great boots, or their women to wear silk or scarfs, while the Quakers, Maryland Catholics, Baptists, and Scotch-Irish Presbyterians were everywhere in the South the heralds of man's equality before the law." "But barring our ancestors, I have some things against the men of this generation." "Have I, too, sinned and come short?" he asked with mock gravity. "Our ideals of life are far apart," she firmly declared. "What ails my ideal?" "Your egotism, for one thing. The air with which you calmly select what pleases your fancy. Northern men are bad enough--the insolence of a Southerner is beyond words!" [Illustration: LILLIAN GISH AS ELSIE, AND THE SENTINEL.] "You don't say so!" cried Ben, bursting into a hearty laugh. "Isn't your aunt, Mrs. Farnham, the president of a club?" "Yes, and she is a very brilliant woman." "Enlighten me further." "I deny your heaven-born male kingship. The lord of creation is after all a very inferior animal--nearer the brute creation, weaker in infancy, shorter lived, more imperfectly developed, given to fighting, and addicted to idiocy. I never saw a female idiot in my life--did you?" "Come to think of it, I never did," acknowledged Ben with comic gravity. "What else?" "Isn't that enough?" "It's nothing. I agree with everything you say, but it is irrelevant. I'm studying law, you know." "I have a personality of my own. You and your kind assume the right to absorb all lesser lights." "Certainly, I'm a man." "I don't care to be absorbed by a mere man." "Don't wish to be protected, sheltered, and cared for?" "I dream of a life that shall be larger than the four walls of a home. I have never gone into hysterics over the idea of becoming a cook and housekeeper without wages, and snuffing my life out while another grows, expands, and claims the lordship of the world. I can sing. My voice is to me what eloquence is to man. My ideal is an intellectual companion who will inspire and lead me to develop all that I feel within to its highest reach." She paused a moment and looked defiantly into Ben's brown eyes, about which a smile was constantly playing. He looked away, and again the river echoed with his contagious laughter. She had to join in spite of herself. He laughed with boyish gayety. It danced in his eyes, and gave spring to every movement of his slender wiry body. She felt its contagion enfold her. His laughter melted into a song. In a voice vibrant with joy he sang, "If you get there before I do, tell 'em I'm comin' too!" As Elsie listened, her anger grew as she recalled the amazing folly that had induced her to tell the secret feelings of her inmost soul to this man almost a stranger. Whence came this miracle of influence about him, this gift of intimacy? She felt a shock as if she had been immodest. She was in an agony of doubt as to what he was thinking of her, and dreaded to meet his gaze. And yet, when he turned toward her, his whole being a smiling compound of dark Southern blood and bone and fire, at the sound of his voice all doubt and questioning melted. "Do you know," he said earnestly, "that you are the funniest, most charming girl I ever met?" "Thanks. I've heard your experience has been large for one of your age." Ben's eyes danced. "Perhaps, yes. You appeal to things in me that I didn't know were there--to all the senses of body and soul at once. Your strength of mind, with its conceits, and your quick little temper seem so odd and out of place, clothed in the gentleness of your beauty." "I was never more serious in my life. There are other things more personal about you that I do not like." "What?" "Your cavalier habits." "Cavalier fiddlesticks. There are no Cavaliers in my country. We are all Covenanter and Huguenot folks. The idea that Southern boys are lazy loafing dreamers is a myth. I was raised on the catechism." "You love to fish and hunt and frolic--you flirt with every girl you meet, and you drink sometimes. I often feel that you are cruel and that I do not know you." Ben's face grew serious, and the red scar in the edge of his hair suddenly became livid with the rush of blood. "Perhaps I don't mean that you shall know all yet," he said slowly. "My ideal of a man is one that leads, charms, dominates, and yet eludes. I confess that I'm close kin to an angel and a devil, and that I await a woman's hand to lead me into the ways of peace and life." The spiritual earnestness of the girl was quick to catch the subtle appeal of his last words. His broad, high forehead, straight, masterly nose, with its mobile nostrils, seemed to her very manly at just that moment and very appealing. A soft answer was on her lips. He saw it, and leaned toward her in impulsive tenderness. A timid look on her face caused him to sink back in silence. They had now drifted near the city. The sun was slowly sinking in a smother of fiery splendour that mirrored its changing hues in the still water. The hush of the harvest fullness of autumn life was over all nature. They passed a camp of soldiers and then a big hospital on the banks above. A gun flashed from the hill, and the flag dropped from its staff. The girl's eyes lingered on the flower in his coat a moment and then on the red scar in the edge of his dark hair, and somehow the difference between them seemed to melt into the falling twilight. Only his nearness was real. Again a strange joy held her. He threw her a look of tenderness, and she began to tremble. A sea gull poised a moment above them and broke into a laugh. Bending nearer, he gently took her hand, and said: "I love you!" A sob caught her breath and she buried her face on her arm. "I am for you, and you are for me. Why beat your wings against the thing that is and must be? What else matters? With all my sins and faults my land is yours--a land of sunshine, eternal harvests, and everlasting song, old-fashioned and provincial perhaps, but kind and hospitable. Around its humblest cottage song birds live and mate and nest and never leave. The winged ones of your own cold fields have heard their call, and the sky to-night will echo with their chatter as they hurry southward. Elsie, my own, I too have called--come; I love you!" She lifted her face to him full of tender spiritual charm, her eyes burning their passionate answer. He bent and kissed her. "Say it! Say it!" he whispered. "I love you!" she sighed. CHAPTER VI THE GAUGE OF BATTLE The day of the first meeting of the National Congress after the war was one of intense excitement. The galleries of the House were packed. Elsie was there with Ben in a fever of secret anxiety lest the stirring drama should cloud her own life. She watched her father limp to his seat with every eye fixed on him. The President had pursued with persistence the plan of Lincoln for the immediate restoration of the Union. Would Congress follow the lead of the President or challenge him to mortal combat? Civil governments had been restored in all the Southern States, with men of the highest ability chosen as governors and lawmakers. Their legislatures had unanimously voted for the Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution abolishing slavery, and elected senators and representatives to Congress. Mr. Seward, the Secretary of State, had declared the new amendment a part of the organic law of the Nation by the vote of these States. General Grant went to the South to report its condition and boldly declared: "I am satisfied that the mass of thinking people of the South accept the situation in good faith. Slavery and secession they regard as settled forever by the highest known tribunal, and consider this decision a fortunate one for the whole country." Would the Southerners be allowed to enter? Amid breathless silence the clerk rose to call the roll of members-elect. Every ear was bent to hear the name of the first Southern man. Not one was called! The Master had spoken. His clerk knew how to play his part. The next business of the House was to receive the message of the Chief Magistrate of the Nation. The message came, but not from the White House. It came from the seat of the Great Commoner. As the first thrill of excitement over the challenge to the President slowly subsided, Stoneman rose, planted his big club foot in the middle of the aisle, and delivered to Congress the word of its new master. It was Ben's first view of the man of all the world just now of most interest. From his position he could see his full face and figure. He began speaking in a careless, desultory way. His tone was loud yet not declamatory, at first in a grumbling, grandfatherly, half-humorous, querulous accent that riveted every ear instantly. A sort of drollery of a contagious kind haunted it. Here and there a member tittered in expectation of a flash of wit. His figure was taller than the average, slightly bent, with a dignity which suggested reserve power and contempt for his audience. One knew instinctively that back of the boldest word this man might say there was a bolder unspoken word he had chosen not to speak. His limbs were long, and their movements slow, yet nervous as from some internal fiery force. His hands were big and ugly, and always in ungraceful fumbling motion as though a separate soul dwelt within them. The heaped-up curly profusion of his brown wig gave a weird impression to the spread of his mobile features. His eagle-beaked nose had three distinct lines and angles. His chin was broad and bold, and his brows beetling and projecting. His mouth was wide, marked, and grim; when opened, deep and cavernous; when closed, it seemed to snap so tightly that the lower lip protruded. Of all his make-up, his eye was the most fascinating, and it held Ben spellbound. It could thrill to the deepest fibre of the soul that looked into it, yet it did not gleam. It could dominate, awe, and confound, yet it seemed to have no colour or fire. He could easily see it across the vast hall from the galleries, yet it was not large. Two bold, colourless dagger-points of light they seemed. As he grew excited, they darkened as if passing under a cloud. A sudden sweep of his huge apelike arm in an angular gesture, and the drollery and carelessness of his voice were riven from it as by a bolt of lightning. He was driving home his message now in brutal frankness. Yet in the height of his fiercest invective he never seemed to strengthen himself or call on his resources. In its climax he was careless, conscious of power, and contemptuous of results, as though as a gambler he had staked and lost all and in the moment of losing suddenly become the master of those who had beaten him. His speech never once bent to persuade or convince. He meant to brain the opposition with a single blow, and he did it. For he suddenly took the breath from his foes by shouting in their faces the hidden motive of which they were hoping to accuse him! "Admit these Southern Representatives," he cried, "and with the Democrats elected from the North, within one term they will have a majority in Congress and the Electoral College. The supremacy of our party's life is at stake. The man who dares palter with such a measure is a rebel, a traitor to his party and his people." A cheer burst from his henchmen, and his foes sat in dazed stupor at his audacity. He moved the appointment of a "Committee on Reconstruction" to whom the entire government of the "conquered provinces of the South" should be committed, and to whom all credentials of their pretended representatives should be referred. He sat down as the Speaker put his motion, declared it carried, and quickly announced the names of this Imperial Committee with the Hon. Austin Stoneman as its chairman. He then permitted the message of the President of the United States to be read by his clerk. "Well, upon my soul," said Ben, taking a deep breath and looking at Elsie, "he's the whole thing, isn't he?" The girl smiled with pride. "Yes; he is a genius. He was born to command and yet never could resist the cry of a child or the plea of a woman. He hates, but he hates ideas and systems. He makes threats, yet when he meets the man who stands for all he hates he falls in love with his enemy." "Then there's hope for me?" "Yes, but I must be the judge of the time to speak." "Well, if he looks at me as he did once to-day, you may have to do the speaking also." "You will like him when you know him. He is one of the greatest men in America." "At least he's the father of the greatest girl in the world, which is far more important." "I wonder if you know how important?" she asked seriously. "He is the apple of my eye. His bitter words, his cynicism and sarcasm, are all on the surface--masks that hide a great sensitive spirit. You can't know with what brooding tenderness I have always loved and worshipped him. I will never marry against his wishes." "I hope he and I will always be good friends," said Ben doubtfully. "You must," she replied, eagerly pressing his hand. CHAPTER VII A WOMAN LAUGHS Each day the conflict waxed warmer between the President and the Commoner. The first bill sent to the White House to Africanize the "conquered provinces" the President vetoed in a message of such logic, dignity, and power, the old leader found to his amazement it was impossible to rally the two-thirds majority to pass it over his head. At first, all had gone as planned. Lynch and Howle brought to him a report on "Southern Atrocities," secured through the councils of the secret oath-bound Union League, which had destroyed the impression of General Grant's words and prepared his followers for blind submission to his Committee. Yet the rally of a group of men in defence of the Constitution had given the President unexpected strength. Stoneman saw that he must hold his hand on the throat of the South and fight another campaign. Howle and Lynch furnished the publication committee of the Union League the matter, and they printed four million five hundred thousand pamphlets on "Southern Atrocities." The Northern States were hostile to negro suffrage, the first step of his revolutionary programme, and not a dozen men in Congress had yet dared to favour it. Ohio, Michigan, New York, and Kansas had rejected it by overwhelming majorities. But he could appeal to their passions and prejudices against the "Barbarism" of the South. It would work like magic. When he had the South where he wanted it, he would turn and ram negro suffrage and negro equality down the throats of the reluctant North. His energies were now bent to prevent any effective legislation in Congress until his strength should be omnipotent. A cloud disturbed the sky for a moment in the Senate. John Sherman, of Ohio, began to loom on the horizon as a constructive statesman, and without consulting him was quietly forcing over Sumner's classic oratory a Reconstruction Bill restoring the Southern States to the Union on the basis of Lincoln's plan, with no provision for interference with the suffrage. It had gone to its last reading, and the final vote was pending. The house was in session at 3 a. m., waiting in feverish anxiety the outcome of this struggle in the Senate. Old Stoneman was in his seat, fast asleep from the exhaustion of an unbroken session of forty hours. His meals he had sent to his desk from the Capitol restaurant. He was seventy-four years old and not in good health, yet his energy was tireless, his resources inexhaustible, and his audacity matchless. Sunset Cox, the wag of the House, an opponent but personal friend of the old Commoner, passing his seat and seeing the great head sunk on his breast in sleep, laughed softly and said: "Mr. Speaker!" The presiding officer recognized the young Democrat with a nod of answering humour and responded: "The gentleman from New York." "I move you, sir," said Cox, "that, in view of the advanced age and eminent services of the distinguished gentleman from Pennsylvania, the Sergeant-at-Arms be instructed to furnish him with enough poker chips to last till morning!" The scattered members who were awake roared with laughter, the Speaker pounded furiously with his gavel, the sleepy little pages jumped up, rubbing their eyes, and ran here and there answering imaginary calls, and the whole House waked to its usual noise and confusion. The old man raised his massive head and looked to the door leading toward the Senate just as Sumner rushed through. He had slept for a moment, but his keen intellect had taken up the fight at precisely the point at which he left it. Sumner approached his desk rapidly, leaned over, and reported his defeat and Sherman's triumph. "For God's sake throttle this measure in the House or we are ruined!" he exclaimed. "Don't be alarmed," replied the cynic. "I'll be here with stronger weapons than articulated wind." "You have not a moment to lose. The bill is on its way to the Speaker's desk, and Sherman's men are going to force its passage to-night." The Senator returned to the other end of the Capitol wrapped in the mantle of his outraged dignity, and in thirty minutes the bill was defeated, and the House adjourned. As the old Commoner hobbled through the door, his crooked cane thumping the marble floor, Sumner seized and pressed his hand: "How did you do it?" Stoneman's huge jaws snapped together and his lower lip protruded: "I sent for Cox and summoned the leader of the Democrats. I told them if they would join with me and defeat this bill, I'd give them a better one the next session. And I will--negro suffrage! The gudgeons swallowed it whole!" Sumner lifted his eyebrows and wrapped his cloak a little closer. The Great Commoner laughed as he departed: "He is yet too good for this world, but he'll forget it before we're done this fight." On the steps a beggar asked him for a night's lodging, and he tossed him a gold eagle. * * * * * The North, which had rejected negro suffrage for itself with scorn, answered Stoneman's fierce appeal to their passions against the South, and sent him a delegation of radicals eager to do his will. So fierce had waxed the combat between the President and Congress that the very existence of Stanton's prisoners languishing in jail was forgotten, and the Secretary of War himself became a football to be kicked back and forth in this conflict of giants. The fact that Andrew Johnson was from Tennessee, and had been an old-line Democrat before his election as a Unionist with Lincoln, was now a fatal weakness in his position. Under Stoneman's assaults he became at once an executive without a party, and every word of amnesty and pardon he proclaimed for the South in accordance with Lincoln's plan was denounced as the act of a renegade courting favour of traitors and rebels. Stanton remained in his cabinet against his wishes to insult and defy him, and Stoneman, quick to see the way by which the President of the Nation could be degraded and made ridiculous, introduced a bill depriving him of the power to remove his own cabinet officers. The act was not only meant to degrade the President; it was a trap set for his ruin. The penalties were so fixed that its violation would give specific ground for his trial, impeachment, and removal from office. Again Stoneman passed his first act to reduce the "conquered provinces" of the South to negro rule. President Johnson vetoed it with a message of such logic in defence of the constitutional rights of the States that it failed by one vote to find the two-thirds majority needed to become a law without his approval. The old Commoner's eyes froze into two dagger-points of icy light when this vote was announced. With fury he cursed the President, but above all he cursed the men of his own party who had faltered. As he fumbled his big hands nervously, he growled: "If I only had five men of genuine courage in Congress, I'd hang the man at the other end of the avenue from the porch of the White House! But I haven't got them--cowards, dastards, dolts, and snivelling fools----" His decision was instantly made. He would expel enough Democrats from the Senate and the House to place his two-thirds majority beyond question. The name of the President never passed his lips. He referred to him always, even in public debate, as "the man at the other end of the avenue," or "the former Governor of Tennessee who once threatened rebels--the late lamented Andrew Johnson, of blessed memory." He ordered the expulsion of the new member of the House from Indiana, Daniel W. Voorhees, and the new Senator from New Jersey, John P. Stockton. This would give him a majority of two thirds composed of men who would obey his word without a question. Voorhees heard of the edict with indignant wrath. He had met Stoneman in the lobbies, where he was often the centre of admiring groups of friends. His wit and audacity, and, above all, his brutal frankness, had won the admiration of the "Tall Sycamore of the Wabash." He could not believe such a man would be a party to a palpable fraud. He appealed to him personally: "Look here, Stoneman," the young orator cried with wrath, "I appeal to your sense of honour and decency. My credentials have been accepted by your own committee, and my seat been awarded me. My majority is unquestioned. This is a high-handed outrage. You cannot permit this crime." The old man thrust his deformed foot out before him, struck it meditatively with his cane, and looking Voorhees straight in the eye, boldly said: "There's nothing the matter with your majority, young man. I've no doubt it's all right. Unfortunately, you are a Democrat, and happen to be the odd man in the way of the two-thirds majority on which the supremacy of my party depends. You will have to go. Come back some other time." And he did. In the Senate there was a hitch. When the vote was taken on the expulsion of Stockton, to the amazement of the leader it was a tie. He hobbled into the Senate Chamber, with the steel point of his cane ringing on the marble flags as though he were thrusting it through the vitals of the weakling who had sneaked and hedged and trimmed at the crucial moment. He met Howle at the door. "What's the matter in there?" he asked. "They're trying to compromise." "Compromise--the Devil of American politics," he muttered. "But how did the vote fail--it was all fixed before the roll-call?" "Roman, of Maine, has trouble with his conscience! He is paired not to vote on this question with Stockton's colleague, who is sick in Trenton. His 'honour' is involved, and he refuses to break his word." "I see," said Stoneman, pulling his bristling brows down until his eyes were two beads of white gleaming through them. "Tell Wade to summon every member of the party in his room immediately and hold the Senate in session." When the group of Senators crowded into the Vice-president's room the old man faced them leaning on his cane and delivered an address of five minutes they never forgot. His speech had a nameless fascination. The man himself with his elemental passions was a wonder. He left on public record no speech worth reading, and yet these powerful men shrank under his glance. As the nostrils of his big three-angled nose dilated, the scream of an eagle rang in his voice, his huge ugly hand held the crook of his cane with the clutch of a tiger, his tongue flew with the hiss of an adder, and his big deformed foot seemed to grip the floor as the claw of a beast. "The life of a political party, gentlemen," he growled in conclusion, "is maintained by a scheme of subterfuges in which the moral law cuts no figure. As your leader, I know but one law--success. The world is full of fools who must have toys with which to play. A belief in politics is the favourite delusion of shallow American minds. But you and I have no delusions. Your life depends on this vote. If any man thinks the abstraction called 'honour' is involved, let him choose between his honour and his life! I call no names. This issue must be settled now before the Senate adjourns. There can be no to-morrow. It is life or death. Let the roll be called again immediately." The grave Senators resumed their seats, and Wade, the acting Vice-president, again put the question to Stockton's expulsion. The member from New England sat pale and trembling, in his soul the anguish of the mortal combat between his Puritan conscience, the iron heritage of centuries, and the order of his captain. When the Clerk of the Senate called his name, still the battle raged. He sat in silence, the whiteness of death about his lips, while the clerk at a signal from the Chair paused. And then a scene the like of which was never known in American history! August Senators crowded around his desk, begging, shouting, imploring, and demanding that a fellow Senator break his solemn word of honour! For a moment pandemonium reigned. "Vote! Vote! Call his name again!" they shouted. High above all rang the voice of Charles Sumner, leading the wild chorus, crying: "Vote! Vote! Vote!" The galleries hissed and cheered--the cheers at last drowning every hiss. Stoneman pushed his way among the mob which surrounded the badgered Puritan as he attempted to retreat into the cloakroom. "Will you vote?" he hissed, his eyes flashing poison. "My conscience will not permit it," he faltered. "To hell with your conscience!" the old leader thundered. "Go back to your seat, ask the clerk to call your name, and vote, or by the living God I'll read you out of the party to-night and brand you a snivelling coward, a copperhead, a renegade, and traitor!" Trembling from head to foot, he staggered back to his seat, the cold sweat standing in beads on his forehead, and gasped: "Call my name!" The shrill voice of the clerk rang out in the stillness like the peal of a trumpet: "Mr. Roman!" And the deed was done. A cheer burst from his colleagues, and the roll-call proceeded. When Stockton's name was reached he sprang to his feet, voted for himself, and made a second tie! With blank faces they turned to the leader, who ordered Charles Sumner to move that the Senator from New Jersey be not allowed to answer his name on an issue involving his own seat. It was carried. Again the roll was called, and Stockton expelled by a majority of one. In the moment of ominous silence which followed, a yellow woman of sleek animal beauty leaned far over the gallery rail and laughed aloud. The passage of each act of the Revolutionary programme over the veto of the President was now but a matter of form. The act to degrade his office by forcing him to keep a cabinet officer who daily insulted him, the Civil Rights Bill, and the Freedman's Bureau Bill followed in rapid succession. Stoneman's crowning Reconstruction Act was passed, two years after the war had closed, shattering the Union again into fragments, blotting the names of ten great Southern States from its roll, and dividing their territory into five Military Districts under the control of belted satraps. When this measure was vetoed by the President, it came accompanied by a message whose words will be forever etched in fire on the darkest page of the Nation's life. Amid hisses, curses, jeers, and cat-calls, the Clerk of the House read its burning words: "_The power thus given to the commanding officer over the people of each district is that of an absolute monarch. His mere will is to take the place of law. He may make a criminal code of his own; he can make it as bloody as any recorded in history, or he can reserve the privilege of acting on the impulse of his private passions in each case that arises._ "_Here is a bill of attainer against nine millions of people at once. It is based upon an accusation so vague as to be scarcely intelligible, and found to be true upon no credible evidence. Not one of the nine millions was heard in his own defence. The representatives even of the doomed parties were excluded from all participation in the trial. The conviction is to be followed by the most ignominious punishment ever inflicted on large masses of men. It disfranchises them by hundreds of thousands and degrades them all--even those who are admitted to be guiltless--from the rank of freemen to the condition of slaves._ "_Such power has not been wielded by any monarch in England for more than five hundred years, and in all that time no people who speak the English tongue have borne such servitude._" When the last jeering cat-call which greeted this message of the Chief Magistrate had died away on the floor and in the galleries, old Stoneman rose, with a smile playing about his grim mouth, and introduced his bill to impeach the President of the United States and remove him from office. CHAPTER VIII A DREAM Elsie spent weeks of happiness in an abandonment of joy to the spell of her lover. His charm was resistless. His gift of delicate intimacy, the eloquence with which he expressed his love, and yet the manly dignity with which he did it, threw a spell no woman could resist. Each day's working hours were given to his father's case and to the study of law. If there was work to do, he did it, and then struck the word care from his life, giving himself body and soul to his love. Great events were moving. The shock of the battle between Congress and the President began to shake the Republic to its foundations. He heard nothing, felt nothing, save the music of Elsie's voice. And she knew it. She had only played with lovers before. She had never seen one of Ben's kind, and he took her by storm. His creed was simple. The chief end of life is to glorify the girl you love. Other things could wait. And he let them wait. He ignored their existence. But one cloud cast its shadow over the girl's heart during these red-letter days of life--the fear of what her father would do to her lover's people. Ben had asked her whether he must speak to him. When she said "No, not yet," he forgot that such a man lived. As for his politics, he knew nothing and cared less. But the girl knew and thought with sickening dread, until she forgot her fears in the joy of his laughter. Ben laughed so heartily, so insinuatingly, the contagion of his fun could not be resisted. He would sit for hours and confess to her the secrets of his boyish dreams of glory in war, recount his thrilling adventures and daring deeds with such enthusiasm that his cause seemed her own, and the pity and the anguish of the ruin of his people hurt her with the keen sense of personal pain. His love for his native State was so genuine, his pride in the bravery and goodness of its people so chivalrous, she began to see for the first time how the cords which bound the Southerner to his soil were of the heart's red blood. She began to understand why the war, which had seemed to her a wicked, cruel, and causeless rebellion, was the one inevitable thing in our growth from a loose group of sovereign States to a United Nation. Love had given her his point of view. Secret grief over her father's course began to grow into conscious fear. With unerring instinct she felt the fatal day drawing nearer when these two men, now of her inmost life, must clash in mortal enmity. She saw little of her father. He was absorbed with fevered activity and deadly hate in his struggle with the President. Brooding over her fears one night, she had tried to interest Ben in politics. To her surprise she found that he knew nothing of her father's real position or power as leader of his party. The stunning tragedy of the war had for the time crushed out of his consciousness all political ideas, as it had for most young Southerners. He took her hand while a dreamy look overspread his swarthy face: "Don't cross a bridge till you come to it. I learned that in the war. Politics are a mess. Let me tell you something that counts----" He felt her hand's soft pressure and reverently kissed it. "Listen," he whispered. "I was dreaming last night after I left you of the home we'll build. Just back of our place, on the hill overlooking the river, my father and mother planted trees in exact duplicate of the ones they placed around our house when they were married. They set these trees in honour of the first-born of their love, that he should make his nest there when grown. But it was not for him. He had pitched his tent on higher ground, and the others with him. This place will be mine. There are forty varieties of trees, all grown--elm, maple, oak, holly, pine, cedar, magnolia, and every fruit and flowering stem that grows in our friendly soil. A little house, built near the vacant space reserved for the homestead, is nicely kept by a farmer, and birds have learned to build in every shrub and tree. All the year their music rings its chorus--one long overture awaiting the coming of my bride----" Elsie sighed. "Listen, dear," he went on eagerly. "Last night I dreamed the South had risen from her ruins. I saw you there. I saw our home standing amid a bower of roses your hands had planted. The full moon wrapped it in soft light, while you and I walked hand in hand in silence beneath our trees. But fairer and brighter than the moon was the face of her I loved, and sweeter than all the songs of birds the music of her voice!" A tear dimmed the girl's warm eyes, and a deeper flush mantled her cheeks, as she lifted her face and whispered: "Kiss me." CHAPTER IX THE KING AMUSES HIMSELF With savage energy the Great Commoner pressed to trial the first impeachment of a President of the United States for high crimes and misdemeanours. His bill to confiscate the property of the Southern people was already pending on the calendar of the House. This bill was the most remarkable ever written in the English language or introduced into a legislative body of the Aryan race. It provided for the confiscation of ninety per cent. of the land of ten great States of the American Union. To each negro in the South was allotted forty acres from the estate of his former master, and the remaining millions of acres were to be divided among the "loyal who had suffered by reason of the Rebellion." The execution of this, the most stupendous crime ever conceived by an English lawmaker, involving the exile and ruin of millions of innocent men, women, and children, could not be intrusted to Andrew Johnson. No such measure could be enforced so long as any man was President and Commander-in-chief of the Army and Navy who claimed his title under the Constitution. Hence the absolute necessity of his removal. The conditions of society were ripe for this daring enterprise. Not only was the Ship of State in the hands of revolutionists who had boarded her in the storm stress of a civic convulsion, but among them swarmed the pirate captains of the boldest criminals who ever figured in the story of a nation. The first great Railroad Lobby, with continental empires at stake, thronged the Capitol with its lawyers, agents, barkers, and hired courtesans. The Cotton Thieves, who operated through a ring of Treasury agents, had confiscated unlawfully three million bales of cotton hidden in the South during the war and at its close, the last resource of a ruined people. The Treasury had received a paltry twenty thousand bales for the use of its name with which to seize alleged "property of the Confederate Government." The value of this cotton, stolen from the widows and orphans, the maimed and crippled, of the South was over $700,000,000 in gold--a capital sufficient to have started an impoverished people again on the road to prosperity. The agents of this ring surrounded the halls of legislation, guarding their booty from envious eyes, and demanding the enactment of vaster schemes of legal confiscation. The Whiskey Ring had just been formed, and began its system of gigantic frauds by which it scuttled the Treasury. Above them all towered the figure of Oakes Ames, whose master mind had organized the _Crédit Mobilier_ steal. This vast infamy had already eaten its way into the heart of Congress and dug the graves of many illustrious men. So open had become the shame that Stoneman was compelled to increase his committees in the morning, when a corrupt majority had been bought the night before. He arose one day, and looking at the distinguished Speaker, who was himself the secret associate of Oakes Ames, said: "Mr. Speaker: while the House slept, the enemy has sown tares among our wheat. The corporations of this country, having neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be lost, have, _perhaps_ by the power of argument alone, beguiled from the majority of my Committee the member from Connecticut. The enemy have now a majority of one. I move to increase the Committee to twelve." Speaker Colfax, soon to be hurled from the Vice-president's chair for his part with those thieves, increased his Committee. Everybody knew that "the power of argument alone" meant ten thousand dollars cash for the gentleman from Connecticut, who did not appear on the floor for a week, fearing the scorpion tongue of the old Commoner. A Congress which found it could make and unmake laws in defiance of the Executive went mad. Taxation soared to undreamed heights, while the currency was depreciated and subject to the wildest fluctuations. The statute books were loaded with laws that shackled chains of monopoly on generations yet unborn. Public lands wide as the reach of empires were voted as gifts to private corporations, and subsidies of untold millions fixed as a charge upon the people and their children's children. The demoralization incident to a great war, the waste of unheard-of sums of money, the giving of contracts involving millions by which fortunes were made in a night, the riot of speculation and debauchery by those who tried to get rich suddenly without labour, had created a new Capital of the Nation. The vulture army of the base, venal, unpatriotic, and corrupt, which had swept down, a black cloud, in wartime to take advantage of the misfortunes of the Nation, had settled in Washington and gave new tone to its life. Prior to the Civil War the Capital was ruled, and the standards of its social and political life fixed, by an aristocracy founded on brains, culture, and blood. Power was with few exceptions intrusted to an honourable body of high-spirited public officials. Now a negro electorate controlled the city government, and gangs of drunken negroes, its sovereign citizens, paraded the streets at night firing their muskets unchallenged and unmolested. A new mob of onion-laden breath, mixed with perspiring African odour, became the symbol of American Democracy. A new order of society sprouted in this corruption. The old high-bred ways, tastes, and enthusiasms were driven into the hiding-places of a few families and cherished as relics of the past. Washington, choked with scrofulous wealth, bowed the knee to the Almighty Dollar. The new altar was covered with a black mould of human blood--but no questions were asked. A mulatto woman kept the house of the foremost man of the Nation and received his guests with condescension. In this atmosphere of festering vice and gangrene passions, the struggle between the Great Commoner and the President on which hung the fate of the South approached its climax. The whole Nation was swept into the whirlpool, and business was paralyzed. Two years after the close of a victorious war the credit of the Republic dropped until its six per cent. bonds sold in the open market for seventy-three cents on the dollar. The revolutionary junta in control of the Capital was within a single step of the subversion of the Government and the establishment of a Dictator in the White House. A convention was called in Philadelphia to restore fraternal feeling, heal the wounds of war, preserve the Constitution, and restore the Union of the fathers. It was a grand assemblage representing the heart and brain of the Nation. Members of Lincoln's first Cabinet, protesting Senators and Congressmen, editors of great Republican and Democratic newspapers, heroes of both armies, long estranged, met for a common purpose. When a group of famous negro worshippers from Boston suddenly entered the hall, arm in arm with ex-slaveholders from South Carolina, the great meeting rose and walls and roof rang with thunder peals of applause. Their committee, headed by a famous editor, journeyed to Washington to appeal to the Master at the Capitol. They sought him not in the White House, but in the little Black House in an obscure street on the hill. The brown woman received them with haughty dignity, and said: "Mr. Stoneman cannot be seen at this hour. It is after nine o'clock. I will submit to him your request for an audience to-morrow morning." "We must see him to-night," replied the editor, with rising anger. "The king is amusing himself," said the yellow woman, with a touch of malice. "Where is he?" Her catlike eyes rolled from side to side, and a smile played about her full lips as she said: "You will find him at Hall & Pemberton's gambling hell--you've lived in Washington. You know the way." With a muttered oath the editor turned on his heel and led his two companions to the old Commoner's favourite haunt. There could be no better time or place to approach him than seated at one of its tables laden with rare wines and savoury dishes. On reaching the well-known number of Hall & Pemberton's place, the editor entered the unlocked door, passed with his friends along the soft-carpeted hall, and ascended the stairs. Here the door was locked. A sudden pull of the bell, and a pair of bright eyes peeped through a small grating in the centre of the door revealed by the sliding of its panel. The keen eyes glanced at the proffered card, the door flew open, and a well-dressed mulatto invited them with cordial welcome to enter. Passing along another hall, they were ushered into a palatial suite of rooms furnished in princely state. The floors were covered with the richest and softest carpets--so soft and yielding that the tramp of a thousand feet could not make the faintest echo. The walls and ceilings were frescoed by the brush of a great master, and hung with works of art worth a king's ransom. Heavy curtains, in colours of exquisite taste, masked each window, excluding all sound from within or without. The rooms blazed with light from gorgeous chandeliers of trembling crystals, shimmering and flashing from the ceilings like bouquets of diamonds. Negro servants, faultlessly dressed, attended the slightest want of every guest with the quiet grace and courtesy of the lost splendours of the old South. The proprietor, with courtly manners, extended his hand: "Welcome, gentlemen; you are my guests. The tables and the wines are at your service without price. Eat, drink, and be merry--play or not, as you please." A smile lighted his dark eyes, but faded out near his mouth--cold and rigid. At the farther end of the last room hung the huge painting of a leopard, so vivid and real its black and tawny colours, so furtive and wild its restless eyes, it seemed alive and moving behind invisible bars. Just under it, gorgeously set in its jewel-studded frame, stood the magic green table on which men staked their gold and lost their souls. The rooms were crowded with Congressmen, Government officials, officers of the Army and Navy, clerks, contractors, paymasters, lobbyists, and professional gamblers. The centre of an admiring group was a Congressman who had during the last session of the House broken the "bank" in a single night, winning more than a hundred thousand dollars. He had lost it all and more in two weeks, and the courteous proprietor now held orders for the lion's share of the total pay and mileage of nearly every member of the House of Representatives. Over that table thousands of dollars of the people's money had been staked and lost during the war by quartermasters, paymasters, and agents in charge of public funds. Many a man had approached that green table with a stainless name and left it a perjured thief. Some had been carried out by those handsomely dressed waiters, and the man with the cold mouth could point out, if he would, more than one stain on the soft carpet which marked the end of a tragedy deeper than the pen of romancer has ever sounded. Stoneman at the moment was playing. He was rarely a heavy player, but he had just staked a twenty-dollar gold piece and won fourteen hundred dollars. Howle, always at his elbow ready for a "sleeper" or a stake, said: "Put a stack on the ace." He did so, lost, and repeated it twice. "Do it again," urged Howle. "I'll stake my reputation that the ace wins this time." With a doubting glance at Howle, old Stoneman shoved a stack of blue chips, worth fifty dollars, over the ace, playing it to win on Howle's judgment and reputation. It lost. Without the ghost of a smile, the old statesman said: "Howle, you owe me five cents." As he turned abruptly on his club foot from the table, he encountered the editor and his friends, a Western manufacturer and a Wall Street banker. They were soon seated at a table in a private room, over a dinner of choice oysters, diamond-back terrapin, canvas-back duck, and champagne. They presented their plea for a truce in his fight until popular passion had subsided. He heard them in silence. His answer was characteristic: "The will of the people, gentlemen, is supreme," he said with a sneer. "We are the people. 'The man at the other end of the avenue' has dared to defy the will of Congress. He must go. If the Supreme Court lifts a finger in this fight, it will reduce that tribunal to one man or increase it to twenty at our pleasure." "But the Constitution----" broke in the chairman. "There are higher laws than paper compacts. We are conquerors treading conquered soil. Our will alone is the source of law. The drunken boor who claims to be President is in reality an alien of a conquered province." "We protest," exclaimed the man of money, "against the use of such epithets in referring to the Chief Magistrate of the Republic!" "And why, pray?" sneered the Commoner. "In the name of common decency, law, and order. The President is a man of inherent power, even if he did learn to read after his marriage. Like many other Americans, he is a self-made man----" "Glad to hear it," snapped Stoneman. "It relieves Almighty God of a fearful responsibility." They left him in disgust and dismay. CHAPTER X TOSSED BY THE STORM As the storm of passion raised by the clash between her father and the President rose steadily to the sweep of a cyclone, Elsie felt her own life but a leaf driven before its fury. Her only comfort she found in Phil, whose letters to her were full of love for Margaret. He asked Elsie a thousand foolish questions about what she thought of his chances. To her own confessions he was all sympathy. "Of father's wild scheme of vengeance against the South," he wrote, "I am heartsick. I hate it on principle, to say nothing of a girl I know. I am with General Grant for peace and reconciliation. What does your lover think of it all? I can feel your anguish. The bill to rob the Southern people of their land, which I hear is pending, would send your sweetheart and mine, our enemies, into beggared exile. What will happen in the South? Riot and bloodshed, of course--perhaps a guerilla war of such fierce and terrible cruelty humanity sickens at the thought. I fear the Rebellion unhinged our father's reason on some things. He was too old to go to the front; the cannon's breath would have cleared the air and sweetened his temper. But its healing was denied. I believe the tawny leopardess who keeps his house influences him in this cruel madness. I could wring her neck with exquisite pleasure. Why he allows her to stay and cloud his life with her she-devil temper and fog his name with vulgar gossip is beyond me." Seated in the park on the Capitol hill the day after her father had introduced his Confiscation Bill in the House, pending the impeachment of the President, she again attempted to draw Ben out as to his feelings on politics. She waited in sickening fear and bristling pride for the first burst of his anger which would mean their separation. "How do I feel?" he asked. "Don't feel at all. The surrender of General Lee was an event so stunning, my mind has not yet staggered past it. Nothing much can happen after that, so it don't matter." "Negro suffrage don't matter?" "No. We can manage the negro," he said calmly. "With thousands of your own people disfranchised?" "The negroes will vote with us, as they worked for us during the war. If they give them the ballot, they'll wish they hadn't." Ben looked at her tenderly, bent near, and whispered: "Don't waste your sweet breath talking about such things. My politics is bounded on the North by a pair of amber eyes, on the South by a dimpled little chin, on the East and West by a rosy cheek. Words do not frame its speech. Its language is a mere sign, a pressure of the lips--yet it thrills body and soul beyond all words." Elsie leaned closer, and looking at the Capitol, said wistfully: "I don't believe you know anything that goes on in that big marble building." "Yes, I do." "What happened there yesterday?" "You honoured it by putting your beautiful feet on its steps. I saw the whole huge pile of cold marble suddenly glow with warm sunlight and flash with beauty as you entered it." The girl nestled still closer to his side, feeling her utter helplessness in the rapids of the Niagara through which they were being whirled by blind and merciless forces. For the moment she forgot all fears in his nearness and the sweet pressure of his hand. CHAPTER XI THE SUPREME TEST It is the glory of the American Republic that every man who has filled the office of President has grown in stature when clothed with its power and has proved himself worthy of its solemn trust. It is our highest claim to the respect of the world and the vindication of man's capacity to govern himself. The impeachment of President Andrew Johnson would mark either the lowest tide-mud of degradation to which the Republic could sink, or its end. In this trial our system would be put to its severest strain. If a partisan majority in Congress could remove the Executive and defy the Supreme Court, stability to civic institutions was at an end, and the breath of a mob would become the sole standard of law. Congress had thrown to the winds the last shreds of decency in its treatment of the Chief Magistrate. Stoneman led this campaign of insult, not merely from feelings of personal hate, but because he saw that thus the President's conviction before the Senate would become all but inevitable. When his messages arrived from the White House they were thrown into the waste-basket without being read, amid jeers, hisses, curses, and ribald laughter. In lieu of their reading, Stoneman would send to the Clerk's desk an obscene tirade from a party newspaper, and the Clerk of the House would read it amid the mocking groans, laughter, and applause of the floor and galleries. A favourite clipping described the President as "an insolent drunken brute, in comparison with whom Caligula's horse was respectable." In the Senate, whose members were to sit as sworn judges to decide the question of impeachment, Charles Sumner used language so vulgar that he was called to order. Sustained by the Chair and the Senate, he repeated it with increased violence, concluding with cold venom: "Andrew Johnson has become the successor of Jefferson Davis. In holding him up to judgment I do not dwell on his beastly intoxication the day he took the oath as Vice-president, nor do I dwell on his maudlin speeches by which he has degraded the country, nor hearken to the reports of pardons sold, or of personal corruption. These things are bad. But he has usurped the powers of Congress." Conover, the perjured wretch, in prison for his crimes as a professional witness in the assassination trial, now circulated the rumour that he could give evidence that President Johnson was the assassin of Lincoln. Without a moment's hesitation, Stoneman's henchmen sent a petition to the President for the pardon of this villain that he might turn against the man who had pardoned him and swear his life away! This scoundrel was borne in triumph from prison to the Capitol and placed before the Impeachment Committee, to whom he poured out his wondrous tale. The sewers and prisons were dragged for every scrap of testimony to be found, and the day for the trial approached. As it drew nearer, excitement grew intense. Swarms of adventurers expecting the overthrow of the Government crowded into Washington. Dreams of honours, profits, and division of spoils held riot. Gamblers thronged the saloons and gaming-houses, betting their gold on the President's head. Stoneman found the business more serious than even his daring spirit had dreamed. His health suddenly gave way under the strain, and he was put to bed by his physician with the warning that the least excitement would be instantly fatal. Elsie entered the little Black House on the hill for the first time since her trip at the age of twelve, some eight years before. She installed an army nurse, took charge of the place, and ignored the existence of the brown woman, refusing to speak to her or permit her to enter her father's room. His illness made it necessary to choose an assistant to conduct the case before the High Court. There was but one member of the House whose character and ability fitted him for the place--General Benj. F. Butler, of Massachusetts, whose name was enough to start a riot in any assembly in America. His selection precipitated a storm at the Capitol. A member leaped to his feet on the floor of the House and shouted: "If I were to characterize all that is pusillanimous in war, inhuman in peace, forbidden in morals, and corrupt in politics, I could name it in one word--Butlerism!" For this speech he was ordered to apologize, and when he refused with scorn they voted that the Speaker publicly censure him. The Speaker did so, but winked at the offender while uttering the censure. John A. Bingham, of Ohio, who had been chosen for his powers of oratory to make the principal speech against the President, rose in the House and indignantly refused to serve on the Board of Impeachment with such a man. General Butler replied with crushing insolence: "It is true, Mr. Speaker, that I may have made an error of judgment in trying to blow up Fort Fisher with a powder ship at sea. I did the best I could with the talents God gave me. An angel could have done no more. At least I bared my own breast in my country's defence--a thing the distinguished gentleman who insults me has not ventured to do--his only claim to greatness being that, behind prison walls, on perjured testimony, his fervid eloquence sent an innocent American mother screaming to the gallows." The fight was ended only by an order from the old Commoner's bed to Bingham to shut his mouth and work with Butler. When the President had been crushed, then they could settle Kilkenny-cat issues. Bingham obeyed. When the august tribunal assembled in the Senate Chamber, fifty-five Senators, presided over by Salmon P. Chase, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, constituted the tribunal. They took their seats in a semicircle in front of the Vice-president's desk at which the Chief Justice sat. Behind them crowded the one hundred and ninety members of the House of Representatives, the accusers of the ruler of the mightiest Republic in human history. Every inch of space in the galleries was crowded with brilliantly dressed men and women, army officers in gorgeous uniforms, and the pomp and splendour of the ministers of every foreign court of the world. In spectacular grandeur no such scene was ever before witnessed in the annals of justice. The peculiar personal appearance of General Butler, whose bald head shone with insolence while his eye seemed to be winking over his record as a warrior and making fun of his fellow-manager Bingham, added a touch of humour to the solemn scene. The magnificent head of the Chief Justice suggested strange thoughts to the beholder. He had been summoned but the day before to try Jefferson Davis for the treason of declaring the Southern States out of the Union. To-day he sat down to try the President of the United States for declaring them to be in the Union! He had protested with warmth that he could not conduct both these trials at once. The Chief Justice took oath to "do impartial justice according to the Constitution and the laws," and to the chagrin of Sumner administered this oath to each Senator in turn. When Benjamin F. Wade's name was called, Hendricks, of Indiana, objected to his sitting as judge. He could succeed temporarily to the Presidency, as the presiding officer of the Senate, and his own vote might decide the fate of the accused and determine his own succession. The law forbids the Vice-president to sit on such trials. It should apply with more vigour in his case. Besides, he had without a hearing already pronounced the President guilty. Sumner, forgetting his motion to prevent Stockton's voting against his own expulsion, flew to the defence of Wade. Hendricks smilingly withdrew his objection, and "Bluff Ben Wade" took the oath and sat down to judge his own cause with unruffled front. When the case was complete, the whole bill of indictment stood forth a tissue of stupid malignity without a shred of evidence to support its charges. On the last day of the trial, when the closing speeches were being made, there was a stir at the door. The throng of men, packing every inch of floor space, were pushed rudely aside. The crowd craned their necks, Senators turned and looked behind them to see what the disturbance meant, and the Chief Justice rapped for order. Suddenly through the dense mass appeared the forms of two gigantic negroes carrying an old man. His grim face, white and rigid, and his big club foot hanging pathetically from those black arms, could not be mistaken. A thrill of excitement swept the floor and galleries, and a faint cheer rippled the surface, quickly suppressed by the gavel. The negroes placed him in an armchair facing the semicircle of Senators, and crouched down on their haunches beside him. Their kinky heads, black skin, thick lips, white teeth, and flat noses made for the moment a curious symbolic frame for the chalk-white passion of the old Commoner's face. No sculptor ever dreamed a more sinister emblem of the corruption of a race of empire builders than this group. Its black figures, wrapped in the night of four thousand years of barbarism, squatted there the "equal" of their master, grinning at his forms of justice, the evolution of forty centuries of Aryan genius. To their brute strength the white fanatic in the madness of his hate had appealed, and for their hire he had bartered the birthright of a mighty race of freemen. The speaker hurried to his conclusion that the half-fainting master might deliver his message. In the meanwhile his eyes, cold and thrilling, sought the secrets of the souls of the judges before him. He had not come to plead or persuade. He had eluded the vigilance of his daughter and nurse, escaped with the aid of the brown woman and her black allies, and at the peril of his life had come to command. Every energy of his indomitable will he was using now to keep from fainting. He felt that if he could but look those men in the face they would not dare to defy his word. He shambled painfully to his feet amid a silence that was awful. Again the sheer wonder of the man's personality held the imagination of the audience. His audacity, his fanaticism, and the strange contradictions of his character stirred the mind of friend and foe alike--this man who tottered there before them, holding off Death with his big ugly left hand, while with his right he clutched at the throat of his foe! Honest and dishonest, cruel and tender, great and mean, a party leader who scorned public opinion, a man of conviction, yet the most unscrupulous politician, a philosopher who preached the equality of man, yet a tyrant who hated the world and despised all men! His very presence before them an open defiance of love and life and death, would not his word ring omnipotent when the verdict was rendered? Every man in the great courtroom believed it as he looked on the rows of Senators hanging on his lips. He spoke at first with unnatural vigour, a faint flush of fever lighting his white face, his voice quivering yet penetrating. "Upon that man among you who shall dare to acquit the President," he boldly threatened, "I hurl the everlasting curse of a Nation--an infamy that shall rive and blast his children's children until they shrink from their own name as from the touch of pollution!" He gasped for breath, his restless hands fumbled at his throat, he staggered and would have fallen had not his black guards caught him. He revived, pushed them back on their haunches, and sat down. And then, with his big club foot thrust straight in front of him, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of his chair, the massive head shaking back and forth like a wounded lion, he continued his speech, which grew in fierce intensity with each laboured breath. The effect was electrical. Every Senator leaned forward to catch the lowest whisper, and so awful was the suspense in the galleries the listeners grew faint. When this last mad challenge was hurled into the teeth of the judges, the dazed crowd paused for breath and the galleries burst into a storm of applause. In vain the Chief Justice rose, his lionlike face livid with anger, pounded for order, and commanded the galleries to be cleared. They laughed at him. Roar after roar was the answer. The Chief Justice in loud angry tones ordered the Sergeant-at-Arms to clear the galleries. Men leaned over the rail and shouted in his face: "He can't do it!" "He hasn't got men enough!" "Let him try if he dares!" The doorkeepers attempted to enforce order by announcing it in the name of the peace and dignity and sovereign power of the Senate over its sacred chamber. The crowd had now become a howling mob which jeered them. Senator Grimes, of Iowa, rose and demanded the reason why the Senate was thus insulted and the order had not been enforced. A volley of hisses greeted his question. The Chief Justice, evidently quite nervous, declared the order would be enforced. Senator Trumbull, of Illinois, moved that the offenders be arrested. In reply the crowd yelled: "We'd like to see you do it!" At length the mob began to slowly leave the galleries under the impression that the High Court had adjourned. Suddenly a man cried out: "Hold on! They ain't going to adjourn. Let's see it out!" Hundreds took their seats again. In the corridors a crowd began to sing in wild chorus: "Old Grimes is dead, that poor old man." The women joined with glee. Between the verses the leader would curse the Iowa Senator as a traitor and copperhead. The singing could be distinctly heard by the Court as its roar floated through the open doors. When the Senate Chamber had been cleared and the most disgraceful scene that ever occurred within its portals had closed, the High Court Impeachment went into secret session to consider the evidence and its verdict. Within an hour from its adjournment it was known to the Managers that seven Republican Senators were doubtful, and that they formed a group under the leadership of two great constitutional lawyers who still believed in the sanctity of a judge's oath--Lyman Trumbull, of Illinois, and William Pitt Fessenden, of Maine. Around them had gathered Senators Grimes, of Iowa, Van Winkle, of West Virginia, Fowler, of Tennessee, Henderson, of Missouri, and Ross, of Kansas. The Managers were in a panic. If these men dared to hold together with the twelve Democrats, the President would be acquitted by one vote--they could count thirty-four certain for conviction. The Revolutionists threw to the winds the last scruple of decency, went into caucus and organized a conspiracy for forcing, within the few days which must pass before the verdict, these judges to submit to their decree. Fessenden and Trumbull were threatened with impeachment and expulsion from the Senate and bombarded by the most furious assaults from the press, which denounced them as infamous traitors, "as mean, repulsive, and noxious as hedgehogs in the cages of a travelling menagerie." A mass meeting was held in Washington which said: "Resolved, that we impeach Fessenden, Trumbull, and Grimes at the bar of justice and humanity, as traitors before whose guilt the infamy of Benedict Arnold becomes respectability and decency." The Managers sent out a circular telegram to every State from which came a doubtful judge: "Great danger to the peace of the country if impeachment fails. Send your Senators public opinion by resolutions, letters, and delegates." The man who excited most wrath was Ross, of Kansas. That Kansas of all States should send a "traitor" was more than the spirits of the Revolutionists could bear. A mass meeting in Leavenworth accordingly sent him the telegram: "Kansas has heard the evidence and demands the conviction of the President. "D. R. Anthony and 1,000 others." To this Ross replied: "I have taken an oath to do impartial justice. I trust I shall have the courage and honesty to vote according to the dictates of my judgment and for the highest good of my country." He got his answer: "Your motives are Indian contracts and greenbacks. Kansas repudiates you as she does all perjurers and skunks." The Managers organized an inquisition for the purpose of torturing and badgering Ross into submission. His one vote was all they lacked. They laid siege to little Vinnie Ream, the sculptress, to whom Congress had awarded a contract for the statue of Lincoln. Her studio was in the crypt of the Capitol. They threatened her with the wrath of Congress, the loss of her contract, and ruin of her career unless she found a way to induce Senator Ross, whom she knew, to vote against the President. Such an attempt to gain by fraud the verdict of a common court of law would have sent its promoters to prison for felony. Yet the Managers of this case, before the highest tribunal of the world, not only did it without a blush of shame, but cursed as a traitor every man who dared to question their motives. As the day approached for the Court to vote, Senator Ross remained to friend and foe a sealed mystery. Reporters swarmed about him, the target of a thousand eyes. His rooms were besieged by his radical constituents who had been imported from Kansas in droves to browbeat him into a promise to convict. His movements day and night, his breakfast, his dinner, his supper, the clothes he wore, the colour of his cravat, his friends and companions, were chronicled in hourly bulletins and flashed over the wires from the delirious Capital. Chief Justice Chase called the High Court of Impeachment to order, to render its verdict. Old Stoneman had again been carried to his chair in the arms of two negroes, and sat with his cold eyes searching the faces of the judges. The excitement had reached the highest pitch of intensity. A sense of choking solemnity brooded over the scene. The feeling grew that the hour had struck which would test the capacity of man to establish an enduring Republic. The Clerk read the Eleventh Article, drawn by the Great Commoner as the supreme test. As its last words died away the Chief Justice rose amid a silence that was agony, placed his hands on the sides of the desk as if to steady himself, and said: "Call the roll." Each Senator answered "Guilty" or "Not Guilty," exactly as they had been counted by the Managers, until Fessenden's name was called. A moment of stillness and the great lawyer's voice rang high, cold, clear, and resonant as a Puritan church bell on Sunday morning: "Not Guilty!" A murmur, half groan and sigh, half cheer and cry, rippled the great hall. The other votes were discounted now save that of Edmund G. Ross, of Kansas. No human being on earth knew what this man would do save the silent invisible man within his soul. Over the solemn trembling silence the voice of the Chief Justice rang: "Senator Ross, how say you? Is the respondent, Andrew Johnson, guilty or not guilty of a high misdemeanor as charged in this article?" The great Judge bent forward; his brow furrowed as Ross arose. His fellow Senators watched him spellbound. A thousand men and women, hanging from the galleries, focused their eyes on him. Old Stoneman drew his bristling brows down, watching him like an adder ready to strike, his lower lip protruding, his jaws clinched as a vise, his hands fumbling the arms of his chair. Every breath is held, every ear strained, as the answer falls from the sturdy Scotchman like the peal of a trumpet: "Not Guilty!" The crowd breathes--a pause, a murmur, the shuffle of a thousand feet---- The President is acquitted, and the Republic lives! The House assembled and received the report of the verdict. Old Stoneman pulled himself half erect, holding to his desk, addressed the Speaker, introduced his second bill for the impeachment of the President, and fell fainting in the arms of his black attendants. CHAPTER XII TRIUMPH IN DEFEAT Upon the failure to convict the President, Edwin M. Stanton resigned, sank into despair and died, and a soldier Secretary of War opened the prison doors. Ben Cameron and his father hurried Southward to a home and land passing under a cloud darker than the dust and smoke of blood-soaked battlefields--the Black Plague of Reconstruction. For two weeks the old Commoner wrestled in silence with Death. When at last he spoke, it was to the stalwart negroes who had called to see him and were standing by his bedside. Turning his deep-sunken eyes on them a moment, he said slowly: "I wonder whom I'll get to carry me when you boys die!" Elsie hurried to his side and kissed him tenderly. For a week his mind hovered in the twilight that lies between time and eternity. He seemed to forget the passions and fury of his fierce career and live over the memories of his youth, recalling pathetically its bitter poverty and its fair dreams. He would lie for hours and hold Elsie's hand, pressing it gently. In one of his lucid moments he said: "How beautiful you are, my child! You shall be a queen. I've dreamed of boundless wealth for you and my boy. My plans are Napoleonic--and I shall not fail--never fear--aye, beyond the dreams of avarice!" "I wish no wealth save the heart treasure of those I love, father," was the soft answer. "Of course, little day-dreamer. But the old cynic who has outlived himself and knows the mockery of time and things will be wisdom for your foolishness. You shall keep your toys. What pleases you shall please me. Yet I will be wise for us both." She laid her hand upon his lips, and he kissed the warm little fingers. In these days of soul-nearness the iron heart softened as never before in love toward his children. Phil had hurried home from the West and secured his release from the remaining weeks of his term of service. As the father lay watching them move about the room, the cold light in his deep-set wonderful eyes would melt into a soft glow. As he grew stronger, the old fierce spirit of the unconquered leader began to assert itself. He would take up the fight where he left it off and carry it to victory. Elsie and Phil sent the doctor to tell him the truth and beg him to quit politics. "Your work is done; you have but three months to live unless you go South and find new life," was the verdict. "In either event I go to a warmer climate, eh, doctor?" said the cynic. "Perhaps," was the laughing reply. "Good. It suits me better. I've had the move in mind. I can do more effective work in the South for the next two years. Your decision is fate. I'll go at once." The doctor was taken aback. "Come now," he said persuasively. "Let a disinterested Englishman give you some advice. You've never taken any before. I give it as medicine, and I won't put it on your bill. Slow down on politics. Your recent defeat should teach you a lesson in conservatism." The old Commoner's powerful mouth became rigid, and the lower lip bulged: "Conservatism--fossil putrefaction!" "But defeat?" "Defeat?" cried the old man. "Who said I was defeated? The South lies in ashes at my feet--the very names of her proud States blotted from history. The Supreme Court awaits my nod. True, there's a man boarding in the White House, and I vote to pay his bills; but the page who answers my beck and call has more power. Every measure on which I've set my heart is law, save one--my Confiscation Act--and this but waits the fulness of time." The doctor, who was walking back and forth with his hands folded behind him, paused and said: "I marvel that a man of your personal integrity could conceive such a measure; you, who refused to accept the legal release of your debts until the last farthing was paid--you, whose cruelty of the lip is hideous, and yet beneath it so gentle a personality, I've seen the pages in the House stand at your back and mimic you while speaking, secure in the smile with which you turned to greet their fun. And yet you press this crime upon a brave and generous foe?" "A wrong can have no rights," said Stoneman calmly. "Slavery will not be dead until the landed aristocracy on which it rested is destroyed. I am not cruel or unjust. I am but fulfilling the largest vision of universal democracy that ever stirred the soul of man--a democracy that shall know neither rich nor poor, bond nor free, white nor black. If I use the wild pulse-beat of the rage of millions, it is only a means to an end--this grander vision of the soul." "Then why not begin at home this vision, and give the stricken South a moment to rise?" "No. The North is impervious to change, rich, proud, and unscathed by war. The South is in chaos and cannot resist. It is but the justice and wisdom of Heaven that the negro shall rule the land of his bondage. It is the only solution of the race problem. Lincoln's contention that we could not live half white and half black is sound at the core. When we proclaim equality, social, political, and economic for the negro, we mean always to enforce it in the South. The negro will never be treated as an equal in the North. We are simply a set of cold-blooded liars on that subject, and always have been. To the Yankee the very physical touch of a negro is pollution." "Then you don't believe this twaddle about equality?" asked the doctor. "Yes and no. Mankind in the large is a herd of mercenary gudgeons or fools. As a lawyer in Pennsylvania I have defended fifty murderers on trial for their lives. Forty-nine of them were guilty. All these I succeeded in acquitting. One of them was innocent. This one they hung. Can a man keep his face straight in such a world? Could negro blood degrade such stock? Might not an ape improve it? I preach equality as a poet and seer who sees a vision beyond the rim of the horizon of to-day." The old man's eyes shone with the set stare of a fanatic. "And you think the South is ready for this wild vision?" "Not ready, but helpless to resist. As a cold-blooded, scientific experiment, I mean to give the Black Man one turn at the Wheel of Life. It is an act of just retribution. Besides, in my plans I need his vote; and that settles it." "But will your plans work? Your own reports show serious trouble in the South already." Stoneman laughed. "I never read my own reports. They are printed in molasses to catch flies. The Southern legislatures played into my hands by copying the laws of New England relating to Servants, Masters, Apprentices, and Vagrants. But even these were repealed at the first breath of criticism. Neither the Freedman's Bureau nor the army has ever loosed its grip on the throat of the South for a moment. These disturbances and 'atrocities' are dangerous only when printed on campaign fly-paper." "And how will you master and control these ten great Southern States?" "Through my Reconstruction Acts by means of the Union League. As a secret between us, I am the soul of this order. I organized it in 1863 to secure my plan of confiscation. We pressed it on Lincoln. He repudiated it. We nominated Frémont at Cleveland against Lincoln in '64, and tried to split the party or force Lincoln to retire. Frémont, a conceited ass, went back on this plank in our platform, and we dropped him and helped elect Lincoln again." "I thought the Union League a patriotic and social organization?" said the doctor in surprise. "It has these features, but its sole aim as a secret order is to confiscate the property of the South. I will perfect this mighty organization until every negro stands drilled in serried line beneath its banners, send a solid delegation here to do my bidding, and return at the end of two years with a majority so overwhelming that my word will be law. I will pass my Confiscation Bill. If Ulysses S. Grant, the coming idol, falters, my second bill of Impeachment will only need the change of a name." The doctor shook his head. "Give up this madness. Your life is hanging by a thread. The Southern people even in their despair will never drink this black broth you are pressing to their lips." "They've got to drink it." "Your decision is unalterable?" "Absolutely. It's the breath I breathe. As my physician you may select the place to which I shall be banished. It must be reached by rail and wire. I care not its name or size. I'll make it the capital of the Nation. There'll be poetic justice in setting up my establishment in a fallen slaveholder's mansion." The doctor looked intently at the old man: "The study of men has become a sort of passion with me, but you are the deepest mystery I've yet encountered in this land of surprises." "And why?" asked the cynic. "Because the secret of personality resides in motives, and I can't find yours either in your actions or words." Stoneman glanced at him sharply from beneath his wrinkled brows and snapped. "Keep on guessing." "I will. In the meantime I'm going to send you to the village of Piedmont, South Carolina. Your son and daughter both seem enthusiastic over this spot." "Good; that settles it. And now that mine own have been conspiring against me," said Stoneman confidentially, "a little guile on my part. Not a word of what has passed between us to my children. Tell them I agree with your plans and give up my work. I'll give the same story to the press--I wish nothing to mar their happiness while in the South. My secret burdens need not cloud their young lives." Dr. Barnes took the old man by the hand: "I promise. My assistant has agreed to go with you. I'll say good-bye. It's an inspiration to look into a face like yours, lit by the splendour of an unconquerable will! But I want to say something to you before you set out on this journey." "Out with it," said the Commoner. "The breed to which the Southern white man belongs has conquered every foot of soil on this earth their feet have pressed for a thousand years. A handful of them hold in subjection three hundred millions in India. Place a dozen of them in the heart of Africa, and they will rule the continent unless you kill them----" "Wait," cried Stoneman, "until I put a ballot in the hand of every negro and a bayonet at the breast of every white man from the James to the Rio Grande!" "I'll tell you a little story," said the doctor with a smile. "I once had a half-grown eagle in a cage in my yard. The door was left open one day, and a meddlesome rooster hopped in to pick a fight. The eagle had been sick a week and seemed an easy mark. I watched. The rooster jumped and wheeled and spurred and picked pieces out of his topknot. The young eagle didn't know at first what he meant. He walked around dazed, with a hurt expression. When at last it dawned on him what the chicken was about, he simply reached out one claw, took the rooster by the neck, planted the other claw in his breast, and snatched his head off." The old man snapped his massive jaws together and grunted contemptuously. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Book III--The Reign of Terror CHAPTER I A FALLEN SLAVEHOLDER'S MANSION Piedmont, South Carolina, which Elsie and Phil had selected for reasons best known to themselves as the place of retreat for their father, was a favourite summer resort of Charleston people before the war. Ulster county, of which this village was the capital, bordered on the North Carolina line, lying alongside the ancient shore of York. It was settled by the Scotch folk who came from the North of Ireland in the great migrations which gave America three hundred thousand people of Covenanter martyr blood, the largest and most important addition to our population, larger in number than either the Puritans of New England or the so-called Cavaliers of Virginia and Eastern Carolina; and far more important than either, in the growth of American nationality. To a man they had hated Great Britain. Not a Tory was found among them. The cries of their martyred dead were still ringing in their souls when George III started on his career of oppression. The fiery words of Patrick Henry, their spokesman in the valley of Virginia, had swept the aristocracy of the Old Dominion into rebellion against the King and on into triumphant Democracy. They had made North Carolina the first home of freedom in the New World, issued the first Declaration of Independence in Mecklenburg, and lifted the first banner of rebellion against the tyranny of the Crown. They grew to the soil wherever they stopped, always home lovers and home builders, loyal to their own people, instinctive clan leaders and clan followers. A sturdy, honest, covenant-keeping, God-fearing, fighting people, above all things they hated sham and pretence. They never boasted of their families, though some of them might have quartered the royal arms of Scotland on their shields. To these sturdy qualities had been added a strain of Huguenot tenderness and vivacity. The culture of cotton as the sole industry had fixed African slavery as their economic system. With the heritage of the Old World had been blended forces inherent in the earth and air of the new Southland, something of the breath of its unbroken forests, the freedom of its untrod mountains, the temper of its sun, and the sweetness of its tropic perfumes. When Mrs. Cameron received Elsie's letter, asking her to secure for them six good rooms at the "Palmetto" hotel, she laughed. The big rambling hostelry had been burned by roving negroes, pigs were wallowing in the sulphur springs, and along its walks, where lovers of olden days had strolled, the cows were browsing on the shrubbery. But she laughed for a more important reason. They had asked for a six-room cottage if accommodations could not be had in the hotel. She could put them in the Lenoir place. The cotton crop from their farm had been stolen from the gin--the cotton tax of $200 could not be paid, and a mortgage was about to be foreclosed on both their farm and home. She had been brooding over their troubles in despair. The Stonemans' coming was a godsend. Mrs. Cameron was helping them set the house in order to receive the new tenants. "I declare," said Mrs. Lenoir gratefully. "It seems too good to be true. Just as I was about to give up--the first time in my life--here came those rich Yankees and with enough rent to pay the interest on the mortgages and our board at the hotel. I'll teach Margaret to paint, and she can give Marion lessons on the piano. The darkest hour's just before day. And last week I cried when they told me I must lose the farm." "I was heartsick over it for you." "You know, the farm was my dowry with the dozen slaves Papa gave us on our wedding-day. The negroes did as they pleased, yet we managed to live and were very happy." Marion entered and placed a bouquet of roses on the table, touching them daintily until she stood each flower apart in careless splendour. Their perfume, the girl's wistful dreamy blue eyes and shy elusive beauty, all seemed a part of the warm sweet air of the June morning. Mrs. Lenoir watched her lovingly. "Mamma, I'm going to put flowers in every room. I'm sure they haven't such lovely ones in Washington," said Marion eagerly, as she skipped out. The two women moved to the open window, through which came the drone of bees and the distant music of the river falls. "Marion's greatest charm," whispered her mother, "is in her way of doing things easily and gently without a trace of effort. Watch her bend over to get that rose. Did you ever see anything like the grace and symmetry of her figure--she seems a living flower!" "Jeannie, you're making an idol of her----" "Why not? With all our troubles and poverty, I'm rich in her! She's fifteen years old, her head teeming with romance. You know, I was married at fifteen. There'll be a half dozen boys to see her to-night in our new home--all of them head over heels in love with her." "Oh, Jeannie, you must not be so silly! We should worship God only." "Isn't she God's message to me and to the world?" "But if anything should happen to her----" The young mother laughed. "I never think of it. Some things are fixed. Her happiness and beauty are to me the sign of God's presence." "Well, I'm glad you're coming to live with us in the heart of town. This place is a cosey nest, just such a one as a poet lover would build here in the edge of these deep woods, but it is too far out for you to be alone. Dr. Cameron has been worrying about you ever since he came home." "I'm not afraid of the negroes. I don't know one of them who wouldn't go out of his way to do me a favour. Old Aleck is the only rascal I know among them, and he's too busy with politics now even to steal a chicken." "And Gus, the young scamp we used to own; you haven't forgotten him? He is back here, a member of the company of negro troops, and parades before the house every day to show off his uniform. Dr. Cameron told him yesterday he'd thrash him if he caught him hanging around the place again. He frightened Margaret nearly to death when she went to the barn to feed her horse." "I've never known the meaning of fear. We used to roam the woods and fields together all hours of the day and night: my lover, Marion, and I. This panic seems absurd to me." "Well, I'll be glad to get you two children under my wing. I was afraid I'd find you in tears over moving from your nest." "No, where Marion is I'm at home, and I'll feel I've a mother when I get with you." "Will you come to the hotel before they arrive?" "No; I'll welcome and tell them how glad I am they have brought me good luck." "I'm delighted, Jeannie. I wished you to do this, but I couldn't ask it. I can never do enough for this old man's daughter. We must make their stay happy. They say he's a terrible old Radical politician, but I suppose he's no meaner than the others. He's very ill, and she loves him devotedly. He is coming here to find health, and not to insult us. Besides, he was kind to me. He wrote a letter to the President. Nothing that I have will be too good for him or for his. It's very brave and sweet of you to stay and meet them." "I'm doing it to please Marion. She suggested it last night, sitting out on the porch in the twilight. She slipped her arm around me and said: "'Mamma, we must welcome them and make them feel at home. He is very ill. They will be tired and homesick. Suppose it were you and I, and we were taking my Papa to a strange place.'" * * * * * When the Stonemans arrived, the old man was too ill and nervous from the fatigue of the long journey to notice his surroundings or to be conscious of the restful beauty of the cottage into which they carried him. His room looked out over the valley of the river for miles, and the glimpse he got of its broad fertile acres only confirmed his ideas of the "slaveholding oligarchy" it was his life-purpose to crush. Over the mantel hung a steel engraving of Calhoun. He fell asleep with his deep, sunken eyes resting on it and a cynical smile playing about his grim mouth. Margaret and Mrs. Cameron had met the Stonemans and their physician at the train, and taken Elsie and her father in the old weather-beaten family carriage to the Lenoir cottage, apologising for Ben's absence. "He has gone to Nashville on some important legal business, and the doctor is ailing, but as the head of the clan Cameron he told me to welcome your father to the hospitality of the county, and beg him to let us know if he could be of help." The old man, who sat in a stupor of exhaustion, made no response, and Elsie hastened to say: "We appreciate your kindness more than I can tell you, Mrs. Cameron. I trust father will be better in a day or two, when he will thank you. The trip has been more than he could bear." "I am expecting Ben home this week," the mother whispered. "I need not tell you that he will be delighted at your coming." Elsie smiled and blushed. "And I'll expect Captain Stoneman to see me very soon," said Margaret softly. "You will not forget to tell him for me?" "He's a very retiring young man," said Elsie, "and pretends to be busy about our baggage just now. I'm sure he will find the way." Elsie fell in love at sight with Marion and her mother. Their easy genial manners, the genuineness of their welcome, and the simple kindness with which they sought to make her feel at home put her heart into a warm glow. Mrs. Lenoir explained the conveniences of the place and apologized for its defects, the results of the war. "I am sorry about the window curtains--we have used them all for dresses. Marion is a genius with a needle, and we took the last pair out of the parlour to make a dress for a birthday party. The year before, we used the ones in my room for a costume at a starvation party in a benefit for our rector--you know we're Episcopalians--strayed up here for our health from Charleston among these good Scotch Presbyterians." "We will soon place curtains at the windows," said Elsie cheerfully. "The carpets were sent to the soldiers for blankets during the war. It was all we could do for our poor boys, except to cut my hair and sell it. You see my hair hasn't grown out yet. I sent it to Richmond the last year of the war. I felt I must do something when my neighbours were giving so much. You know Mrs. Cameron lost four boys." "I prefer the floors bare," Elsie replied. "We will get a few rugs." She looked at the girlish hair hanging in ringlets about Mrs. Lenoir's handsome face, smiled pathetically, and asked: "Did you really make such sacrifices for your cause?" "Yes, indeed. I was glad when the war was ended for some things. We certainly needed a few pins, needles, and buttons, to say nothing of a cup of coffee or tea." "I trust you will never lack for anything again," said Elsie kindly. "You will bring us good luck," Mrs. Lenoir responded. "Your coming is so fortunate. The cotton tax Congress levied was so heavy this year we were going to lose everything. Such a tax when we are all about to starve! Dr. Cameron says it was an act of stupid vengeance on the South, and that no other farmers in America have their crops taxed by the National Government. I am so glad your father has come. He is not hunting for an office. He can help us, maybe." "I am sure he will," answered Elsie thoughtfully. Marion ran up the steps lightly, her hair dishevelled and face flushed. "Now, Mamma, it's almost sundown; you get ready to go. I want her awhile to show her about my things." She took Elsie shyly by the hand and led her into the lawn, while her mother paid a visit to each room, and made up the last bundle of odds and ends she meant to carry to the hotel. "I hope you will love the place as we do," said the girl simply. "I think it very beautiful and restful," Elsie replied. "This wilderness of flowers looks like fairyland. You have roses running on the porch around the whole length of the house." "Yes, Papa was crazy over the trailing roses, and kept planting them until the house seems just a frame built to hold them, with a roof on it. But you can see the river through the arches from three sides. Ben Cameron helped me set that big beauty on the south corner the day he ran away to the war----" "The view is glorious!" Elsie exclaimed, looking in rapture over the river valley. The village of Piedmont crowned an immense hill on the banks of the Broad River, just where it dashes over the last stone barrier in a series of beautiful falls and spreads out in peaceful glory through the plains toward Columbia and the distant sea. The muffled roar of these falls, rising softly through the trees on its wooded cliff, held the daily life of the people in the spell of distant music. In fair weather it soothed and charmed, and in storm and freshet rose to the deep solemn growl of thunder. The river made a sharp bend as it emerged from the hills and flowed westward for six miles before it turned south again. Beyond this six-mile sweep of its broad channel loomed the three ranges of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the first one dark, rich, distinct, clothed in eternal green, the last one melting in dim lines into the clouds and soft azure of the sky. As the sun began to sink now behind these distant peaks, each cloud that hung about them burst into a blazing riot of colour. The silver mirror of the river caught their shadows, and the water glowed in sympathy. As Elsie drank the beauty of the scene, the music of the falls ringing its soft accompaniment, her heart went out in a throb of love and pity for the land and its people. "Can you blame us for loving such a spot?" said Marion. "It's far more beautiful from the cliff at Lover's Leap. I'll take you there some day. My father used to tell me that this world was Heaven, and that the spirits would all come back to live here when sin and shame and strife were gone." "Are your father's poems published?" asked Elsie. "Only in the papers. We have them clipped and pasted in a scrapbook. I'll show you the one about Ben Cameron some day. You met him in Washington, didn't you?" "Yes," said Elsie quietly. "Then I know he made love to you." "Why?" "You're so pretty. He couldn't help it." "Does he make love to every pretty girl?" "Always. It's his religion. But he does it so beautifully you can't help believing it, until you compare notes with the other girls." "Did he make love to you?" "He broke my heart when he ran away. I cried a whole week. But I got over it. He seemed so big and grown when he came home this last time. I was afraid to let him kiss me." "Did he dare to try?" "No, and it hurt my feelings. You see, I'm not quite old enough to be serious with the big boys, and he looked so brave and handsome with that ugly scar on the edge of his forehead, and everybody was so proud of him. I was just dying to kiss him, and I thought it downright mean in him not to offer it." "Would you have let him?" "I expected him to try." "He is very popular in Piedmont?" "Every girl in town is in love with him." "And he in love with all?" "He pretends to be--but between us, he's a great flirt. He's gone to Nashville now on some pretended business. Goodness only knows where he got the money to go. I believe there's a girl there." "Why?" "Because he was so mysterious about his trip. I'll keep an eye on him at the hotel. You know Margaret, too, don't you?" "Yes; we met her in Washington." "Well, she's the slyest flirt in town--it runs in the blood--has a half-dozen beaux to see her every day. She plays the organ in the Presbyterian Sunday school, and the young minister is dead in love with her. They say they are engaged. I don't believe it. I think it's another one. But I must hurry, I've so much to show and tell you. Come here to the honeysuckle----" Marion drew the vines apart from the top of the fence and revealed a mocking-bird on her nest. "She's setting. Don't let anything hurt her. I'd push her off and show you her speckled eggs, but it's so late." "Oh, I wouldn't hurt her for the world!" cried Elsie with delight. "And right here," said Marion, bending gracefully over a tall bunch of grass, "is a pee-wee's nest, four darling little eggs; look out for that." Elsie bent and saw the pretty nest perched on stems of grass, and over it the taller leaves drawn to a point. "Isn't it cute!" she murmured. "Yes; I've six of these and three mocking-bird nests. I'll show them to you. But the most particular one of all is the wren's nest in the fork of the cedar, close to the house." She led Elsie to the tree, and about two feet from the ground, in the forks of the trunk, was a tiny hole from which peeped the eyes of a wren. "Whatever you do, don't let anything hurt her. Her mate sings '_Free-nigger! Free-nigger! Free-nigger!_' every morning in this cedar." "And you think we will specially enjoy that?" asked Elsie, laughing. "Now, really," cried Marion, taking Elsie's hand, "you know I couldn't think of such a mean joke. I forgot you were from the North. You seem so sweet and homelike. He really does sing that way. You will hear him in the morning, bright and early, '_Free-nigger! Free-nigger! Free-nigger!_' just as plain as I'm saying it." "And did you learn to find all these birds' nests by yourself?" "Papa taught me. I've got some jay-birds and some cat-birds so gentle they hop right down at my feet. Some people hate jay-birds. But I like them, they seem to be having such a fine time and enjoy life so. You don't mind jay-birds, do you?" "I love every bird that flies." "Except hawks and owls and buzzards----" "Well, I've seen so few I can't say I've anything particular against them." "Yes, they eat chickens--except the buzzards, and they're so ugly and filthy. Now, I've a chicken to show you--please don't let Aunt Cindy--she's to be your cook--please don't let her kill him--he's crippled--has something the matter with his foot. He was born that way. Everybody wanted to kill him, but I wouldn't let them. I've had an awful time raising him, but he's all right now." Marion lifted a box and showed her the lame pet, softly clucking his protest against the disturbance of his rest. "I'll take good care of _him_, never fear," said Elsie, with a tremor in her voice. "And I have a queer little black cat I wanted to show you, but he's gone off somewhere. I'd take him with me--only it's bad luck to move cats. He's awful wild--won't let anybody pet him but me. Mamma says he's an imp of Satan--but I love him. He runs up a tree when anybody else tries to get him. But he climbs right up on my shoulder. I never loved any cat quite as well as this silly, half-wild one. You don't mind black cats, do you?" "No, dear; I like cats." "Then I know you'll be good to him." "Is that all?" asked Elsie, with amused interest. "No, I've the funniest yellow dog that comes here at night to pick up the scraps and things. He isn't my dog--just a little personal friend of mine--but I like him very much, and always give him something. He's very cute. I think he's a nigger dog." "A nigger dog? What's that?" "He belongs to some coloured people, who don't give turn enough to eat. I love him because he's so faithful to his own folks. He comes to see me at night and pretends to love me, but as soon as I feed him he trots back home. When he first came, I laughed till I cried at his antics over a carpet--we had a carpet then. He never saw one before, and barked at the colours and the figures in the pattern. Then he'd lie down and rub his back on it and growl. You won't let anybody hurt him?" "No. Are there any others?" "Yes, I 'most forgot. If Sam Ross comes--Sam's an idiot who lives at the poorhouse--if he comes, he'll expect a dinner--my, my, I'm afraid he'll cry when he finds we're not here! But you can send him to the hotel to me. Don't let Aunt Cindy speak rough to him. Aunt Cindy's awfully good to me, but she can't bear Sam. She thinks he brings bad luck." "How on earth did you meet him?" "His father was rich. He was a good friend of my Papa's. We came near losing our farm once, because a bank failed. Mr. Ross sent Papa a signed check on his own bank, and told him to write the amount he needed on it, and pay him when he was able. Papa cried over it, and wouldn't use it, and wrote a poem on the back of the check--one of the sweetest of all, I think. In the war Mr. Ross lost his two younger sons, both killed at Gettysburg. His wife died heartbroken, and he only lived a year afterward. He sold his farm for Confederate money and everything was lost. Sam was sent to the poorhouse. He found out somehow that we loved him and comes to see us. He's as harmless as a kitten, and works in the garden beautifully." "I'll remember," Elsie promised. "And one thing more," she said hesitatingly. "Mamma asked me to speak to you of this--that's why she slipped away. There one little room we have locked. It was Papa's study just as he left it, with his papers scattered on the desk, the books and pictures that he loved--you won't mind?" Elsie slipped her arm about Marion, looked into the blue eyes, dim with tears, drew her close and said: "It shall be sacred, my child. You must come every day if possible, and help me." "I will. I've so many beautiful places to show you in the woods--places he loved, and taught us to see and love. They won't let me go in the woods any more alone. But you have a big brother. That must be very sweet." Mrs. Lenoir hurried to Elsie. "Come, Marion, we must be going now." "I am very sorry to see you leave the home you love so dearly, Mrs. Lenoir," said the Northern girl, taking her extended hand. "I hope you can soon find a way to have it back." "Thank you," replied the mother cheerily. "The longer you stay, the better for us. You don't know how happy I am over your coming. It has lifted a load from our hearts. In the liberal rent you pay us you are our benefactors. We are very grateful and happy." Elsie watched them walk across the lawn to the street, the daughter leaning on the mother's arm. She followed slowly and stopped behind one of the arbor-vitæ bushes beside the gate. The full moon had risen as the twilight fell and flooded the scene with soft white light. A whippoorwill struck his first plaintive note, his weird song seeming to come from all directions and yet to be under her feet. She heard the rustle of dresses returning along the walk, and Marion and her mother stood at the gate. They looked long and tenderly at the house. Mrs. Lenoir uttered a broken sob, Marion slipped an arm around her, brushed the short curling hair back from her forehead, and softly said: "Mamma, dear, you know it's best. I don't mind. Everybody in town loves us. Every boy and girl in Piedmont worships you. We will be just as happy at the hotel." In the pauses between the strange bird's cry, Elsie caught the sound of another sob, and then a soothing murmur as of a mother bending over a cradle, and they were gone. CHAPTER II THE EYES OF THE JUNGLE Elsie stood dreaming for a moment in the shadow of the arbor-vitæ, breathing the sensuous perfumed air and listening to the distant music of the falls, her heart quivering in pity for the anguish of which she had been a witness. Again the spectral cry of the whippoorwill rang near-by, and she noted for the first time the curious cluck with which the bird punctuated each call. A sense of dim foreboding oppressed her. She wondered if the chatter of Marion about the girl in Nashville were only a child's guess or more. She laughed softly at the absurdity of the idea. Never since she had first looked into Ben Cameron's face did she feel surer of the honesty and earnestness of his love than to-day in this quiet home of his native village. It must be the queer call of the bird which appealed to superstitions she did not know were hidden within her being. Still dreaming under its spell, she was startled at the tread of two men approaching the gate. The taller, more powerful-looking man put his hand on the latch and paused. "Allow no white man to order you around. Remember you are a freeman and as good as any pale-face who walks this earth." She recognized the voice of Silas Lynch. "Ben Cameron dare me to come about de house," said the other voice. "What did he say?" "He say, wid his eyes batten' des like lightnen', 'Ef I ketch you hangin' 'roun' dis place agin', Gus, I'll jump on you en stomp de life outen ye.'" "Well, you tell him that your name is Augustus, not 'Gus,' and that the United States troops quartered in this town will be with him soon after the stomping begins. You wear its uniform. Give the white trash in this town to understand that they are not even citizens of the nation. As a sovereign voter, you, once their slave, are not only their equal--you are their master." "Dat I will!" was the firm answer. The negro to whom Lynch spoke disappeared in the direction taken by Marion and her mother, and the figure of the handsome mulatto passed rapidly up the walk, ascended the steps and knocked at the door. Elsie followed him. "My father is too much fatigued with his journey to be seen now; you must call to-morrow," she said. The negro lifted his hat and bowed: "Ah, we are delighted to welcome you, Miss Stoneman, to our land! Your father asked me to call immediately on his arrival. I have but obeyed his orders." Elsie shrank from the familiarity of his manner and the tones of authority and patronage with which he spoke. "He cannot be seen at this hour," she answered shortly. "Perhaps you will present my card, then--say that I am at his service, and let him appoint the time at which I shall return?" She did not invite him in, but with easy assurance he took his seat on the joggle-board beside the door and awaited her return. Against her urgent protest, Stoneman ordered Lynch to be shown at once to his bedroom. When the door was closed, the old Commoner, without turning to greet his visitor or moving his position in bed, asked: "Are you following my instructions?" "To the letter, sir." "You are initiating the negroes into the League and teaching them the new catechism?" "With remarkable success. Its secrecy and ritual appeal to them. Within six months we shall have the whole race under our control almost to a man." "_Almost_ to a man?" "We find some so attached to their former masters that reason is impossible with them. Even threats and the promise of forty acres of land have no influence." The old man snorted with contempt. "If anything could reconcile me to the Satanic Institution it is the character of the wretches who submit to it and kiss the hand that strikes. After all, a slave deserves to be a slave. The man who is mean enough to wear chains ought to wear them. You must teach, _teach_, TEACH these black hounds to know they are men, not brutes!" The old man paused a moment, and his restless hands fumbled the cover. "Your first task, as I told you in the beginning, is to teach every negro to stand erect in the presence of his former master and assert his manhood. Unless he does this, the South will bristle with bayonets in vain. The man who believes he is a dog, is one. The man who believes himself a king, may become one. Stop this snivelling and sneaking round the back doors. I can do nothing, God Almighty can do nothing, for a coward. Fix this as the first law of your own life. Lift up your head! The world is yours. Take it. Beat this into the skulls of your people, if you do it with an axe. Teach them the military drill at once. I'll see that Washington sends the guns. The state, when under your control, can furnish the powder." "It will surprise you to know the thoroughness with which this has been done already by the League," said Lynch. "The white master believed he could vote the negro as he worked him in the fields during the war. The League, with its blue flaming altar, under the shadows of night, has wrought a miracle. The negro is the enemy of his former master and will be for all time." "For the present," said the old man meditatively, "not a word to a living soul as to my connection with this work. When the time is ripe, I'll show my hand." Elsie entered, protesting against her father's talking longer, and showed Lynch to the door. He paused on the moonlit porch and tried to engage her in familiar talk. She cut him short, and he left reluctantly. As he bowed his thick neck in pompous courtesy, she caught with a shiver the odour of pomade on his black half-kinked hair. He stopped on the lower step, looked back with smiling insolence, and gazed intently at her beauty. The girl shrank from the gleam of the jungle in his eyes and hurried within. She found her father sunk in a stupor. Her cry brought the young surgeon hurrying into the room, and at the end of an hour he said to Elsie and Phil: "He has had a stroke of paralysis. He may lie in mental darkness for months and then recover. His heart action is perfect. Patience, care, and love will save him. There is no cause for immediate alarm." CHAPTER III AUGUSTUS CÆSAR Phil early found the home of the Camerons the most charming spot in town. As he sat in the old-fashioned parlour beside Margaret, his brain seethed with plans for building a hotel on a large scale on the other side of the Square and restoring her home intact. The Cameron homestead was a large brick building with an ample porch looking out directly on the Court House Square, standing in the middle of a lawn full of trees, flowers, shrubbery, and a wilderness of evergreen boxwood planted fifty years before. It was located on the farm from which it had always derived its support. The farm extended up into the village itself, with the great barn easily seen from the street. Phil was charmed with the doctor's genial personality. He often found the father a decidedly easier person to get along with than his handsome daughter. The Rev. Hugh McAlpin was a daily caller, and Margaret had a tantalizing way of showing her deference to his opinions. Phil hated this preacher from the moment he laid eyes on him. His pugnacious piety he might have endured but for the fact that he was good-looking and eloquent. When he rose in the pulpit in all his sacred dignity, fixed his eyes on Margaret, and began in tenderly modulated voice to tell about the love of God, Phil clinched his fist. He didn't care to join the Presbyterian church, but he quietly made up his mind that, if it came to the worst and she asked him, he would join anything. What made him furious was the air of assurance with which the young divine carried himself about Margaret, as if he had but to say the word and it would be fixed as by a decree issued from before the foundations of the world. He was pleased and surprised to find that his being a Yankee made no difference in his standing or welcome. The people seemed unconscious of the part his father played at Washington. Stoneman's Confiscation Bill had not yet been discussed in Congress, and the promise of land to the negroes was universally regarded as a hoax of the League to win their followers. The old Commoner was not an orator. Hence his name was scarcely known in the South. The Southern people could not conceive of a great leader except one who expressed his power through the megaphone of oratory. They held Charles Sumner chiefly responsible for Reconstruction. The fact that Phil was a Yankee who had no axe to grind in the South caused the people to appeal to him in a pathetic way that touched his heart. He had not been in town two weeks before he was on good terms with every youngster, had the entrée to every home, and Ben had taken him, protesting vehemently, to see every pretty girl there. He found that, in spite of war and poverty, troubles present and troubles to come, the young Southern woman was the divinity that claimed and received the chief worship of man. The tremendous earnestness with which these youngsters pursued the work of courting, all of them so poor they scarcely had enough to eat, amazed and alarmed him beyond measure. He found in several cases as many as four making a dead set for one girl, as if heaven and earth depended on the outcome, while the girl seemed to receive it all as a matter of course--her just tribute. Every instinct of his quiet reserved nature revolted at any such attempt to rush his cause with Margaret, and yet it made the cold chills run down his spine to see that Presbyterian preacher drive his buggy up to the hotel, take her to ride, and stay three hours. He knew where they had gone--to Lover's Leap and along the beautiful road which led to the North Carolina line. He knew the way--Margaret had showed him. This road was the Way of Romance. Every farmhouse, cabin, and shady nook along its beaten track could tell its tale of lovers fleeing from the North to find happiness in the haven of matrimony across the line in South Carolina. Everything seemed to favour marriage in this climate. The state required no license. A legal marriage could be celebrated, anywhere, at any time, by a minister in the presence of two witnesses, with or without the consent of parent or guardian. Marriage was the easiest thing in the state--divorce the one thing impossible. Death alone could grant divorce. He was now past all reason in love. He followed the movement of Margaret's queenly figure with pathetic abandonment. Beneath her beautiful manners he swore with a shiver that she was laughing at him. Now and then he caught a funny expression about her eyes, as if she were consumed with a sly sense of humour in her love affairs. What he felt to be his manliest traits, his reserve, dignity, and moral earnestness, she must think cold and slow beside the dash, fire, and assurance of these Southerners. He could tell by the way she encouraged the preacher before his eyes that she was criticizing and daring him to let go for once. Instead of doing it, he sank back appalled at the prospect and let the preacher carry her off again. He sought solace in Dr. Cameron, who was utterly oblivious of his daughter's love affairs. Phil was constantly amazed at the variety of his knowledge, the genuineness of his culture, his modesty, and the note of youth and cheer with which he still pursued the study of medicine. His company was refreshing for its own sake. The slender graceful figure, ruddy face, with piercing, dark-brown eyes in startling contrast to his snow-white hair and beard, had for Phil a perpetual charm. He never tired listening to his talk, and noting the peculiar grace and dignity with which he carried himself, unconscious of the commanding look of his brilliant eyes. "I hear that you have used hypnotism in your practice, Doctor," Phil said to him one day, as he watched with fascination the changing play of his mobile features. "Oh, yes! used it for years. Southern doctors have always been pioneers in the science of medicine. Dr. Crawford Long, of Georgia, you know, was the first practitioner in America to apply anesthesia to surgery." "But where did you run up against hypnotism? I thought this a new thing under the sun?" The doctor laughed. "It's not a home industry, exactly. I became interested in it in Edinburgh while a medical student, and pursued it with increased interest in Paris." "Did you study medicine abroad?" Phil asked in surprise. "Yes; I was poor, but I managed to raise and to borrow enough to take three years on the other side. I put all I had and all my credit in it. I've never regretted the sacrifice. The more I saw of the great world, the better I liked my own world. I've given these farmers and their families the best God gave to me." "Do you find much use for your powers of hypnosis?" Phil asked. "Only in an experimental way. Naturally I am endowed with this gift--especially over certain classes who are easily the subjects of extreme fear. I owned a rascally slave named Gus whom I used to watch stealing. Suddenly confronting him, I've thrown him into unconsciousness with a steady gaze of the eye, until he would drop on his face, trembling like a leaf, unable to speak until I allowed him." "How do you account for such powers?" "I don't account for them at all. They belong to the world of spiritual phenomena of which we know so little and yet which touch our material lives at a thousand points every day. How do we account for sleep and dreams, or second sight, or the day dreams which we call visions?" Phil was silent, and the doctor went on dreamily: "The day my boy Richard was killed at Gettysburg, I saw him lying dead in a field near a house. I saw some soldiers bury him in the corner of that field, and then an old man go to the grave, dig up his body, cart it away into the woods, and throw it into a ditch. I saw it before I heard of the battle or knew that he was in it. He was reported killed, and his body has never been found. It is the one unspeakable horror of the war to me. I'll never get over it." "How very strange!" exclaimed Phil. "And yet the war was nothing, my boy, to the horrors I feel clutching the throat of the South to-day. I'm glad you and your father are down here. Your disinterested view of things may help us at Washington when we need it most. The South seems to have no friend at court." "Your younger men, I find, are hopeful, Doctor," said Phil. "Yes, the young never see danger until it's time to die. I'm not a pessimist, but I was happier in jail. Scores of my old friends have given up in despair and died. Delicate and cultured women are living on cowpeas, corn bread, and molasses--and of such quality they would not have fed it to a slave. Children go to bed hungry. Droves of brutal negroes roam at large, stealing, murdering, and threatening blacker crimes. We are under the heel of petty military tyrants, few of whom ever smelled gunpowder in a battle. At the approaching election, not a decent white man in this country can take the infamous test oath. I am disfranchised because I gave a cup of water to the lips of one of my dying boys on the battlefield. My slaves are all voters. There will be a negro majority of more than one hundred thousand in this state. Desperadoes are here teaching these negroes insolence and crime in their secret societies. The future is a nightmare." [Illustration: HENRY WALTHALL AS BEN CAMERON.] "You have my sympathy, sir," said Phil warmly, extending his hand. "These Reconstruction Acts, conceived in sin and brought forth in iniquity, can bring only shame and disgrace until the last trace of them is wiped from our laws. I hope it will not be necessary to do it in blood." The doctor was deeply touched. He could not be mistaken in the genuineness of any man's feeling. He never dreamed this earnest straightforward Yankee youngster was in love with Margaret, and it would have made no difference in the accuracy of his judgment. "Your sentiments do you honour, sir," he said with grave courtesy. "And you honour us and our town with your presence and friendship." As Phil hurried home in a warm glow of sympathy for the people whose hospitality had made him their friend and champion, he encountered a negro trooper standing on the corner, watching the Cameron house with furtive glance. Instinctively he stopped, surveyed the man from head to foot and asked: "What's the trouble?" "None er yo' business," the negro answered, slouching across to the opposite side of the street. Phil watched him with disgust. He had the short, heavy-set neck of the lower order of animals. His skin was coal black, his lips so thick they curled both ways up and down with crooked blood marks across them. His nose was flat, and its enormous nostrils seemed in perpetual dilation. The sinister bead eyes, with brown splotches in their whites, were set wide apart and gleamed apelike under his scant brows. His enormous cheekbones and jaws seemed to protrude beyond the ears and almost hide them. "That we should send such soldiers here to flaunt our uniform in the faces of these people!" he exclaimed, with bitterness. He met Ben hurrying home from a visit to Elsie. The two young soldiers whose prejudices had melted in the white heat of battle had become fast friends. Phil laughed and winked: "I'll meet you to-night around the family altar!" When he reached home, Ben saw, slouching in front of the house, walking back and forth and glancing furtively behind him, the negro trooper whom his friend had passed. He walked quickly in front of him, and blinking his eyes rapidly, said: "Didn't I tell you, Gus, not to let me catch you hanging around this house again?" The negro drew himself up, pulling his blue uniform into position as his body stretched out of its habitual slouch, and answered: "My name ain't 'Gus.'" Ben gave a quick little chuckle and leaned back against the palings, his hand resting on one that was loose. He glanced at the negro carelessly and said: "Well, Augustus Cæsar, I give your majesty thirty seconds to move off the block." Gus' first impulse was to run, but remembering himself he threw back his shoulders and said: "I reckon de streets free----" "Yes, and so is kindling wood!" Quick as a flash of lightning the paling suddenly left the fence and broke three times in such bewildering rapidity on the negro's head he forgot everything he ever knew or thought he knew save one thing--the way to run. He didn't fly, but he made remarkable use of the facilities with which he had been endowed. Ben watched him disappear toward the camp. He picked up the pieces of paling, pulled a strand of black wool from a splinter, looked at it curiously and said: "A sprig of his majesty's hair--I'll doubtless remember him without it!" CHAPTER IV AT THE POINT OF THE BAYONET Within an hour from Ben's encounter he was arrested without warrant by the military commandant, handcuffed, and placed on the train for Columbia, more than a hundred miles distant. The first purpose of sending him in charge of a negro guard was abandoned for fear of a riot. A squad of white troops accompanied him. Elsie was waiting at the gate, watching for his coming, her heart aglow with happiness. When Marion and little Hugh ran to tell the exciting news, she thought it a joke and refused to believe it. "Come, dear, don't tease me; you know it's not true!" "I wish I may die if 'tain't so!" Hugh solemnly declared. "He run Gus away 'cause he scared Aunt Margaret so. They come and put handcuffs on him and took him to Columbia. I tell you Grandpa and Grandma and Aunt Margaret are mad!" Elsie called Phil and begged him to see what had happened. When Phil reported Ben's arrest without a warrant, and the indignity to which he had been subjected on the amazing charge of resisting military authority, Elsie hurried with Marion and Hugh to the hotel to express her indignation, and sent Phil to Columbia on the next train to fight for his release. By the use of a bribe Phil discovered that a special inquisition had been hastily organized to procure perjured testimony against Ben on the charge of complicity in the murder of a carpet-bag adventurer named Ashburn, who had been killed at Columbia in a row in a disreputable resort. This murder had occurred the week Ben Cameron was in Nashville. The enormous reward of $25,000 had been offered for the conviction of any man who could be implicated in the killing. Scores of venal wretches, eager for this blood money, were using every device of military tyranny to secure evidence on which to convict--no matter who the man might be. Within six hours of his arrival they had pounced on Ben. They arrested as a witness an old negro named John Stapler, noted for his loyalty to the Camerons. The doctor had saved his life once in a dangerous illness. They were going to put him to torture and force him to swear that Ben Cameron had tried to bribe him to kill Ashburn. General Howle, the Commandant of the Columbia district, was in Charleston on a visit to headquarters. Phil resorted to the ruse of pretending, as a Yankee, the deepest sympathy for Ashburn, and by the payment of a fee of twenty dollars to the Captain, was admitted to the fort to witness the torture. They led the old man trembling into the presence of the Captain, who sat on an improvised throne in full uniform. "Have you ordered a barber to shave this man's head?" sternly asked the judge. "Please, Marster, fer de Lawd's sake, I ain' done nuttin'--doan' shave my head. Dat ha'r been wropped lak dat fur ten year! I die sho' ef I lose my ha'r." "Bring the barber, and take him back until he comes," was the order. In an hour they led him again into the room blindfolded, and placed him in a chair. "Have you let him see a preacher before putting him through?" the Captain asked. "I have an order from the General in Charleston to put him through to-day." "For Gawd's sake, Marster, doan' put me froo--I ain't done nuttin' en I doan' know nuttin'!" The old negro slipped to his knees, trembling from head to foot. The guards caught him by the shoulders and threw him back into the chair. The bandage was removed, and just in front of him stood a brass cannon pointed at his head, a soldier beside it holding the string ready to pull. John threw himself backward, yelling: "Goddermighty!" When he scrambled to his feet and started to run, another cannon swung on him from the rear. He dropped to his knees and began to pray. "Yas, Lawd, I'se er comin'. I hain't ready--but, Lawd, I got ter come! Save me!" "Shave him!" the Captain ordered. While the old man sat moaning, they lathered his head with two scrubbing-brushes and shaved it clean. "Now stand him up by the wall and measure him for his coffin," was the order. They snatched him from the chair, pushed him against the wall, and measured him. While they were taking his measure, the man next to him whispered: "Now's the time to save your hide--tell all about Ben Cameron trying to hire you to kill Ashburn." "Give him a few minutes," said the Captain, "and maybe we can hear what Mr. Cameron said about Ashburn." "I doan' know nuttin', General," pleaded the old darkey. "I ain't heard nuttin'--I ain't seed Marse Ben fer two monts." "You needn't lie to us. The rebels have been posting you. But it's no use. We'll get it out of you." "'Fo' Gawd, Marster, I'se telling de truf!" "Put him in the dark cell and keep him there the balance of his life unless he tells," was the order. At the end of four days, Phil was summoned again to witness the show. John was carried to another part of the fort and shown the sweat-box. "Now tell all you know or in you go!" said his tormentor. The negro looked at the engine of torture in abject terror--a closet in the walls of the fort just big enough to admit the body, with an adjustable top to press down too low for the head to be held erect. The door closed tight against the breast of the victim. The only air admitted was through an auger-hole in the door. The old man's lips moved in prayer. "Will you tell?" growled the Captain. "I cain't tell ye nuttin' 'cept'n' a lie!" he moaned. They thrust him in, slammed the door, and in a loud voice the Captain said: "Keep him there for thirty days unless he tells." He was left in the agony of the sweat-box for thirty-three hours and taken out. His limbs were swollen and when he attempted to walk he tottered and fell. The guard jerked him to his feet, and the Captain said: "I'm afraid we've taken him out too soon, but if he don't tell he can go back and finish the month out." The poor old negro dropped in a faint, and they carried him back to his cell. Phil determined to spare no means, fair or foul, to secure Ben's release from the clutches of these devils. He had as yet been unable to locate his place of confinement. He continued his ruse of friendly curiosity, kept in touch with the Captain, and the Captain in touch with his pocketbook. Summoned to witness another interesting ceremony, he hurried to the fort. The officer winked at him confidentially, and took him out to a row of dungeons built of logs and ceiled inside with heavy boards. A single pane of glass about eight inches square admitted light ten feet from the ground. There was a commotion inside, curses, groans, and cries for mercy mingling in rapid succession. "What is it?" asked Phil. "Hell's goin' on in there!" laughed the officer. "Evidently." A heavy crash, as though a ton weight had struck the floor, and then all was still. "By George, it's too bad we can't see it all!" exclaimed the officer. "What does it mean?" urged Phil. Again the Captain laughed immoderately. "I've got a blue-blood in there taking the bluin' out of his system. He gave me some impudence. I'm teaching him who's running this country!" "What are you doing to him?" Phil asked with a sudden suspicion. "Oh, just having a little fun! I put two big white drunks in there with him--half-fighting drunks, you know--and told them to work on his teeth and manicure his face a little to initiate him into the ranks of the common people, so to speak!" Again he laughed. Phil, listening at the keyhole, held up his hand: "Hush, they're talking----" He could hear Ben Cameron's voice in the softest drawl: "Say it again." "Please, Marster!" "Now both together, and a little louder!" "_Please, Marster_," came the united chorus. "Now what kind of a dog did I say you are?" "The kind as comes when his marster calls." "Both together--the under dog seems to have too much cover, like his mouth might be full of cotton." They repeated it louder. "A common--stump-tailed--cur-dog?" "Yessir." "Say it." "A common--stump-tailed--cur-dog--Marster!" "A pair of them." "A pair of 'em." "No, the whole thing--all together--'we--are--a--pair!'" "Yes--Marster." They repeated it in chorus. "With apologies to the dogs----" "Apologies to the dogs----" "And why does your master honour the kennel with his presence to-day?" "He hit a nigger on the head so hard that he strained the nigger's ankle, and he's restin' from his labours." "That's right, Towser. If I had you and Tige a few hours every day I could make good squirrel-dogs out of you." There was a pause. Phil looked up and smiled. "What does it sound like?" asked the Captain, with a shade of doubt in his voice. "Sounds to me like a Sunday-school teacher taking his class through a new catechism." The Captain fumbled hurriedly for his keys. "There's something wrong in there." He opened the door and sprang in. Ben Cameron was sitting on top of the two toughs, knocking their heads together as they repeated each chorus. "Walk in, gentlemen. The show is going on now--the animals are doing beautifully," said Ben. The Captain muttered an oath. Phil suddenly grasped him by the throat, hurled him against the wall, and snatched the keys from his hand. "Now open your mouth, you white-livered cur, and inside of twenty-four hours I'll have you behind the bars. I have all the evidence I need. I'm an ex-officer of the United States Army, of the fighting corps--not the vulture division. This is my friend. Accompany us to the street and strike your charges from the record." The coward did as he was ordered, and Ben hurried back to Piedmont with a friend toward whom he began to feel closer than a brother. When Elsie heard the full story of the outrage, she bore herself toward Ben with unusual tenderness, and yet he knew that the event had driven their lives farther apart. He felt instinctively the cold silent eye of her father, and his pride stiffened under it. The girl had never considered the possibility of a marriage without her father's blessing. Ben Cameron was too proud to ask it. He began to fear that the differences between her father and his people reached to the deepest sources of life. Phil found himself a hero at the Cameron House. Margaret said little, but her bearing spoke in deeper language than words. He felt it would be mean to take advantage of her gratitude. But he was quick to respond to the motherly tenderness of Mrs. Cameron. In the groups of neighbours who gathered in the evenings to discuss with the doctor the hopes, fears, and sorrows of the people, Phil was a charmed listener to the most brilliant conversations he had ever heard. It seemed the normal expression of their lives. He had never before seen people come together to talk to one another after this fashion. More and more the simplicity, dignity, patience, courtesy, and sympathy of these people in their bearing toward one another impressed him. More and more he grew to like them. Marion went out of her way to express her open admiration for Phil and tease him about Margaret. The Rev. Hugh McAlpin was monopolizing her on the Wednesday following his return from Columbia and Phil sought Marion for sympathy. "What will you give me if I tease you about Margaret right before her?" she asked. He blushed furiously. "Don't you dare such a thing on peril of your life!" "You know you like to be teased about her," she cried, her blue eyes dancing with fun. "With such a pretty little friend to do the teasing all by ourselves, perhaps----" "You'll never get her unless you have more spunk." "Then I'll find consolation with you." "No, I mean to marry young." "And your ideal of life?" "To fill the world with flowers, laughter, and music--especially my own home--and never do a thing I can make my husband do for me! How do you like it?" "I think it very sweet," Phil answered soberly. At noon on the following Friday, the Piedmont _Eagle_ appeared with an editorial signed by Dr. Cameron, denouncing in the fine language of the old school the arrest of Ben as "despotism and the usurpation of authority." At three o'clock, Captain Gilbert, in command of the troops stationed in the village, marched a squad of soldiers to the newspaper office. One of them carried a sledge-hammer. In ten minutes he demolished the office, heaped the type and their splintered cases on top of the battered press in the middle of the street, and set fire to the pile. On the courthouse door he nailed this proclamation: _To the People of Ulster County_: The censures of the press, directed against the servants of the people, may be endured; but the military force in command of this district are not the servants of the people of South Carolina. WE ARE YOUR MASTERS. The impertinence of newspaper comment on the military will not be brooked UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES WHATEVER. G. C. Gilbert, Captain in Command. Not content with this display of power, he determined to make an example of Dr. Cameron, as the leader of public opinion in the county. He ordered a squad of his negro troops to arrest him immediately and take him to Columbia for obstructing the execution of the Reconstruction Acts. He placed the squad under command of Gus, whom he promoted to be a corporal, with instructions to wait until the doctor was inside his house, boldly enter it and arrest him. When Gus marched his black janizaries into the house, no one was in the office. Margaret had gone for a ride with Phil, and Ben had strolled with Elsie to Lover's Leap, unconscious of the excitement in town. Dr. Cameron himself had heard nothing of it, having just reached home from a visit to a country patient. Gus stationed his men at each door, and with another trooper walked straight into Mrs. Cameron's bedroom, where the doctor was resting on a lounge. Had an imp of perdition suddenly sprung through the floor, the master of the house of Cameron would not have been more enraged or surprised. A sudden leap, as the spring of a panther, and he stood before his former slave, his slender frame erect, his face a livid spot in its snow-white hair, his brilliant eyes flashing with fury. Gus suddenly lost control of his knees. His old master transfixed him with his eyes, and in a voice, whose tones gripped him by the throat, said: "How dare you?" The gun fell from the negro's hand, and he dropped to the floor on his face. His companion uttered a yell and sprang through the door, rallying the men as he went: "Fall back! Fall back! He's killed Gus! Shot him dead wid his eye. He's conjured him! Git de whole army quick." They fled to the Commandant. Gilbert ordered the negroes to their tents and led his whole company of white regulars to the hotel, arrested Dr. Cameron, and rescued his fainting trooper, who had been revived and placed under a tree on the lawn. The little Captain had a wicked look on his face. He refused to allow the doctor a moment's delay to leave instructions for his wife, who had gone to visit a neighbour. He was placed in the guard-house, and a detail of twenty soldiers stationed around it. The arrest was made so quickly, not a dozen people in town had heard of it. As fast as it was known, people poured into the house, one by one, to express their sympathy. But a greater surprise awaited them. Within thirty minutes after he had been placed in prison, a Lieutenant entered, accompanied by a soldier and a negro blacksmith who carried in his hand two big chains with shackles on each end. The doctor gazed at the intruders a moment with incredulity, and then, as the enormity of the outrage dawned on him, he flushed and drew himself erect, his face livid and rigid. He clutched his throat with his slender fingers, slowly recovered himself, glanced at the shackles in the black hands and then at the young Lieutenant's face, and said slowly, with heaving breast: "My God! Have you been sent to place these irons on me?" "Such are my orders, sir," replied the officer, motioning to the negro smith to approach. He stepped forward, unlocked the padlock, and prepared the fetters to be placed on his arms and legs. These fetters were of enormous weight, made of iron rods three quarters of an inch thick and connected together by chains of like weight. "This is monstrous!" groaned the doctor, with choking agony, glancing helplessly about the bare cell for some weapon with which to defend himself. Suddenly looking the Lieutenant in the face, he said: "I demand, sir, to see your commanding officer. He cannot pretend that these shackles are needed to hold a weak unarmed man in prison, guarded by two hundred soldiers?" "It is useless. I have his orders direct." "But I must see him. No such outrage has ever been recorded in the history of the American people. I appeal to the Magna Charta rights of every man who speaks the English tongue--no man shall be arrested or imprisoned or deprived of his own household, or of his liberties, unless by the legal judgment of his peers or by the law of the land!" "The bayonet is your only law. My orders admit of no delay. For your own sake, I advise you to submit. As a soldier, Dr. Cameron, you know I must execute orders." "These are not the orders of a soldier!" shouted the prisoner, enraged beyond all control. "They are orders for a jailer, a hangman, a scullion--no soldier who wears the sword of a civilized nation can take such orders. The war is over; the South is conquered; I have no country save America. For the honour of the flag, for which I once poured out my blood on the heights of Buena Vista, I protest against this shame!" The Lieutenant fell back a moment before the burst of his anger. "Kill me! Kill me!" he went on passionately, throwing his arms wide open and exposing his breast. "Kill--I am in your power. I have no desire to live under such conditions. Kill, but you must not inflict on me and on my people this insult worse than death!" "Do your duty, blacksmith," said the officer, turning his back and walking toward the door. The negro advanced with the chains cautiously, and attempted to snap one of the shackles on the doctor's right arm. With sudden maniac frenzy, Dr. Cameron seized the negro by the throat, hurled him to the floor, and backed against the wall. The Lieutenant approached and remonstrated: "Why compel me to add the indignity of personal violence? You must submit." "I am your prisoner," fiercely retorted the doctor. "I have been a soldier in the armies of America, and I know how to die. Kill me, and my last breath will be a blessing. But while I have life to resist, for myself and for my people, this thing shall not be done!" The Lieutenant called a sergeant and a file of soldiers, and the sergeant stepped forward to seize the prisoner. Dr. Cameron sprang on him with the ferocity of a tiger, seized his musket, and attempted to wrench it from his grasp. The men closed in on him. A short passionate fight and the slender, proud, gray-haired man lay panting on the floor. Four powerful assailants held his hands and feet, and the negro smith, with a grin, secured the rivet on the right ankle and turned the key in the padlock on the left. As he drove the rivet into the shackle on his left arm, a spurt of bruised blood from the old Mexican War wound stained the iron. Dr. Cameron lay for a moment in a stupor. At length he slowly rose. The clank of the heavy chains seemed to choke him with horror. He sank on the floor, covering his face with his hands and groaned: "The shame! The shame! O God, that I might have died! My poor, poor wife!" Captain Gilbert entered and said with a sneer: "I will take you now to see your wife and friends if you would like to call before setting out for Columbia." The doctor paid no attention to him. "Will you follow me while I lead you through this town, to show them their chief has fallen, or will you force me to drag you?" Receiving no answer, he roughly drew the doctor to his feet, held him by the arm, and led him thus in half-unconscious stupor through the principal street, followed by a drove of negroes. He ordered a squad of troops to meet him at the depot. Not a white man appeared on the streets. When one saw the sight and heard the clank of those chains, there was a sudden tightening of the lip, a clinched fist, and an averted face. When they approached the hotel, Mrs. Cameron ran to meet him, her face white as death. In silence she kissed his lips, kissed each shackle on his wrists, took her handkerchief and wiped the bruised blood from the old wound on his arm the iron had opened afresh, and then with a look, beneath which the Captain shrank, she said in low tones: "Do your work quickly. You have but a few moments to get out of this town with your prisoner. I have sent a friend to hold my son. If he comes before you go, he will kill you on sight as he would a mad dog." With a sneer, the Captain passed the hotel and led the doctor, still in half-unconscious stupor, toward the depot down past his old slave quarters. He had given his negroes who remained faithful each a cabin and a lot. They looked on in awed silence as the Captain proclaimed: "Fellow citizens, you are the equal of any white man who walks the ground. The white man's day is done. Your turn has come." As he passed Jake's cabin, the doctor's faithful man stepped suddenly in front of him, looking at the Captain out of the corners of his eyes, and asked: "Is I yo' equal?" "Yes." "Des lak any white man?" "Exactly." The negro's fist suddenly shot into Gilbert's nose with the crack of a sledge-hammer, laying him stunned on the pavement. "Den take dat f'um yo' equal, d--n you!" he cried, bending over his prostrate figure. "I'll show you how to treat my ole marster, you low-down slue-footed devil!" The stirring little drama roused the doctor and he turned to his servant with his old-time courtesy, and said: "Thank you, Jake." "Come in here, Marse Richard; I knock dem things off'n you in er minute, 'en I get you outen dis town in er jiffy." "No, Jake, that is not my way; bring this gentleman some water, and then my horse and buggy. You can take me to the depot. This officer can follow with his men." And he did. CHAPTER V FORTY ACRES AND A MULE When Phil returned with Margaret, he drove at Mrs. Cameron's request to find Ben, brought him with all speed to the hotel, took him to his room, and locked the door before he told him the news. After an hour's blind rage, he agreed to obey his father's positive orders to keep away from the Captain until his return, and to attempt no violence against the authorities. Phil undertook to manage the case in Columbia, and spent three days collecting his evidence before leaving. Swifter feet had anticipated him. Two days after the arrival of Dr. Cameron at the fort in Colombia, a dust-stained, tired negro was ushered into the presence of General Howle. He looked about timidly and laughed loudly. "Well, my man, what's the trouble? You seem to have walked all the way, and laugh as if you were glad of it." "I 'spec' I is, sah," said Jake, sidling up confidentially. "Well?" said Howle good-humouredly. Jake's voice dropped to a whisper. "I hears you got my ole marster, Dr. Cameron, in dis place." "Yes. What do you know against him?" "Nuttin', sah. I des hurry 'long down ter take his place, so's you can sen' him back home. He's erbleeged ter go. Dey's er pow'ful lot er sick folks up dar in de country cain't git 'long widout him, an er pow'ful lot er well ones gwiner be raisin' de debbel 'bout dis. You can hol' me, sah. Des tell my ole marster when ter be yere, en he sho' come." Jake paused and bowed low. "Yessah, hit's des lak I tell you. Fuddermo', I 'spec' I'se de man what done de damages. I 'spec' I bus' de Capt'n's nose so 'tain gwine be no mo' good to 'im." Howle questioned Jake as to the whole affair, asked him a hundred questions about the condition of the county, the position of Dr. Cameron, and the possible effect of this event on the temper of the people. The affair had already given him a bad hour. The news of this shackling of one of the most prominent men in the State had spread like wildfire, and had caused the first deep growl of anger from the people. He saw that it was a senseless piece of stupidity. The election was rapidly approaching. He was master of the State, and the less friction the better. His mind was made up instantly. He released Dr. Cameron with an apology, and returned with him and Jake for a personal inspection of the affairs of Ulster county. In a thirty-minutes' interview with Captain Gilbert, Howle gave him more pain than his broken nose. "And why did you nail up the doors of that Presbyterian church?" he asked suavely. "Because McAlpin, the young cub who preaches there, dared come to this camp and insult me about the arrest of old Cameron." "I suppose you issued an order silencing him from the ministry?" "I did, and told him I'd shackle him if he opened his mouth again." "Good. The throne of Russia needn't worry about a worthy successor. Any further ecclesiastical orders?" "None, except the oaths I've prescribed for them before they shall preach again." "Fine! These Scotch Covenanters will feel at home with you." "Well, I've made them bite the dust--and they know who's runnin' this town, and don't you forget it." "No doubt. Yet we may have too much of even a good thing. The League is here to run this country. The business of the military is to keep still and back them when they need it." "We've the strongest council here to be found in any county in this section," said Gilbert with pride. "Just so. The League meets once a week. We have promised them the land of their masters and equal social and political rights. Their members go armed to these meetings and drill on Saturdays in the public square. The white man is afraid to interfere lest his house or barn take fire. A negro prisoner in the dock needs only to make the sign to be acquitted. Not a negro will dare to vote against us. Their women are formed into societies, sworn to leave their husbands and refuse to marry any man who dares our anger. The negro churches have pledged themselves to expel him from their membership. What more do you want?" "There's another side to it," protested the Captain. "Since the League has taken in the negroes, every Union white man has dropped it like a hot iron, except the lone scallawag or carpet-bagger who expects an office. In the church, the social circle, in business or pleasure, these men are lepers. How can a human being stand it? I've tried to grind this hellish spirit in the dirt under my heel, and unless you can do it they'll beat you in the long run! You've got to have some Southern white men or you're lost." "I'll risk it with a hundred thousand negro majority," said Howle with a sneer. "The fun will just begin then. In the meantime, I'll have you ease up on this county's government. I've brought that man back who knocked you down. Let him alone. I've pardoned him. The less said about this affair, the better." * * * * * As the day of the election under the new régime of Reconstruction drew near, the negroes were excited by rumours of the coming great events. Every man was to receive forty acres of land for his vote, and the enthusiastic speakers and teachers had made the dream a resistless one by declaring that the Government would throw in a mule with the forty acres. Some who had hesitated about the forty acres of land, remembering that it must be worked, couldn't resist the idea of owning a mule. The Freedman's Bureau reaped a harvest in $2 marriage fees from negroes who were urged thus to make their children heirs of landed estates stocked with mules. Every stranger who appeared in the village was regarded with awe as a possible surveyor sent from Washington to run the lines of these forty-acre plots. And in due time the surveyors appeared. Uncle Aleck, who now devoted his entire time to organizing the League, and drinking whiskey which the dues he collected made easy, was walking back to Piedmont from a League meeting in the country, dreaming of this promised land. He lifted his eyes from the dusty way and saw before him two surveyors with their arms full of line stakes painted red, white, and blue. They were well-dressed Yankees--he could not be mistaken. Not a doubt disturbed his mind. The kingdom of heaven was at hand! He bowed low and cried: "Praise de Lawd! De messengers is come! I'se waited long, but I sees 'em now wid my own eyes!" "You can bet your life on that, old pard," said the spokesman of the pair. "We go two and two, just as the apostles did in the olden times. We have only a few left. The boys are hurrying to get their homes. All you've got to do is to drive one of these red, white, and blue stakes down at each corner of the forty acres of land you want, and every rebel in the infernal regions can't pull it up." "Hear dat now!" "Just like I tell you. When this stake goes into the ground, it's like planting a thousand cannon at each corner." "En will the Lawd's messengers come wid me right now to de bend er de creek whar I done pick out my forty acres?" "We will, if you have the needful for the ceremony. The fee for the surveyor is small--only two dollars for each stake. We have no time to linger with foolish virgins who have no oil in their lamps. The bridegroom has come. They who have no oil must remain in outer darkness." The speaker had evidently been a preacher in the North, and his sacred accent sealed his authority with the old negro, who had been an exhorter himself. Aleck felt in his pocket the jingle of twenty gold dollars, the initiation fees of the week's harvest of the League. He drew them, counted out eight, and took his four stakes. The surveyors kindly showed him how to drive them down firmly to the first stripe of blue. When they had stepped off a square of about forty acres of the Lenoir farm, including the richest piece of bottom land on the creek, which Aleck's children under his wife's direction were working for Mrs. Lenoir, and the four stakes were planted, old Aleck shouted: "Glory ter God!" "Now," said the foremost surveyor, "you want a deed--a deed in fee simple with the big seal of the Government on it, and you're fixed for life. The deed you can take to the courthouse and make the clerk record it." The man drew from his pocket an official-looking paper, with a red circular seal pasted on its face. Uncle Aleck's eyes danced. "Is dat de deed?" "It will be if I write your name on it and describe the land." "En what's de fee fer dat?" "Only twelve dollars; you can take it now or wait until we come again. There's no particular hurry about this. The wise man, though, leaves nothing for to-morrow that he can carry with him to-day." "I takes de deed right now, gemmen," said Aleck, eagerly counting out the remaining twelve dollars. "Fix 'im up for me." The surveyor squatted in the field and carefully wrote the document. They went on their way rejoicing, and old Aleck hurried into Piedmont with the consciousness of lordship of the soil. He held himself so proudly that it seemed to straighten some of the crook out of his bow legs. He marched up to the hotel where Margaret sat reading and Marion was on the steps playing with a setter. "Why, Uncle Aleck!" Marion exclaimed, "I haven't seen you in a long time." Aleck drew himself to his full height--at least, as full as his bow legs would permit, and said gruffly: "Miss Ma'ian, I axes you to stop callin' me 'uncle'; my name is Mr. Alexander Lenoir----" "Until Aunt Cindy gets after you," laughed the girl. "Then it's much shorter than that, Uncle Aleck." He shuffled his feet and looked out at the square unconcernedly. "Yaas'm, dat's what fetch me here now. I comes ter tell yer Ma ter tell dat 'oman Cindy ter take her chillun off my farm. I gwine 'low no mo' rent-payin' ter nobody off'n my lan'!" "Your land, Uncle Aleck? When did you get it?" asked Marion, placing her cheek against the setter. "De Gubment gim it ter me to-day," he replied, fumbling in his pocket, and pulling out the document. "You kin read it all dar yo'sef." He handed Marion the paper, and Margaret hurried down and read it over her shoulder. Both girls broke into screams of laughter. Aleck looked up sharply. "Do you know what's written on this paper, Uncle Aleck?" Margaret asked. "Cose I do. Dat's de deed ter my farm er forty acres in de land er de creek, whar I done stuck off wid de red, white, an' blue sticks de Gubment gimme." "I'll read it to you," said Margaret. "Wait a minute," interrupted Marion. "I want Aunt Cindy to hear it--she's here to see Mamma in the kitchen now." She ran for Uncle Aleck's spouse. Aunt Cindy walked around the house and stood by the steps, eying her erstwhile lord with contempt. "Got yer deed, is yer, ter stop me payin' my missy her rent fum de lan' my chillun wucks? Yu'se er smart boy, you is--let's hear de deed!" Aleck edged away a little, and said with a bow: "Dar's de paper wid de big mark er de Gubment." Aunt Cindy sniffed the air contemptuously. "What is it, honey?" she asked of Margaret. Margaret read in mock solemnity the mystic writing on the deed: _To Whom It May Concern_: As Moses lifted up the brazen serpent in the wilderness for the enlightenment of the people, even so have I lifted twenty shining plunks out of this benighted nigger! Selah! As Uncle Aleck walked away with Aunt Cindy shouting in derision, "Dar, now! Dar, now!" the bow in his legs seemed to have sprung a sharper curve. CHAPTER VI A WHISPER IN THE CROWD The excitement which preceded the first Reconstruction election in the South paralyzed the industries of the country. When demagogues poured down from the North and began their raving before crowds of ignorant negroes, the plow stopped in the furrow, the hoe was dropped, and the millennium was at hand. Negro tenants, working under contracts issued by the Freedman's Bureau, stopped work, and rode their landlords' mules and horses around the county, following these orators. The loss to the cotton crop alone from the abandonment of the growing plant was estimated at over $60,000,000. The one thing that saved the situation from despair was the large grain and forage crops of the previous season which thrifty farmers had stored in their barns. So important was the barn and its precious contents that Dr. Cameron hired Jake to sleep in his. This immense barn, which was situated at the foot of the hill some two hundred yards behind the house, had become a favourite haunt of Marion and Hugh. She had made a pet of the beautiful thoroughbred mare which had belonged to Ben during the war. Marion went every day to give her an apple or lump of sugar, or carry her a bunch of clover. The mare would follow her about like a cat. Another attraction at the barn for them was Becky Sharpe, Ben's setter. She came to Marion one morning, wagging her tail, seized her dress and led her into an empty stall, where beneath the trough lay sleeping snugly ten little white-and-black spotted puppies. The girl had never seen such a sight before and went into ecstasies. Becky wagged her tail with pride at her compliments. Every morning she would pull her gently into the stall just to hear her talk and laugh and pet her babies. Whatever election day meant to the men, to Marion it was one of unalloyed happiness: she was to ride horseback alone and dance at her first ball. Ben had taught her to ride, and told her she could take Queen to Lover's Leap and back alone. Trembling with joy, her beautiful face wreathed in smiles, she led the mare to the pond in the edge of the lot and watched her drink its pure spring water. When he helped her to mount in front of the hotel under her mother's gaze, and saw her ride out of the gate, with the exquisite lines of her little figure melting into the graceful lines of the mare's glistening form, he exclaimed: "I declare, I don't know which is the prettier, Marion or Queen!" "I know," was the mother's soft answer. "They are both thoroughbreds," said Ben, watching them admiringly. "Wait till you see her to-night in her first ball dress," whispered Mrs. Lenoir. At noon Ben and Phil strolled to the polling-place to watch the progress of the first election under negro rule. The Square was jammed with shouting, jostling, perspiring negroes, men, women, and children. The day was warm, and the African odour was supreme even in the open air. A crowd of two hundred were packed around a peddler's box. There were two of them--one crying the wares, and the other wrapping and delivering the goods. They were selling a new patent poison for rats. "I've only a few more bottles left now, gentlemen," he shouted, "and the polls will close at sundown. A great day for our brother in black. Two years of army rations from the Freedman's Bureau, with old army clothes thrown in, and now the ballot--the priceless glory of American citizenship. But better still the very land is to be taken from these proud aristocrats and given to the poor down-trodden black man. Forty acres and a mule--think of it! Provided, mind you--that you have a bottle of my wonder-worker to kill the rats and save your corn for the mule. No man can have the mule unless he has corn; and no man can have corn if he has rats--and only a few bottles left----" "Gimme one," yelled a negro. "Forty acres and a mule, your old masters to work your land and pay his rent in corn, while you sit back in the shade and see him sweat." "Gimme er bottle and two er dem pictures!" bawled another candidate for a mule. The peddler handed him the bottle and the pictures and threw a handful of his labels among the crowd. These labels happened to be just the size of the ballots, having on them the picture of a dead rat lying on his back, and above, the emblem of death, the crossbones and skull. "Forty acres and a mule for every black man--why was I ever born white? I never had no luck, nohow!" Phil and Ben passed on nearer the polling-place, around which stood a cordon of soldiers with a line of negro voters two hundred yards in length extending back into the crowd. The negro Leagues came in armed battalions and voted in droves, carrying their muskets in their hands. Less than a dozen white men were to be seen about the place. The negroes, under the drill of the League and the Freedman's Bureau, protected by the bayonet, were voting to enfranchise themselves, disfranchise their former masters, ratify a new constitution, and elect a legislature to do their will. Old Aleck was a candidate for the House, chief poll-holder, and seemed to be in charge of the movements of the voters outside the booth as well as inside. He appeared to be omnipresent, and his self-importance was a sight Phil had never dreamed. He could not keep his eyes off him. "By George, Cameron, he's a wonder!" he laughed. Aleck had suppressed as far as possible the story of the painted stakes and the deed, after sending out warnings to the brethren to beware of two enticing strangers. The surveyors had reaped a rich harvest and passed on. Aleck made up his mind to go to Columbia, make the laws himself, and never again trust a white man from the North or South. The agent of the Freedman's Bureau at Piedmont tried to choke him off the ticket. The League backed him to a man. He could neither read nor write, but before he took to whiskey he had made a specialty of revival exhortation, and his mouth was the most effective thing about him. In this campaign he was an orator of no mean powers. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what his people wanted, and he put the thing in words so plain that a wayfaring man, though a fool, couldn't make any mistake about it. As he bustled past, forming a battalion of his brethren in line to march to the polls, Phil followed his every movement with amused interest. Besides being so bow-legged that his walk was a moving joke he was so striking a negro in his personal appearance, he seemed to the young Northerner almost a distinct type of man. His head was small and seemed mashed on the sides until it bulged into a double lobe behind. Even his ears, which he had pierced and hung with red earbobs, seemed to have been crushed flat to the side of his head. His kinked hair was wrapped in little hard rolls close to the skull and bound tightly with dirty thread. His receding forehead was high and indicated a cunning intelligence. His nose was broad and crushed flat against his face. His jaws were strong and angular, mouth wide, and lips thick, curling back from rows of solid teeth set obliquely in their blue gums. The one perfect thing about him was the size and setting of his mouth--he was a born African orator, undoubtedly descended from a long line of savage spell-binders, whose eloquence in the palaver houses of the jungle had made them native leaders. His thin spindle-shanks supported an oblong, protruding stomach, resembling an elderly monkey's, which seemed so heavy it swayed his back to carry it. The animal vivacity of his small eyes and the flexibility of his eyebrows, which he worked up and down rapidly with every change of countenance, expressed his eager desires. He had laid aside his new shoes, which hurt him, and went barefooted to facilitate his movements on the great occasion. His heels projected and his foot was so flat that what should have been the hollow of it made a hole in the dirt where he left his track. He was already mellow with liquor, and was dressed in an old army uniform and cap, with two horse pistols buckled around his waist. On a strap hanging from his shoulder were strung a half-dozen tin canteens filled with whiskey. A disturbance in the line of voters caused the young men to move forward to see what it meant. Two negro troopers had pulled Jake out of the line, and were dragging him toward old Aleck. The election judge straightened himself up with great dignity: "What wuz de rapscallion doin'?" "In de line, tryin' ter vote." "Fetch 'im befo' de judgment bar," said Aleck, taking a drink from one of his canteens. The troopers brought Jake before the judge. "Tryin' ter vote, is yer?" "'Lowed I would." "You hear 'bout de great sassieties de Gubment's fomentin' in dis country?" "Yas, I hear erbout 'em." "Is yer er member er de Union League?" "Na-sah. I'd rudder steal by myself. I doan' lak too many in de party!" "En yer ain't er No'f Ca'liny gemmen, is yer--yer ain't er member er de 'Red Strings?'" "Na-sah, I come when I'se called--dey doan' hatter put er string on me--ner er block, ner er collar, ner er chain, ner er muzzle----" "Will yer 'splain ter dis cote----" railed Aleck. "What cote? Dat ole army cote?" Jake laughed in loud peals that rang over the square. Aleck recovered his dignity and demanded angrily: "Does yer belong ter de Heroes ob Americky?" "Na-sah. I ain't burnt nobody's house ner barn yet, ner hamstrung no stock, ner waylaid nobody atter night--honey, I ain't fit ter jine. Heroes ob Americky! Is you er hero?" "Ef yer doan' b'long ter no s'iety," said Aleck with judicial deliberation, "what is you?" "Des er ole-fashun all-wool-en-er-yard-wide nigger dat stan's by his ole marster 'cause he's his bes' frien', stays at home, en tends ter his own business." "En yer pay no 'tenshun ter de orders I sent yer ter jine de League?" "Na-sah. I ain't er takin' orders f'um er skeer-crow." Aleck ignored his insolence, secure in his power. "You doan b'long ter no s'iety, what yer git in dat line ter vote for?" "Ain't I er nigger?" "But yer ain't de right kin' er nigger. 'Res' dat man fer 'sturbin' de peace." They put Jake in jail, persuaded his wife to leave him, and expelled him from the Baptist church, all within the week. As the troopers led Jake to prison, a young negro apparently about fifteen years old approached Aleck, holding in his hand one of the peddler's rat labels, which had gotten well distributed among the crowd. A group of negro boys followed him with these rat labels in their hands, studying them intently. "Look at dis ticket, Uncle Aleck," said the leader. "Mr. Alexander Lenoir, sah--is I yo' uncle, nigger?" The youth walled his eyes angrily. "Den doan' you call me er nigger!" "Who' yer talkin to, sah? You kin fling yer sass at white folks, but, honey, yuse er projeckin' wid death now!" "I ain't er nigger--I'se er gemman, I is," was the sullen answer. "How ole is you?" asked Aleck in milder tones. "Me mudder say sixteen--but de Buro man say I'se twenty-one yistiddy, de day 'fo' 'lection." "Is you voted to-day?" "Yessah; vote in all de boxes 'cept'n dis one. Look at dat ticket. Is dat de straight ticket?" Aleck, who couldn't read the twelve-inch letters of his favourite bar-room sign, took the rat label and examined it critically. "What ail it?" he asked at length. The boy pointed at the picture of the rat. "What dat rat doin', lyin' dar on his back, wid his heels cocked up in de air--'pear ter me lak a rat otter be standin' on his feet!" Aleck reëxamined it carefully, and then smiled benignly on the youth. "De ignance er dese folks. What ud yer do widout er man lak me enjued wid de sperit en de power ter splain tings?" "You sho' got de sperits," said the boy impudently, touching a canteen. Aleck ignored the remark and looked at the rat label smilingly. "Ain't we er votin', ter-day, on de Constertooshun what's ter take de ballot away f'um de white folks en gib all de power ter de cullud gemmen--I axes yer dat?" The boy stuck his thumbs under his arms and walled his eyes. "Yessah!" "Den dat means de ratification ob de Constertooshun!" Phil laughed, followed, and watched them fold their tickets, get in line, and vote the rat labels. Ben turned toward a white man with gray beard, who stood watching the crowd. He was a pious member of the Presbyterian church but his face didn't have a pious expression to-day. He had been refused the right to vote because he had aided the Confederacy by nursing one of his wounded boys. He touched his hat politely to Ben. "What do you think of it, Colonel Cameron?" he asked with a touch of scorn. "What's your opinion, Mr. McAllister?" "Well, Colonel, I've been a member of the church for over forty years. I'm not a cussin' man--but there's a sight I never expected to live to see. I've been a faithful citizen of this State for fifty years. I can't vote, and a nigger is to be elected to-day to represent me in the Legislature. Neither you, Colonel, nor your father are good enough to vote. Every nigger in this county sixteen years old and up voted to-day--I ain't a cussing man, and I don't say it as a cuss word, but all I've got to say is, IF there BE such a thing as a d--d shame--that's it!" "Mr. McAllister, the recording angel wouldn't have made a mark had you said it without the 'IF.'" "God knows what this country's coming to--I don't," said the old man bitterly. "I'm afraid to let my wife and daughter go out of the house, or stay in it, without somebody with them." Ben leaned closer and whispered, as Phil approached: "Come to my office to-night at ten o'clock; I want to see you on some important business." The old man seized his hand eagerly. "Shall I bring the boys?" Ben smiled. "No. I've seen them some time ago." CHAPTER VII BY THE LIGHT OF A TORCH On the night of the election Mrs. Lenoir gave a ball at the hotel in honour of Marion's entrance into society. She was only in her sixteenth year, yet older than her mother when mistress of her own household. The only ambition the mother cherished was that she might win the love of an honest man and build for herself a beautiful home on the site of the cottage covered with trailing roses. In this home dream for Marion she found a great sustaining joy to which nothing in the life of man answers. The ball had its political significance which the military martinet who commanded the post understood. It was the way the people of Piedmont expressed to him and the world their contempt for the farce of an election he had conducted, and their indifference as to the result he would celebrate with many guns before midnight. The young people of the town were out in force. Marion was a universal favourite. The grace, charm, and tender beauty of the Southern girl of sixteen were combined in her with a gentle and unselfish disposition. Amid poverty that was pitiful, unconscious of its limitations, her thoughts were always of others, and she was the one human being everybody had agreed to love. In the village in which she lived wealth counted for naught. She belonged to the aristocracy of poetry, beauty, and intrinsic worth, and her people knew no other. As she stood in the long dining-room, dressed in her first ball costume of white organdy and lace, the little plump shoulders peeping through its meshes, she was the picture of happiness. A half-dozen boys hung on every word as the utterance of an oracle. She waved gently an old ivory fan with white down on its edges in a way the charm of which is the secret birthright of every Southern girl. Now and then she glanced at the door for some one who had not yet appeared. Phil paid his tribute to her with genuine feeling, and Marion repaid him by whispering: "Margaret's dressed to kill--all in soft azure blue--her rosy cheeks, black hair, and eyes never shone as they do to-night. She doesn't dance on account of her Sunday-school--it's all for you." Phil blushed and smiled. "The preacher won't be here?" "Our rector will." "He's a nice old gentleman. I'm fond of him. Miss Marion, your mother is a genius. I hope she can plan these little affairs oftener." It was half-past ten o'clock when Ben Cameron entered the room with Elsie a little ruffled at his delay over imaginary business at his office. Ben answered her criticisms with a strange elation. She had felt a secret between them and resented it. At Mrs. Lenoir's special request, he had put on his full uniform of a Confederate Colonel in honour of Marion and the poem her father had written of one of his gallant charges. He had not worn it since he fell that day in Phil's arms. No one in the room had ever seen him in this Colonel's uniform. Its yellow sash with the gold fringe and tassels was faded and there were two bullet holes in the coat. A murmur of applause from the boys, sighs and exclamations from the girls swept the room as he took Marion's hand, bowed and kissed it. Her blue eyes danced and smiled on him with frank admiration. "Ben, you're the handsomest thing I've ever seen!" she said softly. "Thanks. I thought you had a mirror. I'll send you one," he answered, slipping his arm around her and gliding away to the strains of a waltz. The girl's hand trembled as she placed it on his shoulder, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a wistful dreamy look in their depths. When Ben rejoined Elsie and they strolled on the lawn, the military commandant suddenly confronted them with a squad of soldiers. "I'll trouble you for those buttons and shoulder straps," said the Captain. Elsie's amber eyes began to spit fire. Ben stood still and smiled. "What do you mean?" she asked. "That I will not be insulted by the wearing of this uniform to-day." "I dare you to touch it, coward, poltroon!" cried the girl, her plump little figure bristling in front of her lover. Ben laid his hand on her arm and gently drew her back to his side: "He has the power to do this. It is a technical violation of law to wear them. I have surrendered. I am a gentleman and I have been a soldier. He can have his tribute. I've promised my father to offer no violence to the military authority of the United States." He stepped forward, and the officer cut the buttons from his coat and ripped the straps from his shoulders. While the performance was going on, Ben quietly said: "General Grant at Appomattox, with the instincts of a great soldier, gave our men his spare horses and ordered that Confederate officers retain their side-arms. The General is evidently not in touch with this force." "No: I'm in command in this county," said the Captain. "Evidently." When he had gone, Elsie's eyes were dim. They strolled under the shadow of the great oak and stood in silence, listening to the music within and the distant murmur of the falls. "Why is it, sweetheart, that a girl will persist in admiring brass buttons?" Ben asked softly. She raised her lips to his for a kiss and answered: "Because a soldier's business is to die for his country." As Ben led her back into the ballroom and surrendered her to a friend for a dance, the first gun pealed its note of victory from the square in the celebration of the triumph of the African slave over his white master. Ben strolled out in the street to hear the news. The Constitution had been ratified by an enormous majority, and a Legislature elected composed of 101 negroes and 23 white men. Silas Lynch had been elected Lieutenant-Governor, a negro Secretary of State, a negro Treasurer, and a negro Justice of the Supreme Court. When Bizzel, the wizzen-faced agent of the Freedman's Bureau, made this announcement from the courthouse steps, pandemonium broke lose. An incessant rattle of musketry began in which ball cartridges were used, the missiles whistling over the town in every direction. Yet within half an hour the square was deserted and a strange quiet followed the storm. Old Aleck staggered by the hotel, his drunkenness having reached the religious stage. "Behold, a curiosity, gentlemen," cried Ben to a group of boys who had gathered, "a voter is come among us--in fact, he is the people, the king, our representative elect, the Honourable Alexander Lenoir, of the county of Ulster!" "Gemmens, de Lawd's bin good ter me," said Aleck, weeping copiously. "They say the rat labels were in a majority in this precinct--how was that?" asked Ben. "Yessah--dat what de scornful say--dem dat sets in de seat o' de scornful, but de Lawd er Hosts He fetch 'em low. Mistah Bissel de Buro man count all dem rat votes right, sah--dey couldn't fool him--he know what dey mean--he count 'em all for me an' de ratification." "Sure-pop!" said Ben; "if you can't ratify with a rat, I'd like to know why?" "Dat's what I tells 'em, sah." "Of course," said Ben good-humouredly. "The voice of the people is the voice of God--rats or no rats--if you know how to count." As old Aleck staggered away, the sudden crash of a volley of musketry echoed in the distance. "What's that?" asked Ben, listening intently. The sound was unmistakable to a soldier's ear--that volley from a hundred rifles at a single word of command. It was followed by a shot on a hill in the distance, and then by a faint echo, farther still. Ben listened a few moments and turned into the lawn of the hotel. The music suddenly stopped, the tramp of feet echoed on the porch, a woman screamed, and from the rear of the house came the cry: "Fire! Fire!" Almost at the same moment an immense sheet of flame shot skyward from the big barn. "My God!" groaned Ben. "Jake's in jail to-night, and they've set the barn on fire. It's worth more than the house." The crowd rushed down the hill to the blazing building, Marion's fleet figure in its flying white dress leading the crowd. The lowing of the cows and the wild neighing of the horses rang above the roar of the flames. Before Ben could reach the spot Marion had opened every stall. Two cows leaped out to safety, but not a horse would move from its stall, and each moment wilder and more pitiful grew their death cries. Marion rushed to Ben, her eyes dilated, her face as white as the dress she wore. "Oh, Ben, Queen won't come out! What shall I do?" "You can do nothing, child. A horse won't come out of a burning stable unless he's blindfolded. They'll all be burned to death." "Oh! no!" the girl cried in agony. "They'd trample you to death if you tried to get them out. It can't be helped. It's too late." As Ben looked back at the gathering crowd, Marion suddenly snatched a horse blanket, lying at the door, ran with the speed of a deer to the pond, plunged in, sprang out, and sped back to the open door of Queen's stall, through which her shrill cry could be heard above the others. As the girl ran toward the burning building, her thin white dress clinging close to her exquisite form, she looked like the marble figure of a sylph by the hand of some great master into which God had suddenly breathed the breath of life. As they saw her purpose, a cry of horror rose from the crowd, her mother's scream loud above the rest. Ben rushed to catch her, shouting: "Marion! Marion! She'll trample you to death!" He was too late. She leaped into the stall. The crowd held their breath. There was a moment of awful suspense, and the mare sprang through the open door with the little white figure clinging to her mane and holding the blanket over her head. A cheer rang above the roar of the flames. The girl did not loose her hold until her beautiful pet was led to a place of safety, while she clung to her neck and laughed and cried for joy. First her mother, then Margaret, Mrs. Cameron, and Elsie took her in their arms. As Ben approached the group, Elsie whispered to him: "Kiss her!" Ben took her hand, his eyes full of unshed tears, and said: "The bravest deed a woman ever did--you're a heroine, Marion!" Before she knew it he stooped and kissed her. She was very still for a moment, smiled, trembled from head to foot, blushed scarlet, took her mother by the hand, and without a word hurried to the house. Poor Becky was whining among the excited crowd and sought in vain for Marion. At last she got Margaret's attention, caught her dress in her teeth and led her to a corner of the lot, where she had laid side by side her puppies, smothered to death. She stood and looked at them with her tail drooping, the picture of despair. Margaret burst into tears and called Ben. He bent and put his arm around the setter's neck and stroked her head with his hand. Looking at up his sister, he said: "Don't tell Marion of this. She can't stand any more to-night." The crowd had all dispersed, and the flames had died down for want of fuel. The odour of roasting flesh, pungent and acrid, still lingered a sharp reminder of the tragedy. Ben stood on the back porch, talking in low tones to his father. "Will you join us now, sir? We need the name and influence of men of your standing." "My boy, two wrongs never made a right. It's better to endure awhile. The sober commonsense of the Nation will yet save us. We must appeal to it." "Eight more fires were seen from town to-night." "You only guess their origin." "I know their origin. It was done by the League at a signal as a celebration of the election and a threat of terror to the county. One of our men concealed a faithful negro under the floor of the school-house and heard the plot hatched. We expected it a month ago--but hoped they had given it up." "Even so, my boy, a secret society such as you have planned means a conspiracy that may bring exile or death. I hate lawlessness and disorder. We have had enough of it. Your clan means ultimately martial law. At least we will get rid of these soldiers by this election. They have done their worst to me, but we may save others by patience." "It's the only way, sir. The next step will be a black hand on a white woman's throat!" The doctor frowned. "Let us hope for the best. Your clan is the last act of desperation." "But if everything else fail, and this creeping horror becomes a fact--then what?" "My boy, we will pray that God may never let us live to see the day!" [Illustration: THE BLACK MASTERS OF THE SOUTH DURING RECONSTRUCTION.] CHAPTER VIII THE RIOT IN THE MASTER'S HALL Alarmed at the possible growth of the secret clan into which Ben had urged him to enter, Dr. Cameron determined to press for relief from oppression by an open appeal to the conscience of the Nation. He called a meeting of conservative leaders in a Taxpayers' Convention at Columbia. His position as leader had been made supreme by the indignities he had suffered, and he felt sure of his ability to accomplish results. Every county in the State was represented by its best men in this gathering at the Capitol. The day he undertook to present his memorial to the Legislature was one he never forgot. The streets were crowded with negroes who had come to town to hear Lynch, the Lieutenant-Governor, speak in a mass-meeting. Negro policemen swung their clubs in his face as he pressed through the insolent throng up the street to the stately marble Capitol. At the door a black, greasy trooper stopped him to parley. Every decently dressed white man was regarded a spy. As he passed inside the doors of the House of Representatives the rush of foul air staggered him. The reek of vile cigars and stale whiskey, mingled with the odour of perspiring negroes, was overwhelming. He paused and gasped for breath. The space behind the seats of the members was strewn with corks, broken glass, stale crusts, greasy pieces of paper, and picked bones. The hall was packed with negroes, smoking, chewing, jabbering, pushing, perspiring. A carpet-bagger at his elbow was explaining to an old darkey from down east why his forty acres and a mule hadn't come. On the other side of him a big negro bawled: "Dat's all right! De cullud man on top!" The doctor surveyed the hall in dismay. At first not a white member was visible. The galleries were packed with negroes. The Speaker presiding was a negro, the Clerk a negro, the doorkeepers negroes, the little pages all coal-black negroes, the Chaplain a negro. The negro party consisted of one hundred and one--ninety-four blacks and seven scallawags, who claimed to be white. The remains of Aryan civilization were represented by twenty-three white men from the Scotch-Irish hill counties. The doctor had served three terms as the member from Ulster in this hall in the old days, and its appearance now was beyond any conceivable depth of degradation. The ninety-four Africans, constituting almost its solid membership, were a motley crew. Every negro type was there, from the genteel butler to the clodhopper from the cotton and rice fields. Some had on second-hand seedy frock-coats their old master had given them before the war, glossy and threadbare. Old stovepipe hats, of every style in vogue since Noah came out of the ark, were placed conspicuously on the desks or cocked on the backs of the heads of the honourable members. Some wore the coarse clothes of the field, stained with red mud. Old Aleck, he noted, had a red woollen comforter wound round his neck in place of a shirt or collar. He had tried to go barefooted, but the Speaker had issued a rule that members should come shod. He was easing his feet by placing his brogans under the desk, wearing only his red socks. Each member had his name painted in enormous gold letters on his desk, and had placed beside it a sixty-dollar French imported spittoon. Even the Congress of the United States, under the inspiration of Oakes Ames and Speaker Colfax, could only afford one of domestic make, which cost a dollar. The uproar was deafening. From four to six negroes were trying to speak at the same time. Aleck's majestic mouth with blue gums and projecting teeth led the chorus as he ambled down the aisle, his bow-legs flying their red-sock ensigns. The Speaker singled him out--his voice was something which simply could not be ignored--rapped and yelled: "De gemman from Ulster set down!" Aleck turned crestfallen and resumed his seat, throwing his big flat feet in their red woollens up on his desk and hiding his face behind their enormous spread. He had barely settled in his chair before a new idea flashed through his head and up he jumped again: "Mistah Speaker!" he bawled. "Orda da!" yelled another. "Knock 'im in de head!" "Seddown, nigger!" The Speaker pointed his gavel at Aleck and threatened him laughingly: "Ef de gemman from Ulster doan set down I gwine call 'im ter orda!" Uncle Aleck greeted this threat with a wild guffaw, which the whole House about him joined in heartily. They laughed like so many hens cackling--when one started the others would follow. The most of them were munching peanuts, and the crush of hulls under heavy feet added a subnote to the confusion like the crackle of a prairie fire. The ambition of each negro seemed to be to speak at least a half-dozen times on each question, saying the same thing every time. No man was allowed to talk five minutes without an interruption which brought on another and another until the speaker was drowned in a storm of contending yells. Their struggles to get the floor with bawlings, bellowings, and contortions, and the senseless rap of the Speaker's gavel, were something appalling. On this scene, through fetid smoke and animal roar, looked down from the walls, in marble bas-relief, the still white faces of Robert Hayne and George McDuffie, through whose veins flowed the blood of Scottish kings, while over it brooded in solemn wonder the face of John Laurens, whose diplomatic genius at the court of France won millions of gold for our tottering cause, and sent a French fleet and army into the Chesapeake to entrap Cornwallis at Yorktown. The little group of twenty-three white men, the descendants of these spirits, to whom Dr. Cameron had brought his memorial, presented a pathetic spectacle. Most of them were old men, who sat in grim silence with nothing to do or say as they watched the rising black tide, their dignity, reserve, and decorum at once the wonder and the shame of the modern world. At least they knew that the minstrel farce being enacted on that floor was a tragedy as deep and dark as was ever woven of the blood and tears of a conquered people. Beneath those loud guffaws they could hear the death rattle in the throat of their beloved State, barbarism strangling civilization by brute force. For all the stupid uproar, the black leaders of this mob knew what they wanted. One of them was speaking now, the leader of the House, the Honourable Napoleon Whipper. Dr. Cameron had taken his seat in the little group of white members in one corner of the chamber, beside an old friend from an adjoining county whom he had known in better days. "Now listen," said his friend. "When Whipper talks he always says something." "Mr. Speaker, I move you, sir, in view of the arduous duties which our presiding officer has performed this week for the State, that he be allowed one thousand dollars extra pay." The motion was put without debate and carried. The Speaker then called Whipper to the Chair and made the same motion, to give the Leader of the House an extra thousand dollars for the performance of his heavy duties. It was carried. "What does that mean?" asked the doctor. "Very simple; Whipper and the Speaker adjourned the House yesterday afternoon to attend a horse race. They lost a thousand dollars each betting on the wrong horse. They are recuperating after the strain. They are booked for judges of the Supreme Court when they finish this job. The negro mass-meeting to-night is to indorse their names for the Supreme Bench." "Is it possible!" the doctor exclaimed. When Whipper resumed his place at his desk, the introduction of bills began. One after another were sent to the Speaker's desk, a measure to disarm the whites and equip with modern rifles a negro militia of 80,000 men; to make the uniform of Confederate gray the garb of convicts in South Carolina, with a sign of the rank to signify the degree of crime; to prevent any person calling another a "nigger"; to require men to remove their hats in the presence of all officers, civil or military, and all disfranchised men to remove their hats in the presence of voters; to force black and whites to attend the same schools and open the State University to negroes; to permit the intermarriage of whites and blacks; and to inforce social equality. Whipper made a brief speech on the last measure: "Before I am through, I mean that it shall be known that Napoleon Whipper is as good as any man in South Carolina. Don't tell me that I am not on an equality with any man God ever made." Dr. Cameron turned pale, and trembling with excitement, asked his friend: "Can that man pass such measures, and the Governor sign them?" "He can pass anything he wishes. The Governor is his creature--a dirty little scallawag who tore the Union flag from Fort Sumter, trampled it in the dust, and helped raise the flag of Confederacy over it. Now he is backed by the Government at Washington. He won his election by dancing at negro balls and the purchase of delegates. His salary as Governor is $3,500 a year, and he spends over $40,000. Comment is unnecessary. This Legislature has stolen millions of dollars, and already bankrupted the treasury. The day Howle was elected to the Senate of the United States every negro on the floor had his roll of bills and some of them counted it out on their desks. In your day the annual cost of the State government was $400,000. This year it is $2,000,000. These thieves steal daily. They don't deny it. They simply dare you to prove it. The writing paper on the desks cost $16,000. These clocks on the wall $600 each, and every little Radical newspaper in the State has been subsidized in sums varying from $1,000 to $7,000. Each member is allowed to draw for mileage, per diem, and 'sundries.' God only knows what the bill for 'sundries' will aggregate by the end of the session." "I couldn't conceive of this!" exclaimed the doctor. "I've only given you a hint. We are a conquered race. The iron hand of Fate is on us. We can only wait for the shadows to deepen into night. President Grant appears to be a babe in the woods. Schuyler Colfax, the Vice-president, and Belknap, the Secretary of War, are in the saddle in Washington. I hear things are happening there that are quite interesting. Besides, Congress now can give little relief. The real lawmaking power in America is the State Legislature. The State lawmaker enters into the holy of holies of our daily life. Once more we are a sovereign State--a sovereign negro State." "I fear my mission is futile," said the doctor. "It's ridiculous--I'll call for you to-night and take you to hear Lynch, our Lieutenant-Governor. He is a remarkable man. Our negro Supreme Court Judge will preside--" Uncle Aleck, who had suddenly spied Dr. Cameron, broke in with a laughing welcome: "I 'clar ter goodness, Dr. Cammun, I didn't know you wuz here, sah. I sho' glad ter see you. I axes yer ter come across de street ter my room; I got sumfin' pow'ful pertickler ter say ter you." The doctor followed Aleck out of the hall and across the street to his room in a little boarding-house. His door was locked, and the windows darkened by blinds. Instead of opening the blinds he lighted a lamp. "Ob cose, Dr. Cammun, you say nuffin 'bout what I gwine tell you?" "Certainly not, Aleck." The room was full of drygoods boxes. The space under the bed was packed, and they were piled to the ceiling around the walls. "Why, what's all this, Aleck?" The member from Ulster chuckled: "Dr. Cammun, yu'se been er pow'ful frien' ter me--gimme medicine lots er times, en I hain't nebber paid you nuttin'. I'se sho' come inter de kingdom now, en I wants ter pay my respects ter you, sah. Des look ober dat paper, en mark what you wants, en I hab 'em sont home fur you." The member from Ulster handed his physician a printed list of more than five hundred articles of merchandise. The doctor read it over with amazement. "I don't understand it, Aleck. Do you own a store?" "Na-sah, but we git all we wants fum mos' eny ob 'em. Dem's 'sundries,' sah, dat de Gubment gibs de members. We des orda what we needs. No trouble 'tall, sah. De men what got de goods come roun' en beg us ter take 'em." The doctor smiled in spite of the tragedy back of the joke. "Let's see some of the goods, Aleck--are they first class?" "Yessah; de bes' goin'. I show you." He pulled out a number of boxes and bundles, exhibiting carpets, door mats, hassocks, dog collars, cow bells, oilcloths, velvets, mosquito nets, damask, Irish linen, billiard outfits, towels, blankets, flannels, quilts, women's hoods, hats, ribbons, pins, needles, scissors, dumb bells, skates, crape skirt braids, tooth brushes, face powder, hooks and eyes, skirts, bustles, chignons, garters, artificial busts, chemises, parasols, watches, jewellery, diamond earrings, ivory-handled knives and forks, pistols and guns, and a Webster's Dictionary. "Got lots mo' in dem boxes nailed up dar--yessah, hit's no use er lettin' good tings go by yer when you kin des put out yer han' en stop 'em! Some er de members ordered horses en carriages, but I tuk er par er fine mules wid harness en two buggies an er wagin. Dey 'roun at de libry stable, sah." The doctor thanked Aleck for his friendly feeling, but told him it was, of course, impossible for him at this time, being only a taxpayer and neither a voter nor a member of the Legislature, to share in his supply of "sundries." He went to the warehouse that night with his friend to hear Lynch, wondering if his mind were capable of receiving another shock. This meeting had been called to indorse the candidacy, for Justice of the Supreme Court, of Napoleon Whipper, the Leader of the House, the notorious negro thief and gambler, and of William Pitt Moses, an ex-convict, his confederate in crime. They had been unanimously chosen for the positions by a secret caucus of the ninety-four negro members of the House. This addition to the Court, with the negro already a member, would give a majority to the black man on the last Tribunal of Appeal. The few white men of the party who had any sense of decency were in open revolt at this atrocity. But their influence was on the wane. The carpet-bagger shaped the first Convention and got the first plums of office. Now the negro was in the saddle, and he meant to stay. There were not enough white men in the Legislature to force a roll-call on a division of the House. This meeting was an open defiance of all pale-faces inside or outside party lines. Every inch of space in the big cotton warehouse was jammed--a black living cloud, pungent and piercing. The distinguished Lieutenant-Governor, Silas Lynch, had not yet arrived, but the negro Justice of the Supreme Court, Pinchback, was in his seat as the presiding officer. Dr. Cameron watched the movements of the black judge, already notorious for the sale of his opinions, with a sense of sickening horror. This man was but yesterday a slave, his father a medicine man in an African jungle who decided the guilt or innocence of the accused by the test of administering poison. If the poison killed the man, he was guilty; if he survived, he was innocent. For four thousand years his land had stood a solid bulwark of unbroken barbarism. Out of its darkness he had been thrust upon the seat of judgment of the laws of the proudest and highest type of man evolved in time. It seemed a hideous dream. His thoughts were interrupted by a shout. It came spontaneous and tremendous in its genuine feeling. The magnificent figure of Lynch, their idol, appeared walking down the aisle escorted by the little scallawag who was the Governor. He took his seat on the platform with the easy assurance of conscious power. His broad shoulders, superb head, and gleaming jungle eyes held every man in the audience before he had spoken a word. In the first masterful tones of his voice the doctor's keen intelligence caught the ring of his savage metal and felt the shock of his powerful personality--a personality which had thrown to the winds every mask, whose sole aim of life was sensual, whose only fears were of physical pain and death, who could worship a snake and sacrifice a human being. His playful introduction showed him a child of Mystery, moved by Voices and inspired by a Fetish. His face was full of good humour, and his whole figure rippled with sleek animal vivacity. For the moment, life was a comedy and a masquerade teeming with whims, fancies, ecstasies and superstitions. He held the surging crowd in the hollow of his hand. They yelled, laughed, howled, or wept as he willed. Now he painted in burning words the imaginary horrors of slavery until the tears rolled down his cheeks and he wept at the sound of his own voice. Every dusky hearer burst into tears and moans. He stopped, suddenly brushed the tears from his eyes, sprang to the edge of the platform, threw both arms above his head and shouted: "Hosannah to the Lord God Almighty for Emancipation!" Instantly five thousand negroes, as one man, were on their feet, shouting and screaming. Their shouts rose in unison, swelled into a thunder peal, and died away as one voice. Dead silence followed, and every eye was again riveted on Lynch. For two hours the doctor sat transfixed, listening and watching him sway the vast audience with hypnotic power. There was not one note of hesitation or of doubt. It was the challenge of race against race to mortal combat. His closing words again swept every negro from his seat and melted every voice into a single frenzied shout: "Within five years," he cried, "the intelligence and the wealth of this mighty State will be transferred to the negro race. Lift up your heads. The world is yours. Take it. Here and now I serve notice on every white man who breathes that I am as good as he is. I demand, and I am going to have, the privilege of going to see him in his house or his hotel, eating with him and sleeping with him, and when I see fit, to take his daughter in marriage!" As the doctor emerged from the stifling crowd with his friend, he drew a deep breath of fresh air, took from his pocket his conservative memorial, picked it into little bits, and scattered them along the street as he walked in silence back to his hotel. CHAPTER IX AT LOVER'S LEAP In spite of the pitiful collapse of old Stoneman under his stroke of paralysis, his children still saw the unconquered soul shining in his colourless eyes. They had both been on the point of confessing their love affairs to him and joining in the inevitable struggle when he was stricken. They knew only too well that he would not consent to a dual alliance with the Camerons under the conditions of fierce hatreds and violence into which the State had drifted. They were too high-minded to consider a violation of his wishes while thus helpless, with his strange eyes following them about in childlike eagerness. His weakness was mightier than his iron will. So, for eighteen months, while he slowly groped out of mental twilight, each had waited--Elsie with a tender faith struggling with despair, and Phil in a torture of uncertainty and fear. In the meantime, the young Northerner had become as radical in his sympathies with the Southern people as his father had ever been against them. This power of assimilation has always been a mark of Southern genius. The sight of the Black Hand on their throats now roused his righteous indignation. The patience with which they endured was to him amazing. The Southerner he had found to be the last man on earth to become a revolutionist. All his traits were against it. His genius for command, the deep sense of duty and honour, his hospitality, his deathless love of home, his supreme constancy and sense of civic unity, all combined to make him ultraconservative. He began now to see that it was reverence for authority as expressed in the Constitution under which slavery was established which made Secession inevitable. Besides, the laziness and incapacity of the negro had been more than he could endure. With no ties of tradition or habits of life to bind him, he simply refused to tolerate them. In this feeling Elsie had grown early to sympathize. She discharged Aunt Cindy for feeding her children from the kitchen, and brought a cook and house girl from the North, while Phil would employ only white men in any capacity. In the desolation of negro rule the Cameron farm had become worthless. The taxes had more than absorbed the income, and the place was only kept from execution by the indomitable energy of Mrs. Cameron, who made the hotel pay enough to carry the interest on a mortgage which was increasing from season to season. The doctor's practice was with him a divine calling. He never sent bills to his patients. They paid something if they had it. Now they had nothing. Ben's law practice was large for his age and experience, but his clients had no money. While the Camerons were growing each day poorer, Phil was becoming rich. His genius, skill, and enterprise had been quick to see the possibilities of the waterpower. The old Eagle cotton mills had been burned during the war. Phil organized the Eagle & Phoenix Company, interested Northern capitalists, bought the falls, and erected two great mills, the dim hum of whose spindles added a new note to the river's music. Eager, swift, modest, his head full of ideas, his heart full of faith, he had pressed forward to success. As the old Commoner's mind began to clear, and his recovery was sure, Phil determined to press his suit for Margaret's hand to an issue. Ben had dropped a hint of an interview of the Rev. Hugh McAlpin with Dr. Cameron, which had thrown Phil into a cold sweat. He hurried to the hotel to ask Margaret to drive with him that afternoon. He would stop at Lover's Leap and settle the question. He met the preacher, just emerging from the door, calm, handsome, serious, and Margaret by his side. The dark-haired beauty seemed strangely serene. What could it mean? His heart was in his throat. Was he too late? Wreathed in smiles when the preacher had gone, the girl's face was a riddle he could not solve. To his joy, she consented to go. As he left in his trim little buggy for the hotel, he stooped and kissed Elsie, whispering: "Make an offering on the altar of love for me, Sis!" "You're too slow. The prayers of all the saints will not save you!" she replied with a laugh, throwing him a kiss as he disappeared in the dust. As they drove through the great forest on the cliffs overlooking the river, the Southern world seemed lit with new splendours to-day for the Northerner. His heart beat with a strange courage. The odour of the pines, their sighing music, the subtone of the falls below, the subtle life-giving perfume of the fullness of summer, the splendour of the sun gleaming through the deep foliage, and the sweet sensuous air, all seemed incarnate in the calm, lovely face and gracious figure beside him. They took their seat on the old rustic built against the beech, which was the last tree on the brink of the cliff. A hundred feet below flowed the river, rippling softly along a narrow strip of sand which its current had thrown against the rocks. The ledge of towering granite formed a cave eighty feet in depth at the water's edge. From this projecting wall, tradition said a young Indian princess once leaped with her lover, fleeing from the wrath of a cruel father who had separated them. The cave below was inaccessible from above, being reached by a narrow footpath along the river's edge when entered a mile downstream. The view from the seat, under the beech, was one of marvellous beauty. For miles the broad river rolled in calm, shining glory seaward, its banks fringed with cane and trees, while fields of corn and cotton spread in waving green toward the distant hills and blue mountains of the west. Every tree on this cliff was cut with the initials of generations of lovers from Piedmont. They sat in silence for awhile, Margaret idly playing with a flower she had picked by the pathway, and Phil watching her devoutly. The Southern sun had tinged her face the reddish warm hue of ripened fruit, doubly radiant by contrast with her wealth of dark-brown hair. The lustrous glance of her eyes, half veiled by their long lashes, and the graceful, careless pose of her stately figure held him enraptured. Her dress of airy, azure blue, so becoming to her dark beauty, gave Phil the impression of eiderdown feathers of some rare bird of the tropics. He felt that if he dared to touch her she might lift her wings and sail over the cliff into the sky and forget to light again at his side. "I am going to ask a very bold and impertinent question, Miss Margaret," Phil said with resolution. "May I?" Margaret smiled incredulously. "I'll risk your impertinence, and decide as to its boldness." "Tell me, please, what that preacher said to you to-day." Margaret looked away, unable to suppress the merriment that played about her eyes and mouth. "Will you never breathe it to a soul if I do?" "Never." "Honest Injun, here on the sacred altar of the princess?" "On my honour." "Then I'll tell you," she said, biting her lips to keep back a laugh. "Mr. McAlpin is very handsome and eloquent. I have always thought him the best preacher we have ever had in Piedmont----" "Yes, I know," Phil interrupted with a frown. "He is very pious," she went on evenly, "and seeks Divine guidance in prayer in everything he does. He called this morning to see me, and I was playing for him in the little music-room off the parlour, when he suddenly closed the door and said: "'Miss Margaret, I am going to take, this morning, the most important step of my life----' "Of course I hadn't the remotest idea what he meant---- "'Will you join me in a word of prayer?' he asked, and knelt right down. I was accustomed, of course, to kneel with him in family worship at his pastoral calls, and so from habit I slipped to one knee by the piano stool, wondering what on earth he was about. When he prayed with fervour for the Lord to bless the great love with which he hoped to hallow my life--I giggled. It broke up the meeting. He rose and asked me to marry him. I told him the Lord hadn't revealed it to me----" Phil seized her hand and held it firmly. The smile died from the girl's face, her hand trembled, and the rose tint on her cheeks flamed to scarlet. "Margaret, my own, I love you," he cried with joy. "You could have told that story only to the one man whom you love--is it not true?" "Yes. I've loved you always," said the low, sweet voice. "Always?" asked Phil through a tear. "Before I saw you, when they told me you were as Ben's twin brother, my heart began to sing at the sound of your name----" "Call it," he whispered. "Phil, my sweetheart!" she said with a laugh. "How tender and homelike the music of your voice! The world has never seen the match of your gracious Southern womanhood! Snowbound in the North, I dreamed, as a child, of this world of eternal sunshine. And now every memory and dream I've found in you." "And you won't be disappointed in my simple ideal that finds its all within a home?" "No. I love the old-fashioned dream of the South. Maybe you have enchanted me, but I love these green hills and mountains, these rivers musical with cascade and fall, these solemn forests--but for the Black Curse, the South would be to-day the garden of the world!" "And you will help our people lift this curse?" softly asked the girl, nestling closer to his side. "Yes, dearest, thy people shall be mine! Had I a thousand wrongs to cherish, I'd forgive them all for your sake. I'll help you build here a new South on all that's good and noble in the old, until its dead fields blossom again, its harbours bristle with ships, and the hum of a thousand industries make music in every valley. I'd sing to you in burning verse if I could, but it is not my way. I have been awkward and slow in love, perhaps--but I'll be swift in your service. I dream to make dead stones and wood live and breathe for you, of victories wrung from Nature that are yours. My poems will be deeds, my flowers the hard-earned wealth that has a soul, which I shall lay at your feet." "Who said my lover was dumb?" she sighed, with a twinkle in her shining eyes. "You must introduce me to your father soon. He must like me as my father does you, or our dream can never come true." A pain gripped Phil's heart, but he answered bravely: "I will. He can't help loving you." They stood on the rustic seat to carve their initials within a circle, high on the old beechwood book of love. "May I write it out in full--Margaret Cameron--Philip Stoneman?" he asked. "No--only the initials now--the full names when you've seen my father and I've seen yours. Jeannie Campbell and Henry Lenoir were once written thus in full, and many a lover has looked at that circle and prayed for happiness like theirs. You can see there a new one cut over the old, the bark has filled, and written on the fresh page is 'Marion Lenoir' with the blank below for her lover's name." Phil looked at the freshly cut circle and laughed: "I wonder if Marion or her mother did that?" "Her mother, of course." "I wonder whose will be the lucky name some day within it?" said Phil musingly as he finished his own. CHAPTER X A NIGHT HAWK When the old Commoner's private physician had gone and his mind had fully cleared, he would sit for hours in the sunshine of the vine-clad porch, asking Elsie of the village, its life, and its people. He smiled good-naturedly at her eager sympathy for their sufferings as at the enthusiasm of a child who could not understand. He had come possessed by a great idea--events must submit to it. Her assurance that the poverty and losses of the people were far in excess of the worst they had known during the war was too absurd even to secure his attention. He had refused to know any of the people, ignoring the existence of Elsie's callers. But he had fallen in love with Marion from the moment he had seen her. The cold eye of the old fox hunter kindled with the fire of his forgotten youth at the sight of this beautiful girl seated on the glistening back of the mare she had saved from death. As she rode through the village every boy lifted his hat as to passing royalty, and no one, old or young, could allow her to pass without a cry of admiration. Her exquisite figure had developed into the full tropic splendour of Southern girlhood. She had rejected three proposals from ardent lovers, on one of whom her mother had quite set her heart. A great fear had grown in Mrs. Lenoir's mind lest she were in love with Ben Cameron. She slipped her arm around her one day and timidly asked her. A faint flush tinged Marion's face up to the roots of her delicate blonde hair, and she answered with a quick laugh: "Mamma, how silly you are! You know I've always been in love with Ben--since I can first remember. I know he is in love with Elsie Stoneman. I am too young, the world too beautiful, and life too sweet to grieve over my first baby love. I expect to dance with him at his wedding, then meet my fate and build my own nest." Old Stoneman begged that she come every day to see him. He never tired praising her to Elsie. As she walked gracefully up to the house one afternoon, holding Hugh by the hand, he said to Elsie: "Next to you, my dear, she is the most charming creature I ever saw. Her tenderness for everything that needs help touches the heart of an old lame man in a very soft spot." "I've never seen any one who could resist her," Elsie answered. "Her gloves may be worn, her feet clad in old shoes, yet she is always neat, graceful, dainty, and serene. No wonder her mother worships her." Sam Ross, her simple friend, had stopped at the gate, and looked over into the lawn as if afraid to come in. When Marion saw Sam, she turned back to the gate to invite him in. The keeper of the poor, a vicious-looking negro, suddenly confronted him, and he shrank in terror close to the girl's side. "What you doin' here, sah?" the black keeper railed. "Ain't I done tole you 'bout runnin' away?" "You let him alone," Marion cried. The negro pushed her roughly from his side and knocked Sam down. The girl screamed for help, and old Stoneman hobbled down the steps, following Elsie. When they reached the gate, Marion was bending over the prostrate form. "Oh, my, my, I believe he's killed him!" she wailed. "Run for the doctor, sonny, quick," Stoneman said to Hugh. The boy darted away and brought Dr. Cameron. "How dare you strike that man, you devil?" thundered the old statesman. "'Case I tole 'im ter stay home en do de wuk I put 'im at, en he all de time runnin' off here ter git somfin' ter eat. I gwine frail de life outen 'im, ef he doan min' me." "Well, you make tracks back to the Poorhouse. I'll attend to this man, and I'll have you arrested for this before night," said Stoneman, with a scowl. The black keeper laughed as he left. "Not 'less you'se er bigger man dan Gubner Silas Lynch, you won't!" When Dr. Cameron had restored Sam, and dressed the wound on his head where he had struck a stone in falling, Stoneman insisted that the boy be put to bed. Turning to Dr. Cameron, he asked: "Why should they put a brute like this in charge of the poor?" "That's a large question, sir, at this time," said the doctor politely, "and now that you have asked it, I have some things I've been longing for an opportunity to say to you." "Be seated, sir," the old Commoner answered, "I shall be glad to hear them." Elsie's heart leaped with joy over the possible outcome of this appeal, and she left the room with a smile for the doctor. "First, allow me," said the Southerner pleasantly, "to express my sorrow at your long illness, and my pleasure at seeing you so well. Your children have won the love of all our people and have had our deepest sympathy in your illness." Stoneman muttered an inaudible reply, and the doctor went on: "Your question brings up, at once, the problem of the misery and degradation into which our country has sunk under negro rule----" Stoneman smiled coldly and interrupted: "Of course, you understand my position in politics, Doctor Cameron--I am a Radical Republican." "So much the better," was the response. "I have been longing for months to get your ear. Your word will be all the more powerful if raised in our behalf. The negro is the master of our State, county, city, and town governments. Every school, college, hospital, asylum, and poorhouse is his prey. What you have seen is but a sample. Negro insolence grows beyond endurance. Their women are taught to insult their old mistresses and mock their poverty as they pass in their old, faded dresses. Yesterday a black driver struck a white child of six with his whip, and when the mother protested, she was arrested by a negro policeman, taken before a negro magistrate, and fined $10 for 'insulting a freedman.'" Stoneman frowned: "Such things must be very exceptional." "They are everyday occurrences and cease to excite comment. Lynch, the Lieutenant-Governor, who has bought a summer home here, is urging this campaign of insult with deliberate purpose----" The old man shook his head. "I can't think the Lieutenant-Governor guilty of such petty villainy." "Our school commissioner," the doctor continued, "is a negro who can neither read nor write. The black grand jury last week discharged a negro for stealing cattle and indicted the owner for false imprisonment. No such rate of taxation was ever imposed on a civilized people. A tithe of it cost Great Britain her colonies. There are 5,000 homes in this county--2,900 of them are advertised for sale by the sheriff to meet his tax bills. This house will be sold next court day----" Stoneman looked up sharply. "Sold for taxes?" "Yes; with the farm which has always been Mrs. Lenoir's support. In part her loss came from the cotton tax. Congress, in addition to the desolation of war, and the ruin of black rule, has wrung from the cotton farmers of the South a tax of $67,000,000. Every dollar of this money bears the stain of the blood of starving people. They are ready to give up, or to spring some desperate scheme of resistance----" The old man lifted his massive head and his great jaws came together with a snap: "Resistance to the authority of the National Government?" "No; resistance to the travesty of government and the mockery of civilization under which we are being throttled! The bayonet is now in the hands of a brutal negro militia. The tyranny of military martinets was child's play to this. As I answered your call this morning I was stopped and turned back in the street by the drill of a company of negroes under the command of a vicious scoundrel named Gus who was my former slave. He is the captain of this company. Eighty thousand armed negro troops, answerable to no authority save the savage instincts of their officers, terrorize the State. Every white company has been disarmed and disbanded by our scallawag Governor. I tell you, sir, we are walking on the crust of a volcano----" Old Stoneman scowled as the doctor rose and walked nervously to the window and back. "An appeal from you to the conscience of the North might save us," he went on eagerly. "Black hordes of former slaves, with the intelligence of children and the instincts of savages, armed with modern rifles, parade daily in front of their unarmed former masters. A white man has no right a negro need respect. The children of the breed of men who speak the tongue of Burns and Shakespeare, Drake and Raleigh, have been disarmed and made subject to the black spawn of an African jungle! Can human flesh endure it? When Goth and Vandal barbarians overran Rome, the negro was the slave of the Roman Empire. The savages of the North blew out the light of Ancient Civilization, but in all the dark ages which followed they never dreamed the leprous infamy of raising a black slave to rule over his former master! No people in the history of the world have ever before been so basely betrayed, so wantonly humiliated and degraded!" Stoneman lifted his head in amazement at the burst of passionate intensity with which the Southerner poured out his protest. "For a Russian to rule a Pole," he went on, "a Turk to rule a Greek, or an Austrian to dominate an Italian is hard enough, but for a thick-lipped, flat-nosed, spindle-shanked negro, exuding his nauseating animal odour, to shout in derision over the hearths and homes of white men and women is an atrocity too monstrous for belief. Our people are yet dazed by its horror. My God! when they realize its meaning, whose arm will be strong enough to hold them?" "I should think the South was sufficiently amused with resistance to authority," interrupted Stoneman. "Even so. Yet there is a moral force at the bottom of every living race of men. The sense of right, the feeling of racial destiny--these are unconquered and unconquerable forces. Every man in South Carolina to-day is glad that slavery is dead. The war was not too great a price for us to pay for the lifting of its curse. And now to ask a Southerner to be the slave of a slave----" "And yet, Doctor," said Stoneman coolly, "manhood suffrage is the one eternal thing fixed in the nature of Democracy. It is inevitable." "At the price of racial life? Never!" said the Southerner, with fiery emphasis. "This Republic is great, not by reason of the amount of dirt we possess, the size of our census roll, or our voting register--we are great because of the genius of the race of pioneer white freemen who settled this continent, dared the might of kings, and made a wilderness the home of Freedom. Our future depends on the purity of this racial stock. The grant of the ballot to these millions of semi-savages and the riot of debauchery which has followed are crimes against human progress." "Yet may we not train him?" asked Stoneman. "To a point, yes, and then sink to his level if you walk as his equal in physical contact with him. His race is not an infant; it is a degenerate--older than yours in time. At last we are face to face with the man whom slavery concealed with its rags. Suffrage is but the new paper cloak with which the Demagogue has sought to hide the issue. Can we assimilate the negro? The very question is pollution. In Hayti no white man can own land. Black dukes and marquises drive over them and swear at them for getting under their wheels. Is civilization a patent cloak with which law-tinkers can wrap an animal and make him a king?" "But the negro must be protected by the ballot," protested the statesman. "The humblest man must have the opportunity to rise. The real issue is Democracy." "The issue, sir, is Civilization! Not whether a negro shall be protected, but whether Society is worth saving from barbarism." "The statesman can educate," put in the Commoner. The doctor cleared his throat with a quick little nervous cough he was in the habit of giving when deeply moved. "Education, sir, is the development of that which _is_. Since the dawn of history the negro has owned the continent of Africa--rich beyond the dream of poet's fancy, crunching acres of diamonds beneath his bare black feet. Yet he never picked one up from the dust until a white man showed to him its glittering light. His land swarmed with powerful and docile animals, yet he never dreamed a harness, cart, or sled. A hunter by necessity, he never made an axe, spear, or arrowhead worth preserving beyond the moment of its use. He lived as an ox, content to graze for an hour. In a land of stone and timber he never sawed a foot of lumber, carved a block, or built a house save of broken sticks and mud. With league on league of ocean strand and miles of inland seas, for four thousand years he watched their surface ripple under the wind, heard the thunder of the surf on his beach, the howl of the storm over his head, gazed on the dim blue horizon calling him to worlds that lie beyond, and yet he never dreamed a sail! He lived as his fathers lived--stole his food, worked his wife, sold his children, ate his brother, content to drink, sing, dance, and sport as the ape! "And this creature, half child, half animal, the sport of impulse, whim, and conceit, 'pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw,' a being who, left to his will, roams at night and sleeps in the day, whose speech knows no word of love, whose passions, once aroused, are as the fury of the tiger--they have set this thing to rule over the Southern people----" The doctor sprang to his feet, his face livid, his eyes blazing with emotion. "Merciful God--it surpasses human belief!" He sank exhausted in his chair, and, extending his hand in an eloquent gesture, continued: "Surely, surely, sir, the people of the North are not mad? We can yet appeal to the conscience and the brain of our brethren of a common race?" Stoneman was silent as if stunned. Deep down in his strange soul he was drunk with the joy of a triumphant vengeance he had carried locked in the depths of his being, yet the intensity of this man's suffering for a people's cause surprised and distressed him as all individual pain hurt him. Dr. Cameron rose, stung by his silence and the consciousness of the hostility with which Stoneman had wrapped himself. "Pardon my apparent rudeness, Doctor," he said at length, extending his hand. "The violence of your feeling stunned me for the moment. I'm obliged to you for speaking. I like a plain-spoken man. I am sorry to learn of the stupidity of the former military commandant in this town----" "My personal wrongs, sir," the doctor broke in, "are nothing!" "I am sorry, too, about these individual cases of suffering. They are the necessary incidents of a great upheaval. But may it not all come out right in the end? After the Dark Ages, day broke at last. We have the printing press, railroad, and telegraph--a revolution in human affairs. We may do in years what it took ages to do in the past. May not the black man speedily emerge? Who knows? An appeal to the North will be a waste of breath. This experiment is going to be made. It is written in the book of Fate. But I like you. Come to see me again." Dr. Cameron left with a heavy heart. He had grown a great hope in this long-wished-for appeal to Stoneman. It had come to his ears that the old man, who had dwelt as one dead in their village, was a power. It was ten o'clock before the doctor walked slowly back to the hotel. As he passed the armoury of the black militia, they were still drilling under the command of Gus. The windows were open, through which came the steady tramp of heavy feet and the cry of "Hep! Hep! Hep!" from the Captain's thick cracked lips. The full-dress officer's uniform, with its gold epaulets, yellow stripes, and glistening sword, only accentuated the coarse bestiality of Gus. His huge jaws seemed to hide completely the gold braid on his collar. The doctor watched, with a shudder, his black bloated face covered with perspiration and the huge hand gripping his sword. They suddenly halted in double ranks and Gus yelled: "Odah, arms!" The butts of their rifles crashed to the floor with precision, and they were allowed to break ranks for a brief rest. They sang "John Brown's Body," and as its echoes died away a big negro swung his rifle in a circle over his head, shouting: "Here's your regulator for white trash! En dey's nine hundred ob 'em in dis county!" "Yas, Lawd!" howled another. "We got 'em down now en we keep 'em dar, chile!" bawled another. The doctor passed on slowly to the hotel. The night was dark, the streets were without lights under their present rulers, and the stars were hidden with swift-flying clouds which threatened a storm. As he passed under the boughs of an oak in front of his house, a voice above him whispered: "A message for you, sir." Had the wings of a spirit suddenly brushed his cheek, he would not have been more startled. "Who are you?" he asked, with a slight tremor. "A Night Hawk of the Invisible Empire, with a message from the Grand Dragon of the Realm," was the low answer, as he thrust a note in the doctor's hand. "I will wait for your answer." The doctor fumbled to his office on the corner of the lawn, struck a match, and read: "A great Scotch-Irish leader of the South from Memphis is here to-night and wishes to see you. If you will meet General Forrest, I will bring him to the hotel in fifteen minutes. Burn this. Ben." The doctor walked quickly back to the spot where he had heard the voice, and said: "I'll see him with pleasure." The invisible messenger wheeled his horse, and in a moment the echo of his muffled hoofs had died away in the distance. CHAPTER XI THE BEAT OF A SPARROW'S WING Dr. Cameron's appeal had left the old Commoner unshaken in his idea. There could be but one side to any question with such a man, and that was his side. He would stand by his own men, too. He believed in his own forces. The bayonet was essential to his revolutionary programme--hence the hand which held it could do no wrong. Wrongs were accidents which might occur under any system. Yet in no way did he display the strange contradictions of his character so plainly as in his inability to hate the individual who stood for the idea he was fighting with maniac fury. He liked Dr. Cameron instantly, though he had come to do a crime that would send him into beggared exile. Individual suffering he could not endure. In this the doctor's appeal had startling results. He sent for Mrs. Lenoir and Marion. "I understand, Madam," he said gravely, "that your house and farm are to be sold for taxes." "Yes, sir; we've given it up this time. Nothing can be done," was the hopeless answer. "Would you consider an offer of twenty dollars an acre?" "Nobody would be fool enough to offer it. You can buy all the land in the county for a dollar an acre. It's not worth anything." "I disagree with you," said Stoneman cheerfully. "I am looking far ahead. I would like to make an experiment here with Pennsylvania methods on this land. I'll give you ten thousand dollars cash for your five hundred acres if you will take it." "You don't mean it?" Mrs. Lenoir gasped, choking back the tears. "Certainly. You can at once return to your home. I'll take another house, and invest your money for you in good Northern securities." The mother burst into sobs, unable to speak, while Marion threw her arms impulsively around the old man's neck and kissed him. His cold eyes were warmed with the first tear they had shed in years. He moved the next day to the Ross estate, which he rented, had Sam brought back to the home of his childhood in charge of a good-natured white attendant, and installed in one of the little cottages on the lawn. He ordered Lynch to arrest the keeper of the poor, and hold him on a charge of assault with intent to kill, awaiting the action of the Grand Jury. The Lieutenant-Governor received this order with sullen anger--yet he saw to its execution. He was not quite ready for a break with the man who had made him. Astonished at his new humour, Phil and Elsie hastened to confess to him their love affairs and ask his approval of their choice. His reply was cautious, yet he did not refuse his consent. He advised them to wait a few months, allow him time to know the young people, and get his bearings on the conditions of Southern society. His mood of tenderness was a startling revelation to them of the depth and intensity of his love. When Mrs. Lenoir returned with Marion to her vine-clad home, she spent the first day of perfect joy since the death of her lover husband. The deed had not yet been made of the transfer of the farm, but it was only a question of legal formality. She was to receive the money in the form of interest-bearing securities and deliver the title on the following morning. Arm in arm, mother and daughter visited again each hallowed spot, with the sweet sense of ownership. The place was in perfect order. Its flowers were in gorgeous bloom, its walks clean and neat, the fences painted, and the gates swung on new hinges. They stood with their arms about one another, watching the sun sink behind the mountains, with tears of gratitude and hope stirring their souls. Ben Cameron strode through the gate, and they hurried to meet him with cries of joy. "Just dropped in a minute to see if you are snug for the night," he said. "Of course, snug and so happy we've been hugging one another for hours," said the mother. "Oh, Ben, the clouds have lifted at last!" "Has Aunt Cindy come yet?" he asked. "No, but she'll be here in the morning to get breakfast. We don't want anything to eat," she answered. "Then I'll come out when I'm through my business to-night, and sleep in the house to keep you company." "Nonsense," said the mother, "we couldn't think of putting you to the trouble. We've spent many a night here alone." "But not in the past two years," he said with a frown. "We're not afraid," Marion said with a smile. "Besides, we'd keep you awake all night with our laughter and foolishness, rummaging through the house." "You'd better let me," Ben protested. "No," said the mother, "we'll be happier to-night alone, with only God's eye to see how perfectly silly we can be. Come and take supper with us to-morrow night. Bring Elsie and her guitar--I don't like the banjo--and we'll have a little love feast with music in the moonlight." "Yes, do that," cried Marion. "I know we owe this good luck to her. I want to tell her how much I love her for it." "Well, if you insist on staying alone," said Ben reluctantly, "I'll bring Miss Elsie to-morrow, but I don't like your being here without Aunt Cindy to-night." "Oh, we're all right!" laughed Marion, "but what I want to know is what you are doing out so late every night since you've come home, and where you were gone for the past week?" "Important business," he answered soberly. "Business--I expect!" she cried. "Look here, Ben Cameron, have you another girl somewhere you're flirting with?" "Yes," he answered slowly, coming closer and his voice dropping to a whisper, "and her name is Death." "Why, Ben!" Marion gasped, placing her trembling hand unconsciously on his arm, a faint flush mantling her cheek and leaving it white. "What do you mean?" asked the mother in low tones. "Nothing that I can explain. I only wish to warn you both never to ask me such questions before any one." "Forgive me," said Marion, with a tremor. "I didn't think it serious." Ben pressed the little warm hand, watching her mouth quiver with a smile that was half a sigh, as he answered: "You know I'd trust either of you with my life, but I can't be too careful." "We'll remember, Sir Knight," said the mother. "Don't forget, then, to-morrow--and spend the evening with us. I wish I had one of Marion's new dresses done. Poor child, she has never had a decent dress in her life before. You know I never look at my pretty baby grown to such a beautiful womanhood without hearing Henry say over and over again--'Beauty is a sign of the soul--the body is the soul!'" "Well, I've my doubts about your improving her with a fine dress," he replied thoughtfully. "I don't believe that more beautifully dressed women ever walked the earth than our girls of the South who came out of the war clad in the pathos of poverty, smiling bravely through the shadows, bearing themselves as queens though they wore the dress of the shepherdess." "I'm almost tempted to kiss you for that, as you once took advantage of me!" said Marion, with enthusiasm. The moon had risen and a whippoorwill was chanting his weird song on the lawn as Ben left them leaning on the gate. * * * * * It was past midnight before they finished the last touches in restoring their nest to its old homelike appearance and sat down happy and tired in the room in which Marion was born, brooding and dreaming and talking over the future. The mother was hanging on the words of her daughter, all the baffled love of the dead poet husband, her griefs and poverty consumed in the glowing joy of new hopes. Her love for this child was now a triumphant passion, which had melted her own being into the object of worship, until the soul of the daughter was superimposed on the mother's as the magnetized by the magnetizer. "And you'll never keep a secret from me, dear?" she asked Marion. "Never." "You'll tell me all your love affairs?" she asked softly, as she drew the shining blonde head down on her shoulder. "Faithfully." "You know I've been afraid sometimes you were keeping something back from me, deep down in your heart--and I'm jealous. You didn't refuse Henry Grier because you loved Ben Cameron--now, did you?" The little head lay still before she answered: [Illustration: MAE MARSH AS THE VICTIM OF RECONSTRUCTION.] "How many times must I tell you, Silly, that I've loved Ben since I can remember, that I will always love him, and when I meet my fate, at last, I shall boast to my children of my sweet girl romance with the Hero of Piedmont, and they shall laugh and cry with me over----" "What's that?" whispered the mother, leaping to her feet. "I heard nothing," Marion answered, listening. "I thought I heard footsteps on the porch." "Maybe it's Ben, who decided to come anyhow," said the girl. "But he'd knock!" whispered the mother. The door flew open with a crash, and four black brutes leaped into the room, Gus in the lead, with a revolver in his hand, his yellow teeth grinning through his thick lips. "Scream now, an' I blow yer brains out," he growled. Blanched with horror, the mother sprang before Marion with a shivering cry: "What do you want?" "Not you," said Gus, closing the blinds and handing a rope to another brute. "Tie de ole one ter de bedpost." The mother screamed. A blow from a black fist in her mouth, and the rope was tied. With the strength of despair she tore at the cords, half rising to her feet, while with mortal anguish she gasped: "For God's sake, spare my baby! Do as you will with me, and kill me--do not touch her!" Again the huge fist swept her to the floor. Marion staggered against the wall, her face white, her delicate lips trembling with the chill of a fear colder than death. "We have no money--the deed has not been delivered," she pleaded, a sudden glimmer of hope flashing in her blue eyes. Gus stepped closer, with an ugly leer, his flat nose dilated, his sinister bead eyes wide apart, gleaming apelike, as he laughed: "We ain't atter money!" The girl uttered a cry, long, tremulous, heart-rending, piteous. A single tiger spring, and the black claws of the beast sank into the soft white throat and she was still. CHAPTER XII AT THE DAWN OF DAY It was three o'clock before Marion regained consciousness, crawled to her mother, and crouched in dumb convulsions in her arms. "What can we do, my darling?" the mother asked at last. "Die--thank God, we have the strength left!" "Yes, my love," was the faint answer. "No one must ever know. We will hide quickly every trace of crime. They will think we strolled to Lover's Leap and fell over the cliff, and my name will always be sweet and clean--you understand--come, we must hurry----" With swift hands, her blue eyes shining with a strange light, the girl removed the shreds of torn clothes, bathed, and put on the dress of spotless white she wore the night Ben Cameron kissed her and called her a heroine. The mother cleaned and swept the room, piled the torn clothes and cord in the fireplace and burned them, dressed herself as if for a walk, softly closed the doors, and hurried with her daughter along the old pathway through the moonlit woods. At the edge of the forest she stopped and looked back tenderly at the little home shining amid the roses, caught their faint perfume and faltered: "Let's go back a minute--I want to see his room, and kiss Henry's picture again." "No, we are going to him now--I hear him calling us in the mists above the cliff," said the girl--"come, we must hurry. We might go mad and fail!" Down the dim cathedral aisles of the woods, hallowed by tender memories, through which the poet lover and father had taught them to walk with reverent feet and without fear, they fled to the old meeting-place of Love. On the brink of the precipice, the mother trembled, paused, drew back, and gasped: "Are you not afraid, my dear?" "No; death is sweet now," said the girl. "I fear only the pity of those we love." "Is there no other way? We might go among strangers," pleaded the mother. "We could not escape ourselves! The thought of life is torture. Only those who hate me could wish that I live. The grave will be soft and cool, the light of day a burning shame." "Come back to the seat a moment--let me tell you my love again," urged the mother. "Life still is dear while I hold your hand." As they sat in brooding anguish, floating up from the river valley came the music of a banjo in a negro cabin, mingled with vulgar shout and song and dance. A verse of the ribald senseless lay of the player echoed above the banjo's pert refrain: "Chicken in de bread tray, pickin' up dough; Granny, will your dog bite? No, chile, no!" The mother shivered and drew Marion closer. "Oh, dear! oh, dear! has it come to this--all my hopes of your beautiful life!" The girl lifted her head and kissed the quivering lips. "With what loving wonder we saw you grow," she sighed, "from a tottering babe on to the hour we watched the mystic light of maidenhood dawn in your blue eyes--and all to end in this hideous, leprous shame. No--No! I will not have it! It's only a horrible dream! God is not dead!" The young mother sank to her knees and buried her face in Marion's lap in a hopeless paroxysm of grief. The girl bent, kissed the curling hair, and smoothed it with her soft hand. A sparrow chirped in the tree above, a wren twittered in a bush, and down on the river's bank a mocking-bird softly waked his mate with a note of thrilling sweetness. "The morning is coming, dearest; we must go," said Marion. "This shame I can never forget, nor will the world forget. Death is the only way." They walked to the brink, and the mother's arms stole round the girl. "Oh, my baby, my beautiful darling, life of my life, heart of my heart, soul of my soul!" They stood for a moment, as if listening to the music of the falls, looking out over the valley faintly outlining itself in the dawn. The first far-away streaks of blue light on the mountain ranges, defining distance, slowly appeared. A fresh motionless day brooded over the world as the amorous stir of the spirit of morning rose from the moist earth of the fields below. A bright star still shone in the sky, and the face of the mother gazed on it intently. Did the Woman-spirit, the burning focus of the fiercest desire to live and will, catch in this supreme moment the star's Divine speech before which all human passions sink into silence? Perhaps, for she smiled. The daughter answered with a smile; and then, hand in hand, they stepped from the cliff into the mists and on through the opal gates of death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Book IV--The Ku Klux Klan CHAPTER I THE HUNT FOR THE ANIMAL Aunt Cindy came at seven o'clock to get breakfast, and finding the house closed and no one at home, supposed Mrs. Lenoir and Marion had remained at the Cameron House for the night. She sat down on the steps, waited grumblingly an hour, and then hurried to the hotel to scold her former mistress for keeping her out so long. Accustomed to enter familiarly, she thrust her head into the dining-room, where the family were at breakfast with a solitary guest, muttering the speech she had been rehearsing on the way: "I lak ter know what sort er way dis--whar's Miss Jeannie?" Ben leaped to his feet. "Isn't she at home?" "Been waitin' dar two hours." "Great God!" he groaned, springing through the door and rushing to saddle the mare. As he left he called to his father: "Let no one know till I return." At the house he could find no trace of the crime he had suspected. Every room was in perfect order. He searched the yard carefully and under the cedar by the window he saw the barefoot tracks of a negro. The white man was never born who could make that track. The enormous heel projected backward, and in the hollow of the instep where the dirt would scarcely be touched by an Aryan was the deep wide mark of the African's flat foot. He carefully measured it, brought from an outhouse a box, and fastened it over the spot. It might have been an ordinary chicken thief, of course. He could not tell, but it was a fact of big import. A sudden hope flashed through his mind that they might have risen with the sun and strolled to their favourite haunt at Lover's Leap. In two minutes he was there, gazing with hard-set eyes at Marion's hat and handkerchief lying on the shelving rock. The mare bent her glistening neck, touched the hat with her nose, lifted her head, dilated her delicate nostrils, looked out over the cliff with her great soft half-human eyes and whinnied gently. Ben leaped to the ground, picked up the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "M. L.," worked in the corner. He knew what lay on the river's brink below as well as if he stood over the dead bodies. He kissed the letters of her name, crushed the handkerchief in his locked hands, and cried: "Now, Lord God, give me strength for the service of my people!" He hurriedly examined the ground, amazed to find no trace of a struggle or crime. Could it be possible they had ventured too near the brink and fallen over? He hurried to report to his father his discoveries, instructed his mother and Margaret to keep the servants quiet until the truth was known, and the two men returned along the river's brink to the foot of the cliff. They found the bodies close to the water's edge, Marion had been killed instantly. Her fair blonde head lay in a crimson circle sharply defined in the white sand. But the mother was still warm with life. She had scarcely ceased to breathe. In one last desperate throb of love the trembling soul had dragged the dying body to the girl's side, and she had died with her head resting on the fair round neck as though she had kissed her and fallen asleep. Father and son clasped hands and stood for a moment with uncovered heads. The doctor said at length: "Go to the coroner at once and see that he summons the jury _you_ select and hand to him. Bring them immediately. I will examine the bodies before they arrive." Ben took the negro coroner into his office alone, turned the key, told him of the discovery, and handed him the list of the jury. "I'll hatter see Mr. Lynch fust, sah," he answered. Ben placed his hand on his hip pocket and said coldly: "Put your cross-mark on those forms I've made out there for you, go with me immediately, and summon these men. If you dare put a negro on this jury, or open your mouth as to what has occurred in this room, I'll kill you." The negro tremblingly did as he was commanded. The coroner's jury reported that the mother and daughter had been killed by accidentally failing over the cliff. In all the throng of grief-stricken friends who came to the little cottage that day, but two men knew the hell-lit secret beneath the tragedy. When the bodies reached the home, Doctor Cameron placed Mrs. Cameron and Margaret outside to receive visitors and prevent any one from disturbing him. He took Ben into the room and locked the doors. "My boy, I wish you to witness an experiment." He drew from its case a powerful microscope of French make. "What on earth are you going to do, sir?" The doctor's brilliant eyes flashed with a mystic light as he replied: "Find the fiend who did this crime--and then we will hang him on a gallows so high that all men from the rivers to ends of the earth shall see and feel and know the might of an unconquerable race of men." "But there's no trace of him here." "We shall see," said the doctor, adjusting his instrument. "I believe that a microscope of sufficient power will reveal on the retina of these dead eyes the image of this devil as if etched there by fire. The experiment has been made successfully in France. No word or deed of man is lost. A German scholar has a memory so wonderful he can repeat whole volumes of Latin, German, and French without an error. A Russian officer has been known to repeat the roll-call of any regiment by reading it twice. Psychologists hold that nothing is lost from the memory of man. Impressions remain in the brain like words written on paper in invisible ink. So I believe of images in the eye if we can trace them early enough. If no impression were made subsequently on the mother's eye by the light of day, I believe the fire-etched record of this crime can yet be traced." Ben watched him with breathless interest. He first examined Marion's eyes. But in the cold azure blue of their pure depths he could find nothing. "It's as I feared with the child," he said. "I can see nothing. It is on the mother I rely. In the splendour of life, at thirty-seven she was the full-blown perfection of womanhood, with every vital force at its highest tension----" He looked long and patiently into the dead mother's eye, rose and wiped the perspiration from his face. "What is it, sir?" asked Ben. Without reply, as if in a trance, he returned to the microscope and again rose with the little, quick, nervous cough he gave only in the greatest excitement, and whispered: "Look now and tell me what you see." Ben looked and said: "I can see nothing." "Your powers of vision are not trained as mine," replied the doctor, resuming his place at the instrument. "What do you see?" asked the younger man, bending nervously. "The bestial figure of a negro--his huge black hand plainly defined--the upper part of the face is dim, as if obscured by a gray mist of dawn--but the massive jaws and lips are clear--merciful God--yes--it's Gus!" The doctor leaped to his feet livid with excitement. Ben bent again, looked long and eagerly, but could see nothing. "I'm afraid the image is in your eye, sir, not the mother's," said Ben sadly. "That's possible, of course," said the doctor, "yet I don't believe it." "I've thought of the same scoundrel and tried blood hounds on that track, but for some reason they couldn't follow it. I suspected him from the first, and especially since learning that he left for Columbia on the early morning train on pretended official business." "Then I'm not mistaken," insisted the doctor, trembling with excitement. "Now do as I tell you. Find when he returns. Capture him, bind, gag, and carry him to your meeting-place under the cliff, and let me know." On the afternoon of the funeral, two days later, Ben received a cypher telegram from the conductor on the train telling him that Gus was on the evening mail due at Piedmont at nine o'clock. The papers had been filled with accounts of the accident, and an enormous crowd from the county and many admirers of the fiery lyrics of the poet father had come from distant parts to honour his name. All business was suspended, and the entire white population of the village followed the bodies to their last resting-place. As the crowds returned to their homes, no notice was taken of a dozen men on horseback who rode out of town by different ways about dusk. At eight o'clock they met in the woods near the first little flag-station located on McAllister's farm four miles from Piedmont, where a buggy awaited them. Two men of powerful build, who were strangers in the county, alighted from the buggy and walked along the track to board the train at the station three miles beyond and confer with the conductor. The men, who gathered in the woods, dismounted, removed their saddles, and from the folds of the blankets took a white disguise for horse and man. In a moment it was fitted on each horse, with buckles at the throat, breast, and tail, and the saddles replaced. The white robe for the man was made in the form of an ulster overcoat with cape, the skirt extending to the top of the shoes. From the red belt at the waist were swung two revolvers which had been concealed in their pockets. On each man's breast was a scarlet circle within which shone a white cross. The same scarlet circle and cross appeared on the horse's breast, while on his flanks flamed the three red mystic letters, K. K. K. Each man wore a white cap, from the edges of which fell a piece of cloth extending to the shoulders. Beneath the visor was an opening for the eyes and lower down one for the mouth. On the front of the caps of two of the men appeared the red wings of a hawk as the ensign of rank. From the top of each cap rose eighteen inches high a single spike held erect by a twisted wire. The disguises for man and horse were made of cheap unbleached domestic and weighed less than three pounds. They were easily folded within a blanket and kept under the saddle in a crowd without discovery. It required less than two minutes to remove the saddles, place the disguises, and remount. At the signal of a whistle, the men and horses arrayed in white and scarlet swung into double-file cavalry formation and stood awaiting orders. The moon was now shining brightly, and its light shimmering on the silent horses and men with their tall spiked caps made a picture such as the world had not seen since the Knights of the Middle Ages rode on their Holy Crusades. As the train neared the flag-station, which was dark and unattended, the conductor approached Gus, leaned over, and said: "I've just gotten a message from the sheriff telling me to warn you to get off at this station and slip into town. There's a crowd at the depot there waiting for you and they mean trouble." Gus trembled and whispered: "Den fur Gawd's sake lemme off here." The two men who got on at the station below stepped out before the negro, and as he alighted from the car, seized, tripped, and threw him to the ground. The engineer blew a sharp signal, and the train pulled on. In a minute Gus was bound and gagged. One of the men drew a whistle and blew twice. A single tremulous call like the cry of an owl answered. The swift beat of horses' feet followed, and four white-and-scarlet clansmen swept in a circle around the group. One of the strangers turned to the horseman with red-winged ensign on his cap, saluted, and said: "Here's your man, Night Hawk." "Thanks, gentlemen," was the answer. "Let us know when we can be of service to your county." The strangers sprang into their buggy and disappeared toward the North Carolina line. The clansmen blindfolded the negro, placed him on a horse, tied his legs securely, and his arms behind him to the ring in the saddle. The Night Hawk blew his whistle four sharp blasts, and his pickets galloped from their positions and joined him. Again the signal rang, and his men wheeled with the precision of trained cavalrymen into column formation three abreast, and rode toward Piedmont, the single black figure tied and gagged in the centre of the white-and-scarlet squadron. CHAPTER II THE FIERY CROSS The clansmen with their prisoner skirted the village and halted in the woods on the river bank. The Night Hawk signalled for single file, and in a few minutes they stood against the cliff under Lover's Leap and saluted their chief, who sat his horse, awaiting their arrival. Pickets were placed in each direction on the narrow path by which the spot was approached, and one was sent to stand guard on the shelving rock above. Through the narrow crooked entrance they led Gus into the cave which had been the rendezvous of the Piedmont Den of the Clan since its formation. The meeting-place was a grand hall eighty feet deep, fifty feet wide, and more than forty feet in height, which had been carved out of the stone by the swift current of the river in ages past when its waters stood at a higher level. To-night it was lighted by candles placed on the ledges of the walls. In the centre, on a fallen boulder, sat the Grand Cyclops of the Den, the presiding officer of the township, his rank marked by scarlet stripes on the white-cloth spike of his cap. Around him stood twenty or more clansmen in their uniform, completely disguised. One among them wore a yellow sash, trimmed in gold, about his waist, and on his breast two yellow circles with red crosses interlapping, denoting his rank to be the Grand Dragon of the Realm, or Commander-in-Chief of the State. The Cyclops rose from his seat: "Let the Grand Turk remove his prisoner for a moment and place him in charge of the Grand Sentinel at the door, until summoned." The officer disappeared with Gus, and the Cyclops continued: "The Chaplain will open our Council with prayer." Solemnly every white-shrouded figure knelt on the ground, and the voice of the Rev. Hugh McAlpin, trembling with feeling, echoed through the cave: "Lord God of our Fathers, as in times past thy children, fleeing from the oppressor, found refuge beneath the earth until once more the sun of righteousness rose, so are we met to-night. As we wrestle with the powers of darkness now strangling our life, give to our souls to endure as seeing the invisible, and to our right arms the strength of the martyred dead of our people. Have mercy on the poor, the weak, the innocent and defenceless, and deliver us from the body of the Black Death. In a land of light and beauty and love our women are prisoners of danger and fear. While the heathen walks his native heath unharmed and unafraid, in this fair Christian Southland our sisters, wives, and daughters dare not stroll at twilight through the streets or step beyond the highway at noon. The terror of the twilight deepens with the darkness, and the stoutest heart grows sick with fear for the red message the morning bringeth. Forgive our sins--they are many--but hide not thy face from us, O God, for thou art our refuge!" As the last echoes of the prayer lingered and died in the vaulted roof, the clansmen rose and stood a moment in silence. Again the voice of the Cyclops broke the stillness: "Brethren, we are met to-night at the request of the Grand Dragon of the Realm, who has honoured us with his presence, to constitute a High Court for the trial of a case involving life. Are the Night Hawks ready to submit their evidence?" "We are ready," came the answer. "Then let the Grand Scribe read the objects of the Order on which your authority rests." The Scribe opened his Book of Record, "_The Prescript of the Order of the Invisible Empire_," and solemnly read: "To the lovers of law and order, peace and justice, and to the shades of the venerated dead, greeting: "This is an institution of Chivalry, Humanity, Mercy, and Patriotism: embodying in its genius and principles all that is chivalric in conduct, noble in sentiment, generous in manhood, and patriotic in purpose: its particular objects being, "First: To protect the weak, the innocent, and the defenceless from the indignities, wrongs, and outrages of the lawless, the violent, and the brutal; to relieve the injured and the oppressed: to succour the suffering and unfortunate, and especially the widows and the orphans of Confederate Soldiers. "Second: To protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, and all the laws passed in conformity thereto, and to protect the States and the people thereof from all invasion from any source whatever. "Third: To aid and assist in the execution of all Constitutional laws, and to protect the people from unlawful seizure, and from trial except by their peers in conformity to the laws of the land." "The Night Hawks will produce their evidence," said the Cyclops, "and the Grand Monk will conduct the case of the people against the negro Augustus Cæsar, the former slave of Dr. Richard Cameron." Dr. Cameron advanced and removed his cap. His snow-white hair and beard, ruddy face and dark-brown brilliant eyes made a strange picture in its weird surroundings, like an ancient alchemist ready to conduct some daring experiment in the problem of life. "I am here, brethren," he said, "to accuse the black brute about to appear of the crime of assault on a daughter of the South----" A murmur of thrilling surprise and horror swept the crowd of white-and-scarlet figures as with one common impulse they moved closer. "His feet have been measured and they exactly tally with the negro tracks found under the window of the Lenoir cottage. His flight to Columbia and return on the publication of their deaths as an accident is a confirmation of our case. I will not relate to you the scientific experiment which first fixed my suspicion of this man's guilt. My witness could not confirm it, and it might not be to you credible. But this negro is peculiarly sensitive to hypnotic influence. I propose to put him under this power to-night before you, and, if he is guilty, I can make him tell his confederates, describe and rehearse the crime itself." The Night Hawks led Gus before Doctor Cameron, untied his hands, removed the gag, and slipped the blindfold from his head. Under the doctor's rigid gaze the negro's knees struck together, and he collapsed into complete hypnosis, merely lifting his huge paws lamely as if to ward a blow. They seated him on the boulder from which the Cyclops rose, and Gus stared about the cave and grinned as if in a dream seeing nothing. The doctor recalled to him the day of the crime, and he began to talk to his three confederates, describing his plot in detail, now and then pausing and breaking into a fiendish laugh. Old McAllister, who had three lovely daughters at home, threw off his cap, sank to his knees, and buried his face in his hands, while a dozen of the white figures crowded closer, nervously gripping the revolvers which hung from their red belts. Doctor Cameron pushed them back and lifted his hand in warning. The negro began to live the crime with fearful realism--the journey past the hotel to make sure the victims had gone to their home; the visit to Aunt Cindy's cabin to find her there; lying in the field waiting for the last light of the village to go out; gloating with vulgar exultation over their plot, and planning other crimes to follow its success--how they crept along the shadows of the hedgerow of the lawn to avoid the moonlight, stood under the cedar, and through the open windows watched the mother and daughter laughing and talking within---- "Min' what I tells you now--Tie de ole one, when I gib you de rope," said Gus in a whisper. "My God!" cried the agonized voice of the figure with the double cross--"that's what the piece of burnt rope in the fireplace meant!" Doctor Cameron again lifted his hand for silence. Now they burst into the room, and with the light of hell in his beady, yellow-splotched eyes, Gus gripped his imaginary revolver and growled: "Scream, an' I blow yer brains out!" In spite of Doctor Cameron's warning, the white-robed figures jostled and pressed closer---- Gus rose to his feet and started across the cave as if to spring on the shivering figure of the girl, the clansmen with muttered groans, sobs, and curses falling back as he advanced. He still wore his full Captain's uniform, its heavy epaulets flashing their gold in the unearthly light, his beastly jaws half covering the gold braid on the collar. His thick lips were drawn upward in an ugly leer and his sinister bead eyes gleamed like a gorilla's. A single fierce leap and the black claws clutched the air slowly as if sinking into the soft white throat. Strong men began to cry like children. "Stop him! Stop him!" screamed a clansman, springing on the negro and grinding his heel into his big thick neck. A dozen more were on him in a moment, kicking, stamping, cursing, and crying like madmen. Doctor Cameron leaped forward and beat them off: "Men! Men! You must not kill him in this condition!" Some of the white figures had fallen prostrate on the ground, sobbing in a frenzy of uncontrollable emotion. Some were leaning against the walls, their faces buried in their arms. Again old McAllister was on his knees crying over and over again: "God have mercy on my people!" When at length quiet was restored, the negro was revived, and again bound, blindfolded, gagged, and thrown to the ground before the Grand Cyclops. A sudden inspiration flashed in Doctor Cameron's eyes. Turning to the figure with yellow sash and double cross he said: "Issue your orders and despatch your courier to-night with the old Scottish rite of the Fiery Cross. It will send a thrill of inspiration to every clansman in the hills." "Good--prepare it quickly!" was the answer. Doctor Cameron opened his medicine case, drew the silver drinking-cover from a flask, and passed out of the cave to the dark circle of blood still shining in the sand by the water's edge. He knelt and filled the cup half full of the crimson grains, and dipped it into the river. From a saddle he took the lightwood torch, returned within, and placed the cup on the boulder on which the Grand Cyclops had sat. He loosed the bundle of lightwood, took two pieces, tied them into the form of a cross, and laid it beside a lighted candle near the silver cup. The silent figures watched his every movement. He lifted the cup and said: "Brethren, I hold in my hand the water of your river bearing the red stain of the life of a Southern woman, a priceless sacrifice on the altar of outraged civilization. Hear the message of your chief." The tall figure with the yellow sash and double cross stepped before the strange altar, while the white forms of the clansmen gathered about him in a circle. He lifted his cap, and laid it on the boulder, and his men gazed on the flushed face of Ben Cameron, the Grand Dragon of the Realm. He stood for a moment silent, erect, a smouldering fierceness in his eyes, something cruel and yet magnetic in his alert bearing. He looked on the prostrate negro lying in his uniform at his feet, seized the cross, lighted the three upper ends and held it blazing in his hand, while, in a voice full of the fires of feeling, he said: "Men of the South, the time for words has passed, the hour for action has struck. The Grand Turk will execute this negro to-night and fling his body on the lawn of the black Lieutenant-Governor of the State." The Grand Turk bowed. "I ask for the swiftest messenger of this Den who can ride till dawn." The man whom Doctor Cameron had already chosen stepped forward: "Carry my summons to the Grand Titan of the adjoining province in North Carolina whom you will find at Hambright. Tell him the story of this crime and what you have seen and heard. Ask him to report to me here the second night from this, at eleven o'clock, with six Grand Giants from his adjoining counties, each accompanied by two hundred picked men. In olden times when the Chieftain of our people summoned the clan on an errand of life and death, the Fiery Cross, extinguished in sacrificial blood, was sent by swift courier from village to village. This call was never made in vain, nor will it be to-night, in the new world. Here, on this spot made holy ground by the blood of those we hold dearer than life, I raise the ancient symbol of an unconquered race of men----" High above his head in the darkness of the cave he lifted the blazing emblem---- "The Fiery Cross of old Scotland's hills! I quench its flames in the sweetest blood that ever stained the sands of Time." He dipped its ends in the silver cup, extinguished the fire, and handed the charred symbol to the courier, who quickly disappeared. CHAPTER III THE PARTING OF THE WAYS The discovery of the Captain of the African Guards lying in his full uniform in Lynch's yard send a thrill of terror to the triumphant leagues. Across the breast of the body was pinned a scrap of paper on which was written in red ink the letters K. K. K. It was the first actual evidence of the existence of this dreaded order in Ulster county. The First Lieutenant of the Guards assumed command and held the full company in their armoury under arms day and night. Beneath his door he had found a notice which was also nailed on the courthouse. It appeared in the Piedmont _Eagle_ and in rapid succession in every newspaper not under negro influence in the State. It read as follows: "HEADQUARTERS OF REALM NO 4. "DREADFUL ERA, BLACK EPOCH, "HIDEOUS HOUR. "GENERAL ORDER NO. I. "The Negro Militia now organized in this State threatens the extinction of civilization. They have avowed their purpose to make war upon and exterminate the Ku Klux Klan, an organization which is now the sole guardian of Society. All negroes are hereby given forty-eight hours from the publication of this notice in their respective counties to surrender their arms at the courthouse door. Those who refuse must take the consequences. "By order of the G. D. of Realm No. 4. "By the Grand Scribe." The white people of Piedmont read this notice with a thrill of exultant joy. Men walked the streets with an erect bearing which said without words: "Stand out of the way." For the first time since the dawn of Black Rule negroes began to yield to white men and women the right of way on the streets. On the day following, the old Commoner sent for Phil. "What is the latest news?" he asked. "The town is in a fever of excitement--not over the discovery in Lynch's yard--but over the blacker rumour that Marion and her mother committed suicide to conceal an assault by this fiend." "A trumped-up lie," said the old man emphatically. "It's true, sir. I'll take Doctor Cameron's word for it." "You have just come from the Camerons?" "Yes." "Let it be your last visit. The Camerons are on the road to the gallows, father and son. Lynch informs me that the murder committed last night, and the insolent notice nailed on the courthouse door, could have come only from their brain. They are the hereditary leaders of these people. They alone would have the audacity to fling this crime into the teeth of the world and threaten worse. We are face to face with Southern barbarism. Every man now to his own standard! The house of Stoneman can have no part with midnight assassins." "Nor with black barbarians, father. It is a question of who possesses the right of life and death over the citizen, the organized virtue of the community, or its organized crime. You have mistaken for death the patience of a generous people. We call ourselves the champions of liberty. Yet for less than they have suffered, kings have lost their heads and empires perished before the wrath of freemen." "My boy, this is not a question for argument between us," said the father with stern emphasis. "This conspiracy of terror and assassination threatens to shatter my work to atoms. The election on which turns the destiny of Congress, and the success or failure of my life, is but a few weeks away. Unless this foul conspiracy is crushed, I am ruined, and the Nation falls again beneath the heel of a slaveholders' oligarchy." "Your nightmare of a slaveholders' oligarchy does not disturb me." "At least you will have the decency to break your affair with Margaret Cameron pending the issue of my struggle of life and death with her father and brother?" "Never." "Then I will do it for you." "I warn you, sir," Phil cried, with anger, "that if it comes to an issue of race against race, I am a white man. The ghastly tragedy of the condition of society here is something for which the people of the South are no longer responsible----" "I'll take the responsibility!" growled the old cynic. "Don't ask me to share it," said the younger man emphatically. The father winced, his lips trembled, and he answered brokenly: "My boy, this is the bitterest hour of my life that has had little to make it sweet. To hear such words from you is more than I can bear. I am an old man now--my sands are nearly run. But two human beings love me, and I love but two. On you and your sister I have lavished all the treasures of a maimed and strangled soul--and it has come to this! Read the notice which one of your friends thrust into the window of my bedroom last night." He handed Phil a piece of paper on which was written: "The old club-footed beast who has sneaked into our town, pretending to search for health, in reality the leader of the infernal Union League, will be given forty-eight hours to vacate the house and rid this community of his presence. "K. K. K." "Are you an officer of the Union League?" Phil asked in surprise. "I am its soul." "How could a Southerner discover this, if your own children didn't know it?" "By their spies who have joined the League." "And do the rank and file know the Black Pope at the head of the order?" "No, but high officials do." "Does Lynch?" "Certainly." "Then he is the scoundrel who placed that note in your room. It is a clumsy attempt to forge an order of the Klan. The white man does not live in this town capable of that act. I know these people." "My boy, you are bewitched by the smiles of a woman to deny your own flesh and blood." "Nonsense, father--you are possessed by an idea which has become an insane mania----" "Will you respect my wishes?" the old man broke in angrily. "I will not," was the clear answer. Phil turned and left the room, and the old man's massive head sank on his breast in helpless baffled rage and grief. He was more successful in his appeal to Elsie. He convinced her of the genuineness of the threat against him. The brutal reference to his lameness roused the girl's soul. When the old man, crushed by Phil's desertion, broke down the last reserve of his strange cold nature, tore his wounded heart open to her, cried in agony over his deformity, his lameness, and the anguish with which he saw the threatened ruin of his life-work, she threw her arms around his neck in a flood of tears and cried: "Hush, father, I will not desert you. I will never leave you, or wed without your blessing. If I find that my lover was in any way responsible for this insult, I'll tear his image out of my heart and never speak his name again!" She wrote a note to Ben, asking him to meet her at sundown on horseback at Lover's Leap. Ben was elated at the unexpected request. He was hungry for an hour with his sweetheart, whom he had not seen save for a moment since the storm of excitement broke following the discovery of the crime. He hastened through his work of ordering the movement of the Klan for the night, and determined to surprise Elsie by meeting her in his uniform of a Grand Dragon. Secure in her loyalty, he would deliberately thus put his life in her hands. Using the water of a brook in the woods for a mirror, he adjusted his yellow sash and pushed the two revolvers back under the cape out of sight, saying to himself with a laugh: "Betray me? Well, if she does, life would not be worth the living!" When Elsie had recovered from the first shock of surprise at the white horse and rider waiting for her under the shadows of the old beech, her surprise gave way to grief at the certainty of his guilt, and the greatness of his love in thus placing his life without a question in her hands. He tied the horses in the woods, and they sat down on the rustic. He removed his helmet cap, threw back the white cape showing the scarlet lining, and the two golden circles with their flaming crosses on his breast, with boyish pride. The costume was becoming to his slender graceful figure, and he knew it. "You see, sweetheart, I hold high rank in the Empire," he whispered. From beneath his cape he drew a long bundle which he unrolled. It was a triangular flag of brilliant yellow edged in scarlet. In the centre of the yellow ground was the figure of a huge black dragon with fiery red eyes and tongue. Around it was a Latin motto worked in scarlet: "_quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_"--what always, what everywhere, what by all has been held to be true. "The battle-flag of the Klan," he said; "the standard of the Grand Dragon." Elsie seized his hand and kissed it, unable to speak. "Why so serious to-night?" "Do you love me very much?" she answered. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay his life at the feet of his beloved," he responded tenderly. "Yes, yes; I know--and that is why you are breaking my heart. When first I met you--it seems now ages and ages ago--I was a vain, self-willed, pert little thing----" "It's not so. I took you for an angel--you were one. You are one to-night." "Now," she went on slowly, "in what I have lived through you I have grown into an impassioned, serious, self-disciplined, bewildered woman. Your perfect trust to-night is the sweetest revelation that can come to a woman's soul and yet it brings to me unspeakable pain----" "For what?" "You are guilty of murder." Ben's figure stiffened. "The judge who pronounces sentence of death on a criminal outlawed by civilized society is not usually called a murderer, my dear." "And by whose authority are you a judge?" "By authority of the sovereign people who created the State of South Carolina. The criminals who claim to be our officers are usurpers placed there by the subversion of law." "Won't you give this all up for my sake?" she pleaded. "Believe me, you are in great danger." "Not so great as is the danger of my sister and mother and my sweetheart--it is a man's place to face danger," he gravely answered. "This violence can only lead to your ruin and shame----" "I am fighting the battle of a race on whose fate hangs the future of the South and the Nation. My ruin and shame will be of small account if they are saved," was the even answer. "Come, my dear," she pleaded tenderly, "you know that I have weighed the treasures of music and art and given them all for one clasp of your hand, one throb of your heart against mine. I should call you cruel did I not know you are infinitely tender. This is the only thing I have ever asked you to do for me----" "Desert my people! You must not ask of me this infamy, if you love me," he cried. "But, listen; this is wrong--this wild vengeance is a crime you are doing, however great the provocation. We cannot continue to love one another if you do this. Listen: I love you better than father, mother, life, or career--all my dreams I've lost in you. I've lived through eternity to-day with my father----" "You know me guiltless of the vulgar threat against him----" "Yes, and yet you are the leader of desperate men who might have done it. As I fought this battle to-day, I've lost you, lost myself, and sunk down to the depths of despair, and at the end rang the one weak cry of a woman's heart for her lover! Your frown can darken the brightest sky. For your sake I can give up all save the sense of right. I'll walk by your side in life--lead you gently and tenderly along the way of my dreams if I can, but if you go your way, it shall be mine; and I shall still be glad because you are there! See how humble I am--only you must not commit crime!" "Come, sweetheart, you must not use that word," he protested, with a touch of wounded pride. "You are a conspirator----" "I am a revolutionist." "You are committing murder!" "I am waging war." Elsie leaped to her feet in a sudden rush of anger and extended her hand: "Good-bye. I shall not see you again. I do not know you. You are still a stranger to me." He held her hand firmly. "We must not part in anger," he said slowly. "I have grave work to do before the day dawns. We may not see each other again." She led her horse to the seat quickly and without waiting for his assistance sprang into the saddle. "Do you not fear my betrayal of your secret?" she asked. He rode to her side, bent close, and whispered: "It's as safe as if locked in the heart of God." A little sob caught her voice, yet she said slowly in firm tones: "If another crime is committed in this county by your Klan, we will never see each other again." He escorted her to the edge of the town without a word, pressed her hand in silence, wheeled his horse, and disappeared on the road to the North Carolina line. CHAPTER IV THE BANNER OF THE DRAGON Ben Cameron rode rapidly to the rendezvous of the pickets who were to meet the coming squadrons. He returned home and ate a hearty meal. As he emerged from the dining-room, Phil seized him by the arm and led him under the big oak on the lawn: "Cameron, old boy, I'm in a lot of trouble. I've had a quarrel with my father, and your sister has broken me all up by returning my ring. I want a little excitement to ease my nerves. From Elsie's incoherent talk I judge you are in danger. If there's going to be a fight, let me in." Ben took his hand: "You're the kind of a man I'd like to have for a brother, and I'll help you in love--but as for war--it's not your fight. We don't need help." At ten o'clock Ben met the local Den at their rendezvous under the cliff, to prepare for the events of the night. The forty members present were drawn up before him in double rank of twenty each. "Brethren," he said to them solemnly, "I have called you to-night to take a step from which there can be no retreat. We are going to make a daring experiment of the utmost importance. If there is a faint heart among you, now is the time to retire----" "We are with you!" cried the men. "There are laws of our race, old before this Republic was born in the souls of white freemen. The fiat of fools has repealed on paper these laws. Your fathers who created this Nation were first Conspirators, then Revolutionists, now Patriots and Saints. I need to-night ten volunteers to lead the coming clansmen over this county and disarm every negro in it. The men from North Carolina cannot be recognized. Each of you must run this risk. Your absence from home to-night will be doubly dangerous for what will be done here at this negro armoury under my command. I ask of these ten men to ride their horses until dawn, even unto death, to ride for their God, their native land, and the womanhood of the South! "To each man who accepts this dangerous mission I offer for your bed the earth, for your canopy the sky, for your bread stones; and when the flash of bayonets shall fling into your face from the Square the challenge of martial law, the protection I promise you--is exile, imprisonment, and death! Let the ten men who accept these terms step forward four paces." With a single impulse the whole double line of forty white-and-scarlet figures moved quickly forward four steps! The leader shook hands with each man, his voice throbbing with emotion as he said: "Stand together like this, men, and armies will march and countermarch over the South in vain! We will save the life of our people." The ten guides selected by the Grand Dragon rode forward, and each led a division of one hundred men through the ten townships of the county and successfully disarmed every negro before day without the loss of a life. The remaining squadron of two hundred and fifty men from Hambright, accompanied by the Grand Titan in command of the Province of Western Hill Counties, were led by Ben Cameron into Piedmont as the waning moon rose between twelve and one o'clock. They marched past Stoneman's place on the way to the negro armoury, which stood on the opposite side of the street a block below. The wild music of the beat of a thousand hoofs on the cobblestones of the street waked every sleeper. The old Commoner hobbled to his window and watched them pass, his big hands fumbling nervously, and his soul stirred to its depths. The ghostlike shadowy columns moved slowly with the deliberate consciousness of power. The scarlet circles on their breasts could be easily seen when one turned toward the house, as could the big red letters K. K. K. on each horse's flank. In the centre of the line waved from a gold-tipped spear the battle-flag of the Klan. As they passed the bright lights burning at his gate, old Stoneman could see this standard plainly. The huge black dragon with flaming eyes and tongue seemed a living thing crawling over a scarlet-tipped yellow cloud. At the window above stood a little figure watching that banner of the Dragon pass with aching heart. Phil stood at another, smiling with admiration for their daring: "By George, it stirs the blood to see it! You can't crush men of that breed!" The watchers were not long in doubt as to what the raiders meant. They deployed quickly around the armoury. A whistle rang its shrill cry, and a volley of two hundred and fifty carbines and revolvers smashed every glass in the building. The sentinel had already given the alarm, and the drum was calling the startled negroes to their arms. They returned the volley twice, and for ten minutes were answered with the steady crack of two hundred and fifty guns. A white flag appeared at the door, and the firing ceased. The negroes laid down their arms and surrendered. All save three were allowed to go to their homes for the night and carry their wounded with them. The three confederates in the crime of their captain were bound and led away. In a few minutes the crash of a volley told their end. The little white figure rapped at Phil's door and placed a trembling hand on his arm: "Phil," she said softly, "please go to the hotel and stay until you know all that has happened--until you know the full list of those killed and wounded. I'll wait. You understand?" As he stooped and kissed her, he felt a hot tear roll down her cheek. "Yes, little Sis, I understand," he answered. CHAPTER V THE REIGN OF THE KLAN In quick succession every county followed the example of Ulster, and the arms furnished the negroes by the State and National governments were in the hands of the Klan. The League began to collapse in a panic of terror. A gale of chivalrous passion and high action, contagious and intoxicating, swept the white race. The moral, mental, and physical earthquake which followed the first assault on one of their daughters revealed the unity of the racial life of the people. Within the span of a week they had lived a century. The spirit of the South "like lightning had at last leaped forth, half startled at itself, its feet upon the ashes and the rags," its hands tight-gripped on the throat of tyrant, thug, and thief. It was the resistless movement of a race, not of any man or leader of men. The secret weapon with which they struck was the most terrible and efficient in human history--these pale hosts of white-and-scarlet horsemen! They struck shrouded in a mantle of darkness and terror. They struck where the power of resistance was weakest and the blow least suspected. Discovery or retaliation was impossible. Not a single disguise was ever penetrated. All was planned and ordered as by destiny. The accused was tried by secret tribunal, sentenced without a hearing, executed in the dead of night without warning, mercy, or appeal. The movements of the Klan were like clockwork, without a word, save the whistle of the Night Hawk, the crack of his revolver, and the hoofbeat of swift horses moving like figures in a dream, and vanishing in mists and shadows. The old club-footed Puritan, in his mad scheme of vengeance and party power, had overlooked the Covenanter, the backbone of the South. This man had just begun to fight! His race had defied the Crown of Great Britain a hundred years from the caves and wilds of Scotland and Ireland, taught the English people how to slay a king and build a commonwealth, and, driven into exile into the wilderness of America, led our Revolution, peopled the hills of the South, and conquered the West. As the young German patriots of 1812 had organized the great struggle for their liberties under the noses of the garrisons of Napoleon, so Ben Cameron had met the leaders of his race in Nashville, Tennessee, within the picket lines of thirty-five thousand hostile troops, and in the ruins of an old homestead discussed and adopted the ritual of the Invisible Empire. Within a few months this Empire overspread a territory larger than modern Europe. In the approaching election it was reaching out its daring white hands to tear the fruits of victory from twenty million victorious conquerors. The triumph at which they aimed was one of incredible grandeur. They had risen to snatch power out of defeat and death. Under their clan leadership the Southern people had suddenly developed the courage of the lion, the cunning of the fox, and the deathless faith of religious enthusiasts. Society was fused in the white heat of one sublime thought and beat with the pulse of the single will of the Grand Wizard of the Klan of Memphis. Women and children had eyes and saw not, ears and heard not. Over four thousand disguises for men and horses were made by the women of the South, and not one secret ever passed their lips! With magnificent audacity, infinite patience, and remorseless zeal, a conquered people were struggling to turn his own weapon against their conqueror, and beat his brains out with the bludgeon he had placed in the hands of their former slaves. Behind the tragedy of Reconstruction stood the remarkable man whose iron will alone had driven these terrible measures through the chaos of passion, corruption, and bewilderment which followed the first assassination of an American President. As he leaned on his window in this village of the South and watched in speechless rage the struggle at that negro armoury, he felt for the first time the foundations sinking beneath his feet. As he saw the black cowards surrender in terror, noted the indifference and cool defiance with which those white horsemen rode and shot, he knew that he had collided with the ultimate force which his whole scheme had overlooked. He turned on his big club foot from the window, clinched his fist and muttered: "But I'll hang that man for this deed if it's the last act of my life!" The morning brought dismay to the negro, the carpet-bagger, and the scallawag of Ulster. A peculiar freak of weather in the early morning added to their terror. The sun rose clear and bright except for a slight fog that floated from the river valley, increasing the roar of the falls. About nine o'clock a huge black shadow suddenly rushed over Piedmont from the west, and in a moment the town was shrouded in twilight. The cries of birds were hushed and chickens went to roost as in a total eclipse of the sun. Knots of people gathered on the streets and gazed uneasily at the threatening skies. Hundreds of negroes began to sing and shout and pray, while sensible people feared a cyclone or cloud-burst. A furious downpour of rain was swiftly followed by sunshine, and the negroes rose from their knees, shouting with joy to find the end of the world had after all been postponed. But that the end of their brief reign in a white man's land had come, but few of them doubted. The events of the night were sufficiently eloquent. The movement of the clouds in sympathy was unnecessary. Old Stoneman sent for Lynch, and found he had fled to Columbia. He sent for the only lawyer in town whom the Lieutenant-Governor had told him could be trusted. The lawyer was polite, but his refusal to undertake the prosecution of any alleged member of the Klan was emphatic. "I'm a sinful man, sir," he said with a smile. "Besides, I prefer to live, on general principles." "I'll pay you well," urged the old man, "and if you secure the conviction of Ben Cameron, the man we believe to be the head of this Klan, I'll give you ten thousand dollars." The lawyer was whittling on a piece of pine meditatively. "That's a big lot of money in these hard times. I'd like to own it, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be good at the bank on the other side. I prefer the green fields of South Carolina to those of Eden. My harp isn't in tune." Stoneman snorted in disgust: "Will you ask the Mayor to call to see me at once?" "We ain't got none," was the laconic answer. "What do you mean?" "Haven't you heard what happened to his Honour last night?" "No." "The Klan called to see him," went on the lawyer with a quizzical look "at 3 A. M. Rather early for a visit of state. They gave him forty-nine lashes on his bare back, and persuaded him that the climate of Piedmont didn't agree with him. His Honour, Mayor Bizzel, left this morning with his negro wife and brood of mulatto children for his home, the slums of Cleveland, Ohio. We are deprived of his illustrious example, and he may not be a wiser man than when he came, but he's a much sadder one." Stoneman dismissed the even-tempered member of the bar, and wired Lynch to return immediately to Piedmont. He determined to conduct the prosecution of Ben Cameron in person. With the aid of the Lieutenant-Governor he succeeded in finding a man who would dare to swear out a warrant against him. As a preliminary skirmish he was charged with a violation of the statutory laws of the United States relating to Reconstruction and arraigned before a Commissioner. Against Elsie's agonizing protest, old Stoneman appeared at the courthouse to conduct the prosecution. In the absence of the United States Marshal, the warrant had been placed in the hands of the sheriff, returnable at ten o'clock on the morning fixed for the trial. The new sheriff of Ulster was no less a personage than Uncle Aleck, who had resigned his seat in the House to accept the more profitable one of High Sheriff of the County. There was a long delay in beginning the trial. At 10:30 not a single witness summoned had appeared, nor had the prisoner seen fit to honour the court with his presence. Old Stoneman sat fumbling his hands in nervous, sullen rage, while Phil looked on with amusement. "Send for the sheriff," he growled to the Commissioner. In a moment Aleck appeared bowing humbly and politely to every white man he passed. He bent halfway to the floor before the Commissioner and said: "Marse Ben be here in er minute, sah. He's er eatin' his breakfus'. I run erlong erhead." Stoneman's face was a thundercloud as he scrambled to his feet and glared at Aleck: "_Marse_ Ben? Did you say _Marse_ Ben? Who's he?" Aleck bowed low again. "De young Colonel, sah--Marse Ben Cameron." "And you the sheriff of this county trotted along in front to make the way smooth for your prisoner?" "Yessah!" "Is that the way you escort prisoners before a court?" "Dem kin' er prisoners--yessah." "Why didn't you walk beside him?" Aleck grinned from ear to ear and bowed very low: "He say sumfin' to me, sah!" "And what did he say?" Aleck shook his head and laughed: "I hates ter insinuate ter de cote, sah!" "What did he say to you?" thundered Stoneman. "He say--he say--ef I walk 'longside er him--he knock hell outen me, sah!" "Indeed." "Yessah, en I 'spec' he would," said Aleck insinuatingly. "La, he's a gemman, sah, he is! He tell me he come right on. He be here sho'." Stoneman whispered to Lynch, turned with a look of contempt to Aleck, and said: "Mr. Sheriff, you interest me. Will you be kind enough to explain to this court what has happened to you lately to so miraculously change your manners?" Aleck glanced around the room nervously. "I seed sumfin'--a vision, sah!" "A vision? Are you given to visions?" "Na-sah. Dis yere wuz er sho' 'nuff vision! I wuz er feelin' bad all day yistiddy. Soon in de mawnin', ez I wuz gwine 'long de road, I see a big black bird er settin' on de fence. He flop his wings, look right at me en say, 'Corpse! Corpse! Corpse!'"--Aleck's voice dropped to a whisper--"'en las' night de Ku Kluxes come ter see me, sah!" Stoneman lifted his beetling brows. "That's interesting. We are searching for information on that subject." "Yessah! Dey wuz Sperits, ridin' white hosses wid flowin' white robes, en big blood-red eyes! De hosses wuz twenty feet high, en some er de Sperits wuz higher dan dis cote-house! Dey wuz all bal' headed, 'cept right on de top whar dere wuz er straight blaze er fire shot up in de air ten foot high!" "What did they say to you?" "Dey say dat ef I didn't design de sheriff's office, go back ter farmin' en behave myself, dey had er job waitin' fer me in hell, sah. En shos' you born dey wuz right from dar!" "Of course!" sneered the old Commoner. "Yessah! Hit's des lak I tell yer. One ob 'em makes me fetch 'im er drink er water. I carry two bucketsful ter 'im 'fo' I git done, en I swar ter God he drink it all right dar 'fo' my eyes! He say hit wuz pow'ful dry down below, sah! En den I feel sumfin' bus' loose inside er me, en I disremember all dat come ter pass! I made er jump fer de ribber bank, en de next I knowed I wuz er pullin' fur de odder sho'. I'se er pow'ful good swimmer, sah, but I nebber git ercross er creek befo' ez quick ez I got ober de ribber las' night." "And you think of going back to farming?" "I done begin plowin' dis mornin', marster!" "_Don't_ you call me marster!" yelled the old man. "Are you the sheriff of this county?" Aleck laughed loudly. "Na-sah! Dat's er joke! I ain't nuttin' but er plain nigger--I wants peace, judge." "Evidently we need a new sheriff." "Dat's what I tell 'em, sah, dis mornin'--en I des flings mysef on de ignance er de cote!" Phil laughed aloud, and his father's colourless eyes began to spit cold poison. "About what time do you think your master, Colonel Cameron, will honour us with his presence?" he asked Aleck. Again the sheriff bowed. "He's er comin' right now, lak I tole yer--he's er gemman, sah." Ben walked briskly into the room and confronted the Commissioner. Without apparently noticing his presence, Stoneman said: "In the absence of witnesses we accept the discharge of this warrant, pending developments." Ben turned on his heel, pressed Phil's hand as he passed through the crowd, and disappeared. The old Commoner drove to the telegraph office and sent a message of more than a thousand words to the White House, a copy of which the operator delivered to Ben Cameron within an hour. President Grant next morning issued a proclamation declaring the nine Scotch-Irish hill counties of South Carolina in a state of insurrection, ordered an army corps of five thousand men to report there for duty, pending the further necessity of martial law and the suspension of the writ of _Habeas Corpus_. CHAPTER VI THE COUNTER STROKE From the hour he had watched the capture of the armoury old Stoneman felt in the air a current against him which was electric, as if the dead had heard the cry of the clansmen's greeting, risen and rallied to their pale ranks. The daring campaign these men were waging took his breath. They were going not only to defeat his delegation to Congress, but send their own to take their seats, reinforced by the enormous power of a suppressed negro vote. The blow was so sublime in its audacity, he laughed in secret admiration while he raved and cursed. The army corps took possession of the hill counties, quartering from five to six hundred regulars at each courthouse; but the mischief was done. The State was on fire. The eighty thousand rifles with which the negroes had been armed were now in the hands of their foes. A white rifle-club was organized in every town, village, and hamlet. They attended the public meetings with their guns, drilled in front of the speakers' stands, yelled, hooted, hissed, cursed, and jeered at the orators who dared to champion or apologize for negro rule. At night the hoofbeat of squadrons of pale horsemen and the crack of their revolvers struck terror to the heart of every negro, carpet-bagger, and scallawag. There was a momentary lull in the excitement, which Stoneman mistook for fear, at the appearance of the troops. He had the Governor appoint a white sheriff, a young scallawag from the mountains who was a noted moonshiner and desperado. He arrested over a hundred leading men in the county, charged them with complicity in the killing of the three members of the African Guard, and instructed the judge and clerk of the court to refuse bail and commit them to jail under military guard. To his amazement the prisoners came into Piedmont armed and mounted. They paid no attention to the deputy sheriffs who were supposed to have them in charge. They deliberately formed in line under Ben Cameron's direction and he led them in a parade through the streets. The five hundred United States regulars who were camped on the river bank were Westerners. Ben led his squadron of armed prisoners in front of this camp and took them through the evolutions of cavalry with the precision of veterans. The soldiers dropped their games and gathered, laughing, to watch them. The drill ended with a double-rank charge at the river embankment. When they drew every horse on his haunches on the brink, firing a volley with a single crash, a wild cheer broke from the soldiers, and the officers rushed from their tents. Ben wheeled his men, galloped in front of the camp, drew them up at dress parade, and saluted. A low word of command from a trooper, and the Westerners quickly formed in ranks, returned the salute, and cheered. The officers rushed up, cursing, and drove the men back to their tents. The horsemen laughed, fired a volley in the air, cheered, and galloped back to the courthouse. The court was glad to get rid of them. There was no question raised over technicalities in making out bail-bonds. The clerk wrote the names of imaginary bondsmen as fast as his pen could fly, while the perspiration stood in beads on his red forehead. Another telegram from old Stoneman to the White House, and the Writ of _Habeas Corpus_ was suspended and Martial Law proclaimed. Enraged beyond measure at the salute from the troops, he had two companies of negro regulars sent from Columbia, and they camped in the Courthouse Square. He determined to make a desperate effort to crush the fierce spirit before which his forces were being driven like chaff. He induced Bizzel to return from Cleveland with his negro wife and children. He was escorted to the City Hall and reinstalled as Mayor by the full force of seven hundred troops, and a negro guard placed around his house. Stoneman had Lynch run an excursion from the Black Belt, and brought a thousand negroes to attend a final rally at Piedmont. He placarded the town with posters on which were printed the Civil Rights Bill and the proclamation of the President declaring Martial Law. Ben watched this day dawn with nervous dread. He had passed a sleepless night, riding in person to every Den of the Klan and issuing positive orders that no white man should come to Piedmont. A clash with the authority of the United States he had avoided from the first as a matter of principle. It was essential to his success that his men should commit no act of desperation which would imperil his plans. Above all, he wished to avoid a clash with old Stoneman personally. The arrival of the big excursion was the signal for a revival of negro insolence which had been planned. The men brought from the Eastern part of the State were selected for the purpose. They marched over the town yelling and singing. A crowd of them, half drunk, formed themselves three abreast and rushed the sidewalks, pushing every white man, woman, and child into the street. They met Phil on his way to the hotel and pushed him into the gutter. He said nothing, crossed the street, bought a revolver, loaded it and put it in his pocket. He was not popular with the negroes, and he had been shot at twice on his way from the mills at night. The whole affair of this rally, over which his father meant to preside, filled him with disgust, and he was in an ugly mood. Lynch's speech was bold, bitter, and incendiary, and at its close the drunken negro troopers from the local garrison began to slouch through the streets, two and two, looking for trouble. At the close of the speaking Stoneman called the officer in command of these troops, and said: "Major, I wish this rally to-day to be a proclamation of the supremacy of law, and the enforcement of the equality of every man under law. Your troops are entitled to the rights of white men. I understand the hotel table has been free to-day to the soldiers from the camp on the river. They are returning the courtesy extended to the criminals who drilled before them. Send two of your black troops down for dinner and see that it is served. I wish an example for the State." "It will be a dangerous performance, sir," the major protested. The old Commoner furrowed his brow. "Have you been instructed to act under my orders?" "I have, sir," said the officer, saluting. "Then do as I tell you," snapped Stoneman. Ben Cameron had kept indoors all day, and dined with fifty of the Western troopers whom he had identified as leading in the friendly demonstration to his men. Margaret, who had been busy with Mrs. Cameron entertaining these soldiers, was seated in the dining-room alone, eating her dinner, while Phil waited impatiently in the parlour. The guests had all gone when two big negro troopers, fighting drunk, walked into the hotel. They went to the water-cooler and drank ostentatiously, thrusting their thick lips coated with filth far into the cocoanut dipper, while a dirty hand grasped its surface. They pushed the dining-room door open and suddenly flopped down beside Margaret. She attempted to rise, and cried in rage: "How dare you, black brutes?" One of them threw his arm around her chair, thrust his face into hers, and said with a laugh: "Don't hurry, my beauty; stay and take dinner wid us!" Margaret again attempted to rise, and screamed, as Phil rushed into the room with drawn revolver. One of the negroes fired at him, missed, and the next moment dropped dead with a bullet through his heart. The other leaped across the table and through the open window. Margaret turned, confronting both Phil and Ben with revolvers in their hands, and fainted. Ben hurried Phil out the back door and persuaded him to fly. "Man, you must go! We must not have a riot here to-day. There's no telling what will happen. A disturbance now, and my men will swarm into town to-night. For God's sake go, until things are quiet!" "But I tell you I'll face it. I'm not afraid," said Phil quietly. "No, but I am," urged Ben. "These two hundred negroes are armed and drunk. Their officers may not be able to control them, and they may lay their hands on you--go--go!--go!--you must go! The train is due in fifteen minutes." He half lifted him on a horse tied behind the hotel, leaped on another, galloped to the flag-station two miles out of town, and put him on the north-bound train. "Stay in Charlotte until I wire for you," was Ben's parting injunction. He turned his horse's head for McAllister's, sent the two boys with all speed to the Cyclops of each of the ten township Dens with positive orders to disregard all wild rumours from Piedmont and keep every man out of town for two days. As he rode back he met a squad of mounted white regulars, who arrested him. The trooper's companion had sworn positively that he was the man who killed the negro. Within thirty minutes he was tried by drum-head court-martial and sentenced to be shot. CHAPTER VII THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER Sweet was the secret joy of old Stoneman over the fate of Ben Cameron. His death sentence would strike terror to his party, and his prompt execution, on the morning of the election but two days off, would turn the tide, save the State, and rescue his daughter from a hated alliance. He determined to bar the last way of escape. He knew the Klan would attempt a rescue, and stop at no means fair or foul short of civil war. Afraid of the loyalty of the white battalions quartered in Piedmont, he determined to leave immediately for Spartanburg, order an exchange of garrisons, and, when the death warrant was returned from headquarters, place its execution in the hands of a stranger, to whom appeal would be vain. He knew such an officer in the Spartanburg post, a man of fierce, vindictive nature, once court-martialed for cruelty, who hated every Southern white man with mortal venom. He would put him in command of the death watch. He hired a fast team and drove across the county with all speed, doubly anxious to get out of town before Elsie discovered the tragedy and appealed to him for mercy. Her tears and agony would be more than he could endure. She would stay indoors on account of the crowds, and he would not be missed until evening, when safely beyond her reach. When Phil arrived at Charlotte he found an immense crowd at the bulletin board in front of the _Observer_ office reading the account of the Piedmont tragedy. To his horror he learned of the arrest, trial, and sentence of Ben for the deed which he had done. He rushed to the office of the Division Superintendent of the Piedmont Air Line Railroad, revealed his identity, told him the true story of the tragedy, and begged for a special to carry him back. The Superintendent, who was a clansman, not only agreed, but within an hour had the special ready and two cars filled with stern-looking men to accompany him. Phil asked no questions. He knew what it meant. The train stopped at Gastonia and King's Mountain and took on a hundred more men. The special pulled into Piedmont at dusk. Phil ran to the Commandant and asked for an interview with Ben alone. "For what purpose, sir?" the officer asked. Phil resorted to a ruse, knowing the Commandant to be unaware of any difference of opinion between him and his father. "I hold a commission to obtain a confession from the prisoner which may save his life by destroying the Ku Klux Klan." He was admitted at once and the guard ordered to withdraw until the interview ended. Phil took Ben Cameron's place, exchanging hat and coat, and wrote a note to his father, telling in detail the truth, and asked for his immediate interference. "Deliver that, and I'll be out of here in two hours," he said, as he placed the note in Ben's hand. "I'll go straight to the house," was the quick reply. The exchange of the Southerner's slouch hat and Prince Albert for Phil's derby and short coat completely fooled the guard in the dim light. The men were as much alike as twins except the shade of difference in the colour of their hair. He passed the sentinel without a challenge, and walked rapidly toward Stoneman's house. On the way he was astonished to meet five hundred soldiers just arrived on a special from Spartanburg. Amazed at the unexpected movement, he turned and followed them back to the jail. They halted in front of the building he had just vacated, and their commander handed an official document to the officer in charge. The guard was changed and a cordon of soldiers encircled the prison. The Piedmont garrison had received notice by wire to move to Spartanburg, and Ben heard the beat of their drums already marching to board the special. He pressed forward and asked an interview with the Captain in command. The answer came with a brutal oath: "I have been warned against all the tricks and lies this town can hatch. The commander of the death watch will permit no interview, receive no visitors, hear no appeal, and allow no communication with the prisoner until after the execution. You can announce this to whom it may concern." "But you've got the wrong man. You have no right to execute him," said Ben excitedly. "I'll risk it," he answered, with a sneer. "Great God!" Ben cried beneath his breath. "The old fool has entrapped his son in the net he spread for me!" CHAPTER VIII A RIDE FOR A LIFE When Ben Cameron failed to find either Elsie or her father at home, he hurried to the hotel, walking under the shadows of the trees to avoid recognition, though his resemblance to Phil would have enabled him to pass in his hat and coat unchallenged by any save the keenest observers. He found his mother's bedroom door ajar and saw Elsie within, sobbing in her arms. He paused, watched, and listened. Never had he seen his mother so beautiful--her face calm, intelligent, and vital, crowned with a halo of gray. She stood, flushed and dignified, softly smoothing the golden hair of the sobbing girl whom she had learned to love as her daughter. Her whole being reflected the years of homage she had inspired in husband, children, and neighbours. What a woman! She had made war inevitable, fought it to the bitter end; and in the despair of a negro reign of terror, still the prophetess and high priestess of a people, serene, undismayed, and defiant, she had fitted the uniform of a Grand Dragon on her last son, and sewed in secret day and night to equip his men. And through it all she was without affectation, her sweet motherly ways, gentle manner and bearing always resistless to those who came within her influence. "If he dies," cried the tearful voice, "I shall never forgive myself for not surrendering without reserve and fighting his battles with him!" "He is not dead yet," was the mother's firm answer. "Doctor Cameron is on Queen's back. Your lover's men will be riding to-night--these young dare-devil Knights of the South, with their life in their hands, a song on their lips, and the scorn of death in their souls!" "Then I'll ride with them," cried the girl, suddenly lifting her head. Ben stepped into the room, and with a cry of joy Elsie sprang into his arms. The mother stood silent until their lips met in the long tender kiss of the last surrender of perfect love. "How did you escape so soon?" she asked quietly, while Elsie's head still lay on his breast. "Phil shot the brute, and I rushed him out of town. He heard the news, returned on the special, took my place, and sent me for his father. The guard has been changed and it's impossible to see him, or communicate with the new Commandant----" Elsie started and turned pale. "And father has hidden to avoid me--merciful God--if Phil is executed----" "He isn't dead yet, either," said Ben, slipping his arm around her. "But we must save him without a clash or a drop of bloodshed, if possible. The fate of our people may hang on this. A battle with United States troops now might mean ruin for the South----" "But you will save him?" Elsie pleaded, looking into his face. "Yes--or I'll go down with him," was the steady answer. "Where is Margaret?" he asked. "Gone to McAllister's with a message from your father," Mrs. Cameron replied, "Tell her when she returns to keep a steady nerve. I'll save Phil. Send her to find her father. Tell him to hold five hundred men ready for action in the woods by the river and the rest in reserve two miles out of town----" "May I go with her?" Elsie asked eagerly. "No. I may need you," he said. "I am going to find the old statesman now, if I have to drag the bottomless pit. Wait here until I return." Ben reached the telegraph office unobserved, called the operator at Columbia, and got the Grand Giant of the county into the office. Within an hour he learned that the death warrant had been received and approved. It would be returned by a messenger to Piedmont on the morning train. He learned also that any appeal for a stay must be made through the Honourable Austin Stoneman, the secret representative of the Government clothed with this special power. The execution had been ordered the day of the election, to prevent the concentration of any large force bent on rescue. "The old fox!" Ben muttered. From the Grand Giant at Spartanburg he learned, after a delay of three hours, that Stoneman had left with a boy in a buggy, which he had hired for three days, and refused to tell his destination. He promised to follow and locate him as quickly as possible. It was the afternoon on the day following, during the progress of the election, before Ben received the message from Spartanburg that Stoneman had been found at the Old Red Tavern where the roads crossed from Piedmont to Hambright. It was only twelve miles away, just over the line on the North Carolina side. He walked with Margaret to the block where Queen stood saddled, watching with pride the quiet air of self-control with which she bore herself. "Now, my sister, you know the way to the tavern. Ride for your sweetheart's life. Bring the old man here by five o'clock, and we'll save Phil without a fight. Keep your nerve. The Commandant knows a regiment of mine is lying in the woods, and he's trying to slip out of town with his prisoner. I'll stand by my men ready for a battle at a moment's notice, but for God's sake get here in time to prevent it." She stooped from the saddle, pressed her brother's hand, kissed him, and galloped swiftly over the old Way of Romance she knew so well. On reaching the tavern, the landlord rudely denied that any such man was there, and left her standing dazed and struggling to keep back the tears. A boy of eight, with big wide friendly eyes, slipped into the room, looked up into her face tenderly, and said: "He's the biggest liar in North Carolina. The old man's right upstairs in the room over your head. Come on; I'll show you." Margaret snatched the child in her arms and kissed him. She knocked in vain for ten minutes. At last she heard his voice within: "Go away from that door!" "I'm from Piedmont, sir," cried Margaret, "with an important message from the Commandant for you." "Yes; I saw you come. I will not see you. I know everything, and I will hear no appeal." "But you cannot know of the exchange of men," pleaded the girl. "I tell you I know all about it. I will not interfere----" "But you could not be so cruel----" "The majesty of the law must be vindicated. The judge who consents to the execution of a murderer is not cruel. He is showing mercy to Society. Go, now; I will not hear you." In vain Margaret knocked, begged, pleaded, and sobbed. At last, in a fit of desperation, as she saw the sun sinking lower and the precious minutes flying, she hurled her magnificent figure against the door and smashed the cheap lock which held it. The old man sat at the other side of the room, looking out of the window, with his massive jaws locked in rage. The girl staggered to his side, knelt by his chair, placed her trembling hand on his arm, and begged: "For the love of Jesus, have mercy! Come with me quickly!" With a growl of anger, he said: "No!" [Illustration: MIRIAM COOPER AS MARGARET CAMERON.] "It was a mad impulse, in my defence as well as his own." "Impulse, yes! But back of it lay banked the fires of cruelty and race hatred! The Nation cannot live with such barbarism rotting its heart out." "But this is war, sir--a war of races, and this an accident of war--besides, his life had been attempted by them twice before." "So I've heard, and yet the negro always happens to be the victim----" Margaret leaped to her feet and glared at the old man for a moment in uncontrollable anger. "Are you a fiend?" she fairly shrieked. Old Stoneman merely pursed his lips. The girl came a step closer, and extended her hand again in mute appeal. "No, I was foolish. You are not cruel. I have heard of a hundred acts of charity you have done among our poor. Come, this is horrible! It is impossible! You cannot consent to the death of your son----" Stoneman looked up sharply: "Thank God, he hasn't married my daughter yet----" "Your daughter!" gasped Margaret. "I've told you it was Phil who killed the negro! He took Ben's place just before the guards were exchanged----" "Phil!--Phil?" shrieked the old man, staggering to his club foot and stumbling toward Margaret with dilated eyes and whitening face; "My boy--Phil?--why--why, are you crazy?--Phil? Did you say--_Phil_?" "Yes. Ben persuaded him to go to Charlotte until the excitement passed to avoid trouble. Come, come, sir, we must be quick! We may be too late!" She seized and pulled him toward the door. "Yes. Yes, we must hurry," he said in a laboured whisper, looking around dazed. "You will show me the way, my child--you love him--yes, we will go quickly--quickly! my boy--my boy!" Margaret called the landlord, and while they hitched Queen to the buggy, the old man stood helplessly wringing and fumbling his big ugly hands, muttering incoherently, and tugging at his collar as though about to suffocate. As they dashed away, old Stoneman laid a trembling hand on Margaret's arm. "Your horse is a good one, my child?" "Yes; the one Marion saved--the finest in the county." "And you know the way?" "Every foot of it. Phil and I have driven it often." "Yes, yes--you love him," he sighed, pressing her hand. Through the long reckless drive, as the mare flew over the rough hills, every nerve and muscle of her fine body at its utmost tension, the father sat silent. He braced his club foot against the iron bar of the dashboard and gripped the sides of the buggy to steady his feeble body. Margaret leaned forward intently watching the road to avoid an accident. The old man's strange colourless eyes stared straight in front, wide open, and seeing nothing, as if the soul had already fled through them into eternity. CHAPTER IX "VENGEANCE IS MINE" It was dark long before Margaret and Stoneman reached Piedmont. A mile out of town a horse neighed in the woods, and, tired as she was, Queen threw her head high and answered the call. The old man did not notice it, but Margaret knew a squadron of white-and-scarlet horsemen stood in those woods, and her heart gave a bound of joy. As they passed the Presbyterian church, she saw through the open window her father standing at his Elder's seat leading in prayer. They were holding a watch service, asking God for victory in the eventful struggle of the day. Margaret attempted to drive straight to the jail, and a sentinel stopped them. "I am Stoneman, sir--the real commander of these troops," said the old man, with authority. "Orders is orders, and I don't take 'em from you," was the answer. "Then tell your commander that Mr. Stoneman has just arrived from Spartanburg and asks to see him at the hotel immediately." He hobbled into the parlour and waited in agony while Margaret tied the mare. Ben, her mother and father, and every servant were gone. In a few moments the second officer hurried to Stoneman, saluted, and said: "We've pulled it off in good shape, sir. They've tried to fool us with a dozen tricks, and a whole regiment has been lying in wait for us all day. But at dark the Captain outwitted them, took his prisoner with a squad of picked cavalry, and escaped their pickets. They've been gone an hour, and ought to be back with the body----" Old Stoneman sprang on him with the sudden fury of a madman, clutching at his throat. "If you've killed my son," he gasped--"go--go! Follow them with a swift messenger and stop them! It's a mistake--you're killing the wrong man--you're killing my boy--quick--my God, quick--don't stand there staring at me!" The officer rushed to obey his order as Margaret entered. The old man seized her arm, and said with laboured breath: "Your father, my child, ask him to come to me quickly." Margaret hurried to the church, and an usher called the doctor to the door. He read the question trembling on the girl's lips. "Nothing has happened yet, my daughter. Your brother has held a regiment of his men in readiness every moment of the day." "Mr. Stoneman is at the hotel and asks to see you immediately," she whispered. "God grant he may prevent bloodshed," said the father. "Go inside and stay with your mother." When Doctor Cameron entered the parlour Stoneman hobbled painfully to meet him, his face ashen, and his breath rattling in his throat as if his soul were being strangled. "You are my enemy, Doctor," he said, taking his hand, "but you are a pious man. I have been called an infidel--I am only a wilful sinner--I have slain my own son, unless God Almighty, who can raise the dead, shall save him! You are the man at whom I aimed the blow that has fallen on my head. I wish to confess to you and set myself right before God. He may hear my cry, and have mercy on me." He gasped for breath, sank into his seat, looked around, and said: "Will you close the door?" The doctor complied with his request and returned. "We all wear masks, Doctor," began the trembling voice. "Beneath lie the secrets of love and hate from which actions move. My will alone forged the chains of negro rule. Three forces moved me--party success, a vicious woman, and the quenchless desire for personal vengeance. When I first fell a victim to the wiles of the yellow vampire who kept my house, I dreamed of lifting her to my level. And when I felt myself sinking into the black abyss of animalism, I, whose soul had learned the pathway of the stars and held high converse with the great spirits of the ages----" He paused, looked up in terror, and whispered: "What's that noise? Isn't it the distant beat of horses' hoofs?" "No," said the doctor, listening; "it's the roar of the falls we hear, from a sudden change of the wind." "I'm done now," Stoneman went on, slowly fumbling his hands. "My life has been a failure. The dice of God are always loaded." His great head drooped lower, and he continued: "Mightiest of all was my motive of revenge. Fierce business and political feuds wrecked my iron mills. I shouldered their vast debts, and paid the last mortgage of a hundred thousand dollars the week before Lee invaded my State. I stood on the hill in the darkness, cried, raved, cursed, while I watched the troops lay those mills in ashes. Then and there I swore that I'd live until I ground the South beneath my heel! When I got back to my house they had buried a Confederate soldier in the field. I dug his body up, carted it to the woods, and threw it into a ditch----" The hand of the white-haired Southerner suddenly gripped old Stoneman's throat--and then relaxed. His head sank on his breast, and he cried in anguish: "God be merciful to me a sinner! Would I, too, seek revenge!" Stoneman looked at the doctor, dazed by his sudden onslaught and collapse. "Yes, he was somebody's boy down here," he went on, "who was loved perhaps even as I love--I don't blame you. See, in the inside pocket next to my heart I carry the pictures of Phil and Elsie taken from babyhood up, all set in a little book. They don't know this--nor does the world dream I've been so soft-hearted----" He drew a miniature album from his pocket and fumbled it aimlessly: "You know Phil was my first-born----" His voice broke, and he looked at the doctor helplessly. The Southerner slipped his arm around the old man's shoulders and began a tender and reverent prayer. The sudden thunder of a squad of cavalry with clanking sabres swept by the hotel toward the jail. Stoneman scrambled to his feet, staggered, and caught a chair. "It's no use," he groaned, "--they've come with his body--I'm slipping down--the lights are going out--I haven't a friend! It's dark and cold--I'm alone, and lost--God--has--hidden--His--face--from--me!" Voices were heard without, and the tramp of heavy feet on the steps. Stoneman clutched the doctor's arm in agony: "Stop them!--Stop them! Don't let them bring him in here!" He sank limp into the chair and stared at the door as it swung open and Phil walked in, with Ben and Elsie by his side, in full clansman disguise. The old man leaped to his feet and gasped: "The Klan!--The Klan! No? Yes! It's true--glory to God, they've saved my boy--Phil--Phil!" "How did you rescue him?" Doctor Cameron asked Ben. "Had a squadron lying in wait on every road that led from town. The Captain thought a thousand men were on him, and surrendered without a shot." * * * * * At twelve o'clock Ben stood at the gate with Elsie. "Your fate hangs in the balance of this election to-night," she said. "I'll share it with you, success or failure, life or death." "Success, not failure," he answered firmly. "The Grand Dragons of six States have already wired victory. Look at our lights on the mountains! They are ablaze--range on range our signals gleam until the Fiery Cross is lost among the stars!" "What does it mean?" she whispered. "That I am a successful revolutionist--that Civilization has been saved, and the South redeemed from shame." THE END 
6719	----	[Illustration: "Well Chile, Wot You Wants Ter Say?"] The Works of E. P. Roe _VOLUME FIFTEEN_ THE EARTH TREMBLED ILLUSTRATED CONTENTS CHAPTER I MARY WALLINGFORD CHAPTER II LOVE'S AGONY CHAPTER III UNCLE SHEBA'S EXPERIENCE CHAPTER IV MARA CHAPTER V PAST AND FUTURE CHAPTER VI "PAHNASHIP" CHAPTER VII MARA'S PURPOSE CHAPTER VIII NEVER FORGET; NEVER FORGIVE CHAPTER IX A NEW SOLACE CHAPTER X MISS AINSLEY CHAPTER XI TWO QUESTIONS CHAPTER XII A "FABULATION" CHAPTER XIII CAPTAIN BODINE CHAPTER XIV "ALL GIRLS TOGETHER" CHAPTER XV TWO LITTLE BAKERS CHAPTER XVI HONEST FOES CHAPTER XVII FIRESIDE DRAMAS CHAPTER XVIII A FAIR DUELLIST CHAPTER XIX A CHIVALROUS SURPRISE CHAPTER XX THE STRANGER EXPLAINS CHAPTER XXI UNCLE SHEBA SAT UPON CHAPTER XXII YOUNG HOUGHTON IS DISCUSSED CHAPTER XXIII THE WARNING CHAPTER XXIV "THE IDEA!" CHAPTER XXV FEMININE FRIENDS CHAPTER XXVI ELLA'S CRUMB OF COMFORT CHAPTER XXVII RECOGNIZED AS LOVER CHAPTER XXVIII "HEAVEN SPEED YOU THEN" CHAPTER XXIX CONSTERNATION CHAPTER XXX TEMPESTS CHAPTER XXXI "I ABSOLVE YOU" CHAPTER XXXII FALSE SELF-SACRIFICE CHAPTER XXXIII A SURE TEST CHAPTER XXXIV "BITTERNESS MUST BE CHERISHED" CHAPTER XXXV NOBLE REVENGE CHAPTER XXXVI A FATHER'S FRENZY CHAPTER XXXVII CLOUDS LIFTING CHAPTER XXXVIII "YES, VILET" CHAPTER XXXIX THE EARTHQUAKE CHAPTER XL "GOD" CHAPTER XLI SCENES NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN CHAPTER XLII A HOMELESS CITY CHAPTER XLIII "THE TERROR BY NIGHT" CHAPTER XLIV HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD CHAPTER XLV A CITY ENCAMPING CHAPTER XLVI "ON JORDAN'S BANKS WE STAN'" CHAPTER XLVII LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF A NIGHT CHAPTER XLVIII GOOD BROUGHT OUT OF EVIL THE EARTH TREMBLED THE EARTH TREMBLED CHAPTER I MARY WALLINGFORD At the beginning of the Civil War there was a fine old residence on Meeting Street in Charleston, South Carolina, inhabited by a family almost as old as the State. Its inheritor and owner, Orville Burgoyne, was a widower. He had been much saddened in temperament since the death of the wife, and had withdrawn as far as possible from public affairs. His library and the past had secured a stronger hold upon his interest and his thoughts than anything in the present, with one exception, his idolized and only child, Mary, named for her deceased mother. Any book would be laid aside when she entered; all gloom banished from his eyes when she coaxed and caressed him. She was in truth one to be loved because so capable of love herself. She conquered and ruled every one not through wilfulness or imperiousness, but by a gentle charm, all her own, which disarmed opposition. At first Mr. Burgoyne had paid little heed to the mutterings which preceded the Civil War, believing them to be but Chinese thunder, produced by ambitious politicians, North and South. He was preoccupied by the study of an old system of philosophy which he fancied possessed more truth than many a more plausible and modern one. Mary, with some fancy work in her hands, often watched his deep abstraction in wondering awe, and occasionally questioned him in regard to his thoughts and studies; but as his explanations were almost unintelligible, she settled down to the complacent belief that her father was one of the most learned men in the world. At last swiftly culminating events aroused Mr. Burgoyne from his abstraction and drove him from his retirement. He accepted what he believed to be duty in profound sorrow and regret. His own early associations and those of his ancestors had been with the old flag and its fortunes; his relations to the political leaders of the South were too slight to produce any share in the alienation and misunderstandings which had been growing between the two great sections of his country, and he certainly had not the slightest sympathy with those who had fomented the ill-will for personal ends. Finally, however, he had found himself face to face with the momentous certainty of a separation of his State from the Union. For a time he was bewildered and disturbed beyond measure; for he was not a prompt man of affairs, living keenly in the present, but one who had been suddenly and rudely summoned from the academic groves of the old philosophers to meet the burning imperative questions of the day--questions put with the passionate earnestness of a people excited beyond measure. It was this very element of popular feeling which finally turned the scale in his decision. Apparently the entire Southern people were unanimous in their determination "to be free" and to separate themselves from their old political relations. His pastor with all other friends of his own rank confirmed this impression, and, as it was known that he wavered, the best and strongest men of his acquaintance argued the question with him. His daughter was early carried away by the enthusiasm of her young companions, nevertheless she watched the conflict in her father's mind with the deepest interest. She often saw him walk the floor with unwonted tears in his eyes and almost agony on his brow; and when at last, he decided in accordance with the prevailing sentiment of his State, the Act of Secession and all that it involved became sacred in her thoughts. She trembled and shrank when the phase of negotiation passed away, and war was seen to be the one alternative to submission. She never doubted or hesitated, however; neither did her father after his mind was once made up. Every day the torrent of bitter feeling deepened and broadened between them and the North, of which, practically, they knew very little. Even such knowledge as they possessed had come through distorted mediums, and now everything was colored by the blackest prejudice. They were led to believe and made to feel that not only their possessions but their life and honor were at stake. In early years Mr. Burgoyne had served with distinction in the war with Mexico, and he therefore promptly received a commission. The effect of her father's decision and action had been deepened a hundred-fold by an event which occurred soon afterward. Among the thousands who thronged to Charleston when Fort Sumter was attacked, was the son of a wealthy planter residing in the interior of the State. This young soldier's enthusiasm and devotion were much bruited in the city, because, waiving wealth and rank, he had served as a private. His fearlessness at Fort Moultrie enhanced his reputation, and when the small garrison of heroes, commanded by Major Anderson, succumbed, Sidney Wallingford found that he had been voted a hero himself, especially by his fair compatriots with whom he had formerly danced when visiting the town. The young fellow's head was not easily turned, however, for when, at an evening gathering, a group was lauding the great achievement he said disdainfully, "What! thousands against seventy? Despise the Yankees as we may, the odds were too great. The only thing we can plume ourselves upon is that we would have fought just the same had the seventy been seven thousand. I think the fellows did splendidly, if they were Yankees, yet what else could we expect since their commander was a Southern man? Oh no! we must wait till the conditions are more even before we can exult over our victories. I reckon we'll have them all the same though." Murmurs of approbation followed these remarks, but he saw only the eloquent eyes of Mary Burgoyne, and, offering her his arm, led her away. The spring night was as warm as a June evening at the North, and they joined the groups that were strolling under the moonlight in the garden. Sidney felt the young girl's hand tremble on his arm, and he drew it closer to his side. She soon asked falteringly, "Mr. Wallingford, do you think--will the conditions become more even, as you suggested? Can it be that the North will be so carried away by this abolition fanaticism as to send armies and ships in the vain effort to subjugate us?" "Thank you, Miss Mary, for saying that it will be a 'vain effort.'" "Of course it will be, with such men as my father and"--she suddenly hesitated. "And who else?" he gently asked, trying to look into her averted face. "Oh--well," she stammered with a forced little laugh, "thousands of brave fellows like you. You do not answer my question. Are we to have anything like a general war? Surely, there ought to be enough good, wise men on both sides to settle the matter." "The matter might be settled easily enough," he replied lightly. "We know our rights, and shall firmly assert them. If the Yankees yield, all well; if not, we'll make 'em." "But making them may mean a great war?" "Oh, yes, some serious scrimmages I reckon. We're prepared however, and will soon bring the North to its senses." "If anything should happen to my father!" she sighed. He had led her beneath the shadow of a palmetto, and now breathed into her ear, "Mary, dear Mary, how much I'd give to hear you say in the same tone, 'If anything should happen to Sidney'!" She did not withdraw her hand from his arm, and he again felt it tremble more than before. "Mary," he continued earnestly, "I have asked your father if I might speak to you, and he did not deny me the privilege. Oh, Mary, you must have seen my love in my eyes and heard it in my tones long since. Mary," he concluded impetuously, "let me but feel that I am defending you as well as my State, and I can and will be a soldier in very truth." She suddenly turned and sobbed on his shoulder, "That's what I fear,--I can hide my secret from you no longer--that's what I fear. Those I love will be exposed to sudden and terrible death. I am not brave at all." "Shall I go home and plant cotton?" he asked, half jestingly. "No, no, a thousand times no," she cried passionately. "Have I not seen the deep solemnity with which my father accepted duty so foreign to his tastes and habits? Can you think I would wish you to shrink or fail--you who are so strong and brave? No, no, in very truth. Self must mean only self-sacrifice until our sacred cause is won. Yet think twice, Sidney, before you bind yourself to me. I fear I am not so brave as other women appear to be in these times. My heart shrinks unspeakably from war and bloodshed. Although I shall not falter, I shall suffer agonies of dread. I cannot let you go to danger with stern words and dry eyes. I fear you'll find me too weak to be a soldier's wife." He led her into deeper and shadier seclusion as he asked, "Do you think I'll hesitate because you have a heart in your bosom instead of a stone? No, my darling. We must keep a brave aspect to the world, but my heart is as tender toward you as yours toward me. What else in God's universe could I dread more than harm to you? But there is little cause to fear. The whole South will soon be with us, foreign nations will recognize us as an independent people, and then we will dictate our own terms of peace; then you shall be my bride in this, our proud city by the sea." He kissed away her tears, and they strolled through the shadowy walks until each had regained the composure essential in the bright drawing-rooms. A commission with the rank of captain was speedily offered young Wallingford. He accepted it, but said he would return home and raise his own company. This action was also applauded by his friends and the authorities. Mary saw her father smile approvingly and proudly upon her choice, and he became her ideal hero as well as lover. He fulfilled his promises, and before many weeks passed, re-entered Charleston with a hundred brave fellows, devoted to him. The company was incorporated into one of the many regiments forming, and Mr. Burgoyne assured his daughter that the young captain was sure of promotion, and would certainly make a thorough soldier. Even in those early and lurid days a few things were growing clear, and among them was the fact that the North would not recognize the doctrine of State Rights, nor peaceably accept the Act of Secession. Soldiers would be needed,--how long no one knew, for the supreme question of the day had passed from the hands of statesmen to those of the soldier. The lack of mutual knowledge, the misapprehension and the gross prejudices existing between the two sections, would have been ludicrous had they not been fraught with such long-continued woes. Southern papers published such stuff as this: "The Northern soldiers are men who prefer enlisting to starvation; scurvy fellows from the back slums of cities, with whom Falstaff would not have marched through Coventry. Let them come South, and we will put our negroes at the dirty work of killing them. But they will not come South. Not a wretch of them will live on this side of the border longer than it will take us to reach the ground and drive them off." The Northern press responded in kind: "No man of sense," it was declared, "could for a moment doubt that this much-ado-about-nothing would end in a month. The Northern people are simply invincible. The rebels, a mere band of ragamuffins, will fly like chaff before the wind on our approach." Thus the wretched farces of bluster continued on either side until in blood, agony, and heartbreak, Americans learned to know Americans. President Lincoln, however, had called out seventy-five thousand troops, and these men were not long in learning that they could not walk over the South in three months. The South also discovered that these same men could not be terrified into abandoning the attempt. There were thoughtful men on both sides who early began to recognize the magnitude of the struggle upon which they had entered. Among these was Major Burgoyne, and the presentiment grew upon him that he would not see the end of the conflict. When, therefore, impetuous young Wallingford urged that he might call Mary his wife before he marched to distant battlefields, the father yielded, feeling that it might be well for her to have another protector besides himself. The union was solemnized in old St. Michael's Church, where Mary's mother and grandmother had been married before her; a day or two of quiet and happiness was vouchsafed, and then came the tidings of the first great battle of the war. Charleston responded with acclamations of triumph; bells sent out their merriest peals; cannon thundered from every fort on the harbor, but Mary wept on her husband's breast. Among the telegrams of victory had come an order for his regiment to go North immediately. Not even a brief honeymoon was permitted to her. CHAPTER II LOVE'S AGONY As the exaggerated reports of a magnificent Confederate victory at Bull Run continued to pour in, Major Burgoyne shared for a time in the general elation, believing that independence, recognition abroad, and peace had been virtually secured. All the rant about Northern cowardice appeared to be confirmed, and he eagerly waited for the announcement that Washington had been captured by Johnston's victorious army. Instead, came the dismal tidings from his only sister that her husband, Captain Hunter, had been killed in the battle over which he had been rejoicing. Then for some mysterious reason the Southern army did not follow the Federals, who had left the field in such utter rout and panic. It soon appeared that the contending forces were occupying much the same positions as before. News of the second great uprising of the North followed closely, and presaged anything but a speedy termination of the conflict. Major Burgoyne was not a Hotspur, and he grew thoughtful and depressed in spirit, although he sedulously concealed the fact from his associates. The shadow of coming events began to fall upon him, and his daughter gradually divined his lack of hopefulness. The days were already sad and full of anxiety, for her husband was absent. He had scouted the idea of the Yankees standing up before the impetuous onset of the Southern soldiers, and his words had apparently proved true, yet even those Northern cowards had killed one closely allied to her before they fled. Remembering, therefore, her husband's headlong courage, what assurance of his safety could she have although victory followed victory? Major Burgoyne urged his widowed sister to leave her plantation in the charge of an overseer and make her home with him. "You are too near the probable theatre of military operations to be safe," he wrote, "and my mind cannot rest till you are with us in this city which we are rapidly making impregnable." The result was that she eventually became a member of his family. Her stern, sad face added to the young wife's depression, for the stricken woman had been rendered intensely bitter by her loss. Mary was too gentle in nature to hate readily, yet wrathful gleams would be emitted at times even from her blue eyes, as her aunt inveighed in her hard monotone against the "monstrous wrong of the North." They saw their side with such downright sincerity and vividness that the offenders appeared to be beyond the pale of humanity. Few men, even though the frosts of many winters had cooled their blood and ripened their judgment, could reason dispassionately in those days, much less women, whose hearts were kept on the rack of torture by the loss of dear ones or the dread of such loss. It is my purpose to dwell upon the war, its harrowing scenes and intense animosities, only so far as may be essential to account for my characters and to explain subsequent events. The roots of personality strike deep, and the taproot, heredity, runs back into the being of those who lived and suffered before we were born. Gentle Mary Burgoyne should have been part of a happier day and generation. The bright hopes of a speedily conquered peace were dying away; the foolish bluster on both sides at the beginning of the war had ceased, and the truth so absurdly ignored at first, that Americans, North and South, would fight with equal courage, was made clearer by every battle. The heavy blows received by the South, however, did not change her views as to the wisdom and righteousness of her cause, and she continued to return blows at which the armies of the North reeled, stunned and bleeding. Mary was not permitted to exult very long, however, for the terrible pressure was quickly renewed with an unwavering pertinacity which created misgivings in the stoutest hearts. The Federals had made a strong lodgment on the coast of her own State, and were creeping nearer and nearer, often repulsed yet still advancing as if impelled by the remorseless principle of fate. At last, in the afternoon of a day early in April, events occurred never to be forgotten by those who witnessed them. Admiral Dupont with his armored ships attempted to reduce Fort Sumter and capture the city. Thousands of spectators watched the awful conflict; Mary Wallingford and her aunt, Mrs. Hunter, among them. The combined roar of the guns exceeded all the thunder they had ever heard. About three hundred Confederate cannon were concentrated on the turreted monitors, and some of the commanders said that "shot struck the vessels as fast as the ticking of a watch." It would seem that the ships which appeared so diminutive in the distance must be annihilated, yet Mary with her powerful glass saw them creep nearer and nearer. It was their shots, not those of her friends, that she watched with agonized absorption, for every tremendous bolt was directed against the fort in which was her father. The conflict was too unequal; the bottom of the harbor was known to be paved with torpedoes, and in less than an hour Dupont withdrew his squadron in order to save it from destruction. In strong reaction from intense excitement, Mary's knees gave way, and she sank upon them in thankfulness to God. Her aunt supported her to her room, gave restoratives, and the daughter in deep anxiety waited for tidings from her father. He did not come to her; he was brought, and there settled down upon her young life a night of grief and horror which no words can describe. While he was sighting a gun, it had been struck by a shell from the fleet, and when the smoke of the explosion cleared away he was seen among the debris, a mangled and unconscious form. He was tenderly taken up, and after the conflict ended, conveyed to his home. On the way thither he partially revived, but reason was gone. His eyes were scorched and blinded, his hearing destroyed by the concussion, and but one lingering thought survived in the wreck of his mind. In a plaintive and almost childlike tone he continually uttered the words, "I was only trying to defend my city and my home." Hour after hour he repeated this sentence, deaf to his child's entreaties for recognition and a farewell word. His voice grew more and more feeble until he could only whisper the sad refrain; at last his lips moved but there was no sound; then he was still. For a time it seemed as if Mary would soon follow him, but her aunt, her white face tearless and stern, bade her live for her husband and her unborn child. These sacred motives eventually enabled her to rally, but her heart now centred its love on her husband with an intensity which made her friends tremble for her future. His visits had been few and brief, and she lived upon his letters. When they were delayed, her eyes had a hunted, agonized look which even her stoical aunt could not endure. One day about midsummer she found the stricken wife, unconscious upon the floor with the daily paper in her clenched hand. When at last the physician had brought back feeble consciousness and again banished it by the essential opiate, Mrs. Hunter read the paragraph which, like a bolt, had struck down her niece. It was from an account of a battle in which the Confederates had been worsted and were being driven from a certain vantage point. "At this critical moment," ran the report, "Colonel Wallingford, with his thinned regiment, burst through the crowd of fugitives rushing down the road, and struck the pursuing enemy such a stinging blow as to check its advance. If the heroic colonel and his little band could only have been supported at this instant the position might have been regained. As it was, they were simply overwhelmed as a slight obstacle is swept away by a torrent. But few escaped; some were captured, while the colonel and the majority were struck down, trampled upon and fairly obliterated as the Northern horde of infantry and artillery swept forward all the more impetuously. The check was of very great advantage, however, for it gave our vastly outnumbered troops more time to rally in a stronger position." This brief paragraph contained the substance of all that was ever learned of the young husband, and his mangled remains filled an unknown grave. His wife had received the blow direct, and she never rallied. Week after week she moaned and wept upon her bed when the physician permitted consciousness. Even in the deep sleep produced by opiates, she would shudder at the sound of Gilmore's guns as they thundered against Forts Sumter and Wagner. A faithful colored woman who had been a slave in the family from infancy watched unweariedly beside her, giving place only to the stern-visaged aunt, whose touch and words were gentle, but who had lost the power to disguise the bitterness of her heart. She tried to awaken maternal instincts in the wife, but in vain, for there are wounds of the spirit, like those of the body, which are fatal. All efforts to induce the widow to leave the city, already within reach of the Federal guns, were unavailing, and she was the more readily permitted to have her own way, because, in the physician's opinion, the attempt would prove fatal. Meanwhile her time was drawing near. One August night she was dozing, and moaning in her sleep, when suddenly there was a strange, demoniac shriek through the air followed by an explosion which in the still night was terrifically loud. The invalid started up and looked wildly at her sable nurse, who was trembling like a leaf. "O Lawd hab mercy, Missus," she exclaimed. "Dem Yankees shellin' de town." Mrs. Hunter was instantly at the bedside. The faithful doctor came hurriedly of his own accord, and employed all his skill. A few hours later Mrs. Hunter tried to say cheerily, "Come, Mary, here is a fine little girl for you to love and live for." "Aunty," said the mother calmly, "I am dying. Let me see my child and kiss her. Then put her next my heart till it is cold." Mrs. Hunter lifted her startled eyes to the physician, who sadly nodded his head in acquiescence. In a few moments more the broken heart found healing far beyond all human passion and strife. With hot, yet tearless eyes, and a face that appeared to be chiselled from marble in its whiteness and rigidity, the aunt took up the child. Her tone revealed the indescribable intensity of her feelings as she said, "Thy name is Mara--bitterness." CHAPTER III UNCLE SHEBA'S EXPERIENCE Many years have elapsed since the events narrated in the last chapter occurred, and the thread of story is taken up again in the winter of 1886. In a small dwelling, scarcely more than a cabin, and facing on an obscure alley in Charleston, a rotund colored woman of uncertain age is sitting by the fire with her husband. She is a well-known character in the city, for she earns her bread by selling cakes, fruits, and other light articles which may be vended in the street with chances of profit. Although "Aun' Sheba," as she was familiarly called, had received no training for mercantile pursuits, yet her native shrewdness had enabled her to hit upon the principles of success, as may be discovered by the reader as the story progresses. She had always been so emphatically the master of the house and the head of the family, that her husband went by the name of "Uncle Sheba." It must be admitted that the wife shared in the popular opinion of her husband. When in an amiable mood, which, happily, was her usual condition of mind, she addressed him as "Unc.;" when some of his many short-comings exhausted her good-nature--for Aun' Sheba had more good-nature than patience--he was severely characterized as "Mr. Buggone." Since they had been brought up in Major Burgoyne's family, they felt entitled to his surname, and by evolution it had become "Buggone." Uncle Sheba's heart failed him when his wife addressed him by this title, for he knew he was beyond the dead line of safety. They dwelt alone in the cabin, their several children, with one exception, having been scattered they knew not where. Adjacent was another cabin, owned by a son-in-law, named Kern Watson, who had married their youngest daughter years before, and he was the pride of Aun' Sheba's heart. Uncle Sheba felt that he was not appreciated, or perhaps appreciated too well, by his son-in-law, and their intercourse was rather formal. On the evening in question, supper was over, but the table had not yet been cleared. Uncle Sheba was a good deal of an epicure, and, having left not a scrap of what his wife had vouchsafed to him, was now enjoying his corn-cob pipe. Aun' Sheba also liked a good square meal as much as any one, and she had the additional satisfaction that she had earned it. At this hour of the day she was usually very tired, and was accustomed to take an hour's rest before putting her living-room in order for the night. Although the twilight often fell before she returned from her mercantile pursuits, she never intrusted Uncle Sheba with the task of getting supper, and no housekeeper in the city kept her provisions under lock and key more rigorously than did Aun' Sheba. After repeated trials, she had come to a decision. "Mr. Buggone," she had said in her sternest tones, "you's wuss dan poah white trash when you gets a chance at de cubbard. Sence I can't trus' you nohow, I'se gwine to gib you a 'lowance. You a high ole Crischun, askin' for you'se daily bread, an' den eatin' up 'nuff fer a week." Uncle Sheba often complained that he was "skimped," but his appearance did not indicate any meagreness in his "'lowance," and he had accepted his lot in this instance, as in others, rather than lose the complacent consciousness that he was provided for without much effort on his part. Supper was Aun' Sheba's principal meal, and she practically dined at the fashionable hour of six. What she termed her dinner was a very uncertain affair. Sometimes she swallowed it hastily at "Ole Tobe's rasteran," as she termed the eating-room kept by a white-woolled negro; again she would "happen in" on a church sister, when, in passing, the odor of some cookery was appetizing. She always left, however, some compensation from her basket, and so was not unwelcome. Not seldom, also, a lady or a citizen who knew her well and the family to which she had once belonged, would tell her to go to the kitchen. On such days Aun' Sheba's appetite flagged at supper, a fact over which her husband secretly rejoiced, since his allowance was almost double. She was now resting after the fatigues of the day, and the effort to get and dispose of a very substantial supper, and was puffing at her pipe in a meditative aspect. Evidently something unusual was on her mind, and she at last ejaculated, "I know dey'se poah." "Who's?" languidly queried Uncle Sheba. "Oh, you'd neber fin' out. Dey'd starve long o' you." "I dunno who dey is. What 'casion I got to pervide for dey?" "Ha, ha, ha, Unc.! You'se a great pervider. Somehow or oder I'se got de notion dat you'se a 'sumer." "I bress de Lawd my appetite am' failin' in spite ob de rheumatiz." "If you rheumatiz was only in you jints, dere'd be a comfort in keerin' fer you, Unc., but it's in you min'." "You'll cotch it some day, an' den you know what 'tis. But who's dey dat you got on you min'?" "Why, de young Missy and de ole Missus to be sho'." "I don't see how dey can be poah. Dey mus' hab kep' someting out all dey had." "So dey did, but it wan't much, an' I jus' b'lebe it's clar dun gone!" "What! de plantation in Virginny all gone?" "How often I tole you, Unc., dat I heard ole Missus say herself dat plantation was all trompl'd in de groun' an' what was lef' was took fer taxes." "I forgits," remarked Uncle Sheba, his eyes growing heavy in his lack of interest; "but ole Marse Wallingford mus' hab lef' de widder ob his son someting." "Now look heah, Unc., you'se haf asleep. You'se 'lowance too hebby dis ebenin'. How you forgit when I tell you ober an' ober? You doan keer. Dat's de foot de shoe's on. You know ole Marse Wallingford's plantation was trompl'd in de groun' too--not a stick or stone lef' by Sherman's sogers." "Well, dey sole dere fine house on Meetin' Street, an' dat mus' a brought a heap," protested Uncle Sheba, rousing himself a little. "Mighty little arter de mor'giges an' taxes was paid. Didn't I help dem pack up what dey tink dey could sabe, and see poah Missy Mara wrung her han's as she gib up dis ting an' dat ting till at las' she cry right out, 'Mought as well gib up eberyting. Why don't dey kill us too, like dey did all our folks?' You used to be so hot fer dat ole Guv'ner Moses and say he was like de Moses in de Bible--dat he was raised up fer ter lead de culled people to de promise' lan'. You vote fer him, an' hurrah fer him, an' whar's yer promise' lan'? Little you know 'bout Scripter when you say he secon' Moses. Don' want no more sich Moseses in dis town. Dey wouldn't lebe a brick heah ef dey could take dem off. He'n his tribe got away wid 'bout all ole Missus' and young Missus' prop'ty in my 'pinion. Anyhow I feels it in my bones dey's poah, an' I mus' try an' fin' out. Dey's so proud dey'd starbe fore dey'd let on." "'Spose you does fin' out, what kin you do? You gwine ter buy back de big house fer dem?" "I'se not de one ter talk big 'bout what I'se gwine ter do," replied Aun' Sheba, nodding her head portentously as she knocked the ashes from her pipe, and prepared for the remaining tasks of the evening. Her husband's self-interest took alarm at once, and he began to hitch uneasily on his chair. At last he broke out: "Now look heah, Aun' Sheba, you'se got suffin on you' min' 'bout dem white folks--" "Dem white folks! Who you talkin' 'bout?" "Well, dey ain't none o' our flesh an' blood, and de Bible say shuah dat dey dat don' pervide fer dere own flesh an' blood am wuss dan a inferdel." "Den I reckon you'se an inferdel, Mister Buggone," retorted Aun' Sheba, severely. "I'se not," retorted her husband, assuming much solemnity, "I'se a 'umble an' 'flicted sarbent ob de Lawd, an' it's my duty to 'monstrate wid you. I know what's on you' min'. You'se gwine ter do fer dem white folks when you got all you kin do now." "Mister Buggone, don' you call Miss Mara white folks no mo'." "Well, ain't she white folks? Didn't I slabe fer her granpar yeahs an' yeahs, an' wat I got ter show fer 't?" "You got no stripes on you back, an' you'd had plenty ter show ef you'd wuked fer any oder man. I 'member all about you slabin' an' how de good major use' to let you off. You know, too, dat he war so took up wid his book dat you could do foolishness right under his nose. An' dar was my poah young Missy Mary, who hadn't de heart to hurt a skeeter. You s'pose I watch ober dat broken-hearted lam' an' her little chile an' den heah 'em called white folks, as if dey'se no 'count ter me? How ofen dat poah dyin' lam' turn to me in de middle ob de night an' say ter me, Sheba, you will took keer on my chile ef it libe, an' I say to her 'fore de Lawd dat I would. An' I did too. Dat po' little moderless and faderless chile lay on my bosom till I lubed it fer hersef, and Missy Mara neber gwine to hab trubble when I ain't dar." Aun' Sheba's voice had been reaching a higher and higher key under the influence of reminiscence and indignation. Although her husband was in dire trepidation he felt that this point was too serious to be yielded without a desperate effort. He had been put on short allowance once before when his wife had gone to help take care of Mara in a severe illness, and now he had a presentiment that Aun' Sheba would try to help support the girl and her great-aunt as well as himself. Such an attempt threatened privations which were harrowing even to contemplate, and in a sort of desperation he resolved once more to assert his marital position. "Aun' Sheba," he began with much dignity, "I'se been bery easy an' bendin' like ter you. I'se gib you you'se own head dead agin de principles ob Scripter which say dat de husban' am de head ob de wife--" "Mister Buggone," interrupted Aun' Sheba in a passion which was bursting all restraint, "you'se wrestin' Scripter to you'se own 'struction. Ef you am de head ob dis fam'ly, I'se gwine ter sit down an fole my hans, an you can jes' git out an earn my libin' an' yours too. Git up dar now, an' bring in de wood an' de kinlin' fer de mawnin', an' when mawnin' come, you make de fiah. Arter breakfas' you start right off ter work, and I'se sit on de do' step and talk to de neighbos. You shall hab all de headin ob de house you wants, but you can't hab de 'sition widout de 'sponsibilities. I'se gwine now to take a res' an' be 'sported," and the irate wife filled her pipe, sat down and smoked furiously. Uncle Sheba was appalled at the result of his Scriptural argument. He would like to be king by divine right without any responsibilities. His one thought now was to escape until the storm blew over and his wife's tolerant good-nature resumed its wonted sway. Shuffling cautiously around to the door he remarked meekly as he held it ajar, "I reckon I'll drap in at de prar-meetin', fer I tole brudder Simpkins I'd gib dem a lif' dis ebenin'." His heart misgave him as he heard his wife bound up and bolt the door after him, but he was a philosopher who knew the value of time in remedying many of the ills of life. It must be admitted that he could not get into the spirit of the meeting, and Brother Simpkins remarked rather severely at its close, "Mister Buggone, I'se feared you'se zeal am languishin'." Uncle Sheba's forebodings increased as he saw that his house was dark, and he fell into something like panic when he found that the door was still bolted. He knocked gently at first, then louder and louder, adding to the uproar by calls and expostulations. A light appeared in the adjacent cottage, and Kern Watson, his son-in-law, came out. "Wat de matter now, Uncle Sheba?" he asked. "Does yer wan' ter bring de perlice? You'se been takin' a drap too much again, I reckon." "No, I'se only been to prar-meetin', and Aun' Sheba jes' dun gone and bolt me out." "Well, you'se been cuttin' up some shine, an' dat's a fac'. Come in an' stop you noise. You can sleep on de lounge. We don' want to pay ten dollahs in de mawnin to get you out ob de caboose." Uncle Sheba was glad to avail himself of this rather equivocal hospitality, and eagerly sought to win Kern's sympathy by relating his grievance. His son-in-law leaned against the chimney-side that he might, in his half-dressed condition, enjoy the warmth of the coals covered with ashes on the hearth, and listened. He was a tall, straight negro of powerful build, and although his features were African, they were not gross in character. The candle on the mantel near him brought out his profile in fine silhouette, while his quiet steady eyes indicated a nature not stirred by trifles. "You'se a 'publican, Kern, an' you knows dat we culled people got ter take keer ob ourselves." "Yes, I'se a Republican," said Kern, "but wat dat got ter do wid dis matter? Is Aun' Sheba gwine ter take any ob your money? Ef she set her heart on helpin' her ole Missus an' young Missy an' arn de money herself, whose business is it but hers? I'se a Republican because I belebe in people bein' free, wedder dey is white or black, but I ain't one ob dem kin' ob Republicans dat look on white folks as inemies. Wot we do widout dem, an' wat dey do widout us? All talk ob one side agin de toder is fool talk. Ef dere's any prosperity in dis lan' we got ter pull tergedder. You'se free, Uncle Sheba, an' dere ain't a man in Charleston dat kin hender you from goin' to work termorrow." "I reckon I'se try ter git a wink ob slepe, Kern," responded Uncle Sheba plaintively. "My narbes been so shook up dat my rheumatiz will be po'ful bad for a spell." Kern knew the futility of further words, and also betook himself to rest. With Aun' Sheba, policy had taken the place of passion. Through a knot-hole in her cabin she had seen her husband admitted to her son-in-law's dwelling, and so her mind was at rest. "Unc," she muttered, "forgits his 'sper'ence at de prar-meetin's bery easy, but he mus' have a 'sper'ence to-night dat he won't forgit. I neber so riled in my bawn days. Ef he tinks I can sit heah and see him go'mandizin' when my honey lam' Mara hungry, he'll fin' out." Before the dawn on the following day, Uncle Sheba had had time for many second thoughts, and when his wife opened the door he brought in plenty of kindlings and wood. Aun' Sheba accepted these marks of submission in grim silence, resolving that peace and serenity should come about gradually. She relented so far, however, as to give him an extra slice of bacon for breakfast, at which token of returning toleration Uncle Sheba took heart again. Having curtly told him to clear the table, Aun' Sheba proceeded to make from the finest of flour the delicate cakes which she always sold fresh and almost warm from her stove, and before starting out on her vending tour of the streets, the store-room was locked against the one burglar she feared. CHAPTER IV MARA On the same evening which witnessed Uncle Sheba's false step and its temporarily disastrous results, Owen Clancy sat brooding over his fire in his bachelor apartment. If his sitting-room did not suggest wealth, it certainly indicated refined and intellectual tastes and a fair degree of prosperity. A few fine pictures were on the walls, an unusually well-selected library, although a small one, was in a bookcase, while upon the table lay several of the best magazines and reviews of the period. Above the mantel was suspended a cavalry sabre, its scabbard so dented as to suggest that it had seen much and severe service. Young Clancy's eyes were fixed upon it, and his revery was so deep that a book fell from his hand to the floor without his notice. His thoughts, however, were dwelling upon a young girl. Strange that a deadly weapon should be allied to her in association. Yet so it was. He never could look upon that sabre which his father had used effectively throughout the Civil War, without thinking of Mara Wallingford. Neither this object nor any other was required to produce thoughts of her, for he passed few waking hours in which she was not present to his fancy. He loved her sincerely, and felt that she knew it, and he also hoped that she concealed a deeper regard for him than she would admit even to herself. Indeed he almost believed that if he could share fully with her all the ideas and antipathies symbolized by the battered scabbard before him, his course of love would run smoothly. It was just at this point that the trouble between them arose. She was looking back; he, forward. He could not enter into her sad and bitter retrospection, feeling that this was morbid and worse than useless. Remembering how cruelly she and her kindred had suffered, he made great allowances for her, and had often tried to soften the bitterness in her heart by reminding her that he, too, had lost kindred and property. By delicate efforts he had sought to show the futility of clinging to a dead past, and a cause lost beyond hope, but Mara would only become grave and silent when such matters were touched upon. Clancy had been North repeatedly on business, and had never discovered a particle of hostility toward him or his section in the men with whom he dealt and associated. They invited him to their homes; he met the women of their families, from whom he often received rather more than courtesy, for his fine appearance and a certain courtliness of manner, inherited from his aristocratic father, had won a thinly veiled admiration of which he had been agreeably conscious. Since these people had no controversy with him, how could he continue to cherish enmity and prejudice against them? His warm Southern nature revolted at receiving hearty good-will and not returning it in kind. There was nothing of a "we-forgive-you" in the bearing of his Northern acquaintances, nor was there any effusiveness in cordiality with an evident design of reassuring him. He was made to feel that he was guilty of an anachronism in brooding over the war, that it had been forgotten except as history, and that the present with its opportunities, and the future with its promise, were the themes of thought. The elements of life, energy, hopefulness with which he came in contact had appealed to him powerfully, for they were in harmony with his youth, ambition, yes, and his patriotism. "The South can never grow rich and strong by sulking," he had often assured himself, "and since the old dream is impossible, and we are to be one people, why shouldn't we accept the fact and unite in mutual helpfulness?" Reason, ambition, and policy prompted him to the divergence of view and action which was alienating Mara. "Imitation of her example and spirit would be political and financial suicide on our part," he broke out. "I love her; and if she loved in the same degree, I would be more to her than bitter memories. She would help me achieve a happy future for us both. As it is, I am so pulled in different ways that I'm half insane," and with contracted brow he sprang up and paced the floor. But he could not hold to this mood long, and soon his face softened into an expression of anxiety and commiseration. Resuming his chair his thoughts ran on, "She isn't happy either. For some cause I reckon she suffers more than I do. She looked pale to-day when I met her, and her face was full of anxiety until she saw me, and then it masked all feeling. She has worn that same cloak now for three winters. Great Heaven! if she should be in want, and I not know it! Yet what could I do if she were? Why will she be so proud and obdurate? I believe that gaunt, white-haired aunt has more to do with her course than her own heart. Well, I can't sit here and think about it any longer. If I see her something may become clearer, and I must see her before I go North again." Mara Wallingford's troubles and anxieties had indeed been culminating of late. Almost her sole inheritance had been sadness, trouble and enmity. Not only had her unhappy mother's history been kept fresh in her memory by her great-aunt, Mrs. Hunter, but the very blood that coursed in her veins and the soul that looked out from her dark, melancholy eyes had received from that mother characteristics which it is of the province of this story to reveal. To poor Mary Wallingford, the death of her father and of her husband had been the unspeakable tragedy and wrong which had destroyed her life; and the long agony of the mother had deprived her offspring of the natural and joyous impulses of childhood and youth. If Mara had been left to the care of a judicious guardian--one who had sought by all wholesome means to counteract inherited tendencies, a most cheerful and hopeful life would have been developed, but in this respect the girl had been most unfortunate. The mind grows by what it feeds upon, and Mrs. Hunter's spirit had become so imbittered by dwelling upon her woes and losses that she was incapable of thinking or speaking of much else. She had never been a woman of warm, quick sympathies. She had seen little of the world, and, in a measure, was incapable of seeing it, whatever advantages she might have had. This would have been true of her, no matter where her lot had been cast, for she was a born conservative. What she had been brought up to believe would always be true; what she had been made familiar with by early custom would always be right, and anything different would be viewed with disapproval or intoleration. Too little allowance is often made for characters of this kind. We may regret rigidity and narrowness all we please, but there should be some respect for downright sincerity and the inability to see both sides of a question. It often happens that if natures are narrow they are correspondingly intense; and this was true of Mrs. Hunter. She idolized her husband dead, more perhaps than if he had been living. Her brother and nephew were household martyrs, and little Mara had been taught to revere their memories as a devout Catholic pays homage to a patron saint. Between the widow and all that savored of the North, the author of her woes, there was a great gulf, and the changes wrought by the passing years had made no impression, for she would not change. She simply shut her eyes and closed her ears to whatever was not in accord with her own implacable spirit. She grew cold toward those who yielded to the kindly influences of peace and the healing balm of time; she had bitter scorn for such as were led by their interests to fraternize with the North and Northern people. In her indiscrimination and prejudice they were all typified by the unscrupulous adventurers who had made a farce of government and legally robbed the South when prostrate and bleeding after the War. She and her niece had been taxed out of their home to sustain a rule they loathed. Not a few women in Boston, in like circumstances, would be equally bitter and equally incapable of taking the broad views of an historian. The influence of such a concentrated mind warped almost to the point of monomania, upon a child like Mara, predisposed from birth to share in a similar spirit, can be readily estimated. Peace and time, moreover, had not brought the ameliorating tendencies of prosperity, but rather a continuous and hopeless pressure of poverty. Mrs. Hunter had been incapable of doing more than save what she could out of the wreck of their fortunes. There were no near relations, and those remaining, with most of their friends and acquaintances who had not been alienated, were struggling like themselves in straitened circumstances. Yet out of this poverty, many open, generous hands would have been stretched to the widow and her ward had they permitted their want to be known. But they felt that they would rather starve than do this, for they belonged to that class which suffers in proud silence. Although they had practiced an economy that was so severe as to be detrimental to both health and character, their principal had melted away, and their jewelry and plate, with the exception of heirlooms that could not be sold without a sense of sacrilege, had been quietly disposed of. The end of their resources was near, and they knew not what to do. Mara had tried to eke out their means by fancy-work, but she had no great aptitude for such tasks, and her education was too defective and old-fashioned for the equipment of a modern teacher. She was well read, especially in the classics, yet during the troubled years of her brief life she had not been given the opportunity to acquire the solid, practical knowledge which would enable her to instruct others. The exclusiveness and seclusion, so congenial to her aunt, had been against her, and now reticence and a disposition to shrink from the world had become a characteristic of her own. She felt, however, that her heart, if not her will, was weak toward Owen Clancy. In him had once centred the hope of her life, and from him she now feared a wound that could never heal. She underrated his affection as he did hers. He felt that she should throw off the incubus of the past for his sake; she believed that any depth of love on his part should render impossible all intercourse with the North beyond what was strictly necessary for the transaction of business. In order to soften her prejudices, he had told her of his social experiences in New York, and, as a result, had seen her face hardened against him.... She had no words of bitter scorn such as her aunt had indulged in when learning of the fact. She had only thought in sorrow that since he was "capable of accepting hospitality from the people who had murdered her kindred and blighted the South, there was an impassable gulf between them." Now, however, the imperative questions of bread and shelter were uppermost. She believed that Clancy could and would solve these questions at once if permitted, and it was characteristic of her pride and what she regarded as her loyalty, that she never once allowed herself to think of this alternative. Yet what could she and her aunt do? They were in the pathetic position of gentlewomen compelled to face the world with unskilled hands. This is bad enough at best, but far worse when hands are half paralyzed by pride and timidity as well as ignorance. The desperate truth, however, stared them in the face. Do something they must, and that speedily. They were contemplating the future in a hopeless sort of dread and perplexity on the evening when Aunt Sheba and young Clancy's thoughts were drawn toward them in such deep solicitude. This fact involves no mystery. The warm-hearted colored woman had seen and heard little things which suggested the truth, and the sympathetic lover had seen the face of the young girl when she was off her guard. Its expression had haunted him, and impelled him to see her at once, although she had chilled his hopes of late. When compelled to leave the old home, Mrs. Hunter had taken the second floor of a small brick house located on a side street. In spite of herself Mara's heart fluttered wildly for a moment when the woman who occupied the first story brought up Clancy's card. "You can't see him to-night," said her aunt, frowning. Mara hesitated a moment, and then said firmly, "Yes, I will see him. Please ask him to come up." When they were alone, she added in a low voice, "I shall see him once more, probably for the last time socially. We cannot know what changes are in store for us." "Well, I won't see him," said Mrs. Hunter, frigidly; and she left the room. CHAPTER V PAST AND FUTURE Under the impulses of his solicitude and affection Clancy entered quickly, and took Mara's hand in such a strong, warm grasp that the color would come into her pale face. In spite of her peculiarities and seeming coldness, she was a girl who could easily awaken a passionate love in a warm, generous-hearted man like the one who looked into her eyes with something like entreaty in his own. She had a beauty peculiar to herself, and now a strange loveliness which touched his very soul. The quick flush upon her cheeks inspired hope, and a deep emotion, which she could not wholly suppress, found momentary expression. Even in that brief instant she was transfigured, for the woman within her was revealed. As if conscious of a weakness which seemed to her almost criminal, her face became rigid, and she said formally, "Please be seated, Mr. Clancy." "You must not speak to me in that way and in that tone," he began impetuously, and then paused, for he was chilled by her cold, questioning gaze. Her will was so strong, and found such powerful expression in her dark, sad eyes, that for a moment he was dumb and embarrassed. Then his own high spirit rallied, and a purpose grew strong that she should hear him, and hear the truth also. His gray eyes, that had wavered for a moment, grew steady in their encounter with hers. Seating himself on the opposite side of the table, he said quietly, "You think I have no right to speak to you in such a way." "I fear we think differently on many subjects, Mr. Clancy." "Admitting that, would you like a man to be a weak echo of yourself?" "A man should not be weak in any respect. I do not think it necessary, however, to raise the question of my likes or dislikes." "I must differ with you, Mara," he replied gravely. "I agree with you now, fully, Mr. Clancy. We differ. Had we not better change the subject?" "No, not unless you would be unfair. I am at a disadvantage. I am in your home. You are a lady, and therefore can compel me to leave unsaid what I am bent on saying. We have been friends, have we not?" She bowed her acquiescence. "Well," he continued a little bitterly, "I have one Southern trait left--frankness. You know I would speak in a different character if permitted, if I received one particle of encouragement." Then, with a sudden flush, he said firmly, "I will speak as I feel. I only pay homage in telling you what you must already know. I love you, and would make you my wife." Her face became very pale as she averted it, and replied briefly, "You are mistaken, Mr. Clancy." "Mara, I am not mistaken. Will you be fair enough to listen to me? We agree that we differ. Can we not also agree that we differ conscientiously? You cannot think me false, even though you say I am mistaken. Hitherto you have opposed to me a dead wall of silence. Though you will not listen to me as a lover, you might both listen and speak to me as a friend. That word would be hollow indeed if estrangment could result from honest differences of opinion." "It is far more than a difference of opinion." "Let the difference be what it may, Mara," he answered gently, resolving not to be baffled, "if you are so sure you are right, you should at least be willing to accord to one whom you once regarded as a friend the privilege of pleading his cause. Truth and right do not intrench themselves in repelling silence. That is the refuge of prejudice. If you will hear my side of the question, I will listen with the deepest interest to yours, and believe me you have a powerful ally in my heart." "Your head has gained such ascendency over your heart, Mr. Clancy, that you cannot understand me. In some women the strongest reasons for or against a thing proceed from the latter organ." "Is yours, then, so cold toward me?" he asked sadly. "It is not cold toward the memory of my murdered parents," she replied with an ominous flash in her eyes. Clancy looked at her in momentary surprise, then said firmly, "My father eventually died from injuries received in the war, but he was not murdered. He was wounded in fair battle in which he struck as well as received blows." Again there was a quick flush upon her pale face, but now it was one of indignation as she said bitterly, "Fair battle! So you call it fair battle when men are overpowered in defending their homes. If armed robbers broke into your house, and you gave blows as well as received them, would you not be murdered if it so happened that you were killed? Why should we speak of these subjects further?" And there was a trace of scorn in her tone. His pride was touched, and he was all the more determined that he would be heard. "I can give you good reason why we should speak further," he answered resolutely yet quietly. "However strong your feeling may be, I have too much respect for your intelligence and too much confidence in your courage to believe that you will weakly shrink from hearing one who is as conscientious as yourself. I cannot accept your illustration, and do not think the instance you give is parallel. In the differences between the North and the South, an appeal was made to the sword. If I had been old enough I would have fought at my father's side. But the question is now settled. No matter how we feel about it, the North and the South must live together, and it is not my nature to live in hate. Suppose I could--suppose it were possible for all Southern men to feel as you do and act in accordance with such bitter enmity, what would be the result? It would be suicide. Our land would become a desert. Capital and commerce would leave our cities because there would be no security among a people implacably hostile. Such a course would be more destructive than invading armies. My business, the business of the city, is largely with the North. If native Southern men tried to transact it in a cold, relentless spirit, we should lose the chance to live, much less to do anything for our land. We have suffered too much from this course already, and have allowed strangers, who care nothing for us, to take much that might have been ours. I love the South too well to advocate a course which would prove so fatal. What is more, I cannot think it would be right. The North of your imagination does not exist. I cannot hate people who have no hate for me, but on the contrary abound in honest, kindly feeling." She had listened quietly with her face turned from him, and now met his eyes with an inscrutable expression in hers. "Have I not listened?" she asked. "But you have not answered," he urged, "you have not even tried to show me wherein I am wrong." The eyes whose sombre blackness had been like a veil now flamed with the anger she had long repressed. "How little you understand me," she said passionately, "when you think I can argue questions like these. You are virtually asking what to me is sacrilege. I have listened to you patiently, at what cost to my feelings you are incapable of knowing. Do you think that I can forget that my grandfather was mangled to death, and that his last words were, 'I was only trying to defend my home'? Do you think I can forget that my father was trampled into the very earth by your Northern friends with whom you must fraternize as well as trade? I will not speak of my martyred mother. Her name and agony are too sacred to be named in a political argument," and she uttered these last words with intense bitterness. Then rising to end the interview, she continued coldly in biting sarcasm, "Mr. Clancy, I have no relations with the North. I do not deal in cotton, and none of its fibre has found its way into my nature." At these words he flushed hotly, sprang up, but by an evident and powerful effort controlled himself, and sat down again. "How could you even imagine," she added, "that words, arguments, political and financial considerations would tempt me to be disloyal to the memory of my dead kindred?" "You _are_ disloyal to them," he said firmly. "What!" "Mara, I am indeed proving myself a friend because I am such and more, and because you so greatly need a friend. Your kindred had hearts in their breasts. Would they doom you to the life upon which you are entering? Can you not see that you are passing deeper and deeper into the shadow of the past? What good can it do them? Could they speak would they say, 'We wish our sorrows to blight your life'? You are not happy, you cannot be happy. It is contrary to the law of God, it is impossible to human nature, that happiness and bitter, unrelenting enmity should exist in the same heart. You are not only unhappy, but you are in deep trouble of some kind. I saw that from your face to-day before you saw me and could mask from a friend its expression of deep anxiety. You shall hear the truth from me which I fear you hear from no other, and your harsh words shall not deter me from my resolute purpose to be kind, to rescue you virtually from a condition of mind that is so morbid, so unhealthful, that it will blight your life. I cannot so wrong your father and mother as even to imagine that it could be their wish to see your beautiful young life grow more and more shadowed, to see you struggling under burdens which strong, loving hands would lift from you. Can you believe that they, happy in heaven, can wish you no happiness on earth?" There was a grave, convincing earnestness in his tone, and a truth in his words hard to resist. What she considered loyalty to her kindred had been like her religion, and he had charged her with disloyalty, yes, and while he spoke the thought would assert itself that her course might be a wretched mistake. Although intrenched in prejudice, and fortified against his words by the thought and feeling of her life, she had been made to doubt her position and feel that she might be a self-elected martyr. The assertion that she was doing what would be contrary to the wishes of her dead kindred pierced the very citadel of her opposition, and tended to remove the one belief which had been the sustaining rock beneath her feet. She knew she had been severe with him, and she was touched by his forbearance, his resolute purpose to befriend her. She remembered her poverty, the almost desperate extremity in which she was, and her heart upbraided her for refusing the hand held out so loyally and persistently to her help. She became confused, torn, and overwhelmed by conflicting emotions; her lip quivered, and, bowing her head in her hands, she sobbed, "You are breaking my heart." In an instant he was on one knee at her side. "Mara," he began gently, "if I wound it is only that I may heal. Truly no girl in this city needs a friend as you do. For some reason I feel this to be true in my very soul. Who in God's universe would forbid you a loyal friend?" and he tried to take her hand. "I forbid you to be her friend," said a stern voice. Springing up, Clancy encountered the gaze of a gaunt, white-haired woman, with implacable enmity stamped upon her thin visage. The young man's eyes darkened as they steadily met those of Mrs. Hunter, and it was evident that the forbearance he had manifested toward the girl he loved would not be extended to her guardian. Still he controlled himself, and waited till she should speak again. "Mr. Clancy," she resumed after a moment, "Miss Wallingford is my ward; I received her from her dying mother, and so have rights which you must respect. I forbid you seeing her or speaking to her again." "Mrs. Hunter," he replied, "permit me to tell you with the utmost courtesy that I shall not obey you. Only Mara herself can forbid me from seeing her or speaking to her." "What right have you, sir--" "The best of rights, Mrs. Hunter, I love the girl; you do not. As remorselessly as a graven image you would sacrifice her on the altar of your hate." "Mr. Clancy, you must not speak to my aunt in that way. She has been devoted to me from my infancy." "On the contrary, she has devoted you from infancy to sadness, gloom, and bitter memories. She is developing within you the very qualities most foreign to a woman's heart. Instead of teaching you to enshrine the memory of your kindred in tender, loving remembrance, she is forging that memory into a chain to restrain you from all that is natural to your years. She is teaching you to wreck your life in fruitless opposition to the healing influences that have followed peace. Madam, answer me--the question is plain and fair--what can you hope to accomplish by your enmity to me and to the principles of hope and progress which, in this instance, I represent, but the blighting of this girl whom I love?" "You are insolent, sir," cried Mrs. Hunter, trembling with rage. "No, madam, I am honest, and be the result to me what it may, you shall both hear the truth to-night." "This is our home," was the harsh response, "and you are not a gentleman if you do not leave it instantly." "I shall certainly do so. Mara, am I to see you and speak to you no more?" She had sunk into a chair, and again buried her face in her hands. He waited a moment, but she gave no sign. Then with his eyes fixed on her he sadly and slowly left the apartment. At last she sprang up with the faint cry, "Owen," but her aunt stood between her and the door, and he was gone. CHAPTER VI "PAHNASHIP" When Mara realized that her lover had indeed gone, that in fact he had been driven forth, and that she had said not one word to pave the way for a future meeting, a sense of desolation she had never known before overwhelmed her. Hitherto she had been sustained by an unfaltering belief that no other course than the one which her aunt had inculcated was possible; that, cost what it might, and end as it might, it was her heritage. All now was confused and in doubt. She had heard her lofty, self-sacrificing purpose virtually characterized as vain and wrong. She had idolized the memory of her father and mother, and yet had been told that her course was the very one of which they would not approve. The worst of it all was that it now seemed true, for she could not believe that they would wish her to be so utterly unhappy. In spite of her unworldliness and lack of practical training, the strong common-sense of Clancy's question would recur, "What good will it do?" She was not sacrificing her heart to sustain or further any cause, and her heart now cried out against the wrong it was receiving. These miserable thoughts rushed through her mind and pressed so heavily upon all hope that she leaned her arms upon the table, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud. "Mara," said her aunt, severely, "I did not think you could be so weak." Until the storm of passionate grief passed, the young girl gave no heed to Mrs. Hunter's reproaches or expostulations. At last she became quiet, as much from exhaustion as from self-control, and said wearily, "You need worry no further about Mr. Clancy. He will not come again. If he has a spark of pride or manhood left, he will never look at me again," and a quick, heart-broken sob would rise at the thought. "I should hope you would not look at him again after his insolence to me." Mara did not reply. For the first time her confidence in her aunt had been shaken, for she could not but feel that Mrs. Hunter, in her judgment of Clancy, saw but one side of the question. She did not approve of his stern arraignment of her aunt, but she at least remembered his great provocation, and that he had been impelled to his harsh words by loyalty to her. At last she said, "Aunty, I'm too worn out to think or speak any more tonight. There is a limit to endurance, and I've reached it." "That's just where the trouble is," Mrs. Hunter tried to say reassuringly. "In the morning you will be your own true, brave self again." "What's the use of being brave; what can I be brave for?" thought Mara in the solitude of her room. Although her sleep was brief and troubled, she had time to grow calm and collect her thoughts. While she would not admit it to herself, Clancy's repeated assertions of his love had a subtle and sustaining power. She could see no light in the future, but her woman's heart would revert to this truth as to a secret treasure. In the morning after sitting for a time almost in silence over their meagre breakfast, her aunt began: "Mara, I wish you to realize the truth in regard to Mr. Clancy. It is one of those things which must be nipped in the bud. There is only one ending to his path, and that is full acceptance of Northern rule and Northern people. What is more, after his words to me, I will never abide under the same roof with him again." "Aunty," said Mara sadly, "we have much else to think about besides Mr. Clancy. How are we going to keep a roof over our own heads?" Compelled to face their dire need, Mrs. Hunter broke out into bitter invective against those whom she regarded as the cause of their poverty. "Aunty," protested Mara, almost irritably, for her nerves were sadly worn, "what good can such words do? We must live, I suppose, and you must advise me." "Mara, I am almost tempted to believe that you regret--" "Aunty, you must fix your mind on the only question to be considered. What are we to do? You know our money is almost gone." Mrs. Hunter's only response was to stare blankly at her niece. She could economize and be content with very little as long as her habitual trains of thought were not interrupted and she could maintain her proud seclusion. Accustomed to remote plantation life, she knew little of the ways of the modern world, and much less of the methods by which a woman could obtain a livelihood from it. To the very degree that she had lived in the memories and traditions of the past, she had unfitted herself to understand the conditions of present life or to cope with its requirements. Now she was practically helpless. "We can't go and reveal our situation to our friends," she began hesitatingly. "Certainly not," said Mara, "for most of them have all they can do to sustain themselves, and I would rather starve than live on the charity of those on whom we have no claim." "We might take less expensive rooms." "What good would that do, Aunty? If we can't earn anything, five dollars will be as hard to raise as ten." "Oh, to think that people of the very best blood in the State, who once had scores of slaves to work for them, should be so wronged, robbed and reduced!" Mara heaved a long, weary sigh, and Clancy's words would repeat themselves again and again. She saw how utterly incapable her aunt was to render any assistance in their desperate straits. Even the stress of their present emergency could not prevent her mind from vainly reverting to a past that was gone forever. Again her confidence was more severely shaken as she was compelled to doubt the wisdom of their habits of seclusion and reticence, of living on from year to year engrossed by memories, instead of adapting themselves to a new order of things which they were powerless to prevent. "Truly," she thought, "my father and mother never could have wished me to be in this situation out of love for them. It is true I could never go to the length that he does without great hypocrisy, and I do not see the need of it. I can never forget the immense wrong done to me and mine, but Aunty should have taught me something more than indignation and hostility, however just the causes for them may be." While such was the tenor of her thoughts, she only said a little bitterly: "Oh, that I knew how to do something! My old nurse, Aun' Sheba, is better off than we are." "She belongs to us yet," said Mrs. Hunter, almost fiercely. "You could never make her or any one else think so," was the weary reply. "Well, now that I have thought of her, I believe I could advise with her better than any one else." "Advise with a slave? Oh, Mara!--" "Whom shall I advise with then?" And there was a sharp ring in the girl's tone. "Oh, any one, so that it be not Mr. Clancy," replied her aunt irritably. "Were it not that you so needed a protector, I could wish that I were dead." "Aunt," said Mara, gently yet firmly, "we must give up this hopeless, bitter kind of talk. I, at least, must do something to earn honest bread, and I am too depressed and sad at heart to carry any useless burdens. Mr. Clancy said much that was wrong last night, and there are matters about which he and I can never agree, but surely he was right in saying that my father and mother would not wish to see me crushed body and soul. If I am to live, I must find a way to live and yet keep my self-respect. I suppose the natural way would be to go to those who knew my father and grandfather; but they would ask me what I could do. What could I tell them? It would seem almost like asking charity." "Of course it would," assented her aunt. Then silence fell between them. Before Mara could finish her morning duties and prepare for the street, a heavy step was heard on the stairs, then a knock at the door. Opening it, the young girl saw the very object of her thoughts, for Aun' Sheba's ample form and her great basket filled all the space. "Oh, Aun' Sheba," cried the girl, a gleam of hope lighting up her eyes, "I'm so glad to see you. I was just starting for your cabin." "Bress your heart, honey, Aun' Sheba'll allus be proud to hab you come. My spec's, Missus," and she dropped her basket and a courtesy before Mrs. Hunter. "Aun' Sheba," said Mara, giving the kindly vender a chair, "you are so much better off than we are. I was saying just that to aunty this morning." "Why, honey, I'se only a po' culled body, and you'se a beauty like you moder, bress her po' deah heart." "Yes, Aun' Sheba, you were a blessing to her," said Mara with moist eyes. "How you watched over her and helped to take care of me! Perhaps you can help take care of me again. For some reason, I can speak to you and tell you our troubles easier than to any one else in the world." "Dat's right, honey lam', dat's right. Who else you tell your troubles to but Aun' Sheba? Didn't I comfort you on dis bery bres time an' time agin when you was a little mite? Now you'se bigger and hab bigger troubles, I'se bigger too," and Aunt Sheba shook with laughter like a great form of jelly as she wiped her eyes with sympathy. "Aun' Sheba," said Mara in a voice full of unconscious pathos, "I don't know what to do, yet I must do something. It seems to me that I could be almost happy if I were as sure of earning my bread as you are." "Now, doggone dat ar lazy husban' o' mine. But he got his 'serts an'll git mo' ob dem eff he ain't keerful. I jes' felt it in my bones las' night how 'twas wid you, an I 'lowed how I'd see you dis mawnin', an' den he began to go on as ef you was nothin' but white folks stid ob my deah honey lam' dat I nussed till you was like my own chile. But he won' do so no mo'." "Oh, Aun' Sheba, believe me, I don't wish to interfere with any of your duties to him," began Mara earnestly. "Duty to him," exclaimed the colored woman with a snort of indignation. "He mout tink a little 'bout his duty to me. Doan you trubble 'bout him, for he's boun' to git mo' dan his shar anyhow. Now I know de good Lawd put it in my min' to come heah dis mawnin' case you was on my min' las' night. You needn't tink you kin go hungry while Aun' Sheba hab a crus'." "I know what a big heart you've got, but that won't do, Aun' Sheba. Can you think I would live idly on your hard-earned money?" "Well, 'tis my money, an' I make mo dan you tink, an' a heap mo' dan I let Unc. know about. He'd be fer settin' up his kerrige ef he knew," and she again laughed in hearty self-complacency. "Why, honey, I can 'sport you an' Missus widout pinchin', an' who gwine to know 'bout it?" "I'd know about it," said Mara, rising and putting her hand caressingly on the woman's shoulder, "yet I feel your kindness in the very depths of my heart. Come, I have a thought. Let me see what's in your basket." "Ony cakes dis mawnin', honey. Help you's sef." "Oh, how delicious they are," said Mara eating one, and thoughtfully regarding her sable friend. "You beat me making cakes, Aun' Sheba, and I thought I was good at it." "So you am, Missy, so you am, fer I taught you mysef." "Aun' Sheba, suppose we go into partnership." "Pahnaship!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba in bewilderment. "Oh, Mara!" Mrs. Hunter expostulated indignantly. "Well, I suppose it would be a very one-sided affair," admitted the girl, blushing in a sort of honest shame. "You are doing well without any help from me, and don't need any. I'm very much like a man who wants to share in a good business which has already been built up, but I don't know how to do anything else, and could at least learn better every day, and--and--I thought--I must do something--I thought, perhaps, if I made the cakes and some other things, and you sold them, Aun' Sheba, you wouldn't have to work so hard, and--well, there might be enough profit for us both." "Now de Lawd bress you heart, honey, dar ain't no need ob you blisterin' you'se pretty face ober a fiah, bakin' cakes an' sich. I kin--" "No, no, Aun' Sheba, you can't, for I won't let you." "Mara," protested Mrs. Hunter, severely, "do you realize what you are saying? Suppose it became known that you were in--in--" but the lady could not bring herself to complete the humiliating sentence. "Yis, honey, Missus am right. De idee! Sech quality as you in pahnaship wid ole Aun' Sheba!" and she laughed at the preposterous relationship. "Perhaps it needn't be known," said Mara, daunted for a moment. Then the necessities in the case drove her forward, and, remembering that her aunt was unable to suggest or even contemplate anything practicable, she said resolutely, "Let it be known. Others of our social rank are supporting themselves, and I'm too proud to be ashamed to do it myself even in this humble way. What troubles me most is that I'm making such a one-sided offer to Aun' Sheba. She don't need my help at all, and I need hers so much." "Now see heah, honey, is your heart set on dis ting?" "Yes, it is," replied Mara, earnestly. "My heart was like lead till you came, and it would be almost as light as one of these cakes if I knew I could surely earn my living. Oh, Aun' Sheba, you've had troubles, and you know what sore troubles my poor mother had, but neither you nor she ever knew the fear, the sickening dread which comes over one when you don't know where your bread is to come from or how you are to keep a roof over your head. Aunty, do listen to reason. Making cake and other things for Aun' Sheba to sell would not be half so humiliating as going to people of my own station and revealing my ignorance, or trying to do what I don't know how to do, knowing all the time that I was only tolerated. My plan leaves me in seclusion, and if any one thinks less of me they can leave me alone. I don't want to make my way among strangers; I don't feel that I can. This plan enables us to stay together, Aunty, and you must know now that we can't drift any longer." While Mara was speaking Aun' Sheba's thrifty thoughts had been busy. Her native shrewdness gave her a keen insight into Mrs. Hunter's character, and she knew that the widow's mind was so warped that she was practically as helpless as a child. While, in her generous love for Mara and from a certain loyalty to her old master's family, she was willing temporarily to assume what would be a very heavy burden, she was inwardly glad, as she grew accustomed to the idea, that Mara was willing to do her share. Indeed it would be a great relief if her basket could be filled for her, and she said, heartily, "Takes some time, honey, you know, fer an idee to git into my tick head, but when it gits dar it stick. Now you'se sensible, an' Missus'll see it soon. You'se on de right track. Ob cose, I'd be proud ob pahnaship, an' it'll be a great eas'n up to me. Makes a mighty long day, Missy, to git up in de mawnin' an' do my bakin' an' den tromp, tromp, tromp. I could put in an hour or two extra sleep, an' dat counts in a woman ob my age an' heft. But, law sakes! look at dat clock dar. I mus' be gitten along. Set you deah little heart at res', honey. I'se comin' back dis ebenin', an' we'se start in kin' ob easy like so you hab a chance to larn and not get 'scouraged." "I can't approve of this plan at all," said Mrs. Hunter, loftily, "I wash my hands of it." "Now, now, Missus, you do jes' dat--wash you hans ob it, but don' you 'fere wid Missy, kase it'll set her heart at res' and keep a home fer you bof. We's gwine to make a pile, honey, an' den de roses come back in you cheeks," and nodding encouragingly, she departed, leaving more hope and cheer behind her than Mara had known for many a month. To escape the complaining of her aunt, Mara shut herself in her room and thought long and deeply. The conclusion was, "The gulf between us has grown wider and deeper. When Mr. Clancy learns how I have sought independence without his aid--" but she only finished the sentence by a sad, bitter smile. CHAPTER VII MARA'S PURPOSE "Neber had sech luck in all my bawn days," soliloquized Aun' Sheba as she saw the bottom of her basket early in the day. "All my cus'mers kin' o' smilin' like de sunshine. Only Marse Clancy grumpy. He go by me like a brack cloud. I'se got a big grudge against dat ar young man. He use to be bery sweet on Missy. He mus' be taken wid some Norvern gal, and dat's 'nuff fer me. Ef he lebe my honey lam' now she so po', dar's a bad streak in his blood and he don' 'long to us any mo'. I wouldn't be s'prised ef dey hadn't had a squar meal fer a fortnight. I can make blebe dat I wants to take my dinner 'long o' dem to sabe time, an' den dey'll hab a dinner wat'll make Missy real peart 'fore she gin to work," and full of her kindly intentions she bought a juicy steak, some vegetables, a quantity of the finest flour, sugar, coffee, and some spices. Mara had slipped out and invested the greater part of her diminished hoard in the materials essential to her new undertaking. Not the least among them, as she regarded it, was an account book. When, therefore, Aun' Sheba bustled in between one and two o'clock, she found some bulky bundles on the kitchen table over which Mrs. Hunter had already groaned aloud. "Law sakes, honey, what all dese?" the colored aunty asked. "They are my start in trade," replied Mara, smiling. "Den you's gwine to hab a mighty big start, fer I got lots o' tings in dis basket." "Why, Aun' Sheba! Did you think I was going to let you furnish the materials?" "Ef you furnish de makin' up ob de 'terials what mo' you oughter do, I'd like ter know?" "Aun' Sheba, I could cheat you out af your two black eyes." "Dey see mo' dan you tink, Missy," she replied, nodding sagaciously. "Yes, I reckon they do, but my eyes must look after your interests as well as my own. I am going to be an honest partner. Do you see this book?" "What dat ar got to do wid de pahnaship?" "You will see. It will prevent you from ever losing a penny that belongs to you." "Penny, indeed! As if I'se gwine to stand on a penny!" "Well, I am. Little as I know about business, I am sure it will be more satisfactory if careful accounts are kept, and you must promise to tell me the whole truth about things. That's the way partners do, you know, and everything is put down in black and white." "Oh, go 'long wid you, honey, an' hab you own way. All in my pahnaship go down in black, I s'pose, an' you'se in white. How funny it all am!" and the old woman sat back in her chair and laughed in her joyous content. "It is all a very humiliating farce to me," said Mrs. Hunter, looking severely at the former property. "Yas'm," said Aun' Sheba, suddenly becoming stolid as a graven image. "Aunty," said Mara firmly but gently, "the time has come when I must act, for your sake as well as my own. Nothing will prevent me from carrying out this plan, except its failure to provide for Aun' Sheba as well as for ourselves." "Well, I wash my hands of it, and, if your course becomes generally known, I shall have it understood that you acted without my approval." And she rose and left the kitchen with great dignity. When the door closed upon her, Aun' Sheba again shook in vast and silent mirth. "Doan you trubble long o' Missus, honey," she said, nodding encouragingly at Mara. "She jes' like one dat lib in de dark an' can't see notin' right." Then in sudden revulsion of feeling she added, "You po' honey lam', doan you see you'se got to take keer ob her jes' as ef she was a chile?" "Yes," said Mara, sadly, "I've been compelled to see it at last." "Now doan you be 'scouraged. 'Tween us we take keer ob her, an' she be a heap betteh off eben ef she doan know it. You hab no dinner yit?" "We were just going to get it as you came." "Well now, honey, I habn't had a bite nudder, an' I'se gwine to take dinneh heah ef you'se willin'." "Why, surely, Aun' Sheba. It's little we have, you but know I'd share my last crust with you." Again the guest was bubbling over with good-natured merriment. "We ain't got to de las' crus' yit, an' I couldn't make my dinneh on a crus' nohow. Dar's one ting I'se jes' got to 'sist on in de pahnaship. I don't keer notin' 'bout 'count books and sich, but ef we'se gwine to make a fort'n you got to hab a heap o' po'er in you'se arms. You got to hab a strong back and feel peart all ober. Dis de ony ting I 'sist on. Now how you gwine to be plump and strong?" "Oh, I'm pretty strong, and I'll get stronger now that I have hope, and see my way a little." "Hope am bery good fer 'sert, honey, but we want somep'n solider to start in on. You jes' set de table in de oder room, an' I'll be de brack raben dat'll pervide. Now you must min' kase I'se doing 'cording to Scripter, an' we neber hab no luck 'tall if we go agin Scripter." "Very well," said Mara, laughing, "you shall have your own way. I see through all your talk, but I know you'll feel bad if you can't carry out your purpose. You'll have a better dinner, too." "Yeh, yeh, she knows a heap moah'n me," thought Aun' Sheba when alone, "but I know some tings too, bress her heart. I kin see dat her cheeks am pale and thin an' dat her eyes am gettin' so big and brack dat her purty face am like a little house wid big winders. She got quality blood in her vein, shuah, but habn't got neah 'nuff. Heah's de 'terial wat gibs hope sometimes better'n preachin," and she whipped out the steak and prepared it for the broiler. Then she clapped some potatoes into the oven, threw together the constituents of light biscuit, and put the coffee over the fire. A natural born cook, she was deft and quick, and had a substantial repast ready in an amazingly short time. Soon it was smoking on the table, and then she said with a significant little nod at Mara, "Now I'se gwine to wait on Missus like ole times." Mara understood her and did not protest, for she felt the necessity of humoring her aunt, who quite thawed out at the semblance of her former state. While the poor lady enlarged on the thought that such should be the normal condition of affairs, and would be if the world were not wholly out of joint, she nevertheless dined so heartily as to prove that she could still enjoy the good things of life if they were provided without personal compromise on her part. Mara made a silent note of this, and felt more strongly than ever that her aunt's needs and not her words must control her actions. After dinner she said, "Come, aunty, you have had much to try your nerves of late, and there must be much more not in harmony with your feelings. It can't be helped, but I absolve you of all responsibility, and I know very well if you had what was once your own, I would not have to raise my hand. You see I am not seeking relief in the way that is so utterly distasteful to you, and, when you come to think this plan all over, you will admit that it is the one that would attract the least attention, and involve the least change. Now lie down and take a good rest this afternoon." "Well," said Mrs. Hunter, with the air of one yielding a great deal, "I will submit, even though I can not approve, on the one condition that you have nothing more to say to Mr. Clancy." A painful flush overspread Mara's features, and she replied in a constrained voice, "You will have no occasion to worry about Mr. Clancy. After--" then remembering that Aunt Sheba was within ear-shot, she concluded, "Mr. Clancy will have nothing to say to me when he knows what is taking place. When you have thought it over you will see that my plan makes me independent of every one." "That is, if you succeed," remarked Mrs. Hunter, "and it will be about the only thing to be said in its favor." This degree of toleration obtained, Mara prepared to join Aunt Sheba in the kitchen, with the purpose of giving her whole thought and energy to the securing of an independence, now coveted more than ever. In spite of the influences and misapprehensions of her life which had tended to separate her from Clancy, when she fully learned that he was affiliating with those who dwelt as aliens in her thoughts, she had been overborne by his words and the promptings of her own heart. She was glad, indeed, that she had not revealed what she now regarded as her weakness, feeling that it would have complicated matters most seriously. While she had been compelled to see the folly of seclusion and inaction, the natural result of a morbid pride which blinds as well as paralyzes, she was by no means ready to accept his views or go to his lengths. She would have shared poverty with him gladly if he would continue to be "a true Southerner," in other words, one who submitted in cold and unrelenting protest to the new order of things. In accepting this new order, and in availing himself of it to advance his fortunes and those of his State as he also claimed, he alienated her in spite of all his arguments, and his avowed love. She felt that he should take the ground with her that they had suffered too deeply, and had been wronged too greatly, to ignore the past. They were a conquered people, but so were the Poles and Alsatians. Were those subject races ready to take the hands that had struck them and still held them in thraldom? Their indignant enmity was patriotism, not hate. Now that the habitual thoughts of her life had been given time to resume their control, she felt all the more bitterly what seemed a hopeless separation. The North had not only robbed her of kindred and property, but was now taking her lover. She knew she loved him, yet not for the sake of her love would she be false to her deep-rooted feelings and convictions. If he had seen how nearly she yielded to _him_, not to his views, the previous evening, it would have been doubly hard to show him in the end that she could never share in his life, unless he adopted her attitude of passive submission to what could not be helped. Others might do as they pleased, but their dignity and personal memories required this position, and, as she had said to him, she could take no other course without hypocrisy, revolting alike to her feelings and sense of honor. His strong words, however, combining with the circumstances of her lot, had broken the spell of her aunt's influence, and had planted in her mind the thought that any useless suffering on her part was not loyalty to the memory of her father and mother. Her new impulse was to make the most and best of her life as far as she could conscientiously: and the hope would assert itself that if she were firm he would eventually be won over to her position. "If he loves as I do," she thought, "he will be. He, no doubt, is sincere, but he has been beguiled into seeing things in the light of his immediate interests. Love to me, if it is genuine, and loyalty to the cause for which his father gave his life, should lead him to the dignified submission of the conquered and away from all association with the conquerors that can be avoided. I'll prove to him," was her mental conclusion, accompanied with a flash of her dark eyes, "that a girl ignorant of the world and its ways, and with the help only of a former slave, can earn her bread, and thus show him how needless are his Northern allies." Thoughts like these had been swiftly coursing through her mind while dining, and therefore, when she joined Aun' Sheba in the kitchen, she was ready to employ every faculty, sharpened to the utmost, in the tasks before her. In that humble arena, and by the prosaic method contemplated, she would assert her unsubdued spirit, and maintain a consistency which should not be marred, even at the bidding of love, by an insincere acceptance of his views and associations. CHAPTER VIII NEVER FORGET; NEVER FORGIVE While Ann' Sheba finished her dinner Mara began to open and put in their places the slender materials which she had purchased as her first step toward self-support. The generous meal, and especially the coffee combining with the strong incentive of her purpose, gave elasticity to her step and flushed her face slightly with color. The old aunty watched her curiously and sympathetically as she thought, "Bress her heart how purty she am, bendin' heah an' dar like a willow an' lookin' de lady ebery inch while she doin' kitchen work! Quar pahner fer sech an ole woman as me ter hab, but I dun declar dat her han's, ef dey am little, seem po'ful smart. Dey takes hole on tings jes' as if dey'd coax 'em right along whar she wants dem!" Then she broke out, "Wot a fool dat Owen Clancy am!" Mara started and was suddenly busy in a distant part of the room. "I reckon you are the only one that thinks so, Aun' Sheba," she remarked quietly. "Ef he could see you now he'd tink so hisself." "Very likely," and there was a little bitterness in Mara's accent. "De mo' fool he be den," said Aun' Sheba with an indignant toss of her head. "Whar ud his eyes be ef he could see you and not go down on his marrow-bones, I'd like to know? Habn't I seen all de quality ob dis town? and dat fer de new quality," with a snap of her fingers, "an you take de shine off'n dem all eben in de kitchen. Law sakes, what kin' ob blood dat man Clancy hab to lebe you kase you po'? Pears ter me de ole cun'l, his fader, ud be orful figety in his coffin." "Mr. Clancy has not left me because I am poor, Aun' Sheba," said Mara gravely. "You do him great injustice. We are not so good friends as we were simply because we cannot agree on certain subjects. But I would rather you would not talk about him to me or to any one else. Come now, you must give me some lessons in your mystery of making cakes that melt in one's mouth. Otherwise people will say you are growing old and losing your high art." "Dey better not tell me no sech lies. Law, Missy, you is gwine ter beat me all holler wen onst you gits de hang ob de work. You little white han's gib fancy teches dat ain't in my big black han'. Arter all, tain't de han's; it's de min'. Dere's my darter Mis Watson. Neber could larn her much mo'n plain cookin'. Dere's a knack at dese tings dat's bawn in one. It's wot you granpa used ter call genus, an' you allus hab it, eben when you was a chile an' want ter muss in de kitchen." Thus full of reminiscence and philosophy eminently satisfactory to her own mind, Aun' Sheba taught her apt and eager pupil the secrets of her craft. Mara was up with the dawn on the following day, and achieved fair success. Other lessons followed, and it was not very long before the girl passed beyond the imitative stage and began to reason upon the principles involved in her work and then to experiment. One day an old customer said to Aun' Sheba: "There's a new hand at the bellows." "Dunno not'n 'bout bellus. Ain't de cakes right?" "Well, then, you've got some new receipts." "Like a'nuff I hab," said the vender warily. "De pint am, howsumeber, isn't de cakes good?" "Yes, they seem better every day, but they are not the same every day. I reckon some one's coaching you." "Law sakes, Massa, wo't you mean by coachin' me?" "Do you make the cakes?" was asked pointblank. "Now, Massa, you's gittin' too cur'us. Wot de Scripter say? Ask no questions fer conscience' sake." "Come, come, Aun' Sheba; if you begin to wrest Scripture, I'll take pains to find you out." She shuffled away in some trepidation and shook her head over the problem of keeping her relations with Mara secret. "Missy puttin' her min' in de cakes an' I didn't hab much min' to put in an' folks know de dif'ence," she soliloquized. Later on she was down among the cotton warehouses, and finding herself weary and warm, stopped to rest in the shade of a building. Suddenly Owen Clancy turned the corner. His brow was contracted as if in deep and not agreeable thought. Aun' Sheba's lowered at him, for he seemed about to pass her without noticing her. The moment he became aware of her presence, however, he stopped and fixed upon her his penetrating gray eyes. His gaze was so persistent and stern that she was disconcerted, but she spoke with her accustomed assurance: "You ain't gwine ter call de perlice, is you, Mars' Clancy?" and she placed her arms akimbo on her hips. This reference was shrewd, for it reminded him that his grievance was purely personal and one that he could not resent in her case, yet his heart was so sore with the suspicion that Mara was looking to this negress for help instead of to himself, that for the time being he detested the woman. Love is not a judicial quality, and rarely has patience with those who interfere with its success. He had hoped that eventually the pressure of poverty would turn Mara's thoughts to him, especially as he had revealed so emphatically his wish to help her disinterestedly as a friend even; but if his present fears were well grounded, he would have to admit that her heart had grown utterly cold toward him. "Why should you think of the police, Aun' Sheba, unless you have something on your mind?" he asked, coolly removing the cover of the basket and helping himself. "You didn't make these cakes. Did you steal them?" "Marse Clancy, what you take me fer?" "That depends on how honest your answers are."' "I ain't 'bliged ter answer 'tall." "Oh, you're afraid then." "No, I ain't afeerd. Ef dey is stolen, you'se a 'ceivin ob stolen goods, fum de way dem cakes dis'pearin'." "You're pert, Aun'Sheba." "Oh co'se I'se peart. Hab to be spry to arn a libin' in dese yer times, but I can do it fum dem dat's fren'ly and not fum dem dat glower at me." "Will you tell me if Miss Wallingford--" "Marse Clancy, hab Miss Wallingford sent you word dat she want you to know 'bout her 'fairs?" "I understand," he said almost savagely, and throwing a quarter into the basket he passed on. There had been a tacit understanding at first that Mara's part in Aun' Sheba's traffic should not be revealed. The girl had not wholly shaken off the influence of her aunt's opposition, and she shrank with almost morbid dread from being the subject of remark even among those of her own class. The chief and controlling motive for secrecy, however, had been distrust, the fear that the undertaking would not be successful. As the days had passed this fear had been removed. Aun' Sheba did not come to make her returns until after she had taken her supper in the evening, and at about ten in the morning she reached Mara's home by an unfrequented side street. There were those, however, who had begun to notice the regularity of her visits and among them was Owen Clancy. We have also seen that the daintiness of the viands had caused surmises. Mara had become preoccupied with her success and with plans for increasing it. At first Aun' Sheba had supplemented her attempts, and her plan had been entered on so quietly and carried forward so smoothly that even Mrs. Hunter was becoming reconciled to the scheme although she tried to conceal the fact. It would be hard to find two women more ignorant of the world, or more averse to being known by it, yet from it the unsophisticated girl now hoped to divert a little sustaining rill of currency without a ripple of general comment until the hour should come when she could reveal the truth to Clancy as a rebuke to his course and as a suggestion that a man might do more and yet not compromise himself. Full of these thoughts and hopes, her life, if not happy, had at least ceased to stagnate and was growing in zest and interest. The day on which occurred the events just narrated was destined to prove a fateful one. When Aun' Sheba came in the evening it was soon evident that she had something on her mind. She paid little heed to the accounts while Mara was writing them down and explaining the margin of profit, as the girl was always careful to do, for it satisfied her conscience that her over-loyal partner was prospering now as truly as before. After everything had been attended to and the programme arranged for the morning, Aun' Sheba still sat and fidgeted in her chair. Mara leaned back in hers and looking across the kitchen table said: "Be honest now. There's something you want to say." "Don't want ter say it, but s'pose I ought." "I reckon you had, Aun' Sheba." The woman's native shrewdness had been sharpened by the varied experience of her calling, and she had become convinced that the policy of secrecy would be a failure. What would be Mara's course when compelled to face the truth, was the question that troubled her. The kind soul hoped that it would make no difference, and proposed to use all her tact to induce the girl to continue her enterprise openly, believing that this course would be best for several reasons. She had the wit to know that Mara would yield far more out of consideration for her than for any thought of self, so she said as a masterpiece of strategy, "Marse Clancy ax me to-day if I stole de cakes." "What," cried Mara, flushing hotly. "Jes dat--ef I stole de cakes; an' anoder man say I was gittin' new reseets or dat somebody was coachin' me, whateber dat is. Den he put it right straight, 'Did you make 'em?'" "Oh, Aun' Sheba, I've thoughtlessly been causing trouble. I should have continued to make the cakes just as you did, and it was only to divert my mind that I tried other ways. I won't do so any more." "Dunno 'bout dat, honey." "Indeed I will not when I promise you." "I doesn't want any sech a promise. De folks like de new-fangle' cakes betteh, an' gwine back to de ole way wouldn't do no good. It's all boun'ter come out dat I'se sellin' fer you as well as fer me. Marse Clancy axed ef you wasn't, leastways he 'gan to ax when I shut him up." "How did you shut him up?" said Mara, breathing quickly. "By axin' him anoder question. Yah, yah, I'se Yankee 'nuff fer dat. I say, 'Hab Miss Wallingford sen' you word dat she want you to know 'bout her 'fairs'?" "Didn't he say anything after that?" "Yes, he say 'I understand,' an' I'spect he do, fer he drap a quarter in my basket an' look as if he was po'ful mad as he walk away. He better min' his own business." Mara understood Clancy and Aun' Sheba did not. The young girl was troubled and perplexed, for she could not but see in her lover's mind the effect of her step. She felt that it was natural he should be hurt and even angered to learn that, after all he had offered to do for her, she should avail herself of Aun' Sheba's services instead of his. What she feared most was that he would take it as final evidence that she was hostile to him personally and not merely estranged because he would not conform his views and life to her own. Her secret and dearest purpose, that of teaching him that he could live without compromise as she could, might be defeated. What if the very act should lead to the belief that she no longer wished to have any part in his life? A girl cannot feel that same toward a man who has told her openly of his love, for such words break down the barriers of maidenly reserve even in her own self-communings. Since he had spoken so plainly she could think more plainly. She knew well how mistaken Aun' Sheba was in her judgment, but could not explain that Clancy felt he was not only rejected as a lover but had been ignored even as a helpful friend; and her own love taught her to gauge the bitterness of this apparent truth. She soon became conscious that Aun' Sheba was watching her troubled face, and to hide her deeper thoughts she said, "Yes, I suppose it is all bound to come out. Well, let it. You shall not be misjudged." "Law sake, Missy, wot does I keer! De ting dat trouble me is dat you'se gwine to keer too much. I doan want you to gib up and I doan want you to be flustered ef you fin' it's known. De pa'hnership, as you call 'im, been doin' you a heap o' good. You'se min' been gettin' int'usted an' you fo'gits you'se troubles. Dat's wot pleases me. Now to my po' sense, folks is a heap betteh off, takin' keer ob dem selves, dan wen dey worry 'bout wat dis one say an' dat one do. Dere is lots ob folks dat'll talk 'bout you a month dat won't lif' dere finger for you a minit. An' wat can dey say, honey, dat'll harm you? You prouder'n all ob dem, but you got dis kin' ob pride. Ef de rent fall due you fight again eben you'se ole nuss payin' it. Talk's only breff, but an empty pocket mean an orful lot ob trouble to folks who ain't willin' to take out ob dere pocket wat dey didn't put dere." "Yes, Aun' Sheba, I think it would be the worst kind of trouble." "I know it ud be fer you, but dar's Unc. He'd like his pocket filled ebery day an' he wouldn't keer who filled it ef he could spend. He'd say de Lawd pervided. Unc.'d rather trust de Lawd dan work any day." "I am afraid you are not very religious," said Mara, smiling. "Well, I of'n wonder wedder I'se 'ligious or no," resumed Aun' Sheba, introspectively. "Some sarmons and prars seem like bread made out ob bran, de bigger de loaf de wuss it is. Unc. says I'se very cole an backsliden, but I'd be a heap colder ef I didn't keep up de wood-pile. "And you help others keep up their wood-piles." "Well, I reckon I does, but dere ain't much 'ligion in dat. Dat's kin' ob human natur which de preacher say am bad, bery bad stuff. De Lawd knows I say my prars sho't so as to be up an' doin'. Anyhow I doan belebe he likes ter be hollered at so, as dey do in our meetin' an' Unc. says dat sech talk am 'phemous. But dat ain't heah nor dar. We'se gwine right along, honey, ain't we? We'se gwine ter min' our own business jes' as if we'se the bigges' pahners in de town?" "Yes, Aun' Sheba, you can say what you please hereafter, and I want you to come and go openly. I should have taken the stand before and saved you from coming out evenings. It has been far more on Aunty's account than on my own." "Well, honey, now my min's at res' an' I belebe we do po'ful lot ob trade. Dat orful human natur gwine to come in now an' I belebe dat folks who know you an' all 'bout you'se family will help you, 'stid ob talkin' agin you. You see. You knows I doan' mean no disrespec' to ole Missus, but she'd jes sit down an' starbe, tinkin' ob de good dinners she orter hab, an' did hab in de ole times. All you'se folks in hebin is a smilin' on you, honey. Dey is, fer I feels it in my bones. You'se got de co'age ob you pa an' granpa an' dey know, jes' as we knows, dat ole Missus take a heap mo' comfort grumblin' dan in bein' hungry." "Oh, Aun' Sheba, do you truly think they know about my present life?" the girl asked, with wet eyes. "Dat's a bery deep question, honey, but it kin' a seem reason'ble ter me dat wen you gettin' on well an' wen you doin' good to some po' soul de Lawd'll sen' an angel to tell 'em. Wen dey ain't hearin' notin' I spects dey's got to tink as we does dat no news is good news." The girl was deeply moved, for the vernacular of her old nurse had been familiar from childhood and did not detract from the sacred themes suggested. "Oh, that I could have seen my father," she sighed. "Portraits are so unsatisfying. Tell me again just how he looked." "He'd be proud ob you, honey, an' you kin be proud ob him. You hab his eyes, only you'se is bigger and of'n look as if you'se sorrowin' way down in you soul. Sometimes, eben wen you was a baby, you'd look so long an' fixed wid you big sad eyes as if you seed it all an' know'd it all dat I used to boo-hoo right out. Nuder times I'd be skeered, fer you'd reach out you'se little arms as ef you seed you'se moder an' wanted to go to her. De Lawd know bes' why he let such folks die. She was like a passion vine creepin' up de oak--all tender and clingin' an' lubin', wid tears in her blue eyes ebin wen he pettin' her, an' he was tall an' straight an' strong wid eyes dat laffed or flashed jes as de 'casion was. I kin see him now come marchin' down Meetin' Street at de head ob his men, all raised hisself. He walk straight as an arrow wid his sword flashin' in de sunshine an' a hundred men step tromp, tromp, arter him as ef dey proud to follow. Missy Mary stood on de balc'ny lookin' wid all her vi'let eyes an' wabin' her hank'chief. Oh, how purty she look! de roses in her cheek, her bref comin' quick, bosom risin' an' fallin', an' she a-tremblin' an' alibe all ober wid excitement an' pride an' lub. Wen he right afore de balc'ny his voice rung out like a trumpet, 'Right 'bout, face. 'Sent arms.' I dun declar dat 'fore we could wink dey was all in line frontin' us wid dere guns held out. Den he s'lute her wid his sword an' she take a red rose fum her bosom an' trow it to him an' he pick it up an' put it to his lips; den it was 'Right 'bout! March!' an' away dey went tromp, tromp, towa'ds de Bat'ry. I kin see it all. I kin see it all. O Lawd, Lawd, dey's all dead," and she rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with her apron. Mara sprang up, her streaming tears dried by the hotness of her indignation as she cried, "And I too can see him, with his little band, dashing against almost an army and then trodden in the soil he died to defend. No, no, Owen Clancy, never!" "Ah," said a low stern voice, "that's the true spirit. Now, Mara, you are your father's child. Never forget; never forgive," and they saw that Mrs. Hunter stood with them in the dim kitchen. "Dunno 'bout dat, Missus. Reckon de wah am ober, an' what we gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar? Dar, dar, honey, 'pose you'se nerves. 'Taint bes' to tink too much ob de ole times, an' I mustn't talk to you so no mo'." CHAPTER IX A NEW SOLACE On her way home Aun' Sheba shook her head more than once in perplexity and disapprobation over what she had heard. She had the freedom of speech of an old family servant who had never been harshly repressed even when a slave, and now was added the fearlessness of a free woman. Her affection for Mara was so strong that in her ignorance she shared in some of the girl's prejudices against the North, but not in her antipathy. The thought that Clancy had waned in his regard or that he could even think of a Northern girl after having "kep' company" with Mara, had been exasperating, but now Aun' Sheba began to suspect that the estrangement was not wholly his fault. "She set agin him by his gwine Norf an' his habin' to do wid de folks dat she an' ole Missus hates. Doan see why he is mad at me 'bout it. Reckon he's mad anyhow an' can't speak peac'ble to nobody. Well, I likes him a heap betteh in dat view ob de case an' he kin glower at me all he please 'long as he ain't 'sertin' young Missy case she is po'. Couldn't stan' dat no how. He's willin' an' she ain't, an' dat wat she mean by sayin' 'No, Owen Clancy, nebbeh.' She won't lis'n to him kase he doan hate de Norf like pizen. Now dat is foolishness, an' she's sot up to it by de ole Missus. De Norf does as well as it know how. To be sure, it ain't quality like young Missy, but it buy de cotton an' it got de po'r. Wat's mo', it gib me a chance to wuck fer mysef. I would do as much fer young Missy as eber. I'd wuck my fingers off fer her, but I likes ter do it like white folks, kase I lub her. She orten' be so hard on young Clancy. He got his way ter make and dere'd be no good in his buttin' his head agin a wall. Tings am as dey is, an' I'm glad dey is as dey am. Dey's a long sight betteh fer cullud folks and white folks too, ef dey's a min' ter pull wid de curren' sted ob agin it. Massa Clancy's no fool. He know dis. He los' his pa an his prop'ty too, but he know betteh dan to go on hatin' fereber. Dey can't spec' me to uphole dem in dis fer it agin de Scripter an' my feelin's. Ole Missus bery 'ligious. She dun fergit wat de words mean she say ebry Sunday, But den, wot de use ob callin' ole Missus to 'count. She neber could see ony her side ob de question. It don make any dif'ence to her how many widers dere is in de Norf an' she hab jes dinged her 'pinions inter young Missy eber sence she was bawn. I'se glad ter do fer dem long as I lib, but I'se gwine ter speak my min' too." With such surmises and self-communings she reached her home and found Uncle Sheba asleep in his chair and the fire out. She nodded at him ominously and muttered, "I gib him anuder lesson." Slipping quietly into the bedroom, she bolted the door, and, unrelenting to all remonstrances left him to get through the night as well as he could in his chair. The result justified the wisdom of the means employed, for thereafter Uncle Sheba always had a good fire when she returned. Aun' Sheba had correctly interpreted the ellipsis suggested by Mara's passionate utterance. The scenes called up by her old nurse's words and rendered vivid by a strong imagination again presented themselves as an impassable barrier between herself and her lover unless he should feel their significance as she did. As a woman her heart was always pleading for him, but when strongly excited by the story of the past her anger flamed that he should even imagine that she would continue her regard for him. Indeed she wondered and was almost enraged at herself that she could not at once blot out his image and dismiss him from her thoughts when he was taking the course of all others most repugnant to her. At such moments she could easily believe that all was over between them, but with quiet persistence her heart knew better, and preferred love to enmities and sad memories. Moreover, passionate as had been her mood there was a hard, homely common-sense in her old nurse's words, "Reckon de wah's ober an' wat you gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar?" that quenched her fire like cold water. No one can be in a false position, out of harmony with normal laws and principles, without meeting spiritual jars. Mara was too young and too intelligent not to recognize the difficulties in maintaining her position, but she believed sincerely that the circumstances of her lot justified this position and made it the only honorable one for her. Northerners were to her what the Philistines were to the ancient Hebrews, the hereditary foes from which she had suffered the chief ills of her life. To compromise with them was to compromise with evil, and therefore she was always able to reason away the significance of all words like those of Aun' Sheba, although for the moment they troubled her. Mrs. Hunter, however, had long since been incapable of doubts or compunctions. She tolerated Aun' Sheba's outspokenness as she would that of a child or a slave babbling of matters far above her comprehension. The day marked a change in Mara's policy and action, and these led to some very important experiences. A false pride had at first prompted, or at least induced her to acquiesce in secrecy; now an honest pride led her to openness in all her efforts to obtain a livelihood. She would volunteer no information, but would simply go on in an unhesitating manner, let the consequences be what they might. They soon began to take a surprisingly agreeable form, for the quick warm sympathies of the Southern people were touched. Here was a young girl, the representative of one of the oldest and best families, seeking quietly and unostentatiously to support herself and her aged aunt. There had been scores of people who would gladly have offered her assistance, but they had respected her reticence in regard to her affairs as jealously as they guarded the condition of their own. Frank in the extreme with each other in most respects, there was an impoverished class in the city who would suffer much rather than reveal pecuniary need or accept the slightest approach to charity. Poverty was no reproach among these families that had once enjoyed wealth in abundance. Indeed it was rather like a badge of honor, for it indicated sacrifice for the "lost cause" and an unreadiness for thrifty compacts and dealings with those hostile to that cause. In the class to which Mara belonged, therefore, she gained rather than lost in social consideration, and especial pains were taken to assure her of this fact. Those in whose veins, even in Mrs. Hunter's estimation, flowed the oldest and bluest blood, called more frequently and spoke words of cheer and encouragement. That good lady, in a rich but antiquated gown, received the guests and was voluble in Mara's praises and in lamentation over the wrongs of the past. The majority were sympathetic listeners, but all were glad that the girl could do and was willing to do something more than complain. To their credit it should be said that they were ready to do more than sympathize, for even the most straitened found that they could spare something for Mara's cake, and Aun' Sheba's basket began to be emptied more than once every day. Orders were given also, and the young girl had all she could do to keep up with the growing demand. It was well for her that each day brought its regular work, and its close found her too weary for the brooding so often the bane of idleness. Yet, in spite of all that was encouraging, the cheering words spoken to her, the elation of Aun' Sheba and the excitement resulting from her humble prosperity, she was ever conscious of a dull ache at heart. Clancy had gone North for an indefinite absence, and it looked as if their separation were final. In vain she assured herself that it was best that they should not meet again until both were satisfied that their paths led apart. She knew that she had hoped his path would come back to hers--that in secret she hoped this still, with a pathetic persistence which defied all effort. She believed, however, that such effort was her best resource, for he was again under the influences she most feared and detested. At times she reproached herself for having been too reserved, too proud and passionate in her resentment at his course. He had asked her to convince him of his error if she could, and she had not only failed to make such effort, but also had denied him the hope that would have been more than all argument. Thus, at variance with her heart, she alternated between the two extremes of anger at his course and regret and compunction at her own. As a rule, though, her resolute will enabled her to concentrate her thoughts on daily occupations and immediate interests, and it became her chief aim to so occupy herself with these interests that no time should be left for thoughts which now only tended to distress and discourage. Mara was a girl who consciously would be controlled by a few simple motives rather than by impulses, circumstances or the influence of others. We have seen that loyalty, as she understood it, was her chief motive. Her love for parents she had never seen was profound, and all relating to them was sacred. To do what she believed would be pleasing to them, what would now reflect honor upon their memory, was her supreme duty. All other motives would be dominated by this pre-eminent one and all action guided by it. She felt that the effort to provide for her aunt, the one remaining member of her family, and to enable her to spend her remaining days in the congenial atmosphere of the past, would certainly be in accord with her parents' wishes. Then by natural sequence her sympathies went out to those whose fortunes, like her own, had been wrecked by the changes against which they could interpose only a helpless protest. In various ways she learned of those of her own class who had been disabled and impoverished, whose lives were stripped of the embroidery of pleasant little gratifications only permitted by a surplus of income. It gradually came to be a cherished solace after the labors of the morning, to carry to the sick and afflicted, dwelling in homes of faded gentility like her own, some delicacy made by her own hands. While these were received in the spirit in which they were brought, the girl's lovely, sympathetic face was far more welcome, and the orphan began to embody to those of the old regime the cause for which they all had suffered so much. Within this limited circle Mara was kindness and gentleness itself, beyond it cold and unapproachable. Occasionally some, with whom she had no sympathy, sought to patronize her. They intimated that they were willing to buy lavishily, but it was also evident that they wished their good-will appreciated and reciprocated in ways that excited the girl's scorn. In spite of her poverty and homely work, it was known that she was a favorite in the most aristocratic circle in the city, and there are always those ready to seek social recognition in many and devious ways. These pushing people represented to Mara the Northern element and leaven in the city, and she soon made it clear that there was an invisible line beyond which they could not pass. Their orders were either declined or scrupulously filled, if her time permitted, but with a quiet tact which was inflexible she warded off every approach which was not purely commercial. CHAPTER X MISS AINSLEY While in New York, Owen Clancy had been kept informed of the drift of those events in which he was especially interested. While Mara's effort had increased his admiration for her, its success had still further discouraged his hope. In his way he was as proud as she was. He had committed himself to a totally different line of action, for in his business relations he had been led into friendly relations with many Northern people in both cities. He had accepted and returned their hospitalities in kind as far as it was possible for a young bachelor of modest means. This courtesy had been expected and accepted as a matter of course, and to exchange it for cold, freezing politeness limited only to matters of trade, would not only subject him to ridicule but cut short his business career. Considerations supreme in Mara's circle were ignored by the great world, and, having once felt the impulses of the large currents of life, it would be impossible for Clancy to withdraw into the little side eddy wherein thought was ever turning back to no purpose. Having clasped hands and broken bread with the men and women of the North, he felt that he could not, and would not stultify himself, even for the sake of his love, by any change toward them. They would despise him not only as a miracle of narrowness but also as an insincere man, whose courtesy had been but business policy, easily dropped at the bidding of some more pressing interest. His last interview with Mara had depressed him exceedingly, for while it had increased his love it had also revealed to him the radical divergence in their views and made it more clear that he could only hope to win her love by the sacrifice of self-respect. He must cease to be a thinking, independent man, a part of his own day and generation, and fix his thoughts upon the dead issues of the past. "The idea," he would mutter, "of sitting down and listening to Mrs. Hunter's inane and endless lament." He could not conform to Mara's views without being guilty of hypocrisy also, and she proved her narrowness by not recognizing this truth. After all, the point of view was chiefly the cause of the trouble between them. She had ever dwelt in the shaded valley; he had been on the mountain-top, and so had secured a broad range of vision. He had come into contact with the great forces which were making the future and the men of the future, and he recognized that his own State and his own people must be vitalized by these forces or else be left far behind. And he represented a large and increasing class in his native city. In birth and breeding he was the peer of Mara or any of her aristocratic circle. He had admission to the best society in the State, and, if looked upon coldly by some, it was for the same reasons which actuated the girl for whom he would gladly yield everything except his principles and right of private judgment. While he had many warm, sympathetic friends he felt that the old should give way to the new, he yet ran against the prejudices which Mara embodied so often that he began to feel ill at ease in Charleston. He thought of removing permanently to cosmopolitan New York more than once during his absence North. If he should be fully convinced after his return that Mara was lost to him, unless he became a part of her implacable and reactionary coterie, it might be better for his peace of mind that he were far away. One evening, before his departure home, he was invited to dine with a gentleman who had large railroad interests in the South. Mr. Ainsley was a widower, a man of wealth, and absorbed in the pleasure of its increase. He had made a business acquaintance with Clancy, and, finding him unusually intelligent and well informed in regard to Southern matters, naturally wished to converse more at length with him. The cordial invitation, the hearty welcome of the Northern capitalist could scarcely fail in gratifying the young Southerner, who keenly felt the importance of interesting just such men as his host in the enterprises under consideration. During the preliminary talk in the library of his palatial home, Mr. Ainsley soon discovered that his guest was not only well informed but frank and honest in statements, giving the cons as well as the pros, in spite of an evident desire to secure for the South all the advantages possible. Before going to the dining-room, Miss Caroline, his host's only daughter, entered the library and was presented. Clancy was fairly dazzled by her remarkable beauty. She was a blonde of the unusual type characterized by dark eyes and golden hair. Naturally, therefore, the first impression of beauty was vivid, nor was it banished by closer observation. As she presided with ease and grace at her father's table, Clancy found himself fascinated as he had never been before by a stranger. Although their table-talk lost its distinctively business and statistical character, Mr. Ainsley still pursued his inquiries in a broad, general way, and the daughter also asked questions in regard to life and society at the South which indicated a personal interest on her part. At last she said, "Papa thinks it quite possible that we may spend some time in your region, and in that case we should probably make Charleston our headquarters. I have a friend, Mrs. Willoughby--do you know her?" "Yes, indeed; a charming lady. She resides on the Battery." "I'm glad you know her. I met her abroad, and we became very fond of each other. She has often asked me to visit her, but as I rarely leave Papa, the way has never opened." "My daughter is very good in accompanying me in my various business expeditions," her father explained, "and you know they do not often lead to fashionable watering-places, nor can they always be adjusted to such seasons as I could desire. I wish I could go to Charleston at an early date, but in view of other interests, I cannot tell when I can get away." "When I do come, I shall make the most of my name and insist on being regarded as a Carolinian," said Miss Ainsley, laughing. Clancy was pleased with the conceit and the delicate compliment implied, but he was already impressed with the idea that his hostess was the most cosmopolitan girl that he had ever met. She piqued his curiosity, and he led her to talk of her experiences abroad. Apparently she had been as much at home in Europe as in America, and had been received in the highest social circles everywhere. When after dinner she played for him some brilliant, difficult classical music, he began to regard her a perfect flower of metropolitan culture. Yet she perplexed him. She revealed so much about herself without the slightest hesitation, yet at the same time seemed to veil herself completely. He and her father could broach no topic of conversation in which she could not take an intelligent part. Matters of European policy were touched upon, and she was at home in regard to them. She smiled broadly when he tried to explain to her father that patience would still be required with the South, but that in time the two parts of the country would be more firmly welded together than ever. "Such antipathies amuse me," she said. "It is one side keeping up a quarrel which the other has forgotten all about." "The circumstances are different, Miss Ainsley," Clancy replied. "The war cost me my father, my property, and impoverished my State." He could not tell whether her eyes expressed sympathy or not, for they had beamed on him with a soft alluring fire from the first, but her father spoke up warmly: "The North has not forgotten, especially the older generation. We have not suffered materially and have become absorbed in new interests, but the heart of the North was wounded as truly as that of the South. I wish to assure you, Mr. Clancy, how deeply I sympathize with and honor your spirit of conciliation. What is there for us all but to be Americans? Believe me, sir, such men as yourself are the strength and hope of your section." "I believe with you, Mr. Ainsley, that it has been settled that we are to have but one destiny as a nation, but in justice to my people I must say that our wounds were so deep and the changes involved so vast that it is but reasonable we should recover slowly. You may say that we committed errors during the reconstruction period, yet they were errors natural to a conquered people. In the censure we have received from many quarters we have been almost denied the right to our common human nature. Possibly the North, in our position would not have acted very differently. But the past _is_ past, and the question is now, what is right and wise? I know that I represent a strong and growing sentiment which desires the unity and prosperity of the entire country. I in turn, sir, can say that men like yourself, in coming among us and investing their money do more than all politicians in increasing this sentiment. It proves that you trust us; and trust begets trust and good feeling. The North, however, will always be mistaken if it expects us to denounce our fathers or cease to honor the men who fought and prayed for what they believed was right." "Suppose, Mr. Clancy," Miss Ainsley asked, with mirthful eyes, "that a party in the South had the power to array your section against the North again, would you go with your section?" "Oh, come, Carrie, it is scarcely fair to ask tests on utterly improbable suppositions," said her father laughing, yet he awaited Clancy's answer with interest. "No," he said quietly, "not with the light I now possess. I would have done so five years ago. Are Northern young men so intrinsically wise and good that they are not influenced by their traditions and immediate associations?" "Mr. Clancy, where are your eyes? Go to the Delmonico cafe at noon to-morrow, and observe the flower of our patrician youth taking their breakfast. You will see beings who are intrinsically what they are." "I fear we are rather even in this respect," said Clancy, laughing. "You have your metropolitan dudes and manikins, and we our rural ruffians, slaves of prejudice, who hate progress, schools and immigration, as they do soap and water. There is some consideration for our fellows, however, for they scarcely know any better, and many of their characteristics are bred in the bone. It would almost seem that the class you refer to are fools and nonentities from choice." "I fear not," she said, lifting her eyebrows, "if I were a medical student I should be tempted to kill one of them--it wouldn't be murder--to see if he had a brain." "You think brain, then, is absolutely essential?' "Yes, indeed. I could endure a man without a heart, but not if he were a fool. If a man is not capable of thinking himself into what is sensible he is a poor creature." Clancy shrugged his shoulders in slight protest and soon after took his leave, having first acquiesced in an appointment with Mr. Ainsley at his office in the morning. On the way to his hotel and until late into the night, he thought over his experiences of the evening. Did Miss Ainsley intend to compliment him by suggesting that he was thinking himself into what was sensible? It was difficult to tell what she intended as far as he was concerned. "She could only have the most transient interest in such a stranger as I am," he reasoned, "yet her eyes were like magnets. They both fascinate and awaken misgivings. Perhaps they are the means by which she discovers whether a man is a fool or not; if he speedily loses his head under their spells, she mentally concludes, weighs and finds wanting. Probably, however, like hosts of pretty women, she simply enjoys using her powers and seeing men succumb; and men not forearmed and steeled as I am, might well hesitate to see her often, for my impression is right strong that she has more brain than heart. Yet she is a dazzling creature. Jove, what a contrast to Mara! Yet there is a nobility and womanly sincerity in Mara's expression than I cannot discover in Miss Ainsley's face. However wrong Mara may be, you are sure she is sincere and that she would be true to her conscience even if she put the whole North to the sword; but this brilliant girl--how much conscience and heart has she? Back of all her culture and accomplishments there is a woman; yet what kind of a woman? Well, the prospects are that I may have a chance to find out when she comes South. One thing is certain, she will not discover that I am a fool by speedily kindling a vain sentiment. Yet I would like to find her out, to discover the moral texture of her being. A girl like Miss Ainsley could more than fulfil a man's ideal or else make his life a terror." He called again just before his departure, and saw her alone. As at first, she appeared to veil the woman in her nature completely, while, at the same time, the mild lightning of her eyes played about him. Although consciously on his guard he found himself fascinated in spite of himself by her marvellous beauty, and his curiosity piqued more than ever. He discovered that her range of reading was wide, especially in modern European literature, and he was charmed by her broad, liberal views. Perhaps it was because he was singularly free from egotism that he was so conscious of her fine reticence which took the mask of apparent frankness. Most men would have been flattered by her seeming interest in them and willingness to listen to all they had to say about themselves. According to Clancy's opinion, conversation should be an equal interchange. He looked direct into Miss Ainsley's eyes. They bewildered and perplexed him, for they appeared to gather the rays of some light he did not understand and focus them upon himself. He wished he could see her in the society of other men and could learn more of her antecedents so that he might better account for her, but he went away feeling that she was more of an enigma than ever. The glamour of her perplexing personality was upon him during much of his journey, but as he approached his native city thoughts of Mara predominated. Was she utterly estranged, and was the secret of her coldness due to the truth that he had never had any real hold upon her heart? If Mrs. Hunter had not so harshly interposed at the critical moment of their last interview, he believed that he would have discovered why it was she said he was "breaking her heart." Was it because he charged her with disloyalty to her kindred? Or had his own course which she felt was separating them some part in her distress? The fact that she had been silent to his last appeal, that she had proved his fears in regard to her poverty to be true, yet had sought aid from such an unexpected source, rather than permit him to endow her with his love and all that it involved, forced him to the miserable conclusion that she had at least decided against him. But hope dies hard in a lover's breast. He longed to see her again, yet how could he see her except in the presence of others? He knew they soon would meet; he was determined that they should; and possibly something in her involuntary manner or expression might suggest that she had thought of his words in his absence. She had thought of his words as we know, but she had also been given other food for reflection which the following chapter will reveal. CHAPTER XI TWO QUESTIONS In the division of labor between Mara and her aunt, the latter, with the assistance of their landlady's daughter, tried to leave the young girl few tasks beyond that of filling Aun' Sheba's basket. Mrs. Hunter was also expected to be ready to receive callers, and excuse Mara during the morning hours. Under the new order of things, more people dropped in than in former times, for, as we have seen, it had become a kindly fashion to show good-will. The caller on a certain morning in April was not wholly actuated by sympathy, for she had news which she believed would be interesting if not altogether agreeable. Clancy's attentions had not been unknown, and he had at first suffered in the estimation of others as well as of Aun' Sheba, because of his apparent neglect. The impression, however, had been growing, that Mara had withdrawn her favor on account of his friendly relations with Northern people and his readiness to bury the past. The morning visitor had not only learned of a new proof of his objectionable tendencies, but also--so do stories grow as they travel--that he was paying attention to a New York belle and heiress. Mrs. Hunter was soon possessed of these momentous rumors, and when, at last, weary from her morning labors, Mara sat down to their simple dinner, she saw that her aunt was preternaturally solemn and dignified. The girl expressed no curiosity, for she knew that whatever burdened her aunt's mind would soon be revealed with endless detail and comment. "Well," ejaculated Mrs. Hunter at last, "my impressions concerning people are usually correct, and it is well for you that they are. If it had not been for me you might have become entangled in association with a man false and disloyal in all respects. I say entangled in association, resulting from a moment of weakness, for assuredly the instant you gained self-possession and had time for thought, you would have repudiated everything. I saved you from the embarrassment of all this, and now you can realize how important was the service I rendered. I have heard of the performances of Mr. Clancy at the North." The hot flush on Mara's cheeks followed by pallor proved that her indifference had been thoroughly banished, but she only looked at her aunt like one ready for a blow. "Yes," resumed Mrs. Hunter, "the story has come very straight--straight from that young Mrs. Willoughby, who, with her husband, seems as ready to forget and condone all that the South has suffered as your devoted admirer himself. Devoted indeed! He is now paying his devotions at another shrine. A Northern girl with her Northern gold is the next and natural step in his career, and he said to her pointblank that if the South again sought to regain her liberty, he would not help. He wasn't a Samson, but he was not long in being shorn by a Northern Delilah of what little strength he had." "How do you know that this is true?" asked Mara rigid, with suppressed feeling. "Oh, Mrs. Willoughby must talk if the heavens fell. It seems that she met this Northern girl abroad, and that they have become great friends. She has received a letter, and it is quite probable that this girl will come here. It would be just like her to follow up her new admirer. Mrs. Willoughby is so hot in her advocacy of what she terms the 'New South,' that she must speak of everything which seems to favor her pestilential ideas. By birth she belongs to the Old South and the only true South, and she tries to keep in with it, but she is getting the cold shoulder from more than one." Mara said nothing, but her brow contracted. "You take it very quietly," remarked her aunt severely. "Yes," said Mara. "Well, if I were in your place I would be on fire with indignation." "Perhaps I would be if I did not care very much," was the girl's constrained answer. "I do not see how you can care except as I do." "You are you, aunty, and I am myself. People are not all made exactly alike." "But a girl should have some self-respect." "Yes, aunty, and she should be respected. I am one to show my self-respect by deeds, not words. You must not lecture me any more now as if I were a child," and she rose and left her almost untasted dinner. A little thought soon satisfied Mrs. Hunter that the iron had entered deep into the soul of her niece, and that her deeds would be satisfactory. She therefore finished her dinner complacently. Mara felt that she had obtained a test which might justly compel the giving up of her dream of love forever. She was endowed with a simplicity and sincerity of mind which prompted to definite actions and conclusions, rather than to the tumultuous emotions of anger, jealousy and doubt. She would not doubt; she would know. Either Clancy had been misrepresented or he had not been, and he had seemed so true and frank in his words to her that she would not condemn him on the story of a gossip. From her point of view she concluded that if he had gone so far as to say to a Northern girl that he would not join the South in an effort to achieve independence, supposing such an attempt to be made, then he had passed beyond the pale of even her secret sympathy and regard, no matter what the girl might become to him. She scarcely even hoped that there would ever be a chance for him to make such a choice of sides as his reputed words indicated, but he could contemplate the possibility, and if he could even think, in such an imagined exigency, of remaining aloof from the cause for which his and her own father had died, then he would be dismissed from her thoughts as utterly unworthy. So she believed during the unhappy hours of the afternoon which were robbed of all power to bring rest. She determined, if it were possible, to hear the truth from his own lips. She would subdue her heart by giving it proof positive that he had either drifted or had been lured far away. If this were true--and she would not be influenced by her aunt's bitter prejudice--then it was all over between them. If once so completely convinced that he did not love her sufficiently to give up his Northern affiliations for her sake, her very pride would cast out her own stubborn love. The opportunity to accomplish all she desired soon occurred, for later she met him at a house where a few guests had been invited to spend the evening. Social life had ceased to divide sharply upon the opinions held by different persons, and the question as to what guests should be brought together had been decided by the hostess chiefly on the ground of birth and former associations. On this occasion when Clancy's eyes met those of Mara, he bowed, and was about to cross the room in the hope of receiving something like a welcome after his absence, but he was repelled at once and chilled by her cold, slight bow, and her prompt return of attention to the gentleman with whom she was conversing. Clancy was so hurt and perturbed that he was capable of but indifferent success in his efforts to maintain conversation with others. When supper was served he strayed into the deserted library and made a pretence of looking at some engravings. A dear and familiar voice brought a sudden flush to his face, but the words, "Mr. Clancy, I wish to speak with you," were spoken so coldly that he only turned and bowed deferentially and then offered Mara a chair. She paid no attention to this act, and hesitated a moment in visible embarrassment before proceeding. "Miss Wallingford," he began eagerly, "I have longed and hoped--" She checked him by a gesture as she said, "Perhaps I would better speak first. I have a question to ask. You need not answer it of course if you do not wish to. I am not conventional in seeking this brief interview. Indeed," she added a little bitterly, "my life has ceased to be conventional in any sense, and I have chosen to conform to a few simple verities and necessities. As you once said to me, you and I have been friends, and, if I can trust your words, you have meant kindly by me--" "Miss Wallingford, can you doubt my words," he began in low, passionate utterance, "can you doubt what I mean and have meant? You know I--" Her brow had darkened with anger, and she interrupted him, saying, "You surely cannot think I have sought this interview in the expectation of listening to such words and tones. I have come because I wish to be just, because I will not think ill of you unless I must, because I wish you to know where I stand immovably. If my friendship is worth anything you will seek it by deeds, not words. I now only wish to ask if you said in effect, while North, that if the South should again engage in a struggle for freedom you would not help?" Clancy was astounded, and exclaimed, "Miss Wallingford, can you even contemplate such a thing?" Her face softened as she said, "I knew that you could never have said anything of the kind." How tremendous was the temptation of that moment! He saw the whole truth instantaneously, that she was lost to him unless he came unreservedly to her position. In that brief moment her face had become an exquisite transparency illumined with an assurance of hope. He had an instinctive conviction that even if he admitted that he had spoken the words, yet would add, "Mara, I am won at last to accept your view of right and duty," all obstacles between them would speedily melt away. The temptation grappled his heart with all the power of human love, and there was an instant of hesitation that was human also, and then conscience and manhood asserted themselves. With the dignity of conscious victory he said gravely, "Miss Wallingford, I have ever treated your convictions with respect even when I differed with you most. I have an equal right to my own convictions. I should be but the shadow of a man if I had no beliefs of my own. You misunderstand me. My first thought as you spoke was surprise that you could even contemplate such a thing as a renewed struggle between the North and the South." "Certainly I could contemplate it, sir, though I can scarcely hope for it." "I trust not; and even at the loss of what I value far more than you can ever know, I will not be false to myself nor to you. I did speak such words, and I must confirm them now." She bowed frigidly and was turning away when he said, "I, too, perhaps have the right to ask a question." She paused with averted face. "Can you not at least respect a man who is as sincere as you are?" Again the vigilant Mrs. Hunter, uneasy that Mara and Clancy were not within the range of her vision, appeared upon the scene. She glared a moment at the young man, and Mara left the room without answering him. CHAPTER XII A "'FABULATION" It had been Mara's belief, indeed almost her hope, that if truth compelled Clancy to admit that he had spoken the obnoxious words he would become to her as a "heathen man and a publican." No matter how much she might suffer, she had felt that such proof of utter lack of sympathy with her and all the motives which should control him, would simplify her course and render it much easier, for she had thought that her whole nature would rise in arms against him. It would end all compunction, quench hope and even deal a fatal blow to love itself. She would not only see it her duty to banish him from her thoughts, but had scarcely thought it possible that he could continue to dwell in them. The result had not justified her expectations, and she was baffled, exasperated and torn by conflicting feelings. Although he had admitted the words and confirmed them to her very face, he had not allowed himself to be put in a position which enabled her to turn coldly and contemptuously away. Brief as had been the interview, he had made it impossible for her to doubt two things; first, that the Northern girl was nothing to him and that he had not spoken the words to win her favor, for he had come back to herself with the same love in his eyes and the same readiness to give it expression despite her coldness and even harshness. No matter how bitterly she condemned herself, this truth thrilled and warmed her very soul. In the second place, however mistaken he might be, he had compelled her to believe him to be sincere, so loyal, indeed, to his own sense of right that not even for her sake would he yield. She could not doubt this as the eagerness of the lover passed into the grave dignity and firmness of a self-respecting man. Moreover, another truth had been thrust upon her consciousness--that she was more woman than partisan. As he had stood before her, revealing his love and constancy and at the same time asserting his right to think and act in accordance with his own convictions, he had appeared noble, handsome, manly; her heart acknowledged him master, and however vigilantly she might conceal the fact, she could not deny it to herself. Nevertheless, his course had simplified her action; it had decided her that all was over between them. The case was hopeless now; for neither could yield without becoming untrue to themselves, and there could be no happy union in such radical diversity. The less often they met the better, as he only made her course the harder to maintain and the separation more painful than it had been before. She might hide her unhappiness, but she could not banish the resulting despondency and flagging strength. Her aunt had half forced an explanation of the reason why she was alone with Clancy, and, in hasty self-defence, she admitted a resolve to know with certainty whether he had spoken the words charged against him. When Mrs. Hunter learned that he had acknowledged the truth of the story, she spoke of him with redoubled bitterness, making it hard indeed for Mara to listen, for her heart took his side almost passionately. Unintentionally Mrs. Hunter proved herself the young man's best ally, yet Mara outwardly was compelled to acquiesce, for she herself had proved the enormity which was to end everything. Consistency, however, was torn to tatters one day, and she said in sudden passion, "Aunty, never mention Mr. Clancy's name again. I demand this as my right." When Mara spoke in this manner Mrs. Hunter yielded. Indeed she was not a little perplexed over the girl who had been so passive and subservient. She was not a profound reasoner upon any subject, nor could she understand how one step, even though Mara had been driven to it by hard necessity, led to many others. The girl had begun to assert her individual life, and her nature, once awakened, was proving a strong one. Deepening and widening experience perplexed and troubled her unguided mind, and prepared the way for doubtful experiments. As before, Aun' Sheba was quick to discover that all was not well with Mara, but believed that she, like herself, was working beyond her strength. The old woman had a bad cold and was feeling "rudder po'ly" one evening when her minister came to pay a pastoral visit. On so momentous an occasion as this, her son-in-law Kern Watson and his wife and children were summoned; a few neighbors also dropped in as they often did, for Aun' Sheba was better in their estimation than any newspaper in town. Since the necessity for much baking had been removed, she had hired out her stove in order to make more room and to enjoy the genial fire of the hearth. So far from being embarrassed because her head was tied up in red flannel, she had the complacent consciousness that she was the social centre of the group, an object of sympathy and the respected patron of all present. The Reverend Mr. Birdsall, the minister, treated Aun' Sheba with much consideration; he justly regarded her as one of the "pillars of the church," knowing well from long experience that she abounded in liberality if not in long prayers and contentions. He was a plain, sincere, positive man who preached what he believed to be the truth. If he was sometimes beyond it, beneath it or away from it altogether, he was as serenely unconscious of the fact as were his hearers. There was no agnosticism in his congregation, for he laid down the law and the gospel in a way that discouraged theological speculation. Nevertheless, among his followers there were controversial spirits who never doubted that they were right, however much they might question his ecclesiastical methods and views. To many, freedom meant the right to have their say, and, as is often true, those having the least weighty matter on their minds were the most ready to volunteer opinions and advice. Aun' Sheba was a doer, not a talker, in her church relations. If she occasionally dozed a little in her pew during the sermon, she was always wide awake when the plate was passed around; and if a "brother" or a "sister" were sick she found time for a visit, nor did she go empty-handed. If it were a case of back-sliding she had a homely way of talking sense to the delinquent that savored a little of worldly wisdom. There were not a few who shared in her doubt whether she was "'ligious" or not, but the Reverend Mr. Birdsall was not of these. He would only have been too glad to have discovered more religion like hers. "Mis' Buggone," he said, sympathetically, after Aun' Sheba had given her symptoms with much detail, "in you is a case whar de spirit is willin' but de flesh is weak. You'se been a-goin' beyon' you strengt." "Yes, Elder, dat is de gist ob de whole business," affirmed Kern Watson. "Moder's tromped de streets wid her big basket till she is dun beat out. She's undertook mo'n her share an' is s'portin' too many people." "Kern, you means well," said Aun' Sheba with dignity, "but you mus' not 'fleet on young Missy. She am de las' one in de worl' to let a body s'port her while she fol' her han's. She's po'ly too, jes' kase she's a workin' harde'n me." Uncle Sheba hitched uneasily in his chair, feeling that the conversation rather reflected on him, and he was conscious that old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," was glaring at him. "I reckin," he said, "dat de min'ster might offer a word ob prar an' comfort fore he go." "What pressin' business," asked his wife, severely, "hab you got, Unc., dat you in sech a hurry fer de min'ster ter go? We ain't into de shank ob de ebenin' yet, an' dar's no 'casion to talk 'bout folks goin'." "I dun said nothin' 'bout folks goin'," complained Uncle Sheba in an aggrieved tone, "I was ony a suggestin' wot 'ud be 'propriate ter de 'casion _fore_ dey go." "Mr. Buggone is right, and prar is always 'propriate," said Mr. Birdsall in order to preserve the serenity of the occasion. "Before this little company breaks up we will sing a hymn and hab a word ob prar. But we mus' use de right means in dis worl' an' conform ter de inexorable law ob de universe. Here's de law and dar's de gospel, and dey both have dar place. If a brick blow off a chimley it alus falls ter de groun'. Dat's one kin' ob law. Water runs down hill, dat's much de same kin' ob law. If a man hangs roun' a saloon an' wastes his time an' money, he's boun' to git seedy an' ragged an' a bad name, an' his fam'ly gets po' an' mis'ble; dat's another kin' ob law--no 'scapin' it. He's jest as sure ter run down hill as de water. Den if we git a cut or a burn or a bruise we hab pain; dat's anuder kin' ob law, an' we all know it's true. But dar's a heap ob good people, Mis' Buggone, who think dey can run dis po' machine ob a body in a way dat would wear out wrought-iron, and den pray de good Lawd ter keep it strong and iled and right up to the top-notch ob po'r. Now dat's against both law and gospel, for eben He who took de big contrac' ter save the worl' said ter his disciples, 'come ye yourselves apart and rest a while.' I reckon dat's de law and de gospel for you, Mis' Buggone, about dis time." Nods of approval were general, and Kern Watson gave the sense of the meeting in his hearty way. "'Deed it am, Elder," he said. "You'se hit de nail squar on de head. Own up, now, moder, dat you'se neber been preached at mo' convincin'. Hi! wot a book dat Bible am! It's got a word in season fer ebry 'casion." "Well," said Aun' Sheba, meditatively, "I wants ter be open ter de truf, an' I does own up, Kern, dat de Elder puts it monstis peart an' bery conwincin'. But," she continued argumentatively, laying the forefinger of her left hand on the broad palm of her right, "dars gen'ly two sides to a question. Dat's whar folks git trip up so of'n--dey sees ony one side. I've 'served dat it's po'ful easy fer folks ter tell oder folks wat ter do and wat not ter do. No 'fence, Elder. You been doin' you duty, but you'se been layin' down rudder 'stended princ'ples. I know you'se got ter preach broad an' ter lay down de truf fer de hull winyard, but I wants ter know wat ter do wid my own little patch ob ground. Now here's me and dar's my young Missy 'pendin' on me." "Dat's whar I jes' doesn't 'gree wid Aun' Sheba," put in her husband as she paused a moment for breath. He felt that public opinion was veering over to his side and might be employed to enforce his views. "It is all bery well fer one ter do all dey can 'sistently fer oders, but--" "Mr. Buggone," remarked Aun' Sheba sternly. Uncle Sheba subsided, and she went on, "Dere's my young Missy dat's pendin' on me, but she ain't pendin' in de sense ob hangin' on me," and she paused and looked impressively at Unc. "She's usin' her two little han's jest as hard as she know how, an' a heap too hard. Wat's mo' she's usin' dem to good puppus. I jes' declar' to you, Elder an' frens, dat since she took hole, de business am rollm' up an' it gettin' too big fer both ob us. Dat's whar de shoe pinches. I ain't loss notin'. I'se made a heap mo' by doin' fer young Missy. In dis 'fabulation, I doesn't want no 'flections on her, kase dey wouldn't be fair. Now, Kern, you'se right smart. You'se had my 'proval eber sence you took a shine ter Sissy. Ud you belebe it, Elder and frens, dat son-in-law ob mine offered ter s'port me an' me do nuffin but jes' help Sissy and look arter de chil'n. But dat ain't my way. I likes ter put my own money in my own pocket an' I likes ter take it out agin, an' it jes' warm my heart like a hick'y fiah ter help dat honey lam' ob mine dat I nussed. So you see, Elder, dat gen'l preachin' am like meal. Folks has got ter take it an' make out ob it a little hoe-cake fer dere selves. It's de same ole meal, but we's got ter hab it in a shape dat 'plies ter our own inards, sperital and bodily." Again there were nods of assent and sounds of approval which old Tobe put into words. "Aun' Sheba," he said, "you puts you'se 'pinions monst'us peart, too. I'se an ole man an' has had my shar ob 'sperence, an' I'se alus 'served dat de hitch come in at de 'plyin' part. Dere's a sight ob preachin' dat soun' as true an' straight as dat de sun an' rain make de cotton grow, but when you git down to de berry indewidooel cotton plant dere's ofen de debil to pay in one shape or oder. Dere's a wum at de root or a wum in de leaves, or dey's too much rain or too much sun, or de sile's like a beef bone dat's been biled fer soup mo' dan's reasonable. Now Aun' Sheba's de indewidooel cotton-plant we's a-'siderin', an' I doan see how she's gwine to res' a while any mo'n I kin. Ef I shet up my rasteran de business gwine ter drap off ter some oder rasteran." "But, bruder Tobe, isn't it better, even as you put it," protested the minister, "dat Mis Buggone's business should drop off an' yours too, dan dat you should drop off youselves? Howsumever, I see de force ob what you both say, and we mus' try ter hit upon a golden mean. I reckon dar's a way by which you can both keep your business and yet keep youselves from goin' beyon' your 'bility. You are both useful citizens and supporters ob de gospel, and I'm concerned fer your welfare, bodily as well as sperital." "Aun' Sheba," said her daughter, "you'se my moder an' I ought ter be de fust one ter help ease you up. I just dun declar dat you'se got ter take Vilet ter help you up. I kin spar her, an' I will spar her. She's strong an' gwine on twelve, an' de babies is gitten so dat dey ain't aroun' under my feet all de time. Vilet's spry an' kin run here an' dar an' fill de orders. She'd ease you up right smart." "Now, Sissy," said her husband, who always called her by the old household name, "dat's bery sens'ble and childlike in you to put yousef out fer you'se muder. I'd been tinkin' 'bout Vilet, but I didn't like de suggestin ob her leabin' you to do so much, ob de work. But go ahead, Sissy; go ahead, Vilet, an' you'll fin' me easy goin' at meal times." "Come here, Vilet," said the minister. The girl had been sitting on the floor at Aun' Sheba's feet, listening quietly and intelligently to all that had been said. She was tall for her age, and had the quiet steadfastness of gaze that was characteristic of her father. He was exceedingly fond and proud of her, for, with very little schooling, she had learned to read and write. Even as a child she had much of his patience and unselfishness, thus making herself very useful at home. She looked unshrinkingly at the minister, but trembled slightly, for she felt all eyes were upon her. "Vilet," began Mr. Birdsall, "you are said to be a good chile, an' I like the sens'ble, quiet way in which you stan' up an' look me in de face. I reckon dar ain't much foolishness in you. Your fader and moder hab shown de right spirit, de self-denying spirit dat de Lawd will bless. Can you say the fifth commandment, chile?" Vilet repeated it promptly. "Dat's right. Now your fader an' moder are honahing dar moder, an' you are goin' to hab a chance ter honah dem an' your granma, too. You will hab temptations in de streets ter be pert an' idle, ter stop an' talk to dis one and ter answer back to dat one in a way you shouldn't. But if you go along quiet an' steady, an' do what you're tole, an' be car'ful 'bout de money an' de messages an' de orders an' so forth, you will reflect honah on us all an' 'specially on all your folks. You understan', Vilet?" "Yes, sir." The minister put his hand on her head, and said solemnly, "You have my blessin', Vilet." She ducked a little courtesy, and again squatted at the feet of Aun' Sheba, who, much affected, was wiping her eyes with her apron, while Sissy's emotion was audible. "Now, frens," resumed Mr. Birdsall, "this 'mergency of Mis Buggone's health has been met in de right human and Scriptural spirit. Frens and fam'ly hab gathered 'roun' de 'flicted one, an' hab paid dar respect ter her usefulness an' value, an' hab shown her becomin' sympathy. Her own fam'ly, as is also becomin', hab been first ter ease her up accordin', first, to the law of primigeneshureship. I know dat dis is a long word, but long words of'en mean a heap, an' dat's why dey are so long. Dat good little girl, Vilet, is de oldes' granchile, an' she fulfils a great law in helpin' her granma. Den it's accordin' to the gospel, for a loving an' self-denyin' spirit has been shown. Mr. Watson has obeyed de great law of matrimony. He has married _into_ dis fam'ly, an' he pulls with it an' for it instead ob against it as we see too of'en. De Lawd's blessin' will rest on dis fam'ly." "I feels greatly comforted," said Aun' Sheba. "Dis has been a bressed season an' a out-pourin'. I mos' feels 'ligious dis ebenin'. De chilen an' dis deah chile" (patting Vi'let's head) "warm me up betteh'n flannel an' de fiah. Elder, you'se a good shep'd ob de flock. You'se a lookin' arter body an' soul. You'se got de eddication to talk big words to us, an', now we'se free, we hab a right to big words, no mattah how much dey mean. It's po'ful comfortin' ter know we'se doin' 'cordin' to de law an' de gospel." "'Pears ter me," said old Tobe, "dat Uncle Sheba might hab a little law an' gospel 'plied ter him. He am one ob de fam'ly. I'se a heap ol'er dan he be, an' I'se up wid de sun an' I ony wish I could set when de sun sets. 'Pears like he orter tote some ob de tings ez well ez his slip ob a grandaughter," and old Tobe's wool seemed fairly to bristle with indignation and antipathy. "I've no doubt," began Mr. Birdsall, "but Mr. Buggone'll emulate--" "Elder," interrupted Aunt Sheba, with portentous solemnity, "dere's bobscure 'flictions in dis worl' dat can't be 'splained, an' de 'flictions ofen begin wen we say 'for bettah or wusser.' You'se say youself in de pulpit dat de gret an' bressed sinner, Paul, had a thorn in de flesh an' he couldn't git rid ob it nohow, dat he jes' bar wid it an' go 'bout his business. Ole Tobe _am_ old, but he wasn't bawn tired. Dere's men dat's po'ful weak in de jints ob de body, yit dat doesn't hender dem from gittin' 'round, but wen de weak feelin' gits inter de jints ob de min' den dey's shuah to be kinder limpsy-slimpsy an' dey ain't no help fer it. Ez I sez afore, de 'fliction am bobscure. You see de feet an' you see de han's, an' you tink dat dey kin go an' do like oder han's an' feet, but dey doesn't an' dey can't. Dere ain't no backbone runnin' up troo de min' an' wen dere ain't no backbone in de min' de pusson jest flop down yere an' flop down dar whareber dere's a com'fo'ble place to flop. Dere's 'flictions dat we kin pray agin an' pray out'n ob, an' dere's oders we jes got ter bar, an' we gits so kinder used to'm at las dat we'd be mo' mis'ble ef dey wuz tooken away. We'se got to take de bittah wid de sweet, but, tank de Lawd! de sweet 'domernate in dis yere fam'ly. Now let's hab some praise an' prar. Vilet, honey, sing de hymn you'se moder lern you." And in a somewhat shrill, yet penetrating, musical voice, the girl sang: "I'se a-journeyin', I'se a-journeyin', An' de way am bery long; De road ain't known, de way ain't shown, Yit I journeys wid a song. CHORUS "De journey, de journey, howeber rough de road, It's a-leadin', it's a-leadin', to a hebinly abode. "I'se a-travelin', I'se a-travelin', From de cradle to de grave, De road am rough and sho' anuff, De heart, hit mus' be brave. "I'se a-wondrin', I'se a-wondrin', Wen de journey will be true; But I goes along wid sigh an' song An' a cheery word fer you." Kern Watson and his wife were gifted with those rich, mellow, African voices made so familiar in plantation songs and hymns. In the case of "Sissy" there was a pathetic, contralto, minor quality in her tones, and the first time young Watson heard her sing a spell was thrown round his fancy which led to all the rest. The same might be said of her, for when her husband, then a stranger, poured forth, in one of their evening meetings, the great rich volume of his voice, she ceased to sing that she might listen with avidity. It was not long after that before Kern mustered courage to ask "Miss Buggone, mout I hab de pleasure ob 'companyin' you home?" Not many months elapsed before he accompanied her home to stay, with Aun' Sheba's full consent. Other hymns followed in which Uncle Sheba took part with much unction, for he wished to impress all present that in spite of the "bobscure affliction" he "injied 'ligion" as much as any of them. Mr. Birdsall offered a characteristic prayer, and then Aun' Sheba nodded to Sissy, who brought out a large supply of cakes and apples. Some gossip among the women and political discussion among the men occurred while these were being disposed of, and then the little company broke up, leaving Aun' Sheba much improved in health and spirits. CHAPTER XIII CAPTAIN BODINE The next day was warm and sunny, and Aun' Sheba, rising much refreshed, felt herself equal to her duties in spite of her fears to the contrary. She took Vilet with her to a shop, and there purchased a much smaller basket, the weight of which when filled would not be burdensome to the girl. Thus equipped she appeared before Mara at the usual hour with her grandchild, and began complacently: "Now, honey lam', you'se gwine to hab two strings to you'se bow. I sometimes feel ole an' stiff in my jints an' my heft is kinder agin me in trompin'. Here's my granddaughter, an' she's spry as a cricket. She kin run yere an' dar wid de orders'n less dan no time, so you won't be kept kin' ob scruged back an' down kase I'se slow an' hebby. You see?" "Yes, Aun' Sheba, and I am very glad to see. I have been worrying about you, for it has seemed to me that you were going beyond your strength, and yet I did not know of any one to help you or whether you wanted any one." "Now, honey, you jes' took de words out'n my mouth 'bout you. You'se lookin' po'ly, an' I'se dreffle 'feared you'se gwine ter get beat ont. You want help mo'n me, an' I'se had it on my min' ter talk wid you." "Oh, Aun' Sheba, I'm very well," protested Mara, yet glad to think that her paleness and languor were ascribed to fatigue. "Now see yere, honey, I'se got my blin' side, I know, but it ain't toward you. I watch ober you too many yeahs not to know wen you po'ly. You'se gwine beyon' you strengt, too. Why can't you get some one ter he'p you an' den we go along swimmin'?" "Well, I'll see. I reckon I'll be better soon, and I don't care to do more than can be done in a quiet way." The new arrangement on Aun' Sheba's side of the "pana'ship" soon began to work well. Vilet proved quick and trustworthy, saving her grandmother many a weary step, and Mara was compelled to see that the mutual income might be greatly increased if she also had efficient help. She recognized the truth that she was becoming worn, and she also knew the cause to be that she worked without the spring of hopefulness or even the quietness of a heart at rest. She had almost decided to intrust Aun' Sheba with the task of finding a suitable helper, when she made two acquaintances who were destined to become intimately associated with her experiences. One afternoon she felt so lonely, desolate and hopeless that she felt she must go out of herself. The future was taking on an aspect hard to face. Disposed to self-sacrifice, she was wretchedly conscious that there was nothing on which she could bestow a devotion which could sustain or inspire. There was no future to look forward to, no cause to be furthered, no goal to be reached by brave, patient effort. If she had lived at the time of the war she would have loved scarcely less than her mother, but her heart would have been almost equally divided between the cause and those who fought and suffered for it. If her lot had been cast in the North it would have been much the same. The same patriotic motives would have kindled her imagination and produced the most intense loyalty in thought and action. She was endowed with a spirit which, had she lived in the past, might easily have led her into an effort to restore some overthrown dynasty, and she would have so idealized even a very questionable conspiracy as to render it worthy, in her belief, of unstinted self-sacrifice. A girl of her character would have faced the wild beasts of the Roman amphitheatre for the sake of her faith, or she would have intrigued against the Spanish Inquisition although hourly conscious that she was exposing herself to its horrors. It was this very tendency to give herself up wholly to some object which she felt had a supreme claim upon her, that had enabled her to live so long upon the memories of the past. The lost cause, for which her father had died, had been as sacred to her as the old dream of freedom to a Pole, but Clancy's question in regard to the old phase of her life, "What good will it do?" combining with other circumstances, had awakened her to the futility of her course. Denied the hope of any future achievement, lacking a powerful motive to sacrifice herself and her love, her strong nature chafed and tended to despondency at the thought of a simple existence. It was not enough merely to earn a living and live. She craved an inspiring object, an antidote for her heartache, a consciousness that in giving up much she also accomplished much. Yet the future stretched away like an arid plain and she was depressed by the foreboding that every step carried her further from all that could give zest to life. She was, therefore, in a mood to accept anything which would relieve the dreary monotony. On the afternoon in question she decided to call upon an old lady who had lost nearly all her kindred and property. "Surely," thought the girl, "she has nothing to look forward to in this world but a few more straitened years, then death. I wish I were as old as she." Taking a little delicacy she started out to pay the visit, hoping to gain an insight into the philosophy of patient endurance. She veiled herself heavily, for she was ever haunted by the fear of meeting Clancy on the street, and that her tell-tale face might lead him to guess the cost of her effort to avoid him. An old colored woman showed the way into the parlor while she went up to prepare her mistress for the call. Reading by the window was a middle-aged gentleman who bowed gravely and resumed his book. He riveted Mara's attention instantly, for her first glance revealed that he had lost his right leg and that crutches leaned against the arm of his chair. He could not be other than a veteran of the Confederate army, as it would be strange indeed to find an ex-soldier of the North in that abode. His strong, finely-cut side face, distinctly outlined against the light, was toward her. It was marked by deep lines as if the man had suffered and had passed through memorable experiences. He wore no beard or whiskers, but an iron-gray mustache gave a distinguished cast to a visage whose habitual expression was rather cold and haughty. Mara had time to note these characteristics before she was summoned to Mrs. Bodine's apartment. Although the day was mild, the old lady, wrapped in shawls, sat by an open fire, and her wrinkled face lighted up with pleasure as the girl came toward her. Indeed, there was something like excitement in her manner as she kissed her guest and said: "Bring your chair close, my dear, so I can see you and hold your hand. I've something to tell you which I reckon will interest you almost as much as it does me." When Mara was seated in a low chair she resumed: "How much you would look like your father, child, if your eyes were bright and laughing instead of being so large and sad! Well, well, there has been enough to make all our eyes sad, and you, poor child, have had more than enough. Yet you are good and brave, my dear. So far from sitting down in helpless grieving, you are taking care of yourself and have time to think of an old woman like me. Poor Mrs. Hunter! what would she do without you? She, like so many of us, has been blighted and stranded, and she would have been worse off than I if it had not been for you, for I have a little left, but oh, it is so little. Never did I wish it were more so much as I do now. You must be patient with me, child. I sit here so much alone that it is a godsend to have some one to talk to, and you are the very one I wanted to see. I was going to send for you, for I knew you would like to see my guests. My cousin and his daughter are visiting me, and I wish they could stay with me always. I knew you would like to meet Captain Bodine--" "Captain Bodine!" exclaimed Mara, "why, that is the name of an officer who used to be in my father's regiment." "He is the very same, my dear." "Was that he in the parlor?" Mara asked, trembling with excitement. "Yes, he and his daughter arrived only yesterday." "Oh!" said Mara, "I've received letters from him, and I've longed to see him for years. Can I not go down and speak to him at once? I surely do not need any introduction to the old friend of my father." "No, my dear, no indeed. You need no formal introduction to any guest or relative of mine. Besides, he knows you well and all about you, although he has never seen you since you were a child. It would please him greatly to have you go down and speak to him at once, for he would know that I would tell you about his being here, and he might think you cold or formal if you delayed seeing him. I'm glad you feel so, my dear, but you must come back and sit with me awhile before you go home. I'll ring for Hannah and have a nice little feast while you are downstairs." Mara scrupulously veiled her impatience until her kind, garrulous friend was through, and then stole with swift, noiseless tread to the parlor below. Standing in the doorway, she saw that the object of her quest was absorbed in his book. "He is my ideal of the soldier of that day," she thought. "How truly he represents us, with his sad, proud face and mutilated body!" In a sort of awe she hesitated a moment and then said timidly, "Captain Bodine." He looked up quickly, and seeing Mara's lustrous eyes and flushed face, divined instantly who she was. "Is not this Miss Wallingford?" he asked, his face expressing glad anticipation as he began to gather up his crutches. "Do not rise," cried Mara, coming forward instantly with outstretched hands. But he was on his crutches, and said feelingly, "Heaven forbid that I should receive the daughter of my old friend with so little respect." He took the girl's face into his hands, and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Yes," he resumed gently, "you are Sidney Wallingford's child. God bless you, my dear," and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You won't mind this from an old comrade of your father," he said as he made her take his chair and sat down near her. "We have been bereft of so much that what remains has become very precious. I know all about you, Mara." Tears were in the girl's eyes as she replied falteringly, "And I know of you, sir, and have longed to meet you. You can scarcely know how much your words mean to me when you say you were my father's comrade and friend. I knew this, but it seems more real to me now, and I feel that seeing you is coming as near as I can to seeing him." "My poor child! Would to God that he had lived, for you would have been his pride and solace, as my daughter is to me. When I saw you last you were a little black-eyed girl and happily did not understand your loss, although you looked as if you did. I never thought so many years would pass before I saw you again, but we have had to fight some of our hardest battles since the war," and he sighed deeply. "How soon can I meet your daughter?" Mara asked, her eyes full of sympathy. "Very soon. I urged her to take a walk on the Battery, for she has not been very well of late. I said I knew all about you, as I have been told of your loyalty and brave efforts and your kindness to my aged cousin, but now that I see you, I feel that I know very little. Your face is full of stories, my dear child. You are young, and yet you look as if the memories of the past had made you far older than your years warrant That is the trouble with us. We have much more to look back upon than to look forward to. Yet it should not be so with you." "It can scarcely be otherwise," Mara answered sadly; "you have touched the very core of our trouble, and I suppose it is the trouble with us all who are so closely linked with the past--we have so little to look forward to. But now that you can tell me about my father the past seems so near and real that I do not wish to think about anything else." Time sped rapidly as Captain Bodine recalled the scenes and incidents of his life which were associated with his old commander, and Mara listened with an absorbed, tearful interest which touched him deeply. The proud, reserved expression of his face had passed away utterly, and the girl appreciated the change. His sympathy, the gentleness of his tones and the profound respect which was blended with his paternal manner made her feel that her father's friend was already her friend in a very near and sacred sense. While he was reserved about his own affairs, and she also was conscious of a secret of which she could never speak, they had so much in common that she felt that they could talk for hours. But the old lady in the apartment above grew impatient, and at last Hannah stood courtesying in the door as she said, "Missus p'sent her compl'ments an' say would be glad to see you." "There, I've been selfish and thoughtless," said Captain Bodine, "but I shall see you again, for it will give Ella and me great pleasure to call upon you." "Yes, indeed, we must meet often," Mara added earnestly. "I hope you are going to make a long stay in Charleston." "I scarcely know," he replied, and again there was an involuntary sigh; "but I must keep you no longer." CHAPTER XIV "ALL GIRLS TOGETHER" "I'm not going to lose my visit altogether," said Mrs. Bodine, when Mara returned with an apology. "If the captain has only one leg, he can get out and around better than I can. Indeed it is wonderful how he does get around. He is the spryest man on crutches I ever saw, and you know, my dear, I've seen a good many. In that dreadful war we were only too glad to get our men back, what was left of them, and if an arm or a leg were missing we welcomed them all the more, but we couldn't give much more than a welcome. It was wreck and ruin on every side. If we had our own the captain would be well off, as you and I would be, but he is poor; poorer than most of us. In fact, he hasn't anything. He wasn't one of those supple jointed men who could conform to the times, and he wasn't brought up to make his living by thrifty ways. But he did his best, poor boy, he did his best. Would you like to hear more about him?" "Yes, indeed," Mara replied, "you can't know how deeply I am interested in him and his daughter. He was my father's comrade in arms, his friend and follower. You must pardon me for staying away so long, but when he began talking of my father I felt as if I could listen forever, you know. I honor him all the more because he is poor." "Yes, my dear, I know. Most of us are learning the hard lessons of poverty. I call him a boy because it seems only the other day he was a boy and a handsome one, too. He used to visit us here, and was so full of fun and frolic! But he has had enough to sober him, poor fellow. He was scarcely more than a boy when the war began, but he was among the first to enlist, and, like your father, he was a private soldier at first. He soon received a commission in the same regiment of which your father became colonel, and no doubt would have reached a much higher rank if he had not lost his leg. He met with this loss before your brave father was killed, but I suppose he told you." "Yes," faltered Mara, "he told me why he was not with my father at the last." "Yes, if he could he would have been with him and died with him, and sometimes I almost think he wishes that such had been his fate, he has suffered so much. During the remainder of the war he had command of inland positions which did not require marching, and he always made the record of a brave, high-minded officer. After the war he married a lovely girl, and tried to keep the old plantation: but his capital was gone, taxes were high, the negroes wouldn't work, and I suppose he and his wife didn't know how to practice close economy, and so the place had to be sold. It didn't bring enough to pay the mortgages. It cut him to the quick to part with the old plantation on which the family had lived for generations, but far worse was soon to follow, for his wife died, and that nearly broke his heart. Since that time he has lived in Georgia with his only child, Ella, getting such occupation as he could--office work of various kinds, but I suppose his reserved, gloomy ways rendered him unpopular; and even our own people, when it comes to business, prefer an active man who has a ready word for every one. I conjecture much of this, for he is not inclined to talk about himself. Poor as I am, I'm glad they accepted my invitation, and I mean to do all in my power to get him employment here. I have a little influence yet with some people, and perhaps a place can be found or made for him. He and his daughter don't require very much, and God knows I'd share my last crust with them, and," she concluded with a little apologetic laugh, "it _is_ almost like sharing a crust." "Oh, he will get employment," cried Mara, enthusiastically; "his disabled condition in itself will plead eloquently for him. How old is Ella?" "She must be eighteen or thereabout." "I wonder if she wouldn't like to help me?" "Help you? She'd be delighted. But then, my dear, you must not be carried away by your generous feeling. We're all proud of you because you have struck out so bravely for yourself; but surely you have burdens enough already." "Perhaps Ella can lighten my burden, and I hers; but it is very homely, humble work." "You dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, with her little chirruping laugh, "you are not a very homely, humble doer of the work. I reckon there's no prouder girl in town. But that's the way it is with the captain and all of us, in fact. The poorer we are, the prouder we are. Well, well, our pride is about all we can keep in these times. You need have no fear, however, that Ella will hesitate in helping you, except as she may very naturally think herself incompetent, or that you are wronging yourself in trying to help her." "We'll see about it," Mara remarked thoughtfully; "I will invite her to spend a morning with me, and then she can obtain a practical idea of my work. She might not like it at all, or she might like to do something else much better, and so would be embarrassed if I asked her to help me, disliking to refuse, and yet wishing to do so." "Ah, well," said Mrs. Bodine, smiling; "we have some right to think ourselves 'quality' still, as old Hannah calls us. We are just as considerate of one another's feelings as if we were all Royal Highnesses. Have it your own way, my dear, if you truly think Ella can be of service to you. I reckon you need help, for you don't look as well as when I saw you last." "Yes," acquiesced Mara, "I think I do need help. Aun' Sheba's granddaughter is assisting her, and a good deal more could be sold if it were properly prepared. It would be a great happiness if my need opened the way for Ella, for I feel it would please my father as much as it would please me if I could be of service to his old friend and his daughter." "I have heard, dear, that you are always trying to do what you thought your father and mother would like." "God forbid I should do otherwise," said the girl solemnly. "Well, perhaps they know all about it," said the old lady, wiping a tear from her eye. "How close our troubles bring us together. You are lonely for your parents, and I am lonely for my husband and children." "And yet you are braver and more cheerful than I," responded Mara; "I was so sad and discouraged over the future this afternoon, that I came to you, thinking that you might unconsciously teach me patience and courage. Truly I was guided, for you face everything like a soldier. Then in meeting Captain Bodine, I seem to have been brought nearer my father than ever before. I can't hear about him without tears, yet I would turn from any pleasure in the world to hear about him. What happiness if he had lived and I could help him in some way!" "Well, my dear, we all have our own way of bearing our burdens, and I often wonder whether I have done more laughing or crying in my life. It has been one or the other most of the time. I have always thanked the Lord that when the pain or the trouble was not too severe, I could laugh, and soon I know all tears will be wiped away. It's harder for you, my dear; it is harder for you than me. My voyage has been long and stormy; husband, sons, and the cause for which they died all lost; but I'm coming into the harbor. You've got your voyage before you. But take courage. Who knows but that your early days may be your darkest days? They can't always be dark when you are so ready to brighten the lives of others. There, I hear Ella's voice." A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Ella Bodine entered. We have all seen bright-hued flowers growing in shaded places, and among cold, grim rocks. Such brightness had the young girl who now appears upon the scene of our story. One speedily felt that its cause was not in externals, but that it resulted from inherent qualities. As with Mara, there had been much in her young life sad and hard to endure. She had not surmounted her trouble by shallowness of soul or callousness, but rather by a spiritual buoyancy which kept her above the dark waves, and enabled her to enjoy all the sunshine vouchsafed. Yet, unlike her father and Mara, she lived keenly in the present. She sympathized truly and honestly with her father, and in a large measure intelligently recognized the nature of the deep shadows projected across his life from the past, but it was her disposition to keep as near to him as possible and yet remain just beyond the shadows. She possessed a wholesome common-sense which taught her that the shadows were not hers and that they were not good for her father; so she was ever making inroads upon them, beguiling him into a smile, surprising him into a laugh--in brief, preventing the shadows from deepening into that gloom which is dangerous to bodily and spiritual health. She made his small earnings go a great way, and banished from his life the sordidness of poverty. God outlines an angel in many a woman's heart, and often privations and sorrow, more surely than luxury, fill out the divine sketch. In the instance of Ella Bodine the angelic was so sweetly and inextricably interwoven with all that was human that to mortal comprehension she was better than a wilderness of conventional angels. She was depressed now under one of the few forms of adversity that could cast her down. Her father was out of employment, their slender income had ceased, and they were dependent. She felt this cruel position all the more because Mrs. Bodine out of her poverty gave her hospitality so unstintedly and ungrudgingly. To the sensitive, fine-natured girl it was like feeding upon the life of another, and that other a generous friend. During her walk a score of schemes to earn money had presented themselves to her inexperienced mind, but her hands had learned only how to eke out a small salary and to minister to her father. She had come home resolute to do something, but troubled because she knew not what to do. She paused a moment on the threshold of Mrs. Bodine's apartment, and looked questioningly at Mara, at the same time half divining who she was. "Come along, Ella," cried Mrs. Bodine, with a little joyous laugh of anticipation, "and kiss one of your best friends, although you never saw her before." "Is it Mara?" Mara's smile and swift approach answered her question. In an instant the two girls were in each other's arms, their warm Southern hearts touched by the electric fire of sympathy and mutual understanding. Mrs. Bodine clapped her little, thin hands and cried, "Oh, that's fine. Southern girls have not died out yet. Why, even my old withered heart had one of the most delicious thrills it ever experienced. Now, my dears, come and sit beside me and get acquainted." "Oh, I know you already, Mara Wallingford," said Ella with sparkling eyes. "And I am learning to know you, Ella. I know you already well enough to love you." "Well," exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, raising her hands in a comic gesture, "I reckon the ice is broken between you." They all laughed at this sally, and Mara was so cheered, her nerves all tingling with excitement, that she could scarcely believe herself to be the half-despairing girl of a few hours before. "Now come," resumed Mrs. Bodine, "let us all be girls together and have a good talk. At this rate I'll soon be younger than either of you. I haven't had my share yet. Do you believe it, Ella? Mara has been downstairs petting your father for an hour." "I wonder where he is. He wasn't in the parlor when I came in." "I reckon he followed your good example and went out for a walk. I heard the door shut. Well, you girls make a picture that it does my old eyes good to look at. Here's Mara with her creamy white skin and eyes as lustrous now as our Southern skies when full of stars, but sometimes, oh so sad and dark. Dear child, I wish I could take the gloom all out of them, for then I could think your heart was light. But I know how it is; I know. Your mother gave you her sad heart when she gave you life, but you have your father's strength and courage, my dear, and you will never give up. And here is Ella with complexion of roses and snow and eyes like violets with the morning dew still on them--forgive an old woman's flowery speech, for that's the way we used to talk when I was young--yes, here is Ella, a little peach blossom, yet brimming over with the wish to become a big, luscious peach. Lor, Lor--oh, fie! Am I saying naughty words? But then, my dears, you know my husband was a naval officer, and no man ever swore more piously than he. Bad words never sounded bad to me when he spoke them--he was such a good Christian! and he always treated me as he expected to be treated when he was on deck. I reckon that I and the Commodore are the only ones that ever ordered _him_ around," and the old lady cried and laughed at the same time, while the faces of her young companions were like flowers brightened by the sun while still wet with dew. "Let me see," continued the old lady, "where was I when I began to swear a little; just a little, you know. It is a sort of tribute to my husband, and so can't be very wicked. Oh, I remember, I was thinking what fun it would have been to chaperon you two girls at one of our grand balls in the good old times. I would sail around like a great ship of the line, convoying two of the trimmest little crafts that ever floated, and all the pirates, I mean gallant young men, my dears, would hover near, dying to cut you out right under my guns, or nose, as land-lubbers would say. Well, well, either of you could lead a score of them a chase before you signed articles of unconditional surrender," and Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair and laughed in her silvery little birdlike twitter. The girls laughed with her, pleased in spite of themselves with visions that, both in their nature and by tradition, accorded with the young romantic period of life. But memory speedily began to restore gravity to Mara's face. Mrs. Bodine recognized this, and her own face grew gentle and sorrowful. Laying a hand on each of the girls heads she resumed, "Do not think I am a frivolous old woman because I run on so. I do not forget the present any more than Mara, I see, cannot. Dear children, the circumstances of your lot render you as burdened and, in some ways, almost as old as I am. Ella can forget easier than you, Mara, but that is because God has put brightness into her heart. Let us all face the truth together. I am long past being an elegant matron. I am only a poor old childless widow with but a few more days of feebleness and suffering before me, yet I do not sigh in a bitter, murmuring spirit. Old as I am, I am still God's little child, and sometimes I think this truth makes me as mirthful as a child. When the pain is hardest to bear, when the past, oh, the past--with all its immeasurable losses, begins to crush my very soul, I turn my dim eyes upward and repeat to myself, 'There _is_ a Heaven of eternal rest and joy,' and so I grow serene in my waiting. I have always loved the bright, pleasant things of this world--it was my nature to do so--but He who bears the burdens and heartbreak of the whole world has gently lifted my love up to Him. Didn't He have compassion on the widow of Nain, and say to her, 'Weep not'? My gallant husband, my brave boys and this poor little widow are all in His hands, and I try to obey His gentle command not to weep except sometimes when I can't help it and He knows I can't." The two girls with their heads in her lap were crying softly from sympathy. With light, caressing touches to each the old lady continued, "Ella, my dear, you are like me in some respects. You, too, love the bright pleasant things of this world, and you are so divinely blessed with a buoyancy of heart that you will make what is hard and humdrum bright for yourself and others. You will embroider life with sunshine if there is any sunshine at all. Like myself, you will be able to smile and laugh whenever the pain is not too severe, yet I fear it will be very hard sometimes. Bat, as my husband would say, you are taut, trim and well ballasted, and good for a long, safe voyage. You have obeyed the Fifth Commandment, and its promise is yours. "Mara, dear child my heart, for some reason, aches for you. I knew and loved your grandfather and your father and mother. You were born into a heritage of bitterness and sorrow, and I fear Mrs. Hunter, with all her good qualities, was not so constituted as to be able to counteract inherited tendencies. I wish I could have brought you up, for then we could have cried or laughed together over what happened. "But you have learned to repress and to brood--two dangerous habits. You want to do some great thing, and alas! there is seldom a great thing which we poor women can do. You are not impelled by ambition or a desire for notoriety, but by a sort of passion for self-sacrifice. "If you had lived twenty odd years ago no soldier of the South could have been braver or more devoted. You are not satisfied with mere living and making the best of life as it is. I don't know why, but I feel that there are depths in your heart which no one understands. Be careful, dear child, and be patient. Don't yield to some morbid idea of duty, or be involved in some chimerical plan of an achievement. "Learn Ella's philosophy, and be as content with sunshine and daily duty as possible. Ella will do this unconsciously, my dear; you will have to do it consciously, just as a sick man seeks health. But you will both have to go forward and meet woman's lot. I was once a young girl, fancy free, like you. How much has happened since! I now feel like an old hen that would like to gather you both under her wing in shelter from all trouble," and again her little laugh chimed out while she wiped away the tears which sprang from her motherly heart. The thump of Captain Bodine's crutches was heard on the stair. "Bring him in," said Mrs. Bodine, mopping her eyes vigorously. Ella ran to the door and admitted him, and then, with a pretty custom she had, took away a crutch, and substituting one of her own round shoulders supported him to a large armchair. The low western sun flooded the room with light. He looked questioningly at the dewy eyes of the two girls and at the evidences of emotion which Mrs. Bodine had not been fully able to remove. "Well," said he, "what part am I to have in this mournful occasion?" Ella stood beside him with her arm about his neck, and was about to speak, when Mrs. Bodine said quickly in her piquant way, "You are to be chief mourner." "A role for which I am peculiarly fitted," he replied sadly, not catching her humor. "Oh, papa, you don't understand," cried Ella, "we have been having just a heavenly time." He looked at Mara as she stood beside the old lady, and his very soul was touched by the sympathy expressed for him in her beautiful eyes. Standing there, enveloped in sunshine, it seemed to him that no angel of God could regard him more kindly. It was not pity, but rather honor, affection and that deep commiseration of which but few women are capable. He felt instinctively that she knew all and that her woman's heart was suffering vicariously with him and for him. The very air was electrical with deep human feeling, and he, yielding to a strong impulse scarcely understood, said earnestly, "God bless you, Mara Wallingford." Sensible old Mrs. Bodine felt that it was time to come back to every-day life, so she said promptly, "Yes, and He is going to bless her, and bless us all. If there is any mourning to be done on this occasion you must do it. We three girls have been having a good talk, and are the better for it. That's the demmed total--oh, fie! there I am at it again. Well, Cousin Hugh, to take you into our entire confidence, we have been facing things and have arrived at several conclusions, one of which is--now, Ella, shut your ears--that you have one of the best daughters in the world, and that she and Mara have quite broken the ice between them and are going to be very good friends, and I was saying how I would like to convoy two such girls in one of our ballrooms in the good old times--oh, well, we have just been having a long lingo as girls will when they get together." Captain Bodine was gifted with tact and a quick appreciation. He understood the old lady and her purpose. "Cousin Sophy," he said, "you are just the same as when, a boy, I used to visit you--tears and smiles close together. Well, I believe that Heaven comes down very near when you three girls get together." The old lady lay back in her chair and laughed heartily. "Oh, Ella, if you only knew what a mischievous boy your father was once! But, there, we have had enough of the past and the future for one day. Mara, my dear, you must stay and banquet with us. No, no, no, I won't hear any excuse. When I once get on quarter-deck every one must obey orders. Ella, direct Hannah to spread the festive board. You and Mara can lend a hand, and you can put on all we have in five minutes. To think that I should have eaten that delicious jelly you brought, greedy old cormorant that I am!" A few moments later Mara supported the old lady down to the dining-room, and, though the viands were few and meagre, the banqueters, to say the least, were not commonplace. Mara said nothing of her plan, but Ella was invited to spend the following morning with her. In the late lingering twilight Captain Bodine escorted the young girl home. On the way thither they came plump upon Owen Clancy. He glanced keenly from one to the other as he lifted his hat. Mara's only response was a slight bow. CHAPTER XV TWO LITTLE BAKERS Mara led Captain Bodine up to their little parlor and introduced him to Mrs. Hunter, who received him most cordially, feeling that in him she recognized a congenial spirit. He treated her with the respect and old-time courtesy which she said was "so truly Southern." Their feelings and beliefs touched closely at several points, yet they were very different in their essential characteristics. Poor Mrs. Hunter had been limited by nature and education. She could not help being narrow in all her views; she was scarcely less able to dismiss her intense, bitter prejudices. She was quite incapable of reasoning herself into her mental position; it was simply the inevitable result of her circumstances, her lot and her own temperament. Captain Bodine was a proud man, as proud toward himself as toward others. The cause for which he and his kindred had suffered and lost so much had been sacred, and therefore it ever would be sacred. To change his views, to begin revising his opinions, would be to stultify himself and to reflect dishonor on his comrades in arms who had perished. In the very depths of his young, ardent spirit he had once devoted himself to the South; he had listened reverently to prayers from the pulpit that God would bless the Southern armies; he had never entered into battle without petitions to Heaven, not that he might escape, but that the "Northern invader" might be overcome; his uniform had been stained with blood again and again as he held dying comrades in his arms and spoke words of cheer. In his more limited way, he had the spirit of "Stonewall" Jackson. It was impossible for a man with his nature and with his memories to argue the whole matter over coolly and recognize misleading errors. During his youth and early manhood his feelings had been so intense as to be volcanic, and that feeling, like lava, had cooled of into its present unchangeable forms and sombre hues. What was bitterness and almost spite in Mrs. Hunter was a deep, abiding sorrow in his heart, a great dream unfulfilled, a cause lofty because so idealized, in support of which he often saw in fancy, when alone, spectral thousands in gray, marching as he once had seen them in actual life. That all had been in vain, was to him one of those mysterious providences to which he could only bow his head in mournful resignation, in patient endurance. He had no hate for the North, for he was broad enough in mind to recognize that it saw the question from its own point of view, and, as a soldier, he knew that its men had fought gallantly. But the North's side of the question was not his side. He had been conquered in arms but not convinced in spirit. While he had respect and even admiration for many of his old foes, and malice toward none, he still felt that there was a bridgeless chasm between them, and, by the instincts of his nature, he kept himself aloof. If he could perform an act of kindness to a Northerner he would do so unhesitatingly; then he would turn away with the impulse of an alien. He had no ambitious schemes or hopes for the future; he had buried the "lost cause" as he had buried his wife, with a grief that was too deep for tears. He had come to value life only for Ella's sake, and he tried to do his best from a soldier-like and Christian sense of duty, until he too could join his old comrade in arms. Mrs. Hunter could not comprehend such a man, and he gave to her but the casual, respectful sympathy which he thought due to a gentlewoman who had lost much like so many other thousands in the South. After a brief call he hobbled away on his crutches, forgetting Mrs. Hunter and, indeed, almost everything in the deep interest excited by Mara, the daughter of his old friend. "Would to God," he muttered, "that Sidney Wallingford could have lived and seen that girl look at him as she looked at me to-day." Soon after Captain Bodine's departure, Mara pleaded fatigue and retired to her room, promising to answer her aunt's many questions on the morrow. She was very sad and discouraged with herself, and yet she had not the despairing sense of the utter futility of her life which had oppressed her when she started out in the early afternoon. She had become so absorbed and interested by the incidents and experiences of her visit as to be almost happy. Just as she had attained a condition of mind which had not blessed her for months, she must meet Owen Clancy. With a sort of inward rage and wonder, she asked herself: "Why did my heart flutter so? Why did every nerve in my body tingle? He is nothing to me and never can be, yet, when he passed, a spirit from heaven could hardly have moved me more. What is his mysterious power which I cannot eradicate? Oh, oh, was not my life hard enough before? Must I go on, hiding this bitter secret? fighting this hopeless and seemingly endless fight? Well, well, thank God for this day, after all. In Ella Bodine and her father I have found friends who will occupy my thoughts and become incentives which I did not possess before. Dear father, my own dear, dead, soldier father, it would please you to have me do something for your old friend." The next morning was bright and sunny, and, after an early breakfast, Mara was in the kitchen, with all the ingredients of the dainties she so skilfully produced, spread out upon the tables. Ella had been asked to come early; her father had escorted her to Mara's residence, and then gone away on an errand of his own. The young girl was greeted with a warmth which made her at home at once, and proved the experiences of the previous afternoon were not the result of mood or passing sentiment. There was a depth in Mara's eyes and a firmness about her mouth and chin which did not indicate changing and unreasoning "moods and tenses." In the clearer, calmer thought of the morning all her kind purposes toward Captain Bodine and Ella had been strengthened, and she also believed more fully that by interesting herself in them she would find the best antidote for her own trouble. Ella had been welcomed by Mrs. Hunter, and now, as she sat in the little sun-lighted kitchen, there was neither past nor future to her. The present scene, with its simple, homely details, was all absorbing. It meant very much to the girl, for she saw how Mara was achieving independence, and by work, too, which housekeeping for her father enabled her to understand better than any other. Mara's pulses were also quickened, for she understood the eager, intelligent glances of her friend. For a few moments, Ella, as company, felt compelled to maintain the quiet position of spectator; then overborne, she sprang up exclaiming: "Oh, Mara, dear, do give me an apron and let me help you. I'd have such a jolly forenoon!" "Why, certainly, Ella, if it would give you pleasure." The article was produced, and, with a sigh of deep content, the girl tied it around a waist by no means waspish. Then off came the little cuffs, and up the sleeves were rolled to the shoulder. "Ella, what lovely arms you have! If I were a man I should be distracted by such a pair of arms." "Well," remarked the girl, looking at them complacently, "they'd be strong enough to help a man that I cared sufficiently for to marry, but I haven't seen that man yet, and I hope his lordship will keep his distance indefinitely--till I have more time to bother with him and his distractions." "Is your time, then, so completely occupied?" "It isn't occupied at all, and that's the plague of it. But I reckon it soon will be," she added with an emphatic little nod. "Papa shall learn that I can do something more for him than cook, and your example has fired my ambition. I'll ransack this town till I find something to do that will bring money. Dear old Mrs. Bodine! wasn't she perfectly enchanting yesterday? Do you think I can be content to live in idleness on her slender means? No, indeed. I'd buy a scrubbing-brush first. Oh, isn't this fun?" and the flour was already up to her elbows. "Oh, Ella, dear, I'd feel just as you do if I had a father to work for." "Now, Mara, don't talk so, or I'll put my floury arms right about your neck and spoil this dough with a flood of briny tears. See, the sun is shining and there is work to be done. Let's be jolly, and we'll have our little weep after sundown. Oh, Mara, dear, I wish I could make you as light-hearted as I am. I used to think it was almost wicked for me to be so light-hearted, but I don't think so any more, for I know I've kept papa from going down into horrid depths of gloom. And then this irrepressible spirit of fun helps me over ever so many hard places." She sprang back into the middle of the room, and, striking a serio-comic attitude, continued: "Here I am in no end of trouble--for me. There is a grief preying on my vitals that would make a poet's hair stand on end should he attempt to portray it. Were there a lover around the corner, sighing like a furnace, I would say to him 'Avaunt! My heart is broken, and do you think I can bother with you?' I am at odds with fate. I am in the most deplorable position into which any human being can sink. I have _nothing to do_. But here is a weapon by which one girl has conquered destiny," and she brandished the roller with which she had been pressing out the dough, "and I, too, shall find a sword which will cut all the pesky knots of this snarled-up old world. Then when I have achieved complete and lofty victory and independence, as you have, dear, I may say to the lover around the corner, 'Step this way, sir. I must consider first whether you would be agreeable to papa, and then whether you would be agreeable to me and then'--Oh, what a little fool I am, and so many cookies to make. Please don't send me home. I will work now like a beaver," and her round white arms grew tense as she rolled with a vigor that would almost flatten brickbats. Mara stood at one side watching her with eyes that grew wonderfully lustrous as was ever the case when she was pleased or excited. Then she stole up behind Ella, and, putting her arm around her neck, looked into her eyes as she asked, "Wouldn't you like to help me?" "Of course I like to help you," said Ella, turning with surprise upon her friend. "Now, Ella, be frank with me. Say no if you feel no. Wouldn't you like to help me all the time and earn money in this way?" A slow deep flush overspread Ella's face as she stood for a moment with downcast eyes as if oppressed with a sense of shame. Then she said humbly: "Forgive me, Mara. I've been very thoughtless. I didn't think you would take my ranting as an appeal to your generous heart. Believe me, Mara, I was not hinting to you that I might share in the little you are earning so bravely. As if you had not burdens enough already." Mara never once removed her eyes from the girl's ingenuous face and permitted her to reveal the unselfishness and sacred pride of her nature; then she said gently and firmly: "No, Ella, I did not misunderstand you a moment, and I want you to understand me. In one sense we have been acquainted always, yet we have loved each other from personal knowledge but a few short hours. We Southern girls need no apologies for our swift intuitions, our quick, warm feelings. I had this on my mind as soon as Mrs. Bodine told me about your being here, and I had quite set my heart upon it as soon as I saw you. Ella, dear, I _need_ help; I have more than I can do. There is business enough to support us both, and I had almost concluded to ask Aim' Sheba to get me a helper. But what a delight it would be to work with you!" Ella's face had been brightening as if gathering all the sunshine in the spring sky, and she was about to speak eagerly when Mara stopped her by a gesture. "Wait," she said, "I did not say anything of this last evening because I was not sure you would like the work. If you do not like it, you must be frank to tell me so. If you do enter on it you must let me manage all in business-like ways, for I fear that you, like Aun' Sheba, will be inclined toward very loose accounts. You must be willing to take what I feel that you should have, and there must be no generous insubordination. Now you have the exact truth." Ella's lip was quivering and her eyes were filling with gathering tears. With a little quaver in her voice she struggled hard to give a mirthful conclusion to the affair. "I accept the position, ma'am," she faltered, making a courtesy, then rushed into her friend's arms and sobbed: "Oh, Mara, Mara, you have lifted such a burden from my heart! I have had many troubles, but somehow it seemed that I couldn't bear this one, though I tried hard to keep the pain to myself--papa and I being dependent. And then to have the whole trouble banished by working with you in just the kind of work I like! Oh, Mara, darling, how can I ever thank you enough?" "Good Lawd, honey, hab you heerd on any ob you'se folks dyin'?" and Aun' Sheba's awed face and ample form filled the doorway, with Vilet's wondering little visage peeping around behind her. Ella sprang away, and, turning her back on the newcomers, mopped her face vigorously with her floury apron. "No, Aun' Sheba," replied Mara, smiling through her tears, for Ella's strong emotion had unsealed the fountain of her eyes, "I've only followed your good advice and secured just the kind of help I need, the daughter of my father's dear old friend, Captain Bodine. I reckon you remember him." "Well, now, de Lawd be bressed!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba, sitting down with her great basket at her feet. "'Member him? Reckon I does. I kin jes' see de han'-som boy as he march away wid you'se fader. An' his little Missy is you'se helper?" and she looked curiously at Ella, who was still seeking to gain self-control. The girl wheeled around with a face wonderfully stained and streaked with flour and tears, and, ducking just such a courtesy as Vilet would have made, said to Aun' Sheba, "Yes'm. I'm the new hand. I'm a baker by trade." Aun' Sheba's appreciation of humor was instantaneous, and she sat back in her chair, which shook and groaned under her merriment. "Can't fool dis culled pusson," she began at last. "You tink we doesn't keep up wid de times, but we does. I'se had a bery int'restin' season wid ole Hannah, who lib wid Mis' Bodine, bress her heart! She's quality yere on arth an' she gwine ter be quality in Hebin. I knows a heap 'bout you an' you'se pa. I knowd him 'fore you did. I'se seed him in de gran' ole house in Meetin' Street a dinin' agin an' agin wid Marse Wallingford an' my deah Misse Mary, den a bride, an' de gran' ole Major Buggone. Oh, Missy Mara, ef you could ony seen de ole major, you'd a seen a genywine So' Car'liny gen'l'man ob wat dey call de ole school. Reckon dey habn't any betteh schools now. An' young Marse Sidney, dat's you'se fader, Missy, and young Marse Hugh, dat's you'se fader, Missy Ella, dey was han'som as picters an' dey drink toasts ter Missy Mary an' compliment her an' she'd blush like a red rose; an' wen dey all 'bout ter march away Missy Mary kiss Marse Hugh jes as ef he her own broder. Lor, Lor, how it all come back ter me! Ef de Lawd don' bress de pa'na'ship twix' you two gyurls den I des dun beat." Regardless of flour the two little bakers stood before Aun' Sheba with arms around each other while she indulged in reminiscences, then Ella, dashing away the tears that were gathering again, said brusquely, "The new hand will have to be boss if we go on this way. Aun' Sheba, we haven't got a blessed thing ready to put in your basket." "Many han's make light wuck," said the old woman sententiously. "I come yere arly dis mawnin' to gib Missy Mara a lif' kase she's been lookin' po'ly an' I hab her on my min' anxious-like. But now, wid a larfin', sunshiny little ting like you aroun', Missy Ella, she'll soon be as peart as a cricket. Vilet, chile, jes wait on me an' han' me tings, an' dese two baskets'll be filled in de quickest jiffy you eber see." And so it turned out. Aunt Sheba was a veteran in the field. Flour, sugar and spices seemed to recognize her power and to come together as if she conjured. The stove was fed like the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, and the girls' faces suggested peonies as the cake grew light and brown. Mrs. Hunter, having finished her morning duties, entered at last and looked with doubtful, troubled eyes upon the scene. Ella and Aun' Sheba's mirthful talk ceased, while little Vilet regarded the tall, gray-haired woman with awe. "Well, times _have_ changed," said the lady, with a sort of groan. "Our home has become little better than a bake-shop." "Well, Missus," replied Aun' Sheba, with the graven-image expression that she often assumed before Mrs. Hunter, "I'se know'd of homes dat hab become wuss dan bake-shops. Neber in my bawn days hab I heerd on an active, prosp'rous baker starbin'. Jes' you try dis cooky right fum de stove an' see ef it doan melt in you'se mouf." And so Aun' Sheba stopped Mrs. Hunter's lamentations and clinched her argument. CHAPTER XVI HONEST FOES Captain Bodine's errand was characteristic of the man. He had accepted his cousin's hospitality and sympathy most gratefully, and his quick apprehension had gathered from some of her words that she was bent on moving her little segment of "heaven and earth," to secure him employment. While perfectly ready to receive any gracious benefactions from heaven, where he justly believed that the good old lady's power centred chiefly, he shrank from her terrestrial efforts in his behalf, knowing that they must be made with very few exceptions among those who were straitened and burdened already. He did not want a "place made" for him and to feel that other Southern men were practicing a severer self-denial in order to do so. With a grim, set look on his face as if he were going into battle, he halted downtown to the counting-room of one of the wealthiest merchants and shippers in the City. He knew this man only by reputation, and his friends would regard an application for employment to Mr. Houghton, as extraordinary as it certainly would be futile in their belief. Mr. Houghton was quite as bitter against the South in general and Charleston in particular as Mrs. Hunter in her enmity of all that savored of the North; and, as human nature goes, they both had much reason, or rather cause, for their sentiments. The experiences of many of that day were not conducive to calm historical estimates or to "the charity that suffereth long and is kind." Mr. Houghton was a New England man, and hated slavery almost as intensely as it deserved to be hated. The trouble with him had been that he did not separate the "peculiar institution" widely enough from the men who had been taught by their fathers, mothers and ministers to believe in it. He made no allowances for his Southern fellow-citizens, as many of them would make none for him. With him, it was "Slave-driver"; with them, "Abolitionist"; yet he revered and they revered the great-hearted planter of Mount Vernon. When the war came at last to teach its terrible, yet essential lessons, Mr. Houghton's eldest son was among the first to exercise the courage of the convictions which had always been instilled into his mind. The grim New Englander saw him depart with eyes that, although tearless, were full of agony, also of hatred of all that threatened to cost him so much. His worst fears were fulfilled, for his son was drowned in a night attack on Fort Sumter, and, in his father's morbid fancy, still lay in the mud and ooze at the bottom of Charleston harbor. The region gained a strange fascination for the stricken man, and he at last resolved to live near his son's watery grave and take from the very hands of those whom he regarded as his boy's murderers the business which they might regard as theirs naturally. So he removed to Charleston, and employed his capital almost as an instrument of revenge. He did not do this ostentatiously, or in any way that would thwart his purpose or his desire to accumulate money, but his aims had come to be very generally recognized, and he received as much hate as he entertained. Yet his wealth and business capacity made him a power in commercial circles, and Southern men, who would no more admit him to their homes than they would an ogre, dealt with him in a cool politeness that was but the counterpart of his grim civility. Captain Bodine knew that Mr. Houghton employed much help in his business. He knew that the work of many of his employes must be largely mechanical, requiring little or no intercourse with the master, and the veteran reasoned, "I could give him honest work, and he in return, pay me my salary, we personally not being under the slightest social obligation to each other. I'd rather wring money from his hard fist than take it from the open hand of a too generous friend. I could then get bread for Ella and myself on the simple ground of services rendered." He therefore entered the outer office and asked for Mr. Houghton. A clerk said, "He is very busy, sir. Cannot I attend to your matter?" "I wish to see Mr. Houghton personally." "Will you send in your card, sir?" Captain Bodine took one from his pocket and wrote upon it, "I wish to see you briefly on a personal matter." A moment later he was ushered into Mr. Houghton's presence, who was writing rapidly at his desk. Bodine stood still, balancing himself on his crutches while the merchant finished the sentence. He looked at the hard wrinkled face and shock of white hair with the same steady composure that he had often faced a battery, as yet silent, but charged with fiery missiles. At last Mr. Houghton looked up with an impatient word upon his lip, but checked it as he saw the striking figure before him. For an instant the two men looked steadily into each other's eyes. Ever since the war, Captain Bodine had dressed in gray, and Mr. Houghton knew instinctively that his visitor was a Confederate veteran. Then the captain's mutilation caught his attention, and his very manhood compelled him to rise and stiffly offer a chair. "You wished to see me personally," he remarked, coldly. "I must request you to be brief, for I rarely allow myself to be disturbed at this hour." "I will be brief. I merely come to ask if you have employment for a tolerably rapid, accurate penman?" "Do you refer to yourself?" Mr. Houghton asked, his brow darkening. "I do, sir." "Do you think this a sufficient excuse for interrupting me at this hour?" "Yes, sir." Again there was a fixed look in each other's eyes, and Mr. Houghton, with his large knowledge of men and affairs, became more distinctly aware that he was not dealing with an ordinary character. He put his thought in words, for at times he could be very blunt, and he was conscious of an incipient antagonism to Bodine. "You think you are a Southern gentleman, my equal, or rather, my superior, and entitled to my respectful consideration at any hour of the day." "I certainly think I am a Southern gentleman. I do not for a moment think I am entitled to anything from you." "Yet you come and ask a favor with as much dignity as if you represented the whole State of South Carolina." "No, sir, I represent only myself, and I have asked no favor. There are many in your employ. I supposed your relations with them were those of business, not of favor." "Well, sir," replied Mr. Houghton, coldly, "there are plenty with whom I can enter into such relations without employing an enemy of my country." "Mr. Houghton, I will bring this interview to a close at once, and then you can settle the matter in a word. Your country will never receive any harm from me. I am one of a conquered people, and I have now no ambition other than that of earning bread for my child and myself. You have dealings with Southern men and ex-Confederate soldiers. You buy from them and sell to them. I, as one of them, ask nothing more than that you should buy my labor for what it is worth to you in dollars and cents. Regard my labor as a bale of cotton, and the case is simple enough." The lava-crust over the crater of the old man's heart was breaking up, for the interview was recalling all the associations which centred around the death of his son. Captain Bodine evoked a strange mixture of antipathy and interest. There was something in the man which compelled his respect, and yet he seemed the embodiment of the spirit which the New Englander could neither understand nor tolerate. His thought had travelled far beyond business, and he looked at his visitor with a certain wrathful curiosity. After a moment he said abruptly, "You fought through the war, I suppose?" "I fought till I was disabled, sir, but I tried to do a soldier's duty to the close of the war." "Duty!" ejaculated Mr. Houghton, with an accent of indescribable bitterness. "You would have killed my son if you had met him?" "Certainly, if I met him in fair fight and he did not kill me first." "There wasn't any fair fight at all," cried the old man passionately. "It was an atrocious, wicked, causeless rebellion." The dark blood mounted to Captain Bodine's very brow, but he controlled himself by a strong effort, and only said calmly, "That is your opinion." The veins fairly stood out on Mr. Houghton's flushed, usually pallid, face. "Do you know," he almost hissed, "that my boy lies at the bottom of your accursed harbor yonder?" "I did not know it, sir. I do know that the sons of Southern fathers and the fathers themselves lie beside him." "But what was the use of it all? Damn the whole horrible crime! What was the use of it all?" A weaker, smaller-brained man than Bodine would have retorted vehemently in kind and left the place, but the captain was now on his mettle and metaphorically in the field again, with the foe before him. What is more, he respected his enemy. This Northern man did not belong to the ex-governor Moses type. He was outspoken and sincere to the heart's core in his convictions, and moreover that heart was bleeding in father-love, from a wound that could never be stanched. Bodine resolved to put all passion under his feet, to hold his ground with the coolness and tenacity of a general in a battle, and attain his purpose without the slightest personal compromise. His indomitable pride led him to feel that he would rather work for this honest, implacable foe than for any man in the city, because their relations would be so purely those of business, and to bring him to terms now would be a triumph over which he could inwardly rejoice. "Mr. Houghton," he said, gravely, "we have wandered far from the topic which I at first introduced. Your reference to your son proves that you have a heart; your management of business certifies to a large brain. I think our conversation has made it clear that we are both men of decided convictions and are not afraid to express them. If you were a lesser man than you are, I would have shrugged my shoulders contemptuously and left your office long ago. Yet I am your equal, and you know it, although I have scarcely a penny in the world. I am also as honest as you are, and I would work for you all the more scrupulously because you detest me and all that I represent. I, on the other hand, would not expect a single grain of allowance or consideration, such as I might receive from a kindly disposed employer. We would not compromise each other in the slightest degree by entering into the relations of employer and employed. I would obey your orders as a soldier has learned to obey. Apart from business we should be strangers. I knew we were hostile in our feelings, but I had the impression--which I trust may be confirmed--that you were not a commonplace enemy. The only question between us is, 'Will you buy my labor as you would any other commodity in the Charleston market?'" Captain Bodine's words proved his keen appreciation of character. The old man unconsciously possessed the spirit of a soldier, and it had been evoked by the honest, uncompromising attitude of the Southerner. His emotion passed away. His manner became as courteous as it was cold and impassive. "You are right, sir," he said, "we are hostile and will probably ever remain so, but you have put things in a light which enables me to comply with your wishes. I take you at your word, and will buy your labor as I would any other article of value. I know enough of life to be aware of the courtesy which occasionally exists between men whose feelings and beliefs strongly conflict, yet I agree with you that, apart from business, we can have little in common. When can you come?" "To-morrow." "Are you willing to leave the question of compensation open till I can learn what your services are actually worth?" "I should prefer to have the question settled in that way." Both men arose. "Good-morning, Captain Bodine," said the merchant, bowing slightly. "Good-morning, Mr. Houghton," and the captain halted quietly back to Mrs. Bodine's home of faded gentility. Mr. Houghton sat down at his desk and leaned his head thoughtfully upon his hand. "I wouldn't have believed that I could have done this," he muttered. "If he had knuckled to me one iota I would have shown him the door; if he hadn't been so crippled--if he hadn't been so downright honest and brave--confound it! he almost made me feel both like killing him and taking him by the hand. Oh, Herbert, my poor, lost boy, I don't wonder that you and so many fine fellows had to die before such men were conquered." CHAPTER XVII FIRESIDE DRAMAS Ella was so overjoyed at her prospects when all had been explained to her, that she insisted on Mara's spending the evening at the Bodines' so that her father might understand the whole arrangement. When she returned early in the afternoon, she found him, as Mara had before, reading quietly at one of the parlor windows. He looked up with not only glad welcome in his eyes, but also with much genuine interest, for he was anxious to learn what further impression Mara had made upon his daughter. The man who had accepted patient endurance as his lot, could scarcely comprehend the profound impression made upon him by the child of his old friend. He had made no effort to analyze his feelings, not dreaming that there was any reason why he should do this. To his mind circumstances and the girl herself were sufficient to account for the deepest sympathy. Then that look with which she had regarded him on the previous evening--he could never forget that while he lived. He therefore regarded Ella's flushed, happy face, and said, "You seem to hesitate in letting your experiences be known, but I reckon, from the sparkle of your eyes, that you have had a good time." "Oh, papa, I have had a good time, so much more than a good time. I hesitate because I don't know just how or where to begin--how to tell you all the good news. Dear papa, you have had so many more troubles than I have, and some perhaps which you think I do not share in very deeply. It was best for us both that I did not--too deeply. But you have a trouble now in which I do share more than you know, more than I wanted you to know. We were here dependent on our dear old cousin who is so unselfish that she would almost open her poor old veins for us. This was too hard for either of us to endure very long, and I had made up my mind that I would do something to relieve you--that if Mara could earn money I could." "My dear child, I appreciate your feelings, and you have understood mine, but let me hasten to assure you that I have found a way by which I can support you and myself also." "You have? So soon? Oh, that is glorious. Tell me all about it." "No, indeed. Not till I have your wonderful news, and learn how you enjoyed your visit." "No more visiting for me, or rather perpetual visiting. Oh, papa, think what bliss! I'm to help Mara, work with Mara every day, and have a share in the profits." The captain's face grew sad and almost stern. Ella understood him instantly, and put her hand over his mouth as he was about to speak. "Now, papa, don't you perform the same little tragedy that I did. I know just how you feel and what you are going to say. Mara had it in her mind the moment she heard I was in town and--" "Ella," interrupted her father, firmly, "I do not often cross you, but you must let me decide this question. Mara is capable of any degree of self-sacrifice, of even something like a noble deception in this case. No, this cannot be. I would protect that girl even as I would you, and you both need protection against your own generous impulses more than all else." In vain she tried to explain, and recounted minutely all that had happened. The captain was so deeply touched that his eyes grew dim with moisture. Again he exclaimed, "Would to God Sidney Wallingford had lived, even though poor and crippled as I am, that he might have worshipped this noble-hearted, generous girl. She has indeed a rare nature. She carried out her self-sacrificing purpose well, but I understand her better than you do, my dear. With all a woman's wit, tact, and heart she deceived you and would deceive us all. She would smile in triumph as she denied herself for our sakes what she most needed. But, Ella, you know we cannot let her do this." The girl was staggered and in sore perplexity. Her father's view was not pleasing to her ingenuous nature; there had been a sincerity in Mara's words and manner which had been confirmed not only by circumstances, but also by Aun' Sheba's hearty approval. "I shall be sorry if what you think is true," she said, sadly. "I don't wish to be deceived, not even from such motives as you attribute to Mara, and, of course, she could have no others if you are right. But how can you be right? There was such a verity about it all. Why, papa, when at first I imagined that Mara might have thought I had been hinting in my very foolish talk that I wished what afterward took place, I was so overwhelmed with shame that I could hardly speak. If you had seen how she reassured me, and heard her earnest words, declaring she needed me--oh, if that was all deception, even from the kindest and noblest motive, I should be wounded to the heart, I could never be sure of Mara again and scarcely of any one else. I can't think as you do. Let us ask Cousin and see what she thinks." The captain was now in perplexity himself, yet he held to his first impression. "I admit," he said, hesitatingly, "that it was not the wisest course on Mara's part, yet often the best people, especially when young, ardent, and a little morbid, are led by the noblest motives to do what is unwise and scarcely right. Mara is not an ordinary girl, and cannot be judged by common standards. Be assured, she would die rather than deceive you to your harm, but a purpose to do you good might confuse both her judgment and conscience, especially if it involved self-sacrifice on her part. You must not blame me if I wish to be more thoroughly convinced. Yes, you can ask Cousin Sophy's opinion if you wish." "Then come with me, papa, and state your case as strongly as you can. I'd rather go hungry than go forward another step if you are right." The wise old lady, who could talk by the hour on most occasions, listened to both sides of the question and then remarked with sphinx-like ambiguity. "Your father, Ella, has obtained a remarkably correct idea of Mara's character. You know I told her in your hearing that she had a passion for self-sacrifice, and was prone to take a morbid sense of duty. At the same time, I do not by any means say he is right in this particular instance. Mara is coming this evening--let her satisfy you both in her own way. I have my opinion, but would rather she would make the matter plain to you." The shrewd old lady, to whom the wheels of time often seemed to move slowly, was bent on a bit of drama at her own fireside, at the same time believing that a word, a tone, or even a glance from the young girl herself would have more power to banish the captain's doubts than anything she could say. "And yet," thought Mrs. Bodine, "Mara is capable of just this very kind of dissimulation." Evening in the South differs slightly from our late afternoon, and the sun was scarcely below the horizon when Mara arrived under the escort of Mrs. Hunter, who had also been invited. Therefore Ella in her feverish impatience had not long to wait. Mrs. Bodine's simple meal was over, and after having had a fire lighted on the parlor hearth, she had ensconced herself in a low rocking-chair in readiness to receive her guests. There was a sort of stately cordiality in the meeting between her and Mrs. Hunter, quiet courtesy on the part of Captain Bodine toward all, while honest Ella could not banish a slight constraint from her manner. Mara gradually became conscious of this and wondered at it. She also soon observed that no reference was made to the compact of the morning, and this perplexed her still more. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bodine, having all the dramatis personae about her, was complacency embodied, and not averse to taking a part in the little play herself. She managed at first that the conversation should be general. She serenely indulged in reminiscences which waked others from Mrs. Hunter, and even the captain was beguiled into half-humorous old-time anecdotes about some one they all knew. "Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, sighing, "that--oh, good gracious! what was I going to say? Cousin Hugh, you can remember that my most excellent husband accustomed me to rather strong adjectives. Well, that hardhearted old wretch, Mr. Houghton, eventually got all the property of the poor man we were talking about." "Did he?" said the captain, quietly. "Well, I reckon I'll get some of it back again." "You? I'd like to know how. He'd take your head off at one bite if he could." "I reckon he would; he looked so inclined this morning. I spent half an hour alone with him this morning, and am going to work for him to-morrow." The general exclamations amounted to a chorus, and Mrs. Hunter, bridling, began formally and almost severely, "Pardon me, Captain Bodine, I do not wish to be presuming or officious, but I fear you have been absent from the city so long that you are not aware of the general estimation in which this Northern carpet-bagger is held." "I certainly have had a chance to form my own opinion of him, Mrs. Hunter, and I reckon that he and I will not be any better friends than he and you would be." "Friends," ejaculated the old lady, "I could annihilate him. Oh, Captain Bodine, believe me, you have made a mistake. What will be left of our past if the best and bravest of our number strike hands with these vampires of the North?" "I have not struck hands with him, nor do I ever expect to." "Hugh, Cousin Hugh," protested Mrs. Bodine, "I don't understand this move at all." "Papa," cried Ella, with her arms about his neck, "you have done this for my sake, so do please give it up for my sake. Some other way will be provided for us." "Mara, are you, too, down on me?" "No, sir, never; but I'll share my last crust with you if you will have nothing to do with that man." "I thought so, you brave, generous girl. That was like your father, and reminds me of a bit of experience. We were on a forced march, and the provision train had not kept up. It was night, and we were too weary to hunt around for a morsel. Wallingford (he was major then) came to me and said, 'Bodine, I've a hard tack and one cup of coffee. We'll go halves,' and so we did. He was so impolite as to take his half first. Do you know why?" "I can guess," she replied with downcast brimming eyes. "I reckon you can--you of all others; but he didn't succeed. I turned on him in mock severity and remarked, 'Major Wallingford, I never thought you would try to overreach an old friend. See, you have scarcely taken over a third of the coffee and hard tack.' He slapped me on the back and declared he would have me arrested for insubordinate and disrespectful language. Considering what sleepy, jaded men we were, we had a lot of fun over that meagre banquet, but he had to yield even if he were my superior. I fear you are inclined to go halves just like your father." "Well, Hugh," cried Mrs. Bodine impatiently, "even that is better than your taking whatever this--this--I want an adjective that is not too wicked." "No matter, Cousin Sophy, we'll each supply one according to our own degree of wickedness. A Yankee would say 'darned' though, confound the fellows, they seem to learn to fight and swear in equal degrees." "I won't say 'darned,'" said the old lady, almost trembling in her irritation and excitement, for she was being treated to more of a drama than she had bargained for. "It is a word I never heard my husband use. Bah! all words are inadequate. I say anything is better than that you should go to this old Houghton for what little he may choose to give you." "Now, I appeal to you, Mara--is this fair, four against one?" "But, dear Captain Bodine, you don't know how deeply we feel about this." "Ah, that is the charge our enemies bring against us. We _feel_, but don't reason, they say. We have much reason to retort, 'You reason, but have no feeling and little comprehension for those that have.' Come, I will be serious now," and his expression became grave and firm. "Cousin Sophy, Mr. Houghton will never give me a penny, nor would I take a gift from him even if starving, yet I have a genuine respect for the man. Let me, as a soldier, illustrate my course, and then I will explain more fully. Suppose I was on a march and was hungry. On one hand were ample provisions in the camp of the enemy; on the other a small farmhouse occupied by friends who had already been robbed of nearly all they had. If I went to these friends they would, as Mara has said, share their last crust. Do you not think it would be more in accordance with the feelings of a man to make a dash at the enemy's overflowing larder, and not only get what I needed but also bring away something for my impoverished friends? I reckon it would. I much prefer spoiling the Egyptians, cost me what it may. My dear child," turning to Mara, "do you think I would take half your crust when I know you need the whole of it? No, indeed. Then you must remember that we got in the habit of living off the enemy during the war. To drop all this figurative talk, let me put the matter in plain English, as I did to Mr. Houghton this morning. We had a pretty hot action, I can tell you. There was no compromise in word or manner on either side, but he listened to reason, and so will you. Pick out your most blue-blooded, stanchest South Carolinians, in the city, and they deal with Mr. Houghton. They sell to him; they buy of him, and there it all ends. I have no cotton to sell, but I told him to regard my labor as a bale of cotton and to buy it, if he so wished, at what it was worth. I also told him that apart from our business relations we would be strangers, so you see I am neither better nor worse, practically, no different from other Charlestonians." Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair, and laughed till the tears came into her eyes. "I do declare," she gasped: "God made men different from women, and I reckon He knew what He was about. I surrender, Cousin Hugh. Your argument has blown me out of the water. Spoil this old Egyptian to your heart's content, only remember when there are no Egyptians to spoil, if you don't come to your friends you will have one savage old woman to deal with." Mrs. Hunter shook her head dubiously. "I don't know what to think of all this," she said. "It appears to me that it tends to break down the partition wall between us and those from whom we have received wrongs which should never be forgiven." "My dear Mrs. Hunter," replied the captain, urbanely, "the more the partition wall is broken down in one sense, the better. Isn't it wiser for me to get money out of Mr. Houghton than to sulk and starve? I _had_ to break through the wall to get bread. Of course," he added quietly, "we all understand one another. My military figures of speech must not be pressed too far. I do not propose to knock Mr. Houghton on the head, or even take the smallest possible advantage of him. On the contrary, because we are hostile, I shall be over-scrupulous, if possible, to do his work well. From him, as I told him, I expect not the slightest allowance, consideration, or kindness." "Oh," thought Mara, "how clearly he has put my own thought and wish. Why could not Owen Clancy have earned his own bread and mine by taking the course of this brave Southern man? I have been shown to-night how noble, how dignified and how easy it was. Why should he talk of love when he will not see what is so reasonable in the action of another?" "Cousin Hugh, you said one thing which needs explanation. You said you had a respect for this man floughton, who we all know has not a particle of good-will toward us." "Chiefly because he is such an honest enemy," Bodine replied. "He makes hard bargains with our people when he can, but have you ever heard of his cheating or doing anything underhand? I learned a good deal about his business character while in Georgia, and his course to-day corresponded with what I had been told. Moreover, his feelings got the better of him, and he revealed in one passionate sentence that his eldest son was killed, and, as he says, lies at the bottom of our harbor here. This fact enabled me to stand better what I had to take from him," and in answer to his cousin's questions he revealed the substance of the interview. "I do this," he concluded, "that you and other friends may better understand my course. To-morrow Mr. Houghton becomes my employer, and I shall owe a certain kind of loyalty. The more seldom we mention his name thereafter, the better; and I shall never speak of him except in terms of cold respect." "Since you have told me about his son," said Mrs. Bodine, "I won't avail myself of the privilege of freeing my mind to-night, even if it will be my last chance, that is when you are present. After all, why should I berate him? In one aspect he is to me a sort of ogre representing all that is harsh, intolerant and cruel, rejoicing in his power to drain the life-blood of a conquered and impoverished people; yet he rose before me as you spoke as a heartbroken father, warped and made unnatural by pain, haunted by the ghost of his son whom his arms cannot embrace. Sometimes when thinking alone, the people of the world seem like a lot of squabbling children, with only degrees of badness and goodness between them. Children make no allowances for each other. It is like or dislike, quick and manifested. It is well there is a Heavenly Father over all who may lead one and all of us 'to make up' some day. I tell you what it is, Hugh, we may all have to shake hands in Heaven." "Like enough, Cousin Sophy. In matters pertaining to Heaven you are a better authority than I am." "For very good reason. Heaven is nearest those who feel its need most. You may think I am a queer Christian, and I sometimes think so myself--hating some people as near as I dare, and calling old Houghton a wretch. Don't I know about his heartache? Who better than I? God knows I would give his son back to him if I could. God knows I can almost swear at him; He knows also that if he were brought into this house wounded I'd nurse him with my feeble hand as I would you, Cousin Hugh, but I would be apt to say when he got well (and here came in her little chirping laugh), 'Good sir, I have not the slightest objection to your going back to Massachusetts, bag and baggage.' By the way, he has another son who has not been much in Charleston--being educated at the North, they say. He must be a grown man now. I was told that when here last he resented the fact bitterly that there was some society in town which he could not enter." "I reckon not," remarked Mrs. Hunter, grimly, and then followed some desultory conversation between the two elder ladies. As was frequently his custom--in common with men whose past is more than their future promises to be--the captain had lapsed into a train of thought which took him far away from present surroundings. He was roused by Mrs. Hunter's preparations for departure, and looking suddenly at Mara, saw that her eyes were filled with tears. He was at her side instantly, and, taking her hand, asked gently, "What troubles you, my child?" With bowed head she replied: "I understand you, Captain Bodine; your words have made everything clear to me." He still held her hand and thought a moment. "About Ella's coming to you?" he asked. "Yes, I'm not one of the Egyptians, but I'd so set my heart on it." "Because of _your_ need, not Ella's?" again the captain queried, while his grasp on her hand tightened. "Oh, Captain Bodine, do you think I could deceive you or a girl like Ella under any circumstances? If she did not come after to-day I feel that I should give up in despair very soon. I do need help, and just such help to body and mind as she can give me." "Forgive me, Mara. The little story I told about your father explains why I feared. But we will say no more about it. I would rather have Ella with you than with any one else in the world." "There," cried that buoyant young woman, "I knew I was right. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings you old people are destined to learn wisdom." "Well," said Mrs. Bodine, "I've had more drama tonight than I reckoned on, and I haven't been leading lady either. Will the chief baker escort me to the dining-room?" After cake and cream, the captain escorted Mrs. Hunter and Mara home. He detained the latter at the door a moment, and said gently, "Mara, shun the chief danger of your life. Never be unfair to yourself." CHAPTER XVIII A FAIR DUELLIST The great hand of time which turns the kaleidoscope of human affairs appeared to move slowly for a few weeks, as far as the characters of my story are concerned. The two little bakers worked together daily, one abounding in mirth and drollery, and the other cheered, or rather beguiled from melancholy in spite of herself. Business grew apace, not only because two girls who evoked general sympathy were the principals of the firm, but also for the reason that they put something of their own dainty natures into their wares. Aun' Sheba trudged and perspired in moderation, for the fleet-footed Vilet seemed to outrun Mercury. Moreover, the "head-pahners," as Aun' Sheba called them, insisted that their commercial travellers should take the street-cars when long distances were involved. Captain Bodine and Mr. Houghton maintained their business relation in the characteristic manner indicated by their first interview. The ex-Confederate was given some routine work which kept him at a remote desk a certain number of hours a day, and employer and employee rarely met, and scarcely ever spoke to each other. The captain, however, had no reason to complain of his salary, which was paid weekly, and sufficed for his modest needs. So far from being dependent on his large-hearted cousin, he and Ella were enabled to contribute much to her material comfort, and immeasurably to her daily enjoyment. She and Ella were in the sunshine again, and it was hard to say which of the two talked the most genial nonsense. The old lady had what is termed "a sweet tooth," and loved dainties. The two girls, therefore, vied with each other in evolving rare and harmless delicacies. "Two Ariels are ministering to me," she said, "and sometimes I feel so jolly that I would like to share with that old--I mean Mr. Houghton." The girls never forgot, however, the depths beneath the ripple and sparkle of the old lady's manner. As spring verged into summer, Uncle Sheba yielded more and more to the lassitude of the season. His "bobscure 'fliction" seemed to grow upon him, if it were possible to note degrees in his malady, but Aun' Sheba said, "'Long as he is roun' like a log an' don' bodder me I is use' ter it." He even began to neglect the "prar-meetin'," and old Tobe told him to his face, "You'se back-slidin' fur as you kin slide, inch or so." His son-in-law, Kern Watson, had won such a good reputation for steadiness that he was taken into the fire department. When off duty he was always with "Sissy an' de chilen." Outwardly there was but slight change in Owen Clancy. He had never been inclined to make many intimate acquaintances, and those who knew him best only noted that he seemed more reserved about himself if possible, and that he was unusually devoted to business. Yet he was much spoken of in business circles, for it was known that he was the chief correspondent of the wealthy Mr. Ainsley of New York, who was making large investments in the South. Among the progressive men of the city, no matter what might be their political faith and association, the young man was winning golden opinions, for it was clearly recognized that he ever had the interest of his section at heart, that in a straightforward, honorable manner he was making every effort to enlist Northern capital in Southern enterprises. He had withdrawn almost wholly from social life, and ladies saw him but seldom in their drawing-rooms. When among men, however, he talked earnestly and sagaciously on the business topics of the hour. The evening usually found him with book in hand in his bachelor apartment. Beneath all this ordinary ebb and flow of daily life, changes were taking place, old forces working silently, and new ones entering in to complicate the problems of the future. As unobtrusively as possible, Clancy kept himself informed about Mara and all that related to her welfare. By some malign fate, as she deemed it, she would unexpectedly hear of him, encounter him on the street, also, yet rarely now, meet him at some small evening company. He would permit no open estrangement, and always compelled her to recognize him. One evening, to her astonishment and momentary confusion he quietly took a seat by her side and entered into conversation, as he might have done with other ladies present. By neither tone nor glance did he recognize any cause for estrangement between them, and he talked so intelligently and agreeably as to compel her admiration. His mask was perfect, and after an instant hers was equally so, yet all the time she was as conscious of his love as of her own. He recognized the new element which the Bodines had brought into her life, and with a lover's keen instinct began to surmise what the captain might become to her. He was not long in discovering the former relations of the veteran to Colonel Wallingford, and he justly believed that, as yet, Mara's regard was largely the result of that old friendship and an entire accordance in views. But he was not so sure about Bodine, whom he knew but slightly and with whom he had no sympathy. He had learned substantially the ground on which the captain had taken employment from Mr. Houghton, and as we know, he was bitterly hostile to that whole line of policy. "It would eventually turn every Southern man into a clerk," he muttered, "when it is our patriotic duty to lead in business as in everything else that pertains to our section." Yet he knew, or at least believed, that if he had taken the same course Mara might now be his wife. Sometimes, when reading, apparently, he would throw down his book and say aloud in his solitude, "Bah, I'm more loyal to the South than this sombre-faced veteran. He would keep his State forever in his own crippled condition. No crutches for the South, I say; no general clerkship to the North, but an equal onward march, side by side, to one national destiny. He thinks he is a martyr and may very complacently let Mara think so too. Who has given up the more? He a leg, and I my heart's love!" It has already been shown that Clancy touched the extremes of political and social life in the city. Some, of whom Mrs. Hunter was an exasperated exponent, could be cold toward him, but they could neither ignore nor despise him. Those beginning to cast off the fetters of enmity and prejudice, secretly admired him and were friendly. While cordial in his relations, therefore, with Northern people and Northern enterprises of the right stamp, he had not so lost his hold on Mara's exclusive circle as to remain in ignorance of what was transpiring within it, and he secretly resolved that if Bodine sought to take the girl of his heart from him, and, as he truly believed, from all chance of true happiness herself, he would give as earnest a warning as ever one soul gave to another. In June he received a strong diversion to his thoughts. Mr. Ainsley wrote him from New York, in effect, that he with his daughter would soon be in Charleston--that his interests in the South had become so large as to require personal attention; also that he had new enterprises in view. The young man's interest and ambition were naturally kindled. As Mara had taken the Bodines and their affairs as an antidote for her trouble, he sought relief in the preoccupation which the Ainsleys might bring to his mind. Accordingly he met father and daughter at the station and escorted them to the hotel with some degree of pleasurable excitement. Miss Ainsley made the same impression of remarkable beauty and cosmopolitan culture as at first. There was a refined, easy poise in her bearing. Indeed he almost fancied that, to her mind, coming to Charleston was a sort of condescension, she had visited so many famous cities in the world. She greeted him cordially, and to a vain man her brilliant eyes would have expressed more than the mere pleasure of seeing an old acquaintance again. But few days elapsed before Mr. Ainsley was on the wing, here and there where his interests called him, meantime making the Charleston hotel his headquarters. Miss Ainsley's friend, Mrs. Willoughby, carried off the daughter to her pretty home on the Battery, where sea-breezes tempered the Southern sun. Clancy aided the father satisfactorily in business ways, and the daughter found him so agreeable socially as to manifest a wish to see him often. She interested him as a _"rara avis"_ which he felt that he would like to understand better, and he would have been less than a man if not fascinated by her beauty, accomplishments and intelligence. Miss Ainsley could not fail to charm the eyes of sense as well, and she was not chary of the secret that she had been fashioned in one of Nature's finest molds. The soft, warm languor of the summer evenings was, to her, ample excuse for revealing the glowing marble of her neck and bosom to dark Southern eyes, and admirers began to gather like bees to honey ready made. Clancy had wished to see her deportment toward other young men, and now had the opportunity. The result flattered him in spite of himself. To others she was courteous, affable and sublimely indifferent. When he approached it seemed almost as if a film passed from her eyes, that she awakened into a fuller life and became an enchantress in her versatile powers. He responded with as fine a courtesy as her own, although quite different, but there was a cool, steady self-restraint in eyes and manner which piqued and charmed her. Clancy would be long in learning to understand Miss Ainsley. He might never reach the secret of her life, and certainly would not unless he bluntly asked her to marry him--asked her so bluntly and persistently that all the wiles of which woman is capable opened no avenue of escape. She was an epicure of the finest type. If she had been asked to a banquet on Mount Olympus, she would have preferred to dine from the one delicious dish of ambrosia most to her taste and to sip only the choicest brand of nectar. Profusion, even at a feast of the gods, would have no charms for her. She had begun to see the world so early and had seen so much of it that she had learned the art of elimination to perfection. Sensuous to the last degree, but not sensual, she had a cool self-control and a fineness of taste which led her to choose but a few refined pleasures at a time and then to enjoy them deliberately and until satiety pointed to a new choice. Keen of intellect, she had studied society and with almost the skill of a naturalist had recognized the various types of men and women. This cool observation had taught her much worldly wisdom. She saw all about her, mere girls jaded with life already, faded young women keeping up with the fashionable procession as fagged out soldiers drag themselves along in the rear of a column. She had seen fresh young _debutantes_ rush into the giddy whirl to become pallid from the excess of one season. At one time, she and other friends of hers had been exultant, excited and distracted by their many admirers and suitors. She soon wearied, however, of this indiscriminate slaughter, and the devoted eager attentions, the manifest desires and hopes of commonplace men, so far from kindling a sense of triumph and power, almost made her ill. She became like a knight of the olden time who had hewn down inferiors until he was sick of gore. And so she gradually withdrew from the fashionable rout, took time for reading and study and the perfection of her accomplishments. She accepted merely such invitations as were agreeable to her, smiling contemptuously at the idea that in order to maintain position in society one must wear herself out by rushing around to everything; and society respected her all the more. It became a triumph to secure her presence; but she only went where everything would accord with her taste and inclination. This was true of her life abroad as well as at home. Conscious of her father's wealth, and that, apart from an unexacting companionship to him, she could do as she pleased, she proposed to make the most of life as she estimated it. She would have all the variety she wished, but she would take it leisurely. She would not perpetrate the folly of gulping pleasures, still less would she permit herself to fall tumultuously in love with some ordinary man only to waken from a romantic dream to discover how ordinary he was. She was also too shrewd, indeed one may almost say too wise, to think of an ambitious marriage. The man of millions or the man of rank or fame could never buy her unless personally agreeable to her. Yet she was rarely without a suitor, whom to a certain point she encouraged. Unless a man possessed some real or fancied superiority which pleased or interested her, she was practically inaccessible to him. She would be courtesy itself, yet by her strong will and tact would speedily make a gentleman understand, "You have no claim upon me; your wishes are nothing to me." If he interested her, however, if she admired him even slightly, she would give him what she might term a chance. Then to her mind their relations became much like a duel; she at least would conquer him; he might subdue her if he could; she would give him the opportunity, and if he could find a weak place in her polished armor and pierce her heart she would yield. The question was whether she had a heart, and she was not altogether sure of this herself. On one thing, however, she was resolved--she would not give up her liberty, ease and epicurean life for the duties, obligations and probable sorrows of wifehood, unless she met a man who had the power to make this course preferable. During Clancy's visit to New York in the winter, Mr. Ainsley had spoken of him to his daughter in terms that interested her before she even saw the young man, and the moment the experienced woman of the world (for she was a woman of the world, though but little past her majority) looked upon him she was still more interested, recognizing at a glance the truth that whatever Clancy might be, he was not commonplace. This explains why he was perplexed by the intentness and soft fire of her eyes. If the way opened, she was inclined to give him "a chance." It might cost him dear, as it had others, but that was his affair. She felt that he was highly honored and distinguished in being given what she contemptuously denied to the great majority. The way _had_ opened. She was in Charleston, and now, this particular and lovely June evening found her on a balcony overlooking the shining ripples of the bay, reclining in a cane chair with her head leaning against a pillar and her eyes fixed on him with all the dangerous fascination they possessed. Some soft, white clinging material draped her form that was rendered more graceful than usual by her well-chosen attitude. A spray from an ivy vine hung above her, and its slightly moving shadow flickered on her throat and bosom. She knew she was entrancingly beautiful; so did he. He felt that if he were an artist nothing was left to be desired. As a man he was flattered with her preference and charmed with her beauty. He did not and could not believe that he had more than a passing interest in her mind as yet, and he felt that she would never be more to him than a gifted lovely friend, who could at one and the same time gratify his taste and bestow fine intellectual companionship. They talked freely with lapses of silence between them. These she would occasionally break with little snatches of song from some opera. Her familiarity with life abroad enabled her to say much which supplemented his reading and which interested him. So he was not averse to these interviews and was conscious of no danger. To her they had an increasing pleasure. She was delighted that Clancy thawed so deliberately, that instead of speedily verging toward sentiment he found more pleasure in her intellectuality than in her outward beauty. So many others to whom she had given a chance had quickly lost both their heads and hearts, and she was beginning to rejoice in the belief that it might require a summer's tactics to beguile him of either. His gray eyes, which appeared dark in the moonlight, were clearly regarding her with quiet admiration, but instead of paying a compliment he would broach some topic so interesting in itself that before she knew it she was talking well and even brilliantly. This present evening he did pay her a compliment, however, which delighted her. She had stated her view of a subject, and he had replied, "I must differ with you most decidedly, Miss Amsley." Then he added with a little apologetic laugh, "I could have made such a remark to very few ladies. I would have said, 'I beg your pardon, do not think I am contradicting you, but possibly on further reflection--' In brief, I would have gone through the whole conventional circumlocution. You are a woman of mind, and you put your views so strongly and clearly that I forget everything except your thought. Good reason why, your thought is so interesting, all the more so because it is your view, not mine, and because I do not agree with you. Have I made sufficient apology?" "You have done much more, Mr. Clancy, you have paid me the only kind of a compliment that I enjoy. I am sick of conventionalities, and as for ordinary compliments, I am as satiated as one would be if the entire contents of Huyler's candy-shop had been sent to him." "Oh, I knew that much before I had seen you five minutes. The only question in my mind was whether you had not been made ill mentally by them as one would be physically by the candy." "In other words, whether I was a fool or not." "Precisely." "Well?" "No need of that rising inflection. If you were a fool I would not be here." "I reckon not, as you say in the South." "Yet you value your beauty, Miss Ainsley." "Indeed I do, very highly." "And you know equally well that I admire it greatly, but I value your power of companionship more. Why should not a man and woman entertain each other without compliments, conventionalities and sentimentalities?" "No reason in the world if they are capable of such companionship. The trouble with so many is that they tumble into these things, especially the last, as if they were blind ditches in their path." "That is excellent. Do you regard love as a blind ditch?" "The deepest and worst of them all, judging from the experiences of very many." "I am inclined to agree with you," he answered very quietly. A few moments later he rose to take his leave. She gave him her hand without rising, and said, "Good-night. I'm not going to leave this lovely scene till I am sleepy. Come again when you want companionship. Drop conventionality I would like a friend who would talk to me as men of brains talk to men of brains, without circumlocution." "Very well, then, I shall begin at once. You have a head that ought to inspire an artist, but I like its furniture. I am going to read up on our point of disagreement. If I actually prove you are wrong you must yield like a man." "I will." The smile on her lips still lingered as she looked out upon the moonlit waters, and she passed into a delicious revery. At last she murmured, "Yes, he has a chance. I don't know how it will end. I may yield to his argument, but as to yielding to him, that is another affair. The best part of it all is that he is so slow in yielding to me. Here, in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, is a cup that I can at least drain slowly." Clancy sauntered up Meeting Street, his thoughts preoccupied with the interview. Then half a block in advance two persons entered the thoroughfare, and he recognized Captain Bodine and Mara. He crossed the street so as not to meet them, and they passed in low, earnest conversation. If Miss Ainsley had been in the furthest star, he would not have cared. Every drop of his Southern blood was fired, and, with clinched hands, he strode homeward, and passed a sleepless night. CHAPTER XIX A CHIVALROUS IMPULSE It must be admitted that Clancy had some cause for his perturbation. Captain Bodine was a middle-aged man, who had had deep, if not wide experiences. He had come to regard himself as saddened and way-worn, halting slowly down the westward slope of life, away from the exaltations of vanished joys, and the almost despairing grief of former sorrows. Memory kept both in sharp outline; nevertheless they were receding, as do hills and mountains which the traveller leaves behind him. The veteran had believed that he had no future besides earning an honest living, and providing for his beloved child. The traveller--to employ again the figure--often journeys forward in what promises to be a monotonous road. He is not expecting anything, nor is he looking forward to any material change. Unawares he surmounts a little eminence, and there opens a vista which kindles his dull eyes with its beauty, and stirs his heavy heart with the suggestion that he has not passed by and beyond all the best things of life. Mara's glance of profound and intelligent sympathy had opened such a vista to Bodine's mental vision. It had been enough then; it had been enough since, in the main, that she was the daughter of his old and dearest friend, and that their thoughts, beliefs and sorrows were in such complete accord. Mara had become his daughter's closest friend, as well as co-laborer, and so he heard of her daily, and saw her very often. All that he saw and heard confirmed and deepened his first impressions. A companionship, wonderfully sweet and cheering, was growing between them. He had not yet begun to analyze this, or to recognize whither it was tending, while not a shadow of suspicion crossed her mind. She only felt that she had found a friend who diverted her thoughts, solaced all her trouble, and made the past, to which she believed she belonged, more real, more full of precious memories. The days in the main were passing quietly and evenly for both, full of work and deeply interesting thoughts, and the delightful reunions around the chair of the genial invalid, Mrs. Bodine, increased in number. The old lady talked and acted as if she had emerged into the warmest sunshine of prosperity, and only Ella could surpass her in blitheness of spirit and comical speeches. They caricatured each other, every one, everything, yet without a particle of malice. Even poor old Mrs. Hunter sometimes had to relax her grim rigidity, and Bodine often laughed with the hearty ring of his old campaigning days. At times Mara was beguiled into the belief that she was happy, that her deep wound was healing. The illusion would last for days together; then something unexpected would occur, and the love of her heart would reveal itself in bitter out-cry against its wrong. If she could only see Clancy in some light which her veritable God-bestowed conscience could condemn, she believed that her struggle would be much easier; but he always confronted her with his earnest, steady eyes, which said, "I have as true a right to think as I do, as you have to think differently. Not even for your sake will I be false." Thus after days of comparative peace, the tempest would again rage in her soul. Buoyant, happy Ella felt now as if she could trip on through life indefinitely; but one summer morning she tripped into a little adventure which brought unwonted expressions of perplexity into her fair face. She was returning along the shady side of the street from her duties, her face like a blush-rose from the heat, when she observed coming toward her a young man who, from his garb and bearing, caught her eyes. Pretty Ella knew she attracted a great deal of attention from the opposite sex when she appeared in the street, and she was not such a demure little saint as to let a fine, manly figure pass without her observation, but her observance was quick, furtive, like the motion of a bird's eye that looks you over before you are aware of the bird's presence. No staring fellow ever met her blue eyes in the street. On the present occasion the little maiden said to herself, "There's a style of a man I haven't seen, and he's evidently a Northerner, too. Well, he's not bad; indeed he is the best-looking Vandal, as Mrs. Hunter would say--Oh, merciful Heaven! that old woman will be run over." Her commentary had been interrupted by an express wagon driven recklessly around the corner. Picking her way slowly across the street was a plain, respectable looking old woman, with a basket of parcels on her arm, and, at the moment of Ella's cry, she was almost under the horse's feet, paralyzed with terror. Her cry caught the young man's attention. With a single bound, he was in the street, his right hand and arm forcing the horse back on its haunches, while with his left he gathered up the old woman. Then by a powerful effort he threw the horse's head and forequarters away from him with such force that the shafts cracked. Bearing the woman to the sidewalk, he placed her upon her feet, then went back, picked up her parcels and placed them in her basket. Without waiting to hear her thanks, he lifted his hat and was turning away as if all had been a trifle, when he was confronted by the enraged expressman pouring forth volleys of vituperation. With a chivalric impulse the girl drew nearer the stranger, who looked the bully steadily in the eyes while he kept his hands in his pockets. The man made a gesture as if to strike. Instantly the young fellow's left arm was up in the most scientific attitude of self-defence. "Don't do that, you fool," he said. "Are you too drunk not to see that I'm strong? Clear out, or I'll have you arrested. If you touch me, I'll knock you under the feet of your horse." There was something in the athlete's bearing, and the way he put up his left arm, which brought the expressman to his senses, and he drew off swearing about the blanked "Northerners, who acted as if they owned the city." George Houghton--for we may as well give his name at once--regarded the fellow contemptuously an instant, and again turned to pursue his way regardless of the gathering crowd. But his attention was at once arrested by a pair of blue eyes which were so eloquent with admiration and approval, that he smiled and again lifted his hat. "You are a gentleman," Ella breathed softly, the words coming with scarcely any volition on her part. A frown instantly darkened Houghton's face, and, with a slight, stiff acknowledgment, he strode away. "Why the deuce shouldn't I be a gentleman!" he muttered. "The very young girls of this town are taught to look upon Northerners as boors. One has only to save an old woman from being run over, face a blackguard, and the wondering expression is wrung from one of the blue-blooded scions, 'You're a gentleman!' And she was blue-blooded. A fellow with half an eye and in half a minute could see that. And I suppose she thought that one of my ilk was no more capable of such a deed than Toots or Uriah Heep. Bah!" Having thus relieved his mind, young Houghton's step soon grew slower and slower. It was evident that a new and different train of thought had begun in his mind. At last, with characteristic force, he communed with himself: "Thin-skinned fool! why didn't I look at the girl instead of thinking of my blasted self and pride! Why, that girl's face will haunt me for many a day, whether I ever see her again or not. I'm as bad as these Bourbons themselves in my prejudice. Now I think of it she stood almost alone at my side when others were keeping at a safer distance, fearing a fight. Her look was one of simple, ingenuous approval--almost the expression of a child, and I acted like a brute. That's the Old Harry with me, I act first and think afterward." A few minutes later he was at the office, and writing rapidly at his father's dictation. After a time Mr. Houghton said, "Take these two letters to Bodine's desk, and tell him to make copies. Then you can go, George. Your vacation is too new for me to take so much of your time." "See here, father," replied the young man, putting his hand on the old gentleman's shoulder. "You've been here all these years working like thunder to make money, and I've been spending it like thunder. If you're going to keep on working, I'm going to work with you; if you'll knock off and go on a lark with me, I'll guarantee that you'll be ten years younger before fall." The old man's face softened wonderfully. Indeed one could scarcely imagine it was capable of such an expression. "Ah, George! you don't, you can't know," he said, "yet my heart is not so dead but that I feel and recognize the spirit in which you speak. My place is here, right here, and I should not be contented anywhere else. But you are just from your studies. You didn't dazzle the faculty by your performances. Perhaps they would say you were a little too much given to boating and that sort of thing. But I am satisfied that you have come home a man, and not a blue-spectacled milk-sop. Help me out a little, and then go off on your lark yourself and recuperate." "Recuperate!" and the young fellow made the office ring with his laugh. "Feel of that muscle, old gentleman. All the recuperation I need I can get a few hours before and after sundown. I'll go now, however, for there's a spanking breeze on the bay, and I'd like to make a run around Fort Sumter." "George, George, be prudent. You know that your brother lies at the bottom of that accursed bay." "There, father, there, he died doing his duty like a man, and you mustn't grieve for him so. Good-by." The old man looked wistfully after him a moment, then turned his mind, like a strong motor power, to the complicated machinery that was coining wealth. George went to Bodine, whom he had never seen before, and of whom he knew nothing, and began in his half-boyish way: "Here, mine ancient, father wants--Beg your pardon. Didn't know that you had lost a leg." "What is it that Mr. Houghton wishes?" said the captain coldly, and turning upon the young man a visage which impressed him instantly. "I beg your pardon again," said George. "My father would like copies made of these letters;" and he touched his hat as he turned away. "Thunder!" he muttered as he left the counting-house. "I was told that I was a gentleman for a little trumpery act in the street. That man tells you he is one by a single glance from his sad, stern eyes. He is another of the blue-bloods, Southerner to the backbone. How is it that he is in the old gentleman's employ, I wonder? I supposed father hated ex-Confederates as the Devil does holy water. Bodine, Bodine. I must find out who he is, for he evidently has a history." He soon forgot all about Bodine in the pleasure of skilfully sailing his boat close to the wind. Ella had pursued her way homeward with bowed head and a confused sense of shame and resentment. "Suppose I did speak to him, a stranger," she murmured, "was he so dull, or so cold and utterly conventional as to make no allowance for the circumstances? No matter, I've had a lesson that I shall never forget. Hereafter he and his kind may save all the old women in Charleston, and fight all the bullies, and I won't even look at them. If he had had the brains and blood of a frog even, he would have understood me. And he did seem to understand at first, for he smiled pleasantly and lifted his hat. Does he consider it an insult to be told he is a gentleman? Perhaps he thought this fact should be too apparent to be mentioned, or else he thought it bold and unmaidenly to open my lips at all. A plague on him for not being able to see the simple truth. No Southerner would have been so stupid, or ready to think evil." Thus she communed with herself till she reached her own room. After a little thought, she decided not to speak of the adventure. She had an unusual share of common-sense, and knew that the affair would only give pain to her father and cousin, and that its relation would serve no earthly good to any one. CHAPTER XX THE STRANGER EXPLAINS There are those who touch our life closely, and become essentially a part of it; there are many more who are but casual and passing acquaintances, and yet these very people often unconsciously become the most important factors in our destiny. Ella Bodine was soon to prove this truth. It will of course be understood that her life was not so secluded and restricted that she practically had no acquaintances beyond the characters of our story. Sensible Mrs. Bodine had no intention that her pretty cousin should be hidden behind the prejudices so powerful in those with whom she was immediately associated. "Cousin Hugh," she said, one day soon after Ella's encounter with Houghton, "how was it with you when you were a young fellow? how was it with me when I was a girl? Do you suppose your daughter is made of different flesh and blood? She is so unselfish in nature and sunny in temperament that you will never learn from her that she has longings for society of her own age. We have no right to keep her among our shadows. We belong to the past; she has a future, and should have the chance which is the right of every young girl. You must not judge her by Mara, who stands by herself, and is not a representative of any ordinary type. She is as old as you are, and a great deal older than I am. She has grown up among shadows and loves them. Ella loves the sunshine, and should have all of it that we can give her. Now, you must let her go out more. I will choose her chaperons, and I reckon I know whom to choose. If I do say it, I would like you to mention any one in Charleston more competent. I know about the fathers and mothers, the grandfathers and grandmothers, and the remote ancestors of every one in Charleston who _is_ any one." "Cousin Sophy, I believe you are right. I have permitted Ella to be too devoted to me, but we have lived such a precarious life of late--indeed it has been the vital question how we were to live at all. We are now very differently situated. Yes, you are right. Ella should see something of society, and enjoy some of its pleasures, and, as you say, should have her chance." At these final words he sighed deeply. "I know what that sigh means," resumed the old lady. "You would wish to keep Ella to yourself always--the natural impulse of a father's heart. Yet if you allow this impulse to control you, it will become selfishness of the worst kind. I say again that every girl should have her chance to see and be seen, and to make the most and best of her life according to woman's natural destiny. You may trust me, as I have said, to choose those who shall have the care of Ella when she goes out. She has an invitation to a little company at Mrs. Willoughby's, and a most discreet friend has offered to chaperon her. We'll fix her out so that she will appear as well as any one, and you know our claims don't rest on expensiveness of dress. Mrs. Willoughby comes of one of the oldest and best families in the State. I know she is liberal, and affiliates with Northern people more than I could wish, but they are all said to be of the best class--and I suppose there is a best class among 'em. Good Lor', Hugh! we may feel and think as we please, and can never change, but we can't keep back the rising tide. If there are a few Northern people present Ella won't be contaminated any more than you are by working among Northern people. We have our strong prejudices--that's what they are called--but we must not let them make us ridiculous. Mrs. Willoughby says she's emancipated, and that she'd have whom she pleased in her parlors. She has been abroad so much, you know. Well, well, we'll consider it settled." And so it was. When Ella was informed of her cousin's plan in her behalf she was half wild with delight. "I may consider myself a debutante," she said. "Oh, Cousin Sophy! how shall I behave?" "Behave just as a bird flies," said the wise old lady. "If you put on any airs, if you are not your own natural self, I'll shake you when you come home." The captain saw his child's pleasure, and felt anew the truth of his cousin's words. Ella should be immured no longer. Mara had been invited also, but declined, preferring to spend the evening with Mrs. Bodine. Mrs. Willoughby's company was not large, and had been selected from various motives. We need mention but one that had influenced her. Miss Ainsley had requested that George Houghton should be invited. Her father and Mr. Houghton had large business interests in common, and at Mr. Ainsley's request the young man had called upon his daughter. She was pleased with him, although she felt herself to be immeasurably older than he. Mrs. Willoughby had also been favorably impressed by his fine appearance and slightly brusque manner. "Yes," said the astute Miss Ainsley, as they were talking him over after his departure, "he's a big, handsome, finely educated boy, who would walk through your Southern conventionalities as if they were cobwebs, had he a chance." "Delightful!" cried Mrs. Willoughby. "If I can keep my drawing-room free from insipidity, I am content. As to his walking through our conventionalities, as you term them, let him try it. If he doesn't butt his head against some rather solid walls, I'm mistaken. You don't half know what a bold thing I am doing when I invite old Houghton's son; but then it is just this kind of social temerity that enchants me, and he shall come. I only hope that some good people won't rise up and shake off the dust of their feet." "Don't worry; you're a privileged character. Mr. Clancy has told me all about it. He admires you immensely because you are so untrammelled." "He admires you a hundred-fold more. What are you going to do with him?" "I don't know. I couldn't do anything with him yet. That's his charm. If I didn't know better, I should say he was the coldest--he is not cold at all. The woman who reaches his heart will find a lot of molten lava. I'm often inclined to think it has been reached by some one else, and that his remarkable poise results from a nature fore-armed, or else chilled by a former experience. At any rate, there is a fire smouldering in his nature, and when it breaks out it won't be of the smoky, lurid sort that has so often made me ill. There will be light and heat in plenty." "Well, you're an odd girl, Caroline. You experiment with men's hearts like an old alchemist, who puts all sorts of substances into his crucible in the hope of finding something that will enrich him." "And probably, like the old alchemist, I shall never find anything except what, to me, is dross." Under Mrs. Robertson's wing Ella appeared, and met with a very kindly reception. She had not Miss Ainsley's admirable ease, but she possessed something far better. There was a sweet girlish bloom in addition to her innately refined manner and ingenuous loveliness of face, which made even the experienced belle sigh that she had passed by that phase forever. Yet shrewd Ella's eyes were as busy as they were intelligent. She wondered at Miss Ainsley with mingled admiration and distrust, but she had received a sufficient number of hints from Mrs. Bodine to understand her hostess quite well. She saw Clancy enter, and Miss Ainsley's welcome, and quickly observed that there was a sort of free-masonry between them. Then some one appeared who almost took away her breath. It was the stranger to whom she had spoken so unexpectedly, even to herself. She saw that Mr. Clancy, Miss Ainsley, and Mrs. Willoughby greeted him cordially, but that many others appeared surprised and displeased. Little time was given to note more, for the stranger's eyes fell upon her. He instantly turned to his hostess, and evidently asked for an introduction. With a slight sparkle of mischief in her eyes, Mrs. Willoughby complied, and Ella saw the stranger coming toward her as straight and prompt as if he meant to carry her off bodily. He seemed to ignore every one and everything else in the room, but she was too high-spirited to fall into a panic, or even to be confused. Indeed she found herself growing angry, and was resolving to give him a lesson, when his name was mentioned. Then she was startled, and for an instant confused. This was no other than the son of "that old--Mr. Houghton," as Mrs. Bodine always mentioned him, with a little cough of self-recovery as if she had been on the perilous edge of saying something very unconventional. His father was her father's employer, and the instinctive desire to save her father from trouble led to hesitation in her plan of rebuke and retaliation. Her petty resentment should not lead to any unpleasant complications, and she therefore merely bowed civilly. Houghton repeated her name as if a victim of momentary surprise himself, and then said with his direct gaze, "I wish to ask ten thousand pardons." "That is a great many. I shall have to think about granting one." "If I were you I wouldn't do it," was his next rather brusque remark. "That is your advice, then?" "No, indeed. I'm not my own worst enemy. Miss Bodine, circumlocution is not my forte. I had not walked a block away from you the other day before I charged myself with being a fool and a brute. It took just that long for me to get it into my thick head what your manner and words meant, and I've been in a rage with myself ever since." "Well," she asked, looking down demurely, "what did they mean?" "They meant you were a brave girl--that from a chivalric impulse you had drawn near when even men stood a little aloof, as if fearing that if the affair came to blows, they might get a chance one themselves. Your face had the frank expression of a child--how often in fancy I've seen it since!--the words came from your lips almost as a child would speak them. Now that I see you again I know how true my second thoughts were of you and of myself. I deserve a whipping instead of your pardon." There was a point yet to be cleared up in Ella's mind, and she remarked coldly, "I do not see how you could have had any other thoughts than what you term your second thoughts." "Nor do I, now; and I suppose you can have no mercy on a poor fellow who is often hasty and wrong-headed. I will make a clean breast of it. I was charmed with your expression when first aware of your presence, but when you spoke you touched a sore spot. Miss Bodine, you would not be ostracized at the North. You would be treated with the courtesy and cordiality to which every one would see you to be entitled. Practically I am ostracized here by the class to which you belong. When you spoke I stalked away like a sulky boy, muttering, 'Why shouldn't I be a gentleman?' Even the girls in this town are taught to look upon Northerners as boors. I had only to pick up an old woman, and face a bully, when, as if in utter surprise that one of my ilk should be so grandly heroic, I heard the words, 'You are a gentleman.' You see it was my wretched egotism that got me into the scrape. When I thought of you, not myself, I saw the truth at once, and felt like going back to the expressman and meekly asking him to give me a drubbing." All was clear to Ella now. Indeed there was a frankness and sincerity about Houghton which left no suspicion of dark corners and mental reservations. As his explanation proceeded she began to laugh. "Well," she remarked, "I had my first thoughts too. I said to myself, as I pursued my way homeward, with burning cheeks, that you or any one else might save all the old women in town, and fight all the bullies, and that I would pass on my way without looking to the right or left." "Pardon me, Miss Bodine, you are mistaken. Your generous spirit would get the better of you again in two seconds. Heaven grant, however, that next time you may have a gentleman as your ally. For a few moments I ceased to be one, and became an egotistical fool." "You are too hard upon yourself. Since you interpret me so kindly it would ill become me to--" "Ella, my dear," said her chaperon, "let me present to you Mr. Vandeveer." Houghton gave her a bright, grateful glance, rose instantly, and bowed himself away. Mrs. Robertson had been on pins and needles over this prolonged conference. There was something so resolute about Houghton's manner, and he had placed his chair so adroitly to bar approach to Ella, that the good lady was in sore straits. Mrs. Willoughby saw her perplexity, and felt not a little mischievous pleasure over it. She disappeared that she might not be called upon to interfere. At last in desperation Mrs. Robertson laid hold on Mr. Vandeveer, and ended the ominous interview. Ella gave rather lame attention to her new companion's commonplaces; then others were introduced, and the evening was drifting away in the ordinary fashion. She soon began to talk well in her own bright way, and had all the attention a young debutante could desire, but she was always conscious of Houghton's presence, and also aware that he was quietly observant of her. She saw that he met with very little cordiality, and that from but a few. Womanlike, she began to take his part in her thoughts, and to feel the injustice shown him. She had an innate sense of fair play, and she resented the manoeuvring of her chaperon to keep him away from her. Yet she soon found herself enjoying abundantly the conversation of such young men as met with Mrs. Robertson's approval. This truth was apparent to that lady's satisfaction, but the independent young woman was not long in resolving that if she went into society she would not go as a child in leading-strings, and she determined that she would speak to Houghton again before the evening was over, if the opportunity offered. He had at last disappeared, but she soon discovered that he was on the balcony with Clancy and Miss Ainsley. Strolling past them with her escort, she heard enough of their bright, merry talk to wish that she had a part in it. It was her nature, however, to avoid him until she could speak under the eye of her chaperon, and she again entered the lighted drawing-room. Houghton, meanwhile, had been doing some thinking himself. The girl, whose blue eyes had looked at him so approvingly in the street, was taking a stronger hold on his fancy every moment. The relaxation of her cold aspect into mirthfulness, and an approach to kindness had enchanted him; while her ardent, honest, fearless nature appealed to him powerfully. "She strikes me as a woman who would stand by a fellow through thick and thin as long as he was right," he thought, "and if my judgment is correct the whole ex-Confederate army shan't keep me from getting acquainted with her. Ah! how I liked that severe look in her eyes till she knew what my first thoughts were! She _has_ blue blood of the right sort, and I'm sorely mistaken if it doesn't feed a brain that can think for itself." He also returned to the drawing-room, and was vigilant for an opportunity. It soon occurred. Ella and her attendant were chatting with Mrs. Willoughby a little apart from the others. Houghton joined them instantly, and was encouraged when both the ladies greeted him with a smile. The attendant gentleman soon withdrew, the hostess remained a few moments longer, and then Houghton and Ella were alone. "You may have observed," he said, "the penalty I pay for being a Northerner." "Yes," she replied, "and I don't think it's fair." "Miss Bodine, do you dare _think_ for yourself?" "I scarcely know how I can help doing so." "That is just what I was thinking out on the balcony." "I thought you were charmed by that beautiful Miss Ainsley." "She has no eyes except for Clancy, and a fine fellow he is too--too good for her, I imagine. I can't make her out." "Neither can I." "Oh, bother her! I don't like feminine riddles. Miss Bodine, there's a gentleman in my father's employ bearing your name. Is he a relative?" "He is my father," she replied proudly. "I should guess as much if your eyes were not so blue." "I have my mother's eyes, I am told." "Well, on that same day--you know--he told me that he was a gentleman: can you guess how?" "I would rather you should tell me." "I was sent to him by my father with a message, and I spoke rudely to him at first; not intentionally, but as a harum-scarum young fellow might speak to an elderly man under ordinary circumstances, I meaning nothing more than friendly familiarity. I fear you won't understand, but with you I can't help downright honesty." "Yes, I understand. He was one of your father's clerks, and you cared little what you said to him." "Scarcely right, Miss Bodine. With all my faults--and they are legion--I'm good-natured, and do not intentionally hurt people's feelings. What a fine proof of that I gave you in my insufferable stupidity!" "That's been explained and is past. Please don't refer to it any more." "Heaven knows I wish to forget it. Well, your father turned to me from his writing. One look was enough. I begged his pardon twice on the spot. That is the way he told me he was a gentleman. It had been so born and bred into him that, unless a fellow was an idiot, one glance told the story." Her face softened wonderfully as he spoke, and her eyes grew lustrous with feeling, as she said: "You are not an idiot, Mr. Houghton. I am glad you so quickly appreciated my father. He is more than a gentleman, he is a hero, and I idolize him." "I should fancy it was a mutual idolatry," and his eyes expressed an admiration of which the dullest girl would have been conscious, and Ella was not dull at all. "I wish we could become acquainted," he added abruptly, and with such hearty emphasis that her color deepened. Before she could reply, her chaperon managed to separate them again, and she saw him no more until, rather early in the evening, she was bidding her hostess goodnight. Then she encountered such an eager, questioning, friendly look, that she smiled involuntarily, and slightly bowed as she turned away. Mrs. Robertson was so preoccupied at the moment that she did not witness this brief, subtile exchange of--what? Ella did not know, herself, but her heart was wonderfully light, and there was a delicious sense of exhilaration in all her veins. As they were driving home, Mrs. Robertson began sententiously, "Ella, in the main you behaved admirably. I don't suppose anything better could be expected of one so unversed in society, especially Charleston society. You were natural and refined in your deportment, and bore yourself as became your ancestry. You will soon learn to make discriminations. I had no idea that young Houghton would be present, or I would have told you about him and his father. Mrs. Willoughby is carrying things too far, even if many of our people have consented to wink at much that we disapprove of. Houghton represents the most detested Northern element among us. Of course you, in your inexperience, felt that you must be polite to every man introduced to you, and he talked with the volubility of which only a Yankee is capable. It is scarcely possible that you will meet him anywhere except at Mrs. Willoughby's, and if you go there any more you must learn the art of shaking off an objectionable person speedily. Your meeting Houghton to-night was purely accidental, and I reckon that after you have been out a few times you will learn to choose your associates from those only of whom your father and cousin would approve. Perhaps therefore you had better not say anything about your meeting Houghton, unless you feel that you ought. No harm has been done, and it would only displease your father, and render him adverse to your going out hereafter." The good lady was a little worried by the fear that her reputation as a chaperon would be damaged, and, sincerely believing that "no harm had been done," and that her homily would remove all danger from the future, she counselled as she thought wisely. Her heart was full of goodwill toward the girl, and she was desirous that nothing should prevent her from enjoying society in her interpretation of the word. Ella thanked her warmly for her kindness and advice, but she was in deep perplexity, for she had never concealed anything from her father before. Her lightness of heart was already gone, and there were tears in her eyes before she slept. CHAPTER XXI UNCLE SHEBA SAT UPON Old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," may have been right in saying that Uncle Sheba had backslidden as far as he could slide, remembering the limitations of a life like his, but circumstances had recently occurred which brought his church relations to a crisis. Tobe was the opposite pole in character to Uncle Sheba. There was an energy about the old caterer which defied age and summer heat. Even his white wool always seemed bristling aggressively and controversially. His fiery spirit influenced his commonest acts. When he boiled potatoes his customers were wont to say "he made 'em bile like de debil." He carried his energy into his religion, one of his favorite exhortations in the prayer-meeting being, "Ef you sinners wants to'scape you'se got to git up an' git." During the preaching service he took a high seat in the synagogue, and if any one in the range of his vision appeared drowsy he would turn round and glare till the offender roused into consciousness. The children and young people stood in awe of him, and there was a perfect oasis of good behavior surrounding his pew. Once some irreverent young men thought it would be a joke to pretend to "conviction ob sin," and to seek religious counsel of old Tobe, but they came away scared half out of their wits, one of them declaring that he smelt brimstone a week afterward. The Rev. Mr. Birdsall felt that he had a strong ally in Tobe, but he often sighed over the old man's want of discretion. Uncle Sheba was Tobe's _bete noir_, and he often inwardly raged over "dat lazy niggah." "De time am comin' w'en dat backslider got to be sot on," he would mutter, and this seemed his one consolation. He could scarcely possess his soul in patience in the hope of this day of retribution; "but I kin hole in till it come, fer it's gwine to come shuah," he occasionally said to some congenial spirits. Tobe had a very respectable following in the church both as to numbers and character, for many looked upon his zeal as heaven-inspired. At last there came a hot Sunday afternoon which brought his hour and opportunity. Mr. Birdsall was not only expounding, but also pounding the pulpit cushion in order to waken some attention in his audience. Old Tobe had been whirling from one side to the other, and glaring hither and thither, till in desperation he got up and began to nudge and pinch the delinquents. From one of the back pews, however, there soon arose a sound which so increased as to drown even Mr. Birdsall's stentorian voice. Tobe tiptoed to the spot, and, in wrath that he deemed righteous, blended with not a little exultation, looked upon Uncle Sheba. His head had fallen on his bosom, and from his nose were proceeding sounds which would put to shame a high-pressure engine. Aun' Sheba was shaking him on one side and Kern Watson on the other. Audible snickering was general, but this soon gave way to alarm as Aun' Sheba exclaimed aloud, "He's dun gwine an' got de popoplexy shuah." "Carry him out," said old Tobe, in a whisper which might have been heard in the street. Two or three men sprang forward to aid, but Kern sternly motioned them back, and, lifting Uncle Sheba's portly form as if it were a child, carried the unconscious man to the vestibule. Scores were about to follow, but Tobe, with his wool bristling as never seen before, held up his hand impressively, and in the same loud whisper heard by all, remarked, "It doan took de hull cong'ration to wait on one po' sinner. Sabe yo'selves, brud'ren an' sisters. Sabe yo'selves, fer de time am a comin' w'en you'se all will be toted out dis yere temple ob de Lawd foot fo'most." With this grewsome recollection forced upon their attention the people sat down again, wide awake at last. Tobe beckoned to three or four elderly men whom he knew he could rely upon, and they gathered around Uncle Sheba. His wife was slapping him on the back and chafing his hands, while Kern was splashing water in his face. The unfortunate man began to sneeze, and manifest rather convulsive signs of recovery. At last he blurted out, "Dar now, dar now, Aun' Sheba, doan go on so. I'se gwine to bring in de kinlins right smart." "Bress de Lawd!" exclaimed Aun' Sheba, "dat soun' nat'rel. No popoplexy in dat ar kin' ob talk." Tobe and his allies exchanged significant glances. Uncle Sheba was brought to his senses sufficiently to be supported home by his wife and son-in-law. He soon became aware that he had committed an awful indiscretion, for Watson looked stern, and there was a portentous solemnity in Aun' Sheba's expression. He began to enter on excuses. "I was jis' come ober by de heat," he said. "'Tween de heat an' de po'ful sarmon, I was jis' dat 'pressed dat de sperit went out ob me." "Mr. Buggone," replied his wife, severely, "it was wat went inter you, an' not wat wen' out ob you, dat made de trouble. You jes' gormidized at dinnah. I'se gwine to cut off you'se 'lowance one-half." At this dire threat Uncle Sheba groaned aloud, feeling that his sin had overtaken him swiftly indeed. His supper was meagre, and to his plaintive remarks Aun' Sheba made no reply, but maintained an ominous silence until sleep again brought the relief of oblivion. After Uncle Sheba's departure, Tobe and the other pillars of the church held a whispered conference in the vestibule, and soon agreed up their course. When the services were over, they, with other sympathizers, waited upon the minister. Mr. Birdsall was hot, tired, and incensed himself, and so was in a mood to listen to their representations. "Hit's time dis yere scan'el was r'moved," said Tobe, solemnly. "We mus'purge ourselves. Mr. Buggone should be sot on, an' 'spended at de berry leas'; an' ter make de right 'pression on oders dat's gettin' weak in dere speritool jints, I move we sot on Mr. Buggone's case to-morrer ebenin'." Mr. Birdsall was made to feel that it was his duty to accede, but he already felt sorry for Aun' Sheba and the Watsons, and had misgivings as to the result. "Well," said he at last, "I'll agree to a prelim'nary conf'rence to-morrow evenin' at Mr. Buggone's house. Brud-'ren, we must proceed in de spirit ob lub an' charity, an' do our best to pluck a bran' from de burnin'." In the morning he went around to prepare Aun' Sheba for the ordeal, but she and Vilet had gone out upon their mercantile pursuits, and Uncle Sheba also had disappeared. To Sissy the direful intelligence was communicated. In spite of all Mr. Birdsall's efforts to console, she was left sobbing and rocking back and forth in her chair. When Kern came home, he heard the news with a rigid face. "Well," he said, "ef it's right, it's right. Ef I'd done wrong I'd stan' up an' face wot come ob it." Uncle Sheba knew when his wife would return, and was ready to receive her in the meekest of moods. He had cut an unusual quantity of wood and kindlings, but they failed to propitiate. Sissy soon called her mother to come over to her cabin to hear of Mr. Birdsall's visit, and all that it portended. Aun' Sheba listened in silence, and sat for a long time in deep thought, while Sissy and Vilet sobbed quietly. At last the old woman said firmly, "Sissy, I wants you and Kern ter be on han'. Vilet kin take keer ob do chillun. Dis am gwine ter be a solemn 'casion, an' de Lawd on'y knows wot's gwine ter come out ob it. Anyhow dis fam'ly mus' stan' by one noder. My mind ain't clar jes yit, but'll git clar wen de'mergency comes; I jes' feel it in my bones it'll git clar den." There was such an awful solemnity in her aspect when she returned, that Uncle Sheba was actually scared. It seemed to him that her manner could not be more depressing if she were making preparations for his funeral. His trepidation was increased when he was told briefly and sternly to put on his "Sunday-go-to-meetin's." "Wotfer, Aun' Sheba?" "You'se know soon 'nuff. De Elder's gwine to call on you dis ebenin'. Ef you'd had de popoplexy in arnest, we'd make great 'lowance fer you, but wen you eat an' drink till you mos' ready to bust, and den'sturb de hull meetin' by snortin' like a 'potamus, dar's got to be trouble, an' I'se got to meet it." Uncle Sheba did as he was directed, with the feeling that the judgment day had come. Meanwhile old Tobe had prepared his indictment, and marshalled his forces for the occasion. At seven in the evening he led them to the nearest corner, and waited for Mr. Birdsall, who soon appeared. Led by him, they entered Aun' Sheba's living-room in solemn procession. Although the evening was warm, there was a fire on the hearth, for she had said, "Dere's gwine ter be notin' wantin' to de 'casion." All the chairs had been brought in from Watson's cabin, and he and Sissy sat in the background. Uncle Sheba had been placed on the further side of the hearth, and was fairly trembling with apprehension. He tried to assume a pious, penitent air, but failed miserably. Aun' Sheba made an imposing spectacle. She had arrayed herself in her Sunday gown and had wound a flaming turban about her head. Apparently she was the most collected person present, except Kern Watson who sat back in shadow, his face quiet and stern. As the minister and committee entered she rose with dignity and said, "Elder an' brud'ren, take cheers." Then she sat down again, folded her hands and gazed intently at the ceiling. If old Tobe was not cool, as indeed he never was, he was undaunted, and only waited for the minister to prepare the way before he opened on Uncle Sheba. A few moments of oppressive silence occurred, daring which the culprit shook as if he had an ague, but Aun' Sheba did not even wink. Mr. Birdsall, regarding her portentous aspect with increased misgiving, began at last in a mournful voice, "Mis Buggone, dis is a very sorrowful 'casion. We are here not as you'se enemies but as you'se fren's. Our duty is painful, 'stremely so, but de brud'ren feel dat de time is come wen Mr. Buggone mus' be made to see de error ob his ways, dat dere mus' be no mo' precrastination. De honah ob de church is japerdized. Neber-de-less he is a free-agent. De lamp still holes out to burn--" "An' de wilest sinner can return," interrupted Aun' Sheba, nodding her head repeatedly. "I unerstan'. You means well, Elder." Old Tobe could hold in no longer, and began excitedly, "De question am weder de wile sinner's gwine ter return, or wants ter return, or's got any return in 'im. Elder, I feels fer Mis Buggone an' her family, but dis yere ting's gwine on long anuff. We'se been forbearin' an' long-sufferin' till dere's a scan'el in de church. I'se tried wid all my might 'er keep de people awake an' listenin', and I'se gettin' dun beat out. Ef we wink at dis awful 'zample you mought as well go to de grabeyard an' preach. It ud be mo' comfable fer you, kase dey'd hear jus' as well, an' dey wouldn't 'sturbe de'scorse by snorin' de roof off. Now I ask de sense ob dis meetin'. Wen a member backslide so he do notin' but eat an' sleep, oughtener he be sot on?" There was audible approval from all of Tobe's followers, and he was encouraged to go on. "Ef Mr. Buggone mus' sleep mos' ob de time let him sleep peac' ble in his own house, but de Scripter say, 'Wake dem dat sleepest,' an' we say it's time Mr. Buggone woke up. Any cullud pusson dat kin snore so po'ful as Mr. Buggone needn't say he weakly an' po'ly. Hafe de poah he put in his snore ud lif' 'im right along in all good works, week days an' Sundays. But I'se los' faith in 'im. He's been 'spostulated an' 'monstrated with, an' 'zorted so often dat he's hardened an' his conscience zeered wid a hot iron. We'se jes' got to take sich sinners in han', or de paster-lot won't hole de flock no mo'. I move we take steps to s'pend Mr. Buggone." "Secon' dat motion," said one of his followers promptly. "Mr. an' Mis Buggone, have you nothin' to say?" asked Mr. Birdsall sadly. "Elder," began Uncle Sheba in his most plaintive tone, "you know de heat yistidy was po'ful--" "Mr. Buggone," interrupted his wife severely, "dis ain't no 'casion fer beatin' round de bush an' creepin troo knotholes. You knows de truf an' I knows de truf. No, Elder, we'se got not'in ter say at jes' dis time." "Den, Elder, you put de motion dat we take steps," said Tobe, promptly. With evident reluctance Mr. Birdsall did so, and the affirmative was unanimously voted by the committee. "I wants ter be s'pended too," said Aun' Sheba, still gazing at the ceiling. "Now, Mis Buggone, dere would be no right nor reason in dat," the minister protested. "Elder, I doesn't say you-uns ain't all right, an' I does say you means well, but I'se de bes' jedge of my inard speritool frame. Hit was neber jes' clar in my mind dat I was 'ligious, an' now I know I ain't 'ligious, an' I wants ter be s'pended." "But it is clar in my mind dat you are religious, dat you'se a good woman. Would to de good Lawd dat de church was full ob Christians like you!" "I'se spoke my min'," persisted Aun' Sheba, doggedly. "Ole Tobe shall hab his way an' de church be purged." "Elder," said Tobe, now quite carried away by zeal and exultation, "p'raps Mis Buggoue am de bes' jedge. Ef she feel she ain't one ob de aninted ones--" "Peace!" commanded Mr. Birdsall, "never with my consent shall any steps be taken to suspend Mis Buggone. You forgits, Tobe, how easy it is to pull up de wheat wid de tares." "Den I s'pend myself," said Aun' Sheba, "an' I _is_ s'pended. Now I gwine ter 'fess de truf. I gave Mr. Buggone an extra Sunday dinner yistidy. I was puff up wid pride kase business was good, an' I bress de Lawd fer prosperin' me. Den like a fool I 'dulge myself and I 'dulge Mr. Buggone. Ef he's ter be s'pended fer a snorin' sleep, I oughter be s'pended fer a dozin' sleep, fer I _was_ a-dozin'; an' I feels it in my bones dat we bofe oughter be s'pended, an' I _is_, no matter wot you does wid Mr. Buggone. Now, Tobe, you hab had you'se say, an' I'se a-gwine to hab mine. You'se got a heap ob zeal. You wouldn't lead de flock; you'd dribe 'em, you'd chase 'em, you'd worry de bery wool off ob dem. Whar you git you sperit fum? You ain't willin' ter wait till de jedgment day; you'd hab a jedgment ebery day in de week. You'se like dem 'siples dat was allers wantin' ter call down fiah from Heben. Look out you don't get scorched yo'self. I can't be 'ligious long o' you, an' if you got 'ligion I habn't. Elder, you says de Lawd libed yere on dis yarth. I ony wish I'd libed in dem days. I'd a cooked, an' washed, an' ironed, an' baked fer Him an' all de 'siples. Den like anuff He'd say: 'Ole Aun' Sheba, you means well. I won't be hard on you nor none of you'se folks when de jedgment day comes.' But so much happen since dat ar time wen He was yere dat I kinder got mixed up. I reckon I jes' be s'pended, an' let Him put de ole woman whar she belong wen de time comes." There was pathos in her tones; her stoicism had passed away, and tears were streaming from her eyes, while Sissy was sobbing audibly. The committee at first had been aghast at the result of the meeting, and now their emotional natures were being excited also. Old Tobe was disconcerted, and still more so when Aun' Sheba suddenly rallied, and, turning upon him, said with ominous nods, "Wen dat day come, Old Tobe, you won't be de jedge." Thus far Kern Watson had sat silent as a statue, but now his strong feelings and religious instincts gained the mastery. Lifting up his powerful mellow voice he sang: "The people was a-gatherin' from far and neah; Some come fer fishes an' some ter heah; But He fed dem all, an' He look so kin' Dat dey followed, dey followed, an' none stay behin' "But one got loss, an' he wandered far, De night come dark, no moon, no star; De lions roared an' de storm rose high, An' de po' loss one lie down ter die. "Den come a voice, an' de win's went down, An' de lions grovel on de groun', An' de po' loss one am foun' an' sabed, For de Shepherd ebery danger brabed." These words, as sung by Kern, routed old Tobe completely; he hung his head and had not a word to say. The committee had beaten time with their feet, and began to clap their hands softly. Then Mr. Birdsall, with kindly energy, exhorted Uncle Sheba, who groaned aloud and said "Amen" as if in the depths of penitence. A long prayer followed which even moved old Tobe, for Aun' Sheba had shaken his self-confidence terribly. The little company broke up with hand-shaking all around, Tobe saying: "Sister Buggone, I bears no ill-will. I'se gwine ter look inter my speritool frame, an' ef I cotch de debil playin' hob wid me he's gwine to be put out, hoof an' horns." Aun' Sheba wrung her son-in-law's hand, as she said: "You'se singin', Kern, kinder went to de right spot. Neber-de-less I'se s'pended till I feels mo' shuah." Sissy kissed her mother and father affectionately, and then the old couple were left alone. Aun' Sheba gazed thoughtfully into the dying fire, but before long Uncle Sheba began to hitch uneasily in his chair. Finally he mustered up courage to say: "Aun' Sheba, dis am been bery po'ful 'casion, bery tryin' to my narbes an' feelin's. Yet I feels kinder good an' hopeful in my inards. Ef I wasn't jes' so dun beat out I'd feel mo' good. P'raps now, 'siderin' all I'se pass troo, you wouldn't min' gibin' me a bit ob dat cole ham an' hoe-cake--" "Mr. Buggone," began Aun' Sheba sternly, then she suddenly paused, threw her apron over her head and rocked back and forth. "Dar now, Aun' Sheba, dar now, doan go on so. I was ony a sigestin' kase I feels po'ly, but I kin stan' it." "I'se no better dan old Tobe hisself," groaned Aun' Sheba. "All on us is hard on some one, while a hopin' fer marcy ourselves. Ef you'se hebin is in de cubud, go in dar an' hep a sef." And she rose and opened the door of the treasure-house. "I'se jes' take a leetle bite, Aun' Sheba, jes a leetle comf'tin bite, kase I'se been so sot on dat I feels bery weakly an' gone-like." Uncle Sheba was soon comforted and sleeping, but Aun' Sheba still sat by the hearth until the last glowing embers turned to ashes. "Yes," she muttered at last, "I'se s'pended till I feels mo' shuah." CHAPTER XXII YOUNG HOUGHTON IS DISCUSSED Sleep and buoyancy of temperament enabled Ella to see everything in a very different light the following morning. "The idea of my taking what happened last night so seriously!" she said aloud while making her toilet. "As Mrs. Robertson said, 'no harm has been done.' Of course I shall tell papa and Cousin Sophy that I met and talked to Mr. Houghton. What if I did? He was introduced to me just as the others were, and what do I care for him? He was a very agreeable Vandal, and I'm glad to have had a chance to see what Vandals are like. As with other bugaboos they lose their terrors under close inspection." At breakfast, therefore, she was merrier than usual, and gave a graphic and humorous account of the company, expatiating on the beauty and mystery of Miss Ainsley, her preference for Clancy, and his apparent devotion to her. "By the way," she said at last, "who do you think was there? You can't guess, so I will tell you--young Mr. Houghton." "What! the son of that old-beg pardon, Cousin Hugh," and Mrs. Bodine laughingly added, "It nearly slipped out that time." "I hope he was not presented to you, Ella," said her father gravely. "Well, he was, and by Mrs. Willoughby. I didn't talk with him very much, but of course I had to be polite. When I first heard his name I felt that I should be polite for your sake; and I was rather sorry for him, too, because so many evidently frowned on his presence." "You need not be polite to him again for my sake," said her father decidedly. "I am under no obligations to him or his father, and this is a case into which policy cannot enter. I do not blame you, however," he added, more kindly, "for you acted from good impulses. Of course, as you say, you must be polite to every one, but you have a perfect right to be cold toward those who are unfriendly to us, and with whom we can never have any part or lot. I have been in Mr. Houghton's employ long enough to be convinced more fully, if possible, that, while he is an honest man, he has not a particle of sympathy with or for our people. I told him from the start that there could be no social relations between us. You must learn to avoid and shake off people who are objectionable." "Well," said Ella, laughing, "I won't have to shake off people while under Mrs. Robertson's wing. She bore down upon us, as Cousin Sophy would say, like a seventy-four of the line. Dear papa, you know that Mr. Houghton is nothing to me, but it scarcely seems fair that he should be punished for the sins of his father." "You need not punish him, my dear. Simply have nothing to do with him. He is the last person in the world to be regarded as an object of sympathy," and her father spoke a little irritably. Ella thought it wise to make no further reference to him. "After all," she thought, "what does it matter? I'm glad he had a chance to explain that disagreeable episode in the street, and now I am practically done with him. I can at least be civil, should we ever meet again, and there it will end." "Mrs. Willoughby is going too far," said Mrs. Bodine, musingly. "If she continues to invite such people she may find that other invitations will be declined without regrets. We haven't much left to us, but we can at least choose our associates." "Don't be alarmed," said Ella lightly. "I did not invite him to spend this evening with us," and kissing her father and cousin good-by, she started for Mara's home. Her thoughts were busy on the way, and they were chiefly of a self-gratulatory character. The whole episode now amused her greatly, for she could not help agreeing with her father that the great, strapping fellow was not an object of sympathy. "He probably has a score of flames at the North," she thought, "and wouldn't mind adding a little Southern girl to the number, especially as she is a sort of forbidden fruit to him. Well, he's not a bad fellow, if he is that old blank's son, as Cousin Sophy always suggests. Nevertheless, I don't think he's treated fairly, and I can't keep up these old bitter feelings. What had he or I to do with the war, I'd like to know? Well, well, I suppose it's natural for those who went through it to feel as they do, but I wish Mara wasn't so bound up in the past. It isn't fair to him," she broke out again. "He said I wouldn't be ostracized at the North. Bother! it don't matter what he said. As to our getting acquainted--" And she almost laughed outright at the preposterous idea. She and Mara were soon busy as usual, and as opportunity offered, she told her fellow-worker of the events of the evening. Mara, with a languid interest, inquired about those whom she knew, and how they appeared, and she sometimes laughed aloud at Ella's droll descriptions. She was even more emphatic in her disapproval of young Houghton's presence than the captain or Mrs. Bodine had been. "I shall never accept any invitation from Mrs. Willoughby after this," she said firmly. "Well now, Mara," replied Ella, with a little toss of her head, "I can't share in that spirit. Mr. Houghton is a gentleman, and I could meet him in society, chat with him, and let it end there. We can't keep this thing up forever, that is, we of the younger generations. Why should I hate that big, good-natured fellow? The very idea seems ridiculous. I could laugh at him, and tease and satirize him a little, but I could no more feel as you do toward him, than I could cherish an enmity toward a sunflower. Still, since father feels as he does, I shall have to cut him as far as possible, should I ever meet him again, which is not probable. I reckon that Mrs. Willoughby will be so crushed that even she won't invite him any more." "I should hope not, truly." "Well, she has a Northern girl visiting her, and a very remarkable looking girl she is." "That is a different affair, although I do not approve of it. Miss Ainsley is the daughter of a rich man who is doing much for the South, and who feels kindly toward us, while old Mr. Houghton detests us as heartily as we do him. He is absorbing our business and taking it away from Southern men, and he exults over the fact. Miss Ainsley is certainly a very beautiful girl, for I've seen her. I suppose she received much attention." Mara purposely turned her back on Ella, and busied herself in the further part of the kitchen. She had heard rumors of Clancy's attention to the fair Northerner, and she both dreaded and hoped to have them verified. "Anything," she sighed, "oh, anything which will break his hold upon my heart!" Unconsciously, Ella gave her more information than she could well endure. "I reckon she did receive attention, very concentrated attention, and that was all she cared for evidently. She was rather languid until Mr. Clancy appeared, and then she welcomed him with all her brilliant eyes. He looked as if he understood her perfectly, and they spent most of the evening on the shadowy balcony together. It is another case of the North conquering the South; but if I were a man, I'd think twice before surrendering to that girl. I had an instinctive distrust of her." Mara felt that she was growing pale, and she immediately busied herself about the stove until her face flamed with the heat. "You don't seem to take much interest in the affair," Ella remarked, as Mara continued silent. "I never expect to make Miss Ainsley's acquaintance," was the quiet reply, "and Mr. Clancy in my view has almost ceased to be a Southerner." "Well, I never met him before, and have only heard a little about him from cousin Sophy, and that not in his favor. He has a strong, intelligent face though, and a very resolute look in his eyes." "Yes," admitted Mara coldly, "I reckon he's one who would have his own way without much regard for others." "He may slip up for once. Miss Ainsley struck me as a girl who would have her way, no matter how many hearts she fractured." Aun' Sheba and Vilet now entered, diverting Ella's thoughts. The old woman sat down rather wearily, a look of deep dejection on her face. "Look here, Aun' Sheba," said the lively girl, "you're not well, or else something is troubling you. You looked down-hearted yesterday, and you look funereal now." "We'se been sot on," said Aun' Sheba solemnly. "'Sot on!' good gracious! Aun' Sheba, what do you mean?" "Well, dey sot on my ole man, an' husband an' wife am me. Hit didn't turn out bad as I s'posed it would, bress tat ar son-in-law ob mine, but I keeps a tinkin' it all ober, an' I'se 'jected, I is; an' dar's no use ob shoutin' glory wen you doan feel glory." Then she told the whole story, which kept Ella on pins and needles, for, while she felt an honest sympathy for the poor soul, she had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. "Yes, Missy Mara," concluded Aun' Sheba pathetically, "I'se s'pended, I s'pended myself, an' I'se gwine to stay s'pended till I feels mo' shuah." "Suspended, Aun' Sheba!" said Mara, starting, suddenly becoming conscious of present surroundings. Aun' Sheba looked at her wonderingly, but voluble Ella made it all right by saying, "No wonder Mara exclaimed. The idea! I wish I was half as good as you are." "Oh, yes," cried Mara, striving to conceal her deep preoccupation, "that's the way with Aun' Sheba; the better she is, the worse she thinks she is. Do you mean to say that your church people have suspended you?" "No. I'se s'pended myself. Didn't I tole you?" "There, there, Aunty, I didn't understand. I believe in you and always will." "Well, honey, I reckon you'se ole nuss'll alers be do same ter you wheder she'se 'ligious or no." Both the girls now stood beside her, with a hand on either shoulder, and Ella said heartily, "Now, Aun' Sheba, it is just as you said, you're 'jected; you've got the blues, and everything looks blue and out of shape to you. You can't see the truth any more than if you were cross-eyed. I can prove to you whether you're 'ligious or not. Vilet, ain't your grandma a good Christian woman?" "'Deed an' she is troo an' troo," said the child, who had been a silent, yet deeply sympathetic listener. "Many's de time she's sent me wid good tings to po' sick folks." "There now," cried Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you've got to believe the Bible. 'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' it says. You can't deceive a child. Vilet knows better than you do." "Shuah now, does you tink it's dataway?" and Aun' Sheba looked up with hope in her eyes. "Of course we think it's that way," said Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you know a heap, as you say, about many things, but you don't half know how good you are." "I know how bad I is anyhow. I tells you I was in a dozin' sleep." "Well, I've been in a dozin' sleep many a time," said Ella, "and I'm not going to be suspended by any one, not even myself." "Aun' Sheba," said Mara gently but firmly, "you know I'm in earnest, and how much I love you for all your goodness ever since I was a helpless baby. You wouldn't say hard, untrue things against any one else. You have no more right to be unjust to yourself. As Ella says, I wish I was as good a Christian as you are." "Now, Missy Mara, no mo' ob dat ar talk. I knows my inard feelin's bes' ob any one. What Vilet say chirk me up po'fully, kase she see me ebery day. I tell you what I'se gwine ter do; I'se gwine ter put myself on 'bation, and den see wot come ob it. Now, honeys, I'se 'feered long nuff wid business. You'se dun me good, honey lam's, an' de Lawd bress you bofe. I'se tote de basket a heap pearter fer dis yere talk. I feels a monst'us sight betteh. Wish I could see you, honey, lookin' as plump as Missy Ella. Dat do me mos' as much good as feelin' 'ligious." Mara worried Mrs. Hunter over her pretence of making a dinner, and then gladly sought the solitude of her own room. At last she said with a bitter smile, "He has broken the last shred that bound me." But as the hours passed in tumultuous thoughts, her heart told her how vain were such words. CHAPTER XXIII THE WARNING Captain Bodine was halting serenely down into that new vista in his life of which we have already spoken. Every day both promise and fulfilment seemed richer than he had ever imagined any future experience could be. He was domiciled in a home exactly to his taste; his cousin's brave, cheerful spirit was infectious; the worry of financial straits was over, and Ella was blooming and happy. These favorable changes in themselves would have done much toward banishing gloom and despondency; but another element had entered into his existence which was as unexpected as it was sweet. A deep, subtile exhilaration was growing out of his companionship with Mara. Every long, quiet talk that he enjoyed with her left a longing for another. She was learning to regard him almost as a father, but he did not think of her as he did of Ella. He loved Ella as his child, but her buoyant spirit, her intense enjoyment of the present, and her eager, hopeful eyes, fixed upon the future, separated her from him. He did not wish it otherwise in her case, for he hoped that there was a happy future for her, and he rejoiced daily over the gladness in her face. Mara, although so young, seemed of his own generation. He often repeated to himself his cousin's words, "She is as old as you are." She appeared to live in the past as truly as himself. There was scarcely a subject on which they were not in sympathy. He believed that Mrs. Bodine was right, and that Mara was essentially different from others of her age. Indeed the impression grew upon him that the mysterious principle of heredity had prepared her for the companionship which apparently was valued as much by her as by himself. During the many hours in which he was alone, he thought the subject over in all its aspects, as he supposed, and a hope, exquisitely alluring, began to take form in his heart. No man is without a certain amount of egotism and self-love, and, although these were not characteristics of Bodine, he could not help dwelling upon the truth that the remainder of his life would be very different from what he had expected could Mara be near to him. Her eloquent look of sympathy so soon after they met began to take the form of prophecy. At first it led him to believe that she would receive a paternal, loving regard, much the same as he gave to Ella; but, as time passed, he began to dwell upon the possibility of a closer tie. She appeared to have no especial friends among young men, nor indeed to care for any. Might not a strong, quiet affection grow in each heart until they could become one in the closest sense, even as they were now one in so many of their thoughts and views? It was natural that his deepening regard should tinge his manner, yet Mara dreamed of nothing beyond the affection which she was glad to receive from him. Vigilant eyes, however, were following Captain Bodine, and Clancy, with a lover's jealous intuition, was guessing his rival's thoughts and intentions more clearly every day. He did not adopt any system of espionage, nor did he ask questions of any one, but merely took occasion to walk on the Battery at an hour when it was most frequented. Here he often saw Mara and the veteran enjoying the cool sunset hour, and sometimes he observed that Mara saw him. So far from shunning such observation, he not infrequently compelled her recognition, which was always coldly bestowed upon her part. "It would seem that Mr. Clancy is more inclined to be friendly than you are," Bodine remarked one evening. "Before Mr. Clancy valued Northern friends more than Southern ones we were friendly," was Mara's quiet reply. She had schooled herself now into outward self-control, but she chafed at his presence, and thought he happened to be near her too frequently. Still it was ever will versus heart, for the latter always acknowledged him as master. He was satisfied that his impressions in regard to Bodine were correct, and was impelled by his love to make an effort to save her from drifting into relations which he believed must inevitably destroy her chance for happiness. His strong, keen mind had analyzed her every word, tone, and varying expression, and he had become quite sure that her bearing toward him was not the result of indifference, but was rather due to pride, and a resolute purpose not to yield to him unless he adopted her views. He also understood her sufficiently well to dread lest a morbid sense of loyalty to her father's memory might lead her to accept his friend and old companion in arms. "Her immediate associates would encourage the idea," he thought, "and there are none to advise or warn her except myself. She is morbid and unbalanced enough to commit just such a fatal error. Her bringing up, and all the influence of that warped Mrs. Hunter, would lead her to sacrifice herself to the manes of her ancestors. Yet how can I warn her--how can I reach her except I write? I wish to look into her eyes when I speak. I wish to plead with her with all the power that I possibly possess. Great Heaven! if this that I fear should happen, what an awakening she might have when it was too late!" At last he resolved on the simplest and most straightforward course, and wrote-- "MARA--Will you grant me one more interview--the last, unless you freely concede others. I have something important to say to you, something that relates far more to your happiness than to my own. In excuse for my request, I have nothing better to plead than my love which you have rejected, and yet which entitles me to some consideration. I think my motive is unselfish--as unselfish as can be possible under the circumstances. You may treat me as you please, but your welfare will always be dear to me. I shall not seek to change your convictions, nor shall I plead for myself, for I know that all this would be useless; but I wish to see you face to face once more alone in your own home. I must also request that Mrs. Hunter will not interfere with our interview. You are not a child, and you know that I am a gentleman, and that I am incapable of saying a word at variance with my profound respect for you. OWEN CLANCY." Mara was deeply agitated by this missive. Her first emotion was that of anger, as much at herself as at him--a confused resentment that his words, his very handwriting, should so move her, and that he should venture to write at all. Had she not made it sufficiently plain that he had no right to take, or, at least, to manifest any such interest in her affairs? Were all her efforts futile to hide her love? In spite of her habit of reserve and repression she had a passionate heart, and this fact had been forced upon her by vain and continuous struggles. Had he the penetration to learn the truth? She could not tell, and this uncertainty touched her pride to the very quick. After hours of wavering purpose, impulses to ignore him and his request, moments of tenderness in which will, pride, and every consideration were almost overwhelmed, she at last arrived at a fixed resolution. "I _will_ see him," she murmured. "He has virtually told me that he will not give up what he terms his principles for love. I shall not acknowledge my secret, but if he has discovered it, he shall learn that I also will not give up my principles for love." The next morning she quietly handed Clancy's note to Mrs. Hunter. "Shameful!" ejaculated the lady. "Of course you will pay no attention to him, or else write a curt refusal. I insist on one course or the other." Mara looked steadfastly at her aunt until the worthy lady was somewhat disconcerted, and asked fretfully, "What do you mean by that look, Mara?" "Aunty, can't you realize that I am no longer a child, as he says?" "Well, but in a case like this--" "In a case like this which concerns me so personally, I must act according to my own judgment. You can be in the adjoining room. Indeed I have no objection to your hearing what is said, but I would rather you should not. You have no occasion to fear. Mr. Clancy has alienated me forever. I have no doubt that before the summer is over he will be engaged to Miss Ainsley, if he is not already engaged virtually. I have reasons for granting this final interview which are personal--which my self-respect requires, and, since they are personal, I need not mention them. There shall be no want of respect and affection for you, aunty, but you must realize that I have become an independent woman, and I have the entire right to decide certain questions for myself." "Well, I wash my hands of it all," said Mrs. Hunter, coldly, "and since my strong convictions have no weight with you, and you intend to act independently of me, of course I shall not permit myself to hear a word of your conversation." "That will be the more delicate and honorable course, aunty." "Well, Mara, I only wish I need not be in the house at the time." "Aunty, that is the same as saying that your enmity toward Mr. Clancy is greater than your love for me." "But I don't see the use of this intensely disagreeable interview. This is the only home I have." "And the only home I have also, aunty." "Oh, well, if you will, you will, I reckon." "Yes, if I will, I _will_, and Mr. Clancy shall learn that I have a will." As Aun' Sheba was departing that morning, Mara followed her into the hallway, and, placing a note in her hand, said, "Give that to Mr. Clancy and to no other. Say nothing to him or to any one else. Do you understand, Aun' Sheba?" "I does, honey. Wen you talk dataway you'se heah an eyster shoutin' 'fore Aun' Sheba speak." Clancy only said, "Thank you," as he thrust a half-dollar into the old woman's hand. Aun' Sheba laid it on the desk, and remarked with great dignity, "I does some tings widout money." He paid no heed to her, but read eagerly, "Mr. Clancy--Come this evening. Mara Wallingford." With a long breath he thought, "It will be my last chance. I fear it will be useless, but at no future day shall she think in bitterness of heart, 'He might have done more to save me.'" There was no sudden, involuntary illumination of her face on this occasion when he entered her little parlor, and she could not help noticing that his face was pale. She also saw from his expression that his spirit was as high as hers; that there was not a trace of the lover, eager to plead his cause. "He has pleaded successfully elsewhere," she thought, and, in spite of all other conflicting feelings, she was curious to know what his motive could be in seeking the interview. "Good-evening, Mr. Clancy. Will you sit down?" she said, coldly. "Yes, Mara. Pardon me for calling you Mara. I am beyond any affectation of formality with you, and you know there is no lack of respect on my part." She merely bowed and waited in silence. "When you learn my motive for making my request, for coming here to-night, you will probably resent it, but you have taught me to expect little else except resentment from you." "Mr. Clancy, there is no cause for such language. Certainly I was quietly pursuing the even tenor of my way." "Do you understand fully whither that way is leading?" "Truly, Mr. Clancy, that is a singular question for you to ask." "I understand you, Mara. You mean that it is no affair of mine." He knew that her silence gave assent to this view, and he answered as if she had spoken. "Nevertheless you are mistaken. It _is_ an affair of mine. There could be no peace for me in the future if I failed you now, for it seems to me I am the only true friend you have in the world." "Mr. Clancy," she said hotly, "we have differed so greatly before that I might have been saved the pain of this interview, but we never differed as we do at this moment. I cannot listen to you any longer. It would be disloyalty to those who _are_ true friends--friends that I love and honor." "Do you love Captain Bodine?" "Certainly I do. He was my father's friend; he is my honored friend." "Do you _love_ Captain Bodine?" "What do you mean?" she asked angrily, flushing to her very brow. "Mara, be calm. Listen to me as you value your life, as you value your own soul. Do you think I would come here for slight cause at such cost to us both?" "I think you are strangely mistaken in coming here, and using language which makes me doubt your sanity." "Please do me the justice to note that there is nothing wild in my manner, nor any excitement in my words." "Noting this, I find it more difficult to explain your course, or to pardon it." "It is not necessary at present, that you should do either. Please be patient a few minutes longer and my mission is ended. I am not pleading for myself, but for you. Please listen, or a time may come when in a bitterness beyond words you may regret that you did not hear me. Thank Heaven! it is clear that I have not come too late. Captain Bodine is more than your friend in _his_ feelings; he is your lover, and you are so morbid, unfriended, unguided, that you are capable of sacrificing yourself--" "Hush! you are wronging a man whom you are unworthy to name. He has never dreamed of such love as you suggest." "I am right. Oh, I have learned too deeply in the school of experience not to know. My warning may be of no avail, but you shall not drift unawares into this thing, you shall not enter into it, nor be persuaded into it from a false spirit of self-sacrifice--" "Mr. Clancy, I will not listen a moment longer to such preposterous language. You are passing far beyond the limits of my forbearance. If your conscience is burdened on my account because I am so 'unfriended,' I absolve you fully. You will and do know how to console yourself. Our interview must end here and now. It were disloyalty for me to listen a moment longer. We are strangers from this day forth, Mr. Clancy." And she rose flushed and trembling. He also rose, and with an intent look which held her gaze, said gently: "There is that which will speak although I am banished." "What?" "Your heart." "If it broke a thousand times I will not speak to you again," she cried passionately. "Even if you were right it would be ignoble to suggest such a thing. Truly your associations have led you far from the promise of your youth." "I have not said that your heart would plead for me," he replied sternly. "But it _will_ plead against all that is unnatural, contrary to your young girlhood, contrary to the true, right instincts which God has created. You may seek to stifle its voice, but you cannot. When you are alone it will tell you, like the still small voice of God, that your obdurate will is wrong, that your narrow prejudices and morbid memories are all wrong and vain;--it will tell you that you cannot become the wife of this man, who would sacrifice you as a solace to his remaining years, without wrecking your happiness for life. Farewell, Mara Wallingford. There is one thing you can never forget--that I warned you." He bowed low and departed immediately. CHAPTER XXIV "THE IDEA!" Mara was not the kind of girl that faints or goes into hysterics. The spirit of her father was aroused to the last degree. She felt that she had been arraigned and condemned by one who had no right to do either; that all the cherished traditions of her life had been trampled upon; that her father's loved companion-in-arms, and her dear friend, had been insulted. Even wise, saintly Mrs. Bodine, her genial counsellor, had been ignored. "Was there ever such monstrous assumption!" she cried, as she paced back and forth with clinched hands. She soon heard the step of Mrs. Hunter, and became outwardly calm. "Well?" said her aunt. "He won't come again, nor shall I speak to him again. Let these facts content you, aunty." "That much at least is satisfactory," said Mrs. Hunter, "but I think it was a wretched mistake to see him at all." "It was not a mistake, for he has revealed the depths into which a man can sink who adopts his course. I have some respect for an out-and-out Northerner, brought up as such; but it does seem that when a man turns traitor, as it were, he goes to greater lengths than those whose camp he joins. He suspects those who are too noble for him to understand." "Whom does Mr. Clancy suspect?" "Oh, all of us. He came to advise me as an unprotected, unfriended, unguided girl." "Was there ever such impudence on the face of the earth!" Mara sank exhausted into a chair in the inevitable reaction from her strong excitement. "Aunty, it is all over, and we shall not meet again except as strangers. Never say a word of his coming, of this interview, to any one. It is my affair, and I wish to forget it as far as possible." "You know I'm not a gossip, Mara, about family matters, especially disagreeable matters. Well, perhaps it will turn out for the best, since you have broken with him entirely. It always made me angry that he should continue to speak to you, and even sit down and talk to you at an evening company, when you could not repulse him without arresting the attention of every one." "Good-night, aunty. All that is over." "Mara, you must take an opiate to-night." "Yes; give me something to make me sleep, that will bring oblivion for at least to-night. I must be ready for my work in the morning. It won't take me long _now_ to attain self-control." "Mara," cried Ella the next day, "you look positively ill. I wish you could take a rest. Suppose we shut up shop for a while, and hang out a sign, 'closed for repairs.'" "No, Ella. I can stand it, if you can, till August, and then we will take a month's rest. I wasn't very well last night, but I have found a remedy which is going to help me, and I shall be better." Ella took the surface meaning of these words, and, being preoccupied with her own thoughts, remained, as well as Mara, rather silent that morning. Although she assured herself more than once that George Houghton was "nothing to her," she found herself thinking a great deal about him, and what she termed "their droll experiences." Prone to take a mirthful view of everything, she often laughed over the whole affair, and it grew rather than lost in interest with time. It was the first real adventure of her girlhood, and he was the first man who had retained more than a transient place in her thoughts. Feeling that their acquaintance had come about through no fault of hers, she was disposed to get all the fun possible out of what had occurred. The morning was warm, and she was working in charming _dishabille_. Dressed in light summer costume, thrown open at her throat, and with sleeves rolled to her shoulders, she appeared a veritable Hebe. Her bright, golden, fluffy hair was gathered carelessly into a Grecian knot, and her flushed face received more than one flour-mark as she impatiently brushed away the flies. Seeing her smiling to herself so often, Mara envied her, but made no comment. At last the girl broke into a ringing laugh. "What is amusing you so greatly?" Mara asked. "I can't get over that party at Mrs. Willoughby's. It was all so irresistibly comical. Cousin Sophy thinks she has a genius for choosing chaperons, and so she has, but fate is too strong for men and gods, not to mention saintly and secluded old ladies. I had scarcely more than entered the drawing-room, and taken my bearings, as cousin would say, when the worst Vandal of the lot is marched up to me, and I--green little girl--thought I must be polite to him and every one else. When I think of it all, I see that my chaperon was like a distressed hen with a duckling that would go into the water. Without any effort of mine, that great Goth, Mr. Houghton, submitted himself to my inspection, and instead of being horrified, I have been laughing at him ever since. He struck me as an exceedingly harmless creature, with large capabilities for blundering. He would not step on a fly maliciously, yet poor Mrs. Robertson acted as if I were near an ogre who might devour me at a mouthful. How she did manoeuvre to keep that big fellow away! and what a homily she gave me on our way home! It all seems so absurd. I wish papa would not take such things so seriously, for I can't see any harm in making sport of the Philistines." "Making sport _for_ the Philistines--that is what your father and what we all object to. This young Houghton would very gladly amuse himself at your expense." "I'd like to see him try it," said Ella defiantly. "I'd turn the tables on him so quickly as to take away his breath." "Oh, Ella! why do you think about such people at all?" "Because they amuse me. What's the harm in thinking about him in my jolly way? There's nothing bad about him. His worst crimes are, that he is comical and the son of his father." "How do you know there's nothing bad about him?" "For the same reason that I distrust Miss Ainsley. Each makes an impression which I believe is correct." "Well, well, Ella," said Mara, a little impatiently, "laugh it out and have done with him. For all our sakes, please have nothing more to do with such people." "I haven't sought 'such people,'" replied Ella, with a shrug; "but I tell you, Mara, I'm not going through life with my eyes shut, nor am I going to look through a pair of blue spectacles. See here, sweetheart, what did God give me eyes for? What did he give me a brain for? To see through some one else's eyes? to think with the brain of another? No, indeed; that's contrary to such reason and common-sense as I possess." "You certainly will be guided by your father?" "Yes, yes, indeed, in all that pertains to his welfare and happiness. I could die for him this minute, and would if it were required. But there are things which I cannot do for him or any one. I cannot ignore my own conscience and sense of right. I cannot think his thoughts any more than he can think mine. You dear, melancholy little goose, don't you know that God never rolls two people into one, even after they are married? They are, or should be, one in a vital sense, yet they are different, independent beings, and were made so. I'd like to know of any one in this town more bent upon having her own way than you." Mara was silent, for Ella had a way of putting things which disturbed her. "Cousin Sophy," said Ella in the afternoon, "hasn't the proper time come for me to make my party call on Mrs. Willoughby? You are my Mentor in all that relates to etiquette, and that giddy fraction of the world termed society." "Well, yes," said the old lady, "I suppose it is time. In the case of Mrs. Willoughby it will be little more than a formality, for she is an acquaintance you will not care to cultivate. You may be lucky enough to find her out, and then your card will answer all the purposes of a call." "Oh, I know that much, cousin, if I am from the wilds of the interior; but if she is in, I suppose I should sit down and talk about the weather a little while." "Go along, you saucy puss. Tell her how shocked you were to see old Houghton's son in her parlors." "Well, I was at first. Bah! cousin, he's a great big boy, and doesn't know any more than I do about some things." "Well added. Tell her, then, we have enough Southern gentlemen remaining, and there is no necessity of inviting big Northern hobble-de-hoys." "Oh! I didn't mean that, cousin. Be fair now. He was gentlemanly enough, as much so as the rest of them, but he was young and giddy, like myself, just as you used to be and are now sometimes;" and she stopped the old lady's mouth with kisses, then ran to dress for the street. The kitchen Hebe of the morning was soon metamorphosed into a very charmingly costumed young woman. Even Miss Ainsley was compelled to recognize the lovely and harmonious effect, although it did not bear the latest brand of fashion, or represent costly expenditure. Both she and Mrs. Willoughby were pleased as Ella stepped lightly into the back parlor, and the young girl congratulated herself that she had come so opportunely, for they were evidently expecting visits like her own. One and another dropped in until Mrs. Willoughby was entertaining three or four in the front parlor. Miss Ainsley remained chatting with Ella, who felt that the Northern girl's remarks were largely tentative, evincing a wish to draw her out. Shrewd Ella soon began to generalize to such a degree that Miss Ainsley thought, "You are no fool," and had a growing respect for the "little baker," as she had termed the young girl. Then Clancy appeared, and Ella was forgotten, but she saw the same unmistakable welcome which from some women would mean all that a lover could desire. Ella thought that a slight expression of vexation crossed his brow as he recognized in her Mara's partner and friend, but he spoke to her politely and even cordially. Indeed, no one could do otherwise, for her face would propitiate an ogre. She thought there was a spice of recklessness in Clancy's manner, and she heard him remark to Miss Ainsley that he had come to say good-by for a short time. That young woman led the way to the balcony and began to expostulate; and then Ella's attention was riveted on a tall young fellow, who was shaking hands with Mrs. Willoughby. "Good gracious!" she thought, "what can I do if he sees me? How can I 'shake off and avoid' in this back parlor? I can't make a bolt for the front door or sneak out of the back door; I can't sit here like a graven image if he comes--" "Miss Bodine! Well, I'm lucky for once in my ill-fated life." "Oh! I beg your pardon," remarked Ella, turning from the window, out of which she had apparently been gazing with intense preoccupation. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Houghton." But he held out his hand with such imperative cordiality that she had to take it. Then he drew up a chair to the corner of the sofa on which she sat and placed it in a way that barred approach or egress. "Oh, shade of Mrs. Hunter!" she groaned inwardly, "what can I do? I'm fairly surrounded--all avenues of retreat cut off. I must face the enemy and fight." "I knew the chance would come for us to get acquainted," said Houghton, settling himself complacently in the great armchair, "but I had scarcely hoped for such a happy opportunity as this so soon." "I must go in a few minutes," she remarked demurely. "I have been here some time." "Miss Bodine, you are not capable of such cruelty. You know it is very early yet." "I thought you came to call on Mrs. Willoughby?" "So I did, and I have called on her. See her talking ancient history to those dowagers yonder. What a figure I'd cut in that group." She laughed outright, as much from nervous trepidation as at the comical idea suggested, and was in an inward rage that she did so, for she had intended to be so dignified and cool as to depress and discourage the "objectionable person" who hedged her in. "What a jolly, infectious laugh you have!" he resumed. "To be able to laugh well is a rare accomplishment. Some snicker, others giggle, chuckle, cackle, make all sorts of disagreeable noises, but a natural, merry, musical laugh-Miss Bodine, I congratulate you, and myself also, that I happened in this blessed afternoon to hear it. And that terrible chaperon of yours isn't here either. How she frowned on me the other evening as if I were a wolf in the fold," and the young man broke into a clear ringing laugh at the recollection. Ella was laughing with him in spite of herself. Indeed the more she tried to be grave and severe the more impossible it became. "Mr. Houghton," she managed to say at last, "will you do me a favor?" "Scores of them." "Then stop making me laugh. I don't wish to laugh." His face instantly assumed such portentous and awful gravity that he set her off again to such a degree that the dowagers in the other room looked at her rebukingly. It was bad enough, they thought, that she should talk to old Houghton's son at all, but to show such unbecoming levity-well, it was not what they would "expect of a Bodine." Ella saw their disapproval, and felt she was losing her self-control. The warnings she had received against her companion embarrassed her, and banished the power to be her natural self. "Please don't," she gasped, "or I shall go at once. I asked a favor." "Pardon me, Miss Bodine," he now said in a tone and manner which quieted her nerves at once. "I have blundered again, but I was so happy to think that I had met you here. I am not wholly a rattle-brain. What would you like to talk about?" and he looked so kindly and eager to please her that she cast down her eyes and contracted her brow in deepest perplexity. "Truly, Mr. Houghton, I should be on my way homeward, and you have so hedged me in that I cannot escape." "Is running away from me escaping?" "I don't like that phrase 'running away.'" "Yet that is what you propose to do." "Oh, no, I shall take my departure in a very composed and dignified manner." His face had the expression of almost boyish distress. "You find on further thought that you cannot forgive me?" he asked sadly. "Did I not say that was all explained and settled? Southern girls are not fickle or false to their word." And she managed to assume an aspect of great dignity. "If I do not shake him off in the next few minutes I'm lost," she thought. "I've offended you again," he said anxiously. She took refuge in silence. "Miss Bodine, I ask your pardon. You know I can't do more than that, or if I can, tell me what. I wish to please you very much." The girl was at her wit's end, for his ingenuous expression emphasized the truth of his words. "There is no reason why you should please me," she began coolly, and then knew not how to proceed. "Let us be frank with each other," he resumed earnestly. "We are too young yet to indulge in society lies. When a man apologizes at the North he is forgiven. I have been told that Southerners are a generous, warm-hearted people. In their cool treatment of me they counteract the climate. Are you, too, going to ostracize me?" "I fear I shall have to," she replied faintly. "Of your own free will?" "No, indeed." His heart gave a great throb of joy, but he had the sense to conceal his gladness. He only said quietly, "Well, I'm glad that you at least do not detest me." "Why should I detest you, Mr. Houghton?" "I'm sure I don't know why any one should. I have never harmed any one in this town that I know of." She knew not how to answer, for she could not reflect upon his father. "I don't care about others, but your case." "Truly, Mr. Houghton," she began hastily, "this is a large city. A few impoverished Southern people are nothing to you." "I was not thinking of Southern people," he replied gravely. "You said a moment since you saw no reason why I should try to please you. Am I to blame if you have inspired many reasons? I know you better than any girl in the world. You revealed your very self in a moment of danger to me as you thought. I saw that you were good and brave--that you possess just the qualities that I most respect and admire in a woman. Every moment I am with you confirms this belief. Why should I not wish to please you, to become your friend? I know I should be the better in every respect if you were my friend." She shook her head, but did not venture to look at him. "You believe I am sincere, Miss Bodine. You cannot think I am sentimental or flirtatious. I would no more do you wrong, even in my thoughts, than I would think evil of my dead mother. You are mirthful in your nature; so am I, but I do not think that either of us is shallow or silly. If I am personally disagreeable, that ends everything, but how can a man secure the esteem and friendly regard of a woman, when he covets these supremely, unless he speaks and reveals his feelings?" "You are talking wildly, Mr. Houghton," said Ella, with averted face. "We have scarcely more than met." "You would lead me to think that you Southern people are tenfold colder and more deliberate than we of the North. You may not have thought of me since we met, but I have thought of you constantly. I could not help it." Ella felt that she must escape now as if for her life, and, summoning all her faculties and resolution, she said, looking him in the eyes, "I've no doubt, Mr. Houghton, you think you are sincere in your words at this moment, but you may soon wonder that you spoke such hasty words." "In proving you mistaken, time will be my ally." "You have asked me to be frank," she resumed. "In justice to you and myself I feel that I must be so. I do not share in the prejudices, if you prefer that word, of my father, but I must be governed by his wishes. I trust that you will not ask me to say more. Won't you please let me go now? See, the last guests are leaving." "Tell me one thing," he pleaded eagerly as he rose. "I am not personally disagreeable to you?" "The idea of my telling you anything of the kind!" and there was a flash of mirthfulness in her face which left him in a most tormenting state of uncertainty. A moment later she had shaken hands with Mrs. Willoughby, and was gone. He stood looking after her, half-dazed by his conflicting feelings. Turning, Mrs. Willoughby saw and understood him at once. She came to his side and said kindly, "Sit down, Mr. Houghton, I've not had a chance to talk with you yet." With an involuntary sigh he complied. CHAPTER XXV FEMININE FRIENDS Mrs. Willoughby was a woman of the world, yet in no bad sense. Indeed, beneath the veneer of fashionable life she possessed much kindliness of nature. She was capable of a good deal of cynicism toward those who she said "ought to be able to take care of themselves," and in this category she placed Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "I shall leave both to paddle their own canoes," she had said to herself. Looking kindly at Houghton, who seemed to have lost his volubility, and waited for her to speak again, she thought: "If this young fellow was infatuated with Caroline I'd warn him quick enough." With the astuteness of a matron she merely remarked: "You seem greatly pleased with my little friend, Miss Bodine. You must not trifle with her, if she is poor, for she comes of one of the best families in the State." "Trifle with Miss Bodine! What do you take me for, Mrs. Willoughby?" and he rose indignantly. "There, now, sit down, my friend. I only said that so you might reveal how sincere you are, and I won't use any more diplomacy with you." "I hope not," he replied laughing grimly. "You ought to know, what I am fast finding out, that a young fellow, like me, can no more understand a woman, unless she is frank, than he can Choctaw." Mrs. Willoughby laughed heartily, and said: "I'll be frank with you, if you will be so with me." "Then tell me why I am treated by so many in your set as if I had overrun the South with fire and sword?" His first question proved that she could not be frank, for in order to give an adequate explanation she would have to reveal to him his father's animus and the hostility it evoked. She temporized by saying: "I do not so treat you, and surely Miss Bodine seemed to enjoy your conversation." "I'm not so sure of that. At any rate she said she would have to ostracize me like the rest." "She was kind in telling you that she would have to do so. She certainly bears you no ill-will." "She probably does not care enough about me yet to do that. The worst of it is that I shall have no chance. Her father objects to her having anything to do with me, and that blocks everything. Even if I were capable of seeking a clandestine acquaintance, she is not. She is a thoroughly good girl; she doesn't know how to be deceitful." "I'm glad you appreciate her so truly." "I'd be a donkey if I didn't." "Well, don't be unwise in your future action." "What action can I take?" and he looked at her almost imploringly. A young man of his age is usually very ready to make a confidante of a married woman older than himself, yet young enough to sympathize with him in affairs of the heart. Houghton instinctively felt that the case might not be utterly hopeless if he could secure an ally in Mrs. Willoughby, for he recognized her tact, and believed that she was friendly. He promptly determined therefore to seek and to take her advice. She looked at him searchingly as she said: "Perhaps it would be best not to take any action at all. If Miss Bodine has made only a passing and pleasant impression, and you merely desire to secure another agreeable acquaintance you had better stop where you are. It will save you much annoyance, and, what is of far more consequence, may keep her from real trouble. As you suggest, you cannot do anything in an underhand way. If you attempted it, you would lose her respect instantly, your own also. She idolizes her father, and will not act contrary to his wishes. Why not let the matter drop where it is?" "Can't take any such advice as that," he replied, shaking his head resolutely. "Why not?" "Oh, confound it! Suppose some one, years ago, had advised Mr. Willoughby in such style." "Is it as serious as that?" He passed his hand in perplexity over his brow. "Mrs. Willoughby," he burst out, "I'm in deep water. 'I reckon,' as you say here, you understand me better than I do myself. I only know that I'd face all creation for the sake of that girl, yet what you say about making her trouble, staggers me. I'm in sore perplexity, and don't know what to do." "Will you take my advice?" "Yes, I will, as long as I believe you are my honest friend, as long as I can." "Well, you won't try to see Ella before you have consulted me?" "I promise that." "Don't do anything at present Think the matter over quietly and conscientiously. I'm sorry I must make one other suggestion. I fear your father would be as much opposed to all this as Captain Bodine himself." "I think not. My father is not so stern as he seems. At least he is not stern to me, and he has let me spend more money than my neck's worth. I fancy he is well disposed toward Captain Bodine, for he has given him employment. I asked the old gentleman about it one day, but he changed the subject. He wouldn't have employed the captain, however, unless he was interested in him some way." "Why wouldn't he?" "Oh, well, he naturally prefers to have Northerners about him." "Will you permit me to be a little more frank than I have been?" "I supposed you were going to be altogether frank." "For fear of hurting your feelings I have not been. Your father is not friendly to us, and we reciprocate. This makes it harder for you." Houghton thought in silence for a few moments, and then said: "You should make allowance for an old man, half heart-broken by the death of his oldest son, drowned in the bay there." "I do; so would others, if he were not vindictive, if he did not use his great financial strength against us." "I don't think he does this, certainly not to my knowledge. He only seeks to make all he can, like other business men." "Mr. Houghton, you haven't been very much in Charleston. Even your vacations have been spent mainly elsewhere, I think, and your mind has been occupied with your studies and athletics. You are more familiar with Greek and Roman history than with ours, and you cannot understand the feelings of persons like Captain Bodine and his cousin, old Mrs. Bodine, who passed through the agony of the war, and lost nearly everything--kindred, property, and what they deem liberty. You cannot understand your own father, who lost his son. You think of the present and future." Houghton again sighed deeply as he said: "I admit the force of all you say. I certainly cannot feel as they do, nor perhaps understand them." Then he added: "I wouldn't if I could. Why should I tie the millstone of the past about my neck?" "You should not do so; but you must make allowance for those to whom that past is more than the present or future can be." "Why can't they forgive and forget, as far as possible, as you do?" "Because people are differently constituted. Besides, young man, I am not old enough to be your grandmother. I was very young at the time of the war, and have not suffered as have others." "Grandmother, indeed! I should think that Mr. Willoughby would fall in love with you every day." "The grand passion has a rather prominent place in your thoughts just now. Some day you will be like Mr. Willoughby, and cotton, stocks, or their equivalents, will take a very large share of your thoughts." "Well, that day hasn't come yet. Even the wise man said there was a time for all things. How long must my probation last before I can come back for more advice?" "A week, at least" "Phew!" "You must think it all over, as I said before, calmly and conscientiously. I have tried to enable you to see the subject on all its sides, and I tell you again that you may find just as much opposition from your father as from Captain Bodine. He may have very different plans for you. Ella Bodine has nothing but her own good heart to give you, supposing you were able to persuade her to give that much." "That much would enrich me forever." "Your father wouldn't see it in that light. He may call her that designing little baker." "I hope he won't for God's sake. I never said a hot word to my father." "Never do so, then. If you lose your temper, all is lost. But we are anticipating. Sober, second thoughts may lead you to save yourself and others a world of trouble." "Oh! I've had second thoughts before. Good-by. At this hour, one week hence;" and he shook hands heartily. A moment later, he came rushing back from the hall, exclaiming: "There! See, what a blunderbuss I am! I forgot to thank you, which I do, with all my heart." "Ah!" sighed the mature woman, as her guest finally departed, "I'd take all his pains for the possibilities of his joys." Ella had not been mistaken in thinking that she detected a trace of recklessness in Clancy's manner. He had been compelled to believe that Mara was in truth lost to him; that her will and pride would prove stronger than her heart. Indeed, he went so far as to believe that her heart, as far as he was concerned, was not giving her very much trouble. "I fear she has become so morbid and warped by the malign influences that have surrounded her from infancy," he had thought, "that she cannot love as I love. My best hope now is, that when Bodine begins to show his game more clearly, she will remember my words. It's horrible to think that she may develop into a woman like Mrs. Hunter. Until this evening, I have always believed there was a sweet, womanly soul imprisoned in her bosom, but now I don't know what to think. I'll go off to the mountains on the pretence of a fishing excursion, and get my balance again." The following morning had been spent in preparations, and the afternoon, as we have seen, found him at Mrs. Willoughby's. His sore heart and bitter mood were solaced by Miss Ainsley's unmistakable welcome. He knew he did not care for her in any deep and lasting sense, and he much doubted whether her interest in him was greater than that which she had bestowed upon others in the past. But she diverted his thoughts, flattered the self-love which Mara had wounded so ruthlessly, and above all fascinated him by her peculiar beauty and intellectual brilliancy. "Why are you going away?" she asked reproachfully, when they were seated on the balcony. "Oh, I've been working hard. I'm going off to the mountains to fish and rest." "I hope you'll catch cold, and come back again soon." "What a disinterested friend!" "You are thinking only of yourself; why shouldn't I do likewise?" "No, I'm thinking of you." "Of course, at this minute. You'd be apt to think of a lamp-post if you were looking at it." "Please don't put out the sunshine with your brilliancy." "Ironical, too! What is the matter to-day?" "What penetration! Reveal your intuitions. Have I failed in business, or been crossed in love?" "The latter, I fancy." "Well, then, how can I better recover peace of mind and serenity than by going a-fishing? You know what Izaak Walton says--" "Oh, spare me, please, that ancient worthy! You are as cold-blooded as any fish that you'll catch. If I find it stupid in Charleston I'll go North." "That threat shakes my very soul. I promise to come back in a week or ten days." "Or a month or so," she added, looking hurt. "Come, my good friend," he said, laughing. "We're too good fellows, as you wished we should be, to pretend to any forlornness over a parting of this kind. You will sleep as sweetly and dreamlessly as if you had never seen Owen Clancy, and I will write you a letter, such as a man would write to a man, telling you of my adventures. If I don't meet any I'll bring some about--get shot by the moonlighters, save a mountain maid from drowning in a trout pool, or fall into the embrace of a black bear." "The mountain maid, you mean." "Did I? Well, your penetration passes bounds." "You may go, if you will write the letter. There must be no dime-novel stories in it, no drawing on your imagination. It shall be your task to make interesting just what you see and do." "Please add the twelve labors of Hercules." "No trifling. I'm in earnest, and put you on your mettle in regard to that letter. Unless you do your best, your friendship is all a pretence. And remember what you said about its being a letter to a man. If you begin in a conventional way, as if writing to a lady, I'll burn it without reading." "Agreed. Good-by, old fellow--beg pardon, Miss Ainsley." She laughed and said, "I like that; good-by." And she gave him a warm, soft hand, in a rather lingering clasp. When he was gone she murmured softly, "Yes, he has a chance." CHAPTER XXVI ELLA'S CRUMB OF COMFORT Ella walked up Meeting Street in a frame of mind differing widely from the complacent mood in which she sought Mrs. Willoughby's residence. The unexpected had again happened, and to her it seemed so strange, so very remarkable, that she should have met Mr. Houghton once more without the slightest intention, or even expectation, on her part, that she was perplexed and troubled. What did it mean? In matters purely personal, and related closely to our own interests, we are prone to give almost a superstitious significance to events which come about naturally enough. It was not at all strange that Houghton should have been strongly and agreeably impressed by Ella from the first; and that he should happen to call at the same hour that she did, would have been regarded by her as a very ordinary coincidence, had not the case been her own. Since it was her own, she was almost awed by the portentous interview from which she had just escaped. The inexperienced girl found her cherished ideas in respect to young Houghton completely at fault. She had sighed that she could not meet him without restraint or embarrassment, for, as she had assured herself, "It would be such fun." She had supposed that she could laugh at him and with him indefinitely--that he would be a source of infinite jest and amusement. He had banished all these illusions in a few brief moments. How could she make sport of a man who had coupled her name with that of his dead mother? His every glance, word, and tone expressed sincere respect and admiration, and, she had to admit to herself, something more. She was so sincere herself, so unsullied, so lacking in the callousness often resulting from much contact with the world, that it seemed to her that it would be a profanation henceforth to regard him as the butt of even the innocent ridicule of which she was capable. Yet in all her perplexity and trouble there was a confused exhilaration and a glad sense of power. "To think that I, little Ella Bodine, a baker by trade," she thought, "should have inspired that big fellow to talk as he did! He is apology embodied, and seems far more afraid of me than he was of that great bully on the street." And she bent her head to conceal a laugh of exultation. Then she remembered her father, and her face grew troubled. "I shall have to tell him," she murmured, "and then the old scene will be enacted over again. A plague on that old shadow of the war! If I were a man I'd fight it out and then shake hands." Soon after reaching home she heard her father's crutches on the sidewalk, and ran down to meet him. In accordance with her custom, she took away one crutch, and supported him to a chair in the parlor. He kissed her fondly, and remarked, "You look a little pale, Ella." "I feel pale, papa. I've something to tell you, and you must listen patiently and sensibly. I've met Mr. Houghton again." The veteran's face darkened instantly, but he waited till she explained further. "Now see how you begin to look," she resumed. "You are judging me already. You can't be even fair to your own child." "It would rather seem that you are judging me, Ella." "Oh, bother it all!" she exclaimed. "I wish I could be simple and natural in this affair, for I was so embarrassed and constrained that I fear I acted like a fool. Well, I'll tell you how it happened. After lunch I asked Cousin Sophy if it was not time for me to make my party call on Mrs. Willoughby, and she said it was. I found that Mrs. Willoughby was expecting callers. We chatted a few minutes, and then others came, Mr. Houghton among them. I no more expected to meet him than I expected to meet you there. After shaking hands with Mrs. Willoughby he came to me in the back parlor instantly, and drew up a chair so that I could not escape unless I jumped over him. He began with such funny speeches that I got laughing, as much from nervousness as anything else, for I'd been so warned against him that I couldn't be myself." "You shall not go to Mrs. Willoughby's again," said her father, decidedly. "Now please listen till I'm all through. He soon saw that I did not want to laugh, and stopped his nonsense. He wanted to become acquainted, friendly, you know; and finally I had to tell him that it couldn't be--that I must be governed by your wishes." "Ah, that was my dear, good, sensible girl!" "No, papa, I don't feel sensible at all. On the contrary, I have a mean, absurd feeling--just as if I had gone to Mrs. Willoughby's and slapped a child because it was a Northern child." He laughed at this remark, for she unconsciously gave the impression that she had been more repellant than had actually been true. He soon checked himself, however, and said gravely, "Ella, you take these things too seriously." "No, papa, it seems to me that it is you and Cousin and Mara who take these things too seriously. What harm has that young fellow ever done any of us?" "He could do me an immense deal of harm if you gave him your thoughts, and became even friendly. I should be exceedingly unhappy." "Oh, well! that isn't possible--I mean, that we should become friendly. I certainly won't permit him to speak to me in the streets, although I spoke to him once in the street. Oh, I'm going to tell you everything now!" and she related the circumstances of her first meeting with Houghton. "All this is very painful to me," her father said, with clouded brow. "But, as you say, it has come about without intention on your part. I am glad you have told me everything, for now I can better guard you from future mischances. My relations to this young man's father are such that it would make it very disagreeable, indeed, positively unendurable, if his son should seek your society. You should also remember that Mr. Houghton would be as bitterly hostile to any such course on his son's part as I am. Your pride, apart from my wishes, should lead you to repel the slightest advance." "I reckon your wishes will have the most influence, papa. I have too strong a sense of justice to punish the son on account of his father." "You cannot separate them, Ella. Think of our own relation. What touches one touches the other." "Well, papa, it's all over, and I've told you everything. Since I'm not to go to Mrs. Willoughby's any more, there is little probability that I shall meet him again, except in the street. If he bows to me, I shall return the courtesy with quiet dignity, for he has acted like a gentleman toward me, and, for the sake of my own self-respect, I must act like a lady toward him. If he seeks to talk to me, I shall tell him it is forbidden, and that will end it, for he is too honorable to attempt anything clandestine." "I'm not sure of that." "I am, papa. He wouldn't be such an idiot, for he understands me well enough to know what would be the result of that kind of thing. But he isn't that kind of a man." "How should you know what kind of a man he is?" "Oh, Heaven has provided us poor women with intuitions!" "True, to a certain extent, but the rule is proved by an awful lot of exceptions." "Perhaps if they were studied out, inclinations rather than intuitions were followed." "Well, my dear, we won't discuss these vague questions. Your duty is as simple and clear as mine is. Do as you have promised, and all will be well. I must now dress for dinner." And kissing her affectionately, he went up to his room. She took his seat, and looked vacantly out of the window, with a vague dissatisfaction at heart. Unrecognized fully as yet, the great law of nature, which brings to each a distinct and separate existence, was beginning to operate. As she had said to Mara, vital interests were looming up, new experiences coming, of which she could no more think his thoughts than he hers. Her face was a little clouded when she sat down to dinner, and she observed Mrs. Bodine looking at her keenly. Instinctively she sought to conceal her deeper feelings, and to become her mirthful self. "You have not told me about your call yet," the old lady remarked. "Well, I felt that papa should have the first recital. I met again the son of that old--ahem!--Mr. Houghton, and I have begun to ostracize him." "Ella," said her father, almost sternly, "do not speak in that way. Our feelings are strong, sincere, and well-grounded." "There, papa, I did not mean to reflect lightly upon them. Indeed, I was not thinking of them, but of Mr. Houghton." "Oh, Cousin Hugh! let the child talk in her own natural way. She wouldn't scratch one of your crutches with a pin, much less hurt you." "Forgive me, Ella," he said, "I misunderstood you." "Yes, in the main, papa, but to be frank, I don't enjoy this ostracizing business, and I hope I won't have any more of it to do." "There is no reason why you should. Cousin Sophy, there should be people enough in Charleston for Ella to visit without the chance of meeting Mr. Houghton, or any of his ilk." "So there are. I'll manage that. Well, Ella, how did you set about ostracizing young Houghton?" And the old lady began to laugh. "It's no laughing matter," said Ella, shaking her head ruefully. "He was frank and polite and respectful as any young gentleman would be under similar circumstances, and he wanted to become better acquainted, call on me, I suppose, and all that, but I had to tell him virtually that he was an objectionable person." "I would rather this subject should not be discussed any further," said her father gravely. "So would I," Ella added. "Papa and I have settled the matter, and Mr. Houghton is to recede below the horizon." The old lady thought that when Ella was alone with her she would get all the details of the interview, but she was mistaken. The girl not only grew more and more averse to speaking of Houghton, but she also felt that what he had said so frankly and sincerely to her was not a proper theme for gossip, even with kindly old Mrs. Bodine, and that a certain degree of loyalty was due to him, as well as to her father and cousin. The captain had some writing on hand that night, and Ella read aloud to her cousin till it was time to retire. Apparently the evening passed uneventfully away; yet few recognize the eventful hours of their lives. A subtle and mysterious change was taking place in the girl's nature which in time she would recognize. More than once she murmured, "How can I be hostile to him? He said he could no more do me wrong, even in his thoughts, than think evil of his dead mother. He said he would be better if I were his friend, and he is as good-hearted this minute as I am. Yet I must treat him as if he were not fit to be spoken to. Well, I reckon it will hurt me as much as it does him. There's some comfort in that." CHAPTER XXVII RECOGNIZED AS LOVER It was inevitable that Mara should pay the penalty of being at variance with nature and her own heart. The impulses of youth had been checked and restrained. Instead of looking forward, like Ella, she was turning ever backward, and drawing her inspiration from the past, and a dead, hopeless past, at that. It fell upon her like a shadow. All its incentive tended toward negation, prompting her to frown on changes, progress, and the hopefulness springing up in many hearts. The old can hug their gloom in a sort of complacent misanthropy; the young cannot. If they are unhappy they chafe, and feel in their deepest consciousness that something is wrong. Mara laid the blame chiefly upon Clancy, believing that, if he had taken the course adopted by Captain Bodine, she could have been happy with him in an attic. His words, at their interview, were not the only causes of her intense indignation and passion. Although she was incensed to the last degree, that he should charge Captain Bodine with such "preposterous" motives and intentions, she was also aware that her fierce struggles with her own heart, at the time, distracted and confused her. She could not maintain the icy demeanor she had resolved upon. Left to herself, the long afternoon and evening of the following day, she had time for many second thoughts. She was compelled to face in solitude the hard problems of her life. Anger died out, and its support was lost. She had driven away the only man she loved, or could ever love, and she had used language which he could never forget, or be expected to forgive. The more she thought of his motive in seeking the interview, the more perplexed and troubled she became. As now in calmer mood she recalled his words and manner, she could not delude herself with the belief that he came only in his own behalf, or that he was prompted by jealousy. She remembered the grim frankness with which he said virtually that he had nothing to hope from her, not even tolerance. She almost writhed under the fact that he had again compelled her to believe that, however mistaken, he was sincere and straightforward, that he truly thought that Bodine was lover rather than friend. She would not, could not, imagine that this was true, and yet she groaned aloud, "He has destroyed my chief solace. I was almost happy with my father's friend, and was coming to think of him almost as a second father. Now, when with him I shall have a miserable self-consciousness, and a disposition to interpret his words and manner in a way that will do him hateful wrong. Oh, what is there for me to look forward to? What is the use of living?" These final words indicated one of Mara's chief needs. She craved some motive, some powerful incentive, which could both sustain and inspire. Mere existence, with its ordinary pleasures and interests, did not satisfy her at all. Clancy's former question in regard to her devotion to the past and the dead, "What goodwill it do?" haunted her like a spectre. He had again made the dreary truth more clear, that there was nothing in the future to which she could give the strong allegiance of her soul. She would work for nothing, suffer for nothing, hope for nothing, except her daily bread. As she said, the friendship of Bodine was but a solace, great indeed, but inadequate to the deep requirements of a nature like hers. She knew she was leading a dual life--cold, reserved, sternly self-restrained outwardly, yet longing with passionate desire for the love she had rejected, and, since that was impossible, for something else, to which she could consecrate her life, with the feeling that it was worth the sacrifice. If she had been brought up in the Roman Catholic religion, she might have been led to the austere life of a nun. But, in her morbid condition, she was incapable of understanding the wholesome faith, the large, sweet liberty of those who remain closely allied to humanity in the world, yet purifying and saving it, by the sympathetic tenderness of Him who had "compassion on the multitude." She had still much to learn in the hard school of experience. The next day, Ella was nothing like so voluble as usual. Little frowns and moments of deep abstraction took the place of the mirthful smiles of the day before. Nevertheless, her strong love for Mara led her to speak quite freely of her experience during her call at Mrs. Willoughby's. As Mara's closest friend, she felt that reticence was a kind of disloyalty. It was also true that out of the abundance of her heart she was prone to speak. At the same time, the belief grew stronger hourly that she had a secret which she had not revealed, and could not reveal to any one. The more she thought over Houghton's words and manner, the more sure she became that his interest in her was not merely a passing fancy. Maidenly reserve, however, forbade even a hint of what might seem to others a conceited and indelicate surmise. She therefore gave only the humorous side of her meeting with Houghton again, and laughed at Mara's vexation. So far from being afraid of her friend, she rather enjoyed shocking her. At last she said, "There, Mara, don't take it so to heart. Papa says I must ostracize him, and so Goth and Vandal he becomes--the absurd idea!" "Your father would not require you to do anything absurd." "No, not what was absurd to him; but he does not know Mr. Houghton any more than you do. It's not only absurd, but it's wrong, from my point of view." "Oh, Ella, I'm sorry you feel so different from the rest of us." "Why do you feel different from so many others, Mara? It isn't to please this or that one, or because you have been told to think or to feel thus and so. You have your views and convictions because you are Mara Wallingford, and not someone else. Am I made of putty any more than you are, sweetheart?" Her words were like a stab to Mara, for the thought flashed into her mind, "I have required that Clancy should be putty under my will." Ella, in her simple common-sense, often made remarks which disturbed Mara's cherished belief that she was right and Clancy all wrong. As a very secondary matter of interest to her, Ella at last began to speak of Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "If ever a girl courted a man with her eyes that feminine riddle courts Mr. Clancy. I don't think I ever could be so far gone as to look at a man as she does at him, unless I was engaged." "How does he look at her?" Mara asked with simulated indifference. "Oh, there's some freemasonry between them, probably an engagement or an understanding! She expostulated against his going away as if she had the right. I don't think he cares for her as I would wish a man to care for me, for there was a humorous, half-reckless gleam in his eyes. It may be all natural enough though," she added musingly. "I don't believe Miss Ainsley could inspire an earnest, reverent love. A man wouldn't associate her in his thoughts with his dead mother." "What a strange expression! What put it into your mind?" "Oh," replied Ella hastily, and flushing a little, "I've been told that Mr. Clancy's parents are dead! A plague on them both, and all people that I can't understand--I don't mean the dead Clancys, but these two who are fooling like enough. You should be able to interpret Clancy better than I, for Cousin Sophy says you were once very good friends." "I cannot remain the friend of any one who is utterly out of sympathy with all that I believe is right and dignified." "Well, Mara, forgive me for saying it, but Mr. Clancy may have had convictions also." "Undoubtedly," replied Mara coldly, "but there can be no agreeable companionship between clashing minds." "No, I suppose not," said Ella, laughing; "not if each insists that both shall think exactly alike. It would be like two engines meeting on the same track. They must both back out, and go different ways." "Well, I've back out," Mara remarked almost sternly. "That's like you, Mara dear. Well, well, I hope the war will be over some day. By the way, papa told me to tell you that he was busy last evening, but that he would call this afternoon for a breathing with you on the Battery." At the usual hour the veteran appeared. Mara's greeting was outwardly the same; nevertheless, Clancy's words haunted her, and her old serene unconsciousness was gone. Now that her faculties were on the alert, she soon began to recognize subtle, unpremeditated indications of the light in which Bodine had begun to regard her, and a sudden fear and repugnance chilled her heart. "Was Clancy right after all?" she began to ask herself in a sort of dread and presentiment of trouble. Instinctively, and almost involuntarily, she grew slightly reserved and distant in manner, ceasing to meet his gaze in her former frank, affectionate way. With quick discernment he appreciated the change, and thought, "She is not ready yet, and, indeed, may never be ready." His manner, too, began to change, as a cloud gradually loses something of its warmth of color. Mara was grateful, and in her thoughts paid homage to his tact and delicacy. "Mara," he said, "has Ella told you of her experiences at Mrs. Willoughby's?" "Yes, quite fully. I should think, however, from her words that you were more truly her confidant." "Yes, she has acted very honorably, just as I should expect she would, and yet I am anxious about her. I wish she sympathized with us more fully in our desire to live apart from those who are inseparable in our thoughts from the memory of 'all our woes,' as Milton writes." "I have often expressed just this regret to Ella; but she loves us all, and especially you, so dearly that I have no anxiety about her action." "No, Mara, not her action; I can control that: but I should be sorry indeed if she became interested in this young man. There is often a perversity about the heart not wholly amenable to reason." Poor Mara thought she knew the truth of this remark if any one did, nor could she help fancying that her companion had himself in mind when he spoke. "Young Houghton," he resumed, "is beginning to make some rather shy, awkward advances, as if to secure my favor--a very futile endeavor as you can imagine. My views are changing in respect to remaining in his father's employ. The grasping old man would monopolize everything. I believe he would impoverish the entire South if he could, and I don't feel like remaining a part of his infernal business-machine." "I don't wonder you feel so!" exclaimed Mara warmly. "I don't like to think of your being there at all." "That settles it then," said Bodine quietly. "It would not be wise or honorable for me to act hastily. I must give Mr. Houghton proper notification, but I shall at once begin to seek other employment." Mara was embarrassed and pained by such large deference to her views, and her spirits grew more and more depressed with the conviction that Clancy was right. But she had been given time to think, and soon believed that her best, her only course, was to ignore that phase of the captain's regard, and to teach him, with a delicacy equal to his own, that it could never be accepted. "Moreover," resumed Bodine, "apart from my duty to Mr. Houghton--and I must be more scrupulous toward him than if he were my best friend--I owe it to Ella and my cousin not to give up the means of support, if I can honorably help it, until I secure something else. Houghton has held to our agreement both in spirit and letter, and I cannot complain of him as far as I am concerned." "I have confidence in your judgment, Captain, and I know you will always be guided by the most delicate sense of honor." "I hope so, Mara; I shall try to be, but with the best endeavor we often make mistakes. To tell the truth I am more anxious about Ella than myself. This young Houghton is, I fear, a rather hair-brained fellow. I've no doubt that he is sincere and well-meaning enough as rich and indulged young men of his class go, but he appears to me to be impetuous, and inclined to be reckless in carrying out his own wishes. Ella, in her inexperience, has formed far too good an opinion of him." "Well, Captain, I wouldn't worry about it. Ella is honest as the sunshine. They have scarcely more than met, and she will be guided by you. This episode will soon be forgotten." "Yes, I hope so; I think so. I shall count on your influence, for she loves you dearly." "I know," was the rather sad reply, "but Ella does not think and feel as I do. I wish she could become interested in some genuine Southern man." "That will come in time, all too soon for me, I fear," he said, with a sigh, "but I must accept the fact that my little bird is fledged, and may soon take flight. It will be a lonely life when she is gone." "She may not go far," Mara answered gently, "and she may enrich you with a son, instead of depriving you of a daughter." He shook his head despondently, and soon afterward accompanied her to her home. She knew there was something like an appeal to her in his eyes as he pressed her hand warmly in parting. By simply disturbing the blind confidence in which she had accepted and loved her father's friend, Clancy had given her sight. She saw the veteran in a new character, and she was distressed and perplexed beyond measure. Scarcely able, yet compelled to believe the truth, she asked herself all the long night, "How can I bear this new trouble?" CHAPTER XXVIII "HEAVEN SPEED YOU THEN" Aun' Sheba and Vilet entered at the usual hour the following day. The girls smiled and nodded in an absent sort of way, and then the old woman thought they seemed to forget all about her. She also observed that they were not so forward with the work as customary, and she watched them wonderingly yet shrewdly. Suddenly she sprang up, exclaiming, "Lor bress you, Missy Ella, dat de secon' time you put aw-spice in dat ar dough." Both the girls started nervously, and Ella began to laugh. "Missy Mara, you fergits some cake in de oben from de way it smell," and Aun' Sheba drew out cookies as black as herself instead of a delicate brown. Mara looked at them ruefully, and then said, "I must make some more, that's all." "Wot's de matter wid you bofe, honeys?" the old woman asked kindly. "Politics," Ella blurted out. "Polytics! No won'er you'se bofe off de handle. Dere's been only two times wen I couldn't stan' Unc. nohow. De fust an' wust was wen he get polytics on de brain, an' belebed dat ole guv'ner Moses was gwine ter lead de culud people to a promis' lan'. I alus tole him dat his Moses 'ud lead him into a ditch, an' so he did. De secon' time was wen he got sot on, but you knows all 'bout dat. You'se bofe too deep fer me. How you git into polytics I doan see nohow." "There, Aun' Sheba, don't you mind Ella's nonsense. We're no more into politics than you are." "You'se inter sump'in den." "Yes," said Ella, "we're still carrying on the war." "Please don't talk so, Ella." "Oh, Mara! I must have my nonsense. You've got the 'storied past'--that's how it's phrased, isn't it?--to sustain you, and I've only my nonsense." "Well, puttin' in aw-spice double is nonsense, shuah nuff," said Aun' Sheba, looking at the girl keenly. "Wot you want spicin' so fer all't once, Missy Ella? You peart, an' saucy as eber. I ony wish I could see Missy Mara lookin' like you." "You are getting old and blind, Aun' Sheba. I have a secret sorrow gnawing at my 'inards,' as you term those organs which keep people awake o' nights, gazing at the moon." "Yes, honey, Aun' Sheba gittin' bery ole an' bery blin', but she see dat dere's sump'in out ob kilter wid de inards ob you bofe. Well, well, I s'pose it's none ob de ole woman's business." "Ann' Sheba," cried Ella, with an exaggerated sigh, "if you could mend matters I'd come to you quicker than to any one else, you dear old soul! Well now, to tell you the honest truth, there isn't very much the matter with me, and there's a certain doctor that's going to cure me just as sure as this batter (holding up a spoonful) is going to be cake in ten minutes." "Who dat?" "Doctor Time--oh, get out!" At this instant an irate bumble-bee darted in, and Ella, in a spasmodic effort of self-defence, threw the spoon at it, and both went flying out of the window. The girl sat down half-crying, half-laughing in her vexation, while Aun' Sheba shook with mirth in all her ample proportions. "Dat ar cake's gwine to be dough for eber mo', Missy Ella," she said. "I'se feerd you'se case am bery serus. Yit I worries mo' 'bout Missy Mara. Heah now, honey, you jes dun beat out. You sit down an' Missy Ella an' me'll finish up in a jiffy. I reckon Missy Ella ony got a leetle tantrum dis mawnin, but you'se been a wuckin' an' tinkin' too hard dis long time." "Yes, Aun' Sheba," cried Ella, "that's the trouble. Let's you and I take the business out of her hands for a time, and make her a silent partner." "She too silent now. Bofe oh you gittin' ter be silent par'ners. In de good ole times I'd heah you chatterin' as I come up de stars, an' to-day you was bofe right smart ways off from dis kitchen in you mins. Mum, mum, tinkin' deep, bofe ob you. Eysters ud make a racket long ob you uns dis mawnin'." "There, Aun' Sheba," said Mara, kindly, "don't you worry about us. This is July, and in August we'll take a rest. You deserve and need it as much as either of us. I'll get well and strong then, and you know it makes people worse to tell them they don't look well and all that." Aun' Sheba gave a sort of dissatisfied grunt, but she helped the girls through with their tasks in her own deft way, and departed with Vilet, who was always very quiet and shy except when at home. "Well," said Ella, giving herself a little shake, when they were alone, "I'm going to get over my nonsense at once." "What's troubling you, Ella?" "Oh, I hardly know myself. What's troubling you? We both seem out of sorts. Do let us be sensible and jolly. Now if we both had a raging toothache we'd have some excuse for melancholy. Good-by, dear, I'll be up with the lark to-morrow, and we'll make a lark of our work;" and she started homeward, with her cherry lips sternly compressed in her resolution to be her old mirthful self. In the energy of her purpose she began to walk faster and faster. "There now, Ella Bodine," she muttered, "since it's your duty to ostracize and bake, _ostracize_ and _bake_, and be done with your ridiculous fancies." And she swiftly turned the corner of a street, as if, under the inspiration of a great purpose, she was entering upon a new and wiser course. The result was, she nearly ran over George Houghton. Looking up, she saw him standing, hat in hand, with a broad, glad smile on his face. "You almost equal that express-wagon," he said. "Are you going for the doctor?" Her mouth twitched nervously, but she managed to say, "Good-morning, Mr. Houghton, I'm in haste," and on she went. He saw her head go down. Was she laughing or crying? The latter possibility brought him to her side instantly. "Are you in trouble?" he asked very kindly. "Isn't there something--oh, I see you are laughing at me," and his tones proved that his feelings were deeply hurt. Her mirth ceased at once. "No, Mr. Houghton," she replied, looking up at him with frank directness, "I was not laughing at _you_, but I could not help laughing at what you said. I'm in no trouble, nor shall I be if--if--well, you know what I told you. We must be strangers, you know," and she went on again as if her feet were winged. "I don't know anything of the kind," he muttered, as he turned on his heel and slowly pursued his way to his father's counting-rooms. Entering he paused an instant and looked grimly at Bodine, whose head was bent over his writing. "I'll tackle you next, old gentleman," was his thought. Punctually to a minute he called on Mrs. Willoughby when the week had expired. She looked into his resolute face and surmised before he spoke that time and reflection had not inclined him to a prudent withdrawal from a very doubtful suit. Nevertheless she said: "Well, you've had a little time to think, and you probably see now that your wisest course will be to give up this little affair utterly." "Pardon me, Mrs. Willoughby, I've had an age in which to think, and it's not a little affair to me. I did not quite understand myself when I last saw you--it was all so new, strange, and heavenly. But I understand myself now. Ella Bodine shall be my wife unless she finally rejects me, unless she herself makes me sure that it's of no use to try. What's more, it will take years to prove this. As long as she does not belong to another I'll never give up." "She belongs to her father." "No, not in this sense. She has the right of every American girl to choose her husband." "Do you mean to defy her father?" "No, I mean to go to him like a gentleman, and ask permission to pay my addresses to his daughter. I mean to do this before I say one word of love to her." "Since you are so resolved upon your course you do not need any more advice from me." "I don't mean that at all. Isn't this the right, honorable course?" "Oh, your royalty wishes me to applaud your decrees and decisions," she said laughing. "Now please don't be hard on me, Mrs. Willoughby. I've followed your advice with all my might for a week." "Done nothing with all your might?" "Yes, and you couldn't have given me a harder task." "Are you of age?" "Yes, I am. I'm twenty-two, however immature I may seem to you." "Miss Bodine is not of age." "Well, I'll wait till she is." "Wouldn't that be better? Wait till she is of age, and more capable of judging and acting for herself. Time may soften her father's feelings, and your father's also, for, believe me, you are going to have as much trouble at home as with Captain Bodine, that is, supposing that Ella would listen to your suit." "And while I'm idly biting my nails through the creeping years some level-headed Southerner will quietly woo and win her. I would deserve to lose her, should I take such a course." "You certainly would have to take that risk; but perhaps you will incur greater risks by too hasty action." "Be sincere with me now, Mrs. Willoughby. I don't believe you women like timid, pusillanimous men. How could I appear otherwise to Miss Bodine if I should withdraw, like a growling bear into winter quarters, there to hibernate indefinitely? The period wouldn't be life to me, scarcely tolerable existence. What could she know about my motives and feelings? I tell you my love is as sacred as my faith in God. I'm proud of it, rather than ashamed. I wish her to know it, no matter what the result may be, and I don't care if all the world knows it, too." "You mean to tell your father then?" "Certainly, at the proper time." "Suppose you find him utterly opposed to it all?" "I do not think I shall; not when he sees my happiness is at stake. He may fume over it for a time, but when he comes to know Ella she'll disarm him. Why, it's just as clear to me as that I see you, that she could make the old gentleman happier than he has been for over a quarter of a century." "My poor young friend! I wish I could share in your sanguine feelings." "Oh, I'm not so very sanguine about her. What she will do worries me far more than what the old people will do." "Well, you are right there. The old people are the outworks, she the citadel, which you can never capture unless she chooses to surrender." "That's true, but I don't believe she ever would surrender to a man who was afraid to approach even the outworks." Mrs. Willoughby laughed softly as she admitted, "Perhaps you are right." "If I'm not, my whole manhood is at fault," he replied earnestly. "Please tell me, haven't I decided on the right, honorable course--on what would seem honorable to Captain Bodine and to Ella also?" "Yes, if you _will_ act now you can take no other." "Well, won't you please approve of it?" "Mr. Houghton, I'm not going to be timid and pusillanimous either. Since you are of age, and will take a perfectly honorable course, I will stand by you as a friend. I will still counsel you, if you so wish, for I fear that your troubles have only begun." "I thank you from my heart," he said, seizing her hand and pressing it warmly. "I do need and wish your counsel, for I have very little tact. I can sail a boat better than I can manage an affair like this." "Will you make me one solemn promise?" "Yes, if I can." "Then pledge me your word that you will not lose your temper with either Captain Bodine or your father." "Oh, I think I can easily do that," he said good-humoredly. "You don't know, you can't imagine, how you may be tried." "Well, it's a sensible thing you ask, and I've sense enough to know it. I pledge you my word. If I break it, it will be because I'm pushed beyond mortal endurance." "Mr. Houghton," she said, almost sternly, "you must not break it, no matter what is said or what happens. You would jeopardize everything if you did. You might lose Ella's respect." He drew a long breath. "You make me feel as if I were going into a very doubtful battle," he said thoughtfully. "It is a very doubtful battle. It certainly will be a hard, and probably a long one, and you will lose it if you don't keep cool." "I can be very firm, I suppose." "Yes, as firm and decided as you please, as long as you are quiet and gentlemanly in your words. Let me say one thing more," she added, very gravely. "If you enter on this affair, and then, in any kind of weakness or fickleness, give it up, I shall despise you, and so will all in this city who know about it. Count the cost. I'm too true a Southerner to look at you again if you trifle with a Southern girl. Your father will offer you great inducements to abandon this folly, as he will term it." He flushed deeply, but only said, in quiet emphasis, "If I ever give up, except for reasons satisfactory to you, I shall despise myself far more than you can despise me." "And you give me your word that you will keep your temper to the very end?" "Yes, Heaven helping me, I will." "Heaven speed you then, my friend." CHAPTER XXIX CONSTERNATION Young Houghton was like a high-mettled steed, from which the curb had been removed. His temperament, even more than the impatience of youth, led him to chafe at delay, and Ella appeared so lovely, so exactly to his mind, that he had a nervous dread lest others should equally appreciate her, and forestall his effort to secure her affection. He resolved, therefore, that not an hour should be lost, and so went directly back to his father's counting-rooms. Bodine was writing as usual at his desk, and Houghton looked at him with an apprehension thus far unknown in his experience. But he did not hesitate. "Captain Bodine," he said, with a little nervous tremor in his voice, "will you be so kind as to grant me a private interview this evening?" The veteran looked at him coldly as he asked, "May I inquire, sir, your object in seeking this interview?" "I will explain fully when we are alone. I cannot here, but will merely say that my motives are honorable, as you yourself will admit." Bodine contracted his brows in painful thought for a moment. "I may as well have it out with him at once," was his conclusion. "Very well, sir, I will remain after the office is closed," he said frigidly, then turned to his writing. George went to his desk in his father's private room, and there was a very grim, set look on his face also. "I understand you, my future father-in-law," he murmured softly. "You think you are going to end this affair in half an hour. We'll see." The afternoon was very warm, and his father said kindly, "Come, George, knock off for to-day. I'm going home and shall try to get a nap before dinner." "That's right, father; do so by all means. I have an engagement this evening, so please don't wait dinner for me." His thought was, "If I'm to keep my temper I can't tackle more than one the same day; yet I don't believe my father will be obdurate. If I succeed, the time will come when he'll thank me with all his heart." Mr. Houghton had no disposition to control his son in small matters, and the young fellow came and went at his own will. Thus far his frankness and general good behavior had inspired confidence. His tastes had always inclined to athletic, manly sports, and these are usually at variance with dissipation of every kind. The impatient youth had not long to wait. The clerks soon departed, and the colored janitor entered on his labors. Bodine remained writing quietly until George came and said, "Will you be so kind as to come to the private office?" The veteran deliberately put his desk in order, and followed the young man without a word. There was still an abundance of light in which to see each other's faces, and George observed that Bodine's expression boded ill. He took a seat in silence, and looked at the flushed face of the youth coldly and impassively. "Captain Bodine," George began hesitatingly, "you can make this interview very hard for me, and I fear you will do so. Yet you are a gentleman, and I wish to act and speak as becomes one also." Bodine merely bowed slightly. "I will use no circumlocution. You have been a soldier, and so will naturally prefer directness. I wish your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter." "I cannot grant it." "Please do not make so hasty a decision, sir. I fear that you are greatly prejudiced against me, but--" "No, sir," interrupted Bodine, "I am not prejudiced against you at all. I have my own personal reasons for taking the ground I do, and it is not necessary to discuss them. I think our interview may as well end at once." "Captain Bodine, you will admit that I have acted honorably in this matter. Since your daughter told me that you were averse to our acquaintance, I have made no effort to see her." "Certainly, sir, that was right and honorable. Any other course would not have been so." "It is my purpose to maintain a strictly honorable and straightforward course in this suit." "Do you mean to say that you will pursue this suit contrary to my wishes?" "Certainly. There is no law, human or divine, which forbids a man from loving a good woman, and Miss Bodine is good if any one is." "How do you propose to carry on this suit?" the captain asked sternly. "I scarcely know yet, but in no underhand way. I must ask you to inform Miss Bodine of this interview." "Suppose I decline to do this?" "Then I shall make it known to her myself." "In other words, you defy me." "Not at all, not in the sense in which you speak. I shall take no action whatever without your knowledge." "You must remember that my daughter is not of age." "I do not dispute your right in the least to control her action till she is, but I shall not take the risk of losing her by timidity and delay. Others will appreciate her worth as well as myself. I wish her to know that I love her, and would make her my wife." "You appear to think that this is all that is essential so far as she is concerned," said Bodine, in bitter sarcasm. "You do me wrong, sir," Houghton replied, flushing hotly. "Even if you should give your full consent, I, better than any one, know that my suit would be doubtful. But it would be hopeless did I not reveal to her my feelings and purposes." "If she herself, then, informs you that it is hopeless, that would end the matter?" "Certainly, after years of patient effort to induce her to think otherwise." "I do not think you have shown any patience thus far, sir. You have scarcely more than met her before you enter, recklessly and selfishly, on a 'suit,' as you term it, which can only bring wretchedness to her and to those who have the natural right to her allegiance and love." "You do me wrong again, Captain Bodine. I am no more reckless or selfish than any other man who would marry the girl he loves. By reason of circumstances over which I had no control I have met Miss Bodine, and she has inspired a sacred love, such as her mother inspired in you. You can find no serious fault with me personally, and I am not responsible for others. I have my own life to make or mar, and never to win Miss Bodine would mar it wofully. I am an educated man and her equal socially, although she is greatly my superior in other respects. I have the means with which to support her in affluence. I mean only good toward her and you. This is neither selfishness nor recklessness." "Have you spoken to Mr. Houghton of your intentions?" "Not yet, but I shall." "You will find him as bitterly opposed to it all as I am." "I think not. I shall be sorry beyond measure if you are right, but it can make no difference." "You will defy him also, then?" "I object to the use of that word, Captain Bodine. In availing myself of my inalienable rights I defy no one." "Have I no rights in my own child? Your purpose is to rob me as ruthlessly as our homes were desolated years since." "I am not responsible for the past, any more than I am for your prejudices against me. My purpose is simple and honorable, as much so as that of any other man who may ask you for your daughter's hand." "Mr. Houghton," said Bodine, rising, "there is no use in prolonging this painful and intensely disagreeable interview. I said to your father in this office that our relations could be only those of business. Even these shall soon cease. I now understand you, sir. Of course the past is nothing to you, and you are bent on obtaining what you imagine you wish at the present moment, without any regard to others. Let me tell you once for all there can be no alliance between your house and mine. I would as soon bury my daughter as see her married to you. I do find fault with you personally. You are headlong and inconsiderate. You would lay your hands on the best you can find in the South just as your armies and politicians have done. But you proceed further at your peril--do you comprehend me?--at your peril," and the veteran's eyes gleamed fiercely. "Captain Bodine," said George, also rising, "you cannot make me lose my temper. I shall give you no just reason for saying that I am headlong. I wish you could be more calm and fair yourself. Before we part one point must be settled. My request must be met in one way or the other. If you will give me your word that you will repeat the purport of what I have said to Miss Bodine, I will make no effort to do so myself. However hostile you may be to me, I know that you are a man of honor, and I will trust you. I merely wish Miss Bodine to know that I love her and am willing to wait for her till I am gray." "You wish me to tell her that you will wait and pray for my death, and seek to lead her to do likewise," was the angry reply. "It is useless for me to protest against your unjust and bitter words. The trust that I offer to repose in you entitles me to better courtesy." By a great effort Bodine regained self-control, and balanced himself for a few moments on his crutches in deep thought. At last he said, "I accept the trust, and will be as fair to you as it is possible for an outraged father to be. I forbid that you should have any communication with my daughter whatever, and I shall forbid her to receive any from you. What is more, you must take her answer as final." "I promise only this, Captain Bodine, that I shall take no action without your knowledge. I shall trust you implicitly in repeating the purport of this interview. The moment that I looked into your face I recognized that you were a gentleman, and I again apologize for my rude remark before I knew who you were. Good-evening, sir." Bodine bowed stiffly, and departed with many conflicting emotions surging in his breast, none of them agreeable. He scarcely knew whether he had acted wisely or not. Indeed, the impression grew upon him that he had been worsted in the encounter, that George, in making him his messenger to Ella, had acted with singular astuteness. This was true, but the young man's action was not the result of the Yankee shrewdness with which the veteran was disposed to credit him. A simple, straightforward course is usually the wisest one, and George instinctively knew that Ella would appreciate such openness on his part. He was left in a very anxious and perturbed condition, it is true, but in his heart he again thanked Mrs. Willoughby for putting him so sacredly on his guard against his hasty temper. Absorbed in thought, he sat till the gloom of night gathered in the office; then the shuffling feet of the impatient janitor aroused him. Solacing the old man with a dollar, he went out hastily, and walked a mile or two to work off his nervous excitement, then sought a restaurant, muttering, "I haven't reached the point of losing my appetite yet." By the time Bodine reached home he was much calmer, and disposed to take a much more hopeful view of the affair. He again concluded that after all it was best that he should be the one to inform Ella, and thus keep the matter entirely within his own hands. Believing her to be as yet untouched by anything that Houghton might have said to her, he felt quite sure that he could readily induce her to take the same attitude toward the objectionable suitor which he proposed to maintain to the end. He found her and his cousin very anxious about his late return--an anxiety not allayed by his grim, stern expression. "I have been detained by an unpleasant interview," he said. "With that old--" "No, not with Mr. Houghton. I will explain after dinner." With the swiftness of light, Ella surmised the truth, and made but a very indifferent repast. Her father noted this, and asked himself, "Could she have known of his purpose?" Then he reproached himself inwardly for entertaining the thought. The meal was comparatively a silent one, and soon over; then they all went to Mrs. Bodine's room. "I wish you to be present, Cousin Sophy," said the captain, "for I have a very disagreeable task to perform, and I can scarcely trust myself to do it fairly. You must prompt me if you think I do not. Ella, my dear and only child, I trust that you will receive the message, which, in a sense, I have been compelled to bring you, in the right spirit I feel sure that you will do so, and that your course now and hereafter will continue to give me that same deep, glad peace at heart which your fidelity to duty and your devotion to me have always inspired. You have my happiness now in your hands as never before; but I do not fear that you will fail me. The son of the man whom we all detest, and whose employ I shall leave presently, has asked permission to pay you his addresses." She turned pale as he spoke so gravely, and trembled visibly. "Why do you tell me this, papa?" she faltered. "I would rather not have known it." "Because he requested me to tell you. Because he said he wished you to know that he loved you, and that if I did not tell you he would himself;" and he looked at her keenly. "Then," cried Ella, impetuously, "although I may never speak to him again, I say he has acted honorably. I told you that he was incapable of anything clandestine." "I trust that you never will speak to him again," said her father, almost sternly. "I have forbidden him to have any communication with you, and I certainly forbid your speaking with him again." "Father," said Ella, gently, with tears in her eyes, "I do not deserve that you should speak to me in that tone. I've always tried to obey you." "Forgive me, Ella, but I have been intensely annoyed by the interview inflicted upon me, and I cannot think of it, or of his preposterous course, with patience. Moreover, pardon me for saying it, you have shown a friendly interest in him which it has been very painful to note." "I've only tried to be fair to him, papa." "Please try merely to forget him, Ella--to think nothing about him whatever." "I shall try to obey you, papa; but you are too old and wise to tell me not to think. As well tell me not to breathe." "Ella," began her father sternly, "can you mean--" "Now, Hugh," interrupted his cousin, "be careful you don't do more mischief than young Houghton can possibly accomplish. How men do bungle in these matters! Hough-ton hasn't bungled, though. His making you his messenger strikes me as the shrewdest Yankee trick I ever heard of." "I had the same impression on my way home," admitted Bodine, irritably. Ella felt that she owed no such deference to Mrs. Bodine as she did to her father, and, with an ominous flash in her eyes, said decidedly, "You are bungling, Cousin Sophy. George Houghton is incapable of what you term a Yankee trick. I will be pliant under all motives of love and duty to my father, but you must not outrage my sense of justice. You must remember that I have a conscience, as truly as you have." "There, forgive me, Ella. You've seen the young fellow, and I haven't. Cousin Hugh, remember that Ella has your spirit, and the spirit of her ancestors. Show her what is right and best, and she will do it." Bodine looked at his daughter in deep perturbation. Could that flushed, beautiful woman be his little Ella? With an indescribable pang he began to recognize that she was becoming a woman, with an independent life of her own. The greatness of the emergency calmed him, as all strong minds are quieted by great and impending danger. "Ella," he said, gently and sadly, "I do not wish to treat you as a little, foolish girl, but as becomes your years. I wish your conscience and reason to go with mine. You know that your happiness is the chief desire of my life. There could be no happiness for either of us in such a misalliance. The father of this hasty youth will be as bitterly opposed to it all as I am. We belong to different camps, and can never have anything in common. You know my motive in taking employment from him. I have thought better of it, and shall now leave his office as soon as I can honorably. I don't wish to outrage your sense of justice, Ella, and I will mention one other essential point in the interview. I told young Houghton that he must accept your answer as final, and that he would proceed further at his peril, and he said he would only take a final answer from you after years of patient waiting and wooing. How he proposes to do the latter I do not know, nor does he know himself. He did say, however, that he would take no action without my knowledge. You see that I am trying to be just to him." "I would like to ask one question, papa. Did he use any angry, disrespectful language toward you?" Bodine winced under this question, but said plainly, "No, he did not. He apologized for the third time for a hasty remark he once made before he knew who I was. He said that he recognized that I was a gentleman then, and that he would trust me as such to deliver his message." The girl drew a long breath as if a deep cause for anxiety had been removed. "Oh, come now, Cousin Hugh, you and Ella are taking this matter too much to heart. Why, Lor bless you! I had nearly a dozen offers by the time I was Ella's age. There is nothing tragic about this young fellow or his proceedings. Indeed, I think with Ella, that he has done remarkably well, wonderfully well, considering. Nine out of ten of his kind wouldn't be so scrupulous. He has done neither you nor Ella any wrong, only paid you the highest compliment in his power. Regard it as such, and let the matter end there. He can't marry Ella out of hand any more than he can me." At this the girl, seeing inevitably the comic side of everything, burst into a laugh. "Cousin Sophy," she cried, "you surpass Solomon himself. Come, dear papa, let us try to be sensible. Of course Mr. Houghton can't marry me without your consent or mine." "Then I may tell him that you will never give your consent--that what he terms his suit must end at once and forever?" She again became very pale, and did not answer immediately. "Ella, my only child, the hope and solace of my life, can you hesitate?" With a rush of tears, she threw herself upon his neck, and sobbed, "Tell him that I will never do anything without your consent." Then she fled to her own room. The captain and Mrs. Bodine sat looking at each other in consternation. CHAPTER XXX TEMPESTS On his return home George found his father reading such of the Boston papers as most nearly reflected his own views, and in which he had lost none of his early interest. He had always looked upon himself somewhat in the light of an exile, and it had been his purpose to return to his native State; but as time passed, a dread of its harsh climate had begun to reconcile him to the thought of ending his days in Charleston. All morbid tendencies strengthen, if indulged. The desire, therefore, to remain near the watery grave of his eldest son increased. Allied to this motive was the pleasure of accumulating money, the excitement of business, and exultation over the fact that he was taking tens of thousands from his enemies. As far as possible he invested his capital at the North. The people among whom he dwelt knew this, knew that, unlike Mr. Ainsley, he was doing as little as possible to build up the section from which he was drawing his wealth. George, as yet, had not been inducted into the spirit or knowledge of his father's business methods, for the old man had believed that the time for this had not come. Moreover, as the merchant became better acquainted with the maturer character of his son, he became convinced that George would not, indeed could not, carry on the business as he had. There was a large, tolerant good-nature about the youth which would render it impossible for him to deal with any one in his father's spirit. He had not known his elder brother, and was merely proud of his record as that of a brave soldier who had died in the performance of duty. George was like many of the combatants, both Union and Confederate, capable of fighting each other to the death during the war, but ready to shake hands after the battle was over. No one understood this disposition better than Mr. Houghton, and he felt that the South was no place for George. He wished his son to go back to Massachusetts, where wealth and influence would open the way for a brilliant career; and the old man already saw in imagination his name famous in the Old Commonwealth. He had been thinking over this scheme on the present evening, and his mind was full of it when George entered. "Glad to see you so early," he said genially. "Had a good dinner? Yes; well, then, sit down a while, for I wish to talk to you. I've had a good nap, and so won't need to go to bed very early. Well, my boy, you've reached that age when you should take your bearings for your future career." "Why, father, I've always expected to go into business with you, and gradually relieve you of its burdens and cares." "No, George, that wouldn't be best; that wouldn't suit me at all. You are fitted for something better and larger. You wouldn't carry on the business as I do, and that would lead to differences between us. I couldn't stand that. The iron entered into my soul before you were born. Your brother had equal promise with yourself, and, to put it very mildly, I have no love for those who destroyed him. I do business with them, but in much the same spirit that Antonio dealt with the Jew on the Rialto. You would not do this, nor could I expect you to. The accursed crime of rebellion has not smitten your soul as with lightning, nor broken your heart. The young fall into the ways of those with whom they live, and I wish you to have as little to do with this Southern people as possible. There is no career for you in this city, but in your native State you can become almost what you please. If, for instance, with your splendid health you entered upon the study of law and mastered it, I have influence and wealth enough to advance you rapidly, until by your own grip you can climb to the top of the ladder. You can then eventually marry into one of the best families in the State, and thus at the same time secure happiness and double your chances of success." George listened aghast as his father proceeded complacently, and with a touch of enthusiasm rarely indulged. He was sitting by an open window, at some distance from Mr. Houghton, the darkness concealing his face. He now began to realize the truth of Mrs. Willoughby's belief and Bodine's conviction, that he might find as much trouble at home as elsewhere. It quickly became clear to him that he must reveal the truth at once, but how to set about it he scarcely knew, and he hesitated like one on the brink of icy water. What he considered a bright thought struck him, and he said, "Speaking of marrying, you never told me how you came to marry mother." "Oh!" replied the old man dreamily, "I was almost brought up to marry her. She was the daughter of a near neighbor and dear friend of my father's. Your mother and I played together as children. I scarcely think we knew when our mutual affection changed into love--it all came about so gradually and naturally--and the union gave the deepest satisfaction to both families. Ah! George, George, your brother's death shortened the life of your mother, and left me very sad and lonely. I can never forgive this people for the irreparable injuries they have done to me and mine. I know you cannot feel as I do; but love of country and your affection for me should lead you to stand aloof from those who are still animated by the old, diabolical spirit which caused the death of such brave fellows as your brother, and broke the hearts of such women as your mother." His son's distress was so deep that he buried his face in his hands. "I don't wonder that your feelings are touched by my reminiscences, George," and the old man wiped tears from his own eyes. "Oh, father!" cried the son, springing up, and placing his hand on the old man's shoulder, "I'm going to test your love for me severely. You are right in saying I cannot feel as you do. I did not know that you felt so strongly. I've given my love to a Southern girl." Moments of oppressive silence followed this announcement, and the old man's face grew stern and rigid. "Father, listen patiently," George began. "She is not to blame for the past, nor am I. If you only knew how good and noble and lovely she is--" "Who is she? What is her name?" "Ella Bodine." "What! A relative of that double-dyed rebel in my office?" "His daughter." "George Houghton!" and his father sprang up, and confronted his son with a visage distorted by anger. Never had the youth called forth a look like that, and he trembled before the passion he had evoked. "Father," he said entreatingly, "sit down. Do not look at me so, do not speak to me till you are calm. Remember I am your son." The old man paced the room for a few moments in strong agitation, for he had been wounded at his most vulnerable point. The thought that his only son would ally himself with those whom he so detested, and whom for years he had sought to punish, almost maddened him. As we have seen before, there was a slumbering volcano in this old man's breast when adequate causes called it into action, and now the deepest and strongest forces of his nature were awakened. At last he said in a constrained voice: "I hope you also will remember that I am your father. It would appear that you had forgotten the fact, when you made love to one whom I never can call daughter." "I have not made love to her yet. You--" "Has she been making love to you then?" "Father, please don't speak in that way. There never were harsh words between us before, and there must not be now." Again the dreadful silence fell between them, but it was evident that Mr. Houghton was making a great effort for self-control. "You are right, George," he said at last. "I have never spoken to you before as I have to-night, and, I hope to God, I may never have cause to do so again. I have not been a harsh father, nor have I inflicted my unhappiness on you. I have given you large liberty, the best education that you would take, and ample means with which to enjoy yourself. I had expected that in return you would consult my wishes in some vital matters--as vital to your happiness as mine. I never dreamed that such incredible folly as you have mentioned was possible. Your very birthright precluded the idea. You said that you would have to test my love severely. I shall not only have to test your love, but also your reason, your common-sense, almost your sanity. What is thought of a man who throws away everything for a pretty face?" "That I shall never do, father. The beauty in Ella Bodine's face is but the reflex of her character." "That's what every enamored fool has said from the beginning of time," replied Mr. Houghton, in strong irritation. "What chance have you had to learn her character? I know more about the girl and her connections than you do. She works with that Wallingford girl, and that old fire-eater, Mrs. Hunter, in the baking trade. She lives with her cousin old Mrs. Bodine, who thinks of little else than what she is pleased to consider her blue blood, forgetting that it is not good, loyal, American blood. This little patch of a State is more to her than the Union bequeathed to us by our fathers. As to Bodine himself, if the South rose again, he'd march away on his crutches with the rebellious army. Can you soberly expect to live among such a set of people? Can you expect me to fraternize with them, to stultify all my life, to trample on my most sacred convictions, to be disloyal to the memory of wife and son, who virtually perished by the action of just such traitors?" and he laughed in harsh, bitter protest. George sat down, again buried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud. "You may well groan, young man, when you face the truth which you have so strangely forgotten. But come, I'm not one to yield weakly to any such monstrous absurdity. You are young and strong, and should have a spirit equal to your stature and muscle. You have not made love to this girl, you say. Never do it. Steer as wide of her as you would of a whirlpool, and all will soon be well. I won't believe that a son of mine can be so wretchedly, miserably, and contemptibly weak as to throw himself away in this fashion." George was silent and overwhelmed. His father's words had opened an abyss at his feet. He loved the old man tenderly and gratefully, and, under his burning, scathing words, felt at the time that his course was black ingratitude. Even if he could face the awful estrangement which he saw must ensue, the thought of striking such a blow at his father's hopes, affection and confidence made him shudder in his very soul. It might be fatal even to a life already held in the feeble grasp of age. He could not speak. At last Mr. Houghton resumed, very gravely, and yet not unkindly: "You are not the first one of your age who has been on the verge of an irreparable blunder. Thank God it is not too late for you to retreat! Do not let this word jar upon you, for it often requires much higher courage and manhood to retreat than to advance. To do the latter in this case would be as foolhardy as it would be wrong and disastrous to all concerned. It would be as fatal to me as to you, for I could not long survive if I learned that I had been leaning on such a broken reed. It would be fatal to you, for I would not leave my money so you could enrich these people. You would have nothing in the world but the pretty face for which you sold your birthright. I will say no more now, George. You will wake in the morning a sane man, and my son. Good-night." "Good-night, father," George answered in a broken voice. Then, when alone, he added bitterly: "Wake! When shall I sleep again?" The eastern horizon was tinged with light before, exhausted by his fierce mental conflict, he sank into a respite of oblivion. For a long time he wavered, love for his father tugging at his heart with a restraining power far beyond that of words which virtually were threats. "He could keep his money," the young fellow groaned, "if I could only keep his affection and confidence, if I could only be sure that I would not harm his life and health. I could be happy in working as a day-laborer for her." At last he came to a decision. He had given both his love and his word to Ella. She only could reject the one, and absolve him from the other. He was troubled to find that the forenoon had nearly passed when he awoke. Dressing hastily, he went down to make inquiries for his father. "Marse Houghton went to de sto' at de us'l time," said the colored waiter. "He lef word not to 'sturb you, an' ter hab you'se breakfus' ready." George merely swallowed a cup of coffee, and then hastened down town. Meanwhile, events had occurred at the office which require attention. A very few moments after Mr. Houghton entered his private room he touched a bell. To the clerk who entered he said, "Take this letter to Mr. Bodine." The veteran's face was as rigid and stern with his purpose as the employer was grim in his resolves; but when the captain read the curt note handed to him, his face grew dark with passion. It ran as follows: "MR. BODINE--I have no further need of your services. Inclosed find check for your wages to the end of the month." The captain sat still a few moments to regain self-control then quietly put his desk in order. He next halted to the private office, and the two men looked steadily and un-blenchingly into each other's eyes for a moment. Then the Southerner began sternly, "That hair-brained son of yours has told you of the interview he forced upon me last night." "This is my private office, sir," replied Mr. Houghton, with equal sternness. "You have no right to enter it, or to use such language." "Yes, sir, I have the right. Were it not for the folly and presumption of your headlong boy, I would have left your employ quietly in a few days, and had nothing more to do with you or yours. To save my daughter annoyance from his silly sentimentality I was compelled to come into this hated place wherein you concoct your schemes to suck dry our Southern blood. He asked for permission to pay his addresses to my daughter, and I forbade it. I told him that he could only do so at his peril." "You are certainly right, sir. I also have told him that he would do so at his peril." "I also told him that I would rather bury my daughter than see her married to him." "Truly, sir, I never imagined we could agree so perfectly on any question," was Mr. Houghton's sarcastic reply. "Can we not now part with this clear understanding? I have much to attend to this morning." "I have but one word more, and then trust I am through with his sentimentality and your insolence. Tell the boy that my daughter says she will have nothing to do with him without my consent. Now if there is even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he will leave us alone. Good-morning, sir." And tearing the check in two, he dropped it on the floor and halted away. Mr. Houghton coolly and contemptuously turned to his writing till the door closed on Bodine, and then he smiled and rubbed his hands in self-felicitation. "This is better than I had hoped," he said. "I've often laughed at the idiotic pride of these black-blooded, rather than blue-blooded, fire-eaters, but I shall bless it hereafter." "As you virtually say, you hardened old rebel, if George is worth the powder to blow him up, he'll drop you all now as if you had the plague. I've only to tell him what you and your doll-daughter have said." CHAPTER XXXI "I ABSOLVE YOU" When George reached the counting-rooms, he saw that Bodine was not in his accustomed place. Surmising the truth at once, he hastened to his father's room, and asked almost sternly: "Where is Captain Bodine?" "I neither know nor care," was the cool reply. "He is dismissed from my service." "You have acted unjustly, sir," his son began hotly, "you have punished him for my--" "George," interrupted his father gravely, "remember what you said about angry words between us." The young man paced the office excitedly for a few moments in silence and then sat down. "That's right," resumed his father quietly. "I am glad you are able to attain self-control, for you now require the full possession of all your faculties. Fortunately for both of us, this man, Bodine, has said more than enough to end this folly forever," and he began to repeat the conversation which had taken place. At a certain point George started, and, looking at his father with a shocked expression, asked, "Did you mean, sir, that you also would rather see me buried than married to a good woman whom I love?" "That is your way of putting it," replied Mr. Houghton, somewhat disconcerted, for his son's tone and look smote him sorely. "You will understand my feelings better when you have heard that rebel's final words;" and he repeated them, ending with the sentences, "'Tell the boy that my daughter says she will have nothing to do with him without my consent. Now if there is even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he will leave us alone.' In this final remark I certainly do agree with him most emphatically," concluded the old man sternly. "Any human being, possessing a particle of self-respect, would prefer death to the humiliation and dishonor of seeking to force himself on such people." "I suppose you are right, sir, but I cannot help having my own thoughts." "Well, what are they?" "That the girl has met in her home the same harsh, terrible opposition that I have found in mine." "Undoubtedly, thank heaven! Whether she needed it or not she has evidently had the sense to take the wholesome medicine. The probabilities are, however, that she has laughed at the idea of receiving attentions so repugnant to her father and to me." "No doubt," said George wearily. "Very well, there _is_ a trace of a gentleman in my anatomy. I would like to leave town for a while." "A very sensible wish, George," said his father kindly. "Go where you please, and take all the money you need. When you have come to see this affair in its true light come back to me. I will try to arrange my business so that we can make a visit North together in the early autumn." "Very well, sir," and there was apathy in his tones. After a moment he added, "Please give me some work this morning." "No, my boy. Go and make your preparations at once. Divert your thoughts into new channels. Be a resolute man for a few days, and then your own manhood will right you as a boat is righted when keeled over by a sudden gust." George was not long in forming the same plan which Clancy had adopted. He would go to the mountains in the interior, fish, hunt and tramp till the fever in his blood subsided. He told his father of his purpose. "All right, George. I only wish I were young and strong enough to go with you. It will not be long before you will see that I have had at heart only what was best for you." "I hope so, father; I truly do, for I have had a new, strange experience. Even yet I can scarcely comprehend that you and Mr. Bodine could speak to your children, and dictate to them in matters relating to their happiness as you both have done. It savors more of feudal times than of this free age." "In all times, George, the hasty passions and inconsiderate desires of the young, when permitted gratification, have led to a lifetime of wretchedness. But we need not refer to this matter again. Bodine's final words have settled it for all time." "It would certainly seem so," said young Houghton. "Well, I will make my preparations to start to-morrow." His first step was to go direct to Mrs. Willoughby, and his dejected expression revealed to the lady that her anticipations of strong opposition were correct. "I won't annoy you," she said, as George sat down and looked at her with troubled eyes, "by that saying of complacently sagacious people, 'I told you so.' You may tell me all if you wish." "I do so wish, for I fear my way is blocked." And he related all that had occurred. When he ended with Bodine's final words she said thoughtfully, "Such language as that, combined with Ella's message, does seem to end the affair." "Well, I know this much," he replied ruefully, "I am a gentleman. No matter what it costs me I must continue to be one." "Yes, Mr. Houghton, you have acted like a gentleman, and, as you say, you must continue to do so. Let me congratulate and thank you for keeping your temper." "I nearly lost it when I learned that my father had discharged Mr. Bodine." "I understand how you felt then. You were sorely tried as I feared. Have you any reason to think that Ella feels in any such way as you do?" "None at all. My best hope was, that with time and opportunity I could awaken like regard. While not at all sanguine, I would have made every effort in my power to win her respect and love. But now what can I do? If I take another step I must forfeit my father's love and confidence, which is far more to me than his money. I have at least brain and muscle enough to earn a living for us both. I fear, however, that such a course would kill the old gentleman. I could meet this problem by simply waiting if Ella cared for me, but she and her father have made it impossible to approach her again. She has said she would have nothing to do with me without her father's consent, and he has said that he would rather bury her than permit my attentions." "Well, my friend, I see how it is, and I absolve you utterly. You can't go forward under the circumstances." "No, for she would now probably meet any effort on my part with contempt, and agree with her father that a Northern man couldn't even appreciate words that were like a kick." "Well, then, go to the mountains and forget all about it. If Ella had set her heart upon you as you have on her, and you both could be patiently constant, the future might have possibilities; but if I were a man I would make no further effort under the circumstances." George went home with a heavy heart, and grimly entered upon the first hard battle of his life. Ella tried to be her old mirthful self when she came down to breakfast that morning, and succeeded fairly well. In spite of her father's bitter words and opposition he had told her a truth that was like the sun in the sky. George Houghton loved her, and he had revealed his love in no underhand way. She was proud of him; she exulted over him, and, in the delicious pain of her own awakening heart, she forgot nearly everything except the fact that he loved her. Bodine was perplexed by her manner and not wholly reassured. When she had kissed him good-by for the day, he said, "Cousin Sophy, perhaps our fears last night had little foundation. Ella does not seem cast down this morning." The old lady shook her head and only remarked, "I hope it is not as serious as I feared." "Why do you fear so greatly?" "Suppose Ella does care for him more than we could wish, the fact you told her last night that this young fellow loves her, or thinks he does, would be very exhilarating. Oh, I know a woman's heart. We're all alike." "Curse him!" muttered the captain. "No, no, no, pray for your enemies. That's commanded, but not that we should marry our daughters to them. Dear Cousin Hugh, we must keep our comon-sense in this matter. This is probably Ella's first little love affair, and girls as well as boys often have two or three before they settle down. Ella will soon get over it, if we ignore the whole affair as far as possible. You have much to be thankful for, since neither of the young people is sly and underhanded. Never fear. That old Houghton will set his boy down more decidedly than you have Ella, and also send him out of town probably. This cloud will sink below the horizon before we are many months older. Perhaps Ella will mope a little for a time, but we must not notice it, and must make it as cheerful for her as possible. Charleston men are beginning to call on her, and she'll soon discover that there are others in the world besides George Houghton." But the veteran halted to his work sore-hearted and angry. Strong-willed and decided as Mr. Houghton himself, he could not endure the truth that his daughter had looked with favor on one so intensely disagreeable to him. He, too, felt that such an alliance would stultify his life and all his past, that it would bring him into contempt with those whose respect he most valued. Young Houghton's coolness and resolute purpose to ignore his opposition, together with the fact that Ella was not indifferent, troubled him, and led to the determination to take the strongest measures within his power to prevent further complications. This resolve accounted for his visit to Mr. Houghton's office and the words he uttered there. His employer, however, had aroused his anger to the last degree, and he returned home in a rage. Mrs. Bodine listened quietly to his recital of what had occurred, and then said, with her irrepressible little laugh, "Well, it was Greek meeting Greek. You both fired regular broadsiders. Cool off, Cousin Hugh. Don't you see that all things are working for the best? Your rupture with old Houghton will only secure you greater favor with our people, and Ella be cured all the sooner of any weakness toward that old curmudgeon's son." "I should hope so," said her father most emphatically. "Don't you be harsh to Ella. We can laugh her out of this fancy much better than scold or threaten her out of it." "I shall not do either," said Bodine gravely. "I shall tell her the facts and then trust to her love, loyalty and good sense. It has been no laughing matter to me." Ella's cheerfulness and happiness grew apace all the morning. "To think that I should have brought that great Vandal to my feet so soon!" she thought, smiling to herself. "Dear me! Why can't people let bygones be bygones? Now if I could see him, naturally what a chase I could lead him! If he thinks I'll put my two hands together and say, 'Please, sir, don't exert yourself. The weather is too warm for that. Behold thine handmaid,' he will be so mistaken that he will make some poor dinners. I'd be bound to keep him sighing like a furnace for a time. Well, well, I fear we both will have to do a lot of sighing, but time and patience see many changes. As Aun' Sheba says, he's on ''bation,' and, if he holds out, our stern fathers may eventually see that the best way to be happy themselves is to make us happy. He thinks I'm a very frigid representative of the Southern people. Wouldn't he dance a jig if he knew? Well, speed thee on, old Father Time, and touch softly obdurate hearts." Thus with the hopefulness of youth she looked forward. Mara regarded her with misgivings, but asked no questions. She also was sadly preoccupied with her own thoughts. "Aun' Sheba," Ella said, as the old woman entered, "I rather like this ''bation' scheme of yours. I think of putting myself on ''bation.'" "Oh, you go long, honey. Doan you make light ob serus tings." "I'm doing nothing of the kind, Aun' Sheba. I've too much respect for you." "Oh, well, honey, sich as you gits 'ligion jes as you did de measles. It's kin ob bawn an' baptize inter yez wen you doan know it. But I'se got to hab a po'ful conwiction ob sin fust, an' dats de trouble wid me. I says to myself, 'Aun' Sheba, you'se a wile sinner. Why doan you cry an' groan, an' hab a big conwiction? Den you feel mo' shuah;' but de conwiction won' come no how. Sted ob groanin' I gits sleepy." "Well, I think I've got a conviction, Aun' Sheba, and I'm not a bit sleepy." "I don't know what you dribin at. Bettah be keerful how you talk, honey." "I think so too, Ella." "Oh, Mara! you take such 'lugubrious' views, as I heard some one say. There, Aun' Sheba! I'll sober down some day." CHAPTER XXXII FALSE SELF-SACRIFICE Ella was very much surprised to find her father reading in the parlor when she returned home. "Why papa!" she cried, with misgivings of trouble, "are you not well?" "I cannot say that I am, Ella, but my pain is mental rather than physical. Mr. Houghton dismissed me with insults from his service this morning." Ella flushed scarlet. "Where was young Mr. Houghton?" she asked indignantly. "Sent to Coventry, probably. He evidently did not dare put in an appearance." She sat down and drew a long breath. "Ella," said her father very gravely, "I shall not treat you as a child. You have compelled me to recognize that you are no longer the little girl that had grown so gradually and lovingly at my side." "Papa," cried Ella, "I am not less lovingly at your side to-day." "I hope so. I shall believe it if, with the spirit which becomes your birth, you do take your place at my side in unrelenting hostility to these Houghtons who have heaped insult upon us, the son by rash, headlong action which he would soon regret, and the father by insufferable insolence. But you shall judge for yourself." And he began, as Mr. Houghton had done, to repeat what had passed between them. At the same terrible words which had smitten George, she also cried, "Papa, did you say you would rather bury me?" "Yes," said the veteran sternly, "and I would rather be buried myself. You must remember that I am at heart a soldier and not a trader. I could not survive dishonor to you or myself; and any relation except that of enmity to these Houghtons would humiliate me into the very mire. What's more, Mr. Houghton feels in the same way about his son. I am not one whit more averse than he is. He virtually said that he would disinherit and cast out his son should he continue to offend by seeking your hand. I, in return, told him that if the sentimental boy had even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he would leave us alone. Now you can measure the gravity of the situation. The name of our ancestors, the sacred cause for which I and so many that I loved perilled and lost life, forbid that I should take any other course. Turn from this folly and all will be serene and happy soon. I can obtain a position elsewhere. Surely, Ella, you are too true a Southern girl to have given your heart unsought, unasked to your knowledge till last night. Your very pride should rescue you from such a slough as this." The girl had turned pale and red as he spoke. Now she rose and said falteringly: "Papa, I'm no hypocrite. As I told you last night, I will do nothing whatever without your consent." "You will never have my consent even to speak to that fellow." "Very well then," she said quietly, "that ends it." So apparently it did. Ella went to her room and for a few moments indulged in a passion of grief. "Oh, to think," she moaned, "that fathers can say to their children that they would rather bury them than give up the bitterness of an old and useless enmity! It is indeed all ended, for he would never look at me again after papa's words." In a few moments she added, "Mine also, mine also, for I said, 'Tell him I will do nothing without papa's consent.' Well, I only hope he can get over it easier than I can." She soon washed the traces of tears from her eyes and muttered: "I won't show the white feather anyhow, even if I haven't Aun's Sheba's comfort of being on ''bation.'" And she marched down to dinner with the feeling of a soldier who has a campaign rather than a single battle before him. There was a little stiffness at first; but Mrs. Bodine, with her fine tact, soon began to banish this, and the old lady was pleased that Ella seconded her efforts so readily. Bodine was a man and a straightforward soldier, honest in his views and actions, however mistaken they might be. He had not feminine quickness in outward self-recovery, and the waves of his strong feeling could only subside gradually. He soon began to congratulate himself, however, that his strong measures had led to a most fortunate escape, and he admitted the truth of his cousin's words that young girls were subject to sudden attacks of romantic sentiment before they were fairly launched into society. As the days passed these impressions were strengthened, for Ella appeared merrier than ever before. Mrs. Bodine kept pace with her nonsense which at times even verged on audacity, and the veteran began to laugh as he had done before the "Houghton episode," as he now characterized it in his mind. Mrs. Bodine, however, began to observe little things in Ella which troubled her. On the morning following that of Bodine's dismissal, Mara saw at once from Ella's expression that something unpleasant had occurred. "What has happened?" she asked anxiously. "Oh, we've had an earthquake at our house," was the somewhat bitter reply. Fondly as she loved Mara, Ella stood in no awe of her whatever, and her heart was almost bursting from the strong repression into which she knew she must school herself for the sake of her father. "Please, Ella, don't talk riddles." "Well, papa and old Houghton have had a regular pitched battle; papa has been discharged, and is now a gentleman of leisure." "Shameful! What earthly reason could that old wretch--" "I'm the earthly reason." "Ella, don't tantalize me." "Well, that misguided little boy, who must stand six feet in his stockings, had the preposterous presumption--there's alliteration for you, but nothing else is equal to the case--to ask papa if he might pay his addresses to me. Isn't that the conventional phrase? At the bare thought both of our papas went off like heavy columbiads, and we poor little children have been blown into space." "Oh, Ella I how can you speak so!" cried Mara indignantly. "The idea of associating your father with that man Houghton in your thoughts! It does indeed seem that no one can have anything to do with such Yankees as come to this city--" "There now, Mara," said Ella a little irritably, "I haven't Aun' Sheba's grace of self-depreciation. I haven't been conjured into a monster by Northern associations, and I haven't lost my common-sense. I don't associate papa with old Houghton, as no one should know better than you. No daughter ever loved father more than I love papa. What's more, I've given him a proof of it, which few daughters are called upon to give. But I'm not a fool. The same faculties which enable me to know that you are Mara Wallingford reveal to me with equal clearness that papa and Mr. Houghton have acted in much the same way." "Could you imagine for a _moment_ that your father would permit the attentions of that young Houghton?" "Certainly I could imagine it. If papa had come to me and said, 'Ella, I have learned beyond doubt that Mr. Houghton is sly, mean, unscrupulous, or dissipated,' I should have dropped him as I would a hot poker. Instead of all this the Vandal goes to papa like a gentleman, tells him the truth, intrusts him with the message of his regard for me, and promises that if papa will tell me he will not--also promises that he will not make the slightest effort to win my favor without papa's knowledge. Then he told his own father about his designs upon the little baker. Then both of our loving papas said in chorus of us silly children, 'We'll see 'em buried first.'" "I don't wonder your father said so," Mara remarked sternly. "Well, _I_ wonder, and I can't understand it," cried Ella, bursting into a passion of tears. "There now, Ella," Mara began soothingly, "you will see all in the true light when you have had time to think it over. Remember how old Houghton is looked upon in this city. Consider his intense hostility to us." "I've nothing to say for him," sobbed Ella. "Well, it would be said that your father had permitted you to marry the son of this rich old extortioner for the sake of his money. Your action would throw discredit on all your father's life and devotion to a cause--" "Which is dead as Julius Caesar," Ella interrupted. "But which is as sacred to us," continued Mara very gravely, "as the memory of our loved and honored dead." "I don't believe our loved and honored dead would wish useless unhappiness to continue indefinitely. What earthly good can ever result from this cherished bitterness and enmity? Oh, mamma, mamma! I wish you had lived, for you would have understood the love which forgives and heals the wounds of the past." "Ella, can you have given your love to this alien and almost stranger?" "I have at least given him my respect and admiration," she replied, rising and wiping her eyes before resuming her work. Suddenly she paused, and in a serio-comic attitude she pointed with the roller as she said, "Mara, suppose you insisted that that kitchen table was a cathedral, would it be a cathedral to me? No more so than that your indiscriminate prejudices against Northern people are grand, heroic, or based on truth. So there, now. I've got to unburden my feelings somewhere; although I expect sympathy from no one, I believe in the angels' song of 'Peace on earth and good will toward men.'" "I fear your good will toward one man," said Mara, very sadly, "is taking you out of sympathy with those who love you, and who have the best and most natural right to your love." "See how mistaken you are! I shall never be out of sympathy with you, papa, or Cousin Sophy. But how can I sympathize with some of your views when God has given me a nature that revolts at them? If you ever love a good man, God and your own heart will teach you what a sacred thing it is. What if I am poor, and lacking in graces and accomplishments, I know I have an honest, loving nature. Think of that old man Houghton condemning and threatening his son, as if he had committed a vile crime in his most honorable intentions toward me! Well, well, it's all over. I've given my word to papa that I'll do nothing without his consent, and he'll see me buried before he'll give it. Don't you worry, I'm not going to pine and live on moonshine. I'll prove that I'm a Bodine in my own way." "Yes, Ella, you will, and eventually it will be in the right way." "Mara, what I have said is in confidence, and since I've had my say I'd rather not talk about it any more." Mara was glad enough to drop the subject, for Ella had been saying things to which her own heart echoed most uncomfortably. She and Mrs. Hunter accepted Mrs. Bodine's invitation to dine that evening, and, in her sympathy for Bodine, was kinder to him than ever, thus reviving his hopes and deepening his feelings. Time passed, bringing changes scarcely perceptible on the surface, yet indicating to observant eyes concealed and silent forces at work. And these were observant eyes; Mrs. Bodine saw that Ella was masking feelings and memories to which no reference was made. Ella began to observe that her father's demeanor toward Mara was not the same as that by which he manifested his affection for her. While she was glad for his sake, and hoped that Mara would respond favorably, she had an increased sense of injustice that he should seek happiness in a way forbidden to her. The thought would arise, "I am not so much to him after all." One day, near the end of July, Ella, her father, Mrs. Hunter and Mara, were on the Battery, sitting beneath the shade of a live oak. The raised promenade, overlooking the water, was not far away, and among the passers-by Mara saw Clancy and Miss Ainsley approaching. Apparently they were absorbed in each other, but, when opposite, Clancy turned and looked her full in the face. She gave no sign of recognition nor did he. That mutual and unobserved encounter of their eyes set its seal on their last interview. They were strangers. "There goes a pair, billing and cooing," said Ella with a laugh. "Mara, don't you feel well?" asked the captain anxiously. "You look very pale." "I felt the heat very much to-day," she replied evasively. "I am longing for August and rest." "Oh, Mara! let us shut up shop at once," cried Ella. "Papa is at leisure now and we can make little expeditions down the bay, out to Summerville and elsewhere." "No," Mara replied, "I would rather do just what we agreed upon. It's only a few days now." "You are as sot as the everlasting hills." Mara was silent, and glad indeed that her quiet face gave no hint of the tumult in her heart. Mrs. Hunter's eyes were angrily following Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "Well," she said, with a scornful laugh, "that renegade Southerner has found his proper match in that Yankee coquette. I doubt whether he gets her though, if a man ever does get a born flirt. When she's through with Charleston she'll be through with him, if all I hear of her is true." "Oh, you're mistaken, Mrs. Hunter," Ella answered. "She fairly dotes on him, and if he don't marry her he's a worse flirt than she is. Think of Mr. Clancy's blue blood. She undoubtedly appreciates that." "I'm inclined to think that he was a changeling, and that old Colonel Clancy's child was spirited away." "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hunter, but I differ with you. While I cannot share in many of Mr. Clancy's views and affiliations, he has the reputation of being sincere and straightforward. Even his enemies must admit that he seeks to make his friendliness to the North conducive to Southern interests." Mara's heart smote her that even Captain Bodine had been fairer to Clancy than she had been. Words rose to Ella's lips, but she repressed them, and soon afterward they returned to their respective homes. Mara early retired to the solitude of her own room, for that cold mutual glance on the Battery had suggested a new thought not yet entertained. In her mental excitement it promised to banish the dreary stagnation of her life. She must have a motive, and if it involved the very self-sacrifice that she had been warned against, so much the better. "It would teach Owen Clancy how futile were his words," she said to herself. "It would bring happiness to my father's friend; it would become a powerful incentive in my own life, and, above all, would compel me to banish the thought of one to whom I have said I will never speak again." The more she dwelt upon this course, the more clear it became in her warped judgment the one path of escape from an aimless, hopeless existence fast becoming unendurable. She was not by any means wholly selfish in reaching her decision, for thoughts of her own need did not predominate. "If I cannot be happy myself," she reasoned, "I can make Captain Bodine happy, for there could not be a more devoted wife than I will become, if he puts into words the language of his eyes. Ella has already ceased to be in true sympathy with him in matters that have made so much of the warp and woof of his life. We two are one in these respects. I can and will cast out all else if my motive is strong enough." CHAPTER XXXIII A SURE TEST Clancy had gone to Nature to be calmed and healed, but he had brought a spirit at variance with her teachings. He soon recognized that he was neither receptive nor docile. He chafed impatiently and angrily at Mara's obduracy, which, nevertheless, only increased his love for her. The deepest instincts of his nature made him feel that she belonged to him, and he to her. The barrier between them was so intangible that he was in a sort of rage that he could not brush it aside. Reflection always brought him back to the conviction that she did love him. Her passionate words: "If my heart break a thousand times I will never speak to you again," grew more and more significant. Odd fancies, half-waking dreams about her, pursued him into the solitude of the forest. She seemed like one imprisoned; he could see, but could not reach and release her. Again she was under a strange, malign spell, which some day might suddenly be broken--broken all too late. Then she would dwell in his thoughts as the victim of a species of moral insanity which might pass away. At times her dual life became so clear to him that he was almost impelled to hasten back to the city, in the belief that he could speak such strong, earnest words as would enable her to cast aside her prejudices, and break away from the influences which were darkening and misshaping her life. Then he would despondently recall all that he had said and done, and how futile had been his effort. He neither fished nor hunted, but passed the time either in long tramps, or in sitting idly tormented by perturbed thoughts. Believing that he had reached a crisis in his life, it was his nature to come to some decision. He was essentially a man of action, strong-willed and resolute. He despised what he termed weakness, forgetting that the impulses of strength often lead to error, for the reason that patience and fortitude are lacking. In facing the possibilities of the future, he began to yield to the promptings of ambition, a trait which had no mean place in his character. "If Mara denies her love, and sacrifices herself to Bodine," he reasoned, "what is there left for me but to make the most of my life by attaining power and influence? I can only put pleasures and excitements in the place of happiness. I won't go through life like a winged bird." When such thoughts were in the ascendant, Miss Ainsley presented herself to his fancy, alluring, fascinating, beckoning. She seemed the embodiment of that brilliant career which he regarded as the best solace he could hope for. Often, however, he would wake in the night, and, from his forest bivouac, look up at the stars. Then a calm, deep voice in his soul would tell him unmistakably that, even if he attained every success that he craved, his heart would not be in it, that he would always hide the melancholy of a lifelong disappointment. All these misgivings and compunctions usually ended in the thought: "Caroline Amsley and all that she represents is the best I can hope for now. She may be playing with me--I'm not sure, if she will marry me, I can probably give her as true a regard as she will bestow upon me. She is not a woman to love devotedly and unselfishly, not counting the cost. I could not marry such a woman, for I feel it would be base to take what I could not return; but I could marry her. I would do her no wrong, for I could give to her all the affection to which she is entitled, all that she would actually care for. If I am mistaken, I am totally at fault in the impression which she has made upon me, and I do not think that I am. I am not in love with her, and therefore am not blind. She is not in love with me. It has merely so happened that I have proved agreeable to her, pleased, amused, and interested her. Possibly I have led her to feel that we are so companionable that a life journey together would be quite endurable. My reason, all my instincts, assure me that this beautiful girl has considered this question more than once before--that she is considering it now, coolly and deliberately. I am being weighed in the balances of her mind, for I do not think she has heart enough to enable that organ to have much voice in the matter. Her views and beliefs are intellectual. No strong, earnest feelings sway her. When have her sympathies been touched in behalf of any one or any cause? Oh, my rare beauty! I am not blind. Selfishness is the mainspring of your character; but it is a selfishness so refined, so rational and amenable to the laws of good taste, that it can be calculated upon with almost mathematical accuracy. You are no saint, but a saint might be beguiled into faults which to you are impossible. You are a fit bride for ambition, and would be its crown and glory." Such was often the tenor of his thoughts, and ambition suggested the many doors to advancement which such an alliance would open. Mr. Ainsley was not only a man of wealth, but also of large, liberal ideas. It certainly would be a pleasure and a constant exhilaration to aid him in carrying out his great enterprises. Thus Clancy, as well as Mara, was led by disappointment in his dearest hope of happiness to seek what next promised best in his estimation to redeem life from a dreary monotony of negations. He also resolved to have motives and incentives; nor was his ambition purely selfish, for he purposed to use whatever power, wealth and influence he might obtain for the benefit of the people among whom he dwelt. Hers, however, was the nobler motive, and the less selfish, for it involved self-sacrifice, even though it was mistaken, and could lead only to wrong action. It would cost him nothing to carry out his large, beneficent purposes. Indeed, they would add to his pleasures and enhance his reputation. She was but a woman, and saw no other path of escape from the conditions of her lot except the thorny one of self-abnegation. Alternately cast down, and fired by conflicting thoughts and purposes, Clancy soon discovered that the woods was no place for him, and he resolved to return to the city, there to be guided by the circumstances of the next few weeks. If it became clear that Mara had not been influenced by his warning, but on the contrary was accepting Bodine's attentions, then he would face the truth that she was lost to him beyond hope. Without compunction he would turn to Miss Ainsley, and, with all the wariness and penetration which he could exercise, seek to discover how far she would go with him in his life campaign to achieve eminence. He was glad, however, that he did not regard her as essential to his plans and hopes. Indeed, he had the odd feeling that even if she rejected him as a husband, he could shake hands with her and say: "Very well, Ainsley, we can be good comrades just the same. We amuse and interest each other, we mutually stimulate our mental faculties. Let it end here." In this mood he fulfilled his promise and wrote as follows: "My DEAR AINSLEY--Permit me to remind you of my existence--if one can be said to exist in these wilds. An expedition of this kind is a good thing for a fellow occasionally. It enables him to get acquainted with himself, to indulge in egotism without being a nuisance. I have neither hunted, fished, nor studied the natives. I have not seen a "mountain maid" whose embrace I would prefer to that of a bear. I have merely tramped aimlessly about, meanwhile learning that I am not adapted to communion with nature. At this moment I should prefer smoking a cigar with you on the balcony to looking at scenery which should inspire artist and poet. I am neither, merely a man of affairs. Humanity interests me more than oaks, however gigantic. You see I have no soul, no heart, no soaring imagination. I am as matter-of-fact a fellow as you are. That's why we get on so well together. We can chaff, spar, and run intellectual tilts as amicably as any two men in town. This proves you to be quite exceptional--delightfully so. I'm not surprised, however, for, as I have said to you, you are sated with the other kind of thing. How long will this fancy last? Now that you are so manly you should not be fickle. You have not half comprehended the penalties of your new _role_, for you may find that it involves a distressing frankness. I think I had better close. Letter-writing pre-supposes literary qualities which I do not possess. Men, unless sentimentally inclined, or given to hobbies, rarely write long letters to each other. If unusually congenial they can talk together as long as women. I do not know of a man in town who can equal you as good company; and with this fact in mind, I shall atone for a brief letter by putting in an appearance at an early date. If you have had any flirtations in my absence I shall expect all the details. You know I do not care for such trivial amusements. In this material age, making the world move in the way of business affords ample scope for my limited faculties, while a chat with you is better than a game of chess in the way of recreation, better than moping in the woods. Your friend, CLANCY." He had barely time to post the letter before the mail-stage left the little hamlet in which it was written. He was soon dissatisfied with himself and the missive, and regretted having written it. Before an hour had passed he muttered: "I never wrote such a letter to a woman before, and I won't again. I put myself in the worst light, in fact was unjust to myself. How differently I would write to Mara! Is it the difference in women which inevitably inspires different thought and action? At any rate, there is a touch of coarseness in this masculine _persiflage_ which grates. When I return we must become friends as man and woman. I wonder if she will feel as I do about it?" Miss Ainsley was not satisfied with the letter at all, one reason being that it revealed too much penetration on Clancy's part. While she welcomed him with her old cordiality she took him to task at once. "This is a spurious letter," she said, holding it up. "You would never write such an affair to a male friend. You betrayed a consciousness of my femininity in every line. You preached to me and warned me with the same penful of ink. You write as if you were a commonplace male cynic, and I a woman who was trying to unsex herself by a lot of ridiculous affectations. I wished a genial, jolly letter such as you might write to an old college chum." "Do you know the reason why I did not, rather could not, write such a letter?" "No." "Because you are not an old college chum." "I was not aware that you were so tremendously sincere." "I'm not tremendously sincere--not tremendous in any grand sense of the word, but I've learned that I can be tremendously awkward in a false position. It is absurd of you to fancy that I can think of you in any other light than that of a beautiful woman, gifted with more than your share of intellect. I prefer that our friendship should rest on this obvious fact. We are too old 'to make believe,' as children say. I came to this conclusion within an hour after I wrote the letter." "Oh, you dashed it off hastily, without giving it thought?" "I've given you two thoughts to your one," he replied, laughing lightly. "And none of them very complimentary, judging from the letter." And she impatiently tore it up. "That's right. Put it out of existence." "I almost wish I had kept it as documentary evidence against you," she remarked. "Oh, come! Friends do not wish evidence against, but for each other. I could remain away scarcely a week." "From business, yes." "Or from my most delightful recreation; yes." "You find me very amusing then." "I do indeed, and interesting also. I am quite certain that your society gives me far more pleasure than mine affords you." "Since I am relegated to woman's sphere I certainly shall not protest against that belief. I am now under no bonds to be distressingly frank." "You never would have been any franker than you wished to be. For the manifestation of that trait I shall have to depend on something very different." "And what may that be?" "Why, simply the quality of your friendship." "I am satisfied that mine compares very favorably with yours." "In both instances neither of us can escape one sure test." "Indeed! What test?" "That of time," he replied, smiling significantly. "Good-by. I'm quite sure that your regard will survive till to-morrow afternoon when we are to take a sail in the harbor, so Mrs. Willoughby has informed me." Miss Ainsley gave a little complacent nod in his direction as he disappeared, and thought, "Since you are so content and agreeable as a friend merely, I'm half-inclined to keep you as such, and marry some one else." CHAPTER XXXIV "BITTERNESS MUST BE CHERISHED" To all appearance the long hot days of August were passing very uneventfully to the characters of our story. The cold look which Clancy received from Mara on the Battery, together with the fact that Bodine appeared more lover-like than ever, speedily satisfied him that his best resource was the ambitious career which in his absence he had accepted in the place of happiness. He therefore gave himself up quite unreservedly to Miss Ainsley's fascinations, and, with all the skill and energy he possessed, seconded her father's business enterprises. Mr. Ainsley was sometimes in town, and again absent, as his business interests required; for he was one of those indefatigable men who, with soldier-like energy and fearlessness, carry out their plans, regardless of discomfort or danger. He recognized the fact that Clancy was both capable and useful, and was already inclined to make him one of his chief lieutenants in the South. He understood the young man's relations to his daughter perfectly, and was not at all averse to a union between them. At the same time, he knew how problematical Caroline's action would be, and that it would be useless for him to appear for or against the match. He was aware of his daughter's attitude in regard to marriage, and also convinced that she would take her own course. It would seem that she was taking no course whatever at present, but indolently and complacently letting matters drift. She sometimes smilingly thought, "I scarcely know whether Mr. Clancy is friend or lover. I suppose I could lead him to be more pronounced in either character if I chose, but since he is so agreeable as he is, I would be a fool not to keep everything _in statu quo_ till I wish a change. Life is too long to give up a pleasure before you are through with it." Clancy quietly studied her mood, and was in no greater hurry than herself. Indeed, both felt that they had arrived at a comparatively clear mutual understanding, and so were quite at their ease, she enjoying his society abundantly, and he hers, as far as his bitter memories would permit. Quick of apprehension, Bodine soon perceived a change in Mara's attitude toward him, but was considerate in availing himself of such slight encouragement as she gave. He had been taught by her manner that her first feeling on the discovery of a warmer regard than she had expected was that of repulsion. He now believed that she had thought the matter over, and was learning that it might not be impossible to regard him in a new and different light. Long since the ardor of youth had passed, and he was disposed to allow her time to become accustomed to the thought of wifehood. In the meantime he put forth every effort to prove himself companionable, in spite of their disparity in age. It was not his delicate and thoughtful attentions, however, which reconciled her to the future that she had accepted, but rather the motives already revealed. Under the influence of these, a certain species of mental excitement had been evoked. She had not ceased to suffer, but she had ceased merely to exist. There was something now to look forward to, sacred duties to anticipate, and a future which was not a blank. She believed that in giving help and happiness to another she would more surely trample on self, and make it the vantage-ground for a greater devotion than that of most women whose love is often partly self-love. In regarding her first pure love and all its promptings as the phase of self to be destroyed, she was committing her fatal error; and of this error, not only Clancy's words, but also her own heart, often warned her. But she was not one to turn back, having once resolved upon a course. She had far too much delicacy and maidenly pride to suggest consciously to Bodine the nature of her thoughts, but she was willing that he should see that she no longer shrank outwardly from his occasional manifestations of a tenderer regard than he bestowed upon Ella. That something in her woman's nature beyond her control did shrink and plead for escape, she knew well; but to conquer this instinctive aversion was a part of the task which she had set for herself. Not only quick-witted Ella, but also Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter, saw the drift of affairs, and gave their unhesitating approval. Mrs. Hunter was glad, because it would destroy Clancy's prospects forever, and prove a sort of triumph over him. Then it was, as she assured Mara one day, "eminently fitting. Your father and mother would both approve." "That thought comes to me, too," calmly rejoined the girl. "I hope they will--I think they will. But let us not talk further till all is settled." Mrs. Bodine believed the marriage would result well on other grounds. "Cousin Hugh," she said one day when they were alone, "you may shut me up if I am meddling, but you are not thinking of Mara in the same way that you did in the spring." "I admit it, Cousin Sophy, and you need not shut up." "Well, I reckon it will come about. On general principles I don't approve of such marriages, but I suppose there are exceptions to most rules. As I have said to you before, Mara is as old in her feelings as you are, and I think you will be happier together than you would be apart. I never understood Mara altogether; but of one thing I am certain, she must have some strong motive, something or some person for whom she can sacrifice herself; and, being a woman, she would have a good deal better time sacrificing herself to a man than to anything else;" and the old lady chirped her little complacent laugh. "Rest assured," said the veteran, "I don't want any self-sacrifice in Mara's case." "Of course not; nor do I. I wouldn't approve of any actual self-sacrifice, but Mara will try to come as near it as she can. I reckon she'd be more drawn toward a cripple like you than the handsomest young fellow in town, on general principles; and then she has been interested in you from the first, because you, in a peculiar sense, represent to her the past, which has been almost her only inheritance." "I confess that I have indulged in the same thoughts which you express. God grant that we both are right! She has become strangely dear to me. Once I could never have imagined it at my time of life." "Oh, the heart needn't grow old," was the laughing reply. The captain's outlook was rendered more favorable by the reception of a note which contained the offer of a better position than that held in the employ of the detested Mr. Houghton. When he investigated the matter he learned that the offer came largely through the influence of Clancy, and this last confirmed the veteran's impression that the young man was using his influence and prosperity for the benefit of the South. To Mara it was a bitter ordeal to listen to Bodine's complacent explanation of the affair, and she was glad that she was told in the dusky twilight, which concealed an expression of pain even beyond her control. Words of passionate protest rose to her very lips, but she remembered in time that they would involve revelations which would thwart her purpose to make him happy at every cost to herself. If he ever learned what Clancy had been to her, what he was at this agonized moment, her vocation, if not gone, would be impaired beyond remedy. Afterward, in the solitude of her own room, she accepted this bitter experience, as she had resolved to accept all others, as a part of her lot. In her morbidness she became Jesuitical. Her father's old friend should be made as happy as it was in her power to render him. Whatever interfered with this purpose should be concealed or trampled upon. Of Clancy she said bitterly, "If he thinks he has been magnanimous, how little he understands me." Clancy's motives had been somewhat mixed. He was willing that her pride should be rebuked and wounded, and he also wished her to know that he was above the petty resentment of jealousy. Poor Ella felt that she was becoming isolated; an impression, however, which she would not have had were it not for her recent experiences. Had her heart remained as light and untouched as it was when we first met her, her pleasure over her father's prospects would have been unalloyed. Even now her satisfaction was deep and sincere, but it was not in human nature to forget how summarily she had been denied the happiness so sweet to those of her age. She felt, however, that all were against her; that even kind old Mrs. Bodine would not listen patiently to her thoughts. So she kept them to herself, and sought by forced mirthfulness to disguise them. She talked and laughed with the young men who called upon her, and they came in increasing numbers as inevitably as a flower attracts the bees. She was the life of the "family excursions," as she characterized in her thoughts those in which Mara and Mrs. Hunter had a part; and she joined others of which her father approved, but there was often trouble and sadness in her eyes, and her cheeks and form were losing their roundness of outline. Mrs. Bodine was not deceived. She noted everything silently, and thought, "She is making a brave fight; she must make a brave fight. There is no other course for her. I reckon she'll win it, as many a girl has before." The old lady was thoughtful, kind, and very attentive. At the same time, with the nicest tact, she infused a firmness and spirit into her demeanor which made the girl feel that her cousin had sympathy only with the effort to conquer or forget. And she honestly made such effort, but was often aghast at its futility. In her brusque way she said to herself, "What's the use of trying? It seems like a disease which must run its course till old Father Time brings some sort of a cure." One day she went to see Aun' Sheba, and found the old woman feeling poorly. "Yes, honey," she said, "bein' lazy doan 'gree wid me 'tall. I doan see how Unc. stan's it all de yeah roun'." "I hab de rheumatiz," Uncle Sheba remarked in the way of explanation. "Now, Unc., dat ar rheumatiz is like de scapegoat in de Bible. You loads it up with all you sins. We all hope dat wen you got so sot on dat you'd turn ober a new leaf. How you stan' it sittin' roun' all day I doan see, no how. I'se gettin' so heaby an' logy an' oncomf'ble dat I'se gwine ter take in washin' de rest ob de month." "I'd be glad to go to work to-morrow, too," said Ella. "I'd be glad of anything to make the time pass." "Why, honey, wot you want de time to pass quick fer? You oughter be like de hummin'-bird, gederin sweets all de day." "I feel more like a croaking raven." "You'se quar, Missy Ella. You'se up an' you'se down, an' you doan know why. Ole Hannah dat lib wid you says dat you'se gittin' a lot ob beaux. Why, you eben make a 'pression on dat big, 'ansome Northern chap, ole Houghton's son, wen you doan know it. More'n once he ax me which de cakes you make, an' wen I tell him, he wanter buy dem all." "That's very funny," Ella said, and there was the old mirthful ring in her laugh. "You know him?" Aun' Sheba asked, quickly. "I met him at Mrs. Willoughby's." "Shuah now! Dat counts fer it. Well, he'd gobble all you'se cake if I'd let him, but I had oder cus'mers on my min'; an' he seem ter hab on'y you on his min'." "You were very wise, Aun' Sheba. So much cake would have made him ill," and she still laughed joyously. "'Pears to me you'se gittin' betteh, Missy Ella." "Oh, you always make me laugh and hearten me up, Aun' Sheba." "Well, who'd a tink dat ar civil, nice spoken young man was de son ob dat ole sinner Houghton. Beckon Missy Mara doan like you'se talkin' wid him at Mis Wil'by's." "Of course not. He's a Northern Vandal, you know." "Dunno notin' 'bout Wandals. I jedge folks by wot dey is deysefs. He couldn't help bein' bawn at de Norf. Long as he 'habe himself, wot dat agin him?" "Being born at the North is a crime, some people think." "Yes,--I know, but dat ar suttingly fool talk. Dat ain't de trouble so much in dis case. It's cause he's dat ole 'tankerous Houghton's son." "He isn't to blame for that either," Ella answered, hotly. "Lor', Missy Ella! how you stan' up fer 'im." "I don't believe in injustice, Aun' Sheba," said Ella quietly, conscious meanwhile that her cheeks were getting very red. "De heat _am_ po'ful," Aun' Sheba remarked, sententiously. Then her plump form began to shake with mirth. "Dar now, Missy Ella," she added, "de blin' ole woman kin see as fur in de grin-stone as de next one. He'd stan' up fer you agin de hull worl. It shines right out in his 'ansome face." "How very blind you are, Aun' Sheba! Why, he's not fit to be spoken to, and I'm not to speak to him again as long as I live. Good-by. Good-by, Uncle Sheba. I've heard that sawing wood was the best cure for rheumatism known;" and she flitted out of the dusky cabin like a tropical bird. Aun' Sheba still laughed to herself, and remarked, "Unc., s'pose you try Missy Ella's cure?" "Wot she know 'bout it?" growled Uncle Sheba, with an injured aspect. "Wot de use ob sawin' wood all day wen de town hot 'nuff now to roas' lobsters?" "Dat min's me, Unc. Why don' you took ter some sittin' wuck like fishin' in de harbor? You mought catch a lobster, or some oder fish." "De fish an' me 'ud bof be briled in dis yere sun 'fore we got home." "Bar, Unc., you wouldn't go to Heben 'less you was toted." "Ob cose not. Doan de Bible say de angels gwine ter tote us?" "Well, I s'pose dey is.--Ef a body ony know'd weder it ud be up or down." "Dar now, Aun' Sheba, wot fei you talk so se'rus in Augst? Nex' winter we'se gwine ter hab a refreshin' from on high." "P'raps you won' lib till nex' winter, Unc." Uncle Sheba began to hitch uneasily, and remarked, "I doan see no use ob sech oncomf'ble talk in de restin' time ob de yeah." Aun' Sheba soon forgot him in her unspoken thoughts of Ella and young Houghton. "I begins ter unerstan' dat leetle gal now, an' all her goins on--puttin' aw-spice in de cake twice, an' sayin' quar tings. Well, well, I knows dey's all agin her, po' chile. Wot foolishness it all am! I once jam my ban' in de do'--s'pose I went on jamin' for eber. Der's no use ob der lookin' glum at me, fer dat young man's gwine ter hab all her cakes he wants. I won'er if Missy Mara got de same 'plaint as Missy Ella. She bery deep, an' won' let on, eben ter her ole nuss. Pears ter me de cap'n's gittin' kiner lopsided toward her, but I don' belibe dat'll wuck." Ella was both gladdened and saddened by her visit. Houghton's buying her cake was one of those little homely facts on which love delights to dwell; for the heart instinctively knows that genuine love permeates the whole being, prompting to thoughtfullness in small matters which indifference overlooks. She could not but be glad that he had seemed to have "on'y you on his min'"; and then she grieved that all which was coming about so naturally, like a spring growth, should have been harshly smitten by the black frost of prejudice and hate. After an early dinner that evening her father asked her kindly to go with him and Mara to the Battery; but she declined, saying she would rather keep Mrs. Bodine company. He did not urge her; and he had been so preoccupied by his thoughts as not to observe that she was pale and dejected, in spite of her efforts to appear as usual. When alone Mrs. Bodine said, "You should have gone, Ella. You need the fresh cool air from the water. Why didn't you go?" "Oh!" said the girl, in assumed lightness of tone, "three is sometimes a crowd." "You shouldn't feel that way, Ella. You would never be a crowd." "You are forgetting your old experiences, Cousin Sophy." "No, I'm not. So you see whither affairs are tending?" "Oh, cousin! Am I a bat?" "I hope you are not averse." "No, Cousin Sophy, I would do anything, and suffer much, to make papa happy. You know how I love Mara, though we disagree on many points; and if she and papa would be happier--Oh! why can't I be happy, too?" and she gave way to a tempest of sobs. "We all wish you to be happy, Ella," said Mrs. Bodine, soothingly. "Yes, in your own way," she replied, brokenly. "What happened before I was born must be considered first. If love is sweet to papa at his age think what it is to me?" "You must not imagine, Ella dear, that we don't feel with you and for you. I am proud of you as I watch your brave fight in which you will conquer." "Why should I conquer when my heart tells me that the one I love is worthy of my love? It hurts me, it wounds my very soul, that he and I should be spoken to as if we had committed a crime. How could my love be so sacred and heavenly if it were wrong? Oh, how I hate, hate! There is nothing so hateful as hate." "But, Ella, you don't consider all--" "There is no need of considering all, Cousin Sophy. There are some things which stand out so clearly that all else is insignificant. Mr. Houghton hates papa and me. Does papa love him or his son? You know me, faulty, foolish little girl that I am; but think of that man raging at his son because he dared to love me! If George had committed a crime his father would have spent a fortune in defending him. To love me was worse than a crime. He would have been turned into the streets. Oh, it's all so unjust, it's all the spawn of hate!" Mrs. Bodine was aghast at the intensity of the girl's feelings, but could only say, "Well, Ella, dear, since things are as they are you must fight it out. Trust the experience of an old woman. Marriages in the face of such bitter opposition are rarely happy." "Yes, the bitterness must be sacredly cherished, whatever else is lost. Oh, I know, Cousin Sophy, I know I must fight it out if it takes my lifetime, and all the while know that God would bless our love if hate hadn't blighted it." CHAPTER XXXV NOBLE REVENGE George Houghton took to the mountain solitudes a better and purer spirit than Clancy, who was so ready to be consoled by ambition and the fascinations of a woman incapable of evoking the best in his nature. The young fellow did fish and hunt with tireless energy, and many a humble cabin was stocked with provisions by his exertions. Believing that not only Bodine, but also that Ella herself, would have nothing to do with him, his affectionate nature turned to his father. With a large charity he tried to forget the stern words which had sorely wounded him, and only to remember the influences on his father's life which had led to their utterance. He recalled the abundant proofs of his kindness and liberality; and, now that his young dream was over, he purposed to carry out the old man's schemes as best he could. He tired himself out through the long hot days, and slept at night from exhaustion. The time thus passed until he felt that he had the strength to return to the city, and act as if Ella did not dwell there. He also thought of his father's need of help, and regretted that he had remained away so long. The old man looked at him keenly when he returned, seeing that the young face had grown older by years, and that steadiness of purpose and resolution were in its every bronzed line. "It's all right, father," George replied to the questioning glance. "I've come back to carry out your wishes." "Ah, my boy! now I know that you are made of the same stuff as your brother. Well, you won't be sorry." "I wish to leave this town, and I wish you would too. I don't think it's good for you to be here." "I'll think of it, George. I have thought of it. I shouldn't be mulish since you are not." "I'm glad you feel so about leaving, father. Go back with me to your old congenial friends and surroundings. I, for one, don't wish to stay where I am ostracized." "Oh, curse the rebels! I've punished them! I've punished them well!" "I don't wish to punish them; but, since they will have nothing to do with me, a decent self-respect leads me to go where I can be treated according to my behavior." "I know you can't feel as I do. All I ask is that you have nothing to do with them." For the next few days, regardless of the heat, George toiled early and late in his father's office, incited by the hope of soon taking the old man away on a visit to the more bracing climate of the North. In the evenings he refreshed himself by a long swim in the harbor, and by sailing his boat over its waters. One evening, while enjoying the latter favorite pastime in the early twilight, it so happened that he caught sight, in a passing boat, of a group which made his heart throb quickly. In the stern sat Captain Bodine steering the vessel toward the city. Ella was near him, and two ladies whom he did not know. As a hunter his eyes were keen, and he was satisfied that he had not been recognized. He could not resist the temptation to get a better view of Ella, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, he began to manoeuvre his boat so as to accomplish his purpose. His little craft skimmed here and there so swiftly, as he tacked, that Ella at last began to watch it with a pleased yet languid interest, remarking, "That boat yonder tacks about and sails as if it were alive." "Yah, yah, so 'tis alibe," said the negro owner of the craft which Bodine had hired for their excursion. "Young Marse Houghton sail dat boat, an' he beats any duck dat eber swum." Ella's breath came quick, and she turned pale and red in her conflicting feelings, for it was evident that Houghton was purposely keeping near to them. She saw the frown on her father's face, and that Mara's expression was grave. Mrs. Hunter indignantly said, "He had better go on and mind his own business. Why should old Houghton's son be hovering around us like a hawk, I'd like to know?" "The harbor is as free to him as to us," Ella answered, hotly. Mrs. Hunter pursed her lips and looked unutterable things at the girl, but she regarded neither the matron's sour expression nor her father's stern glance, for her eyes were fascinated and held by the vessel which sped along the water like a white-winged gull. No one except Ella and the colored man continued the observance of Houghton. The girl was in a perverse mood, and watched until her father rebukingly spoke her name; then she turned away. Meanwhile George gazed wistfully at one whom he believed that he might never see again; for he and his father were almost ready for their visit North, where the young man was to remain. Then he saw her steady gaze in his direction. Could she have recognized him? Did she continue to watch him because of some faint interest? His pulses quickened at the thought. After a few moments he said bitterly: "Yes, she knows me at last, and turns away. Very well, away go I, then." At this moment he caught a glimpse of the western sky, and his sailor instincts were alarmed. There was a single dark cloud rising rapidly, portending not a storm, but sudden, violent gusts. In the gathering gloom all thought of vanishing was abandoned. No matter how Ella regarded him, he would not be far away while there was a shadow of danger to her. Examining his sail carefully he knew he could drop it to the point of safety at a moment's notice. The wind on which he had been sailing died out. Then came little puffs from the west. To catch these the colored skipper of the captain's boat took the helm and tacked, presenting a broad surface of sail to their force. Houghton tacked also in the same direction, but with his eye on the westward water, and his hand on the rope which would bring down his sail with a run. He speedily had need of this caution. There was a distant roar, the water shoreward darkened, and then, as his sail came down and the prow of his boat went round to the gust, he was enveloped in a cloud of spray. At the same instant shrill screams of women and the hoarse cries of men came from Bodine's vessel. The fury of the first gust passed quickly. When the atmosphere cleared a little, Houghton saw that the mast of the other craft had broken, and, with the sail, lay over on the leeward side. He instantly knew that the occupants were in imminent danger. Raising his sail as high as he dared, he tacked toward them with such nice judgment that if he kept on he would pass a little abaft of the disabled vessel. "Oh, Marse Houghton! come quick," yelled the negro. "She'm won' float anoder minit!" "Bail, you lubber!" "Don got notin to bail wid!" "As usual," growled Houghton. All the rest were now silent. In his agonized apprehension for Mara and Ella, Bodine felt his heart beat as it had never done in the bloodiest battle. His careless boatman had not recognized the danger since the cloud was so comparatively small, and when he sought to lower the sail something was out of gear and it stuck. The gust struck it fairly, and would have capsized the boat had not the mast broken. As it was, the vessel so careened as to ship a dangerous quantity of water, which was rapidly increased by every wave that broke over the sides. Mara and Mrs. Hunter were pallid indeed, but calm in woman's patient fortitude, remembering, too, even in that awful moment, that if they escaped they would owe their lives to one whom they regarded with scorn and hostility. Ella's hope buoyed her spirit, although she felt herself sinking deeper every moment in the cold waters. With love's confidence she believed that Houghton would be equal to the emergency, and his swiftly coming sail was like the white wings of an angel. Then for an instant she was perplexed and troubled, for he seemed to be steering as if to pass them, near, yet much too far. "She'm sinkin', she'm goin' un'er," the negro yelled. "Be ready, every one, to jump the moment I lay alongside," Houghton shouted. Then he luffed sharply to the wind, dropped his sail; his light craft lost headway, and glided alongside of the sinking boat. "Now jump, all," he cried. The women and negro did so and were safe, but the crippled veteran failed, fell backward, and would have dragged Ella, who held his hand, with him, had not Houghton broken her grasp. As quick as light he sprang into the vessel, now down to the water's edge, and fairly flung the captain into his own boat. As he did so the water-logged craft went down, and he with it. Ella shrieked and called his name imploringly. In the wild anguish of the moment she would have jumped overboard after him had she not been restrained. "Patience," cried her father, "he will rise in a moment." Houghton's little boat, now so heavily freighted, had almost gone under in the suction. The negro, rendered half wild with terror, was bent only on saving his own life. He was scarcely in the boat before he had the oars in the rowlocks, and began to pull for the shore. In their eager scanning of the dark water, Bodine and the others did not notice this at first, and when they did the negro was deaf to their expostulations and threats. The captain tried to reach him as he heaped maledictions on his head, but at that instant another squall swooped down, enshrouding them in spray, and nearly swamping their frail vessel. They sat silent and trembling, expecting Houghton's fate, but the gust passed finally, and the lights of the city gleamed out. "Now put about, you--coward," thundered Bodine. "No, sah, neber," replied the negro; "de boat swamp in two mi nit if I put 'bout in dis sea." The veteran began to crawl toward him to compel obedience. The man shouted: "Stop dat ar. Ef you comes nigher I hit you wid'n oar. Bettah one drown dan we all drown." Ella gave a despairing cry, and found oblivion in a deathlike swoon. "Truly, Captain Bodine," said Mrs. Hunter sternly, "you must keep your senses. If the man is right, and we have every reason to believe he is, you must not throw away all our lives for the chance of saving one." Then she, with Mara, gave all her attention to Ella. The captain groaned aloud, "Would to God it had been me instead of him!" Between his harrowing solicitude for Ella, and the awful belief that Houghton had given his life for him, he passed moments which whitened his hair. As they neared the landing the water grew stiller, and their progress more rapid. Assured of safety, the negro began to reason and apologize. "Mus' be reas'n'ble, boss," he said. "I dun declar ter you dat we'd all be at de bottom, feedin' fishes, if I'd dun wot you ax. Been no use nohow. Young Marse Houghton mus' got cotched in de riggin' or he'd come up an' holler. I couldn't dibe a'ter 'im in de dark, and in dat swashin' sea." "Stop your cursed croaking. If you had known how to manage your boat it wouldn't have happened." "I dun my bes', boss. S'pose I want ter lose my boat an' my life? I'se jis' busted, an' I kin neber go out on de harbor agin widout fearin' I see young Marse Houghton's spook. I'se wus off dan you is, but I'se he'p you wen we gits asho', if you ain't 'tankerous." "Certainly you must help us," said Mrs. Hunter, decidedly. "You must get men and a carriage. Captain Bodine has lost his crutches, and his daughter is in a swoon. If you help us I will testify that you did the best you could under the circumstances." "All right, missus. I kin swar dat it ud been death to hab dun any oder ting." The carriage was brought, and men lifted into it the unconscious girl and the almost equally helpless veteran. Then one mounted the box with the driver and another ran for a physician, who was directed to go to Mrs. Bodine's residence. The negro carefully moored Houghton's boat, feeling that there might be something propitiatory to the dreaded ghost in this act. He then hastened to his humble cabin, and filled the cars of his family and neighbors with lamentations over the lost boat and lost man, and also with self-gratulations that he was alive to tell the story. On the way home, Mara took the stricken veteran's hand and said: "Captain, you must bear up under this. In no respect have you been to blame." "Nevertheless," he replied, and there was almost desperation in his tone: "I feel that it will prove the most terrible misfortune of my life. Ella may never be herself again, and I have wronged one to whom I can never make reparation--a noble, generous boy who has taken a revenge like himself, but which is scorching my very soul." "You are noble yourself, captain, or you wouldn't feel it so keenly," was the gentle reply. Mrs. Bodine, without waiting for explanations, peremptorily ordered that Ella should be carried to her room. The veteran, using a second pair of crutches which he kept in reserve, went to the adjoining apartment, buried his face in his hands, and groaned audibly. He knew not how to perform one imperative and pressing duty, that of relating to Mr. Houghton what had happened. Aware of what was on his mind, Mara came to him and said, "I will go and tell his father." "God bless you, Mara, for the offer. I would rather face death than that old man, but it is my duty and I alone must do it. Hard as it is, it is not so terrible as the thought that the poor boy died for me and mine, and that I can never make the acknowledgment which his heroic self-sacrifice deserves. It would have been heroic in any man, but in him whom I had treated with such bitter scorn and enmity--How can I meet Ella's eyes again! Oh, I fear, I fear all this will destroy her!" "Courage, my friend," said Mara, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Ella will live to comfort you." "Mara, you will not fail me?" "No, I will not fail you." He pressed her hand to his lips, and then she returned to Ella. Mrs. Hunter and old Hannah removed the poor girl's wet garments and applied restoratives. The invalid, whose strength and spirit rose with the emergency, directed their efforts, meantime listening to the fragmentary explanations which were possible at such a time. "Oh, just God!" she exclaimed, "we are punished, terribly punished for our thoughts and actions toward that poor boy. Ella, dear child, was right after all, and we all wrong. She might well love such a hero." At last Ella gave signs of returning consciousness. Mrs. Bodine hastened to the captain, and said: "Cousin Hugh, Ella is reviving. You must control yourself. Everything depends on how we tide her over the next few hours." The length of the swoon revealed the force of the blow which the loving girl had received. Perhaps the long oblivion was nature's kindly effort to ward off the crushing weight. Mrs. Bodine hung over her when she opened her eyes with a dazed expression. "There, Ella dear," she said, "don't worry. You'll soon be better. Take this," and she gave the girl a little brandy and water. The powerful stimulant acted speedily on an unvitiated system, and with returning strength memory recalled what had befallen the one she loved. From tears she passed to passionate sobs, writhing and moaning, as if the agony of her spirit had communicated itself to every fibre of her body. "Oh, Ella, darling, don't," cried her father. "I cannot endure this. He has conquered me utterly; my prejudice is turned into homage. We will all love and revere his memory. Would to God it had been I instead of him!" "There, Hugh, thank God," said Mrs. Bodine, "that Ella can weep. Such tears keep the heart from breaking." The old lady was right. Expression of her anguish brought alleviation, and there was also consolation in her father's words. The physician came, and his remedies also had their effect. There was nothing morbid or unhealthful in Ella's nature. With returning reason came also the influence of conscience and the sustaining power of a brave, unselfish spirit. Her father had put himself in accord with her feelings, and her heart began to go out toward him in tenderness and consideration, and she said brokenly: "Papa, I will rally. I will live for your sake, since you will let me love his memory." "You cannot love it or honor it more than I shall," he replied, in a voice choked with emotion. Then he took the physician into the adjoining room, to consult how best they might break the dreadful news to Mr. Houghton. At this moment the front door burst open, and hasty, uncertain steps were heard. CHAPTER XXXVI A FATHER'S FRENZY Mr. Houghton knew that his son had gone out sailing in the harbor, and, when the gusts swept over the city, became very anxious about him. He was aware, however, of George's good seamanship, and tried to allay his fears by thoughts of this nature. As time lapsed, anxiety passed into alarm and dread foreboding. At last he summoned his coachman, and determined to go to the place where his son moored his boat. As he was about to prepare himself for the street, there were two hasty rings of the door-bell. He sank into a chair, overcome by the awful fear which, for a moment, robbed him of strength. Now it had so happened that one of his younger clerks had been on the Battery when the rescued party reached it, and he had gathered little more from the colored boatman than that young Houghton had been drowned in saving Bodine and the ladies with him. His first impulse was to go to tell his employer, and he started to carry out this purpose. On his way he remembered that, in horror over the event, he had not stopped to ask fuller particulars, and he turned back to question the negro more fully. When he reached George's boat he found that the man had gone, and that the small crowd which had gathered had dispersed. With a heavy heart he again started for Mr. Houghton's residence, regretting sadly that it was his duty to communicate the terrible news. His feelings increased to a nervous dread by the time he reached Mr. Houghton's door. He feared the stern old man, and believed that he would always be associated with the tragedy, and so become abhorrent in the eyes of his employer. But, as the thing must be done, the sooner it was over the better. The colored waiter admitted the trembling form, and exclaimed, "O Lawd! what happen?" "I wish to see Mr. Houghton." "Bring him up," shouted the old man hoarsely. "Well," he gasped as the clerk entered. "Mr. Houghton, I'm very sorry--" "For God's sake, out with it!" "Well, sir, I fear Mr. George--" "Drowned!" shrieked the father. The young clerk was silent and appalled. "Oh, curse that harbor! Curse that harbor!" the old man groaned. "Perhaps, sir," faltered the clerk, "Mr. Bodine can--" "Bodine! Bodine! what in hell had he to do with it?" "I could not learn the particulars beyond that Mr. George was--was--in saving Mr. Bodine, his daughter, and two other ladies--" "Now may all the infernal powers blast that rebel!" and the old man rushed down the stairway. The frightened clerk and waiter followed hastily, and restrained him as he was opening the front door. "Sir, dear sir, be patient--" "Now, Marse Houghton, wot you gwine ter do?" cried the negro. "I'm going straight to that damned Bodine." "Den, Marse Houghton, you mus ride. Sam's puttin' de bosses to de kerrige dis minit." Houghton instantly darted through the house and out to the stable. "Haste!" he thundered, "haste, you snail!" The waiter helped Sam, and in a moment or two the carriage rumbled away, the waiter on the box with the coachman, and the clerk inside with the frenzied father. It was his steps which had startled Bodine and the physician, and they opened the door facing the landing as the old man came rushing up, crying hoarsely, "Where's my boy?" "Where I wish I was," replied Bodine gravely. The doctor was a strong and decided man. A glance showed him that Mr. Houghton was excited almost to the point of insanity. Seizing his hand the doctor drew the old man into the room, and with gentle force placed him in a chair. Never for a moment, however, did Mr. Houghton take his fiery eyes from Bodine, who, now that he was in the stress of the emergency, maintained his sad composure perfectly. Only a soldier whose nerves had been steeled in battle could have looked upon the half-demented man so quietly, for he presented a terrible spectacle. His white hair was dishevelled, and his eyes had the ferocity of a lioness robbed of her young. Foam gathered at his lips as he began again: "Curse your ill-omened face! Such men as you are worse than a pestilence. As a rebel was there not enough blood on your hands? He saved you, why couldn't you do something to save him?" "Mr. Houghton, I did try. I would have perilled even the lives of women." "You have virtually murdered him, sir. Did you not say that if he had the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he would leave you and yours alone? He would rather drown than go ashore with you." Ella could not help hearing his loud, harsh words, and her long, wailing cry was their echo. At this instant Mrs. Bodine burst into the room, and her slender form seemed to dilate until a consciousness of her presence filled the apartment. Her face was more than stern. It wore the commanding expression of a high-born woman roused to the full extent of an unusually strong nature. Her dark eyes had an overmastering fire, and her withered cheeks were red with blood direct from her heart. "Listen to me, sir," she said imperiously, "and stop your raving. Do not forget for another instant that you are a man, and that there are women in this house whom you are wounding by your brutal words. You, yourself, in very truth will commit murder, if you do not become sane. Did you not hear that cry? fit response to language that is like a bludgeon. How are you worse off than I, who have lost husband, sons, all? Have you not said to your boy as cruel things as Captain Bodine has said? This son of yours was too noble, too generous, too lofty for either you or us to understand in our damnable prejudices and blind hate. Come with me," and, seizing his hand, she dragged him to where Ella lay, white as death. "There," she resumed in the same impetuous yet clear-cut tones, "is as pure and good a girl as ever God created. Was loving her a crime? Go home, and ask God to forgive you, to take you where your son is in His good time. That poor child is the real victim. Unless you are mad indeed you will ask her forgiveness, and go quietly away." The old man trembled like a leaf, swayed to and fro between his fierce conflicting emotions, and then left the house as hastily as he had entered. As he did so, Ella called after him feebly, but her voice was unheard. The clerk and the colored waiter stood at the open door, and received Mr. Houghton's tottering form. "Home," he gasped. In renewed dread they bore him to his carriage, which Sam drove rapidly away. By the time he reached his residence he was in almost a fainting condition, and was carried to his bed. The waiter, who also acted in the capacity of valet at times, gave the old man stimulants, as he said to the clerk, "Go for Dr. Devoe: Sam dribe you. Bring 'im wid you quick." The old man at last lay still, breathing heavily, and half-consciously making an instinctive struggle for existence. The shock of his passion and the weight of an immeasurable loss had been almost beyond endurance to a man of his age and of his volcanic nature. His physician was soon at his side, and, with some degree of success, put forth all his skill to rally his exhausted patient. He at last succeeded in producing a certain degree of lethargy, which, in benumbing the brain, brought respite from mental agony. The impression of Bodine and all the others with him that young Houghton had been drowned was natural and almost inevitable. They had seen him disappear beneath the water, and that was the last that was seen or heard. The boatman's explanation that the young man had become entangled in the rigging of the sunken vessel seemed the only way of accounting for the fact that he did not rise again and strike out for his own boat. The words of Mr. Houghton, recalling that final sentence of Bodine's, which had destroyed George's hope and made him feel that he could not approach Ella again, had greatly augmented the veteran's distress. The thought, once lodged, could not be banished that the youth, in his wounded pride, might have silently chosen to brave every danger in order to prove that he was a "gentleman," and that he would "leave them alone," even at the cost of his life. This result of his harsh words was crushing to Bodine, and to escape from its intolerable weight he tried to entertain the hope that George had found some way of attaining safety as yet unknown. The young man had not been drowned, although he had had an exceedingly narrow escape. It was not the rigging which so endangered his life. As he rose toward the surface his head struck the pole with which the negro was accustomed to push his boat around in the shallow water, and the blow was so stunning that he did no more than instinctively cling to the object which had injured him. It sustained his weight, but, in the wind-lashed waves and darkness, he and his support were unseen. The tide was running out swiftly, and he and the pole had been swept well astern, while Bodine looked at the spot where they thought he had sunk-a point from which the negro's frantic oar-strokes were rapidly taking them. Gradually George's clouded senses cleared, and at last he recalled all that had occurred; far too late, however, for his voice to be heard. He shouted two or three time but soon recognized that his cries were lost in the dashing waves and howling wind. So far from giving way to panic, he encouraged himself with the hope that his effort to rescue Ella and those with her had not been in vain. Pointing the pole toward the city lights, he tried to make progress by striking out with his feet, but was soon convinced that he was exhausting himself to little purpose, for both wind and tide were against him. He therefore let himself float, hoping to be picked up by some vessel, or, at the worst, to land at Fort Sumter, which he deemed to be the nearest point of safety. Before very long he heard the throbbing of a steamer's engine, and soon her lights pierced the gloom. To get near enough to make his condition known without being run down was now his aim. She seemed to be coming directly toward him, and he thanked Heaven that the wind was dying out so that his voice might be heard. As soon as he thought the steamer was within hailing distance he began to shout, "Ship ahoy!" No heed was given until the boat seemed to be almost upon him, and he swam, with his pole, desperately to the left to avoid her. Then inflating his lungs he shouted, "Help, if you are men and not devils!" "Hallo there! Man overboard?" "I should say so," thundered Houghton. "Slow up, and throw me a rope." The wheels were reversed at once. A man near the bow seized a coil of rope and yelled, "Where are you?" "Here!" cried Houghton, splashing the water with his hands. The rope flew with a boatman's aim; George grasped it, and, with sailor-like dexterity, fastened the end around his body under his arms. Then laying hold of it also with his hands, he cried from the water almost under the wheel, "Pull." In a moment or two he was on deck and besieged with questions. "Boat swamped in the squall," he replied briefly. "I kept afloat on a pole till you picked me up. There was another boat that I am anxious about. I'll go up in the pilot-house and keep a weather-eye open." "Well, you're a cool one," said the captain. "I've been in the water long enough to get cool. Would you mind lending me an overcoat or some wrap?" And he escaped from the gathering crowd to the pilot-house. The vessel proved to be a little steamer which plied between the islands down the harbor and the city. "That was young Houghton," said one of the passengers. "--him!" said another. "It's a pity he and his old money-griper of a dad are not both at the bottom." Wrapped in the captain's greatcoat, George was as comfortable as his anxieties would permit. No sign of life was upon the dark waters. When the boat made her landing, he slipped out of his coat, leaped ashore, and, walking and running alternately, soon reached his father's house. Opening the door with his latch-key, he stumbled on Jube, the waiter, who backed away from him with something like a yell of fear, believing that his young master had come back in ghostly guise. "Shut up, you fool!" said George sternly. "Don't you know me?" "O Lawd, Lawd! you ain't a spook, Marse George?" "I'll box your ears in a way that will convince you--" At this moment Dr. Devoe came hastily from the sickroom, and met George on the stairs. "Thank God!" exclaimed the physician, "you have escaped. Caution, now, caution. You must not show yourself to your father till I give permission." "Has he heard? Is he very ill?" George asked, in deep anxiety. "Yes, but he'll come through all right, now that you are alive, I've had to stupefy him partially. He was told that you had been drowned. Go change your clothes, and be ready when I want you. How did you escape?" "Picked up by the steamer 'Firefly.' Did they escape?--I mean Mr. Bodine and his party." "Yes; and, as far as I can make out, left you to drown." When the physician returned Mr. Houghton roused a little, and asked, "What is the matter? Is George ill?" "No, he's better." The old man closed his eyes, and at last said dreamily, "Yes, he's better, better off in heaven." "Mr. Houghton," said the doctor, kindly, "I've just heard that a man was picked up by the steamer running between the city and the islands. I don't give up hope yet." "Hope! hope! Do you mean to say there is hope?" "I do. If you will be patient we will soon know. I have taken steps to find out speedily." "O God, be merciful! I don't see how I can long survive if he is dead." Jube, satisfied that George was in the flesh, followed him to his room, and aided him in exchanging his wet clothes for dry ones, meanwhile answering the young man's rapid questions. Touched to the very soul by the account of his father's frantic grief, George's thoughts centred on him, but he asked, "What happened at Mr. Bodine's?" "Dunno, Marse George. Marse Houghton run up de stairs, an' dey took 'im in a room. Den I heerd loud talkin', an' soon he come runnin' out all kin ob gone like, and he gasp, 'Home.' We lif him in de kerrige, an Sam dribe as if de debil was arter 'im. Den we gits de doctor sudden." Having dressed, George opened his desk and wrote: "CAPTAIN BODINE, "Sir--It may relieve you of some natural anxiety to learn that I escaped, and that I am well and at home. My father is very ill, and absolute quiet of mind and body is essential. GEORGE HOUGHTON." Then he addressed a line to the editor of the daily paper: "Rumors of an accident in the harbor and of my being drowned may reach you. This note is evidence that I am safe and well. I will esteem it a favor if no mention is made of the affair." Despatching Sam with these two missives, he held himself in readiness for the summons to his father's bedside. Dr. Devoe, in his efforts to save his patient from any more nervous shocks, administered another sedative, and then talked quietly of the probability of George's escape. The old man's mind was far from clear, and in his half dreamy state was inclined to believe what was said to him. Then the physician pretended to hear the return of his messenger, and went out for a few moments. When he came back he saw Mr. Houghton's eyes dilating with fear and hope. "Take courage, my friend," he said. "Great joys are dangerous as well as great sorrows. You must be calm for your son's sake as well as for your own. He has escaped, as I told you he might, and will see you when you feel strong enough." "Now, now!" A moment later the father's arms were about his boy. With gentle, soothing words and endearing terms George calmed the sobs of the aged man, whose stern eyes had been so unaccustomed to tears. At last he slept, holding his son's hand. The clerk was dismissed with cordial thanks; George and the physician watched unweariedly, for the latter said that everything depended on the patient's condition when he awoke. CHAPTER XXXVII CLOUDS LIFTING In Mrs. Bodine's humbler home there was another patient who also had found such respite as anodynes can bring. Ella's fair face had become like the purest marble in its whiteness, but the hot tears had ceased to flow, and the bosom which had heaved convulsively with anguish was now so still that the girl scarcely seemed to breathe at all. Captain Bodine, Mara, and old Hannah were the watchers. Mara now, for the first time, observed how white the veteran's iron-gray hair had become. He had grown old in a night, rather in an hour. The strong lines of his face were graven deep; his troubled eyes were sunken, giving a peculiarly haggard expression to his countenance. Her heart was full of gentleness and sympathy toward him, and of this he was assured from time to time by her eloquent glances. Mrs. Bodine was being cared for by Mrs. Hunter, for she was ill in the reaction from her strong excitement and unwonted exertion. But few hours had passed when there was a ring at the door. All except Ella looked at each other with startled eyes. What did this late summons portend? Mara rose to go to the door, but with a silent gesture the captain restrained her and went down himself. "Who is this from?" he asked, as he took the letter from Sam. "Fum young Marse Houghton. He ain't drowned no mo'n I be." "Thank God!" ejaculated Bodine, with such fervor that he was heard in the rooms above. "Yes," said Sam, "I reckon He de one ter t'ank." Sam had imbibed the impression that Bodine had left his young master to drown. "What is it?" whispered Mara over the banisters. "Young Houghton escaped, after all.--Here, my man, is a dollar. Wait a few minutes, for I may wish to send an answer." The gas was burning dimly in the parlor. Turning it up, he read the brief missive, and recognized from its tone that the young man still had in mind the veteran's former attitude toward him. He sat down and wrote rapidly: "MR. GEORGE HOUGHTON, "_Honored Sir_--At this late hour, and with your coachman waiting, I must be brief. My term, 'Honored Sir,' is no empty phrase, for from the depths of my heart I do honor your heroic, generous risk of life for me and mine; and my sentiments are shared by the ladies whom you rescued. I have been harsh and unjust to you, and I ask your forgiveness. You have conquered my prejudice utterly. Do not imagine that a Southern man and a Confederate soldier cannot appreciate such noble magnanimity. "Yours in eternal respect and gratitude, "HUGH BODINE." As he finished it Mara entered, and was astonished at his appearance. The haggard face, seamed with suffering, that she had looked upon but a few moments before, was transfigured. Anguish of soul was no longer expressed, but rather gladness, and the impress of those divine impulses which lead men to acknowledge their wrong and to make reparation. In the strong light his white hair was like a halo, and his luminous eyes revealed the good and the spiritual in the man, as they are manifested only in the best and supreme moments of life. He handed Mara the letter. When she had read it she looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes, and said: "It is what I should have expected from you." After dismissing Sam he returned to the parlor, and, taking the girl's hand again, began, "God bless you, Mara! You have stood by me, you have sustained me in the most terrible emergency of my life. There were features in this ordeal which it seemed impossible for me to endure, which I could not have endured but for your sympathy and the justice you have done me in your thoughts. Oh, Mara, do not let me err again. You know I love you fondly, but your happiness must be first, now and always. In my wish to make you my wife, let me be sure that I am securing your happiness even more than my own." At that moment she was exalted by an enthusiasm felt to be divine. In her deep sympathy her heart was tender toward him. She had just seen him put his old proud self under his feet, as he acknowledged heroic action in one whom she had thought incapable of it. Could she fail this loved and honored friend, when a wronged Northern boy had counted his life as naught to save him? Never had her spirit of self-sacrifice so asserted itself before. Indeed, it no longer seemed to be self-sacrifice, as she gave him her hand, and said, "Life offers me nothing better than to become your wife." He drew her close to his breast, but at this touch of her sacred person, something deep in her woman's nature shrunk and protested. Even at that moment she was compelled to learn that the heart is more potent than the mind, even though it be kindled by the strongest and most unselfish enthusiasm. Only the deep and subtle principle of love could have given to that embrace unalloyed repose. Nevertheless she had said what she believed true, "Life had nothing better for her." As Ella still slept quietly, Bodine insisted that Mara should retire, saying, "I and old Hannah can do all that is required." "But you need rest more than I," Mara protested. "No. Gladness has banished sleep from my eyes, and I must be at Ella's side when she wakes." Mara was glad to obey, for no divine exhilaration had come to her. She was not strong, and a reaction approaching exhaustion was setting in. In the dawn of the following day Ella began to stir uneasily in her sleep, to moan and sigh. Vaguely the unspent force of her grief was reasserting itself, as the benumbing effects of anodynes passed from her brain. Her father motioned Hannah to leave the apartment, and then took Ella's hand. At last she opened her eyes, and looked at him in a dazed, troubled way. "Oh!" she moaned, "I've had such dreadful dreams. Have I been ill?" "Yes, Ella dear, very ill, but you are better now. The worst is well over." "Dear papa, have you been watching all night?" "That's a very little thing to do, Ella darling." She lay silent for a few moments, and then began to sob, "Oh, I remember all now. He's dead, dead, dead." "Ella," said her father gently, taking her hands from her face, "I do not believe he is dead. There is a report that he escaped--that he was picked up by a steamer." She sat up instantly, as if all her strength had returned, and, with her blue eyes dilating through her tears, exclaimed, "Oh, papa, don't keep me on the rack of suspense! Give me life by telling me that he lives." "Yes, Ella, he is alive. He has written to me, and I have answered in the way that you would wish." She threw her arms about his neck in an embrace that was almost convulsive, and then sank back exhausted. "Now, Ella darling, for all our sakes you must keep quiet and composed;" and he gave her a little of the strong nourishment which the physician had ordered. For a long time she lay still with a smile upon her lips. In her feebleness one happy thought sufficed, "He is not dead!" At last a faint color stole into her cheeks, and she asked: "What did you write, papa?" He repeated his letter almost verbatim. "That was enough, papa," she said, with a sigh of relief. "It was very noble in you to write in that way." "No, Ella, it was simple justice." She gave him a smile which warmed his heart. After a little while she again spoke. "Go and rest, papa. I feel that I can sleep again. Oh, thank God! thank God! His sun is rising on a new heaven and a new earth." Kissing her fondly, her father halted away. Old Hannah resumed her watch, but was soon relieved by Mara. When George read Captain Bodine's letter the night grew luminous about him. He had not expected any such acknowledgment. With characteristic modesty he had underrated his own action, and he had not given Bodine credit for the degree of manhood possessed by him. Indeed, he had almost feared that both father and daughter might be embarrassed and burdened by a sense of obligation, whose only effect would be to make them miserable. Generous himself, he was deeply touched by the proud man's absolute surrender, and he at once appreciated the fine nature which had been revealed by the letter. "Now," he reasoned, "as far as her father is concerned, the way is open for me to seek Ella's love by patient and devoted attentions. I shall at last have the chance which was impossible when I could not approach her at all. After this experience I believe that my own dear father will be softened, and be led to see how much better are happiness and content than ambitious schemes." But Mr. Houghton was destined to disappoint his son. He awoke very feeble in body, and not very clear in mind. His one growing desire was to get away from Charleston. "I don't ever wish to look on that accursed harbor again," he repeated over and over. "We must humor him in every way possible," Dr. Devoe said to George, "and as soon as he is strong enough you must take him North." George's heart sank at these words, and at others which his father constantly reiterated. "I wish to get away from this city, George," he would say feebly. "I will go anywhere, only to be away from this town and its people. Oh, I've had such a warning! This is no place for you or me. Its people are aliens. They destroyed one of my boys, and they have nearly cost you your life, as well as your happiness and success in life. Oh, that terrible old woman, with her tongue of fire! She looked and talked like an accusing fiend. I want to go away from it all, and forget it all--that such a place and people exist. Help me get strong, doctor, and then George and I will go, as Lot fled from Sodom." "Yes, Mr. Houghton," Dr. Devoe would answer, "all your wishes shall be carried out;" and this assurance would pacify the old man for a time. When alone with George the physician would add: "You see how it is, my young friend. Your father is in such a feeble, wavering state of mind and body that we must make it all clear sailing for him. Even if he asks for what is impossible, we must appear to gratify him. Anything which disturbs his mind will be injurious to his physical health." George could not but admit the truth of the doctor's words, and he manfully faced his duty, hoping that the future still had possibilities. After getting some much-needed sleep the day following his escape, he wrote: "MY DEAR CAPTAIN BODINE--If I had known you better your letter would not have been such an agreeable surprise. Please do me the favor not to over-estimate my effort for you and those with you--an effort which any man would have made. That it was successful, is as much a cause for gratitude in my own case as in yours. Please present my compliments to the ladies, and express my hope that they suffered no ill effects from their hasty exchange of boats. I trust that the stupid boatman, who was to blame for your disaster, will not attempt to navigate anything more complicated than a wheelbarrow hereafter. I regret to say that my father is still very ill, and that his physician enjoins the utmost care and quiet until he recovers from his nervous shock. With much respect, I am, Gratefully yours, "GEORGE HOUGHTON." When Ella's physician came the following day, he found his patient so much better that he could not account for it until he had heard the glad news. The healthful, elastic nature of the girl rallied swiftly. George's second letter was handed her to read, and she kept it. Being clever with her pencil, she made a ludicrous caricature of the colored boatman caught in a gale with a wheelbarrow. Her smile was glad now, for hope grew stronger every moment. Her right to love was now unquestioned, and even her proud father and cousin had only words of respect and admiration for the lover who, in a few brief moments, had vindicated the manhood which she had recognized in the first moments of their chance encounter. She could not believe that Mr. Houghton would remain obdurate when he recovered sufficiently to think the matter over calmly. "Our papas," she thought, with a little sigh and a smile, "have learned that burying their children is a rather serious matter after all." When two or three days passed, however, and no further communication had been received from George, her father thought it wise to say a few words of caution. "Ella," he began, "you are now strong enough to look at this matter in all its bearings. Young Mr. Houghton probably finds that his father is as adverse to his thoughts of you as ever. He has himself also had time for many second thoughts, and--" "Papa," said the girl, with a reproachful glance, "you have not yet learned to do George Houghton justice. At the same time I wish neither you nor any one else to give him the slightest hint of my feelings, nor to say anything to him of my illness and what occurred in the boat. He asked permission to pay his addresses, and he's got to pay them, principal and interest, if I wait till I am as gray as you are. Dear papa, how you must have suffered! To think that one's hair should turn white so soon! Haven't I got a little gray, too?" She looked at herself in the mirror, but the late afternoon sun turned her light tresses, which she never could keep smooth, into an aureole of gold. Mr. Houghton rallied slowly, but grew calmer and more rational with time. He wished to see his confidential clerk on business, but Dr. Devoe said gently but firmly, "Not yet." He began to permit, however, a daily written statement from the office that all was going well. During this convalescence George felt that he must take no middle course. He resolved to have no further communication with Captain Bodine, and not to do anything which, if it came to his father's knowledge, would retard his recovery. One thing, however, he was resolved upon. In carrying out his father's wishes he would draw the line at an ambitious alliance at the North. "Since I have conquered Captain Bodine," he muttered, with a little resolute nod of his head: "I will subdue my own paternal ancestor; then the way will be open for a siege of the fair citadel, the peerless little baker. No wonder her cakes seemed all sugar and spice." Thus George often mused, complacently regardless of the incongruous terms bestowed upon Ella in his thoughts. Sometimes these reveries brought smiles to his face, and more than once he started and flushed as he observed his father looking at him searchingly yet wistfully. Meanwhile he scarcely left the old man night or day. He slept on a cot by his side, and at the slightest movement was awake, and ready to anticipate wishes before they could be spoken. On the last day of August his father was well enough to be up and dressed most of the forenoon. George began to read the beloved Boston papers, but Mr. Houghton soon said: "That will do, I'm in no mood for dog-day politics. Go off and amuse yourself, as long as you don't go near the harbor." "I've no wish to go out, father. When the sun is low I'll take a tramp of a mile or two." "In a week or so more I think I'll be able to travel, George." "I hope so." "I fear you don't wish to leave Charleston." "I wish to do what is best for your health." Then a long silence followed, each busy with his own thoughts. At last Mr. Houghton said: "It's strange we've heard nothing from those Bodines. They appear to accept their lives from your hand as a matter of course;" and the old man watched the effect of these tentative words. George flushed, but said gently: "Dear father, try to be just, even in your enmities. I have heard from Captain Bodine, and--" "What! have you been corresponding with them, and all that?" interrupted Mr. Houghton irritably. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I merely replied to Mr. Bodine's note the day after the accident. Since then I have not heard from any of the rescued party, nor have I made the slightest effort to do so. Dr. Devoe said you required quiet of body and mind, and I have not done anything which would interfere with this." "Thank you, my boy, thank you heartily. I shall owe my life more to your faithful attendance than to Dr. Devoe." "I am glad to hear you say that, whether it is true or not. I wish you to live many years, and to take the rest to which a long and laborious life entitles you. I will show you Captain Bodine's letter if you wish." "Well, let me see what the rebel has to say for himself." "Humph!" Mr. Houghton ejaculated, finishing the letter. "What did you say in reply?" George repeated the substance of his note. "And nothing has passed between him, his daughter, or you since?" "Nothing whatever." "I suppose by this time that little gust of passion, inspired by the daughter's pretty face, has passed?" and he looked at his son keenly. "It would have passed, father, if it had been only a gust of passion, and inspired merely by a pretty face." "Humph! Do you mean to say that you love her still?" "I cannot control my heart, only my actions." "You will give her up then, since it is my wish?" "I cannot give up loving her, father. If I had drowned and gone to another world I feel that I would have carried my love with me." There was another long silence, and then Mr. floughton said, "But you will control your action?" "My action, father, shall be guided by most considerate loyalty to you." "But you will not promise never to marry her?" "It is true, indeed, that I may never marry her, for I have no reason whatever to think that she cares for me in any such way as I do for her. As long as her father felt as he did, I could not approach her. As long as you feel as you do, I cannot seek her, but to give her up deliberately would be doing violence to the best in my nature. I know my love is the same as that which you had for mother, and God would punish a man who tried to put his foot on such a love. I feel that it would keep me from the evil of the world." "The first thing you know, George, you will be wishing that I am dead." "No, father, no!" his son cried impulsively. "You would do me wicked wrong in thinking that. A foolish, guilty passion might probably lead to such thoughts, but not a pure, honest love, which prompts to duty in every relation in life. I can carry out your every plan for me without bolstering myself by marrying wealth and position. My self-respect revolts at the idea. A woman that I loved could aid me far more than the wealthiest and highest born in the land. I believe that in time you will see these things as I cannot help seeing them. Until then I can be patient. I certainly will not jeopardize your health by doing what is contrary to your wishes. Don't you think we had better drop the subject for the present?" "Yes, I think we had," said Mr. Houghton sadly, but without any appearance of irritation. CHAPTER XXXVIII "YES, VILET" With the exception of Aun' Sheba's household, the final days of August were passing quietly and uneventfully to the other characters of our story. Little Vilet had received something like a sunstroke, and she never rallied. Day and night she lay on her cot, usually wakeful and always patient. It would seem that her vital forces were sapped, for she grew steadily weaker and thinner. Aun' Sheba did little else than wait on and watch her, except when Kern was home. When off duty at the fire department, he would permit no one else to do anything for his child but himself. The little girl preferred his attendance even to that of her mother, and the strong man would carry her up and down his little yard in the cool night air by the hour, or rock her to sleep on his breast when the sun was high. No touch was so gentle as his, or so soothing. He would hush his great, mellow voice into soft, melodious tones as he sung her favorite hymns, and often her feeble treble would blend with his rich baritone. He yearned over her with inexpressible tenderness, counting the minutes when on duty till the hour came which permitted his return. In his agony of apprehension "his flesh jes drap off'n him," as Aun' Sheba and his wife said. He slept little and ate little, but was always punctual at the engine-house to the minute. Mara and Ella visited the child daily, and tried to tempt her failing appetite with delicacies. Sissy, Vilet's mother, hovered about her child most of the time, when her housekeeping duties and the care of the other children permitted, but after all her chief solicitude centred in her husband. She and Aun' Sheba often said, "Kern, ef de Lawd wants her we mus jes gib her up. De Hebenly Fader hab de fust right." "I hab my feelins all de same," Kern would reply. "Ef de Lawd put sech feelins in my heart I can't help it." On the evening of the 31st of August, Vilet was very feeble. The closeness and heat oppressed her. All, except Uncle Sheba, made a poor pretence of supper. Nothing affected his appetite, and, having cleared the table, he went over to his own doorstep and lighted his pipe. Before it was finished he was dozing comfortably against the doorcase. Aun' Sheba, with a great sigh, lighted her pipe also, and sat down on the Watson steps with her daughter that they might breathe cooler air. Kern took up his little daughter, and began to walk in the yard and sing as usual. "Well," ejaculated Aun' Sheba, "Missy Mara's call yis-tidy 'lieve my min' po'ful. I'se couldn't tromp de streets wid a basket now nohow. Missy Mara say she won' begin bakin' till I'm ready. She look too po'ly to tink ob it hersef. Lor! what a narrow graze she an de res ob dem hab! No won'er she all broken up. Dat awful 'scape keeps runnin ebin in my dreams. Bress de good Lawd dat brung Marse Houghton right dar in time!" "Missy Ella an' Marse Houghton oughter hab dey own way now, shuah," Sissy remarked. "I reckon dey will," Aun' Sheba answered. "Missy Ella look kin'er dat-a-way. Dey was all agin her 'fore de ax'dent, but now I reckon dey's all cabed in, from what she says, eben ef she ain't talkin' much. I 'specs ole man Houghton is de mos' sot;" and then their anxious thoughts reverted to the sick child. "Daddy," said Vilet, when her father had finished a hymn, "I wants ter talk wid you." "Well, chile, wot you wants ter say?" "I wants you ter let me go to Hebin, daddy." "I doesn't feel dat I kin spar' you, Vilet," and she felt his tears dropping on her cheeks. "Yes, daddy, you kin, fer a little while. I'se gittin' so-o tired," and she sighed wearily, "an' you'se gittin' all worn out too." "No, deah chile, I'd ruder tote you all de res' ob my bawn days. I couldn't stan' comin' home an' not fin' you lookin' fer me nohow." Vilet thought a while in silence and then said, "Daddy, I'se keep a-lookin' fer you jes de same. I'se gwine ter ax de good Lawd ter gib me a little place on de wall near de pearly gate, an' dar I'se watch an' wait till you come, an' moder, an' granny all come. I kin watch bettah up dar, fer I won' be so bery, bery tired. Won' you let me go? 'Pears I couldn't go to Hebin widout you says, 'Yes, Vilet.'" The man's powerful frame trembled like an aspen; convulsive sobs heaved his breast as he carried the child to the further corner of the yard. At last he buried his face in her neck and whispered, "Yes, Vilet." "Dat's good an' kin' ob you, daddy. You fin' me waitin' and lookin' fer you, shuah." Kern grew calm after his mighty struggle, and, in his simple faith, believed that angels were around him, ready to take his child when he should lay her down. He began to sing again, and, a little before nine o'clock, repaired to his post of duty. As the days passed without any further communication from Houghton whatever, Ella's first glow of hope began to pale. She tried to banish all other thoughts except that Mr. Houghton was very ill or as obdurate as ever. On the last day of August, however, she heard a rumor that the invalid was better, and that his son was soon to take him North. Then her faith began to falter. If George should go away without seeing her, without a word or a line, what must she think? The tears would come at this possibility. She had noted that her father and cousin had ceased to speak of him, and that their bearing toward her was very gentle, giving her the impression of that deep yet delicate sympathy which is felt for one destined to pass through a very painful ordeal. On the evening of this miserable day she yielded, for the first time, to great dejection, and was about to retire to her room early when Mrs. Bodine said kindly, "Don't go away, Ella. I feel strangely oppressed, as if I could scarcely breathe." "I feel oppressed too, Cousin Sophy." "Yes, dear child, I know you are grieving. I wish I could help you." "Oh, Cousin Sophy, it would be so much harder to bear now! He looked so grand as he loomed up in the gloom of that terrible night! His eyes seemed like living coals; his action was swift and decided, showing that his mind was as clear as his courage was high. He seemed to take in everything at a glance, and in breaking my hold of papa's hand he almost the same as saved my life twice. And then his leap into the sinking boat, and the almost giant strength with which he flung papa into his own!--oh, I see it all so often, and my heart always seems to go down with him when, in fancy, I see him sink. It was all so heroic, so in accord with my ideal of a man! Why, Cousin Sophy, he was so sensible about it all! He did just the right thing and the only thing that could be done, except that horrid sinking. I can't help feeling that if he had got into the boat with us all would have come about right. Oh, that stupid, cowardly negro boatman! Well, well, somehow I fear to-night that I've only been saved to suffer a heartache all my life." "I hope not, Ella dear. I cannot think so. God rarely permits to any life either unalloyed suffering or happiness." "There, Cousin Sophy, I'm forgetting that you are suffering now. I'll put on my wrapper, and then fan you till you get asleep." The captain meantime was solacing himself with thoughts of Mara--thoughts not wholly devoid of anxiety, for she appeared to be growing thin and losing strength in spite of her assurances to the contrary. Mr. Houghton had not been so well in the afternoon and evening, and George did not leave him. As the evening advanced the sultriness increased. Since his father seemed quiet, and lay with his eyes closed, he installed Jube in his place with the fan, and went out into the open air. He found, with surprise, that he obtained scarcely any relief from the extreme closeness which had oppressed him indoors. He threw off even the light coat he wore, and walked up and down the gravel roadway in his shirtsleeves with the restlessness which great heat imparts to the full-blooded and strong. Sam sat near the barn-door, smoking his pipe. At last he said, "Marse George, 'spose I took out de hosses an let dem stan in de open." "What's the matter with them?" "Dunno, 'less it's de po'ful heat. Dey's bery oneasy." "All right. Tie them outside here." At this moment the watch-dog gave a long, piteous howl, and crept into his kennel. "That's queer," George remarked. "What's the matter with the dog?" "Pears as eberyting's gettin quar dis ebnin," Sam replied, knocking the ashes from his pipe and rising. "You'se pinter dar's been kin ob scrugin up agin me, an he neber do dat befo'. Now he's right twixt you'se legs es if he was feerd on someting." George caressed the dog, and said: "What's up, old fellow?" and then was perplexed that, instead of answering him with wonted playfulness, the poor brute should begin to whine and yelp. The horses came out as if escaping from their stalls, but on reaching the door sniffed the air, stopped, and seemed reluctant to go further. "Dey's eider gone crazy, or sump'n gwine ter happen," Sam affirmed, looking up and around uneasily. At this moment the pointer broke away from George's caressing hand, and with a howl such as he had never been heard to utter, slunk away and disappeared. "I declare, Sam, I don't know what to make of it all. The air is getting so hot and close that I can scarcely breathe." The horses now came out hastily, and began to snort and whinny. Then they put their heads over Sam's shoulder, with that instinct to seek human protection often noted in domestic animals. "Marse George, dey _is_ sump'n gwine ter happen. See dese bosses yere; see ole Brune dar. He darsn't stay in de ken'l an' he darsn't stay out. Heah how oder dogs is howlin. Dey is sump'n gwine ter--O good Lawd! what's dat?" George's nerves were healthy and strong, but his hair rose on his head and his knees smote for a second as he heard what seemed a low, ominous roar. Having a confused impression that the sound came from the street he rushed toward it, but by the time he reached the front of the house the awful sound had grown into a thunder peal which was in the earth beneath and the air above. Obeying the impulse to reach his father, he sprung up the steps and dashed through the open door. As he did so the solid mansion rocked like a skiff at sea; the heavy portico under which he had just passed fell with a terrific crash; all lights went out; while he, stunned and bleeding from the falling plaster, clung desperately to the banisters, still seeking to reach his father. CHAPTER XXXIX THE EARTHQUAKE Owen Clancy was also leading a dual life, and when, at times, conscience compelled introspection, he was ill at ease, for he could not fail to recognize that his sinister side was gaining ascendency. With a feeling bordering on recklessness he banished compunctions, and yielded himself more completely to the inspiration of ambition and the fascinations of Miss Ainsley. It had become evident that Mara was either engaged to Bodine or soon would be, and the thought imbittered and hardened his nature. He gave the day to business, and in the evening was rarely absent from Miss Ainsley's side. Mrs. Willoughby had invited a small whist party to meet at her house on the evening of the 31st, and Clancy of course was among the number. Before sitting down to their games there was some desultory conversation, of which young Houghton's exploit was the principal theme. Mrs. Willoughby was enthusiastic in his praise, and even the most prejudiced yielded assent to her words. Equally strong in their commendation were Miss Ainsley and Clancy, and the latter, who had called on Houghton, explained how admirably he had managed his boat in effecting the rescue, and related the incidents of his narrow escape. Although there had been no published record of the affair, the main particulars had become very generally known, and the tide of public favor was turning rapidly toward Houghton, for the act was one that would especially commend itself to a brave people. Of the secret and inner history, known only to herself, Mrs. Willoughby did not speak, and in all comment a sharp line of division was drawn between George and his father. Then conversation turned upon the slight earthquake tremor which had been experienced in Charleston and Summerville on the previous Friday. This phenomenon, scarcely noticed at the time and awakening no especial alarm, had been brought into greater prominence by the very serious disturbances in Greece on the following day, August 29, and some theories as to the causes were briefly and languidly discussed. Then Clancy remarked lightly, "We had our share of disaster in the last August's cyclone. Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. The jar of Friday was only a little sympathetic symptom in old mother Earth, who, like other mothers and women in general, are said to be subject to nervous attacks. Suppose we settle down to our games." "Nervous attacks in mother Earth and mother Eve's daughters are serious affairs, I'd have you understand, Mr. Clancy," laughed Mrs. Willoughby. "And very mysterious," he added. "Who can account for either?" "There is no reason why they should be accounted for in our case," Miss Ainsley remarked. "Woman should always remain a mystery." "Yes, I suppose she must so remain in her deepest nature," he replied, sotto voce, "but is there any need for small secrecies?" "That question would have to be explained before I could answer it. Will you deal?" He was her partner. They played quietly for an hour, and then the wife of the gentleman opposed to them rose and said: "The heat is so great I shall have to be excused"; and, with her husband, she bade Mrs. Willoughby goodnight. Clancy and Miss Ainsley repaired to the balcony, the latter taking her favorite seat, and leaning her head against the ivy-entwined pillar. She knew the advantages of this locality, for while she was hidden from the occupants of the parlor, the light shone through the open French windows in sufficient degree to reveal the graceful outlines of her person, which was draped as scantily on that hot night as fashion permitted. "How stifling the air is!" she remarked. "I'm glad to escape from the lighted room, yet am surprised that we obtain so little relief out here." "It is strange," Clancy replied. "I scarcely remember such a sultry evening. From what I've read I should be inclined to think it was an earthquake atmosphere, or else that it portended a storm." "Now don't croak," she said. "The stars are shining, and there is no sign of a storm. You have already proved that an earthquake cannot occur. You know the old saying about worry over what never happens. The true way to enjoy life is to take the best you can get out of it each day as it comes. Don't you think so?" "A very embarrasing question if I should answer it honestly," he replied, laughing. "How so?" Never had the brilliant fire in her eyes been so soft and alluring. She had detected a slight tremor in his voice, and had seen an answering fire in his eyes. Although conscious of a rising and delicious excitement in her own veins, she believed from much experience that in her perfect self-control she could prevent him from saying too much. Even if he did overstep the liberal bounds which she was willing to accord, she thought, "I can rally him back into our old relations if I so wish." What she did wish, she scarcely knew herself, and the thought passed through her mind, "I may accept him after all." He shared her mood, with the exception that he had decided long since to obtain her hand if she was disposed to give it. To-night, more than ever, he felt the recklessness which had been growing upon him, and was inclined to follow her lead to the utmost, even warily to go beyond such encouragement as he might receive. He therefore replied vaguely, "One may wish the best in life, and not be able to obtain it." "I see nothing embarrassing in that commonplace remark." "There might be in its application." "Possibly. Who knows to what one and one make two might lead?--a murder, like enough." "Sometimes one and one make one." "How odd! Still more so, that you should indulge in abstruse mathematics this hot night." "That reminds me that a man is said to be merely a vulgar fraction till he is married, when he is redeemed into a whole number." "If I were equal to it, I'd get a pencil, and preserve such great nuggets of abstract truth." "When you are so concretely and distractingly enchanting, what other refuge is there for a man than the abstract?" "Is the abstract a refuge?" she asked, looking dreamily out over the dark waters of the harbor. "Perhaps it is. It certainly suggests coolness which should be grateful tonight." Then turning, and with a mirthful and provoking gleam in her eyes, he remarked, "I should think this weather would be just to your taste." "Why so?" "Oh, you have become enough of a Yankee to guess." "Would you say that even this furnace-like air cannot quicken my blood?" "My friend, I do not believe that anything could quicken your pulse one beat." "I'll demonstrate the contrary," he said, with a quick flash in his eyes. "Put your finger on my pulse." She laughingly did so. By a slight, quick movement he clasped her hand, and it appeared to him that the passion which he knew to be in his face was reflected in hers. She did not withdraw her hand. For an instant there was a subtle, swift interchange of thought. She saw he was about to speak plainly, passionately; she felt herself yielding as never before in all her experience. It was as if a wave of emotion was lifting and sweeping her away. He held her eyes; a smile began to part her lips; the thought came to him that words were not essential, that she was giving herself to him through the agency of the brilliant eyes which at the first had awakened his wondering surmises. He gently drew her to her feet, and she did not resist. He bent toward her that he might look deeper into her rosy face, and felt her sweet breath coming quickly against his cheek. Then, as his lips parted to speak, a low, deep sound far to the southeast caught his attention. Still clasping hands they faced it. With awful rapidity it approached, increasing, deepening, pervading the air to the sky, bellowing as if from the centre of the earth, filling their ears with its unutterable and penetrating power, and appalling their hearts by its supernatural weirdness. They shrank before it down the balcony and through the window into the drawing-room, cowering, trembling, speechless. They were scarcely within the apartment before the large, substantial mansion rocked as if it had been a cork, and the waters of the harbor had passed under it. The balcony on which they had stood an instant before went down, leaving gaping darkness in its place. With an agonized shriek Miss Ainsley threw her arms about Clancy. As with uncertain footing he sought to place her on a sofa they were both thrown violently upon it. He saw the chandeler swaying to and fro, as if a thousand lights were dancing before his eyes; saw the other guests staggering and falling. Statuettes, bric-a-brac, and articles of furniture came crashing down; part of the ceiling fell with a thud, raising a stifling dust, which, choking the shrieking voices, rendered more distinct the grinding sound, as walls of solid masonry drew apart, gaped, and closed under the impulse of immeasurable power. Above all rose the mysterious thunder, which was not thunder, because now it seemed to come from unknown depths. Time is but relative, and the occupants of the room felt as if they were passing through an eternity of agony. The climax of horror was reached when the gas was extinguished, and all were left in pitchy darkness. It seemed as if reason itself would go, but as suddenly as the convulsion had begun, it ceased. There was a second or two of breathless waiting, and then Clancy shouted, "Come, quick. There may be another shock." With his right hand he struck a match, and, supporting Miss Ainsley by his left arm, led the way. "Oh, what is it?" she gasped. "An earthquake. Come; courage. We must get away from all buildings." Half lifting her, he swiftly sought the street, and then the adjacent open ground of the Battery. "All here?" he asked, panting, and looking around. The others soon appeared, Mr. Willoughby coming last, and carrying his half-fainting wife. The negro servants had preceded, and were already on their knees, groaning and praying. From every side other fugitives were pouring in. "Miss Ainsley, you are with friends and as safe here as you can be anywhere," Clancy said hastily. "There are others in the heart of the city," and he dashed away, regardless of her appealing cry to return. As Clancy rushed up Meeting Street he felt that any moment might be his last, and yet he was more appalled at himself than at the awful sights about him. The human mind in such crises is endowed with wonderful capacity. It seemed to him that his eyes took in all details as he passed, and that his brain comprehended them. People were rushing from their homes, or carrying out the feeble and injured. His way was impeded by fugitives, whose faces were seen by the street-lamps to be ghastly pale and horror-stricken. The awful impression of the final day of doom was heightened by the comparative nudity of many, both men and women; and among the multitudinous images passing through Clancy's mind was a picture of the Judgment Day by one of the old masters, with its naked, writhing human forms. The air was resonant with every tone of anguish, hoarse shoutings, shrill screams, and the plaintive cries of children. Above all other sounds articulate and inarticulate was heard the word "God," as the stricken people appealed to Him, some on their knees, others as they stood dazed and almost paralyzed, and others still as they rushed toward open places for safety. "Yes, God," muttered Clancy. "May He forgive me for having forgotten Him! There are but two thoughts left in this wreck, God and Mara. How unworthy were my recent motives and passion! How unlike the love which leads me inevitably to breathe the name of Mara in my appeal to God!" CHAPTER XL "GOD" Had Mara's heart been hers to keep or to give when she met Bodine, she could easily have learned to love him for his own sake. Mrs. Bodine's impression was well founded, that Mara, unlike most girls, was suited to such an alliance. The trouble was, that, before Bodine became friend, then lover, she had given to Clancy what she could not recall, although she strove to do so with a will singularly resolute, and from the strongest convictions of hopeless discord between him and herself. With the purpose to make her father's friend happy was also blended the powerful motive to extricate herself. She had felt that she must tear up by the roots the affection which had been growing for years before she had recognized it, and at times, as we have seen, thought it was yielding to the unrelenting grasp of her will. Again, discouraged and appalled by its hold upon every fibre of her being, she would recognize how futile had been her efforts. She could not, like many others, divert her thoughts and preoccupy her mind by various considerations apart from the truth that she had promised to marry a man whom she did not love. Although so warped, her nature was too simple, too concentrated, to permit any weak drifting toward events. She believed that her life had narrowed down to Bodine, and she had decided to become his devoted wife at every cost to herself, flow great that cost would be she was learning sadly, day by day and hour by hour. As we know, she had permitted Bodine to learn her purpose at a time of excitement and enthusiasm--at a time when his profound distress touched her deepest sympathies. She had also hoped, that, when the irrevocable words had been spoken on each side, the calm of fixed purpose and certainty would fall upon her spirit. She had been disappointed. She trembled with a strange dread whenever she recalled the moment when Bodine drew her to himself, conscious now of a truth, before unknown, that there was something in her nature not amenable to enthusiasm, spiritual exaltation, or her passion for self-sacrifice--something that would not shrink from death for his sake yet which did shrink from his kisses upon her lips. Never had she suffered as during the last few days, for she was being taught by the inexorable logic of facts and events. In Ella's crystal nature she saw what her own love should be, and might have been. She had witnessed the girl's wild impulse to follow her lover to the depths of the harbor, and her own heart gave swift interpretation. She was alive because a Northern boy, deemed incapable of anything better than selfish, reckless love-making, had unhesitatingly risked his life to save one who had spurned him. Even Mrs. Hunter's prejudice had been compelled to yield, and she to admit the young fellow's nobility, of which she was a living proof. The wretched thought haunted Mara that Owen Clancy, unblinded, had discovered for himself, what had been forced upon her, that there were Northern people with whom he could gladly affiliate. The shadow of death had not been so dark and baleful as the shadow of the past in which she so long had dwelt, for in the former there had been light enough to reveal the folly and injustice of indiscriminating prejudice and enmity. Worse than all these thoughts, piercing like shafts of light the darkness which had obscured her judgment, was the truth, upon which she could not reason, that she shrunk with an ever-increasing dread from words and acts of love unprompted by her heart. Like a rock, however, amid all this chaos--this breaking up of the old which left nothing stable in its place--remained her purpose to go forward. On this evening which was to witness a wilder chaos than that of her long-repressed yet passionate heart, she had said sternly, "My word has been passed, my honor is involved, and he shall never learn that I have trembled and faltered." Mrs. Hunter had retired, overcome by the heat, and, believing that she could endure the sultriness better in the little parlor, Mara had turned down the gas, and was sitting by an open window. The city seemed singularly quiet. The street on which she dwelt contained a large population, yet the steps on the pavement were comparatively few. Her own languor was general, and people sought refuge in the seclusion and the undress permitted in their own homes. In a vague, half-conscious way she wondered that a large city could be so still at that hour. "Like myself," she murmured, "it is half shrouded in gloom and gives but slight hint of much that is hidden, that ever must be hidden.--I wonder where he is to-night. Oh, I've no right to think of him at all. Why can't I say, 'Stop,' and end it?--this miserable stealing away of my thoughts until will, like a jailer, pursues and drags them back. Why should a presentiment of danger to him weigh down my spirit to-night? What other peril can he be exposed to except that of marrying a beauty and an heiress? Ah! peril enough, if his heart shrinks like mine. Here, now, _quit_," and the word came sharply and angrily in her self-condemnation. Then in the silence began that distant groan of nature. It was so distinct, so unlike anything she had ever heard in its horrible suggestion of all physical evil that she shrank from the window overwhelmed by a nameless dread. Instinctively she turned up the gas, that she might not face the terror in darkness. As she did so she thought of the rush and roar of the last year's cyclone, but in the next breath learned that this was something infinitely worse--what, she was too confused and terrified to imagine. Then she was thrown to the floor. Raising herself partially on a chair she witnessed an event which paralyzed her with horror. The wall toward the street, with its mirror, pictures, windows, and all pertaining to it fell outward with a crash. For a second all was still, as she looked into the darkness which had swallowed up the front and sheltering side of her home. Then immediately about her began a wail of human anguish which grew in agonized intensity, gathering volume far and near until it became like the death-cry of a city. Unconsciously she was joining in it--that involuntary "oh-h," that crescendo tidal wave of sound sweeping upward from despairing humanity. Then this mighty and bitter cry seemed to become articulate in the word "God." With an instinct swift, inevitable, and irresistible as the power that had shaken the city, the thought of God as the only other power able to cope with the mysterious destroyer, entered into all hearts and found expression. Clouds of stifling, whitish-looking dust now came pouring into the unprotected apartment, obscuring the street and rendering dim even the familiar objects near the terrified girl. For a few moments the nervous shock was so great that Mara felt as if paralyzed. She remained lying on the floor, half supporting herself by the chair, waiting in breathless expectation for she knew not what. The malign power had been so vast, and its work so swift, that even her fearless spirit was overwhelmed. The shrieks, groans, and prayers, the hurrying steps in the dust-clouded street at last forced upon her attention the fact that all were seeking to escape from the buildings. With difficulty she regained her feet and tottered to Mrs. Hunter's room, but found, to her dismay, that she could not open the door. She called and even shrieked, but there was no answer. A sense of utter desolation and helplessness overpowered her. Who could come to her aid? Bodine could not. At such a time he would be almost helpless himself, and there were women in his charge. With a bitterness also akin to the death, which she momentarily expected, she knew that her thoughts had flown to Clancy and to no other human being at that hour. She was learning what all others discovered in the stress of the earthquake, that everything not absolutely essential to life and soul was swept away and almost forgotten. To go into the street and get help seemed her only resource, and she made her way down the stairs to where had been the doorway. In vain she appealed to the flying forms. Her cries were unheard in the awful din of shrieks, prayers, groans, and calls of the separated to their friends. The impression made was of a wild panic in which the frenzied thought of flight, escape, predominated. She was about to return in something like despair, feeling that she could not leave her aunt, when she saw a tall form rushing toward her. A second later she recognized Owen Clancy leaping over the ruins of her home. With a cry, she fell into his outstretched arms, faint, trembling, yet with a sense of refuge, a thrill of exquisite joy before unknown in all her life. "Mara, dear Mara, you are not hurt?" he asked breathlessly. "No, oh, thank God, you have come!" Again there was the same ominous growl, deep in the earth, which once heard could never be mistaken, never forgotten. Lifting her up Clancy carried her swiftly from beneath the shattered buildings to the middle of the street. She clung to him almost convulsively as the earth again swayed and trembled beneath them, and the awful moan of nature swelled, then died away in the distance. There was an instant of agonized, breathless suspense, then the wail of the stricken city rose again with a deeper accent of terror, a more passionate appeal to heaven, and the effort to escape to the wider spaces was renewed in a more headlong flight. "Mara," said Clancy, "at this hour, when everything may be swept away in a moment, there is nothing left for me but you and God. Will you trust me, and let me do my very best to save you?" "Oh, Owen, Owen, God forgive me!" She uttered the words like a despairing cry, then buried her face upon his breast. With a dread greater than that inspired by the earthquake he thought: "Is it too late? Can she have married Bodine?" The anguish in her tone combined with her action had revealed both her love and its hopelessness. He said gently, yet firmly: "We must act now and quickly. Where is Mrs. Hunter?" Mara had apparently become speechless from grief. Without a word she turned swiftly, and taking his hand led him toward the ruined building. "No, stay here. It will not be safe for you to enter," and pushing her gently back he ran up the exposed stairway, into the parlor, noticing with dismay the general wreck and the danger Mara had run. He found that Mara had followed him. "Oh, why will you come?" he exclaimed in deep anxiety. "Where is she? We must get away from all this." The sobbing girl could only point to Mrs. Hunter's door. Clancy tried it, but found it jammed, as were so many others that night, adding to the terror of imprisoned inmates. With strength doubled by excitement he put his shoulder against the barrier and burst it open. A ghastly spectacle met their eyes. Mrs. Hunter lay senseless on her bed in her night-robe, which was stained with blood. She had evidently risen to a sitting posture on the first alarm, and then had been stunned and cut by the hurling of some heavy object against her head and neck, the shattered mantel clock on the bed beside her showing how the injury had been done. Mara's overwhelming distress ceased its expression at this new horror as she gasped, "Can she be dead?" "This is no place to discover," Clancy replied, rolling the poor woman's form in a blanket. "Mara, dear, we must get away from this house. It may come down any moment. Snatch up wraps, clothing, all you can lay your hands upon, and come." Already he was staggering away with Mrs. Hunter in his arms. In a moment Mara did his bidding and followed. Slowly and with difficulty he made his way down the tottering, broken stairway, then across the prostrate wall to the centre of the street, now almost deserted. He looked anxiously around, calculating that no building, if it fell, could reach them at that point, then laid his heavy burden down, and stood panting and recovering from his exertion. "I think we shall be as safe here as anywhere until we can reach one of the squares. Put your hand, Mara, over Mrs. Hunter's heart, and see if it is beating." "Yes, faintly." "Have you stimulants in the house? Can you tell me where to find them?" "You shall not go back there: I will go." And, as if endowed with sudden access of strength, she sprang away. Putting his coat under Mrs. Hunter's head for a pillow he followed instantly. "Now why do you come?" she protested. "Because I would rather die with you, Mara, than live safely without you." "Oh, for God's sake don't speak that way!" she replied with a sob. "Here, I have it. Come away, quick." As she hastily sought to cross the ruins in the street she missed her footing, and would have fallen had not his ready arm encircled her and borne her to Mrs. Hunter's side. "Would to God I had heeded your warning, Owen," she moaned, as she sought to give her aunt some of the brandy, while he chafed the poor woman's wrists. "You are not married to Bodine?" he asked, springing to his feet. "No, but I am pledged to him. I cannot break faith and live. You must be my protector in a double sense, protecting me against myself. As you are a Southern gentleman, help and shield me." "You ask what is next to impossible, Mara. I can only do my best for you." "Oh, how I have wronged you!" "Not so greatly as I have wronged myself. I will tell you all some other time." "No, Owen, no. We must keep apart. We must, we must indeed. Oh, oh, it would have been better that I had died! You must harden your face and heart against me--that is the only way to help me now." "Never shall I harden my heart against you. Whatever comes I shall be your loyal friend." "Oh, the cruelty of my fate--to wrong two such men!" "Bress de Lawd! I'se fown you;" and Aun' Sheba stood before them, panting and abounding in grateful ejaculations. "Aun' Sheba!" cried Mara, throwing herself into the arms of her old nurse. "To think that you should come to me through all these dangers!" "Wot else I do, honey lam? You tink you kin be in trouble an' I ain't dar? Marse Clancy, my 'specs. Once I tinks you a far-wedder frien', but I takes it back. Lawd, Lawd! is de ole missus dun gone?" "No, Aun' Sheba," said Clancy. "Help us revive her, and then help me carry her to a place of greater safety. You come like an angel of light." "I'se rudder hebby an' brack fer'n angel, but, like de angels, we'se all got ter do a heap ob totin' ter-night." CHAPTER XLI SCENES NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN When George Houghton reached his father's room he heard Jube fairly howling in the darkness, and the old man groaning heavily. "Father," cried the young man, "you are not hurt?" "Oh, George, thank God, you have again escaped! This is an earthquake, isn't it?" "It must be, and I must take you out to some open space at once. Jube, shut up, and keep your senses. If you don't help me I'll break your bones." Groping about he found a match and lighted a candle. "Oh, George, you are hurt. Your face is covered with blood!" cried Mr. Houghton. "Slight cuts only. Come, father, there may be another shock, and it will not be safe to dress you here. Let me wrap you in blankets, and then Jube and I will carry you to Marion Square. I will come back for your clothes." This they proceeded to do, Mr. Houghton meanwhile protesting, "No, George, you shall not come back." Then he asked a moment or two later, "Why do you take me out at the side door?" "It will be safer," George replied, not wishing to explain that the pillared and massive portico was in ruins. As they passed the front of the house, however, Jube groaned, "Oh, Lawd! de porch dun smashed!" "This is awful, my boy!" ejaculated Mr. Houghton. "Oh, this dreadful city! this dreadful city!" "The worst is over, I think. Brace up, Jube. If you are so anxious to save your life, step lively." "Jes hear de people holler," cried Jube, trembling so he could scarcely keep his hold, and he gave a loud, sympathetic yell himself. "Stop that," said George sternly. "Oh, Dr. Devoe, I am so glad to see you," he added, as the physician came running up. "You are a godsend." "I was passing near," explained the physician, "and, being a bachelor, can think of my patients first. Jube, if you yell again I'll cuff you. Be a man now and we'll all soon be safe." They joined the throngs which were gathering on the square, and Mr. Houghton was tenderly placed upon the grass. "Doctor, you and Jube will stay with him while I get articles for his comfort;" and before his father could again interpose George was off at full speed. "He will come out all right," said Dr. Devoe soothingly. "Never fear for George." But when the second roll of subterranean thunder was heard, and the cries and lamentations of the people were redoubled, the old man wrung his hands and groaned, "Oh, why did you let him go?" After the quiver passed he sat up and strained his eyes in the direction from which he hoped again to see his son. The house was not far away, and George soon appeared staggering under a mattress, with bedding, clothing, and other articles essential to the comfort and safety of his father. Jube, under the doctor's assurances, was beginning to rally from his terror, and between them they speedily made the old man comfortable. As George was arranging the pillows his father said, "God forgive me for being so obdurate, my boy. I know where your thoughts are. Go and help her if you can." With heartfelt murmured thanks the young man kissed his father, and bounded away. Ella Bodine and her father were truly in sore trouble. A few minutes before ten, Mrs. Bodine's delicate and enfeebled organization succumbed to the heat and closeness of the air, and she suddenly swooned. Ella in alarm summoned her father and old Hannah, and all were engaged in applying restoratives when they too were appalled by the hideous sound which gave such brief and terrible warning of the disaster. The veteran, who sat by the bedside, chafing his cousin's wrists with spirits, barely had time to get on his crutches when he was thrown violently to the floor, while Ella, with a wild cry, fell across the bed. Then, in expectation of instant death, they listened with an awe too great for expression to the infernal uproar, the crash of falling objects, the groaning and grinding of the swaying house, and above all to the voice of the deep, subterranean power which appeared to be rending the earth. Most fortunately the gas was not extinguished, and when it was still again, Ella rushed to her father, and exclaimed as she helped him up, "Oh, papa, what is this?" "De Jedgmen Day," said a quivering voice. Bodine's face was very white, but his iron nerves did not give way. "Ella," he said firmly, "you must keep calm and do as I say. It is an earthquake. Since the house stands we may hope to revive Cousin Sophy before taking her to the street. Come, Hannah, get up and do your best." From her sitting posture on the floor, the old woman only answered in a low terrified monotone, "De Jedgmen Day." "Oh, papa, she's just crazed, and we must do everything ourselves;" and, Ella, with trembling hands and stifled sobs, began to aid her father. "Oh, hear those awful cries in the street," she said after a moment. "Don't you think we should try to take cousin out?" "If I were not so helpless!" Bodine groaned. "Hannah, wake up and help." "De Jedgmen Day," was the only response. "There is no use to look to her, papa. I'm strong. See, I can lift cousin, she is so light." "No, Ella, it might injure you for life. If we could only partially revive her, and she could help you a little--There may not be another shock." They worked on, growing more assured as the house remained quiet. Hannah was evidently crazed for the time being, for, deaf to all expostulations, she would not move, and kept repeating the terrible refrain. "O God!" said Bodine in tones of the deepest distress, "to think that I cannot go to Mara!" "Well, papa, you can't help it. Your duty is here. May God pity and save us all!" At last the ominous rumble began again in the distance. Ella gave her father a startled look, and saw confirmation of her fear in his face. Old Hannah started up exclaiming, "De Lawd is comin' now shuah. I'se gwine ter meet Him," and she rushed away. With another wild cry Ella lifted the form of her cousin in her arms, and, with a strength created by the emergency, staggered down the stairs to the door. Then a man saw and relieved her of her burden. Bodine with difficulty tried to follow, but could not during the brief shock. When all was still again he threw the bedding over his shoulder, went down and speedily checked Ella's wild cries that he should not delay. The street was comparatively wide; the houses were not high, and they found themselves in the midst of a group of refugees like themselves--mothers sobbing over their babes, men caring for sick and fainting wives, and children standing by feeble and aged parents. Family servants crouched on the pavement beside their employers, and continually gave utterance to ejaculatory prayers which found sympathetic echoes in the stoutest hearts. Many were coming and going. The place seemed a partial refuge, yet the proximity of houses led one group after another to seek the open squares. In many instances rare fortitude and calmness were displayed. Here, as elsewhere throughout the city, frail women, more often than strong men, were patient and resigned in their Christian faith. Ella supported Mrs. Bodine's head upon her lap, and others now aided in the effort to bring back consciousness. Fortunately, however, for the poor lady, she knew not what was passing. Suddenly the group parted to make way for a hatless, coatless man, whose face was terribly disfigured with blood and dust. Nevertheless Ella recognized him with the glad cry, "Mr. Houghton!" "Thank Heaven you are safe!" he gasped, panting heavily; and he gave his hand to Mr. Bodine. "But you are injured," said the captain, in deep solicitude. "No, nothing worth mentioning; merely cut and bruised. I came as soon as I had fixed my father safe in the square. I thought you might need help." "Mr. Houghton, you are overwhelming us--" "Please don't think and talk that way. God knows, a man should give help where it is most needed at such a time. This is Mrs. Bodine?" "Yes, she fainted before the first shock. We have been unable to revive her. At the last shock my daughter carried her down." "Miss Bodine!" exclaimed George in surprise and admiration. She gave him a swift glance through her tears, and then, dropping her eyes, resumed her efforts to revive her cousin. "You may well exclaim," said her father. "How she did it I do not know. Excitement gave strength, I suppose." "Everything these kind friends and I can do for her seems useless," Ella faltered. "Let me get my wind a little," said George, eagerly, "and I will carry her to the square, where my father is. A good physician is with him." At this instant came a third and severer shock than the last, and with it the new terror which sickened the bravest. "O God," cried Ella, "will there be no respite?" Then observing for the first time the pillars of light and smoke rising at different points, she cried in still deeper fear, "Oh, papa, can those be volcanic fires?" "No, no, my child." "I saw a fire kindling in a deserted house as I came," George added excitedly. "Truly, Captain Bodine, this is no place for your family; or," turning to the groups near, "for you either, friends. Ah, see! there is a house almost opposite beginning to burn. Come;" and without further hesitation he lifted Mrs. Bodine and strode away. Not only Ella and her father followed, but also the others, those who were the strongest supporting the feeble and injured. They had gone but little way before Bodine said, "Ella, I must go and see if Mara has escaped. I cannot seek safety myself unless assured that she is safe." "Oh, papa, it will be almost suicide for you to go through these streets alone." "Ella, there are some things so much worse than death. If you and cousin were alone I would not leave you, but with a strong helper and a physician in prospect I must go. How could I look Mara in the face again if I made no effort in her behalf? Explain to Mr. Houghton." He dropped behind, then turned up a side street and carefully yet quickly halted over and around the impediments strewn in the way. Aware of the danger of delay, George went forward with a rapid stride. "Can you keep up?" he asked. "Yes," Ella replied. "We must get by and beyond these higher buildings. I have the horrible dread that they may fall on you any moment." "You never seem to think of yourself, Mr. Houghton." "I must now," he said after a moment or two. "Here is a corner at which we can rest, for there are no high buildings near;" and he sank on the ground with Mrs. Bodine still in his arms. "Oh, you are killing yourself!" she cried in deep distress. "Not at all, only resting. Where is your father?" Ella explained and revealed her fears. "I will go to his aid and Miss Wallingford's as soon as you and Mrs. Bodine are safe." "Mr. Houghton, how can I--" "By giving me the privilege of serving you, and by not making me miserable from seeing you burdened with a sense of obligation," he said quickly. "That is the one thing I have feared--that you would be unhappy because it has been my good-fortune--oh, well, you understand." She did, better than he, for his swift coming to her aid had banished all doubt of him. "Please understand, then, that I gratefully and gladly accept your chivalrous help. Have I not seen it given to the old and feeble before? Oh, these heart-rending cries! It seems to me that they will haunt me forever." "Please support Mrs. Bodine a moment. That is a woman's scream just beyond us. She is evidently injured, and probably held fast in the ruins." He ran to the spot, and found that a woman had been prostrated and partially buried by the bricks of a falling chimney. She had been unconscious for a time, but now, reviving, her agonized shrieks rose above the other cries. George spoke soothingly to her as he threw the bricks to right and left. She was evidently suffering the extremity of pain, for she again screamed and moaned in the most heart-rending way, although George lifted her as carefully as possible. Laying her down beside Mrs. Bodine he began in distressed perplexity, "What shall we do now? We cannot leave her here." At this moment a group of negroes approached. One was carrying a little girl whom Ella immediately recognized as Vilet. Then she saw Sissy, the mother, carrying her youngest, and weeping hysterically, while the other children clung to her skirts. Uncle Sheba brought up the rear, fairly howling in his terror. The man carrying the child was Mr. Birdsall, who had called with old Tobe just before the first shock. The gray-woolled negro was walking beside his minister, uttering petitions and self-accusations. Old Tobe was comparatively alone in the world, without kith or kin. Mr. Birdsall, feeling that he owed almost an equal duty to his flock, had only stipulated that he should stop at his home for his wife and children. Happily they were unharmed, and were able to follow unaided; and so, like a good shepherd, he still carried the weakest of his lambs. Ella called to them, and they paused. George, ever prompt in action, saw that old Tobe and Uncle Sheba were able to do more than use their lungs, and he sprang forward to press them into his service. Tobe readily yielded, but Uncle Sheba would do nothing but howl. In his impatience George struck him a sharp blow across the mouth, exclaiming, "Stop your infernal noise. If you are strong enough to yell that way you can do something better. Stop, I say, or I'll be worse than two earthquakes;" and he shook Uncle Sheba's howl into staccato and tremolo notes. "Dere am no use foolin' wid dat niggah," said old Tobe. "Howl, then, if you will, but help you shall;" and taking him by his shoulder, George pushed him beside Tobe, made the two form a chair with their hands, and put the woman into it, with her arms about the neck of each. Taking up Mrs. Bodine he again went forward. The miserable little procession followed, Uncle Sheba mechanically doing his part, at the same time continuing to make night hideous by the full use of a pair of lungs in which was no rheumatic weakness. Motion caused the wretched woman renewed agony, and her shrieks mingled with his stentorian cries. "Oh, this is horrible!" Ella said at George's side. "It is indeed, Miss Bodine; yet how glad I am that you Have not been injured!" "Oh, oh, I fear so greatly that my cousin will not live through this dreadful night; and my father, too, is facing unknown dangers!" "This is an awful ill wind, Miss Bodine, but the fact that I can help you and yours gives me a deeper satisfaction than you can imagine." She could not trust herself to answer, therefore was silent, and his thought was, "I must go slower on that tack, and not so close to the wind." The forlorn company eventually reached the square, and made their way to the place where George had left his father. As the old man saw his son, and comprehended his mission of mercy as well as love, he murmured, "God forgive me that it should require an earthquake to teach how much better is his spirit than mine," and his heart grew as tender as a mother's toward his boy. Dr. Devoe, who was attending another patient not far away, came up hastily and eased the poor creature out of the negroes' hands to the ground. He gave her some of the wine George had brought for his father, saying as he did so, "Try to be calm, now, madam. I am a physician, and will do all I can for you." Mr. Houghton promptly sent Jube to the doctor with one of his pillows and part of his bedding, so the woman was made as comfortable as her condition permitted. George laid Mrs. Bodine on the grass, and then with the scanty bedding Ella had carried, aided in making a resting-place not far from his father. He next lifted Mrs. Bodine's head into the girl's lap, and was about to turn his attention to Uncle Sheba, but was anticipated. Two men had taken him by the shoulders, one of them saying, "If you don't keep still we'll tie you under the nearest building and leave you there," and they began to march him off. At this dire threat Uncle Sheba collapsed and fell to the ground, where he was left. Dr. Devoe divided his attention between the fatally injured woman and Mrs. Bodine, who under his remedies and the efforts of George and Ella soon revived. Mr. Houghton looked with wonder, pity, and some embarrassment at the small, frail form, and the white, thin face of one whom had characterized as "that terrible old woman." She seemed scarcely a shadow of what she had been on that former night, more terrible even that this one to the then stricken father. Now the son whom he had thought dead had carried her to his side, and was bending over her. "Well, well," he muttered, "the ways of God are above and beyond me. I give up, I give up." Then his eyes rested on Ella. He saw a face which even the dust of the streets could not so begrime as to hide its sweetness or its tenderness, as, with deep solicitude, she bent over her cousin. A conflagration raging near now began to flame so high that its lights flickered on the girl's face, etherealizing its beauty, and turning her fluffy hair to gold. She became like a vision to the old man, angelic, yet human in her natural sympathy. The thought would come, "I have fought like a demon to keep that face from bending over me in my feebleness and age. Truly God's ways are best." Ella had only glanced at his pale, rugged face with awe and dread, and then had given all her thoughts to her cousin. As the latter began to regain consciousness, she motioned George away, and with Dr. Devoe, sought to complete the work of restoration. To dazed looks and confused questions she replied merely with soothing words until the doctor said kindly, but firmly, "Mrs. Bodine, you are now safe, and as comfortable as we can make you. Do not try to comprehend what has happened. There are so many worse off who need attention--" "There, there, doctor," Mrs. Bodine interrupted, with a flash of her old spirit, "no matter what's happened, I thank you for your attention. Please give it now to others." "Doctor," said George, "I fear the little colored girl who came in with us is dying." They went to the spot where Sissy was pillowing Vilet's head against her breast. The physician made a brief examination, and heard how a brick had fallen on the child as they were getting her out, then said, "I'm sorry I can do nothing but alleviate her pain a little." Turning away promptly he began, "See here, Houghton, I must go to the nearest drug-store and help myself if no one's there. Will you come with me? I shall need a lot of things, more than I can carry." "I can't," George replied, "but here is the man that will, I think;" and he roused old Tobe who sat quietly near with his head buried in his hands. "Sartin. I do wot I kin while de can'el hole out to burn," Tobe assented rising. "That's right, my man, and you'll help other candles to hold out." "Doctor, understand me," explained George, "I must go and search for Captain Bodine, who is wandering on crutches about the city," and he hastened to say a word to his father. Ella saw him kneel by the old man, and then rise after a moment or two with such gladness in his face that even the blood and dust stains could not disguise it. Little wonder, for Mr. Houghton had said, "I'm conquered, George. I give all up--all my ambitious dreams about you. What dreams they now seem! This awful earthquake has shaken away everything except life, and the love which makes life worth anything. I've seen the girl, and I don't blame you. Go ahead." "Oh, thanks, thanks. You'll never be sorry; but, father, please don't say anything to her about--about--Well, she don't know, and I must woo before I can hope to win." "You needn't worry about me. I'm old enough to be wary," and the old man could not repress a grim smile. Then he added, "George, for mercy's sake, try to get the blood and dust off your face and find a coat. You look as if you had been through a prize-fight." George explained the quest he was about to enter upon, and promised caution. Then he approached Ella. "Miss Bodine," he said, "I will now search for your father till I find him." Again the girl could not trust herself to speak, but tears came into her eyes as she gave him her hand. He pressed it so hard as to leave a delicious ache, and hastened away. "Good Lor! who was that awful-looking man?" Mrs. Bodine asked Ella. "George Houghton. He carried you from home here." "Lor! Lor! Saved my life as well as yours and Cousin Hugh's?" "Yes, and now he's going to help papa and Mara." "Well, well, we'll have to forgive him for being born North. Is that old--" Ella stopped her mouth with a kiss, and whispered: "That is his father. Don't let us look at him. In fact, I'm afraid to--at least while he is so ill." "Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, "if this earthquake does not cure him of his cussedness, I hope the Lord will take him to heaven." "He did not prevent George from coming to me, nor his going to papa's aid. He was kind, too, to that poor woman yonder. Oh, I'm sorry for her, and I wish I could do something." "Perhaps you can. Go and see." "I've nothing to put under your head, cousin." "I'll put patience under it. That, I reckon, is all I have left now. Go, Ella, dear, I can't bear to hear her moan. I'm in no pain, and that wine has quite heartened me." Ella did as she was bidden. That Mr. Houghton was observant was quickly proved, for he said to Jube, "Take this pillow to that lady yonder. If she declines, say you have your orders, and leave it." Mrs. Bodine raised herself on her elbow and protested. "Madam," said Mr. Houghton, "do not deny a helpless man the privilege of doing a little for the comfort of others at a time like this." "But you have none left for yourself, sir," Mrs. Bodine replied. "Madam, you can understand what a satisfaction that will be to me under the circumstances." Mrs. Bodine yielded and admitted to herself that she was much more comfortable. "I reckon the earthquake is doing him good," she thought, "and that the Lord better keep him here a while longer." "Can't you lift me up a little?" gasped the injured woman to Ella. "Oh, how I suffer, _suffer_!" Ella sat down beside her, and gently shifted the pillow so that it came under the wounded back, while the weary head rested against her bosom. "Ah!" said the poor creature, "that's easier. I reckon I won't have to suffer much longer." Ella spoke soothingly and gently. Mr. Houghton, who could only hear the sweet tenderness of her tones, wiped tears from his eyes as he again murmured, "God forgive me, blind, obstinate old fool that I've been!" The adjacent flames now lighted up the entire scene, throwing their baleful light on such an assemblage as had never before gathered in this New World. The convulsion which threatened to raze every home in the city had certainly brought the people down to the same level. Both white and colored citizens were mingled together on the square in a swiftly created democracy. Character, the noble qualities of the soul, without regard to color or previous condition, now only gave distinction. CHAPTER XLII A HOMELESS CITY The efforts of Clancy and Mara combined with the vigorous and sensible ministrations of Aun' Sheba at last brought consciousness to Mrs. Hunter. Tearing up a linen sheet they stanched and bound up her wounds, and then Clancy said, "We must get her to one of the squares and under a physician's care as soon as possible." "My folks is gwine to Mar'on Squar, an' dar I promise ter come," said Aun' Sheba. "It's 'bout as nigh as any ob dem." Mrs. Hunter looked at Clancy, and shrank from him visibly. He said quickly, "Surely, Mrs. Hunter, all enmities should be forgotten at this time, or at least put aside. We should leave this narrow side-street at once." "Aunty," said Mara, gently, "Mr. Clancy has saved us both from destruction. For my sake and Aun' Sheba's as well as your own, you must let him do all in his power." The earthly, yet unearthly, rumble of another shock put an end to further hesitation. It would be long before the terror inspired by this phenomenon would cease to be overwhelming. Aun' Sheba lifted her arms imploringly to heaven, while the vivid consciousness of the direst peril known brought Mara and Clancy together again in an embrace that was the natural expression of the feeling that, if die they must, they would die together. With such black ruin about them, caused by one shock, the fear could not be combated that the next might end everything. When the convulsion passed, Clancy and Aun' Sheba immediately formed a chair with their hands, and Mara helped Mrs. Hunter, now ready enough to escape by any means, to avail herself of it. They made their way with difficulty over the debris to King Street. Here they were obliged to pause and rest. No rest, however, did Clancy obtain, for a momentary glance revealed one of the awful phases of the disaster. Three or four doors above them, houses were burning from overturned and exploded lamps. Some of the shop-keepers were frantically endeavoring to save a few of their goods, often, in their excitement, carrying out the strangest and most valueless articles. Clancy's brief glance gave no heed to such efforts, but before he could turn away, a woman with a child in her arms came rushing from one of the burning houses. Her dress had touched the fire, and was beginning to burn. Clancy caught one of the blankets from Mara, and with it extinguished the flames, while Mara took the infant. The instant the babe was out of her arms the mother tried to break away and rush back, shrieking, "There's another! there's another child!" "Where?" cried Clancy, restraining her. "In the front room there." "Stay here, then," and he darted through the doorway, out of which the smoke was pouring as from a chimney. Mara and the mother looked after him in breathless and agonized suspense. The flames had burst suddenly into the apartment, and through the windows they could see him enter, snatch up the child, and disappear. But he did not come out of the street door as soon as they expected. They could endure waiting no longer. Both dashed into the smoke-clouded passage-way, and stumbled against Clancy Where he had sunk down within a few steps of safety. The mother seized her child, while Mara, with a strength given by her heart, dragged the strangling man to the open air. By this time Aun' Sheba was at her side, and between them they carried him to the spot where Mrs. Hunter lay. Now that he could breathe he soon recovered; Mara's tender and imploring words being potent indeed in rallying him. His exposure to heat and the smoke had been terrible, but fortunately very brief. He was soon on his feet, exclaiming, "We must go on to Meeting Street, for there we shall have a better chance." Thither they made their way with other fugitives, Clancy and Aun' Sheba carrying Mrs. Hunter as before, Mara following with the infant, and close beside her the grateful mother with the other child. Having reached a somewhat open space in the wider thoroughfare, the young man became satisfied that another mode of transportation must be found. Mrs. Hunter was too heavy for the primitive method adopted in the emergency. Aun' Sheba took the injured woman's head upon her lap while he rested and looked about for something like an army stretcher. Among the ruins he found one of the long wooden shutters which a jeweller had placed against his window hours before. Watches and gems gleamed in the light of kindling fires, and were within easy reach, but the most unscrupulous of thieves were honest that night. Clancy carried the shutter to Mrs. Hunter's side, and then watched for some man whom he could persuade into his service. The great thoroughfare was full of fugitives, and soon among them the mother recognized a man of her acquaintance, who took charge of her and the children. The majority, like Clancy, had been delayed by efforts in behalf of the sick or injured, and already had their hands full. Others were so dazed and horror-stricken that they moved about aimlessly, or sat upon the pavement, moaning and lamenting in despairing accents. It would appear as if the emergency developed the strength and the weakness of every mind. Some were evidently crazed. As Mara stood beside Mrs. Hunter to prevent the crowd from trampling upon her, she saw a half-dressed man, breaking his way through the throng. The maniac stopped before her, and for a moment fixed upon her wild, blood-shot eyes, then placed an infant in her arms, and with a yell bounded away. Mara, horror-stricken, saw that the child was dead, and that its neck was evidently broken. Clancy came up immediately, and taking the infant laid it down out of the central path, for all kept to the middle of the street. As he did so, he heard his name called by a voice he knew too well. The feeling it inspired compelled him again to recognize how false he had been to himself and also to Miss Ainsley. Her summons now brought the feeling that he too, like Mara, was bound, and he went instantly to her side. "Ah, you deserted me!" she said bitterly. He silently pointed to Mrs. Hunter, who presented so sad a spectacle that even the exacting girl had no further words of reproach, but she glanced keenly at Mara. "We feared a tidal wave," Mr. Willoughby explained, "and so decided to seek the upper portion of the city." "Mrs. Willoughby, if you are able to walk," said Clancy, "your husband must aid me and Aun' Sheba in carrying Mrs. Hunter, who is very badly injured." "Oh, now that the first terrible shock to my nerves is over, I am as well able to take care of myself as any of you," replied the spirited little woman. "That's like you!" exclaimed Clancy heartily. Then turning, he said with emphasis, "Miss Ainsley, you see that a man's first duty to-night is to the injured and utterly helpless." "Forgive me," she replied in tones meant for his ear only, "I did not know you owed so much to Mrs. Hunter and her niece." "I shall owe my services to every injured man and woman until all are rescued," was his quiet reply. Then he helped Mr. Willoughby place Mrs. Hunter on the improvised support, and between them they bore her onward, the others following. Their progress was necessarily slow, for the street was encumbered not only with fugitives like themselves, but also with tangled telegraph-wires and all sorts of other impediments. Once they had to cower tremblingly under a tall building while a fire-engine thundered by, threatening to bring down upon them the shattered walls. As they resumed their slow and painful march Bodine met them, his glad, outspoken greeting to Mara filling her heart with new grief and dismay, while it allayed the jealousy and bitterness of Miss Ainsley's wounded pride. The Northern girl had heard the report that Mara and the veteran were engaged, and here was confirmation. Mara inquired eagerly after Mrs. Bodine and Ella, then took her place at the captain's side, while Clancy moved on with set teeth and a desperate rallying of his physical powers, which he knew to be failing. Now that Ella was in the square, young Houghton was not so impetuous as to ignore the claims of nature or to be regardless of his outward appearance. He again returned to his home, and saw Sam kneeling and praying aloud near the barn, with the two horses standing beside him. "Sam, go to the square," he shouted. "Can't lebe dese hosses. Dey's bofe lookin' ter me, an' I'se prayin' fer dem an us all." "No matter about the horses. The house is too near." Then he ventured into the butler's pantry, cleansed his face and the cuts and bruises about his head, snatched some food, and hastened away. He believed he had a hard night's work before him, and that he must maintain his strength. He had not gone very far down Meeting Street before he met the group accompanying Mrs. Hunter. With a glad cry he welcomed Mrs. Willoughby, and was about to take her hand when Clancy said, "Houghton, for God's sake, quick!" George caught the end of the litter while Clancy reeled backward and would have fallen had not Mara, with a cry she could not repress, caught him in her arms and sunk with him to the pavement. He gasped a moment or two, then his eyes closed; he became still and looked as if dead. Again the supremely dreaded subterranean rumble was heard. Mr. Willoughby shouted wildly, "Forward, quick! We can't stay here under these buildings." He and Houghton went on with a rush, the rest following with loud cries, Miss Ainsley's piercing scream ringing out above all. She did not even look back at her prostrate suitor. Mara paid no heed to the passing shock, but with eyes full of anguish looked upon the white face in her lap. "Mara," said the deep voice of Bodine after the awful sound had passed. She started violently and began to tremble. "Mara, go with the others. I will stay with Mr. Clancy." She shook her head, but was speechless. He stood beside her, his face full of deep and perplexed trouble. At last she said hoarsely, "You go and bring aid. He saved aunty and me, and I cannot leave him." At this moment Aun' Sheba came running back, exclaiming: "Good Lawd forgib me dat I should leab my honey lam'! My narbes all shook out ob jint like de houses, an' my legs run away wid me, dog gone 'em! Dey's brung me back howsomeber. Now, Missy Mara, gib him ter me;" and taking him under the arms she dragged him by the adjacent tall buildings. "Missy," she added, sinking down with her burden, "go on ter de squar wid Marse Bodine, an' tell dat ar young Houghton ter come quick, 'fore my legs run away wid me agin." "Both of you go to the square," commanded Bodine in the tone he would have used on the battlefield. "I will stay. There shall be no useless risk of life." Mara lifted her dark eyes to his face. Even at that moment he knew he should never forget their expression. "My friend," she said in low, agonized tones, "he may be dying, he may be dead. I cannot, will not leave him." "No, he ain't dead," said Aun' Sheba, with her hand over Clancy's heart, "but seems purty nigh it. Him jes gone beyon his strengt. Ole missus po'ful heby ef she ain't fat like me. Tank de Lawd, I hasn't ter be toted ter-night. No one but Kern ud tote me. Po' Kern! him heart jes break wen he know." Bodine stood guard silent and grim while Mara mechanically chafed one of Clancy's hands. She was now far beyond tears, far beyond anything except the anguish depicted in her face. In a confused way she felt that the terrible events of the night and her own heart had overpowered her; and, with a half-despairing recklessness, she merely lived from moment to moment. The earthquake had ceased to have personal terrors for Bodine. He had faced death too often. Nevertheless a great fear oppressed him as he looked down upon the girl he loved. The square was not far away; Houghton and Mr. Willoughby came hastening back, and Clancy was soon added to the group of sufferers under Dr. Devoe's care. To Miss Ainsley's general disgust at a city in which she had been treated to such a rude and miserable experience, was added a little self-disgust that she had rushed away and left Clancy to his fate. She tried to satisfy herself by thinking that he had acted in much the same way toward her, but it would not answer. Mrs. Hunter's blood-stained face, rendered tenfold more ghastly by the light of the flames, was too strong refutation, and the fact that Mara had remained with Clancy had its sting. She saw Ella and many others ministering to the injured and feeble, and felt that she must redeem her character. When the unconscious man was brought in, therefore, she hastened forward to receive and in a measure claim him. Although mentally comparing her conduct with that of Mara, Houghton and Mr. Willoughby thought it was all right, put Clancy in her charge, and began to follow Dr. Devoe's directions. Mara gave the girl a look which brought a blush to her face, and then devoted herself to her aunt. Captain Bodine's first act was to speak gently and encouragingly to his daughter and cousin, congratulating the latter on her recovery. "Yes, Hugh," said the old lady, "I'm safe, safer than I've been at other times in my life. This is but one more storm, and it is only driving me nearer the harbor. You look dreadfully; you're worn out." "More by anxiety than exertion. It is awful to be so helpless at such a time." "Sit down here on the grass beside me. I want to talk. I may not have much more chance in this world, but feel sure that I shall do my share in the next. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, we've all been shaken like naughty children, and some of us may be the better and the wiser for it. If Ella and that gallant knight of hers survive, how happy they will be! It makes me happy even to think of it, though for aught we know the earth may open and swallow us all within the next five minutes." "Yes, the dear child! Thank God for her sake!" "For your own too. There is Mara safe also. Poor Mrs. Hunter! she looks death-like to me. You look awfully too. I never saw you so pale and haggard." "Cap'n Bodine, Marse Houghton send you dis," said Jube at his elbow, proffering a glass of wine. The captain turned his startled eyes upon his old employer, who lay just out of earshot of their low tones. "Take it, Hugh," said his cousin earnestly. "Drink to the death of hate. He and I have made up." The veteran hesitated, and a spasm, as if from a wrench of pain, passed over his face. Then he took the glass, and said coldly, "I drink to your recovery, sir." "I thank you," was Mr. Houghton's response. "A very fair beginning, Hugh, for a man," his cousin resumed. "You might as well give up at once, though. Everything is going to be shaken down that shouldn't stand." Ominous words to the veteran, for he felt that his dream of happiness was falling in ruins. By the natural force of circumstances the several characters of our story had been brought comparatively near together, yet were separated into little groups. Dr. Devoe passed from one to the other as his services were needed, nor were they confined to those known to us. He simply made a little open space beside Mr. Houghton his headquarters, where he left his remedies under the charge of the invalid, Jube, and old Tobe. Other physicians had joined him and were indefatigable in the work of relief. Some of the city clergy were also in the square, speaking words of Christian faith and hope, which never before had seemed so precious. To Clancy Dr. Devoe gave a good deal of attention. Not only was his hair singed, but his neck and hands were badly burned, and his swoon was so obstinate as to indicate great exhaustion. This could scarcely be otherwise, for he possessed no such physique as young Houghton had developed. Moreover, he had passed through a mental strain and excitement which no one could comprehend except Mara, and she but partially. Houghton had put his coat under the head of the unconscious man, and was doing his best for him. So also was Miss Ainsley now. She had purposely turned her back on Mara, and her face was toward the adjacent conflagration, which distinctly lighted up her face and form, transforming her into a vision of marvellous beauty. Her long hair had fallen in a golden veil over her bare shoulders and neck; her dark eyes were lustrous with excitement and full of solicitude. When at last Clancy opened his eyes his first impression was that an angel was ministering to him in a light too brilliant to be earthly. He recognized Miss Ainsley's voice, however, and when he had taken some of the wine which the doctor pressed to his lips, all that had happened came back to him. George now returned in solicitude to his father, also designing to take a little much-needed rest, while the doctor gave his attention to other patients. With returning consciousness Clancy was overpowered by a deep sense of gratitude to this beautiful creature, and also by a strong feeling of compunction that he had sought the regard which she now seemed to bestow unstintedly. "Like Mara," he thought, "there is nothing left for me but to fulfil obligations from which I cannot honorably withdraw." "You are indeed kind and devoted," he said feebly. "I fear I have made a good deal of trouble." "No, Mr. Clancy, you have gone beyond your strength. In fact, we are all distracted and half beside ourselves. Won't you let me take your head into my lap? If I am caring for you I can better endure these awful scenes." And she made the change. "I hope you will forgive me for leaving you so abruptly on the Battery. Mrs. Hunter and Miss Wallingford really had no one to look to." "Captain Bodine evidently thinks Miss Wallingford should look to him." "In such an emergency he would be even more helpless than she." "Oh, well, I hope the worst is now over for us all, and that we can soon get away from this awful town." He gave no answer. Miss Ainsley knew that her father was not far distant, and that he would come for her by the first train which could reach the city. Accustomed all her life to look at everything from the central point of self, she now, in the greater sense of safety, began to give some thought to the future. Her first conscious decision was to try to be as brave as possible, and so leave a good impression. The second was to get away from the city at once, and she hoped she might never see it again. If Clancy would go with her, if he would even eventually join her at the North, she believed that she could marry him, so favorable was the impression that he had made, but she felt that she was making a great concession, which he must duly appreciate. At present the one consuming wish was to escape, to get away from scenes which to her were horrible in the last degree. In truth only a brave spirit could witness what was taking place on every side, or maintain fortitude under the overwhelming impression of personal danger--an impression which soon banished the partial sense of security felt after reaching the square. The extent of the terror inspired by the earthquake can best be measured by the fact that although columns of smoke and fire, consuming homes and threatening to lay the city in ashes, were rising at several points, they were scarcely heeded. The roar of adjacent flames could even be heard by the vast concourse, but ears were strained to detect that more terrible roar that seemed to come from unknown depths beneath the ocean and the land, and to threaten a fate as awful and mysterious as itself. Even many of the white population could not help sharing in some degree the general belief among the negroes that the end of all things was at hand. The nervous shock sustained by all prepared the way for the wildest fears and conjectures. As in the instance of a bloody battle, those were the best off who were the most occupied. Thousands, however, sat and waited in sickening apprehension, fearing some new horror with every passing moment. There was a sound of weeping throughout the square, while above this monotone rose groans, cries, hysterical screams, loud petitions for mercy, and snatches of hymns. The emotional negroes left no moments of silence. The majority of the white people had become comparatively calm. They talked in low tones, encouraging and soothing one another; the lips of even those who seldom looked heavenward now often moved in silent prayer; fathers, on whose brows rested a heavy load of care, tried to cheer their trembling families; and mothers clasped their sobbing children in their arms, with the feeling that even death should not part them. Over all this array of pallid, haggard faces, shone the flames of the still unquenched conflagration. CHAPTER XLIII "THE TERROR BY NIGHT" When Aun' Sheba saw that Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Clancy were among friends, with a physician in attendance, she sat down by her daughter Sissy, and took little Vilet in her lap. "I kin'er feel," she said, "dat ef de yearth is gwine ter swaller us, I'se like ter go down wid dis chile. Vilet shuah to go up ag'in, an' p'raps de Lawd ud say, 'You kin come too, Aun' Sheba.'" The sound of her voice so far restored Uncle Sheba to his normal condition that he was able to creep on his hands and knees to a position just behind his wife, where he crouched as if she were a sort of general protection. Vilet, roused at her grandmother's voice, looked around, and then asked in her plaintive voice, "Whar's daddy?" "He's hep'n' put'n' out de fiahs, deah chile." "My bref gittin' bery sho't, granny. I can't stay dis side ob de riber much longer; I wants ter see daddy 'fore I go." "Po' chile and po' Kern," groaned Aun' Sheba. "We doesn't know whar he be, an' I'se 'feerd he couldn't lebe off puttin' out de fiahs." From time to time Vilet wailed, "Daddy, come, come quick. I'se gwine fas, an' I wants to see you onst mo'." Captain Bodine heard the cry, and, having rested himself a little, came to Aun' Sheba and asked, "Do you know where Kern is?" "I doan, Marse Cap'n, but he mought be at dis nighest fiah." "I'll see," said the veteran, halting away with the feeling that he must do something to divert his torturing thoughts. Watson was soon pointed out to him, where with stern and quiet face he was carrying out his orders. When told that Vilet was near and calling for him, the veins came out on his forehead, and for a moment he was irresolute. Then he cried, "No, sah, I can't go. Fo' de Lawd, ef she die an' we all die I won't lebe my duty." "You're a man," said Bodine, clapping him on the shoulder, "I will arrange this." He went direct to Kern's superior officer and briefly told him the circumstances, then added, "I know these people. Watson deserves consideration. I will take his place. I can hold the hose as well as he, and will stand as near the fire as he does if you will order him to go to his dying child for a few minutes." "In that case I can comply," said the officer. "Watson has behaved splendidly, and he'll come back soon." The first thing Kern knew, the hose was taken from his hand, and he ordered to go and return within ten minutes. He hesitated. "Obey orders," was the stern command. Then he rushed away. The plaintive cry, "Daddy, daddy," guided him, and Vilet was in his arms. "Chile, deah chile!" was all he could say as he kissed the thin face again and again. "Now my min's at res'," said the little girl, with a sigh of ineffable content. "You 'member, daddy--you says--'Yes, Vilet.'--I'se a-goin', daddy. De angels--is all ready--to tote me to Heben. I kin jes' heah dere wings--rustlin' roun' me. I was jes' waitin'--an' hol'n back--ter see you onst mo'. Good-by, moder--granny." Then she feebly wound her little arms about Kern's neck and whispered, "Good-by, daddy, fer jes' a lil while. I'se wait neah de gate fer you _shuah_." It would seem that she put all her remaining strength into this effort, for her head fell over on his shoulder; she quivered a moment, then was still. Kern could not repress one deep groan. He looked for a moment of agony into his child's face, kissed it, then placing her in Ann' Sheba's lap, departed as swiftly as he came. Sissy was so overcome as to be helpless. "Your time wasn't up," said the veteran. "Her time was up, Cap'n Bodine," Kern managed to reply, his face rigid with repressed emotion. "She die in my arms. God bless yo' fer you'se feelins fer a po' man." "Watson, I do feel for you and with you. Our hearts are all breaking to-night. Take care of yourself. You have a wife and children still to live for." And Bodine halted back and seated himself by his cousin. Alas! for thousands the words of Bodine were only too true. As they contemplated what had happened and what might occur at any moment, they felt that heavy, crushing pain, unlike all others, which gathers at the heart, overwhelming the spirit and threatening physical dissolution at one and the same time. Yet such is the power of human affection and Christian faith, that they won many triumphs, even during that night of horrors. In Ella and the dying woman, whose head she pillowed on her breast, were examples of both. The girl's heart was indeed pitiful and sympathetic, and the poor creature knew that it was, for in broken, gasping words she told her brief, pathetic story, so like that of many other women in the South. Once she was a happy girl at home on a small plantation, but father, brothers, and lover had all perished in the war. Home and mother had since been lost and she was fighting out life's long, weary battle when this final disaster brought the end. "Yes, kind lady, I reckon I'm dying: I hope so. I couldn't take care of myself any longer, and I'd rather join those who have gone on before me than trust to the charity of this world. I am very weary, very heavy laden, and I'd rather go to Him who said, 'Come to Me.' If you can stay with me a little longer--I don't fear, but it's very sweet to have human kindness and company down into the dark valley." Her words proved true. She evidently perished from internal injuries, for she soon ceased to gasp, and her head lay still against the bosom of the sobbing girl. Dr. Devoe was present during the last moments, then gently relieved Ella from her lifeless burden, and supported her to her father on whose shoulder she shed those natural tears which soon bring relief to the hearts of the young. George Houghton and Jube carried the body to the place set apart for the dead. Then George returned to his father's side, but looked wistfully at Ella with an unspeakable longing to comfort her. "I don't wonder, my boy," said Mr. Houghton, interpreting his thoughts. "Go and speak to her." George approached timidly, and said, "Miss Bodine." She started, raised her head, and began to wipe her eyes. "I--I--Well, I don't know what to say to make you understand how my father and I have sympathized with your brave--Well, you were so kind and patient with that poor woman. I wish I could do something for _you_, and I will," and he hastened away. She called, "I don't need anything, Mr. Houghton. Indeed I do not. It would only distress me--" But he was out of hearing. "Oh," she moaned again on her father's shoulder, "why will he take risks?" It was evident that Mr. Houghton shared her anxiety, for he divined his son's purpose, and looked with troubled face for his return. He soon came back carrying another mattress, pillows and blankets. Sam, compelled to leave the horses, followed with a basket of provisions. Ella was clothed in little besides a light wrapper, and had shivered more than once in the night air. George tried to induce her and Mrs. Bodine to accept of the mattress, but they asked as a favor that it might be placed under Mrs. Hunter. He readily complied, saying he would get another for them. At this moment came the ominous groan of the severe shock which occurred at about half-past two o'clock Wednesday morning. To the terrified people it was like the growl of some ravening beast rushing upon them, and a long wailing cry blended with the horrible roar as it swept under and over them, then died away in the northwest. "Oh, Mr. Houghton," sobbed Ella, when her voice could be heard, "please don't go away--please don't go near a building again." "George," added his father, almost sternly, "not with my consent will you leave me again till we learn more definitely what our fate is to be. If you were in the house when this shock occurred, you might have perished. It is no longer a question of more or less comfort." "I reckon not," said Mrs. Bodine. "It's a question of ever seeing the sun rise again. We may as well speak out what is in our minds, and get ready for a city not made with hands." "I wish we were all as ready to go as you are, Cousin Sophy," Ella whispered. "Well, my dear, I've more property in that city than in this wrecked town, and 'where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'" Then she added, "You'll be spared, dear child. You and your knight will see many happy years. God bless you both." "Oh, cousin! it is such a comfort, even at this awful time, to see him, to know he is near, to think he came for--for us!" "For you, dear little goose. He'd face earthquakes, volcanoes, tornadoes, cyclones, and even his father before this well-deserved shaking converted him, for your sake." "Cousin," whispered the girl, "I'm so glad. Is it wrong to be glad at such a time?" "Wrong to be glad when God loves you and a good man loves you? I reckon not. All the quakes that ever shook this crazy old earth are bagatelles compared with such facts." "Oh, cousin, you are such a tower of strength and comfort!" "I'm a leaning tower," replied the old lady, whose vein of humor ran through all her thoughts, "but I'm leaning on what won't fail me. Nestle down by my side, dear child. You are shivering, and this extra blanket will do us both good. Now be comfortable, and believe with me that nothing in the universe can or will harm you." "Poor Mara!" Ella sighed. "Yes, I've been watching and grieving over her. I never saw any face more expressive of suffering than hers. I don't understand her unless--unless--well, time will show, that is, if there is much more time for me." "Oh, cousin, we never could spare you!" "That is what I used to think about my husband, but he always went when sailing orders came, and I survived. I feel to-night as if he and the boys were just waiting off shore, if this tossing and pitching earth can be called shore, for me to join them." Captain Bodine sat through the shock without moving a muscle. His eyes rested wistfully on Mara. With an indescribable pang he saw that in the supreme moment of general terror her eyes turned not to him but to Clancy, and that she made a half involuntary movement as if to go to him. The glance, the act, combined with what had gone before, were too significant, and Bodine buried his face in his hands that she might not see his trouble. She knew it all the more surely, yet felt how powerless she was to console him. "Oh, my blind, blind folly!" she groaned inwardly. "If I had been true to my heart, I might be caring for Owen instead of that woman who left him to die, and my father's friend acting like a father toward us both. I wanted to be so heroic and self-sacrificing, and I've only sacrificed those I love most." Mrs. Hunter was so fully under the influence of anodynes as not to be cognizant of what was taking place, and Bodine, soldier-like, was not long in reaching his decision. Rising, he went aside with Dr. Devoe, and said, "Miss Wallingford is keeping up from the sheer force of will. Nothing but your command can induce her to yield and take such rest as can be obtained here. I do not think you can interpose too soon. I will watch Mrs. Hunter." Mara had indeed reached the limit of endurance, and the physician quickly detected the fact. He took her by the hand and arm, and gently raised her to her feet as he said, "I am autocrat here. Even kings and generals must obey their doctor. So I shall ask no permission to place you beside Mrs. Bodine. She and rest can do you more good than I can. Captain Bodine and I will look after Mrs. Hunter." Mara gave the veteran a grateful glance and yielded. Then she buried her face in Mrs. Bodine's neck, and was silent until she slept from physical exhaustion. Miss Ainsley, with multitudes of others, yielded to her terror at the passing of the midnight earthquake. She shrieked and half rose in her wild impulse to fly. Then apparently forgetting Clancy she piteously begged Dr. Devoe to give her something that would certainly bring oblivion for a few hours at least. He good-naturedly complied. When the opiate began to take effect she was placed on the mattress beside Mrs. Hunter, and was soon in stupor. Clancy had so far recovered that he was able to sit up, and he felt that he should watch beside the girl who he believed had been so devoted to him in his unconsciousness. Dr. Devoe in excuse for Miss Ainsley said, "We can't make too much allowance to-night for every one. Many strong men are utterly overcome and nauseated by these, shocks. No wonder women cannot face them." "I think Miss Ainsley has borne up wonderfully," Clancy replied. "Oh, yes, as well as the average. It's a question of nerves with the majority." Clancy sat down and looked with pity at the beautiful face and dishevelled hair. "Poor girl!" he thought, "she did her best by me. Indeed, I had scarcely thought her capable of such devotion. By all that's honorable I'm bound to her now. Well, eventually I can give her a truer affection, for she has ceased to be merely a part of my ambitious scheme. By our own acts Mara and I are separated, and, however deep our grief may be, it must be hidden from all." Thus he and Captain Bodine sat on either side of the pallet, each immersed in painful thought, oblivious of the strange scenes enacted all around them. They did not feel then that they could speak to each other. The veteran was perplexed, and his proud spirit also labored under a deep sense of wrong. It was evident that he had been deceived by Mara, and that all along she had loved the man so near to him, loved him better than her own life. Why had she concealed the fact? Why had she been so cold and harsh toward Clancy himself until the awful events of the night and peril to life had overpowered her reserve and revealed her heart? He could think of no other explanation than that afforded by the unconscious girl over whom Clancy watched. He had heard of the young man's devotion to Miss Ainsley, and, from what he had seen, believed that they were affianced. He was too just and large in his judgment to think Mara's course toward him was due to pique and wounded pride, and he was not long in arriving at a very fair explanation of her motives and action. Keenly intelligent and mature in years he was beyond the period of passionate and inconsiderate resentment. Moreover his love for the orphan girl was so true, and the memory of her father and mother so dear to him, that he was able to rise nobly above mere self, and resolve to become the most loyal of friends, a protector against her very self. "Now I think of it," he mused, "she has never said she loved me, although she permitted me to think she did. Even when I declared my love she only said, 'Life offers me nothing better than to be your wife.' That no doubt was true as she meant it, for she then thought this man here was lost to her. She did not welcome my love when she first recognized it, but soon her spirit of self-sacrifice came in, and she reasoned that since she could not be happy in herself, she would make me happy. From the very first I believed that this spirit could lead her to deception for the sake of others, and I have not been sufficiently on my guard against it. Yet how could I suspect this Clancy, whom she so repelled and contemned, and who was devoting himself to another woman? Perhaps she partially deceived herself as well as me. The affection probably struck root years since when she and Clancy were friends. He outgrew it; she has not, as she has learned to night, if not before. He went to her aid because he was friendly in spite of her apparent bitterness toward him, which perhaps he understood better than I. Possibly Mrs. Hunter may have broken their relations, for there is no doubt about her feelings. Well, time must unravel the snarl. It would now seem that he is devoted to this girl here, and she to him as far as she can be to any one. What he will think when he learns that she ran shrieking away and left him, while Mara, reckless of life itself, stood by him to the last, I cannot know. If he loves her he will forgive her, for no man can blame a woman for succumbing to the terror of this night. Possibly at some distant day Mara may still think that life offers her nothing better than to be my wife; but she shall be free, free as air, and know, too, that I know all." Thus Bodine communed with himself after a habit learned long ago in the presence of danger. Clancy also was confronted by possible results of his action, the fear of which enabled his cool, resolute nature to rise above all other fear. He resolved to go at once to Aun' Sheba, and caution her against speaking of the scenes in which she, with Mara, and himself had taken part. CHAPTER XLIV HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD Clancy was guided by the voice of Aun' Sheba, the wailing of Sissy, and the groans and unearthly sounds to which Uncle Sheba was giving utterance. The adjacent fire was so far subdued that only a red glow in the sky above marked the spot. The stars shone in calm, mocking serenity on the wide scene of human distress and fear. "Alas," he thought, "what atoms we are; and what an atom is this earth itself! It would seem that faith is the simplest, yet mightiest effort of the mind at such a time," and he paused till Aun' Sheba should be more free to listen to him. Mr. Birdsall, with his youngest child in his arms, had been exhorting those of his people near him, but his words had been of little effect in quieting Sissy and Uncle Sheba. The latter had concluded that he would not wait till the coming winter before again "'speriencin 'ligion," and his uncouth appeals to Heaven were but the abject expression of animal fear. Aun' Sheba had lost her patience with both him and her daughter, and was expostulating vigorously. "I'se asham on you, Sissy," she said. "Wot good de 'ligion you 'fess do you, I'd like ter know? Ain't Vilet in Hebin? Ain't you got de bes husban bawn? Ain't de oder chil'n heah? Now ef you'se 'ligion any good 'tall, be quiet an tankful dat you bettah off dan hun'erds. Unc., you kin pray all you wants, but ef you specs de Lawd ter listen you'se got ter pray like a man an not like a hog dat wants his dinnah. You'se 'sturbin everybody wuss dan you did wen you got sot on. I won hab it said my folks made a rumpus in dis time ob trouble. You'se got ter min me, Mr. Buggone, or I'se hab you took out de squar." Uncle Sheba was never so far gone in his fears but that he shrunk from facing anything worse, and so he subsided into low inarticulate groans. Sissy was not so tractable, for her weeping was largely nervous and hysterical. She had an affectionate emotional nature, but was far from being gifted with the strength of mind and character possessed by her mother and husband. "Aun' Sheba," said Clancy kindly, "your daughter needs something to quiet her nerves. I will bring it to her." He soon returned with medicine from the doctor, and under its influence the bereaved mother became calmer and wept softly by her dead child. Clancy drew Aun' Sheba a little apart so that others could not hear, even if any were disposed to listen at this time of intense preoccupation. "You have been a friend indeed to-night," he said. "I must ask another proof of your good-will. The earthquake has brought trouble enough, but I fear that Mara and I have brought greater trouble upon ourselves. Probably you've seen enough to explain what I mean." "I'se seen a heap, Marse Clancy." "Well, you are Mara's old nurse. She loves and trusts you. She is engaged to Captain Bodine." "She ain't mar'ed to 'im." "She feels herself bound, and has said that if I was a true Southern gentleman I would not interfere. This is bad enough, but there's worse still. I thought she was lost to me--you know about it, I reckon." "Yes, I knows now. I was a blin ole fool an tink it was wuckin' so hard dat made her po'ly." "Oh, we have both made such fatal mistakes! I, like a fool, when I believed she would never speak to me again, entangled myself also. Now, Aun' Sheba, what I wish is that you say nothing to any one of what you have seen and heard. We've got to do what's honorable at every cost to ourselves." "Dus wot's hon'ble mean dat Missy Mara got ter mar'y Marse Bodine an you de limpsey-slimpsey one wot say you 'serted her?" "Nothing else seems to be left for us." "'Pears ter me, Marse Clancy, you an Missy Mara gittin orful muxed up in wot's hon'ble. I'se only got wot folks calls hoss-sense, but it's dead agin you bofe. Take you now. Fust you got ter tell de gal lies, den lies to her fader an de minister wot jines you, and de hull worl. Missy Mara ud hab ter lie like de debil, too, an you bofe go on lyin 'miscuously. Anyhow, you'se hab ter act out de lies ef you didn't say 'em. 'Ud dat be hon'ble wen all de time you'se yearnin fer each oder?" "Oh, Aun' Sheba, it's hard enough without such words as yours!" "Ob corse it's hard. It orter be, fer it's agin de Lawd an natur. Marse Clancy, took keer wot you do, an wot you let Missy Mara do. My 'sperience teach me a heap. S'pose I doan' know de dif'ence 'tween Unc. dar an a man like Kern? I was young an foolish once, an mar'ed Unc. kase he was good lookin den, an mo' kase he ax me. Well, I'se made de bes on it, an I'se gwine ter make de bes on it; but if de yearth crack right open heah, as like 'nuff 'twill 'fo' mawnin, I'd jump right down in de crack 'fo' I'd do it ober ag'in. You'se on de safe side ob de crack yit, so be keerful. I knows woman folks soon as I claps my eyes on dem. Miss Mara quar in her notions 'bout de Norf--she was brung up to 'em--but dere's nuff woman in my honey lam' to make a tousan ob dis yere limpsey-slimpsey one." Clancy clinched his hands in mental distress as he listened to the hard sense and unerring judgment of the sagacious old woman. "I'm in terrible perplexity," he said, "for there is so much truth in your words. How can I escape the consequences of my own acts? Think how Miss Ainsley stood by me in my unconsciousness! When I revived--" "Dar now, Marse Clancy, you'se been fooled. She stood by hersef. De fac am, she didn't stan 'tall, but run like a deer, hollerin fer all she's wuth. Wen you swoonded, Missy Mara cotch you in her arms. I eben run away, an lef my honey lam' mysef, but I come back sudden, an dar she was a hol'n you head in her lap right uner a big bildin dat ud a squashed her. I drag you pass dat, an den Marse Bodine jes ordered me an Missy to go to de squar. He spoke stern an strong as if we his sogers. An Missy Mara look 'im in de eyes an say, you--dat's you, Marse Clancy--may be dead, or you may be dyin, an dat she can't leab you an she won leab you. She got de grit ob true lub, an dere'll neber be any runin away in her heart. Wot you an Marse Bodine gwine ter do 'bout sich lub as dat? 'Fo' de Lawd my honey lam' die ef you an Marse Bodine 'sist on bein so orful hon'ble. She ain't one dem kin' dat takes a husban like dey takes a breakfas kase its ready." Clancy was so profoundly moved by what he heard that he turned away to hide his emotion. After a moment he said: "You have been true and faithful, Aun' Sheba. You won't be sorry. Please do as I have asked." And he hastened away. "Reckon I put a spoke in dat hon'ble bizness," Aun' Sheba soliloquized. "Like 'nuff I put another in. Doan cotch me hep'n along any sich foolishness. I gibs no promise, an I'se gwine ter make my honey lam' happy spite hersef." Then she took one of her grandchildren, and soothed it to sleep. The slow hours dragged wearily on; the majority of the white people quieted down to patient, yet fearful waiting; crying children, one after another, dropped off to sleep; parents and friends watched over them and one another, conversing in low tones or praying silently for the Divine mercy, never before felt to be so essential. The negroes were more demonstrative, and their loud prayers and singing of hymns continued without abatement or hindrance. The expressions of some were so extravagant and uncouth as to grate harshly on all natures possessing any refinement; but when such men as Mr. Birdsall exhorted or prayed, there were but few among the whites who did not listen reverently, and in their hearts acknowledge the substantial truth of the words spoken and their need of the petitions offered. Clancy went back to his watch. Few men in the city were more troubled and perplexed than he, for he had not the calmness resulting from a definite purpose as was true of Bodine. Unmovedly the two men remained at their posts of duty awaiting the day or what might happen before the dawn. George lay down beside his father, and soon slept from fatigue, while Mr. Houghton, now so softened and chastened, vowed to make him happy. Ella watched her father in deep solicitude, feeling vaguely that his trouble was not caused wholly by the general reasons for distress. At last she stole to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. The act comforted and sustained him more than she knew at the time, for he was not a demonstrative man. He only kissed her tenderly and bade her return to her cousin, with whom she kept up a whispered and fragmentary conversation. Mrs. Willoughby sat beside her husband, her head pillowed against his breast as they waited for the day. A breeze sprang up, and the freshness of the morning was in it. Would the sun ever rise again? Was not Nature so out of joint that nothing familiar could be looked for any more? The terrors of the long night inspired morbid thoughts, which come too readily in darkness. At the appointed time, however, there was a glow in the east, which steadily deepened in color. Truly, to the weary, haggard, shivering, half-clad watchers, the sun was an angel of light that morning; and never did fire-worshippers greet his rise with a deeper feeling of gratitude and gladness. There was a general stir in the strange bivouac, an increased murmur of voices. The hymns of the negroes gradually ceased; and people, singly or in groups, began to leave the square for their homes, in order to clothe themselves more fully, and to discover what was left to them in the general wreck. There had been no shock since the convulsion at half-past two o'clock, the fact inspiring general confidence that the worst was over. Hope grew stronger with the blessed light, and fear vanished with the darkness. Mr. Houghton touched his son, who immediately awoke, meditating deeds of hospitality. "Father," he said, "our house is near. Cannot I, with the aid of Jube and Sam, get our friends some breakfast?" "Yes, George, and extend the invitation from me." "Oh, father! I'm so grateful that you are giving me this chance to--to--" "You shall have all the chance you wish. In fact, I'm rather inclined to see what I can do myself. I may need a good deal of nursing." And the old man's face was lighted up with a kindly smile, which made his son positively happy. Approaching Bodine, he asked, "Do you think it will be safe for the invalids to leave the square?" "I scarcely think so," was the reply. "At least, not until more time passes without disturbance. From what I've read of earthquakes, our houses may be unsafe for days to come." "Well, the first thing to be done is to see that you all have some breakfast. Fortunately, our house is not far; and, although our women-servants have fled, I have two men who will stand by me. The fact is, my hunting expeditions have made me a fairly good cook myself. My father cordially extends the invitation that all my friends here breakfast with us." "I will join in your labors, Houghton," said Clancy, promptly. "Having no home, I gratefully accept your father's invitation." "We're all shipwrecked on a desert island," added Mrs. Bodine cheerily to George. "You appear to be one of the friendly natives, and I put myself under your protection." "Our custom here is," replied the young fellow in like vein, "that, after we have taken salt together, we become fast friends." "Bring on the salt, then," she answered laughing, while Ella's smile seemed to the young fellow more vivifying than the first level rays of the sun. Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Miss Ainsley were still sleeping, as also was Dr. Devoe. "Houghton," called Mr. Willoughby, "won't you enroll me as one of your cooks or waiters?" "No," replied George, "I must leave you and Captain Bodine in charge of camp." "Too many cooks spile de brof," said Aun' Sheba, rising from Mara's side where she had been watching for the last hour. "Marse Houghton, you bery fine cook fer de woods, I spec, but I reckon I kin gib a lil extra tech to de doin's." "Ah, Aun' Sheba, if you'll come, you shall be chief cook, and I, for one, promise to obey. Mrs. Willoughby, I'm so very glad that I can now return a little of your kindness." "I take back what I said about absolving you," she whispered. "You'd better. If I don't make the most of my chance now my name is not George Houghton. Of course I shan't say anything while these troubles last. You understand, I don't wish anything to happen which would embarrass her, or make it hard to accept what I can do for her and hers; but when the right time comes," and he nodded significantly. "You are on the right tack as you boatmen say," she whispered laughing. "See here, Houghton," remarked jolly Mr. Willoughby, "earthquakes and secret conferences with my wife are more than a fellow can stand at one and the same time." "You shall soon have consolation," said George, hastening away, followed by Clancy, Aun' Sheba, Jube, and Sam. When the last-named worthy appeared near Mr. Houghton's barn the horses whinnied and the two dogs barked joyously. "Mr. Clancy," said George, handing him his pocket-book, "since you have kindly offered to aid, please take Jube and visit the nearest butcher's shop and bakery. I suggest that you lay in a large supply, for we don't know what may happen. Please get eggs, canned delicacies, anything you think best. Don't spare money. Help yourself, if owners are absent. I will honor all your I.O.U's." "All right, Houghton; but remember that I'm an active partner in this catering business. Fortunately I don't need to go to the bank for money." Aun' Sheba exclaimed over the evidences of disaster along the street, but when she saw what a wreck Mr. Houghton's massive portico had become she lifted her hands in dismay. "That don't trouble me," said George, "since I'm not under it. I passed beneath a second or two before it fell." "De Lawd be praised! 'Pears ter me He know wot He 'bout, an is gwine ter bring down pride ez well ez piazzers." "It looks that way, Aun' Sheba. Here, Sam, make the kitchen fire before you do anything else. Now we must rummage and see what we can find." Aun' Sheba took possession of the kitchen, and with broom, mop, and cloths, soon brought order out of chaos. Sam found that although the chimney had lost its top, it fortunately drew, and the fire in the range speedily proved all that could be desired. George ravaged the store-closet until Aun' Sheba said, "Nuff heah already ter feed de squar." Then he went up and looked about the poor wrecked home, meanwhile setting Sam to dusting chairs and carrying them to the square. Then a table, crockery, knives, forks, spoons, napkins, etc., were despatched. Clancy and Jube found that the proprietors of some of the shops were plucking up courage to enter them and resume trade, and so they eventually returned well laden with provisions. Then Jube was sent with wash-basins, water and towels for ablutions. Meantime George and Clancy took a hasty bath and exchanged their ruined clothing for clean apparel. "Houghton, you are a godsend to us all," exclaimed his friend. "I suppose the whole affair is a godsend," was the reply; "anyway, I'm getting my satisfaction out of it this morning." As sprightly Mrs. Willoughby saw the applicances for their comfort following one after another she said to Ella, "We may as well make believe that it is a picnic." Ella smiled and replied, "I'm better dressed for breakfast than you are, for I have on a wrapper, and you are in a low-necked evening costume." "I feel as if I could eat a breakfast all the same. What creatures these mortals be! A little while ago I was in the depths of misery, and now I'm hungry and kind of happy." "Oh, you are," said her husband, "when you may have to take in washing for a living, while I shovel brick and mortar." "No, indeed," cried his wife, "I'll join the firm of Wallingford and Bodine, and you can help Aun' Sheba peddle cakes." "That's right, children," said Mrs. Bodine, "that's the true brave Southern spirit. We are all born soldiers, seamen rather, since the land has been as freakish as the waves. Now mind, I'll send the first one below who shows the white feather." Mr. Houghton lay apart from this group; and, while he felt his isolation, knew that he was to blame for it. They also felt the awkwardness of their situation, not knowing how far he was willing or able to converse with them. Mr. Willoughby was about to break the ice, but Ella forestalled him. "Mr. Houghton," she said, timidly approaching, "is there anything we can do for you? We are all so grateful." "Yes, Miss Bodine. Forget and forgive." "There seems very little now to forgive, and we do not wish to forget your kindness." "Good Lor!" whispered Mrs. Bodine to Mrs. Willoughby, "I couldn't have turned a neater sentence myself." "Well, Miss Bodine," resumed Mr. Houghton, "I suppose we shall have to let bygones be bygones. Now that sunshine and brightness have come, we should not recall anything painful. I trust that the worst is over, but our courage may yet be sorely tried. I will esteem it a very great favor if you and your friends will accept without reluctance what my son can do for your comfort." Ella could not repress a little laugh of pleasure as she replied, "It is too late now to affect any reluctance. We owe him so much that we might as well owe him more." Then, ever practical, she arranged a screen to shade his face from the sun's rays. Mr. Willoughby now came up and spoke in a friendly way of the probable effects of the disaster upon the city, and so the touch of mutual kindness began to make them kin. Mrs. Hunter commenced to moan and toss, and this awakened Miss Ainsley, who looked around wonderingly. Mrs. Willoughby in low tones recalled what had happened, and explained the present aspect of affairs. Mrs. Bodine performed the same office for Mara, who also had been aroused by the voices near. The girl's habit of self-control served her in good stead, and she immediately rose, gave her hand to Bodine in greeting, and then knelt beside her aunt. Seeing Mara so near, Miss Ainsley quickly rose also, and moved away in instinctive antipathy. Mrs. Hunter was feverish and evidently very ill. She was unable to comprehend what was taking place, but recognized Mara, whose soothing touch and words alone had the power of quieting her. Ella bathed Mrs. Bodine's face and hands, and enabled her to make "the ghost of a toilet," as the old lady said. Then Ella whispered, "I wish I could do as much for Mr. Houghton." "I dare you to do it," said Mrs. Bodine, with a mirthful gleam in her eyes. Ella caught her spirit, and without hesitation, although blushing like a rose, went to Mr. Houghton, and asked, "Will you please let me bathe your hands and face also?" "Why, Miss Bodine, I should not expect such kindness from you. I can wait till my son returns." "He is doing so much that he will be tired. It would give me pleasure if you will permit it. In waiting on my cousin I've learned to be not a very awkward nurse." "Well, Miss Bodine, I am learning that even earthquakes can bring pleasant compensations. You shall have your own way. Yes, you are a good nurse, and a brave and patient one. Your kindness to that poor creature who died in your arms touched my heart." "And mine too, Mr. Houghton. She told me a very pitiful story." "You shall tell it to me some time, my dear." Her heart thrilled as he gently spoke these words, while George, striding up with a great platter of steak, almost dropped it as he saw the girl waiting on his father as if filial relations were already established. The old man enjoyed his look of pleased wonder, and, when he had a chance, whispered, "I'm getting ahead of you, my boy, I don't want your clumsy hands or Jube's around me any more." Mrs. Bodine put her head under the blanket and shook with silent laughter. Ella was very shy of the young man, however. He could not catch her eye, nor get a chance to speak to her except in the presence of her father, Mrs. Bodine, or some one else. But he possessed his soul in patience, and did his best to be a genial host. Clancy, Jube, and Sam followed with the coffee and various comestibles. Miss Ainsley was a little effusive in her greeting of the man whom she had deserted in the street, and again had left to pass the night as he could, while she sought oblivion. His response was grave, kind, yet not altogether reassuring. He certainly indulged in no lover-like glances; and he went direct to Mara, and inquired gently after Mrs. Hunter. She replied quietly, without looking up. It was evident that the sound of his voice distressed the injured woman, who was barely conscious enough to have vague memories of the past. Weary Dr. Devoe was wakened, while George gave Mrs. Willoughby his arm, and gallantly placed her behind the coffee-urn. Even Captain Bodine assumed a measure of cheerfulness during breakfast. When newsboys came galloping up with the morning paper, Mr. Willoughby rose and waved his hat, joining in the general hurrah which rose from all parts of the square. Every one warmly appreciated the heroism displayed in gathering news and printing a journal during the past night. Next to the vivifying light and the apparent cessation of the shocks, nothing did more to restore confidence than the appearance of the familiar paper. "Old Charleston is alive yet," cried Mr. Willoughby; "and if the rest of us have half the pluck shown in that printing-house, we'll soon restore everything." "Give me a paper," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather have it than my breakfast." "You shall have both," replied Ella, bringing a little tray to her side. "Ah, Cousin Hugh, you veterans never did anything braver. Own up." "I do, most sincerely and heartily." Clancy read the journal aloud; and the coffee grew cold as all listened breathlessly to a chapter in the city's history never to be forgotten. Mr. Houghton was so absorbed that he suddenly became conscious that Ella was beside him with the daintiest of breakfasts. "You are spoiling me for any other nurse," he said. "It is a relief at such a time to care for those who are ill and feeble," she replied gently. "If we have to stay here, I hope you will let me wait on you; but I trust that we can all soon go to our homes." "I have my doubts. Now give me the pleasure of seeing you make a good meal." "Mr. Clancy," cried Mrs. Willoughby, "in the general chaos women may obtain their just pre-eminence. I shall take the lead by ordering you to lay down that paper, so that you and others may have a hot breakfast." Mara could be induced to take nothing beyond a cup of coffee. In spite of the sunshine and the general reaction into hopefulness and courage, she felt that black chaos was coming into her life. Her aunt and natural protector was very ill. After the events of the night she shrank inexpressibly from her former relations to Bodine. Indeed, it seemed impossible to continue them. Yet she asked herself again and again, "What else is there for me?" He was very kind, but the expression of his face was inscrutable. Moreover, there was Miss Ainsley acting as if Clancy were her own natural property, and he unable to dispute her claims. It appeared to her that poor stricken Mrs. Hunter was her only refuge, and she resolved to remain close by the invalid's side. With the coming of the day Uncle Sheba's most poignant fears had gradually subsided. He kept his eyes on his wife, feeling that any good that he might hope for in this world would come through her. Indeed the impression was growing that the greatest immediate good to be obtained from any world was a breakfast; and when Aun' Sheba went with George to his home, Unc. also followed at a discreet distance. The result was that his wife again had to put him on a "'lowance," or little would have been left in Mr. Houghton's kitchen. He surreptitiously stuffed a few eatables into his pocket, and then went out to smoke his pipe. Breakfast was at last over at the square. Mr. Willoughby rose and said to his wife, "I will go to the house, and get more suitable costumes for you and Carrie. Houghton will loan you a dressing-room at his house, for the streets can be scarcely suitable for you to traverse yet. I'll bring a carriage for you, however, as soon as it is possible. Serious danger is now over, I hope." He had scarcely uttered the words when, as if in mockery, far in the southeast was heard again the sound which appalled the stoutest hearts. On it came, as if a lightning express-train were thundering down upon them. They saw the tops of distant trees nod and sway as if agitated by a gale; men, women, and children rushing again, with loud cries, from their homes; then it seemed as if some subterranean monster was tearing its way through the earth. The moment the paralysis of terror passed, Miss Ainsley threw herself shrieking upon Clancy, who was compelled to support and soothe her. Mara covered her face with her hands, trembled violently, but uttered no sound. Ella could not repress a cry, as she hid her face upon her father's breast, a cry echoed by Mrs. Willoughby as she and her husband clung together. George knelt, holding the hand of his father, who looked at his son with the feeling that, if the end had come, his boy should be the last object on which his eyes rested. Mrs. Bodine was as composed as the veteran himself, and simply looked heavenward. There was something so terrific in the immeasurable power of the convulsion, so suggestive of immediate and awful death, that few indeed could maintain any degree of fortitude. There was one, however, a few rods away, who scarcely noticed the shock. Kern Watson, at last released from duty, sat on the ground, with his face buried in the neck of his dead child. He did not raise his head, and trembled only as the quivering earth agitated his form. CHAPTER XLV A CITY ENCAMPING The earthquake which occurred at 8:25 Wednesday morning had a disastrous effect, although it was not so severe as to injure materially the buildings already so shattered. It nipped hope and growing confidence in the bud. Multitudes had left the square for their homes, a large proportion with the immediate purpose of obtaining more clothing. Many would have been comparatively naked were it not for enveloping blankets and the loan of articles of apparel from the more fortunate. With the confidence which the morning and the continued quiet of the earth inspired there had been a general movement from the square. Some hastily dressed themselves, snatched up bedding and food, and returned to the open spaces immediately; others breakfasted at home, and some had the heart to begin the task of putting their houses in order. The shock drove them forth again with all their fears renewed and increased, for the homes, which in many cases had been a refuge for generations, were now looked upon as deathtraps, threatening to mangle and torture as well as destroy. The love of gain, the instinct to preserve property, was also obliterated. Merchants deserted their shops and warehouses. Banks were unopened, except for the gaps rent by the earthquake. The city was full of food, yet people went hungry, not daring to enter the places where it was stored. After a second and general flight to the square, the question in all hearts, "What next?" paralyzed with its dread suggestion. The fear among the educated had become definite and rational. Not that they could explain the earthquake or its causes, but the sad experiences of other regions were known to them. These experiences, however, had varied so greatly in their horrors as to leave a wide margin of terrible possibilities. A tidal wave might roll in, for the city was scarcely more than nine feet above the sea. The earth might open in great and ingulfing fissures. The tremendous forces beneath them might seek a volcanic outlet. These were all dire thoughts, and were brought home to the consciousness the more vividly because the awful phenomena continued in the serene light of day. The nightmare aspect of what had occurred in darkness passed away, and the coolest and most learned found themselves confronted by dangers which they could not gauge or explain. Nor could the end be foreseen. If such considerations weighed down the spirits of the most intelligent men, imagine the fears of frail, nervous women, of the children, the wild panic of the superstitious negroes to whom science explained nothing. To their excited minds the earthquake was due directly either to the action of a malignant, personal devil, or of an angry God. While many of the poor ignorant creatures inevitably indulged in what were justly termed "religious orgies," the great majority were well behaved and patient, finding in their simple faith unspeakable comfort and support. One fact, however, was clear to all: that the place of immediate and greatest danger was near or beneath anything which might be prostrated by the recurring shocks. Another feature in Wednesday's experience was very depressing. The city was completely isolated from the rest of the world. All telegraph-wires were down, all railroads leading into the city had been rendered impassable. For many hours those without who had friends and relatives in Charleston were kept in dreadful suspense. From adjacent cities reports of the catastrophe were flashed continuously, but in regard to Charleston there was an ominous lack of information, and the fear was very general that the city by the sea had sunk beneath the waves. Mr. Ainsley shared in this horrible dread. He telegraphed repeatedly from an inland town, and took the first train despatched toward the city. His daughter was right in believing that he would reach her at the earliest possible moment. She was greatly demoralized by the shock which dissipated her impression of comparative safety; and when she realized that the city was utterly cut off from the outside world, that it was impossible to know when her father could arrive, she gave way to selfish fear and the deepest dejection. With embarrassing pertinacity she insisted that Clancy should remain near her. Even to the others it was apparent that fear, rather than affection, led her to desire his presence so earnestly. He had once wondered what kind of a woman was masked by her culture and a reserve so perfect that it had seemed frankness. The veneer now was stripped off. After her own fashion, she was almost as abject in her terror as Uncle Sheba, who had run howling back to the square, leaving the wife who had fed him to her fate. In her lack of honest sympathy for others, and indisposition to exert herself in their behalf, Miss Ainsley quite equalled the selfish old negro. The conventional world in which she had shone to such advantage had passed away. Her very perfection in form and feature made defects in character more glaring, for she was seen to be a fair yet broken promise. How sweetly the noble qualities of Ella and Mara were revealed by comparison! They had been taught in the school of adversity. From childhood they had learned to think of others first rather than of themselves. Miss Ainsley would have been resplendent and at ease in a royal drawing-room; these two girls maintained womanly fortitude and gave themselves up to unselfish devotion in the presence of a mysterious power which would level an emperor's palace as readily as a negro's cabin. Clancy saw the difference--no one more clearly--and his very soul recoiled from the woman he had purposed to marry. He patiently bore with her as long as he could after the shock, and then joined Mr. Willoughby, George, Bodine, and Dr. Devoe, who were consulting at Mr. Houghton's bedside. In his shame and distress he did not venture even to glance at Mara. As the stress of the emergency increased Mr. Houghton's mind had grown clear and decided; his old resolute, business habits asserted themselves, and from his low couch he practically became the leader in their council. "From what we know of other and like disturbances," he said, "it is impossible to foresee when these shocks will end, or how soon a refuge can be sought in regions exempt from our dangers. Now that I am established in this square near my home I intend to remain here for the present. I cordially ask you all to share my fortunes. My son will spare no expense or effort, that can be made in safety, for our general comfort." Then he added before them all, "Captain Bodine, I have done you much wrong and discourtesy. I apologize. You have invalid and injured ladies in your charge. Their claims are sacred and imperative. I will esteem it a favor if you will permit my son to do what he can for their comfort and protection." Bodine at once came forward, and giving Mr. Houghton his hand, replied, "You and your son are teaching me that I have done you both much greater wrong. I think I shall have to surrender as I did once before, but I am glad that it is to kindness rather than to force in this instance." "Here's the true remedy for our differences," cried Mr. Willoughby. "Let the North and South get acquainted, and all will be well. But come, we must act, and act promptly." "Yes," replied George, "for the square is filling up again, and we should keep as much space here as possible. I have a small tent which I will put up at once for Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter. Then I'll rig an awning for my father, and help the rest of you in whatever you decide upon." "George," said his father, anxiously, "let your visits to the house be as brief as possible." Clancy offered to assist George in meeting the immediate need of shelter from the sun, and Dr. Devoe gave the morning to the care of his many patients. Mr. Willoughby said that he must first go to his home for clothing and to look after matters, but that he would soon return. Bodine was asked to mount guard and prevent, as far as possible, the fugitives from encroaching on the needed space. This proved no easy task. Old Tobe, after having received some breakfast, maintained his watch over the medical stores, while Aun' Sheba, who had followed her husband as fast as her limited powers of travelling permitted, cleared away the remnants of the breakfast for her family, George assuring her that he would soon make all comfortable provision for her and them. With Clancy and the two colored men he repaired to his home, as the wrecked venture to a ship which may break up at any moment, in order to secure what was absolutely essential. A tent was soon pitched for the invalids; a shelter of quilts suspended over and around his father, and a large carpet jerked from the floor formed an awning for the ladies. Part of this awning was partitioned off so as to give them all the privacy possible under the circumstances, and the remainder was inclosed on three sides, but left open toward the east. "I'm not going to be sent to the hospital," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather sit up and direct Ella how to transform this outer habitation into a drawing-room." Then George brought her and his father easy-chairs. Rugs were spread on the grass, and the rude shelter became positively inviting. Ella and Mrs. Willoughby made themselves so useful that at last Miss Ainsley so far recovered from her panic as to assist. She detested Mara, and Mrs. Hunter's ghastly face and white hair embodied to her mind the terror of which all were in dread. The bright sunshine and homely work were suggestive of rural pleasures rather than of dire necessity, and helped, for the time, to retire the spectre of danger to the background. The coming and going of many acquaintances and friends also helped to rally her spirits, and incite her to the semblance of courage. Mrs. Willoughby, Mrs. Bodine, and Mara had stanch friends who sought them out the moment comparative safety had been secured for their nearer dependants. The demands of our story require nothing more than the brief statement that there was a general disposition on the part of the people to think of and care for all who had claims upon them. Even in the dreadful hours immediately following the first shock, much unselfish heroism was displayed; and during the weary days and nights which followed, men and women vied with each other in their attentions to those who most needed care. Mrs. Bodine, Mrs. Willoughby, and the captain had several whispered conferences with those who felt surprise at associations with Mr. Houghton, and there was a quick, generous response to the old man's kindness. Some who would not have looked at him the day before now went and spoke to him gratefully and sympathetically, while for George only cordiality and admiration were manifested. He was not a little uneasy over the profuse attentions and offers of help which Ella received from several young men. To his jealous eyes she appeared unnecessarily gracious, and more ready to talk with them than with him; but he could not discover that she had an especial favorite among them. Indeed, she managed in their case as in his that Mrs. Willoughby, Miss Ainsley, or some one else should share in the conversation. At last Bodine said to George, "I will now go to Mrs. Hunter's rooms and to Mrs. Bodine's residence, and obtain what is most essential. Can you spare one of your servants to carry what I cannot?" "Certainly, and I will go with you myself. Clancy and Sam can continue operations here." "George," said his father, "as soon as the absolute necessity for entering buildings is over, I wish you to keep away from them." "Yes, father." Ella added, "Remember, Mr. Houghton, that is a promise. Please let the words 'absolute necessity' have their full meaning;" and her face was so full of solicitude that he said, "I promise you also." With a smile and flush she turned to her father whispering the tenderest cautions and emphasizing the truth that but few things were essential, some of which she mentioned. Jube had become like a faithful spaniel, the spirit of his young master reassuring him so as to feel his only safety lay in obedience. As George and Bodine went down the street they were saddened by the evidences of disaster on every side. Even Meeting Street was still so obstructed as to be almost impassable for vehicles, and in some places the ruins were still being searched for the dead. When they reached Mrs. Hunter's home Bodine groaned inwardly, "How the poor girl must have suffered!" He added aloud, "The mental distress caused by my helplessness during the last few hours, Mr. Houghton, has been much harder to bear than the wound which cost me my leg and the suffering which followed." "My dear captain," replied George, "your courage and clear head make you far less helpless than hundreds who only use their legs to run with. Let me enter this shell of a house alone." "That would be a sad commentary on your remark." They speedily obtained what they deemed essential, and turned off the gas, which was still burning. It was evident that no one had entered the house since its occupants had left it. Mrs. Bodine's residence was comparatively uninjured, and when leaving it the captain was able to lock the outer door. On their way back to the square George stammered: "Captain Bodine, it may be very bad taste to speak of such a matter now, but we do not know what an hour will bring forth. I would like to have some understanding with you. Beyond that there may be no need of anything further being said until all these troubles are over. I--I--well, can I venture to make my former request? Your daughter has my happiness wholly in her hands. I do not intend to embarrass her by a word until she is again in her own home, but I wish to know that my hopes and efforts to win her regard have your sanction." "How does your father feel about this?" Bodine asked gravely. "He has given his full and cordial approval. Now that he has seen Miss Bodine she has won him completely." "Mr. Houghton, I owe to you her life which I value more than my own. You know we are lacking in everything except pride and good name." "My dear sir," interrupted George earnestly, "God has endowed your daughter as man could not. You know I love and honor her for herself and always shall." "You are right," said the father proudly, "and you are so truly a man, as well as a gentleman, that you estimate my penniless daughter at her intrinsic worth. As far as my approval and good wishes are concerned you have them." Ella thought that George's face was wonderfully radiant when he appeared. As soon as she could get a word alone with her father, she asked, "What have you been saying to Mr. Houghton?" "I have only answered his second request that he might pay you his addresses." "Oh, papa! what a tantalizing answer! What did he say, and what did you say, word for word? Surely you didn't tell--" "I only gave my consent, not yours. You are at perfect liberty to reject him," was the smiling reply. "That is well as far as it goes, but I wish to know every word." Her father's heart was too heavy to permit continuance in a playful vein, and he told her substantially what had been said. "Well," she concluded, with a complacent little nod, "I think I'll let him pay his addresses a while longer. The absurd fellow to go and idealize me so! Time will cure such folly, however. Papa, there's something troubling you besides the earthquake." "Yes, Ella, and you must help me--you and Cousin Sophy." Then he told her how he thought matters stood between Mara and Clancy, checked her first indignant words, explained and insisted until she promised that she and Mrs. Bodine would shield Mara, and act as if she were as free as she had ever been. "It will all come about yet, papa," Ella whispered, "for Mr. Clancy has evidently committed himself to Miss Ainsley, although now I reckon he regrets it." "Well, Ella dear, redouble your kindness and gentleness to Mara, and let matters over which we have no control take their course." Clancy had not been idle during the morning, finding in constant occupation, and even in the incurring of risks, a relief to his perturbed thoughts. He and Sam procured a small cooking-stove, and also set up the cross-sticks of a gypsy camp before the open side of the awning. Aun' Sheba was placed in charge of the provisions, a responsibility in which Uncle Sheba wished to share, but she said severely, "Mr. Buggone, you'se dun git yer lowance wid Sissy an' de chil'n." Mr. Willoughby at last returned on an express-wagon, well loaded with articles which would add much comfort in the enforced picnic. His face was sad and troubled as he greeted his wife. "Oh, Jennie," he said, "our pretty home is such a wreck!" "No matter, Hal, since you are safe and sound," was her cheery reply. "Come, girls, we can now dress for dinner. I feel like a fool in this light silk." They all eventually reappeared in costumes more suitable for camping. Mrs. Bodine was also enabled to exchange her blanket wrapper for the one she was accustomed to wear at home. With almost the zest of a girl she appreciated the picturesque elements of their experiences; and her high spirits and courage were infectious. With the aid of Sam and Jube, Aunt Sheba entered vigorously on preparations for dinner; a breeze with passing clouds tempered the sun's hot rays; and hope again began to cheer as time passed without further disturbance. CHAPTER XLVI "ON JORDAN'S BANKS WE STAND" Aunt Sheba had succeeded fairly well with the dinner, considering the materials and the appliances available. Not one, however, was disposed to epicurean fastidiousness. The situation was gravely discussed, and the experiences of friends related. Dr. Devoe gave cheering assurances that injury to life and limb had been far less than might have been expected. "The first shock could scarcely have come at a better time," he said. "If it had happened when the streets were full of people, one shudders to think of the number that would have been killed or maimed. The fact is, the great majority of casualties appear to have occurred as people were leaving their houses." Mrs. Hunter received much attention from him, and she continued so ill that Mara did not leave her. Bodine became convinced that a chance to speak with Mara in private might not be obtained very speedily, and therefore, with kindly consideration for her feelings, resolved to write that afternoon. He had nothing at hand better than pencil and note-book. He wrote: "MY DEAR MARA--You have so many sorrows and anxieties now that I cannot wait longer in my effort to relieve you of one of them. You should have been more frank with me; yet, so far from reproaching you, I only remember that you are the daughter of my dearest friend, and that you need me as protector and father rather than as lover. I appreciate your motive to sacrifice yourself for my sake. Perhaps you will remember that I have warned you against this noble impulse of self-sacrifice--a tendency, however, which may be carried much too far. You utterly misjudge me if you think I would consciously accept any such sacrifice on your part. As far as I am concerned you are free from any obligation whatever, except that of trusting me, and coming to me as Ella does, as nearly as you can. You need a stanch and faithful protector against yourself, and such will be HUGH BODINE." Ella carried this missive into the little tent set apart for Mrs. Hunter. When Mara read the note she hid it in her bosom, and buried her face in her hands. Ella tried to soothe her, assuring her that she knew how it had all come about, and that it would make no difference in her love. "Oh, Ella!" Mara sobbed, "my pride needed humbling, and I am overwhelmed in very truth. I thought I was superior to you, and that my course was so heroic. The result is I have wronged and made unhappy your father, the man I honor most in all the world. Oh, I feel now that it would have been better if I had been buried under the ruins." "Mara," said Ella firmly, "this is a time when we must make the best of everything--when we should not waste our strength in grieving over what cannot be helped. Papa has explained everything to me, and you will only wound him further if you do not comply with his wishes. He is very resolute; and, in a matter of this kind, you could not move him a hair's-breadth. Please do just what he asks now, and let time make future duty clearer." Bodine was not astray in thinking that his note would relieve Mara's mind. Sad and humiliated as she was, his words had taken her from a false position, and would enable her to give him the filial love and homage with which her heart overflowed. Even if Clancy escaped from his entanglement, which she much doubted, she felt that both should pay the penalty of their errors in long probation. As the afternoon wore away Mrs. Willoughby and Mrs. Bodine took some much-needed rest. Clancy went down town to look after his own affairs. Mr. Houghton had a consultation with his confidential man of business, at which George was present. Then the young fellow busied himself in perfecting the camp appointments and securing more provisions. Kern Watson and his family, Aun' Sheba and her husband, with old Tobe and a few friends and neighbors, knelt around the remains of little Vilet as Mr. Birdsall offered a prayer. Bodine, Ella, and George, with his two servants, were also present. Then the minister and a few others helped the stricken father to bury his child. After the brief service the captain told Ella that she must go and rest till he called her. George ventured to walk back with the tearful girl and to say, "Miss Bodine, you seem to have a hand to help and a heart to feel with every one." "I should be callous indeed," she replied, "if I did not grieve at the death of that little girl. She aided in my effort to earn a livelihood. I saw her daily, and no one could help becoming fond of her, she was so good, and gentle, and quiet. Her poor father--how I pity him! The mute anguish in his face was overpowering. He is the most quiet, but he grieves the most, and will never get over it." "I think you are right, Miss Bodine. I don't believe your intuitions would often lead you astray." "I am very matter-of-fact," Ella replied. "If I admit that, I must also add that one would have to do his level best to furnish the kind of facts you would approve of." "And I must also add, Mr. Houghton, that you are furnishing them in plenty. I can never try to thank you, for I shouldn't know where to begin, or when to leave off." "Please leave off now. Oh, Miss Bodine! I am so grateful for your kindness to my father, and he is just as pleased as I am." "Ah! I've at last caught you in a bit of selfishness," she said with a piquant smile. "You would keep the privilege of thanking people while denying it to me;" and she vanished before he could reply. "Oh!" he groaned inwardly, "if any of these Southern fellows carry her off, I'm done for." Miss Ainsley spent a very wretched afternoon. Clancy was away, Mrs. Willoughby worn out, and she was left chiefly to her own resources, which were meagre indeed under the circumstances. Instead of forgetting self in behalf of those less fortunate, she brooded over what she deemed neglect. Mr. Willoughby talked to her for a time after dinner, and then busied himself in helping others provide shelter against the coming night; loaning here and there some of the articles which he had brought from his home. Throughout the day multitudes had been making preparations to spend the night in the squares, vacant lots, and in spacious yards. Few had been so forehanded as George Houghton, who had the advantage of abundant means, and good, fearless help in his efforts. By this time, however, the square was well covered by almost every variety of hastily improvised shelters, and the rays of the late afternoon sun brought out rainbow hues, strange and picturesque effects, so diverse were the materials employed and the ingenuity in construction which had been exercised. Clancy had been almost reckless in his disposition to enter buildings, a risk which few others would incur on that day. He returned after four o'clock with a large supply of provisions, which he believed might be difficult to obtain should the shocks continue with greater violence. So far from observing that he was pale from exhaustion, Miss Ainsley was inclined to be reproachful that he had remained away so long. He listened wearily for a time, then answered, "I did not think that I could be especially useful here. _Men_, like soldiers, _must_ do what must be done. I have taken pains to learn in your behalf that telegraphic and railroad communication will soon be re-established, and I have arranged, as soon as a despatch can be sent, to have one forwarded to your father's last address, assuring him that you are safe." "My father is not at the place of his last address. If he is alive, he is trying to reach me, and he will not leave me till he has taken me utterly away from all this horror and danger. I hope you are ready to leave Charleston now." "Leave my native city in its present plight! Why, Miss Ainsley, that would be almost like running away and leaving my mother." "Are brick and mortar more to you than I am?" "Bricks and mortar do not make Charleston, but the people with whom I have always lived. I will certainly take you to a place of safety, if your father cannot; but my duty is here. I would not only lose the respect of every one, but also my own self-respect, if I did not cast in my lot with this people until every vestige of ruin has disappeared." "I'm sure I never wish to see the place again," she replied sullenly. "It would be unjust for me to expect that you should feel as I do about it; but I am a citizen, and you yourself would eventually despise me were I not faithful to my obligations." This method of putting the case silenced her for the time. She knew that he had ascribed to her a higher conception of duty than she possessed, and she believed that he was also aware of the fact. Since she had gone so far with him she now wished him to be a blind, unquestioning lover, wholly devoted and ready to fly with her at the first opportunity. The very qualities which they had mutually admired were now seen on their seamy side. Her cosmopolitan spirit which led her to sigh, "Anywhere so it be not Charleston," was now at war with his feeling of almost passionate commiseration for his stricken birthplace; while she in turn found his unyielding nature and keen perceptions which had afforded such pleasure in overcoming and meeting were now not at all to her wishes. She had yielded to him as never before to any one, and was intensely chagrined that he was not wholly subservient to her. If he should not become so she could never think of him without humiliation. He had seen her undisguised in all her weakness. She had thrown herself into his arms and implored his protection almost as unreservedly as Mrs. Willoughby had clung to her husband. She had also left him when he was helpless, and again when he was ill and weak. What she required now, therefore, was a blind idolatry; and so many had offered this that she felt entitled to it, even though there should be no such devotion on her part. If, in any sense, he should be critic as well as lover, he could make her exceedingly uncomfortable; and she had a growing perception that he was comparing her with others, that there was a lack of warmth in his words and manner, which even the circumstances could not extenuate. She resolved, therefore, to teach him that she would tolerate nothing halfway in his conduct. She was sitting on a chair while he reclined at her feet, and she determined that he should be at her feet in a sense which had large meanings to her. So she rose and said coldly, "Mr. Clancy, you seem to have so many obligations that I scarcely know where I come in." Then she went toward the awning, intending to withdraw herself from his society until he should become sufficiently humble. He rose in strong irritation, too weary even to be patient. At this instant the shock which occurred at 5.16 passed over the city. In a second all her purposes vanished; her abject terror returned, and she threw herself on his breast, and sobbing, buried her face on his shoulder. Mrs. Willoughby also fled to her husband. As Mrs. Hunter had seemed quieter Aun' Sheba had been watching in the place of Mara, who had sought a little rest beneath the awning. She now came hastily out, but Clancy would not encounter her eyes. Indeed, his false position overwhelmed him with increasing shame and confusion. He resolved in a sort of desperation to meet Miss Ainsley's requirements as far as possible until she was safe in her father's hands, and then to become free. If he had known how Mara's position enabled her to interpret his own he would have been more resigned. The shock which occurred so late in the day was a sad preparation for the night, to which all looked forward with unspeakable dread. Such little confidence or cheerfulness as had been maintained was dissipated; weariness and deferred relief increased the general dejection; only the bravest could maintain their fortitude. Mrs. Bodine's courage was due to a faith and a temperament which did not fail her. The veteran remained quiet and steady, with soldier-like endurance, but Ella was becoming exhausted. She had had very little sleep for a long time, and had passed through strong excitement. Indeed, all her powers had been taxed severely. While she had more physical and moral courage than most girls of her age possess, she, like the great majority, suffered much from fear at the recurrence of the shocks. As night came on she yielded to the general depression. Aun' Sheba also had almost reached the limits of her powers, a fact she could not help showing as she set about preparations for supper. George instantly noted this. He had secured some rest the night before, and possessed great capabilities of endurance combined with an unusually fearless spirit. He also believed that this was his hour and opportunity, and that he could do more to win Ella's favor that night by brave cheerful effort than by any amount of love-making afterward. He little dreamed how completely won she was already. Her plan of receiving his "address" indefinitely had already lost its charms. She now simply longed to lean her weary head upon his shoulder and be petted and comforted a little. Unaware that the citadel could be had at any time for the asking, George began his sapping and mining operations with great vigor. He made Aun' Sheba sit down and give directions for supper, which he and his two colored men carried out. Mrs. Bodine was the only one who would jest with him, and he had a word of banter with her; and a cheery word for every one as occasion permitted. "Bravo, George!" said Dr. Devoe, as they at last sat down to supper. "We vote you the Mark Tapley of this occasion. I'm so used up that I've only energy enough to drink a cup of coffee." Ella was about to wait on Mr. Haughton as before, but George intercepted her, saying, "You are too tired." "I would rather," she urged with downcast eyes. She bore the tray to the invalid, who looked at her very kindly, as he said, "You are worn out, my dear." "Please don't speak that way," she faltered. "I'm just that silly and tired that I can't stand anything." "You brave, noble girl! What haven't you stood and endured for the last few hours and weeks! I have a very guilty conscience, Miss Bodine, and you only can absolve me." "No one must be kind to me to-night, or I shall break down utterly;" and dashing a tear away, she hastily withdrew. George heaped her plate; but when he saw that she would touch nothing but her coffee, he looked at her with such deep solicitude in his face that she sprang up and fled to the sheltering awning, leaving him perplexed and troubled indeed. All were too well bred to make any remark upon this little side scene. At her post of observation by the fire, and although her eyes were full of tears, tributes to little Vilet, Aun' Sheba shook for a moment with suppressed laughter. Motherly Mrs. Bodine soon followed Ella, and taking her in her arms, said soothingly, "There, now, child, have a good cry, and you'll feel better. I wish to the Lord, though, that all the world had as little to cry about as you, my dear." "That's what provokes me so, cousin. It's so silly and weak." "Oh, well, Ella, you're done beat out, as Aun' Sheba says; and that's the only trouble--that and the blindness of yonder great boy, who expects to court you for months before venturing to stammer some incoherent nonsense. Now, a Southern man--" "Cousin Sophy, I won't listen to such words," said Ella, the hot blood coming into her pale face. "He isn't a great boy; he's the bravest man I ever heard of. Now, when every one is giving out, he is only the braver and stronger. If he is absurd enough to be afraid of me--Well, you are the last one to speak so." "There, there, child; this is my way of feeling your pulse and giving a little tonic," said Mrs. Bodine, laughing. "You have indications of strong vitality, as the doctor would say. Bless the big Vandal! If I were a girl, I'd set my cap at him myself." "Oh, Cousin Sophy! Aren't you ashamed to work me up so? Well, that is the last glimmer of spunk that I can show to-night." "If I could only manage to give him a hint of your weak and defenceless condition--" "Cousin Sophy, if you do anything of the kind--" and she almost sprang to her feet. The old lady pulled her back, stopped her mouth with kisses, as she said, "I won't tease you any more to-night." In a few moments she had soothed the girl to sleep. George and Clancy now took full charge of the camp; for the members of their party, both white and black, were so exhausted and depressed as to be unequal to much exertion. Clancy seemed possessed by a sort of feverish restlessness. If he had been soothed and quieted when he returned in the afternoon, he would have passed the danger point unharmed; but his jaded body and mind had been stung into renewed action, and now he was fast losing the power to rest. Outraged Nature was beginning to take her revenge, but no one except Bodine observed the fact. Again putting self under his feet, he took Clancy aside, and said, "Pardon an old soldier, but experience in the field has taught me when a man must stop. Dr. Devoe is exhausted and asleep, or I would send him to you. So take honest advice from me. If you don't quiet your nerves and sleep, you'll have trouble." Clancy, in grateful surprise, thanked him warmly, and said he would rest later on. His hope was that Miss Ainsley would retire, for in his present condition he felt that her voluble expressions of fear and general dissatisfaction would be intolerable. At this juncture some one came and said that a friend of his in another part of the square was ill and wished to see him. He explained and excused himself to Miss Ainsley, who replied only by a cold, reproachful glance. The light of day faded; the stars shone calmly above the strange scene, where lamps and candles flickered dim and pale, like the hopes of those who had lighted them. The murmur of conversation was lost in the loud singing of hymns, prayers and exhortations on the part of the negroes. Mr. Birdsall had gathered many of his flock about him, and was conducting a religious service in a fairly orderly manner. Both he and his people yielded somewhat to the intense excitement of the occasion, but it was his intention that the religious exercises should cease at a reasonable hour. Kern, Sissy, and Aun' Sheba were sitting silently near him, and at last the minister said, "Bruder Watson, you an' your wife will feel bettah if you express you'se feelin's, an' sing a while. I reckon, if I say you an' you' wife will sing, they will be mo' quiet." Kern assented to anything like a call of duty, and Mr. Birdsall resumed, "Fren's, in closin' de meetin' fer dis ebenin', Bruder an' Sista Watson will sing a hymn togeder; an' we, respectin' dere berebement, will listen. Dey have been greatly offlicted, for de Lawd has taken from dem de lam' of dere bosoms. I ask you all now to listen to de expression of dere faith in dis night ob sorrow. Den we mus' remembah dat de sick an' weak are in dis squar, and gib dem a chance to res'." Kern lifted up his magnificent voice, charged with the pent-up feeling of his heart, and his wife joined him with her rich, powerful contralto. "On Jordan's banks we stan', An Jordan's stream roll by; No bridge de watahs span, De flood am risin high. Heah it foam an' roar, de dark flood tide, How shel we cross to de oder side? "De riber deep an strong, De wabes am bery cole; We see it rush along, But who can venture bole? Heah it foam an' roar, etc. "A little chile step down; It go in de riber deep. Kin little feet touch groun' Whar mountain billows sweep? Heah dem foam an roar, etc. "Dere comes a flash ob light, Ober de cole dark wabes; Dere come de angels' flight-- See shinin' bans dat sabe, From de watah's foam, de dark flood tide, Fer de Lawd hab seen from de oder side. "Heah music swellin gran'; Yes, songs of welcome ring, White wings de riber span De little chile to bring. Den let ole Jordan roar, de dark flood tide; We'se borne across to de oder side." The melodious duet rose and fell in great waves of sound, silencing all other voices. Contrary to Mr. Birdsall's expectations, religious fervor was only increased, and hoping to control it he asked Kern and Sissy to lead in several familiar hymns. The negroes throughout the square promptly responded, while not a few white refugees joined their voices to the mighty diapason of sound, which often swelled into grand harmonies. Kern soon afterward went on duty for the night; Mr. Birdsall confined himself to quiet ministrations to his own people, and the leadership of the religious exercises fell into less judicious hands. CHAPTER XLVII LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF A NIGHT Aun' Sheba, with a devotion which quite equalled that to her own offspring, returned to Mara with the intention of watching Mrs. Hunter while the girl slept. She found Mrs. Bodine sitting with Mara, but the old colored woman was received with a warmth of welcome and sympathy which put her at ease at once. Mrs. Hunter had sunk into a kind of stupor rendering her unconscious of what was passing, and therefore they conversed in low tones. "I reckon we need have no secrets from Aun' Sheba," said Mrs. Bodine. "No," answered Mara, taking her old mammy's hand. "If ever a motherless girl had a true friend I have one in Aun' Sheba." "Yes, honey, you'se right dar, an' I hopes you git right on some oder tings. I put a spoke in de hon'ble business an' I'se ready to put mo' in." She then briefly related her interview with Clancy and concluded, "Missy Mara, fo' da Lawd, wot kin you do but mar'y Marse Clancy arter wot happen wen he come fer you an' ole missus?" Mara made no reply, but sat with her face buried in her hands. "Aun' Sheba, this matter is all settled and settled honorably, too, as far as it can be. Captain Bodine has released Mara in words of the utmost kindness." "Well, now, he am quality!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba in hearty appreciation. "But," sobbed Mara, "it just breaks my heart--" "No, honey lam', it won' break you heart, nor his nuther. Doin' what's right an' nat'ral an 'cordin to de Lawd doan break no hearts. It's de oder ting wot dus in de long run, an' mar'in' gen'ly means a long run. You'd hab ter begin by lyin' 'miscuously, as I tole Marse Clancy, an no good ud come ob dat." "Well, it is all settled as far as Mara is concerned," said Mrs. Bodine, with a little laugh, "and there need be no 'miscuous lying. How Mr. Clancy will get out of his scrape remains to be seen." "Well, I tells you how he git out. I'se keep an eye on dat limpsey-slimpsey runaway as well as on de pots an kittles, an she's gwine ter run away agin from dis yere town jes as soon as de way open. Dat'll be de las you see ob her." "She's had a hard time of it, poor thing," said Mrs. Bodine, charitably, "and we can't expect her to feel about Charleston as we do. The question is, will Mr. Clancy feel obliged to follow her eventually?" "I tink he's 'bliged not ter." "Well, Aun' Sheba, I'm glad you have such strong religious ideas of marriage." "I'se feerd I ain't bery 'ligious 'bout anyting. I put myself on 'bation while ago, but I kin'er forgits 'bout dat 'bation, I hab so much to tink ob." Mrs. Bodine began to laugh as she said, "I thought you were a sensible woman, Aun' Sheba." "Yes, I know. I did tole Marse Clancy dat I hab hoss-sense." "Then you were lying 'miscuously." "How dat, missus?" "Why, Aun' Sheba, do you think you have been hiding your light under a bushel basket all this time? Old Hannah--poor old Hannah! I wonder what has become of her--she and Mara have told me how you do for the sick and poor. Don't you know that the Bible says, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren ye have done it unto Me'? You've sent me nice things more than once. I'm 'one of the least of these.' You don't do these things to be seen of men." "No, nor I doesn't do it kase I specs ter git anoder string to my harp bime-by. I does it kase I'se kin'er sorry fer de po' critters." "Exactly. That is why He fed the hungry and healed the sick. He was sorry for them. Come, Aun' Sheba, don't be foolish any more." "I feels it kin'er sumptious ter be so shuah." "Now, Aun' Sheba, you _are_ doing wrong," said Mrs. Bodine, gravely and earnestly. "The Lord has been very patient with you--more so than I would be. If I had made you promises and you kept saying, 'I don't feel sure about them,' I'd give you a piece of my mind." "Lor, missus, how you puts it! Is it dataway?" "Certainly." "Well, den, I jes takes myse'f off 'bation. I'se gwine ter hang onter de promises. Lawd, Lawd, missus, I s'posed I'd hab ter groan so dey heah me all ober de square fo' I could be 'ligious." "Oh, dear, hear it now! Such groaning makes every one else groan. The voice that God hears is the wish of the heart and not a hullabaloo. How shall we get through the night if this keeps up? If you'll help me to my quarters I'll try to get what rest I can." When Aun' Sheba returned, Mara insisted on her lying down till she was called. "I shall do something in this time of trouble except make trouble," said the girl resolutely, and she would take no denial. Clancy found that his friend needed much attention, which he gave until warned by his own symptoms that he must see a physician. He found George lying on a blanket by a small fire, and that all the others were either sleeping or resting. "I declare I hate to waken Dr. Devoe," he said, "but I feel as if I were going to be ill." George felt the hand of his friend, and sprang up, saying, "I'll waken Dr. Devoe with or without your leave." After a brief examination the physician said: "Why did you not come to me before?" Clancy explained that he had been caring for a sick friend, to which the doctor replied testily: "I don't believe he was half so ill as you are. Well, you must obey me now as long as you are rational, and I fear that won't be very long." And he promptly placed Clancy under the open part of the awning, which was the sleeping-room for the men by night, and general living-room by day. Having given his patient a remedy, he returned and said, "Here you are, too, Houghton, up and around. Do you wish to break down also?" "You forget, doctor, that I had some sleep last night. Feel my pulse." "Slightly febrile, but then I know what's the matter with _you_. If I were not so old and bald-headed I'd cut out a slow coach like you. I'm half a mind to try it as it is." "Go ahead, doctor. You'll be only one more. How many are there now, do you suppose?" "I know how many there should be after what I've seen. But bah! you Northern young chaps lay siege to a girl at such long range that she surrenders to some other fellow before you find it out." "Would you have me call her now, shake her awake, and propose?" asked George, irritably. "No, I'd have you fight shy and give me a chance. There, you are too far gone for a jest. What are you up for?" "Because I'm not sleepy, for one thing, and I think some one should be on guard. What's more, I don't like the way those negroes are performing. They seem to be going wild." "Yes, and they are doing a lot of harm to the sick and feeble. If they don't stop at midnight I'll find out whether there's any law in this city. I say, Houghton, since you are going to sit up, give Clancy this medicine every half hour, and call me at twelve." He then wrapped himself in a blanket and was asleep in a minute. If George had been wide awake before, the doctor's raillery so increased his impatience and worry that for a time he paced up and down before the fire. Was he faint-hearted in wooing Ella? Suppose some bold Southerner should forestall him? The thought was torture; yet it seemed ungenerous and unkind to seek her openly while she was in a sense his guest and dependent upon him. "Well," he growled at last, "I won't do it. When she first spoke to me she said I was a gentleman, and I'll be hanged if I don't remain one and take my chances." He threw himself down again by the fire with his back to the awning. Before very long he heard a light step. Turning hastily he saw Ella's startled face by the light of the fire. "Oh, Mr. Houghton! is it you? Pardon me for disturbing you," and she was about to retreat. He was on his feet instantly and said, "You will only disturb me by going away, that is--I mean if you are not tired and sleepy." "There is such a dreadful noise I can't sleep any more," she replied, hesitating a moment. "Suppose--you might help me watch a little while then," he stammered. "I'll watch if you will rest." "Certainly;" and he brought her a chair and then reclined near her feet. "But I meant that you should sleep." "I only promised to rest." "But you need sleep if any one does. I've had a good nap and feel much better. How late is it?" "Nearly eleven, and time for Clancy's medicine." When he returned he told her about Clancy. "Poor fellow!" she said, sympathetically, "Clancy seems to have trouble on his mind. We all have enough, but he more than his share." "I should think you would be worried out of your senses with so many people to think about and care for. No wonder you can't sleep." "Thoughts of _people_ do not keep me awake, and I am glad to say my father's resting quietly. He and your father are born soldiers." "Your father's to blame for my making a fool of myself at the supper-table. He spoke so kindly and sympathetically, and I was so tired and silly that I couldn't stand anything. Then you looked reproachfully at me because I couldn't eat all you sent--enough to make Uncle Sheba ill." "Now, Miss Bodine, I didn't look at you reproachfully." "Who's that snoring over there?" "Dr. Devoe. My facial muscles must have been shaken out of shape to have given you so false an impression. Anyhow, I seem to have driven you away, and I've been miserable ever since." "Why, Mr. Houghton! The idea of letting a tired girl's weakness disturb you! You will soon be as ill as Mr. Clancy." "I'm only stating a fact." "Well, facts are very queer nowadays. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised at anything." "Yet you are a continual surprise to me, Miss Bodine. Do you think I've forgotten anything since you carried Mrs. Bodine out of her tottering house?" "Oh, Mr. Houghton! my memory goes further back than that. I can see a tall man leap into a sinking boat and--and--oh, why did you sink with it? My father's agony over the thought that you had died for him turned his hair white." "I couldn't help sinking, Miss Bodine. If it hadn't been for that blasted pole--Well, perhaps it saved all our lives, for my boat was overloaded as it was. But don't think about that affair. It might have turned out worse." "It might indeed. If you knew how we all felt when we thought you were drowned!" "Well, I thank God that I happened to be near." "Happened! You seemed to have a presentiment of evil, and kept near." "I was facing a certainty of evil then, Miss Bodine. I expected to go North in a few days, and feared I might not see you again. There, I shouldn't speak so now. My memory goes back further than yours. I remember a blue-eyed stranger who drew near to me when I was facing a street bully, as if she meditated becoming my protector. I saw a noble woman's soul in those clear eyes, and she said 'I was a gentleman.' I must remember her words now with might and main. All that I ask is that you won't let any one else--that you will give me a chance when in your own home. Your father has--" "Mr. Houghton, is it not time for Mr. Clancy's medicine?" "Yes, and past time," he replied, ruefully. When he returned she said demurely, "I think I can promise what you ask. Now surely, since your mind is at rest, you can sleep. I will watch." "I'm too happy to sleep." "How absurd!" "Oh, the shock this morning did not disturb me half so much as to see those fellows around with their devouring eyes." "Mr. Houghton, don't you think that if we asked them, those colored people would be less loud? It must be dreadful for those who are sick, and there are so many." "They will be brutal indeed if they don't yield to you," and he led the way to the nearest centre of disturbance. "Oh, see! Mr. Houghton, there's our old Hannah." He saw an old woman swaying back and forth, her lips moving spasmodically, but uttering no sound. The crowd watched her in a sort of breathless suspense. Suddenly she burst out with the hymn, "Oh, Raslin' Jacob! let me go," and the throng joined in the mighty refrain. The women swayed to and fro violently, all going together in a sort of rhythmic motion, meantime clapping their hands in an ecstasy of emotion. A man dropped to the earth "converted." He yelled rather than prayed for mercy, then suddenly swooned and became rigid as a corpse. Others, both men and women, were prostrated also; and to bring as many as possible into this helpless condition appeared to be the general object as far as any purpose was manifested. The crowd seemed to regard poor, demented Hannah as inspired, for a space was kept clear before her. When she began to sway in her weird fashion, and her face to twitch, she was the priestess and the oracle. The hymn she began was taken up first by two self-appointed exhorters, then by all. "Oh, Hannah!" cried Ella, when her voice could be heard, "do stop and come away. You are harming the sick and the injured." The old woman started, and on seeing the girl rushed forward, crying, "Down on you knees. Now you chance. Pray, bruders, pray, sistahs. De quakes neber stop till a white man or woman converted--converted till dere proud heads in de bery dus'"--and she sought to force Ella on her knees. In a moment Ella was surrounded by the worshippers, whose groans, shouts, prayers and ejaculations created Pandemonium. The girl was terrified, but George encircled her with his arm, and thundered, "Give way. I'll brain the first man who stops us." Awed for an instant they yielded to George's vigorous push out and away, and then returned to their former wild indulgence of religious frenzy. For several paces after their escape he seemed to forget that his arm was still around Ella, nor did she remind him. Suddenly he removed it, saying, "Pardon me, Miss Bodine, I am that enraged with those lunatics that I'd like to give them something to howl about." "Please be calm, Mr. Houghton," said Ella gently. "I'm not afraid now, and should not have been afraid at all. I know these people better than you do. They wouldn't have harmed us, and I fear they don't know any better. It's only their looks, tones, and words that seem blasphemous, that are frightful. It was I who took you there and I should have known better." "Oh, Ella!--beg pardon--Miss Bodine, what a savage a man would be if you couldn't manage him!" "Then promise you won't go near those people any more." "You are too brave a girl to ask that when you learn that Dr. Devoe is going to tackle them with the police if they don't quiet down by midnight." They spoke in low tones as he again held her hand, while they picked their way among the extemporized shelters and uneasy refugees in the square. As they approached their own quarters she faltered, "I'm not very brave tonight, and I have long since learned that you are only too brave." He paused, still retaining her hand as he said, "What a strange scene this is! How wild and unearthly those sounds now seem! How odd it all is--our homes yonder deserted and we here under the stars. It's stranger than any dream I ever had, yet if it were a dream I would not wish to wake with you--" "Mr. Houghton, what's that, that, _that?_" Far oft in the southeast there were sounds like faint explosions which grew rapidly louder. Instinctively he drew her nearer, and saw her face grow white even in the faint radiance of the stars. "Oh!" she gasped shuddering as the deep roar of the coming earthquake began. Then his arm drew her close, and she hid her face on his breast. "Ella," he said solemnly, "I love you, God knows if these words were my last I would still say I love you." The mighty roar gradually deepened, and with it blended the cry of thousands; the earth quivered and swayed, then the thunder passed on, accompanied by sounds like the distant crash of falling buildings. George kissed the bowed head and whispered, "There, it's over and we are safe." "Oh, thank God! you were with me!" she sobbed. "May I not be with you always, Ella?" "God grant it! Oh, George, George, I would have leaped after you into the water if they had not held me. How could I do without you now?" "Come, my brave little wife, come with me to my father and reassure him." "George," cried Mr. Houghton. "We are here," he answered, drawing aside the screen. "We?" "Yes, Ella and I. That last shock has rather hastened matters." "Ella, my dear child! Truly God is bringing good out of evil;" and he took the girl into his arms. Then he added, "You'll forgive me and be my own dear daughter?" "Yes, Mr. Houghton. You'll find I am rich in love if nothing else." "Ah! Ella dear, the world seems going to pieces, and my wealth with it, but love only grows more real and more precious." "My father's calling me;" and kissing him a hasty good-by she vanished. Miss Ainsley again ran shrieking out, calling upon Clancy, but Dr. Devoe met her and drew her away from his muttering, half-conscious patient. When she became sufficiently quiet he told her that Clancy was dangerously ill, and that nothing must be said or done to excite him. This seemed to her only another proof of general disaster, and, in almost abject tones, she begged, "Oh, doctor, make me sleep till--my father will surely come to-morrow, and then I can get away." Her entreaty was so loud that even Mara could not help hearing her. The physician rather contemptuously thought that it would be better for all if she were quiet, and gave the anodyne. So far from feeling sympathy for Clancy she was almost vindictive toward him for having failed her. Fear, uncontrolled, becomes one of the most debasing of the emotions. It can lead to panic even among soldiers with arms in their hands; sailors will trample on women and children in their blind rush for the boats; men will even deny their convictions, their faith, and cringe to brutal power; crimes the most vile are committed from fear, and fear had virtually obliterated womanhood in Miss Ainsley's soul. She was in a mood to accept any conditions for the assurance of safety, and she gave not a thought to any one or anything that offered no help. With the roar of the earthquake still in her ears, and in the dark midnight she knew there was no help, no way of escape, and so with the impulse of the shipwrecked who break into the spirit room she besought the opiate which could at least bring oblivion. Her eyes, which could be so beautiful, had the wild, hunted look of an animal, and her form, usually grace itself, writhed into distortions. Her demoralization under the long-continued terror was complete, and all were glad when she became unconscious and could be hidden from sight. As Aun' Sheba made her way to her own household she grunted, "A lun'tic out ob a 'sylem wouldn' mar'y dat gal if he seed wot I seed." CHAPTER XLVIII GOOD BROUGHT OUT OF EVIL There were brave spirits and Heaven-sustained souls in the little camp which falls under our immediate observation; and outward calm was soon restored, yet it was long before any one could sleep again. Although she had trembled like a leaf, Mara had not left her watch by Mrs. Hunter, nor had Aun' Sheba till some moments after the shock. Then Mrs. Bodine joined the girl with soothing and reassuring words. She did not tell Mara, however, of Clancy's illness, feeling that no additional burden should be imposed until it was necessary. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby sat together by the fire; so also did Ella, with her head upon her father's breast, as she told of the great joy which robbed the night of so much of its terror. Old Tobe, with Sam and Jube, crouched on the opposite side of the low, flickering blaze, which lighted up in odd effect the white wool and wrinkled visage of the aged negro. In some respects he and Mr. Houghton were alike. The scenes they were passing through toned down their fiery domineering spirits into resignation and fortitude. George was restless, strong and inspired rather than awed by the recent events. He knew that Ella's eyes followed him as he came and went from his father's bedside, waited on Clancy, and made himself useful in other ways. A man would be craven indeed who could not be brave under such circumstances. Beyond his camp, scenes impossible to describe were taking place. White clergymen were going from group to group, and from shelter to shelter, speaking words of cheer and hope. Physicians were busy among those who needed physical aid; husbands soothing wives, and parents their sobbing children. On the edge of the square near the street the groans and cries of a woman began to draw the restless people who always run to any point of disturbance. "George," shouted Dr. Devoe. The young man responded promptly. "Keep this crowd away--the vulgar wretches!" A woman of refinement and wealth, who with her husband had clung to their adjacent home until the last shock occurred, was in the throes of childbirth. No one could stand a moment before the young man's words and aspect, and in a few moments he secured all the privacy possible. Eventually he bore the almost swooning mother to the inner room under the awning, where a bed had been made for her, while Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Willoughby cared for the child. The husband was so prostrated by anxiety for his wife as to be almost helpless himself. Among a certain class of the negroes, to religious excitement was added the wild terror of the earthquake, and they were simply becoming frantic in their actions and expressions. George, Dr. Devoe, Mr. Willoughby and some others went to the large group of which old Hannah and two great burly exhorters were the inspiration. They commanded and implored them to be more quiet, but received only insolent replies. "We'se savin' de city which de wickedness ob you white folks is 'stroyin'," one of the shepherds shouted; "an' we'se gwine to cry loud and mighty till mawnin'." At this moment, George espied Uncle Sheba, who certainly appeared, in the general craze, to have a sense of his besetting sin; for he was yelling at the top of his lungs, "I'se gwine ter wuck in de mawnin'." Suddenly there burst through the crowd an apparition before which he quailed; his jaw dropped and his howl degenerated into a groan. Aun' Sheba had heard and recognized his voice, and she went through the throng like a puffing tug through driftwood. "Mister Buggone," she said, with the sternness of fate, "ef yer doan stop yer noise you'se 'lowance stop heah and now. Yer'll hab ter wuck shuah or starbe, fer if yer doan come wid me now yer neber come agin." Uncle Sheba went away with her, meek as a lamb. The others were too frenzied even to notice this little scene. George, Mr. Willoughby, and some others were with difficulty restrained by the cooler Dr. Devoe. "Go with me to the station-house," he said. "In behalf of my patients I will demand that this nuisance be abated." The officer on duty returned with them, backed by a resolute body of men. The two exhorters were told to take their choice between silence and the station-house. There is usually a good deal of selfish method in such leaders' madness, and they sullenly retired. Poor, demented Hannah was bundled away, and comparative quiet restored through the square. The weary hours dragged on; the uneasy earth caused no further alarms that night. At last the dawn was again greeted with thankfulness beyond words. There was no paper that morning, for compositors and pressmen could not be induced to work, and at first there was a feeling of great uncertainty and depression. Mrs. Bodine's spirit was again like a cork on the surface. At breakfast she remarked, "We had an awful time last night, but here we are still alive, and able to take some nourishment. I expect the Northern papers will say that this wicked and rebellious old city is getting its deserts; but we shall soon have help and cheer from our Southern friends." "I think you will find yourself mistaken, Mrs. Bodine, about the North," said George. "Oh. you!" cried the old lady, laughing, "you look at the South through a pair of blue eyes. I reckon we shall have to send you and Ella North as missionaries." George in his pride and happiness could not keep his secret, and had been congratulated with honest heartiness. He therefore responded gayly, "When I take Ella North even earthquakes won't keep young fellows from coming here to see if any more like her are left." Again Ella remarked, nodding significantly, "Time will cure him, Cousin Sophy." Nevertheless the illness of Mrs. Hunter and Clancy, and the precarious condition of the young mother, cast a gloom over the little party. Clancy's pulse indicated great exhaustion, and he only recognized people when he was spoken to. Dr. Devoe prohibited any one from going near him except himself and George. Miss Ainsley uttered no protest at this. She truly felt that after the events of the night all was over between them. In a sort of sullen shame she said little and longed only for the hour which would bring her father and escape. Mr. Ainsley arrived during the morning, and George entertained him hospitably. His daughter clung to him, imploring him to take her away at the first possible moment. He was much distressed at Clancy's condition, and offered to take him North also; but Dr. Devoe said authoritatively, "He is too ill to be moved or even spoken to." Mrs. Willoughby and her husband were determined that Miss Ainsley should not give her father a false impression, and spoke freely of Clancy's great exertions. "Yes," added Dr. Devoe, "I feel guilty myself. He should have been taken in hand yesterday afternoon and compelled to be quiet in mind and body, but I had so many to look after, and he seemed the embodiment of energy and fearlessness. Well, it's too late now, and we must do the best we can for him." That day Mr. Ainsley and his daughter left the city. She gave vivid descriptions of the catastrophe at the North, but her friends remarked upon her fine reserve and modesty in speaking of her personal experiences. Her faultless veneer was soon restored, and we suppose she is pursuing her career of getting the most and best out of life after a fashion which has too many imitators. Poor Mara's name was significant of her experience of that day and others which followed. In the morning she learned of Clancy's illness, and it was eventually found that her voice and touch had a soothing effect possessed by no other. We have followed our characters through the climax of their experiences, and need only to suggest what further happened. They, with others, realized more fully the conditions of their lot and the extent of the disaster. With an ever-increasing courage and fortitude the people faced the situation, and resolved to build anew the fortunes of their city. Communication with the outside world permitted messages of sympathy and far more. In the Sunday morning issue of the "News and Courier" the following significant editorial appeared: "There is no break in the broad line of brotherly love throughout the United States. All hearts in this mighty country throb in unison. In the North as in the South, in the West as in the East, there is a sincere sorrow at the calamity which has befallen Charleston, and there is shining evidence of a beneficent desire to give the suffering people the assistance of both act and word." Boston, the former headquarters of the abolitionists, and the veterans of the Grand Army vied with Southern cities and ex-Confederates in a spontaneous outpouring of sympathy and help. The hearts of a proud people were at last subdued, but it was by hands stretched out in fraternal love and not to strike. In the city squares and other places of refuge there still continued sad and awful experiences, one of which was graphically described by the city editor of the journal already quoted. At nearly midnight on Friday there had been a cessation in the shocks for about twenty-four hours, and the people were resting quietly. Then came a convulsion second only in severity to the first one which had wrought such widespread ruin. "It had scarcely died away," to quote from the account referred to, "before there rose through the still night air in the direction of the public squares and parks the now familiar but still terrible cries of thousands of wailing voices, united in one vast chorus, expressive only of the utmost human misery. For a while this sound was heard above all other sounds, suggesting vividly to the mind what has been told by survivors of the scene that follows the sinking of a great ship at sea, when its living freight is left struggling with the waves; and this impression was heightened to the distant auditor by the gradual diminution in the volume of the cries, as though voice after voice were being silenced, as life after life were quenched beneath the tossing waves." Dr. Devoe advised Mr. Houghton to leave the city, but he said, "No, I shall remain with my children; I shall share in the fortunes of the city which is henceforth to be my home." Mrs. Hunter did not long survive, but she became quiet and rational before her end. To Mara's imploring words she replied calmly, "No, my time is near; and I feel that it is best. I belong to the old order of things, and have lingered too long already. I may have been mistaken in my feelings, and wrong in my enmities, but I had great provocation. Now I forgive as I hope to be forgiven. God grant, dear child, that you may have brighter days." A sad little company followed her to the cemetery, and as they laid her to rest, they also spread over her memory the mantle of a broad, loving charity. For a time it seemed as if brighter days could never come to Mara, for Clancy's life flickered like the light of an expiring candle. At last the fever broke and he became rational, the pure, open air conducing to his recovery. He was very weak and his convalescence was slow, measuring the mental and physical strain through which he had passed. Never had a poor mortal more faithful watchers, never was life wooed back from the dark shore by more devoted love. "Live, live," was ever the language of Mara's eyes, and happiness gave him the power to live. Captain Bodine carried out both the letter and spirit of his note. While he was very gentle, he was also very firm with Mara, expressing only paternal affection and also exerting paternal authority. At proper times he told her to go and rest in tones which she obeyed. One day when Clancy was able to sit up a little, he took her aside and said, "Mara, you and Mr. Clancy are in one sense comparatively alone in the world, although you have many stanch friends. His health, almost his life, requires the faithful, watchful care which you can best give, and which you are entitled to give. It is his wish and mine, also Cousin Sophy's, that you should be married at once." Again she gave him that luminous look which he so well remembered--an expression so full of homage, affection and sympathy that for the first time tears came into his eyes. "There, my child," he said, "you have repaid me, you have compensated me for everything. There is no need of words"--and he turned hastily away. When the sun was near the horizon Mara was married, not in old St. Michael's, as her mother had been, but in the large tent which of late had sheltered her lover. Her pastor employed the old sacred words to which her mother had responded; and Captain Bodine, with the impress of calm, victorious manhood on his brow, gave her away in the presence of the little group of those who knew her best and loved her most. We may well believe from that time forth her gentleness and happiness would change the meaning of her name. At last all ventured back to their homes. Mr. Houghton was so averse to parting with Ella that he equalled George in his impatience for the marriage. Aun' Sheba, who supervised preparations for the wedding breakfast, declared, "It am jes jolly ter see old Marse Houghton. As fer Missus Bodine, it pears as if she'd go off de han'l." Then father and son took the blue-eyed bride to the North on a visit, in what George characterized as a "sort of triumphal procession." The cabins of Aun' Sheba and Kern Watson were restored to a condition better than their former state, but Uncle Sheba discovered that the good old times of his wife's easy tolerance were gone. She put the case plainly, "Mr. Buggone, de Bible says dat dem dat doesn't wuck mus'n't eat, an' I'se gwine ter stick ter de Bible troo tick an' tin. You'se able to wuck as I be, an' you'se 'lowance now 'pends on you'se wuck." We have already seen that Uncle Sheba was one of those philosophers who always submit to the inevitable. Late one September night the moonbeams shone under the moss-draped branches of a live oak in a cemetery. They brought out in snowy whiteness a small headstone on which were engraved the words, "Yes, Vilet." Sitting by the grave and leaning his head against the stone was Kern Watson, but his calm, strong face was turned heavenward where his little girl waited for him "shuah." THE END 
40941	----	THE WRECK OF THE RED BIRD A STORY OF THE CAROLINA COAST BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON _Author of "The Big Brother," "Captain Sam," "The Signal Boys," etc., etc._ NEW YORK G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 27 & 29 WEST 23D STREET 1882 COPYRIGHT BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 1882 _Press of G. P. Putnam's Sons New York_ [Illustration: THE "BONES" OF THE RED BIRD] I intended to dedicate this book to my son, GUILFORD DUDLEY EGGLESTON, to whom it belonged in a peculiar sense. He was only nine years old, but he was my tenderly loved companion, and was in no small degree the creator of this story. He gave it the title it bears; he discussed with me every incident in it; and every page was written with reference to his wishes and his pleasure. There is not a paragraph here which does not hold for me some reminder of the noblest, manliest, most unselfish boy I have ever known. Ah, woe is me! He who was my companion is my dear dead boy now, and I am sure that I only act for him as he would wish, in inscribing the story that was so peculiarly his to the boy whom he loved best, and who loved him as a brother might have done. It is in memory of GUILFORD that I dedicate "The Wreck of the Red Bird" to CHARLES PELTON HUTCHINS. G. C. E. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. MAUM SALLY'S MANNERS 1 CHAPTER II. ON THE JOGGLING BOARDS 10 CHAPTER III. AFLOAT 15 CHAPTER IV. PLANS AND PREPARATIONS 28 CHAPTER V. THE SAILING OF THE "RED BIRD" 35 CHAPTER VI. ODD FISH 40 CHAPTER VII. AN ENEMY IN THE CAMP 52 CHAPTER VIII. THE BEGINNING AND END OF A VOYAGE 59 CHAPTER IX. THE SITUATION 68 CHAPTER X. PLANS AND DEVICES 79 CHAPTER XI. SOME OF NED'S SCIENCE 88 CHAPTER XII. JACK'S DISCOVERY 101 CHAPTER XIII. AN ANXIOUS NIGHT 109 CHAPTER XIV. IN THE GRAY OF THE MORNING 120 CHAPTER XV. CHARLEY BLACK'S ADVENTURES 125 CHAPTER XVI. ON GUARD 134 CHAPTER XVII. A NEW DANGER 147 CHAPTER XVIII. A CAMP-FACTORY 155 CHAPTER XIX. A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE 166 CHAPTER XX. A CALCULATION OF PROFIT AND LOSS 177 CHAPTER XXI. CHARLEY'S SECRET EXPEDITION 184 CHAPTER XXII. THE LAUNCH OF THE "APHRODITE" 193 CHAPTER XXIII. THE VOYAGE OF THE "APHRODITE" 201 CHAPTER XXIV. MAUM SALLY 212 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. THE "BONES" OF THE RED BIRD _Frontispiece._ "LOOK OUT! HOLD THAT FELLOW AWAY FROM YOU!" 23 THE ELOQUENT LANGUAGE OF GESTURE 128 "GIVE HIM A VOLLEY AND THEN CHARGE!" 150 THE END OF CHARLEY'S ADVENTURE 190 "HI! MAUM SALLY" 214 The Wreck of the Red Bird CHAPTER I. MAUM SALLY'S MANNERS. "Bress my heart, honey, wha'd you come from?" It was old "Maum" Sally who uttered this exclamation as she came out of her kitchen, drying her hands on her apron, and warmly greeting one of the three boys who stood just outside the door. "Is you done come to visit de folks? Well, I do declar'!" "Now, Maum Sally," replied Ned Cooke, "stop 'declaring' and stop asking me questions till you answer mine. Or, no, you won't do that, so I'll answer yours first. Where did I come from? Why from Aiken, by way of Charleston and Hardeeville. Did I come to visit the folks? Well, no, not exactly that. You see, I didn't set out to come here at all. I have spent part of the summer up at Aiken with these two school-mates of mine, and they were to spend the rest of it with me in Savannah. We were on our way down there when I got a despatch from father, saying that as yellow fever has broken out there I mustn't come home, but must come down here to Bluffton and stay with Uncle Edward till frost or school time. So we got off the train, hired a man with an ox-cart to bring our trunks down, and walked the eighteen miles. The man with the trunks will get here sometime, I suppose. There! I've made a long speech at you. Now, answer my questions, please. Where is Uncle Edward? and where is Aunt Helen? and why is the house shut up? and when will they be back again? and can't you give us something to eat, for we're nearly starved?" Ned laughed as he delivered this volley of questions, but Maum Sally remained perfectly solemn, as she always did. When he finished, she said: "Yaller fever! Bress my heart! It'll be heah nex' thing we knows. Walked all de way from Hardeeville! an' dis heah hot day too! e'en a'most starved! Well, I reckon ye is, an' I'll jes mosey roun' heah an' git you some supper." It must be explained that Maum Sally, although she lived on the coast of South Carolina, and was called "Maum" instead of "Aunt," was born and "raised," as she would have said, in "Ole Firginny," and her dialect was therefore somewhat as represented here. The negroes of the coast speak a peculiar jargon, which would be wholly unintelligible to other than South Carolinian readers, even if I could render it faithfully by phonetic spelling. As Maum Sally ceased speaking, she turned to go into her kitchen, which, as is usual in the South, was a detached building, standing some distance from the main house. "But wait, Maum Sally," cried Ned, seizing her hand; "I'm not going to let you off that way. You haven't answered my questions yet." "Now, look heah, young Ned," she said, with great solemnity, "does you s'pose Ole Sally was bawn and raised in Ole Firginny for nothin'? I aint forgot my manners nor hospitality, ef I _is_ lived nigh onto twenty-five years in dis heah heathen coast country whah de niggas talks monkey language. I'se a gwine to git you'n your fr'en's--ef you'll interduce 'em--some supper, fust an' foremost. Den I'll answer all de questions you're a mind to ax, ef you don't git to conundrumin'." Ned acknowledged Maum Sally's rebuke promptly. "I did forget my manners," he said, "but you see I was badly flustered. This is my friend Jack Farnsworth, Maum Sally, and this," turning to the other boy, "is Charley Black. Boys, let me make you acquainted with Maum Sally, the best cook in South Carolina, or anywhere else, and the best Maum Sally in the world. She used to give me all sorts of good things to eat out here when I didn't get up to breakfast, and was expected to get on till dinner with a cold bite from the store-room. I'll bet she'll cook us a supper that will make your mouths water, and have it ready by the time we get the dust out of our eyes." "Git de dus' out'n de all over you, more like. Heah's de key to de bath-house. You jes run down an' take a dip in de salt water, an' den git inter yer clo'es as fas' as you kin, an' when you's done dat, you'll fin' somethin' to eat awaitin' for you in de piazza. Git, now, quick. Ef I'se got to plan somethin' for supper, I'se got to hab my wits about me an' don' want no talkin' boys aroun'." "It's of no use, boys," said Ned. "I know Maum Sally, and we're not going to get a word more out of her till supper is ready, so come on, let's have a plunge. It's all right, anyhow. My uncle and aunt have gone away for the day somewhere, I suppose, and will be back sometime to-night. If they don't come, I'll find a way to break into the house. It's my father's, you know, and one of my homes. In fact, I was born here. Uncle Edward lives here a good part of the time, because he likes it, and father lives in Savannah a good part of the year, because he doesn't like it here. Come, let's get a bath." With that Ned conducted his guests to a pretty little bath-house which stood out over the water, and was approached by a green bridge. Bluffton abounds in these well-appointed, private bathing-houses, which, with their ornamental approaches, add not a little to the beauty of the singular town, which is scarcely a town at all in the ordinary sense of the word, as Ned explained to his companions while they were dressing after their bath. "This coast country," he said, "is plagued with country fever." "What's country fever?" asked Jack Farnsworth. "It's a very severe and fatal form of bilious fever, which one night's exposure--or even a few hours' exposure after sunset--brings on." "Then why did you bring us here?" asked Charley. "Are we to find ourselves down with country fever to-morrow morning?" "No, not at all," replied Ned. "Country fever stays strictly at home. It never goes to town; it never visits high ground where there are pines, white sand, and no moss; and it never comes to Bluffton. That's why there is any Bluffton. All along the coast the planters have their winter residences on their plantations, but in the summer they go off to little summer villages in the pines to escape the fever. In the region just around us, it is so much easier and pleasanter to live here in Bluffton that they build permanent residences here and live here all the year around. There is no trade here, no shops--except a blacksmith shop out on the road--no stores, no any thing except private houses, and the private houses are all built pretty nearly alike. Each stands alone in a large plot of ground, which is filled with trees and shrubs just as all the streets are. Each house has a piazza running all the way around it, or pretty nearly that, and each has two or three joggling boards." "What in the world is a joggling board?" asked Charley. "I'll introduce you when we get back to the house," said Ned. When the boys returned to the house, Ned's prediction was abundantly fulfilled. Maum Sally had spread a tempting, if somewhat incongruous supper in the piazza. There was a piece of cold ham, some fried fresh fish, a dish of shrimps stewed with tomatoes, a great platter of rice cooked in the South Carolinian way, and intended for use in lieu of bread, some boiled okra, roast sweet potatoes, and a pot of steaming coffee. It was a miscellaneous sort of meal, compounded of breakfast, dinner, and supper in about equal proportions, but it was such a meal as three healthy boys, who had walked eighteen miles and had then taken a sea bath, were not in the least disposed to quarrel with. "Now, Maum Sally," said Ned, after he had complimented the supper and taken his seat at the table, "tell me where Uncle Edward and Aunt Helen are, and when they will get back?" "Ain't ye got no manners at all, young Ned?" asked Sally, with an air of profound surprise; she always called the boy "Young Ned" when she wished to put him in awe of her; "ain't ye got no manners at all, or is you forgot 'em all sence I seed you last? Don' you know your frien's is a starvin'? and here you is a plaguin' me with questions insti'd o' helpin' on 'em. Mind yer manners, young gentleman, an' then I'll answer yer questions." "All right, Maum Sally," said Ned; "Charley, let me give you some cold ham. Jack, help yourself to some fish. There are the shrimps, boys, between you. Maum Sally, pour out some coffee, please. Jack, you'll find the okra good; here, Charley, let me help you to rice." Maum Sally, meanwhile, was pouring coffee and filling plates; when supper was well under way, she stood back a little way, placed her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo, and said with the utmost solemnity: "Seems 's if somebody axed me somethin' or other 'bout de folks when I was too busy to ten' to 'em. Ef you'll ax me agin now, I'll be obleeged." "Yes, upon reflection," said Ned, "I am inclined to think that I ventured to make some inquiry concerning my uncle and aunt. If I remember correctly, I asked where they are, and at what time they are likely to return." "Whah is dey? Well, I don' rightly know, an' I can't say adzac'ly when dey'll be back agin. But I specs deys somewhah out on de sea, an' I s'pose dey'll be back about nex' November." "What!" cried Ned, in surprise, suspending his attention to supper, and forgetting to maintain his pretence of dignified indifference. "What do you mean, Maum Sally?" "Well, what I mean is dis heah. Yo' uncle an' aunt lef' here three days ago to go north. Dey said dey was a gwine to de centenimental expedition, an' to Newport an' somewhahs else--I reckon it was to some sort o' mountains--White Mountains, mebbe, an dey said dey'd be back agin in November, ef dey didn't make up dere minds to stay longer, or come back afore dat time. So now you knows as much about it as I does." CHAPTER II. ON THE JOGGLING BOARDS. To say that Ned was surprised is to describe his feeling very mildly. Knowing his uncle's easy, indolent mode of life, his contentment with home, his lazy love of books and pipes and ease generally, Ned would as soon have expected to hear that the organ in the little church had gone off summering, as to learn that his uncle and aunt were travelling. The other boys were in consternation. "What on earth shall we do?" asked Jack Farnsworth. "Better eat supper, fust an' fo'most," replied Maum Sally, whose theory of life consisted of a profound conviction that the important thing to be done was to eat an abundance of good food, well-cooked. "That's so," said Ned. "We can't bring my uncle back by neglecting our supper, but we can let the coffee get cold, and that would be a pity. Let's eat now while the things are hot." "Yes," replied Charley Black, "that's all right, but after that?" "Why, after that we'll try the joggling boards." "But, Ned," remonstrated Charley, "this won't do. Your uncle has gone away, and the house is shut up and so we can't stay here. Now, I move that you go back to Aiken with us." "Not a bit of it," answered Ned. "I've visited at your house and at Jack's, and now you're my guests. Do you think I've 'forgot my manners,' as Maum Sally says?" "But, Ned," said Jack, "you see the situation has changed since we started to go home with you. You can't go home, and now you can't stay here." "Can't I though?" asked Ned; "and why not? I know a way into the house, and if you'll stay where you are for five minutes, I'll have the big doors unbarred and invite you in." With that Ned stepped upon the piazza railing, caught a timber above, and easily swung himself up to the roof of the porch. Thence he made his way quickly to a round window in the garret--the house was only one story high, with a high garret story for the protection of the rooms from the heat of the sun. Pushing open this round window he sprang in, descended the stairs, and a moment later the boys heard him taking down the wooden bar which kept the great double doors fast. Then drawing the bolts at top and bottom, he swung the doors open without difficulty. "Come in, boys," he cried. "I'll open the doors at the other side, and we'll have a breeze through the hall." "But I say, old fellow," said Charley, "I don't like this. What will your uncle think of us for making free with his house in this way?" "What, Uncle Edward? Why, he wouldn't ask how we got in if he were to get home now. He never troubles himself, and he's the best uncle in the world; so is Aunt Helen, or, I should say, she is the best aunt. And, besides, I tell you, this isn't Uncle Edward's house. It's my father's, and all the furniture is his too. Uncle Edward lives here just because he likes it here, and because father likes to have him here. But the house is ours, and sometimes we all come here without warning, and stay for months. It don't make any difference, except that more plates are put on the table. Every thing goes on just the same, and if Uncle Edward were to come in now he would hardly remember that we weren't here when he went away. So make yourselves easy. You're in my home just as much as if we were in Savannah, and there's nobody here to be bothered by our fun. We'll stay here and fish and row and bathe, and have a jolly time. The servants have all gone away, I suppose, except Maum Sally, but she'll take good care of us. You see, I'm her special pet. She has thought it her duty to coddle me and scold me and regulate me generally ever since I was born, and she likes nothing better. So come on out here and I'll introduce you unfortunate up-country boys to that greatest of human inventions, a joggling board. There are four or five of them on the front piazza." This hospitable harangue satisfied the scruples of the boys, and the house was so pleasant, with its large, high rooms, wide hall, and broad piazzas--one of which looked out over the water,--the grounds were so tasteful, the trees so large and fine, and the whole aspect of Bluffton was so quiet and restful, that they were glad to settle themselves contentedly after their long tramp from the railroad at Hardeeville. "The best way to get acquainted with a joggling board," said Ned, approaching a queer-looking structure on the piazza, "is to get on it. Try it and see, Charley. Don't be afraid. It won't turn over, and it can't break down. There," as Charley seated himself upon the board, "lie down now, and move almost any muscle you please the least bit in the world, and you'll understand what the thing is for." "Oh! isn't it jolly!" exclaimed Charley, as the board began to sway gently under him and the breeze from the sea fanned him. "It is all of that," replied Ned. "I'll get some pillows as soon as I get Jack to risk his precious neck on a board, and then we'll all be comfortable, like clams at high-tide. Jump up, Jack; it won't tip over. Now swing your legs up and lie down. There, how's that?" Jack gave a sigh of satisfaction, while Ned ran into the house for sofa pillows. The three boys, tired as they were, soon ceased to talk, and fell asleep to the gentle swaying of the joggling boards. CHAPTER III. AFLOAT. Once asleep on the cool, breeze-swept piazza, the three tired boys were not inclined to wake easily. The sun went down, but still they slept. Finally the teamster from Hardeeville arrived with the trunks on an ox-cart, and his loud cries to his oxen aroused Charley, who sprang up suddenly. Forgetting that his couch was a joggling board more than three feet high he undertook to step upon the floor as if he had been sleeping on an ordinary sofa. The result was that his feet, failing to reach the floor at the expected distance, were thrown backward under the board by the forward motion of the upper part of the body, and Master Charles Black, of Aiken, fell sprawling on the floor, waking both the other boys in alarm. "What's up?" cried Ned. "Nothing. I'm down," replied Charley. "I thought you said the thing wouldn't turn over." "Well, it hasn't," said Ned. "Look and see. It's you that turned over. Are you hurt, old fellow?" Charley was by this time on his feet again, and declared himself wholly free from hurt of any kind. The trunks were brought in, the driver turned over to Maum Sally's hospitality, and Ned declared it to be time for bed. "Whew! how cold it is!" exclaimed Jack. "Do you have such changes of weather often, down here on the coast?" "Only twice in twenty-four hours at this season," answered Ned, as they went into the house. "Twice in twenty-four hours! What do you mean?" "I mean once in twelve hours," answered Ned. "How is that? I don't understand." "Well, you see our late summer dews have begun to fall. If you were to go out now, you would find the water actually dripping from the trees. From this time on it will be chilly at night, almost cold, in fact, but hot as the tropic of Cancer in the daytime. So we have a sudden change of temperature twice a day--once from cold to hot, and once from hot to cold." The boys were too sleepy to talk long, and the sun was shining in at the east windows when Maum Sally waked them the next morning for a breakfast as miscellaneous as the supper had been; sliced tomatoes and figs, still wet with the dew, being prominent features of the meal. After breakfast Ned looked up a great variety of fishing tackle and got it in order. "Where are your fish poles?" asked one of the boys. "Fish poles! we don't use them in salt water. We fish with tight lines." "What are they?" "Why, long lines with a sinker at the end and no poles." "Do you just hold the line in your hand?" "Certainly. And another thing that we don't use is a float. We just fish right down in the deep water--or the shallow water rather, for the best fishing is on bars where the water isn't more than twenty feet deep; but deep or shallow, the fish are at the bottom, except skip-jacks; they swim on top, and sometimes we troll for them. They call them blue fish up North, I believe, but we call them skip-jacks or jack mackerel." "What's that?" asked Jack, as Ned spread out a round net for inspection. "A cast net." "What's it for?" "Shrimps." "But I thought we were going fishing." "So we are. But we must go shrimping first. We must have some bait." "Oh, we are to use shrimps for bait, are we?" "Very much so indeed," answered Ned. "They are capital bait--the best we have, unless we want to catch sheephead; then we use fiddlers." "What are fiddlers?" "Little black crabs that run about by millions over the sand. They have hard shells that whiting and croakers can't crack, while the sheephead, having good teeth, crush them easily. So when we want to catch sheephead, and don't want to be bothered with other fish, we bait with fiddlers." "Then I understand that fish are so plentiful here and so easily caught that they bother you when you want to catch particular kinds?" said Jack, incredulously. "If you mean that for a question," answered Ned, "I'll let you answer it for yourself after you've had a little experience." "Well, if we don't get any shrimps," said Charley, "we'll fish for sheephead with musicians." "Musicians? oh, you mean fiddlers," said Ned. "But we'll get shrimps enough." "Do they bother you, too, with their abundance?" asked Jack, still inclined to joke his friend. "Come on and see," said Ned, who had now prepared himself for wading. Taking the cast net in his hand, and giving a pail to Jack, he led the way to the sea. Wading into the mouth of a little inlet he cast the net, which was simply a circular piece of netting, with a string of leaden balls around the edge. From this lead line cords extended on the under side of the net to and through a ring in the centre where they were fastened to a long cord which was held in Ned's hand. A peculiar motion in casting caused the net to spread itself out flat and to fall in that way on the water. The leaden balls caused it to sink at once to the bottom, the edges reaching bottom first, of course, and imprisoning whatever happened to be under the net in its passage. After a moment's pause, to give time for the lead line to sink completely, Ned jerked the cord and began to draw in. Of course this drew the lead line along the bottom to the centre ring, and made a complete pocket of the net, securely holding whatever was caught in it. It came up after this first cast with about a hundred shrimps--of the large kind called prawn in the North--in it. The boys opened their eyes in surprise, and Ned cast again, bringing up this time about twice as many as before. "They have hardly begun to come in yet," said Ned. "The tide is too young." "Hardly begun to come in?" said Jack, "why, the water's alive with them. Let me throw the net." "Certainly," said Ned, "if you know how." "Know how? Why, there's no knack in that; anybody can do it." With this confident boast Jack took the net and gave a violent cast. Neglecting to relax the rope at the right moment, however, the confident young gentleman made trouble for himself. The lead line swung around rapidly, the net wrapped itself around Jack, and the leaden balls struck him with sufficient violence to hurt. He lost his balance at the same instant, and, his legs being held close together by the wet net, he could not step out to recover himself. The result was that he fell sprawling into the water and was fished out in a very wet condition by his companions. Jack was a boy capable of seeing the fun even in an accident of which he was the victim. He stood still while the net was unwound, and for a moment afterward. Then, seeing that the other boys were too considerate to laugh at him while in trouble, he quietly said: "I told you I could do it." "Well, you caught more in the net than I did," said Ned. "Now take hold again and I'll show you how to manage it. Your wet clothes won't hurt you. Sea-water doesn't give one cold." A few lessons made Jack fairly expert in casting, but Charley had no mind to court mishaps, and would not try his skill. The pail was soon well filled with shrimps, and the boys returned to the boat house, where Jack changed his wet clothes for dry ones. Then all haste was made to get the boat out, in order that they might fish while the tide was right. The boat was a large launch named _Red Bird_; a boat twenty-four feet long, very broad in the beam, and very stoutly built. It was provided with a mast and sail, but these were of no use now as there was no wind, and the bars on which Ned meant to fish were only a few hundred yards distant. No sooner was the anchor cast than the lines were out, and the fish began accepting the polite invitation extended to them. "What sort of fish are these, Ned?" asked Charley, as he took one from his hook. "That," said Ned, looking round, "is a whiting--so called, I believe, because it is brown, and yellow, and occasionally pink and purple, with changeable silk stripes over it. That's the only reason I can think of for calling it a whiting. It is never white. It isn't properly a whiting for that matter. It isn't at all the same as the whiting of the North, at any rate." "Why, they're changing color," exclaimed Jack. "Look! they actually change color under your very eyes." "Yes, it's a way whiting have," said Ned. "And some other fish do the same thing, I believe." "Dolphins do," said Charley. "Yes, but the whiting isn't even a second cousin to the dolphin. That's a croaker you've got, Jack; spot on his tail--splendid fish to eat--and he croaks. Listen!" The fish did begin to utter a curious croaking sound, which surprised the boys. Other croakers were soon in the boat, and the company of them set up a croaking of which the inhabitants of a frog pond might not have been ashamed. "They call croakers 'spot' in Virginia," said Ned, "because of the spot near the tail. Look at it. Isn't it pretty? and isn't the fish itself a beauty?" "But the whiting is prettier," said Charley; "at least in colors. I say, Ned, do you know if whiting ever dine on kaleidoscopes?" "Look out! hold that fellow away from you! hold the line at arm's length and don't let the brute strike you with his tail for your life!" exclaimed Ned, excitedly, as Charley drew a curious-looking creature up. [Illustration: "LOOK OUT! HOLD THAT FELLOW AWAY FROM YOU!"] "What is the thing?" asked both the up-country boys in a breath. "A stingaree," replied Ned, "and as ugly as a rattlesnake. See how viciously he strikes with his tail! Let him down slowly till his tail touches the bottom of the boat. There! Now wait till he stops striking for a moment and then clap your foot on his tail. Ah! now you've got him. Now cut the tail off close to the body and the fellow's harmless." "What is the creature anyhow?" asked Jack, who had suspended his fishing operations to observe the monster. "What did you call it?" "Well, the gentleman belongs to a large and distinguished family. To speak broadly, he is a plagiostrome chondropterygian, of the sub-order _raiiæ_, commonly called skates. To define him more particularly, he is a member of the trygonidæ family, familiarly known as sting rays, and called by negroes and fishermen, and nearly every body else on the coast, stingarees." "Where on earth did you get that jargon from?" asked Charley. "It isn't jargon, and I got it from my uncle. He told me one day not to call these things stingarees, but sting rays, and then for fun rattled off a lot of scientific talk at me, which I made him repeat until I knew it by heart. What I know about sting rays is this: there are a good many kinds of them in different quarters of the world. In the North they have the American sting ray, which is much larger than ours down here, though we sometimes catch them two or three feet wide. Ours is the European sting ray, I believe; at any rate, it isn't the American. They are all of them closely alike. They are brown on top and white beneath. You see the shape--not unlike that of a turtle, but with something like wings at the sides, and with a skin instead of a shell, and no legs. The most interesting things about them are their long, slender tails. See," picking up the amputated tail and turning it over; "see the gentleman's weapons. Those bony spikes, with their barbed sides, make very ugly wounds whenever the sting ray gets a good shot at a leg or an arm. The negroes say the barbs are poisonous, like a rattlesnake's fangs; but the scientific folk dispute that. However that may be, a man was laid up for three months right here in Bluffton, during the war, with a foot so bad that the surgeons thought they would have to cut it off, and all from a very slight wound by a sting-ray." "Ugh!" cried Jack. "It isn't necessary to suppose poison; to have one of those horrible bones driven into your flesh and then drawn out with the notches all turned the wrong way, is enough to make any amount of trouble, without adding poison." "Perhaps that accounts for the stories told of the Indians shooting poisoned arrows," said Ned. "They used sting-ray stings for arrow-heads at any rate." "And very capital arrow-heads they would make," said Charley, examining the spikes, which were about the size of a large lead-pencil, about three or four inches long, and barbed all along the sides, so that they looked not unlike rye beards under a microscope. These spikes are placed not at the end of the tail, but near the middle. "Are sting rays good to eat?" asked Jack, examining the slimy, flabby creature. "It all depends upon the taste of the eater," replied Ned. "The negroes sometimes eat the flaps or wings, and most white people on the coast have curiosity enough to taste them. They always say there's nothing bad about the taste, but I never knew anybody to take to sting rays as a delicacy. Some people say that alligator steaks are good, and a good many people eat sharks now and then. For my part good fish are too plentiful here for me to experiment with bad ones." The fishing was resumed now, and it was not long before Jack confessed that the fish were beginning to "bother" him by their abundance and eagerness. "Ned," he said, "I apologize. If you've any fiddlers about your clothes, I believe I'll confine my attention to sheephead; I'm tired of pulling fish in." "Well, let's go ashore, then," said Ned, laughing, "and have dinner." "Do fish bite in that way generally down here?" asked Charley. "Yes, when the tide isn't too full. Fishing really gets to be a bore here, it is so easy to fill a boat; anybody can do that as easily as throw a cast net." "Now hush that," said Charley. "Jack has owned up and apologized, and agreed that he knows more than he did this morning." CHAPTER IV. PLANS AND PREPARATIONS. After dinner the boys lolled upon the piazza, and Ned answered his companions' questions concerning Bluffton and region round about. "The water here is called South May River," he said, "but why, I don't know. It certainly isn't a river. This whole coast is a ragged edge of land with all sorts of inlets running up into it, and with islands, big and little, dotted about off the mainland. Yonder is Hilton Head away over near the horizon. Hunting Island lies off to the left, and Bear's Island further away yet. The little marsh islands have no names. They are simply bars of mud on which a kind of rank grass, called salt marsh, grows. Some of them are covered by every tide; others only by spring-tides, while others are covered by all except neap-tides." "Is there any land over that way, to the right of Hilton Head?" Charley asked. "Good idea!" exclaimed Ned. "I say, let's go buffalo-hunting and crusoeing and yachting all at once." "What sort of answer is that nonsense to my question?" asked Charley, with mock dignity and real doubt as to his friend's meaning. "Well, I jumped a little, that's all," said Ned. "Your question suggested my answer. Bee Island lies over there, out of sight. It's my uncle's land. It used to be a sea-island plantation, but was abandoned during the war and has never been occupied since. It has grown up and is as wild as if it had never been cultivated at all. The cattle were left on it when the place was abandoned, and they went completely wild. During the war parties of soldiers from both sides used to go over there to hunt the wild cattle. Sometimes they met each other and hunted each other instead of the cattle. Now it just occurred to me that we might have jolly fun by fitting out an expedition, sailing over there in the _Red Bird_--you see these land-locked waters are never very rough or dangerous--and camping there as long as we like. When we are in the boat, we will be yachtsmen of the 'swellest' sort; when we're on the desert island--or deserted, rather, for it is desert only in the past tense--we'll be Robinson Crusoes; and when we want beef we'll kill a wild cow, if there are any left, and be buffalo hunters, for what's a buffalo but a sort of wild cow?" "Is the fishing good over there?" asked Jack, "for I'm not so much bothered by the fish yet that I want to quit catching them." "As good as here." "All right, let's go," said Jack. "So say I," responded Charley. "When shall we start?" "To-morrow morning. It will take all this afternoon to get ready," said Ned. With that they set to work collecting necessary materials. "We must have all sorts of things," said Ned. "Yes," answered Jack, "particularly in our characters as Robinson Crusoes." "How's that?" asked Charley. "He had nothing. He was shipwrecked, you know." "Yes, I know. But did you never notice what extraordinary luck he had? Absolutely every thing that was indispensable to him came ashore or was brought ashore from that accommodating wreck. Why, he even got gunpowder enough to last him, and whatever the ship didn't yield the island did. I always suspected that Robinson Crusoe loaded that ship himself with special reference to his needs on the island, and picked out the right island, and then ran the ship on the rocks purposely." This interpretation of Robinson Crusoe's character and life was a novel one to Jack's companions; but their plan for their expedition did not include any purpose to deny themselves needed conveniences. The large duck gun was taken down from its hooks in the hall, and a good supply of ammunition was put into the shot pouches and powder flask. This included one pouch of buckshot and one of smaller shot for fowls. The fishing tackle was already in the boat house, as we know. An axe, a hatchet, a piece of bacon, to be used in frying fish, a small bag of rice, another of flour, and another of sweet potatoes, a box of salt, another of sugar--both water-tight,--and some coffee, completed the list of stores as planned by the boys. Maum Sally contemplated the collection, after the boys had declared it to be complete, and exclaimed; "Well, I 'clar now!" "What's the matter, Maum Sally?" asked Ned. "Nothin', on'y it's jis zacly like a passel o' boys, dat is." "What is?" "W'y wot for is you a takin' things to eat?" asked Sally. "Because we'll want to eat them," said Ned. "Raw?" asked Sally. "That's so," said Ned, with a look of confusion. "Boys, we haven't put in a single cooking utensil!" Laughing at their blunder, the boys set about choosing from Maum Sally's stores what they thought was most imperatively needed. Two skillets, one to be used for frying and the other for baking bread; a kettle, to be used in boiling rice, in heating water for coffee, and as a bread pan in which to mix corn bread; a coffee pot; some tin cups; three forks and three plates, constituted their outfit. Each boy had his pocket knife, of course, and Ned had put into the boat a large hunting knife from the house. When all was stored ready for the morning's departure, the boys ate their supper and betook themselves to the piazza. "I hope there'll be a fair breeze in the morning," said Ned, "for it will be a frightful job to row that big boat to Bee Island if there isn't wind enough to sail." "How far is it?" asked Jack. "About a dozen miles. But there is nearly always, breeze enough to sail, after we get away from the bluffs here; but the tide will be against us." "How do you know?" asked Charley. "Why it will begin running up about eight o'clock to-morrow, and of course it won't turn till about two." "How do you know it will begin running up about eight o'clock?" "Why, because it began running up a little after seven this morning." "Well, what has that got to do with it? Don't it all depend on the wind?" "What a landlubber you are!" exclaimed Ned. "No, it don't depend on the wind. It depends on the moon and the sun. I'll try to explain." "No, don't," said Jack; "let him read about it in his geography, or explain it to him some other time. Tell us about something else now. Isn't the country fever likely to bother us over there on the island?" "No, not if we select a good place to camp in. We must get on pretty high ground near the salt water. I know the look of healthy and unhealthy places pretty well, and we'll be safe enough." "All right. When we get into camp you can deliver that lecture on tides if you want to, but just now we wouldn't attend to it. We're apt to be a trifle cross in the evenings over there if we get tired. Tired people in camp are always cross, and it will be just as well to save whatever you have to say till we need something to talk about. Then you can tell us all about it." "Well, now, I've something interesting to tell you without waiting," said Ned; "something very interesting." "What is it?" "That it is after nine o'clock; that we want to get up early; and that we'd better go to bed." "Agreed," said his companions. CHAPTER V. THE SAILING OF THE "RED BIRD." The boys were out of bed not long after daylight the next morning. The sky was clear, but there was not a particle of breeze, and even before the sun rose the air was hot and stifling to a degree never before experienced by either of Ned's visitors. "I say, Ned, this is a frightful morning," said Jack. "I feel myself melting as I stand here in my clothes. I'm already as weak as a pound of butter looks in the sun. How we're going to breathe when the sun comes up, I'm at a loss to determine. Whew!" and with that Jack sat down exhausted. "A nice time we'll have rowing," said Charley. "I move we swim and push the boat. It'll be cooler, and not much harder work. Does it ever rain here? because if it does I'm waiting for a shower. I'm wilted down, and nothing short of a drenching will revive me." "Well," said Ned, "come, let's take a drenching. I'm going to take a header off the boat-house pier. It's low-water now, and there's a clear jump of ten feet. A plunge will wake us up, and by that time breakfast will be ready, and what is more to the point, the tide will turn. That's a comfort." "Why?" asked Charley. "Because when it turns a sea-breeze will come with it. This sort of heat is what we'd have here all summer long if it wasn't for land- and sea-breezes. As it is we never have it except at dead low water, and it is always followed by a good stiff sea-breeze when the tide turns. We'll be able to sail instead of swimming over to the island. But come, let's have our plunge now." After breakfast the boys went to the boat house to bestow their freight in the boat. The tide had turned, and, as Ned had predicted, a cool, stimulating breeze had begun to blow, so that the strength returned to Jack's knees and Charley's resolution. "It will be best to fill the boat's water kegs," said Ned; "partly because we'll want water on the way, partly because we'll want water on the island, while we're digging for a permanent supply." "By the way," said Jack, "what are we going to dig with?" "Well, there's another blunder," said Ned. "If Robinson Crusoe had forgotten things in that way, he never would have lived through his island experiences. We must have a shovel and a pick. I'll run up to the house and look for them while you boys fill the water kegs." When Ned got back to the boat he was confronted by Maum Sally with a big bundle. "What is it, Maum Sally?" "Oh nothin', on'y I spose you young gentlemen is a gwine to sleep jes a little now an' then o' nights, an' so, as you hasn't thought on it yerse'fs, I's done brung you some bedclo'es." "Now look here, boys," said Ned; "we'll go off without our heads yet. We've lost our heads several times already, in fact. There's nothing for it except just to imagine ourselves at the island, and run through a whole day and night in our minds to see what we're going to need." "That's a good idea," said Charley. "I'll begin. I'll need my mother the first thing, because here's a button off my collar." The party laughed, of course, but there was force in the suggestion. A few buttons, a needle or two, and some stout thread were straightway added to the ship's stores. "Now let's see," said Ned. "We'll need to build a shelter first thing, and we've all the tools necessary for that, because I've thought it out carefully. Then we have our digging tools. Very well. Now, for breakfast we need, let me see," and he ran over the materials and utensils already enumerated. Going on in this way through an imaginary day on the island, the boys found their list of stores now reasonably complete. From Maum Sally's bundle they selected three blankets, which they rolled up tight and bestowed behind the water keg at the stern. Maum Sally had brought pillows, sheets, and a large mattress, which she earnestly besought them to take, but they declined to add to their cargo any thing which could be dispensed with. At the very last moment one of the boys thought of matches. It was decided that three small boxes would be sufficient, as they could keep fire by the exercise of a little caution. Thus equipped, they bade Maum Sally good-by, and cast the boat loose. The sail filled, the _Red Bird_ lay a little over upon one side, with the wind nearly abeam, and the boys settled themselves into their places. "I say, young Ned," called Maum Sally, "how long's ye mean to be gone?" "Oh, I don't know. May be a month," was the reply. "Well, not a day longer 'n dat, now mind." CHAPTER VI. ODD FISH. The sea-breeze was fresh and full, and it blew from a favorable quarter. There were various windings about among the small islands to be made, and now and then the course for a brief distance was against the wind, and as this was the case only where the channel was narrow, it was necessary to make a series of very short "tacks," which gave Ned an opportunity to instruct his companions in the art of sailing a boat. In the main, however, there was an abundance of sea-room, and Ned could lay his course directly for Bee Island and keep the wind on the quarter. It was barely eleven o'clock, therefore, when the _Red Bird_ came to her moorings on the island, and the boys went ashore. "Now the first thing that Robinson Crusoe did after he got his wits about him," said Jack, "was to build his residence. Let's follow the example of that experienced mariner, and choose our building-site before we begin to bring away things from the wreck; I mean, before we unload our plunder." "Yes, that's our best plan," said Ned. "We don't want to do any more carrying than we must. Let me see. We're on the north side of the island. If I remember right, the negro quarters used to be to the east of this spot, and the negroes must have got water from somewhere, so we'd better look for the ruins of that African Troy, in search of the ancient reservoirs." "How far from the shore were the quarters?" asked Charley. "I don't remember, if I ever knew; but why?" "Well, it seems to me this island has grown up somewhat as the hair on your head does, in a shock. The large trees, as nearly as I can make out, think six feet or so to be a proper interval between themselves, and the small trees have disposed themselves to the best of their ability between the big ones; then all kinds of vines have grown up among the big and little trees, as if to make a sort of shrimp-net of the woods, and cane has grown up just to occupy any vacant spaces that might be left. It occurs to me that if we're to hunt anywhere except along shore for the old quarters, we'd best make up our minds to clear the island as we go." "I say, Charley," said Jack, "if you were obliged to clear an acre of this growth with your own hands what would you do first?" "I'd get a good axe, a grubbing hoe, some matches, and kindling wood; then I'd take a good look at the thicket; and then I'd take a long, long rest." "Yes, I suppose you'd need it. But that isn't what I meant. Never mind that, however. Ned, I don't see why this isn't as good a place as any for our camp. There's a sort of bluff here, and we can clear away a place for our hut and get the hut built with less labor than it would take to find traces of negro quarters that were destroyed twelve or fifteen years ago." "Yes, but how about water?" "Well, I don't think it likely that we'd find any visible remains of a well in the other place, and if we did we'd have to dig it all out again. Why not dig here?" After some discussion, and the examination of the shore for a short distance in each direction, this suggestion was adopted. The building of a shelter was easy work. It was necessary only to erect a framework of poles, to cut bushes and place them against the sides for walls, and to cover the whole with palmete leaves--that is to say, with the leaves of a species of dwarf palm which grows in that region in abundance. These leaves are known to persons at the North only in the form of palm-leaf fans. On the coast of South Carolina they grow in all the swamps and woodlands. A little labor made a bunk for the boys to sleep upon, and while Ned and Charley filled it with long gray Spanish moss, Jack got dinner ready, first rowing out from shore and catching fish enough for that meal while his companions finished the house. "Now," said Jack, when dinner was over and the boys had stretched themselves out for a rest, "it's nearly sunset, and we're all tired. We've got the best part of two kegs of water left, so I move that we don't begin digging our well till morning." "Agreed," said the other boys, glad enough to be idle. "Now, I've got something I want you to tell me about," said Jack. "Two things, in fact." With that, he went to the boat and looked about. Presently he came back and said: "One of 'em's dried up. Here's the other." He handed Ned a queer-looking fish, almost black, about eight inches long, very slender, and very singularly shaped. "See," he said; "its jaw protrudes in so queer a way that I can't make out which side of the creature is top and which bottom. Turn either side you please up, and it looks as if you ought to turn the other up instead; and then the thing has a sort of match-lighter on top of his head, or on the bottom--I don't know which it is. Look." He pointed to the creature's head. There was a flat, oval figure there, made by a ridge in the skin, and the flat space enclosed within this oval line was crossed diagonally by other ridges, arranged with perfect regularity. The whole looked something like the figure on the opposite page. [Illustration] "Now, what I want to know," said Jack, "is what sort of fish this is, which side of him belongs on top, and what use he makes of this match-lighter." "I'm afraid I can't help you much," said Ned. "A year ago I would have told you at once that the fish is a shark's pilot, so called because he follows ships as sharks do, and the sailors think he acts as a pilot for the sharks. But now I don't know what to call it." "Why not?" asked Charley. "Because I don't know. I've been reading up in the cyclopædias and natural histories and ichthyologies about our fishes down here, and have found out that whatever I know isn't so." "Why, how's that?" "Well, take the whiting, for example. When I began reading up to see if there was any sort of cousinship between him and the dolphin, I soon found that the whiting isn't a whiting at all, but I couldn't find out any thing else about him. The whiting described in the books is a sort of codfish's cousin, and he lives only at the North. Neither the pictures nor the descriptions of him at all resemble our whiting, so I don't know what sort of fish our whiting is. I only know that he isn't a whiting, and isn't the remotest relation to the dolphin, because he is a fish and has scales, while the dolphin is a cetacean." "What's a cetacean?" asked Charley. "A vertebrated, mammiferous marine animal." "Well; go on; English all that." "Well, whales, dolphins narwhals, and porpoises are the principal cetaceans. They are not fish, but marine animals, and they suckle their young." "Well, that's news to me," said Charley. "Now, then," said Jack, "if you two have finished your little side discussion, suppose we come back to the subject in hand. What do you know, Ned, about this fish that I have in my hand, and why don't you call him a shark's pilot now, as you say you did a year ago?" "Why, because the books treat me the same way in his case that they do in the whiting's. They describe a shark's pilot which is as different from this as a whale is from a heifer calf, and so I don't know what to call this fellow. Did he make a fight when you caught him?" "Indeed he did. I was sure I had a twenty-pound something or other on my hook, and when I pulled up this insignificant little creature, with the match box on his head, I was disgusted. I looked at him to see if he hadn't a steam-engine somewhere about him, because he pulled so hard, and that's what made me observe his match box and his curious up-side-down-itiveness." "I say, Ned," said Charley, "why is it that our Southern fishes are so neglected in the books?" "Well, I've asked myself that question, and the only answer I can think of is this: in the first place, there is no great commercial interest in fishing here as there is at the North; and then the natural history books and the cyclopædias are all written at the North or in Europe, and so there are thousands of curious fish down here which are not mentioned. There's the pin-cushion fish, for example. I can't find a trace of that curious creature in any of the books." "What sort of thing is a pin-cushion fish?" asked Jack. "He's simply a hollow sphere, a globular bag about twice the size of a walnut, and as round as a base ball." "Half transparent, is he? Red, shaded off into white? with water inside of him, and pimples, like pin-heads, all over him, and eyes and mouth right on his fair rotundity, making him look like a picture of the full moon made into a human face?" asked Jack eagerly. "Yes, that's the pin-cushion fish." "I thought so. That's my other one," said Jack. "What do you mean?" asked Ned. "Why, that's the other thing I had to show you, but couldn't find. I caught him with the cast net." "And kept him to show to me?" asked Ned. "Yes, but he disappeared." "Of course he did. He spat himself away." "How's that?" "Why, if you take a pin-cushion fish out of the water, and put him down on a board, he'll sit there looking like a judge for a little while; then he'll begin to spit, and when he spits all the water out, there's nothing left of him except a small lump of jelly. They're very curious things. I wish we had a good popular book about our Southern fishes and the curious things that live in the water here on the coast." "Don't you suppose these things are represented at all in scientific books?" asked Jack. "I suppose that many of them are, but many of them are not, and those that are described, are described by names that we know nothing about, and so only a naturalist could find the descriptions or recognize them when found. With all Northern fishes that are familiarly known, the case is different. If a Northern boy wants to find out more than he knows already about a codfish, he looks for the information under the familiar name 'Codfish,' and finds it there. He does not need to know in advance that the cod is a fish of the _Gadus_ family, and the _Morrhua vulgaris_ species. So, when he wants to know about the whiting that he is familiar with, he finds the information under the name whiting; but the scientific men who wrote the books, however much they may know about the fish that we call whiting, do not know, I suppose, that it is anywhere called whiting, and so they don't put the information about it under that head. They only come down South as far as New Jersey, and tell about a species of fish which is there called whiting, though it isn't the real whiting. If they had known that still another and a very different fish goes by that name down here, they would have told us about that too, in the same way." "What's the remedy?" asked Charley. "For you, or Jack, or me," answered Ned, "to study science, and to make a specialty of our Southern fishes. When we do that and give the world all the information we can get by really intelligent observation, all the scientific writers will welcome the addition made to the general store of knowledge. That is the way it has all been found out." "Why can't we begin now?" "Because we haven't learned how to observe. We don't know enough of general principles to be able to understand what we see. Let's form habits of observation, and let's study science systematically; after that we can observe intelligently, and make a real contribution to knowledge." "You're not going to write your book on the Marine Fauna of the Southern States to-night, are you?" asked Jack. "No, certainly not," said Ned, with a laugh at his own enthusiasm. "Then let's go to bed; I'm sleepy," said Jack. CHAPTER VII. AN ENEMY IN THE CAMP. The three tired boys went to sleep easily enough, and the snoring inside their hut gave fair promise of a late waking the next day. But before long Jack became restless in his sleep, and began to toss about a good deal. Charley seemed to catch his restlessness, and presently he sat up in the bunk and began to slap himself. This thoroughly aroused him, and as Jack and Ned were tossing about uneasily he had no scruple in speaking to them. "I say, fellows, we're attacked." "What's the matter?" muttered Ned, at the same time beginning to rub himself vigorously, first on one part of the body, then on another. "Mosquitoes," said Jack, violently rubbing his scalp. "Worse than mosquitoes," said Charley; "they feel more like yellow jackets or hornets, I should say; and they're inside our clothes too." "Whew!" exclaimed Ned, leaping out of the bunk, "I didn't think of that." "What is it?" asked both the other boys in a breath. "A swarm of sand-flies." "Sand-flies! what are they?" asked Jack. "Wait, and I'll show you," replied Ned, going out and stirring up the fire so as to make a light. Meantime the boys rubbed and writhed and turned themselves about in something like agony, for, though they suffered no severe pain at any one spot, their whole bodies seemed to be covered with red pepper. Every inch of their skins was inflamed, and the more they rubbed the worse the irritation became. When Ned had made a bright light, he showed his companions what their tormentors were. Jack and Charley saw some very minute flying insects--true flies indeed--not much larger than the points of pins. There were millions of the creatures. The whole air seemed full of them indeed, and wherever one rested for a moment upon the skin of its victim, there was at once a pricking sensation, followed by the intolerable burning and irritation already mentioned. Charley was at first incredulous. "You don't mean to tell me," he said, "that those little gnats have done all this." "Yes, I do," answered Ned, "and more than that, I have known them to kill a horse, tormenting him to death in a few hours. They'll get under a horse's hair by millions and literally cover him, until you can see the hair move with them. But they are not gnats." "But, see here, Ned," said Jack; "when I barely touch one of the creatures, it not only kills him but distributes him pretty evenly over the surrounding surface. They haven't strength enough to hang together." "Yes, I know," replied Ned; "what of that?" "Why, how can such things bite so? and especially how can they force their way through our blankets and clothes? I should think they'd tear themselves to pieces in the attempt." "So should I, if I didn't know better; but as a matter of fact they do manage to get through without dulling their teeth, as we have proof." "Have the creatures teeth?" asked Charley. "No, of course not; but they have a sort of rasping apparatus which is just as bad. They have an acrid kind of saliva too, which they put into the wounds they make, and that is what smarts so. But come, this won't do. We must make a good smudge." "What's a smudge?" asked Jack. "I'll show you presently," answered Ned, while he began to build a small fire immediately in front of the tent. When it had burned a little, he smothered it with damp leaves and moss, so that it gave off a dense cloud of smoke which quickly filled the hut. "Now the tent will soon be clear of them," said Ned. "Sand-flies object to smoke, I suppose," said Jack. "Very much indeed," answered Ned, "and it is customary here on the coast to have a pair of smudge boxes in front of every house." "I don't blame them for objecting," grumbled Charley, coughing and wiping his smoke-inflamed eyes; "I can't say that I find smoke the most delightful atmosphere myself. But what is a 'smudge box,' Ned?" "Simply a shallow box of earth set upon a post, to build a smudge upon." "I say, Ned," asked Jack, "what do you mean by saying that sand-flies aren't gnats?" "Simply that they aren't," said Ned. "What are they, then?" "Flies." "Well, what is a small fly but a gnat?" "And what is a gnat but a small fly?" added Charley. "The two are not at all the same thing," answered Ned. "That is a popular mistake. I have heard people say they could stand mosquitoes, but couldn't endure gnats; and yet the mosquito is a gnat, and what these people call gnats are not gnats at all, but simply small flies." "What constitutes the exact difference?" "The shape of the body. All flies are two-winged insects, and gnats are flies in that sense, of course; but gnats are those flies that have long bodies behind their wings, to balance themselves with. Mosquitoes are our best example of them. These sand flies, you see, have very short bodies." "Yes, but very long bills, I fancy," said Charley. "Well," said Jack, "all that is news to me." "I suppose it is. Most people think a whale is a fish, too, but for all that it is nothing of the kind. What are you doing, Charley?" "Tossing up heads or tails for it," answered Charley, who had left the tent and gone to the large fire. "Tossing up for what?" "To determine the method and manner of my death," answered Charley, with profound gravity. "If I stay in the hut I shall die of suffocation in the smoke, and if I stay out here the sand flies will kill me. I can't quite make up my mind which death I prefer, so I'm tossing up for it." "Good! there's a breeze," said Ned; "if it rises it'll relieve you of the necessity of choosing." "How? By blowing the smoke away, and so giving the sand flies a fair field?" "No; by blowing the sand flies away; they can't stand much of a breeze. It is coming up, too, and we shall get some sleep after all." The breeze did indeed rise after a time, but the dawn was almost upon them before the boys really slept again, so severely were their skins irritated by their small enemies. They had learned a lesson, however, and during the rest of their stay on the island they never neglected to make a smudge in front of the hut before attempting to sleep. It was not often that the sand flies appeared in such numbers as on this night, and hence it was not often necessary to fill the tent too full of smoke for comfort. CHAPTER VIII. THE BEGINNING AND END OF A VOYAGE. The first care of the boys the next morning was to dig their well. This was a comparatively trifling task, as they had only to dig four or five feet through soft alluvial soil and sand. Instead of making perpendicular sides to their well, they dug it out in the shape of a bowl, so that they could walk down to the water and dip it up as they needed it. Having a hut to live in and a well from which to get fresh water, they were now free to begin the sport for which they had come to the island. They went fishing first, of course, that being the obvious thing to do, but after a few hours of this the tide became too full, and the fish ceased to bite satisfactorily. "Let's crusoe a little," said Jack, winding up his line. "In what particular way?" asked Ned. "Why, let's sail around our domain and see how the island looks on its other sides. Perhaps we may discover the savages, or find some game." "A good idea; but we must go back to camp first, to leave our fish and get the gun and the sail; and while we're there we'd better get some dinner." So said, so done. Dinner was very hastily dispatched, as the boys were anxious to get off, in order that the circuit of the island might be completed before night. "It looks like rain," said Ned, as he shook out the sail, "but we don't mind a wetting." There was a good breeze, and the boat bounded away, rocking a good deal, for the wind had been blowing all day, and there was more sea on than was usual in those quiet waters. Ned let the centre-board down, which steadied the boat somewhat, and enabled her to carry her sail without danger. The plan was to coast along about half a mile off shore in order that the island might be seen to good advantage; but as the eastern shore was reached the sea became heavier, and the roar of the surf on shore warned Ned of broad sands upon that side. "I've got to make more offing here," he said. "What do you mean by that? turn it into English," said Charley Black, who persistently refused to understand any thing that sounded like a nautical term. "Well, I mean I've got to sail farther away from the shore." "'Cause why?" asked Jack. "Because of two things," replied Ned. "In the first place the sea comes in between those two islands over there, and has a fair sweep at about half a mile of our island's coast, and so for the next half mile we shall have some pretty rough water, and I prefer to be well off shore." "I should think you'd prefer to be close inshore if there's danger. Then if any thing happens we can land." "That's all you know about it," said Ned. "I don't think there's the least danger, so long as we keep off shore, because this boat, with her centre-board down, is seaworthy; but as she isn't beach-worthy--and no vessel is that--I don't want to get her upon a beach. That brings me to my second reason. I want to take a good offing, because by the way the surf roars here, and by the look of it, I judge that there's a long sandy beach running out from this part of the island, and I don't want to risk getting into too shallow water." "But why couldn't we land if there were danger?" asked Jack Farnsworth. "If I had the helm that would be the first thing I'd try to do." "So should I if I had a harbor to run into," replied Ned. "But don't you see that if we ran upon a sandy beach when there was a sea on, we should soon come to a place where there wouldn't be water enough except as a wave came in? Then the boat would be lifted up by every wave, and suddenly dropped upon the hard sand, and I can tell you she wouldn't stand much of that. Did you never notice that nearly all shipwrecks occur along shore?" "Yes, that's true," replied Jack. "Ships that come to grief nearly always run on breakers or something; but I never thought of it before." By this time Ned had secured at least a mile of offing but the sea grew every moment heavier. The wind had risen to half a gale, and in spite of the close reefing of the sail the boat lay far over and Ned directed his companions to "trim ship" by sitting upon the gunwale. Jack Farnsworth soon discovered that Ned was becoming anxious. He quietly said: "You suspect danger, Ned?" "Oh, no," replied Ned, "at least I think not." "Yes you do. I see it in your face. Now I want to say at once that whatever the danger is, we can only increase it by losing our wits. The important thing is for you to keep perfectly cool, because you know more than we do about sailing. Then you can tell us what to do, if there's any thing." "Thank you," said Ned; "the fact is this: I think by the look of the horizon out there at sea, that we are likely to have a squall--that is, a sudden and very violent blow, added to the steadier wind that blows now. If we can run across this open space before it comes, we'll be all right under the lee of that island over there, and if no squall comes we're safe enough even here, because the boat is seaworthy. But a knock-over squall might capsize us. It's coming, too--let go the sheet--cut it--any thing!" As he said, or rather shouted this, Ned tried to head the boat to the wind, while Jack and Charley let go the sheet, and thus set the sail free. If the squall had struck the boat with the sheet fastened and the sail thus held in position, the _Red Bird_ would have capsized instantly; but with the sail swinging freely, less resistance was offered, and Ned expected in this way to avoid a catastrophe. He headed the boat to the wind, which was the best thing to do. The squall struck just as the sail swung free, but before the _Red Bird_ could be brought completely around. It seemed to the boys that the boat had been struck violently by a solid ball of some kind, so sharply did the squall come upon it. Having her head almost to the wind, she reared like a horse, swung around, and very nearly rolled over, but she did not quite capsize. The mast, however, snapped short off, and the sail fell over into the water, being held fast to the boat only by the guys. "Cut the guys, Jack," cried Ned, "or that sail will swamp us! There! now all sit down in the bottom of the boat; no, no, Charley, not on the thwart, but on the bottom!" Ned had to shriek these orders to be heard above the roar of the squall, which had not yet subsided. He knew that the immediate danger now was that the boat might turn over, and to prevent this, he ordered his companions to sit upon the bottom, as he himself did, in order that their weight might be where it would best serve as ballast. This brought the three very nearly together, so that they could speak to each other without shouting quite at the top of their voices. "Well, Ned?" said Charley Black. "Well," replied Ned, "we shan't capsize now. That danger is over; but there's another before us that is just as bad." "What is it?" asked Charley. "And what shall we do toward meeting it?" asked Jack, whose superb calmness and manly resolution to look things in the face and to make fight against danger won Ned's heart. "We're being driven at railroad speed upon the beach," answered Ned, "and we'll strike pretty soon. We've already lost the oars, and we couldn't use them if we had them in this sea; so we have nothing to do but wait. When we strike, the boat will be mashed into kindling wood. Every thing depends then upon where we strike. If it is far from shore the big waves will beat us to a jelly on the sand. Our only chance will be, as soon as the boat strikes, to catch the next wave, swimming with it toward shore, taking care, when it recedes, to light on our feet, and then run with all our might up the sand. If we can get inside the break of the surf before the next wave catches us we're safe; but that's the only chance. Every thing depends now on where we strike." "Boots off," cried Jack; "we may have to swim." Ned and Charley accepted the suggestion. All now anxiously scanned the shore, which seemed to be coming toward them at a tremendous speed. Suddenly Ned cried out: "There's a reef just ahead; when we strike try to cross it into the stiller water." At that moment it seemed as if the sandy reef had suddenly shot up from below, striking the bottom of the boat as a trip-hammer might, and shivering it into fragments. What had really happened was this: the boat, driving forward on the crest of a wave, had been carried to a point immediately over the sand ridge or reef, and there suddenly dropped by the receding of the wave. It had struck the sandy bottom with sufficient violence to crush its sides and bottom into a shapeless mass. The boys were wellnigh stunned by the blow, but rallying quickly they ran forward in water only a few inches deep, and before the next incoming wave struck, they had crossed the narrow sand reef, and plunged into the deep, but comparatively still water that lay inside. The surf was broken, of course, upon the reef, and although the waves passed completely over it, their force was expended upon it, so that inside the barrier the boys found the water disturbed by nothing more than a swell. The distance to the shore was small, and they soon swam it, pulling themselves out on the sand, drenched, bare-headed, bootless, and weary beyond expression, not so much from exertion as from the strain through which their brains and nerves had passed. CHAPTER IX. THE SITUATION. The first thing to be done was to rest. Utterly exhausted, the lads dragged themselves a few feet from the water and threw themselves down upon the sand, thinking of nothing and caring for nothing except to lie still. The squall had passed away as quickly as it had come, and although a stiff breeze was still blowing the afternoon sun beating down upon them warmed as well as dried them rapidly. Jack Farnsworth was the first to recover his wits. "I say, fellows, this won't do," he said, raising himself to a sitting posture. "The day is waning and we've got to get back to our camp before night." Ned and Charley tried to rise. Ned accomplished the feat, but poor Charley found it impossible. "Why, boys," he said, sinking back upon the sand, "I'm all of a tremble; I don't know what's the matter." "Reaction," said Ned. "What's that?" "Why, under all that excitement you kept your strength up by a tremendous effort, and now you're paying the bill you owe your nerves." "But I'm sure I didn't tremble when we were in danger." "No, because you wouldn't give way then. Your will was master. It ordered your nerves to furnish strength enough to keep still, and commanded your muscles to do what was necessary to get you safe ashore. They obeyed, and now your will is in their debt. It took more than was due, and your nerves and muscles have presented their bill. They are bullying your will in return for the bullying it gave them a little while ago. That's the way my father explained it to me once when I trembled after a big scare. Only lie still awhile and you'll come round. I was as weak as water five minutes ago, but I'm getting my strength back again now." "'As weak as water,'" said Jack Farnsworth meditatively. "I used to think that a good comparison, but I've altered my opinion. Water is the strongest thing I know." "How is that?" asked Ned. "Why, think how it picked the _Red Bird_ up and flung her down on the sand like an angry giant--but with ten thousand times a giant's strength! And it picks great ships up in the same way and dashes them to pieces as I might do with an egg-shell or a China cup. Water is a giant, a demon of angry strength. I shall never think of it again as a thing of weakness. It means infinite power to me now." "Poor old _Red Bird_!" said Ned; "there are her bones!" There indeed lay what was left of the boat, where it had been drifted upon the sands by the swell. The tide, which had now begun to run out, had left the wreck "high and dry," and instinctively the boys went to look at it, Charley managing now to stagger forward slowly. The wreck was a mass of timbers, ribs, and planking, looking like a boat that has been crushed flat under some enormous weight. "What kept her from going all to bits?" asked Charley. "Her copper bolts," answered Ned. "You see, she was particularly well built. There wasn't a nail in her. From stem to stern all the fastenings were of copper, and copper is so tough that no ordinary wrenching will break it. It bends instead. But if we had simply run upon a beach in that sea, even copper bolts wouldn't have held the pieces together. Every wave would have lifted the wreck up and dashed it down on the sand until the planks and ribs were beaten into bits. As it is, the _Red Bird_ struck only once. The next wave that came lifted her up and carried her clear across the reef into deep water before it dropped her, and so she received only that one blow. Once inside the reef, she drifted with the swell toward shore. She is an utter wreck though, and will never sail again." There was a melancholy tone in the boy's voice as he said this, for he had sailed in this boat many and many a time, and had come to love her as if she had been a live thing. "I'll tell you what, boys," said Jack; "we've got to start toward camp. It won't do to be caught out to-night without supper or fire. Weary and soaked as we are, we shall be sick if we don't get something to eat and a fire to sleep by. Let's get a vine and tie the wreck here so that it can't drift away with the next tide, and then be off at once. It's nearly sunset." When the "bones" of the boat were well secured, the boys set out; Charley having recovered his strength somewhat, they walked at a good pace along the shore, and reached camp just at dark. Building a large fire they soon had a hearty supper, with plenty of hot coffee, and when supper was done, they gladly put themselves to bed, aching a good deal from exhaustion, but really unharmed by their adventure. Jack was the first to wake the next morning, but he did not get up immediately. He lay still, evidently thinking. After a while he arose quietly and, before dressing himself, made an examination of the stores of food on hand. Finally he roused his companions, and the three took a dip into the water. "Now," said Jack, when all were seated at breakfast, "I want you boys to help me think a little, and you, Ned, to answer some questions." "All right," said Ned, "I'm thinking already." "What are you thinking?" asked Charley. "That these fish aren't as fresh as they might be; so I'm going fishing before dinner." "What in?" asked Jack. "That's a fact," said Ned and Charley in a breath. "We haven't a boat now." "No," said Jack. "We have no boat, and that's what I want to think about. How far is it to Bluffton, Ned?" "About twelve miles." "Is that the nearest point on the mainland?" "Yes." "Then we've got to stay here till we can build a boat with such tools and materials as we have, if we can do it at all," said Jack. "We can't do it," said Ned, with a look of consternation on his face; "we lack nearly every thing. We haven't even the plank!" "Now don't let's become demoralized," said Jack, who, ever since the accident of the day before, had been the leading spirit of the party. "We must keep our wits about us and lay our plans intelligently. But first of all we must look the facts in the face. We are on a deserted island twelve miles from the mainland, without a boat. We must stay here until we can make arrangements of some kind for getting away, and that will be a good deal longer than we thought of staying when we came, for I don't suppose you meant it, Ned, when you told Maum Sally that we'd be gone a month." "No, I hadn't a thought of staying more than a few days, or a week at most. We didn't bring enough provisions to last for more than a week." "That is what I was coming to," said Jack. "I've been looking over our stores this morning. We've got to face the fact that we haven't nearly enough, and we must use what we have judiciously, taking great care to add other things as we can. Unluckily we lost our best friend when the gun went down in the wreck of the _Red Bird_. We can't hunt, but must depend upon other sources of supply. I suppose, Ned, there's very little to be done fishing from the shore?" "Nothing at all, I imagine," replied Ned; "but I may possibly catch a few mullets with the cast net. You see mullets run up into little bays to feed, and we sometimes go after them with the net, especially at night. Then I can catch shrimps and some few crabs, and I suppose we shall find an oyster bank somewhere." "Yes," said Jack, "I suppose we can manage somehow to get enough food; the trouble will be to get variety enough. Shrimps and crabs and oysters and fish are good food, but one doesn't want to make them an exclusive diet. For health we must have variety." "That is true," said Ned, "and our greatest trouble will be about bread. We haven't flour or rice or sweet potatoes enough to last more than a few days." "No," said Jack, "and we have nothing to substitute for them. We must have everything of the vegetable kind that we can get. Now what is there? I don't know, and can't think of a thing." "There are several things," said Ned, "such as they are." "Well, we'll hunt for them. What are they?" asked Jack. "There may possibly be wild sweet potatoes somewhere on the island, though that is doubtful. The soft parts of most roots are edible; there are plenty of wild grapes in the woods, I suppose, and for a good substantial vegetable, we can eat an occasional dish of algæ." "What's that?" "'What are they,' you should say; noun of the first declension,--alga, algæ, algæ, algam, etc.,--so algæ is the nominative plural." "Oh, stop the declension--we have enough of that at school--and tell us what algæ are," said Charley. "Sea-weeds. There are a great variety of them, and many kinds are eaten in different parts of the world. They are all harmless and more or less nutritious. We can try the different sorts that come ashore here and use the best that we can get." "Shall we boil them?" asked Jack. "I don't know. We'll try that and see, at any rate." "All right. Now we must manage each day to get as much food, of one kind and another, as we eat; it won't do to run short and trust to the future. We must save our flour and bacon for special occasions and as a reserve to fall back upon if at any time the supplies of other food fail us. We must keep our coffee, too, for use in case of sickness, or a bad drenching in a cold rain. There may be times when we shall need it badly, and so we must do without it now. I think we shall get on pretty well for several weeks, and by that time I hope we shall be ready to leave the island." "How?" "Well, I've a plan, but I'm not sure about it yet. I thought of it yesterday, just after we came ashore. You two see what you can do toward getting some food, while I go off to inspect and lay my plans. When I come back I'll tell you about them." When Jack departed without telling his companions what he meant to do, Ned and Charley went up the shore with the cast net, and managed, within an hour or two, to secure a good supply of shrimps, one or two mullets, and a few oysters, though they discovered no oyster bed, as they had expected to do. They hoped to accomplish this by a longer journey along the shore, to be made on some other day. Having enough fish and shrimps for immediate use, they wished now to see what could be done toward securing a supply of vegetable food. They discovered no palmetto trees, but gave their attention to the wild grapes, of which there were a good many in the woods. It was well past mid-day when Ned and Charley, loaded with their spoils of sea and land, returned to the camp. There they found Jack, sitting on a log meditating. "Boys," he said, "the important thing is not to let any thing discourage us. We must keep a stiff upper lip, no matter what happens." "Yes, certainly," said Charley, "but what's the special occasion of this lecture?" "You are sure that no matter what happens, you'll not give up, or grow scared, or get excited in any way?" asked Jack. "Well, I must say--" began Charley. "Hush, Charley," said Ned; "something's wrong. Let's hear what Jack has to say." "What is it, Jack? Tell us quick." "Well, only that we're out of food." "What do you mean?" "Why, that some animal or other has robbed us while we were all away from camp! Every thing's gone, even to the box of salt and the coffee. We haven't a thing to eat except what you've brought with you." CHAPTER X. PLANS AND DEVICES. To say that the boys were shocked and distressed by their new mishap, is very feebly to express their state of mind. There was consternation in the camp, from which Jack alone partially escaped. Jack had an uncommonly cool head. In ordinary circumstances there was nothing whatever to distinguish him from other boys. He rushed into difficulties as recklessly as anybody--as he did on the first day when he tried to use the cast net,--and joined in all sports and boyish enterprises with as little thought as boys usually show. But in real difficulty Jack Farnsworth was seen in a new light. He was calm, thoughtful, resolute, and full of resource. Ned had his first hint of this during that last voyage of the _Red Bird_, and as their difficulties multiplied both Ned and Charley learned to look upon Jack as their leader. They turned to him now precisely as if he had been much older than themselves, and asked: "What on earth are we to do, Jack?" "First of all," Jack replied, "we are to keep perfectly cool. Excitement will not only keep us from doing the best that we can, but it will weaken us and unfit us for work, even if it doesn't bring on actual sickness, which it may do. Care killed a cat, you know. We positively must not get excited. After all, what occasion for uneasiness is there? We are pretty genuine Crusoes now, but we can stand that. We are literally wrecked upon a deserted island. We have lost our boat and our boots, our hats, our gun and our supply of provisions, and so we are not quite so well situated as Robinson Crusoe was; but on the other hand we're not going to stay here year after year as he did, and besides there are three of us to keep each other company." "Well, company's good, of course," said Charley Black, "but I'm not so sure on the other points." "How do you mean?" asked Ned. "I'm not so sure about our getting away sooner than Crusoe did. I don't see how we're to get away at all for that matter, but may be somebody will rescue us after twenty-eight years or so." "Well, if they do," said Ned, "won't it be jolly fun to go back to school then, with long whiskers, and make old Bingham take us through the rest of Cæsar!" Ned was naturally buoyant in spirits, and the spice of difficulty and danger in their situation had now begun to stimulate his gayety instead of depressing him. He was of too hopeful a nature to believe that their enforced stay upon the island was likely to be very greatly prolonged, although, if put to the proof, he had no more notion than Charley Black had, of a possible means of escape. "Yes," answered Jack Farnsworth, "and after that length of time we'll have a lot of things to learn besides Latin. We'll have to study geography all over again to find out how many States there are in the Union, and whether France has swallowed Germany, or Russia has conquered England and moved her capital to London. Then, again, Ned, your science will be out of date, and you won't dare to mention oxygen even, for fear that somebody has found long ago that there isn't any such thing as oxygen. We'll be regular Rip Van Winkles. Who knows? Perhaps we shall find the United States turned into an empire, and steam-engines forgotten, and electricity, or something that we've never heard of, doing the world's work. On the whole, I think if we stay here twenty-eight years, it will be better not to leave the island at all." The banter between Ned and Jack was kept up in this way for some time, Ned talking for fun merely, while Jack talked for the purpose of overcoming poor Charley's evident depression of spirits. Finally Jack said: "But we're not going to be Rip Van Winkles or even Crusoes very long. We'll have our lark out and then go back home in time for school--say about three weeks or a month hence, keeping Ned's appointment with Maum Sally." "But how on earth are we to get back?" asked Charley. "In a boat, to be sure; we can't walk twelve miles on the water," answered Jack, "particularly now that we're barefooted. We'd get our feet wet, without a doubt." "Where are we to get a boat?" "Well, that is what I've been thinking about," said Jack, "and I think I've worked the problem out." "All right, what's the answer?" asked Ned. "Why, that we must rebuild the _Red Bird_." "How can we? She is mashed into kindling wood," said Charley. "No, not quite," answered Jack. "She is badly mashed, certainly, but it's simply mashing. I have been to look at her. She lies there as flat as if a steam-ship had sat down upon her, but I have carefully examined every stick of her timber, and while the _Red Bird_ is no more a boat than a lumber pile is a house, still she is a pretty good pile of lumber. Comparatively few of her planks are badly split or broken, while her ribs seem to be broken only in one or two places each. After examining her very carefully I am satisfied that her timbers will furnish us enough material for a new boat. We must build a smaller boat out of her bones--particularly a shorter boat. She was twenty-four feet long, and by shortening her in the middle--that is, by leaving out the middle ribs--we shall have enough planking to make a new boat. Patching up the ribs will be the most difficult job, but I think we can manage it. Most of the planks are broken in two, but we can join the ends on ribs, and, if we are patient, we can make a pretty good boat. Patience is the one thing needful, especially for inexperienced workmen with a scanty supply of tools. We must make good joints if we have to work a week over the joining of two boards." "What are we to do for nails?" asked Ned; "we haven't more than a pound or two here." "We haven't a single nail," said Jack; "the wild animal, whatever it was, that robbed us, seems to have had a very miscellaneous appetite. It not only took our flour and bacon, our salt and our coffee and sugar; it seems to have had an appetite for nails and blankets too. At any rate, it stole them all, but luckily it didn't find the tools, because you had the hatchet with you, and I had the axe." "The mischief!" exclaimed Ned. "Yes, it's mischief enough for that matter, but it might have been worse. I suppose some rascals landed here while we were away and robbed us. Of course it couldn't have been an animal, although that was my first thought when I found the provisions gone. Whoever it was he isn't likely to come again, but we must watch our camp now, and particularly we must take care of our tools." "But you haven't answered my question about nails," said Ned. "We must make them of the _Red Bird's_ copper bolts," answered Jack; "and if we run short we can use wooden pins; but I think there is an abundance of the copper. Luckily the anchor came ashore entangled in the wreck, and that will serve us for an anvil. We can hammer the bolts into nails, using the hatchet for a hammer. It will be slow work, because while the hatchet is in use making nails we can't use it in building the boat." "I'll tell you what," said Charley, whose spirits began now to revive; "we'll work hard of nights making nails, and have them ready for the next day." "Yes, and we shan't want any nails for a day or two, while we're making preparations to begin, and so we can get a good supply in advance." "That's so," said Ned; "but do you know we're wasting precious time? It is nearly sundown, and we have a lot to do before we go to bed. We haven't thought of dinner yet, and we can't now till after our work is done. We must bring the wreck around here to-night. The fellow that robbed our camp was probably some negro squatter from some of the islands around us, and if he got sight of the wreck on his way back, he is sure to come over and carry away all that is valuable of the _Red Bird's_ bones to-night. We must get ahead of him, and bring the wreck around to the camp the first thing we do." This suggestion commended itself to Ned's companions, and the boys set off at once, taking the axe and hatchet with them. When they arrived at the wreck the tide was very nearly full, so that there was not much difficulty in getting the remains of the _Red Bird_ afloat. It was a mere raft of plank and timbers, of course, which must be dragged through the water along the shore by means of the anchor rope and some wild vines cut in the woods. For a time the still incoming tide was in their favor, and they travelled the first half mile pretty rapidly. When the tide turned, however, the labor became very severe, and it was ten o'clock at night when the wreck of the _Red Bird_ was safely landed at the camp. The boys were exhausted with work, and very hungry. Ned stirred up the fire and put on a kettle of salt water, into which, as soon as it boiled, he poured a quart or two of shrimps. "We'll make a shrimp dinner to-night," he said, "and that will leave us the mullets and wild grapes for breakfast." "All right," answered Jack; "I'm hungry enough not to care for variety to-night; speed is the word just now." Dinner over, the boys had still to collect a large mass of the long gray moss to serve instead of the stolen blankets, so that it was quite midnight when they finally got to sleep. CHAPTER XI. SOME OF NED'S SCIENCE. "How shall we cook our fish, Ned?" asked Charley, the next morning. He had already thrown wood upon the embers when Ned and Jack came out of the hut. "We must roast them," said Ned, "now that we have no bacon to fry them with. We can broil sometimes and roast sometimes, for variety. Without butter broiled fish are rather dry. I'll be cook this morning, and show you how to roast small fish." With that he went to the beach and walked along the water's edge till he found a bunch of clean, wet sea-weed. Returning to the fire, he carefully wrapped the mullets in this, and placed them in the hot ashes, covering them with live coals to a depth of several inches. Half an hour later he took them carefully out of their wrappings, and placed them on the log that did duty for a table. The fish were beautifully done, and looked as tempting as possible, but, upon tasting them, a look of consternation came over Jack's countenance. "I never thought of that," said Jack, "but we are out of salt! What shall we do? We can't live altogether on shrimps and oysters; and fish without salt is a difficult dish to eat." "We must make some salt," said Ned. "Out of the sea-water?" asked Charley. "Yes. It is slow work, and without clarifying materials we'll get a rather black product, but it will be salt for all that." "What will make it black?" asked Jack. "Impurities. The sea-water is filled with various things--common salt, mostly, of course, but there are Glauber's salts, Epsom salts, magnesia, and many other things, including salts of silver and iron. In making salt out of sea-water, these impurities must be got rid of, or the salt will be of a dirty brownish color. We can't clarify it, but we can use it very well for all our purposes. We'll have to put up with a poor breakfast, but we'll do better by night. I'll start our salt-works immediately after breakfast, and then I'll leave Charley in charge of the business, because I have an idea of my own that I want to carry out. We must devote ourselves to-day exclusively to the business of getting food, I suppose." "Yes, that is the first thing to be done. We are at the starvation point and must get something to eat before we begin on the boat. What is the plan that you speak of?" "I shan't tell you, because it may come to nothing, though I'm hopeful." "All right, I hope it will turn out well. Meantime, I'll take the cast net and get some shrimps and possibly some fish, and then if I had any thing to bait with, I would set some rabbit traps or something of that sort. But I haven't, and so I can't. Charley can carry on the salt-works while you do whatever it is you mean to do." The salt-works consisted of nothing more than the kettle. Filling this with clear sea-water, Ned set it to boil, saying: "Now, Charley, as it boils down add more water, and toward night we can stop adding water and let the salt settle. It will begin to settle before that time, and when it does you can dip the wet salt up from the bottom and spread it out on a plank to dry." "All right. I'll make a dipper out of a tin cup by fastening a stick to it for a handle. But what makes the salt settle?" "Why, don't you see? You can only dissolve a certain amount of salt in a certain amount of water; if you put more in it sinks to the bottom, being heavier than water, and stays there. When a liquid has as much of any thing dissolved in it as it can hold, it is said to be saturated; we call it a saturated solution. Now when you boil sea-water it evaporates, and the quantity of water steadily decreases. After awhile so much of the water is evaporated that we have a saturated solution, and then if you evaporate half a pint more of it the salt that a half pint of water can hold in solution must settle to the bottom. It is a curious fact that water which is saturated with one substance, so that it can not hold any more of it, is still capable of dissolving other substances and holding them in solution. Sometimes, in making salt, men take advantage of that fact." "How?" asked Jack, who had become interested in Ned's explanation. "Why, by washing out the impurities of the salt with salt water. Having a quantity of impure salt they put it into a funnel-shaped vessel with a small hole in the bottom; then they take clear water and pure salt and make a saturated solution of that; this water cannot dissolve any more salt, but it is still capable of dissolving the other substances which constitute impurities; so it is poured into the vessel that contains the impure salt, and as it passes through it dissolves and carries off the impurities, but doesn't dissolve any of the salt." "Why can't we purify our salt in that way?" asked Charley. "Because we have no pure salt with which to make the solution." "That's so, but I didn't think of it. I wish I knew as much as you do about such things." "I don't know much," answered Ned. "I have always been curious to know facts of the sort, and my father has encouraged me to find them out. I ask questions and read what books I can on such subjects; but I learn most by looking and thinking for myself. Still I know very little about scientific matters; really I do. But we're wasting time; I must be off and so must you, Jack. Keep the salt kettle boiling, Charley, and don't forget to add water to it from time to time. When you pour cold water in you can skim the scum off, and in that way you'll get rid of a good deal of impurity." With that the boys separated. Jack went down along the shore, with the cast-net in his hand; while Ned struck off into the woods with the coffee-pot, which, now that the boys had no coffee, was no longer in use at camp. Jack returned about noon, bringing back a fine lot of shrimps, half a dozen fish, a few crabs, and some oysters, together with the news that he had discovered a large oyster bank which could be reached by wading at low tide. Charley greeted him with a smiling face on which there was a look of triumph. "Look here, Jack," he said, going to a plank upon which there were two or three little white heaps; "Ned is out in his science this time; I've got beautifully white salt as you see, and not the dark, impure stuff he said I would get; but that isn't all; instead of settling to the bottom of the kettle, it rises to the top to be skimmed off." "Yes, I could have told you that," said Ned, who had arrived unobserved. "It's a way that it has. Taste your salt, Charley." Charley did so, looked puzzled, and then turned to Ned. "What is it, old fellow?" he asked. "Why, beautifully white salt to be sure," answered Ned; "isn't that what you said it was?" "Yes, I said that," answered Charley, "but now I know better. It is tasteless." "Magnesia usually is," said Ned. "Is that magnesia?" "Yes, in the main. It is mixed a little with other things perhaps, but it is mostly magnesia. That is why I told you to skim it off. We don't want it in the salt." "But I haven't any salt," said Charley, "I've filled the kettle up every fifteen minutes but no salt has settled yet." "Your solution isn't saturated yet," said Ned. "This water contains only about two per cent of salt, or possibly in its impure state three per cent. To make one kettleful of salt we must boil away from thirty to fifty kettlefuls of water. The kettle holds two gallons, and so, in order to get a pint of salt we must boil away two or three kettlefuls of water. You have filled it up enough for to-day; now keep it boiling and we'll get a pint or two of salt, before night, and meantime we can pour a little of the boiled-down water on our fish for dinner, for I'm hungry." "By the way, Ned," said Jack, "what luck have you had?" "Good. I've brought back a coffee-pot half full, and have made arrangements for more to-morrow." "Well, I like puzzles and riddles and things of that sort," said Jack, "but I hate to wait for 'our next month's number' for the answer. What is it you've got in the coffee-pot?" "Bread," answered Ned, "or a substitute for it. I've been gathering the seeds of grasses and weeds." "Seeds of grasses!" exclaimed Charley; "why, who ever heard of anybody eating grass seeds?" "You've turned sceptic, Charley, since your faith in your beautiful white salt received such a shock," said Ned; "but still I think some grass seeds are occasionally eaten by men,--wheat, for example, and rice and corn." "That's so," said Charley, abashed; "only I never thought of wheat and rice, etc., as grasses. But are wild grass seeds good to eat?" "Yes, of course. All ordinary grass seeds are composed of substantially the same materials, and they are all nutritious. I have gathered about a quart, meaning to mash them up and make a sort of bread out of them; but there isn't time for that now, so I mean to boil them for dinner. The important thing is to have some kind of grain food to eat, and in that way we'll get it somewhat as if we had rice." "That's a capital idea, Ned," said Jack. "Is there plenty of seed to be had?" "Yes, now that I know where it is, though it is very slow work gathering such seed. I have only to gather it and winnow it. I can winnow a little faster next time, because I shall take something along to winnow upon, if it is only a clean handkerchief. I've thought of something else too." "What is that?" asked Charley. "Acorns and other nuts. They are rather green yet, but they are nutritious, and we can beat them into a palatable bread. Hogs grow fat on them, and there is no reason why they should not prove nutritious to us. I'm going to find some edible roots, too, if I can." "What a splendid provider you are, Ned," said Charley, "particularly as we have the oysters, shrimps, etc., for a foundation to build upon." "Well," replied Ned, "do you know I have been thinking that we should not starve even if we hadn't the water for a source of supply?" "How is that?" "In casting about for a variety of things to eat, I have naturally tried to think of every thing that could support life, and have been surprised to find how many things there are that can be eaten in extreme cases. If we were in real danger of starving we could eat snails and earthworms for meat----" "Ugh!" exclaimed Charley. "Well, snails and earthworms are both regarded as delicacies by many people in France. They actually have snail farms, where the creatures are fattened for market." "As a business?" "Yes, as a business. There is a demand for snails at high prices, because people who can pay well for them are fond of them. Then we could kill a few snakes and lizards here, I suppose. In fact, I killed a snake this afternoon, and if I hadn't been afraid of disgusting you fellows, I should have brought it home as a valuable contribution to our larder, for snakes are uncommonly good eating." "Did you ever eat one?" asked Jack. "Yes; or at least a part of one. There is no reason why snakes should not be eaten, except a groundless prejudice. Their flesh is both good and wholesome." "Hurrah for our scientist!" said Jack. "I begin to see now, that our supplies are a good deal greater than I supposed. For my part, I mean to have a snake breakfast some of these mornings just for variety's sake. Why, we shall begin to live like princes presently." "Will you really lay aside prejudice, Jack, and eat a well-cooked snake?" asked Ned. "Certainly I will," said Jack. "And you, Charley?" "I see no objection, now that I think of it," said Charley. "Very well; then I'll go for my snake. It isn't a hundred yards away, and it will furnish us meat, which is much more strengthening than an exclusive diet of fish and such things can be." The snake--a large one--was brought to camp, skinned, dressed, and broiled to a crisp brown on a bed of coals. When done it was appetizing both in appearance and in odor, and the boys, who, naturally, were very hungry after their scanty breakfast and diligent work, ate it with keen relish, eating with it some boiled grass seeds. The only complaint made concerning the grass seeds was that there was not half enough of them. The salt kettle had been filled more frequently than Ned had supposed, and the yield for the day was more nearly a quart than a pint. "Now we are beginning to know how to live," said Jack. "We have only to get a good start and keep a fair supply of food ahead. But we must lay in a good stock of seeds to-morrow. I'll go with you, Ned, and we'll both work at that, while Charley minds camp and makes salt." "To-morrow will be Sunday," said Charley. "No it won't; this is Friday," said Jack. "Let's see," said Ned. "We got to Bluffton on Monday evening, didn't we? Well, the next day we went fishing; that was Tuesday. The next day we came over here; that was Wednesday. The next day, Thursday, the wreck of the _Red Bird_ occurred. Friday we spent in getting food and bringing the wreck around here to the camp. That was yesterday, and so to-day is Saturday. Lucky that Charley thought of it. We mustn't work to-morrow, and so we must catch a lot of shrimps and fish with the net to-night." The boys worked with the net until nearly midnight, and slept late the next morning. They observed Sunday as a day of rest, and rest was a thing that they greatly needed just at that time. It was agreed that on Monday morning Jack and Ned should go after grass seed, while Charley should mind camp, make salt, and use the net. CHAPTER XII. JACK'S DISCOVERY. The harvest of seeds from which Ned and Jack were to draw their supplies, was found in an abandoned field, half a mile from the camp. Here various wild grasses and weeds grew in rank profusion, and had already ripened in the sun. Some yielded seeds so small and so few in number that it was a waste of time to thresh them; others were richer in larger seeds; while many of the weeds, particularly, gave a profuse supply of seeds almost as large as grains of wheat, but these were mostly worthless. Ned was the recognized "scientist" of the party, and upon him devolved the task and responsibility of determining what kinds of seed to gather and what to leave. He was familiar with the ordinary plants of the country, and knew which of them were poisonous. It remained only to determine whether or not a seed, known to be harmless, was of any value as food, and Ned's method of doing this was very simple. He bit the seed to discover what he could about its flavor and general character in that way; then he split a seed and inspected it. If it seemed to consist principally of starch, gluten, and fruity matter, he accepted that kind of seed; if it appeared dry, hard, and black upon the inside, he deemed it unworthy. Passing the point at which he had gathered seeds on the day before, Ned selected a good spot for a threshing-floor, and said: "Now, Jack, I'll clear a space here and get ready for threshing; we'll get on faster in that way. You go off out there and gather grasses. Pretty soon I'll join you, and when we get a supply, we'll thresh awhile." With this the boys separated. Ned worked diligently at his clearing, and Jack brought in armfuls of grass. After awhile Ned finished his task and began to wonder what had became of Jack, who had been absent for a considerable time. He called, but Jack did not answer. Thinking nothing of the matter he went on with the work of gathering grass. Still Jack did not return, and after an hour had passed Ned became positively uneasy. He again called aloud, and Jack answered, but his voice came from a considerable distance. Continuing his work Ned waited, and after awhile he heard Jack coming through a briar thicket, muttering complaints of some sort with a good deal of vigor. "What's the matter, old fellow?" he asked. "Matter enough," answered Jack, from the depths of the briar patch in which he was completely hidden; "I'm torn to pieces by the briars, and by the time I get to you I shan't have enough skin left on me to serve for patches." "Nonsense!" said Ned; "shield your face with your arm and break right through. Your clothes are thick and stout." "Yes," answered Jack, "so they are; but I haven't got them on." Ned leaped to his feet, for he had been kneeling to arrange the grass for threshing. He remembered how rapidly he and his companions had been reduced in their possessions, until now they were boatless, bootless, hatless, and without regular supplies of food; and so when Jack declared that he had no clothes on, Ned at once imagined that some new calamity had befallen him. "What!" he exclaimed. "No clothes! Why, we'll be naked savages before another week is out." "I didn't say I had no clothes," answered Jack, still picking his way carefully through the briars. "I only said I had no clothes on, or at least none to speak of." "Well, then, you must be out of your head," answered Ned. "Why don't you put them on?" "Because I can't till we get to camp," and with that Jack made a final leap into the open space and stood before his astonished companion. He presented a queer appearance. For clothing he had on only his drawers and a thin undershirt. These were torn and stained with blood from many scratches. Jack's face, too, was a good deal scratched, but there was a triumphant look in his eyes which made Ned forget to look at the briar wounds. Jack's trowsers, tied at bottom and stuffed full of some heavy material, sat astride his neck, looking for all the world like the lower half of a very fat boy. His shirt, also well filled, was carried in one hand, while his coat, made into a bundle and likewise filled, was held in the other. "What in the name of common-sense have you been stuffing your clothes with, Jack?" asked Ned in astonishment. "Grass seed," answered Jack, throwing his burden on the ground. "Not much," said Ned; "why it would take both of us a month to gather and thresh out that quantity." "I thought you scientific people always recognized one fact as worth more than any number of 'must be's'; here I have the facts--a trowsers-full, a shirt-full, and a coat-full,--and yet you argue about what must be and what can't be." "I admit the trowsers and the shirt and the coat, and I see that they are full," said Ned; "I only doubt the character of their contents. I don't believe you could have gathered such a quantity of grass seed within so short a time." "Not of the kind that grows here, but mine are not of that kind." "Let me look at them," said Ned. "Not till we get to camp; I can't open the bags without spilling a lot." "Well, tell me about it then." "Well, I was gathering grasses over there by those tall trees, when I happened to look away toward the south. There I saw, about half a mile away, what looked like a patch of ripe wheat or oats. There were two or three acres of it down in a sort of marsh, so I went over there to see what it was. I found the little marsh covered thickly with a tall grass somewhat like oats, and all had gone to seed. The seeds are about the size of grains of wheat, but rather longer, and each grain, when threshed out, is covered with a brown husk that clings closely to the body of the grain. The seeds themselves are starchy, glutinous, and, if I am not mistaken, excellent food. It was too far to call you, so I made up my mind I would thresh some of the grass and bring away what I could of the result. I filled my shirt, coat, and trowsers, and I should have used my drawers in the same way if I could have carried any more. As it is, I've a big load." "I should say so," answered Ned, "and a mighty good load, too, if I'm not mistaken." "Why, what do you suppose it is?" "Grass seed," answered Ned, "of the kind that we call _rice_." "But how did it come there?" asked Jack. "Does rice grow wild?" "Yes, sometimes. When a rice field is allowed to stand too long before cutting, the grain drops out of the heads, of course, and the next year a fair volunteer crop comes up. In this case, I suppose, the explanation is simple. When the island was abandoned during the war, there was probably a growing crop of rice in that little swamp. If so, it went to seed, and not being harvested, the seed fell to the ground, coming up again the next year only to repeat the process year after year. That's my explanation at any rate, and the only one I can think of. But come! let's go to camp. It isn't worth while now to fool away time over this grass. Now that you have found a rice field, we'll eat rice instead, and some day soon we'll go there and bring back enough to last us till we leave the island." Upon their arrival at camp the contents of Jack's clothes proved to be, as Ned had conjectured, rough rice; that is to say, rice from which the outer husks have been removed, leaving only the closely clinging inner husk on the grain. The amount secured was sufficient to last the boys for a considerable time, and in the absence of bread, it was a thing of no little moment to them. CHAPTER XIII. AN ANXIOUS NIGHT. Dinner was cooked and eaten as soon as possible after the return of Ned and Jack to camp, because all three of the boys were eager to make the long-deferred beginning upon the new boat. "The _Red Bird_ was wrecked last Thursday," said Charley, "and now it is Monday, and yet we haven't even begun to get ready to prepare to commence to build." "Yes we have, Charley," said Jack. "We have worked diligently at the most important part of the task. We have made first-rate arrangements for food, and that is a good beginning. But we'll actually begin on the boat itself to-day. By the way, Ned, you're to be the master-builder." "Well, I don't know about that," said Ned; "you were bragging the other day about your mechanical skill, and I'm very modest in that direction. I'm actually a clumsy hand with tools." "No, I didn't brag," said Jack; "I only stated facts. I believe I am a better workman with tools than either of you fellows, and for that reason I'm willing to take the most difficult jobs on myself, but you must be the superintendent." "I don't see why," said Ned. "Because, even if you are clumsy with tools, you know more about a boat in a minute than Charley and I do in a year, and it's a good rule to put each fellow at the thing he can do best." "All right," said Charley; "I'm the best hand you ever saw at sitting on a log and watching you fellows work, so I'll take that for my share." "No, you won't," said Ned. "If I'm to superintend this job I'll find something better than that for you to do. But I say, Jack, it's absurd for me to try to tell you how to do things that you can do ten times as well as I." "I don't want you to tell me how to do, but what to do; then we'll all do it. I'll take the most difficult parts, and besides that I'll give you and Charley some hints about how to do your share, perhaps." "All right," said Ned, "I'll be superintendent if you wish." "Very well," said Jack. "Now plan the boat, determine the dimensions, and tell us how to begin." "Well, let me see," said Ned. "The _Red Bird_ was twenty-four feet long in the keel--twenty-five feet over all,--and five feet wide amidships. We must allow liberally for waste in trying to use the old materials, so we'll take off six feet of length, giving the new boat a keel of eighteen feet, a total length of nineteen feet, and let the beam width take care of itself." "How do you mean?" "Why, we shorten amidships only; that is to say we omit the six or eight ribs that were in the middle of the old boat, and bring the next ribs forward and aft to the middle. Whatever width they give will be the width of the boat amidships. In that way we shall preserve the old proportions, while changing the old dimensions. The new boat will be, in shape, precisely what the _Red Bird_ would have been if we had cut out six feet of her length amidships, and had then brought the two ends together." "Yes, I see," said Charley. "What is the first thing to be done?" "To lay a keel," said Ned. "The old keel is broken, so we must have a new one. Besides, that was double, for a centre-board, and we'll have to build without a centre-board." "What are the dimensions of the keel?" asked Jack. "Eighteen feet long, as nearly as we can guess, and about three inches by six or seven." "To be set on edge?" "Yes, and to project below the bottom. That will give steadiness to the boat." "What is the best timber for the keel?" asked Jack. "White oak, if we had it, but we haven't. The long-leaf yellow pine is very nearly as good, and for our purposes it is really better, because we can work it more easily. There's a fine, small, straight tree trunk just beyond the camp that will suit us precisely. It has been lying for several years apparently, and is well seasoned. We have only to cut it off the right length, split off slabs till we get a rude square, and then hew it down to the right dimensions with the axe and hatchet. That will occupy us for two days at least, so let's get to work." The event proved that Ned had underestimated the length of time necessary for this work. The hard, flinty yellow pine, seasoned as it was, was very difficult to work. The axe and hatchet were not very sharp at the outset, and before night both were distressingly dull. The next day, what edges they had were worn away, and it was difficult to cut with them at all. Charley declared that he could do nearly as well with his teeth, but he did not try that experiment. There was no grindstone in the camp, and none to be had, of course, and so the weary boys had to make the best of a bad matter and work on as they could with the dull tools. On Thursday the keel was not yet quite done, and the rice began to show the effects of the boys' appetites. "I say, fellows," said Charley, "one of us must go for a fresh supply of rice." "Yes," said Ned, "it is ripening now, and will all fall if we don't secure a good supply. You go, Charley, won't you?" "Yes. I'm worth less at carpenter's work than either of you, so I'll go. Pull off your trowsers, both of you." "Why, what's--" began Ned. "Yes, I know," interrupted Charley, "I ought to take a bag, or a sheet, or, still better, the spring wagon; but seeing that we haven't any wagon, or bag, or sheet, or any thing else to carry rice in, except trowsers, I'm going to use trowsers; and remembering the tattered condition of Jack's skin after his trowserless stroll through the briars, I'm not going to use my own trowsers for a bag. So off with your pantaloons, young men, and be quick about it, for I'm going to make two trips to-day and bring in rice for the whole season." Laughing, the boys obeyed, and Charley left them at work in their shirts and drawers. He got back to camp at dinner-time, fully loaded. After dinner he made his second trip, saying that he would return about sunset. Sunset came at its appointed time, but Charley was not so punctual. It grew dark, and still Charley did not appear. Ned and Jack began to grow uneasy. They went out into the woods in rear of their camp and called at the top of their voices, but received no answer. "I'll tell you what, Ned," said Jack; "we must build a beacon fire. Charley has stayed late to fill his trowser-bags, and has lost his way trying to get back." It was no sooner said than done. Pitch pine was piled on the fire, and a blaze made that might have been seen for many miles. The boys shouted themselves hoarse too, but got no answer. After an hour of waiting, Ned said: "Jack, I'm going over to the rice patch to look for Charley. Something serious must have happened. You stay here and keep up a big fire. If I need you I'll call at the top of my voice, and you will hear me I think." "But, Ned, it's an awful undertaking to go from here to the rice field on such a night. It's as black as pitch, and you are barefooted and almost naked; let me go." "I know all that," said Ned, "but it would be cowardly to abandon Charley, and for my life I can't see that you are any better equipped for the journey than I am. You're barefooted too, and as nearly naked as I am." "Yes, I suppose so," answered Jack, "but I don't mind for myself." "You stay here, you great big-hearted, generous fellow!" was all that Ned said in reply, as he started away. Both Jack and Ned knew that the journey thus undertaken would be attended by no little danger as well as sore discomfort and suffering. The deadly moccasin and rattlesnake lurk in the grass and weeds of that coast country, and the unshod boy was in peril of their fangs at every step. He was too brave a boy, however, to shrink from danger when a real duty was to be done, and so he set forth manfully. Taking a stick he struck the ground frequently, as a precaution against the danger of stepping upon any snake that might be in his path, and more than once he heard the venomous creatures hiss angrily before scurrying away. He pressed forward too eagerly to pay due attention to briars and brushwood, and so before he reached the rice swamp his scanty clothing was nearly torn from his body and his skin was badly lacerated. His coat protected his shoulders and arms, of course, but his legs, hands, and face suffered not a little. Meantime Jack kept up the beacon fire, suffering scarcely less with anxiety and impatience than Ned suffered from physical hurts. Poor Jack had the hard task of waiting in terror and uncertainty. He imagined all manner of evils that might have happened to Charley; then he became anxious about Ned. He shuddered to think of the dangers through which his companion must be passing. The necessity of inactivity was intolerable; Jack could not sit or stand still. He felt that he should go mad if he did not keep in motion. He paced up and down by the fire, as a caged tiger does. Finally, morbid fancies took possession of him. He imagined that he heard Ned groan in the bushes on his left. Then he seemed to hear a cry of agony from Charley in the woods on his right. Investigation revealed nothing, and Jack returned to his waiting in an agony of suspense. It was after midnight when Ned returned, torn, bleeding, worn out with exertion, and very lame from a wound in his foot. He had trodden upon some sharp thing, a thorn or sharp spike of wood, which had thrust itself deep into the flesh of his heel, and the wound was now badly inflamed. "Thank heaven, you are safe at any rate!" exclaimed Jack fervently. "Did you find out any thing about poor Charley?" "Nothing," answered Ned, returning Jack's warm hand-clasp. "I went to the rice field and found the place where he had been threshing, but no other trace of him. He must have finished threshing, however, and started homeward, as he left no threshed rice there. I could not find a trail in the dark, of course, and I can't imagine what has become of Charley. I called him repeatedly, and went all around the marsh, but it was of no use. Besides, if he were anywhere in that region he would know the way home, for I could see not only the light from this fire but the blaze itself." "Well, you stay here now and let me go," said Jack, preparing to set out. "What's the use?" asked Ned. "I tell you I have done all that can be done until daylight. If you go you'll only run the risk of laming yourself, and then there'll be nobody fit to take up the search when morning comes to make it hopeful." This was so obviously a sensible view of the situation, that Jack was forced, though reluctantly, to remain where he was. Hour after hour the two boys waited and watched, keeping up the beacon fire, and occasionally investigating sounds which they heard or thought that they heard in the woods and thickets around them. Naturally they talked very little. There was nothing to talk of except Charley's disappearance, and there was little to be said about that. It began to rain, slowly at first, and in torrents toward morning, but neither boy thought of going into the hut for shelter. Indeed, neither boy seemed conscious of the fact that it was raining at all. They were aware only of the horrible suspense in which they were passing the hours of a night which seemed almost endless. CHAPTER XIV. IN THE GRAY OF THE MORNING. As the first flush of dawn appeared Ned said: "Jack, we mustn't lose our heads. You know what you said after the wreck. You and I have to look after Charley to-day, and we may have need of all our wits and all our strength; so, for his sake, if not for our own, we must force a full breakfast down our throats. It will steady as well as strengthen us. I don't want any thing to eat, and I suppose you don't, but we must eat for all that. We haven't had a mouthful since noon yesterday, and we'll be fit for no exertion if we go on in this way." "That is true," answered Jack; "we must eat breakfast." "Very well; then let's be about it, so that we may have it over by the time that it is fairly light, and then we'll lose no time in setting out." "You can't leave camp," said Jack; "your foot is awfully swollen and your leg too." "Yes, I know," answered Ned, "but I am going anyhow. We must find Charley, and maybe both of us will be needed when we do." While this discussion was going on the breakfast preparations were advancing, and it was not long before the two disconsolate fellows began the difficult task of forcing food down their unwilling throats. "What is our best plan of operations, Jack?" asked Ned. "I scarcely know. Perhaps we'd best go round the island, one one way and the other the other, shouting and looking. Then, if either finds Charley and needs assistance the other will of course be there soon afterward." "Hardly," said Ned. "The island is pretty large, and I suppose it is a good many miles around it. Wouldn't it be better to take a direct course?" "How?" "Why, by going first to the rice swamp. There we shall almost certainly be able to find and follow Charley's trail." "Of course," answered Jack. "What an idiot I was not to think of that first! The fact is, I believe last night's anxiety, particularly while you were away, was too much for me. I lost my head a little, I think, and haven't quite found it again." "Listen! What's that?" exclaimed Ned, rising to look. As he did so, the bushes near the shore on the left of the camp parted, and---- "Bless me! it's Charley!" shouted both boys in a breath. "Did you think I had run away with your trowsers?" asked the cause of all their anxieties, throwing down the two pairs of pantaloons stuffed full of wet rice. "Gracious! Charley, where have you been?" "We've had an awful night!" exclaimed Ned. "Do I look as though I had had a particularly pleasant one?" responded Charley. "Do my dress and general appearance indicate that I dined last evening in the mansions of the great and slept upon a bed of down?" "Well, no," said Ned, unable as yet to share Charley's cheerfulness of mood; "but really, Charley, we have suffered a good deal. You ought to have come back to camp." "Now, look here, fellows," said Charley, more seriously than he had yet spoken, "if you think I haven't known by instinct how much you would suffer because of my unexplained absence, you do me great injustice. My situation through the night has been none of the pleasantest, but the worst part of it has been what I have suffered thinking of your anxiety. Pray, don't imagine that I'm totally destitute of feeling." There was a hurt tone in Charley's voice as he said this, to which Ned responded at once. "Forgive me, Charley," he said, holding out his hand, which the other took. "I did not mean to reproach you wrongfully. I know your warm heart and generous soul." "Yes," added Jack, "and nothing in the world could have made us so happy as your safe return. But tell us what has happened. Where have you been?" "Not a word until food is set before me," said Charley, relapsing into his playful mood again. "I am famished." "All right," said Ned; "we cooked enough to take with us, and we didn't eat much, so your breakfast is ready. In fact I begin to be hungry myself, now that you've got back in safety." "So do I," said Jack; "let's begin over again, and all breakfast together." CHAPTER XV. CHARLEY BLACK'S ADVENTURES. "Now then," said Jack, when breakfast was fairly begun, "tell us all about it, Charley." "Well," replied Charley, "you know we're Robinson Crusoes." "Oh! stop your nonsense and tell your story," said Ned, who was wildly impatient to hear of Charley's adventures. "That's just what I am telling," answered Charley. "As I said, we're Robinson Crusoes and I've seen the savages." "What _do_ you mean?" asked Jack. "Why, Friday, of course, but that's a mistake too. His real name must be Thursday, and he isn't tame either. Really I begin to believe Robinson Crusoe fibbed." "Have you gone crazy, Charley, or what is the matter?" asked Ned, beginning now to be really alarmed lest his comrade's experience, whatever it had been, had unsettled his mind. "I never was more rational in my life," replied the boy, with a smile; "but you won't let me tell my story in my own way. Listen now and don't interrupt. You remember how frightened Crusoe was when he discovered the footprint in the sand?" "Yes, certainly." "And how he afterward found the savage who made it, and how disturbed he was to learn that he was not really monarch of all he surveyed? "Yes; well?" "Well, I've been through a similar experience, only more so. This island is not uninhabited as we supposed. There are savages on it, and they are not tame savages either, like Crusoe's man Friday, but decidedly savage savages. My man Thursday is, at any rate. You see I call him Thursday because I first saw him yesterday, and that was Thursday. That's the way Crusoe hit upon a name for his savage, you remember?" "Yes, but tell us about it," said Jack. "Listen, then. You know I went out to the rice patch and brought in one load. Then I went for another, and after I filled the trowsers, I concluded that I'd walk down toward the shore and return by that route. As I went along by the edge of the rice patch about sunset, I saw a footprint, just as Crusoe did, but I didn't study it long, for presently its owner appeared. He was a big savage, and black as night, and not in the least peaceful. Indeed he seemed very angry with me for some reason, for he came running toward me, jabbering in his strange language and setting his dog on me. I ran as fast as I could toward that piece of woods over beyond the rice swamp--more than a mile away from here, you remember, and on the other side of the island. I had a good start, but it was a close shave. As I approached the woods I picked out the tree I meant to climb, and when I got to it I went up faster than I ever climbed before, for the big ugly dog was close behind me. He jumped up after me, but I drew up my leg and he missed the foot he wanted. "I was tired, and was awfully out of breath; but I thought I had only to wait until the big negro should come up--I could see him coming. Then I would argue the matter with him and get him to be reasonable and call off his dog. You see I took him for a negro, and didn't suspect that he was a savage. I soon found out my mistake, however, for when he came up and began swearing at me--I'm sure it was swearing, though, of course, I couldn't understand a word of it--I found that he talked Savage and didn't understand a word of English. "I was in a fix. My tree was about a mile and a half from camp, even if you measure the distance in a bee line, so there was no use in shouting for assistance. There stood the raving savage jabbering at me, and threatening me with his club; and, worse still, there stood his dog at the foot of the tree waiting for a dish of Charley Black for supper. I reasoned with the savage, but he didn't understand me any more than I understood him. The more I talked the madder he got. Then I remembered having read somewhere something about the 'eloquent language' of gestures, signs, and all that, which all human beings are supposed to understand, so I tried that awhile. I shrugged my shoulders, waved my hands about, motioned to him to call off his dog and go home, and did other things of the sort; but it wasn't of the least use. That savage persisted in misunderstanding me, and his dog got madder and madder. Finally, just to see if the benighted idiot could understand sign language at all, I put my thumb to my nose and twiddled my fingers at him, at the same time shaking my other fist. He understood that, and took further offence at it. In his rage he tried to climb my tree to get at me, but he was a rather clumsy climber and made little head-way. When he got within reach I struck him a sudden blow with your trowsers, Jack, which, being filled chock full of rice, made a pretty good club. He dropped like a shot squirrel, and his dog, thinking that I had fallen, made a rush for him. For a moment I flattered myself that now I should get away while the savage and the dog were explaining matters to each other; but in that I was disappointed. The dog found out his mistake instantly, and the savage got up, madder than ever. It was getting dark by that time, but the savage thought he would have a game of bat and ball with me while the light lasted, anyhow, so he took good aim and threw his club at me. I caught it a sharp blow with your trowsers, and knocked it back to him. He threw again with the same result. The third throw went wide of the mark, and so I missed, but it didn't matter, for there was no catching out to be done in that game--I suppose the savage don't understand the rules of bat and ball. [Illustration: THE ELOQUENT LANGUAGE OF GESTURE.] "Finally, after he had thrown a good many times, his club lodged in the tree, and I climbed up and got it. It was a good stout club--there it lies by the fire--and I thought I might have use for it, so I didn't throw it back at the savage's head, as I at first intended, but kept it for future use. "Night came on and the savage seated himself to watch me. He kept very quiet, and made his dog stop growling and snarling. At first I didn't understand this. I began to think that he was going to offer me terms, but he didn't. At last I saw what he was at. He was waiting for me to fall asleep and drop down! "There was nothing for it but to keep awake, and as it was very cold I had to climb about a little to keep myself comfortable, and that kept me me from falling asleep. "The worst of it all was that I could see the big fire you fellows made, and knew what anxiety you were suffering. I sat there in the dark, hour after hour, worrying and wondering if the daylight had forgotten to come, and it was an awful time. The rain came on at last, and I was quickly wet through. The savage couldn't sit long on the ground when the floods came, so he got up and moved uneasily about, but he wouldn't go away. His persistence was 'worthy of a better cause.' After a little while he began to collect bushes to make himself a shelter, I suppose, or to sit on, or stand on--I don't know what. It was slow work in the dark, and he had to go away some little distance to get what he wanted. While he was away on one of these little trips an idea occurred to me, but as he was already on his way back I could not act upon it at once, so I sat still and waited. He went away again, fifty or seventy-five yards into the woods--I could tell by the noise he made breaking bushes. Then I tried my plan. Climbing down to the lowest limb of the tree, I could see the dog, dark as it was, standing ready to receive me. Grasping the club in my right hand, I dropped a pair of trowsers full of rice. The dog, mistaking the bundle for me, was on it in an instant, and the next instant I was on him. I dropped on him purposely, and luckily my left foot struck his neck. Of course I could not hold him long in that way, but still it gave me a moment's advantage, and during that moment I managed to deal the brute two or three blows over the head which, I think, must have crushed his skull. At any rate he grew limber under me and never uttered a sound. Hurriedly picking up the trowsers and swinging them around my neck, I was about to run when Mr. Savage came running out of the woods. I still had the club in my hand, and quick as lightning I struck him with it and took to my heels. How badly I hurt him I don't know, but not so badly as could have been wished, for he paused only for a few seconds. Then he gave chase. I ran with all my might, with him just behind. Presently I struck something with my foot--a grape-vine I suppose--and came very near to falling, but managed to save myself. Mr. Savage Thursday was not so lucky. He struck the vine fairly and came down like a big tree trunk. For a second he uttered no sound. Then I could hear him swearing in Savage, but by this time I was fifty yards ahead of him, and by the time that he decided whether to resume the chase or not I was too far away to inquire what his decision was. It was so dark that if he had followed he couldn't have found me, so I slackened my pace, and not long afterward dropped into a walk, listening occasionally to hear if he was coming. Hearing nothing, I plodded on. I didn't know just where I was, so I thought my best plan was to keep straight on until I struck the shore. I passed a group of huts about a mile from my tree, and I suppose the savages live there, as I heard dogs barking, but I didn't stop to inquire. Finally I came to the beach, and, believing that I was more than half way round the island, I turned to the right and followed the shore till I got to camp. There, that's the whole story of the strange adventures of Master Charles Black, of his exploration of Bee Island, his encounter with the savage, and his fortunate escape and return to his companions. How did you hurt your foot, Ned?" Ned, who had risen and was limping about the fire, explained his mishap, and in their turn he and Jack told Charley of the events of the night as seen from their point of view. Their story was less exciting than Charley's, but he was deeply interested in it. CHAPTER XVI. ON GUARD. "Who in the world can Charley's 'savages' be, Ned?" asked Jack, when the story was finished. "Negro squatters," answered Ned; "I didn't think there were any on Bee Island." "What do you mean by negro squatters?" "Why, negroes who, instead of hiring themselves out or renting land, have simply squatted on the island, cultivating little patches, and living by hunting and fishing. There are a good many on plantations that haven't been cultivated since the war. You see, when the war ended there were many men who had large bodies of land--some of them owning half a dozen big plantations--but with very little capital. They have not been able, for want of money, to resume the cultivation of all their abandoned plantations, so there are many large tracts still lying idle and unoccupied, and some of the negroes, not caring to hire as hands, or to rent land, have squatted here and there. They are generally the worst of the negroes; men without thrift, and almost untouched by civilization. They prefer a wild life, and live by fishing, hunting, and stealing from choice." "But, I say," said Charley, "my savage wasn't a tame negro at all. He couldn't speak English I tell you." "No more can many others of the old sea-island and rice-field negroes. They talk a jargon which only themselves and the old-time overseers ever understood. The fact is that many of them really were savages before the war,--untamed Guinea savages. They or their parents were brought here from Africa, and they lived all their lives here on these coast plantations, rarely seeing a white person except their overseers, and learning scarcely any thing of civilized life. They were not at all like the negroes up in Aiken, and all over the South for that matter. They were simply savages who had learned to work under an overseer, and when the war ended the worst of them relapsed into the ways of savage life instead of trying to improve themselves as the negroes everywhere else did. They hadn't learned enough to want to be civilized." "But what did that fellow get after Charley for?" "Because we've been robbing their rice field without knowing it." "I didn't think of that. I thought the rice was wild--self-seeded." "Probably it is," answered Ned, "but they regard it as theirs for all that, just as they think this island is theirs, although it belongs to my uncle." "Now I know who stole our provisions," said Charley. "But I say, boys, what's to be done? Suppose the savages should attack us here?" "They may do that," answered Ned, "though I don't think it likely. They want us away; perhaps, but they chiefly want us to let them and their rice alone, and now that we know that it's theirs by some sort of right, we'll let it alone and get on with what we have on hand. The main thing now is to build our boat. We must get on as fast as we can with that." "That's so," said Jack. "That must be the first thing thought of, but still it seems to me we should do something for our own defence. You see, Ned, if they should attack us, we are helpless. We haven't a thing to defend ourselves with, now that the gun is gone, and it isn't right to trust too much to those people's good-nature." "Well, what can we do?" "A good many things; I don't know exactly what will be best as yet, but we must think it out while we work on the boat. Then we can compare notes and do whatever is best. We'll work on the boat until dinner-time, and then give the afternoon to our defences. Perhaps we can make so good a beginning that we needn't spend more than an hour or two each day on that work after to-day." "All right," said Ned; "now let's get to work on the boat." With a will the three boys set to work. The stem- and stern-posts of the new boat were securely fastened to the keel, and the difficult task of setting up the ribs was begun. These ribs were so broken that it required not a little planning and contriving to make them answer the purpose; but Jack was very ingenious, and under his direction Ned and Charley managed to do some very clever splicing and bracing, while Jack himself dealt with the most difficult problems. By mid-day about half the ribs were in their place. "We can begin to see the shape of our new boat," said Ned, "and I'm not sure she isn't going to be prettier than the old _Red Bird_." "By the way," said Jack, "what are we to name her?" "The Phoenix," suggested Charley; then he added: "No that won't do, because it isn't a case of rising from ashes. The _Red Bird_ wasn't burned." "No," said Ned, "that would be very absurd. Suppose we call her Sea-Gull, because she came to us--in her timbers at least--from the sea." "Better call her 'axe, hatchet, and hunting-knife,'" said Jack, "because we are making her with those tools. But if we must be poetical and suggestive, why not call her Aphrodite? She, like that fabled goddess, is sprung from the foam of the sea." "_Aphrodite_ it is," shouted Jack's companions, and Charley added: "You're the most classical and poetic youth of the party, Jack, if you do pretend to sneer at us for our sentimental fancy for an appropriate name." "Very well," replied Jack, "you're welcome to think so; but just now I want my dinner worse than any thing else, and that isn't a mere sentiment I assure you." Dinner over, the preparations for defence were begun. "What plan have you thought of, Jack?" Charley asked. "Let me hear from you and Ned first," answered Jack. "Well, I've thought of earthworks," said Charley; "they say they are the best fortifications." "Against cannon, yes," said Ned; "but it's only because cannon can't batter them down as they can masonry. Our problem is a very different one, because our savages haven't any cannon. What we have got to do is not to make fortifications that can't be battered down by artillery, but to fence ourselves in in some way so that the negro squatters can't get at us." "Well, what's your idea for that?" asked Charley. "A stockade." "Details?" queried Jack. "My notion is," answered Ned, "to set a line of stockade around the camp, running it out into the water on each side, making a big 'C' of it. If we make it ten feet high and slope it outward, it will puzzle the squatters to get over it, and from the inside we can beat them off." "But how shall we make the stockade?" asked Jack. "Why, by digging a trench first, and setting timbers in it, sloping them at the proper angle, and filling in with earth." "But couldn't a strong man pull a timber down by jumping up and hanging to it with his hands?" asked Charley. "Perhaps so, if each timber stood alone," said Ned, "but we'll set a row of them in the ditch, and then roll a log in behind them before filling up. Then we'll set another row and roll in another log, and so on. Then, in order to pull down a post it will be necessary to lift the whole of the log that is behind it, together with all the earth that lies on top of the log, and that is more than any half dozen men can do." "That's an excellent idea," said Jack, after thinking awhile, "but the job is too big to be completed to-day. We'd better follow my plan first, and make the stockade hereafter." "What's your plan?" "To build a sort of wall of timber around the camp. It isn't half so good as a stockade, because of course it is easily climbed over; but it is better than nothing, and will do for one night." "But I don't see," said Charley, "that we can build a timber wall half so quickly as we can make the stockade. To do it we have got to cut enough logs to make a pile all around the camp, and that will take ten times as many logs as it will to make the stockade." "That is true," said Jack, "and, besides, small timbers, five or six inches in diameter, will do as well for the stockade as big logs, and in the present state of our axe that is a consideration not to be despised. I surrender. Ned's plan is by odds the best one. Let's get to work at it, and if we don't finish it to-day, we'll patch up the deficiency in some way. Luckily we have digging tools." The soil of the coast and islands of South Carolina is a light vegetable mould, mixed with sand, and below it there is sand only. There are no rocks, no stones, no pebbles even, and no stiff clay; and all this was greatly in the boys' favor. The trench grew very rapidly as they worked. Jack and Ned dug, while Charley, who was more expert with the axe than either of his companions, cut down small trees and trimmed them into shape for the stockade, making each about fourteen feet long, so that when set in the ditch it would project about ten feet above ground. The digging of the ditch was the smallest part of the task. Its length, in order to enclose the hut, the well, and the boat, had to be about one hundred and fifty feet, so that a great many sticks of timber were necessary. "We must set them about six inches apart," said Jack, "so as to use as few as we can at first. If necessary, we can fill in the gaps afterward; but a man can't get through a six-inch crack, and by setting them in that way each post, with its half of the two cracks, will occupy about a foot of space." But to cut a hundred and fifty pieces of timber with a dull axe was no small job, and when night came on the boys had only twenty-five of them set up in their places, while as many more were ready for use. This was discouraging, and in their weariness Ned and Charley felt very much disheartened indeed. Jack alone kept his spirits up. "It's very good work so far as it goes," he said, looking at the line of timbers all leaning outward from the camp, "and when we get it done it will puzzle all the squatters in South Carolina to take our fort." "Yes, if we ever do get it done," said Charley, despondently. "Now, Charley," said Jack, "none of that. We've been in a tighter place than this, and you especially ought not to be downhearted. You're ever so much better off than you were this time last night, when that darkey had you treed; and you're better off now than Ned is, with his game foot." "Poor fellow," said Charley, looking at Ned as he limped into the hut with difficulty. "The fact is," continued Jack, "we're tired out, and so things look blue to us, but they'll look better in the morning. You see we got no sleep last night, besides wearing ourselves out with anxiety and excitement, and we have worked like convicts all day. We'll feel better and brighter after we get some sleep, and things that look gloomy and discouraging now will look bright and hopeful enough to-morrow morning." "That's true," said Ned, coming out of the hut again, "and it would be much better for us if we could quit work right now, and sleep for ten hours without waking, but we can't." "Why not?" asked Charley, who was utterly worn out. "Because we've some more work to do that must be done before we sleep," answered Ned. "What we have done for defence is of no good at all as it stands. We must have a barrier around the camp to-night." "How shall we make one?" asked Jack. "With brush. We have plenty of it already cut in the shape of the tree tops we've trimmed off in getting our stockade poles." "Brush won't make a very good defence," muttered Charley. "No, but it will be much better than no defence at all," replied Ned. "It isn't easy to climb over a well-packed brush pile, particularly if the brush is so laid that all the branches point outward, and that's the way we'll lay it. It won't take long to make a wall of that kind, and we can remove it little by little, as we set the poles hereafter." This plan commended itself to Jack, and Charley submitted. Poor fellow, he was too weary to take any active interest even in plans for defence. The brushwood was brought and carefully placed in position. It was not sufficient to make a wall all the way around, but only a small gap was left near the water. "Shall we cut more brush to-night, Jack?" asked Ned. "No, I think we needn't. When we go to setting poles to-morrow, the brush we remove will do to close the gap with, and for one night we can watch so small an opening. We need rest and sleep now more than any thing else. You and Charley lie down. I'm the freshest one of the party, I think, and so I'll stand guard for a good while before calling either of you." "Stand guard?" asked Ned; "what for?" "Why, it won't do at all for all three to sleep at once. We might be attacked while asleep. If there were no danger of that we needn't have thought of a stockade at all." Sleepy and tired as Ned and Charley were, they recognized the necessity for this watchfulness. It was very hard for the three weary fellows to take their turns at standing guard that night, but they did their duty. Jack took a long turn first, and Ned followed him, so that Charley got a good sleep of several hours, and was much refreshed before his period of watching began. CHAPTER XVII. A NEW DANGER. The night brought its alarms with it. Every noise in the woods round about startled the alert sentinel, and there always are noises at night, not only in the woods but in houses also, as we all find out, when for any reason we are awake and on the alert. It seemed to each of the boys during this night, that there never were so many sounds which could not be explained: crackling noises, like those which are produced by the breaking of dry sticks under foot; sounds of footsteps, and of hard breathing; a thousand different sounds, in short, each of which seemed for the time being surely to indicate the stealthy approach of some foe. Morning came at last, however, and no ill had befallen the camp. It was voted at breakfast that this day should be devoted exclusively to fortification, security being deemed of more pressing importance than escape from the island. By steady persistence the work was carried forward until the line of tall, leaning pickets was more than half-way round the camp. This at least reduced the space to be watched through the night to less than half its former length, and as the night passed quietly with no sign of an enemy about, it was unanimously resolved, the next morning, that Sunday should be kept as a day of rest, the opinion being that the completion of the stockade could not now be called a work of necessity. During Sunday night, however, the boys had reason to modify this opinion somewhat. About two o'clock Ned, who was on guard at the time, armed with a big club, awoke his companions, saying, in a whisper: "Get up, quick! There's somebody about." The two sleepers sprang to their feet quickly, and, seizing their clubs, joined Ned outside the hut. By way of precaution the boys had cut a considerable number of short, thick, and very heavy clubs, which could be made to serve a good purpose as missiles. Thrown with violence from the hand they were likely to be of much greater service than stones or brickbats would have been, if such things had been at hand. Armed with these clubs the boys peered and listened. For a while they heard nothing. Then a low growl came from the bushes, and the sound of a sharp blow followed it immediately. Evidently one of the squatters was sneaking around the camp, and when his dog growled he struck it to secure silence. The boys waited a long time but heard nothing more. Finally, in a low whisper, Ned said: "There can't be more than one of them here." "No, I suppose not," answered Jack, "but let's be quiet and see what he wants." All became still again, and as the boys from their hiding-place could not be seen by any one in the bushes, the prowler had every reason to suppose that they were asleep. After perhaps an hour's waiting, Jack whispered: "I see him; he is crawling on his stomach to the fire. H--sh! let's see what he wants." The man could be seen only in dim outline until he reached the fire, and, taking a smouldering brand, blew it to quicken its burning. The light thus created revealed his face, and the sight was not a pleasant one to the boys. They saw in their visitor as ugly and forbidding a specimen of untamed humanity as one often meets. He was a negro of the small, ugly, tough-looking variety, seen nowhere in this country except on the South Carolina and Georgia coast. About five feet two inches high, he had a small, flat head, large, muscular arms and body, short legs, and no clothing except a sort of sack with head- and arm-holes in it, worn as a shirt. His brow was so low and retreating, that his eyes seemed to project beyond it. His nose was flattened out as if it had tried to spread itself evenly all over his face. His thick lips were too short to cover his big teeth, and it is hardly necessary to add that he looked far less like a rational human being than like some wild animal. When he had satisfied himself that his brand was burning, he crept a few paces further, and his purpose was revealed. He meant to set fire to the pile of plank that the boat was to be built of. "Quick now," said Jack, "give him a volley of clubs and then charge!" [Illustration: "GIVE HIM A VOLLEY AND THEN CHARGE!"] It was no sooner said than done. Standing at less than twenty feet distance, the boys threw one club each at the intruder, and then, snatching other clubs, one in each hand, rushed upon him. Rising, he knocked Jack down, but was brought to his own knees by Charley's club. At that moment the man's dog, a surly-looking brute, seized Charley, and it required the combined efforts of all three boys--for Jack was up again in an instant--to beat the creature off. While they were engaged in this, the dog's master, finding himself outnumbered and overmatched, took to his heels and the camp was clear, for the dog quickly followed, howling with pain. "Are you much hurt, Charley?" was the first question asked when the enemy's retreat left the boys free to think of themselves. "I'm pretty severely bitten," was the reply, "but luckily it's in the fleshy part of my thigh, and the flesh isn't torn. One of you must have struck very quickly, or I shouldn't have got off so easily. See," he continued, when the fire had been stirred into a blaze, "the brute buried his teeth, but let go again without shaking me." "Yes, I saw him jump at you, and tried to hit him before he got hold," said Ned. "I must have struck him just as he seized you--half a second too late to save you entirely, but I hit him fairly on the head." "And he had to let go of me to howl," said Charley, who, in spite of his pain, was in good spirits after the exciting encounter. "By the way, are you hurt, Jack?" "I've an earache," said Jack, turning his head and showing an inflamed and swollen ear; "but I'm glad that fellow didn't hit me fairly in the face, as he meant to do. It would have settled the question of photographs for me for all time, I think. Why, if I had caught that blow on the face my nose would have been distributed over the rest of my countenance as evenly as his is." "You look solemn, Ned," said Charley; "are you hurt too?" "No, but I'm thinking." "Well, out with your thought then. What is it?" "Only that we're fairly in for it now." "In for what?" "War." "War?" "Yes. You don't suppose we're going to have peace with the squatters now, do you? They'll attack us in force as sure as sunrise and sunset." "Well, it's my opinion that one of them, at least, has got as much of us as he wants," said Charley. "Very likely," answered Ned; "but now he'll want to give us something, by way of returning the compliment. He'll bring all his friends with him next time." "But I don't see what we've done that they should interfere with us." "Oh! don't you? Well, that's because you don't look at the matter with their eyes. You see, when we first came here they didn't object. They took a fancy to our coffee and flour and bacon, and the rest of it, and helped themselves, but they didn't in the least object to us or our presence. Having got all we had for them to steal, they let us alone. But when they found that we were getting rice out of what they called their field, it put a new face on the matter, and they objected. You baffled the one that got after you, and he hurt himself trying to catch you. That was another offence on our part, and so this fellow that was here to-night determined to get even with us by burning us out. He has been pretty badly whipped, and he isn't likely to forget it. He'll bring all his friends here and we must take care of ourselves, for we shan't get any coddling, I can assure you, if we fall into their hands." "You are right, Ned," said Jack; "and now we must really take care of ourselves. It's nearly morning, and we may as well get breakfast at once and get an early start. We must be ready to receive those fellows when they come." CHAPTER XVIII. A CAMP-FACTORY. Breakfast was finished before daylight that morning, and when it was over the three companions resumed work upon their fortification. Ned stopped long enough to catch some shrimps for dinner, but with that exception there was no break at all in the morning's work, and dinner-time found the boys tired as well as hungry. The afternoon was spent quite as industriously, and when night came the fort, though still incomplete, was well advanced toward security. "Now," said Ned, when supper-time came, "we have had rather too much of shrimps, I think, and of oysters too. I'm going out with the net to-night to catch some fish for to-morrow. What do you two propose to do?" "I'm going to make some more clubs," said Charley. "We've something like a fort now, and the next thing is to provide an abundance of ammunition." "By the way," said Ned, "why can't we make some better arms?" "Of what sort?" asked Jack. "Well, bows and arrows, for example. We can make arrow-heads out of some of our copper bolts, and they are weapons not to be despised--what are you smiling at, Charley?" "Oh! nothing; I was only wondering what good bows and arrows would do without bowstrings." Ned's countenance fell; then he joined in the smile of his companions, and admitted that his little plan had been very imperfectly worked out in his head. "I might make some blow-guns out of the canes," he said, "but they're not worth making. I have killed birds with them, but I've tried them thoroughly and they won't shoot hard enough to drive an arrow-head half an inch into a pine plank; so they would be worthless for our purposes." "Yes," said Jack, "I think we may make up our minds that we've got to get on with no better weapons than our clubs for general use, with the axe, hatchet, and digging tools to fall back upon as a last resort. To use such things means to kill, and of course we don't want to do that." "No, of course not. We only want to protect ourselves and make these squatters let us alone. We don't want to do the poor creatures any unnecessary harm." Saying this, Ned took the net and went away in search of fish. When he had gone Jack said: "Charley, let's build a platform to fight from." "I don't quite understand you," said Charley. "Well, you see the stockade is ten feet high, and slopes outward, and so it won't be easy for anybody to scale it; but it isn't impossible, particularly if one has time to put up a pole or two to climb on. My notion is that we must be prepared to interfere with anybody who tries to do that. We must build a sort of platform all around inside the stockade, about six feet from the ground; it needn't be any thing more than a row of poles laid against the stockade and supported by some forked stakes. We can then stand up on these poles and look over the top of the stockade. If anybody tries to climb up, we can beat him back from there, while if we were on the ground inside here, we should be nearly helpless. It won't take you and me more than half an hour or so to rig the thing up." "That's a good idea," replied Charley; "and we need the platform more to-night than we shall at any time hereafter." "Why?" "Because if those fellows mean to attack us they will do so at once. If we escape to-night we're not likely to be attacked at all." "I don't know about that," answered Jack. "On the contrary, I think they'll let us alone to-night, because they'll expect us to be on the lookout for them. They have no special fancy for getting their heads broken, and when they come they will try to take us by surprise. At least that's my notion." "Then you think they are likely to attack us later this week or next?" "Yes, at any time except to-night. They will wait for us to make up our minds that they aren't coming at all." "Well--that _fabula docet_ that we mustn't make up our minds in that direction at all." "Exactly. We must be as alert two weeks hence as we are now--if we're here so long. But come, let's get to work." Cutting some forked stakes, which did not need to be driven far into the ground, because they were to be leant toward the sloping stockade, the boys placed them in position, and laid poles from one to another until the line stretched all the way around the enclosure. It was easy to walk upon these poles all the way around, and when standing upon them the boys' shoulders were above the top of the stockade. Near the water, on each side, an entrance to the stockade had been made, and a movable piece of timber, with a notch in it and a brace behind, served to close each of these gates; and when thus closed and fastened from the inside, the gates were as secure as any other part of the fortress. Jack's prediction that the enemy would not appear on Monday night was verified. The whole of that week, indeed, was passed in complete quietude. Having made their fortress reasonably secure, the boys resumed work upon the boat on Monday and continued it throughout the week; but they gave only one half of each day to that task, devoting the other half to the work of strengthening their fort. The posts, as we know, were originally set six inches apart for the sake of hurrying the work, but this was not intended to be a permanent arrangement. As fast as they could the boys filled up the spaces thus left, and by Saturday night the fort was complete, so that its inmates felt entirely confident of their ability to beat off any attack the negro squatters might choose to make. Meantime the boat approached completion, though there was, perhaps, a week's work, or a little less, still to be done upon her. "We must caulk her seams," said Ned on Sunday, as the boys sat chatting round their fire, "with moss instead of oakum, and then we'll coat her all over with pitch." "By the way," answered Charley, "we've got to make the pitch. Do you know how, Ned?" "Not very well," replied Ned, "but I think we can make out." "I know," said Jack; "I've seen tar made in the North Carolina tar country, and pitch is only boiled tar." "Very well, then, you shall superintend that job," said Ned; "you know that was our bargain, to make each fellow manage the things he understood best." "You'd better make a lot of salt, then, right away, beginning to-morrow morning." "Why? You don't use salt in making pitch, do you?" "No; but I shall want the big kettle to boil the tar in, and it won't be fit for use as a salt kettle after that." "Then we must cook up all our rice too," said Charley. "No, we needn't," said Ned; "it would spoil if we did, and we can cook it, as we need it, in the coffee-pot." Early the next morning these preparations were begun. Charley got his salt factory at work, Ned worked at the boat, and Jack made preparations for tar-burning. He began by digging a pit about four feet square and two feet deep. Then--at a distance of about a foot--he dug another pit about three feet square and four feet deep. He packed the wall of earth that separated the two pits as firmly as he could, and then, cutting a long joint of cane for a tar pipe, he passed it through this wall, from a point exactly at the bottom of the shallow pit. He inclined it downward a little, so that the tar might easily run though it and fall into the deeper pit. Having finished this part of his work, Jack went into the woods near the camp and prepared a large quantity of "fat" pine for burning. Piling this in the shallow pit, and heaping it two or three feet above the level ground, he took the shovel and covered the pile with earth to a depth of a foot or more, leaving a single opening through which he could set fire to the mass. His object was, by smothering the flames in this way, to make the fat, resinous pine burn slowly, creating a roasting heat under the earth, and thus, as it were, melting the tar out of the pine. If he had not covered the wood with earth, it would have blazed up and burned to smoke, resin and all, making no tar at all. When all was ready the pile was set on fire, and as soon as it had caught well, Jack covered the single opening with earth, and the mound smoked like a volcano. Pretty soon a little stream of smoking-hot tar began trickling through the cane-tube into the deep pit. Night had now come on, and the smoke from the tar-kiln, catching the light from the camp-fire, glowed with a peculiar red color, and gave a picturesque air of strangeness to the camp. "You've started a young volcano, Jack," said Charley, as he looked at the smoking mound. "Yes. An improvement on Crusoe," said Ned; "he had no volcano on his island. But what a quantity of smoke the thing does make. It looks as if more material came out of the mound in that way than you put into it in the shape of wood." "Yes, and so a gallon of water will fill a big room if you make it into steam." "What is smoke anyhow?" asked Charley. "It is composed of several things," answered Ned, "but chiefly of carbon. Indeed, all that you can see in smoke is carbon." "Then why doesn't it burn?" "It would if it were kept in the fire long enough; but the light vapors that rise from the fire carry the particles of carbon with them, and so they get out of the fire before they are burned. The smoke is simply so much wasted fuel, and many plans have been made to save it in factories where the cost of fuel is great." "There's a big waste in making tar, then," said Charley. "Not half so much as you think," said Jack. "They don't waste the smoke up in the North Carolina tar country." "How do they burn it?" "They don't burn it, but they catch it and sell it." "How do you mean?" "Why, they have wire screens stretched over the tar-kilns, and as the smoke strikes them the fine particles of carbon stick to them. I have seen masses of them hanging down many inches from the screens, and very pretty they are too." "But what do they do with the stuff?" asked Charley. "Sell it. It is called lamp-black, and it brings a pretty good price." "That is close economy, isn't it?" "Yes, but it is frequently by just such 'margins' as that that manufacturing becomes profitable. It is a very poor and desolate-looking country up there in the tar-making districts, and I remember hearing a man say once, as we passed through it: 'This is the country where they waste nothing; they bark the trees to get resin: they distil the resin and make turpentine; what's left is rosin; when the trees die they burn them to make tar, catch the smoke for lamp-black, and there aren't any ashes.'" CHAPTER XIX. A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE. The tar flowed freely during Monday night and Tuesday, and by the time that Tuesday's labors were finished, there was enough in the deep vat to make all the pitch that was required. The salt-making was finished too, and the big kettle was ready for use the next day in boiling the tar to make pitch of it. On Tuesday evening Ned determined to go fishing, as he did nearly every night when the tide was at a proper stage. He had learned now the spots most frequented by the mullets, and usually succeeded in bringing back a good supply of them to camp. The boys had grown very tired indeed of their restricted diet. For three weeks now they had not tasted meat of any kind--for they never repeated their snake supper,--but had lived on fish, shrimps, oysters, and a few crabs; and being without bacon or any other kind of fat with which to fry their fish, they could not make an appearance of variety by changing the way of cooking them. They had to eat every thing boiled, or roasted, or broiled on the coals, and in the absence of butter and other seasoning for broiled fish, the roast, baked, broiled, and boiled all tasted alike. They had lost their relish for such food as they could get, but having nothing else they were forced to eat it. On this Tuesday night Ned remained away from camp longer than usual, and at about eleven o'clock Charley went to bed, Jack mounting guard. About an hour later Jack waked Charley, saying: "I'm uneasy about Ned, Charley. It must be midnight and he hasn't come in yet." Charley sprang up quickly, and the two looked and listened. Finally it was decided that as Charley was less able to run than Jack--because of the dog-bite, which had not yet entirely healed,--he should remain on guard while Jack should go out in search of Ned. Ten minutes later Jack came back, running as quietly as he could, and hastily pushed through the eastern gate. Fastening this, he exclaimed in an excited way: "The squatters are all around us, and I'm afraid they've captured Ned." "Why? Where are they? Tell me all about it, quick." "I don't know much about it myself," answered Jack. "I only know that as I walked down along the shore in the direction that Ned took, I almost stumbled over one of the squatters. I retreated, of course, and by keeping in the bushes and looking and listening, I made out that there were at least half a dozen of them about. As I could see nothing, and hear nothing of Ned, I'm afraid they've caught him. You see they came right along the shore where he was wading about and fishing, and if they hadn't caught him, of course he would have run in to give us the alarm. Poor fellow! I wonder if they'll kill him?" "I'm afraid of worse than that," said Charley, solemnly "What?" asked Jack. "I'm afraid they'll flog him. That would be horrible! for my part I'd a good deal rather be killed, and I'm sure Ned would." "Yes, of course," said Jack. Then, after a pause, he added: "I'll tell you what, Charley, we mustn't let that happen." "How'll we help it?" "Well, they won't try that till after they've made their attack on the fort. They'll simply tie Ned, and keep him till they're through with us, and so we have time to make a diversion in his favor. We've got to give them battle outside the fort. If we can drive them off we may find Ned. When he finds what's up he'll let us know where he is quickly enough." "Yes, if he hasn't been carried too far away already," said Charley. "At any rate, we'll try. Where were the darkies when you saw them?" "About two hundred yards away, in the woods near the shore." "All right. Now let's remember that we've got to stick together, and that our object is to do not as much but as little fighting as necessary, and to get past the enemy if we can, and go on down the shore in search of Ned. We mustn't stop to do any unnecessary fighting." "No, we'll try first to creep past without any fighting at all," said Jack. Arming themselves with their best clubs the two boys crept out of the eastern gate and made their way as secretly as they could through the woods. They saw two of the squatters, but managed to slip past them without discovery, and when they had got well beyond them they made their way rapidly along the beach, calling Ned at the top of their voices and listening for his answer. At last they heard a shout in reply, but it seemed a long way off, and singularly enough it was in the direction of the camp. Turning around, they were filled with horror and amazement at what they saw. A great red blaze was shooting up from the camp. "They're burning us out!" exclaimed Jack. "Yes, and they must have Ned there with them. His shout came from that direction." "Come, let's run with all our might. We may get there in time to save Ned at any rate!" They ran like deer-hounds and were quickly at the burning camp. They encountered three of the negroes just outside the camp, but coming upon them by surprise they were able to run past and to enter the gate before their enemies could lay hold of them. Once inside they fastened the gate log. As they did so and turned they discovered that they had caught one of their assailants--a negro boy not older than themselves--inside. This lad showed fight, but with two against him he was quickly secured, and tied with the boat's anchor rope. Then Jack and Charley had time to see the extent of the mischief done. The stockade itself was uninjured, and thus far the boat also was safe, but the vat of tar was afire, and the bush hut in which the boys slept had either caught from the blazing tar or been set on fire by the negro boy. It was obviously too late to save the hut, even if the boys had been free to work upon it, as they were not, for the danger to the boat, which lay very near the fire and was already scorching, was too great to be trifled with. Jack managed to rescue the salt from the hut, and then he and Charley began wetting moss and laying it over the boat. "This won't do, Jack," said Charley; "those rascals outside will make their way over the stockade if they aren't watched. Can't you keep the moss wet now?" "Yes, I'll attend to that. You go to the platform at once. If you need me call out and I'll come." Charley sprang to the platform, and was none too soon. The negroes outside, hearing the cries of their imprisoned companion, were already trying to make their way within the enclosure. One of them having climbed upon the shoulders of another, had taken hold of the top of the stockade, and in another second would have drawn himself up. In that case the boys would have had to encounter him on equal terms, and perhaps another squatter would have been over the wall by that time. Luckily the light from the burning tar revealed the situation to Charley in an instant. Running along the platform to the point of danger, he rapped the knuckles of the climber with a degree of violence which at once ended his climbing. He dropped to the ground as if his hands had been cut off at the wrists, and then Charley began offensive measures. Throwing his clubs one after another--for a large supply of them had been stored along the platform--he compelled the assailants to beat a retreat. They threw some sticks at him in return, but he managed to dodge them, and Jack joining him for a few minutes, the pair fairly drove the assailants off. Then Jack returned to his task of protecting the boat, while Charley, promenading all the way around the barrier, kept guard against surprises. No further assault being made, and the fire gradually dying down until the boat was no longer in danger, Jack and Charley had time to think of Ned again, and their anxiety was intense. "At least we've got a hostage," said Jack, "and perhaps poor Ned will be able to arrange for an exchange. At any rate I hope so. There must be some of them who can speak English, and, besides, Ned understands their jargon a little." "Well, we'll hope for the best," said Charley, "but oughtn't we to make another effort to find Ned?" "I don't see what we can do," said Jack. "They've carried him off by this time, and to follow in the dark would be useless." "Yes, that's true. Listen! What was that?" Jack listened, but could hear nothing. "What did you hear?" asked he. "I thought I heard Ned shout." Jack gave a loud, long call, and then the two listened again. A shout in reply was this time distinctly heard. "That's Ned," said Charley. "Yes," answered Jack. "He's making all the trouble he can, I suppose, to delay their march and give us time to catch up. Come, Charley, we _must_ rescue him." Again the boys sallied out, this time through the western gate. They ran along the shore, stopping occasionally to halloo and to listen for Ned's replies, which came promptly now. "They aren't getting on very fast with him," said Jack; "we're gaining on them at any rate." Again the boys ran. When they made their next pause to shout, they were astonished to hear Ned cry out, in his natural voice, from no great distance: "Is every thing burnt up?" Strangely enough the voice seemed to come from the water on the right, and both Jack and Charley were bewildered by the fact. "Where on earth are you?" called Jack. "Here," answered Ned, "out here on the oyster reef." The moon was near the zenith, and by carefully scanning the sea the boys could make out the figure of Ned, standing knee-deep in water, about fifty yards from shore. What to make of the situation they did not know. "What are you doing out there, Ned?" cried Jack. "I'm waiting for the tide to go down. Never mind me, but tell me about the fire. Did it burn the boat?" "No, only the tar in the vat and our hut. The boat is safe, and so is the stockade." "How did it catch fire?" "Why, the squatters set it afire while we were out hunting for you." "Have they been there, then?" "Yes. Haven't they had you prisoner?" "Not a bit of it. But don't stand there talking. Go back and take care of the camp. When the tide goes down I'll return. Hurry now, or those rascals will get in again and burn the boat." "But what in the world----" "Never mind that now. Go on to camp. You've no time to lose. I'll make explanations when I get there." The necessity for hurrying back was plain enough, and so, without further delay, Jack and Charley started toward the camp at a brisk trot. CHAPTER XX. A CALCULATION OF PROFIT AND LOSS. When they arrived at camp Jack and Charley found every thing as they had left it, except that their prisoner was gone. Examination showed that he had gnawed the rope with which he had been bound, and thus had set himself free. At first the boys were disposed to regard this as a mishap, but a moment's reflection convinced them of their error. "Now that we know that Ned is safe," said Charley, "we have no use for that rascal. We should have set him free in the morning at any rate." "By the way," said Jack, "what do you make of Ned's performance?" "I can't make it out at all," said Charley. "He must have been cut off from camp by the squatters and forced to take refuge out there on the oyster reef." "No, the squatters came from the other direction, don't you remember? And, besides, Ned didn't know there had been any of them about until we told him." "I'll explain all that for myself," said Ned from the outside, "if you'll be good enough to take down the gate log and let me in." This was quickly done, and Ned entered, first pushing in the cast net well filled with fish. As he straightened himself up a glad "hurrah!" came from both his companions, who saw in his hands a turtle weighing at least twenty-five pounds. "Hurrah! Now we shall have a taste of meat again. Where did you get that fine fellow, Ned?" "On the oyster reef," answered Ned; "that's how I came to be out there." "Well, tell us all about it now." "Oh, there isn't a great deal to tell. When I left camp, I went down along the shore to the east and caught a few fish, but not many. Then I determined to try the other side of the camp. I strung my fish on a limber switch and came back, intending to leave them here before going on; but as I passed I saw that the gate was closed, so I walked around without bothering you fellows, and went on toward the west. I fished along at one place and another, and finally I got to fishing in the shallow water between the oyster reef and the shore, where the mullets seemed to be holding a public meeting or something of that sort. The tide was low then, though it was coming in, and the oyster reef was out of water. Finding that my switches were full of fish, and being nearer the reef than the shore, I thought I'd just take a look over the reef to see if I could find a small turtle. I had seen one out there several days ago, and my mouth watered so for a piece of meat that the thought of turtle made me wild. So, swinging my strings of fish over my neck, I crept about in the moonlight--for the moon showed a little through the trees by that time,--and after a pretty thorough search I spied this fellow scrambling along over the oyster bed. It seemed, from the slow progress he made, that the shells hurt his bare feet as much as they did mine; but that was probably only in appearance, for when he saw me creeping up on him he made better time, and if I hadn't been so bent upon having some meat for breakfast, he would have got away. As it was I forgot my bare feet long enough to catch the gentleman. Then I tried to go ashore, but the tide had come up and I couldn't. That is to say, I couldn't wade ashore, and to swim was to lose my turtle; so I made up my mind to stick it out till the tide turned. I had to stand in water up to my waist at high tide, but I didn't mind that. I wasn't worried till I saw the blaze here at camp, and heard you fellows yelling. I answered, but you stopped calling, so I supposed it was all right. I waited two or three hours longer, till the blaze began to die down. Then you fellows began calling again, and you came to me. You know the rest. I came ashore as soon after you left as the water would let me. Now tell me all about matters here. Where's your prisoner?" The boys soon recounted the adventures of the night. "What is the measure of damage?" Ned asked when the story was ended. "The hut is destroyed," said Charley; "and the tar," added Jack. "We can make another hut in an hour, but the destruction of the tar just as we were ready to use it is a more serious matter." "Yes, it will delay us a couple of days longer with the boat," said Ned, "and that's a pity. Let's see, this is Wednesday morning--for it's nearly daybreak now. If this hadn't happened we might have got away from here by next Wednesday,--just four weeks from the day we came. Now, however, we shan't get away before the Friday or Saturday following." "Well, that will be the appointed time," said Charley. "The appointed time?" asked Ned, "what do you mean?" "Why, don't you remember? You told Maum Sally we'd be gone a month, and she warned you not to stay a day longer than that." "Oh, yes, I forgot that! It will be curious, won't it, if we get away Saturday? I hadn't the least thought of staying a week when we came." "Nor I," said Jack. "If we had suspected what we were coming to we never would have come at all, I imagine." "I don't know about that," said Charley, doubtfully. "We came for adventures, and we've had them, if I know what such things are. And we've really had a good deal of fun." "That's true," said Ned; "we couldn't expect to sleep on feather beds, or to have much luxury of any kind on such an expedition. And, after all, our little hardships haven't hurt us. My foot is about well now, and your dog-bite, Charley, is in a fair way to heal. So, if we get away safely we're all the better for the trip. It will all seem like fun when we get back to school and think about it." "I dare say we've sharpened our wits a trifle too," said Jack. "We've learned how to take care of ourselves in the woods, and we shall be a good deal quicker and sounder in our thinking for this experience." "Well, it's clear that we are not sufficiently sharpened up yet," said Charley, "or else some one of us would have seen before this precisely what the fire has done for us." "What is it, Charley?" "Why, every grain of rice that we had in the world was in the hut, and of course it is all burnt up." "The mischief!" exclaimed Ned. "That's a calamity," added Jack, "but we must get more to-day." "Yes," said Ned, "if the squatters haven't gathered it all." "Don't let us meet trouble half way," said Jack; "it will be time enough to give up the rice when we find that we can't get it. Meantime, let's have some turtle steak for breakfast. Then we'll see what is to be done." In spite of the lack of rice and all other substitutes for bread, the boys enjoyed the broiled turtle more than any thing they had eaten for a fortnight at least. After breakfast they "scouted" a little, to make sure that there were none of the squatters on their side of the island. Then Charley climbed a tall tree, the plan being that he should watch for squatters while Ned and Jack should gather rice, so that they might not be surprised at their work. The rice had been cut, and very little remained of it; but here and there a little clump of it was still standing in the grass and bushes around the patch, and a hard morning's work enabled the boys to secure enough of these gleanings to last them for ten or twelve days. CHAPTER XXI. CHARLEY'S SECRET EXPEDITION. While Charley sat in the tree-top scanning the island in search of possible squatters who might interfere with the gathering of the rice, he saw something else that put a new idea into his head, and before his watch was done he had quite made up his mind to do something brilliant which would surprise and delight his companions. What he saw was nothing more remarkable than a calf, or rather a young bull, perhaps a year old, browsing in the edge of a thicket half a mile or more to the west of the camp, and not many hundreds of yards from the shore. There is nothing remarkable in such a sight as that, but the circumstances of this case were peculiar, and so the sight set Charley, thinking. In the first place, he remembered what Ned had told him and Jack about the wild cattle on the island, and reflecting that it had been a good many years since the original stock of animals were abandoned, he could not help regarding this yearling bullock as something more than a mere bullock. It was game; a wild animal roaming at will over unoccupied lands, and to kill it would be quite as good sport as deer-stalking or bear-hunting. Then, too, Charley and his companions were really in sore need of meat. An exclusive diet of fish, oysters, and other such things soon wearies the palate, and becomes exceedingly distasteful. It is true that Ned's turtle had somewhat broken this monotony, but the relief had been only partial, and the boys very eagerly craved meat--beef, mutton, or pork. They had made no effort to get such meat, only because they had no idea that any such was to be had. The snake dinner had never been repeated. It is true that the snake was savory, and the boys had spoken truthfully when they declared themselves pleased with it. But that was while their hunger lasted, and when they had finished they had no longer a keen appetite to oppose to prejudice, so that, with full stomachs, the old objections returned, and all three boys were seized with a peculiar loathing for the food they had eaten. Perhaps it was only because they had eaten too much; but, whatever the reason was, the fact remained that they were all sickened by the thought of what they had eaten, and, while they said nothing about this feeling, no one of them ever proposed to repeat the experiment of eating snake. Now Charley meant to have an abundance of meat against which no such objection could be urged. Here was a fat young steer whose beef was to be had for the taking. How to get it was at first a perplexing question. There was no gun with which to shoot the bullock, and there were no dogs in camp with which to chase it; but after some reflection Master Charley was confident that he could kill the animal with the means at disposal. He said nothing about either his discovery or his purpose when his companions returned to camp, because he wished to give them a complete surprise. He merely said that he wanted to make a little hunting expedition, and that perhaps he might succeed in knocking over a rabbit or some other animal good to eat. His companions had little hope of any such good luck, but they offered no objection, and Charley, arming himself with the hunting-knife and the hatchet, set forth on his quest. He found the bullock not far from the place at which he had seen it before, quietly browsing in the edge of the timber. After carefully reconnoitering the position, Charley went into the woods and crept upon the animal very cautiously through the thick undergrowth. His plan was to creep up in this way until he should be within a few feet of his prey, and then, springing forward suddenly, to strike the bullock between his young horns with the hatchet. Charley had seen a butcher kill a large steer by a comparatively slight blow, delivered at the right place on the animal's head, and he was very sure that he knew where to strike. As he crept up he carefully avoided making any kind of noise, but when within a dozen feet of the place from which he meant to spring, he made a misstep, broke a stick, and alarmed the bullock, which quietly trotted away. Charley was disappointed, but by no means disheartened. He had only to begin over again, and proceed more cautiously next time. He crept very slowly and consumed nearly half an hour in his approach. This time he broke no sticks and made no noise of any kind. Nearer and nearer he drew. He could hear the bullock's breathing, but still he must get nearer. A log lay just in front of him, and he could not well spring over it before striking, without alarming the animal and missing his aim. He must creep around this obstruction first, and this he did successfully, but the bullock, though not alarmed, moved away just before Charley reached a position from which to strike. It did not run, but quietly walked away to nibble some grass which grew at a spot a dozen paces distant. This second disappointment shook Charley's already strained nerves considerably, but, impatient as he now was, he controlled himself and resumed his silent advance. Luckily the animal's head was turned directly away from him, and that fact greatly lessened the danger of his discovery. His chance was now so good, indeed, that a few moments more might have brought his attempt to a completely successful issue, if he had been content to follow his original plan. But just as he was in the act of springing forward to deliver his blow, with every prospect of success, a new thought struck Charley. It was easy to spring upon the bullock's back, and from that point Charley thought he could deal not one, but many successive blows, thus making sure work of what might not otherwise be sure. Accordingly he leaped upon the animal's back, and as he did so the startled creature sprang forward through the bushes, nearly unseating his rider. The blow which Charley tried to deliver was a disastrous failure. He missed the brute's head, and the hatchet slipping from his hand, was hurled into the thicket. Charley had no time to think of the hatchet, however. The infuriated bullock plunged headlong through the thicket and then across an open glade and into the woods again, going in the direction of the camp, and Charley had all that he could do to keep his seat. He was beaten black and blue by the saplings encountered; his face was scratched, and his clothes torn almost to shreds. Still, seeing that the bullock was going toward the camp, he held on, with an unreasoning impression that, once at the camp, the animal would be secured. Jack and Ned happened to be outside the stockade when Charley came dashing past, but of course they could do nothing, and a moment after they caught sight of their companion, he was swept from his seat by an overhanging branch of a tree, and the frightened bullock continued his impetuous flight alone. Jack and Ned hastened to their friend's assistance. For a moment Charley seemed stunned, but he soon came to himself sufficiently to ask in a querulous tone: "Why didn't you head him off?" It was not easy to convince Charley that they had been entirely powerless to capture the bullock, so fixed had been his determination to secure so valuable a prize; but after a while he began to see matters in their true light, and to understand that Ned and Jack could not have stopped the animal, even if they had been prepared for his coming, as in fact they were not. Then Charley examined his own bruises, which were pretty severe, though no bones were broken. "The worst of the damage," he said, after awhile, "is the loss of the hatchet, and I suppose we shall find that." [Illustration: THE END OF CHARLEY'S ADVENTURE.] "Did you lose the hunting-knife too?" asked Jack. "There!" exclaimed Charley; "what an idiot I am, to be sure! I had that in my belt all the time, and I might have got the beef if I had only thought to use it!" This was true enough. While going through the thicket, Charley had enough to do to cling to the back of the bullock, but while crossing the open glade he might easily have drawn and used the long hunting-knife if he had thought of it. But he had not thought of it, and it was now too late for the thinking to do any good. "It is just as well as it is," said Ned. "Just as well!" exclaimed Charley; "well, I don't see that. I don't know how it is with you, but for my part, I'd relish a beefsteak just now." "So would I," answered Ned; "but that yearling isn't ours, and we've no right to kill it, I suppose." "Why not? It's a wild animal, isn't it?" "I hardly think so. The squatters must have killed all the wild cattle long ago, and this tame calf probably belongs to them." "Well, they helped themselves pretty freely to our things, so I shouldn't be a bit sorry if I had killed the animal while I thought it a wild one," said Charley, rather ruefully. The search for the hatchet was a somewhat protracted one, but that important tool was found at last, and so, if Charley's effort to replenish the camp larder did no good, it at least did no harm beyond bruising that young huntsman's limbs, scratching his face, and tearing his clothes. CHAPTER XXII. THE LAUNCH OF THE "APHRODITE." Contrary to their expectations, the boys were left in peace by their enemies after that last unsuccessful attempt to burn their camp. The tar-kiln was promptly rebuilt, and by Saturday night a new supply of tar was ready. Early on Monday morning the work of converting this tar into pitch, by boiling it, was begun. This was necessarily a slow process, because the kettle was small and the space to be covered was large, for the plan was to paint the whole outside surface of the boat with the pitch, in order to make it as water-tight as possible. As soon as the first kettleful of pitch was ready, it was carefully applied while smoking hot, care being taken to work it well into the seams. Then another kettleful was set to boil, and so the work went slowly forward. As the pitch cooled it became hard, like varnish, and the effect was to stop all leaks pretty thoroughly. At first the boat sat right side up, but raised upon the blocks on which she had been built, so that it was easy to pass under her; but in applying the first kettleful of pitch the boys discovered the awkwardness of this position, and determined to turn the _Aphrodite_ bottom upward, for the sake of convenience. This was a difficult task, as the boat was too heavy for the combined strength of the three young ship-builders; but it was necessary to accomplish it, and Jack's mechanical skill devised means for the purpose. Cutting some long poles to serve as levers, and a large number of short, stout sticks, he directed his companions to raise one side of the boat with the levers. While they held it up he quickly built two cribs of the short sticks, one at the bow and the other at the stern, and when the levers were removed the boat rested easily upon these. Then a new bight was taken with the levers, and the side of the boat was raised a few inches further. Building the cribs up to support her in this position, Jack directed the boys to repeat the operation again and again, each time supporting the boat by increasing the height of the cribs. Finally he said: "Now one more bight will throw her over, but we must get ready first to ease her down, or else we shall strain her." "How can we do it?" asked Ned. "By setting some poles up at an angle on cribs. I'll show you." With that he went to the other side of the boat and built some cribs about five or six feet away from the gunwale on which the boat rested; carrying these up as high as his head, he took a number of straight poles and placed their ends on the ground just under the gunwale, resting the other ends upon the tall cribs. This made a slanting framework, the bottom of which was against one gunwale, while the top was not more than a few feet distant from the other edge of the boat. "Now," he said, when this was done, "she has only to fall a foot or two forward; her weight will be on her face then, and we'll ease her down by drawing out the crib-sticks." "I see a better way than that," said Ned. "Very well. What is it?" "Let's throw her forward first; then I'll show you." Resting, as the boat was, almost upon her gunwale, it was easy to push her forward, and when that was done she was a little more than half-way over. "Now," said Ned, "instead of lowering that upper gunwale, let's lift the lower one with the levers, and block it up. We needn't raise it more than a foot; then she'll show her whole under-side to us just as well as if she lay flat on her face." "Yes," said Jack, after studying the matter, "and it will be all the easier to turn her back again." "Have we got to turn her back again?" asked Charley, whose arms and back had been pretty severely taxed in the effort to reverse the position of the boat. "Well, no," said Ned, "not if we can make up our minds to launch her, bottom upward, and to ride back to Bluffton on her keel. Otherwise we must turn her right side up before we launch her." "It won't be hard to turn her back, Charley," said Jack. "She'll be nearly on edge, you see, and it won't require lifting--only a little pushing. But come, let's raise this gunwale. Six inches will do, I think." One more application of the levers served the purpose, and the work of applying the pitch was resumed. No other difficult problem presented itself, and by noon on Thursday the pitching was complete. Before turning the _Aphrodite_ back again, Jack and his companions cut some long, straight poles, and made an inclined plane of them from the blocks on which the boat rested to the water. They removed all the bark from these poles, so that they should be as smooth as possible. Then the boat was turned back into position, her side toward the water. It was necessary now to lift her up until her keel should rest upon the inclined plane, down which she was to slide, of her own weight, into the sea. This was a somewhat difficult task, requiring the use of the levers and a good deal of blocking up as the levers raised the boat, inch by inch. It was accomplished at last, however, and, suffering neither strain nor other injury, the _Aphrodite_ slipped into the sea, and rode gracefully upon the water. "Three cheers for the new boat!" cried Charley, and with a will they were given. "Now, then," said Ned, "we can begin to see the end of our adventures. Let's see. We've only to make some oars, and then we can be off." "When shall we start?" asked Jack. "Well, this is Thursday evening. We can finish three oars--two for rowing and one for steering--by to-morrow evening." "Then we can make an early start on Saturday morning," said Jack. "Not very well," said Ned. "The tide will be against us until about one o'clock or half-past, and the _Aphrodite_ is too heavy for two oars against tide." "Why can't all three row?" asked Charley, who persistently refused to understand any thing about the management of boats. "Because then we should have two oars on one side and only one on the other, and we'd go around in a circle. We can only use two oars, while the odd fellow steers. We'll be able to rest in that way, too, by taking the steering-oar turn and turn about." "Then we'll get away when the tide turns on Saturday," said Jack. "Yes, or a little before,--say at noon. That will give us plenty of time." "And we'll get back to Bluffton," said Charley, "exactly at the time appointed with Maum Sally, I wonder if she'll have some supper ready for us." "If she don't she'll have to get some pretty quick," said Ned. "I won't let her scold me till she sets supper before us, and she won't be happy till she gives me a good 'settin' to rights,' as she calls it." "Hadn't we better wait until we get to Bluffton before we order that supper?" said Jack; "there's 'many a slip,' you know." "What a croaker you're getting to be, Jack!" exclaimed Charley. "What's to bother us now, I'd like to know? We've got a good boat, we can make oars to-morrow, and Ned knows the way." "Oh, certainly!" replied Jack. "I suppose we shall get there safely, and I'm not in the least disposed to croak. I only thought that you and Ned were a trifle hasty in your assumption that every thing is to go perfectly smooth with us. For the last month things have had a pretty fixed habit of going the other way." "Well, but we've conquered our difficulties now, and there's nothing that I can think of to stand in the way of our getting off at the appointed time. And if we leave here at noon on Saturday, what can happen to prevent our arrival at Bluffton that evening?" "I'm sure I don't know," said Jack; "nothing at all, I hope. But when I think what a chapter of accidents we've been through, I am disposed to wait till I see Maum Sally, before I get my mouth ready for the supper she's to cook." CHAPTER XXIII. THE VOYAGE OF THE "APHRODITE." Saturday dawned soft and warm. After breakfast the boys cooked the few provisions that remained, intending to eat their mid-day meal in the boat, as a mere luncheon, and to satisfy their appetites with better food of Maum Sally's preparing, when they should arrive at Bluffton. They filled the coffee-pot with drinking water--for the water kegs of the _Red Bird_ had been lost in that boat's mishap,--and bestowed their other scant belongings on board. The moment that the outgoing tide grew slack they began their homeward voyage, giving the old camp three lusty, farewell cheers, and parting with their old associations there with a touch of real regret. For the first mile or two Ned and Jack were at the oars. Then Charley relieved Ned, as the boat drew out from among the low-lying marsh islands into a broad stretch of water. The wind was blowing in from the sea, not strongly, but steadily, and after an hour's rowing Jack saw that Ned was rather uneasily watching some light, low-flying banks of mist which were scudding along overhead. "What is it, Ned?" he asked. "Nothing of importance--or at least I hope so." "Well, what is it? Do those little clouds mean rain?" "I wish they did," said Ned; "but they're not clouds, at least in the usual sense, and I'm afraid they don't mean rain." "Out with it. We're partners in all our joys and sorrows," said Charley, "so let's hear all about the clouds that aren't clouds but something else. What are they?" "A sea fog," answered Ned; "this breeze is coming in from the sea laden with moisture, and those clouds just above us are banks of fog." "Well, what of it?" "We shall be shut in in five minutes," said Ned. "Look! you can't see half a mile now, and it is settling right down upon us, growing thicker every minute." It was as Ned said. The wall of thick fog was closing in, and it was already impossible to see any thing except the waste of water around them. A few minutes later even the water could be seen for only a few yards around. "Lie on your oars, boys," said Ned. "Why not row on?" asked Charley. "Because I don't know which way to steer, and rowing may only take us out of our course." "Can't you hold your course straight ahead?" "No. That would be possible in a fog if rowing always drove a boat straight ahead, and if there were no cross currents in the water; but both 'ifs' stand in the way. Without a compass nobody can keep a boat in any thing like a straight course in such a fog. The tide is running up, and so if we don't row at all we shall drift in the right direction, at least in a general way, while if we row, we may go all wrong." "How long is such a fog likely to last?" asked Jack. "It is impossible to tell. A change in the wind or in the state of the atmosphere may clear it away at any moment; or it may last a week." "A week!" exclaimed Charley; "what shall we do if it does? We haven't an ounce of food left, and only a little water," looking into the coffee-pot. "We needn't manage the whole week this afternoon," said Jack. "It will be better to keep cool and do the best thing that can be done every minute. Just now, Ned says, the best thing is to drift with the tide, so we'll drift, and wait, and keep our wits about us so as to see any chance that offers for doing better." Jack spoke in a cheerful voice, and his tone of courage served to brace his companions somewhat, but it was plain to all three that their position was really one of great danger and uncertainty. It was Jack's excellent habit, however, to grow strong and courageous in difficulty or danger; he never allowed himself to become panic-stricken, or to do foolish, frantic things. "Jack," said Charley after a while, "I don't believe there's any whine in you." "I don't know," replied Jack; "I hope there isn't. What good would whining do?" An hour passed, and still the fog grew thicker. Another hour; the breeze had ceased to blow, and the gray mist lay like a blanket over the water. It seemed piled in thick layers, one on top of another. It was so dense that it could be seen floating between one of the boys and another, like smoke from a cigar. The boys could see its slow writhing and twisting in the still air, moved as it was only by their breath, or by the occasional movements of their bodies. It would have been impossible in such a fog to see a ship twenty feet distant. For still another hour and another the boys sat still in the boat, rarely speaking or in any way breaking the awful silence of the fog-bound solitude. At last Ned bent his head down close to the gunwale to scan the surface of the water. "I see marsh grass here," he said, "but it is completely under water. Watch for any that shows above the surface, and if you see any catch hold of it and hold on." The boys bent over, one on one side, the other on the other. Presently the protruding tops of the tall marsh grass appeared above the water, and seemed to float slowly by. Several times Jack and Charley caught small bunches of it, but the impetus of the drifting boat was too great, and the grass was pulled up from the muddy bottom. After a little while, the water growing shallower, the grass showed higher above the surface, while it increased also in quantity, impeding the motion of the boat. Then each of the boys seized a bunch and the boat was brought to a stand. "There, that's better," said Ned, as the motion of the boat ceased. "Why don't you want to drift?" asked Jack. "Because it is about the turn of the tide," answered Ned, "and I don't want to drift in the wrong direction." "Then why didn't you cast anchor when you first saw from the grass that we were in shallow water?" "Because I don't want to be caught here on a marsh island if I can help it." "I don't understand," said Jack. "Well, you see it is about high tide now, and we have drifted upon one of the many mud banks covered with this marsh grass. Some of them are covered with water at high tide, as this one is, but quite bare when the tide is out. When I saw that we were drifting over one I wanted to stop the boat, to avoid being carried back again toward the sea; but we're in danger of getting left here high and dry on a mud bank when the tide runs out, and that would be a bad fix to get into. So instead of dropping anchor, we'll simply hold on by the grass, and as the tide goes out we'll try to work off into deeper water." "I see," said Jack. "I wish I could, then," said Charley, who had recovered his spirits; "if I could see I'd steer for Bluffton." "Come, Charley," said Ned, "this is no joking matter, I can assure you. It's growing quite dark now, and unless the fog lifts very soon we may be stuck here in the mud, for the night at least; suppose you give her a few stokes with the oars, boys; the tide is falling rapidly, and we must get off this bank." The boys rowed slowly, Ned steering and watching the water. It grew steadily shallower, so he turned the boat about, convinced that the direction he had taken was toward the centre of the bank, instead of toward the deep water. He had not gone far in the new direction however, before the keel scraped the mud, and another change had to be made in the course. Still the keel scraped, in whatever direction he turned. "Pull away with all your might, boys!" he cried; "if we don't reach deep water in five minutes we're stuck!" Jack and Charley bent to their oars, and for a few minutes the boat slipped forward through the tall marsh grass. But her keel was dragging in the soft mud, and as the tide was rapidly running out, the boat sank deeper every minute. "Pull away, as hard as you can!" cried Ned, seeing that the speed was rapidly growing less. "Here, you're exhausted, Jack; let me take your oar. Now, Charley, give it to her!" The oarsmen bent to their work with the strength of desperation, but the keel was now completely buried in the mud, and the whole bottom of the boat rested in the slimy ooze. Do what they would, the boys could drive her no further. "Stuck!" cried Jack. "Yes, stuck, fairly stuck, and in for a night of it, fog or no fog," said Ned. "What's to be done?" asked Charley. "Nothing now, except go to sleep if we can. It's so cold and raw that we'll find that pretty hard work. I wish we had brought a lot of moss for blankets." "But what if the fog lifts in the night?" asked Charley. "Well, what if it does? We can do nothing now till the tide comes in to-morrow morning. We're high and dry now, and the tide will continue to run out until one or two o'clock to-night. Then it will turn, but we shan't be afloat again till very nearly high tide,--say about seven or eight o'clock to-morrow morning." "Yes," said Jack, "and as we have eaten nearly nothing since morning, and have nothing to eat till we get to Bluffton, we shall need all the strength we can get from sleep. So let's sleep if we can." Bestowing themselves as comfortably as they could, the three worn-out, half-famished lads did their best to sleep; but there was very little chance of that. No sooner had they ceased to exert themselves, than the penetrating cold of the fog, which had already saturated their scanty clothing, made them shiver and shake as with an ague fit. They were obliged occasionally to go to the oars for exercise, in order to keep their blood in circulation, and so there was no chance of any thing like sleep beyond an occasional cat nap. Not long before dawn it began to rain, and Ned, who had been dozing, suddenly sprang up, crying out: "What's that? Rain? Good!" "Why, 'good'?" asked Charley, shivering; "I'm damp enough already." "Good, because if it rains hard the fog will disappear." "Why?" "Because it will be converted into rain, and fall. A fog disappears always either by rising and floating away, or by falling in the shape of rain; and this one means to fall, I should say, if I may judge by the way it is coming down now." It had, indeed, begun to pour. The condition of the boys was thus rendered still more uncomfortable than before, but at least their prospects were brightened by way of compensation, and as the steady downpour cleared the air of the dense fog, their spirits bounded up again in spite of all the discomforts of their situation. "I say, Jack," said Charley, "are you a prophet or a weather witch?" "Neither, so far as I am informed," replied Jack; "why do you ask?" "Only because I suspect that you either foresaw this fog or created it." "I don't see the force of your suspicion," said Jack. "Don't you remember how you croaked about slips between the cup and the lip when Ned and I were so sure of getting to Bluffton?" "Yes, of course; but I didn't really expect any thing of this nature. I only spoke generally." "Out of the abundance of your wisdom. But I won't make fun, for you were right." "And, besides," said Ned, "the situation just now isn't a bit funny. There's a young river running down my back, and I'm in for a good scolding from Maum Sally when I see her. She'll scold me for overstaying my time, for wrecking the boat, for losing my boots, for spoiling my clothes, and for every thing else she can think of. And yet, though you'll hardly believe it, I heartily wish I could be sure of getting that scolding very early this morning." CHAPTER XXIV. MAUM SALLY. Daylight came about five o'clock, and Ned made use of the earliest light for looking about him and determining his position. So buried was the boat in the tall marsh grass, that he had to stand upon the highest part of the bow in order to see at all. At first he could make out very little, but as it grew lighter--for, the rain having ceased, the light gained rapidly toward six o'clock--he was able to make out the bearings pretty well. "I say, fellows," he said, turning to his companions, "we made a centre shot. If we had tried, in the broadest light of the clearest day, we couldn't have put the _Aphrodite_ more exactly in the middle of this marsh bank." Further inspection showed that this judgment was accurate. The boat lay precisely in the middle of the little island, which stretched away two or three hundred yards on each side. The tide had risen enough by half-past six for the water to lick the sides of the boat, but it would be a full hour or more before the _Aphrodite_ would float up out of the mud, and even then it would be necessary to wait awhile longer for deeper water, before trying to push her great bulk through the rank marsh grass. "Why not hurry matters by getting out and pushing the empty boat?" asked impatient Charley, who had already declared himself to be in a state of actual starvation. "Just take one of the oars, Charley," said Ned, "and feel of the bottom we should have to walk on." Charley took the oar, pushed it through the roots of the grass, and then, with scarcely an effort, plunged its whole length straight downward through the soft mud. "Ya--as, I see," he drawled, as he drew the oar out again; "it isn't precisely the sort of lawn that one would choose for walking about on in slippers." Just then oars were heard, and looking in the direction from which the sound came, Ned suddenly cried out: "Hi! Maum Sally! Hi there! Here we are, out here in the marsh!" Then turning to his companions, he said: "It's Maum Sally in the little boat. I wonder where she's going this early on Sunday morning." [Illustration: "HI! MAUM SALLY!"] Maum Sally did not leave him long in doubt on this head. Rowing her boat as far into the grass and as near to them as she could, she came to a stop at about a hundred and fifty yards from the _Aphrodite_. Then standing up in her boat, placing her bare arms akimbo, and tossing her red-turbaned head back, she began: "Now, look heah, young Ned! What you mean by dis heah sort o' doins? Didn't you promise me faithful to be back agin in a month? An' ain't de month done gone, an' heah you is a idlin' about on a ma'sh, an' it Sunday mawnin' too? Jes' you come straight 'long home now." After she had spent her first breath in a tirade which was half scolding and half coddling,--for that was always her way with Ned, whom she had spoiled all his life, from the cradle upward,--she paused long enough for Ned to explain that he and his companions could not go to her until the tide should rise at least a foot more. "Now listen, boys," he said; "she'll keep it up till the rising tide brings her to us, and we're in for an hour of it." "Why not persuade her to go back and get breakfast ready by the time we get there?" asked Jack. "Go back? Not she. My month was up yesterday, and as I didn't put in an appearance, she set out to find me and bring me home this morning, and you just bet she won't go home without me. She'll row this way as fast as the rising water will let her, and she'll keep on scolding and coddling me all the time. Then she'll jump in here and hug me as if I were her long-lost baby boy. Hear her!" Maum Sally fulfilled Ned's prediction to the letter. As she drew nearer, and made out the forlorn condition of the young Crusoes, discovering, little by little, how ragged they were, she scolded more and more savagely, while Ned laughed and heartily enjoyed it all, taking pains to direct her attention to the various losses he had sustained, and hinting now and then at the difficulties he had encountered and the dangers he had passed. Each word of his gave Maum Sally a new theme for her scolding, and as the little boat pushed itself up to the big one she leaped from the one into the other, changing her tone, manner, and expression in the very middle of a sentence, somewhat thus: "I tell you, young Ned, ef I gits my han's on you, you ugly, provokin', no 'count young scape--darlin', blessed boy, aint ole Sally happy to git her arms roun' you agin, and hug you jis like you was a baby agin; an' now I's got you safe in these arms agin, I tell you I's happy." The sudden change in the sentence occurred just as Maum Sally stepped from one boat into the other, and fell upon Ned with that savage fury of affection which only a dear old black nurse can feel. To row out of the marsh when the water grew a little deeper, and then to row home to a late but toothsome breakfast, was easy enough now. Then a long day of complete rest followed, and the whole story of the wreck of the _Red Bird_ was a memory merely. THE END. 
40760	----	for Project Gutenberg. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) [Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.] FIFTY YEARS IN CHAINS; OR, THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN SLAVE. "My God! can such things be? Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done Unto thy weakest and thy humblest one, Is even done to Thee?"--WHITTIER. New-York H. DAYTON, PUBLISHER 36 HOWARD STREET. Indianapolis, Ind.:--Asher & Company. 1860. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1858, by H. DAYTON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. J. J. REED, PRINTER & STEREOTYPER, 43 Centre-St., N. Y. PREFACE. The story which follows is _true_ in every particular. Responsible citizens of a neighboring State can vouch for the reality of the narrative. The language of the slave has not at all times been strictly adhered to, as a half century of bondage unfitted him for literary work. The subject of the story _is still a slave_ by the laws of this country, and it would not be wise to reveal his name. FIFTY YEARS IN CHAINS OR, THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN SLAVE. CHAPTER I. SEPARATED FROM MY MOTHER. My story is a true one, and I shall tell it in a simple style. It will be merely a recital of my life as a slave in the Southern States of the Union--a description of negro slavery in the "model Republic." My grandfather was brought from Africa and sold as a slave in Calvert county, in Maryland. I never understood the name of the ship in which he was imported, nor the name of the planter who bought him on his arrival, but at the time I knew him he was a slave in a family called Maud, who resided near Leonardtown. My father was a slave in a family named Hauty, living near the same place. My mother was the slave of a tobacco planter, who died when I was about four years old. My mother had several children, and they were sold upon master's death to separate purchasers. She was sold, my father told me, to a Georgia trader. I, of all her children, was the only one left in Maryland. When sold I was naked, never having had on clothes in my life, but my new master gave me a child's frock, belonging to one of his own children. After he had purchased me, he dressed me in this garment, took me before him on his horse, and started home; but my poor mother, when she saw me leaving her for the last time, ran after me, took me down from the horse, clasped me in her arms, and wept loudly and bitterly over me. My master seemed to pity her, and endeavored to soothe her distress by telling her that he would be a good master to me, and that I should not want anything. She then, still holding me in her arms, walked along the road beside the horse as he moved slowly, and earnestly and imploringly besought my master to buy her and the rest of her children, and not permit them to be carried away by the negro buyers; but whilst thus entreating him to save her and her family, the slave-driver, who had first bought her, came running in pursuit of her with a raw-hide in his hand. When he overtook us, he told her he was her master now, and ordered her to give that little negro to its owner, and come back with him. My mother then turned to him and cried, "Oh, master, do not take me from my child!" Without making any reply, he gave her two or three heavy blows on the shoulders with his raw-hide, snatched me from her arms, handed me to my master, and seizing her by one arm, dragged her back towards the place of sale. My master then quickened the pace of his horse; and as we advanced, the cries of my poor parent became more and more indistinct--at length they died away in the distance, and I never again heard the voice of my poor mother. Young as I was, the horrors of that day sank deeply into my heart, and even at this time, though half a century has elapsed, the terrors of the scene return with painful vividness upon my memory. Frightened at the sight of the cruelties inflicted upon my poor mother, I forgot my own sorrows at parting from her and clung to my new master, as an angel and a saviour, when compared with the hardened fiend into whose power she had fallen. She had been a kind and good mother to me; had warmed me in her bosom in the cold nights of winter; and had often divided the scanty pittance of food allowed her by her mistress, between my brothers, and sisters, and me, and gone supperless to bed herself. Whatever victuals she could obtain beyond the coarse food, salt fish and corn bread, allowed to slaves on the Patuxent and Potomac rivers, she carefully distributed among her children, and treated us with all the tenderness which her own miserable condition would permit. I have no doubt that she was chained and driven to Carolina, and toiled out the residue of a forlorn and famished existence in the rice swamps, or indigo fields of the South. My father never recovered from the effects of the shock, which this sudden and overwhelming ruin of his family gave him. He had formerly been of a gay, social temper, and when he came to see us on a Saturday night, he always brought us some little present, such as the means of a poor slave would allow--apples, melons, sweet potatoes, or, if he could procure nothing else, a little parched corn, which tasted better in our cabin, because he had brought it. He spent the greater part of the time, which his master permitted him to pass with us, in relating such stories as he had learned from his companions, or in singing the rude songs common amongst the slaves of Maryland and Virginia. After this time I never heard him laugh heartily, or sing a song. He became gloomy and morose in his temper, to all but me; and spent nearly all his leisure time with my grandfather, who claimed kindred with some royal family in Africa, and had been a great warrior in his native country. The master of my father was a hard, penurious man, and so exceedingly avaricious, that he scarcely allowed himself the common conveniences of life. A stranger to sensibility, he was incapable of tracing the change in the temper and deportment of my father, to its true cause; but attributed it to a sullen discontent with his condition as a slave, and a desire to abandon his service, and seek his liberty by escaping to some of the free States. To prevent the perpetration of this suspected crime of _running away from slavery_, the old man resolved to sell my father to a southern slave-dealer, and accordingly applied to one of those men, who was at that time in Calvert, to become the purchaser. The price was agreed on, but, as my father was a very strong, active, and resolute man, it was deemed unsafe for the Georgian to attempt to seize him, even with the aid of others, in the day-time, when he was at work, as it was known he carried upon his person a large knife. It was therefore determined to secure him by stratagem, and for this purpose, a farmer in the neighborhood, who was made privy to the plan, alleged that he had lost a pig, which must have been stolen by some one, and that he suspected my father to be the thief. A constable was employed to arrest him, but as he was afraid to undertake the business alone, he called on his way, at the house of the master of my grandfather, to procure assistance from the overseer of the plantation. When he arrived at the house, the overseer was at the barn, and thither he repaired to make his application. At the end of the barn was the coach-house, and as the day was cool, to avoid the wind which was high, the two walked to the side of the coach-house to talk over the matter, and settle their plan of operations. It so happened that my grandfather, whose business it was to keep the coach in good condition, was at work at this time, rubbing the plated handles of the doors, and brightening the other metallic parts of the vehicle. Hearing the voice of the overseer without, he suspended his work, and listening attentively, became a party to their councils. They agreed that they would delay the execution of their project until the next day, as it was then late. They supposed they would have no difficulty in apprehending their intended victim, as, knowing himself innocent of the theft, he would readily consent to go with the constable to a justice of the peace, to have the charge examined. That night, however, about midnight, my grandfather silently repaired to the cabin of my father, a distance of about three miles, aroused him from his sleep, made him acquainted with the extent of his danger, gave him a bottle of cider and a small bag of parched corn, and then enjoined him to fly from the destination which awaited him. In the morning the Georgian could not find his newly purchased slave, who was never seen or heard of in Maryland from that day. After the flight of my father, my grandfather was the only person left in Maryland with whom I could claim kindred. He was an old man, nearly eighty years old, he said, and he manifested all the fondness for me that I could expect from one so old. He was feeble, and his master required but little work from him. He always expressed contempt for his fellow-slaves, for when young, he was an African of rank in his native land. He had a small cabin of his own, with half an acre of ground attached to it, which he cultivated on his own account, and from which he drew a large share of his sustenance. He had singular religious notions--never going to meeting or caring for the preachers he could, if he would, occasionally hear. He retained his native traditions respecting the Deity and hereafter. It is not strange that he believed the religion of his oppressors to be the invention of designing men, for the text oftenest quoted in his hearing was, "Servants, be obedient to your masters." The name of the man who purchased me at the vendue, and became my master, was John Cox; but he was generally called Jack Cox. He was a man of kindly feelings towards his family, and treated his slaves, of whom he had several besides me, with humanity. He permitted my grandfather to visit me as often as he pleased, and allowed him sometimes to carry me to his own cabin, which stood in a lonely place, at the head of a deep hollow, almost surrounded by a thicket of cedar trees, which had grown up in a worn out and abandoned tobacco field. My master gave me better clothes than the little slaves of my age generally received in Calvert, and often told me that he intended to make me his waiter, and that if I behaved well I should become his overseer in time. These stations of waiter and overseer appeared to me to be the highest points of honor and greatness in the whole world, and had not circumstances frustrated my master's plans, as well as my own views, I should probably have been living at this time in a cabin on the corner of some tobacco plantation. Fortune had decreed otherwise. When I was about twelve years old, my master, Jack Cox, died of a disease which had long confined him to the house. I was sorry for the death of my master, who had always been kind to me; and I soon discovered that I had good cause to regret his departure from this world. He had several children at the time of his death, who were all young; the oldest being about my own age. The father of my late master, who was still living, became administrator of his estate, and took possession of his property, and amongst the rest, of myself. This old gentleman treated me with the greatest severity, and compelled me to work very hard on his plantation for several years, until I suppose I must have been near or quite twenty years of age. As I was always very obedient, and ready to execute all his orders, I did not receive much whipping, but suffered greatly for want of sufficient and proper food. My master allowed his slaves a peck of corn, each, per week, throughout the year; and this we had to grind into meal in a hand-mill for ourselves. We had a tolerable supply of meat for a short time, about the month of December, when he killed his hogs. After that season we had meat once a week, unless bacon became scarce, which very often happened, in which case we had no meat at all. However, as we fortunately lived near both the Patuxent river and the Chesapeake Bay, we had abundance of fish in the spring, and as long as the fishing season continued. After that period, each slave received, in addition to his allowance of corn, one salt herring every day. My master gave me one pair of shoes, one pair of stockings, one hat, one jacket of coarse cloth, two coarse shirts, and two pair of trowsers, yearly. He allowed me no other clothes. In the winter time I often suffered very much from the cold; as I had to drive the team of oxen which hauled the tobacco to market, and frequently did not get home until late at night, the distance being considerable, and my cattle traveled very slow. One Saturday evening, when I came home from the corn field, my master told me that he had hired me out for a year at the city of Washington, and that I would have to live at the Navy Yard. On the New Year's day following, which happened about two weeks afterwards, my master set forward for Washington, on horseback, and ordered me to accompany him on foot. It was night when we arrived at the Navy Yard, and everything appeared very strange to me. I was told by a gentleman who had epaulets on his shoulders, that I must go on board a large ship, which lay in the river. He at the same time told a boy to show me the way. This ship proved to be a frigate, and I was told that I had been brought there to cook for the people belonging to her. In the course of a few days the duties of my station became quite familiar to me; and in the enjoyment of a profusion of excellent provisions, I felt very happy. I strove by all means to please the officers and gentlemen who came on board, and in this I soon found my account. One gave me a half-worn coat, another an old shirt, and a third, a cast off waistcoat and pantaloons. Some presented me with small sums of money, and in this way I soon found myself well clothed, and with more than a dollar in my pocket. My duties, though constant, were not burthensome, and I was permitted to spend Sunday afternoon in my own way. I generally went up into the city to see the new and splendid buildings; often walked as far as Georgetown, and made many new acquaintances among the slaves, and frequently saw large numbers of people of my color chained together in long trains, and driven off towards the South. At that time the slave-trade was not regarded with so much indignation and disgust, as it is now. It was a rare thing to hear of a person of color running away, and escaping altogether from his master: my father being the only one within my knowledge, who had, before this time, obtained his liberty in this manner, in Calvert county; and, as before stated, I never heard what became of him after his flight. I remained on board the frigate, and about the Navy Yard, two years, and was quite satisfied with my lot, until about three months before the expiration of this period, when it so happened that a schooner, loaded with iron and other materials for the use of the yard, arrived from Philadelphia. She came and lay close by the frigate, to discharge her cargo, and amongst her crew I observed a black man, with whom, in the course of a day or two, I became acquainted. He told me he was free, and lived in Philadelphia, where he kept a house of entertainment for sailors, which, he said, was attended to in his absence by his wife. His description of Philadelphia, and of the liberty enjoyed there by the black people, so charmed my imagination that I determined to devise some plan of escaping from the frigate, and making my way to the North. I communicated my designs to my new friend, who promised to give me his aid. We agreed that the night before the schooner should sail, I was to be concealed in the hold, amongst a parcel of loose tobacco, which, he said, the captain had undertaken to carry to Philadelphia. The sailing of the schooner was delayed longer than we expected; and, finally, her captain purchased a cargo of flour in Georgetown, and sailed for the West Indies. Whilst I was anxiously awaiting some other opportunity of making my way to Philadelphia, (the idea of crossing the country to the western part of Pennsylvania, never entered my mind,) New Year's day came, and with it came my old master from Calvert, accompanied by a gentleman named Gibson, to whom, he said, he had sold me, and to whom he delivered me over in the Navy Yard. We all three set out that same evening for Calvert, and reached the residence of my new master the next day. Here, I was informed, that I had become the subject of a law-suit. My new master claimed me under his purchase from old Mr. Cox; and another gentleman of the neighborhood, named Levin Ballard, had bought me of the children of my former master, Jack Cox. This suit continued in the courts of Calvert county more than two years; but was finally decided in favor of him who had bought me of the children. I went home with my master, Mr. Gibson, who was a farmer, and with whom I lived three years. Soon after I came to live with Mr. Gibson, I married a girl of color named Judah, the slave of a gentleman by the name of Symmes, who resided in the same neighborhood. I was at the house of Mr. Symmes every week; and became as well acquainted with him and his family, as I was with my master. Mr. Symmes also married a wife about the time I did. The lady whom he married lived near Philadelphia, and when she first came to Maryland, she refused to be served by a black chambermaid, but employed a white girl, the daughter of a poor man, who lived near. The lady was reported to be very wealthy, and brought a large trunk full of plate and other valuable articles. This trunk was so heavy that I could scarcely carry it, and it impressed my mind with the idea of great riches in the owner, at that time. After some time Mrs. Symmes dismissed her white chambermaid and placed my wife in that situation, which I regarded as a fortunate circumstance, as it insured her good food, and at least one good suit of clothes. The Symmes' family was one of the most ancient in Maryland, and had been a long time resident in Calvert county. The grounds had been laid out, and all the improvements projected about the family abode, in a style of much magnificence, according to the custom of the old aristocracy of Maryland and Virginia. Appendant to the domicile, and at no great distance from the house, was a family vault, built of brick, in which reposed the occupants of the estate, who had lived there for many previous generations. This vault had not been opened or entered for fifteen years previous to the time of which I speak; but it so happened, that at this period, a young man, a distant relation of the family, died, having requested on his death-bed, that he might be buried in this family resting place. When I came on Saturday evening to see my wife and child, Mr. Symmes desired me, as I was older than any of his black men, to take an iron pick and go and open the vault, which I accordingly did, by cutting away the mortar, and removing a few bricks from one side of the building; but I could not remove more than three or four bricks before I was obliged, by the horrid effluvia which issued at the aperture, to retire. It was the most deadly and sickening scent that I have ever smelled, and I could not return to complete the work until after the sun had risen the next day, when I pulled down so much of one of the side walls, as to permit persons to walk in upright. I then went in alone, and examined this house of the dead, and surely no picture could more strongly and vividly depict the emptiness of all earthly vanity, and the nothingness of human pride. Dispersed over the floor lay the fragments of more than twenty human skeletons, each in the place where it had been deposited by the idle tenderness of surviving friends. In some cases nothing remained but the hair and the larger bones, whilst in several the form of the coffin was yet visible, with all the bones resting in their proper places. One coffin, the sides of which were yet standing, the lid only having decayed and partly fallen in, so as to disclose the contents of this narrow cell, presented a peculiarly moving spectacle. Upon the centre of the lid was a large silver plate, and the head and foot were adorned with silver stars.--The nails which had united the parts of the coffin had also silver heads. Within lay the skeletons of a mother and her infant child, in slumbers only to be broken by the peal of the last trumpet. The bones of the infant lay upon the breast of the mother, where the hands of affection had shrouded them. The ribs of the parent had fallen down, and rested on the back bone. Many gold rings were about the bones of the fingers. Brilliant ear-rings lay beneath where the ears had been; and a glittering gold chain encircled the ghastly and haggard vertebræ of a once beautiful neck The shroud and flesh had disappeared, but the hair of the mother appeared strong and fresh. Even the silken locks of the infant were still preserved. Behold the end of youth and beauty, and of all that is lovely in life! The coffin was so much decayed that it could not be removed. A thick and dismal vapor hung embodied from the roof and walls of this charnel house, in appearance somewhat like a mass of dark cobwebs; but which was impalpable to the touch, and when stirred by the hand vanished away. On the second day we deposited with his kindred, the corpse of the young man, and at night I again carefully closed up the breach which I had made in the walls of this dwelling-place of the dead. CHAPTER II Some short time after my wife became chambermaid to her mistress, it was my misfortune to change masters once more. Levin Ballard, who, as before stated, had purchased me of the children of my former master, Jack Cox, was successful in his law suit with Mr. Gibson, the object of which was to determine the right of property in me; and one day, whilst I was at work in the corn-field, Mr. Ballard came and told me I was his property; asking me at the same time if I was willing to go with him. I told him I was not willing to go; but that if I belonged to him I knew I must. We then went to the house, and Mr. Gibson not being at home, Mrs. Gibson told me I must go with Mr. Ballard. I accordingly went with him, determining to serve him obediently and faithfully. I remained in his service almost three years, and as he lived near the residence of my wife's master, my former mode of life was not materially changed, by this change of home. Mrs. Symmes spent much of her time in exchanging visits with the families of the other large planters, both in Calvert and the neighboring counties; and through my wife, I became acquainted with the private family history of many of the principal persons in Maryland. There was a great proprietor, who resided in another county, who owned several hundred slaves; and who permitted them to beg of travelers on the high-way. This same gentleman had several daughters, and according to the custom of the time, kept what they called open house: that is, his house was free to all persons of genteel appearance, who chose to visit it. The young ladies were supposed to be the greatest fortunes in the country, were reputed beautiful, and consequently were greatly admired. Two gentlemen, who were lovers of these girls, desirous of amusing their mistresses, invited a young man, whose standing in society they supposed to be beneath theirs, to go with them to the manor, as it was called. When there, they endeavored to make him an object of ridicule, in presence of the ladies; but he so well acquitted himself, and manifested such superior wit and talents, that one of the young ladies fell in love with him, and soon after wrote him a letter, which led to their marriage. His two pretended friends were never afterwards countenanced by the family, as gentlemen of honor; but the fortunate husband avenged himself of his heartless companions, by inviting them to his wedding, and exposing them to the observation of the vast assemblage of fashionable people, who always attended a marriage, in the family of a great planter. The two gentlemen, who had been thus made to fall into the pit that they had dug for another, were so much chagrined at the issue of the adventure, that one soon left Maryland; and the other became a common drunkard, and died a few years afterwards. My change of masters realized all the evil apprehensions which I had entertained. I found Mr. Ballard sullen and crabbed in his temper, and always prone to find fault with my conduct--no matter how hard I had labored, or how careful I was to fulfil all his orders, and obey his most unreasonable commands. Yet, it so happened, that he never beat me, for which, I was altogether indebted to the good character, for industry, sobriety and humility, which I had established in the neighborhood. I think he was ashamed to abuse me, lest he should suffer in the good opinion of the public; for he often fell into the most violent fits of anger against me, and overwhelmed me with coarse and abusive language. He did not give me clothes enough to keep me warm in winter, and compelled me to work in the woods, when there was deep snow on the ground, by which I suffered very much. I had determined at last to speak to him to sell me to some person in the neighborhood, so that I might still be near my wife and children--but a different fate awaited me. My master kept a store at a small village on the bank of the Patuxent river, called B----, although he resided at some distance on a farm. One morning he rose early, and ordered me to take a yoke of oxen and go to the village, to bring home a cart which was there, saying he would follow me. He arrived at the village soon after I did, and took his breakfast with his store-keeper. He then told me to come into the house and get my breakfast. Whilst I was eating in the kitchen, I observed him talking earnestly, but low, to a stranger near the kitchen door. I soon after went out, and hitched my oxen to the cart, and was about to drive off, when several men came round about me, and amongst them the stranger whom I had seen speaking with my master. This man came up to me, and, seizing me by the collar, shook me violently, saying I was his property, and must go with him to Georgia. At the sound of these words, the thoughts of my wife and children rushed across my mind, and my heart beat away within me. I saw and knew that my case was hopeless, and that resistance was vain, as there were near twenty persons present, all of whom were ready to assist the man by whom I was kidnapped. I felt incapable of weeping or speaking, and in my despair I laughed loudly. My purchaser ordered me to cross my hands behind, which were quickly bound with a strong cord; and he then told me that we must set out that very day for the South. I asked if I could not be allowed to go to see my wife and children, or if this could not be permitted, if they might not have leave to come to see me; but was told that I would be able to get another wife in Georgia. My new master, whose name I did not hear, took me that same day across the Patuxent, where I joined fifty-one other slaves, whom he had bought in Maryland. Thirty-two of these were men, and nineteen were women. The women were merely tied together with a rope, about the size of a bed-cord, which was tied like a halter round the neck of each; but the men, of whom I was the stoutest and strongest, were very differently caparisoned. A strong iron collar was closely fitted by means of a padlock round each of our necks. A chain of iron, about a hundred feet in length, was passed through the hasp of each padlock, except at the two ends, where the hasps of the padlock passed through a link of the chain. In addition to this, we were handcuffed in pairs, with iron staples and bolts, with a short chain, about a foot long, uniting the handcuffs and their wearers in pairs. In this manner we were chained alternately by the right and left hand; and the poor man to whom I was thus ironed, wept like an infant when the blacksmith, with his heavy hammer, fastened the ends of the bolts that kept the staples from slipping from our arms. For my own part, I felt indifferent to my fate. It appeared to me that the worst had come that could come, and that no change of fortune could harm me. After we were all chained and handcuffed together, we sat down upon the ground; and here reflecting upon the sad reverse of fortune that had so suddenly overtaken me, I became weary of life, and bitterly execrated the day I was born. It seemed that I was destined by fate to drink the cup of sorrow to the very dregs, and that I should find no respite from misery but in the grave. I longed to die, and escape from the hands of my tormentors; but even the wretched privilege of destroying myself was denied me, for I could not shake off my chains, nor move a yard without the consent of my master. Reflecting in silence upon my forlorn condition, I at length concluded that as things could not become worse--and as the life of man is but a continued round of changes, they must, of necessity, take a turn in my favor at some future day. I found relief in this vague and indefinite hope, and when we received orders to go on board the scow, which was to transport us over the Patuxent, I marched down to the water with a firmness of purpose of which I did not believe myself capable, a few minutes before. We were soon on the south side of the river, and taking up our line of march, we traveled about five miles that evening, and stopped for the night at one of those miserable public houses, so frequent in the lower parts of Maryland and Virginia, called "_ordinaries_." Our master ordered a pot of mush to be made for our supper; after despatching which we all lay down on the naked floor to sleep in our handcuffs and chains. The women, my fellow-slaves, lay on one side of the room; and the men who were chained with me, occupied the other. I slept but little this night, which I passed in thinking of my wife and little children, whom I could not hope ever to see again. I also thought of my grandfather, and of the long nights I had passed with him, listening to his narratives of the scenes through which he had passed in Africa. I at length fell asleep, but was distressed by painful dreams. My wife and children appeared to be weeping and lamenting my calamity; and beseeching and imploring my master on their knees, not to carry me away from them. My little boy came and begged me not to go and leave him, and endeavored, as I thought, with his little hands to break the fetters that bound me. I awoke in agony and cursed my existence. I could not pray, for the measure of my woes seemed to be full, and I felt as if there was no mercy in heaven, nor compassion on earth, for a man who was born a slave. Day at length came, and with the dawn, we resumed our journey towards the Potomac. As we passed along the road, I saw the slaves at work in the corn and tobacco fields. I knew they toiled hard and lacked food; but they were not, like me, dragged in chains from their wives, children and friends. Compared with me, they were the happiest of mortals. I almost envied them their blessed lot. Before night we crossed the Potomac, at Hoe's Ferry, and bade farewell to Maryland. At night we stopped at the house of a poor gentleman, at least he appeared to wish my master to consider him a gentleman; and he had no difficulty in establishing his claim to poverty. He lived at the side, of the road, in a framed house, which had never been plastered within--the weather-boards being the only wall. He had about fifty acres of land enclosed by a fence, the remains of a farm which had once covered two or three hundred acres; but the cedar bushes had encroached upon all sides, until the cultivation had been confined to its present limits. The land was the picture of sterility, and there was neither barn nor stable on the place. The owner was ragged, and his wife and children were in a similar plight. It was with difficulty that we obtained a bushel of corn, which our master ordered us to parch at a fire made in the yard, and to eat for our supper. Even this miserable family possessed two slaves, half-starved, half-naked wretches, whose appearance bespoke them familiar with hunger, and victims of the lash; but yet there was one pang which they had not known--they had not been chained and driven from their parents or children, into hopeless exile. We left this place early in the morning, and directed our course toward the south-west; our master riding beside us, and hastening our march, sometimes by words of encouragement, and sometimes by threats of punishment. The women took their place in the rear of our line. We halted about nine o'clock for breakfast, and received as much corn-bread as we could eat, together with a plate of boiled herrings, and about three pounds of pork amongst us. Before we left this place, I was removed from near the middle of the chain, and placed at the front end of it; so that I now became the leader of the file, and held this post of honor until our irons were taken from us, near the town of Columbia in South Carolina. We continued our route this day along the high road between the Potomac and Rappahannock; and I saw each of those rivers several times before night. Our master gave us no dinner to-day, but we halted and got as much corn-mush and sour milk as we could eat for supper. The weather grew mild and pleasant, and we needed no more fires at night. From this time we all slept promiscuously, men and women on the floors of such houses as we chanced to stop at. We passed on through Bowling Green, a quiet village. Time did not reconcile me to my chains, but it made me familiar with them. I reflected on my desperate situation with a degree of calmness, hoping that I might be able to devise some means of escape. My master placed a particular value upon me, for I heard him tell a tavern-keeper that if he had me in Georgia he could get eight hundred dollars for me, but he had bought me for his brother, and believed he should not sell me; he afterwards changed his mind, however. I carefully examined every part of our chain, but found no place where it could be separated. We all had as much corn-bread as we could eat, procured of our owner at the places we stopped at for the night. In addition to this we usually had a salt herring every day. On Sunday we had a quarter of a pound of bacon each. We continued our course up the country westward for a few days and then turned South, crossed James river above Richmond, as I heard at the time. After more than four weeks of travel we entered South Carolina near Camden, and for the first time I saw a field of cotton in bloom. As we approached the Yadkin river the tobacco disappeared from the fields and the cotton plant took its place as an article of general culture. I was now a slave in South Carolina, and had no hope of ever again seeing my wife and children. I had at times serious thoughts of suicide so great was my anguish. If I could have got a rope I should have hanged myself at Lancaster. The thought of my wife and children I had been torn from in Maryland, and the dreadful undefined future which was before me, came near driving me mad. It was long after midnight before I fell asleep, but the most pleasant dream, succeeded to these sorrowful forebodings. I thought I had escaped my master, and through great difficulties made my way back to Maryland, and was again in my wife's cabin with my little children on my lap. Every object was so vividly impressed on my mind in this dream, that when I awoke, a firm conviction settled upon my mind, that by some means, at present incomprehensible to me, I should yet again embrace my wife, and caress my children in their humble dwelling. Early in the morning, our master called us up; and distributed to each of the party a cake made of corn-meal and a small piece of bacon. On our journey, we had only eaten twice a day, and had not received breakfast until about nine o'clock; but he said this morning meal was given to welcome us to South Carolina. He then addressed us all, and told us we might now give up all hope of ever returning to the places of our nativity; as it would be impossible for us to pass through the States of North Carolina and Virginia, without being taken up and sent back. He further advised us to make ourselves contented, as he would take us to Georgia, a far better country than any we had seen; and where we would be able to live in the greatest abundance. About sunrise we took up our march on the road to Columbia, as we were told. Hitherto our master had not offered to sell any of us, and had even refused to stop to talk to any one on the subject of our sale, although he had several times been addressed on this point, before we reached Lancaster; but soon after we departed from this village, we were overtaken on the road by a man on horseback, who accosted our driver by asking him if his _niggars_ were for sale. The latter replied, that he believed he would not sell any yet, as he was on his way to Georgia, and cotton being now much in demand, he expected to obtain high prices for us from persons who were going to settle in the new purchase. He, however, contrary to his custom, ordered us to stop, and told the stranger he might look at us, and that he would find us as fine a lot of hands as were ever imported into the country--that we were all prime property, and he had no doubt would command his own prices in Georgia. The stranger, who was a thin, weather-beaten, sun-burned figure, then said, he wanted a couple of breeding wenches, and would give as much for them as they would bring in Georgia--that he had lately heard from Augusta, and that _niggers_ were not higher there than in Columbia, and, as he had been in Columbia the week before, he knew what _niggers_ were worth. He then walked along our line, as we stood chained together, and looked at the whole of us--then turning to the women, asked the prices of the two pregnant ones. Our master replied, that these were two of the best breeding-wenches in all Maryland--that one was twenty-two, and the other only nineteen--that the first was already the mother of seven children, and the other of four--that he had himself seen the children at the time he bought their mothers--and that such wenches would be cheap at a thousand dollars each; but as they were not able to keep up with the gang, he would take twelve hundred dollars for the two. The purchaser said this was too much, but that he would give nine hundred dollars for the pair. This price was promptly refused; but our master, after some consideration, said he was willing to sell a bargain in these wenches, and would take eleven hundred dollars for them, which was objected to on the other side; and many faults and failings were pointed out in the merchandise. After much bargaining, and many gross jests on the part of the stranger, he offered a thousand dollars for the two, and said he would give no more. He then mounted his horse, and moved off; but after he had gone about one hundred yards, he was called back; and our master said, if he would go with him to the next blacksmith's shop on the road to Columbia, and pay for taking the irons off the rest of us, he might have the two women. This proposal was agreed to, and as it was now about nine o'clock, we were ordered to hasten on to the next house, where, we were told, we must stop for breakfast. At this place we were informed that it was ten miles to the next smith's shop, and our new acquaintance was obliged by the terms of his contract, to accompany us thither. We received for breakfast, about a pint of boiled rice to each person, and after this was despatched, we again took to the road, eager to reach the blacksmith's shop, at which we expected to be relieved of the iron rings and chains, which had so long galled and worried us. About two o'clock we arrived at the longed-for residence of the smith; but, on inquiry, our master was informed that he was not at home, and would not return before evening. Here a controversy arose, whether we should all remain here until the smith returned, or the stranger should go on with us to the next smithery, which was said to be only five miles distant. This was a point not easily settled between two such spirits as our master and the stranger; both of whom had been overseers in their time, and both of whom had risen to the rank of proprietors of slaves. The matter had already produced angry words, and much vaunting on the part of the stranger;--"that a freeman of South Carolina was not to be imposed upon; that by the constitution of the State, his rights were sacred, and he was not to be deprived of his liberty, at the arbitrary will of a man just from amongst the Yankees, and who had brought with him to the South as many Yankee tricks as he had _niggers_, and he believed many more." He then swore, that "all the _niggers_ in the drove were Yankee _niggers_." "When I _overseed_ for Colonel Polk," said he, "on his rice plantation, he had two Yankee _niggers_ that he brought from Maryland, and they were running away every day. I gave them a hundred lashes more than a dozen times; but they never quit running away, till I chained them together, with iron collars round their necks, and chained them to spades, and made them do nothing but dig ditches to drain the rice swamps. They could not run away then, unless they went together, and carried their chains and spades with them. I kept them in this way two years, and better _niggers_ I never had. One of them died one night, and the other was never good for anything after he lost his mate. He never ran away afterwards, but he died too, after a while." He then addressed himself to the two women, whose master he had become, and told them that if ever they ran away, he would treat them in the same way. Wretched as I was myself, my heart bled for these poor creatures, who had fallen into the hands of a tiger in human form. The dispute between the two masters was still raging, when, unexpectedly, the blacksmith rode up to his house, on a thin, bony-looking horse, and dismounting, asked his wife what these gentlemen were making such a _frolick_ about. I did not hear her answer, but both the disputants turned and addressed themselves to the smith--the one to know what price he would demand to take the irons off all these _niggers_, and the other to know how long it would take him to perform the work. It is here proper for me to observe, that there are many phrases of language in common use in Carolina and Georgia, which are applied in a way that would not be understood by persons from one of the Northern States. For instance, when several persons are quarrelling, brawling, making a great noise, or even fighting, they say, "_the gentlemen are frolicking!_" I heard many other terms equally strange, whilst I resided in the southern country, amongst such white people as I became acquainted with; though my acquaintance was confined, in a great measure, to overseers, and such people as did not associate with the rich planters and great families. The smith at length agreed to take the irons from the whole of us for two dollars and fifty cents, and immediately set about it, with the air of indifference that he would have manifested in tearing a pair of old shoes from the hoofs of a wagon-horse. It was four weeks and five days, from the time my irons had been riveted upon me, until they were removed, and great as had been my sufferings whilst chained to my fellow-slaves, I cannot say that I felt any pleasure in being released from my long confinement; for I knew that my liberation was only preparatory to my final, and, as I feared, perpetual subjugation to the power of some such monster, as the one then before me, who was preparing to drive away the two unfortunate women whom he had purchased, and whose life's-blood he had acquired the power of shedding at pleasure, for the sum of a thousand dollars. After we were released from our chains, our master sold the whole lot of irons, which we had borne from Maryland, to the blacksmith, for seven dollars. The smith then procured a bottle of rum, and treated his two new acquaintances to a part of its contents--wishing them both good luck with their _niggers_. After these civilities were over, the two women were ordered to follow their new master, who shaped his course across the country, by a road leading westwest. At parting from us, they both wept aloud, and wrung their hands in despair. We all went to them, and bade them a last farewell. Their road led into a wood, which they soon entered, and I never saw them nor heard of them again. These women had both been driven from Calvert county, as well as myself, and the fate of the younger of the two, was peculiarly severe. She had been brought up as a waiting-maid of a young lady, the daughter of a gentleman, whose wife and family often visited the mistress of my own wife. I had frequently seen this woman when she was a young girl, in attendance upon her young mistress, and riding in the same carriage with her. The father of the young lady died, and soon after she married a gentleman who resided a few miles off. The husband received a considerable fortune with his bride, and amongst other things, her waiting-maid, who was reputed a great beauty among people of color. He had been addicted to the fashionable sports of the country, before marriage, such as horse-racing, fox-hunting, &c., and I had heard the black people say he drank too freely; but it was supposed that he would correct all these irregularities after marriage, more especially as his wife was a great belle, and withal very handsome. The reverse, however, turned out to be the fact. Instead of growing better, he became worse; and in the course of a few years, was known all over the country, as a drunkard and a gambler. His wife, it was said, died of grief, and soon after her death, his effects were seized by his creditors, and sold by the sheriff. The former waiting-maid, now the mother of several children, was purchased by our present master, for four hundred dollars, at the sheriff's sale, and this poor wretch, whose employment in early life had been to take care of her young mistress, and attend to her in her chamber, and at her toilet, after being torn from her husband and her children, had now gone to toil out a horrible existence beneath the scorching sun of a South Carolina cotton-field, under the dominion of a master, as void of the manners of a gentleman, as he was of the language of humanity. It was now late in the afternoon; but, as we had made little progress to-day, and were now divested of the burden of our chains, as well as freed from the two women, who had hitherto much retarded our march, our master ordered us to hasten on our way, as we had ten miles to go that evening. I had been so long oppressed by the weight of my chains, and the iron collar about my neck, that for some time after I commenced walking at my natural liberty, I felt a kind of giddiness, or lightness of the head. Most of my companions complained of the same sensation, and we did not recover our proper feelings until after we had slept one night. It was after dark when we arrived at our lodging-place, which proved to be the house of a small cotton-planter, who, it appeared, kept a sort of a house of entertainment for travelers, contrary to what I afterwards discovered to be the usual custom of cotton-planters. This man and my master had known each other before, and seemed to be well acquainted. He was the first person that we had met since leaving Maryland, who was known to my master, and as they kept up a very free conversation, through the course of the evening, and the house in which they were, was only separated from the kitchen, in which we were lodged, by a space of a few feet, I had an opportunity of hearing much that was highly interesting to me. The landlord, after supper, came with our master to look at us, and to see us receive our allowance of boiled rice from the hands of a couple of black women, who had prepared it in a large iron kettle. Whilst viewing us, the former asked the latter, what he intended to do with his drove; but no reply was made to this inquiry--and as our master had, through our whole journey, maintained a studied silence on this subject, I felt a great curiosity to know what disposition he intended to make of the whole gang, and of myself in particular. On their return to the house, I advanced to a small window in the kitchen, which brought me within a few yards of the place where they sat, and from which I was able to hear all they said, although they spoke in a low tone of voice. I here learned, that so many of us as could be sold for a good price, were to be disposed of in Columbia, on our arrival at that place, and that the residue would be driven to Augusta and sold there. The landlord assured my master that at this time slaves were much in demand, both in Columbia and Augusta; that purchasers were numerous and prices good; and that the best plan of effecting good sales would be to put up each _nigger_ separately, at auction, after giving a few days' notice, by an advertisement, in the neighboring country. Cotton, he said, had not been higher for many years, and as a great many persons, especially young men, were moving off to the new purchase in Georgia, prime hands were in high demand, for the purpose of clearing the land in the new country--that the boys and girls, under twenty, would bring almost any price at present, in Columbia for the purpose of picking the growing crop of cotton, which promised to be very heavy; and as most persons had planted more than their hands would be able to pick, young _niggers_, who would soon learn to pick cotton, were prime articles in the market. As to those more advanced in life, he seemed to think the prospect of selling them at an unusual price, not so good, as they could not so readily become expert cotton-pickers--he said further, that for some cause, which he could not comprehend, the price of rice had not been so good this year as usual; and that he had found it cheaper to purchase rice to feed his own _niggers_ than to provide them with corn, which had to be brought from the upper country. He therefore advised my master not to drive us towards the rice plantation of the low country. My master said he would follow his advice, at least so far as to sell a portion of us in Carolina, but seemed to be of opinion that his prime hands would bring him more money in Georgia, and named me, in particular, as one who would be worth, at least, a thousand dollars, to a man who was about making a settlement, and clearing a plantation in the new purchase. I therefore concluded, that in the course of events, I was likely to become the property of a Georgian, which turned out in the end to be the case, though not so soon as I at this time apprehended. I slept but little this night, feeling a restlessness when no longer in chains; and pondering over the future lot of my life, which appeared fraught only with evil and misfortune. Day at length dawned, and with its first light we were ordered to betake ourselves to the road, which, we were told, would lead us to Columbia, the place of intended sale of some, if not all of us. For several days past, I had observed that in the country through which we traveled, little attention was paid to the cultivation of anything but cotton. Now this plant was almost the sole possessor of the fields. It covered the plantations adjacent to the road, as far as I could see, both before and behind me, and looked not unlike buckwheat before it blossoms. I saw some small fields of corn, and lots of sweet potatoes, amongst which the young vines of the water-melon were frequently visible. The improvements on the plantations were not good. There were no barns, but only stables and sheds, to put the cotton under, as it was brought from the field. Hay seemed to be unknown in the country, for I saw neither hay-stacks nor meadows; and the few fields that were lying fallow, had but small numbers of cattle in them, and these were thin and meagre. We had met with no flocks of sheep of late, and the hogs that we saw on the road-side were in bad condition. The horses and mules that I saw in the cotton-fields, were poor and badly harnessed, and the half-naked condition of the negroes, who drove them, or followed with the hoe, together with their wan complexions, proved to me that they had too much work, or not enough food. We passed a cotton-gin this morning, the first that I ever saw; but they were not at work with it. We also met a party of ladies and gentlemen on a journey of pleasure, riding in two very handsome carriages, drawn by sleek and spirited horses, very different in appearance from the moving skeletons that I had noticed drawing the ploughs in the fields. The black drivers of the coaches were neatly clad in gay-colored clothes, and contrasted well with their half-naked brethren, a gang of whom were hoeing cotton by the road-side, near them, attended by an overseer in a white linen shirt and pantaloons, with one of the long negro whips in his hand. I observed that these poor people did not raise their heads, to look at either the fine coaches and horses then passing, or at us; but kept their faces steadily bent towards the cotton-plants, from among which they were removing the weeds. I almost shuddered at the sight, knowing that I myself was doomed to a state of servitude equally cruel and debasing, unless, by some unforeseen occurrence, I might fall into the hands of a master of less inhumanity of temper than the one who had possession of the miserable creatures before me. CHAPTER III. It was manifest that I was now in a country where the life of a black man was no more regarded than that of an ox, except as far as the man was worth the more money in the market. On all the plantations that we passed, there was a want of live stock of every description, except slaves, and they were deplorably abundant. The fields were destitute of everything that deserved the name of grass, and not a spear of clover was anywhere visible. The few cattle that existed, were browsing on the boughs of the trees, in the woods. Everything betrayed a scarcity of the means of supplying the slaves, who cultivated the vast cotton-fields, with a sufficiency of food. We traveled this day more than thirty miles, and crossed the Catawba river in the afternoon, on the bottoms of which I saw, for the first time, fields of rice, growing in swamps covered with water. Causeways were raised through the low-lands in which the rice grew, and on which the road was formed on which we traveled. These rice-fields, or rather swamps, had, in my eyes, a beautiful appearance. The rice was nearly two feet in height above the water, and of a vivid green color, covering a large space, of at least a hundred acres. Had it not been for the water, which appeared stagnant and sickly, and swarmed with frogs and thousands of snakes, it would have been as fine a sight as one need wish to look upon. After leaving the low grounds along the river, we again entered plantations of cotton, which lined the roads on both sides, relieved, here and there, by corn-fields and potato-patches. We stopped for the night at a small tavern, and our master said we were within a day's journey of Columbia. We here, again, received boiled rice for supper, without salt, or any kind of seasoning; a pint was allotted to each person, which we greedily devoured, having had no dinner to-day, save an allowance of corn-cakes, with the fat of about five pounds of bacon, extracted by frying, in which we dipped our bread. I slept soundly after this day's march, the fatigues of the body having, for once, overcome the agitations of the mind. The next day, which was, if my recollection is accurate, the ninth of June, was the last of our journey before our company separated; and we were on the road before the stars had disappeared from the sky. Our breakfast, this morning, consisted of bacon soup, a dish composed of corn-meal, boiled in water, with a small piece of bacon to give the soup a taste of meat. For dinner we had boiled Indian peas, with a small allowance of bacon. This was the first time that we had received two rations of meat in the same day, on the whole journey, and some of our party were much surprised at the kindness of our master; but I had no doubt that his object was to make us look fat and hearty, to enable him to obtain better prices for us at Columbia. At supper this night, we had corn mush, in large wooden trays, with melted lard to dip the mush in before eating it. We might have reached Columbia this day if we had continued our march, but we stopped, at least an hour before sun-set, about three miles from town, at the house of a man who supported the double character of planter and keeper of a house of entertainment; for I learned from his slaves that their master considered it disreputable to be called a tavern-keeper, and would not put up a sign, although he received pay of such persons as lodged with him. His house was a frame building, weather-boarded with pine boards, but had no plastering within. The furniture corresponded with the house which contained it, and was both scanty and mean, consisting of pine tables and wooden chairs, with bottoms made of cornhusks. The house was only one story high, and all the rooms, six or seven in number, parlor, bed-rooms, and kitchen, were on the first floor. As the weather was warm and the windows open, I had an opportunity of looking into the sleeping rooms of the family, as I walked round the house, which I was permitted freely to do. The beds and their furniture answered well to the chairs and tables; yet in the large front room I observed on an old fashioned side-board, a great quantity of glass-ware, of various descriptions, with two or three dozen silver spoons, a silver tea-urn, and several knives and forks with silver handles. In the corner of this room stood a bed with gaudy red curtains, with figures of lions, elephants, naked negroes, and other representations of African scenery. The master of the house was not at home when we arrived, but came in from the field shortly afterwards. He met my master with the cordiality of an old friend, though he had never seen him before; said he was happy to see him at his house, and that the greatest pleasure he enjoyed was derived from the entertainment of such gentlemen as thought proper to visit his house; that he was always glad to see strangers, and more especially gentlemen who were adding so much to the wealth and population of Carolina, as those merchants who imported servants from the North. He then observed that he had never seen a finer lot of property pass his house than we were, and that any gentleman who brought such a stock of hands into the country was a public benefactor, and entitled to the respect and gratitude of every friend of the South. He assured my master that he was happy to see him at his house, and that if he thought proper to remain a few days with him, it would be his chief business to introduce him to the gentlemen of the neighborhood, who would all be glad to become acquainted with a merchant of his respectability. In the State of Maryland, my master had been called a _negro buyer, or Georgia trader_, sometimes a _negro driver_; but here, I found that he was elevated to the rank of merchant, and a merchant of the first order too; for it was very clear that in the opinion of the landlord, no branch of trade was more honorable than the traffic in us poor slaves. Our master observed that he had a mind to remain here a short time, and try what kind of market Columbia would present, for the sale of his lot of servants; and that he would make his house his home, until he had ascertained what could be done in town, and what demand there was in the neighborhood for servants. We were not called _slaves_ by these men, who talked of selling us, and of the price we would bring, with as little compunction of conscience as they would have talked of the sale of so many mules. It is the custom throughout all the slave-holding States, amongst people of fashion, never to speak of their negroes as slaves, but always as servants; but I had never before met with the keeper of a public house, in the country, who had arrived at this degree of refinement. I had been accustomed to hear this order of men, and indeed the greater number of white people speak of the people of color as _niggers_. We remained at this place more than two weeks; I presume because my master found it cheaper to keep us here than in town, or perhaps, because he supposed we might recover from the hardships of our journey more speedily in the country. As it was here that my real acquaintance with South Carolina commenced, I have noted with more particularity the incidents that occurred, than I otherwise should have done. This family was composed of the husband, wife, three daughters, all young women, and two sons, one of whom appeared to be about twenty, and the other, perhaps seventeen years old. They had nine slaves in all, one very old man, quite crooked with years and labor--two men of middle age--one lad, perhaps sixteen--one woman with three children, the oldest about seven,--and a young girl of twelve or fourteen. The farm, or plantation, they lived on, contained about one hundred and fifty acres of cleared land, sandy, and the greater part of it poor, as was proved by the stinted growth of the cotton. At the time of our arrival at this house, I saw no persons about it, except the four ladies--the mother and her three daughters--the husband being in the field, as noticed above. According to the orders of my master, I had taken the saddle from his horse and put him in a stable; and it was not until after the first salutations of the new landlord to my master were over, that he seemed to think of asking him whether he had come on foot, on horse-back, or in a coach. He at length, however, turned suddenly and asked him, with an air of surprise, where he had left his horses and carriage. My master said he had no carriage, that he traveled on horse-back, and that his horse was in the stable. The landlord then apologized for the trouble he must have had, in having his horse put away himself; and said that at this season of the year, the planters were so hurried by their crops, and found so much difficulty in keeping down the grass, that they were generally obliged to keep all their servants in the field; that for his part, he had been compelled to put his coachman, and even the waiting-maids of his daughters into the cotton-fields, and that at this time, his family were without servants, a circumstance that had never happened before! "For my part," said he, "I have always prided myself on bringing up my family well, and can say, that although I do not live in so fine a house as some of the other planters of Carolina, yet my children are as great ladies and gentlemen as any in the state. Not one of them has ever had to do a day's work yet, and as long as I live, never shall. I sent two of my daughters to Charleston last summer, and they were there three months; and I intend to send the youngest there this summer. They have all learned to dance here in Columbia, where I sent them two quarters to a Frenchman, and he made me pay pretty well for it. They went to the same dancing school with the daughters of Wade Hampton and Colonel Fitzhugh. I am determined that they shall never marry any but gentlemen of the first character, and I know they will always follow my advice in matters of this kind. They are prudent and sensible girls, and are not going to do as Major Pollack's daughter did this spring, who ran away with a Georgia cracker, who brought a drove of cattle for sale from the Indian country, and who had not a _nigger_ in the world. He staid with me sometime, and wished to have something to say to my second daughter, but the thing would not do." Here he stopped short in his narrative, and seeming to muse a moment, said to his guest, "I presume, as you travel alone, you have no family." "No," replied my master, "I am a single man." "I thought so by your appearance," said the loquacious landlord, "and I shall be glad to introduce you to my family this evening. My sons are two as fine fellows as there are in all Carolina. My oldest boy is lieutenant in the militia, and in the same company that marched with Gen. Marion in the war. He was on the point of fighting a duel last winter, with young M'Corkle in Columbia; but the matter was settled between them. You will see him this evening, when he returns from the quoit-party. A quoit-party of young bucks meet once every week about two miles from this, and as I wish my sons to keep the best company, they both attend it. There is to be a cock-fight there this afternoon, and my youngest son, Edmund, has the finest cock in this country. He is one of the true game blood,--the real Dominica game breed; and I sent to Charleston for his gaffs. There is a bet of ten dollars a side between my son's cock and the one belonging to young Blainey, the son of Major Blainey. Young Blainey is a hot-headed young blood, and has been concerned in three duels, though I believe he never fought but one; but I know Edmund will not take a word from him, and it will be well if he and his cock do not both get well licked." Here the conversation was arrested by the sound of horses' feet on the road, and in the next instant, two young men rode up at a gallop, mounted on lean looking horses; one of the riders carrying a pole on his shoulder, with a game cock in a net bag, tied to one end of it. On perceiving them the landlord exclaimed with an oath, "There's two lads of spirit! stranger--and if you will allow me the liberty of asking you your name, I will introduce you to them." At the suggestion of his name, my master seemed to hesitate a little, but after a moment's pause, said, "They call me M'Giffin, sir." "My name is Hulig, sir," replied the landlord, "and I am very happy to be acquainted with you, Mr. M'Giffin," at the same time shaking him by the hand, and introducing his two sons, who were by this time at the door. This was the first time I had ever heard the name of my master, although I had been with him five weeks. I had never seen him before the day on which he seized and bound me in Maryland, and as he took me away immediately, I did not hear his name at the time. The people who assisted to fetter me, either from accident or design, omitted to name him, and after we commenced our journey, he had maintained so much distant reserve and austerity of manner towards us all, that no one ventured to ask him his name. We had called him nothing but "master," and the various persons at whose houses we had stopped on our way, knew as little of his name as we did. We had frequently been asked the name of our master, and perhaps had not always obtained credence, when we said we did not know it. Throughout the whole journey, until after we were released from our irons, he had forbidden us to converse together beyond a few words in relation to our temporary condition and wants; and as he was with us all day, and never slept out of hearing of us at night, he rigidly enforced his edict of silence. I presume that the reason of this prohibition of all conversation was to prevent us from devising plans of escape; but he had imposed as rigid a silence on himself as was enforced upon us; and after having passed from Maryland to South Carolina, in his company, I knew no more of my master, than, that he knew how to keep his secrets, guard his slaves, and make a close bargain. I had never heard him speak of his home or family; and therefore had concluded that he was an unmarried man, and an adventurer, who felt no more attachment for one place than another, and whose residence was not very well settled; but, from the large sums of money which he must have been able to command and carry with him to the North, to enable him to purchase so large a number of slaves, I had no doubt that he was a man of consequence and consideration in the place from whence he came. In Maryland, I had always observed that men, who were the owners of large stocks of negroes, were not averse to having publicity given to their names; and that the possession of this species of property even there, gave its owner more vanity and egotism, than fell to the lot of the holders of any other kind of estate; and in truth, my subsequent experience proved that without the possession of slaves, no man could ever arrive at, or hope to rise to any honorable station in society;--yet, my master seemed to take no pride in having at his disposal the lives of so many human beings. He never spoke to us in words of either pity or hatred; and never spoke of us, except to order us to be fed or watered, as he would have directed the same offices to be performed for so many horses, or to inquire where the best prices could be obtained for us. He regarded us only as objects of traffic and the materials of his commerce; and although he had lived several years in Carolina and Georgia, and had there exercised the profession of an overseer, he regarded the Southern planters as no less the subjects of trade and speculation than the slaves he sold to them; as will appear in the sequel. It was to this man that the landlord introduced his two sons, and upon whom he was endeavoring to impose a belief, that he was the head of a family which took rank with those of the first planters of the district. The ladies of the household, though I had seen them in the kitchen when I walked round the house, had not yet presented themselves to my master, nor indeed were they in a condition to be seen anywhere but in the apartment they occupied at the time. The young gentlemen gave a very gasconading account of the quoit-party and cock-fight, from which they had just returned, and according to their version of the affair, it might have been an assemblage of at least half the military officers of the state; for all the persons of whom they spoke, were captains, majors and colonels. The eldest said, he had won two bowls of punch at quoits; and the youngest, whose cock had been victor in the battle, on which ten dollars were staked, vaunted much of the qualities of his bird; and supported his veracity by numerous oaths, and reiterated appeals to his brother for the truth of his assertions. Both these young men were so much intoxicated that they with difficulty maintained an erect posture in walking. By this time the sun was going down, and I observed two female slaves, a woman and girl, approaching the house on the side of the kitchen from the cotton-field. They were coming home to prepare supper for the family; the ladies whom I had seen in the kitchen not having been there for the purpose of performing the duties appropriate to that station, but having sought it as a place of refuge from the sight of my master, who had approached the front of their dwelling silently, and so suddenly as not to permit them to gain the foot of the stairway in the large front room, without being seen by him, to whose view they by no means wished to expose themselves before they had visited their toilets. About dark the supper was ready in the large room, and, as it had two fronts, one of which looked into the yard where my companions and I had been permitted to seat ourselves, and had an opportunity of seeing, by the light of the candle, all that was done within, and of hearing all that was said. The ladies, four in number, had entered the room before the gentlemen; and when the latter came in my master was introduced, by the landlord to his wife and daughters, by the name and title of _Colonel M'Giffin_, which, at that time, impressed me with a belief that he was really an officer, and that he had disclosed this circumstance without my knowledge; but I afterwards perceived that in the south it is deemed respectful to address a stranger by the title of Colonel, or Major, or General, if his appearance will warrant the association of so high a rank with his name. My master had declared his intention of becoming the inmate of this family for some time, and no pains seemed to be spared on their part to impress upon his mind the high opinion that they entertained of the dignity of the owner of fifty slaves; the possession of so large a number of human creatures being, in Carolina, a certificate of character, which entitles its bearer to enter whatever society he may choose to select, with out any thing more being known of his birth, his life or reputation. The man who owns fifty servants must needs be a gentleman amongst the higher ranks, and the owner of half a hundred _niggers_ is a sort of nobleman amongst the low, the ignorant, and the vulgar. The mother and three daughters, whose appearance, when I saw them in the kitchen, would have warranted the conclusion that they had just risen from bed without having time to adjust their dress, were now gaily, if not neatly attired; and the two female slaves, who had come from the field at sundown to cook the supper, now waited at the table. The landlord talked much of his crops, his plantation and slaves, and of the distinguished families who exchanged visits with his own; but my master took very little part in the conversation of the evening, and appeared disposed to maintain the air of mystery which had hitherto invested his character. After it was quite dark, the slaves came in from the cotton-field, and taking little notice of us, went into the kitchen, and each taking thence a pint of corn, proceeded to a little mill, which was nailed to a post in the yard, and there commenced the operation of grinding meal for their suppers, which were afterwards to be prepared by baking the meal into cakes at the fire. The woman who was the mother of the three small children, was permitted to grind her allowance of corn first, and after her came the old man, and the others in succession. After the corn was converted into meal, each one kneaded it up with cold water into a thick dough, and raking away the ashes from a small space on the kitchen hearth, placed the dough, rolled up in green leaves, in the hollow, and covering it with hot embers, left it to be baked into bread, which was done in about half an hour. These loaves constituted the only supper of the slaves belonging to this family for I observed that the two women who had waited at the table, after the supper of the white people was disposed of, also came with their corn to the mill on the post and ground their allowance like the others. They had not been permitted to taste even the fragments of the meal that they had cooked for their masters and mistresses. It was eleven o'clock before these people had finished their supper of cakes, and several of them, especially the younger of the two lads, were so overpowered with toil and sleep, that they had to be roused from their slumbers when their cakes were done, to devour them. We had for our supper to-night, a pint of boiled rice to each person, and a small quantity of stale and very rancid butter, from the bottom of an old keg, or firkin, which contained about two pounds, the remnant of that which once filled it. We boiled the rice ourselves, in a large iron kettle; and, as our master now informed us that we were to remain here some time, many of us determined to avail ourselves of this season of respite from our toils, to wash our clothes, and free our persons from the vermin which had appeared amongst our party several weeks before, and now begun to be extremely tormenting. As we were not allowed any soap, we were obliged to resort to the use of a very fine and unctuous kind of clay, resembling fullers' earth, but of a yellow color, which was found on the margin of a small swamp near the house. This was the first time that I had ever heard of clay being used for the purpose of washing clothes; but I often availed myself of this resource afterwards, whilst I was a slave in the south. We wet our clothes, then rubbed this clay all over the garments, and by scouring it out in warm water with our hands, the cloth, whether of woollen, or cotton, or linen texture, was entirely clean. We subjected our persons to the same process, and in this way freed our camp from the host of enemies that had been generated in the course of our journey. This washing consumed the whole of the first day of our residence on the plantation of Mr. Hulig. We all lay the first night in a shed, or summer kitchen, standing behind the house, and a few yards from it a place in which the slaves of the plantation washed their clothes, and passed their Sundays in warm weather, when they did not work; but as this place was quite too small to accommodate our party, or indeed to contain us, without crowding us together in such a manner as to endanger our health, we were removed, the morning after our arrival, to an old decayed frame building, about one hundred yards from the house, which had been erected, as I learned, for a cotton-gin, but into which its possessor, for want of means I presume, had never introduced the machinery of the gin. This building was near forty feet square; was without any other floor than the earth, and neither doors nor windows, to close the openings which had been left for the admission of those who entered it. We were told that in this place the cotton of the plantation was deposited in the picking season, as it was brought from the field, until it could be removed to a neighboring plantation, where there was a gin to divest it of its seeds. Here we took our temporary abode--men and women, promiscuously. Our provisions, whilst we remained here, were regularly distributed to us; and our daily allowance to each person, consisted of a pint of corn, a pint of rice, and about three or four pounds of butter, such as we had received on the night of our arrival, divided amongst us, in small pieces from the point of a table knife. The rice we boiled in the iron kettle--we ground our corn at the little mill on the post in the kitchen, and converted the meal into bread, in the manner we had been accustomed to at home--sometimes on the hearth, and sometimes before the fire on a hoe. The butter was given us as an extraordinary ration, to strengthen and recruit us after our long march, and give us a healthy and expert appearance at the time of our future sale. We had no beds of any kind to sleep on, but each one was provided with a blanket, which had been the companion of our travels. We were left entirely at liberty to go out or in when we pleased, and no watch was kept over us either by night or day. Our master had removed us so far from our native country, that he supposed it impossible for any of us ever to escape from him, and surmount all the obstacles that lay between us and our former homes. He went away immediately after we were established in our new lodgings, and remained absent until the second evening about sundown, when he returned, came into our shed, sat down on a block of wood in the midst of us, and asked if any one had been sick; if we had got our clothes clean; and if we had been supplied with an allowance of rice, corn and butter. After satisfying himself upon these points, he told us that we were now at liberty to run away if we chose to do so; but if we made the attempt we should most certainly be re-taken, and subjected to the most terrible punishment. "I never flog," said he, "my practice is to _cat-haul_; and if you run away, and I catch you again--as I surely shall do--and give you one cat-hauling, you will never run away again, nor attempt it." I did not then understand the import of cat-hauling, but in after times, became well acquainted with its signification. We remained in this place nearly two weeks, during which time our allowance of food was not varied, and was regularly given to us. We were not required to do any work; and I had liberty and leisure to walk about the plantation, and make such observations as I could upon the new state of things around me. Gentlemen and ladies came every day to look at us, with a view of becoming our purchasers; and we were examined with minute care as to our ages, former occupations, and capacity of performing labor. Our persons were inspected, and more especially the hands were scrutinized, to see if all the fingers were perfect, and capable of the quick motions necessary in picking cotton. Our master only visited us once a day, and sometimes he remained absent two days; so that he seldom met any of those who came to see us; but, whenever it so happened that he did meet them, he laid aside his silence and became very talkative, and even animated in his conversation, extolling our good qualities, and averring that he had purchased some of as of one colonel, and others of another general in Virginia; that he could by no means have procured us, had it not been that, in some instances, our masters had ruined themselves, and were obliged to sell us to save their families from ruin; and in others, that our owners were dead, their estates deeply in debt, and we had been sold at public sale; by which means he had become possessed of us. He said our habits were unexceptionable, our characters good; that there was not one among us all who had ever been known to run away, or steal any thing from our former masters. I observed that running away, and stealing from his master, were regarded as the highest crimes of which a slave could be guilty; but I heard no questions asked concerning our propensity to steal from other people besides our masters, and I afterwards learned, that this was not always regarded as a very high crime by the owner of a slave, provided he would perpetrate the theft so adroitly as not to be detected in it. We were severally asked by our visitors, if we would be willing to live with them, if they would purchase us, to which we generally replied in the affirmative; but our owner declined all the offers that were made for us, upon the ground that we were too poor--looked too bad to be sold at present--and that in our condition he could not expect to get a fair value for us. One evening, when our master was with us, a thin, sallow-looking man rode up to the house, and alighting from his horse, came to us, and told him that he had come to buy a boy; that he wished to get a good field hand, and would pay a good price for him. I never saw a human countenance that expressed more of the evil passions of the heart than did that of this man, and his conversation corresponded with his physiognomy. Every sentence of his language was accompanied with an oath of the most vulgar profanity, and his eyes appeared to me to be the index of a soul as cruel as his visage was disgusting and repulsive. After looking at us for some time, this wretch singled _me_ out as the object of his choice, and coming up to me, asked me how I would like him for a master. In my heart I detested him; but a slave is often afraid to speak the truth, and divulge all he feels; so with myself in this instance, as it was doubtful whether I might not fall into his hands, and be subject to the violence of his temper, I told him that if he was a good master, as every gentleman ought to be, I should be willing to live with him. He appeared satisfied with my answer, and turning to my master, said he would give a high price for me. "I can," said he, "by going to Charleston, buy as many Guinea negroes as I please for two hundred dollars each, but as I like this fellow, I will give you four hundred for him." This offer struck terror into my heart, for I knew it was as much as was generally given for the best and ablest slaves, and I expected that it would immediately be accepted as my price, and that I should be at once consigned to the hands of this man, of whom I had formed so abhorrent an opinion. To my surprise and satisfaction, however, my master made no reply to the proposition; but stood for a moment, with one hand raised to his face and his fore-finger on his nose, and then turning suddenly to me, said, "Go into the house; I shall not sell you to-day." It was my business to obey the order of departure, and as I went beyond the sound of their voices, I could not understand the purport of the conversation which followed between these two traffickers in human blood; but after a parley of about a quarter of an hour, the hated stranger started abruptly away, and going to the road, mounted his horse, and rode off at a gallop, banishing himself and my fears together. I did not see my master again this evening, and when I came out of our barracks in the morning, although it was scarcely daylight, I saw him standing near one corner of the building, with his head inclined towards the wall, evidently listening to catch any sounds within. He ordered me to go and feed his horse, and have him saddled for him by sunrise. About an hour afterwards he came to the stable in his riding dress; and told me that he should remove us all to Columbia in a few days. He then rode away, and did not return until the third day afterwards. CHAPTER IV. It was now about the middle of June, the weather excessively warm, and from eleven o'clock, A. M., until late in the afternoon, the sand about our residence was so hot that we could not stand on it with our bare feet in one posture, more than one or two minutes. The whole country, so far as I could see, appeared to be a dead plain, without the least variety of either hill or dale. The pine was so far the predominating timber of the forest, that at a little distance the entire woods appeared to be composed of this tree. I had become weary of being confined to the immediate vicinity of our lodgings, and determined to venture out into the fields of the plantation, and see the manner of cultivating cotton. Accordingly, after I had made my morning meal upon corn cakes, I sallied out in the direction which I had seen the slaves of the plantation take at the time they left the house at daylight, and following a path through a small field of corn, which was so tall as to prevent me from seeing beyond it, I soon arrived at the field in which the people were at work with hoes amongst the cotton, which was about two feet and a half high, and had formed such long branches, that they could no longer plough in it without breaking it. Expecting to pass the remainder of my life in this kind of labor, I felt anxious to know the evils, if any, attending it, and more especially the manner in which the slaves were treated on the cotton estates. The people now before me, were all diligently and laboriously weeding and hilling the cotton with hoes, and when I approached them, they scarcely took time to speak to me, but continued their labor as if I had not been present. As there did not appear to be any overseer with them, I thought I would go amongst them, and enter into conversation with them; but upon addressing myself to one of the men, and telling him, if it was not disagreeable to him, I should be glad to become acquainted with him, he said he should be glad to be acquainted with me, but master Tom did not allow him to talk much to people when he was at work. I asked him where his master Tom was; but before he had time to reply, same one called--"Mind your work there, you rascals." Looking in the direction of the sound, I saw master Tom, sitting under the shade of a sassafras tree, at the distance of about a hundred yards from us. Deeming it unsafe to continue in the field without the permission of its lord, I approached the sassafras tree, with my hat in my hand, and in a very humble manner, asked leave to help the people work awhile, as I was tired of staying about the house and doing nothing. He said he did not care; I might go and work with them awhile, but I must take care not to talk too much and keep his hands from their work. Now, having authority on my side, I returned, and taking a hoe from the hands of a small girl, told her to pull up weeds, and I would take her row for her. When we arrived at the end of the rows which we were then hilling, master Tom, who still held his post under the sassafras tree, called his people to come to breakfast. Although I had already broken my fast, I went with the rest for the purpose of seeing what their breakfast was composed of. At the tree I saw a keg which contained about five gallons, with water in it, and a gourd lying by it; near this was a basket made of splits, large enough to hold more than a peck. It contained the breakfast of the people, covered by some green leaves of the magnolia, or great bay tree of the South. When the leaves were removed, I found that the supply of provisions consisted of one cake of corn-meal, weighing about half a pound, for each person. This bread had no sort of seasoning, not even salt, and constituted the only breakfast of these poor people, who had been toiling from early dawn until about eight o'clock. There was no cake for me, and master Tom did not say anything to me on the state of my stomach; but the young girl, whose hoe I had taken in the field, offered me a part of her cake, which I refused. After the breakfast was despatched, we again returned to our work; but the master ordered the girl, whose hoe I had, to go and get another hoe which lay at some distance in the field, and take her row again. I continued in the field until dinner, which took place about one o'clock, and was the same, in all respects, as the breakfast had been. Master Tom was the younger of the two brothers who returned from the cock-fight on the evening of our arrival at this place,--he left the field about ten o'clock, and was succeeded by his elder brother, as overseer for the remainder of the day. After this change of superintendents, my companions became more loquacious, and in the course of an hour or two, I had become familiar with the condition of my fellow-laborers, who told me that the elder of their young masters was much less tyrannical than his younger brother; and that whilst the former remained in the field they would be at liberty to talk as much as they pleased, provided they did not neglect their work. One of the men who appeared to be about forty years of age, and who was the foreman of the field, told me that he had been born in South Carolina, and had always lived there, though he had only belonged to his present master about ten years. I asked him if his master allowed him no meat, nor any kind of provisions except bread; to which he replied that they never had any meat except at Christmas, when each hand on the place received about three pounds of pork; that from September, when the sweet potatoes were at the maturity of their growth, they had an allowance of potatoes as long as the crop held out, which was generally until about March; but that for the rest of the year, they had nothing but a peck of corn a week, with such weeds and other vegetables as they could gather from the fields for greens--that their master did not allow them any salt, and that the only means they had of procuring this luxury, was, by working on Sundays for the neighboring planters, who paid them in money at the rate of fifty cents per day, with which they purchased salt and some other articles of convenience. This man told me that his master furnished him with two shirts of tow linen, and two pair of trowsers, one of woollen and the other of linen cloth, one woollen jacket, and one blanket every year. That he received the woollen clothes at Christmas, and the linen at Easter; and all the other clothes, if he had any, he was obliged to provide for himself by working on Sunday. He said, that for several years past, he had not been able to provide any clothes for himself; as he had a wife with several small children, on an adjoining plantation, whose master gave only one suit of clothes in the year to the mother, and none of any kind to the children, which had compelled him to lay out all his savings in providing clothes for his family, and such little necessaries as were called for by his wife from time to time. He had not had a shoe on his foot for several years, but in winter made a kind of moccasin for himself of the bark of a tree, which he said was abundant in the swamps, and could be so manufactured as to make good ropes, and tolerable moccasins, sufficient at least to defend the feet from the frost, though not to keep them dry. The old man whom I have alluded to before, was in the field with the others, though he was not able to keep up with his row. He had no clothes on him except the remains of an old shirt, which hung in tatters from his neck and arms; the two young girls had nothing on them but petticoats, made of coarse tow-cloth, and the woman, who was the mother of the children, wore the remains of a tow-linen shift, the front part of which was entirely gone; but a piece of old cotton bagging tied round her loins, served the purposes of an apron The younger of the two boys was entirely naked. The man who was foreman of the field, was a person of good sense for the condition of life in which fortune had placed him, and spoke to me freely of his hard lot. I observed that under his shirt, which was very ragged, he wore a piece of fine linen cloth, apparently part of an old shirt, wrapped closely round his back, and confined in front by strings, tied down his breast. I asked him why he wore that piece of gentleman's linen under his shirt, and shall give his reply in his own words as well as I can recollect them, at a distance of near thirty years. "I have always been a hard working man, and have suffered a great deal from hunger in my time. It is not possible for a man to work hard every day for several months, and get nothing but a peck of corn a week to eat, and not feel hungry. When a man is hungry, you know, (if you have ever been hungry,) he must eat whatever he can get. I have not tasted meat since last Christmas, and we have had to work uncommonly hard this summer. Master has a flock of sheep, that run in the woods, and they come every night to sleep in the lane near the house. Two weeks ago last Saturday, when we quit work at night, I was very hungry, and as we went to the house we passed along the lane where the sheep lay. There were nearly fifty of them, and some were very fat. The temptation was more than I could bear. I caught one of them, cut its head off with the hoe that I carried on my shoulder, and threw it under the fence. About midnight, when all was still about the house, I went out with a knife, took the sheep into the woods, and dressed it by the light of the moon. The carcass I took home, and after cutting it up, placed it in the great kettle over a good fire, intending to boil it and divide it, when cooked, between my fellow-slaves (whom I knew to be as hungry as I was) and myself. Unfortunately for me, master Tom, who had been out amongst his friends that day, had not returned at bed-time; and about one o'clock in the morning, at the time when I had a blazing fire under the kettle, I heard the sound of the feet of a horse coming along the lane. The kitchen walls were open so that the light of my fire could not be concealed, and in a moment I heard the horse blowing at the front of the house. Conscious of my danger, I stripped my shirt from my back, and pushed it into the boiling kettle, so as wholly to conceal the flesh of the sheep. I had scarcely completed this act of precaution, when master Tom burst into the kitchen, and with a terrible oath, asked me what I was doing so late at night, with a great fire in the kitchen. I replied, 'I am going to wash my shirt, master, and am boiling it to get it clean.' 'Washing your shirt at this time of night!' said he, 'I will let you know that you are not to sit up all night and be lazy and good for nothing all day. There shall be no boiling of shirts here on Sunday morning,' and thrusting his cane into the kettle, he raised my shirt out and threw it on the kitchen floor. "He did not at first observe the mutton, which rose to the surface of the water as soon as the shirt was removed; but, after giving the shirt a kick towards the door, he again turned his face to the fire, and seeing a leg standing several inches out of the pot, he demanded of me what I had in there and where I had got this meat! Finding that I was detected, and that the whole matter must be discovered, I said,--'Master, I am hungry, and am cooking my supper.' 'What is it you have in here?' 'A sheep,' said I, and as the words were uttered, he knocked me down with his cane, and after beating me severely, ordered me to cross my hands until he bound me fast with a rope that hung in the kitchen, and answered the double purpose of a clothes line and a cord to tie us with when we were to be whipped. He put out the fire under the kettle, drew me into the yard, tied me fast to the mill-post, and leaving me there for the night, went and called one of the negro boys to put his horse in the stable, and went to his bed. The cord was bound so tightly round my wrists, that before morning the blood had burst out under my finger nails; but I suppose my master slept soundly for all that. I was afraid to call any one to come and release me from my torment, lest a still more terrible punishment might overtake me. "I was permitted to remain in this situation until long after sunrise the next morning, which being Sunday, was quiet and still; my fellow-slaves being permitted to take their rest after the severe toil of the past week, and my old master and two young ones having no occasion to rise to call the hands to the field, did not think of interrupting their morning slumbers, to release me from my painful confinement. However, when the sun was risen about an hour, I heard the noise of persons moving in the great house, and soon after a loud and boisterous conversation, which I well knew portended no good to me. At length they all three came into the yard where I lay lashed to the post, and approaching me, my old master asked me if I had any accomplices in stealing the sheep. I told them none--that it was entirely my own act--and that none of my fellow-slaves had any hand in it. This was the truth; but if any of my companions had been concerned with me, I should not have betrayed them; for such an act of treachery could not have alleviated the dreadful punishment which I knew awaited me, and would only have involved them in the same misery. "They called me a thief, loaded me with oaths and imprecations, and each one proposed the punishment which he deemed the most appropriate to the enormity of the crime that I had committed. Master Tom was of opinion, that I should be lashed to the post at the foot of which I lay, and that each of my fellow-slaves should be compelled to give me a dozen lashes in turn, with a roasted and greased hickory _gad_, until I had received, in the whole, two hundred and fifty lashes on my bare back, and that he would stand by, with the whip in his hand, and _compel_ them not to spare me; but after a short debate this was given up, as it would probably render me unable to work in the field again for several weeks. My master Ned was in favor of giving me a dozen lashes every morning for a month, with the whip; but my old master said, this would be attended with too much trouble, and besides, it would keep me from my work, at least half an hour every morning, and proposed, in his turn, that I should not be whipped at all, but that the carcass of the sheep should be taken from the kettle in its half-boiled condition, and hung up in the kitchen loft without salt; and that I should be compelled to subsist on this putrid mutton without any other food, until it should be consumed. This suggestion met the approbation of my young masters, and would have been adopted, had not mistress at this moment come into the yard, and hearing the intended punishment, loudly objected to it, because the mutton would, in a day or two, create such an offensive stench, that she and my young mistresses would not be able to remain in the house. My mistress swore dreadfully, and cursed me for an ungrateful sheep thief, who, after all her kindness in giving me soup and warm bread when I was sick last winter, was always stealing every thing I could get hold of. She then said to my master, that such villany ought not to be passed over in a slight manner, and that as crimes, such as this, concerned the whole country, my punishment ought to be public for the purpose of example; and advised him to have me whipped that same afternoon, at five o'clock; first giving notice to the neighborhood to come and see the spectacle, and to bring with them their slaves, that they might be witnesses to the consequences of stealing sheep. "They then returned to the house to breakfast; but as the pain in my hands and arms produced by the ligatures of the cord with which I was bound, was greater than I could bear, I now felt exceedingly sick, and lost all knowledge of my situation. They told me I fainted; and when I recovered my faculties, I found myself lying in the shade of the house, with my hands free, and all the white persons in my master's family standing around me. As soon as I was able to stand, the rope was tied round my neck, and the other end again fastened to the mill post. My mistress said I had only pretended to faint; and master Tom said, I would have something worth fainting for before night. He was faithful to his promise; but, for the present, I was suffered to sit on the grass in the shade of the house. "As soon as breakfast was over, my two young masters had their horses saddled, and set out to give notice to their friends of what had happened, and to invite them to come and see me punished for the crime I had committed. My mistress gave me no breakfast, and when I begged one of the black boys whom I saw looking at me through the pales, to bring me some water in a gourd to drink, she ordered him to bring it from a puddle in the lane. My mistress has always been very cruel to all her black people. "I remained in this situation until about eleven o'clock, when one of my young mistresses came to me and gave me a piece of jonny-cake about the size of my hand, perhaps larger than my hand, telling me at the same time, that my fellow-slaves had been permitted to re-boil the mutton that I had left in the kettle, and make their breakfast of it, but that her mother would not allow her to give me any part of it. It was well for them that I had parboiled it with my shirt, and so defiled it that it was unfit for the table of my master, otherwise, no portion of it would have fallen to the black people--as it was, they had as much meat as they could consume in two days, for which I had to suffer. "About twelve o'clock, one of my young masters returned, and soon afterwards the other came home. I heard them tell my old master that they had been round to give notice of my offence to the neighboring planters, and that several of them would attend to see me flogged, and would bring with them some of their slaves, who might be able to report to their companions what had been done to me for stealing. "It was late in the afternoon before any of the gentlemen came; but, before five o'clock, there were more than twenty white people, and at least fifty black ones present, the latter of whom had been compelled, by their masters, to come and see me punished. Amongst others, an overseer from a neighboring estate attended; and to him was awarded the office of executioner. I was stripped of my shirt, and the waist-band of my trousers was drawn closely round me, below my hips, so as to expose the whole of my back, in its entire length. "It seems that it had been determined to beat me with thongs of raw cow-hide, for the overseer had two of these in his hands, each about four feet long; but one of the gentlemen present said this might bruise my back so badly, that I could not work for sometime; perhaps not for a week or two; and as I could not be spared from the field without disadvantage to my master's crop, he suggested a different plan, by which, in his opinion, the greatest degree of pain could be inflicted on me, with the least danger of rendering me unable to work. As he was a large planter, and had more than fifty slaves, all were disposed to be guided by his counsels, and my master said he would submit the matter entirely to him as a man of judgment and experience in such cases. He then desired my master to have a dozen pods of red pepper boiled in half a gallon of water, and desired the overseer to lay aside his thongs of raw-hide, and put a new cracker of silk, to the lash of his negro whip. Whilst these preparations were being made, each of my thumbs were lashed closely to the end of a stick about three feet long, and a chair being placed beside the mill post, I was compelled to raise my hands and place the stick, to which my thumbs were bound, over the top of the post, which is about eighteen inches square; the chair was then taken from under me, and I was left hanging by the thumbs, with my face towards the post, and my feet about a foot from the ground. My two great toes were then tied together, and drawn down the post as far as my joints could be stretched; the cord was passed round the post two or three times and securely fastened. In this posture I had no power of motion, except in my neck, and could only move that at the expense of beating my face against the side of the post. "The pepper tea was now brought, and poured into a basin to cool, and the overseer was desired to give me a dozen lashes just above the waist-band; and not to cover a space of more than four inches on my back, from the waist-band upwards. He obeyed the injunction faithfully, but slowly, and each crack of the whip was followed by a sensation as painful as if a red hot iron had been drawn across my back. When the twelve strokes had been given, the operation was suspended, and a black man, one of the slaves present, was compelled to wash the gashes in my skin, with the scalding pepper tea, which was yet so hot that he could not hold his hand in it. This doubly-burning liquid was thrown into my raw and bleeding wounds, and produced a tormenting smart, beyond the description of language. After a delay of ten minutes, by the watch, I received another dozen lashes, on the part of my back which was immediately above the bleeding and burning gashes of the former whipping; and again the biting, stinging, pepper tea was applied to my lacerated and trembling muscles. This operation was continued at regular intervals, until I had received ninety-six lashes, and my back was cut and scalded from end to end. Every stroke of the whip had drawn blood; many of the gashes were three inches long; my back burned as if it had been covered by a coat of hot embers, mixed with living coals; and I felt my flesh quiver like that of animals that have been slaughtered by the butcher and are flayed whilst yet half alive. My face was bruised, and my nose bled profusely, for in the madness of my agony, I had not been able to refrain from beating my head violently against the post. "Vainly did I beg and implore for mercy. I was kept bound to the post with my whole weight hanging upon my thumbs, an hour and a half, but it appeared to me that I had entered upon eternity, and that my sufferings would never end. At length, however, my feet were unbound, and afterwards my hands; but when released from the cords, I was so far exhausted as not to be able to stand, and my thumbs were stiff and motionless. I was carried into the kitchen, and laid on a blanket, where my mistress came to see me; and after looking at my lacerated back, and telling me that my wounds were only skin deep, said I had come off well, after what I had done, and that I ought to be thankful that it was not worse with me. She then bade me not to groan so loud, nor make so much noise, and left me to myself. I lay in this condition until it was quite dark, by which time the burning of my back had much abated, and was succeeded by an aching soreness, which rendered me unable to turn over or bend my spine in the slightest manner. My mistress again visited me, and brought with her about half a pound of fat bacon, which she made one of the black women roast before the fire on a fork, until the oil ran freely from it, and then rub it warm over my back. This was repeated until I was greased from the neck to the hips, effectually. An old blanket was then thrown over me, and I was left to pass the night alone. Such was the terror stricken into my fellow-slaves, by the example made of me, that although they loved and pitied me, not one of them dared to approach me during this night. "My strength was gone, and I at length fell asleep, from which I did not awake until the horn was blown the next morning, to call the people to the corn crib, to receive their weekly allowance of a peck of corn. I did not rise, nor attempt to join the other people, and shortly afterwards my master entered the kitchen, and in a soft and gentle tone of voice, asked me if I was dead. I answered him that I was not dead, and making some effort, found I was able to get upon my feet. My master had become frightened when he missed me at the corn crib, and being suddenly seized with an apprehension that I was dead, his heart had become softened, not with compassion for my sufferings, but with the fear of losing his best field hand; but when he saw me stand before him erect, and upright, the recollection of the lost sheep revived in his mind, and with it, all his feelings of revenge against the author of its death. "'So you are not dead yet, you thieving rascal,' said he, and cursing me with many bitter oaths, ordered me to go along to the crib and get my corn, and go to work with the rest of the hands. I was forced to obey, and taking my basket of corn from the door of the crib, placed it in the kitchen loft, and went to the field with the other people. "Weak and exhausted as I was, I was compelled to do the work of an able hand, but was not permitted to taste the mutton, which was all given to the others, who were carefully guarded whilst they were eating, lest they should give me some of it." This man's back was not yet well. Many of the gashes made by the lash were yet sore, and those that were healed had left long white stripes across his body. He had no notion of leaving the service of his tyrannical master, and his spirit was so broken and subdued that he was ready to suffer and to bear all his hardships: not, indeed, without complaining, but without attempting to resist his oppressors or to escape from their power. I saw him often whilst I remained at this place, and ventured to tell him once, that if I had a master who would abuse me as he had abused him, I would run away. "Where could I run, or in what place could I conceal myself?" said he. "I have known many slaves who ran away, but they were always caught and treated worse afterwards than they had been before. I have heard that there is a place called Philadelphia, where the black people are all free, but I do not know which way it lies, nor what road I should take to go there; and if I knew the way, how could I hope to get there? would not the patrol be sure to catch me?" I pitied this unfortunate creature, and was at the same time fearful that, in a short time, I should be equally the object of pity myself. How well my fears were justified the sequel of my narrative will show. CHAPTER V. We had been stationed in the old cotton-gin house about twenty days, had recovered from the fatigues of our journey, and were greatly improved in our strength and appearance, when our master returned one evening, after an absence of two days, and told us that we must go to Columbia the next day, and must, for this purpose, have our breakfast ready by sunrise. On the following morning he called us at daylight, and we made all despatch in preparing our morning repast, the last that we were to take in our present residence. As our equipments consisted of a few clothes we had on our persons and a solitary blanket to each individual, our baggage was easily adjusted, and we were on the road before the sun was up half an hour; and in less than an hour we were in Columbia, drawn up in a long line in the street opposite the court-house. The town, which was small and mean-looking, was full of people, and I believe that more than a thousand gentlemen came to look at us within the course of this day. We were kept in the street about an hour, and were then taken into the jail-yard and permitted to sit down; but were not shut up in the jail. The court was sitting in Columbia at this time, and either this circumstance or the intelligence of our arrival in the country, or both, had drawn together a very great crowd of people. We were supplied with victuals by the jailor, and had a small allowance of salt pork for dinner. We slept in the jail at night, and as none of us had been sold on the day of our arrival in Columbia, and we had not heard any of the persons who came to look at us make proposals to our master for our purchase, I supposed it might be his intention to drive us still farther south before he offered us for sale; but I discovered my error on the second day, which was Tuesday. This day the crowd in town was much greater than it had been on Monday; and, about ten o'clock our master came into the yard in company with the jailor, and after looking at us some time, the latter addressed us in a short speech, which continued perhaps five minutes. In this harangue he told us we had come to live in the finest country in the world; that South Carolina was the richest and best part of the United States; and that he was going to sell us to gentlemen who would make us all very happy, and would require us to do no hard work; but only raise cotton and pick it. He then ordered a handsome young lad, about eighteen years of age, to follow him into the street, where he observed a great concourse of persons collected. Here the jailor made another harangue to the multitude, in which he assured them that he was just about to sell the most valuable lot of slaves that had ever been offered in Columbia. That we were all young, in excellent health, of good habits, having been all purchased in Virginia, from the estates of tobacco planters; and that there was not one in the whole lot who had lost the use of a single finger, or was blind of an eye. He then cried the poor lad for sale, and the first bid he received was two hundred dollars. Others quickly succeeded, and the boy, who was a remarkably handsome youth, was stricken off in a few minutes to a young man who appeared not much older than himself, at three hundred and fifty dollars. The purchaser paid down his price to our master on a table in the jail, and the lad, after bidding us farewell, followed his new master with tears running down his cheeks. He next sold a young girl, about fifteen or sixteen years old, for two hundred and fifty dollars, to a lady who attended the sales in her carriage, and made her bids out of the window. In this manner the sales were continued for about two hours and a half, when they were adjourned until three o'clock. In the afternoon they were again resumed, and kept open until about five o'clock, when they were closed for the day. As my companions were sold, they were taken from amongst us, and we saw them no more. The next morning, before day, I was awakened from my sleep by the sound of several heavy fires of cannon, which were discharged, as it seemed to me, within a few yards of the place where I lay. These were succeeded by fifes and drums, and all the noise with which I had formerly heard the fourth of July ushered in, at the Navy Yard in Washington. Since I had left Maryland I had carefully kept the reckoning of the days of the week, but had not been careful to note the dates of the month; yet as soon as daylight appeared, and the door of our apartment was opened, I inquired and learned that this was, as I had supposed it to be, the day of universal rejoicing. I understood that the court did not sit this day, but a great crowd of people gathered and remained around the jail all the morning; many of whom were intoxicated, and sang and shouted in honor of free government, and the rights of man. About eleven o'clock, a long table was spread under a row of trees which grew in the street, not far from the jail, and which appeared to me to be of the kind called in Pennsylvania, the pride of China. At this table several hundred persons sat down to dinner soon after noon, and continued to eat and drink, and sing songs in honor of liberty, for more than two hours. At the end of the dinner a gentleman rose and stood upon his chair, near one end of the table, and begged the company to hear him for a few minutes. He informed them that he was a candidate for some office--but what office it was I do not recollect--and said, that as it was an acknowledged principle of our free government, that all men were born free and equal, he presumed it would not be deemed an act of arrogance in him, to call upon them for their votes at the coming election. This first speaker was succeeded by another, who addressed his audience in nearly the same language; and after he had concluded, the company broke up. I heard a black man that belonged to the jailer, or, who was at least in his service, say that there had been a great meeting that morning in the court house, at which several gentlemen had made speeches. When I lived at the navy-yard, the officers sometimes permitted me to go up town with them, on the fourth of July, and listen to the fine speeches that were made there, on such occasions. About five o'clock, the jailer came and stood at the front door of the jail, and proclaimed, in a very loud voice, that a sale of most valuable slaves would immediately take place; that he had sold many fine hands yesterday, but they were only the refuse and most worthless part of the whole lot;--that those who wished to get great bargains and prime property, had better attend now; as it was certain that such negroes had never been offered for sale in Columbia before. In a few minutes the whole assembly, that had composed the dinner party, and hundreds of others, were convened around the jail door, and the jailer again proceeded with his auction. Several of the stoutest men and handsomest women in the whole company, had been reserved for this day; and I perceived that the very best of us were kept back for the last. We went off at rather better prices than had been obtained on the former day; and I perceived much eagerness amongst the bidders, many of whom were not sober. Within less than three hours, only three of us remained in the jail; and we were ordered to come and stand at the door, in front of the crier, who made a most extravagant eulogium upon our good qualities and capacity to perform labor. He said, "These three fellows are as strong as horses, and as patient as mules; one of them can do as much work as two common men, and they are perfectly honest. Mr. M'Giffin says, he was assured by their former masters that they were never known to steal, or run away. They must bring good prices, gentlemen, or they will not be sold. Their master is determined, that if they do not bring six hundred dollars, he will not sell them, but will take them to Georgia next summer, and sell them to some of the new settlers. These boys can do anything. This one," referring to me, "can cut five cords of wood in a day, and put it up. He is a rough carpenter, and a first rate field hand. This one," laying his hand on the shoulder of one of my companions, "is a blacksmith; and can lay a ploughshare; put new steel upon an axe; or mend a broken chain." The other, he recommended as a good shoemaker, and well acquainted with the process of tanning leather. We were all nearly of the same age; and very stout, healthy, robust young men, in full possession of our corporal powers; and if we had been shut up in a room, with ten of the strongest of those who had assembled to purchase us, and our liberty had depended on tying them fast to each other, I have no doubt that we should have been free, if ropes had been provided for us. After a few minutes of hesitancy amongst the purchasers, and a closer examination of our persons than had been made in the jail-yard, an elderly gentleman said he would take the carpenter; and the blacksmith, and shoemaker, were immediately taken by others, at the required price. It was now sundown. The heat of the day had been very oppressive, and I was glad to be released from the confined air of the jail, and the hot atmosphere, in which so many hundreds were breathing.--My new master asked me my name, and ordered me to follow him. We proceeded to a tavern, where a great number of persons were assembled, at a short distance from the jail. My master entered the house, and joined in the conversation of the party, in which the utmost hilarity prevailed. They were drinking toasts in honor of liberty and independence, over glasses of toddy--a liquor composed of a mixture of rum, water, sugar, and nutmeg. It was ten o'clock at night before my master and his companions had finished their toasts and toddy; and all this time, I had been standing before the door, or sitting on a log of wood, that lay in front of the house. At one time, I took a seat on a bench, at the side of the house; but was soon driven from this position by a gentleman, in military clothes, with a large gilt epaulet on each shoulder, and a profusion of glittering buttons on his coat; who passing near me in the dark, and happening to cast his eye on me, demanded of me, in an imperious tone, how I dared to sit on that seat. I told him I was a stranger, and did not know that it was wrong to sit there. He then ordered me with an oath, to begone from there; and said, if he caught me on that bench again, he would cut my head off. "Did you not see white people sit upon that bench, you saucy rascal?" said he. I assured him I had not seen any white gentleman sit on the bench, as it was near night when I came to the house; that I had not intended to be saucy, or misbehave myself; and that I hoped he would not be angry with me, as my master had left me at the door, and had not told me where I was to sit. I remained on the log until the termination of the festival, in honor of liberty and equality; when my master came to the door, and observed in my hearing, to some of his friends, that they had celebrated the day in a handsome manner. No person, except the military gentleman, had spoken to me since I came to the house in the evening with my master, who seemed to have forgotten me; for he remained at the door, warmly engaged in conversation, on various political subjects, a full hour after he rose from the toast party. At length, however, I heard him say--"I bought a negro this evening--I wonder where he is." Rising immediately from the log on which I had been so long seated, I presented myself before him, and said, "Here, master." He then ordered me to go to the kitchen of the inn, and go to sleep; but said nothing to me about supper.--I retired to the kitchen, where I found a large number of servants, who belonged to the house, and among them two young girls, who had been purchased by a gentleman who lived near Augusta; and who, they told me, intended to set out for his plantation the next morning, and take them with him. These girls had been sold out of our company on the first day; and had been living in the tavern kitchen since that time. They appeared quite contented, and evinced no repugnance to setting out the next morning for their master's plantation. They were of that order of people who never look beyond the present day; and so long as they had plenty of victuals, in this kitchen, they did not trouble themselves with reflections upon the cotton field. One of the servants gave me some cold meat and a piece of wheaten bread, which was the first I had tasted since I left Maryland, and indeed, it was the last that I tasted until I reached Maryland again. I here met with a man who was born and brought up in the Northern Neck of Virginia, on the banks of the Potomac, and within a few miles of my native place. We soon formed an acquaintance, and sat up nearly all night. He was the chief hostler in the stable of this tavern, and told me that he had often thought of attempting to escape, and return to Virginia. He said he had little doubt of being able to reach the Potomac; but having no knowledge of the country beyond that river, he was afraid that he should not be able to make his way to Philadelphia; which he regarded as the only place in which he could be safe from the pursuit of his master. I was myself then young, and my knowledge of the country, north of Baltimore, was very vague and undefined. I, however, told him, that I had heard, that if a black man could reach any part of Pennsylvania, he would be beyond the reach of his pursuers. He said he could not justly complain of want of food; but the services required of him were so unreasonable, and the punishment frequently inflicted upon him, so severe, that he was determined to set out for the North, as soon as the corn was so far ripe as to be fit to be roasted. He felt confident, that by lying in the woods and unfrequented places all day, and traveling only by night, he could escape the vigilance of all pursuit; and gain the Northern Neck, before the corn would be gathered from the fields. He had no fear of wanting food, as he could live well on roasting ears, as long as the corn was in the milk; and afterwards, on parched corn, as long as the grain remained in the field. I advised him as well as I could, as to the best means of reaching the State of Pennsylvania, but was not able to give him any very definite instructions. This man possessed a very sound understanding; and having been five years in Carolina, was well acquainted with the country. He gave me such an account of the sufferings of the slaves, on the cotton and indigo plantations--of whom I now regarded myself as one--that I was unable to sleep any this night. From the resolute manner in which he spoke of his intended elopement, and the regularity with which he had connected the various combinations of the enterprise, I have no doubt that he undertook that which he intended to perform. Whether he was successful or not in the enterprise, I cannot say, as I never saw him nor heard of him after the next morning. This man certainly communicated to me the outlines of the plan, which I afterwards put in execution, and by which I gained my liberty, at the expense of sufferings, which none can appreciate, except those who have borne all that the stoutest human constitution can bear, of cold and hunger, toil and pain. The conversation of this slave aroused in my breast so many recollections of the past, and fears of the future, that I did not lie down, but sat on an old chair until daylight. From the people of the kitchen I again received some cold victuals for my breakfast, but I did not see my master until about nine o'clock; the toddy of the last evening causing him to sleep late this morning. At length a female slave gave me notice that my master wished to see me in the dining-room, whither I repaired without a moment's delay. When I entered the room he was sitting near the window, smoking a pipe, with a very long handle--I believe more than two feet in length. He asked no questions, but addressing me by the title of "boy," ordered me to go with the hostler of the inn, and get his horse and chaise ready. As soon as this order could be executed, I informed him that his chaise was at the door, and we immediately commenced our journey to the plantation of my master, which, he told me, lay at the distance of twenty miles from Columbia. He said I must keep up with him, and, as he drove at the rate of five or six miles an hour, I was obliged to run nearly half the time; but I was then young, and could easily travel fifty or sixty miles in a day. It was with great anxiety that I looked for the place, which was in future to be my home; but this did not prevent me from making such observations upon the state of the country through which we traveled, as the rapidity of our march permitted. This whole region had originally been one vast wilderness of pine forest, except the low grounds and river bottoms, here called swamps, in which all the varieties of trees, shrubs, vines, and plants peculiar to such places, in southern latitudes, vegetated in unrestrained luxuriance. Nor is pine the only timber that grows on the uplands, in this part of Carolina, although it is the predominant tree, and in some places prevails to the exclusion of every other--oak, hickory, sassafras, and many others are found. Here, also, I first observed groves of the most beautiful of all the trees of the wood--the great Southern Magnolia, or Green Bay. No adequate conception can be formed of the appearance or the fragrance of this most magnificent tree, by any one who has not seen it or scented the air when scented by the perfume of its flowers. It rises in a right line to the height of seventy or eighty feet; the stem is of a delicate taper form and casts off numerous branches, in nearly right angles with itself; the extremities of which decline gently towards the ground, and become shorter and shorter in the ascent, until at the apex of the tree they are scarcely a foot in length, whilst below they are many times found twenty feet long. The immense cones formed by these trees are as perfect as those diminutive forms which nature exhibits in the bur of the pine tree. The leaf of the Magnolia is smooth, of an oblong taper form, about six inches in length, and half as broad. Its color is the deepest and purest green. The foliage of the Bay tree is as impervious as a brick wall to the rays of the sun, and its refreshing coolness, in the heat of a summer day, affords one of the greatest luxuries of a cotton plantation. It blooms in May, and bears great numbers of broad, expanded white flowers, the odor of which is exceedingly grateful, and so abundant, that I have no doubt that a grove of these trees in full bloom, may be smelled at a distance of fifteen or twenty miles. I have heard it asserted in the South, that their scent has been perceived by persons fifty or sixty miles from them. This tree is one of nature's most splendid, and in the climate where she has placed it, one of her most agreeable productions. It is peculiar to the southern temperate latitudes, and cannot bear the rigors of a northern winter; though I have heard that groves of the Bay are found on Fishing Creek, in Western Virginia, not far from Wheeling, and near the Ohio river. Could this tree be naturalized in Pennsylvania, it would form an ornament to her towns, cities and country seats, at once the most tasteful and the most delicious. A forest of these trees, in the month of May, resembles a wood, enveloped in an untimely fall of snow at midsummer, glowing in the rays of a morning sun. We passed this day through cotton-fields and pine woods, alternately; but the scene was sometimes enlivened by the appearance of lots of corn and sweet potatoes, which, I observed, were generally planted near the houses. I afterwards learned that this custom of planting the corn and potatoes near the house of the planter, is generally all over Carolina. The object is to prevent the slaves from stealing, and thus procuring more food than, by the laws of the plantation, they are entitled to. In passing through a lane, I this day saw a field which appeared to me to contain about fifty acres, in which people were at work with hoes, amongst a sort of plants that I had never seen before. I asked my master what this was, and he told me it was indigo. I shall have occasion to say more of this plant hereafter. We at length arrived at the residence of my master, who descended from his chaise, and leaving me in charge of the horse at the gate, proceeded to the house across a long court yard. In a few minutes two young ladies, and a young gentleman, came out of the house, and walked to the gate, near which I was with the horse. One of the ladies said, they had come to look at me, and see what kind of a boy her pa had brought home with him. The other one said I was a very smart looking boy; and this compliment flattered me greatly--they being the first kind words that had been addressed to me since I left Maryland. The young gentleman asked me if I could run fast, and if I had ever picked cotton. His manner did not impress me so much in his favor, as the address of his sister had done for her. These three young persons were the son and daughters of my master. After looking at me a short time, my young master (for so I must now call him) ordered me to take the harness from the horse, give him water at a well which was near, and come into the kitchen, where some boiled rice was given me for my dinner. I was not required to go to work this first day of my abode in my new residence; but after I had eaten my rice, my young master told me I might rest myself or walk out and see the plantation, but that I must be ready to go with the overseer the next morning. CHAPTER VI. By the laws of the United States I am still a slave; and though I am now growing old, I might even yet be deemed of sufficient value to be worth pursuing as far as my present residence, if those to whom the law gives the right of dominion over my person and life, knew where to find me. For these reasons I have been advised, by those whom I believe to be my friends, not to disclose the true names of any of those families in which I was a slave, in Carolina or Georgia, lest this narrative should meet their eyes, and in some way lead them to a discovery of my retreat. I was now the slave of one of the most wealthy planters in Carolina, who planted cotton, rice, indigo, corn, and potatoes; and was the master of two hundred and sixty slaves. The description of one great cotton plantation will give a correct idea of all others; and I shall here present an outline of that of my master's. He lived about two miles from Caugaree river, which bordered his estate on one side, and in the swamps of which were his rice fields. The country hereabout is very flat, the banks of the river are low, and in wet seasons large tracts of country are flooded by the super-abundant water of the river. There are no springs, and the only means of procuring water on the plantations is from wells, which must be sunk in general about twenty feet deep, before a constant supply of water can be obtained. My master had two of these wells on his plantation--one at the mansion house, and one at the quarter. My master's house was of brick, (brick houses are by no means common among the planters, whose residences are generally built of frame work, weather boarded with pine boards, and covered with shingles of the white cedar or juniper cypress,) and contained two large parlors, and a spacious hall or entry on the ground floor. The main building was two stories high, and attached to this was a smaller building, one story and a half high, with a large room, where the family generally took breakfast, with a kitchen at the farther extremity from the main building. There was a spacious garden behind the house, containing, I believe, about five acres, well cultivated, and handsomely laid out. In this garden grew a great variety of vegetables; some of which I have never seen in the market of Philadelphia. It contained a profusion of flowers, three different shrubberies, a vast number of ornamental and small fruit trees, and several small hot houses, with glass roofs. There was a head gardener, who did nothing but attend to this garden through the year; and during the summer he generally had two men and two boys to assist him. In the months of April and May this garden was one of the sweetest and most pleasant places that I ever was in. At one end of the main building was a small house, called the library, in which my master kept his books and papers, and where he spent much of his time. At some distance from the mansion was a pigeon-house, and near the kitchen was a large wooden building, called the kitchen quarter, in which the house servants slept, and where they generally took their meals. Here, also, the washing of the family was done, and all the rough or unpleasant work of the kitchen department--such as cleaning and salting fish, putting up pork, &c., was assigned to this place. There was no barn on this plantation, according to the acceptation of the word _barn_ in Pennsylvania; but there was a wooden building, about forty feet long, called the coach-house, in one end of which the family carriage and the chaise in which my master rode were kept. Under the same roof was a stable large enough to contain a dozen horses. In one end the corn intended for the horses was kept, and the whole of one loft was occupied by the blades and tops of the corn. About a quarter of a mile from the dwelling house were the huts or cabins of the plantation slaves, standing in rows. There were thirty-eight of them, generally about sixteen feet square, and provided with pine floors. In these cabins were two hundred and fifty people, of all ages, sexes and sizes. A short distance from the cabins was the house of the overseer. In one corner of his garden stood a corn-crib and a provision-house. A little way off stood the house containing the cotton-gin. There was no smoke-house, nor any place for curing meat, and while I was on this plantation no food was ever salted for the use of the slaves. I went out into the garden, and after sundown my old master sent me to the overseer's house. He was just coming in from the field, followed by a great number of black people. He asked me my name, and calling a middle-aged man, who was passing us at some distance, told him he must take me to live with him. I followed my new friend to his cabin, which was the shelter of his wife and five children. Their only furniture consisted of a few blocks of wood for seats; a short bench, made of a pine board, which served as a table; and a small bed in one corner, composed of a mat, made of common rushes, spread upon some corn husks, pulled and split into fine pieces, and kept together by a narrow slip of wood, confined to the floor by wooden pins. There was a common iron pot standing beside the chimney, and several wooden spoons and dishes hung against the wall. Several blankets also hung against the wall upon wooden pins. An old box, made of pine boards, without either lock or hinges, occupied one corner. At the time I entered this humble abode the mistress was not at home. She had not yet returned from the field; having been sent, as the husband informed me, with some other people late in the evening, to do some work in a field about two miles distant. I found a child, about a year old, lying on the mat-bed, and a little girl about four years old sitting beside it. These children were entirely naked, and when we came to the door, the elder rose from its place and ran to its father, and clasping him round one of his knees, said, "Now we shall get good supper." The father laid his hand upon the head of his naked child, and stood silently looking in its face--which was turned upwards toward his own for a moment--and then turning to me, said, "Did you leave any children at home?" The scene before me--the question propounded--and the manner of this poor man and his child, caused my heart to swell until my breast seemed too small to contain it. My soul fled back upon the wings of fancy to my wife's lowly dwelling in Maryland, where I had been so often met on a Saturday evening, when I paid them my weekly visit, by my own little ones, who clung to my knees for protection and support, even as the poor little wretch now before me seized upon the weary limb of its hapless and destitute father, hoping that, naked as he was, (for he too was naked, save only the tattered remains of a pair of old trowsers,) he would bring with his return at evening its customary scanty supper. I was unable to reply, but stood motionless, leaning against the walls of the cabin. My children seemed to flit by the door in the dusky twilight; and the twittering of a swallow, which that moment fluttered over my head, sounded in my ear as the infantile tittering of my own little boy; but on a moment's reflection I knew that we were separated without the hope of ever again meeting; that they no more heard the welcome tread of my feet, and could never again receive the little gifts with which, poor as I was, I was accustomed to present them. I was far from the place of my nativity, in a land of strangers, with no one to care for me beyond the care that a master bestows upon his ox; with all my future life one long, waste, barren desert, of cheerless, hopeless, lifeless slavery; to be varied only by the pangs of hunger and the stings of the lash. My revery was at length broken by the appearance of the mother of the family, with her three eldest children. The mother wore an old ragged shift; but the children, the eldest of whom appeared to be about twelve, and the youngest six years old, were quite naked. When she came in, the husband told her that the overseer had sent me to live with them; and she and her oldest child, who was a boy, immediately set about preparing their supper, by boiling some of the leaves of the weed, called lamb's-quarter, in the pot. This, together with some cakes of cold corn bread, formed their supper. My supper was brought to me from the house of the overseer by a small girl, his daughter. It was about half a pound of bread, cut from a loaf made of corn meal. My companions gave me a part of their boiled greens, and we all sat down together to my first meal in my new habitation. I had no other bed than the blanket which I had brought with me from Maryland; and I went to sleep in the loft of the cabin which was assigned to me as my sleeping room; and in which I continued to lodge as long as I remained on this plantation. The next morning I was waked, at the break of day, by the sound of a horn, which was blown very loudly. Perceiving that it was growing light, I came down, and went out immediately in front of the house of the overseer, who was standing near his own gate, blowing the horn. In a few minutes the whole of the working people, from all the cabins, were assembled; and as it was now light enough for me distinctly to see such objects as were about me, I at once perceived the nature of the servitude to which I was, in future, to be subject. As I have before stated, there were altogether on this plantation, two hundred and sixty slaves; but the number was seldom stationary for a single week. Births were numerous and frequent, and deaths were not uncommon. When I joined them I believe we counted in all two hundred and sixty-three; but of these only one hundred and seventy went to the field to work. The others were children, too small to be of any service as laborers; old and blind persons, or incurably diseased. Ten or twelve were kept about the mansion-house and garden, chosen from the most handsome and sprightly of the gang. I think about one hundred and sixty-eight assembled this morning, at the sound of the horn--two or three being sick, sent word to the overseer that they could not come. The overseer wrote something on a piece of paper, and gave it to his little son. This I was told was a note to be sent to our master, to inform him that some of the hands were sick--it not being any part of the duty of the overseer to attend to a sick negro. The overseer then led off to the field, with his horn in one hand and his whip in the other; we following--men, women, and children, promiscuously--and a wretched looking troop we were. There was not an entire garment amongst us. More than half of the gang were entirely naked. Several young girls, who had arrived at puberty, wearing only the livery with which nature had ornamented them, and a great number of lads, of an equal or superior age, appeared in the same costume. There was neither bonnet, cap, nor head dress of any kind amongst us, except the old straw hat that I wore, and which my wife had made for me in Maryland. This I soon laid aside to avoid the appearance of singularity, and, as owing to the severe treatment I had endured whilst traveling in chains, and being compelled to sleep on the naked floor, without undressing myself, my clothes were quite worn out, I did not make a much better figure than my companions; though still I preserved the semblance of clothing so far, that it could be seen that my shirt and trowsers had once been distinct and separate garments. Not one of the others had on even the remains of two pieces of apparel.--Some of the men had old shirts, and some ragged trowsers, but no one wore both. Amongst the women, several wore petticoats, and many had shifts. Not one of the whole number wore both of these vestments. We walked nearly a mile through one vast cotton field, before we arrived at the place of our intended day's labor. At last the overseer stopped at the side of the field, and calling to several of the men by name, ordered them to call their companies and turn into their rows. The work we had to do to-day was to hoe and weed cotton, for the last time; and the men whose names had been called, and who were, I believe, eleven in number, were designated as captains, each of whom had under his command a certain number of the other hands. The captain was the foreman of his company, and those under his command had to keep up with him. Each of the men and women had to take one row; and two, and in some cases where they were very small, three of the children had one. The first captain, whose name was Simon, took the first row--and the other captains were compelled to keep up with him. By this means the overseer had nothing to do but to keep Simon hard at work, and he was certain that all the others must work equally hard. Simon was a stout, strong man, apparently about thirty-five years of age; and for some reason unknown to me, I was ordered to take a row next to his. The overseer with his whip in his hand walked about the field after us, to see that our work was well done. As we worked with hoes, I had no difficulty in learning how the work was to be performed. The fields of cotton at this season of the year are very beautiful. The plants, among which we worked this day, were about three feet high, and in full bloom, with branches so numerous that they nearly covered the whole ground--leaving scarcely space enough between them to permit us to move about, and work with our hoes. About seven o'clock in the morning the overseer sounded his horn; and we all repaired to the shade of some persimmon trees, which grew in a corner of the field, to get our breakfast. I here saw a cart drawn by a yoke of oxen, driven by an old black man, nearly blind. The cart contained three barrels, filled with water, and several large baskets full of corn bread that had been baked in the ashes. The water was for us to drink, and the bread was our breakfast. The little son of the overseer was also in the cart, and had brought with him the breakfast of his father, in a small wooden bucket. The overseer had bread, butter, cold ham, and coffee for his breakfast. Ours was composed of a corn cake, weighing about three-quarters of a pound, to each person, with as much water as was desired. I at first supposed that this bread was dealt out to the people as their allowance; but on further inquiry I found this not to be the case. Simon, by whose side I was now at work, and who seemed much pleased with my agility and diligence in my duty, told me that here, as well as every where in this country, each person received a peck of corn at the crib door, every Sunday evening, and that in ordinary times, every one had to grind this corn and bake it, for him or herself, making such use of it as the owner thought proper; but that for some time past, the overseer, for the purpose of saving the time which had been lost in baking the bread, had made it the duty of an old woman, who was not capable of doing much work in the field, to stay at the quarter, and bake the bread of the whole gang. When baked, it was brought to the field in a cart, as I saw, and dealt out in loaves. They still had to grind their own corn, after night; and as there were only three hand-mills on the plantation, he said they experienced much difficulty in converting their corn into meal. We worked in this field all day; and at the end of every hour, or hour and a quarter, we had permission to go to the cart, which was moved about the field, so as to be near us, and get water. Our dinner was the same, in all respects, as our breakfast, except that, in addition to the bread, we had a little salt, and a radish for each person. We were not allowed to rest at either breakfast or dinner, longer than while we were eating; and we worked in the evening as long as we could distinguish the weeds from the cotton plants. Simon informed me, that formerly, when they baked their own bread, they had left their work soon after sundown, to go home and bake for the next day, but the overseer had adopted the new policy for the purpose of keeping them at work until dark. When we could no longer see to work, the horn was again sounded, and we returned home. I had now lived through one of the days--a succession of which make up the life of a slave--on a cotton plantation. As we went out in the morning, I observed several women, who carried their young children in their arms to the field. These mothers laid their children at the side of the fence, or under the shade of the cotton plants, whilst they were at work; and when the rest of us went to get water, they would go to give suck to their children, requesting some one to bring them water in gourds, which they were careful to carry to the field with them. One young woman did not, like the others, leave her child at the end of the row, but had contrived a sort of rude knapsack, made of a piece of coarse linen cloth, in which she fastened her child, which was very young, upon her back; and in this way carried it all day, and performed her task at the hoe with the other people. I pitied her, and as we were going home at night escorted her and learned her history. She had been brought up a lady's-maid, and knew little of hardship until she was sold South by a dissipated master. On this plantation she was obliged to marry a man she did not like, and was often severely whipped because she could not do as much work as the rest. I was affected by her story, and the overseer's horn interrupted our conversation, at hearing which she exclaimed, "We are too late, let us run, or we shall be whipped," and setting off as fast as she could run, she left me alone. I quickened my pace, and arrived in the crowd a moment before her. CHAPTER VII. The overseer was calling over the names of the whole from a little book, and the first name I heard was that of my companion--Lydia. As she did not answer, I said, "Master, the woman that carries her baby on her back will be here in a minute." He paid no attention to what I said, but went on with his call. As the people answered to their names, they passed off to the cabins, except three, two women and a man; who, when their names were called, were ordered to go into the yard, in front of the overseer's house. My name was the last on the list, and when it was called I was ordered into the yard with the three others. Just as we had entered, Lydia came up out of breath, with the child in her arms; and following us into the yard, dropped on her knees before the overseer, and begged him to forgive her. "Where have you been?" said he. Poor Lydia now burst into tears, and said, "I only stopped to talk awhile to this man," pointing to me; "but indeed, master overseer, I will never do so again." "Lie down," was his reply. Lydia immediately fell prostrate upon the ground; and in this position he compelled her to remove her old tow linen shift, the only garment she wore, so as to expose her hips, when he gave her ten lashes, with his long whip, every touch of which brought blood, and a shriek from the sufferer. He then ordered her to go and get her supper, with an injunction never to stay behind again.--The other three culprits were then put upon their trial. The first was a middle aged woman, who had, as her overseer said, left several hills of cotton in the course of the day, without cleaning and hilling them in a proper manner. She received twelve lashes. The other two were charged in general terms, with having been lazy, and of having neglected their work that day. Each of these received twelve lashes. These people all received punishment in the same manner that it had been inflicted upon Lydia, and when they were all gone the overseer turned to me and said--"Boy, you are a stranger here yet, but I called you in to let you see how things are done here, and to give you a little advice. When I get a new negro under my command, I never whip at first; I always give him a few days to learn his duty, unless he is an outrageous villain, in which case I anoint him a little at the beginning. I call over the names of all the hands twice every week, on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, and settle with them according to their general conduct for the last three days. I call the names of my captains every morning, and it is their business to see that they have all their hands in their proper places. You ought not to have staid behind to-night with Lyd; but as this is your first offence, I shall overlook it, and you may go and get your supper." I made a low bow, and thanked master overseer for his kindness to me, and left him. This night for supper we had corn bread and cucumbers; but we had neither salt, vinegar, nor pepper with the cucumbers. I had never before seen people flogged in the way our overseer flogged his people. This plan of making the person who is to be whipped lie down upon the ground, was new to me, though it is much practiced in the South; and I have since seen men, and women too, cut nearly in pieces by this mode of punishment. It has one advantage over tying people up by the hands, as it prevents all accidents from sprains in the thumbs or wrists. On Monday morning I heard the sound of the horn at the usual hour, and repairing to the front of the overseer's house, found that he had already gone to the corn crib, for the purpose of distributing corn among the people, for the bread of the week; or rather for the week's subsistence, for this corn was all the provision that our master, or his overseer, usually made for us; I say usually, for whatever was given to us beyond the corn, which we received on Sunday evening, was considered in the light of a bounty bestowed upon us, over and beyond what we were entitled to, or had a right to expect to receive. When I arrived at the crib, the door was unlocked and open, and the distribution had already commenced. Each person was entitled to half a bushel of ears of corn, which was measured out by several of the men who were in the crib. Every child above six months old drew this weekly allowance of corn; and in this way, women who had several small children, had more corn than they could consume, and sometimes bartered small quantities with the other people for such things as they needed, and were not able to procure. The people received their corn in baskets, old bags, or any thing with which they could most conveniently provide themselves. I had not been able, since I came here, to procure a basket, or any thing else to put my corn in, and desired the man with whom I lived to take my portion in his basket, with that of his family. This he readily agreed to do, and as soon as we had received our share we left the crib. The overseer attended in person to the measuring of this corn; and it is only justice to him to say that he was careful to see that justice was done us. The men who measured the corn always heaped the measure as long as an ear would lie on; and he never restrained their generosity to their fellow-slaves. In addition to this allowance of corn, we received a weekly allowance of salt, amounting in general to about half a gill to each person; but this article was not furnished regularly, and sometimes we received none for two or three weeks. The reader must not suppose, that, on this plantation, we had nothing to eat beyond the corn and salt. This was far from the case. I have already described the gardens, or patches, cultivated by the people, and the practice which they universally followed of working on Sunday, for wages. In addition to all these, an industrious, managing slave would contrive to gather up a great deal to eat. I have observed, that the planters are careful of the health of their slaves, and in pursuance of this rule, they seldom expose them to rainy weather, especially in the sickly seasons of the year, if it can be avoided. In the spring and early parts of the summer, the rains are frequently so violent, and the ground becomes so wet, that it is injurious to the cotton to work it, at least whilst it rains. In the course of the year there are many of these rainy days, in which the people cannot go to work with safety; and it often happens that there is nothing for them to do in the house. At such time they make baskets, brooms, horse collars, and other things, which they are able to sell amongst the planters. The baskets are made of wooden splits, and the brooms of young white oak or hickory trees. The mats are sometimes made of splits, but more frequently of flags, as they are called--a kind of tall rush, which grows in swampy ground. The horse or mule collars are made of husks of corn, though sometimes of rushes, but the latter are not very durable. The money procured by these, and various other means, which I shall explain hereafter, is laid out by the slaves in purchasing such little articles of necessity or luxury, as it enables them to procure. A part is disbursed in payment for sugar, molasses, and sometimes a few pounds of coffee, for the use of the family; another part is laid out for clothes for winter; and no inconsiderable portion of his pittance is squandered away by the misguided slave for tobacco, and an occasional bottle of rum. Tobacco is deemed so indispensable to comfort, nay to existence, that hunger and nakedness are patiently endured, to enable the slave to indulge in this highest of enjoyments. There being few towns in the cotton country, the shops, or stores, are frequently kept at some cross road, or other public place, in or adjacent to a rich district of plantations. To these shops the slaves resort, sometimes with, and at other times without, the consent of the overseer, for the purpose of laying out the little money they get. Notwithstanding all the vigilance that is exercised by the planters, the slaves, who are no less vigilant than their masters, often leave the plantation after the overseer has retired to his bed, and go to the store. The store-keepers are always ready to accommodate the slaves, who are frequently better customers than many white people; because the former always pay cash, whilst the latter almost always require credit. In dealing with the slave, the shop-keeper knows he can demand whatever price he pleases for his goods, without danger of being charged with extortion; and he is ready to rise at any time of the night to oblige friends, who are of so much value to him. It is held highly disgraceful, on the part of store-keepers, to deal with the slaves for any thing but money, or the coarse fabrics that it is known are the usual products of the ingenuity and industry of the negroes; but, notwithstanding this, a considerable traffic is carried on between the shop-keepers and slaves, in which the latter make their payments by barter. The utmost caution and severity of masters and overseers, are sometimes insufficient to repress the cunning contrivances of the slaves. After we had received our corn, we deposited it in our several houses, and immediately followed the overseer to the same cotton field, in which we had been at work on Sunday. Our breakfast this morning was bread, to which was added a large basket of apples, from the orchard of our master. These apples served us for a relish with our bread, both for breakfast and dinner, and when I returned to the quarter in the evening, Dinah (the name of the woman who was at the head of our family) produced at supper, a black jug, containing molasses, and gave me some of the molasses for my supper. I felt grateful to Dinah for this act of kindness, as I well knew that her children regarded molasses as the greatest of human luxuries, and that she was depriving them of their highest enjoyment to afford me the means of making a gourd full of molasses and water. I therefore proposed to her and her husband, whose name was Nero, that whilst I should remain a member of the family, I would contribute as much towards its support as Nero himself; or, at least, that I would bring all my earnings into the family stock, provided I might be treated as one of its members, and be allowed a portion of the proceeds of their patch of garden. This offer was very readily accepted, and from this time we constituted one community, as long as I remained among the field hands on this plantation. After supper was over, we had to grind our corn; but as we had to wait for our turn at the mill, we did not get through this indispensable operation before one o'clock in the morning. We did not sit up all night to wait for our turn at the mill, but as our several turns were assigned us by lot, the person who had the first turn, when done with the mill, gave notice to the one entitled to the second, and so on. By this means nobody lost more than half an hour's sleep, and in the morning every one's grinding was done. We worked very hard this week. We were now laying by the cotton, as it is termed; that is, we were giving the last weeding and hilling to the crop, of which there was, on this plantation, about five hundred acres, which looked well, and promised to yield a fine picking. In addition to the cotton, there was on this plantation one hundred acres of corn, about ten acres of indigo, ten or twelve acres in sweet potatoes, and a rice swamp of about fifty acres. The potatoes and indigo had been laid by, (that is, the season of working in them was past,) before I came upon the estate; and we were driven hard by the overseer to get done with the cotton, to be ready to give the corn another harrowing and hoeing, before the season should be too far advanced. Most of the corn in this part of the country, was already laid by, but the crop here had been planted late, and yet required to be worked. We were supplied with an abundance of bread, for a peck of corn is as much as a man can consume in a week, if he has other vegetables with it; but we were obliged to provide ourselves with the other articles, necessary for our subsistence. Nero had corn in his patch, which was now hard enough to be fit for boiling, and my friend Lydia had beans in her garden. We exchanged corn for beans, and had a good supply of both; but these delicacies we were obliged to reserve for supper. We took our breakfast in the field, from the cart, which seldom afforded us any thing better than bread, and some raw vegetables from the garden. Nothing of moment occurred amongst us, in this first week of my residence here. On Wednesday evening, called settlement-night, two men and a woman were whipped; but circumstances of this kind were so common, that I shall, in future, not mention them, unless something extraordinary attended them. I could make wooden bowls and ladles, and went to work with a man who was clearing some new land about two miles off--on the second Sunday of my sojourn here--and applied the money I earned in purchasing the tools necessary to enable me to carry on my trade. I occupied all my leisure hours, for several months after this, in making wooden trays, and such other wooden vessels as were most in demand. These I traded off, in part, to a store-keeper, who lived about five miles from the plantation; and for some of my work I obtained money. Before Christmas, I had sold more than thirty dollars worth of my manufactures; but the merchant with whom I traded, charged such high prices for his goods, that I was poorly compensated for my Sunday toils, and nightly labors; nevertheless, by these means, I was able to keep our family supplied with molasses, and some other luxuries, and at the approach of winter, I purchased three coarse blankets, to which Nero added as many, and we had all these made up into blanket-coats for Dinah, ourselves, and the children. About ten days after my arrival, we had a great feast at the quarter. One night, after we had returned from the field, the overseer sent for me by his little son, and when I came to his house, he asked me if I understood the trade of a butcher--I told him I was not a butcher by trade, but that I had often assisted my master and others to kill hogs and cattle, and that I could dress a hog, or a bullock, as well as most people. He then told me he was going to have a beef killed in the morning at the great house, and I must do it--that he would not spare any of the hands to go with me, but he would get one of the house-boys to help me. When the morning came, I went, according to orders, to butcher the beef, which I expected to find in some enclosure on the plantation; but the overseer told me I must take a boy named Toney from the house, whose business it was to take care of the cattle, and go to the woods and look for the beef. Toney and I set out sometime before sunrise, and went to a cow-pen, about a mile from the house, where he said he had seen the young cattle only a day or two before. At this cow-pen, we saw several cows waiting to be milked, I suppose, for their calves were in an adjoining field, and separated from them only by a fence. Toney then said, we should have to go to the long savanna, where the dry cattle generally ranged, and thither we set off.--This long savanna lay at the distance of three miles from the cow-pen, and when we reached it, I found it to be literally what it was called, a long savanna. It was a piece of low, swampy ground, several miles in extent, with an open space in the interior part of it, about a mile long, and perhaps a quarter of a mile in width. It was manifest that this open space was covered with water through the greater part of the year, which prevented the growth of timber in this place; though at the time it was dry, except a pond near one end, which covered, perhaps, an acre of ground. In this natural meadow every kind of wild grass, common to such places in the southern country, abounded. Here I first saw the scrub and saw grasses--the first of which is so hard and rough, that it is gathered to scrub coarse wooden furniture, or even pewter; and the last is provided with edges, somewhat like saw teeth, so hard and sharp that it would soon tear the skin off the legs of any one who should venture to walk through it with bare limbs. As we entered this savanna, we were enveloped in clouds of musquitos, and swarms of galinippers, that threatened to devour us. As we advanced through the grass, they rose up until the air was thick, and actually darkened with them. They rushed upon us with the fury of yellow-jackets, whose hive has been broken in upon, and covered every part of our persons. The clothes I had on, which were nothing but a shirt and trowsers of tow linen, afforded no protection even against the musquitos, which were much larger than those found along the Chesapeake Bay; and nothing short of a covering of leather could have defended me against the galinippers. I was pierced by a thousand stings at a time, and verily believe I could not have lived beyond a few hours in this place. Toney ran into the pond, and rolled himself in the water to get rid of his persecutors; but he had not been long there before he came running out, as fast as he had gone in, hallooing and clamoring in a manner wholly unintelligible to me. He was terribly frightened; but I could not imagine what could be the cause of his alarm, until he reached the shore, when he turned round with his face to the water, and called out--"the biggest alligator in the whole world--did not you see him?" I told him I had not seen anything but himself in the water; but he insisted that he had been chased in the pond by an alligator, which had followed him until he was close in the shore. We waited a few minutes for the alligator to rise to the surface, but were soon compelled by the musquitos, to quit this place. Toney said, we need not look for the cattle here; no cattle could live amongst these musquitos, and I thought he was right in his judgment. We then proceeded into the woods and thickets, and after wandering about for an hour or more, we found the cattle, and after much difficulty succeeded in driving a part of them back to the cow-pen, and enclosing them in it. I here selected the one that appeared to me to be the fattest, and securing it with ropes, we drove the animal to the place of slaughter. This beef was intended as a feast for the slaves, at the laying by of the corn and cotton; and when I had it hung up, and had taken the hide off, my young master, whom I had seen on the day of my arrival, came out to me, and ordered me to cut off the head, neck, legs, and tail, and lay them, together with the empty stomach and the harslet, in a basket. This basket was sent home, to the kitchen of the great house, by a woman and a boy, who attended for that purpose. I think there was at least one hundred and twenty or thirty pounds of this offal. The residue of the carcass I cut into four quarters, and we carried it to the cellar of the great house. Here one of the hind quarters was salted in a tub, for the use of the family, and the other was sent, as a present, to a planter, who lived about four miles distant. The two fore-quarters were cut into very small pieces, and salted by themselves.--These, I was told, would be cooked for our dinner on the next day (Sunday) when there was to be a general rejoicing among all the slaves of the plantation. After the beef was salted down, I received some bread and milk for my breakfast, and went to join the hands in the corn field, where they were now harrowing and hoeing the crop for the last time. The overseer had promised us that we should have holiday after the completion of this work, and by great exertion, we finished it about five o'clock in the afternoon. On our return to the quarter, the overseer, at roll-call--which he performed this day before night--told us that every family must send a bowl to the great house, to get our dinners of meat. This intelligence diffused as much joy amongst us, as if each one had drawn a prize in a lottery. At the assurance of a meat dinner, the old people smiled and showed their teeth, and returned thanks to master overseer; but many of the younger ones shouted, clapped their hands, leaped, and ran about with delight. Each family, or mess, now sent its deputy, with a large wooden bowl in his hand, to receive the dinner at the great kitchen. I went on the part of our family, and found that the meat dinner of this day was made up of the basket of tripe, and other offal, that I had prepared in the morning. The whole had been boiled in four great iron kettles, until the flesh had disappeared from the bones, which were broken in small pieces--a flitch of bacon, some green corn, squashes, tomatos, and onions had been added, together with other condiments, and the whole converted into about a hundred gallons of soup, of which I received in my bowl, for the use of our family, more than two gallons. We had plenty of bread, and a supply of black-eyed peas, gathered from our garden, some of which Dinah had boiled in our kettle, whilst I was gone for the soup, of which there was as much as we could consume, and I believe that every one in the quarter had enough. I doubt if there was in the world a happier assemblage than ours, on this Saturday evening. We had finished one of the grand divisions of the labors of a cotton plantation, and were supplied with a dinner, which to the most of my fellow slaves appeared to be a great luxury, and most liberal donation on the part of our master, whom they regarded with sentiments of gratitude for this manifestation of his bounty. In addition to present gratification, they looked forward to the enjoyments of the next day, when they were to spend a whole Sunday in rest and banqueting; for it was known that the two fore-quarters of the bullock were to be dressed for Sunday's dinner, and I had told them that each of these quarters weighed at least one hundred pounds. Our quarter knew but little quiet this night; singing, playing on the banjo, and dancing, occupied nearly the whole community, until the break of day. Those who were too old to take any part in our active pleasures, beat time with their hands, or recited stories of former times. Most of these stories referred to affairs that had been transacted in Africa, and were sufficiently fraught with demons, miracles, and murders, to fix the attention of many hearers. To add to our happiness, the early peaches were now ripe, and the overseer permitted us to send, on Sunday morning, to the orchard, and gather at least ten bushels of very fine fruit. In South Carolina they have very good summer apples, but they fall from the trees, and rot immediately after they are ripe; Indeed, very often they speck-rot on the trees, before they become ripe. This "speck-rot," as it is termed, appears to be a kind of epidemic disease amongst apples; for in some seasons whole orchards are subject to it, and the fruit is totally worthless, whilst in other years, the fruit in the same orchard continues sound and good, until it is ripe. The climate of Carolina is, however, not favorable to the apple, and this fruit of so much value in the north, is in the cotton region only of a few weeks continuance--winter apples being unknown. Every climate is congenial to the growth of some kind of fruit tree; and in Carolina and Georgia, the peach arrives at its utmost perfection; the fig also ripens well, and is a delicious fruit. None of our people went out to work for wages, to-day. Some few devoted a part of the morning to such work as they deemed necessary in or about their patches, and some went to the woods, or the swamps, to collect sticks for brooms, and splits, or to gather flags for mats; but far the greater number remained at the quarter, occupied in some small work, or quietly awaiting the hour of dinner, which we had been informed, by one of the house-servants, would be at one o'clock. Every family made ready some preparation of vegetables, from their own garden, to enlarge the quantity, if not to heighten the flavor of the dinner of this day. One o'clock at length arrived, but not before it had been long desired; and we proceeded with our bowls a second time, to the great kitchen. I acted, as I had done yesterday, the part of commissary for our family; but when we were already at the place where we were to receive our soup and meat into our bowls, (for it was understood that we were, with the soup, to have an allowance of both beef and bacon to-day,) we were told that puddings had been boiled for us, and that we must bring dishes to receive them in. This occasioned some delay, until we obtained vessels from the quarter. In addition to at least two gallons of soup, about a pound of beef, and a small piece of bacon, I obtained nearly two pounds of pudding, made of corn meal, mixed with lard, and boiled in large bags. This pudding, with the molasses that we had at home, formed a very palatable second course to our bread, soup, and vegetables. On Sunday afternoon, we had a meeting, at which many of our party attended. A man named Jacob, who had come from Virginia, sang and prayed; but a great many of the people went out about the plantation, in search of fruits; for there were many peach and some fig trees, standing along the fences, on various parts of the estate. With us, this was a day of uninterrupted happiness. A man cannot well be miserable when he sees every one about him immersed in pleasure; and though our fare of to-day was not of a quality to yield me much gratification, yet such was the impulse given to my feelings, by the universal hilarity and contentment which prevailed amongst my fellows, that I forgot for the time all the subjects of grief that were stored in my memory, all the acts of wrong that had been perpetrated against me, and entered with the most sincere and earnest sentiments in the participation of the felicity of our community. CHAPTER VIII. At the time of which I now speak, the rice was ripe, and ready to be gathered. On Monday morning, after our feast, the overseer took the whole of us to the rice field, to enter upon the harvest of this crop. The field lay in a piece of low ground, near the river, and in such a position that it could be flooded by the water of the stream, in wet seasons. The rice is planted in drills, or rows, and grows more like oats than any of the other grain known in the north. The water is sometimes let in to the rice fields, and drawn off again, several times, according to the state of the weather. Watering and weeding the rice is considered one of the most unhealthy occupations on a southern plantation, as the people are obliged to live for several weeks in the mud and water, subject to all the unwholesome vapors that arise from stagnant pools, under the rays of a summer sun, as well as the chilly autumnal dews of night. At the time we came to cut this rice, the field was quite dry; and after we had reaped and bound it, we hauled it upon wagons, to a piece of hard ground, where we made a threshing floor, and threshed it. In some places, they tread out the rice, with mules or horses, as they tread wheat in Maryland; but this renders the grain dusty, and is injurious to its sale. After getting in the rice, we were occupied for some time in clearing and ditching swampy land, preparatory to a more extended culture of rice the next year; and about the first of August, twenty or thirty of the people, principally women and children, were employed for two weeks in making cider, of apples which grew in an orchard of nearly two hundred trees, that stood on a part of the estate. After the cider was made, a barrel of it was one day brought to the field, and distributed amongst us; but this gratuity was not repeated. The cider that was made by the people was converted into brandy, at a still in the corner of the orchard. I often obtained cider to drink, at the still, which was sheltered from the weather by a shed, of boards and slabs. We were not permitted to go into the orchard at pleasure; but as long as the apples continued, we were allowed the privilege of sending five or six persons every evening, for the purpose of bringing apples to the quarter, for our common use; and by taking large baskets, and filling them well, we generally contrived to get as many as we could consume. When the peaches ripened, they were guarded with more rigor--peach brandy being an article which is nowhere more highly prized than in South Carolina. There were on the plantation more than a thousand peach trees, growing on poor sandy fields, which were no longer worth the expense of cultivation. The best peaches grow upon the poorest sand-hills. We were allowed to take three bushels of peaches every day, for the use of the quarter; but we could, and did eat at least three times that quantity, for we stole at night that which was not given us by day. I confess that I took part in these thefts, and I do not feel that I committed any wrong, against either God or man, by my participation in the common danger that we ran, for we well knew the consequences that would have followed detection. After the feast at laying by the corn and cotton, we had no meat for several weeks; and it is my opinion that our master lost money by the economy he practised at this season of the year. I now entered upon a new scene of life. My true value had not yet been ascertained by my present owner; and whether I was to hold the rank of a first or second rate hand, could only be determined by an experience of my ability to pick cotton. I had ascertained that at the hoe, the spade, the sickle, or the flail, I was a full match for the best hands on the plantation; but soon discovered when we came to cotton picking I was not equal to a boy of fifteen. I worked hard the first day, but when evening came, and our cotton was weighed, I had only thirty-eight pounds, and was vexed to see that two young men, about my own age, had, one fifty-eight, and the other fifty-nine pounds. This was our first day's work, and the overseer had not yet settled the amount of a day's picking. It was necessary for him to ascertain, by the experience of a few days, how much the best hands could pick in a day, before he established the standard of the season. I hung down my head, and felt very much ashamed of myself when I found that my cotton was so far behind that of many, even of the women, who had heretofore regarded me as the strongest and most powerful man of the whole gang. I had exerted myself to-day to the utmost of my power; and as the picking of cotton seemed to be so very simple a business, I felt apprehensive that I should never be able to improve myself, so far as to become even a second rate hand. In this posture of affairs, I looked forward to something still more painful than the loss of character which I must sustain, both with my fellows and my master; for I knew that the lash of the overseer would soon become familiar with my back, if I did not perform as much work as any of the other young men. I expected indeed that it would go hard with me even now, and stood by with feelings of despondence and terror, whilst the other people were getting their cotton weighed. When it was all weighed, the overseer came to me where I stood, and told me to show him my hands. When I had done this, and he had looked at them, he observed--"You have a pair of good hands--you will make a good picker." This faint praise of the overseer revived my spirits greatly, and I went home with a lighter heart than I had expected to possess, before the termination of cotton-picking. When I came to get my cotton weighed, on the evening of the second day, I was rejoiced to find that I had forty-six pounds, although I had not worked harder than I did the first day. On the third evening I had fifty-two pounds; and before the end of the week, there were only three hands in the field--two men and a young woman--who could pick more cotton in a day than I could. On the Monday morning of the second week, when we went to the field, the overseer told us that he fixed the day's work at fifty pounds; and that all those who picked more than that, would be paid a cent a pound for the overplus. Twenty-five pounds was assigned as the daily task of the old people, as well as a number of boys and girls, whilst some of the women, who had children, were required to pick forty pounds, and several children had ten pounds each as their task. Picking of cotton may almost be reckoned among the arts. A man who has arrived at the age of twenty-five before he sees a cotton field, will never, in the language of the overseer, become _a crack picker_. By great industry and vigilance, I was able, at the end of a month, to return every evening a few pounds over the daily rate, for which I received my pay; but the business of picking cotton was a fatiguing labor to me, and one to which I never became reconciled, for the reason that in every other kind of work I was called a first rate hand, whilst in cotton picking I was hardly regarded as a _prime hand_. CHAPTER IX. It is impossible to reconcile the mind of the native slave to the idea of living in a state of perfect equality, and boundless affection, with the white people. Heaven will be no heaven to him, if he is not to be avenged of his enemies. I know, from experience, that these are the fundamental rules of his religious creed; because I learned them in the religious meetings of the slaves themselves. A favorite and kind master or mistress, may now and then be admitted into heaven, but this rather as a matter of favor, to the intercession of some slave, than as matter of strict justice to the whites, who will, by no means, be of an equal rank with those who shall be raised from the depths of misery, in this world. The idea of a revolution in the conditions of the whites and the blacks, is the corner-stone of the religion of the latter; and indeed, it seems to me, at least, to be quite natural, if not in strict accordance with the precepts of the Bible; for in that book I find it every where laid down, that those who have possessed an inordinate portion of the good things of this world, and have lived in ease and luxury, at the expense of their fellow men will surely have to render an account of their stewardship, and be punished, for having withheld from others the participation of those blessings, which they themselves enjoyed. There is no subject which presents to the mind of the male slave a greater contrast between his own condition and that of his master, than the relative station and appearance of his wife and his mistress. The one, poorly clad, poorly fed, and exposed to all the hardships of the cotton field; the other dressed in clothes of gay and various colors, ornamented with jewelry, and carefully protected from the rays of the sun, and the blasts of the wind. As I have before observed, the Africans have feelings peculiar to themselves; but with an American slave, the possession of the spacious house, splendid furniture, and fine horses of his master, are but the secondary objects of his desires. To fill the measure of his happiness, and crown his highest ambition, his young and beautiful mistress must adorn his triumph, and enliven his hopes. I have been drawn into the above reflections, by the recollection of an event of a most melancholy character, which took place when I had been on this plantation about three months. Amongst the house-servants of my master, was a young man, named Hardy, of a dark yellow complexion--a quadroon, or mulatto--one-fourth of whose blood was transmitted from white parentage. Hardy was employed in various kinds of work about the house, and was frequently sent on errands; sometimes on horseback. I had become acquainted with the boy, who had often come to see me at the quarter, and had sometimes staid all night with me, and often told me of the ladies and gentlemen who visited at the great house. Amongst others, he frequently spoke of a young lady, who resided six or seven miles from the plantation, and often came to visit the daughters of the family, in company with her brother, a lad about twelve or fourteen years of age. He described the great beauty of this girl, whose mother was a widow, living on a small estate of her own. This lady did not keep a carriage; but her son and daughter, when they went abroad, traveled on horseback. One Sunday, these two young people came to visit at the house of my master, and remained until after tea in the evening. As I did not go out to work that day, I went over to the great house, and from the house to a place in the woods, about a mile distant, where I had set snares for rabbits. This place was near the road, and I saw the young lady and her brother on their way home. It was after sundown when they passed me; but, as the evening was clear and pleasant, I supposed they would get home soon after dark, and that no accident would befall them. No more was thought of the matter this evening, and I heard nothing further of the young people until the next day, about noon, when a black boy came into the field, where we were picking cotton, and went to the overseer with a piece of paper. In a short time the overseer called me to come with him; and, leaving the field with the hands under the orders of Simon, the first captain, we proceeded to the great house. As soon as we arrived at the mansion, my master, who had not spoken to me since the day we came from Columbia, appeared at the front door, and ordered me to come in and follow him. He led me through a part of the house, and passed into the back yard, where I saw the young gentleman, his son, another gentleman whom I did not know, the family doctor, and the overseer, all standing together, and in earnest conversation. At my appearance, the overseer opened a cellar door, and ordered me to go in. I had no suspicion of evil, and obeyed the order immediately: as, indeed, I must have obeyed it, whatever might have been my suspicions. The overseer, and the gentlemen, all followed; and as soon as the cellar door was closed after us, by some one whom I could not see, I was ordered to pull off my clothes, and lie down on my back. I was then bound by the hands and feet, with strong cords, and extended at full length between two of the beams that supported the timbers of the building. The stranger, who I now observed was much agitated, spoke to the doctor, who then opened a small case of surgeons' instruments, which he took from his pocket, and told me he was going to skin me for what I had done last night: "But," said the doctor, "before you are skinned, you had better confess your crime." "What crime, master, shall I confess? I have committed no crime--what has been done, that you are going to murder me?" was my reply. My master then asked me why I had followed the young lady and her brother, who went from the house the evening before, and murdered her? Astonished and terrified at the charge of being a murderer, I knew not what to say; and only continued the protestations of my innocence, and my entreaties not to be put to death. My young master was greatly enraged against me, and loaded me with maledictions and imprecations; and his father appeared to be as well satisfied as he was of my guilt, but was more calm, and less vociferous in his language. The doctor, during this time, was assorting his instruments, and looking at me--then stooping down, and feeling my pulse, he said, it would not do to skin a man so full of blood as I was. I should bleed so much that he could not see to do his work; and he should probably cut some large vein, or artery, by which I should bleed to death in a few minutes; it was necessary to bleed me in the arms for some time, so as to reduce the quantity of blood that was in me, before taking my skin off. He then bound a string round my right arm, and opened a vein near the middle of the arm, from which the blood ran in a large and smooth stream. I already began to feel faint, with the loss of blood, when the cellar door was thrown open, and several persons came down, with two lighted candles. I looked at these people attentively, as they came near and stood around me, and expressed their satisfaction at the just and dreadful punishment that I was about to undergo. Their faces were all new and unknown to me, except that of a lad, whom I recognized as the same who had ridden by me, the preceding evening, in company with his sister. My old master spoke to this boy by name, and told him to come and see the murderer of his sister receive his due. The boy was a pretty youth, and wore his hair long, on the top of his head, in the fashion of that day. As he came round near my head, the light of a candle, which the doctor held in his hand, shone full in my face, and seeing that the eyes of the boy met mine, I determined to make one more effort to save my life, and said to him, in as calm a tone as I could, "Young master, did I murder young mistress, your sister?" The youth immediately looked at my master, and said, "This is not the man--this man has short wool, and he had long wool, like your Hardy." My life was saved. I was snatched from the most horrible of tortures, and from a slow and painful death. I was unbound, the bleeding of my arm stopped, and I was suffered to put on my clothes, and go up into the back yard of the house, where I was required to tell what I knew of the young lady and her brother on the previous day. I stated that I had seen them in the court yard of the house, at the time I was in the kitchen; that I had then gone to the woods, to set my snares, and had seen them pass along the road near me, and that this was all the knowledge I had of them. The boy was then required to examine me particularly, and ascertain whether I was, or was not, the man who had murdered his sister. He said he had not seen me at the place where I stated I was, and that he was confident I was not the person who had attacked him and his sister. That my hair, or wool, as he called it, was short; but that of the man who committed the crime was long, like Hardy's, and that he was about the size of Hardy--not so large as I was, but black like me, and not yellow like Hardy. Some one now asked where Hardy was, and he was called for, but could not be found in the kitchen. Persons were sent to the quarter, and other places, in quest of him, but returned without him. Hardy was nowhere to be found. Whilst this inquiry, or rather search, was going on, perceiving that my old master had ceased to look upon me as a murderer, I asked him to please to tell me what had happened, that had been so near proving fatal to me. I was now informed that the young lady, who had left the house on the previous evening in company with her brother, had been assailed on the road, about four miles off, by a black man, who had sprung from a thicket, and snatched her from her horse, as she was riding a short distance behind her brother. That the assassin, as soon as she was on the ground, struck her horse a blow with a long stick, which, together with the fright caused by the screams of its rider when torn from it, had caused it to fly off at full speed; and the horse of the brother also taking fright, followed in pursuit, notwithstanding all the exertions of the lad to stop it. All the account the brother could give of the matter was, that as his horse ran with him, he saw the negro drag his sister into the woods, and heard her screams for a short time. He was not able to stop his horse, until he reached home, when he gave information to his mother and her family. That people had been scouring the woods all night, and all the morning, without being able to find the young lady. When intelligence of this horrid crime was brought to the house of my master, Hardy was the first to receive it; he having gone to take the horse of the person--a young gentleman of the neighborhood--who bore it, and who immediately returned to join his friends in their search for the dead body. As soon as the messenger was gone, Hardy had come to my master, and told him that if he would prevent me from murdering him, he would disclose the perpetrator of the crime. He was then ordered to communicate all he knew on the subject; and declared that, having gone into the woods the day before, to hunt squirrels, he staid until it was late, and on his return home, hearing the shrieks of a woman, he had proceeded cautiously to the place; but before he could arrive at the spot, the cries had ceased; nevertheless, he had found me, after some search, with the body of the young lady, whom I had just killed, and that I was about to kill him too, with a hickory club, but he had saved his life by promising that he would never betray me. He was glad to leave me, and what I had done with the body he did not know. Hardy was known in the neighborhood, and his character had been good. I was a stranger, and on inquiry, the black people in the kitchen supported Hardy, by saying, that I had been seen going to the woods before night by the way of the road which the deceased had traveled. These circumstances were deemed conclusive against me by my master; and as the offence of which I was believed to be guilty was the highest that can be committed by a slave, according to the opinion of owners, it was determined to punish me in a way unknown to the law, and to inflict tortures upon me which the law would not tolerate. I was now released, and though very weak from the effects of bleeding, I was yet able to return to my own lodgings. I had no doubt that Hardy was the perpetrator of the crime for which I was so near losing my life; and now recollected that when I was at the kitchen of the great house on Sunday, he had disappeared, a short time before sundown, as I had looked for him when I was going to set my snares, but could not find him.--I went back to the house, and communicated this fact to my master. By this time, nearly twenty white men had collected about the dwelling, with the intention of going to search for the body of the lost lady; but it was now resolved to make the look-out double, and to give it the two-fold character of a pursuit of the living, as well as a seeking for the dead. I now returned to my lodgings in the quarter, and soon fell into a profound sleep, from which I did not awake until long after night, when all was quiet, and the stillness of undisturbed tranquillity prevailed over our little community. I felt restless, and sunk into a labyrinth of painful reflections, upon the horrid and perilous condition from which I had this day escaped, as it seemed, merely by chance; and as I slept until all sensations of drowsiness had left me, I rose from my bed, and walked out by the light of the moon, which was now shining. After being in the open air some time, I thought of the snares I had set on Sunday evening, and determined to go and see if they had taken any game. I sometimes caught oppossums in my snares; and, as these animals were very fat at this season of the year, I felt a hope that I might be fortunate enough to get one to-night. I had been at my snares, and had returned, as far as the road, near where I had seen the young lady and her brother on horseback on Sunday evening, and had seated myself under the boughs of a holly bush that grew there. It so happened that the place where I sat was in the shade of the bush, within a few feet of the road, but screened from it by some small boughs. In this position, which I had taken by accident, I could see a great distance along the road, towards the end of my master's lane. Though covered as I was by the shade, and enveloped in boughs, it was difficult for a person in the road to see me. The occurrence that had befallen me, in the course of the previous day, had rendered me nervous, and easily susceptible of all the emotions of fear. I had not been long in this place, when I thought I heard sounds, as of a person walking on the ground at a quick pace; and looking along the road, towards the lane I saw the form of some one, passing through a space in the road, where the beams of the moon, piercing between two trees, reached the ground. When the moving body passed into the shade, I could not see it; but in a short time, it came so near that I could distinctly see that it was a man, approaching me by the road. When he came opposite me, and the moon shone full in his face, I knew him to be a young mulatto, named David, the coachman of a widow lady, who resided somewhere near Charleston; but who had been at the house of my master, for two or three weeks, as a visiter, with her two daughters. This man passed on at a quick step, without observing me; and the suspicion instantly riveted itself in my mind, that he was the murderer, for whose crime I had already suffered so much, and that he was now on his way to the place where he had left the body, for the purpose of removing, or burying it in the earth. I was confident, that no honest purpose could bring him to this place, at this time of night, alone. I was about two miles from home, and an equal distance from the spot where the girl had been seized. Of her subsequent murder, no one entertained a doubt; for it was not to be expected, that the fellow who had been guilty of one great crime, would flinch from the commission of another, of equal magnitude, and suffer his victim to exist, as a witness to identify his person. I felt animated, by a spirit of revenge, against the wretch, whoever he might be, who had brought me so near to torture and death; and feeble and weak as I was, resolved to pursue the foot-steps of this coachman, at a wary and cautious distance, and ascertain, if possible, the object of his visit to these woods, at this time of night. I waited until he had passed me more than a hundred yards, and until I could barely discover his form in the faint light of the deep shade of the trees, when stealing quietly into the road, I followed, with the caution of a spy traversing the camp of an enemy.--We were now in a dark pine forest, and on both sides of us were tracts of low, swampy ground, covered with thickets so dense as to be difficult of penetration even by a person on foot. The road led along a neck of elevated and dry ground, that divided these swamps for more than a mile, when they terminated, and were succeeded by ground that produced scarcely any other timber than a scrubby kind of oak, called black jack. It was amongst these black jacks, about half a mile beyond the swamps, that the lady had been carried off. I had often been here, for the purpose of snaring and trapping the small game of these woods, and was well acquainted with the topography of this forest, for some distance, on both sides of the road. It was necessary for me to use the utmost caution in the enterprise I was now engaged in. The road we were now traveling, was in no place very broad, and at some points barely wide enough to permit a carriage to pass between the trees, that lined its sides. In some places, it was so dark that I could not see the man, whose steps I followed; but was obliged to depend on the sound, produced by the tread of his feet, upon the ground. I deemed it necessary to keep as close as possible to the object of my pursuit, lest he should suddenly turn into the swamp, on one side or the other of the road, and elude my vigilance; for I had no doubt that he would quit the road, somewhere. As we approached the termination of the low grounds, my anxiety became intense, lest he should escape me; and at one time, I could not have been more than one hundred feet behind him; but he continued his course, until he reached the oak woods, and came to a place where an old cart-road led off to the left, along the side of the Dark Swamp, as it was termed in the neighborhood. This road, the mulatto took, without turning to look behind him. Here my difficulties and perils increased, for I now felt myself in danger, as I had no longer any doubt, that I was on the trail of the murderer, and that, if discovered by him, my life would be the price of my curiosity. I was too weak to be able to struggle with him, for a minute; though if the blood which I had lost, through his wickedness, could have been restored to my veins, I could have seized him by the neck, and strangled him. The road I now had to travel, was so little frequented, that bushes of the ground oak and bilberry stood thick in almost every part of it. Many of these bushes were full of dry leaves, which had been touched by the frost, but had not yet fallen. It was easy for me to follow him, for I pursued by the noise he made, amongst these bushes; but it was not so easy for me to avoid, on my part, the making of a rustling, and agitation of the bushes, which might expose me to detection. I was now obliged to depend wholly on my ears, to guide my pursuit, my eyes being occupied in watching my own way, to enable me to avoid every object, the touching of which was likely to produce sound. I followed this road more than a mile, led by the cracking of the sticks, or the shaking of the leaves. At length, I heard a loud, shrill whistle, and then a total silence succeeded. I now stood still, and in a few seconds, heard a noise in the swamp like the drumming of a pheasant. Soon afterwards, I heard the breaking of sticks, and the sounds caused by the bending of branches of trees. In a little time, I was satisfied that something having life was moving in the swamp, and coming towards the place where the mulatto stood. This was at the end of the cart-road, and opposite some large pine trees, which grew in the swamp, at the distance of two or three hundred yards from its margin. The noise in the swamp still approached us; and at length a person came out of the thicket, and stood for a minute, or more, with the mulatto whom I had followed; and then they both entered the swamp, and took the course of the pine trees, as I could easily distinguish by my ears. When they were gone, I advanced to the end of the road, and sat down upon a log, to listen to their progress through the swamp. At length, it seemed that they had stopped, for I no longer heard any thing of them. Anxious, however, to ascertain more of this mysterious business, I remained in silence on the log, determined to stay there until day, if I could not sooner learn something to satisfy me. Why these men had gone into the swamp. All uncertainty upon this subject was, however, quickly removed from my mind; for within less than ten minutes, after I had ceased to hear them moving in the thicket, I was shocked by the faint, but shrill wailings of a female voice, accompanied with exclamations and supplications, in a tone so feeble that I could only distinguish a few solitary words. My mind comprehended the whole ground of this matter, at a glance. The lady supposed to have been murdered on Sunday evening, was still living; and concealed by the two fiends who had passed out of my sight but a few minutes before. The one I knew, for I had examined his features, within a few feet of me, in the full light of the moon; and, that the other was Hardy, I was as perfectly convinced, as if I had seen him also. I now rose to return home; the cries of the female in the swamp still continuing, but growing weaker, and dying away, as I receded from the place where I had sat. I was now in possession of the clearest evidence of the guilt of the two murderers; but I was afraid to communicate my knowledge to my master, lest he should suspect me of being an accomplice in this crime; and, if the lady could not be recovered alive, I had no doubt that Hardy and his companion were sufficiently depraved to charge me as a participation with themselves, to be avenged upon me. I was confident that the mulatto, David, would return to the house before day, and be found in his bed in the morning; which he could easily do, for he slept in a part of the stable loft; under pretence of being near the horses of his mistress. I thought it possible, that Hardy might also return home that night, and endeavor to account for his absence from home on Monday afternoon, by some ingenious lie; in the invention of which I knew him to be very expert. In this case, I saw that I should have to run the risk of being overpowered by the number of my false accusers; and, as I stood alone, they might yet be able to sacrifice my life, and escape the punishment due to their crimes. After much consideration, I came to the resolution of returning, as quick as possible, to the quarter--calling up the overseer--and acquainting him with all that I had seen, heard, and done, in the course of this night. As I did not know what time of night it was when I left my bed, I was apprehensive that day might break before I could so far mature my plans as to have persons to waylay and arrest the mulatto on his return home; but when I roused the overseer, he told me it was only one o'clock, and seemed but little inclined to credit my story; but, after talking to me several minutes he told me he, now more than ever, suspected me to be the murderer, but he would go with me and see if I had told the truth. When we arrived at the great house, some members of the family had not yet gone to bed, having been kept up by the arrival of several gentlemen who had been searching the woods all day for the lost lady, and who had come here to seek lodgings when it was near midnight. My master was in bed, but was called up and listened attentively to my story--at the close of which he shook his head, and said with an oath, "You ----, I believe you to be the murderer; but we will go and see if all you say is a lie; if it is, the torments of ---- will be pleasure to what awaits you. You have escaped once, but you will not get off a second time," I now found that somebody must die; and if the guilty could not be found, the innocent would have to atone for them. The manner in which my master had delivered his words, assured me that the life of somebody must be taken. This new danger aroused my energies--and I told them that I was ready to go, and take the consequences. Accordingly, the overseer, my young master, and three other gentlemen, immediately set out with me. It was agreed that we should all travel on foot, the overseer and I going a few paces in advance of the others. We proceeded silently, but rapidly, on our way; and as we passed it, I showed them the place where I sat under the holly bush, when the mulatto passed me. We neither saw nor heard any person on the road, and reached the log at the end of the cart-road, where I sat when I heard the cries in the swamp. All was now quiet, and our party lay down in the bushes on each side of a large gum tree, at the root of which the two murderers stood when they talked together, before they entered the thicket. We had not been here more than an hour, when I heard, as I lay with my head near the ground, a noise in the swamp, which I believed could only be made by those whom we sought. I, however, said nothing, and the gentlemen did not hear it. It was caused, as I afterwards ascertained, by dragging the fallen branch of a tree along the ground, for the purpose of lighting the fire. The night was very clear and serene--its silence only being broken at intervals by the loud hooting of the great long-eared owls, which are numerous in these swamps. I felt oppressed by the cold, and was glad to hear the crowing of a cock, at a great distance, announcing the approach of day. This was followed, after a short interval, by the cracking of sticks, and by other tokens, which I knew could proceed only from the motions of living bodies. I now whispered to the overseer, who lay near me, that it would soon appear whether I had spoken the truth or not. All were now satisfied that people were coming out of the swamp, for we heard them speak to each other. I desired the overseer to advise the other gentlemen to let the culprits come out of the swamp, and gain the high ground, before we attempted to seize them; but this counsel was, unfortunately, not taken; and when they came near to the gum tree, and it could be clearly seen that there were two men and no more, one of the gentlemen called out to them to stop, or they were dead. Instead, however, of stopping, they both sprang forward, and took to flight. They did not turn into the swamp, for the gentleman who ordered them to stop, was in their rear--they having already passed him. At the moment they had started to run, each of the gentlemen fired two pistols at them. The pistols made the forest ring on all sides; and I supposed it was impossible for either of the fugitives to escape from so many balls. This was, however, not the case; for only one of them was injured. The mulatto, David, had one arm and one leg broken, and fell about ten yards from us; but Hardy escaped, and when the smoke cleared away, he was nowhere to be seen. On being interrogated, David acknowledged that the lady was in the swamp, on a small island, and was yet alive--that he and Hardy had gone from the house on Sunday, for the purpose of waylaying and carrying her off, and intended to kill her little brother--this part of the duty being assigned to him, whilst Hardy was to drag the sister from her horse. As they were both mulattos, they blacked their faces with charcoal, taken from a pine stump partially burned. The boy was riding before his sister, and when Hardy seized her and dragged her from her horse, she screamed and frightened both the horses, which took off at full speed, by which means the boy escaped. Finding that the boy was out of his reach, David remained in the bushes until Hardy brought the sister to him. They immediately tied a handkerchief round her face, so as to cover her mouth and stifle her shrieks; and taking her in their arms, carried her back toward my master's house, for some distance, through the woods, until they came to the cart-road leading along the swamp. They then followed this road as far as it led, and, turning into the swamp, took their victim to a place they had prepared for her the Sunday before, on a small knoll in the swamp, where the ground was dry. Her hands were closely confined, and she was tied by the feet to a tree. He said he had stolen some bread, and taken it to her that night; but when they unbound her mouth to permit her to eat, she only wept and made a noise, begging them to release her, until they were obliged again to bandage her mouth. It was now determined by the gentlemen, that as the lady was still alive, we ought not to lose a moment in endeavoring to rescue her from her dreadful situation. I pointed out the large pine trees, in the direction of which I heard the cries of the young lady, and near which I believed she was--undertaking, at the same time, to act as pilot, in penetrating the thicket. Three of the gentlemen and myself accordingly set out, leaving the other two with the wounded mulatto with directions to inform us when we deviated from a right line to the pine trees. This they were able to do by attending to the noise we made, with nearly as much accuracy as if they had seen us. The atmosphere had now become a little cloudy, and the morning was very dark, even in the oak woods; but when we had entered the thickets of the swamp, all objects became utterly invisible; and the obscurity was as total as if our eyes had been closed. Our companions on the dry ground lost sight of the pine trees, and could not give us any directions in our journey. We became entangled in briers, and vines, and mats of bushes, from which the greatest exertions were necessary to disengage ourselves. It was so dark, that we could not see the fallen trees; and, missing these, fell into quagmires, and sloughs of mud and water, into which we sunk up to the arm-pits, and from which we were able to extricate ourselves, only by seizing upon the hanging branches of the surrounding trees. After struggling in this half-drowned condition, for at least a quarter of an hour, we reached a small dry spot, where the gentlemen again held a council, as to ulterior measures. They called to those left on the shore, to know if we were proceeding toward the pine trees; but received for answer that the pines were invisible, and they knew not whether we were right or wrong. In this state of uncertainty, it was thought most prudent to wait the coming of day, in our present resting-place. The air was frosty, and in our wet clothes, loaded as we were with mud, it may be imagined that our feelings were not pleasant; and when the day broke, it brought us but little relief, for we found, as soon as it was light enough to enable us to see around, that we were on one of those insulated dry spots, called "_tussocks_" by the people of the South. These _tussocks_ are formed by clusters of small trees, which, taking root in the mud, are, in process of time, surrounded by long grass, which, entwining its roots with those of the trees, overspread and cover the surface of the muddy foundation, by which the superstructure is supported. These _tussocks_ are often several yards in diameter. That upon which we now were, stood in the midst of a great miry pool, into which we were again obliged to launch ourselves, and struggle onward for a distance of ten yards, before we reached the line of some fallen and decaying trees. It was now broad daylight, and we saw the pine trees, at the distance of about a hundred yards from us; but even with the assistance of the light, we had great difficulty in reaching them,--to do which we were compelled to travel at least a quarter of a mile by the angles and curves of the fallen timber, upon which alone we could walk; this part of the swamp being a vast half-fluid bog. It was sunrise when we reached the pines, which we found standing upon a small islet of firm ground, containing, as well as I could judge, about half an acre, covered with a heavy growth of white maples, swamp oaks, a few large pines, and a vast mat of swamp laurel, called in the South _ivy_. I had no doubt that the object of our search was somewhere on this little island; but small as it was, it was no trifling affair to give every part of it a minute examination, for the stems and branches of the ivy were so minutely inter-woven with each other, and spread along the ground in so many curves and crossings, that it was impossible to proceed a single rod without lying down and creeping along the earth. The gentlemen agreed, that if any one discovered the young lady, he should immediately call to the others; and we all entered the thicket. I, however, turned along the edge of the island, with the intention of making its circuit, for the purpose of tracing, if possible, the footsteps of those who had passed between it and the main shore. I made my way more than half round the island, without much difficulty, and without discovering any signs of persons having been here before me; but in crossing the trunk of a large tree which had fallen, and the top of which extended far into the ivy, I perceived some stains of mud on the bark of the log. Looking into the swamp, I saw that the root of this tree was connected with other fallen timber, extending beyond the reach of my vision, which was obstructed by the bramble of the swamp, and the numerous evergreens growing here. I now advanced along the trunk of the tree until I reached its topmost branches, and here discovered evident signs of a small trail, leading into the thicket of ivy. Creeping along and following this trail by the small bearberry bushes that had been trampled down and had not again risen to an erect position, I was led almost across the island, and found that the small bushes were discomposed quite up to the edge of a vast heap of the branches of evergreen trees, produced by the falling of several large juniper cypress trees, which grew in the swamp in a cluster, and having been blown down, had fallen with their tops athwart each other, and upon the almost impervious mat of ivies, with which the surface of the island was coated over. I stood and looked at this mass of entangled green bush, but could not perceive the slightest marks of any entrance into its labyrinths; nor did it seem possible for any creature, larger than a squirrel, to penetrate it. It now for the first time struck me as a great oversight in the gentlemen, that they had not compelled the mulatto, David, to describe the place where they had concealed the lady; and, as the forest was so dense that no communication could be had with the shore, either by word or signs, we could not now procure any information on this subject. I therefore called to the gentlemen, who were on the island with me, and desired them to come to me without delay. Small as this island was, it was after the lapse of many minutes that the overseer and the other gentlemen arrived where I stood; and when they came, they would have been the subjects of mirthful emotions, had not the tragic circumstances in which I was placed, banished from my heart every feeling but that of the most profound melancholy. When the gentlemen had assembled, I informed them of signs of footsteps that I had traced from the other side of the island; and told them that I believed the young lady lay somewhere under the heap of brushwood before us. This opinion obtained but little credit, because there was no opening in the brush by which any one could enter it; but on going a few paces round the heap, I perceived a small, snaggy pole resting on the brush, and nearly concealed by it, with the lower end stuck in the ground. The branches had been cut from this pole at the distance of three or four inches from the main stem, which made it a tolerable substitute for a ladder. I immediately ascended the pole, which led me to the top of the pile, and here I discovered an opening in the brush, between the forked top of one of the cypress trees, through which a man might easily pass. Applying my head to this aperture, I distinctly heard a quick and laborious breathing, like that of a person in extreme illness; and again called the gentlemen to follow me. When they came up the ladder, the breathing was audible to all; and one of the gentlemen, whom I now perceived to be the stranger, who was with us in my master's cellar, when I was bled, slid down into the dark and narrow passage, without uttering a word. I confess that some feelings of trepidation passed through my nerves when I stood alone; but now that a leader had preceded me, I followed, and glided through the smooth and elastic cypress tops, to the bottom of this vast labyrinth of green boughs. When I reached the ground, I found myself in contact with the gentleman who was in advance of me, and near one end of a large concave, oblong, open space, formed by the branches of the trees, having been supported and kept above the ground, partly by a cluster of very large and strong ivies, that grew here, and partly by a young gum tree, which had been bent into the form of an arch by the falling timber. Though we could not see into this leafy cavern from above, yet when we had been in it a few moments, we had light enough to see the objects around us with tolerable clearness; but that which surprised us both greatly was, that the place was totally silent, and we could not perceive the appearance of any living thing, except ourselves. After we had been here some minutes, our vision became still more distinct; and I saw, at the other end of the open space, ashes of wood, and some extinguished brands, but there was no smoke. Going to these ashes, and stirring them with a stick, I found coals of fire carefully covered over, in a hole six or eight inches deep. When he saw the fire, the gentleman spoke to me, and expressed his astonishment that we heard the breathing no longer; but he had scarcely uttered these words, when a faint groan, as of a woman in great pain, was heard to issue apparently from the ground; but a motion of branches on our right assured me that the sufferer was concealed there. The gentleman sprung to the spot, pushed aside the pendant boughs, stooped low beneath the bent ivies, and came out, bearing in his hands a delicate female figure. As he turned round, and exposed her half-closed eye and white forehead to the light, he exclaimed, "Eternal God! Maria, is it you?" He then pressed her to his bosom, and sunk upon the ground, still holding her closely in his embrace. The lady lay motionless in his arms, and I thought she was dead. Her hair hung matted and dishevelled from her head; a handkerchief, once white, but now soiled with dust, and stained with blood, was bound firmly round her head, covering her mouth and chin, and was fastened at the back of the neck, by a double knot, and secured by a ligature of cypress bark. I knew not whom most to pity--the lady, who now lay insensible in the arms that still clasped her tenderly; or the unhappy gentleman, who having cut the cords from her limbs, and the handkerchief from her face, now sat and silently gazed upon her death-like countenance. He uttered not a sigh, and moved not a joint, but his breast heaved with agony; the sinews and muscles of his neck rose and fell, like those of a man in convulsions; all the lineaments of his face were, alternately, contracted and expanded, as if his last moments were at hand; whilst great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead, as though he struggled against an enemy whose strength was more than human. Oppressed by the sight of so much wretchedness, I turned from its contemplation, and called aloud to the gentlemen without (who had all this time been waiting to hear from us) to come up the ladder to the top of the pile of boughs. The overseer was quickly at the top of the opening, by which I had descended; and I now informed him that we had found the lady. He ordered me to hand her up--and I desired the gentleman who was with me to permit me to do so, but this he refused--and mounting the boughs of the fallen trees, and supporting himself by the strong branches of the ivies, he quickly reached the place where the overseer stood. He even here refused to part from his charge, but bore her down the ladder alone. He was, however, obliged to accept aid, in conveying her through the swamp to the place where we had left the two gentlemen with the wounded mulatto, whose sufferings, demon as he was, were sufficient to move the hardest heart. His right arm and left leg were broken, and he had lost much blood before we returned from the island; and as he could not walk, it was necessary to carry him home. We had not brought any horses, and until the lady was recovered, no one seemed to think any more about the mulatto after he was shot down. It was proposed to send for a horse to take David home; but it was finally agreed that we should leave him in the woods, where he was, until a man could be sent for him with a cart. At the time we left him, his groans and lamentations seemed to excite no sympathy in the breast of any. More cruel sufferings yet awaited him. The lady was carried home in the arms of the gentlemen; and she did not speak, until after she was bathed and put to bed in my master's house, as I afterwards heard. I know she did not speak on the way. She died on the fourth day after her rescue, and before her death related the circumstances of her misfortune, as I was told by a colored woman, who attended her in her illness, in the following manner: As she was riding in the dusk of the evening, at a rapid trot, a few yards behind her brother, a black man sprang from behind a tree standing close by the side of the road; seized her by her riding dress, and dragged her to the ground, but failed to catch the bridle of the horse, which sprang off at full speed.--Another negro immediately came to the aid of the first, and said, "I could not catch him--we must make haste." They carried her as fast as they could go to the place where we found her, when they bound her hands, feet and mouth, and left her until the next night; and had left her the second morning, only a few minutes, when she heard the report of guns. Soon after this, by great efforts, she extricated one of her feet from the bark with which she was bound; but finding herself too weak to stand, she crawled, as far as she could, under the boughs of the trees, hoping that when her assassins returned again they would not be able to find her, and that she might there die alone. Exhausted by the efforts she had made to remove herself, she fell into the stupor of sleep, from which she was aroused by the noise we made when we descended into the cavern. She then, supposing us to be her destroyers returned again, lay still, and breathed as softly as possible, to prevent us from hearing her; but when she heard the voice of the gentleman who was with me, the tones of which were familiar to her, she groaned and moved her feet, to let us know where she was. This exertion, and the idea of her horrid condition, overcame the strength of her nerves; and when her deliverer raised her from the ground she had swooned, and was unconscious of all things. We had no sooner arrived at the house, than inquiry was made for Hardy; but it was ascertained in the kitchen, that he had not been seen since the previous evening, at night-fall, when he had left the kitchen for the purpose of going to sleep at the stable with David, as he had told one of the black women; and preparation was immediately made to go in pursuit of him. For this purpose all the gentlemen present equipped themselves with pistols, fowling pieces, and horns--such as are used by fox hunters. Messengers were despatched round the country, to give notice to all the planters, within the distance of many miles, of the crime that had been committed, and of the escape of one of its perpetrators, with a request to them to come without delay, and join in the pursuit, intended to be given. Those who had dogs, trained to chase thieves, were desired to bring them; and a gentleman who lived twelve miles off, and who owned a blood-hound, was sent for, and requested to come with his dog, in all haste. In consequence, I suppose, of the information I had given, I was permitted to be present at these deliberations, and though my advice was not asked, I was often interrogated, concerning my knowledge of the affair. Some proposed to go at once, with dogs and horses, into the woods, and traverse the swamp and thickets, for the purpose of rousing Hardy from the place of concealment he might have chosen; but the opinion of the overseer prevailed, who thought, that from the intimate knowledge possessed by him, of all the swamps and coverts in the neighborhood, there would be little hope of discovering him in this manner. The overseer advised them to wait the coming of the gentleman with his blood-hound, before they entered the woods; for the reason, that if the blood hound could be made to take the trail, he would certainly find his game, before he quit it, if not thrown off the scent by the men, horses, and dogs crossing his course; but if the blood hound could not take the scent, they might then adopt the proposed plan of pursuit, with as much success as at present. This counsel being adopted, the horses were ordered into the stable; and the gentlemen entered the house to take their breakfast, and wait the arrival of the blood hound. Nothing was said of the mulatto, David, who seemed to be forgotten--not a word being spoken by any one of bringing him from the woods. I knew that he was suffering the most agonizing pains, and great as were his crimes, his groans and cries of anguish still seemed to echo in my ears; but I was afraid to make any application in his behalf, lest, even yet, I might be suspected of some participation in his offences; for I knew that the most horrid punishments were often inflicted upon slaves merely on suspicion. As the morning advanced, the number of men and horses in front of my master's mansion increased; and before ten o'clock I think there were, at least, fifty of each--the horses standing hitched and the men conversing in groups without, or assembled together within the house. At length the owner of the blood hound came, bringing with him his dog, in a chaise, drawn by one horse. The harness was removed from the horse, its place supplied by a saddle and bridle, and the whole party set off for the woods. As they rode away, my master, who was one of the company, told me to follow them; but we had proceeded only a little distance, when the gentlemen stopped, and my master, after speaking with the owner of the dog, told the overseer to go back to the house, and get some piece of the clothes of Hardy, that had been worn by him lately. The overseer returned, and we all proceeded forward to the place where David lay. We found him where we had left him, greatly weakened by the loss of blood, and complaining that the cold air caused his wounds to smart intolerably. When I came near him, he looked at me and told me I had betrayed him. None of the gentlemen seemed at all moved by his sufferings, and when any of them spoke to him it was with derision, and every epithet of scorn and contumely. As it was apparent that he could not escape, no one proposed to remove him to a place of greater safety; but several of the horsemen, as they passed, lashed him with the thongs of their whips; but I do not believe he felt these blows--the pain he endured from his wounds being so great as to drown the sensation of such minor afflictions. The day had already become warm, although the night had been cold; the sun shone with great clearness, and many carrion crows, attracted by the scent of blood, were perched upon the trees near where we now were. When the overseer came up with us, he brought an old blanket, in which Hardy had slept for some time, and handed it to the owner of the dog; who, having first caused the hound to smell of the blanket, untied the cord in which he had been led, and turned him into the woods. The dog went from us fifty or sixty yards, in a right line, then made a circle around us, again commenced his circular movement, and pursued it nearly half round. Then he dropped his nose to the ground, snuffed the tainted surface, and moved off through the wood slowly, almost touching the earth with his nose. The owner of the dog and twelve or fifteen others followed him, whilst the residue of the party dispersed themselves along the edge of the swamp, and the overseer ordered me to stay and watch the horses of those who dismounted, going himself on foot in the pursuit. When the gentlemen were all gone out of sight, I went to David, who lay all this time within my view, for the purpose of asking him if I could render him any assistance. He begged me to bring him some water, as he was dying of thirst, no less than with the pain of his wounds. One of the horsemen had left a large tin horn hanging on his saddle; this I took, and stopping the small end closely with leaves, filled it with water from the swamp, and gave it to the wounded man, who drank it, and then turning his head towards me, said:--"Hardy and I had laid a plan to have this thing brought upon you, and to have you hung for it--but you have escaped." He then asked me if they intended to leave him to die in the woods, or to take him home and hang him. I told him I had heard them talk of taking him home in a cart, but what was to be done with him I did not know. I felt a horror of the crimes committed by this man; was pained by the sight of his sufferings, and being unable to relieve the one, or to forgive the other, went to a place where I could neither see nor hear him, and sat down to await the return of those who had gone in the pursuit of Hardy. In the circumstances which surrounded me, it cannot be supposed that my feelings were pleasant, or that time moved very fleetly; but painful as my situation was, I was obliged to bear it for many hours. From the time the gentlemen left me, I neither saw nor heard them, until late in the afternoon, when five or six of them returned, having lost their companions in the woods. Toward sundown, I heard a great noise of horns blown, and of men shouting at a distance in the forest; and soon after, my master, the owner of the blood hound, and many others returned, bringing with them Hardy, whom the hound had followed ten or twelve miles through the swamps and thickets; had at last caught him, and would soon have killed him, had he not been compelled to relinquish his prey. When the party had all returned, a kind of court was held in the woods, where we then were, for the purpose of determining what punishment should be inflicted upon Hardy and David. All agreed at once, that an example of the most terrific character ought to be made of such atrocious villains, and that it would defeat the ends of justice to deliver these fellows up to the civil authority, to be hanged like common murderers. The next measure was to settle upon the kind of punishment to be inflicted upon them, and the manner of executing the sentence. Hardy was, all this time, sitting on the ground covered with blood, and yet bleeding profusely, in hearing of his inexorable judges. The dog had mangled both his arms and hands in a shocking manner; torn a large piece of flesh entirely away from one side of his breast, and sunk his fangs deep in the side of his neck. No other human creature that I have ever seen presented a more deplorable spectacle of mingled crime and cruelty. It was now growing late, and the fate of these miserable men was to be decided before the company separated to go to their several homes. One proposed to burn them, another to flay them alive, and a third to starve them to death, and many other modes of slowly and tormentingly extinguishing life were named; but that which was finally adopted was, of all others, the most horrible. The wretches were unanimously sentenced to be stripped naked, and bound down securely upon their backs, on the naked earth, in sight of each other; to have their mouths closely covered with bandages, to prevent them from making a noise to frighten away the birds, and in this manner to be left to be devoured alive by the carrion crows and buzzards, which swarm in every part of South Carolina. The sentence was instantly carried into effect, so far as its execution depended on us. Hardy and his companion were divested of their clothes, stretched upon their backs on the ground; their mouths bandaged with handkerchiefs--their limbs extended--and these, together with their necks, being crossed by numerous poles, were kept close to the earth by forked sticks driven into the ground, so as to prevent the possibility of moving any part of their persons; and in this manner these wicked men were left to be torn in pieces by birds of prey. The buzzards and carrion crows, always attack dead bodies by pulling out and consuming the eyes first. They then tear open the bowels, and feed upon the intestines. We returned to my master's plantation, and I did not see this place again until the next Sunday, when several of my fellow slaves went with me to see the remains of the dead, but we found only their bones. Great flocks of buzzards and carrion crows were assembled in the trees, giving a dismal aspect to the woods; and I hastened to abandon a place fraught with so many afflicting recollections. The lady, who had been the innocent sacrifice of the brutality of the men, whose bones I had seen bleaching in the sun, had died on Saturday evening, and her corpse was buried on Monday, in a grave-yard on my master's plantation. I have never seen a large cotton plantation, in Carolina, without its burying ground. This burying ground is not only the place of sepulture of the family, who are the proprietors of the estate, but also of many other persons who have lived in the neighborhood. Half an acre, or an acre of ground, is appropriated as a grave-yard, on one side of which the proprietors of the estate, from age to age, are buried; whilst the other parts of the ground are open to strangers, poor people of their vicinity, and, in general, to all who choose to inter their dead within its boundaries. This custom prevails as far north as Maryland; and it seems to me to be much more consonant to the feelings of solitude and tender recollections, which we always associate with the memory of departed friends, than the practice of promiscuous interment in a church-yard, where all idea of seclusion is banished, by the last home of the dead being thrown open to the rude intrusions of strangers; where the sanctity of the sepulchre is treated as a common, and where the grave itself is, in a few years, torn up, or covered over, to form a temporary resting-place for some new tenant. The family of the deceased lady, though not very wealthy, was amongst the most ancient and respectable in this part of the country; and, on Sunday, whilst the dead body lay in my master's house, there was a continual influx and efflux of visiters, in carriages, on horse-back, and on foot. The house was open to all who chose to come; and the best wines, cakes, sweetmeats and fruits, were handed about to the company by the servants; though I observed that none remained for dinner, except the relations of the deceased, those of my master's family, and the young gentleman who was with me on the island. The visiters remained but a short time when they came, and were nearly all in mourning. This was the first time that I had seen a large number of the fashionable people of Carolina assembled together, and their appearance impressed me with an opinion favorable to their character. I had never seen an equal number of people anywhere, whose deportment was more orderly and decorous, nor whose feelings seemed to be more in accordance with the solemnity of the event, which had brought them together. I had been ordered by the overseer to remain at the great house until the afternoon, for the purpose, as I afterwards learned, of being seen by those who came to see the corpse; and many of the ladies and gentlemen inquired for me, and when I was pointed out to them, commended my conduct and fidelity, in discovering the authors of the murder--condoled with me for having suffered innocently, and several gave me money. One old lady, who came in a pretty carriage, drawn by two black horses, gave me a dollar. On Monday the funeral took place, and several hundred persons followed the corpse to the grave, over which a minister delivered a short sermon. The young gentleman who was with me when we found the deceased on the island, walked with her mother to the grave-yard, and the little brother followed, with a younger sister. After the interment, wines and refreshments were handed round to the whole assembly, and at least a hundred persons remained for dinner with my master's family. At four o'clock in the afternoon the carriages and horses were ordered to the door of the court-yard of the house, and the company retired. At sundown, the plantation was as quiet as if its peace had never been disturbed. CHAPTER X. I have before observed that the negroes of the cotton plantations are exceedingly superstitious; and they are indeed prone, beyond all other people that I have ever known, to believe in ghosts, and the existence of an infinite number of supernatural agents. No story of a miraculous character can be too absurd to obtain credit with them; and a narrative is not the less eagerly listened to, nor the more cautiously received, because it is impossible in its circumstances. Within a few weeks after the deaths of the two malefactors, to whose horrible crimes were awarded equally horrible punishments, the forest that had been the scene of these bloody deeds was reported and believed to be visited at night by beings of unearthly make, whose groans and death-struggles were heard in the darkest recesses of the woods, amidst the flapping of the wings of vultures, the fluttering of carrion crows, and the dismal croaking of ravens. In the midst of this nocturnal din, the noise caused by the tearing of the flesh from the bones was heard, and the panting breath of the agonized sufferer, quivering under the beaks of his tormentors, as they consumed his vitals, floated audibly upon the evening breeze. The murdered lady was also seen walking by moonlight, near the spot where she had been dragged from her horse, wrapped in a blood-stained mantle, overhung with gory and dishevelled locks. The little island in the swamp was said to present spectacles too horrid for human eyes to look upon, and sounds were heard to issue from it which no human ear could bear. Terrific and ghastly fires were seen to burst up, at midnight, amongst the evergreens that clad this lonely spot, emitting scents too suffocating and sickly to be endured; whilst demoniac yells, shouts of despair and groans of agony, mingled their echos in the solitude of the woods. Whilst I remained in this neighborhood, no colored person ever traveled this road alone after night-fall; and many white men would have ridden ten miles round the country to avoid the passage of the ridge road, after dark. Generations must pass away before the tradition of this place will be forgotten; and many a year will open and close, before the last face will be pale, or the last heart beat, as the twilight traveler skirts the borders of the Murderer's Swamp. We had allowances of meat distributed to all the people twice this fall--once when we had finished the saving the fodder, and again soon after the murder of the young lady. The first time we had beef, such as I had driven from the woods when I went to the alligator pond; but now we had two hogs given to us, which weighed, one a hundred and thirty, and the other a hundred and fifty-six pounds. This was very good pork, and I received a pound and a quarter as my share of it. This was the first pork that I had tasted in Carolina, and it afforded a real feast. We had, in our family, full seven pounds of good fat meat; and as we now had plenty of sweet potatoes, both in our gardens and in our weekly allowance, we had on the Sunday following the funeral, as good a dinner of stewed pork and potatoes as could have been found in all Carolina. We did not eat all our meat on Sunday, but kept part of it until Tuesday, when we warmed it in a pot, with an addition of parsley and other herbs, and had another very comfortable meal. I had, by this time, become in some measure acquainted with the country, and began to lay and execute plans to procure supplies of such things as were not allowed me by my master. I understood various methods of entrapping rackoons, and other wild animals that abounded in the large swamps of this country; and besides the skins, which were worth something for their furs, I generally procured as many rackoons, opossums, and rabbits, as afforded us two or three meals in a week. The woman with whom I lived, understood the way of dressing an opossum, and I was careful to provide one for our Sunday dinner every week, so long as these animals continued fat and in good condition. All the people on the plantation did not live as well as our family did, for many of the men did not understand trapping game, and others were too indolent to go far enough from home to find good places for setting their traps. My principal trapping ground was three miles from home, and I went three times a week, always after night, to bring home my game, and keep my traps in good order. Many of the families in the quarter caught no game, and had no meat, except that which we received from the overseer, which averaged about six or seven meals in the year. Lydia, the woman whom I have mentioned heretofore, was one of the women whose husbands procured little or nothing for the sustenance of their families, and I often gave her a quarter of a rackoon or a small opossum, for which she appeared very thankful. Her health was not good--she had a bad cough, and often told me she was feverish and restless at night. It appeared clear to me that this woman's constitution was broken by hardships and sufferings, and that she could not live long in her present mode of existence. Her husband, a native of a country far in the interior of Africa, said he had been a priest in his own nation, and had never been taught to do any kind of labor, being supported by the contributions of the public; and he now maintained, as far as he could, the same kind of lazy dignity, that he had enjoyed at home. He was compelled by the overseer to work, with the other hands, in the field, but as soon as he had come into his cabin, he took his seat, and refused to give his wife the least assistance in doing any thing. She was consequently obliged to do the little work that it was necessary to perform in the cabin; and also to bear all the labor of weeding and cultivating the family patch or garden. The husband was a morose, sullen man, and said he formerly had ten wives in his own country, who all had to work for, and wait upon him; and he thought himself badly off here, in having but one woman to do any thing for him. This man was very irritable, and often beat and otherwise maltreated his wife, on the slightest provocation, and the overseer refused to protect her, on the ground, that he never interfered in the family quarrels of the black people. I pitied this woman greatly, but as it was not in my power to remove her from the presence and authority of her husband, I thought it prudent not to say nor do any thing to provoke him further against her. As the winter approached, and the autumnal rains set in, she was frequently exposed in the field, and was wet for several hours together; this, joined to the want of warm and comfortable woollen clothes, caused her to contract colds, and hoarseness, which increased the severity of her cough. A few days before Christmas, her child died, after an illness of only three days. I assisted her and her husband to inter the infant--which was a little boy--and its father buried with it a small bow and several arrows; a little bag of parched meal; a miniature canoe, about a foot long, and a little paddle, (with which he said it would cross the ocean to his own country) a small stick, with an iron nail, sharpened, and fastened into one end of it; and a piece of white muslin, with several curious and strange figures painted on it in blue and red, by which, he said, his relations and countrymen would know the infant to be his son, and would receive it accordingly, on its arrival amongst them. Cruel as this man was to his wife, I could not but respect the sentiments which inspired his affection for his child; though it was the affection of a barbarian. He cut a lock of hair from his head, threw it upon the dead infant, and closed the grave with his own hands. He then told us the God of his country was looking at him, and was pleased with what he had done. Thus ended the funeral service. As we returned home, Lydia told me she was rejoiced that her child was dead, and out of a world in which slavery and wretchedness must have been its only portion. I am now, said she, ready to follow my child, and the sooner I go the better for me. She went with us to the field until the month of January, when, as we were returning from our work, one stormy and wet evening, she told me she should never pick any more cotton--that her strength was gone, and she could work no more. When we assembled, at the blowing of the horn, on the following morning, Lydia did not appear. The overseer, who had always appeared to dislike this woman, when he missed her, swore very angrily, and said he supposed she was pretending to be sick, but if she was he would soon cure her. He then stepped into his house and took some copperas from a little bag, and mixed it with water. I followed him to Lydia's cabin, where he compelled her to drink this solution of copperas. It caused her to vomit violently, and made her exceedingly sick. I think to this day, that this act of the overseer was the most inhuman of all those that I have seen perpetrated upon defenceless slaves. Lydia was removed that same day to the sick room, in a state of extreme debility and exhaustion. When she left this room again she was a corpse. Her disease was a consumption of the lungs, which terminated her life early in March. I assisted in carrying her to the grave, which I closed upon her, and covered with green turf. She sleeps by the side of her infant, in a corner of the negro grave-yard of this plantation. Death was to her a welcome messenger, who came to remove her from toil that she could not support, and from misery that she could not sustain. Christmas approached, and we all expected two or three holidays--but we were disappointed, as only one was all that was allotted to us. I went to the field and picked cotton all day, for which I was paid by the overseer, and at night I had a good dinner of stewed pork and sweet potatoes. Such were the beginning and end of my first Christmas on a cotton plantation. We went to work as usual the next morning, and continued our labor through the week, as if Christmas had been stricken from the calendar. I had already saved and laid by a little more than ten dollars in money, but part of it had been given to me at the funeral. I was now much in want of clothes, none having been given me since I came here. I had, at the commencement of the cold weather, cut up my old blanket, and, with the aid of Lydia, who was a very good seamstress, converted it into a pair of trowsers, and a long roundabout jacket; but this deprived me of my bed, which was imperfectly supplied by mats, which I made of rushes. The mats were very comfortable things to lie upon, but they were by no means equal to blankets for covering. A report had been current among us for some time, that there would be a distribution of clothes to the people at New-Year's day; but how much, or what kind of clothes we were to get no one pretended to know except that we were to get shoes, in conformity to a long-established rule of this plantation. From Christmas to New-Year appeared a long week to me, and I have no doubt that it appeared yet longer to some of my fellow slaves, most of whom were entirely barefoot. I had made moccasins for myself, of the skins of squirrels that I had caught in my traps, and by this means protected my feet from the frost, which was sometimes very heavy and sharp in the morning. On the first day of January, when we met at the blowing of the morning horn, the overseer told us we must all proceed to the great house, where we were to receive our winter clothes; and surely, no order was ever more willingly obeyed. When we arrived at the house our master was up, and we were all called into the great court yard in front of the dwelling. The overseer now told us that shoes would be given to all those who were able to go to the field to pick cotton. This deprived of shoes the children, and several old persons, whose eye-sight was not sufficiently clear to enable them to pick cotton. A new blanket was then given to every one above seven years of age--children under seven received no blanket, being left to be provided for by their parents. Children of this age and under, go entirely naked, in the day-time, and sleep with their mothers at night, or are wrapped up together in such bedding as the mother may possess. It may well be supposed, that in our society, although we were all slaves, and all nominally in a condition of the most perfect equality, yet there was in fact a very great difference in the manner of living, in the several families. Indeed, I doubt if there is as great a diversity in the modes of life, in the several families of any white village in New York or Pennsylvania, containing a population of three hundred persons, as there was in the several households of our quarter. This may be illustrated by the following circumstance: Before I came to reside in the family with whom I lived at this time, they seldom tasted animal food, or even fish, except on meat-days, as they were called; that is, when meat was given to the people by the overseer, under the orders of our master. The head of the family was a very quiet, worthy man; but slothful and inactive in his habits. When he had come from the field at night, he seldom thought of leaving the cabin again before morning. He would, and did, make baskets and mats, and earned some money by these means; he also did his regular day's work on Sunday; but all his acquirements were not sufficient to enable him to provide any kind of meat for his family. All that his wife and children could do, was to provide him with work at his baskets and mats; and they lived even then better than some of their neighbors. After I came among them and had acquired some knowledge of the surrounding country, I made as many baskets and mats as he did, and took time to go twice a week to look at all my traps. As the winter passed away and spring approached, the proceeds of my hunting began to diminish. The game became scarce, and both rackoons and opossums grew poor and worthless. It was necessary for me to discover some new mode of improving the allowance allotted to me by the overseer. I had all my life been accustomed to fishing in Maryland, and I now resolved to resort to the water for a living; the land having failed to furnish me a comfortable subsistence. With these views, I set out one Sunday morning, early in February, and went to the river at a distance of three miles from home. From the appearance of the stream I felt confident that it must contain many fish; and I went immediately to work to make a weir. With the help of an axe that I had with me, I had finished before night the frame-work of a weir of pine sticks, lashed together with white oak splits. I had no canoe, but made a raft of dry logs, upon which I went to a suitable place in the river and set my weir. I afterwards made a small net of twine that I bought at the store; and on next Thursday night I took as many fish from my weir as filled a half bushel measure. This was a real treasure--it was the most fortunate circumstance that had happened with me since I came to the country. I was enabled to show my generosity, but, like all mankind, even in my liberality, I kept myself in mind. I gave a large fish to the overseer, and took three more to the great house. These were the first fresh fish that had been in the family this season; and I was much praised by my master and young mistresses, for my skill and success in fishing; but this was all the advantage I received from this effort to court the favor of the great:--I did not even get a dram. The part I had performed in the detection of the murderers of the young lady was forgotten, or at least not mentioned now. I went away from the house not only disappointed but chagrined, and thought with myself that if my master and young mistresses had nothing but words to give me for my fish, we should not carry on a very large traffic. On next Sunday morning, a black boy came from the house, and told me that our master wished to see me. This summons was not to be disobeyed. When I returned to the mansion, I went round to the kitchen, and sent word by one of the house-slaves that I had come. The servant returned and told me, that I was to stay in the kitchen and get my breakfast; and after that to come into the house. A very good breakfast was sent to me from my master's table, after the family had finished their morning meal; and when I had done with my repast I went into the parlor. I was received with great affability by my master, who told me he had sent for me to know if I had been accustomed to fish in the place I had come from. I informed him that I had been employed at a fishery on the Patuxent, every spring, for several years; and that I thought I understood fishing with a seine, as well as most people. He then asked me if I could knit a seine, to which I replied in the affirmative. After some other questions, he told me that as the picking of cotton was nearly over for this season, and the fields must soon be ploughed up for a new crop, he had a thought of having a seine made, and of placing me at the head of a fishing party, for the purpose of trying to take a supply of fish for his hands. No communication could have been more unexpected than this was, and it was almost as pleasing to me as it was unexpected by me. I now began to hope that there would be some respite from the labors of the cotton field, and that I should not be doomed to drag out a dull and monotonous existence, within the confines of the enclosures of the plantation. In Maryland, the fishing season was always one of hard labor, it is true, but also a time of joy and hilarity. We then had, throughout the time of fishing, plenty of bread, and at least bacon enough to fry our fish with. We had also a daily allowance of whisky, or brandy, and we always considered ourselves fortunate when we left the farm to go to the fishery. A few days after this, I was again sent for by my master, who told me that he had bought twine and ropes for a seine, and that I must set to work and knit it as quickly as possible; that as he did not wish the twine to be taken to the quarter, I must remain with the servants in the kitchen, and live with them while employed in constructing the seine. I was assisted in making the seine by a black boy, whom I had taught to work with me; and by the end of two weeks we had finished our job. While at work on this seine, I lived rather better than I had formerly done when residing at the quarter. We received among us--twelve in number, including the people who worked in the garden--the refuse of our master's table. In this way we procured a little cold meat every day; and when there were many strangers visiting the family, we sometimes procured considerable quantities of cold and broken meats. My new employment afforded me a better opportunity than I had hitherto possessed of making correct observations upon the domestic economy of my master's household, and of learning the habits and modes of life of the persons who composed it. On a great cotton plantation, such as this of my master's, the field hands, who live in the quarter, are removed so far from the domestic circle of their master's family, by their servile condition and the nature of their employment, that they know but little more of the transactions within the walls of the great house than if they lived ten miles off. Many a slave has been born, lived to old age, and died on a plantation, without ever having been within the walls of his master's domicile. My master was a widower; and his house was in charge of his sister, a maiden lady, apparently of fifty-five or sixty. He had six children, three sons and three daughters, and all unmarried; but only one of the sons was at home, at the time I came upon the estate; the other two were in some of the northern cities--the one studying medicine, and the other at college. At the time of knitting the twine, these young gentlemen had returned on a visit to their relations, and all the brothers and sisters were now on the place. The young ladies were all grown up, and marriageable; their father was known to be a man of great wealth, and the girls were reputed very pretty in Carolina; one of them, the second of the three, was esteemed a great beauty. The reader might deem my young mistress' pretty face and graceful person altogether impertinent to the narrative of my own life; but they had a most material influence upon my fortunes, and changed the whole tenor of my existence. Had she been less beautiful, or of a temper less romantic and adventurous, I should still have been a slave in South Carolina, if yet alive, and the world would have been saved the labor of perusing these pages. Any one at all acquainted with southern manners, will at once see that my master's house possessed attractions which would not fail to draw within it numerous visiters; and that the head of such a family as dwelt under its roof was not likely to be without friends. I had not been at work upon the seine a week before I discovered, by listening to the conversation of my master and the other members of the family, that they prided themselves not a little upon the antiquity of their house, and the long practice of a generous hospitality to strangers, and to all respectable people who chose to visit their homestead. All circumstances seemed to conspire to render this house one of the chief seats of the fashion, the beauty, the wit, and the gallantry of South Carolina. Scarcely an evening came but it brought a carriage, and ladies and gentlemen and their servants; and every day brought dashing young planters, mounted on horseback, to dine with the family; but Sunday was the day of the week on which the house received the greatest accession of company. My master and family were members of the Episcopal Church, and attended service every Sunday, when the weather was fine, at a church eight miles distant. Each of my young masters and mistresses had a saddle-horse, and in pleasant weather they frequently all went to church on horseback, leaving my old master and mistress to occupy the family carriage alone. I have seen fifteen or twenty young people come to my master's for dinner on Sunday from church; and very often the parson, a young man of handsome appearance, was among them. I had observed these things long before, but now I had come to live at the house, and became more familiar with them. Three Sundays intervened while I was at work upon the seine, and on each of these Sundays more than twenty persons, besides the family, dined at my master's. During these three weeks, my young masters were absent far the greater part of the time; but I observed that they generally came home on Sunday for dinner. My young mistresses were not from home much, and I believe they never left the plantation unless either their father or some one of their brothers was with them. Dinner parties were frequent in my master's house; and on these occasions of festivity, a black man, who belonged to a neighboring estate, and who played the violin, was sent for. I observed that whenever this man was sent for, he came, and sometimes even came before night, which appeared a little singular to me, as I knew the difficulty that colored people had to encounter in leaving the estate to which they were attached. CHAPTER XI. Early in March, my seine being now completed, my master told me I must take with me three other black men, and go to the river to clear out a fishery. This task was a disagreeable job, for it was nothing less than dragging out of the river all the old trees and brush that had sunk to the bottom, within the limits of our intended fishing ground. My master's eldest son had been down the river, and had purchased two boats, to be used at the fishery; but when I saw them, I declared them to be totally unfit for that purpose. They were old batteaux, and so leaky that they would not have supported the weight of a seine and the men necessary to lay it out. I advised the building of two good canoes from some of the large yellow pines in the woods. My advice was accepted, and together with five others hands, I went to work at the canoes, which we completed in less than a week. So far things went pretty well, and I flattered myself that I should become the head man at this new fishery, and have the command of the other hands. I also expected that I should be able to gain some advantage to myself, by disposing of a part of the small fish that might be taken at the fishery. I reckoned without my host. My master had only purchased this place a short time before he bought me. Before that time he did not own any place on the river, fit for the establishment of a fishery. His lands adjoined the river for more than a mile in extent, along its margin; but an impassable morass separated the channel of the river, from the firm ground, all along his lines. He had cleared the highest parts of this morass, or swamp, and had here made his rice fields; but he was as entirely cut off from the river, as if an ocean had separated it from him. On the day that we launched the canoes into the river, and while we were engaged in removing some snags and old trees that had stuck in the mud, near the shore, an ill-looking stranger came to us, and told us that our master had sent him to take charge of the fishery, and superintend all the work that was to be done at it. This man, by his contract with my master, was to receive a part of all the fish caught, in lieu of wages; and was invested with the same authority over us that was exercised by the overseer in the cotton field. I soon found that I had cause to regret my removal from the plantation. It was found quite impossible to remove the old logs, and other rubbish from the bottom of the river, without going into the water, and wrenching them from their places with long handspikes. In performing this work we were obliged to wade up to our shoulders, and often to dip our very heads under water, in raising the sunken timber. However, within less than a week, we had cleared the ground, and now began to haul our seine. At first, we caught nothing but common river fish; but after two or three days, we began to take shad. Of the common fish, such as pike, perch, suckers, and others, we had the liberty of keeping as many as we could eat; but the misfortune was, that we had no pork, or fat of any kind, to fry them with; and for several days we contented ourselves with boiling them on the coals, and eating them with our corn bread and sweet potatoes. We could have lived well, if we had been permitted to boil the shad on the coals, and eat them; for a fat shad will dress itself in being broiled, and is very good, without any oily substance added to it. All the shad that we caught, were carefully taken away by a black man, who came three times every day to the fishery, with a cart. The master of the fishery had a family that lived several miles up the river. In the summer time, he fished with hooks, and small nets, when not engaged in running turpentine, in the pine woods. In the winter he went back into the pine forest, and made tar of the dead pine trees; but returned to the river at the opening of the spring, to take advantage of the shad fishery. He was supposed to be one of the most skillful fishermen on the Congrace river, and my master employed him to superintend his new fishery, under an expectation, I presume, that as he was to get a tenth part of all the fish that might be caught, he would make the most of his situation. My master had not calculated with accuracy the force of habit, nor the difficulty which men experience, in conducting very simple affairs, of which they have no practical knowledge. The fish-master did very well for the interest of his employer for a few days; compelling us to work in hauling the seine, day and night, and scarcely permitting us to take rest enough to obtain necessary sleep. We were compelled to work full sixteen hours every day, including Sunday; for in the fishing season no respect is paid to Sunday by fishermen anywhere. We had our usual quantity of bread and potatoes, with plenty of common fish; but no shad came to our lot, nor had we anything to fry our fish with. A broiled fresh-water fish is not very good at best, without salt or oil; and after we had eaten them every day, for a week, we cared very little for them. By this time our fish-master began to relax in his discipline; not that he became more kind to us, or required us to do less work, but to compel us to work all night, it was necessary for him to sit up all night and watch us. This was a degree of toil and privation to which he could not long submit; and one evening soon after dark, he called me to him, and told me that he intended to make me overseer of the fishery that night; and he had no doubt I would keep the hands at work, and attend to the business as well without him as with him. He then went into his cabin, and went to bed; whilst I went and laid out the seine, and made a very good haul. We took more than two hundred shad at this draught; and followed up our work with great industry all night, only taking time to eat our accustomed meal at midnight. Every fisherman knows that the night is the best time for taking shad; and the little rest that had been allowed us, since we began to fish, had always been from eight o'clock in the morning until four in the afternoon; unless within that period there was an appearance of a school of fish in the river; when we had to rise, and lay out the seine, no matter at what hour of the day. The fish-master had been very severe with the hands since he came amongst us, and had made very free use of a long hickory gad that he sometimes carried about with him; though at times he would relax his austerity, and talk quite familiarly with us,--especially with me, whom he perceived to have some knowledge of the business in which we were engaged. The truth was, that this man knew nothing of fishing with a seine, and I had been obliged from the beginning to direct the operations of laying out and drawing in the seine; though the master was always very loud and boisterous in giving his commands, and directing us in what part of the river we should let down the seine. Having never been accustomed to regular work, or to the pursuit of any constant course of personal application, the master was incapable of long continued exertion; and I feel certain that he could not have been prevailed upon to labor twelve hours each day, for a year, if in return he had been certain of receiving ten thousand dollars. Notwithstanding this, he was capable of rousing himself, and of undergoing any degree of fatigue or privation for a short time, even for a few days. He had not been trained to habits of industry, and could not bear the restraints of uniform labor. We worked hard all night, the first night of my superintendence, and when the sun rose the next morning, the master had not risen from his bed. As it was now the usual time of dividing the fish, I called to him to come and see this business fairly done; but as he did not come down immediately to the landing, I proceeded to make the division myself, in as equitable a manner as I could: giving, however, a full share of large fish to the master. When he came down to us, and overlooked both the piles of fish--his own and that of my master--he was so well satisfied with what I had done, that he said, if he had known that I would do so well for him, he would not have risen. I was glad to hear this, as it led me to hope that I should be able to induce him to stay in his cabin during the greater part of the time; to do which, I was well assured, he felt disposed. When the night came, the master again told me he should go to bed, not being well, and desired me to do as I had done the night before. This night we cooked as many shad as we could all eat; but were careful to carry, far out into the river, the scales and entrails of the stolen fish. In the morning I made a division of the fish before I called the master, and then went and asked him to come and see what I had done. He was again well pleased, and now proposed to us all that if we would not let the affair be known to our master, he would leave us to manage the fishery at night according to our discretion. To this proposal we all readily agreed, and I received authority to keep the other hands at work, until the master would go and get his breakfast. I had now accomplished the object that I had held very near my heart ever since we began to fish at this place. From this time to the end of the fishing season, we all lived well, and did not perform more work than we were able to bear. I was in no fear of being punished by the fish-master, for he was now at least as much in my power as I was in his; for if my master had known the agreement that he had made with us, for the purpose of enabling himself to sleep all night in his cabin, he would have been deprived of his situation, and all the profits of his share of the fishery. There never can be any affinity of feeling between master and slave, except in some few isolated cases, where the master has treated his slave in such a manner as to have excited in him strong feelings of gratitude; or where the slave entertains apprehensions, that by the death of his master, or by being separated from him in any other way, he may fall under the power of a more tyrannical ruler, or may in some shape be worsted by the change. I was never acquainted with a slave who believed that he violated any rule of morality by appropriating to himself any thing that belonged to his master, if it was necessary to his comfort. The master might call it theft, and brand it with the name of crime; but the slave reasoned differently, when he took a portion of his master's goods, to satisfy his hunger, keep himself warm, or to gratify his passion for luxurious enjoyment. The slave sees his master residing in a spacious mansion, riding in a fine carriage, and dressed in costly clothes, and attributes the possession of all these enjoyments to his own labor; whilst he who is the cause of so much gratification and pleasure to another, is himself deprived of even the necessary accommodations of human life. Ignorant men do not and cannot reason logically; and in tracing things from cause to effect, the slave attributes all that he sees in possession of his master to his own toil, without taking the trouble to examine how far the skill, judgment, and economy of his master may have contributed to the accumulation of the wealth by which his residence is surrounded. There is, in fact, a mutual dependence between the master and his slave. The former could not acquire any thing without the labor of the latter, and the latter would always remain in poverty without the judgment of the former in directing labor to a definite and profitable result. After I had obtained the virtual command of the fishery, I was careful to awaken the master every morning at sunrise, that he might be present when the division of the fish was made; and when the morning cart arrived, that the carter might not report to my master, that the fish-master was in bed. I had now become interested in preserving the good opinion of my master in favor of his agent. Since my arrival in Carolina I had never enjoyed a full meal of bacon; and now determined, if possible, to procure such a supply of that luxury as would enable me and all my fellow-slaves at the fishery to regale ourselves at pleasure. At this season of the year boats frequently passed up the river, laden with merchandise and goods of various kinds, among which were generally large quantities of salt, intended for curing fish, and for other purposes on the plantations. These boats also carried bacon and salted pork up the river, for sale; but as they never moved at night, confining their navigation to day-light, and as none of them had hitherto stopped near our landing, we had not met with an opportunity of entering into a traffic with any of the boat masters. We were not always to be so unfortunate. One evening, in the second week of the fishing season, a large keel-boat was seen working up the river about sundown; and shortly after, came to for the night, on the opposite side of the river, directly against our landing. We had at the fishery a small canoe called a punt, about twelve feet long; and when we went to lay out the seine, for the first haul after night, I attached the punt to the side of the canoe, and when we had finished letting down the seine, I left the other hands to work it toward the shore, and ran over in the punt to the keel-boat. Upon inquiring of the captain if he had any bacon that he would exchange for shad, he said, he had a little; but, as the risk he would run in dealing with a slave was great, I must expect to pay him more than the usual price. He at length proposed to give me a hundred pounds of bacon for three hundred shad. This was at least twice as much as the bacon was worth; but we did not bargain as men generally do, where half of the bargain is on each side; for here the captain of the keel-boat settled the terms for both parties. However, he ran the hazard of being prosecuted for dealing with slaves, which is a very high offence in Carolina; and I was selling that which, in point of law, did not belong to me; but to which, nevertheless, I felt in my conscience that I had a better right than any other person. In support of the right, which I felt to be on my side in this case, came a keen appetite for the bacon, which settled the controversy, upon the question of the morality of this traffic, in my favor. It so happened, that we made a good haul with our seine this evening, and at the time I returned to the landing, the men were all on shore, engaged in drawing in the seine. As soon as we had taken out the fish, we placed three hundred of them in one of our canoes, and pushed over to the keel-boat, where the fish were counted out, and the bacon was received into our craft with all possible despatch. One part of this small trade exhibited a trait of human character which I think worthy of being noticed. The captain of the boat was a middle-aged, thin, sallow man, with long bushy hair; and he looked like one who valued the opinions of men but little. I expected that he would not be scrupulous in giving me my full hundred pounds of bacon: but in this I was mistaken; for he weighed the flitches with great exactness, in a pair of large steelyards, and gave me good weight. When the business was ended, and the bacon in my canoe, he told me, he hoped I was satisfied with him; and assured me, that I should find the bacon excellent. When I was about pushing from the boat, he told me in a low voice, though there was no one who could hear us, except his own people--that he should be down the river again in about two weeks, when he should be very glad to buy any produce that I had for sale; adding, "I will give you half as much for cotton as it is worth in Charleston, and pay you either in money or groceries, as you may choose. Take care, and do not betray yourself, and I shall be honest with you." I was so much rejoiced at being in possession of a hundred pounds of good flitch bacon, that I had no room in either my head or my heart for the consideration of this man's notions of honesty, at the present time; but paddled with all strength for our landing, where we took the bacon from the canoe, stowed it away in an old salt barrel, and safely deposited it in a hole dug for the purpose in the floor of my cabin. About this time, our allowance of sweet potatoes was withheld from us altogether, in consequence of the high price paid for this article by the captains of the keel-boats; for the purpose, as I heard, of sending them to New York and Philadelphia. Ever since Christmas we had been permitted to draw, on each Sunday evening, either a peck of corn, as usual, or half a peck of corn and half a bushel of sweet potatoes, at our discretion. The half a peck of corn and the half a bushel of potatoes was worth much more than a peck of corn; but potatoes were so abundant this year, that they were of little value, and the saving of corn was an object worth attending to by a large planter. The boatmen now offered half a dollar a bushel for potatoes, and we were again restricted to our corn ration. Notwithstanding the privation of our potatoes, we at the fishery lived sumptuously, although our master certainly believed that our fare consisted of corn-bread and river fish, cooked without lard or butter. It was necessary to be exceedingly cautious in the use of our bacon; and to prevent the suspicions of the master and others who frequented our landing, I enjoined our people never to fry any of the meat, but to boil it all. No one can smell boiled bacon far; but fried flitch can be smelled a mile by a good nose. We had two meals every night, one of bacon and the other of fried shad, which nearly deprived us of all appetite for the breakfasts and dinners that we prepared in the daytime; consisting of cold corn-bread without salt, and broiled fresh water fish, without any sort of seasoning. We spent more than two weeks in this happy mode of life, unmolested by our master, his son, or the master of the fishery; except when the latter complained, rather than threatened us, because we sometimes suffered our seine to float too far down the river, and get entangled among some roots and brush that lay on the bottom, immediately below our fishing ground. We now expected, every evening, to see the return of the boatman who had sold us the bacon, and the man who was with me in the canoe at the time we received it, had not forgotten the invitation of the captain to trade with him in cotton on his return. My fellow-slave was a native of Virginia, as he told me, and had been sold and brought to Carolina about ten years before this time. He was a good-natured, kind-hearted man, and did many acts of benevolence to me, such as one slave is able to perform for another, and I felt a real affection for him; but he had adopted the too common rule of moral action, that there is no harm in a slave robbing his master. The reader may suppose, from my account of the bacon, that I, too, had adopted this rule as a part of my creed; but I solemnly declare, that this was not the case, and that I never deprived any one of all the masters that I have served, of anything against his consent, unless it was some kind of food; and that of all I ever took, I am confident, I have given away more than the half to my fellow-slaves, whom I knew to be equally needy with myself. The man who had been with me at the keel-boat told me one day, that he had laid a plan by which we could get thirty or forty dollars, if I would join him in the execution of his project. Thirty or forty dollars was a large sum of money to me. I had never possessed so much money at one time in my life; and I told him that I was willing to do anything by which we could obtain such a treasure. He then told me, that he knew where the mule and cart, that were used by the man who carried away our fish, were kept at night; and that he intended to set out on the first dark night, and go to the plantation--harness the mule to the cart--go to the cotton-gin house--put two bags of cotton into the cart--bring them to a thicket of small pines that grew on the river bank, a short distance below the fishery, and leave them there until the keel-boat should return. All that he desired of me was, to make some excuse for his absence, to the other hands, and assist him to get his cotton into the canoe, at the coming of the boat. I disliked the whole scheme, both on account of its iniquity and of the danger which attended it; but my companion was not to be discouraged by all the arguments which I could use against it, and said, if I would not participate in it, he was determined to undertake it alone: provided I would not inform against him. To this I said nothing; but he had so often heard me express my detestation of one slave betraying another, that I presume he felt easy on that score. The next night but one after this conversation was very dark, and when we went to lay out the seine after night, Nero was missing. The other people inquired of me if I knew where he was, and when I replied in the negative, little more was said on the subject; it being common for the slaves to absent themselves from their habitations at night, and if the matter is not discovered by the overseer or master, nothing is ever said of it by the slaves. The other people supposed that, in this instance, Nero had gone to see a woman whom he lived with as his wife, on a plantation a few miles down the river; and were willing to work a little harder to permit him to enjoy the pleasure of seeing his family. He returned before day, and said he had been to see his wife, which satisfied the curiosity of our companions. The very next evening after Nero's absence, the keel-boat descended the river, came down on our side, hailed us at the fishery, and, drawing in to the shore below our landing, made her ropes fast among the young pines of which I have spoken above. After we made our first haul, I missed Nero; but he returned to us before we had laid out the seine, and told us that he had been in the woods to collect some _light-wood_--dry, resinous pine--which he brought on his shoulder. When the morning came, the keel-boat was gone, and every thing wore the ordinary aspect about our fishery; but when the man came with the mule and the cart to take away the fish, he told us that there was great trouble on the plantation. The overseer had discovered that some one had stolen two bags of cotton the last night, and all the hands were undergoing an examination on the subject. The slaves on the plantation, one and all, denied having any knowledge of the matter, and, as there was no evidence against any one, the overseer threatened, at the time he left the quarter, to whip every hand on the estate, for the purpose of making them discover who the thief was. The slaves on the plantation differed in opinion as to the perpetrator of this theft; but the greater number concurred in charging it upon a free negro man, named Ishmael, who lived in a place called the White Oak Woods, and followed making ploughs and harrow frames. He also made handles for hoes, and the frame work of cart bodies. This man was generally reputed a thief for a great distance round the country, and the black people charged him with stealing the cotton on no other evidence than his general bad character. The overseer, on the other hand, expressed his opinion without hesitation, which was, that the cotton had been stolen by some of the people of the plantation, and sold to a poor white man, who resided at the distance of three miles back in the pine woods, and was believed to have dealt with slaves, as a receiver of their stolen goods, for many years. This white man was one of a class of poor cottagers. The house, or cabin, in which he resided, was built of small poles of the yellow pine, with the bark remaining on them; the roof was of clap-boards of pine, and the chimney was made of sticks and mud, raised to the height of eight or ten feet. The appearance of the man and his wife was such as one might expect to find in such a dwelling. The lowest poverty had, through life, been the companion of these poor people, of which their clayey complexions, haggard figures, and tattered garments gave the strongest proof. It appeared to me that the state of destitution in which these people lived, afforded very convincing evidence that they were not in possession of the proceeds of the stolen goods of any person. I had often been at the cabin of this man in my trapping expeditions, the previous autumn and winter; and I believe the overseer regarded the circumstance, that black people often called at his house, as conclusive evidence that he held criminal intercourse with them. However this might be, the overseer determined to search the premises of this harmless forester, whom he resolved, beforehand, to treat as a guilty man. It being known that I was well acquainted with the woods in the neighborhood of the cabin, I was sent for, to leave the fishery, and come to assist in making search for the lost bags of cotton--perhaps it was also believed that I was in the secrets of the suspected house. It was not thought prudent to trust any of the hands on the plantation in making the intended search, as they were considered the principal thieves; whilst we, of the fishery, against whom no suspicion had arisen, were required to give our assistance in ferreting out the perpetrators of an offence of the highest grade that can be committed by a slave on a cotton estate. Before leaving the fishery, I advised the master to be very careful not to let the overseer, or my master know, that he had left us to manage the fishery at night, by ourselves; since, as a theft had been committed, it might possibly be charged upon him, if it were known that he had allowed us so much liberty. I said this to put the master on his guard against surprise; and to prevent him from saying anything that might turn the attention of the overseer to the hands at the fishery; for I knew that if punishment were to fall amongst us, it would be quite as likely to reach the innocent as the guilty--besides, though I was innocent of the bags of cotton, I was guilty of the bacon, and, however I might make distinctions between the moral turpitude of the two cases, I knew that if discovered, they would both be treated alike. When I arrived at the quarter, whither I repaired, in obedience to the orders I received, I found the overseer with my master's eldest son, and a young white man, who had been employed to repair the cotton-gin, waiting for me. I observed when I came near the overseer, that he looked at me very attentively, and afterwards called my young master aside, and spoke to him in a tone of voice too low to be heard by me. The white gentlemen then mounted their horses, and set off by the road for the cabin of the white man. I had orders to take a short route, through the woods and across a swamp, by which I could reach the cabin as soon as the overseer. The attentive examination that the overseer had given me, caused me to feel uneasy, although I could not divine the cause of his scrutiny, nor of the subject of the short conversation between him and my young master. By traveling at a rapid pace, I arrived at the cabin of the suspected man before the gentlemen, but thought it prudent not to approach it before they came up, lest it might be imagined that I had gone in to give information to the occupants of the danger that threatened them. Here I had a hard struggle with my conscience, which seemed to say to me, that I ought at once to disclose all I knew concerning the lost bags of cotton, for the purpose of saving these poor people from the terror that they must necessarily feel at the sight of those who were coming to accuse them of a great crime, perhaps from the afflictions and sufferings attendant upon a prosecution in a court of justice. These reflections were cut short by the arrival of the party of gentlemen, who passed me where I sat, at the side of the path, with no other notice than a simple command of the overseer to come on. I followed them into the cabin, where we found the man and his wife, with two little children, eating roasted potatoes. The overseer saluted this family by telling them that we had come to search the house for stolen cotton. That it was well known that he had long been dealing with negroes, and they were now determined to bring him to punishment. I was then ordered to tear up the floor of the cabin, whilst the overseer mounted into the loft. I found nothing under the floor, and the overseer had no better success above. The wife was then advised to confess where her husband had concealed the cotton, to save herself from being brought in as a party to the affair; but this poor woman protested with tears that they were totally ignorant of the whole matter. Whilst the wife was interrogated, the father stood without his own door, trembling with fear, but, as I could perceive, indignant with rage. The overseer, who was fluent in the use of profane language, exerted the highest degree of his vulgar eloquence upon these harmless people, whose only crime was their poverty, and whose weakness alone had invited the ruthless aggression of their powerful and rich neighbors. Finding nothing in the house, the gentlemen set out to scour the woods around the cabin, and commanded me to take the lead in tracing out tree tops and thickets, where it was most likely that the stolen cotton might be found. Our search was in vain, as I knew it would be beforehand; but when weary of ranging in the woods, the gentlemen again returned to the cabin, which we now found without inhabitants. The alarm caused by our visit, and the manner in which the gentlemen had treated this lonely family, had caused them to abandon their dwelling, and seek safety in flight. The door of the house was closed and fastened with a string to a nail in the post of the door. After calling several times for the fugitives, and receiving no answer, the door was kicked open by my young master; the few articles of miserable furniture that the cabin contained, including a bed, made of flags, were thrown into a heap in the corner, and fire was set to the dwelling by the overseer. We remained until the flames had reached the roof of the cabin, when the gentlemen mounted their horses and set off for home, ordering me to return by the way that I had come. When we again reached the house of my master, several gentlemen of the neighborhood had assembled, drawn together by common interest that is felt amongst the planters to punish theft, and particularly a theft of cotton in the bag. My young master related to his neighbors, with great apparent satisfaction, the exploits of the morning; said he had routed one receiver of stolen goods out of the country, and that all others of his character ought to be dealt with in the same manner. In this opinion all the gentlemen present concurred, and after much conversation on the subject, it was agreed to call a general meeting for the purpose of devising the best, surest and most peaceful method of removing from the country the many white men who, residing in the district without property, or without interest in preserving the morals of the slaves, were believed to carry on an unlawful and criminal traffic with the negroes, to the great injury of the planters in general, and of the masters of the slaves who dealt with the offenders in particular. I was present at this preliminary consultation, which took place at my master's cotton-gin, whither the gentlemen had repaired for the purpose of looking at the place where the cotton had been removed. So many cases of this forbidden traffic between the slaves and these "white negro dealers," as they were termed, were here related by the different gentlemen, and so many white men were referred to by name as being concerned in this criminal business, that I began to suppose the losses of the planters in this way must be immense. This conference continued until I had totally forgotten the scrutinizing look that I had received from our overseer at the time I came up from the fishery in the morning; but the period had now come when I again was to be reminded of this circumstance, for on a sudden the overseer called me to come forward and let the gentlemen see me. I again felt a sort of vague and undefinable apprehension that no good was to grow out of this examination of my person, but a command of our overseer was not to be disobeyed. After looking at my face, with a kind of leer or side glance, one of the gentlemen, who was an entire stranger to me, and whom I had never before seen, said, "Boy, you appear to live well; how much meat does your master allow you in a week?" I was almost totally confounded at the name of meat, and felt the blood rush to my heart, but nevertheless forced a sort of smile upon my face, and replied, "My master has been very kind to all his people of late, but has not allowed us any meat for some weeks. We have plenty of good bread, and abundance of river fish, which, together with the heads and roes of the shad that we have salted at the landing, makes a very excellent living for us; though if master would please to give us a little meat now and then, we should be very thankful for it." This speech, which contained all the eloquence I was master of at the time, seemed to produce some effect in my favor, for the gentleman said nothing in reply, until the overseer, rising from a board on which he had been sitting, came close up to me and said, "Charles, you need not tell lies about it; you have been eating meat, I know you have, no negro could look as fat, and sleek, and black, and greasy, as you, if he had nothing to eat but corn bread and river chubs. You do not look at all as you did before you went to the fishery; and all the hands on the plantation have had as many chubs and other river fish as they could eat, as well as you, and yet they are as poor as snakes in comparison with you. Come, tell the truth, let us know where you get the meat that you have been eating, and you shall not be whipped." I begged the overseer and the other gentlemen not to ridicule or make sport of me, because I was a poor slave, and was obliged to live on bread and fresh water fish; and concluded this second harangue by expressing my thankfulness to God Almighty, for giving me such good health and strength as to enable me to do my work, and look so well as I did upon such poor fare; adding, that if I only had as much bacon as I could eat, they would soon see a man of a different appearance from that which I now exhibited. "None of your palaver," rejoined the overseer--"Why, I smell the meat in you this moment. Do I not see the grease as it runs out of your face?" I was by this time in a profuse sweat, caused by the anxiety of my feelings, and simply said, "Master sees me sweat, I suppose." All the gentlemen present then declared, with one accord, that I must have been living on meat for a long time, as no negro, who had no meat to eat, could look as I did; and one of the company advised the overseer to whip me, and compel me to confess the truth. I have no doubt but this advice would have been practically followed, had it not been for a happy though dangerous suggestion of my own mind, at this moment. It was no other than a proposal on my part, that I should be taken to the landing, and if all the people there did not look as well and as much like meat-eaters as I did, then I would agree to be whipped in any way the gentlemen should deem expedient. This offer on my part was instantly accepted by the gentlemen, and it was agreed among them that they would all go to the landing with the overseer, partly for the purpose of seeing me condemned by the judgment to which I had voluntarily chosen to submit myself, and partly for the purpose of seeing my master's new fishery. We were quickly at the landing, though four miles distant; and I now felt confident that I should escape the dangers that beset me, provided the master of the fishery did not betray his own negligence and lead himself, as well as others, into new troubles. Though on foot, I was at the landing as soon as the gentlemen, and was first to announce to the master the feats we had performed in the course of the day, adding, with great emphasis, and even confidence in my manner, "You know, master fish-master, whether we have had any meat to eat here or not. If we had meat here, would not you see it? You have been up with us every night, and know that we have not been allowed to take even shad, let alone having meat to eat." The fish-master supported me in all I said; declared we had been good boys--had worked night and day, of his certain knowledge, as he had been with us all night and every night since we began to fish. That he had not allowed us to eat anything but fresh water fish, and the heads and roes of the shad that were salted at the landing. As to meat, he said he was willing to be qualified on a cart-load of Testaments that there had not been a pound at the landing since the commencement of the season, except that which he had in his own cabin. I had now acquired confidence, and desired the gentlemen to look at Nero and the other hands, all of whom has as much the appearance of bacon eaters as myself. This was the truth, especially with regard to one of the men, who was much fatter than I was. The gentlemen now began to doubt the evidence of their own senses, which they had held infallible heretofore. I showed the fine fish that we had to eat; cat, perch, mullets, and especially two large pikes, that had been caught to-day, and assured them that upon such fare as this, men must needs get fat. I now perceived that victory was with me for once. All the gentlemen faltered, hesitated, and began to talk of other affairs, except the overseer, who still ran about the landing, swearing and scratching his head, and saying it was strange that we were so fat, whilst the hands on the plantation were as lean as sand-hill cranes. He was obliged to give the affair over. He was no longer supported by my young master and his companions, all of whom congratulated themselves upon a discovery so useful and valuable to the planting interest; and all determined to provide, as soon as possible, a proper supply of fresh river fish for their hands. The two bales of cotton were never once named, and, I suppose, were not thought of by the gentlemen, when at the landing; and this was well for Nero; for such was the consternation and terror into which he was thrown by the presence of the gentlemen, and their inquiries concerning our eating of meat, that the sweat rolled off him like rain from the plant _neverwet_; his countenance was wild and haggard, and his knees shook like the wooden spring of a wheat-fan. I believe, that if they had charged him at once with stealing the cotton, he would have confessed the deed. CHAPTER XII. After this the fishing season passed off without anything having happened, worthy of being noticed here. When we left the fishery and returned to the plantation, which was after the middle of April, the corn and cotton had been planted, and the latter had been replanted. I was set to plough, with two mules for my team; and having never been accustomed to ploughing with these animals, I had much trouble with them at first. My master owned more than forty mules, and at this season of the year, they were all at work in the cotton field, used instead of horses for drawing ploughs. Some of the largest were hitched single to a plough; but the smallest were coupled together. On the whole, the fishery had been a losing affair with me; for although I had lived better at the landing than I usually did at the plantation, yet I had been compelled to work all the time, by night and by day, including Sunday, for my master; by which I had lost all that I could have earned for my own benefit, had I been on the plantation. I had now become so well acquainted with the rules of the plantation and the customs of the country where I lived, that I experienced less distress than I did at my first coming to the South. We now received a shad every Sunday evening with our peck of corn. The fish were those that I had caught in the spring, and were tolerably preserved. In addition to all this, each one of the hands now received a pint of vinegar every week. This vinegar was a great comfort to me. As the weather became hot, I gathered lettuce and other salads, from my garden in the woods; which, with the vinegar and bread, furnished me many a cheerful meal. The vinegar had been furnished to us by our master, more out of regard to our health than to our comfort, but it greatly promoted both. The affairs of the plantation now went on quietly, until after the cotton had been ploughed and hoed the first time, after replanting. The working of the cotton crop is not disagreeable labor--no more so than the culture of corn--but we were called upon to perform a kind of labor, than which none can be more toilsome to the body or dangerous to the health. I have elsewhere informed the reader that my master was a cultivator of rice as well as of cotton. Whilst I was at the fishery in the spring, thirty acres of swamp land had been cleared off, ploughed and planted in rice. The water had now been turned off the plants, and the field was to be ploughed and hoed. When we were taken to the rice field, the weather was very hot, and the ground was yet muddy and wet. The ploughs were to be dragged through the wet soil, and the young rice had to be cleaned of weeds, by the hand, and hilled up with the hoe. It is the common opinion, that no stranger can work a week in a rice swamp, at this season of the year, without becoming sick; and all the new hands, three in number, besides myself, were taken ill within the first five days after we had entered this field. The other three were removed to the sick room; but I did not go there, choosing rather to remain at the quarter, where I was my own master, except that the doctor, who called to see me, took a large quantity of blood from my arm, and compelled me to take a dose of some sort of medicine that made me very sick, and caused me to vomit violently. This happened on the second day of my illness, and from this time I recovered slowly, but was not able to go to the field again for more than a week. Here it is but justice to my master to say, that during all the time of my illness, some one came from the great house every day to inquire after me, and to offer me some kind of light and cool refreshment. I might have gone to the sick room at any time, if I had chosen to do so. An opinion generally prevails among the people of both colors, that the drug _copperas_ is very poisonous--and perhaps it may be so, if taken in large quantities--but the circumstance, that it is used in medicine, seems to forbid the notion of its poisonous qualities. I believe copperas was mingled with the potion the doctor gave me. Some overseers keep copperas by them, as a medicine, to be administered to the hands whenever they become sick; but this I take to be a bad practice, for although, in some cases, this drug may be very efficacious, it certainly should be administered by a more skillful hand than that of an overseer. It, however, has the effect of deterring the people from complaining of illness, until they are no longer able to work; for it is the most nauseous and sickening medicine that was ever taken into the stomach. Ignorant, or malicious overseer may, and often do, misapply it, as was the case with our overseer, when he compelled poor Lydia to take a draught of its solution. After the restoration of my health, I resumed my accustomed labor in the field, and continued it without intermission, until I left this plantation. We had this year, as a part of our crop, ten acres of indigo. This plant is worked nearly after the manner of rice, except that it is planted on high and dry ground, whilst the rice is always cultivated in low swamps, where the ground may be inundated with water; but notwithstanding its location on dry ground, the culture of indigo is not less unpleasant than that of rice. When the rice is ripe, and ready for the sickle, it is no longer disagreeable; but when the indigo is ripe and ready to cut, the troubles attendant upon it have only commenced. The indigo plant bears more resemblance to the weed called wild indigo, which is common in the woods of Pennsylvania, than to any other herb with which I am acquainted. The root of the indigo plant is long and slender, and emits a scent somewhat like that of parsley. From the root issues a single stem, straight, hard, and slender, covered with a bark, a little cracked on its surface, of a gray color towards the bottom, green in the middle, reddish at the extremity, and without the appearance of pith in the inside. The leaves ranged in pairs around the stalk, are of an oval form--smooth, soft to the touch, furrowed above, and of a deep green on the under side. The upper parts of the plant are loaded with small flowers, destitute of smell. Each flower changes into a pod, enclosing seed. This plant thrives best in a rich, moist soil. The seeds are black, very small, and sowed in straight drills. This crop requires very careful culture, and must be kept free from every kind of weeds and grass. It ripens within less than three months from the time it is sown. When it begins to flower, the top is cut off, and, as new flowers appear, the plant is again pruned, until the end of the season. Indigo impoverishes land more rapidly than almost any other crop, and the plant must be gathered in with great caution, for fear of shaking off the valuable farina that lies in the leaves. When gathered, it is thrown into the steeping vat--a large tub filled with water--here it undergoes a fermentation, which, in twenty-four hours at farthest, is completed. A cock is then turned to let the water run into the second tub, called the mortar, or pounding tub: the steeping vat is then cleaned out, that fresh plants may be thrown in, and thus the work is continued without interruption. The water in the pounding tub is stirred with wooden buckets, with holes in their bottoms, for several days; and, after the sediment contained in the water has settled to the bottom of the tub, the water is let off, and the sediment, which is the indigo of commerce, is gathered into bags, and hung up to drain. It is afterwards pressed, and laid away to dry in cakes, and then packed in chests for market. Washing at the tubs is exceedingly unpleasant, both on account of the filth and the stench arising from the decomposition of the plants. In the early part of June, our shad, that each one had been used to receive, was withheld from us, and we no longer received any thing but the peck of corn and pint of vinegar. This circumstance, in a community less severely disciplined than ours, might have procured murmurs; but to us it was only announced by the fact of the fish not being distributed to us on Sunday evening. This was considered a fortunate season by our people. There had been no exemplary punishment inflicted amongst us for several months; we had escaped entirely upon the occasion of the stolen bags of cotton, though nothing less was to have been looked for, on that occurrence, than a general whipping of the whole gang. There was more or less of whipping amongst us every week; frequently one was flogged every evening, over and above the punishments that followed on each settlement day; but these chastisements, which seldom exceeded ten or twenty lashes, were of little import. I was careful, for my own part, to conform to all the regulations of the plantation. When I no longer received my fish from the overseer, I found it necessary again to resort to my own expedients for the purpose of procuring something in the shape of animal food, to add to my bread and greens. I had, by this time, become well acquainted with the woods and swamps for several miles round our plantation; and this being the season when the turtles came upon the land, to deposit their eggs, I availed myself of it, and going out one Sunday morning, caught, in the course of the day, by traveling cautiously around the edges of the swamps, ten snapping turtles, four of which were very large. As I caught these creatures, I tied each one with hickory bark, and hung it up to the bough of a tree, so that I could come and carry it home at my leisure. I afterwards carried my turtles home, and put them into a hole that I dug in the ground, four or five feet deep, and secured the sides by driving small pieces of split timber into the ground, quite round the circumference of the hole, the upper ends of the timber standing out above the ground. Into this hole I poured water at pleasure, and kept my turtles until I needed them. On the next Sunday, I again went to the swamps to search for turtles; but as the period of laying their eggs had nearly passed, I had poor success to-day, only taking two turtles of the species called skill-pots--a kind of large terrapin, with a speckled back and red belly. This day, when I was three or four miles from home, in a very solitary part of the swamps, I heard the sound of bells, similar to those which wagoners place on the shoulders of their horses. At first, the noise of bells of this kind, in a place where they were so unexpected, alarmed me, as I could not imagine who or what it was that was causing these bells to ring. I was standing near a pond of water, and listening attentively; I thought the bells were moving in the woods, and coming toward me. I therefore crouched down upon the ground, under cover of a cluster of small bushes that were near me, and lay, not free from disquietude, to await the near approach of these mysterious bells. Sometimes they were quite silent for a minute or more at a time, and then again would jingle quick, but not loud. They were evidently approaching me; and at length I heard footsteps distinctly in the leaves, which lay dry upon the ground. A feeling of horror seized me at this moment, for I now recollected that I was on the verge of the swamp, near which the vultures and carrion crows had mangled the living bodies of the two murderers; and my terror was not abated, when, a moment after, I saw come from behind a large tree the form of a brawny, famished-looking black man, entirely naked, with his hair matted and shaggy, his eyes wild and rolling, and bearing over his head something in the form of an arch, elevated three feet above his hair, beneath the top of which were suspended the bells, three in number, whose sound had first attracted my attention. Upon a closer examination of this frightful figure, I perceived that it wore a collar of iron about its neck, with a large padlock pendant from behind, and carried in its hand a long staff, with an iron spear in one end. The staff, like every thing else belonging to this strange spectre, was black. It slowly approached within ten paces of me, and stood still. The sun was now down, and the early twilight produced by the gloom of the heavy forest, in the midst of which I was, added approaching darkness to heighten my dismay. My heart was in my mouth; all the hairs of my head started from their sockets; I seemed to be rising from my hiding place into the open air in spite of myself, and I gasped for breath. The black apparition moved past me, went to the water and kneeled down. The forest re-echoed with the sound of the bells, and their dreadful peals filled the deepest recesses of the swamps, as their bearer drank the water of the pond, in which I thought I heard his irons hiss, when they came in contact with it. I felt confident that I was now in the immediate presence of an inhabitant of a nether and fiery world, who had been permitted to escape, for a time, from the place of torment, and come to revisit the scenes of his former crimes. I now gave myself up for lost, without other aid than my own, and began to pray aloud to heaven to protect me. At the sound of my voice, the supposed evil one appeared to be scarcely less alarmed than I was. He sprang to his feet, and, at a single bound, rushed middeep into the water, then turning, he besought me in a suppliant and piteous tone of voice, to have mercy upon him, and not carry him back to his master. The suddenness with which we pass from the extreme of one passion, to the utmost bounds of another, is inconceivable, and must be assigned to the catalogue of unknown causes and effects, unless we suppose the human frame to be an involuntary machine, operated upon by surrounding objects which give it different and contrary impulses, as a ball is driven to and fro by the batons of boys, when they play in troops upon a common. I had no sooner heard a human voice than all my fears fled, as a spark that ascends from a heap of burning charcoal, and vanishes to nothing. I at once perceived, that the object that had well nigh deprived me of my reason, so far from having either the will or the power to injure me, was only a poor destitute African negro, still more wretched and helpless than myself. Rising from the bushes, I now advanced to the water side, and desired him to come out without fear, and to be assured that if I could render him any assistance, I would do it most cheerfully. As to carrying him back to his master, I was more ready to ask help to deliver me from my own, than to give aid to any one in forcing him back to his. We now went to a place in the forest, where the ground was, for some distance, clear of trees, and where the light of the sun was yet so strong, that every object could be seen. My new friend now desired me to look at his back, which was seamed and ridged with scars of the whip, and the hickory, from the pole of his neck to the lower extremity of the spine. The natural color of the skin had disappeared, and was succeeded by a streaked and speckled appearance of dusky white and pale flesh-color, scarcely any of the original, black remaining. The skin of this man's back had been again and again cut away by the thong, and renewed by the hand of nature, until it was grown fast to the flesh, and felt hard and turbid. He told me his name was Paul; that he was a native of Congo, in Africa, that he had left an aged mother, a widow, at home, as also a wife and four children; that it had been his misfortune to fall into the hands of a master, who was frequently drunk, and whose temper was so savage, that his chief delight appeared to consist in whipping and torturing his slaves, of whom he owned near twenty; but through some unaccountable caprice, he had contracted a particular dislike against Paul, whose life he now declared to me was insupportable. He had then been wandering in the woods, more than three weeks, with no other subsistence than the land tortoises, frogs, and other reptiles that he had taken in the woods, and along the shores of the ponds, with the aid of his spear. He had not been able to take any of the turtles in the laying season, because the noise of his bells frightened them, and they always escaped to the water before he could catch them. He had found many eggs, which he had eaten raw, having no fire, nor any means of making fire, to cook his food. He had been afraid to travel much in the middle of the day, lest the sound of his bells should be heard by some one, who would make his master acquainted with the place of his concealment. The only periods when he ventured to go in search of food, were early in the morning, before people could have time to leave their homes and reach the swamp: or late in the evening, after those who were in pursuit of him had gone to their dwellings for the night. This man spoke our language imperfectly, but possessed a sound and vigorous understanding, and reasoned with me upon the propriety of destroying a life which was doomed to continual distress. He informed me that he had first run away from his master more than two years ago, after being whipped with long hickory switches until he fainted. That he concealed himself in a swamp, at that time, ten or fifteen miles from this place, for more than six months, but was finally betrayed by a woman whom he sometimes visited; that when taken, he was again whipped until he was not able to stand, and had a heavy block of wood chained to one foot, which he was obliged to drag after him at his daily labor, for more than three months, when he found an old file, with which he cut the irons from his ancle, and again escaped to the woods, but was retaken within little more than a week after his flight, by two men who were looking after their cattle, and came upon him in the woods where he was asleep. On being returned to his master, he was again whipped, and then the iron collar that he now wore, with the iron rod extending from one shoulder over his head to the other, with the bells fastened at the top of the arch, were put upon him. Of these irons he could not divest himself, and wore them constantly from that time to the present. I had no instruments with me to enable me to release Paul from his manacles, and all I could do for him was to desire him to go with me to the place where I had left my terrapins, which I gave to him, together with all the eggs that I had found to-day. I also caused him to lie down, and having furnished myself with a flint-stone, (many of which lay in the sand near the edge of the pond) and a handful of dry moss, I succeeded in striking fire from the iron collar, and made a fire of sticks, upon which he could roast the terrapins and the eggs. It was now quite dark, and I was full two miles from my road, with no path to guide me towards home, but the small traces made in the woods by the cattle. I advised Paul to bear his misfortunes as well as he could, until the next Sunday, when I would return and bring with me a file, and other things necessary to the removal of his fetters. I now set out alone, to make my way home, not without some little feeling of trepidation, as I passed along in the dark shade of the pine trees, and thought of the terrific deeds that had been done in these woods. This was the period of the full moon, which now rose and cast her brilliant rays through the tops of the trees that overhung my way, and enveloped my path in a gloom more cheerless than the obscurity of total darkness. The path I traveled led by sinuosities around the margin of the swamp, and finally ended at the extremity of the cart-road terminating at the spot where David and Hardy had been given alive for food to vultures; and over this ground I was now obliged to pass, unless I chose to turn far to the left, through the pathless forest, and make my way to the high road near the spot where the lady had been torn from her horse. I hated the idea of acknowledging to my own heart, that I was a coward, and dared not look upon the bones of a murderer at midnight; and there was little less of awe attached to the notion of visiting the ground where the ghost of the murdered woman was reported to wander in the moonbeams, than in visiting the scene where diabolical crimes had been visited by fiend-like punishment. My opinion is, that there is no one who is not at times subject to a sensation approaching fear, when placed in situations similar to that in which I found myself this night. I did not believe that those who had passed the dark line, which separates the living from the dead, could again return to the earth, either for good or for evil; but that solemn foreboding of the heart which directs the minds of all men to a contemplation of the just judgment, which a superior, and unknown power, holds in reservation for the deeds of this life, filled my soul with a dread conception of the unutterable woes which a righteous and unerring tribunal must award to the blood-stained spirits of the two men whose lives had been closed in such unspeakable torment by the side of the path I was now treading. The moon had risen high above the trees and shone with a clear and cloudless light; the whole firmament of heaven was radiant with the lustre of a mild and balmy summer evening. Save only the droppings of the early dew from the lofty branches of the trees into the water, which lay in shallow pools on my right, and the light trampling of my own footsteps, the stillness of night pervaded the lonely wastes around me. But there is a deep melancholy in the sound of the heavy drop as it meets the bosom of the wave in a dense forest at night, that revives in the memory the recollection of the days of other years, and fills the heart with sadness. I was now approaching the unhallowed ground where lay the remains of the remorseless and guilty dead, who had gone to their final account, reeking in their sins, unatoned, unblest and unwept. Already I saw the bones, whitened by the rain and bleached in the sun, lying scattered and dispersed, a leg here and an arm there, while a scull with the under jaw in its place, retaining all its teeth, grinned a ghastly laugh, with its front full in the beams of the moon, which, falling into the vacant sockets of the eye-balls, reflected a pale shadow from these deserted caverns, and played in twinkling lustre upon the bald and skinless forehead. In a moment, the night-breeze agitated the leaves of the wood and moaned in dreary sighs through the lofty pine tops; the gale shook the forest in the depth of its solitudes: a cloud swept across the moon, and her light disappeared; a flock of carrion crows disturbed in their roosts, flapped their wings and fluttered over my head; and a wolf, who had been knawing the dry bones, greeted the darkness with a long and dismal howl. I felt the blood chill in my veins, and all my joints shuddered, as if I had been smitten by electricity. At least a minute elapsed before I recovered the power of self-government. I hastened to fly from a place devoted to crime, where an evil genius presided in darkness over a fell assembly of howling wolves, and blood-snuffing vultures. When I arrived at the quarter, all was quiet. The inhabitants of this mock-village were wrapped in forgetfulness; and I stole silently into my little loft and joined my neighbors in their repose. Experience had made me so well acquainted with the dangers that beset the life of a slave, that I determined, as a matter of prudence, to say nothing to any one of the adventures of this Sunday, but went to work on Monday morning, at the summons of the overseer's horn, as if nothing unusual had occurred. In the course of the week I often thought of the forlorn and desponding African, who had so terrified me in the woods, and who seemed so grateful for the succor I gave him. I felt anxious to become better acquainted with this man, who possessed knowledge superior to the common race of slaves, and manifested a moral courage in the conversation that I had with him, worthy of a better fate than that to which fortune had consigned him. On the following Sunday, having provided myself with a large file, which I procured from the blacksmith's shop, belonging to the plantation, I again repaired to the place, at the side of the swamp, where I had first seen the figure of this ill-fated man. I expected that he would be in waiting for me at the appointed place, as I had promised him that I would certainly come again, at this time: but on arriving at the spot where I had left him, I saw no sign of any person. The remains of the fire I had kindled were here, and it seemed that the fire had been kept up for several days, by the quantity of ashes that lay in a heap, surrounded by numerous small brands. The impressions of human feet were thickly disposed around this decayed fire: and the bones of the terrapins that I had given to Paul, as well as the skeletons of many frogs, were scattered upon the ground, but there was nothing that showed that any one had visited this spot, since the fall of the last rain, which I now recollected had taken place on the previous Thursday. From this circumstance I concluded, that Paul had relieved himself of his irons and gone to seek concealment in some other place, or that his master had discovered his retreat and carried him back to the plantation. Whilst standing at the ashes I heard the croaking of ravens at some distance in the woods, and immediately afterwards a turkey-buzzard passed over me pursued by an eagle, coming from the quarter in which I had just heard the ravens. I knew that the eagle never pursued the buzzard for the purpose of preying upon him, but only to compel him to disgorge himself of his own prey for the benefit of the king of birds. I therefore concluded that there was some dead animal in my neighborhood that had called all these ravenous fowls together. It might be that Paul had killed a cow by knocking her down with a pine knot, and that he had removed his residence to this slaughtered animal. Curiosity was aroused in me, and I proceeded to examine the woods. I had not advanced more than two hundred yards when I felt oppressed by a most sickening stench, and saw the trees swarming with birds of prey, buzzards perched upon their branches, ravens sailing amongst their boughs, and clouds of carrion crows flitting about, and poising themselves in the air in a stationary position, after the manner of that most nauseous of all birds, when it perceives, or thinks it perceives, some object of prey. Proceeding onward, I came in view of a large sassafras tree, around the top of which was congregated a cloud of crows, some on the boughs and others on the wing, whilst numerous buzzards were sailing low and nearly skimming the ground. This sassafras tree had many low horizontal branches, attached to one of which I now saw the cause of so vast an assembly of the obscene fowls of the air. The lifeless and putrid body of the unhappy Paul hung suspended by a cord made of twisted hickory bark, passed in the form of a halter round the neck, and firmly bound to a limb of the tree. It was manifest that he had climbed the tree, fastened the cord to the branch, and then sprung off.--The smell that assailed my nostrils was too overwhelming to permit me to remain long in view of the dead body, which was much mangled and torn, though its identity was beyond question, for the iron collar, and the bells with the arch that bore them, were still in their place. The bells had preserved the corpse from being devoured; for whilst I looked at it I observed a crow descend upon it, and make a stroke at the face with its beak, but the motion that this gave to the bells caused them to rattle, and the bird took to flight. Seeing that I could no longer render assistance to Paul, who was now beyond the reach of his master's tyranny, as well as of my pity, I returned without delay to my master's house, and going into the kitchen, related to the household servants that I had found a black man hung in the woods with bells upon him.--This intelligence was soon communicated to my master, who sent for me to come into the house to relate the circumstance to him. I was careful not to tell that I had seen Paul before his death; and when I had finished my narrative, my master observed to a gentleman who was with him, that this was a heavy loss to the owner, and told me to go. The body of Paul was never taken down, but remained hanging where I had seen it until the flesh fell from the bones, or was torn off by the birds. I saw the bones hanging in the sassafras tree more than two months afterwards, and the last time that I was ever in these swamps. CHAPTER XIII. An affair was now in progress, which, though the persons who were actors in it were far removed from me, had in its effects a great influence upon the fortunes of my life. I have informed the reader that my master had three daughters, and that the second of the sisters was deemed a great beauty. The eldest of the three was married about the time of which I now write, to a planter of great wealth, who resided near Columbia; but the second had formed an attachment to a young gentleman whom she had frequently seen at the church attended by my master's family. As this young man, either from want of wealth, or proper persons to introduce him, had never been at my master's house, my young mistress had no opportunity of communicating to him the sentiments she entertained towards him, without violating the rules of modesty in which she had been educated. Before she would attempt any thing which might be deemed a violation of the decorum of her sex, she determined to take a new method of obtaining a husband. She communicated to her father, my master, a knowledge of the whole affair, with a desire that he would invite the gentleman of her choice to his house. This the father resolutely opposed, upon the ground that the young man upon whom his daughter had fixed her heart was without property, and consequently destitute of the means of supporting his daughter in a style suitable to the rank she occupied in society. A woman in love is not easily foiled in her purposes; my young mistress, by continual entreaties, so far prevailed over the affections, or more probably the fears of her father, that he introduced the young man to his family, and about two months afterwards my young mistress was a bride; but it had been agreed amongst all the parties, as I understood, before the marriage, that as the son-in-law had no land or slaves of his own, he should remove with his wife to a large tract of land that my master owned in the new purchase in the State of Georgia. In the month of September, my master came to the quarter one evening, at the time of our return from the field, in company with his son-in-law, and informed me that he had given me, with a number of others of his slaves, to his daughter: and that I, with eight other men and two or three women, must set out on the next Sunday with my new master, for his estate in Georgia, whither we were to go, to clear land, build houses, and make other improvements, necessary for the reception of the newly married lady, in the following spring. I was much pleased with the appearance and manners of my new master, who was a young man apparently about twenty-seven or eight years old, and of good figure. We were to take with us, in our expedition to Georgia, a wagon, to be drawn by six mules, and I was appointed to drive the team. Before we set off my young mistress came in person to the quarter, and told us that all those who were going to the new settlement must come to the house, where she furnished each of us with two full suits of clothes, one of coarse woollen, and the other of hempen cloth. She also gave a hat to each of us, and two pairs of shoes, with a trifle in money, and enjoined us to be good boys and girls, and get things ready for her, and that when she should come to live with us we should not be forgotten. The conduct of this young lady was so different from that which I had been accustomed to witness since I came to Carolina, that I considered myself highly fortunate in becoming her slave, and now congratulated myself with the idea that I should, in future, have a mistress who would treat me kindly, and if I behaved well, would not permit me to want. At the time appointed we set out for Georgia, with all the tools and implements necessary to the prosecution of a new settlement. My young master accompanied us, and traveled slowly for several days to enable me to keep up with him. We continued our march in this order until we reached the Savannah river at the town of Augusta, where my master told me that he was so well satisfied with my conduct, that he intended to leave me with the team to bring on the goods and the women and children; but that he would take the men and push on as fast as possible, to the new settlement, and go to work until the time of my arrival. He gave me directions to follow on and inquire for Morgan county Court House, and said that he would have a person ready there on my arrival to guide me to him and the people with him. He then gave me twenty dollars to buy food for the mules and provisions for myself and those with me, and left me on the high road master of myself and the team. I was resolved that this striking proof of confidence on the part of my master should not be a subject of regret to him, and pursued my route with the greatest diligence, taking care to lay out as little money as possible for such things as I had to buy. On the sixth day, in the morning, I arrived at our new settlement in the middle of a heavy forest of such timber as is common to that country, with three dollars and twenty-five cents in my pocket, part of the money given to me at Augusta. This I offered to return, but my master refused to take it, and told me to keep it for my good conduct. I now felt assured that all my troubles in this world were ended, and that, in future, I might look forward to a life of happiness and ease, for I did not consider labor any hardship, if I was well provided with good food and clothes, and my other wants properly regarded. My master and the people who were with him had, before our arrival with the wagon, put up the logs of two cabins, and were engaged, when we came, in covering one of them with clapboards. In the course of the next day we completed both these cabins, with puncheon floors and small glass windows, the sash and glass for which I had brought in the wagon. We put up two other cabins, and a stable for the mules, and then began to clear land. After a few days my master told me he meant to go down into the settlements to buy provisions for the winter, and that he should leave me to oversee the hands, and carry on the work in his absence. He accordingly left us, taking with him the wagon and two boys, one to drive the team, and another to drive cattle and hogs, which he intended to buy and drive to our settlement. I now felt myself almost proprietor of our new establishment, and believe the men left under my charge did not consider me a very lenient overseer. I in truth compelled them to work very hard, as I did myself. At the end of a week my master returned with a heavy load of meal and bacon, with salt and other things that we needed, and the day following a white man drove to our station several cows and more than twenty hogs, the greater part of which were breeders. At this season of the year neither the hogs nor the cattle required any feeding at our hands. The woods were full of nuts, and the grass was abundant; but we gave salt to our stock, and kept the hogs in a pen two or three days, to accustom them to the place. We now lived very differently from what we did on my old master's plantation. We had as much bacon every day as we could eat, which, together with bread and sweet potatoes, which we had at will, constituted our fare. My master remained with us more than two months; within which time we had cleared forty acres of ground, ready for the plough; but, a few days before Christmas, an event took place, which, in its consequences, destroyed all my prospects of happiness, and totally changed the future path of my life. A messenger one day came to our settlement with a letter, which had been forwarded in this manner, by the postmaster at the Court House, where the post-office was kept. This letter contained intelligence of the sudden death of my old master, and that difficulties had arisen in the family which required the immediate attention of my young one. The letter was written by my mistress. My master forthwith took an account of the stock of provisions and other things that he had on hand, and putting the whole under my charge, gave me directions to attend to the work, and set off on horseback that evening; promising to return within one month at furthest. We never saw him again, and heard nothing of him until late in the month of January, when the eldest son of my late master came to our settlement in company with a strange gentleman. The son of my late master informed me, to my surprise and sorrow, that my young master, who had brought us to Georgia, was dead; and that he and the gentleman with him, were administrators of the deceased, and had come to Georgia for the purpose of letting out on lease, for the period of seven years, our place, with all the people on it, including me. To me, the most distressing part of this news was the death of my young master, and I was still more sorry when I learned that he had been killed in a duel. My young mistress, whose beauty had drawn around her numerous suitors, many of whom were men of base minds and cowardly hearts, had chosen her husband, in the manner I have related, and his former rivals, after his return from Georgia, confederated together, for the dastardly purpose of revenging themselves, of both husband and wife, by the murder of the former. In all parts of the cotton country there are numerous taverns, which answer the double purpose of drinking and gambling houses. These places are kept by men who are willing to abandon all pretensions to the character and standing of gentlemen, for the hope of sordid gain, and are frequented by all classes of planters, though it is not to be understood that all the planters resort to these houses. There are men of high and honorable virtue among the planters, who equally detest the mean cupidity of the men who keep these houses, and the silly wickedness of those who support them. Billiards is the game regarded as the most polite amongst men of education and fashion; but cards, dice and every kind of game, whether of skill or of hazard, are openly played in these sinks of iniquity. So far as my knowledge extends, there is not a single district of ten miles square, in all the cotton region, without at least one of these vile ordinaries, as they are frequently and justly termed. The keeping of these houses is a means of subsistence resorted to by men of desperate reputation, or reckless character, and they invite as guests all the profligate, the drunken, the idle, and the unwary of the surrounding country. In a community where the white man never works, except at the expense of forfeiting all claim to the rank of a gentleman, and where it is beneath the dignity of a man to oversee the labor of his own plantation, the number of those who frequent these gaming houses may be imagined. My young master, fortunately for his own honor, was of those who kept aloof from the precincts of the tavern, unless compelled by necessary business to go there; but the band of conspirators, who had resolved on his destruction, invited him through one of their number, who pretended to wish to treat with him concerning his property, to meet them at an ordinary one evening. Here a quarrel was sought with him, and he was challenged to fight with pistols, over the table around which they sat. My master, who, it appears, was unable to bear the reproach of cowardice, even amongst fools, agreed to fight, and as he had no pistols with him, was presented with a pair belonging to one of the gang; and accepted their owner, as his friend, or second in the business. The result was as might have been expected. My master was killed at the first fire, by a ball which passed through his breast, whilst his antagonist escaped unharmed. A servant was immediately despatched with a letter to my mistress, informing her of the death of her husband. She was awakened in the night to read the letter, the bearer having informed her maid that it was necessary for her to see it immediately. The shock drove her into a feverish delirium, from which she never recovered. At periods, her reason resumed its dominion, but in the summer following, she became a mother, and died in child-bed, of puerperal fever. I obtained this account from the mouth of a black man, who was the traveling servant of the eldest son of my old master, and who was with his master at the time he came to visit the tenant, to whom he let his sister's estate in Georgia. The estate to which I was now attached, was advertised to be rented for the term of seven years, with all the stock of mules, cattle, and so forth, upon it--together with seventeen slaves, six of whom were too young to be able to work at present. The price asked, was one thousand dollars for the first year, and two thousand dollars for each of the six succeeding years; the tenant to be bound to clear thirty acres of land annually. Before the day on which the estate was to be let, by the terms of the advertisement, a man came up from the neighborhood of Savannah, and agreed to take the new plantation, on the terms asked. He was immediately put into possession of the premises, and from this moment, I became his slave for the term of seven years. Fortune had now thrown me into the power of a new master, of whom, when I considered the part of the country from whence he came, which had always been represented to me as distinguished for the cruelty with which slaves were treated in it, I had no reason to expect much that was good. I had indeed, from the moment I saw this new master, and had learned the place of his former residence, made up my mind to prepare myself for a harsh servitude; but as we are often disappointed for the worse, so it sometimes happens, that we are deceived for the better. This man was by no means so bad as I was prepared to find him; and yet, I experienced all the evils in his service, that I had ever apprehended; but I could never find in my heart to entertain a revengeful feeling towards him, for he was as much a slave as I was; and I believe of the two, the greater sufferer. Perhaps the evils he endured himself, made him more compassionate of the sorrows of others; but notwithstanding the injustice that was done me while with him, I could never look upon him as a bad man. At the time he took possession of the estate, he was alone, and did not let us know that he had a wife, until after he had been with us at least two weeks. One day, however, he called us together, and told us that he was going down the country, to bring up his family--that he wished us to go on with the work on the place in the manner he pointed out; and telling the rest of the hands that they must obey my orders, he left us. He was gone full two weeks; and when he returned, I had all the cleared land planted in cotton, corn, and sweet potatoes, and had progressed with the business of the plantation so much to his satisfaction, that he gave me a dollar, with which I bought a pair of new trowsers--my old ones having been worn out in clearing the new land, and burning logs. My master's family, a wife and one child, came with him; and my new mistress soon caused me to regret the death of my former young master, for other reasons than those of affection and esteem. This woman (though she was my mistress, I cannot call her lady,) was the daughter of a very wealthy planter, who resided near Milledgeville, and had several children besides my mistress. My master was a native of North Carolina--had removed to Georgia several years before this--had acquired some property, and was married to my mistress more than two years, when I became his slave for a term of years, as I have stated. I saw many families, and was acquainted with the moral character of many ladies while I lived in the South; but I must, in justice to the country, say that my new mistress was the worst woman I ever saw amongst the southern people. Her temper was as bad as that of a speckled viper; and her language, when she was enraged, was a mere vocabulary of profanity and virulence. My master and mistress brought with them when they came twelve slaves, great and small, seven of whom were able to do field work. We now had on our new place a very respectable force; and my master was a man who understood the means of procuring a good day's work from his hands, as well as any of his neighbors. He was also a man who, when left to pursue his own inclinations, was kind and humane in his temper and conduct towards his people; and if he had possessed courage enough to whip his wife two or three times, as he sometimes whipped his slaves, and to compel her to observe a rule of conduct befitting her sex, I should have had a tolerable time of my servitude with him; and should, in all probability, have been a slave in Georgia until this day. Before my mistress came, we had meat in abundance, for my master had left his keys with me, and I dealt out the provisions to the people. Lest my master should complain of me at his return, or suspect that I had not been faithful to my trust, I had only allowed ourselves (for I fared in common with the others) one meal of meat in each day. We had several cows that supplied us with milk, and a barrel of molasses was among the stores of provisions. We had mush, sweet potatoes, milk, molasses, and sometimes butter for breakfast and supper, and meat for dinner. Had we been permitted to enjoy this fine fare after the arrival of our mistress, and had she been a woman of kindly disposition and lady-like manners, I should have considered myself well off in the world; for I was now living in as good a country as I ever saw, and I much doubt if there is a better one any where. Our mistress gave us a specimen of her character on the first morning after her arrival amongst us, by beating severely, with a raw cow-hide, the black girl who nursed the infant, because the child cried, and could not be kept silent. I perceived by this that my mistress possessed no control over her passions; and that when enraged she would find some victim to pour her fury upon, without regard to justice or mercy. When we were called to dinner to-day, we had no meat, and a very short supply of bread; our meal being composed of badly cooked sweet potatoes, some bread, and a very small quantity of sour milk. From this time our allowance of meat was withdrawn from us altogether, and we had to live upon our bread, potatoes, and the little milk that our mistress permitted us to have. The most vexatious part of the new discipline was the distinction that was made between us, who were on the plantation before our mistress came to it, and the slaves that she brought with her. To these latter, she gave the best part of the sour milk, all the buttermilk, and I believe frequently rations of meat. We were not on our part (I mean us of the old stock) wholly without meat, for our master sometimes gave us a whole flitch of bacon at once; this he had stolen from his own smoke-house--I say stolen, because he took it without the knowledge of my mistress, and always charged us in the most solemn manner not to let her know that we had received it. She was as negligent of the duties of a good housewife, as she was arrogant in assuming the control of things not within the sphere of her domestic duties, and never missed the bacon that our master gave to us, because she had not taken the trouble of examining the state of the meat-house. Obtaining all the meat we ate by stealth, through our master, our supplies were not regular, coming once or twice a week, according to circumstances. However, as I was satisfied of the good intentions of my master towards me, I felt interested in his welfare, and in a short time became warmly attached to him. He fared but little better at the hands of my mistress than I did, except as he ate at the same table with her, he always had enough of comfortable food; but in the matter of ill language, I believe my master and I might safely have put our goods together as a joint stock in trade, without either the one or the other being greatly the loser. I had secured the good opinion of my master, and it was perceivable by any one that he had more confidence in me than in any of his other slaves, and often treated me as the foreman of his people. This aroused the indignation of my mistress, who, with all her ill qualities, retained a sort of selfish esteem for the slaves who had come with her from her father's estate. She seldom saw me without giving me her customary salutation of profanity; and she exceeded all other persons that I have ever known in the quickness and sarcasm of the jibes and jeers with which she seasoned her oaths. To form any fair conception of her volubility and scurrilous wit, it was necessary to hear her, more especially on Sunday morning or a rainy day, when the people were all loitering about the kitchens, which stood close round her dwelling. She treated my master with no more ceremony than she did me. Misery loves company, it is said, and I verily believe that my master and I felt a mutual attachment on account of our mutual sufferings. CHAPTER XIV. The country I now lived in was new, and abounded with every sort of game common to a new settlement. Wages were high, and I could sometimes earn a dollar and a half a day by doing job work on Sunday. The price of a day's work here was a dollar. My master paid me regularly and fairly for all the work I did for him on Sunday, and I never went anywhere else to procure work. All his other hands were treated in the same way. He also gave me an old gun that had seen much hard service, for the stock was quite shattered to pieces, and the lock would not strike fire. I took my gun to a blacksmith in the neighborhood, and he repaired the lock, so that my musket was as sure fire as any piece need be. I found upon trial that though the stock and lock had been worn out, the barrel was none the worse for the service it had undergone. I now, for the first time in my life, became a hunter, in the proper sense of the word; and generally managed my affairs in such a way as to get the half of Saturday to myself. This I did by prevailing on my master to set my task for the week on Monday morning. Saturday was appropriated to hunting, if I was not obliged to work all day, and I soon became pretty expert in the use of my gun. I made salt licks in the woods, to which the deer came at night, and I shot them from a seat of clapboards that was placed on the branches of a tree. Raccoons abounded here, and were of a large size, and fat at all seasons. In the month of April I saw the ground thickly strewed with nuts, the growth of the last year. I now began to live well, notwithstanding the persecution that my mistress still directed against me, and to feel myself, in some measure, an independent man. The temper of my mistress grew worse daily, and to add to my troubles, the health of my master began to decline, and towards the latter part of autumn he told me that already he felt the symptoms of approaching death. This was a source of much anxiety and trouble to me, for I saw clearly, if I ever fell under the unbridled dominion of my mistress, I should regret the worst period of my servitude in South Carolina. I was afraid as winter came on that my master might grow worse and pass away in the spring--for his disease was the consumption of the lungs. We passed this winter in clearing land, after we had secured the crops of cotton and corn, and nothing happened on our plantation to disturb the usual monotony of the life of a slave, except that in the month of January, my master informed me that he intended to go to Savannah for the purpose of purchasing groceries, and such other supplies as might be required on the plantation, in the following season; and that he intended to take down a load of cotton with our wagon and team, and that I must prepare to be the driver. This intelligence was not disagreeable to me, as the trip to Savannah would, in the first place, release me for a short time from the tyranny of my mistress, and in the second, would give me an opportunity of seeing a great deal of strange country. I derived a third advantage, in after times, from this journey, but which did not enter into my estimate of this affair, at that time. My master had not yet erected a cotton-gin on his place--the land not being his own--and we hauled our cotton, in the seed, nearly three miles to be ginned, for which we had to give one-fourth to the owner of the gin. When the time of my departure came, I loaded my wagon with ten bales of cotton, and set out with the same team of six mules that I had driven from South Carolina. Nothing of moment happened to me until the evening of the fourth day, when we were one hundred miles from home. My master stopped to-night (for he traveled with me on his horse) at the house of an old friend of his; and I heard my master, in conversation with this gentleman, (for such he certainly was) give me a very good character, and tell him, that I was the most faithful and trusty negro that he had ever owned. He also said that if he lived to see the expiration of the seven years for which he had leased me, he intended to buy me. He said much more of me; and I thought I heard him tell his friend something about my mistress, but this was spoken in a low tone of voice, and I could not distinctly understand it. When I was going away in the morning with my team, this gentleman came out to the wagon and ordered one of his own slaves to help me to put the harness on my mules. At parting, he told me to stop at his house on my return and stay all night; and said, I should always be welcome to the use of his kitchen, if it should ever be my lot to travel that way again. I mention these trifles to show, that if there are hard and cruel masters in the South, there are also others of a contrary character. The slave-holders are neither more nor less than men, some of whom are good and very many are bad. My master and this gentleman were certainly of the number of the good, but the contrast between them and some others that I have seen, was, unhappily for many of the slaves, very great. I shall, hereafter, refer to this gentleman, at whose house I now was, and shall never name him without honor, nor think of him without gratitude. As I traveled through the country with my team, my chief employment, beyond my duty of a teamster, was to observe the condition of the slaves on the various plantations by which we passed on our journey, and to compare things in Georgia, as I now saw them, with similar things in Carolina, as I had heretofore seen them. There is as much sameness among the various cotton plantations in Georgia, as there is among the various farms in New York or New Jersey. He who has seen one cotton-field has seen all the other cotton-fields, bating the difference that naturally results from good and bad soils, or good and bad culture; but the contrast that prevails in the treatment of the slaves, on different plantations, is very remarkable. We traveled a road that was not well provided with public houses, and we frequently stopped for the night at the private dwellings of the planters, and I observed that my master was received as a visitor, and treated as a friend in the family, whilst I was always left at the road with my wagon, my master supplying me with money to buy food for myself and my mules. It was my practice, when we remained all night at these gentlemen's houses, to go to the kitchen in the evening, after I had fed my mules and eaten my supper, and pass some time in conversation with the black people I might chance to find there. One evening we halted before sundown, and I unhitched my mules at the road, about two hundred yards from the house of a planter, to which my master went to claim hospitality for himself. After I had disposed of my team for the night, and taken my supper, I went as usual to see the people of color in the kitchen, belonging to this plantation. The sun had just set when I reached the kitchen, and soon afterwards, a black boy came in and told the woman, who was the only person in the kitchen when I came to it, that she must go down to the overseer's house. She immediately started, in obedience to this order, and not choosing to remain alone in a strange house, I concluded to follow the woman, and see the other people of this estate. When we reached the house of the overseer, the colored people were coming in from the field, and with them came the overseer, and another man, better dressed than overseers usually are. I stood at some distance from these gentlemen, not thinking it prudent to be too forward amongst strangers. The black people were all called together, and the overseer told them, that some one of them had stolen a fat hog from the pen, carried it to the woods, and there killed and dressed it; that he had that day found the place where the hog had been slaughtered, and that if they did not confess, and tell who the perpetrators of this theft were, they would all be whipped in the severest manner. To this threat, no other reply was made than a universal assertion of the innocence of the accused. They were all then ordered to lie down upon the ground, and expose their backs, to which the overseer applied the thong of his long whip, by turns, until he was weary. It was fortunate for these people, that they were more than twenty in number, which prevented the overseer from inflicting many lashes on any one of them. When the whole number had received, each in turn, a share of the lash, the overseer returned to the man, to whom he had first applied the whip, and told him he was certain that he knew who stole the hog; and that if he did not tell who the thief was, he would whip him all night. He then again applied the whip to the back of this man, until the blood flowed copiously; but the sufferer hid his face in his hands, and said not a word. The other gentleman then asked the overseer if he was confident this man had stolen the pig; and, receiving an affirmative answer, he said he would make the fellow confess the truth, if he would follow his directions. He then asked the overseer if he had ever tried cat-hauling, upon an obstinate negro; and was told that this punishment had been heard of, but never practised on this plantation. A boy was then ordered to get up, run to the house, and bring a cat, which was soon produced. The cat, which was a large gray tom-cat, was then taken by the well-dressed gentleman, and placed upon the bare back of the prostrate black man, near the shoulder, and forcibly dragged by the tail down the back, and along the bare thighs of the sufferer. The cat sunk his rails into the flesh, and tore off pieces of the skin with his teeth. The man roared with the pain of this punishment, and would have rolled along the ground, had he not been held in his place by the force of four other slaves, each one of whom confined a hand or a foot. As soon as the cat was drawn from him, the man said he would tell who stole the hog, and confessed that he and several others, three of whom were then holding him, had stolen the hog--killed, dressed, and eaten it. In return for this confession, the overseer said he should have another touch of the cat, which was again drawn along his back, not as before, from the head downwards, but from below the hips to the head. The man was then permitted to rise, and each of those who had been named by him as a participator in stealing the hog, was compelled to lie down, and have the cat twice drawn along his back; first downwards, and then upwards. After the termination of this punishment, each of the sufferers was washed with salt water, by a black woman, and they were then all dismissed. This was the most excruciating punishment that I ever saw inflicted on black people, and, in my opinion, it is very dangerous; for the claws of the cat are poisonous, and wounds made by them are very subject to inflammation. During all this time, I had remained at the distance of fifty yards from the place of punishment, fearing either to advance or retreat, lest I too might excite the indignation of these sanguinary judges. After the business was over, and my feelings became a little more composed, I thought the voice of the gentleman in good clothes, was familiar to me; but I could not recollect who he was, nor where I had heard his voice, until the gentlemen at length left this place, and went towards the great house, and as they passed me, I recognized in the companion of the overseer, my old master, the negro trader, who had bought me in Maryland, and brought me to Carolina. I afterwards learned from my master that this man had formerly been engaged in the African slave-trade, which he had given up some years before, for the safer and less arduous business of buying negroes in the North, and bringing them to the South, as articles of merchandise, in which he had acquired a very respectable fortune--had lately married in a wealthy family, in this part of the country, and was a great planter. Two days after this, we reached Savannah, where my master sold his cotton, and purchased a wagon load of sugar, molasses, coffee, shoes, dry goods, and such articles as we stood in need of at home; and on the next day after I entered the city, I again left it, and directed my course up the country. In Savannah I saw many black men who were slaves, and who yet acted as freemen so far that they went out to work, where and with whom they pleased, received their own wages, and provided their own subsistence; but were obliged to pay a certain sum at the end of each week to their masters. One of these men told me that he paid six dollars on every Saturday evening to his master; and yet he was comfortably dressed, and appeared to live well. Savannah was a very busy place, and I saw vast quantities of cotton piled up on the wharves, but the appearance of the town itself was not much in favor of the people who lived in it. On my way home I traveled for several days, by a road different from that which we had pursued in coming down; and at the distance of fifty or sixty miles from Savannah, I passed by the largest plantation that I had ever seen. I think I saw at least a thousand acres of cotton in one field, which was all as level as a bowling-green. There were, as I was told, three hundred and fifty hands at work in this field, picking the last of the cotton from the burs; and these were the most miserable looking slaves that I had seen in all my travels. It was now the depth of winter, and although the weather was not cold, yet it was the winter of this climate; and a man who lives on the Savannah river a few years, will find himself almost as much oppressed with cold, in winter there, as he would be in the same season of the year on the banks of the Potomac, if he had always resided there. These people were, as far as I could see, totally without shoes, and there was no such garment as a hat of any kind amongst them. Each person had a coarse blanket, which had holes cut for the arms to pass through, and the top was drawn up round the neck, so as to form a sort of loose frock, tied before with strings. The arms, when the people were at work, were naked, and some of them had very little clothing of any kind besides this blanket frock. The appearance of these people afforded the most conclusive evidence that they were not eaters of pork, and that lent lasted with them throughout the year. I again staid all night, as I went home, with the gentleman whom I have before noticed as the friend of my master, who had left me soon after we quitted Savannah, and I saw him no more until I reached home. Soon after my return from Savannah, an affair of a very melancholy character took place in the neighborhood of my master's plantation. About two miles from our residence lived a gentleman who was a bachelor, and who had for his housekeeper a mulatto woman. The master was a young man, not more than twenty-five years old, and the housekeeper must have been at least forty. She had children grown up, one of whom had been sold by her master, the father of the bachelor, since I lived here, and carried away to the West. This woman had acquired a most unaccountable influence over her young master, who lived with her as his wife, and gave her the entire command of his house, and of every thing about it. Before he came to live where he now did, and whilst he still resided with his father, to whom the woman then belonged, the old gentleman perceiving the attachment of his son to this female, had sold her to a trader, who was on his way to the Mississippi river, in the absence of the young man; but when the latter returned home, and learned what had been done, he immediately set off in pursuit of the purchaser, overtook him somewhere in the Indian territory, and bought the woman of him, at an advanced price. He then brought her back, and put her, as his housekeeper, on the place where he now lived; left his father, and came to reside in person with the woman. On a plantation adjoining that of the gentleman bachelor, lived a planter, who owned a young mulatto man, named Frank, not more than twenty-four or five years old, a very smart as well as handsome fellow.--Frank had become as much enamored of this woman, who was old enough to have been his mother, as her master, the bachelor was; and she returned Frank's attachment, to the prejudice of her owner. Frank was in the practice of visiting his mistress at night, a circumstance of which her master was suspicious; and he forbade Frank from coming to the house. This only heightened the flame that was burning in the bosoms of the lovers; and they resolved, after many and long deliberations, to destroy the master. She projected the plot, and furnished the means for the murder, by taking her master's gun from the place where he usually kept it, and giving it to Frank, who came to the house in the evening, when the gentleman was taking his supper alone. Lucy always waited upon her master at his meals, and knowing his usual place of sitting, had made a hole between two of the logs of the house, towards which she knew his back would be at supper. At a given signal, Frank came quietly up the house, levelled the gun through the hole prepared for him, and discharged a load of buck-shot between the shoulders of the unsuspecting master, who sprang from his seat and fell dead beside the table. This murder was not known in the neighborhood until the next morning, when the woman herself went to a house on an adjoining plantation and told it. The murdered gentleman had several other slaves, none of whom were at home at the time of his death, except one man; and he was so terrified that he was afraid to run and alarm the neighborhood. I knew this man well, and believe he was afraid of the woman and her accomplice. I never had any doubt of his innocence, though he suffered a punishment, upon no other evidence than mere suspicion, far more terrible than any ordinary form of death. As soon as the murder was known to the neighboring gentlemen, they hastened to visit the dead body, and were no less expeditious in instituting inquiries after those who had done the bloody deed. My master was amongst the first who arrived at the house of the deceased; and in a short time, half the slaves of the neighboring plantations were arrested, and brought to the late dwelling of the dead man. For my own part, from the moment I heard of the murder, I had no doubt of its author. Silence is a great virtue when it is dangerous to speak; and I had long since determined never to advance opinions, uncalled for, in controversies between the white people and the slaves. Many witnesses were examined by a justice of the peace, before the coroner arrived, but after the coming of the latter, a jury was called; and more than half a day was spent in asking questions of various black people, without the disclosure of any circumstance, which tended to fix the guilt of the murder upon any one. My master, who was present all this time, at last desired them to examine me, if it was thought that my testimony could be of any service in the matter, as he wished me to go home to attend to my work. I was sworn on the Testament to tell the whole truth; and stated at the commencement of my testimony, that I believed Frank and Lucy to be the murderers, and proceeded to assign the reasons upon which my opinion was founded. Frank had not been present at this examination, and Lucy, who had been sworn, had said she knew nothing of the matter; that at the time her master was shot she had gone into the kitchen for some milk for his supper, and that on hearing the gun, she had come into the room at the moment he fell to the floor and expired; but when she opened the door and looked out, she could neither hear nor see any one. When Frank was brought in and made to touch the dead body, which he was compelled to do, because some said that if he was the murderer, the corpse would bleed at his touch, he trembled so much that I thought he would fall, but no blood issued from the wound of the dead man. This compulsory touching of the dead had, however, in this instance, a much more powerful effect, in the conviction of the criminal, than the flowing of any quantity of blood could have had; for as soon as Frank had withdrawn his hand from the touch of the dead, the coroner asked him, in a peremptory tone, as if conscious of the fact, why he had done this. Frank was so confounded with fear, and overwhelmed by this interrogatory, that he lost all self-possession, and cried out in a voice of despair, that Lucy had made him do it. Lucy, who had left the room when Frank was brought in, was now recalled, and confronted with her partner in guilt, but nothing could wring a word of confession from her. She persisted, that if Frank had murdered her master, he had done it of his own accord, and without her knowledge or advice. Some one now, for the first time, thought of making search for the gun of the dead man, which was not found in the place where he usually had kept it. Frank said he had committed the crime with this gun, which had been placed in his hands by Lucy. Frank, Lucy and Billy, a black man, against whom there was no evidence, nor cause of suspicion, except that he was in the kitchen at the time of the murder, were committed to prison in a new log-house on an adjoining plantation, closely confined in irons, and kept there a little more than two weeks, when they were all tried before some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who held a court for that purpose. Lucy and Frank were condemned to be hung, but Billy was found not guilty; although he was not released, but kept in confinement until the execution of his companions, which took place ten days after the trial. On the morning of the execution, my master told me, and all the rest of the people, that we must go to the _hanging_, as it was termed by him as well as others. The place of punishment was only two miles from my master's residence, and I was there in time to get a good stand, near the gallows' tree, by which I was enabled to see all the proceedings connected with this solemn affair. It was estimated by my master, that there were at least fifteen thousand people present at this scene, more than half of whom were blacks; all the masters, for a great distance round the country, having permitted, or compelled their people to come to this _hanging_. Billy was brought to the gallows with Lucy and Frank, but was permitted to walk beside the cart in which they rode. Under the gallows, after the rope was around her neck, Lucy confessed that the murder had been designed by her in the first place, and that Frank had only perpetrated it at her instance. She said she had at first intended to apply to Billy to assist her in the undertaking, but had afterwards communicated her designs to Frank, who offered to shoot her master, if she would supply him with a gun, and let no other person be in the secret. A long sermon was preached by a white man under the gallows, which was only the limb of a tree, and afterwards an exhortation was delivered by a black man. The two convicts were hung together, and after they were quite dead, a consultation was held among the gentlemen as to the future disposition of Billy, who, having been in the house when his master was murdered, and not having given immediate information of the fact, was held to be guilty of concealing the death, and was accordingly sentenced to receive five hundred lashes. I was in the branches of a tree close by the place where the court was held, and distinctly heard its proceedings and judgment. Some went to the woods to cut hickories, whilst others stripped Billy and tied him to a tree. More than twenty long switches, some of them six or seven feet in length, had been procured, and two men applied the rods at the same time, one standing on each side of the culprit, one of them using his left hand. I had often seen black men whipped, and had always, when the lash was applied with great severity, heard the sufferer cry out and beg for mercy, but in this case, the pain inflicted by the double blows of the hickory was so intense, that Billy never uttered so much as a groan; and I do not believe he breathed for the space of two minutes after he received the first strokes. He shrank his body close to the trunk of the tree, around which his arms and legs were lashed, drew his shoulders up to his head like a dying man, and trembled, or rather shivered, in all his members. The blood flowed from the commencement, and in a few minutes lay in small puddles at the root of the tree. I saw flakes of flesh as long as my finger fall out of the gashes in his back; and I believe he was insensible during all the time that he was receiving the last two hundred lashes. When the whole five hundred lashes had been counted by the person appointed to perform this duty, the half dead body was unbound and laid in the shade of the tree upon which I sat. The gentlemen who had done the whipping, eight or ten in number, being joined by their friends, then came under the tree and drank punch until their dinner was made ready, under a booth of green boughs at a short distance. After dinner, Billy, who had been groaning on the ground where he was laid, was taken up, placed in the cart in which Lucy and Frank had been brought to the gallows, and conveyed to the dwelling of his late master, where he was confined to the house and his bed more than three months, and was never worth much afterwards while I remained in Georgia. Lucy and Frank, after they had been half an hour upon the gallows, were cut down, and suffered to drop into a deep hole that had been dug under them whilst they were suspended. As they fell, so the earth was thrown upon them, and the grave closed over them for ever. They were hung on Thursday, and the vast assemblage of people that had convened to witness their death did not leave the place altogether until the next Monday morning. Wagons, carts, and carriages had been brought upon the ground; booths and tents erected for the convenience and accommodation of the multitude; and the terrible spectacles that I have just described were succeeded by music, dancing, trading in horses, gambling, drinking, fighting, and every other species of amusement and excess to which the southern people are addicted. I had to work in the day-time, but went every night to witness this funeral carnival,--the numbers that joined in which appeared to increase, rather than diminish, during the Friday and Saturday that followed the execution. It was not until Sunday afternoon that the crowd began sensibly to diminish; and on Monday morning, after breakfast time, the last wagons left the ground, now trampled into dust as dry and as light as ashes, and the grave of the murderers was left to the solitude of the woods. Certainly those who were hanged well deserved their punishment; but it was a very arbitrary exercise of power to whip a man until he was insensible, because he did not prevent a murder which was committed without his knowledge; and I could not understand the right of punishing him, because he was so weak or timorous as to refrain from the disclosure of the crime the moment it came to his knowledge. It is necessary for the southern people to be vigilant in guarding the moral condition of their slaves, and even to punish the intention to commit crimes, when that intention can be clearly proved; for such is the natural relation of master and slave, in by far the greater number of cases, that no cordiality of feeling can ever exist between them; and the sentiments that bind together the different members of society in a state of freedom and social equality, being absent, the master must resort to principles of physical restraint, and rules of mental coercion, unknown in another and a different condition of the social compact. It is a mistake to suppose that the southern planters could ever retain their property, or live amongst their slaves, if those slaves were not kept in terror of the punishment that would follow acts of violence and disorder. There is no difference between the feelings of the different races of men, so far as their personal rights are concerned. The black man is as anxious to possess and to enjoy liberty as the white one would be, were he deprived of this inestimable blessing. It is not for me to say that the one is as well qualified for the enjoyment of liberty as the other. Low ignorance, moral degradation of character, and mental depravity, are inseparable companions; and in the breast of an ignorant man, the passions of envy and revenge hold unbridled dominion. It was in the month of April that I witnessed the painful spectacle of two fellow-creatures being launched into the abyss of eternity, and a third, being tortured beyond the sufferings of mere death, not for his crimes, but as a terror to others; and this, not to deter others from the commission of crimes, but to stimulate them to a more active and devoted performance of their duties to their owners. My spirits had not recovered from the depression produced by that scene, in which my feelings had been awakened in the cause of others, when I was called to a nearer and more immediate apprehension of sufferings, which, I now too clearly saw, were in preparation for myself. My master's health became worse continually, and I expected he would not survive this summer. In this, however, I was disappointed; but he was so ill that he was seldom able to come to the field, and paid but little attention to his plantation, or the culture of his crops. He left the care of the cotton field to me after the month of June, and was not again out on the plantation before the following October; when he one day came out on a little Indian pony that he had used as his hackney, before he was so far reduced as to decline the practice of riding. I suffered very much this summer for want of good and substantial provisions, my master being no longer able to supply me, with his usual liberality, from his own meat house. I was obliged to lay out nearly all my other earnings, in the course of the summer, for bacon, to enable me to bear the hardship and toil to which I was exposed. My master often sent for me to come to the house, and talked to me in a very kind manner; and I believe that no hired overseer could have carried on the business more industriously than I did, until the crop was secured the next winter. Soon after my master was in the field, in October, he sent for me to come to him one day, and gave me, on parting, a pretty good great coat of strong drab cloth, almost new, which he said would be of service to me in the coming winter. He also gave me at the same time a pair of boots which he had worn half out, but the legs of which were quite good. This great coat and these boots were afterwards of great service to me. As the winter came on my master grew worse, and though he still continued to walk about the house in good weather, it was manifest that he was approaching the close of his earthly existence. I worked very hard this winter. The crop of cotton was heavy, and we did not get it all out of the field until some time after Christmas, which compelled me to work hard myself, and cause my fellow-slaves to work hard too, in clearing the land that my master was bound to clear every year on this place. He desired me to get as much of the land cleared in time for cotton as I could, and to plant the rest with corn when cleared off. As I was now entrusted with the entire superintendence of the plantation by my master, who never left his house, it became necessary for me to assume the authority of an overseer of my fellow-slaves, and I not unfrequently found it proper to punish them with stripes to compel them to perform their work. At first I felt much repugnance against the use of the hickory, the only instrument with which I punished offenders, but the longer I was accustomed to this practice, the more familiar and less offensive it became to me; and I believe that a few years of perseverance and experience would have made me as inveterate a negro-driver as any in Georgia, though I feel conscious that I never should have become so hardened as to strip a person for the purpose of whipping, nor should I ever have consented to compel people to work without a sufficiency of good food, if I had it in my power to supply them with enough of this first of comforts. In the month of February, my master became so weak, and his cough was so distressing, that he took to his bed, from which he never again departed, save only once, before the time when he was removed to be wrapped in his winding-sheet. In the month of March, two of the brothers of my mistress came to see her, and remained with her until after the death of my master. When they had been with their sister about three weeks, they came to the kitchen one day when I had come in for my dinner, and told me that they were going to whip me. I asked them what they were going to whip me for? to which they replied, that they thought a good whipping would be good for me, and that at any rate, I must prepare to take it. My mistress now joined us, and after swearing at me in the most furious manner, for a space of several minutes, and bestowing upon me a multitude of the coarsest epithets, told me that she had long owed me a whipping, and that I should now get it. She then ordered me to take off my shirt, (the only garment I had on, except a pair of old tow linen trowsers,) and the two brothers backed the command of their sister, the one by presenting a pistol at my breast, and the other by drawing a large club over his head in the attitude of striking me. Resistance was vain, and I was forced to yield. My shirt being off, I was tied by the hands with a stout bed-cord, and being led to a tree, called the Pride of China, that grew in the yard, my hands were drawn by the rope, being passed over a limb, until my feet no longer touched the ground. Being thus suspended in the air by the rope, and my whole weight hanging on my wrists, I was unable to move any part of my person, except my feet and legs. I had never been whipped since I was a boy, and felt the injustice of the present proceeding with the utmost keenness; but neither justice nor my feelings had any influence upon the hearts of my mistress and her brothers, two men as cruel in temper and as savage in manners as herself. The first strokes of the hickory produced a sensation that I can only liken to streams of scalding water, running along my back; but after a hundred or hundred and fifty lashes had been showered upon me, the pain became less acute and piercing, but was succeeded by a dead and painful aching, which seemed to extend to my very backbone. As I hung by the rope, the moving of my legs sometimes caused me to turn round, and soon after they began to beat me I saw the pale and death-like figure of my master standing at the door, when my face was turned toward the house, and heard him, in a faint voice, scarcely louder than a strong breathing, commanding his brothers-in-law to let me go. These commands were disregarded, until I had received full three hundred lashes; and doubtlessly more would have been inflicted upon me, had not my master, with an effort beyond his strength, by the aid of a stick on which he supported himself, made his way to me, and placing his skeleton form beside me as I hung, told his brothers-in-law that if they struck another stroke he would send for a lawyer and have them both prosecuted at law. This interposition stopped the progress of my punishment, and after cutting me down, they carried my master again into the house. I was yet able to walk, and went into the kitchen, whither my mistress followed, and compelled me to submit to be washed in brine by a black woman, who acted as her cook. I was then permitted to put my shirt on, and to go to my bed. This was Saturday, and on the next day, when I awoke late in the morning, I found myself unable to turn over or to rise. I felt too indignant at the barbarity with which I had been treated to call for help from any one, and lay in my bed made of corn husks until after twelve o'clock, when my mistress came to me and asked me how I was. A slave must not manifest feelings of resentment, and I answered with humility, that I was very sore and unable to get up. She then called a man and a woman, who came and raised me up; but I now found that my shirt was as fast to my back as if it had grown there. The blood and bruised flesh having become incorporated with the substance of the linen, it formed only the outer coat of the great scab that covered my back. After I was down stairs, my mistress had me washed in warm water, and warm grease was rubbed over my back and sides, until the shirt was saturated with oil, and becoming soft, was at length separated from my back. My mistress then had my back washed and greased, and put upon me one of my master's old linen shirts. She had become alarmed, and was fearful either that I should die, or would not be able to work again for a long time. As it was, she lost a month of my labor at this time, and in the end, she lost myself, in consequence of this whipping. As soon as I was able to walk, my master sent for me to come to his bed-side, and told me that he was very sorry for what had happened; that it was not his fault, and that if he had been well I should never have been touched. Tears came in his eyes as he talked to me, and said that as he could not live long, he hoped I would continue faithful to him whilst he did live. This I promised to do, for I really loved my master; but I had already determined, that as soon as he was in his grave, I would attempt to escape from Georgia and the cotton country, if my life should be the forfeiture of the attempt. As soon as I had recovered of my wounds, I again went to work, not in my former situation of superintendent of my master's plantation, for this place was now occupied by one of the brothers of my mistress, but in the woods, where my mistress had determined to clear a new field. After this time, I did nothing but grub and clear land, while I remained in Georgia, but I was always making preparations for my departure from that country. My master was an officer of militia, and had a sword which he wore on parade days, and at other times he hung it up in the room where he slept. I conceived an idea that this sword would be of service to me in the long journey that I intended to undertake. One evening, when I had gone in to see my master, and had remained standing at his bed-side some time, he closed his eyes as if going to sleep, and it being twilight, I slipped the sword from the place where it hung, and dropped it out of the window. I knew my master could never need this weapon again, but yet I felt some compunction of conscience at the thought of robbing so good a man. When I left the room, I took up the sword, and afterwards secreted it in a hollow tree in the woods, near the place at which I worked daily. CHAPTER XV. My master died in the month of May, and I followed him to his grave with a heavy heart, for I felt that I had lost the only friend I had in the world, who possessed at once the power and the inclination to protect me against the tyranny and oppression to which slaves on a cotton plantation are subject. Had he lived, I should have remained with him and never have left him, for he had promised to purchase the residue of my time of my owners in Carolina; but when he was gone, I felt the parting of the last tie that bound me to the place where I then was, and my heart yearned for my wife and children, from whom I had now been separated more than four years. I held my life in small estimation, if it was to be worn out under the dominion of my mistress and her brothers, though since the death of my master she had greatly meliorated my condition by giving me frequent allowances of meat and other necessaries. I believe she entertained some vague apprehensions that I might run away, and betake myself to the woods for a living, but I do not think she ever suspected that I would hazard the untried undertaking of attempting to make my way back to Maryland. My purpose was fixed, and now nothing could shake it. I only waited for a proper season of the year to commence my toilsome and dangerous journey. As I must of necessity procure my own subsistence on my march, it behoved me to pay regard to the time at which I took it up. I furnished myself with a fire-box, as it is called, that is, a tin case containing flints, steel and tinder--this I considered indispensable. I took the great coat that my master had given me, and with a coarse needle and thread quilted a scabbard of old cloth in one side of it, in which I could put my sword and carry it with safety. I also procured a small bag of linen that held more than a peck. This bag I filled with the meal of parched corn, grinding the corn after it was parched in the woods where I worked at the mill at night. These operations, except the grinding of the corn, I carried on in a small conical cabin that I had built in the woods. The boots that my master gave me, I had repaired by a Spaniard who lived in the neighborhood, and followed the business of a cobbler. Before the first of August I had all my preparations completed, and had matured them with so much secrecy, that no one in the country, white or black, suspected me of entertaining any extraordinary design. I only waited for the corn to be ripe, and fit to be roasted, which time I had fixed as the period of my departure. I watched the progress of the corn daily, and on the eighth of August I perceived, on examining my mistress' field, that nearly half of the ears were so far grown, that by roasting them, a man could easily subsist himself; and as I knew that this corn had been planted later than the most of the corn in the country, I resolved to take leave of the plantation and its tenants, for ever, on the next day. I had a faithful dog, called Trueman, and this poor animal had been my constant companion for more than four years, without ever showing cowardice or infidelity, but once, and that was when the panther followed us from the woods. I was accordingly anxious to bring my dog with me; but as I knew the success of my undertaking depended on secrecy and silence, I thought it safest to abandon my last friend, and engage in my perilous enterprise alone. On the morning of the ninth I went to work as usual, carrying my dinner with me, and worked diligently at grubbing until about one o'clock in the day. I now sat down and took my last dinner as the slave of my mistress, dividing the contents of my basket with my dog. After I had finished I tied my dog with a rope to a small tree; I set my gun against it, for I thought I should be better without the gun than with it; tied my knapsack with my bag of meal on my shoulders, and then turned to take a last farewell of my poor dog, that stood by the tree to which he was bound, looking wistfully at me. When I approached him, he licked my hands, and then rising on his hind feet and placing his fore paws on my breast, he uttered a long howl, which thrilled through my heart, as if he had said, "My master, do not leave me behind you." I now took to the forest, keeping, as nearly as I could, a North course all the afternoon. Night overtook me before I reached any watercourse, or any other object worthy of being noticed; and I lay down and slept soundly, without kindling a fire or eating any thing. I was awake before day, and as soon as there was light enough to enable me to see my way, I resumed my journey and walked on, until about eight o'clock, when I came to a river, which I knew must be the Appalachie. I sat down on the bank of the river, opened my bag of meal, and made my breakfast of a part of its contents. I used my meal very sparingly, it being the most valuable treasure that I now possessed; though I had in my pocket three Spanish dollars; but in my situation, this money could not avail me any thing, as I was resolved not to show myself to any person, either white or black. After taking my breakfast, I prepared to cross the river, which was here about a hundred yards wide, with a sluggish and deep current. The morning was sultry, and the thickets along the margin of the river teemed with insects and reptiles. By sounding the river with a pole, I found the stream too deep to be waded, and I therefore prepared to swim it. For this purpose I stripped myself, and bound my clothes on the top of my knapsack, and my bag of meal on the top of my clothes; then drawing my knapsack close up to my head. I threw myself into the river. In my youth I had learned to swim in the Patuxent, and have seldom met with any person who was more at ease in deep water than myself. I kept a straight line from the place of my entrance into the Appalachie, to the opposite side, and when I had reached it, stepped on the margin of the land, and turned round to view the place from which I had set out on my aquatic passage; but my eye was arrested by an object nearer to me than the opposite shore. Within twenty feet of me, in the very line that I had pursued in crossing the river, a large alligator was moving in full pursuit of me, with his nose just above the surface, in the position that creature takes when he gives chase to his intended prey in the water. The alligator can swim more than twice as fast as a man, for he can overtake young ducks on the water; and had I been ten seconds longer in the river, I should have been dragged to the bottom, and never again been heard of. Seeing that I had gained the shore, my pursuer turned, made two or three circles in the water close by me, and then disappeared. I received this admonition as a warning of the dangers that I must encounter in my journey to the North. After adjusting my clothes, I again took to the woods, and bore a little to the east of north; it now being my determination to turn down the country, so as to gain the line of the roads by which I had come to the South. I traveled all day in the woods; but a short time before sundown, came within view of an opening in the forest, which I took to be cleared fields, but upon a closer examination, finding no fences or other enclosures around it, I advanced into it and found it to be an open savannah, with a small stream of water creeping slowly through it. At the lower side of the open space were the remains of an old beaver dam, the central part of which had been broken away by the current of the stream at the time of some flood. Around the margin of this former pond, I observed several decayed beaver lodges, and numerous stumps of small trees, that had been cut down for the food or fortifications of this industrious little nation, which had fled at the approach of the white man, and all its people were now, like me, seeking refuge in the deepest solitudes of the forest, from the glance of every human eye. As it was growing late, and I believed I must now be near the settlements, I determined to encamp for the night, beside this old beaver dam. I again took my supper from my bag of meal, and made my bed for the night amongst the canes that grew in the place. This night I slept but little; for it seemed as if all the owls in the country had assembled in my neighborhood to perform a grand musical concert.--Their hooting and chattering commenced soon after dark, and continued until the dawn of day. In all parts of the southern country, the owls are very numerous, especially along the margins of streams, and in the low grounds with which the waters are universally bordered; but since I had been in the country, although I had passed many nights in the woods at all seasons of the year, I had never before heard so clamorous and deafening a chorus of nocturnal music.--With the coming of the morning I arose from my couch, and proceeded warily along the woods, keeping a continual lookout for plantations, and listening attentively to every noise that I heard in the trees, or amongst the canebrakes. When the sun had been up two or three hours, I saw an appearance of blue sky at a distance through the trees, which proved that the forest had been removed from a spot somewhere before me, and at no great distance from me; and, as I cautiously advanced, I heard the voices of people in loud conversation. Sitting down amongst the palmetto plants, that grew around me in great numbers, I soon perceived that the people whose conversation I heard, were coming nearer to me. I now heard the sound of horses' feet, and immediately afterwards saw two men on horseback, with rifles on their shoulders, riding through the woods, and moving on a line that led them past me, at a distance of about fifty or sixty yards.--Perceiving that these men were equipped as hunters, I remained almost breathless for the purpose of hearing their conversation. When they came so near that I could distinguish their words, they were talking of the best place to take a stand for the purpose of seeing the deer; from which I inferred that they had sent men to some other point, for the purpose of rousing the deer with dogs. After they had passed that point of their way that was nearest to me, and were beginning to recede from me, one of them asked the other if he had heard that a negro had run away the day before yesterday, in Morgan county; to which his companion answered in the negative. The first then said he had seen an advertisement at the store, which offered a hundred dollars reward for the runaway, whose name was Charles. The conversation of these horsemen was now interrupted by the cry of hounds, at a distance in the woods, and heightening the speed of their horses, they were soon out of my sight and hearing. Information of the state of the country through which I was traveling, was of the highest value to me; and nothing could more nearly interest me than a knowledge of the fact, that my flight was known to the white people, who resided round about and before me. It was now necessary for me to become doubly vigilant, and to concert with myself measures of the highest moment. The first resolution that I took was, that I would travel no more in the day-time. This was the season of hunting deer, and knowing that the hunters were under the necessity of being as silent as possible in the woods, I saw at a glance that they would be at least as likely to discover me in the forest, before I could see them, as I should be to see them, before I myself could be seen. I was now very hungry, but exceedingly loath to make any further breaches on my bag of meal, except in extreme necessity. Feeling confident that there was a plantation within a few rods of me, I was anxious to have a view of it, in hope that I might find a corn-field upon it, from which I could obtain a supply of roasting ears. Fearful to stand upright, I crept along through the low ground, where I then was, at times raising myself to my knees, for the purpose of obtaining a better view of things about me. In this way I advanced until I came in view of a high fence, and beyond this saw cotton, tall and flourishing, but no sign of corn. I crept up close to the fence, where I found the trunk of a large tree, that had been felled in clearing the field. Standing upon this, and looking over the plantation, I saw the tassels of corn, at the distance of half a mile, growing in a field which was bordered on one side by the wood, in which I stood. It was now nine or ten o'clock in the morning, and as I had slept but little the night before, I crept into the bushes, great numbers of which grew in and about the top of the fallen tree, and, hungry as I was, fell asleep. When I awoke, it appeared to me from the position of the sun, which I had carefully noted before I lay down, to be about one or two o'clock. As this was the time of the day when the heat is most oppressive, and when every one was most likely to be absent from the forest, I again moved, and taking a circuitous route at some distance from the fields, reached the fence opposite the corn-field, without having met anything to alarm me. Having cautiously examined everything around me, as well by the eye as by the ear, and finding all quiet, I ventured to cross the fence and pluck from the standing stalks about a dozen good ears of corn, with which I stole back to the thicket in safety. This corn was of no use to me without fire to roast it; and it was equally dangerous to kindle fire by night as by day, the light at one time and the smoke at another, might betray me to those who I knew were ever ready to pursue and arrest me. "Hunger eats through stone walls," says the proverb, and an empty stomach is a petitioner, whose solicitations cannot be refused, if there is anything to satisfy them with. Having regained the woods in safety, I ventured to go as far as the side of a swamp, which I knew to be at the distance of two or three hundred yards, by the appearance of the timber. When in the swamp, I felt pretty secure, but determined that I would never again attempt to travel in the neighborhood of a plantation in the daytime. When in the swamp a quarter of a mile, I collected some dry wood and lighted it with the aid of my tinder-box, flint, and steel. This was the first fire that I kindled on my journey, and I was careful to burn none but dry wood, to prevent the formation of smoke. Here I roasted my corn, and ate as much of it as I could. After my dinner I lay down and slept for three or four hours. When I awoke, the sun was scarcely visible through the tree-tops. It was evening, and prudence required me to leave the swamp before dark, lest I should not be able to find my way out. Approaching the edge of the swamp, I watched the going down of the sun, and noted the stars as they appeared in the heavens. I had long since learned to distinguish the north-star from all the other small luminaries of the night; and the seven pointers were familiar to me. These heavenly bodies were all the guides I had to direct me on my way, and as soon as the night had set in, I commenced my march through the woods, bearing as nearly due east as I could. I took this course for the purpose of getting down the country as far as the road leading from Augusta to Morgan County, with the intention of pursuing the route by which I had come out from South Carolina; deeming it more safe to travel the high road by night, than to attempt to make my way at random over the country, guided only by the stars. I traveled all night, keeping the north-star on my left hand as nearly as I could, and passing many plantations, taking care to keep at a great distance from the houses. I think I traveled at least twenty-five miles to-night, without passing any road that appeared so wide, or so much beaten as that which I had traveled when I came from South Carolina. This night I passed through a peach orchard, laden with fine ripe fruit, with which I filled my pockets and hat; and before day, in crossing a corn-field, I pulled a supply of roasting-ears, with which and my peaches, I retired at break of day to a large wood, into which I traveled more than a mile before I halted. Here, in the midst of a thicket of high whortleberry bushes, I encamped for the day. I made my breakfast upon roasted corn and peaches, and then lay down and slept, unmolested, until after twelve o'clock, when I awoke and rose up for the purpose of taking a better view of my quarters; but I was scarcely on my feet, when I was attacked by a swarm of hornets, that issued from a large nest that hung on the limb of a tree, within twenty or thirty feet of me. I knew that the best means of making peace with my hostile neighbors, was to lie down with my face to the ground, and this attitude I quickly took, not however before I had been stung by several of my assailants, which kept humming through the air about me for a long time, and prevented me from leaving this spot until after sundown, and after they had retired to rest for the night. I now commenced the attack on my part, and taking a handful of dry leaves, approached the nest, which was full as large as a half bushel, and thrusting the leaves into the hole at the bottom of the nest, through which its tenants passed in and out, secured the whole garrison prisoners in their own citadel. I now cut off the branch upon which the nest hung, and threw it with its contents into my evening fire, over which I roasted a supply of corn for my night's journey. Commencing my march this evening soon after nightfall, I traveled until about one o'clock in the morning, as nearly as I could estimate the time by the appearance of the stars, when I came upon a road which, from its width and beaten appearance, seemed to be the road to Morgan County. After traveling for a day or two near this road, I at last found myself at daybreak one morning in sight of the home of my late master's friend, spoken of in our journey to Savannah. I was desperately hungry, and the idea swayed me to throw myself upon his generosity and beg for food. It seemed to me that this gentleman was too benevolent a man to arrest and send me back to my cruel mistress; and yet how could I expect, or even hope, that a cotton planter would see a runaway slave on his premises, and not cause him to be taken up and sent home? Failing to seize a runaway slave, when he has him in his power, is held to be one of the most dishonorable acts to which a southern planter can subject himself. Nor should the people of the North be surprised at this. Slaves are regarded, in the South, as the most precious of all earthly possessions; and, at the same time, as a precarious and hazardous kind of property, in the enjoyment of which the master is not safe. The planters may well be compared to the inhabitants of a national frontier, which is exposed to the inroads of hostile invading tribes. Where all are in like danger, and subject to like fears, it is expected that all will be governed by like sentiments, and act upon like principles. I stood and looked at the house of this good planter for more than an hour after the sun had risen, and saw all the movements which usually take place on a cotton plantation in the morning. Long before the sun was up, the overseer had proceeded to the field at the head of the hands; the black women who attended to the cattle, and milked the cows, had gone to the cowpen with their pails; and the smoke ascended from the chimney of the kitchen, before the doors of the great house were opened, or any of the members of the family were seen abroad. At length two young ladies opened the door, and stood in the freshness of the morning air. These were soon joined by a brother; and at last I saw the gentleman himself leave the house and walk towards the stables, that stood at some distance from the house on my left. I think even now that it was a foolish resolution that emboldened me to show myself to this gentleman. It was like throwing one's self in the way of a lion who is known sometimes to spare those whom he might destroy; but I resolved to go and meet this planter at his stables, and tell him my whole story. Issuing from the woods, I crossed the fields unperceived by the people at the house, and going directly to the stables, presented myself to their proprietor, as he stood looking at a fine horse in one of the yards. At first he did not know me, and asked me whose man I was. I then asked him if he did not remember me; and named the time when I had been at his house. I then told at once that I was a runaway: that my master was dead, and my mistress so cruel that I could not live with her: not omitting to show the scars on my back, and to give a full account of the manner in which they had been made. The gentleman stood and looked at me more than a minute, without uttering a word, and then said, "I will not betray you, but you must not stay here. It must not be known that you were on this plantation, and that I saw and conversed with you. However, as I suppose you are hungry, you may go to the kitchen and get your breakfast with my house servants." He then set off for the house, and I followed, but turning into the kitchen, as he ordered me, I was soon supplied with a good breakfast of cold meat, warm bread, and as much new buttermilk as I chose to drink. Before I sat down to breakfast, the lady of the house came into the kitchen, with her two daughters, and gave me a dram of peach brandy. I drank this brandy, and was very thankful for it; but I am fully convinced now that it did me much more harm than good; and that this part of the kindness of this most excellent family was altogether misplaced. Whilst I was taking my breakfast, a black man came into the kitchen, and gave me a dollar that he said his master had sent me, at the same time laying on the table before me a package of bread and meat, weighing at least ten pounds, wrapped up in a cloth. On delivering these things, the black man told me that his master desired me to quit his premises as soon as I had finished my breakfast. This injunction I obeyed, and within less than an hour after I entered this truly hospitable house, I quitted it forever, but not without leaving behind me my holiest blessings upon the heads of its inhabitants. It was yet early in the morning when I regained the woods on the opposite side of the plantation from that by which I had entered it. CHAPTER XVI. I could not believe it possible that the white people whom I had just left, would give information of the route I had taken; but as it was possible that all who dwelt on this plantation might not be so pure of heart as were they who possessed it, I thought it prudent to travel some distance in the woods, before I stopped for the day, notwithstanding the risk of moving about in the open light. For the purpose of precluding the possibility of being betrayed, I now determined to quit this road, and travel altogether in the woods or through open fields, for two or three nights, guiding my march by the stars. In pursuance of this resolution, I bore away to the left of the high road, and traveled five or six miles before I stopped, going round all the fields that I saw in my way, and keeping them at a good distance from me. In the afternoon of this day it rained, and I had no other shelter than the boughs and leaves of a large magnolia tree; but this kept me tolerably dry, and as it cleared away in the evening, I was able to continue my journey by starlight. I have no definite idea of the distance that I traveled in the course of this and the two succeeding nights, as I had no road to guide me, and was much perplexed by the plantations and houses, the latter of which I most carefully eschewed; but on the third night after this I encountered a danger, which was very nearly fatal to me. At the time of which I now speak, the moon having changed lately, shone until about eleven o'clock. I had been on my way two or three hours this evening, and all the world seemed to be quiet, when I entered a plantation that lay quite across my way. In passing through these fields, I at last saw the houses, and other improvements, and about a hundred yards from the house, a peach orchard, which I could distinguish by the faint light of the moon. This orchard was but little out of my way, and a quarter of a mile, as nearly as I could judge, from the woods. I resolved to examine these peach trees, and see what fruit was on them. Coming amongst them, I found the fruit of the kind called Indian peaches in Georgia. These Indian peaches are much the largest and finest peaches that I have ever seen, one of them oftentimes being as large as a common quince. I had filled all my pockets, and was filling my handkerchief with this delicious fruit, which is of deep red, when I heard the loud growl of a dog toward the house, the roof of which I could see. I stood as still as a stone, but yet the dog growled on, and at length barked out. I presume he smelled me, for he could not hear me. In a short time I found that the dog was coming towards me, and I then started and ran as fast as I could for the woods. He now barked louder, and was followed by another dog, both making a terrible noise. I was then pretty light of foot, and was already close by the woods when the first dog overtook me. I carried a good stick in my hand, and with this I kept the dogs at bay, until I gained the fence and escaped into the woods; but now I heard the shouts of men encouraging the dogs, both of which were now up with me, and the men were coming as fast as they could. The dogs would not permit me to run, and unless I could make free use of my heels, it was clear that I must be taken in a few minutes. I now thought of my master's sword, which I had not removed from its quilted scabbard, in my great coat, since I commenced my journey. I snatched it from its sheath, and at a single cut laid open the head of the largest and fiercest of the dogs, from his neck to his nose. He gave a loud yell and fell dead on the ground. The other dog, seeing the fate of his companion, leaped the fence, and escaped into the field, where he stopped, and like a cowardly cur, set up a clamorous barking at the enemy he was afraid to look in the face. I thought this no time to wait to ascertain what the men would say when they came to their dead dog, but made the best of my way through the woods, and did not stop to look behind me for more than an hour. In my battle with the dogs, I lost all my peaches, except a few that remained in my pockets; and in running through the woods I tore my clothes very badly, a disaster not easily repaired in my situation; but I had proved the solidity of my own judgment in putting up my sword as a part of my traveling equipage. I now considered it necessary to travel as fast as possible, and get as far as I could before day from the late battle-ground, and certainly I lost no time; but from the occurrences of the next day, I am of opinion that I had not continued in a straight line all night, but that I must have traveled in a circular or zigzag route. When a man is greatly alarmed, and in a strange country, he is not able to note courses, or calculate distances very accurately. Daylight made its appearance, when I was moving to the South, for the daybreak was on my left hand; but I immediately stopped, went into a thicket of low white oak bushes, and lay down to rest myself, for I was very weary, and soon fell asleep, and did not awake until it was ten or eleven o'clock. Before I fell asleep, I noted the course of the rising sun, from the place where I lay, in pursuance of a rule that I had established; for by this means I could tell the time of day at any hour, within a short period of time, by taking the bearing of the sun in the heavens, from where I lay, and then comparing it with the place of his rising. When I awoke to-day, I felt hungry and after eating my breakfast, again lay down, but felt an unusual sense of disquietude and alarm. It seemed to me that this was not a safe place to lie in, although it looked as well as any other spot that I could see. I rose and looked for a more secure retreat, but not seeing any, lay down again--still I was uneasy, and could not lie still. Finally I determined to get up, and remove to the side of a large and long black log, that lay at the distance of seventy or eighty yards from me. I went to the log and lay down by it, placing my bundle under my head, with the intention of going to sleep again, if I could; but I had not been here more than fifteen or twenty minutes, when I heard the noise of men's voices, and soon after the tramping of horses on the ground. I lay with my back to the log in such a position, that I could see the place where I had been in the bushes. I saw two dogs go into this little thicket, and three horsemen rode over the very spot where I had lain when asleep in the morning and immediately horses and voices were at my back around me, and over me. Two horses jumped over the log by the side of which I lay, one about ten feet from my feet, and the other within two yards from my head. The horses both saw me, took fright, and started to run; but fortunately their riders, who were probably looking for me in the tops of the trees, or expecting to see me start before them in the woods, and run for my life, did not see me, and attributed the alarm of their horses to the black appearance of the log, for I heard one of them say--"Our horses are afraid of black logs: I wonder how they would stand the sight of the negro if we should meet him." There must have been in the troop at least twenty horsemen, and the number of dogs was greater than I could count as they ran in the woods. I knew that all these men and dogs were in search of me, and that if they could find me I should be hunted down like a wild beast. The dogs that had gone into the thicket where I had been, fortunately for me had not been trained to hunt negroes in the woods, and were probably brought out for the purpose of being trained.--Doubtless if some of the kept dogs, as they are called of which there were certainly several in this large pack had happened to go into that thicket, instead of those that did go there, my race would soon have been run. I lay still by the side of the log for a long time after the horses, dogs and men had ceased to trouble the woods with their noise; if it can be said that a man lies still who is trembling in every joint, nerve and muscle, like a dog lying upon a cake of ice; and when I arose and turned round, I found myself so completely bereft of understanding, that I could not tell South from North, nor East from West. I could not even distinguish the thicket of bushes, from which I had removed to come to this place, from the other bushes of the woods. I remained here all day, and at night it appeared to me that the sun set in the south-east. After sundown, the moon appeared to my distempered judgment to stand due North from me, and all the stars were out of their places. Fortunately I had sense enough remaining to know that it would not be safe for me to attempt to travel, until my brain had been restored to its ordinary stability; which did not take place until the third morning after my fright. The three days that I passed in this place I reckon the most unhappy of my life; for surely it is the height of human misery to be oppressed with alienation of mind, and to be conscious of the affliction. Distracted as I was, I had determined never to quit this wood, and voluntarily return to slavery; and the joy I felt on the third morning, when I saw the sun rise in his proper place in the heavens; the black log, the thicket of bushes, and all other things resume the positions in which I found them, may be imagined by those who have been saved from apparently hopeless shipwreck on a barren rock in the midst of the ocean, but cannot be described by any but a poetic pen. I spent this day in making short excursions through the woods, for the purpose of ascertaining whether any road was near to me or not; and in the afternoon I came to one, about a mile from my camp, which was broad, and had the appearance of being much traveled. It appeared to me to lead to the North. Awhile before sundown, I brought my bundle to this road, and lay down quietly to await the approach of night. When it was quite dark, except the light of the moon, which was now brilliant, I took to this road, and traveled all night without hearing or seeing any person, and on the succeeding night, about two o'clock in the morning, I came to the margin of a river, so wide that I could not see across it; but the fog was so dense at this time that I could not have seen across a river of very moderate width. I procured a long pole, and sounded the depth of the water, which I found not very deep; but as I could not see the opposite shore, was afraid to attempt to ford the stream. In this dilemma, I turned back from the river, and went more than a mile to gain the covert of a small wood, where I might pass the day in safety, and wait a favorable moment for obtaining a view of the river, preparatory to crossing it. I lay all day in full view of the high road, and saw, at least, a hundred people pass; from which I inferred, that the country was populous about me. In the evening, as soon as it was dark, I left my retreat, and returned to the river side. The atmosphere was now clear, and the river seemed to be at least a quarter of a mile in width; and whilst I was divesting myself of my clothes, preparatory to entering the water, happening to look down the shore I saw a canoe, with its head drawn high on the beach. On reaching the canoe, I found that it was secured to the trunk of a tree by a lock and chain; but after many efforts, I broke the lock and launched the canoe into the river. The paddles had been removed, but with the aid of my sounding-pole, I managed to conduct the canoe across the water. I was now once more in South Carolina, where I knew it was necessary for me to be even more watchful than I had been in Georgia. I do not know where I crossed the Savannah river, but I think it must have been only a few miles above the town of Augusta. After gaining the Carolina shore, I took an observation of the rising moon and of such stars as I was acquainted with, and hastened to get away from the river, from which I knew that heavy fogs rose every night, at this season of the year, obscuring the heavens for many miles on either side. I traveled this night at least twenty miles, and provided myself with a supply of corn, which was now hard, from a field at the side of the road. At daybreak I turned into the woods, and went to the top of a hill on my left, where the ground was overgrown by the species of pine-tree called spruce in the South. I here kindled a fire, and parched corn for my breakfast. In the afternoon of this day the weather became cloudy, and before dark the rain fell copiously, and continued through the night, with the wind high. I took shelter under a large stooping tree that was decayed and hollow on the lower side, and kept me dry until morning. When daylight appeared, I could see that the country around me was well inhabited, and that the forest in which I lay was surrounded by plantations, at the distance of one or two miles from me. I did not consider this a safe position, and waited anxiously for night, to enable me to change my quarters. The weather was foul throughout the day; and when night returned, it was so dark that I could not see a large tree three feet before me. Waiting until the moon rose, I made my way back to the road, but had not proceeded more than two or three miles on my way, when I came to a place where the road forked, and the two roads led away almost at right angles from each other. It was so cloudy that I could not see the place of the moon in the heavens, and I knew not which of these roads to take. To go wrong was worse than to stand still, and I therefore determined to look out for some spot in which I could hide myself, and remain in this neighborhood until the clearing up of the weather. Taking the right hand road, I followed its course until I saw at the distance, as I computed it in the night, of two miles from me a large forest which covered elevated ground. I gained it by the shortest route across some cotton fields. Going several hundred yards into this wood, I attempted to kindle a fire, in which I failed, every combustible substance being wet. This compelled me to pass the night as well as I could amongst the damp bushes and trees that overhung me. When day came, I went farther into the woods, and on the top of the highest ground that I could see, established my camp, by cutting bushes with my knife, and erecting a sort of rude booth. It was now, by my computation, about the twenty-fifth of August, and I remained here eleven days without seeing one clear night; and in all this time the sun never shone for half a day at once. I procured my subsistence while here from a field of corn which I discovered at the distance of a mile and a half from my camp. This was the first time that I was weather-bound, and my patience had been worn out and renewed repeatedly before the return of the clear weather; but one afternoon I perceived the trees to be much agitated by the wind, the clouds appeared high, and were driven with velocity over my head. I saw the clear sky appear in all its beauty in the north-west. Before sundown the wind was high, the sun shone in full splendor, and a few fleecy clouds, careering high in the upper vault of heaven, gave assurance that the rains were over and gone. At nightfall I returned to the forks of the road, and after much observation, finally concluded to follow the right hand road, in which I am satisfied that I committed a great error. Nothing worthy of notice occurred for several days after this. As I was now in a thickly-peopled country, I never moved until long after night, and was cautious never to permit daylight to find me on the road; but I observed that the north-star was always on my left hand. My object was to reach the neighborhood of Columbia, and get upon the road which I had traveled and seen years before in coming to the South; but the road I was now on must have been the great Charleston road, leading down the country, and not across the courses of the rivers. So many people traveled this road, as well by night as by day, that my progress was very slow; and in some of the nights I did not travel more than eight miles. At the end of a week, after leaving the forks, I found myself in a flat, sandy, poor country; and as I had not met with any river on this road, I now concluded that I was on the way to the sea-board instead of Columbia. In my perplexity, I resolved to try to get information concerning the country I was in, by placing myself in some obscure place in the side of the road, and listening to the conversation of travelers as they passed me. For this purpose I chose the corner of a cotton field, around which the road turned, and led along the fence for some distance. Passing the day in the woods among the pine-trees, I came to this corner in the evening, and lying down within the field, waited patiently the coming of travelers, that I might hear their conversation, and endeavor to learn from that which they said, the name at least of some place in this neighborhood. On the first and second evenings that I lay here, I gleaned nothing from the passengers that I thought could be of service to me; but on the third night, about ten o'clock, several wagons drawn by mules passed me, and I heard one of the drivers call to another and tell him that it was sixty miles to Charleston; and that they should be able to reach the river to-morrow. I could not at first imagine what river this could be; but another of the wagoners inquired how far it was to the Edisto, to which it was replied by some one that it was near thirty miles. I now perceived that I had mistaken my course, and was as completely lost as a wild goose in cloudy weather. Not knowing what to do, I retraced the road that had led me to this place for several nights, hoping that something would happen from which I might learn the route to Columbia; but I gained no information that could avail me anything. At length I determined to quit this road altogether, travel by the north-star for two or three weeks, and after that to trust to Providence to guide me to some road that might lead me back to Maryland. Having turned my face due North, I made my way pretty well for the first night; but on the second, the fog was so dense that no stars could be seen. This compelled me to remain in my camp, which I had pitched in a swamp. In this place I remained more than a week, waiting for clear nights; but now the equinoctial storm came on, and raged with a fury which I had never before witnessed in this annual gale; at least it had never before appeared so violent to me, because, perhaps, I had never been exposed to its blasts, without the shelter of a house of some kind. This storm continued four days; and no wolf ever lay closer in his lair, or moved out with more stealthy caution than I did during this time. My subsistence was drawn from a small corn-field at the edge of the swamp in which I lay. After the storm was over, the weather became calm and clear, and I fell into a road which appeared to run nearly north-west. Following the course of this road by short marches, because I was obliged to start late at night and stop before day, I came on the first day, or rather night, of October, by my calendar, to a broad and well-frequented road that crossed mine at nearly right angles. These roads crossed in the middle of a plantation, and I took to the right hand along this great road, and pursued it in the same cautious and slow manner that I had traveled for the last month. When the day came I took refuge in the woods as usual, choosing the highest piece of ground that I could find in the neighborhood. No part of this country was very high, but I thought people who visited these woods, would be less inclined to walk to the tops of the hills, than to keep their course along the low grounds. I had lately crossed many small streams; but on the second night of my journey on this road, came to a narrow but deep river, and after the most careful search, no boat or craft of any kind could be found on my side. A large flat, with two or three canoes, lay on the opposite side, but they were as much out of my reach as if they had never been made. There was no alternative but swimming this stream, and I made the transit in less than three minutes, carrying my packages on my back. I had as yet fallen in with no considerable towns, and whenever I had seen a house near the road, or one of the small hamlets of the South in my way, I had gone round by the woods or fields, so as to avoid the inhabitants; but on the fourth night after swimming the small river, I came in sight of a considerable village, with lights burning and shining through many of the windows. I knew the danger of passing a town, on account of the patrols with which all southern towns are provided, and making a long circuit to the right, so as totally to avoid this village, I came to the banks of a broad river, which, upon further examination, I found flowing past the village, and near its border. This compelled me to go back, and attempt to turn the village on the left, which was performed by wandering a long time in swamps and pine woods. It was break of day when I regained the road beyond the village, and returning to the swamps from which I had first issued, I passed the day under their cover. On the following night, after regaining the road, I soon found myself in a country almost entirely clear of timber, and abounding in fields of cotton and corn. The houses were numerous, and the barking of dogs was incessant. I felt that I was in the midst of dangers, and that I was entering a region very different from those tracts of country through which I had lately passed, where the gloom of the wilderness was only broken by solitary plantations or lonely huts. I had no doubt that I was in the neighborhood of some town, but of its name, and the part of the country in which it was located, I was ignorant. I at length found that I was receding from the woods altogether, and entering a champaign country, in the midst of which I now perceived a town of considerable magnitude, the inhabitants of which were entirely silent, and the town itself presented the appearance of total solitude. The country around was so open, that I despaired of turning so large a place as this was, and again finding the road I traveled, I therefore determined to risk all consequences, and attempt to pass this town under cover of darkness. Keeping straight forward, I came unexpectedly to a broad river, which I now saw running between me and the town. I took it for granted that there must be a ferry at this place, and on examining the shore, found several small boats fastened only with ropes to a large scow. One of these boats I seized, and was quickly on the opposite shore of the river. I entered the village and proceeded to its centre, without seeing so much as a rat in motion. Finding myself in an open space, I stopped to examine the streets, and upon looking at the houses around me, I at once recognized the jail of Columbia, and the tavern in which I had lodged on the night after I was sold. This discovery made me feel almost at home, with my wife and children. I remembered the streets by which I had come from the country to the jail, and was quickly at the extremity of the town, marching towards the residence of the paltry planter, at whose house I had lodged on my way South. It was late at night, when I left Columbia, and it was necessary for me to make all speed, and get as far as possible from that place before day. I ran rather than walked, until the appearance of dawn, when I left the road and took shelter in the pine woods, with which this part of the country abounds. I had now been traveling almost two months, and was still so near the place from which I first departed that I could easily have walked to it in a week, by daylight; but I hoped, that as I was now on a road with which I was acquainted, and in a country through which I had traveled before, that my future progress would be more rapid, and that I should be able to surmount, without difficulty, many of the obstacles that had hitherto embarrassed me so greatly. It was now in my power to avail myself of the knowledge I had formerly acquired of the customs of South Carolina. The patrol are very rigid in the execution of the authority with which they are invested; but I never had much difficulty with these officers anywhere. From dark until ten or eleven o'clock at night, the patrol are watchful, and always traversing the country in quest of negroes, but towards midnight these gentlemen grow cold, or sleepy, or weary, and generally betake themselves to some house, where they can procure a comfortable fire. I now established, as a rule of my future conduct, to remain in my hiding place until after ten o'clock, according to my computation of time; and this night I did not come to the road until I supposed it to be within an hour of midnight, and it was well for me that I practiced so much caution, for when within two or three hundred yards of the road, I heard people conversing. After standing some minutes in the woods, and listening to the voices at the road, the people separated, and a party took each end of the road, and galloped away upon their horses. These people were certainly a band of patrollers, who were watching this road, and had just separated to return home for the night. After the horsemen were quite out of hearing, I came to the road, and walked as fast as I could for hours, and again came into the lane leading to the house, where I had first remained a few days, in Carolina. Turning away from the road I passed through this plantation, near the old cotton-gin house in which I had formerly lodged, and perceived that every thing on this plantation was nearly as it was when I left it. Two or three miles from this place I again left the road, and sought a place of concealment, and from this time until I reached Maryland, I never remained in the road until daylight but once, and I paid dearly then for my temerity. I was now in an open, thickly-peopled country, in comparison with many other tracts through which I had passed; and this circumstance compelled me to observe the greater caution. As nearly as possible, I confined my traveling within the hours of midnight and three o'clock in the morning. Parties of patrollers were heard by me almost every morning before day. These people sometimes moved directly along the roads, but more frequently lay in wait near the side of the road, ready to pounce upon any runaway slave that might chance to pass; but I knew by former experience that they never lay out all night, except in times of apprehended danger; and the country appearing at this time to be quiet, I felt but little apprehension of falling in with these policemen, within my traveling hours. There was now plenty of corn in the fields, and sweet potatoes had not yet been dug. There was no scarcity of provisions with me, and my health was good, and my strength unimpaired. For more than two weeks I pursued the road that had led me from Columbia, believing I was on my way to Camden.--Many small streams crossed my way, but none of them were large enough to oblige me to swim in crossing them. CHAPTER XVII. On the twenty-fourth of October, according to my computation, in a dark night, I came to a river which appeared to be both broad and deep. Sounding its depth with a pole, I found it too deep to be forded, and after the most careful search along the shore, no boat could be discovered. This place appeared altogether strange to me, and I began to fear that I was again lost. Confident that I had never before been where I now found myself, and ignorant of the other side of the stream, I thought it best not to attempt to cross this water until I was better informed of the country through which it flowed. A thick wood bordered the road on my left, and gave me shelter until daylight. Ascending a tree at sunrise that overlooked the stream, which appeared to be more than a mile in width, I perceived on the opposite shore a house, and one large and several small boats in the river. I remained in this tree the greater part of the day, and saw several persons cross the river, some of whom had horses; but in the evening the boats were all taken back to the place at which I had seen them in the morning. The river was so broad that I felt some fear of failing in the attempt to swim it; but seeing no prospect of procuring a boat to transport me, I resolved to attempt the navigation as soon as it was dark. About nine o'clock at night, having equipped myself in the best manner I was able, I undertook this hazardous navigation, and succeeded in gaining the farther shore of the river, in about an hour, with all my things in safety. On the previous day I had noted the bearing of the road, as it led from the river, and in the middle of the night I again resumed my journey, in a state of perplexity bordering upon desperation; for it was now evident that this was not the road by which we had traveled when we came to the southern country, and on which hand to turn to reach the right way I knew not. After traveling five or six miles on this road, and having the north-star in view all the time, I became satisfied that my course lay northwest, and that I was consequently going out of my way; and to heighten my anxiety, I had not tasted any animal food since I crossed the Savannah river--a sensation of hunger harassed me constantly; but fortune, which had been so long adverse to me, and had led me so often astray, had now a little favor in store for me. The leaves were already fallen from some of the more tender trees, and near the road I this night perceived a persimmon tree, well laden with fruit, and whilst gathering the fallen persimmons under the tree, a noise over head arrested my attention. This noise was caused by a large opossum, which was on the tree gathering fruit like myself. With a long stick the animal was brought to the ground, and it proved to be very fat, weighing at least ten pounds. With such a luxury as this in my possession, I could not think of traveling far without tasting it, and accordingly halted about a mile from the persimmon tree, on a rising ground in a thick wood, where I killed my opossum, and took off its skin, a circumstance that I much regretted, for with the skin I took at least a pound of fine fat. Had I possessed the means of scalding my game, and dressing it like a pig, it would have afforded me provision for a week; but as it was, I made a large fire and roasted my prize before it, losing all the oil that ran out in the operation, for want of a dripping-pan to catch it. It was daylight when my meat was ready for the table, and a very sumptuous breakfast it yielded me. Since leaving Columbia, I had followed as nearly as the course of the roads permitted, the index of the north-star; which, I supposed, would lead me on the most direct route to Maryland; but I now became convinced, that this star was leading me away from the line by which I had approached the cotton country. I slept none this day, but passed the whole time, from breakfast until night, in considering the means of regaining my lost way. From the aspect of the country I arrived at the conclusion, that I was not near the sea-coast; for there were no swamps in all this region; the land lay rather high and rolling, and oak timber abounded. At the return of night, I resumed my journey earlier than usual; paying no regard to the roads, but keeping the north-star on my left hand, as nearly as I could. This night I killed a rabbit, which had leaped from the bushes before me, by throwing my walking stick at it. It was roasted at my stopping place in the morning, and was very good. I pursued the same course, keeping the north-star on my left hand for three nights; intending to get as far East as the road leading from Columbia to Richmond, in Virginia; but as my line of march lay almost continually in the woods, I made but little progress; and on the third day, the weather became cloudy, so that I could not see the stars. This again compelled me to lie by, until the return of fair weather. On the second day, after I had stopped this time, the sun shone out bright in the morning, and continued to shed a glorious light during the day; but in the evening, the heavens became overcast with clouds; and the night that followed was so dark, that I did not attempt to travel. This state of the weather continued more than a week; obliging me to remain stationary all this time. These cloudy nights were succeeded by a brisk wind from the north-west, accompanied by fine clear nights, in which I made the best of my way towards the north-east, pursuing my course across the country without regard to roads, forests, or streams of water; crossing many of the latter, none of which were deep, but some of them were extremely muddy. One night I became entangled in a thick and deep swamp; the trees that grew in which, were so tall, and stood so close together, that the interlocking of their boughs, and the deep foliage in which they were clad, prevented me from seeing the stars. Wandering there for several hours, most of the time with mud and water over my knees, and frequently wading in stagnant pools, with deep slimy bottoms, I became totally lost, and was incapable of seeing the least appearance of fast land. At length, giving up all hope of extricating myself from this abyss of mud, water, brambles, and fallen timber, I scrambled on a large tussock, and sat down to await the coming of day, with the intention of going to the nearest high land, as soon as the sun should be up. The nights were now becoming cool, and though I did not see any frost in the swamp where I was in the morning, I have no doubt that hoar frost was seen in the dry and open country. After daylight I found myself as much perplexed as I was at midnight. No shore was to be seen; and in every direction there was the same deep, dreary, black solitude. To add to my misfortune, the morning proved cloudy, and when the sun was up, I could not tell the east from the west. After waiting several hours for a sight of the sun, and failing to obtain it, I set out in search of a running stream of water, intending to strike off at right angles, with the course of the current, and endeavor to reach the dry ground by this means; but after wandering about, through tangled bushes, briars, and vines, clambering over fallen tree-tops, and wading through fens overgrown with saw grass, for two or three hours, I sat down in despair of finding any guide to conduct me from this detestable place. My bag of meal that I took with me at the commencement of my journey was long since gone; and the only provisions that I now possessed were a few grains of parched corn, and near a pint of chestnuts that I had picked up under a tree the day before I entered the swamp. The chestnut-tree was full of nuts, but I was afraid to throw sticks or to shake the tree, lest hunters or other persons hearing the noise, might be drawn to the place. About ten o'clock I sat down under a large cypress tree, upon a decaying log of the same timber, to make my breakfast on a few grains of parched corn. Near me was an open space without trees, but filled with water that seemed to be deep, for no grass grew in it, except a small quantity near the shore. The water was on my left hand, and as I sat cracking my corn, my attention was attracted by the playful gambols of two squirrels that were running and chasing each other on the boughs of some trees near me. Half pleased with the joyous movements of the little animals, and half covetous of their carcasses, to roast and devour them, I paid no attention to a succession of sounds on my left, which I thought proceeded from the movement of frogs at the edge of the water, until the breaking of a stick near me caused me to turn my head, when I discovered that I had other neighbors than spring frogs. A monstrous alligator had left the water, and was crawling over the mud, with his eyes fixed upon me. He was now within fifteen feet of me, and in a moment more, if he had not broken the stick with his weight, I should have become his prey. He could easily have knocked me down with a blow of his tail; and if his jaws had once been closed on a leg or an arm, he would have dragged me into the water, spite of any resistance that I could have made. At the sight of him, I sprang to my feet, and running to the other end of the fallen tree on which I sat, and being there out of danger, had an opportunity of viewing the motions of the alligator at leisure. Finding me out of his reach, he raised his trunk from the ground, elevated his snout, and gave a wistful look, the import of which I well understood; then turning slowly round, he retreated to the water, and sank from my vision. I was much alarmed by this adventure with the alligator, for had I fallen in with this huge reptile in the night time, I should have had no chance of escape from his tusks. The whole day was spent in the swamp, not in traveling from place to place, but in waiting for the sun to shine, to enable me to obtain a knowledge of the various points of the heavens. The day was succeeded by a night of unbroken darkness; and it was late in the evening of the second day before I saw the sun. It being then too late to attempt to extricate myself from the swamp for that day, I was obliged to pass another night in the lodge that I had formed for myself in the thick boughs of a fallen cypress tree, which elevated me several feet from the ground, where I believed the alligator could not reach me if he should come in pursuit of me. On the morning of the third day the sun rose beautifully clear, and at sight of him I set off for the East. It must have been five miles from the place where I lay to the dry land on the East of the swamp; for with all the exertion that fear and hunger compelled me to make, it was two or three o'clock in the afternoon when I reached the shore, after swimming in several places, and suffering the loss of a very valuable part of my clothes, which were torn off by the briars and snags. On coming to high ground I found myself in the woods, and hungry as I was, lay down to await the coming of night, lest some one should see me moving through the forest in daylight. When night came on, I resumed my journey by the stars, which were visible, and marched several miles before coming to a plantation. The first that I came to was a cotton field; and after much search, I found no corn nor grain of any kind on this place, and was compelled to continue on my way. Two or three miles further on I was more fortunate, and found a field of corn which had been gathered from the stalks and thrown in heaps along the ground.--Filling my little bag, which I still kept, with this corn, I retreated a mile or two in the woods, and striking fire, encamped for the purpose of parching and eating it. After despatching my meal, I lay down beside the fire and fell into a sound sleep, from which I did not awake until long after sunrise; but on rising and looking around me, I found that my lodge was within less than a hundred yards of a new house that people were building in the woods, and upon which men were now at work. Dropping instantly to the ground, I crawled away through the woods, until being out of sight of the house, I ventured to rise and escape on my feet. After I lay down in the night, my fire had died away and emitted no smoke; this circumstance saved me. This affair made me more cautious as to my future conduct. Hiding in the woods until night again came on, I continued my course eastward, and some time after midnight came upon a wide, well beaten road, one end of which led, at this place, a little to the left of the north-star, which I could plainly see. Here I deliberated a long time, whether to take this road, or continue my course across the country by the stars; but at last resolved to follow the road, more from a desire to get out of the woods, than from a conviction that it would lead me in the right way. In the course of this night I saw but few plantations, but was so fortunate as to see a ground-hog crossing the road before me. This animal I killed with my stick, and carried it until morning. At the approach of daylight, turning away to the right, I gained the top of an eminence, from which I could see through the woods for some distance around me. Here I kindled a fire and roasted my ground-hog, which afforded me a most grateful repast, after my late fasting and severe toils. According to custom my meal being over, I betook myself to sleep, and did not awake until the afternoon; when descending a few rods down the hill, and standing still to take a survey of the woods around me, I saw, at the distance of half a mile from me, a man moving slowly about in the forest, and apparently watching, like myself, to see if any one was in view. Looking at this man attentively, I saw that he was a black, and that he did not move more than a few rods from the same spot where I first saw him. Curiosity impelled me to know more of the condition of my neighbor; and descending quite to the foot of the hill, I perceived that he had a covert of boughs of trees, under which I saw him pass, and after some time return again from his retreat. Examining the appearance of things carefully, I became satisfied that the stranger was, like myself, a negro slave, and I determined, without more ceremony, to go and speak to him, for I felt no fear of being betrayed by one as badly off in the world as myself. When this man first saw me, at the distance of a hundred yards from him, he manifested great agitation, and at once seemed disposed to run from me; but when I called to him, and told him not to be afraid, he became more assured, and waited for me to come close to him. I found him to be a dark mulatto, small and slender in person, and lame in one leg. He had been well bred, and possessed good manners and fine address. I told him I was traveling, and presumed this was not his dwelling place: upon which he informed me that he was a native of Kent county, in the State of Delaware, and had been brought up as a house-servant by his master, who, on his death-bed, had made his will, and directed him to be set free by his executors, at the age of twenty-five, and that in the meantime he would be hired out as a servant to some person who should treat him well. Soon after the death of his master, the executors hired him to a man in Wilmington, who employed him as a waiter in his house for three or four months, and then took him to a small town called Newport, and sold him to a man who took him immediately to Baltimore, where he was again sold or transferred to another man, who brought him to South Carolina, and sold him to a cotton planter, with whom he had lived more than two years, and had run away three weeks before the time I saw him, with the intention of returning to Delaware. That being lame, and becoming fatigued by traveling, he had stopped here and made this shelter of boughs and bark of trees, under which he had remained more than a week before I met him. He invited me to go into his camp as he termed it, where he had an old skillet, more than a bushel of potatoes, and several fowls, all of which he said he had purloined from the plantations in the neighborhood. This encampment was in a level, open wood, and it appeared surprising to me that its occupant had not been discovered and conveyed back to his master before this time. I told him that I thought he ran great risk of being taken up by remaining here, and advised him to break up his lodge immediately, and pursue his journey, traveling only in the night time. He then proposed to join me, and travel in company with me; but this I declined, because of his lameness and great want of discretion, though I did not assign these reasons to him. I remained with this man two or three hours, and ate dinner of fowls dressed after his rude fashion.--Before leaving him, I pressed upon him the necessity of immediately quitting the position he then occupied, but he said he intended to remain there a few days longer, unless I would take him with me. On quitting my new acquaintance, I thought it prudent to change my place of abode for the residue of this day, and removed along the top of the hill that I occupied at least two miles, and concealed myself in a thicket until night, when returning to the road I had left in the morning, and traveling hard all night, I came to a large stream of water just at the break of day. As it was too late to pass the river with safety this morning at this ford, I went half a mile higher, and swam across the stream in open daylight, at a place where both sides of the water were skirted with woods. I had several large potatoes that had been given to me by the man at his camp in the woods, and these constituted my rations for this day. At the rising and setting of the sun, I took the bearing of the road by the course of the stream that I had crossed, and found that I was traveling to the northwest, instead of the north or northeast, to one of which latter points I wished to direct my march. Having perceived the country in which I now was to be thickly peopled, I remained in my resting place until late at night, when returning to the road and crossing it, I took once more to the woods, with the stars for my guides, and steered for the northeast. This was a fortunate night for me in all respects. The atmosphere was clear, the ground was high, dry, and free from thickets. In the course of the night I passed several corn fields, with the corn still remaining in them, and passed a potato lot, in which large quantities of fine potatoes were dug out of the ground and lay in heaps covered with vines; but my most signal good luck occurred just before day, when passing under a dog-wood tree, and hearing a noise in the branches above me, I looked up and saw a large opossum amongst the berries that hung upon the boughs. The game was quickly shaken down, and turned out as fat as a well-fed pig, and as heavy as a full-grown raccoon. My attention was now turned to searching for a place in which I could secrete myself for the day, and dress my provisions in quietness. This day was clear and beautiful until the afternoon, when the air became damp, and the heavens were overhung with clouds. The night that followed was dark as pitch, compelling me to remain in my camp all night. The next day brought with it a terrible storm of rain and wind, that continued with but little intermission, more than twenty-four hours, and the sun was not again visible until the third day; nor was there a clear night for more than a week. During all this time I lay in my camp, and subsisted upon the provisions that I had brought with me to this place. The corn and potatoes looked so tempting, when I saw them in the fields, that I had taken more than I should have consumed, had not the bad weather compelled me to remain at this spot; but it was well for me, for this time, that I had taken more than I could eat in one or two days. At the end of the cloudy weather, I felt much refreshed and strengthened, and resumed my journey in high spirits, although I now began to feel the want of shoes--those which I wore when I left my mistress having long since been worn out, and my boots were wrap straps of hickory bark about my feet to keep the leather from separating, and falling to pieces. It was now, by my computation, the month of November, and I was yet in the State of South Carolina. I began to consider with myself, whether I had gained or lost, by attempting to travel on the roads; and, after revolving in my mind all the disasters that had befallen me, determined to abandon the roads altogether, for two reasons: the first of which was, that on the highways I was constantly liable to meet persons, or to be overtaken by them; and a second, no less powerful, was, that as I did not know what roads to pursue, I was oftener traveling on the wrong route than on the right one. Setting my face once more for the north-star, I advanced with a steady, though slow pace, for four or five nights, when I was again delayed by dark weather, and forced to remain in idleness nearly two weeks; and when the weather again became clear, I was arrested on the second night by a broad and rapid river, that appeared so formidable that I did not dare to attempt its passage until after examining it in daylight. On the succeeding night, however, I crossed it by swimming--resting at some large rocks near the middle. After gaining the north side of this river, which I believed to be the Catawba, I considered myself in North Carolina, and again steered towards the North. CHAPTER XVIII. The month of November is, in all years, a season of clouds and vapors; but at the time of which I write, the good weather vanished early in the month, and all the clouds of the universe seemed to have collected in North Carolina. From the second night after crossing the Catawba, I did not see the north-star for the space of three weeks; and during all this time, no progress was made in my journey; although I seldom remained two days in the same place, but moved from one position to another, for the purpose of eluding the observation of the people of the country, whose attention might have been attracted by the continual appearance of the smoke of my fires in one place. There had, as yet, been no hard frost, and the leaves were still on the oak trees, at the close of this cloudy weather; but the northwest wind which dispelled the mist, also brought down nearly all the leaves of the forest, except those of the evergreen trees; and the nights now became clear, and the air keen with frost. Hitherto the oak woods had afforded me the safest shelter, but now I was obliged to seek for groves of young pines to retire to at dawn. Heretofore I had found a plentiful subsistence in every corn-field and potato-lot, that fell in my way; but now began to find some of the fields in which corn had grown, destitute of the corn, and containing nothing but the stalks. The potatoes had all been taken out of the lots where they grew, except in some few instances where they had been buried in the field; and the means of subsistence became every day more difficult to be obtained; but as I had fine weather, I made the best use of those hours in which I dared to travel, and was constantly moving from a short time after dark until daylight. The toil that I underwent for the first half of the month of December was excessive, and my sufferings for want of food were great. I was obliged to carry with me a stock of corn, sufficient to supply me for two or three days, for it frequently happened that I met with none in the fields for a long time. In the course of this period I crossed innumerable streams, the greater portion of which were of small size, but some were of considerable magnitude; and in all of them the water had become almost as cold as ice. Sometimes I was fortunate enough to find boats or canoes tied at the side of the streams, and when this happened, I always made free use of that which no one else was using at the time; but this did not occur often, and I believe that in these two weeks I swam over nine rivers, or streams, so deep that I could not ford them. The number of creeks and rivulets through which I waded was far greater, but I cannot now fix the number. In one of these fine nights, passing near the house of a planter, I saw several dry hides hanging on poles under a shed. One of these hides I appropriated to myself, for the purpose of converting it into moccasins, to supply the place of my boots, which were totally worthless. By beating the dry hide with a stick it was made sufficiently pliable to bear making it into moccasins; of which I made for myself three pair, wearing one, and carrying the others on my back. One day as I lay in a pine thicket, several pigs which appeared to be wild, having no marks on their ears, came near me, and one of them approached so close without seeing me, that I knocked it down with a stone, and succeeded in killing it. This pig was very fat, and would have weighed thirty if not forty pounds. Feeling now greatly exhausted with the fatigues that I had lately undergone, and being in a very great forest, far removed from white inhabitants, I resolved to remain a few days in this place, to regale myself with the flesh of the pig, which I preserved by hanging it up in the shade, after cutting it into pieces. Fortune, so adverse to me heretofore, seemed to have been more kind to me at this time, for the very night succeeding the day on which I killed the pig, a storm of hail, snow, and sleet, came on, and continued fifteen or sixteen hours. The snow lay on the ground four inches in depth, and the whole country was covered with a crust almost hard enough to bear a man. In this state of the weather I could not travel, and my stock of pork was invaluable to me. The pork was frozen where it hung on the branches of the trees, and was as well preserved as if it had been buried in snow; but on the fourth day after the snow fell, the atmosphere underwent a great change. The wind blew from the South, the snow melted away, the air became warm, and the sun shone with the brightness, and almost with the warmth of Spring. It was manifest that my pork, which was now soft and oily, would not long be in a sound state. If I remained here, my provisions would become putrid on my hands in a short time, and compel me to quit my residence to avoid the atmosphere of the place. I resolved to pursue my journey, and prepared myself, by roasting before the fire, all my pork that was left, wrapping it up carefully in green pine leaves, and enveloping the whole in a sort of close basket, that I made of small boughs of trees. Equipping myself for my journey with my meat in my knapsack, I again took to the woods, with the stars for my guide, keeping the north-star over my left eye. The weather had now become exceedingly variable, and I was seldom able to travel more than half of the night. The fields were muddy, the low grounds in the woods were wet, and often covered with water, through which I was obliged to wade--the air was damp and cold by day, the nights were frosty, very often covering the water with ice an inch in thickness. From the great degree of cold that prevailed, I inferred, either that I was pretty far North, or that I had advanced too much to the left, and was approaching the mountain country. To satisfy myself as far as possible of my situation, one fair day, when the sky was very clear, I climbed to the top of a pine tree that stood on the summit of a hill, and took a wide survey of the region around me. Eastward, I saw nothing but a vast continuation of plantations, intervened by forests; on the South, the faint beams of a winter sun shed a soft lustre over the woods, which were dotted at remote distances, with the habitations of men, and the openings that they had made in the green champaign of the endless pine-groves, that nature had planted in the direction of the midday sun. On the North, at a great distance, I saw a tract of low and flat country, which in my opinion was the vale of some great river, and beyond this, at the farthest stretch of vision, the eye was lost in the blue transparent vault, where the extremity of the arch of the world touches the abode of perpetual winter.--Turning westward, the view passed beyond the region of pine trees, which was followed afar off by naked and leafless oaks, hickories, and walnuts; and still beyond these rose high in air, elevated tracts of country, clad in the white livery of snow, and bearing the impress of mid-winter. It was now apparent that I had borne too far westward, and was within a few days' travel of the mountains. Descending from my observations, I determined on the return of night to shape my course, for the future, nearly due East, until I should at least be out of the mountains. According to my calendar, it was the day before Christmas that I ascended the pine-tree; and I believe I was at that time in the north-western part of North Carolina, not far from the banks of the Yadkin river. On the following night I traveled from dark until, as I supposed, about three or four o'clock in the morning, when I came to a road which led as I thought in an easterly direction. This road I traveled until daylight, and encamped near it in an old field, overgrown with young pines and holly-trees. This was Christmas-day, and I celebrated it by breakfasting on fat pork, without salt, and substituted parched corn for bread. In the evening, the weather became cloudy and cold, and when night came it was so dark that I found difficulty in keeping in the road, at some points where it made short angles. Before midnight it began to snow, and at break of day the snow lay more than a foot deep. This compelled me to seek winter quarters; and fortunately, at about half a mile from the road, I found, on the side of a steep hill, a shelving rock that formed a dry covert, with a southern prospect. Under this rock I took refuge, and kindling a fire of dry sticks, considered myself happy to possess a few pounds of my roasted pork, and more than half a gallon of corn that I carried in my pockets. The snow continued falling, until it was full two feet deep around me, and the danger of exposing myself to discovery by my tracks in the snow, compelled me to keep close to my hiding place until the third day, when I ventured to go back to the road, which I found broken by the passage of numerous wagons, sleds and horses, and so much beaten that I could travel it with ease at night, the snow affording good light. Accordingly at night I again advanced on my way, which indeed I was obliged to do, for my corn was quite gone, and not more than a pound of my pork remained to me. I traveled hard through the night, and after the morning star rose; came to a river; which I think must have been the Yadkin. It appeared to be about two hundred yards wide, and the water ran with great rapidity in it. Waiting until the eastern horizon was tinged with the first rays of the morning light, I entered the river at the ford, and waded until the water was nearly three feet deep, when it felt as if it was cutting the flesh from the bones of my limbs, and a large cake of ice floating downward, forced me off my balance, and I was near falling. My courage failed me, and I returned to the shore; but found the pain that already tormented me greatly increased, when I was out of the water, and exposed to the action of the open air. Returning to the river, I plunged into the current to relieve me from the pinching frost, that gnawed every part of my skin that had become wet; and rushing forward as fast as the weight of the water, that pressed me downward, would permit, was soon up to my chin in melted ice, when rising to the surface, I exerted my utmost strength and skill to gain the opposite shore by swimming in the shortest space of time. At every stroke of my arms and legs, they were cut and bruised by cakes of solid ice, or weighed down by floating masses of congealed snow. It is impossible for human life to be long sustained in such an element as that which encompassed me; and I had not been afloat five minutes before I felt chilled in all my members, and in less than the double of that time, my limbs felt numbed, and my hands became stiff, and almost powerless. When at the distance of thirty feet from the shore, my body was struck by a violent current, produced by a projecting rock above me, and driven with resistless violence down the stream. Wholly unable to contend with the fury of the waves, and penetrated by the coldness of death, in my inmost vitals, I gave myself up for lost, and was commending my soul to God, whom I expected to be my immediate Judge, when I perceived the long hanging branch of a large tree, sweeping to and fro, and undulating backward and forward, as its extremities were washed by the surging current of the river, just below me. In a moment I was in contact with the tree, and making the effort of despair, seized one of its limbs. Bowed down by the weight of my body, the branch yielded to the power of the water, which rushing against my person, swept me round like the quadrant of a circle, and dashed me against the shore, where clinging to some roots that grew near the bank, the limb of the tree left me, and springing with elastic force to its former position, again dipped its slender branches in the mad stream. Crawling out of the water, and being once more on dry land, I found my circumstances little less desperate than when I was struggling with the floating ice.--The morning was frosty, and icicles hung in long pendant groups from the trees along the shore of the river and the hoar frost glistened in sparkling radiance upon the polished surface of the smooth snow, as it whitened all the plain before me, and spread its chill but beautiful covering through the woods. There were three alternatives before me, one of which I knew must quickly be adopted. The one was to obtain a fire, by which I could dry and warm my stiffened limbs; the second was to die, without the fire; the third, to go to the first house, if I could reach one, and surrender myself as a runaway slave. Staggering, rather than walking forward, until I gained the cover of a wood, at a short distance from the river, I turned into it, and found that a field bordered the wood within less than twenty rods of the road. Within a few yards of this fence I stopped, and taking out my fire apparatus, to my unspeakable joy found them dry and in perfect safety. With the aid of my punk, and some dry moss gathered from the fence, a small flame was obtained, to which dry leaves being added from the boughs of a white oak tree, that had fallen before the frost of the last autumn had commenced, I soon had fire of sufficient intensity to consume dry wood, with which I supplied it, partly from the fence and partly from the branches of the fallen tree. Having raked away the snow from about the fire, by the time the sun was up, my frozen clothes were smoking before the coals--warming first one side and then the other--I felt the glow of returning life once more invigorating my blood, and giving animation to my frozen limbs. The public road was near me on one hand, and an enclosed field was before me on the other, but in my present condition it was impossible for me to leave this place to-day, without danger of perishing in the woods, or of being arrested on the road. As evening came on, the air became much colder than it was in the forenoon, and after night the wind rose high and blew from the northwest, with intense keenness. My limbs were yet stiff from the effects of my morning adventure, and to complete my distress I was totally without provisions, having left a few ears of corn, that I had in my pocket, on the other side of the river. Leaving my fire in the night, and advancing into the field near me, I discovered a house at some distance, and as there was no light, or sign of fire about it, I determined to reconnoitre the premises, which turned out to be a small barn, standing alone, with no other inhabitants about it than a few cattle and a flock of sheep. After much trouble, I succeeded in entering the barn by starting the nails that confined one of the boards at the corner. Entering the house I found it nearly filled with corn, in the husks, and some from which the husks had been removed, was lying in a heap in one corner. Into these husks I crawled, and covering myself deeply under them, soon became warm, and fell into a profound sleep, from which I was awakened by the noise of people walking about in the barn and talking of the cattle and sheep, which it appeared they had come to feed, for they soon commenced working in the corn husks with which I was covered, and throwing them out to the cattle. I expected at every moment that they would uncover me; but fortunately before they saw me, they ceased their operations, and went to work, some husking corn, and throwing the husks on the pile over me, while others were employed in loading the husked corn into carts, as I learned by their conversation, and hauling it away to the house. The people continued working in the barn all day, and in the evening gave more husks to the cattle and went home. Waiting two or three hours after my visiters were gone, I rose from the pile of husks, and filling my pockets with ears of corn, issued from the barn at the same place by which I had entered it, and returned to the woods, where I kindled a fire in a pine thicket, and parched more than half a gallon of corn. Before day I returned to the barn, and again secreted myself in the corn husks. In the morning the people again returned to their work, and husked corn until the evening. At night I again repaired to the woods, and parched more corn. In this manner I passed more than a month, lying in the barn all day, and going to the woods at night; but at length the corn was all husked, and I watched daily the progress that was made in feeding the cattle with the husks, knowing that I must quit my winter retreat before the husks were exhausted. Before the husked corn was removed from the barn, I had conveyed several bushels of the ears into the husks, near my bed, and concealed them for my winter's stock. Whilst I lay in this barn there were frequent and great changes of weather. The snow that covered the earth to the depth of two feet when I came here, did not remain more than ten days, and was succeeded by more than a week of warm rainy weather, which was in turn succeeded by several days of dry weather, with cold high winds from the North. The month of February was cloudy and damp, with several squalls of snow and frequent rains. About the first of March, the atmosphere became clear and dry, and the winds boisterous from the West. On the third of this month, having filled my little bag and all my pockets with parched corn, I quitted my winter quarters about ten o'clock at night, and again proceeded on my way to the North, leaving a large heap of corn husks still lying in the corner of the barn. On leaving this place, I again pursued the road that had led me to it for several nights; crossing many small streams in my way, all of which I was able to pass without swimming, though several of them were so deep that they wet me as high as my arm-pits.--This road led nearly northeast, and was the only road that I had fallen in with, since I left Georgia, that had maintained that direction for so great a distance. Nothing extraordinary befell me until the twelfth of March, when venturing to turn out earlier than usual in the evening, and proceeding along the road, I found that my way led me down a hill, along the side of which the road had been cut into the earth ten or twelve feet in depth, having steep banks on each side, which were now so damp and slippery that it was impossible for a man to ascend either the one or the other. Whilst in this narrow place, I heard the sound of horses proceeding up the hill to meet me. Stopping to listen, in a moment almost two horsemen were close before me, trotting up the road. To escape on either hand was impossible, and to retreat backwards would have exposed me to certain destruction. Only one means of salvation was left, and I embraced it. Near the place where I stood, was a deep gully cut in one side of the road, by the water which had run down here in time of rains. Into this gully I threw myself, and lying down close to the ground, the horsemen rode almost over me, and passed on. When they were gone I arose, and descending the hill, found a river before me. In crossing this stream I was compelled to swim at least two hundred yards; and found the cold so oppressive, after coming out of the water, that I was forced to stop at the first thick woods that I could find and make a fire to dry myself. I did not move again until the next night; and on the fourth night after this, came to a great river, which I suppose was the Roanoke. I was obliged to swim this stream, and was carried a great way down by the rapidity of the current. It must have been more than an hour from the time that I entered the water, until I reached the opposite shore, and as the rivers were yet very cold, I suffered greatly at this place. Judging by the aspect of the country, I believed myself to be at this time in Virginia; and was now reduced to the utmost extremity for want of provisions. The corn that I had parched at the barn and brought with me, was nearly exhausted, and no more was to be obtained in the fields at this season of the year. For three or four days I allowed myself only my two hands full of parched corn per day; and after this I traveled three days without tasting food of any kind; but being nearly exhausted with hunger, I one night entered an old stack-yard, hoping that I might fall in with pigs, or poultry of some kind. I found, instead of these, a stack of oats, which had not been threshed. From this stack I took as much oats in the sheaf as I could carry, and going on a few miles, stopped in a pine forest, made a large fire, and parched at least half a gallon of oats, after rubbing the grain from the straw. After the grain was parched, I again rubbed it in my hands, to separate it from the husks, and spent the night in feasting on parched oats. The weather was now becoming quite warm, though the water was cold in the rivers; and I perceived the farmers had everywhere ploughed their fields, preparatory to planting corn. Every night I saw people burning brush in the new grounds that they were clearing of the wood and brush; and when the day came, in the morning after I obtained the oats, I perceived people planting corn in a field about half a mile from my fire. According to my computation of time, it was on the night of the last day of March that I obtained the oats; and the appearance of the country satisfied me that I had not lost many days in my reckoning. I lay in this pine-wood two days, for the purpose of recruiting my strength, after my long fast; and when I again resumed my journey, determined to seek some large road leading towards the North, and follow it in future; the one that I had been pursuing of late, not appearing to be a principal high-way of the country. For this purpose, striking off across the fields, in an easterly direction, I traveled a few hours, and was fortunate enough to come to a great road, which was manifestly much traveled, leading towards the northeast. My bag was now replenished with more than a gallon of parched oats, and I had yet one pair of moccasins made of raw hide; but my shirt was totally gone, and my last pair of trowsers was now in actual service. A tolerable waistcoat still remained to me, and my great coat, though full of honorable scars, was yet capable of much service. Having resolved to pursue the road I was now in, it was necessary again to resort to the utmost degree of caution to prevent surprise. Traveling only after it was dark, and taking care to stop before the appearance of day, my progress was not rapid, but my safety was preserved. The acquisition of food had now become difficult, and when my oats began to fail, I resorted to the dangerous expedient of attacking the corn-crib of a planter that was near the road. The house was built of round logs, and was covered with boards. One of these boards I succeeded in removing, on the side of the crib opposite from the dwelling, and by thrusting my arm downwards, was able to reach the corn--of which I took as much as filled my bag, the pockets of my great coat, and a large handkerchief that I had preserved through all the vicissitudes of my journey. This opportune supply of corn furnished me with food more than a week, and before it was consumed I reached the Appomattox river, which I crossed in a canoe that I found tied at the shore, a few miles above the town of Petersburg. Having approached Petersburg in the night, I was afraid to attempt to pass through it, lest the patrol should fall in with me; and turning to the left through the country, reached the river, and crossed in safety. The great road leading to Richmond is so distinguishingly marked above the other ways in this part of Virginia, that there was no difficulty in following it, and on the third night after passing Petersburg, I obtained a sight of the capitol of Virginia. It was only a little after midnight, when the city presented itself to my sight; but here, as well as at Petersburg, I was afraid to attempt to go through the town, under cover of the darkness, because of the patrol. Turning, therefore, back into a forest, about two miles from the small town on the south-side of the river, I lay there until after twelve o'clock in the day, when loosening the package from my back, and taking it in my hand in the form of a bundle, I advanced into the village, as if I had only come from some plantation in the neighborhood. This was on Sunday, I believe, though according to my computation it was Monday; but it must have been Sunday, for the village was quiet, and in passing it I only saw two or three persons, whom I passed as if I had not seen them. No one spoke to me, and I gained the bridge in safety, and crossed it without attracting the least attention. Entering the city of Richmond, I kept along the principal street, walking at a slow pace, and turning my head from side to side, as if much attracted by the objects around me. Few persons were in the street, and I was careful to appear more attentive to the houses than to the people. At the upper end of the city I saw a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen, who were, I believe, returning from church. Whilst these people were passing me, I stood in the street, on the outside of the foot pavement, with my face turned to the opposite side of the street. They all went by without taking any notice of me; and when they were gone, I again resumed my leisure walk along the pavement, and reached the utmost limit of the town without being accosted by any one. As soon as I was clear of the city I quickened my pace, assumed the air of a man in great haste, sometimes actually ran, and in less than an hour was safely lodged in the thickest part of the woods that lay on the North of Richmond, and full four miles from the river. This was the boldest exploit that I had performed since leaving my mistress, except the visit I paid to the gentleman in Georgia. My corn was now failing, but as I had once entered a crib secretly, I felt but little apprehension on account of future supplies. After this time I never wanted corn, and did not again suffer by hunger, until I reached the place of my nativity. After leaving Richmond, I again kept along the great road by which I had traveled on my way South, taking great care not to expose my person unnecessarily. For several nights I saw no white people on the way, but was often met by black ones, whom I avoided by turning out of the road; but one moonlight night, five or six days after I left Richmond, a man stepped out of the woods almost at my side, and accosting me in a familiar manner, asked me which way I was traveling, how long I had been on the road, and made many inquiries concerning the course of my late journey. This man was a mulatto, and carried a heavy cane, or rather club, in his hand. I did not like his appearance, and the idea of a familiar conversation with any one seemed to terrify me. I determined to watch my companion closely, and he appeared equally intent on observing me; but at the same time that he talked with me, he was constantly drawing closer to and following behind me. This conduct increased my suspicion, and I began to wish to get rid of him, but could not at the moment imagine how I should effect my purpose. To avoid him, I crossed the road several times; but still he followed me closely. The moon, which shone brightly upon our backs, cast his shadow far before me, and enabled me to perceive his motions with the utmost accuracy, without turning my head towards him. He carried his club under his left arm, and at length raised his right hand gently, took the stick by the end, and drawing it slowly over his head, was in the very act of striking a blow at me, when springing backward, and raising my own staff at the same moment, I brought him to the ground by a stroke on his forehead; and when I had him down, beat him over the back and sides with my weapon, until he roared for mercy, and begged me not to kill him. I left him in no condition to pursue me, and hastened on my way, resolved to get as far from him before day as my legs would carry me. This man was undoubtedly one of those wretches who are employed by white men to kidnap and betray such unfortunate people of color as may chance to fall into their hands but for once the deceiver was deceived, and he who intended to make prey of me, had well nigh fallen a sacrifice himself. The same night I crossed the Pammunky river, near the village of Hanover by swimming, and secreted myself before day in a dense cedar thicket. The next night, after I had traveled several miles, in ascending a hill I saw the head of a man rise on the opposite side, without having heard any noise. I instantly ran into the woods, and concealed myself behind a large tree. The traveler was on horseback, and the road being sandy, and his horse moving only at a walk, I had not heard his approach until I saw him. He also saw me; for when he came opposite the place where I stood, he stopped his horse in the road, and desired me to tell him how far it was to some place, the name of which I have forgotten. As I made no answer, he again repeated the inquiry; and then said, I need not be afraid to speak, as he did not wish to hurt me; but no answer being given him, he at last said I might as well speak, and rode on. Before day I reached the Matapony river, and crossed it by wading; but knowing that I was not far from Maryland, I fell into a great indiscretion, and forgot the wariness and caution that had enabled me to overcome obstacles apparently insurmountable. Anxious to get forward, I neglected to conceal myself before day; but traveled until daybreak before I sought a place of concealment, and unfortunately, when I looked for a hiding place, none was at hand. This compelled me to keep on the road, until gray twilight, for the purpose of reaching a wood that was in view before me; but to gain this wood I was obliged to pass a house that stood at the road side, and when only about fifty yards beyond the house, a white man opened the door, and seeing me in the road, called to me to stop. As this order was not obeyed, he set his dog upon me. The dog was quickly vanquished by my stick, and setting off to run at full speed, I at the same moment heard the report of a gun, and received its contents in my legs, chiefly about, and in my hams. I fell on the road, and was soon surrounded by several persons, who it appeared were a party of patrollers, who had gathered together in this house. They ordered me to cross my hands, which order not being immediately obeyed, they beat me with sticks and stones until I was almost senseless, and entirely unable to make resistance.--They then bound me with cords, and dragged me by the feet back to the house, and threw me into the kitchen, like a dead dog. One of my eyes was almost beaten out, and the blood was running from my mouth, nose and ears; but in this condition they refused to wash the blood from my face, or even to give me a drink of water. In a short time a justice of the peace arrived, and when he looked at me, ordered me to be unbound, and to have water to wash myself, and also some bread to eat. This man's heart appeared not to be altogether void of sensibility, for he reprimanded in harsh terms those who had beaten me; told them that their conduct was brutal, and that it would have been more humane to kill me outright, than to bruise and mangle me in the manner they had done. He then interrogated me as to my name, place of abode, and place of destination, and afterwards demanded the name of my master. To all these inquiries I made no reply, except that I was going to Maryland, where I lived. The justice told me it was his duty under the law to send me to jail; and I was immediately put into a cart, and carried to a small village called Bowling Green, which I reached before ten o'clock. There I was locked up in the jail, and a doctor came to examine my legs, and extract the shot from my wounds. In the course of the operation he took out thirty-four buck shot, and after dressing my legs left me to my own reflections. No fever followed in the train of my disasters, which I attributed to the reduced state of my blood, by long fasting, and the fatigues I had undergone. In the afternoon, the jailer came to see me, and brought my daily allowance of provisions, and a jug of water. The provisions consisted of more than a pound of corn-bread and some boiled bacon. As my appetite was good, I immediately devoured more than two-thirds of this food, but reserved the rest for supper. For several days I was not able to stand, and in this period found great difficulty in performing the ordinary offices of life for myself, no one coming to give me any aid; but I did not suffer for want of food, the daily allowance of the jailer being quite sufficient to appease the cravings of hunger. After I grew better, and was able to walk in the jail, the jailer frequently called to see me, and endeavored to prevail on me to tell where I came from; but in this undertaking he was no more successful than the justice had been in the same business. I remained in the jail more than a month, and in this time became quite fat and strong, but saw no way by which I could escape. The jail was of brick, the floors were of solid oak boards, and the door, of the same material, was secured by iron bolts, let into its posts, and connected together by a strong band of iron, reaching from the one to the other. Every thing appeared sound and strong, and to add to my security, my feet were chained together, from the time my wounds were healed. This chain I acquired the knowledge of removing from my feet, by working out of its socket a small iron pin that secured the bolt that held the chain round one of my legs. The jailer came to see me with great regularity, every morning and evening, but remained only a few minutes when he came, leaving me entirely alone at all other times. When I had been in prison thirty-nine days, and had quite recovered from the wounds that I had received, the jailer was late in coming to me with my breakfast, and going to the door I began to beat against it with my fist, for the purpose of making a noise. After beating some time against the door I happened, by mere accident, to strike my fist against one of the posts, which, to my surprise, I discovered by its sound, to be a mere hollow shell, encrusted with a thin coat of sound timber, and as I struck it, the rotten wood crumbled to pieces within. On a more careful examination of this post, I became satisfied that I could easily split it to pieces, by the aid of the iron bolt that confined my feet. The jailer came with my breakfast, and reprimanded me for making a noise. This day appeared as long to me, as a week had done heretofore; but night came at length, and as soon as the room in which I was confined, had become quite dark, I disentangled myself from the irons with which I was bound, and with the aid of the long bolt, easily wrenched from its place the large staple that held one end of the bar, that lay across the door. The hasps that held the lock in its place, were drawn away almost without force, and the door swung open of its own weight. I now walked out into the jail-yard, and found that all was quiet, and that only a few lights were burning in the village windows. At first I walked slowly along the road, but soon quickened my pace, and ran along the high-way, until I was more than a mile from the jail, then taking to the woods, I traveled all night, in a northern direction. At the approach of day I concealed myself in a cedar thicket, where I lay until the next evening, without any thing to eat. On the second night after my escape, I crossed the Potomac, at Hoe's ferry, in a small boat that I found tied at the side of the ferry flat; and on the night following crossed the Patuxent, in a canoe, which I found chained at the shore. About one o'clock in the morning, I came to the door of my wife's cabin, and stood there, I believe, more than five minutes, before I could summon sufficient fortitude to knock. I at length rapped lightly on the door, and was immediately asked, in the well-known voice of my wife, "Who is there?"--I replied "Charles." She then came to the door, and opening it slowly, said, "Who is this that speaks so much like my husband?" I then rushed into the cabin and made myself known to her, but it was some time before I could convince her, that I was really her husband, returned from Georgia. The children were then called up, but they had forgotten me. When I attempted to take them in my arms, they fled from me, and took refuge under the bed of their mother. My eldest boy, who was four years old when I was carried away, still retained some recollections of once having had a father, but could not believe that I was that father. My wife, who at first was overcome by astonishment at seeing me again in her cabin, and was incapable of giving credit to the fidelity of her own vision, after I had been in the house a few minutes, seemed to awake from a dream; and gathering all three of her children in her arms, thrust them into my lap, as I sat in the corner, clapped her hands, laughed, and cried by turns; and in her ecstasy forgot to give me any supper, until I at length told her that I was hungry. Before I entered the house I felt as if I could eat anything in the shape of food; but now that I attempted to eat, my appetite had fled, and I sat up all night with my wife and children. When on my journey I thought of nothing but getting home, and never reflected, that when at home, I might still be in danger; but now that my toils were ended, I began to consider with myself how I could appear in safety in Calvert county, where everybody must know that I was a runaway slave. With my heart thrilling with joy, when I looked upon my wife and children, who had not hoped ever to behold me again; yet fearful of the coming of daylight, which must expose me to be arrested as a fugitive slave, I passed the night between the happiness of the present and the dread of the future. In all the toils, dangers, and sufferings of my long journey, my courage had never forsaken me. The hope of again seeing my wife and little ones, had borne me triumphantly through perils, that even now I reflect upon as upon some extravagant dream; but when I found myself at rest under the roof of my wife, the object of my labors attained, and no motive to arouse my energies, or give them the least impulse, that firmness of resolution which had so long sustained me, suddenly vanished from my bosom; and I passed the night, with my children around me, oppressed by a melancholy foreboding of my future destiny. The idea that I was utterly unable to afford protection and safeguard to my own family, and was myself even more helpless than they, tormented my bosom with alternate throbs of affection and fear, until the dawn broke in the East, and summoned me to decide upon my future conduct. In the morning I went to the great house and showed myself to my master and mistress. They gave me a good breakfast, and advised me at first to conceal myself, but afterwards to work in the neighborhood for wages. For eight years, I lived in this region of country and experienced a variety of fortune. At last I had saved near $400, and bought near Baltimore twelve acres of land, a yoke of oxen, and two cows, and attended the Baltimore market. I had the great misfortune to lose my wife. I married in two years, and of my second wife had four children. Ten years of happiness and comparative ease I enjoyed on my little farm, and I had settled down into contentment, little fearing any more trouble. But a sad fate was before me. CHAPTER XIX. In the month of June, 18--, as I was ploughing in my lot, three gentlemen rode up to my fence, and alighting from their horses, all came over the fence and approached me, when one of them told me he was the sheriff, and had a writ in his pocket, which commanded him to take me to Baltimore. I was not conscious of having done any thing injurious to any one; but yet felt a distrust of these men, who were all strangers to me. I told them I would go with them, if they would permit me to turn my oxen loose from the plough; but it was my intention to seek an opportunity of escaping to the house of a gentleman, who lived about a mile from me. This purpose I was not able to effect, for whilst I was taking the yoke from the oxen, one of the gentlemen came behind me, and knocked me down with a heavy whip, that he carried in his hand. When I recovered from the stunning effects of this blow, I found myself bound with my hands behind me, and strong cords closely wrapped about my arms. In this condition I was forced to set out immediately, for Baltimore, without speaking to my wife, or even entering my door. I expected that, on arriving at Baltimore, I should be taken before a judge for the purpose of being tried, but in this I was deceived. They led me to the city jail, and there shut me up, with several other black people, both men and women, who told me that they had lately been purchased by a trader from Georgia. I now saw the extent of my misfortune, but could not learn who the persons were, who had seized me. In the evening, however, one of the gentlemen, who had brought me from home, came into the jail with the jailer, and asked me if I knew him. On being answered in the negative, he told me that he knew me very well; and asked me if I did not recollect the time when he and his brother had whipped me, before my master's door, in Georgia. I now recognized the features of the younger of the two brothers of my mistress; but this man was so changed in his appearance, from the time when I had last seen him, that if he had not declared himself, I should never have known him. When I left Georgia, he was not more than twenty-one or two years of age, and had black, bushy hair. His hair was now thin and gray, and all his features were changed. After lying in jail a little more than two weeks, strongly ironed, my fellow prisoners and I were one day chained together, handcuffed in pairs, and in this way driven about ten miles out of Baltimore, where we remained all night. On the evening of the second day, we halted at Bladensburg. On the next morning, we marched through Washington, and as we passed in front of the President's house, I saw an old gentleman walking in the grounds, near the gate. This man I was told was the President of the United States. Within four weeks after we left Washington, I was in Milledgeville in Georgia, near which the man who had kidnapped me resided. He took me home with him, and set me to work on his plantation; but I had now enjoyed liberty too long to submit quietly to the endurance of slavery. I had no sooner come here, than I began to devise ways of escaping again from the hands of my tyrants, and of making my way to the northern States. The month of August was now approaching, which is a favorable season of the year to travel, on account of the abundance of food that is to be found in the corn-fields and orchards; but I remembered the dreadful sufferings that I had endured in my former journey from the South, and determined, if possible, to devise some scheme of getting away, that would not subject me to such hardships. After several weeks of consideration, I resolved to run away, go to some of the seaports, and endeavor to get a passage on board a vessel, bound to a northern city. With this view, I assumed the appearance of resignation and composure, under the new aspect of my fortune; and even went so far as to tell my new master that I lived more comfortably with him, in his cotton fields, than I had formerly done, on my own small farm in Maryland; though I believe my master did me the justice to give no credit to my assertions on this subject. From the moment I discovered in Maryland, that I had fallen into the hands of the brother of my former mistress, I gave up all hope of contesting his right to arrest me, with success, at law, as I supposed he had come with authority to reclaim me as the property of his sister; but after I had returned to Georgia, and had been at work some weeks on the plantation of my new master, I learned that he now claimed me as his own slave, and that he had reported he had purchased me in Baltimore. It was now clear to me that this man, having by some means learned the place of my residence, in Maryland, had kidnapped and now held me as his slave, without the color of legal right; but complaint on my part was useless, and resistance vain. I was again reduced to the condition of a common field slave, on a cotton plantation in Georgia, and compelled to subsist on the very scanty and coarse food allowed to the southern slave. I had been absent from Georgia almost twenty years, and in that period great changes had doubtlessly taken place in the face of the country, as well as in the condition of human society. I had never been in Milledgeville until I was brought there by the man who had kidnapped me in Maryland, and I was now a slave among entire strangers, and had no friend to give me the consolation of kind words, such as I had formerly received from my master in Morgan county. The plantation on which I was now a slave, had formerly belonged to the father of my mistress; and some of my fellow slaves had been well acquainted with her in her youth. From these people I learned, that after the death of my master, and my flight from Georgia, my mistress had become the wife of a second husband, who had removed with her to the State of Louisiana more than fifteen years ago. After ascertaining these facts, which proved beyond all doubt that my present master had no right whatsoever to me, in either law or justice, I determined that before encountering the dangers and sufferings that must necessarily attend my second flight from Georgia, I would attempt to proclaim the protection of the laws of the country, and try to get myself discharged from the unjust slavery in which I was now held. For this purpose, I went to Milledgeville, one Sunday, and inquired for a lawyer of a black man whom I met in the street. This person told me that his master was a lawyer, and went with me to his house. The lawyer, after talking to me some time, told me that my master was his client, and that he therefore could not undertake my cause; but referred me to a young gentleman, who he said would do my business for me. Accordingly to this young man I went, and after relating my whole story to him, he told me that he believed he could not do any thing for me, as I had no witnesses to prove my freedom. I rejoined, that it seemed hard that I must be compelled to prove myself a freeman: and that it would appear more consonant to reason that my master should prove me to be a slave. He, however, assured me that this was not the law of Georgia, where every man of color was presumed to be a slave until he could prove that he was free. He then told me that if I expected him to talk to me, I must give him a fee; whereupon I gave him all the money I had been able to procure, since my arrival in the country, which was two dollars and seventy-five cents. When I offered him this money, the lawyer tossed his head, and said such a trifle was not worth accepting; but nevertheless he took it, and then asked me if I could get some more money before the next Sunday. That if I could get another dollar, he would issue a writ and have me brought before the court; but if he succeeded in getting me set free, I must engage to serve him a year. To these conditions I agreed, and signed a paper which the lawyer wrote, and which was signed by two persons as witnesses. The brother of my pretended master was yet living in this neighborhood, and the lawyer advised me to have him brought forward, as a witness, to prove that I was not the slave of my present pretended owner. On the Wednesday following my visit to Milledgeville, the sheriff came to my master's plantation, and took me from the field to the house, telling me as I walked beside him that he had a writ which commanded him to take me to Milledgeville. Instead, however, of obeying the command of his writ, when we arrived at the house he took a bond of my master that he would produce me at the court-house on the next day, Friday, and then rode away, leaving me at the mercy of my kidnapper. Since I had been on this plantation, I had never been whipped, although all the other slaves, of whom there were more than fifty, were frequently flogged without any apparent cause. I had all along attributed my exemption from the lash to the fears of my master. He knew I had formerly run away from his sister, on account of her cruelty, and his own savage conduct to me; and I believed that he was still apprehensive that a repetition of his former barbarity might produce the same effect that it had done twenty years before. His evil passions were like fire covered with ashes, concealed, not extinguished. He now found that I was determined to try to regain my liberty at all events, and the sheriff was no sooner gone than the overseer was sent for, to come from the field, and I was tied up and whipped, with the long lashed negro whip, until I fainted, and was carried in a state of insensibility to my lodgings in the quarter. It was night when I recovered my understanding sufficiently to be aware of my true situation. I now found that my wounds had been oiled, and that I was wrapped in a piece of clean linen cloth; but for several days I was unable to leave my bed. When Friday came, I was not taken to Milledgeville, and afterwards learned that my master reported to the court that I had been taken ill, and was not able to leave the house. The judge asked no questions as to the cause of my illness. At the end of two weeks I was taken to Milledgeville, and carried before a judge, who first asked a few questions of my master, as to the length of time that he had owned me, and the place where he had purchased me. He stated in my presence that he had purchased me, with several others, at public auction, in the city of Baltimore, and had paid five hundred and ten dollars for me. I was not permitted to speak to the court, much less to contradict this falsehood in the manner it deserved. The brother of my master was then called as a witness by my lawyer, but the witness refused to be sworn or examined, on account of his interest in me, as his slave. In support of his refusal, he produced a bill of sale from my master to himself, for an equal, undivided half part of the slave ----. This bill of sale was dated several weeks previous to the time of trial, and gave rise to an argument between the opposing lawyers that continued until the court adjourned in the evening. On the next morning I was again brought into court, and the judge now delivered his opinion, which was that the witness could not be compelled to give evidence in a cause to which he was really, though not nominally, a party. The court then proceeded to give judgment in the cause now before it, and declared that the law was well settled in Georgia that every negro was presumed to be a slave, until he proved his freedom by the clearest evidence. That where a negro was found in the custody or keeping of a white man, the law declared that white man to be his master, without any evidence on the subject. But the case before the court was exceedingly plain and free from all doubt or difficulty. Here the master has brought this slave into the State of Georgia, as his property, has held him as a slave ever since, and still holds him as a slave. The title of the master in this case is the best title that a man can have to any property; and the order of the court is, that the slave ---- be returned to the custody of his master. I was immediately ordered to return home, and from this time until I left the plantation my life was a continual torment to me. The overseer often came up to me in the field, and gave me several lashes with his long whip over my naked back, through mere wantonness; and I was often compelled, after I had done my day's work in the field, to cut wood, or perform some other labor at the house, until long after dark. My sufferings were too great to be borne long by any human creature; and to a man who had once tasted the sweets of liberty, they were doubly tormenting. There was nothing in the form of danger that could intimidate me, if the road on which I had to encounter it led me to freedom. That season of the year most favorable to my escape from bondage, had at length arrived. The corn in the fields was so far grown as to be fit for roasting; the peaches were beginning to ripen, and the sweet potatoes were large enough to be eaten; but notwithstanding all this; the difficulties that surrounded me were greater than can easily be imagined by any one who has never been a slave in the lower country of Georgia. In the first place I was almost naked, having no other clothes than a ragged shirt of tow cloth, and a pair of old trowsers of the same material, with an old woollen jacket that I had brought with me from home. In addition to this, I was closely watched every evening, until I had finished the labor assigned me, and then I was locked up in a small cabin by myself for the night. This cabin was really a prison, and had been built for the purpose of confining such of the slaves of this estate as were tried in the evening, and sentenced to be whipped in the morning. It was built of strong oak logs, hewn square, and dovetailed together at the corners. It had no window in it; but as the logs did not fit very close together, there was never any want of air in this jail, in which I had been locked up every night since my trial before the court. On Sundays I was permitted to go to work in the fields, with the other people who worked on that day, if I chose so to do; but at this time I was put under the charge of an old African negro, who was instructed to give immediate information if I attempted to leave the field. To escape on Sunday was impossible, and there seemed to be no hope of getting out of my sleeping room, the floor of which was made of strong pine plank. Fortune at length did for me that which I had not been able to accomplish, by the greatest efforts, for myself. The lock that was on the door of my nightly prison was a large stock lock, and had been clumsily fitted on the door, so that the end of the lock pressed against the door-case, and made it difficult to shut the door even in dry weather. When the weather was damp, and the wood was swollen with moisture, it was not easy to close the door at all. Late in the month of September the weather became cloudy, and much rain fell. The clouds continued to obscure the heavens for four or five days. One evening, when I was ordered to my house as it was called, the overseer followed me without a light, although it was very dark. When I was in the house, he pushed the door after me with all his strength. The violence of the effort caused the door to pass within the case at the top, for one or two feet, and this held it so fast that he could not again pull it open. Supposing, in the extreme darkness, that the door was shut, he turned the key; and the bolt of the lock passing on the outside of the staple intended to receive it, completely deceived him. He then withdrew the key, and went away. Soon after he was gone, I went to the door, and feeling with my hands, ascertained that it was not shut. An opportunity now presented itself for me to escape from my prison-house, with a prospect of being able to be so far from my master's residence before morning, that none could soon overtake me, even should the course of my flight be ascertained. Waiting quietly, until every one about the quarter had ceased to be heard, I applied one of my feet to the door, and giving it a strong push, forced it open. The world was now all before me, but the darkness was so profound, as to obscure from my vision the largest objects, even a house, at the distance of a few yards. But dark as it was, necessity compelled me to leave the plantation without delay, and knowing only the great road that led to Milledgeville, amongst the various roads of this country, I set off at a brisk walk on this public highway, assured that no one could apprehend me in so dark a night. It was only about seven miles to Milledgeville, and when I reached that town several lights were burning in the windows of the houses; but keeping on directly through the village, I neither saw nor heard any person in it, and after gaining the open country, my first care was to find some secure place where shelter could be found for the next day; but no appearance of thick woods was to be seen for several miles, and two or three hours must have elapsed before a forest of sufficient magnitude was found to answer my purposes. It was perhaps three o'clock in the morning, when I took refuge in a thick and dismal swamp that lay on the right hand of the road, intending to remain here until daylight, and then look out for a secret place to conceal myself in, during the day. Hitherto, although the night was so extremely dark, it had not rained any, but soon after my halt in the swamp the rain began to fall in floods, rather than in showers, which made me as wet as if I had swam a river. Daylight at length appeared, but brought with it very little mitigation of my sufferings; for the swamp, in which my hiding-place was, lay in the midst of a well-peopled country, and was surrounded on all sides by cotton and corn fields, so close to me that the open spaces of the cleared land could be seen from my position. It was dangerous to move, lest some one should see me, and painful to remain without food when hunger was consuming me. My resting place in the swamp was within view of the road; and, soon after sunrise, although it continued to rain fast, numerous horsemen were seen passing along the road by the way that had led me to the swamp. There was little doubt on my mind that these people were in search of me, and the sequel proved that my surmises were well founded. It rained throughout this day, and the fear of being apprehended by those who came in pursuit of me, confined me to the swamp, until after dark the following evening, when I ventured to leave the thicket, and return to the high road, the bearing of which it was impossible for me to ascertain, on account of the dense clouds that obscured the heavens. All that could be done in my situation, was to take care not to follow that end of the road which had led me to the swamp. Turning my back once more upon Milledgeville, and walking at a quick pace, every effort was made to remove myself as far as possible this night from the scene of suffering, for which that swamp will be always memorable in my mind. The rain had ceased to fall at the going down of the sun; and the darkness of this second night was not so great as that of the first had been. This circumstance was regarded by me as a happy presage of the final success that awaited my undertaking. Events proved that I was no prophet; for the dim light of this night was the cause of the sad misfortune that awaited me. In a former part of this volume, the reader is made acquainted with the deep interest that is taken by all the planters, far and wide, around the plantation from which a slave has escaped by running away. Twenty years had wrought no change in favor of the fugitive; nor had the feuds and dissentions that agitate and distract the communities of white men, produced any relaxation in the friendship that they profess to feel, and really do feel, for each other, on a question of so much importance to them all. More than twenty miles of road had been left behind me this night; and it must have been two or three o'clock in the morning, when, as I was passing a part of the road that led through a dense pine grove, where the trees on either side grew close to the wheel tracks, five or six men suddenly rushed upon me from both sides of the road, and with loud cries of "Kill him! kill him!" accompanied with oaths and opprobrious language, seized me, dragged me to the ground, and bound me fast with a long cord, which was wrapped round my arms and body, so as to confine my hands below my hips. In this condition I was driven, or rather dragged, about two miles to a kind of tavern or public house, that stood by the side of the road; where my captors were joined, soon after daylight, by at least twenty of their companions, who had been out all night waiting and watching for me on the other roads of this part of the country. Those who had taken me were loudly applauded by their fellows; and the whole party passed the morning in drinking, singing songs, and playing cards at this house. At breakfast time they gave me a large cake of corn bread and some sour milk for breakfast. About ten o'clock in the morning my master arrived at the tavern, in company with two or three other gentlemen, all strangers to me. My master, when he came into my presence, looked at me, and said, "Well, ----, you had bad luck in running away this time;" and immediately asked aloud, what any person would give for me. One man, who was slightly intoxicated, said he would give four hundred dollars for me. Other bids followed, until my price was soon up to five hundred and eighty dollars, for which I was stricken off, by my master himself, to a gentleman, who immediately gave his note for me, and took charge of me as his property. CHAPTER XX. The name of my new master was Jones, a planter, who was only a visiter in this part of the country; his residence being about fifty miles down the country. The next day, my new master set off with me to the place of his residence; permitting me to walk behind him, as he rode on horseback, and leaving me entirely unshackled. I was resolved, that as my owner treated me with so much liberality, the trust he reposed in me should not be broken until after we had reached his home; though the determination of again running away, and attempting to escape from Georgia, never abandoned me for a moment. The country through which we passed, on our journey, was not rich. The soil was sandy, light, and, in many places, much exhausted by excessive tillage. The timber, in the woods where the ground was high, was almost exclusively pine; but many swamps, and extensive tracts of low ground intervened, in which maple, gum, and all the other trees common to such land in the South, abounded. No improvement in the condition of the slaves on the plantations, was here perceptible; but it appeared to me, that there was now even a greater want of good clothes, amongst the slaves on the various plantations that we passed, than had existed twenty years before. Everywhere, the overseers still kept up the same custom of walking in the fields with the long whip, that has been elsewhere described; and everywhere, the slaves proved, by the husky appearance of their skins, and the dry, sunburnt aspect of their hair, that they were strangers to animal food. On the second day of our journey, in the evening, we arrived at the residence of my master, about eighty miles from Savannah. The plantation, which had now become the place of my residence, was not large, containing only about three hundred acres of cleared land, and having on it about thirty working slaves of all classes. It was now the very midst of the season of picking cotton, and, at the end of twenty years from the time of my first flight, I again had a daily task assigned me, with the promise of half a cent a pound for all the cotton I should pick, beyond my day's work. Picking cotton, like every other occupation requiring active manipulation, depends more upon sleight than strength, and I was not now able to pick so much in a day as I was once able to do. My master seemed to be a man ardently bent on the acquisition of wealth, and came into the field, where we were at work, almost every day; frequently remonstrating, in strong language, with the overseer, because he did not get more work done. Our rations, on this place, were a half peck of corn per week; in addition to which, we had rather more than a peck of sweet potatoes allowed to each person. Our provisions were distributed to us on every Sunday morning by the overseer; but my master was generally present, either to see that justice was done to us, or that injustice was not done to himself. When I had been here about a week, my master came into the field one day, and, in passing near me, stopped and told me that I had now fallen into good hands, as it was his practice not to whip his people much. That he, in truth, never whipped them, nor suffered his overseer to whip them, except in flagrant cases. That he had discovered a mode of punishment much more mild, and, at the same time, much more effectual than flogging; and that he governed his negroes exclusively under this mode of discipline. He then told me, that when I came home in the evening I must come to the house; and that he would then make me acquainted with the principles upon which he chastised his slaves. Going to the house in the evening, according to orders, my master showed me a pump, set in a well in which the water rose within ten feet of the surface of the ground. The spout of this pump was elevated at least thirteen feet above the earth, and when the water was to be drawn from it, the person who worked the handle ascended by a ladder to the proper station.--The water in this well, although so near the surface, was very cold; and the pump discharged it in a large stream. One of the women employed in the house, had committed some offence for which she was to be punished; and the opportunity was embraced of exhibiting to me the effect of this novel mode of torture upon the human frame. The woman was stripped quite naked, and tied to a post that stood just under the stream of water, as it fell from the spout of the pump. A lad was then ordered to ascend the ladder, and pump water upon the head and shoulders of the victim; who had not been under the waterfall more than a minute, before she began to cry and scream in a most lamentable manner. In a short time, she exerted her strength, in the most convulsive throes, in trying to escape from the post; but as the cords were strong, this was impossible. After another minute or a little more, her cries became weaker, and soon afterwards her head fell forward upon her breast; and then the boy was ordered to cease pumping the water. The woman was removed in a state of insensibility; but recovered her faculties in about an hour. The next morning she complained of lightness of head, but was able to go to work. This punishment of the pump, as it is called, was never inflicted on me; and I am only able to describe it, as it has been described to me, by those who have endured it. When the water first strikes the head and arms, it is not at all painful; but in a very short time, it produces the sensation that is felt when heavy blows are inflicted with large rods, of the size of a man's finger. This perception becomes more and more painful, until the skull bone and shoulder blades appear to be broken in pieces. Finally, all the faculties become oppressed; breathing becomes more and more difficult; until the eye-sight becomes dim, and animation ceases. This punishment is in fact a temporary murder; as all the pains are endured, that can be felt by a person who is deprived of life by being beaten with bludgeons; but after the punishment of the pump, the sufferer is restored to existence by being laid in a bed, and covered with warm clothes. A giddiness of the head, and oppression of the breast, follows this operation, for a day or two, and sometimes longer. The object of calling me to be a witness of this new mode of torture, doubtlessly, was to intimidate me from running away; but like medicines administered by empirics, the spectacle had precisely the opposite effect, from that which it was expected to produce. After my arrival on this estate, my intention had been to defer my elopement until the next year, before I had seen the torture inflicted on this unfortunate woman; but from that moment my resolution was unalterably fixed, to escape as quickly as possible. Such was my desperation of feeling, at this time, that I deliberated seriously upon the project of endeavoring to make my way southward, for the purpose of joining the Indians in Florida. Fortune reserved a more agreeable fate for me. On the Saturday night after the woman was punished at the pump, I stole a yard of cotton bagging from the cotton-gin house, and converted it into a bag, by means of a coarse needle and thread that I borrowed of one of the black women. On the next morning, when our weekly rations were distributed to us, my portion was carefully placed in my bag, under pretence of fears that it would be stolen from me, if it was left open in the loft of the kitchen that I lodged in. This day being Sunday, I did not go to the field to work as usual, on that day, but under pretence of being unwell, remained in the kitchen all day, to be better prepared for the toils of the following night. After daylight had totally disappeared, taking my bag under my arm, under pretense of going to the mill to grind my corn, I stole softly across the cotton fields to the nearest woods, and taking an observation of the stars, directed my course to the eastward, resolved that in no event should anything induce me to travel a single yard on the high road, until at least one hundred miles from this plantation. Keeping on steadily through the whole of this night, and meeting with no swamps, or briery thickets in my way, I have no doubt that before daylight the plantation was more than thirty miles behind me. Twenty years before this I had been in Savannah, and noted at that time that great numbers of ships were in that port, taking in and loading cotton. My plan was now to reach Savannah, in the best way I could, by some means to be devised after my arrival in the city, to procure a passage to some of the northern cities. When day appeared before me, I was in a large cotton field, and before the woods could be reached, it was gray dawn; but the forest bordering on the field was large, and afforded me good shelter through the day, under the cover of a large thicket of swamp laurel that lay at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the field. It now became necessary to kindle a fire, for all my stock of provisions, consisting of corn and potatoes, was raw and undressed. Less fortunate now than in my former flight, no fire apparatus was in my possession, and driven at last to the extremity, I determined to endeavor to produce fire by rubbing two sticks together, and spent at least two hours of incessant toil, in this vain operation, without the least prospect of success. Abandoning this project at length, I turned my thoughts to searching for a stone of some kind, with which to endeavor to extract fire from an old jack-knife, that had been my companion in Maryland for more than three years. My labors were fruitless. No stone could be found in this swamp, and the day was passed in anxiety and hunger, a few raw potatoes being my only food. Night at length came, and with it a renewal of my traveling labors. Avoiding with the utmost care, every appearance of a road, and pursuing my way until daylight, I must have traveled at least thirty miles this night. Awhile before day, in crossing a field, I fortunately came upon a bed of large pebbles, on the side of a hill. Several of these were deposited in my bag, which enabled me when day arrived to procure fire, with which I parched corn and roasted potatoes sufficient to subsist me for two or three days. On the fourth night of my journey, fortune directed me to a broad, open highway, that appeared to be much traveled. Near the side of this road I established my quarters for the day in a thick pine wood, for the purpose of making observations upon the people who traveled it, and of judging thence of the part of the country to which it led. Soon after daylight a wagon passed along, drawn by oxen, and loaded with bales of cotton; then followed some white men on horseback, and soon after sunrise a whole train of wagons and carts, all loaded with bales of cotton, passed by, following the wagon first seen by me. In the course of the day, at least one hundred wagons and carts passed along this road towards the south-east, all laden with cotton bales; and at least an equal number came towards the west, either laden with casks of various dimensions, or entirely empty. Numerous horsemen, many carriages, and great numbers of persons on foot, also passed to and fro on this road, in the course of the day. All these indications satisfied me that I must be near some large town, the seat of an extensive cotton market. The next consideration with me was to know how far it was to this town, for which purpose I determined to travel on the road the succeeding night. Lying in the woods until about eleven o'clock, I rose, came to the road and traveled it until within an hour of daylight, at which time the country around me appeared almost wholly clear of timber; and houses became much more numerous than they had been in the former part of my journey. Things continued to wear this aspect until daylight, when I stopped, and sat down by the side of a high fence that stood beside the road. After remaining here a short time, a wagon laden with cotton passed along, drawn by oxen, whose driver, a black man, asked me if I was going towards town. Being answered in the affirmative, he then asked me if I did not wish to ride in his wagon. I told him I had been out of town all night, and should be very thankful to him for a ride; at the same time ascending his wagon and placing myself in a secure and easy position on the bags of cotton. In this manner we traveled on for about two hours, when we entered the town of Savannah. In my situation there was no danger of any one suspecting me to be a runaway slave; for no runaway had ever been known to flee from the country and seek refuge in Savannah. The man who drove the wagon passed through several of the principal streets of the city, and stopped his team before a large warehouse, standing on a wharf, looking into the river. Here I assisted my new friend to unload his cotton, and when we were done he invited me to share his breakfast with him, consisting of corn bread, roasted potatoes, and some cold boiled rice. Whilst we were at our breakfast, a black man came along the street, and asked us if we knew where he could hire a hand, to help him to work a day or two. I at once replied that my master had sent me to town to hire myself out for a few weeks, and that I was ready to go with him immediately. The joy I felt at finding employment so overcame me, that all thought of my wages was forgotten. Bidding farewell to the man who had given me my breakfast, and thanking him in my heart for his kindness, I followed my new employer, who informed me that he had engaged to remove a thousand bales of cotton from a large warehouse, to the end of a wharf at which a ship lay, that was taking in the cotton as a load. This man was a slave, but hired his time of his master at two hundred and fifty dollars a year, which he said he paid in monthly instalments. He did what he called job work, which consisted of undertaking jobs, and hiring men to work under him, if the job was too great to be performed by himself. In the present instance he had seven or eight black men, beside me, all hired to help him to remove the cotton in wheel-barrows, and lay it near the end of the wharf, when it was taken up by sailors and carried on board the ship that was receiving it. We continued working hard all day; and amongst the crew of the ship was a black man, with whom I resolved to become acquainted by some means. Accordingly at night after we had quit our work, I went to the end of the wharf against which the ship lay moored, and stood there a long time, waiting for the black sailor to make his appearance on deck. At length my desires were gratified. He came upon the deck, and sat down near the main-mast, with a pipe in his mouth, which he was smoking with great apparent pleasure. After a few minutes, I spoke to him, for he had not yet seen me as it appeared, and when he heard my voice, he rose up and came to the side of the ship near where I stood. We entered into conversation together, in the course of which he informed me that his home was in New-York; that he had a wife and several children there, but that he followed the sea for a livelihood, and knew no other mode of life. He also asked me where my master lived, and if Georgia had always been the place of my residence. I deemed this a favorable opportunity of effecting the object I had in view, in seeking the acquaintance of this man, and told him at once that by law and justice I was a free man, but had been kidnapped near Baltimore, forcibly brought to Georgia, and sold there as a slave. That I was now a fugitive from my master, and in search of some means of getting back to my wife and children. The man seemed moved by the account of my sufferings, and at the close of my narrative, told me he could not receive me on board the ship, as the captain had given positive orders to him, not to let any of the negroes of Savannah come on board, lest they should steal something belonging to the ship. He further told me that he was on watch, and should continue on deck two hours. That he was forced to take a turn of watching the ship every night, for two hours; but that his turn would not come the next night until after midnight. I now begged him to enable me to secrete myself on board the ship, previous to the time of her sailing, so that I might be conveyed to Philadelphia, whither the ship was bound with her load of cotton. He at first received my application with great coldness, and said he would not do any thing contrary to the orders of the captain; but before we parted, he said he should be glad to assist me if he could, but that the execution of the plan proposed by me, would be attended with great dangers, if not ruin. In my situation there was nothing too hazardous for me to undertake, and I informed him that if he would let me hide myself in the hold of the ship, amongst the bags of cotton, no one should ever know that he had any knowledge of the fact; and that all the danger, and all the disasters that might attend the affair, should fall exclusively on me. He finally told me to go away, and that he would think of the matter until the next day. It was obvious that his heart was softened in my favor; that his feelings of compassion almost impelled him to do an act in my behalf, that was forbidden by his judgment, and his sense of duty to his employers. As the houses of the city were now closed, and I was a stranger in the place, I went to a wagon that stood in front of the warehouse, and had been unladen of the cotton that had been brought in it, and creeping into it, made my bed with the driver, who permitted me to share his lodgings amongst some corn tops that he had brought to feed his oxen. When the morning came, I went again to the ship, and when the people came on deck, asked them for the captain, whom I should not have known by his dress, which was very nearly similar to that of the sailors. On being asked if he did not wish to hire a hand, to help to load his ship, he told me I might go to work amongst the men, if I chose, and he would pay me what I was worth. My object was to procure employment on board the ship, and not to get wages; and in the course of this day I found means to enter the hold of the ship several times, and examine it minutely. The black sailor promised that he would not betray me, and that if I could find the means of escaping on board the ship he would not disclose it. At the end of three days, the ship had taken in her loading, and the captain said in my presence that he intended to sail the day after. No time was now to be lost, and asking the captain what he thought I had earned, he gave me three dollars, which was certainly very liberal pay, considering that during the whole time that I had worked for him my fare had been the same as that of the sailors, who had as much as they could consume of excellent food. The sailors were now busy in trimming the ship and making ready for sea, and observing that this work required them to spend much time in the hold of the ship, I went to the captain and told him, that as he had paid me good wages and treated me well, I would work with his people the residue of this day, for my victuals and half a gallon of molasses; which he said he would give me. My first object now, was to get into the hold of the ship with those who were adjusting the cargo. The first time the men below called for aid, I went to them, and being there, took care to remain with them. Being placed at one side of the hold, for the purpose of packing the bags close to the ship's timbers, I so managed as to leave a space between two of the bags, large enough for a man to creep in and conceal himself. This cavity was near the opening in the centre of the hold, that was left to let men get down, to stow away the last of the bags that were put in. In this small hollow retreat among the bags of cotton, I determined to take my passage to Philadelphia, if by any means I could succeed in stealing on board the ship at night. When the evening came, I went to a store near the wharf, and bought two jugs, one that held half a gallon, and the other, a large stone jug, holding more than three gallons. When it was dark I filled my large jug with water; purchased twenty pounds of pilot bread at a bakery, which I tied in a large handkerchief; and taking my jugs in my hand, went on board the ship to receive my molasses of the captain, for the labor of the day. The captain was not on board, and a boy gave me the molasses; but, under pretence of waiting to see the captain, I sat down between two rows of cotton bales that were stowed on deck. The night was very dark, and, watching a favorable opportunity, when the man on deck had gone forward, I succeeded in placing both my jugs upon the bags of cotton that rose in the hold, almost to the deck. In another moment I glided down amongst the cargo, and lost no time in placing my jugs in the place provided for them, amongst the bales of cotton, beside the lair provided for myself. Soon after I had taken my station for the voyage, the captain came on board, and the boy reported to him that he had paid me off, and dismissed me. In a short time, all was quiet on board the ship, except the occasional tread of the man on watch. I slept none at all this night; the anxiety that oppressed me preventing me from taking any repose. Before day the captain was on deck, and gave orders to the seamen to clear the ship for sailing, and to be ready to descend the river with the ebb tide, which was expected to flow at sunrise. I felt the motion of the ship when she got under weigh, and thought the time long before I heard the breakers of the ocean surging against her sides. In the place where I lay, when the hatches were closed, total darkness prevailed; and I had no idea of the lapse of time, or of the progress we made, until, having at one period crept out into the open space, between the rows of cotton bags, which I have before described, I heard a man, who appeared from the sound of his voice to be standing on the hatch, call out and say, "That is Cape Hatteras." I had already come out of my covert several times into the open space; but the hatches were closed so tightly, as to exclude all light. It appeared to me that we had already been at sea a long time; but as darkness was unbroken with me, I could not make any computation of periods. Soon after this, the hatch was opened, and the light was let into the hold. A man descended for the purpose of examining the state of the cargo; who returned in a short time. The hatch was again closed, and nothing of moment occurred from this time, until I heard and felt the ship strike against some solid body. In a short time I heard much noise, and a multitude of sounds of various kinds. All this satisfied me that the ship was in some port; for I no longer heard the sound of the waves, nor perceived the least motion in the ship. At length the hatch was again opened, and the light was let in upon me. My anxiety now was, to escape from the ship, without being discovered by any one; to accomplish which I determined to issue from the hold as soon as night came on, if possible. Waiting until sometime after daylight had disappeared, I ventured to creep to the hatchway, and raise my head above deck. Seeing no one on board, I crawled out of the hold, and stepped on board a ship that lay alongside of that in which I had come a passenger. Here a man seized me, and called me a thief, saying I had come to rob his ship; and it was with much difficulty that I prevailed upon him to let me go. He at length permitted me to go on the wharf; and I once more felt myself a freeman. I did not know what city I was in; but as the sailors had all told me, at Savannah, that their ship was bound to Philadelphia, I had no doubt of being in that city. In going along the street, a black man met me, and I asked him if I was in Philadelphia.--This question caused the stranger to laugh loudly; and he passed on without giving me any answer. Soon afterwards I met an old gentleman, with drab clothes on, as I could see by the light of the lamps. To him I propounded the same question, that had been addressed a few moments before to the black man. This time, however, I received a civil answer, being told that I was in Philadelphia. This gentleman seemed concerned for me, either because of my wretched and ragged appearance, or because I was a stranger, and did not know where I was. Whether for one cause or the other, I knew not; but he told me to follow him, and led me to the house of a black man, not far off, whom he directed to take care of me until the morning. In this house I was kindly entertained all night, and when the morning came, the old gentleman in drab clothes returned, and brought with him an entire suit of clothes, not more than half worn, of which he made me a present, and gave me money to buy a hat and some muslin for a couple of shirts. He then turned to go away, and said, "I perceive that thee is a slave, and has run away from thy master. Thee can now go to work for thy living; but take care that they do not catch thee again." I then told him, that I had been a slave, and had twice run away and escaped from the State of Georgia. The gentleman seemed a little incredulous of that which I told him; but when I explained to him the cause of the condition in which he found me, he seemed to become more than ever interested in my fate. This gentleman, whose name I shall not publish, has always been a kind friend to me. After remaining in Philadelphia a few weeks, I resolved to return to my little farm in Maryland, for the purpose of selling my property for as much as it would produce, and of bringing my wife and children to Pennsylvania. On arriving in Baltimore, I went to a tavern keeper, whom I had formerly supplied with vegetables from my garden. This man appeared greatly surprised to see me; and asked me how I had managed to escape from my master in Georgia. I told him, that the man who had taken me to Georgia was not my master; but had kidnapped me, and carried me away by violence. The tavern keeper then told me, that I had better leave Baltimore as soon as possible, and showed me a hand-bill that was stuck up against the wall of his bar-room, in which a hundred and fifty dollars reward was offered for my apprehension. I immediately left this house, and fled from Baltimore that very night. When I reached my former residence, I found a white man living in it, whom I did not know. This man, on being questioned by me, as to the time he had owned this place, and the manner in which he had obtained possession, informed me, that a black man had formerly lived here; but he was a runaway slave, and his master had come, the summer before, and carried him off. That the wife of the former owner of the house was also a slave; and that her master had come about six weeks before the present time, and taken her and her children, and sold them in Baltimore to a slave-dealer from the South. This man also informed me, that he was not in this neighborhood at the time the woman and her children were carried away; but that he had received his information from a black woman, who lived half a mile off. This black woman I was well acquainted with; she had been my neighbor, and I knew her to be my friend. She had been set free, some years before by a gentleman of this neighborhood, and resided under his protection, on a part of his land, I immediately went to the house of this woman, who could scarcely believe the evidence of her own eyes, when she saw me enter her door. The first word's she spoke to me were, "Lucy and her children have all been stolen away." At my request, she gave me the following account of the manner in which my wife and children, all of whom had been free from their birth, were seized and driven into southern slavery. "A few weeks," said she, "after they took you away, and before Lucy had so far recovered from the terror produced by that event, as to remain in her house all night with her children, without some other company, I went one evening to stay all night with her; a kindness that I always rendered her, if no other person came to remain with her. "It was late when we went to bed, perhaps eleven o'clock; and after we had been asleep some time, we were awakened by a loud rap at the door. At first we said nothing; but upon the rap being several times repeated, Lucy asked who was there. She was then told, in a voice that seemed by its sound to be that of a woman, to get up and open the door; adding, that the person without had something to tell her that she wished to hear. Lucy, supposing the voice to be that of a black woman, the slave of a lady living near, rose and opened the door; but, to our astonishment, instead of a woman coming in, four or five men rushed into the house and immediately closed the door; at which one of the men stood, with his back against it, until the others made a light in the fire-place, and proceeded deliberately to tie Lucy with a rope.--Search was then made in the bed for the children; and I was found and dragged out. This seemed to produce some consternation among the captors, whose faces were all black, but whose hair and visages were those of white men. A consultation was held among them, the object of which was to determine whether I should also be taken along with Lucy and the children, or be left behind, on account of the interest which my master was supposed to feel for me. "It was finally agreed, that as it would be very dangerous to carry me off, lest my old master should cause pursuit to be made after them, they would leave me behind, and take only Lucy and the children. One of the number then said it would not do to leave me behind, and at liberty, as I would immediately go and give intelligence of what I had seen; and if the affair should be discovered by the members of the abolition society, before they had time to get out of Maryland, they would certainly be detected and punished for the crimes they were committing. "It was finally resolved to tie me with cords, to one of the logs of the house, gag me by tying a rope in my mouth, and confining it closely to the back of my neck. They immediately confined me, and then took the children from the bed. The oldest boy they tied to his mother, and compelled them to go out of the house together. The three youngest children were then taken out of bed, and carried off in the hands of the men who had tied me to the log. I never saw nor heard any more of Lucy or her children. "For myself, I remained in the house, the door of which was carefully closed and fastened after it was shut, until the second night after my confinement, without anything to eat or drink. On the second night some unknown persons came and cut the cords that bound me, when I returned to my own cabin." This intelligence almost deprived me of life; it was the most dreadful of all the misfortunes that I had ever suffered. It was now clear that some slave-dealer had come in my absence and seized my wife and children as slaves, and sold them to such men as I had served in the South. They had now passed into hopeless bondage, and were gone forever beyond my reach. I myself was advertised as a fugitive slave, and was liable to be arrested at each moment, and dragged back to Georgia. I rushed out of my own house in despair and returned to Pennsylvania with a broken heart. For the last few years, I have resided about fifty miles from Philadelphia, where I expect to pass the evening of my life, in working hard for my subsistence, without the least hope of ever again seeing my wife and children;--fearful, at this day, to let my place of residence be known, lest even yet it may be supposed, that as an article of property, I am of sufficient value to be worth pursuing in my old age. THE END. * * * * * [Transcriber's Notes: The transcriber made these changes to the text to correct obvious errors: p. 18 burthersome --> burthensome p. 18 aristocrary -->aristocracy p. 23 vetebræ --> vertebræ p. 24 charnal --> charnel p. 91 aad --> and p. 98 jair --> jail p. 122 successsion --> succession p. 122 liven --> linen p. 152 of errands --> on errands p. 192 corspe --> corpse p. 211 disagreeble --> disagreeable p. 230 guitly --> quilty p. 244 thives --> thrives p. 249 stool --> stood p. 252 rearch --> reach p. 267 pototoes --> potatoes p. 386 "Charles.' --> "Charles." End of Transcriber's Notes] 
28170	----	generously made available by the Library of Congress, Manuscript Division) [Transcriber's Note: This text is mainly written in dialect. As such, the majority of the spelling, grammar, and punctuation irregularities have been preserved, with the exception of a number of typographical errors. A full list of them can be found at the end of the text.] SLAVE NARRATIVES _A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves_ TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT 1936-1938 ASSEMBLED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS _Illustrated with Photographs_ WASHINGTON 1941 VOLUME XIV SOUTH CAROLINA NARRATIVES PART 4 Prepared by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress Administration for the State of South Carolina INFORMANTS Raines, Mary 1 Range, Frank 3 Rawls, Sam 5, 7 Renwick, Ellen 9 Rice, Anne 10 Rice, Jessie 12 Rice, Phillip 17 Richardson, Martha 19 Riley, Mamie 23 Riser, Susie 25 Roberts, Isom 26 Robertson, Alexander 31 Robinson, Charlie 35 Rosboro, Al 38 Rosboro, Tom 42 Rosborough, Reuben 45 Rose, William 48 Russell, Benjamin 51 Rutherford, Joe 55 Rutherford, Lila 57 Rutledge, Sabe 59, 65 Ryan, Henry 71, 74 Satterwhite, Emoline 75 Scaife, Alexander 76 Scantling, Eliza 78 Scott, Mary 81 Scott, Nina 88 Scurry, Morgan 89 Simmons, Ransom 91 Sligh, Alfred 92 Smith, Dan 95 Smith, Hector 100, 105 Smith, Jane 110 Smith, Mary 112 Smith, Prince 116 Smith, Silas 119 Sparrow, Jessie 121, 125, 130, 136, 141 Starke, Rosa 147 Stewart, Josephine 151 Suber, Bettie 155 Swindler, Ellen 156 Taylor, Mack 157 Thompson, Delia 160 Toatley, Robert 163 Veals, Mary 167, 169 Walker, Manda 170 Walker, Med 174 Waring, Daniel 181 Washington, Nancy 184 Watson, Charley 188 White, Dave 191, 194 White, Tena 196 Williams, Bill 199 Williams, Jesse 202 Williams, Mary 206 Williams, Willis 208 Wilson, Emoline 213, 215 Wilson, Jane 216 Woodberry, Genia 218 Woodberry, Julia 227, 232, 237, 242 Woods, George 247 Woodward, Aleck 253 Woodward, Mary 257 Worth, Pauline 260 Wright, Daphney 266 Young, Bill 270 Young, Bob 273 =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =MARY RAINES= =_EX-SLAVE 99 YEARS OLD._= Mary Raines is the oldest living person, white or black, in Fairfield County. If she survives until next December, she will have attained her century of years. She lives with her widowed daughter, Fannie McCollough, fifty-seven years old, and a son, Joe Raines, aged 76 years. They rent a two-room frame house, on lands of Mrs. Sallie Wylie, Chester County, S.C. Joe, the son, is a day laborer on nearby farms. Fannie cooks for Mrs. W.T. Raines. Old Mother Mary has been receiving a county pension of $5.00 per month for several years. "How old would Marse William Woodward be if he hadn't died befo' I gwine to die? A hundred and twenty, you say? Well, dat's 'bout de way I figured my age. Him was a nephew of Marse Ed, de fust Marse Ed P. Mobley. Him say dat when him 'come twenty-one, old marster give him a birthday dinner and 'vite folks to it. Marse Riley McMaster, from Winnsboro, S.C., was dere a flyin' 'round my young mistress, Miss Harriett. Marse Riley was a young doctor, ridin' 'round wid saddlebags. While they was all settin' down to dinner, de young doctor have to git up in a hurry to go see my mammy. Left his plate piled up wid turkey, nice dressin', rice and gravy, candy 'tatoes, and apple marmalade and cake. De wine 'canter was a settin' on de 'hogany sideboard. All dis him leave to go see mammy, who was a squallin' lak a passle of patarollers (patrollers) was a layin' de lash on her. When de young doctor go and come back, him say as how my mammy done got all right and her have a gal baby. Then him say dat Marse Ed, his uncle, took him to de quarter where mammy was, look me all over and say: 'Ain't her a good one? Must weigh ten pounds. I's gwine to name dis baby for your mama, William. Tell her I name her, Mary, for her, but I 'spects some folks'll call her 'Polly', just lak they call your mama, 'Polly'. "I was a strong gal, went to de field when I's twelve years old, hoe my acre of cotton, 'long wid de grown ones, and pick my 150 pounds of cotton. As I wasn't scared of de cows, they set me to milkin' and churnin'. Bless God! Dat took me out of de field. House servants 'bove de field servants, them days. If you didn't git better rations and things to eat in de house, it was your own fault, I tells you! You just have to help de chillun to take things and while you doin' dat for them, you take things for yourself. I never call it stealin'. I just call it takin' de jams, de jellies, de biscuits, de butter and de 'lasses dat I have to reach up and steal for them chillun to hide 'way in deir little stomaches, and me, in my big belly. "When Joe drive de young doctor, Marse Riley, out to see Mass Harriett, while Marse Riley doin' his courtin' in de parlor, Joe was doin' his courtin' in de kitchen. Joe was as smart as de nex' one. Us made faster time than them in de parlor; us beat them to de marriage. Marse Riley call it de altar, but Joe always laugh and say it was de halter. Many is de time I have been home wid them sixteen chillun, when him was a gallavantin' 'round, and I wished I had a got a real halter on dat husband of mine. "I b'longs to de Gladden's Grove African Methodist 'Piscopal Church. Too old to shout but de great day is comin', when I'll shout and sing to de music of dat harp of 10,000 strings up yonder. Oh! Won't dat be a joyful day, when dese old ailin' bones gonna rise again." (Then the old darkey became suffused in tears, lapsed into a silence and apathy, from which she couldn't be aroused. Finally she slumbered and snored. It would have been unkind to question her further.) =Project 935= =Hattie Mobley= =Richland County= =FRANK RANGE= =CIVIL WAR SERVANT and HERO= At the age of one hundred and three, Frank Range is a familiar figure on the streets of Greenville, talking freely of pre-Civil and Civil War days, and the part he played in the war. Frank, the oldest of nine children, was born of slave parents, Lenard and Elizabeth Herbert, on the plantation of Mr. Jim Boler, Newberry, South Carolina. He was sold several times, and is known by the name of one of his owners, John Range. During the Civil War his master, Mr. Jim Herbert, carried him to the war as a cook, and when necessary, he was pressed into service, throwing up breast-works; and while he was engaged in this work, at Richmond Va. a terrific bombardment of their lines was made, and a part of their breast-works was crushed in, and his master buried beneath it. Frantic with fear for the safety of his master, Frank began to move the dirt away; finally he was able to drag him to safety. Though shot and shell were falling all around him, he came out unscathed. Frank Range returned to Newberry at the close of the war, after which he moved to Greenville County in 1901, and into the city in 1935. He is never happier than when, in the center of a group of willing hearers, he is reciting in a sing-song tone the different periods of his life. He attributes his longevity to the fact that he has never tasted whiskey, never chewed tobacco; never had a fight; toothache and headache are unknown to him; the service of a physician has never been needed; he does not know one playing card from another. He can walk five or more miles with seeming ease; is jovial and humorous. He receives a state pension of twenty five dollars annually. His place of residence is 101 Hudson St. Greenville, S.C. References; Mr. Guy A. Gullick, Probate Judge, Greenville County. Frank Range (information given concerning himself) 101 Hudson St. Greenville S.C. =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =June 15, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I was born in 1835 in Lexington County, S.C. I know I was 12 years old de last year of de war. I belonged to John Hiller in Lexington County, near Columbia, S.C. Old Marse Hiller was strict to his slaves, wasn't mean, but often whipped 'em. I thought it was all right then. When de Yankees come through burning, killing and stealing stock, I was in marse's yard. Dey come up whar de boss was standing, told him dere was going to be a battle, grabbed him and hit him. Dey burned his house, stole de stock, and one Yankee stuck his sword to my breast and said fer me to come wid him or he would kill me. O' course I went along. Dey took me as fer as Broad River, on t'other side o' Chapin; then turned me loose and told me to run fast or they would shoot me. I went fast and found my way back home by watching de sun. Dey told me to not go back to dat old man. "De slaves never learnt to read and write. If any o' dem was caught trying to learn to read or write, dey was whipped bad. I kotched on to what de white chilluns said, and learnt by myself to say de alphabet. "We went to de white churches atter de war, and set in de gallery. Den de niggers set up a 'brush harbor' church fer demselves. We went to school at de church, and atter school was out in de atternoon, we had preaching. "Befo' freedom come, de patrollers was strong dere, and whipped any niggers dey kotched out without a pass; wouldn't let dem go to church without a pass. "Lots of hunting round dere, dey hunted rabbits, squirrels, foxes and 'possums. Dey fished like dey do now. "De white folks had old brick ovens away from de house, and wide fireplaces in de kitchens. Dey cooked many things on Saturdays, to last several days. Saturday afternoons, we had off to catch up on washing and other things we wanted to do. "I 'member de Ku Klux and de Red Shirts, but don't 'member anything dey did dere. "We had corn-shuckings and cotton pickings, when de white people would have everybody to come and help. Us niggers would help. Dey had big suppers afterwards. "We had plenty to eat from de garden of de boss, a big garden dat furnished all de slaves. Den de boss killed hogs and had other things to eat. Most o' de things raised in de garden, was potatoes, turnips, collards and peas. "Some of us had witches. One old woman was a witch, and she rode me one night. I couldn't get up one night, had a ketching of my breath and couldn't rise up. She held me down. In dem days, was lots o' fevers with de folks. Dey cured 'em and other sickness wid teas from root herbs and barks. "Abraham Lincoln was a good man. He said you folks ought to let dem niggers loose and let dem go to work. He come wid his two men, Grant and Sherman, and captured de slave bosses. Jeff Davis was one o' de forerunners of de war. Don't know much about him. Booker T. Washington is a good man. Think he is in office fer a good purpose. I been married four times, Was young man when I married first time. Gussie Gallman, my last wife, is living wid me." Source: Sam Rawls (84), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (6/9/37) =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Oct. 13, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I live wid my fourth wife and she is much younger dan me. I am unable to work and have to stay in bed lots of de time. My wife works at odd jobs, like washing, ironing and cooking. We rent a two-room house from Miss Ann Ruff. "I belonged to John Hiller. He was a good master but he worked his slaves hard. Dat was in Lexington County. "I heard dat Gen. Grant said de slaves ought to get 40 acres of land and a mule so dey could go to work; but dey never got any dat I knows of. Atter Freedom dey worked as wage earners and share-croppers. Some went to other farms to get jobs. Dat's about what dey do now, but some of dem saved a little money and bought farms and some started little businesses of deir own. "De Ku Klux didn't have much influence wid de slaves or ex-slaves. As soon as de war broke, dey went riding up and down de public roads to catch and beat niggers. My brother run off when dey got atter him. He went to Orangeburg County and stayed down dere. "I voted twice den, once at Prosperity and again at Newberry. I was a Republican, of course. Some of de Niggers of dis state was elected to office, but dey was not my kinfolks nor special friends. I think niggers ought to vote so dey could vote fer good white folks; and dey ought to run fer office if dey could be elected by good white folks. "I was sixteen years old when de Yankees come through dis country. Dey caught me in de road and made me go wid dem to Broad River where dey camped one night. Den dey turned me loose and told me to git. I run as fast as I could. I followed de setting sun, de road running towards de sun all de time, and got home about night. "Since freedom is come de niggers have worked mostly on farms as share-croppers; some as renters wid deir own crops to raise. "De present generation of niggers ain't got much sense. Dey work when dey want to, and have deir own way about it. De old niggers was learned to work when dey was little. "I don't know nothing about de Nat Turner Rebellion. I never know'd but one old nigger dat come from Virginia, old Ellen Abner. She lived below Prosperity fer a long time, in de Stoney Hills. "Yes sir, I tries to live right and git along wid everybody." Source: Sam Rawls (80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. 8/23/37. =Project 1885 -1-= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =District #4= =May 31, 1937= =Edited by:= =Martha Ritter= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVES= "I was born on Capt. John P. Kinard's place. My mammy and pa was Lucy and Eph Kinard who belonged to Marse Kinard. Marse Kinard was good to his slaves--didn't whip them much. He whipped me a little. When I was a little girl I slept in the big house in the room with my mistress and her husband, and waited on them. I worked when I got old enough, in the field, and anywhere around. When I wouldn't work good, my mammy whipped me most. "I 'member the folks cooked in skillets over an old fireplace. "After the war was over and freedom come we stayed on with Capt. Kinard, 'till I married and then went over to Dock Renwick's place where my husband worked. I married Tom Renwick. We went to the church of the colored folks after the war, and had preachings in mornings and evenings and at night, too. We didn't have no nigger schools, and we didn't learn to read and write. "The white folks had corn-shuckings, cotton pickings at night, when the mistress would fix a big dinner for all working." SOURCE: Ellen Renwick (79), RFD, Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: Mr. G. Leland Summer, 1707 Lindsey St., Newberry, S.C. =Project 1885 -1-= =District #4= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =June 7, 1937= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVES= "I was born in Spartanburg County, S.C., near Glenn Springs. I can't 'member slavery or de war, but my ma and pa who was Green Foster and his wife, Mary Posey Foster, always said I was a big gal when the war stopped, when freedom come. "We belonged to Seth Posey who had a big farm there. He was a good man, but sure made us work. I worked in the fields when I was small, hoed and picked cotton, hoed corn. They didn't give us no money for it. All we got was a place to sleep and a little to eat. The big man had a good garden and give us something from it. He raised loads of hogs, to eat and to sell. He sold lots of them. The young fellows hunted rabbits, possums, squirrels, wild turkeys, partridges, doves, and went fishing. The Master's wife, Miss Nancy, was good to us. She had one son, William. "Yes, I 'member my ma telling us 'bout the padder-rollers. They would ride around, whipping niggers. "My ma said her step-mother sold her. Sometimes they would take crowds of slaves to Mississippi, taking away mothers from their infant babies, leaving the babies on the floor. "We always shuck corn and shell it at night, on moon-light nights we pick cotton. On Saturday afternoons we had frolics, sometimes frolics 'till Sunday daylight, then sleep all day Sunday. "When we got sick all the medicine we took was turpentine--dat would cure almost any ailment. Some of the niggers used Sampson snake weed or peach leaves boiled and tea drunk. "I joined the church when I was 12 years old 'cause the other girls joined. I think everybody ought to join a church to get their souls right for heaven: "I married Charley Rice in Spartanburg County, at a colored man's house, named Henry Fox, by a colored preacher named 'Big Eye' Bill Rice. I had four children, and have five grand-children. I have been living in Newberry about 35 years or more. I worked as a wash-woman many years. "When freedom come, my folks stayed on with Capt. Posey, and I washed and ironed with them later when I was big enough. I done some cooking, too. I could card and spin and make homespun dresses. My ma learned me. "I don't know much about Abraham Lincoln and Jeff Davis but reckon dey was good men. I never learned to read and write. Booker Washington, I reckon, is a good man." SOURCE: Anne Rice (75), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, 1707 Lindsey St., Newberry, S.C. =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Jan. 17, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "My people tells me a lot about when I was a lil' wee boy. I has a clear mind and I allus has had one. My folks did not talk up people's age like folks do dese days. Every place dat I be now, 'specially round dese government folks, first thing dat dey wants to know is your name. Well, dat is quite natu'al, but de very next question is how old you is. I don't know, why it is, but dey sho do dat. As my folks never talked age, it never worried me till jes' here of late. So dey says to me dat last week I give one age to de man, and now I gives another. Soon I see'd dat and I had to rest my mind on dat as well as de mind of de government folks. So I settled it at 80 years old. Dat gives me respect from everybody dat I sees. Den it is de truth, too, kaise I come along wid everybody dat is done gone and died now. De few white folks what I was contemperment (contemporary) wid, 'lows dat I is 80 and dey is dat, too. "You know dat I does 'member when dat Sherman man went through here wid dem awful mens he had. Dey 'lowed dat dey was gwine to Charlotte to git back to Columbia. I never is heard of sech befo' or since. We lived at old man Jerry Moss's in Yorkville, way back den. Yes sir, everyone said Yorkville, den, but dey ain't never called Gaffney like dat. Stories goes round 'bout Sherman shooting folks. Some say dat he shot a big rock off'n de State House in Columbia. My Ma and my Pa, Henry and Charity Rice, hid me wid dem when Sherman come along. Us never see'd him, Lawd God no, us never wanted to see him. "Folks allus crying hard times dese days, ain't no hard times now like it was atter Sherman went through Yorkville. My ma and pa give me ash cake and 'simmon beer to eat for days atter dat. White folks never had no mo', not till a new crop was grow'd. Dat year de seasons was good and gardens done well. Till den us nearly starved and we never had no easy time gitting garden seed to plant, neither. "Yes sir, if I's handy to locust I makes locust beer; den if I's handy to 'simmons, why den I makes 'simmon beer. Now it's jes' for to pass de time dat us does dat. But gwine back to de war; den it was for necessity. Dese young'uns now don't know what hard times is. Dey all has bread and meat and coffee, no matter how poor dey is. If dey had to live for days and weeks on ash cake and 'simmon beer, as us did den, and work and wait on a crop wid nothing but dat in deir bellies; den dey could grumble hard times. I allus tells 'em to shut up when dey starts anything like dat around me. "When dat crop come along, we sho did fall in and save all us could for de next year. Every kind of seed and pod dat grow'd we saved and dried for next spring or fall planting. Atter folks is once had deir belly aching and growling for victuals, dey ain't never gwine to throw no rations and things away no mo'. Young folks is powerful wasteful, but if something come along to break up deir good time like it did to us when dat man Sherman held everything up, dey sho will take heed, and dey won't grumble 'bout it neither, cause dey won't have no time to grumble. "Things passes over quicker sometimes dan we figures out dat dey will. Everything, no matter how good it be or how hard, passes over. Dey jes' does like dat. So dem Yankees went on somewhars, I never know'd whar, and everything round Yorkville was powerful relieved. Den de Confederate soldiers started coming across Broad River. Befo' dey got home, word had done got round dat our folks had surrendered; but dem Yankees never fit (fought) us out--dey starved us out. If things had been equal us would a-been fighting dem till dis day, dat us sho would. I can still see dem soldiers of ours coming across Broad River, all dirty, filthy, and lousy. Dey was most starved, and so poor and lanky. And deir hosses was in de same fix. Men and hosses had know'd plenty till dat Sherman come along, but most of dem never know'd plenty no more. De men got over it better dan de hosses. Women folks cared for de men. Dey brewed tea from sage leaves, sassafras root and other herb teas. Nobody never had no money to fetch no medicine from de towns wid, so dey made liniments and salves from de things dat grow'd around about in de woods and gardens. "I told you 'bout how small I was, but my brother, Jim Rice, went to Charleston and helped to make dem breastworks down dar. I has never see'd dem, but dem dat has says dat dey is still standing in good conditions. Cose de Yankees tore up all dat dey could when dey got dar. "Lots of rail fences was made back in dem days. Folks had a 'no fence' law, dat meant dat everybody fenced in deir fields and let de stock run free. Hogs got wild and turkeys was already wild. Sometimes bulls had to be shot to keep dem from tearing up everything. But folks never fenced in no pasture den. Dey put a rail fence all around de fields, and in dem days de fields was never bigger dan ten or fifteen acres. Logs was plentiful, and some niggers, called 'rail splitters', never done nothing else but split rails to make fences. "If I recollects right, Wade Hampton broke down fence laws in dis country. I sho heard him talk in Yorkville. Dey writ about him in de Yorkville Inquirer and dey still has dat paper over dar till now. De Red Shirts come along and got Wade Hampton in. He scared de Yankees and Carpetbaggers and all sech folks as dem away from our country. Dey went back whar dey come from, I reckon. "De Ku Klux was de terriblest folks dat ever crossed my path. Who dey was I ain't never know'd, but dey took Alex Leech to Black's Ford on Bullet Creek and killed him for being a radical. It was three weeks befo' his folks got hold of his body. "Dr. Bell's calves got out and did not come back for a long time. Mrs. Bell fear'd dat dey was gitting wild, so she sent de milk girl down on de creek to git dem calves. Dat girl had a time, but she found 'em and drove 'em back to de lot. De calves give her a big chase and jumped de creek near a big raft of logs dat had done washed up from freshets. All over dem logs she saw possums, musrats and buzzards a-setting around. She took her stick and drove dem all away, wid dem buzzards puking at her. When dey had left, she see'd uncle Alex laying up dar half e't up by all dem varmints. "She know'd dat it must be him. When she left, dem buzzards went back to deir perch. First thing dey done was to lap up deir own puke befo' dey started on uncle Alex again. Yes sir, dat's de way turkey buzzards does. Dey pukes on folks to keep dem away, and you can't go near kaise it be's so nasty; but dem buzzards don't waste nothing. Little young buzzards looks like down till dey gits over three days old. You can go to a buzzard roost and see for yourself, but you sho better stay out'n de way of de old buzzard's puke. Dey sets around de little ones and keeps everything off by puking. "Pacolet used to be called Buzzard Roost, kaise in de old days dey had a rail outside de bar-room dat de drunks used to hang over and puke in a gully. De buzzards would stay in dat gully and lap up dem drunkards' puke. One night a old man went in a drunkard's sleep in de bar-room. De bar tender shoved him out when he got ready to close, and he rolled up against dis here rail dat I am telling you about. He 'lowed dat next morning when he woke up, two buzzards was setting on his shirt front eating up his puke. He said, 'You is too soon', and grabbed one by de leg and wrung his head off. But befo' he could git its head wrung off it had done puked his own puke back on him. He said dat was de nastiest thing he ever got into, and dat he never drunk no more liquor. Dem days is done past and gone, and it ain't nobody hardly knows Pacolet used to be called Buzzard Roost. "Lawd have mercy, white folks! Here I is done drapped plumb off'n my subject; but a old man's mind will jes' run waa'ry at times. Me and Joe, Alex's son, went to see de officer 'bout gitting Joe's pa buried. He 'lowed dat Alex's body was riddled wid bullets; so we took him and put his bones and a little rotten flesh dat dem buzzards had left, in de box we made, and fetched it to de site and buried him. Nobody ever seed Alex but me, Joe, and dat gal dat went atter dem calves. Us took shovels and throw'd his bones in de box. When we got de top nailed on, we was both sick. Now, things like dat don't come to pass. I still thinks of de awful days and creeps runs all over me yet. "All my brothers, sisters, mother and father is done gone. And I is looking to leave befo' a great while. I is trying every day to git ready, Lawd. I been making ready for years. Smart mens tries to make you live on, but dey can't git above death. Tain't no use." Source: Jesse Rice (80), Littlejohn St., Gaffney, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. 1/8/38 =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =June 15, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I'm living on Mr. Russel Emmitt's place. I never did nothing but drive cows when I was a little boy growing up. Miss Cum and Miss Lizzie Rice was Marse Alex's sisters. Marse Alex done died, and dey was my mistress. Dey tuck and sold de plantation afo dey died, here 'bout twenty years ago. Dat whar my ma found me and den she died. "My grandparents, Jane and Peter Stevens, brung me up. I was a little farm boy and driv cows fer de overseer, Jim Blalock. Miss Cum was really Miss Ann. Miss Ann had a hundred niggers, herself, and Miss Lizzie had might nigh dat many, asides dem what Marse Alex done left 'em. De overseer try to act rough out o' Miss Ann's sight, and she find it out and set him down a peg. "Miss Jane have our shirts made on de looms. She let us wear long shirts and go in our shirt tails, and us had to keep 'em clean, too, 'cause Miss Jane never like no dirt around her. Miss Jane have charge of de whole house and everything along wid it. "Us had three hundred hogs to tend to, two hundred yellings and heifers, and Lawdy knows how many sheep and goats. Us fed dem things and kept 'em fat. When butchering time come, us stewed out the mostest lard and we had enough side-meat to supply the plantation the year round. Our wheat land was fertilized wid load after load of cotton seed. De wheat us raised was de talk of de country side. 'Sides dat, dare was rye, oats and barley, and I ain't said nothing 'bout de bottom corn dat laid in de cribs from year to year. "Our smokehouse was allus full o' things to eat, not only fer de white folks but fer de darkies as well. And our barns carried feed fer de cattle from harvest to harvest. "De fattest of all de hosses, was Miss Ann's black saddle hoss called, 'Beauty'. Miss Ann wo' de longest side-saddle dress dat hung way down below her feets. Somebody allus had to help her on and off Beauty, but n'ary one of her brothers could out-ride Miss Ann." Source: Phillip Rice (75), Kelton, S.C. RFD Interviewed by: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (5/7/37) =Project #1655= =Stiles M. Scruggs= =Columbia, S.C.= =_THE POT OF GOLD._= Martha Richardson, who tells this story, lives at 924 Senate Street, Columbia, S.C. Her father was an Indian and her mother a mulatto. She was born in Columbia in 1860 and was five years old, when General W.T. Sherman's Federal troops captured and burned the city in 1865. "When I gits big 'nough to pick up chips for de cook stove, we was livin' in de rear of Daniel Gardner's home, on Main Street, and my mammy was workin' as one of de cooks at de Columbia Hotel. De hotel was run by Master Lowrance, where de Lorick & Lowrance store is now. "My daddy, like de general run of Indians, love to hunt but de game not bring much cash in. My mammy often give him some change (money) and he not work much but he always good to mammy and she love him and not fuss at him, much. I soon learn dat if it had not been for mammy, we wouldn't a had much to eat and wear. We go 'long lak dat for a good while and my mammy have friends 'nough dat she seldom had to ask for a job. "De game was so scarce dat my daddy sometimes make a little money a showin' people how to make Indian medicine, dat was good for many complaints, how to cover deir houses, and how to kill deir hogs, 'cordin' to de moon. He tell us many times 'bout de great Catawba Indians, who make all deir own medicines and kill bears and dress in deir skins, after feastin' on deir flesh. He was a good talker. "You know, I sees so much 'skimpin', to make ends meet at home, as we go 'long dis way, dat I has never married. My mammy tell me: 'Honey, you a pretty child. You grow up and marry a fine, lovin' man lak your daddy, and be happy.' I kinda smile but I thinks a lot. If my daddy had worked and saved lak my mammy, we would be 'way head of what we is, and my brudders say so, too. But we fond of our daddy, he so good lookin' and all. "What de most 'citin' thing I ever see? Well, I think de Red Shirt campaign was. You never see so much talkin', fightin', and fussin' as dat. You know de Yankees was still here and they not 'fraid, and de Hampton folks was not 'fraid, so it was a case of knock down and drag out most of de time, it seem to me. Long at de end, dere was two governors; one was in de Wallace House and one in de Capitol. Men went 'bout town wid deir guns. "Mammy keep busy cookin', nussin', and washin', and us chillun help. You know I had two brudders older than me and a little baby brudder 'bout a year old, when my mammy rent a small farm from Master Greenfield, down at de end of Calhoun Street, near de Broad River. We plant cotton. I was then eleven years old and my brudder was twelve and thirteen. My mammy help us plant it befo' she go to work at de hotel. "She was home washin', one day, when my brudders and me was choppin' cotton. We chop 'til 'bout eleven o'clock dat mornin' and we say: 'When we gits out de rows to de big oak tree we'll sit down and rest.' We chillun lak each other and we joke and work fast 'til we comes to de end of de rows and in de shade of de big oak. Then we sets down, dat is, my oldest brudder and me, 'cause my young brudder was a little behind us in his choppin'. As he near de finish, his hoe hit somethin' hard and it ring. Ha rake de dirt 'way and keep diggin', light lak. "What you doin', brudder?' I say. He say: 'Tryin' to find out what dis is. It seem to be a pot lid.' Then we jump up and go to him and all of us grabble dirt 'way and sho' 'nough it was a pot lid and it was on a pot. We digs it out, thinkin' it would be a good thing to take home. It was so heavy, it take us all to lift it out. "It was no sooner out than we takes off de lid and we is sho' s'prised at what we see. Big silver dollars lay all over de top. We takes two of them and drops them together and they ring just lak we hear them ring on de counters. Then we grabble in de pot for more. De silver went down 'bout two inches deep. Twenty dollar gold pieces run down 'bout four inches or so and de whole bottom was full of big bundles of twenty dollar greenbacks. "We walks up to de house feelin' pretty big and my oldest brudder was singin': 'Hawk and buzzard went to law, Hawk come back wid a broken jaw.' "Mammy say widout lookin' at us: 'What you all comin' to dinner so soon for?' Then she looked up and see de pot and say: 'Land sakes, what you all got?' Then we puts de big pot down in de middle of de floor and takes off de lid, and mammy say: 'Oh! Let's see what we has!' She begin to empty de pot and to count de money. She tell us to watch de door and see dat nobody got in, 'cause she not at home! "She say de money 'mount to $5,700, and she swear us not to say nothin' 'bout findin' it. She would see what she could find out 'bout it. Weeks after dat, she tell us a big white friend tell her he hear a friend of his buried some money and went to war widout tellin' anybody where it was. Maybe he was killed and dat all we ever hear. "My mammy kept it and we all work on just de same and she buy these two lots on Senate Street. She build de two-story house here at 924, where you sittin' now, and de cottage nex' door. She always had rent money comin' in ever since. By and by she die, after my Indian pappy go 'way and never come back. Then all de chillun die, 'ceptin' me. "I am so happy dat I is able to spend my old days in a sort of ease, after strugglin' most of my young life and gittin' no learnin' at school, dat I sometimes sing my mammy's old song, runnin' somethin' lak dis: 'Possum up de simmon tree Sparrow on de ground 'Possum throw de 'simmons down Sparrow shake them 'round'." =Project#-1655= =Phoebe Faucette= =Hampton County= =Approx. 416 words= =MAMIE RILEY= =Ex-Slave= "Aunt Mamie's" hair is entirely white. She lives in a neat duplex brick house with one of her husband's relatives, a younger woman who is a cook for a well established family in Estill, S.C. When questioned about the times before the war, she replied: "Yes'm, I kin tell you 'bout slav'ry time, 'cause I is one myself. I don' remember how old I is. But I remember when de Yankees come through I bin 'bout so high. (She put her hand out about 3-1/2 feet from the floor.) We lived on Mr. Henry Solomons' place--a big place. Mr. Henry Solomons had a plenty of people--three rows of house, or four. "When de Yankees come through Mr. Solomons' place I wuz right dere. We wuz at our house in de street. I see it all. My ma tell me to run; but I ain't think they'd hurt me. I see 'em come down de street--all of 'em on horses. Oo--h, dey wuz a heap of 'em! I couldn't count 'em. My daddy run to de woods--he an' de other men. Dey ran right to de graveyard. Too mucha bush been dere. You couldn't see 'em. Stay in de woods three days. "Dey went to my daddy's house an' take all. My daddy ran. My mother an' my older sister wuz dere. My ma grab a quilt off de bed an' cover herself all over wid it--head an' all. And set in a chair dere by de fire. She tell us to git in de bed--but I ain't git in. And she yell out when she hear 'em comin': 'Dere's de fever in heah!' Six of 'em come to de door; but dey say dey ain't goin' in--dey'll catch de fever. Den some more come along. Dey say dey gwine in. Dey ain't gwine to take no fever. Fill two sack of 'tatoes. White man ask to search all trunk. Dey take two of me Ma's good dresses out. Say to wrap 'tatoes in. I start to cryin' den, an' dey say, 'Well, git us some sacks den.' I knowed where some sacks wuz. I git 'em de sacks. Dey do 'em right. Dey bid 'em goodbye, an' ax 'em where de man wuz. Dey give me 'leven or twelve dollars. I wuz little an' ain't know. My mother never give it to me. "I stay right on dere after freedom, until after I married." Source: Mamie Riley, Negro about 80 years old, Estill, S.C. =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =May 24, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I was born near Broad River in de Dutch Fork of Newberry County. I was a slave of Cage Suber. He was a fair master, but nothing to brag about. I was small at slavery time and had to work in de white folks' house or around the house until I was big enough to go to de field and work. "Old Marse Cage always made me fan flies off of him when he lay down to take a nap. The fan was made out of brushes. "De white folks had cotton-pickings, corn-shuckings and quiltings. Dey allus had something to eat at the frolics and I had to help wid 'em. "I married John Riser. I moved to town several years ago." Source: Susie Riser (80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C., May 17, 1937. =Project #1655= =Henry Grant,= =Columbia, S.C.= =ISOM ROBERTS= =_EX-SLAVE 80 YEARS OLD_= Isom Roberts rents one room at 1226 Waverly Street, Columbia, S.C., and lives alone. However frail he appears, he is able to support himself by working in the yards about the city. "Well, sir, white folks, I is eighty years old, or leastwise I is so close to it, dat it don't make much difference. But even if I is dat old, it don't seem so long since I was a little boy. Years flies by mighty fas' to old folks, 'cause deir 'memberance is shorter, while young folks 'members everything, and in dat way months and years drags 'long slower to them. "I was a very small boy when de Civil War was gwine on. It seems like I knows all 'bout Sherman's army comin' through dis State, a burnin' Columbia and destroyin' and takin' away everything what folks had. I has heard so much 'bout slavery and all them times, from my mammy and daddy, dat it 'pears to me dat I 'sperienced it all. I 'spects knowin' 'bout things is just 'bout as good and true as seein' them. Don't you? "My daddy and mammy b'long to Marster Sam Louie, who had a big plantation over in Calhoun County. He had 'bout fifty or more grown slaves, 'sides many chillun of de slaves. Old marster was a good farmer; raised big crops and saved what he made. He sho' was a fine business man but he was mighty hard on everybody he had anything to do wid. He told his slaves to work hard and make him a heap of money and that he would keep it, in case of hard times. Times was all de time hard wid old marster but de niggers never got no money. When news spread 'round dat de Yankees was comin' to free de niggers, he called all de slaves up in de yard and showed them a big sack of money, what they had made for him, and told them dat he was gwine to kill all of them befo' de Yankees set them free and that they wouldn't need no money after they was done dead. All de slaves was mighty sad and troubled, all dat day, when old marster made dat speech to them. But somethin' happened. It most makes me tremble to talk to you 'bout it now. Providence, or some kind of mercy spirit, was sho' walkin' 'round dat plantation dat night. Sometime in de night it was whispered 'round amongst de slaves dat old marster done took de smallpoxes and was mighty sick. Mammy said he must have been terrible sick, 'cause they buried him two days after dat. "After old marster flew away, everything was different on de plantation. Miss Nancy, dat was old marster's wife, told de slaves dat when de Yankees freed them, they could stay right there and work on shares or by the day, which ever way they wanted. Many stayed on de plantation after freedom while others went away. Me and my folks stayed on wid Miss Nancy until she die. Then us moved on another plantation in de lower side of de county. I stayed dere until my wife died, seventeen years ago. "Does I 'member anything 'bout how de slaves was treated in slavery time? Well, I 'members a little myself and a heap of what others told me. Wid dis I has done told you, I believes I want to stop right dere. A low fence is easier to git over than a high one. Say little and you ain't gwine to have a heap to 'splain hereafter. Dere is a plenty of persons dat has lost deir heads by not lettin' deir tongues rest. Marster Sam Louie is dead now. He can't disturb nobody in his grave. He had his faults and done many things wrong but show me dat person what don't mis-step sometimes. All of us, both white and black, is prone to step aside now and then. To tell de truth, old marster never knowed what Sunday was. Everybody on de plantation worked on dat day as same as any other day. "But Boss, if my old marster was rough and hard and break de Sabbath and all dat, he was no worser than what young white folks and niggers is dese days. You can see them any time, floppin' 'bout in dese automobiles, a drinkin' and a carryin' on. Sich stuff is abomination in de sight of a decent person, much less dat One up yonder. (He pointed upward). "I's gwine to tell you boss, dat slavery time was better for de average nigger than what they is gittin' now. Folks say dat slavery was wrong and I 'spose it was, but to be poor like a heap of niggers is now, is de worse thing dat has ever come upon them, I thinks. Dis gittin' something wrong, ain't right. De North had no business sellin' niggers to de South and de South had no business buyin' them from de North and makin' slaves of them. Everything went on pretty nice for awhile, then de North got jealous of de South and de South got 'spicious of de North. I believes dat if you can't go over and you can't go under, then you should try to go 'round. If de big men up North and here in de South had been good 'nough and smart 'nough, they might could a gone 'round dat terrible Civil War. I believes dat. "I marry Lucy Nelson when I was 'bout thirty years old. She was a bright skin nigger, much brighter than I is. She was high tempered and high spirited, too. She was sho' smart, and de best cook I has ever seen. Just plain corn bread, dat she cooked in de hot ashes of de fireplace, taste sweeter and better than de cake you buy now. But de least thing would git her temper 'roused. I has knowed her to complain wid de old hound dog us had, 'cause he didn't run some rabbits out de woods for me to shoot. Fuss wid de cats, 'cause they didn't ketch de mouses in de house. Quarrel wid de hens, 'cause they eat, cackled, scratched and wallowed holes in de yard and wouldn't lay. Told de old rooster many times dat she was gwine to chop his head off if he didn't crow sooner and louder of mornin's and wake me up so I could go to work. All dis sounds foolish I knows but you see how bent my back is. Well, I 'spects it was bent from totin' so many buckets of water from de spring for her to wash wid soon of mornin's, so I could then do a day's work. "My wife thought she was doin' right by workin' like she did. She thought dat she was helpin' me make a livin' for our big family of eight chillun. Yes sir, I knows now she was right, but hard work broke her health and brought her to her bed where she lingered 'bout one year and then she went away from me. All dis took place seventeen years ago and, from then to dis, I ain't seen no woman I would have for a wife, 'cause I ain't gwine to find no woman Lucy's equal. All my chillun are dead, 'cept two, and I don't know where they is. "Does poor folks have any blessings and pleasure? Well, yes sir, in a way. You see they don't have no worriments over what they has, like rich folks. They can sleep as hot as they want to in de summer time and raise as big families as anybody. Sho', poor folks, and especially niggers, has a good time on hog-killin' days. In early summer come them juicy brierberries dat they enjoy so much. They last until watermelon season. Then they has 'possum and 'tators in de fall. Most all livin' beings has deir own way of doin' things and deir way of existin'. De hog roots for his, de squirrel climbs for his, de chickens scratches for deirs, and de nigger, well, if dere ain't nobody lookin', I reckon they could slip deirs right handy. "I sho' has enjoyed talkin' to you dis evening and now, if you will 'scuse me, I's gwine home and cook me a pot of turnips. I can almost taste them now, I is so hungry." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =ALEXANDER ROBERTSON= =_EX-SLAVE 84 YEARS OLD._= Alexander Robertson lives as a member of the household of his son, Charley, on the General Bratton plantation, four miles southeast of White Oak, S.C. It is a box-like house, chimney in the center, four rooms, a porch in front and morning glory vines, in bloom at this season, climbing around the sides and supports. Does Alexander sit here in the autumn sunshine and while the hours away? Nay, in fact he is still one of the active, working members of the family, ever in the fields with his grandchildren, poke around his neck, extracting fleecy cotton from the bolls and putting it deftly into the poke. He can carry his row equally as well as any of the six grandchildren. He has a good appetite at meal time, digestive organs good, sleeps well, and is the early riser in the mornings. He says the Negro half of his nature objects to working on Saturday afternoon, and at such times his tall figure, with a green patch cloth over the left eye, which is sightless, may be seen strolling to and fro on the streets of Winnsboro. "Well, well! If it ain't de youngun dat use to sell me sugar, coffee, fat back and meal, when he clerk for Calvin Brice & Company, at Woodward, in '84 and 'long dere. "I hopes you is well dis mornin'. I's told to come to Winnsboro and gits blanks for a pension. Andy Foster, man I knows, d'rect me up dese steps and bless God I finds you. You wanna ask me some questions? Well, here I is, more than glad to answer, if I can. Where I born? Strange as it seems, I born right here in Winnsboro. My name set down in a book: 'Alexander-boy-mother, Hannah, wench of James Stewart'. Dat de way it was read to me by Dr. Beaty, dat marry a Miss Cherry and live in Rock Hill. If slavery had never been done 'way wid, dat would be my master today, 'cause him lak hound dogs and I lak a hound dog. Dat kind of breed got a good nose and make good 'possum dog. Marster Jim tell me one time, dat de first dog sprung from a wolf, and dat fust dog was a hound dog. Dat out dat fust dog, (must to a been a bitch, don't you reckon?) come all dogs. I follow his talk wid belief, 'bout de setters, pointers, and blood hounds, even to de fices, but it strain dat belief when it git to de little useless hairy pup de ladies lead 'round wid a silver collar and a shiney chain. Well, you don't care to hear anymore 'bout dat? What is de question? "My master at de fust, was Marster Jim Stewart and my mistress was his wife, Mistress Clara. They have two chillun. I 'member Marster Jim and Miss Lizzie; they live in a fine house befo' de war, 'round yonder close to Mt. Zion College. My mother was de cook and I was de house boy. They had a big plantation 'bout two miles out, sorta southwest of Boro, I mean Winnsboro, of course, but de country people still call it Boro. "On dat plantation was many two-room houses, brick chimneys in de middle, for de plantation slaves. In de growin' season I go wid marster every day, not to drive, too small for dat, just to hold de hoss, when him git out and then I run errands for him, 'round de house and in de fields. "My mother had another child, Willie Finch. A colored man name of Finch is his father but her and de white folks never tell me who my father was. I have to find out dat for myself, after freedom, when I was lookin' 'round for a name. From all I hear and 'pear in de lookin' glass, I see I was half white for sure, and from de things I hear, I conclude I was a Robertson which have never been denied. Maybe it best just to give no front names. Though half a nigger, I have tried to live up to dat name, never took it in dat court house over yonder, never took it in dat jail or dat calaboose. I's paid my debts dollar for dollar and owe no man nothin' but good will. "What de Yankees do when they come? Let other people tell dat, but seem lak they lay de whole town in ashes, 'cept de college and our house close to it, dat they use for de officers while they was in Boro. Why they hear sumpin' bout de Davis name techin' de St. John 'Piscopal Church and they march 'round dere, one cold February Sunday mornin', set it afire, and burn it up. Mother and me went to de plantation and stayed dere 'til they left. "When freedom come, I was twelve years old. Mother marry a Finch; Bill was de name of him. Our nex' move was to Dr. Madden's place, just north of Boro. Us farm up dere and I do de hoein'. I live dere thirteen years. I got to feelin' my oats and tired of workin' for a plum black nigger, I did. Maybe I ought to been more humble but I wasn't. "I ask myself one night: 'What you gonna do, stay here forever for your vittles and clothes?' Then come over my mind I old 'nough for to marry. Who I gwine to marry? It pop right in dis head, Sarah was de gal for me. I rode old Beck down dere de nex' Sunday; dat was in December. I come right to de point wid her and de old folks. They 'low they have no objections if I could take care of her. I say I try to. They say: 'Dat ain't 'nough, 'range yourself for another year and then come and git her'. "De Lord directs me. I's down here payin' my poll, too. Marster Tom Shanty Brice come in as us come out. I ask him if he need a hand for nex' year. He look me up from top to bottom and say: 'What's your name?' I show him my tax receipt. He hire me than and dere. I go right straight to Sarah and us tell de old folks. Rev. Gordon marry us de 29th of January, 1879. Us has seven chillun. Alex, dat's de one name for me, is in Tampa, Florida. Carrie marry a Coleman and is in Charlotte, N.C. Jimmie is dead. Thomas is in Charleston, S.C. Emma marry a Belton and lives wid her husband in Ridgeway, S.C. I stay wid my son, Charley, up de country. "I voted one time in 1876, for Gov. Chamberlain, but when I moved to Marster Tom Brice's I thought so much of him, I just quit voting. I would lak to vote one more time to say: 'I have vote one time wid de black part of my nature, dis time I votes wid de white side of my nature.' What you laughin' 'bout? If it was de call of dark blood de fust time, maybe it's de call of de white blood dis time. You have no idea de worry and de pain a mulatto have to carry all his eighty-four years. Forced to 'sociate wid one side, proud to be related to de other side. Neither side lak de color of your skin. I jine de Methodist church here in Boro and 'tend often as I can and as I hear my preacher Owens preach, dat dere will be no sex in hebben, I hopes and prays dat dere'll be no sich thing as a color line in hebben. "Who de best white men I ever know? Mr. Tom Brice, Mr. W.L. Rosborough, Mr. Watt Sinonton, and Mr. August Nicholson. Master Bill Beaty, dat marry my young mistress, Elizabeth, was a fine man. "What I think of Abe Lincoln? What I think of Mr. Roosevelt? Dere de color come up again. De black say Mr. Lincoln de best President us ever have; de white say us never have had and never will have a President equal of Mr. Roosevelt." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =CHARLIE ROBINSON= =_EX-SLAVE 87 YEARS OLD._= Charlie Robinson lives nine miles northwest of Winnsboro, S.C., on lands of Mr. R.W. Lemmon. There is one other occupant in the four-room house, John Giles, a share cropper. The house has two fireplaces, the brick chimney being constructed in the center of the two main rooms. The other two rooms are shed rooms. Charlie ekes out a living as a day laborer on the farm. "They been tellin' me to come to de social circle and see 'bout my pension but I never is got dere. It been so hot, I hate to hotfoot it nine miles to Winnsboro and huff dat same distance back on a hot summer day. "Glad you come out here but sorry of de day, 'cause it is a Friday and all de jay-birds go to see de devil dat day of de week. It's a bad day to begin a garment, or quilt or start de lye hopper or 'simmon beer keg or just anything important to yourself on dat day. Dere is just one good Friday in de year and de others is given over to de devil, his imps, and de jay-birds. Does I believe all dat? I believes it 'nough not to patch dese old breeches 'til tomorrow and not start my 'simmon beer, when de frost fall on them dis fall, on a Friday. "You wants me to set down so you can ask me sumpin'? I'll do dat! Of course I will! (He proceeded to do so--wiping his nose on his sleeve and sprawling down on the doorsill). My pappy name George, black George they call him in slavery time, 'cause dere was a small yallow slave on de place, named George. My mammy name Ca'line. My pappy b'long to de McNeals and my mammy b'long to Marse Joe Beard. His wife was my mistress. Her name Miss Gracie. 'Nitials? Dat sumpin' not in my lingo, Boss. You want to know what my pappy's old marster name? Seem to me they call him Marse Gene, though it been so long I done forgot. When my marster went to de war him got a ball through his leg. Bad treatment of dat leg give him a limp for de balance of his days. White folks call him 'Hoppin' Joe Beard' and sometime 'Lopin' Joe'. "Marster and mistress have two chillun. I play marbles wid them and make mud pies. Deir names was Marse Willie and Miss Rhoda. "My brudders and sisters was Jeff, Roland, Jane and Fannie. All dead 'cept Fannie. Her marry a big, long nigger name Saul Griffin. Last I heard of them, they was livin' in Columbia, S.C. "I start workin' in de field de second year of de war, 1862. It sho' made me hungry. I 'members now, how I'd git a big tin cupful of pot liquor from de greens, crumble corn bread in it at dinner time and 'joy it as de bestest part of de dinner. Us no suffer for sumpin' to eat. I go all summer in my shirt-tail and in de winter I have to do de best I can, widout any shoes. Ever since then, I just lak to go barefooted as you sees me now. "My pappy git a pass and come to see mammy every Saturday night. My marster had just four slave houses on de place. 'Spect him have 'bout eight women, dat men come from other places to see and marry them and have chillun. I doesn't 'member nary one of de women havin' a husband livin' wid her every night. "Who do de plowin'? Women and boys do de plowin'. Had good 'nough houses, though they was made of logs, 'cup and saddled' at both ends, and covered wid white oak board shingles. Had stick and mud chimneys. "De Yankees made a clean sweep of everything, hosses, mules, cows, hogs, meat and 'lasses. Got so mad when they couldn't find any salt, they burn up everything. Pull Marse Joe's beard, just 'cause him name Beard. De one dat do dat was just a smart aleck and de cap'n of de crowd shame him and make him slink 'way, out de house. "When freedom come, Marse Joe stay one year, then leave. Sell out and move to Walhalla and us move to pappy on de McNeal place. Dat year us all jined de church, Union Church. I now b'longs to New Hope Methodist Church. Us nex' move to Mr. Bill Crawford's place. Mr. Crawford got to be school commissioner on de 'publican ticket and white folks call him scalawag. Him have pappy and all de colored folks go to de 'lection box and vote. Ku Klux come dere one night and whip every nigger man they could lay deir hands on. Things quiet down then but us no more go to de 'lection box and vote. "'Bout dis time thoughts of de gals got in my head and feets at de same time. I was buyin' a biled shirt and celluloid collar, in Mr. Sailing Wolf's store, one Saturday, and in walked Ceily Johnson. I commence to court her right then and dere, befo' I ever git inside dat shirt and collar. Her have dark skin and was good to look at, I tell you. I de-sash-shay 'bout dat gal, lak a chicken rooster spread his wing 'round a pretty black pullet, 'til I wear out her indifference and her make me happy by marryin' me. Her was too good lookin' and too bad doin', though, for me. She left by de light of de moon when us was livin' on de Cummings place, 'bove town. Excuse me now, dat's still a fresh subject of torment to me. Let's talk 'bout chances of gittin' dat pension, when I can git another clean white shirt, lay 'round de white folks again, and git dis belly full of pot liquor." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon.= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =AL ROSBORO= =_EX-SLAVE 90 YEARS OLD._= Al Rosboro, with his second wife, Julia, a daughter, and six small grandchildren, lives in a three-room frame house, three hundred yards east of the Southern Railway track and US #21, about two miles south of Woodward, S.C., in Fairfield County. Mr. Brice gives the plot of ground, four acres with the house, to Al, rent free. A white man, Mr. W.L. Harvey does the ploughing of the patches for him. Al has cataracts on his eyes and can do no work. Since this story was written he has received his first old age pension check of eight dollars from the Social Welfare Board in Columbia, S.C. "Does I know what a nonagenarian is? No seh, what dat? Old folks? Well, dats a mighty long name and I been here a mighty long time. Glad you say it's a honor and a privilege by de mercy of de Lord. I's thankful! You wants to know where I was born and who my white folks then? "I was born just one and a half mile b'low White Oak, S.C., on de old Marse Billie Brice place. My pappy b'long to old Miss Jennie Rosboro, but mammy b'long to Marse William Brice. Her name Ann. My old mistress name Mary, daughter of de Simontons, on Dumpers Creek. "You wants de fust thing I 'members, then travel 'long de years 'til I come to settin' right here in dis chair. Well, reckon us git through today? Take a powerful sight of dat pencil to put it all down. "Let me see. Fust thing I 'members well, was a big crowd wid picks and shovels, a buildin' de railroad track right out de other side of de big road in front of old marster's house. De same railroad dat is dere today. When de fust engine come through, puffin' and tootin', lak to scare 'most everybody to death. People got use to it but de mules and bosses of old marster seem lak they never did. A train of cars a movin' 'long is still de grandest sight to my eyes in de world. Excite me more now than greyhound busses, or airplanes in de sky ever do. "I nex' 'members my young misses and young marsters. Dere was Marse John; he was kilt in de war. Marse Jim, dat went to de war, come back, marry, and live right here in Winnsboro. Marse Jim got a grandson dat am in de army a sailin' air-ships. Then dere was Marse William; he moved off. One of de gals marry a Robertson, I can't 'member her name, tho' I help her to make mud pies many a day and put them on de chicken coop, in de sun, to dry. Her had two dolls; deir names was Dorcas and Priscilla. When de pies got dry, she'd take them under de big oak tree, fetch out de dolls and talk a whole lot of child mother talk 'bout de pies, to de Dorcas and Priscilla rag dolls. It was big fun for her tho' and I can hear her laugh right now lak she did when she mince 'round over them dolls and pies. Dere was some poor folks livin' close by and she'd send me over to 'vite deir chillun over to play wid her. They was name Marshall. Say they come from Virginny and was kin to de highest judge in de land. They was poor but they was proud. Mistress felt sorry for them but they wouldn't 'cept any help from her. "Well, when I git twelve years old, marster give me to his son, Marse Calvin, and give Marse Calvin a plantation dat his son, Homer, live on now. I 'member now old marster's overseer comin' to de field; his name was McElduff. Him say: 'Al, Marse William say come to de house'. I goes dere on de run. When I git dere, him 'low: 'Calvin, I wants you to take Al, I give him to you. Al, you take good care of your young marster'. I always did and if Marse Calvin was livin' he'd tell you de same. "I forgit to tell you one thing dat happen down dere befo' I left. Dere was a powerful rich family down dere name Cockrell; I forgits de fust name. Him brudder tho', was sheriff and live in Winnsboro. Dere was a rich Mobley family dat live jinin' him, two miles sunrise side of him. One day de Cockrell cows got out and played thunder wid Mr. Mobley's corn. Mr. Mobley kilt two of de cows. Dat made de Cockrells mad. They too proud to go to law 'bout it; they just bide deir time. One day Marse Ed Mobley's mules got out, come gallopin' 'round and stop in de Cockrell wheat field. Him take his rifle and kill two of them mules. Dat made Mr. Mobley mad but him too proud to go to law 'bout it. De Mobley's just bide deir time. 'Lection come 'round for sheriff nex' summer. No Cockrell was 'lected sheriff dat time. You ask Mr. Hugh Wylie 'bout dat nex' time him come to de Boro. Him tell you all 'bout it. "Dat call to my mind another big man, dat live 'bove White Oak then, Marse Gregg Cameron. He was powerful rich, wid many slaves. Him lak to bar-room and drink. Him come by marster's house one day, fell off his hoss and de hoss gallop on up de road. Dat was de fust drunk man I ever see. Marster didn't know what to do; him come into de house and ask Mistress Mary. Him tell her him didn't want to scandal de chillun. She say: 'What would de good Samaritan do?' Old marster go back, fetch dat groanin', cussin', old man and put him to bed, bathe his head, make Sam, de driver, hitch up de buggy, make West go wid him, and take Marse Gregg home. I never see or hear tell of dat white man anymore, 'til one day after freedom when I come down here to Robinson's Circus. Him drop dead dat day at de parade, when de steam piano come 'long a tootin'. 'Spect de 'citement, steam, and tootin', was too much for him. "Niggers never learn to read and write. It was 'ginst de law. White folks fear they would write deir passes and git 'way to de free states. "Us slaves 'tend Concord Church, tho' Marse Calvin jine de Seceders and 'tend New Hope. Why us go to Concord? 'Cause it too far to walk to New Hope and not too far to walk to Concord. Us have not 'nough mules for all to ride, and then de mules need a rest. I now b'longs to Bethany Presbyterian Church at White Oak. Yes sah, I thinks everybody ought to jine de church for it's de railroad train to git to hebben on. "Marse Calvin went to de war. Him got shot thru de hand. Yankees come and burn up everything him have. Wheeler's men just as bad. "After freedom I got mannish. Wid not a drop of blood in me but de pure African, I sets out to find a mate of de pure breed. 'Bout de onliest place I could find one of dis hatchin', was de Gaillard quarter. I marry Gabrielle. Live fust years at de Walt Brice McCullough place, then move to de Vinson place, then to de preacher Erwin place. Dat was a fine preacher, him pastor for Concord. Him lak to swap hosses. When him come down out de pulpit him looks 'round, see a hoss him lak, soon as not him go home to dinner wid de owner of dat hoss. After dinner him say: 'If it wasn't de Sabbath, how would you trade dat hoss for my hoss?' More words pass between them, just supposin' all de time it was Monday. Then Mr. Erwin ride back dere nex' day and come back wid de hoss him took a fancy for. "Mr. Erwin move when he git a call to Texas. I moves to de Bob Sinonton place. From dere I goes to de Jim Brice place, now owned by young Marse James Brice. I been dere 32 years. Gabrielle and me generate thirteen chillun, full blooded natural born Africans, seven boys and six gals. Then Gabrielle die and I marry Julia Jenkins. Us have five chillun, one boy and four gals. I's done a heap for my country. I wants Mr. Roosevelt to hear 'bout dat; then maybe him make de country do sumpin' for me." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =TOM ROSBORO= =_EX-SLAVE 79 YEARS OLD._= Tom Rosboro lives with his daughter, Estelle Perry, in a three-room frame house, on Cemetery Street, Winnsboro, S.C. The house stands on a half-acre plot that is used for garden truck. Estelle owns the fee in the house and lot. Tom peddles the truck, eggs, and chickens, in the town and the suburban Winnsboro mill village. "My pappy was name Tom, just lak I is name Tom. My mammy was name Sarah but they didn't b'long to de same marster. Pappy b'long to old Marse Eugene McNaul. Mammy b'long to old Marse John Propst. De ownership of de child followed de mammy in them days. Dat throwed me to be a slave of old Marse John Propst. "My young marsters was name Marse Johnnie, Marse Clark, Marse Floyd, and Marse Wyatt. I had two young misses. Miss Elizabeth marry a McElroy and Miss Mamie marry a Landecker. You know Marse Ernest Propst dat run dat ladies' garment store and is a member of de Winnsboro Town Council? Yes? Well, dat is one of Marse Floyd Propst chillun. "I hear mammy say dat daddy's mistress was name Miss Emma but her mistress and my mistress was name Miss Margaret. My daddy have to have a pass every time he come to see mammy. Sometime they give him a general pass for de year. Sometime him lose de pass and then such a gwine on you never did see de lak. Make more miration (hullabaloo) over it than if they had lost one of de chillun. They was scared de patarollers (patrollers) would come ketch him, and lay de leather whip on his naked back. He wouldn't dare stay long. Him would go back soon, not on de big road but through de woods and fields, so as not to meet de patarollers. "Who was my brothers and sisters and where is they? Brother Ben and Sister Mamie is dead and in glory. Dat's all de chillun mammy had a chance to have, 'cause she was a good woman and would never pay any 'tention to de men slaves on de Propst place. Her was faithful to pappy through thick and thin, whichever it be. "I doesn't 'member much 'bout de Yankees, though I does 'members de Ku Klux. They visit pappy's house after freedom, shake him, and threaten dat, if him didn't quit listenin' to them low-down white trash scalawags and carpetbaggers, they would come back and whale de devil out of him, and dat de Klan would take notice of him on 'lection day. "When I was 'bout seventeen years old, I come to de Boro (Winnsboro) one Saturday evenin' and seen a tall willowy gal, black she was but shiny, puttin' them foots of her'n down on de pavement in a pretty gamecock pullet kind of way, as if to say: 'Roosters look at me.' I goes over to Mr. Landecker's store, de Mr. Landecker dat marry Miss Mamie Propst, and I begs him to give me a cigar. I lights dat cigar and puts out after her. I ketches up wid her just as she was comin' out of Mr. Sailing Wolfe's Jew store. I brush up 'ginst her and say: 'Excuse me lady.' Her say: 'I grants your pardon, Mister. I 'spects smoke got in your eyes and you didn't see me.' I say: 'Well, de smoke is out of my eyes now and they will never have sight for any other gal but you as long as I live.' Black as she was, her got red in de face and say: 'Who is you?' I say: 'Tom Rosboro. What might be your name, lovely gal?' Her say: 'My name is Mattie Nelson.' I say: 'Please to meet you, Sugar Plum.' Her say: 'I live down at Simpson's Turnout. Glad to have you come down to see me sometime.' After dat us kep' a meetin' in Winnsboro, every Saturday, 'til one day us went 'round to Judge Jno. J. Neils' law office and him married us. Me and Mat have our trials and tribulations and has went up and down de hills in all kind of weather. Us never ceased to bless dat day dat I run into her at Mr. Sailing Wolfe's store. "How come I name Rosboro? I just picked it up as a mighty pretty name. Sound better than Propst or McNaul and de Rosboro white folks was big buckra in dat time. "Us had lots of chillun; raise some and lost some. I have a son, Charlie, dat's a barber in Washington, D.C. Lucy, a daughter, marry Tank Hill. Nan marry Banks Smith. Estelle marry Jim Perry but her is a widow now. Her bought a house and lot wid de insurance money from Dr. McCants. She has a nice house on Cemetery Street, wid water and 'lectric lights. Her got four chillun. When my wife die, two years ago, I move in wid Estelle and her four chillun. Her make money by washin' and ironin' for de white folks. Me and de chillun picks cotton and 'tends to de makin' and de peddlin' of garden truck and sich lak. Ah, us is a happy family but I ain't 'bove usin' some of dat old age pension money, if I can git it." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =INTERVIEW WITH REUBEN ROSBOROUGH, RIDGEWAY, S.C.=, =_EX-SLAVE--82 YEARS, 3 MONTHS OLD_= "No sir, I can 'member nothin' 'bout de State of Verginny, where pappy said us was born. He told me, when I was 'bout two years old he and mammy Kitty was took from somewhar in dat state to Richmond, wid de understandin' to sell us as a family, and to give a man name Johnson, de preference. He say de trader couldn't find de man Johnson, and sold us to my marster, John Rosborough. My pappy name William, my brothers, Tom and Willie and my sisters, Mary and Alice. "My marster was a kind and tender man to slaves. You see a man love hosses and animals? Well, dat's de way he love us, though maybe in bigger portion, I 'low. Marster John never marry. Set down dere dat he was good enough to buy my old gran' mammy Mary, though she never could do much work. "Us knowed dat our gran'pappy was a white man back in Verginny, but dat was her secret, dat she kept locked in her breast and carried it wid her to de grave. You say I's very light color myself? So I is, so was she, so was pappy. Ease your mind, us had none of de white Rosborough in us. Us come on one side from de F.F.V's. I's proud of dat, and you can put down dere dat deres no poor white trash blood in dese old veins, too. "De last part of de war I worked some in de field, but not enough to hurt. My Marster was a Presbyterian, b'longed to Aimwell Church. Two or three acres in cemetery dere now, but they done move de church into de town of Ridgeway. "Money was not worshipped then like it is now. Not much use of it. Marster raised all we eat and made all we wear right dere on de place, 'bout five miles north of Ridgeway. "I guess Marster John had forty slaves. Us live in two-story log house wid plank floor. Marster John die, us 'scend to his brother Robert and his wife Mistress Mary. I played wid her chillun. Logan was one and Janie the other. My marster and mistress was good to me. I use to drive de mules to de cotton gin. All I had to do was to set on de long beam and crack my whip every now and then, and de mules would go 'round and 'round. Dere was three hundred and seventy-six acres in dat place. I own part of it today. I b'longs to Good Hope Church. I sure believes in de Lord, and dat His mercies is from everlastin' to everlastin' to them dat fears Him. "'Member but little 'bout de war for freedom, 'cept dat some of de slaves of marster was sent to de front to use pick and shovel to throw up breast works, and things of dat nature. My pappy was de foreman and stayed at home, carry on whilst Marster Robert go. "'Deed I recollects 'bout de Yankees. They come and ask my pappy, de foreman, where was de mules and hosses hid out? Pappy say he don't know, he didn't carry them off. They find out a boy dat knowed; make him tell, and they went and got de mules and hosses. They took everything and left. "Doctor Scott was our doctor. Dere was in them days lots of rattlesnakes; had to be keerful of them. Then us hear lots and had lots of chills and fever. They found de remedy, but they was way off 'bout what make them come on you. Some 'low it was de miasma dat de devil bring 'round you from de swamp and settle 'round your face whilst you sleep, and soon as he git you to snore you sniffed it to your liver, lights and gall, then dat make bile, and then you was wid de chills a comin' every other day and de fever all de day. Marster Doctor Hayne done find out dat de skeeter bring de fever and de chills, and funny, he 'low dat it is de female skeeter bite dat does de business. You believe dat? I didn't at first, 'til old Doctor Lindor tell me dat it was no harder to believe than dat all disease come into de world when a female bite a apple in de garden of Eden. "I think Mr. Lincoln was raised up by de Lord, just like Moses, to free a 'culiar people. I think Mr. Roosevelt is de Joshua dat come after him. No president has done as much for de poor of both races as de one now president. God bless him and 'stain him in his visions and work to bring de kingdom of heaven into and upon de earth." =Project #-1655= =C.S. Murray= =Charleston, S.C.= =Approx. 430 Words.= =GOING DOWN TO DIE= (=FOLKLORE=) =STORY TOLD BY EX-SLAVE= Boss Man, you talk about de brave soldier who been in de last big war and how dey look death in de eye and spit on him. I ain't see dat war. It been 'cross de water. But I know sump'en 'bout de Civil War. I been young lad when de big gun shoot and de Yankee pile down from de north. Talk 'bout being brave. De bravest thing I ever see was one day at Ashepoo junction. Dat was near de end of de war. Grant was standing up before Richmond; Sherman was marching tump-tump through Georgia. I was a stripling lad den and boy-like I got to see and hear everything. One day more than all, de overseer sent my pappy to Ashepoo junction to get de mail. I gone 'long wid him. Seem like I jest had to go dat day. I member dat morning well. When I get to de junction de train start to come in. What a lot of train! De air fair smoke up wid dem. They come shouting in from Charleston, bound up-country. I stand wid my pappy near de long trestle, and see de train rock by. One enjine in front pulling one in de back pushing, pushing, pushing. De train load down wid soldier. They thick as peas. Been so many a whole ton been riding on de car roof. They shout and holler. I make big amaze to see such a lot of soldier--all going down to die. And they start to sing as they cross de trestle. One pick a banjo, one play de fiddle. They sing and whoop, they laugh; they holler to de people on de ground, and sing out, "Good-bye." All going down to die. And it seem to me dat is de most wonderful sight I ever see. All them soldier, laughing light, singing and shouting dat way, and all riding fast to battle. One soldier man say in a loud voice: "Well, boys we going to cut de Yankee throat. We on our way to meet him and he better tremble. Our gun greeze up, and our bayonet sharp. Boys we going to eat our dinner in hell today." I turn to my pappy and ax him how can man act like dat when they going down to die. He answer me: "Dat ain't nutting. They n'use to dat. Ain't you know soldier different?" But I say: "Pappy, you hear dem talk 'bout eat dinner in hell?" He answer me back: "They been in de army 'long time. They don't study hell anymore." De train still rumble by. One gang of soldier on de top been playing card. I see um hold up de card as plain as day, when de luck fall right. They going to face bullet, but yet they play card, and sing and laugh like they in their own house ... All going down to die. De train pull 'cross de trestle. I stand up and watch um till he go out of sight 'round de bend. De last thing I hear is de soldier laugh and sing ... All going down to die. SOURCE: Interview with William Rose, 80, ex-slave of Edisto Island, S.C., in 1936. =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =BENJAMIN RUSSELL= =_EX-SLAVE 88 YEARS._= "I was born fourteen miles north of Chester, S.C. the property of Mrs. Rebecca Nance. After eighty-eight years, I have a vivid recollection of her sympathy and the ideal relations she maintained with her slaves. "My father was just Baker, my mother just Mary. My father was bought out of a drove of slaves from Virginia. I have been told my mother was born on the Youngblood place. (Youngblood name of my mistress' people in York County.) My father was a slave of a Mr. Russell and lived two or three miles from the Nance place, where mother lived. He could only visit her on a written pass. As he was religiously inclined, dutiful and faithful as a slave, my mother encouraged the relation that included a slave marriage between my father and mother. My mother in time, had a log house for herself and children. We had beds made by the plantation's carpenter. As a boy I remember plowing from sun to sun, with an hour's intermission for dinner, and feeding the horses. "Money? Yes, sometimes white folks and visitors would give me coppers, 3-cent pieces, and once or twice dimes. Used them to buy extra clothing for Sundays and fire crackers and candy, at Christmas. We had good food. In the busy seasons on the farm the mistress saw to it that the slaves were properly fed, the food cooked right and served from the big kitchen. We were given plenty of milk and sometimes butter. We were permitted to have a fowl-house for chickens, separate from the white folks. We wore warm clothes and stout brogan shoes in winter; went barefooted from April until November and wore cotton clothes in summer. The master and some of the women slaves spun the thread, wove the cloth and made the clothes. My mother lived in a two-story farm house. Her children were: William, Mattie and Thomas. We never had an overseer on the place. Sometimes she'd whip the colored children, but only when it was needed for correction. "Yes, sir, I went with my young master, William, to Chester Court House, and saw slaves put on a block and auctioned off to the highest bidder, just like land or mules and cattle. Did we learn to read and write? We were taught to read, but it was against the law to teach a slave to write. The Legislature passed an act to that effect. A number of cases in which slaves could write, the slave would forge a pass and thereby get away to free territory. They had a time getting them back. On one occasion I run in on my young master, William, teaching my Uncle Reuben how to write. They showed their confusion. "All slaves were compelled to attend church on Sunday. A gallery around the interior of the church, contained the blacks. They were permitted to join in the singing. Favorite preacher? Well, I guess my favorite preacher was Robert Russell. He was allowed sometimes to use the white folks school, which wasn't much in those days, just a little log house to hold forth in winter. In summer he got permission to have a brush arbor of pine tops, where large numbers came. Here they sang Negro spirituals. I remember one was called: 'Steal away to Jesus.' "Runaway slaves? Yes, we had one woman who was contrary enough to run away: Addie, she run off in the woods. My mistress hired her out to the McDonald family. She came back and we had to pelt and drive her away. "How did we get news? Many plantations were strict about this, but the greater the precaution the alerter became the slaves, the wider they opened their ears and the more eager they became for outside information. The sources were: Girls that waited on the tables, the ladies' maids and the drivers; they would pick up everything they heard and pass it on to the other slaves. "Saturday afternoons? These were given to women to do the family washing, ironing, etc., and the men cut fire wood, or worked in the garden, and special truck crops. Christmas? Christmas was a holiday, but the fourth of July meant very little to the slave people. Dances? There was lots of dancing. It was the pastime of the slave race. The children played shimmy and other games, imitating the white children, sometimes with the white folks. "The master and mistress were very particular about the slave girls. For instance, they would be driving along and pass a girl walking with a boy. When she came to the house she would be sent for and questioned something like this: 'Who was that young man? How come you with him? Don't you ever let me see you with that ape again. If you cannot pick a mate better than that I'll do the picking for you.' The explanation: The girl must breed good strong serviceable children. "No, I never saw a ghost, but there was a general belief among the race in ghosts, spirits, haunts and conjuration. Many believe in them yet. I can never forget the fright of the time my young master, William was going off to the war. The evening before he went, a whippoorwill lighted on the window sill and uttered the plaintive 'whip-poor-will.' All the slaves on the place were frightened and awed and predicted bad luck to Master Will. He took sick in war and died, just wasted away. He was brought back in rags toward the end of the struggle. "Mistress always gave the slaves a big dinner on New Year's Day and talked to us out of the catechism. She impressed on us after dinner that time, that we were free. Some were sorry, some hurt, but a few were silent and glad. I and many of the others had been well treated. When we were sick she visited us and summoned a doctor the first thing, but the remedies those days were castor oil, quinine, turpentine, mustard plaster and bleeding." =Project 1885 -1-= =District #4= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =May 29, 1937= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVE= "I was born about 1846, 'cause I was in de war and was 19 years old when de war was over. I went to Charleston with my master, Ros Atwood, my mistress's brother. My mistress was Mrs. Laura Rutherford and my master at home was Dr. Thomas Rutherford. We was on Morris Island. "My father was Allen Rutherford and my mother Barbara Rutherford. My daddy had come from Chili to this country, was a harness maker, and belonged awhile to Nichols. We had a good house or hut to live in, and my work was to drive cows till I was old 'nough to work in de fields, when I was 13. Then I plowed, hoed cotton, and hoed corn 'till last year of war and den went to Charleston. "Master paid us no money for work. We could hunt and fish, and got lots of game around there. We had dogs but our master didn't like hounds. "Col. Daryton Rutherford, doct's son, had me for a 'pet' on the place. They had overseers who was sometimes bossy but they wouldn't allow dem to whip me. One old nigger named 'Isom', who come from Africa, was whipped mighty bad one day. The padderollers whip me one night when I went off to git a pair of shoes for an old lady and didn't git a pass. I was 16 years old then. "Doctor Rutherford had several farms--I reckon around 2,000 acres of land. We didn't have church nor school but sometimes we had to go to de white folks church and set in the gallery. We didn't learn to read and write. The mistress learnt some of de nigger chaps to read and write a little. "We had Saturday afternoons off to wash up and clean up. When Christmas come the doctor would give us good things to eat. When we was sick he give us medicine, but some of de old folks would make hot teas from root herbs. "We had old time corn-shuckings before and after freedom. We made sure enough corn den and lots of it--had four cribs full. When freedom come, the old man had fallen off a block and was hurt, so one of de overseers told us we was free and could go if we wanted to. Some of dem stayed on and some got in the big road and never stopped walking. Then we worked for 1/3 share of the crops; had our little patch to work, too. "I was 31 years old when I married first time. Was living in Mollohon. Her name was Leana and she belonged to Madison Brooks's family, as waiting girl. I was married twice, but had 13 children all by my first wife. I have 14 grandchildren, and so many great-grandchildren I can't count them. "When de Ku Klux was in dat country I lived wid a man who was one of them. The first I knew about it was when I went down to de mill, de mule throwed me and de meal, and down de road I went to running and met a Ku Klux. It was him. "I think Abe Lincoln and Jeff Davis good men, but don't know much about dem. "I join de church when I was 68 years old 'cause God sent me to do it. I believe all ought to join church." SOURCE: Joe Rutherford (92), Newberry, S.C.; Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, Newberry, S.C. =Project 1885 -1-= =District #4= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =June 7, 1937= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVE= "I was born about 1849 in the Dutch Fork section of Newberry County, S.C. I was slave of Ivey Suber and his good wife. My daddy was Bill Suber and my mammy was Mary Suber. I was hired by Marse Suber as a nurse in the big house, and I waited on my mistress when she was sick, and was at her bed when she died. I had two sisters and a brother and when we was sold they went to Mr. Suber's sister and I stayed with him. "My master was good to his slaves. He give them plenty to eat, good place to sleep and plenty of clothes. The young men would hunt lots, rabbits, possums, and birds. My white folks had a big garden and we had eats from it. They was good cooks, too, and lived good. We card and spin and weave our own clothes on mistress's spinning wheels. "Marse Suber had one overseer who was good to us. We went to work at sun-up and worked 'till sun-down, none of us worked at night. We sometimes got a whipping when we wouldn't work or do wrong, but it wasn't bad. "We never learned to read and write. We had no church and no school on the plantation, but we could go to the white folk's church and sit in the gallery. Some of us was made to go, and had to walk 10 miles. Of course, we never thought much about walking that far. I joined the church because I was converted; I think everybody ought to join the church. "The patrollers rode 'round and ketched slaves who ran away without passes. They never bothered us. When our work was over at night, we stayed home, talked and went to sleep. On Saturday afternoons white folks sometimes give us patches of ground to work, and we could wash up then, too. We raised corn on the patches and some vegetables. On Sunday we just rested and went to neighbor's house or to church. On Christmas we had big eats. "Corn-shuckings and cotton-pickings always had suppers when work was done. Master made whiskey up at his sister's place, and at these suppers he had whiskey to give us. "When we was sick we had a doctor--didn't believe much in root teas. "I married when I was 15 years old at a white man's place, Mr. Sam Cannon's. A negro man named Jake Cannon married us. Supper was give us by Mr. Sam Cannon after it was over. "When freedom came, my mother moved away, but I stayed on. "I think Abraham Lincoln was a good man, and Jeff Davis was a good man. I don't know anything about Booker Washington." SOURCE: Lila Rutherford (86), Newberry, S.C., RFD Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, 1707 Lindsey St., Newberry, S.C. =Project #-1655= =Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler= =Murrells Inlet, S.C.= =Georgetown County= =FOLKLORE= =Uncle Sabe Rutledge= (=Testimony given by old man born 1861, The Ark Plantation. Horry County--owned by Mr. John Tillman=) "Fust thing I realize to remember, I nuster cry to go to the old boss--old Massa--for sugar. Massa say: "'Martha, what Newman (he call me that) crying for?' Ma say, 'Wanter come to you for sugar!' "'Bring the boy here, Martha!' "He gi'e me sugar. "Boil salt? Pump! Pump! Pump it! Had a tank. Run from hill to sea. Had a platform similar to wharf. And pump on platform. Fetch good high. Go out there on platform. Force pump. My Grandmother boil salt way after Freedom. We tote water. Tote in pidgin and keeler--make out of cedar and cypress. No 'ting to crove 'em (groove 'em) compass. Dog-wood and oak rim. Give it a lap. (This was his description, with pantomime, of the way pidgin and keelers were made by plantation carpenters) "My Grandmother had two pots going. Boil all day and all night. Biling. Boil till he ticken (thicken) Cedar paddles stir with. Chillun eat with wooden spoons. Clay pot? Just broken piece. Indian had big camping ground on beach near the Ark. After big blow you can find big piece of pot there. I see Indian. Didn't see wild one; see tame one. "Indigo? Old man Lashie Tillman nuster plant indigo. Seed lak a flax. Put myrtle seed in with indigo to boil. Gather and boil for the traffic. All the big folkses plant that fore the rice. Rice come in circulation, do way with indigo. Nuster (used to) farm indigo just like we work our corn. Didn't have nothing but ox. And the colored folks--they came next to the ox--Hill keep advancing out. Reckon you wouldn't blieve it, but I ken cummember (Uncle Sabe stutters a bit) when all that beach been cultivate field. Must be nature for sand hill to move. Time most got too fast now for the people to live. "Storm? Oh my Lord! Flagg Storm? Sea naturally climb right over that hill like it wasn't nothing. Water come to King Road. Reckon it would a come further if the wind didn't shift. "Calls this 'The Ridge.' Why? I first man settle here. Oak Ridge. (It is the highest land between the Waccamaw river and the ocean.) Just name it so. "Member the shipwreck. Two men and lady come to the Ark. Stormy time. Massa take them to town. Old anchor there now. Come a blow you kin see it. Water rise over it high tide. "Ma tell me bout they had the to-do. Blockade at Inlet. Had 'em out to drill (The Yankees came to shore to drill.) Old man John Tillman lose all he China-a-way! (chinaware.) Every bit of his china and paints (panes of glass) out the window. Yankee gun boat sojer (soldier) to Magnolia to drill. They tack 'em (attacked 'em) to cut 'em off. When Rebs tack 'em, small boats gone back. She had to brace 'em. Shoot dem shell to brace. (Gun boat fired to frighten Rebs who were cutting Yankees off from escape) I hear old man Frank Norris--lived right beyond Vettrill Deas--I hear him (nuster come home to the Ark and trap)--I hear him say lot of 'em bog. (Ella, Agnes and Johnnie Johnson fadder been there) Bomb shell hit the hill and bury them in the sand. Had to dig out. "Old man John Tillman my boss. Sho treat his people good. Don't see why his folks (slaves) went to blockade (tried to escape and join Yankee gun-boats). Sho treat his colored folks good. My Grandfather, Rodrick Rutledge, driver from a boy. Time he big nuff to handle it till Freedom. "Couldn't marry widout consent of boss." (Remark from Uncle Sabe's sister, Mom Jane, who is quite acid. All her information inherited--she Freedom child) Mom Jane: "Been to devil and come back now!" (Comparing slavery to the lower regions) Uncle Sabe--continuing: "Have sick house; have chillun house." (All in this section tell great tales of the 'chillun house.' Sounds a lot like the nurse houses in Russia today. All the babies were in this day nursery in care of the older women, too old for field work.) "Corn. Meat--pig, beef, fish--plenty milk." (Some cow 'coffee cow'--that is give just enough milk for the coffee.) "Any rice?" Aunt Jane: (interrupting) "Pick you teet (teeth) to find the rice! Great God! Now I can buy my rice!" Uncle Sabe: "Could plant up-land rice to Ark. (This on coast away from fresh water) "Ash cake? Meal, salt, water. Not a grease! Not a grease! See Mudder cook it many a hundred day!" Mom Jane: "Put it in the stove today,--nothing! Rather have it any day!" Sabe: "Wrap it in brown paper, mostly. Cows free in woods. Alligator tail good. Snail built up just like a conch (whelk). They eat good. Worms like a conch. Bile conch. Git it out shell. Grind it sausage grinder. Little onion. Black pepper. Rather eat conch than any kind of nourishment out of salt water." Mom Jane: "Conjur? Wouldn't turn a hucks bread for 'em." (Give a crust.) Sabe: "What God got lot out for a man he'll get it." "Flat boat full up (with slaves trying to escape) gone down Waccamaw. Uncle Andrew Aunt the one got he eye shoot out (by patrollers) took 'em to camp on North Island. Never see so much a button and pin in my life! Small-pox in camp. Had to leave 'em. "Captain Ben and Captain Tom fadder--look how he die! Looker the blood! Looker the people! Looker the blood! His boat call 'The Bull River.' Up and down Pee Dee river. Meet flat! Bore hole in flat and women and chillun go down! Take men off. He COME TO THIS COUNTRY. (Came down from North before Civil War) Them darnish Yankee very percruel. (Peculiar?) "My Great-grandmother Veenia, pirate captured and took all they money in English war. (Revolution) Dem day Ladies wear bodkin fastened to long gold chain on shoulder--needle in 'em and thimble and ting. Coming down from New York to get away from English. My great grandmother little chillun. Pirate come to her Missus. Take all they money--come cut bodkin off her shoulder. Grandmother ma gone on the boat and twiss herself in Missus' skirt. Pirate put 'em off to Wilmington. Come on down settle to Pitch Landing near Socastee. Keep on till they get to Ark. "My Great-Grandma Veenia didn't have a teet in her head--one hundred ten years old and could eat hard a bread as any we." Uncle Sabe Rutledge Burgess, S.C.--P.O. Horry County Age 76 (Born 1861) Ark Plantation. =Project 1655= =Genevieve W. Chandler= =Georgetown County, S.C.= =FOLKLORE= =UNCLE SABE RUTLEDGE= =(EX-SLAVE STORY)= "They call him Rogerick Rutledge for shortness. My Grandpa REAL name Jim. First time I big enough to realect (recollect) him he have on no pants but something built kinder like overall and have a apron. Apron button up here where my overall buckle and can be let down. All been dye with indigo. Have weave shirt--dye with blue indigo boil with myrtle seed. Myrtle seed must-a-did put the color in. Old brogan shoe on he foot. Old beaver hat on he head. Top of crown wear out and I member he have paste-board cover over with cloth and sew in he hat crown. My Grandmother wear these here gingham cloth call gingham twill. "Now the chillun! I member I was a big boy grown when I get my first pants. All boy chillun wear a shirt----long down to knee and lower. Have belt round the middle--just like you belt to hold 'em. Chillun have not a shoe! Not a shoe for chillun on us plantation to the Old Ark. First shoe I have, Pa get a cow hide and tan it. And a man name Stalvey make my first pair of shoes. I was way near bout grown. Make the sole out the thickness of the cow hide. Short quarter. No eye--just make the hole. Last! Yes man! Yes man! Yes man! Keep 'em grease! Them shoe never wear out! "We raise all we get to eat. Hominy, cornbread, peas, potatoes, rice. Morest we plant this here yellow corn. I cry many a day bout that yellow corn! We say, 'Pa, this here yellow corn make hominy look like he got egg cook in 'em; red corn look like hominy cook in red molasses!' "But yellow corn stronger feed! Stronger feed! And Pa know 'em. "Sunday come go to church in that same blue shirt! Little old pole church--(gone now)--call 'Dick Green Bay Church'. (Named for a local character.) When we go to church before freedom, Mudder and them have to have the ticket. "Old man John Tilghman at the Ark Plantation have no overseer--have 'Driver'. Most folks on Waccamaw have overseer and 'Driver'. My Pa been the Ark 'Driver.' "Old man Zachariah Duncan been the preacher. That the same man build the first 'Heaven Gate' church after freedom. He got drift lumber on the river and on the beach. Flat 'em--make a raft and float 'em over to the hill and the man haul 'em to 'Heaven Gate' with ox. Yes. 'Heaven Gate' built outer pick up lumber. "Before freedom Parson Glennie--he was 'Piscopal--he would come give us a service once a month on the plantation--so mother said. "Patches of indigo all through the woods. You know cow eat indigo. Us have too much ox! Have to haul rail all the time keep up the old fence. Woods full up with cow. Cattle loose--free. When you want beef have to hunt for 'em like we hunts deer now. I member some ox I helped broke. Pete, Bill, Jim, David. Faby was a brown. David kinder mouse color. We always have the old ox in the lead going to haul rail. Hitch the young steer on behind. Sometimes they 'give up' and the old ox pull 'em by the neck! Break ox all the time. Fun for us boys--breaking ox. So much of rail to haul! "(You can't tell me bout this pension? Look like to me somebody trying to smother something. Letters come. Cards come. My name on outside alright. Tell me to put my name on cards and hand 'em out to my friends. Say send twenty-five cents. Next time say 'Send thirty-five cents'. He cool off then and another man--Mr. Pope come in. Got two letter from him and he tell me be still till I hear from him again. J.E. Pope. Last blank I got from Mr. Pope he say not to look for more than thirty or thirty-two dollars a month. Say there ain't going to be no two hundred a month.) "How come I know all these Buh Rabbit story, Mudder spin you know. Have the great oak log, iron fire dog. Have we chillun to sit by the fireplace put the light-wood under--blaze up. We four chillun have to pick seed out the cotton. Work till ten o'clock at night and rise early! Mudder and Father tell you story to keep you eye open! Pick out cotton seed be we job every night in winter time--'cept Sunday! When we grow bigger, Mudder make one card. One would spin and then Mudder go to knitting. Night time picking these cotton seed out; day time in winter getting wood! "Fall----harvest peanut, peas, 'tater! "I member all them Buh Rabbit story! Mudder tell 'em and we laugh and wake up! They was one bout Buh Rabbit and Buh Patridge. You know Buh Patridge the onliest one get the best of Buh Rabbit! "Buh Rabbit bet Buh Patridge (Buh Rabbit think he so sharp you know!) He bet Buh Patridge if he fly off down the road a piece and lit Buh Rabbit can find 'em.--Buh Patridge bet him he can't! So Buh Patridge take off and fly down the road a piece and lit--like a Patridge will do--lit and turn up on he back and rake the leaves over him and kiver (cover) his body all 'cept he two foots sticking up like stick! "Now Buh Rabbit come! He hunt and he hunt and he hunt! Couldn't find 'em and he get so hot he take off he coat and hang it on Buh Patridge foots! "He go on hunting and after while he call out, "'Well I can't find Buh Patridge! Can't find Buh Patridge!' "And Buh Patridge sing out, "'Well, Buh Rabbit, here I is! You hang you coat on my feet!' "Buh Rabbit have to pay the bet! (I don't member what the bet was). So Buh Patridge was the onliest one I ever hear bout could get the best of Buh Rabbit! "When Father and Mudder tell them story we chillun noddin'! Some cackle out and all jump up and go back to picking out cotton seed! "There is another one bout Buh Bear. They goes out my head. I'll think them Buh Rabbit up fore you come back Missus!" And Uncle Sabe, who was sitting on the 'LOOK OUT' at the Floral Beach Fishery, continued to let his eyes play all over the sea like searchlights, ready to wave the black flag and march down toward the fishery holding it aloft keeping himself in a line with the fish if fish were sighted. Since way before what he called 'the big war' he and his people have eaten mullet and rice for the three fall months. His home was visited before Uncle Sabe was located and children and grand-children, wife, sister and neighbors were found seated and standing all over the kitchen floor and piazza floor and steps----each one with a generous tin plate of rice and fresh, brown, hot 'spot'----a fish not so valuable in summer but choice in fall and winter. Two hounds and a large cat worked around among the feasters for their well chewed bones. SOURCE: Uncle Sabe Rutledge, The Ridge, Burgess, S.C., (Horry County) Born first year of the Civil War. (He owns his house and land,----some twenty-five acres under cultivation. This is located on what appears to be a 'height of land' lying between the Waccamaw and the Atlantic. Locally it is known as 'The Sand Ridge'.) =Project 1885 -1-= =District #4= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =May 31, 1937= =Edited by:= =Martha Ritter= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVES= "I was born in Edgefield county, S.C., about 1854. I was the son of Larkin and Cheny Ryan who was the slaves of Judge Pickens Butler who lived at Edgefield Courthouse. I has some brothers and sisters, but don't remember them all. We lived in a log house with but one room. We had good beds to sleep in, and always had plenty to eat. Old Judge Butler was a good man. I was 10 years old when he died. Before then I worked in and around the house, and freedom come I stayed with the Butler family two years, then went to Dr. Maxwell's. "In slavery time we had extra patches of ground to work for ourselves which we sometimes worked on Saturday afternoons as we had dat time off. Judge Butler used to give us a little money, too, before freedom come, for our work. We bought clothes and things we had to have. We had a big plantation garden dat the overseers planted for all on de place to eat out of. "We used to hunt 'possums, rabbits, squirrels, wild turkeys, doves, partridges, and set traps for partridges and set box gums for rabbits. We had good food then, plenty peas, cornbread, and wild game. When winter time come we put on wool clothes and heavy shoes. "Old Marse Butler and his mistress was good, de best folks in de country. They lived in a big house, had a girl and a boy, and over 1000 or maybe 2,000 acres of land, on several farms. One was on Saluda River. His overseers some was no good, but master wouldn't let them treat slaves cruel, just light whipping. "We used to have to wake up at sun-up and work till sundown. We didn't learn to read and write; but we had a prayer house on de plantation where we could go to sometimes, until freedom come, then we went on to it just the same. Old man Bennefield, a nigger preacher, talked to us there. I can 'member one of de favorite songs we sung: 'Show pity, O Lord, forgive, Let e'er repentant sinner live; Are not thy mercies large and free, May not a sinner trust in Thee.' 'My crimes are great, and can't surpass, ---------------------------------------' "None of Major Pickens Butler's slaves ever went away from him, but some in de neighborhood did run away, and day never heard of dem again. "The paderrollers would catch a nigger if he didn't have a pass. Some would pass and re-pass in the road, and maybe get catched and such scuffling would go on! "We worked on Saturday afternoons unless boss give time off to work our own little patches or do some other work we had to do. But some would frolic then and wash up for Sunday, or set around. On Sunday we went to church and talked to neighbors. On Christmas we celebrated by having a big dinner which the master give us. We had three days holiday or sometimes a week. We had New Year's Day as a special day for working, 'cause it was a sign if we worked good dat day, we would work good all de year. The white folks had corn-shuckings and cotton pickings in slavery and after freedom, too. Den would have big supper. Some neighbors walk ten miles, like walking to church or to school. Didn't think anything of walking dat far. "Some of de games played by children were marbles, jump-rope. "Once an old man had his dog trained to say his prayers. The dog was fed but wouldn't be allowed to eat until he put his paws in front and bow his head on dem; de old man say to him, 'No, no, you die and go to hell if you don't say your prayers.' "Once another fellow, a nigger, said he was going to his wife's house to see her; but he had to pass his old partner's place on de way, who was dead. When he got opposite the partner's place something, maybe a ghost, came to him and wrestled with him and wouldn't let him go on to see his wife, so he come back to his master's house and stayed. "When the slaves got sick they had doctors, and used old herbs. 'Jerusalem Ore' was a kind of herb for children, to build them up, and there was field grass roots and herb roots which was boiled and tea drunk for fevers. And 'Primer-rhine' tea which was drunk, too. Sometimes they would hang garlic around small boys and girls necks to keep away any kind of sickness. "We didn't have schools; started them the second year after freedom. Old General Butler give us old slaves a home each and a small patch to work. "I married when I was 21 years old, the first time in Edgefield County, now called Saluda County. I have six children, nine grand-children, and four great-grand-children. "I think Abe Lincoln was good man and he was Providential arrangement. I think Jeff Davis was good man, same. Booker T. Washington is good man, done lots for young niggers. I rather like it now, and not slavery time. I joined church when I was 18 to turn from evil ways and to live a better life." SOURCE: Henry Ryan (83), Newberry, S.C.; by G. Leland Summer, Newberry, S.C. =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Oct. 11, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I live in a rented three-room house with my daughter. I am too old to do much work, but I work where I can get little jobs that I can do. "The slaves did not expect anything after Freedom, for the South was in such a bad fix. They just got jobs where they could find them. Most of them worked as share-croppers or wage hands on the farms, and have worked like this since that time. Some few have rented farms. When any moved to town they got jobs where they could. "I never thought much about Reconstruction. Some slaves voted at first, but when Wade Hampton was elected they didn't get to vote much. "I think the younger generation has too much freedom and doesn't stay home enough. They want to have their own way. "Over in old Edgefield where I was raised we had plenty to eat; plenty peas, corn bread, turnips and other things. We hunted wild game, too. I was a slave of Major Pickens Butler. He was a good man and sometimes gave us a little money for our work. Our master gave us a small patch of land to work for ourselves and plant anything we wanted. "No, I never think anything about voting. I am satisfied just to get along." Source: Henry Ryan (N--83), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. 8/18/37. =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =May 25, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I am bad-sick woman, in bed and can't hardly talk and can't 'member much. I was born near Broad River in de Blair section. I belonged in slavery to de Blair family. My mudder and papa was Grace and Samuel Blair, and dey belonged to Capt. Blair. When dey was sold, I was put in de house wid a good free nigger woman to raise me and to stay 'till de war was over. Den I come to de Blair house, and helped around de house. My sisters could card, spin and weave, and I helped dem wid it. I didn't have but one dress. When it got dirty, I went down to de creek and washed it and put it against de lims to dry, but I had to put it back on before it got good dry. "When I got old enough, I worked in de field, hoeing and picking cotton." Source: Emoline Satterwhite (82), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. May 19, 1937 =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Sept. 9, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES OF EX-SLAVES= "Marster Charner Scaife a-laying on his bed of death is 'bout de first thing dat stuck in my mind. I felt sorry fer everybody den. Miss Mary Rice Scaife, his wife, was mean. She died a year atter. Never felt sad nor glad den; never felt no ways out of de regular way, den. "Overseers I recollects was, Mr. Sam Hughes, Mr. Tom Baldwin, and Mr. Whitfield Davis. Mr. Baldwin was de best to me. He had a still-house out in a field whar liquor was made. I tote it fer him. We made good corn liquor. Once a week I brung a gallon to de big house to Marster. Once I got happy off'n it, and when I got dar lots of it was gone. He had me whipped. Dat de last time I ever got happy off'n Marster's jug. "When I was a shaver I carried water to de rooms and polished shoes fer all de white folks in de house. Sot de freshly polished shoes at de door of de bed-room. Get a nickle fer dat and dance fer joy over it. Two big gals cleaned de rooms up and I helped carry out things and take up ashes and fetch wood and build fires early every day. Marster's house had five bedrooms and a setting room. De kitchen and dining-room was in de back yard. A covered passage kept dem from getting wet when dey went to de dining-room. Marster said he had rather get cold going to eat dan to have de food get cold while it was being fetched to him. So he had de kitchen and dining-room jined, but most folks had de dining-room in de big house. "It took a week to take de cotton boat from Chester to Columbia. Six slaves handled de flat-boat. Dere was six, as I said, de boatman, two oarsmen, two steermen and an extra man. De steermen was just behind de boatman. Dey steered wid long poles on de way up de river and paddled down de river. De two oarsmen was behind dem. Dey used to pole, too, going up, and paddling going down. Seventy-five or eighty bales was carried at a time. Dey weighed around three hundred pounds apiece. In Columbia, de wharfs was on de Congree banks. Fer de cotton, we got all kinds of supplies to carry home. De boat was loaded wid sugar and coffee coming back. On Broad River we passed by Woods Ferry, Fish Dam Ferry, Hendersons Ferry and Hendersons Island and some others, but dat is all I recollect. We unloaded at our own ferry, called Scaife Ferry. "I split rails fer fences. On Christmas we had coffee, sugar and biscuit fer breakfast." Source: Alexander Scaife (82), Box 104, Pacolet, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. =Project #-1655= =Phoebe Faucette= =Hampton County= =FOLKLORE= =ELIZA SCANTLING EX-SLAVE= =87 Years= "If you wants to know about de slavery times," said old Aunt Eliza, "you'se sure come to de right person; 'cause I wuz right dere." The statement was easy to believe; for old Aunt Eliza's wrinkled face and stiff, bent form bore testimony to the fact that she had been here for many a year. As she sat one cold afternoon in December before her fire of fat lightwood knots, in her one-room cabin, she quickly went back to her childhood days. Her cabin walls and floor were filled with large cracks through which the wind came blowing in. "I gits along pretty good. My chillun lives all around here, and my granddaughter that's a-standin' at the window dere, takes care of me. Den de government helps me out. It sure is a blessing, too--to have sech a good government! And 'Miss Maggie' good to me. She brought me dis wood. Brought it in her truck herself. Had a colored man along to handle it for her. But I so stiff I sometimes kin hardly move from me waist down. And sometimes in de morning when I wake, it is all I kin do to get up an' wash me face. But I got to do it. My granddaughter bring me my meals. "I is 87 years old. I know 'cause I wuz so high when de war broke out. An' I plowed my January to July de year 'fore peace declare. I remember dat. I wuz a good big girl; but jes' a child--not married yet. Yes'm I plowed a mule an' a wild un at dat. Sometimes me hands get so cold I jes' cry. But dey all say I 'wuz a nigger what wuz a nigger!' "In May peace declare. De first president of de country wuz Lincoln. He took his seat in March. But I work for de white people 'fore dat. On a Friday mornin' our Massa, Mr. Richard Davant come an' told us peace declare. He come an' told us hisself. I wuz in de cornhouse a-shuckin' corn to go to de mill on Saturday. After freedom all de niggers left 'cept my Mamma. My father brought us back here to Col. Alex Lawton's place at Robertville. He used to belong to Col. Lawton. Many years atter dat Col. Lawton moved to Savannah; but when he died dey brought him back here an' buried him at Robertville. "My young Missus was de daughter of Mr. Sam Maner, my old Massa; so when she marry Mr. Davant I went wid her. Dey had bought a place in Screven, Georgia. Seven year 'fore peace declare we went to Georgia. On a Monday mornin' a colored man come along an' tell Miss Anna de Yankees had took Waynesboro. We all went to see it. De fire had left de place clean. Could pick up a pin behind it. Other than dat I see nothin'. I never see no house burn down. I never hear no gun fire. I jes' see de uniform, an' see 'em kill de hog an' sling 'em 'cross de saddle. Den when we come back to Robertville, we see de destruction left behind. "After I git of size I mind de birds off de corn an' rice an' sech like. Den I'd take care of de turkeys. An' we'd sweep de yards. Carry de leaves off to de stable in a wheelbarrow. "Both my missus wuz good to me. De last missus I own treat me jes' de same as her own child. I stayed right dere in de house wid her, an' if I wuz sick or anything she'd take care of me same as her own chillun. I nurse one of her chillun. An' dat child would rather be wid me than wid her own mother!" Source: Elisa Scantling, Scotia, S.C. age 87 years. =Code No. 390166= =Project No. 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Mrs. Lucile Young & H. Grady Davis= =Place, Florence, S.C.= =Date, May 25, 1937= =Typed by M.C., N.Y.A.= =No Words_______________= =Reduced from ____ Words= =Rewritten by= =Mary Scott= =Gourdin, S.C.= =Ex-Slave, About 90 years old= "Where and when were you born?" "On Gaston Gamble place, between here and Greeleville. In da Gamble's Bible is my age. Don't know my age. Pretty much know how old, I bout 90. I wuz little girl when freedom come." "Give the names of your father and mother." "Father, John Davis. Mother, Tina Davis. Belonged to last mausa. Darby Fulton. Gamble sold mama and three children to Fulton. Belonged to Davis after freedom. Father belonged to Davis. Take first mausa's name. Sold to Arnold Mouzon. Didn't take Mouzon name." "Where did your father and mother come from?" "Right where Grandma go, Gamble place." "Did you have any brothers and sisters?" "James and Benjamin. All ded." "Describe the beds and where you slept." "Had plenty slaves. I don't know exactly how many. In dem times you know, we had to get ticket to go to see dere family." "What kind of house did you have to live in?" "Better dan dis. Better dan dis. Good house. Sleep on wooden bed. Straw and feather mattress." "Do you remember anything about your grandparents or any stories told you about them?" "I ain't know my grandmother, grandfather either." "What work did you do in slavery times." "Didn't do no kind of work. Mother milked, tended to de butter." "Did you ever earn any money?" "No money." "What did you eat and how was it cooked?" "Boil meat and put peas or greens, rice cooked dry, take up in plate and eat. One girl get done and wash dishes and put dem up." "Did you ever eat any possums?" "Yes, my brother catch possum and raccoon." "Fish?" "Fishing in de branch." "Did the slaves have their own gardens?" "Yes, sir, plant big garden, no use plant, go to dere garden and get it." "What clothes did you wear in cold weather?" "Thick. I could weave it with stripes and put one check one way and nother strip nother way." "Hot weather?" "In winter warm clothes and shoes. Had Sunday clothes. I had a green worsted dress." "Did the slaves have a church on your plantation?" "Go to white people church and sit out of doors and wait till dey come out and den we go in and have preaching." "White or colored preacher?" "White preacher." "Was your master a good man?" "Mr. Gamble like to drink liquor but still good people. All who I talking about good people." "What was Mr. Gamble's name?" "Mr. Gamble name Gastron Gamble. Son living in dat big house and grandson living down dere." "How many children did Mr. Davis have?" "He had some not many. Mr. Gamble had some too." "What kind of house did Mr. Gamble live in?" "Medium size house. All had just common house, two-story." "What about the overseer?" "Overseer he see dat you work soon. Driver go in de field and stay 'til 12 o'clock." "How many acres in the plantation?" "Don't know how many acres." "What time did the overseer wake the slaves up?" "Wake dem up soon. Blow horn." "Did you have to work hard?" "Work 'til sundown." "Did you see any slaves punished?" "Some punished, but I ain't never see none whip. I heard stick strike de ground and tie hands and feet. Paddle on dis side and den paddle on de other side 'til sore." "Did you ever see any slaves sold or auctioned off?" "My mother and us sold. Mrs. Gamble died left my mama for a daily gift. She wouldn't allow dem to whip me. I ain't know when we be sell, I wuz a baby." "Did you see slaves in chains?" "No chains." "Did the slaves have a church on your plantation?" "Yes, de Gambles make us to go to Sunday school and learn us the Sunday school lessons. I could plow. We went to white church and set down till white people go out and de old man dat tend to de church and open up de church and say come in, can't stay outside." "Who preached for you all?" "My uncle, Jefferie Pendergrass, mother's brother. If colored people want preacher preach, he go in dere and made de children be quiet and preach a nice sermon and have watch night but not in de church." "Do you know any spirituals?" "I forgets dem things. I use to be good singer but I ain't got no teeth. I ain't been looking fer dis. If you hadn't come, I'd been gone." "Where would you have gone?" "Just to walk about. All gone to de field and de children so bad." "Tell about baptizing." "Baptized by de white people." "Did the slaves run away to the North?" "I ain't know 'bout dat." "What about patrollers?" "No patarollers. Have to get ticket, whip dem if dey didn't get it. Colored people do more than white people allow. Caused dem to whip dem. My sister, my sister-in-law and girl went and tell dem dey gwine have play in white kitchen. Mr. Sam Fulton boss wouldn't go to war. My sister, sister-in-law run up in de loft and tell dem come down and dey come down and jump off de window and land in de mud hole wid dere best dress on. Mr. Fulton let dem have it in de quarters." "Did you hear of any trouble between the master and the slaves?" "My grandmother went off and wouldn't come back. She write that she get everyday what she could get fer Sunday." "Did you work on Saturday evenings?" "Some of de white people made dem work on Saturday evening. I had a uncle when white people come by going to church he hoeing his rice. Dey didn't want him work on Sunday. Miss Elizabeth Gamble tell dem he gwine to chop his rice on Sunday." "What did you do on Sunday?" "Go to church." "Christmas day?" "I don't remember what dey give on Christmas day. My family got clothes." "What did you do at a wedding or funeral among the slaves?" "Just say got a wife, ain't married. If anybody ded everything stop." "What games did you play as a child?" "I don't know what all I played." "Do you know any funny stories?" "No, sir, I used to tell my grands things." "Did you ever see any ghosts?" "I ain't believe in it, but I see dem. Jest pass by and dey want bother you. Don't know where dey come from. Dey look like people." "You don't believe in them?" "No, sir, but I know one thing, dey say fox gwine mad. Say cat gwine mad but dat ain't so. I ain't scared of nothing." "You are not scared at night?" "When de moon shining. Moon ain't shine might fall and cripple. When we holler voice way back dere." "When the slaves became sick, who tended to them?" "White people tended to dem. Use medicine." "Do you make medicine out of herbs?" "No, sir, don't make it." "Did you ever see anybody wear a ten-cent piece around the ankle?" "I see dem wear it, but I ain't know what fer." "What do you remember about the war that brought you freedom?" "I know just as good when peace declared. Gun rolled in dat direction. Must be guns. Cook say roll thunder roll and I say de sun shine it ain't gwine rain. I wuz too little to know but my sister say every man and every woman got to work for demselves." "What did your master say?" "I ain't know what master say, he single man and didn't talk much." "Did you stay with him the year after freedom?" "No, he didn't treat my mother right." "Any schools for Negroes?" "Pretty good time before schools." "Did the slaves buy any land?" "No land bought." "Do you remember your wedding?" "I member jest as good 'bout my wedding. I married on Thursday night. Some white people from Kingstree and different ones come and pile it up and when I get all dem presents some one stick fire and burn it all down." "Whom did you marry?" "John Scott." "Do you have any children?" "One gone in de field and dis one." "What are they doing?" "Working on farms. Jane got killed in de wreck." "Who is Jane?" "My daughter. She wuz coming to see me. Train wreck and kill her coming from Norfolk." "How long ago was that?" "'Bout two years ago." "What do you think of Abraham Lincoln?" "I see picture of dem. Picture in dere of Lincoln." "Now that slavery time is ended, what do you think of it?" "I believe colored people do better in de slavery than now." "Do you belong to the church?" "Yes, Promise Land Baptist church." "Why do you think people ought to go to church?" "To have some protection and when you go in a church dat is a place for you to be taken care of. Dey ain't got no religion." "Was the overseer 'poor white trash?'" "I could hear de people talk 'bout him. Some like him and some don't. If I got a wife over yonder, I got to get ticket before I could go to see her. Had to work hard too." "Let us see the picture of Lincoln." "Dis is it." (Granddaughter shows us Aunt Mary's picture) "Is that the one?" "Yea, I think so." "Let me see, dat ain't de one. Here is." (Aunt Mary showed us a picture which looked to be taken from some New York newspaper. It was probably a screen star). "Who told you that was Lincoln?" "Some preacher or somebody come here and tell me." =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg--Dist. 4= =May 18, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "Aunt" Nina Scot sat on her front porch. She was drinking some liquid from a bottle which she said would help her trouble. Being short of breath, she was not able to talk very much. She said that she was very small at the time she was set free. "My Marster and his folks did not treat me like a nigger," she said, "they treated me like they did other white folks." She said that she and her mother had belonged to Dr. Shipp, who taught at Wofford College, that they had come here from Chapel Hill, N.C. and that she was a tarheel negro. She said that white people in slavery days had two nurses, one for the small children and one for the older ones. "Yes sir, those were certainly fine people that lived on the Campus during those days. (Wofford Col. Campus) When the 'raid' came on, people were hiding things all about their places." She referred to the Yankee soldiers who came to Spartanburg after the close of the Civil War. "My mother hid the turkeys and told me where she had hidden them." Dr. Shipp came up to Nina one day and asked her where the turkeys were hidden. She told him they were hidden behind a clump of small trees, and pointed them out to him. "Well," he said, "tell your mother to go and hide them somewhere else and not to tell you about it. You would tell the Yankees just where those turkeys were hidden." Aunt Nina recalls that Mr. and Mrs. Dr. Duncan (formerly of Wofford College) had a habit of getting a slice of bread and butter for all the neighboring children (black or white) whenever their nurses brought them to their home. SOURCE: "Aunt" Nina Scott, 260 N. Converse St., Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg Office, Dist. 4 (May 17, 1937) =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =May 25, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES OF EX-SLAVES= "I was born in Newberry County, near the Laurens County line, above Chappells Depot. My father and mother were Tom and Francis Scurry and belonged as slaves to the Drury Scurry family. Dr. Drury Scurry bought them from Col. Cooper of Laurens County. He was a fine man and mighty good to his slaves. I worked around the house as a boy, and in the fields when I got old enough. Some of the nigger boys hunted 'possums, rabbits and squirrels. Dr. Scurry had 100 acres in woods. They were just full of squirrels and we killed more squirrels than you can count. "The slaves didn't have a garden, but after the war, we stayed on wid Marse Scurry. When freedom come, he come to us in the yard where we had congregated and told us we was free and could go anywhere we wanted, but if any wanted to stay on wid him, he would pay wages. All of us stayed on wid him. He give us a one-acre patch of ground to raise anything we wanted to raise. He had white overseers during slavery, but none ever whipped us 'cause the master wouldn't let them. He had a plantation of about 300 acres and 40 or 50 slaves. They got up at sun-up and worked 'till sun-down each day, but had Saturday afternoons off when dey could do anything dey wanted to. "There wasn't much time for learning to read and write. The white folks sometimes had niggers to go to their church and set in the back of gallery. In our neighborhood, niggers had their own church dat they made of poles and brush, and called it, 'Brush Harbor'. They made seats from small logs sawed off of rough plank. "On Christmas day, the master would have a big dinner for his slaves and spread it out in the yard. Corn shuckings were popular and so were cotton pickings, where big eats were prepared for those who helped. They had big feasts at marriages, and even the slaves had feasts at their marriages, the master and his family taking part in the ceremonies. I was married in 1887, and at that time I was living with Mr. Renwick, and my girl with Dr. Tom Brown. Dr. Brown had us to marry in his yard in the grove, and over 200 persons was there to see it. The next day, he give us a big 'infair' with all kinds of good things to eat, presents and dances. We never had any children. After we moved to town, my wife was a nurse or midwife among some of the white families for a long time. "In Ku Klux times, I met five or ten of them in the road one night. They never bothered me. They had long white sheets over them and the horses. Slits were cut for the head, eyes, nose and mouth. "The niggers had an old field song: 'Give me dat good ole time religion' which they sang most of the time. There was another song they sang: 'Dark midnight is my cry--Give me Jesus, You may have all this world, but give me Jesus.' "Some old-time cures for the sick was--barks of cherry tree, dogwood, and olive bush, made into tea and drunk. "I thought Abe Lincoln was a fine man, done mighty good and saved the country. Jeff Davis was a good man. Booker Washington was a great man. I think slavery was bad; yet our white folks was good to us, but some white masters was mean. I think everybody should belong to the church and be a Christian." SOURCE: Morgan Scurry (78), Newberry, S.C.; interviewed by: G.L. Summer. Newberry, S.C. May 19, 1937. =S-260-264-N= =Project #935= =Hattie Mobley= =Richland County= =South Carolina= =Uncle Ransom Simmons= =Richland County, South Carolina.= Uncle Ransom is one of the few remaining slaves who still lives and whose mind is still clear and active. He has just passed his one-hundred and fourth birthday, was born in Mississippi, and brought to South Carolina by his master Wade Hampton, the father of the illustrious General Wade Hampton, before the Civil War. When the war broke out and General Wade Hampton went to war Uncle Ransom cried to be allowed to follow his young master. He went and served as a body guard. Uncle Ransom learned to read the Bible while attending a night school held for slaves before freedom, and it was only in recent years that he was taught to write his name. This old man lives alone in a shack at Taylor, a little village on the outskirts of Columbia. He is furnished with all the milk and ice cream he can eat by the Columbia Dairy. He purchases a little food with the state pension of twenty-five dollars a year paid to Negroes who served the Confederacy in some military capacity. Uncle Ransom says his master was the kindest man in the world, and that as far as he is concerned, he has never had a worry in his life, and as he said this, his face radiated with a broad and satisfied smile. Reference: Personal interview with Ransom Simmons age 104. =Project #1655= =Stiles M. Scruggs= =Columbia, S.C.= =ALFRED SLIGH= =_EX-SLAVE 100 YEARS OLD._= Alfred Sligh, who lives in a rented house at 1317 Gregg Street, says he was born in Newberry County, South Carolina, in 1837. His hair is white and he is feeble. He goes about the city, on fair days, collecting small sums of money from his white friends and sometimes from his own race. In this way he earns most of his income. "My folks was slaves of the Sligh family for many years, befo' I was born. My mammy and daddy and me b'long to Butler Sligh, at de time I begin to do chores and take notice of things. I be nearly half grown when my young master, Butler Sligh, am just four years old. He die, four or five years ago. I guess you 'member, 'cause he was a powerful well-known white man. He was seventy-five years old when he die. "De young master, he name for my old master. De old master and 'most all de white men of de neighborhood, 'round 'bout us, march off to de war in 1861. One day I see them ridin' down de big road on many hosses and they wavin' deir hats and singin': 'We gwine to hang Abe Lincoln on a sour apple tree!' and they in fine spirits. My young master, Butler, who they call Junior at de time, he am too young to go with them so we stay home and farm. I go with him to de fields and he tell de slaves what to do. Durin' de war I see much of de soldiers who say they not quit fightin' 'til all de damn-Yankees am dead. Dis was so, durin' de first two years. After dat I see more and more of de damn-Yankees, as they pass through 'flictin' punishment on 'most everybody. "Sho' we hear dat all Negroes am free in 1863, but dat rumor not affect us. We work on, 'til Sherman come and burn and slash his way through de state in de spring of 1865. I just reckon I 'member dat freedom to de end of my life. "We gang up at my grandmother's cabin and she tell us it am so. We look scared, lak mules in de midst of a hornet nest, as we stood dere. We didn't wait long, for old Mistress Sligh she come 'long and say: 'Sho' it am so, you am free.' Many of de slaves, 'cludin' me, tell her we love to stay on and work as usual 'til de big white folks come. She smile and say: 'All right, maybe we be able to feed and clothe you, and when your old master git back from Virginia, maybe he will hire you!' "When I first marry, which was at de start of de war, I marry Sarah, a slave gal on de Sligh plantation. We has several chillun, befo' she die, which was soon after we move to Columbia. De chillun, at least two boys and two gals, all git grown, but they go North a long time ago, and I never hears from them. "When I come to Columbia in 1866, I find work on houses, and building was plentiful then. I git 'long pretty well, then, 'cause if I did not land a job, I could go to de Freedman's Aid Office at Assembly and Gervais streets and git rations and a little cash for my family. After de Freedman's Aid left town I had no trouble findin' work. And soon I was pretty prosperous. I kept that way, so long as I was able to do my share of de work. "It was in 1913, as I was walkin' 'long Hampton Street, dat I see my present wife, Sadie. She pass by me, and smile and look and I smile and look, and she slow up a little and say: 'What's happen, big boy?' I am so tickled, I say: 'I just have to tell you: 'De rose am red, De violet's blue, No knife can cut My love in two.' "She say; 'Pretty good, big boy, pretty good! Come 'round and see me sometime.' I answer: 'I sho' will, Peaches and Cream'. And dat am just what I did. We got married dat same year, and we have been happy, 'til I git too old and feeble to work much. She work now to de best of her ability and we somtimes has a big squeeze to pay de rent. Dat is why I'm hopin' to get de old age pension, made possible by de greatest President of them all. "Does I recall de 'sassination of de first President dat died dat way? Yes sir, I sho' do. De first one was Abraham Lincoln, a little after de close of de war. He was shot while sittin' in a seat in de theater at Washington. James A. Garfield, was de nex' one. He was shot in de depot, at Washington. De nex' one was McKinley. He was shot while at a show place, in Buffalo." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon,= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =DAN SMITH= =_EX-SLAVE 75 YEARS._= Dan Smith lives in one room, rent free, of a three-room frame house, the property of his son-in-law, Jim Cason. It is situated on the southeast corner of Garden and Palmer streets in the town of Winnsboro, S.C. He is tall, thin and toothless, with watery eyes and a pained expression of weariness on his face. He is slow and deliberate in movements. He still works, and has just finished a day's work mixing mortar in the construction of a brick store building for Mr. Lauderdale. His boss says: 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.' There is nothing organically wrong with Dan but he appears, in human anatomy, as Doctor Holmes's One Horse Shay must have looked the day before its final collapse. "You been here once befo' and now here you is again. You say you wanna git additions? Well, I's told you dat I was born in Richland County, a slave of Marse John Lever and on his plantation, January de 11th day, 1862, when de war was gwine on. How I know? 'Cause my mammy and pappy told me so. They call my pappy Bob and my mammy Mary. Strange as it seem, my mistress name Mary, just de same as my mammy, tho' marster wasn't name Bob, lak pappy. Him name Marster John and de young marster, an only child, was name Marse Jim. You better stop right dere 'til I tell you pappy no b'long to de Levers. Him b'long to de Smiths. Him name Bob Smith, after freedom. Dat's how come I be dis day, Dan Smith. You ketch de p'int? Well dats de way it was. "Befo' pappy take a shine to mammy in slavery time, her got mixed up wid one of old Marse Burrell Cook's niggers and had a boy baby. He was as black as long-leaf pine tar. Her name him George Washington Cook but all him git called by, was Wash Cook. My full brudders was Jim, Wesley, and Joe. All of them dead and gone long ago. "Us chillun slept on de floor. Mammy had some kind of 'traption or other, 'ginst de wall of de log house us live in, for her and de baby child to git in at night. Us have plenty to eat, sich as: peas, 'tatoes, corn bread, 'lasses, buttermilk, turnips, collards and fat meat. "De only thing I 'member 'bout my mistress is: One day her come down to de house and see my brudder Joe sucking his thumb. Mammy tell her, her can't make him quit it. Mistress go back to de big house and come runnin' back with quinine. Her rub Joe's thumbs wid dat quinine and tell mammy to do dat once or twice a day. You ought to see dat baby's face de first time and heard him squall! It sho' stopped him sucking his thumbs! "Clothes? Didn't need no clothes in de summer time but a shirt. In de winter, us just stood 'bout de fire. I'm talkin' 'bout us chillun, don't 'member 'bout old folks. "Master and Mistress lived in a big white house, two stories high, tall brick chimneys at de gable ends, and wide front and back piazzas de full length of de dwelling. Us chillun had no shoes. Mammy had two pair all de time but they had wooden bottoms. Dere was no white overseers 'round, but patarollers (patrollers) ketched my pappy once, in de house, jerk him out and whup him, while mammy and us chillun yell and cry and beg them to stop. "When de Yankees come, mammy hide us chillun under her bed 'traption. They act mighty nice to her, so she say. "What kinda work mammy do? Her was one of de weavers. Heard her tell 'bout how they make de thread and de cloth. They had spinnin' wheels. Person turn de wheel wid de hand and walk back'ards and for'ards, drawing out de thread. Dis kind of thread, her say, was rough. Later they got a thing de spinners operate wid deir foots, settin' by de wheel and workin' it wid deir foots, sorta lak a sewing machine is run. Her 'low de thread dat come to her in de weave-room from dis kind of spinnin' was smoother and more finer than de other kind. After de yarn was spin, it was reeled off de spools into hanks and then took to de warper. Then she woofed it, warped it, and loomed it into cloth. Her make four yards in a day. "After freedom, pappy come and take mammy and all us chillun to a farm on Cedar Creek, in dis county, Fairfield. I works dere 'til 1872, I thinks. I gits concerned 'bout dis time wid two things, jinin' wid de Lord, and jinin' wid de woman. De fust was easy. All I had to do was go to de Methodis' revival, shout a little, and jine up befo' de preacher. I just had to be convicted and convinced, but mind you, I was de one to be convinced, de other was not so easy. De Lord was easy to find and quick to take me, but de gal was hard to find and was slow to take me, 'cause she was de one to be convinced dis time, you see. "I looks all 'round Cedar Creek. De ones I could git, I wouldn't have, and de ones I would have I couldn't git. So dere it was. I mounts old Betsy, dat was pappy's mule, one Sunday and come to Winnsboro. I spied a gal at church, 'bout de color of a ripe pumpkin after de big frosts done fall on it, hair black as a crow and meshed up and crinkled as a cucker burr. Just lookin' at her made my mouth water. Me and old Betsy raise de dust and keep de road hot from Cedar Creek to Winnsboro dat summer and fall, and when us sell de last bale of cotton, I buys me a suit of clothes, a new hat, a pair of boots, a new shirt, bottle Hoyt's cologne and rigs myself out and goes 'round and ask her to marry me. Her name Ida Benjamin. Did her fall for me right away? Did her take me on fust profession and confession lak de Lord did? No sir-ree bob! Her say: 'I got to go to school some more, I's too young. Got to see papa and mama 'bout it. Wait 'til you come nex' time and I'll tell you.' I was confused then, I gits up, gives her de cologne bottle, and mounts old Betsy, spurs her in de side, gallops, and cusses all de way back to Cedar Creek. I confess to mammy. Her laugh and say: 'Dan, you knows nothin' 'bout women and gals. Why it's mighty plain she gonna say yes, nex' time.' Just lak her say, Ida did, and us got married de end of de nex' school term, in May. "Us had ten chillun. Dan, name for me, is at Concord, N.C. Oscar is in Concord, N.C. Lucinda marry a Haltiwanger and is comfortable in Baltimore, Md. Aurelia marry a Williams and is in Baltimore. Henrietta marry a Sawney and is in Charlotte, N.C. Lilly marry Jim Cason and live right in Winnsboro, in de house I have a room in. "I got lots of gran'childs, too many to mention, They take after dere grandma, lak to go to school and read de Bible and go to church and Sunday School. "Whut I have on my mind now is a pension. When a man git seventy-five years old, (I hear folks talk 'round me) dat man should not be 'lowed to work on de Supreme Court, him should be give a pension of $15,000.00 and made to stop work. Him may have chillun dat can support him, all de same, dat jedge gits his pension. Then in de name of goodness, why don't they make me quit mixing mortar when I is seventy-five years old and give me $240.00 a year? Sauce for de fat goose Supreme Court Jedge, oughta be sauce for de mortar mixer poor gander, I 'low. It look lak jestice for de rich jedge and mix more mortar for poor Dan." =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, July 22, 1937= =No. Words=________ =Reduced from______words= =Rewritten by= _______________________ =HECTOR SMITH= =Ex-Slave, 79 Years= "I born down here in Wahee Neck. Easter Avant, dat was my mammy en my father name Hector Smith. Coase I ain' never see him cause he die fore I was born, but dat what dey tell me. Dat was a pretty rough time wid de people den. I don' recollect so much bout de times back dere cause in dat day en time chillun didn' have de heap of knowledge dey have dis day en time, but I remembers seein de Yankees en de people gwine to de war. Oh, dat was a tough time cause dey use de whip in dem days. Oh, yes'um, my Massa whip my gran'mammy wid a leather strap. You see she had a knack of gwine off for some cause or another en meetin de boat what run up en down dat big Pee Dee river en bring fertilizer en all kind of goods to de peoples. Massa Randall had told her not to go nowhe' bout dat boat, but some people is sorta high strung like en dey go off anyhow no matter bout de whip. Oh, yes'um, he sho whip her like he didn' have no soul to save." "I couldn' tell you nothin bout how many slaves Massa Randall Davis had, but I know dat he had a right smart of them. I know it cause he had so many field hands dey didn' none of em never have to work every day in de field. Oh, dey just knock bout our Massa house en see after de stock en such things as dat what time dey didn' have to work in de field." "You knows when a thing happen so long back dere, it does vanish from a person's remembrance some of de time en den it'll wander back to you when you ain' thinkin bout it. I does recollect dat dere wasn' nothin much more for de colored peoples in dat day en time den what dey got to eat en de clothes dey had to wear. My Massa give everyone of he colored family a peck of meal en a quart of syrup en so much of meat every week en 'low em all to have a garden of dey own. Oh, dey work dey garden by de moonshine en fore light good in de mornin cause dey had to turn dey hand to dey Massa work when daylight come here. I tellin you corn bread was sweet to me in dat day en time as pound cake ever been. Wasn' never noways pickin' en choosin bout nothin. Oh, I forget bout all dem possums en rabbits dat eat right smart in dem days. Use to catch em when dey had swells of de water en dey come out de woods to hunt dry land. It just like dis, dey couldn' conceal demselves in de open fields en dat how-come we catch em so easy. Run em down wid de dogs en make em take to de water. Dat how we catch em. Dat sho was sweet eatin in dem days." "Den we had a log house to stay in what never had but just one room en de furniture we had was worser den de house. Us beds was made wid four stumps for de corners dat had boards lay cross em to put de mattress on. Some of de colored peoples had bag mattress stuff wid hay en de others had homespun mattress what was stuff wid dis here gray moss you see in de woods. En I remembers all bout when de peoples had to cook in de fireplace cause dere wasn' much stoves in circulation in dat day en time." "Well, I don' know so much bout dem things peoples call ghost, but I know dat I has seen things. I knows once long time back I was gwine long de road late on a evenin drivin me ox what I had hitch up to de cart en a ghost or somethin or another cause dat cart wheel to go right in de ditch. Well, de ox, he pull en he pull, but wid all me help, he couldn' never pull dat cart out. I ax some of dem people bout dere what dey reckon dat was en dey say all dey know to compare it to was a hant or a ghost. No 'mam, didn' see it, just hear it cause it come right to my back en knocked. It had been rainin en soon as it quit, de moon shine out bright as ever was day en dat when de hant turn de cart loose." "De next thing I see was one time when me en another fellow was sleepin in de swamp. I couldn' tell whe' de moon rise den en when I come to my senses, dere was one of dem things just a danglin in de air like dese things show people have. Some people say dat was a ghost." "Oh, de peoples didn' never worry bout no doctor den. Dey doctor was in de field in dat day en time. I gwine tell you just like I know it, all de older peoples use to get de herbs out de old fields for dey remedies. My Massa en my Missus was de ones what doctor mostly in dem times. Use to get old field ringdom, what smell like dis here mint, en boil dat en let it steep. Dat what was good to sweat a fever en cold out you. Den dere was life everlastin tea dat was good for a bad cold en cherry bark what would make de blood so bitter no fever never couldn' stand it. Dem what had de rheumatism had to take dat lion's tongue or what some peoples calls wintergreen tea en some of de time, dey take pine top en mix wid de herbs to make a complete cure. Oh, dey make it bad as dey could so as to weaken de case. Another thing dat been good for de rheumatism was dat red oak bark dat dey use to bathe de limbs wid. Willow tea was somethin good for chill en fever en catnip en sage tea was de thing for babies." "It like I tell you de colored peoples never get no learnin but what little dey catch from de plantation men in dem night schools. Oh, dey give everyone of us a slate en slate pencil en we study dere in de quarter in de night time by de light of de fire. Studied dem Blue Back Websters. Dat was de text we know bout den." "I tell you de truth I live so much in darkness den dat I think dat time was bout good as dis time. Didn' know no better sense den. I tell you just like I been know it, de peoples was coward like in dem days. Couldn' never pluck up no ambition to do a heap of things de people do dis day en time. Dat how-come I rather live in dis go round." _Source_: Hector Smith, ex-slave, age 79, Wahee section of Marion Co., S.C. Personal interview, July 1937. =Code No. 390144= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, July 14, 1937= =No. Words________= =Reduced from_____words= =Rewritten by= ______________________ =HECTOR SMITH= =Ex-Slave, 79 years= "I studied en studied what songs would suit, but dem old familiar hymns bout all I know dese days. You see dem old familiar hymns what de spirit sings. It just like I tell you, I put all dem other kind of songs away when I is change to a better way of livin. I does remember first one en den de other of dem frolicksome song dat my grandparents learnt me." NOBODY BUSINESS BUT MINE I. Rabbit in de hollow, I ain' got no dog, How can I catch em? I do know! I do know! O Me! O Mine! Sorry dat if I leave my home, I gwine to my shack Wid de chicken on my back, Nobody business but mine. (_Continued on next page._) II. Rabbit in de hollow, Ain' got no dog, How can he catch em? I do know! I do know! O Me! O Mine! Let every nigger have his way, Gwine to his shack Wid he chicken on his back, Nobody business but his. _Source_: Hector Smith, ex-slave, 79 years., Wahee section of Marion Co., S.C. Personal interview, July 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, July 14, 1937= =No. Words______7____= =Reduced from_____words= =Rewritten by= ________________________ =_WAY DOWN IN DE LONESOME VALLEY_= I. De mockin birds a singin so sweetly, So sweetly, so sweetly. De mockin birds a singin so sweetly, So sweetly, so sweetly. Way down in de lonesome valley. II. Dey tell you one thing en dey mean another, Mean another, mean another. Dey tell you one thing en dey mean another, Mean another, mean another. Way down in de lonesome valley. III. Some say, what make de young girls so deceivin? So deceivin, so deceivin? Some say, what make de young girls so deceivin? So deceivin, so deceivin? Way down in de lonesome valley. "Dat go way back dere. De peoples didn' have nothin more den a mouth organ to make music wid in dem times." _Source_: Hector Smith, age 79, ex-slave., Wahee section of Marion Co., S.C. Personal interview, July 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, July 14, 1937= =No. Words____8______= =Reduced from_____words= =Rewritten by= ________________________ =_HOLD DE DEAL_= I. Kitty, Kitty died O--O, Kitty had a man. Rather kiss a monkey, Den to kiss a nigger man. Hold de deal! Hold de deal! I'm gwine to get drunk again. II. Nigger on de horseback, Thought he was de king. Come along alligator, En let de nigger in. Hold de deal! Hold de deal! I'm gwine to get drunk again. _Source_: Hector Smith, age 79, ex-slave, Wahee section of Marion Co., S.C. Personal interview, July 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, July 14, 1937= =No. Words____9______= =Reduced from_____words= =Rewritten by= ________________________ =Hector Smith= =ex-Slave, 79 years.= "I use to holler a heap in late years but after I lay it down, all dat leave me." Bulldogs a barkin, Howl! Howl! Bulldogs a barkin, Howl! Howl! Bulldogs a barkin, Howl! Howl! Ah--oodle--oodle--ou, Ah--oodle--oodle--ou, Ah--ou--ah--ou, Ah--oodle--ou, Ah--ou--ah--ou, Ah--oodle--oodle--ou. _Source_: Hector Smith, 79 years, ex-slave, Wahee section of Marion Co., S.C. Personal interview, July 1937. =Project 1885-(1)= =Folk Lore= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =District No. 4= =May 28, 1937.= =Edited by:= =R.V. Williams= =STORIES OF EX-SLAVES= "Aunt" Jane Smith, 80 years old, says that she was only eight years old when the war ended, and that her recollections are very meagre as to conditions during slavery. Her mother belonged to John Snoddy, who owned a farm a few miles west of Spartanburg. Her father was owned by Dr. Miller of a nearby plantation. She stated that she was old enought to rock the cradle for the white babies during slavery. She stated that she could remember seeing some of the slaves being whipped on their bare backs with a plaited hickory stick, or thong. She never received any whippings. She said that a man once cut at her with his thong, but that she escaped the blow by dodging. She said she remembered seeing a small child with a piece of bread in its hand when a hog entered the house and in snatching at the bread, caught the child's hand near the thumb with its tusks. When running off, the hog carried the child with it, dragging it along into the field. All the other children and some men ran after the hog and caught it. The other colored children were whipped, but by staying in the house and watching the babies, keeping them safe from other pigs which had also entered the house, she was not whipped. Aunt Jane said that when the Yankee soldiers came to the house, they were just as thick as the "fingers on her hands." She held up her hands for inspection to illustrate how thick the soldiers stood in the ranks. She said they did not take anything, but that they crawled under the house to get the hen eggs. One soldier, she said, came to the house and asked if there were any horses on the farm. A colored woman told him that there were no horses on the place, but just at that time, one of the horses in a nearby stable neighed, and the soldier threatened the woman's life for lying to him. She says she doesn't remember whether the soldier took the horses but thinks that he did. The soldiers told the colored people that they free, but she said that didn't signify much to her mind. Some time afterwards, she said her father came and carried her and her mother to his master's place. Later, she came to Spartanburg and got a job as a cook and washerwoman. When asked if she knew anything about conjuring, she stated that she had heard of it but didn't know anything about it. When asked if she had ever seen a ghost, she said, "No, but I heard one once." She said that one night after her master had killed "hisself" in the barn with a pistol, she heard the doors being shut, the windows being slammed, and the chairs rocking on the front porch all by themselves. She declared that the wind was not blowing and that a "ghost was doing all dem things." She stated that she had been married twice; had reared a houseful of children; had adopted some and reared them, but that she didn't have anybody to work for her now but "him," referring to her husband who was sitting on a trunk. "Thank the Lord for coming to see me," she said, as the writer left. SOURCE: Jane Smith, Concord St., Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Nov. 9, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I liked to went crazy when my brother, Bob, went to Arkansas. Den Marse George Young wrote our names in a book and give it to my ma. It was jes' a small mem'randum book. We kept it till Miss Addie, dat is Mrs. Billy, give ma de Bible storybook, and den she copied our names in dat one. De little book was about wore out den; so it was burned up when Miss Addie had done finished writing our names in de storybook. Us gwine to keep dat book and hand it down atter we done left dis earth. Ma been dead now over fifty years. "I sho nu'sed Marse George's chilluns fer him, when I was a little gal. Jimmie, Willie, Conquest, Jack, Katie and Annie was Marse's chilluns. Conquest dead now. Marse George had a great big house. He was a jes'tice of de peace or something or 'nother den. I don't know what year my ma died, but Marse had her buried at New Chapel. Dat same year we raised a big crop of corn, cotton and peanuts, and had plenty hogs. Marse let us have all we wanted. He let us hang our meat in his smokehouse dat year. "Befo' ma died and I was a little gal, a terrible thing happened to us. Across de Enoree on another place, de Miller place, Fannie Miller run away. Dey couldn't find her fer a long time. Dey told my marster to git her. One Sunday my ma got ready to dress me fer Sunday school. She bathed me and when she looked in de drawer she couldn't find my clothes. All of her clothes was gone, too. I cried 'cause I couldn't go to Sunday school. Maude, de woman what lived next to us, went to church. She saw Fannie dar wid all ma's clothes on. She told Marse about it and he sont out and had Fannie caught. She had come to our house and got de clothes on Saturday evening. She had dem hid in a old house on our place. Dey put her in jail, and den her marster come and whupped her and sont de clothes back to ma. She never tried to run off agin. "Jack Gist, a slave of Gov. Gist, run away once and lived in a cave fer five months befo' de white folks found him. He went down on 'de forest' and dug a cave near de road in sight of de Harris Bridge which still spans de Fairforest Creek at dat p'int. De cave wasn't dug on Governor Gist's land, but on a place know'd den as de old Jackson place. In de mid hours of night Jack come to see his friends and dey give him things to eat. When dey got him he had a hog, two geese, some chickens and two middles of meat. Cose de hog and de middles was stole. "One night he was crossing de Fairforest Creek on a foot-log and he met Anderson Gist, one of de Governor's slaves. Dey talked fer awhile. Next morning, Anderson come wid his marster to de cave whar Jack was. Dey took all his things on to de big house, and he was whupped and put back to work. Governor Gist and our marster was good to deir slaves and dey didn't punish 'em hard like some of 'em did. We had lots more den dan we has had ever since. "I never went to de field till atter freedom come. Dey wasn't hard on us in de fields and I liked to work. We worked mostly from sun-up till it was too dark to work. Marster's youngest girl, Mary Jane Young, married Mr. Dave Lane. Dey didn't have a wedding. "My grandpa was a African and he talked real funny. He was low, chunky, fat and real black. He went around a lot befo' he died. He was de father of my mother, Clora. Granny, his wife, was called 'Fender' and she died de first year of freedom. She was sold and lived on a neighboring plantation. We went to see her every Saturday. Ma would always take us to see her, and if we didn't git to go, she come to see us. We liked to go, and Marse always give us a pass. De patrollers watch us like a hawk, but we had our passes and we told dem if dey bothered us our marster would handle 'em. He would, too, 'cause dat was 'de law'. Granny Fender was good looking. She wore purty beads, earrings and bracelets, and wrapped her head up in a red cloth. Her eyes and teeth flashed and she was always jolly. Sometimes we stay all night, but most de time we come back home. When she come to see us she always stay all night. All de old folks had real religion den, and it kept 'em happy. Folks now are too fancy fer religion and it ain't real. I has real religion and nothing don't worry me. I feels happy all de time over it. "My marster give my mother de spot of ground and de lumber fer our church which was named New Chapel. De second church is on de same spot. De first preaching was had under a oak tree, or arbor. Uncle Tony Murphy was de first preacher. He was my favorite of all de preachers. Marse read de Bible to us, but sometimes others read it to us, too. His son, Bud, dat was killed in de first battle, used to come to de quarters and read de Bible to us. "Alex Hall was de minister dat immersed us all. We was all Methodists, but out dar dey baptized everybody in de Fairforest no matter what church dey went to. Dar was fifty people baptized de day dat I was. Milly Bethane made me a big white robe to be baptized in. When I got out I had a white dress to put on. Dey had a tent fer us to go in to change our clothes. We was baptized in de Fairforest jes' above de Harris Bridge. Everybody sung while we was going under de water. Some of 'em shouted, too. It took de earthquake to shake religion in my husband. He was Emanuel Gist, de first one. "Dat night, de people was hollering and woke me up. My husband called me. 'What dat?' he 'low. 'I don't know,' I says. He got up and run out. Soon he come back home and he was shaking all over. He fell on de bed. When de chimney started to fall, I told him to git up. He said he was too scared to git up. I pulled him up and he was so scared dat he shook all over. I opened de door. He was too scared to stand up. Next day he couldn't work; so he went off. I looked fer him till way in de night. When he did come home, he was rejoicing. He was wid religion and he never give it up. Dat was on de night of de earthquake. You could hear people hollering fer miles around." Source: Mary Smith (N, 84), Buffalo St., Union, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (9/14/37) =S-260-264-N= =Project: #1885= =Augustus Ladson= =Charleston, S.C.= =EXPERIENCES OF AN EX-SLAVE ON WARDMALAW ISLAND= =_Massa Wus Kind to Slaves_= Prince Smith, a man who is said to be over a hundred years of age, has lived on Wardmalaw Island practically all of his life. His experiences during slavery are very interesting and true to life. An interview with him revealed the following: "I was bo'n an' raise' on dis island and was only frum here when de Civil War had begun. W'en Fort Sumter wus fired on mossa carried seventy of us to Greenville, South Ca'lina on account of its montanous sections, which was believed would have prevented the Yankees invasion in regard to their hide-out." We stayed een Greenville nearly four years. Durin' dat time mossa planted his fa'm an' we wurk as if we wus right here. "The Yankees had gunboats," he continued, "but dey didn' help dem atoll fur dey couldn' make any a'tack dat dis place is so unsuited fur water battles. But forest' battles wus fight on Beaufort Island and Port Royale. We een Greenville didn' know enyt'ing 'bout whut wus goin' on except what wus brought to us collud people by dose who wus sent to da town. Mossa didn' tell us eny ting. Fur almos' four 'ears we stayed een Greenville w'en suddenly one Chuesday mornin' bright an' early, Sheridan came into Greenville on horse backs en' order ebery body to sarrendar. Colonels an' Gen'rals came een de city widout de firin' of a gun. We stayed dere 'til harvestin' time by de orders of Master Osland Bailey who saw to it dat we wus given money as a share fur our wurk. "Mossa's custom at de end of de week wus to give a dry peck o' corn which you had to grin' on Sat'day ebenin' w'en his wurk wus done. Only on Chris'mus he killed en give a piece o' meat. De driber did de distribution o' de ration. All young men wus given four quarts o' corn a week, while de grown men wus given six quarts. All of us could plant as much lan' as we wuld fur our own use. We could raise fowls. My master wus a gentleman, he treat all his slaves good. My fadder an' me wus his favorite. "Some o' de slaves had to wurk on Sunday to finish dere week's wurk. If dey didn' de dribber who wus a Negro would give a lashin' varyin' frum fifteen to twenty five chops. Only high-class massas had Negro dribbters, de crackers had white overseers. "Like odder slaves had to hide frum dere mastas to hab meetin', us could hab ours any night we want to even widout his consent. When masta went to town any o' his slaves could ax him to buy t'ings for dem een Cha'leston. When Jews en peddlers came with clothes an' gunger to sell, we as chillun would go to him an' ax fur money to buy whut we want. "He had about four hund'ed acres of land which he divided in two half by a fence. One 'ear he would plant one an' let de cattles pasture on de oder. We could also raise hogs 'long wood his but had to change pasture w'en he did. De people on his plantation didn' hab any need to steal from him fur he didn' 'low us to want fur any thing. "Dere wus three kinds of days wurk on de plantation: One is de whole tas', meanin' a whole han' or a person een his prime. He wus given two tas' fur dis day's wurk. A tas' carried frum twenty four to twenty five rows which wus thirty-five feet long en twenty five feet wide. De shree fourth han' wus given one whole tas' which consists of twelve rows. All de young chillun wus included in dis group. De half han' was de old slaves who did a half tas' for dere day's work. When it was time to pick cotton, de shree fourth han' had to pick thirty pound' an' de half han' twenty fur dere day's wurk. Dose who attended to the gin only include de three fourth han'. "Massa had shree kinds o' punishment fur dose who disobeyed him. One wus de sweatbox. It wus made de height of de person an' no larger. Jus' large 'nough so de person woodn' hab to be squeezed in. De box is nailed an' een summer is put een de hot sun; een de winter it is put in de coldest, dampest place. De next is de Stock. Wood is nailed on floor with de person lyin' on his back wid hans an' feet tied wood a heavy weight on de chest. De shird is de Bilboa. You are place on a high scaffold fur so many hours an' if you don' try to keep a level head, you'll fall an you will surely hurt yourself if your neck isn't broken. Most o' de time dey were put dere so dey could break dere necks." _SOURCE_ Information from an interview with Mr. Prince Smith, who is supposed to be over a hundred years of age, Wardmalaw Island, S.C. =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Nov. 29, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "Lawsey, honey chile, how does I know jes' when I was born. All sech as dat don't mean nothing to us old slave time darkies. De mis'tus say, 'Silas, you sho was thirteen years old when dat 'Federate War wound up! Dat's all I knows and dat's what I goes by. De white folks is worrying 'bout my age being in sech and sech a year and all de like of dat. No sech as dat don't worry Silas, kaise he sho don't give it no mind, dat I doesn't. "Mis'tus call us all to set down on de side steps wid our hats in our hands. She read dat paper. When she git through, us still sets, kaise no writing never aggrevated us niggers way back dar. She wait a few minutes; den she 'low: 'It means dat you all is free, jes' as free as I is.' 'Dumpling Pie' jumped up and started crying. We all looked at him, kaise he was a fat lazy thing dat laid around like dumplings a-laying over kraut, and we axed him what he was crying for. He say, 'I ain't gwine to be no free nigger, kaise dat brings in de Issue, and I wants to keep my ma and pa, and what is I'm gwine to do widout Marse Dusey?' "Dat woke us up. Didn't narry nigger on dat entire plantation know what to do widout his marster. It was de awfulest feeling dat everything in dem quarters laid down wid dat night, de new feeling dat day was free and never had no marster to tell dem what to do. You felt jes' like you had done strayed off a-fishing and got lost. It sho won't no fun to be free, kaise we never had nothing. "Next morning Mis'tus low, 'Silas, I wants you to keep on being my house boy.' Dat sound de best to me of any news dat I had got. She hired me and I jes' kept on den as I had been gwine befo'. De quarters broke up, kaise Marse Dusey couldn't keep all dem niggers, so Mis'tus low'd. Marse was at de war and Mis'tus took things on. "Dat left only a few in de quarter. In de meantime, carpetbaggers and scalawags had put devilment in some of dem ig'nant niggers and dey thought dat if dey leave, de U.S. gwine to give dem a plantation atter de war had ceased, and plenty mules to make dem rich, like quality white folks. So by dat time dey was a-raring to git moved off. But I stay on wid Miss Sallie, as I called her den. "One dark, rainy cold day a stranger come riding up on a po' hoss and fetched a note of sorrow. Marse Dusey had done died somewhars, and Mis'tus was widowed to de ground. I stayed on, and in a year she died. Mr. Thomas Smith of Hickory Grove is de onliest chile living of my mis'tus, and he is 71 years old. "Atter Mis'tus died, I went to live wid my pa on Mr. 'Baby' John Smith's place. He had been my pa's marster. Way back den it was so many John Smiths. 'Pears like it was mo' den dan now. Dat why dey call Mis'tus' husband 'John Dusey'. Each John had a frill to his name so dat folks could keep dem straight in deir minds whenever dey would speak of dem. Mis'tus sho was good to me. I 'members her chilluns' names well; Misses Aurita and Amenta. Miss Amenta married Mr. Sam Jeffries. Miss Rachael, Mis'tus other daughter, married Mr. John Morrow. Her 'Baby' John married a lady whose name I jes' disremembers, anyway dey had a son called 'Jeff'. He lived between Hickory Grove and Broad River. All dese Smiths which I gives you renumeration of is de Hickory Grove Smiths. You jes' has to keep dem straight yet." Source: Silas Smith (N, 85), Gaffney, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (11/27/37) =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, May 17, 1937= =No. Words _____= =Reduced from ____ words= =Rewritten by= =_____________= =MOM JESSIE SPARROW= =Ex-Slave, 83 years.= "Honey, my white folks been well-to-do peoples. Dey ain' been no poor white trash. Dey hab 'stonishing blood in dey vein. I been b'long to Massa Sam Stevenson wha' lib right down dere 'cross Ole Smith Swamp. Dey ain' hab no chillun dey own, but dey is raise uh poor white girl dere, Betty. Dey gi'e (give) she eve'yt'ing she ha'e en dey school she too." "De ole man, he mind ain' been zactly right when he die. Dey say he bury some o' he money down dere on he place jes 'fore he die. Coase I dunno nuthin 'bout it, but dats wha' dey tell me. Dey say dey never is find dat money a'ter he been dead. Reckon it dere yet, I dunno. Peoples use'er aw de time be plough up kegs en box full o' money en va'uables wha' de well-to-do folks been hide dere." "De white peoples use'er bury dey silver en dey money en aw dey va'uables late on uh evenin' er early on uh mornin' when de Yankees come 'bout. De Yankees 'stroy aw us white peoples va'uables wha' dey is see. Um----dem Yankees sho' was 'structive whey dey is went." "My ole mammy been Sally Stevenson 'fore she marry en den she wuz Sally Bowens. My ole Missus take she 'way from her mammy when she wuz jes uh little small girl en never wouldn't 'low her go in de colored settlement no more. She been raise up in de white folks house to be de house girl. Never didn't work none tall outside. She sleep on uh pallet right down by de Missus bed. She sleep dere so she kin keep de Missus kivver (cover) up aw t'rough de night. My mammy ain' never do nuthin but been de house girl. My Missus larnt (learned) she how to cut en sew so she been good uh seamstress is dere wuz anywhey. She help de Missus make aw de plantation clothes en dere ain' never been no better washer en ironer no whey den my ole mammy wuz." "When I wuz uh little small girl, us lib right dere in my ole Missus yard. Dey le' us chillun play aw us wanna den. Never did hadder do none hard work tall. My Massa is some uh time send we chillun in de field to scare de crow offen de corn. Ain' never been no hoe hand in me life. When dey send we to scare de crow 'way, we is go in de field when fuss (first) sun up en we is stay dere aw day. Coase we is come to de house when 12 o'clock come en ge' we sumptin uh eat. Dese white folks 'round here don' hab no chillun to scare de crow offen dey corn nowadays. Dey has aw kind o' ole stick sot (set) 'bout in de field wid ole pant en coat flying 'bout on dem to scare de crow 'way. Dere be plenty crow 'bout nowadays too. I hears em hollerin aw 'bout in dis sky 'round 'bout here." "I 'member when I use'er nu'se de white folks baby. I al'ays did lub to nu'se de babies, but I didn't never lub to nu'se no ug'y baby. I lub to hab uh pretty baby to nu'se. Didn't lak no boy baby neither. Don' lak boy baby nohow. Lubbed little girl baby. Lubbed to take de little girls en dress em up in dey pretty clothes en carry dem out under de trees to 'muse dem whey dere wuz plenty peoples 'bout to see em. Mammy al'ays 'ud fuss at me 'bout puttin' on dey best clothes, but I ain' never do lak dese nu'se do nowadays. I take care o' my babies, didn't never 'low em wallow in de dirt lak yunnah see dese nu'se do 'bout here dese day en time." "I 'members one time I been nu'se little boy baby en I is larnt he hair to curl jes uz pretty. I bresh he hair eve'y morning en twist it 'round me finger en he is had pretty curl uz dere wuz anywhey. Never lak de Missus to cut my baby hair off neither when I had larnt it to curl." "I been lub to wash little baby clothes too. I is primp em up so nice. Never did put no starch much in em. I do me best on em en when I ge' t'rough, dey been look too nice to le' de child muss up." "Honey, I can' stand no chillun fuss 'round me no more dese days. Don' hab no chillun fuss 'round me peaceful little place. I tell aw me chillun en grandchillun en great-grandchillun dat I can' stand no chillun fuss 'round me no more. My Sammie, he marry three times en I ax him why he wanna marry so many time. I ain' never see no man I is wan' since my ole man die." "I ain' wha' I use'er to be, child. I ain' able to do nuthin more now but dem little bit o' clothes wha' Miss Betty hab. Coase she clothes ain' hard to wash. Miss Betty mighty clean, honey, she mighty clean. She don' strip she bed but eve'y udder week en den de sheet ain' dirty one speck. She does wash she self eve'y day en de sheet don' ge' de crease out dem from one time dey wash till de next. I say I gwinna wash Miss Betty clothes jes uz long uz de Massa'll le' me em." _Source_: Personal interview with Mom Jessie Sparrow, age 83, colored, Marion, S.C., May 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date. May 24, 1937= =MOM JESSIE SPARROW= =Ex-Slave, 83 years.= "I dunno, child, I don' 'member nuthin more den I tell yuh de udder time. Is yuh been to see Maggie Black yet? I dunno how old she, but I know she been here. No, child, Maggie ain' dead. She lib right down dere next Bethel Church. She move 'way from Miss Mullins house when Gus die. Coase I ain' ne'er been in she house a'ter she move dere, but dey say she hab uh mighty restful place dere. Dat wha' dey tell me. Maggie oughta could tell yuh aw 'bout dem times. I ain' know nuthin more to tell yuh. Don' tell yuh aw I know." "Who my mammy wuz? My mammy been Sallie Stevenson 'fore she marry en den a'ter she marry, she waz Sallie Bowens. Don' know whey dey ge' de Bowens from cause my pa been b'long to be uh Evans. Dat how come Miss Betty know so much 'bout me. She say we mighty nigh de same age. Coase I don' never 'spute Miss Betty word, but I don' t'ink so." "No, child, I dunno. Dunno how many chillun my mammy is hab. Dey aw been die sech uh long time dat I don' forgot. Coase George, de carpenter, my brother. He been train up by uh good carpenter man en Henry, wha' paint aw dese house 'bout here, b'long to be annuder one uv we. It jes lak 'bout my own chillun, I ain' 'member how many dey wuz. I know dere 'bout t'ree uv dem bigguns dead, but aw dem babies, Lawd, I ain' 'member how many dere wuz. Can' never recollect nuthin 'bout how many dere been come here." "My mammy been de house girl in my white folks house. She marry when she ain' but 13 year old. Dat wha' she tell me. She say she marry to ge' outer de big house. Dat how come she to marry so soon. Say de white folks take she way from she mammy when she won' but uh little small girl en make she sleep right dere on uh pallet in de Missus room aw de time 'fore she marry. Coase a'ter she marry, she been de house girl right on but she never stay in de Missus house when night come. Us chillun ain' been 'low to stay in de big house. Dey hab uh room put on de kitchen fa my mammy en she family to lib in. We chillun stay right dere in de yard whey my mammy could look a'ter us in en 'round. My mammy hadder stay 'bout my ole Missus aw de day en help she cut en sew de plantation clothes en wash en iron. Den she hadder help make quilts outer aw de scrap dat been left o'er a'ter de garment was cut out." "Us chillun been fed from de table right dere in de Missus kitchen en some uv de time my mammy 'ud bring us sumptin to eat, wha' wuz cook in de Missus kitchen, en le' us eat it in she room. Dey'ud gi'e us hominy en milk en meat fa us break'ast. My white folks hadder uh lot uv cows en dey'ud gi'e us chillun plenty milk en clabber to eat. We is hab milk en clabber eve'y day en dey is gi'e us plenty meat to eat, so dey is dat. Child, I ain' know no slack eatin' 'round my ole Missus. Some uv de time we hab hoecake en den annuder time dey'ud gi'e us obben (oven) bread. Dey cook eve'yt'ing on de fireplace in dem days, eve't'ing. Jes hab rods put 'cross de fireplace in de kitchen wid pot hang on it. Dat whey dey cook us ration. Dey'ud gi'e us t'ings lak peas en collards en meat fa we dinner. Den dey'ud gi'e us uh big bowl uv corn bread en clabber late in de evenin' cause jes lak I is call to yuh jes now, dey is use milk right smart in dem days. I lak eve'yt'ing wha' dey is hab to eat den. Dey never eat lak dese peoples eats nowadays. I won' larnt to lak aw kind uv t'ing. Dey use'er cook poke salad wha' been season wid meat. Don' yuh know wha' dat? Poke salad is come up jes lak dose weed out dere en dey is cut de top offen dem en take aw de hard part outer em en den dey is boil em uh long time wid meat. Dey is eat right good too. Don' lak spinach en aw dat sumptin en don' lak celery neither. Don' lak butter put in nuthin I eats. I laks me squash fried down brown lak wid grease in de pan. I laks me beets wid uh little vinegay on em en season wid some sugar sprinkle on em. Don' lak em jes wid nuthin but uh little salt en butter smear aw o'er dem lak some uv dese peoples 'bout here eat em nowadays." "Yas'um, we use'er eat plenty uv em possum. Eve'y one dey is ketch, us parent cook it. Us eat aw kinder wild animal den sech uz coon, possum, rabbit, squirrel en aw dat. Hab plenty uv fish in dem days too. Hab pond right next de white folks house en is ketch aw de fish dere dat we is wan'. Some uv de time dey'ud fry em en den some uv de time dey'ud make uh stew. Dey'ud put uh little salt en onion en grease in de stew en anyt'ing dey been ge' hold uv." "Massa Sam been hab uh heap uv colored peoples 'sides we, but dey lib up on de hill in de quarters. My Missus, she see to it she self dat dey hab good bed wha' to sleep on en plenty sumptin uh eat. She docker (doctor) em when dey ge' sick too en she be mighty anxious ef dey sick mucha. Us hab good clothes en shoes den too. Coase de peoples'ud wear more clothes den, en dey'ud put on more undey shirt in de winter den dey wear in de summer. My white folks'ud make de plantation clothes outer gingham en jeanes cloth mostly. Dat jeanes cloth be wha' dey make little coat en pant outer. Dat sumptin jes lak homespun." "No, child, dey ain' ne'er gi'e us no money den. Never need no money den. My Massa been provide eve't'ing us hab, honey, eve'yt'ing. We ain' lak fa nuthin den. We chillun ain' been big 'nough to do nuthin but scare de crow offen de corn en some uv de time my ole Missus'ud hab we chillun sweepin' outer in de yard when she be out dere wid us." "Yas'um, honey, my white folks al'ays'ud see dat dey colored peoples'ud go to chu'ch (church) eve'y Sunday. We hadder walk dere to de white big Methodist Chu'ch up de road en sot en de gallery. Yas'um de white folks is stay down en we is go up. Ef we chillun never go, my ole Missus'ud teach us de catechism right dere in de back yard. Hadder wash us face en hand en come dere to she. Yas'um, I 'members dat aw right." "My white folks'ud ride to chu'ch in dey big ole carriage en dey driver'ud hab dey big black hosses bresh jes uz shiny. I forge' de driver name. Dey hab uh pair uv dem black hosses wha' been match hosses en dey is look jes lak. En den one day de ole Yankees is come t'rough dere en dey is carry one uv dem 'way. A'ter dat dey hadder use one uv de plantation hoss in de place uv dis carriage hoss. De Missus'ud al'ays take my mammy in de carriage wid she too. Never left her home, so she tell me. Jes stuff she down dere 'tween de seats somewhey." _Source_: Mom Jessie Sparrow, age 83, colored, Marion, S.C. Personal interview, May 1937. =Code No.= =Project No. 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, September 7, 1937= =MOM JESSIE SPARROW= =Ex-Slave, 83 Years= =Marion, S.C.= "No, honey, dere ain' not a soul live here but me. Man stay in dat other room dere just to be a little bit of company for me when night come. He ain' not a speck of kin to me, not a speck. Oh, he pay me a little somethin, but it not much. Mostly, I does want him for protection like. Ain' got but just dis one room for myself cause dat part out dere does be just like out in de yard. Dis Miss Mary Watson house en she tell me stay on here dat de house ain' worth no fixin. Don' know how long I be here. No, honey, I ain' got no property only just myself. Ain' got not a bit. Ain' got nothin, child. I can' do no work dese days but dat little bit of washin dat Miss Betty have en dat ain' nothin to depend on. Just try to do a little somethin to help myself along. Nothin worth to speak bout though." "Miss Betty say we bout one age. My daddy belonged to Miss Betty father en dat how-come she know dere ain' much difference in us age. My mammy was de house 'oman on old man Sam Stevenson plantation en dat whe' I was born. When we was freed, I was a little small girl en my daddy moved us up here in town right over dere on de Gibson place. Fore den, when he have a mind to see us, he had to come cross de swamp dere to old man Sam Stevenson place en dat de reason he move us. He say it take too much pains to keep dat gwine back en forth. I remembers I finished growin right up here in dis town over dere on de Gibson place. My mammy have task to cook dere en my daddy been de butler man, but I was small den. Can' recollect much bout it. Reckon I wouldn' hardly know de place whe' I was born if I go back dere now. De old man Sam Stevenson had nice house, but it burn down long time back. Dey tell me dat de first court de peoples in Marion did ever know bout meet right dere on dat same spot. Coase I don' know nothin bout it, but dat what I hear dem say." "My Massa had a big plantation, honey, a big plantation wid heap of colored people house. I remember dey call up dat way from de house on de hill en all de servants house set up dere. So I hear my mammy say she know bout some white folks dat didn' half feed dey colored people en didn' half clothe dem in de winter neither, but our white folks always treat us mighty good. Put shoes on all us feet in de winter en give us abundance of ration all de time." "Honey, I hear dem talkin bout dat war, but I can' tell you nothin bout dat. I recollects I see dem Yankees when dey come through my Massa plantation en took his best carriage horse. Had two of dem big black carriage horses dat was match horses en dem Yankees carry one of dem away wid dem. I hear dem say de white folks would bury dey silver en money in pots en barrels to hide dem from de Yankees. Oh, dem fiddlin Yankees ax nobody nothin. Just go in de house en take dat what dey wanted. Go right in de house en plunder round en take de peoples best things. Wouldn' take no common things. Wasn' right, but dey done it. I hear talk dat a man plowed up a chest or somethin another de other day full of money, so dey tells me. I hear plenty peoples plow up all kind of things dese days in old fields dat ain' been broke up or throwed out for years. I hear so, but I know I ain' never found none though." "I sho been here when dat shake come here, child. I been married ever since I was a grown 'oman en I was stayin right over yonder in dat house dere. My son Henry was de baby on me lap den en he tell me de other day dat he was bout 50 now. It come like a wind right from dat way. Some people tell me de ground was just a shakin en a mixin up, but I don' know how de ground was doin cause I never go on it. I hear de lumberation comin or dat what I calls it en it come long en hit de side of de house so hard dat all de dishes was just a rattlin. Every time de earth commence shakin, dem dish start jinglin. It come bout de early part of de night. I didn' know what to think it was till somebody come dere en say it been a earthquake. Say de ground was just a workin up. I tell you I ain' know what it was to be scared of, but dere been de old Ark (boarding house) standin cross de street den en dem people was scared most to death. Dey thought it was de Jedgment comin on. Reckon I would been scared worser den I was, but I didn' get on de ground. No, honey, I reckon de house dat was standin up in dat day en time was substantial like en it didn' worry none of dem." "Is you seen Maggie Black any more? She been right sick, but she better now. Yes, she been right puny. Don' know what ail her." "Honey, what can you tell me bout dat white man dat been shoot up bout Mullins de other day. I hear people talk bout a man been shot by another man, but I ain' know nothin more den dat. Ain' hear none of de details only as dey tell me dey catch de man dat got away next Dillon tryin to get back home. I tell you it a bad place up dere in Mullins durin dis tobacco time. Dey tell me dere be such a stir up dat people be rob en shoot all bout dere. Dat de reason I stay back here whe' ain' nobody to worry me. Some of dem be seekin for you when you sleep en den another time dey get you when you gwine long de road. I don' like so much fuss en rousin en mix up round me. Dat de reason I does stay here by myself." "De people just livin too fast dis day en time, honey. You know some of dese people, I mean my race, dey got a little bit of education en ain' got no manners. I tell dem if dey ain' got no manners, dey ain' got nothin cause manners carries people whe' a dollar won' carry you. Dis education don' do everybody no good. It get some of dem standin on de top of dey heads. Dat what it done to dem. Coase dey say everybody chillun got to go to school dis year en dat a good thing cause dere be so many runnin round makin mischief when dey ain' in school. I used to tell my chillun I buy dey book en satchel en keep plenty meat en bread for dem to eat en dey portion been to go dere en get dey learnin. If dey get whippin at school, I tell dem go back en get more. Didn' never entice dem to stay home." "All I know bout Abraham Lincoln was dat he Abraham Lincoln en he de one cause freedom. I recollect dey used to sing song bout him, but I done forget it now. Say dey hung Abraham Lincoln on de sour apple tree or old Jeff Davis or somethin like dat. Honey, dat all I know. Can' recollect nothin more den dat bout it." "Child, dis a pretty bad time de people got dese days, I tell you. Coase I thankful don' nobody worry me. All treats me nice, both white en black, what knows me. I be gwine down de street en folks come out de courthouse en say, 'Ain dat Mom Jessie? Mom Jessie, don' you remember me?' I say, 'I know your favor, but I can' call your name.' Dey tell me en laugh en let me lone. It just like dis, child, I puts my trust in de Lord en I lives mighty peaceful like. I ain' got a enemy in de world cause everybody speaks appreciatively of me. Dere somebody bringin me somethin to eat all de time en I don' be studyin bout it neither. First one en den de other bring me a plate en somethin another. Don' want me to do no cookin. Say I might fall in de fire. Honey, de lady come by here de other day en tell me I gwine get de old 'oman money pretty soon now dat dere been so much talk bout. I be thankful when it get here too, child, cause I wants to get first one thing en de other to do some fixin up bout my house." "Well, honey, I tired now cause I ain' much today nohow. Can' recollect nothin else dis mornin. Don' know what you want to hear bout all dem things for nohow." _Source_: Mom Jessie Sparrow, age 83, ex-slave, Bond Street, Marion, S.C.--Third Report. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Sept., 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, December 7, 1937= =MOM JESSIE SPARROW= =Ex-Slave, 83 Years= "No, I ain' cold. I settin in de sun. Miss Ida, she went by here just now en call at me bout de door been open en lettin dat cold wind blow in on my back wid all de fire gone out. I tell her, it ain' botherin me none, I been settin out in de sun. Well, I don' feel much to speak bout, child, but I knockin round somehow. Miss Ida, she bring me dis paper to study on. She does always be bringin me de Star cause she know dat I love to see de news of Marion. It right sad bout de Presbyterian preacher, but everybody got to die, I say. Right sad though. We hear dat church bell here de other evenin en we never know what it been tollin for. I holler over dere to Maggie house en ax her how-come de church bell tollin, but she couldn' tell me nothin bout it. Reckon some chillun had get hold of it, she say. I tell her, dat bell never been pull by no chillun cause I been hear death note in it. Yes, honey, de people sho gwine horne (grieve) after Dr. Holladay." "I say, I doin very well myself en I thankful I ain' down in de bed. Mighty thankful I ain' down in de bed en can set up en talk wid de people when dey comes to see me. I ain' been up dere on your street in a long time. Can' do much walkin dese days cause I ain' got no strength to speak bout. Ain' been up town dere in bout two months. Mr. Jervey ax John Evans what de matter dat I ain' been comin to de store to get my rations en John Evans tell him I been under de weather. Somehow another, dey all likes me up dere en when dey don' see me up town on Saturday, dey be axin bout me. Mr. Jervey, he come here de other day en bring me some tobacco en syrup en cheese en some of dem other things what he know dat I used to buy dere. He tell me dey all was wantin to see me back up dere again. I say, I can' go up dere cause I give way in my limbs en just comes right down whe' I don' have nothin to catch to. Got dis old stick here dat I balances myself on when I goes out round bout de house here. Cose I don' venture to steady myself no far ways on it." "No, child, I ain' been up your way in a long time. I wash for Miss Betty all my best days, but I ain' been up to de house in many a mornin. Miss Betty like myself now, she old. I tell dem up dere to de house, de last time I talk wid dem, don' mind Miss Betty cause her mind ain' no good. I say, just gwine on en do what you got to do en let Miss Betty rest. You see, Miss Betty always would have her way en dis ain' no time to think bout breakin her neither. Cose I don' know nothin bout it, but Miss Betty say we bout one age." "I reckon Miss Betty got plenty pecans dis year cause she does rake dem up by de tubfuls bout dis time of de year. I got my share of dem last year, but I ain' got no mind dat I gwine get any dis year less I go up dere. Yes, mam, I got my share last year cause when I went to carry Miss Betty washin home, I could pick up all I wanted while I come through under de trees. My Lord, Miss Betty, she had a quantity of dem last year, but I ain' hear what de crop doin dis year. I don' care though cause I wouldn' eat dem nohow widout I beat dem up en I ain' in no shape to go to all dat trouble. I loves peanuts good as anybody, but I couldn' never chew dem widout dey was beat up." "Honey, my child en her daughter comin from de northern states dis Christmas to see me. Her name Evelyn, but dey call her Missie. She write here dat she want to come en I tell my Sammie to send word dey is welcome. Cose dey gwine stay wid my son, Sammie, cause dey got more room den I is en dey got a cookin stove, too, but she gwine be in en out here wid her old mammy off en on. Yes'um, I wants to see her mighty bad since it be dat she been gone from here so long. When she first went up dere, she worked for a white family dere to Hartford, Connecticut, but it won' long fore she got in a fidget to marry en she moved dere to Philadelphia. Dat whe' she livin now, so my Sammie tell me." "Den dere another one of my chillun dat I say, I don' never 'spect to see no more on dis side of de world. Evelina, she get married en go way out west to live. She de one what used to nurse Lala up dere to Miss Owens' house. My God, honey, she been crazy bout Lala. Don' care what she been buy on a Saturday evenin, she would save some of it till Monday to carry to dat child. My Evelina, she always would eat en she used to bring Lala here wid her a heap of times to get somethin to eat. She would come in en fetch her dat tin plate up dere full of corn bread en molasses en den she would go to puttin dem ration way. Would put her own mouth full en den she would cram some of it down Lala's mouth in de child's belly. You see, I always would keep a nice kind of syrup in de safe cause I don' like none dese kind of syrup much, but dis here ribbon cane syrup. My Lord, dat child would stand up dere en eat just as long as Evelina poke it down her. Oh, Lala been just a little thing plunderin bout en I tell Evelina dat she ought not to feed dat child dem coarse ration, but she say, 'Lala want some en I gwine give it to her cause I loves her.' No, child, Miss Owens never didn' worry her mind bout whe' Evelina been carry dat child. You see, she been put trust in Evelina." "I don' know what to tell you, honey. I bout like Miss Betty now. My 'membrance short dese days. Oh, I hear talk bout all kind of signs de people used to worry over en some of dem still frets bout dem, too. Hear talk dat you mustn't wash none on de New Years' Day. It bad luck, so a heap of dem say. Den some folks say it a sign of death to hear a owl holler at night. Some people can' bear to hear dem, but don' no owls worry me, I say. Lord, Maggie, dis child ax me how a owl holler when it a sign of death. Well, dey does holler a right good space apart. Don' holler right regular. I ain' hear one holler now in a long time, but I used to hear dem be hollerin plenty times out dere somewhe' another in dem trees. Say, when some people been hear dem holler on a night, dey would stick a fire iron in de fire en dat would make de owl quit off. I hear talk bout a lot of people would do dat. Den dere another sign de people does have bout de New Years' Day. Reckon dat what dey call it, I don' know. No, mam, I don' understand nothin bout it, but I does hear people speak bout dey craves to get a cup of peas en a hunk of hog jowl on de first day of de year. Say, dem what put faith in dem kind of victuals on de New Years' Day, dey won' suffer for nothin no time all de next year. Cose I don' know, but I say dat I eats it cause I loves it." "Well, child, dat bout all I know to speak bout dis evenin. It gettin so cold, I don' know whe' I can manage here much longer or no. Cose my Sammie, he want me to go stay dere wid him, but I can' stand no chillun fuss round me no more. I tell him dese people bout here be in en out to ax bout me right smart en I think bout I better stay here whe' dere ain' nobody to mind what I do. You see, honey, old people is troublesome en I don' want to be noways burdensome to nobody. Yes, mam, I gwine be right here waitin, if de Lord say so, de next time I see you makin up dat path." _Source_: Mom Jessie Sparrow, age 83, colored, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie R. Davis, Dec., 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, October 11, 1937= =MOM JESSIE SPARROW= =Ex-Slave, 83 Years= "Good morning, honey, I ain' much today. How you is? No, I can' talk nothin bout dem times today. Ain' know no more den I done tell you. I doin very well considerin I can' get bout like I wants to. Doin very well, honey. Peoples mighty nice to me, white en black. Cose I don' venture to get far off de lot, I be so poorly dese days. Ain' been bout up town dere in a month since Saturday." "Well, my chillun say for me to go live wid dem, but I don' want to go down to dat other far end of de town. I tell dem dey worry me so dat I think I rather be here in dis piece of house. See, I has such good neighbors bout me here en dere be so much a fightin en gwine on in dat other end of town. All de peoples speaks well of me, both white en black, of dem dat knows me. Yes, mam, Miss Ellen tell me fore she die for me to stay right here in dis house long as I live en ain' nobody is gwine worry me neither. No, child, Miss Mary Watson don' worry me, not one speck bout dis house. Miss Mary de only child dat Miss Ellen got left here. No, honey, I ain' studyin bout gwine nowhe' yet. Cose de house may fall down on me cause dat dere old kitchen over dere was good when I come here, but it rot down. Dat how-come I ain' got no stove. De kitchen rot down en de rain come in on de stove en rust it out. No, dey don' worry me none. I tell dem I ain' got nothin, but I settin here just as satisfied like. Cose I may get a little pension soon, but don' know when it gwine get here. I ain' hear tell of nobody gettin it yet. I tell lady dat come here if I get it, it be all right en if I don' get it, dat be all right too." "Big sale on today, ain' dere, child? I hear talk bout dey gwine sell all de Witcover property en all dat, but I don' know. Dey sho got a pretty day for it. I had on my old thick sweater, but it too hot. I had to pull it off en put on dis here thin jacket. Can' go bout too naked, honey." "Yes'um, I know it was you come here de other night. Cose I can' see so good, but I can hear de people voice en tell who dere time I hear dem comin up dat path. You see, I don' light my lamp first night nohow, dere be so much grass round here de mosquitoes comes in en worries me right smart." "Miss Foxworth en dem fixin to plant dey turnips over dere. Miss Foxworth, I likes her very well to speak. She good-hearted, kind en clever. She comes over en talks wid me often cause us been friends ever since fore de old man been gone. Dey ain' got no kind of garden yet, but dey fixin to plant a fall garden out dere." "No, child, I done put Miss Betty clothes down. Tell her I ain' able to wash no more en my Lord, Miss Betty sho hate to hear me say dat. Won' dat Miss Betty clothes was so hard, but it was de totin dem back en forth en den dere be so little bit of money in dem, didn' pay to hire nobody to carry dem. Cose she didn' pay me nothin worth much cause she didn' never have nothin much, but a little changin of underclothes en bout one dress. Just had to starch bout one petticoat en one dress, but I can' hardly wash for myself dese days en I wouldn' never venture to do hers no more. No, honey, my conscience wouldn' allow me to overpower Miss Betty for dem little bit of somethin en dey ain' dirty neither. You see, since Miss Emma been stayin dere, she in charge de house en uses all her tablecloths en such as dat. Miss Emma, she mighty nice to me. Every time I go up dere en I ain' been doin nothin for her neither, she see can she find a cup of fresh milk or somethin another to hand me." "Reckon I gwine be lonesome right bout dis side next week cause all de colored schools gwine be open up Monday. You see, dere be so many school chillun en teacher livin on dis here street. Dat child over dere say she gwine be home right sharp after she be finish pickin cotton next week. I say I ain' be obliged to leave dis country cause my white folks wouldn' never venture to come dere to dat other end of town to see me. All dese chillun bout here mighty good to me. Don' never let me suffer for nothin. Dey caution me not to risk to cook nothin over dat fireplace cause dey say I might tumble over en can' catch myself. No, dey tell me don' do no cookin, I might fall in en burn up. No, child, I ain' chance to cook none on dat fireplace since I been sick. Different ones brings me somethin dis day en dat day. Don' suspicion nothin bout it till I see dem comin. Celeste over dere brings me breakfast en dinner every day en I don' never bother wid no supper cause I lays down too early. Den dey keeps me in plenty bread en rolls en I keeps a little syrup on hand en eats dat if I gets hungry. Dere Marguerite all de time bringin me somethin, if it ain' nothin but a pitcher of ice. You see, dey makes dey ice en it ain' costin her nothin. When I see her turn out dat piazza, I know she comin here. I ain' see her today, but I lookin for her. Used to wash for dem too. Honey, I done a lot of work bout dis town en I don' suffer for nothin. All de people bout here be good to me." "No, mam, I ain' gwine let you take no more pictures. Ain' gwine take no more. If Miss Montgomery say she comin here to take more pictures, tell her I ain' gwine take no more. No, child, I ain' studyin bout no pictures. I don' want no more. I got one big one up dere on de wall dat show me en my mammy en my son, Sammie, settin in a automobile. Dat my picture settin up dere wid de white blouse on. I tell dem I look like somethin den, but I too old en broke up now. My daughter, she want a picture en she kept on after us till we went up dere to whe' de carnival was. Carnival man had a automobile dat he take your picture in en we get in en set down en he snap de picture. I tell dem dey got one now en dat ought to be sufficient. Dat my mammy settin dere by me. She was sho a fine lookin woman. Lord, Lord, honey, dem chillun love dem pictures, but I ain' studyin bout wantin my picture scatter all bout de country." "Yes, child, I sleeps all right. Go to bed early too fore anybody else round here do. Yes, mam, I goes to bed early en don' never get up none till I see day shine in dem cracks. I was figurin somebody else ax me dat de other day. Believe it was Dr. Dibble. My Sammie, he a mammy child. He never stop till he send de doctor here to see could he find out de ailment dat seem like was eatin me way. Dr. Dibble come here en set down in dat chair en ax me a heap of questions. Den he test my blood en give me a tonic dat he say would hope me. Yes, mam, dat my Sammie doctor en he goes to see him often, he does have such a misery in his head. Dat de first time Dr. Dibble ever been here, but I likes he manner mighty well. Dr. Zack was a good doctor too. Cose dat what dey tell me, but I ain' know nothin bout it. No, child, I been healthy all my days en I ain' had to worry bout no doctor. I tells dem when I falls down, I won' last long cause I been hearty all my days." "Your sister still in Dr. Dibble store (office), ain' she? Is she got a cook yet? Dat it, I glad she got somebody to depend on cause dese young people, can' tell bout dem. Dey be one place today en den dey apt to be another place de next day. I used to cook dere to lady house cross de street, but I never didn' cook no Sunday dinner dere. Dat lady been take in sewin en she would sew en press right on de big Sunday. I tell her dat a sin en she say she had to get finish somehow dat de folks was pushin her for dey clothes. I say, 'Well, dat you, ain' me.' I go dere on Sunday mornin en cook breakfast en clean up en put wood in de kitchen. Den I would go to church en left dem to cook what dinner dey get. Dat de reason I won' cook for none dese white folks dis day en time cause when dey pays you dat little bit of money, dey wants every bit your time. I been proud when dat lady move from here cause I was tired walkin de road back en forth. People come here en beg me to cook for dem, but I tell dem I gwine stay right here en do my bit of washin. Gwine get along somehow wid it." "Bethel, down dere on de other side de jail, de only church I ever been a member of. We got to fix us church twixt now en next year. It need fixin bad. You see, it right on de Main street gwine down en does be right public out to de people. I was fixin to go to church Sunday gone, but my child never come after me. My son, Sammie, never show up, but he come Sunday evenin laughin. Say, 'Ma, I know if I come by your house, you would want to go wid me.' No, I ain' been so I able to go in four Sundays." "Child, you ought to had brought your parasol wid you cause you been settin here so long, you gwine be late gettin whe' you started. Dis here another hot day we got come here." "Well, good-day, child. Speak bout how you is find Maggie Black to me when you pass back long dat street dere." _Source_: Mom Jessie Sparrow, ex-slave, 83 years, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, October, 1937. =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =ROSA STARKE= =_EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD._= Rosa's grandfather was a slave of Solicitor Starke. Although she has had two husbands since slavery, she has thrown their names into the discard and goes by the name of Rosa Starke. She lives in a three-room frame house with her son, John Harrison, two miles south of Winnsboro, S.C., on the plantation of Mrs. Rebecca V. Woodward. She still does farm work, hoeing and picking cotton. "They say I was six years old when de war commence poppin' in Charleston. Mammy and pappy say dat I was born on de Graham place, one of de nineteen plantations of my old marster, Nick Peay, in 1854. My pappy was name Bob and my mammy name Salina. They had b'longed to old Marse Tom Starke befo' old Marse Nick bought them. My brudders was name Bob and John. I had a sister name Carrie. They was all older than me. "My marster, Nick Peay, had nineteen places, wid a overseer and slave quarters on every place. Folks dat knows will tell you, dis day, dat them nineteen plantations, in all, was twenty-seven thousand acres. He had a thousand slaves, more or less, too many to take a census of. Befo' de numerator git 'round, some more would be born or bought, and de nominator had to be sent 'round by Marse Nick, so old Miss Martha, our mistress, say. Her never could know just how many 'twas. Folks used to come to see her and ask how many they had and her say it was one of them sums in de 'rithmetic dat a body never could take a slate and pencil and find out de correct answer to. "Her was a Adamson befo' her marry old marster, a grand big buckra. Had a grand manner; no patience wid poor white folks. They couldn't come in de front yard; they knowed to pass on by to de lot, hitch up deir hoss, and come knock on de kitchen door and make deir wants and wishes knowed to de butler. "You wants me to tell 'bout what kind of house us niggers live in then? Well, it 'pend on de nigger and what him was doin'. Dere was just two classes to de white folks, buckra slave owners and poor white folks dat didn't own no slaves. Dere was more classes 'mongst de slaves. De fust class was de house servants. Dese was de butler, de maids, de nurses, chambermaids, and de cooks. De nex' class was de carriage drivers and de gardeners, de carpenters, de barber, and de stable men. Then come de nex' class de wheelwright, wagoners, blacksmiths and slave foremen. De nex' class I 'members was de cow men and de niggers dat have care of de dogs. All dese have good houses and never have to work hard or git a beatin'. Then come de cradlers of de wheat, de threshers, and de millers of de corn and de wheat, and de feeders of de cotton gin. De lowest class was de common field niggers. A house nigger man might swoop down and mate wid a field hand's good lookin' daughter, now and then, for pure love of her, but you never see a house gal lower herself by marryin' and matin' wid a common field-hand nigger. Dat offend de white folks, 'specially de young misses, who liked de business of match makin' and matin' of de young slaves. "My young marsters was Marse Tom, Marse Nick, and Marse Austin. My young misses was Miss Martha, Miss Mary, and Miss Anne Eliza. I knows Marse Nick, Jr. marry a Cunningham of Liberty Hill. Marse Tom marry a Lyles and Marse Austin marry and move to Abbeville, after de war. Old marster die de year befo' de war, I think, 'cause my mammy and pappy fell in de division to Marse Nick and us leave de Graham place to go to de home place. It was called de Melrose place. And what a place dat was! 'Twas on a hill, overlookin' de place where de Longtown Presbyterian Church and cemetery is today. Dere was thirty rooms in it and a fish pond on top of it. A flower yard stretchin' clean down de hill to de big road, where de big gate, hangin' on big granite pillars, swung open to let de carriages, buggies, and wagons in and up to de house. "Can I tell you some of de things dat was in dat house when de Yankees come? Golly no! Dat I can't, but I 'members some things dat would 'stonish you as it 'stonished them. They had Marseille carpets, linen table cloths, two silver candlesticks in every room, four wine decanters, four nut crackers, and two coffee pots, all of them silver. Silver castors for pepper, salt, and vinegar bottles. All de plates was china. Ninety-eight silver forks, knives, teaspoons and table-spoons. Four silver ladles, six silver sugar tongs, silver goblets, a silver mustard pot and two silver fruit stands. All de fireplaces had brass firedogs and marble mantelpieces. Dere was four oil paintin's in de hall; each cost, so Marse Nick say, one hundred dollars. One was his ma, one was his pa, one was his Uncle Austin and de other was of Colonel Lamar. "De smoke-house had four rooms and a cellar. One room, every year, was filled wid brown sugar just shoveled in wid spades. In winter they would drive up a drove of hogs from each plantation, kill them, scald de hair off them, and pack de meat away in salt, and hang up de hams and shoulders 'round and 'bout de smokehouse. Most of de rum and wine was kep' in barrels, in de cellar, but dere was a closet in de house where whiskey and brandy was kep' for quick use. All back on de east side of de mansion was de garden and terraces, acres of sweet 'taters, water millions (watermelons) and strawberries and two long rows of beehives. "Old marster die. De 'praisers of de State come and figure dat his mules, niggers, cows, hogs, and things was worth $200,000.00. Land and houses I disremember 'bout. They, anyhow, say de property was over a million dollars. They put a price of $1,600.00 on mammy and $1,800.00 on pappy. I 'member they say I was worth $400.00. Young Marse Nick tell us dat the personal property of de estate was 'praised at $288,168.78.[A] "De Yankees come set all de cotton and de gin-house afire. Load up all de meat; take some of de sugar and shovel some over de yard; take all de wine, rum, and liquor; gut de house of all de silver and valuables, set it afire, and leave one thousand niggers cold and hongry, and our white folks in a misery they never has got over to de third generation of them. Some of them is de poorest white folks in dis State today. I weeps when I sees them so poor, but they is 'spectable yet, thank God. "After de war I stuck to de Peay white folks, 'til I got married to Will Harrison. I can't say I love him, though he was de father of all my chillun. My pappy, you know, was a half white man. Maybe dat explain it. Anyhow, when he took de fever I sent for Dr. Gibson, 'tend him faithful but he die and I felt more like I was free, when I come back from de funeral, than I did when Marse Abe Lincoln set us free. My brudder, Bob, had done gone to Florida. "I nex' marry, in a half-hearted way, John Pearson, to help take care of me and my three chillun, John, Bob, and Carrie. Him take pneumonia and die, and I never have a speck of heart to marry a colored man since. I just have a mind to wait for de proper sort, till I git to heaven, but dese adult teachers 'stroy dat hope. They read me dat dere is no marryin' in heaven. Well, well, dat'll be a great disappointment to some I knows, both white and black, and de ginger-cake women lak me. "Is I got any more to tell you? Just dis: Dere was 365 windows and doors to Marse Nick Peay's house at Melrose, one for every day in de year, my mistress 'low. And dere was a peach tree in de orchard so grafted dat dat peach tree have ripe peaches on it in May, June, July, August, September, and October." [A] Probate records of Fairfield County. See Roll 110 of the Judge of Probate for Fairfield County. =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =JOSEPHINE STEWART= =_EX-SLAVE 85 YEARS OLD._= Phinie Stewart, as she is known in the community where she lives, is a small, black negress, who shows her age in appearance and movements. She lives with Robert Wood, a hundred yards back of the Presbyterian Church manse at Blackstock, S.C. Robert Wood married Phinie's niece, who is now deceased. Phinie has no property, and depends entirely on the charity of Robert Wood for her support. "Does you know where de old Bell House is, about a mile de other side of Blackstock, on de Chester road? Yes? Well, dere is where I was borned, in May, 1853. "I doesn't know who my pappy was. You know in them times folks wasn't particular 'bout marriage licenses and de preacher tying de knot and all dat kind of thing. But I does know mammy's name. Her name was Celie. Dese eyes of mine is dim but I can see her now, stooping over de wash tub and washing de white folks' clothes every Monday and Tuesday. "Us belonged to Marster Charlie Bell and his lady, Miss Maggie Bell, our mistress in them slavery days. Does I 'member who Miss Maggie was befo' her married Marster Charlie? Sure I does. Mistress was a daughter of Miss Anne Jane Neil, who lived to be a hundred and five years old, and its writ on her tombstone in Concord Cemetery. I 'spect you has seen it, ain't you? Old Miss Anne Neil was a Irish lady, born in Ireland across de ocean. She had a silver snuff box; I seen it. She'd take snuff out dat box, rub it up her nose and say: 'De Prince of Whales (Wales) give me dis box befo' I come to dis country, and I was presented to his ma, Queen Victoria, by de Duke of Wellington on my sixteenth birthday.' Old Miss Anne Neil claims she was born over dere de very night of de battle of Waterloo. And she would go on and 'low dat when de duke took her by de hand and led her up to de queen, him say: 'Your Majesty, dis young lady was born on de night of our great victory at Waterloo.' "My young mistress was named Miss Margaret. She married Marse Wade Brice. I was give to them when I was 'bout five years old and I went along with them to Woodward, S.C. My mammy was give to them, too, at de same time. Us lived in Marse Wade's quarter, to de east of de white folks' house. Dere was a row of log houses, 'bout ten I think. Mammy and me lived in one dat had two rooms. De chimney was made of sticks and mud, but de floor was a good plank floor. De bed was a wood bedstead wid a wheat straw tick. Dere was no windows to de house, so it was warm in de winter time and blue blazing hot in de summer time. "My white folks was mighty good to us; they fed us well. Us had wooden shoes and no clothes a-tall in de summer, 'cept a one-piece slip on. My mistress die 'bout a year after her marry, and then Marster Wade marry Miss Tilda Watson, a perfect angel, if dere ever was one on dis red earth. She take a liking to me right at de jump, on first sight. I nussed all her chillun. They was Walter, Ida, Dickey, Lunsford, Wade, Mike, and Wilson. Then I nussed some of her grandchillun. Mr. Brice Waters in Columbia is one of them grandchillun. "Marse Wade went off to de war and got shot in de hip, but he jined de calvary (cavalry) soon after and was away when de Yankees come through. De Yankees burned and stole everything on de place. They took off all de sheep, mules, and cows; killed all de hogs; cotch all de chickens, ducks and geese; and shot de turkeys and tied them to deir saddles as they left. De gin-house made de biggest blaze I ever has seen. Dere was short rations for all de white folks and niggers after dat day. "In 1870 I was still dere wid Marse Wade and Miss Tilda, when de devil come along in de shape, form, and fashion of a man. He was name Simon Halleg. I was young then, and a fool, when I married dat no 'count nigger. Us had two chillun, a boy, Allen, and a girl, Louise. Louise sickened and died befo' she was grown. Allen married and had one child, but him and de child are dead. My husband run away and left us. "About de time of de great cyclone, Miss Tatt Nicholson, a cousin of Miss Tilda, come down and took me to Chester, to be a maid at de Nicholson Hotel. I liked de work, but I got many a scare while I was dere. In them days every hotel had a bar where they would mix whiskey and lemons. Men could just walk up, put deir foots on de brass rail of de bar counter and order what they want, and pay fifteen cents a drink. Sometimes they would play cards all night in de bar. One night an old gent stopped his wagon, dat had four bales of cotton on it, befo' de hotel. He come in to get a drink, saw a game going on and took a hand. Befo' bed time he had lost all his money and de four bales of cotton outside. "No, I didn't work in slavery times. Chillun didn't have to work. De only thing I 'members doing was minding de flies off de table wid a brush made out of peacock tail-feathers. "All de slaves had to go to church at Concord twice every month and learn de Shorter Catechism. I has one of them books now, dat I used seventy-five years ago. Want to see it? (She exhibits catechism printed in 1840 for slaves.) "I left de hotel and come back to Miss Tilda Brice. I married Jacob Stewart then, and he was a good man. Us had no chillun. He been gone to glory eight years, bless God. "Yes, sir, I 'members de earthquake. It set a heap of people to praying dat night. Even de cows and chickens got excited. I thought de end of de world had come. I jined de Red Hill Baptist Church then, but my membership is now at de Cross Roads Baptist Church. Brother Wright, de pastor, comes to see me, as I'm too feeble to gallivant so far to church. "Dis house b'longs to Joe Rice. My nephew rents from him and is good enough, though a poor man, to take care of me. "Please do all you can to get de good President, de Governor, or somebody to hasten up my old age pension dat I'm praying for." =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =May 24, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I was born near old Bush River Baptist Church in Newberry County, S.C. This was the white folks' church, but the colored folks have a Bush River church in that section now. I was grown when the war started. I was a slave of Bonny Floyd. He was a good man who owned several slaves and a big farm. I was the house-girl then, and waited on the table and helped around the house. I was always told to go to the white folks' church and sit in the gallery. "When the Patrollers was started there, they never did bother Mr. Bonny's slaves. He never had any trouble with them, for his slaves never run away from him. "The Ku Klux never come to our place, and I don't remember seeing them in that section. "We took our wheat to Singley's Mill on Bush River to be ground. We made all our flour and grain. We plowed with horses and mules. "I am an old woman, sick in bed and can't talk good; but glad to tell you anything I can." Source: Bettie Suber (96), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (5/18/37). =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =May 25, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I was born on the Enoree River in Newberry County. Tom Price was my master. I married Nathan Swindler when I was about grown. My father and mother was Dave and Lucy Coleman. I had a brother and several sisters. We children had to work around the home of our master 'till we was old enough to work in de fields, den we would hoe and pick cotton, and do any kinds of field work. We didn't have much clothes, just one dress and a pair of shoes at a time, and maybe one change. I married in a ole silk striped dress dat I got from my mistress, Miss Sligh. We had no 'big-to-do' at our wedding, just married at home. In cold weather, I had sometimes, heavy homespun or outing dress. When Saturday afternoons come, we got off from work and do what we want. Some of us washed for de week. We had no schools and couldn't read and write. Sometimes we could play in our yards after work was over or on Saturday afternoons. On Christmas the master give us something good to eat. We didn't have doctors much, but de ole folks had cures for sickness. Dey made cherry-bark tea for chills and fever, and root-herb teas for fevers. Lots of chills and fevers then. To cure a boil or wart, we would take a hair from the tail of a horse and tie it tight around both sides of the sore place. I think Abe Lincoln was a great man, and Jeff Davis was a good man too. I think Booker Washington was a great man for de colored race. I like it better now than de way it was in slavery time." Source: Ellen Swindler (78), Newberry. S.C. Interviewed by: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C., May 20, 1937. =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon,= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =MACK TAYLOR= =_EX-SLAVE 97 YEARS._= Mack Taylor lives six miles southeast of Ridgeway, S.C., on his farm of ninety-seven acres. The house, in which he resides, is a frame house containing six rooms, all on one floor. His son, Charley, lives with him. Charley is married and has a small family. "Howdy do sir! I sees you a good deal goin' backwards and forwards to Columbia. I has to set way back in de bus and you sets up to de front. I can't ketch you to speak to you, as you is out and gone befo' I can lay hold of you. But, as Brer Fox 'lowed to Brer Rabbit, when he ketched him wid a tar baby at a spring, 'I is got you now.' "I's been wantin' to ask you 'bout dis old age pension. I's been to Winnsboro to see 'bout it. Some nice white ladies took my name and ask me some questions, but dat seem to be de last of it. Reckon I gwine to get anything? "Well, I's been here mighty nigh a hundred years, and just 'cause I pinched and saved and didn't throw my money away on liquor, or put it into de palms of every Jezabel hussy dat slant her eye at me, ain't no valuable reason why them dat did dat way and 'joyed deirselves can get de pension and me can't get de pension. 'Tain't fair! No, sir. If I had a knowed way back yonder, fifty years ago, what I knows now, I might of gallavanted 'round a little more wid de shemales than I did. What you think 'bout it? "You say I's forgittin' dat religion must be thought about? Well, I can read de Bible a little bit. Don't it say: 'What you sow you sure to reap?' Yes, sir. Us niggers was fetched here 'ginst our taste. Us fell de forests for corn, wheat, oats, and cotton; drained de swamps for rice; built de dirt roads and de railroads; and us old ones is got a fair right to our part of de pension. "My marster, in slavery times, lived on de Wateree River. He had a large plantation and, I heard them say, four hundred slaves. He was a hard marster and had me whipped as many times as I got fingers and toes. I started workin' in de field when I was a boy fifteen years old. De work I done was choppin' de grass out of de cotton and pickin' de cotton. What's become of them old army worms dat had horns, dat us chillun was so scared of while pickin' cotton? I never see them dese days but I'd rather have them than dis boll weevil I's pestered wid. "My marster's name was Tom Clark. My mistress was a gentle lady, but field niggers never got to speak to her. All I can say is dat de house slaves say she was mighty good to them. I saw de chillun of de white folks often and was glad they would play wid us colored chillun. What deir names? Dere was Marse Alley, Marse Ovid, Marse Hilliard, and Miss Lucy. "Old marster got kilt in de last year of de war, and Miss Margaret, dat was our Mistress, run de place wid overseers dat would thrash you for all sorts of things. If they ketch you leanin' on your hoe handle, they'd beat you; step out of your task a minute or speak to a girl, they'd beat you. Oh, it was hell when de overseers was around and de mistress nor none of de young marsters was dere to protect you. Us was fed good, but not clothed so good in de winter time. "My pappy didn't b'long to de Clarks at de commencement of de war. Old marster done sold him, 'way from us, to Col. Tom Taylor in Columbia. After de war, he run a shoe repair shop in Columbia many years befo' he died. His name was Douglas Taylor and dat is de reason I took de name, Mack Taylor, when I give in my name to de Freedman's Bureau, and I's stuck to it ever since. "I members de Yankees. Not many of them come to Miss Margaret's place. Them dat did, took pity on her and did nothing but eat, feed deir horses, and gallop away. "Us was never pestered by de Ku Klux, but I was given a warnin' once, to watch my step and vote right. I watched my step and didn't vote a-tall, dat year. "Mr. Franklin J. Moses was runnin' for governor. Colored preachers was preachin' dat he was de Moses to lead de Negroes out of de wilderness of corn bread and fat grease into de land of white bread and New Orleans molasses. De preachers sure got up de excitement 'mongst de colored women folks. They 'vised them to have nothin' to do wid deir husbands if they didn't go to de 'lection box and vote for Moses. I didn't go, and my wife wouldn't sleep wid me for six months. I had no chillun by her. She died in 1874. After Nancy die, I marry Belle Dawkins. De chillun us had was George, Charley, Maggie and Tommy. Then Belle died, and I married Hannah Cunningham. Us had no chillun. After she died, I marry a widow, Fannie Goings, and us had no chillun. "My son, George, is in Washington. My daughter, Maggie, is dead. Tommy was in Ohio de last I heard from him. I is livin' wid my son, Charley, on my farm. My grandson, Mack, is a grown boy and de main staff I lean on as I climb up to de hundred mile post of age. "I b'longs to de Rehovah Baptist Church. I have laid away four wives in deir graves. I have no notion of marryin' any more. Goodness and mercy have followed me all de days of my life, and I will soon take up dis old body and dwell in de house of de Lord forevermore." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =DELIA THOMPSON= =_EX-SLAVE 88 YEARS OLD._= "I's heard tell of you, and sent for you to come to see me. Look lak I can no more git 'bout on dese under pins lak I use to. Dere's de swing you can set in or chair right by me, now which you rather? I's glad you takes de chair, 'cause I can keep steady gaze more better on dat face of your'n. Lord! I been here in dis world a long time, so I has. Was born on de Kilgo place near Liberty Hill, don't know what county 'tis, but heard it am over twenty-five miles from dis town. "My old marster name Jesse Kilgo, so he was, and Mistress Letha Kilgo, dats his wife, good to him, good to me, good to everybody. My young mistress name Catherine, when her marry Marster Watt Wardlaw, I was give to them for a housemaid, 'cause I was trim and light complected lak you see I is dis very day a setting right here, and talking wid you. 'Members how 'twas young missie say: 'You come go in my room Delia, I wants to see if I can put up wid you'. I goes in dat room, winter time mind you, and Miss Charlotte set down befo' de fire, cook one of them pretty foots on de dog, don't you ketch dat wrong, dat it was a lap dog which 'twasn't but one of de fire-dogs. Some persons calls them andy irons (andiron) but I sticks to my raisin' and say fire-dogs. Well, she allowed to me, 'Delia, put kettle water on de fire'. So I does in a jiffy. Her next command was: 'Would you please be so kind as to sweep and tidy up de room'? All time turnin' dat lovely head of her'n lak a bird a buildin' her nest, so it was. I do all dat, then she say: 'You is goin' to make maid, a good one!' She give a silvery giggle and say: 'I just had you put on dat water for to see if you was goin' to make any slop. No, No! You didn't spill a drop, you ain't goin' to make no sloppy maid, you just fine.' Then her call her mother in. 'See how pretty Delia's made dis room, look at them curtains, draw back just right, observe de pitcher, and de towels on de rack of de washstand, my I'm proud of her!' She give old mistress a hug and a kiss, and thank her for de present, dat present was me. De happiness of dat minute is on me to dis day. "My pappy name Isom then, but when freedom come he adds on Hammond. His pappy was a white man, and no poor white trash neither. My mammy name Viny. Us live in a log house close up in de back yard, and most all time I was in de big house waiting on de white folks. "Did us git any 'ligion told us? Well, it was dis way, mistress talk heap to us 'bout de Lord, but marster talk a heap to us 'bout de devil. 'Twist and 'tween them, 'spect us heard most everything 'bout heaven and all 'bout de devil. "Yankees dat come to our house was gentleman, they never took a thing, but left provisions for our women folks from their commissary. "My first husband was Cupid Benjamin. My white folks give me a white dress, and they got de white Baptist preacher, Mr. Collins to do de grand act for us. Cupid turned out to be a preacher. Us had three chillun and every night us had family worship at home. I's been no common nigger all my life; why, when a child I set up and rock my doll just lak white chillun, and course it was a rag doll, but what of dat. Couldn't I name her for de Virgin Mary, and wouldn't dat name cover and glorify de rags? Sure it would! Then I 'sociate wid white folks all slavery time, marry a man of God and when he die, I marry another, Tom Thompson, a colored Baptist preacher. You see dat house yonder? Dats where my daughter and grandchillun live. They is colored aristocracy of de town, but they has a mighty plain name, its just Smith. I grieve over it off and on, a kind of thorn in de flesh, my husband used to say. But both my husbands dead and I sets here twice a widow, and I wonders how 'twill be when I go home up yonder 'bove them white thunder heads us can see right now. Which one them men you reckon I'll see first? Well, if it be dat way, 'spect I'll just want to see Cupid first, 'cause he was de only one I had chillun by, and them his grandchillun out yonder." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =ROBERT TOATLEY= =_EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD._= Robert Toatley lives with his daughter, his son, his son's wife, and their six children, near White Oak, seven miles north of Winnsboro, S.C. Robert owns the four-room frame house and farm containing 235 acres. He has been prosperous up from slavery, until the boll weevil made its appearance on his farm and the depression came on the country at large, in 1929. He has been compelled to mortgage his home but is now coming forward again, having reduced the mortgage to a negligible balance, which he expects to liquidate with the present 1937 crop of cotton. Robert is one of the full blooded Negroes of pure African descent. His face, in repose, possesses a kind of majesty that one would expect in beholding a chief of an African tribe. "I was born on de 'Lizabeth Mobley place. Us always called it 'Cedar Shades'. Dere was a half mile of cedars on both sides of de road leading to de fine house dat our white folks lived in. My birthday was May 15, 1855. My mistress was a daughter of Dr. John Glover. My master married her when her was twelve years old. Her first child, Sam, got to be a doctor, and they sho' did look lak brother and sister. When her oldest child, Sam, come back from college, he fetched a classmate, Jim Carlisle, wid him. I played marbles wid them. Dat boy, Jim, made his mark, got 'ligion, and went to de top of a college in Spartanburg. Marse Sam study to be a doctor. He start to practice and then he marry Miss Lizzie Rice down in Barnwell. Mistress give me to them and I went wid them and stayed 'til freedom. "My childhood was a happy one, a playin' and a rompin' wid de white chillun. My master was rich. Slaves lived in quarters, 300 yards from de big house. A street run through the quarters, homes on each side. Beds was homemade. Mattresses made of wheat straw. Bed covers was quilts and counter-panes, all made by slave women. "My mammy's pappy was a slave brick-mason, b'longin' to a white family named Partillo, from Warrington, Virginia. He couldn't be bought 'less you bought his wife and three chillun wid him. "Never had any money; didn't know what it was. Mammy was a house woman, and I got just what de white chillun got to eat, only a little bit later, in de kitchen. Dere was fifty or sixty other little niggers on de place. Want to know how they was fed? Well, it was lak dis: You've seen pig troughs, side by side, in a big lot? After all de grown niggers eat and git out de way, scraps and everything eatable was put in them troughs; sometimes buttermilk poured on de mess and sometimes potlicker. Then de cook blowed a cow horn. Quick as lightnin' a passle of fifty or sixty little niggers run out de plum bushes, from under de sheds and houses, and from everywhere. Each one take his place, and souse his hands in de mixture and eat just lak you see pigs shovin' 'round slop troughs. I see dat sight many times in my dreams, old as I is, eighty-two years last Saturday. "'Twas not 'til de year of '66 dat we got 'liable info'mation and felt free to go where us pleased to go. Most of de niggers left but mammy stayed on and cooked for Dr. Sam and de white folks. "Bad white folks comed and got bad niggers started. Soon things got wrong and de devil took a hand in de mess. Out of it come to de top, de carpetbag, de scalawags and then de Ku Klux. Night rider come by and drap something at your door and say: 'I'll just leave you something for dinner'. Then ride off in a gallop. When you open de sack, what you reckon in dere? Liable to be one thing, liable to be another. One time it was six nigger heads dat was left at de door. Was it at my house door? Oh, no! It was at de door of a nigger too active in politics. Old Congressman Wallace sent Yankee troops, three miles long, down here. Lot of white folks was put in jail. "I married Emma Greer in 1879; she been dead two years. Us lived husband and wife 56 years, bless God. Us raised ten chillun; all is doin' well. One is in Winnsboro, one in Chester, one in Rock Hill, one in Charlotte, one in Chesterfield, one in New York and two wid me on de farm near White Oak, which I own. I has 28 grandchillun. All us Presbyterians. Can read but can't write. Our slaves was told if ever they learned to write they'd lose de hand or arm they wrote wid. "What 'bout whuppin's? Plenty of it. De biggest whuppin' I ever heard tell of was when they had a trial of several slave men for sellin' liquor at da spring, durin' preachin', on Sunday. De trial come off at de church 'bout a month later. They was convicted, and de order of de court was: Edmund to receive 100 lashes; Sam and Andy each 125 lashes and Frank and Abram 75 lashes. All to be given on deir bare backs and rumps, well laid on wid strap. If de courts would sentence like dat dese days dere'd be more 'tention to de law. "You ask me 'bout Mr. Lincoln. I knowed two men who split rails side by side wid him. They was Mr. McBride Smith and Mr. David Pink. Poor white people 'round in slavery time had a hard tine, and dese was two of them. "My white folks, de Mobleys, made us work on Sunday sometime, wid de fodder, and when de plowin' git behind. They mighty neighborly to rich neighbors but didn't have much time for poor buckra. I tell you poor white men have poor chance to rise, make sump'n and be sump'n, befo' de old war. Some of dese same poor buckra done had a chance since then and they way up in 'G' now. They mighty nigh run de county and town of Winnsboro, plum mighty nigh it, I tell you. It makes me sad, on de other side, to see quality folks befo' de war, a wanderin' 'round in rags and tatters and deir chillun beggin' bread. "Well, I mus' be goin', but befo' I goes I want to tell you I 'members your ma, Miss Sallie Woodward. Your grandpa was de closest neighbor and fust cousin to Dr. Sam. Deir chillun used to visit. Your ma come down and spen' de day one time. She was 'bout ten dat day and she and de chillun make me rig up some harness for de billy goat and hitch him to a toy wagon. I can just see dat goat runnin' away, them little chillun fallin' out backside de wagon and your ma laughin' and a cryin' 'bout de same time. I picks her up out de weeds and briars." =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =May 25, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =SLAVERY REMINISCENCES= "I was born in the town of Newberry, S.C. I do not remember slavery time, but I have heard my father and mother talk about it. They were Washington and Polly Holloway, and belonged to Judge J.B. O'Neall. They lived about 3 miles west of town, near Bush River. An old colored man lived nearby. His name was Harry O'Neall, and everybody said he was a miser and saved up his money and buried it near the O'Neall spring. Somebody dug around there but never found any money. There were two springs, one was called 'horse spring', but the one where the money was supposed to be buried had a big tree by it. "I married Sam Veals, in 'gravel town' of Newberry. I had a brother, Riley, and some sisters. "We would eat fish, rabbits, 'possums and squirrels which folks caught or killed. We used to travel most by foot, going sometimes ten miles to any place. We walked to school, three or four miles, every day when I was teaching school after the war. I was taught mostly at home, by Miss Sallie O'Neall, a daughter of Judge J.B. O'Neall. "My father and mother used to go to the white folks' church, in slavery time. After the war colored churches started. The first one in our section was Brush Harbor. Simon Miller was a fine colored preacher who preached in Brush Harbor on Vandalusah Spring Hill. Isaac Cook was a good preacher. We used to sing, 'Gimme dat good ole-time religion'; 'I'm going to serve God until I die' and 'I am glad salvation is free'. "Saturday afternoons we had 'off' and could work for ourselves. At marriages, we had frolics and big dinners. Some of the games were: rope jumping; hide and seek, and, ring around the roses. Of course, there were more games. "Some of the old folks used to see ghosts, but I never did see any. "Cures were made with herbs such as, peach tree leaves, boiled as a tea and drunk for fevers. Rabbit tobacco (life everlasting) was used for colds. Small boys would chew and smoke it, as did some of the old folks. "I have seven children, all grown; fourteen grand-children, and several great-grand-children. "Judge O'Neall was one of the best men and best masters in the country that I knew of. I think Abraham Lincoln was a good man, according to what I have heard about him. Jeff Davis was the same. Booker Washington was a great man to his country and served the colored race. "I joined the church because I believe the bible is true, and according to what it says, the righteous are the only people God is pleased with. Without holiness no man shall see God." Source: Mary Veals (72), Newberry, S.C. Interviewed by: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. May 20, 1937. =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Oct. 21, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I don't own no house. I live in a rented house. Yes, I work fer my living. I don't 'member much 'bout slavery except what I heard my daddy and mammy say. My pa was Washing Holloway and my ma was Polly Holloway. Dey belonged to Judge O'Neall, and lived at his place 'bout three miles from town, near Bush River. "Judge O'Neall's house was real old, and dey had a store near it called Springfield, a kind of suburb at dat time. "After de war, we didn't have much clothes, 'cause everything was so high. Judge O'Neall died befo' de war was over, and his wife went to Mississippi to live wid her married daughter. After de war, Miss Sallie, who was Judge O'Neall's daughter, learn't me to read and write, and other things in books. "My father and mother went to de white folks' church in slavery time. After de war, de negroes built deir first church and called it a 'brush arbor'. A negro preacher named Simon Miller was a good man and done lots of good when he preached in de brush arbor. Dis was on de old Banduslian Springs hill, near de south fork of Scotts Creek." Source: Mary Veals (73), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (9/30/37). =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =MANDA WALKER= =_EX-SLAVE 80 YEARS OLD._= Manda Walker lives with her son-in-law, Albert Cooper, in a three-room frame cottage in Winnsboro, S.C. Albert's first wife was her daughter, Sallie. Five of their children and Albert's second wife, Sadie, occupy the house with Albert and Manda. "Does you know where Horse Crick (Creek) branch is, and where Wateree Crick is? Ever been 'long de public road 'tween them water courses? Well, on de sunrise side of dat road, up on a hill, was where my slavery time marster live. "I was born in de yard, back of de white folks' house, in a little log house wid a dirt floor and a stick and mud chimney to one end of de house. My marster was name Marse Tom Rowe and my mistress name Missy Jane Rowe. They de ones dat tell me, long time ago, dat I was born befo' de war, in 1857. Deir chillun was Miss Mary and Miss Miami. "I no work much 'til de end of de war. Then I pick cotton and peas and shell corn and peas. Most of de time I play and sometime be maid to my young misses. Both growed into pretty buxom ladies. Miss Miami was a handsome buxom woman; her marry Marse Tom Johnson and live, after de war, near Wateree Church. "My pappy name Jeff and b'long to Marse Joe Woodward. He live on a plantation 'cross de other side of Wateree Crick. My mammy name Phoebe. Pappy have to git a pass to come to see mammy, befo' de war. Sometime dat crick git up over de bank and I, to dis day, 'members one time pappy come in all wet and drenched wid water. Him had made de mule swim de crick. Him stayed over his leave dat was writ on de pass. Patarollers (patrollers) come ask for de pass. They say: 'De time done out, nigger.' Pappy try to explain but they pay no 'tention to him. Tied him up, pulled down his breeches, and whupped him right befo' mammy and us chillun. I shudder, to dis day, to think of it. Marse Tom and Miss Jane heard de hollerin' of us all and come to de place they was whuppin' him and beg them, in de name of God, to stop, dat de crick was still up and dangerous to cross, and dat they would make it all right wid pappy's marster. They say of pappy: 'Jeff swim 'cross, let him git de mule and swim back.' They make pappy git on de mule and follow him down to de crick and watch him swim dat swif' muddly crick to de other side. I often think dat de system of patarollers and bloodhounds did more to bring on de war and de wrath of de Lord than anything else. Why de good white folks put up wid them poor white trash patarollers I never can see or understand. You never see classy white buckra men a paterrollin'. It was always some low-down white men, dat never owned a nigger in deir life, doin' de patarollin' and a strippin' de clothes off men, lak pappy, right befo' de wives and chillun and beatin' de blood out of him. No, sir, good white men never dirty deir hands and souls in sich work of de devil as dat. "Mammy had nine chillun. All dead 'cept Oliver. Him still down dere wid de Duke Power Company people, I think. When I come sixteen years old, lak all gals dat age, I commence to think 'bout de boys, and de boys, I 'spects, commence to take notice of me. You look lak you is surprised I say dat. You is just puttin' on. Old and solemn as you is, a settin' dere a writin', I bets a whole lot of de same foolishness have run through your head lak it run through Jerry's, when he took to goin' wid me, back in 1873. Now ain't it so? "Us chillun felt de pivations (privations) of de war. Us went in rags and was often hungry. Food got scarce wid de white folks, so much had to be given up for de army. De white folks have to give up coffee and tea. De slaves just eat corn-bread, mush, 'taters and buttermilk. Even de peas was commanded for de army. Us git meat just once a week, and then a mighty little of dat. I never got a whuppin' and mammy never did git a whuppin'. "Us all went to Wateree Presbyterian Church on Sunday to hear Mr. Douglas preach. Had two sermons and a picnic dinner on de ground 'tween de sermons. Dat was a great day for de slaves. What de white folks lef' on de ground de slaves had a right to, and us sure enjoy de remains and bless de Lord for it. Main things he preached and prayed for, was a success in de end of de war, so mammy would explain to us when us 'semble 'round de fireside befo' us go to bed. Her sure was a Christian and make us all kneel down and say two prayers befo' us git in bed. De last one was: 'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray de Lord my soul to keep. If I should die befo' I wake, I pray de Lord my soul to take. Bless pappy, bless mammy, Bless marster, bless missie, And bless me. Amen!' "Wheeler's men was just as hard and wolfish as de Yankees. They say de Yankees was close behind them and they just as well take things as to leave all for de Yankees. 'Spect dat was true, for de Yankees come nex' day and took de rest of de hog meat, flour, and cows. Had us to run down and ketch de chickens for them. They search de house for money, watches, rings, and silverware. Took everything they found, but they didn't set de house afire. Dere was just 'bout five of them prowlin' 'round 'way from de main army, a foragin', they say. "When Miss Margaret marry, old marster sold out and leave de county. Us move to Mr. Wade Rawls' and work for him from 1876 to Jerry's death. Is I told you dat I marry Jerry? Well, I picked out Jerry Walker from a baker's dozen of boys, hot footin' it 'bout mammy's door step, and us never had a cross word all our lives. Us had nine chillun. Us moved 'round from pillar to post, always needy but always happy. Seem lak us never could save anything on his $7.06 a month and a peck of meal and three pounds of meat a week. "When de chillun come on, us try rentin' a farm and got our supplies on a crop lien, twenty-five percent on de cash price of de supplies and paid in cotton in de fall. After de last bale was sold, every year, him come home wid de same sick smile and de same sad tale: 'Well, Mandy, as usual, I settled up and it was--'Naught is naught and figger is a figger, all for de white man and none for de nigger.' "De grave and de resurrection will put everything all right, but I have a instinct dat God'll make it all right over and up yonder and dat all our 'flictions will, in de long run, turn out to our 'ternal welfare and happiness." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =NED WALKER= =_EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD._= Ned Walker lives in the village of White Oak, near Winnsboro, S.C., in a two-room frame house, the dwelling of his son-in-law, Leander Heath, who married his daughter, Nora. Ned is too old to do any work of a remunerative character but looks after the garden and chickens of his daughter and son-in-law. He is a frequent visitor to Winnsboro, S.C. He brings chickens and garden produce, to sell in the town and the Winnsboro Hill's village. He is tall, thin, and straight, with kind eyes. Being one of the old Gaillard Negroes, transplanted from the Santee section of Berkeley County, in the Low Country, to the red hills of Fairfield County, in the Up Country, he still retains words and phrases characteristic of the Negro in the lower part of South Carolina. "Yes sir, I's tall and slim lak a saplin'; maybe dat a good reason I live so long. Doctor say lean people lives longer than fat people. "I hear daddy read one time from de Bible 'bout a man havin' strength of years in his right hand and honor and riches in his left hand, but whenever I open dat left hand dere is nothin' in it. 'Spect dat promise is comin' tho', when de old age pension money gits down here from Washington. When you 'spect it is comin'? De palm of my hand sho' begin to itch for dat greenback money. So you think it's on de way? Well, thank God for dat but it seem 'most too good to be true. Now I'll quit askin' questions and just set here and smoke and answer, whilst you do de puttin' down on de paper. "Yes sir, I was born right here in de southeast corner of Winnsboro, on de Clifton place. De day I was born, it b'long to my master, David Gaillard. Miss Louisa, dats Master David's wife, 'low to me one day, 'Ned don't you ever call de master, old master, and don't you ever think of me as old miss'. I promise her dat I keep dat always in mind, and I ain't gonna change, though she done gone on to heaven and is in de choir a singin' and a singin' them chants dat her could pipe so pretty at St. Johns, in Winnsboro. You see they was 'Piscopalians. Dere was no hard shell Baptist and no soft shell Methodist in deir make up. It was all glory, big glory, glory in de very highest rung of Jacob's ladder, wid our white folks. "Well, how I is ramblin'. You see dere was Master David and Mistress Louisa, de king bee and de queen bee. They had a plantation down on de Santee, in de Low Country, somewhere 'bout Moncks Corner. One day Master David buy a 1,385 acres on Wateree Creek. He also buy de Clifton place, to live in, in Winnsboro. I can't git my mind back to tell you what I wants for you to put on de paper. 'Scuse me, forgit everything, 'til you git my pedigree down. "I done name Master David and Mistress Louisa. Now for de chillun. Us was told to front de boys name wid Marse and de young ladies name wid Miss. Now us can go and git somewhere. "Well, dere was Miss Elizabeth; she marry Mr. Dwight. Miss Maria marry another Mr. Dwight. Miss Kate marry Mr. Bob Ellison, a sheriff. Her got two chillun in Columbia, Marse David and Marse DuBose Ellison. Then for de boys; they all went to de war. Marse Alley got kilt. Marse Dick rise to be a captain and after de war marry Congressman Boyce's daughter, Miss Fannie. Marse Ike marry and live in de Low Country; he die 'bout two years ago. Marse Sam marry a Miss DuBose and went wid General Wade Hampton. "Marse Sam's son cut a canal that divide half and half de western part of de whole world. Us niggers was powerful scared, 'til Marse David Gailliard took a hold of de business. Why us scared? Why us fear dat de center of de backbone of de world down dere, when cut, would tipple over lak de halfs of a watermelon and everybody would go under de water in de ocean. How could Marse David prevent it? Us niggers of de Gaillard generation have confidence in de Gaillard race and us willin' to sink or swim wid them in whatever they do. Young Marse David propped de sides of de world up all right, down dere, and they name a big part of dat canal, Gaillard Cut, so they did. (Gaillard Cut, Panama Canal) "Well, I keep a ramblin'. Will I ever git to Marse Henry, de one dat looked after and cared for slaves of de family most and best? Marse Henry marry a Miss White in Charleston. He rise to be captain and adjutant of de fightin' 6th Regiment. After de war him fix it so de slaves stay altogether, on dat 1,385 acres and buy de place, as common tenants, on de 'stallment plan. He send word for de head of each family to come to Winnsboro; us have to have names and register. Marse Henry command; us obey. Dat was a great day. My daddy already had his name, Tom. He was de driver of de buggy, de carriage, and one of de wagons, in slavery. Marse Henry wrote him a name on a slip and say: 'Tom as you have never walked much, I name you Walker.' "It wasn't long befo' daddy, who was de only one dat could read and write, ride down to Columbia and come back wid a 'mission in his pocket from de 'Publican Governor, to be Justice of de Peace. "Marse Henry ladle out some 'golliwhopshus' names dat day. Such as: Caesar Harrison, Edward Cades and Louis Brevard. He say, 'Louis, I give you de name of a judge. Dan, I give you a Roman name, Pompey.' Pompey turned out to be a preacher and I see your grandpa, Marse William Woodward, in de graveyard when Uncle Pompey preached de funeral of old Uncle Wash Moore. Tell you 'bout dat if I has time. "Well, he give Uncle Sam de name of Shadrock. When he reach Uncle Aleck, he 'low: 'I adds to your name Aleck, two fine names, a preacher's and a scholar's, Porter Ramsey.' 'Bout dat time a little runt elbow and butt his way right up to de front and say: 'Marse Henry, Marse Henry! I wants a big bulldozin' name.' Marse Henry look at him and say: 'You little shrimp, take dis then.' And Marse Henry write on de slip of paper: Mendoza J. Fernandez, and read it out loud. De little runt laugh mighty pleased and some of them Fernandezes 'round here to dis day. "My mammy name Bess, my granddaddy name June, grandmamny, Renah, but all my brothers dead. My sisters Clerissie and Phibbie am still livin'. Us was born in a two-story frame house, chimney in de middle, four rooms down stairs and four up stairs. Dere was four families livin' in it. Dese was de town domestics of master. Him have another residence on de plantation and a set of domestics, but my daddy was de coachman for both places. "De Gaillard quarters was a little town laid out wid streets wide 'nough for a wagon to pass thru. Houses was on each side of de street. A well and church was in de center of de town. Dere was a gin-house, barns, stables, cowpen and a big bell on top of a high pole at de barn gate. Dere was a big trough at de well, kept full of water day and night, in case of fire and to water de stock. Us had peg beds, wheat straw mattress and rag pillows. Cotton was too valuable. "Master didn't 'low de chillun to be worked. He feed slaves on 'tatoes, rice, corn pone, hominy, fried meat, 'lasses, shorts, turnips, collards, and string beans. Us had pumpkin pie on Sunday. No butter, no sweet milk but us got blabber and buttermilk. "Oh, then, I 'bout to forgit. Dere was a big hall wid spinnin' wheels in it, where thread was spin. Dat thread was hauled to Winnsboro and brought to de Clifton place in Winnsboro, to de weave house. Dat house set 'bout where de Winnsboro Mill is now. Mammy was head of de weave house force and see to de cloth. Dere was a dye-room down dere too. They use red earth sometime and sometime walnut stain. My mammy learn all dis from a white lady, Miss Spurrier, dat Master David put in charge dere at de first. How long she stay? I disremembers dat. Us no want for clothes summer or winter. Had wooden bottom shoes, two pair in a year. "Mr. Sam Johnson was de overseer. Dere was 'bout 700 slaves in de Gaillard quarter and twenty in town, countin' de chillun. De young white marsters break de law when they teach daddy to read and write. Marse Dick say: 'To hell wid de law, I got to have somebody dat can read and write 'mong de servants.' My daddy was his valet. He put de boys to bed, put on deir shoes and brush them off, and all dat kind of 'tention. "De church was called Springvale. After freedom, by a vote, de members jines up, out of respect to de family, wid de Afican Methodist 'Piscopalian Church, so as to have as much of de form, widout de substance of them chants, of de master's church. "No sir, us had no mulattoes on de place. Everybody decent and happy. They give us two days durin' Christmas for celebratin' and dancin'. "I marry Sylvin Field, a gal on de General Bratton Canaan place. Us have three chillun. Nora Heath, dat I'm now livin' wid, at White Oak, Bessie Lew, in Tennessee, and Susannah, who is dead. "What I think of Abe Lincoln? Dat was a mighty man of de Lord. What I think of Jeff Davis? He all right, 'cordin' to his education, just lak my white folks. What I think of Mr. Roosevelt? Oh, Man! Dat's our papa. "Go off! I's blabbed 'nough. You 'bliged to hear 'bout dat funeral? Will I pester you for 'nother cigarette? No sir! I ain't gonna smoke it lak you smoke it. Supposin' us was settin' here smokin' them de same? A Gaillard come up them steps and see us. He say: 'Shame on dat white man', turn his back and walk back down. A Woodward come up them steps and see us. He say: 'You d-- nigger! What's all dis?' Take me by de collar, boot me down them steps, and come back and have it out wid you. Dat's 'bout de difference of de up and low country buckra. "Now 'bout Uncle Wash's funeral. Uncle Wash was de blacksmith in de forks of de road 'cross de railroad from Concord Church. He was a powerful man! Him use de hammer and tongs for all de people miles and miles 'round. Him jine de Springvale Afican Methodist 'Piscopalian Church, but fell from grace. Him covet a hog of Marse Walt Brice and was sent to de penitentiary for two years, 'bout dat hog. Him contacted consumption down dere and come home. His chest was all sunk in and his ribs full of rheumatism. Him soon went to bed and died. Him was buried on top of de hill, in de pines just north of Woodward. Uncle Pompey preached de funeral. White folks was dere. Marse William was dere, and his nephew, de Attorney General of Arizona. Uncle Pompey took his text 'bout Paul and Silas layin' in jail and dat it was not 'ternally against a church member to go to jail. Him dwell on de life of labor and bravery, in tacklin' kickin' hosses and mules. How him sharpen de dull plow points and make de corn and cotton grow, to feed and clothe de hungry and naked. He look up thru de pine tree tops and say: 'I see Jacob's ladder. Brother Wash is climbin' dat ladder. Him is half way up. Ah! Brudders and sisters, pray, while I preach dat he enter in them pearly gates. I see them gates open. Brother Wash done reach de topmost rung in dat ladder. Let us sing wid a shout, dat blessed hymn, 'Dere is a Fountain Filled Wid Blood'.' Wid de first verse de women got to hollerin' and wid de second', Uncle Pompey say: 'De dyin' thief I see him dere to welcome Brother Wash in paradise. Thank God! Brother Wash done washed as white as snow and landed safe forever more.' "Dat Attorney General turn up his coat in de November wind and say; 'I'll be damn! Marse William smile and 'low: 'Oh Tom! Don't be too hard on them. 'Member He will have mercy on them, dat have mercy on others'." =Project #1655= =Stiles M. Scruggs= =Columbia, S.C.= =DANIEL WARING= =_EX-SLAVE 88 YEARS OLD._= "I was born in Fairfield County, South Carolina, in 1849, and my parents, Tobias and Becky Waring was slaves of the Waring family, and the Bookters and Warings was kin folks. When I was just a little shaver I was told I b'longed to the family of the late Colonel Edward Bookter of upper Fairfield County. "The Bookter plantation was a big one, with pastures for cattle, hogs and sheep; big field of cotton, corn and wheat, and 'bout a dozen Negro families livin' on it, mostly out of sight from the Bookter's big house. Two women and three or four Negro chillun work there, preparin' the food and carin' for the stock. I was one of the chillun. Colonel Bookter's household had three boys; one bigger than me and two not quite as big as me. We play together, drive up the cows together, and carry on in friendly fashion all the time. The nigger chillun eat with the two black women in a place fixed for them off from the kitchen, after the white folks finish. We generally have same food and drink that the white folks have. "When I was 'bout eleven years old my master took me to Columbia one Saturday afternoon, and while Colonel Bookter was 'round at a livery stable on Assembly Street, he give me some money and tell me I could stroll 'round a while. I did, and soon find myself with 'bout a dozen of Master Hampton's boys. As we walk 'long Gervais Street, we met a big fine lookin' man with a fishin' tackle, goin' towards the river, and several other white folks was with him. As we turn the corner, the big man kinda grin and say to us: 'Whose niggers are you?' The bigger boy with us say: 'We all b'longs to Master Hampton.' He laugh some more and then reach in his pocket and give each one of us a nickel, sayin' to the white folks: 'Blest if I know my own niggers, anymore'. "Yes sir, I was 'bout fourteen years old when President Lincoln set us all free in 1863. The war was still goin' on and I'm tellin' you right when I say that my folks and friends round me did not regard freedom as a unmixed blessin'. "We didn't know where to go or what to do, and so we stayed right where we was, and there wasn't much difference to our livin', 'cause we had always had a plenty to eat and wear. I 'member my mammy tellin' me that food was gittin' scarce, and any black folks beginnin' to scratch for themselves would suffer, if they take their foot in their hand and ramble 'bout the land lak a wolf. "As a slave on the plantation of Colonel Edward Bookter, I had a pretty good time. I knows I has work to do and I does it, and I always has plenty to eat and wear in winter and summer. If I get sick I has a doctor, so we set tight until 1865. After the war we come to Columbia, and mammy made us a livin' by washin' for white folks and doin' other jobs in the kitchen, and I worked at odd jobs, too. "We didn't get much money from the Freedmen's outfit, which was 'stablished in Columbia. The white men who set it up and administered the Freedmen's funds and rations let some of their pets have much of it, while others got little or nothin'. An' existence become increasin' harder as nigger got more and more in the saddle. "During the war, and it seem to me it would never end, we heard much 'bout President Lincoln. Niggers seem to think he was foolish to get into war, but they generally give him credit for directin' it right as far as he could. President Davis was powerful popular at the beginnin' of the conflict, but his popularity was far less when the war is over and he is in jail. "I was 'most grown at the end of the war, and I was at no time popular with the black leaders and their white friends who rule the roost in Columbia for 'most thirteen years. I went back to my white friends in Fairfield County and work for years for Mister T.S. Brice, and others on the plantation. "I has been married three times, and am now livin' with my third wife. She and me am makin' a sort of livin', and is yet able to work. I can only do de lightest work and the sweetest thought I has these days is the memory of my white friends when I was young and happy." =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, June 2, 1937= =NANCY WASHINGTON= =Ex-Slave, 104 years.= "Come in child. Jes set right dere in dat chair whey I c'n be mindful uv yuh cause I ain' hear but sorta hard lak dese days. I jes come in outer de field whey I been chopping 'round uh little wid me hoe, but eve't'ing is grow so black 'fore me eye dat I t'ink I better rest meself uh little. I tries to help Sam (her son) aw I c'n, but I ain' mucha 'count no more. I 104 year old en I ain' gwinna be heah much longer. Me mark done strak (strike) me right dere dis a'ternoon. Dat been jes de way my ole mammy waz call." "Does yah know whey dat place call Ash Pole? Dat whey I wuz raise up when I b'long to Massa Giles Evanson. He wuz uh good ole fellow. I ain' know wha' it wuz to ge' no bad treatment by my white people. Dey tell me some uv de colored peoples lib mighty rough in dat day en time but I ne'er know nuthin 'bout dat. I 'member dey is spank we chillun wid shingle but dey ne'er didn't hit my mudder." "My Massa ne'er hab so mucha colored peoples lak some uv dem udder white folks hab. Jes hab my mudder en eight head uv we chillun. Hab 'nough to gi'e eve'yone uv he daughter uh servant apiece when dey ge' marry. Ne'er hab nuthin but women colored peoples. My Massa say he ain' wan' no man colored peoples." "De preacher Ford, wha' use'er lib right up dere in town, papa hab uh big ole plantation wha' been jes lak uh little town. He hab hundred colored peoples en dey is hab eve't'ing dere. Hab dey preachin' right dere on de plantation en aw dat." "Coase my white folks hab uh nice plantation en dey keep uh nice house aw de time. I wuz de house girl dere en de one wha' dey'ud hab to wait on de Missus. Dey'ud carry me eve'ywhey dey go. Al'ays know how I wuz faring. My Missus wuz big en independent lak. Talk lak she mad aw de time, but she warnt. She ne'er wear no cotton 'bout dere no time. Hab her silk on eve'y day en dem long yellow ear bob dat'ud be tetchin right long side she shoulder. I al'ays look a'ter de Missus en she chillun. Wash dey feet en comb dey hair en put de chillun to bed. But child, some white folks is queer 'bout t'ings. Dey watch yuh gwine 'bout yuh work en den dey'll wan' yuh to do sumptin fa dem. De ole man take me 'way from helping de Missus en send me out to plow corn en drap peas. I wuz shame too cause I ne'er lak fa he to treat my Missus dat uh way." "De peoples ne'er didn't cook in no stove den neither. Dey hab big ole round dirt ubben (oven) to cook dey ration in. Dey make dey ubben outer white clay en hadder build uh shelter over it cause dey'ud cook outer in de yard. Dey ne'er cook but jes twice uh week. Cook on Wednesday en den ne'er cook no more till Saturday. I 'member de big ole ham dat dey cook en de tatoes en so mucha bread. Jes hab 'bundance aw de time. I got uh piece uv de ole slavery time ubben heah now. I ge' it outer en show it to yuh. Dis is one uv de leads (lids) en dey'ud put uh chain en hook on dere en hang it up in de fireplace. Dat de way dey cook dey ration. O Lawd, ef I could ge' back to my ole home whey I could look in en see jes one more time, jes one more time, child." "I wuz jes uh girl when de Yankees come t'rough dere. Dey look jes lak uh big blue cloud comin' down dat road en we chillun wuz scared uv em. Dat land 'round 'bout dere wuz full uv dem Yankees marchin' en gwine on. Dey ne'er bother my white folks but in some uv de places dey jes ruint eve't'ing. Burnt up en tore down aw 'bout dere." "Yuh ain' ne'er see nobody weave no cloth nowadays. In de winter dey use'er al'ays put woolen on de little chillun to keep em from getting burnt up. Peoples wuz easy to cotch uh fire in dat time. Dey hab plenty uv sheep den en dis jes 'bout de time uv de year dat dey shear de sheep. Al'ays'ud shear de sheep in de month uv May. Dey is make aw kinder nice cloth den. I c'n charge en spin en make any kinder streak yuh wan'. Coase my mudder use'er weave de jeanes cloth en blanketing." "Dey use'er hab some uv dem corn-shucking 'bout dere but I ne'er take no part in none uv dat. A'ter freedom declare, us pull boxes en dip turpentine. Dat wha' wuz in de style den." "I won' but 'bout 16 when I marry en I hab uh nice wedding. Marry right dere in my Massa yard en hab white swass dress to wear. I marry uh settled man offen uh rich man plantation en dey ne'er wan' me to marry, but dey ne'er say nuthin 'gainst it. Dey hab good manners den en manners de t'ing dat carry peoples t'rough anyt'ing, child." _Source_: Nancy Washington, age 104, colored, Dusty Hills, Marion, S.C. (Personal interview, May 1937). =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =CHARLEY WATSON= =_EX-SLAVE 87 YEARS OLD._= "Dis is a mighty hot day I tells you, and after climbing them steps I just got to fan myself befo' I give answer to your questions. You got any 'bacco I could chaw and a place to spit? Dis old darkie maybe answer more better if he be allowed to be placed lak dat at de beginnin' of de 'sperience. "Where was I born? Why right dere on de Hog Fork Place, thought everybody knowed dat! It was de home place of my old Marster Daniel Hall, one of de Rockefellers of his day and generation, I tells you, he sho was. My pappy had big name, my marster call him Denmore, my mammy went by de name of Mariyer. She was bought out of a drove from Virginny long befo' de war. They both b'long to old marster and bless God live on de same place in a little log house. Let's see; my brother Bill is one, he livin' at de stone quarry at Salisbury, North Carolina. My sister Lugenie marry a Boulware nigger and they tells me dat woman done take dat nigger and make sumpin' out of him. They owns their own automobile and livin' in Cleveland, Ohio. "Us live in quarters, two string of houses a quarter mile long and just de width of a wagon road betwixt them. How many slaves marster had? Dere was four hundred in 1850, dat was de year I was born, so allowing for de natural 'crease, 'spect dere was good many more when freedom come. Our beds was made of poles and hay or straw. Was my marster rich? How come he wasn't? Didn't he have a Florida plantation and a Georgia plantation? Didn't us niggers work hard for our vittles and clothes? It make me laugh de way de niggers talk 'bout eight hours a day. Us worked by de 'can and de can't system'. What way dat you ask me? Well, was dis way; in de mornin' when it git so you can see, you got to go to work and at night when it git so dark you can't see you ceasted to work. You see what I mean? My marster's white overseer 'dopted de 'can and can't system' of work hours. My mammy had to plow same as a man, she did sir. Sometimes they pulled fodder and fooled wid it on Sunday. "You is a pushin' me a little too fast. Let me gum dis 'bacco and spit and I can do and say more 'zackly what you expect from me. My marster had sheep, goats, mules, horses, stallion, jackass, cows and hogs, and then he had a gin, tan yard, spinnin' rooms, weave room, blacksmith shop and shoe shop. Dere was wild turkeys on de place, deer in de cane brakes and shad in de Catawba River. De Indians fetch their pots and jars to sell, and peddlers come to big house wid their humps on their backs and bright yards of calico and sich things de missus lak to feel and s'lect from. I see money then, but I never see a nigger wid money in his paws in slavery time, never! "Us was fed good on corn meal, hog meat, milk, butter, 'lasses, turnips, beans, peas and apples, never hungry. Boss whip me once for fightin' and I never fought anymore, I tells you. "My mistress name Miss Sarah. Her was a Hicklin befo' she marry. Their chillun was: Tom, Billie, Dan and Jason, all dead 'cept Marster Jason. De white overseer was Strother Ford. He give de slaves down the country maybe sometimes, so heard them say, but I didn't see him. "Did us sing? Yes sir. What us sing? One was what I's gwine hist right dis minute and sing wid your lieve. (Here Charley sang, 'Give me dat old time religion'.) "Us made 'simmon beer sometime and lye soap just 'bout in de same way, hopper was 'rected for dat. 'Simmons was put wid locust; hickory ashes was used to make soap. Every Christmas us got ginger cake and sassafras tea. "Doctor Scott was de doctor for de slaves. Us niggers was mighty sad when his son Willie's gun went off by accident and kill him in 1868. De Doctor never smile again after dat cumbustion of dat gun. Does you 'member de time Mr. Till Dixon was drowned? He your uncle? 'Twas de fourth of July, I 'member dat day, and a boy Freddie Habbernick was drowned in Catawba in 1903. Dat river take a many soul over dat other shore, I tells you." =S-260-264-N= =Project 935= =Samuel Addison= =Richland County= =EX-SLAVE 91 YEARS OLD, CONGAREE, SOUTH CAROLINA= =_THERE WAS NO GOD BUT MOSSA AN' MISSUS_= "My pa name was Nat White who tell me dat I was bo'n about 1842. My ma was name Jane White. My pa use to carry all de votes from McClellanville to Charleston. He come from Tibbin, South Carolina. He also been all 'round de United States. My Ma's Ma bin name Kate. I had sense to know 'em all. "I know a heap o' sojus had on nice buttons an' had plumes in dere hats. Dey wus singin' an' playin' on a flute dis song, 'I wish I wus in Dixie,' an' dey went in de big house an' broke up ebery thing. Dey say to me, 'you are as free as a frog,' an' dey say to my pa, 'all your chillun are free.' Dey say 'little niggers is free as a frog' an' we holler much. "I aint nebber do no work, but I kin 'member I use to wear a pant you call chambery. Ma cook a pot o' peas an' weevils wus always on de top. Ma would den turn mush an' clean a place on de floor, she make a paddle an' we eat off de floor. She use to bake ash cake too. I didn' know 'bout no garden, all I know I eat. Dis what dey put on me I wear em. I nebber know nothin' 'bout shoes. "My master been name Bill Cooper who had a gal an' a son. De gal been name Mary an' de boy Bill like de daddy. "Tarbin wus a big house, but I aint nebber know de number o' slaves or 'mount o' lan' dat went wid um. "De slaves had a church name Lazarus an' some went to de white church. Dey had us bar off frum de whites an' we use to look t'rough a glass door. I member when a preacher say, 'honor your missus an' mossa dat your days may be long for dey is your only God.' My Ma tell me when dey use to lick dem she use to sing dis song, 'do pray for me' en ma say w'en de lickin' got too hot she say 'oh God' en mossa say, 'show me dat damn man', den he say, 'I am your only God. My preacher name wus Sabie Mood. "De slaves couldn't git any news, but dey had to work on Sunday if de week bin bad. W'en it rain dey use to shuck co'n. "W'en Bill Cooper die he holler to me, 'I'm burnin' up' an' ma say missus say, 'iron me too hot, she meat is red like fire.' "We use to sing song like dese; 'Mary bring de news an' Martha win de prize. I mus die an' will die in dat day See dat oars like feathers springing' "I marry Sarah on December 18th. Him de only one I marry an' we had a big weddin' an' plenty o' somethin' to eat. We had fourteen chillun. "Pa say mossa use to take de fork an' punch holes in dere body w'en he got mad. People always die frum de pisin. "Dis is all I know I ain't go tell no lie, dat what pa say, I moved here atter de yankees come." Reference; Uncle Dave White, 91 years old Congaree, South Carolina. =S-260-264-N= =Project 1885= =Laura L. Middleton= =Charleston, S.C.= =No. Words: 452= =UNCLE DAVE WHITE= =_An Old Time Negro_= Uncle Dave White, one of the waning tribe lives in a simple homestead down a dusty and wind-swept curved country lane on the out skirt of McClenville, forty miles North of Charleston rests the simple shanty of David White, aged Negro, affectionally known to the Negro and white population for many miles around as "uncle Dave". His quiet unadulterated mode of living and his never changing grateful disposition typifies the true Southern Negro of pre-Civil War days; a race that was commonplace and plentiful at one time, but is now almost extinct, having dwindled in the face of more adequate educational facilities. His homestead, resembling a barn more than a place to live in. To protect the house against the hazardous affects of imperilling winds, long poles are made to prop the somewhat dilapidated shanty. A visit to his home, one dark and dreary day in late December, found him as usual in the best of spirits. He welcomed the visitors with a cordiality that would rival the meeting of two long lost friends. The front has no main entrance; the main door is around the back. There are conspicuous displays of many ancient burlap bags, heavy laden, hanging from high rafters, which contained corn and peanuts. "But why not keep them in your barn, Uncle Dave!" one would ask. "Well, suh, I keep mah co'n and grain nuts in yuh so mak eye can sta' on 'em," he replies. A further inspection of the premises revealed other precautions he had taken against the unwelcomed guests; a crude lock on each door and many other precautionary measures convicted, that he was willing to take no unnecessary chances at having his worldly goods stolen. His age is truly a matter of conjecture. The more you look at him the more uncertain you become. His droopy carriage and shriveled feature betray you at first sight. The first impression will lead one to believe that he is about one hundred years of age, and later it will appear that he is not that old. We had known "uncle Dave" for a long time; for years it had been a familiar sight to see him trudging the streets of the town with burlap bags thrown across his shoulders containing such household necessities as grits, salt, sugar, etc., and such articles as the house wives would give him out of sheer sympathy. To every friendly greeting he always had the humble response of "Tank Gawd, my eye is open." He is well known throughout the town. One Sunday night a short time ago, while the services of a white church were in progress, distinguishable sounds of Amen were heard at regular intervals coming from the outside. On investigating they discovered that it was "uncle Dave" reverently enjoying the proceedings. Many times he has been seen outside the same church listening to the services. _SOURCE_ Interview with (Mrs.) Minnie Huges, age 43, 179 Spring Street, welfare worker. =Project 1655= =Martha S. Pinckney= =Charleston, S.C.= =FOLKLORE= =Approx. _637_ words= =_INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE_= Everybody in the town of Mt. Pleasant, Christ Church Parish (across the Bay from Charleston) knows "Tena White, the washer," "Tena, the cook," "Maum Tena" or "Da Tena, the nurse"--the same individual, accomplished in each art, but best as a nurse. The house where Tena lives is the second in a row of Negro houses. The writer, calling from the gate, was answered by Tena, a middle-sized woman of neat figure. As the writer ascended the steps a friendly cur wagged itself forward and was promptly reproved by Tena, who placed a chair, the seat of which she wiped carefully with her dress. The piazza was clean and on the floor a black baby slept on a folded cloth, with a pillow under its head. The writer was soon on friendly terms with Maum Tena, and was told: "As soon as my eye set on you, I see you favor the people I know. My people belonged to Mr. William Venning. The plantation was Remley Point. I couldn't zactly member my pa's name. I member when de war come though. Oh dem drum; I nebber hear such a drum in my life! De people like music; dey didn't care nothing bout de Yankees, but dem bands of music! My mother name Molly Williams. My pa dead long before that. All my people dead. I stayin' here with my youngest sister chile--youngest son. He got seven head ob chillun." "I can do anything--wash or cook--aint no more cook though. Oh yes" and her eyes sparkled, "I know how to cook de turkey, and de ham wid de little brown spots all over de top. Nobody can collec' my soup for me; I first go choose my soup bone. One wid plenty richness. My chile say, 'While my Tena live I wouldn't want nobody else.' But I couldn't take de sponsibility now." "Maum Tena, how many children did you have?" "Maggie an Etta an Georgie an Annie, etc., etc." so fast and so many that one couldn't keep up. "Wait, Maum Tena. How many were there in all--your own children?" "I nebber had a chile." "Oh, those were the children you nursed." "I marry twice. Caesar Robson an Aleck White." "Did you ever sing spirituals?" "No, I nebber had time." "But you sang lullabies to the children." "Oh, I sing someting to keep de chile quiet." "Where is your church, Maum Tena?" "De Methodist Church right here. I know I got for die some day. He keep me distance,[B] but when I look an see my flesh, I tenk de Lord for ebbery year what pass on my head. Taint my goodness, tis His goodness. Nothing but the pureness of heart will see Him." [B] Has lived a long time. Tena was shocked and disgusted at the idea of the Lord being a "black man." She said with perfect certainty that he was "no such." "We all goin to de same Heaven, and there aint no black people there." The writer asked Tena her age; before she could answer, her great-niece came to the door and said, "She eighty-eight." Tena was indignant. Her eyes flashed. "I aint goin to hab nobody come along puttin down my age what dunno anyting about it. I ought to be as high as nine. Let um be as high as nine."[C] "If I didn't been round de house wid white people I wouldn't hab dis opportunity today, an dey good to me an gib me nuf to keep my soul an body together. My mother raise me right. When de Yankee come through we been at Remley Point. My Ma took care ob me. She shut me up and she gard me. De Yankee been go in de colored people house, an dey mix all up, an dey do jus what dey want. Dey been brutish. "De beautiful tureen, stand so high and hab foot so long" lifting her hands, "an all de beautiful ting smash up, an all de meat an ham in de smoke house de stribute um all out to de people, an de dairy broke up, an de horse an de cow kill. Nothin leave. Scatter ebberyting. Nothin leave." [C] Meaning her age should be in the nineties. =SOURCE: Tena White, Mt. Pleasant, Christ Church Parish, S.C.= =Age: Approximately 90.= =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =BILL WILLIAMS= =_EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD._= Bill Williams lives on the Durham place, nine miles east of Winnsboro, S.C., on the warm charity of Mr. Arthur M. Owens, the present owner. He is decrepit and unable to work. "I was born a slave of old Marster John Durham, on a plantation 'bout five miles east of Blackstock, S.C. My mistress name Margaret. Deir chillun was Miss Cynthia, Marse Johnnie, Marse Willie and Marse Charnel. I forgits de others. Then, when young Marse Johnnie marry Miss Minnie Mobley, my mammy, Kizzie, my daddy, Eph, and me was give to them. Daddy and mammy had four other chillun. They was Eph, Reuben, Winnie and Jordan. Us live in rows of log houses, a path 'twixt de two rows. Us was close to de spring, where us got water and mammy did de white folks washin' every week. I kep' de fires burnin' 'round de pots, so de water would keep boilin'. Dat's 'bout all de work I 'members doin' in slavery time. Daddy was a field hand and ploughed a big red mule, name Esau. How many slaves was dere? More than I could count. In them days I couldn't count up to a hundred. How, then, I gonna kno' how many dere was? You have to ask somebody else. I'll just risk sayin' dere was big and little ones, just a little drove of them dat went to de field in cotton pickin' time, a hollerin' and a singin' glory hallelujah all day long, and pick two bales a day. "Marse Johnnie and Miss Minnie mighty good marster and mistress to deir slaves. We had good rock chimneys to our houses, plank floors, movable bedsteads, wid good wheat straw ticks, and cotton pillows. Other folks' slaves was complainin' 'bout dirt floors in de houses, boards to sleep on, no ticks, and rags for pillows. Us got flour bread and 'lasses on Sunday, too, I'm here to tell you. "They sho' fetch dat catechism 'round on Sunday and telled you who made you, what Him make you out of, and what Him make you for. And they say dat from de crown of your head to de top of your big toe, de chief end of every finger and every toe, even to de ends of your two thumbs, was made to glorify de Lord! Missus more 'ticular 'bout dat catechism than de marster. Her grandpa, old Marster John Mobley was a great Baptist. After de crops was laid by, every August, him visit his granddaughter. While dere, he take de slaves and dam up de branch, to make a pond for to pool de water. Then he take to de hill just 'bove, cut down pine tops, and make a brush arbor to hold de prachin' in. 'Vite white preachers, Mr. Cartledge, Mr. Mellichamp or Mr. Van, to come hold a 'vival for all de slaves in and 'round and 'bout de country. I's seen 27 go down and come up out dat pool, a splashin' water from deir faces, one Sunday evenin'. A terrible thing happen one time at de baptism. It was while de war was gwine on. Marse Johnnie had come back from Virginia, on a furlough for ten days. Old Marse John come to see him and fetch Rev. Mr. Cartledge wid him. People was pow'ful consarned 'bout 'ligion 'long 'bout dat time. Me and all de little slave boys jined dat time and dere was a little boy name Ike, a slave of old Doctor John Douglas, dat jined. Him was just 'bout my age, seven or eight years old. After him jined, him wanna back out of goin' down into de water. Dat evenin', after dinner, us was all dressed in a kind of white slip-over gown for de occasion. When it come Ike's time to receive de baptism, him was led by his mammy, by de hand, to de edge of de water and his hand given to de preacher in charge, who received him. Then he commenced: 'On de confession----'. 'Bout dat time little Ike broke loose, run up de bank, and his mammy and all de slaves holler: 'Ketch him! Ketch him!' Old Marse John holler: 'Ketch him!' They ketch little Ike and fetch him back to old Marse John and his mammy. Marse John explain to him dat it better to have water in de nose, now, than fire in de soul forever after. Little Ike say nothin'. His mammy take his hand and lead him to de preacher de same way her did befo'. Little Ike went down into de water. Preacher take him but when little Ike got down under dat water, de preacher lose de hold and bless God, in some way little Ike got 'twixt and 'tween de preacher's legs and comin' out behind him, turnt him sommersets and climb out on de bank a runnin'. Little Ike's mammy cry out: 'Ketch him! Ketch him!' Old marster say: 'No let him go to de devil. Thank de Lord him none of our niggers anyhow. Him just one of Dr. Douglas' Presbyterians niggers dat's destined to hell and be damned, I reckon." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =JESSE WILLIAMS= =_EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD._= At the end of one of the silent streets of west Chester, S.C., that prolongs itself into a road leading to the Potter's Field and on to the County Poorhouse, sets a whitewashed frame cottage. It has two rooms, the chimney in the center providing each with a fireplace. A porch, supported by red cedar posts, fronts the road side. In this abode lives Jesse Williams with his daughter, Edna, and her six children. Edna pays the rent, and is a grenadier in the warfare of keeping the wolf from the door. "You say I looks pretty old? Well, you's right 'bout de old part but I's far 'way from de pretty part. I got a hand glass in my house and when I shaves on Sunday mornin's, I often wonders who I is. I doesn't look lak me. My best friend couldn't say I got much on looks, but my old dog rap his tail on de floor lak he might say so, if him could speak. "I's been off and on dese streets of Chester for eighty-three years. I was born a slave of Marse Adam C. Walker and my old miss was Mistress Eliza, dat's his wife. "My pappy name Henry and mammy name Maria. I can see them plowin' in de field right now. Mammy plowin' same as pappy and me runnin' 'long behind, takin' de dirt off de cotton plants where de twister plow turnt de clods on de plants. Then, when dat cotton field git white and red wid blooms in summer and white agin in de fall, I have to shoulder my poke and go to de field and pick dat cotton. I 'members de fust day dat I pick a hundred pounds. Marse Adam pull out a big flat black pocket-book and gived me a shinplaster, and say: 'Jesse, ever time your basket h'ist de beam of de steelyards to 100, you gits a shinplaster.' I make eighty cents dat year but I have to git up when de chickens crow for day and git in de field when de dew was heavy on de cotton. Does I think dat was cheatin'? Oh, no sir! I wasn't 'ceivin' old marster. Him wink at dat, and take a pound off for dew. I'd a made more money but they took me out de field in November, to drive de mules to de hoss-gin. Dat was play work, just a settin' up dere and poppin' de whip. "Marster live in a big two-story, eight-room house. De kitchen was out from de house. After Christmas, dat year, I was house boy and drive de buggy for Miss Eliza when her want to go visitin'. I was fed well and spent my money for a knife, candy, and firecrackers. "My marster and missus have chillun. They was Peter, Jerry, Miss Elnora, and Miss Sallie, dat I play wid in slavery time. "De Yankees didn't come as far up as Chester. They branched off down 'bout Blackstock, took de sunrise side of dat place and march on 'cross Catawba River, at Rocky Mount. I stay on wid Marse Adam and Miss Eliza, after freedom. I marry a handsome gal. Yes, sir, she dark but not too shady. I harks back to them days, as I sets here in dis rocker a talkin' to you. Did I tell you her name? Her name just suit her. Not Jane, Polly, Mag, Sallie, and de lak of dat! Them was too common for her. Her name Catherine, dat just fit her. Us have ten chillun and her and all them 'cept me and three chillun done gone over to Jordan. Dere was just one thing 'bout Catherine dat I's dubious 'bout. She lak to dance, and I was too clumsy for to ever cut a double shuffle. I 'spect I cut a poor figure at de frolics us went to. Does you think burnin' a candle for her would do any good at dis late day? Why I ask you dat? Well, I has heard them say dat white folks does dat sometimes for deir gone-on ones. My daughter, Edna say: 'It might do you good and it could do mama no harm.' I b'longs to Mount Moriah Church in dis very town of Chester. De preacher am Rev. Alexander. He 'low it was superstition to burn dat candle but if I live I's gwine to light one nex' Christmas. "Us had a good marster and mistress. They was big buckra, never 'sociate wid poor white trash. They wore de red shirt. De time come 'round when they send me to Marse Will Harden and he pass me on to go see Marse Judge Mackey, who live here then. Did I know Judge Mackey? Sho' I did! While he was a settin' up dere on de bench in de court house, he have all de people laughin'. One time de father of Marse W.B. Lindsey beat up a Radical nigger and de case come up befo' him for trial. Great 'citement 'bout it, over de whole county. Court house packed dat day. Solicitor rise and say: 'Please your honor, de 'fendant, Lindsey, put in a plea of guilty.' You might have heard a breast feather of a chicken fall, so very still was de people in dere, though de niggers and 'publicans was a grinning wid joy. Then Judge Mackey 'low: 'Let de 'fendant stand up.' Wid a solemn face and a solemn talk, him wound up wid: 'Derefore, de court sentence you to de State Penitentiary at hard labor for a period of ten years (Then him face light up, as he conclude), or pay a fine of one dollar!' De white folks holler: 'Three cheers for Judge Mackey!' De judge git up and bow, and say: 'Order in de court.' As dere was no quiet to be got, clerk 'journed de court. De judge take his silk beaver hat and gold headed cane and march out, while de baliffs holler: 'Make way! Make way for de honorable judge!' Everybody took up dat cry and keep it up long as de judge was on de streets. Oh, how dat judge twirl his cane, smile, and strut. "Did I ever see a spirit? 'Spect I has and I sho' have felt one more than once. 'Spect I was born wid a caul over my eyes. When de last quarter of de moon come in de seventh month of a seventh year, is de most time you see spirits. Lyin' out in de moon, befo' daybreak, I's smelt, I's heard, I's seed and I's felt Catherine's spirit in de moon shadows. I come nigh ketchin' hold of her one night, as I wake up a dreamin' 'bout her but befo' I could set up, I hear her pass 'way, through de treetops dat I was layin', dreamin' under. "Then another time, I was settin' here 'bout four o'clock in de moonlight a lookin' 'cross de street to de town hall. I see sumpin' rise and jump upon dat rock a lyin' dere 'ginst de town hall. It was de figger of a man. Who it was I don't know, though they de call de rock de 'Aaron Burr Rock', 'cause he made a speech standin' on dat rock, long befo' I was born. De people in de library can tell you 'bout dat speech. Maybe Dr. Lathan tell you 'bout it. Him ninety-five years old dis last past twelfth day of May and knows all 'bout de days dat are gone. "I live wid my daughter, Edna, and I just can make it back dere from de post office every day." =Code: Folk-Lore= =Project 1885 -1-= =District #4= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =May 26, 1937= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVES= Aunt Mary Williams stated she remembered slavery times, for she was a girl large enough to walk four miles to go to work "while slavery was on". She said Mr. Alfred Brown used to own her mother, but she was raised by Mrs. Margaret Taylor who used to live where the oil mill is now, below Arkwright Mills. Her father was owned by Mr. Simpson Bobo and drove his horse for him. She stated she was a good hoe-hand, but didn't pick cotton, as Mr. Brown didn't raise any cotton, just raised something to eat. She said her master was a kind man, didn't allow any "paterollers" on his place, yet she had seen other slaves on other plantations with bloody backs and arms from the whippings they got. When asked why they were whipped, she replied, "Just because their masters could whip them; they owned them and could do what they wanted to them". Her master didn't allow any whipping on his place. One time he kept a slave from another plantation who was fleeing the "paterollers" on his place and in his own house until he was set free. "I'se got the looking glasses and the thimble my great-grandmother used to use when she worked. She was a good weaver and a good sewer. She made a man an overcoat once, but didn't get but $1.25 for it; she made a pair of men's breeches and got fifty cents for making them. They didn't get nothing for making clothes in those days". She remembered when the Yankee soldiers came into Spartanburg. She said they took all they could get, stole something to eat, just went into the stores and took liquor and handed it out drink by drink to the other soldiers. Aunt Mary stated she saw Abe Lincoln when he came through Spartanburg; said he was armed himself and had soldiers all around him. He told the colored folks who seemed scared of him that he wasn't going to hurt anybody, not to be scared of him. (Here she must have confused Lincoln with some one else, probably Colonel Palmer, who commanded a detachment in pursuit of Jefferson Davis, which stopped over-night in Spartanburg in April, 1865. FK.) SOURCE: Aunt Mary Williams, 391 Cudd St., Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg, S.C. =Project 1655= =Genevieve W. Chandler= =Georgetown County, S.C.= =FOLKLORE= =EX-SLAVE STORY= =UNCLE WILLIS WILLIAMS= "When wuz I born? Born in August. When I wuz born been August. I wuz a man grown pulling boxes, (turpentine boxes) when the shake wuz. I know the very night the shake come----on a Wednesday night. I wuz on door step loosing my shoe string. There wuz more religion then than they is now. Praying and prayer meeting for a month. Everybody tend meeting. "I been with the Yankee. I kin tell you bout the Yankee. They come home there to Rock Creek when the war wuz breaking up and carried me to Fayetteville. (N.C.) Kept me with 'em till Johnson surrendered in Raleigh,----then they kept me in Goldsboro and took me on to Petersburg. After everything over they give me free transportation back home. Free on train back to Fayetteville. They had put all the Yankee clothes on me,----all the blue shirt, blue coat and bumps on the shoulder,--and when they start me home took all the Yankee clothes way from me. Put gray clothes on me and sent me back. I member they took me up in a way-up-yonder building--to Richmond. Couldn't tell you the depth of it. Man on the ground looked like boy. "The man I belonged to been Mass John A. Williams. (Born on the Cape Fear.) I goes by Mass John name--Williams. His sons been John, James, Charlie, Wallis, William, James. James come home from army sick. Had the mumps; thirty days furlough. "Member when the Yankees come. Been Sunday morning. Ride up to the gate on horses. Old Boss happened to come out and walk to the lot. I happened to be at gate. They took his watch out his pocket, his pistol--had it girded to him--and took all he whiskey and catch chickens and guinea and take them all. Then they gone in the lot and took two breeding mares and hitch them in wagon and loaded wagon full o' corn. Then they took the two carriage horses and hitched to carriage, and gone to smoke-house, and fill that carriage full of all Mass John sides of meat and ham and shoulders. I been following and watching to see what all they going to take, and a soldier looked at me and say, "'Come on little Nigger! Wanter go?' "And I done like another fool! I rode off behind the two brood mares, on the corn, and where they rested that night, I rested right there. "It was mighty cold up there. I suffered a heap in the cold fore I got back home. They give me a horse,--saddled and bridled,--and a little bayonet gun. Put me on that horse to drive cattle. Tell me to take all I see. Didn't except nobody cattle. Night come put 'em in pasture--put 'em in anybody field--on the oats, rye, wheat. "Sometimes rain sho fall.--Had to tend that bunch of cattle rain or no rain. Didn't kill one beef and stop! (Kill) FOUR beeves a day. Go out git the hog and kill 'em. Skin 'em. Didn't scald 'em and clean 'em like we do. Just eat the ham. Rest throw way. Gone to Wilmington, Fayetteville, Rookfish and Beaver Creek. "General Sherman? Has I hear bout him? I SEEN him! He had a big name but he warn't such a big man; he was a little spare made man. I member now when I seed him the last time. He had two matched horses going down to Petersburg. Six guards riding by the side of his turnout. Oh my God, what clothes he had on! He was dressed down in finest uniform. "When I leave the Yankee they give me $35.00 in money. I been so fool had never seen no green back. Throwed it away eating crackers and peanuts. And I bought some brogan shoes. If I'd a helt on to that, I'd a been some body today. "I members it was Sunday morning that General Johnson throwed up his hand at Raleigh. Done with the war! "Before Freedom I have a good enough time. Just lay round the house and wait on my boss. When Freedom come and I did have to get out and work it most kill me! "After Freedom my mother wash for family to Beaver Creek. And after Freedom my father went to working on shares. Old Maas John called 'em up and tell 'em, "'You free, Asa. You free, Lewis. You free, Handy. You free, Wash. You can do as you please. You have to fadge for yourself now.' "Mass John Williams had four hundred slaves. He was a man had the colored people. He didn't work all on his own plantation. He'd hire out his people to work turpentine.----Put 'em out for so much a year. He'd give 'em blanket, suit, coat, pants. First of the year come, Boss would collect wages for all he hire out. "That there my second wife. You know how a man is. How many wife I had? Two or three. Lemme see! (Looking at present wife) You is one! You the last one! Fust one been Jinny Lind. Next one been Mary Dickson. And Caressa Pyatt been one! And there been another one! I forgot that woman name! Got it in my mouth and can't call it! I'll call the name of them others I take up with in a little while! One was Caline; one was Tissue; (Tisha?) I take them a little while and if they didn't do to suit me, I put 'em out! Some I didn't stay with long nuff to find out they name! Jinny Lind sister was Tissue. Jinny Lind gone, try her sister. Just a 'make out'. If they didn't do to suit me, I'd give 'em the devil and put 'em out. "Don't know bout beating woman. Some say that bout, 'Woman, dog, cypress knee more you beat'em the better they be!' "But some woman, the more you beat 'em the worse the devil gets in 'em. Get so they won't 'GEE' nor 'HAW'. "When I was house boy for old Mass John, waiting on white people, that was the best and easiest time I ever had. Ever Satdy drive Mass John to Fayetteville. Ever Satdy they'd think that store belong to me! I'd eat lumps of brown sugar out the barrel, candy, crackers. Did as I please then; NOW do as I kin! "'Ways of woman and ways of snake deeper than the sea!' I take that to mean----mighty few can tell by the trail of a snake whether its coming or going---- "I hear story bout the rabbit and the fox--all them old things--Some times my mind franzy. Been break up too much! Break two ribs to the lumber mill. Jump out a cart one day and run a ten penny nail through my foot. That lay me up two months. Some mean people ketch me up by that tree yonder with a car and that lay me up sixty-five days. They pick me up for dead that time. All that make my mind get franzy sometimes. Come and go--Come and go." SOURCE: Uncle Willis Williams. Age, 89 to 90 years old. Conway, S.C. (Horry County). =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =May 25, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I was a Garmany before I married Calvin Wilson. My father was Henry Garmany, and my mother Sidney Boozer. My husband was in the Confederate army with his master. Dey was near Charleston on de coast. I was slave of Lemuel Lane, of de Dutch Fork. He was killed after de war, some say by some of his young slaves, but we'uns did not know naything about who killed him. We had a good house to live in on Marse Lane's plantation. I used to work around the house and in de fields. My mother was a good seamstress and helped de white folks sew, and she learn't me to sew had help too. We didn't get any money for our work. One time after de war, dey paid me only $5.00 and I quit 'em. My mother hired me out to work for her, and I didn't have any money, still; so I said I better get me a man of my own. Marse Lane was mean to most of us, but good to me. He whipped me once and I deserved it because I wouldn't answer him when he called me. He jes' give me about two licks. He was mean to my mother, but he wouldn't let his white overseer whip us, and wouldn't let de padder-rollers come around. He said he could look-out for his own slaves. "We didn't learn to read and write, but some of de white folks had learned my mother, and she learned me some. "Niggers had to go to church at New Hope, de white folks' church, in slavery time and after de war too. We had Saturday afternoons to do what we wanted, and we washed clothes then. "On Christmas, Marse would give de slaves some good things to eat and send some to dere families. Niggers had frolics at dere houses sometimes on Saturday nights. When I married, I had a good hot supper. "Children played all de ole games like, play-ball (throwing over the house), marbles and base. "Some saw ghosts, but I never saw any of dem. "Old-time cures was peach tree leaves boiled and drunk for fever; wild cherry bark was good for most anything if took at night. I have used it for curing some things. The best cure I know, is turpentine and a little oil mixed. Swallow it and it will fix you up. "The Yanks went through our place and took two of the best horses we had. One had a tail that reached the ground. Dey stole lots of victuals. I 'member de Ku Klux wid dere long white sheets, and den de Red Coats wid white breeches. Dey would walk or ride, but dey never harmed us. "I don't know much about Abe Lincoln, but I reckon he was a good man, and Jeff Davis, too. I don't know Booker Washington but heard he was a good man. "I joined de church because de white folks did. Dey wants to go to heaven and I do too. I think everybody ought to try to do right. I used to think we could make heaven down here, but if we jes' do right, dats all we can do." Source: Emoline Wilson (90), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. May 21, 1937. =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =Sept. 22, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I was born in Newberry County near Cannon's Creek section in the Dutch Fork. I was a slave of Lemuel Lane. He was killed by some slaves just after freedom. They killed him for his money but didn't find any, it was said. When freedom come, my mistress give me some things to eat when we left. "I can't work much any more; I am old and I can't get about. I live with my son who works when he can find work. We rent a two-room cottage in town. "I never heard anything about slaves getting 40 acres of land and a mule. None in that section got any. We had to go to work for other people. "The Ku Klux Klan never bothered us then, and we never had nothing to do with them, nor with politics. "There was no slaves living in our section who had come from Virginia." Source: Emoline Wilson (90), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. 8/10/37 (See ES IV, MS. #13). =Project 1885-1= =FOLKLORE= =Spartanburg Dist. 4= =June 15, 1937= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "I am daughter of Billy Robertson and Louisa Robertson; was born about 77 years ago in Newberry, on Marse Job Johnstone's place. My father lived with Judge Job Johnstone as his extra man or servant. He lived in the house with him, slept in his room and waited on him when he became old; and, too, was the driver of his carriage. He drove him to other courthouses to hold court. After the war, my father was janitor at Newberry College, and he was liked by professors, students, and everybody who knew him as 'Uncle Billy'. At commencement, he always made a speech at night on the campus, which the students enjoyed. He told about his travels from Virginia to Newberry before the war. Judge Johnstone never wanted anybody else to be with him when he traveled. "I belonged to the Avelleigh Presbyterian Church in Newberry, and was christened in the church by the preacher, the Rev. Buist. Colored people were allowed to be members and set in the gallery when they went to church. "After the war, a colored man named Amos Baxter was killed by the Ku Klux at the old courthouse. My father was on Judge Johnstone's farm a few miles away. He was sent for and came with another colored man to town, and prayed and preached over the body of Baxter. The Ku Klux came to kill my father for doing this, but they never caught him. "I had to stay home most of the time and help mama keep house. I never worked in the field but once, and the job was so poor they put me back in the house. That was the old Nance place. "Once I saw a man hung in Newberry. He was a negro named Thompson and killed a white man named Reid. He killed him at a store in Pomaria and burned it over his body. He was hung near the railroad, and a big crowd was there to see it. That was my first time to see a man hung, and I promised God it would be my last. They asked the negro if he had anything to say, and give him five minutes to talk. He was setting on a box smoking; then he got up and said he reckoned his time was over, he was sorry for all the bad things he had done; that he had killed a boy once for 25 cents, and had killed a little girl for 20 cents. He was sorry for his wife and three weeks old baby. His wife saw him hung. "The Ku Klux wanted to kill any white people who was Republicans. They killed some negroes. A white man named Murtishaw killed Lee Nance, a store keeper. I was a little girl and saw it. Some little children was standing out in front. Murtishaw came up and said he wanted to buy something or pretended he wanted to; then he went up to Nance, pulled his pistol quick and shot him through the throat and head. "Judge Johnstone's kitchen was away from the house, a brick building. They had large ovens and wide fireplaces in which they cooked. "My father's favorite horses, when he drove the family, was 'Knox' and 'Calvin', which they kept for many years. When they died the mistress cried awfully about it. "My husband died at old Mr. Dan Ward's place, on College Hill, where he was living then." Source: Jane Wilson (77), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (6/9/37) =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, June 11, 1937= =MOM GENIA WOODBERRY= =Ex-Slave, 89 years= "Glad to see yunnah. Who dese udder wid yah? Who yuh? Lawd, I glad to see yunnah. I nu'se aw Miss Susan fust chillun. Ne'er nu'se dem las'uns. Sicily been yo' mamma nu'se. Nu'se Massa Ben Gause child fust en den I nu'se four head uv Miss Susan chillun a'ter she marry Massa Jim Stevenson. Sleep right dere wid dem chillun aw de time. Miss Susan ne'er didn't suckle none uv dem chillun. I tell yunnah dis much, Massa Jim Stevenson was good to aw uv his colored people en Miss Susan wuz good to me. I sho' born right down yonner to Massa Ben Gause plantation. Gade Caesar en Mary Gause wuz my parents. Yas'um, I is glad to see dese chillun cause yuh know whey white folks hab feeling fa yah, it sho' make yuh hab feeling fa dey chillun. I ole now en I can' 'member eve'yt'ing but I ain' ne'er forge' wha' good times dem wuz." "My Lawd! Yas, my Lawd, de peoples lib well dere to Massa Jim Stevenson plantation. De white folks hab big house dere wid eve'yt'ing 'bout it jes lak uh town. I couldn't tell yunnah how many colored peoples dey hab dere but I know dis, I hear em say dere wuz more den two hundred uv em dat lib in de quarter. Dey house wuz in uh field offen to itself dere on de plantation en wuz strung aw up en down in two long row lak. Dey wuz set up in good libin' den." "Coase I ain' lib dere in de quarter wid de udder colored peoples a'ter I ge' big 'nough to be nu'se girl, but I know how dey fare dere. My Massa hab uh smoke house full uv meat en uh barn full uv corn aw de time en eve'y Friday a'ternoon aw de colored peoples hadder do wuz to go dere to de big house en ge' dey share uv meat en 'lasses en corn to las' em de whole week. Ne'er hadder worry nuthin 'bout it tall. Dey hab dey gristmill right dere whey dey grind dat corn eve'y week. Yah ain' ne'er see no sech barn en heap uv meat dese days uz dey hab den. Dem hog killin' days wuz big times fa dem plantation peoples. It jes lak I tellin' yunnah my Massa gi'e he colored peoples mos' eve't'ing dey hab en den he 'low eve'y family to hab uh acre uv land uv dey own to plant. Hadder work dat crop in de night. Make light wid fat light'ud stump wha' to see by. Dat crop wha' dey buy dey Sunday clothes wid. Ne'er hadder hunt no clothes but dey Sunday clothes cause dey hab seamstress right dere on de plantation to make aw us udder clothes. Miss Susan larnt Aun' Cynthia en Starrah en Tenna to cut en sew dere to de big house en a'ter dat dey ne'er do nuthin but make de plantation clothes." "Aw de colored peoples dere to Miss Susan plantation hab dey certain business to go 'bout eve'y day en dey ne'er didn't shirk dat neither. Miss Susan ain' 'low fa no slack way 'round whey she was. Dere been Yaneyki wha' hadder jes wait on Miss Susan; Becky, de house girl; Aun' Hannah, de one wha' cook in de big house; Aun' Dicey, wha' al'ays clean up de white folks kitchen; en Sanco, de house boy. Den I wuz de nu'se dere fa dem chillun. Ne'er lak it but I ha'e it to do. Hadder stay right dere to de big house aw de time. Miss Susan ne'er wouldn't 'low me take dem chillun 'way offen no whey en eve'ybody hadder be mindful uv wha' dey say 'fore dem chillun too. I 'member dat big ole joggling board dere on de front piazza dat I use'er ge' de chillun to sleep on eve'y evenin'. I be dere singin' one uv dem baby song to de child en it make me hu't lak in me bosom to be wid my ole mammy back up dere in de quarter. Coase I ain' le' nobody know dat. Dere ain' nobody ne'er been no better den Miss Susan wuz to me. It jes lak dis, I wuz jes uh child den en yah know it uh child happiness to be raise up wid dey mammy." "Den de colored peoples lib mighty peaceful lak dere in de quarter cause dey ne'er hadder worry 'bout how nuthin come. My Massa see dat dey hab decent libin' aw de time en 'bundance uv eve't'ing dey need. Hadder keep 'round 'bout dey premises clean up eve'whey. I tellin' yuh, child, my white folks wuz 'ticular uv dey colored peoples when dey wuz sick. Dey hab big ole me'icine book dat dey take down when one uv dem ge' sick en see could dey find wha' wuz good fa dey ailment. Den Miss Susan'ud send in de woods en ge' wha' it say mix up fa de remedy en make de me'icine right dere to de big house. Miss Susan'ud al'ays doctor de plantation peoples en carry em nice basket uv t'ing eve'y time dey wuz sick. Effen Miss Susan t'ink dey hab mucha co'plaint, den dey'ud send fa de plantation doctor 'bout dere. Annuder t'ing dey ne'er didn't 'low de colored girls to work none tall 'fore dey wuz shape lak uh 'oman cause dey 'fraid dat might strain dey ne'ves." "Aw de colored peoples wha' ne'er hab no work to do 'bout de big house wuz field hand en dey hadder ge' up at de fust crow uv de cock in de morning en go up to de big house en see wha' dey wan' em to do dat day. Coase dey eat dey break'ast 'fore dey leab de quarter. Effen de sun look lak it wuz gwinna shine, de o'erseer'ud send em in de field to work en dey'ud stay in de field aw day till sun up in de evenin'. Carry dey basket uv victual en pot 'long wid em en cook right dere in de field. Jes put dey peas en bacon in de pot en build up big fire 'bout it close whey dey wuz workin' cause eve'y now en den dey hadder push de fire to de pot. Den some uv de day dey'ud go in de tatoe patch en dig tatoe en roast em in de coals. Effen it wuz uh rainy day, dey ne'er go in de field. Shuck corn dat day. Dat wuz how dey done." "Aw dem wha' work right dere to de big house al'ays wuz fed from Miss Susan table to de kitchen. Dere wuz Gran'mudder Phoebe who hadder look a'ter eve't'ing 'bout Miss Susan dairy. De plantation peoples'ud bring dey gourd eve'y morning en leab it dere to de dairy fa Gran'mudder Phoebe to hab fill wid clabber fa em to carry home in de evenin'. Den when Gran'mudder Phoebe wuz finish wid aw de churning, she use'er pour wha' clabber wuz left o'er in uh big ole wooden tray under uh tree dere close to de dairy en call aw dem little plantation chillun dere whey she wuz. She gi'e eve'yone uv em uh iron spoon en le' em eat jes uz mucha dat clabber uz dey c'n hold. A'ter dat she clean up eve'yt'ing 'bout de dairy en den she go to de big house en ge' her dinner. Gran'mudder Phoebe say she could set down en eat wid sati'faction den cause she know she wuz t'rough wid wha' been her portion uv work dat day." "Den dere wuz Patience wha' work to de loom house. She help do aw de weaving fa de plantation. Weave aw t'rough de winter en aw t'rough de summer. She make aw kinder uv pretty streak in de cloth outer de yarn dat dey dye right dere on de plantation wid t'ing dat dey ge' outer de woods lak walnut wha' make brown, en cedar en sweet gum wha' make purple. Den dey make de blue cloth outer dat t'ing dat dey raise right dere on de plantation call indigo. Dere some uv dat indigo dat does grow up dere on de Sand Hills dis day en time but ain' nobody ne'er worry 'bout it no more." "Jes uh little way from de loom house wuz de shoe house whey Uncle Lon'on hadder make shoe aw de day. I 'member dey is make aw de plantation shoe dere. Make em outer cow hide wha' dey hadder tan fust. Jes put de cow hide in uh trough en kiver it aw o'er wid oak en water en le' it soak till de hair come offen it. Den dey take it outer dat en beat it 'cross uh log hard uz dey c'n till dey ge' it right soft lak. A'ter dat ley out de shoe lak dey wan' it en sew it up wid dem long hair wha' dey ge' outer de hosses neck. Dat jes de way dey make aw we shoe den." "Minus en Chrissus Gause hab job dere to de gin house. Dey'ud jes put de cotton in dat gin en de seed go one way en de lent go de udder way. Minus hadder feed de gin en dem udder helper hadder hand de cotton. Den Bacchus hadder work de screw dat press de bale togedder. Yunnah chillun ain' ne'er see nuthin lak dat dese days. Dem hosses pull dat t'ing round en round en dat screw ge' tighter en tighter. Turn out pretty uh bale uv cotton us yunnah e'er hear 'bout in no time tall. My Lawd, I 'member dey is hab bale uv cotton pile up aw 'bout dat gin house." "En dey is hab dey own blacksmith shop dere on de place down to de place call de big water. Aw dem peoples from plantation aw 'bout come dere fa Fortune to mend dey plow en t'ing lak dat." "Yas'um, plantation peoples hadder go dere to de Ole Neck Chu'ch eve'y Sunday. I hear em say dat wuz uh Methodist Chu'ch. Aw dem well to do folks hab dey own pew up dere in de front uv de chu'ch wha dey set on eve'y Sunday. Dey seat wuz painted pretty lak uh bedstead en den de poor peoples set in de middle uv de chu'ch in de yellow kind uv seat. Aw de colored peoples hadder set in de blue seat in de back uv de chu'ch. Peoples ne'er rank togedder den lak yah see de peoples rank togedder dese days. Miss Susan Stevenson en Miss Harriett Woodberry en Miss Maggie McWhite wuz de ones wha' pull togedder den. Know dey chillun time dey hit dat chu'ch door. C'n tell em by dey skin. My blessed, chillun, dere wuz sech uh diffe'ence." "Dat Ole Neck Chu'ch de same chu'ch wha' yunnah see stand two mile up dat road. Dem peoples oughtna hadder move dat chu'ch neither cause it been dere long time 'fore dey come heah. Ain' been right to do dat. Dem wha' put dat chu'ch dere bury right dere in dat cemetery right 'bout whey dey chu'ch wuz en dem udder peoples ain' hab no right to take dey chu'ch 'way a'ter dey been gone." "De peoples ne'er hab no cars lak dese peoples hab 'bout heah now. My white folks hab carriage en two big ole white hosses wha' to ride to se'vice en whey dey wanna go den. Coase dey ne'er go aw de time lak dese peoples does dis day en time. Lawd, dem hosses could pull dat carriage too. Dey wuz name Selam en Prince. My Massa en Missus hab seat in de back uv de carriage en I hadder set up dere 'tween dem en de driver en nu'se dem chillun. Isaac wuz Miss Susan driver en he hab seat aw uv he own on de front whey he could mind de hosses. My Lawd, I 'member how I did use'er lub to set up dere in Miss Susan carriage." "Dese peoples dese days don' know nuthin 'bout dem times den. I 'member how dey use'er sell de colored peoples offen to annuder plantation some uv de time. Man come dere to buy my Gran'mudder a'ter Massa Ben Gause die en tell her to open she mouth so he c'n 'xamine her teeth. Say she say, 'I won' do it.' Wanna know effen dey wuz sound 'fore he buy her. Dat de way dey do when dey sell hosses." "I 'member when dem Yankees come 'bout dere too. Hear Massa Jim Stevenson say dey mus' herry en hide dey va'uables cause de Yankees wuz comin' t'rough dere en sweep em out. Dey bury dey silver en dey gold watch in de graveyard up in de Beech Field. (De Beech Field wuz de place whey de Indian use'er camp long time ago cause de peoples use'er find aw kinder bead en arrow head wha' dey left dere.) Den Miss Susan put trunk full uv her nice t'ing to de colored peoples house. Ain' been 'fraid de Yankees bother em dere. Didn't no Yankees come no whey 'bout dere till a'ter freedom 'clare en den two uv em come dere en stay right dere to de big house. Dey come to 'vide outer de corn. Hab pile uv corn sot aw 'bout de born (barn) dere wid name uv de colored peoples stick 'bout in eve'y pile." "Yas'um, I 'member dat aw right. Marry in March dere to my pa house. Us ne'er left Massa Jim Stevenson plantation a'ter freedom 'clare. Ne'er wanna hunt no better libin' den we hab dere. My Lawd, dere sho' wuz big doing 'bout dere when I go' hitch up to Joe Woodberry. Pa kill uh shoat en dey bake cake en hab aw kinder ration cook up. I hab pretty dress make outer white swiss muslin wha' I marry in en aw dem peoples wuz dress up dat evenin'. Dat wuz pretty uh sight uz dere e'er wuz when dey ge' to blowing dat cane en knockin' dem stick en dey aw wuz uh jiggin' 'bout." "Chillun, seem lak aw de good time gone from heah now. Peoples sho' gotta scuffle fa wha' dey hab dis day en time en den effen dey ge' it, dere ain' no sati'faction no whey 'bout it. T'ing ain' gwinna do nobody no good effen dey gotta worry dey head so mucha 'bout whey de next comin' from." "Good day, honey. Come back 'g'in. Yunnah white en I black, but I lub yuh." _Source_: MOM GENIA WOODBERRY (Eugenia Woodeberry), age 89, colored, Britton's Neck, S.C. (Personal interview, June 1937) =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, November 23, 1937= =JULIA WOODBERRY= =Ex-Slave, Age ____= "Come in, child. Dis ain' nobody talkin to you from behind dat door, but Julia Woodberry. De door unlatch, just turn de handle en come right in here whe' you can warm yourself by de stove. I tell my daughter for her to take de sick child en walk over dere en make Aun' Liney a visit, while I wipe round bout dis stove a little speck. Cose I ain' able to scour none much, but seems like dis old stove does keep everything so nasty up dat I can' let things bout it get too worser. No, child, I tell dese chillun I done seen most all my scourin days, but I think bout I would do this little job for Alexa dis mornin en let her put her mind to dat child. I say, if I able, I loves to wipe up cause it such a satisfaction. It just like dis, dere ain' nothin gwine shine dat floor en make it smell like I want it to, but soap en water. I don' like dese old stoves nohow. I ain' been raise to dem cause when I come up, de olden people didn' think nothin bout puttin no stoves to dey fireplaces. Oh, dey would have dese big old open fireplaces en would have de grandest kind of fires. My Lord, child, dere wouldn' never be no nastiness bout dey fireplace cause de people never didn' burn no coal in dem days. Slavery people been burn dese great big oak logs en dey would make de finest kind of fires, I say. Yes, mam, I been raise up de slavery way en dat how-come I don' want to be noways departin from it." "Oh, dat was my granddaughter dat had de straw fever. Yes, mam, look like she mendin right smart since she been settin up. De straw fever, dat what I calls it, but I hear people say it de hay fever. De doctor, he just say it de fever, but from de way he give de pills, it point to de straw fever. Cose dat what we termed it, but like I tell you, some calls it de hay fever. I ain' never hear talk of dat kind of fever till dese late years. Yes, mam, she had a little cold en cough some, but not much. You see, when she first took down, she took wid a blindness en a pain in de stomach at de school en couldn' say nothin. De doctor say de fever was bout broke on her den. You see, she had de pain en, I say, dat a sign de misery broke on her. But dat child, she lay dere on dat bed three weeks en she been mighty weak, mighty weak from de fever. No, mam, she ain' have de fever all de time, but dere would come a slow fever dat would rise on her every night en eat up what strength she had caught durin de day. Cose she ain' never been hearty cause she been havin dis fever long bout two years. No, mam, she been test for de T.B.'s in de school dis last year en dey say dat she never had none of dat. Alexa say she gwine let her get dem shots in time next year. All de school chillun took dem last year. Dey tell me dat be to keep diseases down in school. Cose I don' know nothin bout it cause I been raise de slavery way en dat won' de talk den. "My mother, she was a freeborn woman. She come from off de sea beach in our own country. Her people was dese Chee Indians en she didn' have no ways like dese other people bout here. Now, I talkin out of her. Ain' talkin out of nobody else, but her. She told me she was born on de sea beach en her parents was Chee Indians. Dat what she told us chillun. Say, when dey stole her en her brother John, dey come dere in dese big old covered wagons en dey stuffed dem way back up in dere en carried dem off. Oh, she say, she was a big girl when dey run her down en caught her. Like I tell you, I talkin out of her. Her en her brother John was out playin one day, near their sea beach home, en first thing dey know, dere come one of dem big old covered wagons dere. Say, dey never know what to think till dey see dis white man gettin down off de wagon en start makin for dem en dey get scared cause dey been learn white man won' no friend. Say, dey broke en run, but de man come right after dem en grabbed dem up wid his hands en stuffed dem way back up in de covered wagon en drove off. She say, she was runnin hard as she could from de man. I remember, I heard my mother speak bout dat she didn' reckon her mother ever knew whe' dey went. She say, dey cried en cried, but dat never do no good. No, mam, de lawyer Phillips stole her. He didn' buy her cause she told me dey brought dem right on to his home en put dem out dere. Her en her brother John were made house servants in de big house en dey went from one to de other in de Phillips' family till after freedom come here. Ma, she say dat she fared good en dey didn' ill treat her no time, but wouldn' never allow dem to get out de family no more durin slavery days. No, mam, she never didn' have no hard time comin up. Cose she had to put de white people chillun to bed at night en den she could go to parties cross Catfish much as she wanted to, but she would have to be back in time to cook dat breakfast next mornin. You see, dey was house servants en dey stayed right dere in de lawyer Phillips' house all de time. Been raise right down dere in dat grove of cedars cross from de jail." "Well, she didn' say bout dat. No, mam, she didn' have no word bout whe' if she liked de white folks livin or no when she first come dere. You know, when you in Rome, you has to do as Rome do. Reckon dat de way de poor creature took it. No, child, she didn' tell us nothin bout her home no more den dat she was born a Chee Indian. Yes, mam, my blessed old mother told me dat a thousand times." "My God, my God, child, I couldn' never forget my old mother's face. She bore a round countenance all de time wid dese high cheek bones en straight hair. I talkin out of her now. Yes, mam, can see Ma face dere fore my eyes right now. It de blessed truth, my old mother didn' have no common ways bout her nowhe'. I don' know whe' it true or no, but de people used to say I took after my mother. I recollects, when I would be workin round de white folks, dey would ax me how-come I been have dem kind of way bout me what was different from de other colored people. You know, de Indians, dey got curious ways. My mother, she wouldn' never take a thing from nobody en she was sharp to pick a fight. Yes, mam, she was quick as dat. (Slaps her hands together.) Been fast gettin insulted. Anybody make her mad, she would leave away from dem en dey wouldn' see her no more in a month or two. Hear boss say dat she was quick tempered." "Well, child, dat bout all I can know to speak bout dis mornin. You see, some days I can get my 'membrance back better den I can on another day. I say, I gwine get my mind fixed up wid a heap to tell you de next time you come here en if you ain' come back, I gwine try en get round dere to your house. God bless you, honey." _Source_: Julia Woodberry, Ex-Slave, Age 70-80, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie R. Davis, Nov., 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, November 30, 1937= =JULIA WOODBERRY= =Ex-Slave, Age= ____ "Oh, my God a mercy, child, dat been a time when dat shake come here. I tell you, dat been somethin. I sho remember all bout dat cause I been a grown woman de year dat earthquake come here. Yes, mam, I gwine tell it to you just like I experience it. We had all just been get over wid us supper en little things dat night en I had washed Auntie en Mr. Rowell's feet for dem to lie down en dere come such a sketch of clouds from over in dat direction dat I never know what to make of it. Auntie en Mr. Rowell never know what to make of it neither. I remember, I run out to help my sister dat been out to de paddlin block en, honey, you ain' never live to see no black cloud like dat been. I washed a piece through en den I left off en went back in de house en set down by de fire to dry my feet. I set dere awhile en seems like somethin just speak right out de fire, bout dat time, en tell me to move my feet dat I was in bad shape. En, child, it de truth of mercy, dere come a big clog of dirt out dat chimney en drap (drop) right down in de spot whe' my foot was. I run to Auntie en Mr. Rowell to see could dey tell what dat was, but dey been in just as much darkness as I been. I look up en seems like de loft had lowered itself en could hear a roarin for miles en miles bout dere en could hear de people hollerin every which a way. Yes, mam, could hear dem hollerin miles en on top of miles bout dere. My God, dem people was scared to lie down dat night en such a prayin en a shoutin as everybody do dat night, I ain' never see de like fore den. Ain' see de like since den neither. Next mornin, I go to work for de white folks en dey all go off dat mornin en I tell you, I was scared bout to death in dat big house by myself. I remember, I left out de house en been out in de 'tatoe patch grabblin 'tatoes right along en when I raise up, dat thing was comin down dat 'tatoe row just a whirlin en a makin right for me. Yes, mam, I been so scared. I ain' see whe' I is grow a bit since de shake. I tell you, I thought it was de Jedgment. Den we hear dere was gwine be another earthquake, but de people get on dey knees en dey stay on dey knees en it never come here dat time. Dat one was in another state, so dey tell me. I hear talk dat all de earth caved in en you could see de people down dere, but couldn' nobody get dem. Some people say dat been de devil do dat, but I tell dem de devil ain' had no such power. De Lord been de power dat bring dat shake here, I say." "Oh, Lord, de people sho fared better in dat day en time den dey do dese days. Cose dey didn' have a heap of different kind of trashy things like dey have dese days, but dey had a plenty to eat en a plenty to wear all de time en den everything was better in dem times, too. Now, I speak bout what I know bout. De rations eat better en de cloth wear better, too, in dem days den dey do now. You see, mostly, de people would make dey own provisions at home. White folks would raise abundance of hogs en cows to run all dey big plantation from one year to de other. Wouldn' never clear out of meat no time cause de stock been let loose to run at large in dem days. De most dat dey bought was dey sugar en dey coffee, but dem what was industrious en smart, dey made most dey victuals at home. Made dey own rice en winnowed it right dere home. Oh, dey had one of dese pestle en mortar to beat it out. Yes, mam, de pestle been big at one end an little at de other end. Den dey would raise turkeys en geese en chickens en dere wasn' no end to de birds en squirrels en rabbits en fish in dat day en time. Dat is, dem what cared for demselves, dey had all dem things. Cose dere was some den like dere be now dat been too lazy to work en dey hand was empty all de time. I remember, dem poorbuckras would just go bout from one house to another en catch somethin here, dere en yonder." "Den de people never wore none of dese kind of clothes like de people wear dese days neither. When a person got a dress den, dey made it demselves en dey made dey own underskirts den, too. You see, all dese underskirts en bloomers like de people does buy dese days, dey didn' have nothin like dat den. Used to put 10 yard in a dress en 10 yards in a underskirt en would tuck dem clean up to dey waist. En, child, when dey would iron dat dress, it would stand up in de floor just like dere been somebody in it. When I say iron, I talkin bout de people would iron den, too. Yes, mam, when I come along, de people been take time to iron dey garments right. Oh, dey clothes would be just as slick as glass. Won' a wrinkle nowhe' bout dem. Another thing, dey used to have dese dove colored linen dusters dat dey would wear over dey dress when dey would ride to church. Den when dey went in de church, dey would pull dem off en put dem on again when dey started home. Dey was made sort of like a coat suit, except dey was a little fuller en would come clean down to de tail of de dress. You see, dey was meant to protect de dress while dey was gwine along de road." "De world sho gwine worser dese days, honey. Oh, Lord, de people worser. Yes, mam, dey worser, I say. Dey ain' got de mother wit. Dey weaker en dey wiser, I say, but dey ain' got de mother wit. Can' set down en talk to de people dese days en dey take dat what you got to say in like dey used to. En de people don' take de time to teach de chillun to know good things like dey used to en dat how-come dey have more time to get in so much of devilment dese days. Yes, mam, de people used to have more chillun en dey raised dem, too. Chillun know more den grown people do dese days, I say. People used to know how to carry demselves en take care of demselves more den dey do now. Seems like, de people more rattlin en brazen den what dey used to be." _Source_: Julia Woodberry, colored, Marion, S.C.--Age, 70-80. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Nov., 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, November 5, 1937= =JULIA WOODBERRY= =Ex-Slave, Age ____= "Well, I can speak bout what I used to hear my auntie en my mammy en my grandmammy talk bout what happen in dey day, but I never didn' live in slavery time. My mammy, she been broke her leg long time fore freedom come here en I remember she tell me often times, say, 'Julia, you didn' lack much of comin here a slavery child.' Honey, I mean she been in de family way right sharp fore freedom come here. "My mammy, she was raise right down dere to de other side de jail to de 'Cedars'. You know dere whe' all dem cedars round dat house what bout to fall down. She belong to de lawyer Phillips dere en he wouldn' never allow her to get out de family. She had been a free woman fore he had stole her off de sea beach to be his house woman. Yes, mam, stole my mammy en uncle John, too, off de sea beach, but uncle John went back after freedom come here. My mammy, she been raise from just a child to be de house woman dere to de lawyer Phillips en she never didn' know nothin bout choppin cotton till her last baby been bout knee high. "I remember how my mammy used to tell me bout dat de colored people won' allowed to go from one plantation to another widout dey had a 'mit (permit) from dey Massa. Yes, mam, all de niggers had to have dat strip somewhat bout dem to keep from gettin a beatin. Couldn' leave dey home widout showin dat 'mit from dey Massa. You see, de nigger men would want to go to see dey wives en dey would have to get a 'mit from dey Massa to visit dem. Cose dey wouldn' live together cause dey wives would be here, dere en yonder. It been like dis, sometimes de white folks would sell de wife of one of dey niggers way from dey husband en den another time, dey would sell de husband way from dey wife. Yes, mam, white folks had dese guard, call patroller, all bout de country to catch en whip dem niggers dat been prowl bout widout dat strip from dey Massa. I remember I hear talk dey say, 'Patroller, Patroller, let nigger pass.' Dey would say dat if de nigger had de strip wid dem en if dey didn' have it, dey say, 'Patroller, Patroller, cut nigger slash.'" "Child, I tell you dat been a day to speak bout. When I come along, de women never vote, white nor colored, en it been years since I see a colored person vote, but I remember dey been gwine to vote in dat day en time just like dey was gwine to a show. Oh, honey, de road would be full of dem. Dey had to vote. Remember, way back dere, everybody would be singin en a dancin when dey had de election: 'Hancock ride de big gray horse, Hampton ride de mule, Hancocks got elected, Buckras all turn fool. Buggety, buggety, buggety etc.'" "White en black was all in a row dere dancin all night long. Ain' made no exception." "I hear talk dat when freedom come here, de niggers was just turn loose to make dey livin de best way dey could. Say dat some of de white folks give dey niggers somethin to go on en some of dem didn' spare dem nothin. Dey tell me old Sherman didn' come through dis section of de country, but he sent somebody to divide out de things like so much corn en so much meat to de colored people. Now, I talkin bout dat what I hear de old people say. Put everything in Ben Thompson hand to deal out de colored people share to dem. Yes, mam, he was de one had de chair. Talk bout Sherman give Ben Thompson de chair, sayin what I hear de old people say. I don' know exactly how it was, it been so long since de old people talk wid me. Dat it, it been so long till God knows, I forgot." "Well, I used to know a heap of dem songs dat I hear my auntie en my grandmammy sing dere home when I was comin up. Let me see, child, dey was natural born song too. 'I got somethin to tell you, Bow-hoo, oo-hoo, oo-hoo. I got somethin to tell you, Bow-hoo, oo-hoo, oo-hoo. In a bow-hoo, oo-oo-hoo. Way cross de ocean, 'Mongst all dem nation, Massa Jesus promise me, He gwine come by en by, He gwine come by en by. Dere many miles round me, De curried be so bold, To think dat her son, Jesus, Could write widout a pen, Could write widout a pen. De very next blessin dat Mary had, She had de blessin of two, To think dat her son, Jesus, Could bring de crooked to straight, Could bring de crooked to straight.'" "Dat was my auntie's grandmother Eve piece way back yonder in slavery time. Dat was her piece." "It just like I tellin you, dat been a day to speak bout. I remember when dey used to spin en weave all de cloth right dere home. Yes, mam, I wore many a wove dress to church. Dey would get dis here indigo en all kind of old bark out de woods en boil it in de pot wid de yarn en make de prettiest kind of colors. Den dey would take dat colored yarn en weave all kind of pretty streaks in de cloth. Dey would know just as good how many yards of dat thread it would take to make so much of cloth." "Yes, mam, I know dere been better livin long time ago den dere be now. Know it cause I didn' never have no worryations no time when I was comin up. My God, child, I couldn' make a support today if I know my neck had to be hung on de gallows. No, mam, dis here a sin cussed world de people livin in dis day en time." _Source_: Julia Woodberry, colored, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, October-November, 1937. =Code No.= =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, November 16, 1937= =JULIA WOODBERRY= =Ex-Slave, Age ____= "No, mam, I ain' thought bout nothin no more to tell you. Death been in de family en seems like I just been so worried up wid my daughter sick in de house dere wid de straw fever. De doctor, he say it de fever en dat all we know, but it acts like de straw fever all up en down. I tell dem chillun dere de other night dat I would have to go back en get my mind fixed up wid somethin to speak bout fore you come here another time. Yes, mam, have to get my mind together somewhe' or another." "I been born down dere in Britton's Neck, but most my days was lived up to Mr. Jim Brown's place to Centenary. My father, he was name Friday Woodberry en my mother, she come from off de sea beach in slavery time, so she told me. Say dat her old Massa stole her en her brother John, too, from off de sea beach. When freedom come here, her brother John went back to de sea beach, but my mother say dat she won' in no shape to go back. She went from family to family till after freedom was declared en her white folks wouldn' never have her ill-treated neither en wouldn' never let nobody else have her no time. When she was let loose from de white people, she went to Britton's Neck wid a colored woman. You see, she was a stranger to de country bout dere fore freedom come en she been know dat woman en dat how-come she went wid her. I mean she didn' know de people bout dere cause de white folks didn' allow dey colored people to go bout much in slavery time. Couldn' go nowhe' widout dey had a ticket wid dem. She stayed dere in Britton's Neck till Pa died en den she come back up here to Marion to live, but her white people was scattered all bout den." "No, mam, I ain' never marry cause you had to court on de sly in dat day en time. I tell you, I come through de devil day when I come along. I was learned to work by de old, old slavery way en, honey, I say dat I just as soon been come through slavery day as to come under a tight taskmassa dat was colored. Yes, mam, if I never did a thing right, my dress was over my head en I was whipped right dere. I was engaged by letter, but dey kept me under dey foot so close till I never didn' slip de hay. I remember, I was stayin dere wid Mary Jane Rowell en she kept me cowed down so worser, I never couldn' do nothin." "I tell you, I been a grown girl dere when I leave Mary Jane Rowell's house en go to cookin en a washin for Miss (Mrs.) Louise Brown. Yes, child, I love Miss Louise Brown to dis very day cause she been just like a mother to me. Yes, mam, Miss Brown was just as good to me as she could be. Mr. Jim Brown, he give me a house dere on his plantation to live in just to do de house work to de big house, but seems like de other colored people on de plantation would be tryin to down me most all de time cause I was workin ahead of dem. I know I would go dere to work many a mornin cryin, from what dem niggers been mouthin bout me, en Miss Brown would cry right along wid me. I tell you, Miss Brown was a tender hearted woman, so to speak bout. I tell Miss Brown, 'Carolina say I stole a towel off de line.' En Miss Brown say, 'Julia, if dere a towel gone off dat line, I know whe' it gone.' No, child, I ain' never think bout to lay no shame on dese hands. White folks been used to leave money all bout whe' I bresh (brush) en dust en I ain' never had no mind to touch it no time. Yes, mam, I been through a day since I come here. Erelong I move out Mary Jane Rowell's house, I been in white people house. If it ain' one class, it another. De very day dat Dr. Dibble been pronounce me to de hospital, dey come after me to wait on a woman. Yes, mam, Julia Woodberry ain' beat de state no time. Oh, I tell you, it de God truth, I has done every kind of work in my life. Me en my three chillun dere run a farm just like a man. Why, honey, you ain' know I had three girls? Yes, mam, dem chillun been born en bred right dere in de country to Centenary." "I hear people talkin bout dat thing call conjurin, but I don' know what to say dat is. It somethin I don' believe in. Don' never take up no time wid dat cause it de devil's work. Dat de olden talk en I don' think nothin bout dat. Don' want nobody round me dat believes in it neither. Don' believe in it. Don' believe in it cause dat en God spirit don' go together. I hear talk dat been belong to de devil, but I was so small, I couldn' realize much what to think cause dat what you hear in dem days, you better been hear passin. No, mam, dey knock chillun down in dat day en time dat dey see standin up lookin in dey eyes to hear. I has heard people say dat dey could see spirits, but I don' put no mind to dat no time. I believe dat just a imagination cause when God get ready to take you out dis world, you is gone en you gone forever, I say. Don' believe in no hereafter neither cause dey say I been born wid veil over my face en if anybody could see spirits, I ought to could. I know I has stayed in houses dat people say was hanted plenty times en I got to see my first hant yet. Yes, mam, I do believe in de Bible. If I hadn' believed in de Bible, I wouldn' been saved. Dere obliged to be a hereafter accordin to de Bible. Dere obliged to be a hereafter, I say. I can' read, but I talkin what I hear de people say. Dat a infidel what don' believe dere a hereafter." "How-come I know all dat, I was raise up wid de old people. Come along right behind de old race en I would be dere listenin widout no ears en seein widout no eyes. Yes, mam, I took what I hear in, lady, en I ain' been just now come here. I been here a time. Dat de reason I done wid de world. God knows I is done. I is done. I recollects, way back yonder, Pa would sing: 'Dey ain' had no eyes for to see, Dey ain' had no teeth for to eat, En dey had to let de corncake go, Gwine whe' all de good niggers go.'" "Dat was my father's piece dat he used to sing in slavery time. Dat right cause I can remember back more so den I can forward." _Source_: Julia Woodberry, colored, age--about 70 to 75., Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Nov., 1937. =Project 1885 -1-= =District #4= =Spartanburg, S.C.= =June 1, 1937= =Edited by:= =E. Fronde Kennedy= =FOLK-LORE: EX-SLAVES= While looking for an ex-slave in a certain part of Spartanburg this morning, I was directed across the street to "an old man who lives there". I knocked at the door but received no answer. Then I noticed an old man walking around by the side of the house. He was tall and straight, standing about 6 feet 2 inches. He said that his name was George Wood and that he was 78 years of age. He stated that he was born during slavery, and lived on Peter Sepah's place in York County. Peter Sepah's farm, where he was born, was near the North Carolina line; it consisted of approximately 200 acres. His parents were named Dan and Sarah Wood. His mother was given to old man Sepah by his father as a wedding present, and his grandfather had been given to an older Sepah by his parent as a wedding present. He said it was the custom in slavery times that a slave be given to the son or daughter by the white people when they got married. He was too young to work, but about the time the war was over, he was allowed to drive the horses that pulled the thrasher of wheat. His master used to walk around and around while the wheat was being thrashed, and see that everybody was doing their work all right. His father lived on another plantation. There was only one family of slaves on the whole plantation. He, his mother, and five children lived in a one-room log cabin about 30 or 40 feet from the "big house". Their beds consisted of straw mattresses. They had plenty to eat, having the same food that the white folks did. They ate ash cakes mostly for bread, but once a week they had biscuits to eat. When the wheat was thrashed, they had biscuits mostly for breakfast; but as the wheat got scarcer they did not have much wheat to eat. He said that Buffalo Creek flowed pretty close to their place and that the creek emptied into Broad River. Shelby, N.C., their market, was about ten miles distant. He thinks that it was easier then than now to get something to eat. The log cabin where he and his mother lived was kept comfortably warm in the winter time. All they had to do, was to go to the wood-pile and get all the wood they needed for the fire. His mother worked on the farm, washed clothes and helped with the cooking at his master's house. The slaves stopped work every Saturday afternoon about three o'clock; then his mistress would have his mother to patch their clothes, as she did not like to see their clothes needing patching. "We used to have lots of fun," he said, "more than the children do now. As children, we used to play marbles around the house; but no other special game." Uncle George said that the patrollers saw that the colored people were in their houses at 8 o'clock every night. "They would come to the house and look in; of course, if a man had a pass to another plantation or some place, that was all right; or if he had some business somewhere. But everybody had to be in the house by 8 o'clock." He also stated that if a slave strayed off the plantation and didn't have a pass, if he could out-run the "pateroller" and get back upon his own place, then he was all right. The only slave he ever saw get a whipping, was one who had stayed out after hours; then a switch was used on him by a "pateroller". He said he never saw any slaves in chains or treated badly, for his master was a good man, and so was his "Missus". One day his mother went to a church that was not her own church. On coming back, she saw a "pateroller" coming behind her. She began to run, and he did too; but as he caught up with her, she stepped over a fence on her master's place and dared the "pateroller" to do anything to her. He didn't do a thing and would not get over the fence where she was, as he would have been on somebody's place besides his own. He said that when the corn-shucking time came, both whites and blacks would gather at a certain plantation. Everybody shucked corn, and they all had a good time. When the last ear of corn was shucked, the owner of the plantation would begin to run from the place and all would run after him. When they caught him, he was placed on the shoulders of two men and carried around and around the house, all singing and laughing and having a good time. Then they would carry the man into his house, pull off his hat and throw it into the fire; place him in a chair; comb his head; cross his knees for him and leave him alone. They would not let him raise a second crop under his old hat--he had to have a new hat for a new crop. Then they would all, colored and white, gather to eat. The owner of the farm would furnish plenty to eat; sometimes he would have some whiskey to drink, but not often, "as that was a dangerous thing to have". He said that if a man who was chewing or smoking met a woman, he would throw his tobacco away before talking with the woman. There was plenty of fruit in those days, so brandy was made and put into barrels in the smoke-house; and the same way they had plenty of corn, and would put up a still and put the whiskey they made into barrels. People in those days, he said, had "manners". The white and colored folks would have their separate sections in the church where they sat. "I've seen a white man make another white man get up in church and give his place to a colored man when the church was crowded." He said his father was baptized by Rev. Dixon, father of Tom Dixon, who was a Baptist preacher. His mother was sprinkled by a Methodist white preacher, but he was baptized by a colored preacher. Asked about marriages among the slaves, he said the ceremony was performed by some "jack-legged" colored preacher who pronounced a few words and said they were man and wife. He said the colored people did not know much about Jeff Davis or Abraham Lincoln except what they heard about them. All that he remembered was a song that his Missus used to sing: "Jeff Davis rides a big gray horse, Lincoln rides a mule; Jeff Davis is a fine old man, And Lincoln is a fool." Another song was: "I'll lay $10 down and number them one by one, As sure as we do fight 'em, The Yankees will run." One day his "Missus" came to their house and told his mother they were free and could go anywhere they wanted to, but she hoped they would stay on that year and help them make a crop. He said his mother just folded her hands and put her head down and "studied". She decided to stay on that year. The next year, they moved to another plantation, where they stayed for twenty years. "Before they were free, every colored man took the name of his master, but afterwards, I took my father's name." He said that the Yankee soldiers did not come to their place, but they were ready for them if they had come. The silver was buried out in the lot, and stable manure was piled and thrown all about the spot. The two good horses were taken off and hidden, but the old horse his master owned was left. He said that sometimes a Confederate soldier would come by riding an old horse, and would want to trade horses with his master. Sometimes his master would trade, for he thought his horse would be taken anyway. His master would never get anything "to boot", as the soldier didn't have the "to boot" when the trade was made. So the soldier would ride off the horse, leaving the poor, broken-down one behind. Sometimes after the war, the Confederate soldiers would come by the house, sick, wounded and almost starved; but his mistress would fix something to eat for them; then they would go on. "'Possum and 'taters were plentiful then. When a slave wanted to go hunting, he could go; but we had to work then--nobody works now." He said that on rainy days, his mother did not have to go to the field, but stayed at home and sewed or carded. He said that after freedom came to the slaves, he worked on a farm for $5.00 a month. After he had been on the farm for many years, he heard that Spartanburg was on a boom, so he came here and worked at railroading for many more years. He has quit work now; but still does a little gardening for some white folks. He said that the white people in the South understand the colored people. When asked if he had ever seen a ghost, he replied that he had never seen one and had never seen a person who had. "I don't believe in those things anyhow," he said. He also stated he had never heard of anybody being "conjured" either. He said that all the niggers in his section were scared of the niggers from way down in South Carolina, for their reputation as conjurers was against them, so they always fought shy of them and didn't have anything to do with the "niggers from way down in South Carolina". SOURCE: George Woods, 337 N. View St., Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg, S.C. =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =ALECK WOODWARD,= =_EX-SLAVE--83 YEARS._= "You knows de Simonton place, Mr. Wood? Well, dats just where I was born back yonder befo' de war, a slave of old Marster Johnnie Simonton. Five miles sorter south sunset side of Woodward Station where you was born, ain't it so? My pappy was Ike Woodward, but him just call 'Ike' time of slavery, and my mammy was name Dinah. My brother Charlie up north, if he ain't dead, Ike lives in Asheville, North Carolina. Two sisters: Ollie, her marry an Aiken, last counts, and she and her family in Charlotte, North Carolina; sister Mattie marry a Wilson nigger, but I don't know where they is. "Us lived in a four-room log house, 'bout sixteen all told. Dere was pappy and mammy (now you count them) gran'pappy, Henry Davis, Gran'mammy Kisana, Aunt Anna, and her seven chillun, and me, and my two brothers and two sisters. How many make dat? Seventeen? Well, dat's de number piled in dere at night in de beds and on de floors. They was scandlous beds; my God, just think of my grands, old as I is now, tryin' to sleep on them hard beds and other folks piled 'scriminately all over de log floors! My Gran'pappy Henry was de carpenter, and old marster tell him 'if you make your beds hard, Henry, 'member you folks got to sleep on them.' "I was just a little black feller, running 'round most of de time in my shirt tail, but I recollect pickin' cotton, and piddling 'round de woodpile, fetchin' in wood for white house and chips and kindling to fresh up de fires. Us had plenty to eat, 'cause us killed thirty-five hogs at a time, and de sausages and lights us did was a sight. Then de lard us made, and de cracklin' bread, why, I hungers for de sight of them things right now. Us niggers didn't get white flour bread, but de cracklin' bread was called on our place, 'de sweet savor of life.' "Money? Us had eyes to see and ears to hear, but us just hear 'bout it, never even seen money. "My marster had a fish pond, signs of it dere yet. "My white folks attended church at Concord Presbyterian Church. Us went dere too, and us set up in de gallery. Yes, they asked us. De preacher asked us to jine in some of de hymns, especially 'De Dyin' Thief' and 'De Fountain Filled Wid Blood,' and dat one 'bout 'Mazing Grace How Sweet de Sound Dat Save a Wretch Like us.' "Our young Marster Charlie went off to de war, got killed at Second Bull Run. Marster Watt went and got a leg shot off somewheres. Marster Jim went and got killed, Johnnie too, Marster Robert was not old enough to carry a gun. "De young mistresses was Mary and Martha. Marster John, old mistress and all of them mighty good to us, especially when Christmas come and then at times of sickness. They send for de doctor and set up wid you, such tendin' to make you love them. When de Yanks come us all plead for Marster John and family, and de house not to be burnt. De house big, had ten rooms, big plantation, run fifteen plows. "You ask 'bout was dere any poor white folks 'round? Not many, but I 'members old Miss Sallie Carlisle weaved and teached de slaves how it was done. Marster give her a house to live in, and a garden spot on de place, good woman. She show me how to spin and make ball thread, little as I was. Marster John had over fifty slaves, and they worked hard, sun up to sun down. It's a wonder but I never got a whippin'. "Did I ever see a ghost? Mr. Wood, I seen sumpin' once mighty strange, I was gwine to see a gal Nannie, on de widow Mobley place, and had to pass 'tween two graveyards, de white and de colored. She was de daughter of Rev. Richard Cook. When I was just 'bout de end of de white graveyard, I saw two spirits dressed in white. I run all de way to de gal's house and sob when I got dere. I laid my head in her lap and told her 'bout de spirits and how they scared me. I still weepin' wid fear, and she console me, rub my forehead and soothed me. When I got quiet, I asked her some day to be my wife, and dat's de gal dat come to be years after, my wife. Us walk to church hand and hand ever afterwards, and one day Preacher Morris, white man, made us husband and wife. I 'members de song de white folks sung dat day. 'Hark from de tomb a doleful sound'. Don't you think dat a wrong song to sing on a weddin' day? 'Joy to de World,' was in our heart and dat tune would have been more 'propriate, seems to me. "Marster John give de slaves every other Saturday after dinner in busy seasons, and every Saturday evening all other weeks. Us had two doctors, Doctor Brice at first, and when he git old, us had Doctor Lurkin. "Was glad when marster called us up and told us we was free. De Yankees made a camp on de Doctor Brice place, and foraged de country all 'round. They made me run after chickens and I had to give up my onliest blue hen dat I had. My pappy was took off by them to Raleigh, wid dat I 'member, was de saddest day of slavery time. "Nannie and me, under de providence of de Lord Jehovah, has had three chillun to live, and they have chillun too. I owns my own home and land enough to live on, though it is hard to make both ends meet some years. "How I got my name, you ask dat? Well, after freedom us niggers had to come to Winnsboro and register. Us talk 'bout it by de fireside what us would lak. When us come, Marster Henry Gaillard had a big crowd of Gaillard niggers 'bout him beggin' for names. One of them say, 'Marster Henry, I don't want no little name, I wants big soundin' name.' Marster Henry write on de paper, then he read: 'Your name is Mendozah J. Fernandez, hope dats big enough for you.' De little nigger dwarf seem powerful pleased and stepped to de register. De rest of us spoke to Captain Gaillard and he said no better name than Woodward, so us took dat name. Its been a kind of a 'tection to us at times, and none of our immediate family has ever dragged it in a jail or chaingang, Bless God! and I hope us never will." =Project #1655= =W.W. Dixon= =Winnsboro, S.C.= =MARY WOODWARD= =_EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD._= "I knows you since you 'bout dis high (indicating). When was it? Where I see you? I see you at your auntie's house. Dat was your auntie, Miss Roxie Mobley, other side of Blackstock. You was in a little dress dat day, look lak a gal. Oh! Lordy, dat been a long time! What us has come thru since dat day and de days befo' dat, beyond freedom. "I was born a slave of old Marster Adam Berber, near de Catawba River side de county, in 1854. I's a mighty small gal but I 'members when pappy got his leg broke at de gin-house dat day, in de Christmas week. Seem lak dat was de best Christmas I ever had. White folks comin' and a gwine, loadin' de bed down wid presents for pappy and mammy and me. "What my pappy name? He was name Joe and mammy go by Millie. Both b'long to Marster Adam and Miss Nellie. Dat was her name and a lovely mistress she be in dat part of de country. Her was sure pretty, walk pretty, and act pretty. 'Bout all I had to do in slavery time was to comb her hair, lace her corset, pull de hem over her hoop and say, 'You is served, mistress!' Her lak them little words at de last. "They have no chillun and dat was a grief to her more than to Marster Adam. Him comfort her many times 'bout it and 'low it was his fault. Then they 'spute 'bout it. Dats all de rumpus ever was 'twixt them. I 'spects if they had had chillun they wouldn't have been so good to me. What you reckon? They give me dolls and laugh at de way I name them, talk to them and dress them up. "When de Yankees come, I was a settin' in de swing in de front yard. They ride right up and say: 'Where your mistress?' I say: 'I don't know.' They say: 'You is lyin'. Give her a few lashes and us'll find out.' Another say: 'No, us come to free niggers, not to whip them.' Then they ask me for to tell them where de best things was hid. I say: 'I don't know sir.' Then they ransack de house, bust open de smoke house, take de meat, hams, shoulders, 'lasses barrel, sugar, and meal, put them in a four-horse wagon, set de house, gin-house and barn afire and go on toward Rocky Mount. Our neighbors then, was Marster Aaron Powell and Sikes Gladden, on Dutchman Creek. "After freedom I marry Alf Woodward. Us had chillun. How many? Let me see; Eli still alive, don't know where he is though. Rosa dead; Susannah live now on Miss Sara Lord's place, up dere near Metford. De rest of de chillun went off to Arkansas 'bout 1885, and us never heard from them. "I forgot to tell you dat when de Yankees come and find me a settin' in dat swing, I had on a string of beads dat Miss Nellie give to me. Them rascals took my beads off my neck, and what you reckon they did wid them? Well, if you doesn't know, I does. De scamps, dat is one of them did, took my lovely beads and put them 'round his horse's neck and ride off wid them, leavin' me sobbin' my life out in dat swing. They say you must love your enemies and pray for them dat spitefully use you but I never have pray for dat Yankee scamp to dis day. Although I's Scotch Irish African 'Sociate Reform Presbyterian, de spirit have never moved me to pray for de horse and rider dat went off wid my beads dat my mistress give me. When I tell Marster William Woodward, my husband's old marster, 'bout it, him say: 'De low dirty skunk, de Lord'll take vengeance on him.' Marster William give Alf a half a dollar and tell him to git me another string of beads, though Alf never done so. "Alf was Marster William's coachman and him and Wade Pichett, dat was a slave of Marster William, took fifteen mules, when de Yankees come, and carried them in de Wateree swamps and stayed dere and saved them. Every time Alf or Wade see Marster William, as de years comed and goed, they fetched up de subject of them mules and git sumpin' from him. One day he laugh and say: 'Look here Alf, I done 'bout pay for sixteen mules and dere was but fifteen in de drove.' Alf laugh but he always got way wid it when he see any of de Woodward white folks. Well I's glad to go now, though I has 'joyed bein' wid you. De Lord bless you and keep you." =Project, 1885-(1)= =Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis= =Place, Marion, S.C.= =Date, September 15, 1937= =PAULINE WORTH= =Ex-Slave, 79 Years= "Yes'um, I know I been here in slavery time, but wasn' large enough to do nothin in dat day en time. I reach 79 de first day of November. To be certain dat how old I is, Miss Betty Evans give me my direct age here de other day. She know who I am cause I was raise near bout in de same yard dat she was raise in. Mr. Telathy Henry family was my white folks. Yes'um, I was raise right here in dis town. Ain' never been nowhere else but Marion." "I was small den, but I remembers my old Missus. I sho remembers her all right. My old boss, he died. I can' remember nothin much bout dem times only I recollects when my old Missus used to get after me en whip me, I would run under de house. Didn' want to sweep de yard en dat how-come she get after me wid a switch. I was small den en she was tryin to learn me." "No, child, I didn' live on no plantation. Didn' have no quarter for de slaves dere. My white folks live in town en dey just have my mother en her chillun en another old man. He stayed in de kitchen en would work de garden en go off on errands for de Missus. My mother en we chillun stayed in a little small one room house in de yard en he stayed in de kitchen. I wasn' large enough to do nothin much den only as like I tell you, my old Missus tried to learn me to sweep de yard." "I was small den, child, but I got along all right cause we ate in de white folks kitchen. Oh, no'um, dey cook in de chimney long bout de time I come up. No'um, didn' see no stoves nowhe' when I come up. I remembers we had greens like collards en bread en potatoes to eat sometimes, but say remember all what we had to eat, I couldn' never think bout to do dat. I just knows dat I remembers old Missus provide good livin for us all de time. Wouldn' let nobody suffer for nothin be dat she know bout it. Old Missus used to give us every speck de clothes we had to wear too dat was made out dis here homemade homespun cloth. You see my mother was de cook dere. Old Massa used to keep dry goods store en de first I know bout it, she get de cloth out de store to make us clothes. Den after de old head died, old Missus commence to buy cloth from somebody in de country cause people weave dey cloth right dere on dey own plantation in dat day en time. Had dese here loom en spinning wheel. I remembers old Missus would take out big bolt of cloth en cut out us garments wid her own hands. Den she would call us dere en make us try dem on en mine wouldn' never be nothin troublesome nowhe' bout it. I remembers I used to hear my Missus, when she be readin de paper speak bout Abraham Lincoln en Jefferson Davis, but I was small den en never paid no much attention to it. Only cared bout my new homespun dress wid de pockets shinin right in de front part. My Lord, child, I been de proudest like of dem pockets." "I hear de older people say de Yankees come en say de Yankees was here, but I was small den. Dey didn' do nothin bout dere dat I know of. I was small en I didn' know. Didn' hear de older peoples say nothin bout it neither." "Oh, we went to de white peoples service to dat big Methodist church right up dere in dis town what was tore down long time ago. Walked dere to dat church every Sunday en set up in de gallery. Dat whe' all de slaves had place to sit. De only thing I could remember bout gwine to church dere was what I hear dem say. Dey say, 'I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, etc.' Dat all I remembers bout gwine to church dere. Everything I remembers. Don' know as I could tell you dat, but I hear my mother repeat it so much when she come home en be teachin us our prayer. Den Missus teach us de same thing till we get large enough to learn de Lord's Prayer. No'mam, white folks didn' teach us no learnin in dat day en time. Didn' hear bout no books only dese almanacs. When de white folks throw dem out, dey allow us to pick dem up to play wid. Dat all de books we know bout." "Lord, child, dat was somethin. Dat was sho a time when dat shake come here. I remembers de ground be shakin en all de people was hollerin. Yes'um, I was scared. Scared of dat noise it was makin cause I didn' know but dat it might been gwine destroy me. I was hollerin en everybody round in de neighborhood was hollerin. Didn' nobody know what to think it was. Well, I tell you I thought it must a been de Jedgment comin. Thought it must a been somethin like dat." "I don' know nothin bout dat. It just like dis, I heard people speak bout conjurin, but nobody never has talked to me nothin concernin no conjurin. My mother wouldn' allow nobody to talk dat kind of speech to us. No, I ain' never seen none of dem things people say is ghost. No, ain' seen none dat I remembers. My husband died en I was right in de room wid him en I ain' see a thing. Never thought bout nothin like dat. Thought when dey gone, dey was gone. When I was able to work, I didn' have no time to bother wid dem things. Didn' have no time to take up wid nothin like dat. I de one dat used to cook dere to Miss Eloise Bethea's mamma. Dis here de one dey call Pauline." "I tell you my old Missus was good to us, child, good to us all de time. Come bout en doctor us herself when we get sick. Wouldn' trust nobody else to give us no medicine. I remember she give us castor oil en little salts for some ailments. Didn' give us nothin more den dat only a little sage or catnip sometimes. Dat what was good for colds." "I don' know, child. I can' tell which de worser days den or dese times. I know one thing, dey dances now more den dey used to. I don' go bout much, but I can tell you what I hear talk bout. I don' know as de people any worser dese days, but I hear talk bout more dances. Dat bout all. Coase de peoples used to dance bout, but dey didn' have dese dance halls like dey have now. Didn' have none of dem kind of rousin places den. De peoples didn' have chance to dance in dat day en time only as dey have a quiltin en cornshuckin on a night. Den dey just dance bout in old Massa yard en bout de kitchen. Oh, dey have dem quiltin at night en would play en go on in de kitchen. Turn plate en different little things like dat. I don' know how dey do it, but I remembers I hear dem talkin somethin bout turnin plate. Wasn' big enough to explain nothin bout what dey meant. I just knows dey would do dat en try to make some kind of motion like." "Honey, didn' never hear my parents tell bout no stories. My mother wasn' de kind to bother wid no stories like dat. She tried to always be a Christian en she never would allow us to tarnish us souls wid nothin like dat. She raise us in de way she want us to turn out to be. All dese people bout here livin too fast to pay attention to raisin dey chillun dese days. Just livin too fast to do anything dat be lastin like. Dat how-come dere be so much destructiveness bout dese days." _Source_: Pauline Worth, age 79, ex-slave, Manning St., Marion, S.C. Personal interview, Sept., 1937 by Annie Ruth Davis. =Project #-1655= =Phoebe Faucette= =Hampton County= =Folklore= =DAPHNEY WRIGHT= =106 Year Old Ex-Slave= Just around the bend from the old mill pond on the way to Davis Swimming Pool lives a very old negro woman. Her name is Daphney Wright, though that name has never been heard by those who affectionately know her as "Aunt Affie". She says she is 106 years old. She comes to the door without a cane and greets her guests with accustomed curtsey. She is neatly dressed and still wears a fresh white cap as she did when she worked for the white folks. Save for her wearing glasses and walking slowly, there are no evidences of illness or infirmities. She has a sturdy frame, and a kindly face shows through the wrinkles. "I been livin' in Beaufort when de war fust (first) break out", she begins. "Mr. Robert Cally was my marsa. Dat wuz in October. De Southern soldiers come through Bluffton on a Wednesday and tell de white folks must get out de way, de Yankees right behind 'em! De summer place been at Bluffton. De plantation wuz ten miles away. After we refugee from Bluffton, we spent de fust night at Jonesville. From dere we went to Hardeeville. We got here on Saturday evening. You know we had to ride by horses--in wagons an' buggies. Dere weren't no railroads or cars den. Dat why it take so long. "Mr. Lawrence McKenzie wuz my Missus' child. We stayed wid him awhile, 'til he find us a place. Got us a little house. We stayed four years dere, 'til de war wuz over. Dey sent de young ladies on--on farther up de country, to a safer place. Dey went to Society Hill. My old Missus stay. Sae wuz a old lady. When de Yankees come she died. I wuz right dere wid her when she died. She had been sickly. After de war dey all went back to de old place. I had married up here, so when dey went back I stay on here. "I been right here when de Yankees come through. I been in my house asittin' before de fire, jes' like I is now. "One of 'em come up an' say, 'You know who I is?' "I say, 'No.' "He say, 'Well, I is come to set you free. You kin stay wid your old owners if you wants to, but dey'll pay you wages.' "But dey sure did plenty of mischief while dey wuz here. Didn't burn all de houses. Pick out de big handsome house to burn. Burn down Mr. Bill Lawton' house. Mr. Asbury Lawton had a fine house. Dey burn dat. (He Marse Tom Lawton' brother.) Burn Mr. Maner' house. Some had put a poor white woman in de house to keep de place; but it didn't make no difference. "De soldiers say, 'Dis rich house don't belong to you. We goin' to burn dis house!' "Dey'd go through de house an' take everything'. Take anythin' they could find. Take from de white, an' take from de colored, too. Take everything out de house! Dey take from my house. Take somethin' to eat. But I didn't have anythin' much in my house. Had a little pork an' a week's supply of rations. "De white folks would bury de silver. But dey couldn't always find it again. One give her silver to de colored butler to bury but he wuz kill, an' nobody else know where he bury it. It wuz after de war, an' he wuz walkin' down de road, an' Wheeler's Brigade kill him. "Been years an' years 'fore everythin' could come together again. You know after de war de Confederate money been confiscate. You could be walkin' 'long de road anytime an' pick up a ten dollar bill or a five dollar bill, but it wuzn't no good to you. After de greenback come money flourish again. "De plantation wuz down on de river. I live dere 'cept for de four years we refugee. Dat been a beautiful place--dere on de water! When de stars would come out dere over de water it wuz a beautiful sight! Sometimes some of us girls would get in a little 'paddle' an' paddle out into de river. We'd be scared to go too far out, but we'd paddle around. Sometimes my father would go out in de night an' catch de fish with a seine. He'd come back with a bushel of fish 'most anytime. Dey were nice big mullets! He'd divide 'em 'round 'mongst de colored folks. An' he'd take some up to de white folks for dere breakfast. My white folks been good white people. I never know no cruel. Dey treat me jes like one of dem. Dey say dey took me when I wuz five years old. An' I stay wid dem 'til freedom. I am 106 years old now. "Dem people on de water don't eat much meat. Twenty-five cent of bacon will last dem a week. Dey cut de meat into little pieces, an' fry dem into cracklings, den put dat into de fish stew. It surely makes de stew good. When dey kill a hog dey take it to town an' sell it, den use de money for whatever dey want. Dey don't have to cure de pork an' keep it to eat. Dey jes' eat fish. Dey have de mullets, an' de oysters, an' de crabs, an' dese little clams. Dey have oyster-stew. Dey have roast oysters, den de raw oysters. An' dey have dey fried oysters! Dat sure is good. Dey fish from de boat, dey fish from de log, an' dey fish 'long de edge of de water wid a net. When de tide go down you kin walk along an' jes pick up de crab. You could get a bucket full in no time. We'd like to go up an' down an' pick up de pretty shells. I got one here on de mantel now. It ain't sech a big one, but it's a pretty little shell. "I is always glad to talk 'bout de old times an' de old people. We is livin' in peace now, but still it's hard times. We ought to be thankful though our country ain't in war." Source: Daphney Wright, Scotia, S.C. =Project 1885-1= =Folk Lore= =District No. 4.= =May 28, 1937.= =Edited by:= =J.J. Murray.= =STORIES OF EX-SLAVES= Seated on the front steps of his house, holding a walking cane and talking to another old colored man from Georgia, who was visiting his children living there, the writer found "Uncle" Bill Young. He readily replied that he had lived in slavery days, that he was 83 years old, and he said that he and Sam were talking about old times. He was owned by Dave Jeter at Santuc, S.C.; though he was just a boy at the time his mother was a slave. He used to mind his "Missus" more than anybody else, as he stayed around the house more than anywhere else. His job, with the other boys, both white and black, was to round up the milk cows late every afternoon. The milk cows had to be brought up, milked and put up for the night; but the other cows and calves used to stay in the woods all night long. Some times they would be a mile away from the house, but the boys would not mind getting them home, for they played so much together as they slowly drove the cows in. When asked if he got plenty to eat in slavery days, he replied that he had plenty, "a heap more than I get today to eat". As a slave, he said he ate every day that the white folks ate, that he was always treated kindly, and his missus would not let anybody whip him; though he had seen other slaves tied and whipped with a bull-whip. He said he had seen the blood come from some of the slaves as they were whipped across the bare back. He said he had seen the men slaves stand perfectly naked and take a beating. He also said that he never had a whipping and that his "Missus" wouldn't let his own mother whip him. She would say, "Don't tech that boy, as he is my Nigger." She told him one day that he was free, but he stayed right on there with her and worked for wages. He got $6.00 a month, all his rations, and a place to stay. "Uncle" Bill said there was some humor at times when a slave was to be whipped. His hands and feet tied together, the slave would be laid across a rail fence, feet dangling on one side and head on the other side; then the master would give the slave a push or shove and he would fall heavily on the ground on his head. Not being able to use his feet or his hands, the slave's efforts to catch himself before he hit the ground was something funny. "That was funny to us Niggers looking at it, but not funny to the Nigger tied up so." He said some Yankee soldiers came by the house at times, but they never bothered anybody on the place. "Of-course they would take something to eat, but they never bothered anybody." After working for Dave Jeter for many years, he moved up to Jonesville, where he married. He lived in or near Jonesville for about thirty years, then he moved with his son, who was a barber, to Spartanburg, and has been here thirteen years. "I never knew anything about rent 'til I got here. I always had a house to live in, raised my own feed and got my wood off the place. So when I got to Spartanburg I learned what rent was. I just quit work two years ago when I had high blood pressure; and now I ain't able to work. Do you see that Nigger across the street, going to work somebody's garden? Well, if I didn't have high blood pressure, I'd be just as good to work as him." "Yes sir, with my peck of meal, my three pounds of meat each week and my $6.00 a month wages, I had more to eat than I gets now." SOURCE: "Uncle" Bill Young. 202 Young Street, Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg Office, Dist. 4. =Project 1885-1= =Folklore= =Spartanburg, Dist. 4= =Feb. 4, 1938= =Edited by:= =Elmer Turnage= =STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES= "March 15, 1862 is de date I allus takes when folks axes how old is you. Dat's de best, to follow one date, den no argument don't follow. "Some see'd it powerful hard in slavery, others never see'd it so bad. Dat 'pends on you a lot, den it 'pends on dem dat you stays wid. It still like dat everywhar dat I is been, but I ain't been no further dan Spartanburg gwine north, and to Lyles's Ford gwine south. "From a wee bitty baby dey teach me to serve. Befo' you serves God you is got to know how to serve man. De Bible speaks of us as servants of de Lawd. Niggers can serve him better dan white folks, kaise dat is all dey does if dey stays whar dey belongs. Young folks and chillun being raised up real biggity like dey is now, dey can't serve nothing, kaise if you can't serve your earthly father, how is you gwine to serve your Heavenly Father? "De big plantation and house whar Mr. Jimmie Jeter's sons stay is whar I first see'd earthly light. Dat place still look fine, and it look fine den, too. When I was 8 years old I started out in de field, afo' dat I did jes' what all little nigger boys did, nothing but eat and sleep and play and have a big time wid de little white boys. Lots of my playmates, both white and black, done gone on now. Some done gone to de bad place and some done gone to Heaven, jes' ain't no use talking, dat's sho nuff de truth. "War was raging all 'round Charleston and Columbia when I come in dis world so dey says, Yankees camped in half mile of Santuc. I is heard dat everybody was scared. Has even heard dat I cried when dem Yankees come, but all I knows is jes' what I heard. Folks hears lots and dey tells it, and dat's jes' what I is doing now--jes' telling what dey told me when I got big. If folks didn't never tell nothing no worse, it wouldn't make no difference, but often dey takes devilish notions and tells dat what injures, if anybody believes dem. "Aunt Phyllis Jeter 'low when dem Yankees got to Santuc, she was a weaving jes' as hard as she could for her white folks. She say dat she started to run, but dem Yankees come in de house and throw'd away her yarn and took her and tied her to a tree. When she hollered, dey whipped her. She say dat dey was drunk, but dey never burn't up nothing in de house. Dey went on singing, and she got me to playing and got up de yarn from de dirt in de yard and cleaned it. De Yankees never bothered us no mo', and dey never stayed in Santuc long. "Once when I was a big boy I got drunk and pa whipped me so hard I never got drunk no mo' till I was married, and den I jumped on my old lady for fun and she hit me wid a bed slat. Dat knocked me sober and I 'cided de best thing for me to do was let liquor go to de devil. When I was young I allus walked to Union. Dat ain't but ten miles down de railroad. Den I used to walk all over Santuc and down to Herbert in Fish Dam. Now I is drapped most all my walking. De chilluns travels fast in automobiles, but I jes' as lieve walk to Union as to ride in dem things. Wrecks kills you off so quick dat you does not have time to repent. "Walking never has hurt nobody, and I buys leather and tacks it on my own shoes, and in dat way it don't cost me nothing much. Folks goes so fast in dem automobiles, and half de time dey ain't in no hurry kaise dey ain't gwine to nothing no way. I gits on my shoe in de winter and I walks. When I wants to drap in for a chaw at some friend's house, I does. I sets dar till I gits rested and warm and I goes on. If dey eats, I does too, and when I gits to Union my chillun is done out and gone. Jes' de same, I reaches home at night befo' dem. "Dey has tales to tell about gitting out of gas, and when I axes whar dey been, dey jes' as apt to say Spartanburg as any whars. As long as dey has a quarter dey is allus gwine to ride and come home broke. If you fools wid automobiles, you is gwine to spend lots of time in jail. I ain't never been in jail and I thinks it is a disgrace. My chillun says dat I is 'old timey' and don't know nothing 'bout living. Jes' de same, I likes slow moving, and takes mine out in walking and gits home at dark or soon atter. "Dese fast ways don't bother me. Dey makes sassy chilluns. Sassy chilluns dat can't serve deir pa need not think dat dey can ride to de Promise Land in narry automobile dat dey is ever seed. Gwine round in fast circles and never gitting nowhars seems to satisfy dem, so I don't know what is gwine to become of dem." Source: Bob Young (75) Jonesville, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. 11/10/37 [Transcriber's Note: A number of punctuation errors have been corrected. Other typographical errors are as follows: Page 1: "Hariett" changed to "Harriett" (young mistress, Miss Harriett.) Page 3: "Cival" changed to "Civil" (pre-Civil and Civil War days,) Page 38: "nonegenarian" changed to "nonagenarian" (what a nonagenarian is?) Page 43: "carpetbagbers" changed to "carpetbaggers" (scalawags and carpetbaggers,) Page 45: "SC" changed to "S.C." (RIDGEWAY, S.C.,) Page 49: "On e" changed to "One" (One pick a banjo,) Page 53: "Dancers" changed to "Dances" (Dances? There was); "william" changed to "William" (young master, William) Page 56: "we" added between "us" and "we" (told us we was free); "cornshuckings" changed to "corn-shuckings" (old time corn-shuckings) Page 59: "gie" changed to "gi'e" ("He gi'e me sugar.); "pantomime" changed to "pantomime," "the" added before "way" (with pantomine, of the way pidgin) Page 62: "to-day" changed to "today" (in Russia today.) Page 66: "piscopal" changed to "'Piscopal" (he was 'Piscopal) Page 67: "thrity-two" changed to "thirty-two" (thirty or thrity-two) Page 76: "OF-EX" changed to "OF EX-SLAVES" Page 84: "quite" changed to "quiet" Page 86: "Come" changed to "Some" (Some white people); "one" changed to "One" ("One gone in) Page 89: "or" changed to "of" (the back of gallery.) Page 120: "remembers" changed to "disremembers" (I jes' disremembers,) Page 143: "be be" changed to "be" (be so many school) Page 149: "folks" changed to "forks" (Ninety-eight silver forks) Page 159: "Reovah" changed to (Rehovah Baptist Church.) Page 165: "carpet bag" changed to "carpetbag" (de carpetbag,) Page 183: "do" added after "only" (only do de) Page 187: "cornshucking" changed to "corn-shucking" (corn-shucking 'bout) Page 194: "cordality" changed to "cordiality" (with a cordiality); "dilapedated" changed to "dilapidated" (somewhat dilapidated shanty.) Page 195: "revently" changed to "reverently"; "out side" changed to "outside" (outside the same church); "necesities" changed to "necessities" (such household necessities) Page 196: "asleep" changed to "slept" Page 217: "but" changed to "buy" (wanted to buy something) Page 231: "no" added after "or" (true or no,) Page 255: "i" changed to "I" (as I was.) Page 269: "Twentyfive" changed to "Twenty-five" (Twenty-five cent of bacon) Page 270: "the the" changed to "the" (at the time his)] 
21508	----	produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress, Manuscript Division) SLAVE NARRATIVES A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT 1936-1938 ASSEMBLED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS Illustrated with Photographs WASHINGTON 1941 VOLUME XIV SOUTH CAROLINA NARRATIVES PART 2 Prepared by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress Administration for the State of South Carolina +-----------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's Note: To reflect the individual character of this | |document, inconsistencies in punctuation and formatting have been| |retained. | | | |[TN:] denotes a transcriber's note. | | | |[HW:] denotes a handwritten note. | | +-----------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * INFORMANTS Eddington, Harriet 1 Edwards, Mary 2 Elliott, Rev. John B. 3 Elmore, Emanuel 10 Emmanuel, Ryer 11, 17, 22 Eubanks, Pen 27 Evans, Lewis 30 Evans, Phillip 34 Fair, Eugenia 38 Farrow, Caroline 39, 42 Feaster, Gus 43, 48, 54 Ferguson, Ann 72 Ford, Aaron 74 Foster, Charlotte 80 Franklin, John 84 Fraser, Emma 87 Frost, Adele 88 Gadsden, Amos 91 Gallman, Janie 97 Gallman, Lucy 100 Gallman, Simon 103, 104 Gary, Laurence 106 Gause, Louisa 107 Gibson, Gracie 113 Giles, Charlie 115 Gillison, Willis 117 Gilmore, Brawley 120 Gladdeny, Pick 124 Gladney, Henry 129 Glasgow, Emoline 134 Glenn, Silas 136 Glover, John 138 Godbold, Hector 143 Goddard, Daniel 149 Godfrey, Ellen 153, 159, 161, 164 Goodwater, Thomas 166 Grant, Charlie 171 Grant, Rebecca Jane 177, 183 Graves, John (Uncle Brack) 187 Greely, Sim 190 Green, Elijah 195 Green, W. M. 200 Grey, Adeline 203 Griffin, Fannie 209 Griffin, Madison 212 Grigsby, Peggy 215 Guntharpe, Violet 216 Hamilton, John 221 Hamlin, (Hamilton) Susan 223, 226, 233 Harp, Anson 237 Harper, Thomas 240 Harris, Abe 242 Harrison, Eli 244 Harvey, Charlie Jeff 247 Hasty, Eliza 252 Haynes, Dolly 258 Henderson, Liney 261 Henry, Jim 266 Herndon, Zack 271 Heyward, Lavinia 276 Heyward, Lucretia 279 Heywood, Mariah 282 Hill, Jerry 289 Hollins, Jane 291 Holmes, Cornelius 294 Horry, Ben 298, 308, 316, 323 Hughes, Margaret 327 Hunter, Hester 331, 335, 341 ILLUSTRATIONS =Facing page= Ben Horry 298 * * * * * Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 25, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES OF EX-SLAVES "I was born in the town of Newberry, and was a servant of Major John P. Kinard. I married Sam Eddington. I was a Baker, daughter of Mike and Patience Baker. My mother was a free woman. She had her freedom before the war started; so I was not a slave. I worked on the farm with my mother when she moved back from town. Mama worked in town at hotels; then went back to the country and died. In war time and slavery time, we didn't go to school, 'cause there was no schools for the negroes. After the war was over and everything was settled, negro schools was started. We had a church after the war. I used to go to the white folks' Lutheran church and set in the gallery. On Saturday afternoons we was off, and could do anything we wanted to do, but some of the negroes had to work on Saturdays. In the country, my mother would card, spin, and weave, and I learned it. I could do lots of it." =Source:= Harriet Eddington (86), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. May 20, 1937. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 16, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in the section of Greenwood County called 'the promised land'. My parents were Henry and Julis Watkins. I married Frank Edwards when I was young. Our master, Marshall Jordon, was not so mean. He had lots o' slaves and he give 'em good quarters and plenty to eat. He had big gardens, lots of hogs and cattle and a big farm. My master had two children. "Sometimes dey hunted rabbits, squirrels, possums and doves. "De master had two overseers, but we never worked at night. We made our own clothes which we done sometimes late in evening. "We had no school, and didn't learn to read and write, not 'till freedom come when a school started there by a Yankee named Backinstore. Later, our church and Sunday school was in de yard. "We had cotton pickings, cornshuckings and big suppers. We didn't have to work on Christmas. "One of de old-time cures was boiling fever-grass and drinking de tea. Pokeberry salad was cooked, too. A cure for rheumatism was to carry a raw potato in the pocket until it dried up. "I had 11 children and 8 grandchildren. "I think Abe Lincoln was a great man. Don't know much about Jeff Davis. Booker Washington is all right. "I joined church in Flordia, the Methodist church. I was 50 years old. I joined because they had meetings and my daughter had already joined. I think all ought to join de church." =Source:= Mary Edwards (79), Greenwood, S.C. Interviewed by: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (6/10/37) Project #1655 Stiles M. Scruggs Columbia, S.C. A SON OF SLAVES CLIMBS UP. The Rev. John B. Elliott, A.B.A. A.M., D.D., 1315 Liberty Hill Avenue, Columbia, S.C., is the son of slaves. He was born at Mount Olive, N.C., in 1869, and missed being a slave by only four years. His college degrees were won at Shaw University, Raleigh, N.C., and the degree of Doctor of Divinity was conferred on him by Allen University of Columbia, S.C. Sitting on the parsonage piazza recently, the Rector of St. Anna's Episcopal Church talked about his struggle for education, and his labors up from slavery. "I was born at Mount Olive, N.C., the son of Soloman Elliott and Alice (Roberts) Elliott. They were slaves when they married, and I escaped bondage by only four years, since slaves were not freed in the South, until 1865. "My father was owned by Robert W. Williams, of Mount Olive, and he was the most highly prized Negro in the vicinity. He was a natural carpenter and builder. Often he would go to the woods and pick out trees for the job in hand. Some of the houses he built there are standing today. Mother was equally trained and well equipped to make a home and keep it neat and clean. When they were free in 1865, half the community was eager to employ them and pay them well for their services. And, when I came along, they were living in their own house and prospering. "I chose a religious career when quite a boy, and, when I was ready for college, I was much pleased. I finished at Shaw University at Raleigh, took a year's study at Columbia University in New York and then finished a religious course at the Bishop Payne Divinity School at Petersburg, Virginia, where most of the colored clergymen of the Episcopal Church are finished. After I felt that I was fairly well fitted to begin my clerical work, I chose South Carolina as my field. "My first assignment was at Waccamaw Neck, a little below Georgetown, S.C., and a big industrial center. There the Negro population is keen for wine and whiskey. One of the men whom I was interested in, was pretty tipsy when I called, and, as I sat and talked with him, he said: 'You're drunk, too.' This surprised me, and I asked him why he thought so. 'Well, you got your vest and collar on backwards, so you must be drunk!' "Since, I have had pastorates at Aiken, Peak, Rock Hill, and Walterboro. From Walterboro I came to Columbia as pastor of St. Anna's Episcopal Church and the missions of Ann's at New Brookland and St. Thomas at Eastover. I presume I have done pretty well in this field, since the Rt. Rev. Bishop Kirkman G. Finlay, D.D., appointed me arch-deacon for Negro work in upper South Carolina. "As I was coming away from the Bishop's office, I was accompanied by another colored rector, who had very short legs. I am six feet, four inches in height, and he looked up at me as we walked along and asked quizzically: 'How long should a man's legs be?' I smiled and told him I thought, perhaps, every man should have legs long enough to reach to the ground. Yes, of course, we laughed at each other, but my argument won, because Bishop Finlay is about six feet, three inches, and I told my short friend: 'When Bishop Finlay and I talk, we are able to look each other in the eye on the level.' "I married Susan McMahan, a colored school teacher, and the Lord has blessed us with a son, John B. Jr., a fine wood-worker, like his grandfather was, and two sweet daughters. Alice, the older one, is a teacher in the public schools of Columbia and Annie is a student. Our home life has always been pleasant and unusually sunny. "I had one very humorous experience three years ago when I was invited to deliver an address near Mount Olive, N.C., to a convention of young people. Arriving about 10 o'clock that day, I was met by a citizen who told me he was assigned to introduce me that evening. As we rode along, I cautioned him not to boost me too highly. He said little. "When the big, and, I may say, expectant audience was seated that night, he arose and seemed much embarrassed, ultimately saying: 'Ladies and gentlemen, I have an unpleasant duty to perform this evening.' Then, pointing at me, he went on: 'I don't know this man, much. Fact is, I only know two things about him. One is, he has never been in jail; and the other is, I never could figure why.' "No, I am not related to the late Robert Bruce Elliott by ties of consanguinity. He was successively twice a member of Congress from South Carolina, and a member and Speaker of the South Carolina House of Representatives in 1876. Perhaps these honors came to him because he had a good education before he met the opportunity for service. "When I think of the '60's-'70's period, I am surprised that recent slaves, suddenly placed in administrative positions of honor and trust, did as well as they did. "In the seventy-two years since slavery, I have noted much improvement along the road, and I am sure that our nation has far less discord now, than it had when I was a small lad. And, when one can note progress in our march toward the light, I guess that ought to be sufficient for my optimism." Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Dec. 23, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage EX-SLAVE STORIES EMANUEL ELMORE. "I was born on June 20th and I remember when the war broke out, for I was about five years old. We lived in Spartanburg County not far from old Cherokee ford. My father was Emanuel Elmore, and he lived to be about 90 years old. "My marster was called by everybody, Col. Elmore, and that is all that I can remember about his name. When he went to the war I wanted to go with him, but I was too little. He joined the Spartanburg Sharp Shooters. They had a drill ground near the Falls. My pa took me to see them drill, and they were calling him Col. Elmore then. When I got home I tried to do like him and everybody laughed at me. That is about all that I remember about the war. In those days, children did not know things like thay do now, and grown folks did not know as much either. "I used to go and watch my father work. He was a moulder in the Cherokee Iron Works, way back there when everything was done by hand. He moulded everything from knives and forks to skillets and wash pots. If you could have seen pa's hammer, you would have seen something worth looking at. It was so big that it jarred the whole earth when it struck a lick. Of course it was a forge hammer, driven by water power. They called the hammer 'Big Henry'. The butt end was as big as an ordinary telephone pole. "The water wheel had fifteen or twenty spokes in it, but when it was running it looked like it was solid. I used to like to sit and watch that old wheel. The water ran over it and the more water came over, the more power the wheel gave out. "At the Iron Works they made everything by hand that was used in a hardware store, like nails, horse shoes and rims for all kinds of wheels, like wagon and buggy wheels. There were moulds for everything no matter how large or small the thing to be made was. Pa could almost pick up the right mould in the dark, he was so used to doing it. The patterns for the pots and kettles of different sizes were all in rows, each row being a different size. In my mind I can still see them. "Hot molten iron from the vats was dipped with spoons which were handled by two men. Both spoons had long handles, with a man at each handle. The spoons would hold from four to five gallons of hot iron that poured just like water does. As quick as the men poured the hot iron in the mould, another man came along behind them and closed the mould. The large moulds had doors and the small moulds had lids. They had small pans and small spoons for little things, like nails, knives and forks, When the mould had set until cold, the piece was prized out. "Pa had a turn for making covered skillets and fire dogs. He made them so pretty that white ladies would come and give an order for a 'pair of dogs', and tell him how they wanted them to look. He would take his hammer and beat them to look just that way. "Rollers pressed out the hot iron for machines and for special lengths and things that had to be flat. Railroad ties were pressed out in these rollers. Once the man that handled the hot iron to be pressed through these rollers got fastened in them himself. He was a big man. The blood flew out of him as his bones were crushed, and he was rolled into a mass about the thickness and width of my hand. Each roller weighed about 2,000 pounds. "The man who got killed was named Alex Golightly. He taught the boys my age how to swim, fish and hunt. His death was the worst thing that had happened in the community. The man who worked at the foundry, made Alex a coffin. It had to be made long and thin because he was mashed up so bad. In those days coffins were nothing but boxes anyway, but Alex's coffin was the most terrible thing that I have ever seen. I reckon if they had had pretty coffins then like they do now, folks would have bought them to sleep in. "Hundreds went to Alex's funeral, white and black, to see that long narrow coffin and the grave which was dug to fit it. On the way to the graveyard, negroes sang songs, for Alex was a good man. They carried him to the Cherokee graveyard on the old Smith Ford Road, and there they buried him. My father helped to build the coffin and he helped haul him to the graveyard. Pa worked at the Iron Foundry until he was very old. He worked there before I was ever born. "My father was sold four times during slavery. When he was brought to Virginia he was put on the block and auctioned off for $4,000. He said that the last time he was sold he only brought $1,500. He was born in Alabama. When he was bought he was carried from Alabama to Virginia. It was Col. Elmore who took him. He wanted to go to Alabama again, so Col. Elmore let a speculator take him back and sell him. He stayed there for several years and got homesick for South Carolina. He couldn't get his marster to sell him back here, so he just refugeed back to Col. Elmore's plantation. Col. Elmore took him back and wouldn't let anybody have him. "Pa married twice, about the same time. He married Dorcas Cooper, who belonged to the Coopers at Staunton Military Academy. I was the first child born in Camden. She had sixteen children. I was brought to Spartanburg County when I was little. Both ma and pa were sold together in Alabama. The first time pa came to South Carolina he married a girl called Jenny. She never had any children. When he went to Alabama, Dorcas went with him, but Jenny stayed with Col. Elmore. Of course, pa just jumped the broom for both of them. "When pa left Alabama to refugee back, he had to leave Dorcas. They did not love their marster anyway. He put Dorcas up on the block with a red handkerchief around her head and gave her a red apple to eat. She was sold to a man whose name I have forgotten. When they herded them she got away and was months making her way back to South Carolina. Those Africans sure were strong. She said that she stayed in the woods at night. Negroes along the way would give her bread and she would kill rabbits and squirrels and cook and eat in the woods. She would get drunk and beat any one that tried to stop her from coming back. When she did get back to Col. Elmore's place, she was lanky, ragged and poor, but Col. Elmore was glad to see her and told her he was not going to let anybody take her off. Jenny had cared so well for her children while she was off, that she liked her. They lived in the same house with pa till my mother died. "Col. Elmore said that negroes who were from Virginia and had African blood could stand anything. He was kind to ma. He fed her extra and she soon got fat again. She worked hard for Col. Elmore, and she and pa sure did love him. One time a lot of the negroes in the quarter got drunk and ma got to fighting all of them. When she got sobered up she was afraid that Col Elmore was going to send her back to Alabama; so she went and hid in the woods. Pa took food to her. In about a month Col. Elmore asked where she was, and pa just looked sheepish and grinned. Col. Elmore told pa to go and bring her back, for he said he was tired of having his rations carried to the woods; so ma came home. She had stayed off three months. She never felt well anymore, and she died in about three more months. Pa and Jenny kept us till we got big and went off to ourselves. "Jenny was born and raised in South Carolina, and she was good to everybody and never fought and went on like ma did. Ma liked her and would not let anybody say anything against her. She was good to pa till he died, a real old man. Jenny never had any children. She was not old when she died, but just a settled woman. We felt worse over her death than we did over ma's, because she was so good to us and had cared for us while ma and pa were in Alabama; then she was good to us after Dorcas died and when she hid in the woods. "It seems that folks are too tender now. They can't stand much. My ma could stand more than I can. My children can't stand what I can right now." =Source:= Emanuel Elmore (77). Sycamore St., Gaffney, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. 11/16/37 Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, December 16, 1937 MOM RYER EMMANUEL EX-SLAVE, AGE 78 "Oh, my Lord, child, I ain' know nothin bout slavery time no more den we was just little kids livin dere on de white people plantation. I was just a little yearlin child den, I say. Been bout six years old in slavery time. Well, I'll say dat I bout 80 some odds, but I can' never seem to get dem odds together. I was a big little girl stayin in old Massa yard in dem days, but I wasn' big enough to do nothin in de house no time. My old Massa been Anthony Ross en he had set my age down in de Bible, but my old Missus, she dead en I know dem chillun wouldn' never know whe' to say dat Bible at dese days. Old Miss, she been name Matt Ross. I wish somebody could call up how long de slaves been freed cause den dey could call up my age fast as I could bat my eyes. Say, when de emancipation was, I been six years old, so my mammy tell me. Don' know what to say dat is, but I reckon it been since freedom." "I been born en bred right over yonder to dat big patch of oak trees bout dat house what you see after you pass de white people church cross de creek dere. De old man Anthony Ross, he been have a good mind to his colored people all de time. Yes, mam, my white folks was proud of dey niggers. Um, yes'um, when dey used to have company to de big house, Miss Ross would bring dem to de door to show dem us chillun. En my blessed, de yard would be black wid us chillun all string up dere next de door step lookin up in dey eyes. Old Missus would say, 'Ain' I got a pretty crop of little niggers comin on?' De lady, she look so please like. Den Miss Ross say, 'Do my little niggers want some bread to gnaw on?' En us chillun say, 'Yes'um, yes'um, we do.' Den she would go in de pantry en see could she find some cook bread to hand us. She had a heap of fine little niggers, too, cause de yard would be black wid all different sizes. Won' none of dem big enough to do nothin. No, mam, dey had to be over 16 year old fore old Massa would allow dem to work cause he never want to see his niggers noways stunt up while dey was havin de growin pains. Den when dey was first grow up, dey would give some of dem a house job en would send de others in de field to mind de cows en de sheep en bring dem up. Wouldn' make dem do no heavy work right to start wid. But dem what was older, dey had to work in de field. I reckon dey would be workin just bout like dey is now from sunrise in de mornin till sunset in de evenin." "Yes, honey, I been come here under a blessin cause my white folks never didn' let dey colored people suffer no time. Always when a woman would get in de house, old Massa would let her leave off work en stay dere to de house a month till she get mended in de body way. Den she would have to carry de child to de big house en get back in de field to work. Oh, dey had a old woman in de yard to de house to stay dere en mind all de plantation chillun till night come, while dey parents was workin. Dey would let de chillun go home wid dey mammy to spend de night en den she would have to march dem right back to de yard de next mornin. We didn' do nothin, but play bout de yard dere en eat what de woman feed us. Yes'um, dey would carry us dere when de women would be gwine to work. Be dere fore sunrise. Would give us three meals a day cause de old woman always give us supper fore us mammy come out de field dat evenin. Dem bigger ones, dey would give dem clabber en boil peas en collards sometimes. Would give de little babies boil pea soup en gruel en suck bottle. Yes, mam, de old woman had to mind all de yearlin chillun en de babies, too. Dat all her business was. I recollects her name, it been Lettie. Would string us little wooden bowls on de floor in a long row en us would get down dere en drink just like us was pigs. Oh, she would give us a iron spoon to taste wid, but us wouldn' never want it. Oh, my Lord, I remember just as good, when we would see dem bowls of hot ration, dis one en dat one would holler, 'dat mine, dat mine.' Us would just squat dere en blow en blow cause we wouldn' have no mind to drink it while it was hot. Den we would want it to last a long time, too. My happy, I can see myself settin dere now coolin dem vitals (victuals)." "Like I speak to you, my white folks was blessed wid a heap of black chillun, but den dere been a odd one in de crowd what wasn' noways like dem others. All de other chillun was black skin wid dis here kinky hair en she was yellow skin wid right straight hair. My Lord, old Missus been mighty proud of her black chillun, but she sho been touches bout dat yellow one. I remember, all us chillun was playin round bout de step one day whe' Miss Ross was settin en she ax dat yellow child, say, 'Who your papa?' De child never know no better en she tell her right out exactly de one her mammy had tell her was her papa. Lord, Miss Ross, she say, 'Well, get off my step. Get off en stay off dere cause you don' noways belong to me.' De poor child, she cry en she cry so hard till her mammy never know what to do. She take en grease her en black her all over wid smut, but she couldn' never trouble dat straight hair off her noway. Dat how-come dere so much different classes today, I say. Yes, mam, dat whe' dat old stain come from." "My mammy, she was de housewoman to de big house en she say dat she would always try to mind her business en she never didn' get no whippin much. Yes, mam, dey was mighty good to my mother, but dem other what never do right, dey would carry dem to de cow pen en make dem strip off dey frock bodies clean to de waist. Den dey would tie dem down to a log en paddle dem wid a board. When dey would whip de men, de boards would often times have nails in dem. Hear talk dey would wash dem wid dey blood. Dat first hide dey had, white folks would whip it off dem en den turn round en grease dem wid tallow en make dem work right on. Always would inflict de punishment at sunrise in de mornin fore dey would go to work. Den de women, dey would force dem to drop dey body frock cross de shoulders so dey could get to de naked skin en would have a strap to whip dem wid. Wouldn' never use no board on de women. Oh, dey would have de lot scatter bout full of dem what was to get whip on a mornin." "You see, de colored people couldn' never go nowhe' off de place widout dey would get a walkin ticket from dey Massa. Yes, mam, white folks would have dese pataroller walkin round all bout de country to catch dem colored people dat never had no walkin paper to show dem. En if dey would catch any of dem widout dat paper, dey back would sho catch scissors de next mornin." "Well, I don' know as de white folks would be meanin to kill any of dey niggers, but I hear talk dey would whip dem till dey would die some of de time en would bury dem in de night. Couldn' bury dem in de day cause dey wouldn' have time. When dey would be gwine to bury dem, I used to see de lights many a time en hear de people gwine along singin out yonder in dem woods just like dey was buryin buzzards. Us would set down en watch dem gwine along many a night wid dese great big torches of fire. Oh, dey would have fat lightwood torches. Dese here big hand splinters. Had to carry dem along to see how to walk en drive de wagon to haul de body. Yes, child, I been here long enough to see all dat in slavery time. All bout in dese woods, you can find plenty of dem slavery graves dis day en time. I can tell bout whe' dere one now. Yes, mam, dere one right over yonder to de brow of de hill gwine next to Mr. Claussens. Can tell dem by de head boards dere. Den some of de time, dey would just drop dem anywhe' in a hole along side de woods somewhe' cause de people dig up a skull right out dere in de woods one day en it had slavery mark on it, dey say. Right over dere cross de creek in dem big cedars, dere another slavery graveyard. People gwine by dere could often hear talk en couldn' never see nothin, so dey tell me. Hear, um--um--um, en would hear babies cryin all bout dere, too. No'um, can' hear dem much now cause dey bout to be wearin out. I tell you, I is scared every time I go along dere. Some of dem die wicked, I say." =Source:= Ryer Emmanuel, colored, age 78, Claussens, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Dec., 1937. Project 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, December 26, 1937 MOM RYER EMMANUEL EX-SLAVE, AGE 78 "Well, how you feelin dis mornin, honey? I had tell Miss Sue dat I would be keepin a eye out dat door dere en when I is see a car stop up to de house, I would try en make it up dere dis mornin. Yes, mam, Miss Sue tell me you was comin today en I promise her I would be up dere, but I ain' been feelin so much to speak bout dis mornin. Den you see, I know I gwine be obliged to run down to de woods en fetch me up some wood en kindlin fore night fall. I been 'spect to make Koota break me up some splinters, but he ain' no count worth nothin. Yes, mam, he my grandson. Cose I tries to knock bout somewhe' en let me get out in de cotton patch, I can put in a good sturdy job any day. You see, my eyes does be pretty good cause dey got on dey second glove, I say. Can see good to my age. But oh, my Lord, right in my chest here, it does thump sometimes just like a drum beatin in dere en I can' never stand to hurry en walk hard no more dese days." "No, mam, it don' bother me noways to leave dat door open. I keeps it dat way bout all de time, so as I can look out en see what gwine along de road dere. What de matter, honey, you don' loves to smell dem chitlin I got boilin dere on de stove? I hear some people say dey can' stand no chitlin scent nowhe' bout dem, but I loves dem so much dat it does make my mouth run water to think bout how me en Koota gwine enjoy dem dis evenin. No, mam, us don' never eat us heavy meal till dat sun start gwine down behind dem trees cross de creek yonder. You see, I does keep some 'tatoes roastin dere in de coals on de hearth en if us belly sets up a growlin twixt meals, us just rakes a 'tatoe out de ashes en breaks it open en makes out on dat. My God, child, I think bout how I been bless dat I ain' never been noways scornful bout eatin chitlins. Yes, mam, when I helps up dere to de house wid hog killin, Mr. Moses, he does always say for me to carry de chitlin home to make me en Koota a nice pot of stew." "I tellin you, when us been chillun comin up, people sho never live like dey do dis day en time. Oh, I can remember just as good when I used to go dat Hopewell Presbyterian Church cross de creek dere. Yes, mam, dat been de white people slavery church en dat dey slavery graveyard what settin right dere in front de church, too. Dat sho a old, old slavery time church, I say. Massa Anthony Ross would make us go dere to preachin every Sunday en dey was mighty strict bout us gwine to prayer service, too. Us would go up dem steps in dat little room, what been open out on de front piazza to de church, en set up in de gallery overhead en de white folks let down dere below us. Yes, mam, dat whe' de colored people went to church in dem days en some of dem go dere till dey die cause dat whe' dey been join de church. Some of dem does go dere often times dese days, too, when de white people axes dem to sing to dey church. I remember, when I been baptize dere, I was just a little small child. Oh, de white preacher baptized all us little niggers dere. Old Massa, he tell all his hands to carry dey chillun up dere en get dem baptized. Oh, my happy, dey been fix us up dat day. Put on us clean homespuns en long drawers, dat been hang down round us ankles like boots, en all us get a new bonnet dat day. I recollects, dey would march us right up to de front of de church en de preacher would come down to whe' we was standin wid a basin of water in one hand en a towel in de other hand. He would take one of us chillun en lay he wet hand on dey head en say, 'I baptize dee in de name of, etc.' Den dat one would have to get back en another one would step up for dey turn. De preacher, he would have a big towel to wipe his hands wid en every child's mammy would be standin right behind hind dem wid a rag to wipe de (drain) dren water out dey eyes." "Oh, my Lord, when de Yankees come through dere, I hear dem say it was de Republicans. Mr. Ross had done say dat he hear talk dat dey was comin through en he tell his niggers to hurry en hide all de plantation rations. Yes, mam, dey dig cellars under de colored people houses en bury what meat en barrels of flour dey could en dat what dey couldn' get under dere, dey hide it up in de loft. Mr. Ross say, 'Won' none of dem damn Yankees get no chance to stick dey rotten tooth in my rations.' We say, 'Ma, you got all dese rations here en we hungry.' She say, 'No, dem ration belong to boss en you chillun better never bother dem neither.' Den when Mr. Ross had see to it dat dey had fix everything safe, he take to de swamp. Dat what my mammy say cause he know dey wasn' gwine bother de womens. Lord, when dem Yankees ride up to de big house, Miss Ross been scared to open her mouth cause de man was in de swamp. No, child, dey didn' bother nothin much, but some of de rations dey get hold of. Often times, dey would come through en kill chickens en butcher a cow up en cook it right dere. Would eat all dey wanted en den when dey would go to leave, dey been call all de little plantation niggers to come dere en would give dem what was left. Oh, Lord, us was glad to get dem vitals, too. Yes, mam, all dey had left, dey would give it to de poor colored people. Us been so glad, us say dat us wish dey would come back again. Den after dey had left us plantation, dey would go some other place where dere was another crowd of little niggers en would left dem a pile of stuff, too. Old Massa, he been stay in de swamp till he hear dem Yankees been leave dere en den he come home en would keep sendin to de colored people houses to get a little bit of his rations to a time. Uncle Solomon en Sipp en Leve, dey been eat much of boss' rations dey wanted cause dey been know de Yankees was comin back through to free dem. But my mammy, she was a widow woman en old man Anthony Ross never left nothin to her house." "I tell you, honey, some of de colored people sho been speak praise to dem Yankees. I don' know how-come, but dey never know no better, I say. Dey know en dey never know. One old man been ridin one of dese stick horses en he been so glad, he say, 'Thank God! Thank God!" =Source:= Ryer Emmanuel colored, age 78, Claussens, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Marion, S.C. December, 1937. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, January 7, 1938 MOM RYER EMMANUEL EX-SLAVE, 78 YEARS "Good evenin, child. How you is? How Miss Sue gettin along over dere to Marion? I hope she satisfied, but dere ain' nowhe' can come up to restin in your own home, I say. No, Lord, people own home don' never stop to cuss dem no time. Dere Koota's mamma all de time does say, 'Ma, ain' no need in you en Booker stayin over dere by yourself. Come en live wid us.' I say, 'No, child. Father may have, sister may have, brother may have, en chillun may have, but blessed be he dat have he own.' I tell all my chillun I rather stay here under my own roof cause when I takes a notion, I can go in en bake me a little hoecake en draw me a pot of coffee en set down to eat it in satisfaction." "After you was gone de other day, I thought bout right smart to speak to you, but when I gets tired, I just get all fray up somehow. My sister, she come to see me Sunday en I had dem all laughin bout what I say dat I had tell you. My sister, she make out like she don' know nothin bout dem olden times. Her husband, he done gone en die en she out lookin round for another one. Reckon dat what ails her. I tell her, I ain' see none nowhe' dat I would be pleased to take in. But I don' care what she say, us sho been here in slavery time cause my mother didn' have but one free born child en dat one come here a corpse." "I remember, Ma used to tell we chillun bout how dey couldn' never do nothin in slavery time, but what de white folks say dey could do. I say, 'If I been big enough in dem days, I would sho a let out a fight for you.' You see, I was a little small child den en I never know no better den to speak dat way." "My mother, she was de house woman to de big house in slavery time, but she never didn' get no money for what she been do. No, mam, white folks never didn' pay de poor colored people no money in dat day en time. See, old boss would give dem everything dey had en provide a plenty somethin to eat for dem all de time. Yes'um, all de niggers used to wear dem old Dutch shoes wid de brass in de toes en de women, dey never didn' have nothin 'cept dem old coarse shoes widout no linin. Couldn' never wear dem out. Yes'um, dey always give us a changin of homespuns, so as to strip on wash day en put on a fresh one." "Den I recollects we chillun used to ax us mammy whe' us come from en she say, 'I got you out de hollow log.' Well, just like I tell you, slavery chillun had dey daddy somewhe' on de plantation. Cose dey had a daddy, but dey didn' have no daddy stayin in de house wid dem. White folks would make you take dat man whe' if you want him or no. Us chillun never didn' know who us daddy been till us mammy point him out cause all us went in Massa Anthony Ross' name. Yes, mam, all us had a different daddy, so my mammy say." "Who dat come here wid you? Lord, dat don' look like no wife. How long you is been married, honey? You ain' say so. Look like you is just bloomin, I say." "Oh, I tell you, I see a heap of things in dem days, but I ain' got my studyin cap on right now en I can' call up nothin right sharp. Us never know nothin bout us was gwine get free in dat day en time. Us was same as brutes en cows back dere cause us been force to go by what white man say all de time. Oh, dey would beat de colored people so worser till dey would run away en stay in de swamp to save dey hide. But Lord a mercy, it never do no good to run cause time dey been find you was gone, dey been set de nigger dog on you. Yes, mam, dey had some of dese high dogs dat dey call hounds en dey could sho find you out, too. Oh, dem hounds would sho get you. Don' care whe' you was hidin, dem dogs would smell you. If you been climb up a tree, de dog would trail you right to de foot of dat tree en just stand up en howl at you. Dey would stand right dere en hold you up de tree till some of de white folks been get dere en tell you to come down out de tree. Den if you never do like dey say, dey would chop de tree down en let you fall right in de dog's mouth. Would let de dog bite you en taste your blood, so dey could find de one dey was lookin for better de next time. Yes, mam, white people would let de dog gnaw you up en den dey would grease you en carry you home to de horse lot whe' dey would have a lash en a paddle to whip you wid. Oh, dey would have a swarm of black people up to de lot at sunrise on a mornin to get whip. Would make dem drop dey body frock en would band dem down to a log en would put de licks to dem. Ma was whip twice en she say dat she stay to her place after dat. I hear talk dey give some of dem 50 lashes to a whippin. Dat how it was in slavery time. Poor colored people couldn' never go bout en talk wid dey neighbors no time widout dey Massa say so. I say, 'Ma, if dey been try to beat me, I would a jump up en bite dem.' She say, 'You would get double portion den.' Just on account of dat, ain' many of dem slavery people knockin bout here now neither, I tell you. Dat first hide dey had, white folks just took it off dem. I would a rather been dead, I say. I remember, we chillun used to set down en ax Ma all bout dis en dat. Say, 'Ma, yunnah couldn' do nothin?' She say, 'No, white people had us in slavery time.' "My God a mercy, I think now de best time to live in cause I ain' gettin no beatin dese days. If I had been big enough to get whip in slavery time, I know I would been dead cause I would been obliged to fight dem back en dey would kill folks for dat in dem days. If anybody hurt me, dey got to hurt back again, I say. Cose us had us task to do in dem days, but us never didn' have to bother bout huntin no rations en clothes no time den like de people be burdened wid dese days. I tell you, what you get in dese times, you got to paw for it en paw hard, but ain' nobody else business whe' you do it or no." "Oh, de young people, dey ain' nothin dis day en time. Ain' worth a shuck no time. De old ones can beat dem out a hollow anywhe'. Ain' no chillun raise in dese days, I say. After freedom come here, I know I been hired out to white folks bout all de time en, honey, I sho been put through de crack. Lord, I had a rough time. Didn' never feel no rest. Dat how-come I ain' get all my growth, I say." =Source:= Mom Ryer Emmanuel, colored, 78 years, Claussens, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Marion, S.C. [HW: See ES XVII, MS. #14.] Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg--Dist. 4 May 18, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "White folks. I sho nuff did ride wid de 'Red Shirts' fer Marse Hampton. Dar was two other darkies what rid wid us. Dey is bof daed now. One was Jack Jones, and de t'othern I does not recollect his name. Him and Jack is both daed. Dat leave me de onliest living one what rid in de company. "I rid in de company wid Marse Jimmie Young and he was de Cap'un. He live out yonder at Sardis Church. Ev'ybody know Marse Jimmie. He ain't quite as aged yet as I bees. Mr. J.T. Sexton, he rid from up around Cross Keys, he got de 'hole in de wall' and I calls on him yit, and us talks over de olden days. Miss Bobo's husband, he rid in Marse Jimmie's company. (Mr. Preston B. Bobo) Our company camped at de ole Brick church out whar de mansion set now. It has allus been called de Lower Fairforest Baptist Church, whar de white folks still goes, 'cept de done move de church down on de new road, further from de mansion and de ole graveyard. I lows dat you knows I is speaking o' de new mansion--Mr. Emslie Nicholson's house on de forest at de Shoals. I is got memory, but I ain't got no larning; dat I is proud of, kaise I is seed folks wid larning dat never knowed nothing worth speaking about. All de way 'fru', I is done tuck and stuck to my white folks--de Democratic white folks, dat I is. "Sho was a pretty sight to see 'bout a hun'ded mens up on fine horses wid red shirts on. I still sees dem in my mind clear as day. Our red shirts fastened wid a strong band 'round de waist. Dar wasn't nar'y speck o' white to be seed no whars on 'em. Dey was raal heavy and strong. Fact, dey was made from red flannel, and I means it was sho 'nough flannel, too. I had done kept one o' mine here till times got hard and den I tuck and tore it up fer me a undershirt, here past it been two winters when it got so cold. "One night us sot up all night and kept a big fire. Next morning it was de biggest frost all over de ground; but us never got one mite cold. De good white ladies of de community made our red shirts fer us. I 'spects Marse Jimmie ken name some fer you. "I got eve'y registration ticket in my house, and I still votes allus de democratic ticket. I has longed to de Democratic club ever since de red shirt days and I has voted dat way all de time. I was jes' turn't seventeen when I jined de Red Shirts and got into de Democratic Club, and I has been in it ever since. It ain't gwine out neither. "I sho seed Hampton speak from Dr. Culp's porch. I voted fer him. At dat time, I lived on de Keenan place. Marse Jimmie Young, he de overseer fer Mr. Keenan. Mr. Charles Ray owns and lives on it now. Dat brick church straight up de road from de Keenan place; straight as a bee line. Dat whar us met most o' de time fer de Red Shirt gatherings. Our Red Shirt Club was called de 'Fairforest' club atter de Lower Fairforest white folks Baptist church. De church has allus sot on de banks o' Fairforest Creek. Atter us got organized, I used to tote our flag. I was de onliest darky dat toted it. "I is done handed you a few names: dey is all Democratic names. Lots of dem 'scapes my knowledge, it has all been so long ago. Dar was Mr. Gilmer Greer. Miss Gilmer Blankenship what lives out dar, she his niece. Mr. John Sims 'nother white man I members. Dar was lots o' companies in dis county, but I does not recall how many. "Captain Jimmie Young would allus notify when dar was to be a meeting. Us darkies dat 'longed 'ud go and tell de white mens to come to de church. Us met sometime right 'fo de 'lection and all de companies come together at de ole courthouse dat stood right whar de new one is now. "Robinson's Circus come to Union. De circus folks gib everbody a free ticket to de circus dat 'longed to de Democratic Club. Dey let all de scalawag niggers in fer registration tickets dat de Republicans had done give dem to vote fer Chamberlain. Dem niggers wanted to go to de circus wu'se dan dey wanted to do anything else. Dey never dre'mt dat dey was not a going to git to vote like de carpetbaggers, and de scalawags had done tole dem to do. Fact is, dey never much cared jes' since de got in de circus. Dem dat wanted de registration tickets back when de come out, never seed nobody to git 'em from nohows. Robinson's Circus was so big dat dey never showed it all in Union, but what dey had was out on McClure's field. It wasn't no houses dar den, and, o' course, dar wasn't no mill no whar about Union in dem days. All de tents dat was staked was staked in McClure's ole field over on 'Tosch' Branch. In dem days, dat field was de biggest territory in de clear around Union. Atter dat, all de Red Shirts met on de facade in front o' de courthouse. Mos' all de mens made a speech. Another darky sung a song like dis: 'Marse Hampton was a honest man; Mr. Chamberlain was a rogue'--Den I sung a song like dis: 'Marse Hampton et de watermelon, Mr. Chamberlain knawed de rine.' Us jest having fun den, kaise us had done 'lected Marse Hampton as de new governor of South Ca'linia." =Source:= "Uncle Pen" Eubanks, Hampton Ave. Union, S.C. (age 83) Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (5/4/37) Project #1655. W. W. Dixon, Winnsboro, S. C. LEWIS EVANS EX-SLAVE 96 YEARS Lewis Evans lives on the lands of the estate of the late C.L. Smith, about ten miles southwest of Winnsboro, S.C. The house is a two-room frame structure, with a chimney in the center. He has the house and garden lot, free of rent, for the rest of his life, by the expressed wish of Mr. Smith before his demise. The only other occupant is his wife, Nancy, who is his third wife and much younger than Lewis. She does all the work about the home. They exist from the produce of the garden, output of fowls, and the small pension Lewis receives. They raise a pig each year. This gives them their meat for the succeeding year. "Who I b'long to? Where was I born? White folks tell me I born after de stars fell, (1833), but maybe I too little to 'member de day. Just have to go by what I hear them say. Think it was 'bout 1841. All accounts is, I was born a slave of Marster John Martin, near Jenkinsville. Old Mistress, his wife, named Miss Margaret. All I can 'member 'bout them is dis: They had 'bout fifteen slaves, me 'mongst them. His daughter married a doctor, Doctor Harrison. I was sold to Maj. William Bell, who lived 'bout ten or twelve miles from old Marster. I's a good size boy then. Maj. Bell had ten families when I got dere. Put me to hoein' in de field and dat fall I picked cotton. Next year us didn't have cotton planters. I was took for one of de ones to plant de cotton seed by drappin' de seed in de drill. I had a bag 'round my neck, full of seeds, from which I'd take handfuls and sow them 'long in de row. Us had a horse-gin and screwpit, to git de cotton fit for de market in Charleston. Used four mules to gin de cotton and one mule to pack it in a bale. Had rope ties and all kinds of bagging. Seems to me I 'members seein' old flour sacks doubled for to put de cotton bales in, in de screw-press. "Us raised many cows, hogs, sheep, and goats on de Bell place. Us worked hard. Us all had one place to eat. Had two women cooks and plenty to eat, cooked in big pots and ovens. Dere was iron pegs in and up de kitchen chimneys, chain and hooks to hold pots 'bove de fire. Dat's de way to boil things, meats and things out de garden. "Whippin's? Yes sir, I got 'most skinned alive once, when I didn't bring up de cows one Sunday. Got in a fight wid one of Miss Betsie Aiken's hands and let de cows git away, was de cause of de whippin'. I was 'shamed to tell him 'bout de fight. Maj. Bell, dis time, whipped me hisself. "My white folks was psalm singers. I done drove them to de old brick church on Little River every Sabbath, as they call Sunday. Dere was Miss Margaret, his wife, Miss Sallie and Miss Maggie and de two young marsters, Tom and Hugh. De two boys and me in front and my mistress and de two girls behind. Maj. Bell, when he went, rode his saddle horse. "Who-ee! Don't talk to dis nigger 'bout patrollers. They run me many a time. You had to have a pass wid your name on it, who you b'long to, where gwine to, and de date you expected back. If they find your pass was to Mr. James' and they ketch you at Mr. Rabb's, then you got a floggin', sure and plenty. Maj. Bell was a kind master and would give us Saturday. Us would go fishin' or rabbit huntin' sometime. "Us had two doctors, Doctor Furman and Doctor Davis. White folks care for you when you sick. I didn't have no money in slavery time, didn't have no use for none. Us had no quarters, houses just here and dere on de place, 'round de spring where us got water. "My Marster went to de old war and was a major. He had brass buttons, butterflies on his shoulders, and all dat, when he come back. "De Yankees come. Fust thing they look for was money. They put a pistol right in my forehead and say: 'I got to have your money, where is it?' Dere was a gal, Caroline, who had some money; they took it away from her. They took de geese, de chickens and all dat was worth takin' off de place, stripped it. Took all de meat out de smoke-house, corn out de crib, cattle out de pasture, burnt de gin-house and cotton. When they left, they shot some cows and hogs and left them lying right dere. Dere was a awful smell round dere for weeks after. "Somethin' d'rected me, when I was free, to go work where I was born, on de Martin place. I married Mary Douglas, a good-lookin' wench. A Yankee took a fancy to her and she went off wid de Yankee. She stayed a long time, then come back, but I'd done got Preacher Rice to marry me to Louvinia then. Dis second wife was a good gal. I raised ten chillun by her, but I's outlived them all but Manuel, Clara and John. When Louvinia passed out, I got Magistrate Smith to jine me and Nancy. She's still livin'. Home sick now, can't do nothin'. "White people been good to me. I've been livin' in dis home, free of rent, given me for life by Mr. Jim Smith, 'cause I was his faithful servant twenty years. "Many times I's set up in de gallery of de old brick church on Little River. They had a special catechism for de slaves, dat asked us who made you, what He made you out of, and what He made you for? I ain't forgot de answers to dis day. "Marster Major give us Chris'mas day and a pass to visit 'bout but we sho' had to be back and repo't befo' nine o'clock dat same day. "I got my name after freedom. My pappy b'long to Mr. David R. Evans. His name was Steve; wasn't married reg'lar to my mammy. So when I went to take a name in Reconstruction, white folks give me Lewis Evans. "I b'longs to de Baptist church. Am trustin' in de Lord. He gives me a conscience and I knows when I's doin' right and when de devil is ridin' me and I's doin' wrong. I never worry over why He made one child white and one child black. He make both for His glory. I sings 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Jesus Gwine Carry Me Home.' Ain't got many more days to stay. I knows I'm gwine Home." Project #1655 W. W. Dixon, Winnsboro, S.C. PHILLIP EVANS EX-SLAVE 85 YEARS OLD. Phillip Evans, his wife, Janie, and their crippled son live together in a two-room frame house with one fireplace. The old woman has been a wet nurse for many white families in Winnsboro. Neither Phillip nor his boy can work. The wife nurses occasionally. "I was born at de General Bratton Canaan place 'bout six miles, sort of up a little, on de sunrise side of Winnsboro. I hopes you're not contrary like, to think it too much against dis old slave when I tells you de day. Well sir, dat day was de fust day of April but pray sir, don't write me down a fool 'cause I born on dat p'ticular April Fool Day, 1852. When I gits through wid you, I wants you to say if dat birthday have any 'fect on dis old man's sensibility. "My pappy was name Dick. Him was bought by General Bratton from de sale of de Evans estate. My pappy often tell mammy and us chillun, dat his pappy was ketched in Africa and fetched to America on a big ship in a iron cage, 'long wid a whole heap of other black folks, and dat he was powerful sick at de stomach de time he was on de ship. "My mammy was name Charlotte. Her say her know nothin' 'bout her daddy or where he come from. One of my brothers is de Reverend Jackson C. Evans, age 72. Richard, another brother, is 65 years old. All of us born on de Canaan Bratton place. General Bratton love dat place; so him named it proud, like de Land of Canaan. "I help to bring my brother Richard, us calls him Dick, into de world. Dat is, when mammy got in de pains, I run for de old granny on de place to come right away. Us both run all de way back. Good us did, for dat boy come right away. I 'members, to dis hour and minute, dat as soon as dat boy got here, he set de house full of noise, a-cryin' like a cat squallin'. All chillun does dat though, as soon as they come into de world. I got one sister older than me; her name Jenny Watson. Her live in a house on de Canaan place, callin' distance from where I live. Us is Methodists. A proud family, brought low by Mr. Hoover and his crowd. Had to sell our land. 'Spect us would have starved, as us too proud to beg. Thank God, Mr. Roosevelt come 'long. Him never ask whether us democrat or 'publican nor was us black or white; him just clothe our nakedness and ease de pains of hunger, and goin' further, us goin' to be took care of in our old age. Oh, how I love dat man; though they do say him got enemies. "My brother, de preacher, says dat occasioned by de fact dat de President got a big stick and a big foot, dat sometime he tromp on de gout foots of some of them rich people. Howsomever, he say dat as long as de Lord, de Son, and de Holy Ghost is wid de President, it'll be all right for us colored folks. It makes no difference 'bout who is against de President. He says us niggers down South can do nothin' but be Methodist, pray to de Lord, and shout for de President. I's goin' to try to do some of de prayin' but dis voice too feeble to do much shoutin'. "What kind of house us live in at slavery time? Nice plank house. All de houses in de quarters made dat way. Our beds was good. Us had a good marster. Our livin' houses and vittles was better and healthier than they is now. Big quarters had many families wid a big drove of chillun. Fed them from big long trays set on planks. They eat wid iron spoons, made at de blacksmith's shop. What they eat? Peas, beans, okra, Irish 'tators, mush, shorts, bread, and milk. Dere was 'bout five or six acres to de garden. Us kept fat and happy. "Who was de overseers? Mr. Wade Rawls was one and Mr. Osborne was another. There was another one but 'spect I won't name him, 'cause him had some trouble wid my Uncle Dennis. 'Pears like he insult my aunt and beat her. Uncle Dennis took it up, beat de overseer, and run off to de woods. Then when he git hungry, him come home at night for to eat sumpin'. Dis kept up 'til one day my pappy drive a wagon to town and Dennis jined him. Him was a settin' on de back of de wagon in de town and somebody point him out to a officer. They clamp him and put him in jail. After de 'vestigation they take him to de whippin' post of de town, tie his foots, make him put his hands in de stocks, pulled off his shirt, pull down his britches and whip him terrible. "No sir, Marster General Bratton didn't 'low his slaves' chillun to work. I just played 'round, help feed de stock and pigs, bring in de fruit from de orchard and sich like. "Yes sir, marster give me small coins. What I do wid de money? I buy a pretty cap, one time. Just don't 'members what I did wid it all. "Us went fishin' in de Melton Branch, wid hooks. Ketch rock rollers, perch and catfish. They eat mighty good. I like de shortnin' bread and sugar cane 'lasses best and de fust time I ever do wrong was 'bout de watermelons. "Our shoes was made on de place. They had wooden bottoms. My daddy, being de foreman, was de only slave dat was give de honor to wear boots. "Dere was just two mulattoes on de place. One was a daughter of my aunt. All de niggers was crazy 'bout her and wid de consent of my aunt, marster give her to some kinfolks in Arkansas. De other was name, Rufus. My marster was not his daddy. No use to put down dere in writing just who his pappy was. "Stealing was de main crime. De whippin's was put on de backs, and if you scowled, dat would git you a whippin' right dere and then. "Yes sir, dere is haunts, plenty of them. De devil is de daddy and they is hatched out in de swamps. My brother say they is demons of hell and has de witches of de earth for their hosses. "De neighbors 'bout was de Neils, de Rawls, de Smiths, and de Mobleys. Marse Ed Mobley was great for huntin'. Marse General Bratton was a great sheep raiser. In spite of dat, they got along; though de dogs pestered de sheep and de shotguns peppered de dogs sometimes. "My marster was a general in de Secession War. After dat, him a controller of de State. Him run old 'Buttermilk' Wallace out of Congress. Then he was a Congressman. "My mistress was Miss Bettie. Her was a DuBose. Her child, Miss Isabella, marry some big man up North and their son, Theodore, is de bishop of de high 'Piscopal Church of Mississippi. "Now I repeats de question: Does you think I's a fool just 'cause I's born on dat fust day of April, 1852? "You made me feel religious askin' all them questions. Seem like a voice of all de days dat am gone turn over me and press on de heart, and dis room 'fect me like I was in a church. If you ever pass de Canaan place I'd be mighty happy to see you again." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 16, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in old Abbeville County, S.C. about 1861; was reared in what is now Greenwood County. My father was Winston Arnold and my mother, Sophronia Lomax Arnold. They belonged to the Arnold family during slavery time. I was just a small child during the Confederate War, and don't remember anything about it. I heard my mother tell about some things though. The slaves earned no money and were just given quarters to live in and something to eat. My father was a blacksmith on master's place, and after the war, he was blacksmith for himself. I heard him tell about the patrollers. They had lots of cornshuckings and cotton pickings, but they never worked at night. "I remember the night-riders, but don't remember that they did any harm much except they got after a man once. "When any of us got sick we sent for a doctor, but old-time folks I heard about, would use herbs, tree barks, and the like of that to make teas to drink. "I married in a negro church when I was young. I married Frank Fair who came from Newberry County, S.C. After the ceremony, the neighbors gave me a nice dinner at the church. "I don't remember anything about Lincoln or Jeff Davis, but I think Booker Washington is a leading colored man and has done good. "I joined the church when I was nine years old, because my father and mother belonged, and so many young people were joining. I think everybody ought to join a church." =Source:= Eugenia Fair (76). Greenwood, S.C. Interviewed By: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (6/10/37) Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Oct. 14, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I lives in Newberry in a small three-room house which belongs to my son. He helps me some 'cause I can't work except jest a little 'round de house. "I don't know much 'bout de war times. All I know is what I told you befo'. I 'member when de war quit and freedom come. Most of de slaves had to find work where dey could. Some had to work as share-croppers, some fer wages, and later on, some rented small plots of land. Many niggers since de war moved to town and worked as day hands, such as carpenters, janitors, dray drivers and de like. "De old time folks had blacksmith shops on de farm and made most of de tools dey used. Dey had plenty to eat. We never wanted fer nothing and always lived good. I had it better den dan I does now. "In slavery when de patrollers rode up and down de roads, once a nigger boy stole out to see his gal, all dressed up to kill. De patrollers found him at his gal's house and started to take off his coat so dey could whip him; but he said, 'Please don't let my gal see under my coat, 'cause I got on a bosom and no shirt'. (The custom was to wear stiff, white bosoms held up around the neck when no shirt was on. This gave the appearance of a shirt.) "My sister-in-law and mother-in-law both come from Virginia but I don't 'member anything dey said 'bout dat country. My sister-in-law went back dere atter freedom come, but her mama died here. "Us slaves went to de white folks' church at Cross Roads, and our mistress made us go. She often would teach us to read and write at home when we would try to learn. Mistress had a nigger driver fer her carriage, and when he drove he wore a high beaver hat and a long coat. Our white folks had a big kitchen way off from de house. Dey had a big wide fireplace where dey cooked over de fire in skillets. My mistress had me to work in de house, kind of a house-girl, and she made me keep clean and put large ear rings in my ears so I would look good. When Christmas come, Marse and Mistress always give de slaves good things to eat. Dey had lots of cows, and dey give us good butter and milk, molasses, meats and other good things to eat. We always worked on week days except Saturdays, and sometimes on dat day until 12 o'clock. We always had Christmas and Easter holidays. "We had corn-shuckings and cotton-pickings. De niggers would sing: 'Job, Job, farm in a row; Job, Job, farm in a row'. Sometimes on moonlight nights we had pender pullings and when we got through we had big suppers, always wid good potatoes or pumpkin pies, de best eating ever. We made corn bread wid plenty of milk, eggs and lard, and sometimes wid sweet potatoes, de best corn bread in de world. 'Simmon bread was made wid sifted 'simmon juice cooked wid flour. "I married first time to Joe Todd, and had a big wedding what my mistress give me in her back yard. She had a big shoat killed fer de wedding dinner. My mistress den was Miss Cornelia Ervin. When I married de second time, I married in town to West Farrow, in de colored people's Baptist church, by Rev. West Rutherford, a nigger preacher, de pastor. My second husband died, too, a few years ago. "I can't 'member much 'bout old songs, but a Baptist song was: 'Down to de water, River of Jordon; Down to de water, River of Jordon; Dere my Savior was baptized.' Another version went thus: "Come along, come along, my dear loving brother, Come along and let's go home; Down into de River where my Savior was baptized.' "De present generation of niggers ain't like de ones when I come along. Dey don't work like I did. "I don't know much about 'Abramham' Lincoln, Jefferson Davis or Booker Washington. I just hear about Booker Washington, reckon he is all right. "I think slavery helped me. I did better den dan I do now. When I joined de church I was grown and married, and had two chilluns. I joined de church because I thought I ought to settle down and do better fer my family, and quit dancing and frolicing." =Source:= Caroline Farrow (N. 80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (9/16/37) Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in Newberry County. Near Chappells depot. My master, in slavery time, was John Boazman. He was a good man to his slaves. I was raised in the big-house, and helped as a servant-girl. My mistress smoked a pipe, and sometimes she would have me to get a red coal from de fire and put it in her pipe. I did dat wid tongs. I lived there a long time. I come to Newberry over 40 years ago and worked wid de white people in town. "I married twice. My first husband was Joe Todd, and after he died, I married West Farrow. He was a dray-man in town for many years. "The folks back home had fine farms, good gardens, and took pride in raising all kinds of things in the garden. They allus planted Irish potatoes the second time in one season. "They cooked in big open fireplaces, in kitchens that set away off from the house. A big spider was always used for cooking over the fireplace. "After de war, we stayed on awhile. My mistress took me to de white folks' church and made me sit in the gallery; then brought me home." =Source:= Caroline Farrow (80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (5/18/37) Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 28, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I do not knows when er whar I was born. My father was Price Feaster; mother was Lucy Richards Feaster. She belonged to Mr. Berry Richards dat lived 'tween Maybinton and Goshen Hill Township, on de 'Richards Quarter'. My sister name Harriet; brothers was Albert and Billy, and dats all de chilluns dere was in de family. My furs' recollection dat I knows was when we went to de Carlisles. I was so young dat I can't recall nothing much 'bout de Feaster plantation. Our beds was home-made and had ropes pulled tight frum one side to de other fer de slats. No sir, I doesn't know nothing 'bout no grandmaw and grandpaw. "De furs' work dat I done was drapping peas. Albert was plow-hand when I come into de world. Harriet was up big enough to plant corn and peas, too. Billy looked atter de stock and de feeding of all de animals on de farm. My furs' money was made by gathering blackberries to sell at Goshen Hill to a lady dat made wine frum dem. I bought candy wit de money; people was crazy 'bout candy den. Dat's de reason I ain't got no toofies now. "Ole lady Abbie looked out fer our rations. De mens eat on one side and de gals on t'other side de trough. We eat breakfast when de birds furs' commence singing off'n de roost. Jay birds 'ud allus call de slaves. Dey lowed: 'it's day, it's day,' and you had to git up. Dere wasn't no waiting 'bout it. De whipperwill say, 'cut de chip out de whiteoak,' you better git up to keep frum gitting a whipping. Doves say, 'who you is, who you is.' Dat's a great sign in a dove. Once people wouldn't kill doves, ole marse sho would whip you if you did. Dove was furs' thing dat bring something back to Noah when de flood done gone frum over de land. When Freedom come, birds change song. One say, 'don't know what you gwine to do now.' 'n other one low, 'take a lien, take a lien.' Niggers live fat den wid bacon sides. "Mr. Billy Thompson and Mr. Bill Harris' daddy give liens in dem days; dese big mens den. Captain Foster clothed de niggers atter Freedom. "Ole lady Abbie give us mush and milk fer breakfast. Shorts and seconds was mixed wid de mush; no grease in de morning a-tall. Twelve o'clock brung plenty cow-peas, meat, bread and water. At night us drunk milk and et bread, black bread made frum de shorts. Jes' had meat at twelve o'clock, 'course 'sharpers' 'ud eat meat when marster didn't know. Dey go out and git 'em a hog frum a drove of seventy-five er a hund'ed; dat one never be missed. "I is awful to hunt; come to Union to sell my rabbits and 'possums. Mr. Cohen dat run a brick yard, he buy some. Ole man Dunbar run'ed a market. He was ole man den. He's de beef market man; he take all de rabbits and sell 'em when I couldn't git a thing fer 'em. Ole lady living den, and when I git home she low is I got any 'loady' (something to eat). I come in wid beef and cow heads. Cow foots was de best meat. Dey throws all sech as dat away now. Dere was allus a fuss in de house iffen I never had no 'loady'. Somehow er another I was allus a family man and was lucky to git in wid mens dat help me on. Never suffered wid help frum dese kind men. Dat's de way I got along as well as I has. Ole Missus and Marse learn't me to never tell a lie, and she teached me dat's de way to git along well. I still follows dat. "Up in age, I got in wid cap'n Perram (Mr. George Perrin). He was de banker. He say 'bout me, 'what I likes 'bout Gus, he never tell a lie'. "Befo' dat, I work fer Lawyer Monroe. He had a brother named Jim and one named George, his name Bill. His sister named Miss Sally. Dar I farm fer dem and work on half'uns. De Yankees camped on his place whar Mr. Gordon Godshall now got a house. N'used to go dar mi'night ev'y night and ev'y day. Dey had a pay day de furs' and de fifteenth of de month. Dey's terrible fer 'engans' (onions) and eggs. Dey git five marbles and put dem in a ring; put up fifty cents. Furs' man knocks out de middle-man (marble) got de game. Dey's jes' sporty to dat. Never had nothing but greenbacks den. Fifteen cents and ten cents pieces and twenty-five and as high as fifty cents pieces was paper in dem times. "Dey larn't us a song: 'If I had ole Abe Lincoln all over dis world, but I know I can't whip him; but I fight him 'till I dies'. Dey low'd, 'we freeded you alls'. "Another song was: 'Salvation free fer all mankind; Salvation free fer all mankind'. I was glad er all salvation. 'Salvation free fer me'; got up dat song furs' on a moonlight night, and us sing it all night long, going from house to house. "'Motherless chilluns sees hard times; just ain't got no whar to go; goes from do' to do',' dat's de song dey got up. I doesn't know whar it come from. 'Nother one was: 'When de sun refuse to shine; Lord I wants to be in de number, when de sun refuse to shine. If I had a po' mother she gone on befo', Lord I promise her I would meet her when de saints go marching in.' Dat's what lots people is still trying to do. "We sot mud baskets fer cat fish; tie grapevines on dem and put dem in de river. We cotch some wid hooks. I went seining many times and I set nets; bought seins and made de nets. Pull up sein after a rain and have seventy-five or eighty fish; sometimes have none. Peter Mills made our cat fish stew and cooked ash-cake bread fer us to eat it wid. Water come to our necks while we seining and we git de fish while we drifting down stream. "We wear cotton clothes in hot weather, dyed wid red dirt or mulberries, or stained wid green wa'nuts--dat is de hulls. Never had much exchanging of clothes in cold weather. In dat day us haul wood eight or ten feet long. De log houses was daubed wid mud and dey was warm. Fire last all night from dat big wood and de house didn't git cold. We had heavy shoes wid wood soles; heavy cotton socks which was wore de whole year through de cold weather, but we allus go barefeeted in hot weather. Young boys thirteen to fifteen years old had de foots measured. When tracks be seed in de wa'melon patch, dey was called up, and if de measurements of dere tracks fitted de ones in de wa'melon patch, dat was de guilty nigger. I 'clar, you had to talk purty den. When I go in de wa'melon patch, I git de old missus to say fer me to go; den I could eat and nothing was said 'bout it. "Sunday clothes was died red fer de gals; boys wore de same. We made de gals' hoops out'n grape vines. Dey give us a dime, if dey had one, fer a set of hoops. "Twan't no dressing up fer marring in slavery times; just say, 'gwine to be a marriage tonight' and you see 'bout 40 or 50 folks dar to see it. If it be in wa'melon time, dey had a big feast atter de wedding. Old man preacher Tony would marry you fer nothing. De keep de wedding cake fer three weeks befo' it was eat." =Source:= Gus Feaster (97), 20, Stutz Ave., Union, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 July 7, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I ain't never give you dis information. Miss Susie and Miss Tommie Carlisle, Marse Tom's onliest daughters, died befo' de surrender. Miss Susie slipped one day wid de scissors in her hand, and when she did dem scissors tuck and stuck in one her eyes and put it plum' smack out and she never did see out'n it no mo'. Dat made it so sad, and everybody cried wid her but it never done her narry bit of good. "When dem young ladies died, I left out and run off from my ma and come to Union. Mr. Eller kept a big sto' jest as you come into town. It was jest about whar Mr. Mobley Jeter's is now. Dat's in de middle of town, but in de fur off days I is speaking about, it was de very outskirts of dis town. I is seed dis town grow, dat is what I is. Mr. Eller tuck me to be his driving boy, and dat sto' sot jest exactly whar de Chevet Charage (Chevrolet Garage) sets now. "When I been dar six years, my ma come to Union and she found me dar. Us was dat glad to lay eyes on one another dat we jest shouted fur joy and my Ma tuck and smacked me wid her lips right in de mouth. She told me dat my pa had done got shot a fixing dem old breastworks down in Charleston and dat called fur a big cry from me and her both. Mr. Eller, he went out'n de back of his sto' 'till us quit. He let me go back home to de Carlisle place wid my ma. Everything done changed and I brung my ma back to Union and kept her, kaise I was a man in full den. "Lawyer Shand tuck my ma to work fur him and I started being his coachman. He ole and he live in Columbia now. When he done dat, me and ma lived in one of his houses. He lived on what you knows as Douglas Heights and he had de biggest house dar. Dat was way befo' Captain Douglas moved from Goshen Hill. Den Captain Douglas tuck de day and built dat house you sees now aheading what dey calls Douglas Heights atter Lawyer Shand's house was to' (torn) down. De house sot right on top de hill in de middle of de street you sees. His driveway was flanked wid water oaks and it retched down to Main street. De grounds was on each side dat drive and dey retched to whar de white folks is got a school (high school) now. On de other side of dat drive his grounds hit Miss Fant's (Mrs. John Fant's property). "You could clam up Cap Douglas' stairs and git in a run-around (cupola) and see de whole town through dem glass winders. (This cupola is still on the house.) Never had none of dem things in Union afo' dat. Some years atter dat, when Col. Duncan had his house run over (remodeled) he had one of dem run-arounds put on his'n. To dis day wid all de fine fixings folks has in Union, dar ain't narry one got none of dem things and dey sho' is purty. "Let me drap back, kaise I is gone too fer along; you wants olden times. On our plantation Marse Tom had a nigger driver. He 'hoop and holler and wake us up at break of day. But befo' freedom come 'long, Marse got a bell; den dat nigger driver rung dat bell at break of day. He was a sorry nigger dat never had no quality in him a'tall, no sir-ee. "Us had to feed de mules in de dark of mornings and de black of night when craps needed working bad. Seed many as a dozen hoe-womens in de field at one time. Dey come when dey finished breakfast and de plows had got a start. "Dey used mulberry skins from fresh mulberry saplins to tie around dere waists fer belts. If your singletree chain broke, you fixed it wid mulberry skins; same wid your galluses. Mulberry is mighty strong and easy to tie anything dat break. "Marse Tom never whipped 'bout nothing much but stealing. He never let his overseer do no whipping if he knowed it. He burnt you up 'bout stealing, dat he would. "Dey never wanted us to git no larning. Edmund Carlisle, smartest nigger I is ever seed. He cut out blocks from pine bark on de pine tree and smooth it. Git white oak or hickory stick. Git a ink ball from de oak trees, and on Sadday and Sunday slip off whar de white folks wouldn't know 'bout it. He use stick fer pen and drap oak ball in water and dat be his ink atter it done stood all night. He larnt to write his name and how to make figures. Marse Jule and Bill, two of Marse Tom's boys, found out dat Edmund could write and dey wanted to whip him, but Marse Tom wouldn't let 'em. "One morning Edmund was making a big fire 'round all de pots, kaise we was butchering forty hogs. Edmund had his head under de pot a blowing up de fire dat had done tuck and died to embers. Jule and Bill seed him and dey broke and run and pushed Edmund plum' under dem pots. De embers burnt his face and de hair off'n his head. Marse Tom wo' (wore) Bill and Jule out fer it. Missus 'lowed den dat Edmund de smartest nigger on dat plantation. "We had Sadday afternoons to do our work and to wash. We had all de hollidays off and a big time Christmas and July Fourth. "Going to funerals we used all Marse's wagons. Quick as de funeral start, de preacher give out a funeral hymn. All in de procession tuck up de tune and as de wagons move along wid de mules at a slow walk, everybody sing dat hymn. When it done, another was lined out, and dat kept up 'till we reach de graveyard. Den de preacher pray and we sing some mo'. In dem days funerals was slow fer both de white and de black folks. Now dey is so fast, you is home again befo' you gits dar good. "On de way home from de funeral, de mules would perk up a little in dey walk and a faster hymn was sung on de way home. When we got home, we was in a good mood from singing de faster hymns and de funeral soon be forgot. "As a child everybody in dem days played marbles. "Ma sung some of de oldest hymns dat I is ever heard: (He sang) 'O Zion, O Zion, O Zion, wanta git home at last'. (Another) 'Is you over, Is you over, Is you over' and the bass come back, 'Yes thank God, Yes thank God, Yes thank God, I is over. How did you cross? At de ferry, at de ferry, at de ferry, Yes, thank God I is over.' If I sing dem now folks laughs at me, but ma sho' teached dem to her chilluns. "When boys and gals gits up some size dey feels dey-selves. At dat age, we went bird thrashing in de moon light. Den we sing dis vulgar song, 'I'll give you half-dollar if you come out tonight; I'll give you half-dollar if you come out tonight'. Den de gals charmed us wid honeysuckle and rose petals hid in dere bosoms. Now de gals goes to de ten cent sto' and buys cheap perfume. In dem days dey dried cheneyberries (chinaberries) and painted dem and wo' dem on a string around dere necks to charm us. "When us very little, ma say at night when she want us to go to bed and we be playing marbles, 'Better come on in de house or Raw Hide and Bloody Bones 'll git you. From den on I is seed spooks. "Our work song was, 'John Henry was a man; he worked all over dis town'. Dey still uses dat song. In slavery some holler when dey be in de field like owls; some like crows; and some like pea-fowls. Missus had de purtiest pea-fowls in de whole country. Don't see none now, but dar ain't nothing dat flies purtier. "Me and Wade Carlisle was 'possum hunting one night in de fall when de dogs bedded a 'possum in a grave. We dug down and got de 'possum. He was dat big and fat and his hair was so shiny and purty dat we 'lowed dat he de finest 'possum we had cotch dat fall. "Jest den, Wade struck de box dat de dead man was a-lying in. Jest as he did dat, a light jumped out'n dat grave right in front of us and all over Wade's shovel. Our two dogs tuck and run and holler and stick dey tails betwix dey legs like somebody a-whipping dem. Dem dogs never stopped running and howling 'till dey reached home, me and Wade right behind dem. Wade had dat 'possum in his hand. Dat light now and den jump right in front of us. "I hollered, 'Wade, fer de Lawd in Heaven sake, drap dat 'possum.' He drapped it and we run 'till we got home. Wade still had dat shovel--or was it a axe--. I jest recollects which, anyway, he still had it in his hand; and when I looked at it, it was still shining. I pinted my finger at it, kaise I was dat scared dat no words wouldn't come from my mouth. Wade throwed it in de wood pile and we run in de house wid it still shining at us. "I stayed dar all night, and I ain't never been hunting in no graveyard at night since dat; and if de good Lawd give me sense I is got now, I ain't never gwine to do it no mo'. "It ain't no good a-'sturbing dead folks. All befo' dat I is heard it gits you in bad, and now since den I knows it." =Source:= Gus Feaster (col. 97), 20 Stutz Ave., Union, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (7/1/37) Project 1885-1 From Misc. Field Notes District No. 4 May 17, 1937 Edited by: Martha Ritter FOLKLORE: NEGRO SLAVE. SLAVE TIME CUSTOMS ON THE PLANTATION OF THOMAS ANDERSON CARLISLE. "Cap', my old Master's daughter, Mrs. George Perrin (Ida Rice) and Miss Peake (Mrs. Keitt Peake) 'lows I is done pas' 84. Miss Ida was 84 when she died and I was allus mo' older dan she was, and a long ways at dat. I allus figers dat Ah is 97. Miss Agnes (Mrs. Keitt Peake) and Miss Ida was lil' gals when I driv' dem to and from school ever' day fer ole Marse. You see I had to be a big boy to drive de Marse's chilluns to school, 'specially when dey was lil' gals! I is a great deal older than Mr. Bill Harris. I met him dis mornin' wid sweet 'tater in his pocket. He 'lowed, 'Gus, you is jes' 'bout de oldes' nigger in dis county, ain't you?' I raised my hat to 'im and 'lowed, Yessir, guess I is, Cap. "Had to stay out and guard de silver and de gold jewels in de pines when my white folks hid it dar to keep de Yankees from a-gittin' it. Dey driv' de waggins in de pines and us unload de jewels and things and den dey would drive de waggins out de wood. When de waggin done got plum away us would take dry pine needles and kivver up all de waggin tracks and hoof prints after us had done raked de dirt smooth over dem. We stayed wid de silver and stuff and drink coffee and eat black crus'; dat de sweetnin' bread dat us had durin' de war. Couldn't git no sugar den. Sometime we used sassafras tea as we never had no coffee to grind. De white folks was jes' as bad off as we was. From de big house dey brung our mess of vittals after dark had done fell. "Poke salad was et in dem days to clean a feller out. Hit cum up tender every spring and when it cut deep down in sand it looked white. It's an herb. Cut it; wash it and par boil; pour off water and ball up in balls in your hand; put in frying pan of hot grease (grease from ham or strip meat) and fry. Season with black pepper and salt and eat with new spring onions. Tender white stems are better than the salad and of course earlier. Ash cake was good wid poke salad and clabber or butter milk and best of all was sweet milk! Dat not only fill up your belly, but make you fat and strong. "Sometime de darkies would eat too much and git de colic. Fer dis dey would take and chaw pine needles and it would be all over wid den. On all de plantations dar was old womens, too old to do any work and dey would take and study what to do fer de ailments of grown folks and lil' chilluns. Fer de lil' chilluns and babies dey would take and chaw up pine needles and den spit it in de lil' chilluns mouths and make dem swallow. Den when dey was a teachin' de babies to eat dey done de food de very same way. Dem old wimmens made pine rosin pills from de pine rosin what drapped from de pine trees and give de pills to de folks to take fer de back ache. Dey allus kept de pine trees gashed fer dis purpose. Den day also gashed de sweet gum fer to git gum to chaw. 'Twasn't no sech thing as chawin' gum till thirty years ago. Sweet gum, it's good fer de indigestion and fer de toofies, when it don't git yer mouth all stuck so as you can't say nothing. I 'spects dat de chief reason how come it done gone plum out o' date. I most fergot to inform you dat resin pills is still de best thing dat I knows to start your "water" off when it done stopped on ye. "It was a special day on each plantation when de Master and de o'seer give out de week's rations, like dis: Four pounds o' bacon; one peck o' meal; quart o' flour; quart o' molasses;--dey was dat black; and dey was de rations fer a whole endurin' week. Had a big choppin' block where all de meat was chopped on. In dem days every bit o' de meat was raised on de plantation from de Master's hogs. Into de grooves o' dis choppin' block would git lodged small pieces o' meat. Choppin' ax was heavy and broad. Heavy rations come out on Friday. On Sad'day come de shoulder meat fer Sunday mornin' brekfas' and de flour come on Sad'day also. Our Master give us hominy fer Sunday mornin' brekfas', kaise us had red meat wid gravy den. My Master was Marse' Tom Carlisle of Goshen Hill. He de one give us dem Sunday specials. De niggers on de other surroundin' plantations never got no sech 'sideration as I ever heard of. "Me and John minded de Missus' cows. When de red meat choppin' was done all de plantation chilluns would be dar to git what fall in de grooves o' de blocks. One day John 'lowed to me if you puts your ol' black hand on dat block 'fore I does today, I is a gwine to chop it off. I never said nary a word, but I jes' roll my eyes at him. I got dar and broke and run fer de block. I got big piece and when John come up I was eating it. I say, Nigger, you is too late and lazy fer anything. 'Bout that time he reach over fer a scrap I never seed. I push him back and reach fer hit. John took up de choppin' ax and come right down on my finger, 'fore I could git it out de way. Dat's why you see dis scar here now. Dat nigger lay my finger plum wide open, fact is dat he jes' left it a hangin'. Marse's doctor and he fix it back. Den he whip John hisself; never 'low de overseer to do it dat time. Marse Tom pretty good to us; never whip much; never 'low de overseer, Mr. Wash Evans, to whip too much neither. He would have liked to whip mo' dan he did, if de Marse would 'lowed it, but he wasn't so bad. Mr. Evans wasn't no po' white trash, but he was kinder middlin' like. De Evans is done riz high up now. "Newt and Anderson was my young marsters. Dey was 'long 'bout my own age. Dey went to school at Goshen Hill. De school was near de store, some folks called it de tradin' post in dem days. De had barrels o' liquor settin' out from de store in a long row. Sold de likker to de rich mens dat carried on at de race track near by. Folks in Goshen was all rich in dem days. Rogers Church, where de Carlisles, Jeters, Sims, Selbys, Glens, and lots of other folks went too and de slaves, was de richest country church in dis part o' de whole state, so I is often been told. Ebenezer, over in Maybinton, was de onliest church in de whole country dat tried to strive wid Rogers in de way o' finery and style. De Hendersons, Maybins, Hardys, Douglasses, Cofields, Chicks and Oxners was de big folks over dar. Both de churches was Methodist. "Every summer de carried on Camp Meetin' at Rogers. All de big Methodist preachers would come from way off den. Dey was entertained in de Carlisle big house. Missus put on de dog (as de niggers says now) den. Every thing was cleaned up jes' 'fore de meetin' like us did fer de early-spring cleanin'. Camp Meetin' come jes' after de craps was done laid by. Den all craps was done laid by befo' July de Fourth. It was unheard of fer anybody to let de Fourth come widout de craps out'n de way. Times is done changed now, Lawd. Den de fields was heavy wid corn head high and cotton up aroun' de darky's waist! Grass was all cleaned out o' de furrow's on de las' go 'round. De fields and even de terraces was put in 'apple pie' order fer de gatherin' o' de craps in de fall. "As you all knows de Fourth has allus been nigger day. Marse and Missus had good rations fer us early on de Fourth. Den us went to barbecues after de mornin' chores was done. In dem days de barbecues was usually held on de plantation o' Marse Jim Hill in Fish Dam. Dat was not fer from Goshen. Marse Jim had a purty spring dat is still all walled up wid fine rocks. De water come out'n dese rocks dat cold dat you can't hold your hand in it fer more dan a minute at de longes'. Dar is a big flat rock beyond de spring dat I 'specs kivvers more dan an acre and a half o' ground. A creek run along over dis rock, where de mules and de hosses could rest in de shade of de trees and drink all de water dat de wanted. Wild ferns growed waist high along dar den. All kinds of purty flowers and daisies was gathered by de gals. Dem was de best days dat any darky has ever seed. Never had nothing to aggravate your mind den. Plenty to eat; plenty to wear; plenty wood to burn; good house to live in; and no worry 'bout where it was a-coming from! "Old Marse he give us de rations fer de barbecues. Every master wanted his darkies to be thought well of at de barbecues by de darkies from all de other plantations. De had pigs barbecued; goats; and de Missus let de wimmen folks bake pies, cakes and custards fer de barbecue, jes' 'zactly like hit was fer de white folks barbecue deself! "Young ones carried on like young colts a-frolicin' in de pasture till dey had done got so full o' vittles dat dey could not eat another bite. Den dey roamed on off and set down somewheres to sleep in de shade o' de trees. When de sun started to going down den de old folks begin to git ready to return back to dey home plantations, fer dar was de master's stock and chickens to feed and put up fer de night, to say nothing o' de cows to milk. The master's work had to go on around de big house, kaise all de darkies had been 'lowed to have such a pleasant day. Next day being Sad'day was on dis occasion not only ration day, but de day to git ready fer de white folks' Camp Meetin' which I has already called to recollection several times. "I has to drap back to my own plantation now; kaise I guesses dat de same [TN: 'same' was crossed out in the original] thing took place on all de neighborin' places in preparation fer de white folks 'big Meetin'. But I better confine my relations to dat what I really knows. At de barbecue I seed niggers from several neighborin' plantations and I can tell you 'bout dat. But I draps now to de doings o' my own white folks. "As I has said once, de fields was in lay-by shape and de Missus done already got de house cleaned. De chilluns was put in one room to sleep and dat make more room fer de preachers and guests dat gwine to visit in de big house fer de nex' six weeks. Den de plans fer cooking had to be brung 'bout. Dey never had no ice in dem days as you well knows; but us had a dry well under our big house. It was deep and everything keep real cool down dar. Steps led down into it, and it allus be real dark down dar. De rats run aroun' down dar and de younguns skeert to go down fer anything. So us carry a lightwood not [HW: knot] fer light when us put anything in it or take anything out. Dar ain't no need fer me to tell you 'bout de well house where us kept all de milk and butter, fer it was de talk o' de country 'bout what nice fresh milk and butter de missus allus had. A hollow oak log was used fer de milk trough. Three times a day Cilla had her lil' boy run fresh cool well water all through de trough. Dat keep de milk from gwine to whey and de butter fresh and cool. In de dry well was kept de canned things and dough to set till it had done riz. When company come like dey allus did fer de camp meetings, shoalts and goats and maybe a sheep or lamb or two was kilt fer barbecue out by Cilla's cabin. Dese carcasses was kept down in de dry well over night and put over de pit early de next morning after it had done took salt. Den dar was a big box kivvered wid screen wire dat victuals was kept in in de dry well. Dese boxes was made rat proof. "Whilst de meats fer de company table was kept barbecued out in de yard, de cakes, pies, breads, and t'other fixings was done in de kitchen out in de big house yard. Baskets had ter be packed to go to camp meetin'. Tables was built up at Rogers under de big oak trees dat has all been cut down now. De tables jes' groaned and creeked and sighed wid victuals at dinner hour every day durin' de camp meetin'. "Missus fetch her finest linens and silver and glasses to out-shine dem brung by de t'other white folks o' quality. In dem days de white folks o' quality in Union most all come from Goshen Hill and Fish Dam. After de white folks done et all dey could hold den de slaves what had done come to church and to help wid de tables and de carriages would have de dinner on a smaller table over clost to de spring. Us had table cloths on our table also and us et from de kitchen china and de kitchen silver. "Young gals couldn't eat much in public, kaise it ain't stylish fer young courting gals to let on like dey has any appetite to speak of. I sees dat am a custom dat still goes amongst de wimmen folks, not to eat, so heavy. Cullud gals tried to do jes' like de young white missus would do. "After everything was done eat it would be enough to pack up and fetch back home to feed all de hungry niggers what roams roun' here in Union now. Dem was de times when everybody had 'nuff to eat and more dan dey wanted and plenty clothes to wear! "During de preaching us darkies sot in de back o' de church. Our white folks had some benches dar dat didn't nobody set on 'cept de slaves. Us wore de best clo'es dat us had. De Marse give us a coat and a hat and his sons give all de old hats and coats 'round. Us wore shirts and pants made from de looms. Us kept dem clean't and ironed jes' like de Marster and de young marsters done their'n. Den us wore a string tie, dat de white folks done let us have, to church. Dat 'bout de onliest time dat a darky was seed wid a tie. Some de oldest men even wore a cravat, dat dey had done got from de old marster. Us combed our hair on Sunday fer church. But us never bothered much wid it no other time. During slavery some o' de old men had short plaits o' hair. "De gals come out in de starch dresses fer de camp meeting. Dey took dey hair down out'n de strings fer de meeting. In dem days all de darky wimmens wore dey hair in string 'cep' when dey 'tended church or a wedding. At de camp meetings de wimmens pulled off de head rags, 'cept de mammies. On dis occasion de mammies wore linen head rags fresh laundered. Dey wore de best aprons wid long streamers ironed and starched out a hanging down dey backs. All de other darky wimmens wore de black dresses and dey got hats from some dey white lady folks; jes' as us mens got hats from our'n. Dem wimmens dat couldn't git no hats, mostly wore black bonnets. De nigger gals and winches did all de dressing up dat dey could fer de meeting and also fer de barbecue. "At night when de meeting dun busted till nex' day was when de darkies really did have dey freedom o' spirit. As de waggin be creeping along in de late hours o' moonlight and de darkies would raise a tune. Den de air soon be filled wid the sweetest tune as us rid on home and sung all de old hymns dat us loved. It was allus some big black nigger wid a deep bass voice like a frog dat ud start up de tune. Den de others mens jine in, followed up by de fine lil voices o' de gals and de cracked voices o' de old wimmens and de grannies. When us reach near de big house us soften down to a deep hum dat de missus like! Sometime she his't up de window and tell us sing 'Swing Low Sweet Cha'ot' for her and de visiting guests. Dat all us want to hear. Us open up and de niggers near de big house dat hadn't been to church would wake up and come out to de cabin door and jine in de refrain. From dat we'd swing on into all de old spirituals dat us love so well and dat us knowed how to sing. Missus often 'low dat her darkies could sing wid heaven's 'spiration (inspiration). Now and den some old mammie would fall out'n de waggin a shoutin' Glory and Hallelujah and Amen! After dat us went off to lay down fer de night. "Young Newt and Anderson was de boys what was near de age of me and John. Co'se dey went to school every day it was in session. Dey had dey own hosses and dey rid 'em to school. When dey come home dey would throw de reins to me and John and us took dem hosses and rub dem down and feed 'em. "Lots of times Newt and Anderson would tell me and John to come and git under de steps while ole Marse was eating his supper. When he git up from de table us lil' niggers would allus hear de sliding o' his chair, kaize he was sech a big fat man. Den he go into de missus room to set by de fire. Dar he would warm his feets and have his Julip. Quick as lightning me and John scamper from under de steps and break fer de big cape jasamine bushes long de front walk. Dar we hide, till Anderson and Newt come out a fetching ham biscuit in dey hands fer us. It would be so full of gravy, dat sometime de gravy would take and run plumb down to de end o' my elbow and drap off, 'fo I could git it licked offn my wrists. Dem was de best rations dat a nigger ever had. When dey had honey on de white folks table, de boys never did fail to fetch a honey biscuit wid dem. Dat was so good dat I jest take one measley lil' bite of honey and melted butter on my way to de 'quarter. I would jest taste a leetle. When I git to Mammy den me and Mammy set off to ourself's and taste it till it done all gone. Us had good times den; like I never is had befo' or since. "Soon atter dat dey sent me and John to de field to larn drapping. I had to drap peas in every other hill and John had to drap de corn in de rest. De overseer, ole man Wash Evans, come down dar to see how us was a doing. Den us got dat skeert dat us got de corn and peas mixed up. He started to hit us wid de whip dat he had hung 'round his waist. Bout dat time Marse Tom rid up. He made de overseer git out'n dem corn rows and let us 'lone. After dat us got 'long fine wid our drapping. When it come up everybody could see dem rows dat us had done got mixed up on when de overseer was dar. Marse Tom was dat good to his hands dat dey all love him all de time. But one day when ole man Evans come through de field and see dem rows he did call me and John off and whip us. Dat de most dat I ever got whipped. Marse got shed o' de overseer soon after dat. "It was just like dis. Ole man Wash Evans was a wicked man. He take 'vantage of all de slaves when he git half chance. He was great source of worriment to my Mammy, ole lady Lucy Price and 'nother 'oman, ole lady Lucy Charles. Course he 'vantage over all de darkies and fer dat reason he could sway everything his way, most all de time. But my mammy and ole lady Lucy was 'ligious wimmens. Dat didn't make no diffuns wid wicked old man Evans. One day Missus sent my mammy and de other ole lady Lucy to fetch her some blackberries by dinner. "Me and John was wid dem a pickin' and fillin' o' de big buckets from de lil' buckets when ole man Evans come riding up. He argued wid both mammy and ole lady Lucy and dey kept telling him dat de missus want her berries and dat dey was 'ligious wimmens anyhow and didn't practice no life o' sin and vile wickedness. Finally he got down off'n his hoss and pull out his whip and low if dey didn't submit to him he gwine to beat dem half to death. At [HW: that] me and John took to de woods. But we peep. My mammy and old lady Lucy start to crying and axing him not to whip dem. "Finally dey act like dey gwine to indulge in de wickedness wid dat ole man. But when he tuck off his whip and some other garments, my Mammy and ole lady Lucy grab him by his goatee and further down and hist him over in de middle of dem blackberry bushes. Wid dat dey call me and John. Us grab all de buckets and us all put out fer de 'big house' fas' as our legs could carry us. Ole man Evans jest er hollering and er cussing down in dem briars. Quick as us git to de big house us run in de kitchen. Cilla call Missus. She come and ax what ailing us and why we is so ashy looking. Well, my Mammy and ole lady Lucy tell de whole story of dey humiliations down on de creek. "Missus 'lowed dat it didn't make no diffuns if Marse was in Union, she gwinter act prompt. So she sent fer Mr. Evans and he took real long to git dar, but when he do come, Missus, she 'low--'Mr. Evans, us does not need yo' services on dis plantation no mo', Sir!' He 'low Marse aint here. Missus 'low--'I does not want to argue de point wid ye, Mr. Evans, fer yo' services has come to an end on dis plantation!' Wid dat ole man Evans go off wid his head a-hanging in shame. Us niggers went out and tole de news wid gladness shining out from our eyes, kaise us was dat glad dat we did not know what to do. "All de fields was enclosed wid a split rail fence in dem days. De hands took dey rations to de field early every morning and de wimmens slack work round eleven by de sun fer to build de fire and cook dinner. Missus 'low her niggers to git buttermilk and clabber, when de cows in full, to carry to de field fer drinking at noon, dat is twelve o'clock. All de things was fetched in waggins and de fire was built and a pot was put to bile wid greens when dey was in season. Over coals meat was baked and meal in pones was wrapped in poplar leaves to bake in de ashes. 'Taters was done de same way, both sweet 'taters and irish. Dat made a good field hand dinner. Plenty was allud had and den 'lasses was also fetched along. Working niggers does on less dese days. "Does you know dat de poplar leaves was wet afo' de meal pone was put in it? Well, it was, and when it got done de ashes was blowed off wid your breath and den de parched leaves folded back from de cooked pone. De poplar leaves give de ash cake a nice fresh sweet taste. All forks and spoons was made out'n sticks den; even dem in de big house kitchen. Bread bowls and dough trays was all made by de skilled slaves in de Marse's shop, by hands dat was skilled to sech as dat. "Young chilluns and babies was kept at home by de fire and nursed and cared fer by de ole wimmens dat couldn't do no field work. De chief one on our plantation during my 'membrance was ole aunt Abbie. She had head o' de chilluns all over de plantation when dey mamies was a working in de field. Marse Tom used to ride through de 'quarters' every day to see about ole lady Abbie and de chilluns when dey parents was at work in de fields during de working season. Ole lady Abbie had to see to it dat dey was kept warm by de fire and dat dey clothes was kept up wid while dey mammies was in de field. Dem chilluns on our plantation was well looked after. De seamstresses also kept our work clothes patched and darned, till new ones was wove fer us. "Sides dat dem chilluns was fed. Each child had a maple fork and spoon to eat wid. Lil' troughs was made fer dem to eat de milk and bread from. 'Shorts', low stools, was made fer dem to set up to de troughs to, whilst dey was eating. De other ole ladies helped wid de preparations of dey messes o' vittals. One ole woman went her rounds wid a wet rag a wiping dem chilluns dresses when dey would spill dey milk and bread. Marse Tom and sometime Missus come to see de lil' babies whilst dey was a eating. De other ole ladies 'tended to de small babies. Sometimes it was many as fifteen on de plantation at one time dat was too little to walk. "Dey mammies was not worked on our plantation till de babies was big 'nough to take a bottle. And in dem days no bottle was given no baby under a year old. De wimmins in family way was better cared for den dese young niggers now-a-days. Marse Tom never bred no slaves but he did care fer his niggers when dey married and got dey own chilluns. I has done related to you how dey fixed de medicines and things. Dem babies was washed every day if dey mammies was in de field, dat never made no diffuns, kaise it was de old ladies' jobs to see to it dat dey was. Younguns on de plantation was bathed two or three times a week. Mullein leaves and salt was biled in great big pot to put in de babies' wash water and also in de chilluns' water. Dis would keep 'em from gitting sick. Den dey was allus greased after de washing to keep de skin from busting open. Mosely dey was greased wid tallow from de mutton. Mr. Anderson took medicine and after dat he doctor all de slaves fer his paw free. "While de Yankees had everything closed up down in Charleston it was hard to git anything in dis country into de sto's. Us allus traded at de post (Goshen Hill Trading Post). If I recollects correctly it was during dis period dat Marse Tom let my Mammy go up to de post to fetch back her a bonnet. "Up dar dey took cotton and corn and anything like dat in trade dat dey could sell to de folks dat was working on de railroad bed dat was gwine through dat country (Seaboard Airline). So Mammy took a lot of cotton wid her to de post. She knowd dat it was gwine to take lots to git dat bonnet. It weren't but three and a half miles de short way to de post from our place. "I's gwine long wid her and so I had to wear some pants to go to de post as dat was big doings fer a lil' darky boy to git to go to de trading center. So aunt Abbie fotched me a pair of new pants dat was dat stiff, dat dey made me feel like I was all closed up in a jacket, atter being used to only a shirt-tail! "Well, it wasn't fur and us arriv' dar early in de day. Mammy said 'howdy' to all de darkies what dar and I look at dem from behind her skirts. I felt real curious-like all inside. But she never give me no mind whatever. She never act like she knowd dat I was pulling her dress at all. I seed so many things dat I never had seed befo', not in all my born days. Red sticks o' candy was a laying right dar fo' my eyes, jes' like de folks from de big house brung us at Christmas. It was not near Christmas den, kaise it was jest cotton picking time and I wondered how-come dey was having candy in de store fer, now-how. "Mammy look down at me and she say to de white man wid a beard, 'Marse, please sir, give me five cent worth peppermint candy.' Den when he hand her de bag she break off lil' piece and hand it to me, and wall her eyes at me and say in a low voice, 'Don' you dare git none dat red on yo' clean shirt, if you wants to git home widout gitting wo' plumb smack out.' "Den she talk about de bonnets. Finally she git one fer ten dollars worth o' cotton. Money wasn't nothing in dem times. By dis time us had done started on our return home and I was starting to feel more like I allus felt. "Nigger, what dat you is done gone and got on dat clean shirt? Didn't you hear me tell you not to git dat new shirt all red? Look dar a streaming down off'n your chin at dar red. How is I gwine to ever teach you anything, when you act jest like a nigger from some pore white trashes poor land?' "When we gits to dat branch now I's got to stop and wash dat dirty black mouth and den I can't git dat red candy off'n dat shirt. What ole lady Abbie gwine to say to ye when she see you done gone and act like you ain't never seed no quality befo'? "Atter I has done tole you all de way from home how you must act at de post den you goes and does like you is. Aint never gwine to carry you nowhars 'gin long as I lives. "Bend dat lazy, good-fer-nothing back so as I won't git you wet all de way down your belly, you hear me? Now you is looking like you belongs to Marse Tom 'gin. Gimme dat candy right now; I gwine to see to it dat you gits back home looking like somet'ing after all my worriments wid ye.' "Mammy seed dust a flying and de hoss come a-bringing Marse Tom down de road. Mammy drap everything in the dust and grab her apron to drap a curtsy. She 'low--'Git dat hat off dat head and bow your head fo' he git hear." "Howdy, Lucy, what is you and dat youngun been, anyhow?' 'Us been to git me a bonnet, Marse Tom, and it took all de ten dollars worth of cotton to fetch it back wid.' 'Yes, Lucy, money does not go far these days, since the Yankees got everything'. 'No Sir, No Sir, Marse,' and he rid on, leaving us behind in de dust." =Source:= Interview with Gus Feaster (C-97), ex-slave, living at 20 Stutz Ave., Union, S.C.; interviewer - Caldwell Sims, Union, South Carolina. Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County Approx. 388 words ANN FERGUSON EX-SLAVE 74 YEARS "Aunt Annie" sat in the sun of a fall afternoon on the steps of her house across from the Baptist Church at Estill, S.C. Her short, stout form and her kind, deeply wrinkled face beneath her white cap, were, as always, a pleasingly familiar sight. "I'se sure you'se come, Missus. I'se been jes' asittin' here awaitin' for somebody to come. I'm gittin' on in years now. Been right here for fourteen years. I was sick last night. Suffers wid high blood, yes'm. "Could I tell you 'bout de times before de war? Well ma'am, I was jes' a baby den; so I cain't to say know 'bout it for meself, but I knows what me mother told me 'bout it. "My mother was at Old Allendale when de Yankees come through. She was in de kitchen at de time. I was quite small. 'Round two years old--now how old dat make me, Miss? 74? Well, I knows I is gittin' 'long. I remember dem talkin' 'bout it all. Dey searched de house, and take out what dey want, den set de house afire. Ma, she run out den an' whoop an' holler. De lady of de house wuz dere, but de Massa had went off. De place wuz dat of Dr. Bucknor. My mother been belong to de Bucknors. After dat, dey moved to de old home place of de Bucknors down here at Robertville. Dey had two places. Dey jes' had to start farming all over again. We lived dere a good bit after freedom, ma say. My mother stay wid 'em for about three years after freedom. "Fore freedom my mother used to go to de white folks church--white and black used to worship together den. She jined at de old Cypress Creek Baptist Church at Robertville. A white preacher baptized her dere. De old church is dere at Robertville now. After freedom de colored folks had dey own churches. "Dey tell me dat in slav'ry time, some of de overseers treat 'em mighty mean. Some of 'em work 'em in de day, 'en in de night, weaving. Now some of 'em treat 'em good; but some of 'em treat 'em mean. Dey have to run away into de bay. "Do I know of anybody what sees ghosts? Yes'm, dere's a lady over dere what say she always see a ghost come and whip a woman dat asittin' on de steps. Sometime she say she goin' to report it to de police, but I ain't never seen none, 'ceptin' in my dreams. "I sure is glad you come, Missus. I been jes' awaitin' for somebody." =Source:= Ann Ferguson, ex-slave 74 years, Estill, S.C. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, September 21, 1937 AARON-FORD, EX-SLAVE "I was born bout two miles bove Lake View on Zonia Rogers place. Boys used to tell me I was born on Buck Branch. Think I was born de 12th. day of February cause I was bout 16 years old when freedom come. Another person born de same day en de same year en I might look on dey tombstone en get de date." "Miles Ford was my father en my mother, Jennie Ford, but dey didn' live on de same place. Father belonged to Alias Ford at Lake View en mother come from Timmonsville what used to be called Sparrow Swamp. Railroad run through dere change name from Sparrow Swamp to Timmonsville." "Just like I tell you, Zonia Rogers was my boss en he wasn' so bad. He whip me a few times when I did things dat I oughtened to do. Sometimes I was pesty en he whip me wid a switch, but he never whip so hard. I tell de truth, Zonia Rogers was a good man. Give his slaves good pole houses to live in up in de quarter. Never had but five slaves to start wid en dat de reason he just had two slave house in de quarter. Sometimes dey slept on de floor en den another time, some had homemade bedstead wid de framework made out of black gum." "We had meat en corn bread to eat all de time en dey gave us fried meat en rye bread en flour bread to eat every now en den. Made rye bread in time of de war, but didn' get much flour bread to eat. Massa would weigh meat out on his hand. If anybody wanted meat, he hand it to dem on his hand en say, 'Here it is.' Den some of de slaves had gardens dat dey work at 12 o'clock en at night. Never was much to catch possums, but was great hand to catch rabbits. Boss had dog name Trip dat he wouldn' have taken $200.00 for. If I had him now, I wouldn' take $200.00 for him neither cause dat dog would stay at a tree all night. See him stay dere from early in de day till dark." "Slaves wore one piece garment in de summer en used thick woolen garment in de winter. When I got large, had wrapper en little breeches to wear. Sometimes de clothes was all wool en sometimes dey was just half wool. Yes, sir, I know all bout how de cloth was made in dat day en time. Three treadle made dis here jeanes cloth dat was for de nigger clothes en white people wore four treadle cloth. Had Sunday clothes in slavery time, too, en made de shoes right dere home. Tanned de leather en made shoes called nigger brogans dat dey used in de turpentine woods. Dese here low quarters. I married in 1873. Just had common clothes when I was married." "I remember my grandfather all right. He de one told me how to catch otters. Told me how to set traps. Heard my grandfather tell bout whippin slaves for stealin. Grandfather told me not to take things dat were not mine. If a pile of corn was left at night, I was told not to bother it. In breakin corn, sometimes people would make a pile of corn in de grass en leave it en den come back en get it in de night. Grandfather told me not to never bother nothin bout people's things." "De first work dat I remember bout doin in slavery time, I hold mules for my boss. Drove wagon for Mr. Rogers. If people wanted any haulin done, he told me to help dem en collect for it. He never wouldn' ax any questions bout what I collected for de haulin. Just let me have dat money. I remember I bought cloth dat cost 12-1/2 cents a yard wid de first money I get. Den I bought a girl 10 cents worth of candy en sent it to her. Hear she stamped it in de ground wid her foot. Girl never even mentioned it to me en I ain' never bothered wid her again. Dis girl en me bout de same age." "Don' remember much bout my first Missus only dat she had a bump on her neck. Second Missus was good to me en just like I tell you, Zonia Rogers was a good man. He hired white men to plow, but he never put nobody ahead of me no time. I take dogs en slip out in de woods en hunt rabbits. White man tell on me en my boss ain' never said nothin bout dis to me yet. Never had no overseer en no driver whe' I stay." "Oh, dere was bout two or three hundred acres in de Rogers place. Slaves worked from daylight till dark in de winter time. Always be up fore day cause my boss generally called de slaves fore day. Hear him say, 'Rob, come, come. Aaron, come, come.' We didn' work hard though. Didn' work in hot sun in June, July en August cause in slavery time dey allow us to take out at 10 or 11 o'clock en go swimmin. Den we had to be back in de field bout three o'clock. Had plenty poor white neighbors bout dere en boss hire me to man like dat one time. Poor man give bout 1-1/2 hours for noon whe' I get two hours back home en I never go back de next day. Boss say, 'Why don' you go back to work?' I tell him dat fellow wouldn' give me long enough time for noon. My boss wouldn' force me to go back when I tell him dat." "I see one or two slaves whipped in slavery time, but I didn' see anybody whipped bad. If a slave on one place was accused of takin a thing on another place, dey have a trial bout it. Justice might tell dem how many licks to give him en point man to do it. I hear dat some been whipped way off till dey died, but old man Everett Nichols wouldn' never whip his slaves. He had son dat whipped some rough darkies dat he got off another place cause old man Nichols wouldn' want strange darkies to marry girls on his place. I hear way up de country dat dey whipped dem till dey died right dere." "Dey had jails in slavery time at Marion for de slaves. If dey caught slaves dat had run away, dey would put dem in jail till dey Massa sent after dem. Sometimes dey would hold dem en sell dem for debt. Dey tell me some put on stand en sold dere at Marion, but I never saw any sold. Just hear bout dat, but I remembers I saw dis. Saw six men tied together wid a chain one Saturday evenin dat was comin from Virginia en gwine to Texas." "Some people helped de slaves to read en write en some of dem didn'. Boy learnt one of my uncles to read, but didn' want him to write. People learn to spell in dem times better den dey do now. Some of de slaves could read de Bible en den others of dem could write dese pass dat dey had to get from dey Massa fore dey could go from one plantation to another. I recollects my mother's father could write a pass." "Dere wasn' no church on de plantation whe' I stay. Had preachin in Mr. Ford's yard sometimes en den another time de slaves went to white people's church at Bear Swamp. Boss tell slaves to go to meetin cause he say he pay de preacher. Dean Ears, white man, gave out speech to de slaves one day dere to Nichols. Slaves sat in gallery when dey go dere. He tell dem to obey dey Massa en Missus. Den he say, 'God got a clean kitchen to put you in. You think you gwine be free, but you ain' gwine be free long as dere an ash in Ashpole Swamp.' White folks complain bout de slaves gettin two sermons en dey get one. After dat, dey tell old slaves not to come to church till after de white folks had left. Dat never happen till after de war was over." "I sho remember when freedom come here. Remember when my boss told me I was free. My father come dere en say he wanted his boys. Boss called, 'Aaron, come here, your daddy wants you. I want you to go.' He told me not to go till de news came though. Please me, I felt like a new man." "I hate to speak what I think bout slavery. Think it a pity de slaves freed cause I know I'm worried more now den in slavery time. Dere got to be a change made. People got to turn. I belong to de Methodist Church en I think everybody ought to belong to de church. God built de church for de people en dey ought to go dere en be up en doin in de church. Dat dey duty." =Source:= Aaron Ford, Ex-Slave, Age 80-90, (No other information given by interviewer.) Personal interview by H. Grady Davis, June, 1937. Project 1885 -1- District #4 Spartanburg, S.C. May 28, 1937 FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES Six miles east of Spartanburg on R.F.D. No. 2, the writer found Aunt Charlotte Foster, a colored woman who said she was 98 years old. Her mother was Mary Johnson and her father's name was John Johnson. She is living with her oldest daughter, whose husband is John Montgomery. She stated she knew all about slavery times, that she and her mother belonged to William Beavers who had a plantation right on the main road from Spartanburg to Union, that the farm was near Big Brown Creek, but she didn't know what larger stream the creek flowed into. Her father lived on another place somewhere near Limestone. She and her mother were hands on the farm and did all kinds of hard work. She used to plow, hoe, dig and do anything the men did on the plantation. "I worked in the hot sun." Every now and then she would get a sick headache and tell her master she had it; then he would tell her to go sit down awhile and rest until it got better. She had a good master; he was a Christian if there ever was one. He had a wife that was fussy and mean. "I didn't call her Mistus, I called her Minnie." But, she quickly added, "Master was good to her, just as kind and gentle like." When asked what was the matter with the wife, she just shook her head and did not reply. Asked if she had rather live now or during slavery times, she replied that if her master was living she would be willing to go back and live with him. "Every Sunday he would call us chilluns by name, would sit down and read the Bible to us; then he would pray. If that man ain't in the Kingdom, then nobody's there." She said her master never whipped any of the slaves, but she had heard cries and groans coming from other plantations at five o'clock in the morning where the slaves were being beaten and whipped. Asked why the slaves were being beaten, she replied rather vehemently, "Just because they wanted to beat 'em; they could do it, and they did." She said she had seen the blood running down the backs of some slaves after they had been beaten. One day a girl about 16 years of age came to her house and said she'd just as leave be dead as to take the beatings her master gave her, so one day she did go into the woods and eat some poison oak. "She died, too." On one plantation she saw an old woman who used to get so many beatings that they put a frame work around her body and ran it up into a kind of steeple and placed a bell in the steeple. "Dat woman had to go around with that bell ringing all the time." "I got plenty to eat in dem days, got just what the white folks ate. One day Master killed a deer, brung it in the house, and gave me some of the meat. There was plenty of deer den, plenty of wild turkeys, and wild hogs. Master told me whenever I seed a deer to holler and he would kill it." When slaves were freed her mother moved right away to her father's place, but she said the two sons of her master would not give her mother anything to eat then. "Master was willing, but dem boys would not give us anything to live on, not even a little meal." "After the Civil War was over and the Yankee soldiers came to our place, dey just took what they wanted to eat, went into de stable and leave their poor, broken-down horses and would ride off with a good horse. They didn't hurt anybody, but just stole all they wanted." One day she said her master pointed out Abe Lincoln to her. A long line of cavalry rode down the road and presently there came Abe Lincoln riding a horse, right behind them. She didn't have much to say about Jeff Davis, except she heard the grown people talking about him. "Booker Washington? Well, he was all right trying to help the colored people and educate them. But he strutted around and didn't do much. People ought to learn to read the Bible, but if you educate people too high it make a fool out of them. They won't work when they gets an education, just learns how to get out of work, learns how to steal enough to keep alive. They are not taught how to work, how do you expect them to work when they ain't taught to work? Well, I guess I would steal too before I starved to death, but I ain't had to steal yet. No man can say he ever gave me a dollar but what I didn't earn myself. I was taught to work and I taught my chilluns to work, but this present crowd of niggers! They won't do." She stated her mother had twelve children and the log house they lived in was weatherboarded; it was much warmer in such a house during cold weather than the houses are now. "Every crack was chinked up with mud and we had lots of wood." Her mother made all their beds, and had four double beds sitting in the room. She made the ticking first and placed the straw in the mattresses. "They beat the beds you can get now. These men make half beds, den sell 'em to you, but dey ain't no good. Dey don't know how to make 'em." Aunt Charlotte said she remembered when the stars fell. "That was something awful to see. Dey just fell in every direction. Master said to wake the chilluns up and let 'em see it. Everybody thought the world was coming to an end. We went out on de front porch to look at the sight; we'd get scared and go back into de house, den come out again to see the sight. It was something awful, but I sure saw it." (Records show that the great falling of stars happened in the year 1833, so Aunt Charlotte must be older than she claims, if she saw this eventful sight. Yet she was positive she had seen the stars falling all over the heavens. She made a sweep of her arm from high to low to illustrate how they fell.) =Source:= Aunt Charlotte Foster, RFD #2, Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg, S.C. Project #1655 Stiles M. Scruggs Columbia, S.C. JOHN FRANKLIN EX-SLAVE 84 YEARS OLD. "I is the son of John Franklin and Susan Bobo Franklin. I was born August 10th, 1853 in Spartanburg County. My daddy was a slave on the plantation of Marster Henry Franklin, sometimes called Hill and my mammy was a slave on the plantation of Marster Benjamin Bobo. They was brother-in-law's and lived on a plantation joining each other. "My white marsters and their mistresses was good to us and to all their slaves. We have plenty to eat and wear, on the Bobo plantation, from the time I can remember up to the time I was 'bout eleven years old. In 1861, my marsters go away with their neighbors, to fight the damn Yankees and the plantation was left in charge of the mistresses and worked by the slaves. The slaves all raised 'bundance of rations, but pretty soon there was a scarcity 'cause they was no coffee at the store and stragglin' Yankees or what they call 'Rebel soldiers' come 'long every few days and take all they can carry. "That shortage begun in 1862, and it kept on gettin' worse all the time, and when Lincoln set all niggers free, there was such a shortage of food and clothes at our white folks houses, that we decided to move to a Dutch Fork plantation. My daddy go 'long with other niggers to fight for 'Uncle Abe' and we never see him no more. Soon after that me and mammy told our mistress goodbye, and move down to her daddy's place, 'bout ten miles from Chapin. I was ten years old that year and we raise corn, beans, 'taters and chickens for ourselves and to sell, when we could go to Columbia and sell it and buy coffee and other things that we could not raise at home. So we do pretty well for a year or two and we keep up our tradin' trips to Columbia, which 'counts for me and Ben Lyles, my cousin 'bout my age, comin' to Columbia on February 16, 1868. We sold out and stayed all night at the home of Ben's uncle. He had us do some tasks 'bout his home on Lincoln Street the next day and it was way in the day befo' we start home. We walk north on what was known then as the Winnsboro road 'til we come to Broad River road, and we take it. There was one or two farm houses north of Elmwood Street on the Winnsboro road at that time and only one house on Broad River road, the farm house of Mr. Coogler, which is still standin'. There was a big woodsland at the forks of the Winnsboro road and Broad River road. "After we walk 'long the Broad River road, what seem to us for a quarter of a mile, we see four or five old men standin' on the left side of the road wavin' a white flag. We walks out in the woods on the right side opposite and watches. Soon we see what seem lak a thousand men on hosses comin' briskly 'long. The men keep wavin' the white flag. After many had passed, one big bearded man rein up his hoss and speak with the men wavin' the white flag. They tell the soldier there am no 'Rebel soldier' in Columbia and the blue-clad army am welcome; beggin' them to treat the old folks, women and children, well. The Yankee soldier set straight and solemn on his hoss, and when the old men finish and hand him a paper, he salute and tell them, 'Your message will be laid befo' General Sherman'. "All this time the ground am shakin' from the roar of big guns 'cross the river. Ben and me run thru the woods to our footlog and see thousands still comin' into Columbia, all 'long. We get 'fraid and stayed in the woods 'til we get out of sight of the soldiers. But we ain't got far over the top of the hill 'til we come face to face with more men on hosses. One of the men, who seem to be the leader, stop his hoss and ask us boys some questions. We answer as best we can, when he grin at us and pull out some money and give us a nickel a piece. "We travel on toward Chapin and meet our mammies and many other people, some them white. They all seem scared and my mammy and Ben's mammy and us, turns up the river and camps on the hill, for the night, in the woods. We never sleep much, for it was 'most as light as day, and the smell of smoke was terrible. We could see people runnin' in certain parts of Columbia, sometimes. Next mornin' we look over the city from the bluff and only a few houses was standin' and hundreds of tumble-down chimneys and the whole town was still smokin'. "I dreams yet 'bout that awful time, but I thank God that he has permitted me to live 'long enough to see the city rebuilt and it stretching far over the area where we hid in the trees." Project #-1655 Cassels R. Tiedeman Charleston, S.C. FOLKLORE EMMA FRASER--EX-SLAVE Emma Fraser, a pathetic old character, probably on account of many hardships, and the lack of family to care for her properly, shows the wear and tear of years. She was born, in slavery, on a plantation near Beaufort, of a mother whom she scarcely remembers, and cannot recall the name of the plantation, nor the name of her mother's owner. She talks very little but is most emphatic about the time of her birth. "I born in rebel time, on de plantation down by Beaufort. My ma say I a leetle gal when dey shoot de big gun on Fort Sumter. All dem people done dead an' gone now. I aint know dey name any mo'. Wid de troublulation and bombation I hab to tend wid an' de brain all wore down, you aint blame me for not know. "I wants to go to Hebben now an' when de roll is call up dere an' I be dere, de Lord, he find a hiding place for me. I goes to chu'ch when I kin an' sing too, but ef I sing an' it doan mobe (move) me any, den dat a sin on de Holy Ghost; I be tell a lie on de Lord. No I aint sing when it doan mobe me. You mus'n ax me to do dat. "One day I see a big automobile on de street wid a old gemmun (gentleman) ob slavery time settin' in em. I goes up to em an' ax how old he t'ink I is, an' he say dat I come way, way back dere in de slavery day, an' he know what he say." =Source:= Interview with the writer Emma Fraser, 98 Coming St, Charleston, S.C. Approx. 80 years old. S-260-264-N Hattie Mobley Project 935 Richland County ADELE FROST EX-SLAVE 93 YEARS OF AGE "I was bo'n in Adams Run, South Carolina, January 21st. 1844. My father name was Robert King, an' my mother was Minder King. My father was bo'n in Adams Run but my mother came from Spring Grove, South Carolina. I had eight brothers an' sisters, Maria, Lovie, Josephine, Eliza, Victoria, Charlie an' Robert King. The other two died w'en dey was babies. Only three of us is alive now. Maria, who lives in Adams Run is 95 years old. I was brought heh at the age of twelve to be maid for Mr. Mitchell, from who' I didn't git any money but a place to stay an' a plenty of food an' clothes. My bed was the ole time four post' with pavilion hangin' over the top. "I's use to wear thin clothes in hot weather an' warm comfortable ones in the winter. On Sunday I wear a ole time bonnet, a'm hole apron, shoes an' stockin'. My Master was kind to his slaves an' his overseer was all Negroes. He had a large fa'm at Parkers' Ferry. He worked his slaves 'til twelve in the day an' the res' of the day they could do their own work. "I never gone to school in my life an' massa nor missus ever help me to read. "On the plantation was a meetin' house in which wen' used to have meetin's every Chuseday night, Wednesday night, an' Thursday night. I use to attend the white church. Doctor Jerico was de pastor. Collud people had no preacher but dey had leader. Every slave go to church on Sunday 'cause dey didn't have any work to do for Massa. My grandma use to teach the catekism an' how to sing. "Co'n shuckin' was always done in de night. Dere was also a dance. Es de distance was five miles we would walk dere, work an' dance all night an' come back early nex' mornin'. "Fun'rals was at night an' w'en ready to go to the graveyard every body would light a lightud knot as torch while every body sing. This is one of the songs wen' use to sing, 'Goin' to carry dis body To the grave-yard, Grave-yard don' you know me? To lay dis body down.' "These are some the games wen' use to play, Have a han'ful of co'n den say, "Trow kissey Wilson let him go." while the res' is to guess how many co'n is lef in his han's. We ain't had no doctor, our Missus an' one of de slave' would 'tend to the sick. The Yankees take t'ree nights to march through I was afraid of dem an' clim' into a tree. One call me down an' say, "I am your frien'". He give me a piece of money an' I wasn't 'fraid no mo. After de war I still work' as a maid for Mr. Mitchell. My husband was Dan'l Frost. We didn't have no weddin', jus' married at de jedge office. We had three chillun. I joined the church 'cause I wanted to be a christian an' I think every body should be. I move here wid my gran' daughter, bout ten year ago. Reference: Interview with (Mrs) Adele Frost who is supported by her Master's people. Project #-1655 Martha S. Pinckney Charleston, S.C. FOLKLORE AMOS GADSDEN "My name is Amos Gadsden, not Gadson, like some call it--the same old name Gadsden"--he added, with a friendly smile. "I was born at St. Philip's Street; that is where old Miss lived then. (We belonged to old Mr. Titus Bissell) I don't rightly know what year, but I was nineteen years old before the War, when the family Bible was lost; old Mistress had my birth written in the Bible. I keep my age by Mas. Henry, he died three years ago; he was 83, and I was five years older than he was, so I am 88. Oh, yes, I can remember slavery! My grandmother was a 'daily gift' to old Mistress when they were both children. Grandmother was nurse to the children; she lived over a hundred years and nursed all the children and grandchildren. She died at the Bissell's home on Rutledge Avenue years and years after slavery. Mother Ellen was laundress; she died first part of the War. My father tended the yard and was coachman. "I never got a slap from my mistress; I was treated like a white person; if my mistress talked to me to correct me, I want to cry. Sometime I slept at the foot of my mistress bed." Whatever the occasion, Amos was very proud of it, and mentioned it a second time in his story, and added--"it ain't every little boy that could say that. "We spent the summers in Charleston--winters on the plantation; Cypress Plantation which belonged to Mr. Bissell's father, Mr. Baker, was near Green Pond. The smoke house was there full of meat; the fields and the gardens were there and everybody had plenty to eat--but still there was bad people just like they are now. You can make yourself respectable, but some never do it. The bad ones had to be punished; they got a few lashes on 'um. Now they go to Court, and they go to jail--If there was a place to whip bad coons, they would be scared to behave like they do now--the jails wouldn't be so full. There was no bad treatment of our people. Some neighbors that never owned any slaves, hired negro help and ill-treated them--old mistress felt so bad about this. "I grew up with the white children in the family, but I was trained to step aside at all times for white people. My grandmother's name was Affy Calvert; she was a 'daily gift' to old Mistress; she was given to her when they were both children and trained up in her service. Old Mistress died long before her because she lived over a hundred years, and nursed all the children and grandchildren. She brought me up more than my mother; she and I never gave up the family." Amos makes a strange statement: "Old Mausa, Mr. T.L. Bissell, (voice lowered) was a =Yankee=, but he lived long before the War," with an indulgent smile, and in a lower voice, with his hand up to his mouth he continued as though communicating a dangerous confidence, "Oh, yes, Ma'am--but he was a =Yankee=!" What Amos meant will remain a family secret. "I was trained by old Tony for yard boy before the War. I looked out that no harm came to the older children, but one day they got away from me," Amos chuckled, "they went to play on the logs in the lumber yard, around what is now Halsey's Mill. The water was full of timber, open to the river, (Ashley) and the tide was running out. One of the boys got on a log, and two others on another log, and the little scamps paddled the logs out, but when they found themselves in the tide they were scared, and screamed at the top of their voices. I wasn't far off and heard them. I was scared too. I jumped into the water and swam to get a bateau; when they saw me they hushed. The tide had carried them some distance before I caught up with them--was down near Chisolm's Rice Mill. Mr. Chisolm saw it; he gave me a five dollar bill, Confederate money, for saving the children." Amos throws a new light on old history;--"Before the War come here it was down in Beaufort, on the Port Royal Road; Confederates on one side, Yankees on the other, and things happen here that belong to War. One evening, early dusk, because it was winter, I was with two white boys on the corner of Hasell street and East Bay. We stopped to watch a balloon slowly floating in the sky. I never saw anything like it before--it looked so pretty--and while we were looking a streak of fire came straight down from the balloon to Russell's Planing Mill at the foot of Hasell street,[1] right by us. In a short time the mill was on fire; nothing could put it out. One place after another caught, and big flakes of fire were bursting up and flying through the air, and falling on other buildings. (illustrating with his arms, hands, and whole body) The first church that burned was the Circular Church on Meeting Street; then Broad street and the Roman Catholic Church, and St. Andrews Hall. Yes, Ma'am, 'course I remember St. Andrews Hall, right next to the Roman Catholic Cathedral on Broad Street! That was 1861, before I went to Virginia with Dr. H. E. Bissel. That balloon went on down to Beaufort, I s'pose. Yes Ma'am, =I saw it= drop that fire on Russell's Mill. "I went to Virginia with Dr. H.E. Bissell in the Army; he was a surgeon. A camp of Negroes went ahead to prepare the roads; pioneers, they called them. I remember Capt. Colcock, (he mentioned several other officers,) Honey Hill--terrible fighting--fight and fight! had to 'platoon' it. I was behind the fighting with Dr. Bissell. I held arms and legs while he cut them off, till after a while I didn't mind it. Hard times came to the Army; only corn to eat. When the bombardment came to Charleston the family moved to Greenville; I was in Virginia with the Doctor. The railroad bridge across the Ashley River was burned to prevent the Yankees from coming into Charleston; the ferry boat 'Fannie' crossed the river to make connections with the Savannah Railroad. The 54th Massachusetts Regiment was coming down to Charleston; they destroyed railroads as they came. Sherman set fire everywhere he went--didn't do much fighting, just wanted to destroy as he went. "After Freedom, we went back to the Plantation; lived catch as catch can. The smoke house had been emptied by the Yankees, and no money. Lieutenant Duffy, at the Citadel, fell in love with me and offered me a place to work with him for money. I took it and worked for him til he left--but I didn't give up the family. I work for Mas. Titus now; haven't stopped calling Mr. Orvel Bissell 'Mas' today; I raised him but I still call him Mas. Orvel. My young Missus was the one who taught me; she kept a school for us; we took it for a play school; when I was a little boy I knew the alphabet. "We buried our valuables in sacks in holes, then put plants over the hiding places. The silver was buried by Cypress Pond; and we saved all buried valuables. "To show how Mas. Titus (Bissell) will look out for me--a man I rented from wanted to put some 'coon' in my room. I had paid him the rent, but one day I came and find my things being put out. I went right to Mas. Titus and told him. He was mad, and, excusing the words, he said, 'do you mean that damned so-and-so is putting your things out, well, we'll go there'--so we went, and the man was so scared he wanted to put the things back but Mas. Titus said: 'He sha'nt bother with any such damned person as you are. I'll find a proper place for him,' and he found me a good room on Short Street where I stayed for 8 years until the house was sold--that make I move on Elliott street where I am now. "My wife is long dead, and I have no children--this is my niece; my brother's daughter. He went from this State three years ago and we have never heard a word from him since. I take care of her. Does she do right by me? She got to! I make her!" =Source:= Amos Gadsden, 88, 20 Elliott Street, Charleston, S.C. [Footnote 1: King, William L. in "The Newspaper Press of Charleston, S.C." Lucas and Richardson (Book Press) 1882--200p--pp-120-121. Charleston Library Society. Confirms the statement that the fire of 1861 started in the Russell's Planing Mill, though no mention is made of its origin.] Project 1886 -1- District #4 Spartanburg, S.C. From Field Notes Folk-Lore May 26, 1937 FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES: Journeying on Cudd Street this morning and stopping at the "Old Ladies' Home" (an institution for negroes), the writer found two ex-slaves sitting on the porch passing the time of day with those who passed the house. They both spoke very respectfully and asked me to come in. One was seated and she asked me to have a seat by her. Her name was Janie Gallman and she said she was 84 years of age. Upon my telling her my name she stated she knew my father and grandfather and had worked for them in days gone by. "If your father or Mr. Floyd was living I wouldn't want for a thing". She was born in slavery on the plantation of Bill Keenan in Union County. The place was situated between Pacolet River and Fairforest Creek and near where Governor Gist had a plantation. Her mother and father were both owned by Bill Keenan and he was a good master. She never saw any of the slaves get a whipping and never saw any slave in chains. When she, her father, and mother were set free, she said, "My master gave my father a barrel of meal, a cow and a calf and a wagon of corn when he sot him free. He gave every one of his slaves the same. He had a big plantation, but I don't know how many acres of land there was, but it was a big place." She was married three times and her mother had 12 children, but she has never had any. Her young life was spent in playing with the children of the white overseer. They used to jump rope most of the time. Whenever the overseer left home to spend the night anywhere, his wife would send for her to spend the night with the family. The overseer was "poor white trash". She had plenty to eat in slavery days. Her father and mother had their own garden, and she did her share of eating the vegetables out of the garden. She remembered seeing plenty of wild turkeys as a child, but as for hogs and cattle, she did not remember them running wild. She had heard of conjuring, but she did not know how it was done--never saw anybody who had been conjured--yet she had seen ghosts two or three times. One night she saw a light waving up against a piece of furniture, then come towards her, then flicker about the room, but she wasn't able to see anybody holding the light. She had heard of headless men walking around, yet had never seen any. A neighbor told her a woman ghost came to her house one night, just sat on the front steps and said nothing, repeated her visits several nights in succession, but said no word as she sat on the front step. One night the neighbor's husband asked the ghost what did she want, why she sat on the steps and said nothing. The ghost then spoke and told him to follow her. He followed her and she led him to the basement of the house and told him to dig in the corner. He did and pretty soon he unearthed a jar of money. The woman ghost told him to take just a certain amount and to give the rest to a certain person. The ghost told the man if he didn't give the money to the person she named, she would come back and tear him apart. He very obediently took the small amount of the money and gave the balance where the ghost directed, and he never saw the woman sitting on his steps any more. Another time she heard footsteps approaching a certain house in the yard, but she could never see anybody walking, though she could distinctly hear the gravel crunching as the ghost walked along. "God is the only one who can do any conjuring. I don't believe anybody else can." =Source:= Aunt Janie Gallman, 391 Cudd St, Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg, S.C. Project 1885 -1- Spartanburg, S.C. May 31, 1937 District #4 Edited by: Martha Ritter FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was born in Edgefield County, S.C. (now called Saluda County) in 1857. My father and mother was Bill and Mary Kinard who was slaves of John Kinard. The year I was born, I allus heard say, there was a big fire near Columbia, S. C. It started in the woods near the river, spread over all parts there and the people, womens with new-born infants, had to leave in a hurry, going back from the fire and crossing the river, to Edgefield County. I 'member there was a big fire in Prosperity back in about 1875. "I was a girl in slavery, worked in the fields from the time I could work at all, and was whipped if I didn't work. I worked hard. I was born on John Bedenbaugh's place; I was put up on the block and sold when a girl, but I cried and held tight to my mistress's dress, who felt sorry for me and took me back with her. She was Mrs. Sarah Bedenbaugh, as fine a woman as ever lived. "Marse Bedenbaugh had a 5-horse farm, and about 20 slaves. We didn't have time to teach them to read and write; never went to church--never went to any school. After the war some started a nigger school and a brush-arbor church for niggers. "When the Yankees went through their soldiers stole everthing, all horses and supplies. The soldiers stopped at places, and like the soldiers who come home foot-sore, they was lousy and dirty. Our soldiers come with canteen shoes [TN: 'and' was crossed out in the original] and old blankets swung on their backs and shoulders. The people would send wagons out to meet them and bring them in, some of them could hardly walk. The Yankee soldiers would take our rations at our gates and eat them up. They would blow bugles at we children and beat drums. Our old Missus would take victuals to them. "The paterollers down there where we lived was Geo. Harris, Lamb Crew, Jim Jones, and Theo. Merchant. They bothered us lots. On the first day of the month, some was put up on the whipping block and whipped with an oak paddle with holes in it to make blisters; then de blisters were cut open with cowhide whips. "When freedom come, all slaves went to some place to get work. My father give me six cuts a day to work in the house to spin the yarn. My mistress used to have me pick up de sheckles for her when she was making a homespun dress. In the winter time we had homespuns, too, but sometimes had flannel underwear. I helped at the corn mill, too, always went there and tote a half bushel corn many days. The mill belonged to Capt. McNary. I worked hard, plowed, cut wheat, split cord wood, and other work just like a man. "When any niggers died they had funerals like they do now, 'cept the pallbearers den would sing. They carried the bodies in wagons, and the preacher would say words while they was going to the grave. "When the soldiers was here, I 'member how they would sing: "I'm all de way from Georgia, I'm all the way to fight, I left my good old mother, To come here to fight." "Joe Bowers, Joe Bowers, He had another wife, He's all de way from Missouri, To come here to fight." "I didn't like slavery. I'd rather live like now. "I thought Abraham Lincoln was a big man, a fine man. I thought Jeff Davis was all right. I don't know nothing about Booker Washington." =Source:= Lucy Gallman (80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, 1707 Lindsey St, Newberry, S.C. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 24, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born about 1857, and belonged to Marse George Gallman who lived in the Dutch Fork, on de old road to Pomaria, S.C. There was not a better man to his slaves. When the Ku Klux went through, they never hurt anybody at our place. The Padder-rollers never did harm any of Marse George's slaves--he would not allow it. "After the war when I married, I moved to Newberry, but first, I moved to the Jalapa section and lived there ten years. "I allus 'member the old wheat mill dat old Captain Ellerson had in Dutch Fork, on Cannons Creek. All the neighbors would take their wheat there to grind." =Source:= Simon Gallman (80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G. L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (5/18/37). Project 1885-1 Folklore Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Oct. 25, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage EX-SLAVES STORIES "I live in de house wid my grandniece and her husband. It is a two-room house which dey rent; and dey take care of me. I am old, weak and in bed much of de time. I can't work any, now. My grandniece had to give up her job so she could stay home and take care of me. Dat makes it hard fer us. "I don't remember much about de war nor de Ku Klux 'cept what I done tole you befo'. Dey never bothered us. My master would not let 'em bother us. He was George Gallman and he had a big farm and lots of slaves. Just atter freedom come he made a coffin shop in back of his house in a little one-room shack. He made coffins fer people about de country. It got to be han'ted, and sometimes niggers could see ghosts around dere at night, so dey say, I never saw none, myself. "Master George and his mistress was good to de niggers. Dey always give dem plenty to eat. I had it good, and never bothered about nothing den. De slaves never learn't to read and write; but dey went to de whitefolks' church. Dey had to go, and set in de back or in de gallery. "When freedom come, de slaves hired out mostly as share-croppers. A little later, some got small farms to rent. Since dat time dey have worked at most anything dey could get to do. De ones dat moved to town worked at odd jobs, some at carpenter work, janitor work or street work; but most of dem worked in fields around town. "I married Hattie Eckles. When she died I went to Jalapa and lived ten years dere; den atter I got too old to work, I come to town and lived wid my kin. "I was about twelve years old when dey made me go to de field to work. Befo' dat and after dat, too, I worked around de barn and took care of de stock. "As fer eats, we had plenty. We had good collards, turnips and other good vegetables. De master has his own hogs, too, and we had plenty meat to eat. "Christmas was a big day fer us. We never worked dat day. We had good dinner, and could do what we wanted to do. We never had to work in de fields on Saturday. We would do washing or go hunting or something else. "All I know about slavery being all right, is dat I had a good time, better dan now. Abraham Lincoln was a good man. I don't know nothing agin' him. Never heard anything about Jefferson Davis. I think Booker Washington is a good man. He do good fer de niggers in giving dem education. "I joined de church when I was young because others was joining. I think everybody ought to belong to de church." =Source:= Simon Gallman (80), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (9/3/37) Project 1885 District #4 Spartanburg, S.C. June 1, 1937 Edited by: Martha Ritter FOLKLORE: EX-SLAVES "I was born in 1861, at Gary's Lane, in Newberry County, S.C. My father and mother and me were slaves of Dr. John Gary who lived in a big fine house there. They had lots of slaves, and a large plantation. After freedom come he told them they could go where they wanted to, but they stayed on with Doc Gary. He was a good master; he never allowed any paderollers around his place; he always give the slave a pass when he went off. When de Ku Klux went up and down the road on horses, all covered with white sheets, old Doc wouldn't allow them on his place. "We was allowed to hunt, and we hunted rabbits, 'possums, a few foxes in the neighborhood, partridges, squirrels, and doves. "We went to school after freedom come; we had a school for niggers and had a church for niggers, too. "Doc Gary had a big piano in his house, and most everybody else had a fiddle or Jews harp. He had a wide fireplace in his kitchen where he cooked over it, in skillets. "I think Abe Lincoln was a fine man and Jeff Davis was all right. Booker Washington is a smart fellow." =Source:= Laurence Gary (76), Newberry, S.C. (Helena) Interviewer: G. Leland Summer, 1707 Lindsey St, Newberry, S.C. Code No. Project 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, December 2, 1937 No. ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- LOUISA GAUSE Ex-Slave, Age 70-75 "I been born down yonder to old man Wash (Washington) Woodberry's plantation. Pa Cudjo, he been keep my age in de Bible en he tell me dat I come here de first year of freedom. Monday Woodberry was my grandfather en Celina Woodberry, my grandmother. I tell you, I is seen a day, since I come here. My mammy, she been drown right down dere in de Pee Dee river, fore I get big enough to make motion en talk what I know. Dat how-come it be dat Pa Cudjo raise me. You see, Pa Cudjo, he been work down to de swamp a heap of de time en been run boat en rafter up en down dat river all bout dere. Ma, she get word, one day, she better come cross de river to de Sand Hills to see bout grandmammy cause she been took down wid de fever en was bad off. Pa Cudjo tell her de river been mighty high, but dat he would risk to take us. Say, Ma, she get in de boat wid Pa Cudjo en take me in her lap en dey start cross de river. De wind, it begin gettin higher en higher en de boat, it go dis way en den it go de other way. Cose I never recollect nothin bout dat day cause I won' nothin, so to speak, but a sucklin child den. But I hear Pa Cudjo speak bout de water wash rougher en rougher en knock side dat boat just like it been comin out de ocean. Say, fore he think bout he in trouble, de wind just snatch he hat right out in de water en when he reach out after it, he hear Ma holler en de next thing he know, us all been throwed right out in de water. Yes, mam, de boat turned over en dumped us all out in dat big old crazy river. Pa Cudjo say, if he ain' never had no mind to pray fore den, he know, when he see dat boat gwine down dat stream, dere won' nothin' left to do, but to pray. Pa Cudjo tell dat he make for de bank fast as he could get dere cause he know de devil been in de river dat day en he never know whe' he might go. I reckon you hear talk bout, Pa Cudjo, he been a cussin man. Never had no mind what he was gwine let loose no time. But poor Ma, she been a buxom woman, so dey tell me, en when she hit de bottom of dat river, she never didn' come to de top no more. Like I tell you, I never been long come here den en I ain' been fast gwine under de water cause dere won' no heaviness nowhe' bout me. Pa Cudjo say, he pray en he cuss en when he look up, he see a boat makin up de river wid two men in it en me lyin dere 'tween dem. You see, dey had come along en pick me up bout a mile from dere floatin down de river. Now, I tellin you what come out of Pa Cudjo mouth. Pa Cudjo say, when he see me, he been so happy, he pray en he cuss. Say, he thank de Lord for savin me en he thank de devil for lettin me loose. Yes, mam, I tell you, I been raise up a motherless child right dere wid Pa Cudjo en I been take de storm many a day. I say, if you is determine to go through wid a thing, God knows, you can make it. Cose Pa Cudjo, he been mighty good to me, but he used to have dem cussin spells, my Lord. Been love to keep up fun all de time." "Oh, de colored people never had no liberty, not one speck, in slavery time. Old man Wash Woodberry, he was rough wid his niggers, but dem what lived on Miss Susan Stevenson's plantation, dey been fare good all de time. I know what I talk bout cause I been marry Cato Gause en he tell me dey been live swell to Miss Susan's plantation. Dat whe' he been born en raise up. Hear Pa Cudjo talk bout dat Miss Harriet Woodberry whip my mother one day en she run away en went down in Woodberry en stayed a long time. Say, some of de Woodberry niggers stayed down dere till after freedom come here. Yes, mam, white folks would whip dey colored people right dere, if dey didn' do what dey tell dem to do. Oh, dey was awful in dat day en time. Colored people had to live under a whip massa en couldn' do nothin, but what he say do. Yes, mam, dey had dese head men, what dey call overseers, on all de plantations dat been set out to whip de niggers. I tell you, it was rough en tough in dem days. Dey would beat you bout to death. My grandfather en my grandmother, dey die wid scars on dem dat de white folks put dere." "Oh, my Lord, dey would give de colored people dey allowance to last dem a week to a time, but dey never didn' give dem nothin widout dey work to get it en dat been dey portion. I remember, I hear Cato tell bout Mr. Bobbie say, "Mom Dicey, dey tell me dey catch Bacchus stealin Pa's watermelons out de field de other night." (Bacchus was Mom Dicey's son). Grandmother Dicey say, "Oh, he never take nothin but dem little rotten end ones." Den Mr. Bobbie say, "Well, dey tell me, dey catch Bacchus stealin de horse's corn out de feed trough de other night." En grandmother Dicey say, "Well, if he did, he never take nothin, but what been belong to him." Dat it, some white folks was better to dey colored people den others would be. Would give dem so much of meal en meat en molasses to last dem a week en dey would feed all de nigger chillun to de big house 'tween meals. Have cook woman to give dem all de milk en clabber dey wanted dere to de white people yard." "De overseer, he would give you a task to do en you had to do it, too, if you never been want your neck broke. Yes, mam, de overseer would stock you down en whip you wid a buggy whip. Some of de time, when de colored people wouldn' do what dey been put to do, dey would hide in de woods en stay dere till de overseer come after dem. Oh, dey would find dem wid de nigger dog. When de overseer would find out dey had run away, he would send de nigger dog to hunt dem. My God, child, dem dogs would sho find you. Some of de time, dey would run you up a tree en another time, dey would catch you whe' dere won' no tree to go up en grab you en gnaw you up. Yes, mam, de overseer would hear you hollerin or else he would hear de dog barkin at you up de tree. Dem nigger dogs, I know you is see dem kind of dogs. Dey is high, funny lookin dogs. Don' look like no other kind of dog. When dey would find de one dey was huntin, dey would just stand right dere en look up in de tree en howl." "De colored people never had no church dey own in slavery time cause dey went to de white people church. Yes, mam, I been dere to de Old Neck Church many a day. In dat day en time, when de preacher would stand up to preach, he would talk to de white folks en de colored people right dere together. But when de colored people would get converted in dem days, dey never been allowed to praise de Lord wid dey mouth. Had to pray in dey sleeve in dem days. De old man Pa Cudjo, he got right one day to de big house en he had to pray wid he head in de pot." "No, mam, de colored people never didn' have no liberty no time in dem days. Cose dey had dey little crop of corn en 'tatoe en thing like dat bout dey house, what dey would work at night, but dat won' nothin to speak bout. Oh, dey would put fire in a fry pan en fetch it up on a stump to see to work by." "No, child, white people never teach colored people nothin, but to be good to dey Massa en Mittie. What learnin dey would get in dem days, dey been get it at night. Taught demselves." "Now, Pa Cudjo, if he been here, my Lord, I couldn' never say what he might could tell you. Like I say, he been a cussin man en he die wid a bright mind. Cose I never come here what dey call a slavery child, but I been hear slavery people speak dey mind plenty times." =Source:= Louisa Gause, colored, age 70-75; Brittons Neck, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis. Project #1665 W.W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. GRACIE GIBSON EX-SLAVE 86 YEARS OLD. "I was born at Palatka, Florida. I was a slave of Captain John Kinsler. Wish all white men was just like him, and all white women like Miss Maggie Dickerson, de lady that looks after me now. "Captain John wouldn't sell his niggers and part de members of de family. He fetched us all, Daddy George, Mammy Martha, Gran'dad Jesse, Gran'mammy Nancy, and my two brothers, Flanders and Henry, from Florida to Richland County, South Carolina, along wid de rest. "My mistress was named Mary. Marster John had a daughter named Adelaide, but they call her Ada. I was called up on one of her birthdays, and Marster Bob sorta looked out of de corner of his eyes, first at me and then at Miss Ada, then he make a little speech. He took my hand, put it in Miss Ada's hand, and Say: 'Dis your birthday present, darlin'.' I make a curtsy and Miss Ada's eyes twinkle like a star and she take me in her room and took on powerful over me. "We lived in a two-room log house daubed wid mud and it had a wood and mud chimney to de gable end of one room. De floor was hewed logs laid side by side close together. Us had all we needed to eat. "De soap was made in a hopper for de slaves. How dat you ask? A barrel was histed on a stand 'bove de ground a piece; wheat straw was then put into de barrel, hickory ashes was then emptied in, then water, and then it set 'bout ten days or more. Then old fats and old grease, meat skins, and rancid grease, was put in. After a while de lye was drained out, put in a pot, and boiled wid grease. Dis was lye-soap, good to wash wid. "Slaves had own garden. Some of de old women, and women bearin' chillun not yet born, did cardin' wid hand-cards; then some would get at de spinnin' wheel and spin thread, three cuts make a hank. Other women weave cloth and every woman had to learn to make clothes for the family, and they had to knit coarse socks and stockin's. Mighty nigh all de chillun had a little teency bag of asafetida, on a string 'round they necks, to keep off diseases. "Us slaves had 'stitions and grieve if a black cat run befo' us, or see de new moon thru de tree tops, and when we start somewhere and turn back, us sho' made a cross-mark and spit in it befo' we commence walkin' again. "I 'member Wheeler's men come to our house first, befo' de Yankees. They took things just like de Yankees did dat come later. Marster John was a Captain, off fightin' for Confeds but dat didn't stop Wheeler's men from takin' things they wanted, no sir! They took what they wanted. Wasn't long after then dat the Yankees come and took all they could and burnt what they couldn't carry off wid them. "After de war I marry Abe Smith and had two chillun by him, Clifton and Hattie. De boy died and Hattie marry a man named Lee. She now lives at White Oak. "My husband die, I marry Sam Gibson, and had a nice trousseau dat time. Blue over-skirt over tunic, petticoats wid tattin' at de borders, red stockin's and gaiter shoes. I had a bustle and a wire hoop and wore a veil over my hair." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 31, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was Capt. Jack's body-guard in during de whole entire war. I means Capt. Jack Giles, his own self. And I is pushing close to a hundred. Dey used to make likker in de holler down on Dr. Bates' place deep in de forest. De soldiers would drink by de barrels. Mr. Will Bates, Dr. Bates' son, helped me out of skimage one time. "Don't never go in no war, 'less you is gwine to give orders like my marse Jack. Dat is, onless you is gwine to act as body-guard. Time of de war, old man Sammy Harmon had a state still. He never sold no likker to no private. De bluecoats, dey blockade Charleston and Savannah. Miss Janie couldn't get no spices fer her cakes, neither could she get no linen and other fine cloth fer her 'dornment. Couldn't nothing get by dat blockade. So Mr. Sammy, he make de likker by de barrels. Dem dat had wagins come and fotch it off, as many barrels as de mules could draw, fer de soldiers. I drunk much as I wanted. De drum taps say, 'tram lam-lam, following on de air. De sperrits lift me into a dance, like dis, (he danced some) 'cept I was light on my foots den--atter I had done drunk, anyhow. "De sharp-shooters got atter me one day. Mr. Dewey, one of de rangers, sent fer de cannon balls. Dese run de bluecoats. "I went to Petersburg wid Capt. Douglas, dat Miss Janie's second husband. Our train went dat fast, dat it took my breaf away. But de cars goes much faster, gwine to Patter-a-rac now. "All de picket-men had dogs. Lots of de soldiers had niggers wid dem. At night in de camp when de Yankees would come spying around, de dogs would bark. De niggers would holler. One Confederate officer had a speckledy dog that could smell dem Yankees far off. When de Yankees got dare, everything was ready. When us want information fer direction and time, all us had to do was to look up through de pines fer it. "One song I remembers is, 'would like to catch-a feller looking like me'. Another was, 'I feel as happy as a big sun-flower.' (Charlie can sing them both, and dance accompaniment.) "At Petersburg, April 1863, de Yankees act like dey was gwine to blow everything up. I crawl along de ground wid my Marster, and try to keep him kivered as best as I could. Us reached Chica-hominy River and go over to Petersburg. Den dey blow up Richmond. De river turn to blood while I was looking at it. De cannons deafened me and I has been hard of hearing ever since. Some de blue tails clumb de trees when us got atter dem. "Next time I'se gwine to tell you about deserters and refugees. Ain't nobody got no business in automobiles 'cept lawyers, doctors, and fools." =Source:= Charlie Giles, Rt. 3, Box 274, Union, S.C. Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. 2/8/37. Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County Folklore WILLIS GILLISON Luray, S.C. There is no doubt that "Uncle Gillison" is old. He is knock-kneed and walks slowly. His long thin hands clutch his chair strongly for support as he continually shifts his position. When he brings his hands to the back of his head, as he frequently does, in conversation, they tremble as with palsy. He enjoys talking of the old times as do many of his contemporaries. "Yes, Maam," he starts off. "I been heah when de war was on. I seen when de drove of people come up. Dey was dress in blue clothes. Call dem Yankees. Had de Scouts, too. But dey was de Southerners. I knowed all dem! I wasn't nuthin' but a little boy but I kin remember it. "Mr. Jesse Smith wife been my young Missus. Dey lived at Furman. My mother mind Mr. Trowell's father. His name was Mr. Ben Trowell. I call him, Bub Ben. Bub was for brother. Dat de way we call folks den--didn't call 'em by dere names straight out. Mr. Trowell's mother we call, Muss, for Miss. Sort of a nickname. We call Mr. Harry Fitts grandmother, Muss, too. "My daddy was name Aleck Trowell. After freedom he was call by his own name, Aleck Gillison. After freedom some was call by dere own name--some were, and some weren't. My father was sold from a Gillison, first off. "How old I is? Well, Missus, I been put on de road to 75 years, but I'm more than dat. I'm between seventy and eighty years old. "I knows Mr. Tom Lawton. Dey was rich people. My old Massa and him been boys together. Dey was a place call de Trowell Mill Pond right at de Lawton place. Mr. Lawton was sure rich, 'cause we all had a plenty--plenty to eat, and sech likes--Mr. Lawton was rich! When Mr. Trowell got up a little higher than what he was, he trade his Lena place for a place at Stafford. De Stafford place was some better. "Yes Maam, de records was burn. Dey had a courthouse at Gillisonville in dem times. Dat fact 'bout it Miss. Now I don't want you to say a nigger 'spute your word, or nuthin' like that, (this, in response to the visitor having remarked that the records were burned at Beaufort) but I don't think that Beaufort was built up till after the war. Gillisonville was right muchly built up. I don't think de records was burn at Beaufort. I think it was at de courthouse at Gillisonville dey was burn up. Now de district was call Beaufort District, but de courthouse was at Gillisonville. Gillisonville was where dey had de trial of de Mr. Martin dat kill Mr. Peeples. De Morrisons lived at Gillisonville. Plenty of 'em! "I kin tell you where two of de old Robert homes used to be. One was back dis way toward Scotia from Robertville. Dat was de Mr. John H. Robert' place. Had a whole string of cedar trees going up to his place. Now den, 'bout two miles out from Robertville going from de white folk' church out toward Black Swamp was another Robert place. Dat where old Major Robert lived. He had a whole tun (turn) of slaves. Dere was no Robert live right in de village of Robertville. De Lawtons was de only people live right in Robertville--and one family of Jaudons. I don't know of no other Robert home. "Dat's all I kin tell you 'bout de old times, Missus. I don't want to tell you what ain't true." =Source:= Willis Gillison, 75 years old, (Ex-slave) Luray, S.C.--R.F.D. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 10, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "We lived in a log house during the Ku Klux days. Dey would watch you just like a chicken rooster watching fer a worm. At night, we was skeered to have a light. Dey would come around wid de 'dough faces' on and peer in de winders and open de do'. Iffen you didn't look out, dey would skeer you half to death. John Good, a darkey blacksmith, used to shoe de horses fer de Ku Klux. He would mark de horse shoes with a bent nail or something like that; then atter a raid, he could go out in the road and see if a certain horse had been rode; so he began to tell on de Ku Klux. As soon as de Ku Klux found out dey was being give away, dey suspicioned John. Dey went to him and made him tell how he knew who dey was. Dey kept him in hiding, and when he told his tricks, dey killed him. "When I was a boy on de 'Gilmore place', de Ku Klux would come along at night a riding de niggers like dey was goats. Yes sir, dey had 'em down on all-fours a crawling, and dey would be on dere backs. Dey would carry de niggers to Turk Creek bridge and make dem set up on de bannisters of de bridge; den dey would shoot 'em offen de bannisters into de water. I 'clare dem was de awfulest days I ever is seed. A darky name Sam Scaife drifted a hundred yards in de water down stream. His folks took and got him outen dat bloody water and buried him on de bank of de creek. De Ku Klux would not let dem take him to no graveyard. Fact is, dey would not let many of de niggers take de dead bodies of de folks no whars. Dey just throwed dem in a big hole right dar and pulled some dirt over dem. Fer weeks atter dat, you could not go near dat place, kaise it stink so fer and bad. Sam's folks, dey throwed a lot of 'Indian-head' rocks all over his grave, kaise it was so shallah, and dem rocks kept de wild animals from a bothering Sam. You can still see dem rocks, I could carry you dere right now. "Another darky, Eli McCollum, floated about three and a half miles down de creek. His folks went dere and took him out and buried him on de banks of de stream right by de side of a Indian mound. You can see dat Indian mound to dis very day. It is big as my house is, over dere on de Chester side. "De Ku Klux and de niggers fit at New Hope Church. A big rock marks de spot today. De church, it done burnt down. De big rock sets about seven miles east of Lockhart on de road to Chester. De darkies killed some of de Ku Klux and dey took dere dead and put dem in Pilgrims Church. Den dey sot fire to dat church and it burnt everything up to de very bones of de white folks. And ever since den, dat spot has been known as 'Burnt Pilgrim'. De darkies left most of de folks right dar fer de buzzards and other wild things to eat up. Kaise dem niggers had to git away from dar; and dey didn't have no time fer to fetch no word or nothing to no folks at home. Dey had a hiding place not fer from 'Burnt Pilgrim'. A darky name Austin Sanders, he was carring some victuals to his son. De Ku Klux cotch him and dey axed him whar he was a gwine. He lowed dat he was a setting some bait fer coons. De Ku Klux took and shot him and left him lying right in de middle of de road wid a biscuit in his dead mouth. "Doctor McCollum was one of dem Ku Klux, and de Yankees sot out fer to ketch him. Doc., he rid a white pony called 'Fannie'. All de darkies, dey love Doc, so dey would help him fer to git away from de Yankees, even though he was a Ku Klux. It's one road what forks, atter you crosses Wood's Ferry. Don't nobody go over dat old road now. One fork go to Leeds and one to Chester. Well, right in dis fork, Mr. Buck Worthy had done built him a grave in de 'Woods Ferry Graveyard'. Mr. Worthy had done built his grave hisself. It was built out of marble and it was kivered up wid a marble slab. Mr. Worthy, he would take and go dar and open it up and git in it on pretty days. So old Doc., he knowed about dat grave. He was going to see a sick lady one night when dey got atter him. He was on old Fannie. Dey was about to ketch de old Doc. when he reached in sight of dat graveyard. It was dark. So Doc., he drive de horse on pass de fork, and den he stop and hitch her in front of some dense pines. Den he took and went to dat grave and slip dat top slab back and got in dar and pulled it over him, just leaving a little crack. Doc. lowed he wrapped up hisself in his horse blanket, and when de Yankees left, he went to sleep in dat grave and never even woke up till de sun, it was a shinning in his face. "Soon atter dat, my sister took down sick wid de misery. Doc., he come to see her at night. He would hide in de woods in daytime. We would fetch him his victuals. My sister was sick three weeks 'fore she died. Doc, he would take some blankets and go and sleep in dat grave, kaise he know'd dey would look in our house fer him. Dey kept on a coming to our house. Course we never know'd nothing 'bout no doctor at all. Dar was a nigger wid wooden bottom shoes, dat stuck to dem Yankees and other po' white trash 'round dar. He lowed wid his big mough dat he gwine to find de doctor. He told it dat he had seed Fannie in de graveyard at night. Us heard it and told de doctor. Us did not want him to go near dat graveyard any more. But Doc, he just laugh and he lowed dat no nigger was a gwine to look in no grave, kaise he had tried to git me to go over dar wid him at night and I was skeer'd. "One night, just as Doc was a covering up, he heard dem wooden shoes a coming; so he sot up in de grave and took his white shirt and put it over his head. He seed three shadows a coming. Just as dey got near de doc, de moon come out from 'hind a cloud and Doc, he wave dat white shirt and he say dem niggers just fell over grave-stones a gitting outen dat graveyard. Doc lowed dat he heard dem wooden shoes a gwine up de road fer three miles. Well, dey never did bother the doctor any more. "Doc, he liked to fiddle. Old Fannie, she would git up on her hind legs when de doc would play his fiddle." =Source:= Brawley Gilmore (col), 34 Hamlet St., Union, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (12/3/36) Project 1885-1 Ex-slave--(Pick Gladdeny, Pomaria, Rt. 3, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. Typist: Louise Dawkins, Rt. 4, Union, S.C. "Ah sees all through 'im now. Naw, sir, Ah doesn't know whar Ah wuz bawn, maybe in Fairfield, maybe in the Dutch Fork, Ah doesn't know, Ah won't dar. It wuz on May 15, 1856. Ah 'spec Ah could've been born on Mr. Joe Hellar's place, you knows dat down on Hellar Creek. "Ah'se old enough to go to de speechin' dat Dan White made on "Maybinton Day" (emancipation speech at Maybinton, S.C.). You axes me more than I can answer, Site of folks dar all day, settin' aroun. Us clam trees, so us could see and hear. I sho did listen but I don't 'member nothin' what de man say. I knows dis dat I still hears dat band music ringing in my ears. At dat time I was so young dat all I cared about on dat day, was the brass band what let out so much music. Niggers being free never meant nothing to us chaps, cause we never had no mind fer all such as that nohow. Dat de first band dat I ever seed, and to tell you de truf I never seed no more till the World War fotch de soldiers all through here. Bands charms me so much dat dey just plumb tickles the tips of my toes on both feets. "Squire William Hardy was de man dat I worked for when I had done turned five. Dey teach me to bring in chips, kindling wood, fire wood and water. I learnt to make Marse's fire ever morning. Dat won't no trouble, cause all I had to do was rake back de ashes from the coals and throw on some chips and lightwood and de fire come right up. Won't long 'fore I was big enough to draw water and bring in big wood. You knows what big fire places they got down dar cause Squire Hardy--Mr. Dick's Pa, and Pa and Heyward and Frank's grandpa. "Squire Hardy was a good man so was Mr. Dick. Mr. Dick was dat smart till he just naturally never forgot nothing that was told to him. If he was a-living, he could tell you way back before de Squire's time. I was right dar at Squire Hardy's dat day Freedom come and de band come to Maybinton. "Going farther back than this, droves of niggers used to come down the road by Squire Hardy's front gate. Yes, sir, a overseer used to come through here driving niggers; just like us drives cows and hogs up around this big road these days and times. One day Squire Hardy went out and stopped a drove coming down de road in the dust. He pick him out a good natured looking darky and give the overseer one eye contrary niggers, what nobody didn't like for the good-natured ones. Ain't got no more to say. I does not remember but I has heared about the time when my ma moved from Hellar's Plantation in the Dutch Fork to the Tom Lyles quarter in Fairfield. My ma's name Sally Murphy. Her master was Dave Murphy. He stayed at Tom Lyles. Mistus Betsy (Dave Murphy) cared for her. Mr. Dave Murphy overseed for Capt. Tom Lyles who lived about two miles from Lyles' Ford on Broad River. "I don't know what things has gone to. So much diffence in everthing now than it was back in dem days. Don't know nothing about no Booker T. Washington. I sees much but hears little 'bout dat what I doesn't see, Yes, siree boy, all such little 'muck' go in one ear and come out tother'n wid me. Dat's de talk fer dese young niggers dats eddicated, and I ain't dat bad off. "Winnsboro fust town I ever seed, but it don't favor itself now. "Maybinton the place I love best in all the world. Most my life is right here. I'll be buried in Hardy graveyard, whar my white folks dat was so good to me lie sleeping, and dat's whar my ma and pa and others that I loves lies too. "Post office at Maybinton is whar Miss Bessie Oxner stay. Bill Oxner, her pa kept de post office from de time it started till they stopped it, fur as I knows. It look better then than it does now. Mr. Bill Oxner pretty good man. "He was a settled man. His wife was a good-looking lady who before her marriage was a Bethune. "Dar was a big store at the end of Mr. W. B. Whitney's plantation. Dis along to'd first of Freedom. Mr. Slattery lived twixt the Maybins and the Whitney's house. The store upon the end was kept by Mr. Pettus Chick and Mr. Bill Oxner. It was a good store. Didn't have to go to Newber'y to git no candy and 'Bacco. And Dr. Jim Ruff was de doctor what tended to folks in dem parts when dey got sick. "De old Buck when I first knowed it was run fer a dwelling house by Mr. Jeff Stewart. I been knowed Maybinton all my life. But when I come along stages had done gone out but that's where dey stopped when they come from Spring Hill. I'se heared dat de Buck had large stables and a lots of folks stop there and rested overnight on their way to the Springs. (Glenn's, Chick's, and West Springs.) "Used to rather dance than to eat. Started out at sundown and git back to the Whitney's at daybreak, den from dar run all de way to Squire Hardy's to git dar by sunup. Pats our feets and knocks tin pans was the music dat us niggers danced to all night long. Put on my clean clothes dat was made right on the plantation and wear them to the dance. Gals wore their homespun stockings. Wore the dresses so long dat they kivered their shoes. My britches were copperus colored and I had on a home wove shirt with a pleated bosom. It was dyed red and had wristbands. I wore that shirt for five years. "Didn't have no nigger churches down dar den. We went to Chapman's stand. It had a brush top and log seats. The darkies from the Hardy Plantation walked five miles to hear a nigger from Union preach. He driv a one horse waggin and course he stayed around from place to place and the folks take care of him and his mule. Big Jim Henderson owned Chapman's stand which was in the Glymp quarter. The Glymp quarter still got the best land in our settlement yet. All my 'quaintances done left me, fac' is, most of them done crossed over de river. Folks meets me and speaks familiar. I axes, "Who is that?" I used to deal with Mr. Bee Thompson in Union. "I'se got some business to tend to in Union soon and I spec I be up there in short to see is it anything familiar dar." Project #1655 W.W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. HENRY GLADNEY EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. Henry Gladney lives with his wife, his son, Murdock, his daughter-in-law, Rose, and seven grandchildren. They live near White Oak, S.C., in a two-room frame house with a one-room box board annex. He works a one-horse farm for Mr. Cathcart and piddles a little at the planing mills at Adgers. His son does the ploughing. The daughter-in-law and grandchildren hoe and pick cotton and assist in the farm work. Henry is of medium height, dark brown complexion, and is healthy but not vigorous. "I lives out on de John H. Cathcart place, close to White Oak. In slavery time my mammy b'long to old Marse Johnnie Mobley, and us lived in de quarter 'bout three miles to de west of Woodward station, tho' dere was no station dere when I was a boy. De station was down de railroad from dere and then it was called Yonguesville. My mammy name Lucy, my pappy name William, my sisters was Louise, Elsie, and Adeline. My brudders name Tim and Curtis. "I wasn't a very big boy in slavery time, tho' I 'member choppin' cotton, and pickin' cotton and peas 'long 'side mammy in de field. Pappy was called 'Bill de Giant', 'cause him was so big and strong. They have mighty bad plantation roads in them days. I see my pappy git under de wagon once when it was bogged up to de hub and lift and heft dat wagon and set it outside de ruts it was bogged down in. Him stayed at de blacksmith shop, work on de wagons, shoe de mules and hosses, make hinges, sharpen de plow points and fix de iron rings in de wagon wheels. "My pappy didn't 'low other slave men to look at my mammy. I see him grab Uncle Phil once, throw him down on de floor, and when him quit stompin' Uncle Phil, they have to send for Dr. Newton, 'cause pappy done broke Uncle Phil's right leg. My old marster no lak dat way one of his slaves was crippled up. Him 'low to whip pappy for it. Pappy tell mammy to go tell Marse John if he whip him, he would run off and go to de North. She beg for pappy so, dat nothin' was done 'bout it. 'Spect Marse John fear to lose a good blacksmith wid two good legs, just 'bout a small nigger man wid one good leg and one bad leg. "It come to de time old marster have so many slaves he don't know what to do wid them all. He give some of them off to his chillun. He give them mostly to his daughters, Miss Marion, Miss Nancy, and Miss Lucretia. I was give to his grandson, Marse John Mobley McCrorey, just to wait on him and play wid him. Little Marse John treat me good sometime and kick me 'round sometime. I see now dat I was just a little dog or monkey, in his heart and mind, dat 'mused him to pet or kick as it pleased him. Him give me de only money I ever have befo' freedom, a big copper two-cent piece wid a hole in it. I run a string thru dat hole and tied it 'round my neck and felt rich all de time. Little niggers always wanted to see dat money and I was proud to show it to them every time. "Little Marse John's mother was another daughter of old Marster John. Her name was Dorcas. They live in Florida. I was took 'way down dere, cried pow'ful to leave my mammy, but I soon got happy down dere playin' in de sand wid Marse John and his little brudder, Charlie. Don't 'member nothin' 'bout de war or de Yankees. Freedom come, I come back to de Mobley quarters to mammy. I work for old Marster John up 'til after Hampton was 'lected. I marry Florie Williams, a pretty black gal on de Mobley quarters. Us is had seventeen chillun. So far as I know they is all livin'. Some in Florida, some in Sparrows Point, Virginia, some in Charlotte, N.C., and some in Columbia, S.C. Murdock and his wife, Katie, and deir six chillun live in de same house wid me. "My old marster have two daughters dat marry McCroreys. Miss Lucretia marry James McCrorey and Miss Dorcas marry John McCrorey. Miss Lucretia have a son name John. Miss Dorcas have a son name John. In talkin' wid old mistress, 'fusion would come 'bout which John of de grandsons was bein' meant and talked 'bout. Old Marster John settle dat. "Old Marster John and old mistress (her name Katie) had de same birthday, March de 27th, tho' old Marster John was two years older than old Mistress Kate. They celebrate dat day every year. All de chillun-in-laws and grandchillun come to de mansion, have a big dinner and a big time. After dinner one day, all de men folks 'semble at de woodpile. De sun was shinin' and old marster have me bring out a chair for him but de balance of them set on de logs or lay 'round on de chips. Then they begun to swap tales. Marse Ed P. Mobley hold up his hand and say: 'See dis stiff finger? It'll never be straight agin. I got out of ammunition at de secon' battle of Bull Run, was runnin' after a Yankee to ketch him, threw my gun 'way to run faster, ketch him as he was 'bout to git over a fence and choked his stiff neck so hard in de scuffle dat I broke dat finger. General Lee hearin' 'bout it, changed me from de infancy (infantry) to de calvary (cavalry) dat I might not run de danger any more.' Old marster laugh and say: 'Jim, can you beat dat?' Marse Jim Mobley say: 'Well, you all know what I done at Gettysburg? If all had done lak me dat day, us would have won de war. Whenever I see a bullet comin' my way, I took good aim at de bullet wid a double charge of powder in my musket. My aim was so good dat it drove de enemy ball back to kill a Yankee and glanced aside at de right time to kill another Yankee. I shot a thousand times de fust day of de battle and two thousand times de secon' day and kilt six thousand Yankees at Gettysburg!' Old marster slap his sides and fell out de chair a laughin'! When him git back in de chair, him say: 'Zebulon, what you got to say?' Marse Zeb, p'intin' to his empty pants leg, say: 'Me and some officers 'tended a chicken fight on de banks of de Chickenhominy River de day befo' de battle of Shilo. De cocks fight wid gaves on deir heels. Dere was five hundred fights and two hundred and fifty roosters was kilt. Us have big pots of chicken and big pots of hominy on de banks of de Chickenhominy Creek dat night and then de battle of Cold Harbor come de nex' day. I had eat so much chicken and hominy my belly couldn't hold it all. Some had run down my right leg. Us double quicked and run so fast thru swamps nex' day, after Yankees, my right leg couldn't keep up wid my left leg. After de battle I went back to look for dat leg but never could find it. Governor Zeb Vance tell me afterwards, dat leg of mine run on to Washington, went up de White House steps, and slushed some of dat chicken and hominy on de carpet right befo' President Lincoln's chair.' "Everybody laugh so loud dat old mistress come out and want to know what for they was laughin' 'bout. All dat had to be gone over agin. Then her laugh and laugh and laugh. She turnt 'round to my young Marster John and say: 'John, can you beat dat?' He say: 'Henry, go git grandma a chair.' I done dat. Then my young marster start. Him say: 'One day down in Florida, I saddle my pony, took Henry dere up behind me and went a fishin' on de St. John River. I had some trouble a gittin' thru de everglades when I want to fish but us got dere. Big trees on de banks and 'round, wid long moss hangin' from de limbs. I baited my hook wid a small, wigglin', live, minnow and throwed out into de water. Nothin' happen. In de warm sunshine I must have gone to sleep, when I was startle out my doze by Henry a shoutin': 'Marse Johnnie, Marse Johnnie, your cork done gone down out of sight!' I made a pull but felt at once it would take both hands to land dat fish. I took both hands, put my foot 'ginst de roots of a great live oak and h'isted dat fish in de sky. It was so big it shut out de light of de sun. When it come down, dat fish strip off de limbs of de trees it hit while comin' to de ground. I sent Henry back to de house on de pony, for de four-hoss wagon and all de men on de place, to git de fish home. When us got it home and cut it open, dere was 119 fishes varyin' from de size of de minnow up to de big fish. Marse Ed P. say: 'Was de little minnow dead or 'live when you found him in de belly of de 119th fish? 'He was still wigglin', say my young marster. Old marster say: 'It was a whale of a fish, wasn't it, grandson?' Young marster say: 'It was, grandpa. De river bank show dat de water went down two inches after I pulled him out.' 'Maybe it was a whale', said Marse Ed P. 'In fact, it was', said Marse Johnnie,' 'cause on one of de ribs under de belly was some tatooin'.' 'What was de tatooin'?' ask old mistress, just as innocent as a baby. 'De word Nenivah', say Marse little John. 'Why it might have been de whale dat swallowed Jonah', say Miss Katie. 'It was', say my young marster, 'for just under Nenivah was de name Jonah.' After a good laugh old marster say: 'Your name is changed from John Mobley McCrorey to John Munchawsome McCrorey.' Kin folks call him Barron after dat. Him lak dat but when they got to callin' him, lyin' John McCrorey him git red in de face and want to fight. "Poor Marse Johnnie! Wonder if him still livin'. Him marry a rich woman in Florida but her soon 'vorce him. What her 'vorce him for? 'Pattybility and temper, they say. What I means by pattybility? I 'spect dat mean de time they was gittin' up in de mornin' and her lam him 'cross de head wid de hairbrush and him take dat same hairbrush, push her down 'cross de bed and give her a good spankin'. Now you're laughin' agin but it was no laughin' wid her dat mornin', de way I hear them tell it." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist 4 July 15, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in Newberry County, South Carolina. Near Indian Creek above Jalapa. My mammy and pa was Charlie and Frances Gilliam. We belonged to Marse Pettus and Harriet Gilliam who had a big plantation. I married George Glasgow in the yard of Reid place, by a nigger preacher. My husband died about 15 years ago. "I was a young child when de war stopped, and don't remember so much about slavery times. Marse Pettus and Miss Harriet was good to us. I never got a whipping, except Misses whipped me once wid just one lick. Dey give us a small patch of 'bout half acre fer us to raise cotton or anything we wanted to on it. De master had a big garden and give his slaves plenty vegetables. We had plenty to eat all de time. My pa, Charlie, was de foreman of a crowd of slaves, and dere was a white overseer, too. "Master Gilliam had a boy dey called 'Bud'. He still lives in Arkansas. Dey all moved to state of Arkansas sometime atter de war. My master was a good man, a church man, and he was steward in Tranquil Methodist Church. Around de place at home he was always singing and in good humor. I 'member one song he sung dat was like dis: "Lord, Lord, Heaven--Sweet Heaven, Lord, Lord, Heaven--Sweet Heaven, How long will it be? (repeated three times) "De first time I come to town was when I was a little child, and when we got to College Hill, about ten miles from home, I started to run back home because I heard de train whistle blow. "Miss Harriet always give us chilluns 'mackaroot tea' fer worms. It's made from roots of a plant dat grow in de woods. We had to drink it before breakfast, and it shore had a bitter taste. "Slavery wasn't good much, I reckon, but I had a good time ... didn't nothing bother me. When freedom come, all of us stayed with de master until he and his folks moved away. "Old Dr. Clark was de best doctor in de state. He lived at Jalapa. He used to give barbecues at his home in de yard under big trees. He had niggers dere, too. Dey eat by demselves. Old Mrs. Sligh lived above dere. I waited on her when she was sick. When she died, she made her son promise not to hold against me what I owed her--just let it go--and told him not to ever let me go hungry. "Once when Master Gilliam took one of his slaves to church at old Tranquil, he told him dat he mustn't shout dat day--said he would give him a pair of new boots if he didn't shout. About de middle of services, de old nigger couldn't stand it no longer. He jumped up and hollered: 'Boots or no boots, I gwine to shout today'. "I jined de church atter I got married, 'cause I wanted to do right and serve de Lord." =Source:= Emoline Glasgow (78), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (7/8/37) Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 Sept. 16, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I live on Mr. Sim Bickley's farm, about five miles northwest of Newberry Courthouse. I have a fairly good house to live in. I work on the farm, myself, and make a pretty good living from it. I live with my second wife. I had two children but they both died. "I was born on Dr. Geo. W. Glenn's plantation, about six miles north of Newberry. My parents, Berry and Frances Glenn, were slaves of Dr. Glenn. I was seven years old when freedom come. "Dr. Glenn gave us good quarters to live in and plenty to eat. He was a good man and was not hard on slaves; but the mistress was mean to some of the slaves that come from the Glenn side. She was good to the slaves that come into her from her daddy. "I didn't work much around the place when I was small, just did little things to help. The master had a big garden and raised lots of green vegetables like turnips, collards, cabbages and some okra, but little beans except cornfield beans. We had plenty clothes. "The master whipped us sometimes when we needed it. They would not learn us to read and write. Some of the slaves went to the white folks' church. "I was married the first time on the Glasgow place by a colored preacher named Boyd. Her daddy didn't want us to marry; he didn't like me. I slipped to the field where she was working and stole her; went to the preacher and got married. I married the second time in town on College Hill. "A band of Confederate soldiers in 1865 went past the master's house on their way from war, and Mistress had dinner for them. They eat out under big shade trees in the yard where Master always kept a long table for dinners they had sometimes. When freedom come, the master called all his slaves up to the house one night and spoke to them. He said they was free, but any who wanted to stay on with him and help make the crop that year could stay and he would pay wages. All stayed that year. "The Ku Klux and Red Shirts didn't like Negroes. They would catch them and whip them. "It was a long time after the war before the negroes had a school. They went to white folks churchs for a long time. Some of them had 'brush harbors' for their churches, and schools, too. "I don't know nothing about Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis. I can't give much about Booker Washington, except I heard of him and believe he is a good man and doing a good turn for the negroes. "I think slavery was wrong; don't think one man ought to own another man. "I joined the church when I was about 25 or 30 years old." =Source:= Silas Glenn (79), Newberry, S.C. RFD Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. 8/9/37. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, August 11, 1937 JOHN GLOVER Ex-Slave, 77 Years Timmonsville, S.C. "Born on Rafter Creek bout 20 miles from Timmonsville on Elija Carson place. My white folks live in big two story house dere cause my Massa was a bankholder in Charleston en dat de reason he go back en forth to Charleston every week or two. My Massa a good man, a good man, en I hope he restin in Heaven dis day." "De Carsons had bout 2,000 acres of land en 100 head of slaves on dey plantation. Have long row of house up in de quarter whe' all de slaves live. We have a very good livin in dat day en time. Had more to eat den we do dese days cause rations won' scarce like dey is now. Eat potatoes en peas en corn bread en homemade grits mostly, but I likes everything to eat, Captain. Den dey give us a garden to make us greens en things like dat en we is catch possum heap of de time. Uncle Ben (father's father) was a great possum hunter, but he died fore I get big enough to go huntin wid him. He went possum huntin every night till something went up de tree one night en possum talk to him. He used to go huntin on a Sunday night en dat how-come de possum talk to him." "You didn' see de peoples wear much different clothes like dey wear dese days, but what dey have was very decent. Just have bout one piece, Captain, make out of some kind of homemade cloth wid no extra for Sunday. Wear same kind of pants on Sunday dat wear every day en same kind of shoes call brogans wid brass toes. I ain' see no fittin cloth since dey used to raise sheep en have dey own wool en have loom en spin. Look like God smile on us in dat day en time." "I work round de white folks house fore freedom come, but I go back to de quarter en sleep when night come. Dem dat live in de quarter have lumber bed wid mattress made out of sacks en hay. Den when dey ring dem bells en blow dem horns in de mornin, dat mean you better get up en go bout your task for dat day." "Oh, dey work us hard en late in dem times. Work from de sunrise in de mornin to de sundown in de evenin. Dey have a driver dat tote whip en see dat you do what you know to do. Didn' have no jail in dat day, but if you ain' do your task en dey catch you, dey punish you by de whip. Some of de time, dey put em in de screw box what dey press bales of cotton wid. Put em in dere en run press right down whe' can' crush en dey oouldn' move till dey take em out in de mornin en whip em en put em to work. See plenty whipped on de place. Dey make one fellow go over a barrel, en de other peoples hold he head down en de driver whip him. Give em 50 en 75 licks fore dey stop sometimes. Use chains to hold em when dey break ropes so dey couldn' get away." "I see em sell slaves heap of times. See em gwine along in droves en sayin dey was gwine to market. Sell em if dey ain' stay on de place en work. Bid em off just like horse en mules. What am I bid for dis one? Come en open you mouth en examine you teeth en dey wouldn' miss you a year." "Oh, Gracious God, didn' get married till after de shake was en I reckon I bout 30 years old den. Captain, we thought it was de Jedgment (Judgment). It come like it was thunderin in de earth, rollin in de earth en de earth was gwine en comin. We pray en all de cows en chickens was yelling. Last dat night bout 30 minutes dat you could look at anything en it look like top spinning. We was all good bout two years after dat." "My white folks didn' teach none of dey slaves to read en write en didn' let em go bout from one plantation to de other no time. All us know is when we go to dey meetin en dey pray wid us. Peoples used to sing en pray in de quarter on Saturday night en when dey dig grave en have a funeral. Dey didn' do bout buryings den like dey do now. Burying dem times en de funeral would all be over at de burying. Slaves didn' have no way to go to de funeral but to walk. Den a white man would stop you en if you have a ticket wid you dat have pass word on it, you could go on." "I can tell you all bout when dem Yankees come through dere. Some was on black horses, some on red horses, en some on white horses. De one dat on black horse wear black, de one on white horse wear white, en de one on de red horse wear red. De horses had sense enough to double up when dat man hollo from de top of dem. Dey was wearing soldier clothes en dey come up to you house en set place on fire, kill cow or anything dey want to. Dey burn up Carson house en stay dere till next day. Dey talk to my mamma cause our house de next one to de white folks house. De white folks done been gone. Dey ask her whe' dey hide dey money en she know dey hide it to Stafford Hill, six miles from de house, but she didn' tell dem. Don' know yet what became of de money, but dem Yankees loaded an old chest on de wagon en took all de slaves dat wanted to run away wid dem en left dere." "Slaves didn' know what to do de first year after freedom en den de Yankees tell de white folks to give de slaves one-third of dey crops. What de slaves gwine buy land wid den, Captain? Won' a God thing to eat in dat time. Had to plow corn wid ox cause de Yankees took all de horses en mules dey wanted. My mother worked on three years dere for de white folks en dey give her one bushel of corn en dey take two. One bushel of corn en dey take two. Measured by de same basket." "Well, I can' tell you bout people, but I can tell you bout my poor soul. I think I know I'm bless to be here en raise three generation clear up dis world. All my chillun dead en gone en God left me to live among dese wild varments here. I have to cry sometimes when I think how dey die en leave me in dis troublesome world. During slavery time, didn' know what hard times was. I know you see in de Bible dat God sorry he made man done so. I'm sorry dat de last war done. Every time you fight war makes times harder. See three war en every one I see makes time worse. Money gets balled up in one or two hand. Looks bad to me. Didn' know what it was one time to be hungry." =Source:= John Glover, Ex-Slave, 77 Years, Timmonsville, S.C. (Personal interview by Mrs. Lucile Young and H. Grady Davis.) Project, 1885-1 Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, June 28, 1937 HECTOR GODBOLD Ex-Slave, 87 Years "What you gwine do wid me? I sho been here in slavery time. Talk to dem soldiers when dey was retreatin dey way back home. My old Missus was Miss Mary Godbold en den she marry a Haselden. Dey buy my mamma from de old man Frank Miles right over yonder. Harry en Cindy Godbold was my parents. We live in a one room house in de slave quarter dere on de white folks plantation. My God, sleep right dere on de floor. Had gran'parents dat come here over de water from Africa. Dey tell me dat whe' dey come from dey don' never let no man en he wife sleep together cause dey is scared of em catchin disease from one another. Dat sho a good thing, you know dat. I think dat sho a good thing." "Dey ain' never give none of de colored peoples no money in dat day en time. Coase dey give us plenty something to eat. Fed us out a big bowl of pot licker wid plenty corn bread en fried meat en dat bout all we ever eat. Dey is let us have a garden of we own dat we had to work by de night time. You see de colored folks know dey had to get up soon as dey hear dat cow horn blow en dat been fore daylight come here. Oh, dey work from dark to dark in dat day en time. Didn' but one day out all de year stand dat was a week day en dat was de big Christmus day. Sweet molasses bread was de thing dat day. Coase dey give us a big supper when dey had dem cornshucking day. Oh, dey had a frolic den dat last way up to de midnight." "I never live dere to de Haselden plantation wid my parents long fore dey hire me out to Massa John Mace en I stay dere till me en Maggie (his wife) come here to live. Nurse six head of chillun for de white folks dere. I hear em say my Missus was a Watson fore she marry Massa John Mace. Lord, Lord, love dem chillun to death. If Moses Mace been livin, you wouldn' be talkin to no Hector Godbold bout here dese days. He de one what give me en Maggie dat four room house you see settin dere. My Missus give me a good beatin one time when I did drop one of dem baby. Just put me head under her foot en beat me dat way." "Another thing I had to do was to carry de baby cross de swamp every four hour en let my mamma come dere en suckle dat child. One day I go dere en another fellow come dere what dey call John. He en my mamma get in a argument like en he let out en cut my mamma a big lick right cross de leg en de blood just pour out dat thing like a done a what. My mamma took me en come on to de house en when Miss Jane see dat leg, she say, "Cindy, what de matter?" My mamma say, "John call me a liar en I never take it." Miss Jane tell em to send after Sam Watson right den. Sam Watson was a rough old overseer en he been so bowlegged dat if he stand straddle a barrel, he be settin down on it just as good as you settin dere. Sam Watson come dere en make dat fellow lay down on a plank in de fence jam en he take dat cat o' nine tail he have tie round his waist en strike John 75 times. De blood run down off him just like you see a stream run in dat woods. Dat sho been so cause all we chillun stand bout dere en look on it. I suppose I was bout big enough to plough den. When dey let John loose from dere, he go in de woods en never come back no more till freedom come here. I tellin you when he come back, he come back wid de Yankees." "Oh, de colored peoples never know nothin more den dogs in dem times. Never couldn' go from one plantation to de other widout dat dey had a ticket wid em. I see Sam Watson catch many of dem dat had run way en buff en gag em. Never have no jails nowhe' in dat day en time. Dey sho sell de colored peoples way plenty times cause I see dat done right here to Marion. Stand em up on a block en sell em to a speculator dere. I hear em bid off a 'oman en her baby dere en den dey bid off my auntie en uncle way down to de country. Dey wouldn' take no whippin off dey Massa en dat how-come dey get rid of em. My gran'pappy been worth $1,000 en it de Lord's truth I tellin you, he drown fore he let em whip him. Den my gran'mammy use to run way en catch rides long de roads cause de peoples let em do dat den. Coase if dey catch her, dey didn' never do her no harm cause she was one of dem breed 'omans." "Never know nothin bout gwine to school in dem times. Just pick up what learnin we get here, dere, en everywhe'. Learnt something to de white folks meetin house dere to Antioch settin on de back side of dat church on dem benches what de slaves had to set on. I is know dis much dat I voted three times to de courthouse in Marion way back in dem days." "Sho, we chillun play game en frolic heap of de time. Shinny was de thing dat I like best. Just had stick wid crook in de end of it en see could I knock de ball wid dat. I sho remembers dat. Den I was one of de grandest hollerers you ever hear tell bout. Use to be just de same as a parrot. Here how one go: O--OU--OU--O--OU, DO--MI--NICI--O, BLACK--GA--LE--LO, O--OU--OU--O--OU, WHO--O--OU--OU. Great King, dat ain' nothin." "Ain' never believe in none of dem charms people talk bout en ain' know nothin bout no conjuring neither, but I know dis much en dat a spirit sho slapped Maggie one night bout 12 o'clock. Den another time me en her was comin home from a party one night en I had a jug of something dere wid me en Maggie ax me for it. Say something was followin after her. De next thing I know I hear dat jug say, gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. I look back en she been pourin it out on de ground. She say she do dat to make de spirit quit followin after her. Dat spirit sho been dere cause I see dat licker disappear dere on de ground wid me own eyes." "Sho, dey had doctors in dat day en time. Had plant doctors dat go from one plantation to another en doctor de peoples. Dr. Monroe was one of dem doctor bout here en dere ain' never been no better cures nowhe' den dem plant cures was. I get Maggie so she can move bout dat way. She won' able to walk a step en I boil some coon root en put a little whiskey in it en make her drink dat. It sho raise her up too. Dem coon root look just like dese chufas what you does find down side de river. Dat sho a cure for any rheumatism what is. I know dat all right." "Mighty right, I remembers when freedom was declare. I think dat must a been de plan of God cause it just like dis, if it hadn' been de right thing, it wouldn' been. I know it a good thing. De North was freed 20 years head of de South en you know it a good thing. I a history man en I recollects dat de history say de North was freed 20 years fore de South was." "I sho hear dem guns at Fort Sumter dere en I remembers when dem soldiers come through dis way dat de elements was blue as indigo bout here. Had parade bout five miles long wid horses dancin bout en fiddles just a playin. Some of dem Yankees come dere to de white folks house one of dem time, when my Massa was way from home workin dere on de Manchester Railroad, en ax my Missus whe' dey horses was. Dem horses done been hide in de bay en dey never get nothin else dere neither, but a little bit of corn dat dey take out de barn." "I 87 year old now en I here to tell you dat I never done nobody no mean trick in all me life. I does fight cause I cut a man up worth 19 stitches one of dem times back dere. Two of em been on me one time en I whipped both of em. I tellin you I been good as ever was born from a 'oman. It just like dis, I say fight all right, but don' never turn no mean trick back. Turn it to God, dat what do. Dem what go to church in de right way, dey don' have no vengeful spirit bout em. I sho goes to church cause de church de one thing dat does outstand everything--everything." =Source:= Hector Godbold, ex-slave, age 87, Pee Dee, Marion Co., S.C. (Personal interview, June 1937). Project #1855 Stiles M. Scruggs Columbia, S.C. DANIEL GODDARD EX-SLAVE 74 YEARS OLD. "My name is Daniel Goddard. I was born in Columbia, S.C. Feb. 14, 1863, to slave parents. You know I recall no contacts I made in slavery for I was too young during that period. You know too, if I had been born in Massachusetts, for example, I should have been free, because all slaves in the United States had been set free when President Lincoln, shortly before my birth, January, 1863, struck the shackles from bondage. "The Confederate states had seceded from the Union and they paid no attention to the freedom proclamation during the war. So the slaves in the South, generally speaking, stayed on until the Confederacy collapsed in April, 1865, and even then, some of the slaves were slow to strike out for themselves, until the Federal government made ample preparations to take care of them. "Now you ask, if I heard about escapes of slaves. Sure I did and I heard my parents discuss the efforts of slaves to shake off the shackles. This was probably true because my father's brother, Thomas, was a member of the slave ship which was taking him and 134 others from Virginia to New Orleans. A few miles south of Charleston, the slaves revolted, put the officers and crew in irons, and ran the ship to Nassau. "There they went ashore and the British Government refused to surrender them. They settled in the Bahama Islands and some of their descendants are there today. That was about 1830, I think, because my Uncle Thomas was far older than my father. I heard about the other slave revolts, where that African prince, one of a large number of slaves that were kidnaped, took over the Spanish ship L'Amada, killing two of the officers. The remaining officers promised to return the slaves to Africa but slyly turned the ship to port in Connecticut. There the Spanish minister at Washington demanded the slaves, as pirates. Appeal was made to the courts and the United States Court ruled that slavery was not legal in Spain and declared the slaves free. "The Nat Turner insurrection in Virginia and the Vesey uprising in Charleston was discussed often, in my presence, by my parents and friends. I learned that revolts of slaves in Martinique, Antigua, Santiago, Caracas and Tortugus, was known all over the South. Slaves were about as well aware of what was going on, as their masters were. However the masters made it harder for their slaves for a while. "I have a clipping, now worn yellow with age, which says the Federal census of 1860, showed there were 487,970 free Negroes and 3,952,760 slaves in the United States at that time. I am not at all surprised at the number of free Negroes. Many South Carolina families freed a number of their slaves. Some slaves had the luck to be able to buy their freedom and many others escaped to free areas. The problem of slavery as a rule, was a question of wits, the slave to escape and the master to keep him from escaping. "I once talked with Frederick Douglass, perhaps the most eminent Negro to appear so far in America. He told me he was born a slave in Maryland, in 1817, and that he served there as a slave for ten years. He escaped to Massachusetts, where he was aided in education and employment by the Garrisons and other abolitionists, and became a leader of his race. He was United States Minister to Haiti at the time I met him and was eminent as an orator. He died in 1895. "You ask, what do I think of the Presidents. Well, I have always been such an admirer of Andrew Jackson, a South Carolinian, that I may be prejudiced a little. The reason I admire him so much, is because he stood for the Union, and he didn't mean maybe, when he said it. He served his time and God took him, just as he took Moses. "Then Lincoln was raised up for a specific purpose, to end slavery, which was a menace to both whites and blacks, as I see it. And President Wilson kept the faith of the fathers, when he decided to put the German Kaiser where he could no longer throw the world into discord. But there has only been one President whose heart was touched by the cry of distress of the poor and needy and his name is Franklin D. Roosevelt. He is one white man who has turned the bias of the Negroes from the bait of partisan politics. "Yes, sir, I recall the reconstruction period here in Columbia. My parents lived until I was about grown and we kept the middle of the road, in the matter of selling out to the Federal soldiers and carpet-baggers on the one hand, or to designing politicians on the other. But my father was an admirer of General Hampton, because General Hampton owned many Negroes at one time and had treated them well. Between Hampton and Chamberlain for governor, in 1876, most of my Negro friends voted for Hampton. "What have I been doing since I grew up? Well, I have been busy trying to make a living. I worked for various white folks in this community and sometime for the railroads here, in a minor capacity. My younger years were spent in the quest of an education. For the past thirty years I have been the porter for the State Paper Company, Columbia's morning newspaper. As I became proficient in the work, the Gonzales boys grew fond of me. While the youngest one, Hon. William E. Gonzales, was absent in the diplomatic service in Cuba and in Peru for eight years for President Wilson, I looked after the needs of Mr. Ambrose Gonzales. Shortly before he died, Hon. William E. Gonzales returned. He has since been editor and publisher of the 'State', as well as principal owner. "You ask, if I have applied for an old age pension. No, I have not. I am old enough to qualify, I guess, but I understand, you cannot get a pension if you have a job. If that is so, I shall never enjoy any pension money. I would not leave serving my friend, Captain William E. Gonzales, for any pension that might be offered me." <tb> N.B. This man is well educated, speaks no dialect. He received his education from Northern teachers in Freedman aid, equal to the modern high school curriculum. He afterward studied in Boston. He reads, writes, and speaks excellent English. Address: 1022 Divine Street, Columbia, S.C. Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S.C. Georgetown County FOLKLORE AUNT ELLEN GODFREY (Ex-Slave) (Verbatim Conversation) (Aunt Ellen is a misfit in her present environment. Born at Longwood Plantation on Waccamaw in 1837, all she knows is the easy, quiet life of the country. And the busy, bustling 'RACE PATH' near which her Grandson lives with whom she makes her home doesn't make a fitting frame for the old lady. All day she sits in a porch swing and when hungry, visits a neighbor. The neighbors (colored--all) vie with each other in trying to make her last days happy days. She says they do her washing and provide necessary food. When you start her off she flows on like the brook but usually her story varies little. She tells of the old days and of the experiences that made the greatest impression--the exciting times during the 'Confedrick' war--the 'Reb time day.') Visitor: "Aunt Ellen home?" Aunt Ellen's neighbor (from the washtub): "No'um. She right cross there on the 'Race Path'" (So called because in Conway's early days races were run--horse races--on this street.) Visitor: "Are you one of the neighbors who take such good care of Aunt Ellen?" Neighbor: "No'um. I'm off all day. I work for Miss Bernice." Visitor: "Miss Bernice who?" Neighbor: "Miss Bernice something nother. I can't keep up with that lady title! See Aunt Ellen white cap yonder?" Aunt Ellen (Sitting on chair at back door leaning on cane.) "I want everybody come to my birthday! Seventh o' October coming be a hundred. Baby one dead jew (due) time! Five daughter--one sanctify preacher. Seven one--one Ports-smith Virginia. All dead! All dead! Marry three times; all the husband dead! My last baby child--when the Flagg storm kill everybody on the beach, (1893) the last child I have out my body been a year old! "Last time I gone see the old Doctor, rap! rap! Doctor: "Come in!" Gone in. Doctor: "Great God! Looker Aunt Ellen! For the good you take care Daddy Harry, God left you live long time!" <tb> Ellen: "Flat 'em all up to Marlboro! (All the slaves) Ten days or two weeks going. PeeDee bridge, stop! Go in gentlemen barn! Turn duh bridge! Been dere a week. Had to go and look the louse on we. Three hundred head o' people been dere. Couldn't pull we clothes off. (On flat.) Boat name Riprey. Woman confine on boat. Name the baby 'RIPREY!' Mama name Sibby." (Neighbor: "Aunt Ellen been looking for you all day! Keep saying she got to go home. A white lady coming and she got to be there!") Aunt Ellen: "Doctor come on boat. By name Doctor Lane. White lady come tend woman. Get to Marlboro where they gwine. Put in wagon. Carry to the street. Major Drake Plantation. One son Pet Drake. Wife leetle bit of a woman. "I see Abram Lincoln son Johnny! Talk with him! Gimme tobacco. I been to loom. Weave. Sheckle flying--flying sheckle! (Singing): "Tech (touch) me all round my waist! Don't tech my water-fall! Gay gal setting on the rider fence! Don't tech my water-fall!" "Clothes gone to wash this morning. (Can't go today.) Clothes gone. "I been here so long--I ax Jesus one day carry me next day! Can't make up my bed. Like an old hog sleep on a tussick." (I always heard it 'Toad on a tussock'--and you?) (Four lean cats prowled about sniffing around the woodpile where a boy was scaling some pale, dead fish.) Visitor: "Aunt Ellen, how could you cook on the flat?" Aunt Ellen: "Dirt bank up. Fire make on dirt. Big pot. Cook. Fry meat. Come PeeDee get off flat. Bake. Bake. Iron oven. Stay PeeDee week. Bake. Pile coals on oven top." (Another slave told of scaffold--four posts buried and logs or planks across top with earth on planks. On this pile of earth, fire was made and on great bed of coals oven could be heated for baking. 'Oven' means the great iron skillet-like vessel with three legs and a snug lid. This oven bakes biscuit, pound cake, and some old timers insist on trusting only this oven for their annual fruit cake. It works beautifully on a hearth. Put your buttermilk biscuit in, lid on and pile live-oak coals on top. Of course only the ones who have done this a long time know when to take the lid off.) "Dirt camp to stay in--to hide from Yankee." (Her gestures showed earth was mounded up.) Visitor: "Like a potato bank? A potato hill?" Ellen: "Dat's it! Pile 'em! Gone in dirt camp to hide we from Yankee. Have a Street Row of house. Yankee coming. Gone in dirt camp. "I been weave. My loom at door. Six loom on dat side! Six loom on dis side! I see 'em coming. Hat crown high as this." (She measured off almost half of her walking stick--which had a great, tarnished plated silver knob.) "And I tell 'em 'Yankee coming!' I talk with Abram Lincoln own son Johnny and, bless your heart I glad for Freedom till I fool!" (Singing) 'Freedom forever! Freedom everymore! Want to see the Debbil run Let the Yankee fling a ball The Democrack will take the swamp!' "Massa been hide. Been in swamp." (This is history. All the old men, too old for the army, hid in Marlboro swamps and were fed by faithful slaves until Yankees passed on. My grandmother and mother gave vivid accounts of this--my mother telling of the sufferings of the women--mental--worrying about her feeble old grandfather down there with the mocassins) Ellen: "Yankee officer come. 'Where Mahams Ward and John J. Woodward? Come to tell 'em take dese people out the dirt camp! Put we in flat. Carry back!' (In first story Aunt Ellen told the Yankee Captain said, 'Tell 'em be Georgetown to salute the flag!') "Put food and chillun in flat. We been walk." (Walking back to Waccamaw) We gone. (See 'um! See their feet like the children of Israel in Green Pastures!) In man's house. Man say, 'Come out! You steal my turnip!' Brush arbor. Night come. Make camp. Way down the road somewhere! Make a big bush camp. All squeeze under there. Left Marlboro Monday. Come Conway Friday sun down! Hit Bucksville, hit a friend. Say 'People hungry!' Middle night. Snow on ground. Get up. Cook. Cook all night! Rice. Bake tater. Collard. Cook. Give a quilt over you head. I sleep. I sleep in the cotton. I roost up the cotton gone in there." (Burrowed down in the cotton--'rooted' it up) "December. Winter time. Cook all night. Corn-bread, baked tater, collard. Git to Bucksport, people gin to whoop and holler! Three flat gone round wid all the vittles." (And with the very young and very old) Easier coming home. Current helped. Going up against the current, only poles and cant hooks--tedious going. "Git 'Tip Top' (Plantation) all right. Come home den! Git to double trunk (rice-field trunk) at 'Tip Top' Whoop! Come bring flat! Mother Molly dead on flat! Bury she right to Longwood grave-yard. Nuss. (nurse) Sam'l Hemingway bury there. Horse kill 'em in thrashing mill. Child name Egiburt bury there too. Horse gwine round in thrashing. He lick the horse. Horse kick 'em. Whole gang white jury come! "Sing and pray all the time. Pray your house. Pray all the time. (I wish to God I could get some of you clam!) "Salem Baptist? I helped build Salem! I a choir in Salem!" Aunt Ellen Godfrey Age 99 years 10 months Conway, S.C. Project 1655 Genevieve W. Chandler Georgetown County, S.C. FOLKLORE MOM ELLEN GODFREY (Ex-slave--Age 100) "I'm waitin' on the leese (RELIEF). He was to have my birthday the seven of October. "Slavery time Maussa buy 'em. We Maussa buy me one good shoe. Send slam to England. Gie me (give me) good clothes and shoe. I been a-weave. When the Yankee come I been on the loom. Been to Marlboro district. A man place they call Doctor Major Drake. Got a son name Cap and Pet. Oh, Jesus! I been here TOO long. In my 99 now. Come seven o' October (1937) I been a hundred. "Three flat (big flat-boats) carry two hundred head o' people and all they things. We hide from Yankee but Yankee come and get we. Ask where Maussa! Maussa in swamp. I in buckra house. I tell Yankee: 'Them gone! Gone to beach!' Yankee say: "'Tell 'em to be in Georgetown to bow unto flag'. "That time I been twenty-three years old. Old Doctor Flagg didn't born then. He a pretty child and so fat. Love the doctor too much. Born two weeks after Freedom. He Ma gone to town. Melia Holmes? She ain't no more than chillum to me. Laura and Serena two twin sister. When the Freedom I was twenty-three--over the twenty-five. Great God, have-a-mercy! McGill people have to steal for something to eat. Colonel Ward keep a nice place. Gie'em (give them) rice, peas, four cook for chillum, one nurse. Make boy go in salt crick get 'em clam. That same Doctor Flagg Grandpa. Give you cow clabber. Share 'em and put you bittle for eat. "Gabe Knox? (A very old colored man who has been dead ten years) I nurse Gabe! I nurse 'em. He Pappy my cousin. I been a big young woman when he born. "Albert Calina? He a Christian-hearted people. Christian-heart boy. I give my age. My birthday get over I want to go right home to Heaven. "I gone to see Doctor Wardie when I in my 95. He say: "'Great Dow! Looker Aunt Ellen! In you 95! What make you live to good age you take such good care you husband--Harry Godfrey.'" Conversation of Aunt Ellen Godfrey--age 99 years, Conway, S.C. June 25th. "Would gone wid you Missus, but I waiting on the 'Relief'. He wuz going to bring me the dress and shoe and ting. My birthday the seven of October coming. We Massa have give we good shoe. Right here Longwood Plantation. Massa was kind--you know. Send slam to England gie me good clothes and shoe. I been a weave when the Yankee come. I been on the loom to Marlboro district. A man place they call Doctor Major Drake. Got a son name Cap and Pet. Oh, Jesus, been here too long! In my ninety-nine now. Come seben of October been a hundred. Three flat" (flat boats used for rice field work) "carry two hundred 'o people and all they things. We hide from Yankee but Yankee come and git we. Ask whey (where) Massa. (Massa in swamp! I in buckra house. I say, 'Dem gone! Gone to beach.' Say, 'Tell 'em to be in Georgetown to bow unto the flag.' Dat time I been twenty-three year old. Doctor Flagg didn't born. He a pretty child and so fat! Love duh Doctor too much! Born two weeks after freedom. He Ma gone Georgetown. Granny git 'em there. Melia Holmes! Ain't no more dan chillun to me!" (Aunt Melia is eighty-eight or nine--bony and cripple) "She have two twin sister Laura and Serena. When the Freedom I wuz twenty-three years old.--over the twenty-five. Great God hab a mercy! Couldn't do dat! Colonel Ward keep a nice place. Doctor McGill people hab to steal for someting to eat. Gie 'em rice--peas. Four cook for chillun. One nurse". (Aunt Ellen said 'Nuss') "Make the boy go get 'em clam. That same Dr. Ward GrandPa. Great big sack 'o clam! Give you cow clabber. Shay'm". (Share them--the clabber) "and put on bittle for eat. "Hagar Brown! She darter (daughter) got a abscess in her stomach. Save Rutledge! I nuss (nurse) Sabe. I nuss 'em. Her pappy my cousin. I been big young women, I nuss Sabe. "Albert Calina a christian-hearted people. Christian hearted boy. Relief come. I gie 'em my age. My birthday over, I wanter go right home to Heaven. Great Dow! 'Looker Aunt Ellen!' (That is what Dr. Wardie say when I gone see 'um.) 'In you ninety-five! What make you good, you take care of you husband! 'Harry Godfrey waiting man! Marry twice time. He duh last---- "Andrew Johnson? Dropsy? I have wid every chillun--Oh, I buss (burst) one time. Buss here." (Illustrating by drawing line across stomach.) "Till it get to my groin it stop! Every time I get family I swell. Never have a doctor 'Granny' for me yet. My Mary good old Granny. Catch two set 'o twin for me. Isaac and Rebecca; David and Caneezer. "Sell all my fowl and ting--five dollars--me and old man two come to town to we chillun. "Been Marlboro four year. Yankee foot where they put on stirrup red. Most stand lak a Mr. Smoak--Big tall--Abraham Lincoln own son Johnny! 'You jess as free as ribbon on my hat!' That what he say. I been weave. Sheckle!" (Aunt Ellen worked foot and hand and mouth in illustrating how the shuttle worked back and forth--and the music it made). "Conch? Eat 'm many time! Take 'em bile! Grind 'em up! "Welcome Beas? She son get kill in Charston, Welcome Beas son courting my gal. "Tom Duncan? He child to me. He wife Susannah. I know duh fambly. I gone knock to duh door. "Come in! Come in! Come in! 'Here duh beard!" (And Aunt Ellen measured on her chest to show how long Dr. Flagg's beard was). <tb> "Old Daddy Rodgers and merry wuz she! The old man wuz cripple And Mary wuz blind. Keep you hat on you head. Keep you head warm And set down under that sycamore tree! My kite! My kite! My kite! My kite! Two oxen tripe! Two open dish 'o cabbage! My little dog! My spotted hawg! My two young pig a starving! Cow in the cotton patch. Tell boy call dog drive pig out cotton! Heah duh song; Send Tom Taggum To drive Bone Baggum Out the world 'o wiggy waggum!" (This last song chanted out by Aunt Eleanor Godfrey, age 99, is really a gem. She said 'Bone Baggum' boney old white cow. 'Wiggy waggum' is a picture word making one see the soft, wagging tufts of white cotton.) Given by Aunt Eleanor Godfrey Age 99 (100 come seben of Oct.) June 25th, 1937 Conway, S.C. Project 1655 Genevieve W. Chandler Georgetown County, S.C. FOLKLORE. (MOM ELLEN SINGS * * *) BONE BAGGUM (Bag o' bones?) Send Tom Taggum (a man) To drive Bone Baggum (a boney critter) Out the world o' wiggly waggum. (cotton patch) <tb> Rock-a-bye! Rock-a-bye! Down come baby cradle and all! Roll 'em! Roll 'em! Roll 'em! Roll 'em and boll' em! And put 'em in the oven! <tb> "I KNOW when I was a woman Ben was boy!" (Ben now 88) <tb> "Go to writin'!": If you want to know my name Go to Uncle Amos house. Big foot nigger and he six foot high. Try to bussin' at my waterfall! (Kissin' her waterfall--head-dress.) Oh, the gay gal Settin' on the rider (fence 'rider' on 'stake and rider fence') Gay gal waterfall. Don't tech (touch) my waist But bounce my shirt! Don't touch my waterfall!" "I sing that sing to 'em and man buss out and cry! 'My God! You talk ME?' I ain't want him! I kick him with that same word. "They was Zazarus and Lavinia. Dead can't wash for myself. I go wash and lay Lavinia out. And he husband wanter (want to) marry with me. I kick him with that same sing. Hint to wise. If he couldn't understand that he couldn't understand nothing. "Mr. Godfrey my last husband, he worth all the two I got. I have the chillun. Wenus, Jane, Patient, Kate, Harry, Edmund, Jeemes--" =Source:= Mom Ellen Godfrey Age 100 October 1937 Conway, S.C. S-260-264-N Project #1655 Augustus Ladson Charleston, S.C. Page 1 No. Words 1654 MASTER WAS NEVER SO MOROCIOUS SLAVES CALLED COW-MEAT FISH SLAVE BORN WITH A 'CALL' I come frum Mt. Pleasant an' was bo'n January 15, 1855 on Mr. Lias Winning plantation on the Cooper River. I wus den six years ole w'en the war broke out an' could 'member a good many things. My ma an' pa bin name Anjuline an' Thomas Goodwater who had eight boys an' eight gals. I use to help my gran'ma 'round the kitchen who wus the cook for the fambly. I am the older of the two who is alive. Peter, the one alive, live on my place now, but I ain't hear from dem for two years. I don' know for certain dat he's alive or not. In slavery the people use to go an' catch possums an' rabbits so as to hab meat to eat. De driber use to shoot cows an in de night de slaves go an' skin um an' issue um 'round to all the slaves, 'speciall w'en cows come frum anodder plantation. He go 'round an' tell the slaves dey better go an' git some fish 'fore all go. Any time any one say e hab fish it wus understood e mean cow-meat. Our boss ain't nebber cetch on nor did e ebber miss any cow; Gie Simmons, de collud driber wus under Sam Black, the white overseer. Sam Black wusn't mean, he jus' had to carry out orders of Lias Winning, our master. Dere wus a vegetable garden dat had things for the year round so we could hab soup an' soup could be in the Big House. One day w'en I wus 'bout fourteen I did supin an' ma didn' like it. A bunch of gals bin home an' ma wheel my short over my head an' start to be at me right 'fore the gals. Dey begged her not to lick me an' she got mad jus' for dat. I couldn't help myself cuz she tie' de shirt over my head wood a string, my han's an' all wuz tie' in de shirt wood the string. In hot wedder gals an' boys go in dere under shirts an' nothin' else. Boys in dose days could fight but couldn' throw any one on the groun'. We had to stan' up an eider beat or git beat. I wus married in 1872 to Catharine, my wife. At our weddin' we had plenty to eat. There wus possums, wine, cake, an' plenty o' fruits. I had on a black suit, black shoes, white tie an' shirt. Catharine had on all white. I stay' wood Catharine people for a year 'til I wus abled to buil' on my lan'. I am a fadder of nineteen chillun; ten boys an' nine gals; only two now livin'. Lias Winning wusn' a mean man. He couldn' lick pa cus dey grow up togedder or at least he didn' try. But he liked his woman slave. One day ma wus in da field workin' alone an' he went there an' try to rape 'er. Ma pull his ears almos' off so he let 'er off an' gone an' tell pa he better talk to ma. Pa wus workin' in the salt pen an' w'en Mr. Winning tell him he jus' laugh cus e know why ma did it. Dere wus a fambly doctor on de plantation name James Hibbins. My eye use to run water a lot an' he take out my eye an' couldn' put it back in, dats why I am blin' now. He ax ma an' pa not to say anything 'bout it cus he'd lost his job an' hab his license take 'way. So ma an' pa even didn' say anything even to Mr. Winning as to the truth of my blin'ness. I wus by the "nigger quarters" one day w'en Blake, the overseer start' to lick a slave. She take the whip frum him an' close de door an' give him a snake beatin'. Our boss had 'bout shree hund'ed acres o' lan' an' ober a hund'ed slaves. De overseer never wake de slaves. Dey could go in the fiel' any time in the mornin' cus ebery body wus given their tas' work on Monday Mornin'. No body neber work w'en it rain or cole. Nuttin' make Lias Winning so mad as w'en one would steal; it make him morocious. Any one he catch stealin' wus sure to git a good whippin'. He didn' like for any one to fight eider. Dey tell me dat w'en slaves wus shipped to New Orleans dey had to be dress-up in nice clothes. My pa could read an' write cus he live' in the city here. His missus teach him. Isaac Wigfall run 'way an' went to Florida an' meet a white man on a horse with a gun. He ax de man for a piece o' tobacco. The man give him de gun to hole while he git the tobacco for him. Isaac take the gun an' point it at the man an' ax 'im, "you know wha' in dis gun?" De man got frighten' an' he tell de man "you better be gone or I'll empty it in you." The man gone an' come back wood a group o' men an' houndogs. He'd jus' make it to de river 'fore the dogs cetch him. He had a piece o' light-wood knot an' ebery time a dog git near he hit um on de neck an' kill' all o' them. The men went back to git more help an' dogs but w'en dey git back Isaac wus gone. Dere wus a collud church fifteen miles frum Mt. Pleasant w'ere we went to service. De preacher wus name' John Henry Doe. I use to like to sing dis song: Run away, run away Run away, run away Sojus of the cross. CHORUS Hole on, hole on Hole on, hole on Hole on, hole on Hole on, sojus of the cross. Ma too use to sing dat song. Dere use to be dances almos' ebery week an' the older boys an' gals walk twelve miles dis to be dere. Some time there wus a tamborine beater, some time dey use' ole wash tubs an' beat it wood sticks, an' some time dey jus' clap their han's. W'en any one die dey wus bury in the mornin' or early afternoon. I always play wood ghost cus I wus bo'n with a "call". I kin see the ghost jus' is plain is ebber. Some time I see some I know an' again others I don' know. Only thing you can' see their feet cus dey walk off de ground. W'en I use to see dem my sister would put sand on de fire den dey would go an' I wouldn' see any for a long time. One mornin' my uncle wus passin' a church an' a ghost appear on the porch. My uncle had a dog wood 'im. He start to run an' the dog start to run too, an' down the road dey went. He didn' hab on anything but his shirt an' he say he run so fas' 'til the wind had his shirt-tail stif as a board. He couldn' out run the dog, nor could the dog out run 'im. Dis is a spiritual dey use to sing durin' slavery: Climb up de walls of Zion Ah, Lord, Climb up de walls of Zion Ah, Lord, Climbin' up de walls of Zion Ah, Lord. Climbin' up de walls of Zion Ah, Lord, Great camp meetin' in the promise lan'. My pa use to sing dis song: See w'en' 'e rise Rise an' gone, See w'en' 'e rise Rise an' gone. Gone to Galilee on a Sunday morning. Oh, my Jesus rise an' gone to Galilee On a Sunday morning. Dey use to sing dis in experience meetin's: Go round, go round Look at the mornin' star, Go round, go round Got a soul to save. Chorus Wuan' for ole satan I wouldn' have to pray, Satan broke God's Holy Law I got a soul to save. Dey use to sing dis too: Room Anough, room anough Room anough, room anough Room anough in de Heaven I know, I can't stay away, Room anough in de Heaven I know, I can't stay away. =Source:= Interview with Thomas Goodwater, 108 Anson Street. P.S. The variations of words and sentences describe interviews with individuals, naturally. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, August 31, 1937 No. Words ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- Page 1. CHARLIE GRANT Ex-Slave, 85 Years "I born de 24th day of February, 1852 bout 1½ miles of Mars Bluff. My father, Western Wilson, belonged to Col. William Wilson en my mamma name Chrisie Johnson. She belonged to Dr. William Johnson en we stay dere wid him four or five years after freedom. Dr. Johnson old home still standin yonder. It de Rankin home. I drive carts under dat house lots of times in slavery time." (The house is built high off the ground.) "Dr. Johnson was a mighty able man, a stiff one, able one. He kill one hundred head of hogs to feed his niggers wid. Oh, I don' know how many acres of land in his plantation, but I reckon dere be bout 1,000 or more acres of land. He have slave house all de way from de side of his house to Tyner. De overseer stay on de lower end of street dat bout ¾ mile long en all de niggers house up from de overseer to Dr. Johnson house. Over hundreds of dem dere." "Dr. Johnson en his wife was good to dey niggers as dey could want anybody to be. Had plenty to eat en plenty clothes to wear all de time. He give all de slaves out something on Saturday or he give dem more any time dey needed it. Just go en say, 'Boss, I ain' got no rations en I need some.' Dey give us meat en bread en molasses to eat mostly, but didn' have no wheat flour den. Dey plant 10 or 20 acres of sprangle top cane en make de molasses en sugar out dat. Bill Thomas mash it together en cook it for de molasses. Den he take cane en cook it down right low en make sugar, but it wasn' like de sugar you buy at de store now days. Oh, yes, de slaves had dey own garden dat dey work at night en especially moonlight nights cause dey had to work in de field all day till sundown. Mamma had a big garden en plant collards en everything like dat you want to eat." "All de niggers dat live in de quarters had bunk beds to sleep on what was thing dat have four legs en mattress put on it. Have mixed bed dat dey make out of cotton en shucks. De boy chillun have shuck bed en de girl chillun have cotton bed." "De peoples bout dere have good clothes to wear in dat day en time. Dey was homemade clothes. My mamma spin en send dem to de loom house en den dey dye dem wid persimmon juice en different things like dat to make all kind of colors. Dey give us cotton suit to wear on Sunday en de nicest leather shoes dat dey make right dere at home. Clean de hair off de leather just as clean as anything en den de shoemaker cut en sew de shoes. Vidge Frank father de shoemaker. Vidge Frank live down dere at Claussen dis side de planing mill." "I hear dem tell dat my grandparents come from Africa. Dey fooled dem to come or I calls it foolin dem. De peoples go to Africa en when dey go to dock, dey blow whistle en de peoples come from all over de country to see what it was. Dey fool dem on de vessel en give dem something to eat. Shut dem up en don' let dem get out. Some of dem jump over board en try to get home, but dey couldn' swim en go down. Lots of dem still lost down dere in de sea or I reckon dey still down dere cause dey ain' got back yet. De peoples tell dem dey gwine bring dem to a place whe' dey can live." "I tellin you dat was a good place to live in slavery time. I didn' have to do nothin but mind de sheep en de cows en de goats in dat day en time. All de slaves dat was field hands, dey had to work mighty hard. De overseer, he pretty rough sometimes. He tell dem what time to get up en sound de horn for dat time. Had to go to work fore daybreak en if dey didn' be dere on time en work like dey ought to, de overseer sho whip dem. Tie de slaves clear de ground by dey thumbs wid nigger cord en make dem tiptoe en draw it tight as could be. Pull clothes off dem fore dey tie dem up. Dey didn' care nothin bout it. Let everybody look on at it. I know when dey whip my mamma. Great God, in de mornin! Dey sho had whippin posts en whippin houses too in dem days, but didn' have no jail. I remember dey whipped dem by de gin house. De men folks was put to de post what had holes bored in it whe' dey pull strings through to fasten dem up in dere. Dey catch nigger wid book, dey ax you what dat you got dere en whe' you get it from. Tell you bring it here en den dey carry you to de whippin post for dat. No men folks whip me. Women folks whip me wid four plaitted raw cowhide whip." "Niggers went to white peoples church in dat day en time. Dr. Johnson ride by himself en bought carriage for niggers to drive his girls dere to Hopewell Church below Claussen. You know whe' dat is, don' you? Miss Lizzie (Dr. Johnson's daughter) good teacher. She sent me to de gallery en I recollect it well she told me one Sunday dat if I didn' change my chat, dey were gwine to whip me. She say, 'You chillun go up in de gallery en behave yourself. If you don', I gwine beat you Monday.' Dey had catechism what dey teach you en she say, 'Charlie, who made you?' I tell her papa made me. She ax me another time who made me en I tell her de same thing another time. I thought I was right. I sho thought I was right. She took de Bible en told me God made me. I sho thought papa made me en I go home en tell papa Miss Lizzie say she gwine beat me Monday mornin. He ax me what I been doin cuttin up in church. I say, 'I wasn' doin nothin. She ax me who made me en I tell her you made me.' He told me dat God made me. Say he made Miss Lizzie en he made everybody. Ain' nobody tell me dat fore den, but I saved my beaten cause I changed my chat." "I hear tell bout de slaves would run away en go to Canada. Put nigger dogs after dem, but some of dem would get dere somehow or another. If I was livin on your place, I wouldn' dare to go to another house widout I had a permit from my Massa or de overseer. We slip off en de patroller catch en whip us. One time dey give my daddy a quilting en ax several women to come dere. Dey had a lot of chillun to cover en give a quilting so dey can cover dem up. Mistress tell dem to give so en so dis much en dat much scraps from de loom house. I was settin dere in de corner en dey blow cane. Common reed make music en dance by it. Dat de only way niggers had to make music. Dance en blow cane dat night at grandmother's house (Wilson place). Dey was just a pattin en dancin en gwine on. I was sittin up in de corner en look up en patrol was standin in de door en call patrol. When dey hear dat, dey know something gwine to do. Dey took Uncle Mac Gibson en whip him en den dey take one by one out en whip dem. When dey got house pretty thin en was bout to get old man Gibson, he take hoe like you work wid en put it in de hot ashes. People had to cut wood en keep fire burnin all de year cause didn' have no matches den. Old man Gibson went to de door en throwed de hot ashes in de patrol face. Dey try to whip us, but de old man Gibson tell dem dey got no right to whip his niggers. We run from whe' we at to our home. Dey tried four year to catch my daddy, but dey couln' never catch him. He was a slick nigger." "I don' remember what kind of medicines dey use in slavery time, but I know my mamma used to look after de slaves when dey get sick. Saw one child bout year or two old took sick en died en Lester Small want me to dig it up en carry him to de office. I expect dey gwine be dere, but dey never come. I took it out en laid it on de bank in sheet dat dey give me. Den I picked it up en carried it in de house. It smeared me up right bad, but I carried it in de office en he look at it. He put it in de corner en say, 'You can go.' Pay me $2.00. Dr. Johnson want to cut dat child open. Dat what he want wid it. I know dis much dat dey use different kind of roots for dey medicines en I see dem wear dime in dey clothes dat dey tell me was to keep off de rheumatism. Send to Philadelphia to get dat kind of dime." "I tellin you time hard dese days. I had stroke here en can' work, but I doin de best I can. Miss Robinson help me daughter do de best she can. Do washin en ironin. Miss Robinson say she gwine give me old age pension. I ask Miss Robinson, I say, 'I livin now en can' get nothin. If I die, would you help my chillun bury me?' She say, 'I will do de best I can to help put you away nice.' Miss Robinson good lady." =Source:= Charlie Grant, ex-slave, age 85, Florence, S.C. Personal interview by H. Grady Davis and Mrs. Lucile Young, Florence, S.C., May 11, 1937. Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County Folklore [HW: Grant, Rebecca Jane] NINETY TWO YEAR OLD NEGRO TELLS OF EARLY LIFE AS SLAVE In Hampton County at Lena, S.C., there lives an old negro woman who has just passed her ninety-second birthday, and tells of those days long ago when man was bound to man and families were torn apart against their will. Slowly she draws the curtain of Time from those would-be-forgotten scenes of long ago that cannot ever be entirely obliterated from the memory. "Well, just what is it you want to hear about, Missus?" "Anything, everything, Auntie, that you remember about the old days before the Civil War. Just what you've told your grand-daughter, May, and her friend, Alice, here, many times, is what I want to hear." "Tell her, mamma," said Alice with a whoop of laughter, "about the time when your Missus sent you to the store with a note!" "Oh that! Not that Missus?" "Yes, Auntie that!" "Well, I was just a little girl about eight years old, staying in Beaufort at de Missus' house, polishing her brass andirons, and scrubbing her floors, when one morning she say to me, 'Janie, take this note down to Mr. Wilcox Wholesale Store on Bay Street, and fetch me back de package de clerk gie (give) you.' "I took de note. De man read it, and he say, 'Uh-huh'. Den he turn away and he come back wid a little package which I took back to de Missus. "She open it when I bring it in, and say, 'Go upstairs, Miss!' "It was a raw cowhide strap bout two feet long, and she started to pourin' it on me all de way up stairs. I didn't know what she was whippin' me bout; but she pour it on, and she pour it on. "Turrectly she say, 'You can't say "Marse Henry", Miss? You can't say, "Marse Henry"!' "Yes'm. Yes'm. I kin say. 'Marse Henry'! "Marse Henry was just a little boy bout three or four years old. Come bout halfway up to me. Wanted me to say Massa to him, a baby!" "How did you happen to go to Beaufort, Auntie? You told me you were raised right here in Hampton County on the Stark Plantation." "I was, Miss. But my mother and four of us children (another was born soon afterwards) were sold to Mr. Robert Oswald in Beaufort. I was de oldest, then there was brother Ben, sister Delia, sister Elmira, and brother Joe that was born in Beaufort. My father belong to Marse Tom Willingham; but my mother belong to another white man. Marse Tom was always trying to buy us so we could all be together, but de man wouldn't sell us to him. Marse Tom was a Christian gentleman! I believe he seek religion same as any colored person. And pray! Oh, that was a blessed white man! A blessed white man! And Miss Mamie, his daughter, was a Christian lady. Every Wednesday afternoon she'd fill her basket with coffee, tea, sugar, tobacco and such things, and go round to de houses where dere was old folks or sick folks. She'd give um de things; and she'd read de scriptures to um, and she'd kneel down and pray for um. But we had to leave all de folks we knew when we was took to Beaufort. "All of us chillun, too little to work, used to have to stay at de 'Street'. Dey'd have some old folks to look after us--some old man, or some old woman. Dey'd clean off a place on de ground near de washpot where dey cooked de peas, clean it off real clean, den pile de peas out dere on de ground for us to eat. We'd pick um up in our hands and begin to eat. Sometimes dey'd cook hoe cakes in a fire of coals. Dey'd mix a little water with de meal and make a stiff dough that could be patted into shape with de hands. De cakes would be put right into the fire, and would be washed off clean after they were racked out from de coals. Sometimes de Massa would have me mindin' de birds off de corn. But 'fore I left Beaufort, I was doin' de Missus' washin' and ironin'. I was fifteen years old when I left Beaufort, at de time freedom was declared. We were all reunited den. First, my mother and de young chillun, den I got back. My uncle, Jose Jenkins come to Beaufort and stole me by night from my Missus. He took me wid him to his home in Savannah. We had been done freed; but he stole me away from de house. When my father heard that I wasn't wid de others, he sent my grandfather, Isaac, to hunt me. When he find me at my uncle's house, he took me back. We walked all back--sixty-four miles. I was foundered. You know if'n a foundered person will jump over a stick of burning lightwood, it will make um feel better." "Tell us, Auntie, more about the time when you and your mother and brothers and sisters had just gone to Beaufort. "Well mam. My mother say she didn't know a soul. All de time she'd be prayin' to de Lord. She'd take us chillun to de woods to pick up firewood, and we'd turn around to see her down on her knees behind a stump, aprayin'. We'd see her wipin' her eyes wid de corner of her apron, first one eye, den de other, as we come along back. Den, back in de house, down on her knees, she'd be aprayin'. One night she say she been down on her knees aprayin' and dat when she got up, she looked out de door and dere she saw comin' down out de elements a man, pure white and shining. He got right before her door, and come and stand right to her feet, and say, "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!" "Yes, Sir." "What is you frettin' bout so?" "Sir. I'm a stranger here, parted from my husband, with five little chillun and not a morsel of bread." "You say you're parted from your husband? You're not parted from your husband. You're jest over a little slash of water. Suppose you had to undergo what I had to. I was nailed to the Cross of Mount Calvary. And here I am today. Who do you put your trust in? "My mother say after dat, everything just flow along, just as easy. Now my mother was an unusually good washer and ironer. De white folks had been sayin', 'Wonder who it is that's makin' de clothes look so good.' Well, bout dis time, dey found out; and dey would come bringin' her plenty of washin' to do. And when dey would come dey would bring her a pan full of food for us chilluns. Soon de other white folks from round about heard of her and she was gettin' all de washin' she needed. She would wash for de Missus durin' de day, and for de other folks at night. And dey all was good to her. "One day de Missus call her to de house to read her something from a letter she got. De letter say that my father had married another woman. My mother was so upset she say, 'I hope he breaks dat woman's jawbone. She know she aint his lawful wife.' And dey say her wish come true. Dat was just what happened. "But we all got together again and I thanks de good Lord. I gets down on my knees and prays. I thanks de Lord for His mercy and His goodness to me every day. Every time I eats, I folds my hands and thanks Him for de food. He's de one that sent it, and I thanks Him. Then, on my knees, I thanks him. "Aunt Jane receives an ample pension since her husband fought on the side with the Federals. He was known as James Lawton before the war, but became, James Lawton Grant after the war." =Source:= Mrs. Delacy Wyman, Mgr. Pyramid Pecan Grove, Lena S.C. Rebecca Jane Grant, ninety-two year old resident of Lena, S.C. Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County REBECCA JANE GRANT "Yes, Ma'am," Aunt Beckie said, "I remembers you, you Miss Mamie Willingham' granddaughter. She was sure a good woman. She'd fill her buggy with sugar, tea, coffee and tobacco, and go every Thursday to see the sick and old people. She wouldn't except none--white or colored. No'm she wouldn't except none! That's the kind of folks you sprung from. You's got a good heritage. "The most of what I remembers before the war was when I was in Beaufort. They used to take care of the widows then. Take it by turns. There was a lady, Miss Mary Ann Baker, whose husband had been an organist in the church. When he died they would all take turns caring for Miss Mary Ann. I remember I'd meet her on de street and I'd say, 'Good mornin' Miss Mary Ann.' 'Morning Janie.' 'How you this mornin' Miss Mary Ann?' She'd say, 'Death come in and make alterations, and hard living make contrivance.' She'd take any old coat, or anything, and make it over to fit her children, and look good, too. She was a great seamstress. You'd see her children when they turn out on de street and they looked the same as some rich white people's children. Nearly all of her children was girls. Had one boy, as well as I kin remember. "Dey used to make de clothes for de slaves in de house. Had a seamstress to stay there in de house so de mistress could supervise the work. De cloth de clothes was made out of was hand woven. It was dyed in pretty colors--some green, some blue, and pretty colors. And it was strong cloth, too. Times got so hard during de war dat de white folks had to use de cloth woven by hand, themselves. De ladies would wear bustles, and hoops made out of oak. Old times, they'd make underbodies with whalebone in it. There was something they'd put over the hoop they call, 'Follow me, boy'. Used to wear the skirts long, with them long trains that trail behind you. You'd take and tuck it up behind on some little hook or something they had to fasten it up to. And the little babes had long dresses. Come down to your feet when you hold the baby in your lap. And embroidered from the bottom of the skirt all the way up. Oh, they were embroidered up in the finest sort of embroidery. "One day when I was nursing, my Missus' son--him and I been one age, 'bout the same age--he go up town and buy a false face. Now I didn't see nuthin' like dat before! He put dat thing on and hide behind de door. I had de baby in my arms, and when I start toward de door with de baby, he jump out at me! I threw the baby clean under the bed I was so scared. If it had of killed it, it wouldn't been me. It'd been dem! Cause I ain't never seen sech a thing before. "You say what schoolin' de slaves got? They didn't get none--unless it was de bricklayers and such like, and de seamstresses. If de masters wanted to learn them, they'd let 'em hold de book. But they wouldn't miss de catechism. And they was taught they must be faithful to the Missus and Marsa's work like you would to your heavenly Father's work. "Didn't have no colored churches. De drivers and de over-seers, de house-servants, de bricklayers and folks like dat'd go to de white folk's church. But not de field hands. Why dey couldn't have all got in de church. My marsa had three or four hundred slaves, himself. And most of the other white folks had just as many or more. But them as went would =sing=! Oh they'd sing! I remember two of 'em specially. One was a man and he'd sing bass. Oh, he'd roll it down! The other was a woman, and she'd sing soprano! They had colored preachers to preach to de field hands down in de quarters. Dey'd preach in de street. Meet next day to de marsa's and turn in de report. How many pray, how many ready for baptism and all like dat. Used to have Sabbath School in de white people's house, in de porch, on Sunday evening. De porch was big and dey'd fill dat porch! They never fail to give de chillun Sabbath School. Learn them de Sabbath catechism. We'd sing a song the church bells used to ring in Beaufort. You never hear it any more. But I remembers it." The old woman sang the song for me as melodiously and beautifully as any young person. The words are: "I want to be an angel, and with an angel stand, A crown upon my forehead, a harp within my hand. Right there before my Saviour, so glorious and so bright, I'll hear the sweetest music, and praise Him day and night." "Old Parson Winborn Lawton used to preach for us after the war until we got our church organized. He had a daughter named Miss Anna Lawton. At the white folk's church at Lawtonville they had a colored man who used to sing for them, by the name of Moses Murray. He'd sit there back of the organ and roll down on them bass. Roll down just like de organ roll! He was Moses Lawton at that time, you know. "You know how old I am? I'm in my 94th year. Ella has a dream book she looks up my age in and tells me what luck I have, and all that. I generally had good luck." =Source:= Rebecca Jane Grant, 93 years old. Lena, S.C. Project 1885-(1) FOLKLORE Spartanburg, S.C. District No. 4. May 26, 1937. Edited by: R.V. Williams STORIES OF EX-SLAVES "Mos' everybody know my name. You gotta help me. Oh, yeah, dat's what I goes by. It's Brack; dey calls me ole uncle Brack". "Look out, over dar!" said a negro who was standing nearby. "Uncle Brack, you know you is got mo' names dan dat. Why, everwhar you goes, dey calls you a different name." "Shet up, you sassy-mouth nigger!" Uncle Brack waved his stick as the younger negro moved out of its reach. Uncle Brack walks with two sticks nearly all the time. He is bent almost double. "He de greatest nigger rascal a-gwine," Uncle Brack said. "He jest dream all de time, and dreams don't nebber amount to nothin'. Dem dreams what he carries on wid in de daytime, dey is what makes him tell so many lies. De idea, talking like I has a different name everwhar I goes, when I don't go nowhar. Why, I can't hardly hobble to de sto'. "Dey mus' help me. I took down sick in November. Mr. Rice sent me things. You gov'ment folks ain't sont me much as Mr. Rice and de good white folks what likes me. I'se bawn ten years when Freedom come out. Benn seventy-odd years since Freedom, ain't it, Cap? "Dr. Jim Gibbs was mighty good to me. You sees dat I'se a-gwine about now. Dr. Gibbs come from Aiken to Union and set up a drug sto' whar Cohen's is now. Dr. Gibbs was a Charleston man, but I is a Kentucky darky. Dr. Gibbs brung me from Kentucky to Charleston when I was five years old. My ma was de one dat dey bought. Dr. Gibbs' wife was a Bohen up in Kentucky. When Dr. Gibbs fetch his wife to Charleston, he bought my ma from his wife's pa, and she fetch me along too. "It ten o'clock befo' I can creep. Dat de reason dat I has to beg. Wasn't fer my age, I wouldn't ax nobody fer nothing. De Lawd done spared me fer somethin' and I carries on de best dat I can. Doctor say he couldn't do no good. Dat been five years ago de fust time I tuck down. Doctors steadies about money too much. I trustes de Lawd, He spare me to dis day. I can't hardly walk, and I jus' can't bear fer nothing to touch dis foot. I has to use two sticks to walk. (Uncle Brack punched his foot with a stick; then looked up and saw two negro girls approaching.) "As the girls got opposite Uncle Brack, he threw his stick in front of them and they exclaimed, "Is dat you, Uncle Brack? How did you get up here?" Uncle Brack replied, "I never meant fer you to git by me. Jes kaize I'se ole, ain't no reason fer you not speaking to me." As the girls walked on, Uncle Brack said, "I flirts wid all de colored gals, and I also has a passing word for de white ladies as dey goes by." "I used to work at the baker shop over dar when Mr. James' chilluns was little saplings. I'se gwine on eighty-six and dem big boys raise dey hats to me. White people has respec' for me kaize I ain't never been in jail. I knows how to carry myself, and I specs to die dat way if I can. Lil chile what jus' could talk good gived me a penny dis mawning. "I used to could read. I learnt to read in Aiken, when school fust broke out to de colored people. Northern people teached me to read long time ago. Now my eyes is dim." =Source:= JOHN GRAVES, (Col. 86) N. Church St., Union, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (2/27/37) Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, Dist. 4: Sept. 8, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES OF EX-SLAVES "Miss Alice Cannon give me my age from de foundation of my mother. Dey been bringing my things out to me--is dat what you'se doing, setting down here by me? I was born on de first Christmas Day, I means de 25th of December, 1855; in Newberry County on de Sam Cannon place. You had to turn off de Ashford Ferry Road about seven and a half miles from de town of Newberry. My mother was Frances Cannon of near Cannon Creek Church. "I'll try to give you a straight definition. Old man Sim Gallman was my old missus' brother; she was Miss Viny Cannon. My boss was overseer for Mr. Geo. Gallman. We was on Mr. George's place. When Mr. Gallman started overseeing, Mr. Sim Gallman come over dar for dem to take his place and care for him. "My boss, Sam Cannon, promised me a place. Miss Viny Cannon suckled me and her son Henry at de same time, me on one knee and Henry on t'other. Dey calls me 'Timber'. Miss Sallie said to us atter Freedom, 'You ain't got no marsters'. I cried. My Ma let me stay wid Miss Sallie. Mr. Henry Gallman promised to marry Miss Sally Cannon, my young missus; but he went to de war and never come back home no mo'. Mr. Jeff Gallman went, but he come back wid one arm. Mr. Tom Gallman went and married his first cousin, Miss Addie Cannon; he never got to go to de war. "My father was a full-blooded Indian from Virginia. He was a refugee. But you know dat dey had a way of selling people back den. Somebody caught him and sold him at one of dem sales. De man what bought him was Mr. Jeff Buzzard. He went back to Virginia atter de surrender. I would not go. He took another woman on de place, and my mother would not let me go. De woman's name dat he took was Sara Danby. She had two brothers and a sister--Samuel, Coffee, and Jenny. "My mother was mixed Indian and African blood. My folks got 'stroyed up in a storm. My grandfather was named Isaac Haltiwanger. My grandmother, his wife, was named Annie. Dey had one child who was my mother; her name Frances. My grandmother's name was Molly Stone. "My parents, talking 'bout de Africans, how funny dey talked. Uncle Sonny and uncle Edmund Ruff was two of de old 'uns. Old man Charles Slibe was de preacher. He was a Methodist. My father was a Baptist. His white folks, de Billy Caldwells, prepared de barn for him to preach to dere slaves. In dat day, all de Africans was low chunky fellers and raal black. Dey said dat in Africa, little chilluns run 'round de house and de fattest one fall behind; den dey kill him and eat him. Dat's de worst dat I ever heard, O Lawd! "I hates dat Missus didn't whip me mo' and let me be teached to read and write so dat I wouldn't be so ignant. "For de neuralgia, take and tie two or three nutmegs around yo' neck. Tie brass buttons around de neck to stop de nose a-bleeding." Greeley's house has four rooms and it is in great need of repair. It is badly kept and so are the other houses in "Fowler's Row". He lives with his wife, Eula, but she was not home during the visit. "My house 'longs to a widder woman. She white but I does not know her name. Her collector is Mr. Wissnance (Whisenant). He got a office over here on E. Main St., right up in de town. I rents by de month but I pays by de week--a dollar. De house sho is gwine down. Rest of de houses on de Row is repaired, but mine ain't yet; so she have Mr. Wissnance drap off twenty-five cents, and now I is paying only seventy-five cents a week. Me and Eula has to go amongst de white folks fer bread and other little things. Ain't got no bread from 'Uncle Sam' since last August. See my tater patch, wid knee-high vines. "De case worker want to git my age and whar I's born. I told her jest what I told you. She say she got to have proof; so I told her to write Mr. Cannon Blease who was de sheriff. I means de High Sheriff, fer nigh thirty years in Newberry. And does you know, she never even heard of Mr. Cannon Blease. Never had no money but Mr. Blease knowed it, so he up and sont my kerrect age anyway. It turn't out jest 'zactly like I told you it was. What worried me de mostest, is dat she never knowed Mr. Cannon Blease. Is you ever heard of sech a thing as a lady like dat not knowing Mr. Blease? "Now Mr. Dr. Snyder is a man dat ain't setting here 'sleep. He's a mill'onaire, kaise he run Wofford College and it must take a million dollars to do dat, it sho must. My case worker knowed him. "De case worker calls me 'Preacher', but I ain't got up to dat yet--I ain't got dat fer. I been sold out twice in insurance. I give my last grand-baby de name 'Roosevelt', and his daddy give him 'Henry'. His Ma never give him none. Some folks loads down babies and kills dem wid names, but his ma never wanted to do dat. So us jest calls him Henry Roosevelt. Us does not drap none and us does not leave none out. "Went to church one night and left my pocketbook in a box on my mantel. Had $120.00 in it in paper, and $8 in silver. Some niggers dat had been watching me broke down my do' dat I had locked. Dey took de $120 and left de $8. Went home and I seed dat broke do'. I went straight to my mantel and see'd what was done. Dey never bothered de books and papers in dat box. Next morning, de nigger what lived next do' to me was gone. I went to a old fortune teller, a man; he say I know dat you lost a lot. De one I thought got de money, he said, was not de right one. He say dat three hobos got it. One had red hair, one sandy hair and de other had curly hair. He say somebody done cited dem and dey sho going to be caught dis very day. He say dat dey come from Asheville. But he was wrong, kaise dey ain't never caught no three hobos dat I ever learn't about. "One day when I was plowing, I struck de plow 'ginst something. My plow knocked off de handle. I heard money rattle. It ringed three times. I couldn't see nothing, so I called my wife and son and dey looked, but we never found but five cents. Never in my life did I hear of a bank in slavery times. Everybody buried dere money and sometimes dey forgot where dey put it. I thought dat I had run on some of dat money den, but I never found none. Lots of money buried somewhars, and folks died and never remembered whar it was. "A nigger republican leader got kilt. I hel't de hosses fer de Ku klux. Great God-a-mighty, Dave and Dick Gist and Mr Caldwell run de sto' at de Rutherford place in dem times. Feeder of dem hosses was Edmund Chalmers. Mr. Dick say, 'Hello, Edmund, how come dem mules so po' when you got good corn everywhar--what, you stealing corn, too?' Mr. Oatzel say, 'Yes, I cotch him wid a basket on his shoulder.' 'Whar was you carrying it?' Edmund say, 'To Mr. Caldwell'. Mr. Caldwell say he ain't see'd no corn. Dey took Edmund to de jail. He had been taking corn and selling it to de carpetbaggers, and dat corn was fer de Ku Klux hosses. "Dere was a Mr. Brown, a white man, dat come up to live in Newberry. Dey called him a refugee. Us called him Mr. 'Refugee Brown'. He was sorter destituted and not a bit up-to-date. He settled near de Gibson place. I fed de Gibson boys' fox-dogs about dat time fer dem. "I want to git right wid you, now; so I can meet you lovely. In '73, I thought someone was shaking my house; I come out doors wid my gun; see'd white and colored coming together. Everybody was scared. All got to hollering and some prayed. I thought dat de earth gwine to be shook to pieces by morning. I thought of old Nora (Noah). "Dem Bible folks see'd a little hand-span cloud. Nora had done built him a house three stories high. Dat little cloud busted. Water riz in de second story of de wicked king's palace. He sont fer de northern lady. When she come a-shaking and a-twisting in de room de king fell back in his chair. He say dat he give her anything she want, all she got to do is ask fer it. She say to cut off John Wesley's head and bring it to her. De king had done got so suluctious dat he done it. Dat king and all of dem got drowned. Nora put a lot of things in de ark dat he could have left out, sech as snakes and other varments; but de ark floated off anyhow. No sir, dat wasn't de Clifton flood, dat was Nora's flood." =Source:= Sim Greeley (82), 280 Fowler's Row, Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (8/27/37) S-260-264-N Project #1655 Augustus Ladson Charleston, S.C. Page I No. Words: 1497 EX-SLAVE BORN DECEMBER 25, 1843 COWARD MASTER RAN OUT CIVIL WAR--LEAVING HIM "I was bo'n in Charleston at 82 King Street, December 25, 1843. The house is still there who' recent owner is Judge Whaley. My ma an' pa was Kate an' John Green. My ma had seben chillun (boys) an I am the last of 'em. Their names was: Henry, Scipio, Ellis, Nathaniel, Hobart, Mikell, an' myself. "From the South-East of Calhoun Street, which was then Boundry Street, to the Battery was the city limit an' from the North-West of Boundry Street for sev'als miles was nothin' but fa'm land. All my brothers was fa'm han's for our master, George W. Jones. I did all the house work 'til the war w'en I was given to Mr. Wm. Jones's son, Wm. H. Jones as his "daily give servant" who' duty was to clean his boots, shoes, sword, an' make his coffee. He was Firs' Lieutenant of the South Car'lina Company Regiment. Bein' his servant, I wear all his cas' off clothes which I was glad to have. My shoes was call' brogan that has brass on the toe. W'en a slave had one of 'em you couldn't tell 'em he wasn't dress' to death. "As the "daily give servant" of Mr. Wm. H. Jones I had to go to Virginia durin' the war. In the battle at Richmond Gen'al Lee had Gen'al Grant almos' beaten. He drive him almos' in the Potomac River, an' then take seven pieces of his artillery. W'en Gen'al Grant see how near defeat he was, he put up a white flag as a signal for time out to bury his deads. That flag stay' up for three weeks while Gen'al Grant was diggin' trenches. In the meantime he get message to President Lincoln askin' him to sen' a reinforcement of sojus. Gen'al Sherman was in charge of the regiment who sen' word to Gen'al Grant to hol' his position 'til he had captur' Columbia, Savannah, burn out Charleston while on his way with dispatch of 45,000 men. W'en Gen'al Sherman got to Virginia, the battle was renew' an' continued for seven days at the en' of which Gen'al Lee surrender' to Gen'al Grant. Durin' the seven days fight the battle got so hot 'til Mr. William Jones made his escape an' it was two days 'fore I know he was gone. One of the Gen'als sen' me home an' I got here two days 'fore Mr. William got home. He went up in the attic an' stay' there 'til the war was end'. I carry all his meals to him an' tell him all the news. Master show was a frighten' man; I was sorry for him. That battle at Richmond, Virginia was the wors' in American history. Dr. George W. Jones, my master, ran a blockade. He had ships roamin' the sea to capture pirates ships. He had a daughter, Ellen, who was always kin' to the slaves. Master had a driver, William Jenkins, an' an' a' overseer, Henry Brown. Both was white. The driver see that the work was done by the supervision of the overseer. Master' fa'm amounted to twenty-five acres with 'bout eighteen slaves. The overseer blow the ho'n, which was a conch shell, at six in the mornin' an' every slave better answer w'en the roll was call' at seven. The slaves didn't have have to work on Sat'day. Mr. Ryan had a private jail on Queen Street near the Planters Hotel. He was very cruel; he'd lick his slaves to death. Very seldom one of his slaves survive' a whippin'. He was the opposite to Govenor Aiken, who live' on the North-West corner of Elizabeth an' Judith Streets. He had several rice plantations, hundreds of his slaves he didn't know. Not 'til John C. Calhoun' body was carried down Boundry Street was the name change' in his honor. He is bury in St. Phillip Church yard, 'cross the street with a laurel tree planted at his head. Four men an' me dig his grave an' I clear' the spot w'ere his monument now stan'. The monument was put up by Pat Callington, a Charleston mason. I never did like Calhoun 'cause he hated the Negro; no man was ever hated as much as him by a group of people. The Work House (Sugar House) was on Magazine Street, built by Mr. Columbus C. Trumbone. On Charlmer Street is the slave market from which slaves was taken to Vangue Range an' auctione' off. At the foot of Lawrence Street, opposite East Bay Street, on the other side of the trolly tracks is w'ere Mr. Alonze White kept an' sell slaves from his kitchen. He was a slave-broker who had a house that exten' almos' to the train tracks which is 'bout three hundred yards goin' to the waterfront. No train or trolly tracks was there then 'cause there was only one railroad here, the Southern, an' the depot was on Ann Street w'ere the Baggin' Mill now is. W'en slaves run away an' their masters catch them, to the stockade they go w'ere they'd be whipp' every other week for a number of mornins. An' de for God sake don' you be cotch with pencil an' paper, dat was a major crime. You might as well had kill your master or missus. One song I know I use to sing to the slaves w'en master went 'way, but I wouldn't be so fool as to let him hear me. What I kin 'member of it is: Master gone away But darkies stay at home, The year of jubilee is come An' freedom will begun. A group of white men was in Doctor Wilson' drug store one day w'en I went to buy something. They commence' to ax me questions concernin' some historical happenin's an' I answer them all. So Dr. Wilson bet 'me that I couldn't tell who fired the firs' shot on Fort Sumter. I tell him I did know an' he offer's dollar if I was right. I tell him I wasn't goin' tell 'less the dollar was given to one of the men. He did so an' I told them it was Edward Ruffin who fired the firs' shot an' the dollar was mine. Anderson was determine' not to leave the fort but w'en 'bout four shells had hit the fort he was glad to be able to come out. W'en Sherman was comin' through Columbia, he fired an' a shell lodged in the South-East en' ef the State House which was forbidden to be fix'. He was comin' down Main Street w'en that happens'. The firs' two people that was hung in Charleston was Harry an' Janie; husban' an' wife who was slaves of Mr. Christopher Black. Mr. Black had them whip' an' they planned to kill the whole fambly. They poison the breakast one morning an' if two of the fambly han' been sleep, they too would a been dead. The others die almos' instantly. An investigation was made an' the poison discovered an the two slaves hung on the big oak in the middle of Ashley Avenue. If'en any in your owner' fambly was goin' to be married the slaves was dress' in linen clothes to witness the ceremony. Only special slaves was chosen to be at the weddin'. Slaves was alway ax how they like' the one who was comin' in the [TN: two illegible words.] myself by sayin' nice things 'bout the person en hate' the person at the same time. Slaves was always bury in the night as no one could stop to do it in the day. Ole boards was use' to make the coffin that was blackened with shoe polish. After the war I did garden work. Mr. Stiles Bee on James Islan' give track of lan' to the Negroes for a school jus' after the war; he put up a shed-like buildin' with a few chairs in it. It was at the place call Cut Bridge. Henry McKinley, a Negro who ran as congressman from Charleston jus' after the war, lived on Calhoun Street. He was a mail carrier. He made an oath to Almighty God that if he was elected, he'd never betray his trus'. In one of his speeches he said: "I hope God 'ill paralize me should I do as others have done." He was elected an' never see the Congress. One white man from Orangeburg, Samuel Dibbin, bought him out. An' three weeks later McKinley took a stroke that carry him to a' early grave. James Wright, a Negro judge of Charleston in 1876 sol' out for ten thousand dollars--a dime of which he hasn't receive' yet. He 'cross the bridge an' stay in a' ole house an' die there. The Probate Judge, A. Whipper, refused to give up the books of Judge Wright to the white man he sell out to. Judge Whipper went in Beauford jail an' die there 'cause he wouldn't give up the books. Wright kept such a poor record that Judge Whipper was ashamed to have them expose', an' that's why he didn't give up the books. Henry Smalls, owner of the Smalls Lot on Comin' Street was Second Lieutenant on the Police Force. Henry Fordham was Second Assistant Lieutenant. Captain James Williams, Third Assistant Lieutenant who become Captain of the Military Department an' forme' the Carolina Light Infantry which was recogniz' 'til Ben Tillman call' them on the Green an' take their guns. I was janitor at Benedict College in Columbia for two years an' at Clafflin in Orangeburg for twelve. The Presidents under which I worke' was: Allen Webster, grandson of the dictionary maker; J.C. Cook; an' Dr. Duntin. Now all that is pass' an I'm livin' from han' to mouth. The banks took all my money an' I can't work. I do the collectin' for my lan'lord an' he give me a room free. If it wasn't for that I don't know what I'd do. =Source:= Interview with Elijah Green, 156 Elizabeth Street, Charleston, S.C. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, Dist. 4 Sept. 7, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES OF EX-SLAVES "Cap, I was born on de Bonner place, five miles from Gaffney. Jest about de very first recollection dat sticks wid me, is my mammy a-hiding me when de Ku Klux was riding. She heard de hosses a-trotting and she rushed us out'n our beds and took us and buried us in de fodder out in our barn, and told us to be as quiet as possible. Both my parents went and hid in de edge of de woods. De Ku Klux passed on by widout even holding up dere hosses. "During slavery my mother went to Mississippi wid her mistress, Artimesse Smith Ross. Soon atter Freedom dey come back to Smith's Ford on de Pacolet. Steers pulled 'slides', wid de white folk belongings on de slides. We niggers went to meeting on de slides. De ends of de slides was curved upward. When we got to meeting, we went under de brush arbors. Fresh brush was kept cut so dat de sun would not shine through. Under de arbors we sat on slabs and de preacher stood on de ground. We had better meetings den dan dey have now. Everybody had better religion den dan dey does now. In dem days religion went further dan it does now. Yes sir, religion meant something den, and went somewhars. My pappy rode a ginny to preaching. "Dere was not as much devilment as dere is now. Times was better fer niggers. One day last week I went to meeting and took dinner. We eat on a slab table and had ice tea to drink. Meas was dere drinking on de side, and all other devilment dey could carry on in sight of de church. De preacher eat wid us. Some eat out of dere buckets and would not come and be wid de crowd. Long time ago, nobody didn't act greedy like dat. Girls cut up like boys now, and nobody don't look down on dem. "When I was a boy, girls acted like de old folks and dey did not carry on. Nobody ever heard of a girl drinking and smoking den. If a girl made a mistake in de old days she was throwed overboard. Why when I was little, us boys went in a-washing wid de girls and never thought nothing 'bout it. We was most grown befo' we know'd a thing 'bout man and woman. I was fifteen years old when I got my first shoes and dey had brass toes. We played ball wid de girls in de house, and sung songs like: 'Goosey, Goosey Gander'." "We had wheat bread only once a week," said Jesse Stevenson who came up and entered the conversation, "and dat was on Sunday. I had a good time at Green's wedding. Green married Carrie Phillips who lived two miles above me. We boys talked to de girls in school. We was around twenty years old befo' we went to school. Of course dat was atter Freedom. De teacher would light on both of us fer talking across de books. Carrie was about a year younger dan Green. Green, tell de gentleman (interviewer) what you said when you ax'd uncle Ben fer Carrie." "I say," said Green, "come out into de cool of de yard, please sir, if you will uncle Ben; I has a question of de utmost concern to us both to lay at your feet'. Uncle Ben say, 'Look here, young nigger, don't you know dat I ain't got no business gwine out in no night dew--what ails you nohow?' I 'lows, 'Uncle Ben, it is a great matter of life and death dat I wishes to consult wid you over'. He clear his throat and spit in de fire and say, 'Wait, I'll come if it's dat urgent.' I took him under a tree so dat no dew wouldn't drap on his head and give him a cold. I said, 'I want to marry your daughter, uncle Ben.' He say, 'Which one is dat dat you wishes, Sir?' 'De purttiest one, Carrie,' says I; 'dat is, if you ain't got no objection.' "Befo' I axed fer Carrie I was loving two gals, but of course I drapped de other'n after uncle Ben give me a favorable answer. Me and Carrie married at Miss Twitty Thompson's house. Dat whar uncle Ben had raised Carrie. Carrie's missus give her a good wedding supper wid chicken, ham, turkey, cake and coffee, and tater salad. Seventy-five people is what Miss Twitty let Carrie ax to dat supper. All dem niggers was dere, too. "I had on a grey suit wid big stripes in it. Carrie had on a white dress and a white veil. We used dat veil to keep de skeeters off'n our first two babies. It made de best skeeter net. We married one Sunday morning at 'leven o'clock and had dinner at twelve; give de preacher twenty-five cents. Never no one give us no presents. We stayed at my pappy's house fer years. He give us a bed, a bureau and a washstand. Carrie's folks give us de bed clothes, and dats what we started on. Jesse, tell de gentleman what you did at my wedding." "I stood wid Green," said Jesse Stevenson, "and I had on a brown suit wid grey stripes gwine up and down it. Atter de ceremony all de gals wanted to swing me and Green, but Carrie grabbed him and shake her head and grin; so I got all de swinging." Green said, "Me and Carrie never went no whar atter our marriage. We stayed on wid my pappy and worked. We been doing well ever since." =Source:= W. M. Green (71); Jesse Stevenson (71), Rt. 1, Gaffney, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims 8/23/37 Project #-1655 Phoebe Faucette Hampton County Approx. 390 words FOLKLORE ADELINE GREY 82 YEAR OLD Ex-Slave Adeline Grey seemed in good health as she sat before her granddaughter's comfortable fire. She spoke quietly, with little excitement, and readily recalled events of her early childhood. "I was a girl when freedom was declare, an' I kin remember 'bout de times. My Ma used to belong to ole man Dave Warner. I remember how she used to wash, and iron, an' cook for de white folks durin' slavery time. "I member when de Yankees come through. I wuz right to de old boss' place. It wuz on de river side. Miss Jane Warner, she wuz de missus. De place heah now--where all de chillun raise. Mr. Rhodes got a turpentine still dere now--jes after you pass de house. Dey burn de ginhouse, de shop, de buggyhouse, de turkeyhouse an' de fowlhouse. Start to set de cornhouse afire, but my Ma say: 'Please sir, don't burn de cornhouse. Gie it to me an' my chillun.' So dey put de fire out. I member when dey started to break down de smokehouse door, an' ole Missus come out an' say: 'Please don't break de door open, I got de key.' So dey quit. I remember when dey shoot down de hog. I remember when dey shoot de two geese in de yard. Dey choked my Ma. Dey went to her an' dey say; 'Where is all de white people gold an' silver?' My Ma say she don't know. 'You does know!' dey say, an' choke her till she couldn't talk. Dey went into de company room where de ole Miss wuz stayin' an' start tearin' up de bed. Den de captain come an' de ole Miss say to him: 'Please don't let 'em tear up my bed,' an' de captain went in dere an' tell 'em 'Come out!'. De ole Miss wasn't scared. But de young Miss May was sure scared. She was courtin' at de time. She went off an' shut herself up in a room. De ole Miss ask de captain: 'Please go in an' talk to de Miss, she so scared'. So he went in an' soon he bring her out. We chillun wasn't scared. But my brother run under de house. De soldiers went under dere a-pokin' de bayonets into de ground to try to find where de silver buried, an' dey ran 'cross him. 'What you doin' under heah?' dey say. 'I'se jes runnin' de chickens out, sir,' he say. 'Well, you kin go on out,' dey say. 'We aint gwine to hurt you.' 'I remember when dey kill de hog an' cook 'em. Cook on de fire where de little shop been. Cook 'em an' eat 'em. Why didn't dey cook 'em on de stove in de house? Didn't have no stoves. Jes had to cook on de fireplace. Had an oven to fit in de fireplace. I remember when my Ma saw de Yankees comin' dat mornin' she grab de sweet potatoes dat been in dat oven and throw 'em in de barrel of feathers dat stayed by de kitchen fireplace. Jes a barrel to hold chicken feathers when you pick 'em. Dat's all we had to eat dat day. Dem Yankees put de meat in de sack an' go on off. It was late den, 'bout dusk. I remember how de Missus bring us all 'round de fire. It was dark den. 'Well chillun,' she say, 'I is sorry to tell you, but de Yankees has carry off your Ma. I don't know if you'll ever see her any mo.' Den we chillun all start cryin.' We still a-sittin' dere when my Ma come back. She say she slip behind, an' slip behind, slip behind, an' when she come to a little pine thicket by de side of de road, she dart into it, drop de sack of meat dey had her carryin, an' start out for home. When we had all make over her, we say to her den: 'Well why didn't you bring de sack of meat 'long wid you?' Dey took de top off ole Marse John carriage, put meat in it, an' made him pull it same as a horse. Carry him way down to Lawtonville, had to pull it through de branch an' all. Got de rock-a-way back though--an' de ole man. I remember dat well. Had to mend up de ole rock-a-way. An' it made de ole man sick. He keep on sick, sick, until he died. I remember how he'd say: 'Don't you all worry'. An' he'd go out in de orchard. Dey'd say: 'Don't bother him! Jes let him be! He want to pray!' Atter a while he died an' dey buried him. His name was John Stafford. Dey Massa wasn't dere. I guess he was off to de war. "But after freedom was de time when dey suffered more dan before. Dese chillun don't know how dey blessed. My Ma cooked for de white folks for one year after freedom. I remember dey cook bread, an' dey ain't have nuthin' to eat on it. Was thankful for a cornbread hoecake baked in de fireplace. But dey had some things. Had buried some meat, an' some syrup. An' dey had some corn. My Ma had saved de cornhouse. De rice burn up in de ginhouse. After freedom, dey had to draw de best thread out of de old clothes an' weave it again. Ole Miss had give my Ma a good moss mattress. But de Yankees had carry dat off. Rip it up, throw out de moss, an' put meat in it. Fill it full of meat. I remember she had a red striped shawl. One of de Yankee take dat an' start to put in under his saddle for a saddle cloth. My brother go up to him an' say: 'Please sir, don't carry my Ma's shawl. Dat de only one she got.' So he give it back to him. To keep warm at night, dey had to make dere pallet down by de fire; when all wood burn out, put on another piece. Didn't have nuthin' on de bed to sleep on. "I remember when de ole Miss used to have to make soap, out of dese red oaks. Burn de wood, an' catches de ashes. Put de ashes in a barrel wid a trough under it, an' pour de water through de ashes. If de lyewater dat come out could cut a feather, it was strong. "Used to weave cloth after freedom. Used to give a brooch (hank) or two to weave at night. I'se sometimes thread de needle for my Ma, or pick out de seed out de cotton, an' make it into rolls to spin. Sometimes I'd work de foot pedal for my Ma. Den dey'd warp de thread. If she want to dye it, she'd dye it. She'd get indigo--you know dat bush--an' boil it. It was kinder blue. It would make good cloth. Sometimes, de cloth wuz kinder strip, one strip of white, an' one of blue. I remember how dey'd warp de thread across de yard after it wuz dyed, an' I remember seem' my Ma throw dat shuttle through an' weave dat cloth. I member when de ole Miss made my Mamma two black dresses to wear through de winter. She'd keep 'em clean; had two so she could change. "I don't know why dey didn't burn de house. Must have been 'cause de captain wuz along. De house dere now. One of de chimney down. I don't think dey ever put it up again. Colored folks are in it now. "I never did know my Pa. He was sold off to Texas when I was young. My mother would say, 'Well, chillun, you aint never known your Pa. Joe Smart carry him off to Texas when he went. I don't guess you'll ever see him.' My father wuz name Charles Smart. He never did come back. Joe Smart come back once, an' say dat our father is dead. He say our Pa had three horses an' he want one of them to be sent to us chillun heah; but no arrangements had been made to get it to us. You see he had chillun out dere, too. "Atter freedom, my Ma plow many a day, same as a man, for us chillun. She work for ole man Bill Mars. Den she marry again. Part of de time dey work for Mr. Benny Lawton, de one-arm man, what lost his arm in de war. Dese chillun don't know what hard times is. Dey don't know how to preciate our blessings. =Source:= Adeline Grey, 82-year old resident of Luray, S.C. Project #1655 Everett R. Pierce Columbia, S.C. INTERVIEW WITH FANNIE GRIFFIN EX-SLAVE 94 YEARS. "You wants me to tell you all what I 'members 'bout slavery in slavery time? Well ma'am, I was just a young gal then and I's a old woman now, nigh on to ninety-four years old; I might be forgot some things, but I'll tell you what I 'members best. My massa, Massa Joe Beard, was a good man, but he wasn't one of de richest men. He only had six slaves, three men and three women, but he had a big plantation and would borrow slaves from his brother-in-law on de 'joining plantation, to help wid de crops. I was de youngest slave, so Missy Grace, dats Massa Joe's wife, keep me in de house most of de time, to cook and keep de house cleaned up. I milked de cow and worked in de garden too. My massa was good to all he slaves, but Missy Grace was mean to us. She whip us a heap of times when we ain't done nothing bad to be whip for. When she go to whip me, she tie my wrists together wid a rope and put that rope thru a big staple in de ceiling and draw me up off de floor and give me a hundred lashes. I think 'bout my old mammy heap of times now and how I's seen her whipped, wid de blood dripping off of her. All that us slaves know how to do, was to work hard. We never learn to read and write nor we never had no church to go to, only sometimes de white folks let us go to their church, but we never jine in de singing, we just set and listen to them preach and pray. De graveyard was right by de church and heap of de colored people was scared to go by it at night, they say they see ghosts and hants, and sperits but I ain't never see none, don't believe there is none. I more scared of live people than I is dead ones; dead people ain't gwine to harm you. Our massa and missus was good to us when we was sick; they send for de doctor right off and de doctor do all he could for us, but he ain't had no kind of medicine to give us 'cepting sperits of turpentine, castor oil, and a little blue mass. They ain't had all kinds of pills and stuff then, like they has now, but I believe we ain't been sick as much then as we do now. I never heard of no consumption them days; us had pneumonia sometime tho'. You wants to know if we had any parties for pastime? Well ma'am, not many. We never was allowed to have no parties nor dances, only from Christmas Day to New Year's eve. We had plenty good things to eat on Christmas Day and Santa Claus was good to us too. We'd have all kinds of frolics from Christmas to New Years but never was allowed to have no fun after that time. I 'members one time I slip off from de missus and go to a dance and when I come back, de dog in de yard didn't seem to know me and he bark and wake de missus up and she whip me something awful. I sho didn't go to no more dances widout asking her. De patarollers (patrollers) would ketch you too, if you went out after dark. We most times stay at home at night and spin cloth to make our clothes. We make all our clothes, and our shoes was handmade too. We didn't have fancy clothes like de people has now. I likes it better being a slave, we got along better then, than we do now. We didn't have to pay for everything we had. De worst time we ever had was when de Yankee men come thru. We had heard they was coming and de missus tell us to put on a big pot of peas to cook, so we put some white peas in a big pot and put a whole ham in it, so that we'd have plenty for de Yankees to eat. Then when they come, they kicked de pot over and de peas went one way and de ham another. De Yankees 'stroyed 'most everything we had. They come in de house and told de missus to give them her money and jewels. She started crying and told them she ain't got no money or jewels, 'cepting de ring she had on her finger. They got awfully mad and started 'stroying everything. They took de cows and horses, burned de gin, de barn, and all de houses 'cept de one massa and missus was living in. They didn't leave us a thing 'cept some big hominy and two banks of sweet potatoes. We chipped up some sweet potatoes and dried them in de sun, then we parched them and ground them up and that's all we had to use for coffee. It taste pretty good too. For a good while we just live on hominy and coffee. No ma'am, we ain't had no celebration after we was freed. We ain't know we was free 'til a good while after. We ain't know it 'til General Wheeler come thru and tell us. After that, de massa and missus let all de slaves go 'cepting me; they kept me to work in de house and de garden." Home address: 2125 Calhoun St. Columbia, S.C. Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 22, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I will be 85 years old dis coming August. My master said I was 14 years old de August coming after freedom. "My master was Billy Scott who had seven or eight hundred acres of land, and 48 slaves. He wouldn't have no white overseers, but had some nigger foremen dat sometimes whipped de niggers, and de master would whip dem, too. He was a fair man, not so good and not so mean. He give us poor quarters to live in, and sometimes plenty to eat, but sometimes we went hungry. He had a big garden, plenty cows, hogs and sheep. De most we had ter eat, was corn, collards, peas, turnip-greens and home-made molasses. We had wheat bread on Sundays. It was made from flour grind at our own mill. We didn't have but one day off, that was Christmas Day and den we had to grind our axes. "We made our clothes out of cotton and wool mixed, made dem at home wid our own cards and spinning wheels. We made our shoes out of leather tanned at home, but had to use woolen shoes after de war, which would wear out and split open in three weeks. "My daddy was Amos Wilson and mammy was Carline Griffin. I had some brothers and sisters. When freedom come, de master come to us and told us de damn Yankees done freed us, 'what you gwinter do? If you want ter stay on wid me, I will give you work.' We stayed fer awhile. "The patrollers caught me once when I run off. I run fast and lost my hat and dey got it. I saw some slaves sold on de block. Dey was put in a ring and sold by crying out de price. We didn't learn to read and write, not allowed to. De niggers went to de corn shuckings and was give pumpkin custards to eat and liquor. Dey wasn't allowed to dance, but sometimes we had secret dances, shut up in de house so de master couldn't hear us. "After de war, we went hunting and fishing on Sundays. We never had Saturday afternoons off. We killed wild deer and other things. Once de master killed 14 squirrels in three quarters of hour. "We raised our own tobacco, the master did, for home use. Most always a small patch was planted. "De master once saw ghosts, he come from his sisters and passed de graveyard and saw 9 cows with no heads. His horse jest flew home. Most white folks didn't believe in ghosts, but dat is one time de master believed he saw some. "I went wid de Red Shirts, belonged to de company and went to meetings wid dem. I voted fer Hampton. Befo' dat, de Ku Klux had bad niggers dodging like birds in de woods. Dey caught some and threw dem on de ground and whipped dem, but de master say he don't know nothing 'bout it as he was asleep. Dey caught a nigger preacher once and made him dance, put him in muddy water and walloped him around in de mud. "Once seven Indians come in our neighborhood an call fer meat, meal and salt. Dere was three men and four women. Dey cooked all night, murmuring something all de time. Next morning three squirrels was found up a tree, and de Indians shot 'em down wid bow and arrow. "One time I saw horses froze to death. Dey couldn't get dere breath, and de people took warm water and wash dere foreheads. I was a small boy den. My master had 46 guineas. "I married Nancy Robinson who belonged to Robert Calmes. She was living at de Gillam place near Rich Hill. "We used to ask a riddle like this: Love I stand, Love I sit, Love I hold in my right hand. What is it? It was made up when an old woman had a little dog named 'Love'. She killed it and put a part of it, after it was baked, in her stockings; part in her shoes; part in back of her dress, and part in her gloves. A nigger was going to be hung the next Friday, and told if he guess the riddle he would be turned loose. He couldn't guess it, but was turned loose anyway. "I think Abe Lincoln might ter done good, but he had us all scared to death, took our mules and burned our places. Don't know anything about Jeff Davis. Booker Washington is all right. "I joined de church when 28 years old, because I thought it was right. Wanted to git right and git to God's Kingdom. I think everybody ought to join de church. "O' course I rather it not be slavery time, but I got more ter eat den dan now. Den we didn't know what ter do, but now we perish ter death." =Source:= Madison Griffin (84), Whitmire, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (6/18/1937) Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg, Dist. 4 June 7, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in old Edgefield county, about three miles below what is now Saluda Courthouse. I was a slave of Alec Grigsby. He was a fair marster, but his wife was awful mean to us. She poked my head in a rail fence once and whipped me hard with a whip. I lived in that section until eight years ago, when I come to Newberry to live with my daughters. "I worked hard in cotton fields, milked cows and helped about the marster's house. When the bush-whackers and patrollers come around dere, us niggers suffered lots with beatings. Some of dem was killed. "The old folks had corn-shuckings, frolics, pender pullings, and quiltings. They had quiltings on Saturday nights, with eats and frolics. When dey danced, dey always used fiddles to make the music. "The men folks hunted much: doves, partridges, wild turkeys, deer, squirrels and rabbits. Sometimes dey caught rabbits in wooden boxes, called 'rabbit-gums'. It had a trap in the middle, which was set at night, with food in it, and when the rabbit bite, the tray sprung, and the opening at the front was closed so he couldn't get out. "The marster had a big whiskey still, and sold lots of liquor to people around there." =Source:= Peggy Grigsby (106), Newberry, S.C. Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. 5/10/37. Project #1655 W.W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. VIOLET GUNTHARPE EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. "I was born a slave in de Rocky Mount part of Fairfield County, up close to Great Falls. I hear them falls a roarin' now and I see them waters flashin' in de sunshine when I close my eyes. My pappy name Robert and my mammy name Phyllis. They b'long to de old time 'ristocats, de Gaither family. Does you know Miss Mattie Martin, which was de secretary of Governor Ansel? Dat one of my young mistresses and another is dat pretty red headed girl in de telegraph office at Winnsboro, dat just sit dere and pass out lightnin' and 'lectricity over de wires wheresomever she take a notion. Does you know them? Well, befo' their mama marry Marster Starke Martin, her was Sally Gaither, my young missus in slavery time. Her die and go to Heaven last year, please God. Marster Richard was a good marster to his slaves, though he took no foolishness and worked you from sun to sun. 'Spect him had 'bout ten family of slaves and 'bout fifty big and little slaves altogether on dat plantation befo' them Yankees come and make a mess out of their lives. Honey, us wasn't ready for de big change dat come! Us had no education, no land, no mule, no cow, not a pig, nor a chicken, to set up house keeping. De birds had nests in de air, de foxes had holes in de ground, and de fishes had beds under de great falls, but us colored folks was left widout any place to lay our heads. De Yankees sho' throwed us in de briar patch but us not bred and born dere lak de rabbit. Us born in a good log house. De cows was down dere in de canebrakes to give us milk, de hogs was fattenin' on hickory nuts, acorns, and shucked corn, to give us meat and grease; de sheep wid their wool, and de cotton in de gin house was dere to give us clothes. De horses and mules was dere to help dat corn and cotton, but when them Yankees come and take all dat away, all us had to thank them for, was a hungry belly, and freedom. Sumpin' us had no more use for then, than I have today for one of them airplanes I hears flyin' 'round de sky, right now. Well, after ravagin' de whole country side, de army got across old Catawba and left de air full of de stink of dead carcasses and de sky black wid turkey buzzards. De white women was weepin' in hushed voices, de niggers on de place not knowin' what to do next, and de piccaninnies suckin' their thumbs for want of sumpin' to eat; mind you 'twas winter time too. Lots of de chillun die, as did de old folks, while de rest of us scour de woods for hickory nuts, acorns, cane roots, and artichokes, and seine de river for fish. De worst nigger men and women follow de army. De balance settle down wid de white folks and simmer in their misery all thru de spring time, 'til plums, mulberries, and blackberries come, and de shad come up de Catawba River. My mammy stay on wid de same marster 'til I was grown, dat is fifteen, and Thad got to lookin' at me, meek as a sheep and dumb as a calf. I had to ask dat nigger, right out, what his 'tentions was, befo' I get him to bleat out dat he love me. Him name Thad Guntharpe. I glance at him one day at de pigpen when I was sloppin' de hogs, I say: 'Mr. Guntharpe, you follows me night and mornin' to dis pigpen; do you happen to be in love wid one of these pigs? If so, I'd like to know which one 'tis; then sometime I come down here by myself and tell dat pig 'bout your 'fections.' Thad didn't say nothin' but just grin. Him took de slop bucket out of my hand and look at it, all 'round it, put upside down on de ground, and set me down on it; then he fall down dere on de grass by me and blubber out and warm my fingers in his hands. I just took pity on him and told him mighty plain dat he must limber up his tongue and ask sumpin', say what he mean, wantin' to visit them pigs so often. Us carry on foolishness 'bout de little boar shoat pig and de little sow pig, then I squeal in laughter over how he scrouge so close; de slop bucket tipple over and I lost my seat. Dat ever remain de happiest minute of my eighty-two years. After us marry, us moved on de Johnson Place and Thad plow right on a farm where dere use to be a town of Grimkeville. I was lonely down dere all de time. I's halfway scared to death of de skeeters 'bout my legs in day time and old Captain Thorn's ghost in de night time. You never heard 'bout dat ghost? If you went to school to Mr. Luke Ford sure he must of tell you 'bout de time a slave boy killed his marster, old Captain Thorn. He drag and throwed his body in de river. When they find his body they ketch John, de slave boy, give him a trial by six white men, find him guilty and he confess. Then they took de broad axe, cut off his head, mount it on a pole and stick it up on de bank where they find old Captain Thorn. Dat pole and head stay dere 'til it rot down. Captain Thorn's ghost 'pear and disappear 'long dat river bank ever since in de night time. My pappy tell me he see it and see de boy's ghost too. De ghost rode de minds of many colored folks. Some say dat de ghost had a heap to do wid deaths on dat river, by drowning. One sad thing happen; de ghost and de malaria run us off de river. Us moved to Marster Starke P. Martin's place. Him was a settin' at a window in de house one night and somebody crept up dere and fill his head full of buck-shot. Marster Starke was Miss Sallie's husband, and Miss Mattie and Miss May's papa. Oh, de misery of dat night to my white folks! Who did it? God knows! They sent poor Henry Nettles to de penitentiary for it, but most white folks and all de colored didn't believe he done it. White folks say a white man done it, but our color know it was de work of dat slave boy's ghost. My white folks come here from Maryland, I heard them say. They fought in de Revolution, set up a tanyard when they got here, and then when cotton come, my marster's pappy was de fust to put up a hoss-gin and screw pit in Rocky Mount section. I glories in their blood, but dere none by de name 'round here now, 'cept colored folks. Marster Wood you read a heap of books. Did you ever read 'bout foots of ghosts? They got foots and can jump and walk. No they don't run, why? 'Cause seem lak their foots is too big. Dat night Marster Starke Martin was killed it was a snowin'. De whole earth was covered wid a white blanket. It snowed and snowed and snowed. Us measure how big dat snow was next mornin' and how big dat ghost track. De snow was seven inches, and a little bit deep. De ghost track on top de snow big as a elephant's. Him or she or it's tracks 'pear to drap wid de snow and just rise up out de snow and disappear. De white folks say 'twas a man wid bags on his foots, but they never found de bags, so I just believe it was ghost instigate by de devil to drap down dere and make all dat misery for my white folks. Dere's a great day a comin' when de last trumpet will sound and de devil and all de ghosts will be chained and they can't romp 'round de old river and folks houses in de night time and bring sorrow and pain in de wake of them big tracks." Project #-1655 Gyland H. Hamlin Charleston, S.C. FOLKLORE INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE "Good a'ternoon, suh. Yassuh, I'ze gittin' on up in de years. I be eighty-one year ole nex' May. I name John Hamilton an' I lib at sickty-t'ree Amherst Street. "I 'member sumptin' 'bout slabery. I wuz 'bout big as dat gal gwine dere w'en de Fed'rul war broke out," indicating a child, passing down the street who appeared to be about eight years old. "I belong' to Maussa Seabrook, an' he lib at W'ite Point, ten mile from Adams Run. De Maussa, he been daid but he got some boys. Dem boys all scatter', dough. Yassuh, ole Maussa treat us good. I not big 'nough to wuk, I jus' a li'l boy den. My fadder name' Rhode Hamilton, an' 'e hab two acre to wuk. Dere didn't been no hoss, an' 'e grub it wid de hoe. "Some slabes no good an' not satisfy fo' tuh wuk. Dey run 'way fum de plantation. Dere been big dawgs high as street-cyar, yassuh, high as dat street-cyar. Dey name' nigger-dawg an' dey trace nigger an' put dem nigger back to wuk. Dere been Yankee man name' Tom Cudry. I kin sho' de house 'e been in. He say 'e tired see colored mans wuk hard an' git nuttin'. He put colored mans on banjoo (vendue) table an' 'e be free. "I didn't be marry till I git in my t'irty year. My wife, she 'bout sickty-fibe year ole'. We got fibe chillun libbin', 'bout twelbe haid in all. Grand-chillun? 'Bout sebben haid an' one gal. Hab great grand-chillun, too. "I ain't been know nuttin' 'bout jailhouse. Ain't see a jailhouse in my life. I hab to look all day to find one in Charleston, an' don't know where 'bouts de court-house. Ain't gwine to jailhouse. Nobody hab to 'rest me no how. "I be a Babtis'. I babtize' in de ribber, de Edisto ribber. I tryin' git to Hebben. Hebben be glory. Yassuh, Hebben be glory. You got to lub all God's chillun to git dere. God send w'ite folks an' colored folks, an' dey mus' he'p each odder an' wuk togedder. Dey got to lib in union. Yassuh, got to lib in union to git to Hebben. "I 'pend on de w'ite folks to he'p me. Dese pore colored folks ain't got nuttin'. Nawsuh, I ain't be too ole to wuk an' mek a honest libbin' like lot o' dem no good nigger what too stiff fo' to speak. I wuk some flower-yard fo' some w'ite folks, an' I wuk a li'l gyarden. "Yassuh, I hol' up berry well, but I can't see at night w'en de sun go down. My sight gone back den. I got git 'long now. "You gimme a nickel or dime? T'ank you, suh. T'ank you kin'ly." =Source:= Personal interview with John Hamilton, colored, of 63 Amherst Street, Charleston, S.C. Project #-1655 Jessie A. Butler Charleston, S.C. FOLKLORE OLD SUSAN HAMLIN--EX SLAVE (Verbatim Conversation) Old Susan Hamlin, one hundred and four years old, was strolling down lower King St., about a mile from where she lives, when she was met by a white "friend," and the following conversation took place: "How are you, Susan, do you remember me?" "Yes, Ma'am, I 'member yo face, Missus, but I can't 'member yo name. I gettin' ole. Dis eye (touching the right one) leabin' me. Ole age you know. Somet'ing got tuh gie way." "Don't you remember I came to see you one morning, and you told me all about old times?" "Yes, Ma'am, (with enthusiasm) come tuh see me 'gain, I tell you some mo'. I like tuh talk 'bout dem days; 'taint many people left now kin tell 'bout dat time. Eberybody dead. I goes 'round tuh de ole house, an' I t'ink 'bout all dem little chillen I is nuss, (calling them by name) dey all sleep, all sleep in de groun'. Nobody lef' but ole Susan. All my fambly, de massa, de missus, all de little chillen, all sleep. Only me one lef', only ole Susan. Sometime I wonder how it is. I ober a hund'ed, I stahtin' (starting) tuh forgit de years." "Tell me one thing, Susan, you have lived a long time, do you think the young people of today are better or worse than in the old days?" "Well, Missus, some is wuss but not all. Some stray jus' like dey always done but dey'll come back. I stray 'way myself but dey'll come back jus' like I did. Gib um time dey come back. I git converted you know." "Yes, you told me about that." "Yes, Ma'am, I see de Sabior. He show me hoe He die. I nebber forget dat day. Dere He hang,--so--(with arms outstretched) an' He show me de great brightness, an' He show me de big sin on my back, black as dat cyar (car). Den I pray an' I pray, an' it fall off. Den I praise Him. Nebber since dat day is I forget what I see. When I see dat reconcile Sabior countenance,--oh!--I nebber forget. No, Ma'am. I nebber forget dat reconcile countenance. As I tell yuh, I stray 'way, but not after I see dat reconcile countenance. I pray and praise Him. Sometimes all by myself I get so happy, jes t'inkin' on Him. I cyant forget all dat He done fuh me." "People tell me I ought not walk 'round by myself so. I tell um I don't care where I drop. I 'member when my ma was dyin' I beg um not to leabe me, she say: 'Wha' I got yuh, wha' I want tuh stay yuh fuh? I want tuh go, I want tuh see muh Jesus.' I know what she mean now. I don't care if I drop in de street, I don't care if I drop in my room. I don't care where I drop, I ready tuh go." "All you got tuh do is libe right, yuh got tuh libe (live) de life. What is de life?--Purity.--What is Purity?--Righteousness.--What is Righteousness?--Tuh do de right t'ing.--Libe right,--pray an' praise. Beliebe on de delibrin (delivering) Sabior. Trus' Him. He lead yuh. He show yuh de way. Dat all yuh got tuh do. Beliebe--pray--praise. Ebery night befo' I lay on my bed I git on my knees an' look up tuh Him. Soon I wake in de mornin' I gibe Him t'anks. Eben sometime in de day I git on my knees an' pray. He been good to me all dese years. He aint forget me. I aint been sick for ober twenty-five years. Good t'ing too, nobody left tuh tek care of me. Dey all gone. But I don't care now, jus' so I kin see my Jesus when I gone." "I goin' down now tuh see my people I use to cook fuh. I too ole now tuh cook. I use tuh cook fine. Come tuh see me again, missus, come tuh see de ole monkey, I tell yuh mo' 'bout dose times. You know I kin 'member dem when I been a big girl, most grown, when de bombardment come ober de city." =Source:= Writer's conversation with Susan Hamlin, 17 Henrietta Street, Charleston. S.C. Project#-1655 Jessie A. Butler Charleston, S.C. Approx. 1739 Words INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE On July 6th, I interviewed Susan Hamlin, ex-slave, at 17 Henrietta street, Charleston, S. C. She was sitting just inside of the front door, on a step leading up to the porch, and upon hearing me inquire for her she assumed that I was from the Welfare office, from which she had received aid prior to its closing. I did not correct this impression, and at no time did she suspect that the object of my visit was to get the story of her experience as a slave. During our conversation she mentioned her age. "Why that's very interesting, Susan," I told her, "If you are that old you probably remember the Civil War and slavery days." "Yes Ma'am, I been a slave myself," she said, and told me the following story: "I kin remember some things like it was yesterday, but I is 104 years old now, and age is starting to get me, I can't remember everything like I use to. I getting old, old. You know I is old when I been a grown woman when the Civil War broke out. I was hired out then, to a Mr. McDonald, who lived on Atlantic Street, and I remembers when de first shot was fired, and the shells went right over de city. I got seven dollars a month for looking after children, not taking them out, you understand, just minding them. I did not get the money, Mausa got it." "Don't you think that was fair?" I asked. "If you were fed and clothed by him, shouldn't he be paid for your work?" "Course it been fair," she answered, "I belong to him and he got to get something to take care of me." "My name before I was married was Susan Calder, but I married a man name Hamlin. I belonged to Mr. Edward Fuller, he was president of the First National Bank. He was a good man to his people till de Lord took him. Mr. Fuller got his slaves by marriage. He married Miss Mikell, a lady what lived on Edisto Island, who was a slave owner, and we lived on Edisto on a plantation. I don't remember de name cause when Mr. Fuller got to be president of de bank we come to Charleston to live. He sell out the plantation and say them (the slaves) that want to come to Charleston with him could come and them what wants to stay can stay on the island with his wife's people. We had our choice. Some is come and same is stay, but my ma and us children come with Mr. Fuller. We lived on St. Philip street. The house still there, good as ever, I go 'round there to see it all de time; the cistern still there too, where we used to sit 'round and drink the cold water, and eat, and talk and laugh. Mr. Fuller have lots of servants and the ones he didn't need hisself he hired out. The slaves had rooms in the back, the ones with children had two rooms and them that didn't have any children had one room, not to cook in but to sleep in. They all cooked and ate downstairs in the hall that they had for the colored people. I don't know about slavery but I know all the slavery I know about, the people was good to me. Mr. Fuller was a good man and his wife's people been grand people, all good to their slaves. Seem like Mr. Fuller just git his slaves so he could be good to dem. He made all the little colored chillen love him. If you don't believe they loved him what they all cry, and scream, and holler for when dey hear he dead? 'Oh, Mausa dead my Mausa dead, what I going to do, my Mausa dead.' Dey tell dem t'aint no use to cry, dat can't bring him back, but de chillen keep on crying. We used to call him Mausa Eddie but he named Mr. Edward Fuller, and he sure was a good man. "A man come here about a month ago, say he from de Government, and dey send him to find out 'bout slavery. I give him most a book, and what he give me? A dime. He ask me all kind of questions. He ask me dis and he ask me dat, didn't de white people do dis and did dey do dat but Mr. Fuller was a good man, he was sure good to me and all his people, dey all like him, God bless him, he in de ground now but I ain't going to let nobody lie on him. You know he good when even the little chillen cry and holler when he dead. I tell you dey couldn't just fix us up any kind of way when we going to Sunday School. We had to be dressed nice, if you pass him and you ain't dress to suit him he send you right back and say tell your ma to see dat you dress right. Dey couldn't send you out in de cold barefoot neither. I 'member one day my ma want to send me wid some milk for her sister-in-law what live 'round de corner. I fuss cause it cold and say 'how you going to send me out wid no shoe, and it cold?' Mausa hear how I talking and turn he back and laugh, den he call to my ma to gone in de house and find shoe to put on my feet and don't let him see me barefoot again in cold weather. When de war start going good and de shell fly over Charleston he take all us up to Aiken for protection. Talk 'bout marching through Georgia, day sure march through Aiken, soldiers was everywhere. "My ma had six children, three boys and three girls, but I de only one left, all my white people and all de colored people gone, not a soul left but me. I ain't been sick in 25 years. I is near my church and I don't miss service any Sunday, night or morning. I kin walk wherever I please, I kin walk to de Battery if I want to. The Welfare use to help me but dey shut down now, I can't find out if dey going to open again or not. Miss (Mrs.) Buist and Miss Pringle, dey help me when I can go there but all my own dead." "Were most of the masters kind?" I asked. "Well you know," she answered, "times den was just like dey is now, some was kind and some was mean; heaps of wickedness went on just de same as now. All my people was good people. I see some wickedness and I hear 'bout all kinds of t'ings but you don't know whether it was lie or not. Mr. Fuller been a Christian man." "Do you think it would have been better if the Negroes had never left Africa?" was the next question I asked. "No Ma'am," (emphatically) dem heathen didn't have no religion. I tell you how I t'ink it is. The Lord made t'ree nations, the white, the red and the black, and put dem in different places on de earth where dey was to stay. Dose black ignoramuses in Africa forgot God, and didn't have no religion and God blessed and prospered the white people dat did remember him and sent dem to teach de black people even if dey have to grab dem and bring dem into bondage till dey learned some sense. The Indians forgot God and dey had to be taught better so dey land was taken away from dem. God sure bless and prosper de white people and He put de red and de black people under dem so dey could teach dem and bring dem into sense wid God. Dey had to get dere brains right, and honor God, and learn uprightness wid God cause ain't He make you, and ain't His Son redeem you and save you wid His precious blood. You kin plan all de wickedness you want and pull hard as you choose but when the Lord mek up His mind you is to change, He can change you dat quick (snapping her fingers) and easy. You got to believe on Him if it tek bondage to bring you to your knees. You know I is got converted. I been in Big Bethel (church) on my knees praying under one of de preachers. I see a great, big, dark pack on my back, and it had me all bent over and my shoulders drawn down, all hunch up. I look up and I see de glory, I see a big beautiful light, a great light, and in de middle is de Sabior, hanging so (extending her arms) just like He died. Den I gone to praying good, and I can feel de sheckles (shackles) loose up and moving and de pack fall off. I don't know where it went to, I see de angels in de Heaven, and hear dem say 'Your sins are forgiven.' I scream and fell off so. (Swoon.) When I come to dey has laid me out straight and I know I is converted cause you can't see no such sight and go on like you is before. I know I is still a sinner but I believe in de power of God and I trust his Holy name. Den dey put me wid de seekers but I know I is already saved." "Did they take good care of the slaves when their babies were born?" she was asked. "If you want chickens for fat (to fatten) you got to feed dem," she said with a smile, "and if you want people to work dey got to be strong, you got to feed dem and take care of dem too. If dey can't work it come out of your pocket. Lots of wickedness gone on in dem days, just as it do now, some good, some mean, black and white, it just dere nature, if dey good dey going to be kind to everybody, if dey mean dey going to be mean to everybody. Sometimes chillen was sold away from dey parents. De Mausa would come and say "Where Jennie," tell um to put clothes on dat baby, I want um. He sell de baby and de ma scream and holler, you know how dey carry on. Geneally (generally) dey sold it when de ma wasn't dere. Mr. Fuller didn't sell none of us, we stay wid our ma's till we grown. I stay wid my ma till she dead. "You know I is mix blood, my grandfather bin a white man and my grandmother a mulatto. She been marry to a black so dat how I get fix like I is. I got both blood, so how I going to quarrel wid either side?" =Source:= Interview with *Susan Hamlin, 17 Henrietta Street. NOTE * Susan lives with a mulatto family of the better type. The name is Hamlin not Hamilton, and her name prior to her marriage was Calder not Collins. I paid particular attention to this and had them spell the names for me. I would judge Susan to be in the late nineties but she is wonderfully well preserved. She now claims to be 104 years old. S-260-264-N Project #1885 Augustus Ladson Charleston, S.C. No. Words: 1195 EX-SLAVE 101 YEARS OF AGE HAS NEVER SHAKEN HANDS SINCE 1863 WAS ON KNEES SCRUBBING WHEN FREEDOM GUN FIRED I'm a hund'ed an' one years old now, son. De only one livin' in my crowd from de days I wuz a slave. Mr. Fuller, my master, who was president of the Firs' National Bank, owned the fambly of us except my father. There were eight men an' women with five girls an' six boys workin' for him. Most o' them wus hired out. De house in which we stayed is still dere with de cisterns an' slave quarters. I always go to see de old home which is on St. Phillip Street. My ma had t'ree boys an' t'ree girls who did well at their work. Hope Mikell, my eldest bredder, an' James wus de shoemaker. William Fuller, son of our master, wus de bricklayer. Margurite an' Catharine wuz de maids an' look at de children. My pa b'long to a man on Edisto Island. Frum what he said, his master was very mean. Pa real name wus Adam Collins but he took his master' name; he wus de coachman. Pa did supin one day an his master whipped him. De next day which wuz Monday, Pa carry him 'bout four miles frum home in de woods an' give him de same 'mount of lickin' he wus given on Sunday. He tied him to a tree an' unhitched de horse so it couldn't git tie-up an' kill a self. Pa den gone to de landin' an' catch a boat dat wus comin' to Charleston wood fa'm products. He wus permitted by his master to go to town on errands, which helped him to go on de boat without bein' question'. When he got here he gone on de water-front an' ax for a job on a ship so he could git to de North. He got de job an' sail' wood de ship. Dey search de island up an' down for him wood houndogs en w'en it wus t'ought he wus drowned, 'cause dey track him to de river, did dey give up. One of his master' friend gone to New York en went in a store w'ere Pas wus employed as a clerk. He reconize' pa is easy is pa reconize' him. He gone back home an' tell pa master who know den dat pa wusn't comin' back an' before he died he sign' papers dat pa wus free. Pa ma wus dead an' he come down to bury her by de permission of his master' son who had promised no ha'm would come to him, but dey wus fixin' plans to keep him, so he went to the Work House an' ax to be sold 'cause any slave could sell e self if e could git to de Work House. But it wus on record down dere so dey couldn't sell 'im an' told him his master' people couldn't hold him a slave. People den use to do da same t'ings dey do now. Some marry an' some live together jus' like now. One t'ing, no minister nebber say in readin' de matrimony "let no man put asounder" 'cause a couple would be married tonight an' tomorrow one would be taken away en be sold. All slaves wus married in dere master house, in de livin' room where slaves an' dere missus an' massa wus to witness de ceremony. Brides use to wear some of de finest dress an' if dey could afford it, have de best kind of furniture. Your master nor your missus objected to good t'ings. I'll always 'member Clory, de washer. She wus very high-tempered. She wus a mulatta with beautiful hair she could sit on; Clory didn't take foolishness frum anybody. One day our missus gone in de laundry an' find fault with de clothes. Clory didn't do a t'ing but pick her up bodily an' throw 'er out de door. Dey had to sen' fur a doctor 'cause she pregnant an' less than two hours de baby wus bo'n. Afta dat she begged to be sold fur she didn't want to kill missus, but our master ain't nebber want to sell his slaves. But dat didn't keep Clory frum gittin' a brutal whippin'. Dey whip' 'er until dere wasn't a white spot on her body. Dat wus de worst I ebber see a human bein' got such a beatin'. I t'ought she wus goin' to die, but she got well an' didn't get any better but meaner until our master decide it wus bes' to rent her out. She willingly agree' since she wusn't 'round missus. She hated an' detest' both of them an' all de fambly. W'en any slave wus whipped all de other slaves wus made to watch. I see women hung frum de ceilin' of buildin's an' whipped with only supin tied 'round her lower part of de body, until w'en dey wus taken down, dere wusn't breath in de body. I had some terribly bad experiences. Yankees use to come t'rough de streets, especially de Big Market, huntin' those who want to go to de "free country" as dey call' it. Men an' women wus always missin' an' nobody could give 'count of dere disappearance. De men wus train' up North fur sojus. De white race is so brazen. Dey come here an' run de Indians frum dere own lan', but dey couldn't make dem slaves 'cause dey wouldn't stan' for it. Indians use to git up in trees an' shoot dem with poison arrow. W'en dey couldn't make dem slaves den dey gone to Africa an' bring dere black brother an' sister. Dey say 'mong themselves, "we gwine mix dem up en make ourselves king. Dats e only way we'll git even with de Indians." All time, night an' day, you could hear men an' women screamin' to de tip of dere voices as either ma, pa, sister, or brother wus take without any warnin' an' sell. Some time mother who had only one chile wus separated fur life. People wus always dyin' frum a broken heart. One night a couple married an' de next mornin' de boss sell de wife. De gal ma got in in de street an' cursed de white woman fur all she could find. She said: "dat damn white, pale-face bastard sell my daughter who jus' married las' night," an' other t'ings. The white 'oman treaten' her to call de police if she didn't stop, but de collud woman said: "hit me or call de police. I redder die dan to stan' dis any longer! De police took her to de work House by de white woman orders an' what became of 'er, I never hear. W'en de war began we wus taken to Aiken, South Ca'lina w'ere we stay' until de Yankees come t'rough. We could see balls sailin' t'rough de air w'en Sherman wus comin'. Bumbs hit trees in our yard. W'en de freedom gun wus fired, I wus on my 'nees scrubbin'. Dey tell me I wus free but I didn't b'lieve it. In de days of slavery woman wus jus' given time 'nough to deliver dere babies. Dey deliver de baby 'bout eight in de mornin' an' twelve had too be back to work. I wus a member of Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church for 67 years. Big Zion, across de street wus my church before den an' before Old Bethel w'en I lived on de other end of town. Sence Lincoln shook hands with his assasin who at de same time shoot him, frum dat day I stop shakin' hands, even in de church, an' you know how long dat wus. I don't b'lieve in kissin' neider fur all carry dere meannesses. De Master wus betrayed by one of his bosom frien' with a kiss. =Source:= Interview with (Mrs.) Susan Hamilton, 17 Henrietta Street, who claims to be 101 years of age. She has never been sick for twenty years and walks as though just 40. She was hired out by her master for seven dollars a month which had to be given her master. Project #1655 Stiles M. Scruggs Columbia, S.C. ANSON HARP EX-SLAVE 87 YEARS OLD. Anson Harp, eighty-seven years old, lives out in the country on Route #3. He still works on the few acres he owns, raising vegetables for himself and a few baskets to sell. He is a gray-haired, medium sized man and his geniality is frequently noticed by white and Negro friends who know him. "I was born in Mississippi in 1850, on a big plantation dat b'long to Master Tom Harp. I can see dat big rushin' river now, 'ceptin' the mosquitoes. My daddy and mammy b'long to Master Harp and we live in a cabin 'bout a mile from the big house of my master's home. "One day when the slaves was choppin' cotton, a strange white man come and watch us, and in a day or two me and three other chillun was called in the yard of the big house and told we goin' to git to go wid the stranger. My daddy and mammy and the other chillun's daddy and mammy all cry when we was put in a big wagon and carried 'way to somewhere. "We gits plenty of rations on the way and when we gits to Aiken one mornin', we was told we was close to home and soon we was on the big plantation of Master James Henry Hammond. We find other boys there, too. We go to the fields and chop cotton, after we rest up. No sah, we wasn't flogged often. One time the grown men and women was choppin' two rows to our one, and a straw-boss slave twit us and call us lazy. The white overseer, who was riding by, heard him. He shake his whip at the straw-boss and tell him: 'The young niggers not yet 'spected to make a half hand and you do pretty well to 'tend to your own knittin'. "I been there for a pretty long time befo' I really talks to my great white master, James Henry Hammond. He not at home much, and when he was home, many big white men wid him 'most every day. "One Saturday, we always had a half holiday on Saturday, me and my friends 'bout the same age, was playin' a game on a big lot behind the barn. We quit yellin' and playin' when we see Master Hammond and three or four white men at the barn. They was lookin' at and talkin' 'bout Master Hammond's big black stallion. Master Hammond lead him out of the stall and he stand on his hind feet. "'Well Senator,' says one big man to Master Hammond, 'I has come a long ways to see this famous hoss. It's no wonder he was s'lected as a model for the war hoss of General Jackson. I seen his statue in Washington and Nashville.' "'And I see him in New Orleans', says another big man, in a fine black slick suit. "'I 'clare, Governor', says the other big man, also dressed just lak he goin' to church, 'this grand stallion look today well as he did when I use him for my model'. "Then they all pat the hoss's nose and stroke him down his mane, and the big buckra hoss steps, just lak the fine gentlemen he is, back to his stall, while all the big men wave him goodbye! "No, I not take the name of Hammond after we free, 'cause too many of his slaves do. I kept the name of my old master and the one my daddy and mammy had. No, I never hear of them in Mississippi. Lak as not they was sold and taken far away, lak me. "I was eleven in 1861, when the war start, 'cordin' to my count. Master Hammond was hardly ever at home no more. He, too, was angry at President Lincoln and I love my master, so I used to wonder what sort of man the President was. My Master Hammond sure did honor President Davis. I hear him say once, dat President Davis was a Chesterfield and dat the Lincoln fellow is coarse and heartless. "In 1862 I was twelve years old, big for my age, and I do more than half as much work as any grown slave. At dat time we see many free niggers, and nearly all of them sorry lookin'. They eat off of slave families, when they could git it. "I come to Columbia in 1865, after all the niggers everywhere am set free. I work for white folks 'bout town and when the Freedman's aid was set up, I goes 'long wid some new found friends to the aid headquarters, and was the last one to be heard. The others got bundles of food and I see one git a piece of money, too. When I got to the white man in charge, he eye me and zay: 'What damn rebel did you slave for?' I forgot 'bout what I am there for and I say: 'I never slave for no damn rebel. I work for Governor Hammond and he is the finest buckra that is.' "Then the aid man say: 'Dat damn rebel Hammond and all lak him yet unhung, should be, and you wid him. Go let him feed and clothe you! When you come here again maybe you have 'nough sense to ask for favors decent.' I so mad, I hardly 'member just what happen, 'ceptin' I come 'way just lak I go, empty handed. "I am now an old man, as you see, but I am happy to know dat the white folks has always been ready to help me make a livin'. I now own a patch of ground, where I makes a livin' on the shares. My boy, a son by my second wife, works it, and he takes care of me now. If I had been as big, and knowed as much at the start of the war as I did at the end of it, I would surely have gone to the front wid my white master." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 May 25, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "I was born in Fairfield County, S.C. near Broad River. I was de son of John and Harriet Harper. I worked in slavery time and was a slave of John Stanley who was a good man and easy to work with. He give me a good whipping once when I was a boy. We earned no money but had our place to sleep and something to eat and wear. We didn't have any gardens, but master had a big plantation and lots of slaves, and worked a garden himself. I remember he whipped mother once the last year of the war,--just about to get freedom. "Master belonged to patrollers, and let dem come on the place and punish the slaves if needed. They whipped my sister once. He had a house to lock slaves in when dey was bad. He learned us to read and write. He had a school on de plantation for his niggers. After the days work was over, we frolicked, and Saturday afternoons we had off to do what we wanted. We had to go to the white folks church and set in back of de church. Corn shuckings, cotton picking and carding and quilting, the old folks had when dey had big times and big eats. "Weddings and funerals of slaves were about like white folks. Some would go walking and singing to de grave in back of hearse or body. There was a conjurer in our neighborhood who could make you do what he wanted, sometimes he had folks killed. The Yankees marched through our place, stole cattle, and meat. We went behind dem and picked up lots dat dey dropped when dey left. When de war was over, de niggers was promised small farms but dey didn't get 'em. "I have been preaching many years in colored Methodist churches. I have 7 children, 22 grand-children but no great-grand-children. "I think Abraham Lincoln was a great man, and Jefferson Davis, too. Booker Washington was a grand educator for the colored race. Bishop S.D. Chappell, colored preacher of the A.M.E. church South, one time president of Allen University at Columbia, S.C. was a great colored man, too. He went to Nashville, Tenn. as secretary-treasurer of the Sunday School Union. "I don't believe slavery was good--much better for all of us now. "I joined the church when I was young, because I thought it right to be a member. I think everybody ought to join some church, and they ought to join early in life, when quite young." =Source:= Rev. Thomas Harper (84), Newberry, S.C., interviewed by: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. May 21, 1937. Project #1555 W.W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. ABE HARRIS EX-SLAVE 74 YEARS OLD. Abe Harris lives about nine miles southwest of the town of Winnsboro, South Carolina. His home is a two-room frame house, with rock chimneys of rough masonry at each gable end. It is the property of Mr. Daniel Heyward. Abe is one-fourth white and this mixture shows in his features. He is still vigorous and capable of light manual labor. "My father was Samuel Lyles. My mother's name was Phenie Lyles. My father and mother had fifteen chillun. I am de only one livin'. De last one to die was my brother, Stocklin, that tended to de flowers and gardens of people in Winnsboro for many years. He was found dead, one mornin', in de Fortune Park woods. "My parents b'long to Captain Tom Lyles, in slavery time. Father was de hog man. He 'tended to de hogs; didn't pasture them as they do now. Marster had a drove of eighty or more in de fall of de year befo' hog killin' time. They run 'bout in de woods for acorns and hickory nuts and my father had to keep up wid them and bring them home. He pen them, feed them, and slop them at night. "My white folks was de fust white settlers in de county. De fust one was name Ephram, so I hear them tell many times. They fought in all wars dat have been fought. My old marster, Tom, live up 'til de Civil War and although he couldn't walk, he equip and pay a man to go in his place. When Sherman's men come to de house, he was in bed wid a dislocated hip. They thought he was shammin', playin' 'possum, so to speak. One of de raiders, a Yankee, come wid a lighted torch and say: 'Unless you give me de silver, de gold, and de money, I'll burn you alive.' Him reply: 'I haven't many more years to live. Burn and be damned!' De Yankee was surprised at his bravery, ordered father to take de torch from under de bed and say: 'You 'bout de bravest man I ever see in South Carolina.' "His wife, old Miss Mary, was sister to Congressman Joe Woodward. Deir house and plantation was out at Buckhead. I was a boy eleven years old and was in de house when he died, in 1874. He was de oldest person I ever saw, eighty-seven. He had several chillun. Thomas marry Eliza Peay, de baby of Col. Austin Peay, one of de rich race horse folks. Marse Boykin marry Miss Cora Dantzler of Orangeburg. Him went to de war. Then Nicholas, Austin, John, and Belton, all went to de Civil War. Austin was killed at second Bull Run. Marse Nicholas go to Alabama and become sheriff out dere. Marse John marry Miss Morris and was clerk of court here for twenty-eight years. "One of Marse John's sons is Senator Lyles, de cotton buyer here in Winnsboro. De youngest boy, just a lad at freedom, marry Miss Cora Irby. Two of deir chillun marry Marse Jim and Marse Bill Mobley in Columbia. De youngest child, Miss Rebecca marry Marse DuBose Ellison in Winnsboro. "First time I marry Emily Kinlock and had one child. Emily die. Then I marry Lizzie Brown. Us had six chillun. When Lizzie die, I marry a widow, Frances Young. Us too old to have chillun. "I live at Rion, S.C. Just piddle 'round wid chickens and garden truck. I sells them to de stone cutters and de mill people of Winnsboro. I's past de age to work hard, and I'm mighty sorry dat our race was set free too soon." PROJECT #1655 W.W. Dixon, Winnsboro, S.C. ELI HARRISON EX-SLAVE 87 YEARS. Eli Harrison lives on a small ten-acre tract of land near Dutchman Creek, in Fairfield County, approximately seven miles southeast of Winnsboro. The house, which he owns, is a small shack or shanty constructed of scantlings and slabs. He lives in it alone and does his own cooking. He has been on the relief roll for the past three years, and ekes out a subsistence on the charity of the Longtown and Ridgeway people. He is small, wiry, and healthy, weighing about 110 pounds. "I sure has had a time a finding you! I was up here to Winnsboro befo' dis Welfare Society, tryin' to git a pension and they ask me who know my age. I tell them a whole lot of people out of town knows it. Then they ask if anybody in town know my age. I gived in your name. They say they will take your affidavit for it and tell me to bring dis paper to you. "I b'long, in slavery, to your step-mother's people, de Harrisons, in Longtown. You 'members comin' down when I was a young man and you was a boy? Don't you 'member us playin' in de sand in front of de old Harrison house? Dat house older than you and me. 'Member how I show you how to call de doodles from de sand? How was it? I just git down on my hands and knees in de sand and say: 'Doodle, doodle, doodle, doodle, come up your house is afire!' Them black little doodles would come right up out of de sand to see what gwine on up dere 'bove de sand. Mighty glad you keeps dat in your mem'ry, 'til dis blessed day. "I b'long to old Marse Eli Harrison, de grandpa of your step-mother. I was born and raised on his Wateree River plantation. They called it Harrison Flats, 'til de Southern Power Company and de Dukes taken over de land, de river, de bull-frogs, de skeeters, whoop owls, and everything else down here. De Harrisons owned dat place befo' de Revolutionary War, they say. De skeeters run them out and de folks built a string of houses out of logs, all 'long de roadside and call it Longtown. Marse John D. tell me dat, and fust thing you know they was callin' it Longtown and dats what it's called today. "Old Marse Eli is a quiet man but him have two brudders dat wasn't so quiet. They was Marse Aaron Burr Harrison and Marse John R. Harrison. All of them have race horses. I, bein' little, ride de horses in de races at de last. De tracks I ride on? One was up near Great Falls, 'tween old Marse Strother Fords and de Martin place. De other was out from Simpsons' Turn Out. De Hamptons used to have horses on dese tracks. "My mistress name Mary. My young marsters name: Sylvester, Lundsford, David, and John D. They all dead but de old house is still dere on de roadside and I alone is live to tell de tale. "Dere's one thing I wants to tell you 'bout old Marse John. Him was 'suaded by de Hamptons, to buy a big plantation in Mississippi. Him go out dere to raise cattle, race horses, cotton, sugar cane and niggers. When him die, after so long a time they take him out of his grave. De Harrisons done built a long, big, rock, family vault in de graveyard here to put all de dead of de family name in. Well, what you reckon? Why when dat coffin reach Ridgeway and they find it mighty heavy for just one man's body, they open it and find Marse John's body done turned to solid rock. What you think of dat? And what you think of dis? They put him in de vault in de summertime. Dat fall a side show was goin' on in Columbia, showin' a petrified man, you had to pay twenty-five cents to go in and see it. De show leave and go up North. 'Bout Christmas, de family go together to de vault, open it, and bless God dat rock body done got up and left dat vault. What you think 'bout dat? What people say? Some say one thing, some say another. Niggers all 'low, 'Marse John done rose from de dead.' White folks say: 'Somebody done stole dat body of Marse John and makin' a fortune out of it, in de side show line.' "Well, I's told you 'nough for one day. I's impatient to git back down yonder to them white ladies wid dis paper, so as to speed up dat pension as fast as I used to speed up them race horses I use to ride on de old race track road from Simpson's to Columbia." Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 Sept. 20, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage REMINISCENCES "I was born July 16, 1852 at Jeter's old mill place in Santuc township. The Neal's Shoal dam now marks the site of the old Jeter mill. My family consisted of my parents and an older brother. My mother was Mandy Clark of Union township. My grandfather Clark moved to the Jeter mill and ran it for Mr. Jeter. My father, Tom Clark, was a laborer for the Jeters and old man Tom Sims up on Broad River at what was then known as Simstown. The Tom Sims and Nat Gist families owned everything in Santuc township until their lands hit the Jimmie Jeter place. "When I was twelve, my father went to the Confederate War. He joined the Holcombe Legion of Union County and they went immediately to Charleston. They drilled near the village of Santuc in what was then called Mulligan's Old Field, now owned by Rion Jeter. This was the only mustering ground in our part of the county. The soldiers drilled once a week, and for the 'general muster, all of the companies from Sedalia and Cross Keys come there once a month. During the summer time they had what they called general drill for a week or ten days. Of course on this occasion the soldiers camped over the field in covered wagons. Some came in buggies. Slaves, called 'wait-men' cared for the stock and did the cooking and other menial duties for their masters. "The general store at Santuc and the store at the Cross Roads at Fish Dam did good business during the summer while the soldiers were in camp. The 'cross roads' have long been done away with at Fish Dam. The store was under a big oak in front of the house now owned and lived in by W. H. Gist. The Cross Roads were made by the Fish Dam Ferry Road and the old Ninety-Six Road. They tell me that the old Ninety-Six Road was started as an Indian trail by the Cherokee Indians, way yonder before the Revolution. I have been told that a girl named Emily Geiger rode that ninety-six miles in one day to carry a message to an American general. The message kept the general and his army from being captured by the red-coats. "Near the Kay Jeter place just below the Ninety-six road there was a small drill ground. The place is now known as the Pittman place and is owned by the wife of Dr. J. T. Jeter of Santuc, I believe. Mr. 'Kay' would send a slave on a horse or a mule to notify the men to come and drill there. From here they went on to Mulligan's Field some five or six miles away for the big drills. As I have told you, Mulligan's Field was the big field for all that countryside. They tell me that the same drilling tactics used then and there, are the same used right down yonder at Camp Jackson. "For about four of five years after the Confederate War, we had very little to eat. We had given everything we could to the soldiers. After the 'May Surrender' there came a big flood and washed everything away, and the crops were so promising that August. As you know, that was in '65. The rains and the high water destroyed everything. I do not believe that Broad River and the Forest and Tyger have ever been as high before or since. "On Henderson's Island they saved no livestock at all. They just did manage to save themselves. They had a hard time getting the slaves to the mainland. Mrs. Sallie Henderson, her step-son, Jack and her son, Jim, and daughter, Lyde were in the Henderson house when the freshet came down upon them. They had to go up on the second floor of their house but the water came up there. "Mr. Ben Hancock was the ferryman at Henderson's Ferry at this time. Now you know, Henderson's Ferry is on the Enoree just above where it empties into the Broad. Henderson's Island is in the middle of Broad River in full sight of where old Enoree goes into the channel of the Broad. Well, Mr. Hancock was the best boatman in his day. He knew about the Hendersons, so he tried to go to them but failed the first three times. The fourth time, he got to the house. When he got there, he found the whites and twenty-five slaves trapped with them. "A barrel of flour had caught in the stairway that had washed down the river from somewhere above. This was pulled upstairs and that is what Mrs. Henderson fed her family and slaves on for about five days, or until they were rescued by Mr. Hancock. Capt. Jack blew his opossum horn every two hours throughout the day and night to let the people over on the mainland know that they were still safe. "For the rest of that year, river folks had very little to eat until food crops were produced the next spring. "My own father was shot down for the first time at the Second Battle of Manassas. Here he got a lick over his left eye that was about the size of a bullet; but he said that he thought the lick came from a bit of shell. They carried him to a temporary make-shift hospital that had been improvised behind the breastworks. A soldier who was recovering from a wound nursed him as best he could. "The second time my father was wounded was in Kingston, N.C. He shot a Yankee from behind a tree and he saw the blood spurt from him as he fell. Just about that time he saw another Yankee behind a tree leveling a gun at him. Father threw up his gun but too late, the Yankee shot and tore his arm all to pieces. The bullet went through his arm and struck the corner of his mouth knocking out part of his jaw bone. Then it went under the neck vein and finally it came out on his back knocking a hole in one of his shoulder blades large enough to lay your two thumbs in. His gun stock was also cut into. He lay on the battlefield for a whole day and night; then he was carried to a house where some kind ladies acting as nurses cared for him for over four months. He was sent home and dismissed from the army just a mile below Maybinton, S.C. in Newberry County. Father was unable to do any kind of work for over two years. The war closed a year after he got home. From that time on I cared for my mother and father. "We had moved to the plantation of Mr. Ben Maybin in Maybinton before my father was sent home wounded. Father lived until March, 1st, 1932 when he died at the ripe old age of 102. When he died we were living at one of the Jeter plantations near Kelley's Chapel, in Fish Dam township, one-half mile from Old Ninety-Six Road. Father is buried at Kelley's Chapel. "Mr. Harvey has a bullet that Gov. Scott issued to the negroes during reconstruction times when he was governor of South Carolina under the carpetbag rule. Scott issued these bullets to the negroes to kill and plunder with. Mr. Harvey says that bullets like this one were the cause of many negroes finding their graves in the bottom of Broad River. Mr. Harvey, so it is said, is still a Ku Klux. They were the chief instruments in getting him into the County Home of Union in 1925. "The Ku Klux made a boat twenty-five feet long to carry the negroes down the river. They would take the negroes' own guns, most of them had two guns, and tie the guns around their necks in the following manner: The barrel of one gun was tied with wire around the negro's neck, and the stock of the other gun was fastened with wire around the negro's neck. When the captain would say, 'A-M-E-N', over the side of the boat the negro went, with his guns and bullets taking him to a watery grave in the bottom of Broad River. The wooden parts of the guns would rot, and sometimes the bodies would wash down on the rocks at Neal's Shoals what was then Jeter's Old Mill. Old gun stocks have been taken from there as mementoes. "Bill Fitzgerald was my first Ku Klux Captain. He organized the clan in Newberry. When I came to the Klan over on the Union side, Judge W. H. Wallace and Mr. Isaac McKissick were leaders. "When we got the negroes from the county jail, the same jail that we have now, that were arrested for killing Matt Stevens, I broke the lock on the jail door. Buck Allen was the blacksmith. He held a sledge hammer under the lock while I threw a steel hammer overhanded on the lock to break it. "I think Abe Lincoln would have done the South some good if they had let him live. He had a kind heart and knew what suffering was. Lee would have won the war if the mighty Stonewall Jackson had lived. Stonewall was ahead of them all. I had two uncles, Jipp and Charlie Clark in Stonewall's company. They would never talk much about him after his death. It hurts them too much, for Stonewall's men loved him so much. Jeff Davis was a great man, too." =Source:= Mr. Charlie Jeff Harvey, Rt. 4, Box 85, Union, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. 8/18/35. Project #1655 W.W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. ELIZA HASTY EX-SLAVE 85 YEARS OLD. Eliza Hasty lives with her son-in-law and her daughter, Philip Moore and Daisy Moore, in an old time ante bellum home. It has two stories, eight rooms, and front and back piazzas, supported by slender white posts or columns. It is the old William Douglas homestead, now owned by John D. Mobley. He rents it to Philip Moore, a well behaved Negro citizen, who, out of respect for his mother-in-law, Eliza, supports her in the sore trials and helplessness of blindness and old age. The home is five miles southeast of Blackstock, S.C. "Boss, you is a good lookin' man, from de sound of your voice. Blind folks has ways of findin' out things that them wid sight know nothin' 'bout and nobody can splain. De blindness sharpens de hearin', 'creases de tech, prickles de skin, quickens de taste, and gives you de nose of a setter, pointer or hound dog. Was I always blind? Jesus, no! I just got de 'fliction several years ago. I see well enough, when I was a young gal, to pick out a preacher for my fust husband. So I did! How many times I been married? Just two times; both husbands dead. Tell you 'bout them directly. "What dat? Er ha, ha, ha, ha, er ha, ha, ha! Oh Jesus, you makes me laugh, white folks! De idea of my lossin' my sight a lookin' 'round for a third husband! You sho' is agreeable. Ain't been so tickled since de secon' time I was a widow. You know my secon' husband was bad after blind tiger liquor, and harlot eyed, brassy, hussy women. "Well, I comes down to Winnsboro today to see, I should say to find out, 'cause you know I can't see, 'bout de pension they is givin' out to de aged and blind. My white folks say dat you wanna see me and here I is. "Yes sir, I was born two miles south of Woodward and one mile south of old Yonguesville, on de Sterling place. I born a slave of old Marse John Sterling. Him have a head as red as a pecker-wood bird dat just de-sash-sheys 'round de top of dead trees, and make sich a rat-ta-ta-tapple after worms. His way of gittin' his meat for dinner. My mistress name Betsy. Deir fust child was Robert, dat never marry; him teach nearly every school in Fairfield County, off and on befo' he died. Then dere was young Marster Tom, small little man, dat carry his Seceeder 'ligion so far, him become 'furiated and carry dat 'ligion right up and into de Secession War. Make a good soldier, too! General Bratton call him, 'My Little Jackass of de Sharp Shooters'! Marse Tom proud of dat name, from de mouth of a great man lak General John Bratton. "Marse Tom heard de fust gun fire at Fort Sumter, and laid down his gun, him say, under a big horse apple tree at 'Applemattox'. "Miss Sallie, one of de chillun, marry Mr. Chris Elder, of Blackstock. Miss Hepzibah, they call her Heppie, marry a man named Boyd, in Chester County. Miss Mary Izabella, they call her Bell, marry Marse John Douglas; they are de 'cestors of dat very angel whose house us is settin' in right dis minute. Her name is Martha but when grown-up, they sublet (meaning change) dat name to Mattie, and when her marry, her become Mrs. Thomas P. Bryson. Her is a widow, just lak I is a widow. De only difference is, I's black and her is white. Her can see well enough to run after and ketch another man, but I's blind and can't see a man, much less chase after him. So dere it is! What for you laughin' 'bout? No laughin' business wid me. "My pappy no b'long to Marse John Sterling: him slave of de Stinsons. Have to git a pass to come to see my mammy, Mary. Him name Aleck. After de war him take de name of Alexander Roseboro. Him lak a big long name dat would make folks set up and take notice of him. "Us live in a little log-house wid a dirt floor. Us had mighty poor beds, I tell you. Us just had planks to lay de wheat straw mattress on. Pillows? De pillows was just anything you could snatch and put under your head. Yes sir, us had plenty to eat. "They 'struct us in de short catechism, make us go to church, and sit up in de gallery and jine in de singin' on Sundays. Us was well 'tended to when sick. Marster didn't have many slaves. 'Members only two they have, 'sides us; they was Uncle Ned and Cindy. Seem lak dere was another. Oh yes! It was Fred, a all 'round de creation boy, to do anything and everything. He was a sorta shirt-tail boy dat pestered me sometime wid goo-goo eyes, a standin' in de kitchen door, drappin' his weight from one foot to de other, a lookin' at me while I was a churnin' or washin' de dishes. Dat boy both box-ankle and knock-kneed. When you hear him comin' from de horse lot to de house, his legs talk to one another, just lak sayin': 'You let me pass dis time, I let you pass nex' time.' I let you know I had no time for dat ape! When I did git ready to marry, I fly high as a eagle and ketch a preacher of de Word! Who it was? Him was a Baptis' preacher, name Solomon Dixon. 'Spect you hear tell of him. No? Well, him b'long, in slavery time, to your Aunt Roxie's people in Liberty Hill, Kershaw County. You 'members your Aunt Roxie dat marry Marse Ed D. Mobley, her fust cousin, don't you? "I love Solomon and went down under de water to be buried wid him in baptism, I sho' did, and I come up out of dat water to be united wid him in wedlock. When us marry, him have on a long-tail coat, salt and pepper trousers, box-toed shoes, and a red lead pencil over his ear, just as long as de one I 'spects you is writin' wid, tho' I can't see it. "How I dressed? I 'members 'zactly. I wore a blue worsted shirt, over a red underskirt, over a white linen petticoat wid tuckers at de hem, just a little long, to show good and white 'long wid de blue of de skirt and de red of de underskirt. Dese all come up to my waist and was held together by de string dat held my bustle in place. All dis and my corset was hid by de snow white pleated pique bodice, dat drapped gracefully from my shoulders. 'Round my neck was a string of green jade beads. I wore red stockin's and my foots was stuck in soft, black, cloth, gaiter shoes. "My go-away-hat was 'stonishment to everybody. It was made out of red plush velvet and trimmed wid white satin ribbons. In de front, a ostrich feather stood up high and two big turkey feathers flanked de sides. Oh, de treasures of memory to de blind. I's happy to sit here and talk to you 'bout dat day! I sho' is! "Us live at Marse John Douglas for a time and dat's where my fust child was born. I name her for your Aunt Roxie, tho' I give her de full name, Roxanna Dixon. Her marry John Craig. They live on your grandpa Woodward's old Nickey place, four miles southeast of Blackstock. I had another baby and I name her Daisy. Her marry Philip Moore. I lives wid them in de old William Douglas mansion. Nearly all de white folks leavin' de country dese days and de colored folks gits de fine country houses to live in. "Well, after de years fly by, my husband, Solomon, go to de mansion prepared for him and me in hebben. I wait a year and a day and marry William Hasty. Maybe I was a little hasty 'bout dat, but 'spects it was my fate. Him drink liquor and you know dat don't run to de still waters of peace and happiness in de home. Him love me, I no doubt dat, but he get off to de bar room at Blackstock, or de still house in bottom lands, get drunk and spend his money. De Bible say dat kind of drowsiness soon clothe a man in rags. Him dead now. God rest his soul! "De Yankees come. They took notice of me! They was a bad lot dat disgrace Mr. Lincoln dat sent them here. They insult women both white and black, but de Lord was mindful of his own. "I knows nothin' else to tell you, 'less you would be pleased to hear 'bout what de cyclone did to my old missus and de old Sterling house. Somewhere 'bout 1880's one of them super knockshal (equinoctial) storms come 'long, commencin' over in Alabama or Georgia, crossed de Savannah River, sweep through South Carolina, layin' trees to de ground, cuttin' a path a quarter of a mile wide, as it traveled from west to east. Every house it tech, it carry de planks and shingles and sills and joists 'way wid it. De old Sterling house was in de path. Dere was a big oak tree in de front yard. Old miss and her son, Robert, was dere and Miss Heppie, a granddaughter, was in dat house. De storm hit dat house 'bout 9 o'clock dat night and never left a bit of it, 'cept some of de bricks. Some of de logs and sills was found de nex' day over at de other side of de railroad track. Some of de planks was found six miles east, some of de shingles across Catawba River, 25 miles east, and curious to say, de wind blowed old miss against de big oak tree and kill her. It blowed Miss Heppie in de top of dat tree where she was settin' a cryin' and couldn't git down, and it never harm a hair of Marse Robert's head. Him look 'round for Miss Heppie, couldn't find her, went off to get help, and when they come back, they have to git a ladder from old Mr. Bob Mobley's house to git her down. "Well, here comes my daughters. I hear one outside but I bet you don't hear a thing. Dats deir steps I hear. Glad for you to meet them. They is mighty fine gals, if I do have to say so. They come up wid good white folks, de Mills'. Marse Jim Mills have family prayer in de mornin' and family prayer befo' they go to bed. Dat was de fust thing wid him and de last thing wid de Mills' family. If all de families do dat way, dere would be de answer to de prayer, 'Dy kingdom come, Dy will be done, on earth, as 'tis in hebben'. "Well, give me my stick. Here they is. I bids you goodbye and God bless you." Reference: Personal interview with Aunt Dolly Haynes, age 91 Arthurtown, S.C. AUNT DOLLY HAYNES EX-SLAVE, 91 YEARS OLD, ARTHURTOWN S.C. "I nebber wuz no rockin' chair setter. I ain't nebber had no time to set down and do nuthin'. I wuz born at Euta, South Carolina. We belong to Marse Charlie Baumer. My Ma died and lef four motherless chillun but de missus wuz mighty good to us--call us her chillun. Pa rung de bell on de plantation fur ter wake de slaves up fur to go to de fiel'. My Missus wuz blind but she wuz a mighty kin' lady. Mek de cook bring plate of vittals to see ef it wuz heavy nough for her little chillun. "After freedom all us moved wid de Marse and Missus to Childs, South Carolina and I mar'd Paul Haynes, who belonged to old Colonel Hampton. "Paul wanted to preach but nedder of us had no learnin' an' I say to Paul, 'Does you think you got nough learnin' to lead a flock of people? I don' wan' you to git up an' mek me shame.' I tell him to go to de Benedicts an' see what book he needs to study, come by town bring me a pair of broggans for me, 'cause I wuz a-gwine to wuk and he wuz a-gwine to school. For t'ree long years I plowed de farm an' sent Paul to de Benedicts 'til he wuz edicated. De briars cut my legs an' de breshes tore my skirt, but I tuck up de skirt an' plow right on 'til I bought my little farm. Paul bin dead now 'bout twelve years, but he preached right up to de day he died. "I got a neffu but I lives alone, wen deys some one in de house I puts down and dey picks up--I cleans up and dey tears up. I don' owe nobody nuthin'. Wen de nurvus spells leaves me an' I feels a little strong in de legs I wuks mah garden. I loves to be doin' somethin' to keep clean, 'cause I jes ain't no rockin chair setter". Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, November 11, 1937 Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- LINEY HENDERSON EX-SLAVE, 70 YEARS "Accordin to de way dey figures up my age, dey say I 70 now en I believes dat right, too, en de government ought to give me somethin. When we was born, de white folks put us chillun age down in de Bible en I know from dat I been 19 years old de year of de shake. Cose I gets clothes give to me, but no help no more den dat en all dis here wood en coal bill put on me. No, mam, ain' got no support to help me out no time. But justice will plum de line some day. I just gwine leave it in de hands of de Lord. Ain' gwine cry over it." "I tell you, I been wid white folks all my days en I was properly cared for long as I been in dey protection. I suffers now more den I is ever think bout would come to me. Yes, mam, I done raise over 20 head of white chillun. Dat de God truth. I been in de white folks kitchen all my days en if I feel right, I think dey ought to take of me in my old age. I don' brag on myself, but if I could work like I used to, I wouldn' ax nothin from nobody. I had a family of white people to send for me de other week to come en live wid dem en dey would take care of me, but I never had nobody to trust aun' Sallie wid. You see, child, she such a helpless, poor creature just settin dere in dat bed all de time en can' see to do one thing widout I give her my hand. Cose de government helps aun' Sallie, but dat ain' me. En, honey, I ain' even able to stand up en iron, I has dis rheumatism so bad. It hurts me so terrible at night, I has to keep my foots out from under de cover. It a sort of burnin rheumatism like. Yes, mam, it does worry me right smart." "Oh, my Lord, I was raise down dere to old Dr. Durant plantation. Yes, mam, dem Durants had everything right to dey hand. Never had to want for a glass of water or nothin en didn' none of Dr. Durant's colored people never had no trouble wid de law from de time de law take care to dis. I remember old Massa would always kill his plantation people a cow on de fourth of July en couldn' never count de number of hogs dey would have, dere be so many. Honey, dey would take dem hogs up dis time of de year from out de swamp en put dem in dey fattenin pen. Lord, Lord, de many a time dat I been see dem take bucket on a bucket of milk to dat pen. When my mother was dere helpin dem, dey used to been a week to a time tryin up lard en makin blood puddin en sausage en joinin up ears en things like dat. Yes, mam, all dey plantation niggers what been helpin dat day set for hog killin would eat to de white folks yard. Dey would just put two or three of dese big wash pot out in de yard en full dem up wid backbone en haslets en rice to satisfy dem hungry niggers wid en would bake de corn bread to de Missus kitchen. I mean dey would have hog killin days den, too. Would have dese long old benches settin out dere under de trees to work on--long benches, child. Some days, dey would kill 15 hogs en some days, dey would kill 20 hogs en I mean dey was hogs, not pigs. De number dey would kill would be accordin to how many hands was helpin de day dey pick to kill. You see, dey would kill dem one day en hang dem up en den dey would set de next day to cut dem up. Oh, dey would hang dem up right out to de eyes of everybody en didn' nobody never have no mind to bother nothin. My Lord, couldn' trust to do nothin like dat dese days. En dey had de nicest homemade butter en whip cream dere all de time. Seems like things was just more plentiful en dey was better in dat day en time." "It just like I tellin you, it de way of de past, everything had to be carried out right on Dr. Durant's plantation. When freedom come here, dere couldn' no head never get dem colored people to leave from dere. Yes, mam, dey great grand-chillun dere carryin on to dis very day. Dem Durant chillun ain' never had to hunt for no hand to do somethin for dem. Yes, mam, my white folks had dey own colored people graveyard what was corn crated in en it still dere right now. When one of de colored people on de plantation would die, dey white folks would be right dere to de funeral. En it de blessed truth, old Dr. Durant had his own carpenters right dere on de plantation to make de corpse boxes en line dem en all dat en dig de graves. Dat was a day, honey, en dat a day gone from here, I say." "I ain' never been one of dese peck abouts when I was comin on cause I didn' done nothin, but nurse de white folks chillun dat was comin up. Yes, mam, I would go all bout wid de white people. Dey never didn' leave me home. Lord, de chillun what I nurse, dey got seven en eight head of chillun of dey own now. Like I been tellin you, some of dem beg me to come en live wid dem, but my God, I can' struggle wid dem chillun no more after I done wash baby breeches all my best days, so to speak. Yes, my Lord, dem chillun would get dey 10:30 lunch in de mornin en I been get mine, too. Ain' never had to work in de field in all my life. Anybody can tell you dat what know me." "I has a little boy stayin here wid me en aun' Sallie what was give to me. I don' never think hard of de people for not fussin bout him stayin here cause he helps me so much. No, mam, I know his mother fore she die en he been stayin wid his aun' en she chillun en dey treat him mean. He been raise to himself en he can' stand no other chillun en he come home from school one day en ax me to let him stay here wid me. No, child, he ain' no trouble cause de Lord give me dat child. He can stay out dere in dat yard right by himself en play all day fore he would ever get dirty up." "Well, I tell you, I don' know hardly what to say bout how de world gwine dese days. I just afraid to say bout it. I know one thing, I used to live better, but President Roosevelt, seem like he tryin to do de right thing. But if I could be de whole judge of de world, I think de best thing would be for de people to be on dey knees en prayin. De people talkin bout fightin all de time en dis here talk bout fightin in de air, dat what got my goat. Might lay down at night sound en wake up in de mornin en find us all in destructiveness. I say, de Lord all what can save dis country." =Source:= Liney Henderson, age 70, colored, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Nov., 1937. Project #1655 W.W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. JIM HENRY EX-SLAVE 77 YEARS OLD. Jim Henry lives with his wife, Mary, in a four-room frame house, three miles southeast of Winnsboro, S.C. He owns the house and nine acres of land. He has only one arm, the other having been amputated twenty years ago. He employs a boy to plough, and he and his wife make a living on the property. "I was born in the Bratton slave quarter, about six miles northeast of Winnsboro. I was born a slave of General John Bratton. He use to tell me I come from 'stinguished stock, dat he bought my father, James, from de Patrick Henry family in Virginia. Dat's de reason my pappy and us took dat name after freedom. "My mother, Silva, and her mother, was bought from de Rutledge family in Charleston, by General Bratton. My grandfather, on my mother's side, was name Edward Rutledge. No, sir, I don't mean he was a white man; he just ginger-cake color, so my mother say. My pappy say his father was a full-blooded Indian, so, dat makes three bloods in my veins, white folks, Indian folks, and Negro folks. Derefore, us been thrifty like de white man, crafty like de Indians, and hard workin' like de Negroes. "In slavery time, us lived in one of de nice log houses in de Bratton quarters. Our beds was pole beds, wid wheat straw ticks, and cotton pillows. De Brattons was always sheep raisers, and us had woolen blankets and woolen clothes in de winter. My mother was one of de seamstresses; she make clothes for de slaves. Course, I'm tellin' you what she tell me, mostly. I was too little to 'member much 'bout slavery time. All de little niggers run 'round in deir shirt-tails in summer time; never work any, just hunt for grapes, muscadines, strawberries, chinquapins, hickory nuts, calamus root, slippery elmer (elm) bark, wild cherries, mulberries, and red and black haws, and was as happy as de days was long. "I just can 'member de Yankees. Don't 'member dat they was so bad. You know they say even de devil ain't as black as he is painted. De Yankees did take off all de mules, cows, hogs, and sheep, and ransack de smoke-house, but they never burnt a thing at our place. Folks wonder at dat. Some say it was 'cause General Bratton was a high 'gree mason. "While Marse John, who was a Confederate General, was off in de war, us had overseers. They made mother and everybody go to do field. De little chillun was put in charge, in de daytime, wid an old 'mauma', as they called them in them days. Dere was so many, twenty-five or thirty, dat they had to be fed out of doors. At sundown they was 'sembled in a tent, and deir mammies would come and git them and take them home. Dere used to be some scrappin' over de pot liquor dat was brought out in big pans. De little chillun would scrouge around wid deir tin cups and dip into de pan for de bean, pea, or turnip pot liquor. Some funny scraps took place, wid de old mauma tryin' to separate de squallin', pushin', fightin' chillun. "De overseers was Wade Rawls and a Mr. Timms. After freedom, us moved to Winnsboro, to Dr. Will Bratton's farm near Mt. Zion College. I went to school to Mr. Richardson and Miss Julia Fripp, white teachers employed by northern white people. I got very 'ligious 'bout dat time, but de brand got all rubbed out, when us went to work for Major Woodward. His 'ligion was to play de fiddle, go fox huntin', and ride 'round gittin' Negroes to wear a red shirt and vote de democrat ticket. I went 'long wid him and done my part. They tell a tale on Marse Tom Woodward and I 'spects it's true: "He was runnin' for some kind of office and was goin', nex' day, up in de dark corner of Fairfield to meet people. Him hear dat a old fellow name Uriah Wright, controlled all de votes at dat box and dat he was a fox hunter to beat de band. He 'quire 'round 'bout Mr. Wright's dogs. He find out dat a dog name 'Ring Smith' was de best 'strike'. Jolly Wright was de name of de cold 'trailer', and Molly Clowney was de fastest dog of de pack. Marse Tom got all dis well in his mind, and nex' day rode up to old Mr. Wright's, 'bout dinner time. "De old man had just come in from de field. Marse Tom rode up to de gate and say; 'Is dis Dr. Wright?' De old man say: 'Dat's what de people call me 'round here.' Marse Tom say: 'My name is Woodward. I am on my first political legs, and am goin' 'round to see and be seen, if not by everybody, certainly by de most prominent and 'fluential citizens of each section.' Then de old man say: 'Git down. Git down. You are a monstrous likely man. I'll take you in to see Pinky, my wife, and we'll see what she has to say 'bout it.' "Marse Tom got down off his horse and was a goin' to de house talkin' all de time 'bout crops. Spyin' de dogs lyin' 'round in de shade, him say: 'Dr. Wright, I am a 'culiar man. I love de ladies and admire them much but, if you'll pardon my weakness, a fine hound dog comes nearer perfection, in my eye, than anything our Father in heaven ever made to live on this green earth!' "'And what do you know 'bout hounds?' Old man Uriah asked, turnin' from de house and followin' Marse Tom to where de dogs was. Marse Tom set down. De whole pack come to where he was, sniffed and smelt him, and wag deir tails in a friendly way. Marse Tom say: 'What is de name of dis dog? Ring Smith, did you say, Doctor? An uncommon fine dog he seems to me. If dere be any truth in signs, he oughta be a good strike.' De old man reply: 'Good strike, did you say? If dere was 5,000 dogs here, I would bet a million dollars dat Ring Smith would open three miles ahead of the best in de bunch. And you might go befo' a trial justice and swear it was a fox, when he opened on de trail.' "Marse Tom nex' examined de pale black and tan dog, which was Jolly Wright, de coldest trailer. Feelin' his nose and eyein' him all over, he say at last: 'Dr. Wright, I think dis is one of de most remarkable dogs I has ever seen. I would say he is de coldest trailer of your pack?' "'Coldest, did you say? Why he can smell them after they have been along three or four weeks.' Molly Clowney was nex' picked out by Marse Tom, and come in for his turn. 'Here ought to be de apple of your eyes, Dr. Wright,' say Marse Tom, 'for if I know anything 'bout dogs, this is the swiftest animal dat ever run on four feet. Tell me now, honor bright, can't she out run anything in these parts?' "'Run, did you say? No. She can't run a bit. But dere ain't a crow nor a turkey buzzard, dat ever crossed de dark corner, dat can hold a candle to her flyin'. I've seen her run under them and outrun deir shadows many times. Dinner is 'bout ready, and I want you to meet Pinky.' "Marse Tom was took in de house and de old man led him 'round like a fine horse at a show or fair. 'Why, Pinky, he is smart; got more sense than all de candidates put together. He is kin to old preacher Billy Woodward, de smartest man, I heard my daddy say, in Europe, Asia, Africa, North America, or South America.' They say Marse Tom promised befo' he left to pass a bill dat no fence was to be higher than five rails, to suit fox hunters. Then de old man tell Miss Pinky to bring his fiddle, and he played 'De Devil's Dream'. When he finished, Marse Tom grab de fiddle and played: 'Hell Broke Loose In Georgia', wid such power and skill dat de old man, Uriah, hugged Miss Pinky and cut de 'Pigeon Wing' all over de floor. Marse Tom, they say, carry every vote at dat dark corner box. "I fall in love with Mary Hall. Got her, slick as a fox. Us had ten chillun. Eight is livin'. Robert is at de Winnsboro Cotton Mills. Ed in de same place. Estelle marry a Ford, and has some land near Winnsboro. Maggie marry a Pickett. Her husband took her to Washington. John Wesley is at Greensboro. Florence marry a Barber and lives in Winston Salem, N.C. Charley is in Winnsboro. Corinne marry a McDuff and is in Winnsboro. "Mighty glad to talk to you, and will come some day and try to bring you a 'possum. You say you would like to have one 'bout Thanksgivin' Day?" Project 1885-1 FOLKLORE Spartanburg Dist. 4 June 1, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES "Yas Sir, my ole Marster had lots o' land, a big plantation down at Lockhart whar I was born, called de Herndon Plantation. Den he live in a big house jes' outside o' Union, called 'Herndon Terrace', and 'sides dat, he was de biggest lawyer dat was in Union. "Furs' 'membrance was at de age o' three when as yet I couldn't walk none. My mother cooked some gingerbread. She told de chilluns to go down a hill and git her some oak bark. De furs' one back wid de bark 'ud git de furs' gingerbread cake dat was done. My sister sot me down, a sliding down de side o' her laag, atter she had carried me wid her down de side o' de hill. Dem big chaps started to fooling time away. I grab up some bark in my hand and went toddling and a crawling up to de house. My mother seed me a crawling and toddling, and she took de bark out'n my hand and let me pull up to de do'. She cook de gingerbread, and when de other chilluns got back, I was a setting up eating de furs' cake. "She put gingerbread dough in a round oven dat had laags on hit. It looked like a skillet, but it never had no handle. It had a lid to go on de top wid a groove to hold live coals. Live coals went under it, too. Mother wanted oak chips and bark, 'cause dey made sech good hot coals and clean ashes. "Pots biled in de back o' de chimney, a hanging from a pot rack over de blazing fire. It had pot hooks to git it down. "Bread was cooked in a baker like de ginger cake was. Dey roasted both kinds o' 'taters in de ashes and made corn bread in de ashes and called it ash cake, den. "Us lived in a one-room log house. Fer de larger families, dey had two rooms wid de fire place in de middle o' de room. Our'n was at de end by de winder. It had white or red oak, or pine shingles to kivver de roof wid. O' course de shingles was hand made, never know'd how to make no other'n. "All beds was corded. Along side de railings, dar was holes bored to draw de ropes through, as dese was what dey used in dem days instead o' slats. Ropes could be stretched to make de bed lay good. Us never had a chair in de house. My paw made benches fer us to set by de fire on. Marse Zack let de overseer git planks fer us. My paw was called Lyles Herndon. We had a large plank table dat paw made. Never had no mirrows. Went to de spring to see ourselfs on a Sunday morning. Never had no sech things as dressers in dem days. All us had, was a table, benches and beds. And my paw made dem. Had plenty wood fer fire and pine knots fer lights when de fire git low or stop blazing. "Us had tallow candles. Why ev'ybody know'd how to make taller candles in dem days, dat wudd'n nothing out de ordinary. All you had to do, was to kill a beef and take de taller from his tripe and kidneys. See, it de fat you gits and boil it out. Stew it down jes' as folks does hog lard dese days. De candle moulds was made out'n tin. Fer de wicks, all de wrapping string was saved up, and dar wasn't much wrapping string in dem times. Put de string right down de middle o' de mould and pour de hot taller all around it. De string will be de wick fer de candle. Den de moulds was laid in raal cold water so dat de taller shrink when it harden, and dis 'low de candle to drap easy from de mould and not break up. Why, it's jes' as easy to make taller candles as it is to fall off'n a log. "Firs' lamp dat I ever seed was a tin lamp. Dat was at Dr. Bates' place in Santuc. Him and his brother, Fair, lived together. It was a little table lamp wid a handle and a flat wick. He had it in his house. I was Dr. Bates' house-boy. "My son tuck me back to Union last year, 1936, I 'members. Nothing didn't look natual 'cept de jail. Ev'ything else look strange. Didn't see nobody I knowed, not narry living soul. Marse big white house, wid dem kallems (columns) still setting dar; but de front all growed up in pine trees. When I slave time darkey, dat front had flowers and figgers (statues), setting all along de drive from de road to de big house. T'aint like dat now. "Atter Mr. Herndon died, I was sold at de sale at Lockhart, to Dr. Tom Bates from Santuc. He bought me fer $1800 so as dey allus told me. Marse Zack had a hund'ed slaves on dat plantation. Stout, healthy ones, brung from $1,000 on up to $2,000 a head. When I was a young kid, I heard dat he was offered $800 fer me, but he never tuck it. Dis de onliest time dat I was ever sold. Marse Zack never bred no slaves, but us heard o' sech afar off. He let his darkies marry when dey wanted to. He was a good man and he allus 'lowed de slaves to marry as dey pleased, 'cause he lowed dat God never intent fer no souls to be bred as if dey was cattle, and he never practice no sech. "I is old and I does not realize who Marse Zack's overseer was, kaise dat been a long while. I was Dr. Bates' house-boy. I allus heard dat Dr. Bates bought my maw fer $1,500, at de same time he bought me. He give $2,000 fer my paw. My brother, Jim, was bought fer $1,800. Adolphus, 'bout fifteen years old, sold fer 'bout $1,400; and my onliest sister, Matilda, was bought fer a maid gal, but I cannot recollect fer what price. She was purty good size gal den. All o' dem is dead now but me, even all my white folks is done gone. I sees a lonely time now, but my daughter treat me kind. I live wid her now. "Dr. Bates' brother, Fair, was single man dat live in de house wid Dr. Bates fer thirteen years. I lived in slavery fer over twenty-one years. Yas, I's twenty-one when Freedom come; and den Dr. Bates up and marry Mr. Henry Sartor's daughter, Miss Ma'y. Don't know how long she live, but she up and tuck and died; den he pop up and marry her sister, Anne. It was already done Freedom when he marry de furs' time. When he married de second time, Mr. Fair, up and went over to de Keenan place to live. He never did marry, hisself, 'though. "As house-boy dar, I mind de flies from de table and tote dishes to and fro from de kitchen. Kitchen fer ways off from de house. James Bates, his cook. Sometime I help wash de dishes. Marse never had no big house, kaise he was late marrying. Dar wasn't no company in dem days, neither. "Rations was give out ev'y week from de smokehouse. Twenty-five or thirty hogs was killed at de time. Lots o' sheep and goats was also killed. All our meat was raised, and us wore wooden-bottom shoes. Raised all de wheat and corn. Hogs, cows, goats and sheep jes' run wild on Tinker and Brushy Fork Creeks. On Sat'day us git one peck meal; three pounds o' meat and one-half gallon black molasses fer a person; and dat's lot mo' dan dey gits in dese days and times. Sunday morning, us git two, or maybe three pounds o' flour. Didn't know nothing 'bout no fat-back in dem times. Had sassafras and sage teas and 'dinty' tea (dinty tea is made from a wild S.C. weed). "Marse's coachman called Tom 'Cuff', kaise he bought from old Dr. Culp. He driv two black hosses to de carriage. Marse's saddle hoss was kinder reddish. Gen'ally he do his practice on hossback. He good doctor, and carry his medicine in saddle bags. It was leather and fall on each side o' de hoss's side. When you put something in it, you have to keep it balanced. Don't never see no saddle bags; neither does you see no doctors gwine round on no hosses dese days. "Never seed no ice in dem days 'cep in winter. Summer time, things was kept in de milk-house. Well water was changed ev'y day to keep things cool. Ev'ybody drink milk in de summer, and leave off hot tea, and de white folks only drink coffee fer dere breakfast. T'other times dey also drink milk. It bees better fer your health all de time. "At de mouth o' Brushy Fork and Tinker Creek whar dey goes together dar is a large pond o' water. Us n'used to fish in dat pond. One day, me and Matilda tuck off a-fishing. I fell in dat pond, and when I riz up, a raft o' brush held my head under dat water and I couldn't git out no ways. 'Tilda sees my dangerment, and she jump in dat deep water and pull me from under dat raff. She couldn't swim but us both got out. Can't think no mo' today." =Source:= Zack Herndon, Grenard St., Gaffney, S.C. (col. 93) Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. 5/11/37 Project #1655 Stiles M. Scruggs Columbia S.C. LAVINIA HEYWARD'S STORY OF SLAVERY AND RECONSTRUCTION. Lavinia Heyward, a Negro woman 67 years old, living at 515 Marion Street, Columbia, S.C., is a daughter of ex-slaves. Her parents were Peter Jones and Rachel Bryant Jones. They married in Columbia, soon after they were freed, in 1865. Lavinia reviews her mother's experiences with a famous South Carolina family, before and after bondage, and takes a glance at Columbia's progress in the past half century. "Sho' I's been here 67 years, and I's seen a stragglin' town of 10,000 grow from poverty to de present great city and riches. Shucks, I 'spects if you was to set me down at Broad River bridge and tell me to go home, I might git lost tryin' to find my way to where I has lived for many years. Durin' my time I's sho' seen dis city sad and glad, and I's happy to say dat it seem to be feelin' a right smart lak itself now. "My mammy, and her daddy and mammy, was bought from de Bryants at Beaufort by de Rhett family, when my mammy was a little pickaninny. She not able to tell nothin' 'bout her 'speriences with de Bryants, but she sho' recall a lot of things after she jine de Rhetts. She live with them 'til she was just turnin' twelve years old, then she come to Columbia as a slave of Master John T. Rhett. He move here, as a refugee, in 1862. Master Rhett was not healthy 'nough to go to war but some of his folks go. "One of Master Rhett's brothers, who was too old to go to war, march 'way to fight Yankees at Honey Hill. De Yankee fleet send an army in boats to cut de Charleston and Savannah Railroad, and de Confederates meet them at Honey Hill, half way 'tween Beaufort and Savannah. In a bloody battle dere de Confederates won. Master Rhett, of Beaufort was wounded dere, and his brother, John, leave Columbia and go dere to see him while he was in bed, battlin' for life. "My mammy never work in de field at Beaufort, nor after she come to Columbia. She was kep' on duty in de big house and learned to sew and make garments, quilts, and things. She also learn to read, write, and cipher, and she could sing many of de church songs them days. She play with de white chillun dat come to see de Rhetts in Beaufort and in Columbia. She tell me 'bout things in Beaufort, where de Rhetts live then. "She say de Rhetts has been buckra since de time when Colonel William Rhett go out in his battle ships to chase and kill pirates, in de days when Carolina was ruled by de King of England. She say they own many big plantations in Beaufort County and raise big crops of rice and sea island cotton. She say de sea island cotton was so costly that it was handpicked by slaves and placed in hundred pounds sacks. Then it was shipped to France and de growers reap a rich harvest. "Mammy tell us chillun dat de Rhetts sho' was de 'big folks' of South Carolina, and I reckons dat's so, 'cause de books, swords, guns, windlasses and things lak dat, in a room at de John T. Rhett home, show what they has been doin' for several hundred years. "Oh yes, you wants to know where 'bouts John T. Rhett live in Columbia? He live at de house now number 1420 Washington Street, right 'cross de street from where de parsonage of the Washington Street Methodist Church now stands. I go dere with Mammy, often, and play 'round de yard. Mammy always work dere as long as she able to serve a-tall. She take sick and die in 1883. "Master John T. Rhett was mayor of de city three times, in 1882, 1884 and in 1886. I knows well, 'cause he see to it dat us chillun go to school, 'long 'bout then, and not a one of us has been unable to read, write, and cipher since. He see dat we gits chances to become useful citizens, and his very name is sweet to me since he died. "You ask if I knows R. Goodwin Rhett of Charleston? I sho' does; I has talked with him and he ask me many questions. He was born in Columbia but move to Charleston many years ago and, lak the buckra dat he is, he climb to de top as de mayor of Charleston, big banker, and president of de Chamber of Commerce of de United States. So you see, my mammy was lucky in livin' with such a fine family. "You asks if my man (husband) has come down from de Heyward family of de Combahee River slaves? No. He come from de North and he say dere was Heywards up dere, both white and black. He got that name in de North. He has been a carpenter, hired by de month, at de State Hospital for many years, and we bought dis two-story home by de sweat of our brow. We lives, and has always lived, as my mammy tell us to. And we git 'long pretty well by trustin' in God and doin' our best." Project #-1655 Mrs. Chlotilde R. Martin Beaufort County Approx. 530 Words FOLKLORE FOLKLORE Stories from Ex-slaves Lucretia Heyward Ex-slave Age - 96 W'en gun fust shoot on Hilton Head Islandt, I been 22 year old. Muh Pa name Tony MacKnight and he b'long to Mr. Stephen Elliott. My Ma name Venus MacKnight and she b'long to Mr. Joe Eddings, who had uh plantation on Parri (Parris) Islandt. De overseer been Edward Blunt. He been poor white trash, but he wuk haa'd and save he money and buy slave. He buy my Ma and bring she to Beaufort to wuk in he house by de Baptist chu'ch. I been born den. I hab seven brudder name Jacob, Tony, Robert, Moses--I can't 'member de odders, it been so long ago. I hab one sister Eliza--she die de odder day. W'en I been little gal, I wuk in de house. Wuk all day. I polish knife and fork, mek bed, sweep floor, nebber hab time for play game. W'en I git bigger, dey send me to school to Miss Crocker to learn to be seamstruss. W'en I small, I sleep on floor in Miss Blunt room. I eat food left ober from table. Dey nebber learn me to read and write. I ain't hab time for sech t'ing. I go to chu'ch in white Baptis' chu'ch. Nigger hab for sit up stair, white folks sit down stair. If nigger git sick, dey send for doctor to 'tend um. Mr. Blunt nebber lick me, but Miss Blunt cut my back w'en I don't do to suit her. Nigger git back cut w'en dey don't do wuk or w'en dey fight. Dey hab uh jail in town, run by Mr. McGraw. If nigger be too bad, run street and t'ing, he git in jail and Mr. McGraw lick um. I been lock in jail one time. Dey hang me up by wrist and beat me twenty-five lick wid uh cowhide. I forgit w'at I don't to git dat. W'en Yankee been come de Blunts leab Beaufort, and I walk out house and go back to Parri Islandt. De Yankee tell we to go en Buckra corn house and git w'at we want for eat. Den I come back to Beaufort and go to wuk in cotton house (gin.) De Yankee pay we for wuk and I tek my money and buy twenty acre ob land on Parri Islandt. I ain't had dat land now 'cause de Government tek em for he self and mek me move. (This was when the Government bought Parris Island for a naval station.) I been hab two husband. De fust name Sephus Brown. How I 'member w'en he die, it been de year ob de ninety-tree storm. My odder husband been Cupid Heyward--he daid (dead) too. I hear tell ob de Ku Klux, but I nebber shum (see them). I don't know nuting 'bout no night rider. See um sell slabe? I see um. Dey put um on banjo table and sell um just lak chicken. Nigger ain't no more den chicken and animal, enty? (isn't it so?) Abraham Lincoln? Sho' I 'members him. He de one w'at gib us freedom, enty? He come to Beaufort. He come 'fo de war. He sho been one fine man. He come to Beaufort on uh ship and go all 'round here, but I nebber shum. Jefferson Davis? No I nebber hear ob him. Booker T. Washington. I 'members him. I hear him mek speech in Beaufort. It been uh beautiful speech. Dat been one smaa't colored man. W'at I t'ink 'bout slabery? Huh--nigger git back cut in slabery time, enty? Does I hate Mr. Blunt? No, I ain't hate um. He poor white trash but he daid now. He hab he self to look out for, enty? He wuk, he sabe he money for buy slabe and land. He git some slabe, but he nebber git any land--de war cum. Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S.C. Georgetown County FOLKLORE AUNT MARIAH HEYWOOD Aunt Mariah Heywood, born in 1855, was 'Allston labor' on Waccamaw Neck. Given as a bridal present to 'Miss Susan Alston by her father, Mr. Duncan Alston of Midway Plantation Waccamaw, Aunt Mariah has for the last fifty years lived much in the past when 'I wuz raise on the cream of the earth' and her head is just a little higher and her backbone just a little stiffer than that of the average colored person because of pride--family pride--in her people--her white people. And as one can readily see from her testimony, her chief cause for her pardonable snobbery seems to be that her Massa was the last man to surrender and "swear gainst his swear." Her sons, one of whom is a preacher in the Methodist Conference and 'one a zorter--a locust' and her youngest son John (who got all the credrick) have built her a comfortable house (painted a bilious yaller) which she keeps clean and sweet with flowers in the front yard--two treasured plants having been sent by her brother (born after mancipations) clean from Pittsburgh. The fact that she was raised by aristocrats shows plainly in her dealing with both races and she is a leader in church activities and her opinion valued when a vote is taken about school matters. Being the oldest 'communion steward' she is affectionately spoken of as 'THE MOTHER OF HEAVEN'S GATE'--the Methodist church founded in Murrells Inlet community by colored leaders shortly after Mancipation. "Aunt Mariah, you home?" "Missus, what you brought me?" "------------ "I too thank you." (Soon she began to reminisce) "You could hear 'em over there slamming and banging. The Yankee tear up the Dr. Flagg house but they didn't come Sunnyside. Bright day too! Old man Thomas Stuart lead 'em to Hermitage. Had team they take from Mr. Betts and team they take from Dr. Arthur to Woodland. Free everywhere else and we wasn't free Sunnyside till June third or second. Sunday we got our freedom. Bright day too. Our colored people fare just like the white; wearing, eating, drinking. I wuz raise on the cream of earth. "They wuz glad. Sign a contract for your boss you would work the same and get pay the end of the year-and tend you when you sick all the same." (The same medical attention to be given that was given before 'Freedom') "Big guns shooting! House jar to Sunnyside and one day water shake out the glass! Miss Susan take her spyglass and stand behind one them big posses (posts) and spy them big boats shooting. And boss say, 'Don't get in front of them posses-they might shoot you!' "Yankee come to Mrs. Belin and Parson Betts. And they tell Mrs. Belin, they want her to know no more slave holding and she thank 'em and she say, HE people wuz always free! Grandma Harriet, (Harriet Mortor wuz her title but that time they always gone by they Master title). Joe Heywood wuz Joe Belin--he was Parson Belin man--he take the Heywood title after mancipation. Poinsette (Uncle Fred) ALWAYS carry that title. That day, all the right hand servant always take they Massa title. When the big gun shooting, old people in the yard, 'Tank God! Massa, HE COMING!' (Referring to 'Freedom') 'HE COMING!' (Guns gone just like thunders roll now!) Chillun say, "What coming? What coming? What coming, Grandma?" 'You all will know! You all will know!' "Massa live 'Wee ha kum' for years. We are fifty-five (55) chillun. Mary Rutledge Allston and I one year chillun." (She and Mary R. Allston born same year.) "My missus have four chillun--Mary Rutledge, Susan Bethune, Marsa Pink and Marse Fanuel. (Benjamine Nathaniel!) "Four years of the war been hold prayer-meeting." (Praying for 'freedom'). Lock me up in house. Me, I been PREsent to Miss Minna--'Miss Mary! We, us lock up! My brother and I listen! (Two brother mancipation chillun. Smart Robert Brockington and Harrison Franklin Brockington in Pittsburgh. I nuss (nurse) him--jess like you hold that book.) Old people used to go to Richmond Hill, Laurel Hill and Wachesaw have these little prayer-meeting. All bout in people house. Hold the four year of the war. Great many time the chicken crow for day. Hear the key. We say 'Yeddy!' Change clothes. Gone on in the house. Get that eight, seven o'clock breakfast.' "Parson Glennie (Rector All Saints, Waverly lived at Rectory there and did wonderful work teaching and preaching to slaves as well as whites--preaching at beautiful St. Mary's chapel, built by Plowden Weston at Hagley for the slaves of materials from England--baptismal font from this chapel now in Camden Episcopal church and stained glass also removed before chapel burned some few years ago. At this period--prior to mancipation Waccamaw slaves were usually educated in the faith of their masters--the Episcopal.) Parson Glennie come once a month to Sunnyside. Parson Glennie read, sing, pray. Tell us obey Miss Minna. (I wuz little highest.) Two of us 55 chillun! We'd fight. She knock me. I knock back! Wouldn't take a knock! She say, 'I tell Parson Glennie! Lord won't bless you! You bad.' I say, 'You knock me, I knock you!' "Have a play-house. Charlie buy from Mott. Used to summer it at Magnolia. Row from Bull Creek once a month to Chapel. (10 miles or more) Put them All Saints eleven o'clock service. Four best men his rowsmen. Fuss (first) year war we tuh Bull Creek. Nobody go (to All Saints) but Missus and Massa and the four rowsmen. "Flat going from Midway to Cheraw. Best rice on flat. (Couldn't grind corn) Kill chicken. Gone to protect from Yankees--to hide! When they come (to Cheraw). Sherman coming from MONDAY till SATDY! Come on RAIL! Said 'twas a shocking sight! When Sherman army enter Cheraw, town full of sojers. Take way from white people and give horses colored people! Didn't kill none the horses. (On Sunnyside on Waccamaw) Cheraw Yankee kill horses! (Indeed--YES! It is history in Marlboro, near Cheraw they were killed and thrown in the wells to pollute the water.)" "Mr. Charley horse, couldn't nobody ride but him! Father-in-law (Mr. Duncan to Midway) had a pair of grey--BUCK and SMILER. Driver, Tom Carr. Come in carriage every month to Sunnyside. Get the family. Go and spend ten days--Midway! Family wuz MYSELF, MISS MINNA, and the three and the Massa and Miss Susan. Mary Huger one my Missus sister. One marry a Huger to Charleston. "Major Charles say he'd die in Sunnyside yard fore he'd go there (Georgetown) and take off his hat and 'swear gainst my swear.' He'd die in Sunnyside yard. My Massa, Major Charles Alston, was the last one to gone to Georgetown and gone under that flag! He was Charles Jr., but after Confederick war he was Major Charles! Major Charles the last man off Waccamaw gone under the flag! At Georgetown. Went down in row-boat. My fadder gone and tell old man Tom Nesbitt to have his boat and four of his best mens. Got to go off a piece! Pa gone. Have boat ready. Ma got up. Cook a traveling lunch for 'em. Fore day! Blue uniform. Yellow streak down side--just like this streak in my dress. Yellow bar!" (Most of 'em had to rob dead yankees or go naked) "LAST GENTLEMAN GONE UNDER THE FLAG! "Walking up and down the piazza! Say, Can I go to town and swear gainst my slave?" Can I? Up and down! "I hear bout them slave try to run way. Aunt Tella Kinloch eye shot out. Marsh (baby) cry! Mother say take her apron and stuff the child mouth. Blockade (patrollers) wuz hiding. Shot in range of that sound. Row! Row! Row! Put everything in jail! All in jail! Mr. McCuskey tell us! He wuz one of the men help lynch. I got married 1873. They wuz talking bout the time (war) "Mr. McCuskey told us Nemo Ralston was one. Say he never see a fatter man. Fat in there in shield! Like a fattening hog! (They running way from Oregon--Dr. McGill place). Say they put four horses to him--one to every limb. Stretch 'em. And cut horses and each horse carry a piece! Mr. McCuskey was one help lynch Nemo. "Uncle William Heywood didn't birth till after mancipation. Not a thing to do with slavery time! But I know when the big gun shooting to free me! Yankee come and free Waccamaw! No slave hold. Whole neck free but us! Last people free on 'Neck.' MY MAJOR last one to went under flag to Georgetown! Old man Moses Gibson and Peter Brockington build Sunnyside kitchen. "I wuz birth November 5th, 1855. Mr. Buck say, 'Aunt Mariah, know your birth?' "'Yes, sir!' "'Aunt Mariah, you too old to work! You born 1800, go on home raise your chicken!'" Aunt Mariah Heywood Age--82 Murrells Inlet, S.C. Project 1885-1 FOLK LORE Spartanburg, S.C. May 10, 1937 Edited by: Elmer Turnage SLAVE STORIES Living with his married daughter is an old negro slave by the name of Jerry Hill. He was born Jan. 12, 1852. He and his mother were owned by Jim Fernandes who had a plantation between Union and Jonesville, S.C. His father was a slave owned by another white man on an adjoining plantation. "Uncle" Jerry was nine years old when the war began, and thirteen when he was set free. He was born near Rocky Creek which ran into Fairforest Creek. He was always treated kindly by his master. He was taught to plow and work on the farm, which he did regularly; though he always took his time and would not let anybody hurry him. He said that he had always taken his time to do his farm work, so got along fine with all for whom he worked. He says that he always had plenty to eat; yet most of the "niggers" had to eat Ash-bread. This is corn-bread which is cooked in hot ashes raked from the fireplace. Once a week he was given biscuits, though this was a luxury to colored folks. He said, that when a slave had to have a whipping, he was taken to a whipping post in Jonesville. A bull-whip was used for the punishment and it brought the blood from the bare back of the man or woman being whipped. One day a grown slave was given 150 lashes with the bull-whip, for teaching the young boys to gamble. He saw this punishment administered. He had climbed a tree where he could get a better view. He said that several slaves were being whipped that day for various things, and there were several men standing around watching the whipping. He said that he was laughing at the victim, when some by-stander looked up and saw him; "that boy needs 150 lashes, too," he said. "He is laughing at the punishment being given." So his master told the by-stander to get the boy and give him the lashing if he thought he needed it. When he was led up to the whipping post, some man there shook his head at the by-stander; so the boy did not get whipped. Jerry says that the sister of Jim Fernandas used to carry a bull-whip around her neck when she walked out on the farm, and would apply it herself to any slave she thought needed it. "When the Yankee soldiers came," he said, "my master had to hide out for awhile, as he had gotten into some trouble with them at Union. They would search the house occasionaly and then go into the woods looking for him. One day the soldiers caught him down on the branch and killed him. As the Yankee soldiers would come to the plantation, they would leave their worn-out horses and take our good ones. They also stole meat, hams, sugar etc.; but they were pretty quiet most of the time. One of our neighbors caught a Yankee stealing his horse and killed him right there. His name was Bill Isom. All his family is now dead. The soldiers would slip around and steal a good horse and ride it off. We would never see that horse again. After we were told by my master that we were now free and could go to work whereever we chose, my mother hired me out to a man and I stayed with him two years. It was pretty hard to make a living after we were free, but I worked hard and always got on." =Source:= Jerry Hill, 265 Highland St., Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewed by: F.S. DuPre, Spartanburg Office, Dist. 4. Project #-1655 Martha S. Pinckney Charleston, S.C. FOLKLORE JANE HOLLINS AGE 97 Jane was found in the sunshine on her piazza, busily occupied, as she always would be. With her full cotton skirt she brushed off the hard-wood bench, and asked the writer to have a seat; this being declined, she said, "Then I'll sit, because I'm old and get tired. "Now what you want with old Jane? From old Mausa time you can get my age--you can 'pute it up. (compute) I was 95 June before this last June gone. I got a son 70 what lives in the country--he pay my rent. I dunno how many children I had; my son July Ladson lives here with me--he gone out now. One son is gone off somewhere in the world; he's married and has a family--I dunno where he is--somewhere in the world!"--spreading, out her arms. "I come from Eutawville and Belvidere and Belmont. My Master?--Charles Sinkler, Belvidere Plantation, (a few miles from Eutawville) Mausa went to Eutaw for Miss--I remember all two place, Belvidere and Eutaw. We live at Belvidere. My master house been beautiful--'e dey yet! (in her deep feeling and excitement she lapsed into Gullah). That was the plantation where we lived--and, the beautiful steps went up at the back to the 'pantry and to the side was the smoke house', she jumped up and illustrated--'the smoke come up from here, and the meat was hangin' all here', she showed vital interest in everything she told, and was absorbed in her subject, as when we relate experiences which we have loved. "You know what 'Daily Gift'?--I was Daily Gift--Mausa give me to Miss Margaret, his daughter, when she was married to Mr. Gaillard--I give to Miss Margaret--=I never was sold=." She repeated twice, and was very proud of it that she was a "Free Gift". "I never was sold, =and my Mama never was sold=." (Faithful servants remained for generations in one family, inherited and willed like other valued property) "What I do?--I milk cows", and she illustrated. "I do outside work wid de hoe--plant corn, potato, peas, rice!" She beamed with pride and pleasure as she told of each thing she could do--"Help fix the hogs, you know, make lard and cracklings to put in bread. When dinner time they blow the big conk and everybody come for dinner. I not the cook. The cook, Delia, stout round, (illustrated) she do cook! We jus' make out now with dese vittles. "We went to church all de time--an' I sing an' shout in de Heavenly land! De church been on de plantation. Mausa had a white minister for us. His name Mr. Quinbey. I believe in God. Heaven a restin' place--there we is all one spirit--the spirit go about jus' how we go about here." "Do they come back? Did you ever see one?" she was asked. "I hear 'bout dat," she frowned, "but I never see um. My mama, Eve, died after freedom. My mama gone--she never come back--my children never come back to me any time. I dont know how many of my children dead. My daughters, dey lookin' to themselves." "I come to Charleston long after Freedom. I remember all two place--Belvidere and Eutawville. Belmont I cant forget--de name Gaillard I cant forget, cause I was 'Free Gift.' Dese time aint like de times way back dere." "I been a mid-wife here 60 years. My name writ right down dere and you can find it. No longer than this mornin' I burn up some papers. I aint have any remembrance any more." Here she went in to the house and got some sheets of paper.--"I want to be truthful to you, dese was my nursery book." "I'm too old to sing.--I did know spirituals but cant remember them--I tell you dese things, then they go out of my remembering." "My sister been seamstress in de house--her name Rachel--I do de pointing I can work at anything--after supper, before dark come, do cutting out for next days work." "I cut out a suit for my master," she said proudly--"pants, and a waistcoat--you know?" Then she remembered suddenly that she could spin--card the cotton and spin it into yarn--"'I glad I can remember things I do in those days--.'" Her farewell benediction was: ="I trust de Lord will carry you whereever you want to go!"= =Source:= Jane Hollins, age 97, the Lane at 50 Ashe St, Charleston, S.C. Project #1655 W. W. Dixon Winnsboro, S.C. CORNELIUS HOLMES EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD. Cornelius Holmes lives with his wife, Nancy, in a two-room annex to the house that his son, David, occupies. It is on the old Harden place, nine miles northwest of Winnsboro, S.C. The land and the house belong to Mr. John Means Harden, a resident of Winnsboro. Cornelius is intelligent, courteous in manner, tidy in appearance, and polite. His occupation is that of basket-making, in which he is an adept. He picks up a little money by repairing chairs and putting split-bottoms in them. "I was born in de town of Edgefield, South Carolina, November 29th, 1855, 'cordin' to de Bible, and was a slave of Marse Preston Brooks. Dat name seem to make you set up and take notice of me. "How come I a slave of Marse Preston? Well, it was dis way. My grands b'long to de Means family of Fairfield County, 'round old Buckhead section. My grandpap, Wash, tell me Marse Preston come dere visitin' de Harpers, 'nother buckra family dat live further toward de Broad River side of de county. When he git up dere, it come over his 'membrance dat de Meanses was some punkins too, as well as him and de Harpers. Maybe he done heard 'bout Miss Martha, how her could ride a horse and dance a cotillion in Columbia, when Marse John Hugh was de governor. Well, de part goes, he comes over dere but didn't do lak they does now, bust right in and 'clare his 'fections to de gal. Him fust, solemn lak, ask to see de marster and ask him if he object to him pursuing Miss Martha, in de light of becomin' his son-in-law? Then, when dat was settled, Marse Preston and Miss Martha gallop and race all 'round de country but de hosses was always neck and neck. Dat fall, dat race ended in a tie. Dat what Grandpap Wash tell me. "After they marry, my mother, Scylla, was give to Miss Martha and 'company her to Edgefield. Dere she marry de carriage driver, Hillard, who was my pappy. I was born in a room 'joinin' de kitchen and a part of de big kitchen. De plantation was out in de country. I never was dere, so I can't tell you nothin' 'bout dat. De fact is, I was just a small boy and most I know, comes from mother and grandpap. They 'low Marse Preston was in Washington most of de time. One day he marched right in de Senate, wid his gold head cane, and beat a Senator 'til him fainted, 'bout sumpin' dat Senator say 'bout him old kinsman, Senator Butler. Dat turn de world up side down. Talk 'bout 'peachin' Marse Preston. Marse Preston resign and come home. De town of Edgefield, de county of Edgefield, de state of South Carolina, and Miss Martha, rise to vindicate Marse Preston and 'lect him back to Washington. "Marse Preston go back and stay dere 'til he die, in 1859. His body was brought back to Edgefield. De nex' year de war come on. I's too young to 'member much 'bout it but my pappy die while it was goin' on. Him have three chillun by mother: Me, Audie, and Nancy. They is dead now but I 'members them crawlin' 'round on de plank floor in de winter time and in de sand in de summer time. "I never worked in slavery time. Us eat from de dairy and de kitchen, just what mistress and her chillun eat. One thing I lak then was 'matoes. They wasn't big 'matoes lak they is now. They was 'bout de size of marbles. Us cooked them wid sugar and they was mighty good dat way. "My mistress had chillun by Marse Preston. Sho' I recollect them. Dere was Preston; de last I hear of him, him livin' in Tennessee. Then dere was Miss Mary; her marry Mr. George Addison of Edgefield. Miss Carrie; her marry Marse Capers Byrd. De youngest, Miss Martha, marry Col. McBee of Greenville, S.C. "Does I 'members 'bout de Yankees? Not much. I 'members more 'bout Wheeler's men. They come and take nearly everything, wid de excuse dat de Yankees was not far behind and when they come, they would take all, so they just as well take most of what was in sight. "When freedom come, my pappy was dead. Mother brought me back to Fairfield County and give me to my grandpap, Washington Holmes. Us live on 'Possum Branch; now own by Mr. Jim Young. I stay dere 'til I 'come twenty-one. Then I marry Maggie Gladden, 'cause I love her. Us had four chillun, in de twenty years her live. Henry is in Philadephia. David, de oldest, is fifty years old, livin' out in de county from Winnsboro. Lula died, unmarried. Carrie lives here, in Winnsboro; her husband is Arthur Rosboro, dat you white folks all know so well. When Maggie die, I marry Nancy Holmes, a widow. Us have had no chillun. "Now you is finished wid me and you wants me to relax, you say, and talk to you freely 'bout de past and slavery, de present and social conditions, and de risin' generation and de future? Well, dat is a heap of territory. Now let's think. You see I got a heap a white blood in me, and a heap of de Negro too. Slavery did de white race a whole lot a good but it wasn't lastin' good. It did de Negro good, dat will be lastin' good forever. De Negro women protected de pure white woman from enticement and seduction of de white man in slavery time. My grandpap say he never heard of a bad white woman befo' freedom. I leave it wid you if dere's any dese times? Dat was worth more to de South, my grandpap say, dis santification of de white women, than all de cotton and corn dat de Negroes ever makes, in all de years of slavery times. "Now it was de finest thing could have happen for de Negro, to have been snatched out of Africa and brought here in touch wid civilization and Christianity. It will work out untold benefit to de race. 'Bout social conditions? De Bible say, 'De poor you will have wid you always.' Tho' de slave question am settled, de race question will be wid us always, 'til Jesus come de second time. It's in our politics, in our justice courts, on our highways, on our side walks, in our manners, in our 'ligion, and in our thoughts, all de day and every day. "De good Marster pity both sides. In de end, will it be settle by hate or by de policy of, love your neighbor, as you do yourself? Who knows? Dere's not much promise at de 'mediate moment of de risin' generation, of either side, and I means no disrespect to you. My grandpap say no race can rise higher than its women. De future of de Negro race, depends on its mothers. I leave you to answer de last half of de question." Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S.C. Georgetown County FOLKLORE UNCLE BEN HORRY (Uncle Ben lives in his own cabin with his second wife, Stella. Formerly almost inaccessible, the new Coastal Highway has put Uncle Ben and Aunt Stella in the world. The rural electricity program has current right at their door. Aunt Stella was asked 'Why don't you have lights, Aunt Stella?' and she replied, 'White folks run me if I do that!' So you see the old couple still live with many old and odd beliefs one being that the white man only is entitled to the good things--the better things. Like most old ex-slaves in South Carolina low country, they love and revere the names and memories of their old masters.) "Right now, I oldest one from Longwood to Prospect--see dere? (Pointing to forest wall--great pines and live-oaks in front of the cabin)--Look! I know when he cleared and plant! Josh Ward have potato there. I have manure and plant tater. I been here, daughter!" (He pronounces it 'Dater' with a short 'a') (Aside: "Stella, mind now! Don't quarrel me to-night! What you do?" Aunt Stella: The second wife--some years his junior--probably 65--"I do nuff!") "Got to go up there and cook supper to the Schoolfield house." (This was Uncle Ben's announcement as he crawled into the car with a bucket in which were his shoes. He was walking down the Coastal Highway and not staying where he belonged--on the shoulder!) "Got to cook crab and ister (oyster). Ain't got much to cook. They don't eat much. Got a gal there to fry fish. They give me recommend for cook. Been get the sea foods for 'em for five year. Iron oven the way we raise." (Aside to his wife) "Stella, if that man come there, see that sack there? Tell that man I put fire there. Gie 'em fork and knife. Tell 'em eat all he want!" (Uncle Ben arranges oyster roasts.) "That man to Schoolfield house want me to stay and sleep wid 'em. All women gone. Tell me keep the man and lock up the house when he gone. I tell 'em too much o' tief!" Lillie: "Aunt Stella, ain't you fraid when Uncle Ben stay out all night?" Uncle Ben: "Stella keep pot o' water boil and tief come she trow 'em!" Visitor: "Uncle Ben tell Lillie bout your father and the whiskey jug." Uncle Ben: "You see, to Brookgreen we nuster plant rice and my fadder had the barn key. He kinder boss man. He nuster (used to) take me and go out woods night time." (Aside to mother of child at pump--"Take care dat child!") "Fadder take me out woods night time (What you say, Primus?) and I hold storch (torch) for him see for trash (thrash) out rice what he take out the barn. Rice been money dem time you know. And he take he rice and gone on down to town for get he liquor. And he come from town wid whiskey. Boss find it out. Five or six chillun and always give us rations. Broke that jug and when they call his name (put rations in pile you know--pile for every one been in fambly) when they call my fadder name but a piece o' broken jug there is discourage him from whiskey--. He come from town and been drop the jug and it break up. And Boss know. Far as I can remember he keep give 'em that broken jug bout a year. You see he sponsible for key. Seem like I member right where we go beat that rice. Pine tree saw off and chip out make as good a mortar as that one I got. Dan'l, Summer, Define! Define the oldest brother my fadder have. Young Missus Bess, Florence, Georgia, Alice. Those boys the musicianer--go round play for the girl." Aunt Stella: Interrupting, "You orter be carry money with you. Get the meat. I ain't going no whey (where)." Lillie: To Primus who has walked up. "Handful back yet?" (Handful his wife's basket name.) Primus: "No. This man bacco barn burn up." Lillie: "What?" Primus: "Mr. Len barn. Must'er been asleep!" Lillie: "Rich most cure all his'n. Taint mine! Rich tease me. He say, 'MY bacco; YOUR kitchen!'" Lillie: "What you all think bout that tale the Elder tell Sunday bout his Great Uncle and the snakes!" Stella: (To Uncle Ben) "What you tink bout it? You tink a man truss to go in cypress hollow wid rattle-snake?" Uncle Ben: "Let me see how was it!" (Deep thought as he rubbed his face in his palm; smile as recollection came) "On Rutledge Plantation a man wouldn't take no beating. Found a large hollow cypress tree been rotten out long years. Gone in. Lie down sleep. Fore day wake up! Feel something crawl over him. Nother one crow like game chicken!" (Negroes all say rattlers crow!) "Smell him. Crawl over him. Crawl out. Get out." Stella: "Revents had it wuz a man in a cypress tree and seven--how much wuz it? Twelve? These twelve monster snake crawl over him. If you move, he strike." Uncle Ben: "Right there where Dr. Ward stay had a big old stable--see these two hole in my jaw. Had a stable high as that tree. Big Jersey bull gone in there eating that straw like we thrashing. Big rattle-snake pop 'um. Fell dead." "How does we mark shoat? Under-bit; upper-bit. Swallow fork in the right year! And a square crop in the left! "How much been task? A quarter (acre) if you mashing ground. Ten compass digging ground. Cutting rice one half acre a day." (awful job.) Stella: "Plow; harrow 'em." Ben: "Ain't you mash 'em?" Stella: "Mash a bed a day three task deep." Ben: "Mashing raw ground half acre--some quarter. Mash 'em--take hoe full up them hole, level dem, chop dem big sod!" Stella: (age 65) "You got a mis-sheen (machine). Ox pull dat mis-sheen!" Ben: "Dat mis-sheen come in YOU day, darling! My day I trenching hoe trench dat! I done dat, Stella. You come on sow in trench lak (like) dey sow turnip. YOU day got mis-sheen! Ox pull 'em. Great I AM! Missus, fifteen to old islant (island), twenty silver islant, (I been Silver Islant. Cross old islant go Silver islant.) Josh Ward one some four or five hundred acre. Something been here, darling! Something been here! Left Brookgreen go Watsaw; left Watsaw gone Longwood. Plant ALL DEM plantation. I work there. Cut rice there. Cutting rice task been half acre a day. "Squirrel creek? Cedar tree and cypress hang low. Squirrel love dem ball. Tree work up wid dem. Good place for go shoot squirrel. Give 'em name Squirrel Creek. "Bury live? I did hear some talk o' that. I didn't know whether they bury 'em to scay 'em (scare 'em) or what. I DID hear tell bout it. I most know that man name. Some these white people that day something! They either manage you or kill you." Lillie: (To Primus who was a listener to Uncle Ben standing propped by a post of the porch where Uncle Ben, Aunt Stella, and the white visitor sat) "Prime! Why you keep that church door lock Sunday and not let the Missus out?" Primus: (Grinning--and he hadn't grinned Sunday but steadfastly shook his head when, after a three hour service, guests thought it time to go) "Second man next to me, Asham, Secretary, tell me keep door shet through sacrament. Ben: (Who is quite deaf--ignoring interruption--when asked about Oregon Plantation which was owned by a family who, from all accounts, had a cruel overseer.) "I didn't have to much to do to Oregon in them dark days. If I go from Brookgreen, I go Cap'n Josh git my mittment. Anybody bother me I say, 'I not a run-way nigger! I got mittment!' "Very FUSS girl--FUSS one I go with name wuz Teena. How many girl? Great God! I tell you! FUSS one Teena; next Candis. Candis best looking but Teena duh largest! Go there every Sunday after school. (Oatland Plantation--blong to Marse Benjamine Allston.) Stay till sunset. Got to have paper. Got to carry you paper. Dem patroller put you cross a log! Beat you to death. I see them beat Ben Sharp. Beat 'em till Ben kin hardly git cross fence. Jump over fence give 'em last chop! Patroll jess like road men now! (Stella! That man ain't coming! I got to go! Got to cook my supper. Cook dem crab--) Blood! Christ! Yes, man. Listen me. Lemme tell you what I see wid my eye now! (here he pried both eyes wide with his ten fingers) If I much of age reckon they have to kill me! I see gash SO LONG (measuring on fore-finger) in my Mama--my own Mama! (aside to Lillie) I shame fore Miss Jinny! If one them driver want you (want big frame gal like you Lillie!) they give you task you CAN'T DO. You getting this beating not for you task--for you flesh!" Lillie: "That why nation get mix up so!" (Races) Ben: "Susan wuz a house woman, to buckra woman like a you to Miss Jin. (Susan worked in the house--no field hand--like Lillie works for Miss Jin) To my knowing she had three white chillun. Not WANT 'em. HAB 'em. Boy (you know 'em Lill) near bout clean as them boy of Missus! Tief chillun show up so! Woman over-power! My mother nuss (nurse.) Get up so high--natural nuss for white people. "Place they call duh 'Bull Pen.' In 'Bull Pen' thing they call 'PONY'. Got to go on there--on the 'PONY.' Lillie: "RIDE you on it, Uncle Ben?" Ben: "Ain't going ride you on 'PONY'; going RIDE YOU! I stay there look wid DESE HERE (eyes)! Want you to know one thing--MY OWN DADDY DERE couldn't move! Couldn't venture dat ober-sheer! (Colored overseer) Everybody can't go to boss folks! (Meaning only house servants could contact Missus and Massa). Some kin talk it to Miss Bess. Everybody don't see Miss Bess. Kin see the blood of dat ober-sheer fuss year atter Freedom; and he blood there today! Atter Freedom mens come from French Broad and you know the colored people--we go there whey (where) they music. Agrippa--daddy name Parrish--Redmond one he child outside. (Outside chillun are those not born to a man's legal wife) He say, to gal, 'Go that barn!' YOU GO. You could yeddy him SLAP cross dat creek! When fowl crow (daylight) and you yeddy him SQUALL, you best git to flat! I stand dere and my Daddy HAVE to stand dere and see! Josh Ward from French Broad--hundred mile away. (Boss Massa 'summering it' in mountains) and negro over seer--just fresh out of Africa TURNED LOOSE. White obersheer a little different for one reason! White obersheer want to hold his job. (On Waccamaw--and same true of all south as all know--white overseers worst kind of 'White trash'--respected less by negroes than by whites) Nigger obersheer don't care too much. He know he going stay on plantation anyhow. "Now, dater, I tell you bout the loom and weaving next time!" And we left Uncle Ben Horry--age 87 Murrells Inlet, S.C. August 1937. to go on 'to the Schoolfield house and cook supper for a house-party. This week he stepped up to Con-o-way. Says he had to walk it twice a week--formed the habit when he was on old river Steamer Burroughs and had to walk up to Conway Monday and back home Saturday. About thirty miles (or more from his place) to Conway. At 87 he still takes this little exercise almost weekly. Having such a struggle holding on to his land. All the lawyers saying 'sign here' and trying to rob him! Poor Uncle Ben needs desperately a Massa to help him out with his land. Not many Uncle Ben's left to be robbed-- (told that the cruel negro overseer was shot down after Freedom--blood still on ground (according to Uncle Ben) because he led Yankees to where silver, etc., was buried. Have heard story from other old livers.) Project # 2570 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler, Murrell's Inlet, S.C. Georgetown county. Ex Slave Story. UNCLE BEN HORRY Uncle Ben and his wife, aunt Stella, live in their two-room, white-washed cabin that sits sideways to the King's Highway, which Uncle Ben always calls 'the King Road,' near Murell's Inlet, S.C. Paving and straightening this old King's Road, now US 17, has put the two old people in the world. Around the cabin lie the fourteen and three quarter acres that were paid for by Uncle Ben and his father, six or eight acres cleared, the rest woodland. Uncle Ben earns a living by gathering oysters from the Inlet's waters, opening and roasting the oysters for white visitors. Uncle Ben is a great walker. He walks to Conway, the county seat of Horry (Murrell's Inlet is situated on the line between Horry and Georgetown counties), a distance of approximately thirty miles depending on whether one sticks to the paved highway or takes short cuts through the woods, in preference to riding. One day he had walked to Conway and back by eleven o'clock in the morning. Uncle Ben's scrappy conversation will tell how he earns his bread, fears and fights 'the Law', provides for Stella's future, and works for and honors white folks. Brookgreen, which he mentions as the plantation on which he was born and raised, is an open-air museum, donated to South Carolina by A.M. Huntingdon, and visited by thousands of tourists. (=See US17, Tour 1=). "I the oldest liver left on Waccamaw Neck that belong to Brookgreen, Prospect, (now Arcadia), Longwood, Alderly Plantations. I been here! I seen things! I tell you. Thousand of them things happen but I try to forget 'em. Looker!" He pointed to what appeared to be primeval forest in front of his battered little porch. "That woods you see been Colonel Josh Ward's taters patch. Right to Brookgreen Plantation where I born. My father Duffine (Divine) Horry and my brother is Richard Horry. Dan'l and Summer two both my uncle. You can put it down they were Colonel Ward's musicianer. Make music for his dater (daughter) and the white folks to dance. Great fiddlers, drummers. Each one could play fiddle, beat drum, blow fife. All three were treat with the same education. You know, when you going to do anything for them big people you got to do it right. Before time (formerly) they danced different. Before strange city people fetched different steps here. But, then, they could use they feet all right! "My father fore he dead been the head man for old Colonel Josh Ward. Lived to Brookgreen. They say Colonel Ward the biggest rice man been on Waccamaw. He start that big gold rice in the country. He the head rice Cap'n in dem time. My father the head man, he tote the barn key. Rice been money dem day and time. My father love he liquor. That take money. He ain't have money but he have the rice barn key and =rice= been money! So my father gone in woods (he have a head, my father!), take a old stump, have 'em hollow out. Now he (the stump) same as mortar to the barn yard. And my father keep a pestle hide handy. Hide =two= pestle! Them pestle make outer heart pine. When that pestle been miss (missed), I wuzn't know nothing! The way I knows my age, when the slavery time war come I been old enough to go in the woods with my father and hold a lightard (lightwood) torch for him to see to pestle off that golden rice he been tote out the barn and hide. =That= rice he been take to town Sat'd'y when the Colonel and my father go to get provision like sugar, coffee, pepper and salt. With the money he get when he sell that rice, he buy liquor. He been hide that sack o' rice fore day clean (daylight) in the prow of the boat and cover with a thing like an old coat. I members one day when he come back from town he make a miss (step) when he onloading and fell and broke he jug! The Big Boss see; he smell; and he see WHY my father make that miss step; he already sample that liquor! But the Boss ain't say too much. Sat'd'y time come to ration off. Every head on the Plantation to Brookgreen line up at smoke-house to draw he share of meat and rice and grits and meal. (This was fore my father been pint (appointed) head man. This when they had a tight colored man in that place by name Fraser. They say Fraser come straight from Africa). Well, Sat'd'y when time come to give my father he share of rations, the headman reach down in the corner and pull out a piece of that broke whiskey jug and put on top my father rations where all could see! Colonel Ward cause that to be done to broke him off from that whiskey jug. My father was a steady liquor man till then and the Boss broke him off. "Slavery going in. I members Marse Josh and Miss Bess had come from French Broad (Springs) where they summered it. They brought a great deal of this cloth they call blue drilling to make a suit for every boy big enough to wear a suit of clothes and a pair of shoes for every one. I thought =that= the happiest 'set up' I had in boyhood. Blue drilling pants and coat and shoe. And Sund'y come we have to go to the Big House for Marse Josh to see how the clothes fit. And him and Miss Bess make us run races to see who run the fastest. That the happiest time I members when I wuz a boy to Brookgreen. "Two Yankee gun boats come up Waccamaw river! Come by us Plantation. One stop to Sandy Island, Montarena landing. One gone Watsaw (Wachesaw landing). Old Marse Josh and all the white buckra gone to Marlboro county to hide from Yankee. Gon up Waccamaw river and up Pee Dee river, to Marlboro county, in a boat by name Pilot Boy. Take Colonel Ward and all the Cap'n to hide from gun boat till peace declare. I think Pilot Boy been a rear-wheeler. Most boats like the Old Planter been side wheeler. "They say the Yankee broke in all the rice barn on Sandy Island and share the rice out to colored people. The big mill to Laurel Hill been burn right den. That the biggest rice mill on Waccamaw river. Twuzn't the Yankee burn dem mill. Dese white mens have a idea the Yankee mean to burn dese mill so they set 'em afire before the Yankee come. Nothing left to Laurel Hill today but the rice mill tower. That old brick tower going to BE there. Fire can't harm 'em. "The worst thing I members was the colored oberseer. He was the one straight from Africa. He the boss over all the mens and womens and if omans don't do all he say, he lay task on 'em they ain't able to do. My mother won't do all he say. When he say, 'You go barn and stay till I come,' she ain't do dem. So he have it in for my mother and lay task on 'em she ain't able for do. Then for punishment my mother is take to the barn and strapped down on thing called the Pony. Hands spread like this and strapped to the floor and all two both she feet been tie like this. And she been give twenty five to fifty lashes till the blood flow. And my father and me stand right there and look and ain't able to lift a hand! Blood on floor in that rice barn when barn tear down by Huntingdon (A.M. Huntingdon). If Marse Josh been know 'bout that obersheer, the oberseer can't do 'em; but just the house servant get Marse Josh' and Miss Bess' ear. Them things different when my father been make the head man. What I tell you happen fore Freedom, when I just can remember. "Father dead just before my mother. They stayed right to Brookgreen Plantation and dead there after they free. And all they chillun do the same, till the Old Colonel sell the plantation out. Where we going to? Ain't we got house and rations there? "How many chillun I got? Lemme see. Lemme see how many head of chillun. You, Stella! Help me now! Don't let me tell the Missis wrong. Charles Henry, thirty eight, dere in New York. Ben Horry--I gie' 'em directly!" (Lifting cap and scratching high forehead and gray wool). "Twenty four. I going to give you all I got! All I know about! Bill Horry, that's a boy, he twenty. Dinah, that's a gal, twenty five. Christine, she bout twenty. Mary Horry, I would say fifteen. When the last war come, the last war deputize them boy and take 'em way up North and the gals follow, trail 'em on to New York. That the war when you can't get no sugar and have to put candy in your coffee. "How old I is?" Slowly and deliberately "December 13th., 1852. Eighty five years or more. When my mother dead to Brookgreen I would say I 'bout thirty three year old. "After Freedom, from my behavior wid my former owner, I wuz pinted (appointed) head man on Brookgreen Plantation. By that put drop in my hand (getting the drop on others). When kennel been dug out (canal dug) from the Oaks Plantation to Dr. Wardie Flagg house, I wuz pint (appointed) head man. Take that down, Missis. Kennel (canal) cut 1877. Near as I kin, I must task it on the kennel (canal) and turn in every man's work to Big Boss. That kennel (canal) bigger than one Mr. Huntingdon dig right now with machine. "Missus, slavery time people done something." Uncle Gabe Lance, born on Sandy Island the first year of the Civil War, a visitor at Uncle Ben's: "Yes sir. All them rice field been nothing but swamp. Slavery people cut kennel (canal) and dig ditch through the raw swamp. All these fields been thick woods. Ditching man task was ten compass." Uncle Ben continues: "Storm? Ain't I tell you I BEEN here? Yes, sir. More than one storm I live through! Been through the Flagg storm. Been turn over twice outside there in the sea. One time been have the seine. Been rough. Have weather. And the breakers take the boat. I swim till I get the rope hold. Two men on the shore have the rope end of the seine rope and I hold to that and that how I save THAT time. "Member another time. Had a boat full of people this last go 'round. Wuz Miss Mary, he aunty and the lawyer. I take them fishing outside in oshun. Been in the Inlet mouth. Come half way to Drunken Jack Island. Breaker start to lick in the boat! I start to bail! Have a maters (tomatoes) can for bail with. And that been danjus (dangerous); have too much women in there; dey couldn't swim like a man. And it happen by accident, when the boat swamp and full with water, our FEET TOUCH BOTTOM. When he (the boat) turn over, I didn't aim to do no thing but swim for myself. Wasn't able to help nobody. But here out feet touch bottom. Only an accident from God! "One time again I swamp outside, 'tween Georgetown and Charleston. Try to bail. Swim with one hand, hold boat with the other. Roughest time I ever see 'cause it been cold wedder (weather). Old before-time yawl boat, carry eight oar, four to each side. Young man then; 1877. After the wedder (weather) surrender, we we gone back in dere and find cork going up and down and save us net and all! "When the Flagg storm been, 1893, I working for Ravanel and Holmes. I was taken up in that storm in a steamer boat. Leave Charleston generally about five in morning. That trip never reach Georgetown till nine that night. Meet a man on that trip got he wife hug to mast in a little kinder life boat. Had he two chillun; rope wrap 'em to that mast. Save man and wife and chillun and gone back and save he trunk. After that they quit call me 'Ben'; they call me 'Rooster'. "After Flagg storm, Colonel Ward take me and Peter Carr, us two and ah horse, take that shore (follow the ocean shore line) to Little River. Search for all them what been drowned. Find a trunk to Myrtle Beach. Have all kinder thing in 'em; comb for you hair, thing you put on you wrist. Find dead horse, cow, ox, turkey, fowl--everything. Gracious God! Don't want to see no more thing like that! But no dead body find on beach outside Flagg family. Find two of them chillun way down to Dick Pond what drownded to Magnolia Beach; find them in a distance apart from here to that house. Couldn't 'dentify wedder Miss or who. All that family drown out because they wouldn't go to this lady house on higher ground. Wouldn't let none of the rest go. Servant all drown! Betsy, Kit, Mom Adele! Couldn't 'dentify who lost from who save till next morning. Find old Doctor body by he vest stick out of the mud; fetch Doctor body to shore and he watch still aticking. Dr. Wardie Flagg been save hanging to a beach cedar. When that tornado come, my house wash down off he blocks. Didn't broke up. "Religion! Reckon Stella got the morest of dat. I sometimes a little quick. Stella, she holds one course. I like good song. One I like best?" 'Try us, Oh Lord, And search the ground Of every sinful heart! (Uncle Ben stopped to think). What 'eer of sin In us be found Oh, bid it all depart!' "Reason I choose that for a favorite hymn, I was to Brookgreen doing some work for Dr. Wardie Flagg and I had to climb as high as that live oak tree, and I fell high as that tree! I lay there till I doze off in sleep. And I tell you what happen to me curious. While I was sleep I seen two milk white chickens. You know what them two white fowl do? They gone and sit on my mother dresser right before the glass and sing that song. Them COULD sing! And it seem like a woman open a vial and pour something on me. My spiritual mother (in dem day every member in the church have what they call a spiritual mother) say, 'That not natural fowl. That sent you for a token.' Since that time I serve the choir five or six years and no song seem strange to me since that day. God ain't ax about you color; God ax about you heart. "Make my living with the ister (oyster). Before time (formerly) I get seventy five cents a bushel; now I satisfy with fifty cents. Tide going out, I go out in a boat with the tide; tide bring me in with sometimes ten, sometimes fifteen or twenty bushels. I make white folks a roast; white folks come to Uncle Ben from all over the country--Florence, Dillon, Mullins--every kind of place. Same price roast or raw, fifty cents a bushel. "I bout to quit up with sell. All the lawyer. Turn all my papers over to Mr. Burris. I got too much of paper in that Con-o-way. Court House. Got more paper in there than the house worth! Have to step to Con-o-way all the time. Struggle and starve myself out for these fifteen acres. Thirty miles to Con-o-way. Thirty miles back by the course I travels. All them tricky mens try to go and get old Ben's land sign to 'em. That's the mainest thing take me to Con-o-way every week. They all talk so sugar mouth till my name down; then when my name write is another thing. When I in too much trouble, I just has to step up to Con-o-way and see Mr. Burris. He's a good man. "They try to mix old Ben up in this whiskey business. It look too brutish to me. "Missis, I want to tell you all I kin but the old man punish with this bone felom (felon). Worse'n I ever been punish in all my eighty five year. Crab bite 'em and ister (oyster) cut 'em (hand). Woman die and bury Sunday have hand just like this. If you say so, I'll go to doctor. Don't want no blood poison. He (bone felon) did act like he trying to dry up. I tie pea leaf on 'em. Can't put my hand to my head." The next day Uncle Ben was found with the doctor's white bandage very muddy. Uncle Ben had gotten out of bed to go get oysters and even the bone felon did not stop him. Uncle Ben is still hale and hearty, having triumphed over the bone felon, and is one of the noted characters of that region. Project #-1655 Mrs. Genevieve W. Chandler Murrells Inlet, S.C. Georgetown County FOLKLORE Uncle Ben Horry (Reb's time nigger--over 80) (Uncle Ben and visitors) Uncle Ben: (To white children) "Go on see if you can find one or two plum on duh tree. I been want to go to town wid you--dat all right daughter. (He pronounces it Dater--long Italian 'A') Chillun, ain't find duh plum, enty? Dem Sandy Island people come and clean the tree. Too sorry wonneh ain't get them plum! "Stella gone in creek fishing. Him and Lula gone--Lula McCoy. You say me?" (To neighbor walking up) "Four men been here load they car up wid hand. How come you ain't gone to the bacco?" (To work in the tobacco fields in truck sent to find hands) Pauline Pyatt: "If they ain't pay my price, I ain't going leave home. I ain't gone for 75¢ a day. Feenie Deas gone yestiddy." Uncle Ben: "Near bout blind. Couldn't see out no eye nor nare (neither) one o' my eye. Doctor put sumptin in 'em do me too much o' good. How I is? Fall out? Deth come I fix! Don't know bout you!" Pauline: "I fix!" Mary Gary: "You fix, Uncle Ben?" Uncle Ben: "I gwine fix!" Pauline: "You ain't fix?" Uncle Ben: "I fix all right! I going fudder dan duh grave!" Pauline: "I been Tarbox." (To Mr. Tarbox) Uncle Ben: "Down by Gallie?" (Gallie's house) Pauline: "I ain't see nobody. What you see?" Uncle Ben: "Ain't see nobody tall--tall--." Pauline: "Alice! I see Alice!" Uncle Ben: "Ain't see nobody else?" Pauline: "Nobody else!" Uncle Ben: "Nobody else?" Pauline: "Nobody else. She by herself!" <tb> Uncle Ben Reminisces "Fore freedom? Fore freedom? Well now, fore freedom we were treated by our former owners I will say good--cording to situation of time. Every year when Massa and Missus gone mountains, they call up obersheer (overseer) and say, 'Don't treat them anyway severe. Don't beat them. Don't maul them.' (Mr. Heminingway been severe.) "Anybody steal rice and they beat them, Miss Bessie cry and say, 'Let 'em have rice! My rice--my nigger!' "Brookgreen and Springfield every Sunday morning, every gal and the young one must dress up and go to the yard and Miss Bessis give 'em candy. Don't want too much o' beating. Glad to see young women dance. But some cruel to the colored. Some on 'Prospect,'--'Hermitage'--and 'Woodland' treat all right. "I know the Yankee boat come to Inlet and went to Oaks sea-shore with load of cotton. Band of our sojer gone--(Rebs--'OUR sojer!), and Yankee sojer come off in a yawl boat and our sojer caught two of them men and they hang that man to Oaks sea-shore. And when the Yankee find out--do my Lord! A stir been! A stir here! Shell clean to Sandy Island! Knock hole through the sick-house (at Brookgreen!) Pump! Well, ain't it? Brick work pump. Well. Handle. You turn! Turn. One bucket gone up; one gone down. Ward take care of his nigger, sho! Best man own slave! Ward and Ploughdon sho treat they nigger right! Live 'Laurel Hill.' "Ward had on Prospect and Brookgreen. You know what I see? Right there to Oaks sea-sho after them people done that murdering with that man? Take all the slave, get on flat and gone out way of shell. Gone sand hole. Take all the people from Brookgreen and Springfield--and carry dem to Marlboro. Boat tow flat. Carmichael came through and established the freedom through here. They come back from Marlboro where they refugee to and Maham Ward come back on the flat. And this Ward, share out the rice--broke open barn. We people? Anything like a silver, bury right there in that garden! Right to Brookgreen garden, what Hontington got now. All Ward thing bury there. Them old time people kill you--you meddle them thing. Cry out, 'Massa Ting!' You better let 'em stay there! "After Freedom Miss Bessie gone to she house in Charston--Rutledge Street Charston. And you could see way out in ocean. "My fadder--him and Uncle Dan'l and Uncle Summer uster been fiddler. Gone all round when the white people gone to Prospect to ball and sich as that. Dem white people didn't treat you so brutish! Dem obersheer!" (Aside) "Wonder Christ sake why Lula stay out that creek so long!" Pauline: "Fine season for corn!" Ben: "Sho is!" (Uncle Ben keeps a little grocery and fruit for sell. Customer comes) "Missus, Take twenty cent out a dollar." Pauline: "My grand-mother in that storm. They leave that Thursday. I been to Oaks. When Flagg storm wuz. Richmond come off Magnolia beach to Oaks Plantation and get the washing--the missus clean clothes. Had to swim the horse off the beach to get the clothes. I been on the beach Thursday--and cousin Joshuaway. Pony Myers daughter born in Brookgreen street day of storm. Pony Myers wife name Adele. Marse Arthur had one little twin. Joshua Stuart and Ben find dem to the end of Myrtle Beach. Arthur twin baby--bout that high--little walking chillun. Look how curious thing is! Them two chillun drown and find to the foot of Myrtle Beach! (fifteen or twenty miles north). Find Tom Duncan mother. Find Francis mother--Francis Gadsden. Doctor Ward pa--find him by duh vest. Vest sticking out duh mud. Watch going. My grand-mother was keep a walking from door to door. "Find a mer-maid and kept to Magnolia." (Pauline said, 'mere-maid') "Doctor Ward and dem shut 'em up a month. Mer-maid. Had a storm ball. Keep a turning round. Keep a telling him (Dr. Arthur) storm coming. He wouldn't b'lieve 'em. (Barometer--called by Uncle Isaac's wife, gatekeeper at Brookgreen, chronometer.) He wouldn't b'lieve. And a cussing man! All the time cuss! Mere-maid got a forked tail just like shark. From here down (illustrating by pantomine) all blue scale like a cat-fish. Pretty people! Pretty a white woman as you ever lay your eye on." Ben: "Pretty, enty?" Pauline: "Dem stay in sea. Dey walk--slide long on tail." (twisting from her waist to illustrate.) Pretty. From they waist down to tail blue scale. You got a bathing house on beach. Leave bread in there. They sho eat bread. "Marse Allard say top of the barn fly off. Cat jump and on it! And horse too. And he jump too and tide bring 'em to Brookgreen. "Joshuaway Stuart been plantation carpenter. He made one box for the twin what drown and Colonel Mortimer bring one from Georgetown." (Aunt Stella and Lula arriving from fishing trip) "What ketch?" Lula: "Get some catty!" (cat-fish) "Mary, you dress down!" Mary: "I gwine ketch me a fellow! (Looking in bucket) Gosh! Did got a good mess!" Lula: "Little fellow." Mary: "Rather eat them than large one." Pauline: "What yinnah nuse for bait?" Lula: "Swimp." Pauline: "How you catch 'em?" Lula: "Take a crocus and dip 'em up." Pauline: "I gwine try to-morrow." Lula: "To-morrow been Sundy! How old I is? Have to put a guess on 'em. Bout fifty I guess. Flagg storm? That big one? When the storm wuz, I wuz seven year old." (Discuss Reb time and Flagg storm.) Pauline: "Yes. Wind bring young Allard in to Uncle Joshuaway Stuart field right down there where Cindy Poinsett now. Joshuaway been Cindy Pa. "Doctor Ward shut that mere-maid up. He been in that! When that storm wuz, he wuzn't old. I go there now and talk bout that storm and he eye get full o' water. Looker his Papa clothes. Got 'em all pack in trunk. I never shee 'um court myself. Every time I shee 'um with a crowd o' man. "Long as he have mere-maid shut up, it rain! People gone there to look at 'em. Long as keep 'em shut up it rain. That time rain thirty days. That just fore Flagg storm." (Looking toward creek) "Yonder Stella, wonneh, now!" (Uncle Ben gave each white child a little cake--then gave, from his hand, hunks of corn bread to each colored woman.) Conversation taken down on Uncle Ben Horry's porch where he sat awaiting the return of Aunt Stella who had gone 'in the creek' to 'catch a mess o' fish.' Murrells Inlet, S.C. June 15, 1937. Project 1655 Genevieve W. Chandler Georgetown County, S.C. FOLKLORE (VERBATIM) MISS GEORGIE AT WOODLAND EX-SLAVE STORY "He was a full-blooded man--the Cap'n. Didn't disgrace. He put goat on Goat Island. Money was bury to Goat Island. People after people been sent. I dinnah know wedder they find or no. "Mack McCosky was sent by the State to fetch molasses, meal and hominy and goat on Goat Island. He can't tell you! People can't know sumpin when they ain't born! "After de war 'e come back and take into big drinkin' and was 'em (waste them) till 'e fall tru. He been fell tru wid his money (lost his property). Didn't bury so destent (decent). "We smaller one didn't have chance to go to war. My Daddy have for go. Have to go ditch and all and tend his subshun. His subshun was waste and steal. Paris! He the man control all the Buckra ting. And, by God, he go and show Yankee all dem ting! Ole Miss git order to have him kill and don't harm none! She ain't one to see him tru all that thousand head o' nigger for get 'em. "They come have big dinner. Cap'n come from Muldro. (Marlboro). Drum beatin' little one dancin'. Gone back to Muldro. (Maham Ward and these udder come from Muldro.) And they leave ting in Uncle William Gaillard hand. And he carry on till everting surrender. And then the Cap'n come home from Muldro and they try give you sumpin to make start on like cow and ting. They ain't treat you like a beast. Ain't take no advance o' you. What the Cap'n do he do for you good. I b'long Dr. Ward. I entitle to bring him two string o' bird. Rice bird come like jest as tick as dat (thick as that) Sometimes a bushel one shot. "They put you in the flat and put you over there. When they tink Yankee comin' you take to Sandhole Crick for hide. Mr. Carmichael sent by the state. Go to Brookgreen, Longwood, Watsaw. Tell everting surrender. Go to any located place. He's a Gineral. Go open the barn door and give us all us need. He better to we nigger boy dan he Daddy been! Wouldn't beat you 'thout the lil' boy really fightin'. "Time o' the war the colored people hear 'bout Yankee. Not a one eber understand to run way and go to Yankee boat from WE plantation. These Yankee people wuz walkin' 'bout on the beach. And while they come in to the hill, the Reb have a battery to Laurel Hill and they cut off them Yankee from the ocean. These they cut off they carry dem to Brookgreen barn. Hang one colored man and one white man to Oaks Seashore. White man musser be Sergeant or big Cap'n. Just as soon as the sun go down you see a big streak come over and they BUSS (bust) Duds. Woman in the street killed. (Street of negro Quarters--Brookgreen) Blacksmith killed. Cut off he brudder-in-law (Judy's) and kill Judy. Dem shell go clean to Sandy Island. Pump make out o' brick to Brookgreen. Dat boy (shell) come and hit the pump. De horn blow and they make for flat and gwine on to Sandhole down that black crick. There a man for dat--dat flat. Get everbody line up. Ain't gone there for PLAY. Gone for wuk (work). I was big 'nouf to do diss--go wid my fadder and hold light. "It this way. You ain't LOW to eat the whole rice you kin make money outer. Beat dat rice. But my Daddy been a great whiskey man. Liquor. Didn't have 'em less he go to town. Money scase. ('E wuz a kind of musicianer for the Ward fambly). But he break he jug. He break he whiskey jug. En when de obersheer (overseer) git out de ration and gib'em to mah Ma and us chillun he hand mah Pa a piece o' dem break jug! That keep him in mind o' that whiskey jug. "Yankee come here and butt us colored people. I 'member we youngun's just could 'tote up dem gold pitcher and bury dem in the garden. Not far from the flowers tank. Tank have on 'em a woman head (Flowers' tank was a fountain). All the master fine ting way down there bury! De Ward didn't loss nothin'. They move us out the plantation. Col. Ward took 'em in a flat to Mulbro. "Dr. Heriot after the war took into big drinkin'. Didn't bury so decent. Fell tru wid all he money. Not bury so decent." =Source:= Told by Uncle Ben Horry, Age 88, April 1938, Murrells Inlet, S.C. Project #1655 Everett R. Pierce Columbia, S.C. INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE MARGARET HUGHES, 82 YEARS. "Missy, I likes to talk to de white folks, I gits awful lonesome for my massa and missus, and de white folks I used to be wid. Yes'm, I was born out here 'bout ten miles from Columbia, at a little place called Nipper Hill. My massa was named Daniel Finley, and my missus was named Elizabeth, but we called her Missy Betsy. My massa had a big plantation and a heap of slaves; he had so many he couldn't keep us faces in his mind. One day he see some of us over on another plantation, and he ask us who we b'long to, and we tell him, and he just smile and say he couldn't 'member all of us. De massa and de missus was so good to us 'til de slaves on other plantations was jealous; they call us free niggers befo' we was freed. The grown-up slaves had to work in de field all day and then at night they spin cloth and make their clothes. We had one shoemaker what didn't do nothing else much 'cept make shoes for all of us. I was too young to do much work, so the missus mostly keep me in de house to nurse de chillun. When de chillun go to school, she make me go 'long wid them for to look after them and tote their books. I stayed wid them all day and brought their books home in de evening. I got in trouble one day while I was at de school house; I was a right bad little gal, anyway. I got mad wid one of de little white chillun 'cause she talk mean to Sissy, dat's one of my missus little girls, and I took her books and put them in a bucket of water. The teacher punish me, and told my missus I couldn't come back to de school house, 'less she teach me how to behave more better. I was right good after that, 'cause I was scared of whippings. My missus had three chillun: Mary, we call her Sissy 'cause she de oldest, then Sally and Willie. I slept in de big house and play wid de white chillun. When de white folks went off in de carriage they always let me go too; I set up in de seat wid de driver. They had awful pretty horses to drive. Massa Daniel had a overseer, named Jake Graddick. He kept de slaves at work and looked after de crops. He woke de slaves every morning by blowing a big cow horn, and called them to dinner the same way. We went to work at sunrise, had two hours for dinner, and stopped work at sundown. The slaves had plenty to eat, and had their own gardens. I helped work de gardens. My old daddy worked in de garden and made chairs for de slaves, besides working in de fields. My massa never whip de slaves very much, but he do sometime. Once I saw my poor old daddy in chains. They chained his feet together, and his hands too, and carry him off to whip him, 'cause he wouldn't tell who stole a trunk that was missing. He couldn't tell though, 'cause he didn't know, but they thought he did. No ma'am missy, us slaves never had no church to go to. We was allowed to go to de white folks' church though. There was a low partition in de church wid a little gate in it; we set on one side of it, and de white folks on de other. We listen to de preaching and sung de songs right 'long wid de white folks. Us never had no baptizings though. I learned a heap of things in Sunday School. Talking 'bout patrollers, I was awful scared of them. We had to have a pass from our massa to go from one plantation to another, and if we went without a pad the patrollers would ketch us and whip us. I never did get ketched though. De only time de massa ever let us ride de horses was when he want us to carry a message from one plantation to another. Yes ma'am, 'bout these weddings you asked me 'bout; well, we had a big time when any of de slaves got married. De massa and de missus let them get married in de big house, and then we had a big dance at one of de slave house. De white folks furnish all kinds of good things to eat, and de colored peoples furnish de music for de dance. My mammy's brother been one of de best fiddlers there was; he teach de other niggers how to play. The best times we had was 'long in summer time, 'tending them Camp Meetings. We had good men to preach de service, and then all of us women got together and spread a big picnic dinner, that we'd brought from home in baskets, and we sure had a good time. Sometime some of them eat so much they get sick. We ain't had so much sickness 'long them times though, not like we do now. Us used to wear garlic and asafetida 'round our neck to keep off diseases; never had many neither. We was vaccinated to keep from ketching smallpox. Well little missy, I done told you just 'bout all I 'members 'cept 'bout de Yankees. When I used to hear de older niggers talking 'bout de Yankees coming, I was scared, 'cause I thought it was some kind of animal they was talking 'bout. My old aunty was glad to hear 'bout de Yankees coming. She just set and talk 'bout what a good time we was going to have after de Yankees come. She'd say; 'Child we going to have such a good time a settin' at de white folks table, a eating off de white folks table, and a rocking in de big rocking chair.' Something awful happen to one of de slaves though, when de Yankees did come. One of de young gals tell de Yankees where de missus had her silver, money and jewelry hid, and they got it all. What you think happened to de poor gal? She'd done wrong I know, but I hated to see her suffer so awful for it. After de Yankees had gone, de missus and massa had de poor gal hung 'til she die. It was something awful to see. De Yankees took everything we had 'cept a little food, hardly 'nough to keep us alive. When de slaves were freed de most of them didn't had nowhere to go, so we just stayed on wid de massa and missus and they was good to us as long as we stayed wid them. I wishes sometime I was a slave again, 'cause I likes being a slave, didn't have nothing to worry 'bout then." Home address 3105 Asylum Road. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, May 18, 1937 No. ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- MOM HESTER HUNTER Ex-Slave, 85 years. "Well, bless ye little heart, honey, ye say ye is wan' me to tell ye 'bout how de people lived way back dere in slavery time. Honey, I dunno wha' to tell ye cause I ain' never been treated no ways but good in me life by my Missus. I tell dese chillun here dat dey ain' never see no sech time uz dere been den. My Missus been marry Massa John Bethea en dey is raise dey flock up dere to de crossroads next Latta. Dat whey I been raise. Honey, my Missus see to it she self dat we look a'ter in de right way. Ain' never been made to do no work much den. Jes played dere in de back yard wid me dolls aw de time I wanna. Honey, I dunno nuthin to tell ye cause I is lib lak uh lamb in dem days." "I wus born on de 25th uv December, right on de big Chrissmus day, dere on Massa John plantation en I was 14 year old when freedom declare. I is 85 year old now en, honey, me health jes uz good now uz ever it wuz. My Missus take sech good care uv us aw de time en see a'ter us she self when we sick en I is take sech good care uv me self a'ter I leab dere dat I 'spect to be here long time from now. Ain' know no ailment tall. Coase de rheumatism is worry me right smart on uh night. Honey, dis rheumatism ain' been cause from no bad teeth. I is hab eve'y tooth in me head wha' I hab when I wuz 7 year old en dey jes uz good uz dey was den. It jes dis way, jes uz long uz I is workin', I feels mighty smart, mighty smart, child!" "I 'clare to goodness white folks come down here jes to hear me talk. Honey, I is wish I could stay wid yunnah aw de day. I could tell yunnah aw 'bout dem days cause I ain' know nuthin but big living den. I tell me grandchillun dat dem times 'ud be uh show for dem now. My Massa had uh big plantation, honey, uh big plantation! Right in de center wuz me Missus house en den dere wuz two long row uv we house to de right dere on de place close to de big house. I 'members when de plantation hand wha' work in de field been come to de house in de middle uv de day to ge' dey dinner, I been lub to stand 'round de big pot en watch em when dey ge' dey sumptin to eat. Yas'um, dey is cook aw de food for de field hand in de same big ole black pot out in de yard. Yas'um, dey is put aw de victual in one pot. Dey'ud go to de smokehouse en cut off uh whole half uh side uv bacon en drap it right in dat pot. Dat been flavor de pot jes right cause in dem days, us ration been season wid meat. Honey, dere 'ud be 'bout thirty uv dem hand wha' had to eat out dat pot. Dere been uh shelter built over de pot to keep de rain out en den dere was uh big scaffold aw 'round de pot whey de put de pans when dey dish de victual up. De field hands 'ud come dere en ge' dey pan uv ration offen dis scaffold." "Now de chillun on de plantation ain' been 'low to eat outer dat pot wid de field hand. My auntie cook us victuals right dere in de kitchen on de Missus fireplace an we eat right dere outer us own separate pan. My Missus see she self dat we been fed right en she see dat de food been cook done, cook done, honey, en been seasoned right aw de time. My Missus ain' never stand fa me to go widout me meat fa break'ast. Al'ays had hominy en milk en meat fa me break'ast en when supper time come, dey is al'ays gi'e us uh big bowl uv corn bread en milk. Folks ain' eat den lak dey does nowadays. Dey been eat more meat den en it ain' hu't dem lak it hu'ts em now. Honey, peoples ain' lib peaceful lak dey been lib den. Den peoples ain' cook dey food done lak de food been cook den. My auntie cook aw de bread right dere in de kitchen on de fireplace. I is hab some uv dem spider right here in de yard now. (She showed us two iron spiders about 8 inches deep with three legs. One was being used in the yard as a drinking place for the chickens and the other was carelessly thrown just under the edge of her house.) When I come 'way from my Missus plantation, I been take care uv wha' I bring 'way wid me. Dere uh ole loom dere in de house right now. I 'members how I use 'er lub to lie down on de Missus floor under de loom en watch my auntie when she wuz spinning dere." "Dey'ud hab gray sheep en white sheep den en dey'ud make sech nice cloth. Yas'um, dey'ud dye de cloth right dere on de plantation. I 'member aw 'bout dat. De Missus hab uh big patch uv indigo dat dey growed right dere en dey'ud gather it en boil it in de pot en den dey'ud take de cloth dat my auntie is help weave an put it in dat pot en dye it jes uz pretty. My Missus see to it she self dat de plantation peoples clothes been make right en dat we is hab nice clean place to sleep. De Missus never 'low none uv us to lay down in rags. She see 'bout aw dis she self. I know my Missus gone to Hebbun, honey, en I hope she restin' dere." =Source:= Mom Hester Hunter, age 85, colored. (Personal interview, Marion, S.C., May 1937.) Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, October 15, 1937 No. ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- MOM HESTER HUNTER Ex-Slave, 85 Years "Yes, mam, I remember all bout slavery time just as good as I know you dis mornin. Remember de first time dem Yankees come dere, I was settin down in de chimney corner en my mammy was givin me my breakfast. Remember I been settin dere wid my milk en my bowl of hominy en I hear my old grandmammy come a runnin in from out de yard en say all de sky was blue as indigo wid de Yankees comin right dere over de hill den. Say she see more Yankees den could ever cover up all de premises bout dere. Den I hear my Missus scream en come a runnin wid a lapful of silver en tell my grandmammy to hurry en sew dat up in de feather bed cause dem Yankees was mighty apt to destroy all dey valuables. Old Missus tell all de colored people to get away, get away en take care of demselves en tell we chillun to get back to de chimney corner cause she couldn' protect us noways no longer. Yes, honey, I was a little child settin dere in dat chimney corner listenin to all dat scamperin bout en I remember dat day just as good as it had been dis day right here." "Oh, my God, dem Yankees never bring nothin but trouble en destructiveness when dey come here, child. I remember I hear tell dat my old stepfather been gone to de mill to grind some corn en when he was comin down de road, two big Yankees jump out de bushes side de road en tell him stop dere. He say dey tell him if he want to save his neck, he better get off dat ox right den en get away from dere. He say he been so scared he make for de woods fast as he could get dere en tell dat he lay down wid knots under his head many a night fore he would venture to come out from dat woods. Never hear tell of his ox en corn no more neither. Oh, honey, my old Missus was a dear old soul en didn' none of her colored people have no mind to want to leave dere no time." "We chillun never didn' know nothin bout no hard times in dat day en time. Seems like de Lord had just open up en fix de way for us to have everything we want. Oh, honey, we chillun never been harness up in no little bit of place to play like dese chillun bout here dese days. We had all de big fields en de pretty woods to wander round en bout en make us playhouse in. Seems like de Lord had made de little streams just right for we chillun to play in en all kind of de prettiest flowers to come up right down side de paths us little feet had made dere, but dat wasn' nothin. Dere was flowers scatter bout everywhe' you look in de woods en all kind of birds en squirrels en rabbits en honey, dey was live play things. Dat how-come we been so satisfy. I here to tell you my old Missus was a dear old soul en we chillun sho had a fine time comin up. She didn' never have her niggers cut up en slashed up no time. She was good to us en we stuck to her." "In de mornin bout dis time, me en my Missus would take a walk in de woods down by de creek. I remember I would be dere wid my mammy en old Missus would say, 'Judy, whe' Hester? I want her to take a walk wid me dis mornin.' I been bout five or six years old den en I would get tired. I say, 'Mittie, I tired, I tired.' She say, 'Well, set down en rest awhile.' I remember dere been a big old sweet gum tree settin dere side de creek dat had a place hollow out in it dat looked just like a chair been made dere. Old Missus would set down dere en take me right down side her en stay dere till we was rested. I go wid her one day when de creek been rise way up high en dere been a heap of water in de road. I say, 'Mittie, I scared, I scared.' She tell me dere couldn' nothin hurt me en I remember we went on en see a big black fish just a jumpin in de road. Old Missus say, 'Hester, catch him, catch him.' I say, 'Mittie, I can', I can', I scared.' I recollects she caught dat fish en tied it wid her garter en let me drag it home en tell my mammy cook it for my supper. Honey, dat been a day. Never couldn' forget bout dat." "I remember me en my old Missus went to de graveyard one mornin en we found a runaway nigger hidin in a house dat was standin in de graveyard. Dat was an old, old slavery time house to de graveyard en people would go dere en hide. It was just like dis, honey, generally people in de country be scared of a graveyard en wouldn' nobody go dere to hunt dem. I remember just as good when he see us, he squatted down right low. I say, 'Mittie, looka, looka, I scared.' Den she say, 'Hester, I notice de clouds are growin more en more gray en I fear we better be gettin back home. I never like for a rain to catch us away from home.' I know Missus say dat to make me think she wasn' scared, but I never had no mind to tell her I know what been de matter dat she want to hurry home. Yes'um, dat old house in de graveyard was one of dem kind dat been settin high off de ground. Dat de kind of house dey cook underneath in slavery time. Cose it was closed up when dey had de kitchen down dere. No, mam, Massa never didn' go to walk wid old Missus. He was seein over all de plantation en Missus didn have but one son, little John O. Bethea, en he was gone off to school. No, child, old Missus wouldn' never allow nobody to go wid her but just me." "You see, it was like dis, my old Missus been name Sara Davis fore she marry Massa John Bethea en my mammy en grandmammy had come up wid her in de country en dat how-come dere been such a feelin twixt dem. Yes, mam, I love my old Missus better den I ever love honey en flour bread cause she was a dear old soul. You see, she was always lookin to me to do somethin for her. Say I was her favorite child to pick up things bout de house en yard for her. She always had my mammy preserve me en Bob as her favorite house chillun. She wouldn' never allow none of dem other nigger chillun to come nowhe' round whe' she was cause dem what went bout de Missus never didn' stay to de nigger quarter no time. My grandmammy, she had to get all dem other plantation chillun together en see dat dey do what de Missus look for dem to do." "My God, child, people never know nothin but to go to church on de big Sunday in dat day en time. No, mam, dey know dat been dey Massa rule en didn' nobody have no mind to question nothin bout it. My old Missus was a dear old soul en she would see to it dat all her niggers wash en iron en cook on Saturday cause she never allow no work gwine on round whe' she was when Sunday come, be dat she know bout it. I remember my old Massa en Missus used to ride to church in dey big black carriage en dey always would carry me en Bob right dere in de carriage wid dem somehow another. Stuff us down 'tween de seats somewhe'. I recollects just as bright as de stars be shinin old Missus would carry me en Bob to de same little seats we been sit in every Sunday en den she en old Massa would go to dey certain pew in de front part of de church. Oh, honey, dat was a day for dem niggers to walk de road to church. Dat was a picnic for dem. Oh, dey never had to walk but bout four miles. Why, darlin, I used to walk fourteen miles to church every Sunday en didn' think nothin bout it. I think dat was de finest thing I know for me en my grandfather to walk 14 miles to church over dere on de hill every Sunday. I remember we would set out bout time de sun would be risin. Yes, mam, we would carry our dinner wid us cause we know we would be till night gettin back home again. It just like I been tell you, de peoples sho cook dey dinner for Sunday on Saturday in dat day en time. Dat been a mighty good thing, child, been a mighty good thing. Honey, it been de rule to follow what de Bible say do in dat day en time en now it seem like de rule must be, do like you see de other fellow is doin. Yes, mam, if you ain' been to church in dat day en time, you sho had to report how-come you ain' been dere." "I tell you, child, I been here. If I live to see de Christmas day, I'll be past 85 years old. I ain' been up town in God knows when en I wants to go so bad back to see my white folks. Dem Evans chillun, dey comes to see me often. Dat child had took dat trip round de world en she come right back en tell me all bout it. Well, bless my heart, she done gone en get married last Sunday en I never know bout it. She tell me she was gwine marry one of dese days, but I never know. I hope dat man will take care of her en be good to my baby. I hope her older days won' be her worser days." "Yes, mam, I remember just as good as it was yesterday what dey say when freedom come here. Oh, I hates to think bout dat day till dis one. Remember dey call all de niggers up to de yard en I hear old Missus say, 'You don' no more belong to me. You can go if you want to en if you want to, you can stay.' I say, 'Yes, mam, I do want to stay, I ain' gwine leave you.' Dat was my white mammy en I stay dere long as she live too. Didn' want no better livin den I was gettin right dere. It been a Paradise, be dat what I calls it." =Source:= Hester Hunter, ex-slave, 85 years, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, Oct., 1937. Code No. Project, 1885-(1) Prepared by Annie Ruth Davis Place, Marion, S.C. Date, October 26, 1937 No. ---- Reduced from ---- words Rewritten by ---- MOM HESTER HUNTER Ex-Slave, 85 Years "Bless my soul, honey, I tell you I been here a time. Been here a day. I tell dese chillun here de other week dere ain' no need for me to be frettin bout nothin no more cause my time bout out. I got my ducks en my chickens en my chair right dere in de yard en I stays out dere wid dem all de day till sundown. You see, I have such a hurtin in my back en such a drawin in my knees en seems like de sun does just help me along to bear de pain, but honey, I been walkin a long time. I remember I been a little child in de bed listenin on en I hear my aunt come in one day en say, 'Ma, I hear boss talkin bout dey gwine free de niggers.' Ma say, 'I don' have no mind for nothin like dat. I gwine be gone en you gwine be gone too fore den.' Child, I sho been here a time. Remember dey been four years buildin dem embankments en dey been four years fightin. Yes, mam, I been through a day since I come here." "Honey, I was a hustlier when I was a young woman en dat de reason my chillun had such good schoolin. If it had been left to my husband, dey wouldn' been know A from B. I think bout how my old Massa used to try to learn me to spell en dat how-come I had such a feelin for my chillun to get some learnin. My daughter, she taught 20 years in dat school right over dere en when she see dat I wasn' able to carry on no longer, she throwed up her hands one day en say she wasn' gwine teach school no more. Tell Bill en dem chillun dat she was gwine stay here home en keep me from fallin in de pots. Den she put out de word dat she would do a washin for dis one en a washin for dat one en honey, I see her dere washin so hard sometimes, I have a feelin dat I would rather she be out en gone from here. Seems like it does hurt me so to see her wastin away like dat after I been worry so to give her such a good school learnin." "I tell you when I come up, it de Lord's truth, I ain' know nothin but a decent livin all de time. My old Missus was a dear old soul en I been raise dat way. I hear talk bout how some of de white folks would bout torture dey niggers to death sometimes, but never didn' see my white folks allow nothin like dat. Dey would whip dey niggers dat runaway en stay in de woods, but not so worser. No, mam, my Missus wouldn' allow no slashin round bout whe' she was. I remember my boss had one of my old Missus niggers up dere in de yard one mornin en say he was gwine whip him en my Missus say, 'John O., you let my nigger alone.' You see, my Missus had her niggers en den old Boss had his niggers cause when old Missus been marry Massa John O. Bethea, she had brought here share of niggers from whe' she was raise in de country. It been like dis, old Missus father had scratch de pen for everyone of his chillun to have so many niggers apiece for dey portion of his property so long as dey would look after dem en treat dem good. Den if dere been talk dat dem chillun never do what he say do, dey was to take dem niggers right back to dey old Massa home. But, child, dey never didn' take no niggers away from my old Missus cause she sho took care of dem. Stuck to her niggers till she died." "I remember just as good dere been two long row of nigger house up in de quarter en de Bethea niggers been stay in de row on one side en de Davis niggers been stay in de row on de other side. En, honey, dere been so much difference in de row on dis side en de row on dat side. My God, child, you could go through dere en spot de Sara Davis niggers from de Bethea niggers time you see dem. Won' no trouble no time. All old Missus niggers had dey bresh (brush) pile side dey house to sun dey beds on en dry dey washin cause my Missus would see to it herself dat dey never kept no nasty livin. We was raise decent, honey, en dat how-come me en my chillun is dat way to dis very day. Dere dat child in de house now, she does put fresh sheet on all us bed every week just like dey was white people bed. You see, if you raise dat way, you ain' gwine never be no ther way. Yes, mam, my old Missus sho took time to learn her niggers right. Honey, both dese hands here was raise not to steal. I been cook for heap of dese white folks bout here dat been left everything right wide open wid me en ain' nobody never hear none of dem complain bout losin nothin to dis day. No, mam, ain' nobody never didn' turn no key on me. I remember, if my old Missus would hear talk dat we been bother somethin dat didn' belong to us, she would whip us en say, 'I'm not mad, but you chillun have got to grow up some day en you might have to suffer worse den dis if you don' learn better while you young." "Yes, mam, dat been a day. Dem niggers what been bred on Massa John C. Bethea's plantation never know nothin but big livin in dat day en time. Remember all bout dem days. Recollect dat dey would give all dey colored people so much of flour for dey Sunday eatin en den dey had a certain woman on de place to cook all de other ration for de niggers in one big pot out in old Massa's yard. All de niggers would go dere to de pot on Sunday en get dey eatin like turnips en collards en meat en carry it to dey house en make dey own bread. Den in de week time, dey would come out de field at 12 o'clock en stand round de pot en eat dey pan of ration en den dey would go back in de field en work. When dey would come home at night, dere would be enough cook up for dem to carry home to last till de next day dinner. Didn' eat no breakfast no time. Had meat en greens en corn bread en dumplings to eat mostly en won' no end to milk. Got plenty of dat en dey was sho glad to get it. Cose dem what been stay to de white folks house would eat to de Missus kitchen. En, my Lord, child, my white folks had de prettiest kind of rice dat dey made right dere on dey own plantation. Had plenty rice to last dem from one year to de other just like dey had dey hominy. Den old Massa had a big fish pond en in de summer time when it would get too hot to work, he would allow all his plantation niggers to catch all de pikes en jacks dey wanted en salt dem down in barrels for de winter. Didn' allow nobody to go nowhe' bout dat fish pond but us niggers. En another thing, dey wouldn' cure dey meat wid nothin but dis here green hickory wood en I speak bout what I been know, dere ain' never been nothin could touch de taste of dem hams en shoulder meat. Oo--oo--oo, honey, dey would make de finest kind of sausages in dem days. I tell my chillun I just bout turn against dese sausage de people make bout here dese days." "Yes, mam, I been hearin bout dat thing call conjurin all my days, ever since I been in dis world, but I ain' never put no faith in nothin like dat. I say, I don' want no hand but what God give me. I remember I got de sore eyes one time en a woman come to me en say, 'Miss Hester, dere a woman in dis town poison you.' Tell me dey put somethin on de rag I had wipe my eyes wid. I tell her she was wastin her speech cause I know I never had nothin to worry bout. It de blessed truth I'm tellin you, dere some of dese people right bout here now got dese transfer driver gwine down in de country to get people to do somethin for dem all de time. Honey, if some people in dis town had dis rheumatism I got, dey would swear somebody do somethin to dem. Oh, my God, dere so much devilment gwine on in de world dese days. I sho has faith in God en I reckon dat how-come I gets along so good." "Oh, de people, dey is awful worser den what dey used to be. I know by my comin on dat dey awful worser. De little tots bout here dese days know things de older people used to be de only ones dat know bout. Yes, mam, I sets down en prays when others sleep en I say, 'Lord, what gwine happen? Look like de young people on de straight road to hell gettin in so much devilment. When I was comin up, I didn' have nothin to grieve over, but seem like dere somethin all de time dese days. I does worry bout it so much sometimes, child, I goes along just a whistlin, 'Lord, I wish I had went fore I had so much to grieve over.' =Source:= Hester Hunter, age 85, Marion, S.C. Personal interview by Annie Ruth Davis, October, 1937. 
17690	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 17690-h.htm or 17690-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/6/9/17690/17690-h/17690-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/6/9/17690/17690-h.zip) THE MASTER OF APPLEBY A Novel Tale Concerning Itself in Part with the Great Struggle in the Two Carolinas; but Chiefly with the Adventures Therein of Two Gentlemen Who Loved One and the Same Lady by FRANCIS LYNDE Illustrations by T. de Thulstrup New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Copyright 1902 The Bowen-Merrill Company October TO Mr. Edward G. Richmond OF CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE, WHOSE KINDNESS AND ENCOURAGEMENT MUST ALWAYS BE HELD IN LIVELY REMEMBRANCE BY THE AUTHOR THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED [Illustration: But now I was fronting death and could be as firm as she] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I I WHET MY FATHER'S SWORD 1 II KNITS UP SOME BROKEN ENDS 15 III MY ENEMY SCORES FIRST 25 IV MAY BE PASSED OVER LIGHTLY 36 V I LOST WHAT I HAD NEVER GAINED 47 VI RED WRATH MAY HEAL A WOUND 60 VII MY LADY HATH NO PART 75 VIII I TASTE THE QUALITY OF MERCY 88 IX A GOLDEN KEY UNLOCKED A DOOR 98 X A FORLORN HOPE CAME TO GRIEF 107 XI A LIE WAS MADE THE VERY TRUTH 114 XII THE NEWS CAME TO UNWELCOME EARS 129 XIII A PILGRIMAGE BEGINS 141 XIV THE BARONET PLAYED ROUGE-ET-NOIR 150 XV A HATCHET SINGS A MAN TO SLEEP 164 XVI JENNIFER THREW A MAIN WITH DEATH 171 XVII LOVE TOOK TOLL OF FRIENDSHIP 183 XVIII WE HEAR NEWS FROM THE SOUTH 194 XIX A STUMBLING HORSE BROUGHT TIDINGS 207 XX WE STRIVE AS MEN TO RUN A RACE 217 XXI WE KEPT LENTEN VIGILS IN TRINITYTIDE 228 XXII THE FATES GAVE LARGESS OF DESPAIR 235 XXIII WE KEPT THE FEAST OF BITTER HERBS 251 XXIV WE FOUND THE SUNKEN VALLEY 259 XXV UNCANOOLA TRAPPED THE GREAT BEAR 269 XXVI THE CHARRED STICK FOR A GUIDE 279 XXVII A KING'S TROOPER BECAME A WASTREL 287 XXVIII I SADDLE THE BLACK MARE 296 XXIX HAVING DANCED, WE PAY THE PIPER 309 XXX EPHRAIM YATES PRAYED FOR HIS ENEMIES 324 XXXI WE MAKE A FORCED MARCH 336 XXXII I AM BEDDED IN A GARRET 351 XXXIII I HEAR CHANCEFUL TIDINGS 361 XXXIV I MET A GREAT LORD AS MAN TO MAN 369 XXXV I FIGHT THE DEVIL WITH FIRE 376 XXXVI I RODE POST ON THE KING'S BUSINESS 382 XXXVII WHAT BEFELL AT KING'S CREEK 395 XXXVIII WE FIND THE GUN-MAKER 412 XXXIX THE THUNDER OF THE CAPTAINS 418 XL VAE VICTIS 432 XLI I PLAYED THE HOST AT MY OWN FIRESIDE 446 XLII MY LORD HAS HIS MARCHING ORDERS 454 XLIII I DRINK A DISH OF TEA 460 XLIV WE COME TO THE BEGINNING OF THE END 470 XLV WE FIND WHAT WE NEVER SOUGHT 480 XLVI OUR PIECE MISSED FIRE AT HARNDON ACRES 488 XLVII ARMS AND THE MAN 505 XLVIII WE KEPT TRYST AT APPLEBY 517 XLIX A LAWYER HATH HIS FEE 531 L RICHARD COVERDALE'S DEBT WAS PAID 549 LI THE GOOD CAUSE GAINS A CONVERT 562 LII BRINGS US TO THE JOURNEY'S END 573 CHAPTER I IN WHICH I WHET MY FATHER'S SWORD The summer day was all but spent when Richard Jennifer, riding express, brought me Captain Falconnet's challenge. 'Twas a dayfall to be marked with a white stone, even in our Carolina calendar. The sun, reaching down to the mountain-girt horizon in the west, filled all the upper air with the glory of its departing, and the higher leaf plumes of the great maples before my cabin door wrought lustrous patterns in gilded green upon a zenith background of turquoise shot with crimson, like the figurings of some rich old tapestries I had once seen in my field-marshal's castle in the Mark of Moravia. Beyond the maples a brook tinkled and plashed over the stones on its way to the near-by Catawba; and its peaceful brawling, and the evensong of a pair of clear-throated warblers poised on the topmost twigs of one of the trees, should have been sweet music in the ears of a returned exile. But on that matchless bride's-month evening of dainty sunset arabesques and brook and bird songs, I was in little humor for rejoicing. The road made for the river lower down and followed its windings up the valley; but Jennifer came by the Indian trace through the forest. I can see him now as he rode beneath the maples, bending to the saddle horn where the branches hung lowest; a pretty figure of a handsome young provincial, clad in fashions three years behind those I had seen in London the winter last past. He rode gentleman-wise, in small-clothes of rough gray woolen and with stout leggings over his hose; but he wore his cocked hat atilt like a trooper's, and the sword on his thigh was a good service blade, and no mere hilt and scabbard for show such as our courtier macaronis were just then beginning to affect. Now I had known this handsome youngster when he was but a little lad; had taught him how to bend the Indian bow and loose the reed-shaft arrow in those happier days before the tyrant Governor Tryon turned hangman, and the battle of the Great Alamance had left me fatherless. Moreover, I had drunk a cup of wine with him at the Mecklenburg Arms no longer ago than yesterweek--this to a renewal of our early friendship. Hence, I must needs be somewhat taken aback when he drew rein at my door-stone, doffed his hat with a sweeping bow worthy a courtier of the great Louis, and said, after the best manner of Sir Charles Grandison: "I have the honor of addressing Captain John Ireton, sometime of his Majesty's Royal Scots Blues, and late of her Apostolic Majesty's Twenty-ninth Regiment of Hussars?" It was but an euphuism of the time, this formal preamble, declaring that his errand had to do with the preliminaries of a private quarrel between gentlemen. Yet I could scarce restrain a smile. For these upcroppings of courtier etiquette have ever seemed to march but mincingly with the free stride of our western backwoods. None the less, you are to suppose that I made shift to match his bow in some fashion, and to say: "At your service, sir." Whereupon he bowed again, clapped hat to head and tendered me a sealed packet. "From Sir Francis Falconnet, Knight Bachelor of Beaumaris, volunteer captain in his Majesty's German Legion," he announced, with stern dignity. Having no second to refer him to, I broke the seal of the cartel myself. Since my enemy had seen fit to come thus far on the way to his end in some gentlemanly manner, it was not for me to find difficulties among the formalities. In good truth, I was overjoyed to be thus assured that he would fight me fair; that he would not compel me to kill him as one kills a wild beast at bay. For certainly I should have killed him in any event: so much I had promised my poor Dick Coverdale on that dismal November morning when he had choked out his life in my arms, the victim first of this man's treachery, and, at the last, of his sword. So, as I say, I was nothing loath, and yet I would not seem too eager. "I might say that I have no unsettled quarrel with Captain Falconnet," I demurred, when I had read the challenge. "He spoke slightingly of a lady, and I did but--" "Your answer, Captain Ireton!" quoth my youngster, curtly. "I am not empowered to give or take in the matter of accommodations." "Not so fast, if you please," I rejoined. "I have no wish to disappoint your principal, or his master, the devil. Let it be to-morrow morning at sunrise in the oak grove which was once my father's wood field, each man with his own blade. And I give you fair warning, Master Jennifer; I shall kill your bullyragging captain of light-horse as I would a vermin of any other breed." At this Jennifer flung himself from his saddle with a great laugh. "If you can," he qualified. "But enough of these 'by your leave, sirs.' I am near famished, and as dry as King David's bottle in the smoke. Will you give me bite and sup before I mount and ride again? 'Tis a long gallop back to town on an empty stomach, and with a gullet as dry as Mr. Gilbert Stair's wit." Here was my fresh-hearted Dick Jennifer back again all in a breath; and I made haste to shout for Darius, and for Tomas to take his horse, and otherwise to bestir myself to do the honors of my poor forest fastness as well as I might. Luckily, my haphazard larder was not quite empty, and there were presently a bit of cold deer's meat and some cakes of maize bread baked in the ashes to set before the guest. Also there was a cup of sweet wine, home-pressed from the berries of the Indian scuppernong, to wash them down. And afterward, though the evening was no more than mountain-breeze cool, we had a handful of fire on the hearth for the cheer of it while we smoked our reed-stemmed pipes. It was over the pipes that Jennifer unburdened himself of the gossip of the day in Queensborough. "Have you heard the newest? But I know you haven't, since the post-riders came only this morning. The war has shifted from the North in good earnest at last, and we are like to have a taste of the harryings the Jerseymen have had since '76. My Lord Cornwallis is come as far as Camden, they say; and Colonel Tarleton has crossed the Catawba." "So? Then Mr. Rutherford is like to have his work cut out for him, I take it." Jennifer eyed me curiously. "Grif Rutherford is a stout Indian fighter; no West Carolinian will gainsay that. But he is never the man to match Cornwallis. We'll have help from the North." "De Kalb?" I suggested. Again the curious eyeshot. "Nay, John Ireton, you need not fear me, though I am just now this redcoat captain's next friend. You know more about the Baron de Kalb's doings than anybody else in Mecklenburg." "I? What should I know?" "You know a deal--or else the gossips lie most recklessly." "They do lie if they connect me with the Baron de Kalb, or with any other of the patriot side. What are they saying?" "That you come straight from the baron's camp in Virginia--to see what you can see." "A spy, eh? 'Tis cut out of whole cloth, Dick, my lad. I've never took the oath on either side." He looked vastly disappointed. "But you will, Jack? Surely, you have not to think twice in such a cause?" "As between King and Congress, you mean? 'Tis no quarrel of mine." "Now God Save us, John Ireton!" he burst out in a fine fervor of youthful enthusiasm that made him all the handsomer, "I had never thought to hear your father's son say the like!" I shrugged. "And why not, pray? The king's minion, Tryon, hanged my father and gave his estate to his minion's minion, Gilbert Stair. So, in spite of your declarations and your confiscations and your laws against alien landholders, I come back to find myself still the son of the outlawed Roger Ireton, and this same Gilbert Stair firmly lodged in my father's seat." Jennifer shrugged in his turn. "Gilbert Stair--for sweet Madge's sake I'm loath to say it--Gilbert Stair blows hot or cold as the wind sets fair or stormy. And I will say this for him: no other Tryon legatee of them all has steered so fine a course through these last five upsetting years. How he trims so skilfully no man knows. A short month since, he had General Rutherford and Colonel Sumter as guests at Appleby Hundred; now it is Sir Francis Falconnet and the British light-horse officers who are honored. But let him rest: the cause of independence is bigger than any man, or any man's private quarrel, friend John; and I had hoped--" I laid a hand on his knee. "Spare yourself, Dick. My business in Queensborough was to learn how best I might reach Mr. Rutherford's rendezvous." For a moment he sat, pipe in air, staring at me as if to make sure that he had heard aright. Then he clipt my hand and wrung it, babbling out some boyish brava that I made haste to put an end to. "Softly, my lad," I said; "'tis no great thing the Congress will gain by my adhesion. But you, Richard; how comes it that I find you taking your ease at Jennifer House and hobnobbing with his Majesty's officers when the cause you love is still in such desperate straits?" He blushed like a girl at that, and for a little space only puffed the harder at his pipe. "I did go out with the Minute Men in '76, if you must know, and smelt powder at Moore's Creek. When my time was done I would have 'listed again; but just at that my father died and the Jennifer acres were like to go to the dogs, lacking oversight. So I came home and--and--" He stopped in some embarrassment, and I thought to help him on. "Nay, out with it, Dick. If I am not thy father, I am near old enough to stand in his stead. 'Twas more than husbandry that rusted the sword in its scabbard, I'll be bound." "You are right, Jack; 'twas both more and less," he confessed, shamefacedly. "'Twas this same Margery Stair. As I have said, her father blows hot or cold as the wind sets, but not she. She is the fiercest little Tory in the two Carolinas, bar none. When I had got Jennifer in order and began to talk of 'listing again, she flew into a pretty rage and stamped her foot and all but swore that Dick Jennifer in buff and blue should never look upon her face again with her good will." I had a glimpse of Jennifer the lover as he spoke, and the sight went somewhat on the way toward casting out the devil of sullen rage that had possessed me since first I had set returning foot in this my native homeland. 'Twas a life lacking naught of hardness, but much of human mellowing, that lay behind the home-coming; and my one sweet friend in all that barren life was dead. What wonder, then, if I set this frank-faced Richard in the other Richard's stead, wishing him all the happiness that poor Dick Coverdale had missed? I needed little: would need still less, I thought, before the war should end; and through this love-match my lost estate would come at length to Richard Jennifer. It was a meliorating thought, and while it held I could be less revengeful. "Dost love her, Dick?" I asked. "Aye, and have ever since she was in pinafores, and I a hobbledehoy in Master Wytheby's school." "So long? I thought Mr. Stair was a later comer in Mecklenburg." "He came eight years ago, as one of Tryon's underlings. Madge was even then motherless; the same little wilful prat-a-pace she has ever been. I would you knew her, Jack. 'Twould make this shiftiness of mine seem less the thing it is." "So you have stayed at home a-courting while others fought to give you leisure," said I, thinking to rally him. But he took it harder than I meant. "'Tis just that, Jack; and I am fair ashamed. While the fighting kept to the North it did not grind so keen; but now, with the redcoats at our doors, and the Tories sacking and burning in every settlement, 'tis enough to flay an honest man alive. God-a-mercy, Jack! I'll go; I've got to go, or die of shame!" He sat silent after that, and as there seemed nothing that a curst old campaigner could say at such a pass, I bore him company. By and by he harked back to the matter of his errand, making some apology for his coming to me as the baronet's second. "'Twas none of my free offering, you may be sure," he added. "But it so happened that Captain Falconnet once did me a like turn. I had chanced to run afoul of that captain of Hessian pigs, Lauswoulter, at cards, and Falconnet stood my friend--though now I bethink me, he did seem over-anxious that one or the other of us should be killed." "As how?" I inquired. "When Lauswoulter slipped and I might have spitted him, and didn't, Falconnet was for having us make the duel _à outrance_. But that's beside the mark. Having served me then, he makes the point that I shall serve him now." "'Tis a common courtesy, and you could not well refuse. I love you none the less for paying your debts; even to such a villain as this volunteer captain." "True, 'tis a debt, as you say; but I like little enough the manner of its paying. How came you to quarrel with him, Jack?" Now even so blunt a soldier as I have ever been may have some prickings of delicacy where the truth might breed gossip--gossip about a tale which I had said should die with Richard Coverdale and be buried in his grave. So I evaded the question, clumsily enough, as has ever been my hap in fencing with words. "The cause was not wanting. If any ask, you may say he trod upon my foot in passing." Jennifer laughed. "And for that you struck him? Heavens, man! you hold your life carelessly. Do you happen to know that this volunteer captain of light-horse is accounted the best blade in the troop?" "Who should know that better than--" I was fairly on the brink of betraying the true cause of quarrel, but drew rein in time. "I care not if he were the best in the army. I have crossed steel before--and with a good swordsman now and then." "Anan?" said Jennifer, as one who makes no doubt. And then: "But this toe-pinching story is but a dry crust to offer a friend. You spoke of a lady; who was she? Or was that only another way of telling me to mind my own affairs?" "Oh, as to that; the lady was real enough, and Falconnet did grossly asperse her. But I know not who she is, nor aught about her, save that she is sweet and fair and good to look upon." "Young?" "Aye." "And you say you do not know her? Let me see her through your eyes and mayhap I can name her for you." "That I can not. Mr. Peale's best skill would be none too great for the painting of any picture that should do her justice. But she is small, with the airs and graces of a lady of the quality; also, she has witching blue eyes, and hair that has the glint of summer sunshine in it. Also, she sits a horse as if bred to the saddle." To my amazement, Jennifer leaped up with an oath and flung his pipe into the fire. "Curse him!" he cried. "And he dared lay a foul tongue to her, you say? Tell me what he said! I have a good right to know!" I shook my head. "Nay, Richard; I may not repeat it to you, since you are the man's second. Truly, there is more than this at the back of our quarrel; but of itself it was enough, and more than enough, inasmuch as the lady had just done him the honor to recognize him." "His words--his very words, Jack, if you love me!" "No; the quarrel is mine." "By God! it is not yours!" he stormed, raging back and forth before the fire. "What is Margery Stair to you, Jack Ireton?" I smiled, beginning now to see some peephole in this millstone of mystery. "Margery Stair? She is no more than a name to me, I do assure you; the daughter of the man who sits in my father's seat at Appleby Hundred." "But you are going to fight for her!" he retorted. "Am I? I pledge you my word I did not know it. But in any case I should fight Sir Francis Falconnet; aye, and do my best to kill him, too. Sit you down and fill another pipe. Whatever the quarrel, it is mine." "Mayhap; but it is mine, too," he broke in, angrily. "At all events, I'll see this king's volunteer well hanged before I second him in such a cause." "That as you choose. But you are bound in honor, are you not?" "No." He filled a fresh pipe, lighted it with a coal from the hearth, and puffed away in silence for a time. When he spoke again it was not as Falconnet's next friend. "What you have told me puts a new face on the matter, Jack. Sir Francis may find him another second where he can. If he has aught to say, I shall tell him plain he lied to me about the quarrel, as he did. Now who is there to see fair play on your side, John Ireton?" At the question an overwhelming sense of my own sorry case grappled me. Fifteen years before, I had left Appleby Hundred and my native province as well befriended as the son of Roger Ireton was sure to be. And now-- "Dick, my lad, I am like to fight alone," said I. He swore again at that; and here, lest I should draw my loyal Richard as he was not, let me say, once for all, that his oaths were but the outgushings of a warm and impulsive heart, rarely bitter, and never, as I believe, backed by surly rancor or conscious irreverence. "That you shall not, Jack," he asserted, stoutly. "I must be a-gallop now to tell this king's captain to look elsewhere for his next friend; but to-morrow morning I'll meet you in the road between this and the Stair outlands, and we'll fare on together." After this he would brook no more delay; and when Tomas had fetched his horse I saw him mount and ride away under the low-hanging maples--watched him fairly out of sight in the green and gold twilight of the great forest before turning back to my lonely hearth and its somber reminders. I stirred the dying embers, throwing on a pine knot for better light. Then I took down my father's sword from its deer-horn brackets over the chimney-piece, and set myself to fine its edge and point with a bit of Scotch whinstone. It was a good blade; a true old Andrea Ferara got in battle in the seventeenth century by one of the Nottingham Iretons. I whetted it well and carefully. It was not that I feared my enemy's strength of wrist or tricks of fence; but fighting had been my trade, and he is but a poor craftsman who looks not well to see that his tools are in order against their time of using. II WHICH KNITS UP SOME BROKEN ENDS It was in the autumn of the year '64, as I was coming of age, that my father made ready to send me to England. Himself a conscience exile from Episcopal Virginia, and a descendant of those Nottingham Iretons whose best-known son fought stoutly against Church and King under Oliver Cromwell, he was yet willing to humor my bent and to use the interest of my mother's family to enter me in the king's service. Accordingly, I took ship at Norfolk for "home," as we called it in those days; and, after a stormy passage and overmuch waiting as my cousins' guest in Lincolnshire, had my pair of colors in the Scots Blues, lately home from garrison duty in the Canadas. Of the life in barracks of a young ensign with little wit and less wisdom, and with more guineas in his purse than was good for him, the less said the better. But of this you may like to know that, what with a good father's example, and some small heritage of Puritan decency come down to me from the sound-hearted old Roundhead stock, I won out of that devil's sponging-house, an army in the time of peace, with somewhat less to my score than others had to theirs. It was in this barrack life that I came to know Richard Coverdale and his evil genius, the man Francis Falconnet. Coverdale was an ensign in my own regiment, and we were sworn friends from the first. His was a clean soul and a brave; and it was to him that I owed escape from many of the grosser chargings on that score above-named. As for Falconnet, he was even then a ruffler and a bully, though he was not of the army. He was a younger son, and at that time there were two lives between him and the baronetcy; but with a mother's bequeathings to purchase idleness and to gild his iniquities, he was a fair example of the _jeunesse dorée_ of that England; a libertine, a gamester, a rakehell; brave as the tiger is brave, and to the full as pitiless. He was a boon companion of the officers' mess; and for a time--and purpose--posed as Coverdale's friend, and mine. Since I would not tell my poor Dick's story to Richard Jennifer, I may not set it down in cold words here for you. It was the age-old tragic comedy of a false friend's treachery and a woman's weakness; a duel, and the wrong man slain. And you may know this; that Falconnet's most merciful role in it was the part he played one chill November morning when he put Richard Coverdale to the wall and ran him through. As you have guessed, I was Coverdale's next friend and second in this affair, and but for the upsetting news of the Tryon tyranny in Carolina,--news which reached me on the very day of the meeting,--I should there and then have called the slayer to his account. How my father who, Presbyterian and Ireton though he was, had always been of the king's side, came to espouse the cause of the "Regulators," as they called themselves, I know not. In my youthful memories of him he figures as the feudal lord of his own domain, more absolute than many of the petty kinglings I came afterward to know in the German marches. But this, too, I remember; that while his rule at Appleby Hundred was stern and despotic enough, he was ever ready to lend a willing ear to any tale of oppression. And if what men say of the tyrant Tryon's tax-gatherers and law-court robbers be no more than half truth, there was need for any honest gentleman to oppose them. What that opposition came to in '71 is now a tale twice told. Taken in arms against the governor's authority, and with an estate well worth receiving, my father had little justice and less mercy accorded him. With many others he was outlawed; his estates were declared forfeit; and a few days later he, with Benjamin Merrill and four more captivated at the Alamance, was given some farce of a trial and hanged. When the news of this came to me you may well suppose that I had no heart to continue in the service of the king who could sanction and reward such villainies as these of the butcher William Tryon. So I threw up my lieutenant's commission in the Blues, took ship for the Continent, and, after wearing some half-dozen different uniforms in Germany, was lucky enough to come at length to serviceable blows under my old field-marshal on the Turkish frontier. To you of a younger generation, born in the day of swift mail-coaches and well-kept post-roads, the slowness with which our laggard news traveled in that elder time must needs seem past belief. It was early in the year '79 before I began to hear more than vague camp-fire tales of the struggle going on between the colonies and the mother country; and from that to setting foot once more upon the soil of my native Carolina was still another year. What I found upon landing at New Berne and saw while riding a jog-trot thence to the Catawba was a province rent and torn by partizan warfare. Though I came not once upon the partizans themselves in all that long faring, there were trampled fields and pillaged houses enough to serve as mile-stones; and in my native Mecklenburg a mine full charged, with slow-match well alight for its firing. Charleston had fallen, and Colonel Tarleton's outposts were already widespread on the upper waters of the Broad and the Catawba. Thus it was that the first sight which greeted my eyes when I rode into Queensborough was the familiar trappings of my old service, and I was made to know that in spite of Mr. Jefferson's boldly written Declaration of Independence, and that earlier casting of the king's yoke by the patriotic Mecklenburgers themselves, my boyhood home was for the moment by sword-right a part of his Majesty's province of North Carolina. You are not to suppose that these things moved me greatly. As yet I was chiefly concerned with my own affair and anxious to learn at first hands the cost to me of my father's connection with the Regulators. Touching this, I was not long kept in ignorance. Of all the vast demesne of Appleby Hundred there was no roof to shelter the son of the outlawed Roger Ireton save that of this poor hunting lodge in the mighty forest of the Catawba, overlooked, with the few runaway blacks inhabiting it, in the intaking of an estate so large that I think not even my father knew all the metes and bounds of it. I shall not soon forget the interview with the lawyer in which I was told the inhospitable truth. Nor shall I forget his truculent leer when he hinted that I had best be gone out of these parts, since it was not yet too late to bring down the sentence of outlawry from the father to the son. It was well for him that I knew not at the time that he was Gilbert Stair's factor. For I was mad enough to have throttled him where he sat at his writing table, matching his long fingers and smirking at me with his evil smile. But of this man more in his time and place. His name was Owen Pengarvin. I would have you remember it. For a week and a day I lingered on at Queensborough, for what I knew not, save that all the world seemed suddenly to have grown stale and profitless, and my life a thing of small account. One day I would be minded to go back to my old field-marshal and the keeping of the Turkish border; the next I would ride over some part of my stolen heritage and swear a great oath to bide till I should come to my own again. And on these alternating days the storm of black rage filled my horizons and I became a derelict to drive on any rock or shoal in this uncharted sea of wrath. On one of these gallops farthest afield I chanced upon the bridle-path that led to our old hunting lodge in the forest depths. Tracing the path to its end among the maples I found the cabin, so lightly touched by time that the mere sight of it carried me swiftly back to those happy days when my father and I had stalked the white-tailed deer in the hill glades beyond, with this log-built cabin for a rest-camp. I spurred up under the low-hanging trees. The door stood wide, and a thin wreath of blue smoke curled upward from the mouth of the wattled chimney. Then and there I had my first welcome home. Old black Darius--old when I had last seen him at Appleby Hundred, and a very grandsire of ancients now--was one of the runaways who made the forest lodge a refuge. He had been my father's body-servant, and, notwithstanding all the years that lay between, he knew me at once. Thereupon, as you would guess, I came immediately into some small portion of my kingdom. Though Darius was the patriarch, the other blacks were also fugitives from Appleby Hundred; and for the son of Roger Ireton there was instant vassalage and loyal service. But best of all, on my first evening before the handful of fire in the great fire-place, Darius brought me a package swathed in many wrappings of Indian-tanned deerskin. It contained my father's sword, and, more precious than this, a message from the dead. My father's farewell was written upon a leaf torn from his journal, and was but a hasty scrawl. I here transcribe it. _My Son:_ _I know not if this will ever come into your hands, but it and my sword shall be left in trust with the faithful Darius. We have made our ill-timed cast for liberty and it has failed, and to-morrow I and five others are to die at the rope's end. I bequeath you my sword--'tis all the tyrant hath left me to devise--and my blessing to go with it when you, or another Ireton, shall once more bare the true old blade in the sacred cause of liberty._ _Thy father,_ _Roger Ireton._ You may be sure I conned these few brave words till I had them well by heart; and later, when my voice was surer and my eyes less dim, I summoned Darius and bade him tell me all he knew. And it was thus I learned what I have here set down of my father's end. The next day, all indecision gone, I rode to Queensborough to ascertain, if so I might, how best to throw the weight of the good old Andrea into the patriot scale, meaning to push on thence to Charlotte when I had got the bearings of the nearest patriot force. 'Twas none so easy to learn what I needed to know; though, now I sought for information, a curious thing or two developed. One was that this light-horse outpost in our hamlet was far in advance of the army of invasion--so far that it was dangersomely isolated, and beyond support. Another was the air of secrecy maintained, and the holding of the troop in instant readiness for fight or flight. Why this little handful of British regulars should stick and hang so far from Lord Cornwallis's main, which was then well down upon the Wateree, I could not guess. But for the secrecy and vigilance there were good reasons and sufficient. The patriot militia had been called out, and was embodying under General Rutherford but a few miles distant near Charlotte. I had this information in guarded whispers from mine host of the tavern, and was but a moment free of the tap-room, when I first saw Margery Stair and so drank of the cup of trembling with madness in its lees. She was riding, unmasked, down the high road, not on a pillion as most women rode in that day, but upon her own mount with a black groom two lengths in the rear. I can picture her for you no better than I could for Richard Jennifer; but this I know, that even this first sight of her moved me strangely, though the witching beauty of her face and the proudness of it were more a challenge than a beckoning. A blade's length at my right where I was standing in front of the tavern, three redcoat officers lounged at ease; and to one of them my lady tossed a nod of recognition, half laughing, half defiant. I turned quickly to look at the favored one. He stood with his back to me; a man of about my own bigness, heavy-built and well-muscled. He wore a bob-wig, as did many of the troop officers, but his uniform was tailor-fine, and the hand with which he was resettling his hat was bejeweled--overmuch bejeweled, to my taste. Something half familiar in the figure of him made me look again. In the act he turned, and then I saw his face--saw and recognized it though nine years lay between this and my last seeing of it across the body of Richard Coverdale. "So!" thought I. "My time has come at last." And while I was yet turning over in my mind how best to bait him, the lady passed out of earshot, and I heard him say to the two, his comrades, that foul thing which I would not repeat to Jennifer; a vile boast with which I may not soil my page here for you. "Oh, come, Sir Frank! that's too bad!" cried the younger of the twain; and then I took two strides to front him fairly. "Sir Francis Falconnet, you are a foul-lipped blackguard!" I said; and, lest that should not be enough, I smote him in the face so that he fell like an ox in the shambles. III IN WHICH MY ENEMY SCORES FIRST True to his promise, Richard Jennifer met me in the cool gray birthlight of the new day at a turn in the river road not above a mile or two from the rendezvous, and thence we jogged on together. After the greetings, which, as you may like to know, were grateful enough on my part, I would fain inquire how the baronet had taken his second's defection; but of this Jennifer would say little. He had broken with his principal, whether in anger or not I could only guess; and one of Falconnet's brother officers, that younger of the twain who had cried shame at the baronet's vile boast, was to serve in his stead. It was such a daydawn as I have sometimes seen in the Carpathians; cool and clear, but with that sweet dewy wetness in the lower air which washes the over-night cobwebs from the brain, and is both meat and drink to one who breathes it. On the left the road was overhung by the bordering forest, and where the branches drooped lowest we brushed the fragrance from the wild-grape bloom in passing. On the right the river, late in flood, eddied softly; and sounds other than the murmuring of the waters, the matin songs of the birds, and the dust-muffled hoof-beats of our horses there were none. Peace, deep and abiding, was the key-note of nature's morning hymn; and in all this sylvan byway there was naught remindful of the fierce internecine warfare aflame in all the countryside. Some rough forging of this thought I hammered out for Jennifer as we rode along, and his laugh was not devoid of bitterness. "Old Mother Nature ruffles her feathers little enough for any teapot tempest of ours," he said. "But speaking of the cruelties, we provincial savages, as my Lord Cornwallis calls us, have no monopoly. The post-riders from the south bring blood-curdling stories of Colonel Tarleton's doings. 'Tis said he overtook some of Mr. Lincoln's reinforcements come too late. They gave battle but faint-heartedly, being all unready for an enemy, and presently threw down their arms and begged for quarter--begged, and were cut down as they stood." "Faugh!" said I. "That is but hangman's work. And yet in London I heard that this same Colonel Tarleton was with Lord Howe in Philadelphia and was made much of by the ladies." Jennifer's laugh was neither mirthful nor pleasant. "'Tis a weakness of the sex," he scoffed. "The women have a fondness for a man with a dash of the brute in him." I laughed also, but without bitterness. "You say it feelingly. Do you speak by the book?" "Aye, that I do. Now here is my lady Madge preaching peace and all manner of patience to me in one breath, and upholding in the next this baronet captain who, though I would have seconded him at a pinch, is but a pattern of his brutal colonel." I put two and two together. "So Falconnet is on terms at Appleby Hundred, is he?" "Oh, surely. Gilbert Stair keeps open house for any and all of the winning hand, as I told you." The thought of this unspoiled young maiden having aught to do with such a thrice-accursed despoiler of women made my blood boil afresh; and in the heat of it I let my secret slip, or rather some small part of it. "Sir Francis had ever a sure hand with the women," I said; and then I could have bitten my masterless tongue. "So?" queried Jennifer. "Then this is not your first knowing of him?" "No." So much I said and no more. We rode on in silence for a little space, and then my youthling must needs break out again in fresh beseechings. "Tell me what you know of him, and what it was he said of Madge," he entreated. "You can't deny me now, Jack." "I can and shall. It matters not to you or to any what he is or has been." "Why?" "Because, as God gives me strength and skill, I shall presently run him through, and so his account will be squared once for all with all men--and all women, as well." "God speed you," quoth my loyal ally. "I knew not your quarrel with him was so bitter." "It is to the death." "So it seems. In that case, if by any accident he--" I divined what he would say and broke in upon him. "Nay, Dick; if he thrusts me out, you must not take up my quarrel. I know not where you learned to twirl the steel, or how, but you may be sure he would spit you like a trussed fowl in the first bout. I have seen him kill a man who was reckoned the best short sword in my old regiment of the Blues." "Content yourself," said my young Hotspur, grandly. "If you spare him he shall answer to me for that thing he said of Madge Stair; this though I know not what it was he said." I smiled at his fuming ardor, and glancing at the pair of pistols hanging from his saddle-bow, asked if he could shoot. "Indifferent well." "Then make him challenge you and choose your own weapon. 'Tis your only hope, and poor enough at that, I fear. I have heard he can clip a guinea at ten paces." From that we fell silent again, being but a little way from the rendezvous, and so continued until, at a sudden turn in the road, we came in sight of a rude barricade of felled trees barring the way. Jennifer saw it first and pulled up short, loosing his pistols in their cases as he drew rein. "'Ware the wood!" he said sharply, and none too soon, for even as he spoke the glade at our left filled as by magic with a motley troop deploying into the road as to surround us. "Now who are these?" I asked; "friends or foes?" "Foes who will hang you in your own halter strap; Jan Howart's Tories--the same that burned the Westcotts in their cabin a fortnight since. Will your horse take that barricade, think you?" "Aye,--standing, if need be." "Then at them, in God's name. Charge!" It needed but the word and we were in the thick of it. I remembered my old field-marshal's maxim, _Von Feinden umringt, ist die Zeit zu zerschmettern_; and truly, being so plentifully outnumbered, we did strike both first and hard. A line of the ragged horsemen strung itself awkwardly across the road to guard the flimsy barricade, and at this we charged, stirrup to stirrup. In the dash there was a scattering volley from the wood, answered instantly by the bellowings of Jennifer's great pistols; and then we came to the steel. It was my first fleshing of the good old Andrea, and a better balanced blade I had never swung in hand-to-hand mellay. As we closed with the half-dozen defenders of the barrier, Jennifer reined aside to give me room to play to right and left, and in the midst of it went nigh to death because he held his hand to watch a cut and double thrust of mine. "Over with you!" I shouted, pricking the man who would have mowed him down with a great scythe handled as a sword. Our horses took the barrier in a flying leap, straining themselves for the race beyond. When we had pulled them down to a foot pace we were safely out of rifle shot and there was space to count the cost. There was no cost worth counting. A saddle horn bullet-shattered for me, and the back of Jennifer's sword hand scored lightly across by another of the random missiles summed up our woundings. Dick whipped out his kerchief to twist about the scored hand, while I glanced back to see if any Tory cared to follow. "Lord, Jack! I owe you one to keep and one to pay back," quoth my youngster, warmly. "I never saw a swordsman till this day!" "Mere tricks, Dick, my lad; I have had fifteen years in which to learn them. And these were but country yokels armed with farming tools. The two with swords had little wit to use them." "Oh, come!" said he. "I know a pretty bit of sword play when I see it. If we come whole out of this adventure with the baronet you shall teach me some of these 'mere tricks' of yours." I promised, glancing back toward the dust-veiled barrier in the distance. "Dick, you passed this way an hour ago; was that breastwork in the road then?" "Not a stick of it." "Then we may dare say our volunteer captain fights unwillingly." "How so?" he demanded, being much too straightforward himself to suspect duplicity in others. "'Tis plain enough. This was a trap, meant to stop or delay us, and I'll wager high it was the baronet who set and baited it. It would please him well to be able to say what our failure to come would give him warrant for. Let us gallop a bit, lest we be late and so play into his hand." Jennifer smiled grimly and gave his horse the rein. "I think you'd charge the Fall of Man to him if that would give you better leave to kill him. I'd hate to own you for my enemy, John Ireton." For all our swift speeding we were yet a little late at the rendezvous under the tall oaks. When we came on the ground the baronet was walking up and down arm in arm with his second, a broad-shouldered young Briton, fair of skin and ruddy of face. If Falconnet had set the Tory trap for us he veiled his disappointment at its failure. His face, dark and inscrutable as it always was, was made more sinister by the plasters knitting up his broken cheek, but I was right glad to make sure that my blow had spared his eyes. Richly as he deserved his fate, I thought it would be ill to think on afterward that I had had him at a disadvantage of my own making. There was little time wasted in the preliminaries. When Falconnet saw us he dropped his second's arm and began to make ready. I gave my sword to Jennifer, and the seconds went apart together. There was some measuring and balancing of weapons, and then Richard came back. "The baronet's sword is a good inch longer than yours in the blade, and is somewhat heavier. Tybee has brought a pair of French short-swords which he offers. Will you change your terms?" "No; I am content to fight with my own weapon." Jennifer nodded. "So I told him." And then: "There was no surgeon to be had in town, Dr. Carew having gone with the Minute Men to join Mr. Rutherford. Tybee says 'tis scarce in accordance with the later rulings to fight without one." "To the devil with their hairsplittings!" said I. "Let us have done with them and be at it." Falconnet was removing his coat, and I stripped mine. The seconds chose the ground where the turf was short and firm, and yet yielding enough to give good footing. We faced each other, my antagonist baring an arm which, despite the bejeweled hand, was to the full as big-muscled as my own. My glance went from his weapon, a rather heavy German blade, straight and slender-pointed, to his face. He was smiling as one who strives to make the outer man a mask to cover all emotion, and the plasters on his cheek drew the smile into a grimace that was all but devilish. The seconds fell back, but when Jennifer would have given the signal I stopped him. "One moment, if you please. Sir Francis Falconnet, you know me?" The thin-lidded eyes were veiled for an instant, and then he lied smoothly. "Your pardon, Captain Ireton; I have not that honor." "'Tis a small matter, but you do lie this morning as basely as you lied to Richard Coverdale nine years agone," said I; and then I signed Jennifer to give the word. "Attention, gentlemen! On guard!" My enemy's sword leaped to meet mine, and at the same instant I heard another click of steel betokening that the seconds had fallen to in a bit of by-play between themselves, as was then the fashion. After that I heard nothing for a time save the sibilant whisperings of the Ferara and the German long-sword, and saw nothing save the fierce eyes glaring at me out of the midst of the plaster-marred smile. Recreant though he was, I must do my adversary the justice to say that he was a skilful master of fence, agile as a French dancer, and withal well-breathed and persevering. Twice, nay, thrice, before I found my advantage he had pricked me lightly with that extra inch of slender point. But when I had fairly felt his wrist I knew that his heavier weapon would shortly prove his undoing; knew that the quick parry and lightning-like thrust would presently lag a little, and then I should have him. Something of this prophecy of triumph he must have read in my eyes, for on the instant he was up and at me like a madman, and I had my work well cut out to hold him at the blade's length. I was so holding him; was, in my turn, beginning to press him slowly, when there came a drumming of hoofbeats on the soft turf, and then a woman's cry. I looked aside, and to my dying day I shall swear that my antagonist did likewise. What I saw was Mistress Margery Stair riding down upon us at a hand-gallop, and I lowered my point, as any gentleman would. In the very act--'twas while Jennifer was clutching at her bridle rein to stay her from riding fair between us--I felt the hot-wire prick of the steel in my shoulder and knew that my enemy had run me through as I stood. Of what befell afterward I have but dim memories. There were more hoof-tramplings, and then I felt the dewy turf under my hands and soft fingers tremblingly busy at my neckerchief. Then I saw swimmingly, as through a veil of mist, a woman's face just above my own, and it was full of horror; and I heard my enemy say: "'Twas most unfortunate and I do heartily regret it, Mr. Jennifer. I saw not why he had lowered his point. Can I say more?" How Richard Jennifer made answer to this lie I know not; nor do I know aught else, save by hear-say, of any further happening in that grassy glade beneath my father's oaks. For the big German blade was a shrewd blood-letter, and I fell asleep what time my lady was trying to stanch with her kerchief the ebbing tide of life. IV WHICH MAY BE PASSED OVER LIGHTLY When I came back to some clearer sensing of things, I found myself abed in a room which was strange and yet strangely familiar. Barring a great oaken clothes-press in one corner, a raree-show of curious china on the shelves where the books should have been, and the face of an armored soldier staring down at me from its frame over the chimney piece, where I should have looked to see my mother's portrait, the room was a counterpart of my old bedchamber at Appleby Hundred. There was even a faint odor of lavender in the bed-linen; and the sense of smell, which hath ever a better memory than any other, carried me swiftly back to my boyhood, and to the remembrance that my mother had always kept a spray or two of that sweet herb in her linen closet. At the bedside there was a claw-footed table, which also had the look of an old friend; and on it a dainty porringer, filled with cuttings of fragrant sweetbriar. This was some womanly conceit, I said to myself; and then I laughed, though the laugh set a pair of wolf's jaws at work on my shoulder. For you must know that I had lived the full half of King David's span of three-score and ten years, and more, and what womanly softness had fallen to my lot had been well got and paid for. I closed my eyes the better to remember what had befallen, and when I opened them again was fain to wonder if the moment of back-reaching stood not for some longer time. In the deep bay of the window was a great chair of Indian wickerwork, and I could have sworn it had but now been empty. Yet when I looked again a woman sat in it. Now of a truth I had seen this woman's face but twice; and once it wore a smile of teasing mockery and once was full of terror; but I thought I should live long and suffer much before the winsome challenging beauty of it would let me be as I had been before I had looked upon it. She knew not that I was awake and slaking the thirst of my eyes upon the sweetness of her, and so I saw her then as few ever saw her, I think, with the womanly barriers of defense all down. 'Tis a hard test, and one that makes a blank at rest of many a face beautiful enough in action; but though this lady's face was to the full as changeful as any April sky, it was never less than triumphantly beautiful. I had said her eyes were blue, but now they were deep wells reflecting the soft gray of the clouded sky beyond the window-panes. I had made sure that her lips lent themselves most readily to mocking smiles scornful of any wit less trenchant than her own; but now these mocking lips were pensive, and with the rounded cheek and chin gave her the look of a sweet child wanting to be kissed. I had said her hair was bright in the sunlight, and so, indeed, it was; but lacking the sun it still held the dull luster of burnished copper in its masses, and her simple, care-free dressing of it at a time when _les grandes dames_ were frizzing and powdering and adding art to art to mar the woman's crown of glory, gave her yet more the look of a child. Lastly, I had called her small, and certainly her figure was girlish beside those grenadier dames of Maria Theresa's court to whom my old field-marshal had once presented me. But when she rose and went to stand in the window-bay I marked this; that not any duchess or margravine of them all had a more queenly bearing, or, with all their stays and furbelows, could match her supple grace and lissom figure. What with the blood-lettings and the wound fever, coupled with the subtle witchery of her presence thus in my sick room, it is little to be wondered at that a curious madness came over me, or that I forgot for the moment the loyalty due to my dear lad. Could I have stood before her and, reading but half consent in the deep-welled eyes, have clipt her in my arms and laid my lips to hers, I would have run to pay the price, in earth or heaven or hell, I thought, deeming the fierce joy of it well worth any penalty. At this I should have stirred, I suppose, for she came quickly and stood beside me. "You have slept long and well, Captain Ireton," she said; and in all the thrilling joy of her nearer presence I found space to mark that her voice had in it that sweet quality of sympathy which is all womanly. "They say I am good only to fetch and carry--may I fetch you anything?" I fear the madness of the moment must still have been upon me, for I said: "Since you are here yourself, dear lady, I need naught else." At a flash I had my whipping in a low dipped curtsy and a mocking smile like that she had flung to Falconnet. "_Merci! mon Capitaine_," she said; and for all my wincings under the sharp lash of her sarcasm I was moved to wonder how she had the French of it. And then she added: "Is it the custom for Her Apostolic Majesty's officers to come out of a death-swound only to pay pretty compliments?" "'Twas no compliment," I denied; and, indeed, I meant it. Then I asked where I was, and to whom indebted, though I had long since guessed the answer to both questions. In a trice the mocking mood was gone and she became my lady hostess, steeped to her finger-tips in gracious dignity. "You are at Appleby Hundred, sir. 'Twas here they fetched you because there was no other house so near, and you were sorely hurt. Richard Jennifer and my black boy made a litter of the saddle-cloths, and with Sir Francis and Mr. Tybee to help--" I think she must have seen that this thrust was sharper than that of the German long-sword, for she stopped in mid-sentence and looked away from me. And, surely, I thought it was the very irony of fate that I should thus be brought half dead to the house that was my father's, with my enemy and his second to share the burden of me. "But your father?" I queried, when the silence had grown over-long. "My father is away at Queensborough, so you must e'en trust yourself to my tender mercies, Captain Ireton. Are you strong enough to have your wound dressed?" She asked, but waited for no answer of mine. Summoning a black boy to hold the basin of water, she fell to upon the wound-dressing with as little ado as if she had been a surgeon's apprentice on a battle-field, and I a bloodless ancient too old to thrill at the touch of a woman's hands. "Dear heart! 'tis a monstrous ugly hurt," she declared, replacing the wrappings with deft fingers. "How came you to go about picking a quarrel with Sir Francis?" "'Twas not of my seeking," I returned, and then I could have cursed my foolish tongue. "Is that generous, Captain Ireton? We hear something of the talk of the town, and that says--" "That says I struck him without sufficient cause. I am content to let it stand so." "Nay, but you should not be content. Is there not strife enough in this unhappy land without these causeless bickerings?" Here was my lady turned preacher all in a breath and I with no words to answer her. But I could not let it go thus. "I knew Sir Francis Falconnet in England," said I, hoping by this to turn her safe aside. "Ah; then there was a cause. Tell it me." "Nay, that I may not." Though she was hurting me sorely in the wound-dressing, and knew it, she laughed. "'Tis most ungallant to deny a lady, sir. But I shall know without the telling; 'twas about a woman. Tell me, Captain Ireton, is she fair?" Seeing that her mood had changed again, I tried to give her quip for jest; but what with the pain of the sword-thrust and the sweet agony of her touches I could only set my teeth against a groan. She went on drawing the bandagings, little heedful how she racked me, I thought; and yet when all was done she stood beside me all of a tremble, as any tender-hearted woman might. "There," she said; "'tis over for a time, and I make no doubt you are glad enough. Now you have nothing to do save to lie quiet till it heals." "And how long will that be, think you?" "We shall see; a long time, I hope. You shall be punished properly for your hot temper, I promise you, Captain Ireton." With that she left me and went to stand in the window-bay; and from lying mouse-still and watching her over-steadily I fell asleep again. When I awoke the day was in its gloaming and she was gone. After this I saw her no more for six full circlings of the clock-hands, and grew fair famished for a sight of her sweet face. But to atone, she, or some messenger of Richard Jennifer's, brought me my faithful Darius, and he it was who fetched me my food and drink and dressed my wound. From him I gleaned that the master of Appleby Hundred had returned from Queensborough, and that there were officers in red coats continually going back and forth, always with a hearty welcome from Gilbert Stair. Now, though the master of my stolen heritage had little cause to love me, I thought he had still less to fear me; so it seemed passing strange that he came not once to my bedchamber to pass the time of day with his unbidden guest, or to ask how he fared. But in this, as in many other things, I reckoned without my enemy, though I might have known that Sir Francis would be oftenest among the red-coated officers coming and going. But stranger than this, or than my lady's continued avoidance of me, was the lack of a visit from Richard Jennifer. Knowing well my dear lad's loyalty to the patriot cause, I could only conjecture that he had finally broken Margery's enforced truce to go and join Mr. Rutherford's militia, which, as Darius told me, was rallying to attack a Tory stronghold at Ramsour's Mill. With this surmise I was striving to content myself on that evening of the third day, when Mistress Margery burst in upon me, bright-eyed and with her cheeks aflame. "Captain Ireton, I will know the true cause of this quarrel which, failing in yourself, you pass on to Richard Jennifer!" she cried. "Was it not enough that you should get yourself half slain, without sending this headstrong boy to his death?" Now in all my surmisings I had not thought of this, and truly if she had sought far and wide for a whip to scourge me with she could have found no thong to cut so deep. "God help me!" I groaned. "Has this fiend incarnate killed my poor lad?" "No, he is not dead," she confessed, relenting a little. "But he has the baronet's bullet through his sword-arm for the sake of your over-seas disagreement with Sir Francis." I could not tell her that though my quarrel with this villain was but the avenging of poor Dick Coverdale's wrongs, Richard Jennifer's was for the baronet's affront to her. So I bore the blame in silence, glad enough to be assured that my dear lad was only wounded. "Why don't you speak, sir?" she snapped, flying out at me in a passion for my lack of words. "What should I say? I have not forgot that once you called me ungenerous." "You should defend yourself, if you can. And you should ask my pardon for calling my father's guest hard names." "The last I will do right heartily. 'Twas but the simple truth, but it was ill-spoken in your presence, Mistress Stair." At this she laughed merrily; and in all my world-wanderings I had never heard a sound so gladsome as this sweet laugh of hers when she would be on the forgiving hand. "Surely any one would know you are a soldier, Captain Ireton. No other could make an apology and renew the offense so innocently in the same breath." Then her mood changed again in the dropping of an eyelid, and she sighed and said: "Poor Dick!" As ever when she was with me, my eyes were devouring her; and at the sigh and the trembling of the sweet lips in sympathy I found that curious love-madness coming upon me again. Then I saw that I must straightway dig some chasm impassable between this woman and me, as I should hope to be loyal to my friend. So I said: "He loves you well, Mistress Margery." She glanced up quickly with a smile which might have been mocking or loving; I could not tell which it was. "Did he make you his deputy to tell me so, Captain Ireton?" Now I might have known that she was only luring me on to some pitfall of mockery, but I did not, and must needs burst out in some clumsy disclaimer meant to shield my dear lad. And in the midst of it she laughed again. "Oh, you do amuse me mightily, _mon Capitaine_," she cried. "I do protest I shall come to see you oftener. Tis as good as any play!" "Saw you ever a play in this backwoods wilderness?" I asked, glad of any excuse to change the talk and keep her by me. "No, indeed. But you are not to think that no one has seen the great world save only yourself, Captain Ireton. What would you say if I should tell you that I, too, have seen your London, and even your Paris?" Here I must blunder again and say that I had been wondering how else she came by the Parisian French; but at this her jesting mood vanished suddenly and she spoke softly. "I had it of my mother, who came of the Huguenots. She spoke it always to me. But my father speaks it not, and now I am losing it for want of practice." How is it that love transforms the once contemptible into a thing most highly to be prized? My eight years of campaigning on the Continent had given me the French speech, or so much of it as the clumsy tongue of me could master, and I had always held it in hearty English scorn. Yet now I was eager enough to speak it with her, and to take as my very own the little cry of joy wherewith she welcomed my hesitant mouthing of it. From that we fell to talking in her mother's tongue of the hardships of those same Huguenot _émigrés_; and when I looked not at her I could speak in terms dispassionate and cool of this or aught else; and when I looked upon her my heart beat faster and my blood leaped quickly, and I knew not always what it was I said. After a time--'twas when Darius fetched me my supper and the candles--she went away; and so ended a day which saw the beginning of a struggle fiercer than any the turbaned Turk had ever given me. For when I had eaten, and was alone with time to think, I knew well that I loved this woman and should always love her; this in spite of honor, or loyalty to Richard Jennifer, or any other thing in heaven or earth. V HOW I LOST WHAT I HAD NEVER GAINED Though I dared not hope she would keep her promise and was sometimes so sorely beset as to tremble at her coming, Margery looked in upon me oftener, and soon there grew up between us a comradeship the like of which, I think, had never been between a woman loved and a man who, loving her, was yet constrained to play the part of her true lover's friend. If I played this part but stumblingly; if at times the madness of my passion would not be denied the look or word or hand-clasp not of poor cool friendship; I have this to comfort me: that in after time, when my dear lad came to know, he forgave me freely--nay, held me altogether blameless, as I was not. Of what these looks and words and hand-clasps meant to Margery I had no hint. But in my hours of sanity, when I would pass these slippings in review, I could recall no answering flash of hers to salt the woundings of the conscience-whip. So far from it, it seemed, as this sweet comradeship budded and blossomed on the stock of a better acquaintance, she came to hold me more as if I were some cross between a father or an elder brother, and some closer confidant of her own sex. You are not to understand that she was always thus, nor over-often. More frequently that side of her which I soon came to call the mother's was turned to me, and I was made to stand a target for her wit and raillery. But she was ever changeful as a child, and in the midst of some light jesting mood would sober instantly and give my age its due. In some of these, her soberer times, I felt her lean upon me as my sister might, had I had one; at others she would frankly set me in her father's place, declaring I must tell her what to say or do in this or that entanglement. Again, and this came oftener as our friendship grew, she would talk to me as surely woman never talked to any but a kinsman, telling me naïvely of her conquests, and sparing no gallant of them all save only Richard Jennifer. And of Dick and his devotion she spoke now and then, as well, though never mockingly, as of the others. Nay, once when I pressed her on this point, asking her plainly if my dear lad had not good cause to hope, she would only smile and turn her face away, and say that of all the men she knew the hopeful ones pleased her best. So I was thus assured that if it were a scale for love to tip, my lady's heart would fall to Richard. Now I took this to be a hopeful sign, that she would tell me freely of these her little heart affairs; and seeing her so safe upon the side of friendship, held the looser rein upon my own unchartered passion. So long as I could keep my love well masked and hidden what harm could come to her or any if I should give it leave to live in prison? None, I thought; and yet at times was made a very coward by the thought. For love, like other living things, will grow by what it feeds upon, and once full-grown, may haply come to laugh at bonds, however strong or cunningly devised. With such a fever in my veins it was little wonder that my wound healed slowly. As time passed by, with never a word of news from the world without--if Margery knew aught of the fighting she would never lisp a syllable to me--and with Gilbert Stair still keeping churlishly beyond the sight or sound of me, I fretted sorely and would be gone. Yet this was but a passing mood. When Margery was with me I was not ill-content to eat the bread of sufferance in her father's house, and angry pride had scanty footing. But when she was away this same pride took sharp revenges, getting me out of bed to bully Darius into dressing me that I might foot it up and down the room while I was still unfit for any useful thing. One morning in the summer third of June my lady came early and surprised me at this business of pacing back and forth. Whereat she scolded me as was her wont when I grew restive. "What weighty thing have you to do that you should be so fierce to be about it, Monsieur Impetuous?" she cried. "_Fi donc!_ you'd try the patience of a saint!" "Which you are not," I ventured. "But truly, Margery, I am growing stronger now, and the bed does irk me desperately, if you must know. Besides--" "Well, what is there else besides? Do I not pamper you enough?" I laughed. "I'll say whatever you would have me say--so it be not the truth." "I'll have you say nothing until you sit down." She pushed the great chair of Indian wickerwork into place before the window-bay, and when I was at rest she drew up a low hassock and sat at my feet. "Now you may go on," she said. "You have not told me what you would have me say." "The truth," she commanded. "'"What is truth," said jesting Pilate,'" I quoted. "Why do you suppose my Lord Bacon thought the Roman procurator jested at such a time and place?" "You are quibbling, Monsieur John. I want to know why you are so impatient to be gone." "Saw you ever a man worthy the name who could be content to bide inactive when duty calls?" "That is not the whole truth," she said, half absently. "You think you are unwelcome here." "'Twas you said that; not I. But I must needs know your father will be relieved when he is safely quit of me." "'Twas you said that, not I, Monsieur John," she retorted, giving me back my own words. "Has ever word been brought you that he would speed your parting?" "Surely not, since I am still here. But you must know that I have never seen his face, as yet." "And is that strange? You must not forget that he is Gilbert Stair, and you are Roger Ireton's son." "I am not likely to forget it. But still a word of welcome to the unbidden guest would not have come amiss. And it was none of my seeking--this asylum in his house." "True; but that has naught to do with any coolness of my father's." "What is it, then?--besides the fact that I am Roger Ireton's son?" "I think 'twas what you said to Mr. Pengarvin." "That little smirking wretch? What has he to say or do in this?" She looked away from me and said: "He is my father's factor and man of affairs." "Ah, I have always to be craving your pardon, Margery. But I said naught to this parchment-faced--to this Mr. Pengarvin, that might offend your father, or any." "How, then, will you explain this, that you swore to drive my father from Appleby Hundred as soon as ever you had raised a following among the rebels?" "'Tis easily explained: this thrice-accursed--oh, pardon me again, I pray you; I will not name him any name at all. What I meant to say was that he lied. I made no threats to him; to tell the plain truth, I was too fiercely mad to bandy words with him." "What made you mad, Monsieur John?" "'Twas his threat to me--to taint me with my father's outlawry. Do you greatly blame me, Margery?" "No." Thereat a silence came and sat between us, and I fell to loving her the more because of it; but when she spoke I always loved her more for speaking. "My father has had little peace since coming here," she said, at length. "He is old and none too well; and as for king and Congress, asks nothing but his right to hold aloof. And this they will not give him." Remembering what Jennifer had told me of Gilbert Stair's trimming, I smiled within. "That is the way of all the world in war-time, _ma petite_. A partizan may suffer once for all, but both sides hold a neutral lawful prey." 'Twas as the spark to tinder; my word the spark and in her eyes the answering flash. "I tell him so!" she cried. "I tell him always that the king will have his own again. But still he halts and hesitates; and when these rebels come and quarter on us--" I fear she must have seen my inward smile this time, for she broke off in the midst, and I made haste to forestall her flying out at me. "Oh, come, my dear; you should not be so fierce with him when you yourself have brought a rebel to his house to nurse alive." She looked me fairly in the eye. "You should be the last to remind me of my treason, Monsieur John." "Then you are free to call it treason, are you, Margery?" I said. She looked away from me again. "How can it well be less than treason?" Then suddenly she turned and clasped her hands upon my knee. "You must not be too hard upon me, Monsieur John. I've tried to do my duty as I saw it, and I have asked no questions. And yet I know much more than you have told me." "What do you know?" "I know your wound has been your safety. If you should leave this room and house to-day you would never wear the buff and blue again, Captain Ireton." "You mean they would hang me for a spy. Will you believe me, Margery, if I say I have not yet worn the buff and blue at all?" "_Oh_!" The little exclamation was of pure delight. "Then they were all mistaken? You are no rebel, after all?" Was ever man so tempted since the fall of Adam? As I have writ it down for you in measured words, I was no more than half a patriot at this time. And love has made more traitors than its opposites of lust or greed. In no uncertain sense I was a man without a country; and this fair maiden on the hassock at my feet was all the world to me. I saw in briefer time than any clock hands ever measured how much a yielding word might do for me; and then I thought of Richard Jennifer and was myself again. "Nay, little one," I said; "there has been no mistake. For their own purposes my enemies have passed the word that I am here as the Baron de Kalb's paid spy. That is no mistake; 'tis a lie cut out of whole cloth. I came here straight from New Berne, and back of that from London and the Continent, and scarcely know the buff and blue by sight. But I am Carolina born, dear lady; and this King George's governor hanged my father. So, when God gives me strength to mount and ride--" "Now who is fierce?" she cried. And then, like lightning: "Will you raise a band of rebels and come and take your own again?" "You know I will not," I protested, so gravely that she laughed again, though now there were tears, from what well-spring of emotion I knew not, in her eyes. "Oh, mercy me! Have you never one little grain of imagination, Monsieur John? You are too monstrous literal for our poor jesting age." Then she sobered quickly and added this: "And yet I fear that this is what my father fears." I did not tell her that he might have feared it once with reason, or that now the houseless dog she petted should have life of me though mine enemy should sick him on. But I did say her father had no present cause to dread me. "He thinks he has. And surely there is cause enough," she added. I smiled, and, loving her the more for her fairness, must smile again. "Nay, you have changed all that, dear lady. Truly, I did at first fly out at him and all concerned for what has made me a poor pensioner in my father's house--or rather in the house that was my father's. But that was while the hurt was new. I have been a soldier of fortune too long to think overmuch of the loss of Appleby Hundred. 'Twas my father's, certainly; but 'twas never mine." "And yet--and yet it should be yours, John Ireton." She said it bravely, with uplifted face and eloquent eyes that one who ran might read. "'Tis good and true of you to say so, little one; but there be two sides to that, as well. So my father's acres come at last to you and Richard Jennifer, I shall be well content, I do assure you, Margery." She sprang up from her low seat and went to stand in the window-bay. After a time she turned and faced me once again, and the warm blood was in cheek and neck, and there was a soft light in her eyes to make them shine like stars. "Then you would have me marry Richard Jennifer?" she asked. 'Twas but a little word that honor bade me say, and yet it choked me and I could not say it. "Dick would have you, Margery; and Dick is my dear friend--as I am his." "But you?" she queried. "Were you my friend, as well, is this as you would have it?" My look went past her through the lead-rimmed window-panes to the great oaks and hickories on the lawn; to these and to the white road winding in and out among them. While yet I sought for words in which to give her unreservedly to my dear lad, two horsemen trotted into view. One of them was a king's man; the other a civilian in sober black. The redcoat rode as English troopers do, with a firm seat, as if the man were master of his mount; but the smaller man in black seemed little to the manner born, and daylight shuttled in and out beneath him, keeping time to the jog-trot of his beast. I thought it passing strange that with all good will to answer her, these coming horsemen seemed to hold me silent. And, indeed, I did not speak until they came so near that I could make them out. "I am your friend, Margery mine; as good a friend as you will let me be. And as between Richard Jennifer and another, I should be a sorry friend to Dick did I not--" She heard the clink of horseshoes on the gravel and turned, signing to me for silence while she looked below. The window overhung the entrance on that side, and through the opened air-casement I heard some babblement of voices, though not the words. "I must go down," she said. "'Tis company come, and my father is away." She passed behind my chair, and, hearing her hand upon the latch, I had thought her gone--gone down to welcome my enemy and his riding mate, the factor. But while I was cursing my unready tongue and repenting that I had not given her some small word of warning, she spoke again. "You say 'Richard Jennifer or another.' What know you of any other, Monsieur John?" "Nay, I know nothing save what you have told me; and from that I have been hoping there was no other." "But if I say there may be?" My heart went sick at that. True, I had thought to give her generously to Dick, whose right was paramount; but to another-- "Margery, come hither where I may see you." And when she stood before me like a bidden child: "Tell me, little comrade, who is that other?" But now her mood was changed again, and from standing sweet and pensive she fell a-laughing. "What impudence!" she cried. "_Ma foi_! You should borrow Père Matthieu's cassock and breviary; then, mayhap, I might confess to you. But not before." But still I pressed her. "Tell me, Margery." She tossed her head and would not look at me. "Dick Jennifer is but a boy; suppose this other were a man full-grown." "Yes?" "And a soldier." The sickness in my heart became a fire. "O Margery! Don't tell me it is this fiend who came just now!" All in a flash the jesting mood was gone, but that which took its place was strange to me. Tears came; her bosom heaved. And then she would have passed me but I caught her hands and held them fast. "Margery, one moment: for your own sweet sake, if not for Dick's or mine, have naught to do with this devil's emissary of a man. If you only knew--if I dared tell you--" But for once, it seemed, I had stretched my privilege beyond the limit. She whipped her hands from my hold and faced me coldly. "Sir Francis says you are a brave gentleman, Captain Ireton, and though he knows well what you would be about, he has not sent a file of men to put you in arrest. And in return you call him names behind his back. I shall not stay to listen, sir." With that she passed again behind my chair, and once again I heard her hand upon the latch. But I would say my say. "Forgive me, Margery, I pray you; 'twas only what you said that made me mad. 'Tis less than naught if you'll deny it." I waited long and patiently, and thought she must have gone before her answer came. And this is what she said: "If I must tell you then;'tis now two weeks and more since Sir Francis Falconnet asked me to marry him. I--I hope you do feel better, Captain Ireton." And with these bitterest of all words to her leave-taking, she left me to endure as best I might the hell of torment they had lighted for me. VI SHOWING HOW RED WRATH MAY HEAL A WOUND It was full two days after the coming of the baronet and the factor-lawyer Pengarvin before I saw my lady's face near-hand again, and sometimes I was glad for Richard Jennifer's sake, but oftener would curse and swear because I was bound hand and foot and could not balk my enemy. I knew Sir Francis and the lawyer still lingered on at Appleby Hundred--indeed, I saw them daily from my window--and Darius would be telling me that they waited upon the coming of some courier from the south. But this I disbelieved. Some such-like lie the baronet might have told, I thought; but when I saw him walk abroad with Margery on his arm, pacing back and forth beneath the oaks and bending low to catch her lightest word with grave and courtly deference that none knew better how to feign, I knew wherefore he stayed--knew and raged afresh at my own impotence, and for the thought that Margery was wholly at the mercy of this devil. Yours is a colder century than was ours, my dears. Your art has tempered love and passion into sentiment, and hate you have learned to call aversion or dislike. But we of that simple-hearted elder time were more downright; and I have writ the word I mean in saying that my love was at the mercy of this fiend. I know not how it is or why, but there are men who have this gift--some winning way to turn a woman's head or touch her heart; and I knew well this gift was his. 'Twas not his face, for that was something less than handsome, to my fancy; nor yet his figure, though that was big and soldierly enough. It was rather in some subtlety of manner, some power of simulation whereby in any womanly heart he seemed to stand at will for that which he was not. As I have said, I knew him well enough; knew him incapable of love apart from passion, and that to him there was no sacredness in maiden chastity or wifely vows. So he but gained his end he cared no whit what followed after; ruin, broken hearts, lost souls, a man slain now and then to keep the scale from tipping--all were as one to him, or to the Francis Falconnet I knew. And touching marriage, with Margery or any other, I feared that love would have no word to say. Passion there might be, and that fierce desire to have and wear which burns like any miser's fever in the blood; but never love as lovers measure it. Why, then, had he proposed to Margery? The answer did not tarry. Since he was now but a gentleman volunteer it was plain that he had squandered his estate, and so might brook the marriage chain if it were linked up with my father's acres. It was a bait to lure such a gamester strongly. As matters stood with us in that wan summer of exhaustion and defeat, the king's cause waxed and grew more hopeful day by day. And in event of final victory a landless baronet, marrying Margery's dower of Appleby Hundred, might snap his fingers at the Jews who, haply, had driven him forth from England. And as for Margery? Truly, she had told me, or as good as told me, that her maiden love had pledged itself a pawn for Jennifer's redeeming. But there be other things than love to sway a woman's will. This volunteer captain with the winning way was of the _haute noblesse_, and he could make her Lady Falconnet. Moreover, he was with her day by day; and you may mark this as you will; that a present suitor hath ever the trump cards to play against the absent lover. So, brooding over this, I wore out two most dismal days--the first in many I had had to pass alone. But on the morning of the third the sky was lightened, though then the light was but a flash and darkness followed quickly after. She came again and brought me a visitor; it was this same Father Matthieu with whom she had jestingly compared me, and lest I should take my punishment too lightly, stayed but to make the good priest known to me. Now I was born and bred an heretic, by any papist's reckoning, but I have ever held it witless in that man who lets a creed obstruct a friendship. Moreover, this sweet-faced cleric was the friendliest of men; friendly, and yet the wiliest Jesuit of them all, since he read me at a glance and fell straightway to praising Margery. "A truly sweet young demoiselle," he said, by way of foreword, no sooner was the door closed behind her, and while he preached a sermon on this text I grew to know and love him. He was a little man, as bone and muscle go, with deep-set eyes, and features kind and mild and fine as any woman's; some such face as Leonardo gave St. John, could that have been less youthful. I could not tell his order, though from his well-worn cassock girded at the waist with a frayed bit of hempen cord he might have been a Little Brother of the Poor. But this I noted; that he was not tonsured, and his white hair, soft and fine as Margery's, was like an aureole to the finely chiseled features. As missionary men of any creed are apt, he looked far older than he really was; and when he came to tell me of his life among the Indians, it was patent how the years had multiplied upon him. I listened, well enough content to learn him better by his own report. "But you must find it thankless work; this gospeling in the wilderness," I ventured, when all was said. "'Tis but a hermit's life for any man of parts; and after all, when you have done your utmost, your converts are but savages, as they were." At this he smiled and shook his head. _"Non, Monsieur_, not so. You are a soldier and can not see beyond your point of sword. _Mais, mon ami_, they have souls to save, these poor children of the forest, and they are far more sinned against than sinning. I find them kind and true and faithful; and some of them are noble, in their way." I laughed. "I've read about those noble ones," I said. "'Twas in a book called 'Hakluyt's Voyages.' Truly, I know them not as you do, for in my youth I knew them most in war. We called them brave but cruel then; and when I was a boy I could have shown you where, within a mile of this, they burned poor Davie Davidson at the stake." "Ah, yes; there has been much of that," he sighed. "But you must confess, Captain Ireton, that you English carry fire and sword among them, too." From that he would have told me more about the savages, but I was interested nearer home. As I have said, I was like any prisoner in a dungeon for lack of news, and so by degrees I fetched him round to telling me of what was going on beyond my window-sight of lawn and forest. Brave deeds were to the fore, it seemed. At Ramsour's Mill, a few miles north and west, some little handful of determined patriots had bested thrice their number of the king's partizans, and that without a leader bigger than a county colonel. Lord Rawdon, in command of Lord Cornwallis's van, had come as far as Waxhaw Creek, but, being unsupported, had withdrawn to Hanging Rock. Our Mr. Rutherford was on his way to the Forks of Yadkin to engage the Tories gathering under Colonel Bryan. As yet, it seemed, we had no force of any consequence to take the field against Cornwallis, though there were flying rumors of an army marching from Virginia, with a new-appointed general at its head. On the whole it was the king's cause that prospered, and the rising wave of invasion bade fair to inundate the land. So thought my kindly gossip; and, having naught to gain or lose in the great war, or rather having naught to lose and everything to gain, whichever way these worldly cards might run, he was a fair, impartial witness. As you may well suppose, this news awoke in me the lust of battle, and I must chafe the more for having it. And while my visitor talked on, and I was listening with the outward ear, my brain was busy putting two and two together. How came it that the British outpost still remained at Queensborough, with my Lord Rawdon withdrawn and the patriot home guard well down upon its rear? Some urgent reason for the stay there must be; and at that I remembered what Darius had told me of its captain's waiting for some messenger from the south. I scored this matter with a question mark, putting it aside to think on more when I should be alone. And when the priest had told me all the news at large, we came again to speak of Margery. "I go and come through all this borderland," he said, when I had asked him how and why he came to Appleby Hundred, "but it was mam'selle's message brought me here. She is my one ewe lamb in all this region, and I would journey far to see her." I wondered pointedly at this, for in that day the West was fiercely Protestant and the Mother Church had scanty footing in the borderland. "But Mistress Margery is not a Catholic!" said I. His look forgave the protest in the words. "Indeed, she is, my son. Has she not told you?" Now truly she had not told me so in any measured word or phrase; and yet I might have guessed it, since she had often spoken lovingly of this same Father Matthieu. And yet it was incredible to me. "But how--I do not understand how that can be," I stammered. "Surely, she told me she was of Huguenot blood on the mother's side, and that is--" The missionary's smile was lenient still, but full of meaning. "Not all who wander from the Catholic fold are lost forever, Captain Ireton. The mother of this demoiselle lived all her life a Protestant, I think, but when she came to die she sent for me. And that is how her child was sent to France and grew up convent-bred. Monsieur Stair gave his promise at the mother's death-bed, and though he liked it not, he kept it." "Aha, I see. And for this single lamb of your scant fold you brave the terrors of our heretic backwoods? It does you credit, Father Matthieu. The war fills all horizons now, mayhap, but I have seen the time in Mecklenburg when your cassock would have been a challenge to the mob." His smile was quite devoid of bitterness. "The time has not yet passed," he said, gently. "I have been six weeks on the way from Maryland hither, hiding in the forest by day and faring on at night. Indeed, I was in hiding on a neighboring plantation when our demoiselle's messenger found me." This put me keen upon remembering what had gone before; how he had said at first that she had sent for him. I thought it strange, knowing how perilous the time and place must be for such as he. But not until he rose and, bidding me good day, left me to myself, did I so much as guess the thing his coming meant. When I had guessed it; when I put this to that--her telling me Sir Francis had proposed for her, and this her sending for the priest--the madness of my love for her was as naught compared to that anger which seized and racked me. I know not how the hours of this black day were made to come and go, grinding me to dust and ashes in their passage, yet leaving me alive and keen to suffer at the end. A thousand times that day I lived in torment through the scene in which the priest had doubtless come to play his part of joiner. The stage for it would be the great room fronting south; the room my father used to call our castle hall. For guests I thought there would be space enough and some to spare, for, as you know, our Mecklenburg was patriot to the core. But as to this, the bridegroom's troopers might fill out the tale, and in my heated fancy I could see them grouped beneath the candle-sconces with belts and baldrics fresh pipe-clayed, and shakos doffed, and _sabretaches_ well in front. "A man full-grown--a soldier," she had said; and trooper-guests were fitting in such case. From serving in a Catholic land I knew the customs of the Mother Church. So I could see the priest in cassock, alb and stole as he would stand before some makeshift altar lit with candles. And as he stands they come to kneel before him; my winsome Margery in all her royal beauty, a child to love, and yet an empress peerless in her woman's realm; and at her side, with his knee touching hers, this man who was a devil! What wonder if I cursed and choked and cursed again when the maddening thought of what all this should mean for my poor wounded Richard--and later on, for Margery herself--possessed me? In which of these hot fever-gusts of rage the thought of interference came, I know not. But that it came at length--a thought and plan full-grown at birth--I do know. The pointing of the plan was desperate and simple. It was neither more nor less than this: I knew the house and every turn and passage in it, and when the hour should strike I said I should go down and skulk among the guests, and at the crucial moment find or seize a weapon and fling myself upon this bridegroom as he should kneel before the altar. With strength to bend him back and strike one blow, I saw not why it might not win. And as for strength, I have learned this in war: that so the rage be hot enough 'twill nerve a dying man to hack and hew and stab as with the strength of ten. Although it was most terribly over-long in coming, the end of that black day did come at last, and with it Darius to fetch my supper and the candles. You may be sure I questioned him, and, if you know the blacks, you'll smile and say I had my labor for my pains--the which I had. His place was at the quarters, and of what went on within the house he knew no more than I. But this he told me; that company surely was expected, and that some air of mystery was abroad. When he was gone I ate a soldier's portion, knowing of old how ill a thing it is to take an empty stomach into battle. For the same cause I drank a second cup of wine,--'twas old madeira of my father's laying-in,--and would have drunk a third but that the bottle would not yield it. It was fully dark when I had finished, and, thinking ever on my plan, would strive afresh to weld its weakest link. This was the hazard of the weapon-getting. With full-blood health and strength I might have gone bare-handed; but as it was, I feared to take the chance. So with a candle I went a-prowling in the deep drawers of the old oaken clothes-press and in the escritoire which once had been my mother's, and found no weapon bigger than a hairpin. It was no great disappointment, for I had looked before with daylight in the room. Besides, the wine was mounting, and when the search was done the hazard seemed the less. So I could rush upon him unawares and put my knee against his back, I thought the Lord of Battles would give me strength to break his neck across it. At that I capped the candles, and, taking post in the deep bay of the window, set myself to watch for the lighting of the great room at the front. This had two windows on my side, and while I could not see them, I knew that I should see the sheen of light upon the lawn. The night was clear but moonless, and the thick-leafed masses of the oaks and hickories rose a wall of black to curtain half the hemisphere of starry sky. As always in our forest land, the hour was shrilly vocal, though to me the chirping din of frogs and insects hath ever stood for silence. Somewhere beyond the thicket-wall an owl was calling mournfully, and I bethought me of that superstition--old as man, for aught I know--of how the hooting of an owl betokens death. And then I laughed, for surely death would come to one or more of those beneath my father's roof within the compass of the night. Behind the close-drawn curtain, though I could see it not, the virgin forest darkened all the land; and from afar within its secret depths I heard, or thought I heard, the dismal howling of the timber wolves. Below, the house was silent as the grave, and this seemed strange to me. For in the time of my youth a wedding was a joyous thing. Yet I would remember that these present times were perilous; and also that my bridegroom captained but a little band of troopers in a land but now become fiercely debatable. It must have been an hour or more before the sound of distance-muffled hoofbeats on the road broke in upon the chirping silence of the night. I looked and listened, straining eye and ear, hearing but little and seeing less until three shadowy horsemen issued from the curtain-wall of black beneath my window. It was plain that others watched as well as I, for at their coming a sheen of light burst from the opened door below, at which there were sword-clankings as of armed men dismounting, and then a few low-voiced words of welcome. Followed quickly the closing of the door and silence; and when my eyes grew once again accustomed to the gloom, I saw below the horses standing head to head, and in the midst a man to hold them. "So!" I thought; "but three in all, and one of them a servant. 'Twill be a scantly guested wedding." And then I raged within again to think of how my love should be thus dishonored in a corner when she should have the world to clap its hands and praise her beauty. At that, and while I looked, the lawn was banded farther on by two broad beams of light; and then I knew my time was come. Feeling my way across the darkened chamber I softly tried the door-latch. It yielded at the touch, but not the door. I pulled and braced myself and pulled again. 'Twas but a waste of strength. The door was fast with that contrivance wherewith my father used to bar me in what time I was a boy and would go raccooning with our negro hunters. My enemy was no fool. He had been shrewd enough to lock me in against the chance of interruption. I wish you might conceive the helpless horror grappling with me there behind that fastened door; but this, indeed, you may not, having felt it not. For one dazed moment I was sick as death with fear and frenzy and I know not what besides, and all the blackness of the night swam sudden red before my eyes. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the madness left me cool and sane, as if the fit had been the travail-pain of some new birth of soul. And after that, as I remember, I knew not rage nor haste nor weakness--knew no other thing save this; that I had set myself a task to do and I would do it. My window was in shape like half a cell of honeycomb, and close beside it on the outer wall there grew an ancient ivy-vine which more than once had held my weight when I was younger and would evade my father's vigilance. I swung the casement noiselessly and clambered out, with hand and foot in proper hold as if those youthful flittings of my boyhood days had been but yesternight. A breathless minute later I was down and afoot on solid ground; and then a thing chanced which I would had not. The man whom I had called a servant turned and saw me. "Halt! Who goes there?" he cried. "A friend," said I, between my wishings for a weapon. For this servant of my prefigurings proved to be a trooper, booted, spurred and armed. "By God, I think you lie," he said; and after that he said no more, for he was down among the horses' hoofs and I upon him, kneeling hard to scant his breath for shoutings. It grieves me now through all these years to think that I did kneel too hard upon this man. He was no enemy of mine, and did but do--or seek to do--his duty. But he would fight or die, and I must fight or die; and so it ended as such strivings will, with some grim crackling of ribs--and when I rose he rose not with me. With all the fierce excitement of the struggle yet upon me, I stayed to knot the bridle reins upon his arm to make it plain that he had fallen at his post. That done, I took his sword as surer for my purpose than a pistol; and hugging the deepest shadow of the wall, approached the nearer window. It was open wide, for the night was sultry warm, and from within there came the clink of glass and now a toast and now a trooper's oath. I drew myself by inches to the casement, which was high, finding some foothold in the wall; and when I looked within I saw no wedding guests, no priest, no altar; only this: a table in the midst with bottles on it, and round it five men lounging at their ease and drinking to the king. Of these five two, the baronet and the lawyer, were known to me, and I have made them known to you. A third I guessed for Gilbert Stair. The other two were strangers. VII IN WHICH MY LADY HATH NO PART Seeing that I had taken a man's life for this, the chance of looking in upon a drinking bout, you will not wonder that I went aghast and would have fled for very shame had not a sudden weakness seized me. But in the midst I heard a mention of my name and so had leave, I thought, to stay and listen. It was one of the late-comers who gave me this leave; a man well on in years, grizzled and weather-beaten; a seasoned soldier by his look and garb. Though his frayed shoulder-knot was only that of a captain of foot,'twas plain enough he ranked his comrade, and the knight as well. "You say you've bagged this Captain Ireton? Who may he be? Surely not old Roger's son?" "The same," said the baronet, shortly, and would be filling his glass again. He could always drink more and feel it less than any sot I ever knew. "But how the devil came he here? The last I knew of him--'twas some half-score years ago, though, come to think--he was a lieutenant in the Royal Scots." Mine enemy nodded. "So he was. But afterward he cut the service and levanted to the Continent." The questioner fell into a muse; then he laughed and clapped his leg. "Ecod! I do remember now. There was a damned good mess-room joke about him. When he was in the Blues they used to say his solemn face would stop a merry-making. Well, after he had been in Austria a while they told this on him; that his field-marshal had him listed for a majority, and so he was presented to the empress. But when Maria Theresa saw him she shrieked and cried out, '_Il est le père aux têtes rondes, lui-même! Le portez-vous dehors!_' So he got but a captaincy after all; ha! ha! ha!" Now this was but a mess-room gibe, as he had said, cut out of unmarred cloth, at that. Our Austrian Maria ever had a better word than "roundhead" for her soldiers. But yet it stung, and stung the more because I had and have the Ireton face, and that is unbeloved of women, and glum and curst and solemn even when the man behind it would be kindly. So when they laughed and chuckled at this jest, I lingered on and listened with the better grace. "What brought him over-seas, Sir Francis?" 'Twas not the grizzled jester who asked, but the younger officer, his comrade. Falconnet smiled as one who knows a thing and will not tell, and turned to Gilbert Stair. "What was it, think you, Mr. Stair?" he said, passing the question on. At this they all looked to the master of Appleby Hundred, and I looked, too. He was not the man I should have hit upon in any throng as the reaver of my father's estate; still less the man who might be Margery's father. He had the face of all the Stairs of Ballantrae without its simple Scottish ruggedness; a sort of weasel face it was, with pale-gray eyes that had a trick of shifty dodging, and deep-furrowed about the mouth and chin with lines that spoke of indecision. It was not of him that Margery got her firm round chin, or her steadfast eyes that knew not how to quail, nor aught of anything she owed a father save only her paternity, you'd say. And when he spoke the thin falsetto voice matched the weak chin to a hair. "I? Damme, Sir Francis, I know not why he came--how should I know?" he quavered. "Appleby Hundred is mine--mine, I tell you! His title was well hanged on a tree with his damned rebel father!" A laugh uproarious from the three soldiers greeted his petulant outburst; after which the baronet enlightened the others. "As you know, Captain John, Appleby Hundred once belonged to the rebel Roger Ireton, and Mr. Stair here holds but a confiscator's title. 'Tis likely the son heard of the war and thought he stood some chance to come into his own again." "Oh, aye; sure enough," quoth the elder officer, tilting his bottle afresh. And then: "Of course he promptly 'listed with the rebels when he came? Trust Roger Ireton's son for that." My baronet wagged his head assentingly to this; then clinched the lie in words. "Of course; we have his commission. He is on De Kalb's staff, 'detached for special duty.'" "A spy!" roared the jester. "And yet you haven't hanged him?" Sir Francis shrugged like any Frenchman. "All in good time, my dear Captain. There were reasons why I did not care to knot the rope myself. Besides, we had a little disagreement years agone across the water; 'twas about a woman--oh, she was no mistress of his, I do assure you!"--this to quench my jester's laugh incredulous. "He was keen upon me for satisfaction in this old quarrel, and I gave it him, thinking he'd hang the easier for a little blooding first." Here the factor-lawyer cut in anxiously. "But you will hang him, Sir Francis? You've promised that, you know." I did not hate my enemy the more because he turned a shoulder to this little bloodhound and quite ignored the interruption. "So we fought it out one morning in Mr. Stair's wood-field, and he had what he came for. Not to give him a chance to escape, we brought him here, and as soon as he is fit to ride I'll send him to the colonel. Tarleton will give him a short shrift, I promise you, and then"--this to the master of Appleby Hundred--"then your title will be well quieted, Mr. Stair." At this the weather-beaten captain roared again and smote the table till the bottles reeled. "I say, Sir Frank, that's good--damned good! So you have him crimped here in his own house, stuffing him like a penned capon before you wring his neck. Ah! ha! ha! But 'tis to be hoped you have his legs well tied. If he be any son of my old mad-bull Roger Ireton, you'll hardly hang him peacefully like a trussed fowl before the fire." The baronet smiled and said: "I'll be your warrant for his safety! We've had him well guarded from the first, and to-night he is behind a barred door with Mr. Stair's overseer standing sentry before it. But as for that, he's barely out of bed from my pin-prick." Having thus disposed of me, they let me be and came to the graver business of the moment, with a toast to lay the dust before it. It was Falconnet who gave the toast. "Here's to our bully redskins and their king--How do you call him, Captain Stuart? Ocon--Ocona--" "Oconostota is the Chelakee of it, though on the border they know him better as 'Old Hop.' Fill up, gentlemen, fill up; 'tis a dry business, this. Allow me, Mr. Stair; and you, Mr.--er--ah--Pengarden. This same old heathen is the king's friend now, but, gentlemen all, I do assure you he's the very devil himself in a copper-colored skin. 'Twas he who ambushed us in '60, and but for Attakullakulla--" "Oh, Lord!" groaned Falconnet. "I say, Captain, drown the names in the wine and we'll drink them so. 'Tis by far the easiest way to swallow them." By this, the grizzled captain's mention of the old Fort Loudon massacre, I knew him for that same John Stuart of the Highlanders who, with Captain Damaré, had so stoutly defended the frontier fort against the savages twenty years before; knew him and wondered I had not sooner placed him. When I was but a boy, as I could well remember, he had been king's man to the Cherokees; a sort of go-between in times of peace, and in the border wars a man the Indians feared. But now, as I was soon to learn, he was a man for us to fear. "'Tis carried through at last," he went on, when the toast was drunk. And then he stopped and held up a warning finger. "This business will not brook unfriendly ears. Are we safe to talk it here, Mr. Stair?" It was Falconnet who answered. "Safe as the clock. You passed my sentry in the road?" "Yes." "He is the padlock of a chain that reaches round the house. Let's have your news, Captain." "As I was saying, the Indians are at one with us. 'Twas all fair sailing in the council at Echota; the Chelakees being to a man fierce enough to dig the hatchet up. But I did have the devil's own teapot tempest with my Lord Charles. He says we have more friends than enemies in the border settlements, and these our redskins will tomahawk them all alike." I made a mental note of this and wondered if my Lord Cornwallis had met with some new change of heart. He was not over-squeamish as I had known him. Then I heard the baronet say: "But yet the thing is done?" "As good as done. The Indians are to have powder and lead of us, after which they make a sudden onfall on the over-mountain settlements. And that fetches us to your part in it, Sir Frank; and to yours, Mr. Stair. Your troop, Captain, will be the convoy for this powder; and you, Mr. Stair, are requisitioned to provide the commissary." There was silence while a cat might wink, and then Gilbert Stair broke in upon it shrilly. "I can not, Captain Stuart; that I can not!" he protested, starting from his chair. "'Twill ruin me outright! The place is stripped,--you know it well, Sir Francis,--stripped bare and clean by these thieving rebel militia-men; bare as the back of your hand, I tell you! I--" But the captain put him down in brief. "Enough, Mr. Stair; we'll not constrain you against your will. But 'tis hinted at headquarters that you are but a fair-weather royalist at best--nay, that for some years back you have been as rebel as the rest in this nesting-place of traitors. As a friend--mind you, as a friend--I would advise you to find the wherewithal to carry out my Lord's commands. Do you take me, Mr. Stair?" The trembling old man fell back in his chair, nodding his "yes" dumbly like a marionette when the string has been jerked a thought too violently, and his weasel face was moist and clammy. I know not what double-dealing he would have been at before this, but it was surely something with the promise of a rope at the publishing of it. So he and his factor fell to ciphering on a bit of paper, reckoning ways and means, as I took it, while Falconnet was asking for more particular orders. "You'll have them from headquarters direct," said Stuart. "Oconostota will furnish carriers, a Cherokee escort, and guides. The rendezvous will be hereabouts, and your route will be the Great Trace." "Then we are to hold on all and wait still longer?" "That's the word: wait for the Indians and your cargo." Falconnet's oath was of impatience. "We've waited now a month and more like men with halters round their necks. The country is alive with rebels." Whereupon Captain Stuart began to explain at large how the northern route had been chosen for its very hazards, the better to throw the partizans off the scent. I listened, eager for every word, but when the horses stirred behind me I was set back upon the oft-recurrent under-thought of how the gloom did also hide a silent figure lying prone, with the three bridle reins knotted round its wrist. But though the unnerving under-thought would not begone, the scene within the great room held me fast by eye and ear. The master and his factor sat apart, their heads together over the knotty problem of subsistence for the convoy troop. At the table-end, with the bottle gurgling now at one right hand and now at another, the three king's men drank confusion to the rebels, and in the intervals discussed the powder-convoy's route across the mountains. The senior plotter had some map or chart of his own making, and he was pricking out on it for Falconnet the route agreed upon in council with the Cherokees. At this cool outlaying of the working plan, some proper sense of what this plot of savage-arming meant to every undefended cabin on the frontier seized and thrilled me. I knew, as every border-born among us knew, the dismal horrors of an Indian massacre; and this these men were planning was treacherous murder on an unwarned people. All was to be done in midnight secrecy. Supplied with ammunition, the Cherokees, led by this Captain Stuart or some other, were first to fall upon the over-mountain settlements. These laid waste, the Indians were to form a junction with the army of invasion, and so to add the torch and tomahawk and scalping knife to British swords and muskets. It was a plot to make the blood run cold in my veins, or in the veins of any man who knew the cruel temper of these savages; and when I thought upon the fate of my poor countrymen beyond the mountains, I saw what lay before me. The settlers must be warned in time to fight or fly. But while I listened, with every faculty alert to reckon with the task of rescue, I take no shame in saying that the problem balked me. Lacking the strength to mount and ride in my own proper person, there was nothing for it but to find a messenger; and who would he be in a region at the moment distraught with war's alarums, and needing every man for self-defense? At that, I thought of Jennifer. True, he was wounded, too; but he would know how best to pass the word to those in peril. I made full sure he'd find a way if I could reach him; and when I had it simmered down to this, the problem simplified itself. I must have speech with Dick before the night was out, though I should have to crawl on hands and knees the half-score miles to Jennifer House. Having decided, I was keen to be about it while the night should last--the friendly darkness, and some fine flush of excitement which again had come at need to take the place of healthful vigor. But when I would have quit the window to begone upon my errand a sober second thought delayed me. If my simple counterplot should fail, some knowledge of the powder-convoy's route would be of prime importance. Lacking the time to warn the over-mountain men, the next best thing would be to set some band of patriot troopers upon the trail and so to overtake the convoy. Nay, on this second thought's rehearsing the last expedient seemed the better of the two, since thus the plot would come to naught and we would be the gainers by the capture of the powder. So now you know why I should stick and hang by toe and finger-tip and glare across the little space that gaped between my itching fingers and the bit of parchment passed from hand to hand around the table's end. If I could make a shift to rob them of this map-- It was a desperate chance, but in the frenzy of the moment I resolved to take it. Their placings round the table favored me. Gilbert Stair and the lawyer sat fair across from me, but they were still intent upon their figurings. Of the trio at the table's end, the baronet and the captain had their backs to me. The younger officer sat across, and he was staring broadly at my window, though with wine-fogged eyes that saw not far beyond the bottle-neck, I thought. My one hope hinged upon the boldness of a dash. If I could spring within and sweep the two candlesticks from the table, there was a chance that I might snatch the parchment in the darkness and confusion and escape as I had come. So I began by inches to draw me up and feel for some better launching hold. But in the midst, for all my care and caution, I slipped and lost my grip upon the casement; lost that and got another on the wooden shutter opened back against the outer wall, and then went down, pulling the shutter from its rusted hinges in crashing clamor fit to rouse the dead. As if they were quick echoes, other crashings followed as of chairs flung back; and then the window just above me filled with crowding figures. I marvel that I had the wit to lie quiet as I had fallen, but I had; and those above, looking from a lighted room into the belly of the night, saw nothing. Then Captain Stuart shouted to his dragoon horse-holder. "Ho! Tom Garget; this way, man!" he cried; and when he had no answer, put a leg across the window seat to clamber out. 'Twas in the very act, while I was watching catlike every movement, that I saw the precious scrap of parchment in his hand. Here was the chance I had prayed for. Tom Garget's sword had clattered down beside me, and with it I sprang afoot and cut a whizzing circle by my doughty captain's ear that made him cringe and gasp and all but tumble out upon me. The bit of parchment fluttered down and in a trice I had it safe. You may think small of me, if so you must, my dears, when I confess what followed after. No man is braver than his opportunity, and I had little stomach for a fight with three unwounded men. Hence it was narrowed now to a bold sortie for the horses, and this I made while yet the captain hung in air and sought his foothold. With all my breathless haste it was not done too soon, nor soon enough. When I had quickly freed a horse from the dead hand that held it tethered, and was making shift to climb into the saddle, they thronged upon me; the captain from his window, the others pouring hotly through the gaping doorway. I made shift to get astride the horse, to prick the poor beast with the point of sword, and so to break away in some brief dash beneath the oaks. But it was a chase soon ended. As I remember, I was reeling in the saddle what time the foremost of them overtook me. I held on grimly till the horse pursuing lapped the one I rode by head, by neck and presently by withers. Then I turned and would be making frantic-feeble passes with the sword at the man upon his back. It was my plotting captain who rode me thus to earth; and when I thrust he laughed and swore, and turned the blade aside with his bare hand. Then, pressing closer, he struck me with his fist, and thereupon the night and all its happenings went blank as if the blow had been a cannon shot to crush my skull. VIII IN WHICH I TASTE THE QUALITY OF MERCY Two ways there be to fetch a stunned man to his senses, as they will tell you who have seen the rack applied: one is to slack the tension on the cracking joints and minister cordials to the victim; the other to give the straining winch a crueller twist. It was not the gentler way my captors took, as you would guess; and when I came to know and see and feel again a pair of them were kicking me alive, and I was sore and aching from their buffetings. How long a time came in between my futile dash for liberty and this harsh preface to their dragging of me back to the manor house, I could not tell. It must have been an hour or more, for now a gibbous moon hung pale above the tree-tops, and all around were bivouac fires and horses tethered to show that in the interval a troop had come and camped. The scene within the great fore-room of the house had been shifted, too. A sentry was pacing back and forth before the door--a Hessian grenadier by the size and shako of him; and when the two trooper bailiffs thrust me in, and I had winked and blinked my eyes accustomed to the candle-light, I saw the table had been swept of its bottles and glasses, and around it, sitting as in council, were some half-score officers of the British light-horse with their colonel at the head. As it chanced, this was my first sight near at hand of that British commander whose name in after years the patriot mothers spoke to fright their children. He did not look a monster. As I recall him now, he was a short, square-bodied man, younger by some years than myself, and yet with an old campaigner's head well set upon aggressive shoulders. His eyes were black and ferrety; and his face, well seasoned by the Carolina sun, was swart as any Arab's. A man, I thought, who could be gentle-harsh or harsh-revengeful, as the mood should prompt; who could make well-turned courtier compliments to a lady and damn a trooper in the self-same breath. This was that Colonel Banastre Tarleton who gave no quarter to surrendered men; and when I looked into the sloe-black eyes I saw in them for me a waiting gibbet. "So!" he rapped out, when I was haled before him. "You're the spying rebel captain, eh? Are you alive enough to hang?" His lack of courtesy rasped so sorely that I must needs give place to wrath and answer sharply that there was small doubt of it, since I could stand and curse him. He scowled at that and cursed me back again as heartily as any fishwife. Then suddenly he changed his tune. "They tell me you were in the service once and left it honorably. I am loath to hang a man who has worn the colors. Would it please you best to die a soldier's death, Captain Ireton?" I said it would, most surely. He said I should have the boon if I would tell him what an officer on the Baron de Kalb's staff should know: the strength of the Continentals, the general's designs and dispositions, and I know not what besides. I think it was my laugh that made him stop short and damn me roundly in the midst. "By God, I'll make you laugh another tune!" he swore. "You rebels are all of a piece, and clemency is wasted on you!" "Your mercy comes too dear; you set too high a price upon it, Colonel Tarleton. If, for the mere swapping of a rope for a bullet, I could be the poor caitiff your offer implies, hanging would be too good for me." "If that is your last word--But stay; I'll give you an hour to think it over." "It needs not an hour nor a minute," I replied. "If I knew aught about the Continental army--which I do not--I'd see you hanged in your own stirrup-leather before I'd tell you, Colonel Tarleton. Moreover, I marvel greatly--" "At what?" he cut in rudely. "At your informant's lack of invention. He might have brought me straight from General Washington's headquarters while he was about it. 'Twould be no greater lie than that he told you." He heard me through, then fell to cursing me afresh, and would be sending an aide-de-camp hot-foot for Falconnet. While the messenger was going and coming there was a chance for me to look around like a poor trapped animal in a pitfall, loath to die without a struggle, yet seeing not how any less inglorious end should offer. The eye-search went for little of encouragement; there was no chance either to fight or fly. But apart from this, the probing of the shadows revealed a thing that set me suddenly in a fever, first of rage, and then of apprehension. As I have said, this gathering-room of our old house was in size like an ancient banquet hall. It had a gable to itself in breadth and height, and at the farther end there was a flight of some few steps to reach the older portion of the house beyond. The upper end of this low stair pierced the thick wall of the older house, and in the shadows of the niche thus formed I saw my lady Margery. She was standing as one who looks and listens; and my rage-fit blazed out upon the descrying of a shadowy figure of a man behind her; a man I guessed in jealous wrath to be the baronet--a reasonless suspicion, since the volunteer captain would certainly have made his presence known when his colonel had called for him. But while my heart was yet afire my lady moved aside as if to have a better sight of us below; and then I saw it was the priest behind her. While I was watching her, and we were waiting yet upon the aide-de-camp's return, there was a stir without, and when it reached the door the sentry challenged. Some confab followed, and I overheard enough to tell me that a scouting party had come in, bringing a prisoner. The colonel bade me stand aside, and passed the word to fetch the prisoner before him. When the thing was done I set my teeth upon a groan. For it was Richard Jennifer. Luckily, he did not single me out among the bystanders, being fresh come from the night without to the glare of candle-light within; and while the swart-faced colonel plied him with questions I had a chance to look him up and down. Though his arm was still in its sling, he was seemingly the better of his wound. There was a glow of health and strength returning in cheek and eye, and I thought him handsomer than ever what time he stood forth boldly and fronted down the bullying colonel. Knowing the Jennifer stock and its fine scorn of subterfuge, I feared it would go hard with Richard; and so, indeed, it had gone, lacking a word in season from an enemy. When Tarleton would have made him choose between the taking of the king's oath and captivity in the hulks at Charleston, a burly Hessian captain at the table spoke the word in season. "_Verdammt!_ mine Colonel; I vill know dis Mr. Yennifer. He is a prave yoong schalavags, and he is not gone out mit der rebels. Give him to me for mine plunders." The colonel laughed and showed his teeth. Having one man to hang he could afford to be lenient with another. "What will you do with him, Captain Lauswoulter? By the look of him he'd make but indifferent sausage-meat." "Vat shall I do mit him? I shall make him mine best bows and send him home, py Gott! Ve did had some liddle troubles mit der cards, and ven mine foot was slipped on dis _verdammt_ grease-grass, he did not run me t'rough so like he might." "Oh; an affair of honor? Well, we'll count that in his favor. Take him away, Trelawny, and quarter yourself and twenty men upon him at Jennifer House. You have your parole, Mr. Jennifer; but by the Lord, if you break it by so much as a wink or a nod, Trelawny will hang you to your own ridge-pole." Given a hearing, Jennifer would have spoiled it all by swearing hotly he had given no parole, but at the word the colonel roared him down like a bull of Bashan, and in the hubbub my brave lad was hustled out. Though I was full to bursting with my news there was nothing I could do; and when it was fairly over and he was gone, I was right glad he had not seen me. For I knew well his steel-true loyalty, and that at sight of me in trouble he would have lost his slender chance of guarded liberty, and with it my last hope of sending word across the mountains; though, as for that, the hope was well-nigh dead at any rate. While Jennifer's guard and quota were mounting at the door the aide-de-camp returned, and that without the baronet. I caught but here and there a word of his report; enough to gather that the captain-knight was not yet in from posting out the sentries. I made no doubt his absence was designed. He would have Margery believe that he had spared me honorably as an enemy wounded, and so had left me to the tender mercies of his colonel, well assured that Tarleton would not spare me. And this the colonel did not mean to do, as I was now to hear in brief. "You put a bold front on, Captain Ireton, but 'tis to no purpose, this time," he began. "'Tis charged against you that you rode here from the baron's camp with your commission in your pocket, and came and went within our lines like any other spy. You are a soldier, sir, and you know that's hanging. Yet I will hear you if you've anything to say." I made so sure that I should hang in any case that it seemed foolish to answer, and so I saved my breath. Withal he was the terror of our Southland, this tyrant colonel gave me time to consider; and while he waited, grim and silent, the candles on the table guttered and ran down, and the dim light failed till I could no longer see the face of her I loved framed in the archway of the stair. I thought it hard that I had seen my last of her sweet face thus through thickening shadows, as a dream might fade. Nevertheless, I would be glad that I had seen her thus, since otherwise, I thought, I must have gone without this last or any other sight of her. It was while I was still straining my eyes for one more glimpse of her, and while the court room silence deepened dense upon us like the shadows, that Colonel Tarleton signed to those who guarded me. A hand was laid upon my shoulder, but when I would have turned to go with them a woman's cry cut sharp into the stillness. Then, before any one could say a word or think a thought, my dauntless little lady stood beside me, her eyes alight and all her glorious beauty heightened in a blaze of generous emotion. "For shame! Colonel Tarleton," she cried. "Do you come thus into my father's house and take a wounded guest and hang him? You say he is a spy, but that he can not be, for he has lain abed in this same house a month or more. You shall not hang him!" At this there was a mighty stir about the table, as you may guess; and some would smile, and some would snuff the candles for a better sight of her sweet face. And through it all, the while my heart went near to bursting at this fresh proof of her most fearless loyalty, I ground my teeth in wrath that all those men should look their fill and say by wink and nod and covert smile that this were somewhat more than hostess loyalty. But it was the colonel's mocking smile that lashed me sharpest; his smile and what he said; and yet not that so much as what he left to be inferred. "Ha! How is this, Mistress Margery? Do you keep open house for the king's enemies? That spells treason, my dear young lady, and hath an ugly look for you, besides." "It should have no look at all, save that of hospitality, sir," she countered, bravely. "Surely I may plead for justice to a wounded man who was, and is, my father's guest?" "And yet he is a spy, and spies must hang." "He is no spy." The colonel's bow made but a mock of true politeness. "You should not make me contradict a lady, Mistress Margery. 'Tis evident you have not all his confidence. He was captured red-handed in the act at yonder window, listening to that which he may never know and live to prate about. Besides, he killed a sentry for his chance to listen, and for that I'd hang him if he were my own father's guest." So much he said as mild as if he had not left his reading of the law to figure in our annals as King George's butcher. Then in a sudden gust of rage he turned upon the priest, cursing him brutally and threatening vengeance for his bringing of the lady to the court room. My brave one stood a moment, shocked as she had warrant for. Then, before the priest or I or any one could stop her, she ran to throw herself upon her knees at Colonel Tarleton's feet--to kneel and plead for me as I would gladly have died a thousand deaths rather than have her plead; for life for me, or if not that, at least for some brief respite that the priest might shrive me. And in the end she won the respite, though I did think it far too dearly bought. When he granted it the colonel lifted her and took her hand, bowing low over it with courtly deference. "For your sake, Mistress Margery, it shall be put off till morning," he said; then gave the order: At dawn they would march me out and hang me, and I would best be ready. For later than the sunrise of a new day the king himself might not delay my taking off. "You know too much, my cursing Captain," was his parting word. "Were it not for Mistress Margery and my promise, you should not keep the breath to tell it over night." IX HOW A GOLDEN KEY UNLOCKED A DOOR Having my dismissal and reprieve I was remanded to the custody of that young Lieutenant Tybee whom you have met and known as Falconnet's second in the duel. Interpreting his orders liberally, he suffered me to keep my own room for the night. I had expected manacles and a roommate guard at the least, but my gentlemanly jailer spared me both. When he had me safe above-stairs, he barred the door upon me, set a sentry pacing back and forth in the corridor without, and another to keep an eye upon the window from below, and so left me. There was no great need for either sentry, or for bolts and bars. What with the night's adventures and my scarce-healed wound, I was far sped on that road which ends against the blind wall of exhaustion, as you may well suppose. For while a man may borrow strength of wine or rage or passion, these lenders are but pitiless usurers and will demand their pound of flesh; aye, and have it, too, when all the principal is spent. So, when Tybee barred the door and left me with a single candle to my lighting, I was fain to fall upon the bed in utter weariness, thinking that the respite bought by my sweet lady's humbling was more dearly bought than ever, and that the truest mercy would have been the rope and tree without this interval of waiting. To me in this grim Doubting Castle of despair the priest came. He was a good man and a true, this low-voiced missioner to the savages, and he would be a curster man than I who failed to give him his due meed of praise and love. For in this dismal interval of waiting, with death so sure and near that all the air was growing chill and lifeless at its presence, he was a ready help in time of need. If I were "heretic" to him, I swear I knew it not for aught he said or did; and though I trusted that when my time was come I should stand forth with some small simple-hearted show of courage, yet when he went away I felt I was the stronger for his coming. And this, mark you, though I was still unshriven, and he had never named the churchly rite to me. When he was gone I fell to wearing out the time afoot; and, lest you think me harder than I was, it may be said that while I did not make confession to the kindly priest, I hope I tried to make my peace with God in some such simpler fashion as our forebears did. 'Twas none so great a matter, for one who lives a soldier's life must needs be ripe for plucking hastily. But in the final casting of accounts there was an item written down in red, and one in black, and these would not be scored across for all the travail of a soul departing. The one in black was bitter sorrow for the fate from which I might not live to save my loved one; the one in red was this; that I should die and carry hence the knowledge that might else nip the Indian onfall in the bud. No sooner was the priest away than I began to upbraid myself because I had not told him of this British-Indian murder plan. And yet on second thought 'twas clear that it had been but a poor shifting of the burden to weaker shoulders; and thankless, too, for Tarleton would be sure to put him on the question-rack to make him tell of all that passed between us. As I had let him go, he would have naught to tell, and so was safe, where otherwise he might be hanged or buried in the hulks for knowing what I knew. No, it were best he knew it not; but how was I to rid me of this burden?--of this and of that other laid upon me for my love? The question asked itself a many a time, and was as often answerless, before there came a stir without and voices in the corridor. It was the changing of the guard, I guessed, and so it proved, since presently I heard the clanking of the officer's sword, and double footfalls minishing into silence. The sentry newly come paced back and forth to a low-hummed quick-step of his own, bestirring himself as one who, roused but now from sleep, would wake himself and be alert. He made more noise than did the other, and that is why I marked it when the footfalls ceased abruptly. A moment afterward the bar was lifted cautiously from its socket, the latch clicked gently, and the door swung open. I looked, and must needs look again to make assurance sure. For on the threshold stood my lady Margery, and just behind her some broad figure of a woman whom I knew for her stout Norman tiring-maid. She gave me little time for any word of welcome or of deprecation. While still I stood amazed she dragged the woman in with her and closed the door. At that I found my tongue. "Margery! Why have you come?" I spoke in French, and she was quick to lay a finger on her lip. "Speak to me in English, if you please," she whispered. "Jeanne knows nothing, and she need not know. But you ask why I come: could I do less than come, dear friend?" I had always marveled that she could be so mocking hard at times, and at other times--as now--so soft and gentle. And though I thought it cruel that I should have to fight my battle for the losing of her over again, I had not the heart to chide her. "You could have done much less, dear lady," I said, taking her hands in mine; "much less, and still be blameless. You have done too much for me already. I would you had not done so much, I would to God I had been hanged before you went upon your knees to that--" She freed one hand and laid a finger on my lip--nay, it was her palm, and if I took a dying man's fair leave and kissed it softly, I think she knew it not. "Hush!" she commanded. "Is this a time to harbor bitter thoughts? I thought you might have other things to say to me, Monsieur John." "There is no other thing that I may say." "Not anything at all?" "Naught but a parting hope for you. I hope you will be true and loyal to yourself, Margery _mia_." "To myself? I do not understand." "I think you do--I think you must." "But I do not." I turned it over more than once in my mind if I should tell her all I had feared; should tell her how I came to kill a man and was fair set to kill another had I found a wedding afoot in the great fore-room. I could not bring myself to do it, and yet I thought it would go hard with me if I should leave her still unwarned. "If I should try to make you understand, you will be angry, as you were before." The wicker chair was close beside the table and she sat down. And when she spoke she had her hands tight-clasped across her knee and would not look at me. "Is it--about--Sir Francis?" "It is," said I, pausing once more upon the brink of full confession. She waited patiently for me to speak further; waited and let me fight it out in slow pacings up and down before her chair. Without, the night was calm and still, and through the opened casement came the measured beat of footfalls on the gravel where the outer sentry kept his watch beneath the window. Within, the single candle battled feebly with the gloom and lighted naught for me save my dear lady's face, pensive now and saintly sweet as it had been that morning when I had dwelt upon it the while she knew it not. And in the background stood the sleepy tire-woman, giving no sign of life save now and then a tortured yawn behind her hand. I think my lady must have known how hard it was for me to speak, for, when the silence had grown overlong, she said, gently: "I bought these flying minutes of the sentry, Monsieur John. Will you not use them?" "If I should say the thing I ought to say, you'll think the minutes dearly bought, I fear." "No, that I shall not, if it will ease your mind." "Then tell me why you sent for Father Matthieu." The light was dim, as I have said, yet I could see the faint flush spread from neck to cheek. "You are not of the Church, Monsieur John. You would not understand if I should tell you." "I think I understand without your telling. You said Sir Francis Falconnet had asked for you." "'Twas you who drove me to say it." "Because I tried to warn you?" "Because you would be vengeful when you should have been forgiving." "'Twas not revenge, just then, though while I live I shall have ample cause to hate this man." "What was it, then?" "It was love; love for you, and--and Richard Jennifer." She rose, and I could see her eyes ashine for all the half-gloom of the candle-light. "You are a loyal friend!" she said, and there was that within the words to make me glad, whatever fate the dawn should have in store for me. "You always think of others first; you think of others now, when--when death--Oh, Monsieur John! what can I do for you? Say quick! The man is coming to the door!" "Now I have told you this, there is but one other thing, Margery dear; one little thing that will not let me die in peace. If I might have ten words with Richard Jennifer--" She left me in a fever-flutter of excitement, whipped to the door, and had a word with him who stood without. I heard the chink of coin, and then she hastened back to me, all eagerness and tremulous impatience. "Tell me--tell me instantly what I must do. I am not afraid. Shall I ride down to Jennifer House and fetch Dick here?" "He is a prisoner, and if he were not, they would not let him see me. Besides, I would not let you go on such an errand. And yet--God help me, Margery! there is many an innocent life hanging on this; the lives of helpless women and little children. Have you ever a messenger to send, a man who will risk his life and can be trusted fully?" "Yes, yes!" she cried. "Write it down for me and Dick shall have it. Quick; for Our Lady's sake, be quick about it! _O Sancta Maria, mater. Dei_--" The low impassioned chant of the Roman litany was ringing in my ears as I sat down to the table to write my message to Richard Jennifer. There were quills and an ink-pot at hand, but no paper. I felt mechanically in my pocket and found, not some old letter, as I hoped, but the crumpled parchment map snatched and hidden when Captain Stuart had winced and dropped it at the bidding of the whistling sword about his ears. How it was they had not searched me for it, I know not; though haply the captain did not guess how he had lost it. Be that as it might, I had it safe, and Dick should have it safe, and use it, too, to some good purpose, as I fondly hoped. You'd hardly think from the slow and clumsy spinning of this tale that I could crowd the narrative of all that I had seen and heard into a niggard three-score words or less. But this I did, writing them upon the margin of the captain's map, and noting in an added line the pricking out of the powder convoy's route. And while my pen was looping on the flourish to my name, my eager little lady seized the pounce-box, sanded me the heavy trailings of the quill, snatched and hid the parchment in her bosom, and was gone. And but for this; that I heard the door-latch click behind her, and then the heavy wooden bar fall into place, I might have thought the happenings of the hour the unsubstantial fancies of a dream. X HOW A FORLORN HOPE CAME TO GRIEF Although I could not hope to know the outcome of this desperate cast to speed the warning to the over-mountain settlements--could never live to know it, as I thought--I screened the candle and stood beside the open window, not to see or hear, but rather from the lack of sight or sound to gather some encouragement. For sure, I reasoned, if Margery's messenger should fail to pass the sentries there would be clamor enough to tell me of it. So while the minutes of this safety-silence multiplied and there was space for sober after-thought, I fell to casting up the chances of success. Now that Margery was gone, and with her all the fine enthusiasm that such devoted souls as hers do always radiate, it was plain enough that nothing less than a miracle could bring success. Tarleton's Legion was made up of veterans schooled well in border warfare, and though the bivouac seemed but a camp of motionless figures fast manacled in sleep--I could see them strewn like dead men round the smoldering fires--I made no doubt the sentries were alert and wakeful. How then was any messenger of Margery's to pass the lines, or, passing them, to come at Jennifer, who by this time would be at Jennifer House, a prisoner in all but name? Chewing such wormwood thoughts as these, I watched and listened while the measured minutes, circling slow on leaden wings, pecked at my heart in passing, and despair, cold like a winter fog, had chilled me to the bone. For now it came to me that while I would be saving life, mayhap I had been periling it again. There was small doubt that if the messenger were taken with my letter, his life would pay the forfeit. And if the fear of death should make him tell who sent him and to whom he was sent,--I had been careful so to word the letter as to shield my correspondent,--both Margery and Dick would be involved. 'Tis worthy of remark how, building on the simplest supposition, we seldom prophesy aright. For all my fine-spun theories the manner of the thing that happened was all unlike the forecast. Suddenly, and in silence, out of the ghostly shadows of the trees and into the wan moonlight of the open space beneath my window, with neither shout nor crash of sentry-gun to give me warning, came three figures riding abreast--a man in trooper trappings on either hand, and on the led horse sandwiched in between, a woman. You may believe my heart went cold at the sight. I knew at once what she had done--this fearless maid who would be loyal to her friend at any cost. Having no messenger she could trust--she knew it well when she had promised me--she had taken the errand upon herself, braving a hazard that would have daunted many a man. I thought the worst had surely now befallen, and wished a hundred times that I had died before it came to this. But there was worse in store. Her captors passed the word while yet I looked and choked with rage and grief; and then the bivouac buzzed alive, and men came running, some with arms and some with torches, these last to flash the light upon her and to jeer and laugh. At length--it seemed an age to me--an officer appeared to flog the rabble into order; then she was taken from her horse and led into the house. Anon the windows of the great fore-room flung bands of yellow torchlight out upon the lawn, and I knew that Tarleton's court was set again. At that the pains of hell gat hold upon me and I did pray as I had never prayed before that God would grant me this one boon--to stand beside her in this time of trial; to give me tongue of eloquence to tell them all that she was innocent; to give me breath to swear she knew not why she went, or what the message was she carried. Yours is a skeptic age, my dears, and you have learned to scoff at things you do not understand. But, so long as I shall live, I must believe that agonizing plea was answered. While yet the anguish of it wrung my soul there came a hasty trampling in the corridor, the sentry's challenge, and then a quick unbarring of the door. I turned upon my heel to face a young ensign come with two men at his back to take me to the colonel. They bound me well and strongly with many wrappings of stout cord before they led me down. Nor must you think me broken-spirited because I let them. In any other cause but this I hope I should have fought to die unmanacled; but now I suffered gladly this little, seeing I had made my dear lady suffer so greatly. When we were come into the room below they let me stand beside her, as I had prayed God they might; and when I stole a glance at her I was fain to think my coming gave her courage and support. For you must know the place was fair alive with men, and flaring light with torches; and they had never offered her a chair. The colonel stood apart, the center of a group of officers, and Falconnet was with him. Hovering on the edges of the group, as if afraid to show themselves too boldly in such a coil, were Gilbert Stair and that smooth parchment-visaged knave, his factor. The while they thrust me forth to take my place at Margery's side, the good old priest came and would have joined us; but they would not suffer him. [Illustration] So we two stood alone together as we had stood before; but now my lady's eyes were downcast, and her lips and cheeks were pale. Yet she was more beautiful than I had ever seen her--so beautiful that I would swear the sum of all the precious gifts in God's great universe might be expressed for me in this; that I might die to save her from this shame and agony. When my guards had thrust me forward, the colonel made short work of our fresh offense. "'Twas a dastard's trick, my Captain--this tangling of the lady in your treason," he began. "How did you get your speech with her?" "That is none of your affair, Colonel Tarleton," I retorted boldly, thinking that with such a man the shortest word were ever the best. "Yet I may say that the lady knew not what she did, nor why. As for my getting speech with her, she was not any way to blame. I tampered with your sentry." "By God, you lie!" was his comment on this. "She might have tampered with the guard and so got leave to keep a midnight tryst with you, but not you." And then to my poor frighted love: "Have you no shame, Mistress Margery Stair?" Now I have said that she was changeful as any child or April sky, but never had I seen her pass from mood to mood as she did then. One moment she stood a woman tremulous and tearful as any woman caught in desperate deed; the next she became a goddess vilified, and if her look had been a dagger I think her flashing eyes had killed him where he stood. "You've found a way to make me speak, sir, and I wish you joy of it. 'Twas I who bribed your sentry, and I did go to Captain Ireton's room." The colonel laughed and shot a gibe sharp at my enemy. "How is this, Sir Francis. Did I not tell you you had thrust an inch or so too high? By God, sir, I think you will come over-late, if ever you do come at all. This captain-emeritus hath forestalled you beautifully." As more than once before in this eventful night, the air went flaming red before my eyes and helpless wrath came uppermost. I saw no way to clear her, and had there been the plainest way, dumb rage would still have held me tongue-tied. So I could only mop and mow and stammer, and, when the words were found, make shift to blunder out that such an accusation did the lady grievous wrong; that she had come attended and at my beseeching, to take a message from a dying man to one who was his friend. For my pains I had a brutal laugh in payment; a laugh that, starting with the colonel, went the rounds in jeering grins of incredulity. And on the heels of it the colonel swore afresh, cursing me for a clumsy liar. "A likely story, that!" he scoffed. "Next you will say she knew not what this message was." "I said it once. She knew not what the message was, nor why I sent it." I felt her eyes upon me as I spoke, and turned to find them full of tearful pleading. "Oh, tell the truth!" she whispered. "Don't you see? He has the letter!" I looked, and sure enough he held it in his hand; and then I understood the flash of irony in the sloe-black eyes of him. "You lie clumsily, Captain Ireton, though it is a gentlemanly lie and does you honor. But we have trapped you fairly and you may as well make a clean breast of it. Your mistress knew very well what you would have her do, and since she is your mistress, went to do it." While he was speaking I had a thought white-hot from some forge-fire of inspiration--a thought to tip an arrow of conviction and set it quivering in the mark. I would not stop to measure it; to look aside at her or any other lest one brief glance apart should send the arrow wavering from its course. So I looked the colonel boldly in the eye and drew the bow and sped the shaft. "You think no other than a mistress would have done this, Colonel Tarleton--that it was done for love? Well, so it was; but with the love there went a duty." "A duty, say you? How is that?" I bowed as best I might, being so tightly bound; then fixed his eye again. "You had forgot that honor is not wholly dead, sir. This lady is my wife." XI HOW A LIE WAS MADE THE VERY TRUTH For some small instant I dared not loose my eye-grip on the colonel, to glance aside at Falconnet, or Gilbert Stair, or at the woman close beside me. If I had flinched or wavered, or let an eyelid droop but by the thickness of a hair, this keen-eyed colonel would have been upon me to cut the ground beneath my feet and leave me dangling by the lie. But as it was, I faced him down; and winning him, won all. There was a muttered oath from Falconnet, a tremulous cry of rage from where her father stood; and then I sought my lady's eyes to read my sentence in them. She gave me but a glance, and though I tried as I had never tried before to read her meaning it was hid from me. But this I marked; that she did draw aside from me, and that her face was cold and still, and that her lips were pressed together as if not all nor any should ever make her speak again. At this sharp crisis, when a look or word would cost me more than death and my dear lady her honor, it was the colonel who, all unwittingly, stood my friend. A breath of doubt upon my lie and we were lost; and once I thought he would have breathed it. But he did not. Instead, he broke out in a laugh, with a gibe flung first at Gilbert Stair and then at Falconnet. "God save us! I give you joy, Mr. Stair, and you, Sir Francis. These two have duped you bravely. By heavens! Sir Frank; 'twas you who should have had the sword thrust in the duel. In that event you might have stood in Captain Ireton's shoes, and so had the priest fetched for your benefit." Then he turned to Margery with a bow that had no touch of mockery in it. "I crave your pardon, Madam; I knew not you were pleading for your husband's life an hour ago. It grieves me that I may not spare him to you longer than the night, but war is cruel at its best." She stood like any statue done in cold Carrara while he spoke; and when she made no sign he gave the word to recommit me. "Take him away, Lieutenant Tybee, and see he has a bribe-proof man this time to keep him company. Madam Ireton, I'll put you on your honor: you may have access to him, but there must be no messages carried in or out. To your quarters, gentlemen. We must ride far and hard to-morrow." When his final word had set her free, my frozen maiden came to life and ran to throw herself in helpless sobbings, not upon her father, as you would think, but upon the good priest. And it was Father Matthieu who led her, still crying softly, out of the throng and up the low stair; and now I marked that all the rough soldiery stood aside and made way for her with never a man among them to scoff or sneer or point a gibe. At her going, Tybee drew his sword and cut the cord that bound me. "These youngling cubs are over-cautious, Captain Ireton. We shall not make it harder for each other than we must," he said, with bluff good nature. And then: "Will you lead the way to your room, sir?"--this to give the youngling cub another lesson, I suppose. I walked beside him to the stair, and when I stumbled, being weak and spent, he took my arm and steadied me, and I did think it kindly done. At my own door he gave me precedence again, saying, with a touch of the grateful Old World courtesy, "After you, sir," and standing aside to let me enter first. When we were both within he touched upon the colonel's mandate. "I must obey my orders, Captain Ireton, but by your good leave I shall not lock you up with any trooper; I'll stay with you myself." I thought this still more kindly than aught he had done before, and so I told him. But he put it off lightly. "'Tis little enough any one can do for you, my friend, but I will do that little as I can. You are like to have a visitor, I take it; if you have, I'm sure 'twill be a comfort if your body-guard can be stone blind and deaf." So saying, he dragged the big wicker chair into the window-bay, planted himself deep within it with his back to all the room, and so left me to my own devices. Being spent enough to sleep beneath the shadow of a gibbet, I threw myself full-length upon the bed and was, I think, adrift upon the ebb tide of exhaustion and forgetfulness when once again the shifting of the wooden door-bar roused me. I rose up quickly, but Tybee was before me. There was some low-voiced conference at the door; then Tybee came to me. "'Tis Mr. Gilbert Stair," he said. "He has permission from the colonel and insists that he must see you _solus_. I'll take your word and leave you, if you like." At first I hung reluctant, wanting little of the host who came so late to see his guest. Then, as if a sudden flash of lightning had revealed it, I realized, as I had not before, how I had set the feet of my dear lady in a most hideous labyrinth of deception; how this lie that I had told to bridge a momentary gap must leave her neither maid nor widow in the morning. "Yes, yes; for God's sake let him in, Mr. Tybee!" I burst out. "I am fair crazed with weariness, and had forgot. 'Tis most important, I do assure you." The thing was done at once, and before I knew it I was alone with the old man who, though he was my supplanter, was also Margery's father. He entered cautiously, shielding his bedroom candle with his hand and peering over it to make me out, as if his venturing in were not unperilous. And I marked that when he put the candle down upon the table, he edged away and felt behind him for the door as if to make sure of his retreat in case of need. "Sit down, Captain Ireton; sit down, I beg of you," he said, in his thin, rasping treble. And when I had obeyed: "I think you must know what I've come for, Captain Ireton?" I said I could guess; and he began again, volubly now, as if to have it over in the shortest space. "'Twas not a gentlemanly thing for you to do, Captain Ireton--this marrying of a foolish girl out of hand while you were here a guest; and as for the priest that did it, I--I'll have him hanged before the army leaves, I promise you. But now 'tis done, I hope ye're prepared to make the best of it?" I saw at once that his daughter had not yet confided in him; that he was still entangled in my lie. So I thought it well to probe him deeper while I might. "What would you call 'the best' if I may ask?" said I, growing the cooler with some better seeing of the way ahead. "The marriage settlements!" he cried shrilly, coming to the point at once, as any miser would. "'Tis the merest matter of form, as ye may say, for your title to Appleby Hundred is well burnt out, I promise you. But for the decent look of it you might make over your quitclaim to your wife." "Aye, truly; so I might." "And so you should, sir; that you should, ye miserable, spying runag"--he choked and coughed behind his hand and then began again without the epithets. "'Tis the very least ye can do for her now, when you have the rope fair around your curs--ahem--your--your rebel neck. Only for the form's sake, to be sure, ye understand, for she'd inherit after you in any case." I saw his drift at last, and, not caring to spare him, sped the shaft of truth and let it find the joint in his harness. "'Tis as you say, Mr. Stair. But as it chances, Mistress Margery is not my wife." If I had flung the candle at him where he stood fumbling behind him for the door-latch,'twould not have made him shrink or dodge the more. "Wha--what's that ye say?" he piped in shrillest cadence. "Not married? Then you--you--" "I lied to save her honor--that was all. A wife might do the thing she did and go scot free of any scandal; but not a maid, as you could see and hear." For some brief time it smote him speechless, and in the depth of his astoundment he forgot his foolish fear of me and fell to pacing up and down, though always with the table cannily between us. And as he shuffled back and forth the thin lips muttered foolish nothings, with here and there a tremulous oath. When all was done he dropped into a chair and stared across at me with leaden eyes; and truly he had the look of one struck with a mortal sickness. "I think--I think you owe me something now beyond your keeping, Captain Ireton," he quavered, at length, mumbling the words as do the palsied. "Since you are Margery's father, I owe you anything a dying man can pay," said I. "Words; empty words," he fumed. "If it were a thing to do, now--" "You need but name the thing and I will do it willingly." Instead of naming it he shot a question at me, driving it home with certain random thrustings of the shifty eyes. "Who is your next of kin, Captain Ireton?" "Septimus, of the same name, master of Iretondene, on the James River, and a major in the Virginia line," I answered, wondering how my cousin once removed should figure in the present coil. But Gilbert Stair's next question dispelled the mystery. "If you should die intestate, this Septimus would be your heir?" "As next of kin, I should suppose he would. But I have nothing to devise." "True; and yet"--he paused again as if the wording of it were not easy. "Be free to speak your mind, Mr. Stair," said I. "'Tis this," he cried, gathering himself as with an effort. "You've claimed my daughter as your wife before them all, and when you die to-morrow morning you'll leave her neither wife nor maid. I think--I think you'd best make that lie of yours the truth." If one of his thin hands that clutched the chair arms had pressed a secret spring and loosed a trap to send me gasping down an oubliette, I should have been the less astounded. Indeed, for some short space I thought him mad; yet, on second thought, I saw the method in his madness. Could Margery be brought to view it calmly, this was a sword to cut the knot of all entanglements. As matters stood, the world would call her widow at my death; and since a woman is first of all the keeper of her own good name, she would never dare aver the truth. So in common justice she should own the name the world would call her by. Again, as matters stood, no wrong could come of it to her, or Richard Jennifer, or any. Dick would love her none the less because a dying man had given her his name for some few hours. And if, at any future time, the Ireton title should revive and this poor double-dealing miser should be forced to quit his hold on Appleby Hundred, my father's acres would be hers in her own right. One breach in all this sudden-builded wall I saw, but could not mend it. With the Ireton acres hers by double right, the baronet would press his suit with greater vigor than before. But as to this, no further act of mine could help or hinder; and if I died her husband she would in decency delay a while. So summing up in far less time than it has cost to write it out for you, I gave my host his answer. "I told you you might name the deed, and I would do it, Mr. Stair. If you can make your daughter understand--" "The jade will do as she is bid," he cut in wrathfully. "If she will drag my good name in the mire, I'm damned if she sha'n't pay the scot. And now about the settlements, Captain Ireton; you'll be making her legatee residuary?" At this I saw his drift again, most clearly; that he would never stickle for his daughter's honor, but for the quieting of his title to my father's lands--a title that my cousin Septimus might dispute. It was enough to set me obstinate against him; but I constrained myself to think of Margery and Richard Jennifer, and not at all of this poor petty miser. "I'll sign a quitclaim in her favor, if that is what you mean," I said. "But 'tis a mere pen-scratch for the lawyers to haggle over. As you said a while ago, the wife will be the husband's heir-at-law, in any event." "True; but we'd best be at it in due and proper form." He rose and hobbled to the door and was so set upon haste that his shaking hand played a rattling tattoo on the latch. "I--I'll go and have the papers drawn, and you will sign them, Captain Ireton; I have your passed word that you will sign them?" "Aye; they shall be signed." He went away at that, and Tybee entered. Much to my comfort, the lieutenant asked no questions; so far from it, he crossed the room without a word, flung himself into the great chair and left me to my own communings. These were not altogether of assurance. Though I had promised readily enough to make my lie a truth, I saw that all was yet contingent upon my lady's viewing of the proposal. That I could win her over I had some hope, if only they would leave the task for me. But there was room to fear that this poor miser father would make it all a thing of property and so provoke her to resistance. And, notwithstanding what he said--that she would do as she was bid--I thought I knew her temper well enough to prophesy a hitch. For I made sure of one thing, that if she put her will against the world, the world would never move her. 'Twas past midnight, with Tybee dozing in his chair, when next I heard some stirrings in the corridor. As before, it was the lifting of the wooden bar that roused my friendly guard, and when he went to parley at the door I stood apart and turned my back. When I looked again my company was come. At the table, busied with a parchment that might have been a ducal title deed for size, stood Gilbert Stair and the factor-lawyer, Owen Pengarvin. A little back of them the good old Father Matthieu had Margery on his arm. And in the corner Tybee stood to keep the door. I grouped them all in one swift eye-sweep, and having listed them, strove to read some lessoning of my part in my dear lady's face. She gave me nothing of encouragement, nor yet a cue of any kind to lead to what it was that she would have me say or do. As I had seen it last, under the light of the flaring torches in the room below, her face was cold and still; and she was standing motionless beside the priest, looking straight at me, it seemed, with eyes that saw nothing. It was the factor-lawyer who broke the silence, saying, with his predetermined smirk, that the parchment was ready for my signature. Thinking it well beneath me to measure words with this knavish pettifogger, I looked beyond him and spoke to his master. "I would have a word or two in private with your daughter before this matter ripens further, Mr. Stair," I said. My lady dropped the priest's arm and came to stand beside me in the window-bay. I offered her a chair but she refused to sit. There was so little time to spare that I must needs begin without preliminary. "What has your father told you, Margery?" I asked. "He tells me nothing that I care to know." "But he has told you what you must do?" "Yes." She looked with eyes that saw me not. "And you are here to do it of your own free will?" "No." "Yet it must be done." "So he says, and so you say. But I had rather die." "'Tis not a pleasing thing, I grant you, Margery; notwithstanding, of our two evils it is by far the less. Bethink you a moment: 'tis but the saying of a few words by the priest, and the bearing of my name for some short while till you can change it for a better." Her deep-welled eyes met mine, and in them was a flash of anger. "Is that what marriage means to you, Captain Ireton?" "No, truly. But we have no choice. 'Tis this, or I must leave you in the morning to worse things than the bearing of my name. I would it had not thus been thrust upon us, but I could see no other way." "See what comes of tampering with the truth," she said, and I could see her short lip curl with scorn. "Why should you lie and lie again, when any one could see that it must come to this--or worse?" "I saw it not," I said. "But had I stopped to look beyond the moment's need and seen the end from the beginning, I fear I should have lied yet other times. Your honor was at stake, dear lady." "My honor!"--this in bitterest irony. "What is a woman's honor, sir, when you or any man has patched and sewed and sought to make it whole again? I will not say the word you'd have me say!" "But you must say it, Margery. 'Tis but the merest form; you forget that you will be a wife only in name. I shall not live to make you rue it." "You make me rue it now, beforehand. _Mon Dieu!_ is a woman but a thing, to stand before the priest and plight her troth for 'merest form'? You'll make me hate you while I live--and after!" "You'd hate me worse, Margery dear, if I should leave you drowning in this ditch. And I can bear your hatred for some few hours, knowing that if I sinned and robbed you, I did make restitution as I could." She heard me through with eyelids down and some fierce storm of passion shaking her. And when she answered her voice was low and soft; yet it cut me like a knife. "You drive me to it--listen, sir, _you drive me to it_! And I have said that I shall hate you for it. Come; 'tis but a mockery, as you say; and they are waiting." I sought to take her hand and lead her forth, but this she would not suffer. She walked beside me, proud and cold and scornful; stood beside me while I sat and read the parchment over. It was no marriage settlement; it was a will, drawn out in legal form. And in it I bequeathed to Margery Ireton as her true jointure, not any claim of mine to Appleby Hundred, _but the estate itself_. I read it through as I have said, and, looking across to these two plotters, the miser-master and his henchman, smiled as I had never thought to smile again. "So," said I; "the truth is out at last. I wondered if the confiscation act had left you wholly scatheless, Mr. Stair. Well, I am content. I shall die the easier for knowing that I have lain a guest in my own house. Give me the pen." 'Twas given quickly, and I signed the will, with Tybee and the lawyer for the witnesses; Margery standing by the while and looking on; though not, I made sure, with any realizing of the business matter. When all was done the priest found his book, and we stood before him; the woman who had sworn to hate, and the man who, loving her to full forgetfulness of death itself, must yet be cold and formal, masking his love for her dear sake, and for the sake of loyalty to his friend. And here again 'twas Tybee and the lawyer who were the witnesses; the one well hated, and the other loved if but for this; that when the time came for the giving of the ring, he drew a gold band from his little finger and made me take and use it. And so that deed was done in some such sorry fashion as the time and place constrained; and had you stood within the four walls of that upper room you would have thought the chill of death had touched us, and that the low-voiced priest was shriving us the while we knelt to take his benediction. All through this farce--which was in truth the grimmest of all tragedies--my lady played her part as one who walks in sleep; and at the end she let her father lead her out with not a word or look or sign to me. You'd guess that I would take it hard--her leaving of me thus, as I made sure, for all eternity; and I did take it hard. For when the strain was off, and there was no one by to see or hear save my good-hearted death-watch, I must needs go down upon my knees beside the bed in childish weakness, and sob and choke and let the hot tears come as I had not since at this same bedside I had knelt a little lad to take my mother's dying love. XII HOW THE NEWS CAME TO UNWELCOME EARS Though all the western quarter of the sky was night-black and spangled yet with stars, the dawn was graying slowly in the east when Tybee roused me. "They have not come for you as yet," he said; "so I took time by the forelock and passed the word for breakfast. It heartens a man to eat a bite and drink a cup of wine just on the battle's edge. Will you sit and let me serve you, Captain Ireton?" "That I will not," said I; adding that I would blithely share the breakfast with him. Whereat he laughed and clipt my hand, and swore I was a true soldier and a brave gentleman to boot. So we sat and hobnobbed at the table; and Tybee lighted all the remnant candle-ends, and broached the wine and pledged me in a bumper before we fell to upon the cold haunch of venison. My summons came when we had shared the heel-tap of the bottle. It was my toast to this kind-hearted youngster, and we drained it standing what time the stair gave back the tread of marching men. Tybee crashed his glass upon the floor and wrung my hand across the table. "Good by, my Captain; they have come. God damn me, sir, I'll swear they might do worse than let you go, for all your spying. You've carried off this matter with the lady as a gentleman should, and whilst I live, she shall not lack a friend. If you have any word to leave for her--" I shook my head. "No," said I; then, on second thought: "And yet there is a word. You saw how I must see the matter through to shield the lady?" "Surely; 'twas plain enough for any one to see." "Then I shall die the easier if you will undertake to make it plain to Richard Jennifer. He must be made to know that I supplanted him only in a formal way, and that to save the lady's honor." The lieutenant promised heartily, and as he spoke, the oaken bar was lifted and my reprieve was at an end. Having the thing to despatch before they broke their fast, my soldier hangmen marched me off without ado. The house and all within it seemed yet asleep, but out of doors the legion vanguard was astir, and newly kindled camp-fires smoked and blazed among the trees. In shortest space we left these signs of life behind, and I began to think toward the end. 'Tis curious how sweet this troubled life of ours becomes when that day wakes wherein it must be shuffled off! As a soldier must, I thought I had held life lightly enough; nay, this I know; I had often worn it upon my sleeve in battle. But now, when I was marching forth to this cold-blooded end without the battle-chance to make it welcome, all nature cried aloud to me. The dawn was not unlike that other dawn a month past when I had ridden down the river road with Jennifer; a morning fair and fine, its cup abrim and running over with the wine of life. I thought the cool, moist air had never seemed so sweet and fragrant; that nature's garb had never seemed so blithe. There was no hint nor sign of death in all the wooded prospect. The birds were singing joyously; the squirrels, scarce alarmed enough to scamper out of sight, sat each upon his bough to chatter at us as we passed. And once, when we were filing through a bosky dell with softest turf to muffle all our treadings, a fox ran out and stood with one uplifted foot, and was as still as any stock or stone until he had the scent of us. A mile beyond the outfields of Appleby Hundred we passed the legion picket line, and I began to wonder why we went so far; wondered and made bold to ask the ensign in command, turning it into a grim jest and saying I misliked to come too weary to my end. The ensign, a curst young popinjay, as little officer cubs are like to be, answered flippantly that the colonel had commuted my sentence; that I was to be shot like a soldier, and that far enough afield so the volleying would not wake the house. So we fared on, and a hundred yards beyond this point of question and reply came out into an open grove of oaks: then I knew where they had brought me--and why. 'Twas the glade where I had fought my losing battle with the baronet. On its farther confines two horses nibbled rein's-length at the grass, with Falconnet's trooper serving-man to hold them; and, standing on the very spot where he had thrust me out, my enemy was waiting. 'Twas all prearranged; for when the ensign had saluted he marched his men a little way apart and drew them up in line with muskets ported. But at a sign from Falconnet, two of the men broke ranks and came to strap me helpless with their belts. I smiled at that, and would not miss the chance to jeer. "You are a sorry coward, Captain Falconnet, as bullies ever are," I said. "Would not your sword suffice against a man with empty hands?" He passed the taunt in silence, and when the men had left me, said: "I have come to speed your parting, Captain Ireton. You are a thick-headed, witless fool, as you have always been; yet since you've blundered into serving me, I would not grudge the time to come and thank you." "I serve you?" I cried. "God knows I'd serve you up in collops at the table of your master, the devil, could I but stand before you with a carving tool!" He laughed softly. "Always vengeful and vindictive, and always because you must ever mess and meddle with other men's concerns," he retorted. "And yet I say you've served me." "Tell me how, in God's name, that I may not die with that sin unrepented of." "Oh, in many small ways, but chiefly in this affair with the little lady of Appleby." "Never!" I denied. "So far as decent speech could compass it, I have ever sought to tell her what a conscienceless villain you are." He laughed again at that. "You know women but indifferently, my Captain, if you think to breach a love affair by a cannonade of hard words. But I am in no humor to dispute with you. You have lost, and I have won; and, were I not here to come between, you'd look your last upon the things of earth in shortest order, I do assure you." "You?--you come between?" I scoffed. "You are all kinds of a knave, Sir Francis, but your worst enemy never accused you of being a fool!" There was a look in his eyes that I could never fathom. "You are bitter hard, John Ireton--bitter and savage and unforgiving. You knew the wild blade of a half-score years ago, and now you'd make the grown man pay scot and lot for that same youngster's misdeeds. Have you never a touch of human kindliness in you?" To know how this affected me you must turn back to that place where I have tried to picture out this man for you. I said he had a gift to turn a woman's head or touch her heart. I should have said that he could use this gift at will on any one. For the moment I forgot his cool disposal of me in the talk with Captain Stuart; forgot how he had lied to make me out a spy and so had brought me to this pass. So I could only say: "You killed my friend, Frank Falconnet, and--" "Tush!" said he. "That quarrel died nine years ago. Your reviving of it now is but a mask." "For what?" I asked. "For your just resentment in sweet Margery's behalf. Believe it or not, as you like, but I could love you for that blow you gave me, John Ireton. I had been losing cursedly at cards that day, and mine host's wine had a dash of usquebaugh in it, I dare swear. At any rate, I knew not what it was I said till Tybee said it over for me." "But the next morning you took a cur's advantage of me on this very spot and ran me through," I countered. "Name it what you will and let it go at that. There was murder in your eye, and you are the better swordsman. You put me upon it for my life, and when you gave me leave, I did not kill you, as I might." "No; you reserved me for this." He took a step nearer and seemed strangely agitated. "You forced my hand, John Ireton," he said, speaking low that the others might not hear. "You had her ear from day to day and used your privilege against me. As an enemy who merely sought my life for vengeance's sake I could spare you; but as a rival--" I laughed, and sanity began to come again. "Make an end of it," I said. "I'd rather hear the muskets speak than you." For reply he took a folded paper from his pocket and spread and held it so that I might read. It was a letter from my Lord Cornwallis, directing Captain Falconnet to send his prisoner, Captain John Ireton, sometime lieutenant in the Royal Scots Blues, under guard to his Lordship's headquarters in South Carolina. "Can you read it?" he asked. I nodded. "Well, this supersedes the colonel's sentence. If I say the word to Ensign Farquharson you will be remanded." "To be shot or hanged a little later, I suppose?" "No. Have you any notion why my Lord Charles is sending for you?" "No," said I, in my turn; and, indeed, I had not. "He knows your record as an officer, and would give you a chance to 'list in your old service." "I would not take it--at your hands or his." "You'd best take it. But in any event, you'll have your life and honorable safe-conduct beyond the lines." "Make an end," I said again. "I understand you will obey his Lordship's order, or disregard it, as your own interest directs. What would you have me do?" "A very little thing to weigh against a life. Mr. Gilbert Stair is my very good friend." I let that go uncontradicted. "His title to the estate is secure enough, as you know, but you can make it better," he went on. This saying of his told me what I had only guessed: that as yet he had not been admitted into Gilbert Stair's full confidence; also, that he had no hint of what had taken place in my chamber some hour or two past midnight. At that, a joy fierce like pain came to thrill me. "Go on," said I. "Your route to Camden lies through Charlotte. Your guard will give you time and opportunity to execute a quitclaim in Mr. Stair's favor." "Is that all?" I asked. "No; after that our ways must lie apart--or yours and Margery's, at all events. Give me your word of honor that you relinquish any claim you have, or think you have, upon her, and I pass this letter on to the ensign." "And if I refuse?" He came so near that I could see the lurking devil in his eyes. "If you refuse? Harken, John Ireton; if you had a hundred lives to thrust between me and the thing I crave, I'd take them all." So much he said calmly; then a sudden gust of passion seized him, and for once, I think, he spoke the simple truth. "God! I'd sink my soul in Calvin's hell to have her!" I could not wholly mask the smile of triumph that his words evoked. This fox of maiden vineyards was entrapped at last. I saw the fire of such a passion as such a man may know burning in his eyes; and then I knew why he was come upon this errand. "So?" said I. "Then Mistress Margery sent you here to save me?" 'Twas but a guess, but I made sure it hit the truth. He swore a sneering oath. "So the priest carried tales, did he? Well, make the most of it; she would not have her father's guest taken from his bed and hanged like a dog." I smiled again. "'Twas more than that: she would even go so far as to beg her husband's life a boon from that same husband's mortal enemy." "Bah!" he scoffed. "That lie of yours imposed upon the colonel, but I had better information." "A lie, you say? True, 'twas a lie when it was uttered. But afterward, some hour or so past midnight, by the good help of Father Matthieu, and with your Lieutenant Tybee for one witness and the lawyer for another, we made a sober truth of it." I hope, for your own peace of mind, my dears, that you may never see a fellow human turn devil in a breath as I did then. His man's face fell away from him like a vanishing mask, and in the place of it a hideous demon, malignant and murderous, glared upon me. Twice his hand sought the sword-hilt, and once the blade was half unsheathed. Then he thrust his devil-face in mine and hissed his parting word at me so like a snake it made me shudder with abhorrence. "You've signed your own death warrant, you witless fool! You'd play the spoil-sport here as you did once before, would you? Curse you! I wish you had a hundred lives that I might take them one by one!" Then he wheeled sharp upon his heel and gave the order to the ensign. "Belt him to the tree, Farquharson, and make an end of him. I've kept you waiting over-long." They strapped me to a tree with other belts, and when all was ready the ensign stepped aside to give the word. Just here there came a little pause prolonged beyond the moment of completed preparation. I knew not why they waited, having other things to think of. I saw the firing line drawn up with muskets leveled. I marked the row of weather-beaten faces pillowed on the gun-stocks with eyes asquint to sight the pieces. I remember counting up the pointing muzzles; remember wondering which would be the first to belch its fire at me, and if, at that short range, a man might live to see the flash and hear the roar before the bullets killed the senses. But while I screwed my courage to the sticking place and sought to hold it there, the pause became a keen-edged agony. A glance aside--a glance that cost a mightier effort than it takes to break a nightmare--showed me the ensign standing ear a-cock, as one who listens. What he heard I know not, for all the earth seemed hushed to silence waiting on his word. But on the instant the early morning stillness of the forest crashed alive, and pandemonium was come. A savage yell to set the very leaves a-tremble; a crackling volley from the underwood that left a heap of writhing, dying men where but now the firing squad had stood; then a headlong charge of rough-clad horsemen--all this befell in less than any time the written words can measure. I sensed it all but vaguely at the first, but when a passing horseman slashed me free I came alive, and life and all it meant to me was centered in a single fierce desire. Falconnet had escaped the fusillade; was making swiftly for his horse, safe as yet from any touch of lead or steel. So I might reach and pull him down, I cared no groat what followed after. It was not so to be. In the swift dash across the glade I went too near the shambles in the midst. The corporal of the firing squad, a bearded Saxon giant, whose face, hideously distorted, will haunt me while I live, lay fairly in the way, his heels drumming in the death agony, and his great hands clutching at the empty air. I leaped to clear him. In the act the clutching hands laid hold of me and I was tripped and thrown upon the heap of dead and dying men, and could not free myself in time to stop the baronet. I saw him gain his horse and mount; saw the flash of his sword and the skilful parry that in a single parade warded death on either hand; saw him drive home the spurs and vanish among the trees, with his horse-holding trooper at his heels. And then my rescuers, or else my newer captors, picked me up hastily; and I was hoisted behind the saddle of the nearest, and so was borne away in all the hue and cry of a most unsoldierly retreat. XIII IN WHICH A PILGRIMAGE BEGINS As you have guessed before you turned this page, the men who charged so opportunely to cut me out of peril were my captors only in the saving sense. Their overnight bivouac was not above a mile beyond the glade of ambushment. It was in a little dell, cunningly hid; and the embers of the camp-fires were still alive when we of the horse came first to this agreed-on rallying point. Here at this rendezvous in the forest's heart I had my first sight of any fighting fragment of that undisciplined and yet unconquerable patriot home-guard that even in defeat proved too tough a morsel for British jaws to masticate. They promised little to the eye of a trained soldier, these border levies. In fancy I could see my old field-marshal,--he was the father of all the martinets,--turn up his nose and dismiss them with a contemptuous "_Ach! mein Gott!_" And, truly, there was little outward show among them of the sterling metal underneath. They came singly and in couples, straggling like a routed band of brigands; some loading their pieces as they ran. There was no hint of soldier discipline, and they might have been leaderless for aught I saw of deference to their captain. Indeed, at first I could not pick the captain out by any sign, since all were clad in coarsest homespun and well-worn leather, and all wore the long, fringed hunting shirt and raccoon-skin cap of the free borderers. Yet these were a handful of the men who had fought so stoutly against the Tory odds at Ramsour's Mill, their captain being that Abram Forney of whom you may read in the histories; and though they made no military show, they lacked neither hardihood nor courage, of a certain persevering sort. "Ever come any closter to your Amen than that, stranger?" drawled one of them, a grizzled borderer, lank, lean and weather-tanned, with a face that might have been a leathern mask for any hint it gave of what went on behind it. "I'll swear that little whip'-snap' officer cub had the word 'Fire' sticking in his teeth when I gave him old Sukey's mouthful o' lead to chaw on." I said I had come as near my exit a time or two before, though always in fair fight; and thereupon was whelmed in an avalanche of questions such as only simple-hearted folk know how to ask. When I had sufficiently accounted for myself, Captain Forney--he was the limber-backed young fellow I had ridden behind--gripped my hand and gave me a hearty welcome and congratulation. "My father and yours were handfast friends, Captain Ireton. More than that, I've heard my father say he owed yours somewhat on the score of good turns. I'm master glad I've had a chance to even up a little; though as for that, we should both thank the Indian." At which he looked around as one who calls an eye-muster and marks a missing man. "Where is the chief, Ephraim?"--this to the grizzled hunter who was methodically reloading his long rifle. "He's back yonder, gathering in the hair-crop, I reckon. Never you mind about him, Cap'n. He'll turn up when he smells the meat a-cooking, immejitly, _if_ not sooner." Here, as I imagine, I looked all the questions that lacked answers; for Captain Forney took it in hand to fit them out with explications. "'Tis Uncanoola, the Catawba," he said; "one of the friendlies. He was out a-scouting last night and came in an hour before daybreak with the news that Colonel Tarleton was set upon hanging a spy of ours. From that to our little ambushment--" "I see," said I, wanting space to turn the memory leaves. "This Catawba: is he a man about my age?" Captain Forney laughed. "God He only knows an Indian's age. But Uncanoola has been a man grown these fifteen years or more. I can recall his coming to my father's house when I was but a little cadger." At that, I remembered, too; remembered a tall, straight young savage, as handsome as a figure done in bronze, who used sometimes to meet me in the lonelier forest wilds when I was out a-hunting; remembered how at first I was afraid of him; how once I would have shot him in a fit of boyish race antipathy and sudden fright had he not flung away his firelock and stood before me defenseless. Also, I recalled a little incident of the terrible scourge in '60 when the black pox bade fair to blot out this tribe of the Catawbas; how when my father had found this young savage lying in the forest, plague-stricken and deserted by all his tribesmen, he had saved his life and earned an Indian friendship. "I know this Uncanoola," I said. "My father befriended him in the plague of '60, and was never sorry for it, as I believe." Then I would ask if these Catawbas had ranged themselves on the patriot side, a question which led the young militia captain to give me the news at large while his borderers were breaking camp and making their hasty preparations for the day's march. "'Tis liberty or death with us now; we've burnt our bridges behind us," he said, when he had confirmed the tidings I had had the day before from Father Matthieu. "And since here in Carolina we have to fight each man against his neighbor, 'tis like to go hard with us, lacking help from the North." "Measured by this morning's work, Captain Forney, these irregulars of yours seem well able to give a good account of themselves," I ventured. He shook his head doubtfully. He was but a boy in years, but war is a shrewd schoolmaster, and this youth, like many another on the fighting frontier, had matriculated early. "You've seen us at our best," he amended. "We can ambush like the Indians, fire a volley, yell, charge--and run away." "What's that ye're saying, youngster?" The grizzled hunter had finished reloading his rifle, and, lounging in earshot with all the freedom of the border, would take the captain up sharply on this last. "You heard me, Eph Yeates," replied my young captain, curtly. The old man leaned his rifle against a tree, spat on his hands, cut a clumsy caper in air, and gave tongue in a yell that should have been heard by Tarleton's men at Appleby. "By the eternal 'coonskins! I can gouge the eye out of ary man that says Eph Yeates carn't stand up fair and square and whop his weight in wildcats; and I can do it now, _if_ not sooner!" he shrilled. "Come on, you pap-eating, apron-stringed, French-daddied--" Where the blast of vituperative insult would have spent itself in natural course we were not to know, for in the midst another of the borderers, a wiry little man in greasy deerskin, came up behind the capering ancient, whipped an arm around his neck, and in a trice the two went down, kicking, scratching, buffeting and mauling, as like to a pair of battling bobcats as was ever seen. For a moment I thought my youngster would let them have it out to the finish, but he did not. At his order some of the others pulled the twain apart, reluctantly, I fancied; and when the thing was done the old man caught up his rifle and strode away in blackest wrath without a look behind him. Captain Forney shrugged and spread his hands as his French father might have done. "Now you know wherein our weakness lies, Captain Ireton," he said. "There goes as true a man and as keen a shot as ever pulled trigger. Let him fight in his own way, and he'll take cover and name his man for every bullet in his pouch. But as for yielding to decent authority, or standing against trained troops in open field--" He shrugged again and turned to tighten his saddle-girth. "I see," said I. Then I asked him of his plans and intendings, and was told that he and his handful were a-march to join General Rutherford, who was gone to the Forks of Yadkin to break up some Tory embodiment thereabouts. "You have your work cut out to dodge the British light-horse, Captain Forney," said I; capping the venture by telling him what little I knew of Tarleton's dispositions, and also of the Indian-arming plot I had overheard. "We'll dodge the redcoats, never you fear; we're at our best in that," he rejoined, carelessly. "And as to the Cherokee upstirring, that's an old story. The king's men have tried it twice and they have not yet caught Jack Sevier or Jimmie Robertson a-napping. Ease your mind on that score, Captain Ireton, and come along with us, if you have nothing better to do. I can promise you hard living, and hard fighting enough to keep it in countenance." At this I was brought down to some consideration of the present and its demands. As fortune's wheel had twirled, I had my life, to be sure; but by the having of it was made the basest traitor to my friend--to Jennifer, and no whit less to Margery. 'Twas out of any thought that I should take the field against the common enemy, leaving this tangled web of mystery and misery behind. In sheerest decency I owed it first to Jennifer to make a swift and frank confession of the ill-concluded tale of happenings. That done, I owed it equally to him and Margery to find some way to set aside the midnight marriage. So I fell back upon my wound for an excuse, telling the captain that I was not yet fit to take the field--which was true enough. Whereupon he and his men set me well beyond the danger of immediate pursuit and we parted company. When I was left alone I had no plan that reached beyond the day's end. Since to go to Jennifer House by daylight would be to run my neck afresh into the noose, I saw nothing for it but to lie in hiding till nightfall. The hiding place that promised best was the old hunting lodge in the forest, and thitherward I turned my face. It was a wise man who said that he who goes with heavy heart drags heavy feet as well; but while I live I shall remember how that saying clogged the path for me that morning, making the shrub-sweet summer air grow thick and lifeless as I toiled along. For sober second thought, and the unnerving reaction which comes upon the heels of some sharp peril overpast, left me aghast at the coil in which a tricky fate had entangled me. The second thought made plain the dispiteous hardness of it all, showing me how I had reasoned like a boy in planning for retrieval. Would Jennifer believe my tale, though I should swear it out word for word on the Holy Evangelists? I doubted it; and striving to see it through his eyes, was made to doubt it more. For death should have been my justifier, and death had played me false. As for setting the midnight marriage aside, I made sure the lawyer tribe could find a way, if that were all. But here there was a loyal daughter of the Church to reckon with. Loathing her bonds, as any true-hearted maiden must, would Margery consent to have them broken by the law? I knew well she would not. Though our poor knotting of the tie had been little better than a tragic farce, it lacked nothing of force to bind the tender conscience of a woman bred to look upon the churchly rite as final. So, twist and turn it as I might, the coil was desperate; and as I strode on gloomily, measuring this the first stage in a pilgrimage I had never thought to make, a fire of sullen anger began to smoke and smolder within me, and I could find it in my heart to curse the cruel kindness of my rescuers; to sorrow in my inmost soul that they had come between to make a living recreant of one who would fain have died an honest man. XIV HOW THE BARONET PLAYED ROUGE-ET-NOIR The sun was well above the tree-tops, and the morning was abroad for all the furred and feathered wood-folk, when I forsook the Indian path to make a prudent circle of reconnaissance around the cabin in the maple grove. Happily, there was no need for the cautionary measure. The hunting lodge was undiscovered as yet by any enemy; and when I showed myself my poor black vassals ran to do my bidding, weeping with childish joy to have me back again. Since old Darius was still at Appleby Hundred, Tomas ranked as majordomo; and I bade him post the blacks in a loosely drawn sentry line about the cabin, this against the chance that Falconnet might stumble on the place in searching for me. For I made no doubt his Tory spies would quickly pass the word that I was not with Abram Forney's band, and hence must be in hiding. When all was done I flung myself upon the couch of panther-skins, hoping against hope that sleep might come to help me through the hours of waiting. 'Twas a vain hope. There was never a wink of forgetfulness for me in all the long watches of the summer day, and I must lie wide-eyed and haggard, thinking night would never come, and making sure that fate had never before walled a man in such a dungeon of despair. There was no loophole of escape with honor; The heavens were brass, with all the horizons narrowed to a bounding wall to hem me in on every side. There was no sally-port in all this wall save one--the one that death had promised to open at the dawn. The promise had been broken. True, death had thrust the key within the lock, and I had heard the grating of the bolts; and yet the key had been withdrawn and I was left a prisoner of life. There was no hope of other outlet. Now there was space to view it calmly, I saw how foolish was the thought that Margery would connive at any breaking of the marriage bond. She would bear my name, and hate me for the giving of it; would go on hating me, I thought, to all eternity; but she would never take her freedom back again, save at a dead man's hands. It was thus that each fresh scanning of the prison wall that shut me in this dungeon of dishonor fetched me once and again to this one sally-port of death. And when it came to this; that I had searched in vain for other outlet, you will not think it strange that I sat down in spirit at this postern to see if I might open it with my own hands. It was not love of life that made me hesitate. At two-score years he who has lived at all has lived his best; and if he live beyond the turning point of youthful ardor he must beg the grace of younger men to linger yet a little longer on the stage which once was his and now is theirs. No, it was not any love of life for life's own sake that held me back. 'Twas rather that the Ireton blood is linked up with that thing we call a conscience, a heritage from those simple-hearted ancestors to whom the suicide was a soul accurst--a soul impenitent, whose very outer husk of flesh and bones they used to bury at the crossing of the ways, with a sharpened stake to pinion it. 'Twas this ancestral conscience made me cowardly; and when the sight of my father's sword--Darius had rescued and restored it to its place upon the chimney-breast--would set me thinking of the Israelitish king, and how, when all was lost, he fell upon his blade and died, this horror of the suicide came to give me pause. Besides, that way to right the double wrong was not so clear as it might seem. As matters stood, my living for the present was Margery's best safeguard. Till she became my widow and my heir-at-law, the mercenary baronet would play his cards to win her honorably. I doubted not he'd make hot love to her; but while she stayed a wife, and was not yet a widow, he'd keep his passion decently in bounds, if only for the better compassing of his end. But from this horn of the dilemma I slipped to fall upon the other. If my living on as Margery's husband was her safety for the time, it was an offering of idol-meats upon the altar of my dear lad's friendship. What would he think of me? How could I go about to make it plain that I had robbed him for his own honor's sake?--that it was not I but fate that was to blame? These questions came up answerless, like deep-sea plummets where no bottom is. I saw the way no farther on than this; that I must go straightway to Jennifer and tell him all. Beyond that point the darkness was Egyptian, and I could only hope that tricky fate would turn again and blot me out, and make it plain to Richard, and to my dear lady, that love, and not base treachery, had set me on to do as I had done. In some such dismal grindings of the mill of thought the hours of waiting were outworn at length; and when the sun was dipping to the mountains in the west I rose and washed me in the brook, and afterward constrained myself to eat what Tomas had prepared for me. The sunset glow was fading in the upper air, and underneath the canopy of leaves the wood was darkening on to twilight, when I made ready to be gone. Because I thought I might have need of it before the night was done, I buckled on the heirloom sword; and telling Tomas and the other blacks for their own safety to keep an alarm guard waking through the night, I sallied forth upon my errand. I've wished a thousand times, as I sit here before the fire and jot these memories down in crabbed black on white, that I could conjure up for you some speaking picture of this scene primeval in which the story moves. True, its hills and valleys are the same; the river keeps its course; and in the west the mountain sky-line is unchanged. But here similitude is at an end. You've hacked the virgin forest into shapes and fringes where once it was an ample mantle seamed only by the rivers, and frayed here and there at distant intervals by the settler's ax. Beneath this mantle lay a world unlike the world you know. Plunged in its furtive depths you felt the spell of nature's mystery upon you; the mystery of the hoary wood, age-old, steeped in the nepenthe of the centuries. In brightest summer day, which, in these forest aisles, became a misty green translucence, the silence, the vastness, the solitude laid each a finger on you, bidding you go softly all the way. But in the twilight hour the real held still more aloof, and all the shadows bristled with dim fantastic shapes to awe and affright the alien-born. I was not alien-born. From earliest childhood I had known and loved these forest solitudes. Yet now, as when I was a little lad, the twilight shadows awed me. Here it was a gnarled and twisted tree-trunk so like a crouching panther that I sprang aside and had the steel half out before the clearer vision came. There it was the figure of a man gliding stealthily from tree to tree, it seemed; keeping even pace with me as if with sinister intent. I pushed on faster, drawing the sword to keep me better company, though inwardly I scoffed and jeered at this new twittering of the nerves. What threat was there for me in silent shadows in the wood? The dogs I had to fear were bred in British kennels, and there was never any lack of clamor when they were beating up a cover. Yet this persistent shadow clung upon my footsteps until from casting furtive glances sidewise I came to holding it craftily in the tail of my eye. 'Twas surely moving as I moved, and surely drawing nearer. I picked a time and place, measured my distance, and darting suddenly aside, sent home a thrust which should have pinned the phantom to a tree. "Ugh! What for Captain Long-knife want kill the tree?" The voice came from behind, and when I wheeled again my shadow was become incarnated in flesh and blood; a stalwart Indian, naked to the belt, standing so near he could have pricked me with his scalping knife. It was God's mercy that by some swift intuition I knew him for the friendly Catawba. It is an ill thing to take a frighted man unawares. "Uncanoola?" said I. He nodded. "Where 'bouts Captain Long-knife going?" I told him briefly; whereat he shook his head. "No find Captain Jennif' this way; find him _that_ way," pointing back along the path. "How does the chief know that? Has he seen him?" Though my long exile had well-nigh cost me the trick of it, I made shift to drop into the stately Indian hyperbole. "Wah! Uncanoola has seen the Great Water: that make him have long eyes--see heap things." "Will the Catawba tell the friend whose life he saved what he has seen?" "Uncanoola see heap things," he repeated. "See Captain Jennif' so"--he threw himself flat upon the ground and pictured me a fugitive crawling snake-like through the underwood. "Bime-by, come to river and find canoe--jump in and paddle fas'; bime-by, 'gain, stop paddling and laugh and shake fist this way, and say 'God-damn.'" By this I knew that Jennifer had escaped; nay, more; had somehow learned of my escape and was seeking me. "Is that all the chief saw?" I asked. "Ugh! See heap more things: see one thing white squaw no let him tell Captain Long-knife. Maybe some time tell, anyhow." "The white squaw?" said I. "Who is she?" The Catawba laughed, an Indian laugh, silent and suppressed; a mere shaking of the ribs. "No can tell that, neither, too," he said. Then, with a swift dart aside from the subject: "Captain Long-knife care much 'bout black dogs yonder?" I knew he meant the negroes at the hunting lodge. "The white man cares for the black as a kind master should," I returned. The Indian spat upon the ground in token of his hatred and contempt for all the black skins in his fatherland. I never understood this bitter race antipathy between the red and black, but 'tis a tale well written out in many a bloody massacre of that earlier day. "The wolves will kill all the black dogs and drink their blood before the moon is awake. Uncanoola has spoken." I sheathed my sword and turned to take the backward trace. "Captain Long-knife will go and fight for his black dogs with wool on their heads?" he queried. "If need be," I asserted. "Wah!" he ejaculated, and at the word was gone as if the earth had swallowed him. I lost no time in indecision. Since Jennifer was abroad, I had no business at the plantations; and if Tomas and the other refugees were like to come to harm, I could do no less than hasten back to warn or help them. So I retraced my steps, hurriedly, as the business urged; and saw no more shadows in the ancient wood--in truth, had much ado to see the single step ahead, so thickly did the darkness gather in those skyless depths. I was breasting the last low hill, was come so near that I could hear the murmur of the river, when in the farthest hazy vista of the tree-tops a softened glow appeared, changing the black to green and then to red. 'Twas like the childish Africans, I said, to draw a secret sentry line for safety's sake, and then to build a fire to advertise it far and wide. Truly, the Catawba's wolves might find an easy-- A chattering scream of agony sent shrill and sharp upon the stillness of the night halted me and broke the gibing comment in the midst. I stood and listened. The cry rang out again; then I loosed the Andrea in its scabbard and fell a-running, though the half-healed wound scanted me sorely of the breath I wanted. The cabin clearing, or rather the thinned-out grove which stood in lieu thereof, was but a niggard acre hemmed in on every side, save that toward the river, by the virgin forest. For cover there were holly thickets here and there, and into one of these I plunged, creeping on hands and knees to gain a hidden view-point. The scene in the little clearing was one to brand itself in lasting shapes upon the memory. A brush heap newly kindled gave out a dusky glow flaring in waves of smoky red against the over-arching foliage. The open space around the cabin was alive with half-naked savages running to and fro; and in the gloom beyond the fire I saw a shadowy horseman backed by others still more phantom-like. There was no mystery about it. My enemy had come with sleuth-hound Indians at his back to run me down. The savages were, no doubt, that band of over-mountain Cherokees pledged by their chief to pilot the powder convoy; and by their help the baronet had tracked me. This was the first thought, caught at in passing; but when I came to look again I saw what had been done. Sprawled on the ground before the burning brush pile, his wrinkled face a hideous mask of suffering, with the eyeballs starting from their sockets in the death-wrench, lay my faithful Darius. By what inhuman tortures they had made him point the way, or how or why they slew him at the last, I know not, but I made sure it was his death-scream that had halted me and set the stillness of the forest alive with ghastly echoes. At sight of the stiffening body of the faithful slave you may suppose my blood ran cold and hot by turns, and that his blood cried out for vengeance from the sod that soaked it up. With ten years more of youth and less of age I might have tried to hew my way to Falconnet's stirrup, and so to square accounts with him. But had I been a-mind to rush upon the stage without my cue, another climax in the ghastly tragedy forbade it. This climax turned upon the capture of my horse-boy, Tomas. The other blacks, it seemed, had made good their escape; but Tomas, lagging behind through fear or foolishness, had given these copper-colored devils leave to run him down and drag him back into the fire light, with yells of savage triumph. They flung him down upon his knees beside the captain's horse, and though I caught but here and there a word above the frenzied yipping of the Indians, it was plain the baronet was asking him of me. I could not hear the black boy's gibbering answers, but that he would not tell them what they wished to know--could not, indeed, since I had left no word behind to track me by--was quickly evident. A cord was found, and while I crouched behind the holly screen, aghast and helpless as one against two-score or more, they looped him by the thumbs and swung him up to dangle from a maple bough a musket's length or such a matter before the cabin door. He bore the torture patiently, as some poor dumb beast suffering at the hand of man, and would not part his lips for all the captain's curses. But this was only the merciful beginning. With yells of savage fury the Indians carried brands to make a slow fire at his feet; and, lest that should not be enough, a brace of them climbed to the roof, tore off the splits for kindling, and set the cabin wall alight behind him. You may thank God, my dears, that you are living in a kindlier age. Mayhap the savage, now a-march toward the setting sun, is still as pitiless as he was; but not in any corner of the world, I think, would Anglo-Saxon men, wearing the king's or any other uniform, be witnesses unmoved of such a devil's carnival of torment as this that made me nauseate with horror. As with the stretching of the cord the wretched black spun slowly round and round before the growing blaze, his cries were something terrible to hear. And when the fire light played upon his face it was a sight to freeze the blood: the eyes shut tight against the shriveling heat, the cracking lips drawn back, the black skin changing to a dry and sickly brown. And ever and anon between the shrieks the parched lips shaped a plea: "O Massa! Massa Cap'm! shoot po' nigga and let um die!" This plea for cruel kindness cut me to the marrow of my bones; and lacking means to save his life, I thought I might at least make shift to try to put him out of misery. The enemy's dispositions favored me. The savages, drunk with lust of blood, leaped and danced around their victim. Falconnet sat his horse apart beneath the maples, and with his bodyguard of troopers, was well within the borderland of lurid shadow where the fire light mingled with the night. I crept away and made a swift detour to the right to come behind the rearmost horseman of the troop. As his ill luck would have it, his horse, affrighted at the firelit pandemonium, was in the act of wheeling to run away. Being cumbered with a musket, the man made clumsy work of handling his mount, and when the beast came down in a snorting tremble to rear afresh at sight of me, the man flung away the musket and drew his sword. In cooler blood I might have given him his soldier's chance, but here again it was another's life or mine. Even so, I might have fought him fair, had he but held his tongue and fought in silence. But this he would not, so I had to quiet him or have the others about my ears upon his shoutings. That done, I snatched the musket that had cost the man his life, and, staying not to see what should befall, ran back to cover. In the interval of weapon-getting the fire against the cabin wall had gnawed its way from log to log and now was lapping with its yellow tongues beneath the eaves. But lest the victim should not suffer long enough, the Indians were at work in yelling frenzy, flogging the blaze with green branches broken from the trees so that the fire itself should not be merciful. I waited till the slowly spinning figure of the black should turn and make a mark I could not miss. The pause gave space for some swift steadying of the nerves, but with the colder thought it also brought a fierce and terrible temptation. The finger on the musket's trigger held a life in pawn, and I might pick and choose and say what life I'd take. I glanced aside at Falconnet. He was a fairer mark than my poor Tomas, and by the laws of God and man had earned his death. The tortured slave had little time to suffer at the worst, and with the bullet that would give him surcease I could well avenge him. More than this; that bullet planted in my enemy's heart would save my lady Margery harmless, leaving me free to go to my own place and so to right the wrong that I had done. All in the pivoting instant of the pause the musket swung slowly round as of its own volition, and through its sights I saw the slashings, gold on red, across the breasting of his captain's riding coat. One little crooking of the trigger-finger and the lead had gone upon its errand. But at the balancing instant that piteous cry was lifted once again: "O Massa! Massa Cap'm! God 'a' mussy--shoot po' nigga and let 'um die!" I did as any other man would do, as you have guessed. The great king's musket swept another arc, and roared and belched and spat its messenger of death; and my poor Tomas had the boon he prayed for. And then, as if the musket flash and roar had been a lodestone and these fierce Cherokees so many bits of steel to cluster thick upon it, I was surrounded in the twinkling of an eye, and whizzing hatchets and rifle bullets whining sibilant were but an earnest of the fate I had invited. XV IN WHICH A HATCHET SINGS A MAN TO SLEEP In such a coil as this I'd looped about me there was nothing for it, as it seemed, but to draw the steel and die as a soldier should. So I broke cover on the forest side of the holly thicket with a yell as fierce as theirs, and picked a tree to set my back against, and ran for it. I never reached the tree. In mid career, when all the Cherokee wolf pack was bursting through the holly tangle at my heels, two men, a white man and an Indian, ran in ahead, as I supposed to cut me off. Just then the dry roof of the hunting lodge roared aflame, reddening the forest far and near. The light was at my back and on the faces of the two who ran to meet me. A great sob swelled in my throat and choked me, but I ran the faster. For these were my dear lad and the friendly Catawba, charging gallantly to cover my retreat. It was a ready help in time of need. They ran in bravely, the chief ahead, twirling his tomahawk for the throw, with Dick a pace to right and rear, his two great pistols brandished and the grandsire of all the broadswords dangling by a thong at his wrist. "Follow the chief!" he shouted in passing; and at the word the Catawba stopped short, sent his hatchet whistling into the yapping pack behind me, and swerved to run aside and point the way for me. Left to myself, I hope I should have had the grace to stand with Jennifer. But at the turning point of indecision the quick-witted Indian read my thought, and snatching the sword from my hand, gave me no choice but to follow him. So I ran with him; but as I fled I looked behind and saw a sight to put the ancient hero tales to the blush. One man against two-score my brave Dick stood, while through the underwood the mounted soldiery came to make the odds still greater. He never flinched for all the hurtling missiles sent on ahead to cut him down, nor gave a glance aside to where the horsemen were deploying to surround him. As I looked, the two great pistols belched in the very faces of the nearest Cherokees; and in the momentary check the firearms made, the basket-hilted claymore went to work, rising and falling like a weaver's beam. I saw no more; but some heart-bursting minutes later, when Jennifer came racing on behind to share the flight his heroic stand had made a possibility, the swelling sob choked me once again; and when I thought of what this his rescue of me meant to him, I could have blubbered like a boy. But there was little time or space to give remorse an inning. The Cherokees, checked but for the moment, were storming hotly at our heels. And as we ran I heard the shouted command of Falconnet to his mounted men: "A rescue! Right oblique, and head them in the road! Gallop, you devils!" We ran in Indian file, I at the chief's heels and Jennifer at mine. I followed the Catawba blindly; and being as yet little better than half a man in breath and muscle, was well-nigh spent before we crashed down through a tangled briar thicket into the river road. We were in time, but with no fraction of a minute to spare. We could hear the _pad-pad-pad_ of the light-footed runners close upon us, following now by the noise we made; and on our left the air was trembling to the thunder of the mounted men coming at a break-neck gallop down the road. "Thank God!" says Richard, with a quick eyeshot to right and left in the lesser gloom of the open. "I was afeard even the chief might miss the place in the dark. Down the bank to the river!--quick, man, and cautious! If they smell us out now, we're no better than buzzard-meat!" And when we reached the water's edge: "You taught me how to paddle a pirogue, Jack; I hope you haven't lost the knack of it yourself." "No," said I; and the three of us slid the hollowed log into the stream. We were afloat in shortest order, holding the canoe against the current by clinging to the overhanging trees that fringed the bank; yet with paddles poised for a second dash for freedom should the need arise. I should have dipped forthwith to save the precious minutes, but Jennifer stayed me. "Hist!" he whispered. "Hold steady and listen. They can not see us from above; mayhap we've thrown them off the scent." I thought it most unlikely; but his guess was right and mine was wrong. Though any of these savages could lift a trail in daylight, following it at top speed like a trained blood-hound, yet now the darkness baffled them. So there was some running to and fro in the road above our heads, and then the troopers galloped down. Followed hastily a labored confab through the linguister, broken in the midst by a fury of hot oaths from Falconnet; and then the chase swept on toward the plantations, and we were left to make their losing of us sure by whatsoever means we chose. We paddled slowly up stream in silence, keeping well within the blacker shadow of the tree fringe. When we came opposite the glowing ruins of the hunting lodge, Jennifer backed upon his paddle. "You'll go ashore?" said he. I said I would, adding: "They have slaughtered poor old Darius, and I am loath to leave his bones for the buzzards to pick." He made no comment other than to swear in sympathy. When the pirogue grounded, the Indian was out like a cat, to vanish phantom-wise among the trees. I followed in some clumsier fashion, leaving Jennifer to keep the canoe; but half way up the hill he joined me, and would not turn back for all my urging. "No; hang me if I'll let you out of eye-grip again," was all he would say; and so we went together, and were together at the seeing of what the glowing ember-heap would show us. Poor Tomas had his sepulture already. His cord had burned in two and let him down so close beside the cabin wall that all the blazing debris from the overhanging eaves had made his funeral pile. Darius lay as I had last seen him; and him we buried in the maize clearing at the back, with the ember glow for funeral lights. It was a chanceful thing to do. Since the Cherokees had left their dead and wounded, and Falconnet the body of his trooper who had yielded me the musket, there was small doubt they would return. Yet we had time to dig a shallow grave for my old henchman; to dig and fill it up again; and afterward to make a circuit round the burning pile to reach the river side once more. When we had launched the canoe, and were afloat and ready for the start, the Catawba was still missing. "Where is the chief, think you?" I asked; but Dick's answer, if, indeed, he gave me any, was lost in a chorus of ear splitting yells rending the silence of the night like demon cries. Then a single ululation, long drawn and fair blood chilling, answered back, and Jennifer swept the pirogue stern to strand with a quick paddle stroke. "That last was Uncanoola's war cry; they've doubled back in time to catch him at it!" he cried. "Stand by to drive her when I give the word! Here he comes!" Down the sloping hillside, looking, in the red glow of the ember heap, more like a flying demon than a man, came the Catawba, one hand gripping the scalping-knife, the other flung aloft to flaunt his terrible trophies in sight of his pursuers. They were so close upon him that waiting promised death for all of us; so Jennifer dipped again to send the canoe a broad jump from the bank. "Ready!" he cried. "He'll take the water like a fish, and we can pick him up afterward--_Now_!" I heard the clean-cut dive of the Indian, and struck the paddle deep to balance Jennifer's stroke. But as I bent to put my back into it, some flying missile caught me fair behind the ear, and but for Jennifer's quick wit I should have swamped the crazy shallop. In a flash he jerked me flat between his knees and sent the pirogue with a mighty thrust beyond the zone of fire light. At that, though all the sense was beaten out of me, I was alive enough to hear the savage yells of disappointed rage behind us; these and the spitting crackle of a dozen rifles fired at random in the darkness. But afterward all sounds, save the rhythmic dip and drip of Jennifer's paddle, faded on the sense of hearing till, as it would seem, this gentle monody of dipping blade and tinkling drops became a crooning lullaby to blot out all the years that lay between, and make me once again a little child sinking asleep in my young mother's arms. XVI HOW JENNIFER THREW A MAIN WITH DEATH 'Tis a sure mark of healthful sleep that it never makes account of time. No odds how long the night, 'tis but a moment from the lapse of consciousness to its recovery in the morning. But this deep sleep that crept upon me as I lay in the pirogue, listening to the tinkling drip from Jennifer's paddle, was not of healthful weariness; and when I came awake from it there was a dim and troubled vista of vague and broken dreams to measure off the longest night I could ever remember. The place of this awakening was a burrow in the earth. My bed of bearskins over fragrant pine-tufts was spread upon the ground, and by the flickering light of a handful of fire I could see the earth walls of the burrow, which were worn smooth as if the place had been the well-used den of some wild creature. But overhead there was the mark of human occupancy, since the earth-arch was sooted and blackened with the reek of many fires. When I stirred there was another stir beyond the handful of fire, and Jennifer came to kneel beside me, taking my hand and chafing it as a tender-hearted woman might, and asking if I knew him. "Know you? Why should I not?" I said, wondering why the words took so many breaths between. "O Jack!" was all I had in answer; but when he had found a tongue to babble out his joy, I learned the why and wherefore. Once more grim death had reached for me, lying await in the twirled tomahawk that set me dreaming of my mother's lap and lullaby. For a week I had lain here upon the bed of pine-tufts, poised upon the brink of the death pit with only my dear lad to hold and draw me back. "A week?" I queried, when he had named the interval. "And you have been here all the time?" "I've never left you, save to forage for the pot," he admitted. "I dared not leave you, Jack." "But where are we?" I would ask. "In a den on the river's edge, a mile or more above your sacked cabin. 'Tis some dodge-hole hollowed out by the Catawbas long ago and shared since by them and the bears, judging from the stinking reek of it. Uncanoola steered me hither the night of the raid." "Then the chief came off safely?" I said, falling into a dumb and impotent rage that the saying of two words should scant me so of strength to say a third. "Right as a trivet--scalps and all," laughed Jennifer. "He'll be the envy of every warrior in the tribe when he vaunts himself at the Catawbas' council fire." I let it rest a while at that, casting about for words to shape a hungrier question. "Have you no news?" I asked, at length. "Little or none," he answered shortly. "But you have had some word--some news--from Appleby Hundred?" I stammered feebly. "Nothing you'd care to hear," he rejoined, evasively, I thought. "'Tis as you left it, save that Tarleton whipped away to the south again as suddenly as he came, and our cursing baronet has made the manor house his headquarters in fact, lodging himself and all his troop on Mr. Stair. From his lying quiet and keeping the Cherokees in tow, there will be some deviltry afoot, I'll warrant." I knew that Falconnet was waiting for the powder cargo, but another matter crowded this aside. "But--but Margery?" I queried, on sharpest tenter-hooks to know how much or little he had heard. I thought his brow darkened at the question, but mayhap it was only a shadow cast by the flickering fire. At any rate, he laughed hardily. "She is well--and well content, I dare swear. 'Twas only yesterday I saw her taking the air on the river road, with Falconnet for an escort. You told me once he had a sure hand with the women and it made me mad; but, truly, I have come to think you drew it mild, Jack." Now though I could ply a decent ready blade, or keep a firing line from lurching at a pinch, I had not learned to put a snaffle on a blundering tongue, as I have said before. "Damn him as you please, Dick, and he'll warrant it. But you must not judge the lady over harshly, nor always by appearances. She may have flouted you as a boyish lover, and yet I think--" I stopped in sheer bewilderment, shot through and through with keenest agonies of remorseful recollection. For at the moment I had clean forgot the gulf impassable I had set between these two. So I would have lapsed into shamed silence, but Jennifer would not suffer it. "Well, what is it that you think?" he demanded. "I think--nay, I may say I know that she thinks well of you, Dick," I blundered on, seeing no way to put him off. He gripped my hand, and in his eyes there was the light of the old love reawakening. "Don't lift me up to fling me down again, Jack! How can you know what she thinks of me?" he broke in, eagerly. I should have told him then all there was to tell. He had been thrice my savior, and his heart was soft and malleable on the side of friendship. I knew it--knew that the pregnant moment for full confession had arrived; and yet I could not force my tongue to shape the words. Indeed, I saw more clearly than before that never any word of mine could make him understand that I was not a faithless traitor in intention. So I paltered with the truth, like any wretched coward of them all. "You forget that I have come to know her well," I said. "I was a month or more under the same roof with her, and in that time she told me many things." Now, this witless speech was no better than a whip to flog him on. "What things?" he questioned, promptly. "Oh, many things. She spoke often of you." "What did she say of me, Jack? Tell me what she said," he begged. "It can make no difference now; she is less than nothing to me--nay,'tis even worse than that, since she would play Delilah if she could. But oh, Jack, I love her!--I should love her if I stood on the gallows and she stood by to spring the drop and turn me off!" Truly, if the lash of remorse had lacked its keenest thong, this passionate outburst of his would have added it. None the less, I must needs be weaker than water and fall back another step and put him off. "Another time, Richard. I am strangely unnerved and dizzy-headed now. By and by, when I am stronger, I will tell you all." Taking a reproach where none was meant, he sprang up with a self-aimed malison upon his lack of care for me, stirred the fire alive and brewed me a most delicious-smelling cup of broth. And afterward, when I had drunk the broth with some small beckonings of returning appetite, he spread his coat to screen me from the fire light and would have driven me to sleep again. "At any rate, you shall not talk," he promised. "If you are wakeful I will talk to you and tell you what little I have gleaned about the fighting." His news was chiefly a later repetition of Father Matthieu's and Captain Abram Forney's, but there was this to add: the Congress had appointed the Englishman, Horatio Gates, chief of the army in the South, and this new leader was on his way to take command. De Kalb, with the Maryland and Delaware lines and Colonel Armand's legion, was encamped on Deep River, waiting for the newly-appointed general; and Caswell and Griffith Rutherford, with the militia, were already pressing forward to some handgrips with my Lord Cornwallis in the South. Nearer at hand, the partizan war-fire flamed afresh wherever a Tory company met a patriot, and there were wicked doings, more like savage massacres than fair-fought battles of the soldier sort. When he had made an end of his small war budget, I set him on to tell me how he came to be at hand to help me so in the nick of time on the night of the cabin sack. "'Twas partly chance," he said. "A redcoat troop had me in durance at Jennifer House, and while they affected to hold me at parole, I never gave consent to that, and so was kept a prisoner. They shut me in the wine-bin with a guard, and when the fellow was well soaked and silly, I bound and gagged him and broke jail. I took the river for it, meaning to outlie until the hue and cry was over; and just at dusk Uncanoola dropped upon me and told me of your need. From that to helping him cut you out of your raffle with the Cherokees was but a hand's turn in the day's work." "A lucky turn for me," I said; and then at second thought I would deny the saying, though not for him to hear. But this was dangerous ground again, and I clawed off from it like a desperate mariner tempest-driven on a lee shore; asking him how he had learned the broadsword play, and where he got the antique claymore. He laughed heartily, and more like my care-free Dick, this time. "Thereby hangs a tale. I told you how I was out with the Minute Men in '76 at Moore's Creek, where we fought the Scotchmen. It was our first pitched battle, and I opine it smelled somewhat of severity on both sides--no quarter was asked, and the Tory MacDonalds fought like fiends for King George, small cause as they had to love the House of Hanover." "How was that?" I would ask, being as little familiar with the low country settlements as any native-born Carolinian could be. "They were expatriates for the Pretender's sake, many of them. Mistress Flora's husband was one of the prisoners we took. But, as I was saying, they were Tories to a man, and they fought wickedly. When it was over, the prisoners would have fared hardly but for a woman. In the thick of the fight, Mistress Mary Slocumb, of Dobbs, whose husband was with us, came storming down upon the field, having rode a-gallop some forty-odd miles because she dreamed her goodman was killed. She begged for the prisoners, and so Caswell hanged only those who were blood guilty--these and the house burners. A raw-boned piper named M'Gillicuddy fell to my lot, and he is now my majordomo at Jennifer House; as honest a fellow as ever skirled a pibroch." "That was like you," I said; "to make a friend and retainer out of your prisoner. And so this Highland piper has been your fencing master, has he?" "'Twas he taught me what little I know of the claymore play; and this stout old blade is his. 'Tis as good as a woodman's ax when you have the knack of swinging it." "Truly," said I. "Also, you seemed to have the knack, and the strength as well, in spite of the crippled arm you were carrying in a sling the night before when they haled you into Colonel Tarleton's court at Appleby." "A little ruse of war," he said, laughing and making a fist to show me his arm was strong and sound again. "'Twas M'Gillicuddy put me up to it, saying they would be like to deal the gentler with a wounded man. But how came you to know?" Here was another chance to tell him what he should be told, but the words would not say themselves. "I stood within arm's reach of you that night," said I; and from that I hastened swiftly through the story of my trial as a spy and what it came to in the morning, and never mentioned Margery's part in it at all. "You have a bitter enemy in Frank Falconnet," was his comment, when I had made an end of this recounting of my adventures. "He knows you are in hiding hereabouts, and has been scouring the neighborhood well for you--or, more belike, for both of us." "How do you know this?" I asked. "I have both seen and heard. This den of ours opens on the river's edge, and, two days since, his Indians came within an ace of nabbing me. 'Twas just at dusk, and I made out to dodge them by doubling past in the canoe." "But you say you have heard, as well?" "Yes." "How?" "Don't ask me, Jack." I said I had no right to ask more than he chose to tell; and at this he blurted out an oath and let me have the sharp-edged truth. "Falconnet has an ally whose wit is shrewder than his. Can you guess who it is?" "No." "'Tis this same Madge Stair you have been defending, Jack," he said, bitterly. "It seems that Falconnet made sure we had both gone to join the army, which was but natural. If she were less than the spiteful little Tory vixen that she is, she would have been content to let it rest so. But she would not let it rest so. With her own lips she assured Falconnet he still had us to reckon with; nay, more--she made a boast of it that we would never go so far away from her." Weak and fever-shaken as I was, I yet made shift to get upon my elbow feebly fierce, denouncing it hotly for a lie. "Who slandered her like this, Dick? Put a name to the cur, and as I live and get my strength again, I'll hunt him down and choke him with that lie!" "Nay," he objected soberly; "that would be my quarrel, were there ever a peg to hang a quarrel on. But it came by a sure hand, and one that is friendly enough to all concerned. An old free borderer, Ephraim Yeates by name, brought me the tale. He had been spying round at Appleby Hundred, wanting to know, for some purpose of his own, why the redcoats and Cherokees were hanging on so long; and this much he overheard one night when he was outlying under the window of the withdrawing-room. He says she was in a pretty passion at the baronet's slackness, stamping her foot at him and lashing him with the taunt that he was afeard of one or both of us." I fell back on the bearskins to shut my eyes and call up all the might of love to grapple with this fresh misery. It was in this fierce conflict of faith against apparent fact that I descried the parting of the ways for the lover and the husband. Jennifer believed this most incredible thing, and yet he loved her--would go on loving her, as he had said, in spite of all. That was the lover's road, and I could never bear him company on it. Could I believe her so pitiless cruel as this, I made sure no husband-love could live beyond that moment of conviction. But at this perilous pass the husband's road ran truer than the lover's. Richard believed her capable of this hard-hearted thing and went on loving her blindly in spite of it. But as for me, I said I would never give belief an inch of standing-room; that had I stood in Ephraim Yeates's shoes, having the witness of my own eyes and ears, I would still have found excuse and exculpation for her. I stole a glance at Jennifer. He was sitting with his face in his hands, a silent figure of a strong man humbled. He had called her a Delilah, and the green withes of her binding cut sore into the flesh. "You say you love her, Dick; can you believe her capable of this, and yet go on loving her?" I asked. He let me see his face. It was haggard and grief-marred. "I'd pay the devil's own price could I say 'no' to that, Jack. But I can not." "Then I swear I love her better than you do, Richard Jennifer. She hates me well--God knows she has good cause to hate me fiercely; yet I would trust her with my life." I looked to see him pin me down at this; and though the words had fairly shaped and said themselves, I laid fast hold of my courage and was prepared to make them good. But he would only smile and draw the bearskin cover over me, tucking me in as tenderly as a mother, and saying very gently: "So she has bewitched you, too; and now there are two poor fools of love instead of one. But you are stronger than I, Jack. You will break the spell and put it down and live beyond it, and that I never shall--God help me!" And with that, he went to his own bed beside the fire, telling me I must lie quiet and try to sleep. I did lie quiet, but sleep came not, nor did I woo it. For long past the time when I could hear his measured breathing, I lay awake to plan how I might draw the baronet's man-hunt to myself, and so free my loyal Richard of the peril that by rights was mine. XVII SHOWING HOW LOVE TOOK TOLL OF FRIENDSHIP For some few days after Jennifer's narrow escape at the entrance to our hiding place, the Cherokees were hot upon our scent, quartering the forest on both banks of the river, determined, as it seemed, to hunt or starve us out. It was in this time of siege that I came to know, as I had not known before, the depth and tenderness of my dear lad's love for me. While the life-tide was at its ebb and I was querulous and helpless weak, he was my leech and nurse and heartening friend in one. And later, when the tide was fairly turned and I had found my soldier's appetite again, he spent many of the nights abroad and never let me guess what risks he ran to fetch me dainties from the outer world. In this night raiding no danger was too great to hold him back from serving me. Once, when we were washing down our evening meal of meat and maize cake with plain cold water, I mourned the good wine idling in its bin at Jennifer House. At that, without a word to me, he took the whole night for a perilous adventure and fetched a dozen bottles of the Jennifer port to make me choke and strangle at the thought of what its bringing had cost in toil and hazard. Another time I spoke of English beef, saying how it would rebuild a man at need--how it had made the English soldier what he is. Whereupon, as before, my loving forager took a hint where none was intended; was gone the night long, and slaughtered me some Tory yearling,--'twas Mr. Gilbert Stair's, I mistrusted, though Dick would never name the owner, and so I had a sirloin to my breakfast. In these and many other ways he spent himself freely for love of me. If he had been a younger brother of my own blood the common parentage could not have made him tenderer. 'Twas not the mere outgushing of a nature open-armed to make a bosom friend of all the world; nor any feminine softness on his part. If I have drawn him thus my pen is but a clumsy quill, for he was manly-rough and masterful, with all the native strength and vigor of the border-born. But on the side of love and friendship no woman ever had a truer heart, a keener eye or a lighter hand. And in a service for friend or mistress he would spend himself as recklessly as those old knights you read about who made a business of their chivalry. With his daily offerings of unselfishness to shame me, you may be sure that I was flayed alive; self-flogged like a miserable monk, with all the woundings of the whip well salted by remorse. As you have guessed, I had not yet summoned up the courage to tell him how I had staked his chance of happiness upon a casting of the die of fate--staked and lost it. Now that it was gone, I saw how I had missed the golden opportunity; how I had weakly hesitated when delay could only make the telling harder. By tacit consent we never spoke of Margery. Richard's silence hung upon despair, I thought; and as for mine, since the husband's road and the lover's lay so far apart, I could not bring myself to speak of her. But she was always first in my thoughts in that time of convalescence, as I made sure she was in his; and at the last the hidden thing between us was brought to light. It was on a night some three weeks or more after my fever turn. Our larder had run low again, and Jennifer had spent the earlier hours of the night abroad--to little purpose, as it chanced. 'Twas midnight or thereabouts when he came swearing in to tell me that the Tories were out again to harry our side of the river afresh, and to make a refugee's begging of a bag of meal a thing of peril. "They'll starve us out in shortest measure at this rate," he prophesied. "They have trampled down all the standing corn for miles around, and this morning they burned the mill. 'Tis our notice to quit, and we'd best take it. There has been fighting to the south of us--a plenty of it--at Rocky Mount and Hanging Rock, and elsewhere, and every man is needed. If you are strong enough to stand the march, we'll run the gantlet down the river in the pirogue and cut across from the lower ford to join Major Davie or Mr. Gates." I said I was fit enough, and would do whatever he thought best. And then I took a step upon the forbidden ground. "Falconnet is still at Appleby Hundred?" I said. He nodded. "And you will join the army at the front and leave Margery to his tender mercies?" His laugh was bitter; so bitter that I scarce knew it for Richard Jennifer's. "Mistress Margery Stair is well, and well content, as I told you once before. She has no wish for you or me, unless it be to see us well hanged." "Nay, Richard; you judge her over-harshly. I fear you do not love her as her lover should." "Say you so? Listen: to-night I got as far as the manor house, being fool enough to risk my neck for another sight of her. God help me, Jack! I had it. They have scraped together all the Tory riff-raff this side of the river--Falconnet and the others--and are holding high revel at Appleby. Since it is still our true-blue borderland, they are scant enough of women of their own kidney, and I saw Madge dancing like any light o' love with every jackanapes that offered." "In her father's house she could not well do less," I averred, cut to the heart, as he was, and yet without his younger lover's jealousy to make me unjust. "Or more," he added, savagely. "'Tis as I say; she lacks nothing we can give her, and we'd as well be off about our business." I think he never had it in his heart to leave her in any threat of danger. But from his point of view there was no danger threatening her save that which she seemed willing enough to rush upon--a life of titled misery as Lady Falconnet. I saw how he would see it; saw, too, that his was the saner summing of it up. And yet-- He broke into my musings with a pointed question. "What say you, Jack? 'Tis but a little whiffet of a Tory jade who cares not the snap of her finger for either of us. The night is fine and dark. Shall we float the canoe and give them all the slip?" This was how it came to turn upon a "yes" or "no" of mine. I hesitated, I know not why. In the little pause the fire burned low between us, and the shadows deepened in the burrow cavern until they strangled the eye as mephitic vapors scant a man of breath. The silence, too, was stifling. There was no sound to breach it save the gurgling murmur of the river, and this was subdued and intermittent like the death-rattle in the throat of the dying. I've always made a scoff of superstition, and yet, my dears, a thousand questions in this life of ours must hang answerless to the crack of doom if you deny it standing-room. I knew no more than I have set down here of Margery's besetment; nay, I had every reason Richard Jennifer had to believe that she was well and well content, lacking nothing, save, mayhap, the freedom to marry where she chose. And yet, out of the stifling silence there came a sudden cry for help; a cry voiceless to the outward ear, but sharp and piercing to that finer inward sense; a cry so real that I would start and listen, marveling that Jennifer made no sign of having heard it. In the harkening instant there was a faint twang like the thrumming of a distant harp string, and then the grave-like silence was rent smartly by the whistling hiss of an arrow, the shaft passing evenly between us and scattering the handful of fire where it struck. Jennifer came alive with a start, leaping up with a malediction between his teeth upon our dallying. "Too late, by God!" he cried. "They've trapped us like a pair of blind moles!" And with that he caught up the ancient broadsword, only to swear again when he found no room to swing it in. Having the handier weapon, I slipped out before him, creeping on hands and knees till I could see the leafy screen at the den's mouth, and the shimmering reflection of the stars upon the water beyond it. There was no sight nor sound of any enemy, and the canoe lay safe as Jennifer had left it. To make assurance sure, I would have scrambled to the bank above; but at the moment Jennifer hallooed softly to me, and so I crept back into the burrow. "See here," he said, excitedly. "What a devil will you make of this?" He had drawn the scattered embers together, fanning them ablaze again, and had sought and found the arrow. It was a blunt-head reed and no war shaft. And around the middle of it, tightly wrapped and tied with silken threads, was a little scroll of parchment. "'Tis the Catawba's arrow," said Jennifer, though how he knew I could not guess; and then he cut the threads to free the scroll. Unrolled and spread at large, the parchment proved to be that map of Captain Stuart's that I had found and lost again. And on the margin of it was my note to Jennifer, written in that trying moment when the bribed sentry waited at the door and my sweet lady stood trembling beside me, murmuring her "Holy Marys." "Read it," said I. "It explains itself. Tarleton had laid me by the heels to wait for the hangman, and I would have passed the word about the Indian-arming on to you. But my messenger was overhauled, and--" "Yes, yes," he broke in; "I've spelled it out. But this line added at the bottom--surely, that is never your crabbed fist. By heaven! 'tis in Madge's hand!" He knelt to hold it closer to the flickering firelight, and we deciphered it together. It was but a line, as he had said, with neither greeting nor leave-taking, address nor signature. "If this should come into the hands of any true-hearted gentleman"--here was a blot as if the pen had slipped from the fingers holding it; and then, in French, the very wording of the inarticulate cry that had come to me out of the darkness and silence: "_A moi! pour l'amour de Dieu!_" We fell apart, each to his own side of the handful of embers. "You make it out?" said I, after a moment of strained silence. He nodded. "She has prattled the parlez-vous to me ever since we were boy and maid together." A full minute more of the threatening silence, and at the end of it we were glaring at each other like two wild creatures crouching for the spring. It was Jennifer who spoke first. "'Twas meant for me," he said; and his voice had the warning of a mastiff's growl in it. "No!" said I, curtly. "I say it was!" "Then you say the thing which is not." Had I been Richard Jennifer, I know not what bitter reproach I should have found to hurl at the man who had thrice owed his life to me. But he said no word of what had gone before. "You may give me the lie, if you like, John Ireton; I shall not strike you." He said it slowly, but his face was gray with anger. Then he added, hotly: "You know well that word was meant for me!" At this--God forgive me!--my jealous wrath broke bounds and I cursed him for a beardless coxcomb who must needs think he stood alone in the eye of every woman he should meet. "She needs a man!" I raged, lost now to every sense of decent justice, "a man, I say! And to whom would she send if not to her--" I choked upon the word. He had risen with me, and we stood face to face in that grim earth-womb, snarling fiercely at each other across the narrow firelit space; two men with every tie to knit us close together, and yet--God save us all!--a pair of wild beasts strung up to the killing pitch because, forsooth, we must needs front each other across a deadline drawn by the finger of a woman! God knows what would have come of all this had my dear lad been as fierce a fool as I. 'Twas his good common sense that saved us both, I think, for when the savage rival madness was at its height he turned away, swearing we were the very pick and choice of a world of asses to stand thus feeling for each other's throats when, mayhap, the lady needed both of us. This brought me to my senses at a gallop, as you would guess; to them and to the lighting of the conscience fire within whereon to grill the wicked heart that but now had thirsted for a brother's blood. "Now God have mercy on us both!" I groaned. "Forgive me, Dick, if you can; I was as mad as any Bedlamite. If I have any claim on her, 'tis not of her good will, you may be sure. You have the baronet to fear--not me." He shook his head and pointed to the parchment--to the line in French. "Francis Falconnet was under the same roof with her--or at least in easy call--when she wrote that, Jack. He is no longer my rival--nor yours." His word set me thinking, and I would fall to picking out the strands that jealous wrath had woven for me into the web of happenings. Setting aside the story brought by Ephraim Yeates, there was no certain proof that she had ever favored the Englishman; nay, more, till I had come to be madly jealous of Falconnet, I had made sure that Jennifer was the favored one. At this, as one sees a landscape struck out clear and vivid by the lightning's flash, I saw the true meaning of the word the hunter had brought--saw it and went upon my knees to grope blindly for the sword I had let fall when Dick had found the arrow. "What is it, Jack?" he asked, gently. "My sword!" I gasped. "We should have been half-way there by this. Yeates was misled. 'Tis Falconnet she fears. She was at bay--hark you, at bay and fair desperate. That word of hers to the baronet was her poor pitiful defiance built on her trust in us, and we have lain here--" He found the sword and thrust it into my hand, crying: "Come on! You can strew the dust and ashes on me later. You said you loved her the better, and I do believe it now, Jack! You trusted her, as I did not. We'll fight as one man to cut her out of this coil, whatever it may be; and after that is done I'll make my bow and leave you a fair field." "Nay, nay; that you shall not, Dick," I began; but he was half-way through the narrow passage to the open, trailing the ancient broadsword and the bearskin from his bed; and I was fain to follow quickly, leaving the protest all unfinished. XVIII IN WHICH WE HEAR NEWS FROM THE SOUTH As near as might be guessed, it wanted yet an hour or two of daybreak when we made a landing within the boundaries of Appleby Hundred, and beached and hid the pirogue in the bushes. Of the down-stream flitting through the small hours of the warm midsummer night there is no sharp-etched picture on the memory page. As I recall it, no spoken word of Jennifer's or mine came in to break the rhythm of the hasting voyage. Our paddles rose and fell, dipping and sweeping in unison as if we two, kneeling in bow and stern, were separate halves of some relentless mechanism driven by a single impulse. Overhead the starlit dome circled solemnly to the right or left to match the windings of the stream. On each hand the tree-fringed shores sped backward in the gloom; and beneath the light shell of poplar wood that barely kissed the ripples in passing, the river lapped and gurgled, chuckling weirdly at the paddle plungings, and swirling aft in the longer reaches to point at us down the lengthening wake with a wavering finger silver-tipped in the wan starlight. With the canoe safely hidden at the landing place, which was some little distance from that oak grove where I had twice kept tryst with death, we set out for the manor house, skulking Indian fashion through the wood; and, when we reached the in-fields, looking momently to come upon a sentry. Thinking the approaches from the road and river would be better guarded than that from the wood, we skirted a widespread thicket tangle, spared by my father twenty years before to be a grouse and pheasant cover, and fetching a compass of half a mile or more across the maize fields, came in among the oaks and hickories of the manor grounds. Still there was no sight nor sound of any enemy; no light of candles at the house, or of camp-fires beneath the trees. A little way within the grove, where the interlacing tree-tops made the darkness like Egyptian night, Jennifer went on all fours to feel around as if in search of something on the sward. Whereat I called softly to know what he would be at. He rose, muttering, half as to himself: "I thought I'd never be so far out of reckoning." Then to me: "A few hours since, the Cherokees were encamped just here. You are standing in the ashes of their fire." "So?" said I. "Then they have gone?" "Gone from this safely enough, to be sure. They have been gone some hours; the cinders are cold and dew wet." "So much the better," I would say, thinking only that now there would be the fewer enemies to fight. He clipt my arm suddenly, putting the value of an oath into his gripping of it. "Come awake, man; this is no time to be a-daze!" His whisper was a sharp behest, with a shake of the gripped arm for emphasis. "If the Indians are gone, it means that the powder train has come and gone, too." "Well?" said I. I was still thinking, with less than a clod's wit, that this would send the baronet captain about his master's business, and so Margery would have surcease of him for a time, at least. But Jennifer fetched me awake with another whip-lash word or two. "Jack! has the night's work gone to your head? If Falconnet has got his marching orders you may be sure he's tried by hook or crook to play 'safe bind, safe find,' with Madge. By heaven! 'twas that she was afeard of, and we are here too late! Come on!" With that he faced about and ran; and forgetting to loose his grip on my arm, took me with him till I broke away to have my sword hand free. So running, we came presently to the open space before the house, and, truly, it was well for us that the place was clean deserted; for by this we had both forgot the very name of prudence. Jennifer outran me to the door by half a length, and fell to hammering fiercely on the panel with the pommel of his broadsword. "Open! Mr. Stair; open!" he shouted, between the batterings; but it was five full minutes before the fan-light overhead began to show some faint glimmerings of a candle coming from the rooms beyond. Richard rested at that, and in the pause a thin voice shrilled from within. "Be off, you runagates! Off, I say! or I fire upon ye through the door!" Giving no heed to the threat, Dick set up his clamor again, calling out his name, and bidding the old man open to a friend. In some notching of the hubbub I heard the unmistakable click of a gun-flint on steel. There was barely time to trip my reckless batterer and to fall flat with him on the door-stone when a gun went off within, and a handful of slugs, breaching the oaken panel at the height of a man's middle, went screeching over us. Before I knew what he would be at, Richard was up with an oath, backing off to hurl himself, shoulder on, against the door. It gave with a splintering crash, letting him in headlong. I followed less hastily. It was as black as a setter's mouth within, the gun fire having snuffed the old man's candle out. But we had flint and steel and tinder-box, and when the punk was alight, Jennifer found the candle under foot and gave it me. It took fire with a fizzing like a rocket fuse, and was well blackened with gunpowder. When the flint had failed to bring the firing spark, the old man had set his piece off with the candle flame. We found him in the nook made by the turn of the stair, flung thither, as it seemed, by the recoil of the great bell-mouthed blunderbuss which he was still clutching. The fall had partly stunned him, but he was alive enough to protest feebly that he would take a dozen oaths upon his loyalty to the cause; that he had mistook us for some thieving marauders of the other side; craftily leaving cause and party without a name till he should have his cue from us. Whereupon Richard loosed his neckcloth to give him better breathing space, and bidding me see if the revelers had left a heel-tap of wine in any bottle nearer than the wine cellar, lifted the old man and propped him in the corner of the high-backed hall settle. The wine quest led me to the banqueting-room. Here disorder reigned supreme. The table stood as the roisterers had left it; the very wreck and litter of a bacchanalian feast. Bottles, some with the necks struck off, were scattered all about, and the floor was stained and sticky with spilt wine and well sanded with shattered glass. I found a remnant draining in one of the broken bottles, and a cup to pour it in; and with this salvage from the wreck returned to Jennifer and his charge. The old man had come to some better sensing of things,--he had been vastly more frightened than hurt, as I suspected,--and to Richard's eager questionings was able to give some feebly querulous replies. "Yes, they're gone--all gone, curse 'em; and they've taken every plack and bawbee they could lay their thieving hands upon," he mumbled. "'Tis like the dogs; to stay on here and eat and drink me out of house and home, and then to scurry off when I'm most like to need protection." "But Madge?" says Richard. "Is she safe in bed?" "She's a jade!" was all the answer he got. Then the old man sat up and peered around the end of the settle to where I stood, cup and bottle in hand. "'Tis a Christian thought," he quavered. "Give me a sup of the wine, man." I served him and had a Scottish blessing for my wastefulness, because, forsooth, the broken bottle spilt a thimbleful in the pouring. I saw he did not recognize me, and was well enough content to let it rest thus. Richard suffered him to drink in peace, but when the cup was empty he renewed his asking for Margery. At this the master of the house, heartened somewhat by my father's good madeira, made shift to get upon his feet in some tremulous fashion. "Madge, d'ye say? She's gone; gone where neither you nor that dour-faced deevil that befooled us all will find her soon, I promise you, Dickie Jennifer!" he snapped; and I gave them my back and stumbled blindly to the door, making sure his next word would tell my poor wronged lad all that he should have learned from never any other lips but mine own. But Richard himself parried the impending stroke of truth, saying: "So she is safe and well, Mr. Stair, 'tis all I ask to know." "She is safe enough; safer by far than you are at this minute, my young cock-a-hoop rebel, now that the king--God save him!--has his own again." I turned quickly on the broad door-stone to look within. Out of doors the early August dawn was graying mistily overhead, but in the house the sputtering tallow dip still struggled feebly with the gloom. They stood facing each other, these two, my handsome lad, the pick and choice of a comely race, looking, for all his toils and vigils, fresh and fit; and the old man in his woolen dressing-gown, his wig awry, and his lean face yellow in the candle-light. "How is that you say, Mr. Stair?" says Dick. "The king--but that is only the old Tory cry. There will never be a king again this side of the water." The old man reached out and hooked a lean finger in the lad's buttonhole. "Say you so, Richard Jennifer? Then you will never have heard the glorious news?" This with a leer that might have been of triumph or the mere whetting of gossip eagerness--I could not tell. "No," says Richard, with much indifference. "Hear it, then. 'Twas at Camden, four days since. They came together in the murk of the Wednesday morning, my Lord Cornwallis and that poor fool Gates. De Kalb is dead; your blethering Irishman, Rutherford, is captured; and your rag-tag rebel army is scattered to the four winds. And that's not all. On the Friday, Colonel Tarleton came up with Sumter at Fishing Creek and caught him napping. Whereupon, Charlie McDowell and the over-mountain men, seeing all was lost, broke their camp on the Broad and took to their heels, every man jack of them for himself. So ye see, Dickie Jennifer, there's never a cursed corporal's guard left in either Carolina to stand in the king's way." He rattled all this off glibly, like a child repeating some lesson got by heart; but when I would have found a grain of comfort in the hope that it was a farrago of Falconnet's lies, Jennifer made the truth appear in answer to a curt question. "'Tis beyond doubt?--all this, Mr. Stair?" The old loyalist--loyalist now, if never certainly before--sat down on the settle and laughed; a dry wizened cackle of a laugh that sounded like the crumpling of new parchment. "You'd best be off, light foot and tight foot, Master Richard, lest you learn shrewdly for yourself. 'Tis in everybody's mouth by this. There were some five-and-forty of the king's friends come together here no longer ago than yestere'en to drink his Majesty's health, and eh, man! but it will cost me a pretty penny! Will that satisfy ye?" "Yes," said Jennifer, thinking, mayhap, as I did, that nothing short of gospel-true news would have sufficed to unlock this poor old miser's wine cellar. "Well, then; you'd best be off while you may; d'ye hear? I bear ye no ill-will, Richard Jennifer; and if Mr. Tarleton lays hold of you, you'll hang higher than Haman for evading your parole, I promise you. We'll say naught about this rape of the door-lock, though 'tis actionable, sir, and I'll warn you the law would make you smart finely for it. But we'll enter a _nolle prosequi_ on that till you're amnestied and back, then you can pay me the damage of the broken lock and we'll cry quits." At this my straightforward Richard snorted in wrathful derision. However much he loved the daughter, 'twas clear he had small regard for the father. "Seeing we came to do you a service, Mr. Stair, I think we may set the blunderbuss and the handful of slugs over against the smashed door. And that fetches me back to our errand here. You say Madge is safe. Does that mean that you have spirited her away since last night?" "Dinna fash yoursel' about Madge, Richard Jennifer. She's meat for your betters, sir!" rasped the old man, lapsing into the mother tongue, as he did now and then in fear or anger. "Still I would know what you mean when you say she is safe," says Richard, whose determination to crack a nut was always proportioned to the hardness of the shell. Gilbert Stair cursed him roundly for an impertinent jackanapes, and then gave him his answer. "'Tis none of your business, Dickie Jennifer, but you may know and be hanged to you! She rode home with the Witherbys last night after the rout, and will be by this safe away in t'other Carolina where your cursed Whiggeries darena lift head or hand." "Of her own free will?" Dick persisted. "Damme! yes; bag, baggage, serving wench and all. Now will you be off about your business before some spying rascal lays an information against me for harboring you?" Richard joined me on the door-stone. The dawn was in its twilight now, and the great trees on the lawn were taking gray and ghostly shapes in the dim perspective. "You heard what he had to say?" said he. I nodded. "It seems we have missed our cue on all sides," he went on, not without bitterness. "I would we might have had a chance to fire a shot or two before the ship went down." "At Camden, you mean? That's but the beginning; the real battles are all to be fought yet, I should say." He shook his head despondently. "You are a newcomer, Jack, and you know not how near outworn the country is. Gilbert Stair has the right of it when he says there will be nothing to stop the redcoats now." I called to mind the resolute little handful under Captain Abram Forney, one of many such, he had told me, and would not yield the point. "There will be plenty of fighting yet, and we must go to bear a hand where it is needed most," said I. "Where will that be, think you? At Charlotte?" He looked at me reproachfully. "This time 'tis you who are the laggard in love, John Ireton. Will you go and leave Mistress Margery wanting an answer to her poor little cry for help?" I shrugged. "What would you? Has she not taken her affair into her own hands?" "God knows how much or little she has had to say about it," said he. "But I mean to know, too, before I put my name on any company roll." We were among the trees by this, moving off for safety's sake, since the day was coming; and he broke off short to wheel and face me as one who would throttle a growling cur before it has a chance to bite. "We know the worst of each other now, Jack, and we must stand to our compact. Let us see her safe beyond peradventure of a doubt; then I'm with you to fight the redcoats single-handed, if you like. I know what you will say--that the country calls us now more than ever; but there must needs be some little rallying interval after all this disaster, and--" "Have done, Richard," said I. "Set the pace and mayhap I can keep step with you. What do you propose?" "This; that we go to Witherby Hall and get speech with Mistress Madge, if so be--" "Stay a moment; who are these Witherbys?" "A dyed-in-the-wool Tory family seated some ten miles across the line in York district. True, 'tis a rank Tory hotbed over there, and we shall run some risk." "Never name risk to me if you love me, Richard Jennifer!" I broke in. "What is your plan?" His answer was prompt and to the point. "To press on afoot through the forest till we come to the York settlement; then to borrow a pair of Tory horses and ride like gentlemen. Are you game for it?" I hesitated. "I see no great risk in all this, and whatever the hazard, 'tis less for one than for two. You'd best go alone, Richard." He saw my meaning; that I would stand aside and let him be her succor if she needed help. But he would not have it so. "No," he said, doggedly. "We'll go together, and she shall choose between us for a champion, if she is in the humor to honor either of us. That is what 'twill come to in the end; and I warn you fairly, John Ireton, I shall neither give nor take advantage in this strife. I said last night that I would stand aside, but that I can not--not till she herself says the killing word with her own lips." "And that word will be--?" "That she loves another man. Come; let us be at it; we should be well out of this before the plantation people are astir." XIX HOW A STUMBLING HORSE BROUGHT TIDINGS Having a definite thing to do, we set about it forthwith, taking to the fields and making a wide circuit around the manor house and the quarters where the blacks were already stirring, to come out to the river and so to cross in our canoe. The morning, soft and warm enough, threatened now to break the fair weather promise of the starlit night. Away in the east a heavy cloud bank curtained off the sunrise, and in the fields the few dry maize blades left by the partizan harriers were whispering to the gusts. In the great forest all was yet dim and shadowy, and silent as the grave but for the whispering murmur of the rising wind in the higher tree-tops; a sound so like the babbling of brooks as most cunningly to deceive the ear and make it set the eye at work to look for water where there was none. Not to take a certain hazard for the sake of better speed, we shunned the road, and for the first hour or so were not greatly hindered by keeping to the forest paths. In vast areas this virgin wood was free of undergrowth, open and park-like as a well-kept grove. Fireside tradition on the border tells how the Indians kept the forest clear by yearly burnings of the smaller growth; this for the better hunting of the deer. I vouch, not for the truth of this accounting for the fact, but for the fact itself. For endless miles between the watercourses these park-like stretches covered hill and dale; a vast mysterious temple of God's own building, its naves and choirs and transepts columned by the countless trees, with all their leafy crowns to interlace and form the groined arches overhead. Through these pillared aisles we tramped abreast, shunning the road, as I have said, yet holding it parallel with our course where its direction served. In the open vistas we had frequent glimpses of it, winding, at feud with all the points of the compass, among the trees. But farther on we came into the lower land of a creek bottom, and here a thickset undergrowth robbed us of any view and made the march a toilsome struggle with the bushes. It was in the densest of this underwood, when we could hear the purring of the stream ahead, that Jennifer stopped suddenly and began to sniff the air. "Smoke," he said, briefly, in answer to my query. "A camp-fire, with meat abroil. Never tell me you can't smell it." I said I could not--did not, at all events. "Then you are not as sharp set for breakfast as I am. Call up your woodcraft and we'll stalk it." And, suiting the action to the word, he dropped noiselessly on hands and knees to inch his way cautiously out of the thicket. I followed at his heels, marveling at his skill in threading the maze with never a snapped twig to betray him. For though I have called him a youthling, he came of great, square-shouldered English stock, and was well upon fourteen stone for weight. Yet upon occasion, as now, he could be as lithe and cat-like as an Indian, stealthy in approach and tiger-strong to spring. In due time our creeping progress brought us out of the thicket on the brink of the higher creek bank. Just here the stream ran in a shallow ravine with shelving banks of clay, and on its hither margin was a bit of grassy intervale big enough for a horse to roll upon. Though it was sadly out of season, the carcass of a deer, fresh killed, hung upon a branch of the nearest tree, with a rifle leaning against the trunk as if to guard it. In the middle of the bit of sward a tiny camp-fire burned; and at the fire, squatting with their backs to us and each toasting a cut of the deer's meat on a forked stick, were two men. One of these men would pass by courtesy as a white. His hunting-shirt and leggings were of deer skin, well grimed and greasy, with leather fringes at the seams of leg and sleeve. For all the summer heat, he wore a cap fashioned of raccoon-skin with the fur on; and for this great cap his iron-gray hair, matted and unkempt, served as a fringe to keep the other tasselings in countenance. The hunting-shirt was belted at the waist, and in the belt was thrust a sheathless knife huge enough to serve a butcher's purpose. From two leather thongs crossed upon his shoulders hung the powder-horn and bullet-pouch; and these, with the knife and rifle, summed up his accoutrements. The other was a red man, and his attire was simpler. Like all our southern Indians, he went naked to the waist; but the savage's love of ornament showed forth in the fringe of colored porcupine quills on his leggings and in his raven hair bestuck with feathers. For arms he had an arsenal in his belt; two great pistols, a tomahawk, and the scalping-knife, this last smaller than the white man's carving tool, but far more vicious looking. For a moment or two we crouched irresolute on the brink of the ravine, neither of us recognizing the two below. Then my young rashling must needs let out a yell. "Now, by all that's lucky!" he cried, and would have leaped to his feet. But at the instant the earth-edge gave way under him, and he was sent tumbling with the small landslide of clay down upon the twain at the fire. It went within a trembling hair's-breadth of a tragedy. The two at the fire sprang up as one man; and the bound that set the hunter afoot brought his long rifle to his shoulder. But that the Indian was the quicker, Richard's life would have paid the penalty of his slip, I think. At the trigger-pulling instant the Catawba thrust the thick of his hand between stone and steel, and the flint bit, harmless for Jennifer, into the palm of the Indian. "Wah!" he ejaculated, in his soft guttural. "No want kill Captain Jennif', hey?" Ephraim Yeates lowered his weapon and released the pinched hand held fast by the gun-flint. "Well, I'm daddled, fair and square, Cap'n Dick!" he declared. "Jest one more shake of a dead lamb's tail, and I'd 'a' had ye on my mind, sartain sure! I allowed ye knowed better than to come whammling down that-away behint a man whilst he's a-cooking his ven'son." Dick laughed and called to me to follow as I could. And his answer to the old borderer was no answer at all. "'Tis to be hoped you and the chief don't mean to be niddering with that deer's meat. We were guessing but a half-hour back, Captain Ireton and I, whether or no we'd have to take up belt-slack for our breakfast." At the word the Catawba whipped out his knife and fell to work hospitably on the meat supply. Meanwhile I came upon the scene, something less hurriedly than Richard. Ephraim Yeates looked me up and down with a sniff for my foreign-cut coat, another for my queue, and a third for the German ritter-boots I wore. "Umph!" said he. "Now if here ain't that there dad-blame' Turkey-fighter again! What almighty cur'is things the good Lord do let loose on a stiff-necked and rebellious gineration!" Then to me, most pointedly: "Say, Cap'n; the big woods ain't no fitting place for such as you, ez I allow. Ye mought be getting them purty boots o' your'n all tore up on the briars." He ended with a dry little laugh not unlike Mr. Gilbert Stair's parchment crackle; and, being his guest for the nonce, I laughed with him. "Have your joke and welcome, Mr. Yeates," said I. "I am too near famished to quarrel with my chance of breakfast." Much to my astoundment he flung his raccoon-skin cap into the air, spat upon his hands and began that insane war-dance of his. "Whoop!" he yelled. "No band-box dandy from the settlemints ever sot out to call me 'Mister' and got away alive to brag on't! Ketch hold, you infergotten, Turkey-fighting, silver-buttoned jack-a-dandy till I dip ye in the creek and soak a flour-ration 'r two out 'n that there pig-tail top-knot o' your'n! _Yip-pee!_" By this Jennifer was trying, as well as a man bent double with laughter might, to interpose in the interest of peace and amity; and even the stoical Catawba was all a-grin. So, seeing I was like to lose countenance with all of them, I watched my chance, and closing with my capering ancient, gave him a hearty wrestler's hug. For all he was so gaunt and thin, and full twenty years or more my senior, he was a pretty handful. 'Twas much like trying to catch a fall out of some piece of steel-wired mechanism. None the less, after some wild stampings and strivings in which the old man all but made good his promise to put me in the creek, I took him unawares with a Cornishman's trick--a cross-buttock shifted suddenly to a shoulder-lift--which sent him flying overhead to land all abroad in the soft clay of the landslide. The effect of this little triumph was magical and wholly unlooked for. When he had gathered himself and set his limbs in order, Ephraim Yeates sat up and thrust out a claw-like hand. "Put it there, stranger," he said. "I reckon ez how that settles it. Old Eph Yeates'll share fair, powder and lead, parched corn _and_ pan-meat with the man that can flop him that-away. Whilst ye're a-needing a friend in the big woods--a raw-meat-eating Injun-skinner that can jest or'narily whop his weight in wildcats--why, old Eph's your man; from now on, _if_ not sooner." And in this wise began an alliance the like of which, for true-blue loyalty on this old borderer's part, these colder-hearted times of yours, my dears, will never see. As you would guess, I gripped the hand of pledging most heartily, pulling the old man to his feet and protesting it was but a trick he would never let another play on him. And then we four fell upon the deer's meat which was by this time--not cooked, to be sure, but seared a little on the outside in true hunter fashion. While we ate, Richard spoke freely of our intendings; and in return Ephraim Yeates was able to confirm Mr. Gilbert Stair's war news to the letter. For all his Tory bias and prejudice, it seemed that Margery's father had spoken by the book. Gates' army was crushed and scattered to the four winds; Thomas Sumter's free-lances had been attacked, worsted and driven, with the leader himself so sorely wounded that he was carried from the field in a blanket slung between the horses of two of his men; and, as was to be expected, the Tories were up and arming in all the north country. Truly, the prospect was most gloomy and the outlook for the patriot cause was to the full as desperate as King George himself could wish. "But you, Ephraim, and the chief, here; are you two running away like all the others?" Richard would ask. The old hunter growled his denial between the mouthfuls of scarce-warmed meat. "I reckon ez how 'tis t'other way 'round; we're sort o' camping on the redcoats' trail, ez I allow. Ain't we, Chief, hey?" The Catawba's assent was a guttural "Wah!" and Ephraim Yeates went on to explain. "Ye see, 'tis this-away. You took a laugh out'n me, Cap'n Dick, for spying 'round on that there Britisher hoss-captain and his redskins; but 'long to'ards the last I met up with a thing 'r two wo'th knowing. 'Twas a powder and lead cargo they was a-waiting for; and they're allowing to sneak it through the mountings to the overhill Cherokees." "Well?" says Dick. The old man cut another slice of the venison and took his time to impale it on the forked toasting stick. "Well, then I says to the chief, here, says I, 'Chief, this here's our A-number-one chance to spile the 'Gyptians; get heap gun, heap powder, heap lead, heap scalp.' The chief, he says, 'Wah!'--which is good Injun-talk for anything ye like,--and so here we are, hot-foot on the trail o' that there hoss-captain and his powder varmints." "Alone?" said I, in sheer amazement at the brazen effrontery of this chase of half a hundred well-armed men by two. The old hunter chuckled his dry little laugh. "We ain't sich tarnation big fools ez we look, Cap'n John. There's a good plenty of 'em to wallop us, ez I'll allow, if it come to fighting 'em fair and square. But there'll be some dark night 'r other whenst we can slip up on 'em and raise a scalp 'r two and lift what plunder we can tote; hey, Chief?" But now Richard would inquire what time in the night the powder convoy left Appleby Hundred, and if Gilbert Stair's York District guests had traveled with it. To these askings Yeates made answer that Falconnet and his troop, with the Cherokee contingent, had taken the road at midnight, or thereabouts; and that the Witherbys, with Mistress Margery riding her own black mare, and her maid on a pillion behind a negro groom, had passed some two hours later. This was as we had hoped it might be; but when Dick's satisfaction would have set itself in words, the old hunter made a sudden sign for silence and quickly flung himself full length to lay his ear to the ground. Whereat we all began likewise to listen, but I, for one, heard nothing till Yeates said: "A hoss; a-taking the back track like old Jehu the son of Nimshi was a-giving him the whip and spur," and then we all marked the distant drumming of hoofbeats. The old borderer sprang afoot, kicked the fire into the stream, and caught up his rifle. "Let's be a-moving," he said. "We must make out to stop that there hoss-galloper at the ford and find out what-all he's a rip-snorting that-away for." The road crossing of the stream was but a little way above our breakfast camp; and we were out of the thicket in time to see the horseman, a negro clinging with locked arms to the neck of his mount, come tearing down to the ford. At sight of us, or else because he would not take the water at full speed, the horse reared, pawed the air, and fell clumsily, carrying his skilless rider with him. We picked the black up and soused him in the stream till he found his tongue; and the first wagging of that useful member gave us news to fire the blood in our veins--in Jennifer's and mine, at any rate. "Yah!" he screamed, choking out the muddy creek water that had well-nigh strangled him. "Yah! red debbil Injins kill ebberybody and tote off Mistis Marg'y and dat Jeanne 'ooman! Dat's what dey done!" XX IN WHICH WE STRIVE AS MEN TO RUN A RACE It was some time before the affrighted black could give us any connected account of what had befallen; and when at length the story was told, all save the principal fact of the carrying off of Mistress Margery and her maid was hazy enough. Pruned down to the simple statement of the fact, and with all the foolish terror chatterings weeded out, his news came to this: the party of homing revelers had been ambushed and waylaid at the fording of a creek some miles to the southward, and in the mellay the young mistress and her tire-woman had been captured. So far as any actual witness of the eye went, the negro had seen nothing. There had been a volley fire from the thicket-belly of black darkness, a swarming attack to a chorus of Indian yells, shouts from the men, shrieks from the women, confusion worse confounded in which the newsbearer himself had been unhorsed and trodden under foot. After which he knew no more till some one--his master, as he thought--kicked him alive and bade him mount and ride post-haste on the backward track to Appleby Hundred, crying the news as he went that Mistress Margery Stair and her maid had been kidnapped by the Indians. Pinned to the mark and questioned afresh, the slave could not affirm of his own knowledge that any one had been killed outright. Pinned again, it proved to be only a guess of his that the one who had given him his orders was his master. In the darkness and confusion he could make sure of nothing; had made sure of nothing save his own frenzy of terror and the wording of the message he carried. When we had quizzed him empty we hoisted him upon his beast and sent him once more a-gallop on the road to Appleby Hundred. That done, a hurried council of war was held in which we four fell apart, three against one. Jennifer was for instant pursuit, afoot and at top speed; and Ephraim Yeates and the Catawba, abandoning their own emprise apparently without a second thought, sided indifferently with him. For my part, I was for going back to prepare in decent order for a campaign which should promise something more hopeful than the probability of speedy exhaustion, starvation and failure. We grew hot upon it, Richard and I; he with a young lover's unrecking rashness, and I with an old campaigner's foresight to make me stubborn; and Ephraim Yeates and the Catawba drew aside and let us have it out. Dick argued angrily that time was the all-important item, and was not above taunting me bitterly, flinging the reproach of cold-blooded age in my face and swearing hotly that I knew not so much as the alphabet of love. The taunts were passed in silence, since I would set them over against the irrevocable wrong I had done him, saying in my heart that nothing he could say or do should again tempt me to give place to the devil of jealous wrath. But when he would give me space I set the hopelessness of pursuit, all unprepared as we were, in plainest speech. The chase might well be a long one, and we were but scantily armed and without provisions. The hunter's rifle must be our sole dependence for food, and in the summer heat we would be forced to kill daily. On the other hand, with horses, a bag of corn apiece, firearms and ammunition, we should be in some more hopeful case; and, notwithstanding the delay in starting, could make far better speed. For all the good it did I might have spared my pains and saved my breath. Jennifer broke me in the midst, crying out that I was even now killing the precious minutes; and so our ill-starred venture had its launching in the frenzied haste that seldom makes for speed. One small concession I wrung out of his impatience--this with the help of Yeates and the Catawba. We went back to the breakfast camp, rekindled the fire, and cooked what we could keep and carry of the venison. In spite of this delay it was yet early in the forenoon of that memorable Sunday, the twentieth of August, when we set our faces southward and took up the line of march to the ford of the ambushment. By now the sky was wholly overcast, and the wind was blowing fresher in the tree-tops; but though as yet the storm held off, the air was the cooler for the threatened rain and this was truly a blessing, since the old hunter put us keen upon our mettle to keep pace with him. We marched in Indian file, Ephraim Yeates in the lead, Uncanoola at his heels, and the two of us heavier-footed ones bringing up the rear. Knowing the wooded wilderness by length and breadth, the old man held on through thick and thin, straight as an arrow to the mark; and so we had never a sight of the road again till we came out upon it suddenly at the ford of violence. Here I should have been in despair for the lack of any intelligible hint to point the way; and I think not even Jennifer, with all his woodcraft, could have read the record of the onfall as Yeates and the Catawba did. But for all the overlapping tangle of moccasin and hoof prints neither of these men of the forest was at fault, though ten minutes later even their skill must have been baffled, inasmuch as the first few spitting raindrops were pattering in the tree-tops when we came upon the ground. "That's jest about what I was most afeard of," said the borderer, with a hasty glance skyward. "Down on your hunkers, Chief, and help me read this sign afore the good Lord takes to sending His rain on the jest and the unjest," and therewith these two fell to quartering all the ground like trained dogs nosing for a scent. We stood aside and watched them, Richard and I, realizing that we were of small account and should be until, perchance, it should come to the laying on of hearty blows. After the closest scrutiny, which took account of every broken twig and trampled blade of grass, this prolonged until the rain was falling smartly to wash out all the foot-prints in the dusty road, Yeates and the Indian gave over and came to join us under the sheltering branches of an oak. "'Tis a mighty cur'is sign; most mighty cur'is," quoth the hunter, slinging the rain-drops from his fur cap and emptying the pan of his rifle, not upon the ground, as a soldier would, but saving every precious grain. "Ez I allow, I never heerd tell of any Injuns a-doing that-away afore; have you, Chief? hey?" The Catawba's negative was his guttural "Wah," and Ephraim Yeates, having carefully restored the final grain of the priming to his powder-horn, proceeded to enlighten us at some length. "Mighty cur'is, ez I was a-saying. Them Injuns fixed up an ambush_ment_, blazed in a volley at the clostest sort o' range, and followed it up with a tomahawk and knife rush,--lessen that there Afrikin was too plumb daddled to tell any truth, whatsomedever. And, spite of all this here rampaging, they never drawed a single drop o' blood in the whole enduring scrimmage! Mighty cur'is, that; ain't it, now? And that ain't all: some o' them same Injuns, or leastwise one of 'em, was a-wearing boots with spurs onto 'em. What say, Chief?" Uncanoola held up all the fingers of one hand and two of the other. "Sebben Injun; one pale-face," he said, in confirmation. I looked at Richard, and he gave me back the eyeshot, with a hearty curse to speed it. "Falconnet!" said he, by way of tail-piece to the oath; and I nodded. "'Twas that there same hoss-captain, sure enough, ez I reckon," drawled Yeates. "Maybe one o' you two can tell what-all he mought be a-driving at." Jennifer shook his head, and I, too, was silent. 'Twas out of all reason to suppose that the baronet would resort to sheer violence and make a terrified captive of the woman he wanted to marry. It was a curious mystery, and the hunter's next word involved it still more. "And yit that ain't all. Whilst some o' the Injuns was a-whooping it up acrost the creek, a-chasing the folks that was making tracks for their city o' refuge, t'others run the two gals off into the big woods at the side o' the road. Then Mister Hoss-Captain picks up the Afrikin, chucks him on a hoss and sends him a-kiting with his flea in his ear; after which he climbs _his_ hoss and makes tracks hisself--not to ketch up with the gals, ez you mought reckon, but off yon way," pointing across the creek and down the road to the southward. Jennifer heard him through, had him set it all out again in plainest fashion, and after all could only say: "You are sure you have the straight of it, Eph?" The borderer appealed to Uncanoola. "Come, Chief; give us the wo'th of your jedgment. Has the old Gray Wolf gone stun-blind? or did he read them sign like they'd ort to be read?" "Wah! the Gray Wolf has sharp eye--sharp nose--sharp tongue, sometime. Sign no can lie when he read 'um." Jennifer turned to me. "What say you, Jack? 'Tis all far enough beyond me, I'll confess." I was as much at sea touching the mystery as he was; yet the thing to do seemed plain enough. "Never mind the baronet's mystery; 'tis Mistress Margery's hazard that concerns us," I would say. And then to Ephraim Yeates: "Will this rain kill the trail, think you?" He shook his head dubiously. "I dunno for sartain; 'twill make a heap o' differ' if they was anyways anxious to hide it. Ez it starts out, with the women a-hossback, 'tis plain enough for a blind man to lift on the run." "Then let us be at it," said I. "We can very well afford to let the mystery untangle itself as we go." And with this the pursuit began in relentless earnest. The trail of the two horses ridden by Margery and her woman cut a right angle with the road, turning northwest along the left bank of the stream; and, despite the rain, which was now pouring steadily even in the thick wood, the hoof-prints were so plainly marked that we could follow at a smart dog-trot. In this speeding the old hunter and the Indian easily outwearied Jennifer and me. They both ran with a slow swinging leap, like the racking gait, half pace, half gallop, of a well-trained troop horse. Mile after mile they put behind them in these swinging bounds; and when, well on in the afternoon, we stopped to eat a snack of the cold meat and to slake our thirst at one of the many rain pools, I was fain to follow Jennifer's lead, throwing myself flat on the soaking mold to pant and gasp and pay off the arrears of breathlessness. This breathing halt was of the briefest; but before the race began again, Ephraim Yeates took time to make a careful scrutiny of the trail, measuring the stride of the horses, and looking sharply on the briars for some bit of cloth or other token of assurance. When we came up with him he was mumbling to himself. "Um-hm; jes' so. They was a-making tracks along hereaway, sartain, sure; larruping them hosses to a keen jump, lickity-split. Now, says I to myself, what's the tarnation hurry? Ain't they got all the time there is to get where they're a-going, immejitly, _if_ not sooner?" Then he turned upon me. "Cap'n John, can't you and the youngster lay your heads side and side and make out what-all this here hoss-captain mought be up to? It do look like he had some sort o' hatchet to grind, a-sending that Afrikin back to raise a hue and cry, and then a-letting his Injuns leave a trail like this here that any tow-head boy from the settlemints could follow at a canter." Richard said he could never guess the meaning of it all; and my mind was to the full as blank as his. I made sure some deep-laid plot was at the bottom of the mystery; but we had measured many weary miles in the wilderness, and the plotter's trap had been fairly baited, set and sprung, before the lightning flash of explication came to show us all its devilish ingenuity. But now "Forward," was the word, and we fell in line again, and again the tireless running of the two guides stretched and held us on the rack of weariness. Happily for us two who were out of training, the rainy-day dusk came early; and though Yeates and the Indian, running now with their bodies bent double and their noses to the ground, held on long after Richard Jennifer and I were bat-blind for any seeing of the hoof-prints, the end came at length and we bivouacked as we were, fireless, and with the last of the cooked ration of deer's meat for a scanty supper. After the meal, which was swallowed hastily in the silence of utter fatigue, we scooped a hollow in a last year's leaf bed and lay down to sleep, wet to the skin as any four half-drowned water rats, and to the full as miserable. Fagged as I was, 'twas a long time before sleep came to make me forget; a weary interval fraught with dismal mental miseries to march step and step with the treadmill rackings of the aching muscles. What grievous hap had befallen my dear lady? and how much or how little was I to blame for this kidnapping of her by my relentless enemy? Was it a sharp foreboding of some such resort to savage violence that had tortured her into sending the appeal for help? With this, I fell to dwelling afresh upon the wording of her message, hungering avidly for some hint to give me leave to claim it for my own. Though I made sure she did not love me,--had never loved me as other than a make-shift confidant, whose face and age would set him far beyond the pale of sentiment,--yet I had hoped this friendship-love would give her leave to call upon me in her hour of need. Was I the one to whom her message had been sped? Suddenly I remembered what Richard had said; that the arrow was the Catawba's. If Uncanoola were the bearer of the parchment, he would surely know to whom he had been sent. His burrow in the leaf bed chanced to be next to mine, and I could hear his steady breathing, light and long-drawn, like that of some wild creature--as, truly, he was--sleeping with all the senses alert to spring awake at a touch or the snapping of a twig. A word would arouse him, and a single question might resolve the doubt. I thought of all this, and yet, when I would have wakened the Indian, a shaking ague-fit of poltroon cowardice gave me pause. For while the doubt remained there was a chance to hope that she had sent to me, making the little cry for help a token, not of love, perchance, but of some dawning of forgiveness for my desperate wronging of her. And in that hesitant moment it was borne in upon me that without this slender chance for hope I should go mad and become a wretched witling at a time when every faculty should be superhuman sharp and strong for spending in her service. So I forebore to wake the Indian; and following out this thought of service fitness, would force myself to go to sleep and so to gather fresh strength for the new day's measure. XXI HOW WE KEPT LENTEN VIGILS IN TRINITYTIDE 'Twould weary you beyond the limit of good-nature were I to try to picture out at large the varied haps and hazards of our wanderings in the savage wilderness. For the actors in any play the trivial details have their place and meaning momentous enough, it may be; yet these are often wearisome to the box or stall yawning impatiently for the climax. So, if you please, you are to conceive us four, the strangest ill-assorted company on the footstool, pushing on from day to day deeper and ever deeper into the pathless forest solitudes, yet always with the plain-marked trail to guide us. At times the march measured a full day's length amid the columned aisles of the forest temple through lush green glades dank and steaming in the August heat, or over hillsides slippery with the fallen leaves of the pine-trees. Anon it traced the crooked windings of some brawling mountain stream through thicket tangles where, you would think, no woman-ridden horse could penetrate. One day the sun would shine resplendent and all the columned distances would fill with soft suffusings of the gray and green and gold, with here and there a dusky flame where the sweet-gum heralded the autumn, whilst overhead the leafy arches were fine-lined traceries and arabesques against the blue. But in the night, mayhap, a dismal rain would come, chill with the breath of the nearing mountains; and then the trees turned into dripping sprinkling-pots to drench us where we lay, sodden already with the heaviness of exhaustion. Since the hasting pursuit was a thing to tap the very fountain-head of fortitude and endurance, we fared on silent for the better part; and in a little time the hush of the solitudes laid fast hold of us, scanting us of speech and bidding us go softly. And after this the march became a soundless shadow-flitting, and we a straggling file of voiceless mechanisms wound up and set to measure off the miles till famine or exhaustion should thrust a finger in among the wheels and bid them stop forever. This was the loom on which we wove the backward-reaching web of strenuous onpressing. But through that web the scarlet thread of famine shuttled in and out, and hunger came and marched with us till all the days and nights were filled with cravings, and we recked little of fair skies or dripping clouds, or aught besides save this ever-present specter of starvation. You will not think it strange that I should have but dim and misty memories of this fainting time. Of all privations famine soonest blunts the senses, making a man oblivious of all save that which drives him onward. The happenings that I remember clearest are those which turned upon some temporary bridging of the hunger gulf. One was Yeates's killing of a milch doe which, with her fawn, ran across our path when we had fasted two whole days. By this, a capital crime in any hunter's code, you may guess how cruelly we were nipped in the hunger vise. Also, I remember this: as if to mock us all the glades and openings on the hillsides were thicketed with berry bushes, long past bearing. And, being too late for these, we were as much too early for the nuts of the hickory and chestnut and black walnut that pelted us in passing. The doe's meat, coming at a time of sharpest need, set us two days farther on the march; and when that was spent or spoiled we did as we could, being never comfortably filled, I think, and oftener haggard and enfeebled for the want of food. Since we dared not stop to go aside for game, the Catawba would set over-night snares for rabbits; and for another shift we cut knobbed sticks for throwing and ran keen-eyed along the trace, alert to murder anything alive and fit to eat. In this haphazard hunting nothing ever fell to Jennifer's skilless clubbing, or to mine; but the old borderer and the Indian were better marksmen, and now and then some bird or squirrel or rabbit sitting on its form came to the pot, though never enough of all or any to more than sharpen the famine edge of hunger. For all the sharp privations of the forced march there was no hint on any lip of turning back. With Margery's desperate need to key us to the unflinching pitch, Richard and I would go on while there was strength to set one foot before the other. But for the old borderer and the Indian there was no such bellows to blow the fire of perseverance. None the less, these two did more than second us; they set the strenuous pace and held us to it; the Catawba Spartan-proud and uncomplaining; the old hunter no whit less tireless and enduring. At this far-distant day I can close my eyes and see the gaunt, leather-clad figure of Ephraim Yeates, striding on always in the lead and ever pressing forward, tough, wiry and iron to endure, and yet withal so elastic that the shrewdest discouragement served only to make him rebound and strike the harder. Good stuff and true there was in that old man; and had Richard or I been less determined, his fine and noble heroism in a cause which was not his own would have shamed us into following where he led. We had been ten days in this starving wilderness, driving onward at the pace that kills and making the most of every hour of daylight, before Yeates and the Indian began to give us hope that we were finally closing in upon our quarry. The dragging length of the chase grew upon two conditions. From the beginning the kidnappers were able to increase their lead by stretching out the days and borrowing from the nights; also, they were doubtless well provisioned, and they had horses for the captives and their impedimenta. But as for us, we could follow only while the daylight let us see the trail; and though we ran well at first, the lack of proper food soon took toll of speed. So now, though the hoof prints grew hourly fresher, and we were at last so close upon the heels of the kidnappers that their night camp-fires were scarcely cold when we came upon them, we ran no longer--could hardly keep a dogged foot-pace for the hunger pains that griped and bent us double. The tenth day, as I well remember, was furnace-hot, as were all the fair-weather days of that never-to-be-forgotten summer, with a still air in the forest that hung thick and lifeless like the atmosphere of an oven; this though we were well among the mountains and rising higher with every added mile of westering. The sun had passed the meridian, and we were toiling, sweaty-weak, up a rock-strewn mountain side, when a thing occurred to rouse us roughly from the famine stupor and set us watchfully alert. In the steepest part of the ascent where the wood, scanted of rooting ground by the thickly sown strewing of boulders, was open and free of undergrowth, Ephraim Yeates halted suddenly, signed to us with upflung hand, and dropped behind a tree as one shot; and in the same breath the Catawba, running at Yeates's heels, lurched aside and vanished as if the earth had gaped and swallowed him. A moment later the twang of a bow-string buzzed upon the breathless noontide stillness, and Jennifer clutched and dragged me down in good time to let the arrow whistle harmless over us. Then, like a distorted echo of the buzzing bow-string, the sharp crack of the old borderer's rifle rang out smartly, setting the cliff-crowned mountain side all a-clamor with mocking repetitions. "Missed him, slick and clean, by the eternal coon-skin!" growled the marksman, sitting up behind his tree to reload. "That there's what comes o' being so dad-blame' hongry that ye can't squinch fair atween the gun-sights. I reckon ez how ye'd better hunker down and lie clost, you two. 'Twouldn't s'prise me none if that redskin had a wheen more o' them sharp-p'inted sticks in his--The Lord be praised for all His marcies! the chief's got him!" But Uncanoola had not. He came in presently, his black eyes snapping with disappointment, saying in answer to Yeates's question that the yell had been his own; that his tomahawk had sped no truer than the old borderer's bullet. "Chelakee snake heap slick: heap quick dodge," was all we could get out of him; and when that was said he squatted calmly on a flat stone and fell to work grinding the nick out of the edge of the mis-sped hatchet. This incident told us plainly enough that the kidnappers were now but a little way ahead, and that their rear-guard scouts were holding us well in hand. So from that on we went as men whose lives are held in pawn by a hidden foe, looking at every turn for an ambushment. Nevertheless, we were not waylaid again; and when at length the long hot afternoon drew to its close with the mountain of peril well behind us, we had neither seen nor heard aught else of the Cherokees. That night we camped, fireless and foodless, on the banks of a swift-flowing stream in a valley between two great mountains. We reached this stream a little before dark, and since the trail led straight into the water, we would have put this obstacle behind us if we could. But though the little river was not above five or six poles in width it was exceeding swift and deep; so impassable, in truth, that we were moved to wonder how the captive party had made shift to cross. We guessed at it a while, Richard and I, and then gave it up until we might have the help of better daylight. But the old borderer's curiosity was not so readily postponed. Cutting a slim pole from a sapling thicket, he waded in cautiously, anchoring himself by the drooping branches of the willows whilst he prodded and sounded and proved beyond a doubt that the current was over man-head deep, and far too rapid for swimming. Satisfied of this, he came out, dripping, and with a monitory word to us to keep a sharp lookout, disappeared up-stream in the growing dusk, his long rifle at the trail, and his body bent to bring his keen old eyes the nearer to the ground. XXII HOW THE FATES GAVE LARGESS OF DESPAIR Ephraim Yeates was gone a full hour. When he returned he gave us cause to wonder at his lack of caution, since he filled his earthen Indian pipe and coolly struck a light wherewith to fire it. But when the pipe was aglow he told us of his findings. "'Twas about ez I reckoned; them varmints waded in the shallows a spell to throw us off, and then came out and forded higher up." "That will be a shrewd guess of yours, I take it, Ephraim?" said I; for the night was black as Erebus. "Ne'er a guess at all; I've had 'em fair at eyeholts," this as calmly as if we had not been for ten long days pinning our faith to an ill-defined trace of foot-prints. "Ez I was a-going on to say, they're incamped on t'other bank ruther eenside o' two sights and a horn-blow from this. I saw 'em and counted 'em: seven redskins and the two gals." "Thank God!" says Richard, as fervently as if our rescue of the women were already a thing accomplished. Then he fell upon the scout with an eager question: "How does she look, Ephraim?--tell me how she looks!" "Listen at him!" said the old man, cackling his dry little laugh. "How in tarnation am I going to know which 'she' he's a-stewing about? There's a pair of 'em, and they both look like wimmin ez have been dragged hilter-skilter through the big woods for some better 'n a week. Natheless, they're fitting to set up and take their nourishment, both on 'em. They was perching on a log afore the fire, with ever' last idintical one o' them redskins a-waiting on 'em like they was a couple of Injun queens. I reckon ez how the hoss-captain gave them varmints their orders, partic'lar." Dick was upon his feet, lugging out the great broadsword. "Show us the way, Eph Yeates!" he burst out impatiently. "We are wasting a deal of precious time!" But the old man only puffed the more placidly at his pipe, making no move to head a sortie. "Fair and easy, Cap'n Dick; fair and easy. There ain't no manner o' hurry, ez I allow. Whenst I've got to tussle with a wheen o' full redskins, and me with my stummick growed fast to my backbone, I jest ez soon wait till them same redskins are asleep. Bime-by they'll settle down for the night, and then we'll go up yonder and pizen 'em immejitly, _if_ not sooner. But there ain't no kind o' use to spile it all by rampaging 'round too soon." There was wisdom undeniable in this, and, accordingly, we waited, taking turns at the hunter's terrible pipe in lieu of supper, and laying our plan of attack. This last was simple enough, as our resources, or rather our lack of them, would make it. At midnight we would move upon the enemy, feeling our way along the river till we should discover the ford by which the captive party had crossed. The stream safely passed, we would deploy and surround the camp of the Indians, and at the signal, which was to be the report of Yeates's rifle, we were to close in and smite, giving no quarter. The old borderer dwelt at length upon the need for this severity, saying that a single Cherokee escaping would bring the warriors of the Erati tribe down upon us to cut off all chance of our retreat with the women. "Onless I'm mightily out o' my reckoning, this here spot we're a-setting on ain't more than a day's Injun-running from the Tuckasege Towns. With them gals to hender us we ain't a-going to be in no fettle for a skimper-scamper race with a fresh wheen o' the redskins. Therefore and wherefore, says I, make them chopping-knives o' your'n cut and come again, even to the dividing erpart of soul and marrer." Dick laughed, and, speaking for both of us, said between his teeth that we were not like to be over-merciful. But now the old wolf of the border gave us a glimpse of an unsuspected side of him, taking Jennifer sharply to task and reading him a homily on the sin of vengeance for vengeance's sake. In this harangue he evinced a most astonishing tongue-grasp of Scripture, and for a good half-hour the air was thick with texts. And to cap the climax, when the sermon paused he laid his pipe aside, doffed his cap, and went upon his knees to pour forth such a militant prayer as brought my father's stories of the grim old fighting Roundheads most vividly to mind. Here, being as good a place as any, I may say frankly that I never fully understood this side of Ephraim Yeates. Like all the hardy borderers, he was a fighter by instinct and inclination; and I can bear him witness that when he smote the "Amalekites," as he would call them--red skin or red coat--he smote them hip and thigh, and was as ruthless as that British Captain Turnbull who slew the wounded. Yet withal, on the very edge of battle, or mayhap fair in the midst of it, he was like to fall upon his knees to pray most fervently; though, as I have hinted, his prayers were like his blows--of the biting sort, full of Scriptural anathema upon the enemy. Richard Jennifer, carelessly profane as all men were in that most godless day, would say 'twas the old borderer's way of swearing; that since he left out the oaths in common speech,--as, truly, he did,--he would fetch up the arrears and wipe out the score in one fell blast upon his knees. Be this as it may, he was a good man and a true, as I have said; and his warlike supplication that our blades should be as the sword of the Lord and of Gideon in the coming onfall was no whit out of place. It wanted yet a full hour of midnight when Richard began again to plead piteously for instant action. Yeates thought it still over-early; but when Jennifer pressed him hard the old borderer left the casting vote to me. "What say ye, Cap'n John? Your'n will be the next oldest head, and I reckon it hain't been turned plumb foolish rampaging crazy by this here purty gal o' Gilbert Stair's." Now you have read thus far in my poor tale to little purpose if you have not yet discovered the major weakness of an old campaigner, which is to weigh and measure all the chances, holding it to the full as culpable to strike too soon as too late. This weakness was mine, and in that evil moment I gave my vote for further waiting, arguing sapiently that my old field-marshal would never set a night assault afoot till well on toward the dawn. Jennifer heard me through and yielded, perforce, though with little good-will. "I can not compass it alone, or, by the gods, I'd go!" he asserted, angrily. "Mark you, John Ireton, this delay is a thing you'll rue whilst you live. Your cold-cut pros and cons mouth well enough, and I'm no soldier-lawyer to argue them down. But something better than your damnable reasons tells me that the hour has struck--that these very present seconds are priceless." Whereupon he flung himself face down in the grass and would not speak again until the waiting time was fully over and Yeates gave the word to fall in line for the advance. Having learned the lay of the land in his earlier reconnaissance, the old borderer shortened the distance for us by guiding us across the neck of a horseshoe bend in the stream; and a half-hour's blind groping through the forest fetched us out upon the river bank again, this time precisely opposite the Indians' lodge fire on the other side. Here there was a little pause for three of us while Ephraim Yeates crept down the bank to try with his sounding-pole what chance we had of crossing. Measured by what could be seen from our covert, the narrow width of quick water seemed the last of the many obstacles. Lulled to security, as we guessed, by the apparent success of their ruse to throw us off the scent, six of the Cherokees were lying feet to fire like the spokes of a wheel for which the fitful blaze was the hub. The seventh man was squatted before a small tepee-lodge of dressed skins, which, as we took it, would be the sleeping quarters of the captives. Whilst all the others lay stiff and stark as if wrapped in soundest sleep, this sentry guard, too, it seemed, was scarcely more than half awake, for as we looked, his gun was slipping from the hollow of his arm and he was nodding to forgetfulness. Richard was a-crouch beside me in this peeping reconnaissance, and I could feel him trembling in impatient eagerness. "It should be easy enough--what think you?" he whispered; and then, with a sudden grasp upon my wrist: "You are cool and steady-nerved, John Ireton; I swear you do not love her as I do!" "Nay, I grant you that, Dick," said I, making sure that his excitement would obscure the double meaning in the admission. And then I added, sincerely enough: "She has never given me the right to love her at all." "God help her at this pass!" he said, more to himself than to me; and then he would go in a breath from blessing Margery to cursing Ephraim Yeates for this fresh delay. It was Uncanoola who broke in upon the muttered malediction. "Wah! Captain Jennif' cuss plenty heap, like missionary medicine-man. Look-see! Uncanoola no can find white squaw horse yonder. Mebbe Captain Jennif' see 'um, hey?" At his word we both looked for the horses, marking now that they were nowhere to be seen within the circle lighted by the lodge fire. The Catawba grunted his doubt that the enemy was as inalert as he appeared to be; then he set the doubt in words. "Chelakee heap slick. Sleep only one eye, mebbe, hey? Injun warrior no hide horse and go sleep _both_ eye on war-path!" Here our scout came gliding back, so noiselessly that he was within arm's reach before we heard him. Dick had said I was over-cool, but the old man's ghostlike reappearance gave me such a start as made me prinkle to my fingers' ends. "How will it be, Eph?" Dick queried, hotly eager to be at work. "We can make it across? Never say we can't pass that bit of still water, man!" But Ephraim Yeates did say so in set terms. "I reckon ez how we've got to cross, but not jest here-away, Cap'n Dick. She ain't making any fuss about it, but she's a-slipping along like greased lightning, deep and mighty powerful. I ain't saying we mought n't swim her and come out somewheres this side o' Dan'l Boone's country; but we'll make it a heap quicker by projec'ing 'round till we find the ford where them varmints made out to cross." "God!" said Dick, deep in his throat; "more time to be killed! By--" The old man was parting the bushes to have a better sight of the encampment opposite, but at Dick's outbreak he fell back quickly and clapped a hand on the lips of cursing. "Hist! Lookee over yonder, will ye!" he cut in. And then in a whisper meant for no ear but mine: "The Lord be marciful to that little gal, Cap'n John; we've fooled our chance away--the game's afoot, and we ain't in it!" I looked and saw nothing save that the sentry guard had risen to throw a handful of dry branches on the dying fire. But on the instant the dry wood blazed up, and in the wider circle of firelight I saw what the keener eyes of Ephraim Yeates had descried the sooner. In the shadowy background of the surrounding forest a dozen horsemen were converging in orderly array upon the encampment, and at the blazing up of the dry branches their leader gave the command to charge. What sham battle there was, or was meant to be, was over in the briefest space. The troopers galloped in with shouts and aimless pistolings, raising a clamor that was instantly doubled by the yells of the Indians. As for resistance, the charging troop met with nothing worse than the yellings and a scattering fusillade in air. Then the ring of horsemen narrowed in to closer quarters and there was some flashing of bare steel in the firelight, at which the Cherokee kidnappers melted away and vanished as if by magic. With the shouts and the firing Margery and her maid had burst out of the sleeping-lodge to find themselves in the thick of the sham battle; and it was but womanlike that they should add their shrieks to the din, being as well terrified as they had a right to be. But now the leader of the attacking troop speedily brought order with a word of command; and when his men fell back to post themselves as vedettes among the trees, the officer dismounted to uncover courteously and to bow low to the lady. "The hoss-captain!" muttered Ephraim Yeates, under his breath; but we did not need his word for it. 'Twas but a child's pebble-toss across the barrier stream, and we could both see and hear. "I give you joy of your escape, Mistress Margery," said the baronet, mouthing his words like a player who had long since conned his lines and got them well by heart and letter-perfect. "These slippery savages have given us a pretty chase, I do assure you. But you are trembling yet, calm yourself, dear lady; you are quite safe now." I was watching her intently as he spoke. 'Twas now hard upon two months since I had seen her last in that fateful upper room at Appleby Hundred, and the interval--or mayhap it was only the hardships and distresses of the captive flight--had changed her woefully. Yet now, as when we had stood together at the bar of Colonel Tarleton's court, I saw her pass from mood to mood in the turning of a leaf, her natural terror slipping from her like a cast-off garment, and a sweet dignity coming to clothe her in a queenlier robe, making her, as I would think, more beautiful than ever. "I thank you, Sir Francis--for myself and for poor Jeanne," she said. "You have come to take us back to my father?" He bowed again and spread his hands as a friend willing but helpless. "Upon my honor, my dear lady, nothing would give me greater pleasure. But what can I say? We are upon the king's business, as you well know, and our mission will not brook an hour's delay--indeed, we are here only by the good chance which led your captors to choose our route for theirs. I have no alternative but to take you and your woman with us to the west; but I do assure you--" She stopped him with an impassioned gesture of dissent, and darting a despairing glance around that minded me of some poor hunted thing hopelessly enmeshed in the net of the fowler, she clasped her hands and wrung them, breaking down piteously at the last, and begging him by all that men hold sacred to send her and her maid back to her father, if only with a single soldier for a guard. 'Twas then we had to drag my dear lad down and hold him fast, else he had flung himself into the torrent in some mad endeavor to spend his life for her. So I know not in what false phrase the baronet refused her, but when I looked again she was no longer pleading as his suppliant; she was standing before him in the martyr steadfastness of a true, clean-hearted woman at bay. "Then you will not by so much undo the wrong you have done me, Captain Falconnet?" she said. "A wrong? How then; do you call it a wrong to rescue you from these brutal savages, Mistress Margery?" She took a step nearer, and though the dry-stick blaze was dying down and I could no longer see her face distinctly, I knew well how the scornful eyes were whipping him. "Listen!" she said. "When you set Tallachama and his braves upon us in the road that night, you were not cautious enough, Captain Falconnet. I saw and heard you. More than that, Tallachama and the others have spoken freely of your plans in their own tongue, not knowing that my poor Jeanne had been three years a captive among the Telliquos." The attack was so sudden-sharp and so completely a surprise that he was taken off his guard, else I made sure he would not at such a time have dropped the gentlemanly mask to stand forth the confessed ravisher. "So ho? Then you have been playing fast and loose with me as you did with the handsome young planter and that beggarly captain of Austrians? 'Twas a bold game, _ma petite_, but you have lost and I have won, for my game was still bolder than yours. What I need, I take, Mistress Madge, be it the body of a woman or the life of a man. _Savez-vous un homme désespéré, ma chérie?_ I am that man. You pique me, and I need the dowry you will bring. If I could have killed your lover out of hand, I might have been content to leave you for a time. Since I could not, you go where I go; and when we return I shall do you the honor to make you Lady Falconnet!" The effect of this fierce tirade, poured out in a torrent of hot words, was less marked upon his helpless captive than it was upon her four would-be defenders. It moved us variously, each after his kind; nevertheless, I think the same thought lighted instantly upon each of us. Though we might not reach and rescue her, her sharpest peril would be blunted upon the quieting of this fiend-in-chief. So Ephraim Yeates stretched himself face downward in the damp grass and brought his long rifle to bear, while the Indian sprang up and poised his hatchet for the throw; but neither lead nor steel was loosed because the light was poor, and a hair's-breadth swerving of the aim might spare the man and slay the woman. As for the two of us who must needs come within stabbing distance, the same thought set us both to stripping coats and foot-clogs for a plunge into the barrier torrent. But when we would have broken cover, the old borderer dropped his weapon and gripped us with a hand for each. "No, no; none o' that!" he whispered, hoarsely. "Ye'd drown like rats, and we can't afford no sech foolish sakerfices on the altar o' Baal. Hunker down and lie clost; if there's any dying to be done, ye've got a good half o' the night ahead of ye, and there's all o' to-morrow that ain't teched yet." It takes a pitiless avalanche of words to spread these interlinear doings out for you; but you are to conceive that the pause is mine and not the action's. While the old man was yet pulling us down, my fearless little lady had drawn back a pace and was giving the villain his answer. "I am glad I know you now for what you are, Captain Falconnet," she said, coldly. And then: "You can take me with you, if you choose, having the brute strength to make good so much of your threat. But that is all. You can not take for yourself what I have given to another." "Can not, you say?" He clapped his hat on smartly and whistled for his horse-holder; and when the man was gone to fetch the mounts for the women, he finished out the sentence. "Listen you, in your turn, Mistress Spitfire. I shall take what I list, and before you see your father's house again, you'll beg me on your knees, as other women have, to marry you for very shame's sake!" It was then that Uncanoola did the skilfulest bit of jugglery it has ever been my lot to witness. Posturing like one of those old Grecian discus-throwers, he sent his scalping-knife handle foremost to glide snake-like through the grass to stop at Margery's feet. Though I think she knew not how it got there, she saw it, and the courage of the sight helped her to say, quickly: "When it comes to that, sir, I shall know how to keep faith with honor." His laugh was the harshest mockery of mirth. "You will keep faith with me, dear lady; do you hear? Otherwise--" He turned to take the black mare from his man. At this my brave one set her foot upon the weapon in the grass. "I have no faith to keep with you, Captain Falconnet," she said. [Illustration] He struck back viciously. "Then, by heaven, you'd best make the occasion. It has happened, ere this, that a lady as dainty as you are has become a plaything for an Indian camp. It lies with me to save you from that, my Mistress." She stooped to gather her skirts for mounting, and in the act secured and hid the knife. So her answer had in it the fine steadfastness of one who may make desperate terms with death for honor's sake. "I thank you for the warning, Captain Falconnet," she said, facing him bravely to the last. "When the time comes, mayhap the dear God will give me leave to die as my mother's daughter should." "Bah!" said he; and with that he whistled for his troopers; and while we looked, my dear lady and her tirewoman were helped upon their horses, and at the leader's word of command the escort formed upon the captives as a center. A moment later the little glade, with the smoldering embers of the lodge fire to prick out its limits in dusky red, was empty, and on the midnight stillness of the forest the minishing hoofbeats of the horses came fainter and fainter till the distance swallowed them. Then it was that my poor lad, famine-mad and frenzied, rose up to curse me bitterly. "Now may all the devils in hell drag you down to everlasting torments, John Ireton, for your cold-hearted caution that made us lose when we had good hope to win!" he cried. "One little hour I begged for, and that hour had fought her battle and set her free. But now--" He broke off in the midst, choking with what miserable despair I knew, and shared as well; and throwing himself down in the wet grass, he would eke out the bitter words with such ravings and sobbings as bubble up in sheer abandonment of rage and misery. XXIII HOW WE KEPT THE FEAST OF BITTER HERBS You may be sure that Richard Jennifer's bitter reproachings came home to me in sharpest fashion, the more since now I saw how we had lost our chance by neglecting the commonest precautions. Having determined to attack, the merest novice of a general would have moved his forces to the nearest point; would have had his scouts search out the ford beforehand; and, above all, would never have delayed the blow beyond the earliest moment of the enemy's unwatchfulness. So now, when all was lost, I fell to kneading out this sodden dough of afterwit with Ephraim Yeates; but when I sought to carry off the blame as mine by right, the old borderer would not give me leave. "Fair and easy, Cap'n John; fair _and_ easy," he protested. "Let's give that old sarpent, which is the devil and Satan, his dues. Ez I allow, there was the whole enduring passel of us to ricollact all them things. To be sure, we had our warnings, mistrusting all along that this here dad-blame' hoss-captain had his finger in the pie. But, lawzee! we had ne'er a man o' God 'mongst us to rise up and prophesy what was a-going to happen if we didn't get up and scratch gravel immejitly, _if_ not sooner; though I won't deny that Cap'n Dick did try his hand that-away." "True; and I would now we had listened to him," said I, gloomily enough. "We have lost our chance, and God knows if we shall ever have another. Falconnet must have half a hundred men, red and white, in the powder train; and by this time he has learned from the Indian who reconnoitered us on the mountain that we are within striking distance. With the enemy forewarned, as he is, we might as well try to cut the women out of my Lord Cornwallis's headquarters." The old man chuckled his dry little laugh, though what food for merriment he could find in the hopeless prospect was more than I could understand. "Ho! ho! Cap'n John; I reckon ez how ye're a-taking that word from yonder down-hearted boy of our'n. Wait a spell till ye're ez old ez I be; then you'll never say die till ye're plumb dead." Now, truly, though I was dismally disheartened, I could reassure him on the point of perseverance. 'Tis an Ireton failing to lose heart and hope when the skies are dark; but this is counterbalanced in some of us by a certain quality of unreasoning persistence which will go on running long after the race is well lost. My father had this stubborn virtue to the full; and so had that old Ironside Ireton from whom we are descended. "That's the kind o' talk!" was the old man's comment. "Now we'll set to work in sure-enough arnest. Ez I said a spell back, my stummick is crying cupboard till I can't make out to hear my brain a-sizzling. Maybe you took notice o' me a-praying down yonder that the good Lord'd vouchsafe to give us scalps _and_ provender. For our onfaithfulness He's seed fit to withhold the one; but maybe we'll find a raven 'r two, or a widder's mite 'r meal-bar'l, somewheres in this howling wilderness, yit." So saying, he summoned the Catawba with a low whistle, and when Uncanoola joined us, told him to stay with Jennifer whilst we should make another effort to find the ford. "There's nobody like an Injun for a nuss when a man's chin-deep into trouble," quoth this wise old woodsman, when we were feeling our way cautiously along the margin of the swift little river. "If Cap'n Dick rips and tears and pulls the grass up by the roots, the chief'll only say, 'Wah!' If he sits up and cusses till he's black in the face, the chief'll say, 'Ugh!' And that's just about all a man hankers for when his sore's a-running in the night season, and all Thy waters have gone over his head. Selah!" Now you are to remember the sky was overcast and the night was pitchy dark, and how the old borderer could read a sign of any sort was far beyond my comprehension. Yet when we had gone a scant half-mile along the river brink he stopped short, sniffed the air and stooped to feel and grope on the ground like a blind man seeking for something he had lost. "Right about here-away is where they made out to cross," he announced; "the whole enduring passel of 'em, ez I reckon--our seven varmints and the hoss-captain's powder train. Give me the heft o' your shoulder till we take the water and projec' 'round a spell on t'other side." We squared ourselves, wholly by the sense of touch, with the river's edge, locked arms for the better bracing against the swift current, and so essayed the ford. It was no more than thigh deep, and though the water lashed and foamed over the shoal like a torrent in flood, there was a clean bottom and good footing. Once safe across, we turned our faces down-stream, and in a little time came to the deserted glade with the embers of the kidnappers' fire glowing dully in the midst. Here a sign of some later visitants than Falconnet's horsemen set us warily on our guard. The tepee-lodge of dressed skins, which had been left undisturbed by the sham rescuers, had vanished. "Umph! The redskins have been back to make sure o' what they left behind," said Yeates, in a whisper. "I jing! that's jest the one thing I was a-hoping they'd forget to do. I reckon ez how that spiles our last living chance o' finding anything that mought help slack off on the belly-pinch." So he said, but for this once his wisdom was at fault and tricky fortune favored us. When we had found the covert in the bushes where the two horses had been concealed we lighted upon a precious prize. 'Twas a bag of parched corn in the grain; some share of the provision of the captive party overlooked by those who had returned to gather up the leavings. With this treasure-trove we made all haste to rejoin our companions. And now behold what a miracle of reanimation may be wrought by a few handfuls of bread grain! In a trice the Catawba had found a water-worn stone to serve for a mortar, and another for a pestle. These and the bag of corn were carried back to a sheltered ravine which we had crossed on our late advance; and here the Indian fell to work to grind the corn into coarse meal, whilst Yeates and I kindled a fire to heat the baking-stones. In these preparations for the breaking of our long fast even Richard bestirred himself to help; and when the cakes were baked and eaten--with what zestful sharp-sauce of appetite none but the famished may ever know--we were all in better heart, and better able to face the new and far more desperate plight in which our lack of common foresight had entangled us. For now, since we knew the full measure of the peril menacing our dear lady, there was need for swift determination and a blow as swift and sure; a _coup de main_ which should atone in one shrewd push for the sleeveless failure of the night. So we would grip hands around, even to the stolid Indian, and swear a solemn oath to cut the women out or else to leave our bones to whiten in the forest wilderness. You'll laugh at all these vowings and handstrikings, I dare say, and protest there was a deal of such fustian heroics in your doddering old chronicler's day. Mayhap there was. But, my dears, I would you might remember as you laugh that we of that simple-hearted elder time lived by some half-century nearer to that age of chivalry you dote on--in the story-books. Also, I would you might mingle with your merriment a little of the saving grace of charity; letting it hint that, perchance, these you call "heroics" were but the free, untrammeled folk-speech of that sincerer natural heart which you have learned to silence and suppress. For I dare affirm that now, as then and always, there will be some spark of the Promethean fire in every heart of man or maid, else this would indeed be a sorry world to live in. So, as I say, we four struck hands anew on the desperate venture; and, after carefully burying the fire to the end that it might not betray us while we slept, we burrowed in the nearest leaf bed to snatch an hour or two of rest before the toils and hazards of the chase should begin afresh. In the thick darkness following hard upon the douting of the fire, I saw not who my nearest bed-fellow might be. But ere I slept a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice that I knew well, said: "Are you waking yet, Jack?" I said I was; and at that my poor lad would blurt out all his sorrow and shame for the mad fit of despair that had set him on to rail and curse me. "You will say with good reason that I am but a sorry jockey for a friend--to fly out at you like a madman as I did," he added, by way of fitting epilogue; and to this I gave him the answer he wished, bidding him never let a thought of it spoil him of the rest he needed. "The debt of obligation and forgiveness is all upon the other side, as you will some day know, Dick, my lad," said I, hovering, as a coward always will, upon the innuendo-edge of the confession he will never make. He mistook the pointing of this protest, as he was bound to. "Never say that, Jack. 'Twould be a dog-in-the-manger trick in me to blame you for loving her. And since you speak of debts, I do protest I owe you somewhat, too. With so fair a chance to cut a clean swath in that fair-weather month at Appleby Hundred, another man would have left me scant gleanings in the field, I'll be bound; whereas--" "Damn you!" I broke in roughly, "will you never have done and go to sleep?" And so, taking surly harshness for a mask when my heart was nigh bursting with shame and grief, I turned my back and cut him off. XXIV HOW WE FOUND THE SUNKEN VALLEY Looking back upon the hazards and chance-takings of our adventure in the wilderness, I recall no more promising risk than that we ran by sleeping unsentried within rifle-shot, for aught we knew, of the camp of the enemy. But touching this, 'tis only on the mimic stage of the romances that the players rise to the plane of superhuman sagacity and angel-wit, never faltering in their lines nor betraying by slip or tongue-trip their kinship with common humankind. Being mere mortals we were not so endowed; we were but four outwearied men, well spent in the long chase, with never a leg among us fit to pace a sentry beat nor a decent wakeful eye to keep it company. So, as I have said, we took the risk and slept; would have slept as soundly, I dare say, had the risk been twice as great. We were astir at the earliest graying of the dawn, Richard and I, and were the laggards of the company at that, since the old hunter was already out and away, and the Indian had kindled a fire and was grinding more of the parched corn for the morning meal. Dick sat up in his leaf litter, yawning like a sleepy giant. "Lord, Jack," said he; "if ever we win out of this coil with a full day to spare, I mean to sleep the clock hands twice around at a stretch, I promise you. 'Twas but a catch, this cat-nap; no more than enough to leave a bad taste in the mouth." "Aye; but the taste may be washed out," said I. "I am for a dip in the river; what say you?" He took me at the word, and we had an eye-opening plunge in the spring-cold flood of the swift little river at the mouth of our ravine. 'Twas most marvelous refreshing; and with appetites sharp set and whetted by the stripping and plunging we were back at the fire in time to give good day to Ephraim Yeates, at that moment returned with the hindquarters of a fine yearling buck, fresh-killed, across his shoulders. Seeing the deer's meat, we would think the old hunter's thrift of the dawn sufficiently accounted for; but when the cuts were a-broil, we were made to know that the buck was merely a lucky incident in the early morning scouting. Taking time by the forelock, the old borderer had swept a circle of reconnaissance around our halting place, "to get the p'ints of the compass," as he would say. His first discovery was that the ford we had found in the darkness served as the river crossing of an ancient and well-used Indian trace. Along this trace from the eastward the powder train had come, no longer ago than mid-afternoon of yesterday; and arguing from this that the night camp of the band would be but a short march to the westward, Yeates had pushed on to feel out the enemy's position. For a mile or more beyond the ford he had trailed the convoy easily. The Indian trace or path, well-trampled by the numerous horses of the cavalcade, followed the up-stream windings of the swift river straight into the eye of the western mountains. But in the eye itself, a rocky defile where the slopes on each hand became frowning battlements to narrow valley and stream, the one to a darkling gorge, the other to a thundering torrent, the trail was lost as completely as if the powder convoy had vanished into thin air. Here was a fresh complication, and one that called for instant action. We had counted upon a battle royal in any attempt to rescue the women; but that Falconnet, impeded as he was by the slow movements of the powder cargo, could slip away, was a contingency for which we were wholly unprepared. So, as you would guess, the hunter breakfast was hurriedly despatched; and by the time the sun was shoulder high over the eastern hills we had broken camp and crossed the river, and were pressing forward to the gorge of disappearance. On each hand the mountains rose precipitous, the one on the left swelling unbroken to a bald and rounded summit, forest covered save for its tonsured head high in air, while that on the right was steeper and lower, with a line of cliffs at the top. As we fared on, the valley narrowed to a mere chasm, with the river thundering along the base of the tonsured mountain, and the Indian path hugging the cliff on the right. In the gloomiest depths of this defile we came upon the hunter's stumbling-block. A tributary stream, issuing from a low cavern in the right-hand cliff, crossed the Indian path and the chasm at a bound and plunged noisily into the flood of the larger river. On the hither side of this barrier stream the trail of the powder convoy led plainly down into the water; and, so far as one might see, that was the end of it. As we made sure, we left no stone unturned in the effort to solve the mystery. No horse, ridden or led, could have lived to cross the pouring torrent of the main river, or to wade up or down its bed; and if the cavalcade had turned up the barrier stream its progress must have ended abruptly against the sheer wall of the cliff at the entrance to the low-arched cavern whence the tributary came into being. But if Falconnet and his following had ridden neither up nor down the bed of the barrier stream, it seemed equally certain that no horse of the troop had crossed it. The Indian trace, which held straight on up the gorge and presently came out above into a high upland valley, was unmarked by any hoof print, new or old. "Well, now; I'll be daddled if this here ain't about the beatin'est thing I ever chugged up ag'inst," was the old borderer's comment, when we had flogged our wits to small purpose in the search for some clue to the mystery. "What's your mind about it, hey, Chief?" Uncanoola shook his head. "Heap plenty slick. No go up-stream, no go down, no cross over, no go back. Mebbe go up like smoke--w'at?" The hunter shook his head and would by no means admit the alternative. "Ez I allow, that would ax for a merricle; and I reckon ez how when the good Lord sends a chariot o' fire after sech a clanjamfrey as this'n o' the hoss-captain's, it'll be mighty dad-blame' apt to go down 'stead of up." We were standing on the brink of the barrier stream no more than a fisherman's cast from the black rock-mouth that spewed it up from its underground maw. While the hunter was speaking, the Catawba had lapsed into statue-like listlessness, his gaze fixed upon the eddying flood which held the secret of the vanished cavalcade. Suddenly he came alive with a bound and made a quick dash into the water. What he retrieved was only a small piece of wood, charred at one end. But Ephraim Yeates caught at it eagerly. "Now the Lord be praised for all His marcies!" he exclaimed. "It do take an Injun to come a-running whenst ever'body else is plumb beat out! Ne'er another one of us had an eye sharp enough to ketch that bit o' sign a-floating past. What say, Cap'n John?" I shook my head, seeing no special significance in the token; and Dick asked: "What will it be, Ephraim, now that it is caught?" The old man looked his pity for our dullard wit, and then set a moiety of it in words. "Well, well, now; I'm fair ashamed of ye! What all d'ye reckon blackened the end o' this bit o' pine-branch?" "Why, fire," says Richard, beginning, as I did, to see some glimmering of light. "In course. And it come from yonder, didn't it?" pointing to the cavern under the cliff. "More than that, 'twas cut wi' a hatchet--this fresh end of it--no longer ago than last night, at the furdest; the pitch that the fire fried out'n it is all soft and gummy, yit. Gentlemen all: whenst we find where this here creek comes out into daylight again we're a-going to find the hoss-captain and the whole enduring passel o' redskins and redcoats, immejitly, _if_ not sooner!" What comment this startling announcement would have evoked I know not, for at the moment of its utterance the Catawba went flat upon the ground, making most urgent signs for us to do likewise. What he had seen we all saw a flitting instant later; the painted face of a Cherokee warrior as a setting for a pair of fierce basilisk eyes peering out of the low-arched cavern whence the stream issued, an apparition looking for all the world like a dismembered head floating on the surface of the outgushing flood. 'Twas the old borderer who took the initiative in the swift retreat, and we followed his lead like well-drilled soldiers. A crook in the stream, and the thickset underwood, screened us for the moment from the basilisk eyes; and in a twinkling we had rolled one after another into the mimic torrent and were quickly swept down to its mouth. Here death lay in wait for us in the mad plungings of the main river; but we made shift to catch at the overhanging branches of the willows in passing, to draw ourselves out, to scramble up the gorge and to gain a great boulder on the mountain side whence we could look down upon the scene of our late surprisal. By this we saw, from the wings, as it were, the setting of the stage for a tragedy which might have been ours. One by one a score of heads with painted faces floated silently out of the spewing rock-mouth. One by one the glistening, bronze-red bodies appertaining thereto emerged from the water, each to take its place in an ambuscade enclosing the stream-crossing of the Indian path in a pocket-like line of crouching figures, with the mouth of the pocket open toward the lower valley. Ephraim Yeates chuckled under his breath and smote softly upon his thigh. "They tell ez how the good Lord has a mighty tender care for chillern and simples," he whispered. "Whenst we was a-coming a-rampaging up the trace a hour 'r two ago, I saw the moccasin track o' that there spy, and was too dad-blame' biggity in my own consate to ax what it mought mean." "What spy?" says Dick, matching the hunter's low whisper. "Why, the varmint that tracked me back from here 'twixt dawn and daybreak, _to_ be sure. He waited till we broke camp and then took out up here ahead of us to tell his chief 'twas e'ena'most time to set the trap for three white simples and a red one. Friends, I'm a-telling ye plain that the sperrit's a-moving me mighty powerful to get down on my hunkers and--" "For heaven's sake, don't do it here and now!" gasped Dick. "Let's get out of this spider's-web while we may." The old hunter postponed his prayerful motion, most reluctantly, as it would seem, and led the way in a silent withdrawal from the dangerous neighborhood of the ambushment. When we had pushed on somewhat higher up the gorge and stood on the confines of the upland valley for which it served as the approach, there was a halt for a council of war. Since it was now evident that the powder convoy was encamped in some hidden gorge or valley to which the cavern of the underground stream was one of the approaches, 'twas plain that we must climb to some height whence we could command a wider view. We were all agreed that the cavern entrance could not have been used by the entire company: this though the conclusion left the vanishing trail an unsolved riddle. For if the women could have been dragged through the low-springing arch of the waterway, we knew the horses could not--to say nothing of the certain destruction of the powder cargo in such a passage. So we addressed ourselves to the ascent of the northern mountain; though Richard and I would first beg a little space in which to drain the water from our boots, and to wring some pounds' weight of it from our clothes. That done, we fell in line once more; and being so fortunate as to hit upon a ravine which led to the cliff-crowned summit, the climb was shorn of half its toil and difficulty. Nevertheless, by the sun's height it was well on in the forenoon before we came out, perspiring, like sappers in a steam bath, upon the mountain top. As Yeates had guessed, this northern mountain proved to be a lofty table-land. So far as could be seen, the summit was an undulating plain, less densely forested than the valley, but with a thick sprinkling of pines to make the still, hot air heavy with their resinous fragrance. As it chanced, our ravine of ascent headed well back from the cliff edge, so we must needs fetch a compass through the pine groves before we could win out to any commanding point of view. The old borderer took his bearings by the sun and laid the course quartering to bring us out as near as might be on the heights above the gorge. But when we had gone a little way, a thinning of the wood ahead warned us that we were approaching some nearer break in the table-land. Five minutes later we four stood on the brink of a precipice, looking abroad upon one of nature's most singular caprices. Conceive if you can a segment of the table-land, in shape like a broad-bilged man o' war, sunk to a depth of, mayhap, six or seven hundred feet below the general level of the plateau. Give this ship-shaped chasm a longer dimension of two miles or more, and a breadth of somewhat less than half its length; bound it with a wall-like line of cliffs falling sheer to steep, forested slopes below; prick out a silver ribbon of a stream winding through grassy savannas and well-set groves of lordly trees from end to end of the sunken valley; and you will have some picture of the scene we looked upon. But what concerned us most was a sight to make us crouch quickly lest sharp eyes below should descry us on the sky-line of the cliff. Pitched on one of the grassy savannas by the stream, so fairly beneath us that the smallest cannon planted on our cliff could have dropped a shot into it, was the camp of the powder train. XXV HOW UNCANOOLA TRAPPED THE GREAT BEAR 'Twas Richard Jennifer who first broke the noontide silence of the mountain top, voicing the query which was thrusting sharp at all of us. "Now how in the name of all the fiends did they make shift to burrow from yonder bag-bottom into this?" he would say. "Ez I allow, that's jest what the good Lord fotched us here for--to find out," was Yeates's rejoinder. "Do you and the chief, Cap'n John, circumambylate this here pitfall yon way, whilst Cap'n Dick and I go t'other way 'round. By time we've made the circuit and j'ined company again, I reckon we'll know for sartain whether 'r no they climm' the mounting to get in." So when we had breathed us a little the circuiting was begun, Ephraim Yeates and Jennifer going toward the lower end of the sink, and the Catawba and I in the opposite direction. Since we must examine closely every rift and crevice in the boundary cliff, it was a most tedious undertaking; and I do remember how my great trooper boots, sun-drying on my feet, made every step a wincing agony. They say an army goes upon its belly, but an old campaigner will tell you that you can march a soldier till he be too thin to cast a shadow if only he hath ease of his footgear. Taking it all in all, it proved a slow business, this looping of the sunken valley; and when we had worked around to the eastern cliff and to a meeting point with the old hunter and Richard Jennifer, the sun was level in our faces and the day was waning. Coming together again, we made haste to compare notes. There was little enough to add to the common fund of information, and the mystery of the lost trail remained a mystery. True, we, the Indian and I, had found a ravine at the extreme upper end of the valley through which, we thought, a sure-footed horse might be led at a pinch, up or down; but this ravine had not been used by the powder train, and apart from it there was no practicable horse path leading down from the plateau. As for the hunter and Richard, they had made a discovery which might stand for what it was worth. At its lower extremity the sunken valley was separated from the great gorge without only by a ridge which was no more than a huge dam; and this diking ridge was evidently tunneled by the stream, since the latter had no visible outlet. Inasmuch as the most favorable point of espial upon the camp below was the cliff whence we had first looked down into the sink, we harked back thither, passing around the lower end of the valley and along the barrier ridge. Plan we had none as yet, for the preliminary to any attempt at a rescue must be some better knowledge of the way into and out of Falconnet's cunningly chosen stronghold. True, we might win in and out again by the ravine which the chief and I had explored at the upper end, and Dick was for trying this when the night should give us the curtain of darkness for a shield. But the old hunter would hold this forlorn hope in reserve as a last resort. "Sort it out for yourself, Cap'n Dick," he argued. "Whatsomedever we make out to do--four on us ag'inst that there whole enduring army o' their'n--has got to be done on the keen jump, with a toler'ble plain hoss-road for the skimper-scamper race when it _is_ done. For, looking it up and down and side to side, we've got to have hosses--some o' their hosses, at that. I jing! if we could jest make out somehow 'r other to lay our claws on the beasteses aforehand--" We had reached the cliff and were once more peering down at the enemy's camp. Though for the cliff-shadowed valley it was long past sunset and all the depths were blue and purple in the changing half-lights of the hour, the shadow veil was but a gauze of color, softening the details without obscuring them. So we could mark well the metes and bounds of the camp and prick in all the items. The camp field was the largest of the savannas or natural clearings. On the margin of the stream the Indian lodges were pitched in a semicircle to face the water. Farther back, Falconnet's troop was hutted in rough-and-ready shelters made of pine boughs--these disposed to stand between the camp of the Cherokees and the tepee-lodge of the captive women which stood among the trees in that edge of the forest hemming the slope which buttressed our cliff of observation. At first we sought in vain for the storing-place of the powder. It was the sharp eyes of the Catawba that finally descried it. A rude housing of pine boughs, like the huts of the troopers, had been built at the base of a great boulder on the opposite bank of the stream; and here was the lading of the powder train. From what could be seen 'twas clear that the camp was no mere bivouac for the day; indeed, the Englishmen were still working upon their pine-bough shelters, building themselves in as if for a stay indefinite. "'Tis a rest camp," quoth Dick; "though why they should break the march here is more than I can guess." "No," said Ephraim Yeates. "'Tain't jest rightly a rest camp, ez I take it. Ez I was a-saying last night, this here is Tuckasege country, and we ain't no furder than a day's running from the Cowee Towns. Now the Tuckaseges and the over-mounting Cherokees ain't always on the best o' tarms, and I was a wondering if the hoss-captain hadn't sot down here to wait whilst he could send a peace-offer' o' powder and lead on to the Cowee chiefs to sort o' smooth the way." "No send him yet; going to send," was Uncanoola's amendment. "Look-see, Chelakee braves make haste for load horses down yonder now!" Again the sharp eyes of the Catawba had come in play. At the foot of the great boulder some half dozen of the Cherokees were busy with the powder cargo, lashing pack-loads of it upon two horses. One of the group, who appeared to be directing the labor of the others, stood apart, holding the bridle reins of three other horses caparisoned as for a journey. When the loading was accomplished to the satisfaction of the horse-holding chieftain, he and two others mounted, took the burdened animals in tow, and the small cavalcade filed off down the stream toward the apparent _cul de sac_ at the lower end of the valley. Ephraim Yeates was up in a twinkling, dragging us back from the cliff edge. "Up with ye!" he cried. "Now's our chance to kill two pa'tridges with one stone! If we can make out to get down into t'other valley in time to see how them varmints come out, we'll know the way in. More'n that, we can ambush 'em and so make sartain sure o' five o' the six hosses we're a-going to need, come night. But we've got to leg for it like Ahimaaz the son of Zadok!" Thus the old borderer; and being only too eager to come to handgrips with the enemy, we were up and running faster than ever Joab's messenger ran, long before the old man finished with his Scriptural simile. Not to take the risk of delay on any unexplored short cut, we made straight for the ravine of our ascent, found it as by unerring instinct, and were presently racing down to the Indian trace in the little upland valley above the gorge. For all the helter-skelter haste I found time to remember that the gorge as we had last seen it had been well besprinkled with armed Cherokees lying in wait for us. If they were still there we should be like to have a hot welcome; and some reminder of this I gasped out to Yeates in mid flight. "Ne'm mind that; if we run up ag'inst 'em anywhere, 'twon't be there-away. They've took the hint and quit; scattered out to hunt us long ago," was his answer, jerked out between bounds. And after that I loosed the Ferara in its sheath and saved my breath as I might for the killing business of the moment. 'Twas a sharp disappointment that, for all the haste of our mad scramble down the mountain, we were too late to surprise the secret of the enemy's stronghold. The Catawba was leading when we dashed down into the valley, and one glance sent him flying back to stop us short with a dumb show purporting that the quarry was already out of the defile and coming up the Indian path. Richard swore grievously, but the old backwoodsman took the checkmate placidly and began to set the pieces for the second game in which the horses were the stake, hiding his useless rifle in a hollow tree,--his powder had been soaked and spoiled in the early morning plunge for life,--and drawing his hunting-knife to feel its edge and point. "Ez I allow, that fotches us to the hoss-lifting," he said, in his slow drawl. Then he laid his commands upon us. "Ord'ly, and in sojer-fashion, now; no whooping and yelling. If the hoss-captain's got scouts out a-s'arching for us, one good screech from these here varmints we're a-going to put out'n their mis'ry 'u'd fix our flints for kingdom come. I ain't none afeard o' your nerve,"--this to Richard and me--"leastwise, not when it comes to fair and square sojer-fighting. But this here onfall has got to be like the smiting o' the 'Malekites--root _and_ branch; and if ye're tempted to be anywise marciful, jest ricollect that for the sake o' them wimmen-folks _we've got to have these hosses_!" You are not to suppose that he was holding us inactive while he thus exhorted us. On the contrary, he was posting us skilfully beside the trace like the shrewd old Indian fighter that he was, with a rare and practised eye to the maximum of cover with the minimum of thicket tangle to impede the rush or to shorten the sword-swing. But when all was done we were at this disadvantage; that since the enemy was close at hand we dared not cross the path to give our trap a jaw on either side. To offset this, the Catawba dropped out of line and disappeared; and when the Cherokees were no more than a hundred yards away, Uncanoola came in sight a like distance in the opposite direction, running easily down the path to meet the up-coming riders. Richard let slip an admiration-oath under his breath. "There's a fine bit of strategy for you!" he whispered. "That wily Jack-at-a-pinch of ours will befool them into believing that he is a runner from the Cowee Towns. 'Tis our cue to lie close; he will halt them just here, and there will be roving eyes in the heads of the two who have not to talk." We had not long to wait. Our cunning ally timed his halting of the emissaries to a nicety, and when the three Cherokees drew rein they were within easy blade's reach. The powwow, lengthened by Uncanoola till we were near bursting with impatience, was spun out wordily, and presently we saw the pointing of it. The Catawba was affecting to doubt the protests of the emissaries and would have them dismount and prove their good faith by smoking the peace-pipe with him. I give you fair warning, my dears, that you may turn the page here and skip what follows if you are fain to be tender-hearted on the score of these savage enemies of ours. It was in the very summer solstice of the year of violence; a time when he who took the sword was like to perish with the sword; and we thought of little save that Margery and her handmaiden were in deadliest peril, and that these Indians had five horses which we must have. And as for my own part in the fray, when I recognized in the five-feathered chieftain of the three that copper-hued imp of Satan who had been the merciless master of ceremonies at the torturing of my poor black Tomas, the decent meed of mercy which even a seasoned soldier may cherish died within me, and I made sure the steel would find its mark. So, when Uncanoola drew forth his tobacco pipe and made the three doomed ones sit with him in the path to smoke the peace-whiff all around, we picked out each his man and smote to slay. The scythe-like sweep of Jennifer's mighty claymore left the five-feathered chieftain the shorter by a head in the same pulse-beat that the Ferara scanted a second of the breath to yell with; though now I recall it, the gurgling death-cry of the poor wretch with the steel in his throat was more terrible to hear than any war-whoop. As for the old borderer, he was more deliberate. Being fair behind and within arm's reach of his man, he seized him by the scalp-lock, bent the head backward across his knee--but, faugh! these are the merest butcher details, and I would spare you--and myself, as well. While yet this most merciless deed was a-doing, the Catawba bounded to his feet and made sure of the horses which were rearing and snorting with affright. That done, he must needs gloat, Indian-wise, over his fallen adversary, turning the headless body with his foot and gibing at it. "Wah! Call hisself the Great Bear, hey? Heap lie; heap no bear; heap nothing, now. Papoose bear no let hisself be trap' that way. No smoke peace-pipe--" But now Ephraim Yeates, standing ear a-cock and motionless, like some grim old statue done in leather, cut him short with a sudden, "Hist, will ye!" and a twinkling instant later we had other work to do. "Onto the hosses with this here Injun-meat, ez quick ez the loving Lord'll let ye!" was the sharp command. "There's a whole clanjamfrey o' the varmints a-coming down the trace, and I reckon ez how we'd better scratch gravel immejitly, _if_ not sooner!" XXVI WE TAKE THE CHARRED STICK FOR A GUIDE Luckily for us the new danger was approaching from the westward. So, by dint of the maddest hurryings we got the bodies of the three Cherokees hoist upon the horses, and were able to efface in part the signs of the late encounter before the band of riders coming down the Indian path was upon us. But there was no time to make an orderly retreat. At most we could only withdraw a little way into the wood, halting when we were well in cover, and hastily stripping coats and waistcoats to muffle the heads of the horses. So you are to conceive us waiting with nerves upstrung, ready for fight or flight as the event should decide, stifling in such pent-up suspense as any or all of us would gladly have exchanged for the fiercest battle. Happily, the breath-scanting interval was short. From behind our thicket screen we presently saw a file of Indian horsemen riding at a leisurely footpace down the path. Ephraim Yeates quickly named these new-comers for us. "'Tis about ez I allowed--some o' the Tuckaseges a-scouting down to hold a powwow with the hoss-captain. Now, then; if them sharp-nosed ponies o' their'n don't happen to sniff the blood--" The hope was dashed on the instant by the sudden snorting and shying of two or three of the horses in passing, and we laid hold of our weapons, keying ourselves to the fighting pitch. But, curiously enough, the riders made no move to pry into the cause. So far from it, they flogged the shying ponies into line and rode on stolidly; and thus in a little time that danger was overpast and the evening silence of the mighty forest was ours to keep or break as we chose. The old frontiersman was the first to speak. "Well, friends, I reckon ez how we mought ez well thank the good Lord for all His marcies afore we go any furder," he would say; and he doffed his cap and did it forthwith. It was as grim a picture as any limner of the weird could wish to look upon. The twilight shadows were empurpling the mountains and gathering in dusky pools here and there where the trees stood thickest in the valley. The hush of nature's mystic hour was abroad, and even the swiftly flowing river, rushing sullenly along its rocky bed no more than a stone's cast beyond the Indian path, seemed to pretermit its low thunderings. There was never a breath of air astir in all the wood, and the leaves of the silver poplar that will twinkle and ripple in the lightest zephyr hung stark and motionless. Barring the old borderer, who had gone upon his knees, we stood as we were; the Catawba holding the pack horses, and Jennifer and I the three that bore the ghastly burdens of mortality. The bodies of the slain had been flung across the saddles to balance as they might; and to the pommel of that saddle which bore the trunk of the five-feathered chieftain, Uncanoola had knotted the grisly head by its scalp-lock to dangle and roll about with every restless movement of the horse--a hideous death-mask that seemed to mop and mow and stare fearsomely at us with its wide-open glassy eyes. With this background fit for the staging of a scene in Dante Alighieri's tragic comedy, the looming mountains, the upper air graying on to dusk, and the solemn forest aisles full of lurking shadows, you are to picture the old frontiersman, bareheaded and on his knees, pouring forth his soul in all the sonorous phrase of Holy Writ, now in thanksgiving, and now in most terrible beseechings that all the vials of Heaven's wrath might be poured out upon our enemies. His face, commonly a leather mask to hide the man behind it, was now ablaze with the fire of zealotry; and, truly, in these his spasm-fits of supplication he stood for all that is most awe-inspiring and unnerving, asking but a little stretch of the imagination to figure him as one of those old iron-hard prophets of denunciation come back to earth to be the herald of the wrath of God. 'Twas close upon actual nightfall when the old man rose from his knees and, with the rising, put off the beadsman and put on the shrewd old Indian fighter. Followed some hurried counselings as to how we should proceed, and in these the hunter set the pace for us as his age and vast experience in woodcraft gave him leave. His plan had all the merit of simplicity. Now that we had the horses, Richard's notion of an approach from the head of the sunken valley became at once the most hopeful of any. So Ephraim Yeates proposed that we betake ourselves to the mountain top and to the head of that ravine which the Catawba and I had discovered. Here we should leave the horses well hidden and secured, make our way down the ravine, and, with the stream for a guide, follow the sunken valley to the camp at its lower end. Once on the ground without having given the alarm, we might hope to free the captives under cover of the darkness; and our retreat up the valley would be far less hazardous than any open flight by way of the unexplored road the powder train had used. So said the old backwoodsman; but neither Dick nor I would agree to this _in toto_. Dick argued that while we were killing time in the roundabout advance we should be leaving Margery wholly at the mercy of the baronet, and that every hour of delay was full of hideous menace to her. Hence he proposed that three of us should carry out the hunter's plan, leaving the fourth to take the hint given by the charred stick and the swimming ambush crew, and so penetrating to the valley by the stream cavern, be at hand to strike a blow for our dear lady's honor in case of need. "'Tis a thing to be done, and I am with you, Dick," said I. This before Ephraim Yeates could object. "Should there be need for any, two blades will be better than one. If it come to blows and we are killed or taken, Yeates and the chief must make the shift to do without our help." As you would guess, the old hunter demurred to this halving of our slender force, but we over-persuaded him. If all went well, we were to rendezvous on the scene of action to carry out the plan of rescue. But if our adventure should prove disastrous, Yeates and Uncanoola were to bide their time, striking in when and how they might. Touching this contingency, I drew the old man aside for a word in private. "If aught befall us, Ephraim,--if we should be nabbed as we are like to be,--you are not to let any hope of helping us lessen by a feather's weight the rescue chance of the women. You'll promise me this?" "Sartain sure; ye can rest easy on that, Cap'n John. But don't ye go for to let that rampaging boy of our'n upsot the fat in the fire with any o' his foolishness. He's love-sick, he is; and there ain't nothing in this world so ridic'lous foolish ez a love-sick boy--less'n 'tis a love-sick gal." I promised on my part and so we went our separate ways in the gathering darkness; though not until the lashings of the packs had been cut and the powder and lead, save such spoil of both as Ephraim Yeates and Uncanoola would reserve, had been spilled into the river. As for the bodies of the dead Indians, the old hunter said he would let them ride till he should come to some convenient chasm for a sepulcher; but I mistrusted that he and the Catawba would scalp and leave them once we were safely out of sight. At the parting we took the river's edge for it, Richard and I, keeping well under the bank and working our way cautiously down the gorge until we were stopped by the pouring cross-torrent of the underground tributary. Here we turned short to the left along the margin of the barrier stream, and tracing its course across the gorge came presently to the northern cliff at the lip of the spewing cavern mouth. By now the night was fully come and in the wooded defile we could place ourselves only by the sense of touch. "Are you ready, Dick?" said I. "As ready as a man with a shaking ague can be," he gritted out. "This dog's work we have been doing of late has brought my old curse upon me and I am like to rattle my teeth loose." "Let me go alone then. Another cold plunge may be the death of you." "No," said he, stubbornly. "Wait but a minute and the fever will be on me; then I shall be fighting-fit for anything that comes." So we waited, and I could hear his teeth clicking like castanets. Having had a tertian fever more than once in the Turkish campaigning, I had a fellow-feeling for the poor lad, knowing well how the thought of a plunge into cold water would make him shrink. In a little time he felt for my hand and grasped it. "I'm warm enough now, in all conscience," he said; and with that we slipped into the stream. 'Twas a disappointment of the grateful sort to find the water no more than mid-thigh deep. The current was swift and strong, but with the pebbly bottom to give good footing 'twas possible to stem it slowly. Laying hold of each other for the better breasting of the flood we felt our way warily to the middle of the pool; felt for the low-sprung cavern arch, and for that scanty lifting of it where we hoped to find head room between stone above and stream below. We found the highest part of the arch after some blind groping, and making lowly obeisance to the gods of the underworld began a snail-like progress into the gurgling throat of the spewing rock-monster. I here confess to you, my dears, that, had I loved my sweet lady less, no earthly power could have driven me into that dismal stifling place. All my life long I have had a most unspeakable horror of low-roofed caverns and squeezing passages that cramp a man for breath and for the room to draw it in; and when the suffocating madness came upon me, as it did when we were well jammed in this cursed horror-hole, I was right glad to have my love for Margery to make an outward-seeming man of me; glad, too, that my dear lad was close behind to shame me into going on. Yet, after all, the passage through the throat of the rock dragon was vastly more terrifying than difficult. Once well within the closely drawn upper lip we could brace our backs against the roof and so have a purchase for the foothold. Better still, when we had passed a pike's-length beyond the lip the breathing space above the water grew wider and higher till at length we could stand erect and come abreast to lock arms and push on side by side. From that the stream broadened and grew shallower with every step, and presently we could hear it on ahead babbling over the stones like any peaceful woodland brook. Then suddenly the dank and noisome air of the cavern gave place to the pine-scented breath of the forest; and, looking straight up, we could see the twinkling stars shining down upon us from a narrow breadth of sky. XXVII HOW A KING'S TROOPER BECAME A WASTREL Dick pressed closer to me, and I could feel him drinking in deep drafts of the grateful outer air. "What new wonder is this?" he would ask, with something akin to awe in his voice; but we must needs grope this way and that to feel out the answer with our finger-tips. When the answer was found, the mystery of the lost trail was solved most simply. As we made out, we were in a deep crevice cut crosswise by the stream which, issuing from a yawning cavern in the farther wall, was quickly engulfed again by that lower archway we had just traversed. In some upheaval of the earthquake age a huge slice of the mountain's face had split off and settled away from the parent cliff to leave a deep cleft open to the sky. One end of this crevice chasm--that toward the upland valley--was choked and filled by the debris of later landslides; but the lower end was open. Through this lower end, as we made no doubt, the powder train had come, turning from the Indian path in the gorge up the bed of the barrier stream, turning again at the outer cavern mouth to squeeze in single file between the thickly matted undergrowth and the cliff's face, and so to pass around the split-off mass and come into the crevice rift. How the sharp eyes of the old hunter, and those of the Catawba as well, had missed the finding of this squeezing place where the cavalcade had left the stream-bed, we could never guess; but on the chance that we might yet need to know all the crooks and turnings of this outlet, we felt our way quite around the masking cliff and down to the stream's edge in the gorge. That done we were ready for a farther advance, and clambering back into the crevice we once more took the stream for our guide and were presently deep in the natural tunnel piercing the mountain proper. This extension of the subterranean waterway proved to be a noble cavern, wide and high enough to pass a loaded wain, as we determined by tossing pebbles against the arching roof. None the less, 'twas full of crooks and windings; and in the sharpest elbow of them all, where we were like to lose our way by blundering into one of the many branching side passages, Richard stopped me with a hand thrust back. "Softly!" he cautioned; "here are their vedettes!" Just beyond the crooking elbow the dull red glow from a tiny fire gone to coals showed us two Indian sentries set to keep the pass. Dick drew his claymore, but he was chilling again and the hand that grasped the great blade was shaking as with a palsy. Yet he would mutter, as the teeth-chattering suffered him: "What say you, Jack? Shall we rush them? There's naught else for it." And then, with a gritting oath: "Oh, damn this cursed chilling!" I whispered back that we would wait till he was better fit. He was loath to admit the necessity, but, as it chanced, the momentary delay saved our lives in that strait. While we paused, hugging the shadows in the crooking elbow, the gloomy depths beyond the sentries were suddenly starred with flaring flambeaux lighting the way for a hasting rabble of savages; and had we been entangled in the struggle with the two sentinels we should have been taken red-handed. As it was, we had to make the quickest play to save ourselves. In the same breath we both remembered the narrow side passage just behind in which we were nigh to losing our way, and into this we plunged, reckless of possible pitfalls. We were no more than safely out of the main corridor when the runners, some score of them, as we guessed, trooped past our covert in full cry, leaving us half smothered in the smoky trail of their pitch-pine flambeaux. "Now what a-devil has set this hornet's nest of theirs abuzz so suddenly?" I whispered, when the smoke-choke gave us liberty to speak without coughing to betray ourselves. "Our pony-riding Tuckaseges, doubtless," was Richard's ready answer. "By all the chances, they should have met the Great Bear and his peace-offering out yonder on the trace--which same they did not. So when they bring this tale to camp there is the devil to pay and no pitch hot. God help our tough old Ephraim and the Catawba if these bloodhounds win out in time to overtake them!" "Aye," said I; and then we crept out of our dodge-hole and made ready to go about our business with the sentries. But when we came to peer again around the crooking elbow it would seem that the hurrying search party had fought our battle for us. The watch-fire was there to light a little circle in the gloom, but the watchers were gone. We chanced a guess that they had joined the hue and cry, and so we pressed forward, past the handful of embers and into the pit-black depths beyond. Twenty paces farther on it came to playing blind man's buff with the rocky walls again, and measured by the trippings and stumblings 'twas a long Sabbath day's journey to that final turn in the great earth-burrow whence we could see the glimmering of the enemy's camp-fires in the sunken valley. "Now God be praised!" quoth Richard most fervently. "Another hour in this cursed kennel with the fever on me and I should be a yammering loose-wit." And I, too, was glad enough to see the stars again, and to be at large beneath them. Emerging from the subterranean way, we held to the camp side of the stream, making an ample circuit to the left to come down upon the enemy's position from the wooded slope behind the encampment. We met no let or hindrance in this approach. Secure in their stronghold, the Indians had no patrols out; and as for the Englishmen, every mother's son of them, it seemed, was basking in the light of a great fire built before the pine-bough shelters. Favored by a dense thicketing of laurel we made a near-hand reconnaissance of the little wigwam which held our dear lady. As I have said, this was pitched in the thinning of the forest which covered the steep slope behind the encampment, and so was the farthest removed from the stream, and from the Indian lodges disposed in a half-moon at the water's edge. Here all was quiet as the grave, and the clamor of the Indian camp came softened by the distance to a low monotonous humming like the buzzing of a bee-hive. The flap of the tepee-lodge was closely drawn, and the bit of fire before it had burned out to a heap of white-ashed embers. "They are safe as yet, thank God!" says Richard, heaving a most palpable sigh of relief. Then, with the fever in his veins to whip his natural ardor into hasty action: "'Twill be hours before Eph and the Catawba can come in by your upper ravine, Jack, and we shall never have a better chance than this. Hold you quiet here, whilst I--" But I laid fast hold of him and would not hear to any such a foolhardy marring of Ephraim Yeates's plan. "Heavens, boy! are you gone clean mad?" I would say. "'Twill be risky enough with midnight in our favor; with the camp well asleep, and that great fire burned down to give us something less than broad daylight to work in!" He turned upon me like a pettish child. "Oh, to the devil with your stumbling-blocks, John Ireton! You are always for holding back. By heaven! I'll swear you have no drop of lover's blood in your veins!" "So you have said before. But let that pass, we must bide by our promise to Yeates, which was not to interfere unless Margery stood in present peril. Moreover, we should learn the lay of the land better while we have the firelight to help. When the time for action comes we must be able to make the play with our eyes shut, if need be. Come." 'Twas like pulling sound teeth to get him away, but he yielded at length and we crept on to have some better sight of the troop camp. We had it; had also a glimpse of the baronet-captain playing loo with his lieutenant and another. The tableau at the fire gave us better courage. The men had laid their arms aside and were sprawling at their ease; and while the arch scoundrel was in the gaming mood, Margery had less to fear from him. I said as much to Dick, and for answer he pointed to the flask of usquebaugh which was at that moment making the round of the loo players. "I know Frank Falconnet better than you do, Jack, for I have known him later. He is all kinds of a villain sober, but he is a fiend incarnate with the liquor in him. 'Tis lucky we are here. If he do but drink deep enough, Margery is like to have need--" "Hist!" said I; "some of these lounging rascals may not be so drowsy as they look." He nodded, and we backed away to make another circuit which fetched us out on the up-valley side of the encampment. Here we could look down into a smaller glade or bottom meadow on the stream where the horses of the band were cropping the lush grass. It was the sight of these, and of Margery's black mare among them, that set me thinking of a pickeering venture to the full as harebrained as that from which I had but now dissuaded Richard Jennifer. "We shall need another mount, and Mistress Margery's saddle," I said. "Lie you close here whilst I play the horse-thief on these reavers." But my dear lad was rash only for himself. "Now who is daft?" he retorted. "The Catawba himself could never run that gantlet and come through alive." "Mayhap," I admitted. "But yet--" He cut me off in the midst, winding an arm about my head by way of an extinguisher. One of the redcoat troopers lounging before the great fire had risen and was coming straight for our hiding place. I saw not what to do; should have done nothing, I dare say, till the man had walked fair upon us. But Richard was quicker witted. "Give me your sword!" he muttered; "mine will be too long to shorten upon," and when the Englishman's next stride would have kicked us out of hiding, Dick rose up before him like the devil in a play, gripped him by the collar and laid his sword's point at his throat. "Follow me, step for step, or you are a dead man!" he commanded; and so, pacing backward, he led the fellow, with the hulking body of him for a shield and mask, out of the circle of firelight and into the safer shadows of the forest. When I had made a creeping detour to join him, he still had his man by the collar and was emphasizing the need for silence by sundry prickings with the Ferara. "Say, quick! what to do with him, Jack?" he demanded, when I came up; and now my slower wit came into play. "Out of this to some safer dressing-room, and I'll show you," said I; and forthwith we marched our prize up the valley a long musket-shot or more. When the soldier had leave to speak he begged right lustily for his life, as you would guess; but we gave him a short shrift. If the plan I had in mind should have a fighting chance for success it must be set in train before this trooper should be missed. So, having first gagged the poor devil with his own neckerchief, we stripped him quickly; and I as quickly donned the borrowed uniform and became, at least in outward semblance, a light-horse trooper of that king whose service I had once forsworn. The items of small-clothes, waistcoat and head-gear fitted me passing well, but when it came to the boots we stuck fast, and I was forced to wear my own foot-coverings. The change made,--and you may believe no play-house actor of them all ever doffed or donned a costume quicker,--we bound our luckless captive hand and foot, pinned him face downward in the sward, and so leaving him with only his boots for a memento,--happily for him the night was no more than goose-flesh cool,--we raced back to our peeping-place on the skirting of the camp ground. Here Dick wrung my hand, calling himself all the knaves unspeakable for letting me take a risk which he was pleased to call his own; and with that I stepped out into the firelight and was fair afoot in the enemy's camp. XXVIII IN WHICH I SADDLE THE BLACK MARE Having so good a disguise, the thing I had set myself to do would seem to ask for little more than peaceful boldness held in check by common caution. The point where I had broken cover to step into the circle of fire light was nearly equidistant from the Englishmen's camp on the right and the horse meadow on the left, so I had not to pass within recognition range of the great fire; indeed, I might have skulked in the laurel cover all the way, thus coming to the horses unseen by any, but that I was afraid Falconnet might miss his trooper. So I thought it best to show myself discreetly. Copying our captive's lounging stride, I first held a sauntering course down to the stream's edge, keeping the great camp-fire and the droning Indian hive well to the right and far enough aloof to baffle any over-curious eye at either. Coming to the stream without mishap, I stopped and made a feint of drinking; after which I crossed and climbed slowly toward the makeshift powder magazine. As I have said, the camp was pitched in a small savanna or natural clearing on the right bank of the little river. This clearing was hedged about by the forest on three sides, and backed by the densely wooded steeps and crags of the western cliff. I guessed the compass of it to be something more than an acre; not greatly more, since the fire at the troop camp lighted all its boundaries. On the left or opposite bank of the stream there was no intervale at all. The ground rose sharply from the water's edge in a rough hillside thickly studded and bestrewn with boulders great and small; fallen cleavings and hewings from the crags of the eastern cliff. 'Twas at the foot of one of the boulders, a huge overhanging mass of weather-riven rock facing the camp, that the powder cargo was sheltered; so isolated to be out of danger from the camp-fires. From the hillside just below this powder rock I could look back upon the camp _en enfilade_, as an artilleryman would say. Nearest at hand was the half-moon of Indian lodges with the hollow of the crescent facing the stream, and a caldron fire burning in the midst. Around the fire a ring of warriors naked to the breech-clout kept time in a slow shuffling dance to a monotonous chanting; and for onlookers there was an outer ring of squatting figures--the visiting Tuckaseges, as I supposed. Beyond the Indian lodges, and a little higher up the gentle slope of the savanna, were the troop shelters; and beyond these, half concealed in the fringing of the boundary forest, was the tepee-lodge of the women. On the bare hillside beneath the powder magazine I made no doubt I was in plainest view from the great fire, and the proof of this conclusion came shortly in a bellowing hail from Falconnet. "Ho, Jack Warden!" he called, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands to lift the hail above the chanting of the Indian dancers. "Have a look at that shelter whilst you are over there and make sure 'twill shed rain if the weather shifts." Now some such long-range marking down as this was what I had been angling for. So I came to attention and saluted in soldierly fashion, thereby raising a great laugh among my pseudo-comrades around the trooper fire--a laugh that pointed shrewdly to the baronet-captain's lack of proper discipline. But that is neither here nor there. Having my master's order for it, I climbed to the foot of the powder rock. Here the bare sight of all the stored-up devastation set me athirst with a fierce longing for leave to snap a pistol in the well-laid mine. For if these enemies of ours had planned their own undoing they could never have given a desperate foeman a better chance. To hold the pine boughs of the rude shelter in place they had piled a great loose wall of stones around and over the cargo; and the firing of the powder, heaped as it was against the backing cliff of the boulder, would hurl these weighting stones in a murderous broadside upon the camp across the stream. But since my dear lady would also share the hazard of such a broadside, I had no leave to blow myself and the powder convoy to kingdom come, as I thirsted to--could not, you will say, having neither pistol to snap nor flint and steel to fire a train. Nay, nay, my dears, I would not have you think so lightly of my invention. Had this been the only obstacle, you may be sure I should have found a way to grind a firing spark out of two bits of stone. But being otherwise enjoined, as I say, I turned my back upon the temptation and held to the business in hand, which was to reach and recross the stream higher up and so to come among the horses. As I had hoped to find them, the saddles were hung upon the branches of the nearest trees, Margery's horse-furnishings among them. At first the black mare was shy of me, but a gentling word or two won her over, and she let me take her by the forelock and lead her deeper into the herd where I could saddle and bridle her in greater safety. My plan to cut her out was simple enough. Trusting to the darkness--the horse meadow was far enough from the fires to make a murky twilight of the ruddy glow--I thought to lead the mare quietly away up the stream and thus on to the foot of that ravine by which we hoped to climb to the old borderer's rendezvous on the plateau. But when all was ready and I sought to set this plan in action, an unforeseen obstacle barred the way. To keep the horses from straying up the valley an Indian sentry line was strung above the grazing meadow, and into this I blundered like any unlicked knave of a raw recruit. Had I been armed, the warrior who rose before me phantom-like in the laurel edging of the meadow would have had a most sharp-pointed answer to his challenge. As it was,--I had left my sword with Jennifer because the captured trooper whose understudy I was had left his sword in camp,--I tried to parley with the sentry. He knew no word of English, nor I of Cherokee; but that deadlock was speedily broken. A guttural call summoned others of the horse-keepers, and among them one who spoke a little English. "Ugh! What for take white squaw horse?" he demanded. "'Tis the captain's order," I replied, lying boldly to fit the crisis. At that they gave me room; and had I hastened, I had doubtless gone at large without more ado. But at this very apex point of hazard I must needs play out the part of unalarm to the fool's _envoi_, taking time to part the mare's forelock under the head-stall, and looking leisurely to the lacings of the saddle-girth. This foolhardy delay cost me all, and more than all. I was still fiddle-faddling with the girth strap, the better to impose upon my Indian horse-guards, when suddenly there arose a yelling hubbub of laughter in the camp behind. I turned to look and beheld a thing laughable enough, no doubt, and yet it broke no bubble of mirth in me. Half-way from the nearest forest fringe to the great fire a man, white of skin, and clothed only in a pair of trooper boots, was running swiftly for cover to the nearest pine-bough shelter, shouting like an escaped Bedlamite as he fled. It asked for no second glance, this apparition of the yelling madman; 'twas our captive soldier, foot-loose and racing in to raise the hue and cry. Now you may always count upon this failing in a cautious man, that at a crisis he is like to do the unwisest thing that offers. This cutting out of Margery's mare was none so vital a matter that I should have risked the marring of Ephraim Yeates's plan upon it. Yet having done this very thing, I must needs make a bad matter infinitely worse. Instead of mounting to ride a charge through the camp, and so to draw the pursuit after me toward the cavern entrance, as I should, I slapped the mare to send her bounding through the guard line, snatched a saddle from its oak-branch peg to hurl it in the faces of the sentry group, and darting aside, plunged into the laurel thicket to come by running where I could and creeping where I must to that place where I had left Richard Jennifer. All hot and exasperated as I was, 'twas something less than cooling to find Dick a-double on the ground, holding his sides and laughing like a yokel at his first pantomime. "Oh, ho, ho! did you--did you twig him, Jack?" he gasped. "Saw you ever such a mincing puss-in-boots since the Lord made you? Ah! ha! ha!" "The devil take your ill-timed humor!" I cried. "Up with you, man, and let us vanish while we may!" By this the camp was in a pretty ferment, as you would guess--our late captive having had space enough to tell his tale. Drunk or sober, Falconnet was afoot and alert, shouting his orders to the Englishmen who were scrambling for their arms, and to the Indians who came swarming up from the lodges. Whilst we looked, the Cherokees scattered like a company of trained gillies to beat us out of cover; and when the hunt was fairly up, the baronet-captain set his men in marching order to surround the wigwam of the captives. As yet there was time for a swift retreat up the valley, or at least for the choosing of some battle-field of our own where the enemy need not outnumber us twenty to one; and again I urged Richard to bestir himself. But it was the sight of Falconnet's troopers deploying to surround the tepee-lodge, and not any word of mine, that broke his merriment in the midst. At a bound he was up and handing me my sword. "Good by, Jack; go you whilst you can. You'll be like to meet Eph and the Catawba coming in; turn them back and tell them to bide their time." "But you?" I would say. "My place is inside of that soldier-cordon our friend is drawing about his dove-cote. I shall be at hand when she needs me, as I promised." "Aye, so you may be; but not alone," said I; and with that we fell to running like a pair of doubling foxes through the wood on the steep slope behind the lodge, striving with might and main to gain the laurel thicket whence we had made our first reconnaissance before the converging lines of the redcoat cordon should close and shut us out. We did it by the skin of our teeth, diving to cover through the closing gap not a second too soon. When we were in and hugging the bare ground under the scanty leafing of the laurel, I take no shame in saying that I would have given a king's ransom to be at large again. Had there been but one of us the covert would have been cramped enough; and I was painfully conscious that my borrowed coat of scarlet was but a poor thing to hide in. To make it worse, Falconnet, who had lagged behind at the fire, was now heaping fresh fuel on, and this reviving of the blaze made the place as light as day. With the nearest links in the redcoat chain no more than a pike's-length at our backs, we dared not stir or breathe a word; and, all in all, we might have been taken like rats in a trap had any one of the sentries on our side of the circle chanced to look behind him. Having repaired the fire to his liking, the troop-captain came up to pass a word or two with his lieutenant. They spoke guardedly, but we could hear--could not help hearing. "You have seen nothing, Gordon?" "Nothing, as yet." "Make the round again and tell the men 'twill be ten gold joes and a double allowance of liquor to the man who first claps eyes on any one of the four." The subaltern went to carry out the order, and Falconnet fell to pacing back and forth before the little wigwam. I could see his face at the turn where the firelight fell upon him; 'twas the face of a villain at his worst, namely, a villain half in liquor. There was a lurking devil of passion peering out of the sensuous eyes; and ever and anon he stopped as if to listen for some sound within the captives' lodge. When the lieutenant returned to make his report, he was given another order to cap the first. "Your line is too close-drawn and too conspicuous," said the captain, shortly. "Move the men out fifty paces in advance, and bid them take cover." "They will scarce be within hail of each other at that," says the lieutenant. "Near enough, with ten gold pieces to sharpen their eyesight. Go you with them and hold them to their work." The line was presently extended as the order ran, each link in the cordon chain advancing fifty paces on its front into the forest. Dick fetched a deep sigh of relief; and I thought less of the thin-leafed cover and the scarlet coat of me. Falconnet had resumed the pacing of his sentry beat before the lodge, but when his men were out of sight and hearing he stopped short and stole on tiptoe to lay his ear to the flap. "So, you are awake, Mistress Margery? Send your woman out. I would speak with you--alone." There was no reply, but we could both hear the low anguished voice of our dear lady praying for help in this her hour of trial. Dick inched aside to give me room, freeing his weapon, as I did mine. We were not over-quiet about it, but the captain of horse was too hot upon his own devil's business to look behind him. Having no answer from within, he stooped to loose the flap. It was pegged down on the inside. He rose and whipped out his sword; the firelight fell upon his face again and we saw it as it had been the face of a foul fiend from the pit. "Open!" he commanded; and when there was neither reply nor obedience, he cut the flap free with his sword and flung it back. The two women within the wigwam were on their knees before a little crucifix hanging on the lodge wall. So much we saw as we broke cover and ran in upon the despoiler. Then the battle-madness came upon us and I, for one, saw naught but the tense-drawn face of a swordsman fighting for his life--a face in which the hot flush of evil passion had given place to the ashen graying of fear. We drove at him together, Dick and I, and so must needs fall afoul of each other clumsily, giving him time to spring back and so to miss the claymore stroke which else would have shorn him to the middle. Then ensued as pretty a bit of blade work as any master of the old cut-and-thrust school could wish to see; and through it all this king's captain of horse seemed to bear a charmed life. There was no punctilio of the code of honor in this duel _à outrance_. Knowing our time was short, we fought as men who fight with halters round their necks; not to decide a nice point at issue, but to kill this accursed villain as we would kill a mad dog or a venomous reptile whose living on imperiled the life and honor of the woman we loved. Thrice, whilst I held him in play, Dick rushed in to end it with a scythe-sweep of the broadsword; and thrice the Scottish death was turned aside by the flashing circle of steel wherewith the man striving shrewdly to gain time made shift to shield himself. Yet it was not in flesh and blood to fend the double onslaught for more than some brief minute or two. Play as he would--and no _schlägermeister_, of my old field-marshal's picked troop could best him at this game of parry and defense--he must give ground step by step; slowly at the pressing of the Ferara, and in quick backward leaps when the great broadsword bit at him. For the first few bouts he withstood us in grim silence. But now Richard cut in again and the claymore stroke, less skilfully turned aside, brought him to his knees. This broke his bull courage somewhat, and though he was afoot and on guard before my point could reach him, he began to bellow lustily for help. As you would suppose, the call was all unneeded. At the first clash of steel the outlying troopers were up and swarming to the rescue; and now on all sides came the trampling rush of the in-closing cordon line. Had Falconnet held his ground a moment longer he would have had us fast in the jaws of the trooper-trap; but 'tis the fatal flaw in mere brute courage that it will break at the pinch. No sooner did the volunteer captain catch a glimpse of his up-coming reinforcements than he must needs show us a clean pair of heels, running like a craven coward and shouting madly to his men to close with us and cut us down. "After him!" roared Dick, who was by now as rage-mad as any berserker; and with a cut and thrust to right and left for the nipping trap-jaws we were out and away in chase. Now you may mark this as you will; that whilst the devil hath need of his bond-servant he will come between with a miracle if need be to keep the villain breath of life in his vassal. Three bounds beyond the closing trap-jaws fetched us, pursued and pursuers, to the open camp field; and here the devil's miracle was wrought. Out of the forest fringe, out of the skirting of undergrowth, out of the very earth, as it seemed, uprose a yelling mob of Cherokees--the detachment we had met in the cavern returned in the very nick of time to cut us off from the pursuit and to ring us in a whooping circle of death. "Back to back, lad!" I shouted; and 'twas thus we met their onslaught. In such a fray as that which followed 'tis the trivial things that leave their mark upon the memory. For one, I recall the curious thrill of master-might it gave me to feel the play of Jennifer's great shoulder muscles against my back in his plying of the heavy claymore. For another, I remember the sickening qualm I had when the warm blood of my second--or mayhap 'twas the third--gushed out upon my sword hand, and I remember, too, how the impaled one, driven in upon the blade by the pressure of his fellows behind, would lay hold of the sharp steel and try in the death throe to withdraw it. But after that sickening qualm I recall only this; that I could not free the sword for another thrust, and whilst I tugged and fought for space they dragged me down and buried me, these fierce tribesmen, piling so thick upon me that sight and sound and breath went out together, and I was but an atom crushed to earth beneath the human avalanche. XXIX IN WHICH, HAVING DANCED, WE PAY THE PIPER Measured by the sense which takes cognizance of pauses it seemed no more than a moment between the stamping out of breath and its gasping recovery. But in the interval the scene had shifted from the open savanna to a thinly set grove of oaks with the stream brawling through the midst. To the biggest of the trees I was tightly bound; and a little way apart a fire, newly kindled, smoked and blazed up fitfully. By the light of the fire a good score of the Cherokees were gathering deadfalls and dry branches to heap beside me; and from the camp below, the Indian lodges of which were in plain view beyond the intervening horse meadow, other savages were hurrying to join the wood carriers. So far as these hasting preliminaries applied to me, their meaning was not difficult to read. I was to be burned at the stake in proper savage fashion. But Richard Jennifer--what had become of him? A sound, half sigh, half groan, told me where to look. Hard by, bound to a tree as I was, and so near that with a free hand I could have touched him, was my poor lad. "Dick!" I cried. He turned his head as the close-drawn thongs permitted and gave me a smile as loving-tender as a woman's. "Aye, Jack; they have us hard and fast this time. I have been praying you'd never come alive enough to feel the fire." "We were taken together?" So much I dared ask. "In the same onset. 'Twas but a question of clock ticks in that back-to-back business. But they paid scot and lot," this with an inching nod toward a row of naked bodies propped sitting against a fallen tree; nine of them in all, one with its severed head between its knees, and three others showing the gaping hacks and hewings of the great broadsword. "They've fetched them here to see us burn," he went on. "But by the gods, we have the warrant of two good blades and Ephraim Yeates's hunting-knife that the only fires they'll ever see are those of hell." "Yeates?" I queried. "Then they have taken him and the Catawba, as well?" "Not alive, you may be sure, else we should have them for company. But it has a black look for our friends that the flying column we met in the stream-cave came back so soon. Moreover, the bodies of the three peace-pipe smokers were found and brought in; that will be the Great Bear holding his head in his hands at the end of yonder bloody masquerade." "I guessed as much. God rest our poor comrades!" "Aye; and God help Madge! 'Tis no time for reproaches, but amongst us we have signed her death warrant with our bunglings." "If it were only death!" I groaned. "'Tis just that, Jack," said he; "no better, mayhap, but no worse. When we were downed by that screeching mob, she was out and on her knees to Falconnet, beseeching him to spare us. He put her off smoothly at first, saying 'twas the Indians' affair--that they would not be balked of their vengeance by any interference of his. But when she only begged the more piteously, he showed his true colors, rapping out that we should have as swift a quittance as we had meant to give him, and that within the hour she should be the mistress of Appleby and free to marry an English gentleman." "Well?" said I, making sure that now at last he must know all. "At that she stood before him bravely, and I saw that all the time she had had the Catawba's knife hidden in the folds of her gown. 'You have spoken truth for once, Captain Falconnet; I shall be free,' she said. 'Come and tell me when you have added these to your other murders.'" "And then?" "Then she went back to her prison wigwam, walking through the rabble of redcoats and redskins as proudly as the Scottish Mary went to the block." "She will do it, think you?" I queried, fearful lest she would, but more fearful lest her courage should fail at the pinch. "Never doubt it. Good Catholic as she is, there is martyr blood in her on the mother's side, and that will help her to die unsullied. And God nerve her to it, say I." I said "Amen" to that; and thereupon we both fell silent, watching as condemned men on the gallows the busy preparations for our taking off. Again, as in the late battle, it was the trivial things that moved me most. Chief among them the grinning row of dead Indians propped against the fallen tree is the constant background for all the memory pictures of that waiting interval, and I can see those stiffening corpses now, some erect, as if defying us; some lopping this way or that, as if their bones had gone to water at the touch of the steel. I know not why these poor relics of mortality should have held me fascinated as they did. Yet when I would look away, through the vista to where the light of the great fire in the savanna camp played luridly upon the Indian lodges, or, nearer at hand, upon the savages gathering the wood to burn us with, this ghastly file of the dead drew me irresistibly, and I must needs pass the fearsome figures in review again, marking the staring eyes and unnatural postures, and the circular blood-black patches on the heads of the three peace-men whom Yeates and the Catawba had scalped. While they were making ready for the burning, our executioners were strangely silent; but when the work was done they formed in a semicircle to front the row of corpses and set up a howling chant that would have put a band of Mohammedan dervishes to the blush. "'Tis the death song for the slain," said Richard; and while it lasted, this moving tableau of naked figures, keeping time in a weird stamping dance to the rising and falling ululation of the chant, held us spellbound. But we were not long suffered to be mere curious onlookers. In its dismalest flight the death song ended in a shrill hubbub, and the dancers turned as one man to face us. I hope it may never be your lot, my dears, to meet and endure such a horrid glare of human ferocity as that these wrought-up avengers of blood bent upon us. 'Twas more unnerving than aught that had gone before; more terrible, I thought, than aught that could come after. Yet, as to this, you shall judge for yourselves. The pause was brief, and when a lad ran up to cut the thongs that bound us from the middle up, the torture-play began in deadly earnest. Whilst the Indian youth was slashing at the deerskin, Richard gave me my cue. "'Tis the knife and hatchet play; they are loosing us to give us freedom to shrink and dodge. Look straight before you and never flinch a hair, as you would keep the life in you from one minute to the next!" "Trust me," said I. "We must eke it out as long as we can, if only to give our dear lady time for another prayer or two. Mayhap she will name us in them; God knows, our need is sore enough." The lad ran back, and a warrior stood out, juggling his tomahawk in air. He made a feint to cast it at Richard, but instead sent it whizzing at me. That first missile was harder to face unflinching than were all the others. I saw it leave the thrower's hand; saw it coming straight, as I would think, to split my skull. The prompting to dodge was well-nigh masterful enough to override the strongest will. Yet I did make shift to hold fast, and in mid flight the twirling ax veered aside to miss me by a hair's-breadth, gashing the tree at my ear when it struck. "Bravo! well met!" cried Richard; and then, betwixt his teeth: "Here comes mine." As he spoke, a second tomahawk was sped. I heard it strike with a dull crash that might have been on flesh and bone, or on oak-bark--I could not tell. I dared not look aside till Richard's taunting laugh gave me leave to breathe again. The Indians answered the laugh with a yell; and now the marksmen stood out quickly one after another and for a little space the air was full of hurtling missiles. You will read in the romances of the wondrous skill of these savages in such diversions as these; how they will pin the victim to a tree and never miss of sticking knife or hatchet within the thickness of the blade where they will. But you must take these tales with a dash of allowance for the romancers' fancy. Truly, these Indians of ours threw well and skilfully; 'tis a part of the only trade they know--the trade of war--to send a weapon true to the mark. None the less, some of the missiles flew wide; and now and then one would nip the cloth of sleeve or body covering--and the flesh beneath it, as well. Dick had more of the nippings than I; and though he kept up a running fire of taunts and gibing flings at the marksmen, I could hear the gritting oaths aside when they pinked him. Notwithstanding, the worst of these miscasts fell to my lot. A hatchet, sped by the clumsiest hand of all, missed its curving, turned, and the helve of it struck me fair in the stomach. Not all the parting pangs of death, as I fondly believe, will lay a heavier toll on fortitude than did this griping-stroke which I must endure standing erect. 'Tis no figure of speech to say that I would have given the reversion of a kingdom, and a crown to boot, for leave to double over and groan out the agony of it. Happily for us, there were no women with the band, so we were spared the crueler refinements of these ante-burning torments; the flaying alive by inch-bits, and the sticking of blazing splints of pitchwood in the flesh to make death a thing to be prayed for. There was naught of this; and tiring finally of the marksman play, the Indians made ready to burn us. Some ran to recover the spent weapons; others made haste to heap the wood in a broad circle about our trees; and the chief, with three or four to help, renewed the deer-thong lashings. 'Twas in the rebinding that this headman, a right kingly-looking savage as these barbarians go, thrust a bit of paper into my hand, and gave me time to glance its message out by the light of the fire. 'Twas a line from Margery; and this is what she said: _Dear Heart: Though you must needs believe my love is pledged to your good friend and mine, 'tis yours, and yours alone, my lion-hearted one. I am praying the good God to give you dying grace, and me the courage to follow you quickly. Margery. This by the hand of Tallachama._ For one brief instant a wave of joy caught and flung me upon its highest crest, and all these savage tormentors could do to me became as naught. Then the true meaning of this her brave _Ave atque vale_ smote me like a space-flung meteor, and the joy-wave became an ocean of despair to engulf me in its blackest depths. The letter was never meant for me; 'twas for Richard Jennifer, who, as she would think, must know the story of her marriage to his friend and must believe her love went with the giving of her hand. And she named him Lion-Heart because he was brave, and true, and strong, like that first English Richard of the kingly line. I thrust the message back upon the bearer of it, begging him in dumb show to give it quickly to my companion. I knew not at the time if he did it, being so crushed and blinded by this fresh misery. But when the Indians drew off to ring us in a chanting circle for the final act, I would not let the lad see my face for fear he might fathom the heart-break in me and know the cause of it. 'Twas at this crisis, when all was ready and one had run to fetch the fire, that I heard a smothered oath from Dick and saw the Indian who was coming up to fire the wood heaps drop his brand and tread upon it. "Ecod!" said a voice, courtier-like and smoothly modulated. "'Tis most devilish lucky I came, Captain Ireton. Another moment and they would have grilled you in the king's uniform--a rank treason, to say naught of poor Jack Warden left without a clout to cover him." It needed not the glance aside to name mine enemy. But I would not pleasure him with an answer. Neither would Richard Jennifer. He stood silent for a little space, smiling and nursing his chin in one hand, as his habit was. Then he spoke again. "I came to bid you God-speed, gentlemen. You tumbled bravely into my little trap. I made no doubt you'd follow where the lady led, and so you did. But you'll turn back from this, I do assure you, if there be any virtue in an Indian barbecue." At this Richard could hold in no longer. "Curse you!" he gritted. "Do you mean that you kidnapped Mistress Stair to draw us out of hiding?" "Truly," said this arch-fiend, smiling again. "Most unluckily for you, you both stood in my way,--you see I am speaking of it now as a thing past,--and I chanced upon this thought of killing two birds with the one stone; nay, three, I should say, if you count the lady in." "Have done!" choked Richard, in a voice thick with impotent rage. "Give place, you hound, and let your savages to their work!" "At your pleasure, Mr. Jennifer. I have no fancy for funeral baked meats, hot or cold, though they be made, as now, to furnish forth a marriage supper. I bid you good night, gentlemen. I'll go and make that call upon the lady which you were so rude as to interrupt a little while ago." And with that he turned his back upon us and strode away, forgetting to tell his redskinned myrmidons to strip me of that king's uniform he was so loath to have me burned in. The Cherokees waited till the master-executioner was out of sight among the trees. Then they set up their infernal howling again, and the fire-lighter ran to fetch a fresh brand. "Courage, lad! 'twill soon be over now," said I, hearing a groan from my poor Dick. His reply was a chattering curse, not upon Falconnet or the Indians, but upon his malady, the tertian fever. "Now, by all the fiends! I'm chilling again, Jack!" he gasped. "If these cursed wood-wolves mark it, they'll set it down to woman cowardice and that will break my heart!" Again I bade him be of good courage, assuring him, not derisively, as it looks when 'tis written out, that the fire would presently medicine the chilling. In the middle of the saying the lighted brand was fetched and thrust among our fagotings, and the upward-curling smoke wreaths made me gasp and strangle at the finish. For a little time after the sucking in of that first smoke-breath--nature's anodyne for any of her poor creatures doomed to die by fire--I saw and heard less clearly and suffered only by anticipation. But to this day the smell of burning pine-wood is like a sleeping potion to me; and the sleep it brings is full of dreams vaguely troubled. So, while the Indians danced and leaped about us, brandishing their weapons and chanting the captives' death song, and while the blue and yellow tongues of flame mounted from twig to twig, climbing stealthily to flick at us like little vanishing demon whips, I saw and heard and felt as one remote from all the torture turmoil of the moment. Through the dimming haze of sleeping sensibility the dancing savages became as marionettes in some cunning puppet show; and the blood stained figures stiffening against their log took shapes less horrifying. 'Twas Dick's voice, coming, as it seemed, from a mighty distance, that broke the spell and brought me back to quickened agonies. He spoke in panting gasps, as the smoke would let him. "One word, Jack, before we go--go to our own place. He said--he said she would be free to--to marry him. Tell me ... O God in Heaven!" His agony was a lash to cut me deeper than any flicking demon whip of flame, yet I must needs add to it. "Aye, Richard, I have wronged you, wronged you desperately; can you hear me yet? I say I have wronged you, and I shall die the easier if you'll forgive--" Once more the smoke, rising again in denser clouds, cut me off, and through the blinding blue haze of it I saw the Indians running up with green branches to beat it down lest it should spoil their sport oversoon by smothering us out of hand. With the chance to gasp and breathe again I would have confessed in full to Richard Jennifer and had him shrive me if he would. But when I called, he did not answer. His head was rolling from side to side, and his handsome young face was all drawn and distorted as in the awful grimaces of the death throe. You will not wonder that I could not look at him; that I looked away for very pity's sake, praying that I might quickly breathe the flames, as I made sure he had, and so be the sooner past the anguish crisis. There was good hope that the prayer would have a speedy answer. The fires were burning clearer now, leaping up in broad dragon's tongues of flame from the outer edges of the fagot piles to curtain off all that lay beyond. Through the luminous flame-veil the capering savages took on shapes the most weird and grotesque; and when I had a glimpse of the dead men's row, each hideous face in it seemed to wear a grin of leering triumph. Thus far there had been never a puff of wind to fan the blaze. But now above the shrilling of the Indian chant and the crackling of the flames a low growl of thunder trembled in the upper air, and a gentle breeze swept through the tree-tops. So now I would commend my soul to God, making sure that the breath He gave would go out on the wings of the first gust that should come to drive the fiery veil inward. But when the gust came it was from behind; a sweeping besom to beat down the leaping dragons' tongues; a pouring flood of blessed coolness to turn the ebbing life-tide and to set the dulled senses once more keenly alert. With the wind came the rain, a passing summer-night's shower of great drops spattering on the leaves above and dripping thence to fall hissing in the fires. Then the thunder growled again; and into the monotonous droning of the Indian chant, or rather rising sharp and clear above it, came a sudden rattling fire of musketry from the camp in the savanna--this, and the sharp skirling of the troop captain's whistle shrilling the assembly. While yet the flames lay flattened in the wind, I saw the Indians wheel and bound away to the rescue of their camp like a pack of hounds in full cry. In a trice they were wallowing through the stream at the foot of the powder boulder; and then, as the flames leaped up again, a dark form burst through the fiery barrier, my bonds were cut, and a strong hand plucked me out of the scorching hell-pit. If I did aught to help it was all mechanical. I do remember dimly some fierce struggle to free my legs from the blazing tangle; this, and the swelling sob of joy at the sight of the faithful Catawba hacking at Dick's lashings and dragging him also free of the fire. And you may believe the welcome tears came to ease the pain of my seared eyes when my poor lad--I had thought him gone past human help--took two staggering steps and flung his arms about my neck. Uncanoola gave us no time to come by easy stages to full-wit sanity. In a twinkling he had pounced upon us to crush us one upon the other behind the larger tree. And now I come upon another of those flitting instants so crowded with happenings that the swiftest pen must seem to make them lag. 'Twas all in a heart-beat, as it were: the Catawba's freeing of us; his flinging us to earth behind the tree; a spurt of blinding yellow flame from the foot of the powder-cliff, and a booming, jarring shock like that of an earthquake. The momentary glare of the yellow flash lit up a scene most awe-inspiring. The spouting fountain of fire at the base of the great powder-rock was thick with flying missiles; and on high the very cliff itself was tottering and crumbling. So much I saw; then the Catawba sprang up to haul us afoot by main strength, and to rush us, with an arm for each, headlong through the wood toward the valley head. But Dick hung back, and when the dull thunder of the falling rocks, the crash of the tumbling cliff and the shrill death yells of the doomed ones came to our ears, he fought loose from the Indian and flung himself down, crying as if his heart would break. "O God! she's lost, she's lost!--and I have missed the chance to die with her or for her!" XXX HOW EPHRAIM YEATES PRAYED FOR HIS ENEMIES However much or little the Catawba understood of Richard Jennifer's grief or its cause, the faithful Indian had a thing to do and he did it, loosing his grasp of me to turn and fall upon Dick with pullings and haulings and buffetings, fit to bring a man alive out of a very stiffening rigor of despair. So, in a hand-space he had him up, and we were pressing on again, in midnight darkness once we had passed beyond the light of our grilling fires. No word was spoken; under the impatient urging of the Indian there was little breath to spare for speech. But when Richard's afterthought had set its fangs in him, he called a halt and would not be denied. "Go on, you two, if you are set upon it," he said. "I must go back. Bethink you, Jack; what if she be only maimed and not killed outright. 'Tis too horrible! I'm going back, I say." The Catawba grunted his disgust. "Captain Jennif' talk fas'; no run fas'. What think? White squaw _yonder_--no yonder," pointing first forward and then back in the direction of the stricken camp. Richard spun around and gripped the Indian by the shoulders. "Then she is alive and safe?" he burst out. "Speak, friend, whilst I leave the breath in you to do it!" "Ugh!" said the chief, in nowise moved either by Jennifer's vehemence or by the dog-like shake. "What for Captain Jennif' think papoose thinks 'bout the Gray Wolf and poor Injun? Catch um white squaw _firs'_; _then_ blow um up Chelakee camp and catch um Captain Jennif' and Captain Long-knife if can. Heap do firs' thing _firs'_, and las' thing _las'_. Wah!" It was the longest speech this devoted ally of ours was ever known to make; and having made it he went dumb again save for his urgings of us forward. But presently both he and I had our hands full with the poor lad. The swift transition from despair to joy proved too much for Dick; and, besides, the fever was in his blood and he was grievously burned. So we went stumbling on through the cloud-darkened wood, locked arm in arm like three drunken men, tripping over root snares and bramble nets spread for our feet, and getting well sprinkled by the dripping foliage. And at the last, when we reached the ravine at the valley's head, Dick was muttering in the fever delirium and we were well-nigh carrying him a dead weight between us. 'Twas a most heart-breaking business, getting the poor lad up that rock-ladder of escape in the darkness; for though I had come out of the fire with fewer burns than the roasting of me warranted, the battle preceding it had opened the old sword wound in my shoulder. So, taking it all in all, I was but a short-breathed second to the faithful Catawba. None the less, we tugged it through after some laborious fashion, and were glad enough when the steep ascent gave place to leveler going, and we could sniff the fragrance of the plateau pines and feel their wire-like needles under foot. By this the shower cloud had passed and the stars were coming out, but it was still pitch black under the pines; so dark that I started like a nervous woman and went near to panic when a horse snorted at my very ear, and a voice, bodiless, as it seemed, said; "Well, now; the Lord be praised! if here ain't the whole enduring--" What Ephraim Yeates would have said, or did say, was lost upon me. For now my poor Dick's strength was quite spent, and when the chief and I were easing him to lie full length upon the ground, there was a quick little cry out of the darkness, a swish of petticoats, and my lady darted in to fall upon Richard in a very transport of pity. "Oh, my poor Dick! they have killed you!" she sobbed; "oh, cruel, cruel!" Then she lashed out at us. "Why don't you strike a light? How can I find and dress his hurts in the dark?" "Your pardon, Mistress Margery," I said; "'tis only that the fever has overcome him. He has no sore hurts, as I believe, save the fire-scorching." "A light!" she commanded; "I must have a light and see for myself." We had to humor her, though it was something against prudence. Ephraim found dry punk in a rotten log, and firing it with the flint and steel of a great king's musket--one of his reavings from the enemy--soon had a pine-knot torch for her. She gave it to the Catawba to hold; and while she was cooing over her patient and binding up his burns in some simples gathered near at hand by the Indian, I had the story of the double rescue from the old hunter. Set forth in brief, that which had come as a miracle to Dick and me figured as a daring bit of strategy made possible by the emptying of the Indian camp at our torture spectacle. Yeates and the Catawba, following out the plan agreed upon, had come within spying distance while yet we were in the midst of that hopeless back-to-back battle, and had most wisely held aloof. But later, when every Indian of the Cherokee band was busy at our torture trees, they set to work. With no watch to give the alarm, 'twas easy to rifle the Indian wigwams of the firearms and ammunition. The latter they threw into the stream; the muskets they loaded and trained over a fallen tree at the northern edge of the savanna, bringing them to bear pointblank upon the light-horse guard gathered again around the great fire. The next step was the cutting out of the women; this was effected whilst the baronet-captain was paying his courtesy call on us. Like the looting of the Indian camp, 'twas quickly planned and daringly done; it asked but the quieting of the two trooper guards on the forest side of the tepee-lodge, a warning word to Margery and her woman, and a shadow-like flitting with them over the dead bodies of their late jailers to the shelter of the wood. Once free of the camp, Yeates had hurried his charges to a place of temporary safety farther up the valley, leaving the Catawba to cross the stream to lay a train of dampened powder to the makeshift magazine. When he had led the women to a place of safety, the old man left them and ran back to his masked battery of loaded muskets. Here, at an owl-cry signal from Uncanoola, he opened fire upon the redcoats. The outworking of the _coup de main_ was a triumph for the old borderer's shrewd generalship. At the death-dealing volley the Englishmen were thrown into confusion; whilst the Indians, summoned by the firing and the shrilling of the captain's whistle, dashed blindly into the trap. At the right moment Uncanoola touched off his powder train and cut in with a clear field for his rescue of Dick and me. Of the complete success of these various climaxings, Ephraim Yeates had his first assurance when we three came safely to the rendezvous; for, after firing his masked battery, the old hunter lost no time in rejoining the women and in hastening with them out of the valley. Had these three been afoot we might have overtaken them; but Yeates had been lucky enough to stumble upon the black mare peacefully cropping the grass in a little glade; and with this mount for Margery and her tire-woman he had easily outpaced us. All this I had from Yeates what time Margery was pouring the wine and oil of womanly sympathy into Richard's woundings; and I may confess that whilst the ear was listening to the hunter's tale, the eye was taking note of these her tender ministrations, and the heart was setting them down to the score of a great love which would not be denied. 'Twas altogether as I would have had it; and yet the thought came unbidden that she might spare a niggard moment and the breath to ask me how I did. And because she would not, I do think my burns smarted the crueler. It was to have surcease of these extra smartings that I turned my back upon the trio under the flaring torch and took up with Ephraim Yeates the pressing question of the moment. "As I take it, we may not linger here," I said. "Have you marked out a line of retreat?" The old borderer was busied with his loot of the Indian camp--'twas not in his nature to come off empty-handed, however hard pressed he had been for time. In the raffle of it, guns and pistols, dressed skins and warrior finery, he came upon my good old blade and Richard's great claymore--trophies claimed by the head men of the Cherokees after our taking, as we made no doubt. "Found 'em hanging in the lodge that usen to belong to the Great Bear," said the hunter, and then with grim humor: "'Lowed to keep 'em to ricollect ye by if so be ye was foreordained and predestinated to go up in a fiery chariot, like the good old Elijah." The weapons disposed of, he made answer to my query. "Ez for making tracks immejitly, _if_ not sooner, I allow there ain't no two notions about that. But I'm dad-daddled if I know which-a-way to put out, Cap'n John, and that's the gospil fact." "Why not strike for the Great Trace, and so go back the way the powder convoy came?" I asked. It could be done, he said, but the hazard was great. 'Twas out of all reason to hope that there were no survivors left in the sunken valley to carry the news of the earthquake massacre. That news once cried abroad in the near-by Cowee Towns, the entire Tuckasege nation would turn out to run us down. Moreover, the avengers would look to find us in the only practicable horse-path leading eastward. "Ez I'm telling you right now, Cap'n John, we made one more blunder in this here onfall of our'n, owin' to our having ne'er a seventh son of a seventh son amongst us to look a little ways ahead. Where we flashed in the pan was in not making our rendyvoo down yonder where you and Cap'n Dick got in. Ever' last one of 'em able to crawl is a-making straight for that crivvis dodge-hole right now, and if we was there we could do 'em like the Gileadites did the men o' Ephraim at the passages o' the Jordan." Fresh as I was from the torture fire, I could not forbear a shudder at this old man's savagery. "Kill them in cold blood?" I would say. "Anan?" he queried, as not understanding my point of view; and I let the matter rest. He was of those who slay and spare not where an enemy is concerned. But when we came to consider of it there seemed to be no alternative to the eastward flitting by way of the Great Trace. To the west and south there was only the trackless wilderness; and to the north no white settlement nearer than that of the over-mountain folk on the Watauga. I asked if we might hope to reach this. "'Tis a long fifty mile ez the crow flies, over e'enabout the mountainousest patch o' land that ever laid out o' doors," was the hunter's reply. "And there ain't ne'er a deer-track, ez I knows on, to p'int the way." "Then we must ride eastward and run the risk of pursuit by the Tuckaseges," said I. "Ez I reckon, that's about the long and short of it. And I do everlastedly despise to make that poor little gal jump her hoss and ride skimper-scamper again, when she's been fair living a-horseback for a fortnight." "She will not fail you," I ventured to say, adding: "But Jennifer is in poor fettle for making speed." "It's ride or be skulped for him, and I allow he'll ride," quoth the old hunter, hastening his preparations for the start. "Reckon we can get him on a hoss right now." I went to see. Margery rose at my approach, and even in the poor light I could see her draw herself up as if she would hold me at my proper distance. "Your patient, Mistress Margery,--We must mount and ride at once. Is he fit?" "No." "But we must be far to the eastward before daybreak." "I can not help it. If you make him ride to-night you will finish what those cruel savages began, Captain Ireton." "We have little choice--none, I should say." "Oh, you are bitter hard!" she cried, though wherein my offending lay just then I was wholly at a loss to know. "'Tis your privilege to say so," I rejoined. "But as for making Dick ride, that will be but the kindest cruelty. We are only a little way from the nearest Indian towns, and if the daylight find us here--" "Spare me," she broke in; and with that she turned shortly and asked Ephraim Yeates to put her in her saddle. Richard was still in the fever stupor, but he roused himself at my urging and let us set him upon his beast. Once safe in the saddle, we lashed him fast like a prisoner, with a forked tree-branch at his back to hold him erect. This last was the old hunter's invention and 'twas most ingenious. The forked limb, in shape like a Y, was set astride the cantle, with the lower ends thonged stoutly to Dick's legs and to the girths. Thus the upright stem of the inverted Y became an easy back-rest for the sick man; and when he was securely lashed thereto there was little danger for him save in some stumbling of the beast he rode. When all was ready we had first to find our way down from the mountain top; and now even the old borderer and the Indian confessed their inability to do aught but retrace their steps by the only route they knew: namely, by that ravine which we had twice traversed in daylight, and up which they had led the captured horses in the dusk. This route promised all the perils of a gantlet-running, since by it we must take the risk of meeting the fleeing fugitives from the convoy camp, if the explosion had spared any fit to lift and carry the vengeance-cry. But here again there was no alternative, and we set us in order for the descent, with Yeates and the Catawba ahead, the women and Dick in the midst, and her Apostolic Majesty's late captain of hussars, masquerading as a British trooper, to bring on the rear. Once in motion beneath the blue-black shadows of the pines, I quickly lost all sense of direction. After we had ridden in wordless silence a short half hour or less, and I supposed we should be nearing the head of our descending ravine, our little cavalcade was halted suddenly in a thickset grove of the pines, and Ephraim Yeates appeared at my stirrup to say: "H'ist ye off your nag, Cap'n John, and let's take a far'well squinch at the inimy whilst we can." "Where? what enemy?" I would ask, slipping from the saddle at his word. "Why, the hoss-captain's varmints, to be sure; or what-all the abomination o' desolation has left of 'em. We ain't more than a cat's jump from the edge o' the big rock where we first sot eyes on 'em this morning." I saw not what was to be gained by any such long-range espial in the darkness. None the less, I followed the old man to the cliff's edge. He was wiser in his forecastings than I was in mine. There was a thing to look at, and light enough to see it by. One of the missile stones, it seems, had crashed into the great fire, scattering the brands in all directions. The pine-bough troop shelters were ablaze, and creeping serpents of fire were worming their way hither and yon over the year-old leaf beds in the wood. Ever and anon some pine sapling in the path of these fiery serpents would go up in a torch-like flare; and so, as I say, there was light enough. What we looked down upon was not inaptly pictured out by Ephraim Yeates's Scripture phrase, the abomination of desolation. Every vestige of the camp save the glowing skeletons of the troop shelters had disappeared, and the swarded savanna was become a blackened chaos-blot on the fair woodland scene. I have said that the powder-sheltering boulder was a cliff for size; the mighty upheaval of the explosion had toppled it in ruins into the stream, and huge fragments the bigness of a wine-butt had been hurled with the storm of lighter debris broadcast upon the camp. At first we saw no sign of life in all the firelit space. But a moment later, when three or four of the sapling torches blazed up together, we made out some half dozen figures of human beings--whether red or white we could not tell--stumbling and reeling about among the rocks like blind men drunken. At sight of these the old hunter doffed his cap and fell upon his knees with hands uplifted to pour out his zealot's soul in the awful sentences of the Psalmist's imprecation. "'Let God arise, and let His inimies be scattered; let them also that hate Him flee before Him. Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away; and like as the wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God....'" XXXI IN WHICH WE MAKE A FORCED MARCH It could have been but little short of midnight when we came down into the Great Trace near the ambush ground where we had set our trap for the peace men. The night had cleared most beautifully, and overhead the stars were burning like points of white fire in the black dome of the heavens. As often happens after a shower, the night shrillings of the forest were in fullest tide; and a whip-will's-widow, disturbed by our approach, fluttered to a higher perch and set up his plaintive protest. At our turning eastward on the trace, the old hunter massed our little company as compactly as the path allowed, and giving us the word to follow cautiously, tossed his bridle rein to the Catawba and went on ahead to feel out the way. This rearrangement set me to ride abreast with Margery; and for the first time since that fateful night in the upper room at Appleby Hundred we were together and measurably alone. Since death might be lying in wait for us at any turn in the winding bridle-path, I had no mind to break the strained silence. But, womanlike, she would not miss the chance to thrust at me. "Are you not afire with shame, Captain Ireton?" she said, bitterly; and then: "How you must despise me!" I knew not what she meant; but being most anxious for her safety, I begged her not to talk, putting it all upon the risk we ran in passing the outlet of the sunken valley. Now, as you have long since learned, my tongue was but a skilless servant; and though I sought to make the command the gentlest plea, she took instant umbrage and struck back smartly. "You need not make the danger an excuse. I will be still; and when I speak to you again, you will be willing enough to hear me, I promise you!" "Nay, then, dear lady; you must not take it so!" I protested. "'Tis my misfortune to be ever blundering." But to this she gave me no answer at all; and barring a word or two of heartening for her serving woman, she never opened her lips again throughout the passage perilous. By good hap we came to the crossing of the cavern stream without meeting any foeman; and on the farther side of the shallow ford we found the old borderer awaiting us. "Ez I allow, we've smelt the bait in the trap and come off with whole bones, like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego," he said, mixing metaphor, Scripture phrase and frontier idiom as was his wont. Then he put a leg over his horse and gave the stirrup-word: "From now on, old Jehu, the son o' Nimshi, is the hoss-whipper we've got to beat. Get ye behind, Cap'n John, and give the hoss that lags a half inch 'r so of your sword-p'int." Then and there began a night flight long to be remembered. Down the valley of the swift river to the ford where Yeates and I had crossed after the mock rescue of Margery the night before, we let the horses pick the way as they could. But once beyond the ford, where the trace was wider and the footing less precarious, we plied whip and spur, pushing the saddle-beasts for every stride we could get out of them in the blind race. I have marveled often that we came not once to grief in all this long night-gallop through the darkness. There was every chance for it. The over-arching trees of the great forest shut out all the starlight, and the trace was no more than a bridle-path, rougher than any cart road. Yet we held the breakneck pace steadily, save for the time it took to thread some steep defile to a stream crossing, or to scramble up its fellow on the opposite side; and when the dawn began to gray in the sky ahead, we were well out of the broken mountain region and into the opener forest of the hill country. The sun was yet below the eastern horizon when we came to the fording of a larger stream than any we had crossed in the night. Its course was toward the sunrise, hence I took it for some tributary of the Catawba or the Broad. "'Tis the Broad itself," said Ephraim Yeates, in answer to my asking; "and yit it ain't; leastwise, it ain't the one you know. 'Tis the one the Parley-voos claimed in the old war, and they call it the Frinch Broad." "But that flows north and westward, if I remember aright," said I. "So it do, so it do--in gineral. But hereabouts 'twill run all ways for Sunday, by spells." "If this be the French Broad we are not yet out of the Tuckasege country, as I take it." "Mighty nigh to it; nigh enough to make camp for a resting spell. I reckon ye're a-needing that same pretty toler'ble bad, ain't ye, little gal?" this last to Margery. Weary as she was she smiled upon him brightly, as though he had been her grandsire and so free to name her how he pleased. "I shall sleep well when we are out of danger. But you must not stop for me, or for Jeanne, till 'tis safe to do so." "Safe? Lord love ye, child! 'safe' is a word beyond us yit, and will be till we sot ye down on your daddy's door-stone. But we'll make out to give ye a bite and sup and forty winks o' sleep immejitly, _if_ not sooner, now." So, on the farther side of the stream the hunter led the way aside, and when we were come to a small meadow glade with good grazing for the horses, he called a halt, lifted the women from their saddles and came to help me ease Dick down. The poor lad was stiff and sore, having no more use of his joints than if he were a bandaged mummy; but the fever delirium had passed and he was able to laugh feebly at the tree-limb contrivance rigged to hold him in the saddle. "How did we come out of it, Jack?" he asked, when we had let him feel the comfort of lying flat upon his back on the soft sward. "As you see. We are all here, and all in fair fettle, saving yourself. You're the heaviest loser." He smiled, and his eyes languid with the fever sought out Margery, who would not come anigh whilst I was with him. "That remains to be seen, Jack. If my dream comes true, I shall be the richest gainer." "What did you dream?" He beckoned me to bend lower over him. "I dreamed I was sore hurt, and that she was binding up my bruises and crying over me." "'Twas no dream," I said; and with that I went to help Yeates make a bough shelter for the women while Uncanoola was grinding the maize for the breakfast cakes. 'Tis not my purpose to weary you with a day-by-day accounting for all that befell us on the way back to Mecklenburg. Suffice it to say that we ate and slept and rose to mount and ride again; this for five days and nights, during which Jennifer's fever grew upon him steadily. At the close of the fifth day our night halt was in a deserted log cabin at the edge of an unfinished clearing in the heart of the forest. Here Richard's sickness anchored us, and for three full weeks the journey paused. We nursed the lad as best we could for a fortnight, dosing him with stewings of such roots and herbs as the Catawba could find in the wood. Then, when we were at our wits' ends, and Yeates and I were casting about how we could compass the bringing of a doctor from the settlements, the fever took a turn for the better,--of its own accord, or for Uncanoola's physickings, we knew not which,--and at the end of the third week Dick was up and able to ride again, this time without the forked stick to hold him in the saddle. After this we went on without mishap, and with no hardship greater than that of living solely upon the meat victual provided by the hunter's rifle; and you who know this plough-dressed region at this later day will wonder when I write it down that in all that long faring, or rather to the last day's stage of it, we saw never a face of any of our kind, or of the Catawba's. You may be sure the month or more we spent thus in the heart of the wildwood was but a sorry time for me. While the excitement of the pursuit and rescue lasted, and later, when anxiety for Richard filled the hours of the long days and nights, I was held a little back from slipping into that pit of despair which I had digged for myself. But when the strain was off and Dick was up and fit again, the misery of it all came back with added goadings. I had never dreamed how cutting sharp 'twould be to see these two together day by day; to see her loving, tender care of him, and to hear him babble of his love for her in his feverish vaporings. Yet all this I must endure, and with it a thing even harder. For, to make it worse, if worse could be, the shadow of complete estrangement had fallen between Margery and me. True to her word, given in that moment when I had besought her not to speak aloud for her own safety's sake, she had never opened her lips to me; and for aught she said or did I might have been a deaf-mute slave beneath her notice. And as she drew away from me, she seemed to draw the closer to Richard Jennifer, nursing him alive when he was at his worst, and giving him all the womanly care and sympathy a sick man longs for. And later, when he was fit to ride again, she had him always at her side in the onward faring. As I have said before, this was all as I would have it. Yet it made me sick in my soul's soul; and at times I must needs fall behind to rave it out in solitude, cursing the day that I was born, and that other more misfortunate day when I had reared the barrier impassable between these two. What wonder, then, that, as we neared the fighting field of the great war, I grew more set upon seizing the first chance that might offer an honorable escape from all these heartburnings? 'Twas a weakness, if you choose; I set down here naught but the simple fact, which had by now gone as far beyond excusings as the underlying cause of it was beyond forgiveness. 'Twas on the final day, the day when we were riding tantivy to reach Queensborough by evening, that my deliverance came. I say deliverance because at the moment it had the look of a short shrift and a ready halter. We had crossed our own Catawba and were putting our horses at the steep bank on the outcoming side, when my saddle slipped. Dismounting to tighten the girth, I called to the others to press on, saying I should overtake them shortly. The promise was never kept. I scarce had my head under the saddle flap before a couple of stout knaves in homespun, appearing from I know not where, had me fast gripped by the arms, whilst a third made sure of the horse. "A despatch rider," said the bigger of the two who pinioned me. "Search him, Martin, lad, whilst I hold him; then we'll pay him out for Tarleton's hanging of poor Sandy M'Guire." I held my peace and let them search, taking the threat for a bit of soldier bullyragging meant to keep me quiet. But when they had turned the pockets of my borrowed coat inside out and ripped the lining and made it otherwise as much the worse for their mishandling as it was for wear, the third man fetched a rope. "Did you mean that, friend?--about the hanging?" I asked, wondering if this should be my loophole of escape from the life grown hateful. "Sure enough," said the big man, coolly. "You'd best be saying your prayers." I laughed. "Were you wearing my coat and I yours, you might hang me and welcome; in truth, you may as it is. Which tree will you have me at?" The man stared at me as at one demented. Then he burst out in a guffaw. "Damme, if you bean't a cool plucked one! I've a mind to take you to the colonel." "Don't do it, my friend. Though I am something loath to be snuffed out by the men of my own side, we need not haggle over the niceties. Point out your tree." "No, by God! you're too willing. What's at the back of all this?" "Nothing, save a decent reluctance to spoil your sport. Have at it, man, and let's be done with it." "Not if you beg me on your knees. You'll go to the colonel, I say, and he may hang you if he sees fit. You must be a most damnable villain to want to die by the first rope you lay eyes on." "That is as it may be. Who is your colonel?" "Nay, rather, who are you?" I gave my name and circumstance and was loosed of the hand-grip, though the third man dropped the cord and stepped back to hold me covered with his rifle. "An Ireton, you say? Not little Jock, surely!" "No, big Jock; big enough to lay you on your back, though you do have a hand as thick as a ham." He ignored the challenge and stuck to his text. "I never thought to see the son of old Mad-bull Roger wearing a red coat," he said. "That is nothing. Many as good a Whig as I am has been forced to wear a red coat ere this, or go barebacked. But why don't you knot the halter? In common justice you should either hang me or feed me. 'Tis hard upon noon, and I breakfasted early." "Fall in!" said the big man; and so I was marched quickly aside from the road and into the denser thicketing of the wood. Here my captors blindfolded me, and after spinning me around to make me lose the compass points, hurried me away to their encampment which was inland from the stream, though not far, for I could still hear the distance-minished splashing of the water. When the kerchief was pulled from my eyes I was standing in the midst of a mounted riflemen's halt-camp, face to face with a young officer wearing the uniform of the colonelcy in the North Carolina home troops. He was a handsome young fellow, with curling hair and trim side-whiskers to frame a face fine-lined and eager--the face of a gentleman well-born and well-bred. "Captain Ireton?" he said; by which I guessed that one of my capturers had run on ahead to make report. "The same," I replied. "And you are the son of Mr. Justice Roger Ireton, of Appleby Hundred?" "I have that honor." He gave me his hand most cordially. "You are very welcome, Captain; Davie is my name. I trust we may come to know each other better. You are in disguise, as I take it; do you bring news of the army?" "On the contrary, I am thirsting for news," I rejoined. "I and three others have but now returned from pursuing a British and Indian powder convoy into the mountains to the westward. We have been out five weeks and more." He looked at me curiously. "You and three others?" he queried. "Come apart and tell me about it whilst Pompey is broiling the venison. I scent a whole Iliad in that word of yours, Captain Ireton." "One thing first, if you please, Colonel Davie," I begged. "My companions are faring forward on the road to Queensborough. They know naught of my detention. Will you send a man to overtake them with a note from me?" The colonel indulged me in the most gentlemanly manner; and when my note to Jennifer was despatched we sat together at the roots of a great oak and I told him all that had befallen our little rescue party. He heard me through patiently, and when the tale was ended was good enough to say that I had earned a commission for my part in the affair. I laughed and promptly shifted that burden to Ephraim Yeates's shoulders. "The old hunter was our general, Colonel Davie. He did all of the planning and the greater part of the executing. But for him and the friendly Catawba, it would have gone hard with Jennifer and me." "I fear you are over-modest, Captain," was all the reply I got; and then my kindly host fell amuse. When he spoke again 'twas to give me a résumé in brief of the military operations North and South. At the North, as his news ran, affairs remained as they had been, save that now the French king had sent an army to supplement the fleet, and Count Rochambeau and the allies were encamped on Rhode Island ready to take the field. In the South the distressful situation we had left behind us on that August Sunday following the disastrous battle of Camden was but little changed. General Gates, with the scantiest following, had hastened first to Salisbury and later to Hillsborough, and had since been busy striving to reassemble his scattered forces. A few military partizans, like my host, had kept the field, doing what the few might against the many to retard my Lord Cornwallis's northward march; and a week earlier the colonel with his handful of mounted riflemen had dared to oppose his entry into Charlotte. "'Twas no more than a hint to his Lordship that we were not afraid of him," said my doughty colonel. "You know the town, I take it?" "Very well, indeed." "Well, we had harassed him all the way from Blair's Mill, and 'twas midnight when we reached Charlotte. There we determined to make a stand and give him a taste of our mettle. We dismounted, took post behind the stone wall of the court house green and under cover of the fences along the road." "Good! an ambush," said I. "Hardly that, since they were looking to have resistance. Tarleton was sick, and Major Hanger commanded the British van. He charged, and we peppered them smartly. They tried it again, and this time their infantry outflanked us. We abandoned the court house and formed again in the eastern edge of the town; and now, bless you! 'twas my Lord Charles himself who had to ride forward and flout at his men for their want of enterprise." "But you could never hope to hold on against such odds!" I exclaimed. "Oh, no; but we held them for a third charge, and beat them back, too. Then they brought up two more regiments and we mounted and got off in tolerably good order, losing only six men killed. But Colonel Francis Locke was one of these; and my brave Joe Graham was all but cut to pieces--a sore blow to us just now." The colonel sighed and a silence fell upon us. 'Twas I who broke it to say: "Then we are still playing a losing hand in the South, as I take it?" "'Tis worse than that. As the game stands we have played all our trumps and have not so much as a long suit left. Cornwallis will go on as he pleases and overrun the state, and the militia will never stand to front him again under Horatio Gates. Worse still, Ferguson is off to the westward, embodying the Tories by the hundred, and we shall have burnings and hangings and harryings to the king's taste." I nursed my knee a moment and then said: "What may one man do to help, Colonel Davie?" He looked up quickly. "Much, if you are that man, and you do not value your life too highly, Captain Ireton." "You may leave that out of the question," said I. "I shall count it the happiest moment of my life when I shall have done something worth their killing me for." Again he gave me that curious look I had noted before. Then he laughed. "If you were as young as Major Joe Graham, and had been well crossed in love, I could understand you better, Captain. But, jesting aside, there is a thing to do, and you are the man to do it. Our spies are thick in Cornwallis's camp, but what is needed is some master spirit who can plot as well as spy for us. Major Ferguson moves as Cornwallis pulls the strings. Could we know the major's instructions and designs, we might cut him off, bring the Tory uprising to the ground, and so hearten the country beyond measure. I say we might cut him off, though I know not where the men would come from to do it." "Well?" said I, when he paused. "The preliminary is some better information than our spies can give us. Now you have been an officer in the British service, and--" I smiled. "Truly; and I have the honor, if you please to call it so, of his Lordship's acquaintance. Also, I have that of Colonel Tarleton and the members of his staff, the same having tried and condemned me as a spy at Appleby Hundred some few weeks before this chase I have told you of." His face fell. "Then, of course, it is out of the question for you to show yourself in Cornwallis's headquarters." I rose and buttoned my borrowed coat. "On the contrary, Colonel Davie, I am more than ever at your service. Let me have a cut of your venison and a feed for my horse, and I shall be at my Lord's headquarters as soon as the nag can carry me there." XXXII IN WHICH I AM BEDDED IN A GARRET "Tis a very pretty hazard, Captain Ireton. But can it be brought off successfully, think you?" "As I have said, it hangs somewhat upon the safety of my portmanteau. If that has come through unseized to Mr. Pettigrew at Charlotte, and I can lay hands on it, 'twill be half the battle." "You say you left it behind you at New Berne?" "Yes; Mr. Carey was to forward it as he could." Colonel Davie had given me bite and sup, and I was ready to take the road. My plan, such as it was, had been determined upon, and to the furthering of it, the colonel had written me a letter to a friend in the town who might shelter me for a night and make the needed inquiry for my belongings. Also, he had given me another letter, of which more anon, and had pressed upon me a small purse of gold pieces--a treasure rare enough in patriot hands in that impoverished time. When all was done, two of my late captors were ordered to set me straight in the road; and some half-hour past noon I had shaken hands with the big fellow in homespun who had been so bent upon hanging me without benefit of clergy, had crossed the river, and was making the first looping in a detour which should bring me into Charlotte from the westward. 'Twas drawing on toward evening, and I had recrossed the river a mile or more below Appleby Hundred, when I began to meet the outposts of the British army. I was promptly halted by the first of these; but my borrowed uniform and a ready word or two passed me within the lines as a courier riding post to headquarters from Major Ferguson in the west. The lieutenant in command of the first vedette line was not over-curious. He asked me a few questions about the major's plans and dispositions,--questions which, thanks to Colonel Davie's information, I was able to answer glibly enough, swallowed my tale whole, and was so obliging as to give me the password for the night to help me through the inner sentry lines. Thus fortified, I rode on boldly, and having the countersign the difficulties vanished. When I was come to town it was well past candle-lighting; and the patrol was out in force. But by dint of using the password freely I made my way unhindered to the house of the gentleman to whom Colonel Davie's letter accredited me. Here, however, the difficulties began. Though the camp of the army lay just without the town to the southward, the officers were quartered in every house, and that of Colonel Davie's friend was full to overflowing. What was to be done we knew not, but at the last moment my friend's friend thought of an expedient and wrote a note for me whilst I waited, half in hiding, in the outer hall. "'Tis a desperate chance, but these are desperate times," said my would-be helper. "I am sending you to the town house of one of our plantation seigneurs--a man who is fish, flesh or fowl, as his interest demands. I hear he came in to-day to take protection, and there is a chance that he will shelter you for the sake of your red coat and a gold piece or two. But I warn you, you must be what you appear to be--a soldier of the king--and not what this note of Colonel Davie's says you are." Seeing a wide field of danger-chances in this haphazarding, I would have asked more about this trimming gentleman to whom I was to be handed on; but at that moment there came a thundering at the door, and my anxious host was fain to hustle me out through the kitchen as he could, catching up a black boy on the way to be my guide. "God speed you," he said at parting. "Make your footing good for the night, if you can, and we'll see what can be done to-morrow. I'll send your portmanteau around in the morning, if so be Mr. Pettigrew has it." With that I was out in the night again, turning and doubling after my guide, who seemed to be greatly afeard lest I should come nigh enough to cast an evil eye upon him. 'Twas but a little distance we had to go, and I had no word out of my black rascal till we reached the door-stone of a familiar mansion but one remove from the corner of the court house green. Here, with a stuttering "D-d-dis de house, Massa," he fled and left me to enter as I could. Since the street was busily astir with redcoat officers and men coming and going, and any squad of these might be the questioners to doubt my threadbare courier tale, I lost no time in running up the steps and hammering a peal with the heavy knocker. Through the side-lights I could see that the wide entrance hall was for the moment unoccupied; but at the knocker-lifting I had a flitting glimpse of some one--a little man all in sober black--coming down the stair. There was no immediate answer to my peal, but when I would have knocked again the door was swung back and I stepped quickly within to find myself face to face with--Margery. I know not which of the two of us was the more dumbfounded; but this I do know; that I was still speechless and fair witless when she swept me a low-dipped curtsy and gave me my greeting. "I bid you good evening, Captain Ireton," she said, coldly; and then with still more of the frost of unwelcome in her voice: "To what may we be indebted for this honor?" Now, chilling as these words were, they thrilled me to my finger-tips, for they were the first she had spoken to me since the night of my offending in the black gorge of the far-off western mountains. None the less, they were blankly unanswerable, and had the door been open I should doubtless have vanished as I had come. Of all the houses in the town this was surely the last I should have run to for refuge had I known the name of its master; and it was some upflashing of this thought that helped me find my tongue. "I never guessed this was your father's house," I stammered, bowing low to match her curtsy. "I beg you will pardon me, and let me go as I came." She laid a hand on the door-knob. "Is--is there any one here whom you would see?" she asked; and now her eyes did not meet mine, and I would think the chill had melted a little. "No. I was begging a night's lodging of a friend whose house is full. He sent me here with a note to--ah--to your father, as I suppose, though in his haste he did not mention the name." She held out her hand. "Give me the letter." "Nay," said I; "that would be but thankless work. Knowing me, your father must needs conceive it his duty to denounce me." "Give it me!" she insisted; this with an impatient little stamp of the foot and an upglance of the compelling eyes that would have constrained me to do a far foolisher thing, had she asked it. So I gave her the letter and stood aside, hat in hand, while she read it. There were candles in their sconces over the mantel and she moved nearer to have the better light. The soft glow of the candles fell upon her shining hair, and upon cheek and brow; and I could see her bosom rise and fall with the quick-coming breath, and the pulse throbbing in her fair white neck. And with the seeing I became a fool of love again in very earnest, and was within a hair's breadth of sinking honor and all else in an outpouring of such words as a man may say once to one woman in all the world--and having said them may never unsay them. 'Twas a most practical little thing she did that saved me from falling headlong into this last ditch of dishonor. Twisting the letter into a spill she stood on tiptoe to light it at one of the candles, saying: "'Twas a foolish thing to put on paper, and might well hang the writer in such times as these. He says you are a king's man and well known to him, and you are neither." But when the letter was a crisp of blackened paper-ash she turned upon me, and once again the changeful eyes were cold and her words were stranger-formal. "What is it you would have me do, Captain Ireton?" "Nothing," I made haste to say; "nothing save to believe that I came here unwittingly--and to let me go." "Where will you go? The town is alive with those who would--who would--" "Who would show me scant mercy, you would say. True; and yet I came hither--to the town, I mean--of my own free will." Her mood changed in the pivoting fraction of an instant, and now the beautiful eyes were alight and warm and pleadingly eloquent. "Oh, why did you come? Are you--are you what they said you were?" "A spy? If I am, you would scarce expect me to confess it, even to you." "'Tis dishonorable--most dishonorable!" she cried. "I could respect a brave soldier enemy; but a spy--" There was a clattering of hoofs in the street and a jingle of sword-scabbards on the door-stone. I wheeled to face the newcomers, determined now to front it boldly as a desperate man at bay. But before the fumbling hands without could find the door-knob Margery was beside me, all a-flutter in a trembling-fit of excitement. "Up the stair, quickly, _pour l'amour de Dieu!_" she whispered; and we were at the clock landing when the great door opened and some half-dozen king's officers came in. We crouched together behind the balustrade till they should pass beyond the sight of us, and in the group I marked a man stout and heavy built, walking full solidly for his two-and-forty years. He wore his own hair dressed high in front in the fashion first set for the women by the Grand Monarque's loose-wife; and as he passed under the candles I saw that it was graying slightly. His face, high-browed, long-nosed, double-chinned, with the eyes womanish for bigness and marked with brows that might have been penciled by the hair-dresser, I had seen before; but lacking this present sight of it, the orders on his breast would have named him the ranking general of the army in the field--Lord Charles Cornwallis. With all the houses in the town to choose among, I had blundered into this--my Lord's own headquarters. I had but a passing glimpse of the incoming group, for when it was well beneath the turn of the stair, my lady had me up and running again, driving me on before her to the chamber floor above, along a dimly lighted corridor with many turnings, and so to a _cul-de-sac_ in the same--a doorless passage with a high dormer window in the end and no other apparent means of egress. Margery had snatched a candle from one of the corridor holders in the flight, and now she bade me sit on the floor and draw my boots. I did it, shamefacedly enough, being but a foul and ragged vagabond unfit to have her come anigh me. But I might have spared my blushings for she had turned her back and was opening a secret door in the high wainscot. Beyond the door lay a raftered garret half filled with cast-off house lumber and lighted and aired by two high roof windows. Into this she led me, with a finger on her lip for silence. A hum of voices, the clinking of glass, and now and again a hearty soldier laugh told me that my garret was above some living-room of the house. While I stood, boots in hand, she found a makeshift candlestick and in a trice had spread me a pallet on an ancient oaken settle big enough to serve for a choir stall in a cathedral. "You'll be safe here for the night, if so be you will make no more noise than a rat might make," she whispered. "_Mais, mon Dieu!_ 'tis a terrible risk. How you will get off in the morning I do not know." "Leave that to me," I rejoined. Then I remembered the portmanteau and the promise that it should be sent hither. Here was a further complication, and I must needs beg a boon of her. "A black boy will bring my portmanteau in the morning. I have a decent desire to be hanged in clean clothing; may I beg you to--" She made a quick little gesture of impatience; at the further complication, or at my boldness in asking, I knew not which. But her whispered reply was of assent, and then she turned to leave me. At that a sudden fierce desire to know why she had thus befriended me came to throttle prudence. "One more word before you go, Mistress Margery. Will you tell me why you have done this for the man who can serve you only by thrusting his neck into the hangman's noose?" She was silent for a little space, and I knew not what emotion it was that moved her to turn away and cover her face with her hands. But when she spoke her voice was low and tremulous with pent-up anger, as I thought. "Truly, Captain Ireton, you have done a thing to make me hate you--and myself, as well. But I may not forget my duty, sir." And with this cruel word she was gone. XXXIII IN WHICH I HEAR CHANCEFUL TIDINGS You are not to suppose that the hazards of this hiding place in my Lord Cornwallis's headquarters would keep me from sleeping well and soundly. One of the things a soldier learns soonest is to take his rest when and as he can; and after peering curiously into the nooks and corners of my garret to make sure I was alone, I flung myself a-sprawl on the broad settle and was dropping off into forgetfulness when I heard a tapping at the wainscot. It fetched me wide awake with a start, and I was up and weaponed instantly--having taken the precaution to lay my sword in easy reach before blowing out the candle. Groping my way cautiously to the secret door, I crouched and listened. All was silent save for the intermittent clamor of the wassailers in the room beneath. After waiting a full minute I opened the door and looked without. The high dormer window in the end of the corridor made the darkness something less than visible, and I could see that the passage was empty. But on the floor at my feet was my supper; a roasted fowl on a server, hot from the spit, with maize bread and garnishings fit for an epicure. Since, as an appanage of Appleby Hundred, this was mine own house, and, by consequence, the fowl was mine, I ate as a hungry man should, making no scruple on the score of pride. Nor did I forget to be grateful to my lady; though when I remembered that this was doubtless but another leaf out of her duty-book, the meat was like to choke me. And it was this thought that made me resolve thrice over to loose her from the onerous burden of me so soon as ever the morning light should come to help me find the way out of my covert prison. None the less, for all my fine resolves to be astir and off by daybreak, the sun was shining broadly in at my garret window when I awoke. Seeing the sun, I tumbled out of my settle-bed, with a malediction on the sloth that had bound me so fast, and made for the door. But some one had been before me, entering whilst I slept. On a broken chair were a basin and ewer, with soap and towels; beside the chair was my portmanteau; and on a deal box, neatly covered with a linen cloth, was my breakfast. You, my dears, who have your maid or man to tell you when your bath is ready, and to lay out the fresh, clean garments sweet from the laundering, may wonder that I put away the thought of flight and let the breakfast cool whilst I shaved and washed and scrubbed, and doffed the vagabond and donned the gentleman. I did it; did it leisurely, rolling the privilege as a sweet morsel under my tongue. They say the raiment never makes the man; 'tis a half-truth only. For in his own regard, at least, the man is vagabond or gentleman as he may dress the one part or the other. And I am sure of this; that when I drew up another of the cast-off chairs to sit at meat, freshly groomed, and clad in the field uniform of a captain of her Apostolic Majesty's Hussars, I was the fitter by many transmigrations to cope with fate or any other adversary. And now, the claims of decency paid in full, and the keen edge of hunger somewhat dulled, I was free to think of my sweet lady's loving-kindness to one she hated--and to wonder what she would do and be for one she loved. As you would guess, there were dregs of bitterness in that cup; and I was once again set sharp upon relieving her of the burden of me. Having my Austrian uniform, I was now ready to move in that venture outlined in part to Colonel Davie; but to set my plan in action I must first get free of the house unseen by my Lord or any of his suite. How to do this unaided I could not determine; and, since any fresh blundering would surely breed new trouble for Margery, I was forced to wait for her return. I made sure she would come, if only to be the sooner quit of me; and so she did, tapping at the wainscot door whilst I was dallying with the breakfast leavings. 'Twas worth something to see her start of surprise when I opened to her; but she was far too true a lady to be one thing to the unwashed vagabond and another to the gentleman-clad. I gave her good morning, and was beginning in some formal fashion to thank her for her thoughtful care, when she cut me short. "'Tis my bounden duty, sir," she said, twanging once again upon that frayed string. "You are my guest and my--husband; though God knows I would you were neither." "_Merci, Madame_," said I; stung so sharply that the retort would out in spite of everything. "As once before, I am your poor misfortunate pensioner; but this time you are not less willing to give than I am to receive." She gave me a look that I could not fathom, and for a flitting instant I could have sworn there was a mocking smile a-lurk at the back of the beautiful eyes. Then she went straight to the subject-matter of her errand, brushing aside the small passage at arms as if it had not been. "You are in a most perilous situation, Captain Ireton; do you know it? News of your presence in Charlotte has got abroad, and at this very moment Tarleton's dragoons are making a house-to-house search for you." "So; some one has betrayed me?" She nodded. "Do you know who it was?" She nodded again. I considered of it for a little time, and then said: "I must not be taken here. Will your--ah--_duty_ stretch the length of showing me an unwatched door?" "There are no doors unwatched. You must stay here till nightfall." "Nay, that I will not. Will you tell me who it was set them on?" "'Twas a man you hate--and who hates you heartily in return. He saw you come here last night; he knows you are here now--or guesses it." I had no right to pry into her confidence as a thief would break into a house. But I was loath to fight my battle in the dark if she, or any one, could give me light. "His name, if you may give it, Mistress Margery. It may point the way out of this coil." "'Tis Owen Pengarvin. He was here last night when you came." Now I remembered the little man in black whom I had seen coming down the stair whilst I knocked at the door. But this left me in a greater maze than ever. "If he knows I am here, why does he let them search elsewhere?" At this she looked away from me, and I made sure I saw the sweet chin quiver when she spoke. "He has reasons of his own; reasons of--of--" but instead of telling me what they were she broke off to say: "But now you know why all the doors of this house are under guard." "Truly," said I; and therewith I fell to pacing up and down the narrow clear-way in the garret, striving to see how I might come off with nothing worse than the loss of my burdensome life. 'Twas easy to guess how this shaveling lawyer had discomfited me. Forewarned is forearmed in any soldier camp; and through his blabbing, the plan by which I had hoped to lull resentment and forestall suspicion was nipped in the bud. I saw the far-reaching consequences, and was made to know how a trapped rat will turn and fight in sheer desperation whilst the terrier is shaking him to death. When that leaven began to work in me I was fit for the daringest thing that offered; so I paused to ask if my Lord Cornwallis were yet in the house. "He is writing letters in his bed-room," was her answer. "If you will show me the way thither I shall be your poor debtor by that much more." "I will not--unless you first tell me what you mean to do." She said it firmly, but now I was fronting death and could be as firm as she. "If you will not show me the way, I shall find it for myself." So much I said; but as for telling her that I meant to save his Lordship and all the others the trouble of running me down, I could not do that. "You are going to give yourself up," she said; and when I would not deny it, she darted before me and set her back against the wainscot door. "'Tis folly, folly!" she cried. "He would but pull the bell-cord and--" "And give the order that Colonel Tarleton's sentence be executed upon me, you would say. Be it so. But in that event I can at least clear you and your father of any complicity in my hiding." "I say you shall not go!" What touch of savagery is it in a man that will not suffer him to let a woman, loved or unloved, stand in the last resort against his will? At any other time I would have pleaded with her; would have ended, mayhap, by weakly deferring to her wish. But now--well, you must remember, my dears, that I was the trapped rat. I took her gently in my arms, set her aside, and stepped out into the corridor. I looked for nothing less than a volcano-burst of righteous indignation to pay me out for this piece of tyranny. But now, as twice or thrice before, my lady showed me how little a man may know of a woman's moods. "You need not be so masterful rough with me," she said, with a pouting of the sweet lips that set me back upon that thought of a wayward child wanting to be kissed. "If you say I must, I am in duty bound to show you the way." And so she led on and I followed, in a deeper maze than any she had ever set me in. Arrived at a pair of doors in the main passage, she showed me the one that opened to my Lord's bed-chamber and ran away; ran with her hands to her face as if to shut out a sight which would not bear looking upon. I turned my back stiffly upon this newer wonder, pulled myself together and rapped on the door. A voice within bade me enter; the door opened under my hand and I stood in the presence of the man who, as I made no doubt, would shortly summon his guards and have me out to my rope and tree. XXXIV HOW I MET A GREAT LORD AS MAN TO MAN The room in which I found myself was the guest-chamber, furnished luxuriously, for that day and place, in French-fashioned mahogany and gilt. The bed was high and richly canopied, as befitted a peer's resting place; there was a square of Turkish drugget on the floor, a cheerful fire burning in the chimney arch, and on the small table whereat the occupant of the guest-room had lately breakfasted, a goodly display of the Ireton silver. My Lord was busy at his writing-desk when I entered; but when he looked up I saw the light of instant recognition in his eye. Never, I think, did another prisoner at the bar strive harder to read his sentence in his judge's eyes than I did in that moment of suspense. I liked not much the look he gave me; but his greeting was affable and kindly enough. "Ah, Captain Ireton; 'tis you, is it? We are well met, at last. They told me you were gone to join the rebels, did they not?" Here was an opening for a bold man, and in a flash I came to the right-about, choked down the defiance I had meant to hurl at him, and took quick counsel of cool audacity. "Indeed, my Lord, I know not what they have told you. In times past, the king had no truer soldier than I; and when I came across seas 'twas not to fight against him. But that I have not joined the rebels is no fault of certain of your Lordship's officers." "Say you so? But how is this? Surely I am not mistaken. I could be certain Colonel Tarleton reported your taking as a spy, and his trying of you. And was there not something about a rescue at the last moment by a band of these border bravos? But stay; let us have the colonel's story at first hands. Have the goodness to ring the bell for me, will you, Captain?" The crisis was come. A pull at the bell-cord would summon the guard, and the guard would be sent after Colonel Tarleton. Well, said the demon Despair, 'tis time you were gone to make room for Richard Jennifer; and I laid a hand upon the tasseled rope. But when I would have rung, all the man-pride, of race and of soldier training, rose up to bid me fight for space to strike one good blow in freedom's cause by way of leave-taking. So, as it had been an afterthought, I said: "A word further with you first, my Lord, and then, if you please, I will call the guard. All you remember is true, save as to the principal fact. So far from being a spy in intent, or even a partizan of either side, I was at the time but newly come into the province, knowing little of the cause of quarrel and caring still less. But Captain Falconnet and Colonel Tarleton did their earnest best to make a rebel of me out of hand." "Ah? But the proof of all this, Captain Ireton." "The best I can offer is the present fact of my coming to place myself at your Lordship's disposal, being moved thereto by your Lordship's own desire expressed in an order sent some weeks since to Sir Francis Falconnet." "So?--then you knew of that order?" "Captain Falconnet showed it to me after I was condemned and the firing squad was drawn up to snuff me out." My Lord Charles gave me the courtier smile that so endeared him to his soldiers,--he was well-loved of his men,--and bade me sit. "The plot thickens, as Mr. Richardson would say. Let me have your story, Captain Ireton. I would rejoice to know why Captain Sir Francis Falconnet saw fit to disobey his orders." I was clear of the lee shore and the breakers at last, but I was fain to believe that not Machiavelli himself could hope to weather the storm in the open. How much or how little did Lord Cornwallis remember of Colonel Tarleton's report? How explicit had that report been?--was there any mention in it of my eavesdropping at the conference between Captain John Stuart and the baronet; of my attempt to warn the over-mountain men against the Indian-arming? Could I hope to tell his Lordship a tale so near the truth as to be unassailable by Tarleton and his officers, by Gilbert Stair and the spiteful little pettifogger, and yet so deftly garbled as to keep my neck out of the halter for the time being? All these questions thronged upon me as a mob to pull cool reason from her seat, and I could only play the part of the trapped rat and snap back at them. Yet my Lord Cornwallis was waiting for his answer, and a single moment's hesitation might breed suspicion. You must forgive me, my dears, if I confess it beyond me to set down here in measured words the tale I told his Lordship. A lie is a lie, be it told in never so good a cause; a thing deplorable and not to be glozed over or boasted of after the fact. So I beg you to let these quibblings to which I was driven rest in oblivion, figuring to yourselves that I used all the truth I dared, and that I strove through it all not wholly to sink the gentleman and the man of honor in the spy. 'Twas but a bridge of glass when all was said; a bridge that carried me safely over for the moment into my Lord's confidence, yet one which a pebble flung by any one of a dozen hands might shiver in the dropping of an eyelid. "Truly, you have had a most romantic experience," said his Lordship, when I had made an end. Then he lay back in his chair and laughed till the stout body of him shook again. "And all about a little wench of the provincials. Well, well; Sir Francis was always a sad dog with the women. But all this was in the early summer, you say; where have you been since?" Here was a chance for more romancing, this time of a sort less dangerous. So I drew breath and plunged again, telling how I had been carried off by my captor-rescuers; how I had fallen into the hands of the Indians--not all of whom, I would remind his Lordship, were friendly to the king; and lastly how I had but lately escaped from the mountain fastnesses back of Major Ferguson's camp at Gilbert Town. At this point my Lord interrupted the tale-telling. "So you know of the major and his doings? I would you had brought me late news of him. 'Tis a week since his last courier reached us." This was the moment for the playing of my trump card--the only one I held. I rose, bowed, took from my pocket that other letter given me by Colonel Davie and handed it to his Lordship. 'Twas Major Ferguson's last report, intercepted by one of Davie's vigilant scouting parties. "Ah!" said my Lord; and I strolled to the window whilst he read the letter. When I turned to front him again he was all affability; and I knew I was safe--for the time, at least. "The major commends you highly as a good man and a true, Captain Ireton," he said, and truly the letter did contain a warm-hearted commendation of "the bearer," whose name, for safety's sake, was omitted; and not only this, but the writer desired to have his man back again. Then my Lord added: "You are here to take your old service again, I assume?" I hesitated. There be things that even a spy may balk at; and the taking of the oath of allegiance to the other side I conceived to be one of them. So I said: "I have worn many uniforms since I doffed that of King George, my Lord, and--" He laughed cheerily. "'But me no buts,' Captain Ireton; once an Englishman, always an Englishman, you know. I shall assign you to duty in my own family." At this I made a bold stroke. "Let it be then as an officer of her Apostolic Majesty's service, and your Lordship's guest for the time. Believe me, it is thus I may best serve your--ah--the cause." "As how?" he would ask. I smiled and touched the braided jacket of my hussar uniform. "As an Austrian officer on a tour of observation in the campaign I may go and come where others may not, and see and hear things which your Lordship may wish to know. Does your Lordship take me?" He laughed and rose and clapped me on the shoulder. "You may call the guard now, Captain, and I will turn you over--not to a firing squad, but to the tender mercies of our old rascal host who is a 'trimmer' of the devil's own school. If he tries to screw a penny's pay out of you, as he is like to, put him in arrest." "It is your Lordship's meaning that I should be quartered here?--in this house?" I gasped. "And why not? Ah, my good Captain of Hussars, I have made you my honorary aide-de-camp and a member of my family so that I may keep an eye on you. _Comprenez-vous?_" He said it with a laugh and another hearty hand-clap on my shoulder, and I would fain take it for a jest. Yet there be playful gibes that hint at gibbets; and I may confess to you here, my dears, that I left my Lord's presence with the conviction that my acquittal was but a reprieve conditioned upon the best of future good behavior. So it took another turn of the audacity screw to tune me up for the battle royal with Gilbert Stair and the pettifogger, Owen Pengarvin. XXXV IN WHICH I FIGHT THE DEVIL WITH FIRE With the house guard for a guide I found my host in a box-like den below stairs; a room with a writing-table, two chairs and a great iron strong-box for its scanty furnishings. The old man was sitting at the table when I looked in, his long nose buried in a musty parchment deed. The light from the single small window was none too good, but it sufficed to help him recognize me at a glance, despite the hussar uniform. In a twinkling he put the breadth of the oaken table between us, hurled the parchment deed into the open strong-box, slammed to the cover and gave a shrill alarm. "Ho! you devils without, there! Here he is--I have him! Help! Murder!" The guard, a burly, bearded Darmstädter, turned on his heel and stood at attention in the doorway, looking stolidly for his orders, not to the shrilling master of the house, but to the man who wore a uniform. "'Tis naught," I said, speaking in German. "He mistakes me for a _rittmeister_ of the rebels. _Verstehen Sie?_" The soldier saluted, wheeled and vanished; and I sat down to wait till the old man's outcry should pause for lack of breath. When my chance came, I said: "Calm yourself, Mr. Stair. You are in no present danger greater than that which you may bring upon yourself. Blot out all the past, if you please, and consider me now as a member of Lord Cornwallis's military family seeking quarters in your house by my Lord's express command." "Quarters in my house?--ye're a damned rebel spy!" he cried. "I'll denounce ye to my Lord for what ye are. Ho! ye rascals, I say!" "Peace!" I commanded, sternly; "this is but child's folly. No man in the British army would arrest me at your behest. Ring the bell and summon your factor lawyer. I would have a word or two in private with both of you." He dropped into a chair, and I could see the sweat standing in great beads on his wrinkled forehead. "D' ye--d' ye mean to kill us both?" he gasped. "Not if I can help it. But some better understanding is needful, and we will have it here and now, once for all. Will you ring, or shall I?" He made no move to reach the bell-cord, and I rang for him. A grinning black boy came to the door, and seeing that Mr. Gilbert Stair was beyond giving the order, I gave it myself. "Find Master Pengarvin and send him here quickly. Tell him Mr. Stair wants him." There was a short interval of waiting and then the lawyer came. Being but a little wisp of a man, all malignance and no courage, he would have fled when he saw me. But I caught him by the collar and sent him scurrying around the table to keep his master company. "Now, then; how much or how little have you two blabbed of the doings at Appleby Hundred some weeks since?" I demanded. "Speak out, and quickly." 'Twas the lawyer who obeyed, and now he was the trapped rat to snap blindly in despair. "You will hang higher than Haman when the dragoons find you," he gritted out. "On your information?" "On mine and Mr. Stair's." "Ye lie!" shrieked the miser. "I tell't ye to keep hands off, ye bletherin' little deevil, ye!" "Never mind," said I; "what's done is done. But it must be undone, and that swiftly and thoroughly. Lie out of it to Colonel Tarleton and the others as you will; Captain John Stuart and the baronet are not here to contradict you, and you are the only witnesses. Knock together some story that will hold water and lose no time about it. Do you understand?" Seeing he was not to be put to the wall and spitted on the spot, the lawyer recovered himself. "'Tis not the criminal at the bar who dictates terms, Captain Ireton," he said, with his hateful smirk. "You are under sentence of death, and that by a court lawful enough in war time." "You refuse?" I said. He shrugged. "Speaking for myself, I shall leave no stone unturned to bring you to book, Captain,--when it suits my purpose." I was loath to go to extremities with either of them; but my bridge of glass must be defended at all hazards. "You would best reconsider, Mr. Pengarvin. At this present moment I am of my Lord Cornwallis's military family and I have his confidence. A word from me will put you both in arrest as persons whose loyalty in times past has been somewhat more than blown upon." "Bah!" said the pettifogger. "Bluster is a good dog, but Holdfast is the better. You can prove nothing, as you well know. Moreover, with your own neck in a noose you dare not mess and meddle with other men's affairs." "Dare not, you say? I'll tell you what I may dare, Master Attorney. If you are not disposed to meet me half way in this matter, I shall go to my Lord, tell him how I have been cheated out of my estate, declare the marriage with Mistress Margery, and see that you get your just deserts. And you may rest assured that this soldier-earl will right me, come what may." 'Twas a bold stroke, the boldest of any I had made that morning; but I was wholly unprepared for its effect upon the lawyer. His rage was like that of some venomous little animal, a thing to make an onlooker shudder and draw back. "Never!" he hissed; "never, I say! I'll kill her first--I'll--" He choked in the very exuberance of his malignance, and his face was like the face of a man in a fit. 'Twas then that I saw the pointing of his villainy and knew what Margery had meant when she said that for reasons of his own he was holding my betrayal in abeyance. He was Falconnet's successor and my rival. This little reptile aspired to be the master of my father's acres and the husband of my dear lady! And his holding off from denouncing me at once was also explained. Taking it for granted that the wife would bargain for the husband's life, he had made a whip of his leniency to flog Margery into subjection. My determination was taken upon the instant. There was no safety for Margery whilst this plotting pettifogger was at large, and I stepped to the door and called the sentry. The Darmstädter came back and I pointed to the lawyer. Then, indeed, the furious little madman found his tongue and shrilled out his defiance. "Curse you!" he yelled. "I'll be quits with you for this, Master Spy! 'Tis your hearing now, but mine will come, and you shall hang like a dog! I'll follow you to the ends of the earth--I'll--" I made a sign and the soldier brought his musket into play and pricked his prisoner with the bayonet in token that time pressed. So we were rid of the lawyer in bodily presence, though I could hear his snarlings and spittings as the big Darmstädter ran him out at the bayonet's point. During this tilt between his factor and me, Mr. Gilbert Stair had stood apart, watchful but trembling. When we were alone I said: "Now, Mr. Stair, I shall trouble you to billet me somewhere in your house, as a member of my Lord's family. Lead on, if you please, and I'll follow." He went before me without a word, out of the little den and up the broad stair, doddering like a man grown ten years older in a breath, and catching at the balustrade to steady himself as we ascended. The room he gave me was at an angle in one of the crookings of the corridor, and pointing me to the door he went pottering away, still without a word or a look behind him. The door was on the latch, but it gave reluctantly, letting me in suddenly when I set my shoulder to it. There was a quick little cry, half of anger, half of affright, from within. I drew back hastily, with a muttered curse upon the old man's spite, and in the act my spur caught the door and slammed it shut behind me. For reasons known only to Omniscience and to himself, Gilbert Stair had shown me to my lady's chamber; she was standing, with her bodice off, before the oval mirror on the high dressing case. XXXVI HOW I RODE POST ON THE KING'S BUSINESS If a look might be a leven-stroke to do a man to death, I warrant you my lady's flashing eyes would have crisped me to a cinder where I stood fumbling with one hand behind me for the latch of the slammed door. Scorn, indignation, outraged maiden modesty, all these thrust at me like air-drawn daggers; and it needed not her, "Fie, for shame, Captain Ireton!--and you would call yourself a gentleman!" to set me afire with prinklings of abashment. What could I say or do? The accursed door-latch would not find itself to let me fly; and as for excusings, I could not tell her that her own father had thrust me thus upon her. Yet, had she let me be, I hope I should have had the wit to find the door fastening and the grace to run away; in truth, I had the latch in hand when she lashed out at me again, and my tingling shame began to give place to that master-devil of passion which is never more than half whipped into subjection in the best of us. "How are you better than the man you warned me of?" she cried. And then, in a tempest of grief: "Oh! you would not leave me the respect I bore you; you must even rob me of that to fling it down and trample it under foot!" Figure to yourselves, my dears, that I was wholly blameless in this unhappy breaking and entering, and so, mayhap, you may find excuse for me. For now, though I could have gone, I would not. Her glorious beauty, heightened beyond compare by the passionate outburst, held me spellbound. And at my ear the master-devil whispered: She is your wedded wife; yours for better or worse, till death part you. Who has a better right to look upon her thus? So it was that the love-madness came upon me again, and that thin veneering wherewith the Christian centuries have so painfully overlaid the natural man in us was cracked and riven, and the barbarian which lies but skin-deep underneath bestirred himself and winked and blinked himself awake in giant might, as did the primal man when he rose up to look about him for his mate. Before I knew what I would do, I was beside her, and honor, or what may stand therefor betwixt a man and his friend, was flung away. But when I would have crushed her sweetness in my arms she went upon her knees to me.... Ah, God! she knelt to me as she had knelt to that other would-be ravisher and begged me for mine own honor's sake to bethink me of what I would do. "Oh, Monsieur John! be merciful as you are strong!" she pleaded. "Think what it will mean to you, and how you will loathe me and yourself as well when this madness is overpast! Oh, go; go quickly, lest I, too, forget--" And so it was that I found sudden strength to turn and leave her kneeling there; turned to grope blindly for the door with all the pains of hell aflame within me. For now I had put honor under foot; now I knew that I had truly earned her scorn and loathing. I could no longer plead that I was the puppet of fate flung against my will between this maiden and my dear lad. I was the wilful offender; false to my love, false to my friend, a recreant to every oath wherewith I had bound myself to be true and loyal to these two. With such a flaming sword to drive me forth, I stumbled from the room, thinking only how I should quickest rid me of myself. Hastening to my garret sleeping-place I buckled on my sword, found my shako, and went straight to my Lord's bed-chamber. My rap at the door went unanswered, and a broad-shouldered young fellow in a lieutenant's uniform, lounging on a settle in the clock landing of the stair, told me Lord Cornwallis was gone out. I was face to face with this young lieutenant before I recognized him; being so bent upon haste I should have passed him on the landing without a second glance had he not risen to grip me by the shoulders. "By the Lord Harry!" he cried, "is it thus you pass an old friend without a word, Captain Ireton?" 'Twas my good death-watch; that Lieutenant Tybee of the light-horse who had sunk the British officer in the man in that trying night at Appleby Hundred. I returned his hearty greeting as well as I might, and would have explained my present state and standing but that I was loath to lie to him. But as to this, he saved me the shame of it. "I could have sworn you were no rebel, Captain Ireton; indeed, I made bold to say as much to our colonel, after it was all over. I told him a soft word or two would have won you back to your old service. You see I knew better than the others what lay beneath all your madnesses that night." "You knew somewhat, but not all," I said; and thereupon, lest he should involve me deeper and detain me longer when I was athirst to be gone, I hastened to ask where I might hope to find his Lordship and Colonel Tarleton. "'Tis the hour for parade; you will find them at the camp," he replied. And then, out of the honest English heart of him: "Have you made your peace, Captain? Do you need a friend to go with you?" I said I had been granted a hearing by Lord Cornwallis but a little while before; that by my Lord's appointment I was now a sort of honorary aide-de-camp. "Good!" said the lieutenant, gripping my hand in a way to make me wince for the lie-in-effect hidden in the simple statement of fact. Then he roared at the soldier standing guard at the house door below: "A mount for Captain Ireton--and be swift about it!" He held me in talk till the horse was fetched, happily doing most of the talking himself, and when I was in the saddle gave me a hearty God-speed. Being so sick with self-despisings, I fear I made but a poor return for all this good comradeship; but at the time I could think of nothing but the hell that flamed within me, and of how I could soonest quench the fires of it. The town, which I had not seen since early summer, was but little changed by the British occupation, save in the livening of it by the near-at-hand camp of an armed host. Being but a halt-point _en route_ in the northward march, it was not fortified; indeed, for the matter of that, the camp proper was a little way without the town, as I have said. I rode slowly across the common, skirting the commissary's quarters and making mental notes of all I saw; this from soldier habit solely, for at the time I had little thought of living on to make a spy's use of them. Arrived at the parade ground, I found my Lord galloping through the lines on inspection, and so I must draw rein in the background and wait my opportunity. The pause gave space for some eye-sweep of the scene, and all the soldier blood in me was stirred by the sight, the first I had had in many a day, of a well-ordered army, fit, disciplined, machine-drilled to move like the parts of a wondrous mechanism. At the back of Lord Cornwallis and his galloping suite, Tarleton's famous light-horse legion was drawn up; and fronting it was the infantry, rank on rank, the glittering bayonets slanting in the October sunlight as the regiments moved into place, or standing in rigid groves of steel at the command to halt and port arms. What was there in all our poor raw land to stand against this well-trained host, armed--as we were not--with the deadly bayonet, and moving as one man at the word of command? Not the bravest home guard or militia troop, I thought; and this seeing of what he had had to front on the field of Camden made me think less scornfully of Horatio Gates. Riding presently around the field to be the nearer to the general when my time should come, I missed the mark completely. It so chanced that as the parade was ended my Lord and his suite were at the extreme right; and when the regiments broke ranks I was forced to skirt the entire camp to come into the road. By this time those I sought were gone into the town, so I must needs turn about and follow, with the thing I had to say still unspoken. I need not drag you back and forth with me on the search I made to find Lord Cornwallis again. 'Tis enough to say that after missing him here and there, I ran him to earth at the court house, where, it was told me, my Lord was sitting in council with his staff officers. Thinking it worse than useless to try to force my way into the council chamber, I waited in the raff of soldiery without, cursing the delay which gave my despairing resolution time to cool. When I had closed the door of my dear lady's chamber behind me I was resolved to fling myself upon that fate which needed but a word from me to make my calling and election to a gibbet swift and sure. Had I found my Lord Cornwallis in his bed-room the word would have been spoken; but now the iron of resolution cooled in spite of me. 'Twas not that I was less willing to pay the price of expiation; that must be done in any case. But I had seen the enemy, and all the soldier in me rebelled at the thought of dying like a noosed bullock in the shambles. Could I but strike that one good blow. The old court house of our greater Mecklenburg was such as some of you may remember; a stout wooden building raised upon brick pillars to leave a story underneath. In the time of the British occupation this lower story served as a market house, and the public entrance to the court room above was reached by steps on the outside. In my boyhood days this outer stair was the only one; but now in wandering aimlessly through the market-place beneath I found another flight in a corner; the "jury stair," they called it, since it provided the means of egress from the jury box above. The sight of this inner stair set me plotting. Could I make use of it to come unseen into the council chamber of Lord Cornwallis and his officers? The market-place was well thronged with venders and soldier buyers; the patriotic Mecklenburgers were not averse to the turning of an honest penny upon the needs of their oppressors, as it seemed. I watched my chance, and when there were no prying eyes to mark it, made the dash up the steps. Happily for the success of the adventure there was an angle in the narrow stair to hide me whilst I lifted the trap door in the court-room floor a scant half-inch and got my bearings. As I had hoped, the trap opened behind the jury box, and I was able to raise it cautiously and so to draw myself up into the room above, unseen and unheard. A peep around the corner of the high jury stalls showed me my Lord and his suite gathered about the lawyers' table in front of the bar. Of the staff I recognized only Stedman, the commissary-general; Tarleton, looking something the worse for his late illness; Major Hanger, his second in command, and the young Irishman, Lord Rawdon. At the moment of my espial, Cornwallis was speaking, and I drew back to listen, well enough content to be in earshot. For if my good angel had timed my coming I could not have arrived at a more opportune moment. "What we have to consider now is how best to reach Ferguson with an express instantly," his Lordship was saying. "This rising of the over-mountain men is likely to prove a serious matter--not only for the major, but for the king's cause in the two provinces. Lacking positive orders to the contrary, Ferguson will fight--we all know that; and if he should be defeated 'twill hopelessly undo his work among the border loyalists and set us back another twelvemonth." "Then your Lordship will order him to come in with what he has?" said a voice which I knew for Colonel Tarleton's. "Instanter, had I a sure man to send." "Pshaw! I can find you a hundred amongst the late royalist recruits." 'Twas young Lord Rawdon who said this. "Damn them!" said his Lordship shortly; "I would sooner trust this new aide of mine. He comes straight from the major and can find his way back again." Tarleton laughed. "I fear we shall never agree upon him, my Lord. I know not how he has made his peace with you, but I do assure you he is as great a rascal as ever went unhung. 'Tis true, as you say, I did not go into the particulars; but were Captain Stuart or Sir Francis Falconnet here, either of them would convince your Lordship in a twinkling." There was silence for a little space following the colonel's denunciation of me, and then my Lord broke it to say: "I may not be so credulous as you think, Colonel. Rebel spy or true-blue loyalist, he is safe enough for the present. In the meantime in this matter of reaching Ferguson we may make good use of him." "In what manner, your Lordship?" asked one whose voice I did not recognize. "He has come straight from Major Ferguson, as I say; and, loyalist or rebel, he can find his way back to Gilbert Town." "But you'll never be trusting him with despatches!" said Lord Rawdon. "There is no need to trust him. He can be given the despatches with some hint of their purport, and of how much the king's cause will profit by their safe delivery." Again a silence fell upon the group around the lawyers' table, and then some one--'twas Major Hanger, as I thought--said: "'Tis an unread riddle for me as yet, my Lord." Cornwallis laughed. "Where are your wits this morning, gentlemen? If he be loyal and true, the despatches will go safe enough. If, on the other hand, he be a rebel and a spy, he will doubtless tamper with them; but in that case he will none the less ride straight enough to Major Ferguson's headquarters in the West." "H'm; your Lordship is still too deep for me," said Tarleton's second in command. "If he be a rebel and a spy, why, in God's name, should he carry your Lordship's letters to any but some rag-tag colonel of his own kidney?" My Lord laughed again. "Truly, Major, you should go to a dame's school and learn diplomacy. If we tell him beforehand what our object is, how could any rebel of them all defeat it more surely than by going to Ferguson with a garbled message that would make him stand and fight a losing battle?" "But, my Lord--the risk!" cut in the commissary-general. "There need be none. An hour after he sets out we shall send a mounted detail after him with an Indian tracker to nose out his trail. The lieutenant in command will carry duplicate despatches. At the worst, Ireton will guide these followers to Ferguson's rendezvous; and, so far as we know, he is the only man who knows exactly where to find the major." I had heard enough. Under cover of the chorus of bravos raised by Lord Cornwallis's explication of his plot within a plot, I lifted the trap-door and made my exit as noiselessly as I had come. Guessing that no time would be lost in putting the plan into action, I made haste to be found inquiring hither and yon for the commander-in-chief when my Lord and his suite came down the outer stair; and when we were met I was quickly told of my assignment to courier duty. "Make your preparations to take the road within the hour, and report to me at Friend Stair's," said my Lord, most affably. "We shall put your new-found loyalty to the test, Captain Ireton, by entrusting you with a most important mission. Go with the commissary-general and he will find you your mount and equipment." Thus dismissed, I went with Stedman, and was accorded a more gentlemanly welcome than my overhearings had given me leave to expect. On the way to the horse paddock the commissary-general told me of his plan to write a history of the campaign; a bit of confidence which set me laughing inwardly and wondering if he would put one John Ireton, sometime of the Scots Blues, and late captain in her Apostolic Majesty's Hussars, between the covers of his book. 'Tis small wonder that he did not. I have since had the pleasure of reading his history of the great war, and I find it curiously lacking in those incidents which did not redound to the honor and glory of the king's cause and army in the field. Not to digress, however, my makeshift mount was soon exchanged for a better; I was allowed to draw what I would of accoutrements and provender from the king's stores; and so, to cut it short, I was presently at the door of my Lord's headquarters fully equipped and ready for the road. I did hope in those last few moments that I might have a chance to exchange a word with my dear lady; might ask her forgiveness, or, failing so much grace of her, might at least have another sight of her sweet face. But even this poor boon was denied me. I was scarce out of the saddle when an aide came to conduct me to the general, and I saw no one in the house save my Lord himself. As you would guess, my instructions conformed exactly to the plan outlined by Lord Cornwallis in the council. I was entrusted with a sealed packet for delivery to Major Ferguson, and, for safety's sake, as my Lord explained, I was given the meat of the message to deliver verbally should the need arise. Ferguson was to be ordered to come in instantly by forced marches, if necessary, and he was on no account to risk a battle with the over-mountain men. You may be sure, my dears, that I scarce drew breath till I was a-horse and out of the town and galloping hard on the road to that ford of Master Macgowan's which afterward became famous in our history under the misspelling "Cowan's Ford." 'Twas too good to be true that I should be thrust thus into the very gaping mouth of opportunity, and now and again I would feel the packet buttoned tight beneath my hussar jacket to make sure 'twas not a dream to vanish at a touch. In the mad joy of it the spirit of prophecy came upon me, and I saw as if the thing were done, how at last I held the fate of the patriot cause in all our west country in the hollow of my hand. XXXVII OF WHAT BEFELL AT KING'S CREEK Skipping lightly over the happenings of the two days following my departure from Charlotte on the king's errand, I may say that after passing the British outposts at the crossing of the Catawba, I met neither friend nor foe; and from noon on I rode to the westward through a pitiless drizzling rain, splashed to the belt with the mire of the road, and having little chance to inquire my way. This last lack grew with the passing hours to the size of a threatening hazard. As you may have guessed, I knew no more than a blind man the route I should take; knew no more of the whereabouts of Gilbert Town and Major Ferguson's rendezvous than that both were some eighty miles to the westward. At the outset I had thought to feel out the way in general by cautious inquiry along the road; but when I came to consider of this, the risk of betraying my ignorance to those who followed me was too great to let me turn aside to any of the wayside houses; and as for chance passers-by, there were none--the rain kept all within doors. So I was constrained to gallop on without pause; and throughout that comfortless afternoon and the scarce less miserable day which followed, there were no incidents to break the dull monotony of the blind race save these two; that once the clouds lifted enough to give me a glimpse of my pursuers in a far reach to the eastward; and once again I had a sight of an awkward horseman in the road before me--saw him and tried to overtake him, and could not, for all his clumsy riding. Now I was curious about this lone horseman ahead for more reasons than one, but chiefly because my glimpse of him seemed to show me the back of a man whom I made sure I had left safe behind in the British guard-house in Charlotte, to wit: the scoundrelly little pettifogger. At first I scoffed at the idea. Saying he were free to leave Charlotte, how should he be riding post on my haphazard road to the westward? 'Twas against all reason, and yet the tittuping figure of which I had but a rain-veiled glimpse named itself Owen Pengarvin in spite of all the reasons I could bring to bear. 'Twas close on eventide of the second day, the early evening gloaming of a chill autumnal rain-day, and I had been since morning dubiously lost in the somber trackless forest, when an elfish cry rose, as it would seem, from beneath the very hoofs of my horse. "God save the king!" The bay shied suddenly, standing with nostrils a-quiver; and I had to look closely to make out the little brown dot of humanity clad in russet homespun crouching in the path, its childish eyes wide with fear and its lips parted to shrill again: "God save the king!" I threw a stiff leg over the cantle and swung down to go on one knee to my stout challenger. I can never make you understand, my dears, how the sight of this helpless waif appearing thus unaccountably in the heart of the great forest mellowed and softened me. 'Twas a little maid, not above three or four years old, and with a face that Master Raphael might have taken as a pattern for one of his seraphs. "What know you of the king, little one?" I asked. "Gran'dad told me," she lisped. "If I was to see a soldier-man I must say, quick, 'God save the king,' or 'haps he'd eat me. Is--is you hungry, Mister Soldier-man?" "Truly I am that, sweetheart; but I don't eat little maids. Where is your grandfather?" "Ain't got any gran'favver; I said 'gran'_dad_.'" "Well, your gran'dad, then; can you take me to him?" "I don't know. 'Haps you'd eat _him_." "No fear of that, my dear. Do I look as if I ate people?" She gave me a long scrutiny out of the innocent eyes and then put up two little brown hands to be taken. "I tired" she said; and my sore heart went warm within me when I took her in my arms and cuddled her. After a long-drawn sigh of contentment, she said: "My name Polly; what's yours?" "You may call me Jack, if you please--Captain Jack, if that comes the easier. And now will you let me take you to your gran'dad?" She nodded, and I spoke to the bay and mounted, still holding her closely in my arms. "Tell me quickly which way to go, Polly," I said; for besides being, as I would fear, far out of the way to Gilbert Town, the last hilltop to the rear had given me another sight of my shadowing pursuers riding hard as if they meant to overtake me. The little maid sat up straight on the saddle horn and looked about her as if to get her bearings. "That way," she said, pointing short to the right; and I wheeled the horse into a blind path that wound in and out among the trees for a long half mile, to end at a little clearing on the banks of a small stream. In the midst of the clearing was a rude log cabin; and in the open doorway stood a man bent and aged, a patriarchal figure with white hair falling to his shoulders and a snowy beard such as Aaron might have worn. At sight of me the old watcher disappeared within the house, but a moment later he was out again, fingering the lock of an ancient Queen's-arm. I drew rein quickly, and the little maid sat up and saw the musket. "Don't shoot, gran'dad!" she cried. "He's Cappy Jack, and he doesn't eat folkses." At this the old man came to meet us, though still with the clumsy musket held at the ready. "These be parlous times, sir," he said, half in apology, I thought. And then: "You have made friends with my little maid, and I owe you somewhat for bringing her safe home." "Nay," said I; "the debt is mine, inasmuch as I have the little one for my friend. 'Tis long since I have held a trusting child in my arms, I do assure you, sir." He bowed as grandly as any courtier. "I hope her trust is not misplaced, sir; though for the matter of that, we have little enough now to take or leave." "You have given it all to the king?" said I, feeling my way as I had need to. His eyes flashed and he drew himself up proudly. "The king has taken all, sir, as you see," this with a wave of the hand to point me to the forlorn homestead. "There is naught left me save this poor hut and my little maid." "'Taken,' you say? Then you are not of the king's side?" He came a step nearer and faced me boldly. "Listen, sir: two of my sons were left on the bloody field of Camden, and the butcher Banastre Tarleton slew the other two at Fishing Creek. A month since a band of roving savages, armed with King George's muskets, mind you, sir, came down upon us at Northby, and this little maid's mother--" He stopped and choked; and the child looked up into my face with her blue eyes full of nameless terror. "Oh, I want my mammy!" she said. "Won't you find her for me, Cappy Jack?" I slipped from the saddle, still clasping the little one tightly in my arms. "Enough, sir," I said, when I could trust myself to speak. "This same King George's minions have made me a homeless outcast, too. I live but to give some counter stroke, if I may." "Ha!" said the old man, starting back; "then you are for our side? But your uniform--" "Is that of an Austrian officer, my good sir, which I should right gladly exchange for the buff and blue, but that I can serve the cause better in this." He dropped the Queen's-arm, took the child from me and bade me welcome to his cabin and all it held. But I was not minded to make him a sharer in my private peril. "No," said I. "Tell me how I may find Gilbert Town and Major Ferguson's rendezvous, and I will ride whilst I can see the way." He looked at me narrowly. "Ferguson left Gilbert Town some days since. If 'tis the place you seek, you are gone far out of your way; if 'tis the man--" "'Tis the man," I cut in hastily. The patriarch shook his head. "If you be of our side, as you say, he will hang you out of hand." "So I can make my errand good, I care little how soon he hangs me." "And what may your errand be? Mayhap I can help you." "It is to bring him to a stand till the mountain men can overtake him." The old man trembled with excitement like a boy going into his first battle. "Ah, if you could--if you could!" he cried. "But 'tis too late, now. Listen: his present camp is but three miles to the westward on Buffalo Creek. I was there no longer ago than the Wednesday. I--I made my submission to him--curse him--so that I might mayhap learn of his plans. He told me all; how that now he was safe; that the mountaineers were gone off from the fording of the Broad on a false scent; that Tarleton with four hundred of the legion would soon be marching to his relief. "I stole away when I could, and that night took horse and rode twenty miles to Tom Sumter's camp at Flint Hill--all to little purpose, I fear. Poor Tom is still desperately sick of his Fishing Creek wounds, and Colonel Lacey was the only officer fit to go after Shelby and the mountain men to set them straight. I should have gone myself, but--" "Stay, my good friend," said I; "you go too fast for me. If Ferguson is still out of communication with the main at Charlotte, we may halt him yet." The old man made a gesture of impatience. "'Tis a thing done because it is as good as done. The major will break camp and march to-morrow morning, and he can reach Charlotte at ease in two days. What with their losing of his trail, the mountain men are those same two days behind him." "None the less, we shall halt him," said I. "Have you ever an inkhorn and a quill in your cabin?" "Both; at your service, sir. But I can not understand--" "We may call it the little maid's judgment on those who have made her fatherless. But for her stopping of me I should have come unprepared into the camp of the enemy. I am the bearer of a letter from Lord Cornwallis to this same Major Ferguson." "You?--a bearer of Lord Cornwallis's despatches?" The old man put a blade's length between us and held the little one aloft as if he feared I might do her a mischief. I laughed and bade him be comforted. "'Tis a long story, and I may not take the time to tell it now. But a word will suffice. Like yourself, I made my submission--and for the same purpose. My Lord accepted it and made me his despatch-bearer because he thought I knew the way to Ferguson when no one else knew it. But enough of this; time presses. Let me have ink and the quill." The old man led the way into the cabin and put his writing tools at my disposal. Left to myself, I should have broken the seal of the packet; but my wise old ally, cool and collected now, showed me how to split the paper beneath the wax. Opened and spread before us on the rude slab table, the letter proved to be the briefest of military commands: a peremptory order to Ferguson to rejoin the main body at once, proceeding by forced marches if needful, and on no account to risk engagement with the over-mountain men. How to change such an order to reverse it in effect, I knew no more than a yokel; but here again my ancient ally showed himself a man of parts. Dressing the pen to make it the fellow of that used by my Lord Cornwallis, he scanned the handwriting of the letter closely, made a few practice pot-hooks to get the imitative hang of it, and wrote this _postscriptum_ at the bottom of the sheet. _Since writing the foregoing I have your courier, and his despatches. Lieutenant-colonel Tarleton, with four hundred of the legion, will take the road for you to-night. If battle is forced upon you, make a stand and hold the enemy in check till reinforcements come. Cornwallis._ The old man sanded the wet penstrokes and bade me say if it would serve. 'Twas a most beautiful forgery. My Lord's crabbed handwriting was copied to a nicety, and of the two signatures I doubt if the earl himself could have told which was his own; 'twas the same circle "C," the same printing "r," the same heavy precision throughout. "Capital!" said I. "Now, if the lightning would but strike these pursuers of mine, we should have the Scotsman at bay in a hand's turn." "How?" said the patriarch; "are you followed?" I told him I was; told him of my Lord's plot within a plot--that three light-horse riders, one of them a lieutenant bearing duplicate despatches, had been hard upon my heels all the way from Charlotte. At this the old warhorse--I learned afterward that he had fought through the French and Indian war--wagged his beard and his eye flashed. "We must stop them," he said. "Three of them, do you say?" "Three white men and an Indian trailer." "Ha! If it were not for the little maid.... Let me think." He fell to pacing up and down before the fire on the hearth, and I took the small one on my knee to let her chatter to me. 'Twas five full minutes before my ancient gave me the worth of his cogitations, but when he did speak it was much to the purpose. "These marplot rear-guards of yours will spoil it all if they come to Ferguson's camp either before or after you. Do they know the major's present whereabouts?" "No more than I did an hour ago. As I take it, they are depending on me to show them the way." "Well, then; dead men tell no tales." "But, my good friend, you forget there are four of them and only two of us! We should stand little chance with them in fair fight." Again the old man's eyes snapped and glowed as if pent-fires were behind them. "Was it fair fight when Tarleton's men rode in upon Tom Sumter's rest camp at Fishing Creek and cut down this little maid's father whilst he was naked and bathing in the stream? Was it fair fight when King George's Indian devils came down in the dead of night upon our defenseless house at Northby? Never talk to me of fairness, sir, whilst all this bloody tyranny is afoot!" I thought upon it for a little space. 'Twas none so easy to decide. On one hand, stern loyalty to the cause I had espoused passed instant sentence on these four men whose lives stood in the way; on the other, common humanity cried out and called it murder. Never smile, my dears, and hint that I had found me a new heart of mercy since that ambush-killing of the three Cherokee peace-men in the lone valley of the western mountains. We did but give the savages a dole out of their own store of cruel cunning and ferocity. But as for these my trackers, three of them, at least, were soldiers and men of my own race. I could not do it. "No," said I, firmly. "These followers of mine must be stopped, as you say, else there is no need of my going on. But there must be no butcher's work." The patriarch frowned and wagged his beard again. "A true patriot should hold himself ready to give his own life or take another's," quoth he. "Truly; and I am most willing on both heads. But we have had enough and more than enough of midnight massacre." Where this argument would have led us in the end, I know not, since we were both waxing warm upon it. But in the midst the little maid came running from the open door, her blue eyes wide in childish terror. "Injun man!" was all she could say; but that was enough. At a bound I reached the door. An Indian was at my horse's head, loosing the halter, as I thought. Before he could twist to face me the point of the Ferara was at his back. Luckily, he had the wit not to move. "No kill Uncanoola," he muttered, this without the stirring of a muscle. Then, as if he were talking to the horse: "White squaw, she send 'um word; say 'good by.'" My point dropped as if another blade had parried the thrust. "Mistress Margery, you mean? Do you come from her?" "She send 'um word; say 'good by,'" he repeated. "What else did she say?" I demanded. "No say anyt'ing else: say 'good by.'" He turned upon me at that and I saw why he had kept his face averted. He had on the war paint of a Cherokee chief. "Uncanoola good Chelakee now," he grinned. "Help redcoat soldier find Captain Long-knife. Wah!" I saw his drift, and though I knew his courage well, the boldness of the thing staggered me. He, too, had penetrated to the inner lines of the British encampment at Charlotte; and when they had sought an Indian tracker to lift my trail, 'twas he who had volunteered. But now my spirits rose. With this unexpected ally we might hope to deal forcefully and yet fairly with my rear-guard. "Where are your masters now?" I asked. He spat upon the ground. "Catawba chief has no master," he said, proudly. "Redcoat pale-faces yonder," pointing back the way I had come. "Make fire, boil tea, sing song, heap smoke pipe." "We must take them," said I. He nodded. "Kill 'um all; take scalp. Wah!" The bloodthirstiness of my two allies was appalling. But I undertook to cool the Indian's ardor, explaining that the redcoat soldiers were the Long-knife's brothers, in a way, not to be slain save in honorable battle. I am not sure whether I earned the Catawba's contempt, or his pity for my weakness; but since he was loyal to the son of his old benefactor first, and a savage afterward, he yielded the point. So now I made him known to my patriarchal host, who all this time had been standing guard at the cabin door with the old Queen's-arm for a weapon. So we three sat on the door-stone and planned it out. When the night was far enough advanced, we would stalk the soldiers in their camp, sparing life as we could. When all was settled, the old man gave us a supper of his humble fare, after which we went into the open again to sit out the hours of waiting. The rain had ceased, but the night was cloudy and the darkness a soft black veil to shroud the nearest objects. High overhead the autumn wind was sighing in the tree-tops, and now and again a sharper gust would bring down a pattering volley of lodged rain-drops on the fallen leaves. Uncanoola sat apart in stoical silence, smoking his long-stemmed pipe. The old man and I talked in low tones, or rather he would tell me of his past whilst I sat and listened, holding the little maid in my arms. After a time the child fell asleep, and I craved permission to put her in the little crib bed in the chimney corner. The flickering light of the fire fell upon her innocent face when I loosed the clasp of the tiny hands about my neck and laid her down. Again the wave of softness submerged me and I bent to leave a kiss upon the sweet unconscious lips. Ah, my dears, you may smile again, if you will; but at that moment I had a far-off glimpse of the beatitude of fatherhood; I was no longer the hard old soldier I have drawn for you; I was but a man, hungering and thirsting for the love of a wife and trusting, clinging little children like this sweet maid. I rose, turning my back upon the chimney corner and its holdings with a sigh. For now the time was come for action, and I must needs be a man of blood and iron again. Lacking the Catawba to guide us, I doubt if either the old man or I could have found my rearguard's bivouac near the trail I had left. But Uncanoola led us straight through the pitchy darkness; and when we were come upon the three soldiers we found them all asleep around the handful of camp-fire. 'Twould have been murder outright to kill them thus; and now I think the old patriarch forgot his wrongs and was as merciful as I. But not so the Catawba. He had armed himself with a stout war-club, and before I was free to stop him he had knocked two of the three sleepers senseless, and would have battered out their brains but for the old man's intervention. As for the officer, I had flung myself upon him in the rush and was having a pretty handful of him. But though he was broad in the shoulders, and as agile as a cat, he was taken at a sleeping man's disadvantage, and so I presently had the better of him. "Enough, man! 'tis as good as a feast!" he cried, when I had him fast pinioned; and thereupon I let him have breath and freedom to sit up. In the act he had his first good sight of me, as I had mine of him. 'Twas Tybee and no other. "Gad! my Captain," he said, feeling his throat. "If you have a grip like that for your friends, I'm damned glad I'm not your enemy." "But you are," I rejoined, rather shamefacedly, yet thankful to the finger-tips that I had not consented to a massacre. "I am for the Congress and the Commonwealth, Lieutenant, and you are my prisoner. May I trouble you for the despatches you carry?" He looked up at me with a queer grimace on his boyish face. "The devil! but you're a cool hand, Captain Ireton! Whatever you were in that coil at Appleby, you've led the spy's long suit this time. And I'm not sure whether I like you any the worse for it, if so be you must be a rebel." And with that, he gave me the sealed packet and asked what I would do with him. His query set me thinking. As for the two stunned troopers, I meant to turn them over to the old man for safe keeping; but I was loath to make it harder than need be for this good-natured youngster. So I put him upon his honor. "Do you know what this packet contains?" I asked. He laughed. "My Lord did not honor me with his confidence. I was to follow you in to Major Ferguson's camp, deliver the despatches, and vanish." "Good; then you need tell no lies. When the Indian has fetched my horse, I shall ride to Ferguson's camp, and you may ride with me. I shall ask no more than this; that you do not fight again till you are exchanged; and that you will not tell Major Ferguson whose prisoner you are. Do you accept the terms?" "Gad! I'd be a fool not to. But what's in the wind, Captain? Surely you can tell me, now that I am safely out of the running." "You will know in a day or two; and in the meantime ignorance is your best safety. You can tell Major Ferguson that you were waylaid on the road by a party of the enemy, and that you were paroled and fell in with me." He looked a little rueful, as a good soldier would, but was disposed to make the best of a bad bargain. "Here's my hand on it," he said; and a little later we had dragged the two troopers to the cabin, where the old man became surety for their safe keeping, and were feeling our way cautiously westward at the heels of the Catawba who had taken his directions from our patriarch. We pressed forward in silence through the shadowy labyrinth of the wood for a time, but at the crossing of a small runlet where we would stop to let the horses drink, Tybee burst out a-laughing. "'Tis as good as a play," he said. "Three several times I've had to change my mind about you, Captain Ireton, and I'm not cock-sure I have your measure yet. But I'll say this: if you've strung my Lord successfully, you'll be the first to do it and come off alive in the end." "The end is not yet, my good friend; and I may not come off better than the others," I rejoined. And with that we fared on again till we could see the camp-fires of Ferguson's little army twinkling between the tree trunks. XXXVIII IN WHICH WE FIND THE GUN-MAKER As you may be sure, Major Patrick Ferguson was far too good a soldier to leave his camp unguarded on any side, and whilst we were yet a far cannon-shot from the glimmering fires a sentry's challenge halted us. To the man's "Halt! Who goes there?" I gave the word "Friends," salving my conscience for the needful lie as I might. "Advance, friends, and give the countersign." I confessed my ignorance of the night-word, saying that we were a paroled prisoner and a bearer of despatches, and asking that we be taken to Major Ferguson's headquarters. There was some little cautious demurring on the part of the sentry, but finally he passed the word for the guard-captain and we were escorted to the tent of the field commander. I marked the encampment as I could in passing through it. The little army was three-fourths made up of Tory militia; and there was drinking and song-singing and a plentiful lack of discipline around the camp-fires of these auxiliaries. But a different air was abroad in the camp of the regulars; you would see a soldierly alertness on the part of the men, and there was no roistering in that quarter. Major Ferguson's tent was on a hillock some distance back from the stream, and thither we were conducted; we, I say, meaning Tybee and myself, for Uncanoola had disappeared like a whiff of smoke at our challenging on the sentry line. Late as it was, the major was up and hard at work. His tent table, transformed for the time into a mechanic's work-bench, was littered with gun-barrels and tools and screws and odd-shaped pieces of mechanism--the disjointed parts of that breech-loading musket of which the ingenious Scotchman was the inventor. Being deep in the creative trance when we came upon him, the major gave us but an absent-minded greeting, listening with the outward ear only when Tybee reported his mission, and his capture and parole. "From my Lord, ye say? I hope ye left him well," was all the answer the Lieutenant got, the inventor fitting away at his gun-puzzle the while. Tybee made proper rejoinder and stood aside to give me room. I drew a sealed inclosure from my pocket and laid it on the work-bench table. "I also have the honor to come from my Lord Cornwallis, bringing despatches"--so far I got in my cut-and-dried speech, and then my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth and I could no more finish the sentence than could a man suddenly nipped in a vise. Instead of the carefully doctored original, I had given the major the duplicate despatch taken from Tybee. Ah, my dears, that was a moment for swift thought and still swifter action; and 'tis the Ireton genius to be slow and sure and no wise "gleg at the uptak'," as a Scot would say. Yet for this once my good angel gave me a prompting and the wit to use it. In that clock-tick of benumbing despair when the success of the hazardous venture, and much more that I wist not of, hung suspended by a hair over the abyss of failure, I minded me of a boyish trick wherewith I used to fright the timid blacks in the old days at Appleby Hundred. So whilst the major was reaching for the packet--nay, when he had it in his hand--I started back with a warning cry, giving that imitation of the ominous _skir-r-r_ of a rattlesnake which had more than once got me a cuffing from my father. In any crisis less tremendous I should have roared a-laughing to see the doughty major and my good friend the lieutenant vie with each other in their skippings to escape the unseen enemy. But it was no laughing moment for me. At a flash my sword was out and I was hacking hither and yon at the imaginary foe. In the hurly-burly I contrived to sprawl all across the work-bench table, and the packet which would have killed my plot--and, belike, the plotter as well--was secured and quickly juggled into hiding. "Damme! see now what you've done; you've spilt my breech-charger all about the place!" rasped the major, when all was over. And then: "Who the devil are ye, anyway; and what do ye want wi' me?" I clicked my heels, saluted, and gave him the express from my Lord--the right one, this time. He tore off the wrapping, swore a hearty soldier oath when he read the fore part of the letter and clapped his leg joyfully, like the brave gentleman that he was, when he came to the _postscriptum_. "Ye're a fine fellow, Captain; ye've brought me good news," he said; then he bade an aide call Captain de Peyster, his second in command, and in the same breath gave Tybee and me in charge to an ensign for our billeting for the night. You will conceive that I was overjoyed at this seemingly safe and easy planting of the petard which was to blow my Lord Cornwallis's plans into the air; and in anticipation I saw the tide-turning battle and heard the huzzas of the mountaineer victors. But 'tis a good old saw that cautions against hallooing before you are out of the wood. Captain de Peyster was come, and Tybee and I were taking our leave of the major, when there was a sudden commotion among the guards without, and a little man in black, his wig awry and his clothing torn by the rough man-handling of the sentries, burst into the tent. "Seize him! seize him! he is a rebel spy!" he shrieked, pointing at me. As you would guess, all talk paused at this dramatic interruption, and all eyes were turned upon me. Had the little viper been content to rest his charge upon the simple accusation, I know not what might have happened. But when he got his breath he burst out in a tirade of the foulest abuse, cursing me up one side and down the other, and ending in a gibbering fit of rage that left him pallid and foaming at the lips--and gave me my cue. "'Tis the little madman of Queensborough," I said, coolly, explaining to the bluff major. "His mania takes the form of a curious hatred for me, though I know not why. Two days since, he was put in arrest by my Lord's authority for threatening my life and that of his master's daughter. Now, it would seem, he has broken jail and followed me hither." "A lunatic, eh? He looks it, every inch," said the major; and the blackguard lawyer, hearing my counter accusation, was doing his best to give it a savor of likelihood by fighting frantically with the two soldiers who had followed him into the tent. "Out wi' him!" commanded the major. "We've no time to foolish away wi' a Bedlamite. Take him away and peg him out, and gi' him a dash o' water to cool his head." Pengarvin fought like a fury, and his venomous rage defeated all his attempts to say calmly the words which might have got him a hearing. So he was haled away, spitting and struggling like a trapped wildcat; and when we were rid of him the major bade us good night again. Tybee held his peace like a good fellow till we had rolled us in our blankets before one of the camp-fires. But just as I was dropping asleep he broke out with, "I would you might tell me what piece of rebel villainy this is that I've been a winking accomplice to." I laughed. "'Tis a thing to make Major Ferguson rejoice, as you saw. And surely, it can be no great villainy to give a man what he's thirsting for. Bide your time, Lieutenant, and you shall see the outcome." XXXIX THE THUNDER OF THE CAPTAINS AND THE SHOUTING The camp was astir early the next morning, and it soon became noised about that we were to fall back, but only so far as might be needful to find a strong position. From this it was evident that a battle was imminent, though as yet there were no signs of the approach of the patriots. From the camp talk we, Tybee and I, gleaned some better information of the situation. A fortnight earlier Major Ferguson had captured two of the over-mountain men of Clark's party and had sent them to the settlement on the Watauga with a challenge in due form--or rather with the threat to come and lay the over-mountain region waste in default of an instant return of the pioneers to their allegiance to the king. This challenge, so our scouts told us, had been immediately accepted. Sevier and Shelby had embodied some two hundred men each from the Watauga and the Holston settlements, and Colonel William Campbell, the stout old Presbyterian Indian fighter, had joined them with as many more Virginians. Crossing the mountain these three troops had fallen in with other scattered parties of the border patriots under Benjamin Cleaveland, Major Chronicle and Colonel Williams, of South Carolina, until now, as the scouts reported, the challenged outnumbered the challengers. Learning this, Ferguson, who was as prudent as he was brave, thought it best to make his stand at some point nearer the main body of the army; and so the withdrawal from Gilbert Town had fallen into a retreat and a pursuit. From what Captain de Peyster has since told me, there would seem to be little doubt that the major meant to fight when he had manoeuvered himself into a favorable position; this in spite of Lord Cornwallis's commands to the contrary. In his despatches he was continually urging the need for a bold push in his quarter, and asking for Tarleton and a sufficient number of the legion to enable him to cope with a mounted enemy. But be this as it may, the garbled letter I had brought him turned whatever scale there was to turn. He had now with him some eleven hundred regulars and Tories, the latter decently well drilled; he had every reason to expect the needed help from Cornwallis; and, on the night of my arrival, he had word that another Tory force under Major Gibbs would join him in a day or two, at farthest. For his battle-ground Major Ferguson chose the top of a forest-covered hill, the last and lowest elevation in the spur named that day King's Mountain. In some respects the position was all that could be desired. There was room on the flat hilltop for an orderly disposition of the fighting force; and the slopes in front and rear were steep enough to give an attacking enemy a sharp climb. Moreover, there was a plentiful outcropping of stone on the summit, scantiest on the broad or outer end of the hill, and this was so disposed as to form a natural breastwork for the defenders. But there were disadvantages also, the chief of these being the heavy wooding of the slopes to screen the advance of the assaulting party; and while the major was busy making his dispositions for the fight, I was on tenter-hooks for fear he would have the trees felled to belt the breastwork with a clear space. He did not do it, being restrained, as I afterward learned, by his uncertainty as to whether or no the mountain men had cannon. Against artillery posted on the neighboring hillocks the trees were his best defense, and so he left them standing. As you would suppose, my situation was now become most trying, and poor Tybee's was scarcely less so. Knowing my name and circumstance, and having, moreover, a high regard for my old field-marshal's genius, Major Ferguson was very willing to make use of my experience. These askings from one whom I knew for a brave and honorable gentleman let me fall between two stools. As a patriot spy, it was my duty to turn the major's confidence as a weapon against him. But as an officer and a gentleman I could by no means descend to such depths of perfidy. In this dilemma I sought to steer a middle course, saying that I must beg exemption because my long hard ride had re-opened my old sword wound--as indeed it had. So the major generously let me be, thus heaping coals of fire upon my head; and I kept out of his way, consorting with Tybee, who, like myself, must be an onlooker in the coming fray. As for the lieutenant, he was all agog to learn more than I dared tell him, and it irked him most nettlesomely to have a fight in prospect in the which he was in honor bound not to take a hand. Time and again he begged me to release him from his parole; and when I would not, he was for fighting me a duel with his freedom for a stake. "Consider of it, Captain Ireton," he pleaded. "For God's sake, put yourself in my place. Here am I, in the camp of my friends, gagged and bound by my word to you whilst your infernal plot, whatever it may be, works out to the _coup de grâce_. Ye gods! it would have been far more merciful had you run me through in our wrestling match last night!" "Mayhap," said I, curtly. "'Twas but the choice between two evils. Nevertheless, in time to come I hope you may conclude that this is the lesser of the two." "No, I'm damned if I shall!" he retorted, fuming like a disappointed boy, and minding me most forcibly of my hot-headed Richard Jennifer. And then he would repeat: "I thought you were my friend." "So I am, as man to man. But this matter concerns the welfare of a cause to which I have sworn fealty. Take your own words back, my lad, and put yourself in my place. Can I do less than hold you to your pledge?" "No, I suppose not," he would say, grumpily. "Yet 'tis hard; most devilish hard!" "'Tis the fortune of war. Another day the shoe may be upon the other foot." The baggage wagons had been massed across the broad end of the hill to eke out the stone breastwork, and the last of these arguing colloquies took place beneath one of the wagons whither we had crept for shelter from the rain, which was now pouring again. In the midst of our talk, Major Ferguson dived to share our shelter, dripping like a water spaniel. "Ha! ye're carpet soldiers, both of ye!" he snorted, and then he began to swear piteously at the rain. "'Twill be worse for the enemy than for us," said Tybee. "We can at least keep our powder dry." "Damn the enemy!" quoth the major, cheerfully. "So the weather does not put the creeks up and hold Tarleton and Major Gibbs back from us, 'tis a small matter whether the rebels' powder be dry or soaked." "You have made all your dispositions, Major?" Tybee asked. The major nodded. "All in apple-pie order, no thanks to either of ye. 'Tis a strong position, this, eh, Captain Ireton? I'm thinking not all the rebel banditti out of hell will drive us from it." "'Tis good enough," I agreed; and here the talk was broken off by the major's diving out to berate some of his Tory militiamen who were preparing to make a night of it with a jug of their vile country liquor. The rain continued all that Friday night and well on into the forenoon of the Saturday. During this interval we waited with scouts out for the upcoming of the mountain men. At noon Major Ferguson sent a final express to Lord Cornwallis, urging the hurrying on of the reinforcements, not knowing that his former despatch had been intercepted, nor that Tarleton had not as yet started to the rescue. A little later the scouts began to come in one by one with news of the approaching riflemen. There was but a small body of them, not above a thousand men in all, so the spies said, and my heart misgave me. They were without cannon and they lacked bayonets; and moreover, when all was said, they were but militia, all untried save in border warfare with the Indians. Could they successfully assault the fortified camp whose defenders--thanks to the major's ingenuity--had fitted butcher-knives to the muzzles of their guns in lieu of bayonets? Nay, rather would they have the courage to try? 'Twas late in the afternoon before these questions were answered. The rain had ceased, and the chill October sunlight filtered aslant through the trees. With the clearing skies a cold wind had sprung up, and on the hilltop the men cowered behind the rock breastwork and waited in strained silence. At the last moment Major Ferguson sent Captain de Peyster to me with the request that I take command of the Tory force set apart to defend the wagon barricade--this if my weariness would permit. I went with the captain to make my excuses in person. "Say no more, Captain," said this generous soldier, when I began some lame plea for further exemption; "I had forgot your sword-cut. Take shelter for yourself, and look on whilst we skin this riffraff alive." And so he let me off; a favor which will make me think kindly of Patrick Ferguson so long as I shall live. For now my work was done; and had he insisted, I should have told him flatly who and what I was--and paid the penalty. I had scarce rejoined Tybee at the wagons when the long roll of the drums broke the silence of the hilltop, and a volley fire of musketry from the rock breastwork on the right told us the battle was on. Tybee gave me one last reproachful look and stood out to see what could be seen, and I stood with him. "Your friends are running," he said, when there was no reply to the opening volley; and truly, I feared he was right. At the bottom of the slope, scattering groups of the riflemen could be seen hastening to right and left. But I would not admit the charge to Tybee. "I think not," I objected, denying the apparent fact. "They have come too far and too fast to turn back now for a single overshot volley." "But they'll never face the fire up the hill with the bayonet to cap it at the top," he insisted. "That remains to be seen; we shall know presently. Ah, I thought so; here they come!" At the word the forest-covered steep at our end of the hill sprang alive with dun-clad figures darting upward from tree to tree. Volley after volley thundered down upon them as they climbed, but not once did the dodging charge up the slope pause or falter. Unlike all other irregulars I had ever seen, whose idea of a battle is to let off the piece and run, these mountain men held their fire like veterans, closing in upon the hilltop steadily and in a grim silence broken only by the shouting encouragements of the leaders--this until their circling line was completed. Then suddenly from all sides of the beleaguered camp arose a yell to shake the stoutest courage, and with that the wood-covered slopes began to spit fire, not in volleys, but here and there in irregular snappings and cracklings as the sure-shot riflemen saw a mark to pull trigger on. The effect of this fine-bead target practice--for it was naught else--was most terrific. All along the breastwork, front and rear, crouching men sprang up at the rifle crackings to fling their arms all abroad and to fall writhing and wrestling in the death throe. At our end of the hill, where the rock barrier was thinnest, the slaughter was appalling; and above the din of the firearms we could hear the bellowed commands of the sturdy old Indian fighter, Benjamin Cleaveland, urging his men up to still closer quarters. "A little nearer, my brave boys; a little nearer and we have them! Press on up to the rocks. They'll be as good a breastwork from our side as from theirs!" You will read in the histories that the Tory helpers of Ferguson fought as men with halters round their necks; and so, indeed, a-many of them did. But though they were most pitiless enemies of ours, I bear them witness that they did fight well and bravely, and not as men who fight for fear's sake. And they were most bravely officered. Major Ferguson, boldly conspicuous in a white linen hunting-shirt drawn on over his uniform, was here and there and everywhere, and always in the place where the bullets flew thickest. His left hand had been hurt at the first patriot gun fire, but it still held the silver whistle to his lips, and the shrill skirling of the little pipe was the loyalist rallying signal. Captain de Peyster, too, did ample justice to the uniform he wore; and when Campbell's Virginians gained the summit at the far end of the hilltop, 'twas de Peyster who led the bayonet charge that forced the patriot riflemen some little way down the slope. But these are digressions. No man sees more of a battle than that little circle of which he is the center; and the fighting was hot enough at the wagon barricade to keep both Tybee and me from knowing at the time what was going on beyond our narrow range of sight or hearing. You must picture, therefore, for yourselves, a very devils' pandemonium let loose upon the little hilltop so soon as the mountain men gained their vantage ground at the fronting of the rock breastwork; cries; frantic shouts of "God save the king!" yells fierce and wordless; men in red and men in homespun rushing madly hither and yon in a vain attempt to repel a front and rear attack at the same instant. 'Twas a hell set free, with no quarter asked or given, and where we stood, the Tory defenders of the wagon barrier were presently dropping around us in heaps and windrows of dead and dying, like men suddenly plague-smitten. In such a time of asking you must not think we stood aloof and looked on coldly. At the first fire Tybee stripped off his coat and fell to work with the wounded, and I quickly followed his lead, praying that now my work was done, some one of the flying missiles would find its mark in me and let me die a soldier's death. So it was that I saw little more of the battle detail, and of that fierce frenzy-time I have memory pictures only of the dead and dying; of the torn and wounded and bleeding men with whom we wrought, striving as we might to stanch the ebbing life-tide or to ease the dying gently down into the valley of shadows. And as for my prayer, it went all unanswered. Once when I had a dying Tory's head pillowed on my knee I saw a rifleman thrust his weapon between the wheel-spokes of the outer wagon and draw a bead on me. I heard the crack of the Deckard, the _zip_ of the bullet singing at my ear, and the man's angry oath at his missing of me. Once again a rifle-ball passed through my hair at the braiding of the queue and I felt the hot touch of it on my scalp like a breath of flame. Another time a mountaineer leaped the rock barrier to beat me down with the butt of his rifle--and in the very act Tybee rose up and throttled him. I saw the grapple, sprang to my feet and whipped out my sword. "Stop!" I commanded; "you have broken your parole, Lieutenant!" The freed borderer glared from one to the other of us. "Loonies!" he yelled; "I'll slaughter the both of ye!" And so he would have done, I make no doubt, had we not laid hold of him together and heaved him back over the breastwork. These are but incidents, points of contact where the fray touched us two at the wagon barricade. I pass them by with the mention, as I have passed by the sterner horrors of that furious killing-time. These last are too large for my poor pen. As we could gather in the din and tumult, the mountain men rushed again and again to the attack, and as often the brave major, or De Peyster, led the bayonet charges that pushed them back. Yet in the end the unerring bullet outpressed the bayonet; there came a time when flesh and blood could no longer endure the death-dealing cross-fire from front and rear. I saw the end was near when the major ordered the final charge, and Captain de Peyster formed his line and led it forward at a double-quick. The mountaineers held more than half the hilltop now, and this forlorn hope was to try to drive them down the farther slopes. On it went, and I could see the men pitch and tumble out of the line until at bayonet-reach of the riflemen there were less than a dozen afoot and fit to make the push. De Peyster fought his way back to the wagons, gasping and bloody. Some of the Tories crowding around us raised a white flag. The major, sorely wounded now and all but disabled, swore a great oath and rode rough-shod into the ruck of cowering militiamen to pull down the flag. Again the white token of surrender was raised, and again the major rode in to beat it down with his sword. At this Captain de Peyster put in his word. "'Tis no use, Major; there is no more fight left in us! Five minutes more of this and we'll be shot down to a man!" Ferguson's reply was a raging oath broad enough to cover all the enemy and his own beaten remnant as well; and then, before a hand could be lifted to stay him, he had wheeled his horse and was galloping straight for the patriot line at the farther extremity of the hilltop. What he meant to do will never be known till that great day when all secrets shall be revealed. For that furious oath was this brave gentleman's last word to us or to any. A dozen bounds, it may be, the good charger carried him; then the storm of rifle-bullets beat him from the saddle. And so died one of the gallantest officers that ever did an unworthy king's work on the field of battle. I would I might forget the terrible scene which followed this killing of the British commander. 'Twas little to our credit, but I may not pass it over in silence. De Peyster quickly sent a man to the front with a white flag, and the answer was a murderous volley which killed the flag-bearer and many others. Again the flag was raised on a rifle-barrel, and once more the answer was a storm of the leaden death poured into the panic-stricken crowd huddled like sheep at the wagons. "God!" said de Peyster; and with that he began to beat his men into line with the flat of his sword in a frenzy of desperation, being minded, as he afterward told me, to give them the poor chance to die a-fighting. [Illustration] I saw not what followed upon this last despairing effort, for now Tybee was down and I was kneeling beside him to search for the wound. But when I looked again, the crackling crashes of the rifle-firing had ceased. A stout, gray-headed man, whom I afterward knew as Isaac Shelby's father, was riding up from the patriot line to receive Captain de Peyster's sword, and the battle was ended. XL VAE VICTIS If my hand were not sure enough to draw you some speaking picture of this our epoch-marking battle of King's Mountain, it falters still more on coming to the task of setting forth the tragic horrors of the dreadful after-night. Wherefore I pray you will hold me excused, my dears, if I hasten over the events tripping upon the heels of the victory, touching upon them only as they touch upon my tale. But as for the stage-setting of the after-scene you may hold in your mind's eye the stony hilltop strewn with the dead and dying; the huddle of cowed prisoners at the wagon barricade; the mountaineers, mad with the victor's frenzy, swarming to surround us. 'Twas a clipping from Chaos and Night gone blood-crazed till Sevier and Isaac Shelby brought somewhat of order out of it; and then came the reckoning. Of the seven hundred-odd prisoners the greater number were Tories, many of them red-handed from scenes of rapine in which their present captors had suffered the loss of all that men hold dear. So you will not wonder that there were knives and rifles shaken aloft, and fierce and vengeful counsels in which it was proposed to put the captives one and all to the cord and tree. But now again Sevier and Shelby, seconded by the fiery Presbyterian, William Campbell, flung themselves into the breach, pleading for delay and a fair trial for such as were blood guilty. And so the dismal night, made chill and comfortless by the cold wind and most doleful by the groans and cries of the wounded, wore away, and the dawn of the Sunday found us lying as we were in the bloody shambles of the hilltop. With the earliest morning light the burial parties were at work; and since the stony battle-ground would not lend itself for the trenching, the graves were dug in the vales below. Captain de Peyster begged hard for leave to bury the brave Ferguson on the spot where he fell, but 'twas impossible; and now, I am told, the stout old Scotsman lies side by side with our Major Will Chronicle, of Mecklenburg, who fell just before the ending of the battle. The dead buried and the wounded cared for in some rough and ready fashion, preparations were made in all haste for a speedy withdrawal from the neighborhood of the battle-field. Rumor had it that Tarleton with his invincible legion was within a few hours' march; and the mountain men, sodden weary with the toils of the flying advance and the hard-fought conflict, were in no fettle to cope with a fresh foe. As yet I had not made myself known to the patriot commanders, having my hands and heart full with the care of poor Tybee, who was grievously hurt, and being in a measure indifferent to what should befall me. But now as we were about to march I was dragged before the committee of colonels and put to the question. "Your uniform is a strange one to us, sir," said Isaac Shelby, looking me up and down with that heavy-lidded right eye of his. "Explain your rank and standing, if you please." I told my story simply, and, as I thought, effectively; and had only black looks for my pains. "'Tis a strange tale, surely, sir,--too strange to be believable," quoth Shelby. "You are a traitor, Captain Ireton--of the kind we need not cumber ourselves with on a march." "Who says that word of me?" I demanded, caring not much for that to which his threat pointed, but something for my good name. Shelby turned and beckoned to a man in the group behind him. "Stand out, John Whittlesey," he directed; and I found myself face to face with that rifleman of Colonel Davie's party who had been so fierce to hang me at the fording of the Catawba. This man gave his testimony briefly, telling but the bare truth. A week earlier I had passed in Davie's camp for a true-blue patriot, this though I was wearing a ragged British uniform at the moment. As for the witness himself, he had misdoubted me all along, but the colonel had trusted me and had sent me on some secret mission, the inwardness of which he, John Whittlesey, had been unable to come at, though he confessed that he had tried to worm it out of me before parting company with me on the road to Charlotte. I looked from one to another of my judges. "If this be all, gentlemen, the man does but confirm my story," I said. "It is not all," said Shelby. "Mr. Pengarvin, stand forth." There was another stir in the backgrounding group and the pettifogger edged his way into the circle, keeping well out of hand-reach of me. How he had made shift to escape from Ferguson's men, to change sides, and to turn up thus serenely in the ranks of the over-mountain men, I know not to this day, nor ever shall know. "Tell these gentlemen what you have told me," said Shelby, briefly; and the factor, cool and collected now, rehearsed the undeniable facts: how in Charlotte I had figured as a member of Lord Cornwallis's military family; how I had carried my malignancy to the patriot cause to the length of throwing a stanch friend to the commonwealth, to wit, one Owen Pengarvin, into the common jail; how, as Lord Cornwallis's trusted aide-de-camp, I had been sent with an express to Major Ferguson. Also, he suggested that if I should be searched some proof of my duplicity might be found upon me. At this William Campbell nodded to two of his Virginians, and I was searched forthwith, and that none too gently. In the breast pocket of my hussar jacket they found that accursed duplicate despatch; the one I had taken from Tybee and which had so nearly proved my undoing in the interview with Major Ferguson. Isaac Shelby opened and read the accusing letter and passed it around among his colleagues. "I shall not ask you why this was undelivered, sir," he said to me, sternly. "'Tis enough that it was found upon your person, and it sufficiently proves the truth of this gentleman's accusation. Have you aught further to say, Captain Ireton?--aught that may excuse us for not leaving you behind us in a halter?" Do you wonder, my dears, that I lost my head when I saw how completely the toils of this little black-clothed fiend had closed around me? Twice, nay, thrice I tried to speak calmly as the crisis demanded. Then mad rage ran away with me, and I burst out in yelling curses so hot they would surely dry the ink in the pen were I to seek to set them down here. 'Twas a silly thing to do, you will say, and much beneath the dignity of a grown man who cared not a bodle for his life, and not greatly for the manner of its losing. I grant you this; and yet it was that same bull-bellow of soldier profanity that saved my life. Whilst I was in the storm of it, cursing the lawyer by every shouted epithet I could lay tongue to, a miracle was wrought and Richard Jennifer and Ephraim Yeates pushed their way through the ever-thickening ring of onlookers; the latter to range himself beside me with his brown-barreled rifle in the hollow of his arm, and my dear lad to fling himself upon me in a bear's hug of joyous recognition and greeting. "Score one for me, Jack!" he cried. "We were fair at t'other end of the mountain, and 'twas I told Eph there was only one man in the two Carolinas who could swear the match of that." Then he whirled upon my judges. "What is this, gentlemen?--a court martial? Captain Ireton is my friend, and as true a patriot as ever drew breath. What is your charge?" Colonel Sevier, in whose command Richard and the old borderer had fought in the hilltop battle, undertook to explain. I stood self-confessed as the bearer of despatches from Lord Cornwallis to Major Ferguson, he said, and I had claimed that the orders had been so altered as to delay the major's retreat and so to bring on the battle. But they had just found Lord Cornwallis's letter in my pocket, still sealed and undelivered. And the tenor of it was precisely opposite to that of an order calculated to delay the major's march, as Mr. Jennifer could see if he would read it. While Sevier was talking, the old borderer was fumbling in the breast of his hunting-shirt, and now he produced a packet of papers tied about with red tape. "'Pears to me like you Injun-killers from t'other side o' the mounting is in a mighty hot sweat to hang somebody," he said, as coolly as if he were addressing a mob of underlings. "Here's a mess o' billy-doos with Lord Cornwallis's name to 'em that I found 'mongst Major Ferguson's leavings. If you'll look 'em over, maybe you'll find out, immejitly _if_ not sooner, that Cap'n John here is telling ye the plumb truth." The papers were examined hastily, and presently John Sevier lighted upon the despatch I had carried and delivered. Thereat the colonels put their heads together; and then my case was re-opened, with Sevier as spokesman. "We have a letter here which appears to be the original order to Ferguson, Captain Ireton. Can you repeat from memory the _postscriptum_ which you say was added to it?" I gave the gist of my old patriarch's addendum as well as I could; and thereupon suspicion fled away and my late judges would vie with one another in hearty frontier hand-grasps and apologies, whilst the throng that ringed us in forgot caution and weariness and gave me a cheer to wake the echoes. 'Twas while this burst of gratulation was abuzz that Ephraim Yeates raised a cry of his own. "Stop that there black-legged imp o' the law!" he shouted, pushing his way out of the circle. "He's the one that ought to hang!" There was a rush for the wagon barricade, a clatter of horse-hoofs on the hillside below, and Yeates's rifle went to his face. But the bullet flew wide, and the black-garbed figure clinging to the horse's mane was soon out of sight among the trees. "Ez I allow, ye'd better look out for that yaller-skinned little varmint, Cap'n John," quoth the old man, carefully wiping his rifle preparatory to reloading it. "He's rank pizen, he is, and ye'll have to break his neck sooner 'r later. I 'lowed to save ye the trouble, but old Bess got mighty foul yestiddy, with all the shootings and goings on, and I hain't got no lead-brush to clean her out." Now that I was fully exonerated I was free to go and come as I chose; nay, more, I was urged to cast in my lot with the over-mountain partizans. As to this, I took counsel with Richard Jennifer whilst the colonels were setting their commands in order for the march and loading the prisoners with the captured guns and ammunition. "What is to the fore, Dick?" I asked; "more fighting?" The lad shook his head. "Never another blow, I fear, Jack. These fellows crossed the mountain to whip Ferguson. Having done it they will go home." I could not forego a hearty curse upon this worst of all militia weaknesses, the disposition to disperse as soon as ever a battle was fought. "'Tis nigh on to a crime," said I. "This victory, smartly followed up, might well be the turning of the tide for us." But the lad would not admit the qualifying condition. "'Twill be no less as it is," he declared. "Mark you, Jack; 'twill put new life into the cause and nerve every man of ours afresh. And as for the redcoats, if my Lord Cornwallis gets the news of it in a lump, as he should, Gates will have plenty of time to set himself in motion, slow as he is." 'Twas then I had an inspiration, and I thought upon it for a moment. "What are your plans, Richard?" He shook his head. "I have none worth the name." "Then you are not committed to Colonel Sevier for a term of service?" "No; nor to Cleaveland, nor McDowell, nor any. We heard there was to be fighting hereaway,--Ephraim Yeates and I,--and we came as volunteers." "Good! then I have a thought which may stand for what it is worth. To make the most of this victory over Major Ferguson, Gates should be apprised at once and by a sure tongue; and his Lordship should have the news quickly, too, and in a lump, as you say. Let us take horse and ride post, we two; you to Gates at Hillsborough, and I to Charlotte." "I had thought of my part of that," he said in a muse. Then he came alive to the risk I should run. "But you can't well go back to Cornwallis now, Jack: 'tis playing with death. There will be other news-carriers--there are sure to be; and a single breath to whisper what you have done will hang you higher than Haman." I shrugged at this. "'Tis but a war hazard." He looked at me curiously. I saw a shrewd question in his eyes and set instant action as a barrier in the way of its asking. "Let us find Colonel Sevier and beg us the loan of a pair of horses," said I; and so we were kept from coming upon the dangerous ground of pointed questions and evasive answers. Somewhat to my surprise, both Sevier and Shelby fell in at once with our project, commending it heartily; and I learned from the lips of that courtliest of frontiersmen, "Nolichucky Jack," the real reason for the proposed hurried return of the over-mountain men. The Cherokees, never to be trusted, had, as it seemed, procured war supplies from the British posts to the southward, and were even now on the verge of an uprising. By forced marches these hardy borderers hoped to reach their homes in time to defend them. Otherwise, as both commanders assured us, they would take the field with Gates. "We have done what we could, Captain Ireton, and not altogether what we would," said Sevier in the summing-up. "It remains now for General Gates to drive home the wedge we have entered." Then he looked me full in the eyes and asked if I thought Horatio Gates would be the man to beetle that wedge well into the log. I made haste to say that I knew little of the general; that I was but a prejudiced witness at best, since my father had known and misliked the man in Braddock's ill-fated campaign against the French in '55. But Richard spoke his mind more freely. "'Tis not in the man at this pass, Colonel Sevier," he would say; "not after Camden. I know our Carolinians as well as any, and they will never stand a second time under a defeated leader. If General Washington would send us some one else; or, best of all, if he would but come himself--" "George Washington; ah, there is a man, indeed," said Sevier, his dark-blue eyes lighting up. "Whilst he lives, there is always a good hope. But we must be doing, gentlemen, and so must you. God speed you both. Our compliments to General Gates, Mr. Jennifer; and you may tell him what I have told you--that but for our redskin threateners we should right gladly join him. As for Lord Cornwallis, you, Captain Ireton, will know best what to say to him. I pray God you may say it and come off alive to tell us how he took it." We made our acknowledgments; and when I had bespoken good care for Tybee, we took leave of these stout fighters, and of old Ephraim as well, since the borderer was to serve as a guide for the over-mountain men, at least till they were come upon familiar ground to the westward. 'Twas now hard upon ten of the clock in the forenoon, and we had our last sight of the brave little army whilst it was wending its way slowly down the slopes of King's Mountain. Of what became of it; how its weary march dragged on from day to day; how it was hampered by the train of captives, halted by rain-swollen torrents, and was well-nigh starved withal; of all these things you may read elsewhere. But now you must ride with Richard Jennifer and me, and our way lay to the eastward. All that Sunday we pressed forward, hasting as we could through the stark columned aisles of the autumn-stripped forest, and looking hourly to come upon Tarleton's legion marching out to Ferguson's relief. Since Richard Jennifer had ridden to the hounds in all this middle ground from boyhood, we were able to take my blind wanderings in reverse as the arrow flies; and by nightfall we were well down upon the main traveled road leading to Beattie's fording of the Catawba. As your map will show you, this was taking me somewhat out of my way to the northward; but it was Richard's most direct route to Salisbury and beyond, and by veering thus we made the surer of missing Colonel Tarleton, who, as we thought, would likely cross the river at the lower ford. Once in the high road we pushed on briskly for the river, nor did we draw rein until the sweating beasts were picking their way in the darkness down the last of the hills which sentinel the Catawba to the westward. At the foot of this hill a by-road led to Macgowan's ford some six miles farther down the river, and here, as I supposed, our ways would lie apart. But when we came to the forking of the road, Richard pulled his mount into the by-path, clapping the spurs to the tired horse so that we were a good mile beyond the forking before I could overtake him. "How now, lad?" said I, when I had run him down. "Would you take a fighting hazard when you need not? There is sure to be a British patrol at the lower ford." He jerked his beast down to a walk and we rode in silence side by side for a full minute before he said gruffly: "You'd never find the way alone." I laughed. "Barring myself, you are the clumsiest of evaders, Dick. I am on my own ground here, and that you know as well as I." "Damn you!" he gritted between his teeth. "When we are coming near Appleby Hundred you are fierce enough to be rid of me." I saw his drift at that: how he would take all the chance of capture and a spy's rope for the sake of passing within a mile of Mistress Margery, or of the house he thought she was in. "Go back, Dick, whilst you may," said I. "She is not at Appleby Hundred." He turned upon me like a lion at bay. "What have you done with her?" "Peace, you foolish boy. I am not her keeper. Her father took her to Charlotte on the very day you saw her safe at home." He reined up short in the narrow way. "So?" he said, most bitingly. "And that is why you take the embassy to Lord Cornwallis and fub me off with the one to Gates. By heaven, Captain Ireton, we shall change rôles here and now!" Ah, my dears, the love-madness is a curious thing. Here was a man who had saved my life so many times I had lost the count of them, feeling for my throat in the murk of that October night as my bitterest foeman might. And surely it was the love-demon in me that made me say: "You think I am standing in your way, Richard Jennifer? Well, so I am; for whilst I live you may not have her. Why don't you draw and cut me down?" 'Twas then Satan marked my dear lad for his very own. "On guard!" he cried; "draw and defend yourself!" and with that the great claymore leaped from its sheath to flash in the starlight. What with his reining back for space to whirl the steel I had the time to parry the descending blow. But at the balancing instant the brother-hating devil had the upper hand, whispering me that here was the death I coveted; that Margery might have her lover, if so she would, with her husband's blood upon his head. So I sat motionless while the broadsword cut its circle in air and came down; and then I knew no more till I came to with a bees' hive buzzing in my ears, to find myself lying in the dank grass at the path side. My head was on Richard's knee, and he was dabbling it with water in his soaked kerchief. XLI HOW I PLAYED THE HOST AT MY OWN FIRESIDE You may be sure that by now the anger gale had blown itself out, that the madness had passed for both of us; and when I stirred, Richard broke out in a tremulous babblement of thanksgiving for that he had not slain me outright. "I was mad, Jack; as mad as any Bedlamite," he would say. "The devil whispered me that you would fight; that you wanted but a decent excuse to thrust me out of the way. And when I saw you would not stir, 'twas too late to do aught but turn the flat of the blade. Oh, God help me! I'll never let a second thought of that little Tory prat-a-pace send me to hell again." "Nay," said I; "no such rash promises, I pray you, Richard. We are but two poor fools, with the love of a woman set fair between us. But you need not fight me for it. The love is yours--not mine." "Don't say that, Jack; I'm selfish enough to wish it were true; as it is not. I know whereof I speak." "No," I denied, struggling to my feet; "it has been yours from the first, Dick. I am but a sorry interloper." For a moment he was all solicitude to know if my head would let me stand; but when I showed him I was no more than clumsily dizzy from the effects of the blow, he went on. "I say I know, and I do, Jack. She has refused me again." I groaned in spirit. I knew it must have come to that. Yet I would ask when and where. "'Twas on our last day's riding," he went on; "after we had had your note saying you would undertake a mission for Colonel Davie." I took two steps and groped for the horse's bridle rein. "Did she tell you why she must refuse you?" He helped me find the rein for my hand and the stirrup for my foot. "There was no 'why' but the one--she does not love me." "But I say she does, Dick; and I, too, know whereof I speak." He flung me into the saddle as a strong man might toss a boy, and I understood how that saying of mine had gone into his blood. "Then there must be some barrier that I know not of," he said. Whereupon he put hand to head as one who tries to remember. "Stay; did you not say there was a barrier, Jack?--when we were wrestling with death in the Indian fires? Or did I dream it?" "You did not dream it. But you were telling me what she said." "Oh, yes; 'twas little enough. She cut me off at the first word as if my speaking were a mortal sin. And when I would have tried again, she gave me a look to make me wince and broke out crying as if her heart would burst." I steadied myself as I could by the saddle horn and waited till he was up and we were moving on. Then I would say: "Truly, there is a barrier, Richard; if I promise you that I am going to Charlotte to remove it once for all, will you trust me and go about your affair with General Gates?" "Trust you, Jack? Who am I that I should do aught else? When I am cool and sane, I'm none so cursed selfish; I could even give her over to you with a free hand, could I but hear her say she loves you as I would have her love me. But when I am mad.... Ah, God only knows the black blood there is in the heart at such times." We rode on together in silence after that, and were come to the bank of the river before we spoke again. But here Dick went back to my warning, saying, whilst we let the horses drink: "'Tis patrolled on the other bank, you say?" "It was when I passed it a few days agone." "Then I will turn back and cross at Beattie's. 'Twill make you a risk you need not take--to have me with you." But I thought now that the upper ford might be guarded as well; and if there must be a cutting of a road through the enemy's outpost line for Dick, two could do it better than one. So I said: "No; we are here now, and if need be I can lend you the weight of a second blade to see you safe through." "And you with your head humming like a basket of bees, as I make no doubt it will?" I laughed. "I should be but a sorry soldier and a sorrier friend if I should let a love-tap with the flat of a blade make me fail you at the pinch." He reached across the little gap that parted us and grasped my hand. "By God!" he swore, most feelingly, "you are as true as the steel you carry, Jack Ireton!" "Nay," said I, in honest shame; "I do confess I was thinking less of my friend than of the importance of the errand he rides on." "But if there should be a fight, you will spoil your chance of coming peaceably to Charlotte and my Lord's headquarters." "If I am recognized--yes. But the night is dark, and a brush with the outpost need not betray me." At this he consented grudgingly, and we pushed on to the crossing. Now since this fording place of Master Macgowan's has marched into our history, you will like to know what the historians do not tell you: namely, how it was but a makeshift wading place, armpit deep over a muddy bottom from the western bank to the bar above an island in mid-stream, and deflecting thence through rocky shallows to a point on the eastern bank some distance below the island. 'Twas here that Lord Cornwallis got entangled some months later--but I must not anticipate. We made the crossing of the main current in safety and were a-splash in the rocky shallows beyond the island when we sighted the camp-fires of the outpost. To ride straight upon the patrol was to invite disaster, and though Jennifer was for a charging dash, a hurly-burly with the steel, and so on to freedom beyond, he listened when I pointed out that our beasts were too nearly outworn to charge, and that the noise we must make would rouse the camp and draw the fire of every piece in it long before we could reach the bank and come to blade work. "What for it, then?" he asked, impatiently. "My courage is freezing whilst we wait." "There is nothing for it but to hold straight on across," I said. "That we can not; 'twill be over the horses' ears. The beasts will drown themselves and us as well." How we should have argued it out I do not know, for just then Jennifer's horse, scenting the troop mounts on the farther shore, cocked tail and ears, let out a squealing neigh, and fell to curveting and plunging in a racket that might have stood for the splashings of an advancing army. In a twinkling the outpost camp was astir and a bellowing hail came to us across the water. Having no answer, the troopers began to let off their pieces haphazard in the darkness; and with the singing _zip_ of the first musket ball, Richard went battle-mad, as he always did in the face of danger. "At them!" he thundered, clapping spurs to his jaded beast and whipping out the great claymore; and so we charged, the forlornest hope that ever fell upon an enemy. How we came ashore alive through the gun-fire is one of those mysteries to which every battle adds its quota; but the poor beasts we rode were not so lucky. Jennifer's horse went down while we were yet some yards from the bank; and mine fell a moment later. To face a score of waiting enemies afoot was too much for even Richard's rash courage; so when we were free of the struggling horses we promptly dove for shelter under the up-stream bank. Here the darkness stood our friend; and when the redcoat troopers came down to the river's edge with torches to see what had become of us, we took advantage of the noise they made and stole away up-stream till a shelving beach gave us leave to climb to the valley level above. Richard shook himself like a water-soaked spaniel and laughed grimly. "Well, here we are, safe across, horseless, and well belike to freeze to death," he commented. "What next?" I made him a bow. "You are on my demesne of Appleby Hundred, Captain Jennifer, and it shall go hard with us if we can not find a fire to warm a guest and a horse to mount him withal. Let us go to the manor house and see what we can discover." He entered at once into the spirit of the jest, and together we trudged the scant mile through the stubble-fields to my old roof-tree. As you would guess, we looked to find the manor house turned into an outpost headquarters; but now we were desperate enough to face anything. Howbeit, not to rush blindly into the jaws of a trap, we first routed out the old black majordomo at the negro quarters; and when we learned from him that the great house was quite deserted, we took possession and had the black make us a rousing fire in the kitchen-arch. Nay, more; when we had steamed ourselves a little dry, we had old Anthony stew and grill for us, and fetch us a bottle of that madeira of my father's laying in. "A toast!" cried Richard, when the bottle came, springing to his feet with the glass held high. "To the dear lady of Appleby Hundred, and may she forgather with the man she loves best, be it you, or I, or another, Jack Ireton!" We drank it standing; and after would sit before the fire, havering like two love-sick school-boys over the charms of that dear lady to whom one of us was less than naught, and to whom the other could be but naught whilst that first one lived. You will smile, my dears, that we should come to this when, but a short hour before, one of us had been bent upon slaying the other for Mistress Margery's sake. But the human heart is many-sided; notably that heart the soldier carries. And though I looked not to live beyond the setting of another sun, I was glad to my finger-tips to have this last loving-cup with my dear lad. I thought it would nerve me bravely for what must come--and so it did, though not as I prefigured. We were still sitting thus before the kitchen-arch when the dawn began to dim the firelight, and the work of the new day confronted us. Pinned down, old Anthony confessed that some two or three horses of the Appleby Hundred stables had escaped the hands of the foragers of both sides; and two of these he fetched for us. Of the twain one chanced to be Blackstar, the good beast which had carried me from New Berne in the spring; and so I had my own horse betwixt my knees when I set Dick a mile on the road to Salisbury, and bade him farewell. His last word to me was one of generous caution. "Remember, Jack; 'haste, haste, post haste' is your watchword. There will be other couriers in from the battle-field at King's Mountain; and you must hang and fire your news-petard and vanish before they come to betray you." "Trust me," said I, evasively; and so we parted, he to gallop eastward, and I to charge down peaceably upon that British outpost we had set abuzz in the small hours of the night. XLII IN WHICH MY LORD HAS HIS MARCHING ORDERS Though I had passed out of the British lines less than a week before in decent good odor, save for Colonel Tarleton's ill word, I met with nothing like the welcome at the outpost camp that a king's courier had a right to expect. The captain in command was not the one who had passed me out. He was a surly brute of the Yorkshire breed; and when he had heard that I was an express rider from Major Ferguson, he was pleased to demand my papers. To this I must needs make answer that I carried no written despatches; that my news was for the commander-in-chief's private ear. This I told my Yorkshire pig, demanding to be sent, under guard if he chose, to the headquarters in Charlotte. But Captain Nobbut would hear to no such reasonable proposal. On the contrary, he would hold me in arrest till he could report me and have instructions from his colonel. Knowing what a stake it was I rode for, you may imagine how this day in durance ate into me like a canker. With ordinary diligence the trooper who carried the news of me should have gone to Charlotte by way of Queensborough and returned by noon. But being of the same surly breed with his captain, 'twas full three of the clock before he came ambling back with an order to set me forthwith upon the road to headquarters. Once free of the camp of detention you may be sure I put Blackstar to his best paces; but hasten as I would it was coming on to evening when I passed the inner safety line and galloped down the high street of the town. As luck would have it, the first familiar face I saw was that of Charles Stedman, the commissary-general. On my inquiry he directed me straight. "My Lord is at supper at Mr. Stair's. Have you news, Captain?" I drew breath of relief. Happily the loss of the day had not made me the bearer of stale tidings. So I made answer with proper reticence, saying that I had news, but it was for Lord Cornwallis's ear first of all. None the less, if the commissary-general were pleased to come with me-- He took the hint at once; and he it was who procured me instant admittance to the house, and who took on himself the responsibility of breaking in upon the party in the supper-room. I shall not soon forget the scene that fronted us when we came into my Lord's presence. The supper was in some sort a gala feast held in honor of my Lord's accession to his earldom. The table, lighted by great silver candelabra which I recognized as Ireton heirlooms, was well filled around by the members of the commander-in-chief's military family, with the earl at the head, and Mistress Margery, bedight as befitted a lady of the quality, behind the tea-urn at the foot. At our incoming all eyes were turned upon us, but it required my Lord's sharp question to make me leave off dwelling upon my sweet lady's radiant beauty. "How now, Captain Ireton? Do you bring us news from the major?" I broke the fascinating eyehold and turned slowly to face my fate. "I do, my Lord." "Well, what of him? You left him hastening to rejoin with his new loyalist levies, I hope?" I drew my sword, reversed it and laid it upon the table. "May all the enemies of the Commonwealth be even as he is, my Lord," I said, quietly. Now, truly, I had hanged my petard well and 'twas plain the shock of it had gone far to shatter the wall of confidence our enemies had builded on the field of Camden and elsewhere. Had a hand-grenade with the fuse alight been dropped upon the table, the consternation could scarce have been greater. To a man the tableful was up and thronging round me; but above all the hubbub I heard a little cry of misery from the table-foot where my lady sat. "How is this, sir?--explain yourself!" thundered my Lord, forgetting for once his mild suavity. "'Tis but a brief tale, and I will make it as crisp as may be in the telling," I replied. "I came upon the major some miles this side of the crossing of the Broad. He was marching to rejoin you, in accordance with his orders. But when he had your Lordship's command to stand and fight, he obeyed." "My command?--but I gave him no such order!" "Nay, truly, you did not--neither in the original nor in the duplicate, my Lord. But when we had waylaid Lieutenant Tybee and quenched the duplicate, and had so amended the original as to make it fit our purpose, the brave major thanked you for what you had not done and made his stand to await the upcoming of the over-mountain men." For a moment I thought they would hew me limb from limb, but my Lord quelled the fierce outburst with a word. "Put up your swords, gentlemen. We shall know how to deal with this traitor," he said. And then to me: "Go on, sir, if you please; there has been a battle, as I take it?" "There has, indeed. The mountain men came up with us in the afternoon of the Saturday. In an hour one-third of the major's force was dead or dying, the major himself was slain, and every living man left on the field was a prisoner." Again a dozen swords hissed from their scabbards, and again I heard the little cry of misery from the table-foot. I bowed my head, looking momently to pay the penalty; but once more my Lord put the swords aside. "Let us have a clean breast of it this time, Captain Ireton," he said. "You know well what you have earned, and nothing you can say will make it better or worse for you. Was this your purpose in making your submission to me?" "It was." "And you have been a rebel from the first?" I met the cold anger in the womanish eyes as a condemned man might. "I have, my Lord--since the day nine years agone when I learned that your king's minions had hanged my father in the Regulation." "Then it was a farrago of lies you told me about your adventures in the western mountains?" "Not wholly. It was your Lordship's good pleasure to send succors of powder and lead to your allies, the western savages. I and three others followed Captain Falconnet and his Indians, and I have the honor to report that we overtook and exploded them with their own powder cargo." "And Captain Sir Francis Falconnet with them?" "I do so hope and trust, my Lord." He turned short on his heel, and for a moment a silence as of death fell upon the room. Then he took the Ferara from the table and sought to break it over his knee; but the good blade, like the cause it stood for, bent like a withe and would not snap. "Put this spy in irons and clear the room," he ordered sharply. And this is how the little drama ended: with the supper guests crowding to the door; with my Lord pacing back and forth at the table-head; with two sergeants bearing me away to await, where and how I knew not, the word which should efface me. XLIII IN WHICH I DRINK A DISH OF TEA Being without specific orders what to do with me, my two sergeant bailiffs thrust me into that little den of a strong-room below stairs where I had once found the master of the house, and one of them mounted guard whilst the other fetched the camp armorer to iron me. The shackles securely on, I was left to content me as I could, with the door ajar and my two jailers hobnobbing before it. Having done all I had hoped to do, there was nothing for it now but to wait upon the consequences. So, hitching my chair up to the oaken table, I made a pillow of my fettered wrists and presently fell adoze. I know not what hour of the night it was when the half-blood Scipio, who was Mr. Gilbert Stair's body-servant, came in and roused me. I started up suddenly at his touch, making no doubt it was my summons. But the mulatto brought me nothing worse than a cold fowl and a loaf, with a candle-end to see to eat them by, and a dish of hot tea to wash them down. I knew well enough whom I had to thank for this, and was set wondering that my lady's charity was broad enough to mantle even by this little my latest sins against the king's cause. None the less, I ate and drank gratefully, draining the tea-dish to the dregs--which, by the by, were strangely bitter. I had scarce finished picking the bones of the capon before sleep came again to drag at my eyelids, a drowsiness so masterful that I could make no head against it. And so, with the bitter taste of the tea still on my tongue, I fell away a second time into the pit of forgetfulness. When I awakened from what seemed in the memory of it the most unresting sleep I ever had, it was no longer night, and I was stretched upon the oaken settle in that same lumber garret where I had been bedded through that other night of hiding. So much I saw at the waking glance; and then I realized, vaguely at first, but presently with startling emphasis, that it was the westering sun which was shining in at the high roof windows, that the shackles were still on, and that my temples were throbbing with a most skull-splitting headache. Being fair agasp with astoundment at this new spinning of fate's wheel, I sprang up quickly--and was as quickly glad to fall back upon the pallet. For with the upstart a heaving nausea came to supplement the headache, and for a long time I lay bat-blind and sick as any landsman in his first gale at sea. The sunlight was fading from the high windows, and I was deep sunk in a sick man's megrims, before aught came to disturb the silence of the cobwebbed garret. From nausea and racking pains I had come to the stage of querulous self-pity. 'Twas monstrous, this burying a man alive, ill, fettered, uncared-for, to live or die in utter solitude as might happen. I could not remotely guess to whom I owed this dismal fate, and was too petulant to speculate upon it. But the meddler, friend or foe, who had bereft me of my chance to die whilst I was fit and ready, came in for a Turkish cursing--the curse that calls down in all the Osmanli variants the same pangs in duplicate upon the banned one. It was in the midst of one of these impotent fits of malediction that the wainscot door was opened and closed softly, and light footsteps tiptoed to my bedside. I shut my eyes wilfully when a voice low and tender asked: "Are you awake, Monsieur John?" I hope you will hold me forgiven, my dears, if I confess that what with the nausea and the headache, the fetters and the solitude, I was rabid enough to rail at her. 'Twas so near dusk in the ill-lighted garret that I could not see how she took it; but she let me know by word of mouth. "_Merci, Monsieur_," she said, icily. And then: "Gratitude does not seem to be amongst your gifts." At this I broke out in all a sick man's pettishness. "Gratitude! Mayhap you will tell me what it is I have to be grateful for. All I craved was the chance to die as a soldier should, and some one must needs spoil me of that!" "Selfish--selfish always and to the last," she murmured. "Do you never give a moment's thought to the feelings of others, Captain Ireton?" This was past all endurance. "If I had not, should I be here this moment?" I raved. "You do make me sicker than I was, my lady." "Yet I say you are selfish," she insisted. "What have I done that you should come here to have yourself hanged for a spy?" "Let us have plain speech, in God's name," I retorted. "You know well enough there was no better way in which I could serve you." "Do I, indeed, _mon ami_?" she flashed out. "Let me tell you, sir, had she ever a blush of saving pride, Margery Stair--or Margery Ireton, if you like that better--would kill you with her own hand rather than have it said her husband died upon a gallows!" A sudden light broke in upon me and I went blind in the horror of it. "God in Heaven!" I gasped; "'twas you, then? I do believe you poisoned me in that dish of tea you sent me last night!" She laughed, a bitter little laugh that I hated to think on afterward. "You have a most chivalrous soul, Captain Ireton. I do not wonder you are so fierce to shake it free of the poor body of clay." "But you do not deny it!" I cried. "Of what use would it be? I have said that I would not have you die shamefully on the gallows; so I may as well confess to the poppy-juice in the tea. Tell me, Monsieur John; was it nasty bitter?" "Good Lord!" I groaned; "are you a woman, or a fiend?" "Either, or both, as you like to hold me, sir. But come what might, I said you should not die a felon's death. And you have not, as yet." "Better a thousand times the rope and tree than that I should rot by inches here with you to sit by and gird at me. Ah, my lady, you are having your revenge of me." "_Merci, encore._ Shall I go away and leave you?" "No, not that." A cold sweat broke out upon me in a sudden childish horror of the solitude and the darkness and the fetters. And then I added: "But 'twould be angel kindness if you would leave off torturing me. I am but a man, dear lady, and a sick man at that." All in a flash her mood changed and she bent to lay a cool palm on my throbbing temples. "Poor Monsieur John!" she said softly; "I meant not to make you suffer more, but rather less." Then she found water and a napkin to wring out and bind upon my aching head. At the touch and the word of womanly sympathy I forgot all, and the love-madness came again to blot out the very present memory of how she had brought me to this. "Ah, that is better--better," I sighed, when the pounding hammers in my temples gave me some surcease of the agony. "Then you forgive me?" she asked, whether jestingly or in earnest I could not tell. "There is none so much to forgive," I replied. "One hopeless day last summer I put my life in pledge to you; and you--in common justice you have the right to do what you will with it." "Ah; now you talk more like my old-time Monsieur John with the healing sword-thrust. But that day you speak of was not more hopeless for you than for me." "I know it," said I, thinking only of how the loveless marriage must grind upon her. "But it must needs be hopeless for both till death steps in to break the bond." Again she laughed, that same bitter little laugh. "Indeed, it was a great wrong you did that night, sir. I could wish, as heartily as you, that it might be undone. But this is idle talk. Let me see if this key will fit your manacles. I have been all day finding out who had it, and I am not sure it will be the right one, after all." But it did prove to be the right one; and when the irons were off I felt more like a man and less like a baited bear. "That is better," said I, drawing breath of unfeigned relief. "I bear my Lord Charles no malice, but 'twas a needless precaution, this ironing of a man who was never minded to run away." "But you are going to run away," she said, decisively; "and that as soon as ever you are able to hold a horse between your knees. Shall I bring you another dish of tea? Nay, never look so horrified; I shall not poison you this time." "Stay," I cried. "You mean that you are going to help me escape? 'Tis a needless prolonging of the agony. Go and tell the guards where they can find me." She stopped midway to the wainscot door and turned to give me my answer. "No; you are a soldier, and--and I will not be a gallows-widow. Do you hear, sir? If you are so eager to die, there is always the battle-field." And with that she left me. I may pass over the two succeeding days in the silence I was condemned to endure through the major part of them. After that first visit, Margery came only at stated intervals to bring me food and drink, and my nurse was an old black beldame, either deaf and dumb, or else so newly from the Guinea Coast as to be unable to twist her tongue to the English. And in the food-bringings I could neither make my lady stay nor answer any question; this though I was hungering to know what was going on beyond the walls of my garret prison. Indeed, she would not even tell me how I had been spirited away from the two sergeants keeping watch over me in her father's strong-room below stairs. "That is Scipio's secret," she would say, laughing at me, "and he shall keep it." But in the evening of the third day the mystery bubble was burst, and I learned from Margery's lips the thing I longed to know. Lord Cornwallis had decided to abandon North Carolina, and in an hour or two the army would be in motion for withdrawal to the southward. "Now, thanks be to God!" I said, most fervently. "King's Mountain has begun the good work, and we shall show Farmer George a thing or two he had not guessed." On this, my lady drew herself up most proudly and her lip curled. "You forget, sir, you are speaking to Mr. Gilbert Stair's daughter." "True," said I; "I did forget. We are at cross purposes in this, as in all things else. I crave your pardon, Madam." Her eyes were snapping by now. Never tell me, my dears, that eyes of the blue-gray can not flash fire when they will. "How painstakingly you will go about to make me hate you!" she burst out. And then, all in the same breath: "But you will be rid of me presently, for good and all." "Nay, then, Mistress Margery, you are always taking an ell of meaning for my inch of speech. 'Tis I who should do the ridding." "_Mon Dieu!_" she cried, in a sudden burst of petulance; "I am sick to death of all this! Is there no way out of this coil that is strangling us both, Captain Ireton?" "I had thought to make a way three days ago; did so make it, but you kept me from walking in it. Yet that way is still open--if you will but drop a word in my Lord's ear when you go below stairs." "Oh, yes--a fine thing; the wife betray the husband!" This with another lip-curl of scorn. "I have some shreds and patches of pride left, sir, if you have not." "Then free me of my obligation to you and let me do it myself. I am well enough to hang." "And so make me a consenting accomplice? Truly, as I have said before, you have a most knightly soul, Captain Ireton." I closed my eyes in very weariness. "You are hard to please, my lady." "You have not to try to please me, sir. I am going away--to-night." "Going away?" I echoed. "Whither, if I may ask?" "My father has taken protection and we shall go south with the army. As Lord Cornwallis says, Mecklenburg is a hornets' nest of rebellion, and in an hour or two after we are gone you will be amongst your friends." She made to leave me now, but I would not let her go without trying the last blunt-pointed arrow in the quiver of expedients. "Stay a moment," I begged. "You are leaving the untangling of this coil you speak of to a chance bullet on a battle-field. Had you ever thought that the Church can undo what the Church has done?" Again I had that bitter laugh which was to rankle afterward in memory. "You are a most desperate, pertinacious man, Captain Ireton. Failing all else, you would even storm Heaven itself to gain your end," she scoffed; then, at the very pitch-point of the scornful outburst she put her face in her hands and fell a-sobbing as if her heart would break. I knew not what to say or do, and ended, man-like, by saying and doing nothing. And so, still crying softly, she let herself out at the wainscot door, and this was our leave-taking. XLIV HOW WE CAME TO THE BEGINNING OF THE END It was on the third day of December, a cheerless and comfortless day at the close of the most inclement autumn I ever remember, that the patriot Army of the South was paraded on the court-house common in Charlotte to listen to the reading of General Gates's final order, the order announcing the arrival of Major-general Greene from Washington's headquarters to take over the command of the field forces in the Carolinas. As members of Colonel William Washington's light-horse, Richard Jennifer and I were both present at this installation of the new field commander; and it was here that we both had our first sight of Nathaniel Greene, the "Hickory Quaker." Now the historians, as is their wont, have pictured Greene the general to the complete effacement of Greene the man, and it is in my mind that you may like to see the new commander as we saw him, making his first inspection of Horatio Gates's poor "shadow of an army" on that dismal December day in Charlotte. In years he was rising forty; and as weight goes he was a heavy man, pressing hard upon fifteen stone with the knuckle of it under his waistcoat. None the less, though his great bulk made him sit his horse more like a farmer than a soldier, he had the muscular shoulders and arms of the anchor-smiths, to which trade he had been bred. The hint of grossness which his figure gave was not borne out by his face. Like my Lord Cornwallis's, his eyes were womanish large, and nose and mouth and the lift of the brow were cast in a mold to match; yet there was that in his face which made it the mask of a soul thoughtful and serene; and his ruddy complexion and fair hair gave him a look of openness that a dark man is like to miss. A skilled soldier, with a good promise of strenuous patience, was my summing up of him, and Dick saw him as I did, though with a more prophetic eye. "He will make his mark, Jack, look you; not in stubborn in-fighting at the barrier, mayhap, like Dan Morgan, nor in a brilliant dash, like our colonel, but in his own anchor-smith's way--a heat at a time, and a blow at a time," said Jennifer; and I nodded. Stirrup to stirrup with the new commander as he passed down the line rode Daniel Morgan, big, strong, masterful, handsome, the very pick and choice of leaders for his rough and ready riflemen. Like most of his men, he scorned to wear a uniform, appearing on parade, as in the field, in a neat-fitting hunting-shirt of Indian-tanned buckskin with fringings of the same--a costume that set off his gigantic figure as no tailor-fine coat could have set it off. When he pulled his horse down to make it keep step with the sedater pacings of the general's, we could hear him declaring, with an oath, that his Eleventh Virginia alone would give a good account of all the Tories between the Catawba and the Broad; and when the cavalcade passed the rifle corps, the men flung their hats and cheered their leader in open defiance of all discipline. Ah me! they tell me that in after years this stout Daniel, the "Lion-bearder," as we used to dub him, became a doddering old man, even as thy old tale-teller is now; that he put off all his roistering ways and might be found any Lord's Day shouting, not curses, as of yore, but psalm tunes, in the church whereof he was a pillar! But 'twas the other Daniel we knew; the bluff, hearty man of his two hands, who could pummel the best boxer in his own regiment of fisticuffers; who could out-curse, out-buffet and out-drink the hardiest frontiersman on the border. Next conspicuous in the general's suite was our colonel, the pink of light-horse commanders, with only Harry Lee in all the patriot rank and file for his peer. 'Tis a thousand pities that William Washington, "the Marcellus of the army," has had to suffer the eclipse which must dim the luster of all who walk in the shadow of a greater of the same name. For surely there never was a finer gentleman, a truer friend, a nobler patriot, or, according to his opportunities, an abler officer than was our beloved colonel of the light dragoons. But this is all beside the mark, you will say; and you will be chafing restively to know how Dick and I had come together in this troop of Colonel Washington's; to know this in a word and to pass on at a gallop to the happenings which followed. Nay, in fancy's eye I can see you turning the page impatiently, wondering where and when and how this tiresome old word-spinner will make an end. As Margery had promised, I passed out of my garret prison and out of door on that memorable evening of October fourteenth to find the British gone from Charlotte and the town jubilant with patriotic joy. Having nothing to detain me, and being bound in honor by the wish of my dear lady not to follow and give myself up to the retreating British general, I took horse and rode to Salisbury, where I had the great good fortune to find Dick, already breveted a captain in Colonel Washington's command, hurrying his troop southward to whip on the British withdrawal. Here was my chance to drown heartburnings in an onsweeping tide of action, and then and there I became a gentleman volunteer in Dick's company, asking nothing of my dear lad save that I might ride at his stirrup and share his hazards. Touching the hazards, there were plenty of them in the seven weeks preceding and the month or more following our new general's coming to take the field, as you may know in detail if you care to follow the gallopings of Colonel Washington's light-horse troop through the pages of the histories. But these have little or naught to do with my tale, and I pass them by with the word you will anticipate; that in all the dashes and forays and brushes with the enemy's foraging parties and outposts, no British or Tory bullet could find its billet in the man who was enamored of death. As for my most miserable entanglement, the lapse of time made it neither better nor worse, nor greatly different; and there was little in all the skirmishings and gallopings to beat off the bandog of conscience, or that other and still fiercer wild beast of starved love, that gnawed at me day and night. Though the hope for some easement would now and then lift its head, I was reminded daily that hope itself was hopeless; and when the days lengthened into weeks and the weeks into months, bringing no salving for the double hurt, I knew that time could only make me love Margery the more; that there be wounds that heal, and others that open afresh at each remembrance of the hand that gave them. One grain of comfort I had in all these dreary weeks. 'Twas whilst we were quartering in Charlotte, and I had chanced to fall upon the half-blood Scipio who had been left by Gilbert Stair to be the caretaker of the deserted town house. As you will remember, 'twas he who had brought me the drugged tea, and the word I had from him made me hot with shame for the cruel imputation I had put upon my dear lady. "Yas, sar; gib um sleep-drop to make buckra massa hol' still twell we could tote 'im froo de window an' 'roun' de house an' up de sta'r. Soljah gyards watch um mighty close dat night; yes, sar!" And thus this nightmare thought of mine was turned into another thorn to prick me on the self-accusing side. 'Twas her keen woman's wit, and no cold-blooded plan to cheat the gallows, that made her give me the sleeping draft. Having the object-lesson of my late surrender before her, she had no mind to let me mar the rescue by waking to forbid it. And when I taxed her, 'twas natural pride that drove her to let me go on thinking the unworthy thought, if so I would. I did penance for my disloyalty as a despairing lover might, and I do think it made me tenderer of Dick, whose bearing to me through all these tempestuous weeks was most nobly generous and forgiving. I say forgiving because I was often but the curstest of companions, as you would guess. For when I was not bent upon finding that wicket gate of death which would let me from the path of these two, I was in a wicked tertian of the mind whose chill was of despair, and whose fever was a hot desire to look once more into the eyes of my dear lady before the wicket gate should open for me. 'Twas this desire that finally drew me to her--the desire and another thing which shall have mention in its place. The new year was now come, and the Southern Army, as yet too weak to cope with the enemy, was cut into two wings of observation; one under General Greene himself at Cheraw Hill, the other and lesser in the knoll forests of the Broad with Daniel Morgan for its chief; both watching hawk-like the down-sitting of my Lord Cornwallis, who seemed to have taken root at Winnsborough. As you will know, Washington's light-horse was with Morgan; and we ate, drank and well-nigh slept in the saddle. But for all our scoutings and outridings, and all Dan Morgan's hearty cursings at the ill success of them, we could come by no sure inkling of Lord Cornwallis's designs. As I have said, the British commander seemed to have taken root and was now waiting to sprout and grow. It was at this lack-knowledge crisis that I volunteered to go to the British camp at Winnsborough in my old quality of spy; did this and had my leave and orders before Dick learned of it. Left to my own devices, I fear I should have slipped away without telling Jennifer. But, as so many times before, fate intervened to drive me where I had not meant to go. On the morning set for my departure I woke to find a letter pinned to the ground beside me with an Indian scalping-knife thrust through it. Dick was sitting by the newly-kindled fire, nursing his knees and most palpably waiting for me to wake and find my missive. "What is it?" I asked, eying the ominous thing distrustfully. "'Tis a letter, as you see. Uncanoola left it." Then, most surlily: "'Tis from Madge, and to you. There is your name on the back of it." At this I must needs read the letter, with the lad looking on as if he would eat me. 'Twas dated at Winnsborough, and was brief and to the point. _Monsieur: "When last we met you said the Church might undo what the Church had done. I have spoken to the good Père Matthieu, and he has consented to write to the Holy Father at Rome. But it is necessary that he should have your declaration. Since the matter is of your own seeking, mayhap you can devise a way to communicate with Père Matthieu, who is at present with us under our borrowed roof here."_ That was all, and it was signed only with her initial. I read it through twice and then again to gain time. For Dick was waiting. "'Tis a mere formal matter of business," said I, when I could put him off no longer. "Business?" he queried, the red light of suspicion coming and going in his eye. "What business can you have with Mistress Madge Stair, pray?" "'Tis about--it touches the title to Appleby Hundred," said I, equivocating as clumsily as a schoolboy caught in a fault. "Of course you know that the confiscation act of the North Carolina Congress re-established my right and title to the estate?" "No," said he; "you never told me." Then: "She writes you about this?" "About a matter touching it, as I say." "As you did not say," he growled; after which a silence came and sat between us, I holding the open letter in my hand and he staring gloomily at the back of it. When the silence grew portentous I told him of my design to go a-spying. He looked me in the eye and his smile was not pleasant to see. "You are lying most clumsily, Jack; or at best you are telling me but half the truth. You are going to see Mistress Margery." "That is altogether as it may happen," I retorted, striving hard to keep down the flame of insensate rivalry which his accusings always kindled in me. "It is not. Winnsborough is neither London nor yet Philadelphia, that you may miss her in the crowd. And you do not mean to miss her." "Well? And if I do chance to see her--what then?" "Don't mad me, Jack. You should know by this what a fool she has made of me." "'Tis your own folly," I rejoined hotly. "You should blame neither the lady nor the man to whom she has given nothing save--" "Save what?" he broke in savagely. I recoiled on the brink as I had so many times before. The months of waiting for the death I craved had hardened me. "Save a thing you would value lightly enough without her love. Let us have done with this bickering; find the colonel and ask his leave to go with me, if you like. Then you may do the love-making whilst I do the spying." "No," said he; "not while you stand it upon such a leg as that." I reached across and gripped his hand and wrung it. "Shall we never have the better of these senseless vaporings?" I cried. "'Tis as you say; I can neither live sane nor die mad without another sight of her, Dick, and that is the plain truth. And yet, mark me, this next seeing of her will surely set a thing in train that will make her yours and not mine. Get your leave and come with me on your own terms. Mayhap she will show you how little she cares for me, and how much she cares for you." So this is how it came about that we two, garbed as decent planters and mounted upon the sleekest cobs the regiment afforded, took the road for Winnsborough together on a certain summer-fine morning in January in the year of battles, seventeen hundred and eighty-one. XLV IN WHICH WE FIND WHAT WE NEVER SOUGHT 'Tis fifty miles as a bird would fly it from the grazing uplands of the Broad known as the Cowpens to the lower plantation region lying between that stream and the farther Catawba or Wateree; and Richard Jennifer and I ambled the distance leisurely, as befitted our mission and disguise, cutting the journey evenly in half for the first night's lodging, which we had at the house of one Philbrick--as hot a Tory as we pretended to be. From our host of the night we learned that within two days the British outposts on the Wateree and the Broad had been advanced; and there were rumors in the air that Lord Cornwallis, who was hourly expecting General Leslie with two thousand of Sir Henry Clinton's men from New York, would presently move on to the long-deferred conquest of North Carolina. "Has Cornwallis lost his wits?" Dick would say, when we were a-jog on the southward road again. "'Tis a braver lordling than I gave him credit for being--if he will put his head in a trap that will close behind him and cut him off from his line and base." I laughed. "You may wager Jennifer House against an acre of the Cowpens that Lord Charles will do no such unsoldierly thing. If this rumor be true, we have heard only the half of it." "And the other half will be?--" "That my Lord Cornwallis will do his prettiest to pull the teeth of one or the other of the trap-jaws before he trusts himself within them." Jennifer was silent for an ambling minute or two. Then he said: "'Twill be our teeth he'll try to pull, then. The Broad is nearer than the Pedee; and ours is the weaker of the two jaws." "Right you are," said I. "And now we know what we have to discover." "Anan?" he queried. "We must learn by hook or crook who is to be sent against Dan Morgan, and when." "That should be easy--if the use of it afterward be not choked out of us at a rope's end." "We can divide the rope's-end chance of failure by two. We may work together as the opportunity offers, but once within the lines we must pass as strangers to each other, or at most as chance acquaintances of the road." "Good," said he; and then his jaw dropped. "But what if one of us be taken? Never ask me to stand by stranger-wise and see you hanged, Jack!" "I shall both ask it and promise to do the same by you. Your hand on it before we go a step farther, if you please." "'Tis out of all reason," he demurred. "'Tis the only reasonable course. Bethink you, this is no knight-errant venture; we are two of Dan Morgan's soldiers bent upon doing a thing most needful for the welfare of the country and its cause. 'Tis a duty higher than any obligation friendship lays on Richard Jennifer or John Ireton." At this he yielded the point, though I could see that the proposal jumped little with the promptings of his generous heart. "'Tis a scurvy trap you have set for me," he grumbled. "The risk is chiefly yours, and you know it. You are known to Lord Cornwallis, and to God knows how many more of them, and belike--" The interruption came in the shape of a troop of redcoat horsemen galloping in the road to meet us, and we were shortly surrounded and put sharply to the question. We answered each for himself. Dick was a loyalist from Yorkville way, eager to be set in arms against the bandit Daniel Morgan. I was a refugee from "hornets'-nest" Mecklenburg, also bent upon revenge. The troop officer passed us on, something doubting, as I suspected. But we were riding in the right direction, and he was unwilling to clog himself with a pair of plain country gentlemen held in leash as prisoners. A few miles farther down the road the same brace of lies got us safely through the loosely drawn vedette line, and by evening we were in sight of our goal. Viewing it from the rising ground of approach, Winnsborough appeared less as a town than as a partly fortified camp. The few houses of the village were lost in the field of tents, huts and troop shelters, and measuring by the spread of these, it would seem that my Lord Cornwallis's army had been considerably augmented since I had last seen it in Charlotte. I spoke of this, but Dick was intent upon the business of the moment. "Aye; there are enough of them, God knows. But tell me, Jack--I'm new to this game--what's to do first when we are among them?" I laughed at him. "You are my troop commander, Captain Jennifer. 'Tis for you to make the dispositions." "Have your joke and be hanged to you. There are no captains here." "If you leave it to me, we shall ride boldly to the tavern, put up as travelers, and listen to the gossips, each for himself," I replied; and this is what we did. The village tavern, servilely bearing the king's arms thinly painted over the palmetto tree of South Carolina on its swinging sign-board, was a miserable doggery, full to overflowing with a riffraff of carousing soldiery. Separating by mutual consent in the public tap-room, Richard and I presently drifted together again at a small table in a corner, with a black boy in attendance to set before us such poor entertainment as the hostelry afforded. "Well, what luck?" asked Dick, mumbling it behind his hand, though he might safely have shouted it aloud in the din and clamor of the place. I shook my head. "Nothing as yet, save that I overheard a tipsy corporal telling his tipsier sergeant that the officers would be holding a revel to-night at a Tory manor house situate somewhere beyond the camp confines to the northward; the house of one Master Marmaduke Harndon, if I heard the name aright." Then I added: "This rabble is too drunken to serve our purpose. 'Tis only the common soldiery, and we shall learn nothing here." "There was at least one who was not a ranker," said Dick, and there was something akin to awe in his voice. Then he leaned across the table to whisper. "Jack, I've fair had a fright!" I smiled. Fear, of God, man or the devil, was not one of the lad's weaknesses. "You may grin as you please," he went on; "but answer me this; do the dead come back to life?" "Not this side of the resurrection reveille, if we may believe the dominies." "Then I have seen a ghost--a most horrible mask of a man we both know to our cost." "Name him and I will tell you whether he be a ghost or no." "'Tis the ghost of Frank Falconnet; or else it is what of the man himself the fire hath left," said Dick, and I marked his shiver at the word. "No!" said I. "I tell you yes." I sprang up, but the lad reached across the table and smote me back into the chair. "Softly, old firebrand; 'twas you who said the public matter must take precedence of the private. Moreover, if this be Francis Falconnet whom I have seen, your sweetest revenge on him will be to let him live--as he is." "I will kill him as I would a wild beast," I raged, thinking of that midnight scene in the great forest when my sweet lady had gone on her knees to this fiend in human guise. "And so should you," I added, "if you care aught for the honor of the woman who loves you." But now it was this hot-headed Richard I have drawn for you who saw farthest and clearest. "All in good time," he said, coolly. "At this present we have Dan Morgan's fish to fry, and sitting here saucing this devil's mess of a supper with thoughts of private revenge will never fry it. Set your wits at work; Falconnet's ghost has put mine hopelessly out of gear. Ye gods! but 'twas a most fearsome thing to look at!" I did not answer him at once, and whilst I plied knife and fork for the sake of appearances, I would think upon what he had discovered. This reappearance of Francis Falconnet was not to be passed over lightly. What would he do, or seek to do? Nay, what devilish thing was it he might not do? If the fire had burned his passion out, it had doubtless kindled a feller blaze of revenge. And if his thirst was for vengeance, how could he quench it in a deeper draft than by harrying the woman we both loved? 'Twas only by a mighty effort that I could drag myself back to Dick's urging and the needs of the hour. "To have some chance of hearing gossip to our purpose, we must make shift to gain admittance to this officers' rout at the manor house," I said. "The devil!" quoth Dick, "I venture that's easier said than done--for two plain country gentlemen." "Never fear; there will be others there lacking fine clothes, and so the throng be great enough, we may pass current in it." Richard pushed his plate back with a grimace of disgust. "Let us be at it, then. Another grapple with this pig-bait will finish me outright." A half-hour later we were tethering our cobs at the already crowded hitching-rail in front of a goodly mansion some mile or more beyond the camp limits on the northward road; a rambling manor house to the full as large as Appleby Hundred, with a shaven lawn in front, and within, lights and music and sounds of revelry. "By the Lord Harry! but this Master Harndon would seem to be a man of substance," says Dick. And then: "Can you pick out a good horse in the dark, Jack? It may come to a race for our necks, by and by, and these cobs of ours are too broad-backed for speed." I said I could, and so we went deeper into the cavalcade at the hitch-rail and marked out two clean-limbed chargers, a gray and a sorrel; this before we gave the final touches to our plan of action and passed up the broad avenue to the manor house. XLVI HOW OUR PIECE MISSED FIRE AT HARNDON ACRES For a doorkeeper some one or another of the officer guests had set a sergeant on guard; but though the night was yet young the man passed us into the great entrance hall with a hiccough and a wink that spoke thus early of an open house and freely flowing good cheer. As we had hoped to find it, this rout at Master Harndon's was a stifling jam, and a good half of the guests were in civilian plain clothes, neither Paris nor London having as yet reached so far into the Carolina plantations to proscribe homespun and to prescribe the gay toggeries of the courts. This for the men, I hasten to add; for then, as now, our American dames and maids would put a year's cropping of a plantation on their backs, thinking nothing of it; and there was no lack of shimmering silks and stiff brocades, of high-piled _coiffures_, paint, patches and powder at this merrymaking at Harndon Acres. Lacking an introducer, and wanting, moreover, nothing save the leave to have standing-room in the throng as lookers-on, we gave Mr. Marmaduke Harndon, a sleek, rotund little gentleman, smirking and bowing and tapping the lid of his silver snuff-box, a wide berth; and with an agreement to meet later for the comparing of notes, Jennifer and I went apart at the door of the ball-room, each to lose himself in the assembled company as an otter slips into a pool, namely, without ruffling it. 'Twas easily done. Winnsborough had by this time become a refuge camp for all the loyalists in the region roundabout, and there were many in the present company who were strangers one to another, uneasy, shifting figures in the gay throng, beneath the notice alike of haughty dames and prinking dandy officers. Beneath the notice, I say; yet I would qualify this, for more than one of the epauletted macaronis trod upon my toes or bustled me rudely in the crush till I trembled, not for my own self-control, but for Richard's, making sure that the lad was having no more gentlemanly welcome than I. 'Twas with some notion of finding ampler room for my feet that I edged away through the fringing wall-crowd in the dancing-room toward a curtained archway at the back. As yet I had overheard naught save the silly persiflage of the belles and beaux--a word here and another there--and I was beginning to fear that this was as poor a place to look for information as was the pothouse, when a thing befell to set me a-quiver with all the thrillings the human heart-strings can thrum to in one and the same instant of time. I had shouldered my way out of the ball-room medley and into the less crowded room at the back. This proved to be a rear withdrawing-room serving for the nonce as a refectory. There were little groups and knots of chatterers standing about; fair maids, each with her ring of redcoated courtiers, laughing and jesting or picking daintily at the viands on the great oaken table in the midst. Rounding the promontory of the table's-end to come to anchor in some quiet eddy where I could listen unnoticed for the word I was thirsting for, I must needs entangle the button of my coat-cuff in the delicate lace of a lady's sleeve in passing. The wearer of the sleeve had her back to me, and I saw the white shoulders go up in a little shrug of petulance whilst I sought to disentangle the button. Then she turned to face me and the words of apology froze on my lips. 'Twas Mistress Margery, standing at ease with--good heavens! with Richard Jennifer and Colonel Banastre Tarleton for her company! Here was a halter, with a double snaffle at the end of it, was the thought that flashed upon me; and I was gathering my wits to brazen it out in some such manner as to leave Jennifer unattainted, when my lady give a little start and a shriek. "La, Mr. Septimus; how you startled me!" she cried. Then, without a tremor of the lip or a pause for breath-taking, she presented me: "Colonel Tarleton; Mr. Septimus Ireton, of Iretondene in Virginia." And next to Dick: "Mr. Richard; my very good friend, Mr. Ireton." 'Twas done so cleverly and with such an air that even Dick, who had known her from childhood, was struck dumb with admiration, as his face sufficiently advertised. And, indeed, I had much ado to play my own part with any decent self-possession, though I did make shift to bow stiffly, and to say: "I see I should have brought the Iretondene title deeds with me to make you sure that I am not my rebel cousin John, Mistress Margery. Your servant, Colonel Tarleton; and yours, Mr. Richard." Dick's bow was an elaborate hiding of his tell-tale face; but the colonel's was the slightest of nods, and I could feel the sloe-black eyes of him boring into my very soul. Had my lady given him but a moment's time I make no doubt he would have come instantly at the truth and the little farce would have been turned into a tragedy on the spot. But she gave him no time. The spinet in the ball-room alcove was tinkling out the overture to a minuet, and she laid the tips of her dainty fingers on the colonel's arm. "This will be ours to walk through, will it not, Colonel Tarleton?" she said, playing the sprightly minx to the very climax of perfection. Then she dipped us a curtsy. "_Au revoir_, gentlemen. 'Tis a thousand pities you had not joined sooner and so had the red coat and small-sword to grace you here." When they were gone, Dick laughed sardonically. "Saw you ever such a cool-blood little jade in all your life? 'Twas with me as it was with you; I, too, stumbled upon them, and the colonel bustled me and set his heel on my foot. I daresay I should have had myself in irons in another moment but for Madge. She slipped in between and introduced us as sweetly as you please." "Nevertheless," said I, "the colonel recognized us both." "No! Think you so?" "'Tis certain enough to play upon. What we do now must be done quickly or not at all. What have you overheard?" He swore softly. "Never a cursed word; less than nothing of any interest to Dan Morgan." "We must try again. 'Twill surely be talked of here if the army is about to move. Do you take a turn in the anteroom and meet me in a quarter of an hour at the outer door." At the word, Dick promptly lost himself in the throng whilst I made a slow circuit of the refreshment table. Once I thought I had the clue when a girl hanging on the arm of an infantry lieutenant said: "Will it be true that you will presently go out to hunt the rebels down, Mr. Thornicroft?" But the prudent lieutenant smiled and put her off cleverly, leaving his fair questioner--and me--none the wiser. I went on, drifting aimlessly from group to group and dallying of set purpose. If I had read Colonel Tarleton's glance aright, the moments were growing diamond-precious; but as yet neither half of my errand was done. Come what might, I must see Margery again and have her tell me where and how to find the priest; and 'twas borne in upon me that she would come back to seek me as soon as she could be free of her partner in the dance. The forecast as to my lady had its fulfilment while yet the spinetter was striking out the final chords of the minuet. A lady dropped her kerchief, and I was before her swain in stooping to pick it up. As I bowed low in returning the bit of lace to its owner, a voice that I had learned to know and love whispered in my ear. "Make your way to the clock landing of the stair; I must have speech with you," it said; and for a wonder I was cool enough to obey with no more than a sidelong glance at my lady passing on the arm of another epauletted dangler. She was before me at the meeting place, and there was no laughing welcome in the deep-welled eyes. Instead, they flashed me a look that made me wince. "What folly is this, sir?" she demanded. "Will you never have done taking my honor and your own life into your reckless hands?" I bowed my head to the storm. With the dagger of my miserable errand sticking in my heart there was no fight in me. "I am but come to do your bidding," I said, slowly, for the words cost me sorely in the coin of anguish. "I had your letter, and if you will say how I may find Father Matthieu--" She broke me in the midst. "_Mon Dieu!_" she cried. "Could I guess that you would come here, into the very noose of the gallows? Oh, how you do heap scorn on scorn upon me! Once you made me give silent consent to a falsehood you told; twice, nay, thrice, you have made me disloyal to the king; and now you come again to make me look the world in the face and tell a smiling lie to shield you! O Holy Mother, pity me!" And with this she put her face in her hands and began to sob. Now we were only measurably isolated on the stair, and some sense of the hazard we took--a hazard involving her as well as Richard and myself--steadied me with a sudden shock. "Control yourself," I whispered. "What is done, is done; and the misery is not all yours to suffer. Tell me how I may find the priest, and I will do my errand and begone." "You can not stay to find him now--you must not," she insisted, coming out of the fit of despair with a rebound. "He is in the town--indeed, I know not where he is just now. Can you not endure it a little longer, Captain Ireton?" "No," said I, sullenly. "I have been living a lie all these months to the friend I love best, and I will not do it more." Could I be mistaken? Surely there was a flash not of anger in the eyes that were lifted to mine, and a tremulous note of eagerness in the voice that said: "Then Dick does not know?--you have not told him?" "No; I have told no one." "Poor Dick!" she said softly. "I thought he knew, and I--" She paused, and in the pause it flashed upon me how she had wronged my dear lad; how she had thought he would make brazen love to her knowing she was the wife of another. I thanked God in my heart that I had been able to right him thus far. After a time she said: "Why did you make me marry you, Monsieur John? Oh, I have racked my brain so for the answer to that question. I know you said it was to save my honor. But surely we have paid a heavier penalty than any that could have been laid upon me had you left me as I was." "I was but a short-sighted fool, and no prophet," I rejoined, striving hard to keep the bitterness of soul out of my words. "At the moment it seemed the only way out of the pit of doubt into which my word to Colonel Tarleton had plunged you. But there was another motive. You saw the paper I signed that night, with Lieutenant Tybee and your father's factor for the witnesses?" "Yes." "Do you know what it was?" "No." "'Twas the last will and testament of one John Ireton, gentleman, in which he bequeathed to Margery, his wife, his estate of Appleby Hundred." "Appleby Hundred?" she echoed. "But my father--" "Your father holds but a confiscator's title, and it, with many others, has been voided by the Congress of North Carolina. Richard Jennifer is my dear friend, and you--" "I begin to understand--a little," she said, and now her voice was low and she would not look at me. Then, in the same low tone: "But now--now you would be free again?" "How can you ask? As matters stand, I have marred your life and Dick's most hopelessly. Do you wonder that I have been reckless of the hangman? that I care no jot for my interfering life at this moment, save as the taking of it may involve you and Richard?" "No, surely," she said, still speaking softly. And now she gave me her eyes to look into, and the hardness was all melted out of them. "Did you come here, under the shadow of the gallows, to tell me this, Monsieur John?" "There shall be no more half-confidences between us, dear lady. I had my leave of General Morgan on the score of our need for better information of Lord Cornwallis's designs; but I should have come in any case--wanting the leave, my commission as a spy, or any other excuse." "To tell me this?" "To do the bidding of your letter, and to say that whilst I live I shall be shamed for the bitter words I gave you when I was sick." "I mind them not; I had forgotten them," she said. "But I have not forgotten, nor ever shall. Will you say you forgive me, Margery?" "For thinking I had poisoned you? How do you know I did not?" "I have seen Scipio. Will you shrive me for that disloyalty, dear lady?" "Did I not say I had forgotten it?" "Thank you," I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "Now one thing more, and you shall send me to Father Matthieu. 'Tis a shameful thing to speak of, but the thought of it rankles and will rankle till I have begged you to add it to the things forgotten. That morning in your dressing-room--" She put up her hands as if she would push the words back. "Spare me, sir," she begged. "There are some things that must always be unspeakable between us, and that is one of them. But if it will help you to know--that I know--how--how you came there--" She was flushing most painfully, and I was scarce more at ease. But having gone thus far, I must needs let the thought consequent slip into words. "Your father's motives have ever been misunderstandable to me. What could he hope to gain by such a thing?" I had no sooner said it than I could have bitten my masterless tongue. For in the very voicing of the wonder I saw, or thought I saw, Gilbert Stair's purpose. Since I had not made good my promise to die and leave the estate to Margery, he would at least make sure of his daughter's dowry in it by putting it beyond us to set the marriage aside as a thing begun but not completed. So, having this behind-time flash of after-wit, I made haste to efface the question I had asked. "Your pardon, I pray you; I see now 'tis a thing we must both bury out of sight. But to the other--the matter which has brought me hither; will you put me in the way of finding Father Matthieu?" We had talked on through the measures of a cotillion, and the dancers, warm and wearied, were beginning to fill the entrance hall below. Our poor excuse for privacy would be gone in a minute or two, and she spoke quickly. "You shall see Father Matthieu, and I will help you. But you must not linger here. In a few days the army will be moving northward--Oh, heavens! what have I said!" "Nothing," I cut in swiftly; "you are speaking now to your husband--not to the spy. Go on, if you please." "We shall return to Appleby Hundred within the fortnight. There, if you are still--if you desire it, you may meet the good _curé_, and--" A much-bepowdered captain of cavalry was coming up the stair to claim her, and I was fain to let her go. But at my passing of her to the step below, I whispered: "I shall keep the tryst--my first and last with you, dear lady. Adieu." So soon as she was gone I made haste to find Richard, having, as I feared, greatly overstayed my appointment to meet him at the door. He was not among the promenaders in the hall, so I began to drift again, through the ball-room and so on to where the spread table stood ringed with its groups of nibblers. I had made no more than half the round of the refectory when I saw Margery standing in the curtained arch, looking this way and that, with anxious terror written plainly in her face. "What is it?" I asked, when she had found me out. "'Tis the worst that could happen," she whispered. "You are discovered, both of you. Colonel Tarleton was too shrewd for us. He has let it be known among the officers that there are two spies in the house, and now--Hark! what is that?" We were standing in a deep window-bay and I drew the curtain an inch or two. The air without was filled with the trampling of hoofbeats on greensward. A light-horse troop was surrounding the manor house. I drew her arm in mine and led her back to the ball-room; 'twas now come to this, that open publicity was our best safeguard. "We must find Dick," said I. "Have you seen him?" "No." Together we made the slow circuit of the dancing-room, but Jennifer was not to be found. Out of the tail of my eye I saw a soldier slipping in here and there to stand statue-like against the wall. This brought it to a matter of minutes, of seconds, mayhap, and still we looked in vain for Dick. "Oh, why did you bring him here? He will surely be taken!" Her voice was tremulous with fear, and I answered as I could, being sore at heart, in spite of all, that her chief concern should be for Richard. But by now my purpose was well taken, and though it appeared that Richard Jennifer was more than ever my successful rival, I pledge you, my dears, I had no thought of leaving him behind. So we made another slow round of the rooms, and whilst we were looking for Dick I spoke in guarded whispers to warn my lady of Falconnet's return. But the warning was not needed. Her shudder of loathing shook the hand on my arm. "That man! Oh, Monsieur John! I fear him day and night! If I could but run away; but we are not finding Dick--we _must_ find him quickly!" There was no other place to look save in the entrance hall, and at the door one of the statue-like soldiers took two steps aside and barred the way. I faced about and we plunged once again into the throng, but not before I had had a glimpse of Richard in the hall beyond. When the chance offered, I bent to whisper. "Dick is in the hall, looking for me, go you to him and warn him. I may not pass the door, as you have seen." "He will not escape without you," she demurred. "Tell him he must. Tell him I say he must!" She glanced over her shoulder with a look in her eyes that made me think of a wounded bird fluttering in the net of the fowler. "Oh, 'tis hard, hard!" she murmured. I snatched the word from her lips. "To choose between love and wifely duty? Then I make it a command. Go, quickly!" She went at that, and I made my way slowly to the far side of the ball-room, taking post in a deep-recessed window giving upon the lawn. Though it was January and the night was chill and raw, the rooms were summer warm with the breath of the crush, and some one had swung the casement. Without, I could hear the horses of the waiting troop champing restlessly at their bits, and now and again the low gentling words of the riders. Why the colonel did not spring his trap at once I could not guess; though I learned later that he had magnified our two-man spying venture into a patriot foray meant to capture the whole houseful of British officers at a swoop, and was taking his measures accordingly. 'Twas while I was listening to the champing horses that I heard my name whispered in the darkness beyond the open casement; I turned slowly, and the nearest of the soldier watchers began to edge his way toward my window. "'Tis I--Dick Jennifer," whispered the voice without. "Swing the casement a little wider and out with you. Be swift about it, for God's sake!" "I am fair trapped," I whispered back. "Make off as you can." "And leave you behind?" So much I heard; and then came sounds of a struggle; the breath-catchings of two men locked in a strangler's hold, a smothered oath or two, a fall on the turf under the window, followed by the soft thudding of fist blows. I could bear it no longer. The edging soldier had come within arm's reach, and when I swung the casement a little wider, he laid a hand on my shoulder. "In the name of the king!" he said; and this was all he had time or leave to say. For at the summons I drove my fist against the point of his wagging jaw, to send him plunging among the dancers, and the recoil of the blow carried me clear of the window-seat with what a din and clamor of a hue and cry to speed the parting guest as you may figure for yourselves. The alighting ground of the leap was the body of Dick's late antagonist lying prone beneath the window ledge; but the lad himself was up and ready to catch me when I stumbled over the vanquished one. "'Tis legs for it now," he cried. "Make for the avenue and the horses at the hitch-rail!" At rising twenty a man may run fast and far; at rising forty he may still run far if the first hundred yards do not burst his bellows. So when we had darted through the thin line of encircling horsemen and were flying down the broad avenue with all the troopers who had caught sight of us thundering at our heels, Dick was the pace-setter, whilst I made but a shifty second, gasping and panting and dying a thousand deaths in the effort to catch my second wind. "Courage!" shouted Dick, flinging the word back over his shoulder as he ran. "There is help ahead if we can live to reach the gate!" But, luckily for me, the help was nearer at hand. Half way down the box-bordered drive, when I was at my last gasp, the shrill yell of the border partizans rose from the shrubbery on the right, and a voice that I shall know and welcome in another world cried out: "Stiddy, boys! stiddy till ye can see the whites o' their eyes! Now, then; give it to 'em hot _and_ heavy!" A haphazard banging of guns followed and the pursuit drew rein in some confusion, giving us time to reach the great gate and the horse-rail, and to loose and mount the gray and the sorrel we had marked out. Whilst we were about this last, Ephraim Yeates came loping down the avenue and through the gate to vault into the saddle of the first horse he could lay hands on; and so it was that we three took the northward road in the silver starlight, with the pursuit now in order again and in full cry behind us. 'Twas not until we had safely run the gantlet of the vedette lines by a by-path known to the old hunter, and had shaken off the troopers that were following, that I found time to ask what had become of the men who had formed the ambush in the shrubbery. The old man gave me his dry chuckle of a laugh. "'Twas the same old roose de geer, as the down-country Frenchers 'u'd say. I stole the drunken sergeant's gun and two others, and let 'em off one to a time. As for the screechin', one bazoo's as good as a dozen, if so be ye blow it fierce enough." "'Twas cut and dried beforehand," Dick explained. "I had an inkling of what was afoot from Ephraim, here, whom I stumbled on when I dropped from the stair window that Madge opened for me. He went to set his one-man ambush whilst I was trying to warn you." "So," said I. "Our skins are whole, but after all we have come off with never a word to take back to Dan Morgan--unless you have the word." "Not I," Dick said, ruefully. The old man chuckled again. "Ye ain't old enough, neither one o' ye, ez I allow. It takes a right old person to fish out the innards of an inimy's secrets. Colonel Tarleton, hoss, foot and dragoons, with the seventh rigiment and a part o' the seventy-first, will take the big road for Dan Morgan's camp to-morrow at sun-up. And right soon atterwards, Gin'ral Cornwallis'll foller on. Is that what you youngsters was trying to find out?" XLVII ARMS AND THE MAN In that book he wrote--the book in which he never so much as names the name of Ireton--my Lord Cornwallis's commissary-general, Charles Stedman, damns Colonel Tarleton in a most gentlemanly manner for his ill-success at the Cowpens, and would charge to his account personal the failure of Cornwallis's plan to crush in detail the patriot Army of the South. Now little as I love, or have cause to love, Sir Banastre Tarleton,--they tell me he has been knighted and now wears a major-general's sword-knot,--'tis but the part of outspoken honest enmity to say that we owed the victory at the Cowpens to no remissness on the part of the young legion commander who, if he were indeed the most brutal, was also the most active and enterprising of Lord Cornwallis's field officers. No, it was no remissness nor lack of bravery on the part of the enemy. 'Twas only that the tide had turned. King's Mountain had been fought and won, and there were to be no more Camdens for us. In the affair at the cow pastures, which followed hard upon Richard's and my return from our flying visit to Winnsborough, the very elements fought for us and against the British. As for instance: Tarleton, with his famous legion of horse, and infantry enough to make his numbers exceed ours, began his march on the eleventh and was rained on and mired for four long days before he had crossed the Broad and had come within scouting distance of us. Left to himself, Dan Morgan would have locked horns with the enemy at the fording of the Pacolet; but in the council of war, our colonel and John Howard of the Marylanders were for drawing Tarleton still deeper into the wilderness, and farther from the British main, which was by this moved up as far as Turkey Creek. So we broke camp hastily and fell back into the hill country; and on the night of the sixteenth took post on the northern slope of a low ridge between two running streams. For its backbone our force had some three hundred men of the Maryland line and two companies of Virginians. These formed our main, and were posted on the rising ground with John Howard for their commander. A hundred and fifty paces in their front, partly screened in the open pine, oak and chestnut wooding of the ground, were Pickens's Carolinians and the Georgians; militiamen, it is true, but skilled riflemen, and every man of them burning hot to be avenged on Tarleton's pillagers. Still farther to the front, disposed as right and left wings of outliers, were Yeates and his fellow borderers and some sixty of the Georgians set to feel the enemy's approach; and in the reserve, posted well to the rear of the Marylanders and Virginians, was our own colonel's troop guarding the horses of the dismounted Georgians. 'Twas when we were all set in order to await the sun's rising and the enemy's approach that Dan Morgan rode the lines and harangued us. He was better at giving and taking shrewd blows than at speech-making; but we all knew his mettle well by now, and I think there was never a man of us to laugh at his unwonted grandiloquence and solemn periods. In the harangue the two battle lines had their orders: to be steady; to aim low; and above all to hold their fire till the enemy was within sure killing distance. "'Tis a brave old Daniel," said Dick, whilst the general was sawing the air for the benefit of the South Carolinians. "'Twill not be his fault if we fail. But you are older at this business than any of us, Jack; what think you of our chances?" I laughed, and the laugh was meant to be grim. I knew the temper of the British regulars, and how, when well led, they could play the hammer to anybody's anvil. "Any raw recruit can prophesy before the fact," said I. "We have Tarleton, his legion, the Seventh, a good third of the Seventy-first, and two pieces of artillery in our front. If they do not give a good account of themselves, 'twill be because Tarleton has marched them leg-stiff to overtake us." Dick fell silent for the moment, and when he spoke again some of Dan Morgan's solemnity seemed to have got into his blood. "I have a sort of coward inpricking that I sha'n't come out of this with a whole skin, Jack; and there's a thing on my mind that mayhap you can take off. You have had Madge to yourself a dozen times since that day last autumn when I asked her for the hundredth time to put me out of misery. As I have said, she would not hear me through; but she gave me a look as I had struck her with a whip. Can you tell me why?" The morning breeze heralding the sunrise was whispering to the leafless branches overhead, and there was nothing in all Dame Nature's peaceful setting of the scene to hint at the impending war-clash. Yet the war portent was abroad in all the peaceful morning, and my mood marched with the lad's when I gave him his answer. "Truly, I could tell you, Richard; and it is your due to know it from no other lips than mine. Mayhap, a little later, when restitution can go hand in hand with repentance and confession--" "No, no;" he cut in quickly. "Tell me now, Jack; your 'little later' may be all too late--for me. Does she love you?--has she said she loves you?" "Nay, dear lad; she despises me well and truly, and has never missed the chance of saying so. Wait but a little longer and I pledge you on the honor of a gentleman you shall have her for your very own. Will that content you?" At my assurance his mood changed and in a twinkling he became the dauntless soldier who fights, not to die, but to win and live. "With that word to keep me I shall not be killed to-day, I promise you, Jack; and that in spite of this damned queasiness that was showing me the burying trench." And then he added softly: "God bless her!" I could say amen to that most heartily; did it, and would have gone on to add a benison of my own, but at the moment there were sounds of galloping horses on our front, and presently three red-coated officers, one of them the redoubtable Colonel Tarleton himself, rode out to reconnoitre us most coolly. I doubt if he would have been so rash had he known that Yeates and his borderers were concealed in easy pistol-shot; but the simultaneous cracking of a dozen rifles warned and sent the trio scuttling back to cover. Dick swore piteously, with the snap-shot skirmishers for a target. "The fumblers!" he raged. "'Twas the chance of a life-time, and they all missed like a lot of boys at their first deer stalking!" "They will have another chance, and that speedily," I ventured; and, truly, the chance did not tarry. From our view point on the rising ground we could see the enemy forming under cover of the wood; and as we looked, the two pieces of cannon were thrust to the front to bellow out the signal for the assault. 'Twas a sight to stir the blood when the enemy broke cover into the opener wooding of the field to the tune of the roaring cannon, the volleyings of small arms and the defiant huzzaings of the men. The sun was just peering over the summit of Thicketty Mountain, and his level rays fell first upon the charging line sweeping in like a tidal wave of red death to crumple our skirmishers before it. "Lord!" says Richard; "if Yeates and the Indian come alive out of that--" But the outliers closed upon our first line in decent good order, firing as they could; and in less time than it takes to write it down the onsweeping wave of red was upon the Carolinians. We looked to see the militia fire and run, home-guard fashion; but these men of Pickens's were made of more soldierly stuff. They took the fire of the assaulting line like veterans, giving ground only when it came to the bayonet push. "That fetches it to us," said Richard, most coolly; drawing his claymore when the Carolinians began to come home like spindrift ahead of the wave of red. Then he had a steadying word for the men of his company, and a hearty shout and a curse for some of the Georgians who had cut around the flanks of our main to come at their horses in the rear. But the lad's assertion that our time was come was only a half prophecy. The Marylanders, with the Virginians on either flank, stood firm, giving the onrushing wave a shock that went near to breaking it. But the British were better bayoneted than we, and when it came to the iron our lads must needs give ground sullenly, fighting their way backward as a stubborn assault fights its way inch by inch forward. "Here come their reserves," said Dick, pointing with his blade to a second red line forming in the farther vistas of the wood. "Lord! shall we never get into it?" 'Twas just here that an order sent by Colonel Howard to his first company, directing it to charge by the flank, came near costing us a rout. The order was misunderstood,--'twas received at the precise moment of the upcoming of the British reserves,--and the Marylanders fell back. In the turning of a leaf our entire fighting front gave way, and what of the Georgians there were left in the mellay made a frantic dash for the horses. At this crisis John Howard saved the day for us by shrewdly executing the most difficult manoeuver that is ever essayed by a field officer in the heat of battle. Suffering his men to drift backward until the enemy, sure now of success, were rushing on in disorder to give the _coup de grâce_, he gave the quick command: "About face! Fire! Charge!" I saw the volley delivered in the faces of the redcoats at pike's length range; saw the Virginians on the flanks bend to encircle the enemy; saw the rout transfer itself at the roar of the muskets from our side to the recoiling British. Then I heard Dick's shouted command. "Charge them, lads! they're sabering the Georgians!" A section of Tarleton's horse had hewed its way past our flank and was at work on the militiamen scrambling for their mounts. At it we went, with our brave colonel a horse's length ahead of the best rider in the troop, pistols banging and sword blades whistling, and that other curious sound you will hear only when the cavalry engages--the heavy dunch of the horses coming together like huge living missiles hurled from catapults. 'Twas soon over, and the enemy, horse and foot, was flying in hopeless confusion through the open wood. Our troop led the pursuit; and this brings me to an incident in which thy old chronicler--figuring in the histories as an unnamed sergeant--had his share. It was in the hot part of the chase, and Colonel Tarleton--a true Briton in this, that he would be first in the charge and last in the retreat--was galloping with two of his aides in rear of the dragoons. Since many of us knew the British commander by sight, there was a great clapping-to of spurs to overtake and cut him off. In this race three horses outdistanced all the others; the great bay ridden by Colonel Washington, a snappy little gray bestridden by the colonel's boy bugler, and my own mount. When the crisis came, our colonel had the wind of the boy and me and was calling on Colonel Tarleton to surrender at discretion. For answer the three British officers wheeled and fell upon him. Never was a man nearer his death. In a whiff, Tarleton was foining at him in front whilst the two aides were rising in their stirrups on either hand to cut him down. 'Twas the little bugler boy who saved his colonel's life, and not the unnamed "sergeant," as the histories have it. Having neither a sword nor the strength to wield one, the boy reined sharp to the left and pistoled his man as neatly as you please. Seeing his fellow _sabreur_ drop his weapon and clap his hand to the pistol-wound, my man hesitated just long enough to let me in with the clumsiest of upcuts to spoil the muscles of his sword arm. This transferred the duel to the two principals, who were now at it, hammer and tongs. Both were good swordsmen, but of the twain our colonel was far the cooler. So when Tarleton made to end it with a savage thrust in tierce, Washington parried deftly and his point found his antagonist's sword hand. At this, Tarleton dropped his blade,--it hangs now over the chimney-piece in Mr. Washington's town house in Charleston,--gave the signal for flight, and the three Britons, each with a wound to nurse, wheeled and galloped on. But in the act Tarleton snatched a pistol from his holster and let drive at our colonel, wounding him in the knee, so we did not come off scatheless. This pistoling of Colonel Washington by the British commander skimmed a little of the cream from our great and glorious victory. 'Twas no serious hurt, but wanting it I make no doubt we should have ridden down the flying dragoons, adding them, and their doughty colonel to boot, to the five-hundred-odd prisoners we took. The battle fought and won,--'twas over and done with two full hours before noon,--Dan Morgan knew well what must befall, lacking the swiftest after-doing on our part. With Greene near a hundred miles away, and my Lord Cornwallis less than three hours' gallop to the southward on Turkey Creek, the time was come for the hastiest welding of our little army with that of the general-in-command; if, indeed, the promptest running would take us to the upper fords of the Catawba before Cornwallis should intervene and cut us off. Accordingly, Jennifer and I were detailed to carry the news of the victory to Greene's camp at Cheraw Hill; and when we rode away on the warm trail of the flying British, we left Dan Morgan's men hard at it, burning the heavy impedimenta of the capture, and otherwise making ready for the swiftest of forced marches to the north. 'Twould be a thankless task to take you with us stage by stage on our cross-country gallop to advertise General Greene of the victory at the cow pastures. Suffice it to say that we made shift to turn the head of the advancing British main, now in motion and hastening with all speed to cut Dan Morgan off; that we were by turns well soaked by rain and stream, deep mired in bogs, chased times without number by the enemy's outriders, and hardshipped freely for food and horse provender before we saw the camp on the Pedee. All this you may figure for yourselves, the main point being that we came at length to the goal, weary, mire-splashed and belted to the last buckle-hole to pinch down the hunger pains, but sound of skin, wind and limb. Having our news, which set the camp in a pretty furor of rejoicing, I promise you, General Greene lost not an hour in making his dispositions. Leaving Isaac Huger and Colonel Otho Williams in command at Cheraw, the general sent Edward Stevens with the Virginians by way of Charlotte to Morgan's aid, and himself took horse, with a handful of dragoons in which Dick and I were volunteers, to ride post haste to a meeting with Morgan at the upper fords. Again I may pass lightly over an interval of three days spent hardily in the saddle, coming at once to that rain-drenched thirty-first of January, cold, raw and dismal, when we drew rein at Sherrard's Ford and found Dan Morgan and his men safe across the Catawba with his prisoners, and my Lord Cornwallis quite as safely flood-checked on the western bank of the stream. Having done our errand, Dick and I reported at once to our colonel. 'Twas of a piece with William Washington's goodness of heart to offer us leave to rest. "You have had weary work of it, I doubt not, gentlemen," he would say. "Your time is your own until General Greene sets us in order for what he has in mind to do." I looked at Dick, and he looked at me. "May we count upon twenty-four hours, think you, Colonel?" I asked. "Safely, I should say." "Then I shall ask leave of absence for Captain Jennifer and myself till this time to-morrow," I went on. "This is our home neighborhood, as you know, and we have a little matter of private business which may be despatched in a day." "Will this business take you without the lines?" "That is as it may be, sir. I do not know the bounds of the outposting." The colonel wrote us passes to come and go at will past the sentries, and I drew Dick away. "What is it, Jack?" he asked, when we were by ourselves. "'Tis the fulfilling of my promise to you, Richard. Get your horse and we will ride together." "But whither?" he queried. "To Appleby Hundred--and Mistress Margery." XLVIII HOW WE KEPT TRYST AT APPLEBY HUNDRED 'Twas late in the afternoon of the last day of January when we set out together, Jennifer and I, from the camp of conference at Sherrard's Ford. The military situation, lately so critical for us, had reached and passed one of its many subclimaxes. Morgan's little army, with its prisoners still safe in hand, was on its way northward to Charlottesville in Virginia, and only the officers remained behind to confer with General Greene. For the others, Huger and Williams were hurrying up from Cheraw to meet the general at Salisbury; and General Davidson, with a regiment of North Carolina volunteers, was set to keep the fords of the Catawba. As for the British commander's intendings, we had conflicting reports. Two days earlier, Lord Cornwallis had burned his heavy baggage at Ramsour's Mill, and so we had assurance that the pursuit was only delayed. But whether, when he should break his camp at Forney's plantation, he would go northward after Morgan and the prisoners, or cross the river at some nearhand ford to chase our main, none of our scouts could tell us. We were guessing at this, Richard and I, as we jogged on together down the river road, and were agreed that could my Lord cross the flooded river without loss of time, his better chance would be to fall upon our main at Salisbury or thereabouts. But as to the possibility of his crossing, we fell apart. "Lacking another drop of rain, we are safe for forty-eight hours yet," Dick would say, pointing to the brimming river rolling its brown flood at our right as we fared on. "And with two days' start we shall have him burning more than his camp wagons to overtake us." "Have it so, if you will," said I, to end the argument. "But this I know: were Dan Morgan or General Greene, or you or I, in Lord Cornwallis's shoes, the two days would not be lost." Jennifer laughed. "Leave the rest of us out, Sir Hannibal Ireton, and tell what you would do," he said, mocking me. We were at that bend in the road where Jan Howart and his Tories had sought to waylay us in the cool gray dawn of a certain June morning when we were galloping this same road to keep my appointment with Sir Francis Falconnet. A huge rock makes a promontory in the stream just here, and I pointed to a water-worn cavity in it where the flood lapped in and out in gurgling eddies. "You've been sharp to take me up on my forgetting of the landmarks, but there is one I've not forgot," said I. "One day, about the time you were getting yourself born, I was passing this way with my father and a company of the county gentlemen. 'Twas in the Seven Years' War, and the Cherokees were threatening us from the other side. The river was in flood as it is now; and I mind my father saying that when you could see that hole in the rock, Macgowan's Ford would be no more than armpit deep." "So?" said Richard; "then it behooves us to--" He stopped in mid sentence, drew rein and shifted his sword hilt to the front. "What is it?" I asked. For reply he pointed me to a canoe half hidden in the bushes where roadside and river-edge came together. I laughed. "An empty pirogue. Shall we charge and run it through?" "Hist!" said he; "that canoe was afloat a minute since. Mark the paddle--'tis dripping yet." As he spoke an Indian stood up in the bushes beside the pirogue, holding out his empty hands in token of amity. We rode up and were presently shaking hands with our old-time ally, the Catawba. "How!" said he; "heap how! Chief Harris glad; wah! Make think have to go to Sal'bury to find Captain Long-knife and Captain Jennif'. Heap much glad!" "Chief Harris?" I queried. "Who may he be?" The Catawba drew himself up and drummed upon his breast. "Chief Harris here," he answered, proudly. "The Great War Chief," by which we understood he meant General Greene, "say all Catawba take war-path 'gainst redcoat; make Uncanoola headman; give um new name. Wah!" At this we shook hands with him again, well pleased that our stanch ally should have recognition at the hands of the general. Then I would ask if he were on the way to raise his tribesmen to fight with us. "Bimeby; no have time now; big thing over yonder," pointing across the river. "Manitou Cornwally fool Great War Chief, mebbe, hey?" "How is that?" said Dick; and the query elicited a bit of news to make us prick our ears. The Catawba had been in the British camp at Forney's, posturing again as a Cherokee friendly to the king's side. Some sudden movement had been determined upon, though what it was to be he could not learn. At the end of his own resources he had crossed the river in a stolen pirogue to find and warn us. "What say you, Dick?" I asked, when we had heard the Catawba through. The lad was holding his lip in his hand and scowling as one who pits duty against inclination. "'Tis our cursed luck!" he gloomed. Then he swore it out by length and breadth, and, when the air was cleared, let me have what was in his mind. "After all, 'tis like enough we should find Appleby house deserted. Gilbert Stair will cling to Lord Cornwallis's coat-skirt as long as he can for sheer safety's sake. At all events, our business must wait; the country's weal comes first." Then to the Indian: "If we can make the beasts take the water, will you ferry us across, Chief?" The Catawba nodded, and made the nod good by setting us dry-shod on the farther bank of the brown flood. By the time we had the horses rubbed down and resaddled 'twas twilight in the open and night dark in the wood; but we were on our own ground and knew every by-path through the forest. So, when we had sent the Indian back to carry news of us to General Davidson at the lower ford, and to advertise him of our purpose, we mounted to begin a scouting jaunt, keeping to the wood paths and bearing cautiously northward toward the enemy's camp at Forney's plantation. At times we were close upon the British sentries, with every nerve strained tense for fight or flight; anon we would be making wide detours through bog and fen, or beneath the black network of wet branches with the rain-soaked leaf beds under foot to make the horses' treadings as noiseless as a cat's. None the less, in the fullness of time--'twas near about midnight as we guessed it--we had our patience well rewarded. Hovering on the confines of the camp we heard the muffled drum-tap of the reveille, and soon there was the stir of an army making ready for the march. "Which way will it be, north or south?" whispered Dick, when we had dismounted to cloak the heads of the horses. "We shall know shortly," said I; and truly, we did, being well-nigh enveloped and ridden down by the fringe of light-horse deploying to pioneer the way. When we had sheered off to let this skirmish cloud blow by, Dick struck a spark into his tinder-box to have a sight of his compass needle. "South and by east," he announced; "that will mean Beattie's Ford, I take it." "Not unless they swim, horse and foot," I objected. "'Twill be Macgowan's, more likely." Having this uncertainty to resolve, we must hang upon the skirts of the British advance till we could make sure, and this proved to be a most perilous business. Yet by riding abreast of the moving main we did resolve the uncertainty; heard the orders passed from man to man, and later saw a small feinting detachment split off to take the road for Beattie's, whilst the main body held on for Macgowan's; all this before we were discovered in the gloaming of the dawn by some of Tarleton's men. Then, I promise you, my dears, it was neck or nothing, with the devil to take the hindmost. Away we sped toward the near-by river, spurring our wearied beasts as men who ride for life, with a dozen troopers so close upon us that when I glanced over my shoulder the foremost of the redcoat riders was having his face well bespattered with the mud from my horse's heels. 'Twas touch and go, but happily, as I have said, the river was at hand. We came to the high bank some hundred yards above the fording place, and lacking Dick's example to shame me to the braver course, I fear I should have recoiled at the brink. But when the lad sent his horse without the missing of a bound far out over the eddying flood, I shook the reins on the sorrel's neck, gave him the word and shut my eyes. After all, it was nothing worse than a cold plunge, with a few pistol bullets to spatter harmlessly around us when we came up for air. Moreover, there were the camp-fires of Davidson's men on the farther bank to encourage us; and so swimming and wading by turns we got across in time to give the alarum. As you would guess, there was a mighty stir on our side of the river when we had splashed ashore and got our news well born. As it turned out, General Davidson's main camp was a good half-mile back from the river in one of the outfields of Appleby Hundred. So it chanced there were upon the spot only brave Joe Graham and his fifty riflemen to dispute the passage of an army. What was done at Macgowan's Ford in the gray of the morning of February first, 1781, has become a page in our history. But I protest that not any of the chroniclers do even-handed justice to the little band of patriot riflemen doing their utmost to hold a hundred-to-one outnumbering host in check. 'Twas a fine sight, be the onlooker Whig or Tory. The Guards, led by the fiery Irishman, O'Hara, took the water first, the men crowding shoulder to shoulder to brace against the sweep of the current which, on the western side of the stream, was little less than a mill-tail for swiftness. After them came the foot and horse in solid squares, and always with more to follow. None the less, our little handful did not blanch; and when the Guards in midstream held straight across instead of bearing to the right as the ford ran, a shout went up on our side and the fifty hastened up from the ford-head as one man to face the enemy squarely. Now it was that the brown-barreled rifles began to crack and spit fire; and I do think if we had had our other two hundred and fifty out of that back field on the manor lands, we might at least have made the wading redcoats hurry a little. Indeed, as it was, the van of the Guards broke here and there, and we could hear O'Hara berating his men as only a battle-mad Irishman can, with blarneyings and curses intermingled. Having no firearms save our wetted pistols, Jennifer and I crouched in cover, waiting to do what two swordsmen might when the blade's length should bridge the fast-narrowing distance between us and the advancing host. 'Twas in this little interval of forced inaction that we heard a most familiar voice issuing from a clump of holly just below our covert; a voice lifted now in fervent prayer and again in Scriptural anathema on the foe. "'Let God arise and let His inimies be scattered.... Let them be as the chaff upon a threshing-floor'--" The sharp crack of the old borderer's rifle filled the momentary pause, and a British officer in a colonel's uniform swayed drunkenly in his saddle and plunged headlong in the stream. "'Let them be as the children of Amalek before the Mighty One of Israel: make them and their princes like Oreb and Zeeb; yea, make all their princes like as Zebah and Zalmunna.... O my God, make them like unto a wheel, and as the stubble before the wind; like as the fire that burneth up the wood, and as the flame that consumeth the mountains.'" Crack! went the long-barreled piece again, and again an officer hallooing on his floundering battalion bent to his saddle horn and slipped into the turbid flood. My gorge rose. This picking off of officers has always seemed to me the savagest of war's barbarities. How Richard divined my thought and purpose, I know not; but when I would have slipped down to Yeates's holly bush he laid a detaining hand on my arm. "Let be," he said; "'tis murder, if you like, but all war is that. When old Eph's turn comes, they will kill him as relentlessly as he is killing them." By this time the British vanguard was storming ashore through the shallows below the tree fringe which served as cover for Graham's men, and the king's muskets, silent hitherto, began to roar and belch by platoon and volley fire. Jennifer craned his neck and took a swift view of the situation. "By the Lord Harry!" he cried, "'tis high time Joe Graham was getting his lads in order for a foot race. Once those fellows come ashore they'll play hare and hounds with us to the king's taste. Keep your eye on the nags, Jack. It may chance us to do what two men can to cover a belated retreat." We had tethered our horses in a thicket of scrub oak where they would be out of bullet-reach until the enemy gained the bank. As I looked to make sure of them, the sorrel gave a shrill neigh to welcome the pounding of hoofs on the Appleby road. I made sure this would be General Davidson bringing in the reserves; and so, indeed, it was; but he came too late. O'Hara's men were already climbing the bank; and Joe Graham was rallying his little company for flight in the face of an onset that made the tree fringe sing with musket balls. "'Tis our cue to run away!" Dick shouted, dragging me to my feet. "To the horses!" But now we were too late. Davidson's men were between us and the scrub oak thicket, and we must wait till the column swept by. Dick swore fervently and put his face to the foe and his back to a tree. Whereupon I dragged him down as promptly as he had just now dragged me up, telling him his broadsword would make but a poor shift parrying musket-balls. What followed after was over and done with in a dozen fluttering heart-beats. Seeing the case was desperate, General Davidson gathered Graham's fifty into his flying column, flogged his rear into the retreat, and was pitched out of his saddle by a Tory rifle-bullet whilst he was doing it. And when the way to our horses was clear of the galloping Carolinians, and we would have run to mount and ride after them, the swarming redcoat van was upon us. "Up with you and out of this!" cried Jennifer, setting me the example. "We must e'en gallop as we can. Quick, man!" But in the gathering and the retreat our old sharpshooter under his holly bush had been left behind; and now we heard him again, chanting his terrible imprecations on the enemy. Dick saw the meaning in my look, and together we pounced to drag the old man out of hiding. When we burst down upon him, Yeates had his piece to his face and was drawing a bead on a stout man in cocked hat and plain regimentals whose horse was curveting and sidling in the nearer shallows; no less a figure, in truth, than my Lord Cornwallis himself, cheering his men on to the attack. We had scarce made out the old hunter's target when the rifle spat fire, the curveting charger reared in its death plunge, and the British commander-in-chief, unhurt, as it seemed, was dragged from the entanglement of his stirrups by his aides. The old marksman sprang up in a fury of wrath. "Dad blast ye for a pair of aim-sp'ilin'--" A roar of musketry cut the rebuke in half, and a storm of bullets smote through the branches overhead. A falling bough knocked my hat off, and I stooped to recover it. When I rose, Dick was clipping the old man tightly in his arms. Yeates's belt was cut, and a little oozing well-spring of red was slowly soaking the fringe of his hunting-shirt. "Ease me down, Cap'n Dick; ease me down. The old man's done for, this time, ez I allow--spang in the innards. Ease me down and get off for yerselves, if so be ye can, im--me--jit--" The wagging jaw dropped and the keen old eyes went dim and sightless. Dick's oath was more a sob than an imprecation; and now it was I who said: "Come on--the living before the dead!" and so we made the well-nigh hopeless dash for the horses. How we rode free out of that hurly-burly at the ford-head you must figure for yourselves, if you can. The men of the British vanguard were all about us when we got to the scrub oak thicket and mounted, but no one of them raised a hand to stay us. I have thought since that mayhap they took us for a pair of their own Tory allies who were not above wearing the stolen uniforms of the dead. Be that as it may, we rode away unhindered, Dick in all the bravery of his captain's slashings, and I in light-horse buff and blue, taking the road toward the manor house because that was the only one open to us, and ambling leisurely till we were beyond the sight and sound of the victors at the ford. But once at large, we put spurs to our horses in true _ritter_ fashion; and we had galloped half way to Appleby house before Dick said: "Now we are well out of that, what next? We can not go to Margery with the whole British army at our heels." "Nay, but we shall, if only for a short half-hour," I asserted. Then, as once before, I gave him my best bow. "For the last time, it may be, let me play the lord of the manor. You are very welcome to my father's demesne, Richard, and to all of its holdings." "All?" said he, giving me a quick eye-shot as we pressed on side by side. "Yes, all," said I; and I meant it in good faith. He should have the lady, too; that precious holding of the old manse without whom my father's acres would be but a bauble to be lost or won indifferently. "Then you do not love Madge more?" he queried, his eye kindling. "Nay, I did not say that. But I did say the other; that you should have the house and all its holdings." We were cantering up the oak-sentried avenue to that door which Gilbert Stair had once sought to keep against us with his bell-mouthed blunderbuss. There was no sign of any living thing about the place; and when we had no answer to our sword-hilt knockings on the door, the lad turned upon me with a flash of anger in his eyes and his lip a-curl. "You knew full well what you were promising, John Ireton!" he said. "She is not here." XLIX IN WHICH A LAWYER HATH HIS FEE What Richard's most natural resentment would have led to, in what new tangle of the net of bitterness we might have been enmeshed, we were spared the knowing. For when he said, "She is not here," two happenings intervened to give us both other things to think of. The first was the advent, at the far end of the oak-lined avenue, of a troop of British light-horse, trotting leisurely; the second was the swinging inward of the door of unwelcome, with old Anthony grinning and bowing behind it. Now when you have fairly surprised a fox in the open, he asks nothing more than a hole to hide him in. There were the hunters coming up the avenue; and here was our dodge-hole gaping before us. So, as hunted things will, we took earth quickly; though, truly, 'twas an ostrich-trick rather than a fox's, since we left the horses standing without to advertise our presence to all and sundry. It was Richard who first found the wit to realize the ostrich-play. "The horses!--we may as well have left the town crier outside to ring his bell and tell the redcoats we are here," he would say; and before I knew what he would be at he had snatched the door open and was whistling softly to the big gray. Hearing his master's call, the gray pricked his ears and came obediently, with the sorrel tagging at his heels. A moment later, when the up-coming troop was hidden by a turn in the avenue, we had the pair of them in the hall with the door shut and barred behind them. "So far, so good," quoth Dick. Then to the old black, who had stood by, saucer-eyed and speechless, the while: "Anthony, do you be as big a numbskull as you were born to be, and hold these redcoat gentlemen in palaver till we can win out at the back." The old majordomo nodded his good-will, but now my slow wit came in play. "We've done it now," said I. "The horses will go out as they came in, or not at all. Had you forgotten the stair at the back?" Judge for yourselves, my dears, if this were the time, place or crisis for a man to fling himself upon the hall settle, grip his ribs and laugh like any lack-wit. Yet this is what Richard Jennifer did. It was in the very midst of his gust of ill-timed merriment, while the horses were nosing niftily at their strange surroundings, and the hoof-strokes of the redcoat troop could be plainly heard on the gravel of the avenue, that I chanced to lift my eyes to the stair. There, looking down upon us with speechless astoundment in the blue-gray eyes, stood our dear lady. Another instant and she was with us, stamping her foot and crying: "_Mon Dieu!_ what is this? Are you gone mad, both of you?" Dick's answer was another burst of laughter, loud enough, you would think, to be heard by those beyond the door. "Behold four witless brute beasts, Mistress Madge--two horses and two asses," he said. And then to old Anthony: "Open the door, Tony, and invite the gentlemen in." But Margery was before him. Ah, my dears, a man's wit is like a matchlock, fizzing and sputtering its way noisily to find the powder whilst the enemy hath time to ride up and saber the musketeer; but a woman's is like the spark in a tinder-box--a quick snip of flint and steel and you have your fire. In a flash my lady had torn down the heavy curtains from an inner doorway and was carpeting a horse path for us to the rear. "Quick!" she cried; "lead them gently, for the love of heaven!" She went before us, padding the way with whatever came first to hand, rugs, curtains, table-coverings, and I know not what besides; and by the time the British troopers were hammering at the outer door, we were deep within the old mansion and had made shift to drag the unwilling horses by one and two-step descents to a room half under and half out of ground, which served as a sort of ante-dungeon to the wine cellar. Here I thought we might be safe for the moment, but not so my lady. Calling Dick to help her--in all the fierce haste of it I marked that she called to Dick and not to me--she unlocked and opened the door to the wine vault, and in a trice we two and the luckless horses were safely jailed in pitchy darkness, with the stout oaken door slammed behind us, the bolt shot in the lock, and the key withdrawn, as we could see by the spot of light which came through the keyhole. Richard was the first to break the grave-like silence of our dungeon. "Lord!" said he; "did ever you see such sharp-wit work in all your adventures? What a soldier's wife she'd make!" I smiled at that, being safe to smile in the darkness. For was she not a soldier's wife? I hugged that saying as we cling to the thing that is slipping from us. True, I was here to give her freely over to another and a better soldier; but while she was mine I would claim her, in my heart, at least. The excitement of the narrow escape somewhat overpast, we sat long on the edge of a wine-bin, speculating in whispers as to what would befall, and listening vainly for the footsteps which would forecast our release or our capture by the enemy. But when no sounds, threatening or encouraging, came from the upper world, we groped about till we found the cellar candle, lighted it with flint and steel and tinder-box, and took a survey of our jail. 'Twas the same old cavernous wine vault of my youthful remembrance, such an one as has not its mate in all Carolina to this good day, as I firmly believe. My father's hobby was to build for all eternity; and this stone-arched cellarage was more like a cathedral crypt than a store-room for a country gentleman's table-stock of wines. Dick held the candle aloft and scanned the bottle racks, none so greatly depleted as they might have been, had any hand but that close-fisted one of Gilbert Stair's taken the key in charge after my father. "There is no lack of potables," says my candle-bearer; "but, unhappily, there is never so much as a dry crust to soak in them. And as for the horses, I'll venture they'd give it all, pint for pint, for a good feeding of oats." "Truly," said I; and then we fell to stripping the straw casings from the bottles of madeira to give the poor beasts a feed of rye-stalks which had grown and ripened their grain many a year before either the sorrel or the gray was foaled. Having no time-measure save our own impatience, it seemed a weary while before we heard the key rasping in the lock of our prison door. "'Tis Madge," said Dick, with a true lover's gift of second sight; and 'twas he who went to help her swing the thick-slabbed oak. What passed between them I did not hear, nor want to hear. But when the door was swung to and locked again I knew we were not free to go abroad. Richard came back to me in the inner vault bearing gifts; the better part of a boiled ham with bread to match, a jug of water from the well, and more candles. "We are not to starve, but that is our best news, thus far," he said. "Of all the houses on our side of the river, Lord Cornwallis must needs pitch upon this manor of Appleby for his rallying headquarters. Madge can not guess when he and the army will be gone, and she is frighted stiff for our sakes." This was sober news, indeed, but we could do naught but make the best of it. As for me, I was most anxious to know if the good priest were at Appleby, and what of my chance for seeing him; but of this I could say no word to Richard. So, when we had done full justice to my lady's bounty, we stowed the horses in the deepest of the vaults and stripped more of the bottle coverings for them. But having only the jug of water, we could do no more than swab their mouths out with a wetted kerchief in lieu of giving them a drink. When all was done we sat ourselves down to wait as we must; and when the silence and solitude had wrought their perfect work, we fell to talking in low tones to match the place and circumstance; and I do think in those quiet hours, walled in as we were from all the disturbments of the outer world, we came closer than we had come for many months. And while we sat and talked the long day wore on to evening and a storm came on, as we could determine, though no otherwise than by the muffled rolling of the thunder which, since we could not see the lightning nor hear the rain, we took at first for the booming of distant cannon. I can not tell you all we spoke of in that day-long immurement. There was some talk of the great struggle for independence, now, though we knew it not, drawing near to its close; and there was much of reminiscence, harking back to the exciting and tragic scenes in which we two had had our entrances and our exits. Also, there was a tribute paid to the memory of our true old friend and trusted comrade in arms, Ephraim Yeates, so lately gone to his own place. 'Twas at this time I learned what of the old man's gifts and peculiarities I have hereinbefore set down; for Richard had known him long and well. From speaking of old Ephraim and his sudden taking-off we came to things more nearly present; and at length Dick would lay a finger gently upon the mystery in which he was as yet walking as one blindfolded. "'Tis not a shameful thing; don't tell me it is that, Jack," he would say; and I gave him speedy assurance upon that head. "No,'tis never shameful; so much I may lay an oath to." "Yet you said once--in that black night when I went mad and would have killed you--that your life lay between Madge and me." "So it did--and does. And God will bear me witness, dear lad, that I have worn that life upon my sleeve." "Nay," he said, very gently; "you need not go so high for a witness; have I not seen?" We fell silent upon that, and there, in the candle-yellowed gloom of our dungeon harbor, I fought the fellest battle of my life; fought it and won it, too, my dears, once and for all. There was a cold sweat on my brow when I began in low tones to tell him the story of that fateful night in June. At rising forty 'tis no light thing to lose a friend--nay, to turn a friend's love into scorn and loathing and bitter hatred. He heard me through without a word; and at the end, when I looked to see him spring up and bid me draw and let him have his one poor chance for satisfaction, he still sat motionless, winking and staring at the guttering candle. And when he spoke 'twas with a quivering of the lip that was not of anger. "Dear God," said he; "'tis I who stand in the way." "No; for she loves you, Richard, as dearly as she hates me. And 'tis not so hopeless now, else I had never screwed together the courage to tell you all this. She has at last consented to the Church's undoing of the incomplete marriage--'twas this she wrote me about when we were at the Cowpens, and 'twas her letter that set me upon going to Winnsborough to see the priest. I missed him there, as you know; but I am here now by her own appointment to meet him in her father's house." He shook his head slowly. "You've killed the hope in me, Jack. I do think you are all at sea; 'tis you she loves--not me." I could afford to smile at that. "If you could see how she has ever gone about to prove that she did not love me, you would rest easy on that score, dear lad." But he would only shake his head again. "'Twas to save your life she rode in on us that morning under the oaks in the glade." "'Twas a womanly horror of a duel and bloodshed, more belike," said I. "But she has saved your life thrice since then, as you confess." "Yes; from a strained sense of wifely duty, as she took good care to tell me." "None the less--ah, Jack, you do not know her as I do; she would never have consented to stand before the priest with you had there not been something warmer than hatred in her heart." "'Twas a bitter necessity, fairly forced upon her. Tell me; had there been a spark of love for me in her heart, would she have treated me as the dust beneath her feet on that long infaring from the western mountains? She never spoke a word to me, Dick, in all those weeks." "Which may prove no more than that you said or did something to cut her to the quick. 'Twould be well in your way, Jack. She is as sensitive as she should be, and you are blunter than I--which is the worst I could say of you." "No, no; you are far beside the mark. You forget that the breaking of the marriage is of her own proposing--at least, I should say I only hinted at it." "There may be two sides to that, as well. Have you ever told her that you love her, Jack?" "Surely not! I have been all kinds of a poltroon in this matter, as I have confessed, but this one thing I have not done." "Well," said he, speaking slowly, as one who thinks the path out word by word, "what if she believes 'tis you who want your freedom? What if you have made her that bitterest thing in all the world--a woman scorned?" I would not listen to him more. "This is all the merest folly, Richard, as I will prove to you beyond the question of a doubt. Do you mind that little interval in the Cherokees' torture-play when they came to bind us afresh for the burning?" "I mind no more of that horror-night than I can help." "Well, in that hour, when death was waiting for all three of us, she wrote a little farewell note to the man she loved. 'Twas for you, Dick, but her Indian messenger blundered and gave it me." He got upon his feet at that and began to pace slowly back and forth under the gloomy archings. But ere long he paused to grasp and wring my hand most lovingly, saying, "Who am I, Jack, to buy my happiness at such a price?" "Nay, lad; 'tis neither you nor I who should figure greatly in the matter; 'tis our dear lady. She must e'en have what she longs for, if you, or I, or both of us, should have to go above stairs and put our necks into my Lord Cornwallis's noose." "Now, by heaven, Jack Ireton, 'tis you who are the true lover and the gentleman; and I am naught but a selfish churl with my face in my own trencher!" he burst out, wringing my hand yet again. "'Tis as you say; yet I will not be driven from this; for aught you have told me to prove it otherwise, Madge has yet to choose between us, and she shall have that choice, fairly and squarely, and knowing that you love her, before we three go apart again." I smiled, and tried hard to keep the heart-soreness out of my reply. "As for that, my lad, I have had my stirrup-cup long since, and have drained it to the dregs with a wry face, as an old man must when a young man brews for him. But if the priest--" Jennifer had resumed his pacing sentry beat, and at this juncture a most singular thing happened. Though we were sealed in, as I have said, from all the outer world with no crack nor cranny for a peephole, a blinding flash of lightning, blue and ghastly, came suddenly to fill the whole cellar with its vivid glare. "Good Lord!" says Richard, clapping his hands to his eyes; "where did that come from?" I was wholly at a loss for a moment. Then I remembered that there was, or had been in my boyhood days, a narrow, iron-barred window in the farther end of the wine cellar, opening beneath that other window of the great south room where I had climbed to spy upon the conspirators on the night of Captain John Stuart's visit to Appleby. So it chanced that when another flash came I was looking straight over Dick's head at the place in the farther arching of the vault where the little window should be. The momentary glare showed me the low square of the window opening, and framed for a flitting instant therein a face of most devilish malignity peering in upon me with foxy-fierce eyes; the face, to wit, of Gilbert Stair's lawyer-factor. In a twinkling the vision was gone, and in the space between the flash and the crash there was a sound as of a wooden shutter slamming in place. Dick heard the noise without knowing the cause of it, being so far beneath the window as to see nothing but the lighting of the glare. "What was that?" he demanded, when the thunder gave him leave. "'Twas our trapper clapping the shutter on the window over your head," said I. "He was looking in to see if we were ripe for hanging." "'Tis no time for riddles; what mean you?" "I mean that we shall have a file of redcoats down upon us as soon as ever Mr. Owen Pengarvin can give the alarm." "Oho!" said Dick; and then he pulled his sword from its scabbard, and I could see the battle-veins swelling in his forehead. "They can hang me when I am too dead to cut and thrust more--not sooner." I got me up and went to find the sword which I had laid aside in the horse-baiting. 'Twas a poor blade--one of our captures at the Cowpens; and when I tried its temper it snapped in my hand. "Never mind," said I; "give me the broadsword scabbard and I will play it as a cudgel, 'tis long enough and full heavy enough." He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder, swearing out his love for me as if I had said something moving. "You are every inch a soldier, Jack; you would put heart into a worse craven than I am ever like to be." And he loosed the iron scabbard and gave it me. Now ensued a most painful time of waiting and listening for the tramp of our takers. We posted us near the door, a little to the side, so that its inswing might not catch us; and so, bracing for the onset, we waited till the strain of suspense grew so great that we both started like frighted children, when finally the key was thrust into the lock and the bolt shot back. But when the heavy door gave inward, as at the pushing of a weak or timid hand, we saw our dear lady standing in the half gloom of the ante-dungeon, breathless and trembling with excitement. "Come!" she panted; "come quickly--there is not an instant to spare. The factor has betrayed you; he will be here directly with the dragoons!" I cut in swiftly. "He has not seen Dick; does he know we are both here?" She had one hand on her heart to still its tumultuous beating, and the other held behind her, and she could scarce speak more for her eagerness to have us out and away. "No; it was you he saw; and my father heard Colonel Tarleton give the order. Lieutenant Tybee is to take a file of his troopers and hang without grace the man he will find hiding in the wine cellar; those were his very words. Oh, merciful heaven! will you never stir?" Richard gave a low whistle. "So Tybee has come alive in good time to square the old account with us," he would say; but my wonder was greater on the other head. "Your father?" I gasped. "And he sent you to save me?" "Surely," she said. "Are you not once again his guest, Captain Ireton?" Then she stamped her foot, and though the candle-light was of the poorest, I could see her eyes flash. "Will you squander the last moment in silly questions?" she burst out. "Come, I say!" I smiled. "Give me that sword you are hiding behind you and I will keep the door whilst you spirit Dick away. He is not to be in this." She gave me the weapon, though not, as I made sure, in any consenting to my proposal. I could have cried out in sheer joy when I found the sword to be my own good blade of proof--the ancient Ferara willed me by my father. Sharp as the crisis was, I make no doubt I should have asked her then and there how she came by the blade I had last seen when my Lord Cornwallis tried to break it over his knee; but the march of events suddenly became too swift for me. There was a sound of cautious footsteps in the inclined passage leading from the butler's pantry above, and our chance for escape that way was gone. "Too late!" said Dick; and with an arm about Margery he whipped behind the great oaken door opened back against the cellar wall, whispering me to follow. We were scarce in hiding, with the door well drawn back to screen us, when the cautious footsteps came slowly into the out-cellar. Peeping through the crack behind the door we saw Pengarvin--alone. What brought him there without his tale of armed men at his back no man will ever know; but since his ways were always crooked and devious, I guessed he would not wish to appear in the matter in his own proper person, and yet could not deny himself a 'forehand peep to see if the trap were still safe shut and secure. 'Twas evident he was much disconcerted at finding the door open and the wine vault apparently empty. At first he would start and dodge as if to run away; then his rage got the better of his caution and he had one of those senseless cursing fits I have before told you of, raving and swearing and promising all manner of fiendish recompense to Mistress Margery when he should have her in his power. A little longer dwelling upon this variation of the cursing theme--ravings in which Dick learned for the first time of the factor's design to marry my widow and the estate--and I do think the lad would have gone out to make him sing another tune. But now the factor left off suddenly to cock his ear and listen, and afterward to come tiptoeing into the cellar, all eyes to spy and legs to run if a mouse should but squeak at him. He was muttering to himself as he passed our hiding place. "By all the devils, he must be here, some gait. The little jade would have warned him if she had known; but it is known only to the doddering old miser and me, and the girl is safe in her bed-room. Happen this devil of an Austrian captain has drunken himself sodden; ah, that would be a rare jest--to wake with the rope around his neck! If those cursed, slow-footed dragoons would but come! Damme! I'll have that bull-necked lieutenant cashiered if his high and mighty loitering balks me in this." He stopped before the wine cask whereon the flickering candle stood and craned his neck to look beyond it. The candle was guttering smokily, and he reached a shaking thumb and finger to pluck the "dead man" from the wick. At that we heard him muttering again. "'Twas a play to make the very devil envious; and to have it marred by that pig of a lieutenant! No one knew me in it save the legion colonel, and could we have sprung the trap fair and softly, not even Mistress Margery herself could have laid this swashbuckler's death at my door. But now he's gone--vanished like a straw bailee, and all because that damned understrapper of Colonel Tarleton's must needs turn up his nose at a bit of sheriff's work. Curse him!" The candle was burning brightly now, and he crept catlike around the cask to peer into the bin beyond it. Just then the shutter to the little window of espial fell open with a shrill creaking of its rusty hinges, and a blue glare of lightning came to prick out every nook and corner of the cellar. Being almost within a blade's length of the factor, I saw him plainly; saw him start back and put his hands to his face and drop down all of a tremble on the bin's edge, where I had been sitting when he discovered me. To second the flash a prolonged drum-roll of thunder dinned upon the still air of the vault, and mingled with the thunder came other flashes, searing the eye and making the candle flame appear as a sickly orange halo in the blue-white glare. What with the play of the storm artillery we could neither see nor hear for the moment; but when the candle-light came to its own again the scene had changed as if by magic. Under cover of the thunder din a squad of dragoons had come to ring the factor in where he sat upon the edge of the wine bin. "So-ho!" said my good friend Tybee, with a little strident laugh, "'tis you I am to take out and hang, is it, Master Lawyer? I thought mayhap you'd double on your track once too often, and so it seems you have. Up with you and come along." All in a flash Pengarvin was up and bursting out in a trembling frenzy-fit of protestation. "Oh, 'tis all a mistake, my good sir--a devil's own trap! I--I am not the man; I pledge you my sacred word! I--hands off, you cursed villains, or I'll have the law on you!" this last when one of the men cast the noose of a rope over his head whilst a second drew his arms to his sides in the looping of another cord. "By God! you shall all smart for this; all, I say! Take me to Colonel Tarleton. The king has no stancher friend in all the province than I. Why, damme,'twas I who--" A trooper came behind and gagged him with the loose end of the rope; and Tybee held the candle to light the knotting of it. And so they marched him out, with Tybee muttering between his teeth that it was rat-catcher's work, and no soldier's, this killing of vermin, and bidding his men make haste. L HOW RICHARD COVERDALE'S DEBT WAS PAID For some breathless moments after we three were left alone in the Stygian darkness of the wine cellar, no word was spoken. The rolling of the thunder drum was muffled now, as it were booming out the dirge of the man who had digged a pit and had himself fallen therein; and the lightning flashes coming at longer intervals served but to intensify the gloom they lit up for the instant. It was a minced oath from Richard that first broke the spell that bound us. "'Twas too much for Madge," said he, "she has fainted. Swing the door, and light another candle." I did both as quickly as might be, and we bedded her on the floor, stripping our coats to soften the stone flagging for her and trying by all the means known to two unskilled soldier leeches to bring her to. "Water!" said Dick; but when we had laved her face with that, and with wine as well, without effect, we were well dismayed, I do assure you. For all our efforts she lay as one dead; and neither of us could be cold enough to pry her lips apart to play the drenching doctor with the wine. "Lord!" cried Dick, the sweat standing out upon his face in great drops; "this is terrible! What shall we do?" "Jeanne will know what to do," I asserted. "We must get her out of this and up to her chamber." Richard started to his feet and stooped to gather the dear body of her in his arms. But in the act he paused and straightened himself to look fixedly at me. "Do you take her, Jack; she is--she is--your wife." "Nay," said I, drawing back. "You are her own true lover; and could she choose her bearer--" "A murrain on your finickings!" he burst out. "She may die whilst we are haggling over the right to help her. Take her up quick, man, and begone!" "But bethink you, Dick," I urged; "if you are taken, you have one chance in ten of faring as an officer and a prisoner of war. For me 'tis a spy's death as swift as they can drag me to it." Now you will know, my dears, how much I loved these two when I could twist a cord of such mean fiber to bind them closer together. Richard's eyes flashed and his lip curled. "Overlook it in me, if you can," he said, with fine scorn. "I had not thought upon the peril of it." And with that he took her in his arms as she had been a child to be carried, and I swung the door for him. But on the threshold he gave me back my sorry little subterfuge. "Once more, your forgiveness, Jack. I knew well you were but lying to give me precedence. Can you trust me with her?" "Aye, dear lad; now and ever," said I; and so I pushed him out. After he was gone I made shift to lead the horses through the narrow passage and out by a rear door, giving them a friendly slap to point them toward the stables. This done I went back to my immurement, and I know not how long it was that I paced a weary sentry beat up and down the narrow limits of the wine cellar, alone with such thoughts as go to make the sum of that despair which follows hard upon the heels of some climaxing catastrophe. But I do know that, as the hours dragged on leadenshod, a slow fever of impatience came to dry the blood in my veins; to make me hunger and thirst for leave to say the final word to Father Matthieu, and so to be set at liberty to find the bottom of the pit into which a mocking fate had plunged me. 'Twas all over now. My dear lad was told, and he had forgiven me; the persecuting, plotting factor was effaced, and he could never trouble my sweet lady more. Between the two I loved there stood only the shadow of the marriage, and this the good priest would presently help me to dispel. And after that ... I dared not look beyond. There is a way beset with lions, and any man who bears the name of man in honor may draw his sword and fix his eye upon the goal and hew his path to it, joying in the conflict. But there is also another way, a desert trail owning no peril more affrighting than its own dread waste and limitless monotony; and when his eyes behold the dismal prospect, and his feet have pressed the hitherward sands of this desert of despair, a man may well pause to gird his loins, to cross himself and patter such a prayer for strength and fortitude as his creed hath taught him. To such a faring through all the days and nights of this grim desert of a future these lonely hours in the wine vault were a fitting vigil, as I conceived; and when I had hugged my misery close, and a sort of monstrous self-pity had come to make a seeming virtue of the hard necessity, I was best pleased to be alone. In such a frame of mind the sound of footsteps in the out-cellar, warning me that more company was coming, sent a wave of sullen anger to submerge me, and I do think 'twas in me to turn my back upon a friend who should come to tell me I was free to go at large. Since I had led forth the good horses the great oaken door had stood ajar. So I wondered why my visitor made so much ado rattling the key in the lock. Then it came to me suddenly that the noise and delay were meant to give me timely warning; and at the scent of threatening peril--a peril I might cope with and grapple soldierwise--I became a man again. A sweep of my hat sent the sputtering candle flying from its barrel head to the farther corner of the vault, and I dropped quickly behind a row of empty wine-butts to await what should befall. Had she been a ghost, Mistress Margery would scarce have startled me more when she swung the door to let me see her. She was gowned in her best; there was a heightened color in her cheek; her eyes were like stars. Truly, I do think I never saw her so beautiful as she appeared at that moment, standing under the massive arch of the doorway with her candle held high to light the inner gloom. "This way, Scipio," she said, tripping ahead of the mulatto to point out the madeira bin. "We shall give my Lord and his gentlemen the best the Appleby cellar holds to speed their parting." Wherewith she stood aside to wait whilst he filled his basket with the straw-cased bottles. At this I saw why she had come. Lord Cornwallis and his gentlemen were about to take the road, and the wine was wanted for the stirrup-cup. Trusting my fate to no hand less loyal than her own, she had come herself with Scipio to stand betwixt me and possible discovery. And her word to the serving man was also a word to me to let me know my prisonment was near an end. I thought it a most generous thing in her; the last of all her many wifely loyalties; and I would have given much for leave to stand forth and tell her so. Indeed, when the mulatto had poised his basket upon his head and vanished, and she was lingering to take a last look around before she followed him, I was upon the point of speaking. But whilst I hesitated I saw her start back with a little cry of terror. Standing in the arched doorway through which the mulatto had but now passed was a man cloaked, hatted, booted and spurred as for the road. At her cry he doffed his hat and ... My dears, I shall never be able to draw for you the hideous death-mask this man was wearing for a face. Seamed and scarred, shriveled and livid in purple and crimson welts, you would think a nine-thonged whip of fire had scourged out every semblance of comeliness, leaving only the skeleton frame on which to hang this ghastly caricature of a human face. Fearing him not at all, I could scarce forbear a shudder at the sight of this walking death-mask of the libertine, Sir Francis Falconnet. And if his face were terrifying in repose, 'twas fair demoniac when he laughed. "Ha!" he said, bowing again in a mockery of politeness. "You are surprised, Mistress Margery; you heard my Lord's order and thought I would be by now some miles on the road to Salisbury?" "If you were the loyal soldier you should be, sir," she said, drawing herself up proudly, "you would be at the head of your troop, as his Lordship directed." And then, with a gesture that was most queenly: "Stand aside, Sir--Libertine, and let me pass." His answer was another mocking laugh, and he stepped within to close the door and lock it. When he turned to front her again his face was the face of a tormented devil. "By God! you think too lightly of me, Mistress Margery. Before ever this day dawned I owed you much, but like a spiteful little hellicat you must needs add to the score by making me a target for your wit at the supper-table. 'Twill cost a life to more than one of them who laughed with you, my lady, but 'twill cost you dearer still." He came nearer as he spoke, thrusting that horrible face farther into the circle of candle-light; but she would not draw back nor flinch a hair, and I marked that the hand that held the candlestick was as steady as a rock. But when he made an end she flung a quick glance over her shoulder and my heart leaped for joy. For then I knew she was leaning upon me. "Once more, Captain Falconnet, will you let me pass?" she said. "No!" he snarled, adding a horrid blasphemy. "'Twas passion in me once, and I am none so sure there was not a time when you could have cooled it into love. But now 'tis hatred and revenge." He snapped his fingers in her face. "The thing they'll find here in the morning--" He fell face downward at her feet and I set my heel in the small of his back to hold him whilst I could drive the point of the Ferara between his ribs. But my dear lady would not have it so. "No, no! for the love of heaven, not that, Monsieur John!" she cried; and for the moment her fine courage was all swallowed up of pity and she became a compassionate woman pleading for a life. But now my blood was up. "You are my wife," I said, coldly. "If he had a dozen lives I should take them all for that which he said to you." "But not that way--oh, not that way, I do beseech you!" she begged. "Think of what it will mean to you--and--and to me. For your own sake, Monsieur John." I took my heel from the man's back. "Your wish is law to me, dear lady. But your way is clear now; you may go." She took a step toward the door. "You will not kill him when I am gone, Monsieur John?" "By the name he bears he was doubtless born a gentlemen; since you wish it, he shall die like one." I saw she did not take my meaning; that when she was gone I should let him have his chance to die sword in hand. "Remember, I have your promise," she said, turning to go. "The army is on the march for Salisbury, and in a little while your friends will be here to--" The sentence ended in a very womanly shriek of terror. Watching his chance, my dastard enemy had bounded to his feet to make a quick lunge, not at me, but at her. Of course I came between to parry the murderous thrust, and after that it was life for one of us and death for the other. I looked to see my lady run, shrieking; indeed, I called to her to go; but she stood fast as if her terror had frozen her; and so it was her candle that lighted the grim vault for the duel. As you will know full well, I was not minded to give this thrice-accursed fiend more than the gentleman's chance I had promised to give him. But now, as twice before, he fought most desperately, trying by every trick of fence to come between me and the silent little figure holding the candle aloft. As I have often said, he was a pretty swordsman, and at this crisis, with life at stake, and all the fury of the seven devils of disappointed vengeance to nerve his arm, his sword play was most masterly. Yet twice in his stamping rushes I found my opening; once the Ferara's point passed his blade, and but for the ringed guard of the German long-sword that stopped it when his parry failed, the steel would have passed through him. After this he grew warier, having in mind, as I supposed, that other time when I had shown him that my wrist and arm could outweary his. Yet his savage onset never flagged for an instant; and when the light fell upon his hideous face, I could see the fierce eyes glinting like a basilisk's, with no sign in them that my time was come to press him home. None the less, I did press him, inch by inch, driving him at each new clash of the steel a little deeper into the gloom that crowded close upon the narrow circle of candle-light. He saw my object--to push him to unfamiliar ground where he might trip and stumble in the darkness--and he strove furiously to defeat it. Yet he had no choice, and presently I had him among the empty wine-butts, foining and parrying for his life and pouring out such blasphemies as would make your blood run cold. Here the end came quickly. Being entangled among the broached butts he had no room to play skilfully. So presently it chanced that he caught his point in the chine of a cask and his blade snapped short at the hilt. With a yelling oath, hissing hot from the devil's thumb-book, he snatched up the broken blade to fling and stick it javelin-wise in my shoulder; and then I saw the dull gleam of the candle-light on the barrel of a pistol. Had he aimed the pistol at me, I trust I should still have given him his gentleman's chance. But when I saw him level the weapon at my dear lady ... they came in one and the same heart-beat; the sword-thrust that found his life and took it; the crash of the pistol-shot echoing like a clap of thunder in the close vault, and pitchy darkness to draw its curtain over all. I know not how I reached her, pulling the broken sword-blade from my shoulder as I ran; nor can I tell you how an upgushing spring of thankfulness choked me when I found her unharmed by the bullet which had snuffed the candle out. She was in a most piteous state, now it was all over; and though I charged it all where I supposed it should belong--to the account of a natural womanly passion to cling to something in her moment of weakness--yet the blood ran quick in my veins when she suffered me to lead her out of that dismal, smoking death-pit, she clinging to me the while so close that I could feel the warmth of her and the fluttering of her dear heart beneath my hand. She said no word, nor did I, till we were come above stairs. We found the rooms on the main floor deserted by all save the blacks, who were clearing away the debris of the feast of leave-taking. In the hall we came upon old Anthony, putting on the chain of the outer door. Here my lady drew apart from me. "Is my Lord gone?" she asked. "Yis, Missa. He say tell yo' he gwine tek it mighty hawd yo' no come ter gib him de sti'up-cup." "And my father?" "Gone to de lib'ry to wait fo' Massa Pengarbin; yis, Missa." She turned away, shuddering at this mention of the factor for whose coming the master would wait long and in vain, and I heard her murmur: "Oh, the horror of this night!" But in a moment she came back to me, and was her cool, calm self again. "For that I am here, alive and well, I thank you, Captain Ireton. Need I say more?" I can not tell you what was in the words to make me hot with anger, as I had but now been hot with love. But the new wound in my shoulder was bleeding freely, and I would not let her see I was hurt; and if aught will stanch a wound, 'tis anger. "You need not say so much," I retorted, bowing low. "You have spoken now and then of certain duties binding upon those who are knotted up, ever so loosely, in the marriage bond; I have my part in these as well as you, Mistress Margery." She bit her lip and was upon the edge of tears. I saw what I had done and would curse the masterless tongue that must needs add its word-thong to the night's whip of scourgings. When she spoke again it was to say: "This is your own house, Captain Ireton; what will you do?" "One question first, is Richard Jennifer safe?" "He is." "Then, by your good leave, I shall do what I came to do." She bent her head in acquiescence. "You will find the--the person whom you wish to see in your old room in the north gable. Shall I have Anthony light you up?" "No; I can find the way." My hand was on the stair rail when the cruel irony of it struck me like a blow. She had planned the loosing of the bond in the very room where we had knelt to take the good father's blessing upon it. I stepped back, stumbled, I should say, for a curious weakness had come upon me, and drew her arm in mine. "We will go together, if you please, my lady. 'Tis only just to me that you should hear what I must say to Father Matthieu." And so, dear heart! she bore with me to the last; and together we climbed the stair to come into the upper corridor with the room of destiny at its farther end. We came as far as the door; I mind it perfectly, for I remember marking that the wooden bar my father had put upon it was gone, and the iron brackets as well. But whilst I was groping for the latch there came a taste of blood in my mouth, and I heard my dear lady's voice as if she were calling to me across the eternal abysses. "Monsieur John!--you are hurt!" And then, from a still remoter distance: "Oh, Father Matthieu--Dick! come quickly! He is dying!" LI IN WHICH THE GOOD CAUSE GAINS A CONVERT Which one of you, my dears, faring across the frontier of the shadow land of dreams into the no less mysterious country of the real, can not recall the struggle of the waking senses to knot up the gossamer filament of the night's fantasies with the coarser web of reality? For a time, longer or shorter as the dream thread holds, the vagaries of the night are shuttled into the warp of life. But presently comes the master-weaver Reason to point out this or that fantastic pattern; to bid the ear listen to the measured clacking of the day-loom, and the eye to mark that the web of reality has grown never an inch for all the shuttlings of the sleeping-time. Whereupon, full-blood consciousness regains her sway, and you sigh, gladly or sorrowfully, and say, "Dear God, 'twas but a dream I dreamed!" Some such awakening came to me on a day whereof I knew not the name or its number in the calendar. I was lying in bed in my old room at Appleby Hundred. The armored soldier was glowering down upon me from his frame over the chimney piece; the great blackened clothes-press loomed darkly in its corner; the show of curious china filled the shelves where my boyhood books had rested; and there was the same faint smell of lavender in the bed linen that once--was it yesterday or months ago?--had minded me of my mother. When I sought to move me on the pillows the dream seemed more than ever dream-sure. The pain of a sword wound was grinding at my shoulder, and I was bandaged stiff as I had been that other day. So I said, as you have said in like awakenings, "Dear God,'twas but a dream!" and saying it, would turn my head to see if Mistress Margery were sitting where I last remembered her. She was there, in very deed and truth, deep in the hollow of the great chair of Indian wickerwork; and as before, the soft graying of the evening sky was mirrored in her eyes. I sighed, and there was a catching of the breath at the bottom of it. Truly, the wondrous dream had had its agonies, but there were also beatitudes to tip the scale the other way. For I had dreamed this sweet-faced watcher was my wife--in name, at least. 'Twas while I looked, minding not the eye-ache the effort cost, that she rose and came softly to the bedside. She said no word, but, as once in the dream-time, she laid a cool palm on my forehead. Weak as I was--and surely King David was not weaker when he wrote his bones were gone to water--the old love-madness of that other day came to thrill me at her touch, and I made as if I would take her hand and press it to my lips. "Nay, sir," she said, with a swift return to sick-room discipline, "you must not stir; you have been sorely hurt." "Aye," said I; "I do remember; 'twas in a duel with one Francis Falconnet. He said he would make you his--" Now the soft palm was laid on my lips, and I kissed it till she snatched it away. "_Ma foi!_" she cried; "I think you are in a hopeful way to recover now, Captain Ireton. I do protest I shall go and send old Anthony to sit with you." "Anthony?" said I; "he was in the dream, too, putting up the chain on the hall door." "Ah, _mon Dieu_!" she said softly, as if to herself, "he is wandering yet." At which, as if to try to help me: "'Twas no dream; you did see him putting on the chain." "Did I? I made sure I dreamed it. But tell me another thing; was it not yesterday that I met Sir Francis Falconnet under the oaks in the wood field and got this pair of redhot pincers in my shoulder?" She turned away, and if I ever saw a tear there was one trembling in her eyelashes. "'Twas three full weeks ago," she said. "And it was not in the wood field--'twas in the wine cellar. Never tell me you do not remember; I--I could never--ah, Mother of Sorrows! that would be worse than all." Here was a curious coil, but I could break one strand of it, at least, and so I did. "I remember well enough," I hastened to say. "But being here, and seeing you there in the great chair, carried me back to that other time, making all the interval stand as a dream. Have I been ailing?" "You have been terribly near to death, Monsieur John; so near that Doctor Carew has twice given you over." "No," said I; "there was no fear of that. I am like that man in the old German folk tale who made a compact with the Evil One, selling thereby his chance to die. Death would not take me as a gift, Mistress Margery; I have tried him too often." "Hush!" she said; "'tis an ill thing to jest about. Why should you want to die?" "Rather ask why I should choose to live. But this is beside the mark. You should have let me die, dear lady; but since you did not, we must e'en make the best of it." She faced me with a smile that struggled with some deeper stirring of the heart; I knew not what. "'Tis a monstrous doleful alternative, _n'est-ce pas_? And I must not let you talk of doleful things; indeed, I must not let you talk at all--'tis Doctor Carew's order." So saying, she smoothed the counterpane and straightened my pillows; and after giving me a great spoonful of some cordial that first set a pleasant glow alight in me and afterward made me drowsy, she took post again in the hollow of the big chair and was so sitting when I fell asleep. This day's awakening was the first of many so nearly of a piece that I lost the count of them; and sleep, deep and dreamless for the better part, stole away the hours till the memory of that inch-by-inch return to health and strength is itself like the memory of the vaguest of dreams. By times when I awoke it was the bluff Doctor Carew bending over me to dress my wound; at other times it was Margery come to tempt me with a bowl of broth or some other kickshaw from the kitchen. Now and again I awoke to find Scipio or old Anthony standing watch at my bedside; and once--but that was after I was up and in my clothes and able to sit and drowse in the great chair--I opened my eyes to find that my company was the master of the house. He was sitting as I had seen him sit once before, behind a lighted candle at the little table with a parchment spread out under his bony hands. He was mumbling over the written words of it when I looked, but at my stirring he gave over and sat back in his chair to cross his thin legs and match his long fingers by the ends, and wink and blink at me as though he had but now discovered that he was not alone. "I give ye good even, Captain Ireton," he said, finally, rasping the greeting out at me as it had been a curse. "I hope ye've slept well." I said I had, and thanked him, once for the wish, and again for his coming to see me. I know not how it was, but if there had been rancor in my former thoughts of him 'twas something abated now. "Ye've had a nearhand escape this time, sir," he said, after a longish pause. "One more or less of a good many since we were last met together in this room, Mr. Stair," I would say. He muttered something to himself about the devil taking precious good care of his own; and I laughed. "That is as it may be; but my being here this second time a pensioner on your bounty is by no good will of mine, I do assure you, sir." He sat nodding at me as if I had said a thing to be most heartily agreed to. But his spoken word belied the nods. "The ways of Providence are inscrutable--something inscrutable, Captain Ireton. I make no doubt ye are sufficiently thankfu' for all your mercies." "Why, as to that, there may be two ways of looking at it. As a soldier, I may justly repine at a fate which ties me here when I should be in the field." "Well said, sir; brawly said; 'tis the part of a good soldier to be ay wanting to be in the thick o' the fighting. But now that ye're a man of substance, Captain Ireton, ye will be owing other debts to our country than the one ye can pay with a hantle o' steel." "'Our country,' did you say, Mr. Stair?" I asked, feigning a surprise which no one knowing him could feel in very truth. "And what for no? 'Tis the birthland of some--yourself, for example, and the leal land of adoption for others--your humble servant, to wit. I've taken the solemn oath of allegiance to the Congress, I'd have ye to know." At this I must needs laugh outright. "Have you taken it one more time than you have forsworn it, Mr. Stair?" "Laugh and ye will," he said, quite placably; "ye shall never laugh the peetriotism out o' me. 'Tis little enough an old man can do, but the precious cause o' liberty will never have to ask that little twice, Captain Ireton." Since he would ever be on the winning side, this foreshadowed good tidings, indeed. So I would ask him straight what news there was. "Have they not told ye? 'Tis braw news," he chuckled. "Whilst ye were on your back, General Greene led Lord Cornwallis a fine dance all across the prov--the state, I mean, crooking his finger at him and saying, 'Come on, ye led-captain of a tyrant king, and when I'm ready I'll turn and rend ye.' And by the same token, that is juist what he did the other day at Guilford Court House." "A victory?" I would ask. "Well, not precisely that, maybe; they're calling it a drawn battle. But I'm thinking 'tis Lord Cornwallis that's drawn. He's off to Wilmington, they say, and I'm fain to hope we've seen the last o' him and his reaving redcoats in these parts." His words set me in a muse. I could never make out what he would be at, telling me all this. But he had an object, well-defined, and presently it showed its head. "Ye're the laird o' the manor, now, Captain Ireton, with none to gainsay ye," he went on. "So I've come to give ye an account o' my stewardship. I made no doubt, all along, ye'd come back to your own when ye'd had your fling wi' the Old Worldies, and so I've kept tab o' the poor bit land for ye." "Oh, you have?" said I, being so far out-brazened as to be incapable of saying more. "I have that--every plack and bawbee. 'Tis ten years come Michaelmas since I took over the charge o' Appleby Hundred, and I'm ready to account to ye for every season's crop--when ye'll pay down the bit steward's fee." "Truly," said I; "you are an honest man, Mr. Stair." Then, to humor him to the top of his bent: "Haphazarding a guess, now; would this accounting leave a balance in my favor, or in yours?" He gave me a look like that of a costermonger weighing and measuring the gullibility of his customer. "Oh, aye; I'm no saying there mightn't be a bit siller coming to me; a few hundred pounds, more or less--sterling, man, sterling; not Scots," he added hastily. And then, as if it were best to leave this nail as it was driven, he changed the subject abruptly. "I've brought ye that last will and testament ye signed," handing me the parchment. "No doubt you'll let it stand; but when the bairns come, ye'll want to be adding a codicil or two." Leaving the matter of the estate, I thought it high time to cut to the marrow of the bigger bone. So I said: "Let us be frank with each other in this, Mr. Stair. How much has your daughter told you of the matter between us?" "She's a jade!" he rasped, lapsing for a moment into his real self. But he recovered his self-control instantly. "Ye'd no expect a romantic bit lassie wi' French blood in her veins to be confidencing wi' her old dried-up wisp of a father, now, would ye? She's no tell't me everything, I daresay." "Then I will tell you the plain truth of it," I said. "This marriage was never anything more than the form we all agreed it should be at the time; a makeshift to serve a purpose. If you think I would hold your daughter to it--" "Hut, tut, man! what will ye be havering about! Ye'll never cast the poor bit lassie off that way! Ye canna, if ye would; her Church will have a word to say to that." For all his aping the manner of the ignored father, I shrewdly suspected that he knew more about the ins and outs of our affair than he owned to. Nevertheless, I was forced to meet him on his own ground. "There is no 'casting off' about it, Mr. Stair; and as to the Church, there is good ground for an appeal to Rome. The marriage as it stands is little more than a formal betrothal, as you well know, sound enough legally to make Mistress Margery my heir-at-law, mayhap, but still lacking everything of--" He could not wait to let me finish. "Lacking, d'ye say?" he rapped out, wrathfully. "And whose fault is that, ye cold-blooded stick? Tell me this; did I no bundle ye neck and heels into your own wife's bed-room? And how do you thank me? I'm to suppose ye quarrel wi' her like the dour-faced imp o' Sawtan that ye are, and presently ye come raging out, swearing most shamefully at a man old enough to be your father!" 'Twas far enough in the retrospect now so that I could smile at it. Yet I would not suffer him to bluster me aside. "It was an ill thing for you to do, none the less, Mr. Stair; the more as you must have known that Mistress Margery's faith was plighted to Richard Jennifer long before all this came to pass." "Did I know it?" he shrilled. "That lang-legged jackanapes of a Dickie Jennifer? Light o' love jade that she is, she never cared the snap of a finger for him." "You are talking far enough beside the mark now," I retorted. "Your daughter loves Richard Jennifer well and truly; and with this entanglement brushed aside she will marry him when he comes back from the wars." "She will, ye say? And what will become o' the braw acres of Appleby that gait, I'd like to know? But ye're daft, man; clean daft. Didn't I speir her giving him his quittance once for all that night when he rode away after they had pitten ye to bed? She tell't him flat she loved another man." "Another man?" I echoed. "I--explain yourself, if you please, Mr. Stair. What other man--" He was at the door by this, and he broke out upon me in such a blast of cursing as I hope never to hear from the lips of such an old man again. "Ye cold-blooded, crusty devil!" he quavered, when all his breath was spent upon the bigger malisons. "Has it never come intil your thick numbskull that the poor fule lassie is sick wi' love for ye, ye dour-faced loon?" And with that he let himself out and slammed the door behind him, and I heard him go pottering down the corridor, still cursing me by all the choice phrases he could lay tongue to. LII WHICH BRINGS US TO THE JOURNEY'S END I may confess to you, my dears, that Mr. Gilbert Stair's parting tirade did not move me greatly, since I would set down everything he had said to the one account--the miser's. Yet when I came to second thoughts upon it, this account balanced but indifferently. Why should he be so eager to make me think small of Margery's love for Richard Jennifer? And why, misliking me, as I made sure he did, should he be so hot to make the shadow marriage a thing of substance? From the miser-father's point of view, Richard, with his goodly heritage of Jennifer House, was a match to be angled for; yet here was the man in whose eye house and lands loomed largest flying into rage because I sought to put his daughter in the way of marrying them. I was pondering thoughtfully on this, giving the pinching old man credit for any and every motive save that which he had so cursingly avowed, to wit, the furthering of his daughter's happiness, when there came a tap at the door and Mistress Margery entered. "Dear heart! Do they limit you to a single candle when my back is turned?" she said, in mock pity; and saying it, went to light the candles in the mantel sconces. The sight of her standing a-tiptoe to touch off the candles on the chimney breast set the old lovespell at work to make my heart beat faster. What if there were a hint of truth in Gilbert Stair's wrathful protest? What if, after all, she cared less for Richard and more for me? Do not, I pray you, my dears, think too hardly of the man who thus lays bare the secret thoughts of his heart for you. 'Twas but a passing gust of the tempest of disloyalty, and I was not swept wholly from my moorings. Nay, when she came to sit on the hassock at my feet, as she used to do in that other halcyon-time of convalescence, I was myself again and could look upon her sweet face with eyes that saw beyond her to the camp or battle-field where my dear lad was spending himself. For a time we sat in silence, and 'twas she who spoke first. "My father has been with you," she said. "I hope you did not quarrel with him." "No," I denied, salving my conscience with the remembering that it takes two to make a quarrel; and I had done none of the cursing. "He came to give me this," I added, handing her the will. She opened the folded parchment, reading a line of it here and there softly to herself. --"'Being of sound mind, doth bequeath and devise to his loving wife, Margery--' Ah, had you been writing it you would not have written it so, would you, Monsieur John?" "'Tis but a form," I would say. "All wives are 'loving' in lawyers' speech." She smiled up at me so like an innocent and fearless child that for the moment I could figure her no otherwise. Yet her rejoinder was a woman's. "I say you would not have written it so; is not that the truth?" I would not let her pin me down. "If I should write it now, it should be written in great letters, dear lady. Though it is but a form, though that which followed was but another form, you have not failed in any wifely duty, Mistress Margery." "Not once?" "No, not once. Three times you have done what the lovingest wife could do to save a husband's life; and I do greatly suspect there was a fourth and earlier time. Tell me, little one; was it not you who sent the Indian to Captain Forney to tell him a patriot spy was to be executed at day-dawn in the oak glade?" She would not answer me direct. "'Twas I who brought you to that pass," she said, speaking soft and low. "But for my riding down upon you one other morning in that same oak glade, you would not have had Sir Francis Falconnet's sword in your shoulder. And but for that sword wound, nothing that followed would have followed." Saying this she fell silent for a space, and when she spoke again she was become by some subtle transmutation my trusting little maid of the by-gone halcyon-time. "Do you remember how you used to make a comrade of me in the old days, Monsieur John, telling me things my elder brother might have told me, had I had one?" I said I remembered; that I was not likely to forget. "Are you strong enough to stand in that elder brother's place again to-night?" "Try me and see, dear lady." "Not whilst you say 'dear lady,'" she pouted. "'Twas 'Margery' and 'Monsieur John' a year agone." "Have it as you will; I will even call you 'Madge' if it pleases you better." "No," she said; "that is Dick's name for me; and--and it is of Dick that I would speak. You love him well, do you not, Monsieur John?" I said I could never make her, or any woman, fully understand the bond there was between us. "Truly?" There was the merest flavor of playful sarcasm in the uptilt of the word, but it was gone when she went on. "Being so good a friend to Dick, then, you can advise me the better. Tell me, if you please, must I marry him--when--" "When you are free to do it?" I finished for her. "Why should you not, my dear?" She was pulling the threads from the lace edging of her kerchief and would not for a king's ransom let her eyes meet mine. "You used to say--in that other time--that love should go before a marriage; did you not? Or do I remember badly?" "You remember well. I said it then, and I say it again at this present. But Dick loves you well and truly, sweetheart; and you--" She looked up quickly with the little laugh that used to mind me of happy children at play. "And I?--now you will read a woman's heart for me, Monsieur John. Tell me; do I love him as his mistress should?" "Nay, surely," said I, gravely, for somehow her laugh jarred upon me, "surely that is for you to say. But you have said it, long since." "Have I?" she queried, with an arch lifting of the penciled brows that came straight from her French mother. "Mayhap you overheard me say it, Monsieur Eavesdropper?" "God help me, little one--so I did," said I. All in a flash her laughing mood was gone and she stood before me like an accusing goddess. "You told me once the past was like a dream to you; you must have dreamed that part of it, sir. And yet you said a little while ago that I had not failed in any wifely duty!" "The time and circumstance were their own best excuse. Sure I am far from blaming you, my dear. But let it pass, 'tis enough that I know you love him as he loves you." Again her mood changed in the twinkling of an eye. She sank down upon the hassock, laughing merrily. "O wise Monsieur John! how well you read a woman's heart! 'Tis you should be the lover, instead of Dick. He rides a-courting as he would charge a legion on a battle-field. But nothing would ever tempt you to be so masterful rough, would it, Monsieur John? You would look deep into your sweetheart's eyes and say--Tell me what you would say, _mon ami_?" Ah, my dears, I hope no one of you will ever be tempted as I was tempted then. I forgot my dear lad, forgot honor, forgot everything save that I had leave to tell her how I had loved her from the first; how I should go on loving her to the end. So for a moment I hung trembling on the brink; and then she pushed me over. "Is this how you would do, Monsieur--Monsieur Ogre?--sit stock still and glower at the poor thing as if you were between two minds as to loving her or eating her?" I bent quickly, took her face between my hands and kissed her twice--thrice. "That is what I should do. Now that you have made me what I was not before, are you satisfied?" 'Twas long before she gave me a word. And when she spoke it was only to say: "Are you not most monstrous ashamed, Monsieur John?" "No!" said I. "I am but a man, and you have roused that part of me that knows neither shame nor remorse. I love you, Mistress Margery; do you hear? I have loved you since that day in June when I came back from death's door to find you sitting here to bear me company." She locked her fingers across her knee and would not look at me. "But by your own showing you should be ashamed, sir," she insisted. "What of the dear friend to whom you would give up even the love of your mistress?" "You may flay me as you will; I shall neither flinch nor go back from my word. You are mine, and I shall give you up to no man. I know I have not your love--shall never have it. Also, I know that I have gained an enemy where once I had a loving friend. Richard Jennifer may kill me if he please--he shall have the chance to do it; but you are mine and shall be whilst I live to claim and hold you." There was something less than anger in the blue-gray eyes when she let me see them; nay, I could have sworn there was a flash of playful mockery in them when she said: "Dear heart! how masterful rough you have grown, all in a moment, my Lord." And then the beautiful eyes filled and she said, "Poor Dick!" in a way to make me suffer all the torments of that old myth-king who could never quaff the water that was ever rising to his lips. "Aye, you may love him, if you must and will," I gloomed. "God pity me! I know you do love him." She looked up quickly. "So you have said a dozen times before. Tell me, Monsieur Oracle, how do you know it?" "If I tell you, you will hate me more than you do now." "That would be hard, indeed," she murmured. "Yet I would hear you say it." "Listen, then: once, when we three were at the very door and threshold of death, you wrote the cry of your heart out on a bit of paper for a leave-taking and sent it to the man you loved. You said, 'Though you must needs believe my love is pledged to your dear friend and mine, 'tis yours, and yours alone.' Were not these your very words?" Her "yes" was but the lightest whisper, but I heard it and went on. "That is all, save this; the Indian bearer of your letter blundered and gave it me instead of Dick." She looked me full in the eyes and my soul went all afire. Then she laid her cheek against my knee and I heard her dear voice as it had been a chime of sweet-toned joy-bells: "Ah, Monsieur John; how blind this thing called love can make us all. Suppose--suppose the Indian did not blunder, dear lord and master of me?" 
33478	----	http://www.archive.org/details/horseshoerobinso00kennrich HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON. A Tale of the Tory Ascendency. by JOHN P. KENNEDY Author of "Swallow Barn," "Rob of the Bowl," Etc. "I say the tale as 't was said to me."--Lay of the Last Minstrel Revised Edition. New York G. P. Putnam's Sons 182 Fifth Avenue 1876 Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1852, by George P. Putnam, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. To WASHINGTON IRVING, Esq. DEAR IRVING:-- With some little misgiving upon the score of having wasted time and paper both, which might have been better employed, I feel a real consolation in turning to you, as having, by your success, furnished our idle craft an argument to justify our vocation. You have convinced our wise ones at home that a man may sometimes write a volume without losing his character--and have shown to the incredulous abroad, that an American book may be richly worth the reading. In grateful acknowledgment of these services, as well as to indulge the expression of a sincere private regard, I have ventured to inscribe your name upon the front of the imperfect work which is now submitted to the public. Very truly, yours, &c., JOHN P. KENNEDY. BALTIMORE, _May 1, 1885_. INTRODUCTION In the winter of eighteen hundred and eighteen-nineteen, I had occasion to visit the western section of South Carolina. The public conveyances had taken me to Augusta, in Georgia. There I purchased a horse, a most trusty companion, with whom I had many pleasant experiences: a sorrel, yet retained by me in admiring memory. A valise strapped behind my saddle, with a great coat spread upon that, furnished all that I required of personal accommodation. My blood beat temperately with the pulse of youth and health. I breathed the most delicious air in the world. My travel tended to the region of the most beautiful scenery. The weather of early January was as balmy as October; a light warm haze mellowed the atmosphere, and cast the softest and richest hues over the landscape. I retraced my steps from Augusta to Edgefield, which I had passed in the stage coach. From Edgefield I went to Abbeville, and thence to Pendleton. I was now in the old district of Ninety Six, just at the foot of the mountains. My course was still westward. I journeyed alone, or rather, I ought to say, in good company, for my horse and I had established a confidential friendship, and we amused ourselves with a great deal of pleasant conversation--in our way. Besides, my fancy was busy, and made the wayside quite populous--with people of its own: there were but few of any other kind. In the course of my journey I met an incident, which I have preserved in my journal. The reader of the tale which occupies this volume has some interest in it. "Upon a day," as the old ballads have it, one of the best days of this exquisite climate, my road threaded the defiles of some of the grandest mountains of the country. Huge ramparts of rock toppled over my path, and little streams leaped, in beautiful cascades, from ledge to ledge, and brawled along the channels, which often supplied the only footway for my horse, and, gliding through tangled screens of rhododendron, laurel, arbor vitæ, and other evergreens, plunged into rivers, whose waters exceed anything I had ever conceived of limpid purity. It may be poetical to talk of liquid crystal, but no crystal has the absolute perfection of the transparency of these streams. The more distant mountain sides, where the opening valley offered them to my view, were fortified with stupendous walls, or banks of solid and unbroken rock, rising in successive benches one above another, with masses of dark pine between; the highest forming a crest to the mountain, cutting the sky in sharp profile, with images of castellated towers, battlements, and buttresses, around whose summits the inhabiting buzzard, with broad extended wings, floated and rocked in air and swept in majestic circles. The few inhabitants of this region were principally the tenants of the bounty lands, which the State of South Carolina had conferred upon the soldiers of the Revolution; and their settlements, made upon the rich bottoms of the river valleys, were separated from each other by large tracts of forest. I had much perplexity in some portions of this day's journey in finding my way through the almost pathless forest which lay between two of these settlements. That of which I was in quest was situated upon the Seneca, a tributary of the Savanna river, here called Tooloolee. It was near sundown, when I emerged from the wilderness upon a wagon road, very uncertain of my whereabout, and entertaining some rather anxious misgivings as to my portion for the night. I had seen no one for the last five or six hours, and upon falling into the road I did not know whether I was to take the right or the left hand--a very material problem for my solution just then. During this suspense, a lad, apparently not above ten years of age, mounted bare back on a fine horse, suddenly emerged from the wood about fifty paces ahead of me, and galloped along the road in the same direction that I had myself resolved to take. I quickened my speed to overtake him, but from the rapidity of his movement, I found myself, at the end of a mile, not as near him as I was at the beginning. Some open country in front, however, showed me that I was approaching a settlement. Almost at the moment of making this discovery, I observed that the lad was lying on the ground by the road-side. I hastened to him, dismounted, and found him sadly in want of assistance. His horse had run off with him, thrown him, and dislocated, as it afterwards appeared, his shoulder-joint. Whilst I was busy in rendering such aid as I could afford, I was joined by a gentleman of venerable aspect, the father of the youth, who came from a dwelling-house near at hand, which, in the engrossment of my occupation, I had not observed. We lifted the boy in our arms and bore him into the house. I was now in comfortable quarters for the night. The gentleman was Colonel T----, as I was made aware by his introduction, and the kindly welcome he offered me, and I very soon found myself established upon the footing of a favored guest. The boy was laid upon a bed in the room where we sat, suffering great pain, and in want of immediate attention. I entered into the family consultation on the case. Never have I regretted the want of an acquisition, as I then regretted that I had no skill in surgery. I was utterly incompetent to make a suggestion worth considering. The mother of the family happened to be absent that night; and, next to the physician, the mother is the best adviser. There was an elder son, about my own age, who was playing a fiddle when we came in; and there was a sister younger than he, and brothers and sisters still younger. But we were all alike incapable. The poor boy's case might be critical, and the nearest physician, Dr. Anderson, resided at Pendleton, thirty miles off. This is one of the conditions of frontier settlement which is not always thought of. In the difficulty of the juncture, a thought occurred to Colonel T., which was immediately made available. "I think I will send for Horse-Shoe Robinson," he said, with a manifest lighting up of the countenance, as if he had hit upon a happy expedient. "Get a horse, my son," he continued, addressing one of the boys, "and ride over to the old man, and tell him what has happened to your brother; and say, he will oblige me if he will come here directly." At the same time, a servant was ordered to ride to Pendleton, and to bring over Dr. Anderson. In the absence of the first messenger the lad grew easier, and it became apparent that his hurt was not likely to turn out seriously. Colonel T., assured by this, drew his chair up to the fire beside me, and with many expressions of friendly interest inquired into the course of my journey, and into the numberless matters that may be supposed to interest a frontier settler in his intercourse with one just from the world of busy life. It happened that I knew an old friend of his, General -----, a gentleman highly distinguished in professional and political service, to whose youth Colonel T. had been a most timely patron. This circumstance created a new pledge in my favor, and, I believe, influenced the old gentleman in a final resolve to send that night for his wife, who was some seven or eight miles off, and whom he had been disinclined to put to the discomfort of such a journey in the dark, ever since it was ascertained that the boy's case was not dangerous. I am pretty sure this influenced him, as I heard him privately instructing a servant to go for the lady, and to tell her that the boy's injury was not very severe, and "that there was a gentleman there who was well acquainted with General ----." I observed, hanging in a little black frame over the fire-place, a miniature engraved portrait of the general, which was the only specimen of the fine arts in the house--perhaps in the settlement. It was my recognition of this likeness that led, I fear, to the weary night ride of the good lady. In less than an hour the broad light of the hearth--for the apartment was only lit up by blazing pine faggots, which, from time to time, were thrown upon the fire--fell upon a goodly figure. There was first a sound of hoofs coming through the dark--a halt at the door--a full, round, clear voice heard on the porch--and then the entrance into the apartment of a woodland hero. That fine rich voice again, in salutation, so gentle and so manly! This was our expected counsellor, Horse-Shoe Robinson. What a man I saw! With near seventy years upon his poll, time seemed to have broken its billows over his front only as the ocean breaks over a rock. There he stood--tall, broad, brawny, and erect. The sharp light gilded his massive frame and weather-beaten face with a pictorial effect that would have rejoiced an artist. His homely dress, his free stride, as he advanced to the fire; his face radiant with kindness; the natural gracefulness of his motion; all afforded a ready index to his character. Horse Shoe, it was evident, was a man to confide in. "I hear your boy's got flung from his horse, Colonel," he said, as he advanced to the bed-side. "Do you think he is much hurt?" "Not so badly as we thought at first, Mr. Robinson," was the reply. "I am much obliged to you for coming over to-night. It is a great comfort to have your advice in such times." "These little shavers are so venturesome--with horses in particular," said the visitor; "it's Providence, Colonel, takes care of 'em. Let me look at you, my son," he continued, as he removed the bed-clothes, and began to handle the shoulder of the boy. "He's got it out of joint," he added, after a moment. "Get me a basin of hot water and a cloth, Colonel. I think I can soon set matters right." It was not long before the water was placed beside him, and Robinson went to work with the earnestness of a practised surgeon. After applying wet cloths for some time to the injured part, he took the shoulder in his broad hand, and with a sudden movement, which was followed by a shriek from the boy, he brought the dislocated bone into its proper position. "It doesn't hurt," he said, laughingly; "you are only pretending. How do you feel now?" The patient smiled, as he replied, "Well enough now; but I reckon you was joking if you said that it didn't hurt." Horse Shoe came to the fire-side, and took a chair, saying, "I larnt that, Colonel, in the campaigns. A man picks up some good everywhere, if he's a mind to; that's my observation." This case being disposed of, Horse Shoe determined to remain all night with the family. We had supper, and, after that, formed a little party around the hearth. Colonel T. took occasion to tell me something about Horse Shoe; and the Colonel's eldest son gave me my cue, by which he intimated I might draw out the old soldier to relate some stories of the war. "Ask him," said the young man, "how he got away from Charleston after the surrender; and then get him to tell you how he took the five Scotchmen prisoners." We were all in good humor. The boy was quite easy, and everything was going on well, and we had determined to sit up until Mrs. T. should arrive, which could not be before midnight. Horse Shoe was very obliging, and as I expressed a great interest in his adventures, he yielded himself to my leading, and I got out of him a rich stock of adventure, of which his life was full. The two famous passages to which I had been asked to question him--the escape from Charleston, and the capture of the Scotch soldiers--the reader will find preserved in the narrative upon which he is about to enter, almost in the very words of my anthology. I have--perhaps with too much scruple--retained Horse Shoe's peculiar vocabulary and rustic, doric form of speech--holding these as somewhat necessary exponents of his character. A more truthful man than he, I am convinced, did not survive the war to tell its story. Truth was the predominant expression of his face and gesture--the truth that belongs to natural and unconscious bravery, united with a frank and modest spirit. He seemed to set no especial value upon his own exploits, but to relate them as items of personal history, with as little comment or emphasis as if they concerned any one more than himself. It was long after midnight before our party broke up; and when I got to my bed it was to dream of Horse Shoe and his adventures. I made a record of what he told me, whilst the memory of it was still fresh, and often afterwards reverted to it, when accident or intentional research brought into my view events connected with the times and scenes to which his story had reference. The reader will thus see how I came into possession of the leading incidents upon which this "Tale of the Tory Ascendency" in South Carolina is founded. It was first published in 1835. Horse-Shoe Robinson was then a very old man. He had removed into Alabama, and lived, I am told, upon the banks of the Tuskaloosa. I commissioned a friend to send him a copy of the book. The report brought me was, that the old man had listened very attentively to the reading of it, and took great interest in it. "What do you say to all this?" was the question addressed to him, after the reading was finished. His reply is a voucher which I desire to preserve: "It is all true and right--in its right place--excepting about them women, which I disremember. That mought be true, too; but my memory is treacherous--I disremember." _April 12, 1852._ PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION The events narrated in the following pages, came to my knowledge in the progress of my researches into the personal history of some of the characters who figure in the story. I thought them worth being embodied into a regular narrative, for two reasons:-- First, because they intrinsically possess an interest that may amuse the lovers of adventure, and, Second, because they serve to illustrate the temper and character of the War of our Revolution. As yet, only the political and documentary history of that war has been written. Its romantic or picturesque features have been left for that industrious tribe of chroniclers, of which I hold myself to be an unworthy member, and who have of late, as the public is aware, set about the business in good earnest. It shall go hard with us if we do not soon bring to light every remnant of tradition that the war has left! An opinion has heretofore prevailed that the Revolution was too recent an affair for our story-telling craft to lay hands upon it. But this objection, ever since the fiftieth anniversary, has been nullified by common consent,--that being deemed the fair poetical limit which converts tradition into truth, and takes away all right of contradiction from a surviving actor in the scene. The pension roll is manifestly growing thinner, and the widows--married young after the peace--make a decided majority on the list. These are the second-hand retailers of the marvels of the war; and it is observed that, like wine which has descended to the heir, the events have lost none of their flavor or value by the transmission. This is all so much clear gain to our fraternity; and it is obvious, therefore, that we must thrive. My reader will perceive that I have been scrupulous to preserve the utmost historical accuracy in my narrative: and I hope, when he has finished the perusal, that he may find reason to award me the commendation of having afforded him some pleasure, by the sketch I have attempted of the condition of things in the south during the very interesting period of the "Tory Ascendency." THE AUTHOR. _May 1, 1835._ HORSE SHOE ROBINSON. CHAPTER I. A TOPOGRAPHICAL DISCOURSE. The belt of mountains which traverses the state of Virginia diagonally, from north-east to south-west, it will be seen by an inspection of the map, is composed of a series of parallel ranges, presenting a conformation somewhat similar to that which may be observed in miniature on the sea-beach, amongst the minute lines of sand hillocks left by the retreating tide. This belt may be said to commence with the Blue Ridge, or more accurately speaking, with that inferior chain of highlands that runs parallel to this mountain almost immediately along its eastern base. From this region westward the highlands increase in elevation, the valleys become narrower, steeper and cooler, and the landscape progressively assumes the wilder features which belong to what is distinctly meant by "the mountain country." The loftiest heights in this series are found in the Alleghany, nearly one hundred and fifty miles westward from the first thread of the belt; and as the principal rivers which flow towards the Chesapeake find their sources in this overtopping line of mountain, it may be imagined that many scenes of surpassing beauty exist in those abrupt solitudes where the rivers have had to contend with the sturdy hills that nature had thrown across their passage to the sea. The multiplication of the facilities of travel which the spirit of improvement has, of late years, afforded to this region; the healthfulness, or,--to use a term more germain to its excellence,--the voluptuousness of the climate, and the extraordinary abundance of waters of the rarest virtue, both for bathing and drinking, have all contributed, very recently, to render the mountains of Virginia notorious and popular amongst that daintily observant crowd of well-conditioned people who yearly migrate in quest of health, or of a refuge from the heats of summer, or who, perchance, wander in pursuit of those associations of hill and dale which are supposed to repair a jaded imagination, and to render it romantic and fruitful. The traveller of either of these descriptions, who holds his journey westward, will find himself impelled to halt at Charlottesville, as a pleasant resting-place in the lap of the first mountains, where he may stop to reinforce his strength for the prosecution of the rugged task that awaits him. His delay here will not be unprofitable. This neat little village is not less recommended to notice by its position in the midst of a cultivated and plentiful country, than by its contiguity to the seats of three Presidents of the Union; and, especially, by its immediate proximity to Monticello, whose burnished dome twinkles through the crown of forest that adorns the very apex of its mountain pyramid, and which, as it has now grown to be the Mecca of many a pilgrim, will of itself furnish a sufficient inducement for our traveller's tarrying. An equal attraction will be found in the University of Virginia, which, at the distance of one mile, in the opposite direction from that leading to Monticello, rears its gorgeous and fantastic piles of massive and motley architecture--a lively and faithful symbol (I speak it reverently) of the ambitious, parti-colored and gallican taste of its illustrious founder. From Charlottesville, proceeding southwardly, in the direction of Nelson and Amherst, the road lies generally over an undulating country, formed by the succession of hills constituting the subordinate chain of mountains which I have described as first in the belt. These hills derive a beautiful feature from the manner in which they are commanded,--to use a military phrase,--by the Blue Ridge, which, for the whole distance, rests against the western horizon, and heaves up its frequent pinnacles amongst the clouds, clothed in all the variegated tints that belong to the scale of vision, from the sombre green and purple of the nearer masses, to the light and almost indistinguishable azure of its remotest summits. The constant interruption of some gushing rivulet, which hurries from the neighboring mountain into the close vales that intercept the road, communicates a trait of peculiar interest to this journey, affording that pleasant surprise of new and unexpected scenery, which, more than any other concomitant of travel, wards off the sense of fatigue. These streams have worn deep channels through the hills, and constantly seem to solicit the road into narrow passes and romantic dells, where fearful crags are seen toppling over the head of the traveller, and sparkling waters tinkle at his feet; and where the richest and rarest trees of the forest seem to have chosen their several stations, on mossy bank or cloven rock, in obedience to some master mind intent upon the most tasteful and striking combination of these natural elements. A part of the country embraced in this description, has obtained the local designation of the South Garden, perhaps from its succession of fertile fields and fragrant meadows, which are shut in by the walls of mountain on either hand; whilst a still more remote but adjacent district of more rugged features, bears the appellation of the Cove, the name being suggested by the narrow and encompassing character of the sharp and precipitous hills that hem in and over-shadow a rough and brattling mountain torrent, which is marked on the map as the Cove creek. At the period to which my story refers, the population of this central district of Virginia, exhibited but few of the characteristics which are found to distinguish the present race of inhabitants. A rich soil, a pure atmosphere, and great abundance of wood and water, to say nothing of the sylvan beauties of the mountain, possessed a great attraction for the wealthy proprietors of the low country; and the land was, therefore, generally parcelled out in large estates held by opulent owners, whose husbandry did not fail, at least, to accumulate in profusion the comforts of life, and afford full scope to that prodigal hospitality, which, at that period even more than at present, was the boast of the state. The laws of primogeniture exercised their due influence on the national habits; and the odious division of property amongst undeserving younger brothers, whom our modern philosophy would fain persuade us have as much merit, and as little capacity to thrive in the world as their elders, had not yet formed part of the household thoughts of these many-acred squires. From Charlottesville, therefore, both north and south, from the Potomac to the James river, there extended a chain of posts, occupied by lordly and open-hearted gentlemen,--a kind of civil cordon of bluff free-livers who were but little versed in the mystery of "bringing the two ends of the year together." Since that period, well-a-day! the hand of the reaper has put in his sickle upon divided fields; crowded progenies have grown up under these paternal roof-trees; daughters have married and brought in strange names; the subsistence of one has been spread into the garner of ten; the villages have grown populous; the University has lifted up its didactic head; and everywhere over this abode of ancient wealth, the hum of industry is heard in the carol of the ploughman, the echo of the wagoner's whip, the rude song of the boatman, and in the clatter of the mill. Such are the mischievous interpolations of the republican system! My reader, after this topographical sketch and the political reflections with which I have accompanied it, is doubtless well-prepared for the introduction of the worthy personages with whom I am about to make him acquainted. CHAPTER II. WHEREIN THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO TWO WORTHIES WITH WHOM HE IS LIKELY TO FORM AN INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of a day towards the end of July, 1780, when Captain Arthur Butler, now holding a brevet, some ten days old, of major in the continental army, and Galbraith Robinson were seen descending the long hill which separates the South Garden from the Cove. They had just left the rich and mellow scenery of the former district, and were now passing into the picturesque valley of the latter. It was evident from the travel-worn appearance of their horses, as well as from their equipments, that they had journeyed many a mile before they had reached this spot; and it might also have been perceived that the shifting beauties of the landscape were not totally disregarded by Butler, at least,--as he was seen to halt on the summit of the hill, turn and gaze back upon the wood-embowered fields that lay beneath his eye, and by lively gestures to direct the notice of his companion to the same quarter. Often, too, as they moved slowly downward, he reined up his steed to contemplate more at leisure the close, forest-shaded ravine before them, through which the Cove creek held its noisy way. It was not so obvious that his companion responded to the earnest emotions which this wild and beautiful scenery excited in his mind. Arthur Butler was now in the possession of the vigor of early manhood, with apparently some eight and twenty years upon his head. His frame was well proportioned, light and active. His face, though distinguished by a smooth and almost beardless cheek, still presented an outline of decided manly beauty. The sun and wind had tanned his complexion, except where a rich volume of black hair upon his brow had preserved the original fairness of a high, broad forehead. A hazel eye sparkled under the shade of a dark lash, and indicated, by its alternate playfulness and decision, an adventurous as well as a cheerful spirit. His whole bearing, visage and figure, seemed to speak of one familiar with enterprise and fond of danger:--they denoted gentle breeding predominating over a life of toil and privation. Notwithstanding his profession, which was seen in his erect and peremptory carriage, his dress, at this time, was, with some slight exceptions, merely civil. And here, touching this matter of dress, I have a prefatory word to say to my reader. Although custom, or the fashion of the story-telling craft, may require that I should satisfy the antiquarian in this important circumstance of apparel of the days gone by, yet, on the present occasion, I shall be somewhat chary of my lore in that behalf;--seeing that any man who is curious on the score of the costume of the revolution time, may be fully satisfied by studying those most graphic "counterfeit presentments" of sundry historical passages of that day, wherewith Colonel Trumbull has furnished this age, for the edification of posterity, in the great rotunda of the Capitol of the United States. And I confess, too, I have another reason for my present reluctance,--as I feel some faint misgiving lest my principal actor might run the risk of making a sorry figure with the living generation, were I to introduce him upon the stage in a coat, whose technical description, after the manner of a botanical formula, might be comprised in the following summary:--long-waisted--wide-skirted-- narrow-collared--broad-backed--big-buttoned--and large-lapelled;--and then to add to this, what would be equally outlandish, yellow small-clothes, and dark-topped boots, attached by a leather strap to the buttons at the knee,--without which said boots, no gentleman in 1780 ventured to mount on horseback. But when I say that Captain Butler travelled on his present journey, habited in the civil costume of a gentleman of the time, I do not mean to exclude a round hat pretty much of the fashion of the present day--though then but little used except amongst military men--with a white cockade to show his party; nor do I wish to be considered as derogating from that peaceful character when I add that his saddle-bow was fortified by a brace of horseman's pistols, stowed away in large holsters, covered with bear skin;--for, in those days, when hostile banners were unfurled, and men challenged each other upon the highways, these pistols were a part of the countenance (to use an excellent old phrase) of a gentleman. Galbraith Robinson was a man of altogether rougher mould. Nature had carved out, in his person, an athlete whom the sculptors might have studied to improve the Hercules. Every lineament of his body indicated strength. His stature was rather above six feet; his chest broad; his limbs sinewy, and remarkable for their symmetry. There seemed to be no useless flesh upon his frame to soften the prominent surface of his muscles; and his ample thigh, as he sat upon horseback, showed the working of its texture at each step, as if part of the animal on which he rode. His was one of those iron forms that might be imagined almost bullet proof. With all these advantages of person, there was a radiant, broad, good nature upon his face; and the glance of a large, clear, blue eye told of arch thoughts, and of shrewd, homely wisdom. A ruddy complexion accorded well with his sprightly, but massive features, of which the prevailing expression was such as silently invited friendship and trust. If to these traits be added an abundant shock of yellow, curly hair, terminating in a luxuriant queue, confined by a narrow strand of leather cord, my reader will have a tolerably correct idea of the person I wish to describe. Robinson had been a blacksmith at the breaking out of the revolution, and, in truth, could hardly be said to have yet abandoned the craft; although of late, he had been engaged in a course of life which had but little to do with the anvil, except in that metaphorical sense of hammering out and shaping the rough, iron independence of his country. He was the owner of a little farm in the Waxhaw settlement, on the Catawba, and having pitched his habitation upon a promontory, around whose base the Waxhaw creek swept with a regular but narrow circuit, this locality, taken in connexion with his calling, gave rise to a common prefix to his name throughout the neighborhood, and he was therefore almost exclusively distinguished by the sobriquet of Horse Shoe Robinson. This familiar appellative had followed him into the army. The age of Horse Shoe was some seven or eight years in advance of that of Butler--a circumstance which the worthy senior did not fail to use with some authority in their personal intercourse, holding himself, on that account, to be like Cassius, an elder, if not a better soldier. On the present occasion, his dress was of the plainest and most rustic description: a spherical crowned hat with a broad brim, a coarse grey coatee of mixed cotton and wool, dark linsey-woolsey trowsers adhering closely to his leg, hob-nailed shoes, and a red cotton handkerchief tied carelessly round his neck with a knot upon his bosom. This costume, and a long rifle thrown into the angle of the right arm, with the breech resting on his pommel, and a pouch of deer-skin, with a powder horn attached to it, suspended on his right side, might have warranted a spectator in taking Robinson for a woodsman, or hunter from the neighboring mountains. Such were the two personages who now came "pricking o'er the hill." The period at which I have presented them to my reader was, perhaps, the most anxious one of the whole struggle for independence. Without falling into a long narrative of events which are familiar, at least to every American, I may recall the fact that Gates had just passed southward, to take command of the army destined to act against Cornwallis. It was now within a few weeks of that decisive battle which sent the hero of Saratoga "bootless home and weather-beaten back," to ponder over the mutations of fortune, and, in the quiet shades of Virginia, to strike the balance of fame between northern glory and southern discomfiture. It may be imagined then, that our travellers were not without some share of that intense interest for the events "upon the gale," which every where pervaded the nation. Still, as I have before hinted, Arthur Butler did not journey through this beautiful region without a lively perception of the charms which nature had spread around him. The soil of this district is remarkable for its blood-red hue. The side of every bank glowed in the sun with this bright vermillion tint, and the new-made furrow, wherever the early ploughman had scarred the soil, turned up to view the predominating color. The contrast of this with the luxuriant grass and the yellow stubble, with the grey and mossy rock, and with the deep green shade of the surrounding forest, perpetually solicited the notice of the lover of landscape; and from every height, the eye rested with pleasure upon the rich meadows of the bottom land--upon the varied cornfields spread over the hills; upon the adjacent mountains, with their bald crags peeping through the screen of forest, and especially upon the broad lines of naked earth that, here and there, lighted up and relieved, as a painter would say, with its warm coloring, the heavy masses of shade. The day was hot, and it was with a grateful sense of refreshment that our wayfarers, no less than their horses, found themselves, as they approached the lowland, gradually penetrating the deep and tangled thicket and the high wood that hung over and darkened the channel of the small stream which rippled through the valley. Their road lay along this stream and frequently crossed it at narrow fords, where the water fell from rock to rock in small cascades, presenting natural basins of the limpid flood, embosomed in laurel and alder, and gurgling that busy music which is one of the most welcome sounds to the ear of a wearied and overheated traveller. Butler said but little to his companion, except now and then to express a passing emotion of admiration for the natural embellishments of the region; until, at length, the road brought them to a huge mass of rock, from whose base a fountain issued forth over a bed of gravel, and soon lost itself in the brook hard by. A small strip of bark, that some friend of the traveller had placed there, caught the pure water as it was distilled from the rock, and threw it off in a spout, some few inches above the surface of the ground. The earth trodden around this spot showed it to be a customary halting place for those who journeyed on the road. Here Butler checked his horse, and announced to his comrade his intention to suspend, for a while, the toil of travel. "There is one thing, Galbraith," said he, as he discounted, "wherein all philosophers agree--man must eat when he is hungry, and rest when he is weary. We have now been some six hours on horseback, and as this fountain seems to have been put here for our use, it would be sinfully slighting the bounties of providence not to do it the honor of a halt. Get down, man; rummage your havresac, and let us see what you have there." Robinson was soon upon his feet, and taking the horses a little distance off, he fastened their bridles to the impending branches of a tree; then opening his saddle-bags, he produced a wallet with which he approached the fountain, where Butler had thrown himself at full length upon the grass. Here, as he successively disclosed his stores, he announced his bill of fare, with suitable deliberation between each item, in the following terms: "I don't march without provisions, you see, captain--or major, I suppose I must call you now. Here's the rear division of a roast pig, and along with it, by way of flankers, two spread eagles (holding up two broiled fowls), and here are four slices from the best end of a ham. Besides these, I can throw in two apple-jacks, a half dozen of rolls, and--" "Your wallet is as bountiful as a conjurer's bag, sergeant; it is a perfect cornucopia. How did you come by all this provender?" "It isn't so overmuch, major, when you come to consider," said Robinson. "The old landlady at Charlottesville is none of your heap-up, shake-down, and running-over landladies, and when I signified to her that we mought want a snack upon the road, she as much as gave me to understand that there wa'n't nothing to be had. But I took care to make fair weather with her daughter, as I always do amongst the creatures, and she let me into the pantry, where I made bold to stow away these few trifling articles, under the denomination of pillage. If you are fond of Indian corn bread, I can give you a pretty good slice of that." "Pillage, Galbraith! You forget you are not in an enemy's country. I directed you scrupulously to pay for everything you got upon the road. I hope you have not omitted it to-day?" "Lord, sir! what do these women do for the cause of liberty but cook, and wash, and mend!" exclaimed the sergeant. "I told the old Jezebel to charge it all to the continental congress." "Out upon it, man! Would you bring us into discredit with our best friends, by your villanous habits of free quarters?" "I am not the only man, major, that has been spoiled in his religion by these wars. I had both politeness and decency till we got to squabbling over our chimney corners in Carolina. But when a man's conscience begins to get hard, it does it faster than anything in nature: it is, I may say, like the boiling of an egg--it is very clear at first, but as soon as it gets cloudy, one minute more and you may cut it with a knife." "Well, well! Let us fall to, sergeant; this is no time to argue points of conscience." "You seem to take no notice of this here bottle of peach brandy major," said Robinson. "It's a bird that came out of the same nest. To my thinking it's a sort of a file leader to an eatable, if it ar'n't an eatable itself." "Peace, Galbraith! it is the vice of the army to set too much store by this devil brandy." The sergeant was outwardly moved by an inward laugh that shook his head and shoulders. "Do you suppose, major, that Troy town was taken without brandy? It's drilling and countermarching and charging with the bagnet, all three, sir. But before we begin, I will just strip our horses. A flurry of cool air on the saddle spot is the best thing in nature for a tired horse." Robinson now performed this office for their jaded cattle; and having given them a mouthful of water at the brook, returned to his post, and soon began to despatch, with a laudable alacrity, the heaps of provision before him. Butler partook with a keen appetite of this sylvan repast, and was greatly amused to see with what relish his companion caused slice after slice to vanish, until nothing was left of this large supply but a few fragments. "You have lost neither stomach nor strength by the troubles, sergeant; the short commons of Charleston would have gone something against the grain with you, if you had stayed for that course of diet." "It is a little over two months," said Robinson, "since I got away from them devils; and if it hadn't been for these here wings of mine (pointing to his legs), I might have been a caged bird to-day." "You have never told me the story of your escape," said Butler. "You were always too busy, or too full of your own thoughts, major, for me to take up your time with such talk," replied the other. "But, if you would like me to tell you all about it, while you are resting yourself here on the ground, and have got nothing better to think about, why, I'll start like old Jack Carter of our mess, by beginning, as he used to say when he had a tough story ahead, right at the beginning." "Do so, sergeant, and do it discreetly; but first, swallow that mouthful, for you don't speak very clear." "I'll wash down the gutter, major, according to camp fashion and then my throat will be as clear as the morning gun after sun rise." And saying this, the tall soldier helped himself to a hearty draught of cool water mingled in fair proportion with a part of the contents of his flask, and setting the cup down by his side, he commenced as follows:-- "You was with us, major, when Prevost served us that trick in Georgia, last year--kept us, you remember, on the look out for him t'other side of the Savannah, whilst all the time he was whisking of it down to Charleston." "You call this beginning at the beginning? Faith, you have started a full year before your time. Do you think yourself a Polybius or a Xenophon--who were two famous old fellows, just in your line, sergeant--that you set out with a history of a whole war." "I never knew any persons in our line--officers or men--of either of them names,"--replied Robinson,--"they were nicknames, perhaps;--but I do know, as well as another, when a thing turns up that is worth notice, major; and this is one of 'em:--and that's the reason why I make mention of it. What I was going to say was this--that it was a sign fit for General Lincoln's consarnment, that these here British should make a push at Charleston on the tenth of May, 1779, and get beaten, and that exactly in one year and two days afterwards, they should make another push and win the town. Now, what was it a sign of, but that they and the tories was more industrious that year than we were?" "Granted," said Butler, "now to your story, Mister Philosopher!" "In what month was it you left us?" inquired the sergeant gravely. "In March," answered Butler. "General Lincoln sent you off, as we were told, on some business with the continental congress: to get us more troops, if I am right. It was a pity to throw away a good army on such a place--for it wa'nt worth defending at last. From the time that you set out they began to shut us in, every day a little closer. First, they closed a door on one side, and then on t'other: till, at last they sent a sort of flash-o'-lightning fellow--this here Colonel Tarleton--up to Monk's corner, which, you know, was our back door, and he shut that up and double bolted it, by giving Huger a most tremenjious lathering. Now, when we were shut in, we had nothing to do but look out. I'll tell you an observation I made, at that time." "Well." "Why, when a man has got to fight, it's a natural sort of thing enough;--but when he has got nothing to eat, it's an onnatural state. I have hearn of men who should have said they would rather fight than eat:--if they told truth they would have made honest fellows for our garrison at Charlestown. First, our vegetables--after that devil took up his quarters at Monk's corner--began to give out then, our meat; and, finally, we had nothing left but rice, which I consider neither fish, flesh, nor good salt herring"---- "You had good spirits, though, sergeant." "If you mean rum or brandy, major, we hadn't much of that;--but if you mean jokes and laughs, it must be hard times that will stop them in camp.--I'll tell you one of them, that made a great hurra on both sides, where we got the better of a Scotch regiment that was plaguing us from outside the town. They thought they would make themselves merry with our starvation--so, they throwed a bomb shell into our lines, that, as it came along through the air, we saw had some devilment in it, from the streak it made in daylight; and, sure enough, when we come to look at it on the ground, we found it filled with rice and molasses--just to show that these Scotchmen were laughing at us for having nothing to eat. Well, what do we do but fill another shell with brimstone and hogslard, and just drop it handsomely amongst the lads from the land o'cakes? Gad, sir, it soon got to the hearing of the English regiment, and such a shouting as they sot up from their lines against the Scotchmen! That's what I call giving as good as they saunt, major--ha ha ha!" "It wasn't a bad repartee, Galbraith," said Butler, joining in the laugh. "But go on with your siege." "We got taken, at last," proceeded Horse Shoe, "and surrendered on the 12th of May. Do you know that they condescended to let us go through the motions of marching outside the lines? Still it was a sorry day to see our colors tied as fast to their sticks as if a stocking had been drawn over them. After that, we were marched to the barracks and put into close confinement." "Yes, I have heard that; and with heavy hearts--and a dreary prospect before you, sergeant." "I shouldn't have minded it much, Major Butler, it was the fortune of war. But they insulted us as soon as they got our arms from us. It was a blasted cowardly trick in them to endeavor to wean us from our cause, which they tried every day; it was seduction, I may say. First, they told us that Colonel Pinckney and some other officers had gone over; but that was too onprobable a piece of rascality,--we didn't believe one word on't. So, one morning Colonel Pinckney axed that we mought be drawed up in a line in front of the barracks; and there he made us a speech. We were as silent as so many men on a surprise party. The colonel said--yes, sir, and right in their very teeth--that it was an infamious, audacious calamy: that whenever he desarted the cause of liberty, he hoped they would take him, as they had done some Roman officer or other--I think one Officious, as I understood the colonel--you've hearn of him, may be--and tie his limbs to wild horses, and set them adrift, at full speed, taking all his joints apart, so that not one traitorious limb should be left to keep company with another. It was a mighty severe punishment, whoever he mought'a been. The British officers began to frown--and I saw one chap put his hand upon his sword. It would have done you good to witness the look the colonel gave him, as he put his own hand to his thigh to feel if his sword was there--he so naturally forgot he was a prisoner. They made him stop speaking howsever, because they gave out that it was perditious language; and so, they dismissed us--but we let them have three cheers to show that we were in heart." "It was like Pinckney," said Butler; "I'll warrant him a true man, Galbraith." "I'll thribble that warrant," replied Galbraith, "and afterwards make it nine. I wish you could have hearn him. I always thought a bugle horn the best music in the world, till that day. But that day Colonel Charles Cotesworth Pinckney's voice was sweeter than shawns and trumpets, as the preacher says, and bugles to boot. I have hearn people tell of speeches working like a fiddle on a man's nerves, major: but, for my part, I think they sometimes work like a battery of field-pieces, or a whole regimental band on a parade day. Howsever, I was going on to tell you, Colonel Pinckney put a stop to all this parleying with our poor fellows; and knowing, major, that you was likely to be coming this way, he axed me if I thought I could give the guard the slip, and make off with a letter to meet you. Well, I studied over the thing for a while, and then told him a neck was but a neck any how, and that I could try; and so, when his letter was ready, he gave it to me, telling me to hide it so that, if I was sarched, it couldn't be found on my person. Do you see that foot?" added Horse Shoe, smiling, "it isn't so small but that I could put a letter between the inside sole and the out, longways, or even crossways, for the matter of that, and that, without so much as turning down a corner. Correspondent and accordingly I stitched it in. The colonel then told me to watch my chance and make off to you in the Jarseys, as fast as I could. He told me, besides, that I was to stay with you, because you was likely to have business for me to do." "That's true, good sergeant." "There came on a darkish, drizzly evening; and a little before roll call, at sun set, I borrowed an old forage cloak from Corporal Green--you mought have remembered him--and out I went towards the lines, and sauntered along the edge of the town, till I came to one of your pipe-smoking, gin-drinking Hessians, keeping sentry near the road that leads out towards Ashley ferry:--a fellow that had no more watch in him--bless your soul!--as these Dutchmen hav'n't--than a duck on a rainy day. So, said I, coming up boldly to him, 'Hans, wie gehet es'--'Geh zum Teufel,' says he, laughing--for he knowed me. That was all the Dutch I could speak, except I was able to say it was going to rain, so I told him--'Es will regnen'--which he knowed as well as I did, for it was raining all the time. I had a little more palaver with Hans, and, at last, he got up on his feet and set to walking up and down. By this time the drums beat for evening quarters, and I bid Hans good night; but, instead of going away, I squatted behind the Dutchman's sentry box;--and, presently, the rain came down by the bucket full; it got very dark and Hans was snug under cover. The grand rounds was coming; I could hear the tramp of feet, and as no time was to be lost, I made a long step and a short story of it, by just slipping over the lines and setting out to seek my fortune." "Well done, sergeant! You were ever good at these pranks." "But that wasn't all," continued Robinson. "As the prime file leader of mischief would have it, outside of the lines I meets a cart with a man to drive it, and two soldiers on foot, by way of guard. "The first I was aware of it, was a hallo, and then a bagnet to my breast. I didn't ask for countersigns, for I didn't mean to trade in words that night; but, just seizing hold of the muzzle of the piece, I twisted it out of the fellow's hand, and made him a present of the butt-end across his pate. I didn't want to hurt him, you see, for it wa'n't his fault that he stopped me. A back-hander brought down the other, and the third man drove off his cart, as if he had some suspicion that his comrades were on their backs in the mud. I didn't mean to trouble a peaceable man with my compliments, but on the contrary, as the preacher says, I went on my way rejoicing." "You were very considerate, sergeant; I entirely approve of your moderation. As you are a brave man, and have a natural liking for danger, this was a night that, doubtless, afforded you great satisfaction." "When danger stares you in the face," replied Horse Shoe, "the best way is not to see it. It is only in not seeing of it, that a brave man differs from a coward: that's my opinion. Well, after that I had a hard time of it. I was afraid to keep up the Neck road, upon account of the sodgers that was upon it; so I determined to cross the Ashley, and make for the Orangeburg district. When I came to the ferry, I was a little dubious about taking one of the skiffs that was hauled up, for fear of making a noise; so I slipped off my shoe that had your letter, and put it betwixt my teeth and swum the river. I must have made some splashing in the water--although I tried to muffle my oars, too, for first, I heard a challenge from the ferry-house, and then the crack of a musket: but it was so dark you couldn't see an egg on your own nose. There was a little flustering of lights on the shore, and a turnout of the guard, may be; but, I suppose, they thought it was a sturgeon, or some such beast, and so made no more of it; and I got safe to the other bank." "Faithfully and bravely, sergeant!" "For the first three or four days the chances were all against me. The whole country was full of tories, and it wasn't safe to meet a man on the road: you couldn't tell whether he was friend or enemy. I durstn't show my face in day-time at all, but lay close in the swamps; and when it began to grow dark, I stole out, like a wolf, and travelled across the fields, and along the by-ways." "You had a good stomach to bear it, sergeant." "A good stomach enough, but not much in it. I'll tell you another observation I made; when a man travels all night long on an empty stomach, he ought either to fill it next morning or make it smaller." "And how is that to be managed, friend Horse Shoe?" "Indian fashion," replied the sergeant. "Buckle your belt a little tighter every two or three hours. A man may shrivel his guts up to the size of a pipe stem. But I found a better way to get along than by taking in my belt"---- "Now, for another stratagem!" "I commonly, about dark, crept as near to a farm house as I mought venture to go; and, putting on a poor mouth, told the folks I had a touch of the small-pox, and was dying for a little food. They were Christians enough to give me a dish of bread and milk, or something of that sort, and cowards enough to keep so much out of the way, as not to get a chance to look me in the face. They laid provisions on the ground, and then walked away while I came up to get them. Though I didn't think much of the fashion I was waited on, and had sometimes to quarrel with a bull-dog for my supper, I don't believe I ever ate with a better appetite in my life. The first bread of freedom, no matter how coarse, a man eats after his escape from prison, is the sweetest morsel in nature. And I do think it is a little pleasanter when he eats it at the risk of his life." Butler nodded his head. "Well, after this," continued Horse Shoe, "I had like to have lost all by another mishap. My course was for the upper country, because the nearer I got to my own home the better I was acquainted with the people. That scrummaging character, Tarleton, you may have hearn, scampered off, as soon as ever Charlestown was taken, after Colonel Abraham Buford, who was on his way down to the city when the news was fotch him of our surrender. Buford accordingly came to the right about, to get out of harm's way as fast as he could, and Tarleton followed close on his heels. Think of that devil, major, trying to catch a man a hundred miles away! It was a brazen hearted thing! considering, besides, that Buford had a good regiment with him. When nobody thought it anything more than a brag, sure enough, he overhauls Buford yonder at the Waxhaws--onawares, you may say--and there he tore him all to pieces. They say it was a bloody cruel sight, to see how these English troopers did mangle the poor fellows. I doubt there wasn't fair play. But, major, that Tarleton rides well and is a proper soldier, take him man to man. It so happened that as I was making along towards Catawba, who should I come plump upon, but Tarleton and his lads, with their prisoners, all halting beside a little run to get water!" "Again in trouble, sergeant! Truly you have had full measure of adventures!" "I was pretty near nonplushed, major," said Horse Shoe, with a broad laugh, "but I thought of a stratagem. I let fall my under jaw, and sot my eyes as wild as a madman, and twisted my whole face out of joint--and began to clap my hands, and hurra for the red coats, like a natural fool. So, when Tarleton and two or three of his people came to take notice of me, they put me down for a poor idiot that had been turned adrift." "Did they hold any discourse with you?" "A good deal; and, just to try me, they flogged me with the flats of their swords; but I laughed and made merry when they hurt me worst, and told them I thanked them for their politeness. There were some of our people amongst the prisoners, that I knew, and I was mortally afeard they would let on, but they didn't. Especially, there was Seth Cuthbert, from Tryon, who had both of his hands chopped off in the fray at the Waxhaws; he was riding double behind a trooper, and he held up the stumps just to let me see how barbarously he was mangled. I was dubious they would see that he knowed me, but he took care of that. Bless your soul, major! he saw my drift in the first shot of his eye. Thinking that they mought take it into their noddles to carry me along with them back, I played the quarest trick that I suppose ever a man thought of; it makes me laugh now to tell it. I made a spring that fetched me right upon the crupper of Colonel Tarleton's horse, which sot him to kicking and flirting at a merry rate; and, whilst the creature was floundering as if a hornet had stung him, I took the colonel's cap and put it upon my own head, and gave him mine. And after I had vagaried in this sort of way for a little while, I let the horse fling me on the ground. You would have thought the devils would have died a laughing. And the colonel himself, although at first he was very angry, couldn't help laughing likewise. He said that I was as strange a fool as he ever saw, and that it would be a pity to hurt me. So he threw me a shilling, and, whilst they were all in good humor, I trudged away." "It was a bold experiment, and might be practised a thousand times without success. If I did not know you, Robinson, to be a man of truth, as well as courage, I should scarce believe this tale. If any one, hereafter, should tell your story, he will be accounted a fiction-monger." "I do not boast, Major Butler; and, as to my story, I care very little who tells it. Every trick is good in war. I can change my face and voice both, so that my best friends shouldn't know me: and, in these times, I am willing to change every thing but my coat, and even that, if I have a witness to my heart, and it will serve a turn to help the country. Am I not right?" "No man ever blames another for that, sergeant, and if ever you should be put to the trial, you will find friends enough to vouch for your honesty." "When I got away from Tarleton it wasn't long before I reached my own cabin. There I mustered my horse and gun, and some decent clothes; and after a good sleep, and a belly full of food, I started for the north, as fast as I could, with my letter. I put it into your own hands, and you know the rest." "This will be a good tale for a winter night," said Butler, "to be told hereafter, in a snug chimney corner, to your wife and children, when peace, as I trust it may, will make you happy in the possession of both. Your embassy has had marvellous good luck so far. I hope it may prove a happy omen for our future enterprise. Now it is my turn, Galbraith, to tell you something of our plans. Colonel Pinckney has apprised me of the state of things in the upper country. Our good friend Clarke there meditates an attempt to regain Augusta and Ninety-six; and we have reason to believe that some levies will be made by our confederates in Virginia and elsewhere. My business is to co-operate in this undertaking; and as it was essential I should have the guidance of some man acquainted with that country--some good soldier, true and trusty--the colonel has selected you to accompany me. These red coats have already got possession of all the strongholds; and the tories, you know, swarm in the country, like the locusts of Egypt. I stand in need, sergeant, of a friend with a discreet head and a strong arm. I could not have picked out of the army a better man than Sergeant Galbraith Robinson. Besides, Horse Shoe," he added, putting his hand gently upon the sergeant's shoulder, "old acquaintance has bred an affection between us." "I am a man that can eat my allowance, major," said Robinson, with an awkward diffidence at hearing the encomium just passed upon him, "and that's a matter that doesn't turn to much profit in an empty country. But I think I may make bold to promise, that you are not like to suffer, if a word or a blow from me would do you any good." "Your belt may be serviceable in two ways in this expedition, Horse Shoe: it may be buckled closer in scant times, and will carry a sword in dangerous ones." "May I ask, major," inquired Horse Shoe, "since you have got to talking of our business, what has brought us so high up the country, along here? It seems to me that the lower road would have been nearer." "Suppose I say, Galbraith," replied Butler, with animation, "that there is a bird nestles in these woods, I was fond of hearing sing, would it be unsoldier-like, think you, to make a harder ride and a larger circuit for that gratification?" "Oh! I understand, major," said Horse Shoe, laughing, "whether it be peace or whether it be war, these women keep the upper hand of us men. For my part, I think it's more natural to think of them in war than in peace. For, you see, the creatures are so helpless, that if a man don't take care of them, who would? And then, when a woman's frightened, as she must be in these times, she clings so naturally to a man! It stands to reason!" "You will keep my counsel, Galbraith," interrupted Butler, "I have a reason which, perhaps, you may know by and by, why you should not speak of any thing you may see or hear. And now, as we have spent a good hour in refreshment, sergeant, make our horses ready. We'll take the road again." Robinson promised caution in all matters that might be committed to his charge, and now set himself about saddling the horses for the journey. Whilst he was engaged in this occupation, Butler was startled to hear the sergeant abruptly cry out--"You devil, Captain Peter Clinch! what are you about?" and, looking hastily around, saw no one but the trusty squire himself, who was now sedately intent upon thrusting the bit into his horse's mouth,--a liberty which the animal seemed to resent by sundry manifestations of waywardness. "To whom are you talking, Galbraith?" "Only to this here contrary, obstropolous beast, major." "What name did you call him by?" inquired Butler. "Ha, ha, ha! was it that you was listening too?" said Horse Shoe. "I have christened him Captain Peter--sometimes Captain Peter Clinch. I'll tell you why. I am a little malicious touching the name of my horse. After the surrender of Charlestown, our regiment was put in the charge of a provost marshal, by the name of Captain Clinch, and his first name was Peter. He was a rough, ugly, wiry-haired fellow, with no better bowels than a barrel of vinegar. He gave us all sorts of ill usage, knowing that we wa'n't allowed to give him the kind of payment that such an oncomfortable fellow desarved to get. If ever I had met him again, major, _setters parbus_--as Lieutenant Hopkins used to say--which is lingo, I take it, for a fair field, I would'a cudgelled his pate for him, to the satisfaction of all good fellows. Well, when I got home, I gave his name to my beast, just for the pleasure of thinking of that hang-gallows thief, every time I had occasion to give the creetur a dig in the ribs, or lay a blow across his withers! And yet he is a most an excellent horse, major, and a hundred times more of a gentleman than his namesake,--though he is a little hard-headed too--but that he larnt from me. It really seems to me that the dumb beast thinks his name a disgrace, as he has good right, but has got used to it. And, besides, I hear that the cross-grained, growling dog of a captain has been killed in a scuffle since I left Charlestown, so now I consider my horse a sort of tombstone with the ugly sinner's name on it; and as I straddle it every day you see, that's another satisfaction." "Well, sergeant, there are few men enjoy their revenge more good-humoredly than you. So, come, straddle your tombstone again, and make the bones beneath it jog." In good glee, our travellers now betook themselves once more to the road. CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT THAT SAVORS OF ROMANCE. By the time the sun had fallen to the level of the summits of the Blue Ridge, Butler and Robinson had progressed so far in their journey, as to find themselves in the vicinity of the Rockfish river--a rapid mountain stream, that traverses the southern confine of Albemarle, and which, at that period, separated this county from Amherst. Their path had led them, by a short circuit, out of the ravine of Cove creek, along upon the ridges of the neighboring hills; and they were now descending from this elevation, into the valley of the Rockfish, near to the point where the Cove creek forms its junction with this river. The hill was covered with a stately forest, and a broad, winding road had been cut down the steep side, in such a manner as to present a high bank on one hand, and an abrupt sheer descent on the other. From this road might be seen, at intervals, glimmering through the screen of underwood, the waters of the small river below; whilst, at the same time, the circuitous course of the descending track left but few paces of its length visible from any one point, except where, now and then, it came boldly forth to the verge of some wild crag, from which glimpses were to be obtained of its frequent traverses towards the deep and romantic dell that received the mingled tribute of the two streams. Here, as our travellers journeyed downward, their attention was awakened by the cry of hounds in pursuit of game. These sounds came from the wood on the crest of the hill above them; and the clamorous earnestness with which they assailed the ear, and roused the far echo of the highlands, showed the object of chase to have been suddenly surprised and hotly followed. The outcry was heard, for some moments, pursuing a direction towards the river, when, suddenly from the midst of the forest, the sharp twang of a rifle-shot showed that some hunter was on the watch to profit by the discovery of the dogs. Robinson, as soon as he heard the report, urged his horse forward with speed, to the first turn of the road below; dismounted, and, throwing his rifle into the palm of his left hand, stood ready to give his fire wherever he might find occasion. Butler followed, and reined up close beside his companion. "There is game afoot," said Galbraith, "and if that shot has not done its business, it may be my turn to try a hand." These words were hardly spoken, when a wounded buck rushed to the brink of the bank, some twelve or fifteen feet above the heads of the travellers, and regardless of the presence of enemies, made one frantic bound forward into the air, and fell dead almost at Robinson's feet. So effectually had the work of death been done upon the poor animal, that he seemed to have expired, in the convulsion of this last leap, before he reached the ground; his antlers were driven into the clay; his eyes were fixed, and not a struggle followed. "It was a home-shot that brought this poor fugitive to the earth," said Butler, as he stood gazing at the piteous spectacle before him, "and sped by a practised hand." "I don't count him a good man, major," said Galbraith, with professional indifference, "who would mangle his meat by random firing. Now, this buck was taken sideways, as he leaped above the tops of the bushes, which is the ticklishest of all the ways of shooting a deer. The man that plucked this fellow, I'll warrant, can plant his ball just where he likes: right under the arm is the place for certainty; and the thing couldn't have been prettier done if the man had had a rest and a standing shot." During this short interval, the hounds had arrived on the spot where the buck lay bleeding, and these, after a few minutes, were followed by two hunters of very dissimilar appearance, who came on foot, slowly leading their horses up the hill. The first was a tall, gaunt woodman, of a sallow complexion, jet black eyes, and round head of smooth black hair. His dress was simply a coarse linen shirt and trowsers, the heat of the day being such as to allow him to dispense with coat and waistcoat. He carried, in one hand, a battered straw hat, and in the other, trailed a long rifle. His feet were covered with a pair of moccasins of brown leather, and the ordinary hunting equipments were suspended about his person. The second was a youth apparently about sixteen, dressed in a suit of green summer-cloth, neatly and fancifully adapted to his figure, which was graceful and boyish. The jacket was short, and gathered into a small skirt behind; and both this and the pantaloons were garnished with a profusion of black cord and small black buttons. A highly polished leather belt was buckled around his waist; a cap of green cloth rested, somewhat conceitedly, amongst the rich locks of a head of light, curly hair that fell, with girlish beauty, over a fair brow, and gave softness to a countenance of pure white and red; and a neat foot showed to advantage in a laced boot. The whole appearance of the youth was of one of an amiable and docile bearing, and the small rifle or carbine which he bore in his hand, as well as the dainty accoutrements that belonged to it, amongst which was a diminutive bugle, looked more like the toys of a pampered boy, than any apparatus of service. No sooner had these two approached near enough to Butler and his attendant for recognition, than the youth, quitting the hold of his horse, sprang forward with a joyous alacrity and seized Butler by the hand. "Captain Butler," he cried with great animation, "how glad I am you have come! And how fortunate it is that I should meet you! Get down from your horse, I have something to tell you. Here, Stephen Foster, take this gentleman's horse." "You are a fine fellow, Harry," said Butler, dismounting. "That smiling face of yours is full of pleasant news; it assures me that all are well at the Dove Cote." Then having given his horse in charge to Robinson, and walked a few paces apart with his young friend, he enquired, in a low and anxious tone, "Mildred, my dear Henry, what of your sister Mildred? Has she received my letter? Does she expect me? Is your father--" "Now, captain," interrupted the other--"but heigh! don't the newspapers say you are brevetted? I am a pretty fellow to forget that! Well then, Major Butler, let me answer one question at a time. In the first place, sister Mildred is as well as any girl can be, that has a whole bushel of crosses to keep her out of spirits. Poor thing, she frets so, about you and my father. In the second place, she received your letter a week ago, and has had me patrolling this ridge every day since, just to keep a look-out for you; and, for the sake of company, I have had Stephen Foster hunting here all the time--more for an excuse than anything else, because on this side of the river the drives are not the best for deer--a man might be here a fortnight and not get a shot. Sister Mildred wanted me, if I should see you first, just to whisper to you that it is impossible to do anything with my father, especially at this time, for he has one of these English officers staying at the Dove Cote now, who, I am afraid, and so is sister Mildred, has come to do some mischief. Mildred says I must make some appointment with you to see her privately. I thought of Mrs. Dimock's, but this Englishman has a servant staying over there, and may be it wouldn't do. So, major, you will have to ride down to the big chestnut, on the bank of the river, just under the rock that we call the Fawn's Tower--you know where that is? it isn't more than two miles from here." "I know it well, Henry, I will wait there patiently," replied Butler, as he now returned to his horse. "Haven't we been in luck," said Henry, "to get so fine a buck at last? This fellow has eight branches. It is Stephen's rifle that has done it." The woodman, during this conversation, had taken possession of his spoil, and was now busily engaged with his knife in cutting open and preparing the animal for transportation, according to the usages of woodcraft, whilst Robinson stood by, admiring the dexterity with which this office was performed. When the buck was, at last, thrown by Stephen across his horse, Henry gave him orders to ride forward. "You will carry our game to your own house, Stephen; and don't forget, to-morrow, to let us have the saddle at the Dove Cote. And Stephen, you need not say that we have found any acquaintances upon the road, you understand!" The man bowed his head, in token of obedience, and getting upon his long-backed steed, behind the buck, was soon lost to view in the windings of the hill. "Sister Mildred is sometimes downright melancholy," said the young hunter, after he had remounted, and now rode beside Butler. "She is troubled about you, and is always telling me of some unpleasant dream. I almost think she is over-fanciful; and then she reads everything about the army, and talks almost like a man about soldiering. Do you know she is making a soldier of me? I am constantly reading military books, and practising drill, and laying out fortifications, just as if I was going into camp. My father doesn't know a word of it; his time is taken up with these English officers, writing to them, and every now and then there are some of them at our house. Mildred knows them--a famous spy she would make! Isn't she an excellent girl, Major Butler?" "You and I should guard her, Henry, with more care than we guard our lives," replied Butler, with a serious emphasis. "I hope," returned Henry, "she will be in better spirits after she sees you." "I would to heaven," said Butler, "that we all had more reason to be of good cheer, than we are likely to have. It is as cloudy a day, Henry, as you may ever behold again, should you live, as I pray you may, to the ripest old age." Henry looked up towards the west. "There are clouds upon the sky," he said, "and the sun has dropped below them; but there is a streak of yellow light, near to the line of the mountain, that our wise people say is a sign that the sun will rise in beauty to-morrow." "There is a light beyond the mountain," replied Butler, half speaking to himself, "and it is the best, the only sign I see of a clear to-morrow. I wish, Henry, it were a brighter beam." "Don't you know Gates has passed South?" said Henry, "and has some pretty fellows with him, they say. And ar'n't we all mustering here--every man most? Ask Stephen Foster what I am?" "And what will he tell me?" "Why, that I am his deputy-corporal in the mounted riflemen; Stephen is the lieutenant." "Oh, I crave your favor, brother officer, good master deputy-corporal, Henry Lindsay! and does your father allow you to ride in the ranks of the friends of liberty?" "Sister Mildred persuaded him that as I am a mere lad, as she says,--look at me, major,--a pretty well grown lad, I take it, there is no harm in my playing soldier. So I ride always with Stephen Foster, and Mildred got me this light rifle-carbine. Now, major, I fancy I am pretty nearly as good a marksman as rides in the corps. Who is this with you?" asked Henry, looking back at Robinson, who loitered some distance in the rear purposely to avoid what might be deemed an intrusion upon the private conference of the two friends. "That is a famous soldier, Henry; he was at the siege of Charleston, and last year at Savannah. He has had some hard blows, and can tell you more of war than you have ever read in all your studies." "He wears a curious uniform," said Henry, "for a regular soldier. What is his name?" "Galbraith Robinson--or Horse Shoe Robinson--to give him his most popular distinction. But it would be well to keep his name secret." "I have heard of Horse Shoe," said Henry, with an expression of great interest. "So, this is the man himself? From all reports he is as brave as"-- "As who?" asked Butler, smiling at the tone of wonder with which Henry spoke. "As Caius Marcius Coriolanus, who, I make no doubt, major, was about the bravest man in the books." Butler laughed, and applauded the young martialist for his discrimination. The road from the foot of the hill pursued the left, or northern, bank of the Rockfish, which shot along, with a rapid flood, over the rocks that lay scattered in its bed; and the gush of whose flight fell upon the ear like the loud tones of the wind. From either margin it was shaded by huge sycamores, whose tops, at this twilight hour, were marked in broad lines upon the fading sky, and whose wide spreading boughs met, from side to side, over the middle of the stream, throwing a deeper night upon the clear and transparent waters. The valley was closely bound by high precipitous hills, whose steep crags and narrow passes seemed to echo and prolong the gush of the stream, that was now mingled with the occasional lowing of cattle, the shriek of the owl, and the frequent hoarse scream of the whip-poor-will. When our party had advanced about a mile along this road, Henry Lindsay took his bugle and blew a blast which seemed to dance in its reverberations from one side of the river to the other. "Mildred knows my signal," said he; "that is the scout's warning: cavalry approaches: dress your line: prepare to receive a general officer." "Henry, pray drop your military phrase, and tell me what this means?" said Butler. "Ride on till you arrive beneath the Fawn's Tower. Wait for me there. I will give you a signal when I approach: and trust me for a faithful messenger. The river is deep at the rock, but you will find a boat fastened to this bank. When you hear my signal come across. Mr. Dimock's is only another mile; and, I'll warrant, the old lady will make you comfortable. Love, they say, major," added Henry, sportively, "is meat and drink, and a blanket to boot; but for all that, Mrs. Dimock's will not be amiss--especially for Horse Shoe, who, I take it, will have the roughest time of the party. If love is a blanket, Mr. Robinson," Henry continued, addressing himself to that worthy, "it doesn't cover two, you know." "To my thinking, young sir," replied Horse Shoe, with a laugh, "it wouldn't fold so cleverly in a knapsack." "Now that I have given my orders," said Henry, "and done my duty, I must leave you, for my road lies across the ford here. Where are my hounds? Hylas, Bell, Blanche, you puppies, where are you?" Here Henry blew another note, which was immediately responded to by the hounds; and, plunging into the rapid and narrow stream, followed by the dogs, who swam close behind him, he was seen, the next moment, through the twilight, galloping up the opposite hill, as he called out his "good night" to his friends. As soon as Henry had disappeared, the other two pricked their steeds forward at a faster pace. The rapid flow of the river, as they advanced along its bank, began to change into a more quiet current, as if some obstruction below had dammed up the water, rendering it deep and still. Upon this tranquil mirror the pale crescent of the moon and the faintly peeping stars were reflected; and the flight of the fire-fly was traced, by his own light and its redoubled image, upon the same surface. The high toppling cliff of the Fawn's Tower, that jutted forth like a parapet above the road, soon arrested the attention of Butler; and at its base the great chestnut flung abroad his "vast magnificence of leaves," almost in emulation of the aspiring crag. "We have reached our appointed ground," said Butler. "I shall want my cloak, Galbraith; the dews begin to chill my limbs." They dismounted, and Butler threw his cloak around his shoulders. Then, in a thoughtful, musing state of mind, he strolled slowly along the bank of the river, till he was temporarily lost to view in the thick shades and sombre scenery around him. Robinson, having secured the horses, sat himself down at the foot of the chestnut, unwilling to interrupt, by conversation, the anxious state of feeling which he had the shrewdness to perceive predominated in Butler's mind. CHAPTER IV. A MEETING OF LOVERS----SOME INSIGHT INTO THE FUTURE. The twilight had subsided and given place to a beautiful night. The moon had risen above the tree tops, and now threw her level rays upon the broad face of the massive pile of rocks forming the Fawn's Tower, and lit up with a silvery splendor, the foliage that clothed the steep cliff and the almost perpendicular hill in its neighborhood. On the opposite side of the river, a line of beech and sycamore trees, that grew almost at the water's edge, threw a dark shadow upon the bank. Through these, at intervals, the bright moonlight fell upon the earth, and upon the quiet and deep stream. The woods were vocal with the whispering noises that give discord to the nights of summer; yet, was there a stillness in the scene which invited grave thoughts, and recalled to Butler's mind some painful emotions that belonged to his present condition. "How complicated and severe are those trials"--such was the current of his meditations--"which mingle private grief with public misfortune: that double current of ill which runs, on one side, to the overthrow of a nation's happiness, and, on the other, to the prostration of the individual who labors in the cause! What a struggle have I to encounter between my duty to my country and my regard for those tender relations that still more engross my affections, nor less earnestly appeal to my manhood for defence! Upon the common quarrel I have already staked my life and fortune, and find myself wrapt up in its most perilous obligations. That cause has enough in it to employ and perplex the strongest mind, and to invoke the full devotion of a head and heart that are exempt from all other solicitude: yet am I embarrassed with personal cares that are woven into the very web of my existence; that have planted themselves beside the fountain of my affections, and which, if they be rudely torn from me, would leave behind--but a miserable and hopeless wreck. My own Mildred! to what sad trials have I brought your affection; and how nobly hast thou met them! "Man lives in the contentious crowd; he struggles for the palm that thousands may award, and far-speeding renown may rend the air with the loud huzza of praise. His is the strife of the theatre where the world are spectators; and multitudes shall glorify his success, or lament his fall, or cheer him in the pangs of death. But woman, gentle, silent, sequestered--thy triumphs are only for the heart that loves thee--thy deepest griefs have no comforter but the secret communion of thine own pillow!" Whilst Butler, who had now returned beneath the cliff of the Fawn's Tower, was absorbed in this silent musing, his comrade was no less occupied with his own cares. The sergeant had acquired much of that forecast, in regard to small comforts, which becomes, in some degree, an instinct in those whose profession exposes them to the assaults of wind and weather. Tobacco, in his reckoning, was one of the most indispensable muniments of war; and he was, accordingly, seldom without a good stock of this commodity. A corn cob, at any time, furnished him the means of carving the bowl of a pipe; whilst, in his pocket, he carried a slender tube of reed which, being united to the bowl, formed a smoking apparatus, still familiar to the people of this country, and which, to use the sergeant's own phrase, "couldn't be touched for sweetness by the best pipe the very Queen of the Dutch herself ever smoked; and that"--he was in the habit of adding--"must be, as I take it, about the tenderest thing for a whiff that the Dutchman knowed how to make." A flint and steel--part also of his gear--now served to ignite his tobacco, and he had been, for some time past, sedately scanning the length and breadth of his own fancies, which were, doubtless rendered the more sublime by the mistiness which a rich volume of smoke had shed across his vision and infused into the atmosphere around his brain. "Twelve shillings and nine pence," were the first words which became audible to Butler in the depth of his revery. "That, major," said the sergeant, who had been rummaging his pocket, and counting over a handful of coin, "is exactly the amount I have spent since this time last night. I paid it to the old lady of the Swan at Charlottesville, taking a sixpence for mending your bridle rein. Since you must make me paymaster for our march, I am obliged to square accounts every night. My noddle wont hold two days reckoning. It gets scrimped and flustered with so many numberings, that I lose the count clean out." "It is of little consequence, Galbraith," replied Butler, seeking to avoid his companion's interruption. "Squaring up, and smoothing off, and bringing out this and that shilling straight to a penny, don't come natural to me," continued Robinson, too intent upon his reckoning to observe the disinclination of Butler to a parley, "money matters are not in my line. I take to them as disunderstandingly as Gill Bentley did to the company's books, when they made him Orderly on the Waccamaw picquet. For Gill, in the first place, couldn't write, and, in the next place, if he could'a done that, he never larnt to read, so you may suppose what a beautiful puzzleification he had of it to keep the guard roster straight." "Sergeant, look if yonder boat is loose; I shall want it presently," said Butler, still giving no ear to his comrade's gossip. "It is tied by an easy knot to the root of the tree," said Robinson, as he returned from the examination. "Thank you," added Butler with more than usual abstractedness. "Something, major, seems to press upon your spirits to-night," said the sergeant, in the kindest tones of inquiry. "If I could lend a hand to put any thing, that mought happen to have got crooked, into its right place again, you know, Major Butler, I wouldn't be slow to do it, when you say the word." "I would trust my life to you, Galbraith, sooner than to any man living," replied the other, with an affectionate emphasis:--"But you mistake me, I am not heavy at heart, though a little anxious, sergeant, at what has brought me here, comrade," he added as he approached the sergeant, upon whose broad shoulder he familiarly laid his hand, with a smile; "you will keep a fellow soldier's counsel?" "As I keep my heart in my body," interrupted Galbraith. "I am sure of it; even as you keep your faith to your country my true and worthy brother," added Butler with animation, "and that is with no less honesty than a good man serves his God. Then, Galbraith, bear it in mind, I have come here for the sake of a short meeting with one that I love, as you would have a good soldier love the lady of his soul. You will hereafter speak of nothing that may fall within your notice. It concerns me deeply that this meeting should be secret." "Major, I will have neither eyes nor ears, if it consarns you to keep any thing that mought chance to come to my knowledge, private." "It is not for myself, sergeant, I bespeak this caution; I have nothing to conceal from you; but there is a lady who is much interested in our circumspection. I have given you a long and solitary ride on her account, and may hereafter ask other service from you. You shall not find it more irksome, Galbraith, to stand by a comrade in love, than you have ever found it in war, and that, I know, you think not much." "The war comes naturally enough to my hand," replied Galbraith, "but as for the love part, major, excepting so far as carrying a message, or, in case of a runaway, keeping off a gang of pestifarious intermeddlers, or watching, for a night or so, under a tree, or any thing, indeed, in the riding and running, or watching, or scrimmaging line--I say, excepting these, my sarvice moughtn't turn to much account. I can't even play a fiddle at a wedding, and I've not the best tongue for making headway amongst the women. Howsomdever, major, you may set me down for a volunteer on the first forlorn hope you may have occasion for." "Mr. Lindsay lives on the hill across the river. There are reasons why I cannot go to his house; and his daughter, Galbraith, is an especial friend to us and to our cause." "I begin to see into it," interrupted the sergeant, laughing, "you have a notion of showing the old gentleman the same trick you played off upon Lord Howe's provost marshal, when you was lieutenant at Valley Forge, touching your stealing away his prisoner, Captain Roberts. That was a night affair, too. Well, the best wife a man can have, major, is the woman that takes to him through fire and water. There was Colonel Gardiner, that stole his wife just in that way, against all opposition of both father and mother, and a better woman never stitched up a seam, to my knowledge and belief." "I have no thought of such an enterprise, sergeant," said Butler; "our purpose, for the present, must be confined to a short visit. We are houseless adventurers, Galbraith, and have little to offer to sweetheart or wife that might please a woman's fancy." "When a woman loves a man, especially a sodger," replied the sergeant, "she sets as little store by house and home as the best of us. Still, it is a wise thing to give the creatures the chance of peace, before you get to tangling them with families. Hark, I hear something like footsteps on t'other side of the river! Mister Henry must be on his march." After an interval, a low whistle issued from the opposite bank, and, in a moment, Butler was in the skiff, pushing his way through the sparkling waters. As the small boat, in which he stood upright, shot from the bright moonlight into the shade of the opposite side, he could obscurely discern Mildred Lindsay leaning on her brother's arm, as they both stood under the thick foliage of a large beech. And scarcely had the bow struck upon the pebbly margin, before he bounded from it up the bank, and was, in the next instant, locked in the embrace of one whose affection he valued above all earthly possessions. When that short interval had passed away, in which neither Mildred nor Arthur could utter speech; during which the lady leant her head upon her lover's bosom, in that fond familiarity which plighted faith is allowed to justify in the most modest maiden, sobbing the while in the intensity of her emotions, she then at last, as she slowly regained her self-possession, said, in a soft and melancholy voice, in which there was nevertheless a tone of playfulness: "I am a foolish girl, Arthur. I can boast like a blustering coward, when there is nothing to fear; and yet I weep, like a true woman, at the first trial of my courage." "Ah, my dear Mildred, you are a brave girl," replied Butler, as he held both of her hands and looked fondly into her face, "and a true and a tried girl. You have come kindly to me, and ever, like a blessed and gentle spirit of good, are prompt to attend me through every mischance. It is a long and weary time, love, since last we met." "It is very, very long, Arthur." "And we are still as far off, Mildred, from our wishes as at first we were." "Even so," said Mildred sorrowfully. "A year of pain drags heavily by, and brings no hope. Oh, Arthur, what have I suffered in the thought that your life is so beset with dangers! I muse upon them with a childish fear, that was not so before our last meeting. They rise to disturb my daily fancies, and night finds them inhabiting my pillow. I was so thankful, that you escaped that dreary siege of Charleston!" "Many a poor and gallant fellow soldier there bit his lip with a chafed and peevish temper," said Butler; "but the day will come, Mildred, when we may yet carry a prouder head to the field of our country's honor." "And your share," interrupted Mildred, "will ever be to march in the front rank. In spite of all your perils past, your hard service, which has known no holiday, your fatigues, that I have sometimes feared would break down your health, and in spite too, of the claims, Arthur, that your poor Mildred has upon you, you are even now again bound upon some bold adventure, that must separate us, ah, perhaps, for ever! Our fate has malice in it. Ever beginning some fresh exploit!" "You would not have your soldier bear himself otherwise than as a true knight, who would win and wear his lady-love by good set blows when there was need for them?" "If I were the genius that conjured up this war, I would give my own true knight a breathing space. He should pipe and dance between whiles," replied Mildred sportively. "He that puts his sickle into this field amongst the reapers," said Butler, with a thoughtful earnestness, "should not look back from his work." "No, no, though my heart break while I say it--for, in truth, I am very melancholy, notwithstanding I force a beggar's smile upon my cheek; no, I would not have you stay or stand, Arthur, until you have seen this wretched quarrel at an end. I praised your first resolve--loved you for it--applauded and cheered you; I will not selfishly now, for the sake of my weak, womanish apprehension, say one word to withhold your arm." "And you are still," said Butler, "that same resolute enthusiast that I found in the young and eloquent beauty who captivated my worthless heart, when the war first drew the wild spirits of the country together under our free banner?" "The same foolish, conceited, heady, prattling truant, Arthur, that first took a silly liking to your pompous strut, and made a hero to her imagination out of a boasting ensign--the same in all my follies, and in all my faults--only altered in one quality." "And pray, what is that one quality?" "I will not tell you," said Mildred carelessly. "'Twould make you vainer than you are." "It is not well to hide a kind thought from me, Mildred." "Indeed it is not, Arthur. And so, I will muster courage to speak it," said the confiding girl with vivacity, after a short pause during which she hung fondly upon her lover's arm; and then suddenly changing her mood, she proceeded in a tone of deep and serious enthusiasm, "it is, that since that short, eventful and most solemn meeting, I have loved you, Arthur, with feelings that I did not know until then were mine. My busy fancy has followed you in all your wanderings--painted with stronger hues than nature gives to any real scene the difficulties and disasters that might cross your path--noted the seasons with a nervous acuteness of remark, from very faint-heartedness at the thought that they might blight your health or bring you some discomfort. I have pored over the accounts of battles, the march of armies, the tales of prisoners relating the secrets of their prisons; studied the plans of generals and statesmen, as the newspapers or common rumor brought them to my knowledge, with an interest that has made those around me say I was sadly changed. It was all because I had grown cowardly and feared even my own shadow. Oh, Arthur, I am not indeed what I was." The solemnity, force and feeling with which Mildred gave utterance to these words, strangely contrasted with the light and gay tone in which she had commenced; but her thoughts had now fallen into a current that bore her forward into one of those bursts of excited emotion, which were characteristic of her temper, and which threw a peculiar energy and eloquence into her manner. Butler, struck by the rising warmth of her enunciation, and swayed in part by the painful reflections to which her topic gave rise, replied, in a state of feeling scarcely less solemn than her own-- "Ah, Mildred," and as he spoke, he parted her hair upon her pale forehead and kissed it, "dearest girl, the unknown time to come has no cup of suffering for me that I would not hold a cheap purchase for one moment like this. Even a year of painful absence past, and a still more solicitous one to come, may be gallantly and cheerfully borne when blessed with the fleeting interval of this night. To hear your faith, which though I never dwelt upon it but with a confidence that I have held it most profane to doubt, still, to hear it avowed from your own lips, now again and again, repeating what you have often breathed before, and in letter after letter, written down, it falls upon my heart, Mildred, like some good gift from heaven, specially sent to revive and quicken my resolution in all the toils and labors that yet await me. There must be good in store for such a heart as thine; and, trusting to this faith, I will look to the future with a buoyant temper." "The future," said Mildred, as she lifted her eyes to the pale moon that now sheeted with its light her whole figure, as she and her lover strayed beyond the shade of the beech, "I almost shudder when I hear that word. We live but in the present; that, Arthur, is, at least, our own, poor as we are in almost all beside. That future is a perplexed and tangled riddle--a dreadful uncertainty, in the contemplation of which I grow superstitious. Such ill omens are about us! My father's inexorable will, so headstrong, so unconscious of the pain it gives me; his rooted, yes, his fatal aversion to you; my thraldom here, where, like a poor bird checked by a cord, I chafe myself by fluttering on the verge of my prison bounds; and then, the awful perils that continually impend over your head--all these are more than weak imaginings; they are the realities of my daily life, and give me, what I am almost ashamed to confess, a sad and boding spirit." "Nay, nay, dearest Mildred! Away with all these unreasonable reckonings!" replied Butler, with a manner that too plainly betrayed the counterfeit of mirth. "Seclusion has dealt unworthily with you. It has almost turned thee into a downright sentimental woman. I will have none of this stepping to the verge of melancholy. You were accustomed to cheer me with sunny and warm counsel; and you must not forget it was yourself who taught me to strike aside the waves of fortune with a glad temper. The fates can have no spite against one so good as thou art! Time may bear us along like a rough trotting horse; and our journey may have its dark night, its quagmires, and its jack-o'lanterns, but there will come a ruddy morning at last--a smoother road, and an easier gait; and thou, my girl, shalt again instruct me how to win a triumph over the ills of life." "And we will be happy, Arthur, because all around us will be so," added Mildred, catching the current of Butler's thoughts, with that ready versatility which eminently showed the earnestness and devotion of her feelings--"Ah, may heaven grant this boon, and bring these dreams to life! I think, Arthur, I should be happier now, if I could but be near you in your wanderings. Gladly would I follow you through all the dangers of the war." "That were indeed, love, a trial past your faculty to endure. No, no, Mildred, she who would be a soldier's wife, should learn the soldier's philosophy--to look with a resigned submission on the present events, and trust to heaven for the future. Your share in this struggle is to commune with your own heart in solitude, and teach it patience. Right nobly have you thus far borne that grievous burden! The sacrifice that you have made--its ever present and unmitigated weight, silently and sleeplessly inflicting its slow pains upon your free and generous spirit; that, Mildred, is the chief and most galling of my cares." "This weary war, this weary war," breathed Mildred, in a pensive under key, "when will it be done!" "The longest troubles have their end," replied Butler, "and men, at last, spent with the vexations of their own mischief, fly, by a selfish instinct, into the bosom of peace. God will prosper our enterprise, and bring our battered ship into a fortunate haven." "How little like it seems it now!" returned Mildred. "The general sorrow, alone, might well weigh down the stoutest heart. That cause which you have made mine, Arthur, to which you have bestowed your life, and which, for your sake," she added proudly, "should have this feeble arm of mine, could it avail, is it not even now trembling on the verge of ruin? Have not your letters, one after another told me of the sad train in which misfortunes have thickened upon the whole people? of defeat, both north and south, and, at this very time, of disgraceful mutiny of whole regiments under the very eye of Washington--that Washington who loves his country and her soldiers as a husband loves his bride, and a father his children. Have not those, to whom we all looked for champions, turned into mere laggards in the war for freedom? Oh, Arthur, do you not remember that these are the thoughts, the very words, which were penned by your own hand, for my especial meditation? How can I but fear that the good end is still far off? How can I but feel some weight upon my heart?" "You have grown overwise, Mildred, in these ruminations. I am to blame for this, that in my peevish humor, vexed with the crosses of the day, I should have written on such topics to one so sensitive as yourself." "Still it is true, Arthur, all report confirms it." "These things do not become your entertainment, Mildred. Leave the public care to us. There are bold hearts, love, and strong arms yet to spare for this quarrel. We have not yet so exhausted our mines of strength, but that much rough ore still lies unturned to the sun, and many an uncouth lump of metal remains to be fashioned for serviceable use. History tells of many a rebound from despondency, so sudden and unreckoned, that the wisest men could see in it no other spring than the decree of God. He will fight the battle of the weak, and set the right upon a sure foundation." "The country rings," said Mildred, again taking the more cheerful hue of her lover's hopes, and following out, with an affectionate sympathy, his tone of thought, "with anticipation of victory from Gates's southern march." "That may turn out to be a broken reed," interrupted Butler, as if thinking aloud, and struck by Mildred's reference to a subject that had already engrossed his thoughts; "they may be deceived, Washington would have put a different man upon that service. I would have a leader in such a war, wary, watchful, humble--diffident as well as brave. I fear Gates is not so." "Then, I trust, Arthur," exclaimed Mildred, with anxious alacrity, "that your present expedition does not connect you with his fortunes!" "I neither follow his colors nor partake of his counsels," replied Butler. "Still my motions may not be exempt from the influence of his failure or success. The enemy, you are aware, has possessed himself of every post of value in South Carolina and Georgia. I go commissioned to advise with discreet and prudent men upon the means to shake off this odious domination. So far only, and remotely, too, I am a fellow-laborer with Gates. There are gallant spirits now afoot, Mildred, to strip these masters of their power. My office is to aid their enterprise." "If you needs must go, Arthur, I have no word to say. You will leave behind you an aching heart, that morning, noon, and night, wearies heaven with its prayers for your safety. Alas, I have no other aid to give! How soon--how soon," she said, with a voice that faltered with the question, "does your duty compel you to leave me?" "To-morrow's sunrise, love, must find me forth upon my way." "To-morrow, Arthur? so quickly to part!" "I dare not linger; not even for the rich blessing of thy presence." "And the utmost length of your journey?" "Indeed, I know not. At present my farthest aim is Ninety-six and Augusta. It much depends upon the pleasure of our proud and wilful masters." Mildred stood for some moments looking upon the ground in profound silence. Her bosom heaved with a sad emotion. "It is a dangerous duty," said she, at last. "I cannot speak my apprehension at the thought of your risks amongst the fierce and treacherous men that overrun the country to which you travel." "These perils are exaggerated by distance," returned Butler. "A thousand expedients of protection and defence occur when present, which the absent cannot fancy. It is a light service, Mildred, and may more securely be performed with a gay heart than with a sad one. I pray you, do not suffer that active imagination of yours to invest the every day adventures of your poor soldier with a romantic interest of which they are not worthy. I neither slay giants, nor disenchant ladies, nor yoke captive griffins together. No, no, I shall outrun some over-fed clown, and outwit some simple boobies; and, perhaps, soil my boots in a great slough, and then hasten back, love, to boast of my marvels to the credulous ear of my own sweet girl, who, I warrant, will think me a most preposterous hero." "How can you laugh, Arthur? And yet I would not have you catch my foolish sadness, either." "I have with me, besides, Mildred, a friend good at need; one Galbraith Robinson, a practised and valiant soldier, who sits on yonder bank. He is to be the companion of my journey; he is shrewd, vigilant and cautious, an inhabitant, moreover, of the district to which I am bound; his wisdom can do much for my success. Then I travel, too, in peaceful guise. My business is more concerned with negotiation than with battle." "It is a waylaid path, Arthur," said Mildred, in the same faint voice with which she had spoken before. "Never take it so heavily, my love!" exclaimed Butler, familiarly seizing her hand, whose trembling now betrayed her agitation,--"it is the mere sport of the war to be upon a running service, where a light stratagem or so will baffle a set of dull-pated clodpoles! I scarcely deem it a venture, to dodge through a forest, where every man flies from his neighbor out of mutual distrust. These fellows have brought themselves upon such bad terms with their own consciences, that they start like thieves at the waving of a bulrush." "They would be the more cruel," replied Mildred, "if some ill luck should throw you into their power. If that should happen," she added, and for a while she hesitated to speak, as a tear fell upon Butler's hand--"If that should happen, I cannot bear the thought." "They dare offer me no wrong, Mildred. The chances of battle are sufficiently various to compel even the victors to pursue the policy of humanity to prisoners. The conqueror of to-day may himself be a captive to-morrow, and a bloody reprisal would await his barbarity. Again, let me remind you, these are not fit topics for your meditation." "They are topics for my heart, Arthur, and will not be driven from it. If your lot should put you in the power of the enemy, the name of Mildred Lindsay, and the relation you bear her, whispered in their ears, may, perhaps, unlock their charity. My father has many friends in those ranks, and it may be that I am not unknown to some of them: oh, remember that!" "You have little need to teach me to think or speak of Mildred Lindsay," said Butler, eagerly. "I cannot forget that name. But I may well doubt its charm upon the savage bulldogs who are now baiting our citizens in Carolina; those ruthless partizans who are poisoning the fountains of contentment at every fire-side. It is not a name to conjure evil spirits with." "Major Butler," said Henry, who during this long interval had been strolling backward and forward, like a sentinel, at some distance from his sister and her lover, and who, with the military punctilio of a soldier on duty, forbore even to listen to what he could not have helped overhearing, if it had not been for humming a tune--"Major, I don't like to make or meddle with things that don't belong to me--but you and Mildred have been talking long enough to settle the course of a whole campaign. And as my father thinks he can't be too careful of Mildred, and doesn't like her walking about after night-fall, I shouldn't be surprised if a messenger were despatched for us--only I think that man Tyrrel is hatching some plot with him to-night, and may keep him longer in talk than usual." "Who is Tyrrel?" inquired Butler. "One that I wish had been in his grave before he had ever seen my father," answered Mildred with a bitter vehemence. "He is a wicked emissary of the royal party sent here to entrap my dear father into their toils. Such as it has ever been his fate to be cursed with from the beginning of the war; but this Tyrrel, the most hateful of them all." "Alas, alas, your poor father! Mildred, what deep sorrow do I feel that he and I should be so estranged. I could love him, counsel with him, honor him, with a devotion that should outrun your fondest wish. His generous nature has been played upon, cheated, abused; and I, in whom fortune and inclination should have raised him a friend, have been made the victim of his perverted passion." "True, true," exclaimed Mildred, bursting into tears, and resting her head against her lover's breast, "I can find courage to bear all but this--I am most unhappy;" and for some moments she sobbed audibly. "The thought has sometimes crossed me," said Butler, "that I would go to your father and tell him all. It offends my self-respect to be obliged to practise concealment towards one who should have a right to know all that concerns a daughter so dear to him. Even now, if I may persuade you to it, I will go hand in hand with you, and, with humble reverence, place myself before him and divulge all that has passed between us." "No, no, Arthur, no," ejaculated Mildred with the most earnest determination. "It will not come to good. You do not understand my father's feelings. The very sight of you would rouse him into frenzy; there is no name which might fall upon his ear with deeper offence than yours. Not yet, Arthur, the time has not yet come." "I have been patient," said Butler, "patient, Mildred, for your sake." "To try him now," continued Mildred, whose feelings still ran, with a heady impetuosity, upon this newly-awakened and engrossing topic; "now, in the very depth of his bitterest aversion to what he terms an impious rebellion, and whilst his heart is yet moved with an almost preternatural hate against all who uphold the cause, and to you, especially, above whose head there hovers, in his belief, some horrid impending curse that shall bring desolation upon him and all who claim an interest in his blood--no, no, it must not be!" "Another year of pent-up vexation, self-reproach and anxious concealment must then glide by, and perhaps another," said Butler. "Well, I must be content to bear it, though, in the mean time, my heart bleeds for you, Mildred; it is a painful trial." "For good or for evil our vow is now registered in heaven," replied Mildred, "and we must abide the end." "I would not have it other than it is, dearest girl, except this stern resolve of your father--not for the world's wealth," said Butler warmly. "But you spoke of this Tyrrel--what manner of man is he? How might I know him?" "To know him would answer no good end, Arthur. His soul is absorbed in stratagem, and my dear father is its prey. I too am grievously tormented by him; but it is no matter, I need not vex your ear with the tale of his annoyance." "Indeed!" exclaimed Butler with a sudden expression of resentment. "All that concerns my father, concerns me," said Mildred. "It is my evil destiny, Arthur, to be compelled to endure the associations of men, whose principles, habits, purposes, are all at war with my own. Alas, such are now my father's constant companions. This man Tyrrel, whose very name is a cheat put on, I doubt not, to conceal him from observation--goes farther than the rest in the boldness of his practice. I have some misgiving that he is better acquainted with the interest you take in me, than we might suspect possible to a stranger. I fear him. And then, Arthur, it is my peculiar misery that he has lately set up a disgusting pretension to my regard. Oh! I could give him, if my sex had strength to strike, the dagger, sooner than squander upon him one kind word. Yet am I obliged by circumstance to observe a strained courtesy towards him, which, frugal as it is, makes me an unwilling hypocrite to my own heart." "Tyrrel," ejaculated Butler, "Tyrrel! I have heard no such name abroad!" then, muttering a deep curse, as he bit his lip with passion, he added, "Oh, that I could face this man, or penetrate his foul purpose! How is it likely I might meet him?" "You shall have no temptation to a quarrel," said Mildred; "your quick resentment would but give activity to his venom. For the sake of my peace, Arthur, and of your own, inquire no further. Time may disclose more than rash pursuit." "Leave that to sister Mildred and myself, major," said Henry, who listened with great interest to this conversation, "I have my eye upon him--let that satisfy you; and when sister Mildred puts up the game, depend upon it, I will bring him down." "Thanks, thanks, dear Henry! I can trust you for a ready friend, and will even follow your good advice. A more favorable season for this concern may soon arrive; meantime, I will bear this hint in mind." Again Henry made an appeal to the lovers to bring their conference to an end. It was a sorrowful moment, the events of which were brief, earnest and impassioned, and such as a dull scribbler, like myself, might easily mar in the telling; yet they were such as zealous and eager natures, who have loved with an intense and absorbing love, and who have parted in times of awful danger and uncertainty, may perchance be able to picture to themselves, when they recall the most impressive incident of their lives to memory. I will only say, that, in that dark shade where the beech tree spread his canopy of leaves over the cool bank, and marked his shadow's profile on the green sward--that grassy sward, on which "the constant moon" lit up the dewy lamps, hung by the spider on blade and leaf; and in that silent time, when the distant water-fall came far-sounding on the ear, when sleepless insects chirped in the thicket, and dogs, at some remote homestead, howled bugle-like to the moon; and in that chill hour, when Mildred drew her kerchief close around her dew-besprinkled shoulders, whilst Arthur, fondly and affectionately, half enveloped her in the folds of a military cloak, as he whispered words of tender parting in her ear, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek; and when, moreover, Henry's teeth chattered like a frozen warder's, then it was, and there, that this enthusiastic girl again pledged her unalterable devotion to the man of her waking thoughts and nightly dreams, come weal, come woe, whatever might betide; and the soldier paid back the pledge with new ardor and endearment, in the strong language that came unstudied from the heart, meaning all that he said, and rife with a feeling beyond the reach of words. And, after "mony a locked and fond embrace," full tearfully, and lingeringly, and, in phrase oft repeated, the two bade "farewell," and invoked God's blessing each upon the other, and then, not without looking back, and breathing a fresh prayer of blessings, they separated on their dreary way, Mildred retiring, as she had come, on the arm of her brother, and Butler, springing hurriedly into the skiff and directing its swift passage to the middle of the stream, where, after a pause to enable him to discern the last footsteps of his mistress, as her form glided into the obscure distance, he sighed a low "God bless her," then resumed his oar, and sturdily drove his boat against the "opponent bank." CHAPTER V. A COMFORTABLE INN, AND A GOOD LANDLADY----THE MISFORTUNES OF HEROES DO NOT ALWAYS DESTROY THE APPETITE. As soon as Butler landed from the skiff, he threw his cloak into the hands of the sergeant; then, with a disturbed haste, sprang upon his horse, and, commanding Robinson to follow, galloped along the road down the river as fast as the nature of the ground and the obscurity of the hour would allow. A brief space brought them to the spot where the road crossed the stream, immediately in the vicinity of the widow Dimock's little inn, which might here be discerned ensconced beneath the cover of the opposite hill. The low-browed wooden building, quietly stationed some thirty paces off the road, was so adumbrated in the shelter of a huge willow, that the journeyer, at such an hour as this, might perchance pass the spot unconsciously by, were it not for an insulated and somewhat haggard sign-post that, like a hospitable seeker of strangers, stood hard by the road side, and there displayed a shattered emblem in the guise of a large blue ball, a little decayed by wind and weather, which said Blue Ball, without superscription or device, was universally interpreted to mean "entertainment for man and horse, by the widow Dimock." The moonlight fell with a broad lustre upon the sign post and its pendent globe; and our travellers, besides, could descry, through the drapery of the willow, a window, of some rear building of the inn, richly illuminated by what, from the redness of the light, might be conjectured to be a bundle of blazing faggots. As the horses had, immediately upon entering the ford, compelled their masters to a halt, whilst they thrust their noses into the water and drank with the greediness of a long and neglected thirst, it was with no equivocal self-gratulation that Robinson directed his eye to the presignifications of good cheer which were now before him. Butler had spoken "never a word," and the sergeant's habits of subordination, as well as an honest sympathy in what he guessed to be the griefs of his superior officer, had constrained him to a respectful silence. The sergeant, however, was full of thoughts which, more than once during the gallop from the Fawn's Tower, he was on the point of uttering by way of consolation to Butler, and which nothing prevented but that real delicacy of mind that lies at the bottom of a kind nature, and inhabits the shaggy breast of the rustic, at least full as often as it lodges in the heart of the trim worldling. The present halt, seemed, in Horse Shoe's reckoning, not only to furnish a pretext to speak, but, in some degree, to render it a duty; and, in truth, an additional very stimulating subject presented itself to our good squire, in his instantaneous conviction that the glare from the tavern window had its origin in some active operation which, at this late hour, might be going on at the kitchen chimney; to understand the full pungency of which consideration, it is necessary to inform my reader, that Robinson had, for some time past, been yielding himself to certain doubts, whether his friend and himself might not arrive at the inn at too late an hour to hope for much despatch in the preparation for supper. In this state of feeling, partly bent to cheer the spirits of Butler, and partly to express his satisfaction at the prospect of his own comfort, he broke forth in the following terms-- "God bless all widows that set themselves down by the road-side, is my worst wish! and, in particular, I pray for good luck to the widow Dimock, for an orderly sort of body, which I have no doubt she is; and keeps good hours--to judge by the shine of the kitchen fire which is blazing yonder in the rear--and which, to tell truth, major, I began to be afeard would be as dead, by this time o' night, as the day the hearth-stone was first laid. She desarves to be spoken of as a praiseworthy woman. And, moreover, I should say she has popped her house down in a most legible situation, touching our day's march, by which I mean it isn't one step too near a reasonable bed hour. I count it lucky, major, on your account; and although it isn't for me to give advice in woman affairs--for I know the creatures do try the grit and edge of a man amazingly sometimes--yet, if I mought say what was running in my head fit for a gentleman and an officer like you to do in such a tribulation, it would be this: drop thinking and chawing over your troubles, and take them with a light heart, as things that's not to be mended by a solemncolly long-facedness. A good victual's meal and a fair night's rest would make another man of you. That's my observation; and I remember once to hear you say the same yourself, upon occasion of your losing the baggage wagons last fall on the Beaufort convoy. You ha'n't forgot it, major?" "Thank you, thank you, sergeant. Your counsel is kindly offered and wisely said, and I will follow it. But it is a little hard, fellow soldier," added Butler, with something like an approach to jocularity, "it's a little hard to have one's misfortunes cast in his teeth by a comrade." "I thought it would make you laugh, major!" replied Robinson, with a good-natured solicitude, "for it wan't in the possibilities of a mortal earthly man to save the baggage; and, I remember, you laughed then, as well as the rest of us, when them pestifarious, filching sheep stealers made off with our dinners: nobody ever blamed you for it." "Ah, Galbraith, you are a good friend, and you shall say what you please to me," said Butler, with a returning cheerfulness; "sorrow is a dull companion to him who feeds it, and an impertinent one to everybody beside. So, ride forward, and we will endeavor to console ourselves with the good cheer of the widow. And, hark, Galbraith, this Mistress Dimock is an especial friend of mine: pray you, let her see, by your considerateness towards her, that you are aware of that--for my sake, good Horse Shoe." The two soldiers soon reached the inn, and, having dismounted, Butler aroused the attention of the inmates by a few strokes upon the door with his riding rod. The reply to this summons was a shrill invitation, in a feminine voice, to "walk in;" and no sooner had Butler thrown open the door and advanced a few paces into the passage, than the head of an elderly female was seen thrust through the partially expanded doorway of the adjoining room. Another instant, and the dusky figure of Mistress Dimock herself was visible to our travellers. "What would you be pleased to have, sir?" inquired the dame, with evident distrust at this untimely approach of strangers. "Accommodation for the night, and whatever you have good to offer a friend, Mistress Dimock." "Who are you that ride so late?" again interrogated the hostess; "I am cowardly, sir, and cautious, and have reason to be careful who comes into my house; a poor unprotected woman, good man." "A light, mother," said Butler, "and you shall know us better. We are travellers and want food and rest, and would have both with as little trouble to you as possible; a light will show you an old friend." "Wait a moment," returned the dame; and then added, as she observed Butler walk into a room on the left, "Take care, sir, it is risking a fall to grope in the dark in a strange house." "The house is not so strange to me as you suppose. Unless you have moved your furniture I can find the green settee beyond the cupboard," said Butler, familiarly striding across the room, and throwing himself into the old commodity he had named. The landlady, without heeding this evidence of the conversancy of her visitor with the localities of the little parlor, had hastily retreated, and, in a moment afterwards, returned with a light, which, as she held it above her head, while she peered through a pair of spectacles, threw its full effulgence upon the face of her guest. "Dear me, good lack!" she exclaimed, after a moment's gazing; "Arthur Butler, o' my conscience! And is it you, Mr. Butler?" Then, putting the candle upon the table, she seized both of his hands and gave them a long and hearty shake. "That Nancy Dimock shouldn't know your voice, of all others! Where have you been, and where are you going? Mercy on me! what makes you so late? And why didn't you let me know you were coming? I could have made you so much more comfortable. You are chilled with the night air; and hungry, no doubt. And you look pale, poor fellow! You surely couldn't have been at the Dove Cote?" which last interrogatory was expressed with a look of earnest and anxious inquiry. "No, not there," replied Butler, almost in a whisper; "alas, my kind dame, not there," he added, with a melancholy smile, as he held the hand of the hostess and shook his head; "my fortune has in no jot improved since I left you almost a year ago. I broke from you hastily then to resume my share in the war, and I have had nothing but hard blows ever since. The tide, Mistress Dimock, sets sadly against us." "Never let your heart fail you," exclaimed the landlady; "it isn't in the nature of things for the luck to be for ever on the shady side. Besides, take the good and bad together, you have not been so hardly dealt by, Captain Butler." "Major Butler, madam, of the second Carolina continental reg'lar infantry," interrupted Robinson, who had stood by all this time unnoticed, "_Major_ Butler; the captain has been promoted, by occasion of the wiping out of a few friends from the upper side of the adjutant's roll, in the scrimmage of Fort Moultrie. He is what we call, in common parley, brevetted." This annunciation was made by the sergeant with due solemnity, accompanied by an attempt at a bow, which was abundantly stiff and ungraceful. "My friend Sergeant Robinson," said Butler; "I commend him, Mistress Dimock, to your especial favor, both for a trusty comrade, and a most satisfactory and sufficient trencher man." "You are welcome and free to the best that's in the house, sergeant," said the landlady, courtesying; "and I wish, for your sake, it was as good as your appetite, which ought to be of the best. Mr. Arthur Butler's word is all in all under this roof; and, whether he be captain or major, I promise you, makes no difference with me. Bless me! when I first saw you, major, you was only an ensign; then, whisk and away! and back you come a pretty lieutenant, about my house: and then a captain, forsooth! and now, on the track of that, a major. It is up-up-up-the ladder, till you will come, one of these days, to be a general; and too proud, I misdoubt, to look at such a little old woman as me! hegh, hegh, hegh! a pinch of snuff, Mr. Arthur." And here the good dame prolonged her phthisicky laugh for some moments, as she presented a box of Scotch snuff to her guest. "But I'll engage promotion never yet made the appetite of a travelling man smaller than before; so, gentlemen, you will excuse me while I look after your supper." "The sooner the better, ma'am," said Robinson; "your night air is a sort of a whetstone to the stomach; but first, ma'am, I would be obligated to you, if you would let me see the ostler." "Hut, tut! and have I been drivelling here all this time," exclaimed the dame, "without once spending a thought upon your cattle! Tony, Tony, To-ny, I say," almost shrieked the hostess, as she retreated along the passage towards the region of the kitchen, and then back again to the front door. "Are you asleep? Look to the gentlemen's horses; lead them to the stable, and don't spare to rub them down; and give them as much as they can eat. Where are you, old man?" "What's the use of all this fuss, Missus Dimck? Arn't I here on the spot, with the cretur's in my hand?" grumbled out an old, stunted negro, who answered to the appellation of ostler; "Arn't I getting the baggage off, as fast as I can onbuckle the straps?--I don't want nobody to tell me when I ought to step out. If a hos could talk, he ain't got nothing new to say to me. Get out, you varmints," he shouted, with a sudden vivacity of utterance, at three or four dogs that were barking around him; "Consarn you! What you making such a conbobberation about? You all throat when you see gentmen coming to the house; better wait tell you see a thief; bound, you silent enough then, with your tail twixt your legs! Blossom, ya sacy slut, keep quiet, I tell you!" In the course of this din and objurgation, the old negro succeeded in disburdening the horses of their furniture, and was about to lead them to the stable, when Robinson came to give him some directions. "Mind what you are after with them there cattle. Give them not a mouthful for a good hour, and plenty of fodder about their feet; I'll look at them myself before you shut up. Throw a handful of salt into the trough, Tony, and above all things, don't let me catch you splashing water over their backs; none of that; do you hear?" "Haw, haw, haw!" chuckled Tony; "think I don't know how to take care of a hos, mass! Been too use to creturs, ever sense so high. Bless the gentman! one of the best things on arth, when you're feared your hos is too much blowed, is to put a sprinkling of salt in a bucket o'water, and just stir a leetle Indian meal in with it; it sort of freshes the cretur up like, and is onaccountable good in hot weather, when you ain't got no time to feed. But cold water across the lines! oh, oh, I too cute in hos larning for that! Look at the top of my head--gray as a fox!" "Skip then, or I'll open upon you like a pack of hounds," said Robinson, as he turned on his heel to re-enter the house, "I'll look in after supper." "Never mind me," replied Tony, as he led the horses off, "I have tended Captain Butler's hos afore this, and he wan't never onsatisfied with me." These cares being disposed of, Horse Shoe returned to the parlor. The tidy display of some plain furniture, and the scrupulous attention to cleanliness in every part of the room, afforded an intelligent commentary upon the exact, orderly and decent character of the Widow Dimock. The dame herself was a pattern of useful thrift. Her short figure, as she now bustled to and fro, through the apartment, was arrayed in that respectable, motherly costume which befitted her years; and which was proper to the period of my story, when the luxury of dress was more expensive than at present, and when a correspondent degree of care was used to preserve it in repair. Evidences of this laudable economy were seen in the neatness with which a ruffle was darned, or a weak point fortified by a nicely adjusted patch, presenting, in some respect, a token both of the commendable pride of the wearer, and of the straitness of the national means, since the prevalence of war for five years had not only reduced the wealth of individuals and rendered frugality indispensable, but had, also, literally deprived the country of its necessary supply of commodities; thus putting the opulent and the needy, to a certain extent, upon the same footing. On the present occasion, our good landlady was arrayed in a gown of sober-colored chintz, gathered into plaits in the skirt, whilst the body fitted closely over a pair of long-waisted stays, having tight sleeves that reached to the elbow. The stature of the dame was increased a full inch by a pair of high-heeled, parti-colored shoes, remarkable for their sharp toes; and a frilled muslin cap, with lappets that reached under the chin, towered sufficiently high to contribute, also, something considerable to the elevation of the tripping little figure of its wearer. In such guise did Mistress Dimock appear, as she busied herself in preparing needful refreshment for the travellers; and for some time the house exhibited all that stir which belongs to this important care when despatched in a retired country inn. By degrees, the table began to show the bounties of the kitchen. A savory dish of fried bacon, the fumes of which had been, for a quarter of an hour, gently stimulating the appetite of the guests, now made its appearance, in company with a pair of broiled pullets; and these were followed by a detachment of brown-crested hoecakes--the peculiar favorite of the province; an abundance of rich milk, eggs, butter, and other rural knicknackeries, such as no hungry man ever surveys with indifference. These were successively deposited upon a homespun table cloth, whose whiteness rivalled the new snow, with an accuracy of adjustment that, by its delay, produced the most visible effects upon the sergeant, who, during the spreading of the board, sat silently by, watching, with an eager and gloating earnestness, the slow process, ever and anon uttering a short hem, and turning about restlessly on his chair. I may pause here, after the fashion of our worthy friend Horse Shoe, to make an observation. There is nothing that works so kindly upon the imagination of a traveller, if he be in any doubt as to his appetite, as the display of such a table. My particularity of detail, on the present occasion, will, therefore, be excused by my reader, when I inform him that Butler had arrived at the inn in that depressed tone of spirits which seemed to defy refreshment; and that, notwithstanding this impediment, he played no insignificant part afterwards at supper; a circumstance mainly attributable to that gentle but irresistible solicitation, which the actual sight and fragrance of the board addressed to his dormant physical susceptibility. I might, indeed, have pretermitted the supper altogether, were there not a philosophical truth at the bottom of the matter, worthy of the notice of the speculative and curious reader; namely, that where a man's heart is a little teased with love, and his temper fretted by crossings, and his body jolted by travel; especially, when he has been wandering through the night air, with owls hooting in his ears; and a thin drapery of melancholy has been flung, like cobwebs, across his spirits, then it is my doctrine, that a clean table, a good-humored landlady and an odorous steaming-up of good things, in a snug, cheerful little parlor, are certain to beget in him a complete change of mood, and to give him, instead, a happy train of thoughts and a hearty relish for his food. Such was precisely Butler's condition. He and the sergeant now sat down at the table, and each drew the attention of the other by the unexpected vigor of their assaults upon the dainties before them; Robinson surprised to find the major so suddenly revived, and Butler no less unprepared to see a man, who had achieved such wonders at dinner, now successively demolish what might be deemed a stout allowance for a well fed lion. "It almost seems to go against the credit of my house," said the hostess, "to set gentlefolks down at my table without a cup of tea; but so it is; we must get used to be stripped of all the old-fashioned comforts. It is almost treason for an honest woman to have such an article in her house now, even if it could be fairly come by. Still, I'll engage I am tory enough yet to like the smell of hyson. They have no mercy upon us old women, major; they should have a care, or they will drive us into the arms of the enemy." "Faith then, ma'am," interrupted Horse Shoe bluntly, as he threw his eye over his shoulder at the landlady, who had broken into a laugh at her own sally of humor, "it would be no wonder if you were soon driven back again." "Shame on you, Mr. Sergeant Robinson," retorted the dame, laughing again, "I didn't expect to hear such a speech from you; that's a very sorry compliment to a poor country woman. If the men on our side think so little of us as you do, it would be no wonder if we all desert to King George; but Major Arthur Butler, I am sure, will tell you that we old bodies can sometimes make ourselves very useful--gainsay it who will." "You seem to be rather hard, Galbraith," said Butler, "on my good friend Mistress Dimock. I am sure, madam, the sergeant has only been unlucky in making himself understood; for I know him to be a man of gallantry to your sex, and to cherish an especial liking for the female friends of our cause, amongst whom, Mistress Dimock, I can certify he is prepared to set a high value upon yourself. The sergeant was only endeavoring to provoke your good humor. Try this honey, Galbraith; Mistress Dimock is famous for her beehives; and perhaps it will give a sweeter edge to your tongue." "I spoke, major," replied Robinson, awkwardly endeavoring to extricate himself under this joint rebuke, and, at the same time, plunging a spoon into the dish to which Butler had invited his notice, "consarning the difficulty of having ladies--whether old or young makes no difference, it wan't respecting the age of Mistress Dimock, nor her beauty, by no means, that I said what I did say; but it was consarning of the difficulty of having the women with them in their marches and their counter-marches. What could such tender creatures have done at such a place as the sieging of Charlestown? Certain, this is most elegant honey!" he added, by way of parenthesis, as he devoured a large slice of bread, well covered with a fragment of honeycomb, as if anxious to gain time to collect his ideas; for, with all Horse Shoe's bluntness, he was essentially a diffident man. "It is my opinion, ma'am, the best thing the women can do, in these here wars, is to knit; and leave the fighting of it out, to us who hav'n't faces to be spoiled by bad weather and tough times." "I don't want to have art nor part in these quarrels," replied the widow. "The saints above are witnesses, I think it unnatural enough to see a peaceable country, and a quiet honest people, vexed and harried, and run down with all this trooping of horses, and parading of armies, and clattering of drums, amongst the hills that never heard any thing worse than the lowing of a heifer before. But still, I wish well to liberty; and if it must be fought for, why, I am even content to take my share of the suffering, in my own lonesome way; and they that bear the heat of the day, and their friends, shall always be served in my house with the best that's in it, and at the most reasonable rates. Even if they come without money, I am not the woman to turn them off with an empty stomach; I mean them of the right side." "Well, that's as sensible a speech, Mistress Dimock," said Horse Shoe, quickly seizing the occasion to make amends to the landlady for his former bluntness, "and as much to the purpose, and spoken with as much wisdom and circumscription, as mought come out of the mouth of e'er a lady in the land--high born or low born--I don't care where the other comes from. And it does a man's heart good to hear the woman-kind holding out such presentments. It's encouraging on the face of it." During this conversation the supper was finished, and Mrs. Dimock had now seated herself, with her elbows upon the table, so placed as to allow her to prop her chin upon her hands, in which position she fell into an earnest but quiet, under-toned confabulation with Butler, who partook of it with the more interest, as it related to the concerns of the family at the Dove Cote. "Mr. Lindsay, poor man," said the dame, in the course of this conference, "is wofully beset. It almost looks as if he was haunted by an evil spirit, sure enough, which folks used to say of him after his wife's death--and which, to tell you the truth, our young lady Mildred has sometimes more than half hinted to me; he is so run at, and perplexed, and misguided by strangers that can have no good intention in coming to see him. There is Mr. Tyrrel, over at the Dove Cote at this very time, on his third visit, major, in less now than two months past; yes, let me see, he brought the news here of the recapitulation--I think you military call it--though, heaven knows, I have but a poor head for these bloodthirsty words--I mean the taking of Charleston; three times has he been here, counting from that day. Where he comes from, and who are his kith and kin, I am sure I don't know." "Tyrrel, ha! yes, I have heard of him to-night, for the first time," said Butler. "He must be a rich man," continued the hostess, "for he travels with two white servants, and always pays his way in gold. One of his men is now in the house; and, between you and me, major, this man is a very inquisitive sort of person, and would hardly be taken for a serving man; and he is a cautious fellow too, although there is a good deal of swagger and bullying about him, which might deceive one at first sight." "Here, in the house to-night?" inquired Butler. "Speak low, major, the man is now walking the porch before our windows." "What does Mildred say of this Tyrrel?" asked Butler. "Has she been here lately?" "The good lady never stirs from home whilst Tyrrel is at the Dove Cote; for fear, I believe, that he will follow her, for they do whisper about in the neighborhood--though I don't say it to alarm you, Mr. Arthur, that this man is of the high quality, a nobleman, some say, and that he has come here a-courting. Only think of the assurance of the man! But if he was a prince, and every hair of his head strung with diamonds, and Miss Mildred was as free as the day you first saw her, I can say with safety he would find but cold comfort in that game; for she despises him, major, both for himself and for his tory principles. She does hate him with a good will. No, no, her heart and soul are both where they ought to be, for all her father, poor man, and this rich gentleman! Oh, it is a cruel thing that you and our pretty lady cannot live quietly together; but Mr. Lindsay is past talking to about it. I declare I think his mind is touched: I positively believe it would kill him if he knew all that has passed in this house; but he is, in the main, a good man, and a kind father, and is very much to be pitied. I see you are sad and sorrowful, Mr. Arthur: I didn't mean to distress you with my prating. You tell me, you think you may travel as far as Georgie." "Even so far, good dame, if some accident should not shorten my career. These are doubtful times, and my path is as uncertain as the chances of war. It may be long before I return. "I grieve night and day, and my heart bleeds for Miss Mildred, for she is so good, so constant, so brave, too, for a woman," said the widow with unaffected emotion. "Well-a-day! what woes these wars have brought upon us! You told her your plans, Mr. Arthur?" "Our interview was short and painful," replied Butler. "I scarcely know what I said to her. But, one thing I entreat of you: my letters will be directed to your charge; you will contrive to have them promptly and secretly delivered: oblige me still in that, good mother. Henry will often visit you." "And a brave and considerate young man he is, major; I'll be surety for his making of an honorable and a real gentleman. Do you join the army in Carolina?" "Perhaps not. My route lies into the mountains, our troops struggle for a footing in the low country." "If I may make bold, Major Butler, to drop a word of advice into your ear, which, seeing that I'm an older man than you," interrupted the sergeant, in an admonitory whisper, "I think I have got good right to do, why I would just say that there may be no great disconvenience in talking before friends; but sometimes silence brings more profit than words. So, I vote that we leave off telling the course of our march till such time as it is done, and all is safe. There will be briers enough in our way, without taking the trouble to sow them by the road-side. The man that stands a little aside from that window, out on the porch, throws his shadow across the sill oftener than is honest, according to my reckoning. You said, ma'am," continued Horse Shoe, addressing the widow, "that the fellow in the porch yon is Mr. Tyrrel's man." "He walks later than usual to-night," replied Mrs. Dimock, "for though he can't be called a man of regular hours, yet, unless he can find an idler to keep him company, he is accustomed to be in his bed before this." "He is after no good, depend upon that," said Horse Shoe. "I have twice seen the light upon his face behind the shutter: so, true man or spy, it's my admonishment not to speak above the purring of a cat." "You are right, Galbraith," said Butler. "We have many reasons to distrust him; and it is at least safest to keep our affairs private." "If I thought he was prying," continued Galbraith, "which I do measurably insinuate and believe, I would take the freedom to give him the benefit of a drilling on good manners. Ha, major! as I have a hand, he is reconnoitring us now at this identical time! Didn't you see him pass up and down before the door, and look in as greedily as if our faces were picture-books for him to read? I will have a word with him, and, wise or simple, I will get his calibre before I am done with him. Never let on, major; stay where you are. I promised to look after our horses." The hostess and her guest now continued their communion; in which we leave them, whilst we follow Horse Shoe towards the stable. CHAPTER VI. There're two at fisty-cuffs about it; Sir, I may say at dagger's drawing, But that I cannot say, because they have none. _Mayor of Quinborough._ When Horse Shoe left the apartment, he discovered the person, whose demeanor had excited his suspicion, leaning against a post of the porch, in front of the house. The moonlight, as it partially fell upon this man's figure, disclosed a frame of sufficient mould to raise a surmise, that, in whatever form of communication the sergeant might accost him, he was not likely to find a very tractable subject to his hand. Robinson, however, without troubling himself with the contemplation of such a contingency, determined to delay his visit to the stable long enough to allow himself the expression of a word of warning or rebuke, to indicate to the stranger the necessity for restraining his curiosity in regard to the guests of the inn. With this view he halted upon the porch, while he scanned the person before him, and directed an earnest gaze into his face. The stranger, slightly discomfited by this eager scrutiny, turned his back upon his visitor, and, with an air of idle musing, threw his eyes towards the heavens, in which position he remained until summoned by the familiar accost of Horse Shoe. "Well! and what do you make of the moon? As sharp an eye as you have in your head, neighbor, I'm thinking it will do you no great sarvice there. You're good at your spying trade; but you will get nothing out of her; she keeps her secrets." Startled by this abrupt greeting, which was made in a tone half-way between jest and earnest, the stranger quickly confronted his challenger, and bestowed upon him a keen and inquiring inspection; then breaking into a laugh, he replied with a free and impudent swagger-- "You are mistaken, Master Jack Pudding. What says the proverb? Wit's in the wane when the moon's at full. Now, our mistress has let me into a secret. She tells me that you will not lose your wits, when she comes to her growth. The reason why? first, because she never troubles herself with so small a stock as yours, and second, because your thick skull is moon-proof; so, you're safe, friend." "A word in your ear," said Horse Shoe; "_you_ are not safe, friend, if you are cotched again peeping through the chinks of the window, or sneaking upon the dark side of the doorway, to pick up a crumb of talk from people that are not axing your company. Keep that in your memory." "It's a base lie, Mr. Bumpkin, if you mean to insinuate that I did either." "Oh, quiet and easy, good man! No flusterifications here! I am civil and peaceable. Take my advice, and chaw your cud in silence, and go to bed at a reasonable hour, without minding what folks have to say who come to the widow Dimock's. It only run in my head to give you a polite sort of a warning. So, good night; I have got business at the stable." Before the other could reply, Robinson strode away to look after the accommodations of the horses. "The devil take this impertinent ox-driver!" muttered the man to himself, after the sergeant had left him; "I have half a mind to take his carcase in hand, just to give it the benefit of a good, wholesome manipulation. A queer fellow, too--a joker! A civil, peaceable man!--the hyperbolical rogue! Well, I'll see him out, and, laugh or fight, he shan't want a man to stand up to him!" Having by this train of reflection brought himself into a mood which might be said to hover upon the isthmus between anger and mirth, ready to fall to either side as the provocation might serve, the stranger sauntered slowly towards the stable, with a hundred odd fancies as to the character of the man he sought running through his mind. Upon his arrival there he found that Horse Shoe was occupied in the interior of the building, and being still in a state of uncertainty as to the manner in which it was proper he should greet our redoubtable friend, he took a seat on a small bench at the door, resolved to wait for that worthy's reappearance. This delay had a soothing effect upon his temper, for as he debated the subject over in his mind, certain considerations of policy seemed to indicate to him the necessity of making himself better acquainted with the business and quality of the individual whom he came to meet. After a few moments, Horse Shoe was seen with old Tony at the stable door, where, notwithstanding the unexpected presence of the man to whom he had so lately offered his unwelcome advice, and upon whom he now conferred not the slightest notice, he continued uninterruptedly, and with deliberate composure, to give his orders upon what, at that moment, doubtless, he deemed matter of much graver importance than any concern he might have in the visit of his new acquaintance. "Do what I tell you, Tony; get a piece of linen, rub it well over with tallow, and bring it here along with a cup of vinegar. The beast's back is cut with the saddle, and you must wash the sore first with the vinegar, and then lay on the patch. Go, old fellow, and Mrs. Dimock, may be, can give you a strip of woollen cloth to sarve as a pad." With these instructions the negro retired towards the house. "I see you understand your business," said the stranger. "You look to your horse's back at the end of a day's journey, and you know how to manage a sore spot. Vinegar is the thing! You have had a long ride?" "How do you know that?" inquired Horse Shoe. "Know it! any man might guess as much by the way you shovelled down your supper. I happened by chance to pass your window, and seeing you at it, faith! for the soul of me I couldn't help taking a few turns more, just to watch the end of it. Ha! ha! ha! give me the fellow that does honor to his stomach! And your dolt head must be taking offence at my looking at you! Why, man, your appetite was a most beautiful rarity; I wouldn't have lost the sport of it for the pleasure of the best supper I ever ate myself." "Indeed!" said Robinson, drily. "Pease upon the trencher!" exclaimed the other, with the air of a pot companion; "that's the true music for good fellows of your kidney! But it isn't every where that you will find such bountiful quarters as you get here at the Blue Ball in that cursed southern country a man like you would breed a famine, if you even do not find one ready made to your hand when you get there." "Where mought you be from?" asked the sergeant, with great gravity, without responding to the merriment of his visitor, and purposely refraining from the answer which he saw it was the other's drift to obtain relative to the course of his travel. "It was natural enough that you should have mistaken my object," continued the stranger, heedless of Horse Shoe's abrupt question, "and have suspected me for wanting to hear some of your rigmarole; but there you did me wrong. I forgive you for that, and, to tell you the truth, I hate your----?" "That's not to the purpose," said Horse Shoe; "I axed you a civil question, and maybe, that's more than you have a right to. You can answer it or let it alone. I want to know where mought you be from?" "Since you are bent upon it, then," replied the other, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking with a saucy emphasis, "I'll answer your question, when you tell me what _mought_ be your right to know." "It's the custom of our country," rejoined Horse Shoe, "I don't know what it may be in yourn, to larn a little about the business of every man we meet; but we do it by fair, out-and-out question and answer--all above board, and we hold in despise all sorts of contwistifications, either by laying of tongue-traps, or listening under eaves of houses." "Well, most wise and shrewd master, what do you call my country? Ha! ha! ha! I would be sworn you think you have found some mare's nest! If it were not that your clown pate is somewhat addled by over feeding, I would hold your speech to be impertinent. My country, I'd have your sagacity to understand----" "Tut, man, it arn't worth the trouble of talking about it! I never saw one of your people that I didn't know him by the first word that came out of his lips. You are an Englishman, and a red coat into the bargain, as we call them in these parts. You have been a sodger. Now, never bounce at that, man! There's no great harm in belonging to that craft. They listed you, as likely as not, when you was flusticated with liquor, and you took your pay; there was a bargain, and it was your business to stand to it. But I have got a piece of wisdom to whisper to you, insomuch as you are not in the most agreeablest part of the world to men of your colors, it would be best to be a little more shy against giving offence. You said some saucy things to me just now, but I don't grudge your talking, because you see, I am an onaccountable hard sort of person to be instigated by speeching." "Verily, you are a most comical piece of dulness," said the other, in a spirit of raillery. "In what school did you learn your philosophy, friend? You have been brought up to the wholesome tail of the plough, I should say--an ancient and reputable occupation." "When I obsarved, just now," replied Robinson, somewhat sternly, "that I couldn't be instigated, I meant to be comprehended as laying down a kind of general doctrine that I was a man not given to quarrels; but still, if I suspicioned a bamboozlement, which I am not far from at this present speaking, if it but come up to the conflagrating of only the tenth part of the wink of an eye, in a project to play me off, fore God, I confess myself to be as weak in the flesh as e'er a rumbunctious fellow you mought meet on the road." "Friend," said the other, "I do not understand thy lingo. It has a most clodpolish smack. It is neither grammar, English, nor sense." "Then, you are a damned, onmannerly rascal," said Horse-Shoe, "and that's grammar, English, and sense, all three." "Ha, you are at that! Now, my lubberly booby, I understand you," returned the other, springing to his feet. "Do you know to whom you are speaking?" "Better than you think for," replied the sergeant, placing himself in an erect position to receive what he had a right to expect, the threatened assault of his adversary, "I know you, and guess your arrand here." "You do?" returned the other sharply. "You have been juggling with me, sir. You are not the gudgeon I took you for. It has suited your purpose to play the clown, eh? Well, sir, and pray, what do you guess?" "Nothing good of you, considering how things go here. Suppose I was to say you was, at this self-same identical time, a sodger of the king's? I have you there!" The stranger turned on his heel and retreated a few paces, evidently perplexed at the new view in which the sergeant suddenly rose to his apprehension. His curiosity and his interest were both excited to gain a more distinct insight into a man whom he had mistaken for a mere simpleton, but whose hints showed him to be shrewdly conversant with the personal concerns of one, whom, apparently, he had seen to-night for the first time in his life. With this anxiety upon his mind, he again approached the sergeant, as he replied to the last question. "Well, and if I were? It is a character of which I should have no reason to be ashamed." "That's well said!" exclaimed Horse Shoe. "Up and speak out, and never be above owning the truth; that's the best sign that can be of a man. Although it mought be somewhat dangerous, just hereabouts, to confess yourself a sodger of King George--let me tell you, that, being against you, I am not the person to mislest you on that head, by spreading the news abroad, or setting a few dozen of whigs upon your scent, which is a thing easily done. If your business here is peaceable and lawful, and you don't let your tongue brawl against quiet and orderly people, you are free to come and go for me." "Thank you, sir: but look you; it isn't my way to answer questions about my own business, and I scorn to ask any man's leave to come and go where and when my occasions call me." "If it isn't your way to answer questions about your own business," replied Horse Shoe, "it oughtn't to be your way to ax them about other people's; but that don't disturb me; it is the rule of the war to question all comers and goers that we happen to fall in with, specially now, when there's a set of your devils scampering and raging about in Carolina, hardly a summer day's ride off this province, burning houses and killing cattle, and turning everything topsy-turvy, with a pack of rascally tories to back them. In such times all sorts of tricks are played, such as putting on coats that don't belong to a man, and deceiving honest people by lies, and what not." "You are a stranger to me," said the other; "but let me tell you, without circumlocution or periphrase, I am a free born subject of the king, and I see no reason why, because some of his people have turned rebels a true man, who travels his highway, should be obliged to give an account of himself to every inquisitive fellow who chooses to challenge it. Suppose I tell you that you meddle with matters that don't concern you?" "Then you mought chance to get your head in your hand, that's all. And, hark you, if it wan't that I am rather good-natured, I mought happen to handle you a little rough for that nicknaming of the friends of liberty, by calling them rebels. It doesn't suit such six-pence-a-day fellows as you, who march right or left at the bidding of your master, to rob a church or root up an honest man's peaceful hearth, without so much as daring to have a thought about the righteousness of the matter--it doesn't suit such to be befouling them that fight for church and fire-side both, with your scurvy, balderdash names." "Well, egad! you are a fine bold fellow who speaks his thoughts, that's not to be denied!" said the stranger, again suddenly changing his mood, and resorting to his free and easy address. "You suit these times devilish well. I can't find it in my heart to quarrel with you. We have both been somewhat rough in speech, and so, the account is square. But now tell me, after all, are you sure you have guessed me right? How do you know I am not one of these very rebels myself?" "For two good and point-blank reasons. First, you dar'n't deny that you have pocketed the king's money and worn his coat--that's one. And, second, you are now here under the orders of one of his officers." "No, no, good friend," said the man, with a voice of less boldness than heretofore, "you are mistaken for once in your life. So far what you say, I don't deny--I am in the service of a gentleman, who for some private affairs of his own has come on a visit to this part of the province, and I admit I have been in the old country." "I am not mistaken, good friend," drawled out Robinson, affectedly. "You come from the south. I can tell men's fortunes without looking into the palms of their hands." "You are wrong again," said the other tartly, as he grew angry at being thus badgered by his opponent, "I come from the north." "That's true and it's false both," returned Robinson. "From the north, I grant you--to the south with Sir Henry, and from the south up here. You will find I can conjure a little, friend." "The devil take your conjuring!" exclaimed the other, as he bit his lip and strode restlessly backward and forward; which perplexity being observed by the sergeant, he did not fail to aggravate it by breaking into a hoarse laugh, as he said---- "It wa'n't worth your while to try to deceive me. I knowed you by manifold and simultaneous signs. Him that sets about scouting after other people's secrets, ought to be wary enough to larn to keep his own. But don't take it so to heart, neighbor, there's no occasion for oneasiness--I have no mind to harm you." "Master bully," said the stranger, planting himself immediately in front of the sergeant, "in England, where I was bred, we play at cudgels, and sometimes give broken heads; and some of us are gifted with heavy fists, wherewith we occasionally contrive to box a rude fellow who pries too much into our affairs." "In our country," replied Horse Shoe, "we generally like to get a share of whatever new is stirring, and, though we don't practise much with cudgels, yet, to sarve a turn, we do, now and then, break a head or so; and, consarning that fist work you happened to touch upon, we have no condesentious scruples against a fair rap or two over the knowledge-box, and the tripping-up of a fractious chap's heels, in the way of a sort of a rough-and-tumble, which, may be, you understand. You have been long enough here, mayhap, to find that out." "Then, it is likely, it would please you to have a chance at such a game? I count myself a pretty tolerable hand at the play," said the stranger, with a composure corresponding to that exhibited by Horse Shoe. "Ho, ho! I don't want to hurt you, man," replied the Sergeant. "You will get yourself into trouble. You are hot-headeder than is good for your health." "As the game was mentioned, I thought you might have a fancy to play it." "To be sure I would," said Horse Shoe, "rather than disappoint you in any reasonable longing. For the sake of quiet--being a peaceable man, I will take the trouble to oblige you. Where, do you think, would be the likeliest spot to have it?" "We may readily find a piece of ground at hand," replied the other. "It is a good moonlight play, and we may not be interrupted if we get a little distance off before the negro comes back. Toe to toe, and face to face, suits me best with both friend and foe." "A mule to drive and a fool to hold back, are two of the contrariest things I know," said Robinson, "and so, seeing that you are in arnest about it, let us go at it without more ado upon the first good bit of grass we can pop upon along the river." In this temper the two antagonists left the vicinity of the stable, and walked some hundred paces down along the bank of the stream. The man with whom Horse Shoe was about to hold this strange encounter, and who now walked quietly by his side, had the erect and soldierly port of a grenadier. He was square-shouldered, compact and muscular, and the firmness of his gait, his long and easy stride, and the free swing of his arm as he moved onward in the moonlight, showed Robinson that he was to engage with an adversary of no common capacity. There was, perhaps, on the other side, some abatement in this man's self-confidence, when the same light disclosed to his deliberate inspection the brawny proportions of the sergeant, which, in the engrossment of the topics bandied about in the late dialogue, he had not so accurately regarded. When they had walked the distance I have mentioned, they had little difficulty to select a space of level ground with a sufficient mould for the purpose of the proposed trial of strength. "Here's as pretty a spot as we mought find on the river," said Robinson, "and so get ready, friend. Before we begin, I have a word to say. This here bout is not a thing of my seeking, and I take it to be close akin to downright tom-foolery, for grown up men to set about thumping and hammering each other, upon account of a brag of who's best man, or such like, when the whole univarse is full of occasions for scuffles, and stands in need of able-bodied fellows, to argufy the pints of right and wrong, that can't be settled by preachers, or books, or lawyers. I look upon this here coming out to fight no better than a bit of arrant nonsense. But, as you will have it, it's no consarn of mine to stop you." "You are welcome to do your worst," replied the other, "and the less preaching you make with it, the more saving of time." "My worst," interrupted Horse Shoe, "is almost more than I have the conscience to do to any man who isn't a downright flagratious enemy; and, once more, I would advise you to think before you draw me into a fray; you are flustrated, and sot upon a quarrel, and mayhap, you conjecture that by drawing me out from behind my retrenchments, by which is signified my good nature, and forcing me to deploy into line and open field, you'll get the advantage of an old sodger over me; but there, Mr. Dragoon, you are mistaken. In close garrison or open field, in siege or sally, crossing a defile or reconnoitring on a broad road, I am not apt to lose my temper, or strike without seeing where my blow is to hit. Now, that is all I have to say: so, come on." "You are not what you seem," said the antagonist, in a state of wonder at the strain of the sergeant's composed and deliberate speech, and at the familiarity which this effusion manifested with the details of military life. "In the devil's name, who are you? But, don't fancy I pause to begin our fight, for any other reason than that I may know who I contend with. On the honor of a soldier, I promise you, I will hold you to your game--man, or imp of hell--I care not. Again, who in the devil are you?" "You have hit it," replied Horse Shoe. "My name is Brimstone, I am first cousin to Belzebub." "You have served?" "I have." "And belong to the army yet?" "True again; and I am as tough a sodger, and may be I mought say, as old a sodger as yourself." "Your hand, fellow soldier. I mistook you from the beginning. You continentals--that's the new-fangled word--are stout fellows, and have a good knack at the trick of war, though you wear rough coats, and are savagely unrudimented in polite learning. No matter what colors a man fights under, long usage makes a good comrade of him; and, by my faith! I am not amongst the last to do him honor, even though we stand in opposite ranks. As you say, most sapient Brimstone, we are not much better than a pair of fools for this conspiracy to knock about each other's pates, here at midnight; but you have my pledge to it, and so, we will go at it, if it be only to win a relish for our beds; I will teach you, to-night, some skill in the art of mensuration. You shall measure two full ells upon this green sod." "There's my hand," said Horse Shoe; "now, if I am flung, I promise you I won't be angry. If I sarve you in the same fashion, you must larn to bear it." "With all my heart. So here I stand upon my guard. Begin." "Let me feel your weight," said Robinson, laughing, as he put one hand upon his adversary's shoulder, and the other against his side. "Hark you, master, I feel something hard here about your ribs; you have pistols under your coat, friend. For the sake of fair play and keeping rid of foul blood, you had best lay them aside before we strike. Anger comes up onawares." "I never part from my weapons," replied the other, stepping back and releasing himself from Robinson's grasp. "We are strangers; I must know the company I am in, before I dismiss such old cronies as these. They have got me out of a scrape before this." "We took hands just now," said Robinson, angrily. "When I give my hand, it is tantamount to a book oath that I mean fair, round dealing with the man who takes it. I told you, besides, I was a sodger--that ought to have contented you--and you mought sarch my breast, inside and out, you'd seen in it nothing but honest meanings. There's something of a suspectable rascality, after that, in talking about pistols hid under the flaps of the coat. It's altogether onmanful, and, what's more, onsodgerly. You are a deceit, and an astonishment, and a hissing, all three, James Curry, and no better, to my comprehension, than a coward. I know you of old, although, mayhap, you disremember me. I have hearn said, by more than one, that you was a double-faced, savage-hearted, disregardless beast, that snashed his teeth where he darsn't bite, and bullied them that hadn't the heart to fight; I have hearn that of you, and, as I live, I believe it. Now, look out for your bull head, for I will cuff you in spite of your pistols." With these words, Horse Shoe gave his adversary some half dozen overpowering blows, in such quick succession as utterly defied and broke down the others guard; and then, seizing him by the breast, he threw the tall and stalwart form of Curry at full length upon the ground. "There's your two ells for you! there's the art of menstirration, you disgrace to the tail of a drum," exclaimed Horse Shoe, with accumulating wrath, as the prostrate man strove to extricate himself from the lion grasp that held him. In this strife, Curry several times made an effort to get his hand upon his pistol, in which he was constantly foiled by the superior vigor of the sergeant. "No, no," continued the latter, as he became aware of this attempt, "James Curry, you shall never lay hold upon your fire-arms whilst I have the handling of you. Give them up, you twisting prevaricationer; give them up, you disgracer of powder and lead; and larn this from a rebel, that I don't blow out your brains, only because I wouldn't accommodate the devil by flinging such a lump of petrifaction into his clutches. There, man," he added, as he threw the pistols far from him into the river, his exasperation, at the same time, moderating to a lower temperature, "get upon your feet; and now, you may go hunt for your cronies in yonder running stream. You may count it a marcy that I haven't tossed you after them, to wash the cowardly blood off your face. Now that you are upon your legs, I tell you here, in the moonlight, man to man, with nobody by to hold back your hand, that you are a lying, deceitful skulker, that loves the dark side of a wall better than the light, and steals the secrets of honest folks, and hasn't the heart to stand up fairly to the man that tells you of it. Swallow that, James Curry, and see how it will lay upon your stomach." "I will seek a time!" exclaimed Curry, "to right myself with your heart's blood." "Pshaw! man," replied Horse Shoe, "don't talk about heart's blood. The next time we come into a field together, ax for Galbraith Robinson, commonly called Horse Shoe Robinson. Find me out, that's all. We may take a frolic together then, and I give you my allowance to wear your pistols in your belt." "We may find a field yet, Horse Shoe Robinson," returned Curry, "and I'll not fail of my appointment. Our game will be played with broadswords." "If it should so turn out, James, that you and me are to work through a campaign in the same quarter of the world, as we have done afore, James, I expect, I'll take the chance of some holiday to pay my respects to you. I wont trouble you to ride far to find me; and then, it may be broadsword or pistol, rifle or bagnet, I'm not over-scrumptious which. Only promise I shall see you when I send for you." "It's a bargain, Galbraith Robinson! Strong as you think yourself in your cursed rough-and-tumble horseplay, I am soldier enough for you any day. I only ask that the time may come quickly." "You have no objection to give us a hand to clinch that bargain, James?" asked Horse Shoe. "There's my paw; take it, man, I scorn to bear malice after the hot blood cools." "I take it with more pleasure now," said Curry, hastily seizing the hand, "than I gave mine to you before to-night, because it is a pledge that suits my humor. A good seat in a saddle, four strong legs below me, and a sharp blade, I hold myself a match for the best man that ever picked a flint in your lines." "Now, friend Curry," exclaimed the sergeant, "good night! Go look for your pop-guns in the river; and if you find them, hold them as a keepsake to remember Horse Shoe Robinson. Good night." Robinson left his adversary, and returned to the inn, ruminating, as he walked, over the strange incident in which he had just been engaged. For a while his thoughts wore a grave complexion; but, as his careless good humor gradually broke forth through the thin mist that enveloped it, he was found, before he reached the porch, laughing, with a quiet chuckle, at the conceit which rose upon his mind, as he said, half-audibly, "Odd sport for a summer night! Howsever, every one to his liking, as the old woman said; but to my thinking, he mought have done better if he had gone to sleep at a proper hour, like a moralised and sober Christian." When he entered the parlor, he found Butler and the landlady waiting for him. "It is late, sergeant," said the Major. "You have forgotten the hour; and I began to fear you had more to say to your friend, there, than suited the time of night." "All is right, by your smiling," added the landlady; "and that's more than I expected at the time you walked out of the room. I couldn't go to my bed, till I was sure you and my lodger had no disagreeable words; for, to tell you the truth, I am greatly afraid of his hot and hasty temper." "There is nothing hot or hasty about him, ma'am," replied Robinson; "he is about as peaceable a man as you mought expect to meet in such times as these. I only told him a little scrap of news, and you would have thought he would have hugged me for it, ha, ha, ha." "We are to sleep in the same room, sergeant," said Butler, "and our good hostess will show us the way to it." The dame, upon this hint, took a candle, and conducted her guests to a chamber in the upper story, where, after wishing them "a good night," she courtesied respectfully, and left them to their repose. "Tell me, sergeant, what you made out of that fellow," said Butler, as he undressed himself. "I see that you have had some passage with him; and, from your tarrying so long, I began to be a little apprehensive of rough work between you. What passed, and what have you learned?" "Enough, major, to make us more circumscriptious against scouts, and spies, and stratagems. When I was a prisoner at Charlestown, there was an amazing well-built fellow, a dragoon, that had been out with Tarleton; but, when I saw him, he was a sort of rithmatical account-keeper and letter-scribbler for that young fighting-cock, the Earl of Caithness, him that was aidegong to Sir Henry Clinton. Well, this fellow had a tolerable bad name, as being a chap that the devil had spiled, in spite of all the good that had been pumped into him at school; for, as I have hearn, he was come of gentle people, had a first rate edication, and I reckon, now, major, he talks as well as a book, whereupon I have an observation." "Keep that until to-morrow, sergeant," interrupted Butler, "and go on with what you had to tell me." "You must be a little sleepy, major: however, this fellow, they say, was cotched cheating with cards one day, when he was playing a game of five shilling loo with the King or the Queen, or some of the dukes or colonels in the guards--for he wa'n't above any thing rascally. So, it was buzzed about, as you may suppose when a man goes to cheating one of them big fish--and the King gave him his choice to enlist, or go to the hulks; and he, being no fool, listed, as a matter of course. In that way he got over here; and, as I tell you, was a sort of sarvent to that young Earl. He sometimes came about our quarters to list prisoners and make Tories of 'em, for his own people kept him to do all that sort of dirty work, upon account of the glibness of his tongue. He was a remarkable saucy fellow and got nothing but ill-will from the prisoners--though, I make no doubt, the man is a tolerable sodger on sarvice. Now, after telling you all this, major, you must know that the identical, same, particular man that we saw looking through the porch window at us to-night"-- "Is the man you have been describing? Is it possible? Are you sure of it?" "I knowed him the minute I clapped eyes on him: his name is James Curry: but, as I didn't stay long at Charlestown, and hadn't any thing to do with him in particular, it seems he didn't remember me." "You conversed with him?" "Most sartainly I did. I wanted to gather a little consarning of his visit up here: but the fellow's been so battered about in the wars, that he knows how to hold his tongue. I had some mischief in me, and did want to make him just angry enough to set his speech loose; and, besides, I felt a little against him upon account of his misdoings with our people in Carolina, and so, I said some rough things to him; and, as my discourse ar'n't none of the squarest in pint of grammar and topographical circumlocution--as Lieutenant Hopkins used to say--why he set me down for a piece of an idiot, and began to hoax and bamboozle me. I put that matter straight for him very soon, by just letting him say so much and no more. And then, as I was a peaceable man, major, he seemed to see that I didn't want to have no quarrel with him, which made him push it at me rather too hard, and all my civility ended in my giving him what he wanted at first--a tolerable, regular thrashing." The sergeant continued to relate to Butler the details of this adventure, which he did with more prolixity than the weariness of his listener was able to endure; for the major, having in the progress of the narrative got into bed, and having, in the increasing oscitancy of his faculties, exhausted every expression of assent by which one who listens to a tale is accustomed to notify his attention--he at length dropped into a profound sleep, leaving the sergeant to conclude at his leisure. When Robinson perceived this, he had nothing left but to betake himself, with all expedition, to his own rest; whereupon he threw off his coat, and taking the coverings of the bed appropriated to his use, spread them upon the floor, as he pronounced an anathema against sleeping on feathers, (for it must be observed, that our good hostess, at that early day, was liable to the same censure of an unnatural attachment to feather beds in summer, which may, at the present time,[1] be made against almost every country inn in the United States,) and then extinguishing the candle, he stretched himself upon the planks, as he remarked to his unconscious companion, "that he was brought up on a hard floor;" and after one or two rolls, he fell into that deep oblivion of cares, by which nature re-summons and supplies the strength which toil, watching and anxiety wear down. The speed of Horse Shoe's journey through this pleasant valley of sleep might be measured somewhat in the same manner that the route of a mail stage may sometimes be traced through a mountain defile, by the notes of the coachman's horn; it was defined by the succession of varying intonations through which he ascended the gamut, beginning with a low but audible breathing, and rising through the several stages of an incipient snore, a short quick bark, and up to a snort that constituted the greatest altitude of the ascent. Occasionally a half articulated interjection escaped him, and words that showed in what current his dreams were sailing: "No pistols! Look in the water, James! Ha ha!" These utterings were accompanied with contortions of body that more than once awaked the sleeper; but, at last, the huge bulk of Horse Shoe grew motionless in a deep and strong sleep. The next morning, at early dawn, our travellers resumed their journey, which I will leave them to prosecute, whilst I conduct my reader to the affairs and interests that dwell about the Dove Cote. CHAPTER VII. SOME ACCOUNT OF PHILIP LINDSAY--SENSIBILITY AND RETIREMENT APT TO ENGENDER A PERNICIOUS PHILOSOPHY. The thread which I have now to take up and weave into this history requires that my narrative should go back for some years. It briefly concerns the earlier fortunes of Philip Lindsay. His father emigrated from England, and was established in Virginia about the year 1735, as a secretary to the governor of the province. He was a gentleman of good name and fortune. Philip was born within a year after this emigration. As America was then comparatively a wilderness, and afforded but few facilities for the education of youth, the son of the secretary was sent at an early age to England, where he remained, with the exception of an occasional visit to his parents, under the guardianship of a near relative, until he had completed, not only his college course, but also his studies in the Temple--an almost indispensable requirement of that day for young gentlemen of condition. His studies in the Temple had been productive of one result, which Lord Coke, if I remember, considers idiosyncratic in the younger votaries of the law--he had fallen in love with an heiress. The natural consequence was a tedious year, after his return home, spent at the seat of the provincial government, and a most energetic and persevering interchange of letters with the lady, whom my authority allows me to name Gertrude Marshall. This was followed by another voyage across the Atlantic, and finally, as might be predicted, by a wedding with all proper observance and parental sanction. Lindsay then returned, a happier and more tranquil man, to Virginia, where he fulfilled the duties of more than one public station of dignity and trust. In due course of time he fell heir to his father's wealth, which with the estate of his wife made him one of the most opulent and considerable gentlemen of the Old Dominion. He had but two children--Mildred and Henry--with four years difference between their ages. These were nurtured with all the care and indulgent bounty natural to parents whose affections are concentrated upon so small a family circle. Lindsay's character was grave and thoughtful, and inclined him to avoid the contests of ambition and collision with the world. A delicate taste, a nice judgment, and a fondness for inquiry made him a student and an ardent lover of books. The ply of his mind was towards metaphysics; he delved into the obsolete subtleties of the old schools of philosophy, and found amusement, if not instruction, in those frivolous but ingenious speculations which have overshadowed even the best wisdom of the schoolmen with the hues of a solemn and absurd pedantry. He dreamed in the reveries of Plato, and pursued them through the aberrations of the Coryphæans. He delighted in the visions of Pythagoras, and in the intellectual revels of Epicurus. He found attraction in the Gnostic mysteries, and still more in the phantasmagoria of Judicial Astrology. His library furnished a curious index to this unhealthy appetite for the marvellous and the mystical. The writings of Cornelius Agrippa, Raymond Lully, and Martin Delvio, and others of less celebrity in this circle of imposture, were found associated with truer philosophies and more approved and authentic teachers. These studies, although pursued with an acknowledgment of their false and dangerous tendency, nevertheless had their influence upon Lindsay's imagination. There are few men in whom the mastery of reason is so absolute as to be able totally to subdue the occasional uprising of that element of superstition which is found more or less vigorous in every mind. A nervous temperament, which is almost characteristic of minds of an imaginative cast, is often distressingly liable to this influence, in spite of the strongest resolves of the will and the most earnest convictions of the judgment. If those who possess this temperament would confess, they might certify to many extraordinary anxieties and troubles of spirit, which it would pain them to have the world believe. Lindsay's pursuits had impressed his understanding with some sentiment of respect for that old belief in the supernatural, and had, perhaps, even warmed up his faith to a secret credulity in these awful agencies of the spiritual world, or at least to an unsatisfied doubt as to their existence. Many men of sober brow and renown for wisdom are unwilling to acknowledge the extent of their own credulity on the same topic. His relations to the government, his education, pursuits and temper, as might be expected, had deeply imbued Lindsay with the politics of the tory party, and taught him to regard with distrust, and even with abhorrence, the revolutionary principles which were getting in vogue. In this sentiment he visited with a dislike that did not correspond with the more usual development of his character, all those who were in any degree suspected of aiding or abetting the prevailing political heresy of the times. About two years after the birth of Mildred, he had purchased a tract of land in the then new and frontier country lying upon the Rockfish river. Many families of note in the low country had possessed themselves of estates at the foot of the Blue Ridge, in this neighborhood, and were already making establishments there. Mr. Lindsay, attracted by the romantic character of the scenery, the freshness of the soil, and the healthfulness of the climate, following the example of others, had laid off the grounds of his new estate with great taste, and had soon built, upon a beautiful site, a neat and comfortable rustic dwelling, with such accommodation as might render it a convenient and pleasant retreat during the hot months of the summer. The occupation which this new establishment afforded his family; the scope which its improvement gave to their taste; and the charms that intrinsically belonged to it, by degrees communicated to his household an absorbing interest in its embellishment. His wife cherished this enterprise with a peculiar ardor. The plans of improvement were hers; the garden, the lawns, the groves, the walks--all the little appendages which an assiduous taste might invent, or a comfort-seeking fancy might imagine necessary, were taken under her charge; and one beauty quickly following upon another, from day to day, evinced the dominion which a refined art may exercise with advantage over nature. It was a quiet, calm, and happy spot, where many conveniences were congregated together, and where, for a portion of every succeeding year, this little family nestled, as it were, in the enjoyment of voluptuous ease. From this idea, and especially as it was allied with some of the tenderest associations connected with the infancy of Mildred, it was called by the fanciful and kindly name of "The Dove Cote." The education of Mildred and Henry became a delightful household care. Tutors were supplied, and the parents gave themselves up to the task of supervision with a fond industry. They now removed earlier to the Dove Cote with every returning spring, and remained there later in the autumn. The neighborhood furnished an intelligent and hospitable society; and the great western wilderness smiled with the contentment of a refined and polished civilization, which no after day in the history of this empire has yet surpassed--perhaps, not equalled. It is not to be wondered at, that a mind so framed as Lindsay's, and a family so devoted, should find an exquisite enjoyment in such a spot. Whilst this epoch of happiness was in progression, the political heaven began to be darkened with clouds. The troubles came on with harsh portents; war rumbled in the distance, and, at length, broke out in thunder. Mildred had, in the meantime, grown up to the verge of womanhood,--a fair, ruddy, light-haired beauty, of exceeding graceful proportions, and full of the most interesting impulses. Henry trod closely upon her heels, and was now shooting through the rapid stages of boyhood. Both had entwined themselves around their parents' affections, like fibres that conveyed to them their chief nourishment; and the children were linked to each other even, if that where possible, by a stronger band. The war threw Lindsay into a perilous predicament. His estates were large, and his principles exposed him to the sequestration which was rigidly enforced against the royalist party. To avoid this blow, or, at least, to mitigate its severity, he conveyed the estate of the Dove Cote to Mildred; assigning, as his reason for doing so, that, as it was purchased with moneys belonging to his wife, he consulted and executed her wish, in transferring the absolute ownership of it to his daughter. The rest of his property was converted into money, and invested in funds in Great Britain. As soon as this arrangement was made, about the second year of the war, the Dove Cote became the permanent residence of the family; Lindsay preferring to remain here rather than to retire to England, hoping to escape the keen notice of the dominant party, and to find, in this classic and philosophical privacy, an oblivion of the rude cares that beset the pillow of every man who mingled in the strife of the day. He was destined to a grievous disappointment. His wife, to whom he was romantically attached, was snatched from him by death, just at this interesting period. This blow, for a time, almost unseated his reason. The natural calm of such a mind as Lindsay's is not apt to show paroxysms in grief. Its sorrow was too still and deep for show. The flight of years, however, brought healing on their wings; and Mildred and Henry gradually relumed their father's countenance with flashes of cheerful thought, that daily grew broader and more abiding; till, at last, sense and duty completed their triumph, and once more gave Lindsay to his family, unburdened of his grief, or, if not unburdened, conversing with it only in the secret hours of self-communion. His hopes of ease and retirement were disappointed in another way. The sequesterment of the Dove Cote was not sufficient to shut out the noise nor the intrigues of the war. His reputation, as a man of education, of wealth, of good sense, and especially as a man of aristocratic pretensions, irresistibly drew him into the agitated vortex of politics. His house was open to the visits of the tory leaders, no less than to those of the other side; and, although this intercourse could not be openly maintained without risk, yet pretexts were not wanting, occasionally, to bring the officers and gentlemen in the British interest to the Dove Cote. They came stealthily and in disguise, and they did not fail to involve him in the insidious schemes and base plottings by which a wary foe generally endeavors to smoothe the way of invasion. The temporary importance which these connections conferred, and the assiduous appeal which it was the policy of the enemy to make to his loyalty, wrought upon the vanity of the scholar, and brought him, by degrees, from the mere toleration of an intercourse that he at first sincerely sought to avoid, into a participation of the plans of those who courted his fellowship. Still, however, this was grudgingly given--as much from the inaptitude of his character, as from a secret consciousness, at bottom, that it was contrary to the purpose that had induced him to seek the shelter of the woods. Unless, therefore, the spur was frequently applied to the side of his reluctant resolution, his zeal was apt to weary in its pace, or, to change my figure for one equally appropriate, to melt away in the sunny indolence of his temper. I have said that, during the tenderer years of the children, and up to the period of the loss of their mother, they had received the most unremitting attention from their parents. The bereavement of his wife, the deep gloom that followed this event, and the now engrossing character of the war, had in some degree relaxed Lindsay's vigilance over their nurture, although it had in no wise abated his affection for them; on the contrary, perhaps this was more concentrated than ever. Mildred had grown up to the blossom-time of life, in the possession of every personal attraction. From the fanciful ideas of education adopted by her father, or rather from the sedulous care with which he experimented upon her capacity, and devoted himself to the task of directing and waiting upon the expansion of her intellect, she had made acquirements much beyond her years, and altogether of a character unusual to her sex. An ardent and persevering temper had imparted a singular enthusiasm to her pursuits; and her air, though not devoid of playfulness, might be said to be habitually abstracted and self-communing. As the war advanced, her temper and situation both enlisted her as a partisan in the questions which it brought into discussion; and, whilst her father's opinions were abhorrent to this struggle for independence, she, on the other hand, unknown to him, was casting her thoughts, feelings, affections, and hopes upon the broad waters of rebellion; and, if not expecting them to return to her, after many days, with increase of good, certainly believing that she was mingling them with those of patriots who were predestined to the brightest meed of glory. A father is not apt to reason with a daughter; the passions and prejudices of a parent are generally received as principles by the child; and most fathers, counting upon this instinct, deem it enough to make known the bent merely of their own opinions, without caring to argue them. This mistake will serve to explain the wide difference which is sometimes seen between the most tenderly attached parent and child, in those deeper sentiments that do not belong to the every-day concerns of life. Whilst, therefore, Mr. Lindsay took no heed how the seed of doctrine fructified and grew in the soil where he desired to plant it, it in truth fell upon ungenial ground, and either was blown away by the wind, or perished for want of appropriate nourishment. As the crisis became more momentous, and the discussion of national rights more rife, Mildred's predilections ran stronger on the republican side; and, at the opening of my story, she was a sincere and enthusiastic friend of American independence,--a character (however it may be misdoubted by my female readers of the present day, nursed as they are in a lady-like apathy to all concerns of government, and little aware, in the lazy lap of peace, how vividly their own quick sensibilities may be enlisted by the strife of men) neither rare nor inefficient amongst the matrons and maidens of the year seventy-six, some of whom--now more than fifty years gone by--are embalmed in the richest spices and holiest ointment of our country's memory. It is, however, due to truth to say, that Mildred's eager attachment to this cause was not altogether the free motion of patriotism. How often does some little under-current of passion, some slight and amiable prepossession, modest and unobserved, rise to the surface of our feelings, and there give its direction to the stream upon which floats all our philosophy! What is destiny but these under-currents that come whencesoever they list, unheeded at first, and irresistible ever afterwards! My reader must be told that, before the war broke out, this enthusiastic girl had flitted across the path of Arthur Butler, then a youth of rare faculty and promise, who combined with a gentle and modest demeanor an earnest devotion to his country, sustained by a chivalrous tone of honor that had in it all the fanciful disinterestedness of boyhood. It will not, therefore, appear wonderful that, amongst the golden opinions the young man was storing up in all quarters, some fragments of this grace should have made a lodgment in the heart of Mildred Lindsay. Butler was a native of one of the lower districts of South Carolina, and was already the possessor, by inheritance, of what was then called a handsome fortune. He first met Mildred, under the safe-conduct of her parents, at Annapolis in Maryland, at that time the seat of opulence and fashion. There the wise and the gay, the beautiful and the rarely-gifted united in a splendid little constellation, in which wealth threw its sun-beam glitter over the wings of love, and learning and eloquence were warmed by the smiles of fair women: there gallant men gave the fascinations of wit to a festive circle unsurpassed in the new world, or the old, for its proportion of the graces that embellish, and the endowments that enrich life. In this circle there was no budding beauty of softer charm than the young Mildred, nor was there amongst the gay and bright cavaliers that thronged the "little academy" of Eden, (the governor of the province,) a youth of more favorable omen than Arthur Butler. The war was at the very threshold, and angry men thought of turning the ploughshare into the sword. Amongst these was Butler; an unsparing denouncer of the policy of Britain, and an unhesitating volunteer in the ranks of her opposers. It was at this eventful time that he met Mildred. I need hardly add that under these inauspicious circumstances they began to love. Every interview afterwards (and they frequently saw each other at Williamsburg and Richmond) only developed more completely the tale of love that nature was telling in the heart of each. Butler received from Congress an ensign's commission in the continental army, and was employed for a few months in the recruiting service at Charlottesville. This position favored his views and enabled him to visit at the Dove Cote. His intercourse with Mildred, up to this period, had been allowed by Lindsay to pass without comment: it was regarded but as the customary and common-place civility of polite society. Mildred's parents had no sympathy in her lover's sentiments, and consequently no especial admiration of his character, and they had not yet doubted their daughter's loyalty to be made of less stern materials than their own. Her mother was the first to perceive that the modest maiden awaited the coming of the young soldier with a more anxious forethought than betokened an unoccupied heart. How painfully did this perception break upon her! It opened upon her view a foresight of that unhappy sequence of events that attends the secret struggle between parental authority and filial inclination, when the absorbing interests of true love are concerned: a struggle that so frequently darkens the fate of the noblest natures, and whose history supplies the charm of so many a melancholy and thrilling page. Mrs. Lindsay had an invincible objection to the contemplated alliance, and immediately awakened the attention of her husband to the subject. From this moment Butler's reception at the Dove Cote was cold and formal, and Mr. Lindsay did not delay to express to his daughter a marked aversion to her intimacy with a man so uncongenial to his own taste. I need not dwell upon the succession of incidents that followed: are they not written in every book that tells of young hearts loving in despite of authority? Let it suffice to say that Butler, "many a time and oft," hied stealthily and with a lover's haste to the Dove Cote, where, "under the shade of melancholy boughs," or sometimes of good Mistress Dimock's roof, he found means to meet and exchange vows of constancy with the lady of his love. Thus passed the first year of the war. The death of Mrs. Lindsay, to which I have before adverted, now occurred. The year of mourning was doubly afflictive to Mildred. Her father's grief hung as heavily upon her as her own, and to this was added a total separation from Butler. He had joined his regiment and was sharing the perils of the northern campaigns, and subsequently of those which ended in the subjugation of Carolina and Georgia. During all this period he was enabled to keep up an uncertain and irregular correspondence with Mildred, and he had once met her in secret, for a few hours only, at Mistress Dimock's, during the autumn immediately preceding the date of the opening of my story. Mrs. Lindsay, upon her death-bed, had spoken to her husband in the most emphatic terms of admonition against Mildred's possible alliance with Butler, and conjured him to prevent it by whatever means might be in his power. Besides this, she made a will directing the distribution of a large jointure estate in England between her two children, coupling, with the bequest, a condition of forfeiture, if Mildred married without her father's approbation. I have now to relate an incident in the life of Philip Lindsay, which throws a sombre coloring over most of the future fortunes of Mildred and Arthur, as they are hereafter to be developed in my story. The lapse of years, Lindsay supposed, would wear out the first favorable impressions made by Arthur Butler upon his daughter. Years had now passed: he knew nothing of the secret correspondence between the parties, and he had hoped that all was forgotten. He could not help, however, perceiving that Mildred had grown reserved, and that her deportment seemed to be controlled by some secret care that sat upon her heart. She was anxious, solicitous, and more inclined, than became her youth, to be alone. Her household affections took a softer tone, like one in grief. These things did not escape her father's eye. It was on a night in June, a little more than a year before the visit of Butler and Robinson which I have narrated in a former chapter, that the father and daughter had a free communion together, in which it was his purpose to penetrate into the causes of her disturbed spirit. The conference was managed with an affectionate and skilful address on the part of the father, and "sadly borne" by Mildred. It is sufficient to say that it revealed to him a truth of which he was previously but little aware, namely, that neither the family afflictions nor the flight of two years had rooted out the fond predilection of Mildred for Arthur Butler. When this interview ended Mildred retired weeping to her chamber, and Lindsay sat in his study absorbed in meditation. The object in life nearest to his heart was the happiness of his daughter; and for the accomplishment of this what sacrifice would he not make? He minutely recalled to memory all the passages of her past life. What error of education had he committed, that she thus, at womanhood, was found wandering along a path to which he had never led her, which, indeed, he had ever taught her to avoid? What accident of fortune had brought her into this, as he must consider it, unhappy relation? "How careful have I been," he said, "to shut out all the inducements that might give a complexion to her tastes and principles different from my own! How sedulously have I waited upon her footsteps from infancy onward, to shield her from the influences that might mislead her pliant mind! And yet in this, the most determinate act of her life, that which is to give the hue to the whole of her coming fortune, the only truly momentous event in her history--how strangely has it befallen!" In such a strain did his thoughts pursue this harassing subject. The window of his study was open, and he sat near it, looking out upon the night. The scene around him was of a nature to awaken his imagination and lead his musings towards the preternatural and invisible world. It was past midnight, and the bright moon was just sinking down the western slope of the heavens, journeying through the fantastic and gorgeous clouds, that, as they successively caught her beam, stood like promontories jutting upon a waveless ocean, their rich profiles tipped with burnished silver. The long black shadows of the trees slept in enchanted stillness upon the earth: the night-wind breathed through the foliage, and brought the distant gush of the river fitfully upon his ear. There was a witching harmony and music in the landscape that sorted with the solitary hour, and conjured up thoughts of the world of shadows. Lindsay's mind began to run upon the themes of his favorite studies: the array of familiar spirits rose upon his mental vision; the many recorded instances of what was devoutly believed the interference of the dead in the concerns of the living, came fresh, at this moment, to his memory, and made him shudder at his lonesomeness. Struggling with this conception, it struck him with an awe that he was unable to master: "some invisible counsellor," he muttered, "some mysterious intelligence, now holds my daughter in thrall, and flings his spell upon her existence. The powers that mingle unseen in the affairs of mortals, that guide to good or lead astray, have wafted this helpless bark into the current that sweeps onward, unstayed by man. I cannot contend with destiny. She is thy child, Gertrude," he exclaimed, apostrophizing the spirit of his departed wife. "She is thine, and thou wilt hover near her and protect her from those who contrive against her peace: thou wilt avert the ill and shield thy daughter!" Excited almost to phrensy, terrified and exhausted in physical energy, Lindsay threw his head upon his hand and rested it against the window-sill. A moment elapsed of almost inspired madness, and when he raised his head and looked outward upon the lawn, he beheld the pale image of the being he had invoked, gliding through the shrubbery at the farthest verge of the level ground. The ghastly visage was bent upon him, the hand steadily pointed towards him, and as the figure slowly passed away the last reverted gaze was directed to him. "Great God!" he ejaculated, "that form--that form!" and fell senseless into his chair. During the night, Mildred was awakened by a low moan, which led her to visit her father's chamber. He was not there. In great alarm she betook herself to his study, where she found him extended upon a sofa, so enfeebled and bewildered by this recent incident that he was scarcely conscious of her presence. A few weeks restored Lindsay to his usual health, but it was long before he regained the equanimity of his mind. He had seen enough to confirm his faith in the speculations of that pernicious philosophy which is wrapt up in the studies of which I have before given the outline; and he was, henceforth, oftentimes melancholy, moody, and reserved in spite of all the resolves of duty, and in defiance of a temper naturally placid and kind. Let us pass from this unpleasant incident to a theme of more cheerful import: the loves of Mildred and Arthur. I have said these two had secret meetings. They were not entirely without a witness. There was a confidant in all their intercourse: no other than Henry Lindsay, who united to the reckless jollity of youth an almost worshipping love of his sister. His thoughts and actions were ever akin to hers. Henry was therefore a safe depository of the precious secret; and as he could not but think Arthur Butler a good and gallant comrade, he determined that his father was altogether on the wrong side in respect to the love affair, and, by a natural sequence, wrong also in his politics. Henry had several additional reasons for this last opinion. The whole country-side was kindled into a martial flame, and there was nothing to be heard but drums and trumpets. There were rifle-corps raising, and they were all dressed in hunting-shirts, and bugles were blowing, and horses were neighing: how could a gallant of sixteen resist it? Besides, Stephen Foster, the woodman, right under the brow of the Dove Cote, was a lieutenant of mounted riflemen, and had, for some time past, been training Henry in the mystery of his weapon, and had given him divers lessons on the horn to sound the signals, and had enticed him furtively to ride in a platoon on parade, whereof he had dubbed Henry corporal or deputy corporal. All this worked well for Arthur and Mildred. Mr. Lindsay was not ignorant of Henry's popularity in the neighborhood, nor how much he was petted by the volunteer soldiery. He did not object to this, as it served to quiet suspicion of his own dislike to the cause, and diverted the observation of the adherents of what he called the rebel government, from his own motions; whilst, at the same time, he deemed it no other than a gewgaw that played upon the boyish fancy of Henry without reaching his principles. Mildred, on the contrary, did not so regard it. She had inspired Henry with her own sentiments, and now carefully trained him up to feel warmly the interests of the war, and to prepare himself by discipline for the hard life of a soldier. She early awakened in him a wish to render service in the field, and a resolution to accomplish it as soon as the occasion might arrive. Amongst other things, too, she taught him to love Arthur Butler and keep his counsel. CHAPTER VIII. THE MANSION OF A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR. The site of the Dove Cote was eminently picturesque. It was an area of level ground, containing, perhaps, two acres, on the summit of a hill that, on one side, overhung the Rockfish river, and on the other rose by a gentle sweep from the champaign country below. This summit might have been as much as two hundred feet above the bed of the stream, and was faced on that side by a bold, rocky precipice, not absolutely perpendicular, but broken into stages or platforms, where grassy mould had accumulated, and where the sweet-brier and the laurel, and clusters of the azalea, shot up in profuse luxuriance. The fissures of the crag had also collected their handful of soil and gave nourishment to struggling vines, and everywhere the ash or pine, and not unfrequently the dogwood, took possession of such spots upon the rocky wall, as these adventurous and cliff-loving trees had found congenial to their nature. The opposite or northern bank of the river had an equal elevation, and jutted forward so near to the other as to leave between them a cleft, which suggested the idea of some sudden abruption of the earth in those early paroxysms that geologists have deemed necessary to account for some of the features of our continent. Below was heard the ceaseless brattle of the waters, as they ran over and amongst the rocks which probably constituted the _debris_ formed in the convulsion that opened this chasm. It was along through this obscure dell that the road, with which my reader is acquainted, found place between the margin of the stream and the foot of the rocks. The general aspect of the country was diversified by high knolls and broken masses of mountain land, and the Dove Cote itself occupied a station sufficiently above the surrounding district to give it a prospect, eastward, of several miles in extent. From this point the eye might trace the valley of the Rockfish, by the abrupt hill-sides that hemmed it in, and by the growth of sombre pines that coated the steeps where nothing else could find a foot-hold. Not far below, in this direction, was to be seen the Fawn's tower, a singular pinnacle of rock, which had acquired its name from the protection it was said to have afforded to a young deer against the assault of the hounds; the hard-pressed animal, as the tradition relates, having gained this insulated point by a bound that baffled the most adventurous of his pursuers, and admiration of the successful boldness of the leap having won from the huntsman the favor that spared his life. With the exception of a large chestnut near the edge of the cliff, and of some venerable oaks, that had counted centuries before the white man rested his limbs beneath their shade, the native growth of the forest had been removed by Lindsay from the summit I have described, and he had substituted for the wild garniture of nature a few of the choicest trees of the neighboring woods. Here he had planted the elm, the holly and the linden tree, the cedar and the arbor vitæ. This platform was semicircular, and was bounded by a terrace or walk of gravel that swept around its circumference. The space inclosed was covered with a natural grass, which the frequent use of the scythe had brought to the resemblance of velvet; and the lower side of the terrace was guarded by a hedge-row of cedar. Over this green wall, as the spectator walked forth in fair summer time, might he look out upon the distant woods and meadows; and there he might behold the high-road showing itself, at distant intervals, upon the hill-sides; and in the bottom lands, that lay open to the sun through the forest-bound valleys, might he see herds of grazing cattle, or fields of yellow grain, or, perchance, the slow moving wain burdened with hay, or slower moving plough. The mansion itself partook of the character of the place. It was perched--to use a phrase peculiarly applicable to its position--almost immediately at that point where the terrace made an angle with the cliff, being defended by a stone parapet, through which an iron wicket opened upon a flight of rough-hewn steps, that terminated in a pathway leading down to the river. The main building was of stone, consisting of one lofty story, and capped with a steep roof, which curved so far over the front as to furnish a broad rustic porch that rested almost upon the ground. The slim pillars of this porch were concealed by lattice-work, which was overgrown with creeping vines; and the windows of the contiguous rooms, on either side of a spacious hall, opened to the floor, and looked out upon the lawn and upon the quiet landscape far beyond. One of these apartments was also accessible through the eastern gable, by a private doorway shaded by a light veranda, and was appropriated by Lindsay to his library. This portal seemed almost to hang over the rock, having but the breadth of the terrace between it and the declivity, and showing no other foreground than the parapet, which was here a necessary defence against the cliff, and from which the romantic dell of the river was seen in all its wildness. There were other portions of the mansion constructed in the same style of architecture, united to this in such a manner as to afford an uninterrupted communication, and to furnish a range of chambers for the use of the family. A rustic effect was everywhere preserved. Stacks of chimneys shot up in grotesque array; and heavy, old-fashioned windows looked quaintly down from the peaked roof. Choice exotics, planted in boxes, were tastefully arranged upon the lawn; cages with singing-birds were suspended against the wall and the whole mass of building, extending along the verge of the cliff, so as to occupy the entire diameter of the semicircle, perhaps one hundred and fifty feet, sorted by its simplicity of costume, if I may so speak, and by its tidy beauty, with the close-shaven grass-plot and its trim shades. Above the whole, flinging their broad and gnarled arms amongst the chimney tops, and forming a pleasing contrast with the artificial embellishments of this spot, some ancient oaks, in primeval magnificence, reared their time-honored trunks, and no less sheltered the habitation from the noon-tide heats, than they afforded an asylum to the ringdove and his mate, or to the countless travellers of the air that here stopped for rest or food. Such was the general aspect of the Dove Cote; a spot where a philosopher might glide through life in unbroken contemplation; where a wearied statesman might betake himself to reassemble the scattered forces of intellect for new enterprises; where the artist might repair to study with advantage the living graces of God's own painting; and where young beauty might bud and bloom amongst the most delicate and graceful forms of earth. The interior of the dwelling was capacious and comfortable. Its furniture, suitable to the estate of the owner, was plain, and adapted to a munificent rather than to an ostentatious hospitality. It was only in the library that evidence might be seen of large expense. Here, the books were ranged from the floor to the ceiling, with scarcely an interval, except where a few choice paintings had found space, or the bust of some ancient worthy. One or two ponderous lounging chairs stood in the apartment; and the footstep of the visitor was dulled into silence by the soft nap of (what, in that day, was a rare and costly luxury) a Turkey carpet. This was in all respects an apartment of ease, and it was provided with every incentive to beguile a student into silent and luxurious communion with the spirit of the sages around him,--whose subtlest thoughts and holiest breathings, whose most volatile fancies, had been caught up, fixed, and turned into tangible substance, more indestructible than adamant, by the magic of letters. I have trespassed on the patience of my reader to give him a somewhat minute description of the Dove Cote, principally because I hope thereby to open his mind to a more adequate conception of the character of Philip Lindsay. By looking at a man in his own dwelling, and observing his domestic habits, I will venture to affirm, it shall scarcely in any instance fail to be true, that, if there be seen a tasteful arrangement of matters necessary to his comfort; if his household be well ordered, and his walks clean and well rolled, and his grassplots neat; and if there be no slovenly inattention to repairs, but thrift against waste, and plenty for all; and, if to these be added habits of early rising and comely attire--and, above all, if there be books, many books, well turned and carefully tended--that man is one to warm up at the coming of a gentleman; to open his doors to him; to take him to his heart, and to do him the kindnesses of life. He is a man to hate what is base, and to stand apart from the mass, as one who will not have his virtue tainted. He is a man, moreover, whose worldly craft may be so smothered and suppressed, in the predominance of the household affections, that the skilful and designing, alas, may ever practise with success their plans against him. CHAPTER IX. AN INTRIGUE. I must now introduce my reader to the library described in the last chapter, where, beside a small table covered with papers, and lighted by two tall candles, sate Philip Lindsay, with a perplexed and thoughtful brow. Opposite to him, in an easy chair, reclined his guest, Mr. Tyrrel; a man whose appearance might entitle him to claim something like thirty-five years; and whose shrewd and intellectual expression of countenance, to which an air of decision was given by what might be called an intense eye, denoted a person conversant with the business of life; whilst an easy and flexible address no less distinctly announced him one habituated to the most polished society. The time of this meeting corresponded with that of the interview of Arthur and Mildred, beneath the Fawn's Tower. It is necessary only to premise that these two had frequently conferred together, within the last two or three days, upon the subject with which they were now engaged. "Sir Henry Clinton does me too much honor by this confidence," said Lindsay. "He overrates my influence amongst the gentlemen of the province. Truly, Mr. Tyrrel, I am well persuaded that neither my precept nor my example would weigh a feather in the scale against the heady course of this rebellion." "We are seldom competent to judge of the weight of our own influence," said Tyrrel. "I might scarce expect you to speak otherwise than you do. But I, who have the opportunity to know, take upon myself to say that many gentlemen of note in this province, who are at present constrained by the fear of the new government, look with anxiety to you. They repose faith in your discretion, and would follow your lead. If an excuse be necessary, you might afford them some pretext of pastime to visit the Dove Cote. Here you might concert your plan to co-operate with our friends in the south." "Tis a rash thought," replied Lindsay. "This little nook of woodland quiet has never yet been disturbed with the debates of men who meditated the spilling of blood. God forbid that these peaceful walls should hereafter echo back the words that speak of such a purpose." "It is to spare the shedding of blood, Mr. Lindsay, and to bring speedy peace to a distracted country that we invoke you and other friends to counsel. A single battle may decide the question of mastery over the province. We are well assured that the moment Lord Cornwallis reaches the Roanoke"-- "Cornwallis has yet to win the ground he stands upon," interrupted Lindsay: "there may be many a deadly blow struck before he slakes his thirst in the waters of that river: many a proud head may be low before that day." "Think you, sir," said Tyrrel, rising as he spoke, "that this patched and ragged levy--this ague-stricken army that is now creeping through the pines of North Carolina, under the command of that pompous pretender, Gates, are the men to dispute with his majesty's forces their right to any inch of soil they choose to occupy? It will be a merry day when we meet them, Mr. Lindsay. We have hitherto delayed our campaign until the harvest was gathered: that is now done, and we shall speedily bring this hero of Saratoga to his reckoning. Then, following at the heels of the runagates, his Lordship, you may be prepared to hear, within two months from this day, will be within friendly hail of the Dove Cote." "You speak like a boastful soldier, Mr. Tyrrel. It is not unlikely that his lordship may foil Gates and turn him back; such I learn to be the apprehension of the more sagacious amongst the continental officers themselves; but whether that mischance is to favor your incursion into this province may be worth a soberer study than, I doubt, you have given the question. The path of invasion is ever a difficult road when it leads against a united people. You mistake both the disposition and the means of these republicans. They have bold partisans in the field, and eloquent leaders in their senates. The nature of the strife sorts well with their quick and earnest tempers; and by this man's-play of war we breed up soldiers who delight in the game. Rebellion has long since marched beyond the middle ground, and has no thought of retreat. What was at first the mere overflow of popular passion has been hardened into principle, like a fiery stream of lava which first rolls in a flood, and then turns into stone. The delusion of republicanism, like all delusions, is embraced with more enthusiasm than men ever embrace truth. We deem too lightly of these men and their cause, and we have already, more than once, suffered for the error. When they expelled Dunmore they committed treason against the British crown; and they are wise enough to know that that cup, once tasted, must be drained to the bottom: they have, therefore, imbrued their hands the deeper in rebellion. They have raised their idol of democracy high, and have fenced it about with the penalties of confiscation and death to those who refuse to bow before it: and now they stand pledged to the prosecution of their unnatural war, by such a bond of fate as unites mariners who have rashly ventured forth upon a raging sea, in a bark of doubtful strength; their minds braced up, by the thought of instant perdition, to the daring effort necessary to reach their haven." "That haven shall they never reach," cried Tyrrel impatiently. "Let them invoke the aid of their patron devils! We have a spell shall conjure them back again to their own hell, else there is no virtue in the forged steel which these rebels have felt before." "The battle is not always to the strong," said Lindsay, "nor is the craft of soldiership without its chances." "If we had listened, my friend," said Tyrrel, "to musty proverbs, Charleston would have this day been in the secure and peaceful possession of the enemy. All that you say against our present scheme was heretofore urged, though not with such authority, perhaps, against the invasion of Carolina. And yet how prettily have we gainsaid the prophets! Look at their principal town surrendered--all the country strongholds delivered up--the people flocking to our standard for protection--and the whole province lifting up a voice of gratitude for the deliverance we have wrought them. They are even now arming themselves in our behalf, whilst the shattered fragments of the rebel force are flying to the swamps and their mountain fastnesses. Why should not the same game be as well played in Virginia? Trust me, Mr. Lindsay, your caution somewhat over-leaps that wholesome moderation, which I do not deny is necessary to check a too sanguine reckoning. Come, good sir, lend us a more auspicious counsel. Sir Henry relies much upon your wisdom, and will not, with good heart, forego your service." "Sir Henry has sadly disturbed my repose," returned Lindsay. "To tell the truth, I have no stomach for this business. Here, I am native to the province: I have found old friends separated from me; early associations torn up by the roots; and the elements which fed my strongest personal attachments poisoned, by this accursed spirit of revolution. I would hide my head from the storm and die in these shades in peace." "It is not for Mr. Philip Lindsay, nor such as he," replied Tyrrel, "to desert his sovereign in his hour of need." "God forgive me for the thought, Mr. Tyrrel, but it remains yet to be proved who most faithfully serve their sovereign; they who counsel peace, or they who push war to its fatal extremes. There lives not a man within the realm of England, to whom I would yield in devotion to the glory of our country. Once make it clear to my judgment that we may hope to regain the lost allegiance of this province by the sacrifice of life and fortune, and, dearly as I cherish the welfare of those around me, I will obey the first summons to the field, and peril this worthless existence of mine in bloody fight. Yea, if need be, I will, with my own hand, apply the torch to this peaceful abode, and give it over a smoking ruin to the cause." "I know you too well," replied Tyrrel, "to doubt the sincerity of your words. But is it not obvious that the war must inevitably tend to this field? Having gained the Carolinas, should we turn our backs as soon as we have reached the confines of Virginia? On the contrary, does not every obligation of honor impel us to maintain and protect our friends here? The conquest of Virginia is an easier enterprise than you deem it. If the continentals can muster ten thousand men, we, assuredly, may double that number, counting our provincials levied in the south. We have money and all the means of war, whilst this crippled Congress has drained from the people their last groat; their wretched troops will disband from mere want of supplies. They may expect no aid from the north; for there Sir Henry will furnish them sufficient motive to stay at home! We come animated by victories, full of mettle and vigor, they meet us broken by defeats, dejected and torn to pieces by mutiny. Never did treason or rebellion array itself with more certainty of punishment than this!" "I have read," said Lindsay, "how John Hampden resisted the exaction of twenty shillings of ship money, and for that pittance dared the displeasure of Charles and his Star Chamber: how he voted the impeachment of the judges who were supple enough to warrant the imposition: how, in this cause, he drew the sword and threw away the scabbard: how he brought Strafford to the block for levying war against the commons of England: and through all that disastrous time, have I read that Charles promised the cavaliers splendid victories, and derided the feeble means of those who were in arms against him; yet Hampden shrunk not from the struggle. To me it seems there is a strange resemblance between the congress now sitting at Philadelphia and the parliament of 1640; and this George Washington might claim kindred with John Hampden. I will not seek for further likenesses." "If I read that history right," replied Tyrrel, "Hampden met his reward at Chalgrove, and Cromwell turned his crop-eared parliament out of doors. We may, perhaps, find a Chalgrove on this continent;--and Sir Henry Clinton will most probably save the wiseacres at Philadelphia from the intrusion of an upstart Cromwell." "It would be too bold in us to count on that, Mr. Tyrrel. I am the enemy of these men and their purpose, but I cannot deem otherwise of them than as misguided subjects of the king, frenzied by the imagination of grievances. They are men of good intellects and honest hearts, misled by passion. I would that we could give their tempers time to cool. I would, even now, preach moderation and compromise to his majesty's ministers." "The die is long since cast," said Tyrrel, "and all that remains now is to take the hazard of the throw. At this moment, whilst we debate, friend and foe are whetting their swords for a deadly encounter on the fields of Carolina. It is too late to talk of other arbitrement. Assuredly, my good friend, our destiny directs us to this province: and the time has come when you must decide what course you will take. It has been our earnest wish--Sir Henry's letters, there upon the table, anxiously unfold it--to have you up and active in the cause. Why will you disappoint so fair a hope?" "Alas! Mr. Tyrrel,--it is a thorny path you would have me tread. Think you I am the man to win my way through these intricacies? I that live in the shelter of these woods by sufferance merely--an unmolested outlaw, to speak soberly, whom these fanatics of liberty have forborne for the sake of past acquaintance and present peaceful habits? Am I not girded round about with the hot champions of independence? Look amongst these hills--there is not a cabin, not a woodman's hut, no, nor stately dwelling, whose roof defends one friend to the royal cause, but my own. My lips are sealed; my very thoughts are guarded, lest I give room to think I mean to fly from my neutrality. These papers that lie upon that table might cost me my life: your presence here, were your purpose known, might consign me to captivity or exile:--one random word spoken might give me over to the censures of the power that holds its usurped domination in the province. What aid may be expected from one so guarded, fettered, watched and powerless?" "And can you patiently," exclaimed Tyrrel, "bow to this oppression? You, a native born freeman of the province--a Briton, nursed in the sunny light of liberty! Shall your freedom of speech be circumscribed, your footsteps be followed by spies and traitors, your very inmost thoughts be read and brought up to the censure of the judgment seat? Shall these things be, and the blood still continue to run coolly and temperately through your veins! There are ills, Mr. Lindsay, which even your calm philosophy may not master. But, perhaps, I have mistaken your temper: these evidences, at least, shall not put you in peril," he said, as he took up the letters from the table and held them over the candle, and then threw the flaming mass upon the hearth. "That fear, I hope, is removed; and as for my presence here, one word briefly spoken, and it shall not longer jeopard your safety." Lindsay looked fixedly at his companion as he destroyed the papers, and then said with a stern emphasis-- "Your duty, sir, is in the field. You have been bred to a profession that teaches you blind obedience to orders. It is not your part to weigh the right of the cause, nor to falter in the execution of any foul purpose of blood, so that it come under the name of honorable warfare. Therefore I excuse this unbecoming warmth: but do not presume upon the hazardous nature of your calling, and fancy that it implies more fidelity to the king than the allegiance of his more peaceful subjects. It is a thought unworthy of you that fear of disaster to myself--be it ten-fold more imminent than it has yet been--should arrest my step in that path where my country's honor, or my sovereign's command, bids me advance." "Worthy and excellent friend," said Tyrrel, taking Lindsay's hand, "I have done you wrong. I am rash and headlong in my temper, and my tongue often speaks what my heart disavows. I am little better than a boy, Mr. Lindsay, and a foolish one; I humbly crave your pardon." "Speak on," said Lindsay. "Then briefly this. Your situation is all that you have described it. Sir Henry is aware of the trial he imposes upon you. He would have you act with the caution which your wisdom dictates; and if it should become necessary to speak that word which is to bring the wrath of the rebels upon your head, remember there is sanctuary and defence under the broad banner of England. Who so welcome there as Philip Lindsay? Even at this moment our councils should be tempered by your presence, and it becomes almost a patriotic duty to pluck you from the seclusion of the Dove Cote, and give you a share in the stirring events of the day. Sir, the country has a claim upon your services, scarce compatible with the idle contemplation of this momentous trial of strength." Lindsay had advanced to the window, where he remained looking over the moon-lit scene. His companion stood close beside him, and after a short interval took his arm, when they stepped forth upon the porch, and sauntered backward and forward, as Tyrrel continued, "The government would not be unmindful of the benefits you might confer. There are offices of trust and dignity to be filled in this province when it shall be restored to its allegiance. The highest post would not be unfitly bestowed, if it should be assigned to you. Sir Henry Clinton bids me speak of that, as of a subject that has already occupied his thoughts. It would give grace and dignity to our resumed authority, to have it illustrated by the accomplished scholar and discreet statesman, who has, before this, discharged important and difficult trusts with a fidelity that has won all men's esteem. And then, my dear sir," he added after a pause, "who may say that it shall not be Sir Philip Lindsay, or even something yet higher?--a coronet would not be an honor unsuited even to the wilds of Virginia. His majesty is not slow to discern worth, nor backward to raise it to its proper station. These are toys and baubles to you, Mr. Lindsay, but they are still worth the seeking. You have a son to follow you." "Ah! there, Mr. Tyrrel, you touch me more nearly than you imagine. You remind me by this language that I have also a daughter. As to Henry, he has a temper and a capacity to make his own way through the world. I fear not for him--nor would I seek for honors to add to his name. But my Mildred! You know not what emotions the thought of her, in these troubles, costs me. Who shall guard and defend her, whilst I pursue this waylaid road of ambition? What sanctuary would she find under a war-encircled banner, should misfortune assail me, and adversity separate us? Alas, alas!--that is the spell that, like a net cast over my limbs, makes me feeble and submissive." "I have not been without my solicitude, Mr. Lindsay, on that subject," said Tyrrel. "You yesterday did me the honor to say that my proposal in regard to Miss Lindsay was not distasteful to you. Could my ardent wish but be accomplished, she should be placed in safety, assured of ample and kind protection. If, haply, her thoughts should incline to a favorable reception of my offer, which I would fain persuade myself her reverence for you may render not altogether improbable, when she knows that you deem well of my suit, we might remove her to Charleston, where, secure amidst assiduous friends, she would pass the brief interval of alarm, and leave you free to act on this theatre as your honor and duty may impel you." "Mildred will not leave me," said Lindsay; "my dear daughter would suffer a thousand deaths in the anxiety of such a separation." "Then why not accompany her to Charleston?" asked Tyrrel. "Your presence there would be equally efficient as at head-quarters--perhaps more so." "There are other obstacles, Mr. Tyrrel. You talk of Mildred as if her heart were to be disposed of at my bidding. You do not know her. I have long struggled to subdue an attachment that has bound her to our worst enemy, I fear with little success. I have trusted to time to wear out what I deemed a mere girlish liking; but it seems to me the traces fade but slowly from her heart." "I know of whom you speak," said Tyrrel--"that harebrained enthusiast Butler. It is a freakish and transient passion, and cannot but fall into forgetfulness. Miss Lindsay has from circumstances been but little conversant with the world, and, like an inexperienced girl, has fostered in solitude a romantic affection. That alone should be a motive to remove her into a busier scene. Besides, this Butler will be himself forced to give over his hopeless aim--if he has not done so before this: measures are already taken, and I do not scruple to tell you, at my instance--to confiscate his lands in Carolina to his majesty's use. The close of this war will find him penniless, and not unlikely, my dear sir, I myself may be the possessor of his inheritance--I have some pledge of the preemption of these lands at a small fee." "It will win you no favor with Mildred," said Lindsay, "to tell her that you succeed by such a title to this man's wealth. She is a wayward girl, and is not used to crosses. Her devotion to her purpose, as it sometimes excites my admiration, gives me, in the present case, cause of profound alarm." "You have spoken to her on this subject?" "I have not," replied Lindsay, "and almost fear to broach it. I can, therefore, give you no encouragement. Some little time hence--perhaps to-morrow--I may sound her feelings. But remember, as her father, I claim no right beyond that of advice. I shall think myself fortunate if, by giving a new direction to the current of her affections, I can divert her mind from the thoughts of an alliance to me the most hateful--to her full of future misery. A maiden's fancies are scarcely intelligible even to a father." "These subjects require meditation," said Tyrrel. "I will not press them further upon your thoughts to-night." "Heaven guide us in the way of safety and happiness!" said Lindsay, almost in a whisper. "Good night, my friend." When Tyrrel was left alone he strolled forward to the terrace, and passing round to that end which overhung the cliff, near the door that opened from the library, he leaned his breast upon the parapet and looked down upon the wild and beautiful scenery of the valley. The night was calm and full of splendor. The tops of the trees that grew in the ravine, almost perpendicularly beneath his eye, here and there caught the bright moon-beam where it glowed like silver, and the shades, rendered deeper by the contrast, seemed to brood over a black and impenetrable abyss. Occasional glimpses were seen of the river below, as it sparkled along such portions of its channel as were not hidden in darkness. The coolness of the hour and the solitude of the spot were not ungrateful to the mood of Tyrrel's mind, whilst the monotonous music of the river fell pleasantly upon his ear. He was not unheedful of these charms in the scene, though his thoughts were busily employed with a subject foreign to their contemplation. "Have I advanced," was the tenor of his present self-communion, "the purpose I have so much at heart, by this night's conference? Could I but engage Lindsay in the issues of this war, so commit him in its purposes and its plots as to render his further residence at the Dove Cote insecure, then would I already have half-compassed my point. Where could he remove but to Charleston? And there, amidst the blandishments of friends and the allurements of gay society, I might make sure of Mildred. There, cut off from all means of hearing of this Butler, and swayed, as she must necessarily be, by the current of loyal feelings, she would learn to detest his foul rebellion, and soon lose her favor for the rebel. Then, too, the confiscation of his lands--but I am not so sure of that!--she is rich and would make a merit of sharing her fortune with a man whose brave resistance of oppression--for so, doubtless, Butler persuades her it is--has cost him his wealth: the confiscation should not seem, at least, to be my doing. Well, well, let her be brought to Charleston. Any change were better than to remain here, where anxiety and suspense and solitude nurse and soften her woman's affections, and teach her to fancy her lover whatsoever her imagination delights to think on. Then may not the chances of war assist me? This Butler, all men say, is brave and adventurous. He should be short-lived. Whatever ill may befall him cannot but work good to me. Yet Lindsay has such a sickly caution--such scruple against involving himself in the scheme--I could almost find it in my heart to have it told amongst his neighbors that he is in correspondence with the enemy. Ha, that would be a bright device!--inform against myself! No, no, I will not abuse his generous nature. Let him come fairly into the fold, and I will guard his gentle lambkin like a very shepherd. Then if we make him governor of the province--that will work well. Mildred will thank me for my zeal in that good purpose, at least, and I will marry her and possess her estate, if it be only to enable her to be grateful to me. 'Twill be a brave reward, and bravely shall it be won." As Tyrrel ruminated over these topics, in the strain indicated by this sketch, the noise of footsteps ascending the rugged stairway of the cliff, and the opening of the iron wicket, but a short distance from where he leaned over the parapet, roused his attention, and put an end to this insidious and selfish communion with his own heart. The cause of this interruption was soon apparent. Henry and Mildred entered through the gate, and hurried along the path to that part of the terrace where Tyrrel stood. The shade of the house concealed him from their view until they were within a few paces. "Ha, Miss Lindsay! You are a late rambler," he said, in a tone of gallantry. "The dampness of the valley, at this hour, is not altogether safe; the ague is a sore enemy to romance; beware of it." "I am not afraid of the night," replied Mildred, as she increased the rapidity of her gait; then, turning immediately upon the porch, she almost ran, leaving Henry and Tyrrel in pursuit, until she reached the farthest window which was heard descending the moment she passed through it into the parlor. When Tyrrel and Henry entered the same apartment, she had disappeared. "My sister is not well this evening," said Henry. "We strolled too late upon the river bank." "It was still an over-hasty retreat," muttered Tyrrel to himself. "It bodes not well for me. I will wager, Henry," he said, raising his voice, "that I can guess what you and your sister have been talking about." "Let me hear," said Henry. "First," replied Tyrrel, "she repeated some verses from Shakspeare about the moonlight sleeping on the bank--this is just the night for poetry--and then you both fell to talking sentiment, and then, I'll be bound, you had a ghost story, and by that time, you found you had got too far from the house and were a little frightened, and so came back as fast as you could." "You are wrong," said Henry. "I have been telling sister Mildred how to bob for eels. Did you know that an eel will never pass a streak of moonlight for fear of being found out by the watchers?" "Indeed I did not." "Well, sister Mildred is wiser than you are; and as I have taught you that, I will go to bed." Tyrrel was again left to resume his meditations, and to hatch his plots for invading the peace of the Dove Cote, on his pillow. To that sleepless pillow he now betook himself. CHAPTER X. TYRREL RETREATS. The next morning Tyrrel rose with the sun. He had passed a restless night, and now sought refreshment in the early breeze. With this purpose he descended to the river, and strayed along the dewy pathway which crept through the shrubbery on the right bank in the direction of the Fawn's Tower. He had not wandered far before he perceived a horseman moving along the road upon the opposite side. "Halloo, James Curry!--which way?--What news have you?" "I seek you, sir, I was on my way to the Dove Cote," replied the horseman, who at the same time turned his horse's head to the river, and, spurring the animal forward, plunged into the stream which was here still and deep enough to reach above his saddle flaps. After some floundering, the horse and rider gained the margin, where Tyrrel awaited them! The vigor of the animal, as well as the practised hand that held the rein, was shown in the boldness of the attempt to climb the steep bank and break through the briers and bushes that here guarded it. As soon as Curry reached the level ground, he dismounted. "In God's name, man, what is the matter with your face?" asked Tyrrel. "It is of that, amongst other things, that I came to speak to you," was the reply; "I have news for you." "Speak, without prelude. Tell me." "Major Butler slept last night at Mrs. Dimock's." "And is there still?" "No, sir. He started at early dawn this morning." "To join Gates?" "I think not. He talked of going to Ninety-Six--perhaps to Georgia." "So, ho! The hawk hovers over that field! Does he travel alone?" "He has a giant in his company, a great ploughman by the name of Horse Shoe Robinson. A quarrelsome rascal; he would needs pick a quarrel with me last night. And in the skirmish I got this face." "Did I not command you to bear yourself peaceably? Fool! will you risk our lives with your infernal broils? Now, I would wager you told the fellow your name." "Little need of that, sir. He told it to me: said he knew me before. The fellow, for all his rough coat, is a regular trained soldier in the rebel service, and has met me somewhere--Heaven knows!--I don't remember him; yet he isn't a man to see once and forget again." "And me, did he speak of me?" "He knew that I was in the employ of an English gentleman who was here at the Dove Cote. I have nothing especial to complain of in the man. He speaks soldierly enough; he said he would take no advantage of me for being here as long as our visit was peaceable." "Humph! And you believed him. And you must fight with him, like a brawling knave. When will you get an ounce of wit into that fool's head! What time of day was it when this Butler arrived?" "Long after night-fall." "Did you understand any thing of the purpose of his visit?" "He talked much with Mistress Dimock, and I think their conversation related to the lady at the Dove Cote. I could hear but a few scattered words." "Away.--Here (throwing his purse to the horseman), pay up your score at the inn, and at your greatest haste attend me on the river bank, immediately below Mr. Lindsay's house. Ask Mrs. Dimock to have a breakfast prepared for me.--Away, I will expect you in half an hour." Curry mounted his horse, and choosing a more convenient ford than that which he had passed (for the jutting rocks, on this side, prevented his reaching Mrs. Dimock's without recrossing the river to the road), he soon regained the track, and was seen, almost at high speed, sweeping around the base of the Fawn's Tower. Tyrrel returned hastily to the Dove Cote, and, seeking his valet, gave orders to have his portmanteau packed, his horse saddled and to be in waiting for him at the foot of the hill. These commands were speedily obeyed, and everything was in readiness for his journey before any of the family had made their appearance in the breakfast room. Whilst Tyrrel meditated writing a line to explain to Lindsay his present sudden movement, and had drawn near a table for that purpose, he was saluted by the voice of Henry, who had entered the apartment, and stolen unobserved almost immediately behind his chair. "Booted and spurred, Mr. Tyrrel!" said Henry. "You are for a ride. Will you take a fowling-piece? There are pheasants over upon the hills." "Oh, ho! Master Henry, you are up! I am glad of it. I was just writing a word to say that business calls me away this morning. Is your father yet abed?" "He is sound asleep," said Henry; "I will wake him." "No, my lad. You must not do that. Say I have received news this morning that has called me suddenly to my friends. I will return before long. Is your sister stirring?" "She was in the garden but a moment since," replied Henry; and the young man left the room, to which he returned after a short space. "Sister Mildred is engaged in her chamber, and begs you will excuse her," said he, as he again entered the door. "Tush, Henry, I didn't tell you to interrupt your sister. Make her my most respectful adieu. Don't forget it. I have all my way to win," he said to himself, "and a rough road to travel, I fear." Tyrrel now left the house and descended to the river, accompanied by Henry, who sought in vain to know why he departed in such haste as not to stay for breakfast. James Curry waited below; and, when Henry saw his father's guest mount in his saddle and cross the ford, attended by his two servants, he turned about and clambered up the hill again, half singing and half saying to him self,--"I'm glad he's gone, I'm glad he's gone," accompanied with a trolling chorus, expressive of the satisfaction of his feelings at the moment. "He'd a got a flea in his ear, if he had stay'd. I should like to know what Major Butler would say to Mr. Tyrrel, if he was to meet him. Zooks! may be Butler will see him this very morning at Mrs. Dimock's. Now, I wonder! Shall I whisper that to sister Mildred? She would be glad, for one, I'll be bound! May be, they might have a fight. And if they do, let Mr. Tyrrel look out! He never had his bread so buttered in his life, as it would be then." In such a strain of cogitation and conjecture, Henry reached the parlor, where he found Mildred. The melancholy that hung upon her spirits, the evening before, seemed to have been dispelled by the repose of the night, and was doubtless relieved, in part, by the intelligence that Tyrrel had quitted the Dove Cote. "Come, sister," said Henry, throwing his arm round her waist, and almost dancing, as he forced her through the open window, "come, it will be a good while before father is ready for his breakfast. Let us look at your flowers; I have something to tell you." "You are quite an important personage, this morning," replied Mildred, moving off towards the lawn with her brother. "Your face looks as wise as a book of proverbs." It was some time before the brother and sister returned to the parlor, and when they did so, their father had not yet appeared. The delay was unusual; for Lindsay generally rose at an early hour, and frequently walked abroad before his morning meal. When he at last entered the room, there was an expression of care and thought upon his brow that made him haggard. Mildred, as was her custom, approached him with a kiss, and, taking both of his hands, as she looked up in his face, she said, with some earnestness: "You are not well, my dear father." Lindsay paused a moment, while he gazed affectionately upon her, and then pressing her to his bosom, uttered in a low voice, with a smile,-- "God bless my dear child! How carefully does she read my looks! Come hither, Henry," he continued, as he gave his son one hand, and still held Mildred with the other, and then turned his eyes alternately upon each. "Now, tell me, which of you love me best? Who has waited most patiently for me this morning? I see by that glance of your blue eye, master Henry, that you have been chiding your lazy father for lying so long abed. Now, I dare say, if the truth were known, you have had your rifle ready to go out and shoot squirrels an hour ago. I beg your pardon, Mr. Sportsman--not to shoot the squirrel, but to shoot at him. Or, perhaps, you mean to bring us a deer to-day; you know you have promised to do that every morning for a week." "You shall eat a slice from as fine a saddle of venison to-day, father, as you ever saw smoke over a chafing-dish." "In good truth, shall I, boy? You are a brave promiser! You remember your own adage,--Brag was a good dog, but Holdfast was better." "In right down earnest, father, you shall. You needn't laugh. Now, you're thinking I have the deer to shoot; there's your mistake. The saddle is this minute lying on the dresser in the kitchen. He was a running buck yesterday; and I could tell where the powder and ball came from (here Henry made the motion of opening a hunting pouch at his side) that put an end to his capers." "He is a monstrous braggart; is he not, Mildred?" said Lindsay, directing a look of incredulity at his daughter. "What Henry tells you is true," replied Mildred. "Stephen Foster was here at sunrise with a part of a buck, which he says was shot yesterday." "Indeed! Then it is to Stephen's rifle we are indebted. You kill your bucks by proxy, master." "I'll bet," said Henry, "that Stephen Foster hasn't the impudence to charge one penny for that venison. And why? Because, by the laws of chace, one-half belongs to me." "Oh, I understand," interrupted Lindsay, with affected gravity; "it is a matter of great doubt which of you shot it. You both fired at once; or, perhaps, Stephen first, and you afterwards; and the poor animal dropped the moment you took your aim,--even before your piece went off. You know your aim, Harry, is deadly,--much worse than your bullet." "There is no doubt who killed him," said Henry; "for Stephen was on that side of the hill, and I was a little below him, and the buck ran right to Stephen, who, of course, gave him the first shot. But there was I, father, just ready, if Stephen had missed, to bring old Velvet-Horns to the ground, before he could have leaped a rod." "But, unluckily, Stephen's first shot killed him?" "I don't know that," replied Henry. "Another person's knife might have done the business; for the deer jumped down the bank into the road, and there"-- Mildred cast a sidelong look of caution at her brother, to warn him against alluding to a third person, whom it was not discreet to mention. "And there," said Henry, taking the sign, "when I got up to him he was stone dead. I would almost think a deer couldn't be shot dead so suddenly. But Stephen can pitch his lead, as he calls it, just where he likes." "Well, it isn't fair to inquire who killed him," said Lindsay. "One hunter often turns the game to the other's rifle. And, at all events, your dogs, Henry, I dare say, did as much as either of you." "Hylas was just at his heels when he was shot," replied Henry; "and a better dog there isn't in Amherst, or Albemarle to boot." "Well, well! Let us to breakfast. Where is our guest? Tyrrel is surely out before this." "He has been gone from the Dove Cote more than an hour," said Henry. "He told me to say, that some sudden news took him off in haste. I would have waked you, but he forbade it. His man, Curry, who was waiting for him at the ford, I dare say, brought him some dispatches." "It was very sudden," said Lindsay, musing; "the great game will be shortly played." "My dear father, you have not your usual look of health," said Mildred again. "I fear something disturbs you." "A slight cold, only, from exposure to the night air, perhaps. You did not see Tyrrel this morning, Mildred?" "I did not wish to see him, father. I was up when he set out, but I was not in his way." "Fie, girl, you almost speak crossly! Tyrrel, I must think, is not a man to win his way with ladies. But he is a loyal subject to his king. I can tell you, Mildred, loyalty is a virtue of good associations in these times." "It is the last virtue, my dear father, that a woman ever writes down in the list of noble qualities. We generally forget it altogether. History is so full of the glory of disloyal heroes, that the indiscriminate and persevering loyalty of brave men has come to be but little noticed. Brutus was disloyal, and so was Tell; and the English barons, of whom you boast so much, when you call them sturdy, were disloyal; and Washington--who knows, my dear father, but that he may be written down by some future nation, (and she laid an emphasis on this word,) as another name to give credit to this word, disloyal." "Thou art a shrewd orator, Mildred," exclaimed her father, as he sought to change the subject, "and I doubt not, if Heaven had made you man, you would now be flattering these rebels by persuading them they were all born for heroes. We may thank the gods that they have given you the petticoat instead of the soldier's cloak, and placed you at the head of a breakfast table instead of a regiment." "I do not think," replied Mildred smiling, "that I should altogether disgrace the cloak now, woman as I am, if the occasion required me to put it on." "Pray drop this subject, my dear child; you know it makes me sad. My family, I fear, are foredoomed to some strange mishap from these civil broils. Attend me presently in the library, I have matters to communicate that concern you. Henry, my boy," Lindsay continued, as he rose from his breakfast, "pay Stephen Foster the full value of the venison; as a sportsman you have a right perhaps to your share of the game, but a gentleman shows his courtesy by waiving such claims; he should suffer no friend to be his creditor, even in opinion. Stephen may not expect to be paid; no matter, it concerns your own character to be liberal." "I have promised Stephen a new rifle," replied Henry; "since they have elected him lieutenant of the Amherst Rangers he wants something better than his old deer gun." "I positively forbid it," interrupted Lindsay hastily, returning towards the middle of the room from the door through which he was about to depart. "What! would you purchase weapons for those clowns to enable them to shoot down his majesty's liege subjects? to make war upon their rightful king, against his laws and throne? to threaten your life, your sister's and mine, unless we bowed to this impious idol of democracy, which they have set up--this Washington?" "My dear, dear father," interposed Mildred as she came up to him and flung her arms about his neck. "Consider, Henry is a thoughtless boy, and does not look to consequences." "Heaven bless you both, my children! I beg your pardons. I am over captious. Henry, pay Stephen for the venison, and give him something better than a rifle. Mildred, I will see you presently." When Lindsay had left the parlor Mildred besought her brother, in the most earnest terms, to be more guarded against giving expression to any sentiment which might bring their father's thoughts to the existing war. Her own observation had informed her of the nature of the struggle that agitated his mind, and her effort was continually directed to calm and soothe his feelings by the most unremitting affection, and thus to foster his resolution against taking any part in those schemes in which, she shrewdly guessed, it was the purpose of the emissaries of the royal party to involve him. Her attachment to Arthur Butler she feared to mention to her father, whilst her self-respect and her conviction of her duty to a parent who loved her with unbounded devotion, would not allow her altogether to conceal it. Upon this subject, Lindsay had sufficiently read her heart to know much more about it than she chose to confess; and it did not fail to kindle up in his mind a feverish excitement, that occasionally broke forth in even a petulant reproof, and to furnish the only occasion that had ever arisen of serious displeasure against his daughter. The unhappy association between this incident in the life of Mildred, and the current of a feeling which had its foundation in a weak piece of superstition, to which I have alluded in a former chapter, gave to the idea of Mildred's marriage with Butler a fatal complexion in Lindsay's thoughts. "For what purpose," he asked himself, "but to avert this ill-omened event could I have had such an extraordinary warning?" It had occurred to him that the surest method of protecting his family against this misfortune would be to throw Mildred into other associations, and encourage the growth of other attachments, such as might be expected to grow up in her heart out of the kindness of new friendships. He had even meditated removing her to England, but that plan became so repulsive to him when he found the mention of it distasteful to his children, and it suited so little his own fondness for the retirement he had already cultivated, that he had abandoned it almost as soon as it occurred to him. His next alternative was to favor--though he did so with no great zeal--the proposal lately made by Tyrrel. He little knew the character of the woman he had to deal with. Never was more devotion enshrined in a woman's heart than in Mildred's. Never was more fixed and steady purpose to encounter all hazards and hold cheap all dangers more deeply rooted in man's or woman's resolution, than was Mildred's to cherish the love and follow the fortunes of Arthur Butler. This conflict between love and filial duty sadly perplexed the daughter's peace; and not less disturbing was the strife between parental affection and the supposed mandate of fate, in the breast of the father. Henry protested his sorrow for his recent indiscretion and promised more caution for the future, and then recurring to what more immediately concerned his sister's interest, he said, "I do much wonder what Tyrrel's man had to say this morning; it took our good gentleman away so suddenly. I can't help thinking it has something to do with Butler and Horse Shoe. They must have been seen by Curry at Mrs. Dimock's, and old Tony knows the major very well, and has told his name. Besides, do you know, sister, I think Curry is a spy? Else, why should he be left at Mrs. Dimock's always? There was room enough here for both of Mr. Tyrrel's servants. I have a thought that I will reconnoitre: I will ride over to the Blue Ball, and see what I can learn." "Do, my good brother," replied Mildred, "and in the meantime I must go to my father, who has something disagreeable to tell me--so I fear--concerning that busy plotter who has just left us. My spirits grow heavy at the thought of it. Ah, Henry, if I could but speak out, and unpack my heart, what a load would I throw off! How does it grieve me to have a secret that I dare not tell my dear father! Thank heaven, brother, your heart and mine have not yet had a secret that they could not whisper to each other!" "Give care the whip, sister," said Henry, like a young gallant, "it belongs to the bat family and should not fly in day-time. Farewell for the next two hours!" and saying these words the sprightly youth kissed his hand, and, with an alert step, left the room. Mildred now retired to prepare for the interview with her father. CHAPTER XI. A SCENE BETWEEN A FATHER AND DAUGHTER. When Mildred entered the library Lindsay was already there. He stood before one of the ranges of book shelves, and held a volume in his hand which, for a moment after his daughter's entrance, seemed to engross his attention. Mildred was sufficiently astute to perceive that by this device he struggled to compose his mind for an interview of which she more than guessed the import. She was of a constitution not easily to be driven from her self-possession; but the consciousness of her father's embarrassment, and some perplexity in her own feelings at this moment, produced by a sense of the difficult part she had to perform, slightly discomposed her; there was something like alarm in her step, and also in the expression of her features, as she almost stealthily seated herself in one of the large lounging chairs. For a moment she unconsciously employed herself in stripping a little flower that she held in her hand of its leaves, and looked silently upon the floor; at length, in a low accent, she said, "Father, I am here at your bidding." Lindsay turned quickly round, and, throwing down the volume he had been perusing, approached his daughter with a smile that seemed rather unnaturally to play over his grave and almost melancholy countenance, and it was with a forced attempt at pleasantry he said, as he took her hand:-- "Now, I dare say, you think you have done something very wrong, and that I have brought you here to give you a lecture." "I hope, father, I have done nothing wrong," was Mildred's grave and almost tremulous reply. "Thou art a good child, Mildred," said Lindsay, drawing a chair close beside hers, and then, in a more serious tone, he continued, "you are entirely sure, my daughter, that I love you, and devoutly seek your happiness?" "Dear father, you frighten me by this solemn air. Why ask me such a question?" "Pardon me, my girl, but my feelings are full with subjects of serious import, and I would have you believe that what I have now to say springs from an earnest solicitude for your welfare." "You have always shown it, father." "I come to speak to you, without reserve, of Tyrrel," resumed Lindsay; "and you will not respond to my confidence, unless you answer me in the very truth of your heart. This gentleman, Mr. Tyrrel, has twice avowed to me of late an earnest attachment to you, and has sought my leave to prosecute his suit. Such things are not apt to escape a woman's notice, and you have doubtless had some hint of his predilection before he disclosed it to me." All the woman's bashfulness disappeared with this announcement. Mildred grew erect in her seat, and as the native pride of her character beamed forth from every feature of her face, she replied-- "He has never, father, vouchsafed to give me such a proof of his good opinion. Mr. Tyrrel is content to make his bargain with you: he is well aware that whatever hope he may be idle enough to cherish, must depend more on your command than on my regard." "He has never spoken to you, Mildred?" asked Lindsay, without making any comment on the indignant reception his daughter had given to his disclosure. "Never a word? Bethink you, my daughter, of all that has lately passed between you. A maiden is apt to misconstrue attentions. Can you remember nothing beyond the mere civilities of custom?" "I can think of nothing in the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel but his devotion to the purpose of embroiling my dear father in his miserable politics. I can remember nothing of him but his low voice and noiseless step, his mysterious insinuations, his midnight sittings, his fulsome flattery of your services in the royal cause, the base means by which he has robbed you of your rest and taken the color from your cheek. I thought him too busy in distracting your peace to cast a thought upon me. But to speak to me, father, of attachment," she said, rising and taking a station so near Lindsay's chair as to be able to lean her arm upon his shoulder, "to breathe one word of a wish to win my esteem, that he dared not do." "You speak under the impulse of some unnecessarily excited feeling, daughter. You apply terms and impute motives that sound too harsh from your lips, when the subject of them is a brave and faithful gentleman. Mr. Tyrrel deserves nothing at our hands but kindness." "Alas, my dear father, alas, that you should think so!" "What have you discovered, Mildred, or heard, that you should deem so injuriously of this man? Who has conjured up this unreasonable aversion in your mind against him?" "I am indebted to no sources of information but my own senses," replied Mildred; "I want no monitor to tell me that he is not to be trusted. He is not what he seems." "True, he is not what he seems, but better. Tyrrel appears here but as a simple gentleman, wearing, for obvious reasons, an assumed name. The letters he has brought me avouch him to be a man of rank and family, high in the confidence of the officers of the king, and holding a reputable commission in the army: a man of note, worthy to be trusted with grave enterprises, distinguished for sagacity, bravery, and honor, of moral virtues which would dignify any station, and, as you cannot but acknowledge from your own observation, filled with the courtesy and grace of a gentleman. Fie, daughter! it is sinful to derogate from the character of an honorable man." "Wearing an assumed name, father, and acting a part, here, at the Dove Cote! Is it necessary for his purpose that, under this roof, he should appear in masquerade? May I know whether he treats with you for my hand in his real or assumed character--does he permit me to know who he is?" "All in good time, Mildred. Content you, girl, that he has sufficiently certified himself to me. These are perilous times, and Tyrrel is obliged to practise much address to find his way along our roads. You are aware it would not be discreet to have him known even to our servants. But the time will come when you shall know him as himself, and then, if I mistake not, your generous nature will be ashamed to have wronged him by unworthy suspicions." "Believe me, father," exclaimed Mildred, rising to a tone of animation that awakened the natural eloquence of her feelings, and gave them vent in language which more resembled the display of a practised orator than the declamation of a girl, "believe me, he imposes on you. His purposes are intensely selfish. If he has obtained an authority to treat with you or others under an assumed name, it has only been to further his personal ends. Already has he succeeded in plunging you, against your will, into the depth of this quarrel. Your time, my dear father, which once glided as softly and as happily as yon sparkling waters through our valley, is now consumed in deliberations that wear out your spirits: your books are abandoned for the study of secret schemes of politics: you are perplexed and anxious at every account that reaches us of victory or defeat. It was not so, until you saw Tyrrel: your nights, that once knew a long and healthful sleep, are now divided by short and unrefreshing slumbers: you complain of unpleasant dreams and you foretell some constantly coming disaster. Indeed, dearest father, you are not what you were. You wrong yourself by these cares, and you do not know how anxiously my brother Henry and myself watch, in secret, this unhappy change in your nature. How can I think with patience of this Tyrrel when I see these things?" "The times, Mildred, leave me no choice. When a nation struggles to throw off the rule of lawful authority, the friends of peace and order should remember that the riotous passions of the refractory people are not to be subdued without personal sacrifices." "You promised yourself, father, here at the Dove Cote to live beyond the sphere of these excitements. And, as I well remember, you often, as the war raged, threw yourself upon your knees, and taught us,--your children,--to kneel by your side, and we put up our joint expressions of gratitude to God, that, at least, this little asylum was undisturbed by the angry passions of man." "We did, we did, my dearest child. But I should think it sinful to pray for the same quiet when my services might be useful to restore harmony to a distracted and misguided country." "Do you now think," asked Mildred, "that your efforts are or can be of any avail to produce peace?" "The blessing of heaven has descended upon the arms of our sovereign," replied Lindsay. "The southern provinces are subdued, and are fast returning to their allegiance. The hopes of England brighten, and a speedy close of this unnatural rebellion is at hand." "There are many valleys, father, amongst these mountains, and the wide forests shade a solitude where large and populous nations may be hid almost from human search. They who possess the valleys and the wilderness, I have heard it said by wise men, will for ever choose their own rulers." "Mildred, you are a dutiful daughter, and are not wont to oppose your father's wishes. I could desire to see you, with that shrewd apprehension of yours, that quick insight, and that thoughtful mind, thoughtful beyond the quality of your sex, less favorably bent towards the enterprise of these rebel subjects. I do utterly loathe them and their cause, and could wish that child of mine abated in no one jot of my aversion to them." "Heaven, father, and your good tutoring have made me what I am," returned Mildred, calmly; "I am but a woman, and speak with a weak judgment and little knowledge. To my unlearned mind it seems that the government of every nation should be what the people wish it. There are good men here, father, amongst your friends--men, who, I am sure, have all kindness in their hearts, who say that this country his suffered grievous wrongs from the insolence of the king's representatives. They have proclaimed this in a paper which I have heard even you say was temperate and thoughtful: and you know nearly the whole land has roused itself to say that paper was good. Can so many men be wrong?" "You are a girl," replied Lindsay, "and a subtile one: you are tainted with the common heresy. But what else might I expect! There are few _men_ who can think out of fashion. When the multitude is supposed to speak, that is warrant enough for the opinions of the majority. But it is no matter, this is not a woman's theme, and is foreign to our present conference. I came to talk with you about Tyrrel. Upon that subject I will use no persuasions, express no wish, not in the slightest point essay to influence your choice. When he disclosed his purpose to me, I told him it was a question solely at your disposal. Thus much it is my duty to say, that should his suit be favored"-- "From the bottom of my heart, father," interrupted Mildred eagerly, and with increasing earnestness, "I abhor the thought. Be assured that if age, poverty, and deformity were showered upon me at once, if friends abandoned me, if my reason were blighted, and I was doomed to wander barefooted amongst thorns and briers, I would not exchange that lot, to be his wife amidst ten-fold his honors and wealth. I never can listen to his hateful proposal: there is that in my condition which would make it wicked. Pray, dearest father, as you love your daughter, do not speak of it to me again." "Resume your calmness, child: your earnestness on this subject afflicts me; it has a fearful omen in it. It tells of a heart fatally devoted to one whom, of all men, I have greatest reason to hate. This unhappy, lingering passion for the sworn enemy of his king and country, little becomes my daughter, or her regard for me. It may rouse me, Mildred, to some unkind wish against thee. Oh, I could curse myself that I ever threw you in the way of this insidious rebel, Butler. Nay you need not conceal your tears; well do they deserve to flow for this persevering transgression against the peace of your father's house. It requires but little skill to read the whole history of your heart." Lindsay now walked to and fro across the apartment, under the influence of emotions which he was afraid to trust himself to utter. At length resuming his expostulation, in a somewhat moderate tone, he continued: "Will no lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory? Are you madly bent on bringing down misery on your head? I do not speak of my own suffering. Will you for ever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet again? Whom if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some loyal subject, do not bring him merited punishment, the halter may reward, or, in his most fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty, and shame pursue. Are you for ever to love that man?" Mildred stood before her father as he brought this appeal to a close; her eyes filled with tears, her breast heaving as if it would burst; and summoning up all her courage for her reply, when this last question was asked, she looked with an expression of almost angry defiance in his face, as she answered "For ever, for ever," and hastily left the room. The firm tone in which Mildred spoke these last words, her proud and almost haughty bearing, so unlike anything Lindsay had ever seen before, and her abrupt departure from his presence, gave a check to the current of his thoughts that raised the most painful emotions. For an instant a blush of resentment rose into his cheeks, and he felt tempted to call his daughter back that he might express this sentiment: it was but of a moment's duration, however, and grief, at what he felt was the first altercation he had ever had with his child, succeeded, and stifled all other emotions. He flung himself into the chair, and, dropping his forehead upon his hand, gave way to the full tide of his feelings. His spirits gradually became more composed, and he was able to survey with a somewhat temperate judgment the scene that had just passed. His manner, he thought, might have been too peremptory--perhaps it was harsh, and had offended his daughter's pride: he should have been more conciliatory in his speech. "The old," he said, "are not fit counsellors to the young; we forget the warmth of their passions, and would reason when they only feel. How small a share has prudence in the concerns of the heart!" But then this unexpected fervor of devotion to Butler--that alarmed him, and he bit his lip, as he felt his anger rising with the thought. "Her repugnance to Tyrrel, her prompt rejection of his suit, her indignant contempt for the man, even that I could bear with patience," he exclaimed. "I seek not to trammel her will by any authority of mine. But this Butler! Oh! there is the beginning of the curse upon my house! there is the fate against which I have been so solemnly warned! That man who had been the author of this unhappiness, and whose alliance with my name has been denounced by the awful visitation of the dead,--that Mildred should cherish his regard, is misery. It cannot and shall not be!" These and many such reflections passed through Lindsay's mind, and had roused his feelings to a tone of exacerbation against Arthur Butler, far surpassing any displeasure he had ever before indulged against this individual. In the height of this self-communion he was interrupted by the return of Mildred to the apartment, almost as abruptly as she had quitted it. She approached his chair, knelt, laid her head upon his lap, and wept aloud. "Why, my dear father," she said, at length, looking up in his face while the tears rolled down her cheeks, "why do you address language to me that makes me forget the duty I owe you? If you knew my heart, you would spare and pity my feelings. Pardon me, dear father, if my conduct has offended you. I knew not what I spoke; I am wretched, and cannot answer for my words. Do not think I would wound your affection by unkindness; but indeed, indeed, I cannot hear you speak of Tyrrel without agony." "Rise, daughter," said Lindsay, almost lifting her up, "I do not chide you for your repugnance to Tyrrel. You mistake me if you think I would dictate to your affections: my grief has a deeper source. This Arthur Butler"-- "Spare that name, father?" interrupted Mildred, retiring to a seat near the window and covering her face with her hands. "Curse him!" exclaimed Lindsay. "May all the plagues that torment the human bosom fall upon him! Mark me, daughter, I trust I am not an unreasonable father; I know I am not an unkind one; there are few requests that you could make which I would not freely grant. But to hear with patience the name of that man on your lips, to think of him as allied to you by any sympathy, as sharing any portion of your esteem--him, a rebel traitor who has raised his sacrilegious hand against his king, who has sold his name to infamy, who has contributed to fill these peaceful provinces with discord, and to subvert the happiness of this land, which heaven had appointed to be an asylum where man, disgusted with the lusts, rapine, and murder of his fellow, might betake himself as a child to the bosom of his parent--I cannot endure the thought of him! Never again, Mildred, I charge you, never allude to him again!" "If I could but tell you all!" interrupted Mildred, sobbing, "if I could but patiently have your hearing." "Never a word of him! as you desire to preserve my affection, I will not hear. Get to your chamber," said Lindsay, almost sternly. "Get to your chamber, this perverse and resolute temper of thine, needs the restraint of solitude." Mildred rose from her chair and moved towards the door, and as she was about to depart she turned her weeping countenance towards her father. "Come hither," he said, "thou art a foolish girl, and would bring down wretchedness and woe upon thee. God forgive you, from the bottom of my heart, I forgive you. This thing is not of your own imagining: some malignant spirit has spread his baleful wing above our house. Go, child, forget what has been said, and believe that your father buffets thus harshly with fate for your own welfare. Kiss me, and may heaven shield you against this impending ill!" "Dear father, hear me," said Mildred, as Lindsay imprinted a kiss upon her forehead. "Away, away!" interrupted Lindsay, "I would be temperate nor again forget myself. In all love, Mildred, away." Mildred left the room, and Lindsay, to restore the equanimity of his temper, which had been so much overthrown by this interview, wandered forth into the valley, whence it was some hours before he returned. It was not long after the termination of this conference before Henry rode up to the door. The clatter of his horse's hoofs brought Mildred from her chamber into the parlor. "What! sister, your eyes red with tears?" said Henry. "Who has distressed you?" "Ah, brother, I have had a weary time in your absence. Our poor father is sadly displeased with me." "Have you told him all?" asked Henry, with an expression of anxiety. "He bade me," replied Mildred, "never mention Arthur's name again. He would not hear me speak of Arthur. Have I not reason, dear brother, to be miserable?" "I love you, Mildred," said Henry, kissing his sister, "and what's more, I love Arthur Butler, and will stand up for him against the world. And I have a good mind to go to my father and tell him I am man enough to think for myself--and more than that--that I, for one, believe these rebels, as he calls them, have the right of it. Why shouldn't I? Can't I shoot a rifle as well as the best of them, and stand by a friend in a quarrel, and make good my words as well as many a man who writes twenty years to his age? Tush! I am tired of this boy-play--shooting with blunted arrows, and riding with my father's hand ever on the neck of my horse, as if I could not hold the reins. Give me sharp steel, Mildred, and throw me on the world, and I'll be bound I make my way as well as another." "We are surrounded with difficulties, brother," said Mildred, "and have a hard part to perform. We must soothe our dear father's feelings, for he loves us, Henry; and if he could but think as we do, how happy should we be! But there is something fearful in his passions, and it makes me tremble to see them roused." "This all comes," replied Henry, "from that devil's imp Tyrrel. Oh, I could find it in my heart to trounce that fellow, sister. But you hav'n't asked me about my reconnoitring! I'll tell you. Tyrrel's man, Curry, talked a great deal to old Tony and Mrs. Dimock both, about our friends who went there last night, and found out their names and all about them: and there was some fray between Horse Shoe and Curry, in which, I'll warrant you, Horse Shoe gave him a drubbing; so Tony told me. Well, Butler and Horse Shoe set out this morning at daylight. And Tyrrel went over there to breakfast: and you may suppose he was lucky in not meeting the major, for I am sure there would have been a spot of work if he had. Furthermore, I found out that Tyrrel followed on the same road after Butler, so they may meet yet, you know." "I pray not," said Mildred. "Why pray not, sister? I pray they may meet. Let Tyrrel have all the good of it. There, now I believe I have given you all the news, sister, exactly as I picked it up. But here is a trifle I forgot," said Henry, producing a letter addressed to Mildred. "Ah, ha, you brighten up now! This was left by the major with Mrs. Dimock, to be forwarded to you with care and speed." Mildred tore open the letter, and eagerly perused its contents. They consisted of a few lines hastily penned by Butler, at early dawn, as he was about mounting his horse for the prosecution of his journey. Their purpose was to apprise her of the discovery Robinson had made of the true character of Curry, and also to express his fears that this latter person might disclose to Tyrrel the fact of his, Butler's, visit. He cautioned her to observe the conduct of Tyrrel, and to communicate with him at Gates's head-quarters where he expected to be delayed a few days on his journey: her letter, he said, might be forwarded by some of the parties who at that time were continually passing southward: Henry might look to this; and he concluded by assuring her that he would write as often as he might find means of conveying a packet to the care of good Mistress Dimock, who was sufficiently in the interest of the lovers to keep faithfully any secret which they might confide to her. This letter served to explain the cause of Tyrrel's sudden departure, and to confirm Mildred in the opinion, which she had before expressed, that this guest of her father was not ignorant of the interest Butler had in her regard. Her determination therefore was to watch his motions narrowly, and to make her lover acquainted with whatever she might discover. "It is even so," she said musing; "Tyrrel either fears or hates Arthur. I shudder to think that that man should have any motive supplied him to contrive against the peace or safety of one so dear to me. Wretch," she exclaimed, "that he should be insolent enough to hope for my regard! Oh! my father, my father, what a snare has been spread for you by this man! Thank you, brother," she continued, addressing Henry. "You have well executed your mission. Be discreet and ready: I shall have much need of your head and hand both: your heart is mine already, good brother." "I will ride for you, sister," said Henry, "I will run for you, speak for you, pray for you--if my prayers be worth anything--and strike for you, if need be. If I am but turned of sixteen, I am a man, I trow; and that's more than you are. Good bye! a soldier ought to look after his horse, you know." "God bless you, dear brother, for an excellent boy," said Mildred smiling, "man I mean--aye and a brave one!" Henry now walked away, and Mildred betook herself to other cares. CHAPTER XII. A POLITICAL RETROSPECT.--BUTLER ENTERS SOUTH CAROLINA. It was the misfortune of South Carolina, during the revolutionary war, to possess a numerous party less attached to the union or more tainted with disaffection than the inhabitants of any of the other states. Amongst her citizens the disinclination to sever from the mother country was stronger, the spread of republican principles more limited, and the march of revolution slower, than in either of the other colonies, except, perhaps, in the neighbor state of Georgia, where the people residing along the Savannah river, were so closely allied to the Carolinians in sentiment, habits, and pursuits, as to partake pretty accurately of the same political prejudices, and to unite themselves in parties of the same complexion. Upon the first invasion of Georgia, at the close of the year 1778, the city of Savannah was made an easy conquest, and a mere handful of men, early in 1779, were enabled to penetrate the interior as far as Augusta, and to seize upon that post. The audacity with which Prevost threatened Charleston in the same year, the facility of his march through South Carolina, and the safety which attended his retreat, told a sad tale of the supineness of the people of that province. The reduction of Charleston in the following year, by Sir Henry Clinton, was followed with singular rapidity by the conquest of the whole province. A civil government was erected. The most remote posts in the mountains were at once occupied by British soldiers or provincial troops, mustered under the officers of the royal army. Proclamations were issued to call back the wandering sheep to the royal fold; and they, accordingly, like herds that had been scattered from beneath the eye of the shepherd by some rough incursion of wolves, flocked in as soon as they were aware of the retreat of their enemy. Lord Cornwallis, upon whom the command devolved after the return of Sir Henry Clinton in June to New York, recruited his army from these repentant or unwilling republicans; and the people rejoiced at what they thought the end of strife and the establishment of law. The auxiliaries who had marched from Virginia and North Carolina under Colonel Buford, to assist in the defence of the southern capital, were informed of its surrender as they journeyed thither, and soon found themselves obliged to fly through a country they had come to succor;--and when even at the distance of one hundred and fifty miles from the city, were overtaken by the ruthless troopers of Tarleton, and butchered under circumstances peculiarly deplorable. In truth, a large proportion of the population of South Carolina seem to have regarded the revolution with disfavor, and they were slow to break their ancient friendship for the land of their forefathers. The colonial government was mild and beneficent in its action upon the province, and the people had a reverence for the mother country deeper and more affectionate than was found elsewhere. They did not resent, because, haply, they did not feel the innovations of right asserted by the British crown, so acutely as some of their neighbors; to them it did not seem to be so unreasonable that taxation should be divorced from representation. They did not quarrel with the assumption of Great Britain to regulate their trade for them in such manner as best suited her own views of interest; nor did they see in mere commercial restrictions the justification of civil war and hot rebellion;--because, peradventure, (if I may hazard a reason) being a colony of planters whose products were much in demand in England, neither the regulations of their trade nor the restrictions upon commerce, were likely to be so adjusted as to interfere with the profitable expansion of their labors. Such might be said to be the more popular sentiment of the State at the time of its subjugation by Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis. To this common feeling there were many brilliant exceptions; and the more brilliant because they stood, as it were, apart from the preponderating mass of public judgment. There is no trial of courage which will bear comparison with that of a man whose own opinions stand in opposition, upon fearful questions of passion, to those of the "giddy-paced" and excited multitude, and who, nevertheless, carries them "into act." That man who can stand in the breach of universal public censure, with all the fashions of opinion disgracing him in the thoughts of the lookers on, with the tide of obloquy beating against his breast, and the fingers of the mighty, combined many, pointing him to scorn; nay, with the fury of the drunken rabble threatening him with instant death; and, worse than all, having no present friend to whisper a word of defence or palliative, in his behalf, to his revilers, but bravely giving his naked head to the storm, because he knows himself to be virtuous in his purpose; that man shall come forth from this fierce ordeal like tried gold; philosophy shall embalm his name in her richest unction, history shall give him a place on her brightest page, and old, yea, hoary, far-off posterity shall remember him as of yesterday. There were heroes of this mould in South Carolina, who entered with the best spirit of chivalry into the national quarrel, and brought to it hearts as bold, minds as vigorous, and arms as strong as ever, in any clime, worked out a nation's redemption. These men refused submission to their conquerors, and endured exile, chains, and prisons, rather than the yoke. Some few, still undiscouraged by the portents of the times, retreated into secret places, gathered their few patriot neighbors together, and contrived to keep in awe the soldier-government that now professed to sway the land. They lived on the scant aliment furnished in the woods, slept in the tangled brakes and secret places of the fen, exacted contributions from the adherents of the crown, and by rapid movements of their woodland cavalry and brave blows, accomplished more than thrice their numbers would have achieved in ordinary warfare. The disaffected abounded in the upper country, and here Cornwallis maintained some strong garrisons. The difficulties that surrounded the republican leaders may well be supposed to have been appalling in this region, where regular posts had been established to furnish the Tories secure points of union, and the certainty of prompt assistance whenever required. Yet notwithstanding the numerical inferiority of the friends of independence, their guarded and proscribed condition, their want of support, and their almost absolute destitution of all the necessaries of military life, the nation was often rejoiced to hear of brilliant passages of arms, where, however unimportant the consequences, the display of soldiership and bravery was of the highest order. In such encounters, or frays they might almost be called, from the smallness of the numbers concerned and the hand-to-hand mode of fighting which they exhibited, Marion, Sumpter, Horry, Pickens, and many others, had won a fame that in a nation of poetical or legendary associations would have been reduplicated through a thousand channels of immortal verse: but, alas! we have no ballads: and many men, who as well deserve to be remembered as Percy or Douglas, as Adam Bell or Clym of the Clough, have sunk down without even a couplet-epitaph upon the rude stone, that in some unfenced and unreverenced grave-yard still marks the lap of earth whereon their heads were laid. One feature that belonged to this unhappy state of things in Carolina was the division of families. Kindred were arrayed against each other in deadly feuds, and, not unfrequently, brother took up arms against brother, and sons against their sires. A prevailing spirit of treachery and distrust marked the times. Strangers did not know how far they might trust to the rites of hospitality; and many a man laid his head upon his pillow, uncertain whether his fellow lodger, or he with whom he had broken bread at his last meal, might not invade him in the secret watches of the night and murder him in his slumbers. All went armed, and many slept with pistols or daggers under their pillows. There are tales told of men being summoned to their doors or windows at midnight by the blaze of their farm-yards to which the incendiary torch had been applied, and shot down, in the light of the conflagration, by a concealed hand. Families were obliged to betake themselves to the shelter of the thickets and swamps, when their own homesteads were dangerous places. The enemy wore no colors, and was not to be distinguished from friends either by outward guise or speech. Nothing could be more revolting than to see the symbols of peace thus misleading the confident into the toils of war; nor is it possible to imagine a state of society characterized by a more frightful insecurity. Such was the condition of the country to which my tale now makes it necessary to introduce my reader. Butler's instructions required that he should report himself to General Gates, and, unless detained for more pressing duty, to proceed with all the circumspection which the enterprise might require, to Colonel Clarke, who, it was known, was at that time in the upland country of South Carolina, raising troops to act against Augusta and other British posts. He accordingly arrived at head-quarters, on the borders of the two Carolinas, in about a week after leaving the Dove Cote. The army of the brave and unfortunate De Kalb, which had been originally destined for the relief of Charleston, had been increased, by reinforcements of militia from Virginia and the adjoining States, to double the computed strength of the British forces; and Gates, on taking command of it, was filled with the most lofty presentiments of victory. Vainglorious and unadvisable, he is said to have pushed forward with an indiscreet haste, and to have thrown himself into difficulties which a wiser man would have avoided. He professed himself to stand in no need of recruits to his army, and Butler, therefore, after the delay of a few days, was left at liberty to pursue his original scheme. The wide-spread disaffection of the region through which our adventurers were about to pass, inculcated the necessity of the utmost vigilance to avoid molestation from the numerous parties that were then abroad hastening to the seat of war. Under the almost entire guidance of Robinson, who was familiar with every path in this neighborhood, Butler's plan was to temporize with whatever difficulties might beset his way, and to rely upon his own and his comrade's address for escape. The sergeant's first object was to conduct his superior to his own dwelling, which was situated on the Catawba, a short distance above the Waxhaws. This was safely accomplished on the second day after they had left Gates. A short delay at this place enabled Butler to exchange the dress he had hitherto worn, for one of a more homely and rustic character, a measure deemed necessary to facilitate his quiet passage through the country. With these precautions he and the trusty sergeant resumed their expedition, and now shaped their course across the region lying between the Catawba and Broad rivers, with the intention of reaching the habitation of Wat Adair, a well known woodsman who lived on the southern side of the latter river, somewhat above its confluence with the Pacolet. The route they had chosen for this purpose consisted of such circuitous and unfrequented paths as were least likely to be infested by the scouts of the enemy, or by questioners who might be too curious regarding the object of their journey. The second week of August had half elapsed when, towards the evening of a day that had been distinguished for the exhilarating freshness of the atmosphere, such as is peculiar to the highlands of southern latitudes at this season, our travellers found themselves descending through a long and shady defile to the level ground that lay along the margin of the Broad river. The greater part of the day had been spent in threading the mazes of a series of sharp and abrupt hills covered with the native forest, or winding through narrow valleys, amongst tangled thickets of briers and copse-wood, by a path scarce wide enough to permit the passage of a single horse. They had now emerged from the wilderness upon a public highway, which extended across the strip of lowland that skirted the river. The proximity of the river itself was indicated by the nature of the ground, that here retained vestiges of occasional inundations, as also by the rank character of the vegetation. The road led through a swamp, which was rendered passable by a causey of timber, and was shaded on either side by a mass of shrubbery, composed of laurel, magnolia, and such other plants as delight in a moist soil, over whose forms a tissue of creeping plants was woven in such profusion as to form a fastness or impregnable retreat for all kinds of noxious animals. Above this wilderness, here and there, might be seen in the depths of the morass, the robust cypress or the lurid pine, high enough for the mast of the largest ship, the ash, and gum, and, towering above all, the majestic poplar, with its branchless trunk bound up in the embraces of a huge serpent-like grapevine. As soon as Butler found himself extricated from the difficult path that had so much embarrassed his journey, and once more introduced upon a road that allowed him to ride abreast with his companion, he could not help congratulating himself upon the change. "Well, here at last, Galbraith," he said, "is an end to this bridle path, as you call it. Thank heaven for it! The settlement of the account between this and the plain road would not leave much in our favor: on one side, I should have to set down my being twice unhorsed in riding up perpendicular hills; one plunge up to the belly in the mud of a swamp; a dozen times in danger of strangling from grapevines; and how often torn by briers, I leave you to reckon up by looking at my clothes. And all this is to be cast up against the chance of meeting a few rascally Tories. Faith! upon the whole, it would have been as cheap to fight." "Whist, Major, you are a young man, and don't study things as I do. You never catch me without reason on my side. As to standing upon the trifle of a man or two odds in the way of a fight, when there was need of scratching, I wouldn't be so onaccommodating as to ax you to do that. But I had some generalship in view, which I can make appear. This road, which we have just got into, comes up through Winnsborough, which is one of the randyvoos of the Tories: now I thought if we outflanked them by coming through the hills, we mought keep our heads out of a hornets' nest. The best way, Major Butler, to get along through this world is not to be quarrelsome; that's my principle." "Truly, it comes well from you, sergeant, who within two days past have been in danger of getting your crown cracked at least six times! Were you not yesterday going to beat a man only for asking a harmless question? A rough fellow to-boot, Horse Shoe, who might, from appearance, have turned out a troublesome customer." "Ho, ho, ho, Major! Do you know who that character was? That was mad Archy Gibbs, from the Broken Bridge, one of the craziest devils after a fracaw on the Catawba; a tearing Tory likewise." "And was that an argument for wishing to fight him?" "Why, you see, Major, I've got a principle on that subject. It's an observation I have made, that whenever you come across one of these rampagious fellows, that's always for breeding disturbances, the best way is to be as fractious as themselves. You have hearn of the way of putting out a house on fire by blowing it up with gunpowder?" "A pretty effectual method, Sergeant." "Dog won't eat dog," continued Horse Shoe. "Ho, ho! I know these characters; so I always bullies them. When we stopped yesterday at the surveyor's, on Blair's Range, to get a little something to eat, and that bevy of Tories came riding up, with mad Archy at their head, a thought struck me that the fellows mought be dogging us, and that sot me to thinking what answer I should make consarning you, if they were to question me. So, ecod, I made a parson of you, ha, ha, ha! Sure enough, they began as soon as they sot down in the porch, to axing me about my business, and then about yourn. I told them, correspondent and accordingly, that you was a Presbyterian minister, and that I had undertook to show you the way to Chester, where you was going to hold forth. And, thereupon, mad Archy out with one of his tremengious oaths, and swore he would have a sarmint from you, for the good of his blackguards, before they broke up." "Mad Archy and his blackguards would have profited, no doubt, by my spiritual lessons." "Rather than let him have anything to say to you," proceeded Robinson, "for you wa'n't prepared, seeing that you didn't hear what was going on, though I spoke loud enough, on purpose, Major, for you to hear us through the window; I up and told Archy, says I, I am a peaceable man, but I'll be d----d if any minister of the gospel shall be insulted whilst I have the care of him; and, furthermore, says I, I didn't come here to interrupt no man; but if you, Archy Gibbs, or any one of your crew, says one ondecent word to the parson, they'll run the risk of being flung sprawling on this here floor, and that's as good as if I had sworn to it; and as for you, Archy, I'll hold you accountable for the good conduct of your whole squad. But, Major, you are about the hardest man to take a wink I ever knowed. There was I a motioning of you, and signifying to get your horse and be off, at least ten minutes before you took the hint." "I was near spoiling all, Galbraith, for from your familiarity with these fellows I at first thought them friends." "They were mighty dubious, you may depend. And it was as much as I could do to keep them from breaking in on you. They said it was strange, and so it was, to see a parson riding with pistols; but I told them you was obliged to travel so much after night that it was as much as you could do to keep clear of panthers and wolves; and in fact, major, I had to tell them a monstrous sight of lies, just to keep them in talk whilst you was getting away: it was like a rare guard scrummaging by platoons on a retreat to get the advance off. I was monstrous afeard, major, you wouldn't saddle my horse." "I understood you at last, Galbraith, and made everything ready for a masterly retreat, and then moved away with a very sober air, leaving you to bring up the rear like a good soldier. And you know, sergeant, I didn't go so far but that I was at hand to give you support, if you had stood in need of it. I wonder now that they let you off so easily." "They didn't want to have no uproar with me, Major Butler. They knowed me, that although I wa'n't a quarrelsome man, they would'a got some of their necks twisted if I had seen occasion: in particular, I would have taken some of mad Archy's crazy fits out of him--by my hand I would, major! But I'll tell you,--I made one observation, that this here sort of carrying false colors goes against a man's conscience: it doesn't seem natural for a man, that's accustomed and willing to stand by his words, to be heaping one lie upon top of another as fast as he can speak them. It really, Major Butler, does go against my grain." "That point of conscience," said Butler laughing, "has been duly considered, and, I believe, we are safe in setting it down as entirely lawful to use any deceit of speech to escape from an enemy in time of war. We have a dangerous trade, sergeant, and the moralists indulge us more than they do others: and as I am a minister, you know, you need not be afraid to trust your conscience to my keeping." "They allow that all's fair in war, I believe. But it don't signify, a man is a good while before he gets used to this flat lying, for I can't call it by any other name." "If we should be challenged on this road, before we reach Wat Adair's," said Butler, "it is your opinion that we should say we are graziers going to the mountains to buy cattle." "That's about the best answer I can think of. Though you must be a little careful about that. If you see me put my hand up to my mouth and give a sort of a hem, major, then leave the answer to me. A gang of raw lads might be easily imposed upon, but it wouldn't do if there's an old sodger amongst them; he mought ax some hard questions." "I know but little of this grazier craft to bear an examination. I fear I should fare badly if one of these bullies should take it into his head to cross-question me." "If a man takes on too much with you," replied Robinson, "it is well to be a little saucy to him. If he thinks you are for a quarrel, the chances are he won't pester you. But if any of these Tories should only take it into their heads, without our telling them right down in so many words, for I would rather a lie, if it is to come out, should take a roundabout way, that we are sent up here by Cornwallis, or Rawdon, or Leslie, or any of their people to do an arrand, they will be as civil, sir, as your grandmother's cat, for, major, they are a blasted set of cringin' whelps, the best of them, and will take anything that has G. R. marked on it with thanks, even if it was a cat-o'nine tails, which they desarve every day at rollcall, the sorry devils!" "I am completely at my wits' end, Galbraith. I have not done much justice to your appointment of me as a parson, and when I come to play the grazier it will be still worse; even in this disguise of a plain countryman I make a poor performer; I fear I shall disgrace the boards." "If the worst comes to the worst, major, the rule is run or fight. We can manage that, at any rate, for we have had a good deal of both in the last three or four years." "God knows we have had practice enough, sergeant, to make us perfect in that trick. Let us make our way through this treacherous ground as quickly and as quietly as we can. Get me to Clarke by the shortest route, and keep as much among friends as you know how." "As to that, Major Butler, it is all a matter of chance, for, to tell you the plain truth, I don't know who to depend upon. A quick eye, a nimble foot, and a ready hand, will be our surest friends. Then with the pistols at your saddle, besides a pair in your pocket, and a dirk for close quarters, and my rifle here for a long shot, major, I am not much doubtful but what we shall hold our own." "How far are we from Adair's?" asked Butler. "Not more than a mile," replied Horse Shoe. "You may see the ferry just ahead. Wat lives upon the top of the first hill on the other side." "Is that fellow to be trusted, sergeant?" "Better with the help of gold, major, than without it. Wat was never over honest. But it is worth our while to make a friend of him if we can." Our travellers had now reached the river, which was here a smooth and deep stream, though by no means so broad as to entitle it to the distinction by which, in its lower portion, it has earned its name. It here flowed sluggishly along in deep and melancholy shade. Butler and his companion were destined to encounter a difficulty at this spot which less hardy travellers would have deemed a serious embarrassment. The boat was not to be seen on either side of the river, having been carried off a few hours before, according to the information given by the inmates of a negro cabin, constituting the family of the ferryman, by a party of soldiers. Robinson regarded this obstacle with the resignation of a practised philosopher. He nodded his head significantly to his companion upon receiving the intelligence, as he said, "There is some mischief in the wind. These Tories are always dodging about in gangs; and when they collect the boats on the river, it is either to help them forward on some house-burning and thieving business, or to secure their retreat when they expect to have honest men at their heels. It would be good news to hear that Sumpter was near their cruppers, which, by the by, is not onlikely neither. You would be told of some pretty sport then, major." "Sumpter's means, sergeant," replied Butler, "I fear, are not equal to his will. There are heavy odds against him, and it isn't often that he can venture from his hiding-place. But what are we to do now, Galbraith?" "Ha, ha! do as we have often done before this, launch our four-legged ships, and take a wet jacket coolly and dispassionately, as that quare devil Lieutenant Hopkins used to tell us when he was going to make a charge of the bagnet. We hav'n't no time to lose, major, and if we had, I don't think the river would run dry. So, here goes." With these words Robinson plunged into the stream, and, with his rifle resting across his shoulder, he plied his voyage towards the opposite bank with the same unconcern as if he had journeyed on dry land. As soon as he was fairly afloat he looked back to give a few cautions to Butler. "Head slantwise up stream, major, lean a little forward, so as to sink your horse's nose nearer to the water, he swims all the better for it. Slacken your reins and give him play. You have it now. It isn't oncomfortable in a day's ride to get a cool seat once in a while. Here we are safe and sound," he continued, as they reached the further margin, "and nothing the worse for the ferrying, excepting it be a trifle of dampness about the breeches." The two companions now galloped towards the higher grounds of the adjacent country. By the time that they had gained the summit of a long hill that rose immediately from the plain of the river, Robinson apprised Butler that they were now in the vicinity of Adair's dwelling. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the varied lustre of early twilight tinged the surrounding scenery with its own beautiful colors. The road, as it wound upwards gradually emerged from the forest upon a tract of open country, given signs of one of those original settlements which, at that day, were sparsely sprinkled through the great wilderness. The space that had been snatched from the ruggedness of nature, for the purpose of husbandry, comprehended some three or four fields of thinly cultivated land. These were yet spotted over with stumps of trees, that seemed to leave but little freedom to the course of the ploughshare, and bespoke a thriftless and slovenly tillage. A piece of half cleared ground, occupying the side of one of the adjacent hills, presented to the eye of our travellers a yet more uncouth spectacle. This spot was still clothed with the native trees of the forest, all of which had been death-stricken by the axe, and now heaved up their withered and sapless branches towards the heavens, without leaf or spray. In the phrase of the woodman, they had been _girdled_ some years before, and were destined to await the slow decay of time in their upright attitude. It was a grove of huge skeletons that had already been bleached into an ashy hue by the sun, and whose stiff and dry members rattled in the breeze with a preternatural harshness. Amongst the most hoary of these victims of the axe, the gales of winter had done their work and thrown them to the earth, where the shattered boles and boughs lay as they had fallen, and were slowly reverting into their original dust. Others, whose appointed time had not yet been fulfilled, gave evidence of their struggle with the frequent storm, by their declination from the perpendicular line. Some had been caught in falling by the boughs of a sturdier neighbor, and still leaned their huge bulks upon these supports, awakening the mind of the spectator to the fancy, that they had sunk in some deadly paroxysm into charitable and friendly arms, and, thus locked together, abided their tardy but irrevocable doom. It was a field of the dead; and the more striking in its imagery from the contrast which it furnished to the rich, verdurous, and lively forest that, with all the joyousness of health, encompassed this blighted spot. Its aspect was one of unpleasant desolation; and the traveller of the present day who visits our western wilds, where this slovenly practice is still in use, will never pass through such a precinct without a sense of disgust at the disfiguration of the landscape. The field thus marred might have contained some fifty acres, and it was now occupied, in the intervals between the lifeless trunks, with a feeble crop of Indian corn, whose husky and parched blades, as they fluttered in the evening wind, added new and appropriate features to the inexpressible raggedness of the scene. The same effect was further aided and preserved by the cumbrous and unseemly worm fence that shot forth its stiff angles around the tract. On the very apex of the hill up which our travellers were now clambering, was an inclosure of some three or four acres of land, in the middle of which, under the shade of a tuft of trees, stood a group of log cabins so situated as to command a view, of nearly every part of the farm. The principal structure was supplied with a rude porch that covered three of its sides; whilst the smoke that curled upwards from a wide-mouthed chimney, and the accompaniment of a bevy of little negroes that were seen scattered amongst the out-houses, gave an air of habitation and life to the place that contrasted well with the stillness of the neighboring wood. A well-beaten path led into a narrow ravine where might be discerned, peeping forth from the weeds, the roof of a spring house; and, in the same neighborhood, a rough garden was observable, in which a bed of broad-leaved cabbages seemed to have their ground disputed by a plentiful crop of burdock, thistles, and other intruders upon a manured soil. In this inclosure, also, the hollyhock and sunflower, rival coxcombs of the vegetable community, gave their broad and garish tribute to the beautifying of the spot. The road approached within some fifty paces of the front of the cabins, where access was allowed, not by the help of a gate, but only by a kind of ladder or stile formed of rails, which were so arranged as to furnish steps across the barrier of the worm fence at four or five feet from the ground. "Are you sure of entertainment here, Galbraith?" inquired Butler, as they halted at the stile. "This Wat Adair is not likely to be churlish, I hope?" "I don't think I am in much humor to be turned away," replied Robinson. "It's my opinion that a man who has rode a whole day has a sort of right to quarters wherever the night finds him--providing he pays for what he gets. But I have no doubt of Wat, Major. Holloa! who's at home? Wat Adair! Wat Adair! Travellers, man! Show yourself." "Who are you that keep such a racket at the fence there?" demanded a female voice. "What do you mean by such doings before a peaceable house?" "Keep your dogs silent, ma'am," returned Horse Shoe, in a blunt and loud key, "and you will hear us. If you are Wat Adair's wife you are as good as master of this house. We want a night's lodging and must have it--and besides, we have excellent stomachs, and mean to pay for all we get. Ain't that reason enough to satisfy a sensible woman, Mrs. Adair?" "If you come to make disturbance," said a man of a short and sturdy figure, who at this moment stepped out from the house and took a position in front of it, with a rifle in his hand--"if you come here to insult a quiet family you had best turn your horses' heads up the road and jog further." "We might do that, sir, and fare worse," said Butler, in a conciliatory tone. "You have no need of your gun; we are harmless travellers who have come a long way to get under your roof." "Where from?" asked the other. "From below," said Horse Shoe promptly. "What side do you take?" "Your side for to-night," returned Robinson again. "Don't be obstropolous, friend," he continued, at the same time dismounting, "we have come on purpose to pay Wat a visit, and if you ha'n't got no brawlers in the house, you needn't be afraid of us." By this time the sergeant had crossed the stile and approached the questioner, to whom he offered his hand. The man gazed for a moment upon his visitor, and then asked-- "Isn't this Galbraith Robinson?" "They call me so," replied Horse Shoe; "and if I ain't mistaken, this is Michael Lynch. You wan't going to shoot at us, Michael?" "A man must have sharp eyes when he looks in the face of a neighbor now-a-days," said the other. "Come in; Wat's wife will be glad to see you. Wat himself will be home presently. Who have you here, Galbraith?" "This is Mr. Butler," answered Horse Shoe, as the Major joined them. "He and me are taking a ride across into Georgia, and we thought we would give Wat a call just to hear the news." "You are apt to fetch more news than you will take away," replied the other; "but there is a good deal doing now in all quarters. Howsever, go into the house, we must give you something to eat and a bed besides." After putting their horses in charge of a negro who now approached in the character of an ostler, our adventurers followed Michael Lynch into the house. CHAPTER XIII. A WOODMAN'S FAMILY. The apartment into which the travellers were introduced was one of large dimensions, conspicuous for its huge kitchen-like fire-place and ample chimney. The floor, consisting of broad planks, was so much warped as, in several places, to show the ground through the chinks. The furniture was of the rudest form and most homely materials. Three or four rifles were suspended against the walls, together with some trapping implements and various skins of such wild animals of prey and game as abounded in the woods of this region: these were associated with the antlers of the buck, powder-horns, hunting pouches, and a few articles of clothing,--the whole array giving to the room that air of woodland life which denotes the habitation of a hunter, and which so distinctly characterizes the dwellings of our frontier population. Amongst other articles of household use was a large spinning-wheel that was placed near the door, and beside it stood the dame who had first challenged the visitors. She was a woman who could scarcely be said to have reached the middle period of life, although her wan and somewhat haggard features, and a surly, discontented expression of face, might well induce an observer to attribute more years to her worldly account than she had actually seen. The presence of a rough and untidy cradle and some five or six children, the majority of whom might be below three feet in stature, served in some degree to explain the care-worn and joyless countenance of the hostess. When Butler and his companion were ushered by Lynch into her presence, she gave them no other welcome than a slight nod of the head, and continued to ply her task at the wheel with unremitted assiduity. In another corner of the room sat a smart-looking young girl who, at this moment, was employed in carding wool. She was sylvan Hebe, just verging upon womanhood, with a round, active, and graceful figure, which was adorned with that zealous attention to neatness and becoming ornament which, in every station of life, to a certain extent, distinguishes those of the sex who are gifted with beauty. Her cheek had the rich bloom of high health; a full round blue eye seemed habitually to laugh with pleasure; and the same trick of a happy temperament had stamped its mark upon the lines of her mouth. Her accost was altogether different from that of the mistress of the house. She arose from her work immediately upon the entrance of the strangers, courtesied with a modest and silent reserve, and then proceeded to gather up the rolls of carded wool at her feet and to dispose of them in a chest near at hand. Having done this, she left the apartment, not without casting sundry prying glances towards the guests. Another member of the family was an aged female: she had perhaps seen her eightieth winter. Her attenuated frame seemed to be hovering on the verge of dissolution: a hollow cheek, a sunken, moist eye, and a tremulous palsied motion of the head denoted the melancholy period of dotage; and it was apparent at a glance that this unfortunate being had far outlived both her capacity for enjoyment and the sympathy of her kindred. She now sat in a low elbow-chair, with her head almost in contact with her knees, upon the stone hearth, bending over a small fire of brushwood which had been kindled as well for the purpose of preparing the evening meal as for the comfort of the ancient dame herself--the chilliness of night-fall rendering this additional warmth by no means unpleasant. The beldam silently smoked a short pipe, unmoved by anything that occurred in the apartment, and apparently engrossed with the trivial care of directing the smoke, as she puffed it from her lips, into a current that should take it up the chimney. Michael Lynch, who acted as landlord in the casual absence of Wat Adair, had no other connexion with the family than that of being joint owner, with the lord of this wild domain, of a small saw-mill in the vicinity, the particular superintendence of which was his especial province. He was, therefore, at particular seasons of the year, an in-dweller at the homestead, and sufficiently in authority to assume a partial direction in the affairs of the house. This man now replaced his rifle upon the pegs appropriated to receive it, and then offered Butler and Robinson chairs, as he said to the mistress of the family:-- "Here's Horse Shoe Robinson, Mrs. Adair; and this other man I think they call Mr. Butler. They've come for a night's lodging. I believe Wat will be right glad to see them." "You are not often visited with travellers in this part of the country," said Butler, addressing the matron as he drew his chair near to the fire to dry his clothes. "We have enough of them, such as they are," replied the woman; "and it's a dangerous thing, when there's so many helpless women at home, to be opening the door to all sorts of persons." "You, at least, run no risk in offering shelter to us this evening," returned Butler; "we are strangers to the quarrel that prevails in your district." "People puts on so many pretences," said the woman, "that there's no knowing them." "You have a fine troop of boys and girls," continued Butler, patting the head of one of the boys who had summoned courage to approach him, after various shy reconnoitrings of his person. "Your settlement will require enlargement before long." "There is more children than is needful," replied the hostess; "they are troublesome brats; but poor people generally have the luck that way." "Does your husband ever serve with the army, madam?" asked Butler. The woman stopped spinning for a moment, and turning her face towards Butler with a scowl, muttered, "How does that matter concern you?" "Pardon me," replied Butler; "I was recommended to Mr. Adair as a friend, and supposed I might approach his house without suspicion." "Wat Adair is a fool," said the wife; "who is never content but when he has other people thrusting their spoons into his mess." "Wat's a wiser man than his wife," interrupted Robinson bluntly, "and takes good care that no man thrusts his spoon into his mess without paying for it. You know Wat and me knows each other of old, Mrs. Adair; and devil a ha'penny did Wat ever lose by good manners yet." "And who are you to talk, forsooth, Horse Shoe Robinson!" exclaimed the ill-favored dame, tartly. "Who are you to talk of Wat Adair? If he knows you he knows no good of you, I'm sure? I warrant you have come here on honest business now--you and your tramping friend. What do you do up here in the woods, when there is work enough for hearty men below? No good, I will undertake. It is such as you, Horse Shoe Robinson, and your drinking, rioting, broadsword cronies that has given as all our troubles here. You know Wat Adair!" "A little consideration, good woman! Not so fast; you run yourself out of breath," said Robinson mildly, interrupting this flood of objurgation. "Why, you are as spiteful as a hen with a fresh brood! Remember, Wat and me are old friends. Wat has been at my house both before the war and since, and I have been here--all in friendship you know. And many's the buck I have helped Wat to fetch down. What's the use of tantrums? If we had been thieves, Mrs. Adair, you couldn't have sarved us worse. Why, it's unreasonable in you to fly in a man's face so." "I'll vouch for Horse Shoe Robinson, Mrs. Peggy Adair," said Lynch. "You oughtn't to think harm of him; and you know it isn't long since we heard Wat talk of him, and say he would like to see him once more!" "Well, it's my way," replied the hostess, soothed down into a placid mood by this joint expostulation. "We have had cause to be suspicious, and I own I am suspicious. But, Horse Shoe Robinson, I can't say I have anything against you; you and your friend may be welcome for me." "Heyday!" exclaimed the old crone from the chimney corner "Who is talking about Horse Shoe Robinson? Is this Horse Shoe? Come here, good man," she said, beckoning with her finger to the sergeant. "Come close and let me look at you. Galbraith Robinson, as I am a sinner! All the way from the Waxhaws. Who'd 'a thought to find you here amongst the Tories? Such a racketing whig as you. Heyday!" "Whisht, granny!" said Robinson almost in a whisper. "Don't call names." "We are all Tories here," said the old woman, heedless of the sergeant's caution, "ever since last Thursday, when the handsome English officer was here to see Watty, and to count out his gold like pebble-stones." "Grandmother, you talk nonsense," said the wife. "Old Mistress Crosby," interposed Robinson, "is as knowing as she ever was. It's a mark of sense to be able to tell the day of the week when a man changes his coat. But, granny, you oughtn't to talk of Wat's seeing an English officer in his house." "Golden guineas, honey!" continued the drivelling old woman. "All good gold! And a proud clinking they make in Watty's homespun pocket. A countryman's old leather bag, Galbraith Robinson, doesn't often scrape acquaintance with the image of the king's head--ha, ha, ha! It makes me laugh to think of it! Ha, ha, ha! Watty's nose cocked up so high too! Who but he, the proud gander! Strutting like quality. Well, well, pride will have a fall, some day, that's the Lord's truth. Both pockets full!" she continued, muttering broken sentences and laughing so violently that the tears ran down her cheeks. "If you call Wat Adair your friend," interrupted the wife sullenly, and addressing Robinson, "you will show your sense by keeping away from this foolish old woman. She is continually raving with some nonsense that she dreams of nights. You ought to see that she is only half witted. It's sinful to encourage her talking. Grandmother, you had better go to your bed." "Come this way, deary," said the beldam, addressing an infant that toddled across the floor near to her seat, at the same time extending her shrivelled arm to receive it. "Come to the old body, pretty darling!" "No," lisped the child with an angry scream, and instantly made its way towards the door. "Then do you come to me, Peggy," she said, looking up at her granddaughter, the mistress of the family, who was still busy with her wheel. "Wipe my old eye with your handkerchief. Don't you see I have laughed my eyes dim at Watty and his gold? And fill my pipe again, Peggy." Instead of obeying this command, the mother left her spinning, and ran with some precipitation towards the door to catch up the child, who had staggered to the very verge of the sill, where it paused in imminent peril of falling headlong down the step; and having rescued it from its danger, she returned with the infant in her arms to a chair, where, without scruple at the presence of her visitors, she uncovered her bosom and administered to her off-spring that rich and simple bounty which nature has so lavishly provided for the sustenance of our first and tenderest days of helplessness. "Well-a-day, I see how it is!" muttered the grandmother in an accent of reproof, "that's the way of the world. Love is like a running river, it goes downwards, but doesn't come back to the spring. The poor old granny in the chimney corner is a withered tree up the stream, and the youngest born is a pretty flower on the bank below. Love leaves the old tree and goes to the flower. It went from me to Peggy's mother, and so downwards and downwards, but it never will come back again. The old granny's room is more wanted than her company; she ought to be nailed up in her coffin and put to sleep down, down in the cold ground. Well, well! But Watty's a proud wretch, that's for certain!" In this strain the aged dame continued to pour forth a stream of garrulity exhibiting a mixture of the silly dreamings of dotage, with a curious remainder of the scraps and saws of former experience--a strange compound of futile drivelling and shrewd and quick sagacity. During the period of the foregoing dialogue, preparations were making for supper. These were conducted principally under the superintendence of our Hebe, who, my reader will recollect, some time since escaped from the room, and who, as Butler learned, in the course of the evening, was a niece of Adair's wife and bore the kindly name of Mary Musgrove. The part which she took in the concerns of the family was in accordance with the simple manners of the time, and such as might be expected from her relationship. She was now seen arranging a broad table, and directing the domestics in the disposition of sundry dishes of venison, bacon, and corn bread, with such other items of fare as belonged to the sequestered and forest-bound region in which Adair resided. Mary was frequently caught directing her regards towards Butler, whose face was handsome enough to have rendered such a thing quite natural from a young girl: but she seemed to be moved by more than ordinary interest, as the closeness of her scrutiny almost implied a suspicion in her mind of his disguise. In truth there was some incongruity between his manners and the peasant dress he wore, which an eye like Mary's might have detected, notwithstanding the plainness of demeanor which Butler studied to assume. "We have nothing but corn bread in the house," said Mary in a low tone to her kinswoman, "perhaps the gentlemen (here she directed her eye, for the fiftieth time, to Butler) expected to get wheat. Had I not better pull some roasting-ears from the garden and prepare them? they will not be amiss with our milk and butter." "Bless you, my dear," said Butler, thrown completely off his guard, and showing more gallantry than belonged to the station he affected. "Give yourself no trouble on my account; we can eat anything. I delight in corn cakes, and will do ample justice to this savory venison. Pray do not concern yourself for us." "It is easy as running to the garden," said Mary in a sweet and almost laughing tone. "That's further, my dear," replied Butler, "than I choose you should run at this time of night. It is dark, my pretty girl." "Gracious!" returned Mary with natural emotion, "do you think I am afraid to go as far as the garden in the dark? We have no witches or fairies in our hills to hurt us: and if we had, I know how to keep them away." "And how might that be?" "By saying my prayers, sir. My father taught me, before my head was as high as the back of this chair, a good many prayers: and he told me they would protect me from all sorts of harm, if I only said them in right earnest. And I hear many old people, who ought to know, say the same thing." "Your father taught you well and wisely," replied Butler; "prayer will guard us against many ills, and chiefly against ourselves. But against the harm that others may do us, we should not forget that prudence is also a good safeguard. It is always well to avoid a dangerous path." "But, for all that," said the maiden smiling, "I am not afraid to go as far as the garden." "If you mean to get the corn," interrupted Mistress Adair, in no very kindly tone, "you had as well go without all this talk. I warrant if you listen to every man who thinks it worth while to jabber in your ear, you will find harm enough, without going far to seek it." "I thought it was only civil to speak when I was spoken to," replied Mary, with an air of mortification. "But I will be gone this moment:" and with these words the girl went forth upon her errand. A moment only elapsed when the door was abruptly thrown open, and the tall and swarthy figure of Wat Adair strode into the room. The glare of the blazing faggots of pine which had been thrown on the fire to light up the apartment, fell broadly over his person, and flung a black and uncouth shadow across the floor and upon the opposite wall; thus magnifying his proportions and imparting a picturesque character to his outward man. A thin, dark, weather-beaten countenance, animated by a bright and restless eye, expressed cunning rather than hardihood, and seemed habitually to alternate between the manifestations of waggish vivacity and distrust. The person of this individual might be said, from its want of symmetry and from a certain slovenly and ungraceful stoop in the head and shoulders, to have been protracted, rather than tall. It better deserved the description of sinewy than muscular, and communicated the idea of toughness in a greater degree than strength. His arms and legs were long; and the habit of keeping the knee bent as he walked, suggested a remote resemblance in his gait to that of a panther and other animals of the same species; it seemed to be adapted to a sudden leap or spring. His dress was a coarse and short hunting-shirt of dingy green, trimmed with a profusion of fringe, and sufficiently open at the collar to disclose his long and gaunt neck; a black leather belt supported a hunting knife and wallet; whilst a pair of rude deer-skin moccasins and a cap manufactured from the skin of some wild animal, and now deprived of its hair by long use, supplied the indispensable gear to either extremity of his person. Adair's first care was to bestow in their proper places his rifle and powder-horn; then to disburden himself of a number of squirrels which were strung carelessly over his person, and, finally, to throw himself into a chair that occupied one side of the fire-place. The light for a moment blinded him, and it was not until he shaded his brow with his hand and looked across the hearth, that he became aware of the presence of the strangers. His first gaze was directed to Butler, to whom he addressed the common interrogatory, "Travelling in these parts, sir?" and, before time was afforded for a reply to this accost, his eye recognised the sergeant, upon which, starting from his seat, he made up to our sturdy friend, and slapping him familiarly on the back, uttered a chuckling laugh, as he exclaimed: "Why, Galbraith, is it you, man? To be sure it is! What wind has blown you up here? Have you been running from red coats, or are you hunting of Tories, or are you looking for beeves? Who have you got with you here?" "Wat, it don't consarn you to know what brought us here--it is only your business to do the best you can for us whilst we are here," replied the sergeant. "This here gentleman is Mr. Butler, a friend of mine that wants to get across into Georgia; and trouble enough we've had to find our way this far, Wat Adair. You've got such an uproarious country, and such a cursed set of quarrelsome devils in it, that a peaceable man is clean out of fashion amongst you. We are as wet as muskrats in swimming the river, and as hungry as wolves in winter." "And happy," said Butler, "to be at last under the roof of a friend." "Well, I am glad to see you both," replied Wat. "What put it in my head, Galbraith, I am sure I can't tell, but I was thinking about you this very day; said I to myself, I should just like to see Horse Shoe Robinson, the onconceivable, superfluous, roaring devil! Haw, haw, haw!" "You were ashamed of your own company, Wat, and wanted to see a decent man once more," replied Horse Shoe, echoing the laugh. "Mary Musgrove, bustle, girl," said the woodman, as the maiden entered the room with her arms loaded with ears of Indian corn, "bustle, mink! here are two runaways with stomachs like mill stones to grind your corn. Horse Shoe, get up from that chist, man; I can give you a little drop of liquor, if you will let me rummage there for it. Marcus, boy, go bring us in a jug of cool water. Wife, I'm 'stonished you didn't think of giving our friends something to drink afore." "I am sure I don't pretend to know friend from foe," returned the dame; "and it is a bad way to find that out by giving them liquor." When the boy returned with the water, and the host had helped his guests to a part of the contents of a flask which had been extracted from the chest, Butler took occasion to commend the alacrity of the young servitor. "This is one of your children, I suppose?" "A sort of a pet cub," replied the woodman; "just a small specimen of my fetching up: trees squirrels like a dog--got the nose of a hound--can track a raccoon in the dark--and the most meddlesome imp about fire-arms you ever see. Here t' other day got my rifle and shot away half the hair from his sister's head; but I reckon I skinned him for it! You can answer for that, Marcus, you shaver, eh?" "I expect you did," answered the boy pertly, "but I don't mind a whipping when I've got room to dodge." "Do you know, Mr. Butler, how I come to call that boy Marcus?" said Adair. "It is one of your family names, perhaps." "Not a bit. There's nare another boy nor man in this whole country round has such a name--nor woman, neither. It's a totally oncommon name. I called him after that there Frenchman that's come out here to help General Washington--Marcus Lafayette; and I think it sounds mighty well." Butler laughed, as he replied, "That was a soldierly thought of yours. I think you must call your next Baron, after our old Prussian friend De Kalb." "Do you hear that, wife?" exclaimed Wat. "Keep that in your head, if it will hold there a twelvemonth. No occasion to wait longer, haw! haw! haw!" "Wat talks like a natural born fool," retorted the wife. "We have no friends nor enemies on any side. The boy was called Marcus because Watty was headstrong, and not because we cared any more for one general nor another. I dare say there is faults enough on both sides, if the truth was told; and I can't see what people in the woods have to do with all this jarring about liberty and such nonsense." "Hold your tongue!" said Wat. "Boil your kettle, and give us none of your tinkling brass, as the Bible calls it. You see, Horse Shoe, there's such ridings and burnings, and shooting and murder about here, that these women are scared out of the little wits God has given them; and upon that account we are obliged sometimes to play a little double, just to keep out of harm's way. But I am sure I wish no ill to the Continental army." "If we thought you did, Wat," replied Robinson, "we would have slept on the hill to-night, rather than set foot across the sill of your door. Howsever, let's say nothing about that; I told Mr. Butler that you would give us the best you had, and so you will. I have known Wat Adair, Mr. Butler, a good many years. We used to call him Wat with the double hand. Show us your fist here, Wat. Look at that, sir! it's as broad as a shovel!" "Cutting of trees," said the woodman, as he spread his large horny-knuckled hand upon the supper table, "and handling of logs, will make any man's paw broad, and mine wa'n't small at first." "Ha! ha! ha!" ejaculated the sergeant, "you ha'n't forgot Dick Rowley over here on Congaree, Wat,--Walloping Dick, as they nicknamed him--and the scrimmage you had with him when he sot to laughing at you because they accused you for being light-fingered, and your letting him see that you had a heavy hand, by giving him the full weight of it upon his ear that almost drove him through the window of the bar-room at the Cross Roads? You ha'n't forgot that--and his drawing his knife on you?" "To be sure I ha'n't. That fellow was about as superfluous a piece of wicked flesh as I say--as a man would meet on a summer's day journey. But for all that, Horse Shoe, he wa'n't going to supererogate me, without getting as good as he sent. When I come across one of your merry fellows that's for playing cantraps on a man, it's my rule to make them pay the piper; and that's a pretty good rule, Horse Shoe, all the world through. But come, here is supper; draw up, Mr. Butler." Mary Musgrove having completed the arrangement of the board whilst this conversation was in progress, the family now sat down to their repast. It was observable, during the meal, that Mary was very attentive in the discharge of the offices of the table, and especially when they were required by Butler. There was a modest and natural courtesy in her demeanor that attracted the notice of our soldier, and enhanced the kindly impression which the artless girl had made upon him; and it was, accordingly, with a feeling composed, in one degree, of curiosity to learn more of her character, and, in another, of that sort of tenderness which an open-hearted man is apt to entertain towards an ingenuous and pretty female, that he took occasion after supper, when Mary had seated herself on the threshold of the porch, to fall into conversation with her. "You do not live here, I think I have gathered, but are only on a visit?" was the remark addressed to the maiden. "No, sir; it is thirty good long miles by the shortest road, from this to my father's house. Mistress Adair is my mother's sister, and that makes her my aunt, you know, sir." "And your father's name?" "Allen Musgrove. He has a mill, sir, on the Ennoree." "You are the miller's daughter, then. Well, that's a pretty title. I suppose they call you so?" "The men sometimes call me," replied Mary, rising to her feet, and leaning carelessly against one of the upright timbers that supported the porch, "the miller's pretty daughter, but the women call me plain Mary Musgrove." "Faith, my dear, the men come nearer to the truth than the women." "They say not," replied the maiden, "I have heard, and sometimes I have read in good books--at least, they called them good books--that you mustn't believe the men." "And why should you not?" "I don't well know why not," returned the girl doubtingly, "but I am young, and maybe I shall find it out by and by." "God forbid," said Butler, "that you should ever gain that experience! But there are many toils spread for the feet of innocence in this world, and it is well to have a discreet eye and good friends." "I am seventeen, sir," replied Mary, "come next month; and though I have travelled backwards and forwards from here to Ennoree, and once to Camden, which, you know, sir, is a good deal of this world to see, I never knew anybody that thought harm of me. But I don't dispute there are men to be afraid of, and some that nobody could like. And yet I think a good man can be told by his face." "Are you sure of that?" "Yes. My father is a good man, and every one says you may see it in his looks." "I should like to know your father," said Butler. "I am sure he would be glad to know you, sir." "Now, my pretty miller's daughter, why do you think so?" "Because you are a gentleman," replied the girl, courtesying, "for all your homespun clothes." "Ha! pray how have you found that out?" "You talk differently from our people, sir. Your words or your voice, I can't rightly tell which, are softer than I have been used to hear. And you don't look, and walk, and behave as if homespun had been all you ever wore." "And is that all?" "You stop to consider, as if you were studying what would please other people; and you do not step so heavy, sir; and you do not swear; and you do not seem to like to give trouble. I can't think, sir, that you have been always used to such as are hereabouts. And then there's another reason, sir," added the maiden, almost in a whisper. "What is that?" asked Butler, smiling. "Why, sir, when you stooped down to pick up your fork, that fell from the table, I saw a blue ribbon round your neck, and a beautiful gold picture hanging to it. None but gentlemen of quality carry such things about them: and as there is so much contriving and bloody doings going on about here, I was sure you wasn't what you seemed." "For heaven's sake, my dear," exclaimed Butler, startled by the disclosure of the maiden's suspicion, which was so naturally accounted for, "keep this to yourself, and the time may come when I shall be able to reward your fidelity. If you have any good will towards me, as I hope you have, tell nobody what you have seen." "Never fear me, sir," returned the maid. "I wouldn't let on to any one in the house for the world. I am for General Washington and the Congress, which is more than I think the people here are." "Indeed!" muttered Butler, thoughtfully, and scarce above his breath. "What side does your father take, Mary?" "My father is an old man, sir. And he reads his Bible, and every night, before we go to bed, he prays aloud before us all, I mean all that belong to his house, for quiet once more and peace. His petition is that there may be an end of strife, and that the sword and spear may be turned into the pruning-hook and ploughshare--you know the words, sir, perhaps, for they are in the good book, and so he doesn't take any side. But then, the English officers are not far off, and they take his house and use it as they please, so that he has no mind of his own. And almost all the people round us are Tories, and we are afraid of our lives if we do not say whatever they say." "Alas! that's the misfortune of many more than your father's household. But how comes it that you are a friend of General Washington?" "Oh, sir, I think he is our friend; and then he is a good man. And I have a better reason still to be on his side," added the maiden tremulously, with her head averted. "What reason, my good girl?" "John Ramsay, sir." "Indeed! a very cogent reason, I doubt not, my pretty maid of the mill. And how does this reason operate?" "We have a liking, sir," she replied bashfully, but with innocent frankness; "he is for Washington, and we are to be married when the war is over." "Truly, that is a most excellent reason! Who is John Ramsay?" "He is a trooper, sir, and out with General Sumpter. We don't see him often now, for he is afraid to come home, excepting when the Tories are away." "These Tories are very troublesome, Mary," said Butler, laughing; "they annoy us all, on our side of the question. But love John Ramsay, my dear, and don't be ashamed of it, for I'll warrant he is a brave fellow, and deserves a pretty girl with a true heart, for his love to his country." "That he does!" replied Mary, "for his greatest fault is that he ventures too much. If you should see him, sir, I would like you just to drop him a hint that he ought to take more care of himself. He would mind it from you, but he puts me off with a laugh when I tell him so." "If I have the schooling of him, he shall be more cautious, for your sake. But the current of true love never did run smooth, Mary; remember that." "I must go into the house, my aunt Peggy calls me," interrupted the maiden. "I will keep the secret, sir," she added, as she retired from the porch to the household service where her presence was demanded. "Simple, innocent, and confiding girl," ejaculated Butler, as he now strolled forth under the starlit canopy of night; "how are you contrasted with the rough and savage natures around you! I wear but a thin disguise, when this unpractised country girl is able so soon to penetrate it. And this miniature, too! Oh, Mildred! that the very talisman I bear about me to guard me from evil, should betray me! Well, this discovery admonishes me that I should wear that image nearer to my heart. There," he continued, as he buttoned his waistcoat across his breast; "lie closer and more concealed. I doubt this double-faced woodman, and almost believe in the seeming frivolous dotings of the crone at his fire-side. Now, God defend us from treachery and ambuscade!" Robinson, at this moment, being on his way to the stable, was met by Butler, who half whispered, "Good sergeant, keep your eyes about you, and, mark me, do not omit to take our weapons to our chamber. I have reasons for this caution. I would not trust these people too far." "Wat dare not play us a trick, major," replied the sergeant. "He knows I would shake the life out of his carcase if I saw him take one step of a traitor. Besides, in this here war time, it's a part of my discipline to be always ready for stolen marches. As you say, major, we will stack arms where we sleep. There is no trust in this dubious country that isn't something the surer with powder and ball to back it." With this intimation the sergeant continued his walk, and Butler, retiring to the family group, seated himself near the fire. Wat Adair and his crony, Michael Lynch, had each lighted a pipe, and were now in close conference under the cover of their own smoke, amidst the combined din of romping children and of the noisy spinning-wheel of the wife, which gave life and occupation to the apartment. "How far do you expect to travel to-morrow?" asked the host, as Butler drew a chair near him. "That will depend very much," replied Butler, "upon the advice you may give us." "You wish to get across here into Georgia?" continued Wat. "By the route least liable to molestation," added the major. "Let me see, Michael, Grindall's Ford is the best point to make: then there's Christie's, about three miles beyont." "Just so," replied Lynch; "that will make about twenty-seven and three are thirty miles: an easy day's journey." "In that case," said Adair, "if you know the road--doesn't Horse Shoe know it, sir?" "I rather think not," answered Butler. "Well, it's a little tangled, to be sure; but if you will wait in the morning until I look at my wolf trap, which is only a step off, I will go with you part of the way, just to see you through one or two cross paths: after that all is clear enough. You will have a long day before you, and, with good horses, not much to do." "Are we likely to meet parties on the road?" asked Butler. "Oh, Lord, sir, no chance of it," replied the woodman; "everything is drawing so to a head down below at Camden 'twixt Cornwallis and Gates, that we have hardly anything but old women left to keep the country free of Indians." "And how have you escaped the levy?" inquired the major. "He, he, he!" chuckled our host; "there's a trick in that. They call me a man of doubtful principles, and neither side are willing to own me," he added, with a tone that seemed to indicate a sense of his own cleverness. "But, bless you, sir, if I chose to speak out, there wouldn't be much doubt in the case. Would there, Michael?" "Not if you was to be plain in declaring your sentiments," answered Lynch, sedately puffing out a huge cloud of smoke. "Betwixt you and me, sir," continued Wat, putting his hand up to his mouth, and winking an eye at Butler, "the thing's clear enough. But these are ticklish times, Mr. Butler, and the wise man keepeth his own counsel, as the Scripture says. You understand me, I dare say." "Perhaps, I do," returned Butler. And here the conversation dropped, Wat and his companion gravely pouring forth volumes of tobacco-fumes in silence, until the sergeant, having made his visit to the stable, now re-entered the room. "Wat," said Robinson, "show us where we are to sleep. Mr. Butler, to my thinking, it's time to be turning in." Then throwing his rifle upon one arm, and Butler's holsters over the other, the sergeant waited in the middle of the floor until Mary Musgrove, at the order of Adair, took a candle in her hand, and beckoned our travellers to follow her out at the door. The maiden conducted her charge along the porch to the opposite end of the cabin, where she pointed out their chamber. After bidding their pretty conductress "good night," our travellers prepared themselves for that repose which their wearied frames did not long seek in vain. CHAPTER XIV. SOMETHING VERY LIKE A DREAM. It was after midnight, and the inmates of the woodman's cabin had been some hours at rest, when Mary Musgrove's sleep was disturbed by strange and unwonted alarms. She was dreaming of Arthur Butler, and a crowd of pleasant visions flitted about her pillow, when, suddenly, clouds darkened the world of her dream, and images of bloodshed caused her to shudder. Horrid shapes appeared to her, marching with stealthy pace through her apartment, and a low and smothered footfall seemed to strike her ear like the ticking of a death-watch. The fright awakened her, but when she came to herself all was still. Her chamber was at the opposite end of the cabin from that where Butler and Robinson slept, and it was separated from the room occupied by Lynch only by a thin partition of boards. The starlight through her window fell upon the floor, just touching, as it passed, the chair over which Mary had hung her clothes, and lighting with a doubtful and spectral light the prominent points of the pile of garments, in such manner as to give it the semblance of some unearthly thing. Mary Musgrove had the superstition common to rustic education, and, as her dream had already filled her mind with apprehensions, she now trembled when her eye fell upon what seemed to her a visitant from another world. For some moments she experienced that most painful of all sufferings, the agony of young and credulous minds when wrought upon by their horror of spectres in the night. Gradually, however, the truth came to her aid, and she saw the dreaded ghost disrobed of his terrors, and changed into a familiar and harmless reality. But this night-fear was scarcely dissipated before she again heard, what in her sleep had conjured up the train of disagreeable images, the noise of footsteps in the adjoining room. In another instant she recognised the sound of voices conversing in a half whisper. "Michael," said the first voice; "Damn it, man, will you never awake? Rouse yourself; it is time to be stirring." "Wat!" exclaimed the second voice, with a loud yawn, whilst at the same moment the creaking of the bedstead and a sullen sound upon the floor showed that the speaker had risen from his couch. "Is it you? I have hardly gone to bed, before you are here to rouse me up. What o'clock is it?" "It is nearly one," replied Wat Adair. "And let me tell you, you have no time to lose. Hugh Habershaw is good ten miles off, and you must be back by daylight." "You might have given me another hour, I think, if it was only to consider over the right way of setting about this thing. Always look before you leap, that's common sense." "You were always a heavy-headed devil," said Adair; "and take as much spurring as a spavined horse. What have you to do with considering? Isn't all fixed? Jog, man, jog. You have a beautiful starlight: and I had the crop-ear put up in the stable last night, that no time might be lost; so up, and saddle, and away!" "Well, you needn't be so d----d busy; don't you see that I am getting ready?" "Quiet, Mike; you talk too loud. Take your shoes in your hand, you can put them on when you get into the porch." "There, give me my coat, Wat; and I think I should have no objection to a drop before I set out. It's raw riding of a morning. Now tell me exactly what I am to say to Hugh Habershaw." "Tell him," replied Wat, "that we have got Horse Shoe Robinson and Major Butler of the Continental army, as snug as a pair of foxes in a bag, and that I will let them run exactly at seven; and--" "Not to interrupt you, Wat," said the other, "let me ask you a question before you go on. Suppose this shouldn't be the man? Are you sure of it? It would be a d----d unchristian job to give over any other human being to such a set of bloodhounds as Hugh Habershaw and his gang." "Shaw, Mike; you are a fool! Who, in the name of all the imps, could it be, but Major Butler! Weren't we expecting him along with Horse Shoe, and just at this time?" "It looks likely enough," replied Lynch. "So go on." "Tell Hugh to be ready at the Dogwood Spring, at the latest, by eight o'clock. I'll give him a game to play that will supple his joints for him. And mind me Mike, warn the greasy captain to have his whole squad with him; for Horse Shoe Robinson, you know, is not to be handled by boys; it will be a bull-fight, or I'm mistaken." "The major seems to have a wicked eye too, Wat," said Lynch. "I shouldn't like much to be in his way, if he was angry; these copperheads are always in a coil ready to strike. But, Wat, how if they don't ride by the Dogwood Spring?" "Leave that to me; I'll contrive to go as far as the forks of the road with them. And then, if they don't take the right hand fork, why, you may say it's for the want of my not knowing how to tell a lie." "Now, Wat Adair, I don't like to spoil sport, but, may be, you have never thought whether it would be worth while just to take t'other side, and tell Horse Shoe the whole business. Couldn't we, don't you think, get as much money, and just as honestly, by hoisting colors with Major Butler?" "But I _have_ thought of that, and it won't do, for two reasons. First, these Continentals are on the down-hill, and money is as scarce with them as honesty with the red-coats: and, second, the Tories have got so much the upper hand in the whole country, that I should have my house burnt down and my children thrown into the blaze of it, in less than three days, if I was to let these fellows slip through my fingers." "Well, I never knew," said Mike Lynch, "any piece of villany that hadn't some good reasons to stand by it, and that's what makes it agreeable to my conscience to take a hand." "Why, you off-scouring," replied Wat, "it is enough to make Old Scratch laugh, to hear you talk about conscience! There ain't no such a thing going in these days. So be off; I'll look for you at daylight." "I'll ride, Wat, as if the devil was on my crupper; so good bye!" The cessation of the voices, the distant tramp of Lynch when he had left the cabin, and the cautious retreat of Wat Adair to his chamber, told to Mary that the affair was settled, and the plan of treachery in full career towards its consummation. The dialogue that had just passed in the hearing of the maiden, disclosed a plot that deeply agitated and distressed her. What did it become her to do, was the first question that presented itself to her reflection, as soon as she was sufficiently self-possessed to turn her thoughts upon herself. Was it in her power to avert the impending disaster which threatened the lives, perhaps, of those who had sought the hospitality of her kinsman? Perplexed, dismayed, and uncertain how to act, she had recourse to an expedient natural to her education, and such as would appear most obvious to a feeble and guileless female: it was to the simple and faith-inspired expedient of prayer. And now, in artless but sincere language, having first risen up in her bed, and bent her body across her pillow, in the attitude of supplication, she fervently implored the support of Heaven in her present strait, and besought wisdom and strength to conceive and to do that which was needful for the security of the individuals whose peace was threatened by this conspiracy. "I will arise," she said, as she finished her short and earnest prayer, "with the first light of the dawn, and wait the coming of the strangers from their chamber, and I will then be the first to tell them of the snare that is prepared for them." With this resolve she endeavored to compose herself to rest, but sleep fled her eyelids, and her anxious thoughts dwelt upon and even magnified the threatened perils. It might be too late, she reflected, to wait for the dawn of day; Adair might be before her at the door of the guests, and his constant presence might take from her all hope of being able to communicate the important secret to them: it was undoubtedly her surest course to take advantage of the stillness of the night, whilst the household were wrapt in sleep, and apprise the strangers of their danger. But then, how was she to make her way to their apartment, and arouse them, at this hour, from their slumbers? To what suspicions might the attempt expose her, even from Arthur Butler himself? And, more particularly, what would John Ramsay think of it, if the story should be afterwards told to her disadvantage? This last was an interrogatory which Mary Musgrove was often found putting to herself, in winding up a self-communion. On the present occasion this appeal to the opinion of John Ramsay had the opposite effect from that which might have been expected from it. It suggested new lights to her mind, and turned her thoughts into another current, and brought that resolution to her aid which her prayer was intended to invoke. What would John Ramsay think--he, the friend of liberty, and of Washington, the compatriot of Butler and Robinson, now toiling with them in the same cause! What would he think, if she, his own Mary (and the maiden rested a moment on this phrase), did _not_ do everything in her power to save these soldiers of independence from the blow which treachery was now aiming at them? "John would have good right to be angry with me," she breathed out in a voice that even startled herself, "if I did not give them full warning of what I have heard. This I am sure of, he will believe _my_ story whatever others may say." Innocence and purity of mind are both sword and shield in this world, and no less inspire confidence to defy the malice and uncharitableness of enemies than they strengthen the arm to do what is right. Mary, therefore, resolved to forego all maidenly scruples and bravely to perform her duty, come what might; and having settled upon this conclusion she impatiently awaited the moment when she might venture forth upon her office of humanity. In this situation it was not long before she heard the distant footfall of a horse's gallop along the road, indicating to her the departure of Michael Lynch upon his traitorous embassy. The time seemed to be propitious, so Mary arose and dressed herself. Then tripping stealthily to the door that opened upon the porch, she undid the bolt. A loud and prolonged creak, from the wooden hinges, caused her to shake from head to foot. She listened for a moment, and, finding that no one stirred, stepped forth with the timid and faltering step which would no less have marked the intent of the burglar, than, as now it did, the frightened motion of a guardian spirit bent upon an errand of good. Midway along the porch she had to pass the window of Adair's apartment; first, the low growl, and then the sudden bark of the watch-dog saluted her ear, and made her blood run cold. The maiden's hand, however, soothed him into silence; but the noise had attracted the notice of Wat Adair, who grumbled out a short curse from within, which was distinctly audible to Mary. She hastily fled to the further end of the porch, and there stood cowering close against the wall, almost as mute and motionless as a statue, scarce daring to breathe, and poised, as in the act to run, with her weight resting on one foot, the other raised from the floor. In this position she remained during a long interval of fear, until, at length, convinced that all was quiet, she again ventured forward. The window of the travellers' chamber looked out from the gable end of the dwelling, and she was now immediately before it. One of the beds of the room, she knew, was placed beside this window, and was occupied by either Butler or Robinson. Tremblingly and mistrustfully, she gave a feeble tap with her hand against the sash. There was no answer: the sleep within was the sleep of tired men, and was not to be broken by the light play of a maiden's fingers. She now picked up a pebble from the ground, and with it again essayed to wake the sleepers. This, too, was unsuccessful. In utter hopelessness of accomplishing her purpose by other means, she ventured upon raising the sash; and having done so, she thrust her head partially into the room as she held up the window-frame with one hand, crying out with an almost choked voice. "Mr. Butler! Mr. Butler! For mercy, awake!" There was no other response but the deep breathings of the sleep-subdued inmates. "Oh! what shall I do?" she exclaimed, as her heart beat with a violent motion. "I might as well call to the dead. Mr. Galbraith Robinson! Ah me, I cannot rouse them without alarming the whole house! Major Butler," she continued, laying a particular stress upon this designation of his rank, "Oh, good sir, awake!" "What do you want?" muttered Butler in a smothered and sleep-stifled voice, as he turned himself heavily on his pillow, like one moved by a dream. "Oh, heaven, sir, make no noise! I am ashamed to tell you who I am," said the terrified girl, "but I come for your good--I have something to tell you." "Away, away!" cried Butler, speaking in his sleep, "I will not be disturbed: I do not fear you. Begone!" "Oh, sir, hear me," entreated the maiden, "the people in this house know you and they are contriving evil against you." "It makes no difference," muttered the only half-awakened soldier. "I will ride where it suits me, if the Tories were as thick as the leaves of the trees." "There are people gathering to do you harm to-morrow," continued Mary, not suspecting the unconsciousness of the person to whom she addressed herself, "and I only come with a word of warning to you. Do not ride by the Dogwood Spring to-morrow, nor take the right hand road at the first forks: there are wicked men upon that road. Have your eye," she whispered, "upon my uncle Walter. Ride fast and far, before you stop; and pray, sir, as you think fairly of me--Mary Musgrove, sir,--the daughter of Allen Musgrove, the miller--oh, do not tell my name. If you knew John Ramsay, sir, I am certain you would believe me." The watch-dog had growled once or twice during the period while Mary spoke, and at this moment the door of the principal room of the cabin was heard to move slightly ajar, and the voice of Adair, in a whisper, reached the girl's ear. "Hist, Michael! In the devil's name what brought you back? Why do you loiter, when time is so precious?" A long, heavy, and inarticulate exclamation, such as belongs to disturbed sleep, escaped from Butler. "Father of heaven, I shall let the window fall with fright!" inwardly ejaculated Mary, as she still occupied her uneasy station. "Hush, it is the voice of my uncle." There was a painful pause. A heavy rush of wind agitated the trees, and sweeping along the porch caused some horse-gear that was suspended against the wall to vibrate with a rustling noise: the sound pierced Mary's ear like the accents of a ghost, and her strength had well nigh failed her from faint-heartedness. "I thought it was Michael," said Adair, speaking to some one within, "but it is only the rattling of harness and the dreaming of Drummer. These dogs have a trick of whining and growling in their sleep according to a way of their own. They say a dog sometimes sees a spirit at night. But man or devil it's all one to old Drummer! Sleep quiet, you superfluous, and have done with your snoring!" With these words, the door was again closed, and Mary, for the moment, was released from suffering. "Remember," she uttered in the most fear-stricken tone, as she lowered the sash. "Be sure to take the left hand road at the first fork!" "In God's name, what is it? Where are you?" was the exclamation heard by Mary as the window was closing. She did not halt for further parley or explanation, but now hastily stole back, like a frightened bird towards its thicket. Panting and breathless, she regained her chamber, and with the utmost expedition betook herself again to bed, where, gratified by the consciousness of having done a good action, and fully trusting that her caution would not be disregarded, she gradually dismissed her anxiety, and, before the hour of dawning, had fallen into a gentle though not altogether unperturbed slumber. CHAPTER XV. HORSE SHOE AND BUTLER RESUME THEIR JOURNEY, WHICH IS DELAYED BY A SAVAGE INCIDENT. Morning broke, and with the first day-streak Robinson turned out of his bed, leaving Butler so thoroughly bound in the spell of sleep, that he was not even moved by the loud and heavy tramp of the sergeant, as that weighty personage donned his clothes. Horse Shoe's first habit in the morning was to look after Captain Peter, and he accordingly directed his steps towards the rude shed which served as a stable, at the foot of the hill. Here, to his surprise, he discovered that the fence-rails which, the night before, had been set up as a barrier across the vacant doorway, had been let down, and that no horses were to be seen about the premises. "What hocus-pocus has been here?" said he to himself, as he gazed upon the deserted stable. "Have these rummaging and thieving Tories been out maraudering in the night? or is it only one of Captain Peter's old-sodger tricks, letting down bars and leading the young geldings into mischief? That beast can snuff the scent of a corn field or a pasture ground as far as a crow smells gunpowder. He'd dislocate and corruptify any innocent stable of horses in Carolina!" In doubt to which of these causes to assign this disappearance of their cavalry, the sergeant ascended the hill hard-by, and directed his eye over the neighboring fields, hoping to discover the deserters in some of the adjacent pastures. But he could get no sight of them. He then returned to the stable and fell to examining the ground about the door, in order to learn something of the departure of the animals by their tracks. These were sufficiently distinct to convince him that Captain Peter, whose shoes had a peculiar mark well known to the sergeant, had eloped during the night, in company with the major's gelding and two others, these being all, as Horse Shoe had observed, that were in the stable at the time he had retired to bed. He forthwith followed the foot-prints which led him into the high road, and thence along it westward for about two hundred paces, where a set of field bars, now thrown down, afforded entrance into the cornfield. At this point the sergeant traced the deviation of three of the horses into the field, whilst the fourth, it was evident, had continued upon the road. The conclusion which Galbraith drew from this phenomenon was expressed by a wise shake of the head and a profound fit of abstraction. He took his seat upon a projecting rail at the angle of the fence, and began to sum up conjectures in the following phrase: "The horse that travelled along that road, never travelled of his own free will: that's as clear as preaching. Well, he wa'n't rode by Wat nor by Mike Lynch, or else they are arlier men than I take them to be: but still, I'll take a book oath that creetur went with a bridle across his head, and a pair o' legs astride his back. And whoever held that bridle in his hand, did it for no good! Scampering here and scampering there, and scouring woods in the night too, when the country is as full of Tories as a beggar's coat with----, it's a dogmatical bad sign, take it which way you will. Them three horses had the majority, and it is the nature of these beasts always to follow the majority: that's an observation I have made; and, in particular, if there's a cornfield, or an oatpatch, or a piece of fresh pasture to be got into, every individual horse is unanimous on the subject." Whilst the sergeant was engrossed with these reflections, "he was ware," as the old ballads have it, of a man trudging past him along the road. This was no other than Wat Adair, who was striding forward with a long and rapid step, and with all the appearance of one intent upon some pressing business. "Halloo! who goes there? where away so fast, Wat?" was Robinson's challenge. "Horse Shoe!" exclaimed Adair, in a key that bespoke surprise, and even alarm,--"Ha, ha, ha!--By the old woman's pipe, you frightened me! I'll swear, Galbraith Robinson, I heard you snoring as I passed by your window three minutes ago." "I'll swear that's not the truest word you ever spoke in your life, Wat; though true enough for you, mayhap. Do you see how cleverly yon light has broke across the whole sky? When I first turned out this morning it was a little ribbon of day: the burning of a block-house at night, ten miles off, would have made a broader streak. It was your own snoring you heard, Wat; you have only forgot under whose window it was." "What old witch has been pinching you, Horse Shoe, that _you_ are up so early?" asked Adair. "Get back to the house, man, I will be with you presently; I have my farm to look after, I'll see you presently." "You seem to me to be in a very onreasonable hurry, Wat, considering that you have the day before you. But, softly, I'll walk with you, if you have no unliking to it." "No, no, I'm busy, Galbraith; I'm going to look after my traps; I'd rather you'd go back to the house and hurry breakfast. Go! You would only get scratched with briers if you followed me." "Ha, ha, ha! Wat! Briers, did you say? Look here, man, do you see them there legs? Do they look as if they couldn't laugh at yourn in any sort of scrambling I had a mind to set them to? Tut, I'll go with you just to larn you the march drill." "Then I'll not budge a foot after the traps." "You are crusty, Wat Adair; what's the matter with you?" "Is Major Butler up yet?" asked the woodman thoughtfully. "_Who_ do you say? _Major_ Butler." "_Major!_" cried Adair, with affected surprise. "Yes, you called him Major Butler?" "I had some dream, I think, about him: or, didn't you call him so yourself, Horse Shoe?" "Most undoubtedly, I did not," replied Robinson seriously. "Then I dreamt it, Horse Shoe: these dreams sometimes get into the head, like things we have been told. But, Galbraith, tell me the plain up-and-down truth, what brings you and Mr. Butler into these parts? What are you after in Georgia? It does seem strange to find men that are wanted below, straggling here in our woods at such a time as this." "There are two sorts of men in this world, Wat," said the sergeant, with a smile, "them that axes questions, and them that won't answer questions. Now, which, do you think, I belong to? Why, to the last, you tinker! Where are our horses, Wat? Tell me that. Who let them out of the stable?" "Perhaps they let themselves out," replied Adair, "they were not haltered." "You are either knave or fool, Wat. Come here. There are the tracks of the beast that carried the man up this road, who sot loose all the horses that were in that stable." "Mike Lynch, perhaps," said Adair, with an assumed expression of ignorance. "Where can that fellow have been so early? Oh, I remember, he told me last night that he was going this morning to the blacksmith's. He ought to be back by this time." "And you are here to larn the news from him?" said the sergeant, eyeing Adair with a suspicious scrutiny. "You have just hit it, Horse Shoe," returned Wat, laughing. "I did want to know if there were any more squads of troopers foraging about this district: for these cursed fellows whip in upon a man and cut him up blade and ear, without so much as thanks for their pillage, and so I told Mike to inquire of the blacksmith, for he is more like to know than anybody else, whether there was any more of these pestifarious scrummagers abroad." "And your traps, Wat?" "That was only a lie, Galbraith--I confess it. I was afeard to make you uneasy by telling you what I was after. But still it wasn't a broad, stark, daylight lie neither; it was only a civil fib, for I was going after my wolf trap before I got my breakfast. But here comes Mike." At this juncture Lynch was seen emerging from the wood, mounted on a rough, untrimmed pony, which he was urging forward under repeated blows with his stick. The little animal was covered with foam; and, from his travel-worn plight, gave evidence of having been taxed to the utmost of his strength in a severe journey. At some hundred paces distant, the rider detected the presence of Adair and his companion, and came to a sudden halt. He appeared to deliberate as if with a purpose to escape their notice; but finding that he was already observed by them, he put his horse again in motion, advancing only at a slow walk. Adair hastily quitted Robinson, and, walking forward until he met Lynch, turned about and accompanied him along the road, conversing during this interval in a key too low to be heard by the sergeant. "Here's Horse Shoe thrusting his head into our affairs. Conjure a lie quickly about your being at the blacksmith's; I told him you were there to hear the news." "Aye, aye! I understand." "You saw Hugh?" "Yes. The gang will be at their post." "Hush! Be merry; laugh and have a joke--Horse Shoe is very suspicious." "You have ridden the crop-ear like a stolen horse," continued Adair, as soon as he found himself within the sergeant's hearing. "See what a flurry you have put the dumb beast in. If it had been your own nag, Mike Lynch, I warrant you would have been more tedious with him." "The crop-ear is not worth the devil's fetching, Wat. He is as lazy as a land-turtle, and too obstinate for any good-tempered man's patience. Look at that stick--I have split it into a broom on the beast." "You look more like a man at the end of the day than at the beginning of it," said Robinson. "How far had you to ride, Michael?" "Only over here to the shop of Billy Watson, in the Buzzard's nest," replied Lynch, "which isn't above three miles at the farthest. My saw wanted setting, so I thought I'd make an early job of it, but this beast is so cursed dull I have been good three-quarters of an hour since I left the smith's." "What news do you bring?" inquired Adair. "Oh, none worth telling again. That cross-grained, contrary, rough-and-tumble bear gouger, old Hide-and-Seek, went down yesterday with the last squad of Ferguson's new draughts." "Wild Tom Eskridge," said Wat Adair. "You knowed him, Horse Shoe, a superfluous imp of Satan!" continued the woodman, laying a particular accent on the penultimate of this favorite adjective, which he was accustomed to use as expressive of strong reprobation. "So he is cleared out at last! Well, I'm glad on't, for he was the only fellow in these hills I was afeard would give you trouble, Galbraith." "Superfluous or not," replied the sergeant, pronouncing the word in the same manner as the woodman, and equally ignorant of its meaning, "it will be a bad day for Tom Eskridge, the rank, obstropolous Tory, when he meets me, Wat Adair. I have reason to think that he tried to clap some of Tarleton's dragoons on my back over here at the Waxhaws. There's hemp growing for that scape-grace at this very time." "You heard of no red coats about the Tiger?" asked Adair. "Not one," replied Lynch; "the nearest post is Cruger's, in Ninety-Six." "Then your way, Mr. Robinson, is tolerable for to-day," added Adair: "but war is war, and there is always some risk to be run when men are parading with their rifles in their hands. But see! it is hard upon sunrise. Let us go and give some directions about breakfast. I will send out some of the boys to hunt up the horses; they will be ready by the time we have had something to eat." Without further delay, Adair strode rapidly up the hill to the dwelling-house, the sergeant and Lynch following as soon as the latter had put his jaded beast in the stable. By the time these were assembled in the porch the family began to show signs of life, and it was a little after sunrise when Butler came forth ready for the prosecution of his journey. A few words were exchanged in private between Lynch and the woodman, and after much idle talk and contrived delay, two lazy and loitering negro boys were sent off in quest of the travellers' horses. Not long after this the animals were seen coursing from one part of the distant field to another, defying all attempts to get them into a corner, or to compel them to pass through the place that had been opened in order to drive them towards the stable. There was an air of concern and silent bewilderment visible upon Butler's features, and an occasional expression of impatience escaped his lips as he watched from the porch the ineffectual efforts of the negroes to force the truant steeds towards the house. "All in good time," said Adair, answering the thoughts and looks of Butler, rather than his words, "all in good time; they must have their play out. It is a good sign, sir, to see a traveller's horse so capersome of a morning. Wife, make haste with your preparations; Horse Shoe and his friend here mustn't be kept back from their day's journey. Stir yourself, Mary Musgrove!" "Will the gentlemen stay for breakfast?" inquired Mary, with a doubtful look at Butler. "Will they? To be sure they will! Would you turn off friends from the door with empty stomachs, you mink, and especially with a whole day's starvation ahead of them?" exclaimed the woodman. "I thought they had far to ride," replied the girl, "and would choose, rather than wait, to take some cold provision to eat upon the road." "Tush! Go about your business, niece! The horses are not caught yet, and you may have your bacon fried before they are at the door." "It shall be ready, then, in a moment," returned Mary, and she betook herself diligently to her task of preparation. During the interval that followed, the maiden several times attempted to gain a moment's speech with Butler, but the presence of Adair or Lynch as frequently forbade even a whisper; and the morning meal was at length set smoking on the table without the arrival of the desired opportunity. The repast was speedily finished, and the horses having surrendered to the emissaries who had been despatched to bring them in, were now in waiting for their masters. Horse Shoe put into the woodman's hand a small sum of money in requital for the entertainment afforded to his comrade and himself, and having arranged their baggage upon the saddles, announced that they were ready to set forward on their journey. Whilst the travellers were passing the farewells customary on such occasions, Mary Musgrove, whose manner during the whole morning gave many indications of a painful secret concern, now threw herself in Butler's way, and as she modestly offered him her hand at parting, and heard the little effusion of gallantry and compliment with which it was natural for a well-bred man and a soldier to speak at such a moment, she took the opportunity to whisper--"The left hand road at the Fork--remember!" and instantly glided away to another part of the house. Butler paused but for an instant, and then hurried forward with the sergeant to their horses. "Wat, you promised to put us on the track to Grindall's Ford," said Horse Shoe, as he rose into his seat. "I am ready to go part of the way with you," replied the woodman, "I will see you to the Fork, and after that you must make out for yourselves. Michael, fetch me my rifle." It was not more than half past six when the party set forth on their journey. Our two travellers rode along at an easy gait, and Wat Adair, throwing his rifle carelessly across his shoulder, stepped out with a long swinging step that kept him, without difficulty, abreast of the horsemen, as they pursued their way over hill and dale. They had not journeyed half a mile before they reached a point in the woods at which Adair called a halt. "My trap is but a little off the road," he said, "and I must beg you to stop until I see what luck I have this morning. It's a short business and soon done. This way, Horse Shoe; it is likely I may give you sport this morning." "Our time is pressing," said Butler. "Pray give us your directions as to the road, and we will leave you." "You would never find it in these woods," replied Wat; "there are two or three paths leading through here, and the road is a blind one till you come to the fork; the trap is not a hundred yards out of your way." "Rather than stop to talk about it, Wat," said the sergeant, "we will follow you, so go on." The woodman now turned into the thickets, and opening his way through the bushes, in a few moments conducted the two soldiers to the foot of a large gum tree. "By all the crows, I have got my lady!" exclaimed Wat Adair, with a whoop that made the woods ring. "The saucy slut! I have yoked her, Horse Shoe Robinson! There's a picture worth looking at." "Who?" cried Butler; "of whom are you speaking?" "Look for yourself, sir," replied the woodman. "There's the mischievous devil; an old she-wolf that I have been hunting these two years. Oh, ho, madam! Your servant!" Upon looking near the earth, our travellers descried the object of this triumphant burst of joy, in a large wolf that was now struggling to release herself from the thraldom of her position. The trap was ingeniously contrived. It consisted of a long opening into the hollow trunk of the tree, beginning about four feet from the ground and cut out with an axe down to the root. An aperture had been made at the upper end of the slit about a foot wide, and the wood had been hewed away downwards, in such a manner as to render the slit gradually narrower as it approached the lower extremity, until near the earth it was not more than four inches in width, thus forming a wedge-shaped loophole into the hollow body of the tree. A part of the carcase of a sheep had been placed on the bottom inside, the scent of which had attracted the wolf, and, in her eagerness to possess herself of this treasure she had risen on her hind legs high enough to find the opening sufficiently wide to allow her head to be thrust in, whence, slipping downwards, the slit became so narrow as to prevent her from withdrawing her jaws. The only mode of extrication from this trap was to rear her body to the same height at which she found admission, an expedient which, it seems, required more cunning than this proverbially cunning animal was gifted with. She now stood captive pretty much in the same manner that oxen are commonly secured in their stalls. For a few moments after the prisoner was first perceived, and during the extravagant yelling of Adair at the success of his stratagem, she made several desperate but ineffectual efforts to withdraw her head; but as soon as Butler and Robinson had dismounted, and, together with their guide, had assembled around her, she desisted from her struggles, and seemed patiently to resign herself to the will of her captor. She stood perfectly still with that passive and even cowardly submission for which, in such circumstances, this animal is remarkable: her hind legs drooped and her tail was thrust between them, whilst not a snarl nor an expression of anger or grief escaped her. Her characteristic sagacity had been completely baffled by the superior wolfish cunning of her ensnarer. Wat laughed aloud with a coarse and almost fiendish laugh, as he cried out-- "I have cotched the old thief at last, in spite of her cunning! With a warning to boot. Here is a mark I sot upon her last winter," he added, as he raised her fore leg, which was deprived of the foot; "but she would be prowling, the superfluous devil! It is in the nature of these here blood-suckers, to keep a going at their trade, no matter how much they are watched. But I knowed I'd have her one of these days. These varmints have always got to pay, one day or another, for their villanies. Wa'n't she an old fool, Horse Shoe, to walk into this here gum for a piece of dead mutton? Ha, ha, ha! if she had had only the sense to rear up, she might have had the laugh on us! But she hadn't; ha, ha, ha!" "Well, Wat Adair," said Robinson, "you had a mischievous head when you contrived that trap." "Feel her ribs, Mr. Butler," cried Wat, not heeding the sergeant; "I know who packed that flesh on her. There isn't a lamb in my flock to-day that wouldn't grin if he was to hear the news." "Well, what are you going to do with her, Adair?" inquired Butler; "remember you are losing time here." "Do with her!" ejaculated the woodman; "that's soon told: I will skin the devil alive." "I hope not," exclaimed Butler. "It would be an unnecessary cruelty. Despatch her on the spot with your rifle." "I wouldn't waste powder and ball on the varmint," replied Adair. "No, no, the knife, the knife!" "Then cut her throat and be done with it." "You are not used to these hellish thieves, sir," said the woodman. "There is nothing that isn't too good for them. By the old sinner, I'll skin her alive! That's the sentence!" "Once more, I pray not," said Butler imploringly. "It is past praying for," returned Adair, as he drew forth his knife and began to whet it on a stone. "She shall die by inches, and be damned to her!" he added, as his eye sparkled with savage delight. "Now look and see a wolf punished according to her evil doings." The woodman stood over his captive and laughed heartily, as he pointed out to his companions the quailing and subdued gestures of his victim, indulging in coarse and vulgar jests whilst he described minutely the plan of torture he was about to execute. When he had done with his ribaldry, he slowly drew the point of his knife down the back-bone of the animal, from the neck to the tail, sundering the skin along the whole length. "That's the way to unbutton her jacket," he said, laughing louder than ever. "For God's sake, desist!" ejaculated Butler. "For my sake, save the poor animal from this pain! I will pay you thrice the value of the skin." "Money will not buy her," said Wat, looking up for an instant. "Besides, the skin is spoiled by that gash." "Here is a guinea, if you will cut her throat," said Butler, "and destroy her at once." "That would be murder out-right," replied Adair; "I never take money to do murder; it goes agin my conscience. No, no, I will undress the old lady, and let her have the benefit of the cool air in this hot weather. And if she should take cold, you know, and fall sick and die of that, why then, Mr. Butler, you can give me the guinea. That will save my conscience," he added, with a grin that expressed a struggle between his avarice and cruelty. "Come, Galbraith, I will not stay to witness the barbarity of this savage. Mount your horse, and let us take our chance alone through the woods. Fellow, I don't wish your further service." "Look there now!" said Adair; "where were you born, that you are so mighty nice upon account of a blood-sucking wolf? Man, it's impossible to find your way through this country; and you might, by taking a wrong road, fall in with them that would think nothing of serving you as I serve this beast." "Wat, curse your onnatural heart," interposed the sergeant. "Stob her at once. It's no use, Mr. Butler," he said, finding that Adair did not heed him, "we can't help ourselves. It's wolf agin wolf." "I knowed you couldn't, Horse Shoe," cried Wat, with another laugh. "So you may as well stay to see it out." Butler had now walked to his horse, mounted, and retired some distance into the wood to avoid further converse with the tormentor of the ensnared beast, and to withdraw himself from a sight so revolting to his feelings. In the meantime, Adair proceeded with his operation with an alacrity that showed the innate cruelty of his temper. He made a cross incision through the skin, from the point of one shoulder to the other, the devoted subject of his torture remaining, all the time, motionless and silent. Having thus severed the skin to suit his purpose, the woodman now, with an affectation of the most dainty precision, flourished his knife over the animal's back, and then burst into a loud laugh. "I can't help laughing," he exclaimed, "to think what a fine, dangling, holiday coat I am going to make of it. I shall strip her as low as the ribs, and then the flaps will hang handsomely. She will be considered a beauty in the sheep-folds, and then she may borrow a coat, you see, from some lamb; a wolf in sheep's clothing is no uncommon sight in this world." "Wat Adair," said Horse Shoe, angrily, "I've a mind to take the wolf's part and give you a trouncing. You are the savagest wolf in sheep's clothing yourself that it was ever my luck to see." "You think so, Horse Shoe!" cried Wat, tauntingly. "You might chance to miss your way to-day, so don't make a fool of yourself! Ill will would only take away from you a finger-post--and it isn't every road through this district that goes free of the Tory rangers." "Your own day will come yet," replied Horse Shoe, afraid to provoke the woodman too far on account of the dependence of himself and his companion upon Adair's information in regard to the route of their journey. "We have to give and take quarter in this world." "You see, Horse Shoe," said Adair, beginning to expostulate, "I don't like these varmints, no how; that's the reason why. They are cruel themselves and I like to be cruel to them. It's a downright pleasure to see them winch, for, bless your soul! they don't mind common throat-cutting, no more than a calf. Now here's the way to touch their feelings." At this moment he applied the point of his knife to separating the hide from the flesh on either side of the spine, and then, in his eagerness to accomplish this object, he placed his knife between his teeth and began to tug at the skin with his hands, accompanying the effort with muttered expressions of delight at the involuntary and but ill-suppressed agonies of the brute. The pain, at length became too acute for the wolf, with all her characteristic habits of submission, to bear, and, in a desperate struggle that ensued between her and her tormentor, she succeeded, by a convulsive leap, in extricating herself from her place of durance. The energy of her effort of deliverance rescued her from the woodman's hand, and turning short upon her assailant, she fixed her fangs deep into the fleshy part of his thigh, where, as the foam fell from her lips, she held on firmly as if determined to sell her life dearly for the pain she suffered. Adair uttered a groan from the infliction, and, in the hurry of the instant, dropped his knife upon the ground. He was thus compelled to bear the torment of the grip, until he dragged the still pertinaciously-adhering beast a few paces forward, where, grasping up his knife, he planted it, by one deeply driven blow, through and through her heart. She silently fell at his feet, without snarl or bark, releasing her hold only in the impotency of death. "Curse her!" cried Adair, "the hard-hearted, bloody-minded devil! That's the nature of the beast--cruel and wicked to the last, damn her!" he continued, raving with pain, as he stamped his heel upon her head: "damn her in the wolf's hell to which she has gone!" Robinson stood by, unaiding, and not displeased to see the summary vengeance thus inflicted by the victim upon the oppressor. This calmness provoked the woodman, who, with that stoicism which belongs to uncivilized life, seemed determined to take away all pretext for the sergeant's exultation, by affecting to make light of the injury he had received. "I don't mind the scratch of the cursed creature," he said, assuming a badly counterfeited expression of mirth, "but I don't like to be cheated out of the pleasure of tormenting such mischievous varmints. It's well for her that she put me in a passion, or she should have carried a festered carcase that the buzzards might have fed upon before she died. But come--where is Mr. Butler? I want that guinea. Ho, sir!" he continued, bawling to Butler, as he tied up his wound with a strap of buckskin taken from his pouch, "my guinea! I've killed the devil to please you, seeing you would have it." Butler now rode up to the spot, and, in answer to this appeal, gave it an angry and indignant refusal. "Lead us on our way, sir," he added. "We have lost too much time already with your brutal delay. Lead on, sir!" "You will get soon enough to your journey's end," replied Adair with a smile, and then sullenly took up his rifle and led the way through the forest. A full half hour or more was lost by the incident at the trap, and Butler's impatience and displeasure continued to be manifested by the manner with which he urged the woodman forward upon their journey. After regaining the road, and traversing a piece of intricate and tangled woodland, by a bridle-path into which their guide had conducted them, they soon reached a broader and more beaten highway, along which they rode scarce a mile before they arrived at the Fork. "I have seen you safe as far as I promised," said the woodman, "and you must now shift for yourselves. You take the right hand road; about ten miles further you will come to another prong, there strike to the left, and if you have luck you will get to the ford before sundown. Three miles further is Christie's. Good bye t' ye! And Horse Shoe, if you should come across another wolf stuck in a tree, skin her, d' ye hear? Ha! ha! ha! Good bye!" "Ride on!" said Butler to the sergeant, who was about making some reply to Adair; "ride on! Don't heed or answer that fellow, but take the road he directs. He is a beast and scoundrel. Faster, good sergeant, faster!" As he spoke he set his horse to a gallop. Robinson followed at equal speed, the woodman standing still until the travellers disappeared from his view behind the thick foliage that overhung their path. Having seen them thus secure in his toil, the treacherous guide turned upon his heel, shouldered his rifle, and limped back to his dwelling. "I have a strange misgiving of that ruffian, sergeant," said Butler, after they had proceeded about a quarter of a mile. "My mind is perplexed with some unpleasant doubts. What is your opinion of him?" "He plays on both sides," replied Horse Shoe, "and knows more of you than by rights he ought. He spoke consarning of you, this morning, as _Major_ Butler. It came out of his mouth onawares." "Ha! Is my name on any part of my baggage or dress?" "Not that I know of," replied the sergeant; "and if it was, Wat can't read." "Were you interrupted in your sleep last night, Galbraith? Did you hear noises in our room?" "Nothing, Major, louder nor the gnawing of a mouse at the foot of the plank partition. Did you see a spirit that you look so solemn?" "I did, sergeant!" said Butler, with great earnestness of manner. "I had a dream that had something more than natural in it." "You amaze me, Major! If you saw anything, why didn't you awake me?" "I hadn't time before it was gone, and then it was too late. I dreamed, Galbraith, that somehow--for my dream didn't explain how she came in--Mary Musgrove, the young girl we saw----" "Ha! ha! ha! Major, that young girl's oversot you! Was that the sperit?" "Peace, Galbraith, I am in earnest; listen to me. I dreamt Mary Musgrove came into our room and warned us that our lives were in danger; how, I forget, or perhaps she did not tell, but she spoke of our being waylaid, and, I think, she advised that at this very fork of the road we have just passed, we should take the left hand--the right, according to my dream, she said, led to some spring." "Perhaps the Dogwood, Major," said Robinson, laughing; "there is such a place, somewhere in these parts." "The Dogwood! by my life," exclaimed Butler; "she called it the Dogwood spring." "That's very strange," said Robinson gravely; "that's very strange, unless you have hearn some one talk about the spring before you went to bed last night. For, as sure as you are a gentleman, there is such a spring not far off, although I don't know exactly where." "And what perplexes me," continued Butler, "is that, this morning, almost in the very words of my dream, Mary Musgrove cautioned me, in a whisper, to take the left road at the fork. How is she connected with my dream? Or could it have been a reality, and was it the girl herself who spoke? I have no recollection of such a word from her before I retired to bed." "I have hearn of these sort of things before, major, and never could make them out. For my share, I believe in dreams. There is something wrong here," continued the sergeant, after pondering over the matter for a few moments, and shaking his head, "there is something wrong here, Major Butler, as sure as you are born. I wasn't idle in making my own observations: first, I didn't like the crossness of Wat's wife last night; then, the granny there, she raved more like an old witch, with something wicked in her that wouldn't let her be still, than like your decent old bodies when they get childish. What did she mean by her palaver about golden guineas in Wat's pocket, and the English officer? Such notions don't come naturally into the head, without something to go upon. And, moreover, when I turned out this morning, before it was cleverly day, who do you think I saw?" "Indeed I cannot guess." "First, Wat walking up the road with a face like a man that had sot a house on fire; and when I stopped him to ax what he was after, down comes Mike Lynch--that peevish bull-dog--from the woods, on a little knot of a pony, pretty nigh at full speed, and covered with lather; and there was a sort of colloguing together, and then a story made up about Mike's being at Billy Watson's, the blacksmith's. It didn't tell well, major, and it sot me to suspicions. The gray of the morning is not the time for blacksmith's work: there's the fire to make up, and what not. Besides, it don't belong to the trade, as I know, here in the country, to be at work so arly. I said nothing; but I made a sort of reckoning in my own mind that they looked like a couple of desarters trying to sham a sentry. Then again, there was our horses turned loose. There is something in these signs, you may depend upon it, Major Butler!" "That fellow has designs against us, Galbraith," said Butler, musing, and paying but little attention to the surmises of the sergeant, "I can hardly think it was a dream. It may have been Mary Musgrove herself, but how she got there is past my conjecture. I saw nothing, I only heard the warning. And I would be sworn she addressed me as Major Butler. You say Wat Adair gave me the same title?" "As I am a living man," replied Horse Shoe, "he wanted to deny it; and then he pretended it was a fancy of his own." "It is very strange, and looks badly," said Butler. "Never mind, let the worst come to the worst, we have arms and legs both," returned the sergeant. "I will take the hint for good or for ill," said the major. "Sergeant, strike across into the left hand road; in this I will move no farther." "That's as wise a thing as we can do," replied Robinson. "If you have doubts of a man, seem to trust him, but take care not to follow his advice. There is another hint I will give you, let us examine our fire-arms to see that we are ready for a battle." Butler concurring in this precaution, the sergeant dismounted, and having primed his rifle afresh, attempted to fire it into the air, but it merely flashed, without going off. Upon a second trial the result was the same. This induced a further examination, which disclosed the fact that the load which had been put in the day previous had been discharged, and a bullet was now driven home in the place of the powder. It was obvious that this was designed. The machination of an enemy became more apparent when, upon an investigation into the condition of Butler's pistols, they were also found incapable of being used. "This is some of Michael Lynch's doings whilst we were eating our breakfast," said Horse Shoe, "and it is flat proof of treason in our camp. I should like to go back if it was only for the satisfaction of blowing out Wat's brains. But there is no use in argufying about it. We must set things to rights, and move on with a good look-out ahead." With the utmost apparent indifference to the dangers that beset them, the sergeant now applied himself to the care of restoring his rifle to a serviceable condition. With the aid of a small tool which he carried for such a use, he opened the breach and removed the ball: Butler's pistols were likewise put in order, and our travellers, being thus restored to an attitude of defence, turned their horses' heads into the thicket upon their left, and proceeded across the space that filled up the angle made by the two branches of the road; and, having gained that branch which they sought, they pressed forward diligently upon their journey. The path they had to travel was lonely and rugged, and it was but once or twice, during the day, that they met a casual wayfarer traversing the same wild. From such a source, however, they were informed that they were on the most direct road to Grindall's ford, and that the route they had abandoned would have conducted them to the Dogwood spring, a point much out of their proper course, and from which the ford might only have been reached by a difficult and tortuous by-way. These disclosures opened the eyes of Butler and his companion to the imminent perils that encompassed them, and prompted them to the exercise of the strictest vigilance. Like discreet and trusty soldiers, they pursued their way with the most unwavering courage, confident that the difficulty of retreat was fully equal to that of the advance. CHAPTER XVI. TORY TROOPERS, A DARK ROAD AND A FRAY. "By the whiskers of the Grand Turk, I have got the four points on you, bully Buff! High, low, jack and the game!" exclaimed Peppercorn. "You have luck enough to worry out the nine lives of a cat. That's an end to Backbiter, the best horse 'twixt Pedee and the Savannah. So, blast me, if I play any more with you! There, send the cards to hell!" roared out Hugh Habershaw, rising and throwing the pack into the fire. It was just at the closing in of night, when a party of ruffianly-looking men were assembled beneath a spreading chestnut, that threw forth its aged arms over a small gravelly hillock, in the depths of the forest that skirted the northern bank of the Pacolet, within a short distance of Grindall's ford. The spot had all the qualities of a secret fastness. It was guarded on one side by the small river, and on the other by a complicated screen of underwood, consisting principally of those luxuriantly plaited vines which give so distinct a character to the southern woodland. The shrubbery, immediately along the bank of the river, was sufficiently open to enable a horseman to ride through it down to the road which, at about two hundred paces off, led into the ford. The group who now occupied this spot consisted of some ten or twelve men under the command of Hugh Habershaw. Their appearance was half rustic and half military; some efforts at soldierly costume were visible in the decoration of an occasional buck-tail set in the caps of several of the party, and, here and there, a piece of yellow cloth forming a band for the hat. Some wore long and ungainly deer-skin pantaloons and moccasins of the same material; and two or three were indued with coats of coarse homespun, awkwardly garnished with the trimmings of a British uniform. All were armed, but in the same irregular fashion. There were rifles to be seen stacked against the trunk of the tree; most of the men wore swords, which were of different lengths and sizes; and some of the gang had a horseman's pistol bestowed conspicuously about their persons. Their horses were attached to the drooping ends of the boughs of the several trees that hemmed in the circle, and were ready for service at the first call. A small fire of brushwood had been kindled near the foot of the chestnut, and its blaze was sufficiently strong to throw a bright glare over the motley and ill-looking crew who were assembled near it. They might well have been taken for a bivouac of banditti of the most undisciplined and savage class. A small party were broiling venison at the fire: the greater number, however, were stretched out upon the ground in idleness, waiting for some expected summons to action. The two I have first noticed, were seated on the butt-end of a fallen trunk, immediately within the light of the fire, and were engaged with a pack of dirty cards, at the then popular game of "all fours." These two personages were altogether different in exterior from each other. The first of them, known only by the sobriquet of Peppercorn, was a tall, well-proportioned and active man, neatly dressed in the uniform of a British dragoon. His countenance indicated more intelligence than belonged to his companions, and his manners had the flexible, bold, and careless port that generally distinguishes a man who has served much in the army, and become familiar with the varieties of character afforded by such a career. The second was Hugh Habershaw, the captain of the gang. He was a bluff, red-visaged, corpulent man, with a face of gross, unmitigated sensuality. A pale blood-shot eye, which was expressionless, except in a sinister glance, occasioned by a partial squint, a small upturned nose, a mouth with thin and compressed lips inclining downwards at the corners, a double chin, bristling with a wiry and almost white beard, a low forehead, a bald crown, and meagre, reddish whiskers, were the ill-favored traits of his physiognomy. The figure of this person was as uncouth as his countenance. He was rather below the middle height, and appeared still shorter by the stoop of his massive round shoulders, by the ample bulk of his chest, and by the rotundity of his corporation. In consideration of his rank, as the leader of this vagabond squadron, he aimed at more military ornament in his dress than his comrades. A greasy cocked hat, decorated after the fashion described by Grumio, "with the humor of forty fancies pricked in it for a feather," was perched somewhat superciliously upon his poll, and his body was invested in an old and much abused cloth coat of London brown, as it was then called, to the ample shoulders of which had been attached two long, narrow, and threadbare epaulets of tarnished silver lace. A broad buckskin belt was girded, by the help of a large brass buckle, around his middle, on the outside of his coat, and it served as well to suspend a rusty sabre, as to furnish support to a hunting knife, which was thrust into it in front. His nether person was rendered conspicuous by a pair of dingy small-clothes, and long black boots. Close at the feet of this redoubtable commander lay a fat, surly bull-dog, whose snarlish temper seemed to have been fostered and promoted by the peremptory perverseness with which his master claimed for him all the privileges and indulgencies of a pampered favorite. Such were the unattractive exterior and circumstances of the man who assumed control over the band of ruffians now assembled. "I wish you and the cards had been broiled on the devil's gridiron before I ever saw you!" continued Habershaw, after he had consigned the pack to the flames. "That such a noble beast as Backbiter should be whipped out of my hand by the turn of a rascally card! Hark'ee, you imp of Satan, you have the knack of winning! your luck, or something else--you understand me--something else, would win the shirt off my back if I was such a fool as to play longer with you. I suspect you are a light-fingered Jack--a light-fingered Jack--d'ye hear that, Master Peppercorn?" "How now, Bully!" cried Peppercorn; "are you turning boy in your old days, that you must fall to whining because you have lost a turn at play? Is every man a rogue since you have set up the trade? For shame! If I were as hot a fool as you, I would give you steel in your guts. But come, noble Captain, there's my hand. This is no time for us to be catching quarrels; we have other business cut out. As to Backbiter, the rat-tailed and spavined bone-setter, curse me if I would have him as a gift: a noble beast! ha, ha, ha! Take him back, man, take him back! he wasn't worth the cards that won him." "Silence, you tailor's bastard! Would you breed a mutiny in the camp? Look around you: do you expect me to preserve discipline amongst these wild wood-scourers, with your loud haw-haws to my very teeth? You make too free, Peppercorn; you make too free! It wouldn't take much to make me strike; damn me, there's fighting blood in me, and you know it. When I am at the head of my men, you must know your distance, sir. Suffice it, I don't approve of this familiarity to the commander of a squad. But it is no matter: I let it pass this time. And, hark in your ear, as you underrate Backbiter, you are a fool, Peppercorn, and know no more of the points of a good horse than you do of the ten commandments. Why, blast you, just to punish you, I'll hold you to the word of a gentleman, and take him back. Now there's an end of it, and let's have no more talking." "Right, noble Captain!" ejaculated Peppercorn, with a free and swaggering laugh, "right! I will uphold the discipline of the valiant Hugh Habershaw of the Tiger against all the babblers the world over. By the God of war, I marvel that Cruger hasn't forced upon you one of his commissions, before this; the army would be proud of such a master of tactics." "The time will come, Peppercorn; the time will come, and then I'll teach them the elements of military construction. Mark that word, Peppercorn, there's meaning in it." "Huzza for Captain Tiger of Habershaw--Habershaw of Tiger, I mean!" cried Peppercorn. "Here's Tiger Habershaw, my boys! Drink to that." And saying these words, the dragoon snatched up a leathern canteen from the ground, and, pouring out some spirits into the cup, drank them off. The rest of the crew sprang from the grass, and followed the example set them by their comrade, roaring out the pledge until the woods rang with their vociferation. "Peace! you rapscallions!" screamed the captain. "Have you so little notion where you are, that you bellow like bulls? Is this your discipline, when you should be as silent as cats in a kitchen, hellhound! And you, you coarse-throated devil, Beauty," he said as he kicked his dog, that had contributed to the chorus with a loud sympathetic howl, "you must be breaking the laws of service guard with your infernal roar, like the other fools of the pack. Be still, puppy!" The clamor upon this rebuke ceased, and the bull-dog crouched again at his master's feet. "Isn't it time that we were at the ford? Oughtn't our friends to be near at hand?" inquired Peppercorn. "Black Jack will give us notice," replied Habershaw. "Depend upon him. I have thought of everything like a man that knows his business. I have sent that rascal up the road, with orders to feel the enemy; and I'll undertake he'll clink it back when he once lays eyes on them, as fast as four legs will carry him. But it is always well to be beforehand, Peppercorn. Learn that from me: I never in my campaigns knowed any harm done by being too early. So, Master Orderly, call the roll." "Ready, sir; always ready when you command," answered Peppercorn. "Shall I call the ragamuffins by their nicknames, or will you have them handled like christians." "On secret service," said Habershaw, "it is always best to use them to their nicknames." "As when they go horse-stealing, or house-burning, or throat-cutting," interrupted Peppercorn. "Order, sir, no indecencies! do you hear? Go on with your roll, if you have got it by heart. Be musical, dog!" "Faith will I, most consummate captain! It is just to my hand: I'll sing you like a bagpipe. I have learnt the rollcall handsomely, and can go through it as if it were a song." "Begin then: the time is coming when we must move. I think I hear Black Jack's horse breaking through the bushes now." "Attention, you devil's babies, the whole of you!" shouted Peppercorn. "Horse and gun, every mother's imp of you!" In a moment the idlers sprang to their weapons and mounted their horses. "Answer to your names," said the orderly; "and see that you do it discreetly. Pimple!" "Here," answered one of the disorderly crew, with a laugh. "Silence in the ranks!" cried Habershaw, "or, by the blood of your bodies, I'll make my whinger acquainted with your hearts!" "Long Shanks." "Here! if you mean me," said another. "Good! Black Jack." "On patrole," said the captain. "Red Mug." "At the book," answered the man in the ranks; and here rose another laugh. "Red Mug! do you mind me?" said Habershaw, in a threatening tone, as his eye squinted fiercely towards the person addressed. "Platter Breech." "I'll stand out against the nickname," said the person intended to be designated, whilst the whole squad began to give symptoms of a mutiny of merriment. "I'll be d----d if I will have it, and that's as good as if I swore to it. I am not going to be cajoled at by the whole company." "Silence! Blood and butter, you villains!" roared the captain. "Don't you see that you're in line? How often have I told you that it's against discipline to chirp above a whisper when you are drawn out? Take care that I hav'n't to remind you of that again! Andy Clopper, you will keep the denomination I have set upon you. Platter Breech is a good soldier-like name, and you shall die in it, if I bid you. Go on, Orderly--proceed!" "Marrow Bone." "Here!" "Fire Nose." "Fire Nose yourself, Mister Disorderly!" replied another refractory member, sullenly from the ranks. "Well, let him pass. That's a cross-grained devil," said the captain, aside to Peppercorn. "I'll bring that chap into order yet, the d----d mutineering back hanger! Pass him." "Screech Owl." "Here!" "That's a decent, good-natured Screech Owl," said Peppercorn. "Clapper Claw! Bow Legs!" "Both here." "They are all here, most comfortable Captain, all good fellows and true, and as ready to follow you into the belly of an earthquake as go to supper, it is all the same to them." "Let them follow where I lead, Peppercorn; that is all I ask, said Habershaw significantly. "You have forgot one name on your roll, Mister Orderly," said he who had been written down by the name of Fire Nose. "Whose was that?" "You forgot Captain Moonface Bragger--captain of the squad." "Gideon Blake!" shouted Habershaw, with a voice choked by anger, until it resembled the growl of a mastiff, whilst, at the same time, he drew his sword half out of the scabbard. "Howsever, it is very well," he said, restraining his wrath and permitting the blade to drop back into its sheath. "Another time, sir. I have marked you, you limb of a traitor. May all the devils ride over me if I don't drive a bullet through your brain if you ever unfringe my discipline again! Yes, you foul-mouthed half-whig, I have had my suspicions of you before to-day. So look to yourself. A fine state of things when skunks like you can be setting up a mutiny in the service! Take care of yourself, sir, you know me. Now, my lads, to business. Remember the orders I issued at the Dogwood Spring, this morning. This Whig officer must be taken dead or alive, and don't be chicken-hearted about it. Give him the lead--give him the lead! As to the lusty fellow that rides with him--big Horse Shoe--have a care of him; that's a dog that bites without barking. But be on the watch that they don't escape you again. Since we missed them at the spring they have cost us a hard ride to head them here, so let them pay for it. See that they are well into the ford before you show yourselves. Wait for orders from me, and if I fall by the fortune of war, take your orders from Peppercorn. If by chance we should miss them at the river, push for Christie's; Wat has taken care that they shall make for that, to-night. If any of you, by mistake, you understand me, take them prisoners, bring them back to this spot. Now you have heard my orders, that's enough. Keep silent and ready. Mind your discipline. Black Jack is long coming, Orderly; these fellows must travel slow." "I hear him now," replied Peppercorn. In the next moment the scout referred to galloped into the circle. His report was hastily made. It announced that the travellers were moving leisurely towards the ford, and that not many minutes could elapse before their arrival. Upon this intelligence Habershaw immediately marched his troop to the road and posted them in the cover of the underwood that skirted the river, at the crossing-place. Here they remained like wild beasts aware of the approach of their prey, and waiting the moment to spring upon them when it might be done with the least chance of successful resistance. Meantime Butler and Robinson advanced at a wearied pace. The twilight had so far faded as to be only discernible on the western sky. The stars were twinkling through the leaves of the forest, and the light of the fire-fly spangled the wilderness. The road might be descried, in the most open parts of the wood, for some fifty paces ahead; but where the shrubbery was more dense, it was lost in utter darkness. Our travellers, like most wayfarers towards the end of the day, rode silently along, seldom exchanging a word, and anxiously computing the distance which they had yet to traverse before they reached their appointed place of repose. A sense of danger, and the necessity for vigilance, on the present occasion, made them the more silent. "I thought I heard a wild sort of yell just now--people laughing a great way off," said Robinson, "but there's such a hooting of owls and piping of frogs that I mought have been mistaken. Halt, Major. Let me listen--there it is again." "It is the crying of a panther, sergeant; more than a mile from us, by my ear." "It is mightily like the scream of drunken men," replied the sergeant; "and there, too! I thought I heard the clatter of a hoof." The travellers again reined up and listened. "It is more like a deer stalking through the bushes, Galbraith." "No," exclaimed the sergeant, "that's the gallop of a horse making down the road ahead of us, as sure as you are alive; I heard the shoe strike a stone. You must have hearn it too." "I wouldn't be sure," answered Butler. "Look to your pistols, Major, and prime afresh." "We seem to have ridden a great way," said Butler, as he concluded the inspection of his pistols and now held one of them ready in his hand. "Can we have lost ourselves? Should we not have reached the Pacolet before this?" "I have seen no road that could take us astray," replied Robinson, "and, by what we were told just before sundown, I should guess that we couldn't be far off the ford. We hav'n't then quite three miles to Christie's. Well, courage, major! supper and bed were never spoiled by the trouble of getting to them." "Wat Adair, I think, directed us to Christie's?" said Butler. "He did; and I had a mind to propose to you, since we caught him in a trick this morning, to make for some other house, if such a thing was possible, or else to spend the night in the woods." "Perhaps it would be wise, sergeant; and if you think so still, I will be ruled by you." "If we once got by the river-side where our horses mought have water, I almost think I should advise a halt there. Although I have made one observation, Major Butler--that running water is lean fare for a hungry man. Howsever, it won't hurt us, and if you say the word we will stop there." "Then, sergeant, I do say the word." "Isn't that the glimmering of a light yonder in the bushes?" inquired Horse Shoe, as he turned his gaze in the direction of the bivouac, "or is it these here lightning bugs that keep so busy shooting about?" "I thought I saw the light you speak of, Galbraith; but it has disappeared." "It is there again, major; and I hear the rushing of the river--we are near the ford. Perhaps this light comes from some cabin on the bank." "God send that it should turn out so, Galbraith! for I am very weary." "There is some devilment going on in these woods, major. I saw a figure pass in front of the light through the bushes. I would be willing to swear it was a man on horseback. Perhaps we have, by chance, fallen on some Tory muster; or, what's not so likely, they may be friends. I think I will ride forward and challenge." "Better pass unobserved, if you can, sergeant," interrupted Butler. "It will not do for us to run the risk of being separated. Here we are at the river; let us cross, and ride some distance; then, if any one follow us, we shall be more certain of his design." They now cautiously advanced into the river, which, though rapid, was shallow; and having reached the middle of the stream, they halted to allow their horses water. "Captain Peter is as thirsty as a man in a fever," said Horse Shoe. "He drinks as if he was laying in for a week. Now, major, since we are here in the river, look up the stream. Don't you see, from the image in the water, that there's a fire on the bank? And there, by my soul! there are men on horseback. Look towards the light. Spur, and out on the other side! Quick--quick--they are upon us!" At the same instant that Horse Shoe spoke, a bullet whistled close by his ear; and, in the next, six or eight men galloped into the river, from different points. This was succeeded by a sharp report of fire-arms from both parties, and the vigorous charge of Robinson, followed by Butler, through the array of the assailants. They gained the opposite bank, and now directed all their efforts to outrun their pursuers; but in the very crisis of their escape, Butler's horse, bounding under the prick of the spur, staggered a few paces from the river and fell dead. A bullet had lodged in a vital part, and the energy of the brave steed was spent in the effort to bear his master through the stream. Butler fell beneath the stricken animal, from whence he was unable to extricate himself. The sergeant, seeing his comrade's condition, sprang from his horse and ran to his assistance, and, in the same interval, the ruffian followers gained the spot and surrounded their prisoners. An ineffectual struggle ensued over the prostrate horse and rider, in which Robinson bore down more than one of his adversaries, but was obliged, at last, to yield to the overwhelming power that pressed upon him. "Bury your swords in both of them to the hilts!" shouted Habershaw; "I don't want to have that work to do to-morrow." "Stand off!" cried Gideon Blake, as two or three of the gang sprang forward to execute their captain's order; "stand off! the man is on his back, and he shall not be murdered in cold blood;" and the speaker took a position near Butler, prepared to make good his resolve. The spirit of Blake had its desired effect, and the same assailants now turned upon Robinson. "Hold!" cried Peppercorn, throwing up his sword and warding off the blows that were aimed by these men at the body of the sergeant. "Hold, you knaves! this is my prisoner. I will deal with him to my liking. Would a dozen of you strike one man when he has surrendered? Back, ye cowards; leave him to me. How now, old Horse Shoe; are you caught, with your gay master here? Come, come, we know you both. So yield with a good grace, lest, peradventure, I might happen to blow out your brains." "Silence, fellows! You carrion crows!" roared Habershaw. "Remember the discipline I taught you. No disorder, nor confusion, but take the prisoners, since you hav'n't the heart to strike; take them to the rendezvous. And do it quietly--do you hear? Secure the baggage; and about it quickly, you hounds!" Butler was now lifted from the ground, and, with his companion, was taken into the custody of Blake and one or two of his companions, who seemed to share in his desire to prevent the shedding of blood. The prisoners were each mounted behind one of the troopers, and in this condition conducted across the river. The saddle and other equipments were stripped from the major's dead steed; and Robinson's horse, Captain Peter, was burdened with the load of two wounded men, whose own horses had escaped from them in the fray. In this guise the band of freebooters, with their prisoners and spoils, slowly and confusedly made their way to the appointed place of re-assembling. In a few moments they were ranged beneath the chestnut, waiting for orders from their self-important and vain commander. CHAPTER XVII. SCENE IN THE BIVOUAC. "Bustle, my lads--bustle! These are stirring times," exclaimed Habershaw, riding with an air of great personal consequence into the midst of the troop, as they were gathered, still on horseback, under the chestnut. "We have made a fine night's work of it, and, considering that we fought in the dark against men ready armed for us, this has not been such a light affair. To be sure, in point of numbers, it is a trifle; but the plan, Peppercorn--the plan, and the despatch, and the neatness of the thing--that's what I say I am entitled to credit for. Bless your soul, Peppercorn, these fellows were sure to fall into my trap--there was no getting off. That's the effect of my generalship, you see, Peppercorn. Study it, boy! We could have managed about twenty more of the filthy rebels handsomely; but this will do--this will do. I took, as a commanding officer ought always to do, the full responsibility of the measure, and a good share of the fight. Did I not, Peppercorn? Wasn't I, in your opinion, about the first man in the river?" "I'll bear witness, valiant and victorious captain," answered the dragoon, "that you fired the first shot; and I am almost willing to make oath that I saw you within at least twenty paces of the enemy, exhorting your men." "Now lads--wait for the word--dismount!" continued the captain, "and make up your minds to pass the night where you are. Peppercorn, the prisoners I put under your identical charge. Remember that! keep your eyes about you. Set a guard of four men upon them; I will make you accountable." He then added, in an under tone, "hold them safe until to-morrow, man, and I promise you, you shall have no trouble in watching them after that." "You shall find them," replied Peppercorn. "Silence," interrupted the captain; "hear my orders, and give no reply. Now, sir, before you do anything else, call your roll, and report your killed, wounded, and missing." Upon this order, the dragoon directed the men, after disposing of their horses, to form a line. He then called over the squad by their real names, and immediately afterwards reported to his superior, who, in order to preserve a proper dignified distance, had retreated some paces from the group, the following pithy and soldier-like account:-- "Two men wounded, noble captain, in the late action; two missing; one horse, saddle and bridle lost; one horse and two prisoners taken from the enemy." "The names of the wounded, sir?" "Tom Dubbs and Shadrach Green; one slightly scratched, and the other bruised by a kick from the blacksmith." "The missing, sir?" "Dick Waters, commonly called Marrow Bone, and Roger Bell, known in your honor's list by the name of Clapper Claw." "They have skulked," said the captain. "Marrow Bone is as dead as a door nail, sir," said the orderly with perfect indifference, and standing affectedly erect. "He fell in the river, and the probability is that Clapper Claw keeps him company." "What!" roared Habershaw, "have the diabolical scoundrels made away with any of my good fellows? Have the precious lives of my brave soldiers been poured out by the d----d rebels? By my hand, they shall feel twisted rope, Peppercorn!--cold iron is too good for them." "Softly, captain!" said the orderly. "You don't blame the enemy for showing fight? We mustn't quarrel with the chances of war. There is not often a fray without a broken head, captain. We must deal with the prisoners according to the laws of war." "Of Tory war, Peppercorn, aye, that will I! String the dogs up to the first tree. The devil's pets, why didn't they surrender when we set upon them! To-morrow: let them look out to-morrow. No words, orderly; send out two files to look for the bodies, and to bring in the stray horse if they can find him. A pretty night's work! to lose two good pieces of stuff for a brace of black-hearted whigs!" The two files were detailed for the duty required, and immediately set out, on foot, towards the scene of the late fray. The rest of the troop were dismissed from the line. "I would venture to ask, sir," said Butler, addressing the captain, "for a cup of water: I am much hurt." "Silence, and be d----d to you!" said Habershaw gruffly, "silence, and know your place, sir. You are a prisoner, and a traitor to boot." "Don't you hear the gentleman say he is hurt?" interposed Robinson. "It's onnatural, and more like a beast than a man to deny a prisoner a little water." "By my sword, villain, I will cleave your brain for you, if you open that rebel mouth of yours again!" "Pshaw, pshaw! Captain Habershaw, this will never do," said Peppercorn; "men are men, and must have food and drink. Here, Gideon Blake, give me your flask of liquor and bring me some water from the river. It is my duty, captain, to look after the prisoners." Gideon Blake, who was a man of less savage temper than most of his associates, obeyed this command with alacrity, and even added a few words of kindness, as he assisted in administering refreshment to the prisoners. This evidence of a gentler nature did not escape the comment of the ruffian captain, who still remembered his old grudge against the trooper. "Away, sir," he said in a peremptory and angry tone, "away and attend to your own duty. You are ever fond of obliging these beggarly whigs. Hark you, Peppercorn," he added, speaking apart to the dragoon, "take care how you trust this skulking vagabond: he will take bribes from the rebels, and turn his coat whenever there is money in the way. I have my eye upon him." "If I chose to speak," said Gideon Blake. "Hold your peace, you grey fox," cried the captain. "Not a word! I know your doublings. Remember you are under martial law, and blast me, if I don't make you feel it! There are more than myself suspect you." "I should like to know," said Butler, "why I and my companion are molested on our journey. Have we fallen amongst banditti, or do you bear a lawful commission? If you do, sir, let me tell you, you have disgraced it by outrage and violence exercised towards unoffending men, and shall answer for it when the occasion serves. On what pretence have we been arrested?" "Hark, my young fighting-cock," replied the captain. "You will know your misdemeanors soon enough. And if you would sleep to-night with a whole throat, you will keep your tongue within your teeth. It wouldn't take much to persuade me to give you a little drum-head law. Do you hear that?" "It is my advice, major," whispered Robinson, "to ax no questions of these blackguards." "Be it so, sergeant," said Butler, "I am weary and sick." When other cares were disposed of, and the excited passions of the lawless gang had subsided into a better mood, the dragoon took Butler's cloak from the baggage and spread it upon the ground beneath the shelter of the shrubbery, and the suffering officer was thus furnished a bed that afforded him some small share of comfort, and enabled to take that rest which he so much needed. Robinson seated himself on the ground beside his companion, and in this situation they patiently resigned themselves to whatever fate awaited them. Soon after this the whole troop were busy in the preparations for refreshment and sleep. The horses were either _hobbled_, by a cord from the fore to the hind foot, and turned loose to seek pasture around the bivouac, or tethered in such parts of the forest as furnished them an opportunity to feed on the shrubbery. The fire was rekindled, and some small remnants of venison roasted before it; and in less than an hour this reckless and ill-governed band were carousing over their cups with all the rude ribaldry that belonged to such natures. "Come, boys," said Peppercorn, who seemed to take a delight in urging the band into every kind of excess, and who possessed that sort of sway over the whole crew, including their leader no less than the privates, which an expert and ready skill in adapting himself to the humor of the company gave him, and which faculty be now appeared to exercise for the increase of his own influence. "Come, boys, laugh while you can--that's my motto. This soldiering is a merry life, fighting, drinking, and joking. By the God of war! I will enlist the whole of you into the regular service--Ferguson or Cruger, which you please, boys! they are both fine fellows and would give purses of gold for such charming, gay, swaggering blades. Fill up your cans and prepare for another bout. I'm not the crusty cur to stint thirsty men. A toast, my gay fellows!" "Listen to Peppercorn," cried out some three or four voices. "Here's to the honor of the brave captain Hugh Habershaw, and his glorious dogs that won the battle of Grindall's ford!" A broad and coarse laugh burst from the captain at the announcement of this toast. "By my sword!" he exclaimed, "the fight was not a bad fight." "Can you find a joint of venison, Gideon?" said Peppercorn, aside. "If you can, give it, and a cup of spirits, to the prisoners. Stop, I'll do it myself, you will have the old bull-dog on your back." And saying this the dragoon rose from his seat, and taking a few fragments of the meat which had been stripped almost to the bone, placed them, together with a canteen, beside Butler. "Make the best of your time," he said, "you have but short allowance and none of the best. If I can serve you, I will do it with a good heart; so, call on me." Then turning to the sergeant, who sat nigh, he whispered in his ear, and, with a distinct and somewhat taunting emphasis, inquired, "Friend Horse Shoe, mayhap thou knowest me?" "That I do, James Curry," replied the sergeant, "and I have a mean opinion of the company you keep. I don't doubt but you are ashamed to say how you come by them." "All is fish that comes into the Dutchman's net," said Curry. "To-night I have caught fat game. You are a sturdy fellow, master Blacksmith, and good at a tug, but remember, friend, I owe you a cuff, and if you weren't a prisoner you should have it." "Show me fair play, James Curry, and you shall have a chance now," said Horse Shoe; "I'll keep my parole to surrender when it is over." "Silence, fool!" returned Curry, at the same time rudely pinching Robinson's ear. "You will be a better man than I take you to be, if you ever wrestle with me again. I have not forgotten you." The dragoon now rejoined his comrades. "Peppercorn," cried Habershaw, "d----n the prisoners, let them fast to-night. The lads want a song. Come, the liquor's getting low, we want noise, we want uproar, lad! Sing, bully, sing!" "Anything to get rid of the night, noble captain. What shall I give you?" "The old catch, master Orderly. The Jolly Bottle, the Jolly Bottle," cried Habershaw, pronouncing this word according to ancient usage, with the accent on the last syllable, as if spelt "bottel;" "give us the Jolly Bottle, we all know the chorus of that song. And besides it's the best in your pack." "Well, listen, my wet fellows!" said Peppercorn, "and pipe lustily in the chorus." Here the orderly sang, to a familiar old English tune, the following song, which was perhaps a common camp ditty of the period. "You may talk as you please of your candle and book, And prate about virtue, with sanctified look; Neither priest, book, nor candle, can help you so well To make friends with the world as the Jolly Bottle." "Chorus, my lads; out with it!" shouted the singer; and the whole crew set up a hideous yell as they joined him. "Sing heave and ho, and trombelow, The Jolly Bottle is the best I trow. "Then take the bottle, it is well stitched of leather, And better than doublet keeps out the wind and weather: Let the bottom look up to the broad arch of blue, And then catch the drippings, as good fellows do. With heave and ho, and trombelow, 'Tis sinful to waste good liquor, you know. "The soldier, he carries his knapsack and gun. And swears at the weight as he tramps through the sun But, devil a loon, did I ever hear tell, Who swore at the weight of the Jolly Bottle. So heave and ho, and trombelow, The Jolly Bottle is a feather, I trow." Here the song was interrupted by the return of the two files who had been sent to bring in the bodies of the dead. They had found the missing horse, and now led him into the circle laden with the corpses of Bell and Waters. The troopers halted immediately behind the ring of the revellers, and in such a position as to front Peppercorn and the captain, who were thus afforded a full view of the bodies by the blaze of the fire. "Easy," almost whispered Habershaw, now half-intoxicated, to the two troopers, as he lifted his hands and motioned to them to halt; "put them down gently on the ground. Go on, Peppercorn; let the dead help themselves: finish the song! That chorus again, my boys!" And here the last chorus was repeated in the highest key of merriment. Peppercorn cast an eye at the bodies which, during the interval, had been thrown on the earth, and while the men who had just returned were helping themselves to the drink, he proceeded, in an unaltered voice, with the song. "When drinkers are dry, and liquor is low, A fray that takes off a good fellow or so, Why, what does it do, but help us to bear The loss of a comrade, in drinking his share? Then heave and ho, and trombelow, A fray and a feast are brothers, you know. "The philosophers say it's a well-settled fact, That a vessel will leak whose bottom is cracked; And a belly that's drilled with a bullet, I think, Is a very bad belly to stow away drink. So heave and ho, and trombelow, The dead will be dry to-night, I trow." "There they are, captain," said one of the returning troopers, after the song, to which he and his companions had stood listening with delighted countenances, was brought to an end, "there they are. We found Dick Waters lying in the road, and when we first came to him he gave a sort of groan, but we didn't lift him until we came back from hunting Roger Bell; by that time the fellow was as dead as a pickled herring. Where do you think we found Clapper Claw? Why, half a mile, almost, down the stream. He was washed along and got jammed up betwixt the roots of a sycamore. We had a long wade after him, and trouble enough to get him--more, I'm thinking, than a dead man is worth. So, give us some more rum; this is ugly work to be done in the dark." "Scratch a hole for them, lads, under the bushes," said Habershaw; "put a sod blanket over them before morning. That's the fortune of war, as Peppercorn calls it. How are the wounded men getting along?" "Oh bravely, captain," replied Shad Green, or, according to his nickname, Red Mug: "this here physic is a main thing for a scratch." "Bravely!" echoed Screech Owl, or Tom Dubbs, the same who had been reported by the dragoon as "kicked by the blacksmith;" "we are plastering up sores here with the jolly bottle:-- "Sing heave and ho, and trombelow, The Jolly Bottle is a feather, I trow." "What's a cracked crown, so as it holds a man's brains?" continued the drunken carouser, whilst a laugh deformed his stupid physiognomy. "How are we off for provisions, quarter-master?" inquired the captain of one of the gang. "Eaten out of skin, from nose to tail," replied Black Jack. "Then the squad must forage to-night," continued Habershaw. "We must take a buck, my sweet ones; there are plenty along the river. Get your rifles and prepare lights, and, to keep out of the way of our horses, don't stop short of a mile. Be about it, lads. Black Jack, this is your business." "True, Captain," replied the person addressed: "I shall have all things ready directly." It was near midnight when Black Jack, having prepared some faggots of pitch-pine, and selected three or four of the best marksmen, left the bivouac to look for deer. Habershaw himself, though lazy and inordinately impressed with a sense of his own dignity, and now confused with liquor, could not resist the attraction of this sport. He accordingly, not long after the others had departed, took a rifle, and, attended by his bull-dog, whom he never parted from on any occasion, slowly followed in the direction chosen by the hunters. Those in advance had scarcely walked along the margin of the river a mile before they lighted their faggots, and began to beat the neighboring thickets; and their search was not protracted many minutes when the light of their torches was thrown full upon the eyes of a buck. A shot from one of the marksmen told with unerring precision in the forehead of the animal. The report and the light brought the corpulent captain into the neighborhood. He had almost walked himself out of breath and, as he did not very well preserve his perpendicularity, or a straight line of march, he had several times been tripped up by the roots of trees, or by rocks and briers in his path. Exhausted, at length, and puzzled by the stupefaction of his own brain, as well as by the surrounding darkness, he sat down at the foot of a tree, determined to wait the return of the hunting party. His faithful and congenial "Beauty," not less pursy and short-winded than himself, and not more savage or surly in disposition, now couched upon his haunches immediately between his master's legs; and here this pair of beastly friends remained, silent and mutually soothed by their own companionship. During this interval the person who bore the fire, followed by one of the marksmen, crept slowly onward to the vicinity of the spot where the captain had seated himself. The lapse of time had proved too much for Habershaw's vigilance, and he had, at length, with his head resting against the trunk of the tree, fallen into a drunken slumber. The short crack of a rifle at hand, and the yell of his dog awakened him. He started upon his feet with sudden surprise, and stepping one pace forward, stumbled and fell over the dead body of his favorite Beauty, who lay beneath him weltering in blood. The shot was followed by a rush of the hunter up to the spot: it was Gideon Blake. "Buck or doe, it is my shot!" cried Gideon, as he halted immediately beside Habershaw. "May all the devils blast you, Gideon Blake!" thundered on the incensed captain. "You have sought my life, you murdering wolf, and your bullet has killed Beauty." "I shot at the eyes of what I thought a deer," returned Blake. "You were a fool, Hugh Habershaw, to bring a dog into such a place. "My poor dog! my brave dog! Beauty was worth ten thousand such bastard villains as you! And to have him killed! May the devil feast upon your soul this night, Gideon Blake! Go! and account for your wickedness. Take that, snake! tiger! black-hearted whig and rebel! and be thankful that you didn't come to your end by the help of hemp!" and in this gust of passion he struck his knife into the bosom of the trooper, who groaned, staggered, and fell. At this moment the person bearing the fire, hearing the groan of his comrade, rushed up to the spot and seized Habershaw's arm, just as the monster was raising it over the fallen man to repeat the blow. "Damn him! see what he has done!" exclaimed the captain, as he lifted up the dead body of the dog so as to show in the light the wound inflicted by the ball between the eyes; "this poor, faithful, dumb beast was worth a hundred such hell-hounds as he!" "I am murdered," said the wounded man; "I am murdered in cold blood." The noise at this place brought together the rest of the hunters, who were now returning with the buck thrown across a horse that had been led by one of the party. Blake's wound was examined by them, and some linen applied to staunch the blood. The man had fainted, but it was not ascertained whether the stab was mortal. Habershaw stood sullenly looking on during the examination, and, finding that life had not instantly fled, he coolly wiped his knife and restored it to his girdle. "The fellow has no idea of dying," he said with a visible concern, "and has got no more than he deserves. He will live to be hung yet. Take him to quarters." "Make a hurdle for him," said one of the bystanders, and, accordingly, two men cut a few branches from the neighboring wood, and twisting them together, soon constructed a litter upon which they were able to bear the body of the wounded hunter to the rendezvous. The others, scarcely uttering a word as they marched along, followed slowly with the buck, and in half an hour the troop was once more assembled under the chestnut. For a time there was a sullen and discontented silence amongst the whole crew, that was only broken by the groans of the wounded trooper. Occasionally there was a slight outburst of sedition from several of the troop, as a sharper scream, indicating some sudden increase of pain, from Gideon Blake, assailed their ears. Then there were low and muttered curses pronounced by Habershaw, in a tone that showed his apprehension of some vengeance against himself; and these imprecations were mingled with hints of the disloyalty of the trooper, and charges of a pretended purpose to betray his fellow-soldiers, evidently insinuated by the captain to excuse his act of violence. Then he approached the sick man and felt his pulse, and examined his wound, and pronounced the hurt to be trifling. "It will do him good," he said, with affected unconcern, "and teach him to be more true to his comrades hereafter." But still the fate of the man was manifestly doubtful, and the rising exasperation of the troop became every instant more open. Alarmed and faint-hearted at these symptoms of discontent, Habershaw at last called the men into a circle and made them a speech, in which he expressed his sorrow for the act he had committed, endeavored to excuse himself by the plea of passion at the loss of his dog, and, finally, perceiving that these excuses did not satisfy his hearers, acknowledged his drunken condition and his unconsciousness of the deed he had done until the horrible consequences of it were before his eyes. Here Peppercorn interposed in his favor, alleging that he had examined the wound, and that, in his opinion, the trooper's life was not in danger. "And as the captain is sorry for it, lads," he concluded, "why, what is to be done but let the thing drop? So, if there's another canteen in the squad, we will wet our whistles, boys, and go to sleep." This appeal was effectual, and was followed by a hearty cheer. So, draining the dregs of the last flask, this debauched company retired to rest--Habershaw sneaking away from them with a heart loaded with malice and revenge. A few men were employed, for a short time, in burying the bodies of the troopers who were killed in the fray; and, excepting the guard, who busied themselves in skinning the buck and broiling some choice slices before the fire, and in watching the prisoners, or attending upon their sick comrade, all were sunk into silence if not repose. CHAPTER XVIII. THE TROOPERS MOVE WITH THEIR PRISONERS. "Oft he that doth abide, Is cause of his own paine, But he that flieth in good tide, Perhaps may fight again."--_Old Proverb._ It was with the most earnest solicitude that Butler and his companion watched the course of events, and became acquainted with the character of the ruffians into whose hands they had fallen. The presence of James Curry in this gang excited a painful consciousness in the mind of the soldier, that he had powerful and secret enemies at work against him, but who they were was an impenetrable mystery. Then the lawless habits of the people who had possession of him, gave rise to the most anxious distrust as to his future fate: he might be murdered in a fit of passion, or tortured with harsh treatment to gratify some concealed malice. His position in the army was, it seemed, known too; and, for aught that he could tell, his mission might be no secret to his captors. Robinson's sagacity entered fully into these misgivings. He had narrowly observed the conduct of the party who had made them prisoners, and with that acute insight which was concealed under a rude and uneducated exterior, but which was strongly marked in his actions, he had already determined upon the course which the safety of Butler required him to pursue. According to his view of their present difficulties it was absolutely necessary that he should effect his escape, at whatever personal hazard. Butler, he rightly conjectured, was the principal object of the late ambuscade; that, for some unknown purpose, the possession of this officer became important to those who had procured the attack upon him, and that James Curry had merely hired this gang of desperadoes to secure the prize. Under these circumstances, he concluded that the Major would be so strictly guarded as to forbid all hope of escape, and that any attempt by him to effect it would only be punished by certain death. But, in regard to himself, his calculation was different. "First," said he, "I can master any three of this beggarly crew in an open field and fair fight; and, secondly, when it comes to the chances of a pell-mell, they will not think me of so much account as to risk their necks by a long chase; their whole eyes would undoubtedly be directed to the Major." The sergeant, therefore, determined to make the attempt, and, in the event of his success, to repair to Sumpter, who he knew frequented some of the fastnesses in this region; or, in the alternative, to rally such friends from the neighboring country as were not yet overawed by the Tory dominion, and bring them speedily to the rescue of Butler. Full of these thoughts, he took occasion during the night, whilst the guard were busy in cooking their venison, and whilst they thought him and his comrade wrapt in sleep, to whisper to Butler the resolution he had adopted. "I will take the first chance to-morrow to make a dash upon these ragamuffins," he said; "and I shall count it hard if I don't get out of their claws. Then, rely upon me, I shall keep near you in spite of these devils. So be prepared, if I once get away, to see me like a witch that travels on a broomstick or creeps through a keyhole. But whisht! the drunken vagabonds mustn't hear us talking." Butler, after due consideration of the sergeant's scheme, thought it, however perilous, the only chance they had of extricating themselves from the dangers with which they were beset, and promised the most ready co-operation; determining also, to let no opportunity slip which might be improved to his own deliverance. "Your good arm and brave heart, Galbraith, never stood you in more urgent stead than they may do to-morrow," was his concluding remark. When morning broke the light of day fell upon a strange and disordered scene. The drunken and coarse wretches of the night before, now lessened in number and strength by common broil and private quarrel, lay stretched on their beds of leaves. Their motley and ill-assorted weapons lay around in disarray; drinking cups and empty flasks were scattered over the trodden grass, the skin and horns of the buck, and disjointed fragments of raw flesh were seen confusedly cast about beneath the tree, and a conspicuous object in the scene were the clots of blood and gore, both of men and beast, that disfigured the soil. Two new-made graves, or rather mounds, hastily scratched together and imperfectly concealing the limbs of the dead, prominently placed but a few feet from the ring of last night's revelry, told of the disasters of the fight at the ford. The brushwood fire had burned down into a heap of smouldering ashes, and the pale and sickly features of the wounded trooper were to be discerned upon a pallet of leaves, hard by the heap of embers, surrounded by the remnants of bones and roasted meat that had been flung carelessly aside. In a spot of more apparent comfort, sheltered by an overhanging canopy of vines and alder, lay Butler stretched upon his cloak, and, close beside him, the stout frame of Horse Shoe Robinson. In the midst of all these marks of recent riot and carousal, sat two swarthy figures, haggard and wan from night-watching, armed at every point, and keeping strict guard over the prisoners. The occasional snort and pawing of horses in the neighboring wood showed that these animals were alert at the earliest dawn; whilst among the first who seemed aware of the approach of day, was seen rising from the earth, where it had been flung in stupid torpor for some hours, the bloated and unsightly person of Hugh Habershaw, now much the worse for the fatigue and revelry of the preceding night. A savage and surly expression was seated on his brow, and his voice broke forth more than ordinarily harsh and dissonant, as he ordered the troop to rouse and prepare for their march. The summons was tardily obeyed; and while the yawning members of the squad were lazily moving to their several duties and shaking off the fumes of their late debauch, the captain was observed bending over the prostrate form of Gideon Blake, and directing a few anxious inquiries into his condition. The wounded man was free from pain, but his limbs were stiff, and the region of the stab sore and sensitive to the least touch. The indications, however, were such as to show that his wound was not likely to prove mortal. By the order of Habershaw, a better litter was constructed, and the troopers were directed to bear him, by turns, as far as Christie's, where he was to be left to the nursing of the family. It was a full hour before the horses were saddled, the scattered furniture collected, and the preparations for the march completed. When these were accomplished the prisoners were provided with the two sorriest horses of the troop, and they now set forward at a slow pace, under the escort of four men commanded by James Curry. The two troopers who bore the sick man followed on foot; Habershaw with the remainder, one of whom had appropriated Captain Peter, whilst he led the horses of the dismounted men, brought up the rear. On the journey there was but little spoken by any member of the party; the boisterous and rude nature of the men who composed the troop seemed to have been subdued by sleep into a temper of churlish indifference or stolid apathy. Peppercorn, or James Curry, as the reader now recognises him, strictly preserved his guard over the prisoners, manifesting a severity of manner altogether different from the tone of careless revelry which characterized his demeanor on the preceding night. It never relaxed from an official and sullen reserve. A moody frown sat upon his brow, and his communication with the prisoners was confined to short and peremptory commands; whilst, at the same time, he forbade the slightest intercourse with them on the part of any of the guard. During the short progress to Christie's he frequently rode apart with Habershaw; and the conversation which then occupied these two was maintained in a low tone, and with a serious air that denoted some grave matter of deliberation. It was more than an hour after sunrise when the cavalcade reached the point of their present destination. There were signs of an anxious purpose in the silence of the journey, broken as it was only by low mutterings amongst the men, above which sometimes arose an expression of impatience and discontent, as the subject of their whispered discussions appeared to excite some angry objection from several of the party; and this mystery was not less conspicuous in the formal order of the halt, and in the pause that followed upon their arrival at the habitation. The house, in front of which they were drawn up, was, according to the prevailing fashion of the time, a one-storied dwelling covering an ample space of ground, built partly of boards and partly of logs, with a long piazza before it, terminating in small rooms, made by inclosing the sides for a few feet at either extremity. Being situated some twenty paces aside from the road, the intervening area was bounded by a fence through which a gate afforded admission. A horse-rack, with a few feeding troughs, was erected near this gate; and a draw-well, in the same vicinity, furnished a ready supply of water. With the exception of a cleared field around the dwelling, the landscape was shaded by the natural forest. A consultation of some minutes' duration was held between Habershaw and Curry, when the order to dismount was given, accompanied with an intimation of a design to tarry at this place for an hour or two; but the men, at the same time, were directed to leave their saddles upon their horses. One or two were detailed to look after the refreshment of the cattle, whilst the remainder took possession of the principal room. The first demands of the troop were for drink, and this being indulged, the brute feeling of conviviality which in gross natures depends altogether upon sensual excitement, began once more to break down the barriers of discipline, and to mount into clamor. The scenes of the morning had made a disagreeable impression upon the feelings of Butler and his comrade. The changed tone and the ruffian manners of the band, the pause, and the doubts which seemed to agitate them, boded mischief. The two prisoners, however, almost instinctively adopted the course of conduct which their circumstances required. They concealed all apprehension of harm, and patiently awaited the end. Horse Shoe even took advantage of the rising mirth of the company when drink began to exhilarate them, and affected an easy tone of companionship which was calculated to throw them off their guard. He circulated freely amongst the men, and by private conference with some of the individuals around him, who, attracted by his air of confiding gaiety, seemed inclined to favor his approaches of familiarity, he soon discovered that the gang were divided in sentiment in regard to some important subject touching the proposed treatment of himself and his friend. A party, at least, he was thus made aware, were disposed to take his side in the secret disputes which had been in agitation. He was determined to profit by this dissension, and accordingly applied himself still more assiduously to cultivate the favorable sentiment he found in existence. Whilst breakfast was in preparation, and Habershaw and Curry were occupied with the wounded man in an adjoining apartment, the sergeant, playing the part of a boon companion, laughed with the rioters, and, uninvited, made himself free of their cups. "I should like to know," he said to one of the troopers, "why you are giving yourselves all this trouble about a couple of simple travellers that happened to be jogging along the road? If you wanted to make a pitched battle you ought to have sent us word; but if it was only upon a drinking bout you had set your hearts, there was no occasion to be breaking heads for the honor of getting a good fellow in your company, when he would have come of his own accord at the first axing. There was no use in making such a mighty secret about it; for, as we were travelling the same road with you, you had only to show a man the civility of saying you wanted our escort, and you should have had it at a word. Here's to our better acquaintance, friend!" "You mightn't be so jolly, Horse Shoe Robinson," said Shad Green--or, according to his nickname, Red Mug, in a whisper; "if some of them that took the trouble to find you, should have their own way. It's a d----d tight pull whether you are to be kept as a prisoner of war, or shoved under ground this morning without tuck of drum. That for your private ear." "I was born in old Carolina myself," replied Horse Shoe, aside to the speaker; "and I don't believe there is many men to be found in it who would stand by and see the rules and regulations of honorable war blackened and trod down into the dust by any cowardly trick of murder. If it comes to that, many as there are against two, our lives will not go at a cheap price." "Whisht!" returned the other, "with my allowance, for one, it shan't be. A prisoner's a prisoner, I say; and damnation to the man that would make him out worse." "They say you are a merry devil, old Horse Shoe," exclaimed he who was called Bow Legs, who now stepped up and slapped the sergeant on the back. "So take a swig, man; fair play is a jewel!--that's my doctrine. Fight when you fight, and drink when you drink--and that's the sign to know a man by." "There is some good things," said the sergeant, "in this world that's good, and some that's bad. But I have always found that good and bad is so mixed up and jumbled together, that you don't often get much of one without a little of the other. A sodger's a sodger, no matter what side he is on; and they are the naturalest people in the world for fellow-feeling. One day a man is up, and then the laugh's on his side; next day he is down, and then the laugh's against him. So, as a sodger has more of these ups and downs than other folks, there's the reason his heart is tenderer towards a comrade than other people's. Here's your health, sir. This is a wicked world, and twisted, in a measure, upside down; and it is well known that evil communications corrupts good manners; but sodgers were made to set the world right again, on its legs, and to presarve good breeding and Christian charity. So there's a sarmon for you, you tinkers!" "Well done, mister preacher!" vociferated a prominent reveller. "If you will desert and enlist with us you shall be the chaplain of the troop. We want a good swearing, drinking, and tearing blade who can hold a discourse over his liquor, and fence with the devil at long words. You're the very man for it! Huzza for the blacksmith!" "Huzza for the blacksmith!" shouted several others in the apartment. Butler, during this scene, had stretched himself out at full length upon a bench, to gain some rest in his present exhausted and uncomfortable condition, and was now partaking of the refreshment of a bowl of milk and some coarse bread, which one of the troopers had brought him. "What's all this laughing and uproar about?" said Habershaw, entering the room with Curry, just at the moment of the acclamation in favor of the sergeant "Is this a time for your cursed wide throats to be braying like asses! We have business to do. And you, sir," said he, turning to Butler, "you must be taking up the room of a half dozen men on a bench with your lazy carcase! Up, sir; I allow no lolling and lying about to rascally whigs and rebels. You have cost me the death of a dog that is worth all your filthy whig kindred; and you have made away with two of the best men that ever stept in shoe leather. Sit up, sir, and thank your luck that you haven't your arms pinioned behind you, like a horse thief." "Insolent coward," said Butler, springing upon his feet; "hired ruffian! you shall in due time be made to pay for the outrage you have inflicted upon me." "Tie him up!" cried Habershaw; "tie him up! And now I call you all to bear witness that he has brought the sentence upon himself; it shall be done without waiting another moment. Harry Gage, I give the matter over to you. Draw out four men, take them into the yard, and dispatch the prisoners off-hand! shoot the traitors on the spot, before we eat our breakfasts! I was a fool that I didn't settle this at daylight this morning--the rascally filth of the earth! Have no heart about it, men; but make sure work by a short distance. This is no time for whining. When have the Whigs shown mercy to us!" "It shall be four against four, then!" cried out Shadrach Green, seconded by Andrew Clopper; "and the first shot that is fired shall be into the bowels of Hugh Habershaw! Stand by me, boys!" In a moment the parties were divided, and had snatched up their weapons, and then stood looking angrily at each other as if daring each to commence the threatened affray. "Why, how now, devil's imps!" shouted Habershaw. "Have you come to a mutiny? Have you joined the rebels? James Curry, look at this! By the bloody laws of war, I will report every rascal who dares to lift his hand against me!" "The thing is past talking about," said the first speaker, coolly. "Hugh Habershaw, neither you nor James Curry shall command the peace if you dare to offer harm to the prisoners. Now, bully, report that as my saying. They are men fairly taken in war, and shall suffer no evil past what the law justifies. Give them up to the officer of the nearest post--that's what we ask--carry them to Innis's camp if you choose; but whilst they are in our keeping there shall be no blood spilled without mixing some of your own with it, Hugh Habershaw." "Arrest the mutineers!" cried Habershaw, trembling with rage. "Who are my friends in this room? Let them stand by me, and then--blast me if I don't force obedience to my orders!" "You got off by the skin of your teeth last night," said Green, "when you tried to take the life of Gideon Blake. For that you deserved a bullet through your skull. Take care that you don't get your reckoning this morning, captain and all as you are." "What in the devil would you have?" inquired Habershaw, stricken into a more cautious tone of speech by the decided bearing of the man opposed to him. "The safety of the prisoners until they are delivered to the commander of a regular post; we have resolved upon that!" was the reply. "Curry!" said Habershaw, turning in some perplexity to the dragoon as if for advice. "Softly, Captain; we had better have a parley here," said Curry, who then added in a whisper: "There's been some damned bobbery kicked up here by the blacksmith. This comes of giving that fellow the privilege of talking." "A word, men," interposed Horse Shoe, who during this interval had planted himself near Butler, and with him stood ready to act as the emergency might require. "Let me say a word. This James Curry is my man. Give me a broadsword and a pair of pistols, and I will pledge the hand and word of a sodger, upon condition that I am allowed five minutes' parole, to have a pass, here in the yard, with him--it shall be in sight of the whole squad--I pledge the word of a sodger to deliver myself back again to the guard, dead or alive, without offering to take any chance to make off in the meantime. Come, James Curry, your word to the back of that, and then buckle on your sword, man. I heard your whisper." "Soldiers," said Curry, stepping into the circle which the party had now formed round the room, "let me put in a word as a peace-maker. Captain Habershaw won't be unreasonable. I will vouch for him that he will fulfil your wish regarding the conveying of the prisoners to a regular post. Come, come, let us have no brawling! For shame! put down your guns. There may be reason in what you ask, although it isn't so much against the fashion of the times to shoot a Whig either. But anything for the sake of quiet amongst good fellows. Be considerate, noble captain, and do as the babies wish. As for Horse Shoe's brag--he is an old soldier, and so am I; that's enough. We are not so green as to put a broadsword and a brace of pistols into the hands of a bullying prisoner. No, no, Horse Shoe! try another trick, old boy! Ha, ha, lads! you are a set of fine dashing chaps, and this is only one of your mad-cap bits of spunk that boils up with your liquor. Take another cup on it, my merry fellows, and all will be as pleasant as the music of a fife. Come, valiant Captain of the Tiger, join us. And as for the prisoners--why let them come in for snacks with us. So there's an end of the business. All is as mild as new milk again." "Well, well, get your breakfasts," said Habershaw gruffly. "Blast you! I have spoiled you by good treatment, you ungrateful, carnivorous dogs! But, as Peppercorn says, there's an end of it! So go to your feeding, and when that's done we will push for Blackstock's." The morning meal was soon despatched, and the party reassembled in the room where the late disturbance had taken place. The good-nature of Robinson continued to gain upon those who had first taken up his cause, and even brought him into a more lenient consideration with the others. Amongst the former I have already noted Andrew Clopper, a rough and insubordinate member of the gang, who, vexed by some old grudge against the fat captain, had efficiently sustained Green in the late act of mutiny, and who now, struck with Horse Shoe's bold demeanor towards Curry, began to evince manifest signs of a growing regard for the worthy sergeant. With this man Horse Shoe contrived to hold a short and secret interview that resulted in the quiet transfer of a piece of gold into the freebooter's hand, which was received with a significant nod of assent to whatever proposition accompanied it. When the order of "boot and saddle" was given by Habershaw, the several members of the troop repaired to their horses, where a short time was spent in making ready for the march; after which the whole squad returned to the porch and occupied the few moments of delay in that loud and boisterous carousal which is apt to mark the conduct of such an ill-organized body in the interval immediately preceding the commencement of a day's ride. This was a moment of intense interest to the sergeant, who kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the movements of Clopper, as that individual lingered behind his comrades in the equipment of his horse. This solicitude did not, however, arrest his seeming mirth, as he joined in the rude jests of the company and added some sallies of his own. "Give me that cup," he said at length, to one of the men, as he pointed to a gourd on a table; "before we start I have a notion to try the strength of a little cold water, just by way of physic, after all the liquor we have been drinking," and, having got the implement in his hand, he walked deliberately to the draw-well, where he dipped up a draught from the bucket that stood on its brink. As he put the water to his lips and turned his back upon the company, he was enabled to take a survey of the horses that were attached to the rack near him: then, suddenly throwing the gourd from him, he sprang towards his own trusty steed, leaped into his saddle at one bound, and sped, like an arrow from a bow, upon the highway. This exploit was so promptly achieved that no one was aware of the sergeant's purpose until he was some twenty paces upon his journey. As soon as the alarm of his flight was spread, some three or four rifles were fired after him in rapid succession, during which he was seen ducking his head and moving it from side to side with a view to baffle the aim of the marksmen. The confusion of the moment in which the volley was given rendered it ineffectual, and the sergeant was already past the first danger of his escape. "To horse and follow!" resounded from all sides. "Look to the other prisoner!" roared out Habershaw; "if he raises his head blow out his brains! Follow, boys, follow!" "Two or three of you come with me," cried Curry, and a couple of files hastened with the dragoon to their horses. Upon arriving at the rack it was discovered that the bridles of the greater part of the troop were tied in hard knots in such a manner as to connect each two or three horses together. A short delay took place whilst the horsemen were disentangling their reins, and Curry, being the first to extricate his steed, mounted and set off in rapid pursuit. He was immediately followed by two others. At the end of half an hour the two privates returned and reported that they had been unable to obtain a view of the sergeant or even of Curry. Shortly afterwards the dragoon himself was descried retracing his steps at a moderate trot towards the house. His plight told a tale upon him of discomfiture. One side of his face was bleeding with a recent bruise, his dress disarranged and his back covered with dust. The side of his horse also bore the same taint of the soil. He rode up to Habershaw--who was already upon the road at the head of the remaining members of the squad, having Butler in charge--and informed him that he had pursued the sergeant at full speed until he came in sight of him, when the fugitive had slackened his gait as if on purpose to allow himself to be overtaken. "But, the devil grip the fellow!" he added, "he has a broad-side like a man-of-war! In my hurry I left my sword behind me, and, when I came up with him, I laid my hand upon his bridle; but, by some sudden sleight which he has taught his horse, he contrived, somehow or other, to upset me--horse and all--down a bank on the road-side. And, when I lay on the ground sprawling, do you think the jolly runagate didn't rein up and give me a broad laugh, and ask me if he could be of any _sarvice_ to me? He then bade me good bye, saying he had an engagement that prevented him from favoring me any longer with his company. Gad! it was so civilly done that all I could say was, luck go with you, Mr. Horse Shoe; and, since we are to part company so soon, may the devil pad your saddle for you! I'll do him the justice to say that he's a better horseman than I took him for. I can hardly begrudge a man his liberty who can win it as cleverly as he has done." "Well, there's no more to be said about it," remarked Habershaw. "He is only game for another day. He is like a bear's cub; which is as much as to signify that he has a hard time before him. He would have only given us trouble; so let him go. Now, boys, away for Blackstock's; I will engage I keep the fox that's left safely enough." With these words the troop proceeded upon their march. CHAPTER XIX. Horse Shoe's successful escape from the hands of the Tories, it will be conjectured, had been aided by Clopper. The sergeant had sufficiently assured himself of the present safety of Butler, from the spirit with which a strong party of Habershaw's followers had resisted the bloody purpose of their leader before breakfast; and he had also, by the timely reward secretly conveyed to Clopper, received a pledge from that individual that the same protection should still be accorded to the major, in the event of his own extrication from the gang by the perilous exploit which he then meditated. It is no doubt apparent to the reader, that the favor which saved the lives of the prisoners was won from the captors by the address of Robinson, and that whatever good will was kindled up amongst them, was appropriated principally to the sergeant, Butler having elicited but little consideration from the band, beyond that interest which the roughest men are apt to take in the fortunes of a young and enterprising soldier. Neither the major's manners nor temper were adapted to conciliate any special regard from such natures. The escape of the sergeant, therefore, although it added nothing to the perils of Butler's situation, still operated in some degree to his present inconvenience. It caused him to be more rigorously guarded than before, and consequently to be more restricted in his personal comfort. He was hurried forward at a rough and uneasy pace; and both from Habershaw and Curry, and those more immediately of their party, he experienced a surly indifference to the pain that this occasioned him. They seemed to have no regard either to his wants or feelings, and in the passing remarks that fell from them he could gather harsh surmises as to the manner in which he was now likely to be disposed of. "It is their own fault," said one of them to his companion, as Butler overheard the conversation; "if every prisoner is strung up and shot now-a-days. He makes no more of hanging out people than so many wolves; and there was Captain Huck--will any man say that Sumpter hadn't him murdered in cold blood?" "Yes," added the other, "let a Tory be caught over yonder amongst the Iredell Whigs, on t'other side of the line, or in Tryon, or down here at the Waxhaws, why, a grey fox in a barn yard with forty dogs would have as good a chance for his life. So, for my share, I am glad to see our folks break up that blasted breed, root and branch." "Innis has got as keen a nose for a Whig as a bloodhound," said the first speaker, "and won't stop long to consider what's right to be done, if he gets this chap in his clutches; so it is of no great account that we didn't make short work of it this morning." Such remarks produced a gloomy effect upon Butler's mind. He had witnessed enough, in the scenes of the morning, to convince him that Habershaw had been employed to waylay him and take his life, and that the latter purpose had only failed by the lucky conjuncture of circumstances which led to the mutiny. He was aware, too, that Curry was the prime conductor of the scheme, and drove matters, by a secret influence, as far as he could towards its accomplishment, whilst with a professional hardihood and most hypocritical bearing he affected to be indifferent to the issue. This fellow's malice was the more venomous from his address, and the gay, swaggering, remorseless levity with which he could mask the most atrocious designs: nothing could baffle his equanimity; and he seemed to be provided, at all times, with a present expedient to meet the emergency of his condition. The most perplexing feature in this man's present position was his recent connexion with Tyrrel; a fact that recurred to Butler with many alarming doubts. All the other circumstances accompanying Butler's condition, at this moment, were subjects of distressful uncertainty. Ignorant of the place to which he was to be taken, into whose hands he was to be delivered, how he was to be disposed of, he could only anticipate the worst. It was obvious that his journey was an expected one, and that the gang who held him were employed by persons in authority, set on, no doubt, by the agency of Tyrrel: but where was he--and who was he?--and what influence could he bring to bear against his, Butler's life, now that he had failed in his bloody purpose of lying in wait; and that it was resolved by these ruffians, who had in part only obeyed his behests, to deliver their prisoner up to the regular authorities of the British army? The mention of the name of Innis by one of the troopers was not calculated to allay his inquietude. This person he knew to have been an active confederate and eager adviser of the new court, lately established at Charleston, to promote the confiscation of the estates of the inhabitants of Carolina disaffected to the royal cause. He was, besides, a zealous Tory partisan, and, having lately joined the army, was now in command of a detachment of loyalists on the Ennoree. Then, again, there was abundant cause of anxiety to the unfortunate officer in the question whether Robinson could be kept acquainted with his condition, or even of the place to which he might be removed--and if acquainted with these particulars, whether, in the disturbed state of the country, he could render any service. These thoughts all contributed to sink his spirits. Notwithstanding the usual assumed levity of Curry, he had now become resentful towards Butler, and did not give himself the trouble to conceal it. His manner was quick and unaccommodating, showing his vexation at his own want of sagacity, inferred by the successful flight of Robinson. Expressions occasionally escaped him that indicated a self-reproof on this subject, though they were partially disguised by an affected undervaluing of the importance of having such a prisoner, so long as he retained the custody of the principal object of the enterprise. But the consciousness of being again baffled by a man who had once before obtained the mastery over him, roused his pride into the exhibition of a peevish and vindictive demeanor. In this temper he seconded the brutal disposition of Habershaw, and abandoned the captive officer to the coarse insults of those who exercised control over him. There was some mitigation to this annoyance, in the reserved and partial spirit in which the insurgent party of the squad manifested some slight signs of good will towards him. An instance of this spirit was afforded in a passing hint conveyed by Clopper, on one occasion when the troop had halted to water their horses. "Whatever is to come of it, after we give you up to other hands," he said, apart to Butler, "we will stick to the ground we have taken, that no harm shall be done to you in our keeping." The day was intensely hot, and the road, over which the party travelled, rugged and fatiguing; it was, therefore, near one o'clock when they came in sight of the Tiger, a rough, bold, impetuous stream that rushed over an almost unbroken bed of rocks. On the opposite bank was Blackstocks, a rude hamlet of some two or three houses, scattered over a rugged hill-side--a place subsequently rendered famous by the gallant repulse of Tarleton by Sumpter. The troop struck into a narrow ford, and, with some scrambling amongst the rocks, succeeded in crossing the stream; they then galloped rapidly up the hill, towards a farm-house which seemed to be the principal place of resort for the people of the neighborhood. The approach of the party of cavalry drew to the door a bevy of women, children, and negroes, who stood idly gaping at the spectacle; and, in addition to these, a detachment of militia, consisting of between twenty and thirty men, were seen to turn out and form a line in front of the house. Habershaw, with an air of magnified importance, halted opposite this detachment, gave a few prompt orders to Curry in regard to the disposition of the troop, and in an authoritative tone of command, ordered the officer of the militia to detail a guard for the safe keeping of a prisoner of state. The personage addressed--a tall, ungainly, and awkward subaltern--signified his acquiescence with a bow, and immediately took possession of Butler by seizing the rein of his horse and leading him to one side, where two men, armed with rifles, placed themselves at either stirrup. Habershaw now directed his men to alight, accompanying the order with a caution that the prisoner was not to be allowed to enter the house. "The d----d rascal," he added, "shall not play the trick of his rebel associate: no more privilege of going into bar-rooms, and lounging about doors! See the man stowed away in the barn; and tell the sentinels never to take their eyes off of him--do you hear, lieutenant?" "You may depend upon my look-out," replied the lieutenant, with a flourish of a hacked and rusty sword. "Men, march your prisoner straight to the barn. Have a relief, Corporal, every two hours, and towards night, set four on the watch at a time." "Look to it, Lieutenant!" shouted Habershaw. "No words, sir: do your duty!" And having thus given vent to his own high opinion of himself the bulky captain withdrew into the house. Butler was now marched into a large log barn, in one corner of which an armful of fodder, or dried blades of Indian corn, were shaken out for his bed; and this, he was told, was to be his prison until other orders awaited him. The guard, consisting of two sentinels, were stationed on the inner side of the door, having the prisoner immediately under their eye; and, this disposition being completed, the officer commanding the detachment retired to mingle with the troopers in the farm-house. Half an hour had scarcely elapsed after the arrival of the troopers at Blackstocks, before James Curry had refreshed himself with a hasty meal, and had his horse brought to the door. He seemed bound upon some urgent mission. "Captain St. Jermyn, you say, left this at sunrise this morning?" said the dragoon, addressing the lieutenant of the militia. "He did. He was here all day yesterday, and thought he should hear from you last night." "What route did he take?" "To Turnbull, at Ninety-Six." "Is Turnbull there now, think you?" "He is," replied the lieutenant. "They say orders have gone up from Cornwallis to the post for four light companies, and it is expected that Captain Campbell is now on his way with them towards Camden; neither Turnbull nor Cruger would leave the post." "I have heard that this corps was marching to head-quarters Are you sure St. Jermyn is not with Campbell?" "He said nothing about it yesterday, but I think he wishes to join Colonel Innis with the loyalist cavalry." "Where is Innis?" inquired Curry. "Over on Ennoree, about two miles from Musgrove's mill." "Humph!" said Curry, thoughtfully, "I must ride to the garrison at Ninety-Six. The devil take this cantering about the country! I have had more than enough of it." And saying this, the dragoon mounted his horse, and clapping spurs to the restive animal, was soon out of sight. It was late in the day before the wants of Butler were attended to. He had thrown aside his coat, from the oppressive heat of the weather, and, placing it under his head for a pillow, had fallen into a sleep, from which he was awakened by a summons from one of the sentinels to partake of food. There was more kindness apparent in the demeanor of the soldier than Butler had been accustomed to meet from the persons who held him captive, and this circumstance won upon his heart and induced him to accept with courtesy the proffered attentions. "You live in a divided country, and witness much to make a good man wish this unhappy war was at an end," said Butler, after he had eaten of the provisions placed before him. "Indeed we do, sir," replied the soldier, "and it is enough to make a man's heart bleed to see brothers fighting against each other, and kindred that ought to hold together seeking each other's lives. Men will have, and ought to have their opinions, sir; but it is hardly good reason for treating one another like savage Indians, because all cannot think alike." "Do you live in this neighborhood?" inquired Butler. "Not far away," answered the man. "You are married?" "Yes, and have six children." "They should be young," said Butler, "judging by your own age." "Thank God, sir!" exclaimed the soldier, with fervor, "they are young! And I would pray that they may never live to be old if these wars are to last. No father can count upon his own child's living in harmony with him. My boys, if they were grown enough, might be the first I should meet in battle." "Your name, friend?" said Butler. "Bruce," replied the other. "A good and a brave name; a name once friendly to the liberty of his country." "Stop, sir!" said the sentinel. "This is not the place to talk upon questions that might make us angry with each other. It is a name still friendly to the liberty of his country; that liberty that supports the king and laws, and punishes treason." "I cannot debate with you," replied Butler; "I am your prisoner." "I am a man," said the soldier, firmly, "and would not take advantage of him that cannot take his own part; but these questions, sir, are best dropped--they have made all the provinces mad. However, I do not blame you, sir; I will not deny that there are good men on your side." "And on yours, doubtless," returned Butler. "We have many bad ones, sir," returned the soldier; "and as you have spoken like a well-tempered gentleman to me, I will give you a friendly hint." Here the sentinel spoke in a lowered tone. "Have your eyes about you; these men are none of the best, and would think but little of taking from you anything of value. As you slept, just now, I saw a golden trinket hanging by a ribbon in your bosom. You are a young man, sir, and a soldier, I hear; this may be some present from your lady, as I guess you have one. If others had seen it, as I saw it, you might have been the loser. That's all." "Thank you, honest friend! from my heart, I thank you!" replied Butler eagerly. "Oh, God! that bauble is a consolation to me that in this hour I would not part with--no, no! Thank you, friend, a thousand times!" "Have done," said the soldier, "and in future be more careful. The relief is coming this way." And the sentinel, taking up his rifle, repaired to his post. In a few moments the guard was changed, and those lately on duty were marched to the dwelling-house. When night came on the immediate guard around Butler's person was doubled. Some few comforts were added to his forlorn prison by the kindness of the soldier Bruce, and he was left to pass the weary hours of darkness in communion with his own thoughts, or in the enjoyment of such repose as his unhappy state of thraldom allowed. If the agitation of his spirit had permitted sleep, there were but few moments of the night when it might have been indulged. The outbursts of revelry, the loud and boisterous laugh, and still louder oaths of the party who occupied the dwelling-house near at hand, showed that they had plunged into their usual debauch, and now caroused over their frequently filled cups; and the clamor that broke upon the night might have baffled the slumbers of a mind less anxious and wakeful than his own. The party of troopers and militia sat at the door to take advantage of the coolness of the night, and as they plied the busy flagon, and with heavy draught grew more noisy, scarce a word fell from their lips that was not distinctly heard by Butler. It was with intense interest, therefore, that he listened to the conversation when it led to a topic that greatly concerned himself; and that he might not alarm the suspicion of the speakers he affected sleep. "Sumpter has been hovering about Ninety-Six," said the lieutenant; "and if one could believe all the stories that are told about him, he must be a full cousin at least to a certain person that it wouldn't be right to mention in respectable company; for, by the accounts, he is one day on the Wateree, and the next, whoop and away!--and there he is, almost over at Augusta. It seems almost past the power of human legs for a mortal man to make such strides as they tell of him." "Who says Sumpter is near Ninety-Six?" inquired one of the party; "I can only say, if that's true, he is a ghost--that's all. Here's Harry Turner will swear that he saw him, day before yesterday, in North Carolina, on his march towards Burk." "Indeed did I," responded Harry, one of the militia-men. "There is no mistake about it," interposed the lieutenant. "A vidette of Brown's came scampering through here this morning, who reported the news; and the man had good right to know, for he saw Cruger yesterday, who told him all about it, and then sent him off to Wahab's plantation, near the Catawba fords, for Hanger's rangers. It was on his way back this morning that he stopped here five minutes, only to give us warning?" "This is only some story that your drunken head has been dreaming about, Gabriel," said Habershaw. "There is not a word of truth in it; the rangers went down to Camden three days ago. Who saw the vidette besides yourself?" "The whole detachment," replied the lieutenant. "We talked to the man and had the story from him--and a queer fellow he was--a good stout chap that liked to have been caught by a pair of reconnoitring Whigs, a few miles back between this and Pacolet; they pushed him up to the saddleflaps. But you must have seen him yourself, Captain Habershaw; for he told us you were on the road." "From towards Pacolet!" exclaimed the captain with surprise. "We saw nobody on that road. When did the man arrive?" "About an hour before you. He came at full speed, with his horse--a great, black, snorting beast seventeen hands high at least--all in a foam. He was first for passing by without stopping, but we challenged him and brought him short upon his haunches, and then he told us he was in a hurry, and mustn't be delayed." "What kind of a looking man was he?" inquired Habershaw. "A jolly fellow," replied the lieutenant: "almost as big as his horse. A good civil fellow, too, that swigs well at a canteen. He made a joke of the matter about your coming up, and called you old Cat-o'-nine tails--said that you were the cat, and your nine tag-rags were the tails--ha, ha ha!" "Blast the bastard!" exclaimed Habershaw; "who could he be?" "Why we asked that, but he roared out with a great haw-haw--took another drink, and said he was never christened." "You should, as a good soldier," said Habershaw, "have made him give his name." "I tried him again, and he would only let us have a nickname; he told us then that he was called Jack-o'-Lantern, and had a special good stomach, and that if we wanted more of him we must give him a snatch of something to eat. Well, we did so. After that, he said he must have our landlord's sword, for his own had been torn from him by the Whig troopers that pushed him so hard, and that the bill for it must be sent to Cruger. So he got the old cheese-knife that used to hang over the fire-place and strung it across his shoulder. He laughed so hard, and seemed so good-natured, that there was no doing anything with him. At last he mounted his horse again, just stooped down and whispered in my ear at parting, that he was an old friend of yours, and that you could tell us all the news, and away he went, like a mad bully, clinking it over the hill at twenty miles to the hour." "A black horse did you say?" inquired Habershaw. "Had he a white star in the forehead, and the two hind legs white below the knee?" "Exactly," said the lieutenant and several others of the party. "It was Horse Shoe Robinson!" exclaimed Habershaw, "by all the black devils!" "Horse Shoe, Horse Shoe, to be sure!" responded half a dozen voices. "He was a famous good rider, Horse Shoe or anybody else," said the lieutenant. "That beats all!" said one of the troopers; "the cunning old fox! He told the truth when he said you would tell the news, captain: but to think of his lies getting him past the guard, with a sword and a bellyfull into the bargain!" "Why didn't you report instantly upon our arrival?" asked Habershaw. "Bless you," replied the lieutenant, "I never suspicioned him, more than I did you. The fellow laughed so naturally that I would never have thought him a runaway." "There it is," said Habershaw; "that's the want of discipline. The service will never thrive till these loggerheads are taught the rules of war." Butler had heard enough to satisfy him on one material point, namely, that Robinson had secured his escape, and was in condition to take whatever advantage of circumstances the times might afford him. It was a consolation to him also to know that the sergeant had taken this route, as it brought him nearer to the scene in which the major himself was likely to mingle. With this dawn of comfort brightening up his doubts, he addressed himself more composedly to sleep, and before daylight, the sounds of riot having sunk into a lower and more drowsy tone, he succeeded in winning a temporary oblivion from his cares. CHAPTER XX. "What ho! What ho!--thy door undo: Art watching or asleep?"--_Burger's Leonora._ On the banks of the Ennoree, in a little nook of meadow, formed by the bend of the stream which, fringed with willows, swept round it almost in a semicircle, the inland border of the meadow being defined by a gently rising wall of hills covered with wood, was seated within a few paces of the water, a neat little cottage with a group of out-buildings, presenting all the conveniences of a comfortable farm. The dwelling-house itself was shaded by a cluster of trees which had been spared from the native forest, and within view were several fields of cultivated ground neatly inclosed with fences. A little lower down the stream and within a short distance of the house, partially concealed by the bank, stood a small low-browed mill, built of wood. It was near sundown, and the golden light of evening sparkled upon the shower which fell from the leaky race that conducted the water to the head gate, and no less glittered on the spray that was dashed from the large and slowly revolving wheel. The steady gush of the stream, and the monotonous clack of the machinery, aided by the occasional discordant scream of a flock of geese that frequented the border of the race, and by the gambols of a few children, who played about the confines of the mill, excited pleasant thoughts of rural business and domestic content. A rudely constructed wagon, to which were harnessed two lean horses, stood at the door of the mill, and two men, one of them advanced in years, and the other apparently just beyond the verge of boyhood, were occupied in heaping upon it a heavy load of bags of meal. The whitened habiliments of these men showed them to be the proper attendants of the place, and now engaged in their avocation. A military guard stood by the wagon, and as soon as it was filled, they were seen to put the horses in motion, and to retire by a road that crossed the stream and take the descending direction of the current close along the opposite bank. When this party had disappeared, the old man directed the mill to be stopped. The gates were let down, the machinery ungeared, and, in a few moments, all was still. The millers now retired to the little habitation hard by. "There is so much work lost," said the elder to his companion, as they approached the gate that opened into the curtilage of the dwelling. "We shall never be paid for that load. Colonel Innis doesn't care much out of whose pocket he feeds his men; and as to his orders upon Rawdon's quarter-master, why it is almost the price of blood to venture so far from home to ask for payment--to say nothing of the risk of finding the army purse as low as a poor miller's at home. I begrudge the grain, Christopher, and the work that grinds it; but there is no disputing with these whiskered foot-pads with bayonets in their hands--they must have it and will have it, and there's an end of it." "Aye," replied the man addressed by the name of Christopher, "as you say, they will have it; and if they are told that a poor man's sweat has been mixed with their bread, they talk to us about the cause--the cause--the cause. I am tired of this everlasting preaching about king and country. I don't know but if I had my own way I'd take the country against the king any day. What does George the Third care for us, with a great world of water between?" "Whisht, Christopher Shaw--whisht, boy! We have no opinions of our own; trees and walls have ears at this time. It isn't for us to be bringing blood and burning under our roof, by setting up for men who have opinions. No, no. Wait patiently; and perhaps, Christopher, it will not be long before this gay bird Cornwallis will be plucked of his feathers. The man is on his way now that, by the help of the Lord, may bring down as proud a hawk as ever flew across the water. If it should be otherwise, trust to the power above the might of armies, and wiser than the cunning of men, that, by a righteous and peaceful life, we shall make our lot an easier one than it may ever be in mingling in the strife of the evil-minded." "It is hard, for all that--wise as it is--to be still," said Christopher, "with one's arms dangling by one's side, when one's neighbors and kinsmen are up and girding themselves for battle. It will come to that at last; fight we must. And, I don't care who knows it, I am for independence, uncle Allen." "Your passion, boy, and warmth of temper, I doubt, outrun your discretion," said the old man. "But you speak bravely and I cannot chide you for it. For the present, at least, be temperate, and, if you can, silent. It is but unprofitable talk for persons in our condition." The uncle and nephew now entered the house, and Allen Musgrove--for this was the person to whom I have introduced my reader--was soon seated at his family board, invoking a blessing upon his evening meal, and dispensing the cares of a quiet and peaceful household. "I wonder Mary stays so long with her aunt," he said, as the early hour of repose drew nigh. "It is an ill place for her, wife, and not apt to please the girl with anything she may find there. Wat Adair is an irregular man, and savage as the beasts he hunts. His associates are not of the best, and but little suited to Mary's quiet temper." The wife, a staid, motherly-looking woman of plain and placid exterior, who was busily engaged amongst a thousand scraps of coarse, homespun-cloth, which she was fashioning into a garment for some of the younger members of her family, paused from her work, upon this appeal to her, and, directing her glances above her spectacles to her husband, replied: "Mary has been taught to perform her duties to her kinsfolk, and it isn't often that she counts whether it is pleasant to her or not. Besides, Watty, rough as he is, loves our girl; and love goes a great way to make us bear and forbear both, husband. I'll warrant our daughter comes home when she thinks it right. But it is a weary way to ride over a wild country, and more so now when Whig and Tory have distracted the land. I wish Christopher could be spared to go for her." "He shall go to-morrow, wife," returned Allen Musgrove. "Wat Adair, love her or not, is not the man to go out of his way for a wandering girl, and would think nothing to see the child set out by herself. But come, it is Saturday night and near bed-time. Put aside your work, wife; a lesson from the Book of Truth, and prayers, and then to rest," he said, as he took down a family Bible from a shelf and spread it before him. The old man put on a pair of glasses, which, by a spring, sustained themselves upon his nose, and with an audible and solemn voice he read a portion of scripture; then, placing himself on his knees, whilst the whole family followed his example, he poured forth a fervent and heart-inspired prayer. It was a simple and homely effusion, delivered from the suggestions of the moment, in accordance with a devout habit of thanksgiving and supplication to which he had long been accustomed. He was a Presbyterian, and had witnessed, with many a pang, the profligate contempt and even savage persecution with which his sect had been visited by many of the Tory leaders--especially by the loyalist partisan, Captain Huck, who had been recently killed in an incursion of Sumpter's at Williams's plantation, not far distant from Musgrove's present residence. It was this unsparing hostility towards his religion, and impious derision of it, that, more than any other circumstance, had begotten that secret dislike of the Tory cause which, it was known to a few, the miller entertained, although his age, situation, and, perhaps, some ancient prejudice of descent (for he was the son of an early Scotch emigrant), would rather have inclined him to take the royal side; that side which, in common belief and in appearance, he still favored. "Thou hast bent thy bow," he said, in the warmest effusion of his prayer, "and shot thine arrows, O Lord, amongst this people; thou hast permitted the ministers of vengeance, and the seekers of blood to ride amongst us, and thy wrath hath not yet bowed the stubborn spirit of sin--but the hard hearts are given strong arms, and with curses they have smitten the people. Yet even the firebrand that it did please thee not to stay because of our sins--yea, even the firebrand that did cause conflagration along our border, until by the light the erring children of men might read in the dark night, from one end of our boundary even unto the other, the enormity of their own backslidings, and their forgetfulness of thee; that firebrand hath been thrown into the blaze which it had itself kindled, and, like a weapon of war which hath grown dull in the work of destruction, hath been cast into the place of unprofitable lumber, and hath been utterly consumed. The persecutor of the righteous and the scoffer of the word hath paid the price of blood, and hath fallen into the snares wherewith he lay in wait to ensnare the feet of the unthinking. But stay now, O Lord of Hosts, the hand of the destroyer, and let the angel of peace again spread his wing over our racked and wearied land. Take from the wicked heart his sword and shield, and make the righteous man safe beside his family hearth. Shelter the head of the wanderer, and guide in safety the hunted fugitive who flees before the man of wrath; comfort the captive in his captivity, and make all hearts in this rent and sundered province to know and bless thy mercies for ever more. In especial, we beseech thee to give the victory to him that hath right, and to 'stablish the foundations of the government in justice and truth, giving liberty of conscience and liberty of law to those who know how to use it." At this point the worship of the evening was arrested by a slight knocking at the door. "Who goes there?" exclaimed the old man, starting from his kneeling position. "Who raps at my door?" "A stranger, good man," replied a voice without. "A poor fellow that has been hot pressed and hard run." "Friend or foe?" asked Allen Musgrove. "A very worthless friend to any man at this present speaking," replied the person on the outside of the door; "and not fit to be counted a foe until he has had something to eat. If you be Allen Musgrove, open your door." "Are you alone, or do you come with followers at your heels? My house is small and can give scant comfort to many?" "Faith, it is more than I know," responded the other; "but if I have followers it is not with my will that they shall cross your door-sill. If you be Allen Musgrove, or if you be not, open, friend. I am as harmless as a barndoor fowl." "I do not fear you, sir," said Musgrove, opening the door; "you are welcome to all I can give you, whatever colors you serve." "Then give us your hand," said Horse Shoe Robinson, striding into the apartment. "You are a stranger to me, but if you are Allen Musgrove, the miller, that I have hearn men speak of, you are not the person to turn your back on a fellow creature in distress. Your sarvent, mistress," he added, bowing to the dame. "Far riding and fast riding gives a sort of claim these times; so excuse me for sitting down." "You are welcome, again; your name, sir?" said Musgrove. "Have I guessed yours?" inquired Horse Shoe. "You have." "Then you must guess mine; for it isn't convenient to tell it." "Some poor Whig soldier," said Christopher Shaw privately to Musgrove. "It isn't right to make him betray himself. You are hungry, friend," added Christopher; "and we will first get you something to eat, and then you may talk all the better for it." "That's a good word," said Horse Shoe, "and a brave word, as things go; for it isn't every man has the courage to feed an enemy in these days, though I made the devils do it for me this morning, ha, ha, ha! Some water, Mr. Musgrove, and it will not come badly to my hand if you can tangle it somewhat." The refreshment asked for was produced by Christopher Shaw; and Horse Shoe, taking the brimming cup in his hand, stood up, and with a rather awkward courtesy, pledged the draught with "Your health, good mistress, and luck to the little ones! for we grown-up babies are out of the days of luck, except the luck of escaping twisted hemp, or drum-head law, which for to-night, I believe, is mine;" and he swallowed the mixture at a draught; then, with a long sigh, placed the cup upon the table and resumed his seat. "That there spirit, Mr. Musgrove," he added, "is a special good friend in need, preach against it who will!" "You say you have ridden far to-day," remarked the miller: "you must be tired." "I am not apt to get tired," replied the sergeant, turning his sword-belt over his head, and flinging the weapon upon a bench; "but I am often hungry." "My wife," said Musgrove, smiling, "has taken that hint before you spoke it; she has already ordered something for you to eat." "That's an excellent woman!" exclaimed Horse Shoe. "You see, Allen Musgrove, I don't stand much upon making myself free of your house. I have hearn of you often before I saw you, man; and I know all about you. You are obliged to keep fair weather with these Tories--who have no consideration for decent, orderly people--but your heart is with the boys that go for liberty. You see I know you, and am not afeard to trust you. Perchance, you mought have hearn tell of one Horse Shoe Robinson, who lived over here at the Waxhaws?" "I have heard many stories about that man," replied the miller. "Well, I won't tell you that he is in your house to-night, for fear the Tories might take you to account for harboring such a never-do-well. But you have got a poor fellow under your roof that has had a hard run to get here." "In my house!" exclaimed Musgrove; "Horse Shoe Robinson!" and then, after a pause, he continued, "well, well, there is no rule of war that justifies a Christian in refusing aid and comfort to a houseless and hunted stranger, who comes with no thought of harm to a peaceful family hearth. I take no part in the war on either side; and, in your ear, friend Robinson, I take none _against_ you or the brave men that stand by you." "Your hand again," said Horse Shoe, reaching towards the miller. "Allen, I have come to you under a sore press of heels. An officer of the Continental army and me have been travelling through these here parts, and we have been most onaccountably ambushed by a half wild-cat, half bull-dog, known by the name of Captain Hugh Habershaw, who cotched us in the night at Grindall's ford." "Heaven have mercy on the man who has anything to do with Hugh Habershaw!" exclaimed the miller's wife. "Amen, mistress," responded the sergeant; "for a surlier, misbegotten piece of flesh, there's not in these wild woods, giving you the choice of bear, panther, catamount, rattlesnake, or what not. We were sot upon," continued the sergeant, "by this bully and a bevy of his braggadocios, and made prisoners; but I took a chance to slip the noose this morning, and after riding plump into a hornet's nest at Blackstock's, where I put on a new face and tricked the guard out of a dinner and this here old sword, I took a course for this mill, axing people along the road where I should find Allen Musgrove; and so, after making some roundabouts and dodging into the woods until night came on, to keep clear of the Tories, here I am." "And the officer?" said Musgrove. "He is in the hands of the Philistines yet--most likely now at Blackstock's." "What might be his name?" "Major Butler--a bold, warm gentleman--that's been used to tender life and good fortune. He has lands on the sea-coast--unless that new-fangled court at Charlestown, that they call the Court of Seekerstations, has made them null and void--as they have been making the estates of better gentleman than they could ever pretend to be; taking all the best lands, you see, Allen, to themselves, the cursed iniquiters!" "Where did you come from with this gentleman?" "A long way off, Mr. Musgrove--from old Virginny--but lastly from Wat Adair's." "Wat's wife is a relation of my family." "Then he is a filthy disgrace to all who claim kin with him, Allen Musgrove. Wat was the man who put us into the wild-cat's claws--at least, so we had good reason to think. There was a tidy, spruce, and smart little wench there--tut, man--I am talking of your own kith and kindred, for her name was Mary Musgrove." "Our girl!" said the dame with an animated emphasis; "our own Mary; what of _her_, Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson?" "That she is as good a child, Mistress Musgrove, as any honest parent mought wish for. She got some sort of inkling of what was contrived; and so she appeared to Major Butler in a dream--or her ghost." "Mercy on us! the child has not been hurt?" cried the mother. "Ondoubtedly not, ma'am," said Robinson; "but it is as true as you are there, she gave us, somehow or other, a warning that there was harm in the wind; and we took her advice, but it didn't do." "I wish the child were home," said Musgrove. "Christopher, at daylight, boy, saddle a horse and be off to Adair's for Mary." The nephew promised to do the errand. "Come, Mr. Robinson, draw near the table and eat something." "With right good heart," replied Horse Shoe; "but it's a kind of camp rule with me, before I taste food--no matter where--just to look after Captain Peter Clinch; that's my horse, friend Musgrove. So, by your leave, I'll just go take a peep to see that the Captain is sarved. A good beast is a sort of right arm in scrapish times; and as God ha'n't given them the gift of speech, we must speak for them." "Christopher shall save you the trouble," replied Musgrove. "A good horse never loses anything by the eye of his master," said Horse Shoe; "so, Christopher, I'll go with you." In a short time the sergeant returned into the house, and took his seat at the table, where he fell to, at what was set before him, with a laudable dispatch. "How far off," he inquired, "is the nearest Tory post, Mr. Musgrove?" "Colonel Innis has some light corps stationed within two miles. If you had been a little earlier you would have found some of them at my mill." "Innis!" repeated Horse Shoe, "I thought Floyd had these parts under command?" "So he has," replied the miller, "but he has lately joined the garrison at Rocky Mount." "Ha! ha! ha!" ejaculated Robinson, "that's a pot into which Sumpter will be dipping his ladle before long. All the land between Wateree and Broad belongs to Tom Sumpter, let mad-cap Tarleton do his best! We Whigs, Mr. Musgrove, have a little touch of the hobgoblin in us. We travel pretty much where we please. Now, I will tell you, friend, very plainly what I am after. I don't mean to leave these parts till I see what is to become of Major Butler. Innis and Floyd put together sha'n't hinder me from looking after a man that's under my charge. I'm an old sodger, and they can't make much out of me if they get me." "The country is swarming with troops of one kind or another," said the miller; "and a man must have his wits about him who would get through it. You are now, Mr. Robinson, in a very dangerous quarter. The fort at Ninety-Six on one side of you, and Rocky Mount and Hanging Rock on the other--the road between the three is full of loyalists. Colonel Innis is here to keep the passage open, and, almost hourly, his men are passing. You should be careful in showing yourself in daylight. And as for your poor friend, Major Butler, there is not likely to be much good will shown towards him. I greatly fear his case is worse than it seems to you." "There is somewhere," said Robinson, "in that book that lies open on the table--which I take to be the Bible--the story of the campaigns of King David; and as I have hearn it read by the preacher, it tells how David was pushed on all sides by flying corps of the enemy, and that, seeing he had no sword, he came across a man who gave him victuals and the sword of Goliath--as I got my dinner and a sword this morning from the tavern-keeper at Blackstock's; and then he set off on his flight to some strange place, where he feigned himself crazy and scrabbled at the gate, and let the spit run down on his beard--as I have done before now with Tarleton, Mr. Musgrove; and then King David took into a cave--which I shouldn't stand much upon doing if there was occasion; and there the King waited, until he got friends about him and was able to drub the Philistians for robbing the threshing-floors--as I make no doubt these Tories have robbed yours, Allen Musgrove. But you know all about it, seeing that you are able to read, which I am not. Now, I don't pretend to say that I nor Major Butler are as good men as David--not at all; but the cause of liberty is as good a cause as ever King David fought for, and the Lord that took his side in the cave, will take the side of the Whigs, sooner or later, and help them to beat these grinding, thieving, burning, and throat-cutting Tories. And, moreover, a brave man ought never to be cast down by such vermin; that's my religion, Mr. Musgrove, though you mought hardly expect to find much thought of such things left in a rough fellow like me, that's been hammered in these here wars like an old piece of iron that's been one while a plough coulter, and after that a gun-barrel, and finally that's been run up with others into a piece of ordnance--not to say that it moughtn't have been a horse shoe in some part of its life, ha! ha! ha! There's not likely to be much conscience or religion left after all that hammering." "'He shall keep the simple folk by their right,'" said Musgrove, quoting a passage from the Psalms, "'defend the children of the poor and punish the wrong-doer.' You have finished your supper, Mr. Robinson," he continued, "and before we retire to rest you will join us in the conclusion of our family worship, which was interrupted by your coming into the house. We will sing a Psalm which has been given to us by that man whose deliverance has taught you where you are to look for yours." "If I cannot help to make music, Allen," said Horse Shoe, "I can listen with good will." The miller now produced a little book in black-letter, containing a familiar and ancient version of the Psalms, and the following quaint and simple lines were read by him in successive couplets, the whole family singing each distich as soon as it was given out--not excepting Horse Shoe, who, after the first couplet, having acquired some slight perception of the tune, chimed in with a voice that might have alarmed the sentinels of Innis's camp: "A king that trusteth in his host Shall not prevail at length; The man that of his might doth boast Shall fall, for all his strength. "The troops of horsemen eke shall fail, Their sturdy steeds shall starve: The strength of horse shall not prevail The rider to preserve. "But so the eyes of God intend, And watch to aid the just; With such as fear him to offend, And on his goodness trust. "That he of death and great distress May set their souls from dread; And if that dearth their land oppress, In hunger them to feed. "Wherefore our soul doth whole depend On God, our strength and stay; He is our shield us to defend And drive all darts away." When this act of devotion was concluded the old man invoked a blessing upon his household, and gave his orders that the family should betake themselves to rest. Horse Shoe had already taken up his sword and was about retiring to a chamber, under the guidance of Christopher Shaw, when the door was suddenly thrown wide open, and in rushed Mary Musgrove. She ran up, threw herself into her father's arms, and cried out-- "Oh, how glad I am that I have reached home to-night!" then kissing both of her parents, she flung herself into a chair, saying "I am tired--very tired. I have ridden the livelong day, alone, and frightened out of my wits." "Not alone, my daughter!--on that weary road, and the country so troubled with ill-governed men! Why did you venture, girl? Did you not think I would send your cousin Christopher for you?" "Oh, father," replied Mary, "there have been such doings! Ah! and here is Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson; Major Butler, where is he, sir?" she exclaimed, turning to the sergeant, who had now approached the back of her chair to offer his hand. "Blessings on you for a wise and a brave girl!" said Robinson. "But it wouldn't do; we were ambushed, and the Major is still a prisoner." "I feared it," said Mary, "and therefore I stole away. They are bloody-minded and wicked, father; and uncle Adair's house has been the place where mischief and murder has been talked of. Oh, I am very sick! I have had such a ride!" "Poor wench!" said the father, taking her to his bosom. "You have not the temper nor the strength to struggle where ruthless men take up their weapons of war. What has befallen? Tell us all!" "No, no!" interposed the mother; "no, Allen, not now. The girl must have food and sleep, and must not be wearied with questions to-night. Wait, my dear Mary, until to-morrow. She will tell us everything to-morrow." "I must hear of Major Butler," said Mary; "I cannot sleep until I have heard all that has happened. Good Mr. Robinson, tell me everything." In few words the sergeant unfolded to the damsel the eventful history of the last two days, during the narrative of which her cheek waxed pale, her strength failed her, and she sank almost lifeless across her father's knee. "Give me some water," she said. "My long ride has worn me out. I ran off at daylight this morning, and have not stopped once upon the road." A glass of milk with a slice of bread restored the maiden to her strength, and she took the first opportunity to inform the circle who surrounded her of all the incidents that had fallen under her observation at Adair's. Her father listened with deep emotion to the tale, and during its relation clenched his teeth with anger, as he walked, to and fro, through the apartment. There was an earnest struggle in his feelings to withhold the expression of the strong execration, which the narrative brought almost to his lips, against the perfidy of his wife's kinsman. But the habitual control of his temper, which his religious habits inculcated, kept him silent; and considerations of prudence again swayed him from surrendering to the impulse, which would have led him to declare himself openly against the cause of the royal government and its supporters in the district where he lived. He cross-questioned his daughter as to many minute points of her story, but her answers were uniform and consistent, and were stamped with the most unequivocal proofs of her strict veracity. Indeed, the collateral evidences furnished by Robinson, left no doubt on the miller's mind that the whole of Mary's disclosures were the testimony of a witness whose senses could not have been disturbed by illusions, nor distempered by fear. "It is a dreadful tale," he said, "and we must think over it more maturely. Be of good heart, my daughter, you have acted well and wisely; God will protect us from harm." "And so it was no ghost, nor spirit," said Horse Shoe, "that the major saw in the night? But I wonder you didn't think of waking me. A word to me in the night--seeing I have sarved a good deal on outposts, and have got used to being called up--would have had me stirring in a wink. But that's part of Wat's luck for I should most ondoubtedly have strangled the snake in his bed." "I called you," said Mary, "as loudly as I durst, and more than once, but you slept so hard!" "That's like me too," replied Horse Shoe. "I'm both sleepy and watchful, according as I think there is need of my sarvices." "Now to bed, my child," said Musgrove. "Your bed is the fittest place for your wearied body. God bless you, daughter!" Once more the family broke up, and as Robinson left the room Mary followed him to the foot of the little stair that wound up into an attic chamber; here she detained him one moment, while she communicated to him in a half whisper, "I have a friend, Mr. Robinson, that might help you to do something for Major Butler. His name is John Ramsay: he belongs to General Sumpter's brigade. If you would go to his father's, only six miles from here, on the upper road to Ninety-Six, you might hear where John was. But, may be, you are afraid to go so near to the fort?" "May be so," said Robinson, with a look of comic incredulity. "I know the place, and I know the family, and, likely, John himself. It's a good thought, Mary, for I want help now, more than I ever did in my life. I'll start before daylight--for it won't do to let the sun shine upon me, with Innis's Tories so nigh. So, if I am missed to-morrow morning, let your father know how I come to be away." "Tell John," said Mary, "I sent you to him. Mary Musgrove, remember." "If I can't find John," replied Horse Shoe, "you're such a staunch little petticoat sodger, that I'll, perhaps, come back and enlist you. 'Tisn't everywhere that we can find such valiant wenches. I wish some of our men had a little of your courage; so, good night!" The maiden now returned to the parlor, and Horse Shoe, under the guidance of Christopher Shaw, found a comfortable place of deposit for his hard-worked, though--as he would have Christopher believe--his unfatigued frame. The sergeant, however, was a man not born to cares, notwithstanding that his troubles were "as thick as the sparks that fly upward," and it is a trivial fact in his history, that, on the present occasion, he was not many seconds in bed before he was as sound asleep as the trapped partridges, in the fairy tale, which, the eastern chronicle records, fell into a deep sleep when roasting upon the spit, and did not wake for a hundred years. CHAPTER XXI. "Now if you ask who gave the stroke I cannot tell, so mote I thrive; It was not given by man alive."--_Lay of the last Minstrel._ It was a little before daybreak on Sunday morning, the fifteenth of August (a day rendered memorable by the exploit of Sumpter, who captured, in the vicinity of Rocky Mount, a large quantity of military stores, and a numerous escort, then on their way from Ninety-Six to Camden), that James Curry was travelling in the neighborhood of the Ennoree, some four miles distant from Musgrove's mill. He had a few hours before left the garrison of Ninety-Six, and was now hieing with all haste to Blackstock's on a mission of importance. The night had been sultry, but the approach of the dawn had brought with it that refreshing coolness which is always to be remarked in the half hour that precedes the first blush of morning. The dragoon had had a weary night-ride, but the recent change of temperature had invigorated his system and given buoyancy to his spirits. This effect was exhibited in his first whistling a tune, then humming the words of a ditty, and, finally, in breaking forth into a loud full song, which, as he had a good voice and practised skill, increased in loudness as he became better pleased with the trial of his powers. The song was occasionally intermitted to give room to certain self-communings which the pastime suggested. "You may take it for sooth, that wit without gold," he sang in the loudest strain, trying the words on different keys, and introducing some variations in the tune-- "Will make a bad market whenever 'tis sold." "That's true; your poor moneyless devil, how should his wit pass current? He was a shrewd fellow that wrote it down. Your rich man for wit, all the world over, and so the song runs:-- "'But all over the world it is well understood That the joke of a rich man is sure to be good.' "True, true as gospel! Give the knaves dinners, plenty of Burgundy and Port, and what signifies an empty head? Go to college, and how is it there? What is a sizer's joke? If the fellow have the wit of Diogenes, it is sheer impertinence. But let my young lord Croesus come out with his flatulent nonsense, oh, that's the true ware for the market! James Curry, James Curry, what ought you to have been, if the supple jade fortune had done your deserts justice! Instead of a d----d dodging dragoon, obedient to the beck of every puppy who wears his majesty's epaulets; but it's no matter, that's past; the wheel has made its turn, and here I am, doing the work of the scullion, that ought to sit above the salt-cellar. Vogue la galére! We will play out the play. Meantime, I'll be merry in spite of the horoscope: come then, I like these words and the jolly knave, whoever he was, that penned them. "'You may take it for sooth that wit without gold.'" The singer was, at this instant, arrested at the top of his voice by a blow against the back of his head, bestowed, apparently, by some ponderous hand, that so effectually swayed him from the line of gravity, as to cause him to reel in his saddle, and, by an irrecoverable impetus, to swing round to the ground, where he alighted on his back, with the reins of his horse firmly held in his hand. "Singing on Sunday is against the law," said a hoarse voice, that came apparently from the air, as the darkness of the hour--which was increased by an overcast and lowering sky, as well as by the thick wood through which the road ran, prevented the stricken man from discerning anything that might have done him harm, even if such thing had been bodily present. The soldier lay for a moment prostrate, bewildered by the suddenness of this mysterious visitation; and when, at length, he regained his feet, he almost fancied that he heard receding from him, at a great distance, the dull beat of a horse's foot upon the sandy road. Curry, who as a soldier was insensible to fear, now shook in every joint, as he stood beside his horse in a state of confused and ravelled wonderment. He strained his ear to catch the sound in the direction towards which he thought he had heard the retreating footsteps, but his more deliberate attention persuaded him that he was mistaken in his first impression. Still more puzzled as he came into the possession of his faculties, of which the abruptness of the surprise had almost bereft him, he stood for some time mute; then drawing his sword with the alacrity of a man, who all at once believes himself in danger of an uplifted blow, he called out loudly, "Speak, and show yourself, if you be a man! Or if there be a party, let them come forth. Who waylays me? Remember, I warn him, in the name of the king, that I am on his majesty's errand, and that they are not far off who will punish any outrage on my person. By all the powers of Satan, the place is bewitched!" he exclaimed, after a pause. "Once more, speak; whether you are to be conjured in the name of the king or of the devil!" All remained silent, except the leaves of the forest that fluttered in the breeze; and it was with an awkward and unacknowledged sense of faint-heartedness that Curry put up his sword and remounted into his saddle. He first moved slowly forward in continuation of his journey; and, as his thoughts still ran upon the extraordinary incident, he applied spurs to his horse's side, and gradually increased his pace from a trot to a gallop, and from that to almost high speed, until he emerged from the wood upon a track of open country. When he reached this spot the day had already appeared above the eastern horizon; and reassured, as the light waxed stronger, the dragoon, by degrees, fell into his customary travelling pace, and resumed the equanimity of his temper. About ten o'clock in the day he reached Blackstock's, where he arrived in a heavy rain, that had been falling for the last three hours, and which had drenched him to the skin. So, rapidly dismounting and giving his horse into the charge of some of the idlers about the door, he entered the common room in which were assembled the greater part of the militia guard and of Habershaw's troopers. His first movement was to take the burly captain aside, and to communicate to him certain orders from the commanding officer at Ninety-Six, respecting the prisoner; which being done, he mingled with his usual affectedly careless and mirthful manner amongst the throng. Butler, through the intercession of Bruce, had been indulged with some mitigation of the restraints at first imposed upon him; and he was, at this moment, availing himself of the privilege that had been allowed him, on account of the leaky condition of the barn in which he had spent the night, to take his morning meal inside of the dwelling-house. He was accordingly seated at a table, in a corner of the room, with some eatables before him in a more comfortable state of preparation than he had hitherto enjoyed. Two soldiers stood sufficiently near to render his custody effectual without much personal annoyance. As yet he had been unable to glean anything from the conversation of those around him, by which he might form the least conjecture as to his probable destiny. His intercourse with his captors was restricted to the mere supply of his immediate wants. All other communication was strictly interdicted. Even Habershaw himself seemed to be under some authoritative command, to deny himself the gratification of either exhibiting his own importance, or of wreaking his spleen upon his prisoner; and when Butler attempted to gain from Bruce some hint as to what was intended, the only answer he received was conveyed by the soldier's putting his finger on his lip. Butler knew enough of Robinson's hardihood and venturesome disposition, to feel perfectly confident that he would make good his promise to be near him, at whatever personal hazard; and he was, therefore, in momentary expectation of receiving further intelligence from the sergeant in some of those strange, bold, and perilous forms of communication, which the character of the trusty soldier warranted him in counting upon. His knowledge that Robinson had passed by Blackstock's on the day preceding, gave him some assurance that the sergeant was in the diligent prosecution of his purpose to seek Sumpter, or some other of the partisan Whig corps in their hiding-places, and to try the hazardous experiment of his (Butler's) rescue from his present thraldom, by a vigorous incursion into the district where he was now confined. With this calculation of the course of events, he was prepared to hear, at every hour of the day, of some sudden alarm; and ready to co-operate, by seizing the first moment of confusion to snatch up a weapon, and force his way through the ranks of his guard. It was with such anticipations that now, whilst seemingly engrossed with the satisfaction of his physical wants at the table, he lent an attentive ear to the conversation which passed in the house between Curry and the company who were clustered around him. The dragoon, at first, in a light and merry vein of narrative, recounted to his hearers the singular visitation he had experienced before daybreak; and he contrived to fling over his story an additional hue of mystery, by the occasional reflections with which he seasoned it, tending to inculcate the belief to which he himself partly inclined, that the incident was brought about through the agency of some pranking and mischievous spirit,--a conclusion which, at that period, and amongst the persons to whom the adventure was related, did not require any great stretch of faith to sustain it. Some of his auditors fortified this prevailing inclination of opinion, by expressing their own conviction of the interference of malignant and supernatural influences in the concerns of mankind, and gave their personal experience of instances in which these powers were active. The conversation by degrees changed its tone from that of levity and laughter into one of grave and somewhat fearful interest, according to the increasing marvel which the several stories that were told excited in the superstitious minds of the circle; and in the same proportion that this sentiment took possession of the thoughts of the company, they became more unreserved in their language, and louder in the utterance of it, thus giving Butler the full benefit of all that was said. "But, after all," said one of the men, "mightn't you have been asleep on your horse, James Curry, and had a sort of jogging dream, when a limb of a tree across the road, for it was a dark morning, might have caught you under the throat and flung you out of your saddle: and you, not knowing whether you was asleep or awake, for a man who is on duty, without his night's rest, sometimes can't tell the difference, thought it was some hobgoblin business?" "No," said Curry, "that's impossible; for I was singing a song at the time, and almost at the top of my voice. I had been sleepy enough before that, just after I left Ninety-Six, near midnight, for I had ridden a long way; but as it grew towards daylight I began to rouse up, so that when this thing happened I was as much awake as I am now." "Then it's a downright case of ghost," said the other. "It knew you was upon a wicked errand, and so that back-handed blow was a warning to you. These things are sometimes meant to be friendly; and who knows but this oversetting you in the road might have been intended to signify that you had better not meddle in cases of life and death. If you would take my advice, you would just treat this Major Butler, that you took prisoner"-- Curry looked at the speaker with a frown, as he made a motion to him to be silent. "Remember where you are, and who may hear you," he said in a cautious voice, as he glanced his eye towards Butler, who was leaning his head upon the table, as if in slumber. "Oh, I understand," replied the soldier of the guard. "I forgot he was in the room." "The weather holds up," said Habershaw, who now walked into the house. "The rain has slackened; and so, orderly, if you have had a bite of something to eat, the boys had better be got ready to march. We have a long way to go, and as the infantry march with us we shall get on slowly." "I think so, noble Captain," replied Curry. "I shall be ready to join you before you get your line formed." Orders were now issued by Habershaw, both to the troopers of his own squad and to the militia detachment, to put themselves in condition for an immediate movement. The clouds, during the last half hour, had been breaking away, and the sun soon burst forth upon the wet and glittering landscape, in all the effulgence of mid summer. During a brief interval of preparation the party of infantry and cavalry that now occupied the hamlet exhibited the bustle incident to the gathering of the corps. Some ran to one quarter for their arms, others to the stables for their horses; a cracked trumpet in the hands of a lusty performer, who here joined the troop, kept up a continual braying, and was seconded by the ceaseless beat of a slack and dull drum. There were some who, having put on their military equipments, thronged the table of the common room of the house, where spirits and water had been set out for their accommodation, and rude jokes, laughter, and oaths, were mingled together in deafening clamor. "Move out the prisoner," shouted Habershaw; "he goes with the infantry afoot. I'll never trust another of the tribe with a horse." "Follow, sir," said one of the sentinels near Butler's person, as he faced to the right with his musket at an "advance," and led the way to the door. Butler rose, and, before he placed himself in the position required, asked: "Where is it you purpose to conduct me?" "Silence!" said Habershaw sternly. "Obey orders, sir, and march where you are directed." Butler folded his arms and looked scornfully at the uncouth savage before him as he replied: "I am a prisoner, sir, and therefore bound to submit to the force that constrains me. But there will be a day of reckoning, both for you and your master. It will not be the lighter to him for having hired such a ruffian to do the business in which he is ashamed to appear himself." "Devil's leavings!" screamed Habershaw, almost choked with choler, "dare you speak to me so? By my heart, I have a mind to cleave your skull for you! My master, sir! You will find out, before long, who is master, when Hugh Habershaw has tied the knot that is to fit your neck." "Peace, villain!" exclaimed Butler; "I cannot come too soon into the presence of those who claim to direct your motions." Here James Curry interposed to draw off the incensed captain, and Butler, having received another order from the officer of the guard, moved out upon the road and took the place that was assigned him, between two platoons of the foot soldiers. The troopers being mounted and formed into column of march with Habershaw and his trumpeter at the head and Curry in the rear, now moved forward at a slow gait, followed by the detachment of infantry who had the prisoner under their especial charge. It was near noon when the party took up the line of march, and they prosecuted their journey southward with such expedition as to tax Butler's powers to the utmost to keep even pace with them over roads that were in many places rendered miry by the late rain. Towards evening, however, the sun had sufficiently dried the soil to make the travel less fatiguing; and by that hour when the light of day only lingered upon the tops of the western hills, the military escort, with their prisoner, were seen passing through a defile that opened upon their view an extensive bivouac of some two or three hundred horse and foot, and occupying a space of open field, encompassed with wood and guarded in its rear by a smooth and gentle river. The spot at which they had arrived was the camp of a partisan corps under the command of Colonel Innis. A farm-house was seen in the immediate neighborhood, which was used as the head-quarters of a party of officers. Numerous horses were attached to the trees that bounded the plain, and various shelters were made in the same quarter, in the rudest form of accommodation, of branches and underwood set against ridge-poles, that were sustained by stakes, to protect the men against the weather. Groups of this irregular soldiery were scattered over the plain, a few wagons were seen collected in one direction, and, not far off, a line of fires, around which parties were engaged in cooking food. Here and there a sentinel was seen pacing his short limits, and occasionally the roll of a drum and the flourish of a fife announced some ceremony of the camp police. The escort marched quickly across this plain until it arrived in front of the farm-house. Here a guard was drawn up to receive them; and, as soon as the usual military salute was passed and the order to "stand at ease" given, Habershaw put the detachment under the command of the lieutenant of infantry, and, accompanied by Curry, walked into the house to make his report to the commanding officer of the post. In a few moments afterwards Colonel Innis, attended by two or three military men--some of whom wore the uniform of the British regular army--came from the house and passed hastily along the line of the escort, surveying Butler only with a rapid glance. Having regained the door, he was heard to say-- "It is very well; let the prisoner have a room above stairs. See that he wants nothing proper to his situation; and, above all, be attentive that he be kept scrupulously under the eye of his guard." When this order was given, the Colonel retired with his attendants to his quarters, and Butler was forthwith conducted, by a file of men, up a narrow, winding stair, to a small apartment in the angle of the roof, where he was provided with a chair, a light, and a comfortable bed. His door was left open, and on the outside of it, full in his view, was posted a sentinel. He was too weary even to be troubled with the cares of his present condition; and, without waiting, therefore, for food, or seeking to inquire into whose hands he had fallen, or even to turn his thoughts upon the mysterious train of circumstances that hung over him, he flung himself upon the couch and sank into a profound and grateful sleep. CHAPTER XXII. AN ADVENTURE WHEREIN IT IS APPARENT THAT THE ACTIONS OF REAL LIFE ARE FULL AS MARVELLOUS AS THE INVENTIONS OF ROMANCE. David Ramsay's house was situated on a by-road, between five and six miles from Musgrove's mill, and at about the distance of one mile from the principal route of travel between Ninety-six and Blackstock's. In passing from the military post that had been established at the former place, towards the latter, Ramsay's lay off to the left, with a piece of dense wood intervening. The by-way leading through the farm, diverged from the main road, and traversed this wood until it reached the cultivated grounds immediately around Ramsay's dwelling. In the journey from Musgrove's mill to this point of divergence, the traveller was obliged to ride some two or three miles upon the great road leading from the British garrison, a road that, at the time of my story, was much frequented by military parties, scouts, and patroles, that were concerned in keeping up the communication between the several posts which were established by the British authorities along that frontier. Amongst the whig parties, also, there were various occasions which brought them under the necessity of frequent passage through this same district, and which, therefore, furnished opportunities for collision and skirmish with the opposite forces. It is a matter of historical notoriety, that immediately after the fall of Charleston, and the rapid subjugation of South Carolina that followed this event, there were three bold and skilful soldiers who undertook to carry on the war of resistance to the established authorities, upon a settled and digested plan of annoyance, under the most discouraging state of destitution, as regarded all the means of offence, that, perhaps, history records. It will not detract from the fame of other patriots of similar enthusiasm and of equal bravery, to mention the names of Marion, Sumpter, and Pickens, in connexion with this plan of keeping up an apparently hopeless partisan warfare, which had the promise neither of men, money, nor arms,--and yet which was so nobly sustained, amidst accumulated discomfitures, as to lead eventually to the subversion of the "Tory ascendency" and the expulsion of the British power. According to the plan of operations concerted amongst these chieftains, Marion took the lower country under his supervision; Pickens the south-western districts, bordering upon the Savannah; and to Sumpter was allotted all that tract of country lying between the Broad and the Catawba rivers, from the angle of their junction, below Camden, up to the mountain districts of North Carolina. How faithfully these men made good their promise to the country, is not only written in authentic history, but it is also told in many a legend amongst the older inhabitants of the region that was made the theatre of action. It only concerns my story to refer to the fact, that the events which have occupied my last five or six chapters, occurred in that range more peculiarly appropriated to Sumpter, and that the high road from Blackstock's towards Ninety-six was almost as necessary for communication between Sumpter and Pickens, as between the several British garrisons. On the morning that succeeded the night in which Horse Shoe Robinson arrived at Musgrove's, the stout and honest sergeant might have been seen, about eight o'clock, leaving the main road from Ninety-six, at the point where that leading to David Ramsay's separated from it, and cautiously urging his way into the deep forest, by the more private path into which he had entered. The knowledge that Innis was encamped along the Ennoree, within a short distance of the mill, had compelled him to make an extensive circuit to reach Ramsay's dwelling, whither he was now bent; and he had experienced considerable delay in his morning journey, by finding himself frequently in the neighborhood of small foraging parties of Tories, whose motions he was obliged to watch for fear of an encounter. He had once already been compelled to use his horse's heels in what he called "fair flight;" and once to ensconce himself, a full half hour, under cover of the thicket afforded him by a swamp. He now, therefore, according to his own phrase, "dived into the little road that scrambled down through the woods towards Ramsay's, with all his eyes about him, looking out as sharply as a fox on a foggy morning:" and with this circumspection, he was not long in arriving within view of Ramsay's house. Like a practised soldier, whom frequent frays has taught wisdom, he resolved to reconnoitre before he advanced upon a post that might be in possession of an enemy. He therefore dismounted, fastened his horse in a fence corner, where a field of corn concealed him from notice, and then stealthily crept forward until he came immediately behind one of the out-houses. The barking of a house-dog brought out a negro boy, to whom Robinson instantly addressed the query-- "Is your master at home?"-- "No, sir. He's got his horse, and gone off more than an hour ago." "Where is your mistress?" "Shelling beans, Sir." "I didn't ask you," said the sergeant, "what she is doing, but where she is." "In course, she is in the house, Sir,"--replied the negro with a grin. "Any strangers there?" "There was plenty on 'em a little while ago, but they've been gone a good bit." Robinson having thus satisfied himself as to the safety of his visit, directed the boy to take his horse and lead him up to the door. He then entered the dwelling. "Mistress Ramsay," said he, walking up to the dame, who was occupied at a table, with a large trencher before her, in which she was plying that household thrift which the negro described; "luck to you, ma'am, and all your house! I hope you haven't none of these clinking and clattering bullies about you, that are as thick over this country as the frogs in the kneading troughs, that they tell of." "Good lack, Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson," exclaimed the matron, offering the sergeant her hand. "What has brought you here? What news? Who are with you? For patience sake, tell me!" "I am alone," said Robinson, "and a little wettish mistress;" he added, as he took off his hat and shook the water from it "it has just sot up a rain, and looks as if it was going to give us enough on't. You don't mind, doing a little dinner-work of a Sunday, I see--shelling of beans, I s'pose, is tantamount to dragging a sheep out of a pond, as the preachers allow on the Sabbath--ha, ha!--Where's Davy?" "He's gone over to the meeting-house on Ennoree, hoping to hear something of the army at Camden: perhaps you can tell us the news from that quarter?" "Faith, that's a mistake, Mistress Ramsay. Though I don't doubt that they are hard upon the scratches, by this time. But, at this present speaking, I command the flying artillery. We have out one man in the corps--and that's myself; and all the guns we have got is this piece of ordnance, that hangs in this old belt by my side (pointing to his sword)--and that I captured from the enemy at Blackstock's. I was hoping I mought find John Ramsay at home--I have need of him as a recruit." "Ah, Mr. Robinson, John has a heavy life of it over there with Sumpter. The boy is often without his natural rest, or a meal's victuals; and the general thinks so much of him, that he can't spare him to come home. I hav'n't the heart to complain, as long as John's service is of any use, but it does seem, Mr. Robinson, like needless tempting of the mercies of providence. We thought that he might have been here to-day; yet I am glad he didn't come--for he would have been certain to get into trouble. Who should come in, this morning, just after my husband had cleverly got away on his horse, but a young cock-a-whoop ensign, that belongs to Ninety-Six, and four great Scotchmen with him, all in red coats; they had been out thieving, I warrant, and were now going home again. And who but they! Here they were, swaggering all about my house--and calling for this--and calling for that--as if they owned the fee-simple of everything on the plantation. And it made my blood rise, Mr. Horse Shoe, to see them run out in the yard, and catch up my chickens and ducks, and kill as many as they could string about them--and I not daring to say a word: though I did give them a piece of my mind, too." "Who is at home with you?" inquired the sergeant eagerly. "Nobody but my youngest boy, Andrew," answered the dame. "And then, the filthy, toping rioters--" she continued, exalting her voice. "What arms have you in the house?" asked Robinson, without heeding the dame's rising anger. "We have a rifle, and a horseman's pistol that belongs to John.--They must call for drink, too, and turn my house, of a Sunday morning, into a tavern." "They took the route towards Ninety-Six, you said, Mistress Ramsay?" "Yes,--they went straight forward upon the road. But, look you, Mr. Horse Shoe, you're not thinking of going after them?" "Isn't there an old field, about a mile from this, on that road?" inquired the sergeant, still intent upon his own thoughts. "There is," replied the dame; "with the old school-house upon it." "A lop-sided, rickety log-cabin in the middle of the field. Am I right, good woman?" "Yes." "And nobody lives in it? It has no door to it?" "There ha'n't been anybody in it these seven years." "I know the place very well," said the sergeant, thoughtfully; "there is woods just on this side of it." "That's true," replied the dame: "but what is it you are thinking about, Mr. Robinson?" "How long before this rain began was it that they quitted this house?" "Not above fifteen minutes." "Mistress Ramsay, bring me the rifle and pistol both--and the powder-horn and bullets." "As you say, Mr. Horse Shoe," answered the dame, as she turned round to leave the room; "but I am sure I can't suspicion what you mean to do." In a few moments the woman returned with the weapons, and gave them to the sergeant. "Where is Andy?" asked Horse Shoe. The hostess went to the door and called her son, and, almost immediately afterwards, a sturdy boy of about twelve or fourteen years of age entered the apartment, his clothes dripping with rain. He modestly and shyly seated himself on a chair near the door, with his soaked hat flapping down over a face full of freckles, and not less rife with the expression of an open, dauntless hardihood of character. "How would you like a scrummage, Andy, with them Scotchmen that stole your mother's chickens this morning?" asked Horse Shoe. "I'm agreed," replied the boy, "if you will tell me what to do." "You are not going to take the boy out on any of your desperate projects, Mr. Horse Shoe?" said the mother, with the tears starting instantly into her eyes. "You wouldn't take such a child as that into danger?" "Bless your soul, Mrs. Ramsay, there ar'n't no danger about it! Don't take on so. It's a thing that is either done at a blow, or not done,--and there's an end of it. I want the lad only to bring home the prisoners for me, after I have took them." "Ah, Mr. Robinson, I have one son already in these wars--God protect him!--and you men don't know how a mother's heart yearns for her children in these times. I cannot give another," she added, as she threw her arms over the shoulders of the youth and drew him to her bosom. "Oh! it aint nothing," said Andrew, in a sprightly tone. "It's only snapping of a pistol, mother,--pooh! If I'm not afraid, you oughtn't to be." "I give you my honor, Mistress Ramsay," said Robinson, "that I will bring or send your son safe back in one hour; and that he sha'n't be put in any sort of danger whatsomedever: come, that's a good woman!" "You are not deceiving me, Mr. Robinson?" asked the matron wiping away a tear. "You wouldn't mock the sufferings of a weak woman in such a thing as this?" "On the honesty of a sodger, ma'am," replied Horse Shoe, "the lad shall be in no danger, as I said before--whatsomedever." "Then I will say no more," answered the mother. "But Andy, my child, be sure to let Mr. Robinson keep before you." Horse Shoe now loaded the fire-arms, and having slung the pouch across his body, he put the pistol into the hands of the boy; then shouldering his rifle, he and his young ally left the room. Even on this occasion, serious as it might be deemed, the sergeant did not depart without giving some manifestation of that light-heartedness which no difficulties ever seemed to have the power to conquer. He thrust his head back into the room, after he had crossed the threshold, and said with an encouraging laugh, "Andy and me will teach them, Mistress Ramsay, Pat's point of war--we will _surround_ the ragamuffins." "Now, Andy, my lad," said Horse Shoe, after he had mounted Captain Peter, "you must get up behind me. Turn the lock of your pistol down," he continued, as the boy sprang upon the horse's rump, "and cover it with the flap of your jacket, to keep the rain off. It won't do to hang fire at such a time as this." The lad did as he was directed, and Horse Shoe, having secured his rifle in the same way, put his horse up to a gallop, and took the road in the direction that had been pursued by the soldiers. As soon as our adventurers had gained a wood, at the distance of about half a mile, the sergeant relaxed his speed, and advanced at a pace a little above a walk. "Andy," he said, "we have got rather a ticklish sort of a job before us, so I must give you your lesson, which you will understand better by knowing something of my plan. As soon as your mother told me that these thieving villains had left her house about fifteen minutes before the rain came on, and that they had gone along upon this road, I remembered the old field up here, and the little log hut in the middle of it; and it was natural to suppose that they had just got about near that hut, when this rain came up; and then, it was the most supposable case in the world, that they would naturally go into it, as the driest place they could find. So now, you see, it's my calculation that the whole batch is there at this very point of time. We will go slowly along, until we get to the other end of this wood, in sight of the old field, and then, if there is no one on the look-out, we will open our first trench; you know what that means, Andy?" "It means, I s'pose, that we'll go right smack at them," replied Andrew. "Pretty exactly," said the sergeant. "But listen to me. Just at the edge of the woods you will have to get down, and put yourself behind a tree. I'll ride forward, as if I had a whole troop at my heels, and if I catch them, as I expect, they will have a little fire kindled, and, as likely as not, they'll be cooking some of your mother's fowls." "Yes, I understand," said the boy eagerly-- "No, you don't," replied Horse Shoe, "but you will when you hear what I am going to say. If I get at them onawares, they'll be mighty apt to think they are surrounded, and will bellow, like fine fellows, for quarter. And, thereupon, Andy, I'll cry out 'stand fast,' as if I was speaking to my own men, and when you hear that, you must come up full tilt, because it will be a signal to you that the enemy has surrendered. Then it will be your business to run into the house and bring out the muskets, as quick as a rat runs through a kitchen: and when you have done that, why, all's done. But if you should hear any popping of fire-arms--that is, more than one shot, which I may chance to let off--do you take that for a bad sign, and get away as fast as you can heel it. You comprehend." "Oh! yes," replied the lad, "and I'll do what you want, and more too, may be, Mr. Robinson." "_Captain_ Robinson,--remember, Andy, you must call me captain, in the hearing of these Scotsmen." "I'll not forget that neither," answered Andrew. By the time that these instructions were fully impressed upon the boy, our adventurous forlorn hope, as it may fitly be called, had arrived at the place which Horse Shoe Robinson had designated for the commencement of active operations. They had a clear view of the old field, and it afforded them a strong assurance that the enemy was exactly where they wished him to be, when they discovered smoke arising from the chimney of the hovel. Andrew was soon posted behind a tree, and Robinson only tarried a moment to make the boy repeat the signals agreed on, in order to ascertain that he had them correctly in his memory. Being satisfied from this experiment that the intelligence of his young companion might be depended upon, he galloped across the intervening space, and, in a few seconds, abruptly reined up his steed, in the very doorway of the hut. The party within was gathered around a fire at the further end, and, in the corner near the door, were four muskets thrown together against the wall. To spring from his saddle and thrust himself one pace inside of the door, was a movement which the sergeant executed in an instant, shouting at the same time-- "Halt! File off right and left to both sides of the house, and wait orders. I demand the surrender of all here," he said, as he planted himself between the party and their weapons. "I will shoot down the first man who budges a foot." "Leap to your arms," cried the young officer who commanded the little party inside of the house. "Why do you stand?" "I don't want to do you or your men any harm, young man," said Robinson, as he brought his rifle to a level, "but, by my father's son, I will not leave one of you to be put upon a muster-roll if you raise a hand at this moment." Both parties now stood, for a brief space, eyeing each other in a fearful suspense, during which there was an expression of doubt and irresolution visible on the countenances of the soldiers, as they surveyed the broad proportions, and met the stern glance of the sergeant, whilst the delay, also, began to raise an apprehension in the mind of Robinson that his stratagem would be discovered. "Shall I let loose upon them, captain?" said Andrew Ramsay, now appearing, most unexpectedly to Robinson, at the door of the hut. "Come on, boys!" he shouted, as he turned his face towards the field. "Keep them outside of the door--stand fast," cried the doughty sergeant, with admirable promptitude, in the new and sudden posture of his affairs caused by this opportune appearance of the boy. "Sir, you see that it's not worth while fighting five to one; and I should be sorry to be the death of any of your brave fellows; so, take my advice, and surrender to the Continental Congress and this scrap of its army which I command." During this appeal the sergeant was ably seconded by the lad outside, who was calling out first on one name, and then on another, as if in the presence of a troop. The device succeeded, and the officer within, believing the forbearance of Robinson to be real, at length said:-- "Lower your rifle, sir. In the presence of a superior force, taken by surprise, and without arms, it is my duty to save bloodshed. With the promise of fair usage, and the rights of prisoners of war, I surrender this little foraging party under my command." "I'll make the terms agreeable," replied the sergeant. "Never doubt me, sir. Right hand file, advance, and receive the arms of the prisoners!" "I'm here, captain," said Andrew, in a conceited tone, as if it were a mere occasion of merriment; and the lad quickly entered the house and secured the weapons, retreating with them some paces from the door. "Now, sir," said Horse Shoe to the Ensign, "your sword, and whatever else you mought have about you of the ammunitions of war!" The officer delivered up his sword and a pair of pocket pistols. As Horse Shoe received these tokens of victory, he asked, with a lambent smile, and what he intended to be an elegant and condescending composure, "Your name, sir, if I mought take the freedom?" "Ensign St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's seventy-first regiment of light infantry." "Ensign, your sarvent," added Horse Shoe, still preserving this unusual exhibition of politeness. "You have defended your post like an old sodger, although you ha'n't much beard on your chin; but, seeing you have given up, you shall be treated like a man who has done his duty. You will walk out, now, and form yourselves in line at the door. I'll engage my men shall do you no harm; they are of a marciful breed." When the little squad of prisoners submitted to this command, and came to the door, they were stricken with equal astonishment and mortification to find, in place of the detachment of cavalry which they expected to see, nothing but a man, a boy, and a horse. Their first emotions were expressed in curses, which were even succeeded by laughter from one or two of the number. There seemed to be a disposition on the part of some to resist the authority that now controlled them; and sundry glances were exchanged, which indicated a purpose to turn upon their captors. The sergeant no sooner perceived this, than he halted, raised his rifle to his breast, and, at the same instant, gave Andrew Ramsay an order to retire a few paces, and to fire one of the captured pieces at the first man who opened his lips. "By my hand," he said, "if I find any trouble in taking you, all five, safe away from this here house, I will thin your numbers with your own muskets! And that's as good as if I had sworn to it." "You have my word, sir," said the Ensign. "Lead on." "By your leave, my pretty gentleman, you will lead, and I'll follow," replied Horse Shoe. "It may be a new piece of drill to you; but the custom is to give the prisoners the post of honor." "As you please, sir," answered the Ensign. "Where do you take us to?" "You will march back by the road you came," said the sergeant. Finding the conqueror determined to execute summary martial law upon the first who should mutiny, the prisoners submitted, and marched in double file from the hut back towards Ramsay's--Horse Shoe, with Captain Peter's bridle dangling over his arm, and his gallant young auxiliary Andrew, laden with double the burden of Robinson Crusoe (having all the fire-arms packed upon his shoulders), bringing up the rear. In this order victors and vanquished returned to David Ramsay's. "Well, I have brought you your ducks and chickens back, mistress," said the sergeant, as he halted the prisoners at the door; "and, what's more, I have brought home a young sodger that's worth his weight in gold." "Heaven bless my child! my brave boy!" cried the mother, seizing the lad in her arms, and unheeding anything else in the present perturbation of her feelings. "I feared ill would come of it; but Heaven has preserved him. Did he behave handsomely, Mr. Robinson? But I am sure he did." "A little more venturesome, ma'am, than I wanted him to be," replied Horse Shoe; "but he did excellent service. These are his prisoners, Mistress Ramsay; I should never have got them if it hadn't been for Andy. In these drumming and fifing times the babies suck in quarrel with their mother's milk. Show me another boy in America that's made more prisoners than there was men to fight them with, that's all!" CHAPTER XXIII. SHOWING HOW A GOOD SOLDIER WILL TURN THE ACCIDENTS OF WAR TO THE BEST ACCOUNT. ENSIGN ST. JERMYN IN A DISAGREEABLE DILEMMA. Robinson having thus succeeded in his enterprise, now found himself in circumstances of peculiar perplexity in regard to the disposal of his prisoners. Here he was, in the neighborhood of the British posts--in a district of country of which the enemy might be said to have, at this moment, complete possession--(for Horse Shoe himself was almost the only belligerent in the field against them)--and, more than that, he was but a few miles' distant from a camp whose scouts had chased him almost to his present place of refuge. It was scarcely probable, therefore, that he could hope to retain his captives long under his control, or prevent the enemy from receiving intelligence of the capture. He was, however, notwithstanding these embarrassments, as usual, cheerful, confident, and self-possessed. He had no wish or motive to detain the private soldiers as prisoners of war, and would at once have dismissed them, if he could have assured himself that they would not make the earliest use of their liberty to convey information of their misadventure to the first corps of loyalists they should meet, and thus get up a hot pursuit of him through the whole district. But he had cogent and most important reasons for holding the ensign, St. Jermyn, in close custody. It occurred to him, that this officer might be used to control the procedure that should be adopted by those who meditated injury to Arthur Butler; and he therefore, at once formed the resolution of communicating with the nearest British authorities, in order to assure them that he would retaliate upon the Ensign any pain that might be inflicted upon his late comrade. His plan was speedily formed--it was to keep his prisoners until night-fall, move off under cover of the darkness to some remote and concealed spot with St. Jermyn, and release the others, on their parole or pledge not to take up arms until regularly exchanged. Whilst the sergeant was deliberating over these arrangements, the prisoners were allowed to shelter themselves from the rain under a shed near the door of the dwelling, where Andrew, with all the pride and importance of his new station, marched to and fro, before them, like a trained sentinel. There was a small log building in the yard of Ramsay's mansion, which had been recently erected as a store-house, and which being well secured at the door by a padlock, Robinson determined to convert for the nonce into a prison. It contained but one room, not above twelve feet square, with an earthen floor, and received no light except such as was admitted under the door, and through a few crannies about the roof. Into this narrow apartment the soldiers were now marched; a bundle of straw was thrown upon the floor; sundry flitches of bacon, that hung upon the walls, were removed; and a few comforts, in the way of food and drink, were supplied to render the accommodation as tolerable to the inmates as was compatible with their safe custody. This being done, our friend Andrew was posted in the passage-way of the dwelling, in full view of the door of the store-house, which was carefully locked, with a musket in his hand, and with orders to make a circuit every five minutes round the little building, to guard against any attempts at escape by under-mining the foundation. As noon approached the weather began to clear up, and with the first breaking forth of the sun came David Ramsay, the proprietor of the farm which was the scene of the present operations. His recognition of Horse Shoe Robinson was accompanied by a hearty greeting, and with an expression of wonder that he should have ventured, in hostile guise, through a country so beset as this was by the forces of the enemy; but when he heard the narrative of the exploit of the morning, and saw the trophies of its success in the weapons piled against the wall, and, more especially, when he received from the lips of his wife a circumstantial account of the part which had been performed in this adventure by his son Andrew, his delight seemed almost to be absorbed by his astonishment and incredulity. The proofs, however, were all around him; and after assuring himself, by an actual inspection of the prisoners through one of the chinks of the store-house, he came into his own parlour, sat down, and laughed out-right. Ramsay was a staunch friend of the independence of his country; and although he had not been up in arms in the cause, he gave it all the aid he could by the free expression of opinion, and by a resolute refusal to comply with the requisitions of the royalists. His eldest son had joined Sumpter, and had already been active in the field; and he himself looked, with an almost certain expectation, to see visited upon himself that proscription under which thousands were already suffering, and which he had only escaped as yet by the temporizing delays of his opponents, or by their neglect, arising out of the incessant hurry and pressure of their military operations in the organization of the new dominion which the royal forces had but lately acquired. He was a man of sturdy frame--now only in the prime of life--brave, thoughtful, and intelligent, and firmly resolved to stand by his principles through whatever adverse chances. The present aspect of affairs was, to his mind, almost decisive of his fate: the capture of these prisoners, made from information derived from his own family, and in which his own son had been a principal agent; their confinement, too, in his own house, were facts of so unequivocal a character as inevitably to draw upon him the prompt ire of the Tories, and compel him to assume the attitude and abide by the issues of a partisan. As he had faith in the justice of his quarrel, and a strong devotion to the principles upon which it was sustained, he did not hesitate in the crisis before him, but heroically determined to meet the worst that might befal. He, therefore, in the present emergency, became a useful and efficient ally to Robinson, who opened to him the full history of Butler, and the course of measures he was about to pursue for the relief of that unfortunate officer. We must now leave the sergeant holding watch and ward over his vanquished foes, and shift our scene to Musgrove's Mill. The family of Allen Musgrove were in a state of great disquietude. Horse Shoe Robinson had disappeared before daylight; and when the miller and his nephew left their beds, a little after the dawn, the only intelligence they had of the departure of their guest was inferred from finding the stable door open and the sergeant's horse absent. This fact was explained when Mary met them at breakfast. Horse Shoe had set out for Ramsay's to learn some tidings of John, and to enlist him in an effort to liberate Butler. He had departed under cover of darkness to avoid molestation from Innis's scouts, and she, Mary Musgrove, had placed the key of the stable, the night before, in a place where Horse Shoe might find it. Such was the extent of the maiden's information. The day passed wearily upon her hand: she was anxious to hear something of Butler--something of Horse Shoe--and something, we suppose, of John Ramsay. Frequently during the morning she and Christopher Shaw held secret conferences: they spoke in whispers: suspense, care, and doubt were pictured upon her face; and as the rain pattered against the windows she oftentimes stood before them, and looked out upon the distant road, and across the wide fields, and then upwards to the clouded sky. The sun at length appeared, and his rays seemed to shoot a glimpse of joy into the breast of the maiden, as she walked forth to note the drying of the roads, and to see the clear blue, which, in that climate, outvies the mellow and rich tints of a Tuscan heaven. The day waxed, and the birds sang, and nature was gay, but the maiden was restless and unquiet: the day waned, and the sun rode downwards on the western slope in gorgeous beauty; but Mary was ill at ease, and thought little of the grand and glorious firmament. Her communings with Christopher Shaw, meantime, became more eager: she and her cousin were seen to wander towards the mill; then Christopher left her, and, presently, he might be discovered leading two horses, one bearing a side-saddle, down to the margin of the stream. There was a short visit to the house by the young man--a word whispered in the ear of the mother--a shake of her head, an expression of doubt, a final nod of assent,--and, in the next moment, Mary and Christopher were seen trotting off on horseback, on the road that led towards Ramsay's. When they had ridden some two or three miles, and had entered upon the high-road between Ninety-Six and Blackstock's--somewhere near to that piece of haunted ground, where, on the morning of this very day, a goblin had struck down James Curry from his steed--they descried a military party of horse and foot slowly advancing from the direction to which they were travelling. In a few moments they met the first platoon of the cavalry, headed by a trumpeter and the unsightly captain Hugh Habershaw. They were detained at the head of this column, whilst some questions were asked respecting the object of their journey, the troops in their neighborhood, and other matters connected with the affairs of the times. Christopher's answers were prompt and satisfactory: he was only riding with his kinswoman on a visit to a neighbor; Innis's camp was not above two miles and a half away, and the country in general was quiet, as far as he had the means of knowing. The travellers were now suffered to pass on. In succession, they left behind them each platoon of threes, and then encountered the small column of march of the infantry. Mary grew pale as her eyes fell upon the form of Arthur Butler, posted in the centre of a guard. Her feeling lest he might not recognise her features, and guess something of her errand, almost overpowered her. She reined up her horse, as if to gratify an idle curiosity to see the soldiers passing, and halted in a position which compelled the ranks to file off, in order to obtain a free passage round her. Every look seemed to be turned upon her as the escort marched near her horse's head, and it was impossible to make the slightest sign to Butler without being observed. She saw him, however, lift his eyes to hers, and she distinctly perceived the flash of surprise with which it was kindled as he became aware of her features. A faint and transient smile, which had in it nothing but pain, was the only return she dared to make. An order from the van quickened the march; and the detachment moved rapidly by. As Mary still occupied the ground on which she had halted, and was gazing after the retreating corps, she saw Butler turn his face back towards her; she seized the moment to nod to him and to make a quick sign with her hand, which she intended should indicate the fact that she was now engaged in his service. She thought she perceived a response in a slight motion of Butler's head, and now resumed her journey, greatly excited by the satisfaction of having, in this accidental encounter, obtained even this brief insight into the condition of the prisoner. The sun was set, when Mary with her convoy, Christopher Shaw, arrived at Ramsay's. Always an acceptable guest at this house, she was now more than ever welcome. There was business to be done in which she could discharge a most important part, and the service of Christopher Shaw in reinforcing the garrison was of the greatest moment. When the intelligence regarding the movement of Butler to Innis's camp was communicated to the sergeant, it suggested a new device to his mind, which he determined instantly to adopt. Butler was at this moment, he concluded, in the hands of those who had engaged the ruffians to set upon him at Grindall's ford, and it was not improbable that he would be summarily dealt with: there was no time, therefore, to be lost. The sergeant's plan, in this new juncture, was, to compel the young ensign to address a letter to the British commandant, to inform that officer of his present imprisonment, and to add to this information the determination of his captors to put him to death, in the event of any outrage being inflicted upon Butler. This scheme was communicated to Ramsay, Shaw, and Mary. The letter was to be immediately written; Mary was to return with it to the mill, and was to contrive to have it secretly delivered, in the morning, at Innis's head-quarters; and David Ramsay himself was to escort the maiden back to her father's house, whilst Shaw was to attend the sergeant and assist him to transport the young ensign to some fit place of concealment. The private soldiers were to remain prisoners, under the guard of Andrew, until his father's return, when they were to be released on parole, as prisoners of war. The plan being thus matured, Robinson went forthwith to the prison-house, and directed Ensign St. Jermyn to follow him into the dwelling. When the young officer arrived in the family parlor, he was ordered to take a chair near a table, upon which was placed a light, some paper, pen, and ink. "Young man," said Robinson, "take up that pen and write as I bid you." "To what end am I to write? I must know the purpose you design to answer, before I can put my hand to paper." "To the end," replied Horse Shoe firmly, and with unwonted gravity, "of the settlement of your worldly affairs, if the consarns of to-morrow should bring ill luck to a friend of mine." "I do not understand you, sir. If my life is threatened to accomplish an unrighteous purpose, it is my duty to tell you at once, that that life belongs to my king; and if his interests are to suffer by any forced act of mine, I am willing to resign it at once." "Never was purpose more righteous, sir, in the view of God and man, than ours," said David Ramsay. "I have a friend," added Horse Shoe, greatly excited as he spoke, "who has been foully dealt by. Some of your enlisted gangs have laid an ambuscade to trap him: villany has been used, by them that ought to be ashamed to see it thriving under their colors, to catch a gentleman who was only doing the common duties of a good sodger; and by mean bush-fighting, not by fair fields and honest blows--they have seized him and carried him to the camp of that blood-sucking Tory, Colonel Innis. I doubt more harm is meant him than falls to the share of a common prisoner of war." "I know nothing of the person, nor of the circumstances you speak about," said the ensign. "So much the better for you," replied the sergeant. "If your people are brave sodgers or honest men, you will not have much occasion to be afeard for yourself; but, by my right hand! if so much as one hair of Major Arthur Butler's head be hurt by Colonel Innis, or by any other man among your pillaging and brandishing bullies, I myself will drive a bullet through from one of your ears to the other. This game of war is a stiff game, young man, but we will play it out." "Major Arthur Butler!" exclaimed the officer, with astonishment, "is he taken?" "Ha! you've hearn of him, and know something, mayhap, of them that were on the look-out for him?" "I cannot write," said the officer sullenly. "No words, sir," interrupted Horse Shoe, "but obey my orders; write what I tell you, or take your choice. I will bind you hand and foot to a tree on yonder mountain, to starve till you write that letter; or to feed the wild vermin with your body, if you refuse." The ensign looked in Robinson's face, where a frown of stern resolution brooded upon his brow, and a kindling tempest of anger showed that this was not a moment to hazard the trial of his clemency. "What would you have the purport of my letter?" asked the officer, in a subdued voice. "That you have got into the hands of the Whigs," replied the sergeant; "and that if so be any mischief should fall upon Major Butler, by the contrivings of your friends, you die the first minute that we hear of it." "I have had no hand in the taking of Major Butler," said the young St. Jermyn. "I am glad of it," answered Robinson, "for your sake. You will die with a better conscience. If you had a hand in it, young man, I wouldn't ask you to write a line to any breathing man: your brains would spatter that door-post. Take up the pen and write, or stand by the consequences." The officer took up the pen, then, hesitating a moment, flung it down, saying: "I will not write; do with me as you choose." "The young man drives me to it, against my own nature," said Robinson, speaking under strong excitement. "If he will not pen that letter, then, David Ramsay, you will write to Innis, in my name, and say Galbraith Robinson has got the Ensign where no Tory foot will ever follow him, and holds him to answer the first mischief that is done to Arthur Butler. But, I swear to this sulky boy, that if that letter goes to Innis for want of a better, as I am a man and a sodger, he will never taste food or water till I hear that Major Butler is free. He shall starve in the mountain." "Oh, God! oh, God!" ejaculated the young soldier, in bitterness of heart; and covering his face with his hands, he threw his head upon the table, where he wept tears of agony. At length, looking in the countenance of Robinson, he said: "I am young, sir--not above twenty years. I have a mother and sisters in England." "We have no time to spare," interrupted Robinson, "much less to talk about kinsfolk. Major Butler has them that love his life better than e'er an Englishwoman loves her son. If they are brought to grief by this onnatural rascality, it matters nothing to me if every daughter and sister in England pines away of heart-sickness, for the loss of them that they love best. Take my advice, my lack-beard," added Robinson, patting him on the shoulder, "and write the letter. You have the chances of war in your favor, and may save your neck." "I will do your bidding, sir," said the ensign, after a pause. "Under the compulsion of force, I agree to write," and he once more took up the pen. "You speak now like a reasonable gentleman," said Horse Shoe. "I pity you, friend, and will preserve you against harm, so far as it can be done in the circumstances of the case." The ensign then wrote a few lines, in which he communicated to Colonel Innis, or to whatever officer his letter might be delivered, the straits in which he found himself, and the resolution of his captors to hold his life forfeit upon the event of any rigors, beyond those of an ordinary prisoner of war, imposed upon Major Butler. When he had finished, he gave the paper to Robinson. "Read it aloud, Mr. Ramsay," said Horse Shoe, delivering the scrawl to his friend. Ramsay read what was written. "It must be wrote over again," said Horse Shoe, after he had heard the contents. "First, it must make no mention of his being only a few miles off; that must be left out. Secondly, my name needn't be told; though if the runagates knowed he was in my hands, they wouldn't think his chance any better on that account. Let him say that the Whigs have got him--that's enough. And, lastly, he must write his own name in full at the bottom. And, look you, young man, don't be scrawling out the lines in such a way that your own hand-write moughtn't be known. That must speak for itself, because upon this letter depends your life. You understand?" "Give it me," said the ensign; "I will write it as you desire." And again the unfortunate officer applied himself to the task that was imposed upon him; and in a short time produced a letter, which, being subjected to the criticism of the bystanders, was pronounced satisfactory. As soon as this was done, St. Jermyn was conducted into another apartment, and there confided to the guardianship of Christopher Shaw. Horse Shoe now took a light and the writing materials from the table, and repaired with David Ramsay--both of them well armed--to the store-house, where the other prisoners were confined. After they had entered and closed the door, posting Andrew with his musket on the outside, Horse Shoe addressed the men in a gay and cheerful tone: "Come, my lads, as you are good, honest fellows, that can have no great love for these little country cabins, judging by your bad luck and oncomfortable circumstances in that one where I found you this morning, I have come to set you free. By the laws of war, you have the right, if I choose to take it, to give me your parole. So now, if you have a mind to promise me, on the honor of sodgers, not to sarve again until you are fairly exchanged, you shall all leave this before daybreak. What do you say to the terms?" "We are all agreed," replied the men, with one accord. "Then write out something to that effect," said the sergeant to Ramsay. "You that can't scratch like scholards, stick your marks to the paper--d'ye hear?" The parole was written out by Ramsay, and duly signed or marked by each of the four men. This being done, the sergeant informed them that, exactly at three in the morning, the door would be opened, and they would be at liberty to go where they pleased, provided they pledged themselves to visit no post of the enemy within twenty miles, nor communicate any particulars relating to their capture or detention to any British or Tory officer or soldier, within seven days. This pledge was cheerfully given, and after a few words of jocular good-nature were exchanged on both sides, Horse Shoe and his companion retired. David Ramsay now ordered out his own and Mary Musgrove's horses, with an intention to set out immediately for the mill. "Does Major Butler know that you are in his neighborhood?" inquired Ramsay of the sergeant, before the horses were brought to the door. "Oh, bless you, yes," replied Horse Shoe. "I left word for him yesterday at Blackstock's, by giving the babblers there something to talk about, which I knew he would hear." And the sergeant went on to relate the particulars of his stop at that post: "And I sent him a message," continued he, "this morning, by James Curry, in the same sort of fashion. A little before daylight, I heard the devil singing one of his staves upon the road back here, so loud that he seemed to be frightened by ghosts or sperits; so I rode up fast behind him, and cuffed him out of his saddle, and then away I went like a leather-winged bat. I knowed the curmudgeon's voice, and I expect he knowed my hand, for he has felt it before. I'll be bound, he made a good story out of it; and, as such things fly, I make no doubt it wasn't long reaching the ear of the major, who would naturally think it was me, whether James told my name or not, because he knows my way. It was as good as writing a letter to the major, to signify that I was lurking about, close at hand. I never went to school, Mr. Ramsay, so I write my letters by making my mark. I can make a blow go further than a word upon occasion, and that's an old-fashioned way of telling your thoughts, that was found out before pen and ink." "Well, Horse Shoe, you are a man after your own sort," replied Ramsay, laughing. "Come, Mary, take the letter; our horses are at the door." "Good bye t'ye, David," said Horse Shoe, shaking Ramsay's hand; "it may be some days before we see each other again. Kit and me will be off with this young ensign before you get back. Don't forget the prisoners at three o'clock. And, a word, David--where had we best take this young sparrow, the ensign, to keep him out of the way of these fellows that are scouring the country?" "Leave that to Christopher Shaw," replied Ramsay; "he knows every nook in the country. So, now, friend Robinson, good night, and luck go with you!" It was a clear starlit night, and every tree and pool sent forth a thousand notes from the busy insects and reptiles that animate the summer hours of darkness, when David Ramsay set out with Mary Musgrove for her father's house. CHAPTER XXIV. NEW DIFFICULTIES OPEN UPON BUTLER. With the last notes of the reveillée everything was stirring in Innis's camp. It was a beautiful, fresh morning; a cool breeze swept across the plain, and each spray and every blade of grass sparkled with the dew; whilst above, an unclouded firmament gave promise of a rich and brilliant mid-summer's day. The surrounding forest was alive with the twittering of birds; and the neighing of horses showed that this portion of the animal creation partook of the hilarity of the season. From every little shed or woodland lair, crept forth parties of soldiers, who betook themselves to their several posts to answer at the rollcall; and by the time the sun had risen, officers, on horseback and on foot, were seen moving hurriedly across the open plain, to join the groups of infantry and cavalry, which were now forming in various quarters for the purposes of the morning drill. Companies were seen in motion, passing through the rapid evolutions of the march, the retreat, and the many exercises of service. Drums were beating, and fifes were piercing the air with their high notes, and, ever and anon, the trumpet brayed from the further extremities of the field. Picquet-guards were seen mustering on the edge of the camp--wearied and night-worn: salutes were exchanged by the small detachments on service; and, here and there, sentinels might be descried, stationed at the several outlets of the plain, and presenting their arms as an officer passed their lines. The troops that occupied this space were mostly of the irregular kind. Some were distinguished by ill-fitted and homely uniforms; others were clad in the common dress of the country, distinguished as soldiers only by their arms and accoutrements; but amongst them was also a considerable party of British regulars, clad in the national livery of scarlet. Amongst the officers, who were in command of the subordinate departments of this mixed and parti-colored little army, were several who, from their costume, might be recognised as belonging to the regiments that had come from the other side of the Atlantic. Colonel Innis himself was seen upon the parade, directing the movements of divisions that, under their proper officers, were practising the customary lessons of discipline. He was a tall, thin man, of an emaciated complexion, with a countenance of thoughtful severity. A keen black eye seemed almost to burn within its orb, and to give an expression of petulant and peevish excitability, like the querulousness of a sick man. A rather awkward and ungainly person, arrayed in a scarlet uniform that did but little credit to the tailor-craft employed in its fabrication, conveyed to the spectator the idea of a man unused to the pride of appearance that belongs to a soldier by profession; and would have suggested the conclusion, which the fact itself sustained, that the individual before him had but recently left the walks of civil life to assume a military office. His demeanour, however, showed him to be a zealous if not a skilful officer. He gave close attention to the duties of his command, and busied himself with scrupulous exactitude in enforcing the observances necessary to a rigorous system of tactics. This officer, as we have before hinted, had been an active participator in the proceedings of the new court of sequestrations at Charleston; and had rendered himself conspicuous by the fierce and unsparing industry with which he had brought to the judgment of that tribunal, the imputed delinquencies of some of the most opulent and patriotic citizens of the province. Amongst the cases upon which he had been called into consultation was that of Arthur Butler, whose possessions being ample, and whose position, as a rebellious belligerent, being one of "flagrant delict," there was but little repugnance, on the part of the judges and their adviser, to subject him to the severest law of confiscation. The proceedings, however, had been delayed, not from any tenderness to the proprietor, but, as it was whispered in the scandal of the day, on account of certain dissensions, amongst a few prominent servants of the British crown, as to which of them the privilege of a cheap purchase should be extended. The matter was still in suspense, with a view (as that busybody, common rumor, alleged) to reward a particular favorite of the higher powers with the rich guerdon of these good lands, in compensation for private and valuable secret services, rendered in a matter of great delicacy and hazard--no less a service than that of seducing into the arena of politics and intrigue, an opulent and authoritative gentleman of Virginia, Mr. Philip Lindsay. In consequence of the odious nature of the duty which Colonel Innis had assumed to perform, he became peculiarly hateful to the Whigs; and this sentiment was in no degree abated when, relinquishing his occupation as a counsellor to the court at Charleston, he accepted a commission to command a partisan corps of royalists in the upper country. He was, at the juncture in which I have exhibited him to my reader, new in his command, and had not yet "fleshed his maiden sword:" the day, however, was near at hand when his prowess was to be put to the proof. Such was the person into whose hands Arthur Butler had now fallen. After the morning exercises of the camp were finished, and the men were dismissed to prepare their first repast, the principal officers returned to the colonel's head-quarters in the farm-house, where, it will be remembered, Butler had been delivered by the escort that had conducted him from Blackstock's. The prisoner had slept soundly during the whole night; and now, as the breakfast hour drew nigh, he had scarcely awaked and put on his clothes, before he heard an inquiry, made by some one below, of the orderly on duty, whether the Whig officer was yet in a condition to be visited; and, in the next moment, the noise of footsteps, ascending the stair towards his chamber, prepared him to expect the entrance of the person who had asked the question. A British officer, in full uniform, of a graceful and easy carriage, neat figure, and of a countenance that bespoke an intelligent and cultivated mind, made his appearance at the door. He was apparently of five or six and thirty years of age; and whilst he paused a moment, as with a purpose to apologize for the seeming intrusion, Butler was struck with the air of refined breeding of the individual before him. "Major Butler, I understand, of the Continental army?" said the stranger. "The unpleasant nature of the circumstances in which you are placed, I hope will excuse the trespass I have committed upon your privacy. Captain St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's army, and lately an aide-de-camp of Lord Rawdon." Butler bowed coldly, as he replied: "To meet a gentleman, as your rank and name both import, is a privilege that has not been allowed me of late. Without knowing wherefore, I have been waylaid and outraged by bravoes and ruffians. You, perhaps, sir, may be able to afford me some insight into the causes of this maltreatment." "Even if it were proper for me to hold discourse with you on such a subject, I could only speak from common report," replied the officer. "I know nothing of your seizure, except that, by the common chances of war, you have fallen into the hands of the ruling authorities of the province, and you will, doubtless, as a soldier, appreciate my motives for declining any reference to the circumstances in which you have been found. My visit is stimulated by other considerations, amongst which is foremost a desire to mitigate the peculiarly uncomfortable captivity to which I am sorry to learn you have been subjected." "I thank you," replied Butler, "for the intention with which your good offices are proffered; but you can render me no service that I should value so much as that of informing me why I have been brought hither, at whose suggestion, and for what purpose." "I will be plain with you, Major Butler. Your situation demands sympathy, however inexorably the present posture of our affairs may require the decrees of stern justice, in respect to yourself, to be executed. I feel for you, and would gladly aid you to any extent which my duty might allow, in averting the possible calamity that may hang over you. You are known as a gentleman of consideration and influence in the colonies. I may further add, as a brave and venturesome soldier. You are believed to have, more boldly than wisely, enterprised the accomplishment of certain schemes against the safety of his majesty's acknowledged government in this province; besides having committed other acts in violation of a faith plighted for you by those who had full authority to bind you, thus bringing yourself within the penalties appropriate to the violation of a military parole, if not within those of treason itself." "He lies in his throat," cried Butler, "who charges me with forfeiture of plighted word or honor, in any action of my life. That I have arrayed myself against what you are pleased to term his majesty's acknowledged government in this province, I am proud to confess, here in the midst of your bands, and will confess it again at your judgment seat; but if aught be said against me that shall be intended to attaint my honor as a gentleman, I will, in the same presence and before God, throw the lie in the teeth of my accuser. Aye, and make good my word, now or hereafter, wheresoever it may be allowed me to meet the slanderer." "I do not condemn your warmth," said St. Jermyn, calmly, "in a matter that so deeply stirs your self-esteem; and only desire now to second it in all things wherein an honorable enemy may claim the support of those who themselves value a good name. The authorities of this post have considerately resolved to give you the benefit of a court of inquiry. And I hope you will take it as it was meant, in all kindness to you, that I have come, before the communication of an official order, to apprise you that charges will be duly exhibited against you, and a trial be instantly had. If you will accept of my services, feeble and inadequate as they may be, I would gladly tender them to afford you such facilities as the pressure of the present emergency may allow." "To be tried! when, and for what? If the charge is that I carry on open war against those who are in the habit of calling me and my compatriots rebels--I am ready to confess the charge. What need of court or trial?" "There are graver and more serious offences than that imputed to you," said St. Jermyn. "When am I to be informed of them, and to what do they tend?" "You will hear them this morning; when, I am sorry to add, the nature of our military operations also enforces the necessity of your trial." "You can be of little service, if that be true," returned Butler, thoughtfully. "My cause can only be defended by my country, long after I am made the victim of this unrighteous procedure." "There is one alternative," said St. Jermyn, with some hesitation in his manner, "which a mature deliberation upon your relations as a subject,--pardon me, for I do not deem this ill-timed rebellion to have obliterated them--may present to your mind." "Speak it," said Butler, vehemently; "speak out the base thought that is rising to your lip, if you dare. Prisoner as I am, I will avenge the insult on the spot with the certainty of loss of life. The alternative you suggest, is to dishonor me and all who are dear to me by the foul opprobrium of treason to my country. You would have me, I suppose, renounce the cause to which I have dedicated my life, and take shelter with the recreants that have crowded under the banner of St. George?" "Hold! remember, sir, that you are a prisoner," said St. Jermyn, with great coolness; and then after a pause, he added with a sigh: "I will not wound, by further converse, the exaggerated and delusive sense of honor which is too fatally predominant in your breast, and, as I have found it, in the breasts of many of your misguided countrymen. I came to serve you, not to excite your feelings; and I will now, even in your displeasure, serve you as far as the occasion may afford me means: I pray you, call on me without reserve. For the present, believe me, in pain and sorrow I take my leave." With these words, the officer retired. Butler paced to and fro through his narrow chamber for some minutes, as his mind revolved the extraordinary and unexpected disclosures which had been made to him in this short visit. A thousand conjectures rose into his thoughts as to the nature of the supposed charges that were to be brought against him. He minutely retraced all the incidents of his late adventures, to ascertain how it was possible to found upon them an accusation of violated faith, or to pervert them into an imputation of treason against the present doubtful and disputed authority of the self-styled conquerors of Carolina. If his attempt to join Clarke was treason, it could be no less treason in the followers of Gates to array themselves against the royal army; and, that every prisoner hereafter taken in battle was to be deemed a traitor to the contested power of Cornwallis, seemed to be a pretension too absurd for the most inveterate partisans to assert. There was nothing in this review of his actions that the most ingenious malice could pervert into an offence punishable by the laws of war, by other rigor than such as might be inflicted upon an ordinary prisoner taken in arms. Still, there were unhappy doubts of some secret treachery that rose to his reflections: the perfidy of Adair, manifestly the effect of a bribe; the ambuscade promoted and managed by James Curry; the bloody purpose of the brutal gang who captured him, frustrated only by the accidental fray in which Blake was wounded. Then the "doubtful givings out" which fell from the lips of some of the soldiers at Blackstock's, of his case still being one of life and death; the insinuation of the savage Habershaw, at the same place, conveyed in the threat of twisted hemp; the knowledge which his present keepers affected to have of his rank and consequence, of his past life and present aims; and, above all, his being brought for immediate trial, in a matter affecting his life, before the very man, now in the capacity of a military commander, who had heretofore been active in promoting the design of confiscating his estate. All these considerations, although unconnected with any circumstance of specific offence within his knowledge, led him into the most anxious and melancholy forebodings as to the result of this day's proceedings. "I am doomed to fall," he said, "under some secret stroke of vengeance, and my country is to have in my case another stirring appeal against the enormity of that iron rule that seeks to bow her head into the dust. So be it! The issue is in the hand of God, and my fate may turn to the account of the establishment of a nation's liberty. Oh, Mildred, I tremble to think of thee! Heaven grant, my girl, that thy fortitude may triumph over the martyrdom of him that loves thee better than his life!" CHAPTER XXV. A TRIAL.--A GRAVE ACCUSATION THAT STILL FURTHER CONFIRMS BUTLER IN HIS BELIEF OF A SECRET ENEMY.--A SUDDEN RESPITE. Butler's baggage, ever since he left Robinson's habitation on the Catawba, had been divided into two parcels, one of which he carried in a portmanteau on his own horse, and the other had been stowed away in a pair of black leather saddle-bags that were flung across Captain Peter. These latter sufficed, also, to inclose, in addition to the sergeant's own wardrobe, sundry stores of provender, which the careful appetite and soldier-like foresight of the trusty squire had, from time to time, accumulated for their comfort upon the road-side. After the escape of the sergeant, this baggage had been kept with more scrupulousness than might have been expected from the character of the freebooters into whose possession it had fallen; and now, when Butler had been surrendered up to the custody of Colonel Innis, it was restored to the prisoner without the loss of any article of value. On this morning, therefore, Butler had thrown aside the rustic dress in which he had heretofore travelled, and appeared habited as we have described him when first introduced to the reader. After a very slight meal, which had been administered with more personal attention and consideration for his rank and condition than he was prepared to expect, an officer entered his apartment and communicated an order to him to repair to the yard in front of the quarters. Here he found a sergeant's guard mustered to receive him, and he was directed to march with them to the place that had been selected for his trial. The spot pitched upon for this purpose, was at the foot of a large mulberry that stood on the border of the plain, at a short distance from the house. When the guard arrived with the prisoner, Colonel Innis was already seated at the head of a table, around which were placed several officers, both of the regular and militia forces. Writing materials were also arranged upon the board, and at the lower end, a few paces removed from it, stood a vacant chair. Behind this was erected a pile of drums, with one or two colours laid transversely across them. Sentinels were stationed at different points near this group, and within their lines were collected the principal officers of Innis's command. Somewhat more remote, a number of idle spectators were assembled, amongst whom might have been discerned Habershaw, Curry, and many of the heroes who had figured at Grindall's ford. Captain St. Jermyn had taken a station a little to the left of the presiding officer at the table, and in the rear of those who appeared to have the management of the approaching procedure, and now stood, with his hands folded, apparently an anxious and interested looker-on. There was a thoughtful and even stern expression upon every face when Butler appeared--and a silence that was scarce broken by the occasional whispers in which the several individuals present communicated with each other. The guard marched the prisoner around the circle, and inducted him into the vacant chair, where he was received by a quiet and cold inclination of the head from each member of the court. For a few moments he looked around him with a scornful gaze upon the assemblage that were to sit in judgment upon him, and bit his lip, as his frame seemed to be agitated with deep emotion: at length, when every look was bent upon him, and no one breathed a word, he rose upon his feet and addressed the company. "I understand that I am in the presence of a military court, which has been summoned for the purpose of inquiring into certain offences, of the nature of which I have not yet had the good fortune to be informed, except in so far as I am given to infer that they purport of treason. I ask if this be true." The presiding officer bowed his head in token of assent, and then presented a paper, which he described as containing the specification of charges. "As an officer of the American army, and the citizen of an independent republic," continued Butler, "I protest against any accountability to this tribunal; and, with this protest, I publish my wrongs in the face of these witnesses, and declare them to arise out of facts disgraceful to the character of an honorable nation. I have been drawn by treachery into an ambuscade, overpowered by numbers, insulted and abused by ruffians. I wish I could say that these outrages were practised at the mere motion of the coarse banditti themselves who assailed me; but their manifest subserviency to a plan, the object of which was to take my life, leaves me no room to doubt that they have been in the employ and have acted under the orders of a more responsible head"-- "Keep your temper," interrupted Innis, calmly. "Something is to be allowed to the excited feelings of one suddenly arrested in the height of a bold adventure, and the court would, therefore, treat your expression of such feelings at this moment with lenity. You will, however, consult your own welfare, by giving your thoughts to the charges against you, and sparing yourself the labor of this useless vituperation. Read that paper, and speak to its contents. We will hear you patiently and impartially." "Sir, it can avail me nothing to read it. Let it allege what it may, the trial, under present circumstances, will be but a mockery. By the chances of war, my life is in your hands; it is an idle ceremony and waste of time to call in aid the forms of justice, to do that which you have the power to do, without insulting Heaven by affecting to assume one of its attributes." "That we pause to inquire," replied Innis, "is a boon of mercy to you. The offence of rank rebellion which you and all your fellow-madmen have confessed, by taking up arms against your king, carries with it the last degree of punishment. If, waiving our right to inflict summary pain for this transgression, we stay to hear what you can say against other and even weightier charges, you should thank us for our clemency. But this is misspending time. Read the paper to the prisoner," he added, addressing one of the officers at the table. The paper was read aloud. It first presented a charge against the prisoner for violating the terms of the parole given at the capitulation of Charleston. The specification to support this charge was that, by the terms of the surrender, General Lincoln had engaged that the whole garrison should be surrendered as prisoners of war, and that they should not serve again until exchanged. The prisoner was described as an officer of that garrison, included in the surrender, and lately taken in the act of making war upon his majesty's subjects. The second charge was, that the prisoner had insinuated himself, by false representations, into the territory conquered by the royal army; and that, in the quality of a spy, he had visited the family of a certain Walter Adair, with a view to obtain a knowledge of the forces, plans, movements, and designs of the various detachments engaged in his majesty's service in the neighborhood of Broad River. And, third and last, that he, together with certain confederates, had contrived and partially attempted to execute a plan to seize upon and carry away a subject of his majesty's government, of great consideration and esteem--Mr. Philip Lindsay, namely, of the Dove Cote, in the province of Virginia. That the object of this enterprise was to possess himself of the papers as well as of the person of the said Philip Lindsay, and, by surrendering him up to the leaders of the rebel army, to bring upon him the vengeance of the rebel government, thus exposing him to confiscation of property, and even to peril of life. Such was the general import and bearing of the accusations against the prisoner, expressed with the usual abundance of verbiage and minuteness of detail. Butler listened to them, at first, with indifference, and with a determination to meet them with inflexible silence; but, as the enunciation of them proceeded, and the extraordinary misrepresentations they contained were successively disclosed, he found his indignation rising to a height that almost mastered his discretion, and he was on the point of interrupting the court with the lie direct, and of involving himself in an act of contumacy which would have been instantly decisive of his fate. His better genius, however, prevailed, and, smothering his anger by a strong effort of self-control, he merely folded his arms and abided until the end, with a contemptuous and proud glance at his accusers. "You have heard the allegations against you, sir," said Colonel Innis; "what say you to them?" "What should an honorable man," replied Butler, "say to such foul aspersions? The first and second charges, sir, I pronounce to be frivolous and false. As to the last, sir, there are imputations in it that mark the agency of a concealed enemy, lost to every impulse of honor--a base and wicked liar. Confront me with that man, and let the issue stand on this--if I do not prove him to be, in the judgment of every true gentleman of your army, an atrocious and depraved slanderer, who has contrived against my life for selfish purposes, I will submit myself to whatever penalty the most exasperated of my enemies may invent. It was my purpose, sir, to remain silent, and to refuse, by any act of mine, to acknowledge the violation of the rights of war by which I have been dragged hither. Nothing could have swayed me from that determination, but the iniquitous falsehood conveyed in the last accusation." "We cannot bandy words with one in your condition," interrupted the president of the court. "I must remind you again, that our purpose is to give you a fair trial, not to listen to ebullitions of anger. Your honor is concerned in these charges, and you will best consult your interest by a patient demeanor in your present difficulties." "I am silent," said Butler, indignantly, taking his seat. "Let the trial proceed," continued the president. "You will not deny," he said, after an interval of reflection, "that you are a native of Carolina?" "I can scarcely deny that before you," replied Butler, "who, in my absence, as report says, have been busy in the investigation of my affairs." "There are bounds, sir, to the forbearance of a court," said Innis, sternly. "I understand the taunt. Your estates have been the subject of consideration before another tribunal; and if my advice were listened to, the process relating to them would be a short one." "You are answered," returned Butler. "Nor can you deny that you were an officer belonging to the army under the command of General Lincoln." Butler was silent. "You were at Charleston during the siege?" inquired one of the court. "In part," replied Butler. "I left it in March, the bearer of despatches to Congress." "And you were in arms on the night of the thirteenth, at Grindall's Ford?" continued the same questioner. "I confess it, sir." "That's enough," interrupted Innis. "In the ninth article of the capitulation of Charleston we read: 'all civil officers, and the citizens who have borne arms _during the siege_, must be prisoners on parole.'" "I should say," interposed St. Jermyn, who now, for the first time, opened his lips, "that the prisoner scarcely falls within that description. The words 'during the siege' would seem to point to a service which lasted to the end. They are, at least, equivocal; and I doubt Lord Cornwallis would be loath to sanction a judgment on such a ground." Upon this ensued a consultation amongst the officers at the table, during which Butler was withdrawn to a short distance in the rear of the assemblage. Several of the unoccupied soldiers of the camp, at this stage of the trial, had crowded into the neighborhood of the court; and the sentinels, yielding to the eagerness of the common curiosity, had relaxed their guard so far as to allow the spectators to encroach beyond the lines. Among those who had thrust themselves almost up to the trial-table were a few children, male and female, bearing on their arms baskets of fruit and vegetables, which had been brought within the camp for sale. A smart-looking girl, somewhat older than the rest, seemed to have gained more favor from the crowd than her competitors, by the temptation which she presented of a rich collection of mellow apples; and perhaps her popularity was in some degree increased by the soft and pleasant-toned voice in which she recommended her wares, no less than by the ruddy, wholesome hue of her cheek, and an agreeable, laughing, blue eye, that shone forth from the shade of a deep and narrow sun-bonnet, the curtain of which fell upon her shoulders and down her back. "Buy my apples, gentlemen," said the pretty fruit-merchant, coming up fearlessly to Colonel Innis, in the midst of the consultation. "Three for a penny; they are very ripe and mellow, sir." The colonel cast his eye upon the treasures of the basket, and began to select a few of the choicest fruit. Thus encouraged, the girl set her load upon the table, in the midst of the hats and swords with which it was encumbered, and very soon every other member of the court followed the example of the presiding officer, and became purchasers of the greater part of the store before them. When this traffic was concluded, the little huckster took up her burden and retired towards the group of spectators. Seeing the prisoner in this quarter, she walked up to him, curtsied, and presented him an apple, which was gratefully accepted, and the proffered return, from him, in money, refused. When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Butler was resummoned to his seat, and the court again proceeded to business. The inquiry now related to the second charge--that, namely, which imputed to the prisoner the character of a spy in his visit at Adair's. To this accusation, Captain Hugh Habershaw and several of his troop were called as witnesses. The amount of testimony given by them was, that, on the eleventh of the month, they had received information that a Continental officer, whose real name and title was Major Butler, but who was travelling in disguise and under an assumed name, from the Catawba towards the Broad River, in company with a well known, stark Whig--a certain Horse Shoe Robinson--was expected in a few days to arrive at Wat Adair's. That Habershaw, hoping to intercept them, had scoured the country between the two rivers; but that the travellers had eluded the search, by taking a very circuitous and unfrequented route towards the upper part of Blair's Range and Fishing Creek. That, on the night of the twelfth, the two men arrived at Adair's, unmolested; and, on the morning of the thirteenth, some of the woodman's family had met Habershaw and apprised him of this fact; adding, further, that the prisoner had offered a bribe to Adair, to induce him to give information in regard to the loyalist troops in the neighborhood, with a view to communicate it to a certain Colonel Clarke, who had appointed to meet Butler and his companion somewhere on the upper border of the province. That, in consequence of this attempt, Adair had directed the prisoner towards Grindall's Ford; and, this intelligence being communicated to the witness, he had conducted his troop to that place, where he succeeded in arresting the prisoner and his comrade, with the loss of two men in the struggle. The narrative then went on to give the particulars of Horse Shoe's escape, and the other facts with which the reader is acquainted. This account was corroborated by several witnesses, and, amongst the rest, by Curry. Butler heard the testimony with the most painful sensations. There was just enough of truth in it to make the tale plausible; and the falsehood related to points which, as they were affirmed upon hearsay, he could not repel by proof. There was a common expression of opinion amongst the bystanders--who in general were inclined to take the side of the prisoner in reference to the charge which was supposed to affect his life--that this accusation of Butler's acting the part of a spy was sustained by the proof. In vain did he protest against the injustice of being condemned on what was alleged to have been said by some of Adair's family; in vain did he deny that he had offered a bribe to Adair for information respecting the Tories; and equally in vain did he affirm that he had asked of Adair nothing more than the common hospitality due to a traveller, and for which he had made him a moderate requital--the only money the woodman had received from him. The current was now setting violently against him, and it seemed impossible to stem it. "It is but due," said Captain St. Jermyn, a second time interposing in behalf of the prisoner, "to the rank and character of Major Butler, since a portion of this testimony is second-hand, to take his own examination on these alleged facts. With permission, therefore, I would ask him a few questions." "The court will not object," said Innis, who throughout affected the air of an impartial judge. "It is true, Major Butler, that you were at Adair's on the night of the twelfth?" said the volunteer advocate of the prisoner. "I was, sir." "And you made no concealment of your name or rank?" "I will not say that," replied Butler. "You were under a feigned name then, sir?" inquired Innis, as St. Jermyn seemed a little confounded by the answer he had received. "I was called Mr. Butler, sir; my rank or station was not communicated." "Your dress?" "Was an assumed one, to avoid inquiry." "This man, Horse Shoe Robinson," said St. Jermyn, "was known to Adair as a whig soldier?" "Well known," replied Butler; "and I was also represented as belonging to that party. Adair himself led us to believe that he was friendly to our cause." Here several members of the court smiled. "Had you met any parties of loyalists," inquired Innis, "in your journey between Catawba and Broad?" "We had--more than one." "How did you escape them?" "By assuming feigned characters and names." "Your purpose was to join Clarke?" "I am not at liberty to answer that question," replied the prisoner. "Suffice it, sir, I was travelling through this region on a mission of duty. My purpose was to act against the enemy. So far the charge is true, and only to this extent. I came with no design to pry into the condition of the royal troops; I sought only a successful passage through a contested, though sadly overpowered country." "You offered no money to Adair," said St. Jermyn again, as if insisting on this point of exculpation, "but what you have already called a moderate requital for his entertainment?" "None," replied the prisoner--"except," he added, "a guinea, to induce him to release, from some wicked torture, a wolf he had entrapped." "It will not do," said Colonel Innis, shaking his head at St. Jermyn; and the same opinion was indicated in the looks of several of the court. "I was at Walter Adair's that night, and saw the gentleman there, and heard all that was said by him; and I am sure that he offered Watty no money," said our little apple-girl, who had been listening with breathless anxiety to the whole of this examination, and who had now advanced to the table as she spoke the words. "And I can tell more about it, if I am asked." "And who are you, my pretty maid?" inquired Colonel Innis, as he lifted the bonnet from her head and let loose a volume of flaxen curls down upon her neck. "I am Mary Musgrove, the miller's daughter," said the damsel, with great earnestness of manner, "and Watty Adair is my uncle, by my mother's side--he married my aunt Peggy; and I was at his house when Major Butler and Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson came there." "And what in the devil brought you here?" said Habershaw gruffly. "Silence!" cried Innis, impatient at the obtrusive interruption of the gross captain. "What authority have you to ask questions? Begone, sir." The heavy bulk of Hugh Habershaw, at this order, sneaked back into the crowd. "I came only to sell a few apples," said Mary. "Heaven has sent that girl to the rescue of my life," said Butler, under the impulse of a feeling which he could not refrain from giving vent to in words. "Pray allow me, sir, to ask her some questions." "It is your privilege," was the answer from two or three of the court; and the spectators pressed forward to hear the examination. Butler carefully interrogated the maiden as to all the particulars of his visit, and she, with the most scrupulous fidelity, recounted the scenes to which she had been a witness. When she came to detail the conversation which she had overheard between Adair and Lynch, and the events that followed it, the interest of the bystanders was wound up to the highest pitch. There was a simplicity in her recital of this strange and eventful story, that gave it a force to which the most skilful eloquence might in vain aspire; and when she concluded, the court itself, prejudiced as the members were against the prisoner, could not help manifesting an emotion of satisfaction at the clear and unequivocal refutation which this plain tale inferred against the testimony of Habershaw and his confederates. Innis alone affected to treat it lightly, and endeavored in some degree to abate its edge, by suggesting doubts as to the capacity of a young girl, in circumstance so likely to confuse her, to give an exact narrative of such a complicated train of events. Every cross-examination, however, which was directed to the accuracy of the maiden's story, only resulted in producing a stronger conviction of its entire truth. This concluded the examination on the second charge. The court now proceeded to the third and last accusation against the prisoner. To this there was but one witness called--James Curry. In the course of the examination this man showed great address and knowledge of the world. He gave some short account of himself. He had been a man born to a better condition of life than he now enjoyed. His education had been liberal, and his associations in life extremely various. It was to be inferred from his own relation, that he had fallen into some early indiscretion which had thrown him into the lowest stations of society, and that his original delinquency had prevented him from ever rising above them. He had served for many years in the army, and was present at the surrender of Charleston, being at that period a confidential servant, or man of business, to the young Earl of Caithness, the aide-de-camp of Sir Henry Clinton. Upon the departure of that young nobleman with the rest of Sir Henry's military family, for New York, he had remained behind, and had taken a similar service to that which he had left, with another officer of some repute. "There were state reasons," he said, "why this gentleman's name could not now be communicated to the court." That, in the month of July, he had attended his master on a visit to Mr. Philip Lindsay, in Virginia; and whilst in the immediate vicinity of that gentleman's residence, at a small country tavern, he had accidentally become privy to the design of the prisoner, and the same Horse Shoe Robinson who had been mentioned before, to seize upon the person and papers of Mr. Lindsay: that these two persons had actually arrived at the tavern he spoke of to commence operations. That he had overheard them discussing the whole plan; and he had no doubt they had allies at hand to assist in the scheme, and would have proceeded that same night to put it in execution, if he had not frustrated their design at the risk of his life. That, with the view of interrupting this enterprise, he had lured Robinson, the companion of the prisoner, to walk with him at night to the margin of a small river near the tavern, where he accused him of the treacherous design which he and his comrade had in view: that, in consequence of this, Robinson had endeavored to take his life which was only saved by a severe struggle; and that, being thus discovered in their purpose, this man, Robinson, and the prisoner had made a hasty retreat towards Gates's head-quarters. Such was in effect the narrative of James Curry, which was solemnly given upon oath. Butler was for some moments confounded with astonishment at the audacity of this falsehood. He urged to the court the improbability of the whole story. "It would have been easy," he said, "if I had been hostile to Mr. Philip Lindsay--which, God knows, there are most cogent reasons to disprove--it would have been easy to procure his arrest without an attempt at a violent seizure by me. I had only to speak, and the whole country around him would have united in treating him as an object of suspicion, on account of his politics." He admitted that he was at Mrs. Dimock's at the time spoken of--that Robinson attended him there; but all else that had been said relating to the visit, he affirmed to be utterly false. He gave the particulars of the meeting between Horse Shoe and the witness, as he had it from Robinson; and spoke also of his knowledge of the visit of Tyrrel at the Dove Cote--"which person," he said, "he had reason to believe, came under a name not his own." "How do you happen to be so familiar," inquired Innis, "with the affairs of Mr. Lindsay?" "That question," replied Butler, "as it refers to matters entirely private and personal, I must decline to answer." Curry, upon a second examination, re-affirmed all he had said before, and commented with a great deal of dexterity upon Butler's statement, particularly in reference to such parts of it as the prisoner's repeated refusal to answer had left in doubt. After a protracted examination upon this point, the trial was at length closed, and Butler was ordered back to his apartment in the farm-house. Here he remained for the space of half an hour, an interval that was passed by him in the most distressing doubt and anxiety. The whole proceeding of the court boded ill to him. The haste of his trial, the extraordinary nature of the charges, and the general unsympathizing demeanor of the court itself, only spoke to his mind as evidences of a concealed hostility, which sought to find a plausible pretext for making him a sacrifice to some private malevolence. He was therefore prepared to expect the worst when, at the close of the half hour, St. Jermyn entered his chamber. "I come, sir," said the officer, "to perform a melancholy duty. The court have just concluded their deliberations." "And I am to be a sacrifice to their vengeance. Well, so be it! There was little need of deliberation in my case, and they have soon despatched it," said Butler, with a bitter spirit, as he paced up and down his narrow chamber. "What favor have these, my impartial judges, vouchsafed to me in my last moment? Shall I die as a common felon, on a gibbet, or am I to meet a soldier's doom?" "That has been thought of," said St. Jermyn. "The commanding officer has no disposition to add unnecessary severity to your unhappy fate." "Thank God for that! and that the files detailed for this service are to be drawn from the ranks of my enemies! I will face them as proudly as I have ever done on the field of battle. Leave me, sir; I have matters in my thought that require I should be alone." "Your time, I fear, is brief," said St. Jermyn. "The guard is already at hand to conduct you to the court, who only stay to pass sentence. I came before to break the unhappy news to you." "It is no news to me," interrupted Butler. "I could expect no other issue to the wicked designs by which I have been seized. This solemn show of a trial was only got up to give color to a murderous act which has been long predetermined." At this moment, the heavy and regular tap of the drum, struck at equal intervals, and a mournful note from a fife, reached the prisoner's ear. "I come!" exclaimed Butler. "These fellows are practising their manual for an occasion in which they appear impatient to act. One would think, Captain St. Jermyn," he added, with a smile of scorn, "that they needed but little practice to accomplish them for a ceremony which has of late, since his majesty has extended his merciful arm over this province, grown to be a familiar piece of military punctilio." St. Jermyn hastily fled from the room, and rushing out upon the grass-plot where the guard was collected, cried out: "Silence, you base and worthless knaves! Is it thus you would insult the sufferings of an unfortunate enemy, by drumming, under his very ear, your cursed death-notes? Strike but one note upon that drum again, and I will have you up to the halberds." "The music did but try a flourish of the dead march," replied the sergeant of the guard; "they are a little rusty, and seeing that the Whig officer"-- "Another word, sir, and you shall be sent to the provost-marshal. Attend the prisoner." "I am here," said Butler, who had overheard this conversation, and had already descended to the door. With a mournful and heavy heart, though with a countenance that concealed his emotions under an air of proud defiance, he took his place in the ranks, and marched to the spot where the court were yet assembled. "A chair for the prisoner," said some of the individuals present, with an officious alacrity to serve him. "I would rather stand," replied Butler. "It is my pleasure to hear the behests of my enemies in the attitude a soldier would choose to meet his foe in the field." "Mine is a painful duty, Major Butler," said Innis, rising, as he addressed the prisoner. "It is to announce to you that, after a full and most impartial trial, in which you have had the advantage of the freest examination of witnesses, and every favor accorded to you which the usages and customs of war allow, you have been found guilty of two of the charges imputed to you in the list with which you were furnished this morning. Notwithstanding the satisfactory testimony which was given in your behalf by the girl Mary Musgrove, in relation to your conduct at the house of Adair, and however disposed the court were to abandon an accusation which thus seemed to be refuted, it has occurred to them, upon subsequent reflection, that, by your own confession--given, sir, permit me to say, with the frankness of a soldier--you came into this district in disguise and under false names, and thus enabled yourself to collect information relative to the condition of the royal forces, which it was doubtless your purpose to use to our detriment. The court, for a moment, might have led you to entertain hope that they were satisfied that in this charge you had been wronged. The simple, affecting, and, no doubt, true narrative made by the miller's daughter produced a momentary sensation that was too powerful to be combated. That narrative, however, does not relieve you from the effect of your own confessions, since both may be true, and the charge still remain unimpaired against you. "The offence of breaking your parole and infringing the terms of the capitulation of Charleston, is open to a legal doubt, and, therefore, in tenderness to you, has not been pressed; although the court think, that the very circumstance of its doubtful character should have inculcated upon you the necessity of the most scrupulous avoidance of service in the conquered province. "The last charge against you is fully proved. Not a word of counter evidence has been offered. Strictly speaking, by the usages of war, this would not be an offence for the notice of a military tribunal. The perpetrators of it would be liable to such vindictive measures as the policy of the conqueror might choose to adopt. That we have given you, therefore, the benefit of an inquiry, you must regard as an act of grace, springing out of our sincere desire to do you ample justice. The nature of the offence imputed and proved is such as, at this moment, every consideration of expediency demands should be visited with exemplary punishment. The friends of the royal cause, wherever they may reside, shall be protected from the wrath of the rebel government; and we have, therefore, no scruple in saying, that the attempt upon the person of Mr. Philip Lindsay requires a signal retribution. But for this last act, the court might have been induced to overlook all your other trespasses. Upon this, however, there is no hesitation. "Such being the state of the facts ascertained by this tribunal, its function ceases with its certificate of the truth of what has been proved before it. The rest remains to me. Without the form of an investigation, I might, as the commanding officer of a corps on detached service, and by virtue of special power conferred upon me, have made up a private judgment in the case. I have forborne to do that, until, by the sanction of a verdict of my comrades, I might assure myself that I acted on the clearest proofs. These have been rendered. "My order, therefore, is, in accordance with the clear decision of the court,--and, speaking to a soldier, I use no unnecessary phrase of condolence,--that you be shot to death. Time presses on us and forbids delay. You will be conducted to immediate execution. Major Frazer," he said, turning to one of his officers, "to your discretion I commit this unpleasant duty." Then, in a tone of private direction, he added, "Let it be done without delay; pomp and ceremony are out of place in such a matter. I wish to have it despatched at once." "I would speak," said Butler, repressing the agitation of his feelings, and addressing Innis with a stern solemnity, "not to implore your mercy, nor to deprecate your sentence: even if I could stoop to such an act of submission, I know my appeal would reach your ears like the idle wind: but I have private affairs to speak of." "They were better untold, sir," interrupted Innis with an affected air of indifference. "I can listen to nothing now. We have other business to think of. These last requests and settlements of private affairs are always troublesome," he muttered in a tone just audible to the officers standing near him; "they conjure up useless sympathies." "I pray you, sir," interposed St. Jermyn. "It is in vain, I cannot hear it," exclaimed the commander, evidently struggling to shake from his mind an uncomfortable weight. "These are woman's requests! God's mercy! How does this differ from death upon the field of battle? a soldier is always ready. Ha! What have we here?" he exclaimed, as a trooper rode up to the group. "Where are you from? What news?" "A vidette from Rocky Mount," answered the horseman. "I am sent to inform you that, yesterday, Sumpter defeated three hundred of our people on the Catawba, and has made all that were alive, prisoners, besides capturing fifty or sixty wagons of stores which the detachment had under convoy for Camden." The first inquiries that followed this communication related to Sumpter's position, and especially whether he was advancing towards this camp. "He is still upon Catawba, tending northwards," replied the vidette. "Then we are free from danger," interrupted Innis. "I am stripping the feathers from a bird to-day that is worth half of Sumpter's prize," he added, with a revengeful smile, to an officer who stood by him. During this interval, in which the commander of the post was engaged with the vidette, the guard had conducted the prisoner back to the house, and Innis, freed from the restraint of Butler's presence, now gave way to the expression of a savage exultation at the power which the events of the morning had given him, to inflict punishment upon one that he termed an audacious rebel. "The chances jump well with us," he said, "when they enable us to season the joy of these ragged traitors, by so notable a deed as the execution of one of their shrewdest emissaries. This fellow Butler has consideration amongst them, and fortune too: at least he had it, but that has gone into better hands; and, to say truth, he has a bold and mischievous spirit. The devil has instigated him to cross our path; he shall have the devil's comfort for it. The whole party taken did you say?"-- "Every man, sir," replied the vidette. "How many men had this skulking fellow, Sumpter, at his back?" "They say about seven hundred." "And did the cowards strike to seven hundred rebels?" "They were tangled with the wagons," said the soldier, "and were set on unawares, on the bank of the river, at the lower ferry." "Aye, that's the way! An ambuscade, no doubt,--a piece of cowardly bush-fighting. Fresh men against poor devils worn down by long marching! Well, well, I have a good requital for the rascally trick. Major Butler's blood will weigh heavy in the scale, or I am mistaken! Come, gentlemen, let us to quarters--we must hold a council." "Here is a letter," said one of the officers of the court, "which I have this moment found on the table, under my sword belt; it seems, from its address, to contain matter of moment. How it came here does not appear." "'To Colonel Innis, or any other officer commanding a corps in his majesty's service,'" said Innis, reading the superscription, "besides, here is something significant, '_for life or death, with speed_.' What can this mean?" he added, as he broke open the paper and ran his eyes hastily over the contents. St. George! here is something strange, gentlemen. Listen!-- "'By ill luck I have fallen into the possession of the Whigs. They have received intelligence of the capture of Major Butler, and, apprehending that some mischief might befal him, have constrained me to inform you that my life will be made answerable for any harsh treatment that he may receive at the hands of our friends. They are resolute men, and will certainly make me the victim of their retaliation. EDGAR ST. JERMYN, Ensign of the 71st Reg't. P. S. For God's sake respect this paper, and be lenient to the prisoner.'" "Treason and forgery, paltry forgery!" exclaimed Innis, with a smile of derision, as he finished reading the letter. "What ho! tell Frazer to lead out the prisoner, and despatch him without a moment's delay. So much for this shallow artifice!" "A base forgery," said one of the officers in attendance, "and doubtless the work of the rebel major himself. He will die with this silly lie upon his conscience. St. Jermyn, here!" cried out the same officer to the captain, who was now at some distance, "here is an attempt to put a trick upon us by a counterfeit of your brother's hand, telling a most doleful and improbable falsehood. Look at it." St. Jermyn read the letter, and suddenly turning pale, exclaimed: "Sir, this is no trick. It is my brother's own writing. He is in the custody of the Whigs! How came this here? Who brought it? When was it written? Can nobody tell me?" "Tut, St. Jermyn!" interrupted the officer, smiling, "you surely cannot be imposed upon by such a device. Look at the scrawl again. In truth, are you sure of it, man?" he inquired with great surprise, as he perceived the increasing paleness of St. Jermyn's brow. "My brother's life is in imminent danger," replied St. Jermyn, with intense earnestness. "Colonel Innis, as you value my happiness, I entreat you, countermand the order for the prisoner's execution. I implore you, respect this letter; it is genuine, and I dread the consequences. My poor brother, the youngest of my family and the special darling of his parents! For heaven's sake, good colonel, pause until we learn something more of this mysterious business." "For your sake, my friend, and until we can investigate this matter," said Innis, "let the execution be suspended." St. Jermyn instantly hurried to the guard, to communicate the new order. "Whence comes this missive?" demanded Innis. "It has neither date nor place described. Who brought it? Did any one see the bearer?" he asked aloud of the bystanders. No one answered except the officer who had first discovered the paper. "I know nothing more than what you see. It was here upon the table. How long it had been there I cannot tell." "It is strange," continued Innis. "Can this young St. Jermyn have fallen in with Sumpter? Or, after all, is it not an ingenious forgery which has deceived our friend the captain? Still, who could have brought it here?" The letter was again examined by every individual present. "It must be genuine," said one of the officers, shaking his head. "Captain St. Jermyn was very much in earnest, and it is not likely he could be deceived. It has been mysteriously deposited here by some agent of the Whigs. The person should be found, and compelled to give us more specific information. This matter must be looked to; the ensign, I doubt not, is in perilous circumstances." "Let the prisoner be strictly guarded, and held to wait our future pleasure," said Innis. "I would not put in jeopardy the young ensign's life. A reward of twenty guineas shall be given to any one who brings me the bearer of this letter. And you, Lieutenant Connelly, take thirty troopers, and scour the country round to gain intelligence of this capture of Edgar St. Jermyn. Be careful to examine every man you meet, as to the presence of Whig parties in this district. Away instantly, and do not return without tidings of this singular event." The camp, by these occurrences, was thrown into great bustle. The prisoner was securely lodged in his former quarters, and placed under a double guard; consultations were held amongst the officers; and Butler himself was strictly interrogated in regard to the appearance of this mysterious letter, of the contents of which he was yet ignorant. The examination threw no light on the affair; and, very soon afterwards, a troop of horse were seen sallying beyond the limits of the camp, under Lieutenant Connelly, to seek information of the fate of Ensign St. Jermyn. CHAPTER XXVI. THE SERGEANT AND HIS COMRADE PROJECT AN EXPEDITION WHICH FURNISHES THE ENSIGN AN OPPORTUNITY OF ENJOYING THE PICTURESQUE. As soon as David Ramsay had departed with the maiden for Musgrove's mill, Robinson ordered his own and Christopher Shaw's horse to be saddled, and another to be made ready for St. Jermyn. His next care was to determine upon a secure place of retreat--reflecting that the news of the capture of the ensign must soon reach the British posts, and that the country would be industriously explored with a view to his rescue. A spot known to the woodsmen of this region by the name of the Devil's Ladder, which was situated in the defile of a mountain brook that emptied into the Ennoree, occurred to Christopher Shaw as the most secret fastness within their reach. This spot lay some twenty miles westward of Ramsay's, accessible by roads but little known, and surrounded by a district which grew more wild and rugged the nearer it approached the defile. Here it was supposed the party might arrive by daylight the next morning, and remain for a few days at small risk of discovery; and thither, accordingly, it was resolved they should repair. This being settled, Horse Shoe now procured a supply of provisions from Mistress Ramsay, and then proceeded to arm himself with the sword and pistols of the ensign, whilst Christopher suspended across his body the sword of Goliath, as the sergeant called the brand he had snatched up at Blackstock's, and also took possession of one of the captured muskets. "If it don't go against your conscience, Mistress Ramsay," said Horse Shoe, when the preparations for the journey were completed, "I would take it as a favor, in case any interlopers mought happen to pop in upon you, if you would just drop a hint that you have hearn that Sumpter's people had been seen about these parts. It would have an amazing good bearing on the Tories. Besides making them wary how they strayed about the woods it would be sure to put the bloodhounds on a wrong scent, if they should chance to be sarching for the young ensign. I know you women are a little ticklish about a fib, but then it's an honest trick of the war sometimes. And, to make you easy about it, it will be no more than the truth to say you did hear it--for, you obsarve, I tell you so now." "But," replied the scrupulous matron, "if they should ask me who told me, what should I answer?" "Why," said the sergeant, hesitating, "just out with it--tell 'em you heard it from one Horse Shoe Robinson; that'll not make the news the worse in point of credit. And be sure, good woman, above all things, to remind David, when he gets back to night, that the rank and file, in our prison yonder, are not to be turned loose before three o'clock in the morning." This last caution was repeated to Andy, who still performed the duty of a sentinel at the door of the out-house. All things being now arranged for their departure, Ensign St. Jermyn was brought from the chamber where he had been confined, and was invited to join the sergeant and Christopher at supper before they set out. This meal was ably and rapidly discussed by the stout yeomen, and scarcely less honored by the prisoner, whom the toils and privations of the day had brought to enjoyment of a good appetite. With many cheering and kind expressions of encouragement from the sergeant, the young officer prepared to comply with the demands of his captors, and was soon in readiness to attend them. Robinson lifted him into his saddle with a grasp as light as if he was dealing with a boy, and then bound him by a surcingle to the horse's back, whilst he offered a good-humored apology for the rigor of this treatment. "It is not the most comfortable way of riding, Mr. Ensign," he said, with a chuckle; "but fast bind, fast find, is a'most an excellent good rule for a traveller in the dark. I hope you don't think I take any pleasure in oncommoding you, but it is my intention to lead your horse by the rein to-night, and this friend of mine will keep in the rear. So, by way of a caution, I would just signify to you that if you should think of playing a prank you will certainly bring some trouble upon your head--as one or another of us would in that case be obliged to fire. It is nothing more than military punctilium to give you a friendly warning of this." "You might dispense with this severity, I should think," replied the prisoner, "upon my pledge of honor that I will make no effort to escape." "I can take no pledge in the dark," returned Horse Shoe; "daylight mought make a difference. If we should happen to fall in with any of your gangs I'm thinking a pledge wouldn't come to much more than a cobweb when I should ax you to gallop out of the way of your own people. Flesh is weak, as the preacher says, and, to my mind, it's a little the weaker when the arm is strong or the foot swift. Temptation is at the bottom of all backsliding. No, no, Mr. Ensign, you may get away, if you can; we'll take care of you whilst we're able--that's a simple understanding." Without further speech the party proceeded on their journey. They travelled as rapidly as was consistent with the ease of the prisoner and the nature of the ground over which they had to move. For the first eight or ten miles, their route lay across a country with but few impediments, except such as arose from the unseasonable hour of the ride. After this they found the toil and hazard of travel continually increasing. They had been retreating from the settled country towards a rough wilderness, which was penetrated only by an obscure road, so little beaten as to be scarcely discernible in the faint starlight, and which it required all Christopher's skill in woodcraft to follow. Our travellers, consequently, often lost their way, and were obliged to get down from their horses and grope about to ascertain the path. The stars had shone all night through a cloudless firmament, but the deep shade of the forest thickened around the wanderers, and it was frequently with difficulty, even, that they could discern each other's figures. They reached at length the small stream upon whose banks, some miles above, was situated the place to which their steps were directed; and they were thus rendered more sure of their road, as they had only to follow the ascending course of the brook. The delays and impediments of the journey had nearly outrun the night, and whilst our travellers were yet some two or three miles from their destination, the first traces of morning began to appear in the east. The increasing light disclosed to them the nature of the scenery around. A limpid rivulet tumbled over a rocky channel, girt with a profusion of brush and briar, amongst which were scattered a thousand wild-flowers, that, renovated by the dew, threw forth a delicious perfume. A succession of abrupt hills, covered with the varied foliage of a rich forest growth, bounded the brook on either side. Occasional rocks jutted above the heads of the travellers as they wound along the paths, worn by the wild cattle in the bottom of the dell. Both Robinson and Shaw had dismounted when they entered this defile, and whilst the former led the horse of the prisoner his companion preceded him to explore the doubtful traces of the road, which frequently became so obscure as to render it necessary to seek a passage in the bed of the stream. During all this progress Horse Shoe's good nature and light-heartedness were unabated. He conversed with the prisoner in the same terms of friendly familiarity that he did with Shaw, and neglected no attention that might in any degree relieve the irksomeness of St. Jermyn's necessary thraldom. That peculiar conformation of country which had given rise to the name of the place to which they were conducting the prisoner, was now to be discerned at some little distance ahead. It presented a series of bold crags of granite intermixed with slate, in which rock piled upon rock presented a succession of shelves, each beetling over its base, and thus furnishing a shelter against the weather. Some of these were situated near the bank of the stream, projecting over the water, whilst others towered at different heights, in such a manner as to bear a resemblance to a flight of huge steps cut in the slope of the mountain, and by this likeness, doubtless, suggesting the imaginative name by which the spot was known to the few hunters to whom it was familiar. The cavern-like structure of these ledges abundantly supplied the means of concealment to both men and horses, from the casual notice of such persons as accident might have brought into this sequestered defile. When the party arrived at the foot of the Devil's Ladder, it was with great satisfaction to all that they now made a halt. A short time was spent in selecting a spot, amongst the impending cliffs, of such a character as might afford the advantage of shelter, as well as the means of ready look-out and escape in case of discovery or pursuit. The place chosen was about half way up the hill, where the ridge of a promontory enabled the occupants to see some distance up and down the valley; whilst the crag itself contained within its recesses a chamber sufficiently large for the purpose to which it was to be applied. A natural platform, near this point, allowed sufficient space for the horses, which might be conducted there by a sideling path up the slope; at the same time, the means of retreat were furnished by the nature of the ground towards the top of the hill. To this place of security the ensign was ordered by his guard, and, being released from his bonds, he dismounted and threw himself at length upon the mossy surface of the rock, where he lay wearied in body and dejected in mind. The horses were taken in charge by Shaw; provisions were produced, and all arrangements of caution and comfort were made for passing the next two or three days in this wild sojourn. Here, for the present, we must leave our adventurers, to tell of other matters that are proper to be made known to the reader of this history. In due time David Ramsay returned from Musgrove's. Precisely at three o'clock in the morning, the soldiers were released according to the terms of the parole; and my reader will, no doubt, be pleased to hear that Andy, being discharged from duty, went to bed as drowsy as e'er a man of mould after a feat of glory, and slept with a sleep altogether worthy of his heroic achievement. The next day passed by, at Ramsay's dwelling, with a varied and fearful interest to his family. They had received intelligence, before night, of the event of Butler's trial, and had reason to rejoice that Mary Musgrove had so played her part in the delivery of the letter. They were apprised also of the reward that had been offered for the discovery of the bearer of this letter, and were informed that detachments of horse were out to scour the country in quest of the ensign. These tidings filled them with apprehension. It occurred to Ramsay that if, perchance, the released prisoners should fall in with any of the parties of the loyalists, they would of course relate their story, and thus bring down the full rancor of the Tory wrath upon his household: this would also lead with more certainty to the pursuit of Horse Shoe. There was still good reason to hope that the liberated men might not so soon be able to give the alarm; inasmuch as they were more likely to shape their course towards Fort Ninety-Six than to repair to Innis's camp, where they might be forced to do duty, as much against their inclinations as against their parole. They might even, from a natural aversion to labor, prefer loitering about the country rather than put themselves voluntarily in the way of military operations. "Come what will of it," said Ramsay, summing up the chances for and against him; "I will be ready for the worst. Many better men have given all they had to the cause of independence, and I will not flinch from giving my share. They may burn and break down; but, thank God, I have a country--aye, and a heart and an arm to stand by it!" On the same evening, towards sundown, a horseman drew up his rein at Ramsay's door. He was young--in the prime of early manhood, his dress was that of a rustic, his equipment showed him to be a traveller--a weary one, from the plight of his horse, and, like most travellers of the time, well armed. He did not stand to summon any one to the door, but put his hand upon the latch with eager haste, and entered with the familiarity of one acquainted with the place. Mistress Ramsay was seated at her spinning-wheel, anxiously brooding over the tales of the day. Her husband reclined in his chair, silently and thoughtfully smoking his pipe. They both sprang up at once, as the visitor crossed the threshold, and with fervent joy greeted their son John Ramsay. The household was clamorous with the affectionate salutations of the parents, of the brothers and sisters, and of the domestics. John was the eldest of Ramsay's children, and had just reached his paternal roof after an absence of some months, during which he had been in service with Sumpter. The gathering in of the members of a family around the domestic board, in times of peril and distress, is one of the luxuries of the heart that in peace we cannot know. The arrival of John Ramsay at the present moment was a source of the liveliest happiness to his parents. They needed a cheerful as well as a resolute comforter. John had, only twenty-four hours previous, left Sumpter near Rocky Mount--immediately after the battle with the British convoy was won. He was sent with despatches to Colonel Williams, a Whig partisan of note, who was now supposed to be in the neighborhood of the Saluda. These had some reference to the military movements of the parties; and John Ramsay was permitted by Sumpter to make a short halt at his father's house. In the first hour after his arrival, he had given to the family the history of his homeward ride. He had discovered that hostile forces--of which, until his journey was nearly finished, he heard nothing--were encamped in the neighborhood; that a court-martial had been sitting for the trial of an American officer, as a spy, and had condemned him to be shot. He had been apprised, moreover, that small parties were out, riding into every corner of the country. He himself had nearly been surprised by one of these, as he endeavored to make his way to the house of Allen Musgrove, where he had proposed to himself a visit, even before he came to his father's, but, fearing something wrong, he had fled from them, and baffled their pursuit, although they had chased him more than a mile; he had, in consequence, been deprived of the opportunity of visiting the miller. "Although it is four months since we have seen you, John," said the dame, with a tone of affectionate chiding, "yet, you would turn aside to get under Allen Musgrove's roof, before you thought of the arms of your mother." John's sun-burnt cheek blushed crimson red as he replied, "It was but a step out of the way, mother, and I should not have stayed long. Mr. Musgrove and his folks are safe and well, I hope, and Christopher?" "Tut, boy! speak it out, and don't blush about it," interrupted the father briskly: "she is a good girl, and you needn't be ashamed to name her, as you ought to have done, first and before all the rest. Mary is well, John, and has just proved herself to be the best girl in the country." This little passage of mirth between the parents and their son, led to a full narrative by David Ramsay of the events which had occurred in the last two or three days, concluding with the capture of the ensign, and the retreat of Horse Shoe and Christopher Shaw to the Devil's Ladder. The communication wrought a grave and thoughtful mood on the young soldier. It presented a crisis to him for immediate action. He was wearied with a long ride, but it seemed to him to be no time for rest. "Father," he said, after turning over in his thoughts the intelligence he had just received, "it was a brave and beautiful thing for so young a lad as Andy to do; and the taking of the ensign has served a useful purpose, but it brings this house and family into danger. And I fear for poor Mary. Christopher Shaw must get back to the mill, and quickly too. His absence will bring his uncle's family into trouble. I will take Christopher's place, and go to Horse Shoe's assistance this night. We may take the prisoner with us to Williams." "To-night!" said the mother anxiously, "you would not leave us to-night, John?" "Aye, to-night, wife," answered David Ramsay, "the boy is right, there is no time to spare." "Have mercy upon us," exclaimed the dame; "to ride so far to-night, after so heavy a journey, John!--you have not strength." "Dear mother," said John, "think that you are all in danger and that Mary, who has behaved so well, might be suspected, and brought to harm. I must hurry forward to Colonel Williams, and this road by the Devil's Ladder is far out of my way. No, I am not so much fatigued, mother, as you suppose. I will rest for a few hours, and then try the woods. Daybreak, I warrant, shall not find me far from Horse Shoe." John Ramsay was not above six-and-twenty. He was endued with a stout and manly frame, well adapted to hard service; and this was associated with a bold and intelligent countenance, which, notwithstanding the dint of wind and weather, was handsome. He had for a year or two past been actively engaged in the war, and his manners had, in consequence, acquired that maturity and decision which are generally found in those whose habits of life render them familiar with perils. On the present occasion he regarded the necessity of co-operation with Robinson as so urgent, that no other thought crossed his mind but that which belonged to the care of putting himself in condition to make his services effectual. With this view he now directed his horse to be carefully tended; then, having taken a hearty meal, he retired to rest, desiring that he might be waked up at midnight, when he proposed to follow the path of Horse Shoe and his comrade. CHAPTER XXVII. A RETREAT AFTER THE MANNER OF XENOPHON. The next morning, a little after sunrise, as Robinson was holding the watch on the outer ledge of the rock, in a position that enabled him to survey the approaches to the spot through the valley, as well as to keep his eye upon the ensign and Christopher Shaw, who were both asleep under cover of the crag, he was startled by a distant noise of something breaking through the bushes on the margin of the brook. At first it struck him that this was caused by deer stalking up the stream; but he soon afterwards descried the head and shoulders of a man, whose motions showed him to be struggling through the thicket towards the base of the hill. This person at length reached a space of open ground, where he halted and looked anxiously around him, thus revealing his figure, as he sat on horseback, to the observation of the sergeant, who, in the meantime, had taken advantage of a low pine tree and a jutting angle of a rock to screen himself from the eager eye of the traveller--at least until he should be satisfied as to the other's character and purpose. A loud and cheerful halloo, several times repeated by the stranger, seemed to indicate his quest of a lost companion; and this gradually drew the sergeant, with a weary motion, from his hiding-place, until assuring himself that the comer was alone, he stept out to the edge of the shelf of rock, and presenting his musket, peremptorily gave the common challenge of "Who goes there?" "A friend to Horse Robinson," was the reply of the visitor, in whom my reader recognises John Ramsay. Before further question might be asked and answered, John had dismounted from his horse and clambered to the platform, where he greeted the sergeant and the hastily-awakened Christopher Shaw, with a hearty shake of the hand; and then proceeded to communicate the pressing objects of his visit, and to relate all that he had learned of the recent events during his short stay at his father's house. In the consultation that followed these disclosures, Ramsay earnestly urged his comrades to make instant preparation to quit their present retirement, and to attempt the enterprise of conducting the prisoner to Williams, who was supposed to be advancing into the neighborhood of a well known block-house, or frontier fortification, on the Saluda, about forty miles from their present position. The message with which Ramsay was charged from Sumpter to Williams, made it necessary that he should endeavor to reach that officer as soon as possible; and the sergeant, rejoicing in the thought of being so near a strong body of allies who might render the most essential aid to the great object of his expedition, readily concurred in the propriety of the young trooper's proposal. This enterprise was also recommended by the necessity of taking some immediate steps to preserve the custody of the ensign, whose capture had already been so serviceable to the cause of Arthur Butler. In accordance, moreover, with John Ramsay's anxious entreaty, Christopher Shaw, it was determined, should hasten back to the mill at the earliest moment. A speedy departure was, therefore, resolved on, and accordingly all things were made ready, in the course of an hour, to commence the march. At the appointed time the ensign was directed to descend into the valley, where he was once more bound to his horse. The conferences between the sergeant and his two comrades had been held out of the hearing of the prisoner; but it was now thought advisable to make him acquainted with the late proceedings that had transpired with regard to Butler, and especially with the respite that had been given to that officer by Innis. This communication was accompanied by an intimation that he would best consult his own comfort and safety by a patient submission to the restrictions that were put upon him: inasmuch as his captors had no disposition to vex him with any other precautions than were necessary for his safe detention during the present season of peril to Butler. With this admonition the party began their journey. The first two or three hours were occupied in returning, by the route of the valley, to the Ennoree. When they reached the river they found themselves relieved from the toils of the narrow and rugged path by which they had threaded the wild mountain dell, and introduced into an undulating country covered with forest, and intersected by an occasional but unfrequented road leading from one settlement to another. Here Christopher Shaw was to take leave of his companions, his path lying along the bank of the Ennoree, whilst the route to be pursued by the others crossed the river and extended thence southwards to the Saluda. The young miller turned his horse's head homewards, with some reluctance at parting with his friends in a moment of such interest, and bore with him many messages of comfort and courage to those whom he was about to rejoin--and more particularly from the sergeant to Butler, in case Christopher should have the good fortune to be able to deliver them. At the same time, Horse Shoe and John Ramsay, with the prisoner, forded the Ennoree, and plunged into the deep forest that lay upon its further bank. For several hours they travelled with the greatest circumspection, avoiding the frequented roads and the chance of meeting such wayfarers as might be abroad on their route. It was a time of great anxiety and suspense, but the habitual indifference of military life gave an air of unconcern to the conduct of the soldiers, and scarcely affected, in any visible degree, the cheerfulness of their demeanor. They reached, at length, the confines of a cultivated country--a region which was known to be inhabited by several Tory families. To avoid the risk of exposure to persons who might be unfriendly to their purpose, they thought it prudent to delay entering upon this open district until after sunset, that they might continue their journey through the night. The difficulty of ascertaining their road in the dark, and the danger of seeking information from the few families whose habitations occurred to their view, necessarily rendered their progress slow. The time was, therefore, passed in weary silence and persevering labor, in the anxious contemplation of the probability of encountering some of the enemy's scouts. At the break of day they stopped to refresh themselves; and the contents of Horse Shoe's wallet, unhappily reduced to a slender supply of provisions, were distributed amongst the party. During this halt, John Ramsay commanded the ensign to exchange his dress with him; and our faithful ally was converted, by this traffic, for the nonce, into a spruce, well-looking, and gay young officer of the enemy's line. The most hazardous portion of their journey now lay before them. They were within a few miles of the Saluda, from whence, at its nearest point, it was some six or seven more down the stream to the Block-house--the appointed rendezvous, where it was yet a matter of uncertainty whether Williams had arrived. The space between the travellers and the river was a fertile and comparatively thickly-peopled region, of which the inhabitants were almost entirely in the Tory interest. The broad daylight having overtaken them on the confines of this tract, exposed them to the greatest risk of being questioned. They had nothing left but to make a bold effort to attain the river by the shortest path; and thence to pursue the bank towards the rendezvous. "Courage, John," said Horse Shoe, smiling at the new garb of his comrade; "you may show your pretty feathers to-day to them that are fond of looking at them. And you, my young clodpole, ride like an honest Whig, or I mought find occasion to do a discomfortable thing, by putting a bullet through and through you. Excuse the liberty, sir, for these are ticklish times; but I shall ondoubtedly be as good as my word." Our adventurers soon resumed their journey. They had come within a mile of the Saluda without interruption, and began to exchange congratulations that the worst was passed, when they found themselves descending a sharp hill which jutted down upon an extensive piece of pasture ground. One boundary of this was watered by a brook, along whose margin a fringe of willows, intermixed with wild shrubbery of various kinds, formed a screen some ten or fifteen feet in height. As soon as this range of meadow was observed, our cautious soldiers halted upon the brow of the hill to reconnoitre; and perceiving nothing to excite their apprehension, they ventured down, upon the track of an ill-defined road, which took a direction immediately over the broadest portion of the field. They had scarcely crossed the brook at the bottom of the hill, before they heard the remote voices of men in conversation, and the tones of a careless laugh. On looking towards the upper section of the stream, they were aware of a squad of loyalist cavalry, who came riding, in the shade of the willows, directly towards the spot where the travellers had entered upon the meadow. The party consisted of seven or eight men, who were, at this instant, not more than one hundred paces distant. "They are upon us, sergeant!" exclaimed John Ramsay. "Make sure of the prisoner: retreat as rapidly as you can. Leave me to myself. Make for the Block-house--I will meet you there." With these hasty intimations, he pricked his courser up to full speed, and shaped his flight directly across the open field, in full view of the enemy. Horse Shoe, at the same moment, drew a pistol, cocked it, and throwing the rein of St. Jermyn's horse into the hands of the rider, he cried out:-- "Back across the branch and into the woods! Push for it, or you are a dead man! On, on!" he added, as he rode at high speed immediately beside the ensign; "a stumble, or a whisper above your breath, and you get the bullet. Fly--your life is in your horse's heels!" The resolute tone of the sergeant had its effect upon his prisoner, who yielded a ready obedience to the pressing orders, and bounded into the thicket with as much alacrity as if flying from an enemy. Meanwhile, the troopers, struck with the earnest haste of one whose dress bespoke a British officer, speeding across the field, did not doubt that they had afforded this timely opportunity for the escape of a prisoner from the hands of the Whigs. "Wheel up, lads," shouted the leader of the squad, "it is the ensign! Wheel up and form a platoon to cut off the pursuit. We have him safe out of their clutches!" Impressed with the conviction that a considerable force of Whig cavalry were at hand, the troopers directed all their efforts to cover what they believed Ensign St. Jermyn's retreat, and were now seen formed into a platoon, and moving towards the middle of the plain, in such a manner as to place themselves between the fugitive and his supposed pursuers. Here they delayed a few minutes, as if expecting an attack; until finding that the object of their solicitude had safely crossed the field and plunged into the distant woods, they rode away at a rapid pace in the same direction. When they reached the further extremity of the open ground, they halted for an instant, turned their eyes back towards the spot of their first discovery, and, finding that no attempt was made to follow, gave a hearty huzza, and rode onward in search of their prize. The stratagem had completely succeeded: Ramsay had escaped, and Horse Shoe had withdrawn his prisoner into the neighboring wood upon the hill, where he was able to observe the whole scene. After a brief interval, the sergeant resumed his journey, and, with all necessary circumspection, bent his steps towards the river, where he arrived without molestation, and thence he continued his march in the direction of the rendezvous. John Ramsay did not stop until he had crossed the Saluda and advanced a considerable distance on the opposite bank, where, to his great joy, he was encountered by a look-out party of Williams's regiment. Our fugitive had some difficulty in making himself known to his friends, and escaping the salutation which an enemy was likely to obtain at their hands; but when he surrendered to them, and made them acquainted with the cause of his disguise, the party instantly turned about with him, and proceeded in quest of the sergeant and his prisoner. It was not long before they fell in with the small detachment of Connelly's troopers,--as the late masters of the meadow turned out to be--who were leisurely returning from their recent exploit. These, finding themselves in the presence of superior numbers, turned to flight. Not far behind them Ramsay and his new companions encountered Horse Shoe; and the whole party proceeded without delay to Williams's camp. Colonel Williams had reached the Block-house on the preceding evening with a force of two hundred cavalry. Clarke and Shelby happened, at this juncture, to be with him; and these three gallant partisans were now anxiously employed in arranging measures for that organized resistance to the Tory Dominion which fills so striking a chapter in the history of the Southern war, and which it had been the special object of Butler's mission to promote. Horse Shoe was enabled to communicate to Williams and his confederates the general purpose of this mission, and the disasters which had befallen Butler in his attempt to reach those with whom he was to co-operate. This intelligence created a lively interest in behalf of the captive, and it was instantly determined to make some strenuous effort for his deliverance. Whilst these matters were brought into consultation by the leaders, Horse Shoe and John Ramsay mingled amongst the soldiers, in the enjoyment of that fellowship which forms the most agreeable feature in the associations of the camp. CHAPTER XXVIII. BUTLER'S DIFFICULTIES INCREASE.--INNIS FINDS OCCASION TO THINK OF THE ADAGE--"THERE'S MANY A SLIP BETWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP." When Arthur Butler was conducted back to his place of confinement, after his trial, orders were given that no one should be allowed to approach him, except the officer to whom was intrusted his safe custody. The intercourse of this person with him was short; and concerned only with the scant accommodation which his condition required. He was, therefore, deprived of all chance of becoming acquainted with the extraordinary events that had led to his present respite from death. In the interrogations that had, during the first moments of excitement, been put to him, in regard to the letter, he was not told its import; from what quarter it had come; nor how it affected his fate. He only knew, by the result, that it had suspended the purpose of his immediate execution; and he saw that it had produced great agitation at head-quarters. He found, moreover, that this, or some other cause, had engendered a degree of exasperation against him, that showed itself in the retrenchment of his comforts, and in the augmented rigor of his confinement. Agitated with a thousand doubts, his mind was too busy to permit him to close his eyes during the night that followed; and in this wakeful suspense he could sometimes hear, amongst the occasional ramblers who passed under his window, an allusion, in their conversation, to a victory gained over the royal troops. Coupling this with the name of Sumpter, which was now and then uttered with some adjective of disparagement, he conjectured that Horse Shoe had probably fallen in with that partisan, and was, peradventure, leading him to this vicinity. But this conclusion was combated by the fact that there seemed to be no alarm in the camp, nor any preparations on foot either for instant battle or retreat. Then the letter--that was a mystery altogether impenetrable. There was only one point upon which his mind could rest with satisfaction: of that he was sure--Horse Shoe was certainly at the bottom of the scheme, and was active in his behalf. The whole of the next day passed over in the same state of uncertainty. It was observed by Butler, with some stress upon the circumstance, that Captain St. Jermyn, who had heretofore evinced a disposition to make himself busy in his behalf, had absented himself ever since the trial; and he thus felt himself cut off from the slightest exhibition of sympathy on the part of a single individual in the multitude of fellow beings near him. Indeed, there were various indications of a general personal ill-will against him. The house, in which he was confined, was so constructed that he could frequently hear such expressions, in the conferences of those who inhabited the rooms below stairs, as were uttered above the lower key of conversation, and these boded him no good. Once, during the day, Colonel Innis visited him. This officer's countenance was severe, and indicated anger. His purpose was to extort something from the prisoner in reference to his supposed knowledge of the course of operations of Sumpter, from whose camp Innis did not doubt this letter regarding St. Jermyn had come. He spoke in a short, quick, and peremptory tone: "It may be well for you," he said, "that your friends do not too rashly brave my authority. Let me advise you to warn them that others may fall into our hands; and that if the ensign be not delivered up, there may be a dreadful retaliation." "I know not, sir, of what or whom you speak," replied Butler; "and it is due to my honor to say, that I will not be induced, for the sake of saving my life, to interfere with any operations which the soldiers of Congress may have undertaken in the cause of the country. In this sentiment I admonish Colonel Innis that I desire to be put in possession of no facts from him that may be communicated under such an expectation. And having made this determination known to you, I will add to it that, from the same motives, I will answer no questions you can propose to me. You may spare yourself, therefore, the useless labor of this visit. My life is in your hands, and I have already experienced with what justice and clemency you will use your power when you dare." "A more humble tone," said Innis, with a bitter smile, "I think would better suit your circumstances." And with this remark the commandant haughtily walked out of the apartment. The next morning, whilst Butler was taking his breakfast, which had been brought to him by one of the soldiers of the guard, he heard a loud cheering from the troops that at that hour were on parade in the plain. This was followed by the discharge of a _feu de joie_ from the whole line, and a flourish of drums and trumpets. "What is that?" he inquired eagerly of the soldier, who, forgetful, in the excitement of the moment, of the order to restrain his intercourse with the prisoner, answered-- "They have just got the news from Camden: two days ago Cornwallis defeated Gates, and cut his army to pieces. The troops are rejoicing for the victory, and have just had the despatches read." Butler heaved a deep sigh, as he said, "Then all is lost, and liberty is but a name! I feared it; God knows, I feared it." The soldier was recalled to his duty by the sentinel at the door, and Butler was again left alone. This was a day of crowding events. The tidings of the battle of Camden, gained on the sixteenth, and which had early this morning reached Innis, threw a spirit of the highest exultation into the camp. The event was considered decisive of the fate of the rebel power; and the most extravagant anticipations were indulged by the loyalists, in regard to the complete subjugation of the Whigs of the southern provinces. The work of confiscation was to be carried out to the most bitter extreme, and the adherents of the royal government were to grow rich upon the spoils of victory. The soldiers of Innis were permitted to give way to uncontrolled revelry; and, from the first promulgation of the news, this became a day devoted to rejoicings. Innis himself looked upon the victory at Camden with more satisfaction, as it gave him reason to believe that the sentence pronounced against Butler might be executed, without fear of vengeance threatened against the Ensign St. Jermyn. He was, however, exceedingly anxious to see this young officer released from the hands of the enemy; and had determined to respect the threat as long as there was any doubt that it might be performed. The personal consideration of Captain St. Jermyn, his station as an officer of importance, and, above all, the great influence of his family, in the esteem of the royal leaders, made it an object of deep concern to Innis to save the ensign, by the most scrupulous regard to his present difficulties. His power to do so seemed to be much increased by the late victory. In the afternoon of the same day, further rumors were brought to Innis's camp, importing that Sumpter had been attacked on that morning upon the Catawba, by Tarleton, and completely routed. The prisoners and baggage, taken on the fifteenth, had been regained, and Sumpter was flying with the scattered remnant of his troops towards North Carolina. At the same time an order was brought to Innis to break up his camp and move northwards. This only added to the shouts and rejoicings of the troops, and drove them into deeper excesses. The war, they thought, was coming rapidly to an end, and they already anticipated this conclusion, by throwing off the irksomeness of military restraint. The officers were gathered into gossiping and convivial circles; and laughed, in unrestrained feelings of triumph, at the posture of affairs. The private soldiers, on their part, imitated their leaders, and formed themselves into knots and groups, where they caroused over their cups, danced, and sang. All was frolic and merriment. In the midst of this festivity, a portion of Connelly's troopers, who had now been absent forty-eight hours, arrived, and made an immediate report to Innis. The purport of this was, that they had found Ensign St. Jermyn in the possession of a detachment of Whig cavalry near the Saluda: as soon as they descried him, which they did, some three hundred paces distant, knowing him by his scarlet uniform, they prepared to attack this party of Whigs; but the ensign perceiving his friends at hand, had already, by a brave effort, disentangled himself from his keepers, and taken off into the open field. The scouts, therefore, instead of attacking the Whigs, directed all their attention to secure the ensign's retreat, by holding themselves ready to check the pursuit: their manoeuvre had been successful, and the prisoner was free. "And is now with you in the camp, my brave fellows?" said Innis, with great exultation. "Not yet," replied the sergeant of the squad. "He is upon the road, and will, no doubt, soon be here. We have not seen him since his escape. Whilst we hung back, with a view to favor his retreat, we fell in with a party that we took to be the escort that had made him prisoner; and as they outnumbered us, we thought it prudent to decline a skirmish with them. So we filed off and made our way back to head quarters. The ensign must have been a good mile ahead of us, and as the road is hard to find, he may have lost his way. But this is certain, we saw him clear of the Whigs, with his horse's head turned towards this camp." "Thank you, good friends," said Innis; "you have performed your duty handsomely. Go to your comrades; they have news for you, and an extra allowance to-day. Faith, Ker, this is a day for settling old accounts," he continued, as he turned and addressed an officer by his side. "Gates beaten, Sumpter beaten, and Ensign St. Jermyn delivered from captivity! That looks well! And now I have another account, which shall be settled on the nail. Stirring times, Captain St. Jermyn. I congratulate you, my friend, on your brother's safety, and mean to signalize the event as it deserves. Major Frazer, bring out your prisoner, and let him die the death punctually at sundown--at sundown, to the minute, major. We must get that job off our hands. To-morrow, my friends, we shall move towards Catawba, and thence to Hanging Rock. Meantime, we must sweep up our rubbish. So, major, look to your duty! It might as well have been done at first," he added, speaking to himself, as he walked away from the group of officers to look after other affairs. The execution of Butler was now regarded as a mere matter of business, and to be despatched as one item of duty amongst the thousand others that were to be looked after in the hurry of breaking up the post. The interest of the trial had faded away by the lapse of time, and in the more predominating excitements which the absorbing character of the late events had afforded. The preparations for this ceremony were, therefore, attended with no display, and scarcely seemed to arouse inquiry amongst the soldiers of the camp. It was treated in all respects as a subordinate point of police. Ten files were detailed; one drum and fife put in requisition; and this party, attended by Frazer, and two or three officers who happened to be near at the moment, marched with a careless step to head-quarters. The first announcement of this sudden resolve was made to the prisoner by a subaltern; who, without prelude or apology, or the least effort to mitigate the harshness of the order he bore, walked abruptly into the chamber and delivered the message of his superior. "It is a sudden proceeding," said Butler, calmly; "but your pleasure must be obeyed." "You have had two days to think of it," replied the officer; "it is not often so much time is allowed. Ensign St. Jermyn, sir, is safe, and that is all we waited for. We march to-morrow, and therefore have no time to lose. You are waited for below." Butler stood a moment with his hand pressed upon his brow, and then muttered, "It is even so; our unhappy country is lost, and the reign of blood is but begun. I would ask the poor favor of a moment's delay, and the privilege of pen, ink, and paper, whilst I write but a line to a friend." "Impossible, sir," said the man. "Time is precious, and our orders are positive." "This is like the rest," answered Butler; "I submit." Then buttoning his coat across his breast, he left the room with a firm and composed step. When he reached the door the first person who met his eye was Captain St. Jermyn. There was an expression of formal gravity in the manner of this officer, as he accosted the prisoner, and lamented the rigor of the fate that awaited him. And it was somewhat with a cold and polite civility that he communicated his readiness to attend to any request which Butler, in his last moments, might wish to have performed. Butler thanked him for his solicitude, and then said, "I asked permission to write to a friend; that has been denied. I feel reluctant to expose myself to another refusal. You have taken a slight interest in my sufferings, and I will, therefore, confide to you a simple wish, which it will not cost my persecutors much to gratify. It is that I may be taken to my grave, dressed as you see me now. I would not have my person stripped or plundered." "If you have valuables about you, sir, trust them to my keeping; I promise you they shall be faithfully delivered according to your wish." "What money there is about my person," replied Butler, "may be given to the soldiers who are compelled to execute this harsh and unjust sentence on my person; but I have a trinket," he said, drawing from his bosom a miniature, which was suspended by a ribbon, "it is the gift of one,"--here, for the first time, a tear started into Butler's eye, and his power of utterance failed him. "I understand, sir," said St. Jermyn, eagerly reaching out his hand to take the picture, "I will seek the lady, at whatever hazard"-- "No," answered the unfortunate officer, "it must be buried with me. It has dwelt here," he added with emotion, as he placed his hand upon his heart, "and here it must sleep in death." "On the honor of a soldier," said St. Jermyn, "I promise you its rest shall not be violated." "You will attend me?" "I will." "Lead on," said the prisoner, stepping to the place assigned him in the ranks. "I seek no further delay." "March down the river, half a mile below the camp," said Innis, who now came up, as the escort had begun its progress towards the place of execution. And the soldiers moved slowly, with the customary funeral observances, in a direction that led across the whole extent of the plain. When this little detachment had disappeared on the further side of the field, a sudden commotion arose at head-quarters by the hasty arrival of a mounted patrol-- "We are followed!" cried the leading horseman, in great perturbation. "They will be here in an instant! We have been pressed by them for the last two miles." "Of whom do you speak?" inquired Innis, eagerly. "The enemy! the enemy!" vociferated several voices. At the same moment a cloud of dust was seen rising above the trees, in the direction of the road leading up the Ennoree. "To arms--to arms!" ejaculated the commander. "Gentlemen, spring to your horses, and sound the alarm through the camp--we are set upon by Sumpter--it can be no other. Curry, take a few dragoons--follow the prisoner--mount him behind one of your men, and retreat with him instantly to Blackstock's!" Having given these hasty orders, Innis, with the several officers who happened to be at hand, ran to their horses, mounted, and pushed forward to the camp. They had scarcely left their quarters before two dragoons, in advance of a party of twenty or thirty men, rushed up to the door. "Sarch the house!" shouted the leading soldier. "Three or four of you dismount and sarch the house! Make sure of Major Butler, if he is there! The rest of you forward with me!" The delay before head-quarters scarcely occupied a moment, and in the meantime the number of the assailants was increased by the squadrons that poured in from the rear. These were led by a young officer of great activity and courage, who, seeing the disordered condition of the royalists, waved his sword in the air as he beckoned his men to follow him in a charge upon the camp. The advanced party, with the two dragoons, were already on the field charging the first body that they found assembled; and, close behind them, followed Colonel Williams--the officer of whom I have spoken--with a large division of cavalry. At the same moment that Williams entered upon the plain from this quarter, a second and third corps, led respectively by Shelby and Clarke, were seen galloping upon the two flanks of the encampment. The plain was now occupied by about two hundred Whig cavalry. The royalists, taken by surprise, over their cups it may be said, and in the midst of a riotous festival, were everywhere thrown into the wildest confusion. Such of them as succeeded in gaining their arms, took post behind the trees, and kept up an irregular fire upon the assailants. Colonel Innis had succeeded in getting together about a hundred men at a remote corner of his camp, and had now formed them into a solid column to resist the attack of the cavalry, whilst from this body he poured forth a few desultory volleys of musketry, hoping to gain time to collect the scattered forces that were in various points endeavoring to find their proper station. Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay--the two foremost in the advance--were to be discovered pushing through the sundered groups of the enemy with a restless and desperate valor that nothing could withstand. "Cut them down," cried Horse Shoe, "without marcy! remember the Waxhaws!" And he accompanied his exhortation with the most vehement and decisive action, striking down, with a huge sabre, all who opposed his way. Meantime, Colonel Williams and his comrades charged the column formed by Innis, and, in a few moments, succeeded in riding through the array and compelling them to a total rout. Robinson and Ramsay, side by side, mingled in this charge, and were seen in the thickest of the fight. Innis, finding all efforts to maintain his ground ineffectual, turned his horse towards Musgrove's mill, and fled as fast as spur and sword could urge the animal forward. The sergeant, however, had marked him for his prize, and following as fleetly as the trusty Captain Peter was able to carry him, soon came up with the fugitive officer, and, with one broad sweep of his sword, dislodged him from his saddle and left him bleeding on the ground. Turning again towards the field, his quick eye discerned the unwieldy bulk of Hugh Habershaw. The gross captain had, in the hurry of the assault, been unable to reach his horse; and, in the first moments of danger, had taken refuge in one of the little sheds which had been constructed for the accommodation of the soldiers. As the battle waxed hot in the neighborhood of his retreat, he had crept forth from his den and was making the best of his way to an adjoining cornfield. He was bare-headed, and his bald crown, as the slanting rays of the evening sun fell upon it, glistened like a gilded globe. The well known figure no sooner occurred to the sergeant's view than he rode off in pursuit. The cornfield was bounded by a fence, and the burly braggart had just succeeded in reaching it when his enemy overtook him. "Have mercy, good Mr. Horse Shoe, have mercy on a defenceless man!" screamed the runaway, in a voice discordant with terror, as he stopped at the fence, which he was unable to mount, and looked back upon his pursuer. "Remember the good-will I showed you when you was a prisoner! Quarter, quarter--for God's sake, quarter!" "You get no quarter from me, you cursed blood-lapper!" exclaimed Horse Shoe, excited to a rage that seldom visited his breast; "think of Grindall's Ford!" and at the same instant he struck a heavy downward blow, with such sheer descent, that it clove the skull of the perfidious freebooter clean through to the spine. "I have sworn your death," said the sergeant, "even if I catch you asleep in your bed, and right fairly have you earned it." The body fell into a bed of mire, which had been the resort of the neighboring swine; and, leaving it in this foul plight, Horse Shoe hastened back to rejoin his comrades. The battle now ended in the complete route of the enemy. Williams's first care, after the day was won, was to collect his men and to secure his prisoners. Many of the Tories had escaped; many were killed and wounded; but of Butler no tidings could be gained; he had disappeared from the field before the fight began, and all the information that the prisoners could give was that orders had been sent to remove him from the neighborhood. Colonel Innis was badly wounded, and in no condition to speak with his conquerors; he was sent, with several other disabled officers, to head-quarters. Captain St. Jermyn had fled, with most of those who had mounted their horses before the arrival of Williams. The day was already at its close, and order was taken to spend the night upon the field. Guards were posted, and every precaution adopted to avoid a surprise in turn from the enemy, who, it was feared, might soon rally a strong party and assail the conquerors. The disturbed condition of the country, and the almost unanimous sentiment of the people against the Whigs, now strengthened by the late victories, prevented Williams from improving his present advantage, or even from bearing off his prisoners. Robinson and Ramsay volunteered to head a party to scour the country in quest of Butler, but the commanding officer could give no encouragement to the enterprise; it was, in his judgment, a hopeless endeavor, when the forces of the enemy were everywhere so strong. His determination, therefore, was to retreat, as soon as his men were in condition, back to his fastnesses. His few killed were buried; the wounded, of which there were not more than fifteen or twenty were taken care of, and the jaded troops were dismissed to seek refreshment amongst the abundant stores captured from the enemy. Ensign St. Jermyn was still a prisoner; and, for the sake of adding to Butler's security, Williams selected two or three other officers that had fallen into his hands to accompany him in his retreat. These arrangements all being made, the colonel and his officers retired to repose. The next morning at daylight there were no traces of the Whigs to be seen upon the plain. It was abandoned to the loyalist prisoners and their wounded comrades. CHAPTER XXIX. WILLIAMS TAKES A FANCY TO FOREST LIFE.--HORSE SHOE AND JOHN RAMSAY CONTINUE ACTIVE IN THE SERVICE OF BUTLER.--MARY MUSGROVE BECOMES A VALUABLE AUXILIARY. Williams had commenced his retreat before the dawn, as much with a view to accomplish a large portion of his journey before the heat of the day, as to protect himself against the probable pursuit of the rallied forces of the enemy. His destination was towards the mountains on the north-western frontier. The overthrow of Gates had left a large force of Tory militia at the disposal of Cornwallis, who, it was conjectured, would use them to break up every remnant of opposition in this region. It was therefore a matter of great importance to Williams, to conduct his little force into some place of security against the attacks of the royalists. Colonel Elijah Clarke had, ever since the fall of Charleston, been employed in keeping together the few scattered Whig families in that part of Carolina lying contiguous to the Savannah, with a view to an organized plan of resistance against the British authorities; and he had so far accomplished his purpose as to have procured some three or four hundred men, who had agreed to hold themselves in readiness to strike a blow whenever the occasion offered. These men were to be mustered at any moment by a preconcerted signal; and, in the meantime, they were instructed, by confining themselves to their dwellings, or pursuing their ordinary occupations, to keep as much as possible out of the way of the dominant authorities. Clarke resided in Georgia, whence he had fled as soon as the royalist leader, Brown, had taken possession of Augusta; and we have already seen that a letter from Colonel Pinckney, at Charleston, which Horse Shoe Robinson had been intrusted to deliver, had summoned Arthur Butler to this frontier to aid in Clarke's enterprise. Colonel Isaac Shelby, a resident of Washington county in Virginia, until the settlement of the southern line of the State had left him in the district at present known as Sullivan county in Tennessee, had been an efficient auxiliary in Clarke's scheme, and was now ready to summon a respectable number of followers for the support of the war on the mountain border. He and Clarke had accidentally arrived at Williams's camp a day or two before the attack upon Innis, with a view to a consultation as to the general interests of the meditated campaign; and they had only tarried to take a part in the engagement from a natural concern for the fate of their intended comrade, Butler. Having no further motive for remaining with Williams, they were both intent upon returning to their respective duties, and, accordingly, during the retreat of the following day, they took their leave. The vigilance with which these partisans were watched by their enemies, almost forbade the present hope of successful combination. From a consciousness of the hazard of attempting to concentrate their forces at this juncture, they had determined still to pursue their separate schemes of annoyance, until a more favorable moment for joint action should arise; and, in the interval, to hide themselves as much as possible in the forest. It was consequently in the hope of preserving his independence at least, if not of aiding Clarke, that Williams now moved with so much despatch to the mountains. His course lay towards the head waters of the Fair Forest river, in the present region of Spartanburg. This district was inhabited only by a few hunters, and some scattered Indians of an inoffensive character; it abounded in game, and promised to afford an easy subsistence to men whose habits were simple, and who were accustomed to rely upon the chase for support. The second day brought our hardy soldiers into the sojourn they sought. It was a wilderness broken by mountains, and intersected by streams of surpassing transparency; whilst its elevated position and southern latitude conferred upon it a climate that was then, as well as now, remarked for its delicious temperature in summer, and its exemption from the rigors of winter. The spot at which Williams rested was a sequestered valley deep hidden in the original woods, and watered by the Fair Forest, whose stream, so near its fountain, scarcely exceeded the dimensions of a little brook. Here he determined to form a camp, to which in times of emergency he might safely retreat. With a view to render it easy of access as a rendezvous, he caused landmarks to be made, by cutting notches on the trees--or _blazing_ them, in the woodman's phrase--in several directions, leading towards the principal highways that penetrated the country. The retreat thus established is familiar to the history of the war, under the name of the Fair Forest camp. These arrangements being completed in the course of the first day after his arrival, Williams now applied himself to the adoption of measures for the safety of Arthur Butler. Amongst the spoils that had fallen into his hands, after the victory over Innis, was the document containing the proceedings of the court-martial. The perusal of this paper, together with the comments afforded by Robinson, convinced him of the malignity of the persecution which had aimed at the life of the prisoner. It occurred to him, therefore, to submit the whole proceeding to Lord Cornwallis, to whom, he was persuaded, it either had been misrepresented, or, most probably, was entirely unknown. He did not doubt that an appeal to the honorable feelings of that officer, with a full disclosure of the facts, would instantly be followed by an order that should put Butler under the protection of the rules of war, and insure him all the rights that belong to a mere prisoner taken in arms in a lawful quarrel. A spirited remonstrance was accordingly prepared to this effect. It detailed the circumstances of Butler's case, which was accompanied with a copy of the proceedings of the court, and it concluded with a demand that such measures should be adopted by the head of the army, as comported with the rights of humanity and the laws of war; "a course," the writer suggested, "that he did not hesitate to believe his lordship would feel belonged both to the honor and duty of his station." This paper was consigned to the care of an officer, who was directed to proceed with it, under a flag of truce, to the head-quarters of the British commander. Soon after this, Robinson apprised Williams that Ramsay and himself had determined to venture back towards the Ennoree, to learn something of the state of affairs in that quarter, and to apply themselves more immediately to the service of Butler. In aid of this design, the sergeant obtained a letter from Williams, the purport of which was to inform the commandant of any post of the loyalists whom it might concern, that an application had been made on Butler's behalf to Cornwallis, and that the severest retaliation would be exercised upon the prisoners in Williams's custody, for any violence that might be offered the American officer. Putting this letter in his pocket, our man of "mickle might," attended by his good and faithful ally, John Ramsay, took his leave of "The Fair Forest" towards noon of the fourth day after the battle near Musgrove's mill. The second morning after their departure, the two companions had reached the Ennoree, not far from the habitation of David Ramsay. It was fair summer weather, and nature was as gay as in that piping time before the blast of war had blown across her fields. All things, in the course of a few days, seemed to have undergone a sudden change. The country presented no signs of strife: no bands of armed men molested the highways. An occasional husbandman was seen at his plough: the deer sprang up from the brushwood and fled into the forest, as if inviting again the pastime of the chase; and even when the two soldiers encountered a chance wayfarer upon the road, each party passed the other unquestioned--there was all the seeming quiet of a pacified country. The truth was, the war had rolled northwards--and all behind it had submitted since the disastrous fight at Camden. The lusty and hot-brained portions of the population were away with the army; and the non-combatants only, or those wearied with arms, were all that were to be seen in this region. Horse Shoe, after riding a long time in silence, as these images of tranquillity occupied his thoughts, made a simple remark that spoke a volume of truth in a few homely words. "This is an onnatural sort of stillness, John. Men may call this peace, but I call it fear. If there is a poor wretch of a Whig in this district, it's as good as his life is worth to own himself. How far off mought we be from your father's?" The young trooper heaved a deep sigh "I knew you were thinking of my poor father when you spoke your thoughts, Horse Shoe. This is a heavy day for him. But he could bear it: he's a man who thinks little of hardships. There are the helpless women, Galbraith Robinson," he continued, as he shook his head with an expression of sorrow that almost broke into tears. "Getting near home one thinks of them first. My good and kind mother--God knows how she would bear any heavy accident. I am always afraid to ask questions in these times about the family, for fear of hearing something bad. And there's little Mary Musgrove over at the mill"-- "You have good reason to be proud of that girl, John Ramsay," interrupted Robinson. "So speak out, man, and none of your stammering. Hoot!--she told me she was your sweetheart! You hav'n't half the tongue of that wench. Why, sir, if I was a lovable man, haw, haw!--which I'm not--I'll be cursed if I wouldn't spark that little fusee myself." "This fence," said Ramsay, unheeding the sergeant's banter, "belongs to our farm, and perhaps we had better let down the rails and approach the house across the field: if the Tories should be there we might find the road dangerous. This gives us a chance of retreat." "That's both scrupulous and wise, John," replied the sergeant. "So down with the pannel: we will steal upon the good folks, if they are at home, and take them by surprise. But mind you, my lad, see that your pistols are primed; we mought onawares get into a wasp's nest." The fence was lowered, and the horsemen cautiously entered the field. After passing a narrow dell and rising to the crest of the opposite hill, they obtained a position but a short distance in the rear of the homestead. From this point a melancholy prospect broke upon their sight. The dwelling-house had disappeared, and in its place was a heap only of smouldering ashes. A few of the upright frame-posts, scorched black, and a stone chimney with its ample fire-place, were all that remained of what, but a few days before, was the happy abode of the family of a brave and worthy man. "My God! my thoughts were running upon this! I feared their spite would break at last upon my father's head," cried John Ramsay, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped up to the ruins. "The savages have done their worst. But my father and mother where are they?" he exclaimed, as the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Take heart, my brave boy!" said Robinson, in the kindliest tones. "There's a reckoning to come for all these villanies--and it will go hard with many a Tory yet before this account is settled." "I will carry a hot hand into the first house that covers a Tory head," replied the young trooper, passionately; "this burning shall be paid with ten like it." "All in good time, John," said Robinson coolly. "As for the burning, it is no great matter; a few good neighbors would soon set that to rights, by building your father a better house than the one he has lost. Besides, Congress will not forget a true friend when the war is well fought out. But it does go against my grain, John Ramsay, to see a parcel of cowardly runaways spitting their malice against women and children. The barn, likewise, I see is gone," continued the sergeant, looking towards another pile of the ruins a short distance off. "The villains! when there's foul work to be done, they don't go at it like apprentices. No matter--I have made one observation: the darkest hour is just before the day, and that's a comfortable old saying." By degrees John Ramsay fell into a calmer temper, and now began to cast about as to the course fit to be pursued in their present emergency. About a quarter of a mile distant, two or three negro cabins were visible, and he could descry a few children near the doors. With an eager haste, therefore, he and the sergeant shaped their course across the field to this spot. When they arrived within fifty paces of the nearest hovel, the door was set ajar, and a rifle, thrust through the aperture, was aimed at the visitors. "Stand for your lives!" shouted the well known voice of David Ramsay. In the next instant the door was thrown wide open, the weapon cast aside, and the father rushed forward as he exclaimed, "Gracious God, my boy and Horse Shoe Robinson! Welcome, lads; a hundred times more welcome than when I had better shelter to give you! But the good friends of King George, you see, have been so kind as to give me a call. It is easy to tell when they take it in their head to visit a Whig." "My mother!" exclaimed John Ramsay. "In and see her, boy--she wants comfort from you. But, thank God! she bears this blow better than I thought she could." Before this speech was uttered John had disappeared. "And how came this mishap to fall upon you, David?" inquired Horse Shoe. "I suppose some of your prisoners," replied Ramsay, "must have informed upon Andy and me: for in the retreat of Innis's runaways, a party came through my farm. They stayed only long enough to ransack the house, and to steal whatever was worth taking; and then to set fire to the dwelling and all the out-buildings. Both Andy and myself, by good luck, perhaps, were absent, or they would have made us prisoners: so they turned my wife and children out of doors to shift for themselves, and scampered off as fast as if Williams was still at their heels. All that was left for us was to crowd into this cabin, where, considering all things, we are not so badly off. But things are taking an ill turn for the country, Horse Shoe. We are beaten on all sides." "Not so bad, David, as to be past righting yet," replied the sergeant. "What have they done with Major Butler?" "He was carried, as I learned, up to Blackstock's, the evening of the fight; and yesterday it was reported that a party has taken him back to Musgrove's. I believe he is now kept close prisoner in Allen's house. Christopher Shaw was here two days since, and told us that orders had come to occupy the millers dwelling-house for that purpose." Horse Shoe had now entered the cabin with David Ramsay, and in the course of the hour that followed, during which the family had prepared refreshment for the travellers, the sergeant had fully canvassed all the particulars necessary to be known for his future guidance. It was determined that he and John should remain in their present concealment until night, and then endeavor to reach the mill under cover of the darkness, and open some means of communication with the family of the miller. The rest of the day was spent in anxious thought. The situation of the adventurers was one of great personal peril, as they were now immediately within the circle of operations of the enemy and likely to be observed and challenged the first moment they ventured upon the road. The hour of dusk had scarcely arrived before they were again mounted on horseback. They proceeded cautiously upon the road that led through the wood, until it intersected the highway; and, having attained this point, John Ramsay, who was well acquainted with every avenue through the country, now led the way, by a private and scarcely discernible path, into the adjacent forest, and thence, by a tedious and prolonged route, directed his companion to the banks of the Ennoree. This course of travel took them immediately to the plain on which Innis had been encamped--the late field of battle. All here was still and desolate. The sheds and other vestiges of the recent bivouac were yet visible, but not even the farm-house that had constituted Innis's head-quarters was reoccupied by its original inhabitants. The bat whirred over the plain, and the owl hooted from the neighboring trees. The air still bore the scent of dead bodies which had either been left exposed, or so meagrely covered with earth as to taint the breeze with noisome exhalations. "There is a great difference, John," said Horse Shoe, who seldom let an occasion to moralize after his own fashion slip by, "there's a great difference between a hot field and a stale one. Your hot field makes a soldier, for there's a sort of a stir in it that sets the blood to running merrily through a man, and that's what I call pleasure. But when everything is festering like the inside of a hospital--or what's next door to it, a grave-yard--it is mighty apt to turn a dragoon's stomach and make a preacher of him. This here dew falls to-night like frost, and chills me to the heart, which it wouldn't do if it didn't freshen up the smell of dead men. And there's the hogs, busy as so many sextons among Innis's Tories: you may hear them grunt over their suppers. Well, there is one man among them that I'll make bold to say these swine hav'n't got the stomach to touch--that's Hugh Habershaw: he sleeps in the mud in yonder fence-corner." "If you had done nothing else in the fight, Horse Shoe, but cleave that fellow's skull," said Ramsay, "the ride we took would have been well paid for--it was worth the trouble." "And the rapscallionly fellow to think," added Horse Shoe, "that I was a going to save him from the devil's clutches, when I had a broadsword in my hand, and his bald, greasy pate in reach. His brain had nothing in it but deceit and lies, and all sorts of cruel thoughts, enough to poison the air when I let them out. I have made an observation, John, all my life on them foul-mouthed, swilling braggers--that when there's so much cunning and blood-thirstiness, there's no room for a thimbleful of courage: their heart's in their belly, which is as much as to signify that the man's a most beastly coward. But now, it is my opinion that we had best choose a spot along upon the river here, and leave our horses. I think we can manoeuvre better on foot: the miller's house is short of two miles, and we mought be noticed if we were to go nearer on horseback." This proposal was adopted, and the two friends, when they had ridden a short distance below the battle ground, halted in a thicket, where they fastened their horses, and proceeded towards the mill on foot. After following the course of the stream for near half an hour, they perceived, at a distance, a light glimmering through the window of Allen Musgrove's dwelling. This induced a second pause in their march, when Ramsay suggested the propriety of his advancing alone to reconnoitre the house, and attempting to gain some speech with the inmates. He accordingly left the sergeant to amuse himself with his own thoughts. Horse Shoe took his seat beneath a sycamore, where he waited a long time in anxious expectation of the return of his comrade. Growing uneasy, at last, at John's delay, he arose, and stole cautiously forward until he reached the mill, where he posted himself in a position from which he was able to see and hear what was going on at the miller's house. The porch was occupied by three or four persons, whose conversation, as it came to the sergeant's ear, proved them to be strangers to the family; and a ray of light from a taper within, after a while, made this more manifest, by revealing the scarlet uniform of the enemy. Horse Shoe was thus confirmed in the truth of the report that Butler had been brought to this place under a military escort. With this conviction he returned to the sycamore, where he again sat down to wait for the coming of his companion. It was after ten o'clock, and the sergeant was casting over in his thoughts the long absence of John, when his attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps, and the next instant John Ramsay and Mary Musgrove stood beside him. "What kept you till this time of night?" was the sergeant's accost. "Softly, man, I have news for you," replied Ramsay. "Here is Mary herself." "And so she is, indeed!" exclaimed the sergeant, at the same time shaking her hand, "this is my petticoat-sodger; how goes it with you, girl?" "I have only a moment to spare," replied the maiden cheerfully, "and it is the greatest of good luck that I thought of coming out; for John gave me a signal, which I was stupid enough not to understand at first. But, after a while, I thought it could be no one but John Ramsay; and that, partly, because I expected he would be coming into the neighborhood ever since I heard of his being at his father's, after the ensign was made a prisoner." "I went," said John Ramsay, "to the further side of the house, where I set to whistling an old-fashioned tune that Mary was acquainted with--walking away all the time in an opposite direction--as if there was nothing meant--" "And I knew the tune, Mr. Horse Shoe," interrupted Mary, eagerly, "it was Maggie Lauder. John practised that trick once before to show me how to find my way to him. Upon that, I made an excuse to leave the room, and slipped out through the garden--and then I followed the whistling, as folks say they follow a jack-o'-lantern." "And so, by a countermarch," continued the young dragoon, "we came round the meadow and through the woods, here." "Now that you've got here at last," said Horse Shoe, "tell me the news." "Major Butler is in the house," said Mary and John, both speaking at once. "He was brought there yesterday from Blackstock's," continued the maiden. "Orders came from somebody that he was to be kept at our house, until they had fixed upon what was to be done with him. Colonel Innis was too ill to think of such matters, and has been carried out of the neighborhood--and it is thought he will die." "How many men are there to guard the prisoner?" asked the sergeant. "There are more than twenty, with a lieutenant from Ninety-Six, who has the charge of them." "And how does the major bear his troubles?" "He seems to be heavy at heart," replied the maiden. "But that may be because he is away from his friends. Though my father, who is a good judge of such things, says he suffers tribulation like a Christian. He asked me privately, if I had heard anything of you, Mr. Robinson: and when I told him what folks said about your being with the people that beat Colonel Innis, he smiled, and said if any man could get him free, it was Horse Shoe Robinson." "Do they allow you to see him often?" inquired the sergeant. "I have seen him only two or three times since he came to the house," answered the maiden. "But the officer that has charge of him is not contrary or ill-natured, and makes no objection to my carrying him his meals--though I am obliged to pretend to know less about Major Butler than I do, for fear they might be jealous of my talking to him." "You can give him a letter?" "I think I can contrive it," replied the maiden. "Then give him this, my good girl," said Robinson, taking Williams's letter from his pocket and putting it in Mary's hand. "It is a piece of writing he can use whenever he is much pressed. It may save him from harm. Now, I want you to do something more. You must find a chance just to whisper in his ear that Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay are in the neighborhood. Tell him, likewise, that Colonel Williams has sent a messenger to Lord Cornwallis to lay his case before that officer, and to get some order for his better treatment. That the doings of that rascally court-martial have been sent by the messenger, hoping that Lord Cornwallis, if he is a brave and a Christian man--as they say he is--will stop this onmerciful persecution of the major--which has no cause for it under heaven. Will you remember all this?" "I'll try, sir," responded Mary; "and besides I will tell it to my father, who has more chance of speaking to Major Butler than I have." "Now," said Horse Shoe, "we will be here again to-morrow night, a little earlier than this; you must meet us here. And say to the major, if he has any message for us, he may send it by you. But be cautious, Mary, how you are seen talking with the prisoner. If they suspect you it will spoil all." "Trust to me," said the girl; "I warrant I have learned by this time how to behave myself amongst these red-coats." "There, John," continued Horse Shoe, "I have said all I want to say, and as you, I have no doubt, have got a good deal to tell the girl, it is but fair that you should have your chance. So, do you walk back with her as far as the mill, and I'll wait here for you. But don't forget yourself by overstaying your furlough." "I must get home as fast as possible," said Mary; "they will be looking for me." "Away, John Ramsay--away," added Horse Shoe; "and have your eyes about you, man." With this command John Ramsay and the miller's daughter hastily withdrew, and were soon out of the sergeant's hearing. After an interval, which doubtless seemed short to the gallant dragoon, he returned to his comrade, and the two set out rapidly in quest of their horses; and once more having got into their saddles, they retraced their steps at a brisk speed to Ramsay's cabin. CHAPTER XXX. All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle; With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout and the groan and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamor come loading the gale. THE MAID OF TORO. In the confusion that ensued upon the defeat of Innis, James Curry succeeded in conducting Butler from the field. His orders were to retreat with the prisoner to Blackstock's; and he had accordingly set out with about a dozen troopers, by a private path that led towards a quarter secure from the molestation of the enemy, when the attack commenced. Butler was mounted behind one of the men, and in this uneasy condition was borne along the circuitous by-way that had been chosen, without a moment's respite from the severe motion of the horse, nearly at high speed, until, having accomplished three miles of the retreat, the party arrived at the main road that extended between Innis's camp and Blackstock's. Here Curry, conceiving himself to be out of danger of pursuit, halted his men, with a purpose to remain until he could learn something of the combat. Butler was in a state of the most exciting bewilderment as to the cause of this sudden change in his affairs. No explanation was given to him by his conductors; and although, from the first, he was aware that an extraordinary emergency had arisen from some assault upon Innis's position, no one dropped a word in his hearing to give him the slightest clue to the nature of the attack. The troopers about him preserved a morose and ill-natured silence, and even manifested towards him a harsh and resentful demeanor. He heard the firing, but what troops were engaged, by whom led, or with what chances of success, were subjects of the most painfully interesting doubt. He could only conjecture that this was a surprise accomplished by the Whigs, and that the assailants must have come in sufficient force to justify the boldness of the enterprise. That Horse Shoe was connected with this irruption he felt fully assured; and from this circumstance he gathered the consolatory and cheerful prognostic of a better issue out of his afflictions than, in his late condition, seemed even remotely possible. This hope grew brighter as the din of battle brought the tidings of the day to his ear. The first few scattered shots that told of the confusion in which the combat was begun, were, after an interval, succeeded by regular volleys of musketry that indicated an orderly and marshalled resistance. Platoon after platoon fired in succession--signifying, to the practised hearing of the soldier, that infantry was receiving the attacks of cavalry, and that as yet the first had not faltered. Then the firing grew more slack, and random shots were discharged from various quarters--but amidst these were heard no embodied volleys. It was the casual and nearly overpowered resistance of flying men. At this juncture there was a dark frown on the brow of Curry, as he looked at his comrades, and said, in a low and muttered tone, "That helter-skelter shot grates cursedly on the ear. There's ill-luck in the sound of it." Presently a few stragglers appeared at a turn of the road, some quarter of a mile in the direction of the battle, urging their horses forward at the top of their speed. These were followed by groups both of infantry and cavalry, pressing onwards in the utmost disorder--those on horseback thrusting their way through the throng of foot-soldiers, seemingly regardless of life or limb; the wounded with their wounds bleeding afresh, or hastily bandaged with such appliances as were at hand. All hurried along amidst the oaths, remonstrances, and unheeded orders of the officers, who were endeavoring to resume their commands. It was the flight of men beset by a panic, and fearful of pursuit; and the clouds of dust raised by the press and hurry of this career almost obscured the setting sun. During the first moments of uncertainty, Curry, no less anxiously than Butler, remained stationary by the road-side, reading the distant signs of the progress of the fight; but now, when the disastrous issue was no longer doubtful, he commanded his cavalcade to move forward, and from that moment prosecuted his journey with unabated speed until he arrived at Blackstock's. Butler was unceremoniously marched to his former place of confinement in the barn, where a rigorous guard was set over his person. In the confusion and insubordination that prevailed amongst the crowd, that, during the night, was continually increasing in the little hamlet, the common rites of humanity towards the prisoner were forgotten, and he was left to pass the weary hours till morning, on a shock of hay, without food or other refreshment than a simple draught of water. From the unreserved murmurs of those who frequented the place, and the querulous upbraidings of the soldiery against each other, Butler was enabled to glean the principal incidents of the day. The supposed death of Innis reached him through this channel, and, what was scarcely a subject of less personal interest to him, the certain end of Hugh Habershaw. It was with a silent satisfaction at the moral or _poetical_ justice--as it has been called--of the event, that he heard the comrades of the late self-conceited captain describe his death in terms of coarse and unpitying ribaldry--a retribution due to the memory of a cruel and cowardly braggart. When the morning was fully abroad, the disarranged and broken remnants of the Tory camp began gradually to be reduced to a state of discipline. The day was spent in this occupation. Orders were every moment arriving from the higher officers of the late camp, or from the nearest British posts. Videttes bore the tidings of the different military operations from the neighborhood of the enemy. The fragments of companies were marshalled into squads and subdivisions; and, successively, one party after another was seen to leave the hamlet, and take a direction of march that led towards the main British army, or to the garrisons of the lower districts. Towards the close of the day one detachment only was left; and Butler was given to understand that this was intrusted with his especial keeping. It was composed of a few regular soldiers of the garrison of Ninety-Six, and a small number of the country militia,--making, in all, about twenty men, commanded by Lieutenant Macdonald, of the regular army. Butler remained in his present state of seclusion four or five days, during which he experienced much mitigation of the rigors of his captivity. Macdonald was a careful and considerate soldier, and demeaned himself towards his prisoner with such kindness as the nature of his trust allowed. He removed him into a comfortable apartment in the dwelling-house, and supplied him with the conveniences his situation required; he even made him occasional visits, which were attended with more than the mere observances of courtesy and respect, and expressed a sympathy in his sufferings. These unexpected tones of comfort, from a quarter in which Butler had hitherto heard nothing but fierce hatred and harsh rebuke, fell gratefully upon his ear, and gave a brighter color to his hopes for the future. But he could not help observing, that no hint was dropped by Macdonald which might furnish him the slightest ground of surmise as to the vicissitudes that yet awaited him. The reported fall of Innis seemed to afford a natural foundation for the belief, that the malice of his enemies might hereafter be less active,--as he attributed much of the persecution he had suffered to the secret machinations of that individual. He no longer saw around his person those agents who first pursued him with such bitter hostility. He seemed to have fallen into entirely new combinations, and had reason to augur, from all he saw, that their purposes against him were less wicked. And first, above all other topics of consolation and comfort, was the conviction that a brave and efficient party of friends were in the field, intent upon his liberation. Still, his situation was one in which it required all his manhood to sustain himself. A young soldier of an ardent temper, and zealously bent upon active and perilous service, can ill brook the tedious, dull delays of captivity, even in its mildest form: but if this thraldom befal in a period of universal agitation, when "great events are on the gale," of which the captive is only a witness to the pervading interest they excite, without being permitted to know their import; if moreover, as in the case of Butler, an impenetrable veil of mystery hang over the purpose of his captivity, behind which the few short glimpses afforded him, open upon his view nothing but death in its most frightful forms; and if to these are added, by far the bitterest of its qualities, the anxieties, cares, and pains of a devoted, plighted lover, separated from the heart that loves him, we may well conjecture that the most gallant spirit may find in it, even amidst occasional gleams of sunshine, that sinking of hope which the philosophic king of Israel has described as making "the heart sick,"--that chafing of the soul that, like the encaged eaglet, wearies and tears its wing against the bars of its prison. Even so fared it with Arthur Butler, who now found himself growing more and more into the shadow of a melancholy temper. It was soon ascertained that Williams had abandoned the field he had won, and had retreated beyond the reach of immediate pursuit. And as the post at Musgrove's mill afforded many advantages, in reference to the means of communicating with the garrisons of the middle section of the province, and was more secure against the hazard of molestation from such parties of Whigs as might still be out-lying, an order was sent to Macdonald to remove with his prisoner to the habitation of the miller, and there to detain him until some final step should be taken in his case. In pursuance of this requisition, Butler was conducted, after the interval of the few days we have mentioned, to Allen Musgrove's. The old man received his guest with that submission to the domination of the military masters of the province, which he had prescribed to himself throughout the contest,--secretly rejoicing that the selection made of his house for this purpose, might put it in his power to alleviate the sufferings of a soldier, towards whose cause he felt a decided though unavowed attachment. This selection furnished evidence to the miller, that nothing had transpired to arouse the distrust of the British authorities in the loyalty of any part of his family,--and to Butler, it inferred the consolatory fact, that the zealous devotion of Mary Musgrove to his service had as yet passed without notice; whilst to the maiden herself, it was proof that her agency in the delivery of the letter, which she had so adroitly put within the reach of the officers of the court, had not even excited a suspicion against her. The best room in the house was allotted to the prisoner; and the most sedulous attention on the part of the family, so far as it could be administered without inducing mistrust, was employed in supplying him with whatever was needful to his condition. On the part of the commanding officer, the usual precautions known to military experience for the safe keeping of a prisoner were adopted. The privates of the guard occupied the barn, whilst Macdonald and one or two subordinate officers took up their quarters in the dwelling-house: sentinels were posted at the several avenues leading to the habitation, and a sergeant had the especial care of the prisoner, who, under this supervision, was occasionally allowed the range of the garden. The usual forms of a camp police were observed with scrupulous exactness;--and the morning and the nightly drum, the parade, the changing of sentries, the ringing of ramrods in the empty barrels of the muskets, and the glitter of weapons, were strangely and curiously associated with the rural and unwarlike features of the scenery around. CHAPTER XXXI. BUTLER FINDS A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE IN HIS DISTRESS. Allen Musgrove had heard enough of Butler's history from his daughter and from Galbraith Robinson, to feel a warm interest in that officer's safety; and now his personal acquaintance with the prisoner still further corroborated his first prepossessions. The old man took the earliest opportunity to indicate to Butler the concern he felt in his welfare. From the moderate and kindly tone of his own character, he was enabled to do this without drawing upon himself the distrust of the officer of the guard. His expressions of sympathy were regarded, by Macdonald, as the natural sentiments of a religious mind imbued with an habitual compassion for the sufferings of a fellow creature, and of one who strove to discharge the duties of a peace-maker. His visits were looked upon as those of a spiritual counsellor, whose peculiar right it was to administer consolation to the afflicted, in whatever condition; he was therefore permitted freely to commune with the prisoner, and, as it sometimes happened, alone with him in his chamber. This privilege was now particularly useful; for Mary having, on the morning after her midnight interview with John Ramsay and Robinson, communicated to her father the incidents of that meeting, and put in his possession the letter which the sergeant had given her, and having also repeated her message to him accurately as she had received it, Musgrove took occasion, during the following day, to deliver the letter to Butler, and to make known to him all that he had heard from his daughter. This disclosure produced the most cheering effect upon Butler's spirits. It, for the first time since the commencement of his sufferings, opened to his mind a distinct view of his chance of eventual liberation. The expectation of having his case represented to Cornwallis inspired him with a strong confidence that justice would be done to him, and the covert malice of his enemies be disarmed. In this hope, it occurred to him to take some instant measures to satisfy the British commander-in-chief of the groundless character of the principal accusation brought against him by the court-martial,--that which related to the pretended design to deliver up Philip Lindsay to the wrath of the Republican government. For this purpose he resolved to make an appeal to Lindsay himself, by letter, and frankly to call upon him to put at rest this most unjust and wicked accusation. He knew that however strong Lindsay's antipathy to him might be, the high sense of honor which distinguished the father of Mildred might be confidently and successfully invoked to furnish such a statement as should entirely satisfy his accusers of the gross injustice of the charge. "I will write to him," he said, "and throw myself upon his protection. I will require of him to detail the whole history of my intercourse with his family, and to say how improbable even he must deem it, that I could be so base as to plot against his peace. And I will appeal to Mildred to fortify her father's statement, to show that this wicked accusation rests upon a story which it is impossible could be true." Whilst Butler's thoughts were still occupied with this resolve, Mary Musgrove entered his apartment, bearing in her hands a napkin and plate which she had come to spread for his dinner, and as the maiden employed herself in arranging a small table in the middle of the room, she cast a few distrustful glances towards the sentinel who paced to and fro opposite the door, and then, seizing on a moment when the soldier had disappeared from view, she whispered to Butler-- "You have seen my father, sir?" Butler nodded his head. "He has told you all?" Butler again signified a silent assent. The tramp of the sentinel showed that he was again approaching the door; and when Mary turned her eyes in that direction, she beheld the watchful soldier halting in such a position as to enable him both to see and hear what was passing in the room. Without showing the least perturbation, or even appearing to notice the guard, she said in a gay and careless voice,--"My father and Lieutenant Macdonald,--who is a good gentleman--think it belongs to Christian people to do all the good we can for them that providence has put under us; and so, sir, I have been to gather you some blackberries, which I thought, may be, you would like, sir." The sentinel walked away, and Mary smiled as she saw her little stratagem succeed. "Bring me some paper," said Butler cautiously. "You are a considerate girl," he continued, in a louder voice, "and I thank you for this good will." Then finding that the sentinel did not immediately return, he whispered--"I wish to write to Robinson--you shall take the letter and read it to him." "I will do my best," replied the maiden; and again the sentinel interrupted the conference. Mary, having arranged the table, left the room. In a few moments she returned, bringing with her the family Bible. "If you would like to read, sir," she said, "here is a book that a body may look at a long time without getting tired of it. We have only got this, and the Pilgrim's Progress, and the hymn-book, in the house; but my father says this is worth all the others that ever were printed, put together; and especially, sir, when one's in distress, and away from their friends." An expression of pleasure played across Butler's features as he took the heavy volume from the girl. "A thousand thanks to you, my pretty maiden," he replied. "I doubt not I shall grow both wiser and better under your tutoring. This kindness almost reconciles me to my fate." "John is doing all he can for you, and he is a good helper to Mr. Robinson," said Mary, in the same cautious whisper that she had first spoken in, as she retreated from the room. Butler opened the book, and found a sheet of paper folded away amongst the leaves; then closing it, he threw it upon his bed. In due course of time, Mary Musgrove returned with a few dishes of food which she set out upon the table, and, in one of the successive visits which were employed in furnishing the repast, she took from beneath her apron a small ink-horn and pen, which she placed, unobserved by the sentinel, in Butler's hand. Having done this, she retired, leaving the prisoner to despatch his meal alone. After dinner, Butler threw himself upon his bed, where he lay with the Bible opened out before him, with his back turned towards the door; and, whilst Mary Musgrove was engaged in removing the furniture of the table, he found means to write a few lines to Philip Lindsay. He took the same opportunity to pen a short letter to Mildred; and then to set down some directions for Horse Shoe Robinson, the purport of which was that the sergeant should take the two letters and depart, with all despatch, for the Dove Cote, and to put both into the hands of Mildred, with a request that she would procure him the necessary reply from her father. Horse Shoe was also directed to explain to Mildred such particulars of Butler's history as were necessary to be made known for the accomplishment of the object of the mission. When these papers were finished they were folded up into a small compass, and in the course of the evening put into Mary's hands, with a request that she would herself read the instructions intended for the sergeant, and apprise him of their contents when she delivered the papers to him. So far all had succeeded well, and Butler found additional reason to dispel the gloom that hung upon his spirits, in the prospect that was now opened to him of enlisting strong and authoritative friends in the scheme of his liberation. CHAPTER XXXII. MARY MUSGROVE'S PERPLEXITIES. As a mariner who watches the heavens from the deck, and notes the first uprising of the small cloud, "no bigger than a man's hand," that to his practised eye shows the sign of tempest; and anon, as the speck quickly changes into a lurid mass, whence volume after volume of dun vapor is driven in curled billows forward, covering the broad welkin with a gloomy pall, he looks more frequently and more intently upwards, anxious to lay his vessel safe, and assure himself of his proper course to steer: so--not with the same doubt of safety, but with the same restless inspection of the heavens--did Mary watch the slow approach of night. First, she looked wistfully at the declining sun, and observed with pleasure the night-hawk begin to soar: then, through the long twilight, she noted the thickening darkness, and saw the bat take wing, and heard the frog croaking from his pool. And as the stars, one by one, broke forth upon the night, it gladdened her to think the hour of her mission was approaching, for she was troubled in her spirit and anxious to acquit herself of her charitable office; and perhaps, too, it may be told of her, without prejudice to her modest, maidenly emotions, a spur was given to her wishes by the hope of meeting John Ramsay. For an hour after supper she paced the porch, and still looked out upon the stars, to mark the slow waxing of the night; and, now and then she walked forth as far as the mill, and lingered by the bank of the river, and again returned to ask the sentinel the hour. "You seem disturbed, Mary," said Macdonald, playfully. "Now, I'll venture to say I can guess your thoughts: this star-gazing is a great tell-tale. You were just now thinking that, as the tug of the war is over, some lad who has borne a musket lately, will be very naturally tripping this way to-night, instead of going home to see his mother. Come--isn't that a good guess?" "Do you know him, sir?" asked Mary, with composure. "Aye, to be sure I do: a good, brave fellow, who eats well, drinks well, and fights well." "All men do that now," replied the maiden, "but I am sure you are wrong, sir, if you think any such considers it worth his while to come here." "He must come quickly, or we cannot let him in without a countersign," said the officer: "sergeant, order the tattoo to beat, it is nine o'clock. Mary, stay, I must cross-question you a little about this same gallant." "Indeed, sir, I did but jest, and so I thought you did. My father says it is not proper I should loiter to talk with the men; good night, sir: it is our time for prayers." And with these words the young girl withdrew into the house. In some half hour afterwards Mary escaped by another door and, taking a circuitous path through the garden, she passed behind the sentinel and sped towards the mill, intent upon keeping her appointment with the friends of Butler. As soon as she reached the river bank, she quickened her pace, and hurried with a nimble step towards the distant thicket. "What ho! who goes there?" shouted the voice of a man from the neighborhood of the mill: "who flies so fast?" "Faith, Tom, it must be a ghost," said a second voice, loud enough to be heard by the damsel, who now increased the speed with which she fled towards the cover. In an instant two of the soldiers of the guard rushed upon the track of the frightened girl. "Spare me, good sir--for pity's sake, spare me!" exclaimed the maiden, suddenly turning round upon her pursuers. "Where away so fast?" said one of the men. "This is a strange time of night for girls to be flying into the woods. What matter have you in hand that brings you here--and what is your name?" "I am the daughter of Allen Musgrove," replied Mary indignantly. "Is it so?" said the first speaker; "then it is the Miller's own daughter, and we ask your pardon. We only saw you flying along the bank of the river, and not knowing what it was, why we thought it right to follow. But as it is all explained now, we will see you back to the house." "I can find my way without help," replied the maiden. "Now, that's not good-natured for so kind a girl as the miller's daughter ought to be," said the second soldier. "I will see if my father can protect me," said Mary, hastening back towards the house so rapidly as almost to run. "I will know if Lieutenant Macdonald will allow me to be insulted." With a hurried step she entered upon the porch, and, without stopping to parley with those who occupied this part of the dwelling, retired to her chamber and threw herself into a chair, where she sat for some time panting with affright. As she gradually recovered her strength, she began to turn her thoughts upon her recent discomfiture; and it was with a deep sense of chagrin and disappointment, that she reflected upon her not being able successfully to renew her enterprise on the same night. The hour of meeting had arrived; the officers of the guard were still frequenting the porch; her conduct had already excited notice, and if she wished to be in a condition to render future service, her most obvious duty was to postpone any further attempt to deliver the papers until another time. On the other hand, she had reason to fear that John Ramsay would be hovering near to ascertain the cause of her failure to meet him, and might rashly resort to the same mode of conveying a signal which he had successfully practised heretofore. This would infallibly, she believed, provoke an investigation that might entirely frustrate all their views. "But then John is a good soldier," she said, in the way of self-consolation, "and will know that the enemy is awake; because if it was not so, he would be sure I would keep my word. And if he only takes that notion into his head, he is too careful to run the chance of spoiling all by coming here." Still, with some little mistrust as to John's soldiership when it crossed the path of his love, which naturally, she reflected, makes a man rash, she thought it best to provide against accident, by throwing herself into the company of the officers who loitered about the door in idle discourse with her father. She accordingly left her room, and, with an anxious and troubled heart, went out and seated herself quietly on the steps of the porch, where she remained for some time a silent but inattentive listener to the conversation of those around her. As a part of that system of things by which it is contrived that the current of true love shall never run smooth, I have ever found that when it was peculiarly fitting that some grandam, uncle, cousin, father, or guest, should retire early to bed, in order that some scheme of interest to young lovers might be successfully achieved; precisely on such nights is the perversity of fate most conspicuous, in inclining the minds of such grandam, uncle, cousin, and so forth, to sit up much longer than they are wont; thus showing that the grooves and dovetails of things in this world are not nicely fitted to the occasions of those who deal in the tender passion. And so it befel for poor Mary Musgrove this night. The hour was now fast verging upon eleven, and she anxiously noted every sentence that was spoken, hoping it was to be the last; and then she trembled to think that John, regardless of the danger, might be lurking near, and indiscreetly expose himself. And still the talkers discoursed as if they meant to sit up all night. It was a delicious, cool hour, after a sultry day, and there was luxury in the breeze; but as the minutes were counted over by the maiden, in their slow passage, her fears increased. At length, far off, as if it were a mile away, the clear notes of one whistling an old tune were heard. Mary involuntarily started from her seat, and moved along the little pathway towards the gate, her heart beating against her bosom as if it would have "overbourne its continents." The signal notes freshened upon the air, and the tune came forth blithely and boldly, showing that the wayfarer was trudging, with a light heart, down the main road towards the mill. The party in the porch, however, were too much engrossed in their colloquy to notice the incident. The whistling came still nearer, until, at last, it seemed to be scarce a gunshot from the house. Beyond this point it did not advance; but here indicated that the person from whom it proceeded had halted. If Mary's cheek could have been brought to the light, it would have shown how the blood had deserted it from very fear: her whole frame shook with this emotion. To exhibit her unconcern, which, in truth, was most sadly affected, she mingled amongst the company in the porch, and leant against the door-post. Still the whistling continued, with no symptom of retreat, and Mary impatiently walked towards the further end of the house. "John Ramsay makes a fool of himself," she muttered peevishly. "Hasn't he the sense to see I cannot get out? What keeps the simple man dallying shilly-shally at the fence, as if he actually wanted them to take him? I don't believe in the mighty sense and wisdom of these men! If John had half an eye he would see that I couldn't get away to-night." As the maiden grew fretful, her fears had less mastery over her; and now, taking heart of grace, she returned to the porch. "Sergeant," said Macdonald, calling to one of his men, "take two files and patrole the road until you ascertain who that fellow is who makes himself so merry to-night. I thought it some fool," he continued, addressing himself to Allen Musgrove, "who, as the poet says, 'whistled as he went for want of thought,' but he seems to have a hankering after these premises that is not exactly to my mind. Perhaps, after all, Mary," he added privately in the maiden's ear; "it is the lad I was telling you of; and as he is a bashful youth, we will bring him in by force. You know, he can't help that; and old dad here can never blame you if I should make the fellow come to see you against your will. Sergeant, treat the man civilly, you understand." "It is not worth your while to be sending after Adam Gordon," said Mary, with some slight confusion in her accent; "he is only half-witted; and almost the only thing he does for a living, is to come down of nights here to the mill-dam, to bob for eels. If it wasn't for that, his mother would go many a day without a meal." "No matter, we will bring Adam in," replied the lieutenant, "and if he is good at his sport, why we will go and join him." "He is shy of company," said Mary, still faltering in her speech, "and will not come amongst strangers." Partly from a spirit of resignation, partly to avoid further exposure of her feelings, and in part too, perhaps, from some slight feeling of remorse, such as is natural to a virtuous and youthful mind at being obliged to practise a deceit however lawful (as I contend it was in this case), the maiden withdrew into the parlor, where, unseen by any, she offered up a short and earnest prayer for direction and forgiveness. Meantime the patrole had set out, and, after the lapse of a short time, returned, when the officer reported that before his arrival, the person they had gone in quest of had left the place, and, in the darkness of the night, they had no clue to follow him. This was scarcely announced before the same whistle was heard, at the same remote point where it had first attracted Mary's notice. "It is as our young mistress has said," muttered Macdonald, "some bumpkin, too shy to be caught, and not worth the catching. We have sat it out to-night long enough, friend Musgrove, so let's to bed." In a few moments the party betook themselves to their several places of rest. As Mary prepared herself for her couch, the anxious events of the night busied her thoughts, and the image of John Ramsay was summoned up alternately to be reproved and applauded. "If he is foolhardy," she said, as she laid her head on the pillow, "no one will say he isn't wise besides. And if he will be thrusting his head into danger, he knows right well how to get it out again. So God bless him, for a proper man as he is!" And thus, in a better temper with her lover, the maiden fell asleep. In order to avert all suspicion of disloyalty from the miller's family, Christopher Shaw had offered his services to Macdonald, to do duty as one of the detachment, during the period of Butler's detention in the house. The offer had been accepted, and Christopher was appointed to serve in the character of a quarter-master, or purveyor for the little garrison,--a post, whose duties did not materially interfere with his daily occupation at the mill. Mary was in the habit of communicating to Christopher all her secrets, and of enlisting his aid in her plans whenever it was necessary. And now, soon after the morning broke, the maiden arose and went to the mill, where she communicated to Christopher all the perplexities of the preceding night. "The thing must be managed to-day," said the young man, after he had heard the whole story. "I have provisions to collect from the neighborhood; and what is to hinder you, Mary, from riding out with me,--if it should only be to buy some eggs?--and then, what is to hinder us from popping in upon David Ramsay, and there fixing the whole matter?" "Will not the lieutenant be sending some of his own men with you?" inquired the maid. "He doesn't suspect us," answered Christopher, as cautiously as if the walls of his mill had ears. "At any rate we can try it, you know, and if the thing should take a wrong turn, you can only stay at home; and we may, at the worst, make another venture at night." "I have the letter in my bosom," said Mary, "and will be ready immediately after breakfast." When the appointed time arrived, things went as favorably as Mary could have wished. Her good spirits had returned; and she plied her household duties with a happy cheerfulness in her looks that completely disarmed all suspicion. She received the banter of Macdonald, as to the cause of her restlessness on the preceding night, with perfect good nature; and when Christopher announced to the commanding officer his purpose of going out upon a purveying ride, and invited his cousin to accompany him, she accepted the proposal with such a tone of laughing pleasure, as put it on the footing of a pastime. The horses were brought to the door, and the maiden and her escort rode cheerily forth. They were not long in accomplishing the five or six miles that brought them to David Ramsay's cabin. I need not tell the affectionate concern with which Mary Musgrove met her lover, John Ramsay; nor how she upbraided him as a silly fellow, for tramping and trudging about the mill, and whistling his signals, when he ought to have known, by her not coming to meet him, that there was good reason for it. Nor is it important to detail the circumstances of Horse Shoe's and John's fruitless expedition, and their disappointment at not seeing Mary; and how shrewdly, last night, Robinson guessed the true cause of it; and how entirely he agreed with the maiden, beforehand, in thinking John a venturesome, harebrained fool, to put himself in danger, when he might have been certain it would have ended as it did, in a run from "the rascally red coats," as John had to run to get out of the clutches of the patrole. My story requires that I should pass these things by, and go to the business in hand. Horse Shoe and Ramsay had grown exceedingly impatient, both because they were in hourly danger of being surprised by casual parties of the enemy, and because the time for useful action was fast gliding away. They had used every precaution to keep their visit to David Ramsay's a profound secret to the neighborhood; and had, with that object, lain perdue in one of the small cabins, from which they might watch the approach of visitors, and, if need required, secure an immediate retreat. During the day, they seldom left their concealment, confining all their out-door operations to the night. A consultation was held in David Ramsay's cabin,--the letters were produced and delivered to Horse Shoe, and the instructions intended for him by Butler were carefully read. It was resolved that Horse Shoe should set out for the Dove Cote without delay, taking the route through the mountain country of North Carolina, as that least likely to be interrupted by the British troops. John Ramsay, for the present, was to return to the Fair Forest camp, to inform Williams of the state of affairs; and he was hereafter to act as occasion might suggest. Christopher Shaw and Mary were to attend upon Butler, and communicate whatever might transpire of interest to David Ramsay, who promised to find means of intercourse with Williams or Sumpter, as circumstances should allow. These matters being arranged, Mary and Christopher Shaw took their leaves of Ramsay's family, and went about the ostensible object of their expedition. Horse Shoe's plan of travel during the first and most perilous stages of his journey towards Virginia, was to avail himself of the darkness of the night; and he accordingly resolved to set out as soon as this day should draw to a close. His immediate cares were, therefore, directed to making all the necessary preparations for his departure. Captain Peter was carefully tended, and supplied with a double allowance of provender; provisions were stowed away, both for himself and his trusty beast: his pistols were put in order: his rifle cleaned out, and a supply of ammunition provided; and, finally, the letters were sewed up in a leather pouch, and buckled around his body by a strap, inside of his clothes. It was no inconsiderable item in the sergeant's preparation for his expedition, to sit down and eat a meal, which, from the quantity bestowed, and the vigor with which the assault upon it was made, might have betokened a full week's starvation. The day waned, and the night came a welcome visitor to the sergeant; and, at that hour which old chroniclers designate as "inter canem et lupum," Captain Peter was brought to the door, ready dight for travel. Ramsay's family stood around,--and whilst Andy, with boyish affection, held Horse Shoe's rifle in his hand, the sergeant feelingly spoke the words of parting to his friends;--then, with a jaunty air of careless mirth, springing into his saddle, and receiving his trusty weapon from the young comrade of his late gallant adventure, he rode forth with as stout a heart as ever went with knight of chivalry to the field of romantic renown. CHAPTER XXXIII. A GLANCE AT THE DOVE COTE.--THE COMPANIONSHIP OF BROTHER AND SISTER. Our story once more brings us back to the Dove Cote. During the first week that followed her interview with Arthur Butler under the Fawn's Tower, Mildred was calm and thoughtful, and even melancholy: her usual custom of exercise was foregone, and her time was passed chiefly in her chamber. By degrees, however, her firm and resolute temper predominated over the sadness of her fortunes, and she began to resume that cheerfulness which circumstances can never long subdue in a strong and disciplined mind. She had grown more than ever watchful of the public events, and sought, with an intense avidity, to obtain information in regard to the state of things in the south. She now felt herself closely allied to the cause in which Arthur Butler had embarked, and therefore, caught up the floating rumors of the day, in what regarded the progress of the American arms in the southern expedition, with the interest of one who had a large stake depending on the issue. She had received several letters from Butler, which detailed the progress of his journey from the Dove Cote to Gates's camp, and from thence to Horse Shoe's cottage. They were all written in the confident and even jocular tone of a light-hearted soldier who sought to amuse his mistress; and they narrated such matters of personal history as were of a character to still her fears for his safety. Their effect upon Mildred was to warm up her enthusiasm, as well as to brighten her anticipations of the future, and thus to increase the returning elasticity of her spirits. Up to this period, therefore, she grew every day more buoyant and playful in her temper, and brought herself to entertain a more sanguine reckoning of the eventual determination of affairs. She was now frequently on horseback, attended by her brother, with whom she scarcely ever failed to make a visit to the good Mistress Dimock, where she either found a letter from Butler, or heard some of the thousand tidings which report was for ever busy in propagating or exaggerating in regard to the movements of the army. "I'll warrant you, Arthur is a man for the pen as well as for the spur and broadsword, my pretty lady," was one of the landlady's comments, as she handed to Mildred the eighth or ninth epistle that had fallen into her hands since Butler's departure; "there scarcely comes trotting by a soiled traveller with his head set northwards, but it is--'Good woman, is this Mistress Dimock's?' and when I say, 'aye,' then 'here's a letter, madam, for you, that comes from the army:' and so, there's Arthur's own hand-writing to a great pacquet, 'for Mistress Dimock of the Rockfish inn, of Amherst,' and not even, after all, one poor line for me, but just a cover, and the inside for Miss Mildred Lindsay of the Dove Cote. Ha, ha! we old bodies are only stalking-horses in this world. But God bless him!--he is a fine and noble gentleman." And Mildred would take the pacquet and impatiently break the seal; and as she perused the close-written contents the color waxed and waned upon her cheek, and her eye would one instant sparkle with mirth, and in the next grow dim with a tear. And when she had finished reading, she would secretly press the paper to her lips, and then bestow it away in her bosom, evincing the earnest fondness of a devoted and enthusiastic nature. Mildred and Henry were inseparable; and, in proportion as his sister's zeal and attachment to the cause of independence became more active, did Henry's inclination to become a partisan grow apace. Hers was a character to kindle the spirit of brave adventure. There was in it a quiet and unostentatious but unvarying current of resolution, that shrank before no perils. Her feelings, acute and earnest, had given all their warmth to her principles; and what she once believed her duty commanded, was pursued with the devout self-dedication of a religious obligation. To this temper, which, by some secret of its constitution, has a spell to sway the minds of mankind, there was added the grace of an exquisitely feminine address. The union of these two attributes rendered Mildred Lindsay an object of conspicuous interest in such a time as that of the revolutionary struggle. Her youth, her ready genius, her knowledge and her habits of reflection, much in advance of her years, enhanced the impression her character was adapted to produce, and brought upon her, even in her secluded position, a considerable share of public observation. It was not wonderful that a mind so organized and accomplished should have acquired an unlimited dominion over the frank, open-hearted, and brave temper of her brother, now just stepping beyond the confines of mere boyhood. Her influence over Henry was paramount and unbounded: her affections were his, her faith was his, her enthusiasm stole into and spread over his whole temper. With these means of influence she had sedulously applied herself to infuse into Henry's mind her own sentiment in regard to the war; and this purpose had led her to interest herself in subjects and pursuits, which, in general, are very foreign from her sex. Her desire to enlist his feelings in aid of Butler, and her conviction that a time was at hand when Henry might be useful, gave rise to an eager solicitude to see him well prepared for the emergencies of the day, by that necessary mode of education which, during the period of the revolution, was common amongst the young gentlemen of the country. He was a most willing and ready pupil; and she delighted to encourage him in his inclination for military studies, however fanciful some of his conceptions in regard to them might be. She, therefore, saw, with great satisfaction, the assiduous though boyish devotion with which he set himself to gain a knowledge of matters relating to the duties of a soldier. However little this may fall within the scope of female perception in ordinary times, it will not appear so much removed from the capabilities or even the habits of the sex, when we reflect that in the convulsions of this great national struggle, when every resource of the country was drained for service, the events of the day were contemplated with no less interest by the women than by the men. The fervor with which the American women participated in the cares and sacrifices of the revolutionary war, has challenged the frequent notice and warmest praises of its chroniclers. Mildred but reflected, in this instance, the hues of the society around the Dove Cote, which consisted of many families, scattered along the country side, composed of persons of elevated character, easy circumstances, and of the staunchest Whig politics, with whom she held an uninterrupted and familiar intercourse. Another consideration may serve to explain the somewhat masculine character of Mildred's pursuits. Her most intimate companion, at all times, and frequently for weeks together her only one, was her brother. These two had grown up together in all the confidence of childhood; and this confidence continued still unabated. Their pursuits, sports, exercises, thoughts, and habits were alike, with less of the discrimination usual between the sexes, than is to be found between individuals in larger associations. They approximated each other in temper and disposition; and Henry might, in this regard, be said to be, without disparagement to his manly qualities, a girlish boy; and Mildred, on the other hand, with as little derogation, to be a boyish girl. This home-bred freedom of nurture produced, in its development, some grotesque results, which my reader has, doubtless, heretofore observed with a smile; and it will, likewise, serve to explain some of the peculiar forms of intercourse which may hereafter be noticed between the brother and sister. The news of the battle of Camden had not yet reached the neighborhood of the Dove Cote; but the time drew nigh when all the country stood on tiptoe, anxious to receive tidings of that interesting event. A week had elapsed without bringing letters from Butler; and Mildred was growing uneasy at this interval of silence. There was a struggle in her mind; an unpleasant foreboding that she was almost ashamed to acknowledge, and yet which she could not subdue. The country was full of reports of the hostile operations, and a thousand surmises were entertained, which varied according to the more sanguine or desponding tempers of the persons who made them. Mildred was taught by Butler to expect defeat, yet still she hoped for victory; but the personal fate of her lover stole upon her conjectures, and she could not keep down the misgiving which affection generally exaggerates, and always renders painful. In this state of doubt, it was observable that her manners occasionally rose to a higher tone of playfulness than was natural to her; and by turns they sank to a moody silence, showing that the equipoise of the mind was disturbed, and that the scales did not hang true: it was the struggle of mental resolution with a coward heart--a heart intimidated by its affections. Such was the state of things when, in the latter fortnight of August, the morning ushered in a day of unsurpassed beauty. The air was elastic; the cool breeze played upon the shrubbery, and stole the perfume of a thousand flowers. The birds sang with unwonted vivacity from the neighboring trees; and the sun lighted up the mountains with a golden splendor, the fast drifting clouds flinging their shadows upon the forest that clothed the hills around, and the eagle and the buzzard sailing in the highest heavens, or eddying around the beetling cliffs with a glad flight, as if rejoicing in the luxuries of the cool summer morning. Breakfast was scarcely over before Henry was seen upon the terrace, arrayed in his hunting dress. His bugle was daintily suspended by a green cord across his shoulders; it was a neat and glittering instrument, whose garniture was bedizened with the coxcombry of silken tassels, and was displayed as ostentatiously as if worn by the hero of a melodrame. Like St. Swithin in the ballad, he had "footed thrice the wold," when he put the bugle to his mouth and "blew a recheate both loud and long." "How now, good master Puff," said Mildred, coming up playfully to her brother, "what means this uproar? Pray you, have mercy on one's ears." Henry turned towards his sister, without taking the bugle from his lips, and continued the blast for a full minute; then, ceasing only from want of breath, he said, with a comic earnestness-- "I'm practising my signals, sister; I can give you 'to Horse,' and 'Reveillee,' and 'Roast Beef,' like a trained trumpeter." "Truly you are a proper man, master," replied Mildred. "But it is hardly a time," she continued, half muttering to herself, "for you and me, Henry, to wear light hearts in our bosoms." "Why, sister," said Henry, with some astonishment in his looks, "this seems to me to be the very time to practise my signals. We are at the very tug of the war, and every man that has a sword, or bugle either, should be up and doing." "How come on your studies, brother?" interrupted Mildred, without heeding Henry's interpretation of his duty. "Oh, rarely! I know most of the speeches of Coriolanus all by heart:-- "'Like an eagle in a dove cote, I Fluttered your voices in Corioli: Alone I did it.--Boy!'" he spouted, quoting from the play, and accompanying his recitation with some extravagant gestures. "This is easy work, Henry," said Mildred laughing, "there is too much of the holiday play in that. I thought you were studying some graver things, instead of these bragging heroics. You pretended to be very earnest, but a short time ago, to make a soldier of yourself." "Well, and don't you call this soldiership? Suppose I were to pounce down upon Cornwallis--his lordship, as that fellow Tyrrel calls him--just in that same fashion. I warrant they would say there was some soldiership in it! But, sister, haven't I been studying the attack and defence of fortified places, I wonder? And what call you that? Look now, here is a regular hexagon," continued Henry, making lines upon the gravel walk with a stick, "here is the bastion,--these lines are the flank,--the face,--the gorge: here is the curtain. Now, my first parallel is around here, six hundred paces from the counterscarp. But I could have taken Charleston myself in half the time that poking fellow, Clinton, did it, if I had been there, and one of his side, which--thank my stars--I am not." "You are entirely out of my depth, brother," interrupted Mildred. "I know I am. How should women be expected to understand these matters? Go to your knitting, sister: you can't teach me." "Have you studied the Military Catechism, Henry? that, you know, Baron Steuben requires of all the young officers." "Most," replied Henry. "Not quite through it. I hate this getting prose by heart. Shakspeare is more to my mind than Baron Steuben. But I will tell you what I like, sister: I like the management of the horse. I can passage, and lunge, and change feet, and throw upon the haunches, with e'er a man in Amherst or Albemarle either, may be." "You told me you had practised firing from your saddle." "To be sure I did: and look here," replied the cadet, taking off his cap and showing a hole in the cloth. "Do you see that, Mildred? I flung the cap into the air, and put a ball through it before it fell--at a gallop." "Well done, master; you come on bravely!" "And another thing I have to tell you, which, perhaps, Mildred, you will laugh to hear:--I have taken to a rough way of sleeping. I want to harden myself; so, I fling a blanket on the floor and stretch out on it--and sleep like--" "Like what, good brother; you are posed for a comparison." "Like the sleeping beauty, sister." "Ha! ha! that's a most incongruous and impertinent simile!" "Well, like a Trojan, or a woodman, or a dragoon, or like Stephen Foster, and that is as far as sleeping can go. I have a notion of trying it in the woods one of these nights--if I can get Stephen to go along." "Why not try it alone?" "Why it's a sort of an awkward thing to be entirely by one's self in the woods, the livelong night--it is lonesome, you know, sister; and, to tell the truth, I almost suspect I am a little afraid of ghosts." "Indeed! and you a man! That's a strange fear for a young Coriolanus. Suppose you should get into the wars, and should happen to be posted as a sentinel at some remote spot--far from your comrades; on picket, I think you call it? (Henry nodded) on a dark night, would you desert your duty for fear of a goblin!" "I would die first, Mildred. I would stick it out, if I made an earthquake by trembling in my shoes." Mildred laughed. "And then if a ghost should rise up out of the ground," she continued, with a mock solemnity of manner. "I would whistle some tune," interrupted Henry. "That's an excellent way to keep down fear." "Shame on you, to talk of fear, brother." "Only of ghosts, sister, not of men." "You must cure yourself of this childish apprehension, master." "And how shall I do so, Mildred? I have heard people say that the bravest men have been alarmed by spirits." "You must accustom yourself to midnight hours and dark places, all alone. Our poor mother taught you this fear." "I should think of _her_, Mildred, until my heart would burst, and my cheek grew pale as ashes," said Henry, with an earnest and solemn emphasis. "Her spirit, could it rise, would love you, brother; it would never seek to do you harm," replied Mildred thoughtfully. "Sister," said Henry, "you came here in sport, but you have made me very sad." Mildred walked off a few paces and remained gazing steadfastly over the parapet. When she looked back she saw Henry approaching her. "You stoop, brother, in your gait," she said, "that's a slovenly habit." "It comes, sister, of my climbing these mountains so much. We mountaineers naturally get a stoop on the hill-sides. But if you think," continued Henry, reverting to the subject which had just been broken off, "it would make me bolder to watch of nights, I should not care to try it." "I would have you," said Mildred, "walk your rounds, like a patrole, through the woods from twelve until two, every night for a week." "Agreed, sister--rain or shine." "And then I shall think you completely cured of this unsoldier-like infirmity, when you are able to march as far as the church, and serve one tour of duty in the grave-yard." "By myself?" inquired Henry, with concern. "You wouldn't have me go with you, brother?" "I should feel very brave if you did, Mildred; for you are as brave as a general. But if Stephen Foster will keep in the neighborhood--near enough to hear my 'All's well'--I think I could stand it out." "You must go alone," said Mildred, cheerfully, "before I shall think you fit to be promoted." "If you say I must, sister Mildred, why, then I must: and there's an end of it. But your discipline is forty times more severe than the German Baron's at Richmond. Father looks pale this morning," continued Henry, as he turned his eyes towards the porch, where Mr. Lindsay was now seen walking forward and back, with his arms folded across his breast. "Something perpetually troubles him, Mildred. I wish that devil, Tyrrel, had been buried before he ever found his way to the Dove Cote! See he comes this way." Both Mildred and Henry ran to meet Lindsay, and encountered him before he had advanced a dozen paces over the lawn. "Such a day, father!" said Mildred, as she affectionately took his hand. "It is a luxury to breathe this air." "God has given us a beautiful heaven, my children, and a rich and bountiful earth. He has filled them both with blessings. Man only mars them with his cursed passions," said Lindsay, with a sober accent. "You have heard bad news, father?" said Henry, inquiringly; "what has happened?" Mildred grew suddenly pale. "We shall hear glorious news, boy, before many days," replied Lindsay; "as yet, all is uncertain. Henry, away to your sports, or to your studies. Mildred, I have something for your ear, and so, my child, walk with me a while." Henry took his leave, looking back anxiously at his sister, whose countenance expressed painful alarm. Mildred accompanied her father slowly and silently to the small veranda that shaded the door of the gable next the terrace. CHAPTER XXXIV. MILDRED PUT TO A SEVERE TRIAL:--HER FIRMNESS. "My mind troubles me," said Lindsay: "Mildred, hear me--and mark what I say. Our fortunes are coming to a period of deep interest: it is therefore no time to deal in evasive speeches, or to dally with coy and girlish feelings. I wish, my daughter, to be understood." "Father, have I offended you?" inquired Mildred, struck with the painful and almost repulsive earnestness of Lindsay's manner. "Arthur Butler has been at the Dove Cote," he said, sternly, "and you have concealed it from me. That was not like my child." "Father!" exclaimed Mildred, bursting into tears. "Nay--these tears shall not move me from my resolution. As a parent I had a right, Mildred, to expect obedience from you; but you saw him in the very despite of my commands: here, on the confines of the Dove Cote, you saw him." "I did--I did." "And you were silent, and kept your secret from your father's bosom." "You forbade me to speak of him," replied Mildred, in a low and sobbing voice, "and banished me from your presence when I but brought his name upon my lips." "He is a villain, daughter; a base wretch that would murder my peace, and steal my treasure from my heart." Mildred covered her eyes with her hands, and trembled in silent agony. "I have received letters," continued Lindsay, "that disclose to me a vile plot against my life. This same Butler--this furious and fanatic rebel--has been lurking in the neighborhood of my house, to watch my family motions, to pry into the character of my guests, to possess himself of my sacred confidences, to note the incoming and the out-going of my most attached friends, and thereupon to build an accusation of treason before this unholy and most accursed power that has usurped dominion in the land. I am to be denounced to these malignant masters, and to suffer such penalties as their passions may adjudge. And all this through the agency of a man who is cherished and applauded by my own daughter!" "My dear father, who has thus abused your mind, and led your thoughts into a current so foreign from that calm judgment with which you have been accustomed to look upon the things of life?" "Can you deny, Mildred, that this Butler followed Tyrrel to the Dove Cote; lay concealed here, close at hand; sought by discourse through some of his coadjutors with Tyrrel's servant, to learn the object of Tyrrel's visit; and offered gross outrage to the man when he failed to persuade him to betray his master? Can you deny this? Can you deny that he fled precipitately from his hiding-place when he could no longer conceal his purpose?--and, knowing these things, can you doubt he is a villain?" "He is no villain, father," said Mildred, indignantly. "These are the wretched forgeries of that unworthy man who has won your confidence--a man who is no less an enemy to your happiness than he is a selfish contriver against mine. The story is not true: it is one of Tyrrel's basest falsehoods." "And Butler was not here; you would persuade me so, Mildred?" "He was in the neighborhood for a single night; he journeyed southwards in the course of his duty," answered Mildred, mildly. "And had no confederates with him?" "He was attended by a guide--only one--and hurried onwards without delay." "And you met him on that single night--by accident, I suppose?" "Do you doubt my truth, father?" "Mildred, Mildred! you will break my heart. Why was he here at all--why did you meet him?" "He came, father--" said Mildred, struggling to speak through a sudden burst of tears. "Silence! I will hear no apology!" exclaimed Lindsay. Then relenting in an instant, he took his daughter's hand, as he said: "My child, thou art innocent in thy nature, and knowest not the evil imaginings of this world. He wickedly lied, if he told you that he came casually hither, or that his stay was circumscribed to one short night. I have proofs, full and satisfactory, that, for several days, he lay concealed in this vicinity; and, moreover, that his scheme was frustrated only by an unexpected discovery, made through the indiscretion of a drunken bully, who came linked with him in his foul embassy. It was a shameless lie, invented to impose upon your credulity, if he gave you room to believe otherwise." "Arthur Butler scorns a falsehood, father, with the deepest scorn that belongs to a noble mind, and would resent the charge with the spirit of a valiant and virtuous man. If Mr. Tyrrel has such accusations to make, it would be fitter they should be made face to face with the man he would slander, than in my father's ear. But it is the nature of the serpent to sting in the grass, not openly to encounter his victim." "The first duty of a trusty friend is to give warning of the approach of an enemy--and that has Tyrrel done. For this act of service does he deserve your rebuke? Could you expect aught else of an honorable gentleman? Shame on you, daughter!" "Father, I know the tale to be wickedly, atrociously false. Arthur Butler is not your enemy. Sooner would he lay down his life than even indulge a thought of harm to you. His coming hither was not unknown to me--his delay, but one brief night; business of great moment called him hastily towards the army of the south." "You speak like a girl, Mildred. I have, against this tale, the avowal of a loyal and brave soldier. Aye, and let me tell you--favorably as you may deem of this false and traitorous rebel--his wily arts have been foiled, and quick vengeance is now upon his path--his doom is fixed." "For heaven's sake, father, dear father, tell me what this means. Have you heard of Arthur?" cried Mildred, in the most impassioned accents of distress, at the same time throwing her head upon Lindsay's breast. "Oh, God! have you heard aught of harm to him?" "Girl! foolish, mad, self-willed girl!" exclaimed Lindsay, disengaging himself from his daughter, and rising from his seat and angrily striding a few paces upon the terrace. "Dare you show this contumacy to me! No, I did not mean that--have you the heart, Mildred, to indulge these passionate fervors for the man I hate more than I can hate any other living thing! He, a wretch, upon whose head I invoke nightly curses! A loathsome, abhorred image to my mind! Hear me, Mildred, and hear me, though your heart break while I utter it--May the felon's death whelm him and his name in eternal disgrace!--may his present captivity be beset with all the horrors of friendlessness, unpitied--" "His captivity, father! And has he then fallen into the hands of the enemy? Quick! tell me all!--I shall die--my life is wrapped up in his!" ejaculated Mildred, in agony, as she sprang towards her father and seized his arm, and then sank at his feet. "For God's sake, my child!" said Lindsay, becoming alarmed at the violence of the paroxysm he had excited, and now lifting his daughter from the ground. "Mildred!--speak, girl! This emotion will drive me mad. Oh, fate, fate!--how unerringly dost thou fulfil the sad predictions of my spirit! How darkly does the curse hang upon my household! Mildred, dear daughter, pardon my rash speech. I would not harm thee, child--no, not for worlds!" "Father, you have cruelly tortured my soul," said Mildred, reviving from the half lifeless state into which she had fallen, and which for some moments had denied her speech. "Tell me all; on my knees, father, I implore you." "It was a hasty word, daughter," replied Lindsay, ill concealing the perturbation of his feelings; "I meant not what I said." "Nay, dear father," said Mildred, "I am prepared to hear the worst; you spoke of Arthur's captivity." "It was only a rumor," replied Lindsay, struck with apprehension at his daughter's earnestness, and now seeking to allay the feeling his hint had aroused in her mind; "it may be exaggerated by Tyrrel, whose letter, hastily written, mentions the fact, that Butler had been made a prisoner by some bands of Tories, amongst whom he had rashly ventured. The clemency of his king may yet win him back to his allegiance. A salutary confinement, at least, will deprive him of the power of mischief. His lands will be confiscated--and the close of the war, now fast approaching, will find him a houseless adventurer, baffled in his treason, and unpitied by all good men. This should persuade you, Mildred, to renounce your unnatural attachment, and to think no more of one whose cause heaven has never sanctioned, and whose condition in life should forbid all pretension to your regard--one, above all, repulsive even to loathing to the thoughts of your father." "I loved him, father, in his happiest and brightest day," said Mildred, firmly; "I cannot desert him in his adversity. Oh, speak to me no more! Let me go to my chamber; I am ill and cannot bear this torrent of your displeasure." "I will not detain you, Mildred. In sorrow and suffering, but still with a father's affection as warmly shining on you as when, in earliest infancy, I fondled thee upon my knee, I part with thee now. One kiss, girl. There, let that make peace between us. For your sake and my own, I pledge my word never to distress you with this subject again. Destiny must have its way, and I must bide the inevitable doom." With a heavy heart and an exhausted frame, Mildred slowly and tearfully withdrew. Lindsay remained some time fixed upon the spot where his daughter had left him. He was like a man stupefied and astounded by a blow. His conference had ended in a manner that he had not prepared himself to expect. The imputed treachery of Butler, derived from Tyrrel's letters, had not struck alarm into the heart of Mildred, as he had supposed it could not fail to do. The wicked fabrication had only recoiled upon the inventor; and Mildred, with the resolute, confident, and unfaltering attachment of her nature, clung with a nobler devotion to her lover. To Lindsay, in whose mind no distrust of the honesty of Tyrrel could find shelter; whose prejudices and peculiar temperament came in aid of the gross and disgraceful imputation which the letters inferred, the constancy and generous fervor of his daughter towards the cause of Butler seemed to be a mad and fatal infatuation. Ever since his first interview with Mildred on the subject of her attachment, his mind had been morbidly engrossed with the reflections to which it had given rise. There was such a steadiness of purpose apparent in her behavior, such an unchangeable resolve avowed, as seemed to him, in the circumstances of her condition, to defy and stand apart from the ordinary and natural impulses by which human conduct is regulated. He grew daily more abstracted and moody in his contemplations; and as study and thought gave a still graver complexion to his feelings, his mind fled back upon his presentiments; and that intense, scholar-like superstition, which I have heretofore described as one of the tendencies of his nature, began more actively to conjure up its phantasmagoria before his mental vision. A predominating trait of this superstition was an increasing conviction that, in Mildred's connexion with Arthur Butler, there was associated some signal doom to himself, that was to affect the fortunes of his race. It was a vague, misty, obscure consciousness of impending fate, the loss of reason or the loss of life that was to ensue upon that alliance if it should ever take place. It was such a presentiment that now, in the solitary path of Lindsay's life, began to be magnified into a ripening certainty of ill. The needle of his mind trembled upon its pivot, and began to decline towards a fearful point; that point was--frenzy. His studies favored this apprehension--they led him into the world of visions. The circumstances of his position favored it. He was perplexed by the intrigues of politicians, against whom he had no defence in temper nor worldly skill: he was deluded by false views of events: he was embarrassed and dissatisfied with himself: above all, he was wrought upon, bewildered, and glamoured (to use a most expressive Scotch phrase) by the remembrance of a sickly dream. Thus hunted and badgered by circumstances, he fled with avidity to the disclosures made in Tyrrel's letters, to try, as a last effort, their effect upon Mildred, hoping that the tale there told might divert her from a purpose which now fed all his melancholy. The reader has just seen how the experiment had failed. Lindsay retired to his study, and, through the remainder of the day, sought refuge from his meditations in the converse of his books. These mute companions, for once, failed to bring him their customary balm. His feelings had been turned, by the events of the morning, into a current that bore them impetuously along towards a dark and troubled ocean of thought; and when the shades of evening had fallen around him, he was seen pacing the terrace with a slow and measured step. "It is plain, she passionately loves Butler," he said, "in despite of all the visible influences around her. Her education, habits, affections, duty--all set in an opposing tide against this passion, and yet does it master them all. That I should be bound to mine enemy by a chain, whose strongest link is forged by my own daughter. She--Mildred!--No, no--that link was not forged by her: it hath not its shape from human workmanship. Oh, that like those inspired enthusiasts who, in times of old,--yea, and in a later day--have been able to open the Book of Destiny, and to read the passages of man's future life, I might get one glimpse of that forbidden page!--To what a charitable use might I apply the knowledge. Wise men have studied the journeyings of the stars, and have--as they deemed--discovered the secret spell by which yon shining orbs sway and compel the animal existences of this earth; even as the moon governs the flow of the ocean, or the fever of the human brain. Who shall say what is the invisible tissue--what the innumerable cords--that tie this planet and all its material natures to the millions of worlds with which it is affined? What is that mysterious thing which men call attraction, that steadies these spheres in their tangled pathways through the great void?--that urges their swift and fearful career into the track of their voyage, without the deviation of the breadth of a single hair--rolling on the same from eternity to eternity? How awfully does the thought annihilate our feeble and presumptuous philosophy! Is it, then, to excite the scorn of the wise, if we assert that some kindred power may shape out and direct the wanderings of man?--that an unseen hand may lay the threads by which this tottering creature is to travel through the labyrinth of this world; aye, and after it is done, to point out to him his course along the dark and chill valley, which the dead walk through companionless and silent? Have not men heard strange whispers in the breeze--the voice of warning? Have they not felt the fanning of the wing that bore the secret messenger through the air? Have they not seen some floating fold of the robe as it passed by? O God!--have they not seen the dead arise? What are these but the communings, the points of contact, between the earthy and spiritual worlds--the essences or intelligences that sometimes flit across the confine of our gross sphere, and speak to the children of clay? And wherefore do they speak, but that the initiated may regard the sign, and walk in safety? Or, perchance, some mischief-hatching fiend,--for such, too, are permitted to be busy to mar the good that God has made--may speak in malice to allure us from our better purpose. Aye, as aptly this, as the other. Miserable child of doubt, how art thou beset! Let the vain pedant prate of his philosophy, let the soldier boast his valor, the learned scholar his scepticism, and the worldling laugh his scorn, yet do they each and all yield homage to this belief. There comes a time of honest self-confession, of secret meditation to all, and then the boding spirit rises to his proper mastery: then does instinct smother argument: then do the darkness of the midnight hour, the howling wind, the rush of the torrent, the lonesomeness of the forest and the field, shake the strong nerves; and the feeble, pigmy man, trembles at his own imaginings." In such a strain did Lindsay nurse his doubting superstition; and by these degrees was it that his mind soothed itself down into a calmer tone of resignation. In proportion as this fanciful and distempered philosophy inclined his reflection towards the belief of preternatural influences, it suggested excuses for Mildred's seeming contumacy, and inculcated a more indulgent sentiment of forbearance in his future intercourse with her. Towards the confirmation of this temper an ordinary incident, which, at any other time, would have passed without comment, now contributed. A storm had arisen: the day, towards its close, had grown sultry, and had engendered one of those sudden gusts which belong to the summer in this region. It came, without premonition, in a violent tornado, that rushed through the air with the roar of a great cataract. Lindsay had scarcely time to retreat to the cover of the porch, before the heavy-charged cloud poured forth its fury in floods of rain. The incessant lightnings glittered on the descending drops, and illuminated the distant landscape with more than the brilliancy of day. The most remote peaks of the mountain were sheeted with the glare; and the torrents that leaped down the nearer hill-sides sparkled with a dazzling radiance. Peal after peal of abrupt and crashing thunder roared through the heavens, and echoed with terrific reverberations along the valleys. Lindsay gazed upon this scene, from his secure cover, with mute interest, inwardly aroused and delighted with the grand and sublime conflict of the elements, in a spot of such wild and compatible magnificence: the solemn and awful emotions excited by these phenomena were exaggerated by the peculiar mood of his mind, and now absorbed all his attention. After a brief interval, the rain ceased to fall as suddenly as it had begun; the thunder was silent, and only a few distant flashes of wide-spread light broke fitfully above the horizon. The stars soon again shone forth through a transparent and placid heaven, and the moon sailed in beauty along a cloudless sea. The frog chirped again from the trees, and the far-off owl hooted in the wood, resuming his melancholy song, that had been so briefly intermitted. The foaming river below, swollen by the recent rain, flung upwards a more lively gush from its rocky bed: the cock was heard to crow, as if a new day had burst upon his harem; and the house-dogs barked in sport as they gambolled over the wet grass. Lindsay looked forth and spoke. "How beautiful is the change! But a moment since, and the angry elements were convulsed with the shock of war; and now, how calm! My ancient oaks have weathered the gale, and not a branch has been torn from their hoary limbs: not the most delicate of Mildred's flowers; not the tenderest shrub has been scathed by the threatening fires of heaven! The Dove Cote and its inmates have seen the storm sweep by without a vestige of harm. Kind heaven, grant that this may be a portent of our fortune; and that, when this tempest of human passion has been spent, the Dove Cote and its inhabitants may come forth as tranquil, as safe, as happy, as now--more--yes, more happy than now! Our ways are in thy hands; and I would teach myself to submit to thy providence with patient hope. So, let it be! I am resigned." As Lindsay still occupied his position in the porch, Stephen Foster appeared before him dripping with the rain of the late storm. "A letter, sir," said Stephen. "I have just rode from the post-office, and was almost oversot in the gust: it catched me upon the road; and it was as much as I could do to cross the river. It is a mighty fretful piece of water after one of these here dashes." Lindsay took the packet. "Get your supper, good Stephen," he said. "Order lights for me in the library! Thank you--thank you!" When Lindsay opened the letter, he found it to contain tidings of the victory at Camden, written by Tyrrel. After he had perused the contents, it was with a triumphant smile that he exclaimed, "And it is come so soon! Thank God, the omen has proved true! a calmer and a brighter hour at last opens upon us." He left the study to communicate the news to his children, and spent the next hour with Mildred and Henry in the parlor. His feelings had risen to a happier key; and it was with some approach to cheerfulness, but little answered in the looks or feelings of his children, that he retired to his chamber at a late hour, where sleep soon came, with its sweet oblivion, to repair his exhausted spirits, and to restore him to the quiet of an easy mind. CHAPTER XXXV. MILDRED IN GRIEF.--SHE IS NEAR MAKING A DISCLOSURE.--A VISITOR ARRIVES AT THE DOVE COTE. "Then in that hour remorse he felt, And his heart told him he had dealt Unkindly with his child."--_Rogers._ On the following day Mildred confined herself to her chamber. She had passed a sleepless night, and the morning found her a pale, anxious, and distressed watcher of the slow approach of light. Her thoughts were busy with the fate of Butler. This topic overwhelmed all other cares, and struck deep and unmitigated anguish into her mind. The hints that had been so indiscreetly dropped by her father, more than if the whole tale had been told, had worked upon her imagination, and conjured up to her apprehension the certain destruction of her lover. In her interview with Lindsay, her emotions had been controlled by the extreme difficulty of her situation. The fear of rousing in her father that deep and solemn tone of passion, which had now become the infirmity of his mind, and almost threatened to "deprive his sovereignty of reason," and of which she was painfully aware, had subdued the strength of her own feelings--so far, at least, as to inculcate a more seeming moderation than, in other circumstances, she could have exhibited. It was the struggle between filial affection and duty on the one side, and an ardent, though tremblingly acknowledged, attachment on the other. The course that she had previously determined to pursue, in reference to the many earnest and assiduous efforts of Lindsay to persuade her from her love, was steadily to persevere in the open acknowledgment of her plighted vow, and endeavor to win her father's favor by a calm and gentle expostulation; or to seek, in a respectful silence, the means of averting the occasion of that gusty and moody outbreak of temper, which the peculiar exacerbation of his mind was apt to make frequent. She would have resorted to this silence in the late communion with Lindsay, if he had not, with an unusual bitterness, denounced Arthur Butler as the author of a hateful crime; a crime which she knew had been foully insinuated against him by a man of whose subtle wickedness she was persuaded, and whom, of all others, she most heartily execrated. She was, therefore, led indignantly, though temperately, to repel the slander by which her father's hatred had been artfully envenomed. But when, in the fierce fervor of his displeasure, Lindsay had announced to her the danger that had befallen Butler, the disclosure opened to her mind a world of misery. The late silence of her lover had already alarmed her fears, and this announcement suggested the worst of the many anxious conjectures which her brooding spirit had imagined as the cause of that absence of tidings. Her emotions upon this disclosure were those of a bursting heart that dared not trust itself with words; and when her father, seeing the unlooked-for mischief he had done, sought to temper his speech, and retract some of the harshness of his communication, by an explanation, the only effect was, for the moment, to take off the edge of her keenest grief. But when she left his presence, and recovered herself sufficiently to recall all that had passed, the dreadful thought of disaster to Butler, came back upon her imagination with all the horrors which a fond heart could summon around it. A weary hour was spent in sobs and tears; and it was only by the blandishments of her brother Henry's kind and earnest sympathy, when the youth found her in the parlor thus whelmed in sorrow, and by his manly and cheering reckoning of the many chances of safety that attend the footsteps of a prudent and a brave man, that she began to regain that resolute equanimity that was a natural and even predominating attribute of her character. When Lindsay came into the parlor with the tidings of the victory at Camden, such was the state in which he found her; and whilst he announced to her that event which had given him so much joy, he was not unheedful of the pang he had previously inflicted, and now endeavored to make amends by throwing in some apparently casual, though intentional, reference to the condition of Butler, who, he doubted not, would now be disposed of on easy terms. "Perhaps," he continued, "as the war was drawing to a close, and the royal clemency had been singularly considerate of the mistaken men who had taken arms against their king, he would in a little while be discharged on his parole." This reluctant and forced crumb of comfort fell before one who had but little appetite to take it, and Mildred received it only in cold silence. Henry, however, made better use of the event, and by that assiduity which, in true and gentle friendships, never wearies, and never misses its aim, when that aim is to revive a sinking hope, succeeded in lifting both his father and sister into a kindlier climate of feeling. But solitude and her pillow ravelled all this work of charity. Fancy, that stirring tormentor of acute minds, summoned up all its phantoms to Mildred's waking fears, and the night was passed by her as by one who could not be comforted. In the morning she was ill, and therefore, as I have said, remained in her chamber. Lindsay, ever solicitous for the happiness of his children, and keenly sensitive to whatever gave them pain, now that the turbid violence of his passion had subsided into a clearer and calmer medium, applied himself by every art which parental fondness could supply, to mitigate the suffering of his daughter. Like a man who, in a reckless and ungoverned moment, having done an injury which his heart revolts at, and having leisure to contemplate the wrong he has inflicted, hastens to administer comfort with an alacrity which even outruns the suggestions of ordinary affection, so did he now betake himself to Mildred's chamber, and, with sentiments of mixed alarm and contrition, seek her forgiveness for what he acknowledged a rash and unbecoming assault upon her feelings. His soothing did not reach the disease. They could give her no assurance of Butler's safety; and on that point alone all her anguish turned. "My dear, dear father," she said, with a feeble and dejected voice, "how do you wrong me, by supposing I could harbor a sentiment that might cause me to doubt the love I bear you! I know and revere the purity of your nature, and need no assurance from you that your affection itself has kindled up this warmth of temper. But you have opened a fountain of bitterness upon my feelings," she added, sobbing vehemently, "in what you have divulged relating to a man you loathe, and one, dear father--take it from me now, as the expression of a sacred duty--one that I must ever love. Call it fate--call it infatuation; say that it does not befit my womanly reserve to avow it--but if misfortune and death have fallen upon the head of Arthur Butler, there is that bond between us, that I must die. Oh, father--" As Mildred pronounced these words she had gradually raised herself into a sitting posture in her bed, and, at the conclusion, fell back exhausted upon her pillow. The enthusiasm, the violence and the intensity of her emotions had overborne her strength, and for some moments she lay incapable of speech. "Mildred, Mildred! daughter!" exclaimed Lindsay, in alarm, "I forgive you, my child. Great heaven, if this should be too much for her sensitive nature, and she should die before my eyes! Dear Mildred," he said in a softer accent, as he kissed her pale forehead, "but look up, and never, never more will I oppose your wish." "Father," she uttered, in a scarce audible whisper. "Thank God, she revives! Forbear to speak, my love; that is enough. Do not exhaust your strength by another effort." "Father!" she repeated in a firmer accent. "There, there, my child," continued Lindsay, fanning the air before her face with his hand. "Father," again uttered Mildred, "tell me of Arthur." "He is safe, my love--and thou shalt yet be happy. Daughter--no more; compose yourself--nor attempt again to speak." And saying these words, Lindsay stole out of the chamber and summoned one of the domestics to administer a cordial to the exhausted patient; and then gave orders that she should be left to recruit her strength by sleep. Mildred by degrees revived. Jaded by mental affliction, she had sunk into repose; and when another morning arrived, the lustre had returned to her eye, and her recovery was already well advanced. She did not yet venture from her chamber, but she was able to leave her bed and take the fresh air at her window. Whilst she sat in the loose robe of an invalid, towards noon, looking out upon the green forest and smiling fields around her, with Henry close by her side, seeking to soothe and amuse her mind, they were enabled to descry a horseman, attended by a single servant, making his way up the hill from the ford, by the road that led directly to the door. "As I live, sister," ejaculated Henry, "there is Tyrrel, covered with dust, and his horse all but worn down by travel." "Heaven forbid that it should be Tyrrel indeed!" said Mildred, growing paler, and trembling as she spoke. "Oh, what ill fortune brings him hither?" "I'll be bound," replied Henry, "that he comes with a whole budget of lies and foul thoughts. He has a knavish look, sister, and has been hatching mischief with every step of his horse. I, for one, will not see him; unless I can't help it. And you, sister, have an excuse to keep your room: so, he is like to have cold comfort here, with his rascally news of victory. We shall hear enough of Camden now. By-the-by, sister, I should like much to see our account of that business. I would bet it gives another face to the matter. These Tories do so bespatter his lordship with praises, and tell such improbable things about their victories! I will not see Tyrrel, that's flat." "Nay, brother, not so fast. You must see him, for my sake. He has something to tell of Arthur. Persuade my father to ask him: tell him, if need be, that I requested this. And, Henry, if he says that Arthur is safe and well, if he has heard anything of him, knows anything of him, fly to and tell me it all. And, remember, brother," she said earnestly, "tell me all--whether it be good or bad." "This is a new view of the case," said Henry. "Mildred, you are a wise woman, and think more ahead than I do. I did not reflect that this fellow might know something of Major Butler, though I am pretty sure he kept as clear of the major as a clean pair of heels would allow him. And, moreover, I take upon me to say, that he will bring as little good news of our Arthur in this direction, as he ever did of a good act in his life. But I will spy him out, sister, and report like a--like a--forty-two pounder, or the dispatch of a general who has won a fight. So, adieu, sister." By the time that Henry had reached the porch, Tyrrel was already there. He had dismounted, and his weary steed stood panting on the grave walk, while the servant stripped him of his baggage. "Well met, good master Henry!" said Tyrrel approaching, and offering the youth his hand, "I am somewhat of a soiled traveller, you see. Is your father at home? And your sister, how is she?" "My father is at home," replied Henry, dropping the proffered hand of the visitor, almost as soon as it had touched his own. "I will send him to you, sir." "But you have not asked me the news, Henry," said Tyrrel, "and, seeing that I have come from the very theatre of war, I could tell you something good." "I have heard my father speak of your good news," answered Henry, carelessly, "I do not serve under the same colors with you, sir." And the youth left the porch to announce the arrival of the traveller to Lindsay. "There spoke the rebel Mildred," muttered Tyrrel, as Henry left his presence. In an instant, Lindsay hastened from the library and received his guest with a warm welcome. The first cares of his reception, and some necessary order relating to his comfort, being despatched, Tyrrel began to disburden himself of his stock of particulars relating to the great and important movements of the opposing armies in the south. He had left Cornwallis a few days after the battle, and had travelled with post haste to Virginia, on a leave of absence. He described minutely the state of things consequent upon the recent victory; and it was with a tone of triumphant exultation that he frequently appealed to his predictions as to the course of events, when last at the Dove Cote. The conversation soon became too confidential for the presence even of Henry, who sat greedily devouring every word that fell from the lips of the narrator, and the further interview was transferred to the library. Henry hastened back to Mildred. "The fellow is so full of politics, sister," said the eager scout, "that he has not dropped one solitary word about Butler. He talks of the province being brought back to a sense of its duty, and public sentiment putting an end to this unnatural war forsooth! And his majesty reaping fresh laurels on the fields of Virginia! Let his majesty put in his sickle here--he shall reap as fine a crop of briers to bind round his brow, as ever grew in a fence-corner! But Butler! Oh, no, he has nothing to say of Butler. He is a cunning man, sister, and keeps out of the major's way, take my word for that." "Brother, get you again to my father, and say to him that I desire to know what tidings Mr. Tyrrel brings us. Say it in his ear privately, Henry." The young emissary again took his leave, and, without apology, entered the library. Mildred, in the meantime, restless and impatient, applied herself to the duties of the toilet, and, with the assistance of her maid, was soon in a condition to leave her chamber. She had, almost unwittingly, and in obedience to her engrossing wish to know something of Butler, made these preparations to appear in the parlor, without thinking of her repugnance to meet Tyrrel. And now, when she was on the point of going forth, her resolve changed, and she moved through the chamber like a perturbed spirit, anxiously waiting the return of Henry. She walked to the window, whence, looking out towards the terrace she perceived that her father and his guest had strolled out upon the lawn, where they were moving forward at a slow pace, whilst their gesticulations showed that they were engaged in an earnest conference. Henry's footsteps at the same moment were heard traversing the long passage, and Mildred, no longer able to restrain her eagerness, hastily left her room and met her brother, with whom she returned to the parlor. "My news, upon the whole, is good," said Henry, as he put his arm round Mildred's waist. "When I entered the library, and took a seat by my father, he suddenly broke up some long talk that was going on, in which he looked very grave, and, as if he knew what I came for--he is an excellent, kind father, sister, for all his moping and sad humors, and loves both you and me." "He does, Henry, and we must never forget it." "I would fight for him to the very death, Mildred. So, seeing that I looked as if you had sent me to him, he turned, in a kind of careless way, and asked Tyrrel if he had heard anything lately of Butler." "Well--brother." "'I scarce thought to mention it, answered Tyrrel, 'but the man'--think of that way of speaking of Major Butler--'the man had the temerity to push himself amongst the loyal troops, and was made a prisoner; he was suspected to be a spy, and there was, as I have understood, an idea of trying him by court-martial for it, and for other misdemeanors, of which I wrote you some particulars. I believe indeed, he was tried, and would, perhaps, have been shot.'" "Oh, heaven! brother, can this be true?" exclaimed Mildred, as the color deserted her cheek. "I give you exactly Tyrrel's words," replied Henry, "but the court were attacked, said he, by some bands of Whigs who stole a march upon them." "And Arthur escaped? Kind heaven, I thank thee!" almost screamed Mildred, as she clasped her hands together. "So Tyrrel thinks," continued Henry. "At all events they did not shoot him, like a pack of cowardly knaves as they were. And as some Tory prisoners were taken and dragged away by our good friend General Sumpter, who was the man, Tyrrel says, that set upon them, it is considered good policy--these were his words, sister--to spare the unnecessary effusion of blood on both sides. And then my father asked Tyrrel if Cornwallis knew of these doings, and he answered, not--that it was the indiscreet act of some mountain boys, who were in the habit of burning and slaying, against the wish of his Lordship: that the regular officers disapprove of harsh measures, and that peace now reigns all through the province." "When they make a desert of the land, they call it peace," said Mildred thoughtfully, quoting a translation of the beautiful passage of Tacitus. "This war is a dreadful trade." "For us, sister, who stay at home," replied Henry. "But God is good to us, and will favor the right, and will protect the brave men who draw their swords to maintain it." "From treachery, ambuscade, and privy murder--I thank you, brother, for that word. Heaven shield us, and those we love! But these are fearful times." CHAPTER XXXVI. CIRCUMSTANCES FAVOR TYRREL's INFLUENCE OVER LINDSAY. The discourse between Lindsay and Tyrrel was one of deep moment. Tyrrel had taken advantage of the pervading fervor which the late successes of the British arms had diffused amongst the adherents of the royal cause, in behalf of what was deemed their certain triumph, to urge forward his own views. This was the occasion of his present unexpected visit at the Dove Cote. His immediate aim was to plunge Lindsay into the contest, by forcing him to take some step that should so commit him, in the opinion of the republican government, as to leave him no chance of retreat, nor the means longer to enjoy the privileges of his late neutrality. He, unhappily, found Lindsay in a mood to favor this intrigue. The increasing anxieties of that gentleman's mind, his domestic griefs, his peculiar temperament, and the warmth of his political animosities, all stimulated him to the thought of some active participation in the struggle. Tyrrel had sufficient penetration to perceive that such was likely to be the current of Lindsay's feelings, and he had by frequent letters administered to this result. There were several opulent families in the lower sections of the state, who still clung to the cause of the King, and who had been patiently awaiting the course of events, for the time when they might more boldly avow themselves. With the heads of these families Tyrrel had been in active correspondence, and it was now his design which under the sanction of the British leaders, he had already nearly matured, to bring these individuals together into a secret council, that they might act in concert, and strengthen themselves by mutual alliance. Immediately after the battle of Camden, it is known that Cornwallis had laid his plans for the invasion of North Carolina, by intrigues of the same kind: it was only extending the system a little in advance to apply it to Virginia. Arrangements had been made for this meeting of malcontents to be held at the house of a Mr. Stanhope, on one of the lower sections of the James river--a gentleman of good repute, with whom Lindsay had long been in the relations of close friendship. "The moments are precious, and you are waited for," said Tyrrel, in the course of his conference with Lindsay; "we must strike whilst the iron is hot. Separated as our good friends are from each other, you are now in the power, and at the mercy--which is a significant phrase--of the unruly government of Congress. Your motions, therefore, should be prompt. There are seasons, in the history of every trouble, when the virtue of deliberation mainly lies in its rapidity and the boldness of its resolve. I beseech you, sir, to regard this as such a season, and to take the course which the honor of our sovereign demands, without further pause to think of consequences." "When you were here a month ago," replied Lindsay, "I had my scruples. But things have strangely altered in that short interval. Your standard floats more bravely over the path of invasion than I had deemed it possible. You charged me then with being a laggard, and, you may remember, even impeached my loyalty." "I did you a grievous wrong, my dear friend; and did I not know your generous nature pardoned, as soon as it was uttered, my rash and intemperate speech, it would have cost me many a pang of remorse. Even in this, good sir," said Tyrrel, smiling and laying his hand upon Lindsay's shoulder; "even in this, you see how necessary is it that we should have a wise and considerate councillor to moderate the ungoverned zeal of us younger men." "My mind is made up," replied Lindsay. "I will attend the meeting." "And Mildred will be removed forthwith to Charleston?" eagerly interrupted Tyrrel. "Ah, sir, not one word of that. If I attend this meeting, it must be in secret. Nor do I yet commit myself to its resolves. I shall be a listener only. I would learn what my compatriots think, reserving to myself the right to act. Even yet, I would purchase peace with many a sacrifice. I abjure all violent measures of offence." "I am content," answered Tyrrel, "that you should hold yourself unpledged to any measures which your gravest and severest judgment does not approve. Though I little doubt that, from all quarters, you will hear such tidings as shall convince you that the road, both of safety and honor, leads onward in this glorious enterprise. 'Tis from this nettle danger, that we pluck the flower 'safety.' Conscious of this, I would have Mildred and her brother cared for." "Mildred can never be yours," said Lindsay musing. "There is the thought that makes me pause. I believed, and so do you, that the favor this Butler had found with her was the capricious and changeful fancy of a girl. It is the devoted passion of a woman: it has grown to be her faith, her honor, her religion." "Butler is a fool--a doomed madman," replied Tyrrel with earnestness. "He came here with the hellish purpose to betray you; and he was silly enough to think he could do so, and still win your daughter. She should be told of this." "She has been told of it, and she believes it not." "Was my avouch given to her for the truth of the fact." "It was. And, to speak plainly to you, it has only made your name hateful to her ear." "Then shall she have proof of it, which she cannot doubt. She shall have it in the recorded judgment of a court-martial, which has condemned him as a traitor and a spy; she shall have it in the doom of his death, and the sequestration of his estate," exclaimed Tyrrel with a bitter malignity, "proud girl!" "Remember yourself, sir!" interrupted Lindsay, sternly. "This is not the language nor the tone fit for a father's ear, when the subject of it is his own daughter." Tyrrel was instantly recalled to his self-possession; and with that humility which he could always assume when his own interest required it, spoke in a voice of sudden contrition. "Why, what a fool am I to let my temper thus sway me! Humbly, most humbly, dear sir, do I entreat your forgiveness. I love your daughter, and revere the earnest enthusiasm of her nature; and, therefore, have been galled beyond my proper show of duty, to learn that she could discredit my word." "I enjoin it upon you," said Lindsay, "that in your intercourse with my family here, you drop no word calculated to alarm my daughter for the safety of this Butler. It is a topic which distracts her, and must be avoided." "For the present," replied Tyrrel, "as I have before told you, I think he is safe. The forfeiture of his estate is not a secret. But to business, my friend. When shall we set out?" "To-morrow," answered Lindsay. "We must travel cautiously, and amongst our friends." "This disguise has served me so far," said Tyrrel. "I may the better trust to it when in your company." Mildred and Henry remained in the parlor, and were there when Lindsay and his guest, having terminated their secret conference, returned to the house. "Your cheek denies your customary boast of good health, Miss Lindsay," said Tyrrel, respectfully approaching the lady, and with an air that seemed to indicate his expectation of a cold reception. "It grieves me to learn that, at a time when all good men are rejoicing in the prospect of peace, you should not be in a condition to share the common pleasure." "I think there is small occasion for rejoicing in any quarter," replied Mildred, calmly. "Miss Lindsay would, perhaps, be interested to hear," said Tyrrel, not discomfited by the evident aversion of the lady, "that I have, within a few days past, left the head-quarters of the British army, where I was enabled to glean some particulars of a friend of hers, Major Butler, of the Continental service." Mildred colored, as she said in a faint voice, "He is my friend." "He has been unfortunate," continued Tyrrel, "having fallen into the hands of some of our skirmishers. But I believe I may assure Miss Lindsay that he is both safe and well. He enjoys the reputation of being a brave gentleman. I may be permitted to say, that had his destiny brought him under other colors, I should have been proud to be better known to him." "Major Butler chooses his own colors," said Henry, interposing. "I don't think destiny had much to do with it. He took his side because they wanted men to help out a brave war." Lindsay frowned, and strode once or twice across the apartment, during which an embarrassing silence prevailed. "You are the same cockerel you always were, Henry," said Tyrrel, with undaunted playfulness; "always warm for the fight. But it is a Christian duty, you know, to be peace-makers in such times as these. We may trust, Miss Lindsay, that some conciliatory spirit shall arise to quell the quarrelsome humors of the people, and bring all things back to tranquillity. For myself, I devoutly wish it." "The day for such a spirit does not seem to be at hand," said Mildred, quietly rising to withdraw. "You are not well, my daughter," interposed Lindsay. "Mildred is but recently from a sick bed," he continued, addressing Tyrrel, in the way of apology for her marked coldness of demeanor. "I am not well, father," replied Mildred, "I must be permitted to leave you;" and she now retired. When Henry soon afterwards joined her, he found her agitated and excited. "Better known to Arthur Butler!" she exclaimed, dwelling on the speech of Tyrrel. "He is better known already than he dreams of. Think, brother, of the cool hypocrisy of this bold schemer--this secret disturber of the quiet of our house--that he should dare boast to me of Arthur's bravery." "And to talk about his colors too!" said Henry. "Did you mark, sister, how I set him down--in spite of my father's presence? And did you see how his brow blanched when I spoke my mind to him? He will find me too hot a cockerel, as he calls me, to venture upon our colors again. I hold no terms with him, sister, more than yourself." "You will excuse me to my father, Henry, I will not go in to dinner to-day." "I wondered," replied Henry, "that you met him at all, sister; but he took us unawares. And, truly, I don't think it would be safe to bring you near him again. So I advise you, keep your room. As for me--tut! I am not afraid to meet him. I warrant he gets his own upon occasion!" "I entreat you, Henry," said Mildred, "to guard your temper. It would give our father pain to hear a rash speech from you. It would answer no good end." "I will be as circumspect, Mildred, as the state of the war requires," answered Henry. "Fight when it is necessary, and be silent when we can't strike." Henry now left his sister and went to his usual occupations. Mildred, in accordance with the purpose expressed to her brother did not appear at the dinner table; and the day was passed, by Lindsay and Tyrrel, in close communion over the topics connected with the object of the enterprise in which they were about to embark. Tyrrel had seen enough to convince him that he might, at least for the present, abandon all effort to win Mildred's good opinion; and his whole thoughts were now bent to bring Lindsay into such an attitude of hostility to the republican authorities as would inevitably lead to his removal from the state, and perhaps compel him to retire to England. Either of these events would operate to the advantage of the aspiring and selfish policy by which Tyrrel hoped to accomplish his object. In the course of the evening Lindsay held a short interview with his children, in which he made known to them that affairs of importance were about to call him away, for a fortnight perhaps, from the Dove Cote. It was in vain that Mildred endeavored to turn him from his purpose, which, though undivulged to her, she conjectured to be, from its association with Tyrrel, some sinister political move, of which her father was to be the dupe. In accordance with Lindsay's intimation, he and Tyrrel set out, at an early hour of the following day, on their journey towards the low country. CHAPTER XXXVII. A DOMESTIC SCENE AT THE DOVE COTE. On the third morning following Lindsay's and Tyrrel's departure, the season being now about the commencement of September, Henry was seen, after an unusually early breakfast, to come forth upon the grass-plot, in front of the house, bearing in his hand a short rifle,--his customary accompaniment of the bugle being slung across his shoulders. For some moments he was occupied in examining his weapon; then leaning it against a tree that stood upon the lawn, he put the bugle to his mouth and sounded a long and clear signal-note. The first effects of this spell were to bring up Bell, Blanche, and Hylas, the three flap-eared hounds, who came frisking over the grass with many antics that might be said to resemble the bows and curtsies of the human species, and which were accompanied by the houndish salutation of deep-mouthed howls that the horn never fails to wake up in these animals. Soon after these, came striding up the hill the long gaunt form of Stephen Foster, who, mounting the stone wall on the lower side, with one bound sprang over the thickset-hedge that begirt the terrace. He was now arrayed in a yellow hunting shirt that reached to the middle of his thigh, and which was decorated with an abundance of red fringe that bound the cape, elbows, wrists, and extremity of the skirt, and a wool hat encircled with a broad red band, in one side of which was set the national ornament of the buck-tail. Around his waist was buckled a broad buckskin belt; he was armed besides with a rifle a little short of six feet in length. Stephen Foster was one of that idle craft, who, having no particular occupation, was from this circumstance, by a contradiction in terms, usually called a man of all work. He belonged to that class of beings who are only to be found in a society where the ordinary menial employments are discharged by slaves; and was the tenant of a few acres of land, appertaining to the domain of the Dove Cote, where he professed to make his living by husbandry. But by far the greater proportion of his revenues was derived from divers miscellaneous services,--such as driving a team of four lean horses, of which he was proprietor; hauling wood for fuel; assisting in the harvest fields; somtimes working in the garden; and, when required, riding errands--which he preferred to all other business. But labor was not Stephen's forte: it was constitutionally a part of his system to postpone matters of work for pleasure; and, if there was anything for which he was particularly famous, it was in avoiding all appearances of punctuality to irksome engagements. If he can be said to have had a calling at all, it was that of a hunter, a species of employment that possessed a wonderful charm for his fancy, and which was excellently adapted both to his physical and moral qualities. He, therefore, gave much of his time to the concerns of vert and venison; and his skill with the rifle was such that he could make sure of putting a ball through the brain of a wild pigeon as far as he was able to draw a sight. He was skilled in the habits of all the forest animals common to this part of Virginia, and accurately drew the line of distinction between vermin and game. He hunted wolves, bears, panthers (painters, in his own pronunciation), racoons, foxes, opossums, and squirrels; and trapped otter, beaver, and muskrats; moreover, he was an expert jigger and bobber of eels, and well knew the trouting streams. For these pursuits he was endowed with a patient nature that could endure a whole day and night in the woods without eating or sleeping; my authority says nothing of his forbearance in the third primary want of humanity. He was a man of fine thews and sinews, stout and brave; and withal of a generous, frank, and invariable good nature. The war had furnished occasion for such talents as be possessed; and Stephen was now meditating a bold severance from his wife and children, who had heretofore exerted such a dominion over his affections, that he had not the heart to leave them. But the present difficulties of the nation had made such a cogent appeal to his patriotism, that he had resolved to take one campaign in the field, and thus give scope to his natural love of adventure. It was now his peculiar glory, and one that wrought with a potent influence upon his self-love, that he held the post of lieutenant to the company of Amherst Rangers, a volunteer corps that had lately been organized with a view to the state of affairs in the south. This worthy, when he had no expedition in hand, was generally to be found lounging about the mansion of the Dove Cote, in expectation of some call from Henry, between whom and himself there existed a mutual and somewhat exorbitant affection. On his present appearance there was a broad, complacent grin on Stephen's features as he accosted the young bugleman with the interrogatory-- "What's in the wind now, Mister Henry? Arter another buck, I reckon? And an elegant morning it is for a drive! May be, the wind's just a little too fresh, 'cepting you was able to steal on the lower side of the game, and then the scent would come down like a rose. Thar's a great advantage in being down the wind, because the animal can't hear you breaking through the bushes, for the wind makes naturally such a twittering of the leaves that it deceives him, you see." "I fancy I know a good hunting day, Lieutenant Foster," said Henry, putting his arms akimbo, "as well as you. Who told you I was going after a buck? Why, man, if that had been my drift I should have started you two hours ago. But we have other business in hand, Stephen. There is such dreadful news in the country! We shall march soon, take my word for it. I am resolved to go, Stephen, as soon as ever the Rangers set out, let my father say what he will. It is time men should take their sides--that's my opinion." "Mister Henry, I wouldn't advise you," said Stephen, with a wise shake of the head. "Your father would grieve himself to death if you were to leave him." "Don't believe the half of that, lieutenant. There would be a flurry for a little while, and, after that, father would see that the thing couldn't be helped, and so he would have to be satisfied. I'll steal away--that's flat." "Well, take notice, Mister Henry," said Stephen, chuckling, "I give you my warning against it. But if you do go along with me I'll take as much care of you as if you were my own son." "I know sister Mildred thinks," replied Henry, "it wouldn't be very wrong in me to go; and so I'll leave her to make my peace at home. Besides, I am going on her account, just to try and hear something of Major Butler." "If that's her opinion," returned Stephen, "thar isn't much wrong about it. She is the head contriver and main privy-councillor," added Stephen, laughing, as he used these slang words, with which he was in the habit of garnishing his conversation, "of all matters that are done here in this house." "These are your new regimentals, Stephen," said Henry, looking at Foster's dress; "you shine like a flecker on a sunny day. It will please sister to the life to see you so spruce; she's a prodigious disciplinarian, and doesn't like to see us rebels (here he put his hand to his mouth and pronounced this word with a mock circumspection), worse dressed than the rascally red-coats. When do the Rangers march, Stephen?" "We are waiting for orders every day. We parade, you know, Mister Henry, this morning." "You must plead off to-day," said Henry; "I called you up to tell you that sister and I were going to ride, and I wanted you to go with us. At any rate, if you must go to the troop, you can leave us on the road. You don't meet till twelve, and both sister and I want to talk to you. She commanded me to tell you this. I believe she wishes you to take a letter for her. Poor Mildred doesn't know that I am going with you; so, as to that, you needn't let on. Go, Stephen, have our horses ready as soon as you can get them. Quick, good Stephen; sister and I will wait for you on the lawn." The lieutenant of the Rangers, having received his orders, hurried away to attend to their execution. Mildred was already apparelled for her ride, and came at this moment from the house along the gravel walk. Her cheek, lately pale, had now begun to show the ruddy hue of health. Her full, dark-blue eye, although habitually expressive of a thoughtful temperament, frequently sparkled with the sudden flashes of a playful spirit, and oftener with the fire of an ardent resolution. Her features, marked by a well-defined outline, bore a strong resemblance to her brother's, and, when animated by the quick-speeding emotions of her mind, presented a countenance unusually gifted with the graces of external beauty. The impression which her physiognomy conveyed, was that of an impassioned and enthusiastic nature, and of a feminine courage that was sufficient for any emergency. A clear skin gave brilliancy to her complexion; and, although habits of exposure to the air had slightly impaired its lustre, the few traces which this exposure left, rather communicated the agreeable idea of a wholesome and vigorous constitution. The tones of her voice were soft and gentle, and full of harmony; and, when stimulated by her feelings, rich, deep, and commanding. Her figure, of what might be deemed a medium height in females, was neat and agile, well proportioned, and combining the flexible ease proper to her sex, with a degree of steadiness and strength that might be denominated masculine. Her movement was graceful, distinguished by a ready hand and free step; and it was impossible to look upon her most familiar bearing, without being struck by the indication which it gave of a self-possessed, fearless, and careering temper, allied to a mind raised above the multitude by a consciousness of intellectual force. As Mildred advanced along the shaded walk, she was followed by a fantastical little attendant, whom, in the toyish freak of a solitary and luxurious life, she had trained to fill the station of a lady's page. This was a diminutive negro boy, not above ten years of age, of a delicate figure, and now gaudily bedecked in a vest of scarlet cloth, a pair of loose white linen trowsers drawn at the ancle, and red slippers. A ruffle fell over his neck, and full white sleeves were fastened with silken cords at his wrists. A scarlet velvet cap gave a finish to the apparel of this gorgeous little elf; and the dress, grotesque as it was, was not badly set off by the saucy, familiar port of the conceited menial. Whether he had been destined from his birth to this pampered station,--or, accidentally, like many of the eastern monarchs, raised to the purple,--he bore the romantic name of Endymion, and was fully as much at the call of his patroness, and as fond of sleep, as him of Mount Latmos. His business seemed to be at the present moment to acquit himself of the responsible duty of holding an ivory-mounted riding-whip in readiness for the service of his mistress. When Mildred had crossed the lawn and arrived at the spot where Henry now stood, she was saluted by her brother, with-- "Stand, my gentle sister, you and your monkey! Ah, Mildred, you are not what you used to be; you have grown much too grave of late. Bear up, dear sister: for, after all, what is it! Why we have been beaten, and we must fight it over again, that's all. And as to the major, your partiality magnifies his dangers. Hasn't he an arm?--yes; and hasn't he a leg?--which, in war, I hold to be just as useful sometimes." "There is a dreadful uncertainty, brother," replied Mildred. "I dream of the worst." "A fig for your dreams, sister Mildred! They have been all sorts of ways, and that you know. Now, I have a waking dream, and that is, that before you are twenty-four hours older you will hear of Major Butler." "Would to heaven your dream may prove true!" replied Mildred. "But, Henry, you love me, and affection is an arrant cheat in its prophecies." "Tush then, sister! don't talk of it. For when we know nothing, it does no good to get to fancying. These are the times to act; and perhaps I'll surprise you yet." "With what, good brother?" "Order arms," replied Henry, evading his sister's inquiry, and at the same time assuming a military erectness, and bringing his rifle briskly to the ground--"with the beauty of my drill, sister. It even surprises myself. You shall see me march." And here he sportively shouldered his rifle and stepped with a measured pace across the green, and then back again; whilst the saucy Endymion, presuming on his privilege, with mimic gestures, followed immediately in Henry's rear, taking large strides to keep his ground. When Henry perceived the apish minion thus upon his track he burst out into a laugh. "You huge giant-killer, do you mock me?" he exclaimed. "Sister, I will smother your body-guard in the crown of my cap, if he isn't taught better manners." "Henry, I cannot share your light heart with you," said Mildred sorrowfully, "mine is heavy." "And mine is yours, sister, light or heavy; in sunshine or in storm, summer and winter, dear Mildred, it is always yours. It was a trick of mine to amuse you. And if I do not seem to feel, sister, as you do, it is because I mean to act. We men have no time for low spirits." "Stephen Foster is here at the door with our horses, brother. Boy, give me the whip--now, away. The gay feathers of this bird," said Mildred, as the little black retired, "do not become a follower of mine." The new aspect of affairs, since the defeat of Camden, had pressed grievously upon Mildred's spirits. The country was full of disheartening rumors, and every day added particulars that were of a nature to increase the distress. The bloody fate of the brave De Kalb, and the soldiers that fell by his side; the triumph with which Cornwallis had begun his preparations for further conquests; the destitution and disarray of the American army, now flying before its enemy; the tales of unsparing sequestration with which, in Carolina, the lands of those who still bore arms in the cause of independence, were visited; the military executions of prisoners charged with the violation of a constructive allegiance, in the conquered districts; the harsh measures which were adopted to break the heart of the rebellion, that still lingered behind the march of the victorious army; and, above all, the boastful confidence with which Cornwallis, by his proclamations, sought to open the way for his invasion of North Carolina and Virginia, by attempting to rally the liege subjects of the king under his standard: all these events came on the wings of rumor, and had lighted up a flame through the whole country. To Mildred, they all imported an ill omen as regarded the fate of Arthur Butler. Now and then, a straggling soldier of Gates's broken force arrived at the Dove Cote, where he was received with an eager hospitality, and closely questioned as to the events in which he had participated. But of Butler, not even the remotest tidings were obtained. For the present, the uncertainty of his fortune filled Mildred's thoughts with the most anxious and unhappy misgivings; and this frame of mind over-mastered all other feelings. The late visit of Tyrrel to the Dove Cote, and the abrupt departure of her father with this individual, on an unavowed expedition, were not calculated to allay her fears; and she felt herself pressed on all sides with the presages of coming misfortune. In these difficulties she did not lose her fortitude; but, like a mariner benighted in a dangerous strait, she counted over the anxious moments of her voyage, expecting, at each succeeding instant, to hear the dreadful stranding of her bark upon the unseen rock, though bravely prepared for the worst. CHAPTER XXXVIII. AN ARRIVAL AT THE DOVE COTE. MILDRED RESOLVES ON A PERILOUS ADVENTURE. It was in the state of painful expectation described in the last chapter, that Mildred now rode out, daily, upon the highways, in the feeble hope of hearing something of importance from the casual wayfarers who, in the present excited condition of the country, were thronging the roads. On the morning to which our narrative refers, she had charged Henry to procure the attendance of Stephen Foster, to whom, as it was known that he was about to accompany his troop towards the scene of hostilities, she was anxious to intrust a letter for Butler, as well as to communicate to him some instructions relating to it. Stephen was, accordingly, now in attendance. A sleek, full-blooded roan, of an active, deer-like figure, and showing by his mettlesome antics the high training of a pampered favorite, stood in the care of the groom at the door; and Mildred, aided by her brother, sprang into her saddle with the ease and confidence of one familiarized to the exploit. When mounted, she appeared to great advantage. She was an expert rider, and managed her horse with a dexterous grace. The very position of command and authority which her saddle gave her, seemed to raise her spirits into a happier elevation. "Follow me, Mister Stephen," she said, "I have service for you. And it will not be out of the fashion of the time that a lady should be 'squired by an armed soldier. We take the road down the river. Have a care, brother, how you bound off at the start--the hill is steep, and a horse's foot is not over sure when pressed too rapidly on the descent." The cavalcade descended the hill, crossed the ford, and then took a direction down the stream, by the road that led beneath the Fawn's Tower. Mildred sighed as she gazed around her, and saw the spot of her last meeting with Butler. The little skiff by which her lover had glided across the water, now lay upon a dry bed of rock, in the same position, perhaps, where a month ago he had left it. The summer drought had reduced the stream, and deprived the light boat (whose tackle kept it prisoner to the root of the sycamore) of the element on which it had floated. This spectacle suggested to Mildred's thoughts a melancholy image. "Even thus," she muttered to herself, "have I been left by him. He has gone to obey the calls of honor and duty, and I, fettered to my native woods, have seen the stream of happiness roll by, one while swollen to a torrent, and again dried up by the fervid heat of war, until, like this sun-withered bark, I have been left upon the shore, without one drop of that clear current on which alone I hoped to live. Come hither, Stephen," she said, as she slackened the rein of her horse: and the obedient attendant was immediately at her side. "You set out southwards, with your comrades of the troop, in a few days?" "Orders may come to-morrow," replied Foster. "It is no holiday game that you are going to play," continued the lady. "When Congress cut out this here war for us, Miss Mildred," answered the hunter, "they didn't count upon settling of it without making some tall fellows the shorter. And it is my opinion that it is a p'int of conscience that every man should take his spell of the work." "You go to it with a good heart," said Mildred. "We women can only pray for you, lieutenant." "I shall pull trigger with a steadier hand, ma'am, when I think that your father's daughter is praying for me." "Stephen," continued Mildred, "you may chance to see some one whose duty may lead him further south than, perhaps, you may be required to travel: I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, who, I fear, is in distress. If such traveller be trusty and willing to do me a service, as perhaps he may for your sake, I must beg you to put the letter in his charge, and tell him to seek out Major Butler, and contrive to have it delivered to him." "If it concerns you, Miss Mildred, I will take upon myself to hunt Major Butler, or I will make as sure of the letter reaching him as I may have a chance." "Many thanks, Stephen. There is a purse containing some few pieces of gold for you. Do not spare the use of it to perform my wish." Stephen looked bashfully at the lady as she held the proffered purse in her hand. "Take it, Mr. Foster. It is money to be employed in my service, and it may stand you in good stead when better friends are absent." The hunter uttered an awkward laugh. "If you would allow me to take the smallest piece of money, it would more than hire a man express." "Take it all, Stephen, it is but a trifle. They call this the sinew of war," said Mildred, smiling. "It's an utter, moral, and resolute impossibility," answered Foster, "for me to take all that money. Bless your soul, Miss Mildred, my pocket arn't used to such company." "Pshaw, Steve," ejaculated Henry, "you are the greenest soldier in these hills, to be playing boy about this money. Take it, man, and none of your nonsense; precious little gold you'll see before you get back!" "Well, I'll not be ticklish about it," said Foster. "Empty the bag, Miss Mildred, into my hand." "I mean that you shall have the purse with it," added Mildred. "No, no; that's too valuable a piece of fine silk net-work for me." "There again, Lieutenant Foster," said Henry; "if you were not my own superior officer, I would say you were a fool." "Give it to me," replied Stephen, laughing, "I have heard of cheating money out of a man's pocket, but I never saw it cheated into it before." "You shall have the letter to-morrow, Stephen," said Mildred, "and as you value your poor friend, who worked that purse with her own hands, do not fail to make an effort to learn something of Major Butler, and to have my letter delivered to him. He was made a prisoner somewhere on his way to Georgia, and I have heard escaped; but, perhaps, that's not true. You may find some one who can tell you more about him. Inquire of all you meet: and, Stephen, in my name, beg your comrades to aid you. Remember," added Mildred, with a smile, "this is a lady's secret. I am sure you will keep it." "Most sacrilegiously and with all possible punctuation!" replied the woodsman. "And you shall hear of the Major, Miss Mildred, dead or alive." "Oh heaven!" exclaimed Mildred aloud; and then recollecting herself, she breathed in a whisper, "that word vibrated a note of fear. Your zeal shall have my warmest gratitude, Stephen." By this time the party had reached the second ford, where the road recrossed the river, in the neighborhood of Mrs. Dimock's, and in a few moments they were at the door of the little inn. A brief halt, and a few words with the good hostess, furnished Mildred neither with a letter nor with any information of moment from the quarter, where at this time the thoughts of nearly the whole of the American people were turned. "Woful days, Miss Mildred," said the landlady, shaking her head, and wearing a face of lugubrious length, "woful indeed! nothing but hurry-skurry, and bragging and swearing. What with Gates's runaways, that--shame upon them!--come whipping post haste along the road; and messengers, dragoons, and drill sergeants, all out of breath, out of money, and out of everything but appetites; which, mercy on me! never fail in the worst of times: and what with musterings of volunteers, and drumming and fifing of it, up hill and down dale, it is as much as one can do to keep one's wits. Heaven help us, my dear! I don't know what we shall come to. But poor Arthur," she continued, in a mournful and lower key, "not a word from him. It looks awfully: I could almost sit down and weep. Nevertheless, Miss Mildred, my child, be of good cheer, God will keep his foot from the path that leads to the snares; we must all trust in His goodness." "Alas, alas!" breathed Mildred, in an accent of sorrow. "Brother, ride forward. If a good word reaches you, Mistress Dimock, send it to me, even if it be at midnight." Mildred pursued her ride, and Henry, seeing how much she was dejected, applied himself, with the kindest assiduity, to bring back comfort and cheerfulness to her mind. He sought to amuse her with such fragments of the gossip of the country-side as were likely to interest her patriotism; and he contrived to recall to her recollection passages in the life of Butler, which related to the perils he had heretofore encountered, and from which he had extricated himself by his address and soldiership; and Henry told these in such a way as to infer from them arguments of comfort that suited the present state of his sister's feelings. As was usual in most of the young cadet's discourses, he glided into that half-boastful and half-waggish vein in which he delighted to refer to his own pursuits and aspirations after military glory. "A man naturally, sister," he said, erecting himself in his stirrups, and assuming the stiff carriage of a conceited young adjutant on parade, "a man naturally feels proud on horseback. It is what I call glorification, to have a noble beast under you, that you can turn and wind and check and set forward as you please, as if his limbs were your own. You feel stronger; and, in this world, I do believe a strong man is always proud. Now, I should think that a woman would feel even more so than a man; because, being weak by nature, she must grow happier to think how much muscle she can put in motion by only pulling a rein." "There is some philosophy in that, Henry," replied Mildred. "So there is, sister; and I tell you more, that when a person has this sort of glorification, as they call it, they always get more contented with themselves. And that's the reason, as far as I am a judge, that you always feel in better spirits when you are on horseback; and, especially, if it should be in front of a troop. Hallo, Stephen!" ejaculated Henry, taken by surprise, in the midst of his discourse, by the sight of a flock of wild turkeys that ran across the road, some hundred paces ahead. "Did you see that? Halt, man--here's game for us." And, in an instant, he sprang from his horse, which he fastened to one of the neighboring trees, and ran off with his rifle in his hand, in pursuit of the flock. Stephen, whose instincts were those of a keen sportsman, when game was before him, did the same thing; and in a few moments Mildred found herself left entirely alone in the road, half disposed to chide and half to smile at the eager and ungallant desertion of her attendants, who were now in quick but cautious pursuit of the brood of turkeys. The speed with which these birds are accustomed to run through the woods, allured their pursuers to some distance into the depths of the forest; and Mildred patiently awaited the return of her companions on the ground where they had left her. After five or ten minutes had elapsed, it was with a sensation of some little concern that she descried, upon the road, a stranger mounted on horseback, and coming at a brisk trot to the spot where she had halted. The appearance of the individual was that of one of the irregular soldiers who had accompanied Gates's array; his dress was rustic, and his weapon, according to the almost universal fashion of the country troops, the long rifle. The condition of his sturdy steed showed long and fatiguing service; whilst the bold and manly person of the rider left little room to suppose that he was to be classed amongst the many who had fled in panic from the field of action. As soon as the stranger became aware of the presence of the lady, he slackened his speed and approached with a respectful salutation. "If I mought be so bold, ma'am, how far mought it be to a river they call the Rockfish?" "It is scarce two miles away, sir," replied Mildred. "And there, if I don't disremember," said the traveller, "is a house kept by the widow Dimock; the Blue Ball, I think?" "There is, sir." "And no forks in the road betwixt this and the widow's?" "It is a plain road," replied Mildred. "And about two miles beyont--is squire Lindsay's, at a place they call the Dove Cote?" "Does your business take you there?" asked Mildred, with interest; "are you from the army?--whence come you?" "Beg pardon, ma'am," replied the stranger, smiling, "but I am an old sodger, and rather warry about answering questions that consarn myself. I suppose it is likely I mought see Mr. Lindsay?" "Pray, sir, tell me what brings you here, and who you are? I have special reasons for presuming so far upon your kindness. I myself live at the Dove Cote, and"-- "Then, mayhap, you mought have hearn of one Major Arthur Butler?" "Oh yes, sir,--if you have any news of him, speak it to me quickly," exclaimed Mildred, with much agitation. "By that sparkling of your eye, ma'am, it is no fool's guess that you are the identical particular lady that I have rode nigh on to five hundred miles to see. You have hearn the Major tell of Horse Shoe Robinson?" "And Arthur Butler." "He is well, madam, and in good heart, excepting some trifling drawbacks that don't come to much account." "Thank God, thank God, for this news!" "I have brought two letters, Miss Lindsay, from the Major, for you; they will tell you, I believe, mainly, that the Major is in the hands of the Philistians," said Horse Shoe, rummaging through the plaits of his dress, and getting loose the belt and leathern pouch from which, by the help of his jack-knife, he extricated the missives; "but they leave the story to be told pretty much by me. The long and the short of it is, that the Major is a prisoner, and wants some assistance from you: but there is no danger of any harm being done him." Mildred eagerly tore open the letters and read them; then heaving a sigh, she said, "He is closely watched, and galled with misfortune. He refers to you, Mr. Robinson, and I must beg you to tell me all." Horse Shoe, with a cheerful and occasionally even with a laughing manner, adopted to reassure the lady and quell her fears, recounted all such particulars of Butler's adventures as were necessary to enable her to comprehend the nature of his present mission to the Dove Cote. Before this narrative was brought to a close, Henry and Foster had returned, bringing with them a large turkey which Henry had shot, and which the young sportsman was exhibiting with ostentatious triumph. "Huzza, here's a new turn of good luck! Horse Shoe Robinson, the brave sergeant," shouted Henry, as soon as he observed the stout figure of our old friend. "Is Major Butler here too?" he demanded, as he shook the sergeant's hand, "or have you come alone? Now, sister, you ought to be a happy woman. You bring us good news, Mr. Horse Shoe, I know you do." "The news is better than it mought have been if the Tories had had their way," replied Horse Shoe. "But a sodger's life has both shade and sunshine in it; and the Major is now a little in the shade." "Brother, mount quickly," said Mildred, "we have business before us. Mr. Robinson, ride beside me; I have much to say to you." Stephen Foster, after saluting the sergeant, and reminding Mildred of his engagement to meet his troop, took his leave of the party. The rest repaired, with as much expedition as they were able to employ, to the Dove Cote, Horse Shoe detailing to the brother and sister, as they went along, a great many particulars of the late history of Butler. When they reached the house, orders were given for the accommodation of the sergeant; and the most sedulous attention was shown to everything that regarded his comfort. Frequent conferences were held between Mildred and Henry, and the trusty emissary. The letters were reperused, and all the circumstances that belonged to Butler's means of liberation were anxiously discussed. "How unlucky is it," said Mildred, "that my father should be absent at such a moment as this! Arthur's appeal to him would convince him how wicked was Tyrrel's charge against his honor. And yet, in my father's late mood, the appeal might have been ineffectual: he might have refused. Sergeant, we are in great difficulties, and I know not what to do. A letter, you say, has been written to Lord Cornwallis?" "Yes, ma'am, and by a man who sharpened his pen with his sword." "You heard nothing of the answer of his Lordship?" "There was not time to hear." "Cornwallis will be prejudiced by those around him, and he will refuse," said Mildred, with an air of deep solicitude. "Not if he be the man I take him to be, young lady," replied Horse Shoe. "The world says he is above doing a cowardly thing; and it isn't natural for one brave man to wish harm against another, except in open war." "Did you hear of one Tyrrel, in the British camp? But how could you?--that was an assumed name." "You mean the gentleman who was here when the major stopped at Mrs. Dimock's?" said Robinson: "that was the name the landlady spoke about--if I remember myself. I did not hear of him, ma'am, in my travels; but his servant, James Curry, I met oftener, I undertake to say, than the fellow wished. He was consarned in ambushing Major Butler and me at Grindall's Ford. It was our opinion he was hired." "There," exclaimed Mildred, "that confirms what I guessed of Tyrrel's villany. I will go to Cornwallis myself: I will expose the whole matter to his lordship. Henry, my dear brother, it is a rash venture, but I will essay it. You must accompany and protect me." "That's a sudden thought, sister, and you may count on my hearty good will to help it along. It is a brave thought of yours, besides," said Henry, pondering over it--"and everybody will praise you for it." Robinson listened to this resolve with an incredulous ear. "You wouldn't venture, young madam, to trust yourself amongst such rough and unchristian people, as you would have to go among before you could see Cornwallis? in danger of being taken up by outposts and pickets, or arrested by patroles, or dragged about by dragoons and fellows that have more savagery in them than wolves. Oh no, ma'am, you don't know what you would have to put up with; that's onpossible. Mr. Henry, here, and me, can take a letter." "I may not trust to letters, I must go myself. You will protect me, Mr. Robinson? my brother and I will form some good excuse that shall take us through safely." "Sartainly, ma'am, I will stand by you through all chances, if you go," replied the sergeant. "But there's not many women, with their eyes open, would set out on such a march." "It will be easily achieved," said Mildred: "it is an honest and virtuous cause that takes me away, and I will attempt it with a valiant spirit. It cannot but come to good. My father's name will give me free passage through the enemy's lines. And you shall pass as my attendant." "If you have a heart stout enough, ma'am, for such hard fare, I believe I mought undertake for your safe passage," answered Horse Shoe, "and it sartainly would do the major great good to hear that you was stirring in this matter." "Sergeant, recruit yourself as long as you think necessary," said Mildred; "but if you can be ready to set out to-morrow, I should like to go then, and at an early hour." "Don't stand upon my fatigue, young lady: I never saw the time when I wan't ready to march at the shortest warning. With your leave, I will go look after my horse, Captain Peter, I call him, ma'am. A little chance of a roll, and the privilege of a good green pasture, soon puts him in marching trim." The sergeant now left the room. "Sister," said Henry, "you never thought a better thought, and you never contrived a better act, than just taking this matter in hand yourself, under mine and Horse Shoe's protection. Because Horse Shoe is as brave a man as you ever fell in with, and as for me, I'll back the sergeant. We can finish the thing in two or three weeks, and then, when I see you safe home, I'll go and join the Rangers." "It is a perilous and uncertain journey, brother, but it is my duty. I would rather fall beneath the calamities of war than longer endure my present feelings. Provide yourself, brother, with all things requisite for our journey, and give old Isaac, the gardener, notice that he must go with us. We shall set out to-morrow. I will write a letter to my father to-night explaining my purpose. And one thing, Henry; you will be careful to say nothing to any one of the route we shall travel." "I'll take my carbine, sister," said Henry, "I can sling it with a strap. And I was thinking I had better have a broadsword." "Leave that behind," replied Mildred, as a smile rose on her features. "The bugle I will certainly take," added Henry; "because it might be useful in case we got separated; and I will teach you to understand my signals. Isaac shall carry horse-pistols on his saddle, and the sergeant shall have a great wallet of provisions. You see I understand campaigning, Mildred. And now," added the eager young soldier, as he left the apartment, "hurra for the volunteers of the Dove Cote!" CHAPTER XXXIX. MILDRED BEGINS HER JOURNEY. The man who writes the history of woman's love will find himself employed in drawing out a tangled skein. It is a history of secret emotions and vivid contrasts, which may well go nigh to baffle his penetration and to puzzle his philosophy. There is in it a surface of timid and gentle bashfulness concealing an underflow of strong and heady passion: a seeming caprice that a breath may shake or a word alarm; yet, all the while, an earnest devotion of soul which, in its excited action, holds all danger cheap that crosses the path of its career. The sportive, changeful, and coward nature that dallies with affection as a jest, and wins admiration by its affrighted coyness; that flies and would be followed; that revolts and would be soothed, entreated, and on bended knee implored, before it is won; that same nature will undergo the ordeal of the burning ploughshare, take all the extremes of misery and distress, brave the fury of the elements and the wrath of man, and in every peril be a patient comforter, when the cause that moves her is the vindication of her love. Affection is to her what glory is to man, an impulse that inspires the most adventurous heroism. There had been for some days past in Mildred's mind an anxious misgiving of misfortune to Butler, which was but ill concealed in a quiet and reserved demeanor. The argument of his safety seemed to have little to rest upon, and she could perceive that it was not believed by those who uttered it. There rose upon her thoughts imaginings or presentiments of ill, which she did not like to dwell upon, but which she could not banish. And now when Horse Shoe had told his tale, the incidents did not seem to warrant the levity with which he passed them by. She was afraid to express her doubts: and they brooded upon her mind, hatching pain and secret grief. It was almost an instinct, therefore, that directed her resolve, when she announced her determination to go in person in quest of Cornwallis, and to plead Butler's cause herself to the British general. Her soul rebelled at the gross calumny which had been invented to bring down vengeance upon Arthur's head; and she had no thought of thwarting the accuser's wickedness, but by an appeal to the highest power for that redress which an honorable soldier, in her opinion, could not refuse, even to an enemy. As to the personal hazard, inconvenience, or difficulty of her projected enterprise, no thought of either for a moment occupied her. She saw but her purpose before her, and did not pause to reckon on the means by which she was to promote it. She reflected not on the censure of the world; nor on its ridicule; nor on its want of sympathy for her feelings: she reflected only on her power to serve one dearer to her than a friend, upon her duty, and upon the agony of her doubts. If her father had been at hand she might have appealed to him, and, perhaps, have submitted to his counsel; but he was absent, she knew not where, and she was convinced that no time was to be lost. "Even now, whilst we debate," she said, "his life may be forfeited to the malice of the wicked men who have ensnared him." Her conduct in this crisis is not to be weighed in the scale wherein the seemly and decorous observances of female propriety are ordinarily balanced. The times, the occasion, and the peculiar position of Mildred, take her case out of the pale of common events, and are entitled to another standard. She will be judged by the purity of her heart, the fervor of her attachment, and her sense of the importance of the service she was about to confer. And with the knowledge of these, I must leave her vindication to the generosity of my reader. When the morning came and breakfast was over, the horses were brought to the door. Henry was active in all the preliminary arrangements for the journey, and now bestirred himself with an increased air of personal importance. Isaac, a grey-haired negro of a sedate, and, like all his tribe, of an abundantly thoughtful length of visage, appeared in a suit of livery, ready booted and spurred for his journey. A large portmanteau, containing a supply of baggage for his mistress, was duly strapped behind his saddle, whilst a pair of pistols were buckled upon the pummel. Henry's horse also had all the furniture necessary to a campaign and the young martialist himself, notwithstanding his sister's disapproval, was begirt with a sword-belt, from which depended a light sabre, with which he was in the habit of exhibiting himself in the corps of the Rangers. His bugle hung gracefully by his side, and his carbine was already provided with a strap to sling it across his back. Stephen Foster was lost in wonder at these sudden preparations, of the import of which he could gain no more intelligence from Henry than that a movement towards the army was intended, of a portentous character. Horse Shoe sat quietly in the porch looking on with a professional unconcern, whilst his trusty Captain Peter, bearing a pair of saddle-bags, now stuffed with a plethora of provisions, slouched his head, in patient fixedness, waiting the order to move. A bevy of domestics hung around the scene of preparation, lost in conjectures as to the meaning of this strange array, and prosecuting an inquiry to satisfy themselves, with fruitless perseverance. When Mildred appeared at the door she was habited for her journey. The housekeeper, an aged dame, stood near her. "My travel, Mistress Morrison," she said, addressing the matron, and at the same time putting a letter into her hand, "I trust will not keep me long from home. If my father should return before I do, be careful to give him that. Mr. Foster, you will not forget your promise," she added, as she delivered the second letter, which, notwithstanding her own expedition, she had prepared for Butler, in the hope that opportunity might favor its transmission by Stephen. "The gold," said Stephen, putting his hand in his pocket; "you will want it yourself, Miss Mildred, and I can do without it." "Never mind that," interrupted Mildred. "Keep your promise, and I hope to be able to reward you more according to your deserts." "Heaven and the saints protect you, Miss Mildred!" said the housekeeper, as the lady bade her farewell. "You leave us on some heavy errand. God grant that you come back with a gayer face than you take away!" Then turning up her eyes, and raising her hands, she ejaculated, "This is an awful thing, and past my understanding!" Mildred took leave of the rest of the group around the door, and was soon in her saddle. This was a signal for the rest to mount, and as Stephen Foster delivered Henry his rifle, the latter took occasion to whisper in the hunter's ear-- "It is not unlikely, Steve, that we may meet each other again over here in Carolina; so remember to make inquiries for us as you go along, and tell the men I hope to join them before they fire one shot in spite. But mum, Steve, not a word about our route." Stephen shook hands with his young comrade; and Henry, seeing that the rest of the party had already left the door and were some distance down the hill, called out with an elated tone of good humor--"Farewell, Mrs. Morrison, and all the rest of you!" and putting spurs to his horse galloped off to join his sister. The route pursued by the travellers lay due south, and during the first three or four days of their journey they were still within the confines of Virginia. To travel on horseback was a customary feat, even for ladies, in those days of rough roads and scant means of locomotion: and such a cavalcade as we have described was calculated to excite no particular inquiry from the passer-by, beyond that which would now be made on the appearance of any party of pleasure upon the high-roads, in the course of a summer excursion. Mildred experienced severe fatigue in the first stages of her journey; but by degrees this wore off, and she was soon enabled to endure the long day's ride with scarcely less inconvenience than her fellow-travellers. At that period there were but few inns in these thinly-peopled districts, and such as were already established were small and but meagrely provided. This deficiency was, in some degree, compensated by the good will with which the owners of private establishments in the country received the better class of travellers, and the ready hospitality with which they entertained them. Henry took upon himself to obtain information of the gentlemen's seats that lay near the route of his journey, and to conduct the party to them whenever his sister's comfort required better accommodation than the common inns afforded. As our travellers had thus far kept along that range of country which lay immediately under the mountains, they were not annoyed by the intense heats which, at this season, prevailed in the lowlands. The weather, ever since their departure, had been uncommonly fine, and as is usual in this district, the month of September had brought its cool, dewy nights, whilst the early hours of the morning were even marked by a little sharpness, almost approaching to frost. The effect of this on Mildred was to recruit the weariness of travel, and better enable her to encounter the noon-tide fervors of the sun; and she had so far endured the toils of her journey with an admirable spirit. Actual trial generally results in demonstrating how much we are prone to exaggerate in advance the difficulties of any undertaking. Accordingly, Mildred's present experience strengthened her resolution to proceed, and even communicated an unexpected increase of contentment to her feelings. On the fifth day the party crossed the river Dan, and entered the province of North Carolina. A small remnant of Gates's shattered army lay at Hillsborough, at no great distance from the frontier; and as Mildred was anxious to avoid the inquiry or molestation to be expected in passing through a military post, she resolved to travel by a lower route, and Horse Shoe, therefore, at her suggestion, directed his journey towards the little village of Tarborough. Cornwallis, it was understood, since the battle of Camden, had removed his head-quarters into the neighborhood of the Waxhaws, some distance up the Catawba, where he was supposed to be yet stationary. The whole country in the neighborhood of either army was in a state of earnest preparation; the British commander recruiting his forces for further and immediate operations--the American endeavoring to reassemble his feeble and scattered auxiliaries for defence. At the present moment, actual hostilities between these two parties were entirely suspended, in anxious anticipation of the rapidly approaching renewal of the struggle. It was a breathing time, when the panting combatants, exhausted by battle, stood sullenly eyeing each other and making ready--the one to strike, the other to ward off another staggering blow. The country over which Mildred was now to travel was calculated to tax her powers of endurance to the utmost. It was a dreary waste of barren wilderness, covered with an endless forest of gloomy pine, through which a heavy, sandy road crept in lurid and melancholy shade. Here and there a miserable hut occurred to view, with a few ragged inmates, surrounded by all the signs of squalid poverty. The principal population were only to be seen along the banks of the rivers which penetrated into this region, some twenty or thirty miles distant from each other. The alluvial bottoms through which these streams found a channel to the ocean, were the only tracts of land of sufficient fertility to afford support to man--all between them was a sterile and gloomy forest. Still, these regions were not deserted. Bodies of irregular troops, ill clothed and worse armed, and generally bearing the haggard features of disease, such as mark the population of a sickly climate, were often encountered upon the road, directing their wearied march towards the head-quarters of the republican army. The rigors of the Southern summer had not yet abated; and it was with painful steps in the deep sand, amid clouds of suffocating dust, that these little detachments prosecuted their journey. Mildred, so far from sinking under the weariness and increasing hardships of her present toils, seemed to be endued with a capacity for sustaining them much beyond anything that could have been believed of her sex. Her courage grew with the difficulties that beset her. She looked composedly upon the obstacles before her, and encountered them, not only without a murmur, but even with a cheerfulness to which she had hitherto been a stranger. The steadiness of her onward march, her unrepining patience, and the gentle solicitude with which she turned the thoughts of her companions from herself, and forbade the supposition that her powers were over-taxed, showed how deeply her feelings were engaged in her enterprise, and how maturely her mind had taken its resolution. "One never would have guessed," said Horse Shoe, towards the close of the second day after they had entered North Carolina, "that a lady so daintily nursed as you was at home, Mistress Mildred, could have ever borne this here roughing of it through these piney woods. But I have made one observation, Miss Lindsay, that no one can tell what they are fit for till they are tried; and on the back of that I have another, that when there's a great stir that rouses up a whole country, it don't much signify whether they are man or woman, they all get roused alike. 'Pon my word, ma'am, I have seen men--who think themselves sodgers too--that would be onwilling to trust themselves at this time o' year through such a dried up piece of pine barren as we have been travelling over for two days past." "You remember the fable of the willow and the oak, Mr. Robinson," replied Mildred, smiling; "the storm may bring down the sturdy tree, but the supple shrub will bend before it without breaking." "I'm not much given to religious takings-on," said the sergeant, "but sometimes a notion comes into my head that looks a little that way, and that is, when God appoints a thing to be done, he gives them that's to do it all the wherewithals. Now, as Major Butler is a good man and a brave sodger--God bless him!--it does seem right that you, Mistress Lindsay,--who, I take on me to understand enough of your consarns and his'n, without offence, to say has a leaning towards the major,--I say it does seem right and natural that you should lend a hand to help him out of tribulation; and so you see the cause being a good cause, the Lord has given you both wisdom and strength to do what is right." "We owe, sergeant, a duty to our country; and we serve God and our country both, when we strengthen the hands of its defenders." "That's a valiant speech, young lady, and it's a noble speech," said Horse Shoe, with an earnest emphasis. "I have often told the major that the women of this country had as honest thoughts about this here war, and was as warm for our cause as the men; and some of them, perhaps, a little warmer. They could be pitted against the women of any quarter of the aqueous globe, in bearing and forbearing both, when it is for the good of the country." "Henry is asleep on his horse," said Mildred, looking at her brother, who now, jaded and worn with the effort of travel, was nodding and dropping his head forward, and almost losing his seat. "What, Henry, brother!" she added, loud enough to rouse up the young horseman. "My trusty cavalier, are you going to fall from your horse? Where is all that boasted glorification upon which you were disposed to be so eloquent only a week ago? I thought a man on horseback was naturally proud: I fear it was only on holiday occasions you meant, Henry. Hav'n't you a word for a sunny day and a dry journey? You lag more like a miller's boy with his bag of meal, than a young soldier setting out on his adventures." "Ah, sister," said Henry, waking up, "this is nothing but pine--pine--and sand, without end. There is no game in the woods to keep a man on the look-out, except here and there a herd of wild hogs, that snort and run from us, like a squadron of cavalry, with their bristles set up on their backs as fierce as the back fin of a sunfish. There is not even grass to look at: you might see a black snake running half a mile amongst the trees. And then there are such great patches of burnt timber, every trunk staring right at you, as black as thunder. I'm tired of it all--I want to see the green fields again." "And, in truth, brother, so do I: but not until we can bring merry faces to look upon them. How far are we from Tarborough?" "We should be drawing nigh to the town," replied Horse Shoe, "for you may see that we shall soon be out of these woods, by the signs of open country ahead. The last squad of sodgers that passed us, said that when we came to the farms, we shouldn't be more than five miles from the town, and the sun isn't above an hour high." "In the hope of being soon housed, then, Mr. Robinson, I may confess to you I am somewhat weary; but a good night's rest will put me in fair condition for to-morrow's ride again." After the lapse of an hour, the party were safely sheltered in a tolerably comfortable inn at the village: and Mildred, aided by the sedulous care of Henry, found herself well bestowed in the best chamber of the house. CHAPTER XL. From Tarborough our travellers continued their route towards the Pedee, by the main road which led through Cross creek, a small hamlet on Cape Fear river, near the site of the present town of Fayetteville. The general features of the country were even more forbidding than those I have already described as characteristic of this portion of North Carolina. Even to the present day, cultivation has done but little to cheer up the natural desolation of those tracts of wilderness which lie between the rivers. But at the early period to which the events I have been detailing have reference, the journey undertaken by our little caravan might be compared to that which is now frequently made through the more southern extremity of the Union, from the Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico, an attempt seldom essayed by a female, and sufficiently trying to the hardihood of the stoutest travellers. The forethought and attention of Horse Shoe Robinson, however, contributed to alleviate the pains of the enterprise, and to enable Mildred to overcome its difficulties. In the present alarmed and excited state of this province, the party were less liable to interruption in this secluded and destitute section of the country, than they might have been, had they chosen a lower and more populous district; and the consciousness that every day's perseverance brought them nearer to the ultimate term of their journey, gave new vigor, at least, to Mildred's capacity to endure the privations to which she was exposed. But few vestiges of the war yet occurred to their view. The great wilderness, like the great ocean, retains no traces of the passage of hostile bodies. Sometimes, indeed, the signs of a woodland encampment were visible in the midst of the forest, on the margin of some sluggish brook or around a sylvan fountain, where the impression of recent hoof-prints, the scattered fragments of brushwood cut for temporary shelter, and the still smouldering ashes of camp fires, showed that masses of men had been in motion. The deer fled, too, with a more frightened bound towards their coverts, as if lately alarmed by the pursuit of the huntsman; but the images of devastation, which are associated with the horrid front of war in the mind of all familiar with its ravage, were absent. The eternal, leafy shade high arching over the heads of the wayfarers, furnished no object for human vengeance; and it still sighed in the fanning of the breeze, as of old it sighed before man claimed dominion in the soil it sheltered. A far different scene was shortly to be looked upon by our venturesome friends. Several days had again passed by, for the journey through the wilderness had been slowly prosecuted, when Robinson, towards the approach of evening, announced to Mildred his conjecture that they were not far off the Pedee. The banks of this river had been the scene of frequent hostilities, and the war that had been carried on here was of the most ruthless kind. The river is characterized by a broad, deep, and quiet stream, begirt with a vegetation of exceeding luxuriance. Its periodical overflow seems to have poured out upon its margin a soil of inexhaustible richness, that, for a mile or two on either side, forms a striking contrast with the low, barren sand-hills that hem in the river plain. Along this tract of level border, all the way to the Atlantic, are found, as is usually the case throughout the Carolinas, the large plantations of opulent gentlemen, who, by the cultivation of rice and cotton, turn the fertility of the soil to the best account. These possessions, presenting the most assailable points to an enemy, and, indeed, almost the only ones in which the great interests of the province might be wounded, were, during the whole of that bloody struggle which distinguished the days of the "Tory Ascendency," the constant objects of attack; and here the war was waged with a vindictive malignity, on the part of the British and Tory partisans, that is scarcely surpassed in the history of civil broils. The finest estates were sacked, the dwellings burnt, and the property destroyed with unsparing rage. The men were dragged from their houses and hung, the women and children turned without food or raiment into the wilderness, and political vengeance seemed to gorge itself to gluttony upon its own rapine. The thoughts of Robinson had been, for some days past, running upon the probable difficulties that might attend the guise in which he was now about to return to his native province. This was a subject of some concern, since he ran a risk of being compelled either to desert his charge, or to bring his companions into jeopardy, amongst the many persons of both armies who were, at least by report, acquainted with his name and his military connexions. He had explained to Mildred the necessity of his appearing in some definite character, associated with the object of her journey, and of which, upon emergency, he might claim the benefit to retain his post near her. This matter was summarily settled by Henry. "In general, Mr. Horse Shoe, you can call yourself Stephen Foster: you know Steve; and you can say that you are Mr. Philip Lindsay's gardener. Isaac, here, can let you enough into the craft to pass muster, if any of them should take it into their heads to examine you. Mind that, Isaac: and recollect, old fellow, you are only sister Mildred's waiting man." "Sartainly, master," replied Isaac. "And sergeant, I'll tell you all about Steve; so that you can get your lesson by heart. You have a wife and five children--remember that. I'll give you all their names by-and-by." "Thanks to the marcies of God, that ar'n't my misfortune yet," said Horse Shoe, laughing; "but, Mr. Henry, I have got conscience enough now for any lie that can be invented. The major and me talked that thing over, and he's of opinion that lying, in an enemy's country, is not forbidden in the scriptures. And I have hearn the preacher say that Rahab, who was not a woman of good fame no how, yet she was excused by the Lord for telling the king of Jericho a most thumping lie, consarning her not knowing what had become of the two men that Joshua, the judge of Israel, who was a general besides, had sent into the town to reconnoitre; which was a strong case, Mister Henry, seeing that Rahab, the harlot, was a taking of sides against her own people. So, I like your plan and I'll stick by it." This being agreed upon, it became one of the amusements of the road-side to put the sergeant through his catechism, which was designed to make him familiar with the traits of private history relating to the Dove Cote and its appurtenances, that he might thereby maintain his identity, in the event of a close investigation. Horse Shoe was but an awkward scholar in this school of disguise, and gave Henry sufficient employment to keep him in the path of probability; and, indeed, the young teacher himself found it difficult to maintain an exact verisimilitude in the part which it was his own province to play in this deception. On the evening to which we have alluded, the sergeant, finding himself within a short distance of the district of country in which he was almost certain to encounter parties of both friends and foes, adopted a greater degree of circumspection than he had hitherto deemed it necessary to observe. His purpose was to halt upon the borders of the forest, and endeavor to obtain accurate information of the state of affairs along the river, before he entered upon this dangerous ground. Like a soldier who had a rich treasure to guard, he was determined to run no hazard that might be avoided, in the safe conduct of the lady in whose service he was enlisted. In accordance with this caution, he directed the cavalcade to move onward at a moderate walk, in order that they might not reach the limit of the woodland before the dusk of the evening; and also in the hope of finding there some habitation where they might pass the night. They had not advanced far in this manner before the sergeant descried, at some distance ahead, a small log hut standing by the road side, which, by the smoke that issued from the chimney, he perceived to be inhabited. Upon this discovery, he ordered the party to stop and await his return. Then giving spurs to his horse he galloped forward, and, after a short interval of absence, returned, made a favorable report of his reconnoissance, and conducted his companions to the house. The little cabin to which Mildred was thus introduced was the homestead of an honest Whig soldier, by the name of Wingate, who was now in service, under the command of one of the most gallant partisans that any country ever produced, Francis Marion, then recently promoted to the rank of a brigadier. The inmates were the soldier's family, consisting of a young woman and a number of small children, all demonstrating by their appearance a condition of exceedingly limited comfort. The hut contained no more than two rooms, which exhibited but a scanty supply of the meanest furniture. The forest had been cleared for the space of a few acres around the dwelling, and these were occupied by a small garden or vegetable patch, meagrely stocked with scattered and half parched plants; and by a cornfield, along the skirts of which some lean hogs were seen groping with a felonious stealthiness. A shed, in the same inclosure, formed a rendezvous for a few half-starved cattle, that probably obtained their principal but slender support from the neighboring wood. Add to these a troop of fowls, that were now at roost upon one of the trees hard by, and we have, probably, a tolerably correct inventory of the worldly goods of this little family. The woman of the house was kind and hospitable, and her attentions were in no small degree quickened by the application of a few pieces of money which Mildred insisted upon her receiving--much to the discomfiture of the dame's self-possession--the boon consisting of hard coin, to an amount of which, perhaps, she had never before been mistress. Mildred was exceedingly fatigued, and it was an object of early consideration to furnish her the means of rest. Our hostess assisted by old Isaac, and officiously but awkwardly superintended by Horse Shoe, began her preparations for supper, to the abundance of which the provident sergeant was enabled to contribute some useful elements from his wallet. In one of the apartments of the hut, a shock-bed was spread for the lady, and by the assistance of her cloak and some other commodities which had been provided as part of her travelling gear, she was supplied with a couch that formed no ill exchange for the weariness of her long-inhabited saddle. Use and necessity are kind nursing-mothers to our nature, and do not often fail to endow us with the qualities proper to the fortune they shape out for us. This was not Mildred's first experience of a homely lodging since she left the Dove Cote; and, as privation and toil have a faculty to convert the rough pallet of the peasant into a bed of down, she hailed the present prospect of rest with a contented and grateful spirit. The supper being dispatched, our lady was left alone with her hostess, to seek the repose of which she stood so much in need. The sergeant now set about making provision for the rest of his party. This was done by erecting a shelter beneath one of the trees of the forest, opposite to the door of the cabin. It was composed of a few boughs stacked against the trunk of the tree, sufficiently covered with leaves to turn aside any rain that might happen to fall. Under this cover Horse Shoe appointed that he and his comrades should pass the night, enjoining them to keep a regular watch for the security of the lady, whose welfare was now the object of his most sedulous attention. All these preparations were made with the exactness of military rule, and with a skill that greatly delighted Henry. The long summer twilight had faded away. Mildred had been, from an early period, in the enjoyment of a profound slumber, and Henry and his negro ally were seated at the front of their sylvan tent. The sergeant had lighted his pipe, and now, taking his seat upon a log that lay near his post, he began to smoke in good earnest, with a mind as free from anxiety as if universal peace prevailed. In the sedate enjoyment of this luxury, he fell into a descant on matters and things, interlarded with long and strange stories of his own singular adventures, which he told to the no small edification and amusement of Henry and the negro. The habits of the experienced soldier were curiously illustrated in the thoughtful and sober foresight with which Robinson adapted his plans to the exigencies of his condition, and then in the imperturbable light-heartedness with which, after his measures of safety were taken, he waited the progress of events. His watchfulness seemed to be an instinct, engendered by a familiarity with danger, whilst the steady and mirthful tone of his mind was an attribute that never gave way to the inroads of care. He was the same composed and self-possessed being in a besieged garrison, in the moment of a threatened escalade, as amongst his cronies by a winter fire-side. "In this here starlight, Mister Henry," he said, after he had puffed out two or three charges of his pipe, "I can't see your eyes, but by your yawning, I judge you are a little sleepy. Take my advice and turn in. A sodger ought to snatch his rest when he can get it. I'll keep guard over our young lady; the Lord protect her, for a most an elegant and oncommon precious young creature! Fling your great coat upon the leaves, and go at it, my lad, like a good fellow." "If I was at home Mr. Horse Shoe, at the Dove Cote, I could sit up all night listening to your stories; but I believe I am bewitched to-night, for my eyelids, this hour past, have been snapping like rat traps. So, I'll just stretch out for an hour or so, and then get up and take my turn at the guard." "Don't trouble your head about watching," replied Horse Shoe, "you are not old enough for that yet. At your time of life, Mr. Lindsay, a good night's rest is the best part of a ration. And to-morrow, if I'm not mistaken, you will have need of all the strength you can muster to-night. As for me, it isn't much account whether I'm asleep or awake." "Not so fast, sergeant," rejoined the youth, "I'm an older soldier than you take me for; Stephen and I have watched many a night for racoons. No, no, I'll have my turn towards morning. So, you and Isaac take the first part of the night between you, and if anything should happen, call me; I'm one of your minute men. So good night. My horse trots harder than I thought he did." It was not long before our boasted minute man was locked up in a spell apparently as profound as that which the legend affirms assailed the seven sleepers: and Isaac, not even waiting for the good example of his master, had already sunk upon the ground, with that facility which distinguishes his race, the most uncaring and happiest of mortals. CHAPTER XLI. Our fortress is the good green wood, Our tent the cypress tree, We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.--BRYANT. The faithful Horse Shoe being thus left to himself, replenished his pipe, and, taking his rifle in his hand, paced to and fro upon the border of the road, holding communion with his own thoughts, carefully weighing the probabilities connected with his present singular expedition, and revolving, after his own fashion, the fortunes of Arthur Butler and Mildred Lindsay. It was within an hour of midnight, when the sergeant's meditations were interrupted by the tramp of a horse approaching the hut at a gallop. But a few moments elapsed before a traveller, who, in the starlight, Horse Shoe could discern to be armed, drew up his rein immediately at the door of the dwelling, against which he struck several blows with his weapon, calling out loudly at the same time-- "Mistress Wingate--for God's sake, open your door quickly! I have news to tell you, good woman." "In the name of mercy! who are you?" exclaimed the voice of the dame within, whilst a note of alarm was also heard from her fellow-lodger. "What do you mean by this racket and clatter?" demanded Horse Shoe, in the midst of the uproar, at the same time laying his hand upon the stranger's bridle rein. "What brings you here, sir?--stand back; the women in that house are under my charge, and I won't have them disturbed." "If you are a friend to Mistress Wingate," said the horseman, sternly, "speak the word; if an enemy, I will shiver your skull with the butt of my musket." "Don't be rash, good fellow," replied Horse Shoe; "I take it you and me are on the same side. What's afoot that you stir in such a hurry?" "The Tories are afoot--the devil's afoot! Open, Mistress Wingate--open to Dick Peyton!" "The Lord preserve us!" ejaculated the mistress of the hovel, as she opened the door; "Bloody Spur, is it you? What ill luck brings you here to-night?" "A gang of Tories, Mistress Wingate, from the Black River, under that cut-throat Fanning, crossed Pedee this morning at Lowder's Lake. They have been thieving and burning as far as Waggamaw, and are now on the road home by the upper ferry. They will be along here in less than half an hour. Your husband, Bob Wingate, and myself, were sent out by General Marion this morning, to reconnoitre the roads. We fell in with the ruffians, after sunset, below Lumberton, and have tracked them up here. Bob has got a pistol-shot through his arm. He was lucky enough, however, to escape their clutches; but believing they had a spite against him, and would ride past his house to-night, he told me to call and give you warning, and to help you to drive the cattle back into the swamp." "How many mought there be, friend?" asked Horse Shoe, calmly. "Between two and three hundred, at least," said the trooper; "we counted fifty in the vanguard--those that followed made a long column of march. They have stolen a good many horses and cattle, all of which are with them, and several prisoners." "What, ho!--Isaac, Henry Lindsay; fall to, and saddle, boys," shouted Horse Shoe. "Miss Mildred, it will not do to stand. I am sorry to break in upon your rest, but you must be ready to move in a few minutes." Everything about the hut was now in confusion. Henry and the sergeant were equipping the horses, whilst Isaac was gathering up the baggage. Bloody Spur--to adopt the rider's _nom de guerre_--had dismounted, and was busy in removing the few articles of value from the hut; the mother and children, meanwhile, were pouring forth loud lamentations. Mildred, in the midst of this scene of uproar, hurriedly made her preparations for departure; and whilst she was yet engaged in this care, a confused murmur was heard, at some distance up the road--and the rattle of sabres, as well as the hoarse voice and abrupt laughter of men, announced that the freebooters were at no great distance from the dwelling. "Merciful heaven!" exclaimed Mildred, giving way for the first time to her fears; "they are fast approaching, and we shall be captured." "Sister," said Henry, with scarcely less alarm, "I will die by your side, before they shall hurt a hair of your head." Horse Shoe, who at this moment was tightening the girths of Mildred's saddle, paused for an instant to listen, and then said: "The wind is north-east, young lady, and the voice sounds far to-night. One could hardly expect you to be cool when one of these night-frays is coming on, but there's no occasion to be frightened. Now, ma'am, if you please, I'll heave you into your seat. There," continued the sergeant, setting Mildred upon her horse, "you have got four good legs under you, and by a fair use of them will be as safe as a crowned king. Mister Henry, mount, and ride with your sister slowly down the road, till I overtake you." Henry obeyed the order. "Is the portmanteau and the rest of the baggage all safe, Isaac? Don't be flurried, you old sinner, but look about you, before you start off." "All safe," replied the negro. "Up and follow your master, then. Hark you, Mr. Bloody Spur," said Horse Shoe, as Isaac rode off, to the trooper, who was still actively employed in turning the cattle loose from the inclosure, "what is the best road hereabouts for my squad to keep out of the way of these bullies?" "About a mile from here, take a road that strikes into the woods, upon your right hand," answered the trooper hastily, "it will lead you up the river to the falls of Pedee. If you should meet any of Marion's men, tell them what you have seen; and say Dick Peyton will be along close after you." "Where is Marion?" asked the sergeant, mounting his horse. "What man that knows Frank Marion could ever answer that question?" said the trooper. "He is everywhere, friend. But you have no time to lose: be off." As Bloody Spur said this, he disappeared, driving the cattle before him; whilst the mother, laden with an infant and as many pieces of furniture as she could carry, and followed by her terrified children, fled towards the neighboring thicket. Horse Shoe in a few moments overtook his companions, and, urging them forward at a rapid flight, soon reached the diverging road, along which they journeyed with unabated speed for upwards of a mile. "How do you bear it, sister?" asked Henry, with concern. "Ah, brother, with a sore heart to be made so painfully acquainted with these frightful scenes. I lose all thought of my own annoyance, in seeing the calamities that are heaped upon the unoffending family of a man who dares to draw his sword for his country." "Yes, ma'am," said Horse Shoe, gravely, "these incarnivorous devils have broken the rest of many a good woman in the Carolinas, before they routed you out to-night, ma'am. But it is one of God's marcies to see how you keep up under it." "Mine's a trifling grievance, good sergeant: I lose but a little repose: that poor mother flies to save her children, uncertain, perhaps, of to-morrow's subsistence; and her husband's life is in daily peril. It is a sad lot. Yet truly," added Mildred with a sigh, "mine is scarcely better. Gracious heaven!" she exclaimed, looking behind her, "they have set fire to the dwelling!" In the quarter to which she directed her eyes, the horizon was already illuminated with the blaze of Wingate's hut. The light grew brighter for a short interval, and brought into bold relief upon the sky, the tall, dark forms of the stately pines of which the forest was composed. "They are fools as well as villains," said Horse Shoe, with an angry vehemence; "they have had liquor to-night, or they would hardly kindle up a blaze which should rouse every Whig on Pedee to track them like hounds. It would be sport worth riding to look at, if Marion should get a glimpse of that fire. But these wolves have grown obstropolous ever since Horatio Gates made his fox paw at Camden." "Oh, it is a most savage war," said Mildred, "that roots up the humble hearth, and fires the lowly roof, where none but defenceless women and children abide. I shudder to think of such wanton barbarity." "There's the thing, Miss Lindsay, that turns all our blood bitter. Man to man is fair game, all the world over: but this ere stealing of cattle, and burning of houses, and even cutting up by the roots the plants of the 'arth, and turning of women and children naked into the swamps, in the dead of night! it's a sorry business to tell of a Christian people, and a cowardly business for a nation that's a boasting of its bravery." The light of the conflagration had soon died away, and our wanderers pursued their solitary road in darkness, ignorant of the country through which they passed, and uncertain of the point to which they tended. A full hour had gone by in this state of suspense, and Robinson had once more resolved to make a halt, and encamp his party in the woods. Before, however, he could put this design into execution, he was unexpectedly challenged, from the road-side, with the military demand of--"Who goes there?" "Travellers," was the reply. "Where do you come from, and where are you going?" "The first question I can answer," said Horse Shoe, "and that is, from Old Virginny, a fortnight ago, but, to-night, from a tolerable snug lodging, where some onmannerly fellows troubled our sleep. But as to where we're going, it's more likely you can tell that for us." "You are saucy, sir." "It's more than I meant to be," replied the sergeant. "Mayhap you mought have hearn of a man they call Bloody Spur?" "He has pricked your pillows for you--has he? Dick Peyton is good at that," said a second questioner. "Aha, comrades, I understand you now," said Horse Shoe, with alacrity. "Dick Peyton and Bob Wingate both belong to your party. Am I right? We are friends to Marion." "And therefore friends to us," said the patrole. "Your name, sir, and the number you have in company?" "Take us to the general, and we will answer that," replied Horse Shoe. "The Tories have set upon Wingate's house and burnt it to the ground. It's like we may be able to tell something worth hearing at head-quarters. Your man Bloody Spur gave us in charge to report him, and to say that he would soon follow upon our track. I wonder that he isn't here before now." "I will remain," said one of the soldiers to his companion; "you shall take charge of the travellers." The trooper accordingly turned his horse's head and commanded Horse Shoe and his party to follow. The scout conducted our adventurers along a by-road that led round the head of a marsh, and through several thickets which, in the darkness of the night, were penetrated with great difficulty; during this ride he interrogated Horse Shoe as to the events of the late inroad of the Tories. He and his comrade had been stationed upon the path where the sergeant encountered them, to direct the out-riding parties of his corps to the spot of Marion's encampment, the policy of this wary officer being to shift his station so frequently as almost equally to defy the search of friend and foe. Peyton and Wingate were both expected; and the trooper who remained behind only waited to conduct them to the commanding officer, who had, since the disappearance of daylight, formed a bivouac in this neighborhood. Marion's custom was to order his reconnoitring parties to return to him by designated roads, where videttes were directed to repair in order to inform them of his position,--a fact which, as his movements were accomplished with wonderful celerity and secresy, they were generally unable to ascertain in any other way. At length, emerging from the thicket, and crossing what seemed, by the plash of the horse's feet, a morass, the party, under the guidance of the scout, came upon a piece of thinly-timbered woodland, which, rising by a gentle slope, furnished what might be called an island of dry ground, that seemed to be only accessible by crossing the circumjacent swamp. Upon this spot were encamped, in the rudest form of the bivouac, a party of cavalry, which might have amounted to two hundred men. Several fires, whose ruddy glare had been discerned for the last half mile of the journey, were blazing forth from different quarters of the wood, and threw a bold and sharp light upon the figures of men and horses, imparting a feature of lively, picturesque beauty to the scene. The greater portion of the soldiers were stretched beneath the trees, with no other covering than the leafy bowers above them. The horses were picketed in the neighborhood of their riders; and the confused array of saddles, sabres, muskets, rifles, and other warlike instruments, that were hung upon projecting boughs, or leant against the trunks, as they caught the flashes of the frequent fires, seemed to be magnified in number equal to the furniture of thrice the force. Sentinels were seen pacing their limits on the outskirts of this company, and small bodies of patroles on horseback moved across the encampment with the regularity of military discipline. Here and there, as if regardless of rest, or awaiting some soon-expected tour of duty, small knots of men sat together amusing themselves, by torch-light, at cards; and, more appropriately, others had extended their torpid frames in sleep upon their grassy pallets and knapsack pillows. "We have seen war in its horrors," exclaimed Mildred, with an involuntary vivacity; "and here it is in all its romance!" "Sister, I wish you were at home," said Henry, eagerly, "and Steve and I had the Rangers on this field to-night. I would undertake to command a picket with any man here!" To Horse Shoe these were familiar scenes, and he could not comprehend the source of that sudden interest which had so vividly aroused the admiration of his companions; but asking the guide to conduct them immediately to General Marion, he followed the soldier across the whole extent of the bivouac, until they halted beneath a large tree, near which a few officers were assembled. One of this group was seated on the ground; and close by him, planted in the soil, a blazing pine-faggot flung a broad light upon a saddle, the flap of which the officer had converted, for the occasion, into a writing-desk. "Make way for a squad of travellers picked up on the road to-night," said the scout in a loud voice. "They wish to see General Marion." In a moment our party was surrounded by the officers; and Horse Shoe, unceremoniously dismounting, addressed the person nearest to him:-- "A lady, sir, from Virginia, that I started with from her father's house, to fetch to Carolina; but who has been most audaciously unhoused and unbedded in the very middle of the night by a hellish pack of Tories." "My name is Lindsay, sir," said Henry, riding to the front; "my sister and myself were travelling south, and have been obliged to fly, to-night, before a detachment of horse-stealers." "From Bob Wingate's," said Horse Shoe, "as I should judge, some six miles back. I want to report to General Marion: the lady, likewise, is tired, as she has good right to be." The officer to whom this was addressed, directed a soldier to seek General Marion, and then approaching Mildred, said: "Madam, we can promise but little accommodation suitable to a lady: the greenwood tree is but an uncouth resting-place: but what we can supply shall be heartily at your service." "I feel sufficiently thankful," replied Mildred, "to know that I am in the hands of friends." "Sister, alight," said Henry, who now stood beside her stirrup, and offered his hand: and in a moment Mildred was on her feet. The officer then conducted her to a bank, upon which a few blankets were thrown by some of the soldiers in attendance. "If this strange place does not alarm you," he said, "you may perhaps find needful repose upon a couch even as rough as this." "You are very kind," replied Mildred, seating herself. "Brother, do not quit my side," she added, in a low voice: "I feel foolishly afraid." But a few moments elapsed before the light of the torches, gleaming upon his figure, disclosed to Mildred the approach of a person of short stature and delicate frame, in whose step there was a singular alertness and rapidity. He wore the blue and buff uniform of the staff, with a pair of epaulets, a buckskin belt, and broadsword. A three-cornered cocked-hat, ornamented with a buck-tail, gave a peculiar sharpness to his naturally sharp and decided features; and a pair of small, dark eyes twinkled in the firelight, from a countenance originally sallow, but now swarthy from sun and wind. There was a conspicuous alacrity and courtesy in the gay and chivalrous tone in which he accosted Mildred: "General Marion, madam, is too happy to have his poor camp honored by the visit of a lady. They tell me that the Tories were so uncivil as to break in upon your slumbers to-night. It adds greatly to my grudge against them." "I have ventured," said Mildred, "into the field of war, and it does not become me to complain that I have met its vicissitudes." "Gallantly spoken, madam! May I be allowed to know to whom I am indebted for the honor of this visit?" "My name is Lindsay, my father resides at the Dove Cote in Virginia: under the protection of my brother and a friend, I left home to travel into Carolina." "A long journey, madam," interrupted Marion; "and you have been sadly vexed to-night, I learn. We have a rude and unquiet country." "My sister and myself," said Henry, "counted the chances before we set out." "I would call you but an inexperienced guide, sir," said the General, addressing Henry, and smiling. "Oh, as to that," replied the youth, "we have an old soldier with us--Horse Shoe Robinson--hem--Stephen Foster, I meant to say." "Horse Shoe Robinson!" exclaimed Marion, "where is he?" "Mr. Henry Lindsay, General, and me," said the sergeant, bluntly, "have been practising a lie to tell the Tories, in case they should take us unawares; but it sticks, you see, in both of our throats. It's the true fact that I'm Horse Shoe himself. This calling me Stephen Foster is only a hanging out of false colors for the benefit of the red-coats and Tories, upon occasion." "Horse Shoe, good fellow, your hand," said Marion, with vivacity, "I have heard of you before. Miss Lindsay, excuse me, if you please; I have business to-night which is apt impertinently to thrust itself between us and our duty to the ladies. Richards," he continued, addressing a young officer who stood near him, "see if you can find some refreshment that would be acceptable to the lady and her brother. Horse Shoe, this way: I would speak with you." Marion now retired towards the place where the writing materials were first noticed, and entered into an examination of the sergeant, as to the particulars of the recent attack upon Wingate's cabin. Before Robinson had finished his narrative of the events of the night, a horseman dashed up almost at full speed to the spot where Marion stood, and, flinging himself from his saddle, whilst his horse stood panting beside him, asked for the General. "How now, Bloody Spur! What's the news?" demanded Marion. "The Black River hawks are flying," said the soldier. "I have heard that already," interrupted the chieftain. "Tell me what else." "I stayed long enough to secure Wingate's cattle, and then set out for the river to cut loose the boats at the Ferry. I did it in good time. Four files followed close upon my heels, who had been sent ahead to make sure of the means of crossing. The fellows found me after my work was done, and chased me good three miles. They will hardly venture, General, to swim the river to-night, with all the thievery they have in their hands; and I rather take it they will halt at the ferry till daylight." "Then that's a lucky cast, Dick Peyton," exclaimed Marion. "Ho, there! Peters, wake up that snoring trumpeter. Tell him to sound 'to saddle.' Come lads, up, up. Gentlemen, to your duties!" Forthwith the trumpet sounded, and with its notes everything asleep started erect. Troopers were seen hurrying across the ground in rapid motion: some hastily buckling on broadswords and slinging their muskets; others equipping the horses; and everywhere torches were seen passing to and fro in all the agitation of a sudden muster. As soon as Marion had set this mass in action, he repaired to Mildred, and in a manner that betokened no excitement from the general stir around him, he said-- "I owe you an apology, Miss Lindsay, for this desertion, which I am sure you will excuse when you know that it is caused by my desire to punish the varlets who were so ill-mannered as to intrude upon your slumbers. I hope, however, you will not be a loser by the withdrawal of our people, as I will take measures to put you under the protection of a good friend of mine, the widow of a worthy soldier, Mistress Rachel Markham, who lives but two miles from this, and whose hospitable mansion will afford you a shelter more congenial to your wishes than this broad canopy of ours. A guide shall be ready to conduct you." "Your kindness, general," said Mildred, "puts me under many obligations." "Horse Shoe shall take a line of explanation to my friend," added Marion. "And now, madam, farewell," he said, offering his hand. "And you, Master or Mister Henry, I don't know which--you seem entitled to both--good night, my brave lad: I hope, before long, to hear of your figuring as a gallant soldier of independence." "I hope as much myself," replied Henry. Marion withdrew, and by the time that he had prepared the letter and put it into Horse Shoe's hands, his troops were in line, waiting their order to march. The general mounted a spirited charger, and galloping to the front of his men, wheeled them into column, and, by a rapid movement, soon left Horse Shoe and his little party, attended by one trooper who had been left as a guide, the only tenants of this lately so busy scene. The change seemed almost like enchantment. The fires and many torches were yet burning, but all was still, except the distant murmur of the receding troops, which grew less and less, until, at last, there reigned the silence of the native forest. Our travellers waited, almost without exchanging a word, absorbed in the contemplation of an incident so novel to Mildred and her brother, until the distant tramp of the cavalry could be no longer heard: then, under the direction of the guide, they set out for the residence of Mrs. Markham. CHAPTER XLII. The day had just begun to dawn as our party, under the guidance of Marion's soldier, were ferried across the Pedee, on the opposite bank of which river lay the estate and mansion of Mrs. Markham. The alarms and excitements of the past night had ceased to stimulate the frame of Mildred, and she now found herself sinking under the most painful weariness. Henry had actually fallen asleep as he sat upon the gunwale of the ferry-boat, and rested his head against the sergeant's shoulder: the whole party were overcome with the lassitude that is so distressing, at this hour of dawning, to all persons who have spent the night in watching; and even the sergeant himself, to the influences of fatigue and privation the most inaccessible of mortals, and, by fate or fortune, the most unmalleable--occasionally nodded his head, as if answering the calls of man's most welcome visitor. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary contentment that our travellers, when again mounted, were enabled to descry, in the first light of the morning, a group of buildings seated upon an eminence about a mile distant, on the further side of the cultivated lowland that stretched along the southern margin of the river. The guide announced that this was the point of their destination, and the intelligence encouraged the party to accelerate the speed with which they journeyed over the plain. When they arrived at the foot of the hill, the character of the spot they were approaching was more distinctly developed to their view. The mansion, encompassed by a tuft of trees that flung their broad and ancient limbs above its roof, was of the best class of private dwellings, old and stately in its aspect, and exhibiting all the appendages that characterized the seat of a wealthy proprietor. It was constructed entirely of wood, in accordance with a notion that prevailed at that period, no less than at the present, that a frame structure was best adapted to the character of the climate. It occupied the crest of a hill which commanded a view of the river with its extensive plains; whilst, in turn, it was overlooked by the adjacent tract of country bearing the name of the Cheraw Highlands. As the party ascended this eminence, Henry, in the eager and thoughtless satisfaction of the moment, put his bugle to his mouth and continued to blow with all his might, deaf to the remonstrances of his sister, who was endeavoring to explain that there was some want of courtesy in so abrupt a challenge of the hospitality of the family. The blast was interrupted by Horse Shoe's laying his hand upon the instrument, as he gave the indiscreet bugler a short military lecture: "You might fetch trouble upon us, Mister Henry: this here screeching of horns or trumpets is sometimes a sort of bullying of a garrison; and if an enemy should happen to be on post here--as, God knows, is likely enough in such scampering wars as these, why you have set the thing past cure: for it is cutting off all chance of escape, just as much as if the people had been ordered 'to horse.' It leaves nothing for us but to brazen it out." An old negro was first startled by the summons, and appeared for a moment at the door of one of the out-buildings, evincing, as he looked down the road upon the approaching cavalcade, manifest signs of consternation. After a brief glance, he was seen to retreat across the yard to the door of the mansion-house, where he fell to beating at it with as much earnestness as if giving an alarm of fire, shouting at the same time, "Lord bless us, mistress! here is a whole rigiment of sodgers coming to turn everything topsy-turvy. Get up, get up--open the door!" "Stop your bawling, you stunted black-jack!" said Robinson, who had galloped up to the spot, "and none of your lies. Is the lady of the house at home?" A window was thrown up, at the same moment, in an upper story, and a female head, decorated with a nightcap, was thrust out, whilst a voice, tremulous with affright, inquired what was the cause of this disturbance; but before an answer could be given the head was withdrawn, and the door opening discovered a youth scarcely in appearance over sixteen, with a loose robe thrown around his person and a pistol in his hand. "Who comes here, and with what purpose?" was the question firmly put by the young man. "Friends," said Horse Shoe--"sent to the good lady by General Marion. Sorry, sir, to be the occasion of such a rumpus. But this here young lady has travelled all night and is 'most dead with hardships." Mildred, who with the rest of the company had now arrived near the door, was about to speak, when the questioner retired, calling the negro after him into the house. In a moment the servant returned with Mrs. Markham's compliments to the party, and a request that they would alight. "Then all's well," said Horse Shoe, dismounting, and immediately afterwards lifting Mildred from her saddle, "a friend in need, madam, is the greatest of God's blessings. I make no doubt you will find this as snug a nest as you ever flew into in your life." "And, good sergeant, most specially welcome," replied Mildred, smiling in the midst of all her pain, "for in truth I never was so weary." The guide, having now performed his duty, announced that he must return to his corps; and, after a few cheering words of kind remembrance from Mildred, coupled with a message of thanks to Marion, he wheeled about and galloped back towards the river. Mildred and Henry entered the house: and the sergeant, taking command of Isaac, followed the horses towards the stable. The brother and sister were ushered into an ample parlor, comfortably furnished according to the fashion of the wealthier classes of that day; and, Mildred as she threw herself upon a capacious sofa, could not fail to recognise in the formal portraits that were suspended to the pannelled walls, that she was in the dwelling of a family of some pride of name and lineage. After a short interval, the proprietress of the mansion entered the parlor. She was a lady of a kind and gentle aspect, apparently advanced beyond the middle period of life; and her features, somewhat emaciated, gave a sign of feeble health. She was attired in dishabille, hastily thrown on; and there was some expression of alarm in the unreserved and familiar manner with which she approached Mildred, and inquired into the nature of this early journey. "I hope no unhappy accident, my dear, has driven you at this unusual hour to my poor house? You are heartily welcome. I fear to ask what has brought you." "My brother and myself, madam," said Mildred, "have had a most adventurous night. This letter will explain. General Marion was so kind as to commit us to your hospitality." The lady took the letter and read it. "Miss Lindsay, my child, I am truly happy to serve you. You have had an awful night, but these times make us acquainted with strange afflictions. This young gentleman, your brother, is he your only attendant?" Mildred began to communicate the details of her journey, when she was interrupted by her hostess. "I will not trouble you with questions, now, my dear. You must have sleep; I dread lest your health may suffer by this harsh exposure. After you have had rest, we will talk more, and become better acquainted. Judith," continued the matron, addressing a servant maid, who had just entered the room, "attend this lady to a chamber. Mr. Henry Lindsay, I believe--so General Marion calls you--my son Alfred shall take you in charge." With these words the good lady left the room, and in an instant after returned with the youth who had first appeared at the door. Upon being introduced by his mother to the guests, he lost no time in obeying her orders in regard to Henry, whom he had conducted out of the room at the same moment that Mildred followed the servant towards a chamber. The entire day was spent by our party in recruiting their strength, towards which needful care the hospitable hostess contributed by the tenderest attentions. On the following morning Mildred, although refreshed by the slumbers of the long interval, still exhibited the traces of her recent fatigue; and upon the earnest recommendation of Mrs. Markham, seconded by the almost oracular authority of Horse Shoe,--for the sergeant had greatly won upon the respect of his companions by his prudence and discretion--she determined to remain another day in her present resting-place. Mrs. Markham was the widow of a Carolina gentleman, who had borne the rank of a colonel in the Whig militia, and had been actively employed, in the earlier stages of the war, in the southern provinces. He had fallen in an unfortunate skirmish with some of Prevost's light troops, on the Savannah river, some sixteen months before; and his widow, with three daughters and no other male protector than an only son, was now, in this season of extreme peril, residing upon a large estate, which the evil fortune of the times had made the theatre of an eventful and active desultory war. She had been exposed to the most cruel exactions from the Tories, to whom her possessions were generally yielded up with a passive and helpless submission; and the firmness with which, in all her difficulties, she had adhered to the cause for which her husband fell, had gained for her the generous sympathy of the whig leaders, and more than once stimulated them to enterprises, in her behalf, that were followed by severe chastisement upon her enemies. These circumstances had given extensive notoriety to her name, and drawn largely upon her the observation of both friend and foe. To Marion, who hovered upon this border more like a goblin than a champion whose footsteps might be tracked, her protection had become a subject of peculiar interest; and the indefatigable soldier frequently started up in her neighborhood when danger was at hand, with a mysterious form of opposition that equally defied the calculations of Whigs and Tories. The lady was still in her weeds, and grief and care had thrown a pallor upon her cheek; but the watchfulness imposed upon her by the emergencies of the day, her familiarity with alarms, and the necessity for constant foresight and decisive action, had infused a certain hardihood into her character, that is seldom believed to be,--but yet in the hour of trial unerringly exhibits itself--an attribute of the female bosom. Her manners were considerate, kind, and fraught with dignity. She was the personation of a class of matrons that--for the honor of our country and of the human race--was not small in its numbers, nor upon trial unworthy of its fame, in the sad history of the sufferings of Carolina. The evening of the day on which Mildred arrived at the mansion brought rumors of a brilliant exploit achieved by Marion; and more circumstantial accounts on the following morning confirmed the good tidings. The alert partisan had fallen upon the track of the freebooters who had been marauding on the confines of North Carolina, and whose incursion had expelled our travellers from Wingate's cabin. Marion had overtaken them before sunrise, on the bank of the Pedee, where they had been detained by reason of Peyton's successful removal of the boats. A short but most decisive combat was the consequence, and victory, as she was wont, had seated herself upon Marion's banner. The chieftain and his followers had, as usual, disappeared, and the whole country was in a state of agitation and dread; the one side fearing a repetition of the blow in some unlooked-for quarter, the other alarmed by the expectation of quick and bloody reprisal. These events still more contributed to fortify Mildred's resolution to remain another day under the shelter of Mrs. Markham's friendly roof, before she would venture forth in the further prosecution of her journey. Here, for the present, we must leave her. CHAPTER XLIII. OCCURRENCES AT MUSGROVE'S MILL. She passed by stealth the narrow door, The postern way also, And thought each bush her robe that tore, The grasp of a warding foe.--JOANNA BAILLIE. The month of September was more than half gone. The night had just set in, and the waxing moon shone forth from a clear heaven, flinging her rays upon the rippling surface of the Ennoree and upon the glossy leaves that flickered in the wind by the banks of the stream, when Mary Musgrove, with wary and stealthy pace, glided along the path, intricate with shrubbery, that led upwards immediately upon the margin of the river. For a full half hour had she toiled along this narrow way since she had stolen past the sentinel near her father's gate. The distance was not a mile; but the anxious maiden, pursued by her own fears, had more than once, in the fancy that she was followed, stopped in her career and concealed herself in the thick copse-wood, and listened with painful intensity for the footsteps of those whom her imagination had set upon her track. There was, however, no pursuit: it was the prowling fox or the raccoon whose leap had disturbed the dry and rotten branches that lay upon the ground; and Mary smiled with faint-heartedness at the illusions of her own mind. She arrived at last beneath the brow of a crag that jutted over the stream, and in the shade of one of the angles of the rock, she discerned the figure of a man seated upon the grass. She paused with a distrustful caution, as she challenged the silent and half-concealed person. "Hist, John! is it you? For mercy, speak! Why would you frighten me?--Me, Mary. Don't you know me?" said the maiden, as she took heart of grace and advanced near enough to put her hand upon John Ramsay's shoulder. "Powers above! the man's asleep," she added with a laugh. "Who would have thought I should have caught you napping, John, at such a time as this!" "Why, in truth, Mary," said John Ramsay, waking up under the touch of his mistress, and rising to his feet, "I deserve to be shot for sleeping on my watch; but I have been so driven from post to pillar for this last fortnight, that it is as much as I can do to keep my eyes open when night comes on. So Mary, you will forgive me, and more particularly when I tell you I was dreaming of you; and thought this war was at an end, and that you and I were happy in a house of our own. I have been waiting for you for upwards of an hour." "Ah, John, I don't think I could sleep if it had been my turn to watch for you." "There's the difference," replied John, "betwixt you women and us men; you are so full of frights and fidgetings and fancyings, that I do verily believe all the sleeping doses in the world could never make you shut your eyes when anything is going on that requires watching, whether it be for a sick friend or for a piece of scheming. Now, with us, we take a nap on a hard-trotting horse, and fall to snoring up to the very minute that the trumpet wakes us to make a charge. What news from Butler?" "It is all fixed," answered Mary, "to our hearts' content. Lieutenant Macdonald, ever since Cornwallis's letter, allows Major Butler greater privileges; and the sentinels are not half so strict as they used to be; so that I think we may give them the slip. By the gable window that looks out from the garret room, the Major will be able to get upon the roof, and that, he thinks, is near enough to the tree for him to risk a leap into its branches; though I am almost afraid he is mistaken, for it looks awfully wide for a spring. He says if you will be ready with the horses an hour before daylight to-morrow, he will try the leap, and join you at the willows above the mill. Christopher will saddle one of the wagon-horses and lead him to the place." "And the sentinel who keeps guard on that side?" "Ah, John, that puzzles us," said Mary; "I'm so much afraid that you will be rash. It is in your nature to forget yourself." "Tut, girl; don't talk of that. I'll find a way to manage the sentinel. I will steal up to him and take him unawares; and then seizing him by the throat, give him his choice of a knife in between his ribs, or a handful of guineas in his pocket." "Hadn't we better tell him what a good man the Major is?" said Mary, alarmed at the idea of a struggle in which her lover's life might be endangered, "and try to coax him to take our side?" "Ha, ha!" ejaculated the trooper involuntarily, "that's a very good woman's thought, but it won't hold out in a campaign. The fellow might happen to have some honesty, and then away goes our whole scheme. No, no; blows are the coin that these rascals buy their bread with, and, faith, we'll trade with them in the same article." "But then, John, you will be in danger." "What of that, girl? When have I been out of danger? And don't you see, Mary, what good luck I have with it? Never fear me; I will stifle the fellow in the genteelest fashion known in the wars." "And if it must be so, John, I will say my prayers for you with more earnestness than I ever said them in my life. As my father says, the God of Israel will stand by our cause: and when He is for us, what care we who is against us?" "You are a good girl, Mary," replied John Ramsay, smiling. "Get back to the house; let Major Butler know that you have seen me, and that I will be ready." "He is to be at the window," said Mary, "and I am to signify to him that you are prepared, by setting up a plank against the garden fence in a place where he can see it. He is to keep a look-out from the window all night, and when the time comes you are to flash a little powder on the edge of the woods upon the hill: if he is ready then he will show his candle near the window-sill; that, he says, must be a sign for you to come on; and when he sees you he will take the leap." "I understand it," said Ramsay. "Tell Christopher to be sure of the horse." "I have a great deal of courage, John, when danger is far off--but when it comes near, I tremble like a poor coward," said Mary. "Does not my hand feel cold?" "Your lips are warm, Mary," replied John, kissing her, "and your heart is warm. Now, never flag when it comes to the trial. Everything depends upon you. We shall be very happy, by-and-by, to talk this thing all over. How many soldiers are on Macdonald's guard? Have none left you since I saw you yesterday?" "None," said Mary: "one man left the mill two days since. I think I heard them say he was going to Ninety-six, on business for the lieutenant." "Well, well, it makes but little odds how many are there, so they but sleep soundly. Our business is more to run than to fight. Mary, my girl, step across to my father's to-morrow, and he will tell you what has become of me. We must get the Major out of this country of wolf-traps as fast as we can." "I forgot to ask you," said the maiden, "if you had some coarse clothes ready for the Major. He must not seem to be what he is." "Trust me for that," replied the trooper. "Christopher has given me a bundle with as fine a dusty suit in it as any miller's boy ever wore; and besides that, I have a meal bag to throw across the Major's saddle: and as for myself, Mary, there's ploughman in my very looks. We shall cheat all the Tories betwixt this and Catawba." "Now, John, before I leave you, I have one favor to ask." "And what is that?" inquired the generous-hearted soldier, "you know, if I can, I will grant it before it is named." "I would ask as a favor to me," said Mary, with earnestness, "that you will not be too venturesome: the Major is a wiser man than you, so be governed by him. Remember, John, if any ill were to happen to you, it would break my heart." "I am not so foolhardy, my girl," replied Ramsay, "but, that when there's occasion for it, I can show as clean a pair of heels as any man: and so, for your sake, you kitten," he said, as he put his hands upon her cheeks, and again snatched a kiss, "I will run to-morrow like a whole troop of devils. And now, Mary, good night, and God bless you girl! it is time you were at home. Yet upon second thoughts, I will walk part of the way with you. So, take my arm and let us begin the retreat." "John, I do so fear you may be hurt," said the maiden, as they pursued their way along the path, her whole thoughts being absorbed with the danger of the enterprise. "Be careful when you come near the sentinel to wait until his back is turned. This moon shines bright, and you may easily be seen." "But look, girl, the moon has scarcely two hours yet to travel, and, from that circle round it, I shouldn't wonder if we had rain before daylight; so by the hour we have fixed for the Major's escape, it will be dark enough: therefore you may be easy on that score." The humble and ardent lovers pursued their way towards the miller's dwelling with slow steps, intently engaged in conversing over the chances of their perilous project, until they arrived at a point beyond which it was not safe for John Ramsay to venture. Here, after many affectionate caresses and fond adieus, they separated--the maiden to steal to her place of rest, the soldier to hasten back to his horse, that awaited him near the scene of the late meeting. Mary soon arrived at the mill; then sauntering carelessly towards the dwelling-house, began, the better to conceal her purpose, to sing a simple air, during which she had wandered up to the garden fence, where she delayed long enough to set up the plank. The small window in the angle of the roof of the cottage looked down upon the spot where she stood; and as she cast her eyes towards this part of the building, she received a recognition from the prisoner, in a slight waving of the hand, which was sufficiently observable by the light of the taper within. Matters having gone so far to the maiden's satisfaction, she now retreated into the house. The reader will perceive from this narrative that Butler's fortunes had greatly improved since we last took leave of him. The messenger despatched to Cornwallis by Williams had brought back to the Fair Forest, where it will be remembered the vanquishers of Innis had retreated, a more favorable answer than even the republican leader had hoped. The British commander was not ignorant of the capture of Butler, but the circumstances of the trial had not before been communicated to him. Upon the representation of Williams, he had no hesitation to order a respite to be given to the prisoner for such reasonable time as might be necessary for further investigation. This obvious act of justice was more than, in the circumstances of the times, might have been expected from Cornwallis. The cruel and bloody policy which he adopted towards the inhabitants of the Carolinas, immediately after the battle of Camden, showed a tone of personal exacerbation that was scarcely consistent with the lenity displayed towards Butler. It is not unlikely, therefore, that the fear of retaliation upon the young St. Jermyn, of whose fate he might have been informed from officers of his own camp, might have induced him to temporize in the present case, and to grant a suspension of proceedings against the rebel prisoner. The reply to Williams's letter accordingly intimated that, for the present, Major Butler should be held in close custody as a prisoner of war, leaving the determination of the manner in which he was finally to be disposed of, a subject for future consideration. John Ramsay, after the departure of Horse Shoe Robinson for Virginia, instead of rejoining his regiment, returned to the Fair Forest camp, where he remained with Williams, until the answer from Cornwallis was received. The tidings of this answer he undertook to convey to Butler, and he again set out for his father's house. John felt himself now regularly enlisted in the service of the prisoner, and having found means to communicate his present employment to General Sumpter, he obtained permission to remain in it as long as his assistance was of value. The service itself was a grateful one to the young trooper: it accorded with the generosity of his character, and gratified his personal pride by the trust-worthiness which it implied: but more than this, it brought him into opportunities of frequent meeting with Mary Musgrove, who, passionately beloved by the soldier, was not less ardent than he in her efforts to promote the interest of Butler. The state of the country did not allow John to be seen in day-time, and he and Mary had consequently appointed a place of meeting, where in the shades of night they might commune together on the important subjects of their secret conspiracy. Night after night they accordingly met at this spot, and here all their schemes were contrived. Mary sometimes came to David Ramsay's dwelling, and the old man's counsel was added to that of the lovers. Christopher Shaw and Allen Musgrove were not ignorant of what was in contemplation, but it was a piece of necessary policy that they should appear to be as little connected with the prisoner as possible. Christopher, therefore, pursued his duties as assistant-quarter-master or purveyor to the little garrison under Macdonald's command, with unabated assiduity. The plan of Butler's escape was John Ramsay's. He had been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to attempt this enterprise for the last fortnight, but the difficulty of concerting operations with the prisoner had retarded his movement. This difficulty was at last overcome, and, for a few days past, the plan had been arranged. All that was left to be done was to appoint the hour. Christopher Shaw and Mary, alone of the miller's family, were made acquainted with the details. Christopher was to provide a horse and a suitable disguise for Butler, and these were to be ready at a tuft of willows that grew upon the edge of the river some quarter of a mile above the mill, whenever Mary should announce that John was ready to act. Ramsay's horse was to be brought to the same spot. The preparatory signals, already mentioned, were all agreed upon and understood by the parties. Butler was to escape to the roof, and thence by the boughs of a large oak that grew hard by the miller's dwelling. A sentinel was usually posted some fifty paces from this tree, and it was a matter of great perplexity to determine how his vigilance was to be defeated. This difficulty, John resolved, should be overcome by a stern measure: the man was to be silenced, if necessary, by a blow. John Ramsay was to steal upon him in the dark, and if signs of alarm were given, he was to master the sentinel in such a manner as the occasion might require, being furnished by Butler with a purse of gold, if such a form of influence might be necessary. Such is the outline of the plan by which Butler's disenthralment was to be attempted. Mary Musgrove, before she retired to her chamber, sought Christopher Shaw and made him acquainted with the appointment of the hour, and then left him to manage his own share of the enterprise. It was now near ten at night, and Christopher, who had charge of Allen Musgrove's stable, in order to avoid the suspicion of being seen stirring at a later hour, immediately set off to saddle the horse. One of the wagon team, well known in the family by the name of Wall Eye, was selected for this service, and being speedily accoutred, was conducted to the willows, where he was tied fast to a tree, to remain until the hour of need. The young miller soon returned, and it was not long afterwards that the household and its military companions were wrapt in the silence of unsuspecting repose. Butler, at the hour of the customary visit of the watch, had gone to bed; and, feigning sickness, had been allowed to burn a light in his room during the night. His chamber door, also, by special favor, was closed; and the night advanced without suspicion or distrust from any quarter. At two o'clock the last sentinels were relieved, and the form had been gone through of inspecting the prisoner's chamber. To all outward show, Butler was asleep: the door was again shut, and all was still. The time for action now arrived. Butler rose silently from his bed, dressed himself, and, putting his shoes into his pockets, stole in his stockinged feet to the little gable window at the further end of his apartment. Here he remained, gazing out upon the night with fixed attention. The moon had set, and the sky was overcast with clouds, adding a fortunate obscurity to the natural darkness of the hour. By still greater good luck, after a few moments the wind began to rise and rain to descend. Everything seemed to favor the enterprise. The shadowy form of the sentinel, who was stationed on this side of the house, was dimly discerned by Butler through the gloom; and it was with joyful satisfaction that he could perceive the soldier, as the rain fell in larger drops, retreat some distance from his post and take shelter beneath the shrubbery that grew in the garden. At the same moment a flash upon the hill, which might have been mistaken for summer lightning, announced to him that his faithful comrade was at hand. Desirous to take advantage of the present neglect of the sentinel, and to avoid the possibility of bringing him into conflict with Ramsay, Butler hastily showed his candle at the window, then extinguished it, and throwing himself out upon the roof, scrambled towards the nearest point of the impending branches of the oak. Here, without a moment's pause, he made a fearless leap that flung him amongst the boughs. The darkness prevented him from choosing the most favorable lodgment in the tree, and he fell across a heavy limb with such force as to take away his breath--receiving at the same time, a severe contusion in the head. For a brief space he hung almost senseless, and there was reason to apprehend that he would fall in a swoon to the ground; but the occasion braced his sinking strength, and before many minutes he revived sufficiently to make his way to the trunk, by which he descended safely to the earth. He now threw himself on his hands and feet, and crept to the garden fence. The rain still increased, and fell in a heavy shower. In another instant he surmounted the barrier, and betook himself with his utmost speed towards the mill, behind which he sought concealment and temporary rest. "Stand," said John Ramsay, who had just reached this point on his way to the house, and now, taken by surprise, presented a pistol to Butler's breast. "One word above your breath and you die. Be silent, and here is gold for you." "Ramsay," said Butler, in a low tone, "is it you?" "Your name?" demanded the trooper, still presenting the pistol. "Butler," was the reply. "Thanks--thanks, good Major, for that word! You have been before me. I thought you would not miss this rain. Is all well?" "Better, much better, than we could have hoped," answered Butler. "Seeing the sentinel was off his guard, I took time by the forelock, and have saved you trouble." "For God's sake, Major, let us not delay here. Our horses are waiting for us above." "I am ready," said Butler, having now put on his shoes. "My brave fellow, I owe you more than I can find words to utter: lead the way." The liberated captive and his gallant comrade instantly hastened towards the horses, and mounting with a joyful alacrity, soon set forward at a gallop in the direction leading to David Ramsay's cottage. Here they arrived just as the day began to dawn. CHAPTER XLIV. A MELANCHOLY INCIDENT. The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.--_Scott._ Brief time was taken by the fugitives for refreshment at David Ramsay's dwelling. Here Butler put on the disguise which Christopher Shaw had provided for him. Then arming himself with a pair of pistols which John had appropriated to his use, the trooper himself using a similar precaution, our two adventurers resumed their journey. Their first object was to gain a point, some seven or eight miles distant, in the direction of the Fair Forest, where John Ramsay had concealed a few troopers that had been furnished him by Williams, to give their aid, if necessary, in securing Butler's escape. From this point they were to proceed, with all possible despatch, to Williams's camp. However hazardous the experiment of attempting to traverse the country in open daylight, it was deemed still more dangerous to tarry any length of time so near the scene of their late adventure. Butler and his comrade, therefore, pushed forward with as much expedition as possible, resolved to outrun the fresh pursuit which they had reason to apprehend upon the discovery which the morning must produce at the miller's habitation. Soon after sunrise the rain ceased to fall, the clouds dispersed, and a fresh and brilliant morning broke forth upon the heavens. The success of their late exploit had raised the spirits of the wanderers. A sense of intense delight animated Butler's feelings: a consciousness of liberty once more enjoyed, after hopes deferred and almost despairing captivity, seemed to regenerate him and make him acquainted with emotions he had never felt before. His heart was full of gratitude to his new friend Ramsay, and the expression of it was warm and sincere. Nature had never appeared so lovely to him as now: the whispers of the forest and the murmur of the clear brook fell on his enfranchised ear like the sweetest music: there was melody for him even in the screams of the jay and the harsh notes of the crow: and once when his companion had halted in sight of a buck that bounded through the wood before him, Butler, apprehensive that John was about to discharge a bullet after the forest-rover, found himself involuntarily pleading the cause of the noble animal: "Do not draw your pistol on him, Ramsay, I pray you. Let him run; it is liberty--liberty, good comrade--and that is sacred." Before eight o'clock they had reached the rendezvous. Here they found three troopers who, although armed, were habited in the plain dress of the country, which enabled them to claim the denomination either of Whig or Tory militia, as their occasions might demand. These men had lain perdue, for some days, in the depth of the forest, impatiently awaiting for intelligence from Ramsay. "Well, Harry Winter," said John, laughing, "what say you now? I have brought you the miller's boy at last. Have I not made my word good?" "Truth, John," replied the trooper, "there is more stuff in you than we counted on. Macdonald must be a silly crow to let the fox steal his cheese from him so easily." "You would have come nearer the mark, Harry, if you had called him a sleepy lout, for whilst he was nodding I took his cake off the griddle. It was fair filching by night, as the Major will tell you. But come, lads, here is no time for dallying, we mustn't have the grass growing to our horses' heels, when we have a whole pack of King George's hounds on our trail. So move, boys!" and saying these words, John led the party forward at a rapid gallop. They had not gone far before they found themselves upon a road which led through a piece of thin wood that covered a small tract of marshy ground, the nature of which brought the party into a more compact body as they approached the narrowest point of the defile. At a short distance beyond this impediment the track became broader, where it ascended a hill thickly covered with an undergrowth of bushes. Our friends had scarcely arrived in the narrow pass before they perceived on the hill in front of them, a company of some ten or fifteen horse, rapidly advancing towards them. In a moment all conversation was checked, and Harry Winter turning to his companions, had barely time to remark, "I answer all questions: be silent, and if asked, swear to the truth of every word I say--steady: these fellows are Tories." As he ceased speaking, the foremost of the strangers had already come up to them. "Where from, and whither do you go?" asked Harry Winter, with a stern accent. "From below Ninety-Six, and on our road to Fort Granby," replied a clownish voice. "Peace, you knave!" interrupted one who appeared to be the leader of the party, and whose carriage and demeanor announced him to be an officer; "by what authority do you undertake to answer a challenge on the highway? Back, to your place, sir." The rebuked rustic hung his head, as he reined his horse back into the crowd that now thronged the road. "As we are of the larger party," said the same person, addressing himself to Winter, "we have the right to the word. Who are you and whence come you?" "We belong to Floyd's new draft," replied Winter with great coolness, "and left Winnsborough yesterday morning." "And where bound?" "To Augusta, on business with Brown." "Ah ha!" exclaimed the officer, "Brown is pinched by the rebels. It is well you have thought of him. What have you to say to him? Do you bear despatches?" "Your pardon, sir--that's a secret." "You need not be afraid, good fellow, we are friends." "I can hardly tell you the exact business," replied Winter. "You will meet Floyd himself with a hundred men, before you ride five miles. I believe we are going to reinforce the garrison." "You will be very welcome," said the Tory officer, "Brown will give you a hearty reception, but devilish slim fare; he is surrounded with hornets." "So much the better," replied Winter, "we have a knack at taking the sting out of the hornets, now-a-days. Good morning, sir. Report us, if you please, to Colonel Floyd, when you come across him, and tell him the hour of the day when you met us." During this short parley the two parties had become united into a common throng, completely filling up the road; and the proximity into which they were severally brought, gave rise to various inquiries after news amongst the subordinates on either side. In this press, Butler was startled to observe the eyes of an individual scanning him with a somewhat pointed scrutiny, and it was with an emotion that had well nigh betrayed him, that he recognised in this person one of Macdonald's soldiers. It was the man whom the lieutenant had despatched, a few days previous, with an errand to the post at Ninety-Six, and who was now returning with this detachment of militia. The soldier was evidently at fault, for in a moment afterwards Butler could perceive, from his expression of face, that whatever might have been his first suspicion, it was quieted by another glance. The disguise was so far effectual. But another cause of alarm arose, that for an instant brought Butler into greater jeopardy. The horse on which the messenger was mounted, was the yoke-fellow of the lean Wall-Eye, and the two beasts had been long accustomed to work side by side in the same wagon. Their mutual recognition, at this critical moment, became distressingly conspicuous. Their noses were brought in contact, and they began to whinny and paw the ground in that intelligible manner which constitutes one of the forms of expression by which this portion of the brute creation acknowledge their attachments. The presence of mind of John Ramsay saved the explosion which must soon have followed. He spurred his horse between the two noisy and restless animals, and immediately addressed a conversation to the soldier, which for the moment turned his thoughts into another channel. By this time the conference had terminated, and the two leaders respectively directing their men to move forward, the defile was passed and each party extricated from the other. But no sooner was the separation completed than Butler's brutish steed, Wall-Eye, began to neigh with the most clamorous vociferation, whilst a response was heard in the same tones as pertinaciously reiterated from the retreating companion on the other side of the defile. "We were in great danger from yonder Tories," said Ramsay, addressing Butler, "did you see that one of these fellows rode the mate of the beast you are on? Who could he be?" "It was one of Macdonald's men," replied Butler, "I knew the fellow the moment we met; but, thank Heaven, this humble dress concealed me." "Faster, Major!" cried John, "these cursed horses are calling after each other now. Pray, push forward until we get out of hearing. How unlucky that Christopher Shaw should have given you one of the wagon cattle!" "Look back, lads!" exclaimed Winter with great earnestness, "there is something wrong, these fellows are returning. Whip and spur, or we are overtaken!" Macdonald's soldier, it seems, having his attention drawn to the singular motions of his horse, had become suddenly confirmed in the suspicion which at the late meeting for a moment rested upon his mind, as to the identity of Butler; and having communicated his thought to the commanding officer, the whole party of the Tory militia had wheeled about to demand a further investigation: they were now some hundred paces in the rear of the fugitives, and were pressing forward at high speed, the officer in the front calling out at the same time, "Hold!--Rein up and return! We have questions to ask. Halt, or we shall fire!" "To it, boys!" cried Harry Winter. "Your safety is in your legs!" And the party pricked onward as fast as they could urge their cavalry along the road. The chase continued for some half hour or more; the little escort of Butler leaving the road and plunging into the recesses of the forest. An occasional pistol-shot was fired during this retreat, but without effect on either side. The tangled character of the ground over which they passed, greatly retarded the pursuit, and before the half hour was spent none but a few of the boldest horsemen of the assailants were found persevering in the chase. Seeing their number diminished, and finding also that the horses of his own comrades were beginning to flag, John Ramsay assumed the command, and directed his party to turn about and offer battle to the pursuers. The immediate effect of this movement was to bring the assailants to a halt, which was no sooner witnessed by John, than he shouted, "Charge, lads, charge and the day is ours! Hack and hew, good fellows: down with the bloodhounds!" This animated exhortation was followed up by a prompt onset, in which the brave trooper led the way; and such was the impetuosity of the assault that the enemy, although consisting of twice the number of those who attacked them, were forced to give ground. A sharp skirmish ensued, during which several pistol-shots were discharged on both sides, and some encounters, hand to hand, were sustained with a sturdy resolution; but, at last, our friends succeeded in turning their opponents to flight. The combat had been maintained in that pell-mell form of attack and defence, which defied compact or organized resistance; and the individuals of each party had been scattered over the wood for a considerable distance, so that when the late pursuers were compelled to retreat, each man urged his horse in such a direction as was most favorable to his escape. By degrees, Butler's few companions began to reassemble at that part of the wood where they had made their first stand. "There is nothing like striking the first blow at the right time," said Harry Winter, as, with his hat in his hand to allow the air to cool his brow, he rode up to Butler, and halted to gain breath. "Give me a hot charge on a slow enemy, and I don't care much about two to one of odds. Thank God that business is cleanly done, and here we are all safe I hope. Where is John Ramsay?" he inquired, looking around him, and observing that their comrade was not amongst the number assembled. "I saw him close at the heels of the runaways," said one of the men. "John has a trick of seeing a scrimmage to the end; and it is an even bet that he is now upon the trail like a fresh hound. The last I noticed of him was at the crupper of a couple of the rascals that, I'll engage, before now he has set his mark upon." "Then we must to his assistance!" exclaimed Butler, eagerly; and without waiting for further consultation he set off at full speed, in the supposed direction of John Ramsay's pursuit. The rest followed. They had ridden some distance without being able to perceive any traces of their missing companion. Butler called aloud upon Ramsay, but there was no answer; and, for some moments, there was an anxious suspense as the party halted to listen for the sound of the footsteps of the trooper's approach. At length, a horse was seen far off in the wood, bounding over the turf at a wild and frightened pace; the saddle was empty, and the bridle-rein hung about his feet. On seeing his companions, the excited steed set up a frequent neigh, and, with head and tail erect, coursed immediately up to the group of horsemen. Here he came to a sudden halt, snorting with the terror of his late alarm. There were drops of blood upon the saddle. "Gracious Heaven!" cried Butler, "some evil has befallen Ramsay. Scatter and search the wood." It was with confused and melancholy earnestness that they all now continued the quest. After a painful suspense, one of the men was heard to shout to the rest that their lost comrade was found. The summons soon brought the party together. Ramsay, pale and faint, was stretched upon the grass of the forest, his bosom streaming forth a current of blood. In an instant Butler was seen stooping over him. "Oh, this is a heavy ransom, for my deliverance!" he said with the deepest anguish, as he raised the trooper's head and laid it on his lap, whilst the blood flowed from the wound. "Speak, dear friend, speak! Great God, I fear this blow is mortal! Some water, if it can be found--look for it, Winter; he has fainted from loss of blood." Whilst Harry Winter went in search of the necessary refreshment, Butler tore his cravat from his neck and applied it to staunch the wound. The administration of a slight draught of water, after a short interval, sufficiently revived the disabled soldier to enable him to speak. He turned his sickly and almost quenched eye to Butler, as he said: "I was foolish to follow so far. I have it here--here," he added in a feeble voice, as he put his hand upon his breast, "and it has done my work. I fought for you, major, because I was proud to fight for a friend; and because"--here his voice failed him, as for a moment he closed his eyes and faintly uttered--"it is all over--I am dying." "Nay, good John," said Butler, whilst the tears ran down his cheeks; "it is not so bad as that--you are weak from bleeding--you will be better presently. Oh God! oh God!" he muttered to himself, "I would not have had this to save my own life, much less as the price of my liberty!" "I fought for you," said the wounded man, again reviving, "because Mary wished it. This will kill Mary," he added after a pause. "She warned me not to be rash, but I could not help it. Be kind to her, Major Butler, and take care of her. Tell her I did not fear to die; but for her sake, and for the sake of my poor mother. Go to my parents; let them know I thought of them in my last thoughts." "John! John!" exclaimed Butler, unable to give further utterance to his feelings. The dying trooper lay for some moments silent, and his comrades stood around him in mute grief, and hung their heads to conceal their emotions from each other. "In my pocket," said Ramsay, "is a Testament. Mary gave it to me for a keepsake. Take it out." Butler drew forth the small volume. "What shall I do with it?" he asked, in a mournful whisper. "Give it to Mary, back from me. And this plait of her hair upon my wrist, major, take it and wear it on your own; it will remind you of my Mary--you will guard her from harm." "Before God, John Ramsay," said Butler with solemn fervor, "I promise you, that, while I live, she shall not want. Your parents, too, shall be my special care." "Then I shall die with easier heart. Thanks, thanks--friends, farewell!" feebly ejaculated the stricken soldier, whose eye, already glazed with the pangs of death, now glanced upon the attending group, and after a brief but painful interval closed in darkness. John Ramsay spake no more, and his short breathing showed that life was fast ebbing in its channel. The audible sobs of Butler, for some moments, were alone heard in the circle, as he sat supporting the head and grasping the hand of his brave comrade. The struggle was at last over, and the gallant spirit of the generous soldier had fled. Butler took from the wrist the bracelet of Mary's hair, which was now stained with the blood of its late owner, and with an earnest vow to redeem his promise, drew it over his own hand. The scene that followed this melancholy adventure was one of solemn interest. The proximity of the enemy, although defeated, rendered a delay at this spot, in the present circumstances of Butler, exceedingly hazardous; yet he could not entertain the thought of continuing his journey until he had communicated to David Ramsay the distressing tidings of his son's death. The last request of John seemed also to impose this task upon him as a sacred obligation, due to the friendship which had terminated in so disastrous an end. Butler's resolution, therefore, was soon taken. He determined immediately, at all hazards, to make his way back to Ramsay's cottage, and to endeavor to console the afflicted parents under their severe bereavement. Disdaining, in his present state of feeling, the disguise that seemed to make him almost a stranger to himself, he threw aside the miller's dress and again appeared in his true character, resolved manfully to meet what he now believed to be the almost certain result--a recapture with all its probable consequences. Some of his party, who were acquainted with the localities of their present position, suggested to him that a Whig family of the name of Drummond resided at no great distance from the scene of the late encounter, and that, by bearing the body to this place, they might secure for it a decent burial. The remains of the trooper were accordingly laid upon a rude litter, and his mourning comrades slowly and sorrowfully wended their way through the forest to the designated habitation. Here they arrived about noon, having traversed a space of more than two miles to gain this asylum. Drummond was a woodman, and occupied a rude cabin, with a small clearing around it, in the depths of the wilderness, so remote from the highway as to promise as much security from the quest of the enemy, as might be expected from any portion of the region in which he lived. He received his guests with kindness; and as he was himself acquainted with the family of the deceased, he exhibited a lively sympathy with the mourners around the body. When Butler now made known his purpose to set out immediately for the habitation of David Ramsay, Winter asked permission to accompany him, but the woodman interposed, and recommended that he alone should be permitted to perform that errand, leaving the others to remain with the corpse until his return. "It is, before all others, my duty," said Butler; "and come what may, I will perform it." "Then we will go together," added the proprietor of the cabin. "It will be wise to wait until the day is a little more spent, and return in the darkness of the night. David Ramsay will come back with us. He would like to see his son before we put him in the ground." "That shall be as you please, friend," said Butler. "I will be under your guidance." An hour or two before sundown, Butler and his new companion left the cabin, and took their route across the woods towards Ramsay's dwelling, leaving the dead body in charge of the woodman's family and the three soldiers. The distance they had to travel did not exceed eight miles. The repulse of the Tory party in the skirmish of the morning seemed to have induced a belief, on the part of the enemy, that the fugitives had made a successful retreat which was now beyond pursuit, and there were, in consequence, no parties on the road to molest the travellers. Under these circumstances, it was still daylight when they came in view of David Ramsay's homestead. CHAPTER XLV. Great agitation prevailed at Macdonald's post, when the morning disclosed the escape of Butler. The lieutenant was conscious that this mischance had exposed him to the risk of heavy censure, and as was natural to a man who could not entirely acquit himself of some neglect in the performance of his duty, his first measures were taken in a spirit of peevish and angry severity. Small parties were sent out to explore the neighborhood, with a view to gain intelligence of the direction taken by the fugitive, with orders to bring him in dead or alive. The sentinels who were on duty during the night were arrested, and subjected to a rigid examination on the events of their watch; the several members of Musgrove's family were also interrogated as to matters touching their own connexion with the prisoner. Nothing, however, was gathered from these investigations that was calculated to cast a suspicion of connivance in Butler's liberation, upon any individual either of the garrison or of the family. It was only apparent that the prisoner had availed himself of the remissness of the guard and the darkness of the night, to make a bold descent from the window; and had succeeded by one of those lucky accidents which sometimes baffle the most cautious foresight. The nature of the attempt did not necessarily suppose the aid of an accomplice, and a faint hope was, therefore, entertained that Butler would be found still lurking in the vicinity of the post. In the course of a few hours, the first parties that had been dispatched in the morning, returned. They could give no account of the prisoner; nor was there any light thrown upon the escape until about the dinner hour, when a portion of the detachment which had intercepted Butler and his comrades in the morning, arrived at the mill, under the conduct of the soldier whose suspicions had led to the pursuit and skirmish which we have already described. The report of these men left Macdonald no room to doubt the identity of Butler with the person described. A further examination, at the suggestion of the soldier, showed that Wall-Eye, the wagon-horse, was missing; and it now became certain that Butler had been aided by a party of the enemy with whom he must have been in correspondence. The conclusion was, that with his means of flight there could be little doubt of his being, long before the present period of the day, out of the reach of successful pursuit. The scheme was laid to the account of Horse Shoe Robinson, whose name and adventures were already famous in this district; and it was conjectured that Sumpter was secretly posted in some neighboring fastness to give his assistance to the enterprise. With these reflections, Macdonald felt himself obliged to submit to the exigencies of the case; a point of philosophy which he did not practise without a very visible chagrin and mortification. His men were called together, and after a short, fretful lecture on their neglect, and an injunction to a more soldier-like vigilance in future, which savored of the caution of locking the stable after the steed was stolen, they were dismissed. About an hour before sundown, Allen Musgrove and Mary, availing themselves of the confusion and relaxed discipline of the post, occasioned by the events of the morning, set out on horseback for David Ramsay's dwelling, whither they were led by a natural anxiety to learn something of the movements of the fugitives. "It's a pleasure and a happiness, Allen Musgrove," said Mistress Ramsay, as the miller and his daughter sat down in the cabin, "to see you and Mary over here with us at any time, but it is specially so now when we have good news to tell. John and his friend are safe out of reach of Macdonald's men, and--God be praised!--I hope out of the way of all other harms. We have had soldiers dodging in and out through the day, but not one of them has made any guess what's gone with the major; and as for John, they don't seem to suspect him to be on the country-side. It's all Horse Shoe Robinson with them. They say that none but he could have helped to get the major away, and that General Sumpter was the instigator. Well, I'm sure they were welcome to that opinion, for it set them all to looking over towards Broad river, which is as good a direction as we could wish them to travel." "The less you seem to know about it, with any of these inquiring parties, the better, Mistress Ramsay," said Allen Musgrove, "and I would advise you, even here amongst ourselves, to speak lower, David, what do you hear this evening?" "Nothing concerning our runaways since they left us at daylight this morning," replied Ramsay. "I should guess them to be somewhere near upon Fair Forest by this time. You know Williams is out-lying upon the upper branches of the river? It is more like hunted deer, Allen, than Christian men, that our poor fellows take to the woods now. God knows what will come of it!" "He knows and has appointed it," said Musgrove, gravely, "and will in His own good time and with such instruments as shall faithfully work His purpose, give the victory to them that have the right. Man, woman, and child may perish, and house and home may be burnt over our heads, and the blood of brave men may make the dust of the road red; yes, and the pastures rich as if new laid with manure; but the will of God shall be done and His providence be accomplished. The cause of the just shall prevail against the unjust." "There were no soldiers," inquired Mary, addressing David Ramsay, "that you have heard of, who followed towards Fair Forest? I should be sorry if John was to be troubled with persons going after him; because,"--the maiden hesitated an instant,--"because it's unpleasant and disagreeable to be obliged to be riding off the road, through bushes and briers, to keep out of the way." "If they were not greatly an overmatch, girl," interrupted Ramsay, "John wouldn't give himself much trouble upon that account." "Oh, Mr. Ramsay," said Mary earnestly, "I was thinking of that. It's hard to say what John would call an overmatch: men are so headstrong and venturesome." "That's God's own truth, Mary," interposed Mrs. Ramsay; "and what I have always been telling David and John both. But they never heed me, no more than if I was talking to the child in that cradle." "I've told John as much myself," said Mary, blushing. "And he would not heed you either," interrupted her father, "A soldier would have a holiday life of it, if he followed the advice of his mother or his sweetheart. Daughter, amongst friends here, you needn't blush; we know more of the secrets betwixt you and the trooper lad than you count upon. John's a clever boy, Mistress Ramsay, and I think you have reason to brag of him somewhat; and as there's particular good-will between him and my Mary, I'll not stand in the way when the war is over, if God spares us all, and Mary and the lad keep in the same mind; I'll not stand in the way of a new settlement in the neighborhood. Mary is a good daughter, well nurtured, and--I don't care to say it to her face--will make a thriving wife." The mother smiled as she replied, "I don't pretend to know the young people's secrets, but I know this, you don't think better of Mary than John does--nor than me neither, perhaps." The conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and, in a moment afterwards, Arthur Butler and the woodman entered the apartment. "Major Butler, as I am a living woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay. "Our good friend himself!" ejaculated Musgrove, with surprise. "What has turned you back? And Gabriel Drummond here too! What has happened?" "Where is my son John?" demanded Ramsay. "Are you followed?" Butler walked up to Mrs. Ramsay, and, as a tear started to his eye, took her by the hand, and stood for a moment unable to speak. "Oh, heaven have mercy on me!" screamed Mary Musgrove, as she threw herself upon a bed, "something dreadful has happened." "For God's sake, speak what you have to tell!" said David Ramsay, instantly turning pale. "John Ramsay is hurt," faintly articulated the mother, and Mary, rising from the bed, stood beside Butler with a countenance on which was seated the most agonizing attention. Andy, the hero of the exploit we have heretofore related, also pressed into the presence of the same group, and a death-like silence pervaded the whole party. Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy errand, and then flung himself into a chair. "John Ramsay is dead," said the woodman, in a mournful tone. "Your son, mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the bloody, villanous Tories. The heartiest curses upon them!" "Killed, dear madam," said Butler, scarce able to articulate, "killed in my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon my own head!" "Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears rolled down her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away with her apron. "It isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear, brave boy!" At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms of her father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of animation. At length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan escaped her, which was followed by the most piteous wailing. The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family, who, as well as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and loud lamentations, accompanied with reiterated announcements of the death of the soldier. When this first burst of the general grief was over, David Ramsay arose from his seat and walked across the room to a window, where he stood endeavoring to compose and master his feelings. At length, facing Butler, he said in a low and tranquil tone, "John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is my witness, I expected it! It was his failing to follow his enemy with too hot a hand; and I am to blame, perhaps, that I never checked him in that temper. But he died like a man and a soldier, Major Butler," he added, firmly. "He died in my arms," replied Butler, "as bravely as ever soldier closed his life, his last thoughts were fixed upon his parents, and--" "Dead!" interrupted Ramsay, as if communing with himself, and regardless of Butler's words--"Dead! He fell doing his duty to his country, that's a consolation. A man cannot die better. If it please God, I hope my end may be like his. Andrew, my boy, come here. You are now my oldest living son," he said, taking the lad's hand and looking him full in the face, as he spoke with a bitter compression of his lips; "I am willing, much as I love you, that the country should have you." "No, David, David," interrupted the mother, rousing herself from her silent grief, "we have given enough; no other child of mine shall venture in the war. John! John! John! my dear boy, my brave son! How good and kind he was to us all! And how glad he was to get home to see us; and how much we made of him!" "Silence, wife," said David Ramsay, "this is no time to hold back from our duty. Andrew, listen to me: remember your brother has met his death fighting against these monsters, who hate the very earth that nurses liberty. You are young, boy, but you can handle a musket; we will not forget your brother's death." "Nor the burning of a good house over your head, and a full barn, father; nor the frights they have given my poor mother." "Nor the thousands of brave men," added the father, "who have poured out their blood to give us a land and laws of our own. My boy, we will remember these, for vengeance." "Not for vengeance," said Allen Musgrove, "for justice, David. Your enemy should be remembered only to prevent him from doing mischief. The Lord will give him sword and buckler, spear and shield, who stands up for the true cause: and when it pleases Him to require the sacrifice of life from the faithful servant who fights the battle, he grants patience and courage to meet the trial. Your son was not the man, David, to turn his face away from the work that was before him; may God receive him and comfort his distressed family! He was an honest and brave son, David Ramsay." "A braver soldier never buckled on broadsword, Allen Musgrove," replied the father. "Yes, I looked for this; ever since my dwelling was levelled to the ground by these firebrands, I looked for it. John's passion was up then, and I knew the thoughts that ran through his mind. Ever since that day his feelings have been most bitter; and he has flung himself amongst the Tories, making as little account of them as the mower when he puts his scythe into the grass of the meadows." "God forgive him, David!" said Musgrove, "and strengthen you and the boy's good mother in this sharp hour of trial. They who draw the sword in passion may stand in fear of the judgment of the sword: it is a fearful thing for sinful man to shed blood for any end but that of lawful war, and at the bidding of his country. God alone is the avenger." Mary had again raised herself from the bed, and at this moment gave vent to her feelings in a loud and bitter lamentation "John Ramsay is dead, is dead!" she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. He that was so true and so warm-hearted, and that everybody loved! They could not kill him! Oh, I begged him to keep his foot from danger, and he promised me, for my sake, to be careful. I loved him, father; I never told you so much before, but I am not ashamed to tell it now before everybody; I loved him better than all the world. And we had promised each other. It is so hard to lose them that we love!" she continued, sobbing violently. "He was so brave and so good, and he was so handsome, Mrs. Ramsay, and so dutiful to you and his father, coming home to see you whenever the war would let him. And he walked, and rode, and ran, and fought for his friends, and them that he cared for. He was so thoughtful for your comfort too," she added, as she threw herself on her knees and rested her head in the lap of the mother, and there paused through a long interval, during which nothing was heard but her own moans mingled with the sighs of the party, "we were to be married after this war was at an end, and thought we should live so happily: but they have murdered him! Oh they have murdered him," and with her hair thrown in disorder over her face, she again gave vent to a flood of tears. "Mary, daughter! Shame on you, girl!" said her father. "Do you forget, in the hour of your affliction, that you have a friend who is able to comfort? There is one who can heal up your sorrows and speak peace to your troubled spirit, if you be not too proud to ask it. I have taught you, daughter, in all time of tribulation to look to Him for patience and for strength to bear adversity. Why do you neglect this refuge now?" "Our Father," said the maiden, fervently clasping her hands and lifting up her eyes, now dim with weeping, as she appealed to God in prayer, "who art in heaven--teach us all to say thy will be done. Take--take--my dear John--Oh my heart will burst and I shall die!" she uttered, almost overwhelmed with her emotions, as she again buried her face in Mistress Ramsay's lap--"I cannot speak!" A silence of inexpressible agony prevailed for some moments. This was at length interrupted by the uprising of the full, clear, and firm voice of Allen Musgrove, who now broke forth from the opposite side of a room where he had kneeled before a chair, in an earnest and impressive supplication to the Deity, urged with all that eloquence which naturally flows from deeply-excited feeling. From the solemnity of the occasion, as well as from the habitually religious temper of the family assembled in the little cabin, the words of the prayer fell upon the hearts of those present with a singularly welcome effect, and, for the moment, brought tranquillity to their feelings. When the prayer was ended, the grief of the mourners rolled back in its former flood, and burst from Mary Musgrove in the most heart-rending bitterness. Paroxysm followed paroxysm with fearful violence, and these outbreaks were responded to by the mother with scarcely less intensity. All attempts at consolation, on the part of the men, were unavailing; and it was apparent that nothing remained but to let the tide of anguish take its own course. It was now some time after night-fall, when Butler and Drummond beckoned Allen Musgrove to leave the room. They retired into the open air in front of the house, where they were immediately joined by David Ramsay. Here Butler communicated to them the necessity of making immediate arrangements for their return to the woodman's cottage, and for the burial of the deceased trooper. His advice was adopted, and it was resolved that Musgrove and Ramsay should accompany the other two to the spot. Before the consultation was closed, Andy had come into the group, and he was now directed, with all haste, to throw a saddle upon his father's horse. "You, Andrew, my son," said David Ramsay, "will stay at home and comfort your poor mother, and Mary. Speak to them, boy, and persuade them to give up their useless lamentations. It is the will of God, and we ought not to murmur at it." "The burning, father," replied the boy, with a sorrowful earnestness, "and the fighting, and the frights we have had, was all nothing to this. I never felt before how terrible the war was." Andy had now gone to equip the horse, and the men returned to the inside of the cabin, where they sat in profound silence. Butler, at length, rose from the door-sill where he had taken his seat, and crossing the room, took a position by the bed on which Mary Musgrove had thrown herself, and where she now lay uttering faint and half-smothered moans. "I have a remembrance for you," he said, stooping down and speaking scarce above a whisper in the maiden's ear; "I promised to deliver it into your hand. God knows with what pain I perform my office! John enjoined upon me to give you this," he continued, as he presented to her the little copy of the Testament, "and to say to you that his last thoughts were given to you and his mother. He loved you, Mary, better than he loved any living creature in this world." "He did, he did," sobbed forth the girl; "and I loved him far above family, friends, kinsfolk and all--I wish I were dead by his side." "Take the book," said Butler, hardly able to articulate. "God for ever bless you," he added, after a pause of weeping, "and bring you comfort! I have promised John Ramsay, that neither you, nor any of his family, shall ever want the service of a friend, while I have life or means to render it. Before Heaven, that pledge shall be redeemed! Farewell, farewell! God bless you!" As Butler uttered these words he grasped the maiden's hand and pressed it fervently to his lips; then turning to the mother, he addressed some phrase of comfort to her, and hastily left the room. Scarcely a sound was heard from any one, except the low sobbing of the exhausted weepers, and the almost convulsive kisses which Mary imprinted upon the little book that Butler had put into her hand. Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment at the same moment; and the horses being ready at the door, the retreating beat of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to the in-dwellers that the four men had set forward on their journey. CHAPTER XLVI. A RUSTIC FUNERAL. How glumly sounds yon dirgy song; Night ravens flap the wing.--_Burger's Leonora._ By eleven o'clock at night, Butler and the party from Ramsay's arrived at the woodman's cabin. Winter and his comrades had been busy in making preparations for the funeral. The body had been laid out upon a table, a sheet thrown over it, and a pine torch blazed from the chimney wall close by, and flung its broad, red glare over the apartment. An elderly female, the wife of the woodman, and two or three children, sat quietly in the room. The small detachment of troopers loitered around the corpse, walking with stealthy pace across the floor, and now and then adjusting such matters of detail in the arrangements for the interment as required their attention. A rude coffin, hastily constructed of such materials as were at hand, was deposited near the table. A solemn silence prevailed, which no less consisted with the gloom of the occasion than with the late hour of the night. When the newly arrived party had dismounted and entered the apartment, a short salutation, in suppressed tones, was exchanged, and without further delay, the whole company set themselves to the melancholy duty that was before them. David Ramsay approached the body, and, turning the sheet down from the face, stood gazing on the features of his son. There was a settled frown upon his brow that contrasted signally with the composed and tranquil lineaments of the deceased. The father and son presented a strange and remarkable type of life and death--the countenance of the mourner stamped by the agitation of keen, living emotion, and the object mourned bearing the impress of a serene, placid, and passionless repose:--the one a vivid picture of misery, the other a quiet image of happy sleep. David Ramsay bent his looks upon the body for some minutes, without an endeavor to speak, and at last retreated towards the door, striking his hand upon his forehead as he breathed out the ejaculation, "My son, my son, how willingly would I change places with you this night!" Allen Musgrove was less agitated by the spectacle, and whilst he surveyed the features of the deceased, his lips were moved with the utterance of a short and almost inaudible prayer. Then turning to Drummond, he inquired: "Has the grave been thought of? Who has attended to the preparations?" "It has been thought of," replied the woodman; "I sent two of my people off to dig it before I went with Major Butler to see David. We have a grave-yard across in the woods, nigh a mile from this, and I thought it best that John Ramsay should be buried there." "It was kindly thought on by you, Gabriel," replied Musgrove. "You have your father and others of your family in that spot. David Ramsay will thank you for it." "I do, heartily," said Ramsay, "and will remember it, Gabriel, at another time." "Let the body be lifted into the coffin," said Musgrove. The order was promptly executed by Harry Winter and the other troopers. In a few minutes afterwards, the rough boards which had been provided to close up the box or coffin, were laid in their appropriate places, and Winter had just begun to hammer the nails into them, when from the outside of the cabin was heard a wild and piercing scream, that fell so suddenly upon the ears of those within as to cause the trooper to drop the hammer from his hand. In one moment more, Mary Musgrove rushed into the room and fell prostrate upon the floor. She was instantly followed by Andrew. "God of heaven!" exclaimed Butler, "here is misery upon misery. This poor girl's brain is crazed by her misfortune. This is worst of all!" "Mary, Mary, my child!" ejaculated Musgrove, as he raised his daughter into his arms. "What madness has come upon you, that you should have wandered here to-night!" "How has this happened, Andrew?" said David Ramsay, all speaking in the same breath. "When Mary heard," replied Andrew, in answer to his father's question, "that you had all come to Gabriel Drummond's to bury my brother, she couldn't rest content; and she prayed so pitifully to come after you, and see him before they put him in the ground, that I thought it right to tell her that I would come with her. And if I hadn't, she would have come by herself; for she had got upon her horse before any of us were aware." "I couldn't stay at home, father," said Mary, reviving and speaking in a firm voice. "I should have died with a broken heart. I couldn't let you come to put him in the earth without following after you. Where is he? I heard them nailing the coffin; it must be broken open for me to see him!" These words, uttered with a bitter vehemence, were followed by a quick movement towards the coffin, which was yet unclosed; and the maiden, with more composure than her previous gestures seemed to render it possible for her to acquire, paused before the body with a look of intense sorrow, as the tears fell fast from her eyes. "It is true--it is too true--he is dead! Oh, John, John!" she exclaimed, as she stooped down and kissed the cold lips, "I did not dream of this when we parted last night near the willows. You did not look as you do now, when I found you asleep under the rock, and when you promised me, John, that you would be careful and keep yourself from danger, if it was only to please me. We were doing our best for you then, Major Butler--and here is what it has come to. No longer than last night he made me the promise. Oh me, oh me! how wretched--how miserable I am!" "Daughter, dear," said Allen Musgrove, "rise up and behave like a brave girl as, you know, I have often told you you were. We are born to afflictions, and young as you are, you cannot hope to be free from the common lot. You do yourself harm by this ungoverned grief. There's a good and a kind girl--sit yourself down and calm your feelings." Musgrove took his daughter by the hand, and gently conducted her to a seat, where he continued to address her in soothing language, secretly afraid that the agony of her feelings might work some serious misfortune upon her senses. "You are not angry with me, father, for following you to-night?" said Mary, for a moment moderating the wildness of her sorrow. "No, child, no. I cannot be angry with you; but I fear this long night-ride may do you harm." "I can but die, father; and I would not step aside from that." "Recollect yourself, Mary; your Bible does not teach you to wish for death. It is sinful to rebel under the chastisements of God. Daughter, I have taught you in your day of prosperity, the lessons that were to be practised in your time of suffering and trial. Do not now turn me and my precepts to shame." "Oh, father, forgive me. It is so hard to lose the best, the dearest!" Here Mary again gave way to emotions which could only relieve themselves in profuse tears. In the meantime the body was removed to the outside of the cabin, and the coffin was speedily shut up and deposited upon a light wagon-frame, to which two lean horses were already harnessed, and which waited to convey its burden to the grave-yard. "All is ready," said Winter, stepping quietly into the house, and speaking in a low tone to Musgrove. "We are waiting only for you." "Father," said Mary, who, on hearing this communication, had sprung to her feet, "I must go with you." "My child!" "I came all this way through the dark woods on purpose, father--and it is my right to go with him to his grave. Pray, dear father, do not forbid me. We belonged to each other, and he would be glad to think I was the last that left him--the very last." "The poor child takes on so," said the wife of Drummond, now for the first time interposing in the scene; "and it seems natural, Mr. Musgrove, that you shouldn't hinder her. I will go along, and maybe it will be a comfort to her, to have some woman-kind beside her. I will take her hand." "You shall go, Mary," said her father; "but on the condition that you govern your feelings, and behave with the moderation of a Christian woman. Take courage, my child, and show your nurture." "I will, father--I will; the worst is past, and I can walk quietly to John's grave," replied Mary, as the tears again flowed fast, and her voice was stifled with her sobs. "It is a heavy trouble for such a young creature to bear," said Mistress Drummond, as she stood beside the maiden, waiting for this burst of grief to subside; "but this world is full of such sorrows." Musgrove now quitted the apartment. He was followed by his daughter and the rest of the inmates, all of whom repaired to the front of the cabin, where they awaited the removal of the body. A bundle of pine faggots had been provided, and each one of the party was supplied from them with a lighted torch. Some little delay occurred whilst Harry Winter was concluding his arrangements for the funeral. "Take your weapons along, boys," said the trooper to his comrades, in a whisper. "John Ramsay shall have the honors of war--and mark, you are to bring up the rear--let the women walk next the wagon. Gabriel Drummond, bring your rifle along--we shall give a volley over the grave." The woodman stepped into the cabin and returned with his fire lock. All things being ready, the wagon, under the guidance of a negro who walked at the horses' heads, now moved forward. The whole party formed a procession in couples--the woodman's wife and Mary being first in the train, the children succeeding them, and the rest following in regular order. It was an hour after midnight. The road, scarcely discernible, wound through a thick forest, and the procession moved with a slow and heavy step towards its destination. The torches lit up the darkness of the wood with a strong flame, that penetrated the mass of sombre foliage to the extent of some fifty paces around, and glared with a wild and romantic effect upon the rude coffin, the homely vehicle on which it was borne, and upon the sorrowing faces of the train that followed it. The seclusion of the region, the unwonted hour, and the strange mixture of domestic and military mourning, half rustic and half warlike, that entered into the composition of the group; and, above all, the manifestations of sincere and intense grief that were seen in every member of the train, communicated to the incident a singularly imaginative and unusual character. No words were spoken, except the few orders of the march announced by Harry Winter in a whisper; and the ear recognised, with a painful precision, the unceasing sobs of Mary Musgrove, and the deep groan that seemed, unawares, to escape now and then from some of the males of the party. The dull tramp of feet, and the rusty creak of the wagon-wheels, or the crackling of brushwood beneath them, and the monotonous clank of the chains employed in the gearing of the horses, all broke upon the stillness of the night with a more abrupt and observed distinctness, from the peculiar tone of feeling which pervaded those who were engaged in the sad offices of the scene. In the space of half an hour, the train had emerged from the wood upon a small tract of open ground, that seemed to have been formerly cleared from the forest for the purpose of cultivation. Whatever tillage might have once existed there was now abandoned, and the space was overgrown with brambles, through which the blind road still struggled by a track that even in daylight it would have been difficult to pursue. Towards the centre of this opening grew a cluster of low cherry and peach trees, around whose roots a plentiful stock of wild scions had shot up in the absence of culture. Close in the shade of this cluster, a ragged and half-decayed paling formed a square inclosure of some ten or twelve paces broad, and a few rude posts set up within, indicated the spot to be the rustic grave-yard. Here two negroes were seen resting over a newly-dug grave. The wagon halted within some short distance of the paling, and the coffin was now committed to the shoulders of the troopers. Following these, the whole train of mourners entered the burial-place. My reader will readily imagine with what fresh fervor the grief of poor Mary broke forth, whilst standing on the verge of the pit in which were to be entombed the remains of one so dear to her. The solemn interval or pause which intervened between the arrival of the corpse at this spot, and its being lowered into the ground, was one that was not signalized only by the loud sorrow of her who here bore the part of chief mourner; but all, even to the negroes who stood musing over their spades, gave vent to feelings which, at such a moment, it neither belongs to humanity, nor becomes it, to resist. The funeral service was performed by Allen Musgrove. The character of the miller, both physical and moral, impressed his present employment with singular efficacy. Though his frame bore the traces of age, it was still robust and muscular; and his bearing, erect and steadfast, denoted firmness of mind. His head, partially bald, was now uncovered; and his loose, whitened locks played in the breeze. The torches were raised above the group; and as they flared in the wind and flung their heavy volumes of smoke into the air, they threw also a blaze of light upon the venerable figure of the miller, as he poured forth an impassioned supplication to the Deity; which, according to the habit of thinking of that period, and conformably also to the tenets of the religious sect to which the speaker belonged, might be said to have expressed, in an equal degree, resignation to the will of Heaven and defiance of the power of man. Though the office at the grave was thus prolonged, it did not seem to be unexpected or wearisome to the auditory, who remained with unabated interest until they had chanted a hymn, which was given out by the miller, and sung in successive couplets. The religious observances of the place seemed to have taken a profitable hold upon the hearts of the mourners; and before the hymn was concluded, even the voice of Mary Musgrove rose with a clear cadence upon the air, and showed that the inspirations of piety had already supplanted some of the more violent paroxysms of grief. This exercise of devotion being finished, the greater part of the company began their retreat to the woodman's cabin. Winter and his comrades remained to perform the useless and idle ceremony of discharging their pistols over the grave, and when this was accomplished they hurried forward to overtake the party in advance. They had scarcely rejoined their companions, before the horses of the wagon were seized by an unknown hand; and the glare of the torches presented to the view of the company some fifteen or twenty files of British troopers. "Stand, I charge you all, in the name of the king!" called out an authoritative voice from the contiguous thicket; and before another word could be uttered, the funeral train found themselves surrounded by enemies. "Hands off!" exclaimed Butler, as a soldier had seized him by the coat. A pistol shot was heard, and Butler was seen plunging into the wood, followed by Winter and one or two others. The fugitives were pursued by numbers of the hostile party, and in a few moments were dragged back to the lights. "Who are you, sir?" demanded an officer, who now rode up to Butler, "that you dare to disobey a command in the name of the king? Friend or foe, you must submit to be questioned." "We have been engaged," said Allen Musgrove, "in the peaceful and Christian duty of burying the dead. What right have you to interrupt us?" "You take a strange hour for such a work," replied the officer, "and, by the volley fired over the grave, I doubt whether your service be so peaceful as you pretend, old man. What is he that you have laid beneath the turf to-night?" "A soldier," replied Butler, "worthy of all the rites that belong to the sepulture of a brave man." "And you are a comrade, I suppose?" "I do not deny it." "What colors do you serve?" "Who is he that asks?" "Captain McAlpine of the new levies," replied the officer. "Now, sir, your name and character? you must be convinced of my right to know it." "I have no motive for concealment," said Butler, "since I am already in your power. Myself and four comrades are strictly your prisoners; the rest of this party are inhabitants of the neighboring country, having no connexion with the war, but led hither by a simple wish to perform an office of humanity to a deceased friend. In surrendering myself and those under my command, I bespeak for the others an immunity from all vexatious detention. I am an officer of the Continental service: Butler is my name, my rank, a major of infantry." After a few words more of explanation, the party were directed by the British officer to continue their march to Drummond's cabin, whither, in a brief space, they arrived under the escort of their captors. A wakeful night was passed under the woodman's roof; and when morning came the circumstances of the recapture of Butler were more fully disclosed. The detachment under Captain McAlpine were on their way to join Ferguson, who was now posted in the upper district; and being attracted by the sound of voices engaged in chanting the psalm at the funeral of John Ramsay, and still more by the discharge of the volley over the grave, they had directed their march to the spot, which they had no difficulty in reaching by the help of the torches borne by the mourners. The detachment consisted of a company of horse numbering some fifty men, who had no scruple in seizing upon Butler and his companions as prisoners of war. It was some relief to Butler when he ascertained that his present captors were ignorant of his previous history, and were unconnected with those who had formerly held him in custody. He was also gratified with the assurance that no design was entertained to molest any others of the party, except those whom Butler himself indicated as belligerents. Captain McAlpine halted with his men at the woodman's cabin, until after sunrise. During this interval, Butler was enabled to prepare himself for the journey he was about to commence, and to take an affectionate leave of Musgrove and his daughter, David Ramsay, and the woodman's family. Allen Musgrove and Mary, and their friend Ramsay, deemed it prudent to retreat with the first permission given them by the British officer; and, not long afterwards, Butler and his comrades found themselves in the escort of the Tory cavalry, bound for Ferguson's camp. Thus, once more, was Butler doomed to feel the vexations of captivity. CHAPTER XLVII. A COUNCIL OF WAR AT MRS. MARKHAM'S. THE SERGEANT SETS FORTH ON AN ADVENTURE. We return to Mildred Lindsay, who, comfortably sheltered under the roof of Mrs. Markham, had found herself, after the repose of forty-eight hours, almost entirely reinstated in her former strength; her thoughts were now consequently directed to the resumption of her journey. The gentle and assiduous attentions of the family whose hospitality she enjoyed, were, however, not confined to the mere restoration of her health. The peculiarity of her condition, thus thrown as she was amongst strangers, in the prosecution of an enterprise, which, though its purpose was not disclosed to her entertainer, was one manifestly of great peril, and such only as could have been induced by some urgent and imperious necessity, awakened in Mrs. Markham a lively interest towards Mildred's future progress. This interest was increased by the deportment of our heroine herself, whose mild and graceful courtesy, feminine delicacy, and gentleness of nurture, were so signally contrasted with the romantic hardihood of her present expedition. General Marion's letter, also, in the estimation of the hostess, put her under a special obligation to look after the welfare of her guest. Accordingly, now when the third morning of our travellers' sojourn had arrived, and Mildred thought of taking leave of the friendly family, the first announcement of this purpose was met by an almost positive prohibition. "You are young, my dear," said the matron, "in your experience of the horrors of this civil war, and make a sad mistake if you think that your sex, or any sufficient reason you may have to justify you in going on, will protect you against insult, in case you should be so unfortunate as to meet parties of the enemy." "My object, madam," replied Mildred, "is to go into the very heart of the enemy's ranks. My business is to see Lord Cornwallis himself. I shall, therefore, proceed directly to his head-quarters. That being my purpose, I shall not regret the opportunity to throw myself upon the protection of the first band of loyal troops I may meet." "Into Lord Cornwallis's presence!" said Mrs. Markham, with an expression of wonder. "You have some very near friend who has suffered in the late battle--a prisoner, perhaps?" As this question escaped the lips of the lady, who had hitherto purposely forborne to inquire into the private history of Mildred's journey, she shook her head distrustfully, and, after some deliberation, added, "You will pardon me, my child, for what may seem to be an idle curiosity--I seek to know nothing that you may desire to keep secret--but your journey is so full of hazard to one so young and helpless as yourself, that I fear you have not wisely considered the evil chances to which you may be exposed." "I have spent no thought upon the hazard, madam," replied Mildred. "There is no degree of danger that should outweigh my resolution. You guess truly--I have a friend who is a prisoner, and in sad jeopardy--and more than that, dear madam, I have persuaded myself that I have power to save him." A tear started in her eye as she added, "That is all I have thought of." "Then may a kind and merciful Heaven shield you! They little know the heart-rending trials of war, who have not felt them as I have. These rude soldiers, Miss Lindsay--I shudder at the thought of your trusting your safety to them." "My name, madam," replied Mildred, "I am ashamed to tell you, has all its associations on their side--I must trust to its power to bear me through." "Not all, sister," interrupted Henry. "From the beginning up to this day, I can answer for myself, I have never had a thought that didn't take sides against the red-coats." A faint smile played upon Mrs. Markham's features, as she turned to Henry and said, "You are a young rebel, and a warm one, I perceive. Such troubles as ours require grave advisers." "My brother and myself must not be misapprehended," continued Mildred; "I alluded only to my father's influence. I have heard that he enjoys some consideration in the esteem of Lord Cornwallis, and it is upon the strength of that I have ventured. Besides, I am well attended by a careful and wise soldier, who rides as my companion and guide--one who would not quietly see me harmed." "Let him be brought into our consultation," said Mrs. Markham. "I would not act without his advice. With your leave, I will send for him." Henry and Alfred Markham, immediately upon this hint, went in pursuit of Horse Shoe. When that important and trusty personage arrived in the parlor, a regular conference was opened, which, after a few discourses on the general aspect of affairs--wherein the sergeant showed an abundance of soldierly sagacity and knowledge, and a still greater share of warm and faithful concern for the welfare of the sister and brother whom he had in ward--resulted in the conclusion that measures should be taken to ascertain the state of the country around, in reference to the impression made by the late movements of Marion and his adversary; and, especially, what character of troops occupied the region over which the sergeant would be required to conduct his charge. This duty the sergeant very appropriately considered as belonging to himself, and he therefore determined forthwith to set out on a reconnoitring expedition. As we propose to bear him company, we will, for the present, leave the family in the parlor to the enjoyment of the kind communion that had already nursed up a mutual affection between the hostess and her guests. The sergeant took his departure alone, notwithstanding the urgent importunities of Henry and his new companion, Alfred Markham, for permission to accompany him--a request that was utterly denied by the sturdy and cautious soldier. "You are apt to talk too much, Mister Lindsay," he said, in answer to the petition of the young men, "for such a piece of business as I have in hand: for although, consarning your good sense, and valor both, considering your years, I would not be thought to speak rashly of them--but, on the contrary, to give you full praise and recommendation--yet you know you want experience and use to these duble-dealings and dodgings that the war puts us to; whereupon, you mought fall to talking when it was best to be silent, and, in case of our meeting a body, to be letting out somewhat too much, which is a thing that discommodes in war more than you would believe. And besides this, Master Henry, there might be, mayhap, a scrimmage, a chase, and what not--in which consideration you would be only in my way, seeing that I should be obliged to be thinking of you when all my wits would be wanting for myself. No, no; upon no account is it reasonable that you should be along. It is your business to sarve as a body-guard to our young lady, who, I say, may God bless and take care of in this world and the next! And so, Mister Henry, you have my orders to stick to your post." "Well, sergeant," replied Henry, "I must obey orders, and if you command me to stay behind, why I cannot choose about it. But, sergeant, let me give you a word of advice. Ride cautiously--keep your eyes to the right and left, as well as straight before you--and don't let them catch you napping." "You studied that speech, Mr. Henry!" said Horse Shoe, laughing. "To hear you, one mought almost think you had shaved a beard from your chin before this. Look out, or your hair will turn grey from too hard thinking! and now, my long-headed fellow-soldier, good bye t'ye!" "You are not going without your rifle, Mr. Horse Shoe?" said Henry, calling out to the sergeant, who had already trotted off some twenty paces. "That's another consarn for you to ruminate over," replied Horse Shoe, in the same jocular mood. "Mine is a business of legs, not arms, to-day." The sergeant was immediately after this upon the highway, moving forward with nothing, seemingly, to employ him but cheerful thoughts. After riding for an hour upon the road that led towards Camden, he was enabled to collect from the country people a rumor that some detachments of horse were, at this time, traversing the country towards Pedee, but whether friends or enemies was not known to his informants. In following up this trail of common report, his vigilance quickened by the uncertainty of the tidings, he arrived about mid-day at a brook which, running between low but sharp hills, was crossed by the road at a point where a bold mass of rock, some twenty feet in height, jutted down with a perpendicular abruptness into the water. Here, as he stopped to survey the narrow and winding course of the stream, his eye was attracted by the projecting crag that thrust its bulk almost into the middle of the channel; and, for a moment, he indulged the speculation of a soldier, as he pondered upon the military advantages of such a post, either as a point from which to reconnoitre an enemy, or as a vantage-ground on which to dispute his passage of the ford. It not long afterwards fell to his lot to turn this observation to some account. A mile beyond this spot, and where the road, as it yet crept through the bosom of the hills, was so obscured by forest as to afford not more than fifty paces of uninterrupted view, his quick ear was struck with sounds resembling the tramp of horses. Upon this conviction, it was but the action of an instant for him to turn aside into the woods and to take a station which might enable him to investigate the cause of his surmise, without exposing himself to the risk of detection. The noise grew louder, and what was vague conjecture soon became the certain report of his senses. At the nearest turn in the road, whilst protected by a screen of thicket, he could descry the leading platoons of a column of horse advancing at a slow gait; and upon examining his own position he became aware that, although the thicket might guard him from present observation, it would cease to do so as soon as the squadron should approach nearer to his ground. His thoughts recurred to the rock at the ford, and, with a view to avail himself of it, he forthwith commenced his retreat through the underwood that guarded the road side, as fast as Captain Peter could get over the ground. It was not long before he was removed beyond all risk of being seen by the advancing party, and he thus found himself at liberty to take the road again and retire without apprehension. In Horse Shoe's reckoning, it was a matter of great importance that he should obtain the most accurate information regarding the troop that he had just encountered; and his present purpose was, accordingly, to post himself in a secure position upon the rock and there maintain a close watch upon the party as they rode beneath it. The brook was gained, the ford passed, and the sergeant, after riding a short circuit towards the rear of the little promontory, dismounted from his horse, which he secured in the depths of the wood, and then clambered to the top of the precipice, where he had barely time to conceal himself amongst the crags and the thick shrubbery that shot up above them, before the headmost files of the cavalry appeared descending the opposite hill. As the column came gradually into his view upon the road which wound down into the valley, it disclosed a troop of some twenty men, whose green uniform sufficiently indicated the presence of a part of Tarleton's command. He heard them call a halt upon the bank, and after a few moments' rest, he saw them ride into the stream, and pass in files around the base of the rock. The passage of the brook occupied some time; for the thirsty horses were successively given a slack rein as they entered the ford, and were allowed to drink. This delay separated the platoons, and those who first passed over had advanced a considerable distance before the stragglers of the rear had quitted the stream. For some minutes that stir and noise prevailed which, in a military party, generally attends the attempt to restore order amongst confused or broken ranks. The frequent commands of officers summoning the loiterers and chiding their delay, were given from front to rear in loud tones, and the swift gallop of those who had lingered in the stream, as they obeyed the order and hastened forward to their places, sent forth a quick and spirited evidence of bustle, that broke sharply upon the silence of the surrounding forest. These indications of activity unfortunately pricked with a sudden astonishment the ear of one who has heretofore figured, not without renown, in this history--the lusty and faithful Captain Peter; who, not sufficiently alive to the distinction between friend and foe, now began to snuff, and paw the ground, and then with a long and clear note of recognition, to express his feelings of good fellowship towards the unseen strangers. Another moment, and the gay and thoughtless steed reared, plunged broke his bridle, and bounded through the woods, with a frolicsome speed that brought him into the midst of the troop, where he wheeled up and took his place, like a disciplined charger, on the flank of one of the platoons. This incident caused the officer in command of the party to come again to a halt, and to despatch a portion of his men to seek the owner of the horse. An eager search commenced, which was almost immediately terminated by the wary sergeant presenting himself to the view of the troop, on a prominent and exposed point of the rock, where he seemed to be busily and unconcernedly engaged with his jack-knife, in stripping the bark from the roots of a sassafras tree that grew out of one of the fissures of the cliff. Apparently, he gave no attention to the clamor around him, nor seemed to show a wish to conceal himself from notice. "Who in the devil are you--and what are you about?" exclaimed the leading soldier, as he mounted the rock and came up immediately behind Robinson, who was still fixed with one knee upon the ground, plying his labor at the root of the tree. "Good day, friend," said Robinson, looking up over his shoulder, "Good day! From your looks you belong to the army, and, if that's true, perhaps you mought be able to tell me how far it is from here to the river?" "Get up on your feet," said the other, "and follow me quickly! I will take you to one who will oil the joints of your tongue for you, and put you to studying your catechism. Quick, fellow, move your heavy carcass, or, I promise you, I will prick your fat sides with my sword point." "Anywhere you wish, sir, if you will only give me time to gather up this here bark," said the sergeant, who, hereupon, heedless of the objurgation of the trooper, deliberately untied the handkerchief from his neck, and spreading it out upon the ground, threw into it the pieces of bark he had been cutting, and then, taking it in his hand, rose and walked after the soldier. He was conducted to the troop, who were waiting in the road the return of the men that had been despatched on this piece of service. "Quick, quick, move yourselves! we have no time to lose," cried out the officer in command of the detachment, as Horse Shoe and his guide came in view: and then, after an interval of silence, during which the sergeant walked heavily to the spot where the troop waited for him, he added with an impatient abruptness, "Make few words of it, sir. Your name, where from, and where are you going?" "My name, captain--if your honor is a captain, and if I miscall you, I ax your honor's pardon: my name is--is--Stephen Foster, Steve most commonly." "Well, whence do you come?" "From Virginny." "Fool! why do you stop?" "You axed, I think, where I was going? I was going to get on my horse that's broke his bridle, which I see you have cotched for me: and then back to my young mistress, sir, that was taken sick over here at a gentlewoman's house on Pedee. She thought a little sassafras tea might help her along, and I was sent out to try and get a few scrapings of the bark to take to her. I suppose I must have rode out of my way a matter of some eight or ten miles to find it, though I told her that I thought a little balm out of the garden would have done just as well. But women are women, sir, and a sick woman in particular." "This fellow is more knave than fool, I take it, cornet," said the officer to a companion near him. "His horse seems to have been trained to other duties than gathering herbs for ladies of delicate stomachs," replied the other. "My horse," interrupted the sergeant, "would have broken clean off if it hadn't a been for your honor: they say he belonged to a muster in Verginny, and I was warned that he was apt to get rampagious when there was anything like a set of sodgers nigh him, and that is about the reason, I expect, why he took it into his head to fall into your company." "Get on your beast," said the officer impatiently, "you must go with us. If upon further acquaintance I form a better opinion of you, you may go about your business." "I am somewhat in a hurry to get back to the lady." "Silence! Mount your horse, fall to the rear. Gilbert, attend to this fellow, he musn't leave us," said the officer, as he delivered Horse Shoe into the charge of one of the leaders of a platoon, and then put spurs to his steed and moved to the head of the column. It was in the afternoon when this incident occurred; and Robinson found himself, during the remainder of the day, compelled to follow the troop through a series of by-ways across the country, in a direction of which he was wholly ignorant,--being also in the same degree unacquainted with the object of the march. When the day closed they arrived at a farm-house, where it seemed to be their purpose to pass the night; and here the sergeant, towards whom no unnecessary rigor had been exercised, was freely allowed to participate in the cheer provided for the party. This rest was of short duration; for, before the coming of the allotted bed-hour, a courier arrived, bringing a despatch to the leader of the detachment, which produced an instant order to saddle and resume the march. Once more upon the road, the sergeant became aware, as well as he was able to determine in the dark, that the party during the night were retracing their steps, and returning upon the same route which they had before travelled. A half hour before the dawn found the troop ascending a long hill, the summit of which, as Robinson perceived from the rustling of the blades in the morning wind, was covered by a field of standing corn; and he was enabled to descry, moving athwart the starlit sky, the figures of men on horseback approaching the column. The customary challenge was given; a momentary halt ensued, and he could hear the patrole--for such they described themselves,--informing the officer of the detachment that Colonel Tarleton was close at hand expecting their arrival. This intelligence induced an increase of speed which, after a short interval, brought the night-worn squadron into the presence of nearly a whole regiment of cavalry. The troops, thus encountered, were stationed upon the high-road where it crossed an open and uncultivated plain, the nearer extremity of which was bordered by the cornfield of which I have spoken. It was apparent that the regiment had passed the night at this place, as a number of horses were yet attached to the fence that guarded the field, and were feeding on the blades of corn that had been gathered and thrown before them. The greater part, however, were now drawn up in column of march, as if but recently arrayed to prepare for the toil of the coming day. Robinson was conducted along the flank of the column, and thence to a spot in the neighborhood, where a party of officers assembled by a sylvan tent, constructed of the boughs of trees, showed him that he was at the head-quarters of the commander of the corps. This tent was pitched upon a piece of high ground that afforded a view of the distant horizon in the east, where a faint streak of daylight lay like the traces of a far-off town in flames, against which the forms of men and horses were relieved, in bold profile, as they now moved about in the early preparations for their march. A single faggot gleamed within the tent, and, by its ray, Horse Shoe was enabled to discern the well known figure of Tarleton, as he conferred with a company of officers around him. After the sergeant had waited a few moments, he was ordered into the presence of the group within: "You were found yesterday," said Tarleton, "in suspicious circumstances--what is your name, fellow?" "I am called Stephen Foster by name," replied the sergeant, "being a stranger in these parts. At home I'm a kind of a gardener to a gentleman in Virginia; and it isn't long since I set out with his daughter to come here into Carolina. She fell sick by the way, and yesterday, whilst I was hunting up a little physic for her in the woods, a gang of your people came across me and fotch me here--and that's about all that I have got to say." A series of questions followed, by which the sergeant was compelled to give some further account of himself, which he contrived to do with an address that left his questioners but little the wiser as to his real character; and which strongly impressed them with the conviction that the man they had to deal with was but a simple and rude clown. "You say you don't know the name of the person at whose house you stopped?" inquired the commander. "I disremember," replied Horse Shoe; "being, as I said, a stranger in the parts, and not liking to make too free with axing after people's names." "A precious lout, this, you have brought me, Lieutenant Munroe," said Tarleton, addressing the officer who had hitherto had the custody of the sergeant. "You don't _disremember_ the part of Virginia you lived in?" he added, pursuing his examination. "They have given it the name of Amherst," replied Horse Shoe. "And the father of Miss Lindsay, you say, resided there?" "Sartainly, sir." "There is a gentleman of that name somewhere in Virginia," said Tarleton, apart to one of his attendants, "and known as a friend to our cause, I think." "I have heard of the family," replied the person addressed. "What has brought the lady to Carolina?" "Consarning some business of a friend, as I have been told," answered Horse Shoe. "It is a strange errand for such a time, and a marvellous shrewd conductor she has chosen! I can make nothing out of this fellow. You might have saved yourself the trouble of taking charge of such a clod, lieutenant." "My orders," replied the lieutenant, "were to arrest all suspicious persons; and I had two reasons to suspect this man. First, he was found upon a spot that couldn't have been better chosen for a look-out if he had been sent to reconnoitre us; and second, his horse showed some military training." "But the booby himself was stupid enough," rejoined the commander, "to carry his passport in his face." "I have a paper, sir, to that purpose," said Horse Shoe, putting his hands into his pockets, "it signifies, I was told,--for I can't read of my own accord--that I mought pass free without molestification from the sodgers of the king--this is it, I believe, sir." "_To three suppers at the Rising Sun, four and six pence_," said Tarleton, reading. "Tush, this is a tavern bill!" "Ha, ha, so it is," exclaimed Robinson. "Well, I have been keeping that there paper for a week past, thinking it was my certificate--and, like a fool, I have gone and tore up the t'other." "We are wasting time, gentlemen," said the commander. "Turn this fellow loose, and let him go his ways. But hark you, did you hear of a fight lately on Pedee, between some of our people and Marion--three days ago?" "They talked of such a thing on the river," replied Horse Shoe. "Well, and what was said?" "Nothing in particular that I can bear in mind." "Like all the rest we have tried to get out of him! You don't even know which party got the better?" "Oh, I have hearn that, sir." "What did you hear? speak out!" "Shall I give you the circumlocutory account of the matter?" asked Horse Shoe, "or did you wish me to go into the particulars?" "Any account, so that it be short." "Then I have hearn that Marion gave the t'other side a bit of a beating." "Aye, aye, so I suppose! Another tale of this Jack the Giant Killer! And what has become of Marion?" "That's onbeknownst to me," replied Horse Shoe. "Do you remember the fool we met at the Waxhaws last May?" asked one of the officers present, of another. "This fellow might pass for a full brother in blood--only I think this clown has the less wit of the two." "As heavy a lump, certainly," replied the officer. "This, you say, is the first time you have been in Carolina?" "To my knowledge," replied the sergeant. "It is broad day, gentlemen," said Tarleton; "we have been squandering precious time upon an empty simpleton. Give him his beast and let him be gone. Sirrah, you are free to depart. But, look you, if I hear any reports along the road of your having seen me, or a word about my coming, I'll ferret you out and have you trussed upon a stake twenty feet long." "Thank your honor," said Horse Shoe, as he left the tent. "I never troubles my head with things out of my line." Then seeking his horse he leisurely rode back by the way he had come; and as soon as he found himself beyond the outposts of the corps, he urged Captain Peter to as much speed as the late arduous duties of the good beast left him power to exert. CHAPTER XLVIII. AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR NOT UNFAMILIAR TO THE TIME. Breakfast was just over when Robinson was seen, from the windows of Mrs. Markham's parlor, pricking along the avenue that conducted to the front of the mansion; and when he drew up his horse at the door, the family were already assembled there to greet him. The plight, both of himself and of his steed, was such as to tell the best part of his story--they had travelled far and seen rough service. The rest was supplied by the sergeant himself, who, before he moved from the spot where he had dismounted, gave a narrative of his adventures, which was listened to with great anxiety by the household. By the sergeant's reckoning, Mrs. Markham's residence could not be more than twenty miles from the place where, at daybreak, he had encountered the British partisan, whom he had left with a full conviction that the expedition then on foot was to be directed against the country lying upon the river. These tidings spread consternation throughout the mansion, and the morning was passed in all the confusion which such an alarm might be supposed to produce. The fright of the females rendered them irresolute, and incapable of attending to the most obvious precautions necessary to meet the emergency. In this conjuncture, Robinson felt himself bound to assume the direction of affairs. At his suggestion, the plate and such other valuables as were likely to attract the cupidity of a licentious soldiery, were secreted in hiding-places sufficiently secure to defy a hasty search. The family was advised to assume the appearance of as much composure as they could command; and the last and most emphatic injunction of the sergeant was, to provide an ample and various repast, in the hope that the ill-will of the visitants might be conciliated by the display of good cheer. All this was accordingly put into a train of accomplishment. In the midst of these precautions, the fears of the inhabitants of the mansion were but too truly realized. It was scarcely noon when the long column of Tarleton's cavalry was descried descending the high hills that lay in the distance, and, soon afterwards, taking the road that led into the plantation. Whilst the panic produced by this sight was still fresh the sound of bugles and trumpets showed that the invaders had already turned their steps towards the dwelling, and the next view disclosed them deploying from a wood and advancing at a full trot. The quick beat of hoofs upon the soil, and the jangling sounds of sabres shaken against the flanks of the horses, struck upon the terrified ear of the proprietress of the estate like the harsh portents of impending ruin; and in the despair and agony of her distress, she retreated hastily to her chamber, whither she summoned her female domestics, and gave way to a flood of tears. She was followed by Mildred, who, touched by the pervading disquiet of the family, participated in the alarm, and found herself overcome by a terror which she had never before experienced in all the scenes which she had lately gone through. Obeying the instinct of her present fears, our heroine cowered beside her weeping friend, in the midst of the group of clamorous servants, and awaited in mute solicitude the coming events. The cavalry had turned aside and halted in front of a barn some distance from the dwelling-house, and a small party, consisting principally of officers attended by a sergeant's guard, were immediately afterwards seen galloping up to the door. The air of exultation exhibited in their movement, their loud jocularity and frequent laughter, resembled the burst of gladsome riot with which a party of fox-hunters are wont to announce the first springing of their game, and gave evidence of the feelings of men who set little account upon the annoyance they threatened to a peaceful and unoffending household. When the officers of the party had dismounted and entered the hall, the first person they encountered was Sergeant Robinson, who had thoughtfully posted himself in view of the door; and now, with some awkward and ungainly bows and scraping of his feet across the floor, bade them welcome. "What," said Tarleton, who was at the head of the intruders, "have we stumbled so soon again upon our shrewd and sensible ox! Wise Master Stephen Foster, well met! So you are the gentleman-usher to your good friend, Mrs. Markham! By my faith, the old lady is likely to have the honors of her house well administered!" "Your sarvant, sir," said Horse Shoe, again bowing and scraping his foot with a look of imperturbable gravity. "Mought I ax your honor to stomp as lightly upon the floor as you can? My young lady is sick up stairs--and much noise is apt to flurry her narves." "Tread daintily, gentlemen," said Tarleton, laughing, "for your gallantry's sake! A lady's nerves are as delicate as the strings of a harp, and must not be rudely struck. The damsel's page here (pointing to Horse Shoe), puts down his foot like a most considerate elephant--soft as a feather, you perceive; and I would by no means have you give so worshipful a master of courtesy cause to complain of you. As your wisdom," he added, again addressing the sergeant, "has found out, by this time, that you are in the house of Mrs. Markham, although you _disremembered_ that this morning, I suppose you can tell whether she is at home?" "I can answer you that she is at home, sir--that is, onless she has went out sence I saw her, which is not likely, sir." "Then, present her Colonel Tarleton's respects, and say that he has come to offer his duty to her." "I suppose by that, you are wishing to see the lady," replied the sergeant; "I'll let her know, sir." Robinson retired for a few moments, and when he returned he announced to the commander that Mrs Markham was not willing to come from her chamber. "But whatsomever your honor pleases to ax after, the lady promises you shall have," continued the sergeant. "Well, that's a condescension!--a good, comfortable lady! So, gentlemen, you see we are in luck; a broad roof over head--a larder well stored, I hope--and a cellar not altogether empty, I think I may undertake to promise. Where are your waiting-men, my nimble Ganymede? You are a sluggish oaf, fellow, not to see that soldiers must have drink!" Alfred and Henry now entered the hall, and the former approaching Tarleton, said, with a firm but respectful tone: "My mother has before been visited by British troops, and she had so little then to thank them for, except their departure, that the fear of meeting them again has greatly alarmed her. Our family, sir, has no older man in it than myself--and out of regard to helpless women--" "That's enough, my pert lad," interrupted Tarleton; "I have heard of your good mother before; she is somewhat over ready in her zeal in behalf of Marion's ragamuffins: and truly I think she is more squeamish than she should be at the sight of a soldier, when she could look upon such hang-gallows knaves without shuddering. You have another man in your house, I see (directing his eye towards Henry Lindsay, who had seated himself in the hall)--and full as old, I take it, as yourself." "I wish I were a man of full age," said Henry, looking fearlessly at the British officer, and remaining fixed in his chair. "Why so, my gay sparrow-hawk?" "I would have disputed with you your right to enter this door." "These young cocks are all trained to show their game," said the Colonel to one of his companions. "Well, you are a fine fellow, and I should be happy to be better acquainted with you. A little too stiff, perhaps: but you will learn better as you grow older. You should thank me for making holiday in your school to-day." Here Robinson interposed before Henry could make the saucy reply he meditated, by announcing that the company would find some cool water and a supply of spirits in the adjoining room. "Besides," he added, "I have told the house-folks to make ready somewhat in the way of victuals, as I judged you mought be a little hungry." "Not badly thought of, Mr. Ajax!" said one of the officers, as the party now crowded into the room. "Don't forget Stephen Foster," whispered Robinson, by way of admonition in regard to his assumed character, as he passed by the chair where Henry was sitting. "And keep a civil tongue in your head." Henry nodded compliance, and then, with Alfred, left the hall, whilst the sergeant repaired to the refreshment room to offer his officious attentions to the quests. Meanwhile, the ladies still kept to their chamber, ever and anon gazing out at the window with a solicitous and unhappy interest, and occasionally receiving the highly-colored reports of the servants, who, as often as any new subject of wonder or fear occurred to them, were plying backwards and forwards between the apartment and the head of the stair-case. After an interval of half an hour, during which the uncouth din of laughter, of loud oaths, and of the careless swaggering of the party below, rose with a harsh note to the ear of the hostess and her companion, these sounds abruptly ceased, and it was evident that the visitors had quitted the house. It was with an emotion of delight that Mrs. Markham, from the window, beheld Colonel Tarleton and his comrades galloping towards the main body of his troops that awaited him near the barn; but, on repairing to the hall, this sudden gleam of satisfaction was as suddenly clouded, when the matron perceived a sentinel posted at the front door. As soon as she came within speech of this functionary, he threw up his hand to his brow, as he said: "The colonel commanded me to make his compliments to the ladies, and asks the honor of their company at dinner." "Colonel Tarleton forgets himself," said Mrs. Markham, with a stately reserve that showed she had now dismissed her fears; "a brave soldier would hardly think it a triumph to insult unprotected females." "He is here to speak for himself, madam," replied the sentinel, as Tarleton at this moment returned to the door. The lady of the house, thus taken by surprise, firmly stood her ground, and awaited in silence the accost of the officer. Tarleton was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected encounter. He had entered with a hurried step, but the moment he was aware of the presence of the dame, he halted and removed his cap from his head, as he made a low obeisance. "I am too happy, madam," he said, "in the persuasion that you have overcome your unnecessary alarm at this visit; and feel pleased to be afforded an opportunity of making my respects in person." "I can conceive no sufficient reason, Colonel Tarleton, why a defenceless house like mine should provoke the visit of such a host of armed men." "Your house, madam, has some fame upon this border for good entertainment. It fell in my way, and you will excuse me for the freedom of saying, that I boast myself too much of a cavalier to pass it by unmarked by some token of my regard. Besides, I may add without meaning to be rude, our necessities in the article of forage, madam, are quite as great as General Marion's, who, I understand, does not scruple sometimes to take his contribution from you." "I should more readily excuse your visit," replied the lady, "if you would time it when General Marion was levying his contribution. You might then adjust your right to the share you claim. This house is yours, sir; and it is not fit that I should remain to debate with you your claim to dispose of whatever you may find in it." "Why, what a musty and wrinkled piece of insolence is here!" muttered the angry soldier, clenching his teeth under this rebuke as the matron withdrew. "Well, let the crones rail and the maidens weep their fill! the border is mine, and merrily will I hold it, and blithely will I light up the river, too, before I leave it! Curse on these free-spoken women! Who says they are defenceless with that supple weapon that God has given them? What ho, you bag of chaff--booby--Foster--I say! Look you; have you all the provisions in the house set out upon the tables--and don't spare your peach brandy, which we have already tasted--you have more of it. So let us have the best; I shall feast with a good will to-day, and I will do it plentifully, or your ears shall be cropped." "Everything in the kitchen, sir, is going on at a gallop," said Horse Shoe; "and as for the drinkables, your honor shall command the house to the last jug." "Then bestir yourself, for I am in no mood to tarry." In a brief lapse of time an abundant board was spread, and the leaders of the corps, consisting of some twenty or thirty officers of all ranks, were gathered around it. A scene of uproar succeeded that resounded to the roof with the unfeeling and licentious mirth of those engaged in the carouse. When they had eaten and drunk their fill, the greater portion of the guests were assembled at the front door. From this position there was to be seen, at no great distance, a small inclosure of not above ten feet square, constructed with a dark paling, above which a venerable willow drooped its branches. Towards this inclosure some five or six of the revellers repaired, to gratify an idle and, at present, a maudlin curiosity. When they arrived here, they leaned across the paling to read the inscription upon a stone that seemed but recently to have been placed there. It was a simple memorial of the death of Colonel Markham, of the Carolina militia, which was recorded to have taken place but eighteen months before on the Savannah river in an engagement with the troops under General Prevost. To this was added, in the spirit of the times and in accordance with the sentiments of the Whig leaders in the war of independence, a bitter expression of censure upon the barbarous disposition of the enemy, couched in homely but earnest phrase, and speaking the hate of the survivors in the same sentence that commended the virtues of the dead. It was an unpropitious moment for such a tablet to meet the eye of those who gazed upon it; and when it was read aloud by the captain of a troop, whose natural temper, rendered savage by the rudeness of the war, was also at this moment exasperated almost to intoxication by the freedom of the table, he vented his curses in loud and coarse rage against the memory of him to whom the stone was dedicated. This fire of passion spread through the group around the tomb, and each man responded to the first execration by others still deeper and more fierce. Proclaiming the inscription to be an insult, they made an attack upon the paling, which was instantly demolished, and, seizing upon the largest stones at hand, they assailed the tablet with such effect as soon to break it in pieces; and then, with a useless malice, applied themselves to obliterating the inscription upon the fragments. Whilst engrossed with the perpetration of this sacrilege, their attention was suddenly aroused by the near report of a pistol, the ball of which, it was discovered, had struck into the trunk of the willow. "I will kill some of the scoundrels, if I die for it!" was the exclamation heard immediately after the shot, and Alfred Markham was seen struggling with an officer who had seized him. The young man had been observed and followed, as he madly rushed from a wing of the mansion towards the burial-place, and arrested at the moment that he was levelling a second pistol. "Henry, shoot him down!" he screamed to his companion, who was now approaching armed with his carbine. "Let me go, sir! I will not see my father's tomb disturbed by ruffians." "Loose your hands!" cried Henry, directing his passionate defiance to the individual who wrestled with Alfred, "loose your hands, I say, or I will fire upon you!" "Fire at the drunken villains around my father's grave!" shouted Alfred. "They shall have it," returned Henry, eagerly, "if it is the last shot I ever make." And with these words the youth levelled his piece at the same group which had before escaped Alfred's aim, but, luckily, the carbine snapped and missed fire. In the next instant Horse Shoe's broad hand was laid upon Henry's shoulder, as he exclaimed, "Why, Master Henry, have you lost your wits? Do you want to bring perdition and combustion both, down upon the heads of the whole house?" "Galbraith Robinson, stand back!" ejaculated Henry. "I am not in the humor to be baulked." "Hush--for God's sake, hush!--foolish boy," returned Robinson with real anger. "You are as fierce as a young panther--I am ashamed of you!" By this time the whole company were assembled around the two young men, and the violent outbreak of wrath from those at whom the shot was aimed, as well as from others present, rose to a pitch which the authority of Tarleton in vain sought to control. Already, in this paroxysm of rage, one of the party, whose motions had escaped notice in the confusion of the scene, had hurried to the kitchen fire, where he had snatched up a burning brand, and hurled it into the midst of some combustibles in a narrow apartment on the ground floor. The clamor had drawn Mrs. Markham and Mildred to the chamber window, and whilst they looked down with a frightened gaze upon the confused scene below, it was some moments before they became aware of the participation of Henry and Alfred in this sudden and angry broil. Mildred was the first to discern the two young men as they were dragged violently across the open space in front of the mansion by the crowd, and to hear the threats with which this movement was accompanied. "Merciful Heaven!" she exclaimed, "they have laid hands upon Henry and Alfred--they will kill my brother, my dear brother!" Almost frantic at the danger that threatened Henry and his companion, she fled precipitately down the stair-case, and in a moment stood confronted with Colonel Tarleton and his soldiers. "Never fear, sister," cried out Henry, who was already brought into the hall, as he saw Mildred descending the stairs. "Don't be alarmed for either Alfred or me. We are ready to confess what we did and why we did it--and Colonel Tarleton, if he is a true man, will not dare to say we did wrong." "I charge you, Colonel Tarleton," said Mildred with a firm but excited voice, "as the soldier of a Christian nation, to save the people of this house from an inhuman and most wicked outrage. I implore you as an officer who would be esteemed valiant--and as a gentleman who would fly from dishonor--to rescue your name from the disgrace of this barbarous violence. For the sake of mercy--spare us--spare us!" As she uttered this last ejaculation her spirit yielded to the vehemence of her feelings, and she flung herself upon her knee at the feet of the commander. "Oh, sir, do not let harm fall upon my brother. I know not what he has done, but he is thoughtless and rash." "Mildred," said Henry, immediately rushing to his sister, and lifting her from the floor, "why should you kneel before him, or any man here? This is no place for you--get back to your room." Then turning to Tarleton, he continued, "Alfred Markham and I tried to shoot down your men, because we saw them breaking the tomb. If it was to do over again our hands are ready." "They have insulted the memory of my father," exclaimed Alfred, "trampled upon his grave, and broken the stone that covers him--I aimed to kill the drunken coward who did it. That I say, sir, to your face." Tarleton, for a space, seemed to be bewildered by the scene. He looked around him, as if hesitating what course to pursue, and once or twice made an effort to obtain silence in the hall; but the tumult of many voices in angry contention still continued. At last he presented his hand to Mildred, and with a courteous action conducted her to a chair, then begged her to calm her fears, as he promised her that no evil should befal either of the young men whose indiscreet tempers had occasioned the present uproar. "In God's name! have they fired the dwelling?" he exclaimed, as at this moment a volume of smoke rolled into the hall. "What ho, there! O'Neal, McPherson. Look where this smoke comes from, and instantly extinguish the fire! Stir yourselves, gentlemen. By my hilt, if any follower of mine has been so wild as to put a torch to this house, I will hang him up to the ridge-pole of the roof! Look to it--every man! Quick, quick--there is danger that the flames may get ahead." In an instant nearly every soldier in the hall departed in obedience to this order. "I beg, madam," Tarleton continued, "that you will dismiss your alarm, and rest upon my pledge that no inmate of this house shall be harmed. I conjecture that I have the honor to speak to Miss Lindsay--I have been informed that that lady has lately found shelter under this roof." "It is my name, sir--and as the daughter of a friend to your quarrel, let me conjure you to see that this house is safe; I cannot speak with you until I am assured of that." At this juncture, Mrs. Markham was observed at the head of the first flight of stairs, pale with affright, wringing her hands, and uttering loud ejaculations of terror and grief as she made her way down to the hall: "Oh, sir," she said, as she approached the commander, "we are harmless women, and have done nothing to call down this vengeance upon us. Take what you will--but spare my roof and save my family! God will reward you even for that act of humanity to a desolate widow." Before Tarleton could reply to the matron, a party of officers came hastily into his presence, at the head of whom was Captain O'Neal, who reported that the fire was extinguished. "One of the mess, to-day," he said, "heated with drink and roused by the foolish temper of these hot-headed boys, threw a blazing billet into a closet. Luckily, we reached the spot before any great harm was done. The chaps should be switched, and taught better manners. It was a silly affair and might have made mischief." "See that the offender be arrested," replied Tarleton, "I will take measures to curb this license. These meddling youngsters, too--however, I can't blame them, they had provocation, I confess--and this war gives an edge to all the metal of the country. Instead of pop-guns now every baby has his powder and ball--dismiss the boys. To your post, captain, and order every man to join his company. Now, madam," he added in a tone of conciliation to Mrs. Markham, as soon as the hall was cleared, "I am sure you will not accuse me of incivility. My people have withdrawn--the fire is extinguished--these inconsiderate lads at liberty: have I answered your wish?" "You have won the gratitude of a mother," replied the dame, "and the respect of an enemy. I am bound to say to you, in return, that I cheerfully surrender to you whatever you may choose to take from my estate for the supply of your soldiers. Alfred, my son, give me your arm, and help me to my chamber--I am feeble and faint. I must ask your permission to withdraw," she continued, as she courtesied to Tarleton, and ascended the stairs. "And I, too, must take my leave," said Tarleton. "But before I go I may claim the privilege of a word with Miss Lindsay. You spoke of your father, madam? and, especially, as a friend of our arms. I have been told he lives in Virginia, Philip Lindsay, the proprietor of a seat called 'The Dove Cote,' a royalist too--am I right?" "So, my father is known, sir." "That name has stood you in stead to-day, madam. And this is your brother? I should think he is hardly of your father's mind in regard to our quarrel. This way, my thoughtless young gallant! It was a wild, bold, and very conceited thing of you to be challenging my unruly dragoons--and would have been no less so, if you had had twenty score of tall fellows at your back. But it is past now, and you need not apologize for it--it showed mettle at least, and we never quarrel with a man for that. May I inquire, Miss Lindsay, in what direction you travel? for I learn you are but a sojourner here. It may be in my power to insure your safe-conduct." "I seek your general, Lord Cornwallis, on matters of private concern," replied Mildred, "and if I might venture to ask it of Colonel Tarleton, his service in affording me an unquestioned passage, would be a favor that I should gratefully acknowledge." "The obligation will be on my side, madam. It will be a pleasure to me to believe that I can serve a lady, much more the daughter of an honorable subject of the king. Permit me, without further parley, for time presses at this moment, to say that I will leave an escort behind me under the command of a trusty officer, who will wait your pleasure to conduct you, by the safest and easiest journey to head-quarters. Your commands, madam, shall in all respects regulate his motions. My communications with his lordship shall announce your coming. Now, Miss Lindsay, with my best wishes for your safety and success, I take my leave; and, as a parting request, I venture to hope you will do me the justice to say, that Tarleton is not such a graceless sinner as his enemies have sometimes been pleased to represent him." These last words were accompanied by a laugh, and a somewhat bluff courtesy, as the speaker swayed his rigid and ungainly figure into a succession of awkward bows by which he retreated to the door. "I shall be happy on all occasions," replied Mildred, whilst the soldier was thus strenuously playing off the graces of a gallant, "to do justice to the kindness which I have experienced at Colonel Tarleton's hands." "There, Mildred," said Henry, when Tarleton had disappeared, "you see things have gone very pat for us. That comes of letting these fellows see who they have to deal with. A little powder and ball is a good letter of recommendation to the best of their gang. If my carbine hadn't missed fire to-day, Tarleton would have been short by one bottle-holder, at least, when he set out to steal liquor from the country cupboards." "It has ended well, brother," replied Mildred, "but it does not become you to boast of what you have done. It was a rash and dangerous deed, and had nearly brought ruin upon this friendly family." "Tut, sister! you are only a woman. You wouldn't have found the colonel so civil if we hadn't taught him to look after his men." CHAPTER XLIX. MILDRED ARRIVES AT THE TERM OF HER JOURNEY.----THE READER IS FAVORED WITH A GLIMPSE OF A DISTINGUISHED PERSONAGE. Cornwallis, after the battle of Camden, turned his thoughts to the diligent prosecution of his conquests. The invasion of North Carolina and Virginia was a purpose to which he had looked, from the commencement of this campaign, and he now, accordingly, made every preparation for the speedy advance of his army. The sickness of a portion of his troops and the want of supplies rendered some delay inevitable, and this interval was employed in more fully organizing the civil government of the conquered province, and in strengthening his frontier defences; by detaching considerable parties of men towards the mountains. The largest of these detachments was sent to reinforce Ferguson, to whom had been confided the operations upon the north-western border. The chronicles of the time inform us that the British general lay at Camden until the 8th of September, at which date he set forward towards North Carolina. His movement was slow and cautious, and for some time, his head-quarters were established at the Waxhaws, a position directly upon the border of the province about to be invaded. At this post our story now finds him, the period being somewhere about the commencement of the last quarter of the month. A melancholy train of circumstances had followed the fight at Camden, and had embittered the feelings of the contending parties against each other to an unusual degree of exasperation. The most prominent of these topics of anger was the unjust and severe construction which the British authorities had given to the obligations which were supposed to affect such of the inhabitants of South Carolina, as had, after the capitulation of Charleston, surrendered themselves as prisoners on parole, or received protections from the new government. A proclamation, issued by Sir Henry Clinton in June, annulled the paroles, and ordered all who had obtained them to render military service, as subjects of the king. This order, which the prisoners, as well as those who had obtained protections, held to be a dissolution of their contract with the new government, was disobeyed by a large number of the inhabitants, many of whom had, immediately after the proclamation, joined the American army. Cornwallis permitted himself, on this occasion, to be swayed by sentiments unworthy of the character generally imputed to him. Many of the liberated inhabitants were found in the ranks of Gates at Camden, and several were made prisoners on the field. These latter, by the orders of the British general, were hung almost without the form of an inquiry: and it may well be supposed that in the heat of war and ferment of passion, such acts of rigor, defended on such light grounds, were met on the opposite side by a severe retribution. Almost every day, during the British commander's advance, some of the luckless citizens of the province whom this harsh construction of duty affected, were brought into the camp of the invaders, and the soldiery had grown horribly familiar with the frequent military executions that ensued. It was in the engrossment of the occupations and cares presented in this brief reference to the history of the time, that I have now to introduce my reader to Cornwallis. He had resolved to move forward on his campaign. Orders were issued to prepare for the march, and the general had announced his determination to review the troops before they broke ground. A beautiful, bright, and cool autumnal morning shone upon the wide plain, where an army of between two and three thousand men was drawn out in line. The tents of the recent encampment had already been struck, and a long array of baggage-wagons were now upon the high-road, slowly moving to a point assigned them in the route of the march. Cornwallis, attended by a score of officers, still occupied a small farm-house which had lately been his quarters. A number of saddle-horses in the charge of their grooms, and fully equipped for service, were to be seen in the neighborhood of the door; and the principal apartment of the house showed that some of the loiterers of the company were yet engaged in despatching the morning meal. The aides-de-camp were seen speeding between the army and the general, with that important and neck-endangering haste which characterizes the tribe of these functionaries; and almost momentarily a courier arrived, bearing some message of interest to the commander-in-chief. Cornwallis himself sat in an inner room, busily engaged with one of his principal officers in inspecting some documents regarding the detail of his force. Apart from them, stood, with hat in hand and in humble silence, a young ensign of infantry. "Your name, sir?" said Cornwallis, as he threw aside the papers which he had been perusing, and now addressed himself to the young officer. "Ensign Talbot, of the thirty-third Foot," replied the young man: "I have come by the order of the adjutant-general to inform your lordship that I have just returned to my regiment, having lately been captured by the enemy while marching with the third convoy of the Camden prisoners to Charleston." "Ha! you were of that party! What was the number of prisoners you had in charge?" "One hundred and fifty, so please your lordship." "They were captured"-- "On Santee, by the rebels Marion and Horry," interrupted the ensign. "I have been in the custody of the rebels for a week, but contrived, a few days since, to make my escape." "Where found the rebels men to master you?" "Even from the country through which we journeyed," replied the ensign. "The beggarly runagates! Who can blame us, Major M'Arthur," said the general, appealing to the officer by his side, with an interest that obviously spoke the contest in his own mind in regard to the justice of the daily executions which he had sanctioned: "who can blame us for hanging up these recreants for their violated faith, with such thick perfidy before our eyes? This Santee district, to a man, had given their paroles and taken my protection: and, now, the first chance they have to play me a trick, they are up and at work, attacking our feeble escorts that should, in their sickly state, have rather looked to them for aid. I will carry out the work; by my sword, it shall go on sternly. Enough, Ensign, back to your company," he said, bowing to the young officer, who at once left the room. "What is your lordship's pleasure regarding this Adam Cusack?" inquired M'Arthur. "Oh, aye! I had well nigh forgotten that man. He was taken, I think, in the act of firing on a ferry-boat at Cheraw?" "The ball passed through the hat of my Lord Dunglas," said M'Arthur. "The lurking hound! A liege subject turning truant to his duty; e'en let him bide the fate of his brethren." M'Arthur merely nodded his head, and Cornwallis, rising from his chair, strode a few paces backwards and forwards through the room. "I would tune my bosom to mercy," he said, at length, "and win these dog-headed rebels back to their duty to their king by kindness; but good-will and charity towards them fall upon their breasts like water on a heated stone, which is thrown back in hisses. No, no, that day is past, and they shall feel the rod. We walk in danger whilst we leave these serpents in the grass. Order the gentlemen to horse, Major M'Arthur; we must be stirring. Let this fellow, Cusack, be dealt with like the rest. Gentlemen," added the chief, as he appeared at the door amidst the group who awaited his coming, "to your several commands!" Captain Brodrick, the principal aide, at this moment arrested the preparations to depart, by placing in Cornwallis's hand a letter which had just been brought by a dragoon to head-quarters. The general broke the seal, and, running his eye over the contents, said, as he handed the letter to the aide, "This is something out of the course of the campaign; a letter from a lady, now at the picquet-guard, and it seems she desires to speak with me. Who brought the billet, captain?" "This dragoon, one of a special escort from the legion. They have in charge a party of travellers, who have journeyed hither under Tarleton's own pledge of passport." "Captain," replied Cornwallis, "mount and seek the party. Conduct them to me without delay. What toy is this that brings a lady to my camp?" The aide-de-camp mounted his horse, and galloped off with the dragoon. He was conducted far beyond the utmost limit of the line of soldiers, and at length arrived at a small outpost, where some fifty men were drawn up, under the command of an officer of the picquet-guard, which was about returning to join the main body of the army. Here he found Mildred and Henry Lindsay, and their two companions, Horse Shoe and old Isaac, attended by the small escort furnished by Tarleton. This party had been two days on the road from Mrs. Markham's, and had arrived the preceding night at a cottage in the neighborhood, where they had found tolerable quarters. They had advanced this morning, at an early hour, to the _corps de garde_ of the picquet, where Mildred preferred remaining until Henry could despatch a note to Lord Cornwallis apprising him of their visit. When Captain Brodrick rode up, the travellers were already on horseback and prepared to move. The aide-de-camp respectfully saluted Miss Lindsay and her brother, and after a short parley with the officer of the escort, tendered his services to the strangers to conduct them to head-quarters. "The general, madam," he said, "would have done himself the honor to wait on you, but presuming that you were already on your route to his quarters, where you might be better received than in the bivouac of an outpost, he is led to hope that he consults your wish and your comfort both, by inviting you to partake of such accommodation as he is able to afford you." "My mission would idly stand on ceremony, sir," replied Mildred. "I thank Lord Cornwallis for the promptness with which he has answered my brother's message." "We will follow you, sir," said Henry. The party now rode on. Their path lay along the skirts of the late encampment upon the border of an extensive plain, on the opposite side of which the army was drawn out; and it was with the exultation of a boy, that Henry, as they moved forward, looked upon the long line of troops glittering in the bright sunshine, and heard the drums rolling their spirited notes upon the air. When they arrived at a point where the road emerged from a narrow strip of forest, they could discern, at the distance of a few hundred paces, the quarters of the commander-in-chief. Immediately on the edge of this wood, a small party of soldiers attracted the attention of the visitors by the earnest interest with which they stood around a withered tree, and gazed aloft at its sapless and huge boughs. Before anything was said, Mildred had already ridden within a few feet of the circle, where turning her eyes upwards she saw the body of a man swung in the air by a cord attached to one of the widest-spreading branches. The unfortunate being was just struggling in the paroxysms of death, as his person was swayed backwards and forwards, with a slow motion, by the breeze. "Oh, God! what a sight is here!" exclaimed the lady. "I cannot, will not go by this spot. Henry--brother--I cannot pass." The aide-de-camp checked his horse, and grasped her arm, before her brother could reach her, and Horse Shoe, at the same moment, sprang to the ground and seized her bridle. "I should think it but a decent point of war to keep such sights from women's eyes," said Robinson, somewhat angrily. "Peace, sirrah," returned the aide, "you are saucy. I trust, madam, you are not seriously ill? I knew not of this execution, or I should have spared you this unwelcome spectacle. Pray, compose yourself, and believe, madam, it was my ignorance that brought you into this difficulty." "I will not pass it," cried Mildred wildly, as she sprang from her horse and ran some paces back towards the wood, with her hands covering her face. In a moment Henry was by her side. "Nay, sister--dear sister," he said, "do not take it so grievously. The officer did not know of this. There now, you are better; we will mount again, and ride around this frightful place." Mildred gradually regained her self-possession, and after a few minutes was again mounted and making a circuit through the wood to avoid this appalling spectacle. "Who is this man?" asked Henry of the aide-de-camp, in a half whisper; "and what has he done, that they have hung him?" "It is an every-day tale," replied the officer; "a rebel traitor, who has broken his allegiance, by taking arms against the king in his own conquered province. I keep no count of these fellows; but I believe this is a bold rebel by the name of Adam Cusack, that was caught lately at the Cheraw ferry; and our boobies must be packing him off to head-quarters for us to do their hangman's work." "If we were to hang all of your men that we catch," replied Henry, "hemp is an article that would rise in price." "What, sir," returned the officer, with a look of surprise, "do you class yourself with the rebels? What makes you here under Tarleton's safeguard? I thought you must needs be friends, at least, from the manner of your coming." "We ride, sir, where we have occasion," said Henry, "and if we ride wrong now, let his lordship decide that for us, and we will return." By this time the company had reached head-quarters, where Mildred found herself in the presence of Lord Cornwallis. "Though on the wing, Miss Lindsay," said his lordship, as he respectfully met the lady and her brother upon the porch of the dwelling-house, "I have made it a point of duty to postpone weighty matters of business to receive your commands." Mildred bowed her head, and after a few words of courtesy on either side, and a formal introduction of herself and her brother to the general as the children of Philip Lindsay, "a gentleman presumed to be well known to his lordship," and some expressions of surprise and concern on the part of the chief at this unexpected announcement, she begged to be permitted to converse with him in private. When, in accordance with this wish, she found herself and her brother alone with the general, in the small parlor of the house, she began, with a trembling accent and blanched cheek-- "I said, my lord, that we were the children of Philip Lindsey, of the Dove Cote, in Amherst, in the province of Virginia; and being taught to believe that my father has some interest with your lordship--" "He is a worthy, thoughtful, and wise gentleman, of the best consideration amongst the friends of the royal cause," interrupted the earl, "so speak on, madam, and speak calmly. Take your time, your father's daughter shall not find me an unwilling listener." "My father was away from home," interposed Henry, "and tidings came to us that a friend of ours was most wickedly defamed and belied, by a charge carried to the ears of your lordship; as we were told, that Major Arthur Butler of the Continental army who had been made a prisoner by your red-coats somehow or other--for I forget how--but the charge was that he had contrived a plan to carry off my father from the Dove Cote--if not to kill him, which was said, besides--and upon that charge, it was reported that your people were going to hang or shoot him--hang, I suppose, from what we just now saw over here in the woods--and that your lordship had given orders to have the thing put off until the major could prove the real facts of the case." "The tale is partly true, young sir," said Cornwallis. "We have a prisoner of that name and rank." "My sister Mildred and myself, thinking no time was to be lost, have come to say to your lordship that the whole story is a most sinful lie, hatched on purpose to make mischief, and most probably by a fellow by the name of----" "My brother speaks too fast," interrupted Mildred. "It deeply concerned us to do justice to a friend in this matter. If my father had been at home a letter to your lordship would have removed all doubts; but, alas! he was absent, and I knew not what to do, but to come personally before your lordship, to assure you that to the perfect knowledge of our whole family, the tale from beginning to end is a malicious fabrication. Major Butler loves my father, and would be accounted one of his nearest and dearest friends." Cornwallis listened to this disclosure with a perplexed and bewildered conjecture, to unravel the strange riddle which it presented to his mind. "How may I understand you, Miss Lindsay?" he said; "this Major Butler is in the service of Congress?" "Even so. Your lordship speaks truly." "Your father--my friend, Philip Lindsay, is a faithful and persevering loyalist." "To the peril of his life and fortune," replied Mildred. "And yet Butler is his friend?" "He would be esteemed so, if it please your lordship--and, in heart and feeling, is so." "He is related to your family, perhaps?" "Related in affection, my lord, and plighted love," said Mildred, blushing and casting her eyes upon the ground. "So!--Now I apprehend. And there are bonds between you?" "I may not answer your lordship," returned the lady. "It only imports our present business to tell your lordship, that Arthur Butler never came to the Dove Cote but with the purest purpose of good to all who lodged beneath its roof. He has never come there but that I was apprised of his intent; and never thought rose in his heart that did not breathe blessings upon all that inhabit near my father. Oh, my lord, it is a base trick of an enemy to do him harm; and they have contrived this plot to impose upon your lordship's generous zeal in my father's behalf." "It is a strange story," said Cornwallis. "And does your father know nothing of this visit? Have you, Miss Lindsay, committed yourself to all the chances of this rude war, and undertaken this long and toilsome journey, to vindicate a rebel charged with a most heinous device of perfidy? It is a deep and painful interest that could move you to this enterprise." "My lord, my mission requires a frank confidence. I have heard my father say you had a generous and feeling heart--that you were a man to whom the king had most wisely committed his cause in this most trying war: that your soul was gifted with moderation, wisdom, forecast, firmness--and that such a spirit as yours was fit to master and command the rude natures of soldiers, and to compel them to walk in the paths of justice and mercy. All this and more have I heard my father say, and this encouraged me to seek you in your camp, and to tell you the plain and undisguised truth touching those charges against Major Butler. As Heaven above hears me, I have said nothing but the simple truth. Arthur Butler never dreamt of harm to my dear father." "He is a brave soldier," said Henry, "and if your lordship would give him a chance, and put him before the man who invented the lie, he would make the scoundrel eat his words, and they should be handed to him on the major's sword-point." "The gentleman is happy" said the chief, "in two such zealous friends. You have not answered me--is your father aware of this visit, Miss Lindsay?" "He is ignorant even of the nature of the charge against Arthur Butler," replied the lady. "He was absent from the Dove Cote when the news arrived; and, fearing that delay might be disastrous, we took the matter in hand ourselves." "You might have written." "The subject, so please your lordship, was too near to our hearts to put it to the hazard of a letter." "It is a warm zeal, and deserves to be requited with a life's devotion," said Cornwallis. "You insinuated, young sir, just now, that you suspected the author of this imputed slander." "My brother is rash, and speaks hastily," interrupted Mildred. "Whom were you about to name?" asked the general, of Henry. "There was a man named Tyrrel," replied the youth, "that has been whispering in my father's ear somewhat concerning a proposal for my sister" (here Mildred cast a keen glance at her brother and bit her lip) "and they say, love sometimes makes men desperate, and I took a passing notion that, may be, he might have been at the bottom of it; I know nothing positively to make me think so, but only speak from what I have read in books." Cornwallis smiled as he replied playfully: "Tush, my young philosopher, you must not take your wisdom from romances. I have heard of Tyrrel, and will stand his surety that love has raised no devil to conjure such mischief in his breast. What will satisfy your errand hither, Miss Lindsay?" "A word from your lordship, that no harm shall befall Arthur Butler beyond the necessary durance of a prisoner of war." "That is granted you at once," replied the general, "granted for your sake, madam, in the spirit of a cavalier who would deny no lady's request. And I rather grant it to you, because certain threats have been sent me from some of the major's partisans, holding out a determination to retaliate blood for blood. These had almost persuaded me to run, against my own will, to an extreme. I would have you let it be known, that as a free grace to a lady, I have done that which I would refuse to the broad sword bullies of the mountains. What next would you have?" "Simply, an unmolested passage hence, beyond your lordship's posts." "That too shall be cared for. And thus the business being done, with your leave, I will go to more unmannerly employments." "A letter for your lordship," said an officer, who at this moment entered the door, and putting a packet into the general's hand, retired. Cornwallis opened the letter and read it. "Ha! by my faith, but this is a rare coincidence! This brings matter of interest to you, Miss Lindsay. My officer, Macdonald, who had Butler in custody, writes me that, two days since, his prisoner had escaped." "Escaped!" exclaimed Mildred, forgetting in whose presence she spoke, "unhurt--uninjured. Thank Heaven for that!" Cornwallis sat for a moment silent, as a frown grew upon his brow, and he played his foot against the floor, abstracted in thought. "These devils have allies," he muttered, "in every cabin in the country. We have treachery and deceit lurking behind every bush. We shall be poisoned in our pottage by these false and hollow knaves. If it gives you content, madam," he said, raising his voice, "that this Major Butler should abuse the kindness or clemency of his guard and fly from us at the moment we were extending a boon of mercy to him through your supplications, you may hereafter hold your honorable soldier in higher esteem for his dexterity and cunning." "I pray your lordship to believe," said Mildred, with a deep emotion, which showed itself in the rich, full tones of her voice, "that Major Butler knows nothing of my coming hither. I speak not in his name, nor make any pledge for him. If he has escaped, it has only been from the common instinct which teaches a bird to fly abroad when it finds the door of his cage left open by the negligence of his keepers. I knew it not--nor, alas! have I heard aught of his captivity, but as I have already told your lordship. He is an honorable soldier, rich in all the virtues that may commend a man: I would your lordship knew him better and in more peaceful times." "Well, it is but a peevish and silly boy," said Cornwallis, "who whines when his pie is stolen. The war has many reckonings to settle, and we contrive to make one day's profit pay another's loss. The account for the present is balanced; and so, Miss Lindsay, without discourtesy, I may leave you, with a fair wish for a happy and prosperous journey back to your father's roof. To the good gentleman himself, I desire to be well remembered. And to show you that this briery path of war has not quite torn away all the habiliments of gentleness from us, I think it dutiful to tell you that, as I have become the confidant of a precious love-tale, wherein I can guess some secret passage of mystery is laid which should not be divulged, I promise you to keep it faithfully between ourselves. And when I reach the Dove Cote, which, God willing, under the banners of St. George, I do propose within three months to do, we may renew our confidence, and you shall have my advice touching the management of this dainty and delicate affair. And now, God speed you with a fair ride, and good spirits to back it!" "I am much beholden to your lordship's generosity," said Mildred, as Cornwallis rose with a sportive gallantry and betook himself to his horse. "Come hither, Mr. Henry," he said after he had mounted, "farewell, my young cavalier. You will find a few files of men to conduct you and your party beyond our posts: and here, take this," he added, as now on horseback, he scrawled off a few lines with a pencil, upon a leaf of his pocket-book, which he delivered to the youth, "there is a passport which shall carry you safe against all intrusion from my people. Adieu!" With this last speech the commander-in-chief put spurs to his horse, and galloped to the plain, to review his troops and commence the march by which he hoped to make good his boast of reaching the Dove Cote. How fortune seconded his hopes may be read in the story of the war. CHAPTER L. A BRITISH PARTISAN. As the events of this history are confined to the duration of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina, it becomes me to prepare my reader for the conclusion to which, doubtless much to his content, he will hear that we are now hastening. We have reached a period which brings us to take notice of certain important operations that were in progress upon the frontier, and touching the details of which, to avoid prolixity, I must refer to the graver chronicles of the times. It answers my present purpose merely to apprise my reader that Colonel Clarke had lately assembled his followers and marched to Augusta, where he had made an attack upon Brown, but that almost at the moment when his dexterous and valiant adversary had fallen within his grasp, a timely succor from Fort Ninety-Six, under the command of Cruger, had forced him to abandon his ground, and retreat towards the mountain districts of North Carolina. To this, it is important to add that Ferguson had now recruited a considerable army amongst the native Tories, and had moved to the small frontier village of Gilbert-town, with a purpose to intercept Clarke, and thus place him under the disadvantage of having a foe both in front and rear. The midnight seizure of Arthur Butler and his friends, whilst returning from Ramsay's funeral, was effected by McAlpine, who happened at that moment to be hastening, by a forced march, with a detachment of newly-recruited cavalry from Ninety-Six, to strengthen Ferguson, and to aid in what was expected to be the certain capture of the troublesome Whig partisan. As M'Alpine's purpose required despatch, he made but a short delay after sunrise at Drummond's cabin, and then pushed forward with his prisoners with all possible expedition. The route of his journey diverged, almost at the spot of the capture, from the roads leading towards Musgrove's Mill, and he consequently had but little chance to fall in with parties who might communicate to him the nature of the accident which threw the prisoners into his possession; whilst the prisoners themselves were sufficiently discreet to conceal from him everything that might afford a hint of Butler's previous condition. The road lay through a rugged wilderness, and the distance to be travelled, before the party could reach Gilbert-town, was something more than sixty miles. It was, accordingly, about the middle of the second day after leaving Drummond's habitation, before the troop arrived at the term of their journey, a period that coincided with that of Cornwallis's breaking ground from his late encampment at the Waxhaws, which we have seen in the last chapter. Ferguson was a stout, fearless, and bluff soldier, and instigated by the most unsparing hatred against all who took up the Whig cause. He had been promoted by Earl Cornwallis to the brevet rank of lieutenant-colonel, a short time before the battle of Camden, and despatched towards this wild and mountainous border to collect together and organize the Tory inhabitants of the district. His zeal and activity, no less than his peremptory bearing, had particularly recommended him to the duty to be performed; and he is, at least, entitled to the commendation of having acquitted himself with great promptitude and efficiency in the principal objects of his appointment. He was now at the head of between eleven and twelve hundred men, of which about one hundred and fifty were regulars of the British line, the remainder consisting of the disorderly and untamed population of the frontier. Gilbert-town was a small village, composed of a number of rather well-built and comfortable log-houses. It was situated in a mountainous but fertile district of North Carolina, about the centre of Rutherford country. And I may venture to add (which I do upon report only), that although its former name has faded from the maps of the present day, under that reprehensible indifference to ancient associations, and that pernicious love of change which have obliterated so many of the landmarks of our revolutionary history, yet this village is still a prosperous and pleasant community, known as the seat of justice to the county to which it belongs. When the troop having charge of Butler and his companions arrived, they halted immediately in front of one of the largest buildings of the village, and in a short time the prisoners were marched into the presence of Ferguson. They were received in a common room of ample dimensions, furnished with a table upon which was seen a confused array of drinking vessels, and a number of half-emptied bottles of spirit surrounding a wooden bucket filled with water. Immediately against one of the posts of the door of the apartment, the carcass of a buck, recently shot and now stripped of its skin, hung by the tendons of the hinder feet; and a soldier was at this moment employed with his knife in the butcher-craft necessary to its preparation for the spit. Ferguson himself, conspicuous for his robust, athletic, and weather-beaten exterior, stood by apparently directing the operation. Around the room were hung the hide and antlers of former victims of the chase, intermingled with various weapons of war, military cloaks, cartridge-boxes, bridles, saddles, and other furniture denoting the habitation of a party of soldiers. There was a general air of disorder and untidiness throughout the apartment, which seemed to bespeak early and late revels, and no great observance of the thrift of even military housekeeping. This impression was heightened to the eye of the beholder, by the unchecked liberty with which men of all ranks, privates as well as officers, flung themselves, as their occasions served, into the room and made free with the contents of the flasks that were scattered over the table. The irregular and ill-disciplined host under Ferguson's command lay in and around the village, and presented a scene of which the predominating features bore a sufficient resemblance to the economy of their leader's own quarters, to raise but an unfavorable opinion of their subordination and soldier-like demeanor: it was wild, noisy, and confused. When M'Alpine entered the apartment, the words that fell from Ferguson showed that his mind, at the moment, was disturbed by a double solicitude--alternating between the operations performed upon the carcass of venison, and certain symptoms of uproar and disorder that manifested themselves amongst the militia without. "Curse on these swaggering, upland bullies!" he said, whilst M'Alpine and the prisoners stood inside the room, as yet unnoticed. "I would as soon undertake to train as many wolves from the mountain, as bring these fellows into habits of discipline. Thady, you cut that haunch too low--go deep, man--a long sweep from the pommel to the cantle--it is a saddle worth riding on! By the infernal gods! if these yelping savages do not learn to keep quiet in camp, I'll make a school for them with my regulars, where they shall have good taste of the cat! nine hours' drill and all the camp duty besides! Ha, M'Alpine, is it you who have been standing here all this while? I didn't observe it, man--my quarters are like a bar-room, and have been full of comers and goers all day. I thought you were but some of my usual free-and-easy customers. Damn them, I am sick of these gawky, long-legged, half-civilized recruits! but I shall take a course with them yet. What news, old boy? What have you to tell of the rebels? Where is my pretty fellow, Clarke?" "Clarke is still in the woods," replied M'Alpine. "It would take good hounds to track him." "And Cruger, I hope, has nose enough to follow. So, the cunning Indian hunter will be caught at last! We have him safe now, M'Alpine. There is but one path for the fox to come out of the bush, and upon that path Patrick Ferguson has about as pretty a handful of mischievous imps as ever lapped blood. The slinking runaway never reaches the other side of the mountains while I am awake. With Cruger behind him--our line of posts upon his right--the wild mountains, as full of Cherokees as squirrels, upon his left--and these devils of mine right before him--we have him in a pretty net. Who have you here, captain?" "Some stray rebel game, that I picked up on my road, as I came from Ninety-Six. This gentleman, I learn, is Major Butler of the Continental army, and these others, some of his party." "So, ho, more rebels! damn it, man," exclaimed the commandant, "why do you bring them to me? What can I do with them"--then dropping his voice into a tone of confidential conference, he added, "but follow the fashion and hang them? I have got some score of prisoners already--and have been wishing that they would cut some devilish caper, that I might have an excuse for stringing them up, to get clear of them. A major in the regular Continental line, sir?" he asked, addressing himself to Butler. Butler bowed his head. "I thought the cuffs your people got at Camden had driven everything like a daylight soldier out of the province. We have some skulking bush-fighters left--some jack-o'-lantern devils, that live in the swamps and feed on frogs and water-snakes--Marion and Sumpter, and a few of their kidney: but you, sir, are the first regular Continental officer I have met with. What brought you so far out of your latitude?" "I was on my way to join one," replied Butler, "that but now you seemed to think in severe straits." "Ha! to visit Clarke, eh? Well, sir, may I be bold to ask, do you know where that worshipful gentleman is to be found?" "I am free to answer you," said Butler, "that his position, at this moment, is entirely unknown to me. On my journey I heard the report that he had been constrained to abandon Augusta." "Yes, and in haste, let me tell you. And marches in this direction, Major Butler, as he needs must. I shall make his acquaintance: and inasmuch as you went to seek him, you may count it a lucky accident that brought you here--you will find him all the sooner by it." "Doubtless, sir, Colonel Clarke will feel proud to see you," returned Butler. "Well, M'Alpine," said Ferguson, "I have my hands full of business; for I certainly have the wildest crew of devil's babies that ever stole cattle, or fired a haystack. I am obliged to coax them into discipline by a somewhat free use of this mother's milk"--(pointing to the bottles)--"to which I now and then add a gentle castigation at the drum-head, and, when that doesn't serve, a dose of powder and lead, administered at ten paces from a few files of grenadiers. I have shot a brace of them, since you left me, only for impertinence to their officers! This waiting for Clarke plays the devil with us. I must be moving, and have some thought of crossing the mountains westward, and burning out the settlements. Faith! I would do it, just to keep my lads in spirits, if I thought Clarke would give me another week. How, now, Thady?--that buck should have been half roasted by this time. We shall never have dinner with your slow work. Look at that, M'Alpine, there is something to make your mouth water--an inch and a half of fat on the very ridge of the back. Give over your prisoners to the camp major--he will take care of them: and, hark you, captain," he added, beckoning his comrade aside, "if you choose, as you seem to think well of this Major Butler, you may bring him in to dinner presently, with my compliments. Now, away--I must to business." The prisoners were conducted to a separate building, where they were put in charge of an officer, who performed the duties of provost-marshal over some twenty or more Whigs that had been captured in the late excursions of the Tories, and brought into camp for safe keeping. The place of their confinement was narrow and uncomfortable, and Butler was soon made aware that in the exchange of his prison at Musgrove's mill for his present one, he had made an unprofitable venture. His condition with Ferguson, however, was alleviated by the constantly-exciting hope that the events which were immediately in prospect might, by the chances of war, redound to his advantage. In this situation Butler remained for several days. For although Ferguson found it necessary to keep in almost constant motion, with a view to hover about the supposed direction of Clarke's retreat, and, conformably to this purpose, to advance into South Carolina, and again to fall back towards his present position, yet he had established a guard at Gilbert-town which, during all these operations, remained stationary with the prisoners, apparently waiting some fit opportunity to march them off to Cornwallis's army, that was now making its way northwards. That opportunity did not present itself. The communications between this post and the commander-in-chief were, by a fatal error, neglected; and in a short time from the date of the present events, as will be seen in the sequel, a web was woven which was strong enough to ensnare and bind up the limbs of the giant who had, during the last five months, erected and maintained the Tory Ascendency in Carolina. CHAPTER LI. MILDRED TURNS HER STEPS HOMEWARDS. I have seen a generous and brave boy defied to some enterprise of terror,--such as, peradventure, to clamber in the dark night, alone, up many a winding bout of stair-case to the garret,--and he has undertaken the achievement, although sore afraid of goblins, and gone forth upon his adventure with a lusty step and with a bold tardiness, whistling or singing on his way--his eyes and ears all the time fearfully open to all household sights and sounds, now magnified out of their natural proportions; and when he had reached the furthest term of his travel, I have known him to turn quickly about and come down three steps at a leap, feeling all the way as if some spectre tracked his flight and hung upon his rear. Calling up such a venture to my mind, I am enabled, by comparison with the speed and anxiety of the boy, to show my reader with what emotions Mildred, her mission being done, now turned herself upon her homeward route. The excitement occasioned by her knowledge of the critical circumstances of Butler, and the pain she had suffered in the belief that upon the courageous performance of her duty depended even his life, had nerved her resolution to the perilous and hardy exploit in which we have seen her. But now, when matters had taken such a suddenly auspicious turn, and she was assured of her lover's safety, not even the abrupt joy which poured in upon her heart was sufficient to stifle her sense of uneasiness at her present exposed condition, and she eagerly prepared to betake herself back to the Dove Cote. The scenes around her had wrought upon her nerves; and, although she was singularly fortunate in the courtesy which she had experienced from all into whose hands she had fallen, yet the rude licentiousness of the camp, and the revolting acts of barbarity which were ever present to her observation, appalled and distressed her. Besides, she now saw the fixed purpose with which Cornwallis was preparing to march forward in his course of invasion, and thought with alarm upon the probable event of soon having the theatre of war transferred to the neighborhood of her native woods. Robinson's advice seconded her own alacrity. It was to hasten, with all despatch, in advance of the invading army; and as this body was now about taking up its line of march, no time was to be lost. Accordingly, but a brief delay took place after Cornwallis and his suite had departed from head-quarters, before our party set forward, accompanied by the small guard of cavalry that had been ordered to attend them. The troops were just wheeling into column on the ground where they had been lately reviewed, when Mildred and her attendants galloped past, and took the high road leading to the town of Charlotte, in North Carolina, towards which it was understood the invaders were about to direct their journey. In less than an hour afterwards they had left behind them the line of baggage wagons and the small military parties of the vanguard, and found themselves rapidly hastening towards a district occupied by the friends of independence. The sergeant had now occasion for his utmost circumspection. In pursuing the destined route of the invasion, he had reason to expect an early encounter with some of the many corps of observation, which the opposite party were certain to put upon the duty of reporting the approach of their enemy. And so it fell out; for, towards the middle of the day, whilst the travellers were quietly plying their journey through the forest, the discharge of a pistol announced the presence of a hostile body of men; and almost instantly afterwards a small handful of Whig cavalry were seen hovering upon the road, at the distance of some three or four hundred paces in front. Robinson no sooner recognised this squad than he took the lady's handkerchief and hoisted it on a rod, as a flag of truce, and, at the same moment, directed the escort to retreat, apprising them that their presence was no longer necessary, as he had now an opportunity to deliver his charge into the hands of friends. The British horsemen, accordingly, took their leave; and, in the next moment, Horse Shoe surrendered to a patrole, who announced themselves to be a part of the command of Colonel Davie, of the North Carolina militia--a gallant partisan, then well known to fame, and whose after exploits fill up no inconsiderable page of American history. It does not enter into the purpose of my story to detain my reader with a minute account of Mildred's homeward journey; but having now transferred her to the protection of a friendly banner, it will suffice to say that she arrived the same evening at Charlotte, where she spent the night in the midst of the active, warlike preparations which were in progress to receive Cornwallis. It was towards sunset on the following day, when, wearied with the toil of a long and rapid journey, our travellers arrived in front of a retired farm-house, on the road leading through the upper districts of North Carolina. The cultivation around this dwelling showed both good husbandry and a good soil, and there was an appearance of comfort and repose which was an unusual sight in a country so much alarmed and ravaged by war, as that over which the wayfarers had lately journeyed. The house stood some short distance apart from the road, and in the porch was seated an elderly man of a respectable appearance, to whom a young girl was, at this moment, administering a draught of water from a small, hooped, wooden vessel which she held in her hand. "I am parched with thirst," said Mildred, "pray get me some of that water." "The place looks so well, ma'am," replied the sergeant, "that I think we could not do better than make a stop here for the night. Good day, neighbor! What is the name of the river I see across yon field, and where mought we be, just at this time?" "It is the Yadkin," answered the man, "and this county, I believe, is Iredell--though I speak only by guess, for I am but a stranger in these parts." "The lady would be obligated," said Horse Shoe, "for a drop of that water; and, if it was agreeable, she mought likewise be pleased to put up here for the night." "The people of the house are kind and worthy," replied the old man, "and not likely to refuse a favor. Mary, take a cup to the lady." The girl obeyed; and, coming up to the party with the vessel in her hand, she suddenly started as her eye fell upon Horse Shoe, and her pale and wan countenance was seen bathed in tears. "Mr. Robinson!" she exclaimed, with a faltering voice; "you don't know me?--me, Mary Musgrove. Father, it is our friend, Horse Shoe Robinson!" Then placing the vessel upon the ground, she ran to the sergeant's side, as he sat upon his horse, and leaning her head against his saddle, she wept bitterly, sobbing out: "It is me, Mary Musgrove. John--our John--that you loved--he is dead--he is dead!" In an instant Allen Musgrove was at the gate, where he greeted the sergeant with the affection of an old friend. This recognition of the miller and his daughter at once confirmed the sergeant in his determination to end his day's journey at this spot. In a few moments Mildred and her companions were introduced into the farm-house, where they were heartily welcomed by the in-dwellers, consisting of a sturdy, cheerful tiller of the soil, and a motherly dame, whose brood of children around her showed her to be the mistress of the family. The scene that ensued after the party were seated in the house was, for some time, painfully affecting. Poor Mary, overcome by the associations called up to her mind at the sight of the sergeant, took a seat near him, and silently gazed in his face, visibly laboring under a strong desire to express her feelings in words, but at the same time stricken mute by the intensity of her emotions. After a long suspense, which was broken only by her sobs, she was enabled to utter a few disjointed sentences, in which she recalled to the sergeant the friendship that had existed between him and John Ramsay; and there was something peculiarly touching in the melancholy tone with which, in accordance with the habits inculcated by her religious education, and most probably in the words of her father's frequent admonitions, she attributed the calamity that had befallen her to the kindly chastisement of heaven, to endure which she devoutly, and with a sigh that showed the bitterness of her suffering, prayed for patience and submission. Allen Musgrove, at this juncture, interposed with some topics of consolation suitable to the complexion of the maiden's mind, and soon succeeded in drying up her tears, and restoring her, at least, to the possession of a tranquil and apparently a resigned spirit. When this was done, he gave a narrative of the events relating to the escape of Butler and his subsequent recapture at the funeral of John Ramsay, to which, it may be imagined, Mildred and Henry listened with the most absorbed attention. This tale of the recapture of Butler, so unexpected, and communicated at a moment when Mildred's heart beat high with the joyful hopes of speedily seeing her lover again in safety, now struck upon her ear with the alarm that seizes upon a voyager who, fearing no hidden reef or unknown shoal, hears the keel of his ship in mid ocean crash against a solid rock. It seemed at once to break down the illusion which she had cherished with such fond affection. For the remainder of the evening the intercourse of the party was anxious and thoughtful, and betrayed the unhappy impression which the intelligence just communicated had made upon the feelings of Mildred and her brother. Musgrove, after the travellers had been refreshed by food, and invigorated by the kind and hearty hospitality of the good man under whose roof they were sheltered, proceeded to give the sergeant a history of what had lately befallen in the neighborhood of the Ennoree. Some days after the escape of Butler, the miller's own family had drawn upon themselves the odium of the ruling authority. His mill and his habitation had been reduced to ashes by a party of Tories who had made an incursion into this district, with no other view than to wreak their vengeance against suspected persons. In the same inroad, the family of David Ramsay had once more been assailed, and all that was spared from the first conflagration was destroyed in the second. Many other houses through this region had met the same fate. The expedition had been conducted by Wemyss, who, it is said, carried in his pocket a list of dwellings to which the torch was to be applied, and who, on accomplishing each item of his diabolical mission--so still runs the tradition--would note the consummated work by striking out the memorandum from his tablets. In this general ravage, the desolated families fled like hunted game through the woods, and betook themselves with a disordered haste to the more friendly provinces northward. Musgrove had sent his wife and younger children, almost immediately after the assault upon him, to the care of a relative in Virginia, whither they had been conducted some days previous to the date of his present meeting with Horse Shoe by Christopher Shaw; whilst he and Mary had remained behind, for a short space, to render assistance to the family of Ramsay, to whom they felt themselves affined almost as closely as if the expected alliance by marriage had taken place. When this duty was discharged, and Ramsay's family were provided with a place of refuge, Musgrove had set forward with his daughter to rejoin his wife and children in their new asylum. It was upon this journey that they had now been accidentally overtaken by our travellers. The disclosure of the motives of Mildred's expedition to Mary and her father, as may be supposed, warmed up their feelings to a most affectionate sympathy in her troubles. They had often heard of Butler's attachment to a lady in Virginia, and were aware of her name, from the incidents that had occurred at the trial of Butler, and from the nature of Horse Shoe's mission to Virginia. Mary had nursed in her mind a fanciful and zealous interest in behalf of the lady who was supposed to have engrossed Butler's affections, from the earnest devotion which she had witnessed in his demeanor, first at Adair's, and often afterwards during his captivity. The effect of this preconceived favor now showed itself in her behavior to Mildred; and, in the gentle play which it gave to her kindly sentiments, a most happy change was wrought in her present feelings. She at once warmly and fervently attached herself to Mildred, and won her way into our lady's esteem by the most amiable assiduities. In these offices of love, the poignancy of her own grief began to give way to the natural sweetness of her temper, and they were observed, in the same degree, to enliven Mildred's feelings. Mary hung fondly about her new acquaintance, proffered her most minute attentions of comfort, spoke often of the generous qualities of Butler, and breathed many a sincere prayer for future happiness to him and those he loved. As Mildred pondered over the new aspect which the tidings of this evening had given to her condition, her inclination and duty both prompted her to the resolve to make an effort to join Butler, instead of returning to the Dove Cote. She was apprised by Musgrove that the prisoner had been conducted to Ferguson, who, she was told, was at this time stationed in the neighborhood of Gilbert-town, not a hundred miles from her present position. She had ventured far in his services, and she could not, now that she had so nearly approached him, consent to abandon the effort of reaching the spot of his captivity. She thought with alarm over the dangers that might await him in consequence of his previous escape, and this alarm was increased by her remembrance of the tone of bitter resentment with which Cornwallis, in a moment of unguarded feeling, had referred to the event in her late conference with that officer. Above all, it was her duty--such was her view of the matter--and whatever might befal, he was the lord of her heart, and all dangers and difficulties, now as heretofore, should be cast aside in her determination to administer to his safety or comfort. Her decision was made, and she so announced it to her companions. Neither the sergeant nor Henry made the opposition to this resolve that might have been expected. To Horse Shoe it was a matter of indifference upon what service he might be ordered; his thoughts ran in no other current than to obey the order, and make the most thrifty and careful provision for its safe execution. To Henry that was always a pleasant suggestion which was calculated to bring him more into the field of adventure. Allen Musgrove, on this occasion, added an opinion which rather favored the enterprise. "It was not much out of the way," he said, "to go as far as Burk Court House, where, at least, the lady was likely to learn something of the plans of Ferguson, and she might either wait there, or take such direction afterwards as her friends should advise." Mary begged that whatever route Mildred thought proper to pursue, she might be allowed to accompany her; and this request was so much to the liking of Mildred, that she earnestly implored the miller's consent to the plan. With some reluctance Musgrove acquiesced; and, feeling thus doubly interested in the fortunes of the party, he finally determined himself to attend them in their present enterprise. These matters being settled, the wearied travellers parted for the night, happy, at least, in having found the weight of their personal afflictions relieved by the cheerfulness with which the burden was divided. CHAPTER LII. SIGNS OF A GATHERING STORM.--MUSTER OF THE BACKWOODSMEN. In arms the huts and hamlets rise, From winding glen, from upland brown, They poured each hardy tenant down.--LADY OF THE LAKE. In gathering up the ends of our story, as we draw towards a conclusion, we are forced, after the fashion of a stirring drama, to a frequent change of scene. Accordingly, leaving Mildred and her friends to pursue their own way until we shall find leisure to look after their footsteps, we must introduce our reader to some new acquaintances, whose motions, it will be seen, are destined greatly to influence the interests of this history. The time was about the second of October, when a considerable body of troops were seen marching through that district which is situated between the Allegany mountain and the head waters of Catawba, in North Carolina. This force might have numbered perhaps something over one thousand men. Its organization and general aspect were sufficiently striking to entitle it to a particular description. It consisted almost entirely of cavalry; and a spectator might have seen in the rude, weather-beaten faces, and muscular forms of the soldiers, as well as in the simplicity of their equipments, a hastily-levied band of mountaineers, whose ordinary pursuits had been familiar with the arduous toils of Indian warfare and the active labors of the chase. They were, almost without exception, arrayed in the hunting shirt--a dress so dear to the recollections of the revolution, and which, it is much to be regretted, the foppery of modern times has been allowed to displace. Their weapons in but few instances were other than the long rifle and its accompanying hunting-knife. It was to be observed that this little army consisted of various corps, which were in general designated either by the color of the hunting-shirt, or by that of the fringe with which this cheap and simple uniform was somewhat ostentatiously garnished. Some few were clad in the plain, homespun working-dress of the time; and here and there, an officer might be recognised in the blue and buff cloth of the regular Continental army. The buck-tail, also, was an almost indispensable ornament of the cap, or usual round hat of the soldiers; and where this was wanting, its place was not unfrequently supplied by sprigs of green pine or holly, or other specimens of the common foliage of the country. The men were mounted on lean, shaggy, and travel-worn horses of every variety of size, shape, and color; and their baggage consisted of nothing more cumbersome than a light wallet attached to the rear of their saddles, or of a meagrely supplied pair of saddle-bags. The small party on foot were in no wise to be distinguished from the mounted men, except in the absence of horses, and in the mode of carrying their baggage, which was contained in knapsacks of deer-skin strapped to their shoulders. These moved over the ground with, perhaps, even more facility than the cavalry, and appeared in no degree to regret the toil of the march, which was so far the lighter to them, as they were exempt from the solicitude which their companions suffered of providing forage for their beasts. The officers in command of this party were young men, in whose general demeanor and bearing was to be seen that bold, enterprising, and hardy character, which at that period, even more than at present, distinguished the frontier population. The frequent expeditions against the savages, which the times had rendered familiar to them, as well as the service of the common war, in which they had all partaken, had impressed upon their exteriors the rugged lines of thoughtful soldiership. The troops now associated, consisted of distinct bodies of volunteers, who had each assembled under their own leaders, without the requisition of the government, entirely independent of each other, and more resembling the promiscuous meeting of hunters than a regularly-organized military corps. They had convened, about a week before the period at which I have presented them to my reader, at Wattauga, on the border of Tennessee, in pursuance of an invitation from Shelby, who was now one of the principal officers in command. He had himself embodied a force of between two and three hundred men, in his own district of the mountains; and Colonel Campbell, now also present, had repaired to the rendezvous with four hundred soldiers from the adjoining county in Virginia. These two had soon afterwards formed a junction with Colonels M'Dowell and Sevier, of North Carolina, who had thus augmented the joint force to the number which I have already mentioned as constituting the whole array. They had marched slowly and wearily from the mountains into the district of country which lay between the forks of Catawba, somewhere near to the present village of Morgantown--and might now be said to be rather hovering in the neighborhood of Ferguson, then advancing directly towards him. The force of the British partisan was, as yet, too formidable for the attack of these allies, and he was still in a position to make his way in safety to the main army under Cornwallis--at this time stationed at Charlotte, some seventy or eighty miles distant. It was both to gain increase of force, from certain auxiliaries who were yet expected to join them, as also, without exciting suspicion of their purpose, to attain a position from which Ferguson might more certainly be cut off from Cornwallis, that the mountain leaders lingered with such wily delay upon their march. Ferguson was all intent upon Clarke--little suspecting the power which could summon up, with such incredible alacrity, an army from the woods fit to dispute his passage through any path of the country; and, profiting by this confidence of the enemy, Shelby and his associates were preparing, by secret movements, to put themselves in readiness to spring upon their quarry at the most auspicious moment. In accordance with this plan, Colonel Williams, who yet preserved his encampment on the Fair Forest, was on the alert to act against the British leader, who still marched further south--at every step lengthening the distance between himself and his commander-in-chief, and so far favoring the views of his enemy. Shelby and his comrades only tarried until their numbers should be complete, designing as speedily as possible after that to form a junction with Williams, and at once enter upon an open and hot pursuit of their adversary. Their uncertainty in regard to the present condition of Clarke added greatly to their desire to strike, as early as possible, their meditated blow. This officer had, a few weeks before, commenced his retreat from Augusta through Ninety-Six, with some five hundred men, closely followed by Brown and Cruger, and threatened by the Indian tribes who inhabited the wilderness through which he journeyed. The perils and hardships of this retreat arose not only from the necessity Clarke was under to plunge into the inhospitable and almost unexplored wilderness of the Allegany, by a path which would effectually baffle his pursuers as well as escape the toils of Ferguson; but they were painfully enhanced by the incumbrance of a troop of women and children, who, having already felt the vengeance of the savages, and fearing its further cruelties, and the scarcely less ruthless hatred of the Tories, preferred to tempt the rigors of the mountain rather than remain in their own dwellings. It is said that these terrified and helpless fugitives amounted to somewhat above three hundred individuals. There were no incidents of the war of independence that more strikingly illustrated the heroism which grappled with the difficulties of that struggle at its gloomiest moment, than the patient and persevering gallantry of these brave wanderers and their confederates, whom we have seen lately assembled in arms. History has not yet conferred upon Clarke and his companions their merited tribute of renown. Some future chronicler will find in their exploits a captivating theme for his pen, when he tells the tale of their constancy, even in the midst of the nation's despair; until fortune, at length successfully wooed, rewarded their vigilance, bravery, and skill, by enabling them to subdue and destroy the Tory Ascendency in the south. The enemy, swarming in all the strong places, elate with recent victory, well provided with the muniments of war, high in hope and proud of heart, hunted these scattered, destitute, and slender bands, with a keenness of scent, swiftness of foot, and exasperation of temper, that can only be compared to the avidity of the bloodhound. This eagerness of pursuit was, for the present, directed against Clarke; and it is one of the most fortunate circumstances that belong to the events I have been relating, that this purpose of waylaying our gallant partisan so completely absorbed the attention of Ferguson, as to cause him to neglect the most ordinary precautions for securing himself against the reverses of the war. In this state of things, Shelby and his compatriots waited for the moment when they might direct their march immediately to the attack of the British soldier--their anxiety stimulated to a painful acuteness by the apprehension that Clarke might be overpowered by his enemies, or that Cornwallis might receive information of the gathering bands, and make a timely movement to reinforce or protect his outpost. It was in this moment of doubt and concern that we have chosen to present them in the course of our narrative. The troops had halted about the middle of the day, to take some refreshment. The ground they had chosen for this purpose was a narrow valley or glen, encompassed by steep hills, between which a transparent rivulet wound its way over a rough, stony bed. The margin of the stream was clothed with grass of the liveliest verdure, and a natural grove of huge forest trees covered the whole level space of the valley. The season was the most pleasant of the year, being at that period when, in the southern highlands, the hoar frost is first seen to sparkle on the spray at early dawn. The noon-tide sun, though not oppressively warm, was still sufficiently fervid to render the shade of the grove, and the cool mountain brook in the deep ravine, no unpleasant objects to wearied travellers. Here the whole of our little army were scattered through the wood; some intent upon refreshing their steeds in the running water, many seated beneath the trees discussing their own slender means, and not a few carelessly and idly loitering about the grounds in the enjoyment of the mere exemption from the constraint of discipline. The march of the troops on this day had not exceeded ten or twelve miles:--they might have been said to creep through the woods. Still, however, they had been in motion ever since the dawn of day; and as they measured the ground with their slow but ceaseless footfall, there was a silent disquiet and an eagerness of expectation, that were scarcely less fatiguing than more rapid and laborious operations. "Cleveland will certainly join us?" said Shelby, as, in the vacancy of the hour, he had fallen into company with his brother officers, who were now assembled on the margin of the brook. "It is time he were here. I am sick of this slow work. If we do not make our leap within the next two or three days, the game is lost." "Keep your temper, Isaac," replied Campbell, who, being somewhat older than his comrade, assumed the freedom indicated in this reply, and now laughed as he admonished the fretful soldier. "Keep your temper! Williams is below, and on the look-out; and most usefully employed in enticing Ferguson as far out of reach of my lord Buzzard, there at Charlotte, as we could wish him. Ben Cleveland will be with us all in good time: take my word for that. You forget that he had to muster his lads from Wilkes and Surry both." "And Brandon and Lacy are yet to join us," said M'Dowell. "Damn it, they should be here, man!" interrupted Shelby again; "I hate this creaking of my boots upon the soft grass, as if we had come to fish for gudgeons. I am for greasing our horses' heels and putting them to service." "You were always a hot-headed devil," interrupted Campbell again, "and have wasted more shoe-leather than discretion in this world, by at least ten to one. You are huntsman enough to know, Isaac, that it is sometimes well to steal round the game to get the wind of them. Your headlong haste would only do us harm." "You!" rejoined Shelby, with a laugh, excited by Campbell's face of good humor. "Verily, you are a pattern of sobriety and moderation yourself, to be preaching caution to us youngsters! All wisdom, forecast, and discretion, I suppose, have taken up their quarters in your wiry-haired noddle! How in the devil it came to pass, William, that yonder green and grey shirts should have trusted themselves with such a piece of prudence at their head, is more than I can guess." At this moment a soldier pressed forward into the circle of officers: "A letter for Colonel Shelby," he said, "brought by a trooper from Cleveland." "Ah, ha! This looks well," exclaimed Shelby, as he ran his eyes over the lines. "Cleveland is but ten miles behind, and desires us to wait his coming." "With how many men?" asked one of the party. "The rogue has forgotten to tell. I'll warrant, with all he could find." "With a good party, no doubt," interrupted Sevier. "I know the Whigs of Wilkes and Surry will not be backward." "From this despatch, gentlemen, I suppose we shall rest here for the night--what say you?" was the interrogatory proposed to the group by Shelby. The proposition was agreed to, and the several officers repaired to their commands. As soon as this order was communicated to the troops, everything assumed the bustle incident to the preparation of a temporary camp. Fires were kindled, the horses tethered, guards detailed, and shelters erected of green wood cut from the surrounding forest. In addition to this, a few cattle had been slaughtered from a small herd that had been driven in the rear of the march; and long before night came on, the scene presented a tolerably comfortable bivouac of light-hearted, laughing woodsmen, whose familiar habits at home had seasoned them to this forest-life, and gave to their present enterprise something of the zest of a pastime. In the first intervals of leisure, parties were seen setting out into the neighboring hills in pursuit of game; and when the hour of the evening meal arrived, good store of fat bucks and wild turkeys were not wanting to flavor a repast, to which a sauce better than the wit of man ever invented, was brought by every lusty feeder of the camp. At sundown, a long line of woodland cavalry, in all respects armed and equipped in the same fashion with those who already occupied the valley, were seen winding down the rugged road which led from the high grounds to the camp. At the first intimation of the approach of this body, the troops below were ordered out on parade, and the new-comers were received with all the military demonstrations of respect and joy usual at the meeting of friendly bodies of soldiers. Some dozen horns of the harshest tones, and with the most ear-piercing discord, kept up an incessant braying, until the alarmed echoes were startled from a thousand points amongst the hills. In spite of the commands of officers, straggling shots of salutation were fired, and loud greetings of individual acquaintances were exchanged from either ranks, as the approaching body filed across the whole front of the drawn-up line. When this ceremony was over, Colonel Cleveland rode up to the little group of officers who awaited his report, and, after a long and hearty welcome, announced his command to consist of three hundred and fifty stout hearts, ready and tried friends to the issues of the war. The force of the confederates, by this accession, now amounted to about fourteen hundred men. It became necessary, at this juncture, to give to these separate bands a more compact character, and with that view it was indispensable that the command of the whole should be committed to one of the present leaders. In the difficulty and delicacy of selecting an individual for this duty, the common opinion inclined to the propriety of submitting the appointment to General Gates. A messenger was accordingly despatched on that night, to repair to the American head-quarters at Hillsborough, to present this subject to the attention of the General. In the meantime, Shelby, whose claim, perhaps, to the honor of leading the expedition was most worthy of consideration, with that patriotic and noble postponement of self which occurs so frequently in the history of the men of the Revolution, himself suggested the expediency of conferring the command upon his friend Campbell, until the pleasure of Gates should be known. The suggestion was heartily adopted, and Colonel William Campbell was accordingly, from this moment, the chosen leader of our gallant and efficient little army. On the following day the troops were in motion at an early hour--designing to advance, with a steady pace, towards Gilbert-town, and thence on the track of the enemy across the border into South Carolina. In the course of the forenoon, the vanguard were met by a small body of horsemen, whose travel-worn plight and haggard aspects showed that they had lately been engaged in severe service. They were now in quest of the very party whom they had thus fortunately encountered upon the march; and it was with a lively demonstration of joy that they now rode with the officer of the guard into the presence of Campbell and his staff. Their report announced them to be Major Chandler and Captain Johnson, of Clarke's party, who, with thirty followers, had been despatched from the western side of the Allegany, to announce to the confederated troops the complete success of that officer's endeavor to reach the settlements on the Nolachuckie and Wattauga rivers. Their tidings were immediately communicated to the army; and the deep and earnest interest which officers and men took in this agreeable intelligence, was evinced in a spontaneous acclamation and cheering from one extremity of the column to the other. The messengers proceeded to narrate the particulars of their late hazardous expedition, and fully confirmed the most painful anticipations which the listeners had previously entertained of the difficulties, toils, and sufferings incident to the enterprise. Clarke's soldiers, they further reported, were too much disabled to be in condition immediately to recross the mountain and unite in the present movement against Ferguson; but that, as soon as they should find themselves recruited by needful rest, they would lose no time in repairing to the scene of action. Towards sunset of the succeeding day, our sturdy adventurers entered Gilbert-town. This post had been abandoned by Ferguson, and was now in the occupation of the two staunch Whig leaders, Brandon and Lacy, at the head of about three hundred men, who had repaired thither from the adjacent mountains of Rutherford, to await the arrival of Campbell and his friends. It was manifest that affairs were rapidly tending towards a crisis. Ferguson had hitherto appeared indifferent to the dangers that threatened him and his movements indicated either a fatal contempt for his adversary, or an ignorance of the extent of his embarrassments--each equally discreditable to the high renown which has been attributed to him for careful and bold soldiership. CHAPTER LIII. MILDRED MEETS AN AGREEABLE ADVENTURE. We left Mildred securely lodged with her new and kind-hearted friends, under the hospitable roof of the farmer, hard by the Yadkin. The reader has, doubtless, found reason in the course of this narrative to marvel much that a lady so delicately nurtured should, with so stout a spirit and with such singular devotion, have tempted so many dangers, and exposed herself to such unwonted hardships, for the sake of the man she loved. Perhaps, I might be able to clear up this matter, by referring to the extraordinary conjuncture of circumstances that surrounded her. It was no secret that she fervently, and with her whole heart,--yea even with a fanatical worship,--loved the man she sought. Her affection had been nursed in solitude, and, like a central fire, glowed with a fervid heat, unobserved at first, silent and steady: and by degrees her enthusiasm spread its coloring over the passion, and raised it into a fanciful but solemn self-dedication. This warmth of feeling might still have been witnessed only within her family precinct, had it not been that, at a most critical moment, when her father's absence from the Dove Cote left her without other resource than her own unaided counsel, she was made acquainted that her lover's life was in imminent peril, and that a word from her might perhaps avert his doom. We have seen with what anxious alacrity she set forth in that emergency upon her pilgrimage of duty; and how, as she became familiar with hardship and danger, her constancy and resolution still took a higher tone, growing more vigorous even with the impediments that lay across her path. This may seem strange to our peace-bred dames,--and little congruous with that feminine reserve and shrinkingness which we are wont to praise: but war, distress, and disaster work miracles in the female bosom, and render that virtuous and seemly, which ease and safety might repel. Nature is a wise and cunning charmer, and, in affliction, makes that forwardness not unlovely, which in tranquil and happy times she would visit with her censure. If these considerations do not suffice to explain the present movements of my heroine, I must beg my reader to have patience to the end, when, peradventure, he will find a still better reason. When morning came, Mildred was up with the first blush of light. Her thoughts had dwelt with a busy restlessness upon the late intelligence, and she had slept only in short and disturbed intervals. She was impatient to be again upon the road. Accordingly, as soon as the preparations for their journey could be made, our party, now increased by the addition of Musgrove and his daughter, set forward on their travel towards Burk Court House. This journey was protracted through several days. The disturbed state of the country, produced by the active hostilities which were now renewed, made it prudent for our wayfarers frequently to halt amongst the friendly inhabitants of the region through which they travelled, in order to obtain information, or wait for the passage of troops whose presence might have caused embarrassment. The considerate kindness of Allen Musgrove, and the unwearied attentions of Mary, who, softened by her own griefs, evinced a more touching sympathy for the sufferings of Mildred, every day increased the friendship which their present companionship had engendered, and greatly beguiled the road of its tediousness and discomfort. The journey, however, was not without its difficulties, nor altogether destitute of occurrences of interest to this history. The upper districts of North Carolina present to the eye a very beautiful country, diversified by mountain and valley, and gifted in general with a rich soil. Considerable portions of this region were consequently occupied and put into cultivation at an early period of the history of the province; and, at the era of the revolution, were noted as the most desirable positions for the support of the southern armies. This circumstance had drawn the war to that quarter, and had induced a frequent struggle to retain a footing there, by each party who came into possession of it. Such a state of things had now, as we have before remarked, embarrassed the progress of our friends, and had even compelled them to diverge largely from the direct route of their journey. It happened, a few days after leaving the Yadkin, that the hour of sunset found our little troop pursuing a road through the deep and gloomy forest, which, for several miles past, had been unrelieved by any appearance of human habitation. Neither Horse Shoe nor Allen Musgrove possessed any acquaintance with the region, beyond the knowledge that they were upon what was called the upper or mountain road that extended from Virginia entirely through this section of North Carolina; and that they could not be much more than fifteen or twenty miles north of Burk Court House. Where they should rest during the night that was now at hand, was a matter that depended entirely upon chance; and stimulated by the hope of encountering some woodland cabin, they persevered in riding forward, even when the fading twilight had so obscured their path as to make it a matter of some circumspection to pick their way. Thus the night stole upon them almost unawares. There is nothing so melancholy as the deep and lonely forest at night; and why it should be so I will not stop to inquire, but that melancholy, it seems to me, is enhanced by the chilliness of the autumnal evening. The imagination peoples the impenetrable depths of the wood with spectres, which the gibbering and shrill reptiles that inhabit these recesses seem to invest with a voice; the earth beneath the feet, carpeted with "the raven down of darkness," has an indefinite surface that causes the traveller to think of pitfalls and sudden banks, and fearful quagmires; and the grey light of the glow-worm, or the cold gleam of the rotten timber, shine up through the gloom, like some witch-taper from a haunted ground. Then, high above the head, the sombre forms of the trees nod in the night-wind, and the stars,--ineffectual to guide us on our way--are seen only in short and rapid glimpses through the foliage; all these things affect the mind with sadness, but the chattering of the teeth and the cold creep of the blood, rendered sluggish by a frosty atmosphere, make it still more sad. Mildred and Mary Musgrove experienced a full share of these imaginings, as they now rode in the dark, side by side; and, peradventure, an occasional expression of impatience might have been heard, in whispers, between them. By degrees this feeling extended to Henry, and, in due course of time, seemed also to have reached the sergeant and the miller; for these two, as if suddenly struck with the necessity of making some provision for the night, now came to a halt, with a view to inquire into the comfort of the weaker members of the troop, and to deliberate on what was best to be done. To make a fire, erect a tent, and resort to the contents of their havresacks for supper, were the only expedients which their situation afforded; and as these arrangements were but the customary incidents of travel, in the times to which we refer, they were now resolved upon with but little sense of inconvenience or hardship. It was proper, however, that the party should encamp in some position where they might have water, and, with that object, they continued to move forward until they should find themselves in the neighborhood of a running stream--an event that, from the nature of the country, was soon likely to occur. "There can be no moon to-night," said the sergeant, as they rode along in quest of their lodging-place, "yet yonder light would look as if she was rising. No, it can't be, for it is westward, as I judge, Allen." "It is westward," replied Musgrove, looking towards a faint light which brought the profile of the tree-tops into relief against the horizon. "There must be fire in the woods." The party rode on, all eyes being directed to the phenomenon pointed out by Horse Shoe. The light grew broader, and flung a lurid beam towards the zenith; and, as the travellers still came nearer, the radiance increased, and illuminated the summit of a hill, which, it was now apparent, lay between them and the light. "We must rest here for a while," said the sergeant, reining up his horse in a dark and narrow ravine; "the fire is just across this hill in front. It would be wise to reconnoitre a little; there may be travellers camping on the t'other side, or troops for aught we know; or it may be an old fire left by the last persons who passed. You, Allen Musgrove, stay here with the women, and I will ride forward to look into the matter." Henry accompanied the sergeant, and they both galloped up the hill. When they came to the top, a rich and strange prospect broke upon their sight. Some three or four hundred yards in advance, at the foot of the long slope of the hill, a huge volume of flame was discovered enveloping the entire trunk of a tall pine, and blazing forth with sudden flashes amongst the withered foliage. The radiance cast around from this gigantic torch penetrated the neighboring forest, and lit up the trees with a lustre more dazzling than that of day; whilst the strong shades brought into such immediate proximity with the sharp, red light, as it glanced upon every upright stem or trunk, gave a new and grotesque outline to the familiar objects of the wood. The glare fell upon the sward of the forest, and towards the rear upon a sheet of water, which showed the conflagration to have been kindled on the bank of some river. Not less conspicuous than the local features of the scene were the figures of a considerable party of soldiers passing to and fro in idle disarray through the region of the light, and a short distance from them a number of horses attached to the branches of the neighboring trees. Horse Shoe and his young companion stood gazing for some moments upon the spectacle, the sergeant in silent conjecture and perplexed thoughtfulness as to the character of the persons below, Henry intent only upon the novel and picturesque beauty of the view. The light shone directly up the road, and fell upon the persons of our two friends, a circumstance to which the sergeant seemed to give no heed, until Henry pointed out to him a horseman, from the direction of the fire, who was now advancing towards them. "Sergeant, turn back into the shade," cried Henry; "that man is coming after us." "Keep your ground," replied Horse Shoe; "he has no ill-will to us. He wears the dress of an honest man and a good soldier." "Who goes there?" called out the horseman, as he now came within speaking distance. "Stand and tell me who you are!" "Friends to the hunting-shirt and buck-tail," replied Robinson. "I am glad to hear you say so," rejoined the scout, as he advanced still nearer. "Where from, and in what direction do you travel?" "That should be William Scoresby's voice of the Amherst Rangers," shouted Henry, with animation; "as I live, it is the very man!" "Who have we here!" returned the horseman. "Henry Lindsay! our deputy corporal! Why, man, where did you spring from?" he added, in a tone of joyful surprise, as he offered Henry his hand. "Ho, sister Mildred--Mr. Musgrove!" exclaimed Henry, calling out at the top of his voice to his friends, who were waiting behind for intelligence. "Come up--come up! Here's good luck!" And with a continued vociferation, he galloped back until he met his sister, and conducted her to the top of the hill, whence, following the guidance of William Scoresby, the party descended to the bivouac of the Amherst Rangers. Henry eagerly sought out Stephen Foster, and, having brought him into the presence of Mildred, received from him a narrative of the course of events which had led to this fortunate meeting. The Rangers had marched from Virginia a few days after Mildred had left the Dove Cote. They had fallen in with Gates's shattered army at Hillsborough, where, after tarrying almost a fortnight, they were furnished an opportunity to take some active share in the operations of the day by the enterprise of Shelby against Ferguson, the knowledge of which had reached them at Gates's head-quarters, whither a messenger from Shelby had come to ask for aid. The Rangers had accordingly volunteered for this service, and, with the permission of the general, were now on their way towards Burk Court House, there hoping to receive intelligence that would enable them to join the allies. They had for some miles been marching along the same road taken by our travellers, not more than two hours ahead of them; and having reached the Catawba near sundown, had determined to encamp there for the night. The soldiers, unaccustomed to exact discipline, had, in sport, set fire to a tall pine which some accident of the storm had killed, and produced the conflagration that had lighted Horse Shoe and his charge to the scene of the present meeting. It may be imagined that this incident afforded great satisfaction to Mildred and her party, who were thus brought into connexion with a numerous body of friends, with whom they determined henceforth to pursue their journey. The first good result of this encounter was immediately experienced in the comfortable though rude accommodation which the prompt and united efforts of the Rangers supplied to Mildred and her friend, Mary Musgrove, in enabling them to pass a night of sound and healthful sleep. On the following day, the Rangers and their new companions arrived at Burk Court House. They were here made acquainted with the fact that the mountain troops were at this time moving towards Gilbert-town. They accordingly, after a night's rest, resumed their march, and by a toilsome journey through a rugged mountain district, succeeded on the third evening in reaching the little village which had but a short time since been the head-quarters of Ferguson and the spot of Arthur Butler's captivity. They were now in advance of Campbell and his mountaineers; and, in waiting for these troops, they were afforded leisure to recruit themselves from the effects of their late fatigues. Good quarters were obtained for Mildred and her companions. She required repose, and profited by the present opportunity to enjoy it. The village at this moment was full of troops. Brandon and Lacy, with their followers, whom we have referred to in the last chapter, were already there, in daily expectation of the arrival of the confederates; and amongst these men, Sergeant Robinson and his companion, the miller, found the means of relieving the tediousness of delay, to say nothing of Henry, who had now become so decidedly martial in his inclinations, that the camp was to him a scene of never-fading interest. In two days Campbell's army entered the village, after a march of which we have already given a sketch to our reader. It was a duty of early concern, on the part of Allen Musgrove and the sergeant, to apprise him of the presence of Mildred and her brother, and to communicate to him the singular purpose of her mission. The effect of this was a visit by Campbell, Shelby, and Williams, to the lady on the evening of their arrival. The two latter of these officers had already been personally active in the behalf of Arthur Butler, and all felt the liveliest interest in his fortunes. The singular relation in which Mildred seemed to stand to the captive officer and the extraordinary zeal which her present mission betrayed in his cause, drew forth a warm sympathy from the generous soldiers around her, and there was even a tincture of the romance of chivalry in the fervor with which, on the present visit, they pledged themselves to her service. With the delicacy that always belongs to honorable and brave hearts, they refrained from inquiry into the special inducements which could so earnestly enlist the lady in the service of their fellow-soldier, and sedulously strove to raise her spirits into a cheerful and happy tone by the hopes they were able to inspire. CHAPTER LIV. FERGUSON ADVANCES SOUTH.--HE HAS REASON TO BECOME CIRCUMSPECT.--ARTHUR BUTLER FINDS HIMSELF RETREATING FROM HIS FRIENDS. We return for a moment to look after Butler. As near as my information enables me to speak--for I wish to be accurate in dates--it was about the 23d of September when our hero arrived at Gilbert-town, and found himself committed to the custody of Ferguson. His situation, in many respects uncomfortable, was not altogether without circumstances to alleviate the rigor of captivity. Ferguson, though a rough soldier, and animated by a zealous partisanship in the royal cause which imbued his feelings with a deep hatred of the Whigs, was also a man of education, and of a disposition to respect the claims of a gentleman fully equal to himself in rank and consideration--even when these qualities were found in an enemy. His intercourse, of late, had been almost entirely confined to the wild spirits who inhabited the frontier, and who, impelled by untamed passions, were accustomed to plunge into every excess which the license of war enabled them to practise. He had, accordingly, adapted his behavior to the complexion of this population, and maintained his authority, both over his own recruits and such of the opposite party as had fallen into his hands, by a severe, and not unfrequently by even a cruel bearing. Following the example set him by Cornwallis himself, he had more than once executed summary vengeance upon the Whigs whom the chances of war had brought into his power; or, what was equally reprehensible, had allowed the Tory bands who had enlisted under his banner, to gratify their own thirst of blood in the most revolting barbarities. Towards Butler, however, he demeaned himself with more consideration--and sometimes even extended to him such little courtesies as might be indulged without risk to the principal purpose of his safe custody. A separate room was provided for the prisoner, and he was allowed the occasional services of Harry Winter and the other companions of his late misfortune. Still, the familiar scenes of suffering and death which Butler was constrained to witness amongst his compatriots, and the consciousness of his own inability to avert these calamities, greatly weighed upon his spirits. His persuasion, too, that Ferguson was now aiding, by what seemed to be a most effectual participation, in the plan for the capture of Clarke, and his belief that this blow would sadly afflict, if not altogether dishearten the friends of independence in the South, added to his private grief. He knew nothing of the mustering of the mountaineers, and saw no hope of extrication from the difficulties that threatened to overwhelm his cause. Such was the condition of Butler during the first four or five days of his captivity at Gilbert-town. At the end of this period, circumstances occurred to raise in his bosom the most lively excitement. Suddenly, an order was issued for the immediate movement of the army southwards--and the prisoners were directed to accompany the march. It was apparent that information of importance had been received, and that some decisive event was at hand. When, in pursuance of this command, the troops were marshalled for their journey, and Butler was stationed in the column, along with all the other prisoners of the post, he was startled to observe the dragoon, James Curry, appear in the ranks, as one regularly attached to the corps. Butler had seen nor heard nothing of this man since he had parted from him at Blackstock's after the battle of Musgrove's mill; and his conviction, that, acting under the control of some higher authority, this individual had been the principal agent in his present misfortunes, gave him a painful anxiety in regard to the future. This anxiety was far from being diminished, when he now discovered that the same person, with a party of dragoons, was specially intrusted with his guardianship. Winter and the other troopers who had, until this moment, been allowed to keep him company, were now directed to take a station amongst the common prisoners, and Butler was furnished with his horse, and commanded to submit to the particular supervision of the dragoon. These arrangements being made, the march of Ferguson commenced. The army moved cautiously towards the upper sections of the district of Ninety-Six. It was evident to Butler, from the frequent hints dropped in conversation by the royalist officers, that Ferguson supposed himself to be getting every moment nearer to Clarke. In this state of suspense and weariness the first day's march was concluded. The second was like the first. Ferguson still moved south, slowly, but steadily. Every man that was met upon the road was questioned by the commanding officer, to ascertain whether there was any report of troops westward. "Had any crossed Saluda--or been heard of towards the mountains!"--was an invariable interrogatory. None, that the person questioned knew of--was the common reply. "Tush! the devil's in it, that we can hear nothing of the fellow!" exclaimed Ferguson, after the fifth or sixth wayfarer had been examined. "Clarke and his beggars are flesh and blood--they travel by land, and not through the air! Faith, I begin to think Cruger has saved us trouble, and has got his hand on the runaway's croup! James Curry." The dragoon rode to the front and bowed. "You left Fort Ninety-Six only on Wednesday?" "I did." "Where was Cruger then?" "Marching towards Saluda, with Brown--following Clarke, as it was supposed--but on rather a cold scent as one of the couriers reported." "Humph! I must get still nearer to the mountains," said Ferguson, as he clenched his teeth and seemed absorbed in thought. In a short time after this, the column diverged from their former course by a road that led westward. Thus ended the second day. During the next two days, Ferguson had become manifestly more circumspect in his movement, and spent the greater portion of this interval upon a road which was said to extend from Ninety-Six, to the Allegany mountain. Here he remained, with the wariness of the tiger that prepares to spring upon his prey; and it was with a petulant temper that, after this anxious watch for forty-eight hours, he turned upon his heel and summoned his officers around him, and announced his determination to penetrate still further into the forest. Like a man perplexed and peevish with crosses, he soon changed his mind, and ordered a lieutenant of cavalry into his presence. "Take six of your best appointed men," he said, "and send one half of them up this road towards the mountains--the other half southwards--and command them not to stop until they bring me some news of this night-hawk, Clarke. Let them be trusty men that you can depend upon. I will wait but twenty-four hours for them. Meantime," he added, turning to another officer present, "I will send a courier after Cruger, who shall find him if he is above ground." The following day--which brings us to the third of October--a decisive change took place in the aspect of affairs. Before either of the scouts that had been lately despatched had returned, a countryman was brought into Ferguson's camp, who, being submitted to the usual minute examination, informed the questioners, that some thirty miles, in the direction of Fort Ninety-Six, he had met upon the road a large party of cavalry under the command of Colonel Williams--and that that officer had shown great anxiety to learn whether certain Whig troops had been seen near Gilbert-town. The informant added, that "Williams appeared to him to be strangely particular in his inquiries about Ferguson." This intelligence seemed suddenly to awaken the British partisan from a dream. He was now one hundred miles south of Cornwallis; and, both east and west of the line of communication between them, it was apparent that hostile parties were assembling, with a view to some united action against him. It struck him now, for the first time, that an enemy might be thrown between the main army at Charlotte and his detachment, and thus cause him some embarrassment in his retreat--but it was still with the scorn of a presumptuous soldier that he recurred to the possibility of his being forced to fight his way. "They are for turning the tables on me," he said, in a tone of derision, "and hope to pounce upon my back while I am taken up with this half-starved and long-legged fellow of the mountains, But I will show them who is master yet!" In this temper he commenced his retreat, which was conducted slowly and obstinately; and it may be supposed that Butler, as he involuntarily followed the fortunes of his enemy, contemplated these movements with an anxious interest. The common report of the camp made him acquainted with the circumstances which had recommended the retreat, and he, therefore, watched the course of events in momentary expectation of some incident of great importance to himself. At night Ferguson arrived at the Cowpens, just twenty-four hours in advance of his enemies. Whilst resting here he received intelligence of the stout array that had lately assembled at Gilbert-town, and which, he was now told, were in full pursuit of him. It was, at first, with an incredulous ear that he heard the report of the numbers of this suddenly-levied mountain-army. It seemed incredible that such a host could have been convened in such brief space and with such secret expedition; and even more unworthy of belief, that they could have been found in the wild and thinly-peopled regions of the Allegany. His doubt, however, yielded to his fear, and induced him to accelerate his pace. His first care was to despatch, on that night, a courier to Cornwallis, to inform the general of his situation and ask for reinforcements. The letter which bore this request is still extant, and will show that even in the difficult juncture in which we have presented the writer of it, his boastful confidence had not abandoned him. Before the succeeding dawn he was again in motion, directing his hasty march towards the Cherokee Ford of Broad river. This point he reached at sundown. His journey had been pursued, thus far, with unremitting industry. If his motions had corresponded to his affected disesteem of his enemy, he would here have halted for rest; but, like one who flies with the superstitious dread of a goblin follower, the retreating partisan looked over his shoulder with an unquiet spirit, and made a sign to his companions still to press forward. They crossed the river at night, and did not halt again until they had traversed some six or eight miles beyond the further bank. The anxiety, suspense, and eager expectation of Butler increased with these thickening demonstrations of the approach of a period which he foresaw must be decisive, not only of his own hopes, but, in a great degree, of the hopes of his country. The retreat of Ferguson towards King's Mountain, which now lay but a few miles in advance, was a visible and most striking type of the vanishing power which for a brief half-year had maintained its domination over the free spirits of the south, and which had aimed, by a cruel and bloody rule, to extinguish all that was generous and manly in these afflicted provinces. Contenting myself with this rapid survey of events which, of themselves, possess an interest that would, if time and space permitted me, have justified the detail of a volume, I go back to the regular current of my story. CHAPTER LV. THE WHIGS CONTINUE THEIR MARCH.--MILDRED IS LEFT BEHIND. The army of mountaineers halted at Gilbert-town only until a vidette from Williams brought tidings of Ferguson's late movements. These reached Campbell early in the day succeeding his arrival at the village, and apprised him that Williams followed on the footsteps of the British partisan, and would expect to unite his force with that of the allied volunteers at the Cowpens--(a field not yet distinguished in story)--whither he expected to arrive on the following day. Campbell determined, in consequence, to hasten to this quarter. The present position of Mildred, notwithstanding the kind sympathy with which every one regarded her, was one that wrought severely upon her feelings. She had heretofore encountered the hardships of her journey, and borne herself through the trials, so unaccustomed to her sex, with a spirit that had quailed before no obstacle. But now, finding herself in the train of an army just moving forth to meet its enemy, with all the vicissitudes and peril of battle in prospect, it was with a sinking of the heart she had not hitherto known, that she felt herself called upon to choose between the alternative of accompanying them in their march, or being left behind. To adopt the first resolve, she was painfully conscious would bring her to witness scenes, and perhaps endure privations, the very thought of which made her shudder; whilst, to remain at a distance from the theatre of events in which she was so deeply concerned, was a thought that suggested many anxious fears, not less intolerable than the untried sufferings of the campaign. She had, thus far, braved all dangers for the sake of being near to Butler; and now to hesitate or stay her step, when she had almost reached the very spot of his captivity, and when the fortunes of war might soon throw her into his actual presence, seemed to her like abandoning her duty at the most critical moment of trial. She was aware that he was in the camp of the enemy; that this enemy was likely to be overtaken and brought to combat; and it was with a magnified terror that she summoned up to her imagination the possible mischances which might befal Arthur Butler in the infliction of some summary act of vengeance provoked by the exasperation of conflict. "I have tempted the dangers of flood and storm for him--of forest and field--noon-day battle and midnight assault," she said, with an earnestness that showed she had shaken all doubts from her mind; "I have taken my vow of devotion to his safety--to be performed with such fidelity as befits the sacred bond between us. I will not blench now, in the last struggle, though perils thicken around me. I'm prepared for the worst." Allen Musgrove, Robinson, and Henry combated this resolve with joint expostulation, urging upon Mildred the propriety of her tarrying in the village, at least until the active operations of the army were terminated--an event that might be expected in a few days. But it was not until Campbell himself remonstrated with her against the indiscretion of her purpose, and promised to afford her the means of repairing to the scene of action at any moment she might think her presence there useful, that she relinquished her determination to accompany the army on its present expedition. It was, in consequence, ultimately arranged that she should remain in the quarters provided for her in Gilbert-town, attended by the miller and his daughter, whilst a few soldiers were to be detailed as a guard for her person. With this train of attendants, she was to be left at liberty to draw as near to the centre of events as her considerate and faithful counsellor, Allen Musgrove, might deem safe. Another source of uneasiness to her arose out of the separation which she was about to endure from the sergeant and her brother Henry. Horse Shoe, swayed by an irresistible and affectionate longing to be present at the expected passage of arms, which might so materially affect the fortunes of his captive fellow-soldier, Butler, had represented to Mildred the value of the services he might be able to render; and as the friendly solicitude of the miller and his daughter left nothing within their power to be supplied, towards the comfort and protection of the lady, she did not refuse her consent to this temporary desertion--although it naturally awakened some painful sense of bereavement, at a moment when her excited feelings most required the consolation of friends. Henry, captivated with the prospect of military adventure, and magnified in his own esteem by the importance which Stephen Foster and the Rangers playfully assigned to his position in the ranks, had so far lost sight of the special duty he had assumed, as his sister's companion, that he now resolutely rebelled against all attempts to persuade him to remain in the village; and Mildred, at last, upon the pledge of the sergeant to keep the cadet under his own eye, reluctantly yielded to a demand which she found it almost impossible to resist. These matters being settled, it was not long before Mildred and Mary Musgrove, seated at the window of the house which had been selected as their present abode, saw the long array of the army glide by at a brisk pace, and watched the careless and laughing faces of the soldiers, as they filed off through the only street in the village, and took the high road leading south. The troops had been gone for several hours, and Allen Musgrove and the few soldiers who had been left behind, had scattered themselves over the village, to get rid of the tedium of idleness in the gossip of the scant population which the place afforded. Mildred had retired to a chamber, and Mary loitered from place to place like one disturbed with care. All the party felt that deep sense of loneliness which is so acutely perceptible to those who suddenly change a life of toil and incident for one of rest, while events of busy interest are in expectation. "They are gone, ma'am," said Mary, as she now crept into Mildred's presence, after having travelled over nearly the whole village, in the state of disquietude I have described; "they are gone at least twenty miles, I should think, by this time; and I never would have believed that I could have cared so much about people I never saw before. But we are so lonesome, ma'am. And young Mister Henry Lindsay, I should say, must be getting tired by this time of day. As for the matter of that, people may get tireder by standing still than by going on." "How far do they march to-day?" inquired Mildred; "have you heard your father say, Mary?" "I heard him and the troopers who are here allow," replied the maiden, "that Colonel Campbell wouldn't reach Colonel Williams before to-morrow afternoon. They said it was good fifty miles' travel. They look like brave men--them that marched this morning, ma'am; for they went out with good heart. The Lord send that through Him they may be the means of deliverance to Major Butler!" At the mention of this name, Mildred covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled through her fingers. "The Lord send it!" she repeated, after a moment's pause. "May He, in his mercy, come to our aid!" Then uncovering her face, and dropping on her knees beside her chair, she whispered a prayer for the success of those who had lately marched forth against the enemy. When she arose from this posture, she went to the window, and there stood gazing out upon the quiet and unfrequented street, running over in her mind the perils to which her brother as well as Butler might be exposed, and summoning to her imagination the thousand subjects of solicitude, which her present state of painful expectation might be supposed to create or recall. "We will set forth early to-morrow," she said, addressing herself to her companion, "so tell your father, Mary. We will follow the brave friends who have left us: I cannot be content to linger behind them. I will sleep in the lowliest hovel, or in the common shelter of the woods, and share all the dangers of the march, rather than linger here in this dreadful state of doubt and silence. Tell your father to make his preparations for our departure to-morrow: tell him I cannot abide another day in this place." "I should think we might creep near them, ma'am," replied Mary, "near enough to see and hear what was going on--which is always a great satisfaction, and not get ourselves into trouble neither. I am sure my father would be very careful of us, and keep us out of harm's way, come what would. And it is distressing to be so far off, when you don't know what's going to turn up. I will seek my father--who I believe is over yonder with the troopers at the shop, talking to the blacksmith--I will go there and try to coax him to do your bidding. I know the troopers want it more than we do, and they'll say a word to help it along." "Say I desire to have it so, Mary. I can take no refusal. Here I will not stay longer." Mary left the apartment, and as she descended the steps, she fell into a rumination which arrested her progress full five minutes, during which she remained mute upon the stair-case. "No wonder the poor dear lady wishes to go!" was the ejaculation which came at last sorrowfully from her heart, with a long sigh, and at the same time tears began to flow: "no wonder she wants to be near Major Butler, who loves her past the telling of it. If John Ramsay was there," she added, sobbing, "I would have followed him--followed him--yes, if I died for it." CHAPTER LVI. AFFAIRS BEGIN TO DRAW TO A HEAD. PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE. A PICTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES. After leaving Gilbert-town, Campbell moved steadily toward the point at which he proposed to meet Williams, and by night-fall had accomplished about one half of the journey. The march furnished Henry Lindsay unalloyed pleasure. Every incident belonging to it awakened the fancies which he had indulged in reference to military life, and he was delighted in the contemplation of this actual accomplishment of some of the many dreams of glory which his boyish romance had engendered at home. Besides, being a favorite of those in command, he was allowed to ride in the ranks whenever it suited his pleasure, and to amuse himself with what subject of interest the journey afforded; whilst, at the same time, he found his personal ease so much attended to as to leave him but little room to complain of the discomfort or toil of the campaign. The night was spent in the woods, and it was scarcely daybreak, when the exhilarating though harsh clamor of the horns summoned the troops to the renewal of their journey, which was pursued until the afternoon, when, about four o'clock, they reached the border of the tract of country known as the Cowpens. Afar off, occupying a piece of elevated ground, Campbell was enabled to descry a considerable body of cavalry, whose standard, dress, and equipment, even at this distance, sufficiently made known to him their friendly character,--a fact that was immediately afterwards confirmed by the report of some videttes, who had been stationed upon the road by which Campbell advanced. A brief interval brought the two parties together, and the force of the allied bands was thus augmented by the addition of our gallant friend Williams, at the head of four hundred sturdy companions. "Make a short speech of it," said Shelby, addressing Williams, after that officer had ridden into the circle of his comrades, and had exchanged with them a friendly greeting, "you have been busy, fellow-soldier, whilst we were waiting to see the grass grow. What has become of the runaway?" "He left this spot but yesterday," replied Williams; "Ferguson has something of the bull-dog in him: his retreat, now that he is forced to it, is surly and slow; he stops to snarl and growl as if he defied us to follow him. If he had but stood his ground here, we should have had him in as pretty a field as one might desire. Devil thank him for his prudence! But he is now at the Cherokee Ford of Broad river--so I conjecture, by the report of my scouts--hard upon thirty miles from here, on his way towards Charlotte." "Say you so?" exclaimed Campbell; "then, by my faith, we have no time to lose! Gentlemen, we will rest but an hour, and then to it, for a night march. Pick me out your best men and stoutest horses; leave the footmen behind, and the weakest of the cavalry. This fellow may take it into his head to show his heels. If I can but tread upon the tail of the copperhead with one foot, he will throw himself into his coil for fight,--that's the nature of the beast,--and after that, if need be, we can threaten him until all our force arrives. Shelby, look to the immediate execution of this order." "That's glorious, sergeant," said Henry, who, with his companion, Robinson, had stolen up to the skirts of the circle of officers during this conference, and had heard Campbell's order. "I am of this party, whoever goes. Colonel Campbell," he added, with the familiarity of his privilege, "the Rangers are ready for you, at any rate." "There's a mettlesome colt," said Campbell, laughing and speaking to the officers around him, "that bird shows fight before his spurs are grown. Pray, sir," he continued, addressing Henry, "what command have you?" "I consider myself answerable for the second platoon of the Amherst Rangers," replied Henry, with a waggish sauciness, "and they march this night, whatever happens." "You shall serve with me in the staff, master," said Campbell, playfully, "such fiery young blades must be looked after. Get your men ready; you shall go, I promise you." Henry, delighted at the notice he had received, rode off with alacrity to spread the news. The council broke up, and the earliest arrangements were set on foot to make the draught required by the general orders. Before the day had departed, nine hundred picked men, well mounted and equipped, were seen spurring forward from the line, and taking a position in the column of march, which was now prepared to move. All the principal officers of the army accompanied this detachment, in which were to be seen the Amherst Rangers with their redoubtable recruits, Henry Lindsay and the sergeant. It rained during the night, a circumstance that, however it increased the toils of the soldiers, but little abated their speed--and, an hour before daybreak, they had reached the destined point on Broad river: but the game had disappeared. Ferguson, as we have seen, had pushed his march on the preceding evening beyond this spot, and had taken the road, as it was reported, towards King's mountain, which was not above twelve miles distant. A few hours were given by Campbell to the refreshment of his troops, who halted upon the bank of the river, where, having kindled their fires and opened their wallets, they soon found themselves in a condition that pleasantly contrasted with the discomforts of their ride during the night. The enemy consisted principally of infantry--and Campbell, having gained so closely upon their footsteps, felt no doubt of overtaking them in the course of the day. He, therefore, determined to allow his men full time to recruit their strength for the approaching conflict. The rain had ceased before the dawn. The clouds had fled from the firmament before a brisk and enlivening autumnal breeze, and the sun rose with unusual splendor. It was one of those days which belong to October, clear, cool, and exhilarating--when all animal nature seems to be invigorated by breathing an atmosphere of buoyant health. For more than an hour after the sun had cast his broad beams over the landscape, the wearied encampment was seen stretched in slumber--the camp-guards only, and some occasional parties on fatigue service, were to be observed in motion. By degrees, the drowsy soldiers woke up, refreshed by the change of weather, no less than by the repose which they had snatched in the short moments of the halt. A general summons, at last, brought every one into motion. By nine o'clock of the morning, the army were in condition to prosecute their march, as little wanting in alacrity or vigor as when they first commenced their labors; and, at the hour designated, they were seen to prick forth upon their way with an elastic movement that had in it the vivacity of a holiday sport. Even our young martialist, Henry, had become so inured to the toils of the road, that now, with the aid of a sleep which Horse Shoe had affectionately guarded until the last moment--to say nothing of a good luncheon of broiled venison, which the boy discussed after he had mounted into his saddle--he might be considered the most light-hearted of the host. Towards noon, the army reached the neighborhood of King's mountain. The scouts and parties of the advance had brought information that Ferguson had turned aside from his direct road, and taken post upon this eminence, where, it was evident, he meant to await the attack of his enemy. Campbell, therefore, lost no time in pushing forward, and was soon rewarded with a view of the object of his pursuit. Some two or three miles distant, where an opening through the forest first gave him a sight of the mass of highland, he could indistinctly discern the array of the adverse army perched on the very summit of the hill. The mountain consists of an elongated ridge, rising out of the bosom of an uneven country, to the height of perhaps five hundred feet, and presenting a level line of summit or crest, from which the earth slopes down, at its southward termination and on each side, by an easy descent; whilst northward, it is detached from highlands of inferior elevation by a rugged valley--thus giving it the character of an insulated promontory, not exceeding half a mile in length. At the period to which our story refers, it was covered, except in a few patches of barren field or broken ground, with a growth of heavy timber, which was so far free from underwood as in no great degree to embarrass the passage of horsemen; and through this growth the eye might distinguish, at a considerable distance, the occasional masses of grey rock that were scattered in huge boulders over its summit and sides. The adjacent region, lying south from the mountain, was partially cleared and in cultivation, presenting a limited range of open ground, over which the march of Campbell might have been revealed in frequent glimpses to the British partisan, for some three or four miles. We may suppose, therefore, that the two antagonists watched each other, during the advance of the approaching army across this district, with emotions of various and deep interest. Campbell drew at length into a ravine which, bounded by low and short hills, and shaded by detached portions of the forest, partly concealed his troops from the view of the enemy, who was now not more than half a mile distant. The gorge of this dell or narrow valley opened immediately towards the southern termination of the mountain; and the column halted a short distance within, where a bare knoll, or round, low hill, crowned with rock, jutted abruptly over the road, and constituted the only impediment that prevented each party from inspecting the array of his opponent. It was an hour after noon, and the present halt was improved by the men in making ready for battle. Meanwhile, the chief officers met together in front, and employed their time in surveying the localities of the ground upon which they were soon to be brought to action. The knoll, I have described, furnished a favorable position for this observation, and thither they had already repaired. I turn from the graver and more important matters which may be supposed to have occupied the thoughts of the leaders, as they were grouped together on the broad rock, to a subject which was, at this moment, brought to their notice by the unexpected appearance of two females on horseback, on the road, a full half mile in the rear of the army, and who were now approaching at a steady pace. They were attended by a man who, even thus far off, showed the sedateness of age; and, a short space behind them, rode a few files of troopers in military array. It was with mingled feelings of surprise and admiration at the courage which could have prompted her, at such a time, to visit the army, that the party recognised Mildred Lindsay and her attendants, in the approaching cavalcade. These emotions were expressed by them in the rough and hearty phrase of their habitual and familiar intercourse. "Let me beg, gentlemen," said Campbell, interrupting them, "that you speak kindly and considerately of yonder lady. By my honor, I have never seen man or woman with a more devoted or braver heart. Poor girl!--she has nobly followed Butler through his afflictions, and taken her share of suffering with a spirit that should bring us all to shame. Horse Shoe Robinson, who has squired her to our camp, even from her father's house, speaks of a secret between her and our captive friend, that tells plainly enough to my mind of sworn faith and long-tried love. As men and soldiers, we should reverence it. Williams, look carefully to her comfort and safety. Go, man, at once, and meet her on the road. God grant that this day may bring an end to her grief!" Williams departed on his mission, and when he met the lady her brother and the sergeant were already in her train. Allen Musgrove explained the cause of this unlooked-for apparition. The party, in obedience to Mildred's urgent wish, and scarcely less to the content of all the others, had quitted their secluded position at Gilbert-town on the preceding morning; and learning in the course of the day from persons on the road, that Ferguson had moved northwards, the miller had taken a direction across the country which enabled him to intercept the army at its present post, with little more than half the travel which the circuitous route of the march had required. They had passed the night under a friendly roof some ten or twelve miles distant, and had overtaken their companions at the critical moment at which they have been introduced to view. At Mildred's request she was conducted into the presence of Campbell, who still retained his station on the knoll. A thoughtful and amiable deference was manifested towards her by the assembled soldiers, who received her with many kind and encouraging greetings. That air of perturbation and timidity which, in spite of all efforts at self-control, the novelty of her position and the consciousness of the dreadful scene at hand had thrown over her demeanor, gradually began to give way before the assurances and sympathy of her friends; and, at length, she became sufficiently self-possessed to look around her and mark the events that were in progress. The important moment of battle drew nigh, and the several leaders respectively took their leave of her, with an exhortation to be of good cheer, and to remain at her present post under the charge of her trusty companion, the miller, who was fully instructed by Campbell as to the course he should take for the lady's safety, in whatever emergency might arise. Here we leave her for a moment, whilst we cast a glance at the preparations for battle. It was three o'clock before these arrangements were completed. I have informed my reader that the mountain terminated immediately in front of the outlet from the narrow dell in which Campbell's army had halted, its breast protruding into the plain only some few hundred paces from the head of the column, whilst the valley, that forked both right and left, afforded an easy passage along the base on either side. Ferguson occupied the very summit, and now frowned upon his foe from the midst of a host confident in the strength of their position, and exasperated by the pursuit which had driven them into this fastness. Campbell resolved to assail this post by a spirited attack, at the same moment, in front and on the two flanks. With this intent his army was divided into three equal parts. The centre was reserved to himself and Shelby; the right was assigned to Sevier and M'Dowell; the left to Cleveland and Williams. These two latter parties were to repair to their respective sides of the mountain, and the whole were to make the onset by scaling the heights as nearly as possible at the same instant. The men, before they marched out of the ravine, had dismounted and picqueted their horses under the winding shelter of the hills; and, being now separated into detached columns formed in solid order, they were put in motion to reach their allotted posts. The Amherst Rangers were retained on horseback for such duty as might require speed, and were stationed close in the rear of Campbell's own division, which now merely marched from behind the shelter of the knoll and halted in the view of the enemy, until sufficient delay should be afforded to the flanking divisions to attain their ground. Mildred, attended by Allen Musgrove and his daughter, still maintained her position on the knoll, and from this height surveyed the preparations for combat with a beating heart. The scene within her view was one of intense occupation. The air of stern resolve that sat upon every brow; the silent but onward movement of the masses of men advancing to conflict; the few brief and quick words of command that fell from the distance upon her ear; the sullen beat of the hoof upon the sod, as an occasional horseman sped to and fro between the more remote bodies and the centre division, which yet stood in compact phalanx immediately below her at the foot of the hill; then the breathless anxiety of her companions near at hand, and the short note of dread, and almost terror, that now and then escaped from the lips of Mary Musgrove, as the maiden looked eagerly and fearfully abroad over the plain; all these incidents wrought upon her feelings and caused her to tremble. Yet, amidst these novel emotions, she was not insensible to a certain lively and even pleasant interest, arising out of the picturesque character of the spectacle. The gay sunshine striking aslant these moving battalions, lighting up their fringed and many-colored hunting-shirts, and casting a golden hue upon their brown and weather-beaten faces, brought out into warm relief the chief characteristics of this peculiar woodland army. And Mildred sometimes forgot her fears in the fleeting inspiration of the sight, as she watched the progress of an advancing column--at one time moving in close ranks, with the serried thicket of rifles above their heads, and at another deploying into files to pass some narrow path, along which, with trailed arms and bodies bent, they sped with the pace of hunters beating the hill-side for game. The tattered and service-stricken banner that shook its folds in the wind above these detached bodies, likewise lent its charm of association to the field the silence and steadfastness of the array in which it was borne, and its constant onward motion; showing it to be encircled by strong arms and stout hearts. Turning from these, the lady's eye was raised, with a less joyous glance, towards the position of the enemy. On the most prominent point of the mountain's crest she could descry the standard of England fluttering above a concentrated body, whose scarlet uniforms, as the sun glanced upon them through the forest, showed that here Ferguson had posted his corps of regulars, and held them ready to meet the attack of the centre division of the assailants; whilst the glittering of bayonets amidst the dark foliage, at intervals, rearward along the line of the summit, indicated that heavy detachments were stationed in this quarter to guard the flanks. The marching and countermarching of the frequent corps, from various positions on the summit; the speeding of officers on horseback, and the occasional movement of small squadrons of dragoons, who were at one moment seen struggling along the sides of the mountain, and, at another, descending towards the base or returning to the summit, disclosed the earnestness and activity of the preparation with which a courageous soldier may be supposed to make ready for his foe. It was with a look of sorrowful concern which brought tears into her eyes, that Mildred gazed upon this host, and strained her vision in the vain endeavor to catch some evidences of the presence of Arthur Butler. "We both look, perchance," she said to herself, "at this very instant, upon yon hateful banner--and with the same aversion: but oh, with what more painful apprehension it is my fortune to behold it! Little does he think that Mildred's eyes are turned upon it. 'Tis well he does not--his noble heart would chafe itself with ten-fold anguish at the cruel thraldom that separates us. Yes, 'tis well he does not dream that his Mildred is here to witness this dreadful struggle," she continued, musing over the subject of her grief, "it might tempt him to some rash endeavor to break his bondage. It is better as it is; the misery of the thought of our afflictions should be mine only; the brave patience of a manly soldier is his, and should not be embittered with sorrows that belong not to the perils of war." "Sister," said Henry, who had stolen up the hill unobserved, and now stood beside Mildred, "take courage and keep a good heart! The very day I often prayed to see has come--and it has come sooner than you promised it should. Here I am in the field, amongst men, and no play-game is it, either, to keep us busy, but downright earnest battle. And then, dear sister, you are here to look on--isn't that a piece of good luck?" "Ah, brother, I could talk to you with a boastful tongue when all around us was peace and security. I cannot exhort you now. If I dare, I would beg you to stay by my side. I have need of your comfort, and shudder with a chilly fear. Henry, that small hand of yours can do no service to-day--and in truth, I cannot bear to see you exposed to danger." "In tears, sister! Come now, this is not like you. Hasn't Arthur fought many a day and often? And didn't you set him on, with good brave words for it?" "I was not there to see him," interrupted Mildred. "Well, sister, I must get to my post," said Henry. "I serve as aide-de-camp, and Horse Shoe is to help me. By-the-by, Mildred, the sergeant is uncommonly silent and busy to-day. He smells this battle like an old soldier, and I heard him give a few hints to Campbell, concerning the marching up yonder hill:--he told him the column should not display until they got near the top, as Ferguson has no cannon; and the Colonel took it very gladly. Horse Shoe, moreover, thinks we will beat them--and the men have great dependence on what he says. I shall not lose sight of him to-day." "For Heaven's sake, Henry," exclaimed Mildred, "my dear brother, do not think of following the sergeant! I cannot part with you," she added, with great earnestness; "it is an awful time for brother and sister to separate--stay with me." The cadet turned a look upon his sister of surprise, at the new light in which her present fears represented her. "I thought, Mildred," he said, "you were brave. Hav'n't we come all this way from home to assist Butler? And are you now, for the first time--just when we are going to pluck him from the midst of the wolves upon that mountain--are you now to weep and play the coward, sister?" "Go, go!" said Mildred, as she covered her eyes with her hand, "but, dear Henry, remember you have a weak arm and a slender frame, and are not expected to take upon you the duties of a man." "Besides," said Mary Musgrove, who had been a silent and perplexed witness of this scene, and who now put in her word of counsel, out of the fulness of her heart, "besides, Mister Henry Lindsay, what trouble would it give to Sergeant Robinson, and all the rest of them, if you should get lost scampering about the hills, and they shouldn't know where to find you? It would take up so much of their precious time in looking for you: and, I am sure, they hav'n't much to spare!" "You are as valiant as a mouse," replied Henry, laughing, "and monstrous wise, Mary Musgrove. Do you take care of my sister, and speak a word now and then to keep up her spirits--that is, if your tongue doesn't grow too thick with fright. Your teeth chatter now. A kiss, Mildred. There: God bless you! I must get to my post." With these words, Henry bounded off towards the valley to rejoin his comrades. Half way, he met Allen Musgrove, who was now on his return to the top of the hill, whence he had withdrawn for a brief space to hold some converse with Robinson. "A word," said Allen to Henry, as they met; "you are but a stripling. Remember that this day's work is to be wrought by men of might--those who are keen of eye and steady of foot. In the tempest of battle your weight, Mister Henry, would be but as a feather in the gale. Yet in this fight none might be crushed whose fall would bring more anguish than yours. Let me beg you, as a rash and thoughtless youth, to think of that. The good lady, your sister--" "I cannot stay to hear you," interrupted Henry; "the column is beginning to move." And in a moment he was at the foot of the hill. CHAPTER LVII. THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN. They closed full fast on every side, No slackness there was found And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. O dread! it was a grief to see, And likewise for to hear The cries of men lying in their gore And scattered here and there.--_Chevy Chase._ Every corps was now in motion, and the two flanking divisions were soon lost to view in the intervening forest. An incident of some interest to our story makes it necessary that we should, for a moment, follow the track of Cleveland in his march upon the left side of the mountain. The principal road of travel northwards extended along the valley on this side; and upon this road Cleveland and Williams conducted their men, until they arrived at a point sufficiently remote to enable them, by ascending the height, to place themselves in Ferguson's rear. They had just reached this point when they encountered a picquet of the enemy, which, after a few shots, retired hastily up the mountain. The little outpost had scarcely begun to give ground, before the leading companies of the Whigs had their attention drawn to the movements of a small party of horsemen who at that moment appeared in sight upon the road, some distance in advance. They were approaching the American column; and, as if taken by surprise at the appearance of this force, set spurs to their horses and made an effort to ride beyond the reach of Cleveland's fire, whilst they took a direction up the mountain towards Ferguson's stronghold. From the equipment of these individuals, it might have been inferred that they were two gentlemen of some distinction connected with the royal army, attended by their servants, and now about arriving, after a long journey, at the British camp. The first was habited in the uniform of an officer, was well mounted, and displayed a light and active figure, which appeared to advantage in the dexterous management of his horse. The second was a gentleman in a plain riding costume, of slender and well-knit proportions, and manifestly older than his companion. He rode a powerful and spirited horse, with a confidence and command not inferior to those of his associates. The others in attendance, from their position in the rear, and from the heavy portmanteaus that encumbered their saddles, we might have no difficulty in conjecturing to be menials in the service of the two first. The course taken by this party brought them obliquely across the range of the fire of the Whigs. "It is a general officer and his aide," exclaimed one of the subalterns in the advance. "Ho there! Stand. You are my prisoners!" "Spur, spur, and away! For God's sake, fly!" shouted the younger of the two horsemen to his companion, as he dashed the rowels into his steed and fled up the mountain. "Push for the top--one moment more and we are out of reach!" "Stop them, at all hazards!" vociferated Cleveland, the instant his eye fell upon them. "Quick, lads--level your pieces--they are messengers from Cornwallis. Rein up, or I fire!" he called aloud after the flying cavalcade. The appeal and the threat were unheeded. A score of men left the ranks and ran some distance up the mountain side, and their shots whistled through the forest after the fugitives. One of the attendants was seen to fall, and his horse to wheel round and run back, with a frightened pace, to the valley. The scarlet uniform of the younger horseman, conspicuous through the foliage some distance up the mountain, showed that he had escaped. His elder comrade, when the smoke cleared away, was seen also beyond the reach of Cleveland's fire; but his altered pace and his relaxed seat in his saddle, made it apparent that he had received some hurt. This was confirmed when, still nearer to the summit, the stranger was seen to fall upon his horse's neck, and thence to be lifted to the ground by three or four soldiers who had hastened to his relief. These incidents scarcely occupied more time in their performance than I have taken in the narrative; and all reflection upon them, for the present, was lost in the uproar and commotion of the bloody scene that succeeded. Meanwhile, Campbell and Shelby, each at the head of his men in the centre division of the army, steadily commenced the ascent of the mountain. A long interval ensued, in which nothing was heard but the tramp of the soldiers and a few words of almost whispered command, as they scaled the height; and it was not until they had nearly reached the summit that the first peal of battle broke upon the sleeping echoes of the mountain. Campbell here deployed into line, and his men strode briskly upwards until they had come within musket-shot of the British regulars, whose sharp and prolonged volleys, at this instant, suddenly burst forth from the crest of the hill. Peal after peal rattled along the mountain side, and volumes of smoke, silvered by the light of the sun, rolled over and enveloped the combatants. When the breeze had partially swept away this cloud, and opened glimpses of the battle behind it, the troops of Campbell were seen recoiling before an impetuous charge of the bayonet, in which Ferguson himself led the way. A sudden halt by the retreating Whigs, and a stern front steadfastly opposed to the foe, checked the ardor of his pursuit at an early moment, and, in turn, he was discovered retiring towards his original ground, hotly followed by the mountaineers. Again, the same vigorous onset from the royalists was repeated, and again the shaken bands of Campbell rallied and turned back the rush of battle towards the summit. At last, panting and spent with the severe encounter, both parties stood for a space eyeing each other with deadly rage, and waiting only to gather breath for the renewal of the strife. At this juncture, the distant firing heard from either flank furnished evidence that Sevier and Cleveland had both come in contact with the enemy. The uprising of smoke above the trees showed the seat of the combat to be below the summit on the mountain sides, and that the enemy had there half-way met his foe; whilst the shouts of the soldiers, alternating between the parties of either army, no less distinctly proclaimed the fact that, at these remote points, the field was disputed with bloody resolution and various success. It would overtask my poor faculty of description, to give my reader even a faint picture of this rugged battle-field. During the pause of the combatants of the centre, Campbell and Shelby were seen riding along the line, and by speech and gesture encouraging their soldiers to still more determined efforts. Little need was there for exhortation; rage seemed to have refreshed the strength of the men, who, with loud and fierce huzzas, rushed again to the encounter. They were met with a defiance not less eager than their own; and, for a time, the battle was again obscured under the thick haze engendered by the incessant discharges of fire-arms. From this gloom, a yell of triumph was sometimes heard, as momentary success inspired those who struggled within; and the frequent twinkle of polished steel glimmering through the murky atmosphere, and the occasional apparition of a speeding horseman, seen for an instant as he came into the clear light, told of the dreadful earnestness and zeal with which the unseen hosts had now joined in conflict. The impression of this contact was various. Parts of each force broke before their antagonists; and in those spots where the array of the fight might be discerned through the shade of the forest or the smoke of battle, both royalists and Whigs were found, at the same instant, to have driven back detached fragments of their opponents. Foemen were mingled hand to hand, through and among their adverse ranks; and for a time no conjecture might be indulged as to the side to which victory would turn. The flanking detachments seemed to have fallen into the same confusion, and might have been seen retreating and advancing upon the rough slopes of the mountain, in partisan bodies, separated from their lines; thus giving to the scene an air of bloody riot, more resembling the sudden insurrection of mutineers from the same ranks, than the orderly war of trained soldiers. Through the din and disorder of this fight, it is fit that I should take time to mark the wanderings of Galbraith Robinson, whose exploits this day would not ill deserve the pen of Froissart. The doughty sergeant had, for a time, retained his post in the ranks of the Amherst Rangers, and with them had travelled towards the mountain top, close in the rear of Campbell's line. But when the troops had recoiled before the frequent charges of the royalists, finding his station, at best, but that of an inactive spectator, he made no scruple of deserting his companions and trying his fortune on the field in such form of adventure as best suited his temper. With no other weapon than his customary rifle, he stood his ground when others retreated; and saw the ebb and flow of "flight and chase" swell round him, according to the varying destiny of the day. In these difficulties, it was his good fortune to escape unhurt; a piece of luck that may, perhaps, be attributed to the coolness with which he either galloped over an adversary or around him, as the emergency rendered most advisable. In the midst of this busy occupation, at a moment when one of the refluxes of battle brought him almost to the summit, he descried a small party of British dragoons, stationed some distance in the rear of Ferguson's line, whose detached position seemed to infer some duty unconnected with the general fight. In the midst of these, he thought he recognised the figure and dress of one familiar to his eye. The person thus singled out by the sergeant's glance stood bare-headed upon a projecting mass of rock, apparently looking with an eager gaze towards the distant combat. No sooner did the conjecture that this might be Arthur Butler flash across his thought, than he turned his steed back upon the path by which he had ascended, and rode with haste towards the Rangers. "Stephen Foster," he said, as he galloped up to the lieutenant, and drew his attention by a tap of the hand upon his shoulder, "I have business for you, man--you are but wasting your time here--pick me out a half-dozen of your best fellows and bring them with you after me. Quick--Stephen--quick!" The lieutenant of the Rangers collected the desired party and rode after the sergeant, who now conducted this handful of men with as much rapidity as the broken character of the ground allowed, by a circuit for a considerable distance along the right side of the mountain, until they reached the top. The point at which they gained the summit brought them between Ferguson's line and the dragoons, who, it was soon perceived, were the party charged with the custody of Butler, and who had been thus detached in the rear for the more safe guardianship of the prisoner. Horse Shoe's manoeuvre had completely cut them off from their friends in front, and they had no resource but to defend themselves against the threatened assault, or fly towards the parties who were at this moment engaged with the flanking divisions of the Whigs. They were taken by surprise--and Horse Shoe, perceiving the importance of an immediate attack, dashed onwards along the ridge of the mountain with precipitate speed, calling out to his companions to follow. In a moment the dragoons were engaged in a desperate pell-mell with the Rangers. "Upon them, Stephen! Upon them bravely, my lads! Huzza for Major Butler! Fling the major across your saddle--the first that reaches him," shouted the sergeant with a voice that was heard above all the uproar of battle. "What ho--James Curry!" he cried out, as soon as he detected the presence of his old acquaintance in this throng; "stand your ground, if you are a man!" The person to whom this challenge was directed had made an effort to escape towards a party of his friends, whom he was about summoning to his aid; and in the attempt had already ridden some distance into the wood, whither the sergeant had eagerly followed him. "Ah ha, old Truepenny, are you there?" exclaimed Curry, turning short upon his pursuer, and affecting to laugh as if in scorn. "Horse Shoe Robinson, well met!" he added sternly, "I have not seen a better sight to-day than that fool's head of yours upon this hill. No, not even when just now Patrick Ferguson sent your yelping curs back to hide themselves behind the trees." "Come on, James!" cried Horse Shoe, "I have no time to talk. We have an old reckoning to settle, which, perhaps, you mought remember. I am a man of my word; and, besides, I have set my eye upon Major Butler," he added, with a tone and look that were both impressed with the fierce passion of the scene around him. "The devil blast you, and Major Butler to boot!" exclaimed Curry, roused by Horse Shoe's air of defiance. "To it, bully! It shall be short work between us, and bloody," he shouted, as he discharged a pistol-shot at the sergeant's breast; which failing to take effect, he flung the weapon upon the ground, brandished his sword, and spurred immediately against his challenger. The sweep of the broadsword fell upon the barrel of Horse Shoe's uplifted rifle, and in the next instant the broad hand of our lusty yeoman had seized the trooper by the collar and dragged him from his horse. The two soldiers came to the ground, locked in a mutual embrace; and, for a brief moment, a desperate trial of strength was exhibited in the effort to gain their feet. "I have you there," said Robinson, as at length, with a flushed cheek, quick breath, and blood-shot eye, he rose from the earth and shook the dragoon from him, who fell backwards on his knee. "Curse you, James Curry, for a fool and villain! You almost drive me, against my will, to the taking of your life. I don't want your blood. You are beaten, man, and must say so. I grant you quarter upon condition--" "Look to yourself! I ask no terms from you," interrupted Curry, as suddenly springing to his feet, he now made a second pass, which was swung with such unexpected vigor at the head of his adversary, that Horse Shoe had barely time to catch the blow, as before, upon his rifle. The broadsword was broken by the stroke, and one of the fragments of the blade struck the sergeant upon the forehead, inflicting a wound that covered his face with blood. Horse Shoe reeled a step or two from his ground, and clubbing the rifle, as it is called, by grasping the barrel towards the muzzle, he paused but an instant to dash the blood from his brow with his hand, and then, with one lusty sweep, to which his sudden anger gave both precision and energy, he brought the piece full upon the head of his foe, with such fatal effect as to bury the lock in the trooper's brain, whilst the stock was shattered into splinters. Curry, almost without a groan, fell dead across a ledge of rock at his feet. "The grudge is done, and the fool has met his desarvings," was Horse Shoe's brief comment upon the event, as he gazed sullenly, for an instant, upon the dead corpse. He had no time to tarry. The rest of his party were still engaged with the troopers of the guard, who now struggled to preserve the custody of their prisoner. The bridle-rein of Captain Peter had been caught by one of the Rangers, and the good steed was now quickly delivered up to his master, who, flinging himself again into his saddle, rushed into the throng of combatants. The few dragoons, dispirited by the loss of their leader, and stricken with panic at this strenuous onset, turned to flight, leaving Butler in the midst of his friends. "God bless you, major!" shouted Robinson, as he rode up to his old comrade, who, unarmed, had looked upon the struggle with an interest corresponding to the stake he had in the event. "Up, man--here, spring across the pommel. Now, boys, down the mountain, for your lives! Huzza, huzza! we have won him back!" he exclaimed, as seizing Butler's arm, he lifted him upon the neck of Captain Peter, and bounded away at full speed towards the base of the mountain, followed by Foster and his party. The reader may imagine the poignancy of Mildred's emotions as she sat beside Allen Musgrove and his daughter on the knoll, and watched the busy and stirring scene before her. The centre division of the assailing army was immediately in her view, on the opposite face of the mountain, and no incident of the battle in this quarter escaped her notice. She could distinctly perceive the motions of the Amherst Rangers, to whom she turned her eyes with a frequent and eager glance, as the corps with which her brother Henry was associated; and when the various fortune of the fight disclosed to her the occasional retreat of her friends before the vigorous sallies of the enemy, or brought to her ear the renewed and angry volleys of musketry, she clenched Mary Musgrove's arm with a nervous grasp, and uttered short and anxious ejaculations that showed the terror of her mind. "I see Mister Henry, yet," said Mary, as Campbell's troops rallied from the last shock, and again moved towards the summit. "I see him plainly, ma'am--for I know his green dress, and caught the glitter of his brass bugle in the sun. And there now--all is smoke again. Mercy, how stubborn are these men! And there is Mister Henry once more--near the top. He is safe, ma'am." "How earnestly," said Mildred, unconsciously speaking aloud as she surveyed the scene, "Oh, how earnestly do I wish this battle was done! I would rather, Mr. Musgrove, be in the midst of yonder crowd of angry men, could I but have their recklessness, than here in safety, to be tortured with my present feelings." "In God is our trust, madam," replied the miller. "His arm is abroad over the dangerous paths, for a shield and buckler to them that put their trust in him. Ha! there is Ferguson's white horse, rushing, with a dangling rein and empty saddle, down the mountain, through Campbell's ranks: the rider has fallen; and there, madam--there, look on it!--is a white flag waving in the hands of a British officer. The fight is done. Hark, our friends are cheering with a loud voice!" "Thank Heaven--thank Heaven!" exclaimed Mildred as she sprang upon her feet; "It is even so!" The loud huzzas of the troops rose upon the air; the firing ceased; the flag of truce fluttered in the breeze, and the confederated bands of the mountaineers, from every quarter of the late battle, were seen hurrying towards the crest of the mountain, and mingling amongst the ranks of the conquered foe. Again and again, the clamorous cheering of the victors broke forth from the mountain-top, and echoed along the neighboring valleys. During this wild clamor and busy movement, a party of horsemen were seen, through the occasional intervals of the low wood that skirted the valley on the right, hastening from the field with an eager swiftness towards the spot where Mildred and her companions were stationed. As they swept along the base of the mountain, and approached the knoll, they were lost to view behind the projecting angles of the low hills that formed the ravine, through which, my reader is aware, the road held its course. When they re-appeared it was in ascending the abrupt acclivity of the knoll, and within fifty paces of the party on the top of it. It was now apparent that the approaching party consisted of Stephen Foster and three or four of the Rangers led by Horse Shoe Robinson, with Butler still seated before him, as when the sergeant first caught him up in the fight. These were at the same moment overtaken by Henry Lindsay, who had turned back from the mountain at the first announcement of victory, to bring the tidings to his sister. Mildred's cheek grew deadly pale, and her frame shook, as the cavalcade rushed into her presence. "There--take him!" cried Horse Shoe, with an effort to laugh, but which seemed to be half converted into a quaver by the agitation of his feelings, as, springing to the ground, he swung Butler from the horse, with scarce more effort than he would have used in handling a child; "take him, ma'am. I promised myself to-day, that I'd give him to you. And, now, you've got him. That's a good reward for all your troubles. God bless us--but I'm happy to-day!" "MY HUSBAND!--MY DEAR HUSBAND!" were the only articulate words that escaped Mildred's lips, as she fell senseless into the arms of Arthur Butler. CHAPTER LVIII. THE CONCLUSION. The victory was won. In the last assault, Campbell had reached the crest of the mountain, and the loyalists had given ground with decisive indications of defeat. Ferguson, in the hopeless effort to rally his soldiers, had flung himself into their van, but a bullet at this instant reached his heart; he fell from his seat, and his white horse, which had been conspicuous in the crowd of battle, bounded wildly through the ranks of the Whigs, and made his way down the mountain side. Campbell passed onward, driving the royalists before him. For a moment the discomfited bands hoped to join their comrades in the rear, and, by a united effort, to effect a retreat: but the parties led by Sevier and Cleveland, cheered by the shouts of their victorious companions, urged their attacks with new vigor, and won the hill in time to intercept the fugitives. All hopes of escape being thus at an end, a white flag was displayed in token of submission; and the remnant of Ferguson's late proud and boastful army, now amounting to between eight and nine hundred men, surrendered to the assailants. It has scarcely ever happened that a battle has been fought, in which the combatants met with keener individual exasperation than in this. The mortal hatred which embittered the feelings of Whig and Tory along this border, here vented itself in the eagerness of conflict, and gave the impulse to every blow that was struck--rendering the fight, from beginning to end, relentless, vindictive, and bloody. The remembrance of the thousand cruelties practised by the royalists during the brief Tory dominion to which my narrative has been confined, was fresh in the minds of the stern and hardy men of the mountains, who had pursued their foe with such fierce animosity to this his last stage. Every one had some wrong to tell, and burned with an unquenchable rage of revenge. It was, therefore, with a yell of triumph that they saw the symbol of submission raised aloft by the enemy; and for a space, the forest rang with their loud and reiterated huzzas. Many brave men fell on either side. Upon the slopes of the mountain and on its summit, the bodies of the dead and dying lay scattered amongst the rocks, and the feeble groans of the wounded mingled with the fierce tones of exultation from the living. The Whigs sustained a grievous loss in Colonel Williams, who had been struck down in the moment of victory. He was young, ardent, and brave; and his many soldier-like virtues, combined with a generous and amiable temper, had rendered him a cherished favorite with the army. His death served still more to increase the exacerbation of the conquerors against the conquered. The sun was yet an hour high when the battle was done. The Whigs were formed in two lines on the ridge of the mountain; and the prisoners, more numerous than their captors, having laid down their arms, were drawn up in detached columns on the intervening ground. There were many sullen and angry glances exchanged, during this period of suspense, between victors and vanquished; and it was with a fearful rankling of inward wrath, that many of the Whigs detected, in the columns of the prisoners, some of their bitterest persecutors. This spirit was partially suppressed in the busy occupation that followed. Preparations were directed to be made for the night-quarters of the army; and the whole host was, accordingly, ordered to march to the valley. The surgeons of each party were already fully employed in their vocation. The bodies of the wounded were strewed around; and, for the protection of such as were not in a condition to be moved, shelters were made of the boughs of trees, and fires kindled to guard them from the early frost of the season. All the rest retired slowly to the appointed encampment. Whilst Campbell was intent upon these cares, a messenger came to summon him to a scene of unexpected interest. He was informed that a gentleman, not attached to the army, had been dangerously wounded in the fight, and now lay at the further extremity of the mountain ridge. It was added that he earnestly desired an interview with the commanding officer. Campbell lost no time in attending to the request. Upon repairing to the spot, his attention was drawn to a stranger who lay upon the ground. His wan and haggard cheek, and restless eye, showed that he suffered acute pain; and the blood upon his cloak, which had been spread beneath him, indicated the wound to have been received in the side. A private soldier of the British army was his only attendant. To Campbell's solicitous and kind inquiry, he announced himself, in a voice that was almost over-mastered by his bodily anguish, to be Philip Lindsay, of Virginia. "You behold," he said, "an unhappy father in pursuit of his children." Then, after a pause, he continued, "My daughter Mildred, I have been told, is near me: I would see her, and quickly." "God have mercy on us!" exclaimed Campbell, "is this the father of the lady who has sought my protection? Wounded too, and badly, I fear! Where is Major Butler, who was lately prisoner with Ferguson?" he said, addressing the attendant--"Go, go, sir," he added, speaking to the same person, "bring me the first surgeon you can find, and direct some three or four men from the ranks to come to your aid. Lose no time." The soldier went instantly upon the errand, and soon returned with the desired assistance. Lindsay's wound had been already staunched, and all that remained to be done was to put him in some place of shelter and comfort. A cottage at the foot of the mountain was pointed out by Campbell; a litter was constructed, and the sick man was borne upon the shoulders of four attendants to the designated spot. Meantime, Campbell rode off to communicate the discovery he had made to Mildred and her brother. Lindsay's story, since we last parted from him, may be briefly told. He and Tyrrel had journeyed into the low country of Virginia, to meet the friends of the royal government. These had wavered, and were not to be brought together. A delay ensued, during which Tyrrel had prevailed upon Lindsay to extend his journey into North Carolina; whence, after an ineffectual effort to bring the Tory party to some decisive step, they both returned to the Dove Cote, having been nearly three weeks absent. Upon their arrival, the afflicting intelligence met Lindsay of the departure of Mildred and her brother for the seat of war, Mildred's letter was delivered to him; and its contents almost struck him dumb. It related the story of Arthur Butler's misfortunes, and announced, that, for nearly a year past, Mildred had been the wedded wife of the captive officer. The marriage had been solemnized in the preceding autumn, in a hasty moment, as Butler travelled south to join the army. The only witnesses were Mistress Dimock, under whose roof it had occurred, Henry Lindsay, and the clergyman. The motives that induced this marriage were explained: both Mildred and Arthur hoped, by this irremediable step, to reconcile Lindsay to the event, and to turn his mind from its unhappy broodings: the increased exasperation of his feelings, during the succeeding period, prevented the disclosure which Mildred had again and again essayed to make. The recent dangers which had beset Arthur Butler, had determined her to fly to his rescue. AS HIS WIFE she felt it to be her duty, and she had, accordingly, resolved to encounter the peril of the journey. For a day or two after the perusal of this letter, Lindsay fell into a deep melancholy. His presentiments seemed to have been fatally realized, and his hopes suddenly destroyed. From this despondency, Tyrrel's assiduous artifice aroused him. He proposed to Lindsay the pursuit of his children, in the hope of thus luring him into Cornwallis's camp, and connecting him with the fortunes of the war. The chances of life, he reasoned, were against Butler, if indeed, as Tyrrel had ground to hope, that officer were not already the victim of the snares that had been laid for him. Upon this advice, Lindsay had set out for Cornwallis's head-quarters, where he arrived within a week after the interview of Mildred and Henry with the British chief. Whilst he delayed here, he received the tidings that his daughter had abandoned her homeward journey, and turned aside in quest of Butler. This determined him to continue his pursuit. Tyrrel still accompanied him; and the two travellers having arrived at the moment of the attack upon King's mountain, Lindsay was persuaded by his companion to make the rash adventure which, we have already seen, had been the cause of his present misfortune. It is not my purpose to attempt a description of the scene in the cottage, where Arthur Butler and his wife, and Henry, first saw Lindsay stretched upon a rude pallet, and suffering the anguish of a dangerous wound. It is sufficient to say that, in the midst of the deep grief of the bystanders, Lindsay was composed and tranquil, like one who thought it vain to struggle with fate. "I have foreseen this day, and felt its coming," he muttered, in a low and broken voice; "it has happened as it was ordained. I have unwisely struggled against my doom. There, take it," he added, as he stretched forth his hand to Butler, and in tones scarcely audible breathed out, "God bless you, my children! I forgive you." During the night fever ensued, and with it came delirium. The patient acquired strength from his disease, and raved wildly, in a strain familiar to his waking superstition. The same vision of fate and destiny haunted his imagination; and he almost frightened his daughter from beside his couch, with the fervid eloquence of his madness. The cottage was situated near half a mile from the encampment of the army. Towards daylight, Lindsay had sunk into a slumber, and the attendant surgeon began to entertain hopes that the patient might successfully struggle with his malady. Mildred and Mary Musgrove kept watch in the apartment, whilst Butler, with Horse Shoe Robinson and Allen Musgrove, remained anxiously awake in the adjoining room. Henry Lindsay, wearied with the toils of the preceding day, and old Isaac the negro, not so much from the provocation of previous labor as from constitutional torpor, lay stretched in deep sleep upon the floor. Such was the state of things when, near sunrise, a distant murmur reached the ears of those who were awake in the cottage. These sounds attracted the notice of Horse Shoe, who immediately afterwards stole out of the apartment and repaired to the camp. During his walk thither the uproar became more distinct, and shouts were heard from a crowd of soldiers who were discovered in a confused and agitated mass in the valley, at some distance from the encampment. The sergeant hastened to this spot, and, upon his arrival, was struck with the shocking sight of the bodies of some eight or ten of the Tory prisoners suspended to the limbs of a large tree. The repose of the night had not allayed the thirst of revenge amongst the Whigs. On the contrary, the opportunity of conference and deliberation had only given a more fatal certainty to their purpose. The recent executions which had been permitted in Cornwallis's camp, after the battle of Camden, no less than the atrocities lately practised by some of the Tories who were now amongst the captured, suggested the idea of a signal retribution. The obnoxious individuals were dragged forth from their ranks at early dawn, and summary punishment was inflicted by the excited soldiery in the manner which we have described, in spite of all remonstrance or command. This dreadful work was still in progress when Horse Shoe arrived. The crowd were, at that moment, forcing along to the spot of execution a trembling wretch, whose gaunt form, crouching beneath the hands that held him, and pitiful supplications for mercy, announced him to the sergeant as an old acquaintance. The unfortunate man had caught a glance of Robinson, and, almost frantic with despair, sprang with a tiger's leap from the grasp of those who held him, and, in an instant, threw his arms around the sergeant's neck, where he clung with the hold of a drowning man. "Oh save me, save me, Horse Shoe Robinson!" he exclaimed wildly. "Friend Horse Shoe, save me!" "I am no friend of yours, Wat Adair," said Robinson, sternly. "Speak for me--Galbraith--speak, for old acquaintance sake!" "Hold!" said Robinson to the crowd who had gathered round to pluck the fugitive from his present refuge. "One word, friends! stand back, I have somewhat to say in this matter." "He gave Butler into Hugh Habershaw's hands," cried out some of the crowd. "He took the price of blood, and sold Butler's life for money--he shall die!" shouted others. "No words!" exclaimed many, "but up with him!" "Mr. Robinson," screamed Adair, with tears starting from his eyes, "only hear me! I was forced to take sides against Major Butler. The Tories would have burnt down my house; they suspected me,--I was obliged,--Mike Lynch was witness,--mercy, mercy!" and here the frightened culprit cried loud and bitterly. "Friends," said Horse Shoe calmly to the multitude, "there is better game to hunt than this mountain-cat. Let me have my way." "None has a better right than Horse Shoe Robinson," said a speaker from the group, "to say what ought to be done to Wat Adair. Speak out, Horse Shoe!" "Speak! We leave it to you," shouted some of the leaders: and instantly the crowd fell back and formed a circle round Horse Shoe and Adair. "I give you your choice," said the sergeant, addressing the captive, "for though your iniquities, Wat Adair, desarve that you should have been the first that was strung up to yonder tree, yet you shall have your choice, to tell us fully and truly, without holding back name of high or low, who put you on to ambush Major Arthur Butler's life at Grindall's Ford. Tell us that, to our satisfaction, and answer all other questions besides that we may ax you, and you shall have your life, taking, howsever, one hundred lashes to the back of it." "I will confess all, before God, truly," cried Adair with eagerness. "James Curry told me of your coming, and gave me and Mike Lynch money to help Hugh Habershaw." "James Curry had a master in the business," said Robinson: "His name?" Adair hesitated for an instant and stammered out "Captain St. Jermyn." "He was at your house? Speak it, man, or think of the rope!" "He was there," said Adair. "By my soul! Wat Adair, if you do not come out with the whole truth," said Robinson, with angry earnestness, "I take back my promise. Tell me all you know." "Curry acted by the captain's directions," continued the woodsman, "he was well paid for it, as he told me, and would have got more, if a quarrel amongst Habershaw's people hadn't stopped them from taking Major Butler's life. So I have heard from the men myself." "Well, sir?" "That's all," replied Adair. "Do you know nothing about the court-martial?" asked Robinson. "Nothing, except that as the Major wasn't killed at the Ford, it was thought best to have a trial, wherein James Curry and Hugh Habershaw, as I was told, had agreed to swear against the Major's life." "And were paid for it?" "It was upon a consideration, in course," replied Adair. "And Captain St. Jermyn contrived this?" "It was said," answered Adair, "that the captain left it all to Curry, and rather seemed to take Major Butler's side himself at the trial. He didn't want to be known in the business!" "Where is this Captain St. Jermyn?" demanded many voices. This interrogatory was followed by the rush of the party towards the quarter in which the prisoners were assembled, and, after a lapse of time which seemed incredibly short for the performance of the deed, the unhappy victim of this tumultuary wrath was seen struggling in the agonies of death, as he hung from one of the boughs of the same tree which had supplied the means of the other executions. By this time Butler and Henry Lindsay, attracted by the shouts that reached them at the cottage, had arrived at the scene of these dreadful events. Wat Adair was, at this moment, undergoing the punishment for which his first sentence was commuted. The lashes were inflicted by a sturdy arm upon his uncovered back; and it was remarkable that the wretch who but lately had sunk, with the most slavish fear, under the threat of death, now bore his stripes with a fortitude that seemed to disdain complaint or even the confession of pain. Butler and Henry hurried with a natural disgust from this spectacle, and soon found themselves near the spot where the lifeless forms of the victims of military vengeance were suspended from the tree. "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Butler, "is not that St. Jermyn? What has he done to provoke this doom?" "It is Tyrrel!" ejaculated Henry. "Major Butler, it is Tyrrel! That face, black and horrible as it is to look at, I would know it among a thousand!" "Indeed!" said Butler, gazing with a melancholy earnestness upon the scene, and speaking scarce above his breath, "is it so? Tyrrel and St. Jermyn the same person! This is a strange mystery." Robinson, at this moment, approached, and, in answer to Butler's questions, told the whole story of the commotions that had just agitated the camp. "St. Jermyn was not with Ferguson," said Butler, when the sergeant had finished his narrative. "How came he here to-day?" "First or last," replied Robinson, "it is my observation, Major, that these schemers and contrivers against others' lives are sure to come to account. The devil put it into this St. Jermyn's head to make Ferguson a visit. He came yesterday with Mr. Lindsay, and got the poor gentleman his hurt. James Curry has done working for him now, Major. Master and man have travelled one road." The scene was now closed. The business of the day called the troops to other labors. Campbell felt the necessity of an immediate retreat with his prisoners to the mountains, and his earliest orders directed the army to prepare for the march. When Butler returned to the cottage, he found himself surrounded by a mournful group. The malady of Lindsay had unexpectedly taken a fatal turn. Mildred and Henry were seated by the couch of their father, watching in mute anguish the last ebbings of life. The dying man was composed and apparently free from pain, and the few words he spoke were of forgiveness and resignation. In the midst of their sorrow and silence, the inmates of the dwelling had their attention awakened by the military music of the retiring army. These cheerful sounds vividly contrasted with the grief of the mourners, and told of the professional indifference of soldiers to the calamities of war. By degrees, the martial tones became more faint, as the troops receded up the valley; and before they were quite lost to the ear, Campbell and Shelby appeared at the door of the cottage to explain the urgency of their present departure, and to take a sad farewell of their friends. Stephen Foster, with Harry Winter and a party of the Rangers, remained behind to await the movements of Butler. Horse Shoe Robinson, Allen Musgrove, and his daughter, were in constant attendance. Here ends my story. In a lonely thicket, close upon the margin of the little brook which waters the valley on the eastern side of King's mountain, the traveller of the present day may be shown an almost obliterated mound, and hard by he will see the fragment of a rude tombstone, on which is carved the letters P. L. This vestige marks the spot where the remains of Philip Lindsay were laid, until the restoration of peace allowed them to be transported to the Dove Cote. There, also, in a happier day, Arthur Butler and Mildred took up their abode; and notwithstanding the fatal presentiment in regard to the fortunes of his house which had thrown so dark a color upon the life of Philip Lindsay, lived long enough after the revolution to see grow up around them a prosperous and estimable family. Mary Musgrove, too, attended Mildred, and attained an advanced, and I hope a happy old age, at the Dove Cote. Wat Adair, I have heard it said in Carolina, died a year after the battle of King's mountain, of a horrible distemper, supposed to have been produced by the bite of a rabid wolf. I would fain believe, for the sake of poetical justice, that this was true. Another item of intelligence, to be found in the history of the war, may have some reference to our tale. I find that, in the summer of 1781, Colonel Butler was engaged in the pursuit of Cornwallis in his retreat from Albemarle towards Williamsburgh: my inquiries do not enable me to say, with precision, whether it was our friend Arthur Butler who had met this promotion. His sufferings in the cause certainly deserved such a reward. [Footnote 1: This stricture, true in 1835, the date of the first edition of these volumes has, I am happy to notice, lost much of its point in the lapse of sixteen years.] 
8179	----	Proofreading Team AN HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE COLONIES OF SOUTH CAROLINA AND GEORGIA. In Two Volumes. VOL. I. By ALEXANDER HEWATT PREFACE. The author of the following performance presents it to the public, not from any great value he puts upon it, but from an anxious desire of contributing towards a more complete and general acquaintance with the real state of our colonies in America. Provincial affairs have only of late years been made the objects of public notice and attention. There are yet many, both in Great Britain and America, who are unacquainted with the state of some of these settlements, and with their usefulness and importance to a commercial nation. The southern provinces in particular have been hitherto neglected, insomuch that no writer has savoured the world with any tolerable account of them. Therefore it is hoped, that a performance which brings those important, though obscure, colonies into public view, and tends to throw some light upon their situation, will meet with a favourable reception. As many of the inhabitants of the eastern world will find themselves little interested in the trifling transactions and events here related, such readers will easily discover in what latitude the author wrote, and for whose use his work was principally intended. They will also soon perceive, that this history, like that of Dr. DOUGLAS respecting a northern settlement in America, is only a rough draught, and far from being a finished piece; and the author will frankly and candidly acknowledge it. The case with respect to him is this, to which he must beg the reader's attention. Having been several years a resident at Charlestown in South Carolina, he was at some pains to pick up such original papers and detached manuscripts as he could find, containing accounts of the past transactions of that colony. This he did at first for the sake of private amusement; but after having collected a considerable number of those papers, he resolved to devote such hours as could be spared from more serious and important business, to arrange them, and form a kind of historical account of the rise and progress of that settlement. For the illustration of particular periods, he confesses that he was sometimes obliged to have recourse to very confused materials, and to make use of such glimmering lights as occurred; indeed his means of information, in the peculiar circumstances in which he stood, were often not so good as he could have desired, and even from these he was excluded before he had finished the collection necessary to complete his plan. Besides, while he was employed in arranging these materials, being in a town agitated with popular tumults, military parade, and frequent alarms, his situation was very unfavourable for calm study and recollection. While the reader attends to these things, and at the same time considers that the author has entered on a new field, where, like the wilderness he describes, there were few beaten tracks, and no certain guides, he will form several excuses for the errors and imperfections of this history. Many long speeches, petitions, addresses, _&c._ he might no doubt have abridged; but as there were his principal vouchers, for his own sake, he chose to give them entire. Being obliged to travel over the same ground, in order to mark its progress in improvement at different periods, it was no easy matter to avoid repetitions. With respect to language, style and manner of arrangement, the author not being accustomed to write or correct for the press, must crave the indulgence of critics for the many imperfections of this kind which may have escaped his notice. Having endeavoured to render his performance as complete as his circumstances would admit, he hopes the public will treat him with lenity, although it may be far from answering their expectations. In short, if this part of the work shall be deemed useful, and meet with any share of public approbation, the author will be satisfied; and may be induced afterwards to review it, and take some pains to render it not only more accurate and correct, but also more complete, by adding some late events more interesting and important than any here related: but if it shall turn out otherwise, all must acknowledge that he has already bestowed sufficient pains upon a production deemed useless and unprofitable. Sensible therefore of its imperfections, and trusting to the public favour and indulgence, he sends it into the world with that modesty and diffidence becoming every young author on his first public appearance. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME CHAP. I. _Most men pleased with the history of their ancestors._ _A notion early entertained of territories in the west._ _A project of Columbus for attempting a discovery._ _The discovery of Columbus._ _The discovery of John Cabot._ _The discovery of Sebastian Cabot._ _The discovery of Americus Vespuccius._ _The discovery of Cabral._ _America inhabited._ _Various conjectures about the first population of America._ _The natural proprietors of the country._ _Religious divisions the primary cause of emigrations to the west._ _Coligni's settlement in Florida._ _Extirpated by Spaniards._ _A traffic in negroes._ _Reflections on it._ _Virginia settled._ _Its progress._ _Disturbances in England promote foreign settlements._ _New-England peopled by Puritans._ _Who turn persecutors._ _Divide into different governments._ _A colony planted in Maryland._ _General remarks on colonization._ CHAP II. _The first proprietors, and their charter._ _Of the fundamental constitutions._ _William Sayle visits Carolina._ _And is appointed the first governor of it._ _Settles his colony on Ashley river._ _Hardship of the first settlers from the climate._ _And from the Indians._ _Sir John Yeamans arrives at Carolina._ _And is appointed governor._ _Various causes contribute to the settlement of the country._ _America peopled in an improved age._ _The first treaty with Spain respecting it._ _A council of commerce is instituted._ _A legislature is formed in the colony._ _Its troubles from the Spaniards._ _Its domestic troubles and hardships._ _A war among the Indians seasonable for the settlement._ _Of Indians in general._ _The occasion of Europeans being peaceably admitted among them._ _General remarks on the manners, government, religion, &c. of the Indians._ _A Dutch colony brought to Carolina._ _Joseph West made governor._ _Variances break out in the colony._ _A trade in Indians encouraged._ _A general description of the climate._ _Of the country._ _Of its soil and lands._ _Of its storms and natural phenomena._ _Of its animals._ _Of its fishes._ _Of its birds._ _Of its snakes and vipers._ _Of its insects._ _Joseph Morton made governor._ _Pennsylvania settled._ _The proprietors forbid the trade in Indians._ _The toleration of pirates in Carolina._ _Cause of migration from England._ _Cause of migration from France._ _The European animals increase._ _The manner of obtaining turpentine in Carolina._ _And of making tar and pitch._ _A difference with the civil officers._ _James Colleton made governor._ _His difference with the house of assembly._ _Seth Sothell chosen governor._ _His oppression, and expulsion._ CHAP. III. _A revolution in England._ _The French refugees meet with encouragement._ _Philip Ludwell appointed governor._ _Harsh treatment of the colonists to the refugees._ _The manner of obtaining lands._ _Juries chosen by ballot._ _Pirates favoured by the colonists._ _Thomas Smith appointed governor._ _The planting of rice introduced._ _Occasions a necessity for employing negroes._ _Perpetual slavery repugnant to the principles of humanity and Christianity._ _Foreign colonies encouraged from views of commercial advantage._ _Indians complain of injustice._ _The troubles among the settlers continue._ _John Archdale appointed governor._ _Archdale's arrival and new regulations._ _Treats Indians with humanity._ _The proprietors shamefully neglect agriculture._ _Archdale returns to England, and leaves Joseph Blake governor._ _A colony of French in Florida._ _The French refugees incorporated by law._ _Depredations of pirates._ _A hurricane, and other public calamities visit the province._ _James Moore chosen governor._ _Lord Granville palatine._ _King William's charter to the society for propagating the gospel._ _An established church projected by the Palatine._ _But disliked by the majority of the people._ _Governor Moore resolves to get riches._ _Encourages irregularities at elections._ _Proposes an expedition against Augustine._ _Which proven abortive._ _The first paper currency made._ _The expedition against the Apalachian Indians._ _The culture of silk._ _And of cotton._ _Rice fixed on by the planters as a staple commodity._ CHAP. IV. _War declared against France._ _Sir Nathaniel Johnson appointed governor._ _His instructions._ _He endeavours to establish the church of England._ _Pursues violent measures for that purpose._ _The church of England established by law._ _The inhabitants of Colleton county remonstrate against it._ _Lay commissioners appointed._ _The acts ratified by the Proprietor._ _The petition of Dissenters to the House of Lords._ _Resolutions of the House of Lords._ _Their address to the Queen._ _The Queen's answer._ _A project formed for invading Carolina._ _A Spanish and French invasion._ _The invader repulsed and defeated by the militia._ _The union of England and Scotland._ _Missionaries sent out by the society in England._ _Lord Craven palatine._ _Edward Tynte governor._ _The revenues of the colony._ _The invasion of Canada._ _A French colony planted in Louisiana._ _A colony of Palatines settled._ _Robert Gibbes governor._ _Charles Craven governor._ _An Indian war in North Carolina._ _The Tuskorora Indians conquered._ _Bank-bills established._ _Remarks on paper currency._ _Trade infested by pirates._ _Several English statutes adopted._ CHAP. V. _A design formed for purchasing all charters and proprietary governments._ _The Yamassees conspire the destruction of the colony._ _The Yamassee war._ _The Yamassees defeated and expelled._ _They take refuge in Florida._ _Retain a vindictive spirit against the Carolinians._ _The colonists turn their eyes for protection to the crown._ _The project revived for purchasing the proprietary colonies._ _Distresses occasioned by the war._ _Aggravated by the Proprietors._ _Robert Daniel is made deputy-governor._ _Lord Cartaret palatine._ _The disaffection of the people increases._ _Robert Johnson appointed governor._ _Of the depredations of pirates._ _And their utter extirpation._ _Troubles from paper currency._ _Several laws repealed._ _Which occasions great disaffections._ _Further troubles from Indians._ _Complaints against Chief Justice Trott._ _Laid before the Proprietors._ _Their answer._ _And letter to the governor._ _Who obeys their commands._ _An invasion threatened from Spain._ _An association formed against the Proprietors._ CHAP. VI. _The people's encouragement to revolt._ _Their letter to the governor signifying their design._ _Which the governor endeavours to defeat._ _Proceedings of the convention._ _The perplexity of the Governor and council._ _The Governor's speech for recalling the people._ _Their message in answer to it._ _The Governor's answer._ _The assembly dissolved, and the proceedings of the people._ _James Moore proclaimed Governor._ _The declaration of the Convention._ _The Governor transmits an account of the whole proceedings to the Proprietors._ _The Revolutioners appoint new officers, and establish their authority._ _In vain the Governor attempts to disconcert them._ _Rhett refuses obedience to his orders._ _And preserves the confidence of the Proprietors._ _Further attempts of the Governor to recal the people._ _The invasion from Spain defeated._ _The Governor's last attempt to recover his authority._ _Injurious suspicions with regard to the conduct of the Governor._ _Francis Nicolson appointed Governor by the regency._ _General reflections on the whole transactions._ _Nicolson's arrival occasions uncommon joy._ _The people recognize King George as their lawful sovereign._ _The Governor regulates Indian affairs._ _And promotes religious institutions._ _The enthusiasm of the family of Dutartre._ _Their trial and condemnation._ _Progress of the colony._ _The adventure of Captain Beale._ _Arthur Middleton president._ _A dispute about the boundaries between Carolina and Florida._ _Colonel Palmer makes reprisals on the Spaniards._ _Encroachment of the French in Louisiana._ _A terrible hurricane._ _And Yellow Fever._ _The Province purchased for the crown._ _The Fundamental Constitutions of South Carolina._ THE HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE COLONY OF SOUTH CAROLINA. CHAP. I. Among the various events recorded in the history of past ages, there are few more interesting and important than the discovery of the western world. By it a large field for adventures, and a new source of power, opulence and grandeur, opened to European nations. To obtain a share of the vast territories in the west became an object of ambition to many of them; but for this purpose, the maritime and commercial states possessed the greatest advantages. Having first discovered the country, with facility they transported people to it, settled colonies there, and in process of time shared among them the extensive wilderness. [Sidenote] Most men pleased with the history of their ancestors. All accounts relating to these settlements afford pleasure to curious and ingenious minds, in what quarter of the globe soever they live; but to the posterity of the first adventurers they must be peculiarly acceptable. In the lives of our ancestors we become parties concerned; and when we behold them braving the horrors of the desert, and surmounting every difficulty from a burning climate, a thick forest, and savage neighbours, we admire their courage, and are astonished at their perseverance. We are pleased with every danger they escaped, and wish to see even the most minute events, relating to the rise and progress of their little communities, placed before us in the most full and conspicuous light. The world has not yet been favoured with a particular history of all these colonies: many events respecting some of them lie buried in darkness and oblivion. As we have had an opportunity of acquiring some knowledge of one of the most valuable and flourishing of the British settlements in that quarter, we propose to present the world with a particular, but imperfect, detail of its most memorable and important transactions. [Sidenote] A notion early entertained of territories in the west. To pave the way for the execution of this design, it may not be improper to cast our eyes backward on the earliest ages of European discoveries, and take a slight view of the first and most distinguished adventurers to the western world. This will serve to introduce future occurrences, and contribute towards the easier illustration of them. Beyond doubt, a notion was early entertained of territories lying to the westward of Europe and Africa. Some of the Greek historians make mention of an Atlantic island, large in extent, fertile in its soil, and full of rivers. These historians assert, that the Tyrians and Carthaginians discovered it, and sent a colony thither, but afterwards, from maxims of policy, compelled their people to abandon the settlement. Whether this was the largest of the Canary islands, as we may probably suppose, or not, is a matter of little importance with respect to our present purpose: it is enough that such a notion prevailed, and gained so much credit as to be made the grounds of future inquiry and adventure. With the use of the compass, about the close of the fifteenth century, the great era of naval adventures commenced. Indeed the Tyrian fleet in the service of Solomon had made what was then esteemed long voyages, and a famous Carthaginian captain had sailed round Africa: the Portuguese also were great adventurers by sea, and their discoveries in Africa served to animate men of courage and enterprise to bolder undertakings: but the invention of the compass proved the mariner's best guide, and facilitated the improvements in navigation. Furnished with this new and excellent instructor, the seaman forsook the dangerous shore and launched out into the immense ocean in search of new regions, which, without it, must long have remained unknown. Even such expeditions as proved abortive, furnished observations and journals to succeeding navigators, and every discovery made, gave life and encouragement to brave adventurers. [Sidenote] A project of Columbus for attempting a discovery. About this period Christopher Columbus, a native of Genoa, appeared, who was a man of great ingenuity, courage, and abilities, and had acquired better notions of the globe, and greater skill in navigation, than any of his cotemporaries. Imagining there might be territories in the west to balance those in the east he directed all his views to that quarter, and was eagerly bent on a voyage of discovery. He drew a plan for the execution of his project, which, together with a map of the world, he laid before his countrymen, shewing them what grandeur and advantage would accrue to their state, should he prove successful. But the leading men of the republic considered his project as wild and chimerical, and shamefully treated him with neglect. Though mortified at this ill usage, he nevertheless remained inflexible as to his purpose, and therefore determined to visit the different courts of Europe, and offer his service to that sovereign who should give him the greatest encouragement and assistance. While he resolved to go in person to France, Spain and Portugal, he sent his brother Bartholomew to England; which nation had now seen an end of her bloody civil wars, and begun to encourage trade and navigation. But Bartholomew, in his passage, was unfortunately taken by pirates, and robbed of all he had; and, to augment his distress, was seized with a fever after his arrival, and reduced to great hardships. After his recovery, he spent some time in drawing charts and maps, and selling them, before he was in a condition to appear at court. At length, being introduced to the king, he laid before him his brother's proposals for sailing to the west on a voyage of discovery. King Henry, who was rather a prudent manager of the public treasure, than an encourager of great undertakings, as some historians say, rejected his proposals: but others of equal credit affirm, that the king entered into an agreement with Bartholomew, and sent him to invite his brother to England; and that the nation in general were fond of the project, either from motives of mere curiosity or prospects of commercial advantage. [Sidenote] A. D. 1492. [Sidenote] The discovery of Columbus. In the mean time Columbus, after surmounting several discouragements and difficulties, found employment in the service of Spain. Queen Isabella agreed with him on his own terms, and went so far as to sell her jewels in order to furnish him with every thing requisite for his intended expedition. Accordingly he embarked in August 1492, and sailed from Palos on one of the greatest enterprises ever undertaken by man. Steering towards the west, through what was then deemed a boundless ocean, he found abundance of scope for all the arts of navigation of which he was possessed; and, after surmounting numberless difficulties, from a mutinous crew and the length of the voyage, he discovered one of the Bahama islands. Here he landed, and, after falling on his knees and thanking God for his success, he erected the royal standard of Spain in the western world, and returned to Europe. [Sidenote] 1494. [Sidenote] The discovery of John Cabot. Upon his arrival in Spain, the fame of this bold adventurer and the success of his voyage, quickly spread through Europe, and excited general inquiry and admiration. John Cabot, a native of Venice, (at that time one of the most flourishing commercial states of the world), resided at Bristol in England, and, having heard of the territories in the west, fitted out a ship at his own expence and steered to that quarter on a voyage of discovery. Directing his course more to the northward, he was equally successful, and, in the year 1494, discovered the island of Newfoundland. He went ashore on another island, which he called St. John's, because discovered on the festival of St. John the Baptist. Here he found inhabitants clothed with skins, who made use of darts, bows and arrows, and had the address to persuade some of them to sail with him to England. On his return to Bristol he was knighted by the king, and reported that the land appeared rocky and barren, but that the sea abounded with fish of various kinds. King Henry was no sooner made acquainted with the success of John Cabot, than he gave an invitation to mariners of character and ability to enter his service, for the purpose of attempting further discoveries. Cabot declared, he doubted not to make discoveries for him equally honourable and advantageous as those Columbus had made for Ferdinand and Isabella. Accordingly, terms were proposed and agreed on between them. "Henry, in the eleventh year of his reign, gave a commission to John Cabot and his three sons, Sebastian, Lewis, and Sancius, and their heirs, allowing them full power to sail to all countries and seas of the east, west, and north, under English colours, with five ships of such burden and force as they should think proper, and with as many mariners as they should chuse to take on their own cost and charges, to seek out and discover all the isles, countries, regions and provinces of heathens and infidels they could find, which to all Christians before that time had remained unknown." In these letters-patent though it appears that Henry granted them a right to occupy and possess such lands and countries as they should find and conquer, yet he laid them under an obligation to erect the English standard in every place, and reserved to himself and his heirs the dominion, title and jurisdiction of all the towns, castles, isles and lands they should discover; so that whatever acquisitions they should make, they would only occupy them as vassals of the crown of England. And lest they should be inclined to go to some foreign port, he expressly bound them to return to Bristol, and to pay him and his heirs one fifth part of all the capital gains, after the expences of the voyage were deducted: and, for their encouragement, he invested them with full powers to exclude all English subjects, without their particular licence, from visiting and frequenting the places they should discover. [Sidenote] A. D. 1497. [Sidenote] The discovery of Sebastian Cabot. Soon after receiving this commission from the king, John Cabot died; and his son Sebastian, who was also a skilful navigator, set sail in 1497, with the express view of discovering a north-west passage to the eastern spice islands. Directing his course by his father's journals to the same point, he proceeded beyond the 67th degree of north latitude; and it is affirmed, that he would have advanced farther, had not his crew turned mutinous and ungovernable, and obliged him to return to the degree of latitude 56. From thence, in a south-west course, he sailed along the coast of the continent, as far as that part which was afterwards called Florida, where he took his departure, and returned to England. Thus England claims the honour of discovering the continent of North America, and by those voyages of John and Sebastian Cabot, all that right and title to this extensive region, founded on prior discovery, must be vested in the crown of England. [Sidenote] 1498. The discovery of Americus Vespuccius. In the year following, Americus Vespuccius, a native of Florence, having procured a commission, together with the charts of the celebrated Columbus, sailed to the southern division of the western continent. In this voyage he discovered a large country, and drew a kind of map of those parts of it he visited. He also kept a journal, making several useful remarks on the coast and inhabitants; which, on his return to Europe, were published for general instruction. By this means he had the good fortune to perpetuate his name, by giving it to the whole western world. Posterior writers naturally following the same tract, and using the same names found in the first performance, America by accident became the denomination by which the western continent was distinguished, and probably will be so through all succeeding ages. [Sidenote] A.D. 1500. The discovery of Cabral. Not long after this, Don Pedro Alvarez Cabral, admiral of the Portuguese fleet, bound for the East Indies, was driven by a storm on the coast of that country now called Brazil. There he found fine land, inhabited by savages, of which he took possession in name of his king. This discovery he deemed of great consequence, and therefore having put a native or two of the new-found land on board, he sent Gasper Lamidas back to Portugal with the news. He reported, at the same time, the gentle treatment he received from the natives of the country, the excellent soil and beautiful prospects it exhibited; and, upon his report, a settlement was soon after made, which advanced by rapid degrees in riches and population, and soon became the most valuable of the Portuguese possessions. [Sidenote] America inhabited. This vast territory of America being now discovered by different nations, in every place they found it inhabited by human creatures; but from what country they derived their origin, or by what means they were conveyed to this distant region, has been the subject of much speculation and inquiry, not only in that, but also in every future period. History claims not the province of peremptorily determining inquires, which can have no better foundation than the probable opinions and uncertain conjectures of ingenious men, and therefore must leave every man to adopt such accounts as appear to him least absurd or liable to exception. Yet, as the subject is curious, it may be amusing to some readers to present them with the different conjectures respecting it, especially such as are supported by late observations and discoveries. [Sidenote] Various conjectures about the first population of America. One person fancies that this country was peopled from Britain, and has recourse to a romantic story of a Welsh historian in support of his wild conjecture. This author gives an account of a discovery made in the year 1170, by Maddock, a younger son of Owen Guineth, prince of Wales. That prince, observing his brethren engaged in civil war about the succession to his father's throne, formed a resolution to abandon his country. Having procured a ship, with plenty of necessaries for a long voyage, he embarked, and sailed far to the westward of Ireland, where he discovered a rich and fertile country, in which he resolved to establish a settlement. With this view he returned to Wales, prepared ten sail of ships, and transported a number of both sexes to this western territory. Some men, who have been rather too zealous for proofs in confirmation of this conjecture, have industriously traced, and flattered themselves with having found a striking resemblance between several words in the native language of some Indian nations and the old Welsh tongue. Other authors are of opinion, that the American tribes are the descendants of the ancient Phenicians and Carthaginians, who early formed settlements on the coast of Barbary and the Canary islands. The Tyrians and Carthaginians, beyond doubt, were a commercial people, and the first who distinguished themselves by their knowledge in navigation. They built ships which carried vast numbers of people. To plant a colony on the west of Africa, Hanno, a Carthaginian captain, embarked in a fleet of sixty ships, containing no fewer than thirty thousand persons, with implements necessary for building and cultivation. While he sailed along the stormy coast of Africa, it is not improbable that some of his ships might be driven out of sight of the land. In this case, the mariners finding the trade winds blowing constantly against them, might necessarily be obliged to bear away before them, and so be wafted over to America. The complexion of the inhabitants of the African islands resembled those Columbus found in the West Indies: The bows, arrows, spears, and lances of both were also nearly similar, only those of the latter were pointed with flints and the bones of fishes: There were also some resemblance in their religious rites and superstitions to those of the ancient Carthaginians, which afford some presumptive evidences that they might have derived their origin from nations where such arms were used, and such superstition prevailed. That America might receive some of its first inhabitants from the best and boldest navigators of the east, is a thing neither impossible nor incredible; and, if this be acknowledged, they had many hundred years to multiply and increase, before the period in which Columbus visited them. Other authors of considerable merit and ingenuity have contended, that America was first peopled by Norwegians, and the northern countries of Europe, formerly so populous and enterprising. They considered the route by Iceland and Greenland, where the sea is covered with ice and snow, as the most easy and practicable. They affirm, that colonies were planted in Greenland, by adventurers from the north of Europe; that the north-west coast of Greenland is removed at no great distance from America, and that it is not improbable these two territories may, in places yet undiscovered, be contiguous. In support of which conjecture, an affinity between the language of the Esquimaux Indians and that of the Greenlanders has been discovered by modern Danish travellers. It is asserted, that they understand each other in their commercial intercourses. Besides, so great is their likeness in features and manners, in their boats and darts, that late geographers have not scrupled to believe that the lands are united, as the inhabitants of both sides so manifestly appear to be descended from the same nation. Other writers, with greater probability and reason, suppose, that the western continent must have received its first inhabitants from the north-east parts of Asia and Europe. Some ancient Greek historians say, that the Scythians, from whom the Tartars derived their origin, were all painted from their infancy, and that they flayed the heads of their enemies, and wore their scalps, by way of triumph, at the bridles of their horses. Sophocles speaks of having the head shorn, and of wearing a skull-cap, like the Scythians. These indeed bear a faint resemblance to some customs of the Indian tribes in America; but late discoveries furnish us with the best proofs in favour of this conjecture. Some Russian adventurers, on the sea of Kamschatka, have discovered the coast of America, and reported, that the distance between the two continents is so small and inconsiderable, that a passage between them, at certain seasons, is easy and practicable, and that, though it be yet uncertain, it is by no means improbable that these two great territories are united. It is remarkable, that the aspect, language, and manners of the people, on each side of the narrow channel, are nearly similar; that the arms they use for procuring subsistence are the same; that their boats and method of fishing are exactly alike; that both make use of a wooden instrument for procuring fire by friction; that neither attack their enemies in the open field, but take all advantages of ensnaring them by wiles and stratagem; and that the vanquished, when taken prisoners, are tortured without mercy. These observations indicate a striking resemblance between the Tartars and the savages of America. One thing is certain, that emigrations to the western world by this narrow channel are easier accounted for than by any other route, and it is to be hoped a few years more will remove every difficulty attending this curious and important inquiry. Notwithstanding all these conjectures, various may have been the ways and means of peopling this large continent. It is not improbable that several nations may have contributed towards supplying it at different times with inhabitants. The Scripture affirms, that all mankind originally sprung from the same root, however now diversified in characters and complexions. In the early ages of the world, as mankind multiplied they dispersed, and occupied a greater extent of country. When thus divided, for the sake of self-preservation and mutual defence, they would naturally unite and form separate states. The eager desire of power and dominion would prove the occasion of differences and quarrels, and the weaker party or state would always be obliged to flee before the stronger. Such differences would necessarily promote distant settlements, and when navigation was introduced and improved, unforeseen accidents, sea-storms, and unfortunate shipwrecks, would contribute to the general dispersion. These, we may naturally suppose, would be the effects of division and war in the earlier ages. Nor would time and higher degrees of civilization prevent such consequences, or prove a sufficient remedy against domestic discord and trouble. Ambition, tyranny, factions and commotions of various kinds, in larger societies, would occasion emigrations, and all the arts of navigation would be employed for the relief and assistance of the distressed. So that if America was found peopled in some measure nigh 5,500 years after the creation, it cannot be deemed a thing more wonderful and unaccountable, than the population of many eastern islands, especially those lying at a considerable distance from the continents. The great Author of nature, who first framed the world, still superintends and governs it; and as all things visible and invisible are instruments in his hand, he can make them all conspire towards promoting the designs of his providence, and has innumerable methods, incomprehensible by us, of diffusing the knowledge of his name, and the glory of his kingdom, throughout the spacious universe. [Sidenote] The natural proprietors of the country. Those scattered tribes of savages dispersed by Providence through the American continent, occupied its extensive forests; and it must be confessed, that no inhabitants of Europe, Africa or Asia could produce a better title to their possessions. Their right was founded in nature and Providence: it was the free and liberal gift of heaven to them, which no foreigner could claim any pretension to invade. Their lands they held by the first of all tenures, that of defending them with their lives. However, charters were granted to European intruders, from kings who claimed them on the foot of prior discovery; but neither the sovereigns who granted away those lands, nor the patentees who accepted their grants, and by fraud or force acquired possession, could plead any title to them founded on natural right. Prior discovery might give foreigners a kind of right to lands unoccupied, or possessions relinquished, but neither of these was the case of the American territories. Nations who lived by hunting like the savages in America, required a large extent of territory; and though some had more, others less extensive districts to which they laid claim, yet each tribe knew its particular division, and the whole coast was occupied by them. Indeed, in a general view, the whole earth may be called an inheritance common to mankind; but, according to the laws and customs of particular nations, strangers who encroach on their neighbours property, or attempt to take forcible possession, have no reason to wonder if they obtain such property at the risque of life. In justice and equity, Indian titles were the best ones; and such European emigrants as obtained lands by the permission and consent of the natives, or by fair and honourable purchase, could only be said to have a just right to them. In the centre of the continent the people, comparatively speaking, were numerous and civilized; the tribes farther removed from it on each side lived more dispersed, and consequently were more rude. Some historians have represented them as naturally ferocious, cruel, treacherous and revengeful; but no man ought to draw conclusions, with respect to their original characters, from their conduct in later times, especially after they have been hostilely invaded, injuriously driven from their natural possessions, cruelly treated, and barbarously butchered by European aggressors, who had no other method of colouring and vindicating their own conduct, but that of blackening the characters of those poor natives. To friends they are benevolent, peaceable, generous and hospitable: to enemies they are the reverse. But we forbear entering minutely into this subject at present, as we shall have occasion afterwards to make several remarks on the character, manners and customs of these tribes. Just views of them may indeed excite compassion; yet, for our instruction, they will exhibit to us a genuine picture of human nature in its rudest and most uncultivated state. [Sidenote] Religious divisions the primary cause of emigrations to the west. With the revival of learning in Europe, towards the close of the fifteenth century, a more free and liberal way of thinking, with respect to religion, was introduced and encouraged, than had taken place during many preceding ages. At this period several men of genius and courage appeared, who discovered to the world the gross absurdity of many of the tenets and practices of the Romish church; but were unwilling totally to overturn her established jurisdiction and authority. At length Luther boldly exposed her errors to public view, and the spirit of the age, groaning under the papal yoke, applauded the undertaking. Multitudes, who had long been oppressed, were ripe for a change, and well disposed for favouring the progress of that reformation which he attempted and introduced. By this means great commotions were excited throughout Christendom, and thousands united and entered warmly into designs of asserting their religious liberty. Hence a spirit of emigration arose and men seemed bent on visiting the remotest regions of the earth, rather than submit to spiritual oppression at home. Instead of improving the discoveries made in America during the reign of his father, Henry the eighth was busily engaged in gratifying the cravings of licentious appetites, or in opposing by writings the progress of the reformation. In his reign Sebastian Cabot, that eminent mariner, finding himself shamefully neglected by the capricious and voluptuous monarch, went over to Spain. There he got employment for several years, and made some new and useful discoveries in America for the Spanish nation. After the young Prince Edward ascended the English throne, the enterprising merchants of Bristol invited Cabot to return to Britain; and he, having a natural fondness for that city in which he was born, the more readily accepted their invitation. King Edward, having heard of the fame of this bold navigator, expressed a desire of seeing him; and accordingly Cabot was sent for and introduced to the king by the Duke of Somerset, at that time Lord protector of England. The king being highly pleased with his conversation, kept him about court, and from him received much instruction, both with respect to foreign parts, and the ports and havens within his own dominions. In all affairs relating to trade and navigation Cabot was consulted, and his judgment and skill procured him general respect. A trade with Russia was projected, and a company of merchants being incorporated for carrying it on, Sebastian Cabot was made the first governor of the company. In 1549, being advanced in years, the king, as a reward for his services, made him Grand Pilot of England, to which office he annexed a pension of _L_. 166: 13: 4 _per annum_, which Cabot held during his life, together with the favour of his prince, and the friendship of the trading part of the nation. When Mary, that cruel and inflexible bigot, succeeded to the throne, domestic troubles and ecclesiastical persecution were so prevalent in England, that commerce sunk into decay, and navigation was despised and neglected. The spirit of murmur and discontent pervaded the country, and multitudes wished for some foreign settlement, as an asylum against domestic trouble and persecution; and, had they been sufficiently acquainted with the western territories, would certainly have emigrated to that quarter. After Elizabeth ascended the throne, the bloody scene of violence closed, and national affairs took a more successful turn. During her reign the reformation advanced to a peaceable establishment in England, and commerce was encouraged and protected. [Sidenote] Coligni's settlement in Florida. In France the reformation met with greater obstacles, and was productive of more serious and fatal consequences. It occasioned a civil war between the Protestant and Catholic parties of that kingdom, which raged for several years with great violence. During these domestic troubles, Jasper de Coligni, one of the chief leaders of the Protestant army, formed a project for carrying a colony to America. Forseeing the dangers to which he and his followers would be exposed, should the cause in which they were engaged prove unsuccessful, it is probable he intended this foreign settlement as a retreat. Accordingly, having fitted out two ships, he gave the command of them to Jean Ribaud, and sent him with a colony of Protestants to America. Ribaud landed at the mouth of the river now called Albemarle, which was then considered as part of Florida, where he built a fort, for the security of himself and followers, and called the country Carolina. By this time the Spaniards had incurred the irreconcilable hatred and resentment of the Indian nations by their cruelty and treachery in the heart of the continent. Ribaud found means of acquainting the Indians that he was an enemy to the Spaniards, and of consequence he was the more kindly received by them. He had the address to engage their affections, insomuch that in a little time they became fond of his alliance. But while the flames of war continued in France, Coligni could find no leisure to send supplies to his infant colony, and Ribaud was obliged to abandon the settlement. Great were the extremities to which he was reduced in returning to Europe: one of his crew was killed for subsistence to the rest, who had scarcely done eating him, when an English vessel providentially appeared, took the emaciated crew on board, and carried them to England. [Sidenote] Extirpated by Spaniard. Mean while, a peace being patched up between the Papists and Protestants in France, Admiral Coligni, who was seemingly received into favour by that political court, fitted out three ships, loaded them with provisions and arms, and sent them to Carolina. Rene Laudoner to whom he had given the command, embarked with a number of adventurers. On his arrival he found the spot Ribaud had relinquished; but despaired of being able to keep possession of it without regular supplies. When he found his provisions beginning to fail, he had formed resolutions of returning to Europe. While he was making preparations to embark, Ribaud fortunately arrived with seven ships, a large supply of necessaries, and a considerable body of settlers. This animated them to enter with greater vigour on clearing and cultivating lands, and making provision for their future subsistence. The Indians rejoiced at Ribaud's return, and waited on him with their assurances of friendship. But while this French colony were beginning to flatter themselves with some faint hopes of success, Peter Melandez, who pretended a right to the whole territory, came against them with an armed force, killed Ribaud and seven hundred of his men, and compelled the remainder to return to France. M. de Gorgues, a Gascoon, afterwards, to avenge the disaster of his countrymen, dislodged Melandez, but made no attempt toward planting a colony in that quarter. This extensive country remained a wilderness until the reign of Charles the second of England. To keep possession, the Spaniards supported a small garrison at Augustine, on the most barren spot of the whole territory, upon which, together with the discovery of Ponce de Leon, they ever after founded their claim to all the southern parts of North America. [Sidenote] A traffic in negroes. About the same time a traffic in the human species, called Negroes, was introduced into England; which is one of the most odious and unnatural branches of trade the sordid and avaricious mind of mortals ever invented. It had indeed been carried on before this period by Genoese traders, who bought a patent from Charles the fifth, containing an exclusive right of carrying Negroes from the Portuguese settlements in Africa, to America and the West Indies; but the English nation had not yet engaged in the iniquitous traffic. As it has since been deeply concerned in it, and as the province, the transactions of which I narrate, owes its improvements almost entirely to this hardy race of labourers, it may not be improper here to give some account of the origin and first inventor of this trade. William Hawkins, an expert English seaman, having made several voyages to the coast of Guinea, and from thence to Brazil and the West Indies, had acquired considerable knowledge of the countries. At his death he left his journals with his son John Hawkins, in which he described the lands of America and the West Indies to be exceedingly rich and fertile, but utterly neglected for want of hands to improve them. He represented the natives of Europe as unequal to the task in such a scorching climate; but those of Africa as well adapted to undergo the labours requisite. Upon which John Hawkins immediately formed a design of transporting Africans into the western world; and having drawn a plan for the execution of it, he laid it before some of his opulent neighbours for encouragement and approbation. To them it appeared promising and advantageous. A subscription was opened, and speedily filled up, by Sir Lionel Ducket, Sir Thomas Lodge, Sir William Winter and others, who plainly perceived the vast profits that would result from such a trade. Accordingly three ships were fitted out, and manned by an hundred select sailors, whom Hawkins encouraged to go with him by promises of good treatment and great pay. In the year 1562 he set sail for Africa, and in a few weeks arrived at the country now called Sierra Leona, where be began his commerce with the negroes. While he trafficked with them, he found some means of giving them a charming description of the country to which he was bound; the unsuspicious Africans listened to him with apparent joy and satisfaction, and seemed remarkably fond of his European trinkets, food and clothes. He pointed out to them the barrenness of the country, and their naked and wretched condition, and promised, if any of them were weary of their miserable circumstances, and would go along with him, he would carry them to a plentiful land, where they should live happy, and receive an abundant recompense for their labours. He told them, that the country was inhabited by such men as himself and his jovial companions, and assured them of kind usage and great friendship. In short, the negroes were overcome by his flattering promises, and three hundred stout fellows accepted his offer, and consented to embark along with him. Every thing being settled on the most amicable terms between them, Hawkins made preparations for his voyage. But in the night before his departure, his negroes were attacked by a large body from a different quarter; Hawkins, being alarmed with the shrieks and cries of dying persons, ordered his men to the assistance of his slaves, and having surrounded the assailants, carried a number of them on board as prisoners of war. The next day he set sail for Hispaniola with his cargo of human creatures; but, during the passage, treated the prisoners of war in a different manner from his volunteers. Upon his arrival he disposed of his cargo to great advantage; and endeavoured to inculcate on the Spaniards who bought the negroes the same distinction he observed: but they, having purchased all at the same rate, considered them as slaves of the same condition, and consequently treated all alike. When Hawkins returned to England with pearls, hides, sugar and ginger, which he had received in exchange for his slaves, multitudes flocked after him, to inquire into the nature, and learn the success of the new and extraordinary branch of trade. At first the nation was shocked at the unnatural trade of dealing in human flesh, and bartering the commodities and trinkets of Europe for the rational race of Africa. The queen, though a patroness of commerce, was doubtful of the justice and humanity of this new branch, it appearing to her equally barbarous as uncommon, and therefore sent for Hawkins to inquire into his method of conducting it. Hawkins told her, that he considered it as an act of humanity to carry men from a worse condition to a better, from a state of wild barbarism to another where they might share the blessings of civil society and Christianity; from poverty, nakedness and want to plenty and felicity. He assured her, that in no expedition where he had the command should any Africans be carried away without their own free will and consent except such captives as were taken in war and doomed to death; that he had no scruple about the justice of bringing human creatures from that barren wilderness, to a condition where they might be both happy themselves and beneficial to the world. Indeed it would appear that Hawkins had no idea of perpetual slavery, but expected they would be treated as free servants, after they had by their labours brought their masters an equivalent for the expence of their purchase. Queen Elizabeth seemed satisfied with his account, and dismissed him, by declaring, that while he and his owners acted with humanity and justice, they should have her countenance and protection. Soon after Hawkins made preparations for a second voyage, in which the Queen offered him a ship of war for his assistance and protection. But he declined accepting her offer, by telling her Majesty, that the profits of the trade would answer for all the risque and expences attending it. In his passage, however, he fell in with the Minion man of war, which accompanied him to the coast of Africa. After his arrival he began as formerly to traffic with the negroes, endeavouring by persuasion and the prospects of reward to induce them to go along with him. But now they were more reserved and jealous of his designs, and as none of their neighbours had returned, they were apprehensive he had killed and eat them. The crew of the man of war observing the Africans backward and suspicious, began to laugh at his gentle and dilatory methods of proceeding, and proposed having immediate recourse to force and compulsion. The sailors belonging to his own fleet joined those of the man of war, and applauded the proposal. But Hawkins considered it as cruel and unjust, and tried by persuasion, promises and threats to prevail on them to desist from a purpose so unwarrantable and barbarous. In vain did he urge his authority and instructions from the Queen: the bold and headstrong sailors would hear of no restraints. Drunkenness and avarice are deaf to the voice of humanity. They pursue their violent design, and, after several unsuccessful attacks, in which many of them lost their lives, the cargo was at length compleated by barbarity and force. [Sidenote] Reflections on it. Hence arose that horrid and inhuman practice of dragging Africans into slavery; which has since been so pursued, in defiance of every principle of justice and religion: Though Hawkins was the first Englishman who engaged in this traffic, so repugnant to the spirit of the English constitution; though he made use of such fraudulent arts even in his first method of conducting it, as few men can have the assurance to vindicate; yet, as he was a man of prudence and humanity, he is no ways chargeable with those diabolical abuses which have since crept into this trade. Had men continued to conduct it according to his plan and proposal, and hands been transported by their voluntary consent to labour in burning climates, where Europeans are disqualified by nature for the task; had the Spaniards allowed them the common privileges of servants, after they had cleared the charges they cost them; had negroes been bought from the flames, to which in some countries they were devoted on their falling prisoners of war, and in others sacrificed at the funeral obsequies of the great and powerful among themselves; in short, had they been by this traffic delivered from torture or death, European merchants might have some excuse to plead in its vindication. But, according to the common mode in which it has been conducted, we must confess it a difficult matter to conceive a single argument in its defence. It is contrary to all laws of nature and nations to entice, inveigle and compel such multitudes of human creatures, who never injured us, from their native land, and dispose of them like flocks of sheep and cattle to the highest bidder; and, what compleats the cruelty and injustice of the traffic, to consign them over to ignorance, barbarism, and perpetual slavery. After this, where will insatiable avarice stop? As a free and independent people, they had unquestionably an equal right to make slaves of the inhabitants of Europe. Nature has given the people of the one continent no superiority over those of the other; the advantages of Europeans were the effects only of art and improvement. And though policy has given countenance and sanction to the trade, yet every candid and impartial man must confess, that it is atrocious and unjustifiable in every light in which it can be viewed, and turns merchants into a band of robbers, and trade into atrocious acts of fraud and violence. [Sidenote] A.D. 1584. Virginia settled. We shall now return to those naval adventurers, whose object was the establishment of colonies in America. About the year 1584, Sir Walter Raleigh, an able statesman and gallant officer, formed a project for planting an English colony in America. His penetrating genius easily discerned the great advantages which would accrue from a successful foreign settlement. He applied to the Queen, and having obtained from her letters-patent, immediately began to carry into execution what his ingenuity had projected. He fitted out two vessels, and gave the command of them to Philip Amidas and Arthur Barlow, and sent them to America. They landed at the island Roanock, and took possession of the country in the name of the Queen of England, and Sir Walter called it Virginia, in honour of his virgin Queen. The favourable report made by these two mariners, encouraged Sir Walter to pursue his design with resolution. Great minds are fond of new schemes and grand enterprizes, but it commonly falls to posterity to reap the advantages resulting from them. Sir Richard Grenville, one of Sir Walter's intimate companions, afterwards visited this country, and left one hundred and eight men in it to keep possession of the territory. But they running short of provisions, and having no source of supply, were reduced to great straits. Happily for them, admiral Drake, who had been sent with a fleet to Spanish America in search of treasure, had instructions to touch at Virginia in his return to England. On his arrival he found the infant colony in great distress, and at their request carried them back to England. Some years afterwards another attempt was made, and fifty men were left to begin a settlement. Whether these suffered death by hunger, or the hands of savages, is uncertain; but, on the arrival of another embarkation, none of the fifty could be found. They observed the word Croatan marked on some trees, from which the conjectured that the colony had moved to a place called by that name, and left this as a mark to conduct their friends to it. But a storm afterwords arising, these adventurers were driven out to sea, and, without finding their unfortunate countrymen, returned to England. From this period till the year 1606 Virginia was left without an inhabitant, except its original savages. In the mean time, Sir Walter Raleigh, having incurred the displeasure of the king and the jealousy of the court, fell a sacrifice to the malice and power of his enemies. However, some merchants of London and Bristol kept trading to the western world, and bartered beads, knives, hatchets and coarse cloths for the skins and furs which the Indians brought them. The immense profits arising from this commerce encouraged them to enlarge it. For this purpose two companies were incorporated for trading to America and establishing settlements in it, the one was called the Virginia Company, the other the Plymouth Adventurers. King James granted them all the territory which lies between the 34th and 45th degrees of north latitude. The former of these corporations laid the foundation of James-Town in Virginia, which was the first British settlement in America which proved permanent and successful. So after Sir Walter Raleigh had projected and spent forty thousand pounds, in vain attempts to establish a colony in this quarter, this company reaped the first advantages of his enterprising spirit and great design. [Sidenote] Its progress. However, for many years, finall and inconsiderable was the progress of this distant settlement. Their object was rather Indian trade than cultivation, till Lord Delawar was appointed governor of the colony. After his arrival in Virginia, he turned the attention of the settlers to industry and application. From the rivers which abounded with fish, and the woods with game, he taught them the arts of procuring a plentiful supply of provision. He showed them the profitability of chastising those Indian tribes who presumed to harass the colony, pointed out the methods of defence in the woods, and by his example inspired them with revolution and perseverance. At length, having by his zeal and indefatigable labours brought the colony to a growing and hopeful condition, at the risque of his own health, he appointed his son deputy-governor, and returned to England. By this time several men of opulence and distinction in England had begun to form the most sanguine hopes with respect to this settlement, and united in a plan for carrying inhabitants to it. Sir Thomas Yates and Sir George Somers embarked with 500 men for Virginia: the latter being driven by a storm within sight of the island called Bermuda, formed a design of settling it. This embarkation proved a great acquisition to the colony in Virginia. On their arrival the colonists began to think themselves strong, and therefore, not content with the lands about James-Town, they forced their way up the large rivers, and made bold excursions into the country, in search of the most convenient and fertile spots of ground. The wisdom of their governor was no less conspicuous in the division of property, than in the distribution of justice. His tenderness and indulgences set the springs of industry in motion, which spread through the settlement, and excited a spirit of emulation with respect to the culture of lands. By degrees little spots were cleared and planted, which rewarded the diligent, and the country began to make some feeble advances towards improvement. In proportion as the colony multiplied, the inhabitants spread themselves through the country, yet abundance of land still remained for additional numbers, with which it might in time be augmented. [Sidenote] Disturbances in England promote foreign settlements. During the reign of the family of Stuart, a series of weak and oppressive measures, pursued in England, occasioned domestic troubles and discontent to the nation, and contributed greatly to promote American settlements. James the first, surrounded by a crowd of flatterers, began to entertain high ideas of his power and prerogative, to inculcate the extravagant doctrines of divine indefeasible right, passive obedience, and non-resistance, on a people whom he was ill qualified to govern, and who had conceived an irreconcilable aversion from such political principles. The consequence was, he lost by his weakness and pedantry the affections of the nation, yet his reign is memorable for giving rise to many foreign settlements. From him the East-India Company received a new patent, which encouraged the corporation to enlarge their stock, and to fit out a greater number of ships for that trade. In his reign Barbadoes was settled by an association of noblemen, of whom the Earl of Pembroke was the chief. And though it afterwards changed its master, and fell into the hands of the Earl of Carlisle, yet it prospered from its first population, and soon became a rich and flourishing island. St. Christophers may also date its origin from the close of this king's reign. The Plymouth Adventurers, who had carried a colony to New-England, at different times added numbers to it, and, notwithstanding every difficulty, it grew and prospered. Sir William Alexander received a grant of that territory now called Nova Scotia from the same king, but never made and serious attempts towards settling it. During the succeeding reign several thousands emigrated to the western continent. Both the King and Queen were attached to the Popish religion, which vast multitudes of the nation abhorred. This served to alienate the people's affections not a little from the royal family; but the tyrannical and oppressive regulations established by the rulers of the church, doubled the distress of the people, and served to complete their disaffection to their native country. The Puritans, so called for their taking, or affecting to take, the pure and simple word of God for the rule of their faith and practice, regardless of ecclesiastical authority and institutions, were a numerous party in the nation. These people had begun their struggles for religious liberty, and as they afterwords occasioned such commotions in England, a general sketch of their character, and the rise and progress of their party, may not perhaps be unacceptable. [Sidenote] New England peopled by Puritans. From the great aera of the Reformation the English nation had been distracted with religious disputes, and divided into contending parties. One part of the people adhered to the old superstitious system of the Romish church, and strictly observed all the absurd tenets and practices of that establishment. Another party, of which the church of England was composed, seceded several steps from popery, but maintained the hierarchy in its full power and authority. The third sect were Puritans, who had imbibed such high notions of civil and religious liberty, as struck at the foundation of both hierarchy and monarchy. On all occasions they discovered a strong tendency towards a republican form of government and an irreconcileable aversion towards the whole fabric of the Episcopalian church. This party, during the two preceding reigns being chiefly composed of the dregs of the people, were regarded as of little consequence, and treated with supercilious contempt by the administration. But in the reign of King Charles the first they had amazingly increased, and many men of opulence and distinction had joined them, from motives of discontent or ambition, or from a passion for singularity and popular applause. When the religious disputes became warm in the nation, the zeal of this party broke out, and burned with such amazing ardour that it levelled all distinctions. To increase the confusion, Archbishop Laud insisted on conformity, and persecuted all who refused obedience to his mandates with the utmost rigour. But persecution, for the most part, proves destructive to the cause it is intended to promote. The miseries the Puritans endured, and their firmness and perseverance in the midst of sufferings, contributed to give them that merit and importance in the eyes of the nation, which otherwise perhaps they had never attained. Their sober and rigid manner of life, the plainness of dress which they affected, and the strong tendency they shewed towards religion in all their words and actions, had great weight with the vulgar and credulous part, and induced them to entertain high notions of their sanctity, and to venerate them as the peculiar people of God. Their number increased and became formidable. Many men of rank, disgusted at the measures of court, and apprehensive that the liberties of the nation were in danger, turned zealous republicans, and seemed to aim at a total subversion of the constitution, both in church and state. The King, though a well-wisher to religion, hated the principles of the Puritans, and considered them as dangerous and deceitful. Those enthusiasts, on the other hand, were determined to endure the severest persecutions, rather than admit the common prayer, organs, and surplices into their worship, and conform to the popish ceremony of kneeling at the sacrament. In short, the dispute about trifling ceremonies became serious on both sides, and augured no good to the nation. Dr. Laud, observing not only the laity but the clergy also infected with puritanical principles, deprived many of their livings, merely for not conforming to all the ceremonies of the church. During these troubles many fled to New England; and others caused houses to be built and lands cleared for them, with a view of retiring there, should their contention for religious freedom in England prove unsuccessful. In vain did Dr. Laud obtain an order of court to put a stop to emigration. There was not a corner of the globe to which these people would not flee, rather than conform to ceremonies which they thought savoured of popery and idolatry, and endangered their salvation. To these disturbances New-England owed its population. Enthusiasm has often stimulated men to bold and arduous undertakings, and animated them to perseverance amidst great difficulties. Of this truth the first emigrants to New-England afford us a striking example. They seemed to bid defiance to the hardships to which they were exposed, having what they valued most of any thing in the world, I mean, liberty of conscience. Amidst cold, hunger, toil, disease, and distress of every kind, they comforted themselves with the thoughts of being removed far out of the reach of tyrants, and triumphed in their deliverance from an idolatrous and wicked nation. Neither the hideous gloom of the thick forest, nor the ravages and depredations of savage neighbours, appeared to them so grievous and intolerable as conformity to the that of England, and an implicit obedience to civil authority. [Sidenote] Who turn persecutors. It might reasonably have been expected, that those emigrants who made New-England their asylum from what they deemed civil tyranny and ecclesiastical persecution, would have guarded against every degree of oppression and persecution in that form of government they were about to establish among themselves. This, however, was far from being the case. Some of their first laws favour of a degree of persecution and intolerance unknown in the most despotic governments of Europe; and those who fled from persecution became the most bitter persecutors. Those who were found dancing or drunk were ordered to be publicly whipped, in order to deter others from such practices. The custom of wearing long hair was deemed immodest, impious and abominable. All who were guilty of swearing rashly, might purchase an exemption from punishment for a schilling; but those who should transgress the fourth commandment were to be condemned to banishment, and such as should worship images, to death. Children were to be punished with death, for cursing or striking their father or mother. Marriages were to be solemnized by magistrates; and all who denied the coercive authority of the magistrate in religious matters, or the validity of infant baptism, were to be banished. Blasphemy, perjury, adultery, and witchcraft, were all made capital offences. In short, we may challenge the annals of any nation to produce a code of laws more intolerant than that of the first settlers in New-England. Unlimited obedience was enjoined to the authority of the magistrate, by the same men who had refused such submission in England, and fled from their native country because it was demanded. Thus, however incredible it may appear, blind fanatics became public legislators, and those who were unable to endure tyranny in England, became the most insupportable tyrants in America. This oppressive rigour of their first laws was soon heavily felt by many, but especially by that peaceable society of people called Quakers. Some of this sect, who had been banished on account of their religion, out of mere zeal for making proselytes, returned to the country. They were instantly seized by those oppressors, condemned and hanged, to prevent the clandestine incursions of others. Those who had the misfortune to be taken with convulsions, or any disorder to which vulgar ignorance was a stranger, were accused of witchcraft, and condemned to death. No age nor sex were secure from such suspicions, when ignorance, malice and phrenzy joined in framing accusations, and selecting victims at pleasure. Dreams, apparitions and tortures were all employed as evidences against persons accused, and served to increase the number of horrid executions. The clergy were often accused, and sometimes the judges themselves. The jails were filled with infants, old men and women, the people were distracted with gloomy apprehensions, and the country was stained with innocent blood. At last the popular phrenzy began to subside, and gave way to painful remorse. The eyes of the blinded fanatics were opened, so as to discern their guilt; and a general fast was appointed to implore the pardon and mercy of God for their enormous crimes and horrible delusions. [Sidenote] Divide into different governments. This colony, which was planted by oppression, in process of time owed its extension to the same cause, Dissenters, who all claim an equal right to liberty in religion, with respect to private judgment and opinion, were not likely to remain long in harmony and peace among themselves. Though they reprobated the doctrine of uniformity in England, yet they became the most bigoted sticklers for it in their new settlement. The tenets of others, who differed from their mode of worship, were condemned without scruple or hesitation, insomuch that the oppression from which they fled in Britain was like gentle toleration, when compared with that to which they subjected their fellow-refugees. Hence various sectaries arose in their settlement, who claimed the same right to dissent from them, which they formerly did from the church of England. But their claim was rejected, and of consequence a persecution for conscience sake commenced among that people, who had become separatists in defence of universal toleration. However, these sprigs, torn by violence from the old root, had the same resource left; they separated, and planted themselves in a new soil, and spread their branches over the country. Hence different governments took their origin, and different colonies were settled, by persons who were denied religious freedom, and the right of private judgment, in Massachuset's bay. [Sidenote] A colony planted in Maryland. From the same source, I mean, a division in England, another colony of catholics took its rise. The king not only lost the affections of his Protestant subjects, but was also obliged to give the Roman catholics up to the rigour of those laws enacted against them in the preceding reigns. Lord Baltimore therefore resolved to leave England, and settle a colony on lands which had been granted to his father a few years before his death. This territory he called Maryland, in honour of the queen, who gave him all the assistance in her power towards forwarding the settlement. [Sidenote] General remarks on colonization. From the establishment and progress of these foreign settlements, and the spirit of emigration which prevailed in England, discerning men early foreboded ill consequences to the mother country. They were no strangers to the troubles which the colonies of Greece and Rome occasioned those ancient republics. Such vast territories as America contained, opened a boundless field for the encouragement of emigration, and every addition which these colonies received from Britain was prejudicial to her interest, as it served to weaken her, in proportion as it strengthened them. The riches of every country unquestionably depend on the number of its industrious inhabitants. America could furnish employment for innumerable hands, and emigrations from the mother country would in process of time dry up the sources of her wealth and power. England, though populous, could spare none, without prejudice to herself, but such as had either no employment at home, or no inclination to labour: for all industrious men serve to enrich their country, and whatever they earn by their labour, be it more or less, so much doth the nation profit by them. It is true, a number of idle and indolent people, like voracious drones in the hive, are a burden to every community. Such indeed might be spared for the purpose of colonization, without any detriment to the parent state; but every diligent and honest labourer that emigrates from his native country, helps to depopulate, and of course to impoverish it. Had England at that time been too populous for its extent, or incapable of employing and maintaining its inhabitants, in that case, her planting foreign colonies might have served the purpose of public utility, and given relief from domestic hardship, just as bees send off their young swarms without injuring the industrious hive. Britain, no doubt, might reap some advantages from her foreign plantations, especially such of them as are situated in a different climate, and produce such commodities as luxury obliged her to purchase from strangers; and while she maintained her supreme jurisdiction over them, she could bind them by laws to continue her customers for taking off her manufactures, and so extend her commerce and navigation. By such policy she might make the wealth of her laborious colonies center in herself, and add greatly to her opulence and power. In every other case, numerous and extensive foreign settlements must prove hurtful, if not troublesome and dangerous: for while they are draining her of her useful inhabitants, they are growing on her ruins; and if they turn not headstrong and ungovernable, they will at least oblige her to keep a much larger army and fleet than otherways she would have any occasion for, and double her expence for their protection. From Charles the first Sir Robert Heath obtained a grant for an immense territory lying to the southward of Virginia, which is now divided into several distinct provinces, but made no settlement on it. Excepting a small garison the Spaniards supported at Augustine, this country remained a rude wilderness, the habitation of savages and wild beasts, till the restoration. Soon after that important event several leading men of the nation, actuated by a pious and laudable zeal for the propagation of the Gospel, associated, and formed a design of settling it at their own expence. To give an account of the rise and progress of this settlement, especially of that division now called SOUTH CAROLINA, shall be our business in the following pages of this history. CHAP. II. During the period of the usurpation in England, popular anarchy prevailed, and levelled all ranks and distinctions throughout the nation. The lineal heir of the crown being expelled, Oliver Cromwell, that ambitious and crafty leader of the people, seized the reins of government, and ruled England with a rod of iron for several years. The nobles bowed to a fanatic, and the republican part of the constitution preponderated to such a degree, that the other two became as nothing in the balance. When the restoration took place, to the great joy and happiness of the nation, the nobles and royalists again stood forth, and assumed their former dignity and weight in the government of their country. Domestic peace being re-established on the solid foundation of regal and constitutional authority, England, amidst other national objects, turned her views toward the improvement of commerce, navigation, and her colonies. Hitherto the extensive territory of North America had been divided into two districts, which were called South and North Virginia. All lands lying towards the river St. Lawrence, from the northern boundaries of the province now called Virginia, belonged to the northern, and all those to the southward, as far as the Gulf of Florida, to the southern district. And though the first European settlement in America was attempted in Florida by the French, yet they were compelled to relinquish that place; and the English, preferring what they esteemed a more favourable climate, had hitherto neglected it. [Sidenote] The first proprietors and their charter. After the restoration, England began to recognize her claim to a large territory in the southern district. In the year 1662, Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Lord Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Antony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carteret, Sir William Berkeley, and Sir John Colleton, being apprized of the excellent soil of this country, united and formed a project for planting a colony in it. Upon application to the crown for a charter, Charles granted them all the lands lying between the thirty-first and thirty-sixth degrees of north latitude. Two years afterwards he confirmed this grant, and by a second charter enlarged the boundaries of it, from the 29th degree of north latitude to 36 degrees 30 minutes, and from these points on the sea-coast westward in parallel lines to the Pacific ocean. Of this immense region the king constituted them absolute lords and proprietors, saving to himself, his heirs and successors the sovereign dominion of the country. At the same time he invested them with all the rights, jurisdiction, royalties, privileges and liberties within the bounds of their province, to hold, use and enjoy the same, in as ample a manner as the bishop of Durham did in that county palatine in England. This province they were to hold and possess of the king, his heirs and successors, as of his manor of East Greenwich in Kent, not _in capite_, or by knight's service, but in free and common soccage. These absolute lords and proprietors were by their charter empowered to enact, and, under their seal, to publish any laws or constitutions they judged proper and necessary to the public state of the province, with the assent, advice and approbation of the freemen of the colony; to constitute counties, baronies and colonies within the province; to erect courts of judicature, and appoint civil judges, magistrates and officers; to erect forts, castles, cities and towns; to make war; to levy, muster and train men to the use of arms, and, in cases of necessity, to exercise the martial law; to confer titles of honour, only they must be different from those conferred on the people of England; to build harbours, make ports, and enjoy customs and subsidies, which they, with the consent of the freemen, should impose on goods loaded and unloaded; reserving the fourth part of the gold and silver ore found within the province to the crown. By the said charter the king granted them the patronage and avowson of all churches and chapels, to hold and exercise the same rights, powers and privileges as the bishop of Durham did in England: but as it might happen that several of the inhabitants could not in their private opinions conform to the exercise of religion, according to the liturgy and ceremonies of the church of England; the proprietors had power and authority granted them, to allow the inhabitants of the province both indulgences and dispensations, as they in their discretion should think proper and reasonable; and no person, to whom such liberty should be granted, was to be molested, punished, or called in question for any differences in speculative opinions with respect to religion; so that all persons, of what denomination soever, had liberty to enjoy their own judgments and consciences in religious concerns, provided they disturbed not the civil order and peace of the province. And as the assembly of freeholders could not be immediately called, the proprietors had power granted them to make such orders and ordinances as might be necessary to the government of the people and the preservation of peace, and as were not repugnant to the laws and statutes of England. Liberty was given to the king's liege subjects to transport themselves and families to settle the province, only they were to remain immediately subject to the crown of England, and to depend thereon for ever; and were not compellable to answer to any cause or suit in any other part of his majesty's dominions but in England and Wales. [Sidenote] Of the foundamental constitutions. Agreeable to the powers with which the proprietors were invested by their charter, they began to frame a system of laws for the government of their colony; in which arduous task they called in the great philosopher John Locke to their assistance. A model of government, consisting of no less than one hundred and twenty different articles, was framed by this learned man, which they agreed to establish, and to the careful observance of which, to bind themselves and their heirs for ever. But there is danger of error, where speculative men of one country attempt to sketch out a plan of government for another, in a different climate and situation. This legislator must be acknowledged to have possessed great abilities and merit; yet his fine-spun system proved in effect useless and impracticable. Several attempts were afterwards made to amend these fundamental constitutions, but all to little purpose; the inhabitants, sensible of their impropriety, and how little they were applicable to their circumstances, neither by themselves, nor by their representatives in assembly, ever gave their assent to them as a body of laws, and therefore they obtained not the force of fundamental and unalterable laws in the colony. What regulations the people found applicable and useful, they adopted at the request of their governors; but observed them on account of their own propriety and necessity, rather than as a system of laws imposed on them by British legislators. As the proprietors were so fond of these constitutions, and expressed so much zeal for their establishment, it may not be improper to give a short and imperfect view of them, especially such as were allowed to take place in the government of the colony. The eldest of the eight proprietors was always to be Palatine, and at his decease was to be succeeded by the eldest of the seven survivors. This palatine was to sit as president of the palatine's court, of which he and three more of the proprietors made a quorum, and had the management and execution of all the powers of their charter. This palatine's court was to stand in room of the king, and give their assent or dissent to all laws made by the legislature of the colony. The palatine was to have power to nominate and appoint the governor, who, after obtaining the royal approbation, became his representative in Carolina. Each of the seven proprietors was to have the privilege of appointing a deputy to sit as his representative in parliament, and to act agreeable to his instructions. Besides a governor, two other branches, somewhat similar to the old Saxon constitution, were to be established, an upper and lower house of assembly; which three branches were to be called a Parliament, and to constitute the legislature of the country. The parliament was to be chosen every two years. No act of the legislature was to have any force unless ratified in open parliament during the same session, and even then to continue no longer in force than the next biennial parliament, unless in the mean time it be ratified by the hands and seals of the palatine and three proprietors. The upper house was to consist of the seven deputies, seven of the oldest landgraves and cassiques, and seven chosen by the assembly. As in the other provinces the lower house was to be composed of the representatives from the different counties and towns. Several officers were also to be appointed, such as an admiral, a secretary, a chief justice, a surveyor, a treasurer, a marshal, and register; and besides these, each county was to have a sheriff and four justices of the peace. Three classes of nobility were to be established, called Barons, Cassiques, and Landgraves; the first to possess twelve, the second twenty-four, and the third forty-eight thousand acres of land, and their possessions were to be unalienable. Military officers were also to be nominated, and all inhabitants from sixteen to sixty years of age, as in the times of feudal government, when summoned by the governor and grand council, were to appear under arms, and, in time of war, to take the field. With respect to religion, three terms of communion were fixed: First, To believe that there is a God; Secondly, That he is to be worshipped; And, thirdly, That it is lawful and the duty of every man when called upon by those in authority, to bear witness to the truth. Without acknowledging which, no man was to be permitted to be a freeman, or to have any estate or habitation in Carolina. But persecution for observing different modes and ways of worship, was expressly forbid, and every man was to be left full liberty of conscience, and might worship God in that manner which he in his private judgment thought most conformable to the divine will and revealed word. This was the opinion of Mr. Locke with respect to religious matters. He chose the word of God for his rule of life, and was used to say, "That, at the day of judgment, it would not be asked whether he was a follower of Luther or Calvin; but whether he embraced the truth in the love of it." [Sidenote] William Sayle visits Carolina. Notwithstanding these preparations, several years elapsed before the proprietors of Carolina made any serious efforts towards its settlement. In 1667, they fitted out a ship, gave the command of it to Captain William Sayle, and sent him out to bring them some account of the coast. In his passage Captain Sayle was driven by a storm among the Bahama islands, which accident he improved to the purpose of acquiring some knowledge of them; particularly the island of Providence, which he judged might be of service to the intended settlement of Carolina; for, in case of an invasion from the Spaniards, this island, fortified, might be made to serve either as a check to the progress of their arms, or a useful retreat to unfortunate colonists. Leaving Providence, he sailed along the coast of Carolina, where he observed several large navigable rivers emptying themselves into the ocean, and a flat country covered with woods. He attempted to go ashore in his boat, but observing some savages on the banks of the rivers, he was obliged to drop his design; and, after having explored the coast and the mouth of the rivers, he took his departure and resumed to England. [Sidenote] And is appointed the first governor of it. His report to his employers, as might naturally be expected, was favourable. He praised their possessions, and encouraged them to engage with vigour in the execution of their project. His observations respecting the Bahama islands induced them to apply to the king for a grant of them. Charles bestowed on them by patent all those islands lying between the 22d and 27th degrees of north latitude. Nothing then remained but to make preparations for sending a colony to Carolina. Two ships were procured, on board of which a number of adventurers embarked, with provisions, arms, and utensils requisite for building and cultivation. William Sayle, who had visited the country, was appointed the first governor of it, and received a commission, bearing date July 26, 1669. The expences of this first embarkation amounted to twelve thousand pounds, which vigorous effort was a proof that the proprietor entertained no small hopes with respect to their palatinate. The number of men, however, must have been inconsiderable, and no ways adequate to the undertaking, especially when we consider the multitude of savages that ranged through that extensive wilderness. [Sidenote] Settles his colony on Ashley river. In what place Governor Sayle first landed is uncertain; but he was dissatisfied with his first situation, and, moving to the southward, took possession of a neck of land between Ashley and Cooper rivers. The earliest instructions we have seen upon record were directed to the governor and council of Ashley river, in which spot the first settlement was made that proved permanent and successful. This place, however, was more eligible for the convenience of navigation than for the richness of its soil. But to struggle amidst a complication of difficulties and dangers was the lot of such adventurers; to surmount which, at this early period, no small degree of fortitude, patience and perseverance must have been requisite. [Sidenote] Hardship of the first settlers, from the climate. New settlers in all countries and climates are subject to many hardships, especially such as are in low and indigent circumstances; but those of the first settlers of Carolina must have equalled, if not surpassed, every thing of the kind to which men in any age have been exposed. To fell the trees of the thick forest, and build habitations for themselves, would probably be their first employment, before they began to clear their spots of ground for raising the necessaries of life. In such a low country, and warm climate, even this task must have been a considerable burden. But Carolina, like other level countries overflowed with water, is productive of many disorders, such as putrid fevers, agues, dysenteries, and the like; and to fix habitations on such places where the exhalations from stagnated waters and marshy swamps poisoned the air, must have rendered them extremely unwholesome. During the summer months the climate is so sultry, that no European, without hazard, can endure the fatigues of labouring in the open air: for the most part, the weather during this season is very clear and serene, excepting when a thunder-storm happens, which cools the air, suddenly stops perspiration, and becomes exceedingly dangerous to labourers of little precaution. Besides, the violent heat continues through the night, and denies the weary workman the natural refreshment of sleep. The autumn introduces cool evenings and mornings, while the noon-day is intolerably warm; which change, together with the thick fogs that commonly fall at this season, rendered it the most unhealthy division of the year. In winter, though the degree of cold is not so great as in the more northern climates of America, yet it is severely felt by the human body, exhausted and relaxed with the summer heat; and when the wind shifts suddenly from any quarter to the north-west or north, it blows extremely sharp and piercing, brings along with it sometimes frost and snow, and renders the warmest clothing requisite. The spring is the most temperate and delightful season of the year: it begins early, and diffuses its enlivening influence over the fields and forests. Experience had not yet taught the young colonists the methods either of improving the advantages, or guarding against the disadvantages of the climate, and therefore it is no wonder that they found themselves involved at this period in a complication of hardships. [Sidenote] And from the Indians. To enhance their distress, they were surrounded with tribes of warlike savages, who viewed them with a jealous eye, and were by no means pleased at the encroachments made on their natural possessions. The tribes called Stonoes and Westoes were particularly troublesome. The colonists, indeed, were furnished with arms and ammunition from the storehouse of the proprietors, yet as they lived in the midst of perpetual alarms, their condition must have been deplorable. Nor did the musket give those strangers to the woods such an advantage over the bow and arrow in the hands of the Indians, as some people may be apt to imagine. The savage, quick-sighted, and accustomed to perpetual watchfulness, springs from his den behind a bush, and surprizes his enemy with the pointed arrow before he is aware of danger. He ranges through the trackless forest like the beasts of prey, and safely sleeps under the same canopy with the wolf and bear. His vengeance is concealed, and sends the tidings in the fatal blow. The first settlers were obliged to stand in a continual posture of defence; and as they could not be supposed to understand the political methods of managing their barbarous neighbors, they must have been subjected to all the hardships arising from their ignorance and dangerous condition. While one party was employed in raising their little habitations, another was always kept under arms, to watch the motions of these Indians. The governor shared those hardships along with his fellow adventurers, and by his example animated and encouraged them to perseverance. The only fresh provisions they could procure were fish from the river, and what game they could kill with their gun. While the settlers were struggling under the difficulties inseparable from the first state of colonization, the ship Blessing, belonging to the proprietors, commanded by Captain Matthias Halstead, happily arrived, and brought them a seasonable supply of necessaries. At the same time deputies from the other proprietors came over, to assist the governor in the discharge of the duties of his office. They brought with them twenty-three articles of instruction, called Temporary Agrarian Laws, intended for the equitable division of lands among the people; but whatever difficulties or inconveniencies might occur in the execution of them, the governor had directions to represent them to the proprietors, who had reserved to themselves the sole power of making alterations in them. At the same time, the governor received a plan of a magnificent town, to be laid out on the neck of land between the two rivers, to be called Charlestown, in honour of the king. Captain Halstead was employed, during his stay, in sounding the rivers, for the benefit of navigation, which were found sufficiently deep, and excellently calculated for the purposes of trade. [Sidenote] Sir John Yeamans arrives at Carolina. About this time the Duke of Albemarle, who was the first palatine, died, and was succeeded by the Earl of Craven, as eldest proprietor. John Locke, Sir John Yeamans, and James Carteret, were created landgraves, to make part of the nobility required by the fundamental constitutions. Sir John was the eldest son and heir of Robert Yeamans alderman of Bristol, who was imprisoned and executed in 1643, by order of Nathaniel Fienes, son to Lord Say, who had been appointed governor of Bristol by the parliament. His son, Sir John, was afterwards advanced to the dignity of baronet by King Charles the second in 1664, as a reward for the steady loyalty and heavy sufferings of his father. But as the violence of the preceding times, which had deprived Sir John of his father, had also injured him in his private fortune, he embarked for the island of Barbadoes, at that time in a flourishing condition, to hide his poverty from his acquaintance in England, and endeavour to acquire a fortune suitable to his dignity. When Carolina was settled, having received a grant of a large tract of land from the proprietors, he, with several respectable followers, retired to that infant colony, to forward by his presence and example, the interest of his generous and beloved friends, from whom he had received great encouragement and assistance. [Sidenote] A.D. 1671. [Sidenote] And is appointed governor. Soon after his arrival in Carolina, Governor Sayle fell a sacrifice to the hardships of the climate. Upon his death the council met, and Sir John claimed the office of vice-palatine in consequence of his rank, being the only landgrave resident in the colony. But the council, who were empowered to elect a governor in such a case, chose to prefer Joseph West, until a special appointment arrived from England. West was a popular man, much esteemed among the colonists for his activity, courage, and prudence. However, he did not long remain in office, for the first vessel that arrived from England brought a commission to Sir John Yeamans, constituting him governor of the colony. [Sidenote] Various causes contribute to the settlement of the country. Here it may be remarked, that various causes contributed towards the population of this settlement, as well as those in the more northern climates. After the Restoration, a total change in the manners of the English nation took place, and many of the people from the strictest rigour and severity in point of morals, became profane, dissolute and abandoned. The Cavaliers, who had suffered during the usurpation, began to retaliate on the Puritans, and having obtained the ascendency over them in public affairs, on all occasions treated them with severe ridicule and supercilious contempt. On the other hand, the morose republican party, highly offended at the licentious manners and growing wickedness of the times, ardently wished for some distant retreat to shelter themselves from the storm of divine judgments which they believed hung over the corrupted and profligate nation. To prevent disturbances from these different parties, Lord Clarendon, and many more of the king's council, from maxims of policy, encouraged emigration, which they considered as a sovereign remedy for political disorders. A new field was opened in Carolina for discontented and turbulent spirits, to whom the proprietors promised grants of land, upon condition they would transport themselves and families to that quarter. They knew that industry was a good cure for enthusiasm, and that enthusiasm was an excellent spur to new and hazardous undertakings. The privilege of liberty of conscience allowed to every one by the charter equally suited all parties, and proved a great encouragement to emigration. New-England indeed had drawn over many of the warmest and most turbulent republicans, and proved a happy shelter to some against the terrors of future reckonings. Still, however, multitudes remained in the nation, who, being discontented with their present circumstances, were willing to seek for liberty of conscience in the deserts of America. Accordingly, many dissenters embraced the offers of the proprietors, and the infant colony received its earliest acquisitions from this restless and troublesome party. Other reasons of state contributed to render those new settlements seasonably useful and important to the king. Several of his zealous friends had been ruined by their steady adherence to his family during the civil war, which had subverted the English monarchy; many brave officers and soldiers of the royal army had been reduced to indigent circumstances, for whom the king could make little provision in England; these useful subjects and faithful friends merited the compassion of their country, and being inured to face dangers, for landed estates were willing to accept of grants in the neighbourhood of Indian savages. By this time several of the settlers in Virginia and Barbadoes had been successful, and having surmounted the difficulties attending the first state of colonization, were living in easy and plentiful circumstances. The lands of Carolina were esteemed equal, if not superior in value, to those of the northern colonies. Here the servants of the king could provide for his friends without any expence to the nation, and by this means not only secured their attachment, but also extended his power. Grants of land were allowed them in Carolina by the proprietors, where it was thought they might in time enrich themselves, and become beneficial to the commerce and navigation of the mother country. From this period every year brought new adventurers to Carolina. The friends of the proprietors were invited to it, by the flattering prospects of obtaining landed estates at an easy rate. Others took refuge there from the frowns of fortune and the rigour of unmerciful creditors. Youth reduced to misery by giddy passion and excess embarked for the new settlement, where they found leisure to reform, and where necessity taught them the unknown virtues of prudence and temperance. Restless spirits, fond of roving abroad, found also the means of gratifying their humours, and abundance of scope for enterprise and adventure. It cannot be deemed wonderful if many of them were disappointed, especially such as emigrated with sanguine expectations. The gaiety, luxury and vices of the city were bad qualifications for rural industry, and rendered some utterly unfit for the frugal simplicity and laborious task of the first state of cultivation. An hardy race, inured to labour, hunger, and fatigue, were best adapted for making impressions on the thick forest, and not such emigrants as left the city, tinctured with its vices and fond of luxury and ease. Nor could the Puritans, who settled before them, promise themselves much greater success than their neighbours; though more rigid and austere in their manners, and more religiously disposed, their scrupulosity about trifles and ceremonies, and their violent and litigious dispositions, created trouble to all around them, and disturbed that general harmony so necessary to the welfare and prosperity of the young settlement. From the various principles which actuated the populace of England, and the different sects who composed the first settlers of Carolina, nothing less could be expected, but that the seeds of division should be imported into that country with its earliest inhabitants. We are apt to attend chiefly to the desolating wars, or the great and surprising revolutions which happen to kingdoms in their populous and advanced state, and to pass over the events of their rise and progress as trifling and inconsiderable; but as the greatest nations upon earth have gradually sprung from such beginnings, it is no less curious and instructive to view the smaller transactions of their infant state, than the grander events of their mature age. Kingdoms in the political world, like plants in the vegetable, have their stages of rise, progress, perfection, and decline; and, in the fields of nature, it is equally pleasant to mark the buds of the spring, as the bloom of summer, or the decay of autumn. [Sidenote] America peopled in an improved age. One advantage certainly attended the various settlements in America, of which no European state can boast. Being peopled from civilized nations in an enlightened age, when records are carefully kept and faithfully preserved, the events of their rise and progress, though not so important, were equally clear as those of their more perfect state: whereas the history of the origin of eastern nations could only be transmitted to future generations by the songs of bards or oral tradition. Ignorance of geography, and the art of printing not being then invented, must have rendered the transactions of rude and barbarous ages so precarious and obscure, that if the dead of past ages were to revive, they could scarcely be able to recognize the complexion of their own time. Even in the ages preceding the invention of printing, and the happy Reformation, many events lie buried in darkness and oblivion. The small knowledge which then existed being confined to the clergy, their accounts do not merit entire credit; for the various orders of ecclesiastics at that time were too much under the influence of monkish pride and superstition, to transmit faithful memorials to posterity. [Sidenote] The first treaty with Spain respecting it. Before the year 1667, there is no mention made of America in any treaty between England and Spain, the latter being contented to keep up her ancient claims to that country, and the former careful to keep and improve the footing she had already gained in it. However, a few years after Carolina was settled, Sir William Godolphin concluded a treaty with Spain, in which, among other articles, it was agreed, "That the King of Great-Britain should always possess, in full right of sovereignty and property, all the countries, islands, and colonies, lying and situated in the West Indies, or any part of America, which he and his subjects then held and possessed, insomuch that they neither can nor ought thereafter to be contested on any account whatsoever." The Bucaniers, who had for many years infested Spanish America, were now cut off from all future protection from the English government in their hostile invasions of these dominions, and all commissions formerly granted to such pirates, were recalled and annulled. By this treaty, the freedom of navigation in these American seas was opened to both nations; and all ships in distress, whether from storms, or the pursuit of enemies and pirates, taking refuge in places belonging either to Britain or Spain, were to be treated with humanity, to meet with protection and assistance, and to be permitted to depart without molestation. These things merit particular notice, as by this treaty Spain evidently gave up all future pretensions to the country of Carolina granted to the proprietors by the king; and this freedom of navigation, provided for in such express terms, was violated, as we shall afterwards see, by the Spaniards, and proved the occasion of a bloody war between the two nations. Not long after this, a treaty of neutrality between Britain and France was also concluded; by which negotiations the possessions of Great Britain, France, and Spain, in the western world, were better ascertained; and the freedom of commerce and navigation was more firmly established by those three great potentates, than had taken place in any former period. [Sidenote] A council of commerce is instituted. It is not improbable that King Charles the second, during his exile, had acquired in Holland some knowledge in trade, and seen the vast advantage resulting from it to that republic; for after his return to his native dominions, he made the naval strength of England, and her commercial affairs, the principal objects of attention. He instituted a select council of commerce, consisting of a president, vice-president, and nine counsellors, for the encouragement of trade, navigation and the colonies. Instead of the former method, of referring all commercial concerns to a fluctuating committee of the privy-council, this institution was intended to chalk out a particular line of duty, which was to engage the whole attention of that board. But the king was so immersed in private luxuries and pleasures, that it was difficult to keep him steady and firm to any laudable public regulation. The annual expence attending this excellent institution he soon found was too heavy, and therefore it was dropt, and the affairs of commerce returned to their former tedious and fluctuating channel. [Sidenote] A legislature is formed in the colony. In Carolina Sir John Yeamans had entered on the government with an uncommon zeal for the success of the settlement, and a grateful anxiety to discharge the duties of his trust with fidelity and honour. The proprietors, fond of their new form of government, had instructed him to use his endeavours to introduce it, as the most excellent of its kind, and wisely adapted to promote the prosperity and happiness of the people. Accordingly, Sir John summoned the people together, ordered the fundamental constitutions to be read, and representatives to be elected. The province was divided into four counties, called Berkeley, Colleton, Craven, and Carteret counties. The people, who had hitherto lived under a kind of military government, now began to form a legislature for establishing civil regulations. Ten members were elected as representatives for Colleton, and ten for Berkeley counties. A committee, consisting of Stephen Bull, Ralph Marshal, and William Owen, were nominated for framing some public regulations. Three acts were proposed by them as beneficial; the first, to prevent persons leaving the colony; the second, to prohibit all men from disposing of arms and ammunition to Indians; and the third, for the regular building of Charlestown. [Sidenote] Its troubles from the Spaniards. Notwithstanding the public treaty already mentioned, a religious society of the Spanish nation laid claim to the large territory of Florida, not only on the foot of prior discovery, but also by virtue of a grant from the pope; and the garrison kept at Augustine regarding the British settlement as an encroachment on their possessions, were disposed to throw every difficulty in the way of the Carolineans, in order to compel them to relinquish the country. They encouraged indented servants to leave their masters, and fly to them for liberty and protection. They instilled into the savage tribes the most unfavourable notions of British heretics, and urged them on to the destruction of the colony. Good policy required that the governor should keep a watchful eye on the motions of such neighbours, and guard his weak and defenceless colony against the pernicious designs of their Spanish rivals. Some men he discovered who were attempting to entice servants to revolt; these were ordered to receive so many stripes. Others, in defiance of the feeble power of the magistrate, took to such courses as were subversive of public peace and justice. Except a few negroes whom Sir John Yeamans and his followers brought along with them from Barbadoes, there were no labourers but Europeans for the purposes of culture. Until the fields were cleared the brute creation could afford the planters no assistance; the weak arm of man alone had to encounter all the hardships of clearing and cultivation, and the thick forest seemed to bid defiance to his strength. Hard indeed was the task of these labourers while employed in felling the large and lofty trees, and all the while exposed to the heat of an inclement sky, and the terrors of barbarous enemies; with great truth it may be said of them, that they purchased their scanty morsel with the sweat of their brows. After all, the provisions they raised were exposed to the plundering parties of savage neighbours, and one day often robbed them of the dear-bought fruits of their whole year's toil. [Sidenote] Its domestic troubles and hardships. It is no easy matter to describe the dreadful extremities to which these poor settlers were sometimes reduced. During the government of Sir John Yeamans a civil disturbance broke out among the colonists, which threatened the ruin of the settlement. At such a distance it was very difficult for the proprietors to furnish their colony with regular supplies; and the spots of sandy and barren land they had cleared poorly rewarded their toil. Small was the skill of the planter, and European grain, which they had been accustomed to sow, proved suitable to neither soil nor climate. The emigrants being now, from sad experience, sensible of difficulties inseparable from their circumstances, began to murmur against the proprietors, and to curse the day they left their native land, to starve in a wilderness. While they gathered oysters for subsistence with one hand, they were obliged to carry their muskets for self-defence in the other. A great gun had been given to Florence O'Sullivan, which he placed on an island situate at the mouth of the harbour, to alarm the town in cases of invasion from the Spaniards. O'Sullivan deserted his island, being ready to perish with hunger, and joined the discontented party in the town. The people became seditious and ungovernable, and threatened to compel the governor to relinquish the settlement: even Mr. Culpepper the surveyor-general, joined them in their complaints and murmurs. The greatest prudence and courage were requisite to prevent tumults, and animate the colonists to perseverance. Florence O'Sullivan was taken up by the marshal on a charge of sedition, and compelled to find security for his future good behaviour. One sloop, commanded by Joseph Harris, was despatched to Virginia, another to Barbadoes, to bring provisions. Happily before their return a seasonable supply arrived from England, together with a number of new settlers, which revived the drooping spirits of the people, and encouraged them to engage in more vigorous efforts. The governor, sensible of the hardships the people had suffered, the more readily forgave them for their past misconduct; but as Mr. Culpepper held an office from the proprietors, he sent him to England to be tried by them for joining the people in treasonable conspiracies against the settlement. The garrison at Augustine having intelligence from servants who fled to them of the discontented and miserable situation of the colony in Carolina, advanced with a party under arms as far as the island of St. Helena, to dislodge or destroy the settlers. Brian Fitzpatrick, a noted villain, treacherously deserted his distressed friends on purpose to join their enemies. However, Sir John Yeamans having received a reinforcement, set his enemies at defiance. Fifty volunteers, under the command of Colonel Godfrey, marched against the Spaniards, who, on his approach, evacuated the island of St. Helena, and retreated to Augustine. [Sidenote] A war among the Indians seasonable for the settlement. At this period, to form alliances with Indian tribes was an object of great importance with the governor and council. One circumstance proved favourable to the colony at the time of its settlement. The Westoes, a powerful and numerous tribe, who harboured an irreconcileable aversion to the white faces of strangers, would have proved a dangerous enemy to them, had not their attention been occupied by the Serannas, another Indian nation. A bloody war between these two tribes providentially raged, and was carried on with such fury, that in the end it proved fatal to both. This served to pave the way for the introduction and establishment of this British settlement, which otherwise might have shared the same unhappy fate with the first adventurers to Virginia. Many tribes besides that might no doubt have extirpated the colony, but it is probable the governor studied by every means to avoid giving them any provocation, and to conciliate their affection and esteem. [Sidenote] Of Indians in general. While we now and then turn our eyes to those wild hunters who ranged through the American woods, we must guard against such false and horrid descriptions of them, as some who have suffered from their warlike temper have exhibited to the world. Many authors have discovered unreasonable prejudices against them, and shewn that they either wanted judgment to distinguish, or candour to make due allowances for, the failings peculiar to all nations in the same rude and uncultivated state. When Julius Cesar carried the Roman arms into Britain, and Germanicus over-run the forests of Germany, did they not find the silvestres of those countries little, if at all, more civilized than the brown natives of America? If the Indians were offended at the encroachments made by strangers on lands which they had possessed unmolested for time immemorial, that is nothing wonderful or uncommon. Lands may be called the first property of all nations on the face of the earth. While unacquainted with the advantages of pasturage and agriculture, a greater extent of hunting lands are requisite for their subsistence. Through this territory, now possessed by Europeans, they had been accustomed to range, independent, fearless and free. If they were ready to defend their property at the risque of life, this practice is nothing more than what all nations in the same barbarous state have followed. Until laws were made to prevent and redress wrongs, and men delivered up their arms to the civil magistrate, have they not, in every age, had recourse to forcible means for the defence of their property? The natives of Carolina were doubtless displeased at the encroachments of strangers on their inheritance, and if they had not advanced a single step towards civilization, no man can reasonably expect from them a conduct incompatible with their natural circumstances. The woods abounded with deer and buffaloes, which, when young, might have been domesticated; but on such employment no Indian had entered; it probably appeared to him equally despicable as that of agriculture. [Sidenote] The occasion of Europeans being peaceably admitted among them. The first bond of union and affection between Europeans and Americans was conveniency. At this early period, to the Indian a knife, a hatchet, or a hoe, was a useful and invaluable acquisition. He observed with what facility the strangers supplied their wants, which were many in comparison with his, by means of the various implements they used. The woods fell before the axe, the earth opened before the hoe or the spade; and the knife was useful on numberless occasions. He admired the skill of white men in making those implements of ease and profit, and voluntarily offered them his deer skins, the only riches he had which could procure them. The love of ease was as natural to the one as the other, and he would rather give them the profits of a year's hunting than want such instruments. Having obtained these in process of time, he found the tomahawk and musket equally useful; these he also coveted, and could not rest till he obtained them. What was at first only convenient, as his wants increased, became absolutely necessary, by which means the original bond was strengthened and confirmed. As the channel of commerce opened, the Indian found that he was not only treated with friendship and civility, but that the white people were equally fond of his skins, furs and lands, as he was of their gaudy trinkets, and various implements of convenience and advantage. It was this connection that induced the native inhabitants of the forest, peaceably to admit stranger differing so much in complexion, language and manners, among them and allow them to clear and cultivate their lands. From the ignorance of Englishmen with respect to the policy and customs of these wild tribes, they must have been exposed to numberless dangers in the earlier periods of their commercial intercourse. At first, the rude manners of the western savages must have been equally strange to the European, as the civilized manners of eastern nations to the Indian. The commerce itself served to enhance the danger; for although Indians lived much dispersed, yet they united under one chief, and formed different towns, all the lands around which they claimed as their property. The boundaries of their hunting grounds being carefully fixed, each tribe was tenacious of its possessions, and fired with resentment at the least encroachment on them. Every individual looked on himself as a proprietor of all the lands claimed by the whole tribe, and bound in honour to defend them. This may serve to account for many umbrages (which we shall afterwards have occasion to mention) taken by Indians in general at purchases made and titles obtained by private persons, and even by particular provinces: for no Indian, however great his influence and authority, could give away more than his own right to any tract of land, which, in proportion, is no more than as one man to the whole tribe. To all such gifts the concurrence and consent of the whole nation must be obtained. Here a large source of difference and quarrels opened, and a foolish bargain of an individual often exposed the European settlers to the fury and vengeance of the whole clan. [Sidenote] General remarks on the manners, government and religion, _&c._ of the Indians. Those inhabitants, like beasts of prey, traverse the forest, and while they neither encroach on their neighbours territories, nor are at war with another tribe, enjoy freedom in the most extensive sense of the word. In stature they are of a middle size, neither so tall nor yet so low as some Europeans. To appearance they are strong and well made; yet they are totally unqualified for that heavy burden or tedious labour which the vigorous and firm nerves of Europeans enable them to undergo. None of them are deformed, deformities of nature being confined to the ages of art and refinement. Their colour is brown, and their skin shines, being varnished with bears fat and paint. To appearance the men have no beards, nor hair on their head, except a round tuft on its crown; but this defect is not natural, as many people are given to believe, but the effect of art, it being customary among them to tear out such hair by the root. They go naked, except those parts which natural decency teaches the most barbarous nations to cover. The huts in which they live are foul, mean and offensive; and their manner of life is poor, nasty and disgustful. In the hunting season they are eager and indefatigable in pursuit of their prey; when that is over, they indulge themselves in a kind of brutal slumber, indolence and ease. In their distant excursions they can endure hunger long, and carry little with them for their subsistence; but in days of plenty they are voracious as vultures. While dining in company with their chieftains, we were astonished at the vast quantity of meat they devoured. Agriculture they leave to women, and consider it as an employment unworthy of a man: indeed they seem amazingly dead to the tender passions, and treat their women like slaves, or beings of an inferior rank. Scolding, insults, quarrels, and complaints, are seldom heard among them: on solemn occasions they are thoughtful, serious, and grave; yet I have seen them free, open and merry at feasts and entertainments. In their common deportment towards each other they are respectful, peaceable, and inoffensive. Sudden anger is looked upon as ignominious and unbecoming, and, except in liquor, they seldom differ with their neighbour, or ever do him any harm or injury. As for riches they have none; nor covet any; and while they have plenty of provisions, they allow none to suffer through want: if they are successful at hunting, all their unfortunate or distressed friends share with them the common blessings of life. Although in some particular customs the separate tribes of Indians differ from each other, yet in their general principles and mode of government they are very similar. All have general rules, with respect to other independent tribes around them, which they carefully observe. The great concerns relating to war or peace, are canvassed in assemblies of deputies from all the different towns. When injuries are committed, and Indians of one tribe happen to be killed by those of another, then such a meeting is commonly called. If no person appears on the side of the aggressors, the injured nation deputes one of their warriors to go to them, and, in name of the whole tribe, to demand satisfaction: if this is refused, and they think themselves able to undertake a war against the aggressors, then a number of warriors, commonly the relations of the deceased, take the field for revenge, and look upon it as a point of honour never to leave it till they have killed the same number of the enemy that had been slain of their kinsmen. Having accomplished this, they return home with their scalps, and by some token let their enemy know that they are satisfied. But when the nation to whom the aggressors belong, happen to be disposed to peace, they search for the murderers, and they are, by the general judgment of the nation, capitally punished, to prevent involving others in their quarrel; which act of justice is performed often by the aggressor's nearest relations. The criminal never knows of his condemnation until the moment the sentence is to be put in execution, which often happens while he is dancing the war dance in the midst of his neighbours, and bragging of the same exploit for which he is condemned to die. In different ages mankind in similar circumstances, with respect to their progress in improvements, bear a striking resemblance one to another. The accounts of rude and barbarous Indians may be so far curious and instructive, as they serve to throw light on several earlier periods of history, both sacred and profane. The American savages almost universally claim the right of private revenge. It is considered by them as a point of honour to avenge the injuries done to friends, particularly the death of a relation. Scalp for scalp, blood for blood, and death for death, can only satisfy the surviving friends of the injured party. The same law of retaliation was established among the ancient Jews and Romans. But should the wise and aged men of weight and influence among Indians interpose, on account of some favourable circumstances on the side of the aggressor, perhaps satisfaction may be made by way of compensation. In this case, some present made to the party aggrieved serves to gratify their passion of revenge, by the loss the aggressor sustains, and the acquisition of property the injured receives. Should the injured friends refuse this kind of satisfaction, which they are entirely at liberty to do, then the murderer, however high his rank may be, must be delivered up to torture and death, to prevent the quarrel spreading wider through the nation. This custom of making compensation also prevailed among European nations in their earlier and more uncultivated ages. In the time of Tacitus, the relations of the maimed or murdered person, among the Germans, were obliged to accept of a compensation, and restrain the spirit of revenge. During the Anglosaxon period in England, laws were made to determine the various fines for murder, man-slaughter, wounds and other injuries, and prices were fixed on the heads of men according to their rank. In case of adultery among Indians, the injured husband considers himself as under an obligation to revenge the crime, and he attempts to cut off the ears of the adulterer, provided he be able to effect it; if not, he may embrace the first opportunity that offers of killing him, without any danger from his tribe. Then the debt is paid, and the courage of the husband proved. This is more severe than the law of Ethelbert, which admitted of a fine from the adulterer, and obliged him to purchase another wife for the injured husband. With respect to internal government, these savages have also several customs and regulations to which the individuals of the same tribe conform. Personal wisdom and courage are the chief sources of distinction among them, and individuals obtain rank and influence in proportion as they excel in these qualifications. Natural reason suggests, that the man of the greatest abilities ought to be the leader of all possessed of inferior endowments; in him they place the greatest confidence, and follow him to war without envy or murmur. As this warrior arrives at honour and distinction by the general consent; so, when chosen, he must be very circumspect in his conduct, and gentle in the exercise of his power. By the first unlucky or unpopular step he forfeits the goodwill and confidence of his countrymen, upon which all his power is founded. Besides the head warrior, they have judges and conjurers, whom they call Beloved Men, who have great weight among them; none of whom have indeed any coercive authority, yet all are tolerably well obeyed. In this commonwealth every man's voice is heard, and at their public deliberations the best speakers generally prevail. When they consult together about important affairs, such as war or peace, they are serious and grave, and examine all the advantages and disadvantages of their situation with great coolness and deliberation, and nothing is determined but by the general consent. When war is the result of their councils, and the great leader takes the field, any one may refuse to follow him, or may desert him, without incurring any punishment, but by such ignominious conduct he loses his reputation, and forfeits the hopes of distinction and preferment. To honour and glory from warlike exploits the views of every man are directed, and therefore they are extremely cautious and watchful against doing any action for which they may incur public censure and disgrace. The Indians, like all ignorant and rude nations, are very superstitious. They believe that superior beings interfere in, and direct, human affairs, and invoke all spirits, both good and evil, in hazardous undertakings. Each tribe have their conjurers and magicians, on whose prophetic declarations they place much confidence, in all matters relating to health, hunting, and war. They are fond of prying into future events, and therefore pay particular regard to signs, omens, and dreams. They look upon fire as sacred, and pay the author of it a kind of worship. At the time of harvest and at full moon they observe several feasts and ceremonies, which it would seem were derived from some religious origin. As their success, both in warlike enterprises and in procuring subsistence depends greatly on fortune, they have a number of ceremonious observances before they enter on them. They offer in sacrifice a part of the first deer or bear they kill, and from this they flatter themselves with the hopes of future success. When taken sick they are particularly prone to superstition, and their physicians administer their simple and secret cures with a variety of strange ceremonies and magic arts, which fill the patients with courage and confidence, and are sometimes attended with happy effects. [Sidenote] A Dutch colony brought to Carolina. During the time Sir John Yeamans was governor of Carolina, the colony received a great addition to its strength from the Dutch settlement of Nova Belgia, which, without any resistance, surrendered to the armament commanded by Sir Robert Carr, and became subject to England. Charles the second gave it to his brother the Duke of York, who called the province New-York, and governed it on the same arbitrary principles which afterwards rendered him so obnoxious to the English nation. After the conquest many of the Dutch colonists, who were discontented with their situation, had formed resolutions of moving to other provinces. The proprietors of Carolina offered them lands and encouragement in their palatinate, and sent their ships Blessing and Phoenix and brought a number of Dutch families to Charlestown. Stephen Bull, surveyor-general of the colony, had instructions to mark out lands on the southwest side of Ashley river for their accommodation. There each of the Dutch emigrants drew lots for their property, and formed a town, which was called James-town. This was the first colony of Dutch who settled in Carolina, whose industry surmounted incredible hardships, and whose success induced many from ancient Belgia afterwards to follow them to the western world. The inhabitants of James-town, afterwards finding their situation too narrow and circumscribed, in process of time spread themselves through the country, and the town was totally deserted. [Sidenote] A.D. 1674. Joseph West made governor. About the year 1674, Sir John Yeamans being reduced to a feeble and sickly condition by the warm climate, and his indefatigable labours for the success of the settlement, returned to Barbadoes, where he died. After his departure the grand council again chose Joseph West governor; and the palatine confirmed the election. A meeting of all the freemen was called at Charlestown, where they elected representatives, for the purpose of making laws for the government of the colony. Thomas Gray, Henry Hughs, Maurice Mathews, and Christopher Portman, were chosen deputies from the people, and took their seat at the upper house of assembly. These new members were obliged to take an oath, that they should shew equity and justice to both rich and poor, without favour or affection; that they should observe the laws of England, and those that should hereafter be established in the colony; that they should obey the rules and directions of the proprietors; that they should not divulge the secrets of the grand council, without sufficient authority from that board. A question being put, whether the deputies of the proprietors should take the same oath? it was judged unnecessary, as they held their appointments during pleasure, and were immediately answerable to the proprietors for their conduct. Now the colony had its governor, its upper and lower house of assembly, which three branches took the name of Parliament, agreeable to the constitutions. This was the first parliament that passed acts which are ratified by the proprietors, and found on record in the colony. [Sidenote] Variances break out in the colony. It might have been expected, that these adventurers, who were all embarked on the same design, would be animated by one spirit, and zealous above all things to maintain harmony and peace among themselves; they had all the same hardships to encounter, the same enemies to fear, and the same cause, the prosperity of the settlement, to promote. In such circumstances, the governor had good reason to hope, that one common desire of safety, and principle of love and friendship, would pervade the whole colony; yet nothing is more certain than that the contrary effect took place. The most numerous party in the country were dissenters, of various denominations, from the established church of England; which body of men, whatever high pretensions they may affect to superior sanctity of manners, have not always been found the most peaceable members of society. A number of cavaliers having received grants from the proprietors, had now brought over their families and effects, and joined the Puritans in Carolina. The latter were looked upon by the proprietors with a partial eye, as men of honour, loyalty and fidelity, and met with great indulgence and encouragement; by which means they thrust themselves into offices of trust and authority. The Puritans, on the other hand, viewed them with the eye of envy and jealousy, and having suffered from them in England, could not bear to see the smallest share of power committed to them in Carolina. Hence the seeds of strife and division, which had been imported into the colony, began to spring forth, and, as if brought to a warmer and more fertile soil, to grow so rank as to promise little peace and happiness to the young settlement. No common dangers or difficulties could blot out of their memories the prejudices and animosities contracted in England: the odious terms of distinction were revived and propagated among the people, and while one party were attached to the church of England, the other, who had fled from the rigour of ecclesiastical power, were jealous above all things of religious liberties, and could bear no encroachment on them. The governor found that matters of religion were tender points, and therefore wisely avoided all deliberations about them, chusing rather to leave every man to his free choice, than propose an establishment of any kind, which he saw would occasion trouble and division among the people. Another source of difficulty arose to government from the different manners of these colonists. These emigrants were not a people accustomed to rural labours and frugal simplicity, but many of them pampered citizens, whose wants luxury had increased, and rendered them impatient of fatigue and the restraints of legal authority. The sober and morose life, the stiff and rigid morals of the Puritans, were made the objects of ridicule by their neighbours, and all the powers of wit and humour were employed in exposing them to public derision and contempt. Their levelling spirit, republican principles, and contentious disposition, they declared merited the hatred and abhorrence of every man of honour and honesty, as they had served to produce in England that race of sly, deceitful and hypocritical wretches, who had been the curse and scourge of the nation. The Puritans, on the other hand, possessed of no small share of rancour and malevolence, and exasperated by their licentious manner and grievous abuse, violently opposed their influence among the people. Hence arose a number of difficulties in framing laws, in distributing justice, and in maintaining public order and tranquillity. Governor West, observing those dissentions breaking out in the settlement, was at no small pains to keep them within the bounds of moderation, but having a council composed of ambitious cavaliers, was unable entirely to check the disorder. In spite of his authority, the Puritans were treated with insolence and neglect, and the colony, distracted with domestic differences, were ill prepared for defence against external enemies: not only so, but such divisions occasioned a neglect of industry and application, which prevented the country from making that progress in improvement which might have been expected from its natural advantages. [Sidenote] A trade in Indians encouraged. At this unfavourable juncture the Indians, from Stono, came down in straggling parties, and plundered the plantations of the scanty and dearly earned fruits of labour and industry. Being accustomed to the practice of killing whatever came in their way, they ranked the planter's hogs, turkeys and geese among their game, and freely preyed upon them. The planters as freely made use of their arms in defence of their property, and several Indians were killed during their depredations. This occasioned a war, and the Indians poured their vengeance indiscriminately, as usual, on the innocent and guilty, for the loss of their friends. Governor West found it necessary to encourage and reward such of the colonists as would take the field against them for the public defence. Accordingly, a price was fixed on every Indian the settlers should take prisoner, and bring to Charlestown. These captive savages were disposed of to the traders, who sent them to the West-Indies, and there sold them for slaves. This traffic was deemed by some an inhuman method of getting rid of troublesome neighbours; yet, at this period, the planters had some reasons to plead in its vindication. Lands indeed were given as the reward of valour; but lands, without hands to cultivate them, were rather a burden, than any way beneficial, to men who were allowed more by the proprietors than they could turn to any profit. But the planters had an immediate reward for Indian prisoners, and while it encouraged bold adventurers, it was made a profitable branch of trade. Whether the rum which was imported into the colony, in return for these Indians, proved of beneficial consequence or not, we shall not pretend to determine, as this depended on the use or abuse that was made of it. Where the water is bad, a little rum mixed with it is accounted wholesome and nourishing; but excess in drinking, every where, destroys the constitution, and proves a fruitful spring of pains, diseases, and death. [Sidenote] A general description of the climate. Though Carolina lies in the same latitude with some of the most fertile countries on the globe, yet he is in danger of error who forms his judgment of its climate from the latitude in which it lies. Many local circumstances concur to occasion a difference between it and Palestine, the north of Egypt, or the dominions in the same latitude in China. Besides the bleak mountains, frozen lakes, and the large uncultivated territory over which the north and northwest winds blow in winter, by which they are rendered dangerous; when the extreme heat of summer is united with a low marshy soil, where the water stagnates, and the effluvia arising from it thicken and poison the air, it must prove the occasion of a numberless list of fatal distempers. This last circumstance serves to decide the healthiness of climates in every latitude. Sudden changes from heat to cold are every where dangerous; but, in countries where little caution is used in dress, they must often prove fatal. The winds in Carolina are changeable and erratic, and, about the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, commonly boisterous. In summer, they are sultry and suffocating; in winter, cold and dry. Beyond doubt, the flat maritime part is a most unhealthy situation, and the first settlers could scarcely have been cast ashore in any quarter of the globe where they could be exposed to greater hazards from the climate. [Sidenote] Of the the country. Yet the country, low and unhealthy as it is, affords many advantages for commerce and navigation. As you approach towards the shore, the sea gradually ebbs, which furnishes good soundings for the help of navigators. For eighty, and in some places an hundred, miles from the Atlantic, the country is an even plain, no rocks, no stones, scarce a hill of any height is to be seen. Backwards from this the lands begin to rise gradually into little hills and beautiful inequalities, which continue increasing in height and variation until you advance to the Apalachian mountains, three hundred miles and more from the sea. Here a vast ridge of mountains begins, and runs through North America, in the bowels of which no man can say what riches lie in store. These mountains give rise to four large rivers, called by their Indian names, Alatahama, Savanna, Santee and Pedee. Among the hills these rivers are composed of different branches, and run in a rapid course; but lose their velocity when they reach the plains, through which they glide smoothly along, in a serpentine course, to the ocean. Up these large rivers the tide flows a considerable way, and renders them navigable for ships, brigs, sloops and schooners, and smaller craft force their way still higher than the tide flows. Besides these large rivers, the hills in the heart of the country give rise to others of a secondary size, such as Ogetchee, Cusaw, Cambahee, Edisto, Ashley, Cooper, and Black rivers; all which are also navigable many miles from the ocean. The coast is also chequered with a variety of fine islands, around which the sea flows, and opens excellent channels, for the easy conveyance of produce to the market. [Sidenote] Of its soil and lands. By the different trees which cover the lands the soil is distinguished, which in some places is very rich, and in others very poor. Where the pine-trees grow the ground is sandy and barren, and produces little except in rainy seasons. The oaks and hickories delight to grow in a lower and richer soil, running in narrow streaks through the different eminences, which grounds, when cleared and cultivated, amply reward the industrious planter. The cypresses and canes chuse a still deeper and more miry soil, which is exceedingly fruitful, having had the fruits and foliage of trees from the higher grounds flowing into it from the creation. The river swamp lands, by proper culture and judicious management, are of inexhaustible fertility. The savannas and open plains are of a deep fat and greasy mould, which when drained and freshened, become also fruitful and excellent parts of a plantation. The marshy grounds, some of which are fresh and others salt, are much neglected, yet they yield a kind of grass grateful to some animals, and are used as yet only for pasturage. Many years elapsed before the planters found out the different grains suited to those different soils, and we shall take occasion to mention them as time and experience taught them the useful discoveries. The soil of the hilly country differs from all these; for there, in the vallies between the hills, a black and deep loam is found, probably formed of rotten trees and vegetables, which the showers and floods have carried into them from the adjacent heights. Marble, clay, chalk and gravel grounds are also observed among these hills in the middle of the country, and a variety of soil nearly similar to that found in Europe. [Sidenote] Of its storms and natural phenomena. At this period Carolina, in her natural and rural robes, to an ingenious stranger must have exhibited a noble and striking appearance, as all objects of nature do in their primeval state. Still we may fancy what new scenes would command his attention, and excite his admiration. A thunder-storm here is a grand phenomenon, especially in the night; it is said to be the voice of the supreme Author of nature, whose command all the various elements obey, and it speaks his majesty and glory in the loudest and most exalted strain. The frequent balls of fire bursting from cloud to cloud; the forked flashes darting from the clouds to the earth, and from the earth to the clouds alternately, illuminating the whole surrounding atmosphere, and men, like so many worms, crawling in the dust in the midst of flaming fire, form a magnificent and striking scene. The continual muttering noise of thunder at a distance the dreadful explosion on the right hand, the repercussive roar on the left, while the solid foundations of the earth shake, and the goodly frame of nature seems ready to dissolve, to the eyes of an intelligent stranger must have appeared awful and great. The beasts of the field retire from the thicket, and shew evident symptoms of silent awe and astonishment during the storm, and man's ultimate source of confidence is in the divine protection. In every quarter you meet with the blasted trees of the forest, which wither and decay at the lightning's stroke. No earthquakes, such as are commonly known in the West-India islands, have ever been felt here; but whirlwinds sometimes have made avenues through the thick forest, by levelling the loftiest trees, or sweeping them away before them like chaff. These terrible blasts are generally confined to a narrow tract, and run in an oblique and crooked direction. Hurricanes have also often visited the country and through such low and flat lands have spread their defolation far and wide. In travelling along the coast of Carolina, partly by water and partly by land, the stranger has an excellent view of the natural beauties, and rural inhabitants of the forest. At a distance the marshes and savannas appear like level meadows, with branches or creeks of the sea running through them. On one hand the evergreen pines appear, and engross almost the whole higher lands of the country; on the other the branching oaks and stately hickories stand covered with mossy robes: now he passes a grove covered with cypress; then the laurels, the bays, the palmetoes, the beech or mulberry-trees surround him, all growing as the hand of nature hath wildly scattered them. In the spring the dogwood, cherry-trees, and many others blossom, and, together with the jessamines, perfume the air; while the luxuriant vines climb over the loftiest trees, and bushes or shrubs of humbler growth fill up the thicket. At this early period the rude hunters, though masters of the woods, while they attracted the attention of the stranger, must also have convinced him how little human nature uncultivated is exalted above the brute creation. Numbers of deer, timorous and wild, ranged through the trees, and herds of buffaloes were found grazing in the savanna. Above his head the feathered tribes, more remarkable for the splendour of their plumage than the harmony of their notes, would fly; whilst under his feet would crawl innumerable reptiles and insects. Here it may not be improper to enumerate some of the different kinds of living creatures found in the country, and leave the particular description of them to the natural historian. [Sidenote] Of its animals. Beyond doubt Carolina teems with animals both of the useful and hurtful kind. The alligator, probably a species of the crocodile, is found here nigh the rivers and ponds, and is very destructive to young creatures about a plantation. He is perhaps the largest animal, except the crocodile in Africa, of the ovarious kind. The bear is a fierce animal, but in many respects a rich prize to the Indian hunter. The beaver is also a native of Carolina, and his fur is a precious article of American commerce. The racoon and oppossum are also natives of the country, and scarcely found in any other continent. The latter demands the particular notice of naturalists; its young are said to breed at the female's teats, which is furnished with a double belly, into one of which, on the appearance of danger, the young ones retreat, and are saved by being carried up a tree. The leopard, the panther, the wolf, the fox, the rabbit, wild and pole cats, are all found in the country, on which the American hunter pours his vengeance. Squirrels of various kinds and different hues are numerous here; one of which is called the flying squirrel, not from its having wings like a bird, but from its being furnished with a fine loose skin between its fore and hind legs, which it contracts or expands at pleasure, and which buoys it up, and enables it to spring from branch to branch at considerable distances, with amazing nimbleness. [Sidenote] Of its fishes. In the mouth of the rivers, and on the coast, the shark, the porpoise, the sword, the guarr, and devil fishes, are all found, but in no respects rendered useful. However, the sea coast and rivers furnish a variety of fine fish for human use, both of the salt and fresh-water kinds. The angel fish, so called for their uncommon splendour; the sheephead, so named from its having teeth like those of sheep; the cavalli, the mullet, the whiting, the plaice, and young bass, are all esteemed delicate food. Besides these, porgy, shads, trout, stingre, drum, cat, and black fish, are all used, and taken in great abundance. The fresh-water rivers and ponds furnish stores of fish, all of which are excellent in their season. The sturgeon and rock fish, the fresh-water trout, the pike, the bream, the carp and roach, are all fine fish, and found in plenty. Nigh the sea-shore vast quantities of oysters, crabs, shrimps, _&c._ may be taken, and sometimes a kind of turtle. [Sidenote] Of its birds. There were also vast numbers of winged fowls found in the country, many of which for human use and subsistence. Besides eagles, falcons, cormorants, gulls, buzzards, hawks, herons, cranes, marsh-hens, jays, woodpeckers; there are wild turkeys, pigeons, black-birds, woodcocks, little partridges, plovers, curlieus and turtle-doves, in great numbers; and also incredible flocks of wild geese, ducks, teal, snipes, and rice-birds. There has been found here, nigh rivers, a bird of an amazing size, some think it a species of the pelican. Under its beak, which is very long, it is furnished with a large bag, which it contracts or lets loose at pleasure, to answer the necessities or conveniences of life. The summer duck is a well known and beautiful creature, and has got this name to distinguish it from others of the same species, which continue not in the country during the summer months, but search for a cooler retreat. The mockbird of Carolina is a fine bold creature, which mimics the various voices of the forest, both in captivity and in the enjoyment of natural freedom. The red bird is exceedingly beautiful, and has a soft melodious note, but with few variations. The humming bird is remarkable for its small size, flies from flower to flower like a bee, and is sometimes caught by children while lying buried in a large flower it is sucking out the juice. Its nest is very curious, and discovers amazing art and contrivance. These are some of the feathered inhabitants of this forest, among which there is little melody, and, were it otherways, the music would all be lost, by the continual croaking of frogs, which swarm in millions over the flat country. [Sidenote] Of its snakes and vipers. While ranging over the natural field, there is no reptile merits more particular notice than the rattle-snake, which is one of the most formidable living creatures in the whole universe. Providence hath kindly furnished him with a tail which makes a rattling noise, and no doubt was intended to warn every other creature of the danger of approaching nigh him. He indeed possesses that noble fortitude, which is harmless unless when provoked and molested. He is never the aggressor, and seems averse from making use of his weapons of destruction. He flies from man; but when pursued, and he finds he cannot escape, he instantly gathers himself into a coil, and prepares for self-defence. He has a sharp and sparkling eye, and quickly spies any person approaching towards him, and winds his course out of the way into some thicket or concealed place. The greatest danger is, when we inadvertently trample upon him as he lies coiled among the long grass or thick bushes. On each side of his upper jaw he has two long fangs, which are hollow, and through which he injects the poison into the wound they make. When he penetrates a vein or nerve sudden death ensues, unless some effectual remedy be instantly applied. The usual symptoms of being bit by him are, acute pains from the wound, inflammatory swellings round it, sickness at the stomach, and convulsive vomitings. In all countries, however, where venomous creatures exist, the hand of nature hath kindly planted some antidote against their poison, which it is the business of rational creatures to investigate and apply. Even the rude and ignorant Indians were not strangers to the method of curing the wounds of this dreadful reptile; as quickly as possible, after being bit, they swallowed a strong doze of the decoction of snake-root, which they found every where growing in the woods, which caused them to vomit plentifully; at the same time, having sucked the poison out of the wound, they chewed a little snake-root, and applied it externally to it. This remedy, when timely applied, sometimes proved efficacious, which induced the early settlers of Carolina to follow their example. Besides the rattle-snake, the black and brown vipers have fangs, and are also venomous. The horn-snake is also found here, which takes his name from a horn in his tail, with which he defends himself, and strikes it with great force into every aggressor. This reptile is also deemed very venomous, and the Indians, when wounded by him, usually cut out the part wounded as quickly as possible, to prevent the infection spreading through the body. There are, besides these, a variety of other snakes found here, such as the green, the chicken, the copperbelly, the wampum, the coach-whip and corn snakes; all of which are esteemed harmless creatures. [Sidenote] Of its insects. Innumerable are the insects in Carolina, as might naturally be expected from the heat of the climate. The bees are found in several places, and they chuse the hollow trees for their habitation, but whether imported or not is uncertain. The fire-fly, so called from its emitting sparks of fire in the night, resembling flashes from the strokes of steel upon flint, is a curious creature. About the beginning of summer, when these insects are very numerous, they illuminate the woods, and strike a stranger with astonishment. Millions of pestiferous gnats, called Musketoes, are hatched during the summer, and swarm over the country in such numbers, that, during the day, it requires no small trouble for the inhabitants to defend themselves in every quarter against them; and, during the night, gause pavilions are necessarily used, to exclude them from their beds, without which it is impossible to enjoy undisturbed repose. The sand-flies are also vexatious insects, and so minute, that one would imagine it needless to provide any defence against them; yet, wherever they bite, their poison occasions itching and painful inflammations. Besides these, there are ticks, flies, wasps, and many more insects which are very troublesome. To these plagues, with which this country is cursed, we may also add the water wood-worms, which infest the rivers as far as the salt-water flows, eat the bottoms of vessels into the form of honey-combs, and prove extremely destructive to shipping. [Sidenote] A.D. 1682. Joseph Morton made governor. About the year 1682, Governor West having incurred the displeasure of the proprietors, Joseph Morton, who had lately been created a landgrave, received a commission from Lord Craven, investing him with the government of the colony. About the same time, Joseph Blake sold his estate in England, and with his family and several substantial followers retired to Carolina. Lord Cardross also, a nobleman of Scotland, having formed a project for carrying over some of his countrymen to Carolina, embarked with a few families, and made an attempt to establish a colony on Port-Royal Island: but observing the government in a confused and fluctuating state, he soon after returned to Britain. The island on which he left his few followers having excellent conveniencies for navigation, was a place of all others in the country the most advantageous for a settlement; but, to effect it, a greater number of emigrants was absolutely requisite. The Spaniards sent an armed force, and dislodged the Scotch settlers, after which no attempts were made for many years towards establishing a colony in that quarter. [Sidenote] Pennsylvania settled. About the same time, William Penn, an eminent quaker, obtained a grant from the king of a large territory in the middle of North America, which he called Pennsylvania, and which he resolved to settle on the enlarged bottom of universal benevolence, friendship and humanity. Not satisfied with the title he held from the crown to this extensive territory, he thought himself bound in conscience to purchase one also from its natural possessors, and therefore gave the Indians some consideration for their property; by which means he obtained not only an equitable right, but peaceable possession. At first, it is probable, he intended his province as an asylum for the hamlets and peaceable people of his own persuasion, who were oppressed in Britain, and persecuted in a degree equal to the Spanish inquisition in New England; yet, so liberal were his principles, that he opened a door to mankind in general who were unhappy in their external circumstances, and persecuted for their conscientious opinions. His plan of settlement was so large, and the regulations he established for preventing idleness, luxury and vice, were so wise and judicious, as soon to attract the eyes and admiration of vast numbers of men in the different quarters of Europe. Multitudes flocked to Pennsylvania, and sat down happy under Penn's gentle laws and government. His own example of benevolence, frugality and temperance, endeared him to every inhabitant; and a general simplicity of manners for several years prevailed in the settlement. It remained for the future ages of pride, luxury and ambition, to defeat the wise maxims of this legislator. A plan of a city was framed, which, for order, beauty and magnificence, was excelled by none upon earth. Indeed, every thing relating to the first settlement of that province was conducted with such wisdom and equity, that it could not fail of speedy population and improvement. The industrious planters and merchants of Pennsylvania, soon advanced to an easy and independent state; an advantage far from being common to the other British settlements in America, and therefore to be ascribed chiefly to their general harmony, temperance and application. The colony of Carolina, though planted at an earlier period, from various causes and impediments, advanced by slower steps in population and improvement. Pennsylvania, being farther removed from the equator, was considered as a better climate. The lands were found better adapted to British grain, and more favourably situated for cultivation. Like a younger beauty, she attracted the eyes of many admirers, and promised to be a powerful rival to Carolina. She flattered her labourers with the prospects of longer life, and with the hopes of greater increase in those kinds of grain they had been accustomed to cultivate in Europe. Her institutions, with respect to government, were more applicable and prudent; her planters, blessed with health and good-humour, laboured with greater pleasure and success: the tribes of savages around her, being more gently used, were more peaceable. Hence it happened, that the Pennsylvanians, having fewer obstacles to surmount than their southern neighbours, prospered in a more rapid manner. [Sidenote] The proprietors forbid the trade in Indians. The proprietors of Carolina had indeed instructed Governor Morton to take all Indians within four hundred miles of Charlestown under his protection, and to treat them with humanity and tenderness; but such instructions were very disagreeable to many of the people, especially to those members of the council who were concerned in the Indian trade, and therefore great opposition was raised to the execution of them. Maurice Mathews, James Moore, and Arthur Middleton, members of the council, warmly opposed the governor, while he proposed regulations for the peaceable management of Indians, and considered the proprietors as strangers to the interest of their colony by such impolitic restrictions. The people, who had lost some friends and relations by the savages were also greatly irritated against them, and breathed nothing but vengeance and implacable resentment. These members of the council were removed from it for their disobedience; nevertheless they had such influence among the people, as to occasion great trouble to the governor, and totally to subvert his authority; in consequence of which, Joseph West appeared again at the head of the colony, and gave his assent to several laws made in it. During which time the people followed their former practice, of inveigling and kidnapping Indians where-ever they found them, and shipped them off to the West Indies, without any restraint from government. [Sidenote] The toleration of pirates in Carolina. Soon after Governor West was superseded by Sir Richard Kirle, an Irish gentleman, who died six months after his arrival in the country. After his decease, Colonel Robert Quarry was chosen his successor. During the time of his government, a number of pirates put into Charlestown, and purchased provisions with their Spanish gold and silver. Those public robbers, instead of being taken and tried by the laws of England, were treated with great civility and friendship, in violation of the laws of nations. Whether the governor was ignorant of the treaty made with Spain, by which England had withdrawn her former toleration from these plunderers of the Spanish dominions; or whether he was afraid to bring them to trial from the notorious courage of their companions in the West Indies, we have not sufficient authority to affirm; but one thing is certain, that King Charles II. for several years after the restoration, winked at their depredations, and many or them performed such valiant actions as, in a good cause, had justly merited honours and rewards. Even as the case was, Charles, out of mere whim, knighted Henry Morgan, a Welshman, who had plundered Porto Bello and Panama, and carried off large treasures from them. For several years so formidable was this body of plunderers in the West Indies, that they struck a terror into every quarter of the Spanish dominions. Their gold and silver, which they lavishly spent in the colony, ensured to them a kind reception among the Carolineans, who opened their ports to them freely, and furnished them with necessaries. They could purchase the favour of the governor, and the friendship of the people, for what they deemed a trifling consideration. Leaving their gold and silver behind them, for clothes, arms, ammunition and provisions, they embarked in quest of more. However, the proprietors, having intelligence of the encouragement given to pirates by Governor Quarry, dismissed him from the office he held; and, in 1685, Landgrave Joseph Morton was reinstated in the government of the colony. [Sidenote] Cause of migration from England. During the reign of King James II. the hardships under which the people of Britain laboured, and the troubles they apprehended, brought much strength to the colonies. The unsuccessful or unfortunate part of mankind are easily induced to emigrate; but the oppressed and persecuted are driven from their country, however closely their affections may cleave to it. Such imprudent attempts were made by this prince against what the nation highly revered, that many Protestants deserted it, preferring the hardships of the first state of colonization abroad, to oppression at home. So far was he from concealing his attachment to the Popish religion, that he gloried in the open profession of it, and took every opportunity of transferring both the legal authority and military command into the hands of such men as were best affected to that religion, and would most readily contribute their assistance towards the accomplishment of his favourite design. The Protestants in general were alarmed, and filled with the most gloomy apprehensions from the bloody and persecuting spirit of the Popish faction. They foresaw the subversion of their religion and liberties, and fled over the Atlantic from the approaching rigours of persecution, being determined to submit to any hardships abroad, rather than to the establishment of Popery in England. [Sidenote] Cause of migration from France. The next acquisition America gained, was from the revocation of the edict of Nantz; in consequence of which the flames of persecution broke out in France, and drove many of its best subjects out of that kingdom. These Protestant refugees were beneficial in many respects to England and Holland, and served greatly to promote the trade and manufactures of these nations. Among the other colonies in America which reaped advantage from this impolitic measure of France, Carolina had a large share. Many of the Protestant refugees, having purchased lands from the proprietors, embarked with their families for that colony, and proved some of its best and most industrious inhabitants. [Sidenote] The European animals increase. Small was the progress in cultivation which the colonists of Carolina had yet made, and fatal had the heat of the climate and the labours of the field proved to many of them. Yet their cattle increased in an amazing manner, and thrived exceedingly well in their forest. Having little winter, the woods furnished them with both shelter and provisions all the year; neither houses nor attendants were provided for them, but each planter's cattle, distinguished only by his mark, every where grazed with freedom. Hogs still fared better, and increased faster. The woods abounded with acorns, and roots of different kinds, on which they fed and fattened, and were reckoned most excellent food. Stocks of cattle, at this period, were a great object with the planters, for several reasons. Little labour was requisite to raise and render them profitable. The planters were at no trouble in building houses for them, nor at any expence in feeding them. If either cattle or hogs were fed, it must only have been intended to accustom them to keep nigh their owner's abode, or to return under his eye every evening. Besides, a planter fond of hunting might supply his family with game through the year, with which the woods abounded, and save his stock. Horses were also bred in the same manner, and though they degenerated greatly, they multiplied fast. No part of the world could prove more favourable to poultry of all kinds. By the trade of the colony to the West Indies, they had rum and sugar in return for their lumber and provisions; and England supplied them with clothes, arms, ammunition, and utensils for building and cultivation, in exchange for their deer-skins, furs, and naval stores. [Sidenote] The manner of obtaining turpentine in Carolina. Turpentine is the gum in a liquid state of that species of the pine tree called Pitch-pine, extracted by incision and the heat of the sun, while the tree is growing. The common manner of obtaining it is as follows: about the first of January the persons employed in making turpentine begin to cut boxes in the trees, a little above the ground, and make them large or small in proportion to the size of the tree; the box of a large tree will hold two English quarts, of a middling tree one, and of a small one a pint. About the middle of March, when the weather becomes warm, they begin to bleed, which is done by cutting about an inch into the sap of the tree with a joiner's hatchet; these channels made in the green standing tree, are framed so as to meet in a point where the boxes are made to receive the gum; then the bark is peeled off that side of the tree which is exposed to the sun, that the heat may extract the turpentine. After bleeding, if rain should happen to fall, it not only condenses the sap, but also contracts the orifices of the vessels that discharge the gum, and therefore the trees must be bled afresh. About fourteen days after bleeding the boxes will be full of turpentine, and must be emptied into a barrel. When the boxes are full, an able hand will fill two barrels in a day. A thousand trees will yield at every gathering about two barrels and a half of turpentine, and it may be gathered once every fourteen days, till the frost comes, which chills the sap, and obliges the labourer to apply to some other employment, until the next season for boxing shall approach. The oil of turpentine is obtained by distillation; and rosin is the remainder of the turpentine, after the oil is distilled from it. [Sidenote] And of making tar and pitch. From the same pine trees tar and pitch are also made, but by a different mode of operation. "For extracting tar they prepare a circular floor of clay, declining a little towards the centre, from which there is laid a pipe of wood, extending almost horizontally two feet without the circumference, and so let into the ground, that its upper side may be level with the floor: at the outer end of this pipe they dig a hole large enough to hold the barrels of tar, which, when forced out of the wood, naturally runs to the centre of the floor as the lowest part, and from thence along the pipe into the barrels. Matters being thus prepared, they raise upon the clay floor a large pile of dry pine-wood split in pieces, and inclose the whole pile with a wall of earth, leaving only a little hole in the top, where the fire is to be kindled; when that is done, and the inclosed wood begins to burn, the whole is stopped up with earth, that there may be no flame, but only heat sufficient to force the tar out of the wood, and make it run down to the floor. They temper the heat as they think proper, by thrusting a stick through the wall of earth, and letting the air in at as many places as they judge necessary. As to Pitch, it is nothing more than the solid part of the tar separated from the liquid by boiling." As Carolina abounds with this kind of pine trees, vast quantities of pitch, tar, and turpentine might have been made in it. At this early period the settlers, having little strength to fell the thick forest and clear the lands for cultivating grain, naturally applied themselves to such articles as were in demand in England, and for procuring which moderate labour was requisite. Lumber was a bulky article, and required a number of ships to export it. Naval stores were more valuable and less bulky, at the same time that the labour necessary to obtain them was easier, and more adapted to European constitutions. The province as yet could supply Britain with a very inconsiderable quantity of naval stores; but by encouraging the planters in preparing them, the expence of its vast importations from the Baltic might have been in some measure saved to the nation. [Sidenote] A difference with the civil officers. Though Governor Morton was possessed of a considerable share of wisdom, and was connected with several respectable families in the colony, yet so inconsistent were his instructions from England, with the prevailing views and interests of the people, that he was unable, without great trouble, to execute the duties of his trust. He was a man of a sober and religious temper of mind, and had married Mr. Blake's sister, lately arrived from England, by which alliance it was hoped the hands of government would be strengthened, and a check given to the more licentious and irregular party of the people. His council was composed of John Boone, Maurice Mathews, John Godfrey, Andrew Percival, Arthur Middleton, and James Moore, _&c._; some of whom differed widely from him in opinion with respect to public measures, and claimed greater indulgences for the people than he had authority to grant. Hence two parties arose in the colony: one in support of the prerogative and authority of the proprietors, the other in defence of the liberties of the people. The former contended, that the laws and regulations received from England respecting government ought to be strictly and implicitly observed: the latter kept in view their local circumstances, and maintained, that the freemen of the colony were under obligations to observe them only so far as they were consistent with the interest of individuals and the prosperity of the settlement. In this situation of affairs, no governor could long support his power among a number of bold adventurers, who improved every hour for advancing their interest, and could bear no restraints which had the least tendency to defeat their favourite views and designs: for whenever he attempted to interpose his feeble authority, they insulted his person and complained of his administration, till he was removed from his office. [Sidenote] James Colleton made governor. The proprietors also finding it prudent to change their governor so soon as he became obnoxious to the people, James Colleton at this time was appointed to supersede Joseph Morton. He was a brother to Sir Peter Colleton, one of the proprietors, but was possessed neither of his address nor abilities for the management of public affairs. He left Barbadoes and retired to Carolina, where he built an excellent house on Cooper River, in hopes of settling in that country, and long enjoying, by the influence of his brother, the emoluments of his office in tranquillity and happiness. To give him the greater weight, he was created a landgrave of the colony, to which dignity forty-eight thousand acres of land were unalienably annexed: but to his mortification he soon found, that the proprietary government had acquired but little firmness and stability, and, by his imprudence and rigour, fell into still greater disrespect and contempt. [Sidenote] A.D. 1687. About the year 1687, having called an assembly of the representatives, he proposed to make some new regulations respecting the government of the colony. Having examined the fundamental constitutions, and finding the people disposed to make many objections to them, he thought proper to nominate a committee, to consider wherein they were improper or defective, and to make such alterations and amendments in them as they judged might be conducive to the welfare of the country. This committee consisted of the Governor, Paul Grimball, the secretary, William Dunlop, Bernard Schinking, Thomas Smith, John Far, and Joseph Blake. Accordingly, by these men a new code of laws was framed, consisting of many articles different from the former, which they called _Standing Laws_, and transmitted to England for the approbation of the proprietors. These standing laws, however, the proprietors rejected, and insisted on the observance of the fundamental constitutions; and all the while the people treated both with equal indifference and neglect. [Sidenote] His difference with the house of assembly. At this early period a dissatisfaction with the proprietary government appeared, and began to gain ground among the people. A dispute having arisen between the governor and the house of assembly about the tenures of lands and the payment of quitrents, Landgrave Colleton determined to exert his authority, in compelling the people to pay up their arrears of quitrents, which, though very trifling and inconsiderable, were burdensome, as not one acre out of a thousand of these lands for which quitrents were demanded yielded them any profit. For this purpose, he wrote to the proprietors, requesting them to appoint such deputies as he knew to be most favourably disposed towards their government, and would most readily assist him in the execution of his office. Hence the interest of the proprietors and that of the people were placed in opposite scales, and the more rigorously the governor exerted his authority, the more turbulent and seditious the people became. At last they proceeded to avowed usurpation: they issued writs in their own name, and held assemblies in opposition to the governor and the authority of the proprietors. Letters from England, containing deputations to persons obnoxious to the people, they seized and suppressed, and appointed other men better affected to the popular cause. Paul Grimball, the secretary of the province, they imprisoned, and forcibly took possession of the public records. The militia act they refused to settle, because recommended by the governor, even though their own security depended on it. In short, the little community was turned into a scene of confusion, and every man acted as he thought proper, without any regard to legal authority, and in contempt of the governor and other officers of the proprietors. Landgrave Colleton, mortified at the loss of power, and alarmed at the bold and seditious spirit of the people, was not a little perplexed what step to take in order to recal them to the obedience of legal authority. Gentle means he perceived would be vain and ineffectual. One expedient was suggested, which he and his council flattered themselves might be productive of the desired effect, and induce the people through fear to return to his standard, and stand by the person who alone had authority to punish mutiny and sedition, which was to proclaim the martial law, and try to maintain by force of arms the proprietary jurisdiction. Accordingly, without letting the people into his secret design, he caused the militia to be drawn up, as if some danger had threatened the country, and publicly proclaimed the martial law at their head. His design, however, did not long remain a secret, and, when discovered, served only to exasperate the more. The members of the assembly met, and taking this measure under their deliberation, resolved, that it was an encroachment upon their liberties, and an unwarrantable exertion of power, at a time when the colony was in no danger from any foreign enemy. The governor, however, insisted on the articles of war, and tried to carry the martial law into execution; but the disaffection was too general to admit of such a remedy. In the year 1690, at a meeting of the representatives, a bill was brought in and passed, for disabling Landgrave James Colleton from holding any office, or exercising any authority, civil or military, within the province: nay, so outrageous were they against him, that nothing less than banishment could appease them, and therefore gave notice to him, that, in a limited time, he must depart from the country. [Sidenote] Seth Sothell chosen governor. [Sidenote] His oppression and expulsion. During these public commotions Seth Sothell, pretending to be a proprietor by virtue of some regulations lately made in England, usurped the government of the colony. At first the people seemed disposed to acknowledge his authority, while the current of their enmity ran against Landgrave Colleton; and as he had stood forth as an active and leading man in opposition to that governor, and ratified the law for his exclusion and banishment: but afterwards, finding him to be void of every principle of honour and honesty, they persecuted him also with deserved and implacable enmity. Such was the insatiable avarice of this usurper that his popularity was of short duration. Every restraint of common justice and equity was trampled upon by him; and oppression, such as usually attends the exaltation of vulgar and ambitious scramblers for power, extended her rod of iron over the distracted colony. The fair traders from Barbadoes and Bermuda were seized as pirates by order of this popular governor, and confined until such fees as he was pleased to exact were paid him: bribes from felons and traitors were accepted to savour their escape from the hands of justice: plantations were forcibly taken possession of, upon pretences the most frivolous and unjust, and planters were compelled to give bonds for large sums of money, to procure from him liberty to remain in posession of their property. These, and many more acts of the like atrocious nature, did this rapacious governor commit, during the short time of his administration, to increase his fees as governor and proprietor. At length the people, weary of his grievous impositions and extortions, agreed to take him by force, and ship him off for England. Then, to his other ill qualities he added meanness of spirit, and humbly begged of them liberty to remain in the country, promising to submit his conduct to the trial of the assembly at their first meeting. When the assembly met, thirteen different charges were brought against him, and all supported by the strongest evidence: upon which, being found guilty, they compelled him to abjure the government and country for ever. An account of his infamous and wicked conduct was drawn up and sent to the proprietors, which filled them with astonishment and indignation. He was ordered to England, to answer the accusations brought against him before the palatine's court, and, in case of refusal, was given to understand it would be taken as a further evidence and confirmation of his guilt. The law for disabling Landgrave James Colleton from holding any authority civil or military in Carolina, was repealed, and strict orders were sent out to the grand council, to support the power and prerogative of the proprietors. To compose the minds of the people, they declared their detestation of such unwarrantable and wanton oppression, and protested that no governor should ever be permitted to grow rich on their ruins; enjoining them, at the same time, to return to the obedience of their magistrates, and subjection to legal authority. Hitherto this little community has been a scene of continual contention and misery. The fundamental constitutions, which the proprietors thought the most excellent form of government upon earth, have been little regarded. The governors have been either ill qualified for their office, or the instructions given them have been unacceptable to the people. The inhabitants, far from living in friendship and harmony among themselves, have also been seditious and ungovernable. Indeed, while the proprietary government shall continue to be thus weak and unstable, its authority will be little respected; while the encouragement given to civil officers and magistrates is trifling and inconsiderable; men of judgment and ability will not throw away their time and pains for supporting the honour and authority of others, which might be otherwise employed to purposes more advantageous to themselves. The titles of Landgraves and Cassiques will not compensate for the loss of such time and labour, especially when they come only joined with large tracts of land which, for want of hands, must lie uncultivated. The money arising from quitrents and the sale of lands was inconsiderable, hard to be collected, and by no means adequate to the support of government. The proprietors were unwilling to involve their English estates for the improvement of American property; hence their government was feeble and ill supported in Carolina, and there is reason to fear it will become more so, in proportion as the colonists shall become richer and more independent, and the country shall advance to a more populous and better cultivated state. CHAP. III. [Sidenote] A revolution in England. During the reign of the infatuated King James II. the English nation, oppressed by a Popish faction, and apprehensive about their civil and religious liberties, were ripe for a revolt; and, upon his abdication, William Prince of Orange accepted of the English crown, on such terms as the Parliament thought proper to offer it. Though history can furnish few examples of a daughter conspiring with subjects to exclude her father from the throne, and then accepting of a crown from his head; yet, by this Revolution the long-contested boundaries between the prerogative of the king and the rights and liberties of the people, were more clearly marked and determined than they had been in any former period, to the great relief and happiness of the nation. This event is distinguished in the annals of England as the era of freedom; and it must be confessed, that the change has been productive of many important and happy consequences. As nothing tends more to the increase of industry and commerce than religious toleration, and great freedom to scrupulous consciences, soon after the Revolution an act passed in parliament, for exempting his majesty's Protestant subjects from the penalties of certain laws, under which they had formerly suffered great severities. King William and his council, at that juncture, wisely judged, that such a law might be of excellent use in removing the complaints of many of his good subjects, and uniting their minds in interest and affection. Though the variances of Whigs and Tories may have sometimes obstructed the salutary effects of this law, yet it must be acknowledged to have answered many wise and valuable purposes to the nation. [Sidenote] The French refugees meet with encouragement. In the history of England, nothing is found to redound more to the honour of the people than their signal and uncommon acts of generosity and humanity. Even in the reign of King James large collections had been made for the distressed French refugees. After King William's accession to the throne, the parliament voted fifteen thousand pounds sterling to be distributed among persons of quality, and all such as through age or infirmities were unable to support themselves or families. To artificers and manufacturers encouragement was offered in England and Ireland, who have contributed not a little to the improvement of the silk and linen manufactures of these kingdoms. To husbandmen and merchants agreeable prospects were opened in the British colonies. In 1690, King William sent a large body of these people to Virginia. Lands were allotted them on the banks of St. James's river, which by their diligence and industry they soon improved into excellent estates. Others purchased lands from the proprietors of Carolina, transported themselves and families to that quarter, and settled a colony on Santee river. Others, who were merchants and mechanics, took up their residence in Charlestown, and followed their different occupations. At this period these new settlers were a great acquisition to Carolina. They had taken the oath of allegiance to the king, and promised fidelity to the proprietors. They were disposed to look on the colonists, whom they had joined, in the favourable light of brethren and fellow-adventurers, and though they understood not the English language, yet they were desirous of living in peace and harmony with their neighbours, and willing to stand forth on all occasions of danger with them for the common safety and defence. [Sidenote] Philip Ludwell appointed governor. About the same time Philip Ludwell, a gentleman from Virginia, being appointed governor of Carolina, arrived in the province. Sir Nathaniel Johnson, who had been general of the Leeward Islands in the reign of King James, being created a Cassique of Carolina, after the Revolution retired to that country, and took his seat as a member of the council. The proprietors having found the fundamental constitutions disagreeable to the people, and ineffectual for the purposes of government, repealed all their former laws and regulations, excepting those called Agrarian Laws, and sent out a new plan of government to Mr. Ludwell, consisting of forty-three articles of instruction, for the better management of their colony. The inhabitants, who had been long in a confused and turbulent stare, were enjoined to obedience and submission. Liberty was granted to the representatives of the people to frame such laws as they judged necessary to the public welfare and tranquillity, which were to continue in force for two years, but no longer, unless they were in the mean time ratified and confirmed by the palatine and three more proprietors. Lands for the cassiques and landgraves were ordered to be marked out in square plats, and freedom was granted them to chuse their situation. Hitherto the planters remained utter strangers to the value and fertility of the low lands, the swamps were therefore carefully avoided, and large tracts of the higher lands, which were esteemed more precious, were surveyed, and marked out for estates by the provincial nobility. [Sidenote] Harsh treatment of the colonists to the refugees. Governor Ludwell, who was a man of great humanity, and considerable knowledge and experience in provincial affairs, by those large estates which were allowed the leading men, and the many indulgences he was authorized to grant to others, had the good fortune to allay the ferment among the people, and reconcile them to the proprietors. But this domestic tranquility was of short duration. New sources of discontent broke out from a different quarter. He had instructions to allow the French colony settled in Craven county, the same privileges and liberties with the English colonists. Several of the refugees being possessed of considerable property in France, had sold it, and brought the money with them to England. Having purchased large tracts of land with this money, they sat down in more advantageous circumstances than the poorer part of English emigrants. Some of them, who had gone to the northern provinces, hearing of the kind treatment and great encouragement their brethren had received in Carolina, came to southward and joined their countrymen. Having clergymen of their own persuasion, for whom they entertained the highest respect and veneration, they were disposed to encourage them as much as their narrow circumstances would admit. Governor Ludwell received the wandering foreigners with great civility, and was not a little solicitous to provide them with settlements equal to their expectations. While these refugees were entering on the hard task of clearing and cultivating spots of land, encouraging and relieving each other as much as was in their power, the English Settlers began to revive the odious distinctions and rooted antipathies of the two nations, and to consider them as aliens and foreigners, entitled by law to none of the privileges and advantages of natural-born subjects. The governor had instructions to allow them six representatives in assembly; this the Englishmen considered as contrary to the laws of the land, and beyond the power of the proprietors, who were subject to the laws, to grant. Instead of considering these persecuted strangers in the enlarged light of brethren descended from the same common parent, and entitled to the free blessings of Providence; instead of taking compassion on men who had sought an asylum from oppression in their country, whom they were bound to welcome to it by every tie of humanity and interest; they began to execute the laws of England respecting aliens in their utmost rigour against them. Their haughty spirit could not brook the thoughts of sitting in assembly with the rivals of the English nation for power and dominion, and of receiving laws from Frenchmen, the favourers of a system of slavery and absolute government. In this unfavourable light they were held forth to the people, to the great prejudice of the refugees; which sentiments, however narrow and improper, served to excite no small jealousies and apprehensions in their minds, with respect to these unhappy foreigners. Hard as this treatment was, this violent party did not stop here. They insisted, that the laws of England allowed no foreigners to purchase lands in any part of the empire under her supreme jurisdiction, and that no authority but the house of commons in Britain could incorporate aliens into their community, and make them partakers of the rights and privileges of natural-born Englishmen; that they ought to have been naturalized by parliament before they obtained grants of lands from the proprietors; that the marriages performed by their clergymen, not being ordained by a bishop, were unlawful; and that the children begotten in those marriage could be considered in law in no other light as bastards. In short, they averred, that aliens were not only denied a seat in parliament, but also a voice in all elections of members to serve in it; and that they could neither be returned on any jury, nor sworn for the trial of issues between subject and subject. The refugees, alarmed at these proceedings, and discouraged at the prospects of being deprived of all the rights and liberties of British subjects, began to suspect that the opposition of England would fall heavier upon them than that of France from which they had fled. Dejected at the thoughts of labouring they knew not for whom, if their children could not reap the fruits of their labours, or if their estates should escheat to the proprietors at their decease, they could consider themselves only as deceived and imposed upon by false promises and prospects. After holding several consultations among themselves about their deplorable circumstances, they agreed to state their case before the proprietors, and beg their advice. In answer to which the Proprietors instructed Governor Ludwell to inform them, that they would enquire what does in law qualify an alien born for the enjoyment of the rights and privileges of English subjects, and in due time let them know; that, for their part, they would take no advantages of the present grievous circumstances of the refugees; that their lands should descend to such persons as they thought proper to bequeath them; that the children of such as had been married in the same way were not deemed bastards in England, nor could they be considered as such in Carolina, where such unlimited toleration was allowed to all men by their charter. Though this served in some measure to compose the minds of the refugees, yet while the people harboured prejudices against them the relief was only partial; and, at the next election of members to serve in assembly, Craven county, in which they lived, was not allowed a single representative. [Sidenote] The manner of obtaining lands. From the first settlement of the colony, the common method of obtaining lands in it was by purchase, either from the Proprietors themselves, or from officers commissioned by them, who disposed of them agreeable to their directions. Twenty pounds sterling for a thousand acres of land, and more or less, in proportion to the quantity, was commonly demanded, although the proprietors might accept of any acknowledgment they thought proper. The emigrants having obtained warrants, had liberty to go in search of vacant ground, and to pitch upon such spots as they judged most valuable and convenient. This was surveyed, and marked out to them, according to the extent of their purchase, and plats and grants were signed, registered and delivered to them, reserving one shilling quitrent for every hundred acres, to be paid annually to the Proprietors. Such persons as could not advance the sum demanded by way of purchase, obtained lands on condition of paying one penny annual-rent for every acre to the landlords. The former, however, was the common method of obtaining landed estates in Carolina, and the tenure was a freehold. The refugees having purchased their estates, and meeting with such harsh treatment from the colonists, were greatly discouraged, and apprehensive, notwithstanding the fair promises of the Proprietors, they had escaped one abyss of misery only to plunge themselves deeper into another. [Sidenote] Juries chosen by ballot. The manner of impannelling juries in Carolina being remarkably fair and equitable, justly claims our particular notice. Juries here are not returned by sheriffs, whose ingenuity and integrity are well known, particularly in England; but according to an article in the fundamental constitutions. The names of all the freemen in the colony being taken down on small pieces of parchment of equal size, they are put into a ballot-box, which is shaken on purpose to mix them, and out of which twenty-four names are drawn, at every precinct court before it rises, by the first boy under ten year of age that appears; which names are put into another box, and twelve out of the twenty-four are drawn by another boy under the same age, and summoned to appear at the next meeting of court; which persons are the jury, provided no exceptions are taken against any of them. If any of them are challenged by the prisoner, the boy continues drawing other names till the jury be full. In this mild and fair manner prisoners are tried, which allows them every chance for life humanity can suggest or require: for after the most careful examination of witnesses, and the fullest debate on both sides from the bar, the jury have instructions about the evidences given, and the point of law which is to guide them in their decision, from the bench; and are shut up in a room, where they must remain until they agree, and return their unanimous verdict, guilty or not guilty. [Sidenote] Pirates favored by the colonists. Notwithstanding the excellence of this form of trial, it must be confessed that justice has not always had its free course, nor been administered with impartiality by the officers and judges appointed by the proprietors for this purpose. Pirates, for instance, are a body of men whom all civilized nations are bound in honour and justice to crush; yet, instead of this, by bribery and corruption they often found favour with the provincial juries, and by this means escaped the hands of justice. About this time forty men arrived in a privateer called the Royal Jamaica, who had been engaged in a course of piracy, and brought into the country treasures of Spanish gold and silver. These men were allowed to enter into recognizance for their peaceable and good behaviour for one year, with securities, till the governor should hear whether the proprietors would grant them a general indemnity. At another time a vessel was shipwrecked on the coast, the crew of which openly and boldly confessed, they had been in the Red sea plundering the dominions of the Great Mogul. The gentleness of government towards those public robbers, and the civility and friendship with which they were treated by the people, were evidences of the licentious spirit which prevailed in the colony. For although all men ought to be tender of the lives of their fellow-creatures, and permit ten guilty persons to escape rather than one innocent man should suffer; yet, to bring pirates to justice is a duty which both national honour and the common welfare of society necessarily require. For if we allow such public robbers to escape with impunity, it may be attended with serious and fatal consequences; it may prove the occasion of war and bloodshed to nations in general, to the prejudice of navigation, and the destruction of many innocent lives, which might have been prevented by proper and legal punishments. The Proprietors were disposed to consider piracy in this dangerous light, and therefore instructed Governor Ludwell to change the form of electing juries, and required that all pirates should be tried and punished by the laws of England made for the suppression of piracy. Before such instructions reached Carolina, the pirates, by their money and freedom of intercourse with the people, had so ingratiated themselves into the public favour, that it was become no easy matter to bring them to trial, and dangerous to punish them as they deserved. The courts of law became scenes of altercation, discord, and confusion. Bold and seditious speeches were made from the bar, in contempt of the Proprietors and their government. Since no pardons could be obtained but such as they had authorised the governor to grant, the assembly took the matter under deliberation, and fell into hot debates among themselves about a bill of indemnity. When they found the governor disposed to refute his assent to such a bill, they made a law impowering magistrates and judges to put in force the _habeas corpus_ act made in England. Hence it happened, that several of those pirates escaped, purchased lands from the colonists, and took up their residence in the country. While money flowed into the colony in this channel, the authority of government was a barrier too feeble to stem the fide, and prevent such illegal practices. At length the proprietors, to gratify the people, granted an indemnity to all the pirates, excepting those who had been plundering the Great Mogul, most of whom also found means of making their escape out of the country. In this community there subsisted a constant struggle between the people and the officers of the Proprietors: the former claimed great exemptions and indulgences, on account of their indigent and dangerous circumstances; the latter were anxious to discharge the duties of their trust, and to comply with the instructions of their superiors. When quitrents were demanded some refused payment, others had nothing to offer. When actions were brought against all those who were in arrears, the poor planters murmured and complained among themselves, and were discontented at the terms of holding their lands, though, comparatively speaking, easy and advantageous. It was impossible for any governor to please both parties. The fees also of their courts and sheriffs were such, that, in all actions of small value, they exceeded the debt to be recovered by them. To remedy this inconvenience, the assembly made a law for empowering justices of the peace to hear, and finally to determine, all causes of forty shillings sterling value and under. This was equally agreeable to the people, as it was otherwise to the officers of justice. At length, to humour the planters, the governor proposed to the assembly, to consider of a new form of a deed for holding lands, by which he encroached on the prerogative of the proprietors, who had referred to themselves the sole power of judging in such a case, incurred their displeasure, and was soon after removed from the government. [Sidenote] Thomas Smith appointed governor. To find another man equally well qualified for the trust, was a matter at this time of no small difficulty to the Proprietors. Thomas Smith was a man possessed of considerable property, much esteemed by the people for his wisdom and sobriety; such a person they deemed would be the most proper to succeed Ludwell, as he would naturally be both zealous and active in promoting the prosperity and peace of the settlement. Accordingly a patent was sent out to him creating him a landgrave, and, together with it, a commission investing him with the government of the colony. Mr. Ludwell returned to Virginia, happily relieved from a troublesome office, and Landgrave Smith, under all possible advantages, entered on it. He was previously acquainted with the state of the colony, and with the tempers and complexions of the leading men in it. He knew that the interest of the Proprietors, and the prosperity of the settlement were inseparably connected. He was disposed to allow the people, struggling under many hardships, every indulgence consistent with the duties of his trust. No stranger could have been appointed to the government that could boast of being in circumstances equally favourable and advantageous. [Sidenote] The planting of rice introduced. About this time a fortunate accident happened, which occasioned the introduction of rice into Carolina, a commodity which was afterwards found very suitable to the climate and soil of the country. A brigantine from the island of Madagascar touching at that place in her way to Britain, came to anchor off Sullivan's island. There Landgrave Smith, upon an invitation from the captain, paid him a visit, and received from him a present of a bag of seed rice, which he said he had seen growing in eastern countries, where it was deemed excellent food, and produced an incredible increase. The governor divided his bag of rice between Stephen Bull, Joseph Woodward, and some other friends, who agreed to make the experiment, and planted their small parcels in different soils. Upon trial they found it answered their highest expectations. Some years afterwards, Mr. Du Bois, treasurer to the East-India Company, sent a bag of seed rice to Carolina, which, it is supposed, gave rise to the distinction of red and white rice, which are both cultivated in that country. Several years, however, elapsed, before the planters found out the art of beating and cleaning it to perfection, and that the lowest and richest lands were best adapted to the nature of the grain; yet, from this period, the colonists persevered in planting it, and every year brought them greater encouragement. From this small beginning did the staple commodity of Carolina take its rife, which soon became the chief support of the colony, and its great source of opulence. Besides provisions for man and beast, as rice employs a number of hands in trade, it became also a source of naval strength to the nation, and of course more beneficial to it, than foreign mines of silver and gold. From the success attending this inconsiderable beginning, projectors of new schemes for improvement may draw some useful lessons, especially where lands are good, and the climate favourable to vegetation. [Sidenote] Occasions a necessity for employing negroes. With the introduction of rice planting into this country, and the fixing upon it as its staple commodity, the necessity of employing Africans for the purpose of cultivation was doubled. So laborious is the task of raising, beating, and cleaning this article, that though it had been possible to obtain European servants in numbers sufficient for attacking the thick forest and clearing grounds for the purpose, thousands and ten thousands must have perished in the arduous attempt. The utter inaptitude of Europeans for the labour requisite in such a climate and soil, is obvious to every one possessed of the smallest degree of knowledge respecting the country; white servants would have exhausted their strength in clearing a spot of land for digging their own graves, and every rice plantation would have served no other purpose than a burying ground to its European cultivators. The low lands of Carolina, which are unquestionably the richest grounds in the country, must long have remained a wilderness, had not Africans, whose natural constitutions were suited to the clime and work, been employed in cultivating this useful article of food and commerce. [Sidenote] Perpetual slavery repugnant to the principles of humanity and Christianity. So much may be said for the necessity of employing Africans in the cultivation of rice; but great is the difference between employing negroes in clearing and improving those rich plains, and that miserable state of hardship and slavery to which they are there devoted, and which has been tolerated and established by the law of the land. If we view this race, first ranging over the hills of Africa, equally free and independent as other rude nations on earth, and from thence inveigled by frauds or compelled by force, and then consigned over to a state of endless slavery, we must confess the change is great and deplorable, especially to an impartial and disinterested eye. Without them, it is acknowledged, slow must have been the progress of cultivation in Carolina; but, from such a confederation, what man will presume to vindicate the policy of keeping those rational creatures in perpetual exile and slavery. Nature had given them an equal right to liberty as to life, and the general law of self-preservation was equally concerned for the preservation of both. We would be glad then to know, upon what principle of equity and justice the English traders found their right to deprive the freeborn inhabitants of Africa of their natural liberty and native country; or on what grounds the planter afterwards founds his right to their service during life, and that of all their posterity, to the latest generation. Can the particular laws of any country supersede the general laws of nature? Can the local circumstances of any province upon earth be pled in excuse for such a violent trade, and for such endless slavery in consequence of it? Besides, has not this trade a tendency to encourage war and plunder among the natives of Africa? to set one tribe against another, to catch and trepan their neighbours, on purpose to barter them for European trinkets to the factories? Nor is the traffic confined to the captives of war alone, who have been subjected to slavery by many nations; for so ardently do they covet the pernicious liquors and trifling commodities carried to them from Europe, that, without scruple, they will part with their nearest relations, their wives and children not excepted, to procure them. Thus civilized nations, by such a traffic, have made barbarians more barbarous, and tempted them to commit the most cruel and unnatural actions. Nothing can be more evident, than that such a trade is tolerated and carried on in violation of the grand rule of equity prescribed to Christians. For example, let us suppose the people of Africa had discovered an island, such as Newfoundland, in a climate too cool for the natives of that continent to cultivate, and that the inhabitants of the north of Europe were alone adapted to the work. In consequence of this discovery, were they to sail to Britain with a cargo of their gold dust, and stir up one county to wage war with another for the sake of captives were they to tempt the father to dispose of his son, the mother of her daughter, the husband of his wife, and the nearest friends, first to steal and kidnap, and then barter each other, for Africa's golden idol: we may with justice put the question, Ye inhabitants of England, what would ye think of such a traffic? We will readily own, there are few nations upon earth more fond of gold dust than you, or have gone farther lengths in the commercial way to procure it; yet, fond as ye are of this favourite metal, we must do so much justice to your humanity as to believe, that your nation would resound with complaints against a traffic so unjust and cruel. Yet certainly the African's natural right to pursue it is equally well grounded as that of the European. What principle of Christianity can you then plead in its vindication? Your superior power, avarice, and craft, the African acknowledges to his sad experience; but he complains of being made absolute property, such as cattle, goods and chattels, and subject to be seized, levied upon, and tossed from hand to hand for the payment of commercial debts, by the laws of your realm, to which he never owed any subjection or obedience. He complains of the means used to bring him into such grievous and deplorable circumstances, as unfair and iniquitous. He complains, that his utmost labour and industry for any limited time will not be accepted by the master he serves, as a compensation for the expence of his purchase, and that he and all his generation must remain slaves for ever, without hope of redemption or deliverance. And, without doubt, hard is his case, and well grounded are his complaints. Indeed the planter's concern only commences with the arrival of these slaves, and his contract made with the merchant, who, under the colour and authority of the laws, brought them into the country where he lives. For the purchase he makes he has also the sanction and countenance of law, which is in some measure a justification of his conduct. On provincial regulations, with respect to the subsequent management and treatment of negroes, we shall afterwards take occasion to make some remarks. At present we shall only add, that in no instance can it be said to be a more plain and lamentable truth, that the love of money is the root of all evil, than when it urges men to trade in the bodies and souls of their fellow-creatures. [Sidenote] Foreign colonies encouraged from views of commercial advantage. During the period of the usurpation in England, when the great councils of the nation were under the direction of men of mean birth and little education, the considerations of mercantile profit became connected with those of dominion and the higher springs of government. After the conquest of Jamaica, it was resolved, that the nation should make a commercial profit of every colony that had been, or should be, planted in the western world. At the Restoration the same turn in politics was also adopted, and the parliament which brought about that great event made a law, by which it was enacted, that no sugar, cotton, wool, indigo, ginger, fustic, or other dying wood, of the growth of any English plantation in Asia, Africa, or America, should be transported to any other place than to some English plantation, or to England, Ireland, Wales, and Berwick upon Tweed, upon pain of forfeiture of ship and goods; that, for every vessel sailing from England, Ireland, Wales, and Berwick upon Tweed, bond shall be given, with security of one or two thousand pounds sterling, money of Great Britain, that if she load any of the said commodities at such plantations, she shall bring them to some port of these English dominions. And for every vessel coming to the said plantations the governor shall, before she be permitted to load, take such bond as aforesaid, that she shall carry such commodities to England, Ireland, Wales, or Berwick upon Tweed. This laid the foundation of what was afterwards called _enumerated commodities_; and to these already mentioned, rice, hemp, copper ore, beaver skins, and naval stores, were afterwards added, and, with some exceptions, subjected to the same restraint. This navigation law, though it cramped the trade of the colonies, yet it has been attended with many beneficial consequences to Britain: and while she maintained the supreme power of legislation throughout the empire, and wisely regulated the trade and commerce of her foreign settlements, she might reap many and substantial advantages from them. She might render them a market for her manufactures, and at the same time supply herself with such commodities as her northern climate refused, and obliged her to purchase from other nations. By such means she might enlarge her commerce and trade, at the same time she increased her naval strength. It was her interest in a particular manner to encourage settlements in a different climate, the productions of which luxury had made necessary to the support of her domestic dominions. Their articles of product interfered not with those of Britain, and were in no danger of rivalling her at any market. But should the planters in these colonies begin to think themselves entitled to the privileges of raising what productions they please, and of sending them to any market they judged most advantageous to themselves, they would then become colonies equally useful to all the world; and the mother country, who discovered, peopled and protected them, would share no more advantage from them than rival states around her. On this principle Great Britain grounds her right to expect a market for her manufactures in the colonies she planted and nursed, and to regulate their produce and trade in such a channel as to render them only subservient to her own interest. Without this right they would not only be useless to her, but very prejudicial. Colonies planted in the same latitude with the parent state, raising the same productions, and enjoying the same privileges, must in time be both detrimental and dangerous; for while they drain her of inhabitants, they are growing strong upon her ruins. They meet her at the same market with the same commodities, a competition arises between them, and occasions jealousies, quarrels, and animosities. Then she will become sensible of the bad policy of having promoted such colonies, when they prove dangerous rivals in trade and commerce, and when perhaps it is become too late to remedy the evil: for a rival daughter often becomes the more abusive and troublesome, in proportion as she is better acquainted than strangers with the natural fondness and indulgent temper of a tender mother. From Carolina indeed Britain had less to fear than from the more northern colonies, as the latitude was more remote, and the climate and soil better suited to different productions. Here the people naturally engaged in pursuits different from those of the mother country, and a mutual exchange of commodities and good offices would of consequence the more necessarily take place. They might barter their skins, furs, and naval stores, for clothes, arms, ammunition, and utensils necessary for cultivation, imported from England. They might send their provisions, lumber, and Indian captives to the West Indies, and receive the luxuries of these islands, and the refuse of their cargoes of slaves, in return, without any prejudice to Britain: for as the two climates differed greatly, they were of consequence adapted to different articles of produce. To such staples the first views of the planters ought to have been chiefly directed, and, for their encouragement in raising them, premiums from the Proprietors might have been attended with the most beneficial effects. [Sidenote] A.D. 1693. Indians complain of injustice. Before this time the Carolineans had found out the policy of setting one tribe of Indians against another, on purpose to save themselves. By trifling presents they purchased the friendship of some tribes, whom they employed to carry on war with others, which not only diverted their attention from them, but encouraged them to bring captives to Charlestown, for the purpose of transportation to the West Indies, and the advantage of trade. In the year 1693, twenty Cherokee chiefs waited on Governor Smith, with presents and proposals of friendship, craving the protection of government against the Esaw and Congaree Indians, who had destroyed several of their towns, and taken a number of their people prisoners. They complained also of the outrages of the Savanna Indians for selling their countrymen, contrary to former regulations established among the different tribes; and begged the governor to restore their relations, and protect them against such insidious enemies. Governor Smith declared to them, that there was nothing he wished for more than friendship and peace with the Cherokee warriors, and would do every thing in his power for their defence: that the prisoners were already gone, and could not be recalled; but that he would for the future take care that a stop should be put to the custom of sending them off the country. At the same time the Chihaw king complained of the cruel treatment he had received from John Palmer who had barbarously beat and cut him with his broad-sword. In answer to which charge Palmer was insolent and contumacious, and protested, in defiance and contempt of both governor and council, he would again treat him in like manner upon the same provocation; for which he was ordered into custody, until he asked pardon of the house, and found security for his future peaceable behaviour to Indians. Such instances of harsh treatment serve to account for many outrages of Indian nations, who were neither insensible to the common feelings of human nature, nor ignorant of the grievous frauds and impositions they suffered in the course of traffic. By some planters indeed they were used with greater humanity, and employed as servants to cultivate their lands, or hunt for fresh provisions to their families; and as the woods abounded with deer, rabbits, turkeys, geese, ducks, snipes, etc. which were all accounted game, an expert hunter was of great service in a plantation, and could furnish a family with more provisions than they could consume. [Sidenote] The troubles among the settlers continue. With respect to government Carolina still remained in a confused and turbulent state. Complaint from every quarter was made to the governor, who was neither able to quiet the minds of the people, nor afford them the relief they wanted. The French refugees were uneasy that there was no provincial law to secure their estates to the heirs of their body, or the next in kin, and afraid that their lands at their death would escheat to the Proprietors, and their children become beggars, notwithstanding their utmost industry and application; and, in such a case, the sooner they removed from the colony the better it would be for themselves and their posterity. The English colonists, not only kept up variances among themselves, bur also perplexed the governor with their complaints of hardships and grievances. At last Landgrave Smith wrote the Proprietors, and frankly told them, that he despaired of ever uniting the people in interest and affection; that he and many more, weary of the fluctuating state of public affairs, had resolved to leave the province; and that he was convinced nothing would bring the settlers to a state of tranquillity and harmony, unless they sent out one of the Proprietors, with full powers to redress grievances, and settle differences prevailing and likely to prevail more in their colony. [Sidenote] John Archdale appointed governor. The Proprietors, astonished at the discontented and turbulent spirit of the people, yet anxious to prevent the settlement from being deserted and ruined, resolved to try the remedy Landgrave Smith had suggested; and accordingly pitched on Lord Ashley, an ingenious and bright young nobleman, to go to Carolina, and invested him with full powers, after viewing the posture of affairs on the spot, to establish such regulations as he judged most conducive to the peace and welfare of the colony. Lord Ashley, however, having either little inclination to the voyage, or being detained in England by business of greater consequence, John Archdale agreed to embark in his place. Archdale was a man of considerable knowledge and discretion, a Quaker, and a Proprietor; great trust was reposed in him, and much was expected from his negociations. In the mean time Landgrave Smith having resigned his charge, Daniel Blake was chosen governor, until the pleasure of the Proprietors was known. So great was the antipathy of the English settlers to the French refugees now grown, that they insisted on their total exclusion from a voice in the legislature. For this purpose an address was prepared and signed by a great number of them, and presented to Governor Blake, praying, that the refugees might not only be denied the privilege of sitting as members of the legislative body, but also of a vote at their election, and that the assembly might be composed only of English members, chosen by Englishmen. Their request, however, being contrary to the instructions of the Proprietors, Blake, it is probable, judged beyond his power to grant, and therefore matters relating to them continued in the same unsettled state, until the arrival of Governor Archdale, which happened about the middle of the year 1695. [Sidenote] Archdales's arrival, and new regulations. The arrival of this pious man occasioned no small joy among all the settlers, who crowded about him, each expecting some favour or indulgence. Amidst the general joy, private animosities and civil discord seemed for a while to be buried in oblivion. The governor soon found, that three interesting matters demanded his particular attention. The first was, to restore harmony and peace among the colonists themselves; the second, to reconcile them to the jurisdiction and authority of the Proprietors; and the third, to regulate their policy and traffic with the Indian tribes. For these purposes he summoned his council for advice, and the commissions to the different deputies were read. The members appointed were Joseph Blake, Stephen Bull, James Moore, Paul Grimball, Thomas Carey, John Beresford, and William Hawett. All former judges of the courts, officers of the militia, and justices of the peace, were continued in their respective offices. But such was the national antipathy of the English settlers to the poor French refugees, that Archdale found their total exclusion from all concern in legislature was absolutely necessary to the peaceable convocation of the delegates, and therefore issued writs directing them only to Berkley and Colleton counties. Ten members for the one, and ten for the other, all Englishmen, were accordingly chosen by the freemen of the same nation. At their meeting the governor made a seasonable speech to both houses, acquainting them with the design of his appointment, his regard for the colony, and great desire of contributing towards its peace and prosperity. They, in return, presented affectionate addresses to him, and entered on public business with great temper and unanimity. Matters of general moment and concern Governor Archdale, by his extensive powers and great discretion settled to the satisfaction of all, excepting the French refugees. The price of lands and the form of conveyances were fixed by law. Three years rent was remitted to those who held land by grant, and four years to such as held them by survey, without grant. Such lands as had escheated to the Proprietors, were ordered to be let out or sold for their Lordships benefit. It was agreed to take the arrears of quitrents either in money or commodities, as should be most easy and convenient for the planters. Magistrates were appointed, for hearing all causes between the settlers and Indians, and finally determining all differences between them. Public roads were ordered to be made, and water passages cut, for the more easy conveyance of produce to the market. Some former laws were altered, and such new statutes made as were judged requisite for the good government and peace of the colony. In short, public affairs began to put on an agreeable aspect, and to promise fair towards the future progress and welfare of the settlement. But as for the French refugees, all the governor could do for them was, to recommend it to the English freeholders to consider them in the most friendly and compassionate point of light, and to treat them with lenity and moderation. [Sidenote] Treats Indians with humanity. No man could entertain more benevolent sentiments, with respect to the ignorant heathen savages, than Governor Archdale; his compassion for them was probably one of the weighty motives which induced him to undertake the voyage to this country. To protect them against insults, and establish a fair trade and friendly intercourse with them, were regulations which both humanity required and sound policy dictated. But such was the rapacious spirit of individuals, that it could be curbed by no authority. Many advantages were taken of the ignorance of Indians in the way of traffic. The liberty of seizing their persons, and selling them for slaves to the West-India planters, the colonists could not be prevailed on entirely to resign, without much reluctance. At this time a war raged between two Indian nations, the one living in the British, the other in the Spanish territories. The Yamassees, a powerful tribe in Carolina, having made an incursion into Florida, took a number of Indians prisoners, whom they brought to Charlestown for sale to the provincial traders to Jamaica and Barbadoes. Governor Archdale no sooner heard of their arrival, than he ordered the Spanish Indians to be brought to him, and finding that they had been instructed in the rites and principles of the Catholic religion, he could not help considering it as an atrocious crime to sell Christians of any denomination. To maintain a good understanding between the two provinces, he sent the prisoners to Augustine, and along with them the Yamassee warriors, to treat of peace with the Indians of Florida. The Spanish governor wrote a letter to Mr. Archdale, thanking him for his humanity, and expressing a desire to live on terms of friendship and peace with the Carolineans. In consequence of which, Governor Archdale issued orders to all Indians in the British interest, to forbear molesting those under the jurisdiction of Spain. The two kings being at that time confederates, the like orders were issued at St. Augustine, and in a short time they were attended with beneficial effects. Such wise steps served not only to prevent slaughter and misery among these savages themselves, but an English vessel being accidentally shipwrecked on the coast of Florida, the Indians did the crew no harm, but, on the contrary, conducted them safe to Augustine, where the commandant furnished them with provisions, and sent them to the English settlements. Nor did Governor Archdale confine his views to the establishment of a good correspondence with the Indian nations on the south of this settlement, but extended them also to those on the north side of it. Stephen Bull, a member of the council and an Indian trader, at his request entered into a treaty of friendship with the Indians living on the coast of North Carolina. This proved also favourable for some adventurers from New England, who were soon after the conclusion of the treaty shipwrecked on that coast. These emigrants got all safe to land, but finding themselves surrounded by barbarians, expected nothing but instant death. However, to defend themselves in the best manner they could, they encamped in a body on the shore, and threw up an entrenchment around them. There they remained until their small stock of provisions was almost exhausted. The Indians, by making signs of friendship, frequently invited them to quit their camp; but they were afraid to trust them, until hunger urged them to run the hazard at all events. After they came out, the Indians received them with great civility, and not only furnished them with provisions, but also permitted some of them peaceably to travel over land to Charlestown, to acquaint the governor with their misfortune. Upon which a vessel was sent to North Carolina, which brought them to Cooper river, on the north side of which lands were allotted them for their accommodation and they formed that settlement afterwards known by the name of Christ's-church parish. About the same time, two Indians of different tribes being intoxicated with liquor, a vice which they learned from the English settlers, quarrelled at Charlestown, and the one murdered the other. Among these barbarians, not to avenge the death of a friend is considered as pusillanimous, and whenever death ensues, drunkenness, accident, or even self-defence, are in their eyes no extenuation of the crime. The relations of the deceased, hearing of his death, immediately came to Charlestown, and demanded satisfaction. Governor Archdale, who had confined the murderer, being desirous to save his life, offered them a compensation; but they refused it, and insisted on blood for blood and death for death, according to the law of retaliation. To prevent the quarrel spreading wider among them, he was obliged to deliver the prisoner up to punishment and death. While they were conducting him to the place of execution, his king, coming up to him, enjoined him, since he must die, to stand and die like a man; adding, at the same time, that he had often warned him of the danger of rum, and now he must lose his life for neglecting his counsel. When he had advanced to the stake to which he was to be fastened, he desired that they would not bind him, promising not to stir a foot from the spot; and accordingly he did not, but with astounding resolution braved the terrors of death, and fell a sacrifice to justice, the frequent wages of blind drunkenness and mad excess. [Sidenote] The Proprietors shamefully neglected agriculture. It may now be thought a matter of surprise by some men, especially by such as know the advantages of agriculture, that the Proprietors of Carolina, who were men of knowledge, and zealous for the interest and improvement of the colony, paid so little regard to the only thing upon which the subsistence of the inhabitants and the success of the settlement depended. Instead of framing codes of laws, and modelling the government of the country on principles of speculation, in which men are always in danger of error, especially when living in a different climate, far remote from the country they mean to govern; had they established a plantation in it for the particular purpose of making experiments, to find out what productions were most suitable to the soil and climate; this would have been of more real use than all the visionary laws they ever framed. The first planters were men of little knowledge or substance, many of them utter strangers to the arts of agriculture; and those who had been accustomed to husbandry in Europe, followed the same rules, and planted the same grain in Carolina, as they had formerly done in England; which were by no means adapted to the climate. They moved on in the old line, exhausted their strength in fruitless efforts, without presuming to imagine, that different articles of produce, and a deviation from the eastern modes of cultivation, could be beneficial. Hence the planters, though they had lands on the easiest terms, remained poor; and the fault was occasioned more by their ignorance and inexperience than by the climate or soil. It was the business of the Proprietors to have directed their views to such productions as were best suited to the nature of their lands, and most likely to reward their toil; and not to have left a matter of such importance to chance, or the ingenuity of poor labourers. Agriculture was certainly an object of the highest consequence to the settlers, and of course also to the Proprietors of the country. [Sidenote] Archdale returns to England, and leaves Joseph Blake governor. Governor Archdale having finished his negociations in Carolina, made preparations for returning to Britain. During his time though the government had acquired considerable respect and stability, yet the differences among the people still remained. Former flames were rather smothered for a while than extinguished, and were ready on the first occasion to break out again and burn with greater violence. Before he embarked, the council presented to him an address, to be transmitted to the Proprietors, expressing the deep sense they had of their Lordships paternal care for their colony, in the appointment of a man of such abilities and integrity to the government who had been so happily instrumental in establishing its peace and security. They told them, they had now no contending factions in government, or clashing interests among the people, excepting what respected the French refugees, who were unhappy at their not being allowed all the privileges and liberties of English subjects, particularly those of sitting in assembly, and voting at the election of its members, which could not be granted them without losing the affections of the English settlers, and involving the colony in civil broils; that Governor Archdale, by the advice of his council, had chose rather to refuse them those privileges than disoblige the bulk of the British settlers; that, by his wise conduct, they hoped all misunderstandings between their Lordships and the colonists were now happily removed; that they would for the future cheerfully concur with them in every measure for the speedy population and improvement of the country; that they were now levying money for building fortifications, to defend the province against foreign attacks, and that they would strive to maintain harmony and peace among themselves. Governor Archdale received this address with peculiar satisfaction, and promised to present it to the Proprietors on his arrival in England. Being impowered to nominate a lieutenant-governor, he made choice of Joseph Blake for his successor, and embarked for Britain about the close of the year 1696. After Mr. Archdale's arrival in England, he laid this address, together with a state of the country, and the regulations he had established in it, before the Proprietors, and showed them the necessity of abolishing many articles in the constitutions, and framing a new plan of government. Accordingly, they began to compile new constitutions; from his information and intelligence forty-one different articles were drawn up and sent out by Robert Daniel, for the better government of the colony. But when the governor laid these new laws before the assembly for their assent and approbation, recommending the careful perusal and consideration of them, they treated them as they had done the former constitutions, and, instead of taking them under deliberation, modestly laid them aside. [Sidenote] A colony of French in Florida. Mean while France, having thought proper to recognize King William in the quality of king of Great Britain and Ireland, a treaty of peace was concluded between the two nations. After which, a project was formed by Lewis XIV. for establishing a colony of his people at the mouth of the great river Mississipi. To that immense territory lying to the eastward of that river, and extending along the back of the Appalachian mountains, from the Mexican seas to his dominions in Canada, he laid claim, which, in honour of him, was afterwards called Louisiana. Some discerning men in England early warned the nation of danger to the British settlements from a French colony established on this quarter; yet many years elapsed before they began to feel the inconveniences and troubles arising from it. It was foreseen, that, besides the Spaniards, another competitor for power and dominion would spring up, in a situation where they had a fair opportunity of engrossing the trade and affections of Indian tribes, and harassing the weakest frontiers of the British colonies: and doubtless, from the influence and address of the Frenchmen among Indians, the English settlers had more to fear, than from the religious zeal and bigotry of indolent Spanish friars. John Earl of Bath having succeeded Lord Craven as Palatine, several persons of character and influence in Carolina were by him created landgraves; among whom were Edmund Ballenger, John Bayley, and Robert Daniel; Edmund Bohun was appointed Chief Justice of the colony. About the same time Nicholas Trott, a learned and ambitious man, left the Bahama islands, and took up his residence in Carolina. Numbers from different quarters continued to resort to this country, and, notwithstanding its warm and unhealthy climate, the flattering prospects of landed estates induced men to run every risque; and the Proprietors neglected no means which they judged conducive towards its speedy population. [Sidenote] The French refugees incorporated by law. With respect to the French refugees, the national antipathies among the colonists now began to abate, who, from their quiet and inoffensive behaviour, entertained daily more favourable sentiments of them. Along with their neighbours they had defied the dangers of the desert, and given ample proofs of their fidelity to the Proprietors, their love to the people, and their zeal for the success of the colony. They had cleared little spots of land for raising the necessaries of life, and in some measure surmounted the difficulties of the first state of colonization. Yet none of them could boast of great success, excepting one man who had taught the Indians dancing and music, for which arts they discovered an amazing fondness, and liberally rewarded him for his instructions. At this favourable juncture the refugees, by the advice of the governor and other friends, petitioned the legislature to be incorporated with the freemen of the colony, and allowed the same privileges and liberties with those born of English parents. Accordingly an act passed for making all aliens free, for enabling them to hold lands, and to claim the same as heirs to their ancestors, who should take the oath of allegiance to King William. With this condition the refugees joyfully complied, and the Proprietors, without scruple, ratified the law; in consequence of which, the French and English settlers, united in interest and affection, have ever since lived together in harmony and peace. Though every person enjoyed liberty of conscience with respect to religion, yet as the Proprietors were Episcopalians, the tendency of their government leaned towards that mode of religious worship. Governor Blake, though a dissenter himself, possessed the most liberal sentiments towards men of a different persuasion. During his time a bill was brought into the assembly, for allowing the Episcopal minister of Charlestown, and his successors for ever, a salary of one hundred and fifty pounds sterling, together with a house, glebe, and two servants. Samuel Marshal, a pious and learned man, being the Episcopal minister at that time, whose prudence and ability had gained him great esteem from Christians of all denominations, the bill passed with the less opposition. Dissenters in general, a large body of the people, conscious of the amiable character and great merit of the man, acquiesced in the measure; and as no motion had been made respecting any established church, they seemed apprehensive of no ill consequences from it. However, soon after this, when the design of the Proprietors became more plain, this party, jealous above all things of their religious liberties, took the alarm, and opposed the establishment of the church of England in the colony with such violence, as occasioned no small ferment for many years in the settlement. [Sidenote] Depredations of pirates. About this time the coast of Carolina was infested with pirates, who hovered about the mouth of Ashley river, and obstructed the freedom of trade. In the last year of the seventeenth century, the planters had raised more rice than they could find vessels to export. Forty-five persons from different nations, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Portuguese, and Indians, had manned a ship at the Havanna, and entered on a cruise of piracy. While they were on the coast of Carolina, the people felt severely the pernicious effects of that lawless trade, which in former times they were too apt to encourage. Several ships belonging to Charlestown were taken by those public robbers, who sent the crews ashore, but kept the vessels as their prizes. At last having quarrelled among themselves about the division of the spoil, as frequently happens among such free-booters, the Englishmen proving the weaker party, were turned adrift in a long-boat. They landed at Sewee bay, and from thence travelled over land to Charlestown, giving out that they had been shipwrecked, and fortunately escaped to shore in their boat. But, to their sad disappointment and surprise, no less than three masters of ships happened to be at Charlestown at the time, who had been taken by them, and knew them; upon whose testimony the pirates were instantly taken up, tried and condemned, and seven out of nine suffered death. [Sidenote] A hurricane, During the autumn of the same year, a dreadful hurricane happened at Charlestown, which did great damage, and threatened the total destruction of the town. The lands on which it is built being low and level, and not many feet above high-water mark, the swelling sea rushed in with amazing impetuosity, and obliged the inhabitants to fly for shelter to the second stories of their houses. Happily few lives were lost in town; but a large vessel, called the Rising Sun, belonging to Glasgow, and commanded by James Gibson, which had come from Darien with part of the unfortunate Scotch settlers, at the time of the storm rode at anchor off the bar. This ship the hurricane drove from her anchor, and dashed to pieces against the sand-banks, and every person on board perished. Archibald Stobo, a Presbyterian clergyman, Lieutenant Graham, and several more belonging to the ship, being accidentally on shore during the tempest, escaped the disaster. These men going next day in search of their unfortunate countrymen, found the corpses of the greatest part of them driven ashore on James's island, where they spent a whole day in burying them, the last act of humanity they could then perform to their beloved companions. [Sidenote] and other public calamities, visit the province. Nor was this the only disaster which distinguished this year in the annals of Carolina. A fire broke also out in Charlestown, and laid the most of it in ashes. The small-pox raged through the town, and proved fatal to multitudes of the rising generation. To complete their distress, an infectious distemper broke out, and carried off an incredible number of people, among whom were Chief Justice Bohun, Samuel Marshal the Episcopal clergyman, John Ely the receiver-general, Edward Rawlins the provost-martial, and almost one half of the members of assembly. Never had the colony been visited with such general distress and mortality. Few families escaped a share of the public calamities. Almost all were lamenting the loss, either of their habitations by the devouring flames, or of friends or relations by the infectious and loathsome maladies. Discouragement and despair sat on every countenance. Many of the survivors could think of nothing but abandoning a country on which the judgments of heaven seemed to fall so heavy, and in which there was so little prospect of success, health, or happiness. They had heard of Pennsylvania, and how pleasant and flourishing a province it was described to be, and therefore were determined to embrace the first opportunity that offered of retiring to it with the remainder of their families and effects. Governor Blake, deeply sensible of the public distress, tried every art for alleviating the misery of the people, and encouraging them to perseverance; but the members of assembly who survived, became so negligent about public affairs, that he found himself under a necessity of dissolving the house, and calling another, hoping that they might be more zealous and active in concerting measures for the public relief. Of this new assembly Nicholas Trott, whose talents had raised him above the level of his fellow-representatives, was made speaker, and who warmly espoused the cause of the people, in opposition to the interest of the proprietors. The governor and council claimed the privilege of nominating public officers, particularly a receiver-general, until the pleasure of the proprietors was known. The assembly, on the other hand, insisted that it belonged to them. This occasioned several messages between the two houses, and much altercation. However, the upper house appointed their man. The lower house resolved, that the person appointed by them was no public receiver, and that whoever should presume to pay money to him as such, should be deemed an infringer of the privileges of assembly, and an enemy to the country. Trott flatly denied they could be called an upper house, though they thus styled themselves, as they differed in the most essential circumstances from the house of lords in England; and therefore led the assembly to call them the Proprietors deputies, and to treat them with indignity and contempt, by limiting them to a day to pass their bills, and to an hour to answer their messages. At this time Trott was eager in the pursuit of popularity, and by his uncommon abilities and address succeeded in a wonderful manner. Never had any man there, in so short a time, so thoroughly engrossed the public favour and esteem, or carried matters with so high a hand, in opposition to the proprietary counsellors. [Sidenote] James Moore chosen governor. About the close of the year 1700, Governor Blake died, and a dispute arose in the upper house about the succession to the government. Joseph Morton, as eldest landgrave, claimed the preference, until the pleasure of the Palatine was known. But James Moore, a needy, forward and ambitious man, stood forth in competition, and, by activity and art, gained a number over in support of his pretensions. He objected to Landgrave Morton, because he had accepted a commission from King William to be judge of the court of vice-admiralty, while, at the same time, he held one of the Proprietors to the same office: this Moore and his friends declared to be a breach of the trust reposed in him; and that he might with equal propriety have accepted of a commission from King William to be governor; while he held that office of the Proprietors. Landgrave Morton replied, that there was a necessity for holding a commission from the king to be judge of the court of vice-admiralty, because it did not appear from the charter that the Proprietors could impower their judge to try persons for acts committed without the bounds of their colony, and that with such jurisdiction the judge of the admiralty ought for many reasons always to be vested. However, the upper house deemed the objection of force sufficient to set Morton aside, and James Moore was chosen successor to Governor Blake. From which period the colony may date the beginning of further jealousies and troubles, which continued for several years, and obstructed its progress in improvement. Various intrigues crept into the seat of government, and several encroachments were made on the liberties and privileges of the people, both civil and religious. [Sidenote] Lord Granville Palatine. King William, though he maintained the power of the established church, yet he often discovered a secret attachment to Presbyterians, and on all occasions treated them with lenity and moderation. Hence many of the more zealous friends to the church of England, alarmed at the prospects of its dangerous situation, became eagerly bent not only in support of its constitution, but even of its minutest forms, usages, and vestments. Lord Granville among the rest, after he was called up to the house of peers, had there distinguished himself as an inflexible bigot for the High-church, having been early taught to entertain the most supercillous contempt for Dissenters of all denominations. Being now also Palatine of Carolina, he soon discovered that the establishment of Episcopacy, and the suppression of all other modes of religious worship, in that country, was the chief object of his zeal and attention. James Moore being considered as a man more fit than Landgrave Morton for assisting him in the accomplishment of his favourite design, the more easily obtained a confirmation of his election to the government. [Sidenote] King William's charter to the society for propagating the gospel. Here it may not be improper to observe, that several eminent men had appeared in England, who, pitying the miserable state of the western world with respect to religion, had proposed some public-spirited design for the propagation of the gospel among the heathens on that vast continent. Robert Boyle, no less distinguished for his eminent piety than universal learning, had been appointed by Charles II. governor of a corporation established for the propagation of the Christian religion among Indians, the natives of New England and parts adjacent, in America. Queen Mary afterwards discovered a great desire for enlarging their plan, and for this purpose gave a bounty of two hundred pounds sterling annually to support missionaries in that quarter. Dr. Compton, bishop of London, was at pains to procure a state of religion among the English colonies, from a persuasion of the necessity and propriety of beginning this charitable work among them; and Dr. Thomas Bray, his commissary in Maryland, furnished him with one suited to excite sympathy and compassion in every pious and generous breast. At length Dr. Tennison, archbishop of Canterbury, undertook the laudable design, applied to the crown, and obtained a charter incorporating a society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts. The nation in general entered into the design with their usual ardour for all benevolent and charitable institutions. From different parts large benefactions were received by this society, and it was soon enabled to support a number of missionaries in the plantations. Religious books were purchased and sent out to different provinces, and Carolina among the rest received a number of them. A law passed for instituting a public library in the province, to remain under the care and custody of the Episcopal minister of Charlestown. Edward Marston at this time took the charge of it, and was disposed to contribute every thing in his power towards rendering it generally useful. But the Dissenters, from the choice of the books, most of which were wrote by Episcopal divines, and in defence of the doctrine, discipline and worship of the church of England, soon perceived the intention of the society, and a library framed on such a narrow foundation was treated with neglect, and proved utterly ineffectual for promoting the desired end, I mean, the religious instruction of the people. About this time the number of inhabitants in the colony amounted to between five and six thousand, besides Indians and negroes. In Charlestown they had one minister of the church of England, and another of the church of Scotland; but in the country there was no such thing as public worship, nor schools for the education of children; and people living thus scattered through a forest, were likely in time to sink by degrees into the same state of ignorance and barbarism with the natural inhabitants of the wilderness. To supply these destitute colonists with proper means of instruction, called for the first attention of the society; for as Indians and negroes would naturally take their first religious impressions from their neighbours, to begin at this place was like paving the way for extending wider the benefits of instruction. In what manner the colony was supplied with ministers from this society, and how far the interest of religion in that country was promoted by it, we shall afterwards have occasion more particularly to narrate. [Sidenote] An established church projected by the Palatine. To prepare the province for the charitable assistance of this society, it was judged necessary to have the church of England established in it by a provincial law, and the country divided into different parishes, The Palatine imagined that these internal troubles and differences, by which the colony had hitherto been agitated, and the government rendered feeble and fluctuating, were occasioned by the clashing sentiments of the people with respect to religion. To remedy this evil, he perceived that some bond of union was necessary, to carry on public measures with ease and success; and religion had been deemed the firmest cement of every state. He knew that the Episcopal form of church government was more favourable to monarchy and the civil constitution than the Presbyterian, as in it a chain of dependence subsists, from the highest to the lowest in the church. While therefore he instructed Governor Moore to study all possible means of persuading the assembly to acquiesce in that form contained in the fundamental constitutions, he was equally zealous for an established church, that the wheels of their government might be no more clogged by religious dissentions. [Sidenote] But disliked by the majority of the people. But as a great majority of the colonists were Dissenters, who fled from England on account of rigorous acts of uniformity, their minds were ill disposed to admit of any establishment. Their former prejudices they had not yet thrown aside; their hardships in England they had not yet forgot. Their private opinions respecting religion were various as their different complexions, and unlimited toleration was granted to all by the charter. They could hear of no proposals about an established church, and the Palatine at such an unreasonable time, shewed more zeal than prudence or good policy in attempting to introduce it among them. The governor found them inflexible and obstinate in opposing such a measure; and the people even began to repent of having passed a law for fixing a salary for ever on the rector of the Episcopal church, and considered it as a step preparatory to further encroachments. [Sidenote] Governor Moore resolves to get riches. The great object with Governor Moore was to improve his time, not knowing how long his precarious power might last, for bettering his low and indigent circumstances. It appeared to him, that the traffic in Indians was the shortest way to riches. He therefore granted commissions to several persons, to assault, trepan and captivate as many Indians as they could, and resolved to turn the profits of such trade to his own private emolument. Not contented with this cruel method of acquiring wealth, he formed a design for engrossing the whole advantages arising to the colony from their commerce with Indian nations. For this purpose a bill was brought into the assembly for regulating the Indian trade, and drawn up in such a manner as would cause all the profits of it to center in his hands. But Nicholas Trott, Robert Stephen, and others, proved to the assembly the pernicious tendency of such a bill, and therefore it was thrown out. At which Governor Moore being highly offended, dissolved the house, in hopes of procuring another more favourable to his private views and interests. [Sidenote] Encourages irregularities at elections. At the election of the next assembly the governor and his friends exerted all their power and influence to bring in men of their own complexion, I mean such as would be most compliant with Moor's instructions from England, and most ready to assist him in advancing his interest. Nicholas Trott, who had hitherto shone like a star of the first magnitude on the opposite side, being now appointed Attorney-general, threw all his influence and weight into the scale of government, turned his back on his former friends, and strongly supported that tottering fabric which he had formerly endeavoured to pull down. Charlestown, where all freeholders met to give their suffrages, at the time of this election was a scene of riot, intemperance, and confusion. The sheriff, having instructions so to do, admitted every person to vote; the members of Colleton county say, even common sailors, servants, foreigners, and mallattoes. Such freeholders as stood forth in opposition to the governor's party, were abused and insulted. At length, when the poll was closed, one half of the persons elected were found to be men of neither sense nor credit; but being the chosen creatures of the governor, it was his business to prevent all inquiry into the conduct of the sheriff, and the qualifications of such members. Ar this time Carteret county was inhabited only by Indians; but in Colleton county there were no less than two hundred freeholders, who had a right to vote for delegates to assembly. The principal plantations in it were those of the late Sir John Yeamans, Landgraves Morton, Ballenger and Axtell, and those of Blake, Boone, Gibbes, Schinking, and others. The people of this county being highly offended at the manner of election, particularly the arts and intrigues practised, and the riot and intemperance permitted at it, drew up a representation of the whole transaction, and transmitted it to the Proprietors in England: but the Palatine was too deeply concerned in promoting those measures of which they complained, to grant them any favourable answer. In Berkley county the principal settlements were those of Sir Nathanial Johnson, Governor Moore, Landgraves West, Smith, Bayley, and Daniel; together with those belonging to Godfrey, Mathews, Izard, Colleton, Grimball, _&c._; several of whom were also dissatisfied with the public proceedings. But Craven county being composed of French refugees, who having little knowledge of the English language, were easily managed; many of whom supported the governor purely out of affection to the Proprietors. In short, the house consisted of thirty members, one half of whom were elected from the dregs of the people, utter strangers to public affairs, and in every respect unqualified for fitting as provincial legislators. [Sidenote] Proposes an expedition against Augustine. In the mean time, a rupture rook place in Europe between England and Spain, which turned the attention of the colony to a different object, and afforded Governor Moore an opportunity of exercising his military talents, and a new prospect of enriching himself by Spanish plunder or Indian captives. Accordingly, instead of private disputes among themselves, he proposed to the assembly an expedition against the Spanish settlement at Augustine. Many of the people, from mercenary motives, applauded the proposal; however, men of cool reflection, having yet had no intelligence of the declaration of war were averse from rushing into any hazardous enterprize, until they had certain advice of it from England. As the expedition was projected, contrary to the opinion and inclination of many Carolineans, without any recent provocation from the Spanish garrison; it is probable that the governor engaged in it chiefly from views of private emolument. Florida, he assured the people would be an easy conquest; and treasures of gold and silver were held out to them as the rewards of valour. In vain did some members of the assembly oppose it, by representing the province as weak, and ill provided for warlike enterprises, and by hinting at the many hazards and difficulties always attending them; in vain did they urge the strength of the Spanish fort, and the expenses incurred by a fruitless and perhaps bloody expedition: such men were called enemies and traitors to their country, and represented as timid and pusillanimous wretches, who were utter strangers to great and glorious undertakings. Accordingly, a great majority of the assembly declared for the expedition, and a sum of two thousand pounds sterling was voted for the service of the war. Six hundred Indians were engaged, who, being fond of warlike exploits, gladly accepted of arms and ammunition offered them for their aid and assistance. Six hundred provincial militia were raised, and schooners and merchant ships were impressed, for transports to carry the forces. Port-Royal was fixed upon as the place of general rendezvous, and there, in September 1702, the governor at the head of his warriors, embarked in an expedition equally rash and fool-hardy on one side, as it was well known and unprovoked on the other. [Sidenote] Which proves abortive. While these preparations were going on in Carolina, the Spaniards, apprised of the governor's design, were making ready for their defence. In the plan of operations it had been agreed, that Colonel Daniel, who was an officer of spirit, should go by the inland passage with a party of militia and Indians, and make a descent on the town from the land, while the governor with the main body should proceed by sea, and block up the harbour. Colonel Daniel lost no time, but advanced against the town, entered and plundered it before the governor got forward to his assistance. But the Spaniards having laid up provisions for four months in the castle, on his approach retired to it with all their money and most valuable effects. Upon the arrival of Governor Moore, the place was invested with a force against which the Spaniards could not appear, and therefore kept themselves shut up in their strong hold. The governor finding it impossible to dislodge them without such artillery as are necessary to a siege, dispatched a sloop to Jamaica, on purpose to bring cannon, bombs, and mortars, for attacking the castle; and Colonel Daniel embarked and sailed with the greatest expedition to bring them. During his absence two Spanish ships, the one of 22 guns and the other of 16, appearing off the mouth of the harbour, struck such a panic into the governor, that he instantly raised the siege, abandoned his ships, and made a precipitate retreat to Carolina by land. In consequence of which the Spaniards in the garrison were not only relieved, but the ships, provisions, and ammunition, belonging to the Carolineans, fell also into their hands. Colonel Daniel, on his return, standing in for the harbour of Augustine, found to his surprise the siege raised, and made a narrow escape from the enemy. Military expeditions rashly undertaken, conducted by a headstrong and unexperienced officer, and executed by raw and ill-disciplined troops, seldom succeed. We are not able to account for the governor's conduct. In raising this siege, after he had been a month in possession of the town, unless he was in immediate want of provisions or ammunition, or his men, having little confidence in his abilities, threatened to desert him: for if the Spanish ships drew more than ten feet water, which it is probable they must have done, they could not come over the bar to injure him: if they landed their men, yet still his force was superior to that of the enemy, and he might at least have risked a battle on such grounds, before he made an inglorious retreat. The Indians were averse from leaving the field, without scalps, plunder, or glory. It is true, the Spanish ships of war might have prevented Colonel Daniel from getting into the harbour with the supply of military stores, yet the coast was large, and afforded many more places for landing them. The governor had Indians to hunt for provisions to his men, and it was by no means impossible to have starved the garrison, and compelled them to surrender. What then shall we think of a commander, who, on the first appearance of a little danger, abandons his station, however advantageous, and tamely yields up, not only the town, but also his own ships and provisions to the enemy? [Sidenote] The first paper currency made. Upon his return to Carolina many severe reflections were thrown out against him, as might naturally have been expected; but especially by that party who opposed the enterprise. It is true, it proved not a bloody expedition, the governor having lost no more than two men in it; yet it entailed a debt of six thousand pounds sterling on a poor colony, which, at that period, was a grievous burden. The provincial assembly, who, during the absence of the governor had been under prorogation, now met, to concert ways and means for discharging this public debt. Great dissensions and confusion prevailed among them; but the governor, having a number of men under arms to whom the country stood indebted, despised all opposition, and silenced the malecontents by threats and compulsion. A bill was brought into the assembly for stamping bills of credit, to answer the public expence, which were to be sunk in three years by a duty laid upon liquors, skins, and furs. In this measure all parties acquiesced, as it fell easy on private persons, at the same time that it satisfied the public creditors. This was the first paper money issued in Carolina, and, for five or six years after the emission, it passed in the country at the same value and rate with the sterling money of England. How, in process of time, it increased in quantity and sunk in value; how it was deemed useful by debtors and prejudicial by creditors, we shall afterwards have occasion more particularly to demonstrate. At present it may suffice to observe, that it was absolutely necessary to support the public credit, and the most practicable method the colony had of defraying the expences incurred by the unsuccessful expedition. [Sidenote] The expedition against the Appalachian Indians. Notwithstanding his past misfortunes, Governor Moore, fond of warlike exploits, had still in view the striking some blow that might distinguish his administration. The Appalachian Indians, by their connection with the Spaniards, had become insolent and troublesome. Mr. Moore determined to chastise them, and for this purpose marched at the head of a body of white men and Indian allies, into the heart of their settlements. Where-ever he went he carried fire and sword along with him, and struck a terror into his enemies. The towns of those tribes who lived between the rivers Alatamaha and Savanna he laid in ashes, captivated many savages, and obliged others to submit to the English government. This exertion of power in that quarter was attended with good effects, as it filled the savages with terror of the British arms, and helped to pave the way for the English colony afterwards planted between these rivers. The governor received the thanks of the Proprietors for his patriotism and courage, who acknowledged that the success of his arms had gained their province a reputation; but, what was of greater consequence to him, he wiped off the ignominy of the Augustine expedition, and procured a number of Indian slaves, whom he employed to cultivate his fields, or sold for his own profit and advantage. [Sidenote] The culture of silk. About this time Sir Nathaniel Johnson introduced the raising of silk into the country, which is an article of commerce exceedingly profitable, and, by proper encouragement, might have been made very beneficial both to the colony and the mother country. Mulberry trees grew spontaneously in the woods, and thrived as well as other natural productions. The great demand for silk in Britain made it an object of the highest consequence. About the beginning of March the worms are hatched from the eggs; nature having wisely so ordered it, that the silk-worms should come into life at the time mulberry leaves, on which they feed, begin to open. The feeding and cleaning them required rather skill than strength. Young persons might have been employed in furnishing leaves; one man of judgment and skill might have attended a large house full of worms; and in six weeks their whole operations are over. An article so profitable, and so easily raised, ought to have engaged the attention of the Proprietors, and induced them to give premiums to such men as should bring to market the greatest quantities of it. Men of knowledge and skill from Europe ought to have been hired and sent out by them, for instructing the colonists in the management of the worms and winding of the silk. Where the climate was so well adapted to the purpose, could any article of improvement be conceived more likely to reward them for their expence? However, Sir Nathaniel Johnson, after all his pains, rather shewed what might have been done towards the culture of silk in that province, than made such progress in it as to render the commodity of national advantage. [Sidenote] And of cotton. To the culture of cotton the climate and soil were equally favourable. It might have been planted on lands newly cleared, or on light and sandy grounds, such as the maritime parts of Carolina, which are by no means unsuitable to the production. The seeds are commonly sown about two feet and a half asunder, and grow up like other plants. Indeed the fields require to be kept clean, and the fresh earth carefully thrown around the plant, to defend it against the winds; but this is no difficult task, and might be performed by hands incapable of more severe labour. When the pods burst, cotton is gathered, and separated from the seeds; which is the most tedious and troublesome part of the business requisite. This article also, though not of importance enough to have engrossed the whole attention of the colonists, might nevertheless, in conjunction with other staples, have been rendered profitable and useful. [Sidenote] Rice fixed on by the planters as a staple commodity. Instead of these and several other articles, to which the views of the planters in the weaker and earlier state of the colony ought to have been turned in some degree, we find from this period the culture of rice engrossing their whole strength and attention, This commodity being an article of provision, was indeed likely always to find a good market; yet it was scarcely possible to have fixed on a staple which required more severe labour during the whole process of its preparation. The warm climate and low lands were doubtless well adapted to the nature of the grain, after experience had taught the husbandman to clear and cultivate the swampy grounds for that purpose: yet it is certain that the planters long went on with this article, and exhausted their strength in raising it on higher lands, which poorly rewarded them for their toil. After clearing the lands they commonly plant it in furrows made with a hoe, about eighteen inches asunder. When the seed is sown the fields must be carefully kept clear of noxious weeds, which retard its growth, and the earth must also be laid up to the root of the rice, to facilitate its progress. No work can be imagined more pernicious to health, than for men to stand in water mid leg high, and often above it, planting and weeding rice; while the scorching heat of the sun renders the air they breathe ten or twenty degrees hotter than the human blood, and the putrid and unwholesome effluvia from an oozy bottom and stagnated water poison the atmosphere. They sow it in April, or early in May, and reap in the latter end of August, or in the month of September. After which it is dried and carried to the barn-yard, and built in stacks, in like manner as the corn in Europe. After this it is threshed, winnowed, and ground in mills made of wood, to free the rice from the husk. Then it is winnowed again, and put into a wooden mortar, and beat with large wooden pestles, which labour is so oppressive and hard, that the firmest nerves and most vigorous constitutions sink under it. To free it from the dust and flour occasioned by pounding, it is sifted first through one sieve, and then, to separate the small and broken rice from the large, through another. Last of all, it is put into large barrels of enormous weight, and carried to the market. During the whole tedious process of its preparation, much care and great strength are requisite, and many thousands of lives from Africa have been sacrificed, in order to furnish the world with this commodity. CHAP. IV. After the death of King William, which happened on the 8th of March 1702, agreeable to the act made for settling the succession, the crown devolved on Anne Stewart, the youngest daughter of King James II. by his first marriage. At her accession to the throne, though in reality she was no friend to the Whig party, she declared that she would make the late king's conduct the model of her own, and maintain the succession to the crown in the Protestant line. The first object of her reign was to humble the pride of France, the power of which nation had at that time grown to such an exorbitant height, as to endanger the liberties of Europe. Lewis XIV. had such influence with the Spanish nation, as to persuade them to join him in proclaiming the pretended Prince of Wales king of Great Britain and Ireland. He had also made many encroachments on the freedom of English commerce and navigation. The indignity offered to her crown Queen Anne determined to resent, and therefore, on the 4th of May, declared war against France and Spain, which, for many years, she carried on with amazing vigour and success. About this juncture Sir Nathaniel Johnson received a commission from John Lord Granville, investing him with the government of Carolina, to which office a salary of two hundred pounds was annexed, to be paid annually by the Receiver-general of the colony. This gentleman had not only been bred a soldier from his youth, but had been also a member of the house of commons, and was well qualified for the trust. But it being suspected that he was no friend to the Revolution, the Proprietors could not obtain her majesty's approbation of him, but on the following terms: That he qualify himself for the office in such a manner as the laws of England required; that he give security for his observing the laws of trade and navigation, and obey such instructions as should be sent out from time to time by her majesty; and the Lords Commissioners of trade and plantations were ordered to take care that good and sufficient security be given by him. [Sidenote] His instructions. With respect to his own conduct in the government of the colony, he had instructions from the Proprietors to follow such rules as had been given to former governors, in the fundamental constitutions and temporary laws entered upon record, and to be guided by the same as far as in his judgment he might think fit and expedient. He was required, with the advice and assistance of his council, carefully to review the constitutions, and such of them as he should think necessary to the better establishment of government, and calculated for the good of the people, he was ordered to lay before the assembly for their concurrence and assent. He was to use his endeavors to dispose of their lands; but to take nothing less than twenty pounds for a thousand acres; and, in all future grants to make them escheat to the Proprietors, unless a settlement be made on them within the space of four years. He was to take special care that the Indians be not abused or insulted, and to study the properest methods of civilizing them, and creating a firm friendship with them, in order to protect the colony against the Spaniards in the neighbourhood. He was to transmit to England exact copies of all laws passed, accounts of the lands sold, and of all annual-rents paid, _&c._ These, and such other regulations as he might judge essential to the welfare of the country, and the interest of the Proprietors, he had particular injunctions to study and adopt. [Sidenote] He endeavors to establish the church of England. I have already observed, that the colony was in a deplorable state with respect to religion. The first emigrants from England, where public worship was countenanced, and had the sanction of the civil authority, retained indeed for a little time some sense of religion, and showed some respect for the ordinances of the gospel: but their children, born in a wilderness, where there was not so much as even the semblance of public worship, were likely to grow up in ignorance, and to live entirely void of all sense of religion. Proprietors were either unable to furnish them with the proper means of instruction, or they were unwilling to bear the expence of it, having as yet received little recompence for the past charges of the settlement. Not only the emigrants from England, but also those from France and Holland, were much divided in their private opinions with respect to modes of religious worship; and for this reason all governors, excepting the last, had prudently deferred meddling in a matter which would occasion uneasiness and confusion among the settlers. Still, however, the establishment of the church of England in Carolina was the chief object in view with the Proprietors. The Palatine was a bigoted zealot for this mode of ecclesiastical worship and government: the governor was strongly attached to it. James Moore, who was made Receiver-general, and Nicholas Trott the Attorney-general, were also men of the same complexion. These men, assisted by a majority of the council, now began to concert measures with art and skill, and to pursue them with firmness and resolution, for accomplishing this end, and gratifying the earnest desire of the Palatine. [Sidenote] Pursues violent measures for that purpose. It was not, however, without some difficulty and considerable struggles, that the keen opposition raised by Dissenters, who now plainly perceived their design, and who had an irreconcilable aversion from Episcopacy, could be overcome. This the governor and his party foresaw, and therefore it became necessary first to exert themselves to secure a majority in the assembly in favour of the measure they had in view. Hitherto the riotous proceedings at the former election had been overlooked, and the rioters, by the countenance and protection of the preceding governor had escaped prosecution. The grand jury presented this neglect as a grievance to the court; but the judge told them, "That was a matter which lay before the governor and council, his superiors." When the complaint was made to the governor in council, he replied, "That these irregularities happened before his appointment to the government, but that he would take care to prevent them for the time to come." Notwithstanding this declaration, if we may believe the Dissenters, at the following election still greater irregularities prevailed. By the same undue influence and violence the governor and his adherents gained their point, and secured a majority in the house; for that a species of corruption had now infected the great fountain of liberty, the election of representatives. It would appear that some of the colonists at this period had distinguished themselves by loose principles and licentious language, and had treated some of the fundamental doctrines of the Christian religion with the ridicule and contempt of professed infidelity. To bring an odium upon this class of Dissenters, and to discourage such licentious practices, a bill was brought into the new assembly for the suppression of blasphemy and profaneness; by which bill, whoever should be convicted of having spoken or written any thing against the Trinity, or the divine authority of the Old or New Testament, by the oath of two or more credible witnesses, were to be made incapable, and disabled in law to all intents and purposes, of being members of assembly, or of holding any office of profit, civil or military, within the province: and whoever should be convicted of such crimes a second time, were also to be disabled from suing or bringing any action of information in any court of law or equity, from being guardian to any child, executor or administrator to any person; and without fail suffer imprisonment for three years. Which law, notwithstanding its fine gloss, savoured not a little of an inquisition, and introduced a species of persecution ill calculated to answer the end for which it was intended. To punish men guilty of blasphemy and profaneness in this way, instead of bringing their atrocious crimes into public disrepute and abhorrence, served rather to render their persons objects of compassion, and induce men to pity them on account of their sufferings. Bad as the world is, these wicked practices seldom miss their deserved rewards, public ignominy and detestation, which perhaps would fall heavier on such wretches without penal laws than with them. [Sidenote] The church of England established by law. However, had Sir Nathaniel Johnson stopt here, many reasons might have been urged in his vindication; but he had other measures in view, much more unpopular and oppressive. He looked upon Dissenters of every denomination as enemies to the constitutions of both church and state, and therefore, to subvert their power and influence, or compel them to uniformity of sentiment, another bill was brought into the assembly, framed in such a manner as to exclude them entirely from the house of representatives. This bill required every man who should hereafter be chosen a member of assembly, to take the oaths and subscribe the declaration appointed by it, to conform to the religion and worship of the church of England, and to receive the sacrament of our Lord's Supper, according to the rites and usage of that church; a qualification which Dissenters considered as having a manifest tendency to rob them of all their civil rights or religious liberties. To carry this bill through the house, all the art and influence of the governor and his party were requisite. In the lower house it passed by a majority of one vote, and in the upper house Landgrave Joseph Morton was refused liberty to enter his protest against it. At this juncture no bill could have been framed more inconsistent with the rights and privileges of the freemen, and more pernicious to the interest and prosperity of the country. Dissenters, who were a numerous and powerful body of the people, were highly offended, and raised a great outcry against it. Seeing themselves reduced to the necessity of receiving laws from men whose principles of civil and ecclesiastical government they abhorred, and subjected to greater hardships than they suffered in England, many had formed resolutions of abandoning the colony. Loud clamours were not only heard without doors, but jealousies and discontent filled the hearts of many within them, not of Dissenters only, but also of those who adhered to the church. [Sidenote] The inhabitants of Colleton county remonstrate against it. In this distracted state of the colony, the inhabitants of Colleton county, composed chiefly of Dissenters, met and drew up a state of their grievous circumstances, which they resolved to transmit to the Proprietors, praying their Lordships to repeal this oppressive act. John Ash, one of the most zealous men in the opposition, agreed to embark for England as agent for the aggrieved party, computed to be at least two thirds of the whole inhabitants of the colony. The governor and his friends, apprized of this design, used all possible means to prevent him from obtaining a passage in any ship belonging to Carolina. Upon which Ash went to Virginia, to which province his instructions were conveyed to him, and from thence he set sail for England. After his arrival he waited on Lord Granville, the Palatine, acquainting him with the design of his message; but met with a very cold reception. That nobleman was too deeply concerned in bringing about that establishment against which Ash came to complain, favourably to listen to his representations. Accordingly, after staying some time in London, and giving the Proprietors all the information in his power relating to public affairs, the only satisfaction he could obtain from the Palatine was this, that he should cause his secretary write to the governor an account of the grievances and hardships of which Mr. Ash complained, and require an answer from him with respect to them. Mr. Ash, observing how the Palatine stood affected, and despairing of success, immediately began to draw up a representation of their case, which he intended for the press: but before he had finished it he was taken sick, and died; and his papers fell into his enemies hands. He was a man of a warm and passionate temper, and possessed of all those violent sentiments which ill usage, disappointment, and oppression, naturally kindle in the human breast. His representation, intended as an appeal to the nation in general, for the sufferings of the people under the tyrannical proprietary government, was full of heavy charges against the governor and his party in Carolina, and bitter reflections on their conduct, which he considered as in the highest degree injurious to the colony. Without doubt the Lords Proprietors planned this establishment with a view to the peaceful influence it would have upon the civil government of the country, as the preamble to the act expressly indicates. Their feeble and fluctating state required the assistance and authority of an established church, and the sanction of religion, to give it more weight and influence with the people. How far the measures adopted served to promote the desired end, and were consistent with prudence and good policy, will afterwards more clearly appear. [Sidenote] Lay commissioners appointed. [Sidenote] The acts ratified by the Proprietors. Sir Nathaniel Johnson having advanced so far, was determined to proceed in spite of every obstacle thrown in his way. He instituted what the inhabitants of Carolina took to be a high-commission court, like that of King James the second. It was enacted, that twenty lay-persons be constituted a corporation for the exercise of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, with full power to deprive ministers of their livings at pleasure, not for immorality only, but also for imprudence, or on account of unreasonable prejudices taken against them. In vain did many persons complain of this institution, as tearing the ecclesiastical jurisdiction out of the hands of the bishop of London, in whose diocese the whole British colonies in America were included. The governor, bent on carrying into execution the favourite plan of the Palatine, paid little regard to the uneasy apprehensions of the people. According to the act for erecting churches, the colony is divided into ten parishes; seven in Berkeley, two in Colleton, and one in Craven counties. Money is provided for building churches; lands are granted for glebes and church-yards; and salaries for the different rectors are fixed and appointed, payable from the provincial treasury. When these bills were transmitted to England, to be ratified and confirmed by the Proprietors, John Archdale opposed them, and insisted, that the Dissenters of Carolina had not yet forgot the hardships they suffered in England from acts of uniformity; that the right of private judgment in religious matters was the birth-right of every man; that undisturbed liberty of conscience was allowed to every inhabitant of Carolina by the charter; that acts of conformity, with penalties annexed to them, have in general proved destructive to the cause they were intended to promote, and were utterly inconsistent with Protestant principles; and therefore that these bills, so unpopular and oppressive in Carolina, ought to be repealed, as contrary to sound policy and religious freedom. The majority of the Proprietors, however, did not view them in this light, and the debate ran high between them. At length the Palatine, equally tyrannical as bigotted put an end to the dispute, by telling Mr. Archdale: "Sir, you are of one opinion, I am of another; our lives may not be long enough to end the controversy. I am for the bills, and that is the party that I will head and support." In consequence of which the acts were ratified by four Proprietors, and the following letter was sent to Sir Nathaniel Johnson. "Sir, the great and pious work which you have gone through with such unwearied and steady zeal, for the honour and worship of Almighty God, we have also finally perfected on our part; and our ratification of that act for erecting churches, _&c._ together with duplicates of all other dispatches, we have forwarded to you by Captain Flavel." [Sidenote] The petition of Dissenters to the House of Lords. The Episcopal party having now got their favourite form of divine worship established by law in Carolina, began to erect churches in such situations as were most centrical and convenient for the settlers; and, to supply them with clergymen, application was made to the society in England for the propagation of the Gospel. The Dissenters, despairing of all hopes of redress from the Proprietors, became greatly discouraged, and could not brook the thoughts of being again subjected to the same troubles and miseries which had compelled them to leave their native country. Some were for transporting their families and effects immediately to Pennsylvania, in order to sit down under Penn's free and indulgent government; others proposed an application to the House of Lords in England, praying that august body to commiserate their distress, and intercede with her Majesty for their relief. For this purpose a petition was drawn up, and carried over by Joseph Boone to England. Several merchants in London, after Boone's arrival, being convinced of the illegal means by which those grievous acts were brought to pass, and of their pernicious consequence to trade, joined the petitioners. Accordingly, about the beginning of the year 1706, the following petition was presented to the House of Lords: setting forth, "That when the province of Carolina was granted to the Proprietors, for the better peopling of it, express provision was made in the charter for a toleration and indulgence of all Christians in the free exercise of their religion; that, in the fundamental constitutions, agreed to be the form of government by the Proprietors, there was also express provision made, that no person should be disturbed for any speculative opinion in religion, and that no person should, on account of religion, be excluded from being a member of the General Assembly, or from any other office in the civil administration: That the said charter, being given soon after the happy restoration of King Charles II. and re-establishment of the church of England by the Act of Uniformity, many of the subjects of the kingdom who were so unhappy as to have some scruples about conforming to the rites of the said church, did transplant themselves and families into Carolina; by means whereof the greatest part of the inhabitants there were Protestant Dissenters from the church of England, and through the equality and freedom of the said fundamental constitutions, all the inhabitants of the colony lived in peace, and even the ministers of the church of England had support from Protestant Dissenters, and the number of inhabitants and the trade of the colony daily increased, to the great improvement of her majesty's customs, and the manifest advantage of the merchants and manufacturers of the kingdom. "But that, in the year 1703, when a new assembly was to be chosen, which, by the constitution, is chosen once in two years, the election was managed with very great partiality and injustice, and all sorts of people, even aliens, Jews, servants, common sailors and negroes, were admitted to vote at elections: That, in the said assembly, an act was passed to incapacitate every person from being a member of any General Assembly that should be chosen for the time to come, unless he had taken the sacrament of the Lord's Supper according to the rites of the church of England; whereby all Protestant Dissenters are made incapable of being in the said assembly; and yet, by the same act, all persons who shall take an oath that they have not received the sacrament in any dissenting congregation for one year past, though they have not received it in the church of England, are made capable of fitting in the said assembly: That this act was passed in an illegal manner, by the governor calling the assembly to meet the 26th of April, when it then stood prorogued to the 10th of May following: That it hath been ratified by the Lords Proprietors in England, who refused to hear what could be offered against it, and contrary to the petition of one hundred and seventy of the chief inhabitants of the colony, and of several eminent merchants trading hither, though the commons of the same assembly quickly after passed another bill to repeal it, which the upper house rejected, and the governor dissolved the house. "That the ecclesiastical government of the colony is under the bishop of London; but the governor and his adherents have at last done what the latter often threatened to do, totally abolished it; for the same assembly have passed an act, whereby twenty lay-persons, therein named, are made a corporation for the exercise of several exorbitant powers, to the great injury and oppression of the people in general, and for the exercise of all ecclesiastical jurisdiction, with absolute power to deprive any minister of the church of England of his benefice, not only for immorality but even for imprudence, or incurable prejudices between such minister and his parish; and the only minister of the church established in the colony, Mr. Edward Marston, hath already been cited before their board, which the inhabitants of the province take to be an high ecclesiastical commission-court, destructive to the very being and essence of the church of England, and to be held in the utmost detestation and abhorrence by every man that is not an enemy to our constitution in church and state. "That the said grievances daily increasing, your petitioner Joseph Boone is now sent by many principal inhabitants and traders of the colony, to represent the languishing and dangerous situation of it to the Lords Proprietors; but his application to them has hitherto had no effect: That the ruin of the colony would be to the great disadvantage of the trade of this kingdom, to the apparent prejudice of her Majesty's customs, and the great benefit of the French, who watch all opportunities to improve their own settlements in those parts of America." [Sidenote] Resolutions of the House of Lords. After reading this petition in the house of Lords, the Palatine desired to be heard by his council, which was granted, and the further consideration of the matter was postponed for one week. Then having heard what Lord Granville had to offer in his behalf, the Lords agreed to address her Majesty in favour of the distressed petitioners of Carolina. They declared, that, after having fully and maturely weighed the nature of the two acts passed in Carolina, they found themselves obliged in duty to her Majesty, and in justice to her subjects, (who, by the express words of the charter, were declared to be the liege people of the crown of England, and to have a right to all the liberties, franchises, and privileges of Englishmen), to come to the following resolutions: "First, That it is the opinion of this house, that the act of assembly in Carolina, lately passed there, signed and sealed by John Lord Granville, for himself, Lord Carteret and Lord Craven, and by Sir John Colleton, four of the Proprietors of that province, in order to the ratifying of it, entitled, An Act for the Establishment of Religious Worship in the Province according to the Church of England, _&c._ so far forth as the same relates to the establishing a commission for the displacing of rectors and ministers of the churches there, is not warranted by the charter granted to the Proprietors, as being not consonant to reason, repugnant to the laws of the realm, and destructive to the constitution of the church of England. Secondly, That it is the opinion of this house, that the act of assembly in Carolina, entitled, An Act for the more effectual Preservation of the Government of the Province, by requiring all persons that shall hereafter be chosen members of the Commons House of Assembly, and sit in the same, to take the oaths and subscribe the declaration appointed by this act, and to conform to the religious worship in this province according to the Church of England, and to receive the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper according to the rites and usage of the said church, _&c._ is founded on falsity in matter of fact, is repugnant to the laws of England, contrary to the charter of the Proprietors, is an encouragement to atheism and irreligion, destructive to trade, and tends to the depopulation and ruin of the Province". [Sidenote] Their address to the Queen. After which resolutions the house addressed her Majesty in the following words: "We your Majesty's dutiful subjects, having thus humbly presented our opinion of these acts, we beseech your Majesty to use the most effectual methods to deliver the said province from the arbitrary oppressions under which it now lies, and to order the authors thereof to be prosecuted according to law; at the same time we represent to your Majesty, how much the powers given by the crown have been abused by some of your subjects, justice requires us to acquaint your Majesty, that some of the Proprietors absolutely refused to join in the ratification of these acts. We humbly beg permission to inform your Majesty, that other great injustices and oppressions are complained of in the petition; but the nature of the fact requiring a long examination, it was not possible for the house to find time for, so near the conclusion of the session; and therefore we presume with all duty to lay the petition itself before your Majesty, at the same time we present our address. We cannot doubt but your Majesty, who from the beginning of your reign has shewn to great a concern and tenderness for all your subjects, will extend your compassion for those distressed people, who have the misfortune to be at so great a distance from your royal person, and not so immediately under your gentle administration. Your Majesty is fully sensible of what great consequence the plantations are to the crown of England, and to the trade of your subjects, and therefore we rest assured, that as your Majesty will have them all under your royal care, so, in particular, you will be graciously pleased to find out and prosecute the most effectual means for the relief of the province of Carolina." [Sidenote] The Queen's answer. To which address Queen Anne returned the following answer: "I thank the house for laying these matters so plainly before me: I am sensible of what great consequence the plantations are to England, and will do all in my power to relieve my subjects in Carolina, and protect them in their just rights." But as it likewise appeared that some of the Proprietors themselves had refused to approve of the acts, the matter was farther referred to the Lords of trade and plantations; who, after examination, found that all the charges brought against the provincial government and the Proprietors were well grounded; and represented farther to her Majesty, that the making of such laws was an abuse of the powers granted to the Proprietors by the charter, and will be a forfeiture of it, and humbly begged that she would be pleased to give directions for reassuming the same into her Majesty's hands, by a _scire facias_ in the court of Queen's Bench. The Queen approved of their representation, and after declaring the laws null and void, for the effectual proceeding against the charter by way of _quo warranto_, ordered her Attorney and Solicitor-General to inform themselves fully concerning what may be most effectual for accomplishing the same, that she might take the government of the colony, so much abused by others, into her own hands, for the better protection of her distressed subjects. Here, however, the matter was dropt for the present, and no farther steps were taken against the charter of the Proprietors, or for the relief of the people. In the mean time the distant colonists, though they had heard nothing of what had passed in England relating to those grievous acts, became daily more sensible of their oppressive nature and pernicious consequence. Several settlers had left the country on account of them, and moved to Pennsylvania. Archibald Stobo, a Presbyterian minister in Charlestown, who had warmly opposed this establishment from the beginning, had also convinced many who remained of the severities and hardships the Dissenters in England had suffered from the rigors of the Episcopal government. Several circumstances proved favourable to Stobo's opposition; he possessed those talents which render a minister conspicuous and respected, and the people that party-zeal which becomes violent from ill usage and persecution. To his treasures of knowledge and excellent capacity for instruction, he added uncommon activity and diligence in the discharge of the various duties of his sacred function. He had a natural aversion from the Episcopal jurisdiction, and no minister of the colony had engrossed so universally the public favour and esteem. The Governor and his adherents found it necessary to sow the seeds of division among his followers, and, from maxims of policy, to magnify his failings, in order to ruin his great power and influence. But the Presbyterian party were not the only malcontents during these strange and unwarrantable proceedings of the legislature. Many wise and religious men of all denominations condemned them, as grievous and impolitical. They considered differences in religious opinion as improper objects of temporal punishment, and that magistrates had no business with them, unless they occasion danger and disturbance to the state. They looked upon religion as a personal affair, which lies between God and a man's conscience, and that it was the prerogative of the Supreme Being to judge of men's hearts, as he alone was capable of forming a right judgment. In such a case, doubtless every man had a right to judge and chuse for himself, as he alone, and not the church, must at last be accountable to God for the choice. In every country this is reasonable; but in Protestant countries it is the fundamental principle on which they ground their right of protesting against the rules and errors of any particular church. For which reason judicious men in Carolina opposed the acts of assembly, as unreasonable in themselves, repugnant to the principles of Protestants, and robbing many of the colonists of their most valuable privileges, for their difference in religious opinion. Even the society for propagating the gospel disapproved of them, and, at a meeting in St. Paul's Church, resolved not to send any missionaries to Carolina, until the clause relating to lay-commissioners was annulled. So that all impartial men, in some measure, condemned the acts, and seemed to detest both the factious men who framed them, and the method by which they had been promoted in the province. [Sidenote] A project formed for invading Carolina. At length from these domestic troubles the attention of the people was drawn off, and turned towards a more important object, their common defence against foreign enemies. The war between Great Britain and France and Spain still raged in Europe. The Governor received advice of a project framed for invading Carolina, and had instructions to put the country in the best posture of defence. The Spaniards pretended a right to it on the foot of prior discovery, considering it as a part of Florida, and had now determined by force of arms to assert their right. Sir Nathaniel Johnson, as a military commander, was well qualified for his duty, and formed to shine in a more conspicuous manner in that line than in any other. No sooner had he received intelligence of the designs of his enemy, than he set all hands to work upon the fortifications, appointed a number of gunners to each bastion, and held frequent musters to train the men to the use of arms. A storehouse was prepared, and a quantity of ammunition laid up in it, to be ready on the first emergency. A small fort, called Fort Johnson, was erected on James's Island, and several great guns mounted on it. Trenches were cast up on White Point, and other places where they were thought necessary. A guard was stationed on Sullivan's Island, with orders to kindle a number of fires opposite to the town, equal to the number of ships they might spy on the coast. In short, such prudent regulations were made, as to prevent any surprise from an enemy, and at what time soever they might come, to give them as warm a reception as possible. Few months had elapsed before they found the usefulness and necessity of these wise precautions. Carolina was at this juncture the southern frontier of the British empire in America. The colony, though it had acquired some degree of strength, was yet in a feeble state to resist an enemy of force and enterprize. From its situation there was reason to apprehend that the French and Spaniards would attack it, as it would fall an easier conquest than the more populous northern settlements. Before this time a plan had been concerted at the Havanna for invading it. Mons. le Feboure, captain of a French frigate, together with four more armed sloops, encouraged and assisted by the Spanish governor of that island, had already set sail for Charlestown. To facilitate the conquest of the province, he had directions to touch at Augustine, and carry from thence such a force as he judged adequate to the enterprize. Upon his arrival at Augustine, he had intelligence of an epidemical distemper which raged at Charlestown, and had swept off a vast number of inhabitants. This animated him to proceed with greater expedition. Imagining the town to be in a weak and defenceless state, and that the militia in the country would be averse from coming nigh it through fear of the fatal infection, he took on board a considerable number of forces at Augustine, and made all the sail he could for Carolina. [Sidenote] A Spanish and French invasion. Before this time a Dutch privateer, formerly belonging to New-York, by order of the governor of Carolina, had been refitted at Charlestown for cruising on the coast. The command had been given to Captain Stool, who was sent out on purpose to intercept the supplies regularly sent to Augustine from the Havanna. After being out a few days he returned, and brought advice of having engaged a French sloop off the bar of Augustine; but upon seeing four ships more advancing to her assistance, he thought proper to make all the sail he could for Charlestown, and that he narrowly escaped falling into the enemy's hands. Scarcely had he delivered the news, when five separate smokes appeared on Sullivan's island, as a signal to the town that the same number of ships were observed on the coast. Sir Nathaniel Johnson being at than time at his plantation, several miles from town, Lieutenant Colonel William Rhett commanding officer of the militia, immediately ordered the drums to beat, and the whole inhabitants to be put under arms. A messenger was dispatched with the news to the Governor, and letters to all the captains of the militia in the country, to fire their alarm guns, raise their companies, and with all possible expedition march to the assistance of the town. In the evening the enemy's fleet came the length of Charlestown bar; but as the passage was intricate and dangerous to strangers, they did not think it prudent to venture over it while the darkness of the night approached, and therefore hovered on the coast all night within sight of land. Early next morning the watchmen stationed on Sullivan's Island observed them a little to the southward of the bar, manning their gallies and boats, as if they intended to land on James's Island; but there having come to an anchor, they employed their boats all that day in sounding the south bar; which delay was of great service to the Carolineans, as it afforded time for the militia in the country to march to town. The same day Sir Nathaniel Johnson the governor came to Charlestown, and found the inhabitants in great consternation; but he being a man of courage, and skilled in the arts of war, his presence inspired them with fresh confidence and resolution. He proclaimed the martial law at the head of the militia, and gave the necessary orders: he sent to the Indian tribes in alliance with the colony, and brought a number of them to his assistance. As the contagious distemper still raged in Charlestown, the Governor judged it imprudent to expose his men to the dangerous infection, unless necessity required it, and therefore held his head quarters about half a mile distant from town. In the evening a troop of horse, commanded by Captain George Logan, and two companies of foot, under the command of Major George Broughton, reached the capital, and kept diligent watch during the night. The next morning a company from James's Island, under the command of Captain Drake, another from Wando, under Captain Fenwick, and five more commanded by Captains Cantey, Lynch, Hearn, Longbois, and Seabrook, joined the militia of the town; so that the whole force of the province, with the Governor at their head, was now collected together in one place. The day following the enemy's four ships and a galley came over the bar, with all their boats out for landing their men, and stood directly for the town, having the advantages of a fair wind and strong tide. When they had advanced so far up the river as to discover the fortifications, they cast anchor a little above Sullivan's Island. The Governor, observing the enemy approaching towards the town, marched his men into it to receive them; but finding they had stopt by the way, he had time to call a council of war, in which it was agreed to put some great guns on board of such ships as were in the harbour, and employ the gallant sailors in their own way, for the better defence of the town. William Rhett, a man possessed of considerable conduct and spirit, received a commission to be vice-admiral of this little fleet, and hoisted his flag on board of the Crown galley. The enemy observing them employed in making all possible preparations for resistance, sent up a flag of truce to the Governor, to summon him to surrender. George Evans, who commanded Granville bastion, received their messenger at his landing from the boat, and conducted him blindfolded into the fort, until the Governor was in readiness to receive him. In the mean time the Governor, having drawn up his men in such a manner as to make them appear to the greatest advantage, received the French officer at their head; and having first shown him one fort full of men, he then conducted him by a different route to another, giving the same men time to go by a shorter way, and be drawn up beforehand: and there, having given him a view of his strength, he demanded the purport of his message. The officer told him, that he was sent by Mons. le Feboure, admiral of the French fleet, to demand a surrender of the town and country, and their persons prisoners of war; and that his orders allowed him no more than one hour for an answer. Governor Johnson replied, that there was no occasion for one minute to answer that message: he told him, he held the town and country for the Queen of England; that he could depend on his men, who would sooner die than surrender themselves prisoners of war; that he was resolved to defend the country to the last drop of his blood against the boldest invader, and he might go when he pleased and acquaint Mons. le Feboure with his resolution. The day following a party of the enemy went ashore on James's Island, and burnt the houses on a plantation by the riverside. Another party, consisting of an hundred and sixty men, landed on the opposite side of the river, and burnt two vessels in Dearsby's Creek, and set fire to his storehouse. Sir Nathaniel Johnson, from such beginnings perceiving that they were determined to carry fire and sword wherever they went, doubled his diligence for the defence of the town. He ordered Captain Drake and his company, with a small party of Indians, to James's Island, to defend their properties on that side. Drake marched against them, bur before he could bring up his men, the Indians, whom he could keep under no control, and who ran through the woods with their usual impetuosity, had driven the invaders to their boats: Then advice was brought to town, that the party who landed on Wando Neck had killed a number of hogs and cattle, and were feasting on the plunder. To prevent their farther progress into the country, and give them a check if possible, Captain Cantey, with an hundred chosen men, was ordered to pass the river privately in the night, and watch their motions. Before break of day the captain came up with them, and finding them in a state of security, with fires lighted around them, surrounded and surprised them with a sharp fire from every quarter; in consequence of which, they were put in confusion and fled, and a considerable part being killed, wounded, and drowned, the remainder surrendered prisoners of war. Having by this blow considerably weakened the force of the enemy, and being encouraged and animated by their success at land, the Carolineans determined also to try their fortune by sea. Accordingly William Rhett set sail with his fleet of six small ships, and proceeded down the river to the place where the enemy rode at anchor; but the French perceiving this fleet standing towards them, in great haste weighed anchor and sailed over the bar. For some days nothing more was heard of them; but, to make sure, the Governor ordered Captain Watson of the Sea-Flower out to sea to examine whether or not the coast was clear. The captain returned without seeing the enemy, but observing some men on shore whom they had left behind, he took them on board and brought them to town. These men assured the Governor that the French were gone. In consequence of which, orders were given for the martial law to cease, and the inhabitants began to rejoice at their happy deliverance. [Sidenote] The invaders repulsed and defeated by the militia. However, before night, certain advice was brought that a ship of force was seen in Sewee Bay, and that a number of armed men had landed from her at that place. Upon examination of the prisoners the Governor found that the French expected a ship of war, with Mons. Arbuset their general and about two hundred men more to their assistance. The Governor ordered Captain Fenwick to pass the river, and march against them by land; while Rhett, with the Dutch privateer and a Bermuda sloop armed, sailed round by sea, with orders to meet him at Sewee Bay. Captain Fenwick came up with the enemy, and briskly charged them, who, though advantageously posted, after a few volleys gave way, and retreated to their ship; and soon after Rhett coming to his assistance, the French ship struck without firing a shot. Rhett, being obliged by contrary winds to remain all that day in Sewee Bay, dispatched John Barnwell, a volunteer, to the Governor, with an account of their success; and next morning, the wind changing, he returned to Charlestown with his prize, and about ninety prisoners. Thus ended Mons. le Feboure's invasion of Carolina, little to his own honour as a commander, or to the credit and courage of his men. It is probable he expected to find the province in a weak and defenceless situation, and that the Governor would instantly surrender on his appearance before the town. But he was deceived, as many commanders have been who entertain a despicable opinion of their enemy. The Governor was a man of approved courage and conduct; the militia undertook the various little enterprizes with the spirit of men who had not only the honour of the province, but also their whole properties at stake, and amazing success crowned their endeavours. Out of eight hundred men who came against this little colony, near three hundred were killed and taken prisoners; among the latter were Mons. Arbuset, their commander in chief by land, with several sea officers, who together offered ten thousand pieces of eight for their ransom. On the other hand, the loss sustained by the provincial militia was incredibly small. The Governor publicly thanked them for the unanimity and courage they had shown in repelling the invaders: and received from the Proprietors soon after the following letter. "We heartily congratulate you on your great and happy success against the French and Spaniards; and for your eminent courage and conduct in the defence and preservation of our province, we return you our thanks, and assure you, that we shall always retain a just sense of your merit, and will take all opportunities to reward your signal services." [Sidenote] The union of England and Scotland. About this time the long-projected union between England and Scotland took place in Britain, which was attended, as might have been expected, with the most interesting and happy consequences to both kingdoms. God and nature had joined the two together, and of course all differences and divisions subsisting between them, while they acknowledged the same sovereign, were impolitical and absurd. Unity of affection and interest unquestionably constituted the strength of the island, and could alone enable it to oppose foreign enemies with vigour and success. Among the number of articles which composed this important and beneficial treaty, it was agreed, "That all the subjects of the united kingdom of Great Britain, should, from and after this union, have full freedom and intercourse of trade and navigation to and from any port or place in the said united kingdom, and the dominions and plantations thereunto belonging; and that there should be a communication of all rights, privileges and advantages which do or may belong to the subjects of either kingdom, except where it is otherwise expressly agreed in these articles." Unfortunately, however, two modes of religious worship were established in the nation, which served to perpetuate differences among the more stiff and rigid partizans of both the Episcopalian and Presbyterian churches. A division in the ecclesiastical establishment was as improper and unreasonable as a disunion in the nation. With respect to the essential principles and doctrines of religion, they are the same in both churches, and the difference between them lies in the modes of worship and government, in usages, vestments, forms and ceremonies, matters of little consequence with regard to religion. Both modes of worship and government have their advantages and disadvantages, and had delegates from both churches met at this juncture, and yielded a little on both sides, for the sake of mutual harmony, and uniformity, such compliance might have been attended with happy effects. But the infelicity of the times, and narrow sentiments of the people, not admitting of this expedient, it was agreed that the Episcopalian government was only to extend to the colonies, and be considered as the establishment in them. As the greatest part of emigrants to America carried along with them prejudices against this establishment, and discovered a tendency towards a republican form of church-government, it is remarkable that this disaffection has continued, and in process of time been acquiring strength, insomuch that the hands of government, engaged in support of the established church, have often been weakened by it, and rendered unable to answer the ends of their appointment. [Sidenote] Missionaries sent out by the society in England. About this time the society incorporated by King William, having received large benefactions for the purpose of propagating the gospel, began to exert themselves for sending over, and maintaining missionaries in the plantations. As some colonies were totally destitute of the means of instruction, and others ill provided with ministers, and unable to support them, the society considered the British subjects as the primary objects of their charity. To prevent the influence of Roman Catholic missionaries among the heathens was a secondary end in view with this charitable corporation, who were also to improve every favourable opportunity for the instruction and conversion of negroes and Indians. While a number of missionaries were ordained for the northern colonies, Samuel Thomas was sent out to Carolina for the instruction of the Yamassee Indians; and to supply the different parishes, several more missionaries were on the passage to the province. The society had wrote to Sir Nathaniel Johnson, expressing their zeal for the interest of religion, and earnest desire for spreading the knowledge of the gospel among the inhabitants of the British colonies, and their hopes of his concurrence towards the accomplishment of their excellent design. Upon the receipt of which the governor summoned a meeting of his council, and sent an answer to the corporation in the following words: "We could not omit this opportunity of testifying the grateful sense we have of your most noble Christian charity to our poor infant church in this province, expressed by the generous encouragement you have been pleased to give to those who are coming missionaries, the account of which we have just now received by our worthy friend and minister Mr. Thomas, who, to our great satisfaction, is now arrived. The extraordinary hurry we are in, occasioned by the late invasion attempted by the French and Spaniards, from whom God hath miraculously delivered us, hath prevented our receiving a particular account from Mr. Thomas of your bounty, and also hath not given us leisure to view your missionaries instructions, either in regard to what relates to them or to ourselves: but we shall take speedy care to give them all due encouragement, and the venerable society the utmost satisfaction. There is nothing so dear to us as our holy religion, and the interest of the established church, in which we have been happily educated; we therefore devoutly adore God's Providence in bringing, and heartily thank your society in encouraging, so many missionaries to come among us. We promise your honourable society, it shall be our daily study to encourage their pious labours, to protect their persons, to revere their authority, to improve by their ministerial instructions, and, as soon as possible, to enlarge their annual salaries. When we have placed your missionaries in their several parishes according to your directions, and received from them an account of your noble benefaction of books for each parish, we shall then write more particular and full. In the mean time, we beg your honourable society to accept of our hearty gratitude, and be assured of our sincere endeavour to concur with you in the noble design of propagating Christ's holy religion." Soon after the missionaries arrived, and were settled in their respective parishes, Edward Marston minister at Charlestown died, and Mr. Thomas, whom the governor intended for his successor, did not long survive him: in consequence of whose death, the governor and Council applied by letters to the society, requesting farther supplies, particularly a learned and prudent man to take the charge of the capital. The Archbishop of Dublin recommended Gideon Johnston to them as a person for whose sobriety, diligence, and ability, he dared to be answerable, and doubted not but he would execute the duty required in such a manner as to merit the approbation of every one with whom he should be concerned. Accordingly, Mr. Johnston, being made commissary to the Bishop of London for the province of Carolina, and having fifty pounds a-year settled on him from the society, embarked for Charlestown. On his arrival he had almost lost his life in going ashore: the ship in which he sailed being obliged to come to an anchor off the bar to wait the return of the tide, and Mr. Johnston, with several more passengers, being impatient to get to land, went on board of the small boat to go up to the town; but a sudden gust of wind arising, drove the boat upon a sand bank, where they lay two days, almost perishing with hunger and thirst, when some persons accidentally discovered and relieved them. Mr. Johnston was not the only person that shared of the charitable fund; for five more ministers were settled in the country, to each of whom an allowance of fifty pounds a-year, besides their provincial salary, was given by this incorporated society. Two thousand volumes of books were also sent to be distributed among the people, by these missionaries, for their private use and instruction. Justice requires a relation of these facts for the honour of that society, who supplied the province with instructors at this early period, when it was poor in itself, and stood so much in need of their generous assistance. As the church of England, however, continued to be considered as the established religion of the province; and as all the ministers sent out by this society were of that persuasion, Dissenters, who in general are not the most charitable in their judgments with regard to the conduct of their neighbours, and who perhaps contributed, like many others, towards raising this fund, concluded that the society had the propagation of Episcopacy more in their eye than that of Christianity. But certainly it cannot be denied, that the members of this corporation, who not only contributed largely, but were also at such pains in collecting a fund for this laudable end, were the proper judges in what manner it should be applied. Charity obliges us to believe, that this society, whose design was so benevolent, employed their money in such a way as they judged would be most agreeable to the intentions of those who gave it, and most useful for the instruction and happiness of their fellow creatures: yet mankind, in such cases, are apt to be forward in advancing their opinions with regard to the conduct of such public managers, and, as they stand affected themselves, to praise or condemn them. [Sidenote] Lord Craven Palatine. About the close of the year 1707, Lord Granville the Palatine died; and was succeeded in that high dignity by William Lord Craven. The death of that nobleman, by whose instruction and encouragement the several violent steps for the establishment and support of the church of England in Carolina had been taken, was now likely to produce some change in the future state of public affairs. Though the Governor and his friends still maintained a majority in the house of assembly, yet, from the number and temper of Dissenters, they were not without some suspicions of seeing the fabric, which they had with such uncommon industry been erecting, totally overturned. While many Episcopalians in England were terrified with the prospects of danger to their church, the Carolineans took the alarm, and passed an act for its security in that province. The preamble of this act runs thus: "Whereas the church of England has of late been so happily established among us, fearing that by the succession of a new Governor this church may be either undermined or wholly subverted, to prevent which calamity falling upon us, be it enacted, That this present assembly shall continue to sit for two years, and for the time and term of eighteen months after the change of government, whether by the death of the present Governor, or the succession of another in his time." Whether the church must not have been in great danger when men were obliged to take such an extraordinary measure for its security, we leave it to the world to judge. [Sidenote] Edward Tynte governor. About the end of the year 1708, Colonel Edward Tynte received a commission from Lord Craven, investing him with the government of the colony. About the same time Charles Craven, brother to the Palatine, was made secretary to the province. During the time Sir Nathaniel Johnson had governed the country, it had not only been threatened with a formidable invasion, but also torn to pieces with factions and divisions, which had much retarded its progress and improvement. Great confusion among the people had been occasioned by the violent stretch of power in favour of an ecclesiastical establishment. The new Palatine, sensible of those things, instructed Governor Tynte to adopt such healing measures as would be most conducive to the welfare of the settlement. Soon after his arrival he received a letter from the Proprietors to the following effect: "We hope by this time you have entered upon your government of our province of Carolina, and therefore we earnestly require your endeavours to reconcile the minds of the inhabitants to each other, that the name of parties, if any yet remains among them, may be utterly extinguished: for we can by no means doubt, but their unanimous concurrence with our endeavours for their prosperity, will most effectually render Carolina as flourishing a colony as any in America." The late Palatine, from a mixture of spiritual and political pride, despised all Dissenters, as the enemies of both the hierarchy and monarchy, and believed the state could only be secure, while the civil authority was lodged in the hands of high-church men. Lord Craven possessed not the same proud and intolerant spirit, and thought those Carolineans, who maintained liberty of conscience, merited greater indulgences from them; and, though a friend to the church of England, he always was doubtful whether the minds of the people were ripe for the introduction of that establishment. He therefore urged lenity and toleration, which in general have been productive of peace and union, while rigour and persecution have seldom failed to excite discord and promote superstition in every community. [Sidenote] The revenues of the colony. The expences incurred by the French invasion, though it terminated much to the honour of the Carolineans, fell heavy on the colony, still in a poor and languishing condition. No taxes as yet had been laid on real or personal estates: the revenues of the colony were all raised by duties laid on spirituous liquors, sugar, molasses, and a few other articles imported; and on deer-skins and furs exported. The amount of these several duties was applied towards defraying the charges of government, such as raising and repairing fortifications, paying the Governor's salary, maintaining garrisons, providing military stores, and salaries to ten ministers of the church of England, and sinking bills of credit stamped for answering the extraordinary expences of the province. Eight thousand pounds had been issued for defraying the public expences occasioned by the French invasion; and the act laying an imposition on furs, skins, and liquors, was continued, for the purpose of cancelling these bills of credit. From this time forward there was a gradual rise in exchange and produce, owing, as many thought, to the emission and establishment of paper currency in the province. Before this period, French and Spanish gold and silver, brought into the country by pirates, privateers, and the over-balance of trade with the West Indies, answered all the purposes of internal commerce, and very little English coin was circulating in the country. However, soon after this emission, fifty _per cent_. advance was given by the merchants for what English money there was; that is to say, for one hundred pounds English coin, they gave one hundred and fifty pounds paper currency of Carolina. [Sidenote] The invasion of Canada. A bloody war still continued between England and France in Europe, and the success which had attended an expedition against Acadia, had encouraged the British administration to enter on bolder undertakings in America. The French in Canada were numerous and strong, and Lord Godolphin, convinced of the necessity of maintaining a superiority over them, formed a design of attacking Quebec, and striking such a blow in that quarter as might render his administration distinguished. He sent for Sir Hovenden Walker, rear-admiral of the white, and after holding a private consultation with him respecting the enterprize, immediately began to make preparations for it. Six thousand men were drawn from the army in Flanders, and the command of them was given to General Hill. Eleven ships of the line, one frigate, and two bomb-ships, were fitted out: transports were provided, on board of which the army embarked and sailed for Boston in New England. They arrived there on the 24th of June 1711, but by no means met with that zeal and ardour for the expedition among the people of New England that might have been expected, considering its interesting consequence with respect to them. Colonel Francis Nicolson, who had been successful in Acadia the year before, hastened to Boston, and first used his utmost endeavours to forward the expedition, and then marched by land, with a body of white men and Indians, against Montreal. Before Sir Hovenden Walker had procured every thing requisite to his expedition, the season of the year was too far advanced. The navigation up the river St. Laurence was hazardous, and none but unskilful pilots could be found. A sudden blow must necessarily be struck, or otherwise, as the frosty season begins there so early, the fleet might find it difficult to return down the river. When they set sail, they had every thing to dread from their own ignorance and a dangerous navigation. In proceeding up the river they found uncertain and rapid currents, and met with dark and foggy weather: in consequence of which eight transports ran upon a rock, and almost nine hundred men perished. This unhappy accident cast a damp upon the spirits of the army, and their plan was frustrated. In a council of war it was judged imprudent and impracticable to carry large ships up such a river without the most skilful pilots, and therefore they returned to New England. General Francis Nicolson having heard of the miscarriage of the expedition upon the river, retreated also from Lake George, and no more attempts were made for many years against the French settlements in Canada. [Sidenote] A French colony planted in Louisiana. In the year following the French planted a colony at the mouth of the great river Mississippi. Lewis the XIVth thought proper to grant a territory of vast extent in that quarter to Secretary Crozat, by which he evidently encroached on lands belonging to the Proprietors of South Carolina. Though the Carolineans had not a little to fear from a settlement in such a situation, yet Crozat was allowed to take peaceable possession, without any complaints from the Proprietors, or opposition from the British government. From this period a new competitor for the affection and interest of Indian nations arose, more active and enterprising than the Spaniards, whose motions the Carolineans had good reason to watch with a jealous and vigilant eye. [Sidenote] A colony of Palatines settled. About the same time application was made to the Proprietors for lands in Carolina, by a number of Palatines harassed in Germany by the calamities of a tedious war, and reduced to circumstances of great indigence and misery. The Proprietors wisely judging, that by such acquisitions the value of their lands would increase, and the strength of their settlement would be promoted, determined to give every possible encouragement to such emigrants. Ships were provided for their transportation. Instructions were sent to Governor Tynte to allow an hundred acres of land for every man, woman, and child, free of quit-rents for the first ten years; but, at the expiration of that term, to pay one penny _per_ acre annual-rent for ever, according to the usages and customs of the province. Upon their arrival Governor Tynte granted them lands in North Carolina, where they settled, and flattered themselves with having found in the hideous wilderness an happy retreat from the storms and desolations of war raging in Europe. [Sidenote] Robert Gibbes governor. However, like many others, Governor Tynte had scarcely time to learn the real state of the country, in order to establish proper regulations in it, before he died. After his death, a competition arose in the council about the succession. One party declared for Robert Gibbes, and another for Thomas Broughton. Gibbes, however, carried his election, and for a little while stood at the head of the colony. During his time, we know nothing remarkable that happened. An act of assembly passed for appointing commissioners, impowering them to take subscriptions and collect public contributions for building a church at Charlestown. Water passages were carried southward to Port-Royal, for the ease and convenience of passengers by sea, and money was provided for building public bridges; and establishing ferries, for the accommodation of travellers by land. [Sidenote] Charles Craven governor. But as it appeared to the Proprietors, that bribery and corruption had been used by Robert Gibbes to gain his election to the government, he was not permitted to continue long in that office; they forbade their Receiver-General to pay him any salary, and ordered the money due to be transmitted to Richard Shelton their secretary in England. A commission was sent our to Charles Craven, a man of great knowledge, courage and integrity, by his brother, investing him with the government of the colony. His council was composed of Thomas Broughton, Ralph Izard, Charles Hart, Samuel Eveleigh, and Arthur Middleton, _&c._; all men of considerable property, and experience in provincial affairs. The assembly in his time was not elected, as formerly, in a riotous and tumultuary manner, but with the utmost harmony and regularity, and proceeded to their deliberations with great temper and mutual friendship. The Governor had instructions to defend the province against the French and Spaniards, and for that purpose to form and cultivate the firmest friendship and alliance with the Indians; to promote fisheries and manufactures, which was certainly an absurd and ridiculous instruction; for while they had so much land, agriculture was evidently more profitable and beneficial to both the possessors and Proprietors of the province. He was required to overlook the courts, and take special care that justice be equitably administered, and that no interruptions or delays attend the execution of the laws: he was ordered to employ eight men to sound Port-Royal river for the benefit of navigation, and to fix on the most convenient spot for building a town, with a harbour nigh it; and to transmit all acts of assembly made from time to time to England, for the Proprietors approbation or disapprobation; and such other public matters as appeared to him of general concern and utility, he was required carefully to study and promote. [Sidenote] An Indian war in North Carolina. In the year 1712, after Governor Craven had assumed the management of the colony, a dangerous conspiracy was formed by the Indians of North Carolina against the poor settlers in that quarter. The cause of the quarrel we have not been able clearly to find out; probably they were offended at the encroachments made on their hunting lands. The powerful tribes of Indians called Corees, Tuscororas, and several more, united, and determined to murder or expel the European invaders. As usual, they carried on their bloody design with amazing cunning and profound secrecy. Their chief town they had in the first place surrounded with a wooden breast-work, for the security of their own families. Here the different tribes met together to the number of twelve hundred bowmen, and formed their horrid plot. From this place of rendezvous they sent out small parties, who entered the settlements, under the mask of friendship, by different roads. At the change of the full moon all of them had agreed to begin their murderous operations, on the same night. When that night came, they entered the planters houses, demanded provisions, out of pretence were displeased with them, and then murdered men, women, and children, without mercy or distinction. To prevent the alarm spreading through the settlement, they ran like fierce and bloody tygers from house to house, spreading slaughter among the scattered families wherever they went. None of the colonists, during the fatal night, knew what had befallen their neighbours, until the barbarians had reached their own doors. About Roanock one hundred and thirty-seven settlers fell a sacrifice to their savage fury the first night; among whom were a Swiss baron, and almost all the poor Palatines who had lately come into the country. Some, however, who had hid themselves in the woods, having escaped, next morning gave the alarm to their neighbours, and prevented the total distruction of that colony. Every family had orders speedily to assemble at one place, and the militia, under arms, kept watch day and night around them, until the news of the sad disaster reached the province of South Carolina. [Sidenote] The Tuscorora Indians conquered. Happy was it for the distressed North Carolineans Governor Craven lost no time in collecting and dispatching a force to their assistance and relief. The assembly voted four thousand pounds for the service of the war. A body of militia, consisting of six hundred men, under the command of Colonel Barnwell, marched against the savages. Two hundred and eighteen Cherokees, under the command of Captains Hartford and Turstons; seventy-nine Creeks, under Captain Hastings; forty-one Catabaws, under Captain Cantey, and twenty-eight Yamasses, under Captain Pierce, being furnished with arms, joined the Carolineans in this expedition. Hideous and dreadful, at this time, was that wilderness through which Colonel Barnwell had to march; and to get to North Carolina in time, for the relief of the people, the utmost expedition was requisite. In such a case it was not possible for his men to carry a sufficient quantity of provisions, together with arms and ammunition, along with them, or to have these things provided at different stages by the way. There was no road through the woods upon which either horses or carriages could conveniently pass; and his army had all manner of hardships and dangers from the climate, the wilderness, and the enemy, to encounter. In spite of every difficulty, Barnwell advanced against them, employing his Indian allies to hunt for provisions to his men by the way. At length, having come up with the savages, he attacked them, and being much better supplied with arms and ammunition than his enemy, he did great execution among them. In the first battle he killed three hundred Indians, and took about one hundred prisoners. After which the Tuscororas retreated to their town, within a wooden breastwork; there Barnwell surrounded them, and having killed a considerable number, forced the remainder to sue for peace: some of his men being wounded, and others having suffered much by constant watching, and much hunger and fatigue, the savages more easily obtained their request. In this expedition it was computed that Barnwell killed, wounded, and captivated near a thousand Tuscororas. The remainder, who escaped on the terms of peace, soon after this heavy chastisement, abandoned their country, and joined a northern tribe of Indians on the Ohio river. King Blunt, who afterwards came to South Carolina, confirmed the account of the number the enemy had lost. Of Barnwell's party five Carolineans were killed, and several wounded: of his Indians, thirty-six were killed, and between sixty and seventy wounded. In justice to this officer it must be owned, never had any expedition against the savages in Carolina been attended with such hazards and difficulties, nor had the conquest of any tribe of them ever been more general and complete. [Sidenote] Bank bills established. Although the expedition to North Carolina was well conducted, and proved as successful as the most sanguine of the Carolineans could have expected, yet the expense the public had incurred by it fell heavy on the province, the revenues of which were inconsiderable, and not at all adapted for such important and extensive enterprizes. But as great harmony at this time subsisted between the Governor and assembly, they were well disposed for concurring with him in every measure for the public safety and relief. The stamping of bills of credit had been used as the easiest method of defraying these expenses incurred for the public defence: however, at this time the legislature thought proper to establish a public bank, and issued forty-eight thousand pounds in bills of credit, called Bank-bills, for answering the exigencies of government, and for the convenience of domestic commerce. This money was to be lent out at interest, on landed or personal security; and, according to the tenour of the act for issuing the same, it was to be sunk gradually, by four thousand pounds a-year; which sum was ordered to be paid annually by the borrowers, into the hands of commissioners appointed for that purpose. After the emission of these bank-bills, the rate of exchange and the price of produce quickly arose, and in the first year advanced to one hundred and fifty, in the second to two hundred _per cent_. [Sidenote] Remarks on paper currency. With respect to the utility of this paper money, the planters and merchants, according to their different views and interests, were divided in opinion. The former, who, for the most part, stood indebted to the latter, found that this provincial currency was not only necessary to answer the exigencies of government, but also very useful and convenient in the payment of private debts. This money being local, in proportion as it increased in quantity, it raised the nominal price of provincial commodities: and became of course prejudicial to creditors, in proportion as it was profitable to debtors; for though it depreciated fifty _per cent_. in a year, during which time the planters stood indebted to the merchants, the next year such creditors were obliged to take it in payment, or produce, which had advanced in price, according to the quantity of money in circulation. By the acts of assembly which established these bills of credit, the currency was secured, and made a tender in law in all payments; so that if the creditor refused this money before witnesses offered to him, the debt was discharged from the minute of his refusal. Besides, the planters knew, that in a trading country gold and silver, by various channels, would make their way out of it when they answer the purposes of remittance better than produce, to their great prejudice: paper-money served to remedy this inconvenience, and to keep up the price of provincial commodities, as it could not leave the colony, and answered the purpose for paying private debts as well, or rather better, than gold and silver. As the trade of the country increased, no doubt a certain quantity of money was necessary to carry it on with ease and freedom; but when paper bills are permitted to increase beyond what are necessary for commercial ease and utility, they sink in value; and in such a case creditors lose in proportion to their depreciation. In Carolina, as well as in the other British colonies in America, the greatest part of gold and silver current was foreign coin, and the different assemblies settled their value from time to time, by laws peculiar to each province. To remedy the inconveniences arising from the different rates at which the same species of foreign coin did pass in the several colonies and plantations, Queen Anne, in the sixth year of her reign, had thought fit, by her royal proclamation, to settle and ascertain the current rate of foreign coin in all her colonies. The standard at which currency was fixed by this proclamation, was at an hundred and thirty-three pounds, six shillings and eight-pence _per cent_.; but this regulation, however convenient and advantageous to trade, was afterwards little regarded in these provinces, and the confusion of current money continued and prevailed. After the emission of this great quantity of bank-bills in Carolina, and speedy rise of the price of produce in consequence of it, the merchants of London, to whom the colony stood indebted, judging it prejudicial to trade, complained of it to the Proprietors. They perceived that the trade of the country, by this means, would be carried on entirely without silver or gold; and although their factors in Carolina might raise the price of British commodities and manufactures, equal to the advanced price of the produce, yet it might be for their interest sometimes to take gold and silver rather than produce in return for their British goods. They considered the issuing of such bank-notes as a violation of the laws of England, and prevailed on the Proprietors to write Governor Craven a letter to the following effect: "We have heard complaints from several hands of an act you have passed, called the Bank Act. We do recommend to you to consider of some expedient for preventing the mischievous consequences of that act, lest, upon further complaints, we be forced to repeal it. The act is exclaimed against by our London merchants as injurious to trade, as an infringement and violation of the laws of Great Britain, and made almost in opposition to the act of the sixth of Queen Anne. Therefore we expect, for preventing such complaints for the future, that you will endeavour, as much as in you lies, to reduce that paper credit, pretended to be established in your bank act, and that you will strictly put in execution the aforesaid act of Queen Anne." [Sidenote] Trade infested by pirates. As the trade of the colony had of late years considerably increased, and was almost entirely carried on in British ships, its protection was an object which demanded the attention either of the Proprietors or the British administration. The war in Europe had engrossed the care of the latter, and the former were either unable or unwilling to bear the expence of its protection. They had leased their property in the Bahama islands to a company of merchants, which turning out to little account; the Island of Providence became a receptacle for vagabonds and villains of all nations. From this place of rendezvous a crew of desperate pirates had been accustomed to push out to sea, and, in defiance of the laws of nations, to obstruct navigation. The trade of Carolina and that of the West Indies suffered greatly from their depredations. For five years after this period those lawless robbers reigned as the masters of the Gulph of Florida, plundering and taking ships of every nation. North Carolina, by the conquest of its maritime tribes of Indians, had also become a refuge for those rogues, who carried their prizes into Cape Fear river, or Providence, as best suited their convenience or interest. Their success induced bold and rapacious spirits to join them, and in time they became so formidable, that no inconsiderable force was requisite to suppress them. [Sidenote] Several English statutes adopted. After a long and expensive war, a treaty of peace and commerce was concluded between Britain, France and Spain in Europe; and orders were sent to all the colonies to desist from acts of hostility. Governor Craven, deeply interested in the prosperity of Carolina, now turned his attention to improve the precious blessings of peace, and to diffuse a spirit of industry and agriculture throughout the settlement. The lands in Granville county were found upon trial rich and fertile, and the planters were encouraged to improve them. Accordingly a number of plantations were settled in the neighbourhood of Indian nations, with whom the Governor studied to cultivate a friendly correspondence. For the purposes of trade some men took up their residence in their towns, and furnished them with clothes, arms, and ammunition, in exchange for their furs and deer-skins. An agent was appointed to superintend the affairs of Indian tribes, and to conciliate by all possible means their friendship and esteem. Several interior regulations, conducive to the peace and prosperity of the colony, were also established. The colonists, as an eminent writer observes, in general carry with them so much of the English law as is applicable to their local circumstances and situation; such as, the general rules of inheritance, and of protection from personal injuries. What may be proper to be admitted, and what are necessary to be rejected, is judged and determined, in the first instance, by the provincial judicature, then subject to the approbation or disapprobation of the Proprietors; and so far of the British parliament, that nothing may be attempted by them derogatory to the sovereignty and supreme jurisdiction of the mother country. At this time Governor Craven obtained the assent of the General Assembly, to make several English statutes of the same force in Carolina as if they had been enacted in it. The people regarded him as a wise and indulgent parent, and wished to copy the spirit of their laws from the English original, although they received their obligation and authoritative force from their being the laws of the colony. About this time Nicholas Trott, the Chief Justice of the colony, returned from England, where he had been for some time engaged in the settlement of private affairs. During his stay in Britain he had engrossed the favour of the Proprietors, who finding him to be a man of great abilities, professed a high respect for him, and afterwards desired his assistance and advice in every case respecting the future management of their colony. They advanced his salary to one hundred pounds a-year, and he agreed to carry on a regular correspondence with their secretary, and to give them the best intelligence with respect to their provincial affairs. Trott having thus secured the confidence of the Proprietors in England, soon after he came to Carolina, began to plume himself on his advantageous circumstances, and to treat his former friends in the colony with that pride and insolence too common to most men in office and power. On the other hand, those men, offended at his arrogance, watched his conduct with an envious and malignant eye, and seemed to desire nothing more than to humble his pride and destroy his influence. To this fatal difference may be ascribed several future jealousies and disturbances with which the colonists were harassed, and which terminated in the total subversion of the proprietary government. CHAP. V. After the death of Queen Anne, George, Elector of Hanover, ascended the British throne, and was crowned on the 12th of October, 1714. This event was far from giving general satisfaction to the British nation. A considerable party of the principal landholders favoured the pretensions of the house of Stewart, but were so divided in their councils and schemes, that they lost all influence and weight. Having no head, they were unable to turn the balance against the party in the other scale, who, by degrees, engrossed the royal favour, and all offices of power and trust in the kingdom. By this difference, however, a spirit of civil discord and sedition was excited in the nation, and the Chevalier, encouraged by it, and flattered with the hopes of assistance from France, formed a project of snatching the scepter by force of arms from the family of Hanover. For this purpose, a party in Scotland had recourse to arms, but meeting with little assistance from the pretended friends of the cause in England, the insurrection was soon quelled, and their rash design totally defeated. [Sidenote] A design formed for purchasing all charters and proprietary governments. During the former reign the Lord Commissioners of trade and plantations, from the contentions that prevailed in some of the colonies, had taken occasion to look more narrowly than formerly they used to do, into the state of proprietary governments in America, in order to form a plan for purchasing and uniting them more closely to the crown. They easily perceived the advantage of beginning this negotiation as soon as possible, for the sooner the purchase was made, the earlier it would be obtained. Accordingly, they wrote to the Proprietors of each colony, acquainting them, it was her Majesty's pleasure and command, that all governors of her foreign plantations do transmit to them frequent and full information of the state of their respective colonies, as well in respect to the administration of government and justice, as to their progress in trade and improvements. The Queen, though no friend to non-conformists, had also stretched out a hand of relief to the distressed Dissenters of Carolina, and publicly disapproved of some oppressive acts to which they had been subjected. This served to encourage a spirit of murmur and discontent among the Carolineans at the proprietary government, and to give their eyes a direction to the crown at every future period, when they thought themselves aggrieved under it. [Sidenote] The Yamassees conspire the destruction of the colony. During the same year in which the attention of Britain was occupied by a civil broil, the colony of Carolina was visited with a terrible Indian war, which threatened its total extirpation. The numerous and powerful tribe of Indians called Yamassees, probably at the instigation of the Spaniards at Augustine, were the most active in promoting this conspiracy against the settlement, though every tribe around was more or less concerned in it. The Yamassees possessed a large territory lying backwards from Port-royal Island, on the north-east side of Savanna river, which to this day is called Indian Land. By the Carolineans this tribe had long been esteemed as friends and allies, who had admitted a number of traders into their towns, and several times assisted the settlers in their war-like enterprizes. Of all other Indians they were believed to habour in their minds the most inveterate and irreconcilable enmity to Spaniards. For many years they had been accustomed to make incursions into the Spanish territories, and to wage war with the Indians within their bounds. In their return from those southern expeditions, it had been a common practice with them to lurk in the woods round Augustine, until they surprized some Spaniard, and brought him prisoner home to their towns. On the bodies of these unfortunate prisoners they were accustomed to exercise the most wanton barbarities; sometimes cutting them to pieces slowly, joint by joint, with knives and tomahawks; at other times burying them up to the neck under ground, then standing at a distance and marking at their heads with their pointed arrows; and, at other times, binding them to a tree, and piercing the tenderest parts of their naked bodies with sharp-pointed sticks of burning wood, which last, because the most painful and excruciating method of torture, was the most common among them. To prevent such horrid cruelties from being committed on the bodies of human creatures, the legislature of Carolina passed a law, offering a reward of five pounds for every Spanish prisoner these Indians should bring alive to Charlestown; which law, though it evidently proceeded from motives of humanity, yet, in the event, it proved very inconsistent with good policy: for, in consequence of this act, the Yamassees brought several Spaniards, at different times, to Charlestown, where they claimed the reward for their prisoners, and delivered them up to the governor. Charles Craven, who was no less distinguished for humanity than valour, used to send back such prisoners to Augustine, charging the Spanish government with the expences of their passage and the reward to the Yamassees. But this humane practice, while it displayed English greatness of mind, served also to begin an intercourse, which will exhibit to us a sad specimen of Spanish honour and gratitude. For twelve months before the war broke out, the traders among the Yamassees observed that their chief warriors went frequently to Augustine, and returned loaded with presents; but were not apprehensive of any ill consequence from such generosity. John Fraser, an honest Scotch Highlander, who lived among the Yamassees, and traded with them, had often heard these warriors tell with what kindness they had been treated at Augustine. One had received a hat, another a jacket, and a third a coat, all trimmed with silver lace. Some got hatchets, others great knives, and almost all of them guns and ammunition, to prepare them for striking some great and important blow. These warriors told Mr. Fraser, that they had dined with the governor at Augustine, and washed his face, (a ceremony used by Indians as a token of friendship), and that now the Spanish governor was their king, and not the Governor of Carolina. Still, however, the Carolineans remained secure, and, having such confidence in the Indians, dreaded no ill consequences from this new intercourse and uncommon kindness. They knew the Yamassees antipathy to the Spaniards, their fondness for presents, but could suspect no mischievous plot meditated against the settlement by friends and allies. They were not ignorant that the subjects of both England and Spain always endeavoured for the sake of peace, to court the friendship of Indian nations, who were such powerful and dangerous enemies. Each competitor knew their passion for war, and how heavy their vengeance, wherever it pointed, generally fell, and therefore good policy dictated the necessity of turning the edge of their fierce and bloody temper against their neighbours, in order to save themselves. It was a common thing for the traders who resided among these savages to single out a particular warrior of influence and authority among them, and to court his favour with trifling presents and constant civility. Among the Yamassees one named Sanute was Fraser's friend, who, with his fellow-warriors, had also been at Florida, and shared of the Spaniards insidious liberality. During his absence Mr. Fraser had married a fine woman; and Sanute, who had a great regard for him, after his return home came to his house, and brought along with him some sweet herbs, to show the lady a mark of respect, agreeable to customs of Indian nations. So soon as he entered the habitation of his friend, he called for a bason of water, in which he bruised the herbs, and first washed Mrs. Fraser's face and hands, and then, clapping his own hands upon his breast, told her, that, for the future, he would communicate to her all he knew in his heart. She, in return, thanked him, and made him some present. Accordingly, about nine days before hostilities commenced, Sanute came to Mrs. Fraser's house, and told her, that the English were all wicked heretics, and would go to hell, and that the Yamassees would also follow them, if they suffered them to live in their country; that now the governor Augustine was their king; that there would be a terrible war with the English, and they only waited for the bloody stick to be returned from the Creeks before they began it. He told them, that the Yamassees, the Creeks, the Cherokees, and many other nations, together with the Spaniards, were all to engage in it; and advised them to fly to Charlestown with all they had in the greatest haste, and if their own pettiauger was not large enough to carry them, he would lend them his canoe. Fraser, not a little astonished at the news, asked him, how the Spaniards could go to war with the Carolineans, while at peace with Great Britain? To which Sanute replied, the Spanish governor told him that there would soon be a war again with the English, and that while they attacked the Carolineans by land, he would send to Spain for a fleet of ships to block up the harbour, so that not a man or woman of them should escape. Fraser asked him, how long it might be since they had formed this horrid design? Sanute answered, Do not you remember about twelve months ago that Ishiagaska, one of our chief warriors, with four more Indians, went to the Creeks. Fraser said, he remembered it well. Then it was, said Sanute, he carried with him a Spanish talk for destroying all the English inhabitants of the province; and, laying his hand upon his heart, declared he had told them all he knew, and repeated his advice to them to fly with all expedition: but, if they were determined to stay and run all hazards, he concluded by assuring them, that, to prevent torture, he would claim the privilege of performing the last friendly office to them, which was to kill them with his own hands. Fraser still entertained some doubts, but his wife being terrified, he resolved at all events to get out of the way, and accordingly, without delay, put his wife, his child, and most valuable effects, into his boat, and made his escape to Charlestown. [Sidenote] The Yamassee war. As the time drew nigh in which this dark plot was to be put in execution, Captain Nairn, agent for Indian affairs, and many traders, resided at Pocotaligo, the largest town belonging to the Yamassees. Mr. Fraser, probably either discrediting what he had heard, or from the hurry and confusion which the alarm occasioned, unfortunately had not taken time to communicate the intelligence he had received to his friends, who remained in a state of false security in the midst of their enemies. The case of the scattered settlers on the frontiers was equally lamentable, who were living under no suspicions of danger. However, on the day before the Yamassees began their bloody operations, Captain Nairn and some of the traders observing an uncommon gloom on their savage countenances, and apparently great agitations of spirit, which to them prognosticated approaching mischief, went to their chief men, begging to know the cause of their uneasiness, and promising, if any injury had been done them, to give them satisfaction. The chiefs replied, they had no complaints to make against any one, but intended to go a-hunting early the next morning. Captain Nairn accordingly went to sleep, and the traders retired to their huts, and passed the night in seeming friendship and tranquillity. But next morning, about the break of day, being the 15th day of April, 1715, all were alarmed with the cries of war. The leaders were all out under arms, calling upon their followers, and proclaiming aloud designs of vengeance. The young men, burning with fury and passion, flew to their arms, and, in a few hours, massacred above ninety persons in Pocotaligo town and the neighbouring plantations; and many more must have fallen a sacrifice on Port-royal Island, had they not providentially been warned of their danger. Mr. Burrows, a captain of the militia, after receiving two wounds, by swimming one mile and running ten, escaped to Port-royal and alarmed the town. A vessel happening fortunately to be in the harbour, the inhabitants in great hurry repaired on board, and sailed for Charlestown; only a few families of planters on that island, not having timely notice, fell into their barbarous hands, some of whom they murdered, and others they made prisoners of war. While the Yamassees, with whom the Creeks and Apallachians had joined, were advancing against the southern frontiers, and spreading desolation and slaughter through the province; the colonists on the northern borders also found the Indians down among the settlements in formidable parties. The Carolineans had foolishly entertained hopes of the friendship of the Congarees, the Catawbas and Cherokees; but they soon found that they had also joined in the conspiracy, and declared for war. It was computed that the southern division of the enemy consisted of above six thousand bowmen, and the northern of between six hundred and a thousand. Indeed every Indian tribe, from Florida to Cape Fear river, had joined in this confederacy for the destruction of the settlement. The planters scattered here and there had no time to gather together in a body, sufficiently strong to withstand such numbers; but each consulting his own safety, and that of his helpless family, in great hurry and consternation fled to the capital. Every one who came in brought the Governor different accounts of the number and strength of the savages, insomuch that even the inhabitants of Charlestown were doubtful of their safety and entertained the most discouraging apprehensions of their inability to repel a force so great and formidable. In the muster-roll there were no more than one thousand two hundred men fit to bear arms, but as the town had several forts into which the inhabitants might retreat, the Governor, with this small force, resolved to march into the woods against the enemy. He proclaimed the martial law, and laid an embargo on all ships, to prevent either men or provisions from leaving the country. He obtained an act of assembly, impowering him to impress men, and seize arms, ammunition, and stores, wherever they were to be found, to arm such trusty negroes as might be serviceable at a juncture so critical, and to prosecute the war with the utmost vigour. Agents were sent to Virginia and England, to solicit assistance; bills were stamped for the payment of the army, and other necessary expences; Robert Daniel was appointed deputy-governor in town, and Charles Craven, at the head of the militia, marched to the country against the largest body of savages. In the mean time, the Indians on the northern quarter had made an inroad as far as a plantation belonging to John Hearne, about fifty miles from town, and entered his house in a seemingly peaceable and friendly manner; but afterwards pretending to be displeased with the provisions given them, murdered him and every person in it. Thomas Barker, a captain of militia, having intelligence of the approach of these Indians, collected a party, consisting of ninety horsemen, and advanced against them: but by the treachery of an Indian, whom he unluckily trusted, he was led into a dangerous ambuscade in a thicket, where a large party of Indians lay concealed on the ground. Barker having advanced into the middle of them before he was aware of his danger, the Indians sprung from their concealments, and fired upon his men on every side. The Captain and several more fell at the first onset, and the remainder in confusion were obliged to retreat. After this advantage, a party of four hundred Indians came down as far as Goose Creek. Every family there had fled to town, except in one place, where seventy white men and forty negroes had surrounded themselves with a breast-work, and resolved to remain and defend themselves in the best manner they could. When the Indians attacked them they were discouraged, and rashly agreed to terms of peace; and, having admitted the enemy within their works, this poor garrison were barbarously butchered: after which the Indians advanced still nigher to town; but at length meeting with Captain Chicken and the whole Goose Creek militia, they were repulsed, and obliged to retreat into the wilderness. By this time the Yamassees, with their confederates, had spread destruction though the parish of St. Bartholomew, and advancing downwards as far as Stono, they burned the church at that place, together with every house on the plantations by the way. John Cochran, his wife, and four children; Mr. Bray, his wife, and two children; and six more men and women, having found some friends among them, were spared for some days; but while attempting to make their escape from them, they were retaken and put to death. Such as had no friends among them were tortured in the most shocking manner, the Indians seeming to neglect their progress towards conquest on purpose to assist in tormenting their enemies. We forbear to mention the various tortures inflicted on such as fell into their merciless fangs: none can be pleased with the relation of such horrid cruelties, but the man who, with a smile of satisfaction, can be the spectator of a Spanish _auto de fe_, or such savage hearts as are steeled against every emotion of humanity and compassion. [Sidenote] The Yamassees defeated and expelled. By this time Governor Craven, being no stranger to the ferocious tempers of his enemies, and their horrid cruelty to prisoners, was advancing against them by slow and cautious steps, always keeping the strictest guard round his army. He knew well under what advantages they sought among their native thickets, and the various wiles and stratagems they made use of in conducting their wars; and therefore was watchful above all things against sudden surprises, which might throw his followers into disorder, and defeat the end of his enterprize. The fate of the whole province depended on the success of his arms, and his men had no other alternative left but to conquer or die a painful death. As he advanced the straggling parties fled before him, until he reached Saltcatchers, where they had pitched their great camp. Here a sharp and bloody battle ensued from behind trees and bushes, the Indians hooping, hollowing and giving way one while, and then again and again returning with double fury to the charge. But the Governor, notwithstanding their superior number and all their terrible shrieks, kept the provincials close at their heels, and drove them before him like a flock of ravenous wolves. He expelled them from their settlement at Indian land, pursued them over Savanna river, and rid the province entirely of this formidable tribe of savages. What number of his army he lost, or of the enemy he killed, we have not been able particularly to learn; but in this Indian war near four hundred innocent inhabitants of Carolina were murdered by these wild barbarians. [Sidenote] They take refuge in Florida. The Yamassees, after their defeat and expulsion, went directly to the Spanish territories in Florida, where they were received with bells ringing and guns firing, as if they had come victoriously from the field; from which circumstance, together with the encouragement afterwards given them to settle in Florida, there is too good reason to believe, that this horrid conspiracy was contrived by Spaniards, and carried on by their encouragement and assistance. Two prisoners, whom they had saved and carried to Augustine along with them, Mrs. Sisson and Mrs. Macartey, afterwards reported to the Carolineans the news of this kind reception the Indians met with from the Spaniards. On the other hand, though the province of Carolina suffered much at this rime, yet the Governor had the good fortune to prevent its total destruction. From the lowest state of despondency, Charlestown, on the Governor's return to it, was raised to the highest pitch of joy. He entered it with some degree of triumph, receiving from all such applauses as his wise conduct and unexpected success justly merited. Indeed his prosperous expedition had not only disconcerted the most formidable conspiracy ever formed against the colony, but also placed the inhabitants in general, however much exposed individuals might be to small scalping parties, in a state of greater security and tranquillity than they had hitherto enjoyed. [Sidenote] Retain a vindictive spirit against the Carolineans. However, from that period in which the Yamassee Indians were compelled to take up their residence in Florida, they harboured in their breasts the most inveterate ill-will and rancour to all Carolineans, and watched every opportunity of pouring their vengeance on them. Being furnished with arms and ammunition from the Spaniards, they often broke out on small scalping parties, and infested the frontiers of the British settlement. One party of them catched William Hooper, and killed him by degrees, by cutting off one joint of his body after another, until he expired. Another parry surprised Henry Quinton, Thomas Simmons, and Thomas Parmenter, and, to gratify their revenge, tortured them to death. Dr. Rose afterwards fell also into their hands, whom they cut across his nose with their tomahawk, and having scalped him left him on the spot for dead; but he happily recovered of his wounds. In short, the emissaries of St. Augustine, disappointed in their sanguinary design of destroying root and branch in Carolina, had now no other resource left but to employ the vindictive spirit of the Yamassees against the defenceless frontiers of the province. In these excursions, it must be confessed, they were too successful, for many poor settlers at different times fell a sacrifice to their insatiable revenge. [Sidenote] The colonists turn their eyes for protection to the crown. During the time of this hard struggle with Indians, the legislature of Carolina had made application to the Proprietors, representing to them the weak state of the province, the deplorable dangers which hung over it, and begging their paternal help and protection; but being doubtful whether the Proprietor would be inclined to involve their English estates in debt for supporting their property in Carolina, in so precarious a situation, they instructed their agent, in case he failed of success from them, to apply to the king for relief. The merchants entered cordially into the measure for making application to the crown, and considered it as the most effectual expedient for retrieving their credit in England, lost by the dangers which threatened the country, and the pirates that infested the coast. They perceived at once the many advantages which would accrue to them from being taken under the immediate care and protection of the crown. Ships of war would soon clear the coast of pestilent sea-robbers, and give free scope to trade and navigation. Forces by land world overawe the war-like Indians, prevent such dreadful attempts for the future, and they would reap the happy fruits of public peace and security. The inhabitants in general were much dissatisfied with living under a government unable to protect them, and what rendered their case still more lamentable, prevented the interposition of the crown for their defence, and therefore were very unanimous in the proposed application to the crown. About the middle of the year 1715 the agent for Carolina waited on the Proprietors, with a representation of the heavy calamities under which their colony laboured from the ravages of barbarous enemies, and the depredations of lawless pirates. He acquainted them, that the Yamassees, by the influence of Spanish emissaries, had claimed the whole lands of the country as their ancient possessions, and conspired with many other tribes to assert their right by force of arms, and therefore urged the necessity of sending immediate relief to the colony. But not being satisfied with the answer he received, he petitioned the House of Commons in behalf of the distressed Carolineans. The Commons addressed the King, praying for his kind interposition and immediate assistance to the colony. The King referred the matter to the Lords Commissioners of trade and plantations. The Lords of trade made an objection, that the province of Carolina was one of the proprietary governments, and were of opinion, that, if the nation should be at the expence of its protection, the government ought to be vested in the Crown. Upon which Lord Carteret wrote them a letter to the following effect: "We the Proprietors of Carolina having met on this melancholy occasion, to our great grief find, that we are utterly unable of ourselves to afford our colony suitable assistance in this conjuncture, and unless his majesty will graciously please to interpose, we can foresee nothing but the utter destruction of his majesty's faithful subjects in those parts." The Lords of trade asked Lord Carteret what sum might be necessary for that service, and whether the government of the colony should not devolve on the Crown, if Great Britain should agree to bear the expence of its defence. To which Lord Carteret replied, "The Proprietors humbly submitted to his majesty's great wisdom, what sum of money he should be pleased to grant for their assistance; and in case the money advanced for this purpose should not be in a reasonable time repaid, they humbly conceived that then his majesty would have an equitable right to take the government under his immediate care and protection." [Sidenote] The project revived for purchasing the proprietary colonies. The same year a bill was brought into the House of Commons in England for the better regulation of the charter and proprietary governments in America, and of his majesty's plantations there; the chief design of which was, to reduce all charter and proprietary governments into regal ones. Men conversant in the history of past ages, particularly in that of the rise and progress of different states, had long foreseen the rapid increase of American colonies, and wisely judged, that it would be for the interest of the kingdom to purchase them for the Crown as soon as possible. At different times administration, in the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, held treaties with the Proprietors for this purpose: but some obstacles always came in the way, or some accidents occurred, which prevented a final agreement. At this time while Penn was about selling the government of Pennsylvania, for twelve thousand pounds, to the Crown, he was seized with an apoplexy, and died before the deeds were executed. Lord Baltimore, the Duke of Beaufort, and Lord Craven, all minors, petitioned to be heard by counsel against passing the bill. The province of Massachuset's Bay petitioned against it, alledging that the charter they had received from King William placed them on the same footing with the different corporations in England, and that it would be equally hard and unjust to deprive them of their charter privileges, as to disfranchise the English corporations. The colony of Connecticut, whose charter was intended to be taken away by this bill, in like manner petitioned to be excepted out of it. These petitions, together with the reasons assigned in support of them, the committee of the House found some difficulty in answering, and therefore, instead of proceeding farther in an affair of such national concern, the design was entirely dropt. It is remarkable, that the Proprietors of Carolina, at the time they obtained their charter, as is expressly mentioned in it were excited to form that settlement by their zeal for the propagation of the Christian faith among the Indians of America: yet, to their shame it must be confessed, that they have either never used any endeavours for this laudable purpose, or they have been utterly fruitless and ineffectual. At this time, indeed, the society incorporated for propagating the Gospel maintained several missionaries in Carolina, as well as in the northern provinces. The parishes of St. Helen's, St. Paul's, Christ-Church, St. Andrew's, St. James's, and St. John's were all supplied with ministers from this charitable corporation, who were instructed to use their best endeavours for spreading the Gospel among the heathens in their neighbourhood and received an annual allowance from the society for that purpose; yet we have not been able to learn that these heathens ever reaped the smallest advantage from them. The Spaniards, though they have often made use of the more severe and rough means of conversion, and erected the standard of the cross in a field of blood, yet they have also been exceedingly diligent and assiduous in teaching heathens the principles of the Catholic religion. In point of policy, this zeal was more praise-worthy than English negligence: for such barbarians would certainly have been much easier tamed and civilized by mild instruction than by force of arms. The Tumican and Apalachian Indians, before Governor Moore's inroads among them, had made some advances towards civilization, and paid, by means of instruction from Roman Catholic missionaries, strict obedience to the Spanish government at Augustine. Had the Proprietors of Carolina erected schools, for the instruction of young Indians in the language, manners and religion of the English nation, such an institution might have been attended with the most beneficial effects. For while the children of such savages were living among the colonists, they would have been like so many hostages to secure the goodwill and peaceable behaviour of their parents, and when they returned to the nation to which they belonged, their knowledge of the English language and customs would, for the future, have rendered all commercial treaties and transactions between them easy and practicable. Besides, they would have all the prejudices of education in favour of the English manners and government, which would have helped both to fortify them against the fatal influence of Spanish rivals, and to render them more firm and steady to the British interest. [Sidenote] Differences occasioned by the war. Although the Yamassee war had terminated much to the honour of the Carolinians, yet the fatal effects of it were long and heavily felt by the colony. Many of the planters had no negroes to assist them in raising provisions for their families, and these persons who had negroes, could not be spared to overlook them, so that the plantations were left uncultivated, and the produce of the year was trifling and inconsiderable. The men being more solicitous about the safety of their families than the increase of their fortunes, purchased bills of exchange at any price, to send with them to the northern provinces, in order to procure for them there the necessaries of life. The provincial merchants being much indebted to those in London, the latter were alarmed at the dangers which hung over the colony, and pressed them much for remittances. The Indians, who stood indebted to the merchants of Carolina for ten thousand pounds, instead of paying their debts, had cancelled them, by murdering the traders, and abandoning the province. No remittances could be made, but in such commodities as the country produced, and all hands being engaged in war, rendered them both very scarce and extremely dear. To answer the public exigences of the province, large emissions of paper currency were also requisite. Hence the rate of exchange arose to an extravagant height. The province was indebted no less than eighty thousand pounds, and at the same time obliged to maintain garrisons on the frontiers for the public defence, which served to increase the debt. While struggling amidst those hardships, the merchants of London complained to the Proprietors of the increase of paper money, as injurious to trade; in consequence of which they strictly ordered their Governor to reduce it. All those things served to aggravate the distress of the poor colonists, and caused them to murmur against their landlords for want of compassion, and to turn not a little disaffected to their government. [Sidenote] Aggravated by the Proprietors. The next step taken by the legislature of Carolina, served to widen the difference. The Yamassees being expelled from Indian land, the assembly passed two acts to appropriate those lands gained by conquest for the use and encouragement of such of his majesty's subjects as should come over and settle upon them. Extracts of these acts being sent to England and Ireland, and published among the people, five hundred men from Ireland transported themselves to Carolina, to take the benefit of them; which influx was a great acquisition at this juncture, and served to strengthen these frontiers against future incursions from barbarians. But the beneficial consequences of these acts were all frustrated by the Proprietors, who repealed them, claiming such lands as their property, and insisting on the right of disposing of them as they thought fit. Not long afterwards, to the utter ruin of the Irish emigrants, and in breach of the provincial faith to them, the Proprietors ordered the Indian lands to be surveyed for their own use, and run out in large baronies; by which harsh usage the old settlers, having lost the protection of the new comers, deserted their plantations, and again left the frontiers open to the enemy; as for the unfortunate Irish emigrants, having spent the little money they had, many of them, reduced to misery, perished, and the remainder moved to the northern colonies. [Sidenote] Robert Daniel is made deputy-governor. About this time Governor Craven, having received advice from England of Sir Antony Craven's death, intimated to the Proprietors, that the affairs of his family required his presence, and obtained their leave to return to Britain. No Governor had ever gained more general love and deserved respect from the Carolineans, nor had any man ever left the province whose departure was more universally regretted. Having appointed Robert Daniel deputy-governor, he embarked for England about the end of April, 1716. While the man of war rode at anchor near the bar, Mr. Gideon Johnston, with about thirty more gentlemen, went into a sloop to take leave of their beloved Governor, and sailed with him over the bar. On their return a storm arose, the sloop was overset, and Mr. Johnston, being lame of the gout and in the hold, was drowned. The other gentlemen, who were upon deck, saved themselves by swimming to the land. Afterwards the sloop drove, and what has been thought somewhat remarkable, Mr. Johnston's body was taken out of it while beating against the same bank of land upon which he had almost perished at his first arrival in Carolina. [Sidenote] Lord Carteret Palatine Before Governor Craven arrived in England, John Lord Carteret, a nobleman no less distinguished by his illustrious descent than personal merit, had succeeded to the dignity of Palatine. Nicholas Trott, who was Chief-Justice of Carolina, received a warrant from this nobleman, impowering him to sit also as judge of the provincial court of vice-admiralty. William Rhett, who was Trott's brother-in-law, and Receiver-general, was likewise made Comptroller of his majesty's customs in Carolina and Bahama Islands. The many offices of trust and emolument which these two men held, together with their natural abilities, gave them great weight and influence in the province, especially at the election of members to serve in assembly. When the provincial assembly met, a bill was brought into the house for the better regulation of the Indian trade, nominating commissioners, and impowering them to apply the profits arising from it to the public benefit and defence, and passed with little opposition. As the colonists had been accustomed to chuse all their members of assembly at Charlestown, at which election great riots and tumults had often happened; to remedy this disorder, another bill was brought into assembly for regulating elections; in which, among other things, it was enacted, "That every parish should send a certain number of representatives, in all not exceeding thirty-six; that they should be ballotted for at the different parish churches, or some other convenient place, on a day to be mentioned in the writs, which were to be directed to the church-wardens, who were required to make returns of the members elected." This was a popular act, as the inhabitants found it not only allowed them greater freedom, but was more conformable to the practice in England, and more convenient for the settlers than their former custom of electing all members in town. [Sidenote] The disaffection of the people increases. By this time the struggle between the Proprietors and possessors of the soil, which had long subsisted, and in which the officers intrusted with supporting their Lordships power and prerogative always found themselves deeply interested, was become more serious. Those popular acts, but particularly the latter, gave great offence to some members of the council, who plainly perceived its tendency to ruin their influence at elections, and of course the power of the Proprietors. Among others, Trott and Rhett strenuously opposed the bills. Though they were not able to prevent their passing in Carolina, yet they took care to send to England such representations of them as could not fail to render them the objects of the Proprietors disapprobation. Indeed the act respecting elections had broke in upon a former law, which had been ratified in England, and never repealed by the same authority. The consequence was, both those bills in a little time were sent back repealed, by an instrument under the Proprietors hands and seals. The colonists, far from being pleased with the former conduct of their landlords, now became outrageous, and spoke boldly of their tyranny, bad policy, and want of compassion for distressed freemen. Being still exposed to incursions from the sanguinary and vindictive Yamassees, furnished with arms and ammunition from the Spaniards, they were obliged to maintain a company of rangers, to protect the frontiers against them. Three small forts were erected at Congarees, Savanna, and Apalachicola, for the public defence, and money must be raised for the payment of garrisons. Presents of considerable value were also necessary, to preserve the friendship of other Indian tribes. These public expences eat up all the fruits of the poor planter's industry. The law appropriating the profits of the Indian trade for the public protection had been repealed; the public credit was at so low an ebb, that no man would trust his money in the provincial treasury. None would risk their lives in defence of the colony without pay, and the province, oppressed with a load of debt, was utterly unable to furnish the necessary supplies. The people complained of the insufficiency of that government which could not protect them, and at the same time prevented the interposition of the Crown for this purpose. Governor Daniel himself joined them in their complaints, and everyone seemed ardently to wish for those advantages which other colonies enjoyed, under the immediate care and protection of a powerful sovereign. [Sidenote] Robert Johnson appointed governor. In this discontented and unhappy state Robert Johnson found the Carolineans, when he arrived with a commission from Lord Carteret, bearing date April 30, 1717, investing him with the government of the province: to which office a salary of four hundred pounds sterling was now annexed. He was son to Sir Nathaniel Johnson, who formerly held the same office, and had left him an estate in Carolina. This new governor was a man of wisdom, integrity, and moderation; but came out with such instructions as were ill adapted to the circumstances and situation of the colony. Soon after his arrival he perceived the disaffection of the people to the proprietary government, and the many difficulties with which he would have to struggle in the faithful discharge of his duty. His council consisted of Thomas Broughton, Alexander Skene, Nicholas Trott, Charles Hart, James Kinloch, Francis Yonge, _&c._ some of whom were highly dissatisfied with the harsh treatment of the Proprietors. After calling an assembly, the Governor, as usual, signified to them his esteem for the people, his love to the province, and his resolutions of pursuing such measures as might be judged most conducive to its peace and prosperity. The assembly, in answer, expressed great satisfaction with appointing a man of so good a character to that high office; but, at the same time, were not insensible of the oppression of their landlords, nor of the many hardships they had to expect under their weak and contemptible government. [Sidenote] Of the depredations of pirates. About this time some merchants and masters of ships, trading to America and the West Indies, having suffered much from the barbarity and depredations of pirates, complained to the King in council of the heavy losses the trade of the nation had sustained from those public robbers, who had grown so numerous and insolent, that unless a speedy check should be given to them, the navigation in those seas would be totally ruined. In consequence of which the King issued a proclamation, promising a pardon to all pirates who should surrender themselves in the space of twelve months, and at the same time ordered to sea a force for suppressing them. As they had made the island of Providence their common place of residence, Captain Woodes Rogers sailed against this island, with a few ships of war, and took possession of it for the Crown. Except one Vane, who with about ninety more made their escape in a sloop, all the pirates took the benefit of the King's proclamation, and surrendered. Captain Rogers having made himself master of the island, formed a council in it, and appointed officers civil and military for the better government of its inhabitants. He built some forts for its security and defence, and so ordered matters, that, for the future, the trade of the West Indies was well protected against this lawless crew. [Sidenote] And their utter extirpation. Though the pirates on the island of Providence were crushed, those of North Carolina still remained, and were equally insolent and troublesome. Vane, who escaped from Captain Rogers, had taken two ships bound from Charlestown to London. A pirate sloop of ten guns, commanded by Steed Bonnet, and another commanded by Richard Worley, had taken possession of the mouth of Cape Fear river, which place was now the principal refuge left for those rogues. Their station there was so convenient for blocking up the harbour of Charlestown, that the trade of the colony was greatly obstructed by them. No sooner had one crew left the coast than another appeared, so that scarcely one ship coming in or going out escaped them. Governor Johnson, resolving to check their insolence, fitted out a ship of force, gave the command of it to William Rhett and sent him out to sea for the protection of trade. Rhett had scarcely got over the bar when Steed Bonnet spied him, but finding he was more than match for him, made all the sail he could for his refuge in Cape Fear river. Thither Rhett followed him, took the sloop, and brought the commander and about thirty men with him to Charlestown. Soon after this Governor Johnson himself embarked, and sailed in pursuit of the other sloop of six guns, commanded by Richard Worley, which, after a desperate engagement off the bar of Charlestown, was also taken. The pirates fought like furies, until they were all killed or wounded, excepting Worley and another man, who even then refused to surrender, until they were likewise dangerously wounded. These two men, together with their sloop, the Governor brought into Charlestown, where they were instantly tried, condemned, and executed, to prevent their dying of their wounds. Steed Bonnet and his crew were also tried, and all, except one man, hanged, and buried on White Point, below high-water mark. Governor Johnson, formerly a popular man, was now become much more so, by his courage in exposing his person, and the success attending his expedition against the pirates. The coast being happily cleared, and free scope given to trade, afterwards no pirates durst venture to sea in that quarter. This check, together with that they received among the islands, served to extirpate these pestilent robbers, who had declared war against all mankind; and, by reducing themselves to the savage state of nature, had led such lives as rendered them the common enemy of every civilised nation. But these two expeditions from Carolina, though crowned with success, cost the poor province upwards of ten thousand pounds, an additional burden which, at this juncture, it was ill qualified to support. [Sidenote] Troubles from paper currency. At the same time, Governor Johnson had instructions to reduce the paper currency circulating in the Province, of which the mercantile interest loudly complained, as injurious to trade. He recommended to the assembly to consider of ways and means for sinking it, and told them they were bound in honour and justice to make it good. The Indian war had occasioned a scarcity of provisions; by the large emissions of paper money it sunk in value, and the price of produce arose to an exorbitant height. As the value of every commodity is what it will bring at market, so the value of paper money is according to the quantity of commodities it will purchase. Even gold and silver, though the universal medium of commerce, grow less precious in proportion as their quantity is increased in any country. Both rice and naval stores, however high, by doubling the quantity of paper money, though the commodities remain the same as formerly, become still much higher. The merchants and money-lenders were losers by those large emissions; and the planters indebted to them, on the other hand, were gainers by them. Hence great debates arose in the assembly about paper-money, between the planting and mercantile interests. At this time the Governor, however, had so much influence as to prevail with the assembly to pass a law for sinking and paying off their paper credit in three years, by a tax on lands and negroes. This act, on its arrival in England, gave great satisfaction both to the Proprietors and people concerned in trade, and the Governor received their thanks for his attention to the commercial interests of the country. [Sidenote] Several laws repealed. This compliance of the assembly with the Governor's instructions from England, and the good humour in which they at present appeared to be with government, gave him some faint hopes of reconciling them by degrees to the supreme jurisdiction of the Proprietors. But their good temper was of short duration, and the next advices from England blasted all his hopes of future agreement. The planters finding that the tax-act fell heavy on them, began to grumble and complain of its injustice, and to contrive ways and means for eluding it, by stamping more bills of credit. The Proprietors having information of this, and also of a design formed by the assembly to set a price on country commodities, and make them at such a price a good tender in law for the payment of all debts, they strictly enjoined their Governor not to give his assent to any bill framed by the assembly, nor to render it of any force in the colony, before a copy of the same should be laid before them. About the same time the King, by his order in council, signified to the Proprietors, that they should repeal an act passed in Carolina, of pernicious consequence to the trade of the mother country, by which a duty of ten _per cent_. was laid on all goods of British manufacture imported into that province. Accordingly this act, together with that for regulating elections, and another for declaring the right of assembly for the time being to nominate a public receiver, were all repealed, and sent to Governor Johnson in a letter, which enjoined him instantly to dissolve the present assembly and call another, to be chosen in Charlestown, according to the ancient usage and customs of the province. The Proprietors considered themselves as the head of the legislative body, who had not only power to put a negative on all laws made in the colony of which they disapproved, but also to repeal such as they deemed of pernicious consequence. [Sidenote] Which occasions great disaffection. Governor Johnson, sensible of the ill-humour which prevailed among the people at the proprietary government, and the ill consequences that would attend the immediate execution of his orders, summoned his council together, to take their advice about what was most proper to be done. When he communicated his orders and instructions from England, the majority of the council were astonished at them. Trott, indeed, who was one of them, probably knew from what spring they derived their origin, and to whose advice and influence the repeal of those laws ought to be ascribed. But as the assembly were at that time deliberating about the means of paying the provincial debt contracted by the expedition against the pirates, and other contingent charges of government, it was agreed to postpone the dissolution of the house until the business then before them should be finished. However, the repeal of the duty-law being occasioned by an order from the King in council, they resolved to acquaint the assembly immediately with the royal displeasure at that clause of the law laying a duty on all goods manufactured in Great Britain, and recommend it to them to make a new act, leaving out that clause which had given offence. Mean while, though great pains were taken to conceal the Governor's instructions from the people, yet by some means they were divulged, and kindled violent flames among them. The assembly entered into a warm debate about the Proprietors right of repealing laws passed with the assent of their deputies. Many alledged, that the deputation given to them was like a power of attorney sent to persons at a distance, authorizing them to act in their stead; and insisted, that, according to the charter, they were bound by their assent to acts, as much as if the Proprietors themselves had been present, and ratified and confirmed them. [Sidenote] Further troubles from Indians. While the colony was thus harassed with fears and troubles from rigorous landlords, to enhance their misery, their savage neighbours were also now and then making incursions into their settlements, and spreading havock among the scattered families. At this time a scalping party penetrated as far as the Euhah lands, where having surprised John Levit and two of his neighbours, they knocked out their brains with their tomahawks. They then seized Mrs. Borrows and one of her children, and carried them off with them. The child by the way, finding himself in barbarous hands, began to cry, upon which they put him to death. The distressed mother, being unable to refrain from tears while her child was murdered before her eyes, was given to understand, that she must not weep, if she desired not to share the same fate. Upon her arrival at Augustine she would have been immediately sent to prison, but one of the Yamassee kings declared he knew her from her infancy to be a good woman, interceded for her liberty, and begged she might be sent home to her husband. This favour, however, the Spanish governor refused to grant, and the garrison seemed to triumph with the Indians in the number of their scalps. When Mr. Borrows went to Augustine to procure the release of his wife, he also was shut up in prison along with her, where he soon after died: but she survived all the hardships of hunger, sickness, and confinement, to give a relation of her barbarous treatment. After her return to Carolina, she reported to Governor Johnson, that the Huspah king, who had taken her prisoner and carried her off, informed her, he had orders from the Spanish governor to spare no white man, but to bring every negroe alive to Augustine; and that rewards were given to Indians for their prisoners, to encourage them to engage in such rapacious and murderous enterprizes. [Sidenote] Complaints against Chief Justice Trott. By this time Chief Justice Trott being suspected of holding a private correspondence with the Proprietors, to the prejudice of the Carolineans, had incurred their hatred and resentment. Richard Allein, Whitaker, and other practitioners of the law, over whom he tyrannized, charged him with many base and iniquitous practices. No less than thirty-one articles of complaint against him were presented to the assembly, setting forth, among other things, "That he had been guilty of many partial judgments; that he had contrived many ways to multiply and increase his fees, to the great grievance of the subject, and contrary to acts of assembly; that he had contrived a fee for continuing causes from one term to another, and put off the hearing of them for years; that he took upon him to give advice in causes depending in his courts, and did not only act as counsellor in that particular, but also had drawn deeds between party and party, some of which had been contested before him as Chief Justice, and in determining of which he had shewn great partialities; with many more particulars; and, lastly, complaining, that the whole judicial power of the province was lodged in his hands alone, of which it was evident he had made a very ill use, he being at the same time sole judge of the courts of Common Pleas, King's Bench, and Vice-Admiralty; so that no prohibition could be lodged against the proceedings of the court, he being obliged, in such a case, to grant a prohibition against himself; he was also, at the same time, a member of the council, and of consequence a judge of the Court of Chancery." Those articles of complaint, though they took their rise from the bar, and might have proceeded in some measure from envy, ill-will, or resentment, were nevertheless too well grounded, and the facts contained in the charge were supported by strong evidence before the assembly. But as the Judge held his commission from the Proprietors, he denied that he was accountable to the assembly for any part of his conduct in his judicial capacity; and declared that he would be answerable no where but in England. The assembly, however, sensible that he held his commission only during good behavior, sent a message to the Governor and Council, requesting they would join them in representing his partial and unjust conduct in his office to the Proprietors, praying them either to remove him from his seat in the courts of justice, or at the least to grant him only one jurisdiction, and the people liberty of appeal from his judgements. The Governor and major part of the council, convinced of the male-administration of the Judge, agreed to join the Commons in their representation. But being sensible of the great interest the Chief Justice had with their Lordships, they judged it most prudent to send one of their counsellors to England with their memorial, that it might find greater credit and weight, and the more certainly procure redress; and Francis Yonge, a man of considerable abilities, who had been present at all their debates, was pitched upon as one well qualified for giving their Lordships a faithful account of the whole matter. Accordingly Yonge, being furnished with all the instructions, powers, and credentials, necessary to a commissioner for the aggrieved party of the colonists, set sail for England, and arrived in London early in the year 1719. [Sidenote] Laid before the Proprietors. Soon after his arrival, he waited on Lord Carteret, the Palatine; but as his Lordship was preparing to set out on an embassy to the court of Sweden, he referred him to the other Proprietors for an answer to his representation. When the Proprietors met, Yonge presented to them a memorial, setting forth, "That he had been appointed by the Governor and Council of South Carolina, to lay before them, not only several acts of assembly passed there during their last sessions for their approbation, but also to inform them of the reasons that induced the Governor and Council to defer the dissolution of the assembly, in consequence of their Lordships commands; that he was instructed to shew their Lordships the arguments between the upper and lower houses of assembly, touching their Lordships right off repealing laws ratified and confirmed by their deputies; and presented to them a speech made by Chief Justice Trott at a general conference of both houses, together with the answer of the commons to it, and the several messages that passed between them, which he hoped would shew their Lordships, that no arguments or endeavours were wanting on their part, to assert the right the Proprietors had of repealing laws not ratified by them." "At the same time, he was desired to request their Lordships to augment their Secretary's salary, to allow the members of the council so much money for the time and expence of attending the council on their service; to establish custom-house officers at Beaufort; to grant six thousand acres of land to the three garrisons at Congarees, Savanna Town, and Apalachicola; and liberty of appealing from erroneous judgements in law, which at that time the people had not, the whole judicial power in all the provincial courts being lodged in the hands of one man." Then he delivered to them a letter from Governor Johnson, the articles of complaint against Chief Justice Trott, and the joint address of the Governor, Council, and Assembly, praying to have him removed entirely from the bench, or confined to a single jurisdiction. [Sidenote] Their answer. This memorial, however, was far from satisfying the Proprietors, some of whom inferred from it, that the people seemed to be industrious in searching for causes of dissatisfaction, and grounds of quarrel with them, with a view to shake off the proprietary authority, and renounce their allegiance. Their letters from Trott served to confirm the truth, which intimated that Yonge, though an officer of the Proprietors, by mean subtilty and chicane had assisted the people in forming plausible pretences for that purpose. For three months Yonge attended the Palatine's court, to give the board all possible information about the state of affairs in their colony, and to accomplish the ends of his appointment. After all, he was given to understand, that the business on which he was sent was extremely disagreeable to them; that both the trouble he had taken, and the office he had accepted as agent for the people, were inconsistent with his duty as one of their deputies, bound to act agreeable to their instructions. They declared their displeasure with the members of the council who had joined the lower house in their complaints against Trott and removed them from the board, appointing others in their place, and increasing the number of members; and told Yonge, that he also would have been deprived of his seat but for the high respect they had for Lord Cartaret the absent Palatine, whose deputy he was. With respect to Chief Justice Trott, they had too much confidence in his fidelity and capacity to remove him from his office. On the contrary, they sent him a letter, thanking him for his excellent speech in defence of their right of repealing all laws made in the colony; together with a copy of the articles of complaint brought against him, on purpose to give him an opportunity of vindicating himself; at the same time acquainting him, that it was their opinion and order, that he withdraw from the council-board whenever appeals from his judgments in the inferior courts shall be brought before the Governor and council as a court of chancery. [Sidenote] And letter to the governor. How far Governor Johnson, in their opinion, had deviated from his duty, in joining the other branches of the legislature in their representation, may be learned from the Proprietors letter, brought over to him by Yonge, which runs in the following words: "Sir, we have received and perused your letters and all your papers, delivered us by your agent Mr. Yonge; and though we are favourably inclined in all our thoughts relating to our Governor, yet we must tell you, we think you have not obeyed the orders and directions given you to dissolve that assembly and call another forthwith, according to the ancient usage and custom of the province, and to publish our repeals of the acts of assembly immediately upon the receipt of our orders aforesaid; but we shall say no more on that subject now, not doubting but our Governor will pay more punctual obedience to our orders for the future. "The Lords Proprietors right of confirming and repealing laws was so particular a privilege granted them by the charter, that we can never recede from it; and we do allure you, we are not a little surprised that you have suffered that prerogative of ours to be disputed. "We have sent you herewith an instruction under our hands and seals, nominating such persons as we think fit to be of the council with you, six of whom and yourself, and no less number, to be a quorum. Upon your receipt of this we hereby require you to summon the said council, that they may qualify themselves according to law, and immediately sit upon the despatch of business. We also send you the repeal of the acts of assembly, which we order you to publish immediately upon the receipt of this. We do assure Mr. Johnson, that we will stand by him in all things that relate to the just execution of his office, and we are confident that he will perform his duty to us, and support our power and prerogatives to the best of his abilities. If the assembly chosen according to your pretended late act is not dissolved, as we formerly ordered, and a new assembly elected, pursuant to the act formerly confirmed by the Proprietors, you are forthwith commanded to dissolve that assembly, and to call another, according to the above-mentioned act; and so we bid you heartily farewel." [Sidenote] Who obeys their commands. Such was the result of Yonge's negociation in England. Governor Johnson, who was well acquainted with the prevailing temper and discontented spirit of the people, plainly perceived, upon receiving these new orders and instructions, what difficulties would attend the execution of them. The flame was already kindled, and nothing could be imagined more likely to add fewel to it than such rigour and oppression. It is true, the Governor had received authority, but he wanted power to act agreeable to their instructions. Determined, however, to comply with their commands, he summoned his council of twelve men whom the Proprietors had nominated, who were, William Bull, Ralph Izard, Nicholas Trott, Charles Hart, Samuel Wragg, Benjamin de la Consiliere, Peter St. Julien, William Gibbons, Hugh Butler, Francis Yonge, Jacob Satur and Jonathan Skrine, some of whom refused, and others qualified themselves, to serve. Alexander Skene, Thomas Broughton, and James Kinloch, members of the former council, being now left out of the new appointment, were disgusted, and joined the people. The present assembly was dissolved, and writs were issued for electing another in Charlestown, according to the custom and usage of the province. The duty-act, from which the clergy were paid, the garrisons maintained, and the public debts in general were defrayed, was repealed; the law respecting the freedom of election was also repealed, by which the colonists were obliged to have recourse to the old, inconvenient and tumultuous manner of elections in Charlestown: the act declaring the right of the commons to nominate a public receiver was also annulled, and declared to be contrary to the usage and custom of Great Britain. All laws respecting the trade and shipping of Great Britain, which any future assembly might pass, the Governor had instructions to refuse his assent to, till approved by the Proprietors. The provincial debts incurred by the Indian war, and the expedition against pirates, not only remained unpaid, but no more bills of credit were allowed to be stamped, for answering those public demands. This council of twelve, instead of seven men, which was appointed, the colonists considered as an innovation in the proprietary government exceeding the power granted their Lordships by their charter, and therefore subjecting them to a jurisdiction foreign to the constitution of the province. The complaints of the whole legislature against Chief Justice Trott were not only disregarded, but that man, whom they considered as an enemy to the country, was privately caressed and publicly applauded. All these things the colonists considered as aggravated grievances, and what rendered them the more intolerable was the circumstance of being deprived of all hopes of redress. It may be thought somewhat unaccountable and astonishing, that the Proprietors should have persisted in measures so disagreeable and oppressive of themselves, and so manifestly subversive of their authority and power. Many were the hardships from the climate, and the danger from savages, with which the poor colonists had to struggle; yet their landlords, instead of rendering their circumstances as easy and comfortable as possible, seemed rather bent on crossing their humours and doubling their distress. The people could now no longer regard them as indulgent fathers, concerned for the welfare of their colony, but as tyrannical legislators, that imposed more on them than they were able to bear. Was it not the duty of the Proprietors to listen to their just complaints, and redress their heavy grievances? Was it not their interest to consult the internal security, and by every means promote the speedy improvement and population of their colony? What could more effectually answer these ends, than to cultivate the esteem and preserve the affections of the people? Nothing else could render their government stable and respectable. But, after all, perhaps the troubles and miseries the colonists suffered ought to be ascribed to their Lordships shameful inattention to provincial affairs, rather than to their tyrannical disposition. Lord Carteret, the Palatine, held high offices of trust under the Crown, which occupied his chief study and attention. Some of the Proprietors were minors, others possessed estates in England, the improvement of which engrossed their whole care and delight. Having reaped little or nothing from their American possessions, and finding them every year becoming more troublesome and expensive, it is probable they trusted the affairs of their colony to a clerk, or secretary, who was no ways interested in their prosperity and success. With this secretary Chief Justice Trott had established a correspondence, of whose wisdom and abilities the Proprietors entertained the highest opinion, and in whose integrity and fidelity they placed unlimited confidence. He held of them many offices of trust and emolument, which, together with his haughty and overbearing conduct, rendered him the object of popular envy and clamour. The colonists needed indulgence from their circumstances and situation; Trott, being made totally dependent on the Proprietors will for the tenure of his office and the amount and payment of his salary, strongly supported their power and prerogative. Hence those various struggles between the Proprietors and people, which were daily growing more serious and violent, and threatened totally to subvert the proprietary government. [Sidenote] An invasion threatened from Spain. About this time a rupture having taken place between the courts of Great Britain and Spain, a project for attacking South Carolina and the island of Providence was formed at the Havanna, and preparations were making there for the expedition. Governor Johnson, having received advice from England of this design, resolved immediately to put the province in a posture of defence. For this purpose he summoned a meeting of council, and such members of assembly as were in town, to inform them of the intelligence he had received, and to desire their advice and assistance in case of any sudden emergency. He told them of the shattered condition of the fortifications, and urged the necessity of speedy reparations; and for this end proposed a voluntary subscription, beginning with a generous offer himself, as an example to others. He declared that one day's delay might prove fatal to the province, as they were uncertain how soon the enemy might be at their door; and recommended unanimity and despatch. The assembly replied, that a subscription was needless, as the income of the duties would be sufficient to answer the purpose intended. The Governor objected, that the duty-law had been repealed, and none other yet framed in its place. To which the assembly answered, they had resolved to pay no regard to those repeals, and that the public receiver had orders from them to sue every man that should refuse to pay as that law directed. Chief Justice Trott told them, if any action or suit should be brought into his courts on that law, he would give judgment for the defendant. In short, the contest between the two houses at this meeting became warm, insomuch that the conference broke up before any thing was concluded with regard to the public safety. The assembly were obstinate, and seemed determined to hazard the lots of the province to the Spaniards, rather than yield to the council, and acknowledge the Proprietors right of repealing their laws. [Sidenote] An association formed against the Proprietors. Governor Johnson, however, at such a juncture, judging it prudent to be always in the best posture of defence; for uniting the strength of the province called a meeting of the field-officers of the militia, ordered them to review their regiments, and fixed a place of general rendezvous. Indeed such was the uneasy and distracted state of the colony, that the Spaniards could scarcely have attacked it at a time more seasonable for obtaining an easy conquest. At this meeting the field-officers of the militia received their orders with their usual submission, and called together the different regiments, on pretence of training the men to expert use of arms. But before this time the members chosen to serve in assembly, though they had not met in their usual and regular way at Charlestown, had nevertheless held several private meetings in the country, to concert measures for revolting from their allegiance. They had drawn up a form of an association for uniting the whole province in opposition to the proprietary government, which was proposed to the people at this public meeting of the militia, as an opportunity the most favourable for procuring a general subscription. The people, oppressed and discontented, with eagerness embraced the proposal, and, almost to a man, subscribed the association, promising to stand by each other in defence of their rights and privileges, against the tyranny of the Proprietors and their officers. This confederacy was formed with such secresy and dispatch, that, before it reached the Governor's ears, almost the whole inhabitants were concerned in it. The assembly, after having thus brought the people in general to back them, had then nothing to do but to go on, in taking such bold and vigorous steps as seemed best calculated for accomplishing their end. CHAP. VI. The members of assembly, as I already observed, having formed their resolution to revolt, and gone so far as to bring the people to stand by and support them, in spite of every obstacle determined to proceed, until they should bring themselves under the protection of the King. As they had the whole civil power to encounter, and many difficulties to surmount it may not be improper the more particularly to mark the various steps they took to accomplish this end. United in their view by the greatness of the danger, we shall see they regularly made their attacks.. They formed their outworks first at a distance, and then brought them gradually nearer; and, in short, raised none but such as afterwards served to support others in the difficult progress of their future operations. [Sidenote] The people's encouragement to revolt. At the election of assembly in Charlestown, Trott and Rhett, who formerly had such influence and sway, were now become so obnoxious that they could not bring one man into the house. Alexander Skene, formerly excluded from the council, was elected a member of this new assembly, which was chosen on purpose to oppose the civil officers, considering themselves as ill used by the Proprietors, turned a zealous and active person for pulling down the tottering fabric of their government. This man, together with several other members of assembly, held frequent meetings, to consider of all their grievances, and the encouragements they had received from time to time from Britain, respecting the great end they now had in view. They recalled to mind what had passed in the House of Peers during the reign of Queen Anne, how her majesty had then ordered her Attorney and Solicitor-general to consider of the most effectual methods of proceeding against the charter. They knew also, that a bill had been brought into the House of Commons, for reducing all charter and proprietary governments into regal ones. They had been informed that Lord Carteret, conscious of the inability of the Proprietors to defend their province in the Yamassee war, had publicly applied for assistance from the British government, and that the Lords of trade were of opinion, that the government of the province should belong to that power which bore the expence of its protection. They had considered all these things, and flattered themselves with the hopes, that the King would take the colony under his care as soon as they renounced allegiance to the Proprietors. And as the time drew nigh in which they expected an attack from a powerful nation, they concluded that the province needed assistance of the Crown at the present, more than at any time past. They had convinced the people of the manifold advantages of the British constitution, and the great happiness of those colonies which were under the immediate care and protection of the Crown, insomuch that they now desired nothing more upon earth, than to enjoy the same invaluable privileges. [Sidenote] Their letter to the Governor signifying their design. To these secret meetings and transactions Governor Johnson, who lived at his plantation several miles from Charlestown, was an entire stranger, until he received the following letter, bearing date November 28, 1719, and signed by Alexander Skene, George Logan, and William Blakeway. "Sir, we doubt not but you have heard of the whole province entering into an association to stand by their rights and privileges, and to get rid of the oppression and arbitrary dealings of the Lords Proprietors. As we always bore you the greatest deference and respect imaginable, we take this opportunity to let you know, that the committee of the people's representatives were last night appointed to wait on you this morning, to acquaint you, that they have come to a resolution to have no regard to the Proprietors officers, nor their administration: and withal to beg, that your honour will hold the reigns of government for the King, till his Majesty's pleasure be known. The great value the whole country express for your honour's person, makes them desirous to have nobody but yourself to govern them; and as you must be convinced, that no person can be more passionately fond of your government than ourselves, we hope you will not take amiss any advice given by faithful and affectionate friends; and therefore we take the liberty to tell you freely, we are of opinion that your honour may take the government upon you, upon the office of the people, for the King, and represent to the Proprietors, that rather than the whole country should be in confusion, and want a governing power, you held it for their Lordships, though you were obliged to comply with the colonists, who were unanimously of opinion they would have no Proprietors government. We could wish for a longer and better opportunity to explain this matter to you; but it is impossible, for the gentlemen will be with you in two hours at farthest. We heartily wish your honour the utmost success, let it go which way it will; but beg leave to observe, that your compliance will not only be the greatest satisfaction to the province in general, but also to your humble servants." [Sidenote] Which the Governor endeavours to defeat. This letter, though fraught with the highest professions of respect to the Governor, he nevertheless considered as an insult; but especially the advice, which he deemed both highly derogatory to his integrity as a man, and his fidelity as a governor. The bait thrown out to appearance was specious and flattering, yet the Governor had too much penetration, not to see under its false colours the naked hook. The letter, however, served to give him notice of the association, and the resolution of the people, which it was his duty by all means possible to defeat. For this purpose he hastened to town, and summoned his council, to take their advice in a case so unexpected and alarming. Meeting accidentally with Alexander Skene, he informed him that the committee who were appointed to wait on him had changed their minds, and were gone to their respective places of abode. Governor Johnson, nevertheless, informed his council of the association, and required their advice and assistance about the most effectual methods of breaking it up, and supporting the proprietary government. He perceived that, although he was called Governor, yet Trott ruled the province, and therefore resolved to do nothing without his advice, that he might be equally responsible with the rest for the ill consequences which he was apprehensive would attend their future proceedings. The council were not a little perplexed what step to take; but as the committee had altered their intention of waiting on the Governor, they were of opinion that no notice should be taken of their proceedings, until the assembly should meet in a legal manner, revive the matter, and bring it regularly before them; hoping that the people, upon more cool reflection, might drop their dangerous resolution. [Sidenote] Proceedings of the convention. In the mean time the members of assembly were using their utmost diligence among the people of the province to keep them firm to their purpose, having got almost every person, except the officers of the Proprietors and a few of their friends, to sign the association. All agreed to support whatever their representatives should do for disengaging the colony from the yoke of the Proprietors, and putting it under the government of the King. Having thus fortified themselves by the union of the inhabitants, the assembly met on purpose to take bolder and more decisive steps: and being apprehensive that the Governor would dissolve them, so soon as their proceedings reached his ears, they instantly came to the following resolutions: "First, That the several laws pretended to be repealed are still in force within the province, and could nor be repealed and made void and null but by the General Assembly of this province, and that all public officers and others do pay due regard to the same accordingly. Secondly, That the writs, whereby the representatives here met were elected, are illegal, because they are signed by such a council as we conceive the Proprietors have not a power to appoint; for that this council does consist of a greater number of members than that of the Proprietors themselves, which we believe is contrary to the design and original intent of their charter, and approaching too near the method taken by his majesty and his predecessors in his plantations, whom they ought not to pretend to imitate or follow, his majesty not being confined to any number of counsellors, but as he thinks fit; but the Proprietors, as subjects, we believe, are bound by their charter. Thirdly, That we the representatives cannot act as an assembly, but as a convention delegated by the people, to prevent the utter ruin of this government, if not the loss of the province, till his majesty's pleasure be known: and, lastly, That the Lords Proprietors have by such proceedings unhinged the frame of their government, and forfeited their right to the same; and that an address be prepared, to desire the honourable Robert Johnson, our present Governor, to take the government upon him in the King's name, and to continue the administration thereof until his Majesty's pleasure be known." Agreeable to the last resolution, an address was drawn up, signed by Arthur Middleton as president and twenty-two members of the convention. The Governor having sent them a message, acquainting them that he was ready with his council to receive and order them to chuse a speaker; they came to the upper house in a body, and Arthur Middleton addressed the Governor in the following words: "I am ordered by the representatives of the people here present to tell you, that, according to your honour's order, we are come to wait on you: I am further ordered to acquaint you, that we own your honour as our Governor, you being approved by the King; and as there was once in this province a legal council, representing the Proprietors as their deputies, which being now altered, we do not look on the gentlemen present to be a legal council; so I am ordered to tell you, that the representatives of the people do disown them as such, and will not act with them on any account." [Sidenote] The perplexity of the Governor and council. The Governor and Council, struck with silence and astonishment at the audacious spirit of the convention, and suspecting that they were backed and supported by the voice of the people, were greatly puzzled what measures they should take to recal them to the obedience of legal authority. Some were for opposing violence to violence, and thought the best way of bringing them back to their allegiance would be to terrify them with threats and confiscations. Others were of opinion, that the defection was too general to admit of such a remedy, and that mild expostulations were more proper both for softening their minds, and convincing them of their error; and should such gentle means fail, the Governor might then dissolve them, and for the present time put an end to the dispute. But, on the other hand, dangers hung over the country, and the only fund for repairing the fortifications being lost by the repeal of the general duty-law, money must be provided for the public protection. If the Governor should dissolve the house, how could the province be put in a posture of defence against a Spanish invasion, with which it was threatened. If he should suffer them to sit while they had resolved that the Proprietors had forfeited their right to the government, and refused on any account to act with his council, he might be chargeable with a breach of his trust. The result of their deliberations was, a message from the Governor and council, desiring a conference with the house of assembly. To which they returned for answer, that they would not receive any message or paper from the Governor in conjunction with these gentlemen he was pleased to call his council. Finding them thus inflexible and resolute, the Governor was obliged to give way to the current, and therefore, in two days afterwards, sent for them in his own name, and spoke to them to the following effect: [Sidenote] The Governor's speech for recalling the people. "When I sent for you the other day, I intended to have desired you to have chosen your speaker, to be presented to me as usual, and then I did propose to have spoke to you in the following manner: "Your being met together at a time when there was never more occasion for a ready dispatch of public business, and a good harmony betwixt the upper and lower house; I must recommend that to you; and nothing will be wanting on my part to promote a good understanding betwixt the Lords Proprietors and the people, at present (to my great affliction) I fear too much interrupted: I must, therefore, in the first place, recommend to you, that you will without delay, or other matter intervening, fall upon proper methods for raising money for finishing the repairs of the fortifications, and providing stores of war, which are much wanted. The intelligence which I have of the designs of our enemies, which makes this work so necessary, shall be laid before you. "I am sorry the Lords Proprietors have been induced (by a necessity, to defend and support their just prerogatives) at this juncture to disannul some of your laws; if they had not thought the letting those acts subsist might have rendered their right of repeal precarious, they would have suffered them still to continue. I hope from you, therefore, a respectable behaviour towards them, that we may not feel any more their displeasure in so sensible a manner, as the loss (in this time of need) of our duty-law, and which has also occasioned an injunction to me and the council, from acting with an assembly who shall dispute their Lordships undoubted right of repealing laws, and appointing officers civil and military. "I find some are jealous and uneasy on account of rumours spread, that you design to alter the tax-act, for sinking your paper currency. Public credit ought to be sacred, and it is a standing maxim, That no state can subsist longer than their credit is maintained: I hope therefore you have no such intentions, which would put me under a necessity of doing what I have never yet done; I mean, disagreeing with you. I expect therefore you will make good what the public is answerable for, and proceed to such farther methods for paying our debts, as shall be both honourable and proper, and best adapted to our circumstances. "The alarm from the southward, about five months since, obliged me to be in a posture of defence, and occasioned some charges, the accounts of which shall be laid before you; and I desire you will provide for the discharge of them: I think also the militia-acts want some amendments; and that you should contrive to keep a good watch in Charlestown. "This is what I intended to have recommended to you: but Mr. Middleton's telling me, in the name of the rest, that you would not act _with_, and your surprising message since, that you will not receive any thing _from_ me, in conjunction with my council, has made it necessary for me to take this occasion of talking with that plainness and freedom so extraordinary a proceeding of yours requires. And, first, I must take notice of your message, wherein you say, you own me as Governor, because I am approved of by the King; but that you disown the council to be a legal one, nor will act with them on any account whatsoever; and this is subscribed by all your members: but, upon examining, I find it to be pretty dark and evasive, and seems as if you would avoid expressing in plain terms, what I have too much cause to fear is your design, I mean, to renounce all obedience to the Lords Proprietors: and this I cannot but think you propose from all your words and actions. You say, you acknowledge me, because I am approved of by the King; but you take no notice of my commission from the Proprietors, which is what makes me Governor. The confirmation of the King, only signifies his majesty's approbation of the person the Lords Proprietors have constituted; but it is my commission and instruction from them, that not only grants, but limits my power, and contains the rules by which I must act, and are to warrant and vouch my actions; therefore, to avoid declaring in express terms your renouncing the Lords power, and at the same time doing it in effect, is to create perpetual doubts and disputes, and is not acting with that sincerity and plainness which ought to be used in all public debates, and especially in matters of so great concern as this is, and upon which so great consequences depend. "I do require and demand of you, therefore, and expect you will answer me in plain and positive terms, whether you own the authority of the Lords Proprietors as Lords of this province, and having authority to administer or authorise others to administer the government thereof; saving the allegiance of them and the people to his most sacred majesty King George? Or, whether you absolutely renounce all obedience to them, and those commissioned and authorised by them? Or, whether you admit their general power, and only dispute that particular branch of their authority, in constituting a council after the manner they have now done? If you deny their general power and authority in this province, and say, that their Lordships have forfeited their charter, as Mr. Berrisford asserted, and you all acquiesced in; then I demand of you, that you signify wherein the Lords have forfeited their charter, and what particular branch thereof they have broken: and I demand of you, that supposing (not granting) they have made a forfeiture of their charter, by what power do you presume to renounce their authority, and to model a government out of your own heads, before such time as that, by a court having lawful jurisdiction of the same, it shall be adjudged that the Lords have made a forfeiture of their charter, and that the powers granted them are null and void? If the King is of opinion, that any corporation or society have made a forfeiture of the rights and powers granted by their charter, although his majesty may have the advice of his Attorney and Solicitor-general, and his Judges and Council learned in the law, that such a forfeiture has been made, (and this he may more reasonably depend on than any advice or assurance you can have); yet, notwithstanding this, and his supreme authority as King, he never dispossessed the persons of the powers granted them, before a _quo warranto_ or some other process had been brought, and judgment obtained against the same. And if the King doth not assume such a power, by what authority do you assume it? "I desire you further to consider the consequence that attends that assertion, Of the charter being forfeited, before judgment is given upon the same. For if it be so, then the forfeiture must be from the time that the fact was committed that caused the forfeiture; and then you must remember, that, by the charter, the Lords have granted to them, not only the power of ordering the government, but also the lands are granted to them by the said charter; so that if there is a forfeiture of the rights and prerogatives of the government, there is also a forfeiture of their rights to the lands; and so all grants made by their authority of any lands, since the fact committed that caused the forfeiture, according to your own doctrine and assertion, must be null and void; and therefore, how many persons titles to their lands will become void, I leave you to consider. And though, it may be, you will assign some new late fact, that you say will cause such a forfeiture, by which you may think to avoid the ill consequence that attends the titles to the lands; yet know, that the facts that you assign may not be the only ones that may be thought to have made the forfeiture of their charter. And if your present assertion is true, that they may be dispossessed before a judgment; it may be, other persons may assign other causes of the forfeiture, besides those which you assign, which may have been committed many years ago: for you cannot but know there have been persons in the province, that, for several years past, have publicly asserted, that the Lords have done facts, for which their charter was become forfeited. Which if so, I leave you to consider what a gate you will leave open to call in question, nay, utterly destroy, several hundreds of peoples titles to their lands. And though you have most unjustly and untruly suggested to the people, to create a prejudice in them to the Lords Proprietors, that their Lordships designed to dispute their titles to their lands; yet, by this assertion and practice, you are the persons that will not only call in question, but effectually destroy their titles. "And if you persist in disowning the council as now authorised, then I desire you further to consider, in what capacity I can act with you, and to what purpose you pretend to sit and transact the public business of the province. You know very well I am not able to join with you in passing any law without the consent of my council; and surely you cannot pretend to pass laws without me: and what an absolute occasion there is now to pass some laws, that the province may be put in a posture of defence, and the contingent charges thereof defrayed, I leave you seriously to consider, and hope you will not lose the whole province to the enemy, for your own humours. "But I am further to tell you, that, in case you continue to deny the authority of the council, you cannot properly style yourselves the representatives of the people; for you know very well you were chosen members of assembly, pursuant to and by virtue of the writs signed by myself and council; for it is not the peoples voting for you that makes you become their representatives; the liege people of this, or any other province, have no power to convene and chuse their representatives, without being authorised so to do by some writ or order coming from authority lawfully empowered. And if you pretend that the writs signed by me, as Governor, were sufficient: to that I answer, that I do not pretend to any such authority, but jointly, and with the consent of my council, it being the express words of my commission; nor did I sign the writs in any other capacity than in conjunction with my council, who also signed the same. But if my signing the writs were sufficient authority for the people to chuse you, then you must allow, that as the power lies solely in me to call you, it lies also solely in me to dissolve you; and therefore, if by your actions you will force me to make use of that power, I do hereby publicly protest and declare, you only must be answerable for the ill consequences that may attend such a dissolution, and for the loss of the lives and estates of the King's subjects in this province, by any attack that may be made upon them by our public enemies the Spaniards, or from the Indians, by reason of the province's not being put into such a posture of defence as it ought, and would, if you proceeded to transact the public business under a lawful authority; and this I would have you seriously to consider of. "Notwithstanding stories that have been industriously spread to prepossess the people, that you are the only persons who stand up for their rights and privileges; by which, it may be, you have so far engaged them in your favour, that you may have their assistance to enable you to commit any act of force or violence upon the government, and the authority of the Lords Proprietors; yet know, and be assured, that the matters in dispute are of that consequence, that they must and will be decided by an authority in England, having lawful jurisdiction of the same; and that there it must be law and right that must justify your claims, and not the consent and approbation of the people of Carolina, who will have no weight there, but the right and merit of the cause. "I must farther mention to you, that it is notoriously known, you have promoted two forms of associations, and have persuaded the people to sign them. How far you can be justified at home, behoves you to consider: but as I am satisfied no matter of such public concern ought to be carried on without my knowledge, so I do hereby require and demand of you, an attested copy of both associations; and though it may not concern me to have the names of every individual person that has signed them, yet I do insist upon it that you do acquaint me which of your own members have signed both, or either of them, as also the names of such persons who have commissions, or hold any places civil or military under their Lordships, or of such persons who practise the law in their Lordships courts, and have signed them. "To what is here demanded of you I do require your plain and positive answer in express terms, and that you do in writing give me the same in a body, and under your hands." [Sidenote] Their message in answer to it. This long and elaborate speech, which was also given them in writing, they were not long considering of, but soon returned with the following message; and shewed him that they were neither to be shaken by persuasion, nor intimidated by threats, from their firm purpose. "We have already acquainted you, that we would not receive any message or paper from your honour, in conjunction with the gentlemen you are pleased to call your council; therefore we must now again repeat the same, and beg leave to tell you, that the paper your honour read and delivered to us, we take no notice of, nor shall we give any farther answer to it but in Great Britain." Immediately after this they came with the following address to the Governor, publicly avowing their resolution to cast off all obedience to the proprietary government, and urging and intreating him to comply with their desire, and take upon him the government of the province in the name of the King. "It is with no small concern that we find ourselves obliged to address your honour, in a matter which nothing but the absolute necessity of self-preservation could at this juncture have prevailed on us to do. The reasons are already by us made known to your honour and the world, therefore we forbear to rehearse them; bur proceed to take leave to assure you, that it is the greatest satisfaction imaginable to us, to find throughout the whole country, that universal affection, deference and respect the inhabitants bear to your honour's person, and with what passionate desire they wish for a continuance of your gentle and good administration; and since we, who are instructed with, and are the assertors of their rights and liberties, are unanimously of opinion, that no person is fitter to govern so loyal and obedient a people to his sacred majesty King George, so we most earnestly desire and intreat your honour, to take upon you the government of this province, in his majesty's name, till his pleasure shall be known; by which means, we are convinced, that this (at present) unfortunate colony may flourish, as well as those who feel the happy influence of his majesty's immediate care. "As the well-being and preservation of this province depends greatly on your honour's complying with our requests, so we flatter ourselves, that you, who have expressed so tender a regard for it on all occasions, and particularly in hazarding your own person in an expedition against the pirates, for its defence, an example seldom found in governors; so we hope, Sir, that you will exert yourself at this juncture for its support; and we promise your honour, on our parts, the most faithful assistance of persons duly sensible of your honour's great goodness, and big with the hopes and expectation of his majesty's countenance and protection. And we farther beg leave to assure your honour, that we will, in the most dutiful manner, address his most sacred majesty King George, for the continuance of your government over us, under whom we doubt not to be a happy people." [Sidenote] The Governor's answer. To this flattering address the Governor returned the following answer; such as became his honour and trust. "I am obliged to you for your good opinion of me; but I hold my commission from the _true and absolute Lords and Proprietors of this province_[1], who recommended me to his majesty, and I have his approbation; it is by that commission and power I act, and I know of no power or authority can dispossess me of the same, but those only who gave me those authorities. In subordination to them I shall always act, and to my utmost maintain their Lordships just power and prerogatives, without encroaching on the people's rights and privileges. I do not expect or desire any favour from you, only that of seriously taking into your consideration the approaching danger of a foreign enemy, and the steps you are taking to involve yourselves and this province in anarchy and confusion." [1] This is the term the charter gives them. [Sidenote] The assembly dissolved, and the proceedings of the people. The representatives having now fully declared their intentions, and finding it impossible by all their art and address to win over the Governor to a compliance with their measures, and to accept of the government only from his having the King's approbation, began to treat him with indifference and neglect. He, on the other hand, perceiving that neither harsh nor gentle means could recal them to their duty and allegiance, and that they became the more outrageous and ungovernable by his endeavours to this purpose, issued a proclamation for dissolving the house, and retired to the country. The representatives ordered his proclamation to be torn from the marshal's hands, and proceeded next to avowed usurpation. They met upon their own authority, and in direct opposition to that of the Proprietors, and chose Colonel James Moore their Governor; who was a man of a bold and turbulent disposition, and excellently qualified for being a popular leader in perilous adventures. To Governor Johnson he was no friend, having been by him removed from his command of the militia, for warmly espousing the cause of the people: to the Proprietors he was an inveterate enemy. In every new enterprize he had been a volunteer, and in whatever he engaged he continued to his purpose steady and inflexible. A day was fixed by the Convention for proclaiming him, in name of the King, Governor of the province, and orders were issued for directing all officers civil and military to continue in their different places and employments, till they shall hear farther from them. Governor Johnson, some time before this, had appointed a day for a general review of the provincial militia; and the Convention, that they might have the opportunity of the people being under arms, and ready to forward their scheme, fixed on the same day for publicly proclaiming Moore. The Governor, however, having intelligence of their design, sent orders to Colonel Parris, the commander of the militia, to postpone the review to a future day. Parris, though a zealous friend to the revolution, in answer assured him his orders should be obeyed. Notwithstanding this assurance, on the day fixed, when Governor Johnson came to town, he found to his surprise the militia drawn up in the market square, colours flying at the forts, and on board all the ships in the harbour, and great preparations making for the proclamation. Exasperated at the insults offered to his person and authority, he could scarcely command his temper and restrain his resentment. Some he threatened to chastise for flying in the face of government, to which they had sworn allegiance and fidelity. With others he coolly reasoned, and endeavoured to recal them by representing the fatal consequences that would certainly attend such rash proceedings. But advancing to Parris, who had betrayed him, he asked him, how he durst appear in arms contrary to his orders? and commanded him, in the King's name, instantly to disperse his men. Colonel Parris insolently replied, he was obeying the orders of the Convention. The Governor in great rage walked up towards him; upon which Parris immediately commanded his men to present, and bid him at the peril of life advance no nearer. The Governor expected, during this struggle, that some friends would have stood by him, especially such as held offices of profit and trust under the Proprietors, or that the militia would have laid down their arms at his command: but he was disappointed; for all either stood silent, or kept firm to the standard of the Convention. However, to amuse him, and prevent his taking any rash step in the heat of passion, John Lloyd, one of their party, was sent, out of pretence of friendship, to walk and converse with the Governor. Vain indeed were the efforts of a single arm, in so general a defection. Even Trott and Rhett, in this extremity, forsook him, and kept at a distance, the silent and inactive spectators of their masters ruined authority. [Sidenote] James Moore proclaimed Governor. [Sidenote] The declaration of the Convention. After this the members of Convention attended, and, escorted by the militia, publicly marched to the fort, and there declared James Moore governor of the province in name of the King, which was followed by the loudest acclamations of the populace. Upon their return, they next proceeded to the election of twelve counsellors, of whom Sir Hovenden Walker was made president. In this, however, it is remarkable, that they assumed a right and power to themselves which they had refused to the Proprietors, and made one of the principal articles of complaint against them. So that the revolutioners had now their Governor, Council and Convention, and all of their own free election. In consequence of which the delegates met, and, in the first place, resolved to publish their declaration, to the following effect: "Whereas the Proprietors of this province have of late assumed to themselves an arbitrary and illegal power, of repealing such laws as the General Assembly of this settlement have thought fit to make for the preservation and defence thereof, and acted in many other things contrary to the laws of England, and the charter to them and us, freemen, granted; whereby we are deprived of those measures we had taken for the defence of the settlement, being the south-west frontier of his majesty's territories in America, and thereby left naked to the attacks of our inveterate enemies and next-door neighbors the Spaniards, from whom, through the divine Providence, we have had a miraculous deliverance, and daily expect to be invaded by them, according to the repeated advices we have from time to time received from several places: And whereas, pursuant to the instructions and authorities to us given, and trust in us reposed by the inhabitants of this settlement, and in execution of the resolutions by us made, we did in due form apply ourselves in a whole body, by an address, to the honourable Robert Johnson, appointed governor of this province by the Lords Proprietors, and desired him, in name of the inhabitants of this province, to take upon him the government of the same, and in behalf of his majesty the King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, until his majesty's pleasure had been known, which the said Governor refusing to do, exclusive of the pretended power of the Lords Proprietors over the settlement, has put us under the necessity of applying to some other person, to take upon him, as Governor, the administration of all the affairs civil and military within the settlement, in the name and for the service of his most sacred majesty, as well as making treaties, alliances and leagues with any nation of Indians, until his majesty's pleasure herein be further known: And whereas James Moore, a person well affected to his present majesty, and also zealous for the interest of the settlement, now in a sinking condition, has been prevailed with, pursuant to such our application, to take upon him, in the King's name, and for the King's service and safety of the settlement, the above-mentioned charge and trust: We therefore, whose names are hereunto published, the representatives and delegates of his majesty's liege people and free-born subjects of the said settlement, now met in convention at Charlestown, in their names, and in behalf of his sacred Majesty George, by the grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, in consideration of his former and many great services, having great confidence in his firm loyalty to our most gracious King George, as well as in his conduct, courage, and other great abilities; do hereby declare the said James Moore his majesty's Governor of this settlement, invested with all the powers and authorities belonging and appertaining to any of his majesty's governors in America, till his majesty's pleasure herein shall be further known. And we do hereby for ourselves, in the name and on the behalf of the inhabitants of the said settlement, as their representatives and delegates, promise and oblige ourselves most solemnly to obey, maintain, assist and support the said James Moore, in the administration of all affairs civil and military within this settlement, as well as in the execution of all his functions aforesaid, as Governor for his sacred majesty King George. And further, we do expect and command, that all officers both civil and military within the settlement, do pay him all duty and obedience as his majesty's Governor, as they shall answer to the contrary at their utmost peril. Given under our hand, at the Convention, this 21st day of December, 1719." Governor Johnson, after this public and solemn declaration, perceiving his power totally overthrown, and the current too violent and strong for him to withstand, had little hopes of recalling them to the obedience of proprietary authority. Still, however, he flattered himself, that such men as had usurped the government in opposition to lawful authority would not long remain in a state of union, harmony and peace among themselves. The first unpopular step of their Governor might create disturbance and disaffection; the first difference among the leading men might divide them into parties: he determined to wait for such occurrences, and to improve them towards recovering his power and command. In the mean time he called together the civil officers of the Proprietors, and ordered them to secure the public records, and shut up all offices against the revolutioners and their adherents. [Sidenote] The Governor transmits an account of the whole proceedings to the Proprietors. That the proprietors in England might have notice of what had happened though a proper channel, Governor Johnson drew up a slate of the whole proceedings, and transmitted it them. He told them that the colonists had long laboured under difficulties and hardships, by debts contracted in the Indian war, and in protecting their trade against pirates; that an unhappy difference had broke out between their Lordships and the people, about the privileges of their charter; that some of the richest of the inhabitants had persuaded the rest, that neither they themselves nor their posterity could ever be safe in their persons, or secure in their properties, without the protection of the crown: that they had therefore with one accord disclaimed and renounced all obedience to their Lordships, and put themselves under the care and government of the King; that he, though earnestly solicited by them, had refused to govern them in any other way, than as commissioned and appointed by the Lords proprietors; that the people for that reason had shaken off his authority and chosen another Governor for themselves in name and behalf of the Kind: In short, that the revolution was in no way occasioned by his imprudence or mal-administration, and therefore he hoped, whatever might be the issue, that their Lordships would use their interest to continue him in the government of the province. To the same purpose he wrote to the Lords Commissioners of trade and plantations, who were no friends to the proprietary governments in America, and waited for such a favourable season as now offered in Carolina to purchase every one of them for the crown. [Sidenote] The Revolutioners appoint new officers, and establish their authority. In the mean time the members of the popular legislature were going on, and with all their diligence and skill regulating public affairs. The representatives of the people took a dislike to the name of a Convention, as different from that of the other regal governments in America, and therefore voted themselves an Assembly, and assumed the power of appointing all public officers. In place of Nicholas Trott, they made Richard Allein Chief Justice. Another person was appointed Provincial Secretary, in the room of Charles Hart. But William Rhett and Francis Yonge, by becoming obsequious to the humours of the revolutioners, secured to themselves the same offices they held from the Proprietors. Colonel Barnwell was chosen agent for the province, and embarked for England, with instructions and orders to apply only to the King, to lay a slate of their public proceedings before him, praying him to take the province under his immediate care and protection. A new duty-law and others for raising money to defray the various expences of government were passed. The fortifications at Charlestown they ordered to be immediately repaired, and William Rhett, whom every one esteemed a friend to the revolution, was nominated Inspector-general of the Repairs. To their new Governor they voted two thousand five hundred pounds, and to their Chief Justice eight hundred current money, as yearly salaries. To their agent in England one thousand pounds sterling was transmitted: and to defray those and the other expences of government, a law was passed for laying a tax on lands and negroes, to raise thirty thousand pounds Carolina-money, for the service of the current year. In short, this popular assembly imposed such burdens on their constituents, as under the proprietary government would have been deemed intolerable grievances. In consequence of the tax-act, when they began to levy those heavy tales, Governor Johnson and some of his party refused to pay, giving for reason that the act was not made by lawful authority. On account of his particular circumstances, Mr. Johnson was exempted; but they resolved to compel every other person to submit to their jurisdiction, and yield implicit obedience to their laws. They forcibly seized the effects or negroes of such as refused, sold them at public auction, and applyed the money for the payment of their taxes. Thus, in spite of all opposition, they established themselves in the full possession of government, both in their legislative and executive capacities. [Sidenote] In vain the Governor attempts to disconcert them. [Sidenote] Rhett refuses obedience to his orders. Governor Johnson, though obliged to stand at a distance, carefully observed their progress, and was not a little mortified by their great success. He however still persisted in throwing every obstacle possible in their way: he wrote to William Rhett, who was not only the Proprietors Receiver-general, but also Comptroller of the customs, a letter to the following effect; informing him, That "as the people had found means to hinder all masters of ships from coming to him as the Governor clearances, and from clearing in the lawful secretary's offices, notwithstanding the laws of trade made such neglects the forfeiture of ship and cargo, and the naval officer, by his orders, did all he could to induce them to act according to law: and as he was sensible that the defection was so general, and his authority so depressed, that he had no power left to punish them for disobedience; he therefore could think of no other way to oblige them to their duty but by stopping their obtaining clearances from the custom-house officers, until they paid their duty to him as the lawful governor of the province. He therefore desired Mr. Rhett would consult his powers and instructions as Surveyor and Comptroller of the customs, and act in this affair as he should think agreeable to them, to the laws of trade, and to the service of his majesty, and of the Lords Proprietors." Indeed it must be acknowledged, had Rhett so far consulted the interest of the Proprietors, as to have commanded the officers of the customs to do their duty, according to the Governor's project, it would have given the revolutioners no small trouble. They would have had the mortification to see the masters of ships disowning their authority, and going only to that office where they could obtain authentic and legal clearances. The fees due to the Governor and Secretary would also have gone in their usual channel, which otherwise were transferred to such persons as had no just right, nor even the smallest pretensions to them. But Rhett's enmity to the Governor, and his prospects of profit from the prevailing party, induced him to neglect the duties of his station. He had already joined, or at least seemed to join, the revolutioners, being determined to retain at all events his places of profit and emolument. The countenance and encouragement he had given the people, they considered as a justification of their measures; and though they had passed a vote, that no person who held an office under the Proprietors should be permitted to continue in it, yet, as they found Rhett so obsequious to their views, they thought proper to dispense with it for an acquisition of such importance. They not only allowed him to continue in his former offices, but also made him Lieutenant-General of the militia, and Overseer to the works in repairing the fortifications. So that, instead of giving assistance to Governor Johnson for supporting the interest and power of the proprietary government, he shamefully deserted him, betrayed his trust, and joined the revolutioners. [Sidenote] And preserves the confidence of the Proprietors. Rhett, nevertheless, to the astonishment of every one, still maintained his credit with the Proprietors, and had the art to persuade them he had done done all out of zeal for the service of his majesty, and for the good of the province. He wrote them two letters, giving them an account of all that had happened, and assuring them he had accepted of a commission from Mr. Moore, in order the more effectually to promote their interest, by giving him an opportunity of conversing freely with the people, and persuading them to return to their duty and allegiance. He represented the inflexibility of Governor Johnson as one source of the discontent and defection of the people, and utterly inconsistent with good policy. He told them, that there are times when the minds of men will not bend to authority, when the rigid exertion of power defeats its end, and when lenity becomes a more efficacious remedy against disaffection to government than severity. The Proprietors believed him, and such was their confidence in his honour and fidelity, that they sent him a letter expressing their approbation of his conduct, in the following words: "We have received your letters, wherein you give us a melancholy account of the present confused government of our province, and of the great consternation of the inhabitants, from the dreadful apprehension they have of a foreign invasion. But since they have been so unfortunate as to bring themselves into so much confusion, we are not a little pleased that your zeal for the service of his majesty, and the safety of the province, has engaged you to take upon you the command of the forces; for as, by your command of the said forces, you formerly defended and saved the country from the insults of an invading enemy, so we doubt not but you will again use your utmost skill to free your same fellow-subjects from the imminent danger they at present labour under. And since you have taken upon you the same command, we earnestly intreat you, that, with the greatest application, you will continue your endeavours in that command for the safety and preservation of the province, until you shall hear farther from us: We wish you all imaginable success, and bid you heartily farewell." [Sidenote] Further attempts of the Governor to recal the people. In the mean time Governor Johnson received certain advice, that the Spaniards had sailed from the Havanna with a fleet of fourteen ships, and a force consisting of twelve hundred men, against South Carolina and Providence Island, and it was uncertain which of the two they would first attack. At this time of imminent danger the Governor again attempted to recal the people to subjection and obedience, and sent the following letter to the Convention. "I flatter myself that the invasion which at present threatens the province, has awakened a thought in you of the necessity there is of the forces acting under lawful authority and commission. The inconveniences and confusion of not admitting it are so obvious, I need not mention them. I have hitherto borne the indignities put upon me, and the loss I sustain by being out of my government, with as much temper as the nature of the thing will admit of, till such time as his majesty's pleasure shall be known. But to have another man to assume my authority when danger threatens the province and action is expected, and to be deprived of the opportunity of serving the public in my station, as I am indispensibly bound to do upon such occasions, I being answerable to the King for any neglect regarding the welfare of the province, is what I cannot patiently endure. I am willing with my council to consult and advise with you for the good and safety of the country in this time of imminent danger, as a Convention of the people, as you first called yourselves; nor do I see, in this present juncture of affairs, any occasion for formality in our proceedings, or that I explain by whose authority I act in grants of commissions or other public orders. Mr. Moore's commission you have given him does not pretend to say that it is derived from the King. You have already confessed I am invested with some authority of which you approve, and that is enough. What I insist upon is, to be allowed to act as Governor, because I have been approved of by the King. I do not apprehend there is any necessity of doing any thing at present but what relates to military affairs; and I do believe people will be better satisfied, more ready to advance necessaries, to trust the public, and obey my commands, by virtue of the King's authority which I have, if left to their liberty, than the orders of any other person in the province; and in a short time we may expect his majesty's pleasure will be known. If my reasons have not the weight with you I expect they should, you ought at least to put it to the vote, that, if a majority should be against it, I may have that to justify myself to the King and the world, who ought to be satisfied that I have done all I can for serving the country, and discharging the duty of my station." By this letter Governor Johnson thought to alarm and terrify the people, by representing the dangerous consequences of military operations under unlawful authority; but they remained firm to their purpose, and the Convention, without taking any notice of it, continued to do business with Mr. Moore as they had begun. Sir Hovenden Walker, the President of their Council, being disgusted at their proceedings, left them and retired to his plantation; but they chose Richard Allein in his stead, and proceeded to concert measures for the public defence. They pronounced the martial law, and ordered all the inhabitants of the province to Charlestown for its defence. All the officers of the militia accepted their commissions from Mr. Moore, and engaged to stand by him against all foreign enemies. For two weeks the Provincial militia were kept under arms at Charlestown every day expecting the appearance of the Spanish fleet; which they were informed had sailed from the Havanna. Happily for them, to acquire possession of both sides of the Gulf of Florida, and secure the navigation through this stream, the Spaniards had resolved first to attack Providence, and then to proceed against Carolina: but by the conduct and courage of Captain Rogers, at that time Governor of the island, they met with a sharp repulse at Providence, and soon after they lost the greatest part of their fleet in a storm. [Sidenote] The Governor's last attempt to recover his authority. The Spanish expedition having thus proved abortive, the Flamborough man of war, commanded by Captain Hildesley, returned to her station at Charlestown from Providence island. About the same time his Majesty's ship Phoenix, commanded by Captain Pierce, arrived from a cruize. The commanders of these two men of war were carressed by both parties, but they publicly declared for Governor Johnson as the magistrate invested with legal authority. Charles Hart, secretary of the province, by orders from the Governor and Council, had secreted and secured the public records, so that the revolutioners could not obtain possession of them. The clergy refused to marry without a licence from Governor Johnson, as the only legal Ordinary of the province. These inconveniencies having begun to operate, rendered several of the people more cool in their affection for the popular government. At this juncture Governor Johnson, with the assistance of the captain and crews of the ships of war, made his last and boldest effort for subjecting the colonists to his authority. He brought up the ships of war in front of Charlestown, and threatened their capital with immediate destruction, if they any longer refused obedience to legal authority. But the people having both arms in their hands for defence, and forts in their possession to which they could retreat, bid defiance to his power, and shewed him plainly that they were neither to be won by flattery, nor terrified by threats, to submit their necks any more to the proprietary yoke; and therefore for the future Governor Johnson dropt all thoughts of making any more attempts for that purpose. [Sidenote] Injurious suspicions with regard to the conduct of the Governor. Nicholas Trott now observing the frame of the proprietary government totally unhinged, and a rival Judge planted in his room, resolved to return to England. But before he embarked he wrote to Governor Johnson, acquainting him with his resolution, and promising, if he would contribute towards defraying his expences, he would give the Proprietors each a favourable account of his conduct and services, as would ensure to him the continuance of his office. But the Governor being no stranger to the character of the Judge, and being convinced that both the revolt of the people, and subversion of government, were in a great measure to be ascribed his pernicious policy and secret correspondence with his friend the secretary to the Proprietors, disdainfully rejected his interest and friendship. To which disrespect for the Judge, however, Mr. Johnson attributed many of the injurious suspicions the Proprietors entertained of his honour and fidelity, and that shameful neglect with which he was afterwards treated by them. They had wrote him no answer to his letters respecting the violent steps the people had taken, or ever informed him whether his conduct during those popular commotions had met with their approbation or disapprobation. Some of them even alledged that he was privy to the designs of the malecontents; and gave them too much countenance and indulgence. But every principle of honour, duty and interest forbade such a connivance, and the upright and respectable character he maintained, rendered such suspicions groundless and unmerited. That he should join with a disaffected multitude in schemes of opposition, to divest himself of his government, was a thing scarcely to be supposed. That he should first wink at the subversion of the proprietary government, and afterwards refuse to govern them for the King, when solicited so to do by the representatives and whole body of the people, was a thing very improbable. When he arrived in the province, he found the inhabitants discontented and unhappy; but little suspected then they had any views of renouncing their allegiance to the Proprietors; and the various arts the people used to conceal from him their designs, were proofs they had every thing to fear, and nothing to hope for from their Governor. The many attempts made to defeat their measures were also evidences of his fidelity to their Lordships, and firmness in support of their government. He indeed differed with Trott and Rhett, the two favourites of the Proprietors, and perhaps to this, among other causes, the neglect with which he was treated by their Lordships may be ascribed. For as they discovered on all occasions such a partial regard to these men, and placed such unlimited confidence in them, the person who differed from them, however fair and unblemished his character, however firmly attached to their interest, was not likely, in such circumstances of trouble and difficulty, to escape all injurious suspicions. We have blamed the Proprietors in many respects with regard to the management of their colony, and we cannot think them worthy of praise in withdrawing their countenance and friendship from a Governor, who manifested such zeal and resolution in support of their authority. Being equally subject to the laws of their country with the Carolineans over whom they ruled, their power was likely to be feeble, even when exercised in the most prudent and gentle manner; but more especially when executed with rigour. British subjects in general abhor oppression, even from a supreme, and it could scarcely be expected they would tamely submit to it, from a subordinate jurisdiction. [Sidenote] Francis Nicolson appointed Governor by the regency. In the mean time the agent for Carolina had procured a hearing from the Lords of the regency and council in England, the King being at that time in Hanover; who gave it as their opinion, that the Proprietors had forfeited their charter, and ordered the Attorney-general to take out a _scire facias_ against it. In consequence of which, in September 1720, they appointed General Francis Nicolson provisional Governor of the province, with a commission from the King. Nicolson was a man possessed of all the honourable principles of a good soldier. He was generous, bold, and steady. He had been Governor of several different colonies, and it was thought his knowledge and experience in provincial affairs would render him well qualified for the important trust. He knew his duty as commander and chief, and was afraid of neither dangers nor difficulties in the execution of it; a warm friend to the King, and deeply concerned for the prosperity of his country: scarcely could they have pitched upon a man more fit to govern the province in such a confused and miserable state. [Sidenote] General reflections on the whole transactions. Upon a review of those past transactions, and the various causes which concurred for bringing about this event, which I have narrated the more fully and circumstantially on account of the interesting nature and important consequences of the change, we may observe, that although the conduct of the Carolineans during this violent struggle cannot, strictly speaking, be deemed legal, equitable and just, yet necessity, which has no law, and self-preservation, the most powerful principle of action, both strongly plead in their vindication. When the Proprietors first applied to the King for a grant of this large territory, at that time occupied by heathens, it is said they were excited thereto by their zeal for the propagation of the Christian faith; yet it is now plain that they have either used no endeavours for that purpose, or they have been utterly ineffectual. The Society for the propagation of the Gospel have indeed employed and supported missionaries for the conversion of those heathens; yet it is a lamentable truth, that their best endeavours have been vastly inadequate to the extent of the work, and therefore their success has proved small and inconsiderable. The Proprietors by their charter were empowered to build churches and chapels within the bounds of their province for divine worship; yet they have left the burden of this work entirely to the inhabitants, who have received no encouragement nor assistance, except from the incorporated Society, towards its accomplishment. They were impowered by their charter to erect castles and forts for the protection and defence of the colony; but all those the people have also been obliged to raise at their own expence. By the charter his Majesty saved to himself, his heirs and successors, the sovereign dominion of the province, and the faith and allegiance of his subjects, the inhabitants of it, declaring them to be the liege people of the crown of England, yet the Proprietors have assumed to themselves a despotic authority in repealing and abrogating, by themselves alone, laws made by the Assembly, and ratified by their deputies in Carolina. They not only tyrannized over the poor colony, but also employed and protected officers ten times more tyrannical than themselves. When the whole legislature complained of Chief Justice Trott, they paid no regard to their complaints, and absolutely refused to circumscribe his jurisdiction, or remove him from the bench. In times of imminent danger, when the colony applied to them for assistance, they were either unable or unwilling to bear the expence of its protection. When the Assembly allotted the Indian lands obtained by conquest for the encouragement of settlers, to strengthen the Provincial frontiers, the Proprietors claimed the sole right of disposing of those lands, and frustrated their plans of public security. When the trade of the province was infested and ruined by pirates, they could neither obtain a force sufficient to extirpate them, nor a confirmation of their laws made for defraying the expense of such expeditions as the colony fitted out against them. The current money of the province, stamped for answering its public exigences, was, at the request of the merchants of London, cried down and cancelled. In short the people saw no end of troubles and dangers. Sad exigence dictated the necessity of some remedy against their political evils. No remedy under heaven appeared to them so proper and effectual as that of throwing themselves under the immediate care and protection of the crown of Great Britain. For under the excellent constitution of England, where the supreme power was both able and willing to protect them against every enemy, they evidently perceived they could only live happy and secure; therefore, sick of the feeble proprietary government, the people, after many violent struggles and convulsions, by one bold and irregular effort entirely shook off the yoke, and a revolution, fruitful of happy consequences, took place, to their great relief and unspeakable satisfaction. The Proprietors, after long trial and frequent amendments, now finding that fine-spun system, by which they flattered themselves with having avoided the inconveniencies and supplied the defects of the English form of government, useless and impracticable, were at length convinced, that it was a much easier thing to find fault with the constitution of Old England than to mend it. They now perceived that all forms of government must be made for men as they really are, and not for them as they ought to be, and that it was impossible for the wisest legislators upon earth to mould men into any form they pleased by laws and regulations. From the first settlement of this colony, one perpetual struggle has subsisted between the Proprietors and possessors of the province. A division somewhat similar to that of the court and country parties in England, early sprung up in the settlement, and kept it in continual ferment and agitation. The exertions of proprietary power and prerogative, the people considered as inconsistent with their rights and privileges; hence they became turbulent and seditious, and were seldom satisfied with their governors in their public capacity, however esteemed and beloved as private men. The hands of government were always weak, and the instructions and regulations received from England were, for the most part, ill adapted to the local circumstances of the people, and the first state of colonization. The palatines in England and Germany, whose jurisdiction and authority have been established by time, and whose governments have acquired firmness and stability, would probably have deemed this usurpation illegal and rebellious, and punished the authors and abettors of it. No doubt a firm yet moderate opposition to the measures of government in defence of the rights and liberties of the people, differs as much from usurpation, as a wholesome remedy to a disordered constitution differs from deadly poison. But the great distance, dangerous circumstances, and complicated hardships of the Carolineans; the negligence, bad policy and tyranny of the Proprietors; all concurred to render their usurpation not only excuseable, but absolutely necessary. The Revolution in England had exemplified and confirmed the doctrine of resistance, when the executive magistrate presumes to violate the fundamental laws, and subvert the constitution of the nation. The Proprietors had done acts, which the Lords in regency had declared amounted to a forfeiture of their charter, and had ordered a writ of _scire facias_ to be taken out, for repealing their patent and rendering the grant void and null. By which means all political connection between the Proprietors and people of Carolina was now entirely dissolved, and a new relation formed, the King having taken the province under his immediate care and protection, and made it a part of the British empire. [Sidenote] Nicolson's arrival occasions uncommon joy. About the beginning of the year 1721, Francis Nicolson arrived in Carolina, and having the sanction of the British government for his appointment, Mr. Johnson acquiesced in his authority, and made no more efforts in behalf of the Lords Proprietors. The people in general congratulated one another on the happy change, and received General Nicolson with the most uncommon and extravagant demonstrations of joy. The voice of murmur and discontent, together with the fears of danger and oppression, were now banished from the province. Happy under the royal care, they resolved to forget all former animosities and divisions, and bury all past offences in eternal oblivion. The only contention now remaining was, who should be the most faithful subjects of his majesty, and the most zealous in promoting the union, peace and prosperity of the settlement. From a confused and distracted state they now looked upon themselves as happily delivered, and anticipated in imagination all the blessings of freedom and security, followed by industry and plenty, approaching, and as it were ready to diffuse their happy influence over the country. [Sidenote] The people recognize King George as their lawful sovereign. Soon after his arrival, Governor Nicholson issued writs for the election of a new assembly, who now entered with great temper and cheerfulness on the regulation of provincial affairs. They chose James Moore, their late popular governor, speaker of the house, of whom the Governor declared his entire approbation. The first business they engaged in, was to make an act, declaring they recognized and acknowledged his sacred majesty King George to be the rightful Sovereign of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, and of all the dominions and provinces belonging to the empire, and in particular his undoubted right to the province of Carolina. All actions and suits at law commenced on account of the late administration of James Moore by particular persons, creating misunderstandings and animosities among the people, were declared void and null, till his majesty's pleasure touching such administration shall be known; but all judicial proceedings under the same administration were confirmed; which acts were at this time judged proper and necessary for establishing harmony and tranquillity among the inhabitants. The two parties formerly subsisting, the one composed of a few adherents to Governor Johnson, and the other of the followers of James Moore, Nicolson had the good fortune to unite, and, by the wisdom and equity of his administration, to render both equally happy and contented under the royal government and protection. [Sidenote] The Governor regulates Indian affairs. Before Governor Nicolson left England, a suspension of arms between Great Britain and Spain had been published, and by the treaty of peace which afterwards took place, it was stipulated and agreed, that all subjects and Indians living under their different jurisdictions should cease from acts of hostility. Orders were sent out to Don Antonio Navidez, governor of Florida, to forbear molesting the Carolineans; and the British governor had also instructions to cultivate the friendship and good-will of the Spanish subjects and Indians of Florida. In consequence of which, Governor Nicolson, who was no stranger to the manners of savages, resolved to apply himself with great zeal and spirit to the regulation of Indian affairs, and to enter into treaties of friendship and alliance with the different tribes around the settlement. As most of their troubles from Indians had been occasioned by Europeans taking possession of lands claimed by them, without their permission or consent; to prevent quarrels and mischief, the first object that demanded his attention was to fix the limits and extent of their territories, and then to forbid encroachments on their hunting grounds. With these views he sent a message to the Cherokees, (a powerful nation, computed at this time to consist of no less than six thousand bowmen), acquainting them, that he had presents to make them, and would meet them at the borders of their territories, to hold a general congress with them, in order to treat of mutual friendship and commerce. They rejoiced at a proposal which plainly implied they were a free and respectable people, and immediately the chiefs of thirty-seven different towns set out to meet him. At this congress the Governor having made them several presents, and smoked the pipe of peace with them, marked the boundaries of the lands between them and the English settlers. He regulated all weights and measures, that justice might be done them in the way of traffic. He appointed an agent to superintend their affairs, and, to unite them under a common head, proposed to nominate one warrior as commander and chief of the whole nation, before whom all complaints were to be laid, and who was to acquaint the Governor with every injury done them. With the consent of all present Wrosetasatow was declared chief warrior of the Cherokee nation, with full power to punish all guilty of depredations and murders, and to obtain satisfaction for every injury done to Indians from the British settlers. After which the Indians returned to their towns, highly pleased with their generous brother and new ally. The Governor then proceeded to conclude another treaty of commerce and peace with the Creeks, who were also at that time a numerous and formidable nation. He likewise appointed an agent to reside among them, whose business was to regulate Indian affairs in a friendly and equitable manner, and fixed on Savanna river as the boundary of their hunting lands, beyond which no settlements were to extend. Such negotiations were in many respects useful and important; for when Europeans take possession of lands contrary to the inclination, and without the permission and consent of these free and independent nations who claimed them as their property, it would puzzle a wise man to vindicate their tenure on any principles of equity and justice. [Sidenote] And promotes religious institutions. Having now secured the province as well as possible against external foes, Governor Nicolson turned his attention next to internal regulations, particularly to such as respected the religious instruction of the people. For though he mas bred a soldier, and was profane, passionate and headstrong himself, yet he was not insensible of the great advantage of religion to society, and contributed not a little to its interest in Carolina, both by his public influence and private generosity. The number of inhabitants in each parish being considerably increased, it was found necessary to enlarge several churches for their accommodation. The inhabitants of Sr. Paul's parish, many of whom having had their houses burnt, and otherwise suffered heavy losses in the Yamassee war, were obliged to apply to the public for assistance in this laudable design. The parish of St. George was separated and taken out of that of St. Andrews by an act of assembly, and a new church was built at a small village called Dorchester, by public allowance and private contributions. The inhabitants in and about Georgetown, who had long lived without the benefit of public worship, insomuch that the appearance of religion among them had almost entirely vanished, claimed particular attention. To erect a church in this quarter the Governor proposed a private subscription, and set the example by largely contributing towards the public institution. He made application to the Society in England for propagating the Gospel, and they supplied the province with clergymen, giving each of them an yearly allowance over and above the provincial salary. As no public schools had yet been instituted for the instruction of youth in the principles of virtue and religion, the Governor urged also the usefulness and necessity of such provincial establishments. It was alledged, that the want of early instruction was one of the chief sources of impiety and immorality, and if they continued any longer to neglect the rising generation, piety and Christianity would insensibly decay, and they would soon have a race of white people in the country equally ignorant as the brown Indians. Animated by the example, and assisted by the generosity of their Governor, the colonials therefore in good earnest engaged in providing seminaries for the religious education of youth. Besides general contributions, several particular legacies were also left for this purpose. Mr. Whitmarsh left five hundred pounds to St. Paul's parish, for founding a free school in it. Mr. Ludlam, the Society's missionary at Goose-creek, bequeathed all his estate, which was computed to amount to two thousand pounds Carolina currency, for the same purpose. Richard Beresfords, by his will, bequeathed the annual profits of his estate to be paid to the vestry of St. Thomas parish in trust, until his son, then eight years of age, should arrive at the age of twenty-one years; directing them to apply one third of the yearly profits of this estate for the support of one or more schoolmasters, who should teach reading, accounts, mathematics, and other liberal learning; and the other two thirds for the support maintenance, and education of the poor of that parish. The vestry accordingly received from this estate six thousand five hundred pounds Carolina money, for promoting those pious and charitable purposes. The Society in England sent out teachers, money and books, and assisted greatly, by their zeal and bounty, towards the religious instruction of the people. So much must be said for the honour of Governor Nicolson, whose liberality was conspicuously displayed in behalf of those religious institutions, and whose example excited that spirit of emulation among the people for promoting them. In Charlestown, and in several other parishes in the country, public schools were built and endowed during his government, and every friend to knowledge and virtue, every well-wisher to posterity, seemed to promise themselves the greatest advantages from such wise and public-spirited designs. Though religion, rightly understood and generally practiced, is productive of the most salutary and beneficial consequences to society, yet nothing has a more pernicious influence than mistaken notions of it. Of all kinds of delusion, religious enthusiasm is the most deplorable, and has often been attended with the most melancholy and dismal effects. By abusing the best things, they may be made the innocent occasion of the worst. Many calamities have happened in the world, even on account of religion, yet the fatal consequences ought not to be charged to that divine institution which naturally breathes benevolence, gentleness and peace, but to the ignorance and corruption of human nature, which pervert and abuse it. Enthusiasts generally agree in two articles: they disclaim the power and authority of the civil magistrate, and mistake their own wild fancies, the fruits of a distempered brain, for the impulses of the Divine Spirit, both of which are big with the most fatal consequences to society. The desperate fanatic Venner, in the reign of Charles the second, was not more transported with religious phrenzy and madness, than an unfortunate family in Carolina at this time happened to be. For the credit of the province, it were to be wished that such an incident lay buried in eternal oblivion; but history claims the privilege of exhibiting examples of different kinds for public instruction. If good examples serve as a spur to stimulate men to virtue and religion, bad ones, on the contrary, may also serve, like beacons upon a rock, to warn men of danger and delusion. [Sidenote] The enthusiasm of the family of Dutartre. "The family of Dutartres consisting of four sons and four daughters, were descendents of French refugees, who came into Carolina after the revocation of the edict of Nantz. They lived in Orange-quarter and though in low circumstances, always maintained an honest character, and were esteemed by their neighbours persons of blameless and irreproachable lives. But at this time a strolling Moravian preacher happening to come to that quarter where they lived, insinuated himself into their family, and partly by conversation, and partly by the writings of Jacob Behman, which he put into their hands, filled their heads with wild and fantastic ideas. Unhappily for the poor family those strange notions gained ground on them, insomuch that in one year they began to withdraw themselves from the ordinances of public worship, and all conversation with the world around them, and strongly to imagine they were the only family upon earth who had the knowledge of the true God, and whom he vouchsafed to instruct, either by the immediate impulses of his Spirit, or by signs and tokens from heaven. At length it came to open visions and revelations. God raised up a prophet among them, like unto Moses, to whom he taught them to hearken. This prophet was Peter Rombert, who had married the eldest daughter of the family when a widow. To this man the Author and Governor of the world deigned to reveal, in the plainest manner, that the wickedness of man was again so great in the world, that as in the days of Noah he was determined to destroy all men from off the face of it, except one family whom he would save for raising up a godly seed upon earth. This revelation Peter Rombert was sure of, and felt it as plain as the wind blowing on his body, and the rest of the family, with equal confidence and presumption, firmly believed it. "A few days after this, God was pleased to reveal himself a second time to the prophet, saying, Put away the woman whom thou hast for thy wife, and when I have destroyed this wicked generation, I will raise up her first husband from the dead, and they shall be man and wife as before, and go thou and take to wife her youngest sister, who is a virgin, so shall the chosen family be restored entire, and the holy seed preserved pure and undefiled in it. At first the father, when he heard of this revelation, was staggered at so extraordinary a command from heaven; but the prophet assured him that God would give him a sign, which accordingly happened; upon which the old man took his youngest daughter by the hand, and gave her to the wise prophet immediately for his wife, who without further ceremony took the damsel and deflowered her. Thus for some time they continued in acts of incest and adultery, until that period which made the fatal discovery, and introduced the bloody scene of blind fanaticism and madness. "Those deluded wretches were so far possessed with the false conceit of their own righteousness and holiness, and of the horrid wickedness of all others, that they refused obedience to the civil magistrate, and all laws and ordinances of men. Upon pretence that God commanded them to bear no arms, they not only refused to comply with the militia law, but also the law for repairing the high-ways. After long forbearance, Mr. Simmons, a worthy magistrate, and the officer of the militia in that quarter, found it necessary to issue his warrants for levying the penalty of the laws upon them. But by this time Judith Dutartre, the wife the prophet obtained by revelation, proving with child, another warrant was issued for bringing her before the Justice to be examined, and bound over to the general sessions, in consequence of a law of the province, framed for preventing bastardy. The constable having received his warrants, and being jealous of meeting with no good usage in the execution of his office, prevailed on two or three of his neighbours to go along with him. The family observing the constable coming, and being apprized of his errand, consulted their prophet, who soon told them that God commanded them to arm and defend themselves against persecution, and their substance against the robberies of ungodly men; assuring them at the same time that no weapon formed against them should prosper. Accordingly they did so, and laying hold of their arms, fired on the constable and his followers, and drove them out of their plantation. Such behaviour was not to be tolerated, and therefore Captain Simmons gathered a party of militia, and went to protect the constable in the execution of his office. When the deluded family saw the Justice and his party approaching, they shut themselves up in their house, and firing from it like furies, shot Captain Simmons dead on the spot, and wounded several of his party. The militia returned the fire, killed one woman within the house, and afterwards forcibly entering it, took the rest prisoners, six in number, and brought them to Charlestown. [Sidenote] Their trial and condemnation. "At the Court of general sessions, held in September 1724, three of them were brought to trial, found guilty and condemned. Alas! miserable creatures, what amazing infatuation possessed them! They pretended they had the Spirit of God leading them to all truth, they knew it and felt it: but this spirit, instead of influencing them to obedience, purity and peace, commanded them to commit rebellion, incest, and murder. What is still more astonishing, the principal persons among them, I mean the prophet, the father of the family, and Michel Boneau, never were convinced of their delusion, but persisted in it until their last breath. During their trial they appeared altogether unconcerned and secure, affirming that God was on their side, and therefore they feared not what man could do unto them. They freely told the incestuous story in open court in all its circumstances and aggravations, with a good countenance, and very readily confessed the facts respecting their rebellion and murder, with which they stood charged, but pled their authority from God in vindication of themselves, and insisted they had done nothing in either case but by his express command. "As it is commonly the duty of clergymen to visit persons under sentence of death, both to convince them of their error and danger, and prepare them for death by bringing them to a penitent disposition; Alexander Garden, the episcopal minister of Charlestown, to whom we are indebted for this account, attended those condemned persons with great diligence and concern. What they had affirmed in the court of justice, they repeated and confessed to him in like manner in the prison. When he began to reason with them and to explain the heinous nature of their crimes, they treated him with disdain. Their motto was, Answer him not a word; who is he that should presume to teach them, who had the Spirit of God speaking inwardly to their souls. In all they had done, they said they had obeyed the voice of God, and were now about to suffer martyrdom for his religion. But God had assured them, that he would either work a deliverance for them, or raise them up from the dead on the third day. These things the three men continued confidently to believe, and notwithstanding all the means used to convince them of their mistake, persisted in the same belief until the moment they expired. At their execution they told the spectators with seeming triumph, they should soon see them again, for they were certain they should rise from the dead on the third day. With respect to the other three, the daughter Judith being with child, was not tried, and the two sons, David and John Dutartre, about eighteen and twenty years of age, having been also tried and condemned, continued sullen and reserved, in hopes of seeing those that were executed rise from the dead, but being disappointed, they became, or at least seemed to become, sensible of their error, and were both pardoned. Yet not long afterwards one of them relapsed into the same snare, and murdered an innocent person, without either provocation or previous quarrel, and for no other reason, as he confessed, but that God had commanded him so to do. Being a second time brought to trial, he was found guilty of murder and condemned. Mr. Garden attended him again under the second sentence, and acknowledged, with great appearance of success. No man could appear more deeply sensible of his error and delusion, or could die a more sincere and hearty penitent on account of his horrid crimes. With great attention he listened to Mr. Garden, while he explained to him the terms of pardon and salvation proposed in the Gospel, and seemed to die in the humble hopes of mercy, through the all-sufficient merits of a Redeemer." Thus ended that tragical scene of fanaticism, in which seven persons lost their lives, one was killed, two were murdered, and four executed for the murders. A signal and melancholy instance of the weakness and frailty of human nature, and to what giddy heights of extravagance and madness, an inflamed imagination will carry unfortunate mortals. It is hard for the wisdom of men to conceive a remedy for a distemper such as religious infatuation. Severity and persecution commonly add strength to the contagion, and render it more furious. Indulgence and lenity might perhaps prove more efficacious, as the swellings of phrenzy would in time subside, in proportion as they exceed the bounds of nature. Had they given this unhappy family time for cool thought and reflection, it is not improbable that those clouds of delusion which overspread their minds might have dispersed, and they might have returned to a sense of their frailty and error. But it belongs to the civil power to prohibit wild enthusiasts and mad visionaries from spreading doctrines among vulgar people, destructive of civil order and public peace. The majority of mankind every where are ignorant and credulous, and therefore are objects of compassion, and ought to be protected against the baleful influence of such men as seduce them from their duty and subjection to legal authority, by poisoning their minds with notions hurtful to themselves and others. [Sidenote] Progress of the colony. About this time the number of white inhabitants, including men, women, and children, was computed to amount to fourteen thousand, an increase, in the space of fifty-four years after the arrival of first colony, very small and inconsiderable, and occasioned, no doubt, both by the unhealthiness of the climate and by the discouragements and troubles which prevailed during the proprietary government. The province now furnished the inhabitants with provisions in abundance, and exported what it could spare to the West Indies. The white inhabitants lived frugally, as luxury had not yet crept in among them, and, except a little rum and sugar, tea and coffee, were contented with what their plantations afforded. Maize and Indian pease seemed congenial with the soil and climate: and as they had been cultivated by the savages for provision, they were found also to be excellent food for European labourers, and more wholesome and nourishing than rice. Maize delights not to grow on a watry soil, but on dry and loose land, such as the higher spots on the maritime parts of the province. As the use of the plow could not be introduced until the lands were cleared of the roots of trees, to prepare a field for planting it great labour was requisite. They commonly made ridges with the hoe about five feet asunder, upon the top of which they planted the seed three inches deep. One gallon of maize will sow an acre, which, with skilful management on good lands, will yield in favourable seasons from thirty to fifty bushels. While it grows it requires to be frequently weeded, and the earth carefully thrown up about the root of the plant, to facilitate its progress. As it rises high, at the root of it the Indian pease are usually planted, which climb up its stalk like a vine, so that the lands yield a double crop. From the stem of maize large blades spring, which the planters carefully gather, and which, when properly cured, the horses or cattle will prefer before the finest hay. These two articles, maize, Indian pease, together with the Spanish potatoes, are the chief subsistence of their slaves, consisting chiefly of negroes and a few Indians, and who, at this time, men, women, and children, amounted to between sixteen and twenty thousand. In the year 1724, four hundred and thirty-nine slaves, as also British goods and manufactures of different kinds, to the amount of between fifty and sixty thousand pounds sterling, were imported into the province. In exchange for these slaves and commodities, eighteen thousand barrels of rice, and about fifty-two thousand barrels of pitch, tar and turpentine, together with deer-skins, furs, and raw silk, were exported to England. This trade was carried on almost entirely in British ships, and employed a number of hands. The Carolineans also traded to the West Indies, and several small ships and sloops were employed in carrying provisions, lumber, slaves and naval stores to these islands, which they bartered for sugar, rum, molasses, coffee, cotton, and Spanish gold and silver. To New England, New York, and Pennsylvania, they sent some rice, hides, deer-skins, tar and pitch, which they exchanged for flour, salt fish, fruit, beer, and cyder. All gold and silver that came into the province from the West Indies they commonly sent into Britain, to answer the demands against them; and bills of credit continued increasing and circulating, for the convenience of domestic commerce. Forty thousand pounds were issued during Nicolson's government, over and above former emissions, by which increase the exchange with Britain, and the price of produce arose in one year from five to six hundred _per cent_. This has never failed to be the consequence of issuing large quantities of paper money in Carolina: for whenever this currency was permitted to increase beyond what was necessary for the purposes of commerce, it sunk in value, and proportionably increased the nominal price of provisions and labour; and of course should it by any accident be diminished, the price would again fall. Besides this, when the imports happened to exceed the exports, the great demand for bills of exchange raised the price of them, and helped to increase the depreciation of the current money of the province. [Sidenote] The adventure of Captain Beale. Among other traders, at this time Othneal Beale commanded a ship in the Carolina trade; and while sailing from Charlestown to London, not being provided with a Mediterranean pass, he was taken by an Algerine rover, who determined to carry him to Barbary, and for this purpose took the English sailors on board, and manned Captain Beale's ship with Algerines, giving them orders to follow him to the Mediterranean sea. Soon after, a storm arising in the night separated the two ships, and Captain Beale being the only person on board that understood navigation, resolved to avail himself of the advantage, and accordingly, instead of sailing for Africa, steered directly for England. Upon his arrival the Algerine sailors were surprized, but not at all displeased; they even confessed to their ambassador the kind usage they had received; upon which Captain Beale had all he lost returned by agreement, together with thanks for his humanity. This bold adventure likewise procured the captain the honour of an introduction to the King, who expressed a desire of seeing him, and ordered Lord Carteret, then Secretary of state, to make him a handsome present on the occasion. This memorable anecdote being published, served to mark him for a man of address and courage in Carolina, where he afterwards took up his residence, and in time arrived at the chief command of the militia, was made a member of his majesty's council, and died at the age of eighty-five, a rare instance of longevity in that country. [Sidenote] Arthur Middleton president. In the year 1725, Governor Nicolson having obtained leave from his majesty, returned to Great Britain, and the government devolved on Arthur Middleton, president of the council. Mr. Middleton, though of a reserved and mercenary disposition, was a sensible man, and by no means ill qualified for governing the province. But having succeeded a man who liberally spent all his salary and perquisites of office in promoting the public good, he was neither so much distinguished nor respected among the colonists. Being possessed of a moderate fortune, his chief study was to improve it, and he seemed to aspire after the character of a rich man in private life, rather than that of a popular governor and generous benefactor. As he had taken an active part against the proprietary government, he was not insensible of the advantages now gained from the countenance given them by the crown, and was equally careful to promote loyalty to the King as the freedom and safety of his fellow-subjects. [Sidenote] A dispute about the boundaries between Carolina and Florida. At this time the boundaries between the provinces of Carolina and Florida were neither clearly marked nor well understood, as they had never been settled by any public agreement or treaty between England and Spain. To prevent negroes escaping to the Spanish territories, and overawe the Indians under the Spanish juridiction, the Carolineans had built a fort on the forks of the river Alatamaha, and supported a small garrison in it. This gave umbrage to the governor of Augustine, who complained of it to the court of Madrid, representing it as an encroachment on the dominions of Spain, and intended to seduce the Indians from their allegiance to his Catholic Majesty. The Spanish ambassador at London lodged the complaint before the court of Britain, and demanded that orders be sent out to Carolina immediately to demolish the fort. To prevent any interruption of the good correspondence then subsisting between the two courts, it was agreed to send orders to both governors in America to meet in an amicable manner, and settle the respective boundaries between the British and Spanish dominions in that quarter. Accordingly soon after Don Francisco Menandez, and Don Joseph de Rabiero, came to Charlestown, to hold a conference with the president and council of Carolina about this matter. At their meeting, Mr. Middleton shewed those deputies, that this fort was built within the bounds of the charter granted to the Proprietors, and that the pretensions of Spain to such lands were vain and groundless. At the same time he told them, that the fort on the river Alatamaha was erected for defending themselves and their property against the depredations of Indians living under the jurisdiction of Spain. Then he begged to know from them their reasons for protecting felons and debtors that fled from Carolina to them, and for encouraging negroes to leave their masters and take refuge at Augustine, while peace subsisted between the two crowns? The deputies replied, That the governor of Florida would deliver up all felons and debtors; but had express orders for twenty years past, to detain all slaves who should fly to Augustine for liberty and protection. Middleton declared he looked on such injurious orders as a breach of national honour and faith, especially as negroes were real property, such as houses and lands, in Carolina. The deputies answered, That the design of the King of Spain was not to injure private men, having ordered compensation to be made to the masters of such slaves in money; but that his humanity and religion enjoined him to issue such orders for the sake of converting slaves to the Christian faith. In short, the conference ended to the satisfaction of neither party, and matters remained as they were; but soon after, the English fort, built of wood, was burned to the ground, and the southern frontiers of Carolina were again left naked and defenceless. [Sidenote] Colonel Palmer makes reprisals on the Spaniards. As no final agreement, with respect to the limits of the two provinces had been concluded, the Indians in alliance with Spain continued to harass the British settlements: particularly the Yamassees, as usual, penetrating into Carolina in scalping parties, persisted in killing white men, and carrying off every negroe they could catch. Though the owners of slaves had been allowed from the Spanish government a compensation in money for their losses, yet few of them ever received it. At length Colonel Palmer resolved to make reprisals on those plunderers, since no adequate recompense could otherwise be obtained. For this purpose he gathered together a party of militia and friendly Indians, consisting in all of about three hundred men, and entered Florida, with a resolution of spreading desolation throughout the province. He carried his arms as far as the gates of Augustine, and compelled the inhabitants to take refuge in their castle. Scarce a house or hut in the colony escaped the flames. He destroyed their provisions in the fields, and drove off their cattle, hogs and horses. Some Indians he killed, and others he made prisoners. In short, he left the people of Florida little property, except what was protected by the guns of their fort, and by this expedition convinced the Spaniards of their weakness, and the bad policy of encouraging Indians to molest the subjects of Britain. He shewed them that the Carolineans could prevent the cultivation and settlement of their province whenever they pleased, and render the improvement of it impracticable, on any other than peaceable terms with their neighbours. [Sidenote] Encroachment of the French in Louisiana. But by this time the Spaniards were not the only neighbours that created trouble to the Carolineans. The French settled in Louisiana were also advancing nearer them, and using all their art and address for gaining the interest and affections of these savage nations. They erected a strong hold, called Fort Alabama, high up on Mobile river, which was excellently situated for opening and carrying on a correspondence with the most powerful nations around the British settlement. The Carolineans had good reason to be on their guard against the influence of these intimating and enterprising neighbours. The tribes of Upper Creeks, whose hunting lands extended to their fort, were soon won over by promises and largesses to an alliance with them. The Cherokees indeed lived at a greater distance from them, and yet by means of Creeks and other emissaries, whom they sent among them, they endeavoured also to bring than over to their interest. The river Mississippi being navigable a great way from its mouth, opened a communication with the Choctaws, Chikesaws, and other nations residing near it. So that the French had many excellent opportunities of seducing Indians from their alliance with Britain. The president of Carolina employed Captain Tobias Fitch among the Creeks, and Colonel George Chicken among the Cherokees, to keep these tribes steady and firm to the British interest. These agents, however, during the whole time Mr. Middleton presided over the colony, found no small difficulty in counteracting the influence of French policy, and preventing their union and alliance with these enemies. From this period the British and French settlers in America became competitors for power and influence over Indian nations, the one or the other of whom were always exposed to danger and trouble from them, in proportion to the success of their rivals. Now the Carolineans were farther from peace and safety than ever. The French supplied these savages with tomahawks, muskets, and ammunition, by which means they laid aside the bow and arrow, and became more dangerous and formidable enemies than they had been in any former period. [Sidenote] A terrible hurricane. During the summer of 1728, the weather in Carolina was observed to be uncommonly hot, by which the face of the earth was entirely parched, the pools of standing water dried up, and the beasts of the field were reduced to the greatest distress. After such a long and general drought the inhabitants having usually observed hurricanes and tornadoes to follow in autumn, they began accordingly to look out with superstitious dread for them, as that season of the year approached. Accordingly a dreadful hurricane happened in the end of August, and occasioned an inundation, which overflowed the town and the low lands, and did incredible damage to the fortifications, houses, wharfs, shipping, and cornfields. The streets of Charlestown were covered with boats, boards, staves, and the inhabitants were obliged to take refuge in the higher stories of their dwelling-houses. Twenty-three ships were driven a-shore, most of which were either greatly damaged, or dashed to pieces. The Fox and Garland men of war, stationed there for the protection of trade, were the only ships that rode out the storm. This hurricane, though it levelled many thousand trees in the maritime parts, yet so thick was the forest, that it was scarcely perceived an hundred miles from the shore. But as such violent storms are probably occasioned by the rarefaction of the air, with excessive heat, they are seldom of long duration, for having restored the equipoise in the atmosphere, the wind commonly shifts, and the tempest ceases. [Sidenote] And Yellow Fever. The same year an infectious and pestilential distemper, commonly called the Yellow Fever, broke out in town, and swept off multitudes of the inhabitants, both white and black. As the town depended entirely on the country for fresh provisions, the planters would suffer no person to carry supplies to it, for fear of catching the infection, and bringing it to the country. The physicians knew not how to treat the uncommon disorder which was so suddenly caught, and proved so quickly fatal. The calamity was so general, that few could grant assistance to their distressed neighbours, however much needed and earnestly desired. So many funerals happening every day, while so many lay sick, white persons sufficient for burying the dead were scarcely to be found; and though they were often interred on the same day they died, so quick was the putrefaction, so offensive and infectious were the corpses, that even the nearest relations seemed averse from the necessary duty. [Sidenote] The Province purchased for the crown. After all, one memorable event distinguished this year, which was attended with many beneficial consequences to the province. An act of parliament passed in Britain for establishing an agreement with seven of the Proprietors for a surrender of their right and interest, not only in the government, but also in the soil and lands of the province, to the King. The purchase was made for seventeen thousand five hundred pounds sterling, to be paid before the end of September 1729, free of all deductions; after which payment, the province was to be vested in the crown of Great Britain. At the same time seven-eight parts of the arrears of quit-rents, due from the colonists to the Proprietors, amounting to somewhat more than nine thousand pounds sterling, were also purchased for the crown for five thousand; so that seven-eight parts of this vast territory cost no more than twenty-two thousand five hundred pounds. But, in this act of parliament there is a clause, reserving to John Lord Carteret the remaining eight share of the property and arrears of quit-rents, which continues to this day legally vested in that family, only all his share in the government he surrendered to the crown. The Proprietors who sold their shares at this time, were Henry Duke of Beaufort, William Lord Craven, James Bertie, Dodington Greville, Henry Bertie, Mary Danson, Elisabeth More, Sir John Colleton, John Cotton, and Joseph Blake, who before the surrender were possessed, either in their own right or in trust, of seven eight parts of the government and property of the province. This surrender was made to Edward Bertie, Samuel Horsey, Henry Smith, and Alexis Clayton, in trust for the crown. In consequence of the powers granted to his Majesty by this act of parliament, he claims the prerogative of appointing Governors to both South and North Carolina, and a council similar to the other regal governments in America. THE END OF VOLUME FIRST. The First SET Of The FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS Of SOUTH CAROLINA. As Compiled By Mr. JOHN LOCKE. Our Sovereign Lord The King having, out of his royal grace and bounty, granted unto us the province of CAROLINA, with all the royalties, properties, jurisdictions and privileges of a county palatine, as large and ample as the county palatine of Durham, with other great privileges; for the better settlement of the government of the said place, and establishing the interest of the Lords Proprietors with equality, and without confusion; and that the government of this province may be made most agreeable to the monarchy under which we live, and of which this province is a part; and that we may avoid erecting a numerous democracy: we the Lords and Proprietors of the province aforesaid, have agreed to this following form of government to be perpetually established amongst us, unto which we do oblige ourselves, our heirs and successors, in the most binding ways that can be devised. I. The eldest of the Lords Proprietors shall be Palatine; and, upon the decease of the Palatine, the eldest of the seven surviving proprietors shall always succeed him. II. There shall be seven other chief offices erected, viz. the admirals, chamberlains, chancellors, constables, chief justices, high stewards, and treasurers; which places shall be enjoyed by none but the Lords Proprietors, to be assigned at first by lot; and upon the vacancy of any one of the seven great offices by death, or otherwise, the eldest proprietor shall have his choice of the said place. III. The whole province shall be divided into counties; each county shall consist of eight signiories, eight baronies, and four precincts; each precinct shall consist of six colonies. IV. Each signiory, barony, and colony, shall consist of twelve thousand acres; the eight signiories being the share of the eight proprietors, and the eight baronies of the nobility; both which shares, being each of them one fifth part of the whole, are to be perpetually annexed, the one to the proprietors, the other to the hereditary nobility, leaving the colonies, being three fifths, amongst the people; that so in setting out, and planting the lands, the balance of the government may be preserved. V. At any time before the year one thousand seven hundred and one, any of the Lords Proprietors shall have power to relinquish, alienate, and dispose, to any other person, his proprietorship, and all the signiories, powers, and interest, thereunto belonging, wholly and entirely together, and not otherwise. But, after the year one thousand seven hundred, those who are then Lords Proprietors shall not have power to alienate or make over their proprietorship, with the signiories and privileges thereunto belonging, or any part thereof, to any person whatsoever otherwise than as in Paragraph XVIII; but it shall all descend unto their heirs male, and, for want of heirs male, it shall all descend on that Landgrave or Cassique of CAROLINA, who is descended of the next heirs female of the Proprietor; and, for want of such heirs, it shall descend on the next heir general; and, for want of such heirs, the remaining seven proprietors shall, upon the vacancy, chuse a Landgrave to succeed the deceased proprietor, who being chosen by the majority of the seven surviving proprietors, he and his heirs successively shall be proprietors, as fully to all intents and purposes as any of the rest. VI. That the number of eight proprietors may be constantly kept; if, upon the vacancy of any proprietorship, the seven surviving proprietors shall not chuse a Landgrave to be a proprietor, before the second biennial parliament after the vacancy; then the next biennial parliament but one after such vacancy, shall have power to chuse any landgrave to be a proprietor. VII. Whosoever after the year one thousand seven hundred, either by inheritance or choice, shall succeed any proprietor in his proprietorship, and signiories thereunto belonging shall be obliged to take the name and arms of that proprietor whom he succeeds; which from thenceforth shall be the name and arms of his family and their posterity. VIII. Whatsoever Landgrave or Cassique shall any way come to be a proprietor, shall take the signiories annexed to the said proprietorship; but his former dignity, with the baronies annexed, shall devolve into the hands of the Lords Proprietors. IX. There shall be just as many landgraves as there are counties, and twice as many cassiques, and no more. These shall be the hereditary nobility of the province, and by right of their dignity be members of parliament. Each landgrave shall have four baronies, and each cassique two baronies, hereditarily and unalterably annexed to, and settled upon, the said dignity. X. The first landgraves and cassiques of the twelve first counties to be planted, shall be nominated thus; that is to say, of the twelve landgraves the Lords Proprietors shall each of them separately for himself nominate and chuse one; and the remaining four landgraves of the first twelve, shall be nominated and chosen by the Palatine's court. In like manner of the twenty-four first cassiques, each proprietor for himself shall nominate and chuse two, and the remaining eight shall be nominated and chosen by the Palatine's court; and when the twelve first counties shall be planted, the Lords Proprietors shall again in the same manner nominate and chuse twelve more landgraves, and twenty-four cassiques, for the twelve next counties to be planted; that is to say, two thirds of each number by the single nomination of each proprietor for himself, and the remaining one-third by the joint election of the Palatine's court, and so proceed in the same manner till the whole province of CAROLINA be set out and planted, according to the proportions in these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS. XI. Any landgrave or cassique at any time before the year one thousand seven hundred and one shall have power to alienate, sell, or make over, to any other person, his dignity, with the baronies thereunto belonging, all entirely together. But, after the year one thousand seven hundred, no landgrave or cassique shall have power to alienate, sell, make over, or let, the hereditary baronies of his dignity, or any part thereof, therwise than as in Paragraph XVIII; but they shall all entirely, with the dignity thereunto belonging, descend unto his heirs male; and, for want of heirs male, all entirely and undivided, to the next heir general; and, for want of such heirs, shall devolve into the hands of the Lords Proprietors. XII. That the due number of landgraves and cassiques may be always kept up; if, upon the devolution of any land graveship or cassiqueship, the Palatine's court shall not settle the devolved dignity, with the baronies thereunto annexed, before the second biennial parliament after such devolution; the next biennial parliament but one after such devolution shall have power to make any one landgrave or cassique in the room of him, who, dying without heirs, his dignity and baronies devolved. XIII. No one person shall have more than one dignity, with the signiories or baronies thereunto belonging. But whensoever it shall happen that any one, who is already proprietor, landgrave, of cassique, shall have any of these dignities descend to him by inheritance; it shall be at his choice to keep which of the dignities, with the land annexed, he shall like best; but shall leave the other, with the lands annexed, to be enjoyed by him, who, not being his heir apparent and certain successor to his present dignity, is next of blood. XIV. Whosoever, by the right of inheritance, shall come to be landgrave or cassique, shall take the name and arms of his predecessor in that dignity, to be from thenceforth the name and arms of his family and their posterity. XV. Since the dignity of proprietor, landgrave, or cassique, cannot be divided, and the signiories or baronies thereunto annexed must for ever all entirely descend with, and accompany that dignity; whensoever, for want of heirs male, it shall descend on the issue female, the eldest daughter and her heirs shall be preferred, and in the inheritance of those dignities, and the signiories or baronies annexed, there shall be no co-heirs. XVI. In every signiory, barony and manor, the respective lord shall have power, in his own name, to hold court-leet there, for trying of all causes both civil and criminal; but where it shall concern any person being no inhabitant, vassal, or leet-man of the said signiory, barony, or manor, he, upon paying down of forty shillings to the Lords Proprietor's use, shall have an appeal from the signiory or barony-court to the county-court, and from the manor-court to the precinct-court. XVII. Every manor shall consist of not less than three thousand acres, and not above twelve thousand aces, in one entire piece and colony; but any three thousand acres or more in one piece, and the possession of one man, shall not be a manor unless it be constituted a manor by the grant of the Palatine's court. XVIII. The lords of signiories and baronies shall have power only of granting estates not exceeding three lives, or thirty-one years, in two thirds of the said signiories or baronies, and the remaining third shall be always demesne. XIX. Any lord of a manor may alienate, sell, or dispose, to any other person and his heirs for ever, his manor, all entirely together, with all the privileges and leet-men thereunto belonging, so far forth as any colony lands; but no grant of any part thereof, either in fee, or for any longer term than three lives, or one and twenty years, shall be good against the next heir. XX. No manor, for want of issue male, shall he divided amongst co-heirs; but the manor, if there be but one, shall all entirely descend to the eldest daughter and her heirs. If there be more manors than one, the eldest daughter first shall have her choice, the second next, and so on, beginning again at the eldest, till all the manors be taken up; that so the privileges which belong to manors being indivisible, the lands of the manors, to which they are annexed, may be kept entire, and the manor not lose those privileges, which, upon parceling out to several owners, must necessarily cease. XXI. Every lord of a manor, within his manor, shall have all the powers, jurisdictions, and privileges, which a landgrave or cassique have in his baronies. XXII. In every signiory, barony, and manor, all the leet-men shall be under the jurisdiction of the respective lords of the said signiory, barony, or manor without appeal from him. Nor shall any leet-man, or leet-woman, have liberty to go off from the land of their particular lord, and live any where else, without licence obtained from their said lord, under hand and seal. XXIII. All the children of leet-men shall be leet-men, and so to all generations. XXIV. No man shall be capable of having a court-leet, or leet-men, but a proprietor, landgrave, cassique, or lord of a manor. XXV. Whoever shall voluntarily enter himself a leet-man, in the registry of the county-court, shall be a leet-man. XXVI. Whoever is lord of leet-men, shall, upon the marriage of a leet-man or leet-woman of his, give them ten acres of land for their lives; they paying to him therefore not more than one eighth part of all the yearly produce and growth of the said ten acres. XXVII. No landgrave or cassique shall be tried for any criminal cause in any but the chief justice's court, and that by a jury of his peers. XXVIII. There shall be eight supreme courts. The first called the Palatine's court, consisting of the palatine and the other seven proprietors. The other seven courts of the other seven great officers, shall consist each of them of a proprietor, and six counsellors added to him. Under each of these latter seven courts, shall be a college of twelve assistants. The twelve assistants of the several colleges shall be chosen, two out of the landgraves, cassiques, or eldest sons of proprietors, by the Palatine's court; two out of the landgraves, by the landgraves chamber; two out of the cassiques, by the cassique's chamber; four more of the twelve shall be chosen by the commons chamber, out of such as have been, or are, members of parliament, sheriffs, or justices of the county court, or the younger sons of proprietors, or eldest sons of landgraves or cassiques; the two other shall be chosen by the palatine's court, out of the same sort of persons, out of which the commons chamber is to chuse. XXIX. Out of these colleges shall be chosen at first, by the Palatine's court, six counsellors, to be joined with each proprietor in his court; of which six, one shall be of those who were chosen in any of the colleges by the Palatine's court, out of the landgraves, cassiques, or eldest sons of proprietors; one out of those who were chosen by the landgraves chamber; and one out of those who were chosen by the cassiques chamber; two out of those who were chosen by the commons chamber; and one out of those who were chosen by the Palatine's court, out of the proprietors younger sons, or eldest sons of landgraves, cassiques, or commons, qualified as aforesaid. XXX. When it shall happen that any counsellor dies, and thereby there is a vacancy, the grand council shall have power to remove any counsellor that is willing to be removed out of any of the proprietors courts to fill up the vacancy; provided they take a man of the same degree and choice the other was of, whose vacant place is to be filled up. But if no counsellor consent to be removed, or upon such remove, the last remaining vacant place, in any of the proprietor's courts, shall be filled up by the choice of the grand council, who shall have power to remove out of any of the colleges, any assistant, who is of the same degree and choice that counsellor was of, into whose vacant place he is to succeed. The grand council also shall have power to remove any assistant, that is willing, out of one college into another, provided he be of the same degree and choice. But the last remaining vacant place in any college, shall be filled up by the same choice, and out of the same degree of persons the assistant was of, who is dead or removed. No place shall be vacant in any proprietor's court above six months. No place shall be vacant in any college longer than the next session of parliament. XXXI. No man, being a member of the grand council, or of any of the seven colleges, shall be turned out but for misdemeanour, of which the grand council shall be judge; and the vacancy of the person so put out shall be filled, not by the election of the grand council, but by those who first chose him, and out of the same degree he was of who is expelled. But it is not hereby to be understood, that the grand council hath any power to turn out any one of the Lords Proprietors or their deputies, the Lords Proprietors having in themselves an inherent original right. XXXII. All elections in the parliament, in the several chambers of the parliament, and in the grand council, shall be passed by balloting. XXXIII. The Palatine's court shall consist of the Palatine and seven proprietors, wherein nothing shall be acted without the presence and consent of the Palatine or his deputy, and three others of the proprietors or their deputies. This court shall have power to call parliaments, to pardon all offences, to make elections of all officers in the proprietor's dispose, and to nominate and appoint Port Towns; and also shall have power by their order to the treasurer to dispose of all public treasure, excepting money granted by the parliament, and by them directed to some particular public use; and also shall have a negative upon all acts, orders, votes and judgments, of the grand council and the parliament, except only as in Paragraphs VI. and XII.; and shall have all the powers granted to the Lords Proprietors, by their patent from OUR SOVEREIGN LORD THE KING, except in such things as are limited by these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS. XXXIV. The Palatine himself, when he in person shall be either in the army or in any of the proprietors courts, shall then have the power of general, or of that proprietor, in whose court he is then present; and the proprietor, in whose court the Palatine then presides, shall during his presence there be but as one of the council. XXXV. The chancellor's court, consisting of one of the proprietors, and his six counsellors, who shall be called vice-chancellors, shall have the custody of the seal of the palatine, under which all charters of lands, or otherwise, commissions and grants of the Palatine's court, shall pass. And it shall not be lawful to put the seal of the palatinate to any writing, which is not signed by the Palatine or his deputy, and three other proprietors or their deputies. To this court also belong all state matters, dispatches, and treaties with the neighbour Indians. To this court also belong all invasions of the law, of liberty of conscience, and all disturbances of the public peace, upon pretence of religion, as also the licence of printing. The twelve assistants belonging to this court shall be called recorders. XXXVI. Whatever passes under the seal of the palatinate, shall be registered in that proprietor's court, to which the matter therein contained belongs. XXXVII. The chancellor or his deputy shall be always speaker in parliament, and president of the grand council, and, in his and his deputy's absence, one of his vice-chancellors. XXXVIII. The chief justice's court, consisting of one of the proprietors and his six counsellors, who shall be called justices of the bench, shall judge all appeals in cases both civil and criminal, except all such cases as shall be under the jurisdiction and cognizance of any other of the proprietor's courts, which shall be tried in those courts respectively. The government and regulation of the registries of writings and contracts, shall belong to the jurisdiction of this court. The twelve assistants of this court shall be called masters. XXXIX. The constable's court, consisting of one of the proprietors and his six counsellors, who shall be called marshals, shall order and determine of all military affairs by land, and all land-forces, arms, ammunition, artillery, garrisons, forts, &c. and whatever belongs unto war. His twelve assistants shall be called lieutenant-generals. XL. In time of actual war, the constable, while he is in the army, shall be general of the army, and the six counsellors, or such of them as the Palatine's court shall for that time or service appoint, shall be the immediate great officers under him, and the lieutenant-generals next to them. XLI. The admiral's court, consisting of one of the proprietors, and his six counsellors, called consuls, shall have the care and inspection over all ports, moles, and navigable rivers, so far as the tide flows, and also all the public shipping of CAROLINA, and stores thereunto belonging, and all maritime affairs. This court also shall have the power of the court of admiralty; and shall have power to constitute judges in port-towns, to try cases belonging to law-merchant, as shall be most convenient for trade. The twelve assistants, belonging to this court, shall be called proconsuls. XLII. In time of actual war, the admiral, whilst he is at sea, shall command in chief, and his six counsellors, or such of them as the Palatine's court shall for that time and service appoint, shall be the immediate great officers under him, and the proconsuls next to them. XLIII. The treasurer's court, consisting of a proprietor and his his counsellors, called under-treasurers, shall take care of all matters that concern the public revenue and treasury. The twelve assistants shall be called auditors. XLIV. The high-steward's court, consisting of a proprietor and his six counsellors, called comptrollers, shall have the care of all foreign and domestic trade, manufactures, public buildings, work-houses, high-ways, passages by water above the flood of the tide, drains, sewers, and banks against inundations, bridges, post, carriers, fairs, markets, corruption or infection of the common air or water, and all things in order to the public commerce and health; also setting out and surveying of lands; and also setting out and appointing places for towns to be built on in the precincts, and the prescribing and determining the figure and bigness of the said towns, according to such models as the said court shall order; contrary or differing from which models it shall not be lawful for any one to build in any town. This court shall have power also to make any public building, or any new highway, or enlarge any old high-way, upon any man's land whatsoever; as also to make cuts, channels, banks, locks, and bridges, for making rivers navigable, or for draining fens, or any other public use. The damage the owner of such lands (on or through which any such public things shall be made) shall receive thereby, shall be valued, and satisfaction made by such ways as the grand council shall appoint. The twelve assistants, belonging to this court, shall be called surveyors. XLV. The chamberlain's court, consisting of a proprietor and his six counsellors, called vice-chamberlains, shall have the care of all ceremonies, precedency, heraldry, reception of public messengers, pedigrees, the registry of all births, burials, and marriages, legitimation, and all cases concerning matrimony, or arising from it; and shall also have power to regulate all fashions, habits, badges, games and sports. To this court also it shall belong to convocate the grand council. The twelve assistants, belonging to this court, shall be called provosts. XLVI. All causes belonging to, or under the jurisdiction of, any of the proprietors courts, shall in them respectively be tried, and ultimately determined, without any farther appeal. XLVII. The proprietors courts shall have a power to mitigate all fines, and suspend all executions in criminal causes, either before or after sentence, in any of the other inferior courts respectively. XLVIII. In all debates, hearings, or trials, in any of the proprietor's courts, the twelve assistants belonging to the said courts respectively, shall have liberty to be present, but shall not interpose, unless their opinions be required, nor have any vote at all; but their business shall be, by the direction of the respective courts, to prepare such business as shall be committed to them; as also to bear such offices, and dispatch such affairs, either where the court is kept or elsewhere as the court shall think fit. XLIX. In all the proprietors courts, the proprietor, and any three of his counsellors, shall make a quorum; provided always, that, for the better dispatch of business, it shall be in the power of the Palatine's court, to direct what sort of causes shall be heard and determined by a quorum of any three. L. The grand council shall consist of the Palatine and seven proprietors, and the forty-two counsellors of the several proprietors courts, who shall have power to determine any controversies that may arise between any of the proprietors courts, about their respective jurisdictions, or between the members of the same court, about their manner and methods of proceeding; to make peace and war, leagues, treaties, &c. with any of the neighbour Indians; to issue out their general orders to the constable's and admiral's courts, for the raising, disposing, or disbanding the forces, by land or by sea. LI. The grand council shall prepare all matters to be proposed in parliament. Nor shall any matter whatsoever be proposed in parliament, but what hath first passed the grand council; which, after having been read three several days in the parliament, shall by majority of votes be passed or rejected. LII. The grand council shall always be judges of all causes and appeals that concern the Palatine, or any of the Lords Proprietors, or any counsellor of any proprietor's court, in any cause, which otherwise should have been tried in the court in which the said counsellor is judge himself. LIII. The grand council, by their warrants to the treasurer's court, shall dispose of all the money given by the parliament and by them directed to any particular public use. LIV. The quorum of the grand council shall be thirteen, whereof a proprietor or his deputy shall be always one. LV. The grand council shall meet the first Tuesday in every month, and as much oftener as either they shall think fit, or they shall be convocated by the chamberlain's court. LVI. The Palatine, or any of the Lords Proprietors, shall have power under hand and seal, to be registered in the grand council, to make a deputy, who shall have the same power to all intents and purposes as he himself who deputes him; except in confirming acts of parliament, as in Paragraph LXXVI, and except also in nominating and chusing landgraves and cassiques, as in Paragraph X. All such deputations shall cease and determine at the end of four years, and at any time shall be revocable at the pleasure of the deputator. LVII. No deputy of any proprietor shall have any power whilst the deputator is in any part of CAROLINA, except the proprietor, whose deputy he is, be a minor. LVIII. During the minority of any proprietor his guardian shall have power to constitute and appoint his deputy. LIX. The eldest of the Lords Proprietors, who shall be personally in CAROLINA, shall of course be the Palatine's deputy, and if no proprietor be in CAROLINA, he shall chuse his deputy out of the heirs apparent of any of the proprietors, if any such be there; and if there be no heir apparent of any of the Lords Proprietors above one and twenty years old in CAROLINA, then he shall chuse for deputy any one of the landgraves of the grand council; and till he have by deputation under hand and seal chosen any one of the forementioned heirs apparent or landgraves to be his deputy, the eldest man of the landgraves, and, for want of a landgrave, the eldest man of the cassiques, who shall be personally in CAROLINA, shall of course be his deputy. LX. Each proprietor's deputy shall be always one of his own six counsellors respectively; and in case any of the proprietors hath not, in his absence out of CAROLINA, a deputy, commissioned under his hand and seal, the eldest nobleman of his court shall of course be his deputy. LXI. In every county there shall be a court, consisting of a sheriff, and four justices of the county, for every precinct one. The sheriff shall be an inhabitant of the county, and have at least five hundred acres of freehold within the said county; and the justices shall be inhabitants, and have each of them five hundred acres a-piece freehold within the precinct for which they serve respectively. These five shall be chosen and commissioned from time to time by the Palatine's court. LXII. For any personal causes exceeding the value of two hundred pounds sterling, or in title of land, or in any criminal cause; either party, upon paying twenty pounds sterling to the Lords Proprietors use, shall have liberty of appeal from the county-court unto the respective proprietor's court. LXIII. In every precinct there shall be a court consisting of a steward and four justices of the precinct, being inhabitants, and having three hundred acres of freehold within the said precinct, who shall judge all criminal causes; except for treason, murder, and any other offences punishable with death, and except all criminal causes of the nobility; and shall judge also all civil causes whatsoever; and in all personal actions not exceeding fifty pounds sterling, without appeal; but where the cause shall exceed that value, or concern a title of land, and in all criminal causes; there either party, upon paying five pounds sterling to the Lords Proprietors use, shall have liberty of appeal to the county-court. LXIV. No cause shall be twice tried in any one court, upon any reason or pretence whatsoever. LXV. For treason, murder, and all other offences punishable with death, there shall be a commission, twice a year at least, granted onto one or more members of the grand council or colleges, who shall come as itinerant judges to the several counties, and with the sheriff and four justices shall hold assizes to judge all such causes; but, upon paying of fifty pounds sterling to the Lords Proprietors use, there shall be liberty of appeal to the respective proprietor's court. LXVI. The grand jury at the several assizes, shall, upon their oaths, and under their hands and seals, deliver in to the itinerant judges a presentment of such grievances, misdemeanors, exigences, or defects, which they think necessary for the public good of the county; which presentments shall, by the itinerant judges, at the end of their circuit, be delivered in to the grand council at their next sitting. And whatsoever therein concerns the execution of laws already made; the several proprietors courts, in the matters belonging to each of them respectively, shall take cognizance of it and give such order about it, as shall be effectual for the due execution of the laws. But whatever concerns the making of any new law, shall be referred to the several respective courts to which that matter belongs, and be by them prepared and brought to the grand council. LXVII. For terms, there shall be quarterly such a certain number of days, not exceeding one and twenty at any one time, as the several respective courts shall appoint. The time for the beginning of the term, in the precinct-court, shall be the first Monday in January, April, July, and October; in the county-court, the first Monday in February, May, August, and November, and in the proprietors courts, the first Monday in March, June, September, and December. LXVIII. In the precinct-court no man shall be a jury-man under fifty acres of freehold. In the county-court, or at the assizes, no man shall be a grand jury-man under three hundred acres of freehold; and no man shall be a petty jury-man under two hundred acres of freehold. In the proprietors courts no man shall be a jury-man under five hundred acres of freehold. LXIX. Every jury shall consist of twelve men; and it shall not be necessary they should all agree, but the verdict shall be according to the consent of the majority. LXX. It shall be a base and vile thing to plead for money or reward; nor shall any one (except he be a near kinsman, not farther off than cousin-german to the party concerned) be permitted to plead another man's cause, till, before the judge in open court, he hath taken an oath, that he doth not plead for money or reward, nor hath nor will receive, nor directly nor indirectly bargained with the party, whose cause he is going to plead; for money or any other reward for pleading his cause. LXXI. There shall be a parliament, consisting of the proprietors or their deputies, the landgraves and cassiques, and one freeholder out of every precinct, to be chosen by the freeholders of the said precinct respectively. They shall sit all together in one room, and have every member one vote. LXXII. No man shall be chosen a member of parliament, who hath less than five hundred acres of freehold within the precinct for which he is chosen; nor shall any have a vote in chusing the said member that hath less than fifty acres of free-hold within the said precinct. LXXIII. A new parliament shall be assembled the first Monday of the month of November every second year, and shall meet and sit in the town they last sat in, without any summons, unless by the Palatine's court they be summoned to meet at any other place. And if there shall be any occasion of a parliament in these intervals, it shall be in the power of the Palatine's court to assemble them in forty days notice, and at such time and place as the said court shall think fit; and the Palatine's court shall have power to dissolve the said parliament when they shall think fit. LXXIV. At the opening of every parliament, the first thing that shall be done, shall be the reading of these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS, which the Palatine and proprietors, and the rest of the members then present shall subscribe. Nor shall any person whatsoever sit or vote in the parliament, till he hath that session subscribed these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS, in a book kept for that purpose by the clerk of the parliament. LXXV. In order to the due election of members for the biennial parliament, it shall be lawful for the freeholders of the respective precincts to meet the first Tuesday in September every two years, in the same town or place that they last met in, to chuse parliament-men; and there chuse those members that are to sit the next November following, unless the steward of the precinct shall, by sufficient notice thirty days before, appoint some other place for their meeting, in order to the election. LXXVI. No act or order of parliament shall be of any force, unless it he ratified in open parliament during the same session, by the Palatine or his deputy, and three more of the Lords Proprietors or their deputies; and then not to continue longer in force but until the next biennial parliament, unless in the mean time it be ratified under the hands and seals of the Palatine himself, and three more of the Lords Proprietors themselves, and by their order published at the next biennial parliament. LXXVII. Any proprietor or his deputy may enter his protestation against any act of the parliament, before the Palatine or his deputy's consent be given as aforesaid; if he shall conceive the said act to be contrary to this establishment, or any of these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS of the government. And in such case, after full and free debate, the several estates shall retire into four several chambers; the Palatine and proprietors into one; the landgraves into another; the cassiques into another; and those chosen by the precincts into a fourth: and if the major part of any of the four estates shall vote that the law is not agreeable to this establishment and these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS of the government, then it shall pass no farther, but be as if it had never been proposed. LXXVIII. The quorum of the parliament shall be one half of those who are members, and capable of fitting in the house that present session of parliament. The quorum of each of the chambers of parliament shall be one half of the members of that chamber. LXXIX. To avoid multiplicity of laws, which by degrees always change the right foundations of the original government, all acts of parliament whatsoever, in whatsoever form passed or enacted, shall, at the end of an hundred years after their enacting, respectively cease and determine of themselves, and without any repeal become null and void, as if no such acts of laws had ever been made. LXXX. Since multiplicity of comments, as well as of laws, have great inconveniences, and serve only to obscure and perplex; all manner of comments and expositions on any part of these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS, or any part of the common or statute law of CAROLINA, are absolutely prohibited. LXXXI. There shall be a registry in every precinct, wherein shall be enrolled all deeds, leases, judgments, mortgages, and other conveyances, which may concern any of the land within the said precinct; and all such conveyances not so entered or registered, shall not be of force against any person nor party to the said contract or conveyance. LXXXII. No man shall be register of any precinct, who hath not at least three hundred acres of freehold within the said precinct. LXXXIII. The freeholders of every precinct shall nominate three men; out of which three, the chief justice's court shall chuse and commission one to be register of the said precinct, whilst he shall well behave himself. LXXXIV. There shall be a registry in every signiory, barony, and colony, wherein shall be recorded all the births, marriages and deaths, that shall happen within the respective signiories, baronies, and colonies. LXXXV. No man shall be register of a colony, that hath not above fifty acres of freehold within the said colony. LXXXVI. The time of every one's age, that is born in CAROLINA, shall be reckoned from the day that his birth is entered in the registry, and not before. LXXXVII. No marriage shall be lawful, whatever contract and ceremony they have used, till both the parties mutually own it before the register of the place where they were married, and he register it, with the names of the father and mother of each party. LXXXVIII. No man shall administer to the goods, or have right to them, or enter upon the estate of any person deceased, till his death be registered in the respective registry. LXXXIX. He that doth not enter in the respective registry the birth or death of any person that is born or dies in his house or ground, shall pay to the said register one shilling per week for each such neglect, reckoning from the time of each birth or death respectively, to the time of registering it. XC. In like manner the births, marriages, and deaths of the Lords Proprietors, Landgraves, and Cassiques, shall be registered in the chamberlain's court. XCI. There shall be in every colony one constable to be chosen annually by the freeholders of the colony; his estate shall be above a hundred acres of freehold within the said colony, and such subordinate officers appointed for his assistance as the county-court shall find requisite, and shall be established by the said county-court. The election of the subordinate annual officers shall be also in the freeholders of the colony. XCII. All towns incorporate shall be governed by a Mayor, twelve Aldermen, and twenty-four of the common-council. The said common-council shall be chosen by the present housholders of the said town; the aldermen shall be chosen out of the common-council; and the mayor out of the aldermen, by the Palatine's court. XCIII. It being of great consequence to the plantation, that Port-Towns should be built and preserved; therefore, whosoever shall lade or unlade any commodity at any other place but a Port-Town, shall forfeit to the Lord's Proprietors for each run so laden or unladen, the sum of ten pounds sterling; except only such goods as the Palatine's court shall license to be laden or unladen elsewhere. XCIV. The first port-town upon every river shall be in a colony, and be a port-town for ever. XCV. No man shall be permitted to be a freeman of CAROLINA, or to have any estate or habitation within it, that doth not acknowledge a GOD; and that God is publicly and solemnly to be worshipped. XCVI. [As the country comes to be sufficiently planted and distributed into fit divisions, it shall belong to the parliament to take care for the building of churches, and the public maintenance of divines, to be employed in the exercise of religion, according to the church of England; which being the only true and orthodox, and the national religion of all the king's dominions, is so also of CAROLINA; and therefore it alone shall be allowed to receive public maintenance, by grant of parliament].[2] [2] This article was not drawn up by Mr. LOCKE; but inserted by some of the chief of the proprietors, against his judgment; as Mr. LOCKE himself informed one of his friends, to whom he presented a copy of these Constitutions. XCVII. But since the natives of that place, who will be concerned in our plantation, are utterly strangers to Christianity, whose idolatry, ignorance, or mistake, gives us no right to expel, or use them ill; and those who remove from other parts to plant there, will unavoidably be of different opinions concerning matters of religion, the liberty whereof they will expect to have allowed them, and it will not be reasonable for us on this account to keep them out; that civil peace may be maintained amidst the diversity of opinions, and our agreement and compact with all men may be duly and faithfully observed; the violation whereof, upon what pretence soever, cannot be without great offence to almighty God, and great scandal to the true religion, which we profess; and also that Jews, Heathens, and other dissenters from the purity of Christian religion, may not be scared and kept at a distance from it, but, by having an opportunity of acquainting themselves with the truth and reasonableness of its doctrines, and the peaceableness and inoffensiveness of its professors, may by good usage and persuasion, and all those convincing methods of gentleness and meekness suitable to the rules and design of the gospel, be won over to embrace and unfeignedly receive the truth; therefore any seven or more persons agreeing in any religion, shall constitute a church or profession, to which they shall give some name, to distinguish it from others. XCVIII. The terms of admittance and communion with any church or profession, shall be written in a book, and therein be subscribed by all the members of the said church or profession; which book shall be kept by the public register of the precinct where they reside. XCIX. The time of every one's subscription and admittance shall be dated in the said book of religious record. C. In the terms of communion of every church or profession, these following shall be three; without which no agreement or assembly of men, upon pretence of religion, shall be accounted a church or profession within these rules: 1. "That there is a GOD. 2. "That GOD is publicly to be worshipped. 3. "That it is lawful and the duty of every man, being thereunto called by those that govern, to bear witness to truth; and that every church or profession shall, in their terms of communion, set down the external way whereby they witness a truth as in the presence of GOD, whether it be by laying hands on, or kissing the Bible, as in the church of England, or by holding up the hand, or any other sensible way." CI. No person above seventeen years of age shall have any benefit or protection of the law, or be capable of any place of profit or honour, who is not a member of some church or profession, having his name recorded in some one, and but one religious record at once. CII. No person of any other church or profession shall disturb or molest any religious assembly. CIII. No person whatsoever shall speak any thing in their religious assembly irreverently or seditiously of the government, or governors, or state matters. CIV. Any person subscribing the terms of communion in the record of the said church or profession, before the precinct register, and any five members of the said church or profession, shall be thereby made a member of the said church or profession. CV. Any person striking out his own name out of any religious record, or his name being struck out by any officer thereunto authorised by each church or profession respectively, shall cease to be a member of that church or profession. CVI. No man shall use any reproachful, reviling, or abusive language, against the religion of any church or profession; that being the certain way of disturbing the peace, and of hindering the conversion of any to the truth, by engaging them in quarrels and animosities, to the hatred of the professors and that profession, which otherwise they might be brought to assent to. CVII. Since charity obliges us to wish well to the souls of all men, and religion ought to alter nothing in any man's civil estate or right, it shall be lawful for slaves, as well as others, to enter themselves, and be of what church or profession any of them shall think best, and therefore be as fully members as any freeman. But yet no slave shall hereby be exempted from that civil dominion his master hath over him, but be in all other things in the same state and condition he was in before. CVIII. Assemblies, upon what pretence soever of religion, not observing and performing the abovesaid rules, shall not be esteemed as churches, but unlawful meetings, and be punished as other riots. CIX. No person whatsoever shall disturb, molest, or persecute another for his speculative opinions in religion, or his way of worship. CX. Every freeman of CAROLINA shall have absolute power and authority over his negro slaves, of what opinion or religion soever. CXI. No cause, whether civil or criminal, of any freeman, shall be tried in any court of judicature, without a jury of his peers. CXII. No person whatsoever shall hold or claim any land in CAROLINA by purchase or gift, or otherwise, from the natives, or any other whatsoever; but merely from and under the Lords Proprietors; upon pain of forfeiture of all his estate, moveable or immoveable, and perpetual banishment. CXIII. Whosoever shall possess any freehold in CAROLINA, upon what title or grant soever, shall, at the farthest, from and after the year one thousand six hundred and eighty-nine, pay yearly unto the Lords Proprietors for each acre of land, English measure, as much fine silver as is at this present in one English penny, or the value thereof, to be as a chief rent and acknowledgment to the Lords Proprietors; their heirs and successors, for ever. And it shall be lawful for the Palatine's court, by their officers at any time, to take a new survey of any man's land, not to out him of any part of his possession, but that by such a survey the just number of acres he possesseth may be known, and the rent thereupon due may be paid by him. CXIV. All wrecks, mines, minerals, quarries of gems, and precious stones, with pearl-fishing, whale-fishing, and one half of all ambergrease, by whomsoever found, shall wholly belong to the Lords Proprietors. CXV. All revenues and profits belonging to the Lords Proprietors in common shall be divided into ten parts, whereof the Palatine shall have three and each proprietor one; but if the Palatine shall govern by a deputy, his deputy shall have one of those three tenths, and the Palatine the other two tenths. CXVI. All inhabitants and freemen of CAROLINA above seventeen years of age, and under sixty, shall be bound to bear arms, and serve as soldiers whenever the grand council shall find it necessary. CXVII. A true copy of three FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS shall be kept in a great book by the register of every precinct, to be subscribed before the said register. Nor shall any person, of what condition or degree soever, above seventeen years old, have any estate or possession in CAROLINA, or protection or benefit of the law there, who hath not before a precinct register subscribed three FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS in this form: "I A. B. do promise to bear faith and true allegiance to our sovereign lord king CHARLES the Second, his heirs and successors; and will be true and faithful to the Palatine and Lords Proprietors of CAROLINA, their heirs and successors; and with my utmost power will defend them, and maintain the government according to this establishment in these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS." CXVIII. Whatsoever alien shall, in this form, before any precinct register, subscribe these fundamental constitutions, shall be thereby naturalized. CXIX. In the same manner shall every person, at his admittance into any office, subscribe these FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS. CXX. These FUNDAMENTAL CONSTITUTIONS, in number a hundred and twenty, and every part thereof, shall be and remain the sacred and unalterable form and rule of government of CAROLINA for ever. Witness our hands and seals, the first day of March, 1669. RULES of PRECEDENCY. I. The Lords Proprietors; the eldest in age first, and so in order. II. The eldest sons of the Lords Proprietors; the eldest in age first, and so in order. III. The landgraves of the grand council; he that hath been longest of the grand council first, and so in order. IV. The cassiques of the grand council; he that hath been longest of the grand council first, and so in order. V. The seven commoners of the grand council that have been longest of the grand council; he that hath been longest of the grand council first, and so in order. VI. The younger sons of proprietors; the eldest first, and so in order. VII. The landgraves; the eldest in age first, and so in order. VIII. The seven commoners, who, next to those before-mentioned, have been longest of the grand council; he that hath been longest of the grand council first, and so in order. IX. The cassiques; the eldest in age first, and so in order. X. The seven remaining commoners of the grand council; he that hath been longest of the grand council first, and so in order. XI. The male line of the proprietors. The rest shall be determined by the chamberlain's court. 
1838	----	A NEW VOYAGE TO CAROLINA By John Lawson [British Surveyor-General of North Carolina. d. 1711.] A New VOYAGE to CAROLINA; Containing the Exact Description and Natural History of that COUNTRY: Together with the Present State thereof. And A JOURNAL Of a Thousand Miles, Travel'd thro' several Nations of INDIANS. Giving a particular Account of their Customs, Manners, &c. By John Lawson, Gent. Surveyor-General of North Carolina. TN: To assure a high quality text, the original was typed in (manually) twice and electronically compared. [Some obvious errors have been corrected. (See Notes at end of file.)] [Dedication] To His Excellency WILLIAM Lord CRAVEN, Palatine; The most Noble, HENRY Duke of BEAUFORT; The Right Hon-ble JOHN Lord CARTERET; The Hon-ble MAURICE ASHLEY, Esq; Sir JOHN COLLETON, Baronet, JOHN DANSON, Esq; And the rest of the True and Absolute LORDS-PROPRIETORS of the Province of Carolina in America. My Lords, As Debts of Gratitude ought most punctually to be paid, so, where the Debtor is uncapable of Payment, Acknowledgments ought, at least, to be made. I cannot, in the least, pretend to retaliate Your Lordships Favours to me, but must farther intrude on that Goodness of which I have already had so good Experience, by laying these Sheets at Your Lordships Feet, where they beg Protection, as having nothing to recommend them, but Truth; a Gift which every Author may be Master of, if he will. I here present Your Lordships with a Description of your own Country, for the most part, in her Natural Dress, and therefore less vitiated with Fraud and Luxury. A Country, whose Inhabitants may enjoy a Life of the greatest Ease and Satisfaction, and pass away their Hours in solid Contentment. Those Charms of Liberty and Right, the Darlings of an English Nature, which Your Lordships grant and maintain, make you appear Noble Patrons in the Eyes of all Men, and we a happy People in a Foreign Country; which nothing less than Ingratitude and Baseness can make us disown. As Heaven has been liberal in its Gifts, so are Your Lordships favourable Promoters of whatever may make us an easy People; which, I hope, Your Lordships will continue to us and our Posterity; and that we and they may always acknowledge such Favours, by banishing from among us every Principle which renders Men factious and unjust, which is the hearty Prayer of, My Lords, Your Lordships most obliged, most humble, and most devoted Servant, JOHN LAWSON. PREFACE. 'Tis a great Misfortune, that most of our Travellers, who go to this vast Continent in America, are Persons of the meaner Sort, and generally of a very slender Education; who being hir'd by the Merchants, to trade amongst the Indians, in which Voyages they often spend several Years, are yet, at their Return, uncapable of giving any reasonable Account of what they met withal in those remote Parts; tho' the Country abounds with Curiosities worthy a nice Observation. In this Point, I think, the French outstrip us. First, By their Numerous Clergy, their Missionaries being obedient to their Superiors in the highest Degree, and that Obedience being one great Article of their Vow, and strictly observ'd amongst all their Orders. Secondly, They always send abroad some of their Gentlemen in Company of the Missionaries, who, upon their Arrival, are order'd out into the Wilderness, to make Discoveries, and to acquaint themselves with the Savages of America; and are oblig'd to keep a strict Journal of all the Passages they meet withal, in order to present the same not only to their Governors and Fathers, but likewise to their Friends and Relations in France; which is industriously spread about that Kingdom, to their Advantage. For their Monarch being a very good Judge of Mens Deserts, does not often let Money or Interest make Men of Parts give Place to others of less Worth. This breeds an Honourable Emulation amongst them, to outdo one another, even in Fatigues, and Dangers; whereby they gain a good Correspondence with the Indians, and acquaint themselves with their Speech and Customs; and so make considerable Discoveries in a short time. Witness, their Journals from Canada, to the Missisipi, and its several Branches, where they have effected great Matters, in a few Years. Having spent most of my Time, during my eight Years Abode in Carolina, in travelling; I not only survey'd the Sea-Coast and those Parts which are already inhabited by the Christians, but likewise view'd a spatious Tract of Land, lying betwixt the Inhabitants and the Ledges of Mountains, from whence our noblest Rivers have their Rise, running towards the Ocean, where they water as pleasant a Country as any in Europe; the Discovery of which being never yet made publick, I have, in the following Sheets, given you a faithful Account thereof, wherein I have laid down every thing with Impartiality, and Truth, which is indeed, the Duty of every Author, and preferable to a smooth Stile, accompany'd with Falsities and Hyperboles. Great Part of this pleasant and healthful Country is inhabited by none but Savages, who covet a Christian Neighbourhood, for the Advantage of Trade, and enjoy all the Comforts of Life free from Care and Want. But not to amuse my Readers any longer with the Encomium of Carolina, I refer 'em to my Journal, and other more particular Description of that Country and its Inhabitants, which they will find after the Natural History thereof, in which I have been very exact, and for Method's sake, rang'd each Species under its distinct and proper Head. INTRODUCTION. In the Year 1700, when People flock'd from all Parts of the Christian World, to see the Solemnity of the Grand Jubilee at Rome, my Intention, at that Time, being to travel, I accidentally met with a Gentleman, who had been Abroad, and was very well acquainted with the Ways of Living in both Indies; of whom, having made Enquiry concerning them, he assur'd me, that Carolina was the best Country I could go to; and, that there then lay a Ship in the Thames, in which I might have my Passage. I laid hold on this Opportunity, and was not long on Board, before we fell down the River, and sail'd to Cowes; where, having taken in some Passengers, we proceeded on our Voyage 'till we sprung a-leak, and were forc'd into the Islands of Scilly. Here we spent about 10 Days in refitting; in which Time we had a great deal of Diversion in Fishing and Shooting on those rocky Islands. The Inhabitants were very courteous and civil, especially the Governor, to whose good Company and Favour, we were very much oblig'd. There is a Town on one of these Islands, where is good Entertainment for those that happen to come in, though the Land is but mean, and Flesh-meat not Plenty. They have good Store of Rabbits, Quails, and Fish; and you see at the poor Peoples Doors great Heaps of Perriwinkle-shells, those Fish being a great Part of their Food. On the 1st Day of May, having a fair Wind at East, we put to Sea, and were on the Ocean (without speaking to any Vessel, except a Ketch bound from New England to Barbadoes, laden with Horses, Fish, and Provisions) 'till the latter End of July, when the Winds hung so much Southerly, that we could not get to our Port, but put into Sandyhook-bay, and went up to New York, after a pinching Voyage, caus'd by our long Passage. We found at the Watering-Place, a French Man of War, who had on Board Men and Necessaries to make a Colony, and was intended for the Messiasippi River, there to settle. The Country of New-York is very pleasant in Summer, but in the Winter very cold, as all the Northern Plantations are. Their chief Commodities are Provisions, Bread, Beer, Lumber, and Fish in abundance; all which are very good, and some Skins and Furrs are hence exported. The City is govern'd by a Mayor, (as in England) is seated on an Island, and lies very convenient for Trade and Defence, having a regular Fort, and well mounted with Guns. The Buildings are generally of a smaller Sort of Flemish Brick, and of the Dutch Fashion, (excepting some few Houses:) They are all very firm and good Work, and conveniently plac'd, as is likewise the Town, which gives a very pleasant Prospect of the neighbouring Islands and Rivers. A good Part of the Inhabitants are Dutch, in whose Hands this Colony once was. After a Fortnight's Stay here, we put out from Sandyhook, and in 14 Days after, arriv'd at Charles-Town, the Metropolis of South Carolina, which is soituate in 32, 45 North Latitude, and admits of large Ships to come over their Bar up to the Town, where is a very commodious Harbour, about 5 Miles distant from the Inlet, and stands on a Point very convenient for Trade, being seated between two pleasant and navigable Rivers. The Town has very regular and fair Streets, in which are good Buildings of Brick and Wood, and since my coming thence, has had great Additions of beautiful, large Brick-buildings, besides a strong Fort, and regular Fortifications made to defend the Town. The Inhabitants, by their wise Management and Industry, have much improv'd the Country, which is in as thriving Circumstances at this Time, as any Colony on the Continent of English America, and is of more Advantage to the Crown of Great Britain, than any of the other more Northerly Plantations, (Virginia and Maryland excepted.) This Colony was at first planted by a genteel Sort of People, that were well acquainted with Trade, and had either Money or Parts, to make good Use of the Advantages that offer'd, as most of them have done, by raising themselves to great Estates, and considerable Places of Trust, and Posts of Honour, in this thriving Settlement. Since the first Planters, abundance of French and others have gone over, and rais'd themselves to considerable Fortunes. They are very neat and exact in Packing and Shipping of their Commodities; which Method has got them so great a Character Abroad, that they generally come to a good Market with their Commodities; when oftentimes the Product of other Plantations, are forc'd to be sold at lower Prizes. They have a considerable Trade both to Europe, and the West Indies, whereby they become rich, and are supply'd with all Things necessary for Trade, and genteel Living, which several other Places fall short of. Their co-habiting in a Town, has drawn to them ingenious People of most Sciences, whereby they have Tutors amongst them that educate their Youth a-la-mode. Their Roads, with great Industry, are made very good and pleasant. Near the Town is built a fair Parsonage-house, with necessary Offices, and the Minister has a very considerable Allowance from his Parish. There is likewise a French Church in Town, of the Reform'd Religion, and several Meeting-houses for dissenting Congregations, who all enjoy at this Day an entire Liberty of their Worship; the Constitution of this Government, allowing all Parties of well-meaning Christians to enjoy a free Toleration, and possess the same Priviledges, so long as they appear to behave themselves peaceably and well: It being the Lords Proprietors Intent, that the Inhabitants of Carolina should be as free from Oppression, as any in the Universe; which doubtless they will, if their own Differences amongst themselves do not occasion the contrary. They have a well-disciplin'd Militia; their Horse are most Gentlemen, and well mounted, and the best in America, and may equalize any in other Parts: Their Officers, both Infantry and Cavalry, generally appear in scarlet Mountings, and as rich as in most Regiments belonging to the Crown, which shews the Richness and Grandeur of this Colony. They are a Fronteer, and prove such troublesome Neighbours to the Spaniards, that they have once laid their Town of St. Augustine in Ashes, and drove away their Cattle; besides many Encounters and Engagements, in which they have defeated them, too tedious to relate here. What the French got by their Attempt against South Carolina, will hardly ever be rank'd amongst their Victories; their Admiral Mouville being glad to leave the Enterprize, and run away, after he had suffer'd all the Loss and Disgrace he was capable of receiving. They are absolute Masters over the Indians, and carry so strict a Hand over such as are within the Circle of their Trade, that none does the least Injury to any of the English, but he is presently sent for, and punish'd with Death, or otherwise, according to the Nature of the Fault. They have an entire Friendship with the neighbouring Indians of several Nations, which are a very warlike People, ever faithful to the English, and have prov'd themselves brave and true on all Occasions; and are a great Help and Strength to this Colony. The Chief of the savage Nations have heretofore groan'd under the Spanish Yoke, and having experienc'd their Cruelty, are become such mortal Enemies to that People, that they never give a Spaniard Quarter; but generally, when they take any Prisoners, (if the English be not near to prevent it) sculp them, that is, to take their Hair and Skin of their Heads, which they often flea away, whilst the Wretch is alive. Notwithstanding the English have us'd all their Endeavours, yet they could never bring them to leave this Barbarity to the Spaniards; who, as they alledge, use to murder them and their Relations, and make Slaves of them to build their Forts and Towns. This Place is more plentiful in Money, than most, or indeed any of the Plantations on the Continent; besides, they build a considerable Number of Vessels of Cedar, and other Wood, with which they trade to Cuirassau, and the West Indies; from one they bring Money, and from the other the Produce of their Islands, which yields a necessary Supply of both to the Colony. Their Stocks of Cattle are incredible, being from one to two thousand Head in one Man's Possession: These feed in the Savannas, and other Grounds, and need no Fodder in the Winter. Their Mutton and Veal is good, and their Pork is not inferior to any in America. As for Pitch and Tar, none of the Plantations are comparable for affording the vast Quantities of Naval Stores, as this Place does. There have been heretofore some Discoveries of rich Mines in the mountanous Part of this Country; but being remote from the present Settlement, and the Inhabitants not well vers'd in ordering Minerals, they have been laid aside 'till a more fit Opportunity happens. There are several noble Rivers, and spacious Tracts of rich Land in their Lordships Dominions, lying to the Southward, which are yet uninhabited, besides Port Royal, a rare Harbour and Inlet, having many Inhabitants thereon, which their Lordships have now made a Port for Trade. This will be a most advantageous Settlement, lying so commodiously for Ships coming from the Gulph, and the Richness of the Land, which is reported to be there. These more Southerly Parts will afford Oranges, Limons, Limes, and many other Fruits, which the Northerly Plantations yield not. The Merchants of Carolina, are fair, frank Traders. The Gentlemen seated in the Country, are very courteous, live very nobly in their Houses, and give very genteel Entertainment to all Strangers and others, that come to visit them. And since the Produce of South and North Carolina is the same, unless Silk, which this Place produces great Quantities of, and very good, North Carolina having never made any Tryal thereof as yet, therefore I shall refer the natural Produce of this Country, to that Part which treats of North Carolina, whose Productions are much the same. The Christian Inhabitants of both Colonies pretty equal, but the Slaves of South Carolina are far more in Number than those in the North. I shall now proceed to relate my Journey thro' the Country, from this Settlement to the other, and then treat of the natural History of Carolina, with other remarkable Circumstances which I have met with, during my eight Years Abode in that Country. A JOURNAL of A thousand Miles Travel among the Indians, from South to North Carolina. {Saturday.} On December the 28th, 1700, I began my Voyage (for North Carolina) from Charles-Town, being six English-men in Company, with three Indian-men, and one Woman, Wife to our Indian-Guide, having five Miles from the Town to the Breach we went down in a large Canoe, that we had provided for our Voyage thither, having the Tide of Ebb along with us; which was so far spent by that Time we got down, that we had not Water enough for our Craft to go over, although we drew but two Foot, or thereabouts. This Breach is a Passage through a Marsh lying to the Northward of Sullivans Island, the Pilot's having a Look out thereon, lying very commodious for Mariners, (on that Coast) making a good Land-Mark in so level a Country, this Bar being difficult to hit, where an Observation hath been wanting for a Day or two; North East Winds bringing great Fogs, Mists, and Rains; which, towards the cool Months of October, November, and until the latter End of March, often appear in these Parts. There are three Pilots to attend, and conduct Ships over the Bar. The Harbour where the Vessels generally ride, is against the Town on Cooper's River, lying within a Point which parts that and Ashley-River, they being Land lock'd almost on all Sides. At 4 in the Afternoon, (at half Flood) we pass'd with our Canoe over the Breach, leaving Sullivans Island on our Starboard. The first Place we design'd for, was Santee River, on which there is a Colony of French Protestants, allow'd and encourag'd by the Lords Proprietors. At Night we got to Bell's-Island, a poor Spot of Land, being about ten Miles round, where liv'd (at that Time) a Bermudian, being employ'd here with a Boy, to look after a Stock of Cattle and Hogs, by the Owner of this Island. One Side of the Roof of his House was thatch'd with Palmeto-leaves, the other open to the Heavens, thousands of Musketoes, and other troublesome Insects, tormenting both Man and Beast inhabiting these Islands. {Palmeto-trees.} The Palmeto-trees, whose Leaves growing only on the Top of the Tree, in the Shape of a Fan, and in a Cluster, like a Cabbage; this Tree in Carolina, when at its utmost Growth, is about forty or fifty Foot in Height, and two Foot through: It's worth mentioning, that the Growth of the Tree is not perceivable in the Age of any Man, the Experiment having been often try'd in Bermudas, and elsewhere, which shews the slow Growth of this Vegitable, the Wood of it being porous and stringy, like some Canes; the Leaves thereof the Bermudians make Womens Hats, Bokeets, Baskets, and pretty Dressing-boxes, a great deal being transported to Pensilvania, and other Northern Parts of America, (where they do not grow) for the same Manufacture. The People of Carolina make of the Fans of this Tree, Brooms very serviceable, to sweep their Houses withal. We took up our Lodging this Night with the Bermudian; our Entertainment was very indifferent, there being no fresh Water to be had on the Island. The next Morning we set away thro' the Marshes; about Noon we reach'd another Island, call'd Dix's Island, much like to the former, tho' larger; there liv'd an honest Scot, who gave us the best Reception his Dwelling afforded, being well provided of Oat-meal, and several other Effects he had found on that Coast; which Goods belong'd to that unfortunate Vessel, the Rising Sun, a Scotch Man of War, lately arriv'd from the Istmus of Darien, and cast away near the Bar of Ashley River, the September before, Capt. Gibson of Glasco then commanding her, who, with above an hundred Men then on Board her, {Septem. 5. 1700.} were every Soul drown'd in that terrible Gust which then happen'd; most of the Corps being taken up, were carefully interr'd by Mr. Graham, their Lieutenant, who happily was on Shore during the Tempest. After Dinner, we left our Scotch Landlord, and went that Night to the North East Point of the Island: It being dark ere we got there, our Canoe struck on a Sand near the Breakers, and were in great Danger of our Lives, but (by God's Blessing) got off safe to the Shore, where we lay all Night. {Monday.} In the Morning we set forwards on our intended Voyage. About two a Clock we got to Bulls Island, which is about thirty Miles long, and hath a great Number of both Cattel and Hogs upon it; the Cattel being very wild, and the Hogs very lean. These two last Islands belong to one Colonel Cary, an Inhabitant of South Carolina. Although it were Winter, yet we found such Swarms of Musketoes, and other troblesome Insects, that we got but little Rest that Night. {Tuesday.} The next Day we intended for a small Island on the other Side of Sewee-Bay, which joining to these Islands, Shipping might come to victual or careen; but there being such a Burden of those Flies, that few or none cares to settle there; so the Stock thereon are run wild. We were gotten about half Way to Racoon-Island, when there sprung up a tart Gale at N.W. which put us in some Danger of being cast away, the Bay being rough, and there running great Seas between the two Islands, which are better than four Leagues asunder, a strong Current of a Tide setting in and out, which made us turn Tail to it, and got our Canoe right before the Wind, and came safe into a Creek that is joining to the North End of Bulls Island. We sent our Indians to hunt, who brought us two Deers, which were very poor, and their Maws full of large Grubs. {Wednesday.} On the Morrow we went and visited the Eastermost Side of this Island, it joining to the Ocean, having very fair sandy Beeches, pav'd with innumerable Sorts of curious pretty Shells, very pleasant to the Eye. Amongst the rest, we found the Spanish Oyster-Shell, whence come the Pearls. They are very large, and of a different Form from other Oysters; their Colour much resembles the Tortoise-Shell, when it is dress'd. There was left by the Tide several strange Species of a muciligmous slimy Substance, though living, and very aptly mov'd at their first Appearance; yet, being left on the dry Sand, (by the Beams of the Sun) soon exhale and vanish. At our Return to our Quarters, the Indians had kill'd two more Deer, two wild Hogs, and three Racoons, all very lean, except the Racoons. We had great Store of Oysters, Conks, and Clanns, a large Sort of Cockles. These Parts being very well furnish'd with Shell-Fish, Turtle of several Sorts, but few or none of the green, with other Sorts of Salt-water Fish, and in the Season, good Plenty of Fowl, as Curleus, Gulls, Gannets, and Pellicans, besides Duck and Mallard, Geese, Swans, Teal, Widgeon, &c. {Thursday.} On Thursday Morning we left Bulls Island, and went thro' the Creeks, which lie between the Bay and the main Land. At Noon we went on Shore, and got our Dinner near a Plantation, on a Creek having the full Prospect of Sewee-Bay: We sent up to the House, but found none at Home, but a Negro, of whom our Messenger purchas'd some small Quantity of Tobacco and Rice. We came to a deserted Indian Residence, call'd Avendaugh-bough, where we rested that Night. {Friday.} The next Day we enter'd Santee-River's Mouth, where is fresh Water, occasion'd by the extraordinary Current that comes down continually. With hard Rowing, we got two Leagues up the River, lying all Night in a swampy Piece of Ground, the Weather being so cold all that Time, we were almost frozen ere Morning, leaving the Impressions of our Bodies on the wet Ground. We set forward very early in the Morning, to seek some better Quarters. {Saturday.} As we row'd up the River, we found the Land towards the Mouth, and for about sixteen Miles up it, scarce any Thing but Swamp and Percoarson, {Percoarson, a Sort of low Land.} affording vast Ciprus-Trees, of which the French make Canoes, that will carry fifty or sixty Barrels. After the Tree is moulded and dug, they saw them in two Pieces, and so put a Plank between, and a small Keel, to preserve them from the Oyster-Banks, which are innumerable in the Creeks and Bays betwixt the French Settlement and Charles-Town. They carry two Masts, and Bermudas Sails, which makes them very handy and fit for their Purpose; for although their River fetches its first Rise from the Mountains, and continues a Current some hundreds of Miles ere it disgorges it self, having no sound Bay or Sand-Banks betwixt the Mouth thereof, and the Ocean. Notwithstanding all this, with the vast Stream it affords at all Seasons, and the repeated Freshes it so often allarms the Inhabitants with, by laying under Water great Part of their Country, yet the Mouth is barr'd, affording not above four or five Foot Water at the Entrance. As we went up the River, we heard a great Noise, as if two Parties were engag'd against each other, seeming exactly like small Shot. {Sewee Indians.} When we approach'd nearer the Place, we found it to be some Sewee Indians firing the Canes Swamps, which drives out the Game, then taking their particular Stands, kill great Quantities of both Bear, Deer, Turkies, and what wild Creatures the Parts afford. These Sewees have been formerly a large Nation, though now very much decreas'd, since the English hath seated their Land, and all other Nations of Indians are observ'd to partake of the same Fate, where the Europeans come, the Indians being a People very apt to catch any Distemper they are afflicted withal; the Small-Pox has destroy'd many thousands of these Natives, who no sooner than they are attack'd with the violent Fevers, and the Burning which attends that Distemper, fling themselves over Head in the Water, in the very Extremity of the Disease; which shutting up the Pores, hinders a kindly Evacuation of the pestilential Matter, and drives it back; by which Means Death most commonly ensues; not but in other Distempers which are epidemical, you may find among 'em Practitioners that have extraordinary Skill and Success in removing those morbifick Qualities which afflict 'em, not often going above 100 Yards from their Abode for their Remedies, some of their chiefest Physicians commonly carrying their Compliment of Drugs continually about them, which are Roots, Barks, Berries, Nuts, &c. that are strung upon a Thread. So like a Pomander, the Physician wears them about his Neck. An Indian hath been often found to heal an English-man of a Malady, for the Value of a Match-Coat; which the ablest of our English Pretenders in America, after repeated Applications, have deserted the Patient as incurable; God having furnish'd every Country with specifick Remedies for their peculiar Diseases. {Rum.} Rum, a Liquor now so much in Use with them, that they will part with the dearest Thing they have, to purchase it; and when they have got a little in their Heads, are the impatients Creatures living, 'till they have enough to make 'em quite drunk; and the most miserable Spectacles when they are so, some falling into the Fires, burn their Legs or Arms, contracting the Sinews, and become Cripples all their Life-time; others from Precipices break their Bones and Joints, with abundance of Instances, yet none are so great to deter them from that accurs'd Practice of Drunkenness, though sensible how many of them (are by it) hurry'd into the other World before their Time, as themselves oftentimes will confess. The Indians, I was now speaking of, were not content with the common Enemies that lessen and destroy their Country-men, but invented an infallible Stratagem to purge their Tribe, and reduce their Multitude into far less Numbers. Their Contrivance was thus, as a Trader amongst them inform'd me. They seeing several Ships coming in, to bring the English Supplies from Old England, one chief Part of their Cargo being for a Trade with the Indians, some of the craftiest of them had observ'd, that the Ships came always in at one Place, which made them very confident that Way was the exact Road to England; and seeing so many Ships come thence, they believ'd it could not be far thither, esteeming the English that were among them, no better than Cheats, and thought, if they could carry the Skins and Furs they got, themselves to England, which were inhabited with a better Sort of People than those sent amongst them, that then they should purchase twenty times the Value for every Pelt they sold Abroad, in Consideration of what Rates they sold for at Home. The intended Barter was exceeding well approv'd of, and after a general Consultation of the ablest Heads amongst them, it was, `Nemine Contradicente', agreed upon, immediately to make an Addition of their Fleet, by building more Canoes, and those to be of the best Sort, and biggest Size, as fit for their intended Discovery. Some Indians were employ'd about making the Canoes, others to hunting, every one to the Post he was most fit for, all Endeavours tending towards an able Fleet and Cargo for Europe. The Affair was carry'd on with a great deal of Secrecy and Expedition, so as in a small Time they had gotten a Navy, Loading, Provisions, and Hands ready to set Sail, leaving only the Old, Impotent, and Minors at Home, 'till their successful Return. {They never hearing more of their Fleet.} The Wind presenting, they set up their Mat-Sails, and were scarce out of Sight, when there rose a Tempest, which it's suppos'd carry'd one Part of these Indian Merchants, by Way of the other World, whilst the others were taken up at Sea by an English Ship, and sold for Slaves to the Islands. The Remainder are better satisfy'd with their Imbecilities in such an Undertaking, nothing affronting them more, than to rehearse their Voyage to England. There being a strong Current in Santee-River, caus'd us to make small Way with our Oars. With hard Rowing, we got that Night to Mons. Eugee's House, which stands about fifteen Miles up the River, being the first Christian dwelling we met withal in that Settlement, and were very courteously receiv'd by him and his Wife. Many of the French follow a Trade with the Indians, living very conveniently for that Interest. There is about seventy Families seated on this River, who live as decently and happily, as any Planters in these Southward Parts of America. The French being a temperate industrious People, some of them bringing very little of Effects, yet by their Endeavours and mutual Assistance amongst themselves, (which is highly to be commended) have out-stript our English, who brought with 'em larger Fortunes, though (as it seems) less endeavour to manage their Talent to the best Advantage. 'Tis admirable to see what Time and Industry will (with God's Blessing) effect. Carolina affording many strange Revolutions in the Age of a Man, daily Instances presenting themselves to our View, of so many, from despicable Beginnings, which in a short Time arrive to very splended Conditions. Here Propriety hath a large Scope, there being no strict Laws to bind our Privileges. A Quest after Game, being as freely and peremptorily enjoy'd by the meanest Planter, as he that is the highest in Dignity, or wealthiest in the Province. Deer, and other Game that are naturally wild, being not immur'd, or preserv'd within Boundaries, to satisfy the Appetite of the Rich alone. A poor Labourer, that is Master of his Gun, &c. hath as good a Claim to have continu'd Coarses of Delicacies crouded upon his Table, as he that is Master of a greater Purse. We lay all that Night at Mons. Eugee's, and the next Morning set out farther, to go the Remainder of our Voyage by Land: At ten a Clock we pass'd over a narrow, deep Swamp, having left the three Indian Men and one Woman, that had pilotted the Canoe from Ashly-River, having hir'd a Sewee-Indian, a tall, lusty Fellow, who carry'd a Pack of our Cloaths, of great Weight; notwithstanding his Burden, we had much a-do to keep pace with him. At Noon we came up with several French Plantations, meeting with several Creeks by the Way, the French were very officious in assisting with their small Dories to pass over these Waters, (whom we met coming from their Church) being all of them very clean and decent in their Apparel; their Houses and Plantations suitable in Neatness and Contrivance. They are all of the same Opinion with the Church of Geneva, there being no Difference amongst them concerning the Punctilio's of their Christian Faith; which Union hath propagated a happy and delightful Concord in all other Matters throughout the whole Neighbourhood; living amongst themselves as one Trible, or Kindred, every one making it his Business to be assistant to the Wants of his Country-man, preserving his Estate and Reputation with the same Exactness and Concern as he does his own; all seeming to share in the Misfortunes, and rejoyce at the Advance, and Rise, of their Brethren. Towards the Afternoon, we came to Mons. L'Jandro, where we got our Dinner; there coming some French Ladies whilst we were there, who were lately come from England, and Mons. L'Grand, a worthy Norman, who hath been a great Sufferer in his Estate, by the Persecution in France, against those of the Protestant Religion: This Gentleman very kindly invited us to make our Stay with him all Night, but we being intended farther that Day, took our Leaves, returning Acknowledgments of their Favours. About 4 in the Afternoon, we pass'd over a large Ciprus run in a small Canoe; the French Doctor sent his Negro to guide us over the Head of a large Swamp; so we got that Night to Mons. Galliar's the elder, who lives in a very curious contriv'd House, built of Brick and Stone, which is gotten near that Place. Near here comes in the Road from Charles-Town, and the rest of the English Settlement, it being a very good Way by Land, and not above 36 Miles, altho' more than 100 by Water; and I think the most difficult Way I ever saw, occasion'd by Reason of the multitude of Creeks lying along the Main, keeping their Course thro' the Marshes, turning and winding like a Labyrinth, having the Tide of Ebb and Flood twenty Times in less than three Leagues going. {Monday.} The next Morning very early, we ferry'd over a Creek that runs near the House; and, after an Hour's Travel in the Woods, we came to the River-side, where we stay'd for the Indian, who was our Guide, and was gone round by Water in a small Canoe, to meet us at that Place we rested at. He came after a small Time, and ferry'd us in that little Vessel over Santee River 4 Miles, and 84 Miles in the Woods, which the over-flowing of the Freshes, which then came down, had made a perfect Sea of, there running an incredible Current in the River, which had cast our small Craft, and us, away, had we not had this Sewee Indian with us; who are excellent Artists in managing these small Canoes. Santee River, at this Time, (from the usual Depth of Water) was risen perpendicular 36 Foot, always making a Breach from her Banks, about this Season of the Year: The general Opinion of the Cause thereof, is suppos'd to proceed from the overflowing of fresh Water-Lakes that lie near the Head of this River, and others, upon the same Continent: But my Opinion is, that these vast Inundations proceed from the great and repeated Quantities of Snow that falls upon the Mountains, which lie at so great a Distance from the Sea, therefore they have no Help of being dissolv'd by those saline, piercing Particles, as other adjacent Parts near the Ocean receive; and therefore lies and increases to a vast Bulk, until some mild Southerly Breezes coming on a sudden, continue to unlock these frozen Bodies, congeal'd by the North-West Wind, dissipating them in Liquids; and coming down with Impetuosity, fills those Branches that feed these Rivers, and causes this strange Deluge, which oft-times lays under Water the adjacent Parts on both Sides this Current, for several Miles distant from her Banks; tho' the French and Indians affir'm'd to me, they never knew such an extraordinary Flood there before. We all, by God's Blessing, and the Endeavours of our Indian-Pilot, pass'd safe over the River, but was lost in the Woods, which seem'd like some great Lake, except here and there a Knowl of high Land, which appear'd above Water. We intended for Mons. Galliar's, jun', but was lost, none of us knowing the Way at that Time, altho' the Indian was born in that Country, it having receiv'd so strange a Metamorphosis. We were in several Opinions concerning the right Way, the Indian and my self, suppos'd the House to bear one Way, the rest thought to the contrary; we differing, it was agreed on amongst us, that one half should go with the Indian to find the House, and the other part to stay upon one of these dry Spots, until some of them return'd to us, and inform'd us where it lay. My self and two more were left behind, by Reason the Canoe would not carry us all; we had but one Gun amongst us, one Load of Ammunition, and no Provision. Had our Men in the Canoe miscarry'd, we must (in all Probability) there have perish'd. In about six Hours Time, from our Mens Departure, the Indian came back to us in the same Canoe he went in, being half drunk, which assur'd us they had found some Place of Refreshment. He took us three into the Canoe, telling us all was well: Padling our Vessel several Miles thro' the Woods, being often half full of Water; but at length we got safe to the Place we sought for, which prov'd to lie the same Way the Indian and I guess'd it did. When we got to the House, we found our Comrades in the same Trim the Indian was in, and several of the French Inhabitants with them, who treated us very courteously, wondering at our undertaking such a Voyage, thro' a Country inhabited by none but Savages, and them of so different Nations and Tongues. After we had refresh'd our selves, we parted from a very kind, loving, and affable People, who wish'd us a safe and prosperous Voyage. Hearing of a Camp of Santee Indians not far of, we set out intending to take up our Quarters with them that Night. There being a deep Run of Water in the Way, one of our Company being top-heavy, and there being nothing but a small Pole for a Bridge, over a Creek, fell into the Water up to the Chin; my self laughing at the Accident, and not taking good Heed to my Steps, came to the same Misfortune: All our Bedding was wet. The Wind being at N.W. it froze very hard, which prepar'd such a Night's Lodging for me, that I never desire to have the like again; the wet Bedding and freezing Air had so qualify'd our Bodies, that in the Morning when we awak'd, we were nigh frozen to Death, until we had recruited our selves before a large Fire of the Indians. {Tuesday.} Tuesday Morning we set towards the Congerees, leaving the Indian Guide Scipio drunk amongst the Santee-Indians. We went ten Miles out of our Way, to head a great Swamp, the Freshes having fill'd them all with such great Quantities of Water, that the usual Paths were render'd unpassable. We met in our Way with an Indian Hut, where we were entertain'd with a fat, boil'd Goose, Venison, Racoon, and ground Nuts. We made but little Stay; about Noon, we pass'd by several large Savannah's, wherein is curious Ranges for Cattel, being green all the Year; they were plentifully stor'd with Cranes, Geese, &c. and the adjacent Woods with great Flocks of Turkies. This Day we travell'd about 30 Miles, and lay all Night at a House which was built for the Indian Trade, the Master thereof we had parted with at the French Town, who gave us Leave to make use of his Mansion. Such Houses are common in these Parts, and especially where there is Indian Towns, and Plantations near at hand, which this Place is well furnish'd withal. These Santee-Indians are a well-humour'd and affable People; and living near the English, are become very tractable. They make themselves Cribs after a very curious Manner, wherein they secure their Corn from Vermin; which are more frequent in these warm Climates, than Countries more distant from the Sun. These pretty Fabricks are commonly supported with eight Feet or Posts, about seven Foot high from the Ground, well daub'd within and without upon Laths, with Loom or Clay, which makes them tight, and fit to keep out the smallest Insect, there being a small Door at the gable End, which is made of the same Composition, and to be remov'd at Pleasure, being no bigger, than that a slender Man may creep in at, cementing the Door up with the same Earth, when they take Corn out of the Crib, and are going from Home, always finding their Granaries in the same Posture they left them; Theft to each other being altogether unpractis'd, never receiving Spoils but from Foreigners. Hereabouts the Ground is something higher than about Charles-Town, there being found some Quarries of brown free Stone, which I have seen made Use of for Building, and hath prov'd very durable and good. The Earth here is mix'd with white Gravel, which is rare, there being nothing like a Stone to be found, of the natural Produce, near to Ashly-River. {Wednesday.} The next Day about Noon we came to the Side of a great Swamp, where we were forc'd to strip our selves to get over it, which, with much Difficulty, we effected. {Septem. 5. 1700.} Hereabouts the late Gust of Wind, which happen'd in September last, had torn the large Ciprus-Trees and Timbers up by the Roots, they lying confusedly in their Branches, did block up the Way, making the Passage very difficult. This Night we got to one Scipio's Hutt, a famous Hunter: There was no Body at Home; but we having (in our Company) one that had us'd to trade amongst them, we made our selves welcome to what his Cabin afforded, (which is a Thing common) the Indians allowing it practicable to the English Traders, to take out of their Houses what they need in their Absence, in Lieu whereof they most commonly leave some small Gratuity of Tobacco, Paint, Beads, &c. We found great Store of Indian Peas, (a very good Pulse) Beans, Oyl, Thinkapin Nuts, Corn, barbacu'd Peaches, and Peach-Bread; which Peaches being made into a Quiddony, and so made up into Loves like Barley-Cakes, these cut into thin Slices, and dissolv'd in Water, makes a very grateful Acid, and extraordinary beneficial in Fevers, as hath often been try'd, and approv'd on by our English Practitioners. The Wind being at N.W. with cold Weather, made us make a large Fire in the Indian's Cabin; being very intent upon our Cookery, we set the Dwelling on Fire, and with much ado, put it out, tho' with the Loss of Part of the Roof. {Thursday.} The next Day we travell'd on our Way, and about Noon came up with a Settlement of Santee Indians, there being Plantations lying scattering here and there, for a great many Miles. They came out to meet us, being acquainted with one of our Company, and made us very welcome with fat barbacu'd Venison, which the Woman of the Cabin took and tore in Pieces with her Teeth, so put it into a Mortar, beating it to Rags, afterwards stews it with Water, and other Ingredients, which makes a very savoury Dish. At these Cabins came to visit us the King of the Santee Nation. He brought with him their chief Doctor or Physician, who was warmly and neatly clad with a Match-Coat, made of Turkies Feathers, which makes a pretty Shew, seeming as if it was a Garment of the deepest silk Shag. This Doctor had the Misfortune to lose his Nose by the Pox, which Disease the Indians often get by the English Traders that use amongst them; not but the Natives of America have for many Ages (by their own Confession) been afflicted with a Distemper much like the Lues Venerea, which hath all the Symptoms of the Pox, being different in this only; for I never could learn, that this Country-Distemper, or Yawes, is begun or continu'd with a Gonorrhoea; yet is attended with nocturnal Pains in the Limbs, and commonly makes such a Progress, as to vent Part of the Matter by Botches, and several Ulcers in the Body, and other Parts; oftentimes Death ensuing. I have known mercurial Unguents and Remedies work a Cure, following the same Methods as in the Pox; several white People, but chiefly the Criolo's, losing their Palates and Noses by this devouring Vulture. It is epidemical, visiting these Parts of America, which is often occasion'd thro' the immoderate drinking of Rum, by those that commonly drink Water at other Times, cold Nights Lodging, and bad open Houses, and more chiefly by often wetting the Feet, and eating such Quantities of Pork as they do, which is a gross Food, and a great Propagator of such Juices as it often meets withal in human Bodies, once tainted with this Malady; which may differently (in some Respects) act its Tragedy; the Change being occasion'd by the Difference of Climates and Bodies, as in Europe. We being well enough assur'd that the Pox had its first Rise (known to us) in this new World, it being caught of the Indian Women, by the Spanish Soldiers that follow'd Columbus in one of his Expeditions to America; who after their Arrival in Old Spain, were hasten'd to the Relief of Naples, at that Time besieg'd by the French. Provisions growing scarce, the useless People were turn'd out of the City, to lessen the Mouths; amongst these, the Curtesans were one Part, who had frequently embrac'd the Spaniards, being well fraught with Riches by their new Discovery. The Leager Ladies had no sooner lost their Spanish Dons, but found themselves as well entertain'd by the French, whose Camp they traded in, giving the Mounsieurs as large a Share of the pocky Spoils within their own Lines, as the Spaniards had, who took the Pains to bring it in their Breeches as far as from America; the large Supplies of Swines Flesh, which that Army was chiefly victuall'd withal, made it rage. The Siege was rais'd; the French and Spaniards retreating to Flanders, which was a Parrade of all Nations; by which Means, this filthy Distemper crowded it self into most Nations of the known World. Now to return to our Doctor, who in the Time of his Affliction withdrew himself (with one that labour'd under the same Distemper) into the Woods. These two perfected their Cures by proper Vegitables, &c. of which they have Plenty, and are well acquainted with their specifick Virtue. I have seen such admirable Cures perform'd by these Savages, which would puzzle a great many graduate Practitioners to trace their Steps in Healing, with the same Expedition, Ease, and Success; using no racking Instruments in their Chirurgery, nor nice Rules of Diet and Physick, to verify the Saying, `qui Medice vivit, misere vivit'. In Wounds which penetrate deep, and seem mortal, they order a spare Diet, with drinking Fountain-water; if they perceive a white Matter, or Pus to arise, they let the Patient more at large, and presently cure him. After these two had perform'd their Cures at no easier Rate than the Expence of both their Noses, coming again amongst their old Acquaintance so disfigur'd, the Indians admir'd to see them metamorphos'd after that manner; enquir'd of them where they had been all that Time, and what were become of their Noses? They made Answer, That they had been conversing with the white Man above, (meaning God Almighty) how they were very kindly entertain'd by that Great Being; he being much pleas'd with their Ways, and had promis'd to make their Capacities equal with the white People in making Guns, Ammunition, &c. in Retalliation of which, they had given him their Noses. The Verity of which, they yet hold, the Indians being an easy, credulous People, and most notoriously cheated by their Priests and Conjurers, both Trades meeting ever in one Person, and most commonly a Spice of Quackship added to the other two Ingredients, which renders that cunning Knave the Impostor to be more rely'd upon; thence a fitter Instrument to cheat these ignorant People; the Priest and Conjurers being never admitted to their Practice, 'till Years and the Experience of repeated Services hath wrought their Esteem amongst the Nations they belong to. The Santee King, who was in Company with this No-nos'd Doctor, is the most absolute Indian Ruler in these Parts, although he is Head but of a small People, in Respect to some other Nations of Indians, that I have seen: He can put any of his People to Death that hath committed any Fault which he judges worthy of so great a Punishment. This Authority is rarely found amongst these Savages, for they act not (commonly) by a determinative Voice in their Laws, towards any one that hath committed Murder, or such other great Crime, but take this Method; him to whom the Injury was done, or if dead, the nearest of his Kindred prosecutes by Way of an actual Revenge, being himself, if Opportunity serves his Intent, both Judge and Executioner, performing so much Mischief on the Offender, or his nearest Relation, until such Time that he is fully satisfy'd: Yet this Revenge is not so infallible, but it may be bought off with Beads, Tobacco, and such like Commodities that are useful amongst them, though it were the most sable Villany that could be acted by Mankind. Some that attended the King, presented me with an odoriferous, balsamick Root, of a fragrant Smell and Taste, the Name I know not; they chew it in the Mouth, and by that simple Application, heal desperate Wounds both green and old; that small Quantity I had, was given inwardly to those troubl'd with the Belly-ach, which Remedy fail'd not to give present Help, the Pain leaving the Patient soon after they had taken the Root. Near to these Cabins are several Tombs made after the manner of these Indians; the largest and the chiefest of them was the Sepulchre of the late Indian King of the Santees, a Man of great Power, not only amongst his own Subjects, but dreaded by the neighbouring Nations for his great Valour and Conduct, having as large a Prerogative in his Way of Ruling, as the present King I now spoke of. The manner of their Interment, is thus: A Mole or Pyramid of Earth is rais'd, the Mould thereof being work'd very smooth and even, sometimes higher or lower, according to the Dignity of the Person whose Monument it is. On the Top thereof is an Umbrella, made Ridge-ways, like the Roof of an House; this is supported by nine Stakes, or small Posts, the Grave being about six or eight Foot in Length, and four Foot in Breadth; about it is hung Gourds, Feathers, and other such like Trophies, plac'd there by the dead Man's Relations, in Respect to him in the Grave. The other Part of the Funeral-Rites are thus, As soon as the Party is dead, they lay the Corps upon a Piece of Bark in the Sun, seasoning or embalming it with a small Root beaten to Powder, which looks as red as Vermilion; the same is mix'd with Bear's Oil, to beautify the Hair, and preserve their Heads from being lousy, it growing plentifully in these Parts of America. After the Carcass has laid a Day or two in the Sun, they remove and lay it upon Crotches cut on purpose for the Support thereof from the Earth; then they anoint it all over with the fore-mention'd Ingredients of the Powder of this Root, and Bear's Oil. When it is so done, they cover it very exactly over with Bark of the Pine or Cyprus Tree, to prevent any Rain to fall upon it, sweeping the Ground very clean all about it. Some of his nearest of Kin brings all the temporal Estate he was possess'd of at his Death, as Guns, Bows, and Arrows, Beads, Feathers, Match-coat, &c. This Relation is the chief Mourner, being clad in Moss, and a Stick in his Hand, keeping a mournful Ditty for three or four Days, his Face being black with the Smoak of Pitch, Pine, mingl'd with Bear's Oil. All the while he tells the dead Man's Relations, and the rest of the Spectators, who that dead Person was, and of the great Feats perform'd in his Life-time; all what he speaks, tending to the Praise of the Defunct. As soon as the Flesh grows mellow, and will cleave from the Bone, they get it off, and burn it, making all the Bones very clean, then anoint them with the Ingredients aforesaid, wrapping up the Skull (very carefully) in a Cloath artificially woven of Possums Hair. (These Indians make Girdles, Sashes, Garters, &c. after the same Manner.) The Bones they carefully preserve in a wooden Box, every Year oiling and cleansing them: By these Means preserve them for many Ages, that you may see an Indian in Possession of the Bones of his Grand-father, or some of his Relations of a larger Antiquity. They have other Sorts of Tombs; as where an Indian is slain, in that very Place they make a Heap of Stones, (or Sticks, where Stones are not to be found;) to this Memorial, every Indian that passes by, adds a Stone, to augment the Heap, in Respect to the deceas'd Hero. We had a very large Swamp to pass over near the House, and would have hir'd our Landlord to have been our Guide, but he seem'd unwilling; so we press'd him no farther about it. He was the tallest Indian I ever saw, being seven Foot high, and a very strait compleat Person, esteem'd on by the King for his great Art in Hunting, always carrying with him an artificial Head to hunt withal: They are made of the Head of a Buck, the back Part of the Horns being scrapt and hollow, for Lightness of Carriage. The Skin is left to the setting on of the Shoulders, which is lin'd all round with small Hoops, and flat Sort of Laths, to hold it open for the Arm to go in. They have a Way to preserve the Eyes, as if living. The Hunter puts on a Match-coat made of Deer's Skin, with the Hair on, and a Piece of the white Part of a Deer's Skin, that grows on the Breast, which is fasten'd to the Neck-End of this stalking Head, so hangs down. In these Habiliments an Indian will go as near a Deer as he pleases, the exact Motions and Behaviour of a Deer being so well counterfeited by 'em, that several Times it hath been known for two Hunters to come up with a stalking Head together, and unknown to each other, so that they have kill'd an Indian instead of a Deer, which hath happen'd sometimes to be a Brother, or some dear Friend; for which Reason they allow not of that Sort of Practice, where the Nation is populous. Within half a Mile of the House, we pass'd over a prodigious wide and deep Swamp, being forc'd to strip stark-naked, and much a-do to save our selves from drowning in this Fatiegue. We, with much a-do, got thro', going that Day about five Miles farther, and came to three more Indian Cabins, call'd in the Indian Tongue, Hickerau, by the English Traders, the black House, being pleasantly seated on a high Bank, by a Branch of Santee-River. One of our Company, that had traded amongst these Indians, told us, That one of the Cabins was his Father's-in-Law; he call'd him so, by Reason the old Man had given him a young Indian Girl, that was his Daughter, to lie with him, make Bread, and to be necessary in what she was capable to assist him in, during his Abode amongst them. When we came thither first, there was no Body at Home, so the Son made bold to search his Father's Granary for Corn, and other Provisions. He brought us some Indian Maiz and Peas, which are of a reddish Colour, and eat well, yet colour the Liquor they are boil'd in, as if it were a Lixivium of red Tartar. After we had been about an Hour in the House, where was Millions of Fleas, the Indian Cabins being often fuller of such Vermin, than any Dog-Kennel, the old Man came in to us, and seem'd very glad to see his Son-in-Law. This Indian is a great Conjurer, as appears by the Sequel. The Seretee or Santee Indians were gone to War against the Hooks and Backhooks Nations, living near the Mouth of Winyan-River. Those that were left at Home, (which are commonly old People and Children) had heard no News a long Time of their Men at Arms. This Man, at the Entreaty of these People, (being held to be a great Sorcerer amongst 'em) went to know what Posture their fighting Men were in. His Exorcism was carry'd on thus: He dress'd himself in a clean white dress'd Deer-Skin; a great Fire being made in the Middle of the Plantation, the Indians sitting all round it, the Conjurer was blind-folded, then he surrounded the Fire several Times, I think thrice; leaving the Company, he went into the Woods, where he stay'd about half an Hour, returning to them, surrounded the Fire as before; leaving them, went the second Time into the Woods; at which Time there came a huge Swarm of Flies, very large, they flying about the Fire several Times, at last fell all into it, and were visibly consum'd. Immediately after the Indian-Conjurer made a huge Lilleloo, and howling very frightfully, presently an Indian went and caught hold of him, leading him to the Fire. The old Wizard was so feeble and weak, being not able to stand alone, and all over in a Sweat, and as wet as if he had fallen into the River. After some Time he recover'd his Strength, assuring them, that their Men were near a River, and could not pass over it 'till so many Days, but would, in such a Time, return all in Safety, to their Nation. All which prov'd true at the Indians Return, which was not long after. This Story the English-man, his Son-in-Law, affirm'd to me. The old Man stay'd with us about two Hours, and told us we were welcome to stay there all Night, and take what his Cabin afforded; then leaving us, went into the Woods, to some Hunting-Quarter not far off. {Friday.} The next Morning early we pursu'd our Voyage, finding the Land to improve it self in Pleasantness and Richness of Soil. When we had gone about ten Miles, one of our Company tir'd, being not able to travel any farther; so we went forward, leaving the poor dejected Traveller with Tears in his Eyes, to return to Charles-Town, and travel back again over so much bad Way, we having pass'd thro' the worst of our Journey, the Land here being high and dry, very few Swamps, and those dry, and a little Way through. We travell'd about twenty Miles, lying near a Savanna that was over-flown with Water; where we were very short of Victuals, but finding the Woods newly burnt, and on fire in many Places, which gave us great Hopes that Indians were not far of. {Saturday 20 Miles.} Next Morning very early, we waded thro' the Savanna, the Path lying there; and about ten a Clock came to a hunting Quarter, of a great many Santees; they made us all welcome; shewing a great deal of Joy at our coming, giving us barbacu'd Turkeys, Bear's Oil, and Venison. Here we hir'd Santee Jack (a good Hunter, and a well-humour'd Fellow) to be our Pilot to the Congeree Indians; we gave him a Stroud-water-Blew, to make his Wife an Indian Petticoat, who went with her Husband. After two Hours Refreshment, we went on, and got that Day about twenty Miles; we lay by a small swift Run of Water, which was pav'd at the Bottom with a Sort of Stone much like to Tripoli, and so light, that I fancy'd it would precipitate in no Stream, but where it naturally grew. The Weather was very cold, the Winds holding Northerly. We made our selves as merry as we could, having a good Supper with the Scraps of the Venison we had given us by the Indians, having kill'd 3 Teal and a Possum; which Medly all together made a curious Ragoo. {Sunday 15 Miles.} This Day all of us had a Mind to have rested, but the Indian was much against it, alledging, That the Place we lay at, was not good to hunt in; telling us, if we would go on, by Noon, he would bring us to a more convenient Place; so we mov'd forwards, and about twelve a Clock came to the most amazing Prospect I had seen since I had been in Carolina; we travell'd by a Swamp-side, which Swamp I believe to be no less than twenty Miles over, the other Side being as far as I could well discern, there appearing great Ridges of Mountains, bearing from us W.N.W. One Alp with a Top like a Sugar-loaf, advanc'd its Head above all the rest very considerably; the Day was very serene, which gave us the Advantage of seeing a long Way; these Mountains were cloth'd all over with Trees, which seem'd to us to be very large Timbers. At the Sight of this fair Prospect, we stay'd all Night; our Indian going about half an Hour before us, had provided three fat Turkeys e'er we got up to him. The Swamp I now spoke of, is not a miry Bog, as others generally are, but you go down to it thro' a steep Bank, at the Foot of which, begins this Valley, where you may go dry for perhaps 200 Yards, then you meet with a small Brook or Run of Water, about 2 or 3 Foot deep, then dry Land for such another Space, so another Brook, thus continuing. The Land in this Percoarson, or Valley, being extraordinary rich, and the Runs of Water well stor'd with Fowl. It is the Head of one of the Branches of Santee-River; but a farther Discovery Time would not permit; only one Thing is very remarkable, there growing all over this Swamp, a tall, lofty Bay-tree, but is not the same as in England, these being in their Verdure all the Winter long; which appears here, when you stand on the Ridge, (where our Path lay) as if it were one pleasant, green Field, and as even as a Bowling-green to the Eye of the Beholder; being hemm'd in on one Side with these Ledges of vast high Mountains. Viewing the Land here, we found an extraordinary rich, black Mould, and some of a Copper-colour, both Sorts very good; the Land in some Places is much burthen'd with Iron, Stone, here being great Store of it, seemingly very good: The eviling Springs, which are many in these Parts, issuing out of the Rocks, which Water we drank of, it colouring the Excrements of Travellers (by its chalybid Quality) as black as a Coal. When we were all asleep, in the Beginning of the Night, we were awaken'd with the dismall'st and most hideous Noise that ever pierc'd my Ears: This sudden Surprizal incapacitated us of guessing what this threatning Noise might proceed from; but our Indian Pilot (who knew these Parts very well) acquainted us, that it was customary to hear such Musick along that Swamp-side, there being endless Numbers of Panthers, Tygers, Wolves, and other Beasts of Prey, which take this Swamp for their Abode in the Day, coming in whole Droves to hunt the Deer in the Night, making this frightful Ditty 'till Day appears, then all is still as in other Places. {Monday.} The next Day it prov'd a small drisly Rain, which is rare, there happening not the tenth Part of Foggy-falling Weather towards these Mountains, as visits those Parts. Near the Sea-board, the Indian kill'd 15 Turkeys this Day; there coming out of the Swamp, (about Sun-rising) Flocks of these Fowl, containing several hundreds in a Gang, who feed upon the Acrons, it being most Oak that grow in these Woods. There are but very few Pines in those Quarters. Early the next Morning, we set forward for the Congeree-Indians, parting with that delicious Prospect. By the Way, our Guide kill'd more Turkeys, and two Polcats, which he eat, esteeming them before fat Turkeys. Some of the Turkeys which we eat, whilst we stay'd there, I believe, weigh'd no less than 40 Pounds. The Land we pass'd over this Day, was most of it good, and the worst passable. At Night we kill'd a Possum, being cloy'd with Turkeys, made a Dish of that, which tasted much between young Pork and Veal; their Fat being as white as any I ever saw. Our Indian having this Day kill'd good Store of Provision with his Gun, he always shot with a single Ball, missing but two Shoots in above forty; they being curious Artists in managing a Gun, to make it carry either Ball, or Shot, true. When they have bought a Piece, and find it to shoot any Ways crooked, they take the Barrel out of the Stock, cutting a Notch in a Tree, wherein they set it streight, sometimes shooting away above 100 Loads of Ammunition, before they bring the Gun to shoot according to their Mind. We took up our Quarters by a Fish-pond-side; the Pits in the Woods that stand full of Water, naturally breed Fish in them, in great Quantities. We cook'd our Supper, but having neither Bread, or Salt, our fat Turkeys began to be loathsome to us, altho' we were never wanting of a good Appetite, yet a Continuance of one Diet, made us weary. {Wednesday.} The next Morning, Santee Jack told us, we should reach the Indian Settlement betimes that Day; about Noon, we pass'd by several fair Savanna's, very rich and dry; seeing great Copses of many Acres that bore nothing but Bushes, about the Bigness of Box-trees; which (in the Season) afford great Quantities of small Black-berries, very pleasant Fruit, and much like to our Blues, or Huckle-berries, that grow on Heaths in England. Hard by the Savanna's we found the Town, where we halted; there was not above one Man left with the Women, the rest being gone a Hunting for a Feast. The Women were very busily engag'd in Gaming: The Name or Grounds of it, I could not learn, tho' I look'd on above two Hours. Their Arithmetick was kept with a Heap of Indian Grain. When their Play was ended, the King, or Cassetta's Wife, invited us into her Cabin. The Indian Kings always entertaining Travellers, either English, or Indian; taking it as a great Affront, if they pass by their Cabins, and take up their Quarters at any other Indian's House. The Queen set Victuals before us, which good Compliment they use generally as soon as you come under their Roof. The Town consists not of above a dozen Houses, they having other stragling Plantations up and down the Country, and are seated upon a small Branch of Santee-River. Their Place hath curious dry Marshes, and Savanna's adjoining to it, and would prove an exceeding thriving Range for Cattle, and Hogs, provided the English were seated thereon. Besides, the Land is good for Plantations. These Indians are a small People, having lost much of their former Numbers, by intestine Broils; but most by the Small-pox, which hath often visited them, sweeping away whole Towns; occasion'd by the immoderate Government of themselves in their Sickness; as I have mention'd before, treating of the Sewees. Neither do I know any Savages that have traded with the English, but what have been great Losers by this Distemper. We found here good Store of Chinkapin-Nuts, which they gather in Winter great Quantities of, drying them; so keep these Nuts in great Baskets for their Use; likewise Hickerie-Nuts, which they beat betwixt two great Stones, then sift them, so thicken their Venison-Broath therewith; the small Shells precipitating to the Bottom of the Pot, whilst the Kernel in Form of Flower, mixes it with the Liquor. Both these Nuts made into Meal, makes a curious Soop, either with clear Water, or in any Meat-Broth. From the Nation of Indians, until such Time as you come to the Turkeiruros in North Carolina, you will see no long Moss upon the Trees; which Space of Ground contains above five hundred Miles. This seeming Miracle in Nature, is occasion'd by the Highness of the Land, it being dry and healthful; for tho' this Moss bears a Seed in a Sort of a small Cod, yet it is generated in or near low swampy Grounds. The Congerees are kind and affable to the English, the Queen being very kind, giving us what Rarities her Cabin afforded, as Loblolly made with Indian Corn, and dry'd Peaches. These Congerees have abundance of Storks and Cranes in their Savannas. They take them before they can fly, and breed 'em as tame and familiar as a Dung-hill Fowl. They had a tame Crane at one of these Cabins, that was scarce less than six Foot in Height, his Head being round, with a shining natural Crimson Hue, which they all have. These are a very comely Sort of Indians, there being a strange Difference in the Proportion and Beauty of these Heathens. Altho' their Tribes or Nations border one upon another, yet you may discern as great an Alteration in their Features and Dispositions, as you can in their Speech, which generally proves quite different from each other, though their Nations be not above 10 or 20 Miles in Distance. The Women here being as handsome as most I have met withal, being several fine-finger'd Brounetto's amongst them. These Lasses stick not upon Hand long, for they marry when very young, as at 12 or 14 Years of Age. The English Traders are seldom without an Indian Female for his Bed-fellow, alledging these Reasons as sufficient to allow of such a Familiarity. First, They being remote from any white People, that it preserves their Friendship with the Heathens, they esteeming a white Man's Child much above one of their getting, the Indian Mistress ever securing her white Friend Provisions whilst he stays amongst them. And lastly, This Correspondence makes them learn the Indian Tongue much the sooner, they being of the French-man's Opinion, how that an English Wife teaches her Husband more English in one Night, than a School-master can in a Week. We saw at the Cassetta's Cabin the strangest Spectacle of Antiquity I ever knew, it being an old Indian Squah, that, had I been to have guess'd at her Age by her Aspect, old Parr's Head (the Welch Methusalem) was a Face in Swadling-Clouts to hers. Her Skin hung in Reaves like a Bag of Tripe. By a fair Computation, one might have justly thought it would have contain'd three such Carcasses as hers then was. She had one of her Hands contracted by some Accident in the Fire, they sleeping always by it, and often fall into sad Disasters, especially in their drunken Moods. I made the strictest Enquiry that was possible, and by what I could gather, she was considerably above 100 Years old, notwithstanding she smoak'd Tobacco, and eat her Victuals, to all Appearance, as heartily as one of 18. One of our Company spoke some of their Language, and having not quite forgotten his former Intrigues with the Indian Lasses, would fain have been dealing with some of the young Female Fry; but they refus'd him, he having nothing that these Girls esteem'd. At Night we were laid in the King's Cabin, where the Queen and the old Squah pig'd in with us: The former was very much disfigur'd with Tettars, and very reserv'd, which disappointed our fellow Traveller in his Intrigues. The Women smoak much Tobacco, (as most Indians do.) They have Pipes, whose Heads are cut out of Stone, and will hold an Ounce of Tobacco, and some much less. They have large wooden Spoons, as big as small Ladles, which they make little Use of, lading the Meat out of the Bowls with their Fingers. {Thursday.} In the Morning we rose before Day, having hir'd a Guide over Night to conduct us on our Way; but it was too soon for him to stir out, the Indians never setting forward 'till the Sun is an Hour or two high, and hath exhall'd the Dew from the Earth. The Queen got us a good Breakfast before we left her; she had a young Child, which was much afflicted with the Cholick; for which Distemper she infus'd a Root in Water, which was held in a Goard; this she took into her Mouth, and spurted it into the Infant's, which gave it ease. After we had eaten, we set out (with our new Guide) for the Wateree Indians. We went over a great deal of indifferent Land this Day. Here begins to appear very good Marble, which continues more and less for the Space of 500 Miles. We lay all Night by a Run of Water, as we always do, (if possible) for the Convenience of it. The Weather was very cold. We went this Day about 30 Miles from the Congerees. {Friday.} In the Morning we made no Stay to get our Breakfast, but hasted on our Voyage, the Land increasing in Marble and Richness of Soil. At Noon we halted, getting our Dinner upon a Marble-Stone, that rose it self half a Foot above the Surface of the Earth, and might contain the Compass of a Quarter of an Acre of Land, being very even, there growing upon it in some Places a small red Berry, like a Salmon-Spawn, there boiling out of the main Rock curious Springs of as delicious Water, as ever I drank in any Parts I ever travell'd in. These Parts likewise affords good free Stone, fit for Building, and of several Sorts. The Land here is pleasantly seated, with pretty little Hills and Valleys, the rising Sun at once shewing his glorious reflecting Rays on a great many of these little Mountains. We went this Day about 20 Miles, our Guide walking like a Horse, 'till we had sadl'd him with a good heavy Pack of some Part of our Cloaths and Bedding, by which Means we kept Pace with him. This Night we lay by a Run-side, where I found a fine yellow Earth, the same with Bruxels-Sand, which Goldsmiths use to cast withal, giving a good Price in England, and other Parts. Here is likewise the true Blood-Stone, and considerable Quantities of Fullers-Earth, which I took a Proof of, by scouring great Spots out of Woollen, and it prov'd very good. {Saturday.} As we were on our Road this Morning, our Indian shot at a Tyger, that cross'd the Way, he being a great Distance from us. I believe he did him no Harm, because he sat on his Breech afterwards, and look'd upon us. I suppose he expected to have had a Spaniel Bitch, that I had with me, for his Breakfast, who run towards him, but in the Midway stopt her Career, and came sneaking back to us with her Tail betwixt her Legs. We saw in the Path a great many Trees blown up by the Roots, at the Bottom whereof stuck great Quantities of fine red Bole; I believe nothing inferior to that of Venice or Lemma. We found some Holes in the Earth, which were full of a Water as black as Ink. I thought that Tincture might proceed from some Mineral, but had not Time to make a farther Discovery. About Noon we pass'd over a pleasant stony Brook, whose Water was of a bluish Cast, as it is for several hundreds of Miles towards the Heads of the Rivers, I suppose occasion'd by the vast Quantities of Marble lying in the Bowels of the Earth. The Springs that feed these Rivulets, lick up some Potions of the Stones in the Brooks; which Dissolution gives this Tincture, as appears in all, or most of the Rivers and Brooks of this Country, whose rapid Streams are like those in Yorkshire, and other Northern Counties of England. The Indians talk of many Sorts of Fish which they afford, but we had not Time to discover their Species. I saw here had been some Indian Plantations formerly, there being several pleasant Fields of clear'd Ground, and excellent Soil, now well spread with fine bladed Grass, and Strawberry-Vines. The Mould here is excessive rich, and a Country very pleasing to the Eye, had it the Convenience of a navigable River, as all new Colonies (of Necessity) require. It would make a delightful Settlement. We went eight Miles farther, and came to the Wateree Chickanee Indians. The Land holds good, there being not a Spot of bad Land to be seen in several Days going. The People of this Nation are likely tall Persons, and great Pilferers, stealing from us any Thing they could lay their Hands on, though very respectful in giving us what Victuals we wanted. We lay in their Cabins all Night, being dark smoaky Holes, as ever I saw any Indians dwell in. This Nation is much more populous than the Congerees, and their Neighbours, yet understand not one anothers Speech. They are very poor in English Effects, several of them having no Guns, making Use of Bows and Arrows, being a lazy idle People, a Quality incident to most Indians, but none to that Degree as these, as I ever met withal. Their Country is wholly free from Swamps and Quagmires, being high dry Land, and consequently healthful, producing large Corn-Stalks, and fair Grain. {Sunday.} Next Morning, we took off our Beards with a Razor, the Indians looking on with a great deal of Admiration. They told us, they had never seen the like before, and that our Knives cut far better than those that came amongst the Indians. They would fain have borrow'd our Razors, as they had our Knives, Scissors, and Tobacco-Tongs, the day before, being as ingenious at picking of Pockets, as any, I believe, the World affords; for they will steal with their Feet. Yesterday, one of our Company, not walking so fast as the rest, was left behind. He being out of Sight before we miss'd him, and not coming up to us, tho' we staid a considerable time on the Road for him, we stuck up Sticks in the Ground, and left other Tokens to direct him which way we were gone: But he came not to us that Night, which gave us Occasion to fear some of the Heathens had kill'd him, for his Cloaths, or the savage Beasts had devour'd him in the Wilderness, he having nothing about him to strike Fire withal. As we were debating which way we should send to know what was become of him, he overtook us, having a Waxsaw Indian for his Guide. He told us, he had miss'd the Path, and got to another Nation of Indians, but 3 Miles off, who at that time held great Feasting. They had entertain'd him very respectfully, and sent that Indian to invite us amongst them, wondring that we would not take up our Quarters with them, but make our Abode with such a poor Sort of Indians, that were not capable of entertaining us according to our Deserts: We receiv'd the Messenger with a great many Ceremonies, acceptable to those sort of Creatures. Bidding our Waterree King adieu, we set forth towards the Waxsaws, going along clear'd Ground all the Way. Upon our Arrival, we were led into a very large and lightsome Cabin, the like I have not met withal. They laid Furs and Deer-Skins upon Cane Benches for us to sit or lie upon, bringing (immediately) stewed Peaches and green Corn, that is preserv'd in their Cabins before it is ripe, and sodden and boil'd when they use it, which is a pretty sort of Food, and a great Increaser of the Blood. These Indians are of an extraordinary Stature, and call'd by their Neighbours flat Heads, which seems a very suitable Name for them. In their Infancy, their Nurses lay the Back-part of their Children's Heads on a Bag of Sand, (such as Engravers use to rest their Plates upon.) They use a Roll, which is placed upon the Babe's Forehead, it being laid with its Back on a flat Board, and swaddled hard down thereon, from one End of this Engine, to the other. This Method makes the Child's Body and Limbs as straight as an Arrow. There being some young Indians that are perhaps crookedly inclin'd, at their first coming into the World, who are made perfectly straight by this Method. I never saw an Indian of a mature Age, that was any ways crooked, except by Accident, and that way seldom, for they cure and prevent Deformities of the Limbs, and Body, very exactly. The Instrument I spoke of before, being a sort of a Press, that is let out and in, more or less, according to the Discretion of the Nurse, in which they make the Child's Head flat, it makes the Eyes stand a prodigious Way asunder, and the Hair hang over the Forehead like the Eves of a House, which seems very frightful: They being ask'd the Reason why they practis'd this Method, reply'd, the Indian's Sight was much strengthened and quicker, thereby, to discern the Game in hunting at larger Distance, and so never miss'd of becoming expert Hunters, the Perfection of which they all aim at, as we do to become experienced Soldiers, learned School-Men, or Artists in Mechanicks: He that is a good Hunter never misses of being a Favourite amongst the Women; the prettiest Girls being always bestow'd upon the chiefest Sports-Men, and those of a grosser Mould, upon the useless Lubbers. Thus they have a Graduation amongst them, as well as other Nations. As for the Solemnity of Marriages amongst them, kept with so much Ceremony as divers Authors affirm, it never appear'd amongst those many Nations I have been withal, any otherwise than in the Manner I have mention'd hereafter. The Girls at 12 or 13 Years of Age, as soon as Nature prompts them, freely bestow their Maidenheads on some Youth about the same Age, continuing her Favours on whom she most affects, changing her Mate very often, few or none of them being constant to one, till a greater Number of Years has made her capable of managing domestick Affairs, and she hath try'd the Vigour of most of the Nation she belongs to; Multiplicity of Gallants never being a Stain to a Female's Reputation, or the least Hindrance of her Advancement, but the more Whorish, the more Honourable, and they of all most coveted, by those of the first Rank, to make a Wife of. The `Flos Virginis', so much coveted by the Europeans, is never valued by these Savages. When a Man and Woman have gone through their Degrees, (there being a certain Graduation amongst them) and are allow'd to be House-Keepers, which is not till they arrive at such an Age, and have past the Ceremonies practis'd by their Nation, almost all Kingdoms differing in the Progress thereof, then it is that the Man makes his Addresses to some one of these thorough-paced Girls, or other, whom he likes best. When she is won, the Parents of both Parties, (with Advice of the King) agree about the Matter, making a Promise of their Daughter, to the Man, that requires her, it often happening that they converse and travel together, for several Moons before the Marriage is publish'd openly; After this, at the least Dislike the Man may turn her away, and take another; or if she disapproves of his Company, a Price is set upon her, and if the Man that seeks to get her, will pay the Fine to her Husband, she becomes free from Him: Likewise some of their War Captains, and great Men, very often will retain 3 or 4 Girls at a time for their own Use, when at the same time, he is so impotent and old, as to be incapable of making Use of one of them; so that he seldom misses of wearing greater Horns than the Game he kills. The Husband is never so enrag'd as to put his Adulteress to Death; if she is caught in the Fact, the Rival becomes Debtor to the cornuted Husband, in a certain Quantity of Trifles valuable amongst them, which he pays as soon as discharg'd, and then all Animosity is laid aside betwixt the Husband, and his Wife's Gallant. The Man proves often so good humour'd as to please his Neighbour and gratify his Wife's Inclinations, by letting her out for a Night or two, to the Embraces of some other, which perhaps she has a greater Liking to, tho' this is not commonly practis'd. They set apart the youngest and prettiest Faces for trading Girls; these are remarkable by their Hair, having a particular Tonsure by which they are known, and distinguish'd from those engag'd to Husbands. They are mercenary, and whoever makes Use of them, first hires them, the greatest Share of the Gain going to the King's Purse, who is the chief Bawd, exercising his Perogative over all the Stews of his Nation, and his own Cabin (very often) being the chiefest Brothel-House. As they grow in Years, the hot Assaults of Love grow cooler; and then they commonly are so staid, as to engage themselves with more Constancy to each other. I have seen several Couples amongst them, that have been so reserv'd, as to live together for many Years, faithful to each other, admitting none to their Beds but such as they own'd for their Wife or Husband: So continuing to their Life's end. At our Waxsaw Landlord's Cabin, was a Woman employ'd in no other Business than Cookery; it being a House of great Resort. The Fire was surrounded with Roast-meat, or Barbakues, and the Pots continually boiling full of Meat, from Morning till Night. This She-Cook was the cleanliest I ever saw amongst the Heathens of America, washing her Hands before she undertook to do any Cookery; and repeated this unusual Decency very often in a day. She made us as White-Bread as any English could have done, and was full as neat, and expeditious, in her Affairs. It happen'd to be one of their great Feasts, when we were there: The first day that we came amongst them, arriv'd an Ambassador from the King of Sapona, to treat with these Indians about some important Affairs. He was painted with Vermillion all over his Face, having a very large Cutlass stuck in his Girdle, and a Fusee in his Hand. At Night, the Revels began where this Foreign Indian was admitted; the King, and War Captain, inviting us to see their Masquerade: This Feast was held in Commemoration of the plentiful Harvest of Corn they had reap'd the Summer before, with an united Supplication for the like plentiful Produce the Year ensuing. These Revels are carried on in a House made for that purpose, it being done round with white Benches of fine Canes, joining along the Wall; and a place for the Door being left, which is so low, that a Man must stoop very much to enter therein. This Edifice resembles a large Hay-Rick; its Top being Pyramidal, and much bigger than their other Dwellings, and at the Building whereof, every one assists till it is finish'd. All their Dwelling-Houses are cover'd with Bark, but this differs very much; for, it is very artificially thatch'd with Sedge and Rushes: As soon as finish'd, they place some one of their chiefest Men to dwell therein, charging him with the diligent Preservation thereof, as a Prince commits the Charge and Government of a Fort or Castle, to some Subject he thinks worthy of that Trust. In these State-Houses is transacted all Publick and Private Business, relating to the Affairs of the Government, as the Audience of Foreign Ambassadors from other Indian Rulers, Consultation of waging and making War, Proposals of their Trade with neighbouring Indians, or the English, who happen to come amongst them. In this Theater, the most Aged and Wisest meet, determining what to Act, and what may be most convenient to Omit, Old Age being held in as great Veneration amongst these Heathens, as amongst any People you shall meet withal in any Part of the World. Whensoever an Aged Man is speaking, none ever interrupts him, (the contrary Practice the English, and other Europeans, too much use) the Company yielding a great deal of Attention to his Tale, with a continued Silence, and an exact Demeanour, during the Oration. Indeed, the Indians are a People that never interrupt one another in their Discourse; no Man so much as offering to open his Mouth, till the Speaker has utter'd his Intent: When an English-Man comes amongst them, perhaps every one is acquainted with him, yet, first, the King bids him Welcome, after him the War-Captain, so on gradually from High to Low; not one of all these speaking to the White Guest, till his Superiour has ended his Salutation. Amongst Women, it seems impossible to find a Scold; if they are provok'd, or affronted, by their Husbands, or some other, they resent the Indignity offer'd them in silent Tears, or by refusing their Meat. Would some of our European Daughters of Thunder set these Indians for a Pattern, there might be more quiet Families found amongst them, occasion'd by that unruly Member, the Tongue. Festination proceeds from the Devil, (says a Learned Doctor) a Passion the Indians seem wholly free from; they determining no Business of Moment, without a great deal of Deliberation and Wariness. None of their Affairs appear to be attended with Impetuosity, or Haste, being more content with the common Accidents incident to humane Nature, (as Losses, contrary Winds, bad Weather, and Poverty) than those of more civilized Countries. Now, to return to our State-House, whither we were invited by the Grandees: As soon as we came into it, they plac'd our Englishmen near the King; it being my Fortune to sit next him, having his great General, or War-Captain, on my other Hand. The House is as dark as a Dungeon, and as hot as one of the Dutch-Stoves in Holland. They had made a circular Fire of split Canes in the middle of the House. It was one Man's Employment to add more split Reeds to the one end as it consum'd at the other, there being a small Vacancy left to supply it with Fewel. They brought in great store of Loblolly, and other Medleys, made of Indian Grain, stewed Peaches, Bear-Venison, &c. every one bringing some Offering to enlarge the Banquet, according to his Degree and Quality. When all the Viands were brought in, the first Figure began with kicking out the Dogs, which are seemingly Wolves, made tame with starving and beating; they being the worst Dog-Masters in the World; so that it is an infallible Cure for Sore-Eyes, ever to see an Indian's Dog fat. They are of a quite contrary Disposition to Horses; some of their Kings having gotten, by great chance, a Jade, stolen by some neighbouring Indian, and transported farther into the Country, and sold; or bought sometimes of a Christian, that trades amongst them. These Creatures they continually cram, and feed with Maiz, and what the Horse will eat, till he is as fat as a Hog; never making any farther use of him than to fetch a Deer home, that is killed somewhere near the Indian's Plantation. After the Dogs had fled the Room, the Company was summon'd by Beat of Drum; the Musick being made of a dress'd Deer's Skin, tied hard upon an Earthen Porridge-Pot. Presently in came fine Men dress'd up with Feathers, their Faces being covered with Vizards made of Gourds; round their Ancles and Knees, were hung Bells of several sorts, having Wooden Falchions in their Hands, (such as Stage-Fencers commonly use;) in this Dress they danced about an Hour, shewing many strange Gestures, and brandishing their Wooden Weapons, as if they were going to fight each other; oftentimes walking very nimbly round the Room, without making the least Noise with their Bells, (a thing I much admired at;) again, turning their Bodies, Arms and Legs, into such frightful Postures, that you would have guess'd they had been quite raving mad: At last, they cut two or three high Capers, and left the Room. In their stead, came in a parcel of Women and Girls, to the Number of Thirty odd; every one taking place according to her Degree of Stature, the tallest leading the Dance, and the least of all being plac'd last; with these they made a circular Dance, like a Ring, representing the Shape of the Fire they danced about: Many of these had great Horse-Bells about their Legs, and small Hawk's Bells about their Necks. They had Musicians, who were two Old Men, one of whom beat a Drum, while the other rattled with a Gourd, that had Corn in it, to make a Noise withal: To these Instruments, they both sung a mournful Ditty; the Burthen of their Song was, in Remembrance of their former Greatness, and Numbers of their Nation, the famous Exploits of their Renowned Ancestors, and all Actions of Moment that had (in former Days) been perform'd by their Forefathers. At these Festivals it is, that they give a Traditional Relation of what hath pass'd amongst them, to the younger Fry. These verbal Deliveries being always publish'd in their most Publick Assemblies, serve instead of our Traditional Notes, by the use of Letters. Some Indians, that I have met withal, have given me a very curious Description of the great Deluge, the Immortality of the Soul, with a pithy Account of the Reward of good and wicked Deeds in the Life to come; having found, amongst some of them, great Observers of Moral Rules, and the Law of Nature; indeed, a worthy Foundation to build Christianity upon, were a true Method found out, and practis'd, for the Performance thereof. Their way of Dancing, is nothing but a sort of stamping Motion, much like the treading upon Founders Bellows. This Female-Gang held their Dance for above six Hours, being all of them of a white Lather, like a Running Horse that has just come in from his Race. My Landlady was the Ring-leader of the Amazons, who, when in her own House, behav'd herself very discreetly, and warily, in her Domestick Affairs; yet, Custom had so infatuated her, as to almost break her Heart with Dancing amongst such a confused Rabble. During this Dancing, the Spectators do not neglect their Business, in working the Loblolly-Pots, and the other Meat that was brought thither; more or less of them being continually Eating, whilst the others were Dancing. When the Dancing was ended, every Youth that was so disposed, catch'd hold of the Girl he liked best, and took her that Night for his Bed-Fellow, making as short Courtship and expeditious Weddings, as the Foot-Guards us'd to do with the Trulls in Salisbury-Court. Next we shall treat of the Land hereabouts, which is a Marl as red as Blood, and will lather like Soap. The Town stands on this Land, which holds considerably farther in the Country, and is in my Opinion, so durable that no Labour of Man, in one or two Ages, could make it poor. I have formerly seen the like in Leicestershire, bordering upon Rutland. Here were Corn-Stalks in their Fields as thick as the Small of a Man's Leg, and they are ordinarily to be seen. We lay with these Indians one Night, there being by my Bed-side one of the largest Iron Pots I had ever seen in America, which I much wondred at, because I thought there might be no navigable Stream near that Place. I ask'd them, where they got that Pot? They laugh'd at my Demand, and would give me no Answer, which makes me guess it came from some Wreck, and that we were nearer the Ocean, or some great River, than I thought. {Monday.} The next day about Noon, we accidentally met with a Southward Indian, amongst those that us'd to trade backwards and forwards, and spoke a little English, whom we hir'd to go with us to the Esaw Indians, a very large Nation containing many thousand People. In the Afternoon we set forward, taking our Leaves of the Wisack Indians, and leaving them some Trifles. On our Way, we met with several Towns of Indians, each Town having its Theater or State House, such Houses being found all along the Road, till you come to Sapona, and then no more of those Buildings, it being about 170 Miles. We reach'd 10 Miles this day, lying at another Town of the Wisacks. The Man of the House offer'd us Skins to sell, but they were too heavy Burdens for our long Voyage. {Tuesday.} Next Morning we set out early, breaking the Ice we met withal, in the stony Runs, which were many. We pass'd by several Cottages, and about 8 of the Clock came to a pretty big Town, where we took up our Quarters, in one of their State Houses, the Men being all out, hunting in the Woods, and none but Women at home. Our Fellow Traveller of whom I spoke before at the Congerees, having a great Mind for an Indian Lass, for his Bed-Fellow that Night, spoke to our Guide, who soon got a Couple, reserving one for himself. That which fell to our Companion's Share, was a pretty young Girl. Tho' they could not understand one Word of what each other spoke, yet the Female Indian, being no Novice at her Game, but understanding what she came thither for, acted her Part dexterously enough with her Cully, to make him sensible of what she wanted; which was to pay the Hire, before he rode the Hackney. He shew'd her all the Treasure he was possess'd of, as Beads, Red Cadis, &c. which she lik'd very well, and permitted him to put them into his Pocket again, endearing him with all the Charms, which one of a better Education than Dame Nature had bestow'd upon her, could have made use of, to render her Consort a surer Captive. After they had us'd this Sort of Courtship a small time, the Match was confirm'd by both Parties, with the Approbation of as many Indian Women, as came to the House, to celebrate our Winchester-Wedding. Every one of the Bride-Maids were as great Whores, as Mrs. Bride, tho' not quite so handsome. Our happy Couple went to Bed together before us all, and with as little Blushing, as if they had been Man and Wife for 7 Years. The rest of the Company being weary with travelling, had more Mind to take their Rest, than add more Weddings to that hopeful one already consummated; so that tho' the other Virgins offer'd their Service to us, we gave them their Answer, and went to sleep. About an Hour before day, I awak'd, and saw somebody walking up and down the Room in a seemingly deep Melancholy. I call'd out to know who it was, and it prov'd to be Mr. Bridegroom, who in less than 12 Hours, was Batchelor, Husband, and Widdower, his dear Spouse having pick'd his Pocket of the Beads, Cadis, and what else should have gratified the Indians for the Victuals we receiv'd of them. However that did not serve her turn, but she had also got his Shooes away, which he had made the Night before, of a drest Buck-Skin. Thus dearly did our Spark already repent his new Bargain, walking bare-foot, in his Penitentials, like some poor Pilgrim to Loretto. After the Indians had laugh'd their Sides sore at the Figure Mr. Bridegroom made, with much ado, we muster'd up another Pair of Shooes, or Moggisons, and set forward on our intended Voyage, the Company (all the way) lifting up their Prayers for the new married Couple, whose Wedding had made away with that, which should have purchas'd our Food. {Wednesday.} Relying wholly on Providence, we march'd on, now and then paying our Respects to the new-married Man. The Land held rich and good; in many Places there were great Quantities of Marble. The Water was still of a wheyish Colour. About 10 of the Clock, we waded thro' a River, (about the Bigness of Derwent, in Yorkshire) which I take to be one of the Branches of Winjaw River. We saw several Flocks of Pigeons, Field-Fares, and Thrushes, much like those of Europe. The Indians of these Parts use Sweating very much. If any Pain seize their Limbs, or Body, immediately they take Reeds, or small Wands, and bend them Umbrella-Fashion, covering them with Skins and Matchcoats: They have a large Fire not far off, wherein they heat Stones, or (where they are wanting) Bark, putting it into this Stove, which casts an extraordinary Heat: There is a Pot of Water in the Bagnio, in which is put a Bunch of an Herb, bearing a Silver Tassel, not much unlike the Aurea Virga. With this Vegetable they rub the Head, Temples, and other Parts, which is reckon'd a Preserver of the Sight and Strengthener of the Brain. We went, this day, about 12 Miles, one of our Company being lame of his Knee. We pass'd over an exceeding rich Tract of Land, affording Plenty of great free Stones, and marble Rocks, and abounding in many pleasant and delightsome Rivulets. At Noon, we stay'd and refresh'd ourselves at a Cabin, where we met with one of their War-Captains, a Man of great Esteem among them. At his Departure from the Cabin, the Man of the House scratch'd this War-Captain on the Shoulder, which is look'd upon as a very great Compliment among them. The Captain went two or three Miles on our way, with us, to direct us in our Path. One of our Company gave him a Belt, which he took very kindly, bidding us call at his House, (which was in our Road) and stay till the lame Traveller was well, and speaking to the Indian, to order his Servant to make us welcome. Thus we parted, he being on his Journey to the Congerees, and Savannas, a famous, warlike, friendly Nation of Indians, living to the South-End of Ashly River. He had a Man-Slave with him, who was loaded with European Goods, his Wife and Daughter being in Company. He told us, at his Departure, that James had sent Knots to all the Indians thereabouts, for every Town to send in 10 Skins, meaning Captain Moor, then Governour of South-Carolina. The Towns being very thick hereabouts, at Night we took up our Quarters at one of the chief Mens Houses, which was one of the Theaters I spoke of before. There ran, hard-by this Town, a pleasant River, not very large, but, as the Indians told us, well stor'd with Fish. We being now among the powerful Nation of Esaws, our Landlord entertain'd us very courteously, shewing us, that Night, a pair of Leather-Gloves, which he had made; and comparing them with ours, they prov'd to be very ingeniously done, considering it was the first Tryal. {Thursday.} In the Morning, he desired to see the lame Man's affected Part, to the end he might do something, which (he believ'd) would give him Ease. After he had viewed it accordingly, he pull'd out an Instrument, somewhat like a Comb, which was made of a split Reed, with 15 Teeth of Rattle-Snakes set at much the same distance, as in a large Horn-Comb: With these he scratch'd the place where the Lameness chiefly lay, till the Blood came, bathing it, both before and after Incision, with warm Water, spurted out of his Mouth. This done, he ran into his Plantation, and got some Sassafras Root, (which grows here in great plenty) dry'd it in the Embers, scrap'd off the outward Rind, and having beat it betwixt two Stones, apply'd it to the Part afflicted, binding it up well. Thus, in a day or two, the Patient became sound. This day, we pass'd through a great many Towns, and Settlements, that belong to the Sugeree-Indians, no barren Land being found amongst them, but great plenty of Free-Stone, and good Timber. About three in the Afternoon, we reach'd the Kadapau King's House, where we met with one John Stewart, a Scot, then an Inhabitant of James-River in Virginia, who had traded there for many Years. Being alone, and hearing that the Sinnagers (Indians from Canada) were abroad in that Country, he durst not venture homewards, till he saw us, having heard that we were coming, above 20 days before. It is very odd, that News should fly so swiftly among these People. Mr. Stewart had left Virginia ever since the October before, and had lost a day of the Week, of which we inform'd him. He had brought seven Horses along with him, loaded with English Goods for the Indians; and having sold most of his Cargo, told us, if we would stay two Nights, he would go along with us. Company being very acceptable, we accepted the Proposal. {Friday.} The next day, we were preparing for our Voyage, and baked some Bread to take along with us. Our Landlord was King of the Kadapau Indians, and always kept two or three trading Girls in his Cabin. Offering one of these to some of our Company, who refus'd his Kindness, his Majesty flew into a violent Passion, to be thus slighted, telling the Englishmen, they were good for nothing. Our old Gamester, particularly, hung his Ears at the Proposal, having too lately been a Loser by that sort of Merchandize. It was observable, that we did not see one Partridge from the Waterrees to this place, tho' my Spaniel-Bitch, which I had with me in this Voyage, had put up a great many before. {Saturday.} On Saturday Morning, we all set out for Sapona, killing, in these Creeks, several Ducks of a strange Kind, having a red Circle about their Eyes, like some Pigeons that I have seen, a Top-knot reaching from the Crown of their Heads, almost to the middle of their Backs, and abundance of Feathers of pretty Shades and Colours. They prov'd excellent Meat. Likewise, here is good store of Woodcocks, not so big as those in England, the Feathers of the Breast being of a Carnation-Colour, exceeding ours for Delicacy of Food. The Marble here is of different Colours, some or other of the Rocks representing most Mixtures, but chiefly the white having black and blue Veins in it, and some that are red. This day, we met with seven heaps of Stones, being the Monuments of seven Indians, that were slain in that place by the Sinnagers, or Iroquois. Our Indian Guide added a Stone to each heap. We took up our Lodgings near a Brook-side, where the Virginia Man's Horses got away; and went back to the Kadapau's. {Sunday.} This day, one of our Company, with a Sapona Indian, who attended Stewart, went back for the Horses. In the mean time, we went to shoot Pigeons, which were so numerous in these Parts, that you might see many Millions in a Flock; they sometimes split off the Limbs of stout Oaks, and other Trees, upon which they roost o' Nights. You may find several Indian Towns, of not above 17 Houses, that have more than 100 Gallons of Pigeons Oil, or Fat; they using it with Pulse, or Bread, as we do Butter, and making the Ground as white as a Sheet with their Dung. The Indians take a Light, and go among them in the Night, and bring away some thousands, killing them with long Poles, as they roost in the Trees. At this time of the Year, the Flocks, as they pass by, in great measure, obstruct the Light of the day. {Monday.} On Monday, we went about 25 Miles, travelling through a pleasant, dry Country, and took up our Lodgings by a Hillside, that was one entire Rock, out of which gush'd out pleasant Fountains of well-tasted Water. {Tuesday.} The next day, still passing along such Land as we had done for many days before, which was, Hills and Vallies, about 10 a Clock we reach'd the Top of one of these Mountains, which yielded us a fine Prospect of a very level Country, holding so, on all sides, farther than we could discern. When we came to travel through it, we found it very stiff and rich, being a sort of Marl. This Valley afforded as large Timber as any I ever met withal, especially of Chesnut-Oaks, which render it an excellent Country for raising great Herds of Swine. Indeed, were it cultivated, we might have good hopes of as pleasant and fertile a Valley, as any our English in America can afford. At Night, we lay by a swift Current, where we saw plenty of Turkies, but pearch'd upon such lofty Oaks, that our Guns would not kill them, tho' we shot very often, and our Guns were very good. Some of our Company shot several times, at one Turkey, before he would fly away, the Pieces being loaded with large Goose-shot. {Wednesday.} Next Morning, we got our Breakfasts; roasted Acorns being one of the Dishes. The Indians beat them into Meal, and thicken their Venison-Broth with them; and oftentimes make a palatable Soop. They are used instead of Bread, boiling them till the Oil swims on the top of the Water, which they preserve for use, eating the Acorns with Flesh-meat. We travell'd, this day, about 25 Miles, over pleasant Savanna Ground, high, and dry, having very few Trees upon it, and those standing at a great distance. The Land was very good, and free from Grubs or Underwood. A Man near Sapona may more easily clear 10 Acres of Ground, than in some places he can one; there being much loose Stone upon the Land, lying very convenient for making of dry Walls, or any other sort of durable Fence. This Country abounds likewise with curious bold Creeks, (navigable for small Craft) disgorging themselves into the main Rivers, that vent themselves into the Ocean. These Creeks are well stor'd with sundry sorts of Fish, and Fowl, and are very convenient for the Transportation of what Commodities this Place may produce. This Night, we had a great deal of Rain, with Thunder and Lightning. {Thursday.} Next Morning, it proving delicate Weather, three of us separated ourselves from the Horses, and the rest of the Company, and went directly for Sapona Town. That day, we pass'd through a delicious Country, (none that I ever saw exceeds it.) We saw fine bladed Grass, six Foot high, along the Banks of these pleasant Rivulets: We pass'd by the Sepulchres of several slain Indians. Coming, that day, about 30 Miles, we reach'd the fertile and pleasant Banks of Sapona River, whereon stands the Indian Town and Fort. Nor could all Europe afford a pleasanter Stream, were it inhabited by Christians, and cultivated by ingenious Hands. These Indians live in a clear Field, about a Mile square, which they would have sold me, because I talked sometimes of coming into those Parts to live. This most pleasant River may be something broader than the Thames at Kingston, keeping a continual pleasant warbling Noise, with its reverberating on the bright Marble Rocks. It is beautified with a numerous Train of Swans, and other sorts of Water-Fowl, not common, though extraordinary pleasing to the Eye. The forward Spring welcom'd us with her innumerable Train of small Choristers, which inhabit those fair Banks; the Hills redoubling, and adding Sweetness to their melodious Tunes by their shrill Echoes. One side of the River is hemm'd in with mountainy Ground, the other side proving as rich a Soil to the Eye of a knowing Person with us, as any this Western World can afford. We took up our Quarters at the King's Cabin, who was a good Friend to the English, and had lost one of his Eyes in their Vindication. Being upon his march towards the Appallatche Mountains, amongst a Nation of Indians in their Way, there happen'd a Difference, while they were measuring of Gunpowder; and the Powder, by accident, taking fire, blew out one of this King's Eyes, and did a great deal more mischief, upon the spot: Yet this Sapona King stood firmly to the English Man's Interest, with whom he was in Company, still siding with him against the Indians. They were intended for the South Sea, but were too much fatigued by the vast Ridge of Mountains, tho' they hit the right Passage; it being no less than five days Journey through a Ledge of Rocky Hills, and sandy Desarts. And which is yet worse, there is no Water, nor scarce a Bird to be seen, during your Passage over these barren Crags and Valleys. The Sapona River proves to be the West Branch of Cape-Fair, or Clarendon River, whose Inlet, with other Advantages, makes it appear as noble a River to plant a Colony in, as any I have met withal. The Saponas had (about 10 days before we came thither) taken Five Prisoners of the Sinnagers or Jennitos, a Sort of People that range several thousands of Miles, making all Prey they lay their Hands on. These are fear'd by all the savage Nations I ever was among, the Westward Indians dreading their Approach. They are all forted in, and keep continual Spies and Out-Guards for their better Security. Those Captives they did intend to burn, few Prisoners of War escaping that Punishment. The Fire of Pitch-Pine being got ready, and a Feast appointed, which is solemnly kept at the time of their acting this Tragedy, the Sufferer has his Body stuck thick with Light-Wood-Splinters, which are lighted like so many Candles, the tortur'd Person dancing round a great Fire, till his Strength fails, and disables him from making them any farther Pastime. Most commonly, these Wretches behave themselves (in the Midst of their Tortures) with a great deal of Bravery and Resolution, esteeming it Satisfaction enough, to be assur'd, that the same Fate will befal some of their Tormentors, whensoever they fall into the Hands of their Nation. More of this you will have in the other Sheets. The Toteros, a neighbouring Nation, came down from the Westward Mountains, to the Saponas, desiring them to give them those Prisoners into their Hands, to the Intent they might send them back into their own Nation, being bound in Gratitude to be serviceable to the Sinnagers, since not long ago, those Northern-Indians had taken some of the Toteros Prisoners, and done them no Harm, but treated them civilly whilst among them, sending them, with Safety, back to their own People, and affirming, that it would be the best Method to preserve Peace on all Sides. At that time these Toteros, Saponas, and the Keyauwees, 3 small Nations, were going to live together, by which they thought they should strengthen themselves, and become formidable to their Enemies. The Reasons offer'd by the Toteros being heard, the Sapona King, with the Consent of his Counsellors, deliver'd the Sinnagers up to the Toteros, to conduct them home. {Friday.} Friday Morning, the old King having shew'd us 2 of his Horses, that were as fat, as if they had belong'd to the Dutch Troopers, left us, and went to look after his Bever-Traps, there being abundance of those amphibious Animals in this River, and the Creeks adjoining. Taken with the Pleasantness of the Place, we walk'd along the River-side, where we found a very delightful Island, made by the River, and a Branch; there being several such Plots of Ground environ'd with this Silver Stream, which are fit Pastures for Sheep, and free from any offensive Vermin. Nor can any thing be desired by a contented Mind, as to a pleasant Situation, but what may here be found; Every Step presenting some new Object, which still adds Invitation to the Traveller in these Parts. Our Indian King and his Wife entertain'd us very respectfully. {Saturday. Jan. 31.} On Saturday, the Indians brought in some Swans, and Geese, which we had our Share of. One of their Doctors took me to his Cabin, and shew'd me a great Quantity of medicinal Drugs, the Produce of those Parts; Relating their Qualities as to the Emunctories they work'd by, and what great Maladies he had heal'd by them. This Evening, came to us the Horses, with the Remainder of our Company, their Indian Guide (who was a Youth of this Nation) having kill'd, in their Way, a very fat Doe, Part of which they brought to us. {Sunday.} This day, the King sent out all his able Hunters, to kill Game for a great Feast, that was to be kept at their Departure, from the Town, which they offer'd to sell me for a small matter. That Piece of Ground, with a little Trouble, would make an Englishman a most curious Settlement, containing above a Mile square of rich Land. This Evening, came down some Toteros, tall, likely Men, having great Plenty of Buffelos, Elks, and Bears, with other sort of Deer amongst them, which strong Food makes large, robust Bodies. Enquiring of them, if they never got any of the Bezoar Stone, and giving them a Description how it was found, the Indians told me, they had great plenty of it; and ask'd me, What use I could make of it? I answer'd them, That the white Men us'd it in Physick, and that I would buy some of them, if they would get it against I came that way again. Thereupon, one of them pull'd out a Leather-Pouch, wherein was some of it in Powder; he was a notable Hunter, and affirm'd to me, That that Powder, blown into the Eyes, strengthen'd the Sight and Brain exceedingly, that being the most common Use they made of it. I bought, for 2 or 3 Flints, a large Peach-Loaf, made up with a pleasant sort of Seed; and this did us a singular Kindness, in our Journey. Near the Town, within their clear'd Land, are several Bagnios, or Sweating-Houses, made of Stone, in Shape like a large Oven. These they make much Use of; especially, for any Pains in the Joints, got by Cold, or Travelling. At Night, as we lay in our Beds, there arose the most violent N.W. Wind I ever knew. The first Puff blew down all the Palisadoes that fortify'd the Town; and I thought it would have blown us all into the River, together with the Houses. Our one-ey'd King, who pretends much to the Art of Conjuration, ran out in the most violent Hurry, and in the Middle of the Town, fell to his Necromantick Practice; tho' I thought he would have been blown away or kill'd, before the Devil and he could have exchang'd half a dozen Words; but in two Minutes, the Wind was ceas'd, and it became as great a Calm, as ever I knew in my Life. As I much admir'd at that sudden Alteration, the old Man told me, the Devil was very angry, and had done thus, because they had not put the Sinnagers to Death. {Monday.} On Monday Morning, our whole Company, with the Horses, set out from the Sapona-Indian Town, after having seen some of the Locust, which is gotten thereabouts, the same Sort that bears Honey. Going over several Creeks, very convenient for Water-Mills, about 8 Miles from the Town, we pass'd over a very pretty River, call'd Rocky River, a fit Name, having a Ridge of high Mountains running from its Banks, to the Eastward; and disgorging itself into Sapona-River; so that there is a most pleasant and convenient Neck of Land, betwixt both Rivers, lying upon a Point, where many thousand Acres may be fenced in, without much Cost or Labour. You can scarce go a Mile, without meeting with one of these small swift Currents, here being no Swamps to be found, but pleasant, dry Roads all over the Country. The Way that we went this day, was as full of Stones, as any which Craven, in the West of Yorkshire, could afford, and having nothing but Moggisons on my Feet, I was so lam'd by this stony Way, that I thought I must have taken up some Stay in those Parts. We went, this day, not above 15 or 20 Miles. After we had supp'd, and all lay down to sleep, there came a Wolf close to the Fire-side, where we lay. My Spaniel soon discover'd him, at which, one of our Company fir'd a Gun at the Beast; but, I believe, there was a Mistake in the loading of it, for it did him no Harm. The Wolf stay'd till he had almost loaded again, but the Bitch making a great Noise, at last left us and went aside. We had no sooner laid down, but he approach'd us again, yet was more shy, so that we could not get a Shot at him. {Tuesday.} Next day, we had 15 Miles farther to the Keyauwees. The Land is more mountainous, but extremely pleasant, and an excellent Place for the breeding Sheep, Goats, and Horses; or Mules, if the English were once brought to the Experience of the Usefulness of those Creatures. The Valleys are here very rich. At Noon, we pass'd over such another stony River, as that eight Miles from Sapona. This is call'd Heighwaree, and affords as good blue Stone for Mill-Stones, as that from Cologn, good Rags, some Hones, and large Pebbles, in great abundance, besides Free-Stone of several Sorts, all very useful. I knew one of these Hones made use of by an Acquaintance of mine, and it prov'd rather better than any from Old Spain, or elsewhere. The Veins of Marble are very large and curious on this River, and the Banks thereof. Five Miles from this River, to the N.W. stands the Keyauwees Town. They are fortify'd in, with wooden Puncheons, like Sapona, being a People much of the same Number. Nature hath so fortify'd this Town, with Mountains, that were it a Seat of War, it might easily be made impregnable; having large Corn-Fields joining to their Cabins, and a Savanna near the Town, at the Foot of these Mountains, that is capable of keeping some hundred Heads of Cattle. And all this environ'd round with very high Mountains, so that no hard Wind ever troubles these Inhabitants. Those high Clifts have no Grass growing on them, and very few Trees, which are very short, and stand at a great Distance one from another. The Earth is of a red Colour, and seems to me to be wholly design'd by Nature for the Production of Minerals, being of too hot a Quality, to suffer any Verdure upon its Surface. These Indians make use of Lead-Ore, to paint their Faces withal, which they get in the neighbouring Mountains. As for the refining of Metals, the Indians are wholly ignorant of it, being content with the Realgar. But if it be my Chance, once more to visit these Hilly Parts, I shall make a longer Stay amongst them: For were a good Vein of Lead found out, and work'd by an ingenious Hand, it might be of no small Advantage to the Undertaker, there being great Convenience for smelting, either by Bellows or Reverberation; and the Working of these Mines might discover some that are much richer. At the Top of one of these Mountains, is a Cave that 100 Men may fit very conveniently to dine in; whether natural, or artificial, I could not learn. There is a fine Bole between this Place, and the Saps. These Valleys thus hemm'd in with Mountains, would (doubtless) prove a good place for propagating some sort of Fruits, that our Easterly Winds commonly blast. The Vine could not miss of thriving well here; but we of the Northern Climate are neither Artists, nor curious, in propagating that pleasant and profitable Vegetable. Near the Town, is such another Current, as Heighwaree. We being six in Company, divided ourselves into Two Parties; and it was my Lot to be at the House of Keyauwees Jack, who is King of that People. He is a Congeree-Indian, and ran away when he was a Boy. He got this Government by Marriage with the Queen; the Female Issue carrying the Heritage, for fear of Impostors; the Savages well knowing, how much Frailty possesses the Indian Women, betwixt the Garters and the Girdle. {Wednesday.} The next day, having some occasion to write, the Indian King, who saw me, believ'd that he could write as well as I. Whereupon, I wrote a Word, and gave it him to copy, which he did with more Exactness, than any European could have done, that was illiterate. It was so well, that he who could read mine, might have done the same by his. Afterwards, he took great Delight in making Fish-hooks of his own Invention, which would have been a good Piece for an Antiquary to have puzzled his Brains withal, in tracing out the Characters of all the Oriental Tongues. He sent for several Indians to his Cabin, to look at his Handy-work, and both he and they thought, I could read his Writing as well as I could my own. I had a Manual in my Pocket, that had King David's Picture in it, in one of his private Retirements. The Indian ask'd me, Who that Figure represented? I told him, It was the Picture of a good King, that liv'd according to the Rules of Morality, doing to all as he would be done by, ordering all his Life to the Service of the Creator of all things; and being now above us all, in Heaven, with God Almighty, who had rewarded him with all the delightful Pleasures imaginable in the other World, for his Obedience to him in this; I concluded, with telling them, that we received nothing here below, as Food, Raiment, &c. but what came from that Omnipotent Being. They listened to my Discourse with a profound Silence, assuring me, that they believ'd what I said to be true. No Man living will ever be able to make these Heathens sensible of the Happiness of a future State, except he now and then mentions some lively carnal Representation, which may quicken their Apprehensions, and make them thirst after such a gainful Exchange; for, were the best Lecture that ever was preach'd by Man, given to an ignorant sort of People, in a more learned Style, than their mean Capacities are able to understand, the Intent would prove ineffectual, and the Hearers would be left in a greater Labyrinth than their Teacher found them in. But dispense the Precepts of our Faith according to the Pupil's Capacity, and there is nothing in our Religion, but what an indifferent Reason is, in some measure, able to comprehend; tho' a New-England Minister blames the French Jesuits for this way of Proceeding, as being quite contrary to a true Christian Practice, and affirms it to be no ready, or true Method, to establish a lively Representation of our Christian Belief amongst these Infidels. All the Indians hereabouts carefully preserve the Bones of the Flesh they eat, and burn them, as being of Opinion, that if they omitted that Custom, the Game would leave their Country, and they should not be able to maintain themselves by their Hunting. Most of these Indians wear Mustachoes, or Whiskers, which is rare; by reason the Indians are a People that commonly pull the Hair of their Faces, and other Parts, up by the Roots, and suffer none to grow. Here is plenty of Chesnuts, which are rarely found in Carolina, and never near the Sea, or Salt-Water; tho' they are frequently in such Places in Virginia. At the other House, where our Fellow-Travellers lay, they had provided a Dish, in great Fashion amongst the Indians, which was Two young Fawns, taken out of the Doe's Bellies, and boil'd in the same slimy Bags Nature had plac'd them in, and one of the Country-Hares, stew'd with the Guts in her Belly, and her Skin with the Hair on. This new-fashion'd Cookery wrought Abstinence in our Fellow-Travellers, which I somewhat wonder'd at, because one of them made nothing of eating Allegators, as heartily as if it had been Pork and Turneps. The Indians dress most things after the Wood-cock Fashion, never taking the Guts out. At the House we lay at, there was very good Entertainment of Venison, Turkies, and Bears; and which is customary amongst the Indians, the Queen had a Daughter by a former Husband, who was the beautifullest Indian I ever saw, and had an Air of Majesty with her, quite contrary to the general Carriage of the Indians. She was very kind to the English, during our Abode, as well as her Father and Mother. {Thursday.} This Morning, most of our Company having some Inclination to go straight away for Virginia, when they left this Place; I and one more took our leaves of them, resolving (with God's Leave) to see North-Carolina, one of the Indians setting us in our way. The rest being indifferent which way they went, desired us, by all means, to leave a Letter for them, at the Achonechy-Town. The Indian that put us in our Path, had been a Prisoner amongst the Sinnagers; but had out-run them, although they had cut his Toes, and half his Feet away, which is a Practice common amongst them. They first raise the Skin, then cut away half the Feet, and so wrap the Skin over the Stumps, and make a present Cure of the Wounds. This commonly disables them from making their Escape, they being not so good Travellers as before, and the Impression of their Half-Feet making it easy to trace them. However, this Fellow was got clear of them, but had little Heart to go far from home, and carry'd always a Case of Pistols in his Girdle, besides a Cutlass, and a Fuzee. Leaving the rest of our Company at the Indian-Town, we travell'd, that day, about 20 Miles, in very cold, frosty Weather; and pass'd over two pretty Rivers, something bigger than Heighwaree, but not quite so stony. We took these two Rivers to make one of the Northward Branches of Cape-Fair River, but afterwards found our Mistake. {Friday.} The next day, we travell'd over very good Land, but full of Free-Stone, and Marble, which pinch'd our Feet severely. We took up our Quarters in a sort of Savanna-Ground, that had very few Trees in it. The Land was good, and had several Quarries of Stone, but not loose, as the others us'd to be. {Saturday.} Next Morning, we got our Breakfasts of Parch'd Corn, having nothing but that to subsist on for above 100 Miles. All the Pine-Trees were vanish'd, for we had seen none for two days. We pass'd through a delicate rich Soil this day; no great Hills, but pretty Risings, and Levels, which made a beautiful Country. We likewise pass'd over three Rivers this day; the first about the bigness of Rocky River, the other not much differing in Size. Then we made not the least Question, but we had pass'd over the North-West Branch of Cape-Fair, travelling that day above 30 Miles. We were much taken with the Fertility and Pleasantness of the Neck of Land between these two Branches, and no less pleas'd, that we had pass'd the River, which us'd to frighten Passengers from fording it. At last, determining to rest on the other side of a Hill, which we saw before us; when we were on the Top thereof, there appear'd to us such another delicious, rapid Stream, as that of Sapona, having large Stones, about the bigness of an ordinary House, lying up and down the River. As the Wind blew very cold at N.W. and we were very weary, and hungry, the Swiftness of the Current gave us some cause to fear; but, at last, we concluded to venture over that Night. Accordingly, we stripp'd, and with great Difficulty, (by God's Assistance) got safe to the North-side of the famous Hau-River, by some called Reatkin; the Indians differing in the Names of Places, according to their several Nations. It is call'd Hau-River, from the Sissipahau Indians, who dwell upon this Stream, which is one of the main Branches of Cape-Fair, there being rich Land enough to contain some Thousands of Families; for which Reason, I hope, in a short time, it will be planted. This River is much such another as Sapona; both seeming to run a vast way up the Country. Here is plenty of good Timber, and especially, of a Scaly-bark'd Oak; And as there is Stone enough in both Rivers, and the Land is extraordinary Rich, no Man that will be content within the Bounds of Reason, can have any grounds to dislike it. And they that are otherwise, are the best Neighbours, when farthest of. {Sunday.} As soon as it was day, we set out for the Achonechy-Town, it being, by Estimation, 20 Miles off, which, I believe, is pretty exact. We were got about half way, (meeting great Gangs of Turkies) when we saw, at a Distance, 30 loaded Horses, coming on the Road, with four or five Men, on other Jades, driving them. We charg'd our Piece, and went up to them: Enquiring, whence they came from? They told us, from Virginia. The leading Man's Name was Massey, who was born about Leeds in Yorkshire. He ask'd, from whence we came? We told him. Then he ask'd again, Whether we wanted any thing that he had? telling us, we should be welcome to it. We accepted of Two Wheaten Biskets, and a little Ammunition. He advised us, by all means, to strike down the Country for Ronoack, and not think of Virginia, because of the Sinnagers, of whom they were afraid, tho' so well arm'd, and numerous. They persuaded us also, to call upon one Enoe Will, as we went to Adshusheer, for that he would conduct us safe among the English, giving him the Character of a very faithful Indian, which we afterwards found true by Experience. The Virginia-Men asking our Opinion of the Country we were then in? we told them, it was a very pleasant one. They were all of the same Opinion, and affirm'd, That they had never seen 20 Miles of such extraordinary rich Land, lying all together, like that betwixt Hau-River and the Achonechy Town. Having taken our Leaves of each other, we set forward; and the Country, thro' which we pass'd, was so delightful, that it gave us a great deal of Satisfaction. About Three a Clock, we reach'd the Town, and the Indians presently brought us good fat Bear, and Venison, which was very acceptable at that time. Their Cabins were hung with a good sort of Tapestry, as fat Bear, and barbakued or dried Venison; no Indians having greater Plenty of Provisions than these. The Savages do, indeed, still possess the Flower of Carolina, the English enjoying only the Fag-end of that fine Country. We had not been in the Town 2 Hours, when Enoe-Will came into the King's Cabin; which was our Quarters. We ask'd him, if he would conduct us to the English, and what he would have for his Pains; he answer'd, he would go along with us, and for what he was to have, he left that to our Discretion. {Monday.} The next Morning, we set out, with Enoe-Will, towards Adshusheer, leaving the Virginia Path, and striking more to the Eastward, for Ronoack. Several Indians were in our Company belonging to Will's Nation, who are the Shoccories, mixt with the Enoe-Indians, and those of the Nation of Adshusheer. Enoe-Will is their chief Man, and rules as far as the Banks of Reatkin. It was a sad stony Way to Adshusheer. We went over a small River by Achonechy, and in this 14 Miles, through several other Streams, which empty themselves into the Branches of Cape-Fair. The stony Way made me quite lame; so that I was an Hour or two behind the rest; but honest Will would not leave me, but bid me welcome when we came to his House, feasting us with hot Bread, and Bears-Oil; which is wholsome Food for Travellers. There runs a pretty Rivulet by this Town. Near the Plantation, I saw a prodigious overgrown Pine-Tree, having not seen any of that Sort of Timber for above 125 Miles: They brought us 2 Cocks, and pull'd their larger Feathers off, never plucking the lesser, but singeing them off. I took one of these Fowls in my Hand, to make it cleaner than the Indian had, pulling out his Guts and Liver, which I laid in a Bason; notwithstanding which, he kept such a Struggling for a considerable time, that I had much ado to hold him in my Hands. The Indians laugh'd at me, and told me, that Enoe-Will had taken a Cock of an Indian that was not at home, and the Fowl was design'd for another Use. I conjectur'd, that he was design'd for an Offering to their God, who, they say, hurts them, (which is the Devil.) In this Struggling, he bled afresh, and there issued out of his Body more Blood than commonly such Creatures afford. Notwithstanding all this, we cook'd him, and eat him; and if he was design'd for him, cheated the Devil. The Indians keep many Cocks, but seldom above one Hen, using very often such wicked Sacrifices, as I mistrusted this Fowl was design'd for. Our Guide and Landlord Enoe-Will was of the best and most agreeable Temper that ever I met with in an Indian, being always ready to serve the English, not out of Gain, but real Affection; which makes him apprehensive of being poison'd by some wicked Indians, and was therefore very earnest with me, to promise him to revenge his Death, if it should so happen. He brought some of his chief Men into his Cabin, and 2 of them having a Drum, and a Rattle, sung by us, as we lay in Bed, and struck up their Musick to serenade and welcome us to their Town. And tho' at last, we fell asleep, yet they continu'd their Consort till Morning. These Indians are fortify'd in, as the former, and are much addicted to a Sport they call Chenco, which is carry'd on with a Staff and a Bowl made of Stone, which they trundle upon a smooth Place, like a Bowling-Green, made for that Purpose, as I have mention'd before. {Tuesday.} Next Morning, we set out, with our Guide, and several other Indians, who intended to go to the English, and buy Rum. We design'd for a Nation about 40 Miles from Adshusheer, call'd the Lower Quarter: The first Night, we lay in a rich Perkoson, or low Ground, that was hard-by a Creek, and good dry Land. {Wednesday.} The next day, we went over several Tracts of rich Land, but mix'd with Pines and other indifferent Soil. In our way, there stood a great Stone about the Size of a large Oven, and hollow; this the Indians took great Notice of, putting some Tobacco into the Concavity, and spitting after it. I ask'd them the Reason of their so doing, but they made me no Answer. In the Evening, we pass'd over a pleasant Rivulet, with a fine gravelly Bottom, having come over such another that Morning. On the other side of this River, we found the Indian Town, which was a Parcel of nasty smoaky Holes, much like the Waterrees; their Town having a great Swamp running directly through the Middle thereof. The Land here begins to abate of its Height, and has some few Swamps. Most of these Indians have but one Eye; but what Mischance or Quarrel has bereav'd them of the other I could not learn. They were not so free to us, as most of the other Indians had been; Victuals being somewhat scarce among them. However, we got enough to satisfy our Appetites. I saw, among these Men, very long Arrows, headed with Pieces of Glass, which they had broken from Bottles. They had shap'd them neatly, like the Head of a Dart; but which way they did it, I can't tell. We had not been at this Town above an Hour, when two of our Company, that had bought a Mare of John Stewart, came up to us, having receiv'd a Letter by one of Will's Indians, who was very cautious, and asked a great many Questions, to certifie him of the Person, e'er he would deliver the Letter. They had left the Trader, and one that came from South-Carolina with us, to go to Virginia; these Two being resolved to go to Carolina with us. {Thursday.} This Day fell much Rain, so we staid at the Indian Town. {Friday.} This Morning, we set out early, being four English-Men, besides several Indians. We went 10 Miles, and were then stopp'd by the Freshes of Enoe-River, which had rais'd it so high, that we could not pass over, till it was fallen. I enquir'd of my Guide, Where this River disgorg'd it self? He said, It was Enoe-River, and run into a Place call'd Enoe-Bay, near his Country, which he left when he was a Boy; by which I perceiv'd, he was one of the Cores by Birth: This being a Branch of Neus-River. {Saturday.} This Day, our Fellow-Traveller's Mare ran away from him; wherefore, Will went back as far as the lower Quarter, and brought her back. {Sunday.} The next Day, early, came two Tuskeruro Indians to the other side of the River, but could not get over. They talk'd much to us, but we understood them not. In the Afternoon, Will came with the Mare, and had some Discourse with them; they told him, The English, to whom he was going, were very wicked People; and, That they threatned the Indians for Hunting near their Plantations. These Two Fellows were going among the Schoccores and Achonechy Indians, to sell their Wooden Bowls and Ladles for Raw-Skins, which they make great Advantage of, hating that any of these Westward Indians should have any Commerce with the English, which would prove a Hinderance to their Gains. Their Stories deterr'd an Old Indian and his Son, from going any farther; but Will told us, Nothing they had said should frighten him, he believing them to be a couple of Hog-stealers; and that the English only sought Restitution of their Losses, by them; and that this was the only ground for their Report. Will had a Slave, a Sissipahau-Indian by Nation, who killed us several Turkies, and other Game, on which we feasted. {Monday.} This River is near as large as Reatkin; the South-side having curious Tracts of good Land, the Banks high, and Stone-Quarries. The Tuskeruros being come to us, we ventur'd over the River, which we found to be a strong Current, and the Water about Breast-high. However, we all got safe to the North-Shore, which is but poor, white, sandy Land, and bears no Timber, but small shrubby Oaks. We went about 10 Miles, and sat down at the Falls of a large Creek, where lay mighty Rocks, the Water making a strange Noise, as if a great many Water-Mills were going at once. I take this to be the Falls of Neus-Creek, called by the Indians, `Wee quo Whom'. We lay here all Night. My Guide Will desiring to see the Book that I had about me, I lent it him; and as he soon found the Picture of King David, he asked me several Questions concerning the Book, and Picture, which I resolv'd him, and invited him to become a Christian. He made me a very sharp Reply, assuring me, That he lov'd the English extraordinary well, and did believe their Ways to be very good for those that had already practis'd them, and had been brought up therein; But as for himself, he was too much in Years to think of a Change, esteeming it not proper for Old People to admit of such an Alteration. However, he told me, If I would take his Son Jack, who was then about 14 Years of Age, and teach him to talk in that Book, and make Paper speak, which they call our Way of Writing, he would wholly resign him to my Tuition; telling me, he was of Opinion, I was very well affected to the Indians. {Tuesday.} The next Morning, we set out early, and I perceiv'd that these Indians were in some fear of Enemies; for they had an Old Man with them, who was very cunning and circumspect, wheresoever he saw any Marks of Footing, or of any Fire that had been made; going out of his Way, very often, to look for these Marks. We went, this day, above 30 Miles, over a very level Country, and most Pine Land, yet intermix'd with some Quantities of Marble; a good Range for Cattel, though very indifferent for Swine. We had now lost our rapid Streams, and were come to slow, dead Waters, of a brown Colour, proceeding from the Swamps, much like the Sluices in Holland, where the Track-Scoots go along. In the Afternoon, we met two Tuskeruros, who told us, That there was a Company of Hunters not far of, and if we walk'd stoutly, we might reach them that Night. But Will and He that own'd the Mare, being gone before, and the Old Indian tired, we rested, that Night, in the Woods, making a good light Fire, Wood being very plentiful in these Parts. {Wednesday.} Next Day, about 10 a Clock, we struck out of the Way, by the Advice of our Old Indian. We had not gone past two Miles, e'er we met with about 500 Tuskeruros in one Hunting-Quarter. They had made themselves Streets of Houses, built with Pine-Bark, not with round Tops, as they commonly use, but Ridge-Fashion, after the manner of most other Indians. We got nothing amongst them but Corn, Flesh being not plentiful, by reason of the great Number of their People. For tho' they are expert Hunters, yet they are too populous for one Range; which makes Venison very scarce to what it is amongst other Indians, that are fewer; no Savages living so well for Plenty, as those near the Sea. I saw, amongst these, a Hump-back'd Indian, which was the only crooked one I ever met withal. About two a Clock, we reach'd one of their Towns, in which there was no body left, but an Old Woman or two; the rest being gone to their Hunting-Quarters. We could find no Provision at that Place. We had a Tuskeruro that came in company with us, from the lower Quarter, who took us to his Cabin, and gave us what it afforded, which was Corn-meat. {Thursday.} This Day, we pass'd through several Swamps, and going not above a dozen Miles, came to a Cabin, the Master whereof us'd to trade amongst the English. He told us, If we would stay Two Nights, he would conduct us safe to them, himself designing, at that time, to go and fetch some Rum; so we resolved to tarry for his Company. During our Stay, there happen'd to be a Young Woman troubled with Fits. The Doctor who was sent for to assist her, laid her on her Belly, and made a small Incision with Rattle-Snake-Teeth; then laying his Mouth to the Place, he suck'd out near a Quart of black conglutinated Blood, and Serum. Our Landlord gave us the Tail of a Bever, which was a choice Food. {Friday.} There happen'd also to be a Burial of one of their Dead, which Ceremony is much the same with that of the Santees, who make a great Feast at the Interment of their Corps. The small Runs of Water hereabout, afford great Plenty of Craw-Fish, full as large as those in England, and nothing inferior in Goodness. {Saturday.} Saturday Morning, our Patron, with Enoe Will, and his Servant, set out with us, for the English. In the Afternoon, we ferried over a River, (in a Canoe) called by the Indians, Chattookau, which is the N.W. Branch of Neus-River. We lay in the Swamp, where some Indians invited us to go to their Quarters, which some of our Company accepted, but got nothing extraordinary, except a dozen Miles March out of their Way: The Country here is very thick of Indian Towns and Plantations. {Sunday.} We were forced to march, this day, for Want of Provisions. About 10 a Clock, we met an Indian that had got a parcel of Shad-Fish ready barbaku'd. We bought 24 of them, for a dress'd Doe-Skin, and so went on, through many Swamps, finding, this day, the long ragged Moss on the Trees, which we had not seen for above 600 Miles. In the Afternoon, we came upon the Banks of Pampticough, about 20 Miles above the English Plantations by Water, though not so far by Land. The Indian found a Canoe, which he had hidden, in which we all got over, and went about six Miles farther. We lay, that Night, under two or three Pieces of Bark, at the Foot of a large Oak. There fell abundance of Snow and Rain in the Night, with much Thunder and Lightning. {Monday.} Next Day, it clear'd up, and it being about 12 Miles to the English, about half-way we passed over a deep Creek, and came safe to Mr. Richard Smith's, of Pampticough-River, in North-Carolina; where being well receiv'd by the Inhabitants, and pleas'd with the Goodness of the Country, we all resolv'd to continue. FINIS. A DESCRIPTION of North-CAROLINA. {Carolina how bounded.} The Province of Carolina is separated from Virginia by a due West-Line, which begins at Currituck-Inlet, in 36 Degrees, 30 Minutes, of Northern-Latitude, and extends indefinitely to the Westward, and thence to the Southward, as far as 29 Degrees; which is a vast Tract of Sea-Coast. But having already treated, as far as is necessary, concerning South-Carolina, I shall confine myself, in the ensuing Sheets, to give my Reader a Description of that Part of the Country only, which lies betwixt Currituck and Cape-Fair, and is almost 34 Deg. North. And this is commonly call'd North Carolina. This Part of Carolina is faced with a Chain of Sand-Banks, which defends it from the Violence and Insults of the Atlantick Ocean; by which Barrier, a vast Sound is hemm'd in, which fronts the Mouths of the Navigable and Pleasant Rivers of this Fertile Country, and into which they disgorge themselves. {Inlets.} Thro' the same are Inlets of several Depths of Water. Some of their Channels admit only of Sloops, Brigantines, small Barks, and Ketches; and such are Currituck, Ronoak, and up the Sound above Hatteras: Whilst others can receive Ships of Burden, as Ocacock, Topsail-Inlet, and Cape-Fair; as appears by my Chart. {First Colony of Carolina.} The first Discovery and Settlement of this Country was by the Procurement of Sir Walter Raleigh, in Conjunction with some publick-spirited Gentlemen of that Age, under the Protection of Queen Elizabeth; for which Reason it was then named Virginia, being begun on that Part called Ronoak-Island, where the Ruins of a Fort are to be seen at this day, as well as some old English Coins which have been lately found; and a Brass-Gun, a Powder-Horn, and one small Quarter deck-Gun, made of Iron Staves, and hoop'd with the same Metal; which Method of making Guns might very probably be made use of in those Days, for the Convenience of Infant-Colonies. {Hatteras Indians.} A farther Confirmation of this we have from the Hatteras Indians, who either then lived on Ronoak-Island, or much frequented it. These tell us, that several of their Ancestors were white People, and could talk in a Book, as we do; the Truth of which is confirm'd by gray Eyes being found frequently amongst these Indians, and no others. They value themselves extremely for their Affinity to the English, and are ready to do them all friendly Offices. It is probable, that this Settlement miscarry'd for want of timely Supplies from England; or thro' the Treachery of the Natives, for we may reasonably suppose that the English were forced to cohabit with them, for Relief and Conversation; and that in process of Time, they conform'd themselves to the Manners of their Indian Relations. And thus we see, how apt Humane Nature is to degenerate. {Sir Walter Raleigh's Ship.} I cannot forbear inserting here, a pleasant Story that passes for an uncontested Truth amongst the Inhabitants of this Place; which is, that the Ship which brought the first Colonies, does often appear amongst them, under Sail, in a gallant Posture, which they call Sir Walter Raleigh's Ship, And the truth of this has been affirm'd to me, by Men of the best Credit in the Country. {Second Settlement of North-Carolina.} A second Settlement of this Country was made about fifty Years ago, in that part we now call Albemarl-County, and chiefly in Chuwon Precinct, by several substantial Planters, from Virginia, and other Plantations; Who finding mild Winters, and a fertile Soil, beyond Expectation, producing every thing that was planted, to a prodigious Increase; their Cattle, Horses, Sheep, and Swine, breeding very fast, and passing the Winter, without any Assistance from the Planter; so that every thing seem'd to come by Nature, the Husbandman living almost void of Care, and free from those Fatigues which are absolutely requisite in Winter-Countries, for providing Fodder and other Necessaries; these Encouragements induc'd them to stand their Ground, altho' but a handful of People, seated at great Distances one from another, and amidst a vast number of Indians of different Nations, who were then in Carolina. Nevertheless, I say, the Fame of this new-discover'd Summer-Country spread thro' the neighbouring Colonies, and, in a few Years, drew a considerable Number of Families thereto, who all found Land enough to settle themselves in, (had they been many Thousands more) and that which was very good and commodiously seated, both for Profit and Pleasure. {Pleasantness of Carolina.} And indeed, most of the Plantations in Carolina naturally enjoy a noble Prospect of large and spacious Rivers, pleasant Savanna's, and fine Meadows, with their green Liveries, interwoven with beautiful Flowers, of most glorious Colours, which the several Seasons afford; hedg'd in with pleasant Groves of the ever-famous Tulip-tree, the stately Laurel, and Bays, equalizing the Oak in Bigness and Growth; Myrtles, Jessamines, Wood-bines, Honysuckles, and several other fragrant Vines and Ever-greens, whose aspiring Branches shadow and interweave themselves with the loftiest Timbers, yielding a pleasant Prospect, Shade and Smell, proper Habitations for the Sweet-singing Birds, that melodiously entertain such as travel thro' the Woods of Carolina. The Planters possessing all these Blessings, and the Produce of great Quantities of Wheat and Indian Corn, in which this Country is very fruitful, as likewise in Beef, Pork, Tallow, Hides, Deer-Skins, and Furs; for these Commodities the New-England-Men and Bermudians visited Carolina in their Barks and Sloops, and carry'd out what they made, bringing them, in Exchange, Rum, Sugar, Salt, Molosses, and some wearing Apparel, tho' the last at very extravagant Prices. As the Land is very fruitful, so are the Planters kind and hospitable to all that come to visit them; there being very few Housekeepers, but what live very nobly, and give away more Provisions to Coasters and Guests who come to see them, than they expend amongst their own Families. Of the Inlets and Havens of this Country. {Currituck Inlet.} The Bar of Currituck being the Northermost of this Country, presents itself first to be treated of. It lies in 36 deg. 30 min. and the Course over is S.W. by W. having not above seven or eight Foot on the Bar, tho' a good Harbour, when you are over, where you may ride safe, and deep enough; but this Part of the Sound is so full of Shoals, as not to suffer any thing to trade thro' it, that draws above three Foot Water, which renders it very incommodious. However, this affects but some part of the Country, and may be easily remedied, by carrying their Produce, in small Craft, down to the Vessels, which ride near the Inlet. {Ronoak Inlet.} Ronoak Inlet has Ten Foot Water, the Course over the Bar is almost W. which leads you thro' the best of the Channel. This Bar, as well as Currituck, often shifts by the Violence of the N.E. Storms, both lying expos'd to those Winds. Notwithstanding which, a considerable Trade might be carry'd on, provided there was a Pilot to bring them in; for it lies convenient for a large Part of this Colony, whose Product would very easily allow of that Charge; Lat. 35 deg. 50 min. {Hatteras Inlet.} The Inlet of Hatteras lies to the Westward of the Cape, round which is an excellent Harbour. When the Wind blows hard at N. or N.E. if you keep a small League from the Cape-Point, you will have 3, 4, and 5 Fathom, the outermost Shoals lying about 7 or 8 Leagues from Shoar. As you come into the Inlet, keep close to the South Breakers, till you are over the Bar, where you will have two Fathom at Low-Water. You may come to an Anchor in two Fathom and a Half when you are over, then steer over close aboard the North Shoar, where is four Fathom, close to a Point of Marsh; then steer up the Sound a long League, till you bring the North Cape of the Inlet to bear S.S.E. half E. then steer W.N.W. the East-point of Bluff-Land at Hatteras bearing E.N.E. the Southermost large Hammock towards Ocacock, bearing S.S.W. half S. then you are in the Sound, over the Bar of Sand, whereon is but 6 Foot Water; then your Course to Pampticough is almost West. It flows on these three Bars S.E. by E. 1/4 E. about Eight of the Clock, unless there is a hard Gale of Wind at N.E. which will make it flow two hours longer; but as soon as the Wind is down, the Tides will have their natural Course: A hard Gale at N. or N.W. will make the Water ebb sometimes 24 hours, but still the Tide will ebb and flow, tho' not seen by the turning thereof, but may be seen by the Rising of the Water, and Falling of the same, Lat. 35d 20". {Ocacock Inlet.} Ocacock is the best Inlet and Harbour yet in this Country; and has 13 Foot at Low-water upon the Bar. There are two Channels; one is but narrow, and lies close aboard the South Cape; the other in the Middle, viz. between the Middle Ground, and the South Shoar, and is above half a Mile wide. The Bar itself is but half a Cable's Length over, and then you are in 7 or 8 Fathom Water; a good Harbour. The Course into the Sound is N.N.W. At High-water, and Neap-tides, here is 18 Foot Water. It lies S.W. from Hatteras Inlet. Lat. 35d 8". {Topsail Inlet.} Topsail Inlet is above two Leagues to the Westward of Cape Look-out. You have a fair Channel over the Bar, and two Fathom thereon, and a good Harbour in five or six Fathom to come to an Anchor. Your Course over this Bar is almost N.W. Lat. 34d 44". {Cape Fair Inlet and River.} As for the Inlet and River of Cape Fair, I cannot give you a better Information thereof, than has been already deliver'd by the Gentlemen, who were sent on purpose, from Barbados, to make a Discovery of that River, in the Year 1663, which is thus. From Tuesday the 29th of September, to Friday the 2d of October, we rang'd along the Shoar from Lat. 32 deg. 20 min. to Lat. 33 deg. 11 min. but could discern no Entrance for our Ship, after we had pass'd to the Northward of 32 deg. 40 min. On Saturday, Octob. 3. a violent Storm overtook us, the Wind between North and East; which Easterly Winds and Foul Weather continu'd till Monday the 12th; by reason of which Storms and Foul Weather, we were forced to get off to Sea, to secure Ourselves and Ship, and were driven by the Rapidity of a strong Current to Cape Hatteras in Lat. 35 deg. 30 min. On Monday the 12th aforesaid, we came to an Anchor in seven Fathom at Cape-Fair Road, and took the Meridian Altitude of the Sun, and were in Latitude 33 deg. 43 min. the Wind continuing still easterly, and foul Weather, till Thursday the 15th; and on Friday the 16th, the Wind being at N.W. we weigh'd and sail'd up Cape-Fair-River, some 4 or 5 Leagues, and came to an Anchor in 6 or 7 Fathom, at which time several Indians came on board, and brought us great Store of fresh Fish, large Mullets, young Bass, Shads, and several other Sorts of very good well-tasted Fish. On Saturday the 17th, we went down to the Cape, to see the English Cattle, but could not find 'em, tho' we rounded the Cape: And having an Indian Guide with us, here we rode till Oct. 24. The Wind being against us, we could not go up the River with our Ship; but went on shoar, and view'd the Land of those Quarters. On Saturday, we weigh'd, and sail'd up the River some 4 Leagues, or thereabouts. Sunday the 25th, we weigh'd again, and row'd up the River, it being calm, and got up some 14 Leagues from the Harbour's Mouth, where we mor'd our Ship. On Monday Oct. the 26th, we went down with the Yawl, to Necoes, an Indian Plantation, and view'd the Land there. On Tuesday the 27th, we row'd up the main River, with our Long-Boat, and 12 Men, some 10 Leagues, or thereabouts. On Wednesday the 28th, we row'd up about 8 or 10 Leagues more. Thursday the 29th, was foul Weather, with much Rain and Wind, which forc'd us to make Huts, and lie still. Friday the 30th, we proceeded up the main River, 7 or 8 Leagues. Saturday the 31st, we got up 3 or 4 Leagues more, and came to a Tree that lay cross the River; but because our Provisions were almost spent, we proceeded no farther, but return'd downward before Night, and on Monday the 2d of November, we came aboard our Ship. Tuesday the 3d, we lay still, to refresh ourselves. On Wednesday the 4th, we went 5 or 6 Leagues up the River, to search a Branch that run out of the main River towards the N.W. In which Branch we went up 5 or 6 Leagues; but not liking the Land, return'd on board that Night about Midnight, and call'd that Place Swampy-Branch. Thursday, November the 5th, we stay'd aboard. On Friday the 6th, we went up Greens-River, the Mouth of it being against the Place at which rode our Ship. On Saturday the 7th, we proceeded up the said River, some 14 or 15 Leagues in all, and found it ended in several small Branches; The Land, for the most part, being marshy and Swamps, we return'd towards our Ship, and got aboard it in the Night. Sunday November the 8th, we lay still, and on Monday the 9th, went again up the main River, being well stock'd with Provisions, and all things necessary, and proceeded upwards till Thursday noon, the 12th, at which time we came to a Place, where were two Islands in the Middle of the River; and by reason of the Crookedness of the River at that Place, several Trees lay cross both Branches, which stop'd the Passage of each Branch, so that we could proceed no farther with our Boat; but went up the River side by Land, some 3 or 4 Miles, and found the River wider and wider. So we return'd, leaving it, as far as we could see up a long Reach, running N.E. we judging ourselves near fifty Leagues North from the River's Mouth. In our Return, we view'd the Land on both Sides the River, and found as good Tracts of dry, well-wooded, pleasant, and delightful Ground, as we have seen any where in the World, with abundance of long thick Grass on it, the Land being very level, with steep Banks on both Sides the River, and in some Places very high, the Woods stor'd every where, with great Numbers of Deer and Turkies, we never going on Shoar, but we saw of each Sort; as also great Store of Partridges, Cranes, and Conies, in several Places; we likewise heard several Wolves howling in the Woods, and saw where they had torn a Deer in Pieces. Also in the River we saw great Store of Ducks, Teal, Widgeon; and in the Woods, great Flocks of Parrakeeto's. The Timber that the Woods afford, for the most part, consists of Oaks of four or five Sorts, all differing in Leaves, but each bearing very good Acorns. We measur'd many of the Oaks in several Places, which we found to be, in Bigness, some Two, some Three, and others almost Four Fathom in Height, before you come to Boughs or Limbs; forty, fifty, sixty Foot, and some more; and those Oaks very common in the upper Parts of both Rivers; also a very tall large Tree of great Bigness, which some call Cyprus, the right Name we know not, growing in Swamps. Likewise Walnut, Birch, Beech, Maple, Ash, Bay, Willow, Alder, and Holly; and in the lowermost Parts innumerable Pines, tall and good for Boards or Masts, growing, for the most part, in barren and sandy, but in some Places up the River, in good Ground, being mixt amongst Oaks and other Timbers. We saw Mulberry-Trees, Multitudes of Grape-Vines, and some Grapes which we eat of. We found a very large and good Tract of Land, on the N.W. Side of the River, thin of Timber, except here and there a very great Oak, and full of Grass, commonly as high as a Man's Middle, and in many Places to his Shoulders, where we saw many Deer, and Turkies; one Deer having very large Horns, and great Body, therefore call'd it Stag-Park. It being a very pleasant and delightful Place, we travell'd in it several Miles, but saw no End thereof. So we return'd to our Boat, and proceeded down the River, and came to another Place, some twenty five Leagues from the River's Mouth on the same Side, where we found a Place, no less delightful than the former; and as far as we could judge, both Tracts came into one. This lower Place we call'd Rocky Point, because we found many Rocks and Stones, of several Sizes, upon the Land, which is not common. We sent our Boat down the River before us; ourselves travelling by Land, many Miles. Indeed we were so much taken with the Pleasantness of the Country, that we travell'd into the Woods too far to recover our Boat and Company that Night. The next day being Sunday, we got to our Boat; and on Monday the 16th of November, proceeded down to a Place on the East-Side of the River, some 23 Leagues from the Harbour's Mouth, which we call'd Turky-Quarters, because we kill'd several Turkies thereabouts; we view'd the Land there, and found some Tracts of good Ground, and high, facing upon the River about one Mile inward, but backwards some two Miles, all Pine Land, but good Pasture Ground: We return'd to our Boat, and proceeded down some 2 or 3 Leagues, where we had formerly view'd, and found it a Tract of as good Land, as any we have seen, and had as good Timber on it. The Banks on the River being high, therefore we call'd it High-Land-Point. Having view'd that, we proceeded down the River, going on Shoar in several Places on both Sides, it being generally large Marshes, and many of them dry, that they may more fitly be call'd Meadows. The Wood-Land against them is, for the most part, Pine, and in some Places as barren, as ever we saw Land, but in other Places good Pasture-Ground. On Tuesday, November the 17th, we got aboard our Ship, riding against the Mouth of Green's River, where our Men were providing Wood, and fitting the Ship for the Sea: In the interim, we took a View of the Country on both sides of the River there, finding some good Land, but more bad, and the best not comparable to that above. Friday the 20th was foul Weather; yet in the Afternoon we weigh'd, went down the River about two Leagues, and came to an Anchor against the Mouth of Hilton's River, and took a View of the Land there on both sides, which appear'd to us much like that at Green's River. Monday the 23d, we went, with our Long-Boat well victuall'd and mann'd, up Hilton's River; and when we came three Leagues, or thereabouts, up the same, we found this and Green's River to come into one, and so continu'd for four or five Leagues, which makes a great Island betwixt them. We proceeded still up the River, till they parted again, keeping up Hilton's River on the Larboard side, and follow'd the said River five or six Leagues farther, where we found another large Branch of Green's River to come into Hilton's, which makes another great Island. On the Starboard side going up, we proceeded still up the River some four Leagues, and return'd, taking a View of the Land on both sides, and then judg'd ourselves to be from our Ship some 18 Leagues W. and by N. One League below this Place, came four Indians in a Canoe to us, and sold us several Baskets of Acorns, which we satisfy'd them for, and so left them; but one of them follow'd us on the Shoar some two or three Miles, till he came on the Top of a high Bank, facing on the River; and as we row'd underneath it, the Fellow shot an Arrow at us, which very narrowly miss'd one of our Men, and stuck in the upper edge of the Boat; but broke in pieces, leaving the Head behind. Hereupon, we presently made to the Shoar, and went all up the Bank (except Four to guide the Boat) to look for the Indian, but could not find him: At last, we heard some sing, farther in the Woods, which we look'd upon as a Challenge to us, to come and fight them. We went towards them with all Speed; but before we came in Sight of them, heard two Guns go off from our Boat; whereupon we retreated, as fast as we could, to secure our Boat and Men. When we came to them, we found all well, and demanded the Reason of their firing the Guns: They told us, that an Indian came creeping along the Bank, as they suppos'd, to shoot at them; and therefore they shot at him at a great distance, with small Shot, but thought they did him no Hurt; for they saw him run away. Presently after our Return to the Boat, and while we were thus talking, came two Indians to us, with their Bows and Arrows, crying `Bonny, Bonny'. We took their Bows and Arrows from them, and gave them Beads, to their Content; then we led them, by the Hand, to the Boat, and shew'd them the Arrow-head sticking in her Side, and related to them the whole Passage; which when they understood, both of them shew'd a great Concern, and signify'd to us, by Signs, that they knew nothing of it; so we let them go, and mark'd a Tree on the Top of the Bank, calling the Place Mount-Skerry. We look'd up the River, as far as we could discern, and saw that it widen'd, and came running directly down the Country: So we return'd, viewing the Land on both sides the River, and finding the Banks steep in some places, but very high in others. The Bank-sides are generally Clay, and as some of our Company did affirm, some Marl. The Land and Timber up this River is no way inferiour to the best in the other, which we call the main River. So far as we could discern, this seem'd as fair, if not fairer, than the former, and we think runs farther into the Country, because a strong Current comes down, and a great deal more Drift-Wood. But, to return to the Business of the Land and Timber: We saw several Plots of Ground clear'd by the Indians, after their weak manner, compass'd round with great Timber Trees, which they are no-wise able to fell, and so keep the Sun from Corn-Fields very much; yet nevertheless, we saw as large Corn-stalks, or larger, than we have seen any where else: So we proceeded down the River, till we found the Canoe the Indian was in, who shot at us. In the Morning, we went on Shoar, and cut the same in pieces. The Indians perceiving us coming towards them, ran away. Going to his Hutt, we pull'd it down, broke his Pots, Platters, and Spoons, tore the Deer-Skins and Matts in pieces, and took away a Basket of Acorns; and afterwards proceeded down the River 2 Leagues, or thereabouts, and came to another Place of Indians, bought Acorns and some Corn of them, and went downwards 2 Leagues more. At last, espying an Indian peeping over a high Bank, we held up a Gun at him; and calling to him, `Skerry', presently several Indians came in Sight of us, and made great Signs of Friendship, saying `Bonny, Bonny'. Then running before us, they endeavour'd to persuade us to come on shoar; but we answer'd them with stern Countenances, and call'd out, `Skerry', taking up our Guns, and threatning to shoot at them, but they still cry'd `Bonny, Bonny': And when they saw they could not prevail, nor persuade us to come on shoar, two of them came off to us in a Canoe, one paddling with a great Cane, the other with his Hand. As soon as they overtook us, they laid hold of our Boat, sweating and blowing, and told us, it was `Bonny' on shoar, and at last persuaded us to go on shoar with them. As soon as we landed, several Indians, to the Number of near 40 lusty Men, came to us, all in a great Sweat, and told us `Bonny': We shew'd 'em the Arrow-Head in the Boat-Side, and a Piece of the Canoe we had cut in Pieces: Whereupon, the chief Man amongst them made a long Speech, threw Beads into our Boat, which is a Sign of great Love and Friendship, and gave us to understand, that when he heard of the Affront which we had receiv'd, it caus'd him to cry; and that he and his Men were come to make Peace with us, assuring us, by Signs, that they would tye the Arms, and cut off the Head, of the Fellow who had done us that Wrong; And for a farther Testimony of their Love and Good-Will towards us, they presented us with two very handsome, proper, young Indian Women, the tallest that ever we saw in this Country; which we suppos'd to be the King's Daughters, or Persons of Distinction amongst them. Those young Women were so ready to come into our Boat; that one of them crowded in, and would hardly be persuaded to go out again. We presented the King with a Hatchet and several Beads, and made Presents of Beads also to the young Women, the chief Men, and the rest of the Indians, as far as our Beads would go. They promis'd us, in four Days, to come on board our Ship, and so departed from us. When we left the Place, which was soon after, we call'd it Mount-Bonny, because we had there concluded a firm Peace. Proceeding down the River 2 or 3 Leagues farther, we came to a Place where were 9 or 10 Canoes all together. We went ashoar there, and found several Indians; but most of them were the same which had made Peace with us before. We staid very little at that Place, but went directly down the River, and came to our Ship, before day. Thursday the 26th of November, the Wind being at South, we could not go down to the River's Mouth; but on Friday the 27th, we weigh'd at the Mouth of Hilton's River, and got down a League towards the Harbour's Mouth. On Sunday the 29th, we got down to Crane-Island, which is 4 Leagues or thereabouts, above the Entrance of the Harbour's Mouth. On Tuesday the 1st of December, we made a Purchase of the River and Land of Cape-Fair, of Wat-Coosa, and such other Indians, as appear'd to us to be the chief of those Parts. They brought us Store of fresh Fish aboard, as Mullets, Shads, and other sorts very good. This River is all fresh Water, fit to drink. Some 8 Leagues within the Mouth, the Tide runs up about 35 Leagues, but stops and rises a great deal farther up. It flows at the Harbour's Mouth, S.E. and N.W. 6 Foot at Neap-Tides, and 8 Foot at Spring-Tides. The Channel on the East side, by the Cape-Shoar, is the best, and lies close aboard the Cape-Land, being 3 Fathoms at high Water, in the shallowest Place in the Channel, just at the Entrance; But as soon as you are past that Place, half a Cables Length inward, you have 6 or 7 Fathoms, a fair turning Channel into the River, and so continuing 5 or 6 Leagues upwards. Afterwards the Channel is more difficult, in some Places 6 or 7 Fathoms, in others 4 or 5, and in others but 9 or 10 Foot, especially where the River is broad. When the River comes to part, and grows narrow, there it is all Channel from side to side, in most Places; tho' in some you shall have 5, 6, or 7 Fathoms, but generally 2 or 3, Sand and Oaze. We view'd the Cape-Land, and judg'd it to be little worth, the Woods of it being shrubby and low, and the Land sandy and barren; in some Places Grass and Rushes, in others nothing but clear Sand: A Place fitter to starve Cattle, in our Judgment, than to keep 'em alive; yet the Indians, as we understand, keep the English Cattle down there, and suffer them not to go off of the said Cape, (as we suppose) because the Country Indians shall have no Part with them; and therefore 'tis likely, they have fallen out about them, which shall have the greatest Share. They brought on board our Ship very good and fat Beef several times, which they sold us at a very reasonable Price; also fat and very large Swine, good and cheap; but they may thank their Friends of New-England, who brought their Hogs to so fair a Market. Some of the Indians brought very good Salt aboard us, and made Signs, pointing to both sides of the River's Mouth, that there was great Store thereabouts. We saw up the River, several good Places for the setting up of Corn or Saw-Mills. In that time, as our Business call'd us up and down the River and Branches, we kill'd of wild Fowl, 4 Swans, 10 Geese, 29 Cranes, 10 Turkies, 40 Ducks and Mallards, 3 dozen of Parrakeeto's, and 6 dozen of other small Fowls, as Curlues and Plover, &c. Whereas there was a Writing left in a Post, at the Point of Cape-Fair River, by those New-England-Men, that left Cattle with the Indians there, the Contents whereof tended not only to the Disparagement of the Land about the said River, but also to the great Discouragement of all such as should hereafter come into those Parts to settle: In answer to that scandalous Writing, We, whose Names are underwritten, do affirm, That we have seen, facing both sides the River and Branches of Cape-Fair aforesaid, as good Land, and as well timber'd, as any we have seen in any other Part of the World, sufficient to accommodate Thousands of our English Nation, and lying commodiously by the said River's Side. On Friday the 4th of December, the Wind being fair, we put out to Sea, bound for Barbados; and, on the 6th of February, 1664, came to an Anchor in Carlisle-Bay; it having pleas'd God, after several apparent Dangers both by Sea and Land, to bring us all in Safety to our long-wish'd-for and much-desir'd Port, to render an Account of our Discovery; the Verity of which we do assert. Anthony Long. William Hilton. Peter Fabian. Thus you have an Account of the Latitude, Soil, and Advantages of Cape-Fair, or Clarendon-River, which was settled in the Year 1661, or thereabouts; and had it not been for the irregular Practices of some of that Colony against the Indians, by sending away some of their Children, (as I have been told) under Pretence of instructing 'em in Learning, and the Principles of the Christian Religion; which so disgusted the Indians, that tho' they had then no Guns, yet they never gave over, till they had entirely rid themselves of the English, by their Bows and Arrows; with which they did not only take off themselves, but also their Stocks of Cattle; And this was so much the more ruinous to them, in that they could have no Assistance from South-Carolina, which was not then planted; and the other Plantations were but in their Infancy. Were it not for such ill Practices, I say, it might, in all Probability, have been, at this day, the best Settlement in their Lordships great Province of Carolina. {Albemarl Sound and Rivers.} The Sound of Albemarl, with the Rivers and Creeks of that Country, afford a very rich and durable Soil. The Land, in most Places, lies indifferent low, (except in Chuwon, and high up the Rivers) but bears an incredible Burden of Timber; the Low-Grounds being cover'd with Beech; and the High-Land yielding lofty Oaks, Walnut-Trees, and other useful Timber. The Country, in some Plantations, has yearly produc'd Indian Corn, or some other Grain, ever since this Country was first seated, without the Trouble of Manuring or Dressing; and yet (to all appearance) it seems not to be, in the least, impoverish'd, neither do the Planters ever miss of a good Crop, unless a very unnatural Season visits them, which seldom happens. Of the Corn of Carolina. {Wheat.} The Wheat of this Place is very good, seldom yielding less than thirty fold, provided the Land is good where it is sown; Not but that there has been Sixty-six Increase for one measure sown in Piny-Land, which we account the meanest Sort. And I have been inform'd, by People of Credit, that Wheat which was planted in a very rich Piece of Land, brought a hundred and odd Pecks, for one. If our Planters, when they found such great Increase, would be so curious as to make nice Observations of the Soil, and other remarkable Accidents, they would soon be acquainted with the Nature of the Earth and Climate, and be better qualified to manage their Agriculture to more Certainty, and greater Advantage; whereby they might arrive to the Crops and Harvests of Babylon, and those other fruitful Countries so much talk'd of. For I must confess, I never saw one Acre of Land manag'd as it ought to be in Carolina, since I knew it; and were they as negligent in their Husbandry in Europe, as they are in Carolina, their Land would produce nothing but Weeds and Straw. {Rye.} They have try'd Rye, and it thrives very well; but having such Plenty of Maiz, they do not regard it, because it makes black Bread, unless very curiously handled. {Barley.} Barley has been sowed in small quantities, and does better than can be expected; because that Grain requires the Ground to be very well work'd with repeated Ploughings, which our general Way of breaking the Earth with Hoes, can, by no means, perform, tho' in several Places we have a light, rich, deep, black Mould, which is the particular Soil in which Barley best thrives. {Oats.} The naked Oats thrive extraordinary well; and the other would prove a very bold Grain; but the Plenty of other Grains makes them not much coveted. {Maiz.} The Indian Corn, or Maiz, proves the most useful Grain in the World; and had it not been for the Fruitfulness of this Species, it would have proved very difficult to have settled some of the Plantations in America. It is very nourishing, whether in Bread, sodden, or otherwise; And those poor Christian Servants in Virginia, Maryland, and the other northerly Plantations, that have been forced to live wholly upon it, do manifestly prove, that it is the most nourishing Grain, for a Man to subsist on, without any other Victuals. And this Assertion is made good by the Negro-Slaves, who, in many Places, eat nothing but this Indian Corn and Salt. Pigs and Poultry fed with this Grain, eat the sweetest of all others. It refuses no Grounds, unless the barren Sands, and when planted in good Ground, will repay the Planter seven or eight hundred fold; besides the Stalks bruis'd and boil'd, make very pleasant Beer, being sweet like the Sugar-Cane. {Rice.} There are several sorts of Rice, some bearded, others not, besides the red and white; But the white Rice is the best. Yet there is a sort of perfum'd Rice in the East-Indies, which gives a curious Flavour, in the Dressing. And with this sort America is not yet acquainted; neither can I learn, that any of it has been brought over to Europe; the Rice of Carolina being esteem'd the best that comes to that Quarter of the World. It is of great Increase, yielding from eight hundred to a thousand-fold, and thrives best in wild Land, that has never been broken up before. {Buck-Wheat.} Buck-Wheat is of great Increase in Carolina; but we make no other use of it, than instead of Maiz, to feed Hogs and Poultry: {Guinea-Wheat.} And Guinea Corn, which thrives well here, serves for the same use. {Pulse. Bushel-Bean.} Of the Pulse-kind, we have many sorts. The first is the Bushel-Bean, which is a spontaneous Product. They are so called, because they bring a Bushel of Beans for one that is planted. They are set in the Spring, round Arbours, or at the Feet of Poles, up which they will climb, and cover the Wattling, making a very pretty Shade to sit under. They continue flowering, budding, and ripening all the Summer long, till the Frost approaches, when they forbear their Fruit, and die. The Stalks they grow on, come to the Thickness of a Man's Thumb; and the Bean is white and mottled, with a purple Figure on each side it, like an Ear. They are very flat, and are eaten as the Windsor-Bean is, being an extraordinary well-relish'd Pulse, either by themselves, or with Meat. {Indian Rouncevals.} We have the Indian Rounceval, or Miraculous Pease, so call'd from their long Pods, and great Increase. These are latter Pease, and require a pretty long Summer to ripen in. {Pease and Beans.} They are very good; and so are the Bonavis, Calavancies, Nanticokes, and abundance of other Pulse, too tedious here to name, which we found the Indians possess'd of, when first we settled in America; some of which sorts afford us two Crops in one Year; as the Bonavis and Calavancies, besides several others of that kind. {Eng. Bean.} Now I am launch'd into a Discourse of the Pulse, I must acquaint you, that the European Bean planted here, will, in time, degenerate into a dwarfish sort, if not prevented by a yearly Supply of foreign Seed, and an extravagant rich Soil; yet these Pigmy-Beans are the sweetest of that kind I ever met withal. {Pease.} As for all the sorts of English Pease that we have yet made tryal of, they thrive very well in Carolina. Particularly, the white and gray Rouncival, the common Field-Pease, and Sickle-Pease yield very well, and are of a good Relish. As for the other sorts, I have not seen any made tryal of as yet, but question not their coming to great Perfection with us. {Kidney-Bean.} The Kidney-Beans were here before the English came, being very plentiful in the Indian Corn-Fields. {Roots.} The Garden-Roots that thrive well in Carolina, are Carrots, Leeks, Parsnips, Turneps, Potatoes, of several delicate sorts, Ground Artichokes, Radishes, Horse-Radish, Beet, both sorts, Onions, Shallot, Garlick, Cives, and the Wild-Onions. {Sallads.} The Sallads are the Lettice, Curl'd, Red, Cabbage, and Savoy. The Spinage round and prickly, Fennel, sweet and the common Sort, Samphire in the Marshes excellent, so is the Dock or Wild-Rhubarb, Rocket, Sorrel, French and English, Cresses of several Sorts, Purslain wild, and that of a larger Size which grows in the Gardens; {No Purslain in Indian Fields.} for this Plant is never met withal in the Indian Plantations, and is, therefore, suppos'd to proceed from Cow-Dung, which Beast they keep not. Parsley two Sorts; Asparagus thrives to a Miracle, without hot Beds or dunging the Land, White-Cabbage from European or New-England Seed, for the People are negligent and unskilful, and don't take care to provide Seed of their own. The Colly-Flower we have not yet had an Opportunity to make Tryal of, nor has the Artichoke ever appear'd amongst us, that I can learn. Coleworts plain and curl'd, Savoys; besides the Water-Melons of several Sorts, very good, which should have gone amongst the Fruits. Of Musk-Melons we have very large and good, and several Sorts, as the Golden, Green, Guinea, and Orange. Cucumbers long, short, and prickly, all these from the Natural Ground, and great Increase, without any Helps of Dung or Reflection. Pompions yellow and very large, Burmillions, Cashaws, an excellent Fruit boil'd; Squashes, Simnals, Horns, and Gourds; besides many other Species, of less Value, too tedious to name. {Pot-herbs, and others for Physick.} Our Pot-herbs and others of use, which we already possess, are Angelica wild and tame, Balm, Bugloss, Borage, Burnet, Clary, Marigold, Pot-Marjoram, and other Marjorams, Summer and Winter Savory, Columbines, Tansey, Wormwood, Nep, Mallows several Sorts, Drage red and white, Lambs Quarters, Thyme, Hyssop of a very large Growth, sweet Bazil, Rosemary, Lavender: The more Physical, are Carduus Benedictus, the Scurvy-grass of America, I never here met any of the European sort; Tobacco of many sorts, Dill, Carawa, Cummin, Anise, Coriander, all sorts of Plantain of England, and two sorts spontaneous, good Vulneraries; Elecampane, Comfrey, Nettle, the Seed from England, none Native; Monks Rhubarb, Burdock, Asarum wild in the Woods, reckon'd one of the Snake-Roots; Poppies in the Garden, none wild yet discover'd; Wormseed, Feverfew, Rue, Ground-Ivy spontaneous, but very small and scarce, Aurea virga, {Rattle-Snakes.} four sorts of Snake-Roots, besides the common Species, which are great Antidotes against that Serpent's Bite, and are easily rais'd in the Garden; Mint; {James-Town-Weed, the Seed like Onion Seed.} James-Town-Weed, so called from Virginia, the Seed it bears is very like that of an Onion; it is excellent for curing Burns, and asswaging Inflammations, but taken inwardly brings on a sort of drunken Madness. One of our Marsh-Weeds, like a Dock, has the same Effect, and possesses the Party with Fear and Watchings. The Red-Root whose Leaf is like Spear-Mint, is good for Thrushes and sore Mouths; Camomil, but it must be kept in the Shade, otherwise it will not thrive; Housleek first from England; Vervin; Night-Shade, several kinds; Harts-Tongue; Yarrow abundance, Mullein the same, both of the Country; Sarsaparilla, and abundance more I could name, yet not the hundredth part of what remains, a Catalogue of which is a Work of many Years, and without any other Subject, would swell to a large Volume, and requires the Abilities of a skilful Botanist: Had not the ingenious Mr. Banister (the greatest Virtuoso we ever had on the Continent) been unfortunately taken out of this World, he would have given the best Account of the Plants of America, of any that ever yet made such an Attempt in these Parts. Not but we are satisfy'd, the Species of Vegetables in Carolina, are so numerous, that it requires more than one Man's Age to bring the chiefest Part of them into regular Classes; the Country being so different in its Situation and Soil, that what one place plentifully affords, another is absolutely a stranger to; yet we generally observe, that the greatest Variety is found in the Low Grounds, and Savanna's. {Flowers.} The Flower-Garden in Carolina is as yet arriv'd but to a very poor and jejune Perfection. We have only two sorts of Roses; the Clove-July-Flowers, Violets, Princes Feather, and Tres Colores. There has been nothing more cultivated in the Flower-Garden, which, at present, occurs to my Memory; but as for the wild spontaneous Flowers of this Country, Nature has been so liberal, that I cannot name one tenth part of the valuable ones; And since, to give Specimens, would only swell the Volume, and give little Satisfaction to the Reader, I shall therefore proceed to the Present State of Carolina, and refer the Shrubs and other Vegetables of larger Growth, till hereafter, and then shall deliver them and the other Species in their Order. The Present State of Carolina. When we consider the Latitude and convenient Situation of Carolina, had we no farther Confirmation thereof, our Reason would inform us, that such a Place lay fairly to be a delicious Country, being placed in that Girdle of the World which affords Wine, Oil, Fruit, Grain, and Silk, with other rich Commodities, besides a sweet Air, moderate Climate, and fertile Soil; these are the Blessings (under Heaven's Protection) that spin out the Thread of Life to its utmost Extent, and crown our Days with the Sweets of Health and Plenty, which, when join'd with Content, renders the Possessors the happiest Race of Men upon Earth. {The Present State of Carolina.} The Inhabitants of Carolina, thro' the Richness of the Soil, live an easy and pleasant Life. The Land being of several sorts of Compost, some stiff, others light, some marl, others rich black Mould; here barren of Pine, but affording Pitch, Tar, and Masts; there vastly rich, especially on the Freshes of the Rivers, one part bearing great Timbers, others being Savanna's or natural Meads, where no Trees grow for several Miles, adorn'd by Nature with a pleasant Verdure, and beautiful Flowers, frequent in no other Places, yielding abundance of Herbage for Cattle, Sheep, and Horse. The Country in general affords pleasant Seats, the Land (except in some few Places) being dry and high Banks, {Necks of Land.} parcell'd out into most convenient Necks, (by the Creeks) easy to be fenced in for securing their Stocks to more strict Boundaries, whereby, with a small trouble of fencing, almost every Man may enjoy, to himself, an entire Plantation, or rather Park. These, with the other Benefits of Plenty of Fish, Wild-Fowl, Venison, and the other Conveniencies which this Summer-Country naturally furnishes, has induc'd a great many Families to leave the more Northerly Plantations, and sit down under one of the mildest Governments in the World; in a Country that, with moderate Industry, will afford all the Necessaries of Life. We have yearly abundance of Strangers come among us, who chiefly strive to go Southerly to settle, because there is a vast Tract of rich Land betwixt the Place we are seated in, and Cape-Fair, and upon that River, and more Southerly, which is inhabited by none but a few Indians, who are at this time well affected to the English, and very desirous of their coming to live among them. {Purchase of Land.} The more Southerly, the milder Winters, with the Advantages of purchasing the Lords Land at the most easy and moderate Rate of any Lands in America, nay (allowing all Advantages thereto annex'd) I may say, the Universe does not afford such another; Besides, Men have a great Advantage of choosing good and commodious Tracts of Land at the first Seating of a Country or River, whereas the later Settlers are forced to purchase smaller Dividends of the old Standers, and sometimes at very considerable Rates; {Land in Virginia and Maryland.} as now in Virginia and Maryland, where a thousand Acres of good Land cannot be bought under twenty Shillings an Acre, besides two Shillings yearly Acknowledgment for every hundred Acres; which Sum, be it more or less, will serve to put the Merchant or Planter here into a good posture of Buildings, Slaves, and other Necessaries, when the Purchase of his Land comes to him on such easy Terms. {Stocks Increase.} And as our Grain and Pulse thrives with us to admiration, no less do our Stocks of Cattle, Horses, Sheep, and Swine multiply. {Beef.} The Beef of Carolina equalizes the best that our neighbouring Colonies afford; the Oxen are of a great size when they are suffer'd to live to a fit Age. I have seen fat and good Beef at all times of the Year, but October and the cool Months are the Seasons we kill our Beeves in, when we intend them for Salting or Exportation; for then they are in their prime of Flesh, all coming from Grass, we never using any other Food for our Cattle. {Heifers.} The Heifers bring Calves at eighteen or twenty Months old, which makes such a wonderful Increase, that many of our Planters, from very mean Beginnings, have rais'd themselves, and are now Masters of hundreds of fat Beeves, and other Cattle. {Veal.} The Veal is very good and white, so is the Milk very pleasant and rich, there being, at present, considerable Quantities of Butter and Cheese made, that is very good, not only serving our own Necessities, but we send out a great deal among our Neighbours. {Sheep.} The Sheep thrive very well at present, having most commonly two Lambs at one yeaning: As the Country comes to be open'd, they prove still better, Change of Pasture being agreeable to that useful Creature. Mutton is (generally) exceeding Fat, and of a good Relish; their Wool is very fine, and proves a good Staple. {Horses.} The Horses are well-shap'd and swift; the best of them would sell for ten or twelve Pounds in England. They prove excellent Drudges, and will travel incredible Journeys. They are troubled with very few Distempers, neither do the cloudy-fac'd grey Horses go blind here, as in Europe. As for Spavins, Splints, and Ring-Bones, they are here never met withal, as I can learn. Were we to have our Stallions and choice of Mares from England, or any other of a good Sort, and careful to keep them on the Highlands, we could not fail of a good Breed; but having been supply'd with our first Horses from the neighbouring Plantations, which were but mean, they do not as yet come up to the Excellency of the English Horses; tho' we generally find, that the Colt exceeds, in Beauty and Strength, its Sire and Dam. {Swine.} The Pork exceeds any in Europe; the great Diversity and Goodness of the Acorns and Nuts which the Woods afford, making that Flesh of an excellent Taste, and produces great Quantities; so that Carolina (if not the chief) is not inferior, in this one Commodity, to any Colony in the hands of the English. {Goats.} As for Goats, they have been found to thrive and increase well, but being mischievous to Orchards and other Trees, makes People decline keeping them. {Produce.} Our Produce for Exportation to Europe and the Islands in America, are Beef, Pork, Tallow, Hides, Deer-Skins, Furs, Pitch, Tar, Wheat, Indian-Corn, Pease, Masts, Staves, Heading, Boards, and all sorts of Timber and Lumber for Madera and the West-Indies; Rozin, Turpentine, and several sorts of Gums and Tears, with some medicinal Drugs, are here produc'd; Besides Rice, and several other foreign Grains, which thrive very well. Good Bricks and Tiles are made, and several sorts of useful Earths, as Bole, Fullers-Earth, Oaker, and Tobacco-pipe-Clay, in great plenty; Earths for the Potters Trade, and fine Sand for the Glass-makers. In building with Bricks, we make our Lime of Oyster-Shells, tho' we have great Store of Lime-stone, towards the Heads of our Rivers, where are Stones of all sorts that are useful, besides vast Quantities of excellent Marble. Iron-Stone we have plenty of, both in the Low-Grounds and on the Hills; Lead and Copper has been found, so has Antimony heretofore; But no Endeavours have been us'd to discover those Subteraneous Species; otherwise we might, in all probability, find out the best of Minerals, which are not wanting in Carolina. Hot Baths we have an account of from the Indians that frequent the Hill-Country, {Salt-peter.} where a great likelihood appears of making Salt-peter, because the Earth, in many places, is strongly mix'd with a nitrous Salt, which is much coveted by the Beasts, who come at some Seasons in great Droves and Herds, and by their much licking of this Earth, make great Holes in those Banks, which sometimes lie at the heads of great Precipices, where their Eagerness after this Salt hastens their End, by falling down the high Banks, so that they are dash'd in Pieces. It must be confess'd, that the most noble and sweetest Part of this Country, is not inhabited by any but the Savages; and a great deal of the richest Part thereof, has no Inhabitants but the Beasts of the Wilderness: For, the Indians are not inclinable to settle in the richest Land, because the Timbers are too large for them to cut down, and too much burthen'd with Wood for their Labourers to make Plantations of; besides, the Healthfulness of those Hills is apparent, by the Gigantick Stature, and Gray-Heads, so common amongst the Savages that dwell near the Mountains. The great Creator of all things, having most wisely diffus'd his Blessings, by parcelling out the Vintages of the World, into such Lots, as his wonderful Foresight saw most proper, requisite, and convenient for the Habitations of his Creatures. Towards the Sea, we have the Conveniency of Trade, Transportation, and other Helps the Water affords; but oftentimes, those Advantages are attended with indifferent Land, a thick Air, and other Inconveniences; when backwards, near the Mountains, you meet with the richest Soil, a sweet, thin Air, dry Roads, pleasant small murmuring Streams, and several beneficial Productions and Species, which are unknown in the European World. One Part of this Country affords what the other is wholly a Stranger to. {Chalybeate Waters.} We have Chalybeate Waters of several Tastes and different Qualities; some purge, others work by the other Emunctories. We have, amongst the Inhabitants, a Water, that is, inwardly, a great Apersive, and, outwardly, cures Ulcers, Tettars, and Sores, by washing therewith. {Coal-Mine in Virginia.} There has been a Coal-Mine lately found near the Mannakin Town, above the Falls of James-River in Virginia, which proves very good, and is us'd by the Smiths, for their Forges; and we need not doubt of the same amongst us, towards the Heads of our Rivers; but the Plenty of Wood (which is much the better Fuel) makes us not inquisitive after Coal-Mines. {French Refugees.} Most of the French, who lived at that Town on James-River, are remov'd to Trent-River, in North-Carolina, where the rest were expected daily to come to them, when I came away, which was in August, 1708. They are much taken with the Pleasantness of that Country, and, indeed, are a very industrious People. At present, they make very good Linnen-Cloath and Thread, and are very well vers'd in cultivating Hemp and Flax, of both which they raise very considerable Quantities; and design to try an Essay of the Grape, for making of Wine. {Planters.} As for those of our own Country in Carolina, some of the Men are very laborious, and make great Improvements in their Way; but I dare hardly give 'em that Character in general. The easy Way of living in that plentiful Country, makes a great many Planters very negligent, which, were they otherwise, that Colony might now have been in a far better Condition than it is, (as to Trade, and other Advantages) which an universal Industry would have led them into. {Women good Houswives.} The Women are the most industrious Sex in that Place, and, by their good Houswifry, make a great deal of Cloath of their own Cotton, Wool and Flax; some of them keeping their Families (though large) very decently apparel'd, both with Linnens and Woollens, so that they have no occasion to run into the Merchant's Debt, or lay their Money out on Stores for Cloathing. {Natives of Carolina.} The Christian Natives of Carolina are a straight, clean-limb'd People; the Children being seldom or never troubled with Rickets, or those other Distempers, that the Europeans are visited withal. 'Tis next to a Miracle, to see one of them deform'd in Body. The Vicinity of the Sun makes Impression on the Men, who labour out of doors, or use the Water. {Beautiful.} As for those Women, that do not expose themselves to the Weather, they are often very fair, and generally as well featur'd, as you shall see any where, and have very brisk charming Eyes, which sets them off to Advantage. They marry very young; some at Thirteen or Fourteen; and She that stays till Twenty, is reckon'd a stale Maid; which is a very indifferent Character in that warm Country. The Women are very fruitful; most Houses being full of Little Ones. It has been observ'd, that Women long marry'd, and without Children, in other Places, have remov'd to Carolina, and become joyful Mothers. They have very easy Travail in their Child-bearing, in which they are so happy, as seldom to miscarry. {Not Passionate.} Both Sexes are generally spare of Body, and not Cholerick, nor easily cast down at Disappointments and Losses, seldom immoderately grieving at Misfortunes, unless for the Loss of their nearest Relations and Friends, which seems to make a more than ordinary Impression upon them. Many of the Women are very handy in Canoes, and will manage them with great Dexterity and Skill, which they become accustomed to in this watry Country. {Good Wives.} They are ready to help their Husbands in any servile Work, as Planting, when the Season of the Weather requires Expedition; Pride seldom banishing good Houswifry. The Girls are not bred up to the Wheel, and Sewing only; but the Dairy and Affairs of the House they are very well acquainted withal; so that you shall see them, whilst very young, manage their Business with a great deal of Conduct and Alacrity. {Natives are docile.} The Children of both Sexes are very docile, and learn any thing with a great deal of Ease and Method; and those that have the Advantages of Education, write good Hands, and prove good Accountants, which is most coveted, and indeed most necessary in these Parts. The young Men are commonly of a bashful, sober Behaviour; {No Prodigals.} few proving Prodigals, to consume what the Industry of their Parents has left them, but commonly improve it. The marrying so young, carries a double Advantage with it, and that is, that the Parents see their Children provided for in Marriage, and the young married People are taught by their Parents, how to get their Living; for their Admonitions make great Impressions on their Children. {Great Age of Americans.} I had heard (before I knew this new World) that the Natives of America were a short-liv'd People, which, by all the Observations I could ever make, proves quite contrary; for those who are born here, and in other Colonies, live to as great Ages as any of the Europeans, the Climate being free from Consumptions, which Distemper, fatal to England, they are Strangers to. And as the Country becomes more clear'd of Wood, it still becomes more healthful to the Inhabitants, and less addicted to the Ague; which is incident to most new Comers into America from Europe, yet not mortal. A gentle Emetick seldom misses of driving it away, but if it is not too troublesome, 'tis better to let the Seasoning have its own Course, in which case, the Party is commonly free from it ever after, and very healthful. And now, as to the other Advantages the Country affords, we cannot guess at them at present, because, as I said before, the best Part of this Country is not inhabited by the English, from whence probably will hereafter spring Productions that this Age does not dream of, and of much more Advantage to the Inhabitants than any things we are yet acquainted withal: And as for several Productions of other Countries, much in the same Latitude, we may expect, with good Management, they will become familiar to us, as Wine, Oil, Fruit, Silk, and other profitable Commodities, such as Drugs, Dyes, &c. And at present the Curious may have a large Field to satisfy and divert themselves in, {Collections.} as Collections of strange Beasts, Birds, Insects, Reptiles, Shells, Fishes, Minerals, Herbs, Flowers, Plants, Shrubs, intricate Roots, Gums, Tears, Rozins, Dyes, and Stones, with several other that yield Satisfaction and Profit to those, whose Inclinations tend that Way. And as for what may be hop'd for, towards a happy Life and Being, by such as design to remove thither, I shall add this; That with prudent Management, I can affirm, by Experience, not by Hear-say, That any Person, with a small Beginning, may live very comfortably, and not only provide for the Necessaries of Life, but likewise for those that are to succeed him; {Provisions very cheap.} Provisions being very plentiful, and of good Variety, to accommodate genteel House-keeping; and the neighbouring Indians are friendly, and in many Cases serviceable to us, in making us Wares to catch Fish in, for a small matter, which proves of great Advantage to large Families, because those Engines take great Quantities of many Sorts of Fish, that are very good and nourishing: {Indians Hunters.} Some of them hunt and fowl for us at reasonable Rates, the Country being as plentifully provided with all Sorts of Game, as any Part of America; the poorer Sort of Planters often get them to plant for them, by hiring them for that Season, or for so much Work, which commonly comes very reasonable. Moreover, it is remarkable, That no Place on the Continent of America, has seated an English Colony so free from Blood-shed, as Carolina; but all the others have been more damag'd and disturb'd by the Indians, than they have; which is worthy Notice, when we consider how oddly it was first planted with Inhabitants. {Fishing-Trade.} The Fishing-Trade in Carolina might be carried on to great Advantage, considering how many Sorts of excellent Fish our Sound and Rivers afford, which cure very well with Salt, as has been experienced by some small Quantities, which have been sent abroad, and yielded a good Price. {Whale-Fishing.} As for the Whale-fishing, it is no otherwise regarded than by a few People who live on the Sand-Banks; and those only work on dead Fish cast on shoar, none being struck on our Coast, as they are to the Northward; altho' we have Plenty of Whales there. Great Plenty is generally the Ruin of Industry. Thus our Merchants are not many, nor have those few there be, apply'd themselves to the European Trade. The Planter sits contented at home, whilst his Oxen thrive and grow fat, and his Stocks daily increase; The fatted Porkets and Poultry are easily rais'd to his Table, and his Orchard affords him Liquor, so that he eats, and drinks away the Cares of the World, and desires no greater Happiness, than that which he daily enjoys. Whereas, not only the European, but also the Indian-Trade, might be carried on to a great Profit, because we lie as fairly for the Body of Indians, as any Settlement in English-America; {Indian-Trade.} And for the small Trade that has been carried on in that Way, the Dealers therein have throve as fast as any Men, and the soonest rais'd themselves of any People I have known in Carolina. {Climate.} Lastly, As to the Climate, it is very healthful; {Summer.} our Summer is not so hot as in other places to the Eastward in the same Latitude; {No Earthquakes.} neither are we ever visited by Earthquakes, as many places in Italy and other Summer-Countries are. Our Northerly Winds, in Summer, cool the Air, and free us from pestilential Fevers, which Spain, Barbary, and the neighbouring Countries in Europe, &c. are visited withal. {Serene.} Our Sky is generally serene and clear, and the Air very thin, in comparison of many Parts of Europe, where Consumptions and Catarrhs reign amongst the Inhabitants. The Winter has several Fitts of sharp Weather, especially when the Wind is at N.W. which always clears the Sky, though never so thick before. However, such Weather is very agreeable to European Bodies, and makes them healthy. The N.E. Winds blowing in Winter, bring with them thick Weather, and, in the Spring, sometimes, blight the Fruits; but they very seldom endure long, being blown away by Westerly Winds, and then all becomes fair and clear again. {Spring.} Our Spring, in Carolina, is very beautiful, and the most pleasant Weather a Country can enjoy. {Fall.} The Fall is accompanied with cool Mornings, which come in towards the latter end of August, and so continue (most commonly) very moderate Weather till about Christmas; then Winter comes on apace. Tho' these Seasons are very piercing, yet the Cold is of no continuance. Perhaps, you will have cold Weather for three or four days at a time; then pleasant warm Weather follows, such as you have in England, about the latter end of April or beginning of May. In the Year 1707, we had the severest Winter in Carolina, that ever was known since the English came to settle there; for our Rivers, that were not above half a Mile wide, and fresh Water, were frozen over; and some of them, in the North-part of this Country, were passable for People to walk over. {No Frontier.} One great Advantage of North-Carolina is, That we are not a Frontier, and near the Enemy; which proves very chargeable and troublesome, in time of War, to those Colonies that are so seated. {Near Virginia.} Another great Advantage comes from its being near Virginia, where we come often to a good Market, at the Return of the Guinea-Ships for Negro's, and the Remnant of their Stores, which is very commodious for the Indian-Trade; besides, in War-time, we lie near at hand to go under their Convoy, and to sell our Provisions to the Tobacco-fleets; {Mariland.} for the Planting of Tobacco generally in those Colonies, prevents their being supplyed with Stores, sufficient for victualling their Ships. {Necessaries for Carolina.} As for the Commodities, which are necessary to carry over to this Plantation, for Use and Merchandize, and are, therefore, requisite for those to have along with them, that intend to transport themselves thither, they are Guns, Powder and Shot, Flints, Linnens of all sorts, but chiefly ordinary Blues, Osnabrugs, Scotch and Irish Linnen, and some fine: Mens and Womens Cloaths ready made up, some few Broad-Cloaths, Kerseys and Druggets; to which you must add Haberdashers-Wares, Hats about Five or Six Shillings apiece, and a few finer; a few Wiggs, not long, and pretty thin of Hair; thin Stuffs for Women; Iron-Work, as Nails, Spades, Axes, broad and narrow Hoes, Frows, Wedges, and Saws of all sorts, with other Tools for Carpenters, Joiners, Coopers, Shoemakers, Shave-locks, &c. all which, and others which are necessary for the Plantations, you may be inform'd of, and buy at very reasonable Rates, of Mr. James Gilbert, Ironmonger, in Mitre-Tavern-Yard, near Aldgate. You may also be used very kindly, for your Cuttlery-Ware, and other advantageous Merchandizes, and your Cargo's well sorted, by Capt. Sharp, at the Blue-gate in Cannon-street; and for Earthen-Ware, Window-Glass, Grind-Stones, Mill-Stones, Paper, Ink-Powder, Saddles, Bridles, and what other things you are minded to take with you, for Pleasure or Ornament. And now, I shall proceed to the rest of the Vegetables, that are common in Carolina, in reference to the Place where I left off, which is the Natural History of that Country. [The Natural History of Carolina.] Of the Vegetables of Carolina. The spontaneous Shrubs of this Country, are, the Lark-heel-Tree; three sorts of Hony-Suckle-Tree, the first of which grows in Branches, as our Piemento-Tree does, that is, always in low, moist Ground; the other grows in clear, dry Land, the Flower more cut and lacerated; the third, which is the most beautiful, and, I think, the most charming Flower of its Colour, I ever saw, grows betwixt two and three Foot high, and for the most part, by the side of a swampy Wood, or on the Banks of our Rivers, but never near the Salt-Water. All the Sorts are white; the last grows in a great Bunch of these small Hony-Suckles set upon one chief Stem, and is commonly the Bigness of a large Turnep. Nothing can appear more beautiful than these Bushes, when in their Splendour, which is in April and May. The next is the Honey-Suckle of the Forest; it grows about a Foot high, bearing its Flowers on small Pedestals, several of them standing on the main Stock, which is the Thickness of a Wheat-Straw. We have also the Wood-bind, much the same as in England; Princes-feather, very large and beautiful in the Garden; Tres-Colores, branch'd Sun-flower, Double Poppies, Lupines, of several pretty sorts, spontaneous; and the Sensible Plant is said to be near the Mountains, which I have not yet seen. Saf-Flower; (and I believe, the Saffron of England would thrive here, if planted) the yellow Jessamin is wild in our Woods, of a pleasant Smell. Ever-Greens are here plentifully found, of a very quick Growth, and pleasant Shade; Cypress, or white Cedar, the Pitch Pine, the yellow Pine, the white Pine with long Leaves; and the smaller Almond-Pine, which last bears Kernels in the Apple, tasting much like an Almond; and in some years there falls such plenty, as to make the Hogs fat. Horn-Beam; Cedar, two sorts; Holly, two sorts; Bay-Tree, two sorts; one the Dwarf-Bay, about twelve Foot high; the other the Bigness of a middling Pine-Tree, about two Foot and half Diameter; Laurel-Trees, in Height equalizing the lofty Oaks; the Berries and Leaves of this Tree dyes a Yellow; the Bay-Berries yield a Wax, which besides its Use in Chirurgery, makes Candles that, in burning, give a fragrant Smell. The Cedar-Berries are infused, and made Beer of, by the Bermudians, they are Carminative, and much of the Quality of Juniper-Berries; Yew and Box I never saw or heard of in this Country: There are two sorts of Myrtles, different in Leaf and Berry; the Berry yields Wax that makes Candles, the most lasting, and of the sweetest Smell imaginable. Some mix half Tallow with this Wax, others use it without Mixture; and these are fit for a Lady's Chamber, and incomparable to pass the Line withal, and other hot Countries, because they will stand, when others will melt, by the excessive Heat, down in the Binacles. Ever-green Oak, two sorts; Gall-Berry-Tree, bearing a black Berry, with which the Women dye their Cloaths and Yarn black; 'tis a pretty Ever-green, and very plentiful, growing always in low swampy Grounds, and amongst Ponds. We have a Prim or Privet, which grows on the dry, barren, sandy Hills, by the Sound side; it bears a smaller sort than that in England, and grows into a round Bush, very beautiful. {Yaupon.} Last of Bushes, (except Savine, which grows every where wild) is the famous Yaupon, of which I find two sorts, if not three. I shall speak first of the Nature of this Plant, and afterwards account for the different Sorts. This Yaupon, call'd by the South-Carolina Indians, Cassena, is a Bush, that grows chiefly on the Sand-Banks and Islands, bordering on the Sea of Carolina; on this Coast it is plentifully found, and in no other Place that I know of. It grows the most like Box, of any Vegetable that I know, being very like it in Leaf, only dented exactly like Tea, but the Leaf somewhat fatter. I cannot say, whether it bears any Flower, but a Berry it does, about the Bigness of a Grain of Pepper, being first red, then brown when ripe, which is in December; Some of these Bushes grow to be twelve Foot high, others are three or four. The Wood thereof is brittle as Myrtle, and affords a light ash-colour'd Bark. There is sometimes found of it in Swamps and rich low Grounds, which has the same figured Leaf, only it is larger, and of a deeper Green; This may be occasion'd by the Richness that attends the low Grounds thus situated. The third Sort has the same kind of Leaf, but never grows a Foot high, and is found both in rich, low Land, and on the Sand-Hills. I don't know that ever I found any Seed, or Berries on the dwarfish Sort, yet I find no Difference in Taste, when Infusion is made: Cattle and Sheep delight in this Plant very much, and so do the Deer, all which crop it very short, and browze thereon, wheresoever they meet with it. I have transplanted the Sand-Bank and dwarfish Yaupon, and find that the first Year, the Shrubs stood at a stand; but the second Year they throve as well as in their native Soil. This Plant is the Indian Tea, us'd and approv'd by all the Savages on the Coast of Carolina, and from them sent to the Westward Indians, and sold at a considerable Price. {Curing the Yaupon.} All which they cure after the same way, as they do for themselves; which is thus: They take this Plant (not only the Leaves, but the smaller Twigs along with them) and bruise it in a Mortar, till it becomes blackish, the Leaf being wholly defaced: Then they take it out, put it into one of their earthen Pots which is over the Fire, till it smoaks; stirring it all the time, till it is cur'd. Others take it, after it is bruis'd, and put it into a Bowl, to which they put live Coals, and cover them with the Yaupon, till they have done smoaking, often turning them over. After all, they spread it upon their Mats, and dry it in the Sun to keep for Use. The Spaniards in New-Spain have this Plant very plentifully on the Coast of Florida, and hold it in great Esteem. Sometimes they cure it as the Indians do; or else beat it to a Powder, so mix it, as Coffee; yet before they drink it, they filter the same. They prefer it above all Liquids, to drink with Physick, to carry the same safely and speedily thro' the Passages, for which it is admirable, as I myself have experimented. {Timber.} In the next Place, I shall speak of the Timber that Carolina affords, which is as follows. {Chesnut-Oak.} Chesnut-Oak, is a very lofty Tree, clear of Boughs and Limbs, for fifty or 60 Foot. They bear sometimes four or five Foot through all clear Timber; and are the largest Oaks we have, yielding the fairest Plank. They grow chiefly in low Land, that is stiff and rich. I have seen of them so high, that a good Gun could not reach a Turkey, tho' loaded with Swan-Shot. They are call'd Chesnut, because of the Largeness and Sweetness of the Acorns. {Scaly Oaks.} White, Scaly-bark Oak; This is used, as the former, in building Sloops and Ships. Tho' it bears a large Acorn, yet it never grows to the Bulk and Height of the Chesnut Oak. It is so call'd, because of a scaly, broken, white Bark, that covers this Tree, growing on dry Land. {Red Oak.} We have Red Oak, sometimes, in good Land, very large, and lofty. 'Tis a porous Wood, and used to rive into Rails for Fences. 'Tis not very durable; yet some use this, as well as the two former, for Pipe and Barrel-Staves. It makes good Clap-boards. {Spanish Oak.} Spanish Oak is free to rive, bears a whitish, smooth Bark; and rives very well into Clap-boards. It is accounted durable, therefore some use to build Vessels with it for the Sea; it proving well and durable. These all bear good Mast for the Swine. {Bastard Spanish.} Bastard-Spanish is an Oak betwixt the Spanish and Red Oak; the chief Use is for Fencing and Clap-boards. It bears good Acorns. {Black Oak.} The next is Black Oak, which is esteem'd a durable Wood, under Water; but sometimes it is used in House-work. It bears a good Mast for Hogs. {White Iron.} White Iron, or Ring-Oak, is so call'd, from the Durability and lasting Quality of this Wood. It chiefly grows on dry, lean Land, and seldom fails of bearing a plentiful Crop of Acorns. This Wood is found to be very durable, and is esteem'd the best Oak for Ship-work that we have in Carolina; for tho' Live Oak be more lasting, yet it seldom allows Planks of any considerable Length. {Turkey Oak.} Turkey-Oak is so call'd from a small Acorn it bears, which the wild Turkeys feed on. {Live Oak.} Live-Oak chiefly grows on dry, sandy Knolls. This is an Ever-green, and the most durable Oak all America affords. The Shortness of this Wood's Bowl, or Trunk, makes it unfit for Plank to build Ships withal. There are some few Trees, that would allow a Stock of twelve Foot, but the Firmness and great Weight thereof, frightens our Sawyers from the Fatigue that attends the cutting of this Timber. A Nail once driven therein, 'tis next to an Impossibility to draw it out. The Limbs thereof are so cur'd, that they serve for excellent Timbers, Knees, &c. for Vessels of any sort. The Acorns thereof are as sweet as Chesnuts, and the Indians draw an Oil from them, as sweet as that from the Olive, tho' of an Amber-Colour. With these Nuts, or Acorns, some have counterfeited the Cocoa, whereof they have made Chocolate, not to be distinguish'd by a good Palate. Window-Frames, Mallets, and Pins for Blocks, are made thereof, to an excellent Purpose. I knew two Trees of this Wood among the Indians, which were planted from the Acorn, and grew in the Freshes, and never saw any thing more beautiful of that kind. They are of an indifferent quick Growth; of which there are two sorts. The Acorns make very fine Pork. {Willow Oak.} Willow-Oak is a sort of Water-Oak. It grows in Ponds and Branches, and is useful for many things. It is so call'd, from the Leaf, which very much resembles a Willow. {Fresh-water Oak.} The Live Oak grows in the fresh Water Ponds and Swamps, by the River sides, and in low Ground overflown with Water; and is a perennial Green. {Ash.} Of Ash we have two sorts, agreeing nearly with the English in the Grain. One of our sorts is tough, like the English, but differs something in the Leaf, and much more in the Bark. Neither of them bears Keys. The Water-Ash is brittle. The Bark is Food for the Bevers. {Elm.} There are two sorts of Elm; the first grows on our High-Land, and approaches our English. The Indians take the Bark of its Root, and beat it, whilst green, to a Pulp; and then dry it in the Chimney, where it becomes of a reddish Colour. This they use as a Sovereign Remedy to heal a Cut or green Wound, or any thing that is not corrupted. It is of a very glutinous Quality. The other Elm grows in low Ground, of whose Bark the English and Indians make Ropes; for as soon as the Sap rises, it strips off, with the greatest ease imaginable. It runs in March, or thereabouts. {Tulip-Tree.} The Tulip-Trees, which are, by the Planters, call'd Poplars, as nearest approaching that Wood in Grain, grow to a prodigious Bigness, some of them having been found One and twenty Foot in Circumference. I have been inform'd of a Tulip-Tree, that was ten Foot Diameter; and another, wherein a lusty Man had his Bed and Houshold Furniture, and liv'd in it, till his Labour got him a more fashionable Mansion. He afterwards became a noted Man, in his Country, for Wealth and Conduct. One of these sorts bears a white Tulip; the other a party-colour'd, mottled one. The Wood makes very pretty Wainscot, Shingles for Houses, and Planks for several Uses. It is reckon'd very lasting; especially, under Ground, for Mill-Work. The Buds, made into an Ointment, cure Scalds, Inflammations, and Burns. I saw several Bushels thereon. The Cattle are apt to eat of these Buds, which give a very odd Taste to the Milk. {Beech.} Beech is here frequent, and very large. The Grain seems exactly the same as that in Europe. We make little Use thereof, save for Fire-Wood. 'Tis not a durable Timber. It affords a very sweet Nut, yet the Pork fed thereon (tho' sweet) is very oily, and ought to be harden'd with Indian Corn, before it is kill'd. {Buck Beech.} Another sort call'd Buck-Beech is here found. {Horn-Beam.} Horn-Beam grows, in some Places, very plentifully; yet the Plenty of other Wood makes it unregarded. {Sassafras.} The Vertues of Sassafras are well known in Europe. This Wood sometimes grows to be above two Foot over, and is very durable and lasting, used for Bowls, Timbers, Posts for Houses, and other Things that require standing in the Ground. 'Tis very light. It bears a white Flower, which is very cleansing to the Blood, being eaten in the Spring, with other Sallating. The Berry, when ripe, is black; 'tis very oily, Carminative, and extremely prevalent in Clysters for the Colick. The Bark of the Root is a Specifick to those afflicted with the Gripes. The same in Powder, and a Lotion made thereof, is much used by the Savages, to mundify old Ulcers, and for several other Uses; being highly esteem'd among them. {Dog-wood.} Dog-Wood is plentiful on our light Land, inclining to a rich Soil. It flowers the first in the Woods; its white Blossom making the Forest very beautiful. It has a fine Grain, and serves for several Uses within doors; but is not durable. The Bark of this Root infused, is held an infallible Remedy against the Worms. {Laurel.} Laurel, before-mention'd; as to its Bigness and Use, I have seen Planks sawn of this Wood; but 'tis not found durable in the Weather; yet pretty enough for many other Uses. Bay and Laurel generally delight in a low, swampy Ground. I know no Use they make of them, but for Fire-Wood, excepting what I spoke of before, amongst the Ever-Greens. {Ever-green.} A famous Ever-Green I must now mention, which was forgotten amongst the rest. It is in Leaf like a Jessamine, but larger, and of a harder Nature. This grows up to a large Vine, and twists itself round the Trees it grows near, making a very fine Shade. I never saw any thing of that Nature outdo it, and if it be cut away close to the Ground, it will presently spring up again, it being impossible to destroy it, when once it has got Root. 'Tis an ornamental Plant, and worth the Transplanting. Its Seed is a black Berry. {Trumpet-Vine.} The Scarlet Trumpet-Vine bears a glorious red Flower, like a Bell, or Trumpet, and makes a Shade inferiour to none that I ever saw; yet it leaves us, when the Winter comes, and remains naked till the next Spring. It bears a large Cod, that holds its Seed. {Maycock.} The Maycock bears a glorious Flower, and Apple of an agreeable Sweet, mixt with an acid Taste. This is also a Summer-Vine. {Indico-Trees.} The Indico grows plentifully in our Quarters. {Bay-Tulips.} The Bay-Tulip-Tree is a fine Ever-green which grows frequently here. {Sweet Gum.} The sweet Gum-Tree, so call'd, because of the fragrant Gum it yields in the Spring-time, upon Incision of the Bark, or Wood. It cures the Herpes and Inflammations; being apply'd to the Morphew and Tettars. 'Tis an extraordinary Balsam, and of great Value to those who know how to use it. No Wood has scarce a better Grain; whereof fine Tables, Drawers, and other Furniture might be made. Some of it is curiously curl'd. It bears a round Bur, with a sort of Prickle, which is the Seed. {Black Gums.} Of the Black Gum there grows, with us, two sorts; both fit for Cart-Naves. The one bears a black, well-tasted Berry, which the Indians mix with their Pulse and Soups, it giving 'em a pretty Flavour, and scarlet Colour. The Bears crop these Trees for the Berries, which they mightily covet, yet kill'd in that Season, they eat very unsavory; which must be occasion'd by this Fruit, because, at other times, when they feed on Mast, Bears-Flesh is a very well-tasted Food. The other Gum bears a Berry in shape like the other, tho' bitter and ill-tasted. This Tree (the Indians report) is never wounded by Lightning. It has no certain Grain; and it is almost impossible to split or rive it. {White Gum.} The white Gum, bearing a sort of long bunch'd Flowers, is the most curled and knotted Wood I ever saw, which would make curious Furniture, in case it was handled by a good Workman. {Red Cedar.} The red sort of Cedar is an Ever-green, of which Carolina affords Plenty. That on the Salts, grows generally on the Sand-banks; and that in the Freshes is found in the Swamps. Of this Wood, Tables, Wainscot, and other Necessaries, are made, and esteemed for its sweet Smell. It is as durable a Wood as any we have, therefore much used in Posts for Houses and Sills; likewise to build Sloops, Boats, &c. by reason the Worm will not touch it, for several Years. The Vessels built thereof are very durable, and good Swimmers. Of this Cedar, Ship-loads may be exported. It has been heretofore so plentiful in this Settlement, that they have fenced in Plantations with it, and the Coffins of the Dead are generally made thereof. {White Cedar.} White Cedar, so call'd, because it nearly approaches the other Cedar, in Smell, Bark, and Leaf; only this grows taller, being as strait as an Arrow. It is extraordinary light, and free to rive. 'Tis good for Yard, Top-Masts, Booms and Boltsprits, being very tough. The best Shingles for Houses are made of this Wood, it being no Strain to the Roof, and never rots. Good Pails and other Vessels, free from Leakage, are likewise made thereof. The Bark of this and the red Cedar, the Indians use to make their Cabins of, which prove firm, and resist all Weathers. {Cypress.} Cypress is not an Ever-green with us, and is therefore call'd the bald Cypress, because the Leaves, during the Winter-Season, turn red, not recovering their Verdure till the Spring. These Trees are the largest for Height and Thickness, that we have in this Part of the World; some of them holding thirty-six Foot in Circumference. Upon Incision, they yield a sweet-smelling Grain, tho' not in great Quantities; and the Nuts which these Trees bear plentifully, yield a most odoriferous Balsam, that infallibly cures all new and green Wounds, which the Inhabitants are well acquainted withal. Of these great Trees the Pereaugers and Canoes are scoop'd and made; which sort of Vessels are chiefly to pass over the Rivers, Creeks, and Bays; and to transport Goods and Lumber from one River to another. Some are so large, as to carry thirty Barrels, tho' of one entire Piece of Timber. Others, that are split down the Bottom, and a piece added thereto, will carry eighty, or an hundred. Several have gone out of our Inlets on the Ocean to Virginia, laden with Pork, and other Produce of the Country. Of these Trees curious Boats for Pleasure may be made, and other necessary Craft. Some Years ago, a foolish Man in Albemarl and his Son, had got one of these Canoes deck'd. She held, as I take it, sixteen Barrels. He brought her to the Collectors, to be clear'd for Barbados; but the Officer took him for a Man that had lost his Senses, and argu'd the Danger and Impossibility of performing such a Voyage, in a hollow Tree; but the Fellow would hearken to no Advice of that kind, till the Gentleman told him, if he did not value his own Life, he valu'd his Reputation and Honesty, and so flatly refus'd clearing him; Upon which, the Canoe was sold, and, I think, remains in being still. This Wood is very lasting, and free from the Rot. A Canoe of it will outlast four Boats, and seldom wants Repair. They say, that a Chest made of this Wood, will suffer no Moth, or Vermine, to abide therein. {Two sorts of Locust white and yellow, is rare if varnish'd.} The Locust, for its enduring the Weather, is chosen for all sorts of Works that are exposed thereto. It bears a Leaf nearest the Liquorice-Plant. 'Tis a pretty tall Tree. Of this the Indians make their choicest Bows, it being very tough and flexible. We have little or none of this Wood in Pampticough. {Honey Tree a Locust.} The Honey-Tree bears as great a Resemblance to the Locust, as a Shallot does to an Onion. It is of that Species, but more prickly. They bear a Cod, one side whereof contains the Seed, the other the Honey; They will bear in five Years, from the Kernel. They were first brought (by the Indian Traders) and propagated, by their Seed, at the Apamaticks in Virginia. Last Year, I planted the Seed, and had them sprung up before I came from thence, which was in August. Of the Honey, very good Metheglin is made, there being Orchards planted in Virginia for that intent. {Sowr Wood.} The Sorrel, or Sowr-Wood-Tree, is so call'd, because the Leaves taste like Sorrel. Some are about a Foot or ten Inches Diameter. I am unacquainted with its Vertues at present. {Pine.} Of Pines, there are, in Carolina, at least, four sorts. The Pitch-Pine, growing to a great Bigness, most commonly has but a short Leaf. Its Wood (being replete with abundance of Bitumen) is so durable, that it seems to suffer no Decay, tho' exposed to all Weathers, for many Ages; and is used in several Domestick and Plantation Uses. This Tree affords the four great Necessaries, Pitch, Tar, Rozin, and Turpentine; which two last are extracted by tapping, and the Heat of the Sun, the other two by the Heat of the Fire. The white and yellow Pines are saw'd into Planks for several Uses. They make Masts, Yards, and a great many other Necessaries therewith, the Pine being the most useful Tree in the Woods. The Almond-Pine serves for Masts very well. As for the Dwarf-Pine, it is for Shew alone, being an Ever-green, as they all are. {Hiccory the best Fire-wood.} The Hiccory is of the Walnut-kind, and bears a Nut as they do, of which there are found three sorts. The first is that which we call the common white Hiccory. It is not a durable Wood; for if cut down, and exposed to the Weather, it will be quite rotten, and spoil'd in three Years; as will likewise the Beech of this Country. Hiccory Nuts have very hard Shells, but excellent sweet Kernels, with which, in a plentiful Year, the old Hogs, that can crack them, fatten themselves, and make excellent Pork. These Nuts are gotten, in great Quantities, by the Savages, and laid up for Stores, of which they make several Dishes and Banquets. One of these I cannot forbear mentioning; it is this: They take these Nuts, and break them very small betwixt two Stones, till the Shells and Kernels are indifferent small; And this Powder you are presented withal in their Cabins, in little wooden Dishes; the Kernel dissolves in your Mouth, and the Shell is spit out. This tastes as well as any Almond. Another Dish is the Soup which they make of these Nuts, beaten, and put into Venison-Broth, which dissolves the Nut, and thickens, whilst the Shell precipitates, and remains at the bottom. This Broth tastes very rich. {Red Hiccory.} There is another sort, which we call red Hiccory, the Heart thereof being very red, firm and durable; of which Walking-Sticks, Mortars, Pestils, and several other fine Turnery-wares are made. The third is call'd the Flying-bark'd Hiccory, from its brittle and scaly Bark. It bears a Nut with a bitter Kernel and a soft Shell, like a French Walnut. Of this Wood, Coggs for Mills are made, &c. The Leaves smell very fragrant. {Walnut.} The Walnut-Tree of America is call'd Black Walnut. I suppose, that Name was, at first, to distinguish it from the Hiccories, it having a blacker Bark. This Tree grows, in good Land, to a prodigious Bigness. The Wood is very firm and durable, of which Tables and Chests of Drawers are made, and prove very well. Some of this is very knotty, which would make the best Returns for England, tho' the Masters of Vessels refuse it, not understanding its Goodness. 'Tis a very good and durable Wood, to bottom Vessels for the Sea withal; and they say, that it is never eaten by the Worm. The Nuts have a large Kernel, which is very oily, except lain by, a long time, to mellow. The Shell is very thick, as all the native Nuts of America are. When it has its yellow outward Coat on, it looks and smells much like a Lemon. {Maple.} The Maple, of which we have two sorts, is used to make Trenchers, Spinning-wheels, &c. withal. {Chinkapin.} Chinkapin is a sort of Chesnut, whose Nuts are most commonly very plentiful; insomuch that the Hogs get fat with them. They are rounder and smaller than a Chesnut, but much sweeter. The Wood is much of the Nature of Chesnut, having a Leaf and Grain almost like it. It is used to timber Boats, Shallops, &c. and makes any thing that is to endure the Weather. This and the Hiccory are very tough Rods used to whip Horses withal; yet their Wood, in Substance, is very brittle. This Tree the Vine much delights to twist about. It's good Fire-Wood, but very sparkling, as well as Sassafras. {Birch.} The Birch grows all on the Banks of our Rivers, very high up. I never saw a Tree on the Salts. It differs something, in Bark, from the European Birch. Its Buds in April are eaten by the Parrakeetos, which resort, from all Parts, at that Season, to feed thereon. Where this Wood grows, we are not yet seated; and as to the Wine, or other Profits it would yield, we are, at present, Strangers to. {Willow.} The Willow, here, likewise differs both in Bark and Leaf. It is frequently found on the Banks of fresh Water, as the Birch is. {Sycamore.} The Sycamore, in these Parts, grows in a low, swampy Land, by River-sides. Its Bark is quite different from the English, and the most beautiful I ever saw, being mottled and clowded with several Colours, as white, blue, &c. It bears no Keys but a Bur like the sweet Gum. Its Uses I am ignorant of. {Aspin.} I never saw any Aspin, but in Rapahannock-River, from whence I brought one, (that was presented me there as a great Present) but it died by the way. {Holly.} Of Holly we have two sorts; one having a large Leaf, the other a smaller. They grow very thick in our low Woods. Many of them are very strait, and two Foot Diameter. They make good Trenchers, and other Turnery-Ware. {Red-Bud.} The Red-Bud-Tree bears a purple Lark-Heel, and is the best Sallad, of any Flower I ever saw. It is ripe in April and May. They grow in Trees, generally small, but some are a Foot Diameter. {Pelletory.} Pelletory grows on the Sand-Banks and Islands. It is used to cure the Tooth-ach, by putting a Piece of the Bark in the Mouth, which being very hot, draws a Rhume from the Mouth, and causes much Spittle. The Indians use it to make their Composition, which they give to their young Men and Boys, when they are husquenaw'd, of which you shall hear farther, when I come to treat of the Customs, &c. of that People. {Arrow-Wood.} Arrow-Wood, growing on the Banks, is used, by the Indians, for Arrows and Gun-Sticks. It grows as strait, as if plain'd, and is of all Sizes. 'Tis as tough and pliable, as the smallest Canes. {Chesnut.} The Chesnut-Tree of Carolina, grows up towards the hilly Part thereof, is a very large and durable Wood, and fit for House-Frames, Palisado's, Sills, and many other Uses. The Nut is smaller than those from Portugal, but sweeter. {Oak-Vine.} This is no Tree, but call'd the Oak-Vine, by reason it bears a sort of Bur as the Oak does, and generally runs up those Trees. It's so porous, that you suck Liquors thro' a Length of two Foot. Prickly-Ash grows up like a Pole; of which the Indians and English make Poles to set their Canoes along in Shoal-Water. It's very light, and full of Thorns or Prickles, bearing Berries in large Clusters, of a purple Colour, not much unlike the Alder. The Root of this Tree is Cathartick and Emetick, used in Cachexies. {Poison Vine.} The Poison Vine is so called, because it colours the Hands of those who handle it. What the Effects of it may be, I cannot relate; neither do I believe, that any has made an Experiment thereof. The Juice of this will stain Linnen, never to wash out. It marks a blackish blue Colour, which is done only by breaking a bit of the Vine off, and writing what you please therewith. I have thought, that the East-India Natives set their Colours, by some such Means, into their finest Callicoes. It runs up any Tree it meets withal, and clasps round about it. The Leaves are like Hemlock, and fall off in Winter. {Canes and Reeds.} Of Canes and Reeds we have many sorts. The hollow Reed, or Cane, such as Angling-Rods are made of, and Weavers use, we have great Plenty of, though none to the Northward of James-River in Virginia. They always grow in Branches and low Ground. Their Leaves endure the Winter, in which Season our Cattle eat them greedily. We have them (towards the Heads of our Rivers) so large, that one Joint will hold above a pint of Liquor. {Bamboo.} The small Bamboo is next, which is a certain Vine, like the rest of these Species, growing in low Land. They seldom, with us, grow thicker than a Man's little Finger, and are very tough. Their Root is a round Ball, which the Indians boil as we do Garden-Roots, and eat them. When these Roots have been some time out of the Ground, they become hard, and make good Heads to the Canes, on which several pretty Figures may be cut. There are several others of this kind, not thoroughly discover'd. {Palmeto.} That Palmeto grows with us, which we call the dwarfish sort; but the Palmeto-Tree I have not yet met withal in North-Carolina, of which you have a Description elsewhere. We shall next treat of the Spontaneous Fruits of this Country; and then proceed to those that have been transplanted from Europe, and other Parts. {Natural Vines.} Among the natural Fruits, the Vine first takes place, of which I find six sorts, very well known. {Bunch-Grapes.} The first is the black Bunch-Grapes, which yield a Crimson Juice. These grow common, and bear plentifully. They are of a good Relish, though not large, yet well knit in the Clusters. They have a thickish Skin, and large Stone, which makes them not yield much Juice. There is another sort of Black-Grapes like the former, in all respects, save that their Juice is of a light Flesh-Colour, inclining to a White. I once saw a Spontaneous white Bunch-Grape in Carolina; but the Cattle browzing on the Sprouts thereof in the Spring, it died. {Fox-Grapes.} Of those which we call Fox-Grapes, we have four sorts; two whereof are called Summer-Grapes, because ripe in July; the other two Winter-Fruit, because not ripe till September or October. The Summer Fox-Grapes grow not in Clusters, or great Bunches, but are about five or six in a Bunch, about the Bigness of a Damson, or larger. The black sort are frequent, the white not so commonly found. They always grow in Swamps, and low moist Lands, running sometimes very high, and being shady, and therefore proper for Arbours. They afford the largest Leaf I ever saw, to my remembrance, the Back of which is of a white Horse-flesh Colour. This Fruit always ripens in the Shade. I have transplanted them into my Orchard, and find they thrive well, if manured: A Neighbour of mine has done the same; mine were by Slips, his from the Roots, which thrive to Admiration, and bear Fruit, tho' not so juicy as the European Grape, but of a glutinous Nature. However, it is pleasant enough to eat. The other Winter Fox-Grapes, are much of the same Bigness. These refuse no Ground, swampy or dry, but grow plentifully on the Sand-Hills along the Sea-Coast, and elsewhere, and are great Bearers. I have seen near twelve Bushels upon one Vine of the black sort. Some of these, when thoroughly ripe, have a very pretty vinous Taste, and eat very well, yet are glutinous. The white sort are clear and transparent, and indifferent small Stones. Being removed by the Slip or Root, they thrive well in our Gardens, and make pleasant Shades. {Persimmons.} Persimmon is a Tree, that agrees with all Lands and Soils. Their Fruit, when ripe, is nearest our Medlar; if eaten before, draws your Mouth up like a Purse, being the greatest Astringent I ever met withal, therefore very useful in some Cases. The Fruit, if ripe, will presently cleanse a foul Wound, but causes Pain. The Fruit is rotten, when ripe, and commonly contains four flat Kernels, call'd Stones, which is the Seed. 'Tis said, the Cortex Peruvianus comes from a Persimmon-Tree, that grows in New-Spain. I have try'd the Drying of this Bark, to imitate it, which it does tolerably well, and agrees therewith. It is binding enough to work the same Effect. The Tree, in extraordinary Land, comes sometimes to two Foot Diameter, though not often. There are two sorts of this Fruit; one ripe in Summer, the other when the Frost visits us. {Mulberry.} We have three sorts of Mulberries, besides the different Bigness of some Trees Fruit. The first is the common red Mulberry, whose Fruit is the earliest we have, (except the Strawberries) and very sweet. These Trees make a very fine Shade, to sit under in Summer-time. They are found wild in great Quantities, wherever the Land is light and rich; yet their Fruit is much better when they stand open. They are used instead of Raisins and Currants, and make several pretty Kickshaws. They yield a transparent Crimson Liquor, which would make good Wine; but few Peoples Inclinations in this Country tend that way. The others are a smooth-leav'd Mulberry, fit for the Silk-Worm. One bears a white Fruit, which is common; the other bears a small black Berry, very sweet. They would persuade me there, that the black Mulberry with the Silk-Worm smooth Leaf, was a white Mulberry, and changed its Fruit. The Wood hereof is very durable, and where the Indians cannot get Locust, they make use of this to make their Bows. This Tree grows extraordinary round and pleasant to the Eye. The Hiccory, Walnut, Chinkapin and Chesnut, with their Fruits, we have mention'd before. {Hazle-Nut.} The Hazle-Nut grows plentifully in some places of this Country; especially, towards the Mountains; but ours are not so good as the English Nuts, having a much thicker Shell (like all the Fruits of America, that I ever met withal) which in Hardness exceeds those of Europe. {Black-Cherries.} The Cherries of the Woods grow to be very large Trees. One sort, which is rarely found, is red, and not much unlike the Cornel-Berry. But the common Cherry grows high, and in Bunches, like English Currants, but much larger. They are of a bitterish sweet Relish, and are equally valuable with our small Black-Cherries, for an Infusion in Spirits. They yield a crimson Liquor, and are great Bearers. {Rasberries.} Our Rasberries are of a purple Colour, and agreeable Relish, almost like the English; but I reckon them not quite so rich. When once planted, 'tis hard to root them out. They run wild all over the Country, and will bear the same Year you transplant them, as I have found by Experience. {Hurts.} The Hurts, Huckle-Berries, or Blues of this Country, are four sorts, which we are well acquainted withal; but more Species of this sort, and all others, Time and Enquiry must discover. The first sort is the same Blue or Bilberry, that grows plentifully in the North of England, and in other Places, commonly on your Heaths, Commons, and Woods, where Brakes or Fern grows. The second sort grows on a small Bush in our Savannas and Meads, and in the Woods. They are larger than the common Fruit, and have larger Seed. The third grows on the single Stem of a Stick that grows in low good Land, and on the Banks of Rivers. They grow three or four Foot high, and are very pleasant like the first sort, but larger. The fourth sort grows upon Trees, some ten and twelve Foot high, and the Thickness of a Man's Arm; these are found in the Runs and low Grounds, and are very pleasant, and bear wonderfully. The English sometimes dry them in the Sun, and keep them to use in the Winter, instead of Currants. The Indians get many Bushels, and dry them on Mats, whereof they make Plum-Bread, and many other Eatables. They are good in Tarts, or infused in Liquors. {Piemento.} In the same Ground, commonly grows the Piemento, or All-Spice-Tree, whose Berries differ in shape from those in the West-Indies, being Taper or Conick, yet not inferiour, to any of that sort. This Tree grows much like the Hurts, and is of the same Bigness. I have known it transplanted to high Land, where it thrives. {Dews. Black-Berries.} Our Dew-Berries are very good. But the Black-Berries are bitterish, and not so palatable, as in England. {Sugar Tree.} The Sugar-Tree ought to have taken place before. It is found in no other parts of Carolina or America, that I ever learnt, but in Places that are near the Mountains. It's most like one sort of Maple, of any Tree, and may be rank'd amongst that kind. This Tree, which, I am told, is of a very tedious Growth, is found very plentifully towards the Heads of some of our Rivers. The Indians tap it, and make Gourds to receive the Liquor, which Operation is done at distinct and proper times, when it best yields its Juice, of which, when the Indians have gotten enough, they carry it home, and boil it to a just Consistence of Sugar, which grains of itself, and serves for the same Uses, as other Sugar does. {Papau.} The Papau is not a large Tree. I think, I never saw one a Foot through; but has the broadest Leaf of any Tree in the Woods, and bears an Apple about the Bigness of a Hen's Egg, yellow, soft, and as sweet, as any thing can well be. They make rare Puddings of this Fruit. The Apple contains a large Stone. {Wild Fig.} The wild Fig grows in Virginia, up in the Mountains, as I am inform'd by a Gentleman of my acquaintance, who is a Person of Credit, and a great Traveller in America. I shall be glad to have an Opportunity to make Tryal what Improvement might be made of this wild Fruit. {Plum red.} The wild Plums of America are of several sorts. Those which I can give an account of from my own Knowledge, I will, and leave the others till a farther Discovery. The most frequent is that which we call the common Indian Plum, of which there are two sorts, if not more. One of these is ripe much sooner than the other, and differs in the Bark; one of the Barks being very scaly, like our American Birch. These Trees, when in Blossom, smell as sweet as any Jessamine, and look as white as a Sheet, being something prickly. You may make it grow to what Shape you please; they are very ornamental about a House, and make a wonderful fine Shew at a Distance, in the Spring, because of their white Livery. Their Fruit is red, and very palatable to the sick. They are of a quick Growth, and will bear from the Stone in five Years, on their Stock. The English large black Plum thrives well, as does the Cherry, being grafted thereon. {Damsons of America.} The American Damsons are both black and white, and about the Bigness of an European Damson. They grow any where, if planted from the Stone or Slip; bear a white Blossom, and are a good Fruit. They are found on the Sand-Banks all along the Coast of America. I have planted several in my Orchard, that came from the Stone, which thrive well amongst the rest of my Trees. But they never grow to the Bigness of the other Trees now spoken of. These are plentiful Bearers. There is a third sort of Plum about the Bigness of the Damson. The Tree is taller, seldom exceeding ten Inches in Thickness. The Plum seems to taste physically, yet I never found any Operation it had, except to make their Lips sore, that eat them. The Wood is something porous, but exceeds any Box, for a beautiful Yellow. {Winter Currant.} There is a very pretty, bushy Tree, about seven or eight Foot high, very spreading, which bears a Winter-Fruit, that is ripe in October. They call 'em Currants, but they are nearer a Hurt. I have eaten very pretty Tarts made thereof. They dry them instead of Currants. This Bush is very beautiful. {Bermudas Currants.} The Bermudas Currants grow in the Woods on a Bush, much like the European Currant. Some People eat them very much; but for my part, I can see nothing inviting in them, and reckon them a very indifferent Fruit. {April Currants.} We have another Currant, which grows on the Banks of Rivers, or where only Clay hath been thrown up. This Fruit is red, and gone almost as soon as come. They are a pretty Fruit whilst they last, and the Tree (for 'tis not a Bush) they grow upon, is a very pleasant Vegetable. {Red Haws.} The Haw-thorn grows plentifully in some parts of this Country. The Haws are quite different from those in England, being four times as big, and of a very pleasant agreeable Taste. We make no use of this Plant, nor any other, for Hedges, because Timber is so plentiful at present. In my Judgment, the Honey-Locust would be the fittest for Hedges; because it is very apt to shoot forth many Sprouts and Succours from the Roots; besides, it is of a quick Growth, and very prickly. {Black-Haws.} The Black Haw grows on a slender Tree, about the Height of a Quince-Tree, or something higher, and bears the black Haw, which People eat, and the Birds covet also. What Vertues the Fruit or Wood is of, I cannot resolve you, at present. {Services.} Thus have I given an Account of all the Spontaneous Fruits of Carolina, that have come to my Knowledge, excepting Services, which I have seen in the Indians Hands, and eat of them, but never saw, how nor where they grew. There may very well be expected a great many more Fruits, which are the natural Product of this Country, when we consider the Fruitfulness of the Soil and Climate, and account for the vast Tract of Land, (great part of which is not yet found out) according to the Product of that which is already discover'd, which (as I once hinted before) is not as yet arriv'd to our Knowledge, we having very little or no Correspondence amongst the mountainous Parts of this Province, and towards the Country of Messiasippi, all which we have strange Accounts of, and some very large ones, with respect to the different and noble Fruits, and several other Ornaments and Blessings of Nature which Messiasippi possesses; more to be coveted, than any of those we enjoy, to the Eastward of the Mountains: Yet when I came to discourse some of the Idolizers of that Country, I found it to be rather Novelty, than Truth and Reality, that induced those Persons to allow it such Excellencies above others. It may be a brave and fertile Country, as I believe it is; but I cannot be persuaded, that it can be near so advantageous as ours, which is much better situated for Trade, being faced all along with the Ocean, as the English America is; when the other is only a direct River, in the midst of a wild unknown Land, greatest part of whose Product must be fetch'd, or brought a great way, before it can come to a Market. Moreover, such great Rivers commonly allow of more Princes Territories than one; and thus nothing but War and Contention accompanies the Inhabitants thereof. But not to trouble our Readers with any more of this, we will proceed, in the next place, to shew, what Exotick Fruits we have, that thrive well in Carolina; and what others, it may reasonably be suppos'd, would do there, were they brought thither and planted. In pursuance of which, I will set down a Catalogue of what Fruits we have; I mean Species: For should I pretend to give a regular Name to every one; it's neither possible for me to do it, nor for any one to understand it, when done; if we consider, that the chiefest part of our Fruit came from the Kernel, and some others from the Succours, or Sprouts of the Tree. First, we will begin with Apples; which are the {Apples.} Golden Russet. Pearmain | Winter. | Summer. Harvey-Apple, I cannot tell, whether the same as in England. Winter Queening. Leather Coat. Juniting. Codlin. Redstreak. Long-stalk. Lady-Finger. The Golden Russet thrives well. The Pearmains, of both sorts, are apt to speck, and rot on the Trees; and the Trees are damaged and cut off by the Worm, which breeds in the Forks, and other parts thereof; and often makes a Circumposition, by destroying the Bark round the Branches, till it dies. Harvey-Apple; that which we call so, is esteem'd very good to make Cider of. Winter Queening is a durable Apple, and makes good Cider. Leather-Coat; both Apple and Tree stand well. The Juniting is early ripe, and soon gone, in these warm Countries. Codlin; no better, and fairer Fruit in the World; yet the Tree suffers the same Distemper, as the Pearmains, or rather worse; the Trees always dying before they come to their Growth. The Redstreak thrives very well. Long-stalk is a large Apple, with a long Stalk, and makes good Summer Cider. We beat the first of our Codlin Cider, against reaping our Wheat, which is from the tenth of June, to the five and twentieth. Lady-Finger, the long Apple, the same as in England, and full as good. We have innumerable sorts; some call'd Rope-Apples which are small Apples, hanging like Ropes of Onions; Flattings, Grigsons, Cheese-Apples, and a great number of Names, given according to every ones Discretion. {Pears.} The Warden-Pear here proves a good eating Pear; and is not so long ripening as in England. Katharine excellent. Sugar-pear. And several others without Name, The Bergamot we have not, nor either of the Bonne Chrestiennes, though I hear, they are all three in Virginia. Those sorts of Pears which we have, are as well relisht, as ever I eat any where; but that Fruit is of very short Continuance with us, for they are gone almost as soon as ripe. {Quinces.} I am not a Judge of the different sorts of Quinces, which they call Brunswick, Portugal, and Barbary; But as to the Fruit, in general, I believe no Place has fairer and better relisht. They are very pleasant eaten raw. Of this Fruit, they make a Wine, or Liquor, which they call Quince-Drink, and which I approve of beyond any Drink which that Country affords, though a great deal of Cider and some Perry is there made. The Quince-Drink most commonly purges those that first drink it, and cleanses the Body very well. The Argument of the Physicians, that they bind People, is hereby contradicted, unless we allow the Quinces to differ in the two Countries. The least Slip of this Tree stuck in the Ground, comes to bear in three years. {Peaches.} All Peaches, with us, are standing; neither have we any Wall-Fruit in Carolina; for we have Heat enough, and therefore do not require it. We have a great many sorts of this Fruit, which all thrive to Admiration, Peach-Trees coming to Perfection (with us) as easily as the Weeds. A Peach falling on the Ground, brings a Peach-Tree that shall bear in three years, or sometimes sooner. Eating Peaches in our Orchards makes them come up so thick from the Kernel, that we are forced to take a great deal of Care to weed them out; otherwise they make our Land a Wilderness of Peach-Trees. They generally bear so full, that they break great part of their Limbs down. We have likewise very fair Nectarines, especially the red, that clings to the Stone, the other yellow Fruit, that leaves the Stone; of the last, I have a Tree, that, most Years, brings me fifteen or twenty Bushels. I see no Foreign Fruit like this, for thriving in all sorts of Land, and bearing its Fruit to Admiration. I want to be satisfy'd about one sort of this Fruit, which the Indians claim as their own, and affirm, they had it growing amongst them, before any Europeans came to America. The Fruit I will describe, as exactly as I can. The Tree grows very large, most commonly as big as a handsome Apple-tree; the Flowers are of a reddish, murrey Colour; the Fruit is rather more downy, than the yellow Peach, and commonly very large and soft, being very full of Juice. They part freely from the Stone, and the Stone is much thicker than all the other Peach Stones we have, which seems to me, that it is a Spontaneous Fruit of America; yet in those Parts of America that we inhabit, I never could hear that any Peach-Trees were ever found growing in the Woods; neither have the foreign Indians, that live remote from the English, any other sort. And those living amongst us have a hundred of this sort for one other; they are a hardy Fruit, and are seldom damaged by the North-East Blasts, as others are. Of this sort we make Vinegar; wherefore we call them Vinegar-Peaches, and sometimes Indian-Peaches. {Apricock.} This Tree grows to a vast Bigness, exceeding most Apple-Trees. They bear well, tho' sometimes an early Spring comes on in February, and perhaps, when the Tree is fully blown the Cloudy North-East-Winds which attend the end of, that Month, or the beginning of March, destroy most of the Fruit. The biggest Apricock-Tree I ever saw, as they told me, was grafted on a Peach-Stock, in the Ground. I know of no other sort with us, than the Common. We generally raise this Fruit from the Stone, which never fails to bring the same Fruit. Likewise our Peach-Stones effect the same, without so much as once missing, to produce the same sort that the Stone came from. {Plum.} Damson, Damazeen, and a large round black Plum are all I have met withal in Carolina. They thrive well enough; the last to Admiration, and becomes a very large Tree, if in stiff Ground; otherwise they will not do well. {Figs.} Of Figs we have two sorts; One is the low Bush-Fig, which bears a large Fruit. If the Winter happens to have much Frost, the tops thereof die, and in the Spring sprout again, and bear two or three good Crops. The Tree-Fig is a lesser Fig, though very sweet. The Tree grows to a large Body and Shade, and generally brings a good Burden; especially, if in light Land. This Tree thrives no where better, than on the Sand-Banks by the Sea. {Cherries.} We have the common red and black Cherry, which bear well. I never saw any grafted in this Country, the common excepted, which was grafted on an Indian Plum-stock, and bore well. This is a good way, because our common Cherry-Trees are very apt to put Scions all round the Tree, for a great Distance, which must needs be prejudicial to the Tree and Fruit. Not only our Cherries are apt to do so, but our Apples and most other Fruit-Trees, which may chiefly be imputed to the Negligence and Unskilfulness of the Gardener. Our Cherries are ripe a Month sooner than in Virginia. {Goosberry.} Goosberries I have seen of the smaller sort, but find they do not do so well as in England, and to the Northward. Want of Dressing may be some Reason for this. {Currants.} Currants, White, Red, and Black, thrive here, as well as any where. {Rasps.} Rasberries, the red and white, I never saw any Trial made of. But there is no doubt of their thriving to Admiration, since those of the Country do so well. {Mulberry.} The Mulberries are spontaneous. We have no others, than what I have already mentioned in the Class of Natural Fruits of Carolina. {Barberry.} Barberry red, with Stones, and without Stones, grow here. {Strawberry.} Strawberries, not Foreign, but those of the Country, grow here in great Plenty. Last April I planted a Bed of two hundred Foot in Length, which bore the same Year. {Medlar.} Medlars we have none. {Walnut.} All sorts of Walnuts from England, France, and Maderas, thrive well from the Nut. {Filbert.} No Filberts, but Hazle-Nuts; the Filbert-Nut planted, becomes a good Hazle-Nut, and no better. {Vines.} As for that noble Vegetable the Vine, without doubt, it may (in this Country) be improved, and brought to the same Perfection, as it is, at this Day, in the same Latitude in Europe, since the chiefest part of this Country is a deep, rich, black Mould, which is up towards the Freshes and Heads of our Rivers, being very rich and mix'd with Flint, Pebbles, and other Stones. And this sort of Soil is approv'd of (by all knowing Gardeners and Vigneroons) as a proper Earth, in which the Grape chiefly delights; and what seems to give a farther Confirmation hereof, is, that the largest Vines, that were ever discover'd to grow wild, are found in those Parts, oftentimes in such Plenty, and are so interwoven with one another, that 'tis impossible to pass through them. Moreover, in these Freshes, towards the Hills, the Vines are above five times bigger than those generally with us, who are seated in the Front-parts of this Country, adjoining to the Salts. Of the wild Vines, which are most of them great Bearers, some Wine has been made, which I drank of. It was very strong and well relisht; but what detains them all from offering at great quantities, they add, that this Grape has a large Stone, and a thick Skin, and consequently yields but a small Quantity of Wine. Some Essays of this Nature have been made by that Honourable Knight, Sir Nathanael Johnson, in South Carolina, who, as I am inform'd, has rejected all Exotick Vines, and makes his Wine from the natural black Grape of Carolina, by grafting it upon its own Stock. What Improvement this may arrive to, I cannot tell; but in other Species, I own Grafting and Imbudding yields speedy Fruit, tho' I never found that it made them better. New planted Colonies are generally attended with a Force and Necessity of Planting the known and approved Staple and Product of the Country, as well as all the Provisions their Families spend. Therefore we can entertain but small hopes of the Improvement of the Vine, till some skilful in dressing Vines shall appear amongst us, and go about it, with a Resolution, that Ordering the Vineyard shall be one half of their Employment. If this be begun and carried on, with that Assiduity and Resolution which it requires, then we may reasonably hope to see this a Wine-Country; for then, when it becomes a general Undertaking, every one will be capable to add something to the common Stock, of that which he has gain'd by his own Experience. This way would soon make the Burden light, and a great many shorter and exacter Curiosities, and real Truths would be found out in a short time. The trimming of Vines, as they do in France, that is, to a Stump, must either here be not follow'd, or we are not sensible of the exact time, when they ought to be thus pruned; for Experience has taught us, that the European Grape, suffer'd to run and expand itself at large, has been found to bear as well in America, as it does in Europe; when, at the same time, the same sort of Vine trimm'd to a Stump, as before spoken of, has born a poor Crop for one Year or two; and by its spilling, after cutting, emaciated, and in three or four Years, died. This Experiment, I believe, has never fail'd; for I have trimm'd the natural Vine the French way, which has been attended, at last, with the same Fate. Wherefore, it seems most expedient, to leave the Vines more Branches here, than in Europe, or let them run up Trees, as some do, in Lombardy, upon Elms. The Mulberries and Chinkapin are tough, and trimm'd to what you please, therefore fit Supporters of the Vines. Gelding and plucking away the Leaves, to hasten the ripening of this Fruit, may not be unnecessary, yet we see the natural wild Grape generally ripens in the Shade. Nature in this, and many others, may prove a sure Guide. The Twisting of the Stems to make the Grapes ripe together, loses no Juice, and may be beneficial, if done in Season. A very ingenious French Gentleman, and another from Switzerland, with whom I frequently converse, exclaim against that strict cutting of Vines, the generally approved Method of France and Germany, and say, that they were both out in their Judgment, till of late, Experience has taught them otherwise. Moreover, the French in North Carolina assure me, that if we should trim our Apple and other Fruit-Trees, as they do in Europe, we should spoil them. As for Apples and Plums, I have found by Experience, what they affirm to be true. The French, from the Mannakin Town on the Freshes of James River in Virginia, had, for the most part, removed themselves to Carolina, to live there, before I came away; and the rest were following, as their Minister, (Monsieur Philip de Rixbourg) told me, who was at Bath-Town, when I was taking my leave of my Friends. He assur'd me, that their Intent was to propagate Vines, as far as their present Circumstances would permit; provided they could get any Slips of Vines, that would do. At the same time, I had gotten some Grape-Seed, which was of the Jesuits white Grape from Madera. The Seed came up very plentifully, and, I hope, will not degenerate, which if it happens not to do, the Seed may prove the best way to raise a Vineyard, as certainly it is most easy for Transportation. Yet I reckon we should have our Seed from a Country, where the Grape arrives to the utmost Perfection of Ripeness. These French Refugees have had small Encouragement in Virginia, because, at their first coming over, they took their Measures of Living, from Europe; which was all wrong; for the small Quantities of ten, fifteen, and twenty Acres to a Family did not hold out according to their way of Reckoning, by Reason they made very little or no Fodder; and the Winter there being much harder than with us, their Cattle fail'd; chiefly, because the English took up and survey'd all the Land round about them; so that they were hemm'd in on all Hands from providing more Land for themselves or their Children, all which is highly prejudicial in America, where the generality are bred up to Planting. One of these French Men being a Fowling, shot a Fowl in the River, upon which his Dog went down the Bank to bring it to his Master; but the Bank was so high and steep, that he could not get up again. Thereupon, the French Man went down, to help his Dog up, and breaking the Mould away, accidentally, with his Feet, he discover'd a very rich Coal-Mine. This Adventure he gave an Account of amongst the Neighbourhood, and presently one of the Gentlemen of that Part survey'd the Land, and the poor French Man got nothing by his Discovery. The French are good Neighbours amongst us, and give Examples of Industry, which is much wanted in this Country. They make good Flax, Hemp, Linnen-Cloth and Thread; which they exchange amongst the Neighbourhood for other Commodities, for which they have occasion. We have hitherto made no Tryal of foreign Herbage; but, doubtless, it would thrive well; especially, Sanfoin, and those Grasses, that endure Heat, and dry Grounds. As for our Low Lands, such as Marshes, Savannas and Percoarson-Ground, which lies low, all of them naturally afford good Land for Pasturage. We will next treat of the Beasts, which you shall have an Account of, as they have been discover'd. The Beasts of Carolina are the Buffelo, or wild Beef. Bear. Panther. Cat-a-mount. Wild Cat. Wolf. Tyger. Polcat. Otter. Bever. Musk-Rat. Possum. Raccoon. Minx. Water-Rat. Rabbet, two sorts. Elks. Stags. Fallow-Deer. Squirrel, four sorts. Fox. Lion, and Jackall on the Lake. Rats, two sorts. Mice, two sorts. Moles. Weasel, Dormouse. Bearmouse. The Buffelo is a wild Beast of America, which has a Bunch on his Back, as the Cattle of St. Laurence are said to have. He seldom appears amongst the English Inhabitants, his chief Haunt being in the Land of Messiasippi, which is, for the most part, a plain Country; yet I have known some kill'd on the Hilly Part of Cape-Fair-River, they passing the Ledges of vast Mountains from the said Messiasippi, before they can come near us. {Two killed one year in Virginia at Appamaticks.} I have eaten of their Meat, but do not think it so good as our Beef; yet the younger Calves are cry'd up for excellent Food, as very likely they may be. It is conjectured, that these Buffelos, mixt in Breed with our tame Cattle, would much better the Breed for Largeness and Milk, which seems very probable. Of the wild Bull's Skin, Buff is made. The Indians cut the Skins into Quarters for the Ease of their Transportation, and make Beds to lie on. They spin the Hair into Garters, Girdles, Sashes, and the like, it being long and curled, and often of a chesnut or red Colour. These Monsters are found to weigh (as I am informed by a Traveller of Credit) from 1600 to 2400 Weight. {Bear.} The Bears here are very common, though not so large as in Greenland, and the more Northern Countries of Russia. The Flesh of this Beast is very good, and nourishing, and not inferiour to the best Pork in Taste. It stands betwixt Beef and Pork, and the young Cubs are a Dish for the greatest Epicure living. I prefer their Flesh before any Beef, Veal, Pork, or Mutton; and they look as well as they eat, their fat being as white as Snow, and the sweetest of any Creature's in the World. If a Man drink a Quart thereof melted, it never will rise in his Stomach. We prefer it above all things, to fry Fish and other things in. Those that are Strangers to it, may judge otherwise; But I who have eaten a great deal of Bears Flesh in my Life-time (since my being an Inhabitant in America) do think it equalizes, if not excels, any Meat I ever eat in Europe. The Bacon made thereof is extraordinary Meat; but it must be well saved, otherwise it will rust. This Creature feeds upon all sorts of wild Fruits. When Herrings run, which is in March, the Flesh of such of those Bears as eat thereof, is nought, all that Season, and eats filthily. Neither is it good, when he feeds on Gum-berries, as I intimated before. They are great Devourers of Acorns, and oftentimes meet the Swine in the Woods, which they kill and eat, especially when they are hungry, and can find no other Food. Now and then they get into the Fields of Indian Corn, or Maiz, where they make a sad Havock, spoiling ten times as much as they eat. The Potatos of this Country are so agreeable to them, that they never fail to sweep 'em all clean, if they chance to come in their way. They are seemingly a very clumsy Creature, yet are very nimble in running up Trees, and traversing every Limb thereof. When they come down, they run Tail foremost. At catching of Herrings, they are most expert Fishers. They sit by the Creek-sides, (which are very narrow) where the Fish run in; and there they take them up, as fast as it's possible they can dip their Paws into the Water. There is one thing more to be consider'd of this Creature, which is, that no Man, either Christian or Indian, has ever kill'd a She-bear with Young. It is supposed, that the She-Bears, after Conception, hide themselves in some secret and undiscoverable Place, till they bring forth their Young, which, in all Probability, cannot be long; otherwise, the Indians, who hunt the Woods like Dogs, would, at some time or other, have found them out. Bear-Hunting is a great Sport in America, both with the English and Indians. Some Years ago, there were kill'd five hundred Bears, in two Counties of Virginia, in one Winter; and but two She-Bears amongst them all, which were not with Young, as I told you of the rest. The English have a breed of Dogs fit for this sport, about the size of Farmers Curs, and, by Practice, come to know the Scent of a Bear, which as soon as they have found, they run him, by the Nose, till they come up with him, and then bark and snap at him, till he trees, when the Huntsman shoots him out of the Trees, there being, for the most part, two or three with Guns, lest the first should miss, or not quite kill him. Though they are not naturally voracious, yet they are very fierce when wounded. The Dogs often bring him to a Bay, when wounded, and then the Huntsmen make other Shots, perhaps with the Pistols that are stuck in their Girdles. If a Dog is apt to fasten, and run into a Bear, he is not good, for the best Dog in Europe is nothing in their Paws; but if ever they get him in their Clutches, they blow his Skin from his Flesh, like a Bladder, and often kill him; or if he recovers it, he is never good for any thing after. As the Paws of this Creature, are held for the best bit about him, so is the Head esteem'd the worst, and always thrown away, for what reason I know not. I believe, none ever made Trial thereof, to know how it eats. The Oil of the Bear is very Sovereign for Strains, Aches, and old Pains. The fine Fur at the bottom of the Belly, is used for making Hats, in some places. The Fur itself is fit for several Uses; as for making Muffs, facing Caps, &c. but the black Cub-skin is preferable to all sorts of that kind, for Muffs. Its Grain is like Hog-Skin. {Panther.} The Panther is of the Cat's kind; about the height of a very large Greyhound of a reddish Colour, the same as a Lion. He climbs Trees with the greatest Agility imaginable, is very strong-limb'd, catching a piece of Meat from any Creature he strikes at. His Tail is exceeding long; his Eyes look very fierce and lively, are large, and of a grayish Colour; his Prey is, Swines-flesh, Deer, or any thing he can take; no Creature is so nice and clean, as this, in his Food. When he has got his Prey, he fills his Belly with the Slaughter, and carefully lays up the Remainder, covering it very neatly with Leaves, which if any thing touches, he never eats any more of it. He purrs as Cats do; if taken when Young, is never to be reclaim'd from his wild Nature. He hollows like a Man in the Woods, when kill'd, which is by making him take a Tree, as the least Cur will presently do; then the Huntsmen shoot him; if they do not kill him outright, he is a dangerous Enemy, when wounded, especially to the Dogs that approach him. This Beast is the greatest Enemy to the Planter, of any Vermine in Carolina. His Flesh looks as well as any Shambles-Meat whatsoever; a great many People eat him, as choice Food; but I never tasted of a Panther, so cannot commend the Meat, by my own Experience. His Skin is a warm Covering for the Indians in Winter, though not esteem'd amongst the choice Furs. This Skin dress'd, makes fine Womens Shooes, or Mens Gloves. {Cat-a-Mount.} The Mountain-Cat, so call'd, because he lives in the Mountainous Parts of America. He is a Beast of Prey, as the Panther is, and nearest to him in Bigness and Nature. {Wild Cat.} This Cat is quite different from those in Europe; being more nimble and fierce, and larger; his Tail does not exceed four Inches. He makes a very odd sort of Cry in the Woods, in the Night. He is spotted as the Leopard is, tho' some of them are not, (which may happen, when their Furs are out of Season) he climbs a Tree very dexterously, and preys as the Panther does. He is a great Destroyer of young Swine. I knew an Island, which was possess'd by these Vermine, unknown to the Planter, who put thereon a considerable Stock of Swine; but never took one back; for the wild Cats destroy'd them all. He takes most of his Prey by Surprize, getting up the Trees, which they pass by or under, and thence leaping directly upon them. Thus he takes Deer (which he cannot catch by running) and fastens his Teeth into their Shoulders and sucks them. They run with him, till they fall down for want of strength, and become a Prey to the Enemy. Hares, Birds, and all he meets, that he can conquer, he destroys. The Fur is approv'd to wear as a Stomacher, for weak and cold Stomachs. They are likewise used to line Muffs, and Coats withal, in cold Climates. {Wolf.} The Wolf of Carolina, is the Dog of the Woods. The Indians had no other Curs, before the Christians came amongst them. They are made domestick. When wild, they are neither so large, nor fierce, as the European Wolf. They are not Man-slayers; neither is any Creature in Carolina, unless wounded. They go in great Droves in the Night, to hunt Deer, which they do as well as the best Pack of Hounds. Nay, one of these will hunt down a Deer. They are often so poor, that they can hardly run. When they catch no Prey, they go to a Swamp, and fill their Belly full of Mud; if afterwards they chance to get any thing of Flesh, they will disgorge the Mud, and eat the other. When they hunt in the Night, that there is a great many together, they make the most hideous and frightful Noise, that ever was heard. The Fur makes good Muffs. The Skin dress'd to a Parchment makes the best Drum-Heads, and if tann'd makes the best sort of Shooes for the Summer-Countries. {Tyger.} Tygers are never met withal in the Settlement; but are more to the Westward, and are not numerous on this Side the Chain of Mountains. I once saw one, that was larger that a Panther, and seem'd to be a very bold Creature. The Indians that hunt in those Quarters, say, they are seldom met withal. It seems to differ from the Tyger of Asia and Africa. {Polcat.} Polcats or Skunks in America, are different from those in Europe. They are thicker, and of a great many Colours; not all alike, but each differing from another in the particular Colour. They smell like a Fox, but ten times stronger. When a Dog encounters them, they piss upon him, and he will not be sweet again in a Fortnight or more. The Indians love to eat their Flesh, which has no manner of ill Smell, when the Bladder is out. I know no use their Furs are put to. They are easily brought up tame. {Otters.} There have been seen some Otters from the Westward of Carolina, which were of a white Colour, a little inclining to a yellow. They live on the same Prey here, as in Europe, and are the same in all other Respects; so I shall insist no farther on that Creature. Their Furs, if black, are valuable. {Bevers.} Bevers are very numerous in Carolina, their being abundance of their Dams in all Parts of the Country, where I have travel'd. They are the most industrious and greatest Artificers (in building their Dams and Houses) of any four-footed Creatures in the World. Their Food is chiefly the Barks of Trees and Shrubs, viz. Sassafras, Ash, Sweet-Gum, and several others. If you take them young, they become very tame and domestick, but are very mischievous in spoiling Orchards, by breaking the Trees, and blocking up your Doors in the Night, with the Sticks and Wood they bring thither. If they eat any thing that is salt, it kills them. Their Flesh is a sweet Food; especially, their Tail, which is held very dainty. Their Fore-Feet are open, like a Dog's; their Hind-Feet webb'd like a Water-Fowl's. The Skins are good Furs for several Uses, which every one knows. The Leather is very thick; I have known Shooes made thereof in Carolina, which lasted well. It makes the best Hedgers Mittens that can be used. {Musk Rat.} Musk Rats frequent fresh Streams and no other; as the Bever does. He has a Cod of Musk, which is valuable, as is likewise his Fur. {Possum.} The Possum is found no where but in America. He is the Wonder of all the Land Animals, being the size of a Badger, and near that Colour. The Male's Pizzle is placed retrograde; and in time of Coition, they differ from all other Animals, turning Tail to Tail, as Dog and Bitch when ty'd. The Female, doubtless, breeds her Young at her Teats; for I have seen them stick fast thereto, when they have been no bigger than a small Rasberry, and seemingly inanimate. She has a Paunch, or false Belly, wherein she carries her Young, after they are from those Teats, till they can shift for themselves. Their Food is Roots, Poultry, or wild Fruits. They have no Hair on their Tails, but a sort of a Scale, or hard Crust, as the Bevers have. If a Cat has nine Lives, this Creature surely has nineteen; for if you break every Bone in their Skin, and mash their Skull, leaving them for Dead, you may come an hour after, and they will be gone quite away, or perhaps you meet them creeping away. They are a very stupid Creature, utterly neglecting their Safety. They are most like Rats of any thing. I have, for Necessity in the Wilderness, eaten of them. Their Flesh is very white, and well tasted; but their ugly Tails put me out of Conceit with that Fare. They climb Trees, as the Raccoons do. Their Fur is not esteem'd nor used, save that the Indians spin it into Girdles and Garters. {Raccoon.} The Raccoon is of a dark-gray Colour; if taken young, is easily made tame, but is the drunkenest Creature living, if he can get any Liquor that is sweet and strong. They are rather more unlucky than a Monkey. When wild, they are very subtle in catching their Prey. Those that live in the Salt-Water, feed much on Oysters which they love. They watch the Oyster when it opens, and nimbly put in their Paw, and pluck out the Fish. Sometimes the Oyster shuts, and holds fast their Paw till the Tide comes in, that they are drown'd, tho' they swim very well. The way that this Animal catches Crabs, which he greatly admires, and which are plenty in Carolina, is worthy of Remark. When he intends to make a Prey of these Fish, he goes to a Marsh, where standing on the Land, he lets his Tail hang in the Water. This the Crab takes for a Bait, and fastens his Claws therein, which as soon as the Raccoon perceives, he, of a sudden, springs forward, a considerable way, on the Land, and brings the Crab along with him. As soon as the Fish finds himself out of his Element, he presently lets go his hold; and then the Raccoon encounters him, by getting him cross-wise in his Mouth, and devours him. There is a sort of small Land-Crab, which we call a Fiddler, that runs into a Hole when any thing pursues him. This Crab the Raccoon takes by putting his Fore-Foot in the Hole, and pulling him out. With a tame Raccoon, this Sport is very diverting. The Chief of his other Food is all sorts of wild Fruits, green Corn, and such as the Bear delights in. This and the Possum are much of a Bigness. The Fur makes good Hats and Linings. The Skin dress'd makes fine Womens Shooes. {Minx.} The Minx is an Animal much like the English Fillimart or Polcat. He is long, slender, and every way shap'd like him. His Haunts are chiefly in the Marshes, by the Sea-side and Salt-Waters, where he lives on Fish, Fowl, Mice, and Insects. They are bold Thieves, and will steal any thing from you in the Night, when asleep, as I can tell by Experience; for one Winter, by Misfortune, I ran my Vessel a-ground, and went often to the Banks, to kill wild Fowl, which we did a great many. One Night, we had a mind to sleep on the Banks (the Weather being fair) and wrapt up the Geese which we had kill'd, and not eaten, very carefully, in the Sail of a Canoe, and folded it several Doubles, and for their better Security, laid 'em all Night under my Head. In the Morning when I wak'd, a Minx had eaten thro' every Fold of the Canoe's Sail, and thro' one of the Geese, most part of which was gone. These are likewise found high up in the Rivers, in whose sides they live; which is known by the abundance of Fresh-Water Muscle-Shells (such as you have in England) that lie at the Mouth of their Holes. This is an Enemy to the Tortois, whose Holes in the Sand, where they hide their Eggs, the Minx finds out, and scratches up and eats. The Raccoons and Crows do the same. The Minx may be made domestick, and were it not for his paying a Visit now and then to the Poultry, they are the greatest Destroyers of Rats and Mice, that are in the World. Their Skins, if good of that kind, are valuable, provided they are kill'd in Season. {Water-Rats.} The Water-Rat is found here the same as in England. The Water-Snakes are often found to have of these Rats in their Bellies. {Coneys.} That which the People of Carolina call a Hare, is nothing but a Hedge-Coney. They never borough in the Ground, but much frequent Marshes and Meadow-Land. They hide their Young in some Place secure from the Discovery of the Buck, as the European Rabbets do, and are of the same Colour; but if you start one of them, and pursue her, she takes into a hollow Tree, and there runs up as far as she can, in which Case the Hunter makes a Fire, and smoaks the Tree, which brings her down, and smothers her. At one time of the Year, great Bots or Maggots breed betwixt the Skin and the Flesh of these Creatures. They eat just as the English ones do; but I never saw one of them fat. We fire the Marshes, and then kill abundance. {Rabbet English.} The English, or European Coneys are here found, tho' but in one place that I ever knew of, which was in Trent-River, where they borough'd among the Rocks. I cannot believe, these are Natives of the Country, any otherwise than that they might come from aboard some Wreck; the Sea not being far off. I was told of several that were upon Bodies Island by Ronoak, which came from that Ship of Bodies; but I never saw any. However the Banks are no proper Abode of Safety, because of the many Minxes in those Quarters. I carried over some of the tame sort from England to South-Carolina, which bred three times going over, we having a long Passage. I turn'd them loose in a Plantation, and the young ones, and some of the old ones bred great Maggots in their Testicles. At last, the great Gust in September, 1700, brought a great deal of Rain, and drown'd them all in their Holes. I intend to make a second Tryal of them in North Carolina, and doubt not but to secure them. {Elks.} The Elk is a Monster of the Venison sort. His Skin is used almost in the same Nature as the Buffelo's. Some take him for the red Deer of America; but he is not: For, if brought and kept in Company with one of that sort, of the contrary Sex, he will never couple. His Flesh is not so sweet as the lesser Deers. His Horns exceed (in Weight) all Creatures which the new World affords. They will often resort and feed with the Buffelo, delighting in the same Range as they do. {Stags.} The Stags of Carolina are lodg'd in the Mountains. They are not so large as in Europe, but much larger than any Fallow-Deer. They are always fat, I believe, with some delicate Herbage that grows on the Hills; for we find all Creatures that graze much fatter and better Meat on the Hills, than those in the Valleys: I mean towards and near the Sea. Some Deer on these Mountains afford the occidental Bezoar, not coming from a Goat, as some report. What sort of Beast affords the oriental Bezoar, I know not. The Tallow of the Harts make incomparable Candles. Their Horns and Hides are of the same Value, as others of their kind. {Fallow-Deer.} Fallow-Deer in Carolina, are taller and longer-legg'd, than in Europe; but neither run so fast, nor are so well haunch'd. Their Singles are much longer, and their Horns stand forward, as the others incline backward; neither do they beam, or bear their Antlers, as the English Deer do. Towards the Salts, they are not generally so fat and good Meat, as on the Hills. I have known some kill'd on the Salts in January, that have had abundance of Bots in their Throat, which keep them very poor. As the Summer approaches, these Bots come out, and turn into the finest Butterfly imaginable, being very large, and having black, white, and yellow Stripes. Deer-Skins are one of the best Commodities Carolina affords, to ship off for England, provided they be large. {Fox Squirrel.} Of Squirrels we have four Sorts. The first is the Fox-Squirrel, so call'd, because of his large Size, which is the Bigness of a Rabbet of two or three Months old. His Colour is commonly gray; yet I have seen several pied ones, and some reddish, and black; his chiefest Haunts are in the Piny Land, where the Almond-Pine grows. There he provides his Winter-Store; they being a Nut that never fails of bearing. He may be made tame, and is very good Meat, when killed. {Small gray Squirrel.} The next sort of Squirrel is much of the Nature of the English, only differing in Colour. Their Food is Nuts (of all sorts the Country affords) and Acorns. They eat well; and, like the Bear, are never found with young. {Flying-Squirrel.} This Squirrel is gray, as well as the others. He is the least of the Three. His Food is much the same with the small gray Squirrels. He has not Wings, as Birds or Bats have, there being a fine thin Skin cover'd with Hair, as the rest of the parts are. This is from the Fore-Feet to the Hinder-Feet, which is extended and holds so much Air, as buoys him up, from one Tree to another, that are greater distances asunder, than other Squirrels can reach by jumping or springing. He is made very tame, is an Enemy to a Cornfield, (as all Squirrels are) and eats only the germinating Eye of that Grain, which is very sweet. {Ground Squirrel.} Ground Squirrels are so call'd, because they never delight in running up Trees, and leaping from Tree to Tree. They are the smallest of all Squirrels. Their Tail is neither so long not bushy; but flattish. They are of a reddish Colour, and striped down each Side with black Rows, which make them very beautiful. They may be kept tame, in a little Box with Cotton. They and the Flying-Squirrels seldom stir out in Cold Weather, being tender Animals. {Fox.} The Fox of Carolina is gray, but smells not as the Foxes in Great-Britain, and elsewhere. They have reddish Hair about their Ears, and are generally very fat; yet I never saw any one eat them. When hunted, they make a sorry Chace, because they run up Trees, when pursued. They are never to be made familiar and tame, as the Raccoon is. Their Furs, if in Season, are used for Muffs and other Ornaments. They live chiefly on Birds and Fowls, and such small Prey. {Supposed Lion and Jackall.} I have been inform'd by the Indians, that on a Lake of Water towards the Head of Neus River, there haunts a Creature, which frightens them all from Hunting thereabouts. They say, he is the Colour of a Panther, but cannot run up Trees; and that there abides with him a Creature like an Englishman's Dog, which runs faster than he can, and gets his Prey for him. They add, that there is no other of that Kind that ever they met withal; and that they have no other way to avoid him, but by running up a Tree. The Certainty of this I cannot affirm by my own Knowledge, yet they all agree in this Story. As for Lions, I never saw any in America; neither can I imagine, how they should come there. {Rats.} Of Rats we have two sorts; the House-Rat, as in Europe; and the Marsh-Rat, which differs very much from the other, being more hairy, and has several other Distinctions, too long here to name. {Mice.} Mice are the same here, as those in England, that belong to the House. There is one sort that poisons a Cat, as soon as she eats of them, which has sometimes happen'd. These Mice resort not to Houses. {Dormouse.} The Dormouse is the same as in England; and so is the Weasel, which is very scarce. {Rearmouse.} The Bat or Rearmouse, the same as in England. The Indian Children are much addicted to eat Dirt, and so are some of the Christians. But roast a Bat on a Skewer, then pull the Skin off, and make the Child that eats Dirt, eat the roasted Rearmouse; and he will never eat Dirt again. This is held as an infallible Remedy. I have put this amongst the Beasts, as partaking of both Natures; of the Bird, and Mouse-Kind. Having mention'd all the sorts of terrestrial or Land-Animals, which Carolina affords and are yet known to us, except the Tame and Domestick Creatures (of which I shall give an Account hereafter, when I come to treat of the Ways and Manners of Agriculture in that Province) I shall now proceed to the known Insects of that Place. Not that I pretend to give an ample Account of the whole Tribe, which is too numerous, and contains too great a Diversity of Species, many not yet discovered, and others that have slipt my Memory at present; But those which I can remember, I here present my Readers withal. Insects of Carolina. Allegators. Rattle-Snakes. Ground Rattle-Snakes. Horn-Snakes. Water-Snakes, four sorts. Swamp Snakes three sorts. Red-bellied Land-Snakes. Red-back'd Snake. Black Truncheon Snake. Scorpion-Lizard. Green Lizard. Frogs, many sorts. Long black Snake. King-Snake. Green Snake. Corn Snake. Vipers black and gray. Tortois. Terebin Land and Water. Brimstone-Snake. Egg, or Chicken-Snake. Eel-Snake, or great Loach. Brown Lizard. Rotten-wood Worm, &c. {Strange Genitors.} The Allegator is the same, as the Crocodile, and differs only in Name. They frequent the sides of Rivers, in the Banks of which they make their Dwellings a great way under Ground; the Hole or Mouth of their Dens lying commonly two Foot under Water, after which it rises till it be considerably above the Surface thereof. Here it is, that this amphibious Monster dwells all the Winter, sleeping away his time till the Spring appears, when he comes from his Cave, and daily swims up and down the Streams. He always breeds in some fresh Stream, or clear Fountain of Water, yet seeks his Prey in the broad Salt Waters, that are brackish, not on the Sea-side, where I never met with any. He never devours Men in Carolina, but uses all ways to avoid them, yet he kills Swine and Dogs, the former as they come to feed in the Marshes, the others as they swim over the Creeks and Waters. They are very mischievous to the Wares made for taking Fish, into which they come to prey on the Fish that are caught in the Ware, from whence they cannot readily extricate themselves, and so break the Ware in Pieces, being a very strong Creature. This Animal, in these Parts, sometimes exceeds seventeen Foot long. It is impossible to kill them with a Gun, unless you chance to hit them about the Eyes, which is a much softer Place, than the rest of their impenetrable Armour. They roar, and make a hideous Noise against bad Weather, and before they come out of their Dens in the Spring. I was pretty much frightened with one of these once; which happened thus: I had built a House about half a Mile from an Indian Town, on the Fork of Neus-River, where I dwelt by my self, excepting a young Indian Fellow, and a Bull-Dog, that I had along with me. I had not then been so long a Sojourner in America, as to be throughly acquainted with this Creature. One of them had got his Nest directly under my House, which stood on pretty high Land, and by a Creek-side, in whose Banks his Entring-place was, his Den reaching the Ground directly on which my House stood. I was sitting alone by the Fire-side (about nine a Clock at Night, some time in March) the Indian Fellow being gone to the Town, to see his Relations; so that there was no body in the House but my self and my Dog; when, all of a sudden, this ill-favour'd Neighbour of mine, set up such a Roaring, that he made the House shake about my Ears, and so continued, like a Bittern, (but a hundred times louder, if possible) for four or five times. The Dog stared, as if he was frightned out of his Senses; nor indeed, could I imagine what it was, having never heard one of them before. Immediately again I had another Lesson; and so a third. Being at that time amongst none but Savages, I began to suspect, they were working some Piece of Conjuration under my House, to get away my Goods; not but that, at another time, I have as little Faith in their, or any others working Miracles, by diabolical Means, as any Person living. At last, my Man came in, to whom when I had told the Story, he laugh'd at me, and presently undeceiv'd me, by telling me what it was that made that Noise. These Allegators lay Eggs, as the Ducks do; only they are longer shap'd, larger, and a thicker Shell, than they have. How long they are in hatching, I cannot tell; but, as the Indians say, it is most part of the Summer, they always lay by a Spring-Side, the young living in and about the same, as soon as hatch'd. Their Eggs are laid in Nests made in the Marshes, and contain twenty or thirty Eggs. Some of these Creatures afford a great deal of Musk. Their Tail, when cut of, looks very fair and white, seemingly like the best of Veal. Some People have eaten thereof, and say, it is delicate Meat, when they happen not to be musky. Their Flesh is accounted proper for such as are troubled with the lame Distemper, (a sort of Rhumatism) so is the Fat very prevailing to remove Aches and Pains, by Unction. The Teeth of this Creature, when dead, are taken out, to make Chargers for Guns, being of several Sizes, fit for all Loads. They are white, and would make pretty Snuff-Boxes, if wrought by an Artist. After the Tail of the Allegator is separated from the Body, it will move very freely for four days. {Rattle-Snake.} The Rattle-Snakes are found on all the Main of America, that I ever had any Account of; being so call'd from the Rattle at the end of their Tails, which is a Connexion of jointed Coverings, of an excrementitious Matter, betwixt the Substance of a Nail, and a Horn, though each Tegmen is very thin. Nature seems to have design'd these, on purpose to give Warning of such an approaching Danger, as the venomous Bite of these Snakes is. Some of them grow to a very great Bigness, as six Foot in Length, their Middle being the Thickness of the Small of a lusty Man's Leg. We have an Account of much larger Serpents of this Kind; but I never met them yet, although I have seen and kill'd abundance in my time. They are of an Orange, tawny, and blackish Colour, on the Back; differing (as all Snakes do) in Colour, on the Belly; being of an Ash-Colour, inclining to Lead. The Male is easily distinguish'd from the Female, by a black Velvet-Spot on his Head; and besides, his Head is smaller shaped, and long. Their Bite is venomous, if not speedily remedied; especially, if the Wound be in a Vein, Nerve, Tendon, or Sinew; when it is very difficult to cure. The Indians are the best Physicians for the Bite of these and all other venomous Creatures of this Country. There are four sorts of Snake-Roots already discover'd, which Knowledge came from the Indians, who have perform'd several great Cures. The Rattle-Snakes are accounted the peaceablest in the World; for they never attack any one, or injure them, unless they are trod upon, or molested. The most Danger of being bit by these Snakes, is for those that survey Land in Carolina; yet I never heard of any Surveyor that was kill'd, or hurt by them. I have myself gone over several of this Sort, and others; yet it pleased God, I never came to any harm. They have the Power, or Art (I know not which to call it) to charm Squirrels, Hares, Partridges, or any such thing, in such a manner, that they run directly into their Mouths. This I have seen by a Squirrel and one of these Rattle-Snakes; and other Snakes have, in some measure, the same Power. The Rattle-Snakes have many small Teeth, of which I cannot see they make any use; for they swallow every thing whole; but the Teeth which poison, are only four; two on each side of their Upper-Jaws. These are bent like a Sickle, and hang loose as if by a Joint. Towards the setting on of these, there is, in each Tooth, a little Hole, wherein you may just get in the Point of a small Needle. And here it is, that the Poison comes out, (which is as green as Grass) and follows the Wound, made by the Point of their Teeth. They are much more venomous in the Months of June and July, than they are in March, April or September. The hotter the Weather, the more poisonous. Neither may we suppose, that they can renew their Poison as oft as they will; for we have had a Person bit by one of these, who never rightly recover'd it, and very hardly escaped with Life; a second Person bit in the same Place by the same Snake, and receiv'd no more Harm, that if bitten with a Rat. They cast their Skins every Year, and commonly abide near the Place where the old Skin lies. These cast Skins are used in Physick, and the Rattles are reckon'd good to expedite the Birth. The Gall is made up into Pills, with Clay, and kept for Use; being given in Pestilential Fevers and the Small-Pox. It is accounted a noble Remedy, known to few, and held as a great Arcanum. This Snake has two Nostrils on each side of his Nose. Their Venom, I have Reason to believe, effects no Harm, any otherwise than when darted into the Wound by the Serpents Teeth. {Ground Rattle-Snakes.} The Ground Rattle-Snake, wrong nam'd, because it has nothing like Rattles. It resembles the Rattle-Snake a little in Colour, but is darker, and never grows to any considerable Bigness, not exceeding a Foot, or sixteen Inches. He is reckon'd amongst the worst of Snakes; and stays out the longest of any Snake I know, before he returns (in the Fall of the Leaf) to his Hole. {Horn-Snake.} Of the Horn-Snakes I never saw but two, that I remember. They are like the Rattle-Snake in Colour, but rather lighter. They hiss exactly like a Goose, when any thing approaches them. They strike at their Enemy with their Tail, and kill whatsoever they wound with it, which is arm'd at the End with a horny Substance, like a Cock's Spur. This is their Weapon. I have heard it credibly reported, by those who said they were Eye-Witnesses, that a small Locust-Tree, about the Thickness of a Man's Arm, being struck by one of these Snakes, at Ten a Clock in the Morning, then verdant and flourishing, at four in the Afternoon was dead, and the Leaves red and wither'd. Doubtless, be it how it will, they are very venomous. I think, the Indians do not pretend to cure their Wound. {Water-Snakes.} Of Water-Snakes there are four sorts. The first is of the Horn-Snakes Colour, though less. The next is a very long Snake, differing in Colour, and will make nothing to swim over a River a League wide. They hang upon Birches and other Trees by the Water-Side. I had the Fortune once to have one of them leap into my Boat, as I was going up a narrow River; the Boat was full of Mats, which I was glad to take out, to get rid of him. They are reckon'd poisonous. A third is much of an English Adder's Colour, but always frequents the Salts, and lies under the Drift Seaweed, where they are in abundance, and are accounted mischievous, when they bite. The last is of a sooty black Colour, and frequents Ponds and Ditches. What his Qualities are, I cannot tell. {Swamp-Snakes.} Of the Swamp-Snakes there are three sorts, which are very near akin to the Water-Snakes, and may be rank'd amongst them. The Belly of the first is of a Carnation or Pink Colour; his Back a dirty brown; they are large, but have not much Venom in them, as ever I learnt. The next is a large Snake, of a brown Dirt Colour, and always abides in the Marshes. The last is mottled, and very poisonous. They dwell in Swamps Sides, and Ponds, and have prodigious wide Mouths, and (though not long) arrive to the Thickness of the Calf of a Man's Leg. {Red-Belly Land-Snakes.} These frequent the Land altogether, and are so call'd, because of their red Bellies, which incline to an Orange-Colour. Some have been bitten with these sort of Snakes, and not hurt; when others have suffer'd very much by them. Whether there be two sorts of these Snakes, which we make no Difference of, I cannot at present determine. {Red-Back Snakes.} I never saw but one of these, which I stept over, and did not see him; till he that brought the Chain after me, spy'd him. He has a red Back, as the last has a red Belly. They are a long, slender Snake, and very rare to be met withal. I enquired of the Indian that was along with me, whether they were very venomous, who made Answer, that if he had bitten me, even the Indians could not have cured it. {Black Truncheon-Snake.} This sort of Snake might very well have been rank'd with the Water-Snakes. They lie under Roots of Trees, and on the Banks of Rivers. When any thing disturbs them, they dart into the Water (which is Salt) like an Arrow out of a Bow. They are thick, and the shortest Snake I ever saw. What Good, or Harm, there is in them, I know not. Some of these Water-Snakes will swallow a black Land-Snake, half as long again as themselves. {Scorpion Lizard.} The Scorpion Lizard, is no more like a Scorpion, than a Hedge-Hog; but they very commonly call him a Scorpion. He is of the Lizard Kind, but much bigger; his Back is of a dark Copper-Colour; his Belly an Orange; he is very nimble in running up Trees, or on the Land, and is accounted very poisonous. He has the most Sets of Teeth in his Mouth and Throat, that ever I saw. {Green Lizard.} Green Lizards are very harmless and beautiful, having a little Bladder under their Throat, which they fill with Wind, and evacuate the same at Pleasure. They are of a most glorious Green, and very tame. They resort to the Walls of Houses in the Summer Season, and stand gazing on a Man, without any Concern or Fear. There are several other Colours of these Lizards; but none so beautiful as the green ones are. {Frogs.} Of Frogs we have several sorts; the most famous is the Bull-Frog, so call'd, because he lows exactly like that Beast, which makes Strangers wonder (when by the side of a Marsh) what's the matter, for they hear the Frogs low, and can see no Cattle; he is very large. I believe, I have seen one with as much Meat on him, as a Pullet, if he had been dress'd. The small green Frogs get upon Trees, and make a Noise. There are several other colour'd small Frogs; but the Common Land-Frog is likest a Toad, only he leaps, and is not poisonous. He is a great Devourer of Ants, and the Snakes devour him. These Frogs baked and beat to Powder, and taken with Orrice-Root cures a Tympany. {Long black Snake.} The long, black Snake frequents the Land altogether, and is the nimblest Creature living. His Bite has no more Venom, than a Prick with a Pin. He is the best Mouser that can be; for he leaves not one of that Vermine alive, where he comes. He also kills the Rattle-Snake, wheresoever he meets him, by twisting his Head about the Neck of the Rattle-Snake, and whipping him to Death with his Tail. This Whipster haunts the Dairies of careless Housewives, and never misses to skim the Milk clear of the Cream. He is an excellent Egg-Merchant, for he does not suck the Eggs, but swallows them whole (as all Snakes do.) He will often swallow all the Eggs from under a Hen that sits, and coil himself under the Hen, in the Nest, where sometimes the Housewife finds him. This Snake, for all his Agility, is so brittle, that when he is pursued, and gets his Head into the Hole of a Tree, if any body gets hold of the other end, he will twist, and break himself off in the middle. One of these Snakes, whose Neck is no thicker that a Woman's little Finger, will swallow a Squirrel; so much does that part stretch, in all these Creatures. {King Snake.} The King-Snake is the longest of all others, and not common; no Snake (they say) will meddle with them. I think they are not accounted very venomous. The Indians make Girdles and Sashes of their Skins. {Green Snake.} Green-Snakes are very small, tho' pretty (if any Beauty be allow'd to Snakes.) Every one makes himself very familiar with them, and puts them in their Bosom, because there is no manner of Harm in them. {Corn-Snake.} The Corn-Snakes are but small ones; they are of a brown Colour, mixed with tawny. There is no more hurt in this, than in the green Snake. {Vipers.} Of those we call Vipers, there are two sorts. People call these Vipers, because they spread a very flat Head at any time when they are vex'd. One of these is a grayish like the Italian Viper, the other black and short; and is reckon'd amongst the worst of Snakes, for Venom. {Tortois.} Tortois, vulgarly call'd Turtle; I have rank'd these among the Insects, because they lay Eggs, and I did not know well where to put them. Among us there are three sorts. The first is the green Turtle, which is not common, but is sometimes found on our Coast. The next is the Hawks-bill, which is common. These two sorts are extraordinary Meat. The third is Logger-Head, which Kind scarce any one covets, except it be for the Eggs, which of this and all other Turtles, are very good Food. None of these sorts of Creatures Eggs will ever admit the White to be harder than a Jelly; yet the Yolk, with boiling, becomes as hard as any other Egg. {Terebin.} Of Terebins there are divers sorts, all which, to be brief, we will comprehend under the Distinction of Land and Water-Terebins. {Land-Terebin.} The Land-Terebin is of several Sizes, but generally Round-Mouth'd, and not Hawks-Bill'd, as some are. The Indians eat them. Most of them are good Meat, except the very large ones; and they are good Food too, provided they are not Musky. They are an utter Enemy to the Rattle-Snake, for when the Terebin meets him, he catches hold of him a little below his Neck, and draws his Head into his Shell, which makes the Snake beat his Tail, and twist about with all the Strength and Violence imaginable, to get away; but the Terebin soon dispatches him, and there leaves him. These they call in Europe the Land Tortois; their Food is Snails, Tad-pools, or young Frogs, Mushrooms, and the Dew and Slime of the Earth and Ponds. {Water-Terebin.} Water Terebins are small; containing about as much Meat as a Pullet, and are extraordinary Food; especially, in May and June. When they lay, their Eggs are very good; but they have so many Enemies that find them out, that the hundredth part never comes to Perfection. The Sun and Sand hatch them, which come out the Bigness of a small Chesnut, and seek their own Living. {Brimstone-Snake.} We now come again to the Snakes. The Brimstone is so call'd, I believe, because it is almost of a Brimstone Colour. They might as well have call'd it a Glass-Snake, for it is as brittle as a Tobacco-Pipe, so that if you give it the least Touch of a small Twigg, it immediately breaks into several Pieces. Some affirm, that if you let it remain where you broke it, it will come together again. What Harm there is in this brittle Ware, I cannot tell; but I never knew any body hurt by them. {Chicken-Snake.} The Egg or Chicken-Snake is so call'd, because it is frequent about the Hen-Yard, and eats Eggs and Chickens, they are of a dusky Soot Colour, and will roll themselves round, and stick eighteen, or twenty Foot high, by the side of a smooth-bark'd Pine, where there is no manner of Hold, and there sun themselves, and sleep all the Sunny Part of the Day. There is no great matter of Poison in them. {Wood-Worm.} The Wood-Worms are of a Copper, shining Colour, scarce so thick as your little Finger; are often found in Rotten-Trees. They are accounted venomous, in case they bite, though I never knew any thing hurt by them. They never exceed four or five Inches in length. The Reptiles, or smaller Insects, are too numerous to relate here, this Country affording innumerable Quantities thereof; as the Flying-Stags with Horns, Beetles, Butterflies, Grashoppers, Locust, and several hundreds of uncouth Shapes, which in the Summer-Season are discovered here in Carolina, the Description of which requires a large Volume, which is not my Intent at present. Besides, what the Mountainous Part of this Land may hereafter lay open to our View, Time and Industry will discover, for we that have settled but a small Share of this large Province, cannot imagine, but there will be a great number of Discoveries made by those that shall come hereafter into the Back-part of this Land, and make Enquiries therein, when, at least, we consider that the Westward of Carolina is quite different in Soil, Air, Weather, Growth of Vegetables, and several Animals too, which we at present are wholly Strangers to, and to seek for. As to a right Knowledge thereof, I say, when another Age is come, the Ingenious then in being may stand upon the Shoulders of those that went before them, adding their own Experiments to what was delivered down to them by their Predecessors, and then there will be something towards a complete Natural History, which (in these days) would be no easie Undertaking to any Author that writes truly and compendiously, as he ought to do. It is sufficient at present, to write an honest and fair Account of any of the Settlements, in this new World, without wandring out of the Path of Truth, or bespattering any Man's Reputation any wise concern'd in the Government of the Colony; he that mixes Invectives with Relations of this Nature rendering himself suspected of Partiality in whatever he writes. For my part, I wish all well, and he that has received any severe Dealings from the Magistrate or his Superiours, had best examine himself well, if he was not first in the Fault; if so, then he can justly blame none but himself for what has happen'd to him. Having thus gone thro' the Insects, as in the Table, except the Eel-Snake, (so call'd, though very improperly, because he is nothing but a Loach, that sucks, and cannot bite, as the Snakes do.) He is very large, commonly sixteen Inches, or a Foot and half long; having all the Properties that other Loaches have, and dwells in Pools and Waters, as they do. Notwithstanding, we have the same Loach as you have, in Bigness. This is all that at present I shall mention, touching the Insects, and so go on to give an Account of the Fowls and Birds, that are properly found in Carolina, which are these. {Birds in America more beautiful than in Europe.} Birds of Carolina. Eagle bald. Eagle gray. Fishing Hawk. Turkey Buzzard, or Vulture. Herring-tail'd Hawk. Goshawk. Falcon. Merlin. Sparrow-hawk. Hobby. Ring-tail. Raven. Crow. Black Birds, two sorts. Buntings two sorts. Pheasant. Woodcock. Snipe. Partridge. Moorhen. Jay. Green Plover. Plover gray or whistling. Pigeon. Turtle Dove. Parrakeeto. Thrush. Wood-Peckers, five sorts. Mocking-birds, two sorts. Cat-Bird. Cuckoo. Blue-Bird. Bulfinch. Nightingale. Hedge-Sparrow. Wren. Sparrows, two sorts. Lark. Red Bird. East-India Bat. Martins, two sorts. Diveling, or Swift. Swallow. Humming Bird. The Tom-Tit, or Ox-Eye. Owls, two sorts. Scritch Owl. Baltimore bird. Throstle, no Singer. Whippoo Will. Reed Sparrow. Weet bird. Rice bird. Cranes and Storks. Snow-birds. Yellow-wings. {Water Fowl.} Water Fowl are, Swans, called Trompeters. Swans, called Hoopers. Geese, three sorts. Brant gray. Brant white. Sea-pies or pied Curlues. Will Willets. Great Gray Gulls. Old Wives. Sea Cock. Curlues, three sorts. Coots. Kings-fisher. Loons, two sorts. Bitterns, three sorts. Hern gray. Hern white. Water Pheasant. Little gray Gull. Little Fisher, or Dipper. Ducks, as in England. Ducks black, all Summer. Ducks pied, build on Trees. Ducks whistling, at Sapona. Ducks scarlet-eye at Esaw. Blue-wings. Widgeon. Teal, two sorts. Shovelers. Whistlers. Black Flusterers, or bald Coot. Turkeys wild. Fishermen. Divers. Raft Fowl. Bull-necks. Redheads. Tropick-birds. Pellican. Cormorant. Gannet. Shear-water. Great black pied Gull. Marsh-hens. Blue Peter's. Sand-birds. Runners. Tutcocks. Swaddle-bills. Mew. Sheldrakes. Bald Faces. Water Witch, or Ware Coot. {Bald-Eagle.} As the Eagle is reckon'd the King of Birds I have begun with him. The first I shall speak of, is the bald Eagle; so call'd, because his Head, to the middle of his Neck, and his Tail, is as white as Snow. These Birds continually breed the Year round; for when the young Eagles are just down'd, with a sort of white woolly Feathers, the Hen-Eagle lays again, which Eggs are hatch'd by the Warmth of the young ones in the Nest, so that the Flight of one Brood makes Room for the next, that are but just hatch'd. They prey on any living thing they can catch. They are heavy of Flight, and cannot get their Food by Swiftness, to help which there is a Fishawk that catches Fishes, and suffers the Eagle to take them from her, although she is long-wing'd and a swift Flyer, and can make far better way in her Flight than the Eagle can. The bald Eagle attends the Gunners in Winter, with all the Obsequiousness imaginable, and when he shoots and kills any Fowl, the Eagle surely comes in for his Bird; and besides, those that are wounded, and escape the Fowler, fall to the Eagle's share. He is an excellent Artist at stealing young Pigs, which Prey he carries alive to his Nest, at which time the poor Pig makes such a Noise over Head, that Strangers that have heard them cry, and not seen the Bird and his Prey, have thought there were Flying Sows and Pigs in that Country. The Eagle's Nest is made of Twigs, Sticks and Rubbish. It is big enough to fill a handsome Carts Body, and commonly so full of nasty Bones and Carcasses that it stinks most offensively. This Eagle is not bald, till he is one or two years old. {Gray Eagle.} The gray Eagle is altogether the same sort of Bird, as the Eagle in Europe; therefore, we shall treat no farther of him. {Fishing-Hawk.} The Fishing-Hawk is the Eagle's Jackal, which most commonly (though not always) takes his Prey for him. He is a large Bird, being above two thirds as big as the Eagle. He builds his Nest as the Eagles do; that is, in a dead Cypress-Tree, either standing in, or hard by, the Water. The Eagle and this Bird seldom sit on a living Tree. He is of a gray pied Colour, and the most dexterous Fowl in Nature at Catching of Fish, which he wholly lives on, never eating any Flesh. {Turkey-Buzzard.} The Turkey-Buzzard of Carolina is a small Vulture, which lives on any dead Carcasses. They are about the Bigness of the Fishing-Hawk, and have a nasty Smell with them. They are of the Kites Colour, and are reported to be an Enemy to Snakes, by killing all they meet withal of that Kind. {Herring-tail'd Hawk.} The Herring, or Swallow-tail'd Hawk, is about the Bigness of a Falcon, but a much longer Bird. He is of a delicate Aurora-Colour; the Pinions of his Wings, and End of his Tail are black. He is a very beautiful Fowl, and never appears abroad but in the Summer. His Prey is chiefly on Snakes, and will kill the biggest we have, with a great deal of Dexterity and Ease. {Goshawk.} Goshawks are very plentiful in Carolina. They are not seemingly so large as those from Muscovy; but appear to be a very brisk Bird. {Falcon.} The Falcon is much the same as in Europe, and promises to be a brave Bird, tho' I never had any of them in my Hand; neither did I ever see any of them in any other Posture than on the Wing, which always happen'd to be in an Evening, and flying to the Westward; therefore, I believe, they have their Abode and Nest among the Mountains, where we may expect to find them, and several other Species that we are at present Strangers to. {Merlin.} The Merlin is a small Bird in Europe, but much smaller here; yet he very nimbly kills the smaller sorts of Birds, and sometimes the Partridge; if caught alive, he would be a great Rarity, because of his Beauty and Smalness. {Sparrow-Hawk.} The Sparrow-Hawk in Carolina is no bigger than a Field-fare in England. He flies at the Bush and sometimes kills a small Bird, but his chiefest Food is Reptiles, as Beetles, Grashoppers, and such small things. He is exactly of the same Colour, as the Sparrow-Hawk in England, only has a blackish Hood by his Eyes. {Hobby.} Hobbies are the same here as in England, and are not often met withal. {Ring Tail.} The Ring-tail is a short-wing'd Hawk, preying on Mice, and such Vermine in the Marshes, as in England. {Ravens.} Ravens, the same as in England, though very few. I have not seen above six in eight Years time. {Crows.} Crows are here less than in England. They are as good Meat as a Pigeon; and never feed on any Carrion. They are great Enemies to the Corn-Fields; and cry and build almost like Rooks. {Black-Birds.} Of these we have two sorts, which are the worst Vermine in America. They fly sometimes in such Flocks, that they destroy every thing before them. They (both sorts) build in hollow Trees, as Starlings do. The first sort is near as big as a Dove, and is very white and delicate Food. The other sort is very beautiful, and about the Bigness of the Owsel. Part of their Head, next to the Bill, and the Pinions of their Wings, are of an Orange, and glorious Crimson Colour. They are as good Meat as the former, tho' very few here (where large Fowl are so plenty) ever trouble themselves to kill or dress them. {Bunting two sorts.} Of the Bunting-Larks we have two sorts, though the Heel of this Bird is not so long as in Europe. The first of these often accompany the Black-birds, and sing as the Bunting-Larks in England do, differing very little. The first sort has an Orange-Colour on the Tops of their Wings, and are as good Meat as those in Europe. The other sort is something less, of a lighter Colour; nothing differing therein from those in England, as to Feathers, Bigness, and Meat. {Pheasant.} The Pheasant of Carolina differs some small matter from the English Pheasant, being not so big, and having some difference in Feather; yet he is not any wise inferiour in Delicacy, but is as good Meat, or rather finer. He haunts the back Woods, and is seldom found near the Inhabitants. {Woodcock.} The Woodcocks live and breed here, though they are not in great plenty, as I have seen them in some Parts of England, and other Places. They want one third of the English Woodcock in Bigness; but differ not in Shape, or Feather, save that their Breast is of a Carnation Colour; and they make a Noise (when they are on the Wing) like the Bells about a Hawk's Legs. They are certainly as dainty Meat, as any in the World. Their Abode is in all Parts of this Country, in low, boggy Ground, Springs, Swamps, and Percoarsons. {Snipe.} The Snipes here frequent the same Places, as they do in England, and differ nothing from them. They are the only wild Bird that is nothing different from the Species of Europe, and keeps with us all the Year. In some Places, there are a great many of these Snipes. {Partridge.} Our Partridges in Carolina, very often take upon Trees, and have a sort of Whistle and Call, quite different from those in England. They are a very beautiful Bird, and great Destroyers of the Pease in Plantations; wherefore, they set Traps, and catch many of them. They have the same Feather, as in Europe; only the Cock wants the Horse-Shooe, in lieu of which he has a fair Half-Circle over each Eye. These (as well as the Woodcock) are less than the European Bird; but far finer Meat. They might be easily transported to any Place, because they take to eating, after caught. {Moorhen.} The Moorhens are of the black Game. I am inform'd, that the gray Game haunts the Hills. They never come into the Settlement, but keep in the hilly Parts. {Jay.} Jays are here common, and very mischievous, in devouring our Fruit, and spoiling more than they eat. They are abundantly more beautiful, and finer feather'd than those in Europe, and not above half so big. {Green-Plover.} The Lap-wing or Green-Plover are here very common. They cry pretty much, as the English Plovers do; and differ not much in Feather, but want a third of their Bigness. {Gray-Plover.} The gray or whistling Plover, are very scarce amongst us. I never saw any but three times, that fell and settled on the Ground. They differ very little from those in Europe, as far as I could discern. I have seen several great Flocks of them fly over head; therefore, believe, they inhabit the Valleys near the Mountains. {Pigeons.} Our wild Pigeons, are like the Wood-Queese or Stock-Doves, only have a longer Tail. They leave us in the Summer. This sort of Pigeon (as I said before) is the most like our Stock-Doves, or Wood-Pigeons that we have in England; only these differ in their Tails, which are very long, much like a Parrakeeto's? You must understand, that these Birds do not breed amongst us, (who are settled at, and near the Mouths of the Rivers, as I have intimated to you before) but come down (especially in hard Winters) amongst the Inhabitants, in great Flocks, as they were seen to do in the Year 1707, which was the hardest Winter that ever was known, since Carolina has been seated by the Christians. And if that Country had such hard Weather, what must be expected of the severe Winters in Pensylvania, New-York, and New-England, where Winters are ten times (if possible) colder than with us. Although the Flocks are, in such Extremities, very numerous; yet they are not to be mention'd in Comparison with the great and infinite Numbers of these Fowl, that are met withal about a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, Miles to the Westward of the Places where we at present live; and where these Pigeons come down, in quest of a small sort of Acorns, which in those Parts are plentifully found. They are the same we call Turky-Acorns, because the wild Turkies feed very much thereon; And for the same Reason, those Trees that bear them, are call'd Turky-Oaks. I saw such prodigious Flocks of these Pigeons, in January or February, 1701-2, (which were in the hilly Country, between the great Nation of the Esaw Indians, and the pleasant Stream of Sapona, which is the West-Branch of Clarendon, or Cape-Fair River) that they had broke down the Limbs of a great many large Trees all over those Woods, whereon they chanced to sit and roost; especially the great Pines, which are a more brittle Wood, than our sorts of Oak are. These Pigeons, about Sun-Rise, when we were preparing to march on our Journey, would fly by us in such vast Flocks, that they would be near a Quarter of an Hour, before they were all pass'd by; and as soon as that Flock was gone, another would come; and so successively one after another, for great part of the Morning. It is observable, that whereever these Fowl come in such Numbers, as I saw them then, they clear all before them, scarce leaving one Acorn upon the Ground, which would, doubtless, be a great Prejudice to the Planters that should seat there, because their Swine would be thereby depriv'd of their Mast. When I saw such Flocks of the Pigeons I now speak of, none of our Company had any other sort of Shot, than that which is cast in Moulds, and was so very large, that we could not put above ten or a dozen of them into our largest Pieces; Wherefore, we made but an indifferent Hand of shooting them; although we commonly kill'd a Pigeon for every Shot. They were very fat, and as good Pigeons, as ever I eat. I enquired of the Indians that dwell'd in those Parts, where it was that those Pigeons bred, and they pointed towards the vast Ridge of Mountains, and said, they bred there. Now, whether they make their Nests in the Holes in the Rocks of those Mountains, or build in Trees, I could not learn; but they seem to me to be a Wood-Pigeon, that build in Trees, because of their frequent sitting thereon, and their Roosting on Trees always at Night, under which their Dung commonly lies half a Foot thick, and kills every thing that grows where it falls. {Turtle Doves.} Turtle Doves are here very plentiful; they devour the Pease; for which Reason, People make Traps and catch them. {Parrakeetos.} The Parrakeetos are of a green Colour, and Orange-Colour'd half way their Head. Of these and the Allegators, there is none found to the Northward of this Province. They visit us first, when Mulberries are ripe, which Fruit they love extremely. They peck the Apples, to eat the Kernels, so that the Fruit rots and perishes. They are mischievous to Orchards. They are often taken alive, and will become familiar and tame in two days. They have their Nests in hollow Trees, in low, swampy Ground. They devour the Birch-Buds in April, and lie hidden when the Weather is frosty and hard. {Thrushes.} The Thrushes in America, are the same as in England, and red under the Wings. They never appear amongst us but in hard Weather, and presently leave us again. {Wood-Peckers.} Of Wood-peckers, we have four sorts. The first is as big as a Pigeon, being of a dark brown Colour, with a white Cross on his Back, his Eyes circled with white, and on his Head stands a Tuft of beautiful Scarlet Feathers. His Cry is heard a long way; and he flies from one rotten Tree to another, to get Grubs, which is the Food he lives on. {Second.} The second sort are of an Olive-Colour, striped with yellow. They eat Worms as well as Grubs, and are about the Bigness of those in Europe. {Third.} The third is the same Bigness as the last; he is pied with black and white, has a Crimson Head, without a Topping, and is a Plague to the Corn and Fruit; especially the Apples. He opens the Covering of the young Corn, so that the Rain gets in, and rots it. {Fourth.} The fourth sort of these Wood-peckers, is a black and white speckled, or mottled; the finest I ever saw. The Cock has a red Crown; he is not near so big as the others; his Food is Grubs, Corn, and other creeping Insects. He is not very wild, but will let one come up to him, then shifts on the other side the Tree, from your sight; and so dodges you for a long time together. He is about the size of an English Lark. {Mocking-Birds.} The Mocking-Bird is about as big as a Throstle in England, but longer; they are of a white, and gray Colour, and are held to be the Choristers of America, as indeed they are. They sing with the greatest Diversity of Notes, that is possible for a Bird to change to. They may be bred up, and will sing with us tame in Cages; yet I never take any of their Nests, altho' they build yearly in my Fruit-Trees, because I have their Company, as much as if tame, as to the singing Part. They often sit upon our Chimneys in Summer, there being then no Fire in them, and sing the whole Evening and most part of the Night. They are always attending our Dwellings; and feed upon Mulberries and other Berries and Fruits; especially the Mechoacan-berry, which grows here very plentifully. {2d. sort.} There is another sort call'd the Ground-Mocking-Bird. She is the same bigness, and of a Cinnamon Colour. This Bird sings excellently well, but is not so common amongst us as the former. {Cat-Bird.} The Cat-Bird, so nam'd, because it makes a Noise exactly like young Cats. They have a blackish Head, and an Ash-coloured Body, and have no other Note that I know of. They are no bigger than a Lark, yet will fight a Crow or any other great Bird. {Cuckoo.} The Cuckoo of Carolina may not properly be so call'd, because she never uses that Cry; yet she is of the same Bigness and Feather, and sucks the Small-Birds Eggs, as the English Cuckoo does. {Blue-Bird.} A Blue-Bird is the exact Bigness of a Robin-red-breast. The Cock has the same colour'd Breast as the Robin has, and his Back, and all the other Parts of him, are of as fine a Blue, as can possibly be seen in any thing in the World. He has a Cry, and a Whistle. They hide themselves all the Winter. {Bulfinch.} Bulfinches, in America, differ something from those in Europe, in their Feathers, tho' not in their Bigness. I never knew any one tame, therefore know not, what they might be brought to. {Nightingale.} The Nightingales are different in Plumes from those in Europe. They always frequent the low Groves, where they sing very prettily all Night. {Hedge-Sparrow.} Hedge-Sparrows are here, though few Hedges. They differ scarce any thing in Plume or Bigness, only I never heard this Whistle, as the English one does; especially after Rain. {Wren.} The Wren is the same as in Europe, yet I never heard any Note she has in Carolina. {Sparrow.} Sparrows here differ in Feather from the English. We have several Species of Birds call'd Sparrows, one of them much resembling the Bird call'd a Corinthian Sparrow. {Lark.} The Lark with us resorts to the Savannas, or natural Meads, and green Marshes. He is colour'd and heel'd as the Lark is; but his Breast is of a glittering fair Lemon-Colour, and he is as big as a Fieldfare, and very fine Food. {Red-Birds.} The Red-Birds (whose Cock is all over of a rich Scarlet Feather, with a tufted Crown on his Head, of the same Colour) are the Bigness of a Bunting-Lark, and very hardy, having a strong thick Bill. They will sing very prettily, when taken old, and put in a Cage. They are good Birds to turn a Cage with Bells; or if taught, as the Bulfinch is, I believe, would prove very docible. {East-India Bats.} East-India Bats or Musqueto Hawks, are the Bigness of a Cuckoo, and much of the same Colour. They are so call'd, because the same sort is found in the East-Indies. They appear only in the Summer, and live on Flies, which they catch in the Air, as Gnats, Musquetos, &c. {Martins.} Martins are here of two sorts. The first is the same as in England; the other as big as a Black-Bird. They have white Throats and Breasts, with black Backs. The Planters put Gourds on standing Poles, on purpose for these Fowl to build in, because they are a very Warlike Bird, and beat the Crows from the Plantations. {Swift.} The Swift, or Diveling, the same as in England. {Swallow.} Swallows, the same as in England. {Humming-Bird.} The Humming-Bird is the Miracle of all our wing'd Animals; He is feather'd as a Bird, and gets his Living as the Bees, by sucking the Honey from each Flower. In some of the larger sort of Flowers, he will bury himself, by diving to suck the bottom of it, so that he is quite cover'd, and oftentimes Children catch them in those Flowers, and keep them alive for five or six days. They are of different Colours, the Cock differing from the Hen. The Cock is of a green, red, Aurora, and other Colours mixt. He is much less than a Wren, and very nimble. His Nest is one of the greatest Pieces of Workmanship the whole Tribe of wing'd Animals can shew, it commonly hanging on a single Bryar, most artificially woven, a small Hole being left to go in and out at. The Eggs are the Bigness of Pease. {Tom-Tit.} The Tom-Tit, or Ox-Eyes, as in England. {Owls.} Of Owls we have two sorts; the smaller sort is like ours in England; the other sort is as big as a middling Goose, and has a prodigious Head. They make a fearful Hollowing in the Night-time, like a Man, whereby they often make Strangers lose their way in the Woods. {Scritch Owls.} Scritch Owls, much the same as in Europe. {Baltimore-Bird.} The Baltimore-Bird, so call'd from the Lord Baltimore, Proprietor of all Maryland, in which Province many of them are found. They are the Bigness of a Linnet, with yellow Wings, and beautiful in other Colours. {Throstle.} Throstle, the same Size and Feather as in Europe, but I never could hear any of them sing. {Weet Bird.} The Weet, so call'd because he cries always before Rain; he resembles nearest the Fire-tail. {Cranes and Storks.} Cranes use the Savannas, low Ground, and Frogs; they are above five Foot-high, when extended; are of a Cream Colour, and have a Crimson Spot on the Crown of their Heads. Their Quills are excellent for Pens; their Flesh makes the best Broth, yet is very hard to digest. Among them often frequent Storks, which are here seen, and no where besides in America, that I have yet heard of. The Cranes are easily bred up tame, and are excellent in a Garden to destroy Frogs, Worms, and other Vermine. {Snow-Birds.} The Snow-Birds are most numerous in the North Parts of America, where there are great Snows. They visit us sometimes in Carolina, when the Weather is harder than ordinary. They are like the Stones Smach, or Wheat-Ears, and are delicate Meat. {Yellow Wings.} These Yellow-Wings are a very small Bird, of a Linnet's Colour, but Wings as yellow as Gold. They frequent high up in our Rivers, and Creeks, and keep themselves in the thick Bushes, very difficult to be seen in the Spring. They sing very prettily. {Whippoo-Will.} Whippoo-Will, so nam'd, because it makes those Words exactly. They are the Bigness of a Thrush, and call their Note under a Bush, on the Ground, hard to be seen, though you hear them never so plain. They are more plentiful in Virginia, than with us in Carolina; for I never heard but one that was near the Settlement, and that was hard-by an Indian Town. {Red Sparrow.} This nearest resembles a Sparrow, and is the most common Small-Bird we have, therefore we call them so. They are brown, and red, cinnamon Colour, striped. {Water Fowl.} Of the Swans we have two sorts; the one we call Trompeters; because of a sort of trompeting Noise they make. {Swans.} These are the largest sort we have, which come in great Flocks in the Winter, and stay, commonly, in the fresh Rivers till February, that the Spring comes on, when they go to the Lakes to breed. A Cygnet, that is, a last Year's Swan, is accounted a delicate Dish, as indeed it is. They are known by their Head and Feathers, which are not so white as Old ones. {Hooper.} The sort of Swans call'd Hoopers, are the least. They abide more in the Salt-Water, and are equally valuable, for Food, with the former. It is observable, that neither of these have a black Piece of horny Flesh down the Head, and Bill, as they have in England. {Wild Geese.} Of Geese we have three sorts, differing from each other only in size. Ours are not the common Geese that are in the Fens in England, but the other sorts, with black Heads and Necks. {Gray Brants.} The gray Brant, or Barnicle, is here very plentiful, as all other Water-Fowl are, in the Winter-Season. They are the same which they call Barnicles in Great-Britain, and are a very good Fowl, and eat well. {White Brant.} There is also a white Brant, very plentiful in America. This Bird is all over as white as Snow, except the Tips of his Wings, and those are black. They eat the Roots of Sedge and Grass in the Marshes and Savannas, which they tear up like Hogs. The best way to kill these Fowl is, to burn a Piece of Marsh, or Savanna, and as soon as it is burnt, they will come in great Flocks to get the Roots, where you kill what you please of them. They are as good Meat as the other, only their Feathers are stubbed, and good for little. {Sea-Pie, or Curlue.} The Sea-Pie, or gray Curlue, is about the Bigness of a very large Pigeon, but longer. He has a long Bill as other Curlues have, which is the Colour of an English Owsel's, that is, yellow; as are his Legs. He frequents the Sand-beaches on the Sea-side, and when kill'd, is inferiour to no Fowl I ever eat of. {Will Willet.} Will Willet is so called from his Cry, which he very exactly calls Will Willet, as he flies. His Bill is like a Curlue's, or Woodcock's, and has much such a Body as the other, yet not so tall. He is good Meat. {Great gray Gull.} The great gray Gulls are good Meat, and as large as a Pullet. They lay large Eggs, which are found in very great Quantities, on the Islands in our Sound, in the Months of June, and July. The young Squabs are very good Victuals, and often prove a Relief to Travellers by Water, that have spent their Provisions. {Old Wives.} Old Wives are a black and white pied Gull with extraordinary long Wings, and a golden colour'd Bill and Feet. He makes a dismal Noise, as he flies, and ever and anon dips his Bill in the Salt-Water. I never knew him eaten. {Sea-Cock.} The Sea-Cock is a Gull that crows at Break of Day, and in the Morning, exactly like a Dunghil Cock, which Cry seems very pleasant in those uninhabited Places. He is never eaten. {Curlues. Coots, Kingfisher, Loons, two sorts.} Of Curlues there are three sorts, and vast Numbers of each. They have all long Bills, and differ neither in Colour, nor Shape, only in Size. The largest is as big as a good Hen, the smaller the Bigness of a Snipe, or something bigger. {Bitterns, three sorts.} We have three sorts of Bitterns in Carolina. The first is the same as in England; the second of a deep brown, with a great Topping, and yellowish white Throat and Breast, and is lesser than the former; the last is no bigger than a Wood-cock, and near the Colour of the second. {Herns.} We have the same Herns, as in England. {White-Herns.} White Herns are here very plentiful. I have seen above thirty sit on one Tree, at a time. They are as white as Milk, and fly very slowly. {Water-Pheasant.} The Water-Pheasant (very improperly call'd so) are a Water-Fowl of the Duck-Kind, having a Topping, of pretty Feathers, which sets them out. They are very good Meat. {Little gray Gull.} The little Gray-Gull is of a curious gray Colour, and abides near the Sea. He is about the Bigness of a Whistling-Plover, and delicate Food. {Dipper.} We have the little Dipper or Fisher, that catches Fish so dexterously, the same as you have in the Islands of Scilly. {Duck and Mallard.} We have of the same Ducks, and Mallards with green Heads, in great Flocks. They are accounted the coarsest sort of our Water-Fowl. {Black Duck.} The black Duck is full as large as the other, and good Meat. She stays with us all the Summer, and breeds. These are made tame by some, and prove good Domesticks. {Summer Duck.} We have another Duck that stays with us all the Summer. She has a great Topping, is pied, and very beautiful. She builds her Nest in a Wood-pecker's Hole, very often sixty or seventy Foot high. {Whistling Duck.} Towards the Mountains in the hilly Country, on the West-Branch of Caip-Fair Inlet, we saw great Flocks of pretty pied Ducks, that whistled as they flew, or as they fed. I did not kill any of them. {Scarlet Ey'd Duck.} We kill'd a curious sort of Ducks, in the Country of the Esaw-Indians, which were of many beautiful Colours. Their Eyes were red, having a red Circle of Flesh for their Eye-lids; and were very good to eat. {Blue-Wings.} The Blue-Wings are less than a Duck, but fine Meat. These are the first Fowls that appear to us in the Fall of the Leaf, coming then in great Flocks, as we suppose, from Canada, and the Lakes that lie behind us. {Widgeon.} Widgeons, the same as in Europe, are here in great Plenty. {Teal two sorts.} We have the same Teal, as in England, and another sort that frequents the Fresh-Water, and are always nodding their Heads. They are smaller than the common Teal, and dainty Meat. {Shovellers.} Shovellers (a sort of Duck) are gray, with a black Head. They are a very good Fowl. {Whistlers.} These are called Whistlers, from the whistling Noise they make, as they fly. {Black-Flusterers, or Bald-Coot.} Black Flusterers; some call these Old Wives. They are as black as Ink. The Cocks have white Faces. They always remain in the midst of Rivers, and feed upon drift Grass, Carnels or Sea-Nettles. They are the fattest Fowl I ever saw, and sometimes so heavy with Flesh, that they cannot rise out of the Water. They make an odd sort of Noise when they fly. What Meat they are, I could never learn. Some call these the great bald Coot. {Turkeys.} The wild Turkeys I should have spoken of, when I treated of the Land-Fowl. There are great Flocks of these in Carolina. I have seen about five hundred in a Flock; some of them are very large. I never weigh'd any myself, but have been inform'd of one that weigh'd near sixty Pound Weight. I have seen half a Turkey feed eight hungry Men two Meals. Sometimes the wild breed with the tame ones, which, they reckon, makes them very hardy, as I believe it must. I see no manner of Difference betwixt the wild Turkeys and the tame ones; only the wild are ever of one Colour, (viz.) a dark gray, or brown, and are excellent Food. They feed on Acorns, Huckle-Berries, and many other sorts of Berries that Carolina affords. The Eggs taken from the Nest, and hatch'd under a Hen, will yet retain a wild Nature, and commonly leave you, and run wild at last, and will never be got into a House to roost, but always pearch on some high Tree, hard-by the House, and separate themselves from the tame sort, although (at the same time) they tread and breed together. I have been inform'd, that if you take these wild Eggs, when just on the point of being hatch'd, and dip them (for some small time) in a Bowl of Milk-warm Water, it will take off their wild Nature, and make them as tame and domestick as the others. Some Indians have brought these wild Breed hatch'd at home, to be a Decoy to bring others to roost near their Cabins, which they have shot. But to return to the Water-Fowl. {Fishermen.} Fishermen are like a Duck, but have a narrow Bill, with Setts of Teeth. They live on very small Fish, which they catch as they swim along. They taste Fishy. The best way to order them, is, upon occasion, to pull out the Oil-Box from the Rump, and then bury them five or six Hours under Ground. Then they become tolerable. {Divers.} Of Divers there are two sorts; the one pied, the other gray; both good Meat. {Raft-Fowl.} Raft-Fowl includes all the sorts of small Ducks and Teal, that go in Rafts along the Shoar, and are of several sorts, that we know no Name for. {Bull-Necks.} These are a whitish Fowl, about the Bigness of a Brant; they come to us after Christmas, in very great Flocks, in all our Rivers. They are a very good Meat, but hard to kill, because hard to come near. They will dive and endure a great deal of Shot. {Red-Heads.} Red-Heads, a lesser Fowl than Bull-Necks, are very sweet Food, and plentiful in our Rivers and Creeks. {Tropick-Birds.} Tropick-Birds are a white Mew, with a forked Tail. They are so call'd, because they are plentifully met withal under the Tropicks, and thereabouts. {Pellican.} The Pellican of the Wilderness cannot be the same as ours; this being a Water-Fowl, with a great natural Wen or Pouch under his Throat, in which he keeps his Prey of Fish, which is what he lives on. He is Web-footed, like a Goose, and shap'd like a Duck, but is a very large Fowl, bigger than a Goose. He is never eaten as Food; They make Tobacco-pouches of his Maw. {Cormorant.} Cormorants are very well known in some Parts of England; we have great Flocks of them with us, especially against the Herrings run, which is in March and April; then they sit upon Logs of dry Wood in the Water, and catch the Fish. {Gannet.} The Gannet is a large white Fowl, having one Part of his Wings black; he lives on Fish, as the Pellican. His Fat or Grease, is as yellow as Saffron, and the best thing known, to preserve Fire-Arms, from Rust. {Shear-Water.} Shear-Waters are a longer Fowl than a Duck; some of them lie on the Coast, whilst others range the Seas all over. Sometimes they are met five hundred Leagues from Land. They live without drinking any fresh Water. {Pied-Gull.} We have a great pied Gull, black and white, which seems to have a black Hood on his Head; these lay very fair Eggs which are good; as are the young ones in the Season. {Marsh-Hen.} Marsh-Hen, much the same as in Europe, only she makes another sort of Noise, and much shriller. {Blue-Peters.} The same as you call Water-Hens in England, are here very numerous, and not regarded for eating. {Sand-Birds.} The Sand-Birds are about the Bigness of a Lark, and frequent our Sand-Beaches; they are a dainty Food, if you will bestow Time and Ammunition to kill them. {Runners.} These are called Runners; because if you run after them, they will run along the Sands and not offer to get up; so that you may often drive them together to shoot as you please. They are a pleasant small Bird. {Tutcocks.} A sort of Snipe, but sucks not his Food; they are almost the same as in England. {Swaddle-Bills.} Swaddle-Bills are a sort of an ash-colour'd Duck, which have an extraordinary broad Bill, and are good Meat; they are not common as the others are. {Mew.} The same Mew as in England, being a white, slender Bird, with red Feet. {Shel-Drakes.} The same as in England. {Bald-Faces.} The bald, or white Faces are a good Fowl. They cannot dive, and are easily shotten. {Water-Witch.} Water-Witch, or Ware-Coots, are a Fowl with Down and no Feathers; they dive incomparably, so that no Fowler can hit them. They can neither fly, nor go; but get into the Fish-wares, and cannot fly over the Rods, and so are taken. Thus have we given an Account of what Fowl has come to our Knowledge, since our Abode in Carolina; except some that, perhaps, have slipt our Memory, and so are left out of our Catalogue. Proceed we now to treat of the Inhabitants of the Watry Element, which tho' we can as yet do but very imperfectly; yet we are willing to oblige the Curious with the best Account that is in our Power to present them withal. The Fish in the salt, and fresh Waters of Carolina, are, Whales, several sorts. Thrashers. Divel-Fish. Sword-Fish. Crampois. Bottle-Noses. Porpoises. Sharks, two sorts. Dog-Fish. Spanish-Mackarel. Cavallies. Boneto's. Blue-Fish. Drum, red. Drum-Fish, black. Angel-Fish. Bass, or Rock-Fish. Sheeps-Heads. Plaice. Flounder. Soles. Mullets. Shad. Eat-Backs. Guard, white. Guard, green. Scate or Stingray. Thornback. Congar-Eels. Lamprey-Eels. Eels. Sun-Fish. Toad-Fish. Sea-Tench. Trouts of the Salt Water. Crocus. Herring. Smelts. Shads. Breams. Taylors. Fresh-Water Fish are, Sturgeon. Pike. Trouts. Gudgeon. Pearch English. Pearch, white. Pearch, brown, or Welch-men. Pearch, flat, and mottled, or Irishmen. Pearch small and flat, with red Spots, call'd round Robins. Carp. Roach. Dace. Loaches. Sucking-Fish. Cat-Fish. Grindals. Old-Wives. Fountain-Fish. White-Fish. The Shell-Fish are. Large Crabs, call'd Stone-Crabs. Smaller flat Crabs. Oysters great and small. Cockles. Clams. Muscles. Conks. Skellop. Man of Noses. Periwinkles, or Wilks. Sea-Snail-Horns. Fidlars. Runners. Spanish or Pearl-Oysters. Flattings. Tortois and Terebin, accounted for among the Insects. Finger-Fish. Shrimps. Fresh Water. Craw-Fish. Muscles. {Whale.} Whales are very numerous, on the Coast of North Carolina, from which they make Oil, Bone, &c. to the great Advantage of those inhabiting the Sand-Banks, along the Ocean, where these Whales come ashore, none being struck or kill'd with a Harpoon in this Place, as they are to the Northward, and elsewhere; all those Fish being found dead on the Shoar, most commonly by those that inhabit the Banks, and Sea-side, where they dwell, for that Intent, and for the Benefit of Wrecks, which sometimes fall in upon that Shoar. Of these Monsters there are four sorts; the first, which is most choice and rich, is the Sperma Caeti Whale, from which the Sperma Caeti is taken. These are rich Prizes; but I never heard but of one found on this Coast, which was near Currituck-Inlet. The other sorts are of a prodigious Bigness. Of these the Bone and Oil is made; the Oil being the Blubber, or oily Flesh, or Fat of that Fish boil'd. These differ not only in Colour, some being pied, others not, but very much in shape, one being call'd a Bottle-Nosed Whale, the other a Shovel-Nose, which is as different as a Salmon from a Sturgeon. These Fish seldom come ashoar with their Tongues in their Heads, the Thrasher (which is the Whale's mortal Enemy, wheresoever he meets him) eating that out of his Head, as soon as he and the Sword-Fish have kill'd him. For when the Whale-catchers (in other Parts) kill any of these Fish, they eat the Tongue, and esteem it an excellent Dish. There is another sort of these Whales, or great Fish, though not common. I never knew of above one of that sort, found on the Coast of North Carolina, and he was contrary, in Shape, to all others ever found before him; being sixty Foot in Length, and not above three or four Foot Diameter. Some Indians in America will go out to Sea, and get upon a Whales Back, and peg or plug up his Spouts, and so kill him. {Thrashers.} The Thrashers are large Fish, and mortal Enemies to the Whale, as I said before. They make good Oil; but are seldom found. {Divel-Fish.} The Divel-Fish lies at some of our Inlets, and, as near as I can describe him, is shap'd like a Scate, or Stingray; only he has on his Head a Pair of very thick strong Horns, and is of a monstrous Size, and Strength; for this Fish has been known to weigh a Sloop's Anchor, and run with the Vessel a League or two, and bring her back, against Tide, to almost the same Place. Doubtless, they may afford good Oil; but I have no Experience of any Profits which arise from them. {Sword-Fish.} The Sword-Fish is the other of the Whale's Enemies, and joins with the Thrasher to destroy that Monster. After they have overcome him, they eat his Tongue, as I said before, and the Whale drives ashoar. {Crampois.} Crampois is a large Fish, and by some accounted a young Whale; but it is not so; neither is it more than twenty five or thirty Foot long. They spout as the Whale does, and when taken yield good Oil. {Bottle-Noses.} Bottle-Noses are between the Crampois and Porpois, and lie near the Soundings. They are never seen to swim leisurely, as sometimes all other Fish do, but are continually running after their Prey in Great Shoals, like wild Horses, leaping now and then above the Water. The French esteem them good Food, and eat them both fresh and salt. {Porpoises.} Porpoises are frequent, all over the Ocean and Rivers that are salt; nay, we have a Fresh-Water Lake in the great Sound of North Carolina that has Porpoises in it. And several sorts of other unknown Fish, as the Indians say, that we are wholly Strangers to. As to the Porpoises, they make good Oil; they prey upon other Fish as Drums, yet never are known to take a Bait, so as to be catch'd with a Hook. {Sharks.} Of these there are two sorts; one call'd Paracooda-Noses; the other Shovel-Noses; they cannot take their Prey before they turn themselves on their Backs; wherefore some Negro's, and others, that can swim and dive well, go naked into the Water, with a Knife in their Hand, and fight the Shark, and very commonly kill him, or wound him so, that he turns Tail, and runs away. Their Livors make good Oil to dress Leather withal; the Bones found in their Head are said to hasten the Birth, and ease the Stone, by bringing it away. Their Meat is eaten in scarce times; but I never could away with it, though a great Lover of Fish. Their Back-Bone is of one entire Thickness. Of the Bones, or Joints, I have known Buttons made, which serve well enough in scarce Times, and remote Places. {Dog-Fish.} The Dog-Fish are a small sort of the Shark Kind; and are caught with Hook and Line, fishing for Drums. They say, they are good Meat; but we have so many other sorts of delicate Fish, that I shall hardly ever make Tryal what they are. {Spanish-Mackarel.} Spanish Mackarel are, in Colour and Shape, like the common Mackarel, only much thicker. They are caught with Hook and Line at the Inlets, and sometimes out a little way at Sea. They are a very fine hard Fish, and of good Taste. They are about two Foot long, or better. {Cavallies.} Cavallies are taken in the same Places. They are of a brownish Colour, have exceeding small Scales, and a very thick Skin; they are as firm a Fish as ever I saw; therefore will keep sweet (in the hot Weather) two days, when others will stink in half a day, unless salted. They ought to be scaled as soon as taken; otherwise you must pull off the Skin and Scales, when boiled; the Skin being the choicest of the Fish. The Meat, which is white and large, is dress'd with this Fish. {Boneto's.} Boneto's are a very palatable Fish, and near a Yard long. They haunt the Inlets and Water near the Ocean; and are killed with the Harpoon, and Fishgig. {Blue-Fish.} The Blue Fish is one of our best Fishes, and always very fat. They are as long as a Salmon, and indeed, I think, full as good Meat. These Fish come (in the Fall of the Year) generally after there has been one black Frost, when there appear great Shoals of them. The Hatteras Indians, and others, run into the Sands of the Sea, and strike them, though some of these Fish have caused Sickness and violent Burnings after eating of them, which is found to proceed from the Gall that is broken in some of them, and is hurtful. Sometimes, many Cart-loads of these are thrown and left dry on the Sea side, which comes by their eager Pursuit of the small Fish, in which they run themselves ashoar, and the Tide leaving them, they cannot recover the Water again. They are called Blue-Fish, because they are of that Colour, and have a forked Tail, and are shaped like a Dolphin. {Red-Drum.} The Red Drum is a large Fish much bigger than the Blue-Fish. The Body of this is good firm Meat, but the Head is beyond all the Fish I ever met withal for an excellent Dish. We have greater Numbers of these Fish, than of any other sort. People go down and catch as many Barrels full as they please, with Hook and Line, especially every young Flood, when they bite. These are salted up, and transported to other Colonies, that are bare of Provisions. {Black-Drum.} Black Drums are a thicker-made Fish than the Red Drum, being shap'd like a fat Pig; they are a very good Fish, but not so common with us as to the Northward. {Angel-Fish.} The Angel-Fish is shaped like an English Bream. He is so call'd, from his golden Colour, which shines all about his Head and Belly. This is accounted a very good Fish, as are most in these Parts. The Bermudians have the same sort of Fish, and esteem them very much. {Rock-Fish.} Bass or Rock is both in Salt and Fresh-Water; when young, he much resembles a Grayling, but grows to the size of the large Cod-Fish. They are a very good firm Fish. Their Heads are souced, and make a noble Dish, if large. {Sheeps-Head.} Sheeps-Head has the general Vogue of being the choicest Fish in this Place. Indeed, it is a very delicate Fish, and well relish'd; yet I think, there are several others full as good as the Sheeps-Head. He is much of the Bigness of the Angel-Fish, and flat as he is; they sometimes weigh two or three Pound Weight. This Fish hath Teeth like a Sheep, and is therefore so call'd. {Plaice.} Plaice are here very large, and plentiful, being the same as in England. {Flounder.} Flounders should have gone amongst the Fresh-Water Fish, because they are caught there, in great Plenty. {Soles.} Soles are a Fish we have but lately discover'd; they are as good, as in any other Part. {Mullets.} Mullets, the same as in England, and great Plenty in all Places where the Water is salt or brackish. {Shads.} Shads are a sweet Fish, but very bony; they are very plentiful at some Seasons. {Fat-Backs.} Fat-Backs are a small Fish, like Mullets, but the fattest ever known. They put nothing into the Pan, to fry these. They are excellent sweet Food. {White Guard-Fish.} The white Guard-Fish is shaped almost like a Pike, but slenderer; his Mouth has a long small Bill set with Teeth, in which he catches small Fish; his Scales are knit together like Armour. When they dress him, they strip him, taking off Scales and Skin together. His Meat is very white, and rather looks like Flesh than Fish. The English account them no good Fish; but the Indians do. The Gall of this Fish is green, and a violent Cathartick, if taken inwardly. {Green-Guard.} The green Guard is shaped, in all respects, like the other, save that his Scales are very small and fine. He is indifferent good Meat; his Bones, when boil'd or fry'd, remain as green as Grass. The same sort of Fish come before the Mackarel in England. {Scate.} Scate, or Stingray, the same as in England, and very common; but the great Plenty of other Fish makes these not regarded; for few or none eat them in Carolina, though they are almost at every ones Door. {Thornback.} Thornbacks are the same as in England. They are not so common as the Scate and Whip-Rays. {Congar-Eels.} Congar-Eels always remain in the Salt-Water; they are much more known in the Northward Parts of America, than with us. {Lamprey.} Lampreys are not common; I never saw but one, which was large, and caught by the Indians, in a Ware. They would not eat him, but gave him to me. {Eels.} Eels are no where in the World better, or more plentiful, than in Carolina. {Sun-Fish.} Sun-Fish are flat and rounder than a Bream, and are reckon'd a fine-tasted Fish, and not without Reason. They are much the size of Angel-Fish. {Toad-Fish.} Toad-Fish are nothing but a Skin full of Prickles, and a few Bones; they are as ugly as a Toad, and preserv'd to look upon, and good for nothing else. {Sea-Tench.} They are taken by a Bait, near the Inlet, or out at Sea a little way. They are blackish, and exactly like a Tench, except in the Back-fins, which have Prickles like a Pearch. They are as good, if not better than any Tench. {Salt-Water Trouts.} Trouts of the Salt-Water are exactly shaped like the Trouts in Europe, having blackish, not red Spots. They are in the Salts, and are not red within, but white, yet a very good Fish. They are so tender, that if they are in or near fresh Water, and a sudden Frost come, they are benumm'd, and float on the Surface of the Water, as if dead; and then they take up Canoe-Loads of them. If you put them into warm Water, they presently recover. {Crocus.} The Crocus is a Fish, in Shape like a Pearch, and in Taste like a Whiting. They croke and make a Noise in your Hand, when taken with Hook or Net. They are very good. {Herring.} The Herrings in Carolina are not so large as in Europe. They spawn there in March and April, running up the fresh Rivers and small fresh Runs of Water in great Shoals, where they are taken. They become red if salted; and, drest with Vinegar and Oil, resemble an Anchovy very much; for they are far beyond an English Herring, when pickled. {Smelts.} The same as in England; they lie down a great way in the Sound, towards the Ocean, where (at some certain Seasons) are a great many very fine ones. {Breams.} The fresh Water affords no such Bream as in England, that I have as yet discover'd; yet there is a Sea-Bream, which is a flat and thin Fish, as the European Breams are. {Taylors.} The Taylor is a Fish about the Bigness of a Trout, but of a bluish and green Colour, with a forked Tail, as a Mackarel has. They are a delicate Fish, and plentiful in our Salt-Waters. Infinite numbers of other Species will be hereafter discover'd as yet unknown to us; although I have seen and eaten of several other sorts of Fish, which are not here mention'd, because, as yet, they have no certain Names assign'd them. Therefore, I shall treat no farther of our Salt-Water Fish, but proceed to the Fresh. {Fresh Water Sturgeon.} The first of these is the Sturgeon, of which we have Plenty, all the fresh Parts of our Rivers being well stor'd therewith. The Indians upon and towards the Heads and Falls of our Rivers, strike a great many of these, and eat them; yet the Indians near the Salt-Waters will not eat them. I have seen an Indian strike one of these Fish, seven Foot long, and leave him on the Sands to be eaten by the Gulls. In May, they run up towards the Heads of the Rivers, where you see several hundreds of them in one day. The Indians have another way to take them, which is by Nets at the end of a Pole. The Bones of these Fish make good Nutmeg-Graters. {Pike.} The Jack, Pike, or Pickerel, is exactly the same, in Carolina, as they are in England. Indeed, I never saw this Fish so big and large in America, as I have in Europe, these with us being seldom above two Foot long, as far as I have yet seen. They are very plentiful with us in Carolina, all our Creeks and Ponds being full of them. I once took out of a Ware, above three hundred of these Fish, at a time. {Trouts.} The same in England as in Carolina; but ours are a great way up the Rivers and Brooks, that are fresh, having swift Currents, and stony, and gravelly Bottoms. {Gudgeon.} The same Gudgeons as in Europe are found in America. {First Pearch.} The same sort of Pearch as are in England, we have likewise in Carolina, though, I think, ours never rise to be so large as in England. {Second Pearch.} We have a white Pearch, so call'd, because he is of a Silver Colour, otherwise like the English Pearch. These we have in great Plenty, and they are preferable to the red ones. {Third Pearch.} The brown Pearch, which some call Welch-men, are the largest sort of Pearches that we have, and very firm, white and sweet Fish. These grow to be larger than any Carp, and are very frequent in every Creek and Pond. {Fourth flat.} The flat or mottled Pearch are shaped almost like a Bream. They are called Irish-men, being freckled or mottled with black, and blue Spots. They are never taken any where, but in the fresh Water. They are good Fish; but I do not approve of them, no more than of the other sorts of Pearch. {Fifth Pearch, or Round Robin.} We have another sort of Pearch, which is the least sort of all, but as good Meat as any. These are distinguish'd from the other sorts, by the Name of Round-Robins; being flat, and very round-shap'd; they are spotted with red Spots very beautiful, and are easily caught with an Angle, as all the other sort of Pearches are. {Carp.} We have the same Carp as you have in England. {Roach.} And the same Roach; only scarce so large. {Dace.} Dace are the same as yours too; but neither are these so large nor plentiful, as with you. {Loach.} The same as in England. {Sucking-Fish.} Sucking-Fish are the nearest in Taste and Shape to a Barbel, only they have no Barbs. {Cat-Fish.} Cat-Fish are a round blackish Fish, with a great flat Head, a wide Mouth, and no Scales; they something resemble Eels in Taste. Both this sort, and another that frequents the Salt Water, are very plentiful. {Grindals.} Grindals are a long scaled Fish with small Eyes; and frequent Ponds, Lakes, and slow-running Creeks and Swamps. They are a soft sorry Fish, and good for nothing; though some eat them for good Fish. {Old-Wives.} These are a bright scaly Fish, which frequent the Swamps, and fresh Runs; they seem to be between an English Roach and a Bream, and eat much like the latter. The Indians kill abundance of these, and barbakue them, till they are crisp, then transport them, in wooden Hurdles, to their Towns and Quarters. {Fountain-Fish.} The Fountain-Fish are a white sort which breed in the clear Running Springs and Fountains of Water, where the Clearness thereof makes them very difficult to be taken. I cannot say how good they are; because I have not as yet tasted of them. {White-Fish.} The white Fish are very large; some being two Foot and a half long and more. They are found a great way up in the Freshes of the Rivers; and are firm Meat, and an extraordinary well-relish'd Fish. {Barbouts Millers Thumbs.} Barbouts and Millers-Thumbs, are the very same here, in all respects, as they are in England. What more are in the fresh Waters we have not discover'd, but are satisfied, that we are not acquainted with one third part thereof; for we are told by the Indians, of a great many strange and uncouth shapes and sorts of Fish, which they have found in the Lakes laid down in my Chart. However as we can give no farther Account of these than by Hear-say; I proceed to treat of the Shell-Fish that are found in the Salt-Water, so far as they have already come to our Knowledge. {Large Crabs.} The large Crabs, which we call Stone-Crabs, are the same sort as in England, having black Tips at the end of their Claws. These are plentifully met withal, down in Core Sound, and the South Parts of North-Carolina. {Small flat Crabs.} The smaller flat Crabs I look upon to be the sweetest of all the Species. They are the Breadth of a lusty Man's Hand, or rather larger. These are innumerable, lying in most prodigious quantities, all over the Salts of Carolina. They are taken not only to eat, but are the best Bait for all sorts of Fish, that live in the Salt-Water. These Fish are mischievous to Night-Hooks, because they get away all the Bait from the Hooks. {Oysters.} Oysters, great and small, are found almost in every Creek and Gut of Salt-Water, and are very good and well-relish'd. The large Oysters are excellent, pickled. {Cockles.} One Cockle in Carolina is as big as five or six in England. They are often thrown upon the Sands on the Sound-Side, where the Gulls are always ready to open and eat them. {Clams.} Clams are a sort of Cockles, only differing in Shell, which is thicker and not streak'd, or ribb'd. These are found throughout all the Sound and Salt-Water-Ponds. The Meat is the same for Look and Taste as the Cockle. These make an excellent strong Broth, and eat well, either roasted or pickled. {Muscles.} The Muscles in Carolina have a very large Shell, striped with Dents. They grow by the side of Ponds and Creeks, in Salt-Water, wherein you may get as many of them as you please. I do not like them so well as the English Muscle, which is no good Shell-Fish. {Conks.} Some of the Shells of these are as large as a Man's Hand, but the lesser sort are the best Meat, and those not extraordinary. They are shap'd like the end of a Horses Yard. Of their Shells, the Peak or Wampum is made, which is the richest Commodity amongst the Indians. They breed like a long Thing shap'd like a Snake, but containing a sort of Joints, in the Hollowness whereof are thousands of small Coaks, no bigger then small Grains of Pepper. {Skellops.} The Skellops, if well dress'd, are a pretty Shell-Fish; but to eat them only roasted, without any other Addition, in my Judgment, are too luscious. {Man of Noses.} Man of Noses are a Shell-Fish commonly found amongst us. They are valued for increasing Vigour in Men, and making barren Women fruitful; but I think they have no need of that Fish; for the Women in Carolina are fruitful enough without their Helps. {Wilks.} Wilks, or Periwinkles, are not so large here, as in the Islands of Scilly, and in other Parts of Europe, though very sweet. {Snail-Horn.} The Sea-Snail-Horn is large, and very good Meat; they are exactly shaped as other Snail-Horns are. {Fidlar.} Fidlars are a sort of small Crabs, that lie in Holes in the Marshes. The Raccoons eat them very much. I never knew any one try, whether they were good Meat or no. {Runner.} Runners live chiefly on the Sands, but sometimes run into the Sea. They have Holes in the Sand-Beaches and are a whitish sort of a Crab. Tho' small, they run as fast as a Man, and are good for nothing but to look at. {Spanish-Oysters.} Spanish Oysters have a very thin Shell, and rough on the outside. They are very good Shell-Fish, and so large, that half a dozen are enow to satisfy an hungry Stomach. {Flattings.} The Flattings are inclosed in a broad, thin Shell, the whole Fish being flat. They are inferiour to no Shell-Fish this Country affords. {Finger-Fish.} Finger-Fish are very plentiful in this Country; they are of the Length of a Man's Finger, and lie in the Bottom of the Water about one or two Foot deep. They are very good. {Shrimps.} Shrimps are here very plentiful and good, and are to be taken with a Small-Bow-Net, in great Quantities. {Small-Cockles.} The small Cockles are about the Bigness of the largest English Cockles, and differ nothing from them, unless in the Shells, which are striped cross-wise as well as long-wise. The Fresh-Water Shell-Fish are, {Muscles.} Muscles, which are eaten by the Indians, after five or six hours Boiling, to make them tender, and then are good for nothing. {Craw-Fish.} Craw-Fish, in the Brooks, and small Rivers of Water, amongst the Tuskeruro Indians, and up higher, are found very plentifully, and as good as any in the World. And thus I have gone through the several Species of Fish, so far as they have come to my Knowledge, in the eight Years that I have lived in Carolina. I should have made a larger Discovery, when travelling so far towards the Mountains, and amongst the Hills, had it not been in the Winter-Season, which was improper to make any Enquiry into any of the Species before recited. Therefore, as my Intent was, I proceed to what remains of the Present State of Carolina, having already accounted for the Animals, and Vegetables, as far as this Volume would allow of; whereby the Remainder, though not exactly known, may yet be guess'd at, if we consider what Latitude Carolina lies in, which reaches from 29 to 36 deg. 30 min. Northern Latitude, as I have before observ'd. Which Latitude is as fertile and pleasant, as any in the World, as well for the Produce of Minerals, Fruit, Grain, and Wine, as other rich Commodities. And indeed, all the Experiments that have been made in Carolina, of the Fertility and natural Advantages of the Country, have exceeded all Expectation, as affording some Commodities, which other Places, in the same Latitude, do not. As for Minerals, as they are subterraneous Products, so, in all new Countries, they are the Species that are last discover'd; and especially, in Carolina, where the Indians never look for any thing lower than the Superficies of the Earth, being a Race of Men the least addicted to delving of any People that inhabit so fine a Country as Carolina is. As good if not better Mines than those the Spaniards possess in America, lie full West from us; and I am certain, we have as Mountainous Land, and as great Probability of having rich Minerals in Carolina, as any of those Parts that are already found to be so rich therein. But, waving this Subject, till some other Opportunity, I shall now give you some Observations in general, concerning Carolina, which are, first, that it lies as convenient for Trade as any of the Plantations in America; that we have Plenty of Pitch, Tar, Skins of Deer, and Beeves, Furs, Rice, Wheat, Rie, Indian Grain, sundry sorts of Pulse, Turpentine, Rozin, Masts, Yards, Planks and Boards, Staves and Lumber, Timber of many common sorts, fit for any Uses; Hemp, Flax, Barley, Oats, Buck-Wheat, Beef, Pork, Tallow, Hides, Whale-Bone and Oil, Wax, Cheese, Butter, &c. besides Drugs, Dyes, Fruit, Silk, Cotton, Indico, Oil, and Wine that we need not doubt of, as soon as we make a regular Essay, the Country being adorn'd with pleasant Meadows, Rivers, Mountains, Valleys, Hills, and rich Pastures, and blessed with wholesome pure Air; especially a little backwards from the Sea, where the wild Beasts inhabit, none of which are voracious. The Men are active, the Women fruitful to Admiration, every House being full of Children, and several Women that have come hither barren, having presently prov'd fruitful. There cannot be a richer Soil; no Place abounding more in Flesh and Fowl, both wild and tame, besides Fish, Fruit, Grain, Cider, and many other pleasant Liquors; together with several other Necessaries for Life and Trade, that are daily found out, as new Discoveries are made. The Stone and Gout seldom trouble us; the Consumption we are wholly Strangers to, no Place affording a better Remedy for that Distemper, than Carolina. For Trade, we lie so near to Virginia, that we have the Advantage of their Convoys; as also Letters from thence, in two or three Days at most, in some Places in as few Hours. Add to this, that the great Number of Ships which come within those Capes, for Virginia and Maryland, take off our Provisions, and give us Bills of Exchange for England, which is Sterling Money. The Planters in Virginia and Maryland are forc'd to do the same, the great Quantities of Tobacco that are planted there, making Provisions scarce; and Tobacco is a Commodity oftentimes so low, as to bring nothing, whereas Provisions and Naval Stores never fail of a Market. Besides, where these are raised, in such Plenty as in Carolina, there always appears good Housekeeping, and Plenty of all manner of delicate Eatables. For Instance, the Pork of Carolina is very good, the younger Hogs fed on Peaches, Maiz, and such other natural Produce; being some of the sweetest Meat that the World affords, as is acknowledged by all Strangers that have been there. And as for the Beef, in Pampticough, and the Southward Parts, it proves extraordinary. We have not only Provisions plentiful, but Cloaths of our own Manufactures, which are made, and daily increase; Cotton, Wool, Hemp, and Flax, being of our own Growth; and the Women to be highly commended for their Industry in Spinning, and ordering their Houswifry to so great Advantage as they generally do; which is much more easy, by reason this happy Climate, visited with so mild Winters, is much warmer than the Northern Plantations, which saves abundance of Cloaths; fewer serving our Necessities, and those of our Servants. But this is not all; for we can go out with our Commodities, to any other Part of the West-Indies, or elsewhere, in the Depth of Winter; whereas, those in New-England, New-York, Pensylvania, and the Colonies to the Northward of us, cannot stir for Ice, but are fast lock'd into their Harbours. Besides, we can trade with South-Carolina, and pay no Duties or Customs, no more than their own Vessels, both North and South being under the same Lords-Proprietors. We have, as I observ'd before, another great Advantage, in not being a Frontier, and so continually alarm'd by the Enemy; and what has been accounted a Detriment to us, proves one of the greatest Advantages any People could wish; which is, our Country's being faced with a Sound near ten Leagues over in some Places, through which, although there be Water enough for as large Ships to come in at, as in any part hitherto seated in both Carolinas; yet the Difficulty of that Sound to Strangers, hinders them from attempting any Hostilities against us; and, at the same time, if we consider the Advantages thereof, nothing can appear to be a better Situation, than to be fronted with such a Bulwark, which secures us from our Enemies. Furthermore, our Distance from the Sea rids us of two Curses, which attend most other Parts of America, viz. Muskeetos, and the Worm-biting, which eats Ships Bottoms out; whereas at Bath-Town, there is no such thing known; and as for Muskeetos, they hinder us of as little Rest, as they do you in England. Add to this, the unaccountable Quantities of Fish this great Water, or Sound, supplies us withal, whenever we take the Pains to fish for them; Advantages I have no where met withal in America, except here. As for the Climate, we enjoy a very wholsome and serene Sky, and a pure and thin Air, the Sun seldom missing to give us his daily Blessing, unless now and then on a Winters Day, which is not often; and when cloudy, the first Appearance of a North-West Wind clears the Horizon, and restores the Light of the Sun. The Weather, in Summer, is very pleasant; the hotter Months being refresh'd with continual Breezes of cool reviving Air; and the Spring being as pleasant, and beautiful, as in any Place I ever was in. The Winter, most commonly, is so mild, that it looks like an Autumn, being now and then attended with clear and thin North-West Winds, that are sharp enough to regulate English Constitutions, and free them from a great many dangerous Distempers, that a continual Summer afflicts them withal, nothing being wanting, as to the natural Ornaments and Blessings of a Country, that conduce to make reasonable Men happy. And, for those that are otherwise, they are so much their own Enemies, where they are, that they will scarce ever be any ones Friends, or their own, when they are transplanted; so, it's much better for all sides, that they remain as they are. Not but that there are several good People, that, upon just Grounds, may be uneasy under their present Burdens; and such I would advise to remove to the Place I have been treating of, where they may enjoy their Liberty and Religion, and peaceably eat the Fruits of their Labour, and drink the Wine of their own Vineyards, without the Alarms of a troublesome worldly Life. If a Man be a Botanist, here is a plentiful Field of Plants to divert him in; If he be a Gardner, and delight in that pleasant and happy Life, he will meet with a Climate and Soil, that will further and promote his Designs, in as great a Measure, as any Man can wish for; and as for the Constitution of this Government, it is so mild and easy, in respect to the Properties and Liberties of a Subject, that without rehearsing the Particulars, I say once for all, it is the mildest and best establish'd Government in the World, and the Place where any Man may peaceably enjoy his own, without being invaded by another; Rank and Superiority ever giving Place to Justice and Equity, which is the Golden Rule that every Government ought to be built upon, and regulated by. Besides, it is worthy our Notice, that this Province has been settled, and continued the most free from the Insults and Barbarities of the Indians, of any Colony that was ever yet seated in America; which must be esteem'd as a particular Providence of God handed down from Heaven, to these People; especially, when we consider, how irregularly they settled North-Carolina, and yet how undisturb'd they have ever remain'd, free from any foreign Danger or Loss, even to this very Day. And what may well be look'd upon for as great a Miracle, this is a Place, where no Malefactors are found, deserving Death, or even a Prison for Debtors; there being no more than two Persons, that, as far as I have been able to learn, ever suffer'd as Criminals, although it has been a Settlement near sixty Years; One of whom was a Turk that committed Murder; the other, an old Woman, for Witchcraft. These, 'tis true, were on the Stage, and acted many Years, before I knew the Place; but as for the last, I wish it had been undone to this day; although they give a great many Arguments, to justifie the Deed, which I had rather they should have a Hand in, than myself; seeing I could never approve of taking Life away upon such Accusations, the Justice whereof I could never yet understand. But, to return to the Subject in Hand; we there make extraordinary good Bricks throughout the Settlement. All sorts of Handicrafts, as Carpenters, Joiners, Masons, Plaisterers, Shooemakers, Tanners, Taylors, Weavers, and most others, may, with small Beginnings, and God's Blessing, thrive very well in this Place, and provide Estates for their Children, Land being sold at a much cheaper Rate there, than in any other Place in America, and may, as I suppose, be purchased of the Lords-Proprietors here in England, or of the Governour there for the time being, by any that shall have a mind to transport themselves to that Country. The Farmers that go thither (for which sort of Men it is a very thriving Place) should take with them some particular Seeds of Grass, as Trefoil, Clover-grass all sorts, Sanfoin, and Common Grass, or that which is a Rarity in Europe; especially, what has sprung and rose first from a warm Climate, and will endure the Sun without flinching. Likewise, if there be any extraordinary sort of Grain for Increase or Hardiness, and some Fruit-Trees of choice Kinds, they will be both profitable and pleasant to have with you, where you may see the Fruits of your Labour in Perfection, in a few Years. The necessary Instruments of Husbandry I need not acquaint the Husbandman withal; Hoes of all sorts, and Axes must be had, with Saws, Wedges, Augurs, Nails, Hammers, and what other Things may be necessary for building with Brick, or Stone, which sort your Inclination and Conveniency lead you to. For, after having look'd over this Treatise, you must needs be acquainted with the Nature of the Country, and therefore cannot but be Judges, what it is that you will chiefly want. As for Land, none need want it for taking up, even in the Places there seated on the Navigable Creeks, Rivers, and Harbours, without being driven into remoter Holes and Corners of the Country, for Settlements, which all are forced to do, who, at this day, settle in most or all of the other English Plantations in America; which are already become so populous, that a New-Comer cannot get a beneficial and commodious Seat, unless he purchases, when, in most Places in Virginia and Maryland, a thousand Acres of good Land, seated on a Navigable Water, will cost a thousand Pounds; whereas, with us, it is at present obtain'd for the fiftieth Part of the Money. Besides, our Land pays to the Lords, but an easy Quit-Rent, or yearly Acknowledgement; and the other Settlements pay two Shillings per hundred. All these things duly weighed, any rational Man that has a mind to purchase Land in the Plantations for a Settlement of himself and Family, will soon discover the Advantages that attend the Settlers and Purchasers of Land in Carolina, above all other Colonies in the English Dominions in America. And as there is a free Exercise of all Persuasions amongst Christians, the Lords-Proprietors, to encourage Ministers of the Church of England, have given free Land towards the Maintenance of a Church, and especially, for the Parish of S. Thomas in Pampticough, over-against the Town, is already laid out for a Glebe of two hundred and twenty three Acres of rich well-situated Land, that a Parsonage-House may be built upon. And now I shall proceed to give an Account of the Indians, their Customs and Ways of Living, with a short Dictionary of their Speech. An ACCOUNT of the INDIANS of NORTH-CAROLINA. The Indians, which were the Inhabitants of America, when the Spaniards and other Europeans discover'd the several Parts of that Country, are the People which we reckon the Natives thereof; as indeed they were, when we first found out those Parts, and appear'd therein. Yet this has not wrought in me a full Satisfaction, to allow these People to have been the Ancient Dwellers of the New-World, or Tract of Land we call America. The Reasons that I have to think otherwise, are too many to set down here; but I shall give the Reader a few, before I proceed; and some others he will find scatter'd in my Writings elsewhere. In Carolina (the Part I now treat of) are the fairest Marks of a Deluge, (that at some time has probably made strange Alterations, as to the Station that Country was then in) that ever I saw, or, I think, read of, in any History. {Wood under Ground.} Amongst the other Subterraneous Matters, that have been discover'd, we found, in digging of a Well that was twenty six foot deep, at the Bottom thereof, many large Pieces of the Tulip-Tree, and several other sorts of Wood, some of which were cut and notch'd, and some squared, as the Joices of a House are, which appear'd (in the Judgment of all that saw them) to be wrought with Iron Instruments; it seeming impossible for any thing made of Stone, or what they were found to make use of, to cut Wood in that manner. It cannot be argu'd, that the Wood so cut, might float from some other Continent; because Hiccory and the Tulip-Tree are spontaneous in America, and in no other Places, that I could ever learn. {Shells some Fathoms in the Earth, the Sea probably has thrown up in part of this Country.} {Mexico Buildings.} It is to be acknowledg'd, that the Spaniards give us Relations of magnificent Buildings, which were raised by the Indians of Mexico and other Parts, which they discover'd, and conquer'd; amongst whom no Iron Instruments were found: But 'tis a great Misfortune, that no Person in that Expedition was so curious, as to take an exact Draught of the Fabricks of those People, which would have been a Discovery of great Value, and very acceptable to the Ingenious; for, as to the Politeness of Stones, it may be effected by Collision, and Grinding, which is of a contrary Nature, on several Accounts, and disproves not my Arguments, in the least. {Earthen Pots under Ground.} The next is, the Earthen Pots that are often found under Ground, and at the Foot of the Banks where the Water has wash'd them away. They are for the most part broken in pieces; but we find them of a different sort, in Comparison of those the Indians use at this day, who have had no other, ever since the English discover'd America. The Bowels of the Earth cannot have alter'd them, since they are thicker, of another Shape, and Composition, and nearly approach to the Urns of the Ancient Romans. {Indian Peaches.} Again, the Peaches, which are the only tame Fruit, or what is Foreign, that these People enjoy, which is an Eastern Product, and will keep and retain its vegetative and growing Faculty, the longest of any thing of that Nature, that I know of. {The Stone. Water-Melon and Gourds the Indians have always had.} The Stone, as I elsewhere have remark'd, is thicker than any other sort of the Peaches in Europe, or of the European sort, now growing in America, and is observed to grow if planted, after it has been for several Years laid by; and it seems very probable, that these People might come from some Eastern Country; for when you ask them whence their Fore-Fathers came, that first inhabited the Country, they will point to the Westward and say, `Where the Sun sleeps, our Forefathers came thence', which, at that distance, may be reckon'd amongst the Eastern Parts of the World. And to this day, they are a shifting, wandring People; for I know some Indian Nations, that have chang'd their Settlements, many hundred Miles; sometimes no less than a thousand, as is prov'd by the Savanna Indians, who formerly lived on the Banks of the Messiasippi, and remov'd thence to the Head of one of the Rivers of South-Carolina; since which, (for some Dislike) most of them are remov'd to live in the Quarters of the Iroquois or Sinnagars, which are on the Heads of the Rivers that disgorge themselves into the Bay of Chesapeak. I once met with a young Indian Woman, that had been brought from beyond the Mountains, and was sold a Slave into Virginia. She spoke the same Language, as the Coranine Indians, that dwell near Cape-Look-out, allowing for some few Words, which were different, yet no otherwise, than that they might understand one another very well. {Indian well shap'd People.} The Indians of North-Carolina are a well-shap'd clean-made People, of different Statures, as the Europeans are, yet chiefly inclin'd to be tall. They are a very streight People, and never bend forwards, or stoop in the Shoulders, unless much overpower'd by old Age. Their Limbs are exceeding well-shap'd. As for their Legs and Feet, they are generally the handsomest in the World. Their Bodies are a little flat, which is occasion'd, by being laced hard down to a Board, in their Infancy. This is all the Cradle they have, which I shall describe at large elsewhere. Their Eyes are black, or of a dark Hazle; The White is marbled with red Streaks, which is ever common to these People, unless when sprung from a white Father or Mother. Their Colour is of a tawny, which would not be so dark, did they not dawb themselves with Bears Oil, and a Colour like burnt Cork. This is begun in their Infancy, and continued for a long time, which fills the Pores, and enables them better to endure the Extremity of the Weather. They are never bald on their Heads, although never so old, which, I believe, proceeds from their Heads being always uncover'd, and the greasing their Hair (so often as they do) with Bears Fat, which is a great Nourisher of the Hair, and causes it to grow very fast. Amongst the Bears Oil (when they intend to be fine) they mix a certain red Powder, that comes from a Scarlet Root which they get in the hilly Country, near the Foot of the great Ridge of Mountains, and it is no where else to be found. They have this Scarlet Root in great Esteem, and sell it for a very great Price, one to another. The Reason of its Value is, because they not only go a long way for it, but are in great Danger of the Sinnagars or Iroquois, who are mortal Enemies to all our Indians, and very often take them Captives, or kill them, before they return from this Voyage. The Tuskeruros and other Indians have often brought this Seed with them from the Mountains; but it would never grow in our Land. With this and Bears Grease they anoint their Heads and Temples, which is esteem'd as ornamental, as sweet Powder to our Hair. Besides, this Root has the Virtue of killing Lice, and suffers none to abide or breed in their Heads. For want of this Root, they sometimes use Pecoon-Root, which is of a Crimson Colour, but it is apt to die the Hair of an ugly Hue. Their Eyes are commonly full and manly, and their Gate sedate and majestick. They never walk backward and forward as we do, nor contemplate on the Affairs of Loss and Gain; the things which daily perplex us. They are dexterous and steady both as to their Hands and Feet, to Admiration. They will walk over deep Brooks, and Creeks, on the smallest Poles, and that without any Fear or Concern. Nay, an Indian will walk on the Ridge of a Barn or House and look down the Gable-end, and spit upon the Ground, as unconcern'd, as if he was walking on Terra firma. In Running, Leaping, or any such other Exercise, their Legs seldom miscarry, and give them a Fall; and as for letting any thing fall out of their Hands, I never yet knew one Example. They are no Inventers of any Arts or Trades worthy mention; the Reason of which I take to be, that they are not possess'd with that Care and Thoughtfulness, how to provide for the Necessaries of Life, as the Europeans are; yet they will learn any thing very soon. I have known an Indian stock Guns better than most of our Joiners, although he never saw one stock'd before; and besides, his Working-Tool was only a sorry Knife. I have also known several of them that were Slaves to the English, learn Handicraft-Trades very well and speedily. {No Dwarf.} I never saw a Dwarf amongst them, nor but one that was Hump-back'd. Their Teeth are yellow with Smoaking Tobacco, which both Men and Women are much addicted to. They tell us, that they had Tobacco amongst them, before the Europeans made any Discovery of that Continent. It differs in the Leaf from the sweet-scented, and Oroonoko, which are the Plants we raise and cultivate in America. {Indian Tobacco.} Theirs differs likewise much in the Smell, when green, from our Tobacco, before cured. They do not use the same way to cure it as we do; and therefore, the Difference must be very considerable in Taste; for all Men (that know Tobacco) must allow, that it is the Ordering thereof which gives a Hogoo to that Weed, rather than any Natural Relish it possesses, when green. Although they are great Smokers, yet they never are seen to take it in Snuff, or chew it. They have no Hairs on their Faces (except some few) and those but little, nor is there often found any Hair under their Arm-Pits. They are continually plucking it away from their Faces, by the Roots. As for their Privities, since they wore Tail-Clouts, to cover their Nakedness, several of the Men have a deal of Hair thereon. It is to be observ'd, that the Head of the Penis is cover'd (throughout all the Nations of the Indians I ever saw) both in Old and Young. Although we reckon these a very smooth People, and free from Hair; yet I once saw a middle-aged Man, that was hairy all down his Back; the Hairs being above an Inch long. {Few Cripples.} As there are found very few, or scarce any, Deformed, or Cripples, amongst them, so neither did I ever see but one blind Man; and then they would give me no Account how his Blindness came. They had a Use for him, which was, to lead him with a Girl, Woman, or Boy, by a String; so they put what Burdens they pleased upon his Back, and made him very serviceable upon all such Occasions. {Indians good Eyes.} No People have better Eyes, or see better in the Night or Day, than the Indians. Some alledge, that the Smoke of the Pitch-Pine, which they chiefly burn, does both preserve and strengthen the Eyes; as, perhaps, it may do, because that Smoak never offends the Eyes, though you hold your Face over a great Fire thereof. This is occasion'd by the volatile Part of the Turpentine, which rises with the Smoke, and is of a friendly, balsamick Nature; for the Ashes of the Pine-Tree afford no fix'd Salt in them. {Not pair their Nails.} They let their Nails grow very long, which, they reckon, is the Use Nails are design'd for, and laugh at the Europeans for pairing theirs, which, they say, disarms them of that which Nature design'd them for. {Indians not robust.} They are not of so robust and strong Bodies, as to lift great Burdens, and endure Labour and slavish Work, as the Europeans are; yet some that are Slaves, prove very good and laborious: {No hard Workers.} But, of themselves, they never work as the English do, taking care for no farther than what is absolutely necessary to support Life. In Travelling and Hunting, they are very indefatigable; because that carries a Pleasure along with the Profit. I have known some of them very strong; and as for Running and Leaping, they are extraordinary Fellows, and will dance for several Nights together, with the greatest Briskness imaginable, their Wind never failing them. {Indians Dance of War. On what Account they make War.} Their Dances are of different Natures; and for every sort of Dance, they have a Tune, which is allotted for that Dance; as, if it be a War-Dance, they have a warlike Song, wherein they express, with all the Passion and Vehemence imaginable, what they intend to do with their Enemies; how they will kill, roast, sculp, beat, and make Captive, such and such Numbers of them; and how many they have destroy'd before. All these Songs are made new for every Feast; nor is one and the same Song sung at two several Festivals. {Indian Poet.} Some one of the Nation (which has the best Gift of expressing their Designs) is appointed by their King, and War-Captains, to make these Songs. {Dance of Peace.} Others are made for Feasts of another Nature; as, when several Towns, or sometimes, different Nations have made Peace with one another; then the Song suits both Nations, and relates, how the bad Spirit made them go to War, and destroy one another; but it shall never be so again; but that their Sons and Daughters shall marry together, and the two Nations love one another, and become as one People. They have a third sort of Feasts and Dances, which are always when the Harvest of Corn is ended, and in the Spring. The one, to return Thanks to the good Spirit, for the Fruits of the Earth; the other, to beg the same Blessings for the succeeding Year. And, to encourage the young Men to labour stoutly, in planting their Maiz and Pulse, they set a sort of an Idol in the Field, which is dress'd up exactly like an Indian, having all the Indians Habit, besides abundance of Wampum, and their Money, made of Shells, that hangs about his Neck. {Plantation Idol.} The Image none of the young Men dare approach; for the old ones will not suffer them to come near him, but tell them, that he is some famous Indian Warriour, that died a great while ago, and now is come amongst them, to see if they work well, which if they do, he will go to the good Spirit, and speak to him to send them Plenty of Corn, and to make the young Men all expert Hunters and mighty Warriours. All this while, the King and old Men sit round the Image, and seemingly pay a profound Respect to the same. One great Help to these Indians, in carrying on these Cheats, and inducing Youth to do what they please, is, the uninterrupted Silence, which is ever kept and observ'd, with all the Respect and Veneration imaginable. {Masquerade.} At these Feasts, which are set out with all the Magnificence their Fare allows of, the Masquerades begin at Night, and not before. There is commonly a Fire made in the middle of the House, which is the largest in the Town, and is very often the Dwelling of their King, or War-Captain; where sit two Men on the Ground, upon a Mat; one with a Rattle, made of a Gourd, with some Beans in it; the other with a Drum, made of an earthen Pot, cover'd with a dress'd-Deer-Skin, and one Stick in his Hand to beat thereon; and so they both begin the Song appointed. {Indian Musicians.} At the same time, one drums, and the other rattles, which is all the artificial Musick of their own making I ever saw amongst them. To these two Instruments they sing, which carries no Air with it, but is a sort of unsavoury Jargon; yet their Cadences and Raising of their Voices are form'd with that Equality and Exactness, that (to us Europeans) it seems admirable, how they should continue these Songs, without once missing to agree, each with the others Note and Tune. {Dancing.} As for their Dancing, were there Masters of that Profession amongst them, as there are with us, they would dearly earn their Money; for these Creatures take the most Pains at it, that Men are able to endure. I have seen thirty odd together a dancing, and every one dropp'd down with Sweat, as if Water had been poured down their Backs. They use those hard Labours, to make them able to endure Fatigue, {Indians long winded.} and improve their Wind, which indeed is very long and durable, it being a hard matter, in any Exercise, to dispossess them of it. At these Feasts, they meet from all the Towns within fifty or sixty Miles round, where they buy and sell several Commodities, as we do at Fairs and Markets. {Indian Gaming.} Besides, they game very much, and often strip one another of all they have in the World; and what is more, I have known several of them play themselves away, so that they have remain'd the Winners Servants, till their Relations or themselves could pay the Money to redeem them; and when this happens, the Loser is never dejected or melancholy at the Loss, but laughs, and seems no less contented than if he had won. They never differ at Gaming, neither did I ever see a Dispute, about the Legality thereof, so much as rise amongst them. {Indian Cards.} Their chiefest Game is a sort of Arithmetick, which is managed by a Parcel of small split Reeds, the Thickness of a small Bent; these are made very nicely, so that they part, and are tractable in their Hands. They are fifty one in Number, their Length about seven Inches; when they play, they throw part of them to their Antagonist; the Art is, to discover, upon sight, how many you have, and what you throw to him that plays with you. Some are so expert at their Numbers, that they will tell ten times together, what they throw out of their Hands. Although the whole Play is carried on with the quickest Motion it's possible to use, yet some are so expert at this Game, as to win great Indian Estates by this Play. A good Sett of these Reeds, fit to play withal, are valued and sold for a dress'd Doe-Skin. {Indian Dice.} They have several other Plays and Games; as, with the Kernels or Stones of Persimmons, which are in effect the same as our Dice, because Winning or Losing depend on which side appear uppermost, and how they happen to fall together. {Indian Trap-Ball.} Another Game is managed with a Batoon and a Ball, and resembles our Trap-ball; besides, several Nations have several Games and Pastimes, which are not used by others. {Indian Cabins.} These Savages live in Wigwams, or Cabins built of Bark, which are made round like an Oven, to prevent any Damage by hard Gales of Wind. They make the Fire in the middle of the House, and have a Hole at the Top of the Roof right above the Fire, to let out the Smoke. These Dwellings are as hot as Stoves, where the Indians sleep and sweat all Night. The Floors thereof are never paved nor swept, so that they have always a loose Earth on them. {Fleas.} They are often troubled with a multitude of Fleas, especially near the Places where they dress their Deer-Skins, because that Hair harbours them; yet I never felt any ill, unsavory Smell in their Cabins, whereas, should we live in our Houses, as they do, we should be poison'd with our own Nastiness; {Indians a sweet People.} which confirms these Indians to be, as they really are, some of the sweetest People in the World. The Bark they make their Cabins withal, is generally Cypress, or red or white Cedar; and sometimes, when they are a great way from any of these Woods, they make use of Pine-Bark, which is the worser sort. {Making Cabins.} In building these Fabricks, they get very long Poles, of Pine, Cedar, Hiccory, or any Wood that will bend; these are the Thickness of the Small of a Man's Leg, at the thickest end, which they generally strip of the Bark, and warm them well in the Fire, which makes them tough and fit to bend; afterwards, they stick the thickest ends of them in the Ground, about two Yards asunder, in a Circular Form, the distance they design the Cabin to be, (which is not always round, but sometimes oval) then they bend the Tops and bring them together, and bind their ends with Bark of Trees, that is proper for that use, as Elm is, {Black Moss.} or sometimes the Moss that grows on the Trees, and is a Yard or two long, and never rots; then they brace them with other Poles, to make them strong; afterwards, cover them all over with Bark, so that they are very warm and tight, and will keep firm against all the Weathers that blow. {Indians Store-Houses.} They have other sorts of Cabins without Windows, which are for their Granaries, Skins, and Merchandizes; and others that are cover'd over head; the rest left open for the Air. {Indians Banqueting Houses.} These have Reed-Hurdles, like Tables, to lie and sit on, in Summer, and serve for pleasant Banqueting-Houses in the hot Season of the Year. The Cabins they dwell in have Benches all round, except where the Door stands; on these they lay Beasts-Skins, and Mats made of Rushes, whereon they sleep and loll. In one of these, several Families commonly live, though all related to one another. As to the Indians Food, it is of several sorts, which are as follows. {Indian Food.} Venison, and Fawns in the Bags, cut out of the Doe's Belly; Fish of all sorts, the Lamprey-Eel excepted, and the Sturgeon our Salt-Water Indians will not touch; Bear and Bever; Panther; Pole-cat; Wild-cat; Possum; Raccoon; Hares, and Squirrels, roasted with their Guts in; Snakes, all Indians will not eat them, tho' some do; All wild Fruits that are palatable, some of which they dry and keep against Winter, as all sort of Fruits, and Peaches, which they dry, and make Quiddonies, and Cakes, that are very pleasant, and a little tartish; young Wasps, when they are white in the Combs, before they can fly, this is esteemed a Dainty; All sorts of Tortois and Terebins; Shell-Fish, and Stingray, or Scate, dry'd; Gourds; Melons; Cucumbers; Squashes; Pulse of all sorts; Rockahomine Meal, which is their Maiz, parch'd and pounded into Powder; Fowl of all sorts, that are eatable; Ground-Nuts, or wild Potato's; Acorns and Acorn Oil; Wild-Bulls, Beef, Mutton, Pork, &c. from the English; Indian Corn, or Maiz, made into several sorts of Bread; Ears of Corn roasted in the Summer, or preserv'd against Winter. The Victuals is common, throughout the whole Kindred Relations, and often to the whole Town; especially, when they are in Hunting-Quarters, then they all fare alike, whichsoever of them kills the Game. {Feasts of Charity. Indians discern not between fat and lean Meat.} They are very kind, and charitable to one another, but more especially to those of their own Nation; for if any one of them has suffer'd any Loss, by Fire or otherwise, they order the griev'd Person to make a Feast, and invite them all thereto, which, on the day appointed, they come to, and after every Man's Mess of Victuals is dealt to him, one of their Speakers, or grave old Men, makes an Harangue, and acquaints the Company, That that Man's House has been burnt, wherein all his Goods were destroy'd; That he, and his Family, very narrowly escaped; That he is every Man's Friend in that Company; and, That it is all their Duties to help him, as he would do to any of them, had the like Misfortune befallen them. After this Oration is over, every Man, according to his Quality, throws him down upon the Ground some Present, which is commonly Beads, Ronoak, Peak, Skins or Furs, and which very often amounts to treble the Loss he has suffer'd. The same Assistance they give to any Man that wants to build a Cabin, or make a Canoe. They say, it is our Duty thus to do; for there are several Works that one Man cannot effect, therefore we must give him our Help, otherwise our Society will fall, and we shall be depriv'd of those urgent Necessities which Life requires. {Indians no Fences.} They have no Fence to part one anothers Lots in their Corn-Fields; but every Man knows his own, and it scarce ever happens, that they rob one another of so much as an Ear of Corn, which if any is found to do, he is sentenced by the Elders to work and plant for him that was robb'd, till he is recompensed for all the Damage he has suffer'd in his Corn-Field; and this is punctually perform'd, and the Thief held in Disgrace, that steals from any of his Country-Folks. {Indians Charity to Widows.} It often happens, that a Woman is destitute of her Husband, and has a great many Children to maintain; such a Person they always help, and make their young men plant, reap, and do every thing that she is not capable of doing herself; yet they do not allow any one to be idle, but to employ themselves in some Work or other. {Indian Women no Scolds.} They never fight with one another, unless drunk, nor do you ever hear any Scolding amongst them. They say, the Europeans are always rangling and uneasy, and wonder they do not go out of this World, since they are so uneasy and discontented in it. All their Misfortunes and Losses end in Laughter; for if their Cabins take Fire, and all their Goods are burnt therein, (indeed, all will strive to prevent farther Damage, whilst there is any Possibility) yet such a Misfortune ends in a hearty Fitt of Laughter, unless some of their Kinsfolks and Friends have lost their Lives; but then the Case is alter'd, and they become very pensive, and go into deep Mourning, which is continued for a considerable Time; sometimes longer, or shorter, according to the Dignity of the Person, and the Number of Relations he had near him. The Burial of their Dead is perform'd with a great deal of Ceremony, in which one Nation differs, in some few Circumstances, from another, yet not so much but we may, by a general Relation, pretty nearly account for them all. {Indian Burial of their Dead.} When an Indian is dead, the greater Person he was, the more expensive is his Funeral. The first thing which is done, is, to place the nearest Relations near the Corps, who mourn and weep very much, having their Hair hanging down their Shoulders, in a very forlorn manner. After the dead Person has lain a Day and a Night, in one of their Hurdles of Canes, commonly in some Out-House made for that purpose, those that officiate about the Funeral, go into the Town, and the first young Men they meet withal, that have Blankets or Match Coats on, whom they think fit for their Turn, they strip them from their Backs, who suffer them so to do, without any Resistance. In these they wrap the dead Bodies, and cover them with two or three Mats, which the Indians make of Rushes or Cane; and last of all, they have a long Web of woven Reeds, or hollow Canes, which is the Coffin of the Indians, and is brought round several times, and tied fast at both ends, which indeed, looks very decent and well. Then the Corps is brought out of the House, into the Orchard of Peach-Trees, where another Hurdle is made to receive it, about which comes all the Relations and Nation that the dead Person belong'd to, besides several from other Nations in Alliance with them; all which sit down on the Ground, upon Mats spread there, for that purpose; where the Doctor or Conjurer appears; and, after some time, makes a Sort of `O-yes', at which all are very silent; then he begins to give an Account, who the dead Person was, and how stout a Man he approv'd himself; how many Enemies and Captives he had kill'd and taken; how strong, tall, and nimble he was; that he was a great Hunter, a Lover of his Country, and possess'd of a great many beautiful Wives and Children, esteem'd the greatest of Blessings among these Savages, in which they have a true Notion. {Indian Funeral Sermon.} Thus this Orator runs on, highly extolling the dead Man, for his Valour, Conduct, Strength, Riches, and Good-Humour; and enumerating his Guns, Slaves and almost every thing he was possess'd of, when living. After which, he addresses himself to the People of that Town or Nation, and bids them supply the dead Man's Place, by following his steps, who, he assures them, is gone into the Country of Souls, (which they think lies a great way off, in this World, which the Sun visits, in his ordinary Course) and that he will have the Enjoyment of handsome young Women, great Store of Deer to hunt, never meet with Hunger, Cold or Fatigue, but every thing to answer his Expectation and Desire. This is the Heaven they propose to themselves; but, on the contrary, for those Indians that are lazy, thievish amongst themselves, bad Hunters, and no Warriours, nor of much Use to the Nation, to such they allot, in the next World, Hunger, Cold, Troubles, old ugly Women for their Companions, with Snakes, and all sorts of nasty Victuals to feed on. Thus is mark'd out their Heaven and Hell. {Indian Traditions.} After all this Harangue, he diverts the People with some of their Traditions, as when there was a violent hot Summer, or very hard Winter; when any notable Distempers rag'd amongst them; when they were at War with such and such Nations; how victorious they were; and what were the Names of their War-Captains. To prove the times more exactly, he produces the Records of the Country, which are a Parcel of Reeds, of different Lengths, with several distinct Marks, known to none but themselves; by which they seem to guess, very exactly, at Accidents that happen'd many Years ago; nay two or three Ages or more. The Reason I have to believe what they tell me, on this Account, is, because I have been at the Meetings of several Indian Nations; and they agreed, in relating the same Circumstances, as to Time, very exactly; {A hard Winter.} as, for Example, they say, there was so hard a Winter in Carolina, 105 years ago, that the great Sound was frozen over, and the Wild Geese came into the Woods to eat Acorns, and that they were so tame, (I suppose, through Want) that they kill'd abundance in the Woods, by knocking them on the Head with Sticks. But, to return to the dead Man. When this long Tale is ended, by him that spoke first; perhaps, a second begins another long Story; so a third, and fourth, if there be so many Doctors present; which all tell one and the same thing. At last, the Corps is brought away from that Hurdle to the Grave, by four young Men, attended by the Relations, the King, old Men, and all the Nation. {Interment in the Grave.} When they come to the Sepulcre, which is about six Foot deep, and eight Foot long, having at each end (that is, at the Head and Foot) a Light-Wood, or Pitch-Pine Fork driven close down the sides of the Grave, firmly into the Ground; (these two Forks are to contain a Ridge-Pole, as you shall understand presently) before they lay the Corps into the Grave, they cover the bottom two or three times over with Bark of Trees, then they let down the Corps (with two Belts, that the Indians carry their Burdens withal) very leisurely, upon the said Barks; then they lay over a Pole of the same Wood, in the two Forks, and having a great many Pieces of Pitch-Pine Logs, about two Foot and a half long, they stick them in the sides of the Grave down each End, and near the Top thereof, where the other Ends lie on the Ridge-Pole, so that they are declining like the Roof of a House. These being very thick-plac'd, they cover them (many times double) with Bark; then they throw the Earth thereon, that came out of the Grave, and beat it down very firm; by this Means, the dead Body lies in a Vault, nothing touching him; so that when I saw this way of Burial, I was mightily pleas'd with it, esteeming it very decent and pretty, as having seen a great many Christians buried without the tenth Part of that Ceremony and Decency. {Quiogozon Idols.} Now, when the Flesh is rotted and moulder'd from the Bone, they take up the Carcass, and clean the Bones, and joint them together; afterwards, they dress them up in pure white dress'd Deer-Skins, and lay them amongst their Grandees and Kings in the Quiogozon, which is their Royal Tomb or Burial-Place of their Kings and War-Captains. This is a very large magnificent Cabin, (according to their Building) which is rais'd at the Publick Charge of the Nation, and maintain'd in a great deal of Form and Neatness. {Idols at the Beds.} About seven foot high, is a Floor or Loft made, on which lie all their Princes, and Great Men, that have died for several hundred Years, all attir'd in the Dress I before told you of. No Person is to have his Bones lie here, and to be thus dress'd, unless he gives a round Sum of their Money to the Rulers, for Admittance. If they remove never so far, to live in a Foreign Country, they never fail to take all these dead Bones along with them, though the Tediousness of their short daily Marches keeps them never so long on their Journey. They reverence and adore this Quiogozon, with all the Veneration and Respect that is possible for such a People to discharge, and had rather lose all, than have any Violence or Injury offer'd thereto. These Savages differ some small matter in their Burials; some burying right upwards, and otherwise, as you are acquainted withal in my Journal from South to North Carolina; {Mourning for the Dead.} Yet they all agree in their Mourning, which is, to appear every Night, at the Sepulcre, and howl and weep in a very dismal manner, having their Faces dawb'd over with Light-wood Soot, (which is the same as Lamp-black) and Bears Oil. This renders them as black as it is possible to make themselves, so that theirs very much resemble the Faces of Executed Men boil'd in Tar. {Indians hired to mourn.} If the dead Person was a Grandee, to carry on the Funeral Ceremonies, they hire People to cry and lament over the dead Man. Of this sort there are several, that practise it for a Livelihood, and are very expert at Shedding abundance of Tears, and howling like Wolves, and so discharging their Office with abundance of Hypocrisy and Art. The Women are never accompanied with these Ceremonies after Death; and to what World they allot that Sex, I never understood, unless, to wait on their dead Husbands; but they have more Wit, than some of the Eastern Nations, who sacrifice themselves to accompany their Husbands into the next World. It is the dead Man's Relations, by Blood, as his Uncles, Brothers, Sisters, Cousins, Sons, and Daughters, that mourn in good earnest, the Wives thinking their Duty is discharg'd, and that they are become free, when their Husband is dead; so, as fast as they can, look out for another, to supply his Place. {Indian Women handsome.} As for the Indian Women, which now happen in my Way; when young, and at Maturity, they are as fine-shap'd Creatures (take them generally) as any in the Universe. They are of a tawny Complexion; their Eyes very brisk and amorous; their Smiles afford the finest Composure a Face can possess; their Hands are of the finest Make, with small long Fingers, and as soft as their Cheeks; and their whole Bodies of a smooth Nature. They are not so uncouth or unlikely, as we suppose them; nor are they Strangers or not Proficients in the soft Passion. They are most of them mercenary, except the married Women, who sometimes bestow their Favours also to some or other, in their Husbands Absence. For which they never ask any Reward. {Married Women unconstant.} As for the Report, that they are never found unconstant, like the Europeans, it is wholly false; for were the old World and the new one put into a Pair of Scales (in point of Constancy) it would be a hard Matter to discern which was the heavier. {Trading Girls.} As for the Trading Girls, which are those design'd to get Money by their Natural Parts, these are discernable, by the Cut of their Hair; their Tonsure differing from all others, of that Nation, who are not of their Profession; which Method is intended to prevent Mistakes; for the Savages of America are desirous (if possible) to keep their Wives to themselves, as well as those in other Parts of the World. When any Addresses are made to one of these Girls, she immediately acquaints her Parents therewith, and they tell the King of it, (provided he that courts her be a Stranger) his Majesty commonly being the principal Bawd of the Nation he rules over, and there seldom being any of these Winchester-Weddings agreed on, without his Royal Consent. He likewise advises her what Bargain to make, and if it happens to be an Indian Trader that wants a Bed-fellow, and has got Rum to sell, be sure, the King must have a large Dram for a Fee, to confirm the Match. These Indians, that are of the elder sort, when any such Question is put to them, will debate the Matter amongst themselves with all the Sobriety and Seriousness imaginable, every one of the Girl's Relations arguing the Advantage or Detriment that may ensue such a Night's Encounter; all which is done with as much Steadiness and Reality, as if it was the greatest Concern in the World, and not so much as one Person shall be seen to smile, so long as the Debate holds, making no Difference betwixt an Agreement of this Nature, and a Bargain of any other. If they comply with the Men's Desire, then a particular Bed is provided for them, either in a Cabin by themselves, or else all the young people turn out, to another Lodging, that they may not spoil Sport; and if the old People are in the same Cabin along with them all Night, they lie as unconcern'd, as if they were so many Logs of Wood. If it be an Indian of their own Town or Neighbourhood, that wants a Mistress, he comes to none but the Girl, who receives what she thinks fit to ask him, and so lies all Night with him, without the Consent of her Parents. {Indian Traders what.} The Indian Traders are those which travel and abide amongst the Indians for a long space of time; sometimes for a Year, two, or three. {Indian Wives.} These Men have commonly their Indian Wives, whereby they soon learn the Indian Tongue, keep a Friendship with the Savages; and, besides the Satisfaction of a She-Bed-Fellow, they find these Indian Girls very serviceable to them, on Account of dressing their Victuals, and instructing 'em in the Affairs and Customs of the Country. Moreover, such a Man gets a great Trade with the Savages; for when a Person that lives amongst them, is reserv'd from the Conversation of their Women, 'tis impossible for him ever to accomplish his Designs amongst that People. But one great Misfortune which oftentimes attends those that converse with these Savage Women, is, that they get Children by them, which are seldom educated any otherwise than in a State of Infidelity; for it is a certain Rule and Custom, amongst all the Savages of America, that I was ever acquainted withal, to let the Children always fall to the Woman's Lot; {Children go with the Women.} for it often happens, that two Indians that have liv'd together, as Man and Wife, in which Time they have had several Children; if they part, and another Man possesses her, all the Children go along with the Mother, and none with the Father. And therefore, on this Score, it ever seems impossible for the Christians to get their Children (which they have by these Indian Women) away from them; whereby they might bring them up in the Knowledge of the Christian Principles. Nevertheless, we often find, that English Men, and other Europeans that have been accustom'd to the Conversation of these savage Women, and their Way of Living, have been so allur'd with that careless sort of Life, as to be constant to their Indian Wife, and her Relations, so long as they liv'd, without ever desiring to return again amongst the English, although they had very fair Opportunities of Advantages amongst their Countrymen; of which sort I have known several. As for the Indian Marriages, I have read and heard of a great deal of Form and Ceremony used, which I never saw, nor yet could learn in the Time I have been amongst them, any otherwise than I shall here give you an Account of; which is as follows. {Indian Marriage.} When any young Indian has a Mind for such a Girl to his Wife, he, or some one for him, goes to the young Woman's Parents, if living; if not, to her nearest Relations; where they make Offers of the Match betwixt the Couple. The Relations reply, they will consider of it, which serves for a sufficient Answer, till there be a second Meeting about the Marriage, which is generally brought into Debate before all the Relations (that are old People) on both Sides; and sometimes the King, with all his great Men, give their Opinions therein. If it be agreed on, and the young Woman approve thereof, (for these Savages never give their Children in Marriage, without their own Consent) {Indians buy their Wives.} the Man pays so much for his Wife; and the handsomer she is, the greater Price she bears. Now, it often happens, that the Man has not so much of their Money ready, as he is to pay for his Wife; but if they know him to be a good Hunter, and that he can raise the Sum agreed for, in some few Moons, or any little time, they agree, she shall go along with him, as betroth'd, but he is not to have any Knowledge of her, till the utmost Payment is discharg'd; all which is punctually observ'd. Thus, they lie together under one Covering for several Months, and the Woman remains the same as she was when she first came to him. I doubt, our Europeans would be apt to break this Custom, {Indian Men not vigorous.} but the Indian Men are not so vigorous and impatient in their Love as we are. Yet the Women are quite contrary, and those Indian Girls that have convers'd with the English and other Europeans, never care for the Conversation of their own Countrymen afterwards. They never marry so near as a first Cousin; and although there is nothing more coveted amongst them, than to marry a Woman of their own Nation, yet when the Nation consists of a very few People (as now adays it often happens) so that they are all of them related to one another, then they look out for Husbands and Wives amongst Strangers. For if an Indian lies with his Sister, or any very near Relation, his Body is burnt, and his Ashes thrown into the River, as unworthy to remain on Earth; yet an Indian is allow'd to marry two Sisters, or his Brothers Wife. Although these People are call'd Savages, yet Sodomy is never heard of amongst them, and they are so far from the Practice of that beastly and loathsome Sin, that they have no Name for it in all their Language. The Marriages of these Indians are no farther binding, than the Man and Woman agree together. Either of them has Liberty to leave the other, upon any frivolous Excuse they can make; yet whosoever takes the Woman that was another Man's before, and bought by him, as they all are, must certainly pay to her former Husband, whatsoever he gave for her. Nay, if she be a Widow, and her Husband died in Debt, whosoever takes her to Wife, pays all her Husband's Obligations, though never so many; yet the Woman is not required to pay any thing (unless she is willing) that was owing from her Husband, so long as she keeps Single. But if a Man courts her for a Nights Lodging, and obtains it, the Creditors will make him pay her Husband's Debts, and he may, if he will, take her for his Money, or sell her to another for his Wife. {Selling Wives.} I have seen several of these Bargains driven in a day; for you may see Men selling their Wives as Men do Horses in a Fair, a Man being allow'd not only to change as often as he pleases, but likewise to have as many Wives as he is able to maintain. {Indian many Wives.} I have often seen, that very old Indian Men (that have been Grandees in their own Nation) have had three or four very likely young Indian Wives, which I have much wondered at, because to me they seem'd incapacitated to make good Use of one of them. {Night Rambles.} The young Men will go in the Night from one House to another, to visit the young Women, in which sort of Rambles they will spend the whole Night. In their Addresses they find no Delays, for if she is willing to entertain the Man, she gives him Encouragement and grants him Admittance; otherwise she withdraws her Face from him, and says, I cannot see you, either you or I must leave this Cabin, and sleep somewhere else this Night. They are never to boast of their Intrigues with the Women. If they do, none of the Girls value them ever after, or admit of their Company in their Beds. This proceeds not on the score of Reputation, for there is no such thing (on that account) known amongst them; and although we may reckon them the greatest Libertines and most extravagant in their Embraces, yet they retain and possess a Modesty that requires those Passions never to be divulged. {Trading Girls marry at last.} The Trading Girls, after they have led that Course of Life, for several Years, in which time they scarce ever have a Child; (for they have an Art to destroy the Conception, and she that brings a Child in this Station, is accounted a Fool, and her Reputation is lessen'd thereby) at last they grow weary of so many, and betake themselves to a married State, or to the Company of one Man; neither does their having been common to so many any wise lessen their Fortunes, but rather augment them. {Women not punish'd for Adultery.} The Woman is not punish'd for Adultery, but 'tis the Man that makes the injur'd Person Satisfaction, which is the Law of Nations practis'd amongst them all; and he that strives to evade such Satisfaction as the Husband demands, lives daily in Danger of his Life; yet when discharg'd, all Animosity is laid aside, and the Cuckold is very well pleased with his Bargain, whilst the Rival is laugh'd at by the whole Nation, for carrying on his Intrigue with no better Conduct, than to be discover'd and pay so dear for his Pleasure. The Indians say, that the Woman is a weak Creature, and easily drawn away by the Man's Persuasion; for which Reason, they lay no Blame upon her, but the Man (that ought to be Master of his Passion) for persuading her to it. {Never Love-mad.} They are of a very hale Constitution; their Breaths are as sweet as the Air they breathe in, and the Woman seems to be of that tender Composition, as if they were design'd rather for the Bed than Bondage. Yet their Love is never of that Force and Continuance, that any of them ever runs Mad, or makes away with themselves on that score. They never love beyond Retrieving their first Indifferency, and when slighted, are as ready to untie the Knot at one end, as you are at the other. Yet I knew an European Man that had a Child or two by one of these Indian Women, and afterwards married a Christian, after which he came to pass away a Night with his Indian Mistress; but she made Answer that she then had forgot she ever knew him, and that she never lay with another Woman's Husband, so fell a crying, and took up the Child she had by him, and went out of the Cabin (away from him) in great Disorder. {Indian Women what they do.} The Indian Womens Work is to cook the Victuals for the whole Family, and to make Mats, Baskets, Girdles of Possum-Hair, and such-like. They never plant the Corn amongst us, as they do amongst the Iroquois, {Iroquois great Warriours.} who are always at War and Hunting; therefore, the Plantation Work is left for the Women and Slaves to perform, and look after; whilst they are wandring all over the Continent betwixt the two Bays of Mexico and St. Laurence. {Mats how made.} The Mats the Indian Women make, are of Rushes, and about five Foot high, and two Fathom long, and sew'd double, that is, two together; whereby they become very commodious to lay under our Beds, or to sleep on in the Summer Season in the Day-time, and for our Slaves in the Night. There are other Mats made of Flags, which the Tuskeruro Indians make, and sell to the Inhabitants. {Baskets.} The Baskets our Neighbouring Indians make, are all made of a very fine sort of Bulrushes, and sometimes of Silk-grass, which they work with Figures of Beasts, Birds, Fishes, &c. A great way up in the Country, both Baskets and Mats are made of the split Reeds, which are only the outward shining Part of the Cane. Of these I have seen Mats, Baskets, and Dressing-Boxes, very artificially done. {Indian Wives.} The Savage Women of America, have very easy Travail with their Children; sometimes they bring Twins, and are brought to bed by themselves, when took at a Disadvantage; not but that they have Midwives amongst them, as well as Doctors, who make it their Profession (for Gain) to assist and deliver Women, and some of these Midwives are very knowing in several Medicines that Carolina affords, which certainly expedite, and make easy Births. Besides, they are unacquainted with those severe Pains which follow the Birth in our European Women. Their Remedies are a great Cause of this Easiness in that State; for the Indian Women will run up and down the Plantation, the same day, very briskly, and without any sign of Pain or Sickness; yet they look very meager and thin. Not but that we must allow a great deal owing to the Climate, and the natural Constitution of these Women, whose Course of Nature never visits them in such Quantities, as the European Women have. And tho' they never want Plenty of Milk, yet I never saw an Indian Woman with very large Breasts; neither does the youngest Wife ever fail of proving so good a Nurse, as to bring her Child up free from the Rickets and Disasters that proceed from the Teeth, with many other Distempers which attack our Infants in England, and other Parts of Europe. {Nurse Children how.} They let their Children suck till they are well grown, unless they prove big with Child sooner. They always nurse their own Children themselves, unless Sickness or Death prevents. I once saw a Nurse hired to give Suck to an Indian Woman's Child, which you have in my Journal. After Delivery, they absent the Company of a Man for forty days. As soon as the Child is born, they wash it in cold Water at the next Stream, and then bedawb it, as I have mention'd before. {Cradle.} After which, the Husband takes care to provide a Cradle, which is soon made, consisting of a Piece of flat Wood, which they hew with their Hatchets to the Likeness of a Board; it is about two Foot long, and a Foot broad; to this they brace and tie the Child down very close, having, near the middle, a Stick fasten'd about two Inches from the Board, which is for the Child's Breech to rest on, under which they put a Wad of Moss, that receives the Child's Excrements, by which means they can shift the Moss, and keep all clean and sweet. Some Nations have very flat Heads, as you have heard in my Journal, which is made whilst tied on this Cradle, as that Relation informs you. These Cradles are apt to make the Body flat; yet they are the most portable things that can be invented; for there is a String which goes from one Corner of the Board to the other, whereby the Mother flings her Child on her Back; so the Infant's Back is towards hers, and its Face looks up towards the Sky. If it rains, she throws her Leather or Woollen Match-coat, over her Head, which covers the Child all over, and secures her and it from the Injuries of rainy Weather. The Savage Women quit all Company, and dress not their own Victuals, during their Purgations. After they have had several Children, they grow strangely out of Shape in their Bodies; As for Barrenness, I never knew any of their Women, that have not Children when marry'd. {Indian Womens Habit.} The Womens Dress is, in severe Weather, a hairy Match-coat in the Nature of a Plad, which keeps out the Cold, and (as I said before) defends their Children from the Prejudices of the Weather. At other times, they have only a sort of Flap or Apron containing two Yards in Length, and better than half a Yard deep. Sometimes, it is a Deer-Skin dress'd white, and pointed or slit at the bottom, like Fringe. When this is clean, it becomes them very well. Others wear blue or red Flaps made of Bays and Plains, which they buy of the English, of both which they tuck in the Corners, to fasten the Garment, and sometimes make it fast with a Belt. All of them, when ripe, have a small String round the Waste, to which another is tied and comes between their Legs, where always is a Wad of Moss against the Os pubis; but never any Hair is there to be found: Sometimes, they wear Indian Shooes, or Moggizons, which are made after the same manner, as the Mens are. The Hair of their Heads is made into a long Roll like a Horses Tail, and bound round with Ronoak or Porcelan, which is a sort of Beads they make of the Conk-Shells. Others that have not this, make a Leather-String serve. {Indian Mens Habit.} The Indian Men have a Match-Coat of Hair, Furs, Feathers, or Cloth, as the Women have. Their Hair is roll'd up, on each Ear, as the Womens, only much shorter, and oftentimes a Roll on the Crown of the Head, or Temples, which is just as they fancy; there being no Strictness in their Dress. Betwixt their Legs comes a Piece of Cloth, that is tuck'd in by a Belt both before and behind. This is to hide their Nakedness, of which Decency they are very strict Observers, although never practised before the Christians came amongst them. They wear Shooes, of Bucks, and sometimes Bears Skin, which they tan in an Hour or two; with the Bark of Trees boil'd, wherein they put the Leather whilst hot, and let it remain a little while, whereby it becomes so qualify'd, as to endure Water and Dirt, without growing hard. These have no Heels, and are made as fit for the Feet, as a Glove is for the Hand, and are very easie to travel in, when one is a little us'd to them. {Indians washing in the River.} When these Savages live near the Water, they frequent the Rivers in Summer-time very much, where both Men and Women very often in a day go in naked to wash themselves, though not both Sexes together. {Match-Coats how made.} Their Feather Match-Coats are very pretty, especially some of them, which are made extraordinary charming, containing several pretty Figures wrought in Feathers, making them seem like a fine Flower Silk-Shag; and when new and fresh, they become a Bed very well, instead of a Quilt. Some of another sort are made of Hare, Raccoon, Bever, or Squirrel-Skins, which are very warm. Others again are made of the green Part of the Skin of a Mallard's Head, which they sew perfectly well together, their Thread being either the Sinews of a Deer divided very small, or Silk-Grass. When these are finish'd, they look very finely, though they must needs be very troublesome to make. Some of their great Men, as Rulers and such, that have Plenty of Deer Skins by them, will often buy the English-made Coats, which they wear on Festivals and other Days of Visiting. Yet none ever buy any Breeches, saying, that they are too much confin'd in them, which prevents their Speed in running, &c. We have some Indians, that are more civilized than the rest, which wear Hats, Shooes, Stockings, and Breeches, with very tolerable Linnen Shirts, which is not common amongst these Heathens. The Paspitank Indians did formerly keep Cattle, and make Butter. {Civiliz'd Indians. Hatteras Indians.} These are them that wear the English Dress. Whether they have Cattle now or no, I am not certain; but I am of the Opinion, that such Inclinations in the Savages should meet with Encouragement, and every Englishman ought to do them Justice, and not defraud them of their Land, which has been allotted them formerly by the Government; for if we do not shew them Examples of Justice and Vertue, we can never bring them to believe us to be a worthier Race of Men than themselves. The Dresses of these People are so different, according to the Nation that they belong to, that it is impossible to recount all the whimsical Figures that they sometimes make by their Antick Dresses. Besides, Carolina is a warm Country, and very mild in its Winters, to what Virginia, Maryland, Pensylvania, New-York, the Jerseys, and New-England are; wherefore, our Indians Habit very much differs from the Dresses that appear amongst the Savages who inhabit those cold Countries; in regard their chiefest Cloathing for the Winter-Season is made of the Furs of Bever, Raccoon, and other Northern Furs, that our Climate is not acquainted withal, they producing some Furs, as the Monack, Moor, Marten, Black Fox, and others to us unknown. {Painting for War.} Their Dress in Peace and War, is quite different. Besides, when they go to War, their Hair is comb'd out by the Women, and done over very much with Bears Grease, and red Root; with Feathers, Wings, Rings, Copper, and Peak, or Wampum in their Ears. Moreover, they buy Vermillion of the Indian Traders, wherewith they paint their Faces all over red, and commonly make a Circle of Black about one Eye, and another Circle of White about the other, whilst others bedawb their Faces with Tobacco-Pipe Clay, Lamp-black, black Lead, and divers other Colours, which they make with the several sorts of Minerals and Earths that they get in different Parts of the Country, where they hunt and travel. When these Creatures are thus painted, they make the most frightful Figures that can be imitated by Men, and seem more like Devils than Humane Creatures. You may be sure, that they are about some Mischief, when you see them thus painted; for in all the Hostilities which have ever been acted against the English at any time, in several of the Plantations of America, the Savages always appear'd in this Disguize, whereby they might never after be discover'd, or known by any of the Christians that should happen to see them after they had made their Escape; for it is impossible, ever to know an Indian under these Colours, although he has been at your House a thousand times, and you know him, at other times, as well as you do any Person living. As for their Women, they never use any Paint on their Faces; neither do they ever carry them along with them into the Field, when they intend any Expedition, leaving them at home with the old Men and Children. {Ear Bobs.} Some of the Indians wear great Bobs in their Ears, and sometimes in the Holes thereof they put Eagles and other Birds, Feathers, for a Trophy. When they kill any Fowl, they commonly pluck off the downy Feathers, and stick them all over their Heads. Some (both Men and Women) wear great Necklaces of their Money made of Shells. They often wear Bracelets made of Brass, and sometimes of Iron Wire. {Indian Money.} Their Money is of different sorts, but all made of Shells, which are found on the Coast of Carolina, which are very large and hard, so that they are very difficult to cut. Some English Smiths have try'd to drill this sort of Shell-Money, and thereby thought to get an Advantage; but it prov'd so hard, that nothing could be gain'd. They oftentimes make, of this Shell, a sort of Gorge, which they wear about their Neck in a string; so it hangs on their Collar, whereon sometimes is engraven a Cross, or some odd sort of Figure, which comes next in their Fancy. There are other sorts valued at a Doe-Skin, yet the Gorges will sometimes sell for three or four Buck-Skins ready drest. There be others, that eight of them go readily for a Doe Skin; but the general and current Species of all the Indians in Carolina, and, I believe, all over the Continent, as far as the Bay of Mexico, is that which we call Peak, and Ronoak; but Peak more especially. This is that which at New-York, they call Wampum, and have used it as current Money amongst the Inhabitants for a great many Years. This is what many Writers call Porcelan, and is made at New-York in great Quantities, and with us in some measure. Five Cubits of this purchase a dress'd Doe-Skin, and seven or eight purchase a dress'd Buck-Skin. An English-man could not afford to make so much of this Wampum for five or ten times the Value; for it is made out of a vast great Shell, of which that Country affords Plenty; where it is ground smaller than the small End of a Tobacco-Pipe, or a large Wheat-Straw. Four or five of these make an Inch, and every one is to be drill'd through, and made as smooth as Glass, and so strung, as Beads are, and a Cubit of the Indian Measure contains as much in Length, as will reach from the Elbow to the End of the little Finger. They never stand to question, whether it is a tall Man, or a short one, that measures it; but if this Wampum Peak be black or purple, as some Part of that Shell is, then it is twice the Value. This the Indians grind on Stones and other things, till they make it current, but the Drilling is the most difficult to the English-men, which the Indians manage with a Nail stuck in a Cane or Reed. Thus they roll it continually on their Thighs, with their Right-hand, holding the Bit of Shell with their Left, so in time they drill a Hole quite through it, which is a very tedious Work; but especially in making their Ronoak, four of which will scarce make one Length of Wampum. The Indians are a People that never value their time, so that they can afford to make them, and never need to fear the English will take the Trade out of their Hands. This is the Money with which you may buy Skins, Furs, Slaves, or any thing the Indians have; it being the Mammon (as our Money is to us) that entices and persuades them to do any thing, and part with every thing they possess, except their Children for Slaves. As for their Wives, they are often sold, and their Daughters violated for it. With this they buy off Murders; and whatsoever a Man can do that is ill, this Wampum will quit him of, and make him, in their Opinion, good and vertuous, though never so black before. {Indians how named.} All the Indians give a Name to their Children, which is not the same as the Father or Mother, but what they fancy. This Name they keep, (if Boys) till they arrive to the Age of a Warriour, which is sixteen or seventeen Years; then they take a Name to themselves, sometimes, Eagle, Panther, Allegator, or some such wild Creature; esteeming nothing on Earth worthy to give them a Name, but these Wild-Fowl, and Beasts. Some again take the Name of a Fish, which they keep as long as they live. {Indian King and Counsellors. Every Town a Ruler, yet one over all the Nation.} The King is the Ruler of the Nation, and has others under him, to assist him, as his War-Captains, and Counsellors, who are pick'd out and chosen from among the ancientest Men of the Nation he is King of. These meet him in all general Councils and Debates, concerning War, Peace, Trade, Hunting, and all the Adventures and Accidents of Humane Affairs, which appear within their Verge; where all Affairs are discoursed of and argued pro and con, very deliberately (without making any manner of Parties or Divisions) for the Good of the Publick; for, as they meet there to treat, they discharge their Duty with all the Integrity imaginable, never looking towards their Own Interest, before the Publick Good. After every Man has given his Opinion, that which has most Voices, or, in Summing up, is found the most reasonable, that they make use of without any Jars and Wrangling, and put it in Execution, the first Opportunity that offers. {Succession how.} The Succession falls not to the King's Son, but to his Sister's Son, which is a sure way to prevent Impostors in the Succession. Sometimes they poison the Heir to make way for another, which is not seldom done, when they do not approve of the Youth that is to succeed them. The King himself is commonly chief Doctor in that Cure. They are so well versed in Poison, that they are often found to poison whole Families; nay, most of a Town; and which is most to be admired, they will poison a running Spring, or Fountain of Water, so that whosoever drinks thereof, shall infallible die. When the Offender is discover'd, his very Relations urge for Death, whom nothing will appease, but the most cruel Torment imaginable, which is executed in the most publick Manner that it's possible to act such a Tragedy in. For all the whole Nation, and all the Indians within a hundred Mile (if it is possible to send for them) are summon'd to come and appear at such a Place and Time, to see and rejoyce at the Torments and Death of such a Person, who is the common and profess'd Enemy to all the friendly Indians thereabouts, who now lies under the Condemnation of the whole Nation, and accordingly is to be put to Death. Then all appear (young and old) from all the adjacent Parts, and meet, with all the Expressions of Joy, to consummate this horrid and barbarous Feast, which is carried on after this dismal Manner. {Poisoning Indians how punished.} First, they bring the Prisoner to the Place appointed for the Execution, where he is set down on his Breech on the Ground. Then they all get about him, and you shall not see one sorrowful or dejected Countenance amongst them, but all very merrily dispos'd, as if some Comedy was to be acted, instead of a Tragedy. He that is appointed to be the chief Executioner, takes a Knife, and bids him hold out his Hands, which he does, and then cuts round the Wrist through the Skin, which is drawn off like a Glove, and flead quite off at the Fingers Ends; then they break his Joints and Bones, and buffet and torment him after a very inhumane Manner, till some violent Blow perhaps ends his Days; then they burn him to Ashes, and throw them down the River. Afterwards they eat, drink and are merry, repeating all the Actions of the Tormentors and the Prisoner, with a great deal of Mirth and Satisfaction. This Accusation is laid against an Indian Heroe sometimes wrongfully, or when they have a mind to get rid of a Man that has more Courage and Conduct than his neighbouring Kings or great Men; then they alledge the Practice of poisoning Indians against him, and make a Rehearsal of every Indian that died for a year or two, and say, that they were poison'd by such an Indian; which Reports stir up all the Relations of the deceased against the said Person, and by such means make him away presently. In some Affairs, these Savages are very reserv'd and politick, and will attend a long time with a great deal of Patience, to bring about their Designs; they being never impatient or hasty in executing any of their Designs of Revenge. Now I am gone so far in giving an Account of the Indians Temper, I will proceed; and can give you no other Character of them, but that they are a very wary People, and are never hasty or impatient. They will endure a great many Misfortunes, Losses, and Disapointments without shewing themselves, in the least, vex'd or uneasy. When they go by Water, if there proves a Head-Wind, they never vex and fret, as the Europeans do, and let what Misfortune come to them, as will or can happen, they never relent. Besides, there is one Vice very common every where, which I never found amongst them, which is Envying other Mens Happiness, because their Station is not equal to, or above, their Neighbours. Of this Sin I cannot say I ever saw an Example, though they are a People that set as great a Value upon themselves, as any sort of Men in the World; upon which Account they find something Valuable in themselves above Riches. Thus, he that is a good Warriour, is the proudest Creature living; and he that is an expert Hunter, is esteem'd by the People and himself; yet all these are natural Vertues and Gifts, and not Riches, which are as often in the Possession of a Fool as a Wise-man. Several of the Indians are possess'd of a great many Skins, Wampum, Ammunition, and what other things are esteem'd Riches amongst them; yet such an Indian is no more esteem'd amongst them, than any other ordinary Fellow, provided he has no personal Endowments, which are the Ornaments that must gain him an Esteem among them; for a great Dealer, amongst the Indians, is no otherwise respected and esteemed, than as a Man that strains his Wits, and fatigues himself, to furnish others with Necessaries of Life, that live much easier and enjoy more of the World, than he himself does, with all his Pelf. {Indians not afraid to die.} If they are taken Captives, and expect a miserable Exit, they sing; if Death approach them in Sickness, they are not afraid of it; nor are ever heard to say, Grant me some time. They know by Instinct, and daily Example, that they must die; wherefore, they have that great and noble Gift, to submit to every thing that happens, and value nothing that attacks them. Their Cruelty to their Prisoners of War is what they are seemingly guilty of an Error in, (I mean as to a natural Failing) because they strive to invent the most inhumane Butcheries for them, that the Devils themselves could invent, or hammer out of Hell; they esteeming Death no Punishment, but rather an Advantage to him, that is exported out of this into another World. {Indians Cruelty to Prisoners of War.} Therefore, they inflict on them Torments, wherein they prolong Life in that miserable state as long as they can, and never miss Skulping of them, as they call it, which is, to cut off the Skin from the Temples, and taking the whole Head of Hair along with it, as if it was a Night-cap. Sometimes, they take the Top of the Skull along with it; all which they preserve, and carefully keep by them, for a Trophy of their Conquest over their Enemies. Others keep their Enemies Teeth, which are taken in War, whilst others split the Pitch-Pine into Splinters, and stick them into the Prisoners Body yet alive. Thus they light them, which burn like so many Torches; and in this manner, they make him dance round a great Fire, every one buffeting and deriding him, till he expires, when every one strives to get a Bone or some Relick of this unfortunate Captive. One of the young Fellows, that has been at the Wars, and has had the Fortune to take a Captive, returns the proudest Creature on Earth, and sets such a Value on himself, that he knows not how to contain himself in his Senses. The Iroquois, or Sinnagers, are the most Warlike Indians that we know of, being always at War, and not to be persuaded from that Way of Living, by any Argument that can be used. If you go to persuade them to live peaceably with the Tuskeruros, and let them be one People, and in case those Indians desire it, and will submit to them, they will answer you, that they cannot live without War, which they have ever been used to; and that if Peace be made with the Indians they now war withal, they must find out some others to wage War against; for, for them to live in Peace, is to live out of their Element, War, Conquest, and Murder, being what they delight in, and value themselves for. {Indians flea and cut off part of the Feet.} When they take a Slave, and intend to keep him to Work in their Fields, they flea the Skin from the Setting on of his Toes to the middle of his Foot, so cut off one half of his Feet, wrapping the Skin over the Wounds, and healing them. By this cruel Method, the Indian Captive is hinder'd from making his Escape, for he can neither run fast or go any where, but his Feet are more easily traced and discover'd. Yet I know one Man who made his Escape from them, tho' they had thus disabled him, as you may see in my Journal. The Indians ground their Wars on Enmity, not on Interest, as the Europeans generally do; for the Loss of the meanest Person in the Nation, they will go to War and lay all at Stake, and prosecute their Design to the utmost; till the Nation they were injur'd by, be wholly destroy'd, or make them that Satisfaction which they demand. They are very politick, in waging, and carrying on their War, first by advising with all the ancient Men of Conduct and Reason, that belong to their Nation; such as superannuated War-Captains, and those that have been Counsellors for many Years, and whose Advice has commonly succeeded very well. They have likewise their Field Counsellors, who are accustomed to Ambuscades, and Surprizes, which Methods are commonly used by the Savages; for I scarce ever heard of a Field-Battle fought amongst them. One of their Expeditions afforded an Instance, worthy mention, which was thus; Two Nations of Indians here in Carolina were at War together, and a Party of each were in the Forest ranging to see what Enemies they could take. The lesser Number found they were discover'd, and could not well get over a River (that lay betwixt them and their home) without engaging the other Party, whose Numbers were much the greater; so they call'd a Council, which met, and having weigh'd their present Circumstances with a great deal of Argument and Debate, for a considerable time, and found their Enemies Advantage, and that they could expect no Success in Engaging such an unequal Number; they, at last, concluded on this Stratagem, which, in my Opinion, carried a great deal of Policy along with it. {Indian Politicks.} It was, That the same Night, they should make a great Fire, which they were certain would be discover'd by the adverse Party, and there dress up Logs of Wood in their Cloaths, and make them exactly seem like Indians, that were asleep by the Fireside; (which is their Way, when in the Woods) so, said they, our Enemies will fire upon these Images, supposing them to be us, who will lie in Ambuscade, and, after their Guns are unloaded, shall deal well enough with them. This Result was immediately put in Execution, and the Fire was made by the side of a Valley, where they lay perdu very advantageously. Thus, a little before Break of Day, (which commonly is the Hour they surprize their Enemies in) the Indians came down to their Fire, and at once fired in upon those Logs in the Indians Cloaths, and run up to them, expecting they had kill'd every Man dead; but they found themselves mistaken, for then the other Indians, who had lain all the Night stark-naked in the Bottom, attack'd them with their loaded Pieces, which so surprized them, that every Man was taken Prisoner, and brought in bound to their Town. Another Instance was betwixt the Machapunga Indians, and the Coranine's, on the Sand-Banks; which was as follows. {Machapunga King Charles.} The Machapungas were invited to a Feast, by the Coranines; (which two Nations had been a long time at War together, and had lately concluded a Peace.) Thereupon, the Machapunga Indians took the Advantage of coming to the Coranines Feast, which was to avoid all Suspicion, and their King, who, of a Savage, is a great Politician and very stout, order'd all his Men to carry their Tamahauks along with them, hidden under their Match-Coats, which they did; and being acquainted when to fall on, by the Word given, they all (upon this Design) set forward for the Feast, and came to the Coranine Town, where they had gotten Victuals, Fruit, and such things as make an Indian Entertainment, all ready to make these new Friends welcome, which they did; and, after Dinner, towards the Evening, (as it is customary amongst them) they went to Dancing, all together; so when the Machapunga King saw the best Opportunity offer, he gave the Word, and his Men pull'd their Tamahauks or Hatchets from under their Match-Coats, and kill'd several, and took the rest Prisoners, except some few that were not present, and about four or five that escap'd. The Prisoners they sold Slaves to the English. At the time this was done, those Indians had nothing but Bows and Arrows, neither side having Guns. The Indians are very revengeful, and never forget an Injury done, till they have receiv'd Satisfaction. Yet they are the freest People from Heats and Passions (which possess the Europeans) of any I ever heard of. {Drunkenness in Indians.} They never call any Man to account for what he did, when he was drunk; but say, it was the Drink that caused his Misbehaviour, therefore he ought to be forgiven: They never frequent a Christian's House that is given to Passion, nor will they ever buy or sell with him, if they can get the same Commodities of any other Person; for they say, such Men are mad Wolves, and no more Men. {Indians not Jealous.} They know not what Jealousy is, because they never think their Wives are unconstant, unless they are Eye-witnesses thereof. They are generally very bashful, especially the young Maids, who when they come into a strange Cabin, where they are not acquainted, never ask for any thing, though never so hungry or thirsty, but sit down, without speaking a Word (be it never so long) till some of the House asks them a Question, or falls into Discourse, with the Stranger. I never saw a Scold amongst them, and to their Children they are extraordinary tender and indulgent; neither did I ever see a Parent correct a Child, excepting one Woman, that was the King's Wife, and she (indeed) did possess a Temper that is not commonly found amongst them. {Indians Complements.} They are free from all manner of Compliments, except Shaking of Hands, and Scratching on the Shoulder, which two are the greatest Marks of Sincerity and Friendship, that can be shew'd one to another. They cannot express fare you well; but when they leave the House, will say, I go straightway, which is to intimate their Departure; and if the Man of the House has any Message to send by the going Man, he may acquaint him therewith. Their Tongue allows not to say, Sir, I am your Servant; because they have no different Titles for Man, only King, War-Captain, Old Man, or Young Man, which respect the Stations and Circumstances Men are employ'd in, and arriv'd to, and not Ceremony. As for Servant, they have no such thing, except Slave, and their Dogs, Cats, tame or domestick Beasts, and Birds, are call'd by the same Name: For the Indian Word for Slave includes them all. So when an Indian tells you he has got a Slave for you, it may (in general Terms, as they use) be a young Eagle, a Dog, Otter, or any other thing of that Nature, which is obsequiously to depend on the Master for its Sustenance. {Indians not afraid of Spirits.} They are never fearful in the Night, nor do the Thoughts of Spirits ever trouble them; such as the many Hobgoblins and Bugbears that we suck in with our Milk, and the Foolery of our Nurses and Servants suggest to us; who by their idle Tales of Fairies, and Witches, make such Impressions on our tender Years, that at Maturity, we carry Pigmies Souls, in Giants Bodies, and ever after are thereby so much depriv'd of Reason, and unman'd, as never to be Masters of half the Bravery Nature design'd for us. Not but that the Indians have as many Lying Stories of Spirits and Conjurers, as any People in the World; but they tell it with no Disadvantage to themselves; for the great Esteem which the Old Men bring themselves to, is by making the others believe their Familiarity with Devils and Spirits, and how great a Correspondence they have therewith, which if it once gains Credit, they ever after are held in the greatest Veneration imaginable, and whatever they after impose upon the People, is receiv'd as infallible. They are so little startled at the Thoughts of another World, that they not seldom murder themselves; as for Instance, a Bear-River Indian, a very likely young Fellow, about twenty Years of Age, whose Mother was angry at his drinking of too much Rum, and chid him for it, thereupon reply'd, he would have her satisfied, and he would do the like no more; upon which he made his Words good; for he went aside, and shot himself dead. This was a Son of the politick King of the Machapunga, I spoke of before, and has the most Cunning of any Indian I ever met withal. Most of the Savages are much addicted to Drunkenness, a Vice they never were acquainted with, till the Christians came amongst them. Some of them refrain drinking strong Liquors, but very few of that sort are found amongst them. Their chief Liquor is Rum, without any Mixture. This the English bring amongst them, and buy Skins, Furs, Slaves and other of their Commodities therewith. They never are contented with a little, but when once begun, they must make themselves quite drunk; otherwise they will never rest, but sell all they have in the World, rather than not have their full Dose. In these drunken Frolicks, (which are always carried on in the Night) they sometimes murder one another, fall into the Fire, fall down Precipices, and break their Necks, with several other Misfortunes which this drinking of Rum brings upon them; and tho' they are sensible of it, yet they have no Power to refrain this Enemy. About five years ago, when Landgrave Daniel was Governour, he summon'd in all the Indian Kings and Rulers to meet, and in a full Meeting of the Government and Council, with those Indians, they agreed upon a firm Peace, and the Indian Rulers desired no Rum might be sold to them, which was granted, and a Law made, that inflicted a Penalty on those that sold Rum to the Heathens; but it was never strictly observ'd, and besides, the young Indians were so disgusted at that Article, that they threatned to kill the Indians that made it, unless it was laid aside, and they might have Rum sold them, when they went to the Englishmens Houses to buy it. Some of the Heathens are so very poor, that they have no Manner of Cloaths, save a Wad of Moss to hide their Nakedness. These are either lusty and will not work; otherwise, they are given to Gaming or Drunkenness; yet these get Victuals as well as the rest, because that is common amongst them. If they are caught in theft they are Slaves till they repay the Person, (as I mention'd before) but to steal from the English they reckon no Harm. Not but that I have known some few Savages that have been as free from Theft as any of the Christians. When they have a Design to lie with a Woman, which they cannot obtain any otherwise than by a larger Reward than they are able to give, they then strive to make her drunk, which a great many of them will be; then they take the Advantage, to do with them what they please, and sometimes in their Drunkenness, cut off their Hair and sell it to the English, which is the greatest Affront can be offer'd them. They never value Time; for if they be going out to hunt, fish, or any other indifferent Business, you may keep them in talk as long as you please, so you but keep them in Discourse, and seem pleased with their Company; yet none are more expeditious and safer Messengers than they, when any extraordinary Business that they are sent about requires it. {Not pass over a Tree.} When they are upon travelling the Woods, they keep a constant Pace, neither will they stride over a Tree that lies cross the Path, but always go round it, which is quite contrary to the Custom of the English, and other Europeans. {Cut with a Knife how. A Knife of Reed.} When they cut with a Knife, the Edge is towards them, whereas we always cut and whittle from us. {Not left-handed.} Nor did I ever see one of them left-handed. {Get Fire how.} Before the Christians came amongst them, not knowing the Use of Steel and Flints, they got their Fire with Sticks, which by vehement Collision, or Rubbing together, take Fire. This Method they will sometimes practise now, when it has happen'd thro' rainy Weather, or some other Accident, that they have wet their Spunk, which is a sort of soft corky Substance, generally of a Cinnamon Colour, and grows in the concave part of an Oak, Hiccory, and several other Woods, being dug out with an Ax, and always kept by the Indians, instead of Tinder or Touch-wood, both which it exceeds. You are to understand, that the two Sticks they use to strike Fire withal, are never of one sort of Wood, but always differ from each other. They are expert Travellers, and though they have not the Use of our artificial Compass, yet they understand the North-point exactly, let them be in never so great a Wilderness. One Guide is a short Moss, that grows upon some Trees, exactly on the North-Side thereof. {Indian Compass.} Besides, they have Names for eight of the thirty two Points, and call the Winds by their several Names, as we do; but indeed more properly, for the North-West Wind is called the cold Wind; the North-East the wet Wind; the South the warm Wind; and so agreeably of the rest. Sometimes it happens, that they have a large River or Lake to pass over, and the Weather is very foggy, as it often happens in the Spring and Fall of the Leaf; so that they cannot see which Course to steer: In such a Case, they being on one side of the River, or Lake, they know well enough what Course such a Place (which they intend for) bears from them. Therefore, they get a great many Sticks and Chunks of Wood in their Canoe, and then set off directly for their Port, and now and then throw over a Piece of Wood, which directs them, by seeing how the Stick bears from the Canoes Stern, which they always observe to keep right aft; and this is the Indian Compass by which they will go over a broad Water of ten or twenty Leagues wide. They will find the Head of any River, though it is five, six or seven hundred miles off, and they never were there, in their Lives before; as is often prov'd, by their appointing to meet on the Head of such a River, where perhaps, none of them ever was before, but where they shall rendezvous exactly at the prefixt time; and if they meet with any Obstruction, they leave certain Marks in the Way, where they that come after will understand how many have pass'd by already, and which way they are gone. Besides, in their War Expeditions, they have very certain Hieroglyphicks, whereby each Party informs the other of the Success or Losses they have met withal; all which is so exactly perform'd by their Sylvian Marks and Characters, that they are never at a Loss to understand one another. Yet there was never found any Letters amongst the Savages of Carolina; nor, I believe, among any other Natives in America, that were possess'd with any manner of Writing or Learning throughout all the Discoveries of the New-World. {Indians make Maps.} They will draw Maps, very exactly, of all the Rivers, Towns, Mountains, and Roads, or what you shall enquire of them, which you may draw by their Directions, and come to a small matter of Latitude, reckoning by their Days Journeys. These Maps they will draw in the Ashes of the Fire, and sometimes upon a Mat or Piece of Bark. I have put a Pen and Ink into a Savage's Hand, and he has drawn me the Rivers, Bays, and other Parts of a Country, which afterwards I have found to agree with a great deal of Nicety: But you must be very much in their Favour, otherwise they will never make these Discoveries to you; especially, if it be in their own Quarters. {No Discovery of Mines.} And as for Mines of Silver and other Metals, we are satisfied we have enow, and those very rich, in Carolina and its adjacent Parts; some of which the Indians are acquainted withal, although no Enquirers thereafter, but what came, and were discover'd, by Chance; yet they say, it is this Metal that the English covet, as they do their Peak and Ronoak; and that we have gain'd Ground of them wherever we have come. Now, say they, if we should discover these Minerals to the English, they would settle at or near these Mountains, and bereave us of the best Hunting-Quarters we have, as they have already done wherever they have inhabited; so by that means, we shall be driven to some unknown Country, to live, hunt, and get our Bread in. These are the Reasons that the Savages give, for not making known what they are acquainted withal, of that Nature. And indeed, all Men that have ever gone upon those Discoveries, allow them to be good; {Mr. Mitchell.} more especially, my ingenious Friend Mr. Francis-Louis Mitchell, of Bern in Switzerland, who has been, for several Years, very indefatigable and strict in his Discoveries amongst those vast Ledges of Mountains, and spacious Tracts of Land, lying towards the Heads of the great Bays and Rivers of Virginia, Maryland, and Pensylvania, where he has discover'd a spacious Country inhabited by none but the Savages, and not many of them; who yet are of a very friendly Nature to the Christians. This Gentleman has been employ'd by the Canton of Bern, to find out a Tract of Land in the English America, where that Republick might settle some of their People; which Proposal, I believe, is now in a fair way towards a Conclusion, between her Majesty of Great-Britain and that Canton. {Switzers Settlement in America.} Which must needs be of great Advantage to both; and as for ourselves, I believe, no Man that is in his Wits, and understands the Situation and Affairs of America, but will allow, nothing can be of more Security and Advantage to the Crown and Subjects of Great-Britain, than to have our Frontiers secured by a warlike People, and our Friends, as the Switzers are; especially when we have more Indians than we can civilize, and so many Christian Enemies lying on the back of us, that we do not know how long or short a time it may be, before they visit us. Add to these, the Effects and Product that may be expected from those Mountains; which may hereafter prove of great Advantage to the British Monarchy, and none more fit than an industrious People, bred in a mountainous Country, and inur'd to all the Fatigues of War and Travel, to improve a Country. Thus we have no room to doubt, but as soon as any of those Parts are seated by the Switzers, a great many Britains will strive to live amongst them, for the Benefit of the sweet Air and healthful Climate, which that Country affords, were it only for the Cultivating of Hemp, Flax, Wine, and other valuable Staples, which those People are fully acquainted withal: Not to mention the Advantages already discover'd by that worthy Gentleman I just now spoke of, who is highly deserving of the Conduct and Management of such an Affair, as that wise Canton has entrusted him withal. {Hunting of the Savages.} When these Savages go a hunting, they commonly go out in great Numbers, and oftentimes a great many Days Journey from home, beginning at the coming in of the Winter; that is, when the Leaves are fallen from the Trees, and are become dry. 'Tis then they burn the Woods, by setting Fire to the Leaves, and wither'd Bent and Grass, {Moss Match.} which they do with a Match made of the black Moss that hangs on the Trees in Carolina, and is sometimes above six Foot long. This, when dead, becomes black, (tho' of an Ash-Colour before) and will then hold Fire as well as the best Match we have in Europe. In Places, where this Moss is not found, (as towards the Mountains) they make Lintels of the Bark of Cypress beaten, which serve as well. Thus they go and fire the Woods for many Miles, and drive the Deer and other Game into small Necks of Land and Isthmus's, where they kill and destroy what they please. In these Hunting-Quarters, they have their Wives and Ladies of the Camp, where they eat all the Fruits and Dainties of that Country, and live in all the Mirth and Jollity, which it is possible for such People to entertain themselves withal. Here it is, that they get their Complement of Deer-Skins and Furs to trade with the English, (the Deer-Skins being in Season in Winter, which is contrary to England.) All small Game, as Turkeys, Ducks, and small Vermine, they commonly kill with Bow and Arrow, thinking it not worth throwing Powder and Shot after them. Of Turkeys they have abundance; especially, in Oak-Land, as most of it is, that lies any distance backwards. I have been often in their Hunting-Quarters, where a roasted or barbakued Turkey, eaten with Bears Fat, is held a good Dish; and indeed, I approve of it very well; for the Bears Grease is the sweetest and least offensive to the Stomach (as I said before) of any Fat of Animals I ever tasted. {Beating of Corn.} The Savage Men never beat their Corn to make Bread; but that is the Womens Work, especially the Girls, of whom you shall see four beating with long great Pestils in a narrow wooden Mortar; and every one keeps her Stroke so exactly, that 'tis worthy of Admiration. Their Cookery continues from Morning till Night. The Hunting makes them hungry; and the Indians are a People that always eat very often, not seldom getting up at Midnight, to eat. They plant a great many sorts of Pulse, Part of which they eat green in the Summer, keeping great Quantities for their Winter-Store, which they carry along with them into the Hunting-Quarters, and eat them. The small red Pease is very common with them, and they eat a great deal of that and other sorts boil'd with their Meat, or eaten with Bears Fat, which Food makes them break Wind backwards, which the Men frequently do, and laugh heartily at it, it being accounted no ill Manners amongst the Indians: Yet the Women are more modest, than to follow that ill Custom. At their setting out, they have Indians to attend their Hunting-Camp, that are not good and expert Hunters; {Servile Indians.} therefore are employ'd to carry Burdens, to get Bark for the Cabins, and other Servile Work; also to go backward and forward, to their Towns, to carry News to the old People, whom they leave behind them. The Women are forced to carry their Loads of Grain and other Provisions, and get Fire-Wood; for a good Hunter, or Warriour in these Expeditions, is employ'd in no other Business, than the Affairs of Game and Battle. {Dry'd Fruits.} The wild Fruits which are dry'd in the Summer, over Fires, on Hurdles and in the Sun, are now brought into the Field; as are likewise the Cakes and Quiddonies of Peaches, and that Fruit and Bilberries dry'd, of which they stew and make Fruit-Bread and Cakes. {Pigeons Fat.} In some parts, where Pigeons are plentiful, they get of their Fat enough to supply their Winter Stores. Thus they abide in these Quarters, all the Winter long, till the Time approach for planting their Maiz and other Fruits. {Bowls and Tobacco-Pipes to make. Dress Skins.} In these quarters, at Spare-hours, the Women make Baskets and Mats to lie upon, and those that are not extraordinary Hunters, make Bowls, Dishes, and Spoons, of Gum-wood, and the Tulip-Tree; others (where they find a Vein of white Clay, fit for their purpose) make Tobacco-pipes, all which are often transported to other Indians, that perhaps have greater Plenty of Deer and other Game; so they buy (with these Manufactures) their raw Skins, with the Hair on, which our neighbouring Indians bring to their Towns, and, in the Summer-time, make the Slaves and sorry Hunters dress them, the Winter-Sun being not strong enough to dry them; and those that are dry'd in the Cabins are black and nasty with the Lightwood Smoke, which they commonly burn. Their Way of dressing their Skins is by soaking them in Water, so they get the Hair off, with an Instrument made of the Bone of a Deer's Foot; yet some use a sort of Iron Drawing-Knife, which they purchase of the English, and after the Hair is off, they dissolve Deers Brains, (which beforehand are made in a Cake and baked in the Embers) in a Bowl of Water, so soak the Skins therein, till the Brains have suck'd up the Water; then they dry it gently, and keep working it with an Oyster-Shell, or some such thing, to scrape withal, till it is dry; whereby it becomes soft and pliable. Yet these so dress'd will not endure wet, but become hard thereby; which to prevent, they either cure them in the Smoke, or tan them with Bark, as before observ'd; not but that young Indian Corn, beaten to a Pulp, will effect the same as the Brains. They are not only good Hunters of the wild Beasts and Game of the Forest, but very expert in taking the Fish of the Rivers and Waters near which they inhabit, and are acquainted withal. {Fish to strike.} Thus they that live a great way up the Rivers practise Striking Sturgeon and Rock-fish, or Bass, when they come up the Rivers to spawn; besides the vast Shoals of Sturgeon which they kill and take with Snares, as we do Pike in Europe. The Herrings in March and April run a great way up the Rivers and fresh Streams to spawn, where the Savages make great Wares, with Hedges that hinder their Passage only in the Middle, where an artificial Pound is made to take them in; so that they cannot return. This Method is in use all over the fresh Streams, to catch Trout and the other Species of Fish which those Parts afford. {Craw-fish to take.} Their taking of Craw-fish is so pleasant, that I cannot pass it by without mention; When they have a mind to get these Shell-fish, they take a Piece of Venison, and half-barbakue or roast it; then they cut it into thin Slices, which Slices they stick through with Reeds about six Inches asunder, betwixt Piece and Piece; then the Reeds are made sharp at one end; and so they stick a great many of them down in the bottom of the Water (thus baited) in the small Brooks and Runs, which the Craw-fish frequent. Thus the Indians sit by, and tend those baited Sticks, every now and then taking them up, to see how many are at the Bait; where they generally find abundance; so take them off, and put them in a Basket for the purpose, and stick the Reeds down again. By this Method, they will, in a little time, catch several Bushels, which are as good, as any I ever eat. {Hatteras Indians.} Those Indians that frequent the Salt-Waters, take abundance of Fish, some very large, and of several sorts, which to preserve, they first barbakue, then pull the Fish to Pieces, so dry it in the Sun, whereby it keeps for Transportation; as for Scate, Oysters, Cockles, and several sorts of Shell-fish, they open and dry them upon Hurdles, having a constant Fire under them. The Hurdles are made of Reeds or Canes in the shape of a Gridiron. Thus they dry several Bushels of these Fish, and keep them for their Necessities. At the time when they are on the Salts, and Sea Coasts, they have another Fishery, that is for a little Shell-fish, {Blackmoor Teeth.} which those in England call Blackmoors Teeth. These they catch by tying Bits of Oysters to a long String, which they lay in such places, as, they know, those Shell-Fish haunt. These Fish get hold of the Oysters, and suck them in, so that they pull up those long Strings, and take great Quantities of them, which they carry a great way into the main Land, to trade with the remote Indians, where they are of great Value; but never near the Sea, by reason they are common, therefore not esteem'd. Besides, the Youth and Indian Boys go in the Night, and one holding a Lightwood Torch, the other has a Bow and Arrows, and the Fire directing him to see the Fish, he shoots them with the Arrows; and thus they kill a great many of the smaller Fry, and sometimes pretty large ones. {Indians not eat of the first he kills.} It is an establish'd Custom amongst all these Natives, that the young Hunter never eats of that Buck, Bear, Fish, or any other Game, which happens to be the first they kill of that sort; because they believe, if he should eat thereof, he would never after be fortunate in Hunting. {Big bellied Woman never eat of the first Fish caught in a Ware.} The like foolish Ceremony they hold, when they have made a Ware to take Fish withal; if a big-belly'd Woman eat of the first Dish that is caught in it, they say, that Ware will never take much Fish; {Indians not kill Snakes why.} and as for killing of Snakes, they avoid it, if they lie in their way, because their Opinion is, that some of the Serpents Kindred would kill some of the Savages Relations, that should destroy him: They have thousands of these foolish Ceremonies and Beliefs, which they are strict Observers of. Moreover, several Customs are found in some Families, which others keep not; {Circumcision.} as for Example, two Families of the Machapunga Indians, use the Jewish Custom of Circumcision, and the rest do not; neither did I ever know any others amongst the Indians, that practis'd any such thing; and perhaps, if you ask them, what is the Reason they do so, they will make you no Manner of Answer; which is as much as to say, I will not tell you. Many other Customs they have, for which they will render no Reason or Account; and to pretend to give a true Description of their Religion, it is impossible; for there are a great many of their Absurdities, which, for some Reason, they reserve as a Secret amongst themselves; or otherwise, they are jealous of their Weakness in the practising them; so that they never acquaint any Christian with the Knowledge thereof, let Writers pretend what they will; {Indian Idols give an account of.} for I have known them amongst their Idols and dead Kings in their Quiogozon for several Days, where I could never get Admittance, to see what they were doing, though I was at great Friendship with the King and great Men; but all my Persuasions avail'd me nothing. Neither were any but the King, with the Conjurer, and some few old Men, in that House; as for the young Men, and chiefest Numbers of the Indians, they were kept as ignorant of what the Elders were doing, as myself. {The World is round.} They all believe, that this World is round, and that there are two Spirits; the one good, the other bad: {What they believe of God. Their offering Idols.} The good one they reckon to be the Author and Maker of every thing, and say, that it is he, that gives them the Fruits of the Earth, and has taught them to hunt, fish, and be wise enough to overpower the Beasts of the Wilderness, and all other Creatures, that they may be assistant, and beneficial to Man; to which they add, that the Quera, or good Spirit, has been very kind to the English Men, to teach them to make Guns, and Ammunition, besides a great many other Necessaries, that are helpful to Man, all which, they say, will be deliver'd to them, when that good Spirit sees fit. They do not believe, that God punishes any Man either in this Life, or that to come; but that he delights in doing good, and in giving the Fruits of the Earth, and instructing us in making several useful and ornamental things. {Devil what.} They say, it is a bad Spirit (who lives separate from the good one) that torments us with Sicknesses, Disappointments, Losses, Hunger, Travel, and all the Misfortunes, that Humane Life is incident to. How they are treated in the next World, I have already mention'd, and, as I said before, they are very resolute in dying, when in the Hands of Savage Enemies; yet I saw one of their young Men, a very likely Person, condemn'd, on a Sunday, for Killing a Negro, and burning the House. {Indian condemn'd.} I took good Notice of his Behaviour, when he was brought out of the House to die, which was the next Morning after Sentence, but he chang'd his Countenance with Trembling, and was in the greatest Fear and Agony. I never saw any Person under his Circumstances, which, perhaps, might be occasion'd by his being deliver'd up by his own Nation (which was the Tuskeruro's) and executed by us, that are not their common Enemies, though he met with more Favour than he would have receiv'd at the Hands of Savages; for he was only hang'd on a Tree, near the Place where the Murder was committed; and the three Kings, that but the day before shew'd such a Reluctancy to deliver him up, (but would have given another in his Room) when he was hang'd, pull'd him by the Hand, and said, `Thou wilt never play any more Rogues Tricks in this World; whither art thou gone to shew thy Tricks now?' Which shews these Savages to be what they really are, (viz) a People that will save their own Men if they can, but if the Safety of all the People lies at Stake, they will deliver up the most innocent Person living, and be so far from Concern, when they have made themselves easy thereby, that they will laugh at their Misfortunes, and never pity or think of them more. {Indian Conjurers.} Their Priests are the Conjurers and Doctors of the Nation. I shall mention some of their Methods, and Practices; and so leave them to the Judgment of the Reader. As I told you before, the Priests make their Orations at every Feast, or other great Meeting of the Indians. {Indian Lightning, at Chattooka, at a Feast for rebuilding a King's House burnt.} I happen'd to be at one of these great Meetings, which was at the Funeral of a Tuskeruro Indian, that was slain with Lightning at a Feast, the day before, where I was amongst the rest; it was in July, and a very fair day, where, in the Afternoon, about six or seven a Clock, as they were dealing out their Victuals, there appear'd a little black Cloud to the North West, which spread and brought with it Rain, Wind and Lightning; so we went out from the Place where we were all at Victuals, and went down to the Cabins where I left the Indians, and went to lie in my Canoe, which was convenient enough to keep me dry. The Lightning came so terrible, and down in long Streams, that I was afraid it would have taken hold of a Barrel of Powder I had in my Vessel, and so blown me up; but it pleas'd God, that it did me no Harm; yet the Violence of the Wind had blown all the Water away, where I rid at Anchor, so that my Canoe lay dry, and some Indian Women came with Torches in their Hands to the side of the Canoe, and told me, an Indian was kill'd with Lightning. The next day, (I think) he was buried, and I stay'd to see the Ceremony, and was very tractable to help the Indians to trim their Reeds, and make the Coffin, which pleased them very much, because I had a mind to see the Interment. Before he was Interr'd according to their Custom, they dealt every one some hot Victuals, which he took and did what he would with: Then the Doctor began to talk, and told the People what Lightning was, and that it kill'd every thing that dwelt upon the Earth; nay, the very Fishes did not escape; for it often reach'd the Porpoises and other Fish, and destroy'd them; that every thing strove to shun it, except the Mice, who, he said, were the busiest in eating their Corn in the Fields, when it lightned the most. He added, that no Wood or Tree could withstand it, except the black Gum, and that it would run round that Tree a great many times, to enter therein, but could not effect it. Now you must understand, that sort of Gum will not split or rive; therefore, I suppose, the Story might arise from thence. At last, he began to tell the most ridiculous absurd Parcel of Lyes about Lightning, that could be; as that an Indian of that Nation had once got Lightning in the Likeness of a Partridge; That no other Lightning could harm him, whilst he had that about him; and that after he had kept it for several Years, it got away from him; so that he then became as liable to be struck with Lightning, as any other Person. There was present at the same time, an Indian that had liv'd from his Youth, chiefly in an English House; so I call'd to him, and told him, what a Parcel of Lyes the Conjurer told, not doubting but he thought so, as well as I, but I found to the contrary; for he reply'd, that I was much mistaken, for that old Man (who, I believe was upwards of an hundred Years old) did never tell Lyes; and as for what he said, it was very true; for he knew it himself to be so. {How hard it is to bring the Indians from their Superstition.} Thereupon, seeing the Fellow's Ignorance, I talk'd no more about it. {Rattle-Snake kill Indians in Canoes. Eagles kill it.} Then the Doctor proceeded to tell a long Tale of a great Rattle-Snake, which, a great while ago, liv'd by a Creek in that River (which was Neus) and that it kill'd abundance of Indians; but at last, a bald Eagle kill'd it, and they were rid of a Serpent, that us'd to devour whole Canoes full of Indians, at a time. I have been something tedious upon this Subject, on purpose to shew what strange ridiculous Stories these Wretches are inclinable to believe. I suppose, these Doctors understand a little better themselves, than to give Credit to any such Fooleries; for I reckon them the cunningest Knaves in all the Pack. I will therefore begin with their Physick and Surgery, which is next: {Indian Physick and Surgery.} You must know, that the Doctors or Conjurers, to gain a greater Credit amongst these People, tell them, that all Distempers are the Effects of evil Spirits, or the bad Spirit, which has struck them with this or that Malady; therefore, none of these Physicians undertakes any Distemper, but that he comes to an Exorcism, to effect the Cure, and acquaints the sick Party's Friends, that he must converse with the good Spirit, to know whether the Patient will recover or not; if so, then he will drive out the bad Spirit, and the Patient will become well. Now, the general way of their Behaviour in curing the Sick, (a great deal of which I have seen, and shall give some Account thereof, in as brief a manner as possible) is, when an Indian is sick, if they think there is much Danger of Life, and that he is a great Man or hath good Friends, the Doctor is sent for. As soon as the Doctor comes into the Cabin, the sick Person is sat on a Mat or Skin, stark-naked, lying on his Back, and all uncover'd, except some small Trifle that covers their Nakedness when ripe, otherwise in very young Children, there is nothing about them. {Conjuring over the Sick.} In this manner, the Patient lies, when the Conjurer appears; and the King of that Nation comes to attend him with a Rattle made of a Gourd with Pease in it. This the King delivers into the Doctor's Hand, whilst another brings a Bowl of Water, and sets it down: Then the Doctor begins, and utters some few Words very softly; afterwards he smells of the Patient's Navel and Belly, and sometimes scarifies him a little with a Flint, or an Instrument made of Rattle-Snakes Teeth for that purpose; then he sucks the Patient, and gets out a Mouthful of Blood and Serum, but Serum chiefly; which, perhaps, may be a better Method in many Cases, than to take away great Quantities of Blood, as is commonly practis'd; which he spits in the Bowl of Water. Then he begins to mutter, and talk apace, and, at last, to cut Capers, and clap his Hands on his Breech and Sides, till he gets into a Sweat, so that a Stranger would think he was running mad; now and then sucking the Patient, and so, at times, keeps sucking, till he has got a great Quantity of very ill-coloured Matter out of the Belly, Arms, Breast, Forehead, Temples, Neck, and most Parts, still continuing his Grimaces, and antick Postures, which are not to be match'd in Bedlam: At last, you will see the Doctor all over of a dropping Sweat, and scarce able to utter one Word, having quite spent himself; then he will cease for a while, and so begin again, till he comes in the same Pitch of Raving and seeming Madness, as before, (all this time the sick Body never so much as moves, although, doubtless, the Lancing and Sucking must be a great Punishment to them; but they, certainly, are the patientest and most steady People under any Burden, that I ever saw in my Life.) {Whether live or die.} At last, the Conjurer makes an end, and tells the Patient's Friends, whether the Person will live or die; {Bury the Serum.} and then one that waits at this Ceremony, takes the Blood away, (which remains in a Lump, in the middle of the Water) and buries it in the Ground, in a Place unknown to any one, but he that inters it. Now, I believe a great deal of Imposture in these Fellows; yet I never knew their Judgment fail, though I have seen them give their Opinion after this Manner, several times: Some affirm, that there is a smell of Brimstone in the Cabins, when they are Conjuring, which I cannot contradict. Which way it may come, I will not argue, but proceed to a Relation or two, which I have from a great many Persons, and some of them worthy of Credit. {Indian Robbery.} The first is, of a certain Indian, that one rainy Night, undermin'd a House made of Logs, (such as the Swedes in America very often make, and are very strong) which belong'd to Seth Southwell, Esq; Governor of North-Carolina, and one of the Proprietors. There was but one place the Indian could get in at, which was very narrow; the rest was secur'd, by having Barrels of Pork and other Provisions set against the side of the House, so that if this Indian had not exactly hit the very Place he undermin'd, it had been impossible for him to have got therein, because of the full Barrels that stood round the House, and barricadoed it within. The Indian stole sixty or eighty dress'd Deer-Skins, besides Blankets, Powder, Shot and Rum, (this being the Indian Store-House, where the Trading Goods were kept.) Now, the Indian had made his Escape, but dropt some of the Skins by the way, and they track'd his Foot-steps, and found him to be an Indian; then they guess'd who it was, because none but that Indian had lately been near the House. Thereupon, the Governor sent to the Indian Town that he belong'd to, which was the Tuskeruro's, and acquainted them that if they did not deliver up the Indian, who had committed the Robbery, he would take a Course with them, that would not be very agreeable. Upon this, the Indians of the Town he belong'd to, brought him in bound, and deliver'd him up to the Governor, who laid him in Irons. At the same time, it happen'd, that a Robbery was committed amongst themselves, at the Indian Town, and this Prisoner was one of their Conjurers; so the Indians came down to the Governor's House, and acquainted him with what had happen'd amongst them, and that a great Quantity of Peak, was stoln away out of one of their Cabins, and no one could find out the Thief, unless he would let the Prisoner conjure for it, who was the only Man they had at making such Discoveries. The Governor was content he should try his Skill for them, but not to have the Prisoners Irons taken off, which was very well approved of. The Indian was brought out in his Fetters, where were the Governor's Family, and several others of the Neighbourhood, now living, to see this Experiment; which he perform'd thus: {Conjuring for stoln Goods.} The Conjurer order'd three Fires to be made in a triangular Form, which was accordingly done; then he was hoodwink'd very securely, with a dress'd Deer-Skin, two or three doubles, over his Face. After he had made some Motions, as they always do, he went directly out of one of the three Gaps, as exactly as if he had not been blindfolded, and kept muttering to himself, having a Stick in his Hand, with which, after some time, he struck two Strokes very hard upon the Ground, and made thereon a Cross, after which he told the Indian's Name that had stoln the Goods, and said, that he would have a Cross on his Back; which prov'd true; for when they took and search'd him, there appear'd two great Wheals on his Back, one cross the other; for the Thief was at Governor Southwell's House, and was under no Apprehension of being discover'd. The Indians proffer'd to sell him as a Slave to the Governor, but he refused to buy him; so they took him bound away. Another Instance, of the like Nature, happen'd at the same House. One of the Tuskeruro Kings had brought in a Slave to the same Governor, to whom he had sold him; and before he return'd, fell sick at the Governor's House; upon which, the Doctor that belong'd to this King's Nation, was sent for, being a Man that was held to be the greatest Conjurer amongst them. It was three Days, before he could arrive, and he appear'd (when he came) to be a very little Man, and so old, that his Hair was as white as ever was seen. When he approach'd the sick King, he order'd a Bowl of Water to be brought him, and three Chunks of Wood, which was immediately done. Then he took the Water, and set it by him, and spurted a little on him, and with the three Pieces of Wood, he made a Place to stand on, whereby he was rais'd higher; (he being a very low statur'd Man) then he took a String of Ronoak, which is the same as a String of small Beads; this he held by one End, between his Fingers; the other End touch'd the King's Stomach, as he stood on the Logs. Then he began to talk, and at length, the By-standers thought really, that they heard somebody talk to him, but saw no more than what first came in. At last, this String of Beads, which hung thus perpendicular, turn'd up as an Eel would do, and without any Motion of his, they came all up (in a lump) under his Hand, and hung so for a considerable time, he never closing his Hand, and at length return'd to their pristine Length and Shape, at which the Spectators were much frightned. Then he told the Company, that he would recover, and that his Distemper would remove into his Leg, all which happen'd to be exactly as the Indian Doctor had told. These are Matters of Fact, and I can, at this day, prove the Truth thereof by several substantial Evidences, that are Men of Reputation, there being more than a dozen People present, when this was perform'd; most of whom are now alive. {Salmon-Creek.} There are a great many other Stories, of this Nature, which are seemingly true, being told by Persons that affirm they were Eye-Witnesses thereof; as, that they have seen one Roncommock (a Chuwou Indian, and a great Conjurer) take a Reed about two Foot long in his Mouth, and stand by a Creek-side, where he call'd twice or thrice with the Reed in his Mouth; and, at last, has open'd his Arms, and fled over the Creek, which might be near a quarter of a Mile wide or more; but I shall urge no Man's Belief, but tell my own; which is, that I believe the two first Accounts, which were acted at Mr. Southwell's Plantation, as firmly as any Man can believe any thing of that which is told him by honest Men, and he has not seen; not at all doubting the Credit of my Authors. The Cures I have seen perform'd by the Indians, are too many to repeat here; so I shall only mention some few, and their Method. {Scald Head cured.} They cure Scald-heads infallibly, and never miss. Their chief Remedy as I have seen them make use of, is, the Oil of Acorns, but from which sort of Oak I am not certain. They cure Burns beyond Credit. I have seen a Man burnt in such a manner, (when drunk) by falling into a Fire, that I did not think he could recover; yet they cur'd him in ten Days, so that he went about. I knew another blown up with Powder, that was cured to Admiration. {No ulcerated Wounds.} I never saw an Indian have an Ulcer, or foul Wound in my Life; neither is there any such thing to be found amongst them. {Pox to cure.} They cure the Pox, by a Berry that salivates, as Mercury does; yet they use Sweating and Decoctions very much with it; as they do, almost on every Occasion; and when they are thoroughly heated, they leap into the River. The Pox is frequent in some of these Nations; amongst which I knew one Woman die of it; and they could not, or would not, cure her. Before she died, she was worn away to a Skeleton, yet walk'd up and down to the last. We had a Planter in Carolina, who had got an Ulcer in his Leg, which had troubled him a great many Years; at last, he apply'd himself to one of these Indian Conjurers, who was a Pampticough Indian, and was not to give the Value of fifteen Shillings for the Cure. {Indian cure an Ulcer.} Now, I am not positive, whether he wash'd the Ulcer with any thing, before he used what I am now going to speak of, which was nothing but the rotten doated Grains of Indian Corn, beaten to Powder, and the soft Down growing on a Turkey's Rump. This dry'd the Ulcer up immediately, and no other Fontanel was made to discharge the Matter, he remaining a healthful Man, till the time he had the Misfortune to be drown'd, which was many Years after. {Cure in Maryland.} Another Instance (not of my own Knowledge, but I had it confirm'd by several Dwellers in Maryland, where it was done) was, of an honest Planter that had been possess'd with a strange Lingring Distemper, not usual amongst them, under which he emaciated, and grew every Month worse than another, it having held him several Years, in which time he had made Tryal of several Doctors, as they call them, which, I suppose, were Ship-Surgeons. In the beginning of this Distemper, the Patient was very well to pass, and was possess'd of several Slaves, which the Doctors purged all away, and the poor Man was so far from mending, that he grew worse and worse every day. But it happen'd, that, one day, as his Wife and he were commiserating his miserable Condition, and that he could not expect to recover, but look'd for Death very speedily, and condoling the Misery he should leave his Wife and Family in, since all his Negro's were gone. At that time, I say, it happen'd, that an Indian was in the same Room, who had frequented the House for many Years, and so was become as one of the Family, and would sometimes be at this Planter's House, and at other times amongst the Indians. This Savage, hearing what they talk'd of, and having a great Love for the Sick Man, made this Reply to what he had heard. `Brother, you have been a long time Sick; and, I know, you have given away your Slaves to your English Doctors: What made you do so, and now become poor? They do not know how to cure you; for it is an Indian Distemper, which your People know not the Nature of. If it had been an English Disease, probably they could have cured you; and had you come to me at first, I would have cured you for a small matter, without taking away your Servants that made Corn for you and your Family to eat; and yet, if you will give me a Blanket to keep me warm, and some Powder and Shot to kill Deer withal, I will do my best to make you well still.' The Man was low in Courage and Pocket too, and made the Indian this Reply. `Jack, my Distemper is past Cure, and if our English Doctors cannot cure it, I am sure, the Indians cannot.' But his Wife accosted her Husband in very mild terms, and told him, he did not know, but God might be pleased to give a Blessing to that Indian's Undertaking more than he had done to the English; and farther added; `if you die, I cannot be much more miserable, by giving this small matter to the Indian; so I pray you, my Dear, take my Advice, and try him;' to which, by her Persuasions, he consented. After the Bargain was concluded, the Indian went into the Woods, and brought in both Herbs and Roots, of which he made a Decoction, and gave it the Man to drink, and bad him go to bed, saying, it should not be long, before he came again, which the Patient perform'd as he had ordered; and the Potion he had administred made him sweat after the most violent manner that could be, whereby he smell'd very offensively both to himself, and they that were about him; but in the Evening, towards Night, Jack came, with a great Rattle-Snake in his Hand alive, which frightned the People almost out of their Senses; {Cure by a Snake.} and he told his Patient, that he must take that to Bed to him; at which the Man was in a great Consternation, and told the Indian, he was resolv'd, to let no Snake come into his Bed, for he might as well die of the Distemper he had, as be kill'd with the Bite of that Serpent. To which the Indian reply'd, he could not bite him now, nor do him any Harm; for he had taken out his Poison-teeth, and shew'd him, that they were gone. At last, with much Persuasion, he admitted the Snake's Company, which the Indian put about his Middle, and order'd nobody to take him away upon any account, which was strictly observ'd, although the Snake girded him as hard for a great while, as if he had been drawn in by a Belt, which one pull'd at, with all his strength. At last, the Snake's Twitches grew weaker and weaker, till, by degrees, he felt him not; and opening the Bed, he was found dead, and the Man thought himself better. The Indian came in the Morning, and seeing the Snake dead, told the Man, that his Distemper was dead along with that Snake, which prov'd so as he said; for the Man speedily recover'd his Health, and became perfectly well. {Spleen how cure.} They cure the Spleen (which they are much addicted to) by burning with a Reed. They lay the Patient on his Back, so put a hollow Cane into the Fire, where they burn the End thereof, till it is very hot, and on Fire at the end. Then they lay a Piece of thin Leather on the Patient's Belly, between the Pit of the Stomach and the Navel, so press the hot Reed on the Leather, which burns the Patient so that you may ever after see the Impression of the Reed where it was laid on, which Mark never goes off so long as he lives. This is used for the Belly-Ach sometimes. {Colouring of the Hair.} They can colour their Hair black, though sometimes it is reddish, which they do with the Seed of a Flower that grows commonly in their Plantations. I believe this would change the reddest Hair into perfect black. {Not many Tears, Rozins.} They make use of no Minerals in their Physick, and not much of Animals; but chiefly rely on Vegetables. They have several Remedies for the Tooth-ach, which often drive away the Pain; but if they fail, they have Recourse to punching out the Tooth, with a small Cane set against the same, on a Bit of Leather. Then they strike the Reed, and so drive out the Tooth; and howsoever it may seem to the Europeans, I prefer it before the common way of drawing Teeth by those Instruments than endanger the Jaw, and a Flux of Blood often follows, which this Method of a Punch never is attended withal; neither is it half the Pain. The Spontaneous Plants of America the Savages are well acquainted withal; and a Flux of Blood never follows any of their Operations. They are wholly Strangers to Amputation, and for what natural Issues of Blood happen immoderately, they are not to seek for a certain and speedy Cure. Tears, Rozins, and Gums, I have not discover'd that they make much use of; And as for Purging and Emeticks, so much in fashion with us, they never apply themselves to, {Yaupon.} unless in drinking vast Quantities of their Yaupon or Tea, and vomiting it up again, as clear as they drink it. This is a Custom amongst all those that can procure that Plant, in which manner they take it every other Morning, or oftner; by which Method they keep their Stomachs clean, without pricking the Coats, and straining Nature, as every Purge is an Enemy to. Besides, the great Diuretick Quality of their Tea carries off a great deal, that perhaps might prejudice their Health, by Agues, and Fevers, which all watry Countries are addicted to; for which reason, I believe, it is, that the Indians are not so much addicted to that Distemper, as we are, they preventing its seizing upon them, by this Plant alone. Moreover, I have remark'd, that it is only those Places bordering on the Ocean and great Rivers, that this Distemper is frequent in, and only on and near the same Places this Evergreen is to be found; and none up towards the Mountains, where these Agues seldom or never appear; Nature having provided suitable Remedies, in all Countries, proper for the Maladies that are common thereto. The Savages of Carolina have this Tea in Veneration, above all the Plants they are acquainted withal, and tell you, the Discovery thereof was by an infirm Indian, that labour'd under the Burden of many rugged Distempers, and could not be cured by all their Doctors; so, one day, he fell asleep, and dreamt, that if he took a Decoction of the Tree that grew at his Head, he would certainly be cured; upon which he awoke, and saw the Yaupon or Cassena-Tree, which was not there when he fell asleep. He follow'd the Direction of his Dream, and became perfectly well in a short time. Now, I suppose, no Man has so little Sense as to believe this Fable; yet it lets us see what they intend thereby, and that it has, doubtless, work'd Feats enough, to gain it such an Esteem amongst these Savages, who are too well versed in Vegetables, to be brought to a continual use of any one of them, upon a meer Conceit or Fancy, without some apparent Benefit they found thereby; especially, when we are sensible, they drink the Juices of Plants, to free Nature of her Burdens, and not out of Foppery and Fashion, as other Nations are oftentimes found to do. Amongst all the Discoveries of America, by the Missionaries of the French and Spaniards, I wonder none of them was so kind to the World, as to have kept a Catalogue of the Distempers they found the Savages capable of curing, and their Method of Cure; which might have been of some Advantage to our Materia Medica at home, when deliver'd by Men of Learning, and other Qualifications, as most of them are. Authors generally tell us, that the Savages are well enough acquainted with those Plants which their Climate affords, and that some of them effect great Cures, but by what Means, and in what Form, we are left in the dark. {Sassafras.} The Bark of the Root of the Sassafras-Tree, I have observ'd, is much used by them. They generally torrefy it in the Embers, so strip off the Bark from the Root, beating it to a Consistence fit to spread, so lay it on the griev'd Part; which both cleanses a fowl Ulcer; and after Scarrification, being apply'd to a Contusion, or Swelling, draws forth the Pain, and reduces the Part to its pristine State of Health, as I have often seen effected. Fats and Unguents never appear in their Chirurgery, when the Skin is once broke. The Fats of Animals are used by them, to render their Limbs pliable, and when wearied, to relieve the Joints, and this not often, because they approve of the Sweating-House (in such cases) above all things. {Make Bread, how. Alkali Salts.} The Salts they mix with their Bread and Soupe, to give them a Relish, are Alkalis, (viz.) Ashes, and calcined Bones of Deer, and other Animals. {No Sallads, Pepper, or Mustard.} Sallads, they never eat any; as for Pepper and Mustard, they reckon us little better than Madmen, to make use of it amongst our Victuals. They are never troubled with the Scurvy, Dropsy, nor Stone. The Phthisick, Asthma, and Diabetes, they are wholly Strangers to; neither do I remember I ever saw one Paralytick amongst them. The Gout, I cannot be certain whether they know what it is, or not. Indeed, I never saw any Nodes or Swellings, which attend the Gout in Europe; {Rhumatick Pains.} yet they have a sort of Rhumatism or Burning of the Limbs, which tortures them grievously, at which time their Legs are so hot, that they employ the young People continually to pour Water down them. I never saw but one or two thus afflicted. The Struma is not uncommon amongst these Savages, and another Distemper, which is, in some respects, like the Pox, but is attended with no Gonorrhoea. This not seldom bereaves them of their Nose. I have seen three or four of them render'd most miserable Spectacles by this Distemper. Yet, when they have been so negligent, as to let it run on so far without curbing of it; at last, they make shift to patch themselves up, and live for many years after; and such Men commonly turn Doctors. I have known two or three of these no-nose Doctors in great Esteem amongst these Savages. The Juice of the Tulip-Tree is used as a proper Remedy for this Distemper. What Knowledge they have in Anatomy, I cannot tell, neither did I ever see them employ themselves therein, unless, as I told you before, when they make the Skeletons of their Kings and great Mens Bones. The Indians are very careless and negligent of their Health; as, by Drunkenness, Wading in the Water, irregular Diet and Lodging, and a thousand other Disorders, (that would kill an European) which they daily use. They boil and roast their Meat extraordinary much, and eat abundance of Broth, {Naked Indians.} except the Savages whom we call the naked Indians, who never eat any Soupe. They travel from the Banks of the Messiasippi, to war against the Sinnagars or Iroquois, and are (if equal Numbers) commonly too hard for them. They will lie and sleep in the Woods without Fire, being inur'd thereto. They are the hardiest of all Indians, and run so fast, that they are never taken, neither do any Indians outrun them, if they are pursu'd. Their Savage Enemies say, their Nimbleness and Wind proceeds from their never eating any Broth. {Small-Pox.} The Small-Pox has been fatal to them; they do not often escape, when they are seiz'd with that Distemper, which is a contrary Fever to what they ever knew. Most certain, it had never visited America, before the Discovery thereof by the Christians. Their running into the Water, in the Extremity of this Disease, strikes it in, and kills all that use it. Now they are become a little wiser; but formerly it destroy'd whole Towns, without leaving one Indian alive in the Village. The Plague was never known amongst them, that I could learn by what Enquiry I have made: These Savages use Scarrification almost in all Distempers. Their chief Instruments for that Operation is the Teeth of Rattle-Snakes, which they poison withal. They take them out of the Snake's Head, and suck out the Poison with their Mouths, (and so keep them for use) and spit out the Venom, which is green, and are never damag'd thereby. The Small-Pox and Rum have made such a Destruction amongst them, that, on good grounds, I do believe, there is not the sixth Savage living within two hundred Miles of all our Settlements, as there were fifty Years ago. These poor Creatures have so many Enemies to destroy them, that it's a wonder one of them is left alive near us. The Small-pox I have acquainted you withal above, and so I have of Rum, and shall only add, that they have got a way to carry it back to the Westward Indians, who never knew what it was, till within very few Years. Now they have it brought them by the Tuskeruro's, and other Neighbour-Indians, but the Tuskeruro's chiefly, who carry it in Rundlets several hundred Miles, amongst other Indians. Sometimes they cannot forbear breaking their Cargo, but sit down in the Woods, and drink it all up, and then hollow and shout like so many Bedlamites. I accidentally once met with one of these drunken Crews, and was amaz'd to see a Parcel of drunken Savages so far from any Englishman's House; but the Indians I had in Company inform'd me, that they were Merchants, and had drunk all their Stock, as is very common for them to do. But when they happen to carry it safe, (which is seldom, without drinking some part of it, and filling it up with Water) and come to an Indian Town, those that buy Rum of them have so many Mouthfuls for a Buck-Skin, they never using any other Measure; and for this purpose, the Buyer always makes Choice of his Man, which is one that has the greatest Mouth, whom he brings to the Market with a Bowl to put it in. The Seller looks narrowly to the Man's Mouth that measures it, and if he happens to swallow any down, either through Wilfulness or otherwise, the Merchant or some of his Party, does not scruple to knock the Fellow down, exclaiming against him for false Measure. Thereupon, the Buyer finds another Mouthpiece to measure the Rum by; so that this Trading is very agreeable to the Spectators, to see such a deal of Quarrelling and Controversy, as often happens, about it, and is very diverting. {Poisoning of Taylor.} Another Destroyer of them, is, the Art they have, and often practise, of poisoning one another; which is done by a large, white, spungy Root, that grows in the Fresh-Marshes, which is one of their Poisons; not but that they have many other Drugs, which they poison one another withal. {How the Indians war.} Lastly, the continual Wars these Savages maintain, one Nation against another, which sometimes hold for some Ages, killing and making Captives, till they become so weak thereby, that they are forced to make Peace for want of Recruits, to supply their Wars; and the Difference of Languages, that is found amongst these Heathens, seems altogether strange. For it often appears, that every dozen Miles, you meet with an Indian Town, that is quite different from the others you last parted withal; and what a little supplies this Defect is, that the most powerful Nation of these Savages scorns to treat or trade with any others (of fewer Numbers and less Power) in any other Tongue but their own, which serves for the Lingua of the Country, with which we travel and deal; as for Example, we see that the Tuskeruro's are most numerous in North-Carolina, therefore their Tongue is understood by some in every Town of all the Indians near us. And here I shall insert a small Dictionary of every Tongue, though not Alphabetically digested. English. Tuskeruro. Pampticough. Woccon. One Unche Weembot Tonne Two Necte Neshinnauh Num-perra (rra?) Three Ohs-sah Nish-wonner Nam-mee Four Untoc Yau-Ooner Punnum-punne (e?) Five Ouch-who Umperren Webtau Six Houeyoc Who-yeoc Is-sto (st?) Seven Chauh-noc Top-po-osh Nommis-sau Eight Nec-kara Nau-haush-shoo Nupsau Nine Wearah Pach-ic-conk Weihere Ten Wartsauh Cosh Soone noponne Eleven Unche scauwhau Tonne hauk pea Twelve Nectec scaukhau Soone nomme Twenty Wartsau scauhau Winnop Thirty Ossa te wartsau Hundred Youch se Thousand Ki you se Rum Oonaquod Weesaccon Yup-se Blankets Oorewa Mattosh Roo-iune White Ware-occa Wop-poshaumosh Waurraupa Red Cotcoo-rea Mish-cock (ck?) Yauta Black or Caw-hunshe Mow-cottowosh Yah-testea Blue, idem Gunpowder Ou-ku Pungue Rooeyam Shot Cauna Ar-rounser Week Axe Au-nuka Tomma-hick Tau-unta winnik Knife Oosocke nauh Rig-cosq Wee Tobacco Charho Hooh-pau Uu-coone Shirt Ough-tre's Tacca pitteneer Shoes Oo-ross-soo Wee-kessoo Hat Trossa Mottau-quahan Intome-posswa Fire Utchar Tinda Yau Water Awoo Umpe Ejau Coat Ouswox Taus-won Rummissau Kawhitchra Awl or Oose-waure Moc-cose Wonsh-shee Needle A Hoe Wauche-wocnoc Rosh-shocquon Rooe-pau Salt Cheek-ha Paint Quaunt Chuwon Whooyeonne Ronoak Nauh-houreot Mis-kis-'su Rummaer Peak Chu-teche Ronoak Erroco Gun Auk-noc Gau hooptop Wittape Gun-Lock Oo-teste Gun tock Seike Noonkosso Flints Ou-negh-ra Hinds Matt-teer A Flap Oukhaure Rappatoc Rhooeyau Belt Oona-teste Maachone Wee-kau Scissors and Cheh-ra Toc-koor Tobacco-Tongues A Kettle Oowaiana Tooseawau A Pot Ocnock Acorns Kooawa Roosomme A Pine-Tree Heigta Oonossa Hooheh Englishman Nickreruroh Tosh shonte Wintsohore Indians Unqua Nuppin Yauh-he English. Tuskeruro. Woccon. A Horse A hots Yenwetoa Swine Watsquerre Nommewarraupau Moss Auoona hau Itto Raw skin undrest Ootahawa Teep Buckskin Ocques Rookau Fawn-skin Ottea Wisto Bear-skin Oochehara Ourka Fox-skin Che-chou Hannatockore Raccoon-skin Roo-sotto Auher Squirrel-skin Sost Yehau Wildcat-skin Cauhauweana Panther-skin Caunerex Wattau Wolf Squarrena Tire kiro Minx Chac-kauene Soccon Otter Chaunoc Wetkes A Mat Ooyethne Soppepepor Basket Ooyaura Rookeppa Feathers Oosnooqua Soppe Drest-skin Cotcoo Rauhau A Turkey Coona Yauta A Duck Sooeau Welka A King Teethha Roamore Fat Ootsaure Yendare Soft Utsauwanne Roosomme Hard or heavy Waucots ne Itte teraugh A Rope Utsera Trauhe A Possum Che-ra Day Ootauh-ne A Pestel Tic-caugh-ne Miyau A Mortar Ootic caugh-ne Yossoo Stockings Way haushe A Creek Wackena A River Ahunt wackena A Man Entequos Old Man Occooahawa Young Man Quottis Woman Con-noowa Old Woman Cusquerre Yicau Wife Kateocca Yecauau A Child Woccanookne A Boy Wariaugh Infant Utserosta Ears Ooethnat Fishgig Ootosne Weetipsa A Comb Oonaquitchra Sacketoome posswa A Cake bak't Ooneck A Head Ootaure Poppe Hair Oowaara Tumme Brother Caunotka Yenrauhe I Ee Thou Eets There Ka Homine Cotquerre Roocauwa Bread Ootocnare Ikettau Broath Ook-hoo Corn Oonaha Cose Oonave Oosare Oosha Pease Saugh-he Coosauk A Bag Uttaqua Ekoocromon Fish Cunshe Yacunne A Louse Cheecq; Eppesyau A Flea Nauocq; Potato's Untone Wauk A Stick Chinqua Wood Ouyunkgue Yonne House Ounouse (Oin?) Ouke A Cow Ous-sarunt Nappinjure A Snake Us-quauh-ne Yau-hauk A Rat Rusquiane Wittau A Goose Au-hoohaha Auhaun A Swan Oorhast Atter Allegator Utsererauh Monwittetau A Crab Rouare cou Wunneau A Canoe Ooshunnawa Watt A Box Ooanoo Yopoonitsa A Bowl Ortse Cotsoe A Spoon Oughquere Cotsau A Path Wauh-hauhne Yauh Sun or Moon Heita Wittapare Wind Hoonoch Yuncor A Star Uttewiraratse Wattapi untakeer Rain Untuch Yawowa Auhuntwood Night Oosottoo Yantoha A Rundlet Oohunawa Ynpyupseunne (Yup?) An Eel Cuhn-na A T---d Utquera Pulawa A F---t Uttena Pautyau A Cable Utquichra Small Ropes Utsera utquichra A Button Tic-hah Rummissauwoune Breeches Wahunshe Rooeyaukitte Stockings Oowissera Rooesoo possoo Day Wauwoc-hook Waukhaway Mad Cosserunte Rockcumne Angry Cotcheroore Roocheha Afraid Werricauna Reheshiwau Smoak Oo-teighne Too-she A Thief or Rogue Katichhei A Dog Cheeth Tauh-he A Reed Cauna Weekwonne Lightwood Kakoo Sek To morrow Jureha Kittape Now Kahunk To day Kawa A little while ago Kakoowa Yauka English. Tuskeruro. Woccon. Yesterday Oousotto Yottoha How many Ut-tewots Tontarinte How far Untateawa Will you go along with me Unta hah Quauke Go you Its warko Yuppa me Give it me Cotshau Mothei That's all Ut chat Cuttaune A Cubit length Kihoosocca Ishewounaup Dead Whaharia Caure A Gourd or Bottle Utchaawa Wattape A lazy Fellow Wattattoo watse Tontaunete Englishman is thirsty Oukwockaninniwock I will sell you Goods very cheap Wausthanocha Nau hou hoore-ene All the Indians are drunk Connaugh jost twane Nonnupper Have you got any thing to eat Utta-ana-wox Noccoo Eraute I am sick Connauwox Waurepa A Fish-Hook Oos-skinna Don't lose it Oon est nonne it quost A Tobacco-pipe Oosquaana Intom I remember it Oonutsauka Aucummato Let it alone Tnotsaurauweek (Tout?) Sauhau Peaches Roo-ooe Yonne Walnuts Rootau-ooe Hickery Nuts Rootau Nimmia A Jew's-Harp Ooratsa Wottiyau I forget it Merrauka Northwest-Wind Hothooka Snow. Acaunque. Wawawa. {Indian Speech.} To repeat more of this Indian Jargon, would be to trouble the Reader; and as an Account how imperfect they are in their Moods and Tenses, has been given by several already, I shall only add, that their Languages or Tongues are so deficient, that you cannot suppose the Indians ever could express themselves in such a Flight of Stile, as Authors would have you believe. They are so far from it, that they are but just able to make one another understand readily what they talk about. As for the two Consonants `L' and `F', I never knew them in any Indian Speech I have met withal; yet I must tell you, that they have such a Way of abbreviating their Speech, when in their great Councils and Debates, that the young Men do not understand what they treat about, when they hear them argue. It is wonderful, what has occasion'd so many different Speeches as the Savages have. {Tartarian Hurds.} The three Nations I now mention'd, do not live above ten Leagues distant, and two of them, viz. the Tuskeruro's and the Woccon, are not two Leagues asunder; yet their Speech differs in every Word thereof, except one, which is Tsaure, Cockles, which is in both Tongues the same, and nothing else. Now this Difference of Speech causes Jealousies and Fears amongst them, which bring Wars, wherein they destroy one another; otherwise the Christians had not (in all Probability) settled America so easily, as they have done, had these Tribes of Savages united themselves into one People or general Interest, or were they so but every hundred Miles. In short, they are an odd sort of People under the Circumstances they are at present, and have some such uncouth Ways in their Management and Course of Living, that it seems a Miracle to us, how they bring about their Designs, as they do, when their Ways are commonly quite contrary to ours. I believe, they are (as to this Life) a very happy People; and were it not for the Feuds amongst themselves, they would enjoy the happiest State (in this World) of all Mankind. They met with Enemies when we came amongst them; for they are no nearer Christianity now, than they were at the first Discovery, to all Appearance. {Indians learn of the Europeans.} They have learnt several Vices of the Europeans, but not one Vertue, as I know of. Drunkenness was a Stranger, when we found them out, and Swearing their Speech cannot express; yet those that speak English, learn to swear the first thing they talk of. It's true, they have some Vertues and some Vices; but how the Christians can bring these People into the Bosom of the Church, is a Proposal that ought to be form'd and follow'd by the wisest Heads and best Christians. After I have given one Remark or two farther, of some of their strange Practices and Notions, I will give my Opinion, how I think, in probability, it may be (if possible) effected, and so shall conclude this Treatise of Carolina. They are a very craving People, and if a Man give them any thing of a Present, they think it obliges him to give them another; and so on, till he has given them all he has; for they have no Bounds of Satisfaction in that way; and if they give you any thing, it is to receive twice the Value of it. They have no Consideration that you will want what you give them; for their way of Living is so contrary to ours, that neither we nor they can fathom one anothers Designs and Methods. They call Rum and Physick by one Name, which implies that Rum make People sick, as when they have taken any poisonous Plant; yet they cannot forbear Rum. They make Offerings of their First-Fruits, and the more serious sort of them throw into the Ashes, near the Fire, the first Bit or Spoonful of every Meal they sit down to, which, they say, is the same to them, as the pulling off our Hats, and talking, when we go to Victuals, is to us. They name the Months very agreeably, as one is the Herring-Month, another the Strawberry-Month, another the Mulberry-Month. Others name them by the Trees that blossom; especially, the Dogwood-Tree; or they say, we will return when Turkey-Cocks gobble, that is in March and April. The Age of the Moon they understand, but know no different Name for Sun and Moon. They can guess well at the time of the Day, by the Sun's Height. Their Age they number by Winters, and say, such a Man or Woman is so many Winters old. They have no Sabbath, or Day of Rest. Their Slaves are not over-burden'd with Work, and so not driven by Severity to seek for that Relief. Those that are acquainted with the English, and speak the Tongue, know when Sunday comes; besides, the Indians have a distinct Name for Christmas which they call Winnick Keshuse, or the Englishmans Gods Moon. There is one most abominable Custom amongst them, which they call Husquenawing their young Men; which I have not made any Mention of as yet, so will give you an Account of it here. You must know, that most commonly, once a Year, or, at farthest, once in two Years, these People take up so many of their young Men, as they think are able to undergo it, and husquenaugh them, which is to make them obedient and respective to their Superiors, and (as they say) is the same to them, as it is to us to send our Children to School, to be taught good Breeding and Letters. This House of Correction is a large strong Cabin, made on purpose for the Reception of the young Men and Boys, that have not passed this Graduation already; and it is always at Christmas that they husquenaugh their Youth, which is by bringing them into this House, and keeping them dark all the time, where they more than half-starve them. Besides, they give them Pellitory-Bark, and several intoxicating Plants, that make them go raving mad as ever were any People in the World; and you may hear them make the most dismal and hellish Cries, and Howlings, that ever humane Creatures express'd; all which continues about five or six Weeks, and the little Meat they eat, is the nastiest, loathsome stuff, and mixt with all manner of Filth it's possible to get. After the Time is expired, they are brought out of the Cabin, which never is in the Town, but always a distance off, and guarded by a Jaylor or two, who watch by Turns. Now, when they first come out, they are as poor as ever any Creatures were; for you must know several die under this diabolical Purgation. Moreover, they either really are, or pretend to be dumb, and do not speak for several Days; I think, twenty or thirty; and look so gastly, and are so chang'd, that it's next to an Impossibility to know them again, although you was never so well acquainted with them before. I would fain have gone into the mad House, and have seen them in their time of Purgatory, but the King would not suffer it, because, he told me, they would do me, or any other white Man, an Injury, that ventured in amongst them; so I desisted. They play this Prank with Girls as well as Boys, and I believe it a miserable Life they endure, because I have known several of them run away, at that time, to avoid it. Now, the Savages say, if it was not for this, they could never keep their Youth in Subjection, besides that it hardens them ever after to the Fatigues of War, Hunting, and all manner of Hardship, which their way of living exposes them to. Besides, they add, that it carries off those infirm weak Bodies, that would have been only a Burden and Disgrace to their Nation, and saves the Victuals and Cloathing for better People, that would have been expended on such useless Creatures. These Savages are described in their proper Colours, but by a very few; for those that generally write Histories of this new World, are such as Interest, Preferment, and Merchandize, drew thither, and know no more of that People than I do of the Laplanders, which is only by Hear-say. And if we will make just Remarks, how near such Relations generally approach Truth and Nicety, we shall find very few of them worthy of Entertainment; and as for the other part of the Volume, it is generally stufft with Invectives against the Government they lived under, on which Stage is commonly acted greater Barbarities, in Murdering worthy Mens Reputations, than all the Savages in the new World are capable of equalizing, or so much as imitating. And since I hinted at a Regulation of the Savages, and to propose a way to convert them to Christianity, I will first particularize the several Nations of Indians that are our Neighbours, and then proceed to what I promis'd. Tuskeruro Indians are fifteen Towns, viz. Haruta, Waqui, Contah-nah, Anna Ooka, Conauh-Kare Harooka, Una Nauhan, Kentanuska, Chunaneets, Kenta, Eno, Naur-hegh-ne, Oonossoora, Tosneoc, Nonawharitse, Nursoorooka; Fighting Men 1200. Waccon, Towns 2, Yupwauremau, Tooptatmeer, Fighting Men 120. Machapunga, Town 1, Maramiskeet, Fighting Men 30. Bear River, Town 1, Raudauqua-quank, Fighting Men 50. Maherring Indians, Town 1, Maherring River, Fighting Men 50. Chuwon Indians, Town 1, Bennets Creek, Fighting Men 15. Paspatank Indians, Town 1, Paspatank River, Fighting Men 10. Poteskeit, Town 1, North River, Fighting Men 30. Nottaway Indians, Town 1, Winoack Creek, Fighting Men 30. Hatteras Town 1, Sand Banks, Fighting Men 16. Connamox Indians, Towns 2, Coranine, Raruta, Fighting Men 25. Neus Indians, Towns 2, Chattooka, Rouconk, Fighting Men 15. Pampticough Indians, Town 1, Island, Fighting Men 15. Jaupim Indians, 6 People. These five Nations of the Totero's, Sapona's, Keiauwee's, Aconechos, and Schoccories, are lately come amongst us, and may contain, in all, about 750 Men, Women and Children. Total 4780. Now, there appears to be one thousand six hundred and twelve Fighting Men, of our Neighbouring Indians; and probably, there are three Fifths of Women and Children, not including Old Men, which amounts to four thousand and thirty Savages, besides the five Nations lately come. Now, as I before hinted, we will see what grounds there are to make these People serviceable to us, and better themselves thereby. On a fair Scheme, we must first allow these Savages what really belongs to them, that is, what good Qualities, and natural Endowments, they possess, whereby they being in their proper Colours, the Event may be better guess'd at, and fathom'd. First, they are as apt to learn any Handicraft, as any People that the World affords; I will except none; as is seen by their Canoes and Stauking Heads, which they make of themselves; but to my purpose, the Indian Slaves in South Carolina, and elsewhere, make my Argument good. Secondly, we have no disciplin'd Men in Europe, but what have, at one time or other, been branded with Mutining, and Murmuring against their Chiefs. These Savages are never found guilty of that great Crime in a Soldier; I challenge all Mankind to tell me of one Instance of it; besides, they never prove Traitors to their Native Country, but rather chuse Death than partake and side with the Enemy. They naturally possess the Righteous Man's Gift; they are Patient under all Afflictions, and have a great many other Natural Vertues, which I have slightly touch'd throughout the Account of these Savages. They are really better to us, than we are to them; they always give us Victuals at their Quarters, and take care we are arm'd against Hunger and Thirst: We do not so by them (generally speaking) but let them walk by our Doors Hungry, and do not often relieve them. We look upon them with Scorn and Disdain, and think them little better than Beasts in Humane Shape, though if well examined, we shall find that, for all our Religion and Education, we possess more Moral Deformities, and Evils than these Savages do, or are acquainted withal. We reckon them Slaves in Comparison to us, and Intruders, as oft as they enter our Houses, or hunt near our Dwellings. But if we will admit Reason to be our Guide, she will inform us, that these Indians are the freest People in the World, and so far from being Intruders upon us, that we have abandon'd our own Native Soil, to drive them out, and possess theirs; neither have we any true Balance, in Judging of these poor Heathens, because we neither give Allowance for their Natural Disposition, nor the Sylvian Education, and strange Customs, (uncouth to us) they lie under and have ever been train'd up to; these are false Measures for Christians to take, and indeed no Man can be reckon'd a Moralist only, who will not make choice and use, of better Rules to walk and act by: We trade with them, it's true, but to what End? Not to shew them the Steps of Vertue, and the Golden Rule, to do as we would be done by. No, we have furnished them with the Vice of Drunkenness, which is the open Road to all others, and daily cheat them in every thing we sell, and esteem it a Gift of Christianity, not to sell to them so cheap as we do to the Christians, as we call our selves. Pray let me know where is there to be found one Sacred Command or Precept of our Master, that counsels us to such Behaviour? Besides, I believe it will not appear, but that all the Wars, which we have had with the Savages, were occasion'd by the unjust Dealings of the Christians towards them. I can name more than a few, which my own Enquiry has given me a right Understanding of, and I am afraid the remainder (if they come to the test) will prove themselves Birds of the same Feather. {Indians Aversion to Christianity.} As we are in Christian Duty bound, so we must act and behave ourselves to these Savages, if we either intend to be serviceable in converting them to the Knowledge of the Gospel, or discharge the Duty which every Man, within the Pale of the Christian Church, is bound to do. Upon this Score, we ought to shew a Tenderness for these Heathens under the weight of Infidelity; let us cherish their good Deeds, and, with Mildness and Clemency, make them sensible and forwarn them of their ill ones; let our Dealings be just to them in every Respect, and shew no ill Example, whereby they may think we advise them to practise that which we will not be conformable to ourselves: Let them have cheap Penniworths (without Guile in our Trading with them) and learn them the Mysteries of our Handicrafts, as well as our Religion, otherwise we deal unjustly by them. But it is highly necessary to be brought in Practice, which is, to give Encouragement to the ordinary People, and those of a lower Rank, that they might marry with these Indians, and come into Plantations, and Houses, where so many Acres of Land and some Gratuity of Money, (out of a publick Stock) are given to the new-married Couple; and that the Indians might have Encouragement to send their Children Apprentices to proper Masters, that would be kind to them, and make them Masters of a Trade, whereby they would be drawn to live amongst us, and become Members of the same Ecclesiastical and Civil Government we are under; then we should have great Advantages to make daily Conversions amongst them, when they saw that we were kind and just to them in all our Dealings. Moreover, by the Indians Marrying with the Christians, and coming into Plantations with their English Husbands, or Wives, they would become Christians, and their Idolatry would be quite forgotten, and, in all probability, a better Worship come in its Stead; for were the Jews engrafted thus, and alienated from the Worship and Conversation of Jews, their Abominations would vanish, and be no more. Thus we should be let into a better Understanding of the Indian Tongue, by our new Converts; and the whole Body of these People would arrive to the Knowledge of our Religion and Customs, and become as one People with us. By this Method also, we should have a true Knowledge of all the Indians Skill in Medicine and Surgery; they would inform us of the Situation of our Rivers, Lakes, and Tracts of Land in the Lords Dominions, where by their Assistance, greater Discoveries may be made than has been hitherto found out, and by their Accompanying us in our Expeditions, we might civilize a great many other Nations of the Savages, and daily add to our Strength in Trade, and Interest; so that we might be sufficiently enabled to conquer, or maintain our Ground, against all the Enemies to the Crown of England in America, both Christian and Savage. What Children we have of theirs, to learn Trades, &c. ought to be put into those Hands that are Men of the best Lives and Characters, and that are not only strict Observers of their Religion, but also of a mild, winning and sweet Disposition, that these Indian Parents may often go and see how well their Children are dealt with, which would much win them to our Ways of Living, Mildness being a Vertue the Indians are in love withal, for they do not practise beating and correcting their Children, as we do. A general Complaint is, that it seems impossible to convert these People to Christianity, as, at first sight, it does; and as for those in New Spain, they have the Prayer of that Church in Latin by Rote, and know the external Behaviour at Mass and Sermons; yet scarce any of them are steady and abide with constancy in good Works, and the Duties of the Christian Church. We find that the Fuentes and several other of the noted Indian Families about Mexico, and in other parts of New Spain, had given several large Gifts to the Altar, and outwardly seem'd fond of their new Religion; yet those that were the greatest Zealots outwards, on a strict Enquiry, were found guilty of Idolatry and Witchcraft; and this seems to proceed from their Cohabiting, which, as I have noted before, gives Opportunities of Cabals to recal their ancient pristine Infidelity and Superstitions. They never argue against our Religion, but with all imaginable Indifference own, that it is most proper for us that have been brought up in it. In my opinion, it's better for Christians of a mean Fortune to marry with the Civiliz'd Indians, than to suffer the Hardships of four or five years Servitude, in which they meet with Sickness and Seasonings amidst a Crowd of other Afflictions, which the Tyranny of a bad Master lays upon such poor Souls, all which those acquainted with our Tobacco Plantations are not Strangers to. This seems to be a more reasonable Method of converting the Indians, than to set up our Christian Banner in a Field of Blood, as the Spaniards have done in New Spain, and baptize one hundred with the Sword for one at the Font. Whilst we make way for a Christian Colony through a Field of Blood, and defraud, and make away with those that one day may be wanted in this World, and in the next appear against us, we make way for a more potent Christian Enemy to invade us hereafter, of which we may repent, when too late. The Second CHARTER Granted by King CHARLES II. to the PROPRIETORS of CAROLINA Charles II. by the Grace of God, &c. Whereas by Our Letters Patents, bearing Date the Four and Twentieth Day of March, in the Fifteenth Year of Our Reign, We were Graciously Pleas'd to Grant unto Our right Trusty, and right Well-beloved Cousin and Counsellor Edward Earl of Clarendon, our High Chancellor of England, Our right Trusty, and right entirely Beloved Cousin and Counsellor, George Duke of Albemarle, Master of our Horse, Our right Trusty and Well Beloved William, now Earl of Craven, our right Trusty and well-beloved Counsellor, John Lord Berkeley, our right Trusty, and well-beloved Counsellor, Anthony Lord Ashley, Chancellor of our Exchequer, our right Trusty and Well-beloved Counsellor Sir George Carterett Knight and Baronet, Vice-Chamberlain of our Houshold, Our right Trusty and well-beloved, Sir John Colleton Knight and Baronet, and Sir William Berkeley Knight, all that Province, Territory, or Tract of Ground, called Carolina, situate, lying and being within our Dominions of America, Extending from the North End of the Island, called Luke Island, which lyeth in the Southern Virginia Seas, and within six and thirty Degrees of the Northern Latitude; and to the West, as far as the South Seas; and so respectively as far as the River of Mathias, which bordereth upon the Coast of Florida, and within One and Thirty Degrees of the Northern Latitude, and so West in a direct Line, as far as the South Seas aforesaid. Now, know Ye, that We, at the Humble Request of the said Grandees in the aforesaid Letters Patents named, and as a farther Mark of Our especial Favour towards them, We are Graciously Pleased to Enlarge Our said Grant unto them, according to the Bounds and Limits hereafter Specifyed, and in Favour to the Pious and Noble Purpose of the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, all that Province, Territory, or Tract of Ground, situate, lying, and being within Our Dominions of America aforesaid, extending North and Westward, as far as the North End of Carahtuke River, or Gulet, upon a streight Westerly Line, to Wyonoake Creek, which lies within, or about the Degrees of Thirty Six, and Thirty Minutes Northern Latitude, and so West, in a direct Line, as far as the South Seas; and South and Westward, as far as the Degrees of Twenty Nine Inclusive Northern Latitude, and so West in a direct Line, as far as the South Seas; together with all and singular Ports, Harbours, Bays, Rivers and Islets, belonging unto the Province or Territory, aforesaid. And also, all the Soil, Lands, Fields, Woods, Mountains, Ferms, Lakes, Rivers, Bays and Islets, situate, or being within the Bounds, or Limits, last before mentioned; with the Fishing of all sorts of Fish, Whales, Sturgeons, and all other Royal Fishes in the Sea, Bays, Islets and Rivers, within the Premises, and the Fish therein taken; together with the Royalty of the Sea, upon the Coast within the Limits aforesaid. And moreover, all Veins, Mines and Quarries, as well discovered as not discover'd, of Gold, Silver, Gems and Precious Stones, and all other whatsoever; be it of Stones, Metal, or any other thing found, or to be found within the Province, Territory, Islets and Limits aforesaid. And furthermore, the Patronage and Advowsons of all the Churches and Chappels, which as the Christian Religion shall encrease within the Province, Territory, Isles and Limits aforesaid, shall happen hereafter to be erected; together with Licence and Power to build and found Churches, Chappels and Oratories in convenient and fit places, within the said Bounds and Limits; and to cause them to be Dedicated and Consecrated, according to the Ecclesiastical Laws of Our Kingdom of England; together with all and singular, the like, and as ample Rights, Jurisdictions, Privileges, Prerogatives, Royalties, Liberties, Immunities and Franchises, of what Kind soever, within the Territory, Isles, Islets and Limits aforesaid. To have, hold, use, exercise and enjoy the same, as amply, fully, and in as ample Manner, as any Bishop of Durham in Our Kingdom of England, ever heretofore had, held, used, or enjoyed, or of right ought, or could have, use, or enjoy; and them the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns; We do by these Presents, for Us, Our Heirs and Successors, make, create and constitute the true and absolute Lords and Proprietors of the said Province, or Territory, and of all other the Premises, saving always the Faith, Allegiance and Sovereign Dominion due to Us, our Heirs and Successors, for the same; to have, hold, possess and enjoy the said Province, Territory, Islets, and all and singular, other the Premises, to them the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, for Ever, to be holden of Us, Our Heirs and Successors, as of Our Mannor of East Greenwich, in Kent, in free and common Soccage, and not in Capite, or by Knights Service, yielding and paying yearly to Us, Our Heirs and Successors, for the same, the fourth Part of all Goods and Silver Oar, which within the Limits hereby Granted, shall from Time to Time, happen to be found, over and besides the Yearly Rent of Twenty Marks and the fourth part of the Gold and Silver Oar, in and by the said recited Letters Patents reserved and payable. And that the Province, or Territory hereby granted and described, may be dignifyed with as large Titles and Privileges, as any other Parts of our Dominions and Territories in that Region; Know ye, That We, of our farther Grace, certain Knowledge and meer Motion, have thought fit to annex the same Tract of Ground and Territory, unto the same Province of Carolina; and out of the Fulness of our Royal Power and Prerogative, We do for Us, our Heirs and Successors, annex and unite the same to the said Province of Carolina. And forasmuch as We have made and ordained the aforesaid Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, the true Lords and Proprietors of all the Province or Territory aforesaid; Know ye therefore moreover, that We reposing especial Trust and Confidence in their Fidelity, Wisdom, Justice and provident Circumspection for Us, our Heirs and Successors, do grant full and absolute Power, by virtue of these Presents, to them the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Catterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, and their Heirs and Assigns, for the good and happy Government of the said whole Province or Territory, full Power and Authority to erect, constitute, and make several Counties, Baronies, and Colonies, of and within the said Provinces, Territories, Lands and Hereditaments, in and by the said recited Letters Patents, and these Presents, granted, or mentioned to be granted, as aforesaid, with several and distinct Jurisdictions, Powers, Liberties and Privileges. And also, to ordain, make and enact, and under their Seals, to publish any Laws and Constitutions whatsoever, either appertaining to the publick State of the said whole Province or Territory, or of any distinct or particular County, Barony or Colony, of or within the same, or to the private Utility of particular Persons, according to their best Discretion, by and with the Advice, Assent and Approbation of the Freemen of the said Province or Territory, or of the Freemen of the County, Barony or Colony, for which such Law or Constitution shall be made, or the greatest Part of them, or of their Delegates or Deputies, whom for enacting of the said Laws, when, and as often as need shall require, We will that the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton and Sir William Berkeley, and their Heirs or Assigns, shall from Time to Time, assemble in such Manner and Form as to them shall seem best: And the same Laws duly to execute upon all People within the said Province or Territory, County, Barony or Colony, and the Limits thereof, for the Time being, which shall be constituted under the Power and Government of them, or any of them, either sailing towards the said Province or Territory of Carolina, or returning from thence towards England, or any other of our, or foreign Dominions, by Imposition of Penalties, Imprisonment, or any other Punishment: Yea, if it shall be needful, and the Quality of the Offence require it, by taking away Member and Life, either by them, the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, and their Heirs, or by them or their Deputies, Lieutenants, Judges, Justices, Magistrates, or Officers whatsoever, as well within the said Province, as at Sea, in such Manner and Form, as unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, and their Heirs, shall seem most convenient: Also, to remit, release, pardon and abolish, whether before Judgment or after, all Crimes and Offences whatsoever, against the said Laws; and to do all and every other Thing and Things, which unto the compleat Establishment of Justice, unto Courts, Sessions and Forms of Judicature, and Manners of proceedings therein, do belong, altho' in these Presents, express Mention is not made thereof; and by Judges, to him or them delegated to award, process, hold Please, and determine in all the said Courts and Places of Judicature, all Actions, Suits and Causes whatsoever, as well criminal as civil, real, mixt, personal, or of any other Kind or Nature whatsoever: Which Laws so as aforesaid, to be published, Our Pleasure is, and We do enjoyn, require and command, shall be absolutely firm and available in Law; and that all the Leige People of Us, our Heirs and Successors, within the said Province or Territory, do observe and keep the same inviolably in those Parts, so far as they concern them, under the Pains and Penalties therein expressed; or to be expressed; provided nevertheless, that the said Laws be consonant to Reason, and as near as may be conveniently, agreeable to the Laws and Customs of this our Realm of England. And because such Assemblies of Free-holders cannot be so suddenly called, as there may be Occasion to require the same; We do therefore by these Presents, give and grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, by themselves or their Magistrates in that Behalf, lawfully authorized, full Power and Authority from Time to Time, to make and ordain fit and wholsome Orders and Ordinances, within the Province or Territory aforesaid, or any County, Barony or Province, of or within the same, to be kept and observed, as well for the keeping of the Peace, as for the better Government of the People there abiding, and to publish the same to all to whom it may concern: Which Ordinances we do, by these Presents, streightly charge and command to be inviolably observed within the same Province, Counties, Territories, Baronies, and Provinces, under the Penalties therein expressed; so as such Ordinances be reasonable and not repugnant or contrary, but as near as may be agreeable to the Laws and Statutes of this our Kingdom of England; and so as the same Ordinances do not extend to the binding, charging or taking away of the Right or Interest of any Person or Persons, in their freehold Goods, or Chattels, whatsoever. And to the end the said Province or Territory, may be the more happily encreased by the Multitude of People resorting thither, and may likewise be the more strongly defended from the Incursions of Savages and other Enemies, Pirates, and Robbers. Therefore, We for Us, Our Heirs and Successors, do give and grant by these Presents, Power, License and Liberty unto all the Leige People of Us, our Heirs and Successors in our Kingdom of England, or elsewhere, within any other our Dominions, Islands, Colonies or Plantations; (excepting those who shall be especially forbidden) to transport themselves and Families into the said Province or Territory, with convenient Shipping, and fitting Provisions; and there to settle themselves, dwell and inhabit, any Law, Act, Statute, Ordinance, or other Thing to the contrary in any wise, notwithstanding. And we will also, and of Our especial Grace, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, do streightly enjoyn, ordain, constitute and demand, That the said Province or Territory, shall be of our Allegiance; and that all and singular, the Subjects and Leige People of Us, our Heirs and Successors, transported, or to be transported into the said Province, and the Children of them, and such as shall descend from them, there born, or hereafter to be born, be, and shall be Denizens and Lieges of Us, our Heirs and Successors of this our Kingdom of England, and be in all Things, held, treated and reputed as the Liege faithful People of Us, our Heirs and Successors, born within this our said Kingdom, or any other of our Dominions; and may inherit, or otherwise purchase and receive, take, hold, buy and possess any Lands, Tenements or Hereditaments, within the said Places, and them may occupy, and enjoy, sell, alien and bequeath; as likewise, all Liberties, Franchises and Privileges of this our Kingdom, and of other our Dominions aforesaid, may freely and quietly have, possess and enjoy, as our Liege People born within the same, without the Molestation, Vexation, Trouble or Grievance of Us, Our Heirs and Successors, any Act, Statute, Ordinance, or Provision to the contrary, notwithstanding. And furthermore, That Our Subjects of this Our said Kingdom of England, and other our Dominions, may be the rather encouraged to undertake this Expedition, with ready and chearful Minds; Know Ye, That We, of Our especial Grace, certain Knowledge and meer Motion, do give and grant, by virtue of these Presents, as well to the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, and their Heirs, as unto all others as shall, from time to time, repair unto the said Province or Territory, with a Purpose to inhabit there, or to trade with the Natives thereof; Full Liberty and License to lade and freight in every Port whatsoever, of Us, our Heirs and Successors; and into the said Province of Carolina, by them, their Servants and Assigns, to transport all and singular, their Goods, Wares and Merchandizes; as likewise, all sort of Grain whatsoever, and any other Thing whatsoever, necessary for their Food and Cloathing, not prohibited by the Laws and Statutes of our Kingdom and Dominions, to be carried out of the same, without any Lett or Molestation of Us, our Heirs and Successors, or of any other our Officers or Ministers whatsoever; saving also to Us, our Heirs and Successors, the Customs, and other Duties and Payments due for the said Wares and Merchandizes, according to the several Rates of the Place from whence the same shall be transported. We will also, and by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, do give and grant License by this our Charter, unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, and to all the Inhabitants and Dwellers in the Province or Territory aforesaid, both present and to come, full Power and Authority to import or unlade by themselves, or their Servants, Factors or Assigns, all Merchandizes and Goods whatsoever, that shall arise of the Fruits and Commodities of the said Province or Territory, either by Land or Sea, into any the Ports of Us, our Heirs and Successors, in our Kingdom of Engl. Scotl. or Ireland, or otherwise, to dispose of the said Goods, in the said Ports. And if need be, within one year next after the unlading, to lade the said Merchandizes and Goods again in the same, or other Ships; and to export the same into any other Countries, either of our Dominions or foreign, being in Amity with Us, our Heirs and Successors, so as they pay such Customs, Subsidies and other Duties for the same to Us, our Heirs and Successors, as the rest of our Subjects of this our Kingdom, for the Time being, shall be bound to pay. Beyond which We will not that the Inhabitants of the said Province or Territory, shall be any ways charged. Provided, nevertheless, and our Will and Pleasure is, and we have further, for the Considerations aforesaid, of our special Grace, certain Knowledge and meer Motion, given and granted, and by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, do give and grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full and free License, Liberty, Power and Authority, at any Time or Times, from and after the Feast of St. Michael the Arch-Angel, which shall be in the Year of our Lord Christ, One Thousand, Six Hundred, Sixty and Seven; as well to import and bring into any our Dominions from the said Province of Carolina, or any Part thereof, the several Goods and Commodities herein after mentioned; That is to say, Silks, Wines, Currants, Raisons, Capers, Wax, Almonds, Oil and Olives, without paying or answering to Us, our Heirs and Successors, any Custom, Impost, or other Duty, for, or in respect thereof, for and during the Time and Space of Seven Years to commence and be accompted from and after the first Importation of Four Tons of any the said Goods, in any one Bottom Ship or Vessel, from the said Province or Territory, into any of our Dominions; as also, to export and carry out of any of our Dominions into the said Province or Territory, Custom-free, all sorts of Tools, which shall be useful or necessary for the Planters there, in the Accommodation and Improvement of the Premises, any thing before in these Presents contained, or any Law, Act, Statute, Prohibition, or other Matter or Thing, heretofore had, made, enacted or provided, or hereafter to be had, made, enacted or provided, in any wise notwithstanding. And furthermore, of our more ample and especial Grace, certain Knowledge and meer Motion, We do for Us, our Heirs and Successors, grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full and absolute Power and Authority to make, erect and constitute within the said Province or Territory, and the Isles and Islets aforesaid, such and so many Sea-Ports, Harbours, Creeks and other Places for discharge and unlading of Goods and Merchandizes out of Ships, Boats, and other Vessels, and for lading of them in such and so many Places, as with such Jurisdictions, Privileges and Franchises, unto the said Ports belonging, as to them shall seem most expedient; And that all and singular, the Ships, Boats and other Vessels, which shall come for Merchandizes, and trade into the said Province or Territory, or shall depart out of the same, shall be laden and unladen at such Ports only, as shall be erected and constituted by the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, and not elsewhere, any Use, Custom, or any thing to the contrary in any wise notwithstanding. And we do furthermore will, appoint and ordain, and by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, do grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, That they the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, may from Time to Time, for ever, have and enjoy the Customs and Subsidies in the Ports, Harbours, Creeks and other Places, within the Province aforesaid, payable for the Goods, Merchandizes and Wares there laded, or to be laded or unladed, the said Customs to be reasonably assessed upon any Occasion by themselves, and by and with the Consent of the free People, or the greater Part of them, as aforesaid; to whom We give Power by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, upon just Cause and in a due Proportion to assess and impose the same. And further, of our especial Grace, certain Knowledge and meer Motion, we have given, granted and confirmed, and by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, do give, grant and confirm unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full and absolute Power, License and Authority, that they the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, from Time to Time, hereafter for ever, at his and their Will and Pleasure, may assign, alien, grant, demise or enfeoff the Premises or any Part or Parcel thereof to him or them, that shall be willing to purchase the same; and to such Person and Persons, as they shall think fit, to have, and to hold to them the said Person or Persons, their Heirs and Assigns, in Fee simple or in Fee Tayle, or for the Term of Life or Lives, or Years to be held of them, the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, by such Rents, Services and Customs, as shall seem fit to them the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, and not of Us, our Heirs and Successors: And to the same Person and Persons, and to all and every of them, We do give and grant by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, License, Authority and Power, that such Person or Persons, may have and take the Premises, or any Parcel thereof, of the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, and the same to hold to themselves, their Heirs or Assigns, in what Estate of Inheritance soever, in Fee simple, or in Fee Tayle, or otherwise, as to them the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, shall seem expedient; The Statute in the Parliament of Edward, Son of King Henry, heretofore King of England, our Predecessor, commonly called, The Statute of Quia Emptores Terrar; or any other Statute, Act, Ordinance, Use, Law, Custom, any other Matter, Cause or Thing heretofore published or provided to the contrary, in any wise notwithstanding. And because many Persons born and inhabiting in the said Province for their Deserts and Services may expect, and be capable of Marks of Honour and Favour, which, in respect of the great Distance cannot conveniently be conferred by Us; our Will and Pleasure therefore is, and We do by these Presents, give and grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Lord Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full Power and Authority to give and confer unto, and upon such of the Inhabitants of the said Province, or Territory, as they shall think, do, or shall merit the same, such Marks of Favour, and Titles of Honour, as they shall think fit, so as their Titles of Honours be not the same as are enjoyed by, or conferred upon any of the Subjects of this Our Kingdom of England. And further also, We do by these Presents, for Us, Our Heirs and Successors, give and Grant, License to them the Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full Power, Liberty and License, to Erect, Raise and Build within the said Province and Places aforesaid, or any Part or Parts thereof, such and so many Forts, Fortresses, Castles, Cities, Boroughs, Towns, Villages and other Fortifications whatsoever; and the same or any of them to Fortify and Furnish with Ordnance, Powder, Shot, Armour and all other Weapons, Ammunition and Habiliments of War, both Defensive and Offensive, as shall be thought fit and convenient for the Safety and Welfare of the said Province, and Places, or any Part thereof; and the same, or any of them, from Time to Time, as Occasion shall require, to Dismantle, Disfurnish, Demolish and Pull down; And also to Place, Constitute and Appoint in, or over all, or any of the said Castles, Forts, Fortifications, Cities, Towns and Places aforesaid, Governours, Deputy Governours, Magistrates, Sheriffs and other Officers, Civil and Military, as to them shall seem meet; and to the said Cities, Boroughs, Towns, Villages, or any other Place or Places, within the said Province or Territory, to Grant Letters or Charters of Incorporation, with all Liberties, Franchises and Privileges requisite, or usual, to, or within this our Kingdom of England granted, or belonging; And in the same Cities, Boroughs, Towns and other Places, to Constitute, Erect and Appoint such, and so many Markets, Marts and Fairs as shall in that Behalf be thought fit and necessary; And further also, to Erect and Make in the Province or Territory aforesaid, or any Part thereof, so many Mannors with such Signories as to them shall seem meet and convenient, and in every of the same Mannors to have and to hold a Court-Baron, with all Things whatsoever, which to a Court-Baron do belong, and to have and to hold Views of Frank Pledge, and Court-Leet, for the Conservation of the Peace, and better Government of those Parts, with such Limits, Jurisdiction and Precincts, as by the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, or their Heirs, shall be appointed for that purpose, with all things whatsoever, which to a Court-Leet, or view of Franck Pledge, do belong; the same Courts to be holden by Stewards, to be Deputed and Authorized by the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, or their Heirs, by the Lords of the Mannors and Leets, for the Time being, when the same shall be Erected. And because that in so remote a Country, and Situate among so many Barbarous Nations, the Invasions as well of Savages as other Enemies, Pirates, and Robbers may probably be feared; Therefore We have Given, and for Us, Our Heirs and Successors do give Power by these Presents, unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs or Assigns by themselves, or their Captains, or their Officers to Levy, Muster and Train up all sorts of Men, of what Condition soever, or wheresoever Born, whether in the said Province, or elsewhere, for the Time being; and to make War and pursue the Enemies aforesaid, as well by Sea, as by Land; yea, even without the Limits of the said Province, and by God's Assistance, to Vanquish and Take them, and being Taken, to put them to Death by the Law of War, and to save them at their Pleasure; And to do all and every other thing, which to the Charge and Office of a Captain General of an Army belongeth, or hath accustomed to belong, as fully and freely as any Captain General of an Army hath had the same. Also, Our Will and Pleasure is, and by this Our Charter, We do give and grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Lord Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full Power, Liberty and Authority, in Case of Rebellion, Tumult, or Sedition (if any should happen, which God forbid) either upon the Land within the Province aforesaid, or upon the main Sea, in making a Voyage thither, or returning from thence, by him and themselves, their Captains, Deputies or Officers, to be authorized under his or their Seals, for that purpose: To whom also for Us, our Heirs and Successors, We do give and grant by these Presents, full Power and Authority to exercise Martial Law against mutinous and seditious Persons of those Parts; such as shall refuse to submit themselves to their Government, or shall refuse to serve in the Wars, or shall fly to the Enemy, or forsake their Colours or Ensigns, or be Loiterers or Stragglers, or otherwise howsoever offending against Law, Custom, or Military Discipline, as freely, and in as ample Manner and Form as any Captain General of an Army, by virtue of his Office, might, or hath accustomed to use the same. And Our further Pleasure is, and by these Presents, for Us, our Heirs and Successors, We do grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, and to the Tenants and Inhabitants of the said Province, or Territory, both present and to come, and to every of them, that the said Province, or Territory, and the Tenants and Inhabitants thereof, shall not from henceforth, be held or reputed any Member, or Part of any Colony whatsoever, in America or elsewhere, now transported or made, or hereafter to be transported or made; nor shall be depending on, or subject to their Government in any Thing, but be absolutely separated and divided from the same: And our Pleasure is, by these Presents, That they may be separated, and that they be subject immediately to our Crown of England, as depending thereof for ever. And that the Inhabitants of the said Province or Territory, or any of them, shall at any Time hereafter, be compelled or compellible, or be any ways subject, or liable to appear or answer to any Matter, Suit, Cause, or Plaint whatsoever, out of the Province or Territory aforesaid, in any other of our Islands, Colonies or Dominions in America, or elsewhere, other than in our Realm of England and Dominion of Wales. And because it may happen, That some of the People and Inhabitants of the said Province, cannot in their private Opinions conform to the Publick Exercise of Religion according to the Liturgy, Forms and Ceremonies of the Church of England, or take or subscribe the Oaths and Articles made and established in that Behalf: And for that the same, by reason of the remote Distances of those Places, will, as we hope, be no Breach of the Unity, and Conformity, Established in this Nation; Our Will and Pleasure therefore is, and We do by these Presents for Us, Our Heirs, and Successors, Give and Grant unto the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, full and free Licence, Liberty and Authority, by such Ways and Means as they shall think fit, To Give and Grant unto such Person and Persons, Inhabiting, and being within the said Province or Territory, hereby or by the said recited Letters Patents, mentioned to be granted as aforesaid, or any Part thereof, such Indulgencies and Dispensations, in that Behalf, for, and during such Time and Times, and with such Limitations and Restrictions, as they the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs, or Assigns, shall in their Discretion think fit and reasonable. And that no Person or Persons, unto whom such Liberty shall be given, shall be any way molested, punished, disquieted, or called in question for any Differences in Opinion or Practice, in Matters of Religious Concernment, who do not actually disturb the civil Peace of the Province, County or Colony, that they shall make their abode in. But all and every such Person and Persons, may from Time to Time, and at all Times, freely and quietly have and enjoy his and their Judgment and Consciences, in Matters of Religion, throughout all the said Province, or Colony, they behaving themselves peaceably, and not using this Liberty to Licentiousness, nor to the Civil Injury or outward Disturbance of others. Any Law, Statute or Clause contained, or to be contained, Usage or Customs of our Realm of England to the contrary hereof in any wise, notwithstanding. And in Case it shall happen, that any Doubts or Questions should arise concerning the True Sense and Understanding of any Word, Clause, or Sentence, contained in this Our present Charter, We Will, Ordain, and Command, that at all Times, and in all Things, such Interpretations be made thereof, and allow'd in all and every of Our Courts whatsoever, as Lawfully may be Adjudged most Advantageous and Favourable to the said Edward Earl of Clarendon, George Duke of Albemarle, William Earl of Craven, John Lord Berkeley, Anthony Lord Ashley, Sir George Carterett, Sir John Colleton, and Sir William Berkeley, their Heirs and Assigns, although Express Mention, &c. Witness our Self at Westminster, the Thirtieth Day of June, in the Seventeenth Year of our Reign. Per Ipsum Regem. An ABSTRACT of the CONSTITUTION of CAROLINA. As to the Government of Carolina, the Laws of England are there in Force; yet the Lords-Proprietors, by their Deputies, have Power, with the Consent of the Inhabitants, to make By-Laws for the better Government of the said Province; so that no Law can be made, or Money rais'd, unless the Inhabitants, or their Representatives, consent thereto: One Law which they have in South-Carolina deserves particular Mention, which is, their Method of chusing Juries, it being done by making a considerable Number of Paper-Billets, on which are written the Names of as many of the most substantial Freeholders. These Billets are put into a Hat, out of which Twenty-four are chosen by the next Child that appears. Then, out of those Twenty-four, Twelve are chosen at the next Court, after the same manner; which is an infallible way to prevent all Manner of Fraud. North and South-Carolina Settlements are distant from one another some hundreds of Miles; so that Necessity compels each Colony to keep to themselves, a Governour, Council and Assembly. The Governor represents the Lord-Palatine; the rest of the Counsellors are the Lord-Deputies; who, of themselves, make a Palatines Court, and a Court of Chancery; wherein they pass several Orders of Council, much of the Nature of the Prince's Proclamation; which continues no longer in Force, than the next Assembly. Likewise, they grant several sorts of Commissions, Warrants, &c. yet Military Commissions lie wholly in the Governor's Power; but Making of War or Peace, in all, or the Majority of the Lords-Deputies; by whom (the Governor being one) it is determin'd, and by whose Commissions all other Magistrates act. On these Heads they have settled, and maintain an admirable Constitution of Government, for the lasting Peace, Security, and Well-being of all the Inhabitants. The way of any ones taking up his Land in Carolina, due to him either by Purchasing it of the Lords Proprietors here in England, who keep their Board at Craven-House in Drury-Lane, London, the first Thursday in every Month; or if purchas'd in Carolina, is after this manner: He first looks out for a Place to his Mind, that is not already possess'd by any other; then applies himself to the Governor and Lords Proprietors Deputies, and shews what Right he hath to such a Tract of Land, either by Purchase of the Lords in England, or by an Entry in the Surveyor-General's Office, in order to purchase of the Governor and Lords Deputies there in Carolina, who thereupon issue out their Warrant-Land as is due to him. Who making Certificate, that he had measured out so much Land and the Bounds, a Deed is prepared of Course, by the Secretary, which is sign'd by the Governor and the Lords Proprietors Deputies, and the Proprietors Seal affix'd to it, and register'd in the Secretaries Office, which is a good Coveyance in Law of the Land therein mention'd, to the Party and his Heirs for ever. Thus have I given you as large and exact an Account of Carolina, as the Discovery of so few Years (in this great and extensive Land) would permit. Which flourishing Country will, doubtless, in time, increase the Number of its Productions, and afford us plentifully those Necessaries and rich Commodities, which the Streights, Turky and other Countries supply us withal at present, and not seldom in their own Shipping; whereas, were those Merchandizes the Produce of an English Plantation, and brought us home by our own Hands and Bottoms, of what Advantage such an Improvement would be to the Crown of Great-Britain, and the People in general, I leave to Men of Reason and Experience to judge. I do intend (if God permit) by future Voyages (after my Arrival in Carolina) to pierce into the Body of the Continent, and what Discoveries and Observations I shall, at any time hereafter, make, will be communicated to my Correspondents in England, to be publish'd, having furnish'd myself with Instruments and other Necessaries for such Voyages. For the better Understanding of this Country, I have already drawn a very large and exact Map thereof, as far as any Discoveries have been yet made, either by others or my self, and have spared neither Cost nor Pains, to procure the most correct Maps and Journals thereof, that are extant in Print, or in Manuscript. This Map containing nine Sheets of Imperial Paper, and now fit for engraving, begins at Cape Henry in Virginia, 37 deg. N. Lat. and contains all the Coasts of Carolina, or Florida, with the Bahama Islands, great Part of the Bay of Mexico, and the Island of Cuba, to the Southward, and several Degrees to the Westward of the Messiasippi River, with all the Indian Nations and Villages, and their Numbers, which of them are subject to Carolina, and trade with their People, what Places are convenient Factories and Forts, to increase and secure our Trade on the Messiasippi, and what Forts and Factories the French and Spaniards have gain'd in those Latitudes, especially on the great River and the Neighbouring Streams; all which they illegally possess, since the very Mouth of the River Messiasippi is in the King of England's Grant to the Lords Proprietors of Carolina, it falling something to the Northward of 29 Degr. North Lat. whose Claim and Right I question not, but a Peace will adjust, and restore, which every Englishman is bound in Duty and Interest, to wish for; if we consider how advantageously they have seated themselves, whereby to disturb the Peace and Interest of all the English Plantations on the Continent of America. ---------- FINIS. ---------- [Original Advertisement, included for historical context.] Lately publish'd, in the Collections for December, January, February, and March, The Discovery and Conquest of the Molucco and Philippine Islands; containing their History, Ancient and Modern, Natural and Political: Their Description, Product, Religion, Government, Laws, Languages, Customs, Manners, Habits, Shape, and Inclinations of the Natives. With an Account of many other adjacent Islands, and several remarkable Voyages through the Streights of Magellan, and in other Parts. Written in Spanish by Bartholomew Leonardo Argensola, Chaplain to the Empress, and Rector of Villahermosa. Now translated into English; and illustrated with a Map and several Cuts. [End of Original Advertisement.] Transcriber's Notes to etext: This book was originally published in London in 1709. This text follows the original spellings, which are somewhat irregular, though still quite readable. A footnote from William Gilmore Simms' "Life of Francis Marion" (online): Lawson's "Journal of a Thousand Miles' Travel among the Indians, from South to North Carolina", is a work equally rare and interesting. This unfortunate man fell a victim to his official duties. He was confounded, by the savages, with the government which he represented, and sacrificed to their fury, under the charge of depriving them, by his surveys, of their land. He was made captive with the Baron de Graffenreid. The latter escaped, but Lawson was subjected to the fire-torture. Simms, however, was never a stickler for details. Other accounts differ as to John Lawson's exact fate, and no one is sure how he died. Mike Lawson, (MIKE_LAWSON@intertec.com, http://www.mixbooks.com), a direct descendant of the author, contacted me while I was working on putting this book online, and sent me some interesting information, which is summarized below. Baron de Graffenreid = Degraffenreid, etc. From about 1705 to 1708 John Lawson had lived in Bath Town, NC, where his primary interests were his orchards and vines. When he went to England to have his book published, he was "called upon by the Lord Proprietors to assist DeGraffenreid" who was trying to settle a colony of Palatines in North Carolina. Franz Louis Michel, of Bern, Switzerland, (Lawson refers to him as Francis-Louis Mitchell) had come to America in 1702, and discovered evidence of silver in the mountains. He returned to Europe to start a company to found a colony in America, and met Degraffenreid, who had similar plans, and had already contracted with the city of Bern to remove some Anabaptists to America -- they formed a partnership, and intended to search for silver. After the course of events which included John Lawson's death and a massacre of these colonists, they had a falling out, and that plan never came off. According to De Graffenreid, some days before the New Bern massacre John Lawson proposed that they go up the Neuse River, where there were plenty of wild grapes. They were assured "that no savages lived on that branch of the river. But to feel safer we took two Indians to guide, which we knew well, with two negroes to row." Two days out, near the village of Coram, they were overtaken by a large number of Tuscaroras, and captured. There was a trial of sorts, where their intentions were examined, and Mr. Lawson was charged with being too severe, and for selling their land. After a lengthy debate, it was decided that they should be released the next day, but the following morning, one Cor Tom reproached Mr. Lawson, and they quarrelled. "I made every effort to get Lawson to quit quarrelling. I did not succeed. All at once three or four Indians fell upon us in a furious manner. . . . They took our hats and periwigs and threw them into the fire, and a council of war being held we were immediately sentenced to death." One of the Indians, a relation of King Taylor, from whom De Graffenreid had bought the land for New Bern, appealed in his behalf. "The Indians whispered in my ear that I had nothing to fear, but that Lawson would die, what affected me much. They also liberated my negro, but I never saw him since. . . . As to his death, I know nothing. Some said he was hung, some said he was burnt. The Indians kept that execution very secret." The Tuscaroras then informed De Graffenreid that they were going to war, but would not harm Chattooka (New Bern), but that the people of New Bern ought to stay in the town -- unfortunately, there was no way to inform the people of New Bern. Several days later prisoners were brought back, and De Graffenreid tells of recognizing some of them as his tenants, including a boy who reported that his whole family had been killed. After six weeks imprisonment at Catechna, he was released, and returned to New Bern, where the people were surprised to find him alive. (The relevant passages from De Graffenreid's journal were printed in the North Carolina Booklet, Vol. I, No. 2, June 10, 1901, `Colonial New Bern', by Mrs. Sara Beaumont Kennedy, pp. 7-13. Issued by the North Carolina Society of the Daughters of the Revolution. Raleigh: Capital Printing Company, 1901.) Due to the age of this book, there are a number of nonstandard spellings, and the font used in the original, with the s's much like f's, has surely led to an error or two in the transcription, though every effort was made to minimize this factor. The standards of printing at the time were also somewhat low, and combine all this with those instances where Indian names and words are given, and some of the material is doubtless inaccurate -- though Lawson's comments on zoology should make that quite clear. Nonetheless, this account remains one of our best sources for information on the Indians of North Carolina in and about the year 1700. Sidenotes, throughout, are presented in squiggly brackets. {As here.} Where the sidenote precedes a paragraph, it is given on a separate line. Corrections: (p. 11) [ and become Cripples all ther Life-time; ] changed to: [ and become Cripples all their Life-time; ] (p. 13) [ to satisfy the Apppetite of the Rich alone. ] changed to: [ to satisfy the Appetite of the Rich alone. ] (p. 14) [ so we got that Night to Mons. Gallian's the elder, ] changed to: [ so we got that Night to Mons. Galliar's the elder, ] As the difference between "n" and "r" is significant, other evidence (William Dobein James) suggests the real name was Gaillard, and "Mons. Galliar's, jun'," is mentioned on the next page. (In giving the background of Marion, in his "Life of Gen. Francis Marion", Judge William Dobein James quotes from "A New Voyage to Carolina", and in his footnotes gives some additional commentary on the area in relation to Lawson's description. This text is online.) (p. 19) [ which was s Parrade of all Nations, ] changed to: [ which was a Parrade of all Nations, ] and: [ most Natious of the known World. ] changed to: [ most Nations of the known World. ] (p. 21) [ about it is hung Gourds Feathers, and other such like Trophies, ] changed to: [ about it is hung Gourds, Feathers, and other such like Trophies, ] (p.28) [ for tho' this most bears a Seed in a Sort of a small Cod, ] changed to: [ for tho' this Moss bears a Seed in a Sort of a small Cod, ] (p. 44) [ the Sinnagers, or Troquois. ] changed to: [ the Sinnagers, or Iroquois. ] (p. 47-48) [ At that, time these Toteros Saponas, and the Keyauwees, ] changed to: [ At that time these Toteros, Saponas, and the Keyauwees, ] (p. 73) [ on the 6th of February, 166(3/4) came to an Anchor ] changed to: [ on the 6th of February, 1664, came to an Anchor ] (p. 75) [ to more Certainty, and greater Anvantage; whereby they might arrive ] changed to: [ to more Certainty, and greater Advantage; whereby they might arrive ] (p. 80) [ to leave the more Northerly Platations, and sit down under ] changed to: [ to leave the more Northerly Plantations, and sit down under ] (p. 87) [ In the Year 1707. we had the severest Winter ] changed to: [ In the Year 1707, we had the severest Winter ] (p. 91) [ and dry it in the Sun. to keep for Use. ] changed to: [ and dry it in the Sun to keep for Use. ] (p. 111) [ {Plum.} ] inserted before: [Damson, Damazeen, and a large round black Plum are all I have met withal ] (This follows the paragraph on Apricots ["Apricock"], and the absence of this or similar side-note seems to be accidental.) (p. 118) [ This Beast is the greatast Enemy to the Planter, ] changed to: [ This Beast is the greatest Enemy to the Planter, ] (p. 120) [ There Fore-Feet are open, like a Dog's; ] changed to: [ Their Fore-Feet are open, like a Dog's; ] (p. 120) [ great Gust in September. 1700. brought ] changed to: [ great Gust in September, 1700. brought ] (p. 134) [ and make Euquiries therein, when, at least, ] changed to: [ and make Enquiries therein, when, at least, ] (the ol' upside-down "n" error.) (p. 136) (from the list of Water Fowl) [ Whifflers. ] changed to: [ Whistlers. ] (in accordance with the text about them that follows.) (p. 137) (from the list of Water Fowl) [ Men. ] changed to: [ Mew. ] (in accordance with the text about them that follows.) (p. 151) [ {Swaddle-Bills.} ] inserted before: [ Swaddle-Bills are a sort of an ash-colour'd Duck, ] (This follows the paragraph on Tutcocks, precedes that on Mew, and the absence of this or similar side-note seems to be accidental.) (p. 165) [ although their be Water enough for as large Ships ] changed to: [ although there be Water enough for as large Ships ] (p. 189) [ Their Remedies area great Cause of this Easiness ] changed to: [ Their Remedies are a great Cause of this Easiness ] (p. 194) [ and so strung, as Beds are, and a Cubit ] changed to: [ and so strung, as Beads are, and a Cubit ] (p. 203) [ that is common amongst them, If they are caught in theft ] changed to: [ that is common amongst them. If they are caught in theft ] In "An Account of the Indians of North-Carolina", the side-notes do not always perfectly match the text in the original. In this edition, an attempt has been made to match them to the relevent text. The most notable changes are: p. 204, side note {Get Fire.} has been omitted, as at the end of p. 203 there is the note {Get Fire how.} which refers to the same text, which is only broken by the turn of a page. The second note appears to serve no other purpose than continuity, which is no longer needed. p. 207, the side note {Moss Match.} actually refers to text that begins at the end of p. 206, and in this edition the side note has been inserted at the beginning of the relevant text. (p. 208) [ others (where they find a Vein of white Clay, fit for their purpose, ] changed to: [ others (where they find a Vein of white Clay, fit for their purpose) ] (Closing parenthesis was missing.) (pp. 212-213) Throughout the book, a curious device is used -- at the end of each page, on a separate line, and right-justified, appears the first word of the next page. This does not generally need comment, but at the junction of pages 212 and 213, an error occurs, in that at the bottom of page 212 the next-word-to-come is given as "being", but the first word on page 213 is "because". The latter is retained, and the former omitted, as seeming best to fit the context. It is a possibility that both should have been retained, i.e., "being because". (p. 214) [ is a great Man or hath good Frieds, the Doctor is sent for. ] changed to: [ is a great Man or hath good Friends, the Doctor is sent for. ] also: [ keeps sucking. till he has got a great Quaatity of very ] changed to: [ keeps sucking, till he has got a great Quantity of very ] (p. 220) [ girded him as hard for a great while) as if he had ] changed to: [ girded him as hard for a great while, as if he had ] (No opening parenthesis.) (p. 226) [ Mif-kis-'su ] changed to: [ Mis-kis-'su ] as Lawson notes the Indian languages have no "f" sound, and the old `s' and `f' are very similar in shape. (p. 227) (In the Dictionary of Indian terms, the translations for "Minx" [Mink]) [ Min ] changed to: [ Minx ] (in accordance with context and the preferred spelling in the text) (p. 231) [ settled America so easily, at they have done, ] changed to: [ settled America so easily, as they have done, ] (p. 246) [ into any other Countries, either of our Dominins or foreign, ] changed to: [ into any other Countries, either of our Dominions or foreign, ] (p. 248) [ such Ports only, as shall be erected and constitued by the said ] changed to: [ such Ports only, as shall be erected and constituted by the said ] (p. 253) [ To Give and Grant unto such Person any Persons, Inhabiting, ] changed to: [ To Give and Grant unto such Person and Persons, Inhabiting, ] (p. 257) [ to the Westward of of the Messiasippi River, ] changed to: [ to the Westward of the Messiasippi River, ] I am unable to match all of Lawson's spellings with modern versions, especially when it comes to the names of people, places, and tribes. However, quite likely: Tuscarora: Tuskeruro, and probably Turkeiruro also. Roanoke: Ronoack. Neuse River: Neus-River. Falls-of-Neuse (north of Raleigh): Falls of Neus-Creek. Deep River: Sapona-River (possible -- given as the West Branch of Cape Fair). Cape Fear: Cape Fair. Haw River: Hau River. Congaree: Congeree Wateree: Waterree Catawba: Kadapau (possible -- the location seems correct) Waxhaw: Waxsaw Seneca: Sinnager "Rocky-River" is probably still "Rocky River", but there are two by that name in North Carolina, and the one in question is doubtless the larger one, situated between Haw River and Deep River. Other non-standard spellings follow, but first some notes on how nonstandard items were handled in the text: 1. It seems as if "off" is occasionally spelled "of", but almost always in conjunction with "far" or the like: i.e., "not far of", "when farthest of". On p. 128, "when cut of" may also be an example. In all these examples, though, "of" *could* be the correct word, if used in the sense of "from". If is difficult to ascertain if the difference is spelling or usage. 2. Where modern English would always use "than", Lawson sometimes uses "that". This instance is repeated, so it is not conclusively an error. One example is on p. 119, "larger that a Panther". 3. Abbreviated words often end with an apostrophe, rather than a period, which is now the standard. "Through" is usually abbreviated as "thro'". 4. Italics have been kept throughout, with these notable exceptions: in the original, every case of "&c." was italicized; the side-notes were entirely italicized, except those words generally italicized in the text, which were rendered in normal type -- this has been reversed. (Where "&c." appeared in an italicized section, it was presented in normal type. This too was ignored.) 5. Printing was not as exact an art in 1709 as it is now, and this should be kept in mind throughout the text. As spelling was also not as standardized as it is now, it is difficult to tell sometimes whether a word has an old spelling, has a typographical error, or refers to something entirely different from what the first impression would suggest. In addition to this, there is a problem of battered type, which seems especially common in italic text -- which, unfortunately, is commonly used here for words in Indian languages, which makes reading the text extremely difficult at times. And even without broken type, as in Lawson's dictionary entry for "A Rundlet" (perhaps a Roundlet, a small round object?) he gives `Ynpyupseunne' as the Woccon term, which remains unclear on several accounts, as `u' and `n' were not infrequently accidentally inverted in old texts -- i.e., it might be `Yupyupseunne', but where can we check it? No exact answers can be given here, but all these factors should be kept in mind when attempting to read this text. Also in Lawson's Dictionary, occur the Indian words Pulawa and Mif-kis-'su -- the latter has been rendered Mis-kis-'su, as the old `s' and `f' were nearly identical, and were probably inadvertently switched -- which according to his own notes on p. 231, cannot happen, there being no `l' or `f' sounds in the languages. (In this old type, `s' has an f-like appearance in most cases, but a modern `s' was used if it was the last letter in a word, which follows a similar usage with the `s' sound in the Greek alphabet.) It is much harder to guess what Pulawa ought to have been. Modern Spelling is listed first: alternate spelling(s) follow: (More or less in the order they appear in the text.) 1. When multiple spellings in text include the modern spelling, it is not noted. 2. Any word ending in -ed, such as "viewed", may end in -'d, as "view'd". This gets a little complicated in such cases as "accompany'd" (accompanied), "try'd" (tried), "supply'd" (supplied), "carry'd" (carried), "hurry'd" (hurried), and the like. Also cases where the root word originally ended with an "e", such as "us'd" and "continu'd". These cases are not always noted. them: 'em Mississippi: Missisipi, Messiasippi (older concept -- seems to refer to a vast area, probably everything drained by that river.) New York: New-York spacious: spatious public: publick style: stile fur: furr situate: soituate price: prize privilege: priviledge show: shew frontier: fronteer enterprise: enterprize scalp: sculp flay: flea allege: alledge (applies also to alleging, alleged, etc.) mountainous: mountanous gulf: gulph lemon: limon trial: tryal palmetto: palmeto mosquitoes: musketoes, musquetos troublesome: troblesome (p. 8) tried: try'd vegetable: vegitable buckets or boquets?: bokeets Pennsylvania: Pensilvania, Pensylvania isthmus: istmus Glasgow: Glasco corpses: corps o'clock: a Clock cattle: cattel deer (plural): deers beach: beech clam: clann (probable -- may be a textual error) curlew: curleu pelican: pellican Cyprus: Ciprus alarm: allarm turkey: turkie, turky morbific: morbifick complement: compliment (warning: compliment is also spelled this way) specific: specifick most impatient (impatientest): impatients (textual error?) Mons. Huger: Mons. Eugee (according to `Life of Gen. Francis Marion', by Judge William Dobein James, "Huger, who lived in the fork between South Santee and Wambaw Creek.") splendid: splended continued: continu'd courses: coarses crowded: crouded Ashley River: Ashley-River, Ashly-River clothe or cloth: cloath tribe: trible (textual error?) rejoice: rejoyce Mons. Gendron: Mons. L'Jandro ???: Mons. L'Grand Mons. Gaillard: Mons. Galliar affirmed: affir'm'd knoll: knowl (possible) paddling: padling fabrics (fabrication, a structure): fabricks loam: loom hut: hutt used: us'd oil: oyl chinquapin, chinkapin, chincapin: chinkapin, thinkapin (error?) quiddany (a confection of quinces made with sugar): quiddony barbecued: barbacu'd loaves: loves creoles: criolo's courtesan: curtesan monsieur: mounsieur Leaguer-Ladies (soldier's wives -- Scottish term): Leager Ladies parade: parrade physic (medicine): physick surgery: chirurgery expense: expence retaliation: retalliation villainy: villany balsamic: balsamick belly-ache: belly-ach crutches (i.e., props): crotches smoke: smoak straight: strait (probable), streight complete: compleat scraped: scrapt fatigue: fatiegue (textual error?) maize: maiz over-flowed: over-flown Stroud-water-Blue?: Stroud-water-Blew [From the American Encyclopaedic Dictionary, 1896 (AED): stroud: (Etym. doubtful: perhaps from Stroud, in Gloucester, England, where flannel and cloth are manufactured in large quantities.) A kind of coarse blanket or garment of strouding (a coarse kind of cloth employed in trade with North American Indians) worn by the Indians of North America.] medley: medly ragout: ragoo burden: burthen (archaic) availing (useful): eviling [possible, but questionable] [Note also that the "e" in the print is badly formed, and there is a slim chance it might be an "a" or another letter.] chalybeate: chalybid most dismal (dismallest): dismall'st surprisal: surprizal threatening: threatning music: musick tiger: tyger (note that in 1709 "tyger" and "panther" were generic terms) drizzly: drisly acorns: acrons (textual error?) polecat (skunk): polcat arithmetic: arithmetick straggling: stragling hickory: hiccory, hickery, hickerie broth: broath loblolly [AED: 1. water-gruel or spoon-meat. 2. a sweet.] brunette: brounetto (probable) [Probably in the older sense of a woman of brownish complexion; i.e., skin, eyes, and hair.] squaw: squah swaddling-cloths: swadling-clouts rive: reave (possible -- not a common word) pigged: pig'd [AED: To be huddled together with several others in a single room by night as well as by day; to live like pigs.] tetter (generic term, skin disease): tettar colic: cholick gourd: goard saddled: sadl'd Brussels, Bruxelles: Bruxels (probable) fuller's-earth: fullers-earth stopped: stopt portion: potion (possible -- or textual error?) wondering: wondring mechanics: mechanicks domestic: domestick passed: past cornuted [horned. These references to horns reflect the time this book was written, when a man whose wife was unfaithful was said to have horns.] stews [archaic: a brothel.] barbecues: barbakues fusil: fusee, fuzee (probable) [a fusee can be one of several things, but the context here suggests that it was a fusil, which was a type of small, firelock musket.] festination [haste, hurry, expedition.] human: humane fuel: fewel ankle: ancle wondered: wondred cully [several senses, including a dupe or fool, especially one imposed upon by a prostitute.] caddis: cadis Winchester-wedding [The AED had no entry for this, but notes that "Winchester-goose" is "a cant term for a venereal sore, said to have originated from the public stews (brothels) in Southwark, England, being under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Winchester." It is probable that a Winchester-wedding would be of the type (or non-type) performed in these same institutions.] bachelor: batchelor widower: widdower shoes: shooes moccasins: moggisons, moggizons merchandise: merchandize valleys: vallies chestnut: chesnut perch: pearch soup: soop, soupe Appalachian: Appallatche desert: desart Cape Fear: Cape-Fair, Caip-Fair befall: befal beaver: bever buffalo: buffelo palisades: palisadoes necromantic: necromantick Cologne, Koeln: Cologn (possible) cliff or cleft?: clift mustaches: mustachoes alligator: allegator (despite Lawson's claim, NOT a crocodile) turnip: turnep biscuit: bisket (probable) wholesome: wholsome basin: bason percoarson = perkoson, but I can not find any external references to either certify: certifie threatened: threatned hindrance: hinderance Atlantic: Atlantick honeysuckle: honysuckle, hony-suckle molasses: molosses Roanoke: Ronoack, Ronoak shore: shoar moored: mor'd parakeet: parrakeeto (doubtless the Carolina Parakeet, now extinct.) inferior: inferiour tie: tye ashore: ashoar peas: pease garlic: garlick chives: cives salad: sallad lettuce: lettice spinach: spinage cauliflower: colly-flower watermelon: water-melon basil: bazil assuaging: asswaging chamomile, camomile: camomil houseleek: housleek conveniences: conveniencies rounceval: rouncival (in the text, a type of pea, now called a marrowfat) rosin: rozin subterranean, subterraneous: subteraneous gigantic: gigantick linen: linnen housewife/housewives: houswife/houswives housewifery: houswifry woolens: woollens choleric: cholerick watery: watry emetic: emetick weirs: wares (probable -- pp. 86, 127. Can also be "wares", however.) whaling: whale-fishing porket: a young pig or hog. thrived: throve fit: fitt Maryland: Mariland supplied: supplyed wig: wigg cutlery: cuttlery jasmine, jessamine: jessamin browse/browsing: browze/browzing evergreen: ever-green household: houshold virtue: vertue vermin: vermine Appamattox: Apamaticks, Appamaticks (probable) cloud: clowd aspen: aspin ache: ach burr, bur. (Both are still used, but "burr" is now more common, where John Lawson tends towards "bur".) cathartic: cathartick cachexia (plural): cachexies ("cachexy" is an English form of the word, now rarely, if ever, used.) calico: callico hazelnut: hazle-nut conic/conical: conick exotic: exotick serviceberry/Juneberry/shadblow: service (given as the name of a fruit), the plant it grows on is called the shadbush. (probable) relished?: relisht apricot: apricock gooseberry: goosberry vinedresser/vine dresser/vine-dresser: vigneroon (French "vigneron") Madeira: Madera rabbit: rabbet jackal: jackall havoc: havock holler: hollow (Not all cases. Of the Panther, "He hollows like a Man" should be "He hollers like a Man".) sourwood tree: sowr-wood-tree, sowr wood, sorrel surprise: surprize raspberry: rasberry mink: minx mussel: muscle (in cases such as "muscle-shell") rheum/rheumatism: rhume/rhumatism rheumatic: rhumatick tortoise: tortois burrow: borough chipmunk: ground squirrel (probable) chase: chace insect: reptile reptile: insect ("Insect" is used strangely, to include reptiles and amphibians. Conversely, Lawson uses "Reptile" to refer to insects.) thoroughly: throughly (possible, p. 127) entering: entring frightened: frightned connection: connexion (spelling in common use through the 19th century) excrementitious (spelling still technically correct, but rare enough that "excrescent" is suggested as an alternative, yet even that has the wrong connotation in modern usage.) terrapin: terebin tadpole: tad-pool easy: easie wandering: wandring leech: loach Screech Owl: Scritch Owl (probable) Trumpeter Swan: Swans, called Trompeters (probable) fish hawk: fishawk smallness: smalness grasshopper: grashopper set: sett shot (past tense of shoot): shotten (see case on p. 151) livor: liver waiving: waving (??? -- p. 163) rye: rie indigo: indico (??? -- p. 164) plasterers: plaisterers governor: governour joists: joices (probably this or a related word) hazel: hazle dye: die (p. 172) gait: gate (p. 172) inventor: inventer (both spellings acceptable, but "inventer" non-standard) pare: pair (p. 173) warrior: warriour Trap-Ball (from Sense 8 of "Trap" in the AED) A game and also one of the instruments used in playing the game, the others being a small bat and a ball. The trap is of wood, made like a slipper, with a hollow at the heel end, and a kind of wooden spoon working on a pivot, in which the ball is placed. By striking the handle or end of the spoon the ball is projected up into the air, and the striker endeavors to hit it as far as possible with the bat before it falls to the ground. The opponents endeavor to catch the ball, or to bowl it so as to hit the trap. Also called Trap-bat and Trap-bat and ball. baton, bat: batoon (a variant spelling of baton, with a meaning closer to that of bat. See Trap-Ball) worse: worser wrangling: rangling sepulchre: sepulcre hominy (grits): Rockahomine Meal (conjecture: Lawson gives Roocauwa as the Woccon word for homine [hominy].), homine nowadays: now adays flag (p. 189) is another word for rushes or reeds. artificially (p. 189) has changed meaning over the years. Means "artfully". plaid: plad (in the sense of the garment, not the pattern) porcelain: porcelan (used in a very old sense, referring to a cowry shell) antic: antick hero: heroe disappointment: disapointment relic: relick tomahawk: tamahauk unmanned: unman'd frolic: frolick prefixed: prefixt (obsolete sense) enough: enow (correct but obsolete) hieroglyphic: hieroglyphick republic: republick pestle: pestil, pestel lightninged: lightned (the strict conversion to modern spelling would be "lightened", but "lightninged" adheres to modern usage) lie: lye dripping: dropping (probable) barricaded: barricadoed stolen: stoln frightened: frightned lingering: lingring mere: meer (at least in one case -- "meer Motion" may mean something else.) foul: fowl (p. 222 -- same spelling used elsewhere for "fowl".) phthisis, phthisic: phthisick (may be the old sense of the term, designating any waste, decay, or emaciation; including tuberculosis, which it now designates.) torrefy: To dry, roast, scorch, or parch by a fire. AED. This dictionary also notes that "torrefy" is a formation from the French, whereas "torrify" (meaning the same thing) is an English formation, from "torrid". Waccon & Woccon used interchangeably baked: bak't Mongolian Hordes: Tartarian Hurds (`Tartar' or `Tatar' is still in use, but in this context, `Mongolian Hordes' is now used almost exclusively. What is curious is why Lawson has this sidenote in the first place -- apparently he is comparing the Indians to the Tatars, though on what grounds is unclear.) jailor: jaylor ghastly: gastly stuffed: stufft stalking: stauking choose: chuse mutinying: mutining sylvan: sylvian forewarn: forwarn recall: recal lies, lieth: lyeth chapel: chappel manor: mannor (possible) ore: oar dignified: dignifyed enjoin: enjoyn increase: encrease liege: leige (may be an error in one case) cheerful: chearful let: lett (p. 246) (not sure if this is the same type of `let') twig: twigg brier: bryar wherever: whereever (p.141 -- may be an error resulting from being broken at the end of a line -- i.e., where-ever.) red clay?: "A marl as red as blood" (p. 40) aperitive?: apersive (a laxative -- it fits the context. p. 83) 
12596	----	Proofreading Team [Illustration: "We have met"] THE PURPLE HEIGHTS By MARIE CONWAY OEMLER Author of "Slippy McGee." "A Woman Named Smith," etc. NEW YORK 1920 _To_ JOHN NORTON OEMLER FROM THE LADY HIS SON USED TO CALL "MRS. DADDY" CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE RED ADMIRAL II THE PROMISE III AT GRIPS WITH LIFE IV THE SOUL OF BLACK FOLKS V THE PURPLE HEIGHTS VI GOOD MORNING, GOOD LUCK! VII WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDED VIII CINDERELLA IX PRICE-TAGS X THE DEAR DAM-FOOL XI HIS GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE XII "NOT BY BREAD ALONE" XIII THE BRIGHT SHADOW XIV SWAN FEATHERS XV "I, TOO, IN ARCADIA" XVI THE OTHER MAN XVII THE GUTTER-CANDLE XVIII KISMET! XIX THE POWER XX AND THE GLORY CHARACTERS PETER CHAMPNEYS: _Of Riverton, South Carolina, and Paris, France_. MARIA CHAMPNEYS: _His Mother_. CHADWICK CHAMPNEYS: _The God in the Machine_. EMMA CAMPBELL: _A Colored Woman_. ANNE CHAMPNEYS, NÉE NANCY SIMMS: _Cinderella_. MRS. JOHN HEMINGWAY: _Peter's First Teacher_. JOHN HEMINGWAY: _An American_. JASON VANDERVELDE: _An Attorney at Law_. MRS. JASON VANDERVELDE: _Anne's Mentor_. MRS. MacGREGOR: _A Disciple of Hannah More_. GLENN MITCHELL: _A Bright Shadow_. BERKELEY HAYDEN: _The Other Man_. GRACIE: _A Gutter-Candle_. DENISE: _A Perfume_. THE QUARTIER LATIN. RIVERTON, SOUTH CAROLINA. THE CAROLINA COLORED FOLKS. MARTIN LUTHER: _A Gray Cat_. SATAN: _A Black Cat_. THE RED ADMIRAL: _A Fairy_. THE PURPLE HEIGHTS CHAPTER I THE RED ADMIRAL The tiny brown house cuddling like a wren's nest on the edge of the longest and deepest of the tide-water coves that cut through Riverton had but four rooms in all,--the kitchen tacked to the back porch, after the fashion of South Carolina kitchens, the shed room in which Peter slept, the dining-room which was the general living-room as well, and his mother's room, which opened directly off the dining-room, and in which his mother sat all day and sometimes almost all night at her sewing-machine. When Peter tired of lying on his tummy on the dining-room floor, trying to draw things on a bit of slate or paper, he liked to turn his head and watch the cloth moving swiftly under the jigging needle, and the wheel turning so fast that it made an indistinct blur, and sang with a droning hum. He could see, too, a corner of his mother's bed with the patchwork quilt on it. The colors of the quilt were pleasantly subdued in their old age, and the calico star set in a square pleased Peter immensely. He thought it a most beautiful quilt. There was visible almost all of the bureau, an old-fashioned walnut affair with a small, dim, wavy glass, and drawers which you pulled out by sticking your fingers under the bunches of flowers that served as knobs. The fireplaces in both rooms were in a shocking state of disrepair, but one didn't mind that, as in winter a fire burned in them, and in summer they were boarded up with fireboards covered with cut-out pictures pasted on a background of black calico. Those gay cut-out pictures were a source of never-ending delight to Peter, who was intimately acquainted with every flower, bird, cat, puppy, and child of them. One little girl with a pink parasol and a purple dress, holding a posy in a lace-paper frill, he would have dearly loved to play with. Over the mantelpiece in his mother's room hung his father's picture, in a large gilt frame with an inside border of bright red plush. His father seemed to have been a merry-faced fellow, with inquiring eyes, plenty of hair, and a very nice mustache. This picture, under which his mother always kept a few flowers or some bit of living green, was Peter's sole acquaintance with his father, except when he trudged with his mother to the cemetery on fine Sundays, and traced with his small forefinger the name painted in black letters on a white wooden cross: PETER DEVEREAUX CHAMPNEYS _Aged 30 Years_ It always gave small Peter an uncomfortable sensation to trace that name, which was also his own, on his father's headboard. It was as if something of himself stayed out there, very lonesomely, in the deserted burying-ground. The word "father" never conveyed to him any idea or image except a crayon portrait and a grave, he being a posthumous child. The really important figures filling the background of his early days were his mother and big black Emma Campbell. Emma Campbell washed clothes in a large wooden tub set on a bench nailed between the two china-berry trees in the yard. Peter loved those china-berry trees, covered with masses of sweet-smelling lilac-colored blossoms in the spring, and with clusters of hard green berries in the summer. The beautiful feathery foliage made a pleasant shade for Emma Campbell's wash-tubs. Peter loved to watch her, she looked so important and so cheerful. While she worked she sang endless "speretuals," in a high, sweet voice that swooped bird-like up and down. "I wants tuh climb up Ja-cob's la-ad-dah, Ja-cob's la-ad-dah, Jacob's la-ad-dah, I wants tuh climb up Ja-cob's la-ad-dah, But I cain't-- Not un-tell I makes my peace wid de La-a-wd, En I praise _Him_--de La-a-wd! I 'll praise Him--tell I di-e, I 'll praise Him--tell I die! I 'll si-ng, Je-ee-ru-suh-lem!" Emma Campbell would sing, and keep time with thumps and clouts of sudsy clothes. She boiled the clothes in the same large black iron pot in which she boiled crabs and shrimp in the summer-time. Peter always raked the chips for her fire, and the leaves and pine-cones mixed with them gave off a pleasant smoky smell. Emma had a happy fashion of roasting sweet potatoes under the wash-pot, and you could smell those, too, mingled with the soapy odor of the boiling clothes, which she sloshed around with a sawed-off broom-handle. Other smells came from over the cove, of pine-trees, and sassafras, and bays, and that indescribable and clean odor which the winds bring out of the woods. The whole place was full of pleasant noises, dear and familiar sounds of water running seaward or swinging back landward, always with odd gurglings and chucklings and small sucking noises, and runs and rushes; and of the myriad rustlings of the huge live-oaks hung with long gray moss; and the sycamores frou-frouing like ladies' dresses; the palmettos rattled and clashed, with a sound like rain; the pines swayed one to another, and only in wild weather did they speak loudly, and then their voices were very high and airy. Peter liked the pines best of all. His earliest impression of beauty and of mystery was the moon walking "with silver-sandaled feet" over their tall heads. He loved it all--the little house, the trees, the tide-water, the smells, the sounds; in and out of which, keeping time to all, went the whi-r-rr of his mother's sewing-machine, and the scuff-scuffing of Emma Campbell's wash-board. Sometimes his mother, pausing for a second, would turn to look at him, her tired, pale face lighting up with her tender mother-smile: "What are you making now, Peter?" she would ask, as she watched his laborious efforts to put down on his slate his conception of the things he saw. She was always vitally interested in anything Peter said or did. "Well, I started to make you--or maybe it was Emma. But I thought I'd better hang a tail on it and let it be the cat." He studied the result gravely. "I'll stick horns on it, and if they're _very_ good horns I'll let it be the devil; if they're not, it can be Mis' Hughes's old cow." After a while the things that Peter was always drawing began to bear what might be called a family resemblance to the things they were intended to represent. But as all children try to draw, nobody noticed that Peter Champneys tried harder than most, or that he couldn't put his fingers on a bit of paper and a stub of pencil without trying to draw something--a smear that vaguely resembled a tree, or a lopsided assortment of features that you presently made out to be a face. But Peter Champneys, at a very early age, had to learn things less pleasant than drawing. That tiny house in Riverton represented all that was left of the once-great Champneys holdings, and the little widow was hard put to it to keep even that. Before he was seven Peter knew all those pitiful subterfuges wherewith genteel poverty tries to save its face; he had to watch his mother, who wasn't robust, fight that bitter and losing fight which women of her sort wage with evil circumstances. Peter wore shoes only from the middle of November to the first of March; his clothes were presentable only because his mother had a genius for making things over. He wasn't really hungry, for nobody can starve in a small town in South Carolina; folks are too kindly, too neighborly, too generous, for anything like that to happen. They have a tactful fashion of coming over with a plate of hot biscuit or a big bowl of steaming okra-and-tomato soup. Often a bowl of that soup fetched in by a thoughtful neighbor, or an apronful of sweet potatoes Emma Campbell brought with her when she did the washing, kept Peter's backbone and wishbone from rubbing noses. But there were rainy days when neighbors didn't send in anything, Emma wasn't washing for them that week, sewing was scanty, or taxes on the small holding had to be paid; and then Peter Champneys learned what an insatiable Shylock the human stomach can be. He learned what it means not to have enough warm covers on cold nights, nor warm clothes enough on cold days. He accepted it all without protest, or even wonder. These things were so because they were so. On such occasions his mother drew him closer to her and comforted him after the immemorial South Carolina fashion, with accounts of the former greatness, glory, and grandeur of the Champneys family; always finishing with the solemn admonition that, no matter what happened, Peter must never, never forget Who He Was. Peter, who was a literal child in his way, inferred from these accounts that when the South Carolina Champneyses used to light up their big house for a party, before the war, the folks in North Carolina could see to read print by the reflection in the sky, and the people over in Georgia thought they were witnessing the Aurora Borealis. She was a gentle, timid, pleasant little body, Peter's mother, with the mild manners and the soft voice of the South Carolina woman; and although the proverbial church-mouse was no poorer, Riverton would tell you, sympathetically, that Maria Champneys had her pride. For one thing, she was perfectly convinced that everybody who had ever been anybody in South Carolina was, somehow, related to the Champneyses. If they weren't,--well, it wasn't to their credit, that's all! She preferred to give them the benefit of the doubt. Her own grandfather had been a Virginian, a descendant of Pocahontas, of course, Pocahontas having been created by Divine Providence for the specific purpose of ancestoring Virginians. Just as everybody in New England is ancestored by one of those inevitable two brothers who came over, like sardines in a tin, in that amazingly elastic _Mayflower_. In the American Genesis this is the Sarah and these be the Abrahams, the mother and fathers of multitudes. They begin our Begats. Mrs. Champneys sniffed at _Mayflower_ origins, but she was firm on Pocahontas for herself, and adamant on Francis Marion for the Champneyses. The fact that the Indian Maid had but one bantling to her back, and the Swamp Fox none at all, didn't in the least disconcert her. If he _had_ had any children, they would have ancestored the Champneyses; so there you were! Peter, who had a fashion of thinking his own thoughts and then keeping them to himself, presently hit upon the truth. His was one of those Carolina coast families that, stripped by the war and irretrievably ruined by Reconstruction, have ever since been steadily decreasing in men, mentality, and money-power, each generation slipping a little farther down hill; until, in the case of the Champneyses, the family had just about reached rock-bottom in himself, the last of them. There had been, one understood, an uncle, his father's only brother, Chadwick Champneys. Peter's mother hadn't much to say about this Chadwick, who had been of a roving and restless nature, trying his hand at everything and succeeding in nothing. As poor as Job's turkey, what must he do on one of his prowls but marry some unknown girl from the Middle West, as poor as himself. After which he had slipped out of the lives of every one who knew him, and never been heard of again, except for the report that he had died somewhere out in Texas; or maybe it was Arizona or Idaho, or Mexico, or somewhere in South America. One didn't know. Behold small Peter, then, the last of his name, "all the sisters of his father's house, and all the brothers, too." Little, thin, dark Peter, with his knock-knees, his large ears, his shock of black hair, and, fringed by thick black lashes, eyes of a hazel so clear and rare that they were golden like topazes, only more beautiful. Leonardo would have loved to paint Peter's quiet face, with its shy, secret smile, and eyes that were the color of genius. Riverton thought him a homely child, with legs like those of one's grandmother's Chippendale chair, and eyes like a cat's. He was so quiet and reticent that nearly everybody except his mother and Emma Campbell thought him deficient in promise, and some even considered him "wanting." Peter's reputation for hopelessness began when he went to school, but it didn't end there. He really was somewhat of a trial to an average school-teacher, who very often knows less of the human nature of a child than any other created being. Peter used the carelessly good-and-easy English one inherits in the South, but he couldn't understand the written rules of grammar to save his life; he was totally indifferent as to which states bounded and bordered which; and he had been known to spell "physician" with an f and two z's. But it was when confronted by a sum that Peter stood revealed in his true colors of a dunce! "A boy buys chestnuts at one dollar and sixty cents the bushel and sells them at ten cents the quart, liquid measure.--Peter Champneys, what does he get?" Peter Champneys stood up, and reflected. "It all depends on the judge, and whether the boy's a white boy or a nigger," he decided. "It's against the law to use liquid measure, you know. But I should think he'd get about thirty days, if he's a nigger." Whereupon Peter Champneys went to the principal with a note, and received what was coming to him. When he returned to his seat, which was decidedly not comfortable just then, the teacher smiled a real, sure-enough schoolma'am smile, and remarked that she hoped our brilliant scholar, Mister Champneys, knew now what the boy got for his chestnuts. The class laughed as good scholars are expected to laugh on such occasions. Peter came to the conclusion that Herod, Nero, Bluebeard, and The Cruel Stepmother all probably began their bright careers as school-teachers. Peter was a friendly child who didn't have the useful art of making friends. He used to watch more gifted children wistfully. He would so much have liked to play familiarly with the pretty, impertinent, pigtailed little girls, the bright, noisy, cock-sure little boys; but he didn't know how to set about it, and they didn't in the least encourage him to try. Children aren't by any means angels to one another. They are, as often as not, quite the reverse. Peter was loath to assert himself, and he was shoved aside as the gentle and the just usually are. Being a loving child, he fell back upon the lesser creatures, and discovered that the Little Brothers do not judge one upon hearsay, or clothes, or personal appearance. Theirs is the infallible test: one must be kind if one wishes to gain and to hold their love. Martin Luther helped teach Peter that. Peter discovered Martin Luther, a shivering gray midget, in the cold dusk of a November evening, on the Riverton Road. The little beast rubbed against his legs, stuck up a ridiculous tail, and mewed hopefully. Peter, who needed friendliness himself, was unable to resist that appeal. He buttoned the forlorn kitten inside his old jacket, and, feeling the grateful warmth of his body, it cuddled and purred. The wise little cat didn't care the tip of a mouse's tail whether or not Peter was the congenital dunce his teacher had declared him to be, only that morning. The kitten knew he was just the sort of boy to show compassion to lost kittens, and trusted and loved him at sight. His mother was doubtful as to the wisdom of adopting a third member into a family which could barely feed two without one going half hungry. Also, she disliked cats intensely. She was most horribly afraid of cats. She was just about to say that he'd have to give the kitten to somebody better able to care for it, but seeing the resigned and hopeless expression that crept into Peter's face, she said, instead, that she reckoned they could manage to feed the little wretch, provided he kept it out of her room. Peter joyfully agreed, washed the cat in his own basin, fed it with a part of his own supper, and took it to bed with him, where it purred itself to sleep. Thus came Martin Luther to the house of Champneys. When Peter had chores to do the cat scampered about him with, sidewise leapings and gambolings, and made his labor easier by seasoning it with harmless amusement. When he wrestled with his lessons Martin Luther sat sedately on the table and watched him, every now and then rubbing a sympathetic head against him. When he woke up at night in the shed room, he liked to put out his hand and touch the warm, soft, silky body near him. Peter adored his cat, which was to him a friend. And then Martin Luther took to disappearing, mysteriously, for longer and longer intervals. Peter was filled with apprehensions, for Martin Luther wasn't a democratic soul; aside from his affection for Peter, the cat was as wild as a panther. The child was almost sick with anxiety. He wandered around Riverton hunting for the beast and calling it by name, a proceeding which further convinced Riverton folk that poor Maria Champneys's boy was not what one might call bright. Fancy carrying on like that about nothing but a cat! But Peter used to lie awake at night, lonesomely, and cry because he was afraid some evil had befallen the perverse creature of his affections. Then he prayed that God would look out for Martin Luther, if He hadn't already remembered to do so. The world of a sudden seemed a very big, sad, unfriendly place for a little boy to live in, when he couldn't even have a cat in it! The disappearance of Martin Luther was Peter's first sorrow that his mother couldn't fully share, as he knew she didn't like cats. Martin Luther had known that, too, and had kept his distance. He hadn't even made friends with Emma Campbell, who loved cats to the extent of picking up other people's when their owners weren't looking. This cat had loved nobody but Peter, a fact that endeared it to him a thousandfold, and made its probable fate a darker grief. One afternoon, when Martin Luther had been gone so long that Peter had about given up hopes of ever seeing him again, Emma Campbell, who had been washing in the yard, dashed into the house screeching that the woodshed was full of snakes. Peter joyfully threw aside his grammar--snakes hadn't half the terror for him that substantives had--and rushed out to investigate, while his mother frantically besought him not to go near the woodshed, to get an ax, to run for the town marshal, to run and ring the fire-bell, to burn down that woodshed before they were all stung to death in their beds! Cautiously Peter investigated. Perhaps a chicken-snake had crawled into the shed; perhaps a black-snake was hunting in there for rats; over there in that dark corner, behind sticks of pine, something was moving. And then he heard a sound he knew. "Snakes nothin'!" shouted Peter, joyfully. "It's Martin Luther!" He got on his hands and knees and squirmed and wriggled himself behind the wood. There he remained, transfixed. His faith had received a shocking blow. "Oh, Martin Luther!" cried Peter, with mingled joy and relief and reproach. "Oh, Martin Luther! How you've fooled me!" Martin Luther was a proud and purring mother. Peter was bewildered and aggrieved. "If I'd called him Mary or Martha in the beginning, I'd be glad for him to have as many kittens as he wanted to," he told his mother. "But how can I ever trust him again? He--he ain't Martin Luther any more!" And of a sudden he began to cry. Emma Campbell, with a bundle of clean wet clothes on her brawny arm, shook her head at him. "Lawd, no, Peter! 'T ain't de cat whut 's been foolin' you; it 's you whut 's been foolin' yo' own self. For, lo, fum de foundations ob dis worl', he was a she! Must n' blame de cat, chile. 'Cause ef you does," said Emma, waving an arm like a black mule's hind leg for strength, "ef you does, 'stead o' layin' de blame whah it natchelly b'longs--on yo' own ig'nance, Peter--you'll go thoo dis worl' wid every Gawd's tom-cat you comes by havin' kittens on you!" "I feel like a father to those kittens," said Peter, gravely. But it was plain that Martin Luther's furry fourlegs had put Peter's nose out of joint! Things were getting worse and worse at school, too, although Peter considerately concealed this from his mother. He didn't tell her that the promotions she was so proud of had come to him simply because his teachers were so desperately anxious to get rid of him! And only to-day an incident had happened that seared his soul. He had been forced to stand out on the floor for twenty cruel, grueling minutes, to be a Horrible Example to a tittering class. It had been a long, wearisome day, when one's head ached because one's stomach was empty. Peter's eyes stung and smarted, his lip was bruised because he had bitten it to keep it from trembling, and his heart was more like a boil in his breast than a little boy's heart. When he was finally released for the day he didn't linger, but got away as fast as his thin legs would carry him. Once he was sure he was out of sight of all unfriendly eyes he let himself go and cried as he trudged along the Riverton Road. And there, in the afternoon sunlight, he made the acquaintance of the Red Admiral. Just at that spot the Riverton Road was tree-shaded and bird-haunted. There were clumps of elder here and there, and cassena bushes, and tall fennel in the corners of the old worm-fence bordering the fields on each side. The worm-fence was of a polished, satiny, silvery gray, with trimmings of green vines clinging to it, wild-flowers peeping out of its crotches, and tall purple thistles swaying their heads toward it. On one especially tall thistle the Red Admiral had come to anchor. He wore upon the skirts of his fine dark-colored frock-coat a red-orange border sewed with tiny round black buttons; across the middle of his fore-wings, like the sash of an order, was a broad red ribbon, and the spatter of white on the tips may have been his idea of epaulets; or maybe they were nature's Distinguished Service medals given him for conspicuous bravery, for there is no more gallant sailor of the skies than the Red Admiral. When this gentleman comes to anchor on a flower he hoists his gay sails erect over his fat black back, in order that his under wings may be properly admired; for he knows very well that the cunningest craftsman that ever worked with mosaics and metals never turned out a better bit of jewel-work than those under wings. It was this piece of painted perfection that caught Peter Champneys's unhappy eyes and brought him to a standstill. Peter forgot that he was the school dunce, that tears were still on his cheeks, that he had a headache and an empty stomach. His eyes began to shine unwontedly, brightening into a golden limpidity, and his lips puckered into a smile. The Red Admiral, if one might judge by his unrubbed wings and the new and glossy vividness of his colorings, may have been some nine hours old. Peter, by the entry in his mother's Bible, was nine years old. Quite instinctively Peter's brown fingers groped for a pencil. At the feel of it he experienced a thrill of satisfaction. Down on his knees he went, and crept forward, nearer and nearer; for one must come as the wind comes who would approach the Red Admiral. Peter had no paper, so a fly-leaf of his geography would have to do. All athrill, he worked with his bit of pencil; and on the fly-leaf grew the worm-fence with the blackberry bramble climbing along its corners, and the fennel, and the elder bushes near by; and in the foreground the tall thistle, with the butterfly upon it. The Red Admiral is a gourmet; he lingers daintily over his meals; so Peter had time to make a careful sketch of him. This done, he sketched in the field beyond, and the buzzard hanging motionless in the sky. It was crude and defective, of course, and a casual eye wouldn't have glanced twice at it, but a true teacher would instantly have recognized the value, not of what it performed, but of what it presaged. For all its faults it was bold and rapid, like the Admiral's flight, and it had the Admiral's airy grace and freedom. It seized the outlines of things with unerring precision. The child kneeling in the dust of the Riverton Road, with an old geography open on his knee, felt in his thin breast a faint flutter, as of wings. He looked at the sketch; he watched the Red Admiral finish his meal and go scudding down the wind. And he knew he had found the one thing he could do, the one thing he wanted to do, that he must and would do. It was as if the butterfly had been a fairy, to open for Peter a tiny door of hope. He wrote under the sketch: Jun. 2, 189- This day I notissed the red and blak buterfly on the thissel. He stared at this for a while, and added: P.S. In futcher watch for this buterfly witch mite be a fary. Then he went trudging homeward. He was smiling, his own shy, secret smile. He held his head erect and looked ahead of him as if in the far, far distance he had seen something, a beckoning something, toward which he was to strive. Barefooted Peter, poverty-stricken, lonely Peter for the first time glimpsed the purple heights. CHAPTER II THE PROMISE It is written in the Live Green Book that one may not stumble upon one of its secrets without at the same discovering something about others quite as fascinating and worth exploring. This is a wise and blessed law, which the angels of the Little Peoples are always trying to have enforced. Peter Champneys suspected the Red Admiral of being a fairy; so when he ran fleet-footed over the fields and through the woods and alongside the worm-fences after the Admiral, the angels of the Little Peoples turned his boyish head aside and made him see birds' wings, and bees, and the shapes of leaves, and the colors of trees and clouds, and the faces of flowers. It is further written that one may not intimately know the Little Peoples without loving them. When one begins to love, one begins to grow. Peter, then, was growing. Lying awake in the dark now wasn't a thing to be dreaded; the dark was no longer filled with shapes of fear, for Peter was beginning to discover in himself a power of whose unique and immense value he was not as yet aware. It was the great power of being able clearly to visualize things, of bringing before his mind's eye whatever he had seen, with every distinction of shape and size and color sharply present, and accurately to portray it in the absence of the original. If one should ask him, "What's the shape of the milkweed butterfly's wing, and the color of the spice-bush swallowtail, Peter Champneys? What does the humming-bird's nest look like? What's the color of the rainbow-snake and of the cotton-mouth moccasin? What's the difference between the ironweed and the aster?"--Ask Peter things like that, and lend him a bit of paper and a pencil, and he literally had the answers at his finger-tips. But they never asked him what would, to him, have been natural questions; they wished him, instead, to tell them where the Onion River flows, and the latitude of the middle of Kamchatka, and to spell phthisis, and on what date the Battle of Somethingorother was fought, and if a man buys old iron at such a price, and makes it over into stoves weighing so much, and sells his stoves at such another price, what does it profit him, and other such-like illuminating and uplifting problems, warranted to make any school-child wiser than Solomon. It is a beautiful system; only, God, who is no respecter of systems, every now and then delights to flout it by making him a dunce like Peter Champneys, to be the torment of school-teachers--and the delight of the angels of the Little Peoples. Those long, silent, solitary hours in the open gave Peter the power of concentration, and a serenity that sat oddly on his slight shoulders. Thoughts came to him, out there, that he couldn't put into words nor yet set down upon paper. On warm nights, when his mother's sewing-machine was for a time still and the tired little woman slept, Peter slipped out of the shed room into a big, white, enchanted world, and saw things that are to be seen only by an imaginative and beauty-loving little boy in the light of the midsummer moon. Big hawk-moths, swift and sudden, darted by him with owl-like wings. Mocking-birds broke into silvery, irrepressible singing, and water-birds croaked and rustled in the cove, where the tide-water lipped the land. The slim, black pine-trees nodded and bent to one another, with the moon looking over their shoulders. Something wild and sweet and secret invaded the little boy's spirit, and stayed on in his heart. Maybe it was the heart-shaking call of the whippoorwill, or the song of the mocking-bird, truest voices of the summer night; or perhaps it was the spirit of the great green luna-moth, loveliest of all the daughters of the dark. Or perhaps the Red Admiral was indeed a fairy, as Peter said he was. Peter was superstitious about the Red Admiral. He was a good-luck sign, a sort of flying four-leaf clover. Peter noticed that whenever the Red Admiral crossed his path now, something pleasant always impended; it meant that he wouldn't be _very_ unhappy in school; or maybe he'd find a thrush's nest, or the pink orchid. Or the meeting might simply imply something nice and homey, such as a little treat his mother contrived to make for him when sewing had been somewhat better-paying than usual, and she could sit by the table and enjoy his enjoyment as only one's mother can. Decidedly, the Red Admiral was good luck! So, all along, quietly, persistently, not exactly secretly but still all by himself, Peter had been learning to use his fingers, as he had been learning to use his eyes and ears. He was morbidly shy about it. It never occurred to him that anybody might admire anything he could do, as nobody had ever admired anything he had done. On his mother's last birthday--though Peter didn't know then that it was to be her last--he made for her his first sketch in water-colors. By herculean efforts he had managed to get his materials; he had picked berries, weeded gardens until his head whirled and his back ached, chopped fire-wood, run errands, caught crabs. Presently he had his paper and colors. It was a beautiful surprise for Peter's mother, that sketch, which was a larger copy of the one on the fly-leaf of his geography. There was the gray worm-fence, a bit of brown ditch, an elder in flower, a tall purple thistle, and on it the Red Admiral. Peter wished to make his mother personally acquainted with the Red Admiral, so he printed on the back of his picture: My buterfly done for mother's burthday by her loveing son Peter Champneys the 11th Year of his Aige. The little woman cried, and held him off the better to look at him, with love, and wonder, and pride, and drew his head to her breast and kissed his hair and eyes, and wished his dear, dear father had been there to see what her wonder-child could do. "I can't to save my life see where you get such a lovely gift from, Peter. It must be just the grace of God that sends it to you. Your dear father couldn't so much as draw a straight line unless he had a ruler, I'm sure. And I'm not bright at all, except maybe about sewing. But you are different. I've always felt that, Peter, from the time you were a little baby. At the age of five months you cut two teeth without crying once! You were a _wonderful_ baby. I _knew_ it was in you to do something remarkable. Never you doubt your mother's word about _that_, Peter! You'll make your mark in the world yet! God couldn't fail to answer my prayers--and you the last Champneys." Peter was too innately kind and considerate to dim her joy with any doubts. He knew how he was rated--berated is the better word for it. He knew acutely how bad his marks were: his shoulders too often bore witness to them. The words "dunce" and "sissy" buzzed about his ears like stinging gnats. So he wasn't made vainglorious by his mother's praise. He received it with cautious reservations. But her faith in him filled him with an immense tenderness for the little woman, and a passionate desire, a very agony of desire, to struggle toward her aspirations for him, to make good, to repay her for all the privations she had endured. A lump came in his throat when he saw her place the little sketch under his father's picture, where her eyes could open upon it the first thing in the morning, and close to it at night. "Ah, my dear! God's will be done--I'm not complaining--but I wish, oh, how I wish you could be here to see what our dear child can do!" she told the smiling crayon portrait. "Some of these days the little son you've never seen is going to be a great man with a great name--_your_ name, my dear, _your_ name!" Her face kindled into a sort of exaltation. Two large tears ran down her cheeks, and two larger ones rolled down Peter's. His heart swelled, and again he felt in his breast the flutter as of wings. Far, far away, on the dim and distant horizon, something glimmered, like sunlight upon airy peaks. Peter's mother wasn't at all beautiful--just a little, thin, sallow woman with mild brown eyes and graying hair, and a sensitive mouth, and dressed in a worn black skirt and a plain white shirt-waist. Her fingers were needle-pricked, and she stooped from bending so constantly over her sewing-machine. She had been a pretty girl; now she was thirty-five years old and looked fifty. She wasn't in the least intellectual; she hadn't even the gift of humor, or she wouldn't have thought herself a sinner and besought Heaven to forgive sins she never committed. She used to weep over the Fifty-first Psalm, take courage from the Thirty-seventh, and when she hadn't enough food for her body feed her spirit on the Twenty-third. She didn't know that it is women like her who manage to make and keep the earth worth while. This timid and modest soul had the courage of a soldier and the patience of a martyr under the daily scourgings inflicted upon the sensitive by biting poverty. Peter might very well have received far less from a brilliant and beautiful mother than he received from the woman whose only gifts and graces were such as spring from a loving, unselfish, and pure heart. For Peter's sake she fought while she had strength to fight, enduring all things, hoping all things. She didn't even know she was sacrificing herself, because, as Emma Campbell said, "Miss Maria's jes' natchelly all mother." But of a sudden, the winter that Peter was turning twelve, the tide of battle went against her. The needle-pricked, patient fingers dropped their work. She said apologetically, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm too sick to stay up any longer." Nobody guessed how slight was her hold upon life. When the neighbors came in, after the kindly Carolina custom, she was cheerful enough, but quiet. But then, Maria Champneys was always quiet. There came a day when she was unusually quiet, even for her. Toward dusk the neighbor who had watched with her went home. At the door she said hopefully: "You'll be better in the morning." "Yes, I'll be better in the morning," the sick woman repeated. After a while Emma Campbell, who had been looking after the house, went away to her cabin across the cove. Peter and his mother were alone. It was a darkish, gusty night, and a small fire burned in the open fireplace. Shadows danced on the walls, and every now and then the wind came and tapped at the windows impatiently. On the closed sewing-machine an oil lamp burned, turned rather low. Peter sat in a rocking-chair drawn close to his mother's bedside and dozed fitfully, waking to watch the face on the pillow. It was very quiet there in the poor room, with the clock ticking, and the soft sound of the settling log. Just before dawn Peter replenished the fire, moving carefully lest he disturb his mother. But when he turned toward the bed again she was wide awake and looking at him intently. Peter ran to her, kissed her cheek, and held her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, and he chafed them between his palms. "Peter," said she, very gently, "I've got to go, my dear." There was no fear in her. The child looked at her piteously, his eyes big and frightened in his pale face. "And now I'm at the end," said she bravely, "I'm not afraid to leave you, Peter. You are a brave child, and a good child. You couldn't be dishonorable, or a coward, or a liar, or unkind, to save your life. You will always be gentle, and generous, and just. When one is where I am to-night, that is all that really matters. Nothing but goodness counts." Peter, with her hand against his cheek, tried not to weep. To conceal his terror and grief, and the shock of this thing come upon him in the middle of the night, to spare her the agony of witnessing his agony, was almost intuitive with him. He braced himself, and kept his self-control. She seemed to understand, for the hand he held against his cheek tried, feebly, to caress it. It didn't tire her to talk, apparently, for her voice was firm and clear. "You're a gifted child, as well as a good child, Peter. But--our people here don't understand you yet, my dearest. Your sort of brightness is different from theirs--and better, because it's rarer and slower. Hold fast to yourself, Peter. You're going to be a great man." Peter stroked her hand. The two looked at each other, a long, long, luminous look. "My son,--your chance is coming. I know that to-night. And when it comes, oh, for God's sake, for my sake, for all the Champneyses' sake, take it, Peter, take it!" Her voice rose at that, her hand tightened upon his; she looked at him imploringly. "Take it for my sake," she said with terrible earnestness and intensity. "Take it, darling, and prove that I was right about you. Remember how all my years, Peter, I toiled and prayed--all for you, my dearest, all for you! Remember me in that hour, Peter, and don't fail me, don't fail me!" "Oh, Mother, I won't fail you! I won't fail you!" cried Peter, and at that the tears came. His mother smiled, exquisitely; a smile of faith reassured and hope fulfilled, and love contented. That smile on a dying mouth stayed, with other beautiful and imperishable memories, in Peter's heart. Presently he ventured to ask her, timidly: "Shall I go for somebody, Mother?" "Are you afraid, dear?" "No," said Peter. "Then stay by me. Just you and me together. You--you are all I have--I don't need anybody else. Stay with me, Son,--for a little while." Outside you could hear the wind moving restlessly, and the trees complaining, and the tide-water whispering. The dark night was filled with a multitudinous murmuring. For a long while Peter and his mother clung to each other. From time to time she whispered to him--such pitiful comfortings as love may lend in its extremity. The black night paled into a gray glimmer of dawn. Peter held fast to the hand he couldn't warm. Her face was sharp and pale and pinched. She looked very little and thin and helpless. The bed seemed too big for so small a woman. More gray light stole through the windows. The lamp on the closed machine looked ghostly, the room filled with shifting shadows. Maria Champneys turned her head on her pillow, and stared at her son with eyes he didn't know for his mother's. They were full of a flickering light, as of a lamp going out. "'Though I walk--through the valley--'" Here her voice, a mere thin trickle of sound, failed her. As if pressed by an invisible hand her head began to bend forward. A thin, gray shade, as of inconceivably fine ashes, settled upon her face, and her nostrils quivered. The eyes, with the light fading from them, fixed themselves on Peter in a last look. "'--of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'" Peter finished it for her, his boyish voice a cry of agony. A light, puffing breath, as of a candle blown out, exhaled from his mother's lips. Her eyes closed, the hand in Peter's fell limp and slack. The awful and mysterious smile of death fixed itself upon her pale mouth. So passed Maria Champneys from her tiny house in Riverton, in the dawn of a winter morning, when the tide was turning and the world was full of the sound of water running seaward. CHAPTER III AT GRIPS WITH LIFE The best or the worst thing that can happen to a boy in this country is to be poor in it for a while, to be picked up neck and crop and flung upon his own resources; not always to remain poor, of course, for one may be damned quite as effectually and everlastingly upon the cross as off it; but to be poor long enough to acquire a sense of proportion by coming to close grips with life; to learn what things and people really are, the good and the bad of them together; to have to weigh and measure cant and sentimentality and Christian charity--which last is a fearsome thing--in the balance with truth and common sense and human kindness. It is an experience that makes or breaks. Peter had always adored his mother; but it wasn't until now that he realized how really wonderful she had been. How she had kept the roof over his head, and his stomach somehow satisfied, and had sent him to church and to school decently enough clad, Peter couldn't imagine. There was no possibility now of regular schooling. Nature hasn't provided as providently for the human grub as for the insect one. A human grub isn't born upon a food-plant that is a house as well, nor is nature his tailor and his shoemaker. Peter wasn't blood kin to anybody in Riverton, so there was no home open to him. He was deeply sensible of the genuine kindness extended to him in his dark hour, but he wouldn't, he couldn't, have gone permanently into any of their homes had he been asked to do so, which of course he wasn't. He clung to the little house on the big cove. His mother's presence lingered there and hallowed the place. There was some talk of sending him to an orphanage--he was barely twelve, and penniless. But when Mrs. Cooke, the minister's wife, mentioned it to Peter, gently enough, the boy turned upon her with flaming eyes, and said he wouldn't stay in any asylum; he'd run away, and keep on running away until he died! Mrs. Cooke looked troubled, and said that Mr. McMasters, a vestryman in the church, was really the head and front of that project. Peter went after Mr. McMasters, and found him in his grocery store--one of those long, dim country stores that sell everything from cradles to coffins. Mr. McMasters came from behind the counter, rubbing his hands. "Well, Peter, what can I do for _you_ this mawnin'?" he asked, jovially. He was that sort. "You can let me alone, please," said Peter, succinctly. "Eh? What's that?" The large man stared at the little man. "I said you can let me alone, please," said Peter, patiently. "I hear it's you doing most of the talking about sending me to an orphanage." "I try to do my duty as a man and a Christian," said the vestryman, piously. "You can't be allowed to run loose, Peter. 'T aint right. 'T ain't moral. 'T ain't Christian. You'll be better off in a good orphan-asylum, bein' taught what you'd ought to learn. That's the place for you, Peter!" "I want to stay in my own house," said Peter. "Shucks! You can't eat and wear a measly little house, can you? That's what I'm askin' the town right now. Sure you can't! The thing to do is to sell that place for what it'll fetch, sock the money in bank for you, and it'll be there--with _interest_--when you've grown up and aim to start in business for yourself. Yes, sir. That's my idea." "Mr. McMasters," said Peter, evenly, "I want you to know one thing sure and certain. If you send me to any orphan-asylum, I'll send _you_ to some place where you'll be better off, too, sir." "Meanin'?" Peter Champneys shot at the stout vestryman a glance like the thrust of a golden spear. "The cemetery, Mr. McMasters," said he, with the deadly South Carolina gentleness. The two stared at each other. It wasn't the boy's glance that fell first. "Threatenin' me, hey? Threatenin' a father of a family, are you?" Mr. McMasters licked his lips. "Oh, no, Mr. McMasters, I'm not threatening you, at all. I'm just telling you what'll happen." The vestryman reflected. He knew the Champneyses. They had all been men of their word. And fine marksmanship ran in the family. He had seen this same Peter handle a shot-gun: you'd think the little devil had been born with a gun in his fist! He had a thumb-nail vision of Mrs. McMasters collecting his life-insurance--getting new clothes, and the piano she had been plaguing him for, too, and her mother always in the house with her. He turned purple. "You--why, you beggarly whelp! You--you damned Champneys!" he roared. Peter met the angry eyes unflinchingly. "I reckon you'd better understand I'm not going to any orphan-asylum, Mr. McMasters. I'm going to stay right here at home. And you are not going to get my cove lot," he added shrewdly. "What do I care where you go? And who wants your old strip of sand and cockspurs? Get to hell out o' here!" yelled Mr. McMasters, violently. Peter marched out. He knew that victory perched upon his banners. He wouldn't be sent away, willy-nilly, to a place the bare thought of which had made his mother turn pale. And she had wished him to keep the place on the cove, the last poor remnant of Champneys land. To this end had she pinched and slaved. When Peter thought of McMasters intriguing to take from him even this poor possession, his lips came together firmly. Somehow he would manage to keep the place. If his mother had been able to manage it, surely a man could do so, too! He hadn't the faintest doubt of his ability to take care of himself. But the town was troubled and perplexed, until Peter solved his problem for himself with the aid of Emma Campbell. Emma had always been his friend, and she had been his mother's loyal and loving servitor. She and Peter had several long talks; then Emma called in Cassius, an ex-husband of hers who so long as he didn't live with her could get along with her, and had him widen the shed room, Peter taking in its stead his mother's bedroom. Cassius built a better wash-bench, with a shelter, under the china-berry trees in the yard, and strung some extra clothes-lines, and Emma Campbell moved in. Emma would take care of the house, and look after Peter. Riverton sighed, and shrugged its shoulders. It was a sketchy sort of arrangement, but it worked very well. Sometimes Peter provided the meals which Emma cooked, for he was expert at snaring, crabbing, shrimping, and fishing. Sometimes the spirit moved Cassius to lay an offering of a side of bacon, a bushel of potatoes, a string of fish, or maybe a jug of syrup or a hen at his ex-spouse's feet. Cassius said Emma was so contrary he specked she must be 'flicted wid de moonness, which is one way of saying that one is a bit weak in the head. But he liked her, and she washed his shirts and sewed on a button or so for him occasionally, or occasionally cracked him over the sconce with the hominy-spoon, just to show that she considered her marital ties binding. Emma had been married twice since Cassius left her, but both these ventures had been, in her own words, "triflin' niggers any real lady 'd jes' natchelly hab to throw out." When Cassius complained that his third wife was "diggin' roots" against him, Emma immediately set him to digging potatoes for herself, to offset the ill effects of possible conjure. She was a strategical person, and Peter didn't fare very badly, considering. The boy fell heir to all those odd jobs that boys in his position are expected to tackle. When a task was too tiresome, too disagreeable, or too ill-paying for anybody else, Peter was sent for and graciously allowed to do it. It enabled people to feel charitable and at the same time get something done for about a fourth of what a man would have charged. Half the time he made his living out of the river, going partners with some negro boatman. They are daring watermen, the coast negroes. They took Peter on deep-sea fishing-trips, and at night he curled up on a furled sail and went to sleep to the sound of Atlantic waves, and of negro men singing as only negro men can sing. Sometimes they went seining at night in the river, and Peter never forgot the flaring torches, the lights dipping and glinting and sliding off brawny, half-naked figures and black faces, while the marshes were a black, long line against the sky, and the moon made a silver track upon the waters, and the salty smell of the sea filled one's nostrils. Now that he could no longer attend school, Peter snatched at any book that came his way, getting all sorts and conditions of reading-matter from all sorts and conditions of people. His was the unappeasable hunger and thirst of those who long to know; and he wished to express what he learned, by making pictures and thus interpreting it for himself and others. It wasn't easy. Life turned a rather harsh face to him. He wasn't clothed like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field: he had to provide his own coverings as best he might. He wouldn't accept charity. He would wear his own old clothes but he wouldn't wear anybody else's. "Peter," said Emma Campbell, anxiously, "yo' rind is comin' out o' doors. Dem britches o' yourn looks like peep-thoo-de-winduh; daylight 's comin'." She added anxiously: "Don't you let a heavy rain ketch you in dem pants, Peter, or it 'll baptize you plum nekked to yo' shirt-tail." Peter looked alarmed. One may with decency run barefooted only to the knees. Upon reflection, he sold his mother's sewing-machine--it was an old machine and didn't bring much--and bought enough to cover himself with. "I wish I'd been born with my clothes on me, like you were," he confided to the Red Admiral. "Gee, you're lucky!" The Red Admiral flirted his fine coat vaingloriously. _He_ didn't have to worry about trousers, nor yet shoes for his six feet! And all he had to do was to fly around a bit and he was sure to find his dinner waiting for him. "Fairy," said Peter, soberly, "I'm not sniffling, but I'm not having what you'd call a good time. It's hard to be me, butterfly. Nothing nice has happened in such a long time. I wish you'd think up something pleasant and wish it to happen to me." If you'll hold out your first and second fingers and wiggle them in the friendliest way you know how, you'll see how the Red Admiral moved his feelers just then. When Peter Champneys went home that night, after a long afternoon of weeding an old lady's garden and whitewashing a long-suffering chicken house, Emma Campbell spread before him, on a hot platter, and of a crispness and brownness and odorousness to have made St. Simon Stylites slide down his pillar and grab for a piece of it, a fat chicken with an accompaniment of hot biscuit and good brown gravy. She didn't tell Peter how she had come by the chicken, nor did he wait to ask. He crammed his mouth, and Emma leaned against the door and watched him with profound satisfaction. When he had polished the last bone to an ivory whiteness, Emma reached behind her and handed Peter the book she had that morning wrested from a peddler whose shirt she had washed and ironed. Emma knew Peter liked books. Now, Emma Campbell couldn't by any stretch of imagination be considered a beautiful person. She had pulled almost all of her hair out by the roots, from a fashion she had of twisting and winding it tightly around a tin spoon, or a match stem, to "pull her palate up." The colored people suffer from a mysterious ailment known as "having your palate down," for which the one specific is to take a wisp of your hair and wrap it as tightly around a tin spoon, or a match stem, as you can twist it; that pulls your palate up. It is, of course, absolutely necessary for you to have your palate up, even though you scalp yourself in the process of making it stay up. Emma generally had a couple of spoons and two or three matches in what was left of her wool. She could screw her mouth up until it looked like a nozzle, and she could shoot her eyes out like a crab's. She was so big that most folks were afraid of her. But as she stood there beaming at Peter with the book in his hand, the loveliest lady in the land couldn't have looked better or kinder. Peter laid the Collection of Poetic Gems on the table, and blinked at Emma Campbell. Then, because he was only a boy, and because nothing so pleasant as this had happened to him for a long, long time--not since his mother died--he put his head down on the green-covered book and cried as only a boy can cry when he lets go. Emma Campbell seemed to grow about nine feet tall. "Peter," said she, in a terrifying voice, "I axes you not to lemme see you cryin' like dat! When I sees Miss Maria's chile cryin', jes' 'cause a ole nigger woman gives 'im a book, I wants to go out an' bust dis town wide open wid a ax!" When he had time to examine his Collection of Poetic Gems, Peter was overjoyed. The paper was poor, the cuts atrocious, the binding a poisonous green, but many of the Gems were of purest ray serene despite their wretched setting. Old-fashioned stuff, most of it, but woven on the loom of immortality. Peter, of course, had Simms's "War Poems of the South." He knew much of Father Ryan by heart. He, as well as another, could wave his brown stick of an arm and bid somebody "Take that banner down, 'tis tattered." He had been brought up on the story of the glory of the men who wore the gray, and for him the sword of Robert Lee would never dim nor tarnish. But these things were different. They talked to something deep down in him, that was neither Yankee nor Southerner, but larger and better than both. When Peter read these poems he felt the hair of his scalp prickle, and his heart almost burst with a rapture that was agony. But one can't exist on a collection of gems in a vile binding. Shirts and shoes wear out, and trousers must be replaced when they're too far gone to stand another stitch. Peter was too small to do any responsible work, and he was getting too big to be paid in pennies and dimes. People didn't exactly know what to do with him. One can't be supercilious to a boy who is a Champneys born, but can one invite a boy who runs errands, is on very familiar footing with all the colored people in the county, and wears such clothes as Peter wore, to one's house, or to be one of the guests when a child of the family gives a birthday party? Not even in South Carolina! For instance, when Mrs. Humphreys gave a birthday party for her little girl, she was troubled about Peter Champneys, who hadn't been invited. Peter had weeded her garden the day before, and mowed her lawn; and he had looked such a little fellow, running that lawn-mower out there in the sun! And now, while all the other children were playing and laughing, dressed in their party finery, Peter was splitting wood for old Miss Carruthers, a little farther down the street. Mrs. Humphreys could see him from her bedroom window. It was a little too much for the good-hearted woman, who had liked his mother. She compromised with herself by taking a plate if ice-cream and a thick slice of cake, slipping out of her back door, and hurrying down to Miss Carruthers's back yard. Peter stood there, leaning on his ax. Seated on a larger woodpile was old Daddy Christmas, one of the town beggars. Daddy Christmas was incredibly old, wrinkled, ragged, and bent. His grizzled, partly bald head nodded while he tried to talk to Peter. "Peter," said Mrs. Humphreys, hastily, "here's some ice-cream and cake for you." She blushed as she spoke. "It's a hot day--and you're working. I thought you'd like something cool and nice." She thrust the plate upon him. Peter smiled at her charmingly. "You're mighty kind, Mis' Humphreys," he told her. "I'll come back for the plate and spoon, after a while," she said, hurrying off. But at the gate, beside the thick crape-myrtle bushes, she paused and looked back. Somehow she wanted to see Maria Champneys's boy eating that ice-cream and cake. "Daddy Christmas," said a voice, gaily, "if there'd been two plates and two spoons, and if you'd had any sort of a dinner to-day, I'd be perfectly willing to share this treat with you. As it is, you'll have to eat it all by yourself." A second later the voice added: "Funny, you just saying the Lord would provide; but I bet you didn't think He'd provide ice-cream and cake!" Followed the brisk strokes of the ax, swung by a wiry, nervous little arm. Mrs. Humphreys walked down the lane to her house, with a very thoughtful face. CHAPTER IV THE SOUL OF BLACK FOLKS The negro to the white man, as the moon to the earth, shows one side only; the other is dark and unknown. It is an instinct with him to conceal the truth--any truth--from white men; who knows to what use they will put it and him? So deeply have ages of slavery and oppression ingrained this upon black men's subconsciousness, that only one white man in a thousand ever knows or suspects what his dark brethren think, or know, or feel. Peter Champneys happened to be the thousandth. There wasn't a cabin in all that countrywide in which this barefooted last scion of a long line of slave-holding gentry wasn't known and welcome. There wasn't a negro in the county he didn't know by name: even "mean niggers" grinned amiably at Peter Champneys. They remembered what he had once said to a district judge whom he heard bitterly inveighing against their ingratitude, immorality, shiftlessness, and general worthlessness. Peter had lifted his quiet eyes. "I've often thought, Judge, what a particularly mean nigger I'd have been, myself," he said, and studied the judge with disconcerting directness. "If you'd been born a colored man, and some folks talked and behaved to you like some folks talk and behave to colored men, don't you reckon you'd be in jail right this minute, Judge?" The white men who heard Peter's remark smiled, and one of them said, spitting out a mouthful of tobacco juice, that it was just another piece of that boy's damfoolishness. But the negroes, who knew that judge as only negroes can know white men, chuckled grimly. They have an immense respect for intelligence, and they made no mistake where Peter's was concerned. They knew him, too, a mild-eyed, brown-faced child reading out of a Book by the light of a kerosene lamp to groups of gray-headed, reverent listeners in lonely cabins. And Peter was always making pictures of them--Mindel at the wash-tub, Emma Campbell picking a chicken, old Maum' Chloe churning, Liza playing with her fat black baby, Joe Tuttle plowing, old Daddy Neptune Fennick leaning on his ax. Sometimes these sketches caught some fleeting moment of fun, and were so true and so amusing that they were received with shouts of delighted laughter, passed from hand to hand, and cherished by fortunate recipients. Now, no simple and natural heart can even for a little while beat in unison with other hearts, encased in whatsoever colored skin may please God, without a quickening of that wisdom which is one of the keys of the Kingdom to come. To be able really to know, truly to understand and come human-close to the lowly, to men and women under the bondage of age-old prejudice, or outcast by the color of their skin, is a terrible and perilous gift. This is the much knowledge in which there is much grief. Peter Champneys saw both sides. He saw and heard and knew things that would have made his mother turn in her grave had she known. He knew what depths of savagery and superstition, of brute sloth and ignorance, lay here to drive back many a would-be white helper in despair, and to render the labor of many a splendid negro reformer all but futile. But he knew, too, the terrible patience, the incredible resignation, with which poverty and neglect and hunger and oppression and injustice are borne, until at times, child as he was, his soul sickened with shame and rage. He relished the sweet earthy humor that brightens humble lives, the gaiety and charity under conditions which, when white men have to bear them, go to the making of red terrorists. Some of the things he saw and heard remained like scars upon Peter's memory. He will remember until he dies the June night he spent with Daddy Neptune Fennick in his cabin on the edge of the River Swamp. That early June day had been cloudy from dawn; Peter was glad of that, for he meant to pick black-berries, and a sunless day for berry-picking is an unmixed blessing. The little negroes are such nimblefingered pickers, such locust-like strippers of all near-by patches, that Peter had bad luck at first, and was driven farther afield than he usually went; his search led him even to the edge of the River Swamp, a dismal place of evil repute, wherein cane as tall as a man grew thickly, and sluggish streamlets meandered in and out of gnarled cypress roots, and big water-snakes stretched themselves on branches overhanging the water. On the edges of the swamp the unmolested vines were thick with fruit. In the late afternoon Peter had filled his buckets to overflowing with extra-fine berries. It had been a sultry day for all its sunlessness, and Peter was tired, so tired that his head and back ached. He looked at the heavy buckets doubtfully; it would be a man-size job to trudge the long sandy road home, so laden. While he sat there, hating to move, Daddy Neptune Fennick came in sight, hoe and rake and ax on his sturdy shoulder. The old man cast a shrewd, weather-wise eye at the darkening sky. "Gwine to hab one spell o' wedder," he called. "Best come on home wid me, Peter, en wait w'ile." Even as he spoke a blaze of lightning split the sky and lighted up the swamp. A loud clap of thunder followed on the heels of it. Daddy Neptune seized one bucket, Peter the other, and both ran for the shelter of the cabin, some eighth of a mile farther on. They reached it just as the rain came down in swirling, blinding sheets. The old man built a fire in his mud fireplace, and prepared the evening meal of broiled bacon, johnny-cake, and coffee. He and his welcome guest ate from tin plates on their knees, drinking their coffee from tin cups. Between mouthfuls each gave the other what county news he possessed. Peter particularly liked that orderly one-roomed cabin, and the fine old man who was his host. He was an old-timer, was Daddy Neptune, more than six feet tall, and massively proportioned. His bald head was fringed with a ring of curling gray wool, and a white beard covered the lower portion of an unusually handsome countenance. He had a shrewd and homely wit, an unbuyable honesty, and such a simple and unaffected dignity of manner and bearing as had won the respect of the county. The old man lived by himself in the cabin by the River Swamp. His wife and son had long been dead, and though he had sheltered, fed, clothed, and taught to work several negro lads, these had gone their way. Peter was particularly attached to him, and the old man returned his affection with interest. The dark fell rapidly. You could hear the trees in the River Swamp crying out as the wind tormented them. On a night like this, with lightning snaking through it and wild wind trying to tear the heart out of its thin cypresses, and the cane-brake rustling ominously in its unchancy black stretches, one might believe that the place was haunted, as the negroes said it was. Daddy Neptune was moved to tell Peter some of his own experiences with the River Swamp. He spoke, between puffs of his corn-cob pipe, of the night Something had come out of it--_pitterpat! pitterpat!_--right at his heels. It had followed him to the very edge of his home clearing. Daddy Neptune wasn't exactly _afraid_, but he knew that Something hadn't any business to be pitterpattering at his heels, so he had turned around and said: "Ef you-all come out o' hebben, you 's wastin' good time 'yuh. Ef Dey-all lef' you come out o' hell, you bes' git right back whah you b'longs. One ways, _I_ ain't got nothin' I kin tell you; t'other ways, _you_ ain't got nothin' I 's gwine to let you tell me. I 's axin' you to _git_. En," finished Neptune, "dat t'ing done went right _out_--whish!--same lak I 's tellin' you! Yessuh! hit went spang _out_!" He threw another chunk of fatwood on the fire, and watched the smoky flame go dancing up the chimney. In the red glow he had the aspect of a kindly Titan. "It never bothered you again, Daddy Nep?" Peter was always curious about these experiences. He had a glimmer that negroes are nearer to certain Powers than other folks are, and although he wasn't superstitious, he wasn't skeptical, either. "Never bothered me a-tall, less'n dat 's whut 's been meddlin' wid my fowls, whichin ef I catches it, I aims to blow its head plum off, ghostes or no ghostes," said the old man, stoutly. "Ghosts don't steal chickens. I reckon it's a wild-cat gets yours. I heard one scream in the swamp not so long since." "Well, I aims to git Mistuh Wildcat, den. I done got me a couple o' guinea-fowls for watch, en dey sho does set up a mighty potrackin' w'en anything strange comes a-snoopin' roun' de yahd." After a while Daddy Neptune put away his pipe and took down from a shelf his big battered Bible, and Peter read the Twenty-first and Twenty-second chapters of Revelation, to which the old man listened with clasped hands and an uplifted face, his lips moving soundlessly as he repeated to himself certain of the words: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.... He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God and he shall be my son ... "I was born in slaveryment," said the old man, audibly. Peter lay on his straw bed before the fire, sleepily watching Neptune finish his prayers. He still had a child's faith, but he was beginning to wonder how a laboring negro could retain it. One thing he was sure of; if there was such a thing as a Christian man, endowed with ideal Christian virtues, that old man kneeling in his cabin, pouring out his heart to his Maker, was a Christian. And remembering comfortable, complacent white Christians--well fed, well housed, well clothed; with education and all that it implies as their heritage; with all the high things of the world open to them by reason of their white skin; praying decorously every Sunday to a white man's God--Peter felt confused. How should the white man and the white man's God answer and account to the Daddy Neptunes, who had been "born in slaveryment," had lived and would die in slaveryment to poverty and prejudice? Where do they come in, these dispossessed dark sons of the Father? Surely, the Father has a very great deal to make up to them!--Then the firelighted cabin walls, the wavering figure of the kneeling old man, the soft sound of light rain on the roof, faded and went out. Peter fell asleep. He slept a tired boy's dreamless slumber. The night deepened. The rain ceased, and a wan and sad moon climbed the sky, wearily, like a tired old woman. In the River Swamp frogs croaked, a whippoorwill at intervals gave its lonesome and lovely call, the shivering-owl's cry making it lovelier by comparison. The cypresses shook blackly in the blacker swamp water which licked their roots. From the drenched vegetation arose a fresh and penetrating odor, the smell of the clean June night. And presently, he didn't know why, Peter awoke with every sense instantly alert. It was as if his soul had sensed a sound, knew it for what it was, and was on guard. A few red embers glowed in the big mud chimney. Save for these, the one-room cabin was in darkness. Somebody was moving about. Peter made out the figure of big Neptune standing with his head bent in a listening attitude at one of the shuttered windows. A bit of fatwood in the fireplace burst for a moment into an expiring flame, which flickered dully on the barrel of the gun in the negro's hands. Peter scrambled up, and stole noiselessly across the floor. "Dem guineas potracked en waked me up, Son," whispered Neptune. "Now I aims to git whut 's been sneakin' off wid my fowls." At that moment a low knock sounded on the door. At such an hour, and in that lonely place, it gave the old man and the boy a distinct sensation of fear: who should come knocking so stealthily at the door of the cabin by the River Swamp at that eerie hour? Neptune, his gun gripped in his hands, twisted his head sidewise, listening. The knock came again, this time more insistent. Then a thick voice spoke, muffled by the intervening door: "Daddy Nepshun, is you awake? For Gawd A'mighty's sake, Daddy Nepshun, lemme in!" The old man stepped to the door and flung it wide. The figure that had been crouching against it tumbled in and lay panting on the floor. "Light me dat lamp, please, Peter," said Neptune, peering down at his visitor. Peter, who had recovered from his momentary fear, lighted the kerosene lamp. By its light they perceived a stained, muddy, disheveled wretch, in the last state of terror and exhaustion. Two wild eyes glared at them out of a gray, grimed face. "Why, Jake! Lawd 'a' mussy, hit 's Jake!" burst from Daddy Neptune. Peter recognized in the intruder a negro to whom the old man had been, as was his wont, fatherly kind. On a time he and his wife had sheltered and fed Jake. Peter didn't know why, but something in the man's aspect, in his rolling eyes, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his torn clothes, his desperate look of a hunted beast, made him recoil. He had never before seen any one with just that look of brute cunning and terror. Daddy Neptune's steady eyes took in every detail. He stiffened in his tracks. "Whut you been doin'?" he demanded. Jake turned his head from side to side; he refused to meet the direct old eyes. He mumbled: "Is you got any w'isky, Da' Nepshun? For Gawd's sake, Da' Nepshun, gimme a drink en don't ast me no questions twell I 's able to answer." His voice was hoarse and shaking; his whole body shook. "I ain't got no w'isky, but I got coffee en bittles. Whichin you is welcome to," said Neptune. "You ain't say yit whut you been doin'. Whut you been up to, Jake?" Jake writhed off the floor. Again Peter recoiled instinctively. As the negro got upon his feet his coat fell open, and the torn sleeve and cuff of a gingham shirt showed. On it was a dark stain which was not swamp water or mud. Peter's eyes fastened upon that dark red smear. "Gimme a bite o' bittles so 's I kin git on," implored Jake. "I axes you once mo', Jake: whut you been doin'?" demanded Neptune. His voice was stern, and his face began to set. "En I axes you to lemme git dem bittles fust, en I'll tell you, soon 's I gits back mah wind," returned Jake, sullenly. Still retaining his gun, Neptune went to the corner cupboard, from which he took a loaf of bread. Without cutting it he handed it to Jake, who began to tear it with his teeth. All the while he ate, he kept turning his head, listening, listening. "Cain't wait for no coffee. Gimme drink o' water, please, suh." In silence Neptune handed him a gourd of water. When Jake had gulped this down, Neptune asked again, inexorably: "Whut you been doin', Jake?" Jake shifted from one foot to the other. He thrust his bullet head forward. His hands, hanging at his sides, opened and closed, the fingers twitching. "Dem w'ite mens is atter--somebuddy--en dey say hit 's me," he muttered hoarsely. His eyes rolled toward the door, which, not having been barred after his entrance, swung slightly ajar. "Whut dey atter somebuddy _for_?" Neptune demanded. Outside, in the wet night, the screech-owl cried. The sweet wind danced on airy feet in and out of the cypresses and the gums, kissed them, stole their breath, and tossed it abroad odorously. Stars had come out to keep the pale moon company, and a faint light glinted on wet grass and bushes. Crickets and katydids and little green tree-frogs kept up a harsh concert. And then, above all the minor, murmuring noises of the night arose another sound, very faint and far off, but unmistakable and unforgetable--the deep, long, bell note of a hound upon the trail. The three in the cabin stood like figures turned to stone in the attitude of listening. Jake's teeth chattered audibly. He edged toward the open door, but Neptune stepped in front of him, and flung up an arresting hand. "_Whut for_?" His voice was like a whip-lash. "Somebuddy--done meddled wid a w'ite gal--een de cawn-field. En dey 'low--hit wuz me." A gasp, as if his heart had been squeezed, came from Neptune. Of a sudden he seemed to grow in height, to tower unhumanly tall above the cringing wretch he confronted. His eyes narrowed into red points that bored into the other's eyes, and plunged like daggers into his heart and mind. Before that glance, like a vivisectionist's knife, Jake wilted; he seemed to shrink, dwindle, collapse. And with a growing, cold, awful horror, a suspicion so hideous that his mind revolted from it, Peter Champneys stood staring from one black face to the other. "You--you--" Neptune gulped, strangling. A long, slow shudder, as of one confronting unheard-of torture, went over his big frame. The fringe of hair on his bald head rose, his beard bristled. Sparks seemed to shoot from his eyes, burning with a terrible flame. "Da' Nepshun--" Jake put out clawing, twitching hands. "Dey 's--dey 's--gwine to git me." His voice broke into a half-scream. "Whut you do hit for?" This from Neptune, in a heart-shaken, anguished, rattling whisper. He asked no further questions. He had no doubt. Jake's rolling eyes had told him the unspeakable truth. "I 'clah to Gawd, Da' Nepshun, I wuz n't meanin' no hahm--I never had no idea--She came down de cawn-field paff--wid de cow followin' 'er--en--en--I don't know _whut_ mek me meddle wid dat gal. Seems lak hit wuz de debbil, 'stead o' me." "Is de gal done daid?" "Yas, suh, she done daid." Jake rocked himself to and fro, muttering her name. Peter Champneys looked at the torn shirt-sleeve with the red stain upon it. The room shook and wavered, wind was in his ears. And the red of that girl's blood got into his eyes, and he saw things through a scarlet mist. The most horrible rage he had ever experienced shook him like a mortal sickness. Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God! That girl! In the momentary silence that fell upon that tragic room, a sound shivered. Long, slow, bell-like. Nearer. It galvanized Jake into terror-stricken action. He started for the door. "Dey 'll git me, dey 'll git me!" he croaked. Peter would have flung himself upon the wretch, to reach for his throat with bare hands; but something in Neptune's face stopped him. Neptune's bigness seemed to fill the whole room. He drew a deep breath, and with one movement jerked the door wide. "Run down de paff by de fowl-house," he said sharply. "Den--hit 's de swamp for you." Peter turned sick. Was Neptune like all other--niggers? Hadn't he the--proper sense of what this devil had done? Jake leaped for the door, cleared the steps at a bound, and was flying down the path. Neptune took one forward step, filling the doorway. He lifted the shot-gun to his shoulder. Just as the fugitive neared the fowl-house, the gun spoke. The flying figure leaped high in the air, and then sprawled out and was suddenly still and inert. The guinea-hens set up a deafening potracking, and the cooped fowls squawked and flapped. Above all the noise they made rose the bloodhound's note. It was done so quickly, it was so inevitable, that Peter could only stand and blink. He thought, sickly, that the very earth should shudder away from the soiling touch of that appalling carrion. But the earth was the one thing that would receive Jake unprotestingly. He lay on his face, his arms outflung, and from the gaping hole between his shoulders a dark stream welled. The indifferent earth, the uncaring grass, received it. The wind came out of the swamp on mincing feet and danced over him, and fluttered his torn shirt-sleeve. Stonily, voicelessly, Neptune stood in the cabin door, staring at that which lay in the pathway. Then he lowered the smoking gun, and leaned on it. His bald head drooped until his gray beard swept his breast, and his throat rattled like a dying man's. Shudders went over him. And stonily young Peter Champneys stood beside him, his boyish eyes hard in a dead-white face, his boyish mouth a grim, pale line. "Peter," said the old man presently, in a thin whisper, "I helped raise dat boy. Wuz n't sich a bad boy, neither. Used to sing en wissle roun' de house, en fetch water en fiah-wood. Chloe, she loved 'im. Used to say Ouah Fathuh right in dis same room 'fo' he went to sleep. Ef I 'd 'a' knowed-- "En dat po' lil w'ite chile's daddy en mammy, _dey_ done raise 'er--used to say 'er prayers--en laff en sing--en trus' de Almighty Gawd--" He raised his sinewy arms and shook the gun aloft. "Ah, Gawd Almighty! Gawd Almighty! Whah is You dis night? Whah is You?" cried the old man. And of a sudden he began to weep dreadfully; heart-broken cries of pain and of protest, the tortured cries of one suffering inhumanly. "And all this while God said not a word." Shaken to the soul, full of sick horror, and loathing, and rage, Peter Champneys yet had a swift, intuitive understanding of old Neptune; and as if through him he had caught a glimpse of the naked and suffering soul of the black people, the boy began to weep with him. With understanding merging into pity he crept nearer and put his slender, boyish arm around the big, shaking, agonized figure, and the old man turned his head and looked long and sorrowfully into the white child's face. He put out the big, seamed, work-hardened hand that had labored since it could hold an implement to labor with, and laid it on the child's shoulder. Then, bareheaded and empty-handed, Neptune sat down on his cabin steps to wait for what should happen, and Peter Champneys sat beside him, the gun between his knees. Over there by the fowl-house lay Jake, a horrid blotch in the moonlight. Presently, echoing through the River Swamp, the hunting hounds set up their thrilling, deep-mouthed belling. They were closing in on their quarry and the nearness of it excited them. A few minutes later, and here they were, a posse of some thirty or forty mounted men struggling pell-mell after them. One great hound leaped forward, stood rigid by that which lay in a heap in the cabin clearing, pointed his nose, and gave tongue. Other dogs bunched around him, sniffed, and joined in. The mounted men came to an abrupt standstill, the horses, like the dogs, bunching together. Neptune had risen and Peter Champneys stood on the top step, his head about level with the old man's shoulder. He looked in vain for the sheriff; evidently, this was an independent posse. One of the men rode up to the door, shouting to make himself heard above the din of the dogs, and Peter recognized him, with a sinking of the heart--a tenant farmer named Mosely, of a violent and quarrelsome disposition. "Shet up them damn dogs!" he yelled. And to Neptune, savagely: "Now then, nigger, talk! What's been doin' here?" It was Peter Champneys who answered. "Daddy Neptune's been worried by something or somebody stealing his fowls. He's been on the watch. So when he saw that--that nigger over there running by the chicken-house, he just blazed away. Got him between the shoulder-blades." A yell so ferocious that Peter's marrow froze, burst from the posse, which had dismounted. "It's him!" howled a farm-hand, and kicked the corpse in the face. "What in hell did that big nigger shoot him for, anyhow?" he roared. "He'd ought to be strung up himself, the old black--" And he cursed Neptune vilely. He felt swindled. There would be no burning, with interludes of unspeakable things. Nothing but senseless carrion to wreak vengeance upon. And all through a damned old meddling nigger's fault! A nigger taking the law into his own hands! Somebody, discovering Daddy Neptune's woodpile, had kindled a fatwood torch. Others followed his example, and the red, smoky light flared over enraged faces and glaring eyes of maddened men; over the sweating horses, the baying dogs, and the black corpse with its bruised face. The guinea-hens, after their insane fashion, kept up a deafening potracking, flapping from limb to limb of the tree in which they roosted. The indifferent swamp chorus joined in, katydids and crickets shrilling all the while. And over it all the moon went about its business; the awful depths of the sky were silent. The wind from the swamp, the night, the earth, didn't care. Somebody whipped out a knife and bent over Jake's body. A yell greeted this. Dogs and men moved confusedly around the thing on the ground, in a sort of demoniac circle upon which the hissing, flaring pitch-pine torches danced with infernal effect. Peter Champneys watched it, his soul revolting. He had no sympathy for Jake; he felt for him nothing but hatred. He couldn't think of that gay and innocent girl coming down the corn-field path, unafraid--to meet what she had met--without a suffocating sense of rage. She had been, Peter remembered, a very pretty girl, a girl who, as Neptune had said, used to sing, and laugh, and say her prayers, and trust Almighty God. But Peter was seeing now the other side of that awful cloud which darkens the horizon of the South--the brute beast mob-vengeance that follows swiftly upon the heels of the unpardonable sin. There must be justice. But what was happening now wasn't justice. It was stark barbarism let loose. Neptune, who had "helped raise" Jake, had meted out to him justice full and sure. He had avenged both the wronged white and the wronged black people. Peter looked at the men in the cabin clearing, and saw the thing nakedly, and from both angles. For instance, consider Mosely, who had done things--with a clasp-knife. And that other man, the farm-hand, shifty-eyed and mean, always half drunk, a bad citizen: _they_ would be sure to be foremost in affairs like this. They had precious little respect for the law as law. And here they were, making the holy night indecent with bestial behavior. Again a sick qualm shook Peter: Mosely was calmly putting four severed black fingers into his coat pocket. Oh, where was the sheriff? Why didn't the sheriff come? Peter caught a glimpse of a shapeless, battered, gory mass under trampling feet. Maddened by the little they were able to accomplish, and with the torture-lust that is as old as humanity itself roused to fury by frustration, the posse turned from that which had been Jake, to old Neptune, standing motionless by his doorway. Neptune had not moved or spoken since Peter had answered the posse's questions. He had not even appeared to hear the vile abuse heaped upon him. He was not in the least afraid for his life: He was beyond that. That which had happened, which was happening, had dealt the stern, simple-hearted old man so mighty a blow that his faculties were stunned. He couldn't think. He could only suffer a bewildered, baffled torment. He stood there, dumb as a sheep before the slaughterers, and the sight of his black face maddened the men who were out to avenge a black man's monstrous crime. "Hang the damn nigger!" screamed Mosely, and the crowd surged forward ominously. You could see, by the shaking torch-light, faces in which the eyes glared wolf-like, brandished fists, glints of guns. Neptune, without a flicker of fear, regarded them with his sorrowful gaze. But Peter Champneys stepped in front of him, and thrust the cold muzzle of the shot-gun against Mosely's face. The man, a coward at heart, leaped back, trampling upon the toes of those behind him, who cursed him shrilly and vindictively. Then spoke up small Peter Champneys, standing barefooted and bareheaded, clothed in a coarse blue blouse and a pair of patched and faded denim trousers, but for all that heir to a long line of dead-and-gone Champneyses who had been, whatever their faults, fearless and gallant gentlemen. "Get back there, you, Mosely!" Peter Champneys spoke in the voice his grandfather had on a time used to a recalcitrant field-hand. "Chuck that little nigger-lover in the swamp!" "Knock him down an' git the nigger, Mosely!" "Burn down the house!" But the shot-gun in that steady young hand held them in check for a breathing-space. They knew Peter Champneys. "Mosely!" snapped Peter. "You, too, Nicolson! Stand back, you white-livered hounds! First one of you lays a hand on me or Daddy Nep gets his head blown off! Damn you, Mosely! don't make me tell you again to get back!" And Mosely saw that in the boy's eyes that drove him back, swearing. The huge farm-hand, who had shifted and squirmed his way to the back of the crowd, now lifted his arm. A rope with a noose at the end snaked over the tossing heads, and all but settled over black Neptune's. It slipped, writhing from the old man's shoulder and down his shirt. The mob set up a disappointed and yet hopeful howl. "Try it again! Try it again!" they shrieked. Then a sort of waiting hush fell upon them. The farm-hand, to whom the rope had been tossed, was again making ready for a throw, measuring the distance with his eyes. Peter, his lips tightening, waited too. The farm-hand was a tall man, and the posse had shifted to allow him space. His arm shot up, the noosed rope whizzed forward. But even as it did so Peter Champneys's trigger-finger moved. The report sounded like a clap of thunder, and was followed by a roar of rage and pain. The rope-thrower, with the rope tripping his feet and impeding his movements, danced about wildly, shaking the hand from which three fingers had been cleanly clipped. At that instant another posse rode up, with a baying of hounds to herald it. One saw the sheriff on a large bay horse, a Winchester in the crook of his arm. With a merest glance at what had been Jake, he pushed his way through the throng, and was confronted by Peter Champneys standing in front of old Neptune Fennick, with a smoking shot-gun in his hands. "You better do something, quick! If you let anything happen to Daddy Nep, you've got to kill me first," panted Peter. "He'd ought to be shot for a nigger-lover, Sheriff!" shouted the farm-hand. "All right. Do it. But you'll get your neck stretched for it! My name's _Champneys_," shouted Peter. The sheriff moved restlessly on his bay. A Champneys had fed his parents. Chadwick Champneys had given him his first pair of shoes. The sheriff was stirred to the depths by the crime that had been committed, and he had no love for a nigger, but-- He turned to the menacing crowd. "Here, boys, enough o' this! The right nigger's dead, and that's all there is to it. No, you don't do no hangin'! I'm sheriff o' this county, an' I aim to keep the law. Let that old nigger alone, Mosely! If that young hell-cat puts a bullet in your chitlin's, it'll be your own funeral." He straightened in the saddle, touched the rein, and in a second the big bay had been swung around to stand between Neptune and the white men. The muzzle of Peter's gun touched the sheriff's leg. "Put that pop-gun up, Son," said he, turning his head to look down into the boy's face. Their eyes met, in a long look. "I knew that girl since she was bawn," he said, and his hard face quivered. "Hell!" swore the sheriff, and the hand on his bridle shook. He knew old Neptune, too, and in his way liked him. But it was hard for the sheriff, who had seen the dead little girl, to look into any black face that night and retain any feeling of humanity. "Yes, sir. I knew her, too," said Peter Champneys, gulping. "But--I know Neptune, too. And--what happened--wasn't his fault. It's got nothing to do with Neptune--and--and things that Mosely--" His voice broke. "Hell!" swore the sheriff again. And he whispered, more gently, "All right, Peter. An' I reckon you better stay by the old nigger for a day or two until this thing dies down." After all, the sheriff thought relievedly, Neptune's swift action, actuated by whatsoever motive, had saved the county and himself from a rather frightful episode. Turning to the crowd, he yelled: "Get them dogs started for home! They're goin' plum crazy! Get on your hawse, Mosely! You, over there, with your fist shot up, ride next to me. Mount, all o' you! Mount, I say! No, I'll come last. "What's that you're sayin', Briggs? No, suh, not by a damn-sight you won't! Not while I'm sheriff o' this county an' upholdin' law an' order in it, you won't drag no dead nigger behind _my_ hawse--nor yet in front of him, neither! Let the nigger lay where he is and rot--what's left of him." "Do you want us to bury--it?" quavered Peter. "Bury it or burn it. What the hell do I care what you do with it?" growled the sheriff. "He's dead, that's all I got to think about." He ran his shrewd eyes over the posse, saw that not one straggler remained to do further mischief, and drove them before him, willy-nilly. In five minutes the trampled yard was clear, and the sound of the horses' hoofs was already dying in the distance. In the sky all other stars had paled to make room for the morning star. Peter and Neptune, left alone, looked at each other dumbly. A thing remained to be done. The sun mustn't rise upon the horror that lay in the cabin yard. Neptune went to his small barn and trundled out a wheelbarrow, in which were several gunny-sacks, a piece of rope, and a spade. Peter turned his head away while the old man covered the thing on the ground with sacking, rolled it over, floppily, and tied it as best he could. The sweat came out on them both as they saw the stains that spread on the clean sacking. Neptune heaped the bundle into his wheelbarrow. At a word from him Peter went into the house and returned with a lighted lantern, for the River Swamp was still very dark. The sun wouldn't be up for an hour or two yet. Peter held the lantern in one hand, and carried spade and shot-gun over the other shoulder. In the ghostly light they entered the swamp, every turn and twist of whose wide, watery acreage was known to Neptune, and was fairly familiar to Peter. They had to proceed warily, for the ground was treacherous, and at any moment a jutting tree-root might upset the clumsy barrow. Despite Neptune's utmost care it bumped and swayed, and the shapeless bundle in it shook hideously, as if it were trying to escape. And the stains on the coarse shroud grew, and spread. In a small and fairly dry space among particularly large cypresses, Neptune stopped. At one side was a deep pool in whose depths the lantern was reflected. About it ferns, some of a great height, grew thickly. Neptune began to dig in the black earth. Sometimes he struck a cypress root, against which the spade rang with a hollow sound. It was slow enough work, but the hole in the swamp earth grew with every spade-thrust, like a blind mouth opening wider and wider. Peter held the lantern. The trees stood there like witnesses. Presently Neptune straightened his shoulders, moved back to the barrow, and edged it to the hole. Swiftly and deftly he tipped it, and the shapeless bundle slid into the open mouth awaiting it. It was curiously still just then in the River Swamp. When they emerged into the open, the sun was rising over a clean, fresh world. The dark tops of the trees were gilded by the first rays. Every bush was hung with diamonds, the young grass rippled like a child's hair, and birds were everywhere, voicing the glory of the morning. The old negro dropped his wheelbarrow, and lifted a supplicating face and a pair of gnarled hands to the morning sky. His lips moved. One saw that he prayed, trustingly, with a childlike simplicity. Peter Champneys watched him speculatively. He tried to reason the thing out, and the heart in his boyish breast ached with a new pain. Thoughts big, new, insistent, knocked at the door of his intellect and refused to be denied admittance. He thought it better to take the sheriff's advice and stay with Neptune for a few days, but nobody troubled the good old man. The verdict of the whole county was in his favor. He went his harmless, fearless, laborious way unmolested. That autumn he died, and the cabin by the River Swamp was taken over by nature, who gave it to her winds and rains to play with. Her leaves drifted upon its floor, her birds built under its shallow eaves. Nobody would live there any more. The negroes said the place was haunted: on wild nights one might hear there the sound of a shot, the baying of a hound; and see Jake running for the swamp. CHAPTER V THE PURPLE HEIGHTS Emma Campbell had one of her contrary fits, and when Emma was contrary, the best thing to do was to keep out of her way. Her "palate was down," her temper was up; she'd had trouble with the Young Sons and Daughters of Zion, in her church, and hot words with a deacon who said that when he passed the cup Emma Campbell lapped up nearly all the communion wine, which was something no lady ought to do. And Cassius had taken unto himself a fourth spouse, and, without taking Emma into his confidence, had gotten her to wash and iron his wedding-shirt for him. So Emma's "palate was down," and not even three toothpicks and two spoons in her hair had been able to get it up. Peter, therefore, took a holiday. He filled his pockets with bread, and set out with no particular destination in mind. At a turn in the Riverton Road he met the Red Admiral. He stopped, reflectively. He hadn't seen the Admiral in some time, and it pleased him to be led by that gay adventurer now. The Admiral flitted down the Riverton Road, and Peter ran gaily after him. He led the boy a fine chase across fields, and out on the road again, and then down a lane, and along the river, and through the pines, and finally to the River Swamp woods. Peter came fleet-footed to Neptune's old cabin, raced round it, and then stopped, in utter confusion and astonishment. On the back steps, with an umbrella beside her, and an easel in front of her, sat a young woman so busy getting a bit of the swamp upon her canvas that she didn't hear or see Peter until he was upon her. Then she looked up, with her paint-brush in her hand. "Hello!" said she, in the friendliest fashion, "where did _you_ come from?" She was a big girl, blue as to eyes, brown as to hair, and with a fresh-colored, good-humored face. Her glance was singularly clear and direct, and her smile so comradely that Peter took an instantaneous liking to her. He wondered what on earth she meant by coming here, to this lonely place, all by herself. But she was making a picture, and his interest was more in that than in the painter. "May I look at it, please?" he asked politely. He smiled at her, and Peter had a mighty taking smile of his own. "Of course you may!" said the lady, genially. Hands behind his back, Peter stared at the canvas. Then he stepped back yet farther, lifted one hand, and squinted through the fingers. The young lady regarded him with growing interest. "Well, what do you think of it?" she asked. The young woman wasn't a quick worker, but she was a careful one, and very exact. Unfinished though it was, the picture showed that; and it showed, too, a lack of something vital; there was no spontaneity in it. "I've never seen anybody paint before, though I've always wanted to," said Peter, and fetched an unconscious sigh of envy. "You haven't said whether or not you like it," the girl reminded him. "It isn't finished," said Peter. His eyes went to the familiar woods, the beloved woods, and came back to her canvas. "I think when it's finished it will be like a photograph," he added. Claribel Spring--for that was the big girl's name--knew her own limitations; but to meet a criticism so exact and so just, from a barefooted child in the South Carolina wilds wasn't to be expected. She took a longer look at the boy and thought she had never before seen a pair of eyes so absolutely, clearly golden. Those eyes would create a distinct impression upon people: either you'd like them, or you'd find them so strange you'd think them ugly. She herself thought them beautiful. "You seem to know something about pictures, even unfinished ones," she told him comradely. "And may I ask who you are, and why and how you come flying out of the nowhere into the here of these forsaken woods?" "Oh, I'm only Peter Champneys," said the boy with the golden eyes, shyly. "I hope I didn't startle you? It's my butterfly's fault. You see, I never know where I've got to follow him, or what I'm going to find when I get there." "Your butterfly? You mean that Red Admiral that just whizzed by? He skimmed over my easel," said the young lady. "Is that his real name?" Peter was enchanted. "A black fellow with red on his coat-tails, and a sash like a general's? Then that's my butterfly!" said Peter, happily. He smiled at the girl again, and finished, naïvely: "I owe that butterfly a whole heap of good luck!" She told him she was spending some time with the Northern people who had lately bought Lynwood Plantation, a few miles down the river. She liked to prowl around and paint things. "And now," she asked, "would you mind telling me something more about that butterfly of yours? And where some more of the good luck comes in?" She was growing more and more interested in Peter. Peter dropped down beside the easel, his hands clasped loosely between his knobby knees. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should find himself talking freely to this Yankee girl; it was the most natural thing in the world that she should understand. So Peter, who, as a rule, would have preferred to be beaten with rods rather than divulge his feelings, told her exactly what she wished to know. This must be blamed upon the Red Admiral! She caught a sharp outline of the child's life, poor in material circumstances, but crowded to the brim with thought and feeling and emotion, and colorful as the coast country was colorful. He had kept himself, she thought, as sweet and limpid as a mountain spring. He was wistful, eager, and mad to know things. His eyes went back again and again, with a sort of desperate hunger in them, to the canvas on her easel, as if the secret of him lay there. The girl sat with her firm white chin in her firm white hands, and looked down at Peter with her bright blue Yankee eyes, and understood him as none of his own people had ever understood him. She even understood what his innate reticence and decency held back. Who shall say that the Admiral wasn't a fairy? "I'd like to see that first little sketch," she said, when he had finished. Her eyes were very sweet. For a second he hesitated. Then he rose, went into the deserted cabin, and took from the cupboard a dusty bundle of papers--pieces of white cardboard, sheets of letter-paper, any sort of paper he had been able to lay his hands on. Riverton and the surrounding country, as Peter Champneys saw it, unrolled before her astonished eyes. It was roughly done, and there were glaring faults; but there was something in the crude work that wasn't in the canvas on her easel, and she recognized it. She singled out several sketches of an old negro with a bald head and a white beard, and a stern, fine face innate with dignity. She said quietly: "You are quite right, Peter: the Red Admiral is undoubtedly a fairy." And after a moment, studying the old man's face: "He's rather a remarkable old man, isn't he?" Peter looked around him. On that terrible night Daddy Neptune had stood just where the easel was standing now; over there by the tumble-down chicken house, Jake had fallen; and the space that was now green with grass had been full of vengeful men, and howling dogs, and trampling horses. Peter took the sketch from her, looked at it for a long moment, and, as briefly as he could, and keeping himself very much in the background, he told her. Claribel Spring looked around her, almost disbelieving that such a thing could happen in such a place. She looked at the quiet-faced boy, at the sketches, and shook her head. When she was ready to go, Peter helped pack her traps, picked up her paint-box, and slung her folding-easel and camp-stool across his shoulder. Lynwood was some three miles from the River Swamp, and shall a gentleman allow a lady to lug her belongings that distance? "Miss Spring," said Peter, anxiously, as they reached the porch of Lynwood, "Miss Spring, do you expect to go about these woods much--by yourself?" "Why, yes! Nobody here has time to prowl with me, you see. And I can't stay indoors. I've got to make the most of these woods while I have the opportunity." Peter looked troubled. His brows puckered. "I wonder if you'd mind if I just sort of stayed around so I could look after--I mean, so I could watch you painting? May I? _Please_!" Claribel sensed something tense under that request. She longed to get at Peter's thought processes. She was immensely interested in this shabby little chap who made astonishing sketches and whose personality was so intriguing. "Why, of course you may, Peter. But would you mind telling me just _why_ you want to come with me--aside from the painting?" Peter shifted from one bare foot to the other. "Because somebody's _got_ to go with you," he blurted flatly. "Don't the people here know you mustn't go off like that, by yourself? There--well, Miss Spring, there are bad folks everywhere, I reckon. Our niggers"--Peter's head went up--"are the best niggers, in the world. But--sometimes--And--and--" He looked at her, trying to make her understand. Claribel Spring considered him. He might be about fourteen. His head just reached her shoulder. And he was offering to take care of her, to be her protector! That's what his anxiety meant. "Oh, you darling little gentleman!" she thought. "I see. And I'll be perfectly delighted if you can manage to come with me, Peter," said she, sincerely. "And listen: I've been thinking about those sketches of yours, while we were walking home, and I've got the nicest little plan all worked out in my mind. You shall take me around these woods, which you know and I don't. You'll be my guide, philosopher, and friend. In return I'll teach you what I can. You needn't bother about materials: I have loads of stuff for the two of us. What do you say?" It was so unexpected, so marvelous, that an electrified and transformed Peter looked at her with a face gone white from excess of astonished rapture, and a pair of eyes like pools in paradise when the stars of heaven tremble in their depths. Claribel Spring was a better teacher than artist, as she discovered for herself. She had the divine faculty of imparting knowledge and at the same time arousing enthusiasm; and she had such a pupil now as real teachers dream of. It wasn't so much like learning, with Peter; it was as if he were being reminded of something he already knew. He had never had a lesson in his whole life, he didn't go about things in the right manner, and there were grave faults to be overcome; but he had the thing itself. She taught him more than the rudiments of technique, more than the mere processes of mixing colors, more than shading and form, and perspective, and flat surfaces, and high lights, and foreshortening. She was the first person from the outside world with whom Peter had ever come into real contact, the first person not a Southerner with whom he had ever been intimately friendly. And oddly enough, Peter taught _her_ a few things. Riverton learned that Peter Champneys had been engaged as a sort of fetch-and-carry boy by that big Vermont girl who was stopping at Lynwood. They thought Miss Spring charming, when they occasionally met her, but when it came to trapesing about the woods like a gipsy, quite as irresponsible as Peter Champneys himself--"Birds of a feather flock together," you know. Claribel Spring was just at that time passing through a Gethsemane of her own, and she needed Peter quite as badly as he needed her. Peter was really a godsend to the girl. Her quiet self-control kept any one from discovering that she was cruelly unhappy, but Peter did at times perceive the shadow upon her face, and he knew that the silence that sometimes fell upon her was not always a happy one. At such times he managed to convey to her delicately, without words, his sympathy. He piloted her to lovely places, he made her pause to look at birds' nests, at corners of old fences, at Carolina wild-flowers. And when he had made her smile again, he was happy. To Peter that was the swiftest, happiest, most enchanted summer he had ever known. It ended all too soon. He went up to Lynwood one morning to find Claribel packing for a hasty departure. It was a new Claribel that morning, a Claribel with a rosy face and shining eyes and smiling lips. She had gotten news, she told Peter joyously, that called her away at once--beautiful news. The most wonderful news in the world! She turned over to Peter all the material she had on hand, and gave him painstaking directions as to how he was to proceed, what he was to strive for, what to avoid. And she said that when he had become a great man in the big world, one of these days, he wasn't to forget that she'd prophesied it, and had been allowed to play her little part in his career. Then she kissed Peter as nobody had ever kissed him except his mother. And so she left him. He was turning fifteen then, and getting too big for the penny jobs Riverton had in pickle for him. Nothing better offering, he hired out that autumn to a farmer who fed his stock better than he did his men. Peter's mouth still twists wryly when he remembers that first month of heavy farm work. The mule was big and Peter wasn't, the plow and the soil were heavy, and Peter was light. Trammell, the farmer, held him to his task, insisting that "a boy who couldn't learn to plow straight couldn't learn to do nothin' else straight, and he'd better learn now while he had the chanst." Peter would have cheerfully forfeited his chance to learn to plow straight; but the thing was there to do, and he tried to do it. Sunday, his one free day, was the only thing that made life at all endurable to Peter. It was a day to be looked forward to all through the heavy week. Early in the morning, with such lunch as he could come by, his worn Bible in his coat pocket and a package of paper under his arm, Peter disappeared, not to return until nightfall. The farmer's over-burdened wife was glad enough to see him go; that meant one less for whom to cook and to wash dishes. All the week, after his own fashion, Peter had been observing things. On Sundays he tried to put them down on paper. He had the great, rare, sober gift of seeing things as they are, a gift given to the very few. A negro plowing in a flat brown field behind a horse as patient as himself; an old woman in a red jacket and a plaid bandana, feeding a flock of turkeys; a young girl milking; a boy driving an unruly cow--all the homely, common, ordinary things of everyday life among the plain people, Peter, who had been set down among the plain people, tried to crowd on his scanty supply of drawing-paper on Sunday in the woods. Peter had learned to draw animals playing, and birds flying, and butterflies fluttering, and folks working. But he couldn't draw a decent living-wage for his daily labor. He was only a boy, and it seemed to be a part of the scheme of things that a boy should be asked to do a man's work for a dwarf's wages. And the food they gave him at the Trammell farm-house was beginning to tell on him. Peter asked for more money and was refused with contumely. He asked for a change of diet, and was informed violently that this country is undoubtedly going to the dogs when folks like himself "think theirselfs too dinged uppidy for good victuals. Eat 'em or leave 'em!" Peter couldn't eat them any more, so he left them. He discharged himself out of hand, and went back to Riverton and Emma Campbell with forty dollars and a bundle of sketches. The doctor in Riverton got most of the forty dollars. However, as he needed a boy in his drug store just then, he gave the place to Peter, who took it willingly enough, as he was still feeling the effects of bad food and heavy farm work. He learned to roll pills and weigh out lime-drops and mix soft drinks, and to keep his patience with women who wanted only a one-cent stamp, and expected him to lick it for them into the bargain. Grown into a gawky chap of sixteen, Peter didn't impress people too favorably. They felt for him the instinctive distrust of the conservative and commercial mind for the free and artistic one. The Peter Champneyses of the world challenge the ideal of commercial success by their utter inability to see in it the real reason for being alive, and the chief end of man. They are inimical to smugness and to complacent satisfaction. Naturally, safe and sane citizens resent this. There was one person in Riverton who didn't share the general opinion that Peter Champneys was trifling, and that was Mrs. Humphreys. Mrs. Humphrey still tasted that ice-cream and cake Peter had given to old Daddy Christmas on a hot afternoon. It was she who presently persuaded her husband to take Peter into his hardware store, at a better salary than the doctor paid him. Everybody agreed that it was noble of Sam Humphreys to take Peter on. Of course, Peter was as honest as the sun, but he wasn't businesslike. Not to be businesslike is the American sin against the Holy Ghost. It is far less culpable to begin with the first of the deadly sins on Sunday morning and finish up the last of the seven on Saturday night, than to have your neighbors say you aren't businesslike. Had Peter taken to tatting, instead of to sketching niggers in ox-carts, and men plowing, and women washing clothes, Riverton couldn't have been more impatient with him. Artists, so far as the average American small town is concerned, are ineffectual persons, godless creatures long on hair and short on morals, men whom nobody respects until they are decently dead. It disgusted Riverton that Peter Champneys, who had had such a nice mother and come from a good family, should follow such examples. But Peter meant to hold fast to his one power, though every hand in the world were against it, though every tongue shouted "Fool," though for it he should go hungry and naked and friendless to the end of his days. He wished to get away from Riverton, to study in some large city under good teachers. Claribel Spring had stressed the necessity of good teachers. Grimly he set himself to work to obtain at least a start toward the coveted end. By incredible efforts he had managed to save one hundred and ten dollars, when Emma Campbell fell ill with a misery in her legs. Although she had a conjure bag around her neck, a rabbit foot in her pocket, and a horseshoe nailed above the door, she was helpless for a while, and Peter had to hire another colored woman to care for her. Emma was just on her feet when Cassius took it into his head to die. There was a confusion of husbands and wives between Emma and Cassius, but she mourned for him shrilly. What deepened her distress was the fact that in repudiating him his last wife had carried off all his small possessions, and there was no money left to bury him. Now, not to be buried with due and fitting ceremonies and the displayed insignia of some churchly Buryin' Society, is a calamity and a disgrace. Emma felt that she could never hope to hold up her head again if Cassius had to be buried by town charity. Peter Champneys hadn't lived among and liked the colored people all these years for nothing. He looked at big Emma Campbell sitting beside the kitchen table with her head buried in her arms, a prey to woe. Then he went to the bank and drew what remained of his savings. Cassius was gathered to his father's with all the accustomed trappings, and Emma's grief was turned to proud joy. But it was another proof of the unbusinesslike mind of Peter Champneys. His small savings were gone; he had to begin all over again. Decidedly, the purple heights were a long, long way off! CHAPTER VI GOOD MORNING, GOOD LUCK! On a particular Sunday Peter Champneys was making for his favorite haunt, the grass-grown clearing and the solitary and deserted cabin by the River Swamp. It was to him a place not of desolation but of solitude, and usually he fled to it as to a welcome refuge. But to-day his step lagged. The divine discontent of youth, the rebellion aginst the brute force of circumstance, seethed in him headily. Here he was, in the lusty April of his days, and yet life was bitter to his palate, and there was canker at the heart of the rose of Spring. Nothing was right. The coast country, always beautiful, was at its best, the air sweet with the warm breath of summer. The elder was white with flowers, and in moist places, where the ditches dipped, huge cat-tails swayed to the light wind. Roses rioted in every garden; when one passed the little houses of the negroes every yard was gay with pink crape-myrtle and white and lilac Rose of Sharon trees. All along the worm-fences the vetches and the butterfly-pea trailed their purple; everywhere the horse-nettle showed its lovely milk-white stars, and the orange-red milkweed invited all the butterflies of South Carolina to come and dine at her table. There were swarms of butterflies, cohorts of butterflies, but among all the People of the Sky he missed the Red Admiral. Peter particularly needed the gallant little sailor's heartening. It was a bad sign not to meet him this morning; it confirmed his own opinion that he was an unlucky fellow, a chap doomed to remain a nonentity, one fitted for nothing better than scooping out a nickel's worth of nails, or wrapping up fifty-cent frying-pans! He walked more and more wearily, as if it tired him to carry so heavy a heart. Life was unkind, nature cruel, fate a trickster. One was caught, as a rat in a trap, "in the fell clutch of circumstance." What was the use of anything? Why any of us, anyhow? And still not a glimmer of the Admiral! At this season of the year, when he should have been in evidence, it was ominously significant that he should be missing. Peter trudged another half-mile, and stopped to rest. "Let's put this thing to the test," he said to himself, seriously. "That little chap has always been my Sign. Well, now, if I meet one, something good is going to happen. If I meet two, I'll get my little chance to climb out of this hole. If I meet three, it's me for the open and the big chance to make good. And if I don't meet any at all--why, I'll be nobody but Riverton Peter Champneys." He didn't give himself the chance that on a time Jean Jacques gave himself when he threw a stone at a tree, and decided that if it struck the tree he'd get to heaven, and if it missed he'd go to hell--but so placed himself that there was nothing for that stone to do but hit the tree in front of it. Peter would run his risks. And still no Admiral! It was silly; it was superstitious; it was childish; Peter was as well aware of that as anybody could be. But his heart went down like a plummet. He had turned into the grassy road that led to the River Swamp. The pathway was bordered with sumac and sassafras and flowering elder, and clumps of fennel, and thickets of blackberry bramble. In clear spaces the tall candle of the mullein stood up straight, a flame of yellow flowers flickering over it. Near by was the thistle, shaking its purple paint-brush. Peter stopped dead in his tracks and stared as if he weren't willing to believe his own eyesight. He went red and white, and his heavy heart turned a cart-wheel, and danced a jig, and began to sing as a young heart should. On the farthest thistle, as if waiting for him to come, as if they knew he must come, with their sails hoisted over their backs, were three Red Admirals! Peter dropped in the grass, doubled his long legs under him, and watched them, his mouth turned right side up, his eyes golden in his dark face. Two of them presently flew away. The third walked over the thistle, tentatively, flattened his wings to show his sash and shoulder-straps. "Good morning, good luck! You're still my Sign!" said Peter. The Red Admiral fluttered his wings again, as if he quite understood. He allowed Peter to admire his under wings, the fore-wings so exquisitely jeweled and enameled, the lower like a miniature design for an oriental prayer-rug. He sent Peter a message with his delicate, sensitive antenna, a wireless message of hope. Then, with his quick, darting motion, he launched himself into his native element and was gone. The day took on new loveliness, a happy, intimate, all-pervading beauty that flowed into one like light. Never had the trees been so comradely, the grass so friendly, the swamp water so clear, so cool. For a happy forenoon he worked in Neptune's empty cabin, whose open windows framed blue sky and green woods, and wide, sunny spaces. He ate the lunch Emma Campbell had fixed for him. Then he went over to the edge of the River Swamp and lay under a great oak, and slipping his Bible from his pocket, read the Thirty-seventh Psalm that his mother had so loved. The large, brave, grave words splashed over him like cool water, and the little, hateful things, that had been like festering splinters in his flesh, vanished. There were flowering bay-trees somewhere near by, diffusing their unforgetable fragrance; the flowering bay is the breath of summer in South Carolina. He sniffed the familiar odor, and listened to a redbird's whistle, and to a mocking-bird echoing it; and to the fiddling of grasshoppers, the whispers of trees, the quiet, soft movement of the swamp water. The long thoughts that came to him in the open crossed his mind as clouds cross the sky, idly, moving slowly, breaking up and drifting with the wind. A bee buzzed about a spike of blue lobelia; ants moved up and down the trunk of the oak-tree; birds and butterflies came and went. With his hands under his head, Peter lay so motionless that a great brown water-snake glided upon a branch not ten feet distant, overhanging a brown pool whose depths a spear of sunlight pierced. The young man had a curious sense of personal detachment, such as comes upon one in isolated places. He felt himself a part of the one life of the universe, one with the whistling redbird, the toiling ants, the fluttering butterflies, the chirping grasshoppers, the great brown snake, the trees, the water. The earth breathed audibly against his ear. He sensed the awefulness and beauty of this oneness of all things, and the immortality of that oneness; and in comparison the littleness of his own personal existence. With piercing clarity he saw how brief a time he had to work and to experience the beauty and wonder of his universe. Then, healingly, dreamlessly, wholesomely, he fell asleep, to wake at sunset with a five-mile tramp ahead of him. Long before he reached Riverton the dark had fallen. It was an evening of many stars. The wind carried with it the salty taste of the sea, and the smell of the warm country. A light burned in his own dining-room, which was sitting-room as well, and a much pleasanter room than his mother had known, for books had accumulated in it, lending it that note books alone can give. He had added a reading-lamp and a comfortable arm-chair. Emma Campbell's flowers, planted in anything from a tomato-can to an old pot, filled the windows with gay blossoms. Peter found his supper on a covered tray on the kitchen table. Emma herself had gone off to church. The Seventh Commandment had no meaning for Emma, she was hazy as to mine and thine, but she clung to church membership. She was a pious woman, given to strenuous spells of "wrastlin' wid de Speret." Peter fetched his tray into the dining-room, and had just touched a match to the spirit kettle, when a motor-car honked outside his gate. Peter's house was at some distance from the nearest neighbour's, and fancying this must be a complete stranger to have gotten so far off the beaten track as to come down this short street which was nothing but a road ending at the cove, he went to his door prepared to give such directions as might be required. Somebody grunted, and climbed out of the car. In the glare of the lamps Peter made out a man as tall as himself, in a linen duster that came to his heels, and with an automobile cap and goggles concealing most of his face. The stranger jerked the gate open, and a moment later Peter was confronting the goggled eyes. "Are you," said a pleasant voice, "by good fortune, Peter Champneys?" "Well," said Peter, truthfully, "I can't say anything about the good fortune of it, but I'm Peter Champneys." The stranger paused for a moment. He said in a changed tone: "I have come three thousand miles to have a look at and a talk with you." "Come in," said Peter, profoundly astonished, "and do it." And he stepped aside. His guest shook himself out of dust-coat and goggles and stood revealed an old man in a linen suit--a tall, thin, brown, very distinguished-looking old man, with a narrow face, a drooping white mustache, bushy eyebrows, a big nose, and a pair of fine, melancholy brown eyes. He stared at Peter devouringly, and Peter stared back at him quite as interestedly. "Peter Champneys: Peter Devereaux Champneys, I have come across the continent to see you. Well! Here you are--and here I am. Have you the remotest idea _who_ I am? what my name is?" Peter shook his head apologetically. He hadn't the remotest idea. Yet there was something vaguely familiar in the tanned old face, some haunting likeness to somebody, that puzzled him. "My name," said the old gentleman, "is Champneys--Chadwick Champneys. Your father used to call me Chad, when we were boys together. I'm his brother--and your uncle, Nephew--and glad to make your acquaintance. I'll take it for granted you're as pleased to make mine. Now that I see you clearly, let me add that if I met your skin on a bush in the middle of the Sahara desert, I'd know it for a Champneys hide. Particularly the beak. You look like _me_." Peter stared. It was quite true: he did resemble Chadwick Champneys. The two shook hands. "But, Uncle Chad--Why, we thought--Well, sir, you see, we heard you were dead." "Yes. I heard so myself," said Uncle Chad, serenely. "In the meantime, may I ask you for a bite? I'm somewhat hungry." Peter set another plate for his guest, and brewed tea, and the two drew up to the table. Emma Campbell had provided an excellent meal, and Mr. Chadwick Champneys plied an excellent knife and fork, remarking that when all was said and done one South Carolina nigger was worth six French chefs, and that he hadn't eaten anything so altogether satisfactory for ages. The more the young man studied the elder man's face, the better he liked it. Figure to yourself a Don Quixote not born in Spain but in South Carolina, not clothed in absurd armor but in a linen suit, and who rode, not on Rosinante but in a motor-car, and you ll have a fair enough idea of the old gentleman who popped into Peter's house that Sunday night. Peter asked no questions. He sat back, and waited for such information as his guest chose to convey. He felt bewildered, and at the same time happy. He who was so alone of a sudden found that he possessed this relative, and it seemed to him almost too good to be true. That the relative had never before noticed his existence, that he was supposed to be a trifler and a ne'er-do-weel, didn't cloud Peter's joy. His relative put his feet on a chair, lighted and smoked a cutty, and presently unbosomed himself, jerkily, and with some reluctance. His wife Milly--and whenever he mentioned her name the melancholy in his brown eyes deepened--had been dead some twelve years now. They had had no children. He had wandered from south to west, from Mexico and California and Yucatan to Alaska, always going to strike it lucky and always missing it. To the day of her death Milly had stood by, loyally, lovingly, unselfishly, his one prop and solace, his perfect friend and comrade. There was never, he said, anybody like her. And Milly died. Died poor, in a shack in a mining-town. He had done something of everything, from selling patent medicines to taking up oil and mining-claims. He couldn't stay put. He really didn't care what happened to him, and so of course nothing happened to him. That's the way things are. Three years after Milly's death he had fallen in with Feilding, the Englishman. Feilding was almost on his last legs when the two met, and Champneys nursed him back to life. The silent, rather surly Englishman refused to be separated from the man who, he said, had saved his life, and the two struck up a partnership of mutual misfortune. They tramped and starved and worked together, until Feilding died, leaving to his partner his sole possessions--a mining-claim and a patent-medicine recipe. He had felt about down and out, the night Feilding died, for the Englishman was the one real friend he had made, the one person who loved him and whom he loved, after Milly. But instead of his being down and out, the tide had even then turned for Chadwick Champneys. His friendless wanderings were about done. The mining-claim was worth a very great deal; and the patent medicine did at least some of the things claimed for it. He took it to a certain firm, offering them two thirds of the first and half of the second year's profits for handling the thing for him. They closed with the offer, and from the very first the medicine was a money-maker. It would always be a best-seller. And then the irony of fate stepped in and took a hand in Chadwick Champneys's affairs. The man who had hitherto been a failure, the man whose touch had seemed able to wither the most promising business sprouts, found himself suddenly possessed of the Midas touch. He couldn't go into anything that didn't double in value. He wasn't able to fail. Let him buy a barren bit of land in Texas, say, and oil would presently be discovered in it; or a God-forsaken tract in the West Virginia mountains, and coal would crop out; or a huddle of mean houses in some unfashionable city district, and immediately commerce and improvement strode in that direction, and what he had bought by the block he sold by the foot. Because he was alone, and growing old, Champneys's heart turned to his own people. He learned that his brother's orphaned son was still in the South Carolina town. And there was a girl, Milly's niece. These two were the only human beings with whom the rich and lonely man could claim any family ties. Peter was so breathless with interest and sympathy, so moved by the wanderings of this old Ulysses, and so altogether swept off his feet by the irruption of an uncle into his uncleless existence, that he hadn't time for a thought as to the possible bearing it might have upon his own fortunes. When, therefore, his uncle wound up with, "I'll tell you, Nephew, it's a mighty comforting thing for a man to have some one of his own blood and name close to his hand to carry on his work and fulfil his plans," Peter came to his senses with a shock as of ice-water poured down his backbone. He knew it wasn't in _him_ to carry out any business schemes his uncle might have in mind. "Uncle Chad," said he, honestly. "Don't be mistaken about me, and don't set your heart on trying to train me into any young Napoleon of Finance. It's not in me." And he added, gently, "I'm sorry I'm a dub. I'd like to please you, and I hate to disappoint you; but you might as well know the truth at once." Uncle Chad looked him up and down with shrewd eyes. "So?" said he, and fell to pulling his long mustache. "What's the whole truth, Nephew? If you don't feel equal to learning how to run a million-dollar patent-medicine plant, what _do_ you feel you'd be good at, hey?" "I'm good in my own line: I want to be an artist. I am going to be an artist, if I have to starve to death for it!" said Peter. He spread out his hands. "I have one life to live, and one thing to do!" he cried. "Oh, an artist! I've never heard of any Champneys before you who had such a hankering, though I'm quite sure it's all right, if you like it, Nephew. There's no earthly reason why an artist shouldn't be a gentleman, though I could wish you'd have taken over the patent-medicine business, instead. Have you got anything I can see?" Shyly and reluctantly, Peter began to show him. There were two or three oils by now; powerful sketches of country life, with its humor and pathos; heads of children and of negroes; bits of the River Swamp; all astonishingly well done. "Paintings are curious things; some have got life and some haven't got anything I can see, except paint. There was one I saw in New York, now. I thought at first it was a mess of spinach. I stood off and looked, and I walked up close and looked, and still I couldn't see anything but the same green mess. But--will you believe it, Nephew?--that thing was The Woods in Spring! Thinks I, They evidently _boil_ their Woods in Spring up here, before painting 'em! The things one paints nowadays don't look like the things they're painted from, I notice. I'm afraid these things of yours look too much like real things to satisfy folks it's real art.--You sure the Lord meant you to be an artist?" Peter laughed. "I'm sure I mean myself to be an artist, Uncle Chad." "Want to get away from Riverton, don't you? But that costs money? And you haven't got the money?" "I want to get away from Riverton. But that costs money, and I haven't got the money," admitted Peter. "I see. Now, Nephew, when it gets right down to the thing he really wants to do, every man has some horse sense, even if he happens to be a fool in everything else. I'll talk to your horse sense and save time." Peter, in the midst of scattered drawings, and of the few oils backed up against the dining-room wall, paused. "I could wish," said his uncle, slowly, "that you were--different. But you are what you are, and it would be a waste of time to try to make you different. You say you have one thing to do. All right, Peter Champneys, you shall have your chance to do it,--with a price-tag attached. Do you want to be what you say you want to be hard enough to be willing to pay the price for it?" "You mean--to go away from here--to study? To see real pictures--and be a student under a real teacher?" Peter's voice all but failed him. His face went white, and his eyes glittered. He began to tremble. His uncle, watching him narrowly, nodded. "Yes. Just that. Everything that can help you, you shall have--time, teachers, money, travel. But first you must pay me my price." Peter could only lean forward and stare. He was afraid he was going to wake up in a minute. "Let me see if I can make it quite clear to you, Peter. You never knew Milly--my wife Milly. You're not in love, Son, are you? No? Well, you won't be able to understand--yet." "There was my mother, sir," said Peter, gently. "I'm sorry," said the other, just as gently. "I wish it had come sooner, the luck. But it didn't, and I can't do anything for Milly,--or for your mother. They're gone." For a moment he hung his head. "But, Peter, I can do considerable for you, and I mean to do it. Only I can't bear to think Milly shouldn't have her share in it. We never had a child of our own, but there's Milly's niece." "Oh, but of course, Uncle Chad! Aunt Milly's niece ought to come in for all you can do for her, even before me," said Peter, heartily, and with entire good faith. "You are your father's son," said Uncle Chad, ambiguously. "But what I wish to impress upon you is, that neither of you comes before the other: you come together." He paused again, and from this time on never removed his eyes from his nephew's face, but watched him hawk-like. "You will understand there is a great deal of money--enough money to found a great American family. Why shouldn't that family be the Champneyses? Why shouldn't the Champneyses be restored to their old place, put where they rightfully belong? And who and what should bring this about, except you, and Milly's niece, and my money!" "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said Peter, and looked as bewildered as he felt. He wasn't a quick thinker. "What is it you wish me to do?" Still holding his eyes, "I want you to marry Milly's niece," said Chadwick Champneys. "_That's my price_." "Marry? I? Oh, but, Uncle Chad! Why, I don't even know the girl, nor she me! I've never so much as heard of her until this minute!" cried Peter. "What difference does that make? Men and women never know each other until after they're married anyhow," said his uncle, sententiously. "Peter, do you really wish to go abroad and study? Very well, then: marry Milly's niece. I'll attend to everything else." "But _why_? My good God! why?" Peter's eyes popped. "Nephew," said his uncle, patiently, "you are the last Champneys; she is Milly's niece--my Milly's niece. And Milly is dead, and I am practically under sentence of death myself. I have got to put my affairs in order. I'd hardly learned I was a very rich man before I also learned my time was limited. On high authority. Heart, Nephew. I may last for several years. Or go out like a puff of wind, before morning." Peter was so genuinely shocked and distressed at this that his uncle smiled to himself. The boy was a true Champneys. "There is no error in the diagnosis, so I accept what I can't help, and in the meantime arrange my affairs. Now, Nephew Peter, business man or artist the Champneys name is in your keeping. You are the head of the house, so to speak. I supply the funds to refurnish the house, we'll say, and I give you your opportunity to do what you want to do, to make your mark in your own way. In exchange you accept the wife I provide for you. When I meet Milly again, I want to tell her there's somebody of her own blood bearing our name, taking the place of the child we never had, enjoying all the good things we missed, and enjoying them with a Champneys, _as_ a Champneys. If there are to be Champneys children, I want Milly's niece to bear them. I won't divide my money between two separate houses; it must all go to Peter Champneys and his wife, that wife being Milly's niece." His eyes began to glitter, his mouth hardened. "It is little enough to ask!" he cried, raising his voice. "I give you everything else. I do not ask you to change your profession. I make that profession possible by supplying the means to pursue it. In payment you marry Milly's niece." His manner was so passionately earnest that the astonished boy took his head in his hands to consider this amazing proposition. "But how in heaven's name can I study if I'm plagued with a wife?" he demanded. "I want to be foot-loose!" "All right. You shall be foot-loose, for seven years, let's say," said his uncle, quietly. "I reason that if you are ever going to be anything, you'll at least have made a beginning within seven years! You're twenty now, are you not? When you marry my girl, you shall go abroad immediately. She'll stay with me until her education is completed. Your wife shall be trained to take her proper place in the world. On your twenty-seventh birthday you will return and claim her. I do not need anything more than the bare word of a Champneys that he'll be what a man should be. Milly's niece will be safe in your keeping.--Well?" "Let me think a bit, Uncle." "Take until morning. In the meanwhile, please help me get my car under shelter, and show me where I turn in for the night." Being in some things a very considerate old man, he did not add that he had found the day strenuous, and that his strength was ebbing. Peter, lying on the lounge in the dining-room, was unable to sleep. Was this the chance his mother had said would come? Wasn't matrimony rather a small price to pay for it? Or was it? And--hadn't he promised his mother to take it when it came, for the sake of all the Champneyses dead and gone, and for her own sake who had loved him so tenderly and believed in him against all odds? At dawn he stole out of the house, and walked the three miles to the country cemetery where his mother slept beside his father. He sat beside her last bed, and remembered the cold hand that had crept into his, the faltering whisper that prayed him to take his chance when it came, and to prove himself. If he refused this miraculous opportunity, there would be Riverton, and the hardware store, or other country stores similar to it, to the end of his days. No freedom, no glorious opportunities, no work of brain and hand together, no beauty wrought of thought and experience; the purple peaks fading into farther and farther distances until they faded out of his sky altogether; and himself a sorry plodder in a path whose dust choked him. Peter shuddered. Anything but that! Mr. Chadwick Champneys was sitting by the dining-room table talking to astonished Emma Campbell, and stroking the cat, when Peter came swinging into the room. "Well?" with a keen glance at his nephew's face. "Yes," said Peter, deliberately. The old man went on stroking the cat for a moment or so, while Emma Campbell, the hominy-spoon in her hand, watched them both. She understood that something momentous portended. Not for nothing had this shrewd, imperious old man whom she had known in his youth as wild Chad Champneys, led Emma on to tell him all she knew about the family history since his departure, years ago. When Emma had finished, Chadwick Champneys felt that he knew his nephew to the bone; and it was Champneys bone! "Thank you, Nephew," said he, in a deep voice. "You're a good lad. You won't regret your bargain. I promise you that." He turned to Emma Campbell: "If my breakfast is ready, I'm ready too, Emma." And to Peter: "We were renewing our old acquaintance, Emma and I, while you were out, Nephew. She hasn't changed much: she's still the biggest nigger and the best cook and the faithfulest friend in all Carolina." "Oh, go 'long, Mist' Chad! Who you 'speck ought to look after Miss Maria's chile, 'ceptin' ole Emma Campbell? Lawd 'a' mussy, ain't I wiped 'is nose en dusted 'is britches sense he bawn? Dat Peter, he belonged to Miss Maria en me. He's we chile," said Emma Campbell. Over his coffee Mr. Champneys outlined his plans carefully and succinctly. Peter was to hold himself in readiness to proceed whither his uncle would direct him by wire. In the meantime he was to settle his affairs in Riverton. "Uncle Chad," said Peter, to whom the thought had just occurred, "Uncle Chad, now that I have agreed to do what you wish me to do, what is the young lady's name? You didn't tell me." "Her name? Why, God bless my soul, I forgot, I forgot! Well! Her name's Anne Simms. Called Nancy. Soon be Nancy Champneys, thank Heaven!" And he repeated: "Nancy Champneys! Anne Champneys!" "Uncle," said Peter, deprecatingly, "you'll understand--I'm a little interested--excuse me for asking you--but what does the young lady look like?" Mr. Chadwick Champneys blinked at his nephew. "Look like? You want to know what Milly's niece looks like?" "Yes, sir," said Peter, modestly. "I--er--that is, the thought occurred to me to ask you what she looks like." Mr. Champneys scratched the end of his nose, pulled his mustache, and looked unhappy. "Nephew Peter," said he, "do what I do: take it for granted Milly's niece looks like any other girl--nose and mouth and hair and eyes, you know. But I can't describe her to you in detail." "No? Why?" Peter wondered. "Because I have never laid eyes on her," said his uncle. "Oh!" Peter looked thunderstruck. "I came to you first," explained his uncle. "I gave you first whack. Now I'm going to see her." "Oh!" said Peter, still more thunderstruck. "I'll wire you when you're to come," said his uncle, briskly, and got into dust-coat, cap, and goggles. A few minutes later, before the little town was well awake, he vanished in a cloud of dust down the Riverton Road. CHAPTER VII WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDED Emma Campbell stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, lips pursed, eyes fixed on vacancy, a dish-cloth dangling from one hand, a carving-knife clutched in the other, and projecked. And the more she projecked about what was happening in Peter's house, the less she liked it. It had never occurred to Emma Campbell that Peter might go away from Riverton. Yet now he was going, and it had been taken for granted that she, Emma, who, as she said, had "raised 'im from a puppy up'ards," wouldn't mind staying on here after his departure. Fetching a cold sigh from the depths of an afflicted bosom, Emma moved snail-like toward the work in hand; and as she worked she howled dismally that nobody knew the trouble she saw, "nobody knew but you, Lawd." When Peter came in to dinner, she addressed him with distant politeness as Mistuh Champneys, instead of the usual Mist' Peter. When he spoke to her she accordion-plaited her lips, and stuck her eyes out at him. Her head, adorned with more than the usual quota of toothpicks, brought the quills upon the fretful porcupine forcibly to one's mind. Nobody but Peter Champneys could or would have borne with Emma Campbell's contrary fits, but as neither of them realized this they managed to get along beautifully. Peter was well aware that when the car that had suddenly appeared in the night had just as suddenly disappeared in the morning in a cloud of dust on the Riverton Road, Emma's peace of mind had vanished also. He understood, and was patient. She clapped a platter of crisp fried chicken before him, and stood by, eyeing him and it grimly. And when hungry Peter thrust his fork into a tempting piece, "You know who you eatin'?" she demanded pleasantly. Peter didn't know whom he was eating; fork suspended, he looked at Emma questioningly. "You eatin' Lula, dat who you eatin'," Emma told him with grisly unction. "Dem 's de same laigs use to scratch roun' we kitchen do'. Dat 's de same lovin'-hearted hen I raise fum a baby. But, Lawd! Whut _you_ care? _You 's_ de sort kin go trapesin' off by yo'se'f over de worl'. You dat uppidy dese days, whut _you_ care 'bout eatin' up po' lil Lula? _She_ ain't nobody but us-all's chicken, nohow!" Peter looked doubtfully at "po' lil Lula's" remains, and laid down his fork. Somehow, one can't be keen about eating a loving-hearted hen. "But, Emma, we eat our chickens all the time! You've fried me many a chicken without raising a row about it!" he protested. "Who tol' you dey wuz ours?" As Peter hadn't a fitting reply in return for this ambiguous query, Emma bounced out of the dining-room, to return in a moment with the tea-pot; when Peter held out his cup, she poured into it plain boiling water. At that she set the tea-pot hastily upon the table, threw her gingham apron over her head, and plumped upon the floor with a thud that made the house shake. It frightened the cat into going through the window at a leap, taking with him all the flowers planted in tomato-cans. "Emma," said Peter, severely, "I'm ashamed of you! Take that silly apron off your head and listen to me. You know very well you aren't being left to shift for yourself. You'll be provided for better than you've ever been. Why, all you'll have to do--" "All I 'll hab to do is jes' crawl into my grave en stay dere. I done raised 'im fum de egg up, en now he 's got comb en kin crow it 's tail-feathers over de fence en fly off wid 'im! Ah, Lawd! You done made 'em en You knows whut roosters is like!" "Emma! Look here, confound it!--" "Who gwine look after 'im? I axes you fum my heart, who gwine do it?--Never did hab no mo' sense dan a rabbit widout I 's by, en now dey aims to tun 'im loose! Ah, Lawd!" "Emma, listen! Emma, what the--" "Dem furrin women 'll do 'im lak dem women done po' old Cassius. _Dey 'll conjure 'im_! En widout I by, who gwine make 'im put one live frawg on 'is nekked stummick, so 's to sweat de speret o' dat frawg een, en de speret o' dat conjure out? No-buddy. Den he 'll up en die. Widout one Gawd's soul o' 'is own folkses to put de coppers on 'is eyes en' tie up de corpse's jaws.--Ah Lawd, ah Lawd!" "Oh, shut up, you old idiot! I'm not coming home to my meals any more, if this is how you're going to behave!" This from Peter, disgustedly. "Ain't you, suh? All right, suh, Mistuh Champneys, you 's be boss. But I glad to my Gawd Miss Maria ain't 'yuh to see dis day!" And Emma began to sniffle. Peter pushed his untouched dinner aside, and reached for his hat. He looked at Emma Campbell irefully. "Damn!" exploded Peter. Emma Campbell got to her feet with astounding quickness, ran into the kitchen, and returned in a moment with another platter of chicken, rice, and gravy. "'Yuh, chile. Set down en eat yo' bittles. You ain't called on to hab no hard feelin's 'bout _dis_ chicken. 'T ain't none o' ours, nohow." Peter resumed his chair and waived cross-examination. Mr. Champneys having come, so to speak, between dark and daylight, Riverton knew nothing about his visit, for Peter hadn't thought to inform them. This affair seemed so unreal, so improbable, so up in the air, that he dared not mention it. Suppose it mightn't be true, after all. Suppose fate played a cruel joke. Suppose Mr. Champneys changed his mind. So Peter, who had a horror of talk, and writhed when asked personal questions by people who felt that they had a perfect right to know all about his business, kept strict silence, and enjoined the same silence upon Emma Campbell, who could be trusted to hold her tongue when bidden. Now, one simply cannot remember the price of pots and pans and sheet-iron and plows and ax-handles, when one is living in the beginning of an astounding fairy story, when the most momentous change is impending, when one's whole way of life is about to be diverted into different channels. The things one hates, like being a hardware clerk, for instance, automatically slide into the background when the desire of the heart approaches. But Mr. Humphreys, whose mind and fortune naturally enough centered in his hardware store, couldn't be expected to know that the impossible had happened for Peter Champneys. He would hardly be able to take Peter's bare word for it, even if Peter should tell him: he didn't know that his absent-minded clerk really liked him, and longed to tell him that he was leaving Riverton shortly--he hoped for years and years--and was only awaiting the message that should speed his departure. Mr. Humphreys, then, cannot be blamed for complaining with feeling and profanity that of all the damidjits he had ever seen in his life, Peter Champneys was about the worst. Loony was no name for him, and what was to become of such a chump he didn't know. "If this thing keeps up, he'll be drooling before he's forty, and we'll have to hire a nigger to feed him out of a papspoon," said Mr. Humphreys, forebodingly. And in the meanwhile the days dragged and dragged--two whole weeks of suspense and expectancy. On the Monday of the third week the end of Peter's waiting and of Mr. Humphreys's patience came together. One, in fact, brought about the other. The postman who drove in with the daily mail brought for Peter Champneys the yellow envelope toward which he had been looking with such feverish impatience. He was really to go! The young man experienced that reeling, ecstatic shock which shakes one when a long-delayed desire suddenly assumes reality. He stood with the telegram in his fingers, and stared about the dusty, dingy, uninteresting store, and saw as with new eyes how hopelessly hideous it really was; and wondered and wondered if he were really himself, Peter Champneys, who was going to get away from it. At that moment stout old Mrs. Beach entered the store and waddled up to him. Mrs. Beach was a woman who never knew what she really wanted, or if, indeed, she really wanted anything in particular; but then again, as she said, she _might_. She didn't like to leave her house often; and when she did finally make up her mind to dress and go out, she popped into every store she happened to pass, on the chance that she _might_ want something from it, and would thus save herself an extra trip to get it. She would say to a perspiring clerk: "Now, let me see: there's something I wanted to get from this store. I know it, because on Tuesday last something happened to put me in mind of it--or was it Wednesday, maybe? I know it's something I need about the house--or maybe the yard. You'll have to help me out. I've got a poor memory, but you just sort of run over a list of things folks would be most likely to need and maybe you'll hit on the right thing, and if it's that I want, I'll get it right now. Don't stand there like a hitching-post, boy! Why can't you suggest something, and help out a woman old enough to be your mother?" If by some fortuitous chance you happened to hit upon an article she thought she might happen to need, and it suited her, she would buy it. But it never occurred to her to thank you for your help, or to apologize for the nerve-racking strain to which she subjected you. "Young man," said her testy voice in Peter's ear, "I've got to get something and I can't remember what it is. You've got to help me. I can't be wasting my time at my age o' life running around to hardware stores." Peter thrust the miraculous telegram in his pocket, where he could feel it burn and tingle. Oh, it was true, it was true! He was going to get away from all this! "For heaven's sake, boy, don't stand there gawping at me like a thunderstruck owl! You surely know about everything you've got in this store, don't you? Well, then, Peter Champneys, look about you and see if you can't light on what I'm most likely to need!" Peter, mind on the telegram in his pocket, did indeed look at the old lady owlishly. Hazily he remembered certain grueling, sweating half-hours spent in trying to discover what Mrs. Beach thought she might want to buy. Hazily he looked from her to the littered shelves, and reached for the first object upon which his eyes happened to fall. "Yes 'm, Mrs. Beach. I reckon this is what you'd most likely _need_," said Peter, gently, and placed in her hand a fine new muzzle. (Paris, maybe Rome; and Florence! Oh, names to conjure with! And he should see them all, walk their historic streets, view immortal work, stand before immortal canvases, and say with Correggio: "And I, too, am a painter!") "Oh, my dear Lord, save me from bursting wide open! Why, you impudent young reprobate!" Mrs. Beach's outraged voice banished his dream. "For two pins, Peter Champneys, I'd take you across my knees and spank the seat off your breeches! I need a muzzle, do I? I'm to be insulted by a little squirt that's just learning to keep his ears clean! Well! Girl and woman I've been dealing with Sam Humphreys and his father before him, but from this day forth I put no foot of mine across this store door!" All the while she spoke she brandished the muzzle at Peter and kept backing him off into a corner. Mr. Humphreys came hurriedly out of his office upon hearing the uproar, and sought with soothing speech to placate his irate old friend and customer. But Mrs. Beach wasn't to be placated. She went out of the door and down the street like a hat on a windy day. Mr. Humphreys watched her go. Then he turned and looked at Peter Champneys, ominously: "Peter,"--Mr. Humphreys, carefully restraining himself, spoke in low and dulcet tones--"Peter, I have tried to do my duty as a Christian man; now I have to do it as a hardware man, and right here is where you and I say good-by. I have passed over," said Mr. Humphreys, swallowing hard, "your sending gravel to the grocer and a bellows to the minister by mistake; but this is the limit. If there is anybody advertising for a gilt-edged failure as a salesman, you go apply for the job and say I recommend you enthusiastically. I hate like the devil to fire you, Peter, but it's a plain case of self-defense with me: I have to do it. You're fired. Now. Come on in the office," said Mr. Humphreys, eagerly, "and I'll pay you off." Peter slid his hand into his pocket and pinched that precious slip of paper. Then he smiled into Mr. Humphreys's empurpled visage. "Why, thank you, Mr. Humphreys," said he, gratefully. "I know just how you feel, and I don't blame you in the least. I've been wanting to tell you I had to quit, and you've saved me the trouble." Sam Humphreys knew that Peter Champneys had no right to stand there and smile like that at such a solemn moment. He should have appeared ashamed, downcast, humanly perturbed; and he didn't in the least. "I've been wondering ever since the first day I hired you how I was going to keep from firing you before nightfall. Now the end's come. Say--suppose you go on home, right now. Because," said Mr. Humphreys, softly, "I mightn't be able to refrain from committing justifiable homicide. I'll send you your salary to-night. Go on home. Please!" To his horror, Peter Champneys of a sudden laughed aloud. It was genuine laughter, that rang true and gay and glad. His eyes sparkled, and a dash of good red jumped into his sallow cheeks. "Good-by, then, Mr. Humphreys. And thank you for many kindnesses, and for real patience," said Peter. He waved his hand at the dusty store in a wide-flung gesture of glad farewell. "Oh, my God! He's run plumb crazy!" cried Mr. Humphreys, mopping his brow. "I always said that boy wasn't natural!" But Peter, walking home in the bright afternoon sunlight, for the first time in his life felt young and free and happy. He wanted to laugh, to sing, to shout, to skip. Emma Campbell was just bringing the washed-and-dried dinner dishes back into the dining-room when he bounced in. "Emma," said he, sticking his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and beaming at her, "Emma, I'm out of a job. Kicked out neck and crop. Fired, thank God!" Emma stacked her dishes on the old deal dresser. "Is you?" "I sure am. And, Emma, listen. I--I'm sort of waked up. Even if things shouldn't turn out as I hope they will, I'll manage to go ahead, somehow. I'd get out, now, under any circumstances. Pike's Peak or bust!" said Peter. "When you 'speck to go?" "Just as soon as I can get out. I'm expected in New York within ten days at the latest. And then, Emma, the wide world! No more little-town tittle-tattle! All I've got to do, in the big world, is to deliver the goods. And I'm going to deliver the goods!" said Peter. But Emma Campbell put her grizzled head on the dining-room table and began to cry. "I nussed you w'en you had de croup en de colic. I used to tromp up en down dis same no' wid you 'crost my shoulder. It was me dressed Miss Maria de day she married wid yo' pa, en it was me dressed 'er for de coffin. You en me been stannin' togedder ever sence. How I gwine stan' by my alonese 'f now? I ole now, Mist' Peter." "Emma," said Peter, after a pause, "tell me exactly what you want me to do for you and if I can I'll do it." "I wants to go wid you. I jes' natchelly ain't gwine stay 'yuh by my alonese 'f," wept Emma. Peter looked at her with the sort of tenderness one must be born in the South to understand. Born in the last years of slavery, brought up in wild Reconstruction days, Emma couldn't read or write. She wasn't amenable to discipline. She was, as Cassius had complained, "so contrary she mus' be 'flicted wid de moonness." She wore a rabbit foot and a conjure bag and believed in ha'nts and hoodoos. But, as far back as he could remember, Emma Campbell had formed a large part of the background of his life. He wondered just what he would have done if it hadn't been for Emma, after his mother's death. There slid into his mind the picture of a shabby youngster weeping over a cheap green-and-gold Collection of Poetic Gems; and he reached over and laid a brown hand upon a black one. "Well, and why not?" mused Peter. "You stood by me when I hadn't any money; why should you leave me the minute I get it? But are you sure you really want to go along, Emma? I'm going into a foreign country, remember. You won't be able to understand a word anybody says. You'll be a mighty lonesome old nigger over there." "I can talk wid my cat, can't I?" "Holy Moses! What, the cat, too?" Peter ran his hands through his hair, distractedly. "Whah you goes, I goes. En whah I goes, dat cat goes. Dat cat 's we-all's folks." "Oh, all right," said Peter, resignedly. After all, Emma Campbell and the cat _were_ all the folks he had. He went to Charleston the next morning, in accordance with the instructions his uncle had given him in their last talk, and the bank at which he presented himself treated him with distinguished consideration. Peter heard for the first time the dulcet accents of Money. Like Mr. Wilfer in "Our Mutual Friend," Peter had never had everything all together all at once. When he had a suit his shoes were shabby, and when it got around to shoes his coat was shiny in the seams and his hat of last year's vintage. He was boyishly delighted to buy at one time all that he wanted, but as made-to-order clothes were altogether outside of his reckoning as yet, he bought ready-made. His taste was too simple to be essentially bad, but you knew he was a country boy in store clothes and a made tie. He had never been in Charleston before, and he reveled in the ineluctable charm of the lovely old town. No South Carolinian is ever disappointed in Charleston. Peter thought the city resembled one of her own old ladies, a dear dignified gentlewoman in reduced circumstances, in a worn silk gown and a mended lace cap and a cameo brooch. It might be against the old gentlewoman's religious convictions to bestow undue care upon her personal appearance, but hers was a venerable, unforgetable, and most beautiful old face for all that, and perhaps because of it. She knew that the kingdom of God is within; and being sure of that, she was sure of herself, serene, unpainted, unpretentious. Peter wandered by old walled gardens in which were set wrought-iron gates that allowed the passer-by a glimpse of greenery and flowers, but prevented encroachments upon family privacy. Every now and then a curving balustrade, a gable, a window, or an old doorway of surpassing charm made his fingers itch for pencil and paper. He reflected, without bitterness, that the doors of every one of these fine old houses had on a time opened almost automatically to a Champneys. Some of these folk were kith and kin, as his mother had remembered and they, perhaps, had forgotten. This didn't worry him in the least: the real interest the houses had for Peter was that this one had a picturesque garden gate, that one a door with a fan-light he'd like to sketch. He climbed St. Michael's belfry stairway and looked over the city, and toward the sea; and later wandered through its historic churchyard. One very simple memorial held him longest, because it is the only one of its kind among all those records of state honor and family pride, and seems rather to belong to the antique Greek and Roman world which accepted death as the final fact, than to a Carolina churchyard. SARAH JOHNSTON born in this province 29th May 1690 Died 26th April 1774 In the 84th year of her age. How lovd how valu'd once avails Thee not To whom related or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of Thee. That covered the Champneyses, too. To whom related or by whom begot, a heap of dust alone remained of them. So much for all human pride! Peter left St. Michael's dead to slumber in peace, and walked for an hour on the Battery, and in Legare Street, where life is brightest in the old city. All good Charlestonians think that after the final resurrection there may be a new heaven and a new earth for others, but for themselves a house in Legare Street or on the Battery. Peter presently reappeared in Riverton, discreetly clad in his customary clothes, the habits of thrift being yet so firmly ingrained in him that he couldn't easily wear his best clothes on a week-day. "Peter! You Peter Champneys! Look here a minute, will you?" Mrs. Beach called, as he was passing her house. Peter stopped. His smiling countenance somewhat astonished Mrs. Beach. "Peter, I've heard about Sam Humphreys firing you on account of me getting mad at you about that muzzle. Now, while I know in my heart you'd have been fired about something or other, sooner or later, I do wish to my Lord it hadn't been on account of me. Not that I don't think you're an impudent young rapscallion, that never sets his nose inside a church door, and insults old women with muzzles. But I knew your mother well, and I wish it wasn't on account of me Sam Humphreys discharged you." There was real feeling in the testy old lady's face and voice. "Don't you bother your head about it one minute more, Mrs. Beach. All I'm sorry for is that I appeared to be impertinent to you, when I hadn't any such notion. I was thinking about something else at the time. So you'll just have to forgive me." "I do," said the old lady, mollified. After all, Maria Champneys's boy couldn't be altogether trifling! "Is what I hear true, that you're going away from Riverton? Folks say you've got a job in the city." "Yes 'm, I'm going away." "I reckon it's just as well. You'll do better away from Riverton. You'll have to." "Yes 'm, I'll have to," agreed Peter. He held out his hand, and the old lady found herself wringing it, and wishing him good luck. At home he found Emma Campbell carefully packing up all the worthless plunder it had taken her many years to collect. When he had heartlessly rejected all she didn't need, she had one small trunk and a venerable carpet-bag. Everything else was nailed up. The house itself was to be looked after by the town marshal, who was also the town real-estate agent. Peter was very vague as to his return. No railroad runs through Riverton, but the river steamers come and go daily, the town usually quitting work to foregather at the pier to welcome coming and speed departing travelers. All Riverton made it a point to be on hand the morning Peter Champneys left home to seek his fortune. Peter never did anything like anybody else. There was always some diverting bit of individual lunacy to make his proceedings interesting. This morning Riverton discovered that Emma Campbell was going away, too. Emma appeared in a black cashmere dress, a blue-and-white checked gingham apron on which a basket of flowers was embroidered in red cross-stitch, and a white bandana handkerchief wound around her head under a respectable black sailor hat. She carried a large, square cage that had once housed a mocking-bird, and now held the Champneys big black cat. Laughter and delighted comments greeted the bird-cage, and her carpet-bag received almost as much attention and applause. Riverton hadn't seen a bag like that since Reconstruction, and it made the most of its opportunity. "Emma! Aren't you afraid you'll let the cat out of the bag?" Emma remained haughtily silent. "Emma, where you-all goin'?" "We-all gwine whah we gwine, dat 's whah we gwine." This from Emma, succinctly. "What you goin' to do when you get there?" persisted the wag. "Who, us? We gwine do whut you-all ain't know how to do: we gwine min' our own business," said Emma, politely. "Good-by, Peter! Don't set the world on fire, old scout!" When the boat turned the bend in the river that hid the small town of his birth from his view, Peter felt shaken as he had never thought to be. Good-by, little home town, where the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune had rained upon him! The boat swung into a side channel to escape a sand-bar. She was in deep water, but very close to the shore, so close that he could see the leaves on the trees quivering and shimmering in the river breeze and the late summer sunlight. Over there, as the crow flies, lay the River Swamp, and Neptune's gray, deserted cabin. They had been his refuge. No other place, no other woods in all the world could quite take their place, or be like them. And he knew there would be many a day when he must ache with homesick longing for the coast country, for the tide-water, and the jessamines, and the moon above the pines, and the scent of the bay in flower on summer nights. The world was opening her wide spaces. But the Carolina coast was _home_. "I wish," said Peter, and his chin quivered, "I wish there were some one thing that typified you, something of you I could take with me wherever I go. I wish you had a spirit I could see, and know." Out from the shore-line, where the earliest golden-rod was just beginning to show that it intended to blossom by and by, and the ironweed was purple, and the wild carrot was white and lacy, and the orange-red milkweed was about ready to close her house for the season, came fluttering with a quick, bold sureness the gallantest craft of all the fairy sail-boats of the sky, hovered for a bright second over the steamer's rail, and scudded for the other shore. Peter Champneys straightened his shoulders. Youth and courage and hope flashed into his wistful face, and brightened his eyes that followed the Red Admiral. CHAPTER VIII CINDERELLA It wasn't a pleasant house, being of a dingy, bilious-yellow complexion, with narrow window eyes, and a mean slit of a doorway for a mouth; not sinister, but common, stupid, and uninteresting. If one should happen to be a house-psychologist, one would know that behind the Nottingham lace curtains looped back with soiled red ribbons, was all the tawdry, horrible junk that clutters such houses, even as mental junk clutters the minds of the people who have to live in them. One knew that the people who dwelt in that house didn't know how to live, how to think, or how to cook; and that if by any chance a larger life, a real thought, or a bit of good cooking confronted them, they would probably reject it with suspicion. The elderly gentleman in white linen who made acquaintance with this particular house on a very sultry noon in early August, hesitated before he rang the bell. He glanced over his shoulder at the hot, dusty street where a swarm of hot, dusty children were shrilling and shrieking, or staring at him round-eyed, dived into his pockets, fished up a handful of small change, whistled to insure their greater attention, and flung the coin among them. While they were snatching at the money like a flock of pigeons over a handful of grain, the elderly gentleman rang the bell. He could hear it jangling through the house, but it brought no immediate response. After a decent interval he rang again. This time the door was jerked open, and a girl in a bungalow apron, upon which she was wiping her hands, confronted him. She was a very young girl, a very hot, tired, perspiring, and sullen girl, fresh from a broiling kitchen and a red-hot stove. She looked at the caller suspiciously, her glance racing over his linen suit, his white shoes, the Panama hat in his hand. She was puzzled, for plainly this wasn't the usual applicant for board and lodging. Perhaps, then, he was a successful house-to-house agent for some indispensable necessity--say an ice-pick that would pull nails, open a can, and peel potatoes. Or maybe a religious book agent. She rather suspected him of wanting to sell her Biblical Prophecies Elucidated by a Chicago Seer, or something like that. Or, stay: perhaps he was a church scout sent out to round up stray souls. Whatever he might be, she was bitterly resentful of having been taken from the thick of her work to answer his ring. She wasn't interested in her soul, her hot and tired body being a much more immediate concern. Heaven is far off, and hell has no terrors and less interest for a girl immured in a red-hot kitchen in a Middle Western town in the dog-days. "If it's a Bible, we got one. If it's sewin'-machines, we ain't, but don't. If it's savin' our souls, we belong to church reg'lar an' ain't interested. If it's explainin' God, nothin' doin'! An' if it's tack-pullers with nail-files an' corkscrews on 'em, you can save your breath," said the girl rapidly, in a heated voice, and with a half-dry hand on the door-knob. Mr. Chadwick Champneys's long, drooping mustache came up under his nose, and his bushy eyebrows twitched. "I am not trying to sell anything," he said hurriedly, in order to prevent her from shutting the door in his face, which was her evident intention. She said impatiently: "If you're collectin', this ain't our day for payin', an' you got to call again. Come next week, on Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or Sattiday." The door began to close. He inserted a desperate foot. "I wish to see Miss Simms--Miss Anne, or Nancy Simms. My information is that she lives in this house. I should have stated my errand at once, had I been allowed to do so." He looked at the girl reprovingly. Before she could reply, a female voice from a back region rose stridently: "Nancy! You Nancy! What in creation you mean, gassin' this hour o' day when them biscuits is burnin' up in the oven? Send that feller about his business, whatever it is, and you come tend to yours!" The girl hesitated, and frowned. "If you come to see Anne Simms, same as Nancy Simms, I'm her--I mean, she's me," said she, hurriedly. "I got no time to talk with you now, Mister, but you can wait in the parlor until I dish up dinner, and whilst they're eatin' I'll have time to run up and see what you want. Is it partic'ler?" "Very." "Come on in an' wait, then." "Nancy! You want I should come up there after you? Oh, my stars, an' that girl _knows_ how partic'ler Poppa is about his biscuits; they gotta be jest so or he won't look at 'em, an' her gassin' and him likely to raise the roof!" screamed the voice. "Oh, shut up! I'm comin'," bawled the girl in reply. "You better sit over there by the winder, Mister," she told her visitor, hastily. "There's a breeze there, maybe. You'll find to-day's paper an' a fan on the table." She vanished, and he could hear her running kitchenward, and the shrieking voice subsiding into a whine. Mr. Chadwick Champneys slumped limply into a chair. Everything he looked at added to his sense of astonishment and unease. The outside of the house hadn't lied: the inside matched it. Mr. Champneys found himself staring and being stared at by the usual crayon portraits of defunct members of the family,--at least he hoped they were defunct,--the man with a long mule face and neck whiskers; and opposite him his spouse, with her hair worn like mustard-plasters on the skull. "Male and female created He them." Placed so that you had to see it the moment you entered the door, on a white-and-gold easel draped with a silkoline scarf trimmed with pink crocheted wheels, was a virulently colored landscape with a house of unknown architecture in the foreground, and mother-of-pearl puddles outside the gate. Mr. Champneys studied those mother-of-pearl puddles gravely. They hurt his feelings. So did the ornate golden-oak parlor set upholstered in red plush; and the rug on the floor, in which colors fought like Kilkenny cats; and a pink vase with large purple plums bunched on it; and the figured wall-paper, and the unclean lace curtains, and the mantel loaded with sorry plunder, and the clothespin butterflies, the tissue-paper parasols, and the cheap fans tacked to the walls. It was a hot and dusty room. The smell of bad cooking, of countless miserable meals eaten by men whose digestion they would ruin, clung to it and would not be gainsaid. Mr. Champneys thought the best thing that could happen to such houses would be a fire beginning in the cellar and ending at the roof. His mind went back to another house--an old white house in South Carolina, set in spacious grounds, with high-ceilinged, cool, large rooms filled with fine old furniture, a few pictures, glimpses of brass and silver, large windows opening upon lawns and trees and shrubs and flowers, a flash of blue river, a vista of green marshes melting into the cobalt sky. A stately, lovely, leisurely old house, typifying the stately, leisurely life that had called it into being; both gone irrevocably into the past. He sighed. He looked about this atrocious room, and his jaw hardened. This, for Milly's niece! Poor girl, poor friendless girl! He had known, of course, that the girl was poor. He and Milly had been poor, too. But, oh, never like this! This was being poor sordidly, vulgarly. He had seen and suffered enough in his time to realize how soul-murdering this environment might be to one who knew nothing better. He himself had had the memory of the old house in which he was born, and of low-voiced, gentle-mannered men and women; he had had his fine traditions to which to hold fast. He reflected that he would have a great deal to make up for to Nancy Simms! The noon whistle had blown. People had begun to come in, men whose first movement on entering was to peel off collars and coats. They barely glanced at the quiet, white-clad figure as they passed the open parlor door, but stampeded for the basement dining-room. Mr. Champneys could hear the scraping of chairs, the rattling of dishes, the hum of loud conversation; then the steady clatter of knives and forks, and a dull, subdued murmur. Dinner was in full swing, a dinner of which boiled cabbage must have formed the _pièce de résistance_. Came a hurried footstep, and Nancy Simms entered the room. He was sitting with his back to the window; she sank into the chair fronting him, so that the light fell full upon her. She was strong and well-muscled, as one could see under the enveloping apron. Her hands bore the marks of dish-washing and clothes-washing and floor-scrubbing and sweeping. They were shapely enough hands, even if red and calloused. The foot in the worn, down-at-the-heels shoe was a good foot, with a fine arch; and the throat rising from the checked gingham apron was full and strong; her face was prettily shaped, if one was observant enough to notice that detail. She was not pretty; not even pleasant. Her discontented face was liberally peppered with the sort of freckles that accompany red and rebellious hair; her mouth was hard, the lips pressed tightly together. Under dark, uncared-for eyebrows were grayish-green eyes, their expression made unfriendly by her habit of narrowing them. She had good teeth and a round chin, and her nose would have passed muster anywhere, save for the fact that it, too, was freckled. Unfortunately, one didn't have time to admire her good points; one said at first sight of her, "Good heavens, what a disagreeable girl!" And then: "Bless me, I've _never_ seen so many perfectly unnecessary freckles and so much fighting-red hair on one girl!" "You'll hafta hurry," she admonished him, fanning herself vigorously with a folded newspaper. She wiped her perspiring face on her arm, tilted back her chair, revealing undarned stockings, and waited for him to explain himself. He handed her his card, and at the name Champneys a faint interest showed in her face. "I had a aunt married a feller by that name," she volunteered. "Was you wishin' to find out somethin' about him or Aunt Milly? Because if so I don't know nothin' about him, nor yet her. I never set eyes on neither of 'em." "I am your Aunt Milly's husband," he told her. "And I have come to find out something about _you_." "It's took you a long time to find your way, ain't it?" Her manner was not cordial. "We will waive that," said he, composedly. "I _am_ here, and my visit concerns yourself. To begin with, do you like living with your mother's step-sister? That is her relationship to your mother and to my wife, I believe?" "No: I don't like livin' with no step-aunt, though she ain't that, bein' further off: an' no real kin. If you want to know why I don't like it, it's all work an' no pay, that's why. First off, when I was too little to do anything else, I minded the children an' run errands an' washed doilies an' towels an' stockin's an' sich, an' set table an' cleared table an' washed dishes an' made beds an' emptied slops. Then I helped cook. Now I cook. Along with plenty other things. How'd you like it yourself?" Her tone was suddenly fierce. The fierceness of a strong and young creature in galling captivity. His wandering life had given him an insight into such conditions and situations; and once or twice he had seen orphan children raised in homes where they "helped out." Chattel slavery is easier by comparison and pleasanter in reality. Before he could answer, "Nan-cy! You Nan-cy! Come on here an' set them pie-plates! My Gawd! that girl's goin' to run me ravin' crazy, tryin' to keep her on her job! Nancy!" Nancy looked at Mr. Champneys speculatively. "Is what you got to say worth me tellin' her to set them plates herself?" she asked. "Well worth it," said Mr. Champneys, emphatically. She jumped for the door with cat-like quickness. Also, she lifted her voice with cat-like ferocity. "I'm busy! I can't co-ome. Set 'em yourself!" "Can't come! What you doin'?" shrieked the other voice. "I'm entertainin' comp'ny in the parler, that's what I'm doin'! It's somebody come to see _me_. An' I'm goin' to wait right here till I find out what they come _for_!" On the heels of that, Nancy slammed the parlor door, and sat down. "Now say what you got to say, an' don't waste no time askin' if I'm stuck on livin' here with somethin' like that!" "You wish, then, to leave your aunt?" "She ain't no aunt of mine, I tell you. She ain't nothin' but my mother's stepfather's daughter by his first wife. Sure I want to leave her. She took me because she needed a servant she didn't have to pay reg'lar wages to. I don't owe her nothin'. Nor him, neither. He's worse 'n her." "They are not kind to you?" "No, they ain't what you'd call kind to me. But you ain't come here to talk about them, I take it. What was you wantin' to see me about, Mister?" "Suppose," said he, leaning forward, "that you should be offered, in exchange for _this_," his gesture damned the whole room, "a beautiful home, travel, culture, ease, all that makes life beautiful; would that offer appeal to you?" He looked at her earnestly. "No housework, no cooking! Clothes made for me especial? Not hand-me-downs an' left-overs? No kids to mind, neither day nor night?" "Housework? Old clothes? Minding children? Certainly not! I am not hiring a servant! What are you thinking of?" "I'm thinkin' of _me_, that's what I'm thinkin' of! I'm wearin' her old clothes on Sundays now. I hate 'em. They look like her an' they smell like her and they feel like her--mean an' ugly an' tight. If I could ever get enough money o' my own together, an' enough clothes--" she stopped, and looked at him with the sudden ferocity that at times flashed out in her--"earned honest, though, and come by respectable," said she, grimly, "then I'd get out o' here an' try something else. I'm strong, an' if I had half a chanst I could earn my livin' easy enough." His jaw hardened. He couldn't blind himself to the fact that he was disappointed in Milly's niece; so disappointed that he felt physically sick. Had he been less fanatical, less obstinate, less fixed upon his monomaniacal purpose, he would have settled a sufficient sum upon her, and gone his way. His disappointment, so far from turning him aside, hardened his determination to carry the thing through. He had so acutely felt the lack of money himself, that now, perhaps, he overestimated its power. Whatever money could accomplish for this girl, money should do. The zeal of the reformer gathered in him. "I wish," he explained, "to adopt you--in a sense. I have no children, and it is my desire that you should bear the Champneys name--for your Aunt Milly's sake. I propose, then, to take you away from these surroundings, and to educate you as a lady bearing the name of Champneys should be educated. You will have to study, and to work hard. You will have to obey orders instantly and implicitly. Do you follow me?" "As far as you go," said she, cautiously. "Go on: I'm waitin' to hear more." "Aside from yourself, I have but one close relative, my brother's son. You two, then, are to be my children." "How old is he?" "About twenty." "But if you got a real heir, where do I come in?" she wondered. "Share and share alike. He's my nephew: you're Milly's niece." She reflected, a puzzled frown coming to her forehead. "You're aimin' to give us both a whole lot, ain't you? But I've found out nobody don't get somethin' for nothin' in this world. Where's the nigger in the woodpile? What do I do for what I get?" "You make yourself worthy of the name you are to bear. You place yourself unreservedly in the hands of those appointed to instruct--and--ah--form you. Make no mistake on this head: it will be far from easy for you." "Nothin' 's ever been easy for me, first nor yet last," said Nancy Simms. "So _that_ 's nothin' new to me. I want you should speak out plain. What you really mean I'm to do?" For a moment the iron-willed old man hesitated; he remembered young Peter, eager, hopeful, crystal-clear young Peter, back there in South Carolina. He looked challengingly and fiercely at the girl, as if his bold will meant to seize upon her as upon a piece of clay and mold it to his desire. Then, "I mean you're to marry," he said crisply. "Me? Who to? You?" asked Nancy, blankly. "_Me_!" gasped Mr. Champneys. "Are you demented?" "Well, then, who?" she asked, not unnaturally. "And why?" "The other heir. My nephew. Peter Champneys. Because such is my will and intention," said he, peremptorily and haughtily, bending his eagle-look upon her. "What sort of a feller is he? He ain't got nothin' the matter with him, has he?" A wild desire to slap Milly's niece came upon Chadwick Champneys at that. "He is my nephew!" he said haughtily. "Why on earth should he have anything the matter with him?" It occurred to him then that it mightn't be such an easy matter to get a high-spirited young fellow, with ideals, to take on trust this young female person with the red hair. He felt grateful that he had exacted a promise from Peter. The Champneyses always kept their promises. "I'm wonderin'!" said Nancy, staring at him. "Why are you so bent on him an' me marryin'? You say it's just because you want it, but that ain't no explanation, nor yet no reason. After all, it's me. I got the right to ask why, then, ain't I? You can't expect to walk in unbeknownst an' tell a girl you want she should marry a feller she's never laid eyes on, without bein' asked a few questions, can you?" He knew he must try to make it clear to her, as he had tried to make it clear to Peter. Peter, being Peter, had presently understood. Whether this girl would understand remained to be seen. "I wish you to marry, because, as I have already told you, you are my wife's niece, and Peter is my brother's son. I have of late years become possessed of--well, let's say a great deal of money, and I propose that this money shall go to my own people--but on my own conditions. These conditions being that it shall all be kept in the Champneys name. It is an old name, a good name, it was once a wealthy and an honored name. It must be made so again. I say, it must be made so again! There are but you two to make it so. The boy is the last, on my side; and you're Milly's. Milly must have her share in the upbuilding--as if you were her child. Now, do you see?" "Good Lord! ain't you got funny notions, though! Who ever heard the beat? One name's about as good as another, seems to me. But seein' you've got the money to pay for your notions, them that's willin' to take your money ought to be willin' to humor 'em." Nancy, in her way, had what might be called a sense of ethics. "You agree?" "Well, I just got to make a change, Mr. Champneys. I can't stand this place no more. If I was to say 'No' to you, an' stay here, an' have time to think it over, down in that sizzlin' kitchen, with her squallin' at me all day, I'd end up in a padded cell. If I was to leave just so, I'd maybe get me a job in a shop at less than I could live on honest. You see?" He nodded, and she went on somberly: "So I'm most at the end of my tether. It's real curious you should come just now, with me feelin' that desperate I been minded to walk out anyhow an' risk things. You sure that feller ain't got nothin' ails him? Not crazy, nor a dope, nor nothin'?" "My nephew is perfectly normal in every respect," said Mr. Champneys, frigidly. "What's he look like in the face?" she demanded. "Is he as ugly as me?" "He is a gentleman," said Peter's uncle, even more frigidly. "As to his appearance, I believe he resembles me. At least, he looks like what I used to look like." "Well--I've seen worse," said she, and fetched a sigh. A sudden thought struck him. "Perhaps," he suggested, making allowance for the sentimentality of extreme youth, "perhaps you have some notion about--er--ah--marrying for love, or something like that? There may be some young fellow you think you fancy? Young people in your--ah--that is, in the circumstances to which you unfortunately have been subjected, often rush into ill-considered entanglements." "In _love_? Who, me? Who with, for Gawdsake? One feller means just as much to me as another feller: they're all alike," said she, contemptuously. "I just asked about him for--for references. You know what you're gettin', an' I got a right to know what I'm gettin'." "You have: so please remember that you are getting a considerable portion of the Champneys money for doing what you're told to do," said he. "I never knew till you told me so that the Champneyses had any money. But if it's there, I'm willing to do what I'm told, for my share. Why not? There ain't nothin' better for me, nowheres, nohow." "I am to understand, then, that you agree?" "What else can I do but agree?" she asked, twisting a fold of her apron. The parlor door opened with violence; a thick-set man with a bald head and a red face, followed by a shrewish, thin woman with pinched lips, appeared on the threshold. "I s'pose," said the woman, with elaborate courtesy, "we kin come in our own parler, Miss Simms? Has you resigned your job that you gotta pick out the parler to set in whilst I'm doin' your work for you?" Nancy's visitor rose, and at sight of the tall old gentleman an avid curiosity appeared in both vulgar faces. "Mr. Champneys, this is the lady an' gentleman I live with and work for without wages, Mister an' Missis Baxter. Mister an' Missis Baxter, this gentleman is Aunt Milly's husband, an' he's come to see me; an' you ain't called to show off the manners you ain't got!" "Well, why couldn't you say who he was at first, an' have done with it?" grumbled the man. "But no, you gotta upset the whole house! She's the provokin'est piece o' flesh on the created earth, when she starts," he explained to the visitor. "To aggravate an' torment them that's raised her an' kept her out of the asylum an' fed an' clothed an' learned her like a daughter, is what Nancy Simms 'd rather do than eat an' drink," supplemented Mrs. Baxter, acridly. Nancy snorted. Mr. Champneys said nothing. "Well! An' so you're poor Milly's husband!" said the woman, staring at him. "You wasn't so awful anxious to find out nothin' about her kith an' kin, was you? Not that I'm any kin," she added, hastily. "When all's said an' done, Nancy ain't no real kin, neither. You an' her's only connected by marriage, but bein' as you have come at last, I hope she'll have more gratefulness to you than she's got for _me_. As you ain't never done nothin' by her, an' I have, she's sure to." "You make me so sick!" Nancy, with her hands on her hips, glared at the pair. "Anything you ever done for me you paid yourself for double. If you don't owe me nothin', like you said this mornin', I don't owe you nothin', neither, so it's quits. You'd oughta be glad I'm goin'." "Goin'? Who's goin'? Goin' where?" Mrs. Baxter's voice rose shrilly. "Now, ain't it always so? You take a orphan child to your bosom an' after many days it'll grow up like a viper, an' the minute your back 's turned it'll spit in your face!" "Goin', hey? Where you goin' to when you go?" demanded Mr. Baxter, hoarsely. "She is going with me," said Mr. Champneys. The whole situation nauseated him; he felt that if he didn't escape from that red-plush parlor very soon, he was going to be violently sick. "I am now in a position to look after my wife's niece, and I propose to do so. From what I have heard from you both, I should think you would be rather glad than sorry to part with her." "You won't gain nothin' by raisin' a row," put in Nancy, in a hard voice. "I'm goin'. Make up your minds to _that_." "Oh, you are, are you, Miss Simms? That's all the thanks I mighta expected from you, you red-headed freckle-face! I sure hope he'll get his fill of you before he's done! Walkin' off like a nigger without a minute's notice, an' me with my house full of men comin' to their meals they've paid for an' has to have!" "Hire another nigger an' pay 'em somethin', so's they won't quit without notice, then," suggested the girl, unfeelingly. "How you know this feller's Milly Champneys's husband?" asked Mr. Baxter. "Who's to prove it?" Nancy looked at him and laughed. But Milly Champneys's husband said hastily: "Let us go, for God's sake! If there's a telephone here, ring for a cab or a taxi. How soon can you be ready?" "I can walk out bag and baggage in ten minutes," she replied, and darted from the room. The South Carolina Don Quixote looked at the sordid, angry pair before him. He felt like one in an evil dream, a dream that degraded him, and Milly's memory, and Milly's niece. "If you wish to make any inquiries, I shall be at the Palace Hotel until this evening," he told them. "And--would a hundred dollars soothe your feelings?" The woman's eyes slitted; the man's bulged. "You musta come by money since Milly died," said Mrs. Baxter. "Yes, sure we'll take the hundred. We ain't refusin' money. It's little enough, too, considerin' all I done for that girl!" Mr. Champneys counted out ten crisp bills into the greedy hand, and the three waited silently until Nancy appeared. Champneys almost screamed at sight of her. His heart sank like lead, and the task he had set for himself of a sudden assumed monumental proportions. "I ain't took nothin' out of this house but the few things belongin' to my mother. You're welcome to the rest," she told the woman, briefly. The man she ignored altogether. A cab rattled up to the door. In silence the aristocratic old man in white linen, and the red-headed girl in a cheap embroidered shirt-waist, a dark, shabby skirt, and a hat that was an outrage on millinery, climbed in. There were no farewells. The girl settled back, clutching her hand-satchel. "Giddap," said the driver, and cracked his whip. The cab rolled away from the dingy, smelly house, and turned a corner. So rode Nancy Simms out of her old life into her new one. CHAPTER IX PRICE-TAGS When Mr. Chadwick Champneys had visualized to himself Milly's niece, it had always been in Milly's image and likeness--sweet, fair, brave, merry, gentle, and strong. Milly's niece, of course, would be companionable. He would only have to put upon her the finishing touches, so to speak, embellish her natural graces with a finer social polish. At the very worst, he hadn't dreamed that anybody belonging to Milly could be like this red-headed Nancy. Perhaps, though, she would be less objectionable when she was properly clad. "Drive to the best department store in town," he told the driver, briefly. Once in the store he summoned the manager and briefly stated his needs. The young lady must be furnished with everything she needed, and as quickly as possible. She needed, it appeared, about everything. The shrewd young Jew looked her over with his trained eyes. "Should you prefer our Miss Smith to proffer aid and advice? Miss Smith is an expert." Mr. Champneys reacted almost with terror against Nancy Simms's probable choice. "See that the young lady gets the best you have; and make Miss Smith the final authority," he said, briefly. At the end of two hours Nancy returned, the two clerks and the manager accompanying her. The store people were slightly flushed, Nancy herself sullenly acquiescent. For the first time in her life she had had the opportunity to buy enough clothes of her own, and yet she hadn't been allowed to choose what she really wanted. Gently but inexorably they had rejected the garments Nancy selected, smoothly insisting that these weren't "just the thing" for her. They slid her into quiet-colored, plainly cut things that she wouldn't have looked at if left to her own devices. It took their united tact, firmness, and diplomacy to steer Nancy over the reefs of what the manager called hired-girl taste. Nancy was silent when she appeared before Mr. Champneys in her new clothes. She thought that if she had been allowed to pick them out for herself, instead of having been hypnotized--"bulldozed" is what she called it--into plain old dowdy duds by two shopwomen and a Jew manager, she'd have given him more for his money. Mr. Champneys, looking her over critically, admitted that the girl was at least presentable. From hat to shoes she gave the impression of being well and carefully dressed. But her aspect breathed dissatisfaction, her bearing was ungraciousness itself; nor did the two women clerks, trained to patience, tact, and politeness as they were, altogether manage to conceal their unfavorable opinion of her; even the clever, smiling young Jew, used to managing women shoppers, failed to hide the fact that he was more than glad to get this one off his hands. Nancy hadn't taken time to eat her dinner before leaving the Baxter house, nor had Mr. Champneys had his lunch. They drove to his hotel, both hungry, and had their first meal together. Nancy hadn't been trained to linger over meals: one ate as much as one could get, in as short a space of time as possible. Mr. Champneys was grateful to a merciful Providence that he had ordered that repast served in his private sitting-room. Her hunger quite satisfied, she shoved her plate aside, sighed, stretched luxuriously, and yawned widely, like the healthy animal she was. "What we got to do now? Them women at the store said they'd get the rest of my things here, along with the travelin'-bags, in a coupla hours. I got a swell suit-case, didn't I? And oh, them toilet things! But between now and then, what you want I should do?" It was then half-after four, and the train they were to take didn't leave until half-after seven. "What would you like to do?" he asked. "Can I go to the movies?" He thought it an excellent idea. It would give him some idea of the girl's mental processes; the psychology of the proletariat, he thought, could be studied to advantage in their reaction to the movies. He sat beside her for an unhappy hour while a famous screen comedian did the things with his feet and his backbone for which his managers paid him more in one year than the United States pays its Presidents in ten. At each impossible climax Nancy shrieked with laughter, the loud, delighted laughter of a pleased child. Her enthusiasm for the slapstick artist provoked him, but at the same time that gay laughter tickled his ears pleasantly. There's plenty of good in a girl who can laugh like that! After the grimacing genius there followed a short drama of stage mother-love, in which the angel-child dies strenuously in his little white bed. Nancy dabbled her eyes, and blew her nose with what her captious companion thought unnecessary vigor. "Ain't it movin'?" "Yes. Moving pictures," was the cold response. And to himself he was saying, defiantly: "Well, what else could I expect? She's not a whit worse than the vast majority! She's got the herd-taste. That's perfectly natural, under the circumstances. When I get her well in hand, she will be different." "You don't like funny things, an' you got no feelin' for sad things," she ruminated, as they left the theater. In silence they walked back to their hotel. The bulk of her purchases had been sent from the store, and a huge parcel awaited her in her room. It enchanted her to go over these new possessions, to gloat over her new toilet articles, to sniff at the leather of her traveling-kit. The smell of new leather was always to linger subconsciously in Nancy's memory; it was the smell of adventure and of change. They dined together in Mr. Champney's sitting-room, although she would have preferred the public dining-room. Mr. Champneys was an abstemious man, but the girl was frankly greedy with the naïve greed of one who had been heretofore stinted. She had seldom had what she really craved, and at best she had never had enough of it. To be allowed to order what and as much as she pleased, to be served first, to have her wishes consulted at all, was a new, amazing, and altogether delightful experience. Everything was brand-new to her. She had never before traveled in a sleeping-car. It delighted her to watch the deft porter make up the berths; she decided that the peculiar etiquette of sleeping-cars required that all travelers, male and female, should be driven to bed by lordly colored men in white jackets, and there left in cramped misery with nothing but an uncertain, rustling curtain between them and the world; this, too, at an hour when nobody is sleepy. Nancy wondered to see free white citizens meekly obey their dusky tyrant. She got into her own lower berth, grateful that she hadn't to climb like a cat into an upper. She lay there staring, while the train whizzed through the night. This had been the most momentous day of her life. That morning she had been the hopeless slavey in the Baxter kitchen, an unpaid drudge with her hand against every man and every man's hand against her. She had been bullied and beaten, she had eaten leavings, and worn cast-offs. Since her mother's death she had known the life of an uncared-for child, the minimum of care measured against the maximum of labor squeezed out of it. Until to-day her fate had been the fate of those who approach the table of Life with unshod feet and unwashen hands. And to-night all that was changed. She was here, flying farther and farther away from all she had known. She wondered if she were not dreaming it. Panicky at that, she sat up in her berth, pressed the button that turned on the electric light, slipped her new kimono about her, and looked long and earnestly at the new clothes within reach of her hand. There they were, real to her touch; there was her fine new hand-bag; and most real of all was the feel of the money in it. Nancy fingered the money, thoughtfully smoothing out the bills. "As soon as we are settled, you will have your allowance, and I shall of course provide you with a check-book," Mr. Champneys had told her. "In the meanwhile you will naturally want money for such little things as you may need." And he had given her twenty five-dollar bills. She had received the money dumbly. This had been the crowning miracle--for she had never in the whole course of her life had so much as one five-dollar bill to do as she pleased with. She sat looking at the money, concrete proof of the reality of the change that had befallen her, and wondered, and wondered. With a sigh of content she thrust the hand-bag under her pillow, folded her kimono at the foot of her berth, switched out the light, and presently fell asleep. In his berth opposite hers, Mr. Chadwick Champneys, more sleepless even than Nancy, was tabulating his estimate of the young woman he had acquired. It ran something like this: Looks: bad; _may_ improve. Manners: worse; _must_ improve. Particularly in speech. Appetite: that of the seventeen-year locust. Must be restrained, to prevent an early death. Character in general: suspend judgment until further study. General summary of personal appearance: Nice teeth on which a little dentistry will work wonders. Not a bad figure, but doesn't know how to carry herself; has a villainous fashion of slouching, with her hands on her hips. Plenty of hair, but of terrifying redness; sullen expression of the eyes; fiendish profusion of freckles: may have to be skinned. Excellent nose. Speaks with appalling frankness at times but is not talkative. What must be done for her? _Everything_. He groaned, turned over, and after a while managed to sleep. Sufficient to the day was the red hair thereof; he couldn't afford to lie awake worrying about to-morrow. He had long since decided upon New York as a residence until all his plans had matured. One had greater freedom to act, and far more privacy, in so large a city. They would stay at some quiet hotel until after the marriage; then he and Nancy would occupy the house he had recently purchased, in the West Seventies. It was a fine old house with a glimpse of near-by Central Park for an outlook, and what he had paid for it would have purchased half Riverton. He wanted its large, high-ceilinged rooms to be furnished as the old house in Carolina had been furnished, this being his standard of all that was desirable. He wished for Peter's wife such a background as Peter's forebears had known; and Peter's wife must be trained to appreciate and to fit into it, that's all! The New York hotel, with its deft and deferential servants who seemed to anticipate her wishes, its luxury, its music, its shifting, splendidly dressed patrons, its light and glitter, filled Nancy with the same wonder that had fallen upon Aladdin when he found himself in the magic cave with all its treasures gleaming before his astounded, ignorant young eyes. She hadn't thought the whole world contained so many people as she saw in New York in one day. Fifth Avenue amazed and absorbed more than it delighted her. The expressionless expressions of the women, their hand-made faces, their smart shoes, the way they wore their hair, the way they wore their clothes; the men's air of being well dressed, of having money to spend, of appearing importantly busy at any cost; a certain pretentiousness, as if everything were shown at once and there were no reserve of power, nothing held in disciplined abeyance, interested her profoundly. She had a native shrewdness. "They're just like the same kind of folks back home, but there's more of 'em here," she decided. The huge policemen she saw at every turn, lordly and massive monoliths rising superbly above lesser humanity, filled her with the deepest respect and admiration. The mere policemen in her home town were to these magnificent beings as daubs to Titians, as pigmies to Titans. If in those first days the girl had been called upon to do the seven bendings and the nine knockings before the one New York institution which impressed her most profoundly, she undoubtedly would have singled out one of those mastodons a-bossing everything and everybody, with a prize-ham paw. She was cold to the Woolworth Building, as indifferent to the Sherman monument as Mr. Chadwick Champneys was acridly averse to it, and not at all interested in the Public Library. The Museum of Natural History failed to win any applause from her; the Metropolitan Museum bored her interminably, there was so much of it. Most of the antiquities she thought so much junk, and the Egyptian and Assyrian remains were so obviously the plunder of old graveyards that she couldn't for the life of her understand why anybody should wish to keep them above ground. Mr. Champneys explained, patiently. He wished, by way of aiding and abetting the education he had in view for her, to arouse her interest in these remains of a lost and vanished world. She stood by the glass case that contains the old brown mummied priest with his shaven skull, his long, narrow feet, his flattened nose and fleshless hands, and the mark of the embalmer's stone knife still visible upon his poor old empty stomach. And she didn't like him at all. There was something grisly and repellent to her in the idea that living people should make of this poor old dead man a spectacle for idle curiosity. "There was a feller in our town used to keep stuffed snakes an' monkeys an' birds, an' dried grasshoppers an' bugs an' things like that in glass cases; but I never dreamed in all my born life that anybody'd want to keep dried people," she commented disgustedly. "I don't see no good in it: it's sickenin'." She turned her back upon mummied Egypt with a gesture of aversion. "For Gawdsake let's go see somethin' alive!" He looked at her a bit helplessly. Plainly, this young person's education wasn't to be tackled off-hand! Agreeably to her wishes he took her to a certain famous shop filled at that hour with fashionable women wonderfully groomed and gowned. Here, seated at a small table, lingering over her ice-cream, Nancy was all observant eyes and ears. Not being a woman, however, Mr. Champneys was not aware that her proper education was distinctly under way. A day or two later he took her to the Bronx Zoo. Here he caught a glimpse of Nancy Simms that made him prick up his ears and pull his mustache, thoughtfully. He had discovered how appallingly ignorant she was, how untrained, how undisciplined. To-day he saw how really young she was. She ran from cage to cage. Her laughter made the corners of his mouth turn up sympathetically. There was something pathetic in her eager enjoyment, something so fresh and unspoiled in that laughter of hers that one felt drawn to her. When she forgot to narrow her eyes, or to furrow her forehead, or to screw up her mouth, she was almost attractive, despite her freckles! Her eyes, of an agaty gray-green, were transparently honest. She had brushed the untidy mop of red hair, parted it in the middle, and wore it in a thick bright plait, tied with a black ribbon. She wore a simple middy blouse and a well-made blue skirt. Altogether, she looked more like a normal young girl than he had yet seen her. The Zoo enchanted her. She hurried from house to house. Once, she told him, when she was a little kid, a traveling-man had taken her to a circus, because he was sorry for her. That was the happiest day she had ever spent; it stood out bright and golden in her memory. There had been a steam-piano hoo-hooing "Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny." Wasn't a steam-piano perfectly grand? She liked it better than anything she'd ever heard. She'd long ago made up her mind that if she was ever really rich and had a place of her own, she'd have a big circus steam-piano out in the barn, and she'd play it on Sundays and holidays--_hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo_--like that, you know. And to-day reminded her of that long-ago circus day, with even more animals to look at! She had never seen as many different animals as she wanted to see, until now. She admitted that she sort of loved wild things--she even liked the wild smell of 'em. There was something in here--she touched her breast lightly--that felt kin to them. There was not the usual horde of visitors, that day being a pay-day. A bearded man with a crutch was showing one or two visitors around, and at a word from him a keeper unlocked a cage door, to allow a young chimpanzee to leap into his arms. It hugged him, exhibiting extravagant affection; it thrust out its absurd muzzle to kiss his cheek, and patted him with its small, leathery, unpleasantly human hands. "It's just like any other baby," said the keeper, petting it. "I sure hope it ain't like any _I_'ll ever have," said Nancy, so naïvely that the man with the crutch laughed. He looked at her keenly. "Go over and see the baby lion," he suggested; and he added, smiling, "It's got red hair." "It can afford to have red hair, so long as it's a lion," said Nancy, sturdily; and she added, reflectively: "I'd any day rather have me a lion-child with red hair, than a monkey-child with any kind of hair." Somehow that blunt comment pleased Mr. Champneys. When he took his charge back to their hotel that evening, it was with something like a glimmering of real hope in his heart. The next day, as he joined her at lunch, he said casually: "I had a message from my nephew this morning. He will be here in a few days." She turned pale; the hand that held her fork began to tremble. "Is it--soon?" she asked, almost unaudibly. "The sooner the better. I think we'd better have it here, in our sitting-room, say at noon on Wednesday. Don't be seared," he added, kindly. "All you have to do is just to stand still and say, 'I will,' at the right moment." "An'--an' then?" "My nephew's boat sails at about two. He drives to the pier. You and I go to our apartment, until our own house is ready for us. You see how nicely it's all arranged." "I ain't--I mean, I don't have to see him nor talk to him before, do I?" She looked panic-stricken. "Because I won't! I can't! There's some things I just can't stummick, an' meetin' that feller before the very last minute I got to do it, is one of 'em." "Of course, of course! You sha'n't meet him until the very last minute. Though he's a mighty nice chap, my nephew Peter is--a mighty nice chap." "He must be! We're both of us a mighty nice pair, ain't we? Him goin' one way an' me goin', another way, all by our lonesomes!" "The arrangement does not suit you?" he inquired politely. "Oh, it suits me all right," she said, after a moment. "I said I'd do what I was told, an' I'll do it--I ain't the sort backs down. But I ain't none too anxious to get any better acquainted with this feller than what I am right now. I ain't stuck on men, noways." "You are only sixteen, my dear," he reminded her. "Women know as much about men when they're sixteen as they do when they're sixty," said she, coldly. "There ain't but one thing to believe about 'em--an' that is, you best not believe any of 'em." "I hope," said he, stiffly, "that you have no just cause to disbelieve me, Nancy? Have I been unkind to you?" "It ain't _me_ you're either kind or yet unkind to," she told him. "It's Aunt Milly's niece: you're a little crazy on that head, I guess. It's Aunt Milly's niece you aim to marry to that nephew of yours. If I was just me myself without bein' any kin to her, you wouldn't wipe your old shoes on me." She gave him a clear, level look. "Let's don't have any lies about this thing," she begged. "I'm a poor hand for lies. I know, and I want you should know I know, and deal with me honest." She surprised him. Her next question surprised him even more. "What about my weddin'-dress?" she demanded. "I got nothin' fittin' to be married in." "I should think a plain, tailored suit--" he began. "Then you got another think comin' to you," she said, in a hard voice. "I got nothin' to do with pickin' out the groom: you fixed that to suit yourself. But I don't let no man alive pick out my dress. I want a weddin'-dress. I want one I want myself. I want it should be white satin' an' real bride-like. I've saw pictures of brides, an' I know what's due 'em. I ain't goin' to resemble just me myself, standin' up to be married in a coat-suit you get some floor-walker to pick out for me. White satin or nothin'. An' a veil and white satin slippers." He looked at her helplessly. "White satin, my dear? And a veil?" "Yes, sir. An' a shower bokay," said she, firmly. "I got to insist on the shower bokay. If I got to be a bride I'll be my kind of bride and not yours." "My dear child, of course, of course. You shall choose your own frock," said he, hastily. "Only--under the circumstances, I can't help thinking that something plain, something quite plain and simple, would be more in keeping." "With me? 'T wouldn't, neither. It'd be something fierce, an' I won't stand for it. I don't mind bein' buried in somethin' plain, but I won't get married in it. Ain't it hard enough as it is, without me havin' to feel more horrid than what I do already? I want something to make me feel better about it, and there ain't anything can do that except it's a dress I want myself." Mr. Champneys capitulated, horse and foot. "We will go to some good shop immediately after lunch, and you shall choose your own wedding-dress," he promised, resignedly, marveling at the psychology of women. It was a very fine forenoon, with a hint of coming autumn in the air. Even an imminent bridegroom couldn't altogether dampen the delight of whizzing through those marvelous streets in a taxi. Then came the even more marvelous world of the department store, which, "by reason of the multitude of all kind of riches, in all sorts of things, in blue clothes, and broidered work, and in chests of rich apparel," put one in mind of the great fairs of Tyre when Tyre was a prince of the sea, as set forth in the Twenty-seventh Chapter of Ezekiel. Nancy would have been tempted to marry Bluebeard himself for the sake of some of the "rich apparel" that obliging saleswomen were setting forth for her inspection. Getting married began to assume a rosier aspect, due probably to the reflection of the filmy and lacy miracles that she might have for the mere choosing. She would almost have been willing to be hanged, let alone married, in a pink-silk combination. The saleswomen scented mystery and romance here. The girl was no beauty, but then, she was astonishingly young; and the old gentleman was very distinguished-looking--quite a personage. They thought at first that he was the prospective bridegroom; learning that he wasn't deepened the mystery but didn't destroy the romance. Americans are all but hysterically sentimental. Sentimentality is a national disease, which rages nowhere more virulently than among women clerks. Would they rush through the necessary alterations, set an entire force to work overtime, if necessary, in order to have that girl's wedding-dress at her hotel on time? _Wouldn't_ they, though! And they did. Gown, gloves, veil, shoes, fan, everything; all done up with the most exquisite care in reams of soft tissue paper. She was to be married on the noon of Wednesday. On Tuesday night Nancy locked her door, opened her boxes, and spread her wedding finery on her bed. The dress was a magnificent one, as magnificent a dress as a great store can turn out; its lines had been designed by a justly famous designer. There was a slip, with as much lace as could be put upon one garment; such white satin slippers as she had never hoped to wear; and the texture of the silk stockings almost made her shout for joy. Achilles was vulnerable in the heel: fly, O man, from the woman who is indifferent to the lure of a silk stocking! Nancy got into her kimono and turned on the hot water in her bath. At Baxters' there had never been enough hot water with which to wash the dishes, not to mention Nancy herself. Here there was enough to scald all the dishes--and the people--on earth, it seemed to her. She could hardly get used to the delight and the luxury of all the hot water and scented soap and clean towels she wanted, in a bath-room all to herself. Think of not having to wait one's turn, a very limited turn at that, in a spotted tin tub set in a five-by-seven hole in the wall, with an unshaded gas-jet sizzling about a foot above one's head! The shower-bath was to her an adventure--like running out in the rain, when one was a child. She couldn't get into the tub, and slide down into the warm, scented water, without a squeal of pleasure. She skipped back to her bedroom, red as a boiled lobster, a rope of damp red hair hanging down her back, sat down on the floor, and drew on those silk stockings, and loved them from a full heart. She wiggled her toes ecstatically. "O Lord!" sighed Nancy, fervently, "I wish You'd fix it so's folks could walk on their hands for a change! My feet are so much prettier than my face!" Slipping on the satin slippers, she teetered over and reverently touched the satin frock. All these glories for her, Nancy Simms, who had worn Mrs. Baxter's wretched old clothes cut down for her! She was afraid to refold the dress, almost afraid to touch it, lest she rumple it. It looked so shining, so lustrous, so fairy-like and glorious and almost impossible, glistening there on her bed! Carefully she smoothed a fold, slightly awry. Reverently she placed the thin tulle veil beside it, as well as the rest of her Cinderella finery, including the satin slippers and the fine silk stockings which her soul loved. She took the two pillows off her bed, secured two huge bath-towels from her bath-room by way of a mattress and a coverlet; and with a last passionate glance at the splendors of her wedding-frock, and never a thought for the unknown groom because of whom she was to don it, the bride switched off her light, curled herself up like a cat, and in five minutes was sound asleep on the floor. CHAPTER X THE DEAR DAM-FOOL "Dis place," said Emma Campbell, as the snaggle-toothed sky-line of New York unfolded before her staring eyes, "ain't never growed up natchel out o' de groun'; it done tumbled down out o' de sky en got busted uneven in de fall." Clinging to the bird-cage in which her cat Satan crouched, she further remarked, as the taxi snaked its sinuous way toward the quarters which a friendly waiter on the steamship had warmly recommended to her: "All I scared ob is, dat dis unforchunit cat 's gwine to lose 'is min'. Seein' places like dis is 'nough to make any natchel cat run crazy." Whereupon Emma relapsed into a colossal silence. She was fed up on surprises and they were palling upon her palate, which fortunately wasn't down. Things had been happening so fast that she couldn't keep step with them. To begin with, Peter had preferred to come north by sea, and although Emma had been raised on the coast, although she was used to the capricious tide-water rivers which this morning may be lamb-like and to-night raging lions, although she had crossed Caliboga Sound in rough weather and been rolled about like a ninepin, that had been, so to speak, near the shore-line. This was different: here was more water than Emma had thought was in the entire world; and she had been assured that this wasn't a bucketful to what she was yet to see! Emma fell back upon silent prayer. Then had come this astounding city jutting jaggedly into the clouds, and through whose streets poured in a never-ceasing, turgid flow all the peoples of the earth. And, more astounding than waterful sea and peopleful city, was the last, crowning bit of news: _Peter was going to be married_! And he didn't know the young lady he was to marry, except that she was a Miss Anne Simms. He knew no more about his bride than she, Emma, knew. That was all Emma needed to reduce her to absolute befuddlement. When food and drink were placed before her, she partook of both, mechanically. If one spoke to her, she stared like a large black owl. And when Peter had driven away in the taxi, leaving her for the time being in the care of a highly respectable colored family, whose children, born and raised in New York, looked upon the old South Carolina woman as they might have looked upon a visitor from Mars, Emma shut and locked her door, took the cat out of his cage, cuddled him in her arms, tried to projeck,--and couldn't. The feel of Satan's soft, warm body comforted her inexpressibly. He, at least, was real in a shifting universe. She began to rock herself, slowly, rhythmically, back and forth. Then the New York negroes heard a shrill, sweet, wailing voice upraised in one of those speretuals in which Africa concentrates her ages of anguish into a half-articulate cry. In it were the voices of their fathers long gone, come back from the rice-fields and the cane-brakes and the cotton-rows, voices so sweet and plaintive that they were haunted. "I we-ent out een de wilderness, En I fell upon--mah--knees, En I called upon--mah--Savior, Whut sh-all I do--for--save? He replied: _Halleluian!_ Sinnuh, sing! _Halleluian!_ Ma-ry, Mar-tha, _halle_-- _Hallelu_-- _Halleluian_!" "Good Lord!" breathed the oldest boy, who was a high-school scholar. "How weird and primitive!" said the daughter, who was to be a teacher. But the father's eyes narrowed, and the hair of his scalp prickled. 'Way back yonder his mother had sung like that, and his heart leaped to it. If he hadn't been afraid of his educated and modern children, he would have wept. Emma didn't know that, of course. She kissed the big cat, placed him carefully on the bed, and lay down beside him in the attitude of a corpse. She was resigning herself to whatever should happen. Peter, upon telephoning his uncle, had been advised to prowl about until noon, when they were to lunch together. Wherefore he found himself upon the top of a bus, rolling about New York, seeing that of which he had read. He didn't see it as Nancy saw it; the city appeared to him as might some subtle, hard, and fascinatingly plain woman whose face had flashes of piercing and unforgetable beauty, beauty unexpected and unlike any other. Unlike the beauty of the Carolina coast, say, which was a part of his consciousness, there was here something sinister and splendid. He got off at the Metropolitan Museum. He wished to see with his own eyes some of those pictures Claribel Spring had described to him, among them Fortuny's "Spanish Lady." He stood for a dazzled interval before her, so disdainful, passionate, provocative, and so profoundly human. When he moved away, he sighed. He wasn't wondering if he himself should ever meet and love such a lady; but rather when he should be able so to portray in a human face all the secrets of the body and of the soul. At lunch his uncle, remarking his earnest face, said regretfully: "Oh, Peter, why couldn't you be content to be a rich man and play the game according to Hoyle? Art? Of course! You could afford to buy the best any of 'em could do, instead of trying to sell something you do yourself. Art is a rich man's recreation. Artists exist in order that rich men may buy their wares." "Rich men were invented for the use of poor artists: it's the only excuse they have for existing at all, that I can see," said Peter, composedly. "But you'd have a so much better time buying, than selling--or rather, trying to sell," said one of the rich men, smiling good-humoredly. "I'll have a better time working, than in either buying or selling," said Peter, and looked at his uncle with uncompromising eyes. Mr. Chadwick Champneys sighed, face to face with Champneys obstinacy. Peter would keep his promise to the letter, but aside from that he would live his own life in his own way. He had stared, and his jaw dropped, when he was calmly informed that Peter intended to take old Emma Campbell and a black cat along with him. Then he had laughed, almost hysterically, and incidentally discovered that being laughed at didn't move Peter in the least; he was too used to it. He allowed you to laugh at him, smiled a bit wryly himself, and went right ahead doing exactly what he had set out to do. This sobered Mr. Champneys. "Peter," said he, after a pause, "allow me to ask you a single question: do you propose to go through life toting old niggers and black cats?" "Uncle Chad," replied Peter, "do you remember how sweet potatoes roasted in the ashes of a colored person's fire used to taste, when you were a little boy?" A reminiscent glow spread over Uncle Chad's face. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared under it at Peter. Something quizzical and tender was in that look. "I see you do," said Peter, with the same look. "Well, Uncle Chad, Emma used to roast those potatoes--and provide them too. Sometimes they were all the dinner I had. Besides," mused Peter, "when all's said and done, nobody has more than a few friends from his cradle to his grave. If I've got two, and they don't want to part with me, why should they have to?" Mr. Chadwick Champneys spread out his hands. "Put like that," he admitted, "why should they, indeed! Take 'em along if you like, Nephew." And of a sudden he laughed again. "Oh, Peter!" he gasped, "you dear dam-fool!" Peter had a strenuous afternoon. Reservations had to be secured for Emma, for whom he also purchased a long coat and a steamer rug. He himself had to have another suit: his uncle protested vehemently against the nice new one he had bought in Charleston. At dusk he watched New York's lights come out as suddenly and as goldenly as evening primroses. Riverton drowsing among its immemorial oaks beside the salty tide-water, the stars reflected in its many coves, the breath of the pines mingling with the wild breath of the sea sweeping through it, the little, deserted brown house left like a last year's nest close to the water--how far removed they were from this glittering giantess and her pulsating power! The electric lights winked and blinked, the roar of traffic arose in a multitudinous hum; and all this light and noise, the restless stir of an immense life, went to the head like wine. The streets were fiercely alive. Among the throngs of well-dressed people one caught swift glimpses of furtive, hurrying figures, and faces that were danger signals. More than once a few words hissed into Peter's ears made him turn pale. It was nearing midnight, and the street was virtually empty, when a girl who had looked at him sharply in passing turned and followed him, and after a glance about to see that no policeman was in sight, stepped to his side and touched him on the elbow. Peter paused, and his heart contracted. He had seen among the negroes the careless unmorality as of animals. There was nothing of the prude in him, but, perhaps because all his life there had been a Vision before his eyes, he had retained a singularly untroubled mental chastity. His mind was clean with the cleanliness of knowledge. He could not pretend to misunderstand the girl. She was nothing but a child in years. The immaturity of her body showed through her extreme clothes, and even her sharp, painted little face was immature, for all its bold nonchalance. She was smiling; but one sensed behind her deliberate smile a wolfish anxiety. "Ain't you lonesome?" she asked, fluttering her eyelids, and giving the young man a sly, upward glance. "No," said Peter, very gently. "Aw, have a heart! Can't you stand a lady somethin' to eat an' maybe somethin' to drink?" The boy looked at her gravely and compassionately. Although her particular type was quite new to him, he recognized her for what she was, a member of the oldest profession, the strange woman "whose mouth is smoother than oil, but whose feet go down to death. Her steps take hold on hell." Somehow he could not connect those terrible words with this sharp-featured, painted child. There was nothing really evil about her except the brutal waste of her. "Will ten dollars be enough for you?" asked Peter. The wolfish look in her eyes hurt him. He felt ashamed and sad. "Sure! Come on!" said she, and her face lighted. "Thank you, I have had my dinner," said Peter. But she seized his arm and hurried him down a side street, willy-nilly. "Seen a cop out of the tail of my eye," she explained, hurriedly. "They're fierce, some of them cops. I can't afford to be took up." When they had turned the corner, Peter stopped, and took out his pocket-book. With another searching glance at her, he handed her one five, and two ten-dollar bills. Perhaps that might save her--for a while at least. He lifted his hat, bowed, and had started to walk away, when she ran after him and clutched him by the arm. "Take back that fiver," said she, "an' come and eat with me. If you got a heart, come an' eat with me. I know a little place we can get somethin' decent: it's a dago caffay, but it's clean an' decent enough. Will you come?" Her voice was shaking; he could see her little body trembling. "But why?" he asked, hesitatingly. "Not for no reason, except I--I got to make myself believe you're real!" She said it with a gasp. Peter fell in beside her and she led the way. The small restaurant to which she piloted him wasn't pretentious, but it was, as she had said, clean, and the food was excellent. She said her name was Gracie Cantrell, and Peter took her word for it. While she was eating she discoursed about herself, pleased at the interest this odd, dark-faced young fellow with the soft, drawling voice seemed to take in her. She had begun in a box factory, she told him. And then she'd been a candy-dipper. Now, you work in a lowered atmosphere in order not to spoil your chocolate. For which reason candy-dippers, like all the good, are likely to die young. Seven of the girls in Gracie's department "got the T.B." That made Gracie pause to think, and the more she thought about it, the clearer it seemed to her that if one has to have a short life, one might at least make a bid for a merrier one than candy-dipping. So she made her choice. The short life and merry, rather than the T.B. and charity. "And has it been so merry, Gracie?" asked Peter, looking at the hard young face wonderingly. "Well, it's been heaps better than choc'late-dippin'," said Gracie, promptly. "I don't get no worse treated, when all's said an' done. I've got better clothes an' more time an' I don't work nothin' like so hard. An' I got chanst to see things. You don't see nothin' in the fact'ry. Say I feel like goin' to the movies, or treatin' myself to a ice-cream soda or a choc'late a-clair, why, I can do it without nobody's leave--when I'm lucky. You ain't ever lucky in the fact'ry: you never have nothin', see? So I'd rather be me like I am than be me back in the fact'ry." "And do you always expect to be--lucky?" Peter winced at the word. "I can't afford to think about that," she replied, squinting at the red ink in her glass. "You got to run your risks an' take your chances. All I know is, I'll have more and see more before I die. An' I won't die no sooner nor no painfuller than if I'd stayed on in the fact'ry." Peter admitted to himself that she probably wouldn't. Also, that he had nothing to say, where Gracie was concerned. He felt helpless in the face of it--as helpless as he had felt one June morning long ago when he had seen old Daddy Neptune praying, after a night of horror, to a Something or a Somebody blind and indifferent. And it seemed to him that life pressed upon him menacingly, as if he and Neptune and this lost child of the New York streets had been caught like rats in a trap. The girl, on her part, had been watching him with painful intensity. "You're a new one on _me_," she told him frankly. "I feel like pinchin' you to see if you're real. Say, tell me: if you're real, are you the sort of guy that'd give twenty-five dollars, for nothin', to a girl he picked up in the street? Or, are you just a softy fool that a girl that picks him up in the streets can trim? There's more of _him_ than the first sort," she finished. "You must judge that for yourself," said Peter. "I may tell you, though, that I am quite used to being called a fool," he finished, tranquilly. "So?" said she, after another long look. "Well, I--what I mean to say is, I wish to God there was more fools like you. If there was, there'd be less fools like me." After a pause she asked, in a subdued voice: "You expect to stay in this town long?" "I leave in the morning." "I'm sorry," said she. "Not," she added hastily, "that I want to touch you for more money or anything like that, I don't. But I--well, I'd like to know you was livin' in the same town, see?" Peter saw. But again he had nothing to say. Young as he was, he knew the absurdity of all talk of reform to such as Gracie. As things are they can't reform, they can't even be prevented. He looked at her, thoughtfully. "I'm not only leaving New York, I'm leaving America to-morrow," he said at last. "I wish there was something I could do for you." She shook her head. Her little painted face looked pinched. There were shadows under the eyes that should have been soft and dewy. "You can't do nothin'. I'll tell you why. Somehow--I--I'd like you to know." And she sat there and told him. "You see?" said she, when she had finished. "I see," said Peter; and the hand that held his cigarette trembled. The thing that struck him most forcibly was the stupid waste of it all. "Look here, Gracie," he said at last, "if you ever get--very unlucky--and things are too hard for you--sort of last ditch, you know,--I want you to go to a certain address. It's to my uncle," he explained, seeing her look blank. "You'll send in the card I'm going to give you, and you will say I sent you. He'll probably investigate you, you know. But you just tell him the truth, and say I told you he'd help. Will you do that!" She in her turn reflected, watching Peter curiously. Then she fell to tracing patterns on the table-cloth with the point of her knife. "All right," she said. "If ever I have to, an' I can find him, I will--an' say you sent me." Peter took out his pocket memorandum, wrote his uncle's name and the address of the house in the Seventies which he was presently to occupy, added, "I wish you'd do what you can, for my sake," and signed it. He handed the girl the slip of paper, and she thrust it into her low-necked blouse. "And now," he finished kindly, "you'd better go home, Gracie, go to bed, and sleep." He held out his brown hand, and she, rising from her chair, gripped his fingers as a child might have done, and looked at him with dog's eyes. "Good-by!" said she, huskily. "You _are_ real, ain't you?" "Damnably so," admitted Peter. "Good-by, then, Gracie." And he left her standing by the table, the empty wine-glass before her. The streets stretched before him emptily.--That poor, done-for kid! What _is_ one to do for these Gracies? "Mister! For God's sake! I'm hungry!" a hoarse voice accosted him. A dirty hand was held out. Mechanically Peter's hand went to his pocket, found a silver dollar, and held it out. The dirty hand snatched it, and without so much as a thank you the man rushed into a near-by bakery. Peter shuddered. When he reached his room, he sat for a long time before his open window, and stared at the myriads and myriads of lights. From the streets far below came a subdued, ceaseless drone, as if the huge city stirred uneasily in her sleep--perhaps because she dreamed of the girls she prostituted and the men she starved. And it was like that everywhere. If the great cities gave, they also took, wastefully. Peter was tormented, confronted by the inexorable question: "What am _I_ going to do about it?" He couldn't answer, any more than any other earnest and decent boy could answer, whose whole and sole weapon happened to be a paint-brush. One thing he resolved: he wouldn't add to the sum total; nobody should be the worse off because he had lived. So thinking, the bridegroom fell asleep. When he awoke in the morning, he lay for a moment staring at the strange ceiling overhead; his mind had an uneasy consciousness that something impended. Then he sat up suddenly in his bed, and clutched his head in his hands. "Lord have mercy on me!" cried Peter. "I've got to get up and get married!" By ten o'clock his luggage was on its way to the steamer. Dressed in his new clothes, ring and license carefully tucked away in his pocket, Peter took an hour off and jumped on a bus. It delighted him to roll around the streets on top of a bus. He felt that he could never see enough of this wonderful, terrible, beautiful, ugly, cruel, and kind city. Everywhere he turned, something was being torn down or up, something was being demolished or replaced. New York was like an inefficient and yet hard-working housekeeper, forever house-cleaning; her house was never in order, and probably never would be, hence this endless turmoil. Yet, somehow, Peter liked it. She wasn't satisfied with things as they were. He stopped at Grant's Tomb, looked at the bronze tablet commemorating the visit of Li Hung Chang, then went inside and stared reflectively at the torn and dusty flags. "It was worth the price," he decided. "But," he added, with a certain deep satisfaction, "I'm glad we gave them a run for their money while we were at it!" The Champneyses, one remembers, were on the other side. When he got back to his hotel the car that his uncle had sent for him had just arrived. Deferential help brought out his remaining belongings, were tipped, and stood back while the door was slammed upon the departing one. The car was held up for seven minutes on Forty-second Street, while Peter leaned forward to get his first view of congested traffic. He had once seen two Ford cars and an ox-cart tie up the Riverton Road. Arrived at Emma Campbell's quarters, he found her sitting stiffly erect, her foot upon her new suit-case, her new cloak over her arm, and the bird-cage under her hand. The expressman who had called for her trunk early that morning had good-naturedly offered to carry the bird-cage along with it, but Emma had flatly refused to let the cat get out of her sight. Even when she climbed into the car she held fast to the cage. "I don't say nothin' 'bout _me_. All I scared ob is, dat dis unforchnate cat's gwine to lose 'is min' before we-all finishes up." It was with difficulty that Peter persuaded her to leave the cage in the car when they reached his uncle's hotel. "Mistuh," said Emma to the chauffeur, "is you-all got any fambly dependin' on you?" "One wife. Three kids," said the chauffeur, briefly. "I ain't de kin' ob lady whut makes threats agin' a gent'man," said Emma, looking him unblinklngly in the eye. "All I says is, dat I started whah I come fum wid dat cat an' I 'specks to lan' up whah I 's gwine to wid dat same cat in dat same cage. Bein' as you 's got dem chillun en dat wife, I calls yo' 'tenshun to dat fac', suh." The chauffeur, a case-hardened pirate, laughed. "All right, lady," said he, genially. "It ain't in my line to granny cats, but that one will be the apple of me good eye until you git back. I wouldn't like the missus to be a widder: she's too darn good-lookin'." With her mind at ease on this point, Emma consented to leave Satan in the car and follow Peter. Emma looked resplendently respectable, and she knew it. She was dressed as well as if she had expected to be buried. By innate wisdom she had retained the snowy head-handkerchief under her sailor hat, and she wore her big gold hoop-earrings. Smart colored servants were common enough at that hotel, but one did not often see such as this tall and erect old woman in her severe black-and-white. Emma belonged almost to another day and generation, although her face, like the faces of many old colored women, was unwrinkled. She had a dignity that the newer generation lacks, and a pride unknown to them. Peter and Emma went up in an elevator and were ushered into a private sitting-room, where were awaiting them Mr. Chadwick Champneys, a gentleman who was obviously a clergyman, another who was as obviously a member of the Bar, and the latter's wife, a very handsome lady handsomely and expensively panoplied. There was the usual hand-shaking, as Peter was introduced, and the handsome lady stared openly at Emma; one doesn't often see a bridegroom come in accompanied by an old colored woman. Emma courtesied, with the inimitable South Carolina bending of the knees, and then took a modest seat in the background and faded into it. She had good manners, had Emma. Mr. Champneys glanced at his watch, and presently left the room. The clergyman, book in hand, stepped into the middle of the floor, and looked importantly religious. The lawyer smilingly invited Peter to take his place beside him. Everybody assumed a solemn look. And then the door opened and the bride appeared, leaning on her uncle's arm. Emma Campbell, leaning forward, got one glimpse of the face but slightly concealed by the thin, floating tulle veil pinned on with a wreath of orange-blossoms, caught one gleam from the narrowed eyes; and her own eyes bulged in her head, her mouth fell open. Emma wished to protest, to cry, to pray aloud. The bride was magnificently dressed, in a gown that was much too elaborate for her angular and undeveloped young figure. It made her look over-dressed and absurd to a pitiful degree, as if she were masquerading. The hair-dresser whom she had called to her aid had done her worst. Nancy had an unusual quantity of hair, and it had been curled and frizzed, and puffed and pulled, until the girl's head appeared twice its natural size. Through the fine lace of her sleeves were visible her thin, sunburned arms. Her naturally dark eyebrows had been accentuated, and there was a bright red patch on each cheek, her lips being equally crimson. Out of the rouged and powdered face crowned by towering red hair, the multitude of freckles showed defiantly, two fierce eyes lowered. As Peter met the stare of those narrowed eyes, to save his life he couldn't keep from showing his downright consternation. His aversion and distaste were so manifest, that a deeper red than rouge stained the girl's cheek and mottled her countenance. Her impulse was to raise her hand and strike him across his wincing mouth. What Nancy saw was a tall, thin, shambling young fellow whose face was pale with an emotion not at all complimentary to herself. He didn't like her! He thought her hideous! He despised her! So she read Peter's expressive eyes. She thought him a fool, to stand there staring at her like that, and she hated him. She detested him. Puppy! She saw his glance of piteous entreaty, and Mr. Chadwick Champneys's bland, blind ignoring of its silent reproach and appeal. And then the long-legged young fellow pulled himself together. His head went up, his mouth hardened, and his voice didn't shake when he promised to cherish and protect her, until death did them part. All the while Peter felt that he was struggling in a hideous dream. That bride in white satin wasn't real; his uncle wouldn't play him such a trick! Peter cringed when the defiant voice of the girl snapped her "I do" and "I will." The clergyman's voice had trailed off. He was calling her "Mrs. Champneys." And Mr. Vandervelde and his handsome wife were shaking hands with her and Peter, and saying pleasant, polite, conventional things to them both. She signed a paper. And that old nigger-woman kept staring at her; but Peter avoided meeting her eyes. And her uncle was saying that she must change her frock now, my dear: Peter's boat sailed within the hour, remember. And then she was back in her room, tearing off the dress that only last night she had so fondly fingered. It lay on the floor in a shimmering heap, and she trampled on it. She had torn the tulle veil and orange-blossoms from her hair, and she stamped on those, too. The maid who had been engaged to help her stood aghast when the bride kicked her wedding-gown across the room. She folded it with shaking hands and smoothed the torn veil as best she could. The beautiful lace-and-ivory fan was snapped and torn beyond hope of salvage. Nancy tossed it from her. With round eyes the maid watched her tear hair-pins out of her hair, rush into the bath-room, and with furious haste belabor her head with a wet brush to remove the fatal frizzings; but the work had been too thoroughly done to hope to remove all traces of it so easily. Nancy brushed it as best she could, and then rolled it into a stout coil on the top of her head. Her satin slippers came hurtling across the room as she kicked them off, and the maid caught them on the fly. Back into the bath-room again, and the maid could hear her splashing around, as she scrubbed her face. When she came out, it was brick-red, but powderless and paintless. She got into her blue tailored suit without assistance, and, sitting on the floor, buttoned her shoes with her own fingers, to the maid's disgust. Then she jerked on her hat, stuck a hat-pin through it carelessly, snatched up gloves and hand-bag, and was ready for departure. The expression of her face at that moment sent the maid cowering against the wall, and tied her tongue; the bride looked as if she were quite capable of pitching an officious helper out of a ten-story window. "My God!" said the girl to herself, as Nancy, without so much as a word or a look in her direction, slammed the door behind her. "My God, if that poor fellow that's just been married to _her_ was any kin to me, I'd have a High Mass said for his soul!" The brick-red apparition that swept into the room put the final touch upon Peter's dismay. He thought her the most unpleasant human being he had ever encountered, and almost the ugliest. The Vanderveldes had taken the clergyman off in their car, and only Peter, his uncle, and Emma remained. "I'm ready!" snapped the bride. She didn't glance at the bridegroom, but the look she bestowed upon Emma made that doughty warrior quail. Emma conceived a mortal terror of Peter's wife. She took the place of the Boogerman and of ha'nts. Chadwick Champneys had his hand on his nephew's shoulder, and was talking to him in a low and very earnest voice--rather like a clergyman consoling a condemned man with promises of heaven after hanging. Peter received his uncle's assurances in resigned silence. Two cars were waiting outside the hotel for the wedding-party. As Emma Campbell stepped into the one that was to convey her and Peter to the boat, Nancy saw her stoop and lift a large bird-cage containing, of all things, an immense black cat, which mewed plaintively at sight of her. It was the final touch of grotesqueness upon her impossible wedding. The two Champneyses wrung hands silently. The older man said a few words to the colored woman, and shook hands with her, too. Then the two cars were rolling away, Nancy sitting silent beside her uncle. At the corner Peter's vanished. The bride hoped from the bottom of her heart that she would never lay eyes upon her bridegroom again. She didn't exactly wish him any harm, greatly as she disliked him, but she felt that if he would go away and die he would be doing her a personal favor. Peter and Emma made their boat ten minutes before the gang-plank was pulled in. A steward took Emma in charge, and carried off the bird-cage containing Satan. Emma, who had been silent during the drive to the pier, opened her mouth now: "Mist' Peter," said she, "ef yo' uncle 's wuth a million dollars, he ought to tun it over to you dis mawnin'. 'T ain't for me," said Emma, beginning to tremble, "to talk 'bout Mis' Champneys whut you done got married to. But I used to know Miss Maria. And dat 's how-come," finished Emma, irrelevantly, "dat 's how-come I mighty glad we 's gwine to furrin folkses' countries, whichin I hopes to Gawd dey 's a mighty long way off fum dat gal." And Peter's heart echoed Emma's sentiments so fully that he couldn't find it in him to reprove her for giving utterance to them. With a sense of relief, he watched New York receding from his sight. Hadn't he paid too high a price, after all? Remembering his bride's eyes, pure terror assailed him. No woman had ever looked at Peter like that before. He tried to keep from feeling bitter toward his uncle. Well! He was in for it! He would make his work his bride, by way of compensation. For all that he was a bridegroom of an hour or so, and a seeker bound upon the quest of his heart's desire, Peter turned away from the steamer's railing with a very heavy heart. A tall, fair-faced woman turned away from the railing at the same instant, and their eyes met. Hers were brightly, bravely blue, and they widened with astonishment at sight of Peter Champneys. She stared, and gasped. Peter stared, and gasped, too. "Miss Claribel!" cried Peter. "Mrs. Hemingway," she corrected, smiling. "It isn't--Yes, it is, too! Peter! Oh, that Red Admiral _is_ a fairy!" CHAPTER XI HIS GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE "It is rather wonderful to turn around and find _you_ here, Peter,--and to find you so unchanged. Because you haven't changed, really; you've just grown up," said Mrs. Hemingway, holding his hand. Her face was excited and glad. "I should have known you instantly, anywhere." "I am told my legs are quite unmistakable. Some have said I appear to be walking on fishing-poles," said Peter. Mrs. Hemingway laughed. "They seem to be good, long, serviceable legs," she said, gaily. "But it is your eyes I recognized, Peter. One couldn't mistake your eyes." Peter smiled at her gratefully. "The really wonderful thing is that you should remember me at all," he told her happily, and his face glowed. That her reappearance should be timed to the outset of his great adventure into life seemed highly significant. One might almost consider it an omen. As if they had parted but yesterday, they were able to resume their old sympathetic friendship, with its satisfying sense of comradely understanding. Her heart warmed to him now as it had warmed to the shabby boy she had first seen running after the Red Admiral in the fields beyond the river swamp. No, she reflected appraisingly, he had not changed. He had somehow managed to retain a certain quality of childlikeness that made her feel as if she were looking through crystal. She was grateful that no contact had been able to blunt it, that it remained undimmed and serene. Briefly and rather baldly Peter outlined his years of struggle, dismissing their bleak hardships with a tolerant smile. What he seemed chiefly to remember was the underlying kindness and good humor of the folk back there in Riverton; if they had ever failed to be kind, it was because they hadn't understood, he thought. There was no resentment in him. Why, they were his own folks! His mother's grave was one of their graves, his name one of their names, their traditions and heritages were part and parcel of himself. The tide-water was in his blood; his flesh was dust of the South Carolina coast. She saw that, while he was speaking. And against the vivid, colorful coast background she caught haunting glimpses of a tireless small figure toiling, sweating, always moving toward a far-off goal as with the inevitable directness of a fixed law. She marveled at the patience of his strength, and she loved his gentleness, his sweetness that had a flavor of other-worldliness in it. He was telling her now of Chadwick Champneys and how his coming had changed things. But of the price he had had to pay he said nothing. He tried not to think of the bride his uncle had forced upon him, though her narrowed eyes, her red hair, her mouth set in a hard red line haunted him like a nightmare. His soul revolted against such a mockery of marriage. He could imagine his mother's horror, and he was glad Maria Champneys slept beside the husband of her youth in the cemetery beside the Riverton Road. She wouldn't have asked him to pay such a price, not for all the Champneyses dead and gone! But Chadwick Champneys had held him to his bargain, had forced him to give his name, his father's name, of which his mother had been so proud. Peter smarted with humiliation. It was as if he had been bought and sold, and he writhed under the disgrace of such bondage. He felt the helpless anger of one who realizes he has been shamefully swindled, yet is powerless to redress his injury; and what added insult to injury was that a Champneys, his father's brother, had inflicted it. Yet he had no faintest notion of breaking or even evading his pledged word; such a thought never once occurred to him. He meant to live up to the letter of his bargain; his honor would compel him to fulfil his obligation scrupulously and exactly. "And so my uncle and I came to terms," he told Mrs. Hemingway. And he added conscientiously: "He is very liberal. He insisted upon placing to my credit what he says I'll need, but what seems to me too much. And so here I am," he finished. "Yes, here you are. It had to be," said she, thoughtfully. "It's your fate, Peter." "It had to be. It's my fate," agreed Peter. "And that nice, amusing old colored woman who kept house for you--what became of her?" "Emma? Oh, she wouldn't stay behind, so she came along with me. And she couldn't leave the cat, so he came along, too," said Peter, casually. Mrs. Hemingway laughed as his uncle had laughed. "There's an odd turn to your processes, Peter," she commented. "One sees that _you'll_ never be molded into a human bread pill! I'm glad we've met again. I think you're going to need me. So I'm going to look after you." "I have needed you every day since you left," he told her. He didn't as yet know what deep cause he had to feel grateful for Mrs. John Hemingway's promise to look after him; he didn't as yet know what an important person she was in the American colony in Paris, as well as in certain very high circles of French society itself. And what was true of her in Paris was also true of her in London. Mrs. John Hemingway's promise to look after a young man hall-marked him. She was more beautiful and no less kind than of old, and absence had not had the power to change his feelings for her. As simply and whole-heartedly as he had loved her then, he loved her now. So he looked at her with shining eyes. Reticence was ingrained in Peter, but the knowledge that she liked and understood him had the effect of sunlight upon him. "He's as simple as the Four Gospels," she thought, "and as elemental as the coast country itself. One couldn't spoil him any more than one could spoil the tide-water. "Yes, indeed! I'm going to look after you," she repeated. He discovered, from what she herself chose to tell him, that there had been some unpleasant years for her too. But that had all ended when she married John Hemingway, then with a New York firm and later sent abroad to represent the interests of the company of which he was now a member. His chief office was in Paris, though he had to spend considerable time in London. When she spoke of John Hemingway his wife's face glowed with quiet radiance. The one drop of bitterness in her cup was that there were no children. "I hope you marry young, Peter, and that there'll be a houseful of little Champneys," she said, and sighed a bit enviously. At that the face of Mrs. Peter Champneys rose before her bridegroom and the very soul of him winced and cringed. He averted his face, staring seaward. "I know so many charming young girls," said Mrs. Hemingway, musingly, as if she were speaking to herself. "They don't come any prettier than they come in Riverton," Peter parried. "And you're to remember I'm coming over here to _work_." "I'll remember," said she, smiling. "But all the same, I mean you to go about it the right way. I'm going to introduce you to some very delightful people, Peter." Then Peter took her to see Emma Campbell and the cat. Emma would have crawled into her berth and stayed there until the ship docked if it hadn't been for the cat. Satan had to be given a daily airing; he had to be looked after by some one she could trust, and Emma rose to the occasion. She crawled out of her berth and on deck, where, steamer rug over her knees, her head tightly bound in a spotless white head-handkerchief, she sat with her hand on the big bird-cage set upon a camp-stool next her chair. "I don' say one Gawd's word about _me_, dough I does feel lak I done swallahed my own stummick. All I scared of is dat dis po' unforch'nate cat 's gwine to lose 'is min' befo' we-all lan's," she told Mrs. Hemingway, and cast a glance of deep distaste at the tumbling world of waters around her. Emma didn't like the sea at all. There was much too much of it. "I got a feelin' heart for ole man Noah," she concluded pensively. When they sighted the Irish coast, Emma discovered a deep sense of gratitude to the Irish: no matter what they didn't have, they did have _land_; and land and plenty of it, land that you could walk on, was what Emma craved most in this world. When they presently reached England, she was so glad to feel solid earth under her feet once more that she was jubilant. "Cat, we-all is saved!" she told Satan. "You en me is chillun o' Israel come thoo de Red Sea. We-all got a mighty good Gawd, cat!" They went up to London with Mrs. Hemingway, and were met by Hemingway himself, who gave Peter Champneys an entirely new conception of the term "business man." Peter knew rice- and cotton- and stock-men, even a provincial banker or two--all successful men, within their limits. But this big, quiet, vital man hadn't any limits, except those of the globe itself. A tall, fair man with a large head, decided features, chilly gray eyes, and an uncompromising mouth adorned with a short, stiff mustache, his square chin was cleft by an incomprehensible dimple. His wife declared she had married him because of that cleft; it gave her an object in life to find out what it meant. Hemingway studied Peter curiously. He had a great respect for his wife's nice and discriminating judgment, and it was plain that this long-legged, unpretentious young man was deeply in her good graces. Evidently, then, this chap must be more than a bit unusual. Going to be an artist, was he? Well, thank God, he didn't _look_ as if he were afflicted with the artistic temperament; he looked as if he were capable of hard work, and plenty of it. People liked to say that John Hemingway was a fine example of the American become a cosmopolitan. As a matter of fact, Hemingway wasn't. He liked Europe, but in his heart he wearied of its over-sophistication, its bland diplomacy. His young countryman's unspoiled truthfulness delighted him. He was proud of it. A man trained to judge men, he perceived this cub's potential strength. That he should so instantly like his wife's protégé raised that charming lady's fine judgment even higher in his estimation. A man always respects his wife's judgment more when it tallies with his own convictions. The Hemingways insisted that Peter should spend some time in England. Mrs. Hemingway was going over to Paris presently, and he could accompany her. In the meantime she wanted him to meet certain English friends of hers. Peter was perfectly willing to wait. He was enchanted with London, and although he would have preferred to be turned foot-loose to prowl indefinitely, his affection for Mrs. Hemingway made him amenable to her discipline. At her command he went with Hemingway to the latter's tailor. To please her he duteously obeyed Hemingway's fastidious instructions as to habiliments. He overcame his rooted aversion to meeting strangers, and when bidden appeared in her drawing-room, and there met smart, clever, and noted London. Hemingway thereafter marked his progress with amusement not unmixed with amazement. It came to him that there was a greater difference, a deeper divergence between himself and Peter than between Peter and these Britishers. The earmark of your coast-born South Carolinian is the selfsame, absolute sureness of himself, his place, his people, in the essential scheme of things. Wasn't he born in South Carolina? Hasn't he relatives in Charleston? Very well, then! In Peter's case this essential sureness had developed into a courtesy so instinctive, a democracy so unaffectedly sincere, that it flavored his whole personality with a pleasing distinctiveness. The British do not expect their very young men to be too knowing or too fatally bright; they mark the promise rather than the performance of youth, and spaciously allow time for the process of development. And so Peter Champneys found himself curiously at home in democratically oligarchic England. "I feel as if I were visiting my grandmother's house," he confided to a certain lady next whom he was seated at one of Mrs. Hemingway's small dinners. "And where is your mother's house?" wondered the lady, who found herself attracted to him. "Over home in Riverton," said Peter Champneys. And his face went wistful, remembering the little town with the tide-water gurgling in its coves, and its great oaks hung with long gray swaying moss, and the sinuous lines of the marshes against sky and water, and the smell of the sea--all the mellow magic of the coast that was Home. It didn't occur to him that an English lady mightn't know just where "over home in Riverton" might be. She was so great a lady that she didn't ask. She looked at him and said thoughtfully: "I wonder if you wouldn't like to see an old place of ours. I'm having the Hemingways down for a week, and I should like you to come with them." And she added, with a charming smile: "As you are an artist, you'll like our gallery. There's a Rembrandt you should see." Peter's eyes of a sudden went deep and golden, and their dazzling depths had so instant and so sweet a recognition that her heart leaped in answer. It was as if a young archangel had secretly signaled her in passing. When the formal invitation arrived, Mrs. Hemingway was delighted with what she termed Peter's good fortune. The invitations to that house were coveted and prized she explained. Really, Peter Champneys was unusually lucky! She felt deeply gratified. Peter hadn't known that there existed anywhere on earth anything quite so perfect as the life in a great English country house. He thought that perhaps the vanished plantation life of the old South might have approximated it. His delight in the fine old Tudor pile, in its ordered stateliness, its mellowed beauty, pleased his hostess and won the regard of the rather grumpy gentleman who happened to be her husband and its owner. To her surprise, he took Peter under his wing, and showed himself as much interested in this modest guest as he was ordinarily indifferent to many more important ones. It was his custom to take what he called a stroll before breakfast--a matter of a mere eight or ten miles, maybe--and he found to his hand a young man with walking legs, seeing eyes, and but a modicum of tongue. He showed Peter that country-side with the thoroughness of a boy birds'-nesting, as Peter had once showed the Carolina country-side to Claribel Spring. They went over the venerable house with the same thoroughness, and Peter sensed the owner's impersonally personal delight in the stewardship of a priceless possession. He held it in trust, and he loved it with a quiet passion that was as much a part of himself as was his English speech. Every now and then he would pause before some rusty sword, or maybe a tattered and dusty banner; and although he was of a very florid complexion, and his nose was even bigger than Peter's, in such moments there was that in the eye and brow, in the expression of the firm lips, that made him more than handsome in the young man's sight. Through him he glimpsed that something silent and large and fine that is England. "And we're going," said the nobleman, pausing before the portrait of a gentleman who had fallen at Marston Moor. "Oh, yes, we are vanishing. After a while the great breed of English gentlemen will be as extinct as the dodo. And this house will be turned into a Dispensary for Dyspeptic Proletarians, or more probably an American named Cohen will buy it and explain to his guests at dinner just how much it cost him." Peter remembered broken and vine-grown chimneys where stately homes had stood, the extinction of a romantic plantation life, the vanishing of the gentlemen of the old South, as the Champneys had vanished. They had taken with them something never to be replaced in American life, perhaps; but hadn't that vanished something made room for a something else intrinsically better and sounder, because based on a larger conception of freedom and justice? The American looked at the cavalier's haughty, handsome face; he looked at the Englishman thoughtfully. "Yes. You will go," he agreed presently. "All things pass. That is the law. In the end it is a good law." "I should think it would altogether depend on what replaces us," said the other, dryly. "And that," said Peter, "altogether depends upon you, doesn't it? It's in your power to shape it, you know. However, if you'll notice, things somehow manage to right themselves in spite of us. Now, over home in Carolina we haven't come out so very badly, all things considered." "Got jolly well licked, didn't you?" asked the Englishman, whose outstanding idea of American military history centered upon Stonewall Jackson. "Just about wiped off the slate. Had to begin all over, in a world turned upside down. Yet, you see, here I am! And I assure you I shouldn't be willing to change places with my grandfather." With a shy friendliness he laid his fingers for a moment on his host's arm. "Your grandson won't be willing to change, either, because he'll be the right sort. _That's_ what your kind hands down." He spoke diffidently, but with a certain authority. Each man is a sieve through which life sifts experiences, leaving the garnering of grain and the blowing away of chaff to the man himself. Peter had garnered courage to face with a quiet heart things as they are. He had never accepted the general view of things as final, therefore he escaped disillusionment. "They thought the end of the world had come--my people. So it had--for them. But not for us. There's always a new heaven and a new earth for those who come after," he finished. The Englishman smiled twistedly. After a while he said unexpectedly: "I wish you'd have a try at my portrait, Mr. Champneys. I think I'd like that tentative grandson of mine to see the sort of grandfather he really possessed." "Why, I haven't had any training! But if you'll sit for me I'll do some sketches of you, gladly." "Why not now?" asked the other, coolly. "I have a fancy to see what you'll make of me." He added casually: "Whistler used the north room over the stables when he stayed here. You've seen his pastels, and the painting of my father." "Yes," said Peter, reverently. And he stared at his host, round-eyed. "We've never changed the room since his time. Should you like to look over it now? You'll find all the materials you are likely to need,--my sister has a pretty little talent of her own, and it pleases her to use the place." "Why, yes, if you like," murmured Peter, dazedly. And like one in a dream he followed his stocky host to the room over the stables. One saw why the artist had selected it; it made an ideal studio. A small canvas, untouched, was already in place on an easel near a window. One or two ladylike landscapes leaned against the wall. "She has the talent of a painstaking copyist," said her brother, nodding at his sister's work. "Shall you use oils, or do you prefer chalks, or water-colors?" "Oils," decided Peter, examining the canvas. "It will be rough work, remember." He made his preparations, turned upon his sitter the painter's knife-like stare, and plunged into work. It was swift work, and perhaps roughly done, as he had said, but by the miracle of genius he managed to catch and fix upon his canvas the tenacious and indomitable soul of the Englishman. You saw it looking out at you from the steady, light blue eyes in the plain face with its craggy nose and obstinate chin; and you saw the kindness and delicacy of the firm mouth. There he stood, flat-footed, easy in his well-worn clothes, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the blackthorn walking-stick he always carried, and looked at you with the quiet sureness of integrity and of power. Peter added a few last touches; and then, instead of signing his name, he painted in a small Red Admiral, this with such exquisite fidelity that you might think that gay small rover had for a moment alighted upon the canvas and would in another moment fly away again. His lordship studied his painted semblance critically. "I rather thought you could do it," he said quietly. "I usually manage, as you Americans say, to pick a winner. You'll be a great painter if you really want to be one, Mr. Champneys. Should you say sixty guineas would be a fair price for this?" "That's something like three hundred dollars, isn't it?" asked Peter, interestedly. "Suppose we call this a preliminary sketch for a portrait I'm to paint later--say when I've had a few years of training." "You will charge me very much more than sixty guineas for a portrait, two or three years from now," said the other, smiling. He looked at the swiftly done, vivid bit of work. "_This_ is what I want for my grandson; it is his grandfather as nature made him. It is as true and as homely as life itself." And he looked at Peter respectfully, so that that young man blushed to his ears. And that is how and when Peter Champneys painted his first ordered picture, signed with the Red Admiral; and how he won the faithful friendship of a crusty Englishman. It was a very real friendship. His lordship had what he himself called a country heart, and as Peter Champneys had the same sort, and neither man outraged the other by too much talk, they got along astonishingly well. "He's deucedly intelligent," his lordship explained, with quiet enthusiasm. "We'll tramp for miles, and I give you my word that for an hour on end he won't say three words!" Hemingway, to whom this confidence was given, chuckled. It amused him to watch his wife's wild goose putting on native swan feathers. Yet it pleased him, for he knew the boy appealed to her romantic as well as to her maternal instinct. She handled him skilfully, and it was she who passed upon his invitations. She wished him to meet clever and brilliant men and women; and at times she left him in the hands of young girls, pink-and-white visions who troubled as well as interested him. He felt that he was really meeting them under false pretenses. Their youth called to his, but he might not answer. Between him and youth stood that unloved and unlovely girl in America. Mrs. Hemingway watched him with the eyes of the woman who has a young man upon her hands. His reactions to his contacts interested her immensely. His worldly education was progressing with entire satisfaction to her. "I want him to marry an English wife," she confided to her husband. They were to leave for Paris that night, and she was summing up the results of his stay in London, the balance being altogether in his favor. "A well-bred, normal English girl with good connections, a girl entirely untroubled by temperament, who will love him tenderly, look out for his physical well-being, and fill his house with healthy children, is exactly what Peter Champneys needs. And the sooner it happens to him the better. Peter has a lonely soul. It shouldn't be allowed to become chronic." Hemingway looked at her apprehensively. "Sounds to me as if you were trying to make Peter pick a peck of pickled peppers," he commented. And Peter coming in at this opportune moment, he grinned at the boy cheerfully. "Peter," he smiled, "the sweet chime of merry wedding-bells in the distance falls softly on mine ear; my wife thinks you should be altar-broke. Charming domestic interior, happy fireside clime, flag of our union fluttering from the patent clothes-line! Futurist painting of Young Artist Pushing a Pram! Don't look at me with such an agonized expression of the ears, Peter!" But Peter had no answering smile. His face had changed, and there was that in his eyes which gave Hemingway pause. "Why, old chap, I was merely joking!" he began, with real concern. "Peter!" said the woman, softly. "You have had--a disappointment? But, my dear boy, you are so _very_ young. Don't take it too much to heart, Peter. At your age nothing is final, really." And she smiled at him. A flush suffused the young man's forehead. He felt shamed and miserable. He _couldn't_ flaunt his price-tag before these unbuyable souls whose beautiful and true marriage was based upon love, and sympathy, and mutual ideals! He _couldn't_ rattle his chains, or explain Anne Champneys. He couldn't, indeed, force himself to speak of her at all. The thing was bad enough, but to talk about it--No! He lifted troubled eyes. "I am afraid--in my case--it is final," he said, in a low voice. And after a pause, in a louder tone: "Yes--please understand--it is final." "Oh, Peter dear, I'm sorry! But--" "You're talking nonsense. Why, you're barely twenty-one!" protested Hemingway. "Much water must flow under the bridge, Peter, before you can say of anything: it is final. You've got a long life ahead of you to--" "Work in," finished Peter. "Yes, I know that. I have my chance to work. That is enough." At that his head went up. Mrs. Hemingway puckered her brows. She leaned toward him, her eyes lighting up. "Peter!" said she, mischievously, her cheek dimpling. "Peter, aren't you rather leaving the Red Admiral out of your calculations?" CHAPTER XII "NOT BY BREAD ALONE" Mrs. Peter Champneys drove away from the scene of her wedding, feeling as if boiling water had been poured over her. No man of all the men she had ever met had looked at her with just such an expression as she had encountered in Peter Champneys's eyes, and the memory of it filled her with a rankling sense of injustice. He had married her for the same reason she had married him, hadn't he? Then why should he think himself a whit better than she was? It seemed to her that all the unkindness, all the slights she had ever endured, had come to a head in Peter's distressed and astonished glance. Nancy had no illusions as to her own personal appearance, but it occurred to her that her bridegroom left considerable to be desired in that respect, himself. With his hatchet face and his outstanding ears and his big nose--why, he was as homely as that dried old priest in the glass case in the museum!--and him looking down on people every mite as good as he was! That was really the crux of the thing: Nancy had her own pride, and Peter had managed to trample upon it roughshod. She felt she could never forgive him, and her sense of injury included Chadwick Champneys as well. She hadn't asked him to make his nephew marry her, had she? The suggestion had come from the Champneys, not from her. Yet it was plain to her that both these men considered her a very inferior person. She couldn't understand them. She liked the furnished apartment she and Mr. Champneys were to occupy until their house was ready, better than she had liked the hotel, though the Japanese butler, Hoichi, overawed her. She wasn't used to Japanese butlers and she didn't know exactly how to treat this suave, deft, silent yellow man who was so efficient and so ubiquitous. It was different where the maids were concerned; she who had been so lately an unpaid drudge was afraid these trained, clever servants might suspect her former state of servitude and she covered her fear with a manner so insupportable that Mr. Chadwick Champneys, who looked upon arrogant rudeness to social inferiors as a sort of eighth deadly sin, was presently forced to remonstrate. "Nancy," he ventured one morning, "I have been observing your manner to the servants with--er--disapproval. A habitual lack of consideration is a serious deficiency. It is really a lack of breeding--and of heart. A lady"--he fixed his large dark eyes upon her--"is never impolite." He touched her on the quick. She _knew_ these Champneys didn't think she was a lady, but for this old man to come right out and say so to her face--"Say, I guess I know how to be a lady without you havin' to tell me!" "I am more than willing to be convinced," said the South Carolinian, pointedly. At that, of a sudden, Nancy flared. She lifted a pair of sullen and mutinous eyes, and her lips quivered. He saw with surprise that she was trembling. "Say, you look here--I done what you told me to do, didn't I? I ain't no more nor no less a lady than I was before I done it, am I? What you pickin' on me for, then? What more you want?" He sighed. Milly's niece was distinctly difficult, to say the least. How, he asked himself desperately, was one to make a dent in her appalling ignorance? She irritated him. And as is usual with people who do not understand, he took exactly the wrong course with her. "I want you at least to try to live up to your position," he said with cold directness, beetling his brows at her. "I want you to do what you're told--and to keep on doing it! Do you understand that?" He felt that he was allowing himself to be more wrought up than was good for him, and this added to his annoyance. She considered this, sullenly. "I'm not exackly straight in my mind what I understand and what I don't understand, yet," she replied. "But I got this much straight: If I done what I done to please you, I done it to please me, too!" This was logical enough; it had even a note of common sense and justice. But her crude method of expressing it filled him with cold fury. The Champneys temper strained at the leash. "Ah!" said he, a dark flush staining his face, "ah! Then get this straight, too: you'll please me only _if_ you carry out your part of our contract. What! do you dream I would ruin my nephew's life for a self-willed, undisciplined minx? Nothing could be farther from my thoughts! Nancy, _I_ made you Mrs. Peter Champneys: you will qualify for the position--or lose it!" He tapped his foot on the floor, and glared at her. Nancy gave him glare for glare. "Yeah, you said it! You made me Mrs. Peter Champneys, and all I got to do is to do what I don't want to do, to hold down the job! What you askin' _him_ to do to please _me_? How's _he_ qualifyin'? Is he so much I'm nothin'? Because that's what he thinks! Oh, you needn't talk! I guess I got eyes, at least!" "I suggest that you use them to your own advantage, then," said he, disgustedly. "Let us have done with such squabbling! You agreed to obey. Very well, then, you will do so, or I shall take steps to put you outside of my calculations. In other words, I will wash my hands of you. Is that perfectly clear to you?" How else, he asked himself, was he to make her understand? She saw that he was in a towering rage, and she reflected that if she had made Baxter that mad he'd have banged her with his fists. For a long minute the two stared at each other. She was about to make a defiant reply and let come what might, when a sort of spasm distorted his face. His mouth opened gaspingly, his eyes rolled back in his head like a dying man's. He seemed to crumple up, and she caught him as he fell. Her terrified shriek brought Hoichi, who took instant charge of the situation. He made the unconscious man comfortable on a divan, applied such restoratives as were at hand, and directed a frightened maid to telephone for physicians. Nancy fled to her own room, and sat on the edge of her bed, frightened and subdued. That quarrel and its serious effect made a turning-point in her life, though she attached no blame to herself for the man's illness. She had no love for him, but her heart was not callous to suffering, and his distorted and agonized face had terrified and shocked her. The suddenness of the seizure made his words more impressive. Suppose he died: what of her? She was not sure that any definite provision had as yet been made for her. What, then, should she do? Suppose he recovered: what then? She had cause for serious thought. All this luxury and ease, this pleasant life of plenty, in which she reveled with the deep delight of one quite unused to it, hung upon a contingency--the contingency of absolute obedience. She was not naturally supine, and her spirit rose against an unconditional self-surrender to a hot-tempered, imperious old man, who would mold her to his will, make her over to his own notions, quite as high-handedly as if she'd been a lump of putty and not a human being. Nancy tasted the bitterness of having no voice in the making of her own destiny. Well, but suppose she defied him? He was quite capable of washing his hands of her, just as he had threatened. And then? Before that possibility Nancy recoiled. No. She couldn't, she wouldn't go back to that old life of squalid slavery--eating bad food, wearing wretched clothes, suffering all the sodden and sordid misery of the ignorant, abjectly poor, a suffering twice as poignant now that she knew better things. She knew poverty too well to have any illusions about it. The Baxter kitchen rose before her. Why! while she was sitting here now, in this luxurious room, back there they'd be getting ready for the noonday dinner. The close kitchen would be reeking with the odor of boiling potatoes and cabbage, from which a greasy steam would be arising, so that one saw things as through a hot mist. One of the children would be screaming, somewhere about the house, and Mrs. Baxter, in an unsavory wrapper, her face streaming with perspiration, her hair in sticky strands on her hot forehead, would be shrilly threatening personal chastisement: "You shut up, out there! Just you wait till I get this batch o' biscuits off my hands an' I bet I fix _you_! didn't I say shut up?" The hateful voice seemed so close to Nancy's ear that the girl shrank back, shivering with distaste. She fingered the soft, fine stuff of the frock she was wearing. She stared about the room,--_her_ room, which she didn't have to share with one of the Baxter children, who squirmed and kicked all night in summer, and pulled the bed-coverings off her in winter. She went over to her dressing-table and fingered its pretty accessories, sniffing with childish pleasure the delicately scented powder and cologne. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and scowled. Then she began to walk restlessly up and down the room. She had to think this thing out. Why should she go, and leave the road clear for Peter Champneys? It occurred to her that, seen from his point of view, her elimination from the scene might be regarded somewhat in the light of providential interference in his behalf. She flushed. It wasn't fair! The thought of Peter Champneys was gall and wormwood to her. Nancy wasn't a fool. Her honesty had a blunt directness, a sort of cave-woman frankness. In her, truthfulness was not so much a virtue as an energy. The hardness of her unloved life had bred a like hardness in her sense of values; she was distrustful and suspicious because she had never had occasion to be anything else. In that suspicion and distrustfulness had lain her safety. She had no sense of spiritual values as yet. Religion had meant going to church on Sundays when you had clean clothes in which to appear. Morals had meant being good, and to Nancy being good simply meant not being bad--and you couldn't be bad, go wrong, if you never trusted any man. A girl that trusted none of 'em could keep respectable. Nancy had seen girls who trusted men, in her time. Nothing like that for _her_! But she knew, also, the price the woman pays whether she trusts or distrusts, and the matrimony which at times rewarded the distrustful didn't appear much more alluring than the potter's field which waited for the credulous. Anyway you looked at it, what happened wasn't pleasant. And it was worse yet when you knew there was something better and different. You had to pay a price to get that something better and different, of course. The fact that one pays for everything one gets was coming home to Nancy with increasing force; the problem, then, was to get your money's worth. She took her head in her hands, and tried to concentrate all her faculties. She wasn't a shirker, and she realized that she must decide upon her course of conduct now and stick to it. If she didn't look out for herself, who would? And presently she had reached the conclusion that when Mr. Peter Champneys reappeared upon the scene, he must find Mrs. Peter Champneys occupying the foreground, and occupying it creditably, too. She'd do it! When Mr. Chadwick Champneys recovered, she'd come to terms with him. She'd keep faith. She spent three or four anxious days, while specialists came and went, and white-capped, starched, authoritative personages relieved each other in the sick-room, their answers to all queries being that the patient was doing quite as well as could be expected. At the end of the fifth day they admitted that the patient was recovering,--was, in fact, out of danger, though he wouldn't leave his room for another week or ten days; and he wasn't to be worried or disturbed about anything. Satisfied, then, that he was on the highroad to recovery, and having made up her mind as to her own course of procedure, Nancy rather enjoyed these few days of comparative freedom. She supplied herself with a huge box of bonbons, "Junie's Love Test" and "The Widowed Bride,"--books begun long ago, but wrested from her untimely by the ruthless Mrs. Baxter, on the score of takin' her time off: her rightful work for them that'd took her in, and fillin' her red head with the foolishest sort o' notions. She had had so much to do that to have nothing to do but lie around in a red silk kimona and nibble chocolates and read love stories, seemed to her the supreme height of felicity. She reveled in these novels. They represented that something different toward which her untutored and stinted heart groped blindly. Otherwise her mind, by no means a poor one, lay fallow and untilled. The beauty and wonder of the world, the pity and terror of fate, the divine agony of love which sacrifices and endures, did not as yet exist for her. She merely sensed that there was something different, somewhere--maybe on the road ahead. And so she wept over the woes of star-crost lovers, and sentimentalized over husky heroes utterly unlike any male beings known to nature, and believed she didn't believe that disinterested and unselfish love existed in the world. As she hadn't the faintest gleam of self-knowledge, in all this she was perfectly sincere. She did not see Mr. Champneys for two weeks or so. In his nervous condition he evinced a singular reluctance to have her come near him, although others saw him daily. For instance, Mr. Jason Vandervelde appeared at half after ten o'clock every morning during his client's convalescence, was immediately admitted to Mr. Champney's room, and left it upon the stroke of eleven. Nancy watched this man curiously. When he met her in the hall, he spoke to her in a nice, full-toned, modulated voice, exceedingly pleasing to the ear. His eyes were small but of a deep and bright blue, and although he was heavily built he wore his clothes so well that he gave the effect of strength rather than of clumsiness. He was clean-shaven and ruddy, and his large, well-shaped mouth was deeply curled at the corners. His hands were not fat and white, as one might expect, but tanned and muscular, and slightly hairy. His glasses gave him a certain precision, and his curled lips suggested irony. Nancy liked to look at him. He discomfited her understanding of men, for, she couldn't tell why, she both liked and trusted him. There was nothing romantic about him,--a well-fed, well-groomed lawyer-man in his late thirties, with a handsome wife in a handsome house,--yet he had the faculty of making her wonder about him, and wonder with kindness at that. She wished she knew just how much he knew about her, her early upbringing, her sad lack of education. What had Mr. Champneys told him? Or had he really told him anything? When her uncle finally overcame his reluctance and sent for her, she entered his room quietly and stood looking at him with an honest concern that was in her favor. She was always honest, he reflected. There was nothing of the hypocrite or the coward in those wary gray-green eyes that always met one's glance without flinching. The change in his appearance shocked her. His eyes were hollow, his tall form looked meager and shrunken. He was growing to be an _old_ man. She said awkwardly: "I'm real sorry you been so sick." And she made no attempt to apologize for her share in the quarrel that had led to his seizure. She ignored it altogether, and for this he was grateful. "Thank you. I am getting along nicely," he said civilly. And with a slightly impatient gesture he dismissed all further mention of illness. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the better to collect his thoughts. He wished to make his wishes perfectly clear to her. But she surprised him by saying quietly: "I been thinking things over while you was sick, and I come to the conclusion you was right. I got to have more education. There's things I just got to know--how to talk nice, and what to wear, and what fork you'd ought to eat with. Forks and things drive me real wild." "I had thought, at first, of sending you to some particularly fine boarding-school--" he began, but Nancy interrupted him. "If I was six instead o' sixteen, you might do it. As 't is, I wouldn't learn nothin' except to hate the girls that'd be turnin' up their noses at me. No. I don't want to go to boardin'-school. I've saw music-teachers that come to folks' houses to give lessons, and I been thinkin', why can't you get me a school-teacher that'll teach me right at home!" "As I was saying when interrupted,"--he looked at her reprovingly--"I had at first thought of sending you to some finishing school. I gave up that idea almost at once. I agree with you that it is best you should be taught at home. In fact, I have already engaged the lady who will be your companion as well as your teacher." "I don't know as I'm crazy about a lady companion as a steady job," said Nancy, doubtfully. She feared to lose her new liberty, to forego the amazing delight of living by herself, so to speak. "But now you've done it, I sure hope you've picked out somebody _young_. If I got to have a lady companion, I want she should be young." "Mr. Vandervelde attended to the matter for me," said Mr. Champneys, in a tone of finality. "He is sure that the lady in question is exactly the person I wish. Mrs. MacGregor is an Englishwoman, the widow of a naval officer. She is in reduced circumstances, but of irreproachable connections. She has the accomplishments of a lady of her class, and her companionship should be an inestimable blessing to you. You will be governed by her authority. She will be here to-morrow." "A ole widder woman! Good Lord! I--" here she stopped, and gulped. An expression of resignation came over her countenance. "Oh, all right. You've done it an' I'll make the best of it," she finished, not too graciously. "It is not proper to refer to a lady as 'a ole widder woman'." "Well, but ain't she?" And she asked: "What else you know about her?" "Mr. Vandervelde attended to the matter," he repeated. "He is thoroughly satisfied, and that is enough for me--and for you. I sent for you to inform you that she is to be here to-morrow. See that you receive her pleasantly. Your hours of study and recreation will be arranged by her. She will also overlook your wardrobe. And, I do not wish to hear any complaints." "I can't even pick out my own clothes?" "You lack even the rudiments of good taste." "What's wrong with my clothes?" she demanded. "Everything," said he, succinctly, and with visible irritation. He remembered the wedding-gown, and his face twitched. She watched him intently. "Oh, all right. I said I'd obey, an' I will. I ain't forgettin'," said she, wearily. "Very well. I am glad you understand." He closed his eyes, and understanding that the interview was at an end, Nancy withdrew. Mrs. MacGregor arrived on the morrow. The attorney had been given explicit orders and instructions by his exacting client, who had his own notions of what a teacher for his niece should and shouldn't be. Vandervelde congratulated himself on having been able to meet them so completely in the person of the estimable Mrs. MacGregor. Mr. Champneys demanded a lady middle-aged but not too middle-aged, not overly handsome, but not overly otherwise; an excellent disciplinarian, of a good family, and with impeccable references. For the rest, Mrs. MacGregor was a tall, spare, high-nosed lady, with a thin-lipped mouth full of large, sound teeth of a yellowish tinge, and high cheek-bones with a permanent splash of red on them. Her eyes were frosty, and her light hair was frizzled in front, and worn high on her narrow head. She dressed in plain black silk of good quality, wore her watch at her waist, and on her wrist a large, old-fashioned bracelet in which was set a glass-covered, lozenge-shaped receptable holding what looked like a wisp of bristles, but which was a bit of the late Captain MacGregor's hair. Mr. Champneys had wanted a lady who was a church member. He had a vague idea that if a lady happened to be a church member you were somehow or other protected against her. Mrs. MacGregor was orthodox enough to satisfy the most rigid religionist. Mr. Champneys gathered that she believed in God the father, God the son, and God the Holy Ghost, three in One, and that One a dependable gentleman beautifully British, who dutifully protected the king, fraternally respected the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Prime Minister, and was heartily in favor of the British Constitution. Naturally, being a devout woman, she agreed with Deity. An American family domiciled for a while in England had secured her services as companion to an elderly aunt of theirs, fetching her along with them, on their return to America. The aunt had been a family torment until the advent of Mrs. MacGregor, but in the hands of that disciplinarian she had become a mild-mannered old body. On her demise the grateful family settled a small annuity upon her whom they couldn't help recognizing as their benefactor. Finding Americans so grateful, Mrs. MacGregor decided to remain among them and with her recommendations secure another position of trust in some wealthy family. This, then, was the teacher selected by Mr. Jason Vandervelde, who thought her just what Mr. Champneys wanted and his ward probably needed. Mrs. MacGregor never really liked anybody, but she could respect certain persons highly; she respected Mr. Chadwick Champneys at sight. His name, his appearance, the fact that Jason Vandervelde was acting for him, convinced her that he was "quite the right sort"--for an American. She was as gracious to him as nature permitted her to be to anybody. And the salary was very good indeed. It was only when Nancy put in her appearance that Mrs. MacGregor's satisfaction withered around the edges. The red on her high cheeks deepened, and she fixed upon her new pupil a cold, appraising stare. She made no slightest attempt to ingratiate herself; that wasn't her way; what she demanded, she often said, was Respect. The impossible young person who was staring back at her with hostile curiosity wasn't overcome with Respect. The two did not love each other. Strict disciplinarian though she might be where others were concerned, Mrs. MacGregor treated herself with lenient consideration. She was selfish with a fine, Christian zeal that moved Nancy to admiring wonder. Nancy's own selfishness had been superimposed upon her by untoward circumstances. This woman's selfishness was a part of her nature, carefully cultivated. She believed her body to be the temple of the Holy Ghost, and she made herself exceedingly comfortable in the building, quite as if the Holy Ghost were an obliging absentee landlord. Nancy observed, too, that although the servants did not like her, they obeyed her without question. She got without noise what she wanted. But she really could teach. Almost from the first lesson, Nancy began to learn, the pure hatred she felt for her instructress adding rather than detracting from her progress. Had the woman been broader, of a finer nature, she might have failed here; but being what she was, immovable, hard as nails, narrow and prejudiced, sticking relentlessly to the obviously essential, she goaded and stung the girl into habits of study. Her reaction to Mrs. MacGregor really pushed her forward. She knew that the woman could never overcome a secret sense of amaze that such a person as herself should be a member of Chadwick Champneys's family--the man was a _gentleman_, you see. And she called Nancy "Anne." Her lifted eyebrows at Nancy's English, her shocked, patient, parrot-like, "Not 'seen him when he done it,' _please_. You _saw_ him when he _did_ it!--No, 'I come in the house' isn't correct. Try to remember that _well-bred_ persons use the past tense of the verb; thus: 'I _came_ into the house.'--What _do_ I hear, Anne? You '_taken'_ it? No! You TOOK it!" And she would look at Nancy like a scandalized martyr, ready to die for the noble cause of English grammar! Rather than endure that look, rather than face those uplifted eyebrows, Nancy, gritting her teeth, set herself seriously to the task of making over her method of speech. It was Mrs. MacGregor who, discovering the girl's unstinted allowance of candy, cut off the supply. She didn't care much for candies herself, but she did like fruit, and fruit was substituted for the forbidden sweets. She had the healthy, wholesome English habit of walking, and unless the weather was impossible she forced her unwilling charge to take long tramps with her, generally immediately after breakfast. They would set out, Nancy dressed in a plain blue serge, her pretty, high-heeled pumps discarded for flat-heeled walking-shoes, Mrs. MacGregor flat-footed also, tall, bony, in a singular bonnet, but nevertheless retaining an inherent stateliness which won respect. Sometimes they tramped up Riverside Drive, their objective being Grant's tomb. Mrs. MacGregor respected Grant; and the stands of dusty flags brought certain old British shrines to her mind. On stated mornings they visited the Library, while Mrs. MacGregor selected the books Nancy was to read, books that Nancy looked at askance. They had their mornings for the museums, too. Mrs. MacGregor knew nothing of art, except that, as she said to Nancy, well-bred persons simply _had_ to know something about it. After their walk came lessons, grueling, dry-as-dust, nose-to-the-grindstone lessons, during which Nancy's speech was vivisected. At two o'clock they lunched, and Nancy had further critical instructions. The dishes she had once been allowed to order were changed, greatly to her annoyance; Mrs. MacGregor liked such honest stuff as mutton chops and potatoes, just as she insisted upon oatmeal for breakfast. Porridge, she called it. In the afternoon they motored; Mrs. MacGregor, who detested speed, became the bane of the hard-faced chauffeur's life. They dined at seven, and for an hour thereafter Mrs. MacGregor either read aloud from some book intended to edify the young person, or forced Nancy to do so. She was possibly the only person alive who delighted in Hannah More. She said, modestly, that at an early age she had been taught to revere this paragon, and whatever happy knowledge of the virtues proper to the female state she possessed, she owed in a large measure to that model writer. Nancy conceived for Hannah More a hatred equaled in intensity only by that cherished for Mrs. MacGregor herself. Mrs. MacGregor's notions of dress and her own were asunder, even as the poles. But here again that rigid duenna did her invaluable service, for if she didn't look handsome in the clothes selected for her, she didn't, as that lady said frankly, look vulgar in them. No longer would you be liable to mistake her for somebody's second-rate housemaid on her day out. The simple diet and the inexorable regularity of her hours also told in her favor, although she herself wasn't as yet aware of the change taking place. Already you could tell that hers was a supple and shapely young body, with promise of a magnificent maturity; you glimpsed behind the fading freckles a skin like a water-lily for creamy whiteness; and that red hair of hers, worn without frizzings, began to take on a glossy, coppery luster. That spring they moved into the new house. It was so different from the average newly-rich American home that it moved even Mrs. MacGregor to praise. Nancy thought it rather bare. It hadn't color enough, and there were but few pictures. Yet the old rosewood and mahogany furniture pleased her. She remembered that golden-oak, red-plush parlor at Baxter's with a sort of wonder. Why! she had thought that parlor handsome! And now she was beginning to understand how hideous it had been. She saw little of Mr. Champneys, who seemed to be plunged to the eyes in business. Occasionally he appeared, looked at her searchingly, said a few words to her and Mrs. MacGregor, and vanished for another indefinite period. Mr. Jason Vandervelde was almost a daily visitor when Mr. Champneys happened to be in the city. At times Mr. Champneys went away, presumably to look after business interests, and Nancy thought that at such times the lawyer accompanied him. She had no friends of her own age, and Mrs. MacGregor wasn't, to say the least, companionable. And the books she was compelled to read bored her to distraction. She took it for granted they must be frightfully good, they were so frightfully dull! The deadliest, dullest of all seemed to be reserved for Sunday. She didn't mind going to church; in church you could watch other people, even though Mrs. MacGregor sat rigidly erect by your side, and expected you to be able to find your place in a Book of Common Prayer entirely unfamiliar to you. While she sat rapt during what you thought an unnecessarily long sermon, you could look about you slyly, and take note of the people within your immediate radius. Nancy liked to observe the younger people. Sometimes a bitter envy would almost choke her when she regarded some girl who was both pretty and prettily dressed, and, apparently, care-free and happy. She watched the younger men stealthily. Some of them pleased her; she would have liked to be admired by at least one of them, and she felt jealous of the fortunate young women singled out for their attentions. Think of being pretty, and having beautiful clothes, and swell fellows like that in love with you! That any one of these fine young men should cast a glance in her own direction never entered her mind. No. Loveliness and the affection and gaiety of youth were for others; for her--Peter Champneys. At that she fetched a deep sigh. She always went home from church silent and subdued. Mrs. MacGregor thought this a proper attitude of mind for the Sabbath. The girl was vaguely disturbed and uneasy without knowing why. The newness and glamour of the possession of creature comforts, the absence of want, was wearing thin in spots. She was conscious of a lack. She was beginning to think and to question, and as there was no one in whom she might confide, she turned inward. Naturally, she couldn't answer her own questions, and all her thoughts were as yet chaotic and confused. She wanted--well, what did she want, anyhow? She repeated to herself, "I want something different!" That something different should not include a dreary round of Mrs. MacGregor, a cold inspection by Mr. Chadwick Champneys; nor the thought of Peter Champneys. It _would_ include laughter and--and people who were neither teachers nor guardians, but who were gay, and young, and kind. She began to be conscious of her own isolation. She had always been isolated. Once poverty had done it; and now money was doing it. Those girls she saw at church--she'd bet they went to parties, had loads of friends, had a good time, were loved; plenty of people wanted their love. For herself, as far back as she could look, she had never had a friend. Who cared for her love? Sometimes she watched the new maid, a distractingly pretty little Irish girl, black-haired, blue-eyed, rosy-faced. The girl tried to be demure, to restrain the laughter that was always near the surface; but her eyes danced, her cheek dimpled, she had what one might call a smiling voice. And the handsome young policeman on the corner was acutely aware of her. Nancy remembered one afternoon when she and Mrs. MacGregor happened to be coming in at the same time with Molly. It was Molly's afternoon off and she was dressed trimly, and with taste. Under her little close-fitting hat her hair was like black satin, her face like a rose. The young policeman managed to pass the house at that moment, and lifted his cap to her; Nancy saw the look in the young man's eyes. She followed Mrs. MacGregor into the house, rebelliously. Nobody had ever looked at _her_ like that. Nobody was ever going to look at her like that. She remembered Peter Champneys's eyes when they had first met hers. A dull flush stained her face, and bitterness overwhelmed her. Mr. Champneys was busy; Mrs. MacGregor was satisfied--she had a position of authority; her creature comforts were exquisitely attended to; her salary was ample. The man saw his plans being carried forward, if not brilliantly at least creditably; the woman saw that her tasks were fulfilled. It never occurred to either that the girl might or should ask for more than she received, or that she might find her days dull. But Nancy was discovering that the body is more than raiment, and that one does not live by bread alone. CHAPTER XIII THE BRIGHT SHADOW The Champneys chauffeur, greatly to Mrs. MacGregor's terror and disapproval, seemed to live for speed alone; in consequence, one afternoon Mrs. MacGregor and Nancy very narrowly escaped dying for it. Whereupon Mr. Champneys summarily dismissed the chauffeur and engaged in his place young Glenn Mitchell, accidentally brought to his notice. Mr. Champneys congratulated himself upon the discovery of Glenn Mitchell. To begin with, he was a South Carolinian, one of those well-born, penniless, ambitious young Southerners who come to New York to make their fortune. One of his forebears had married a Champneys. That was in ante bellum days, but South Carolina has a long memory, and this far-off tie immediately established the young fellow upon a footing of family relationship and of cousinly friendliness. He was a personable youth of twenty, who had worked his way through high school and meant presently to go through the College of Physicians and Surgeons,--his grandfather had been a distinguished physician, Mr. Champneys remembered. The boy proposed to use his skill in handling a motor-car as a means toward that end. Mr. Chadwick Champneys would gladly have paid Glenn's college expenses out of his own pocket, but the young man, delicately sounded, politely but sturdily declined. The next best thing the kindly old Carolinian could do, then, was to make the boy a member of his own household. Hoichi had orders to prepare a room for Mr. Mitchell, and Mrs. MacGregor was advised that he would take his meals with the family. She was at first inclined to be scandalized: to bring your chauffeur to your own table was Americanism with a vengeance! But when she met the young man, she was mollified. This chauffeur was a gentleman, and in Mrs. MacGregor's estimation a gentleman may do many things without losing caste. She remembered that the perfectly decent younger son of a certain poverty-stricken nobleman had driven a car. This young Mitchell was exceptionally good-looking in a nice, boyish, fresh-faced way, and she saw in his manner a youthful reflection of the courtliness which distinguished Mr. Chadwick Champneys. He had a great deal of that indefinable something we call charm, and before she knew it Mrs. MacGregor was won over to him, and looked upon his presence as a distinct addition to the Champneys menage. When he had been introduced to Nancy, she was mentioned as "My niece, Mrs. Champneys." Mrs. MacGregor called her "Anne." Mr. Champneys spoke to her as "Nancy," and Glenn thought he must have been mistaken as to that "Mrs." There was no sign of a husband anywhere; neither was there any indication of widowhood. Nobody mentioned Peter--Mr. Champneys because he was more interested in talking about Glenn's business than his own, on the occasions when he had time to talk about anything; Mrs. MacGregor, because she had never seen Peter, knew nothing at all about him, except that there was a nephew somewhere in the background of things, and wasn't in the least interested in anything but her own immediate affairs; besides, it never would have occurred to her to talk about her employer's affairs, even if she had known anything about them. An employer who was a gentleman, and very wealthy, belonged to the Established Order, and Mrs. MacGregor had the thorough-going British respect for Established Order. Nancy, for her part, wished to forget that Peter existed. She never by any chance mentioned him, or even thought of him if she could help it. So when young Glenn Mitchell, after the pleasant South Carolina fashion, addressed her as "Miss Nancy" it seemed perfectly all right to everybody. Nancy was a little over eighteen then. She had grown taller, but she retained the pleasant angularity of extreme youth. Because she didn't know how to arrange her hair, Mrs. MacGregor sternly forbidding frizzing and curling, and insisting upon a "modest simplicity becoming to a young girl" she wore her red mane in a huge plait. She had been so teased and badgered about her red hair, had hated it so heartily, been so ashamed of it, that she didn't realize how magnificent it was now, after two years of care and cleanliness. It wasn't auburn; it wasn't Titian; it was a bright, rich, glittering, unbuyable, undeniable red, and Nancy wore her plait as a boy wears a chip on his shoulder. Young Glenn Mitchell was seized with a wild desire to catch hold of that braid that was like a cable of gleaming copper, and wind it around his wrists. For the first time, he thought, he was seeing the true splendor and beauty of red hair; and the girl had the wonderfully white skin that accompanies it. He suspected that she must have been pretty badly freckled when she was a child, for the freckles were still fairly visible, though one saw that they would presently vanish altogether. The curve of her throat and chin, the "salt-cellars" at the base of the neck, left nothing to be desired. Altogether there was that about this girl that caught and held his boyish attention. It wasn't that she was pretty,--he had at first thought her plain. It was rather that here lay a tantalizing promise of unfoldment by and by, a sheathed hint of something rare and perilous. He didn't quite know what to make of Mr. Champneys's niece. She was abnormally silent, unbelievably unobtrusive, singularly still. Watching her, he found himself wishing she would smile, at least occasionally: he longed to see what her mouth would look like if it should curve into laughter. She had exquisite teeth, and her eyes, when one was allowed to get a glimpse of them, were of a curious, agaty, gray green, with one or two little spots or flecks in the iris. Hers was an impassive, emotionless face; yet she gave a distinct impression of feeling, emotion, passion held in check; it was as if her feelings had been frozen. But suppose a spring thaw should set in--what then? Would there be just a calm brook flowing underneath placid willows, or a tempestuous torrent sweeping all before it? He wondered! She sat opposite him at table three times a day, and never addressed a word to him, or to Mrs. MacGregor, who carried on whatever conversation there might be. Mrs. MacGregor liked to give details of entertainments "at home," at which she herself had been present, or of events in which A Member of My Family had participated. "I said to the dear Bishop,"--"His Lordship remarked to My Cousin." Sometimes during these recitals the thin, fine edge of a smile touched Nancy's lips. It was gone so quickly one wasn't quite sure it had been there at all; yet its brief passage gave her a strange expression of mockery and of weariness. She offered no opinions of her own about anything; she made no slightest attempt to keep the conversation alive; you could talk, or you could remain silent--it was all one to her. Yet dumb and indifferent though she appeared to be, you felt her presence as something very vital, listening, and immensely honest and natural. He wished she would speak to him, say something more than a mere "Yes" or "No." Girls had always been more than willing to talk to Glenn Mitchell--very much prettier and more fascinating girls than this silent, stubborn, red-headed Anne Champneys. He began to feel piqued, as well as puzzled. And then, one day, he happened to glance up suddenly and in that instant encountered a full, straight, intense look from her--a look that weighed, and wondered, and searched, and was piercingly, almost unbearably eager and wistful. He felt himself engulfed, as it were, in the bottomless depths of that long, clear gaze, that went over him like the surge of great waters, and drenched his consciousness to the core. Brand-new Eve might have looked thus at brand-new Adam, sinlessly, virginally, yet with an avid and fearful questioning and curiosity. For the second his heart shook and reeled in his breast. Then the dark lashes fell and veiled the shining glance. Her face was once more indifferent and mask-like. As a matter of fact, Nancy was avidly interested in Glenn, in whom for the first time she encountered youth. He came like a fresh breeze into an existence in which she stifled. From his first appearance in the house she had watched him stealthily, looking at him openly only when she thought herself unobserved. Conscious of her own defects, she was timid where this good-looking young man was concerned. It never occurred to her that she might interest him, but she did not wish him to think ill of her. She kept herself in the background as much as possible. She had none of the joyousness natural to a girl of her age. She had no young companions. Was there some reason? Wasn't she happy? He felt vaguely troubled for her. She aroused his sympathy, as well as his curiosity. He couldn't forget that look he had surprised. It stayed in his memory, perilously. At night in his room, when he should have been studying, that astonishing glance came before him on his book, and cast a luminous spell upon him. He surprised no more such glances. She still relegated to Mrs. MacGregor the full task of talking to him; a task that lady performed nobly. Just as she walked every morning with Mrs. MacGregor, she took her place in the car every afternoon, apparently obeying orders. Sometimes, twisting his head around, he could glimpse her profile turned toward the moving panorama of the crowded streets through which he was skilfully manoeuvering his way. But if she were interested in what she gazed at so fixedly, she made no comment. One never knew what she thought about anything. One memorable evening she appeared at dinner in a yellow frock, instead of the usual serge or plain blue silk. It wasn't an elaborate dress, but its prettily low neck allowed one to admire her full throat, with a string of amber beads around it. Her hair hung in two thick braids across her shoulders, and the straight lines of the yellow satin accentuated the youthfulness of her figure. Glenn's heart behaved unmannerly. She appeared not to see his quick, pleased glance, but turned instead to Mrs. MacGregor, who was regarding her critically. Mrs. MacGregor hadn't been consulted about the yellow frock, and she viewed it with distinct disapproval. Glenn found himself solidly aligned against Mrs. MacGregor, and siding with the girl. He liked that yellow frock; somehow it suited her coloring, enabled one to see how unusual she really was. He wondered that he had thought her so plain, at first. She agitated him. He wished intensely that she would look at him; and just then she did, and for the first time saw admiration in a young man's eyes, not for another girl, but for herself! She held his glance, doubtfully, timidly; but she couldn't doubt the evidence of her senses. Glenn was pleased with her, he admired her! His ingenuous face beamed the fact, from frank eyes and smiling lips. There was somewhat more than admiration in his look, but Nancy was more than content with what appeared on the surface. Her eyes widened, a flush rose to her cheek, a naïve and pleased smile transformed her dissatisfied young mouth. When he ventured to speak to her presently, she ventured to reply, shyly, but with new friendliness. Once, when Mrs. MacGregor said something sententious, and Glenn laughed, Nancy laughed with him. That frank and boyish admiration restored to her, as it were, some rightful and precious heritage long withheld, an indispensable birthright the lack of which had beggared and stripped her. She had a sense of profound gratitude to this likable and handsome young man, a moved and touching interest in him. He made her feel glad to be alive; through him the world seemed of a sudden a kindlier place, full of charming surprises. And when she accompanied Mrs. MacGregor to church on the following Sunday, she looked with a secret sisterliness at the girls she had envied and disliked. It was as if she had been elected to their ranks, been made one of them; she wasn't on the outside of things any more; somebody--a very desirable and handsome somebody--admired her, too. She didn't analyze her feelings. Youth never thinks or analyzes, it feels and realizes; that is why it is divine, why it is lord of the earth. Her growing liking for him was so shy, so naïve, so touchingly sincere, that Glenn was profoundly moved when he became aware of it. He had the old South Carolina chivalry; to him women were still invested with a halo, and one approached them with a manly reverence. He had liked girls, many girls; he would have told you, himself, that he never met a pretty girl without loving her some! But this was the first time Glenn had ever really fallen in love, and he fell headlong, with an impetuous ardor that all but swept him off his feet, and that was like strong wine to Nancy, whose drink heretofore had been lukewarm water. He didn't know whether or not she was Mr. Champney's sole heir, and he didn't care: what difference could that make? He was as well born as any Champneys, wasn't he? And if he wasn't blessed with much of this world's goods just now, he took it for granted he was going to be, after a while. As for that, hadn't Chadwick Champneys himself once been as poor as Job's turkeys? And hadn't Mr. Champneys acknowledged the relationship existing between them, slight and distant though it was? Who'd have the effrontery to look down on one of the Mitchells of Mitchellsville, South Carolina? He'd like to know! Glenn began to dream the rosy dreams of twenty. It took Nancy somewhat longer to discover the amazing truth. She was more suspicious and at the same time very much more humble-minded than Glenn. But suspicion faded and failed before his honest passion. His agitation, his eagerness, his face that altered so swiftly, so glowingly, whenever she appeared, would have told the truth to one duller than Nancy. If Mrs. MacGregor could have suspected that anybody could fall in love with Anne Champneys, she must have seen the truth, too. But she didn't. She was serenely blind to what was happening under her eyes. Nancy never forgot the day she discovered that Glenn loved her. Mrs. MacGregor had one of her rare headaches. She was a woman who hated to upset the fixed routine of life, and as their afternoon outing was one of the established laws, she insisted that Nancy should go, though she herself must remain at home. Half fearful, half delighted, Nancy went. Glenn had looked at her, mutely entreating; in response to that entreaty she took the seat beside him. For some time neither spoke--Glenn because he was too wildly happy, Nancy because she hadn't anything to say. She was curious; she waited for him to speak. "I wonder," gulped Glenn, presently, "if you know just how happy I am." Nancy said demurely that she didn't know; but if he was happy she was glad: it must be very nice to be happy! "Aren't _you_ happy?" he ventured. Nancy turned pink by way of answer. As a matter of fact, she was nearer being happy then than she had ever been. They fell into an intimate conversation--that is, Glenn talked, and the girl listened. He explained his hopes, ambitions, prospects. He talked eagerly and impetuously. He wished her to understand him, to know all about him,--what he was, what he hoped to be. A boy in love is like that. In return for this confidence Nancy explained that she hated oatmeal, and Hannah More; some of these days she meant to buy every copy of Hannah More she could lay her hands on, and burn them. Of herself, her past, she said nothing. "And so you're going to be a doctor!" she turned the conversation back to him, as being much more interesting. "Yes. Or rather, I'm going to be a great surgeon." And then he asked, smilingly: "And you--what do _you_ want to be?" "I want to be happy," said Nancy, half fiercely. "There isn't any reason why you shouldn't be--a girl like you." Nancy looked a bit doubtful. But no, he wasn't poking fun. And after a pause, he asked, as one putting himself to the test: "Miss Anne--Nancy--do you think you could be happy--with _me_?" "_You_?" breathed Nancy, all a-tremble. She thought she could be happier with Glenn than with anybody else. Why! there _wasn't_ anybody else! That is, nobody that cared. She was afraid to say so. But her moved and changed face said it for her. "Because, if you could be happy with me, why shouldn't you be?" asked Glenn, brilliantly. But Nancy understood, and her heart crowded into her throat with delight, and terror, and a sort of agony. She felt that she loved and adored this boy to distraction. She would have adored anybody who loved and desired her, who found her fair. But she didn't understand that; neither did Glenn. "You care?" said the boy, leaning toward her. They were running slowly, along a road high above the river. "Nancy, you care?" Care? Of course she cared! She considered him the most beautiful and desirable of mortals; she was so enraptured, so thrilled with the astounding fact that he cared for her, that she couldn't speak, but looked at him with swimming eyes. He brought the car to a stop, slipped an arm around her shoulder, and drew her close. She knew that something momentous was going to happen to her, and looked at him, full of a sweet terror. "I love you!" said Glenn, and kissed her on the mouth. His beard was the ghost of down on his cheek; her hair hung in a braid to her waist; their kiss was the kiss of youth,--tender, passionately pure. Everything but that morning face, pale with young emotion, looking at her with enamored eyes, vanished from her mind; everything else counted for nothing, went like chaff upon the wind. The one fact alone remained: _Glenn loved her_! Her senses were in a delicious tumult from the power and the glory of it: _Glenn loved her_! It was as if a skylark sang in her breast, as if she walked in a rosy and new-born world. Had Nancy been called upon to die for him then, she would have gone to her death shining-eyed, fleet-footed, joyous. "I love you, I love you!" Glenn repeated it like a litany. "Nancy! Does it make you as happy because I love you as it makes me because you love me?" "Oh, ten thousand times ten thousand times more!" she said fervently. "I think it was your hair I fell in love with, first off," he told her presently. "I have never seen a girl with such hair, and such a lot of it. I'm crazy about your hair, Nancy." "I think you must be," she agreed whole-heartedly. She wasn't vain, his girl! They had no more plans than birds or flowers have. Plenty of time for sober planning by and by, when one grew accustomed to the sweet miracle of being beloved as much as one loved! Glenn simply took it for granted he was going to marry her. He had known her all of three months--a lifetime, really!--and she had allowed him to kiss her, had admitted she cared. He supposed they would have to wait until he had been through his training and won that coveted degree. Until then, they would keep their beautiful secret to themselves; they didn't wish to share it with anybody, yet. It was only when she was alone in her room that night that Nancy realized the true situation that confronted her. On the one side was Glenn, dear, wonderful Glenn, who loved her. On the other was Peter Champneys, who had married her as she had married him, for the Champneys money. Peter Champneys! who despised her, and whom she must consider a barrier between herself and whatever happiness life might offer her! She could understand how Glenn had made his mistake. Nobody had explained Peter to him. To tell him the truth now meant to lose him. She was like a person dying of thirst, yet forbidden to drink the cup of cold water extended to her. Wasn't it wiser to take what life offered, drain the cup, and let come what might? Why not snatch her chance of happiness, even though it should be brief? Suppose one waited? Deep in her heart was the hope that something would happen that would save her; youth always hopes something is going to happen that will save it. Wasn't it possible Peter might fall in love with somebody, and divorce her? One saw how very possible indeed such a thing was! For the present, let Glenn love her. It was the most important and necessary thing in the world that Glenn should love her. What harm was she doing in letting Glenn love her? Particularly when Peter Champneys didn't, never would, any more than she ever could or would love Peter Champneys. Even Mrs. MacGregor noticed the change taking place in Anne Champneys. The girl had more color and animation, and at times she even ventured to express her own opinions, which were strikingly shrewd and fresh and original. Her eyes had grown sweeter and clearer, now that she no longer slitted them, and her mouth was learning to curve smilingly. Decidedly, Anne was vastly improved! And her manner had subtly changed, too; she was beginning to show an individuality that wasn't without a nascent fascination. Mrs. MacGregor plumed herself upon the improvement in her pupil, which she ascribed to her own civilizing and potent influence, for she was a God-fearing woman. She didn't understand that the greatest Power in heaven and earth was at work with Nancy. But although Glenn became daily more enamored of the girl, he wasn't so satisfied with things as they were. He couldn't say that Nancy really avoided him, of course. He drove her and Mrs. MacGregor, whom at times he wished in Jericho, out in the car every afternoon. He sat opposite her at table thrice daily. Sometimes in the evening he spent an hour or two with her and Mrs. MacGregor, before going to his own room to study. But it so happened that he never was able to see her alone any more; and Nancy certainly made no effort to bring about that desirable situation. This made him restive and at the same time increased his passion for her. For her part, she was perfectly content just to look at him, to know that he was near. But Glenn was more impatient. He wanted the fragrance of her hair against his shoulder; he wanted the straight, strong young body in his arms; he wished to kiss her. And she held aloof. Although she no longer veiled her eyes from him, although he was quite sure she loved him, she was always tantalizingly out of his reach. She didn't seem to understand the lover's desire to be alone with the beloved, he thought. He grew moody. The weeks seemed years to his ardent and impetuous spirit. One night, happening to need a book he had noticed in the library, he went after it. And there, oh blessed vision, sat Nancy! She had been sleepless and restless, and had stolen out of her room for something to read that hadn't been selected by Mrs. MacGregor. It was rather late, but finding the quiet library pleasanter to her mood than her own room, she curled up in a comfortable chair and began to read. The book was Hardy's "Tess," and its strong and somber passion and tragedy filled her with pity and terror. Something in her was roused by the story; she felt that she understood and suffered with that simple and passionate soul. She looked up, startled, as Glenn entered the room. He came to her swiftly, his arms outstretched, his face alight. "You!" he cried, radiant and elate. "You!" Nancy rose, torn between the desire to retreat, and to fling herself into those waiting arms. Glenn left her no choice. He seized her, roughly and masterfully, and held her close, pressing her against his body. His lips fastened upon hers. Nancy closed her eyes and shivered. She felt small and helpless, a leaf before the wind, and she was afraid. "Nancy!" he whispered. "Nancy! You've got to marry me. We'll just have to risk it, degree or no degree! What's the use of waiting all our lives, maybe, when we love each other? When will you marry me, Nancy?" She knew then that she had to tell him the truth, and she trembled. "Glenn, I--I--" she stammered. Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. "Soon? Say yes, Nancy! I'm crazy about you, don't you know that? Why don't you say when, Nancy?" She felt desperate, as if some force were closing in upon her, relentlessly. She had to speak, and yet she couldn't. She tried to escape from the arms that held her, but they clasped her all the closer. His eager lips closed on hers. "Nancy! Ah, darling, why not let everything go and marry me at once?" Ah, why not, indeed? As if Peter Champneys had reached across the sea to divide her and Glenn, a stern voice answered Glenn's question. "Because she has a husband already," it said harshly. Chalky white, with blazing eyes, Chadwick Champneys confronted Peter's wife in another man's arms. "She is married to my nephew, Peter Champneys. Is it possible you do not know?" Glenn's arms dropped. Intuitively he moved away from her. His visage blanched, and he stared at her strangely. "Nancy, is this thing true?" Nancy nodded. She said in a lifeless voice: "Oh yes, it's true. I was trying to tell you, but--" And then she broke into a cry: "Glenn, you don't understand! Glenn, listen, please listen! I did love you, I do love you, Glenn! You--you don't know--you don't understand--" The boy staggered. He was an honorable, clean-souled boy, heir to old heritages of pride, and faith, and chivalry. A dull, shamed red crept from cheek to brow, replacing his pallor. His gesture, as he turned away from her, made her feel as if she had been struck across the face. She winced. She saw herself judged and condemned. "Mr. Champneys," stammered Glenn, painfully, "surely you know I didn't understand--don't you? I--we--fell in love, sir. We'd meant to wait--that's why I didn't come to you at once--but I--that is, I was very much in love with her, and I was going to make a clean breast of it and ask you what we'd better do. And you're not to think I'm--dishonorable--" he choked over the word. Knowing the boy's breed, Champneys laid a not unkindly hand on his shoulder. "I see how it was," he said. "And--I guess you're punished enough, without any reproaches from me." Glenn turned to Nancy. "Why did you do it?" he cried. "I loved you, I trusted you. Nancy, why did you do such a thing--to _me_?" She twisted her fingers. Well, this was the end. She was to be thrust out of the new brightness, back into the drab dreariness, the emptiness that was her fate. She lifted tragic eyes. "I never expected you to love me. But when you did--I just _had_ to let you! Nobody else cared--ever. And I loved you for loving me--I couldn't help it, Glenn; I couldn't help it!" Her voice broke. She stood there, twisting her fingers. An old, wise, kind woman, or an old priest who had seen and forgiven much, or men who knew and pitied youth, would have understood. Neither of the men to whom she spoke realized the significance of that childishly pitiful confession. Champneys felt that she had shamed his name, belittled the sacred Family which was his fetish; Glenn thought she had made a fool of him for her own amusement. Never again would he trust a woman, he told himself. And in his pain and shame, his smarting sense of having been duped, his hideous revulsion of feeling, he spoke out brutally. Nancy was left in no doubt as to the estimation in which he now held her. And she understood that it was his pride, even more than his love, that suffered. She made no further attempt to explain or to exculpate herself; what was the use? She knew that had they changed places, had Glenn been in her shoes and she in his, her judgment had not been thus swift and merciless. Her larger love would have understood, and pitied, and forgiven. Pride! They talked of Pride, and they talked of Name. But she could only feel that the one love she had ever known, or perhaps ever was to know, was going from her, must go from her, unforgiving, as if she had done it some irreparable wrong. She looked from one wrathful, accusing face to the other, like a child that has been beaten. How could Glenn, who had seemed to love her so greatly, turn against her so instantly? Not even--Peter Champneys--had looked at her as Glenn was looking at her now! And of a sudden she felt cold, and old, and sad, and inexpressibly tired. So this was what men were like, then! They always blamed. And they never, never understood. She would not forget. She checked the impulse to cry aloud to Glenn, to try once more to make him understand. Her eyes darkened, and two bright spots burnt in her cheeks. Without a further word or glance she walked out of the room and left the two standing close together. So stepped Anne Champneys into her womanhood. She locked her door upon herself. Then she went over, after her fashion, and stared at herself in her mirror. The herself staring back at her startled her--the flushed cheeks, the mouth like coral, the eyes glowing like jewels under straight black brows. The ropes of red hair seemed alive, too; the whole figure radiated a personality that could be dynamic, once its powers should be fully aroused. She viewed the woman in the glass impersonally, as if it had been a stranger's face looking at her. That vivid creature couldn't be Nancy Simms, not quite three years ago the Baxter slavey, the same Nancy that Peter Champneys had shrunk from with aversion, and that Glenn had repudiated to-night! "Yes,--it's me," she murmured. "But I ain't--I mean I am not really ugly any more. I'm--I don't know just _what_ I am--or whether I ought to like or hate me--" But even while she shook her head, the face in the glass changed; the mouth drooped, the color faded, the light in the eyes went out. "But whatever I am, I'm not enough to make anybody keep on loving me." Then, because she was just a girl, and a very bewildered, sad, and undisciplined girl, she put her red head down on her dressing-table and wept despairingly. The next morning Mr. Champneys explained to the concerned and regretful Mrs. MacGregor that Mr. Mitchell had been called away suddenly, last night, and didn't think he would be able to return. The ladies were to accept Mr. Mitchell's regrets that he hadn't been able to bid them good-by in person. Mr. Champneys bowed for Mr. Mitchell, in a very stately manner. He went on with his breakfast, while Nancy made a pretense of eating hers, hating life and wishing with youthful intensity that she was dead, and Glenn with her. His empty place mocked and tortured her. He had gone, and he didn't, wouldn't, couldn't understand. She could never, never hope to make Glenn understand! She rather expected Mr. Champneys to sit in judgment upon her that morning, but a whole week passed before Hoichi brought the message that Mr. Champneys wished to see her in the library. Her uncle was standing by the window when she entered, and he turned and bowed to her politely. He was thinner, gaunter, more Don Quixotish than usual. If only he had been kind! But his face was set, and hers instinctively hardened to match it. "Nancy," he began directly, "I have not sent for you to load you with reproaches for your inexplicable conduct. But I must say this: deliberately to deceive and befool an honest gentleman, to trifle with his affections out of mere greedy vanity, is so base that I have no words strong enough to condemn it." "I didn't mean to fool him. He fooled himself, and I let him do it," said she, dully. He thought her listlessness indifference, and any bluntness in moral tone in a woman, scandalized him. He could understand a Mrs. MacGregor, who was without subtleties; or soft, loving, courageous women like Milly and his sister-in-law, Peter's mother. But this girl he couldn't fathom. He beat his hands together, helplessly. "I--you--" he groaned. And then: "Oh, Peter, what have I done to you!" "I can't see you've done anything to him, except pay him to go away and learn how to make something out of himself," returned Nancy, practically. It brought him up short. "Uncle Chadwick, please keep quiet for a few minutes: I want you to listen to me." She met his eyes fully. "I didn't do Glenn Mitchell any real harm: he'll fall in love with somebody else pretty soon. I suppose it's easy for Glenn to love people because it's easier for people to love Glenn. And he's done me this much good: I won't be so ready to believe it's easy for folks to love _me_, Uncle Chadwick. I guess I'm the sort they mostly--_don't_. I'll not forget." She spoke without bitterness, even with dignity. "One thing more, please. If ever Peter Champneys finds out he loves somebody, and he'll let me know, I'll give him his freedom. Fortune or no fortune, I won't hold him. I know now--a little--what loving somebody means," she finished. Her voice was so steady, her eyes so clear and direct, her manner so contained, that he was uncomfortably impressed. He felt put upon the defensive. As a matter of fact, in his first anger and surprise at what he still considered her shameless behavior, he had seriously considered the advisability of having Peter's marriage annulled. As soon as he had become calmer, his pride and obstinacy rejected such a course. After all, no harm had been done. She was very young. And he hoped Glenn's outspoken condemnation had taught her a needed and salutary lesson. Looking at her this morning, he realized that she had been punished. But that she should so calmly speak of divorcing Peter, of making way for some other woman, horrified him. "You are talking immoral nonsense!" he said, angrily. "Let him go, indeed! Divorce your husband! What are we coming to? In my day marriage was binding. No respectable husband or wife ever dreamed of divorce!" "But they were real husbands and wives, weren't they?" asked Nancy. "All husbands and wives are real husbands and wives!" he thundered. She considered this--and him--carefully. "Then you don't want Mr. Peter Champneys and me ever to be divorced? I thought maybe you might." "I forbid you even to _think_ such wickedness," cried he, alarmed. "A girl of your age talking in such a manner! It's scandalous, that's what it is,--scandalous! Shows the dry-rot of our national moral sense, when the very children"--he glared at Nancy--"gabble about divorce!" "Then I--I mean, things are just to go along, the same as they have been?" She looked at him pleadingly. For a few minutes he drummed on the library table with his thin brown fingers. His bushy brows contracted. He asked unexpectedly: "Would you like to go away for a while? To travel?" "Where?" "Where? Why, anywhere! There's a whole world to travel in, isn't there? Well, take Mrs. MacGregor and travel around in it, then." She shook her head. "What's the use? Anywhere I went I'd have to go with _me_, wouldn't I? And I can't seem to like the idea of traveling around with Mrs. MacGregor, either." "What _do_ you want, then?" "I don't know," said she, in a low voice. And she added: "So I think I might just as well stay right on here at home, if it's all the same to you." "Well, if it pleases you, of course--" he began doubtfully. "If I do stay, you needn't be afraid I'll fall in love with anybody else you hire," said she, with a faint flush. "I'm only a fool the same way once." Her bomb-shell directness all but stunned him. He stammered, confusedly: "Why--very well then, very well then! Quite so! I see exactly what you mean! I--ah--am very glad we understand each other." But as the door closed behind her, he mumbled to himself: "Now, that was a devil of an interview, wasn't it! What's come over the girl? And what's the matter with _me_?" After a while he telephoned Mr. Jason Vandervelde. Everything went on as usual in the orderly, luxurious house, for some ten quiet months or so. And then one memorable morning at the breakfast-table Mr. Champneys suddenly gasped and slid down in his chair. Nancy and Hoichi carried him into the library and placed him on a lounge. He opened his eyes once, and stared into hers with something of his old imperiousness. She took his hand, pitifully, and bent down to him. "Yes, Uncle Chadwick?" But he didn't speak--to her. His eyes wandered past her. His lips trembled, into a whisper of "_Milly_!" With that he went out to the wife of his youth. CHAPTER XIV SWAN FEATHERS While Mr. Chadwick Champneys was alive, Nancy had been able to feel that there was some one to whom she, in a way, belonged. Now that he was gone, she felt as if she had been detached from all human ties, for she couldn't consider Peter as belonging. Peter wasn't coming home, of course. He was content to leave his business interests in the safe hands of Mr. Jason Vandervelde, and the trust company that had the Champneys estate in charge. A last addition to Mr. Champneys's will had made the lawyer the guardian of Mrs. Peter Champneys until she was twenty-five. While he was putting certain of his late client's personal affairs in order, Mr. Vandervelde necessarily came in contact with young Mrs. Peter. The oftener he met her, the more interested the shrewd and kindly man became in Anne Champneys. When he first saw her in the black she had donned for her uncle, the unusual quality of her personal appearance struck him with some astonishment. "Why, she's grown handsome!" he thought with surprise. "Or maybe she's going to be handsome. Or maybe she's not, either. Whatever she is, she certainly can catch the human eye!" He remembered her as she had appeared on her wedding-day, and his respect for Chadwick Champneys's far-sighted perspicacity grew: the old man certainly had had an unerring sense of values. The girl had a mind of her own, too. At times her judgment surprised him with its elemental clarity, its penetrating soundness. The power of thinking for herself hadn't been educated out of her; she had not been stodged with other people's--mostly dead people's--thoughts, therefore she had room for her own. He reflected that a little wholesome neglect might be added to the modern curriculum with great advantage to the youthful mind. Her isolation, the deadly monotony of her daily life, horrified him. He realized that she should have other companionship than Mrs. MacGregor's, shrewdly suspecting that as a teacher that lady had passed the limit of usefulness some time since. Somehow, the impermeable perfection of Mrs. MacGregor exasperated Mr. Vandervelde almost to the point of throwing things at her. She made him understand why there is more joy in heaven over one sinner saved, than over ninety and nine just persons. He could understand just how welcome to a bored heaven that sinner must be! And think of that poor girl living with this human work of supererogation! "Why, she might just as well be in heaven at once!" he thought, and shuddered. "I've got to do something about it." "Marcia," he said to his wife, "I want you to help me out with Mrs. Peter Champneys. Call on her. Talk to her. Then tell me what to do for her. She's changed--heaps--in three years. She's--well, I think she's an unusual person, Marcia." A few days later Mrs. Jason Vandervelde called on Mrs. Peter Champneys, and at sight of Nancy in her black frock experienced something of the emotion that had moved her husband. She felt inclined to rub her eyes. And then she wished to smile, remembering how unnecessarily sorry she and Jason had been for young Peter Champneys. Marcia Vandervelde was an immensely clever and capable woman; perhaps that partly explained her husband's great success. She looked at the girl before her, and realized her possibilities. Mrs. Peter was for the time being virtually a young widow, she had no relatives, and she was co-heir to the Champneys millions. Properly trained, she should have a brilliant social career ahead of her. And here she was shut up--in a really beautiful house, of course--with nobody but an insufferable frump of an unimportant Mrs. MacGregor! The situation stirred Mrs. Vandervelde's imagination and appealed to her executive ability. Mrs. Vandervelde liked the way she wore her hair, in thick red plaits wound around the head and pinned flat. It had a medieval effect, which suited her coloring. Her black dress was soft and lusterless. She wore no jewelry, not even a ring. There were shadows under her grave, gray-green eyes. Altogether, she looked individual, astonishingly young, and pathetically alone. Mrs. Vandervelde's interest was aroused. Skilfully she tried to draw the girl out, and was relieved to discover that she wasn't talkative; nor was she awkward. She sat with her hands on the arms of her chair, restfully; and while you spoke, you could see that she weighed what you were saying, and you. "I am going to like this girl, I think," Marcia Vandervelde told herself. And she looked at Nancy with the affectionate eyes of the creative artist who sees his material to his hand. "Jason," she said to her husband, some time later, "what would you think if I should tell you I wished to take Anne Champneys abroad with me?" "I'd say it was the finest idea ever--if you meant it." "I do mean it. My dear man, with proper handling one might make something that approaches a classic out of that girl. There's something elemental in her: she's like a birch tree in spring, and like the earth it grows in, too, if you see what I mean. I want to try my hand on her. I hate to see her spoiled." "It's mighty decent of you, Marcia!" said he, gratefully. "Oh, you know how bored I get at times, Jason. I need something real to engage my energies. I fancy Anne Champneys will supply the needed stimulus. I shall love to watch her reactions: she's not a fool, and I shall be amused. If she managed to do so well with nobody but poor old Mr. Champneys and that dreary MacGregor woman, think what she'll be when _I_ get through with her!" Vandervelde said respectfully: "You're a brick, Marcia! If she patterns herself on you--" "If she patterns herself on anybody but herself, I'll wash my hands of her! It's because I think she won't that I'm willing to help her," said his wife, crisply. Some six weeks later the Champneys house had been closed indefinitely, the premises put in charge of the efficient Hoichi, and Mrs. MacGregor bonused and another excellent position secured for her, and Mrs. Peter Champneys was making her home with her guardian and his wife. She might have moved into another world, so different was everything,--as different, say, as was the acrid countenance of Mrs. MacGregor from the fresh-skinned, clear-eyed, clever, handsome face of Marcia Vandervelde. Everything interested Nancy. Her senses were acutely alert. Just to watch Mrs. Vandervelde, so calm, so poised and efficient, gave her a sense of physical well-being. She had never really liked, or deeply admired, or trusted any other woman, and the real depths of her feeling for this one surprised her. Mrs. Vandervelde possessed the supreme gift of putting others at their ease; she had tact, and was at the same time sincere and kind. Nancy found herself at home in this fine house in which life moved largely and colorfully. A maid had been secured for her, whom Mrs. Vandervelde pronounced a treasure. Then came skilful and polite persons who did things to her skin and hair, with astounding results. After that came the selection of her wardrobe, under Mrs. Vandervelde's critical supervision. Although the frocks were black, with only a white evening gown or two for relief, Nancy felt as if she were clothed in a rosy and delightful dream. She had never even imagined such things as these black frocks were. When she saw herself in them she was silent, though the super-saleswomen exclaimed, and Mrs. Vandervelde smiled a gratified smile. "I am going to keep her strictly in the background for the time being, Jason," she explained to her husband. "As she's already married, she can afford to wait a year--or even two. I mean her to be perfect. I mean her to be absolutely _sure_. She's going to be a sensation. Jason, have you ever seen anything to equal her team-work? When I tell her what I want her to do, she looks at me for a moment--and then does it. One thing I must say for old Mr. Champneys and that MacGregor woman: they certainly knew how to lay a firm foundation!" Nancy was perfectly willing to remain in the background. She was interested in people only as an on-looker. She responded instantly to Mrs. Vandervelde's suggestions and instructions, and carried them out with an intelligent thoroughness that at times made her mentor gasp. It gave her a definite object to work for, and kept her from thinking too much about Glenn Mitchell. And she didn't want to think about Glenn Mitchell. It hurt. She watched with a quiet wonder--quite as if it had been a stranger to whom all this was happening--the change being wrought in herself; the immense difference intelligent care, perfectly selected clothes, and the background of a beautiful house can make not only in one's appearance but in one's thoughts. Sometimes she would stare at the perfectly appointed dinner-table, with its softly shaded lights; she would look, reflectively, from Marcia Vandervelde's smartly coiffured head to her husband's fine, aristocratic face; the reflective glance would trail around the beautiful room, rest appreciatively upon the impressive butler, come back to the food set before her, and a fugitive smile would touch her lips and linger in her eyes. There were times when she felt that she herself was the only real thing among shadows; as if all these pleasant things must vanish, and only her lonesome self remain. She watched with a certain wistfulness the few people she knew. Marcia, now--so admired, so sure, with so many interests, so many friends, and with Jason Vandervelde's quiet love always hers--did _she_ ever have that haunting sense of the impermanence of all possessions; of having, in the end, nothing but herself? "What are you thinking, when you look at me like that?" Marcia asked her one evening, smilingly. She was as curious about Nancy as Nancy was about her. "I was just--wondering." "About what?" "I was wondering if you were ever lonely?" said Nancy, truthfully. "I mean, as if all this,"--they were in the drawing-room then, and she made a gesture that included everything in it,--"just _things_, you know, all the things you have--and--and the people you know--weren't _real_. They go. And nothing stays but just _you_. _You_, all by yourself." She leaned forward, her eyes big and earnest. Marcia Vandervelde stared at her. After a moment she said, tentatively: "There are always things; things one has, things one does. There are always other people." "Yes, or there wouldn't be you, either. But what I mean is, they go. And you stay, don't you?" She paused, a pucker between her brows, "All by yourself," she finished, in a low voice. "Does that make you afraid?" asked Mrs. Vandervelde. "Oh, no! Why should it? It just makes me--wonder." Mrs. Vandervelde said quietly: "I understand." Nancy felt grateful to her. A few days later Mrs. Vandervelde said to her casually: "An old friend of ours dines with us to-night, Anne,--Mr. Berkeley Hayden, one of the most charming men in the world. I think you will like him." Mrs. Vandervelde always said that Berkeley Hayden was the most critical man of her acquaintance, and that his taste was infallible. He had an unerring sense of proportion, and that miracle of judgment which is good taste. He was one of those fortunate people who, as the saying goes, are born with a gold spoon in the mouth. Unlike most inheritors of great wealth, he not only spent freely but added even more freely to the ancestral holdings. He was moneyed enough to do as he pleased without being considered eccentric; he could even afford to be esthetic, and to prefer Epicurus to St. Paul. He had a highly important collection of modern paintings, and an even more valuable one of Tanagra figurines, old Greek coins, and medieval church plate. He had, too, the reputation of being the most gun-shy and bullet-proof of social lions. At thirty he was a handsome, well-groomed, rather bored personage, with sleekly-brushed blond hair and a short mustache. He looked important, and one suspected that he must have been at some pains to keep his waist line so inconspicuous. For the rest, he was as really cultivated and pleasing a pagan as one may find, and so wittily ironical he might have been mistaken for a Frenchman. Mrs. Vandervelde had planned that he should be the only guest. She knew this would please him, as well as suit her own purpose, which was that he should see young Mrs. Peter Champneys. She was curious to learn what impression Anne would create, and if Berkeley Hayden's judgment would coincide with her own. She had informed him that Jason's ward was stopping with them; would, in fact, go abroad with her shortly. Mr. Hayden was not interested. He thought a ward rather a bore for the Vanderveldes. He was standing with his back to the mantel, facing the door, when Nancy entered the room. In the filmy black Mrs. Vandervelde had selected for her, tall and slim, she paused for the fraction of a second and lifted her cool, shining, inscrutable green eyes to his lazy blue ones. Mrs. Vandervelde had prevailed upon her to retain her own fashion of wearing her hair in plaits wound around her head, and the new maid had managed to soften the severity of the style and so heightened its effectiveness. A small string of black pearls was around her throat, and pendants of the same beautiful jewels hung from her ears. Berkeley Hayden started, and his eyes widened. Mrs. Vandervelde, who had been watching him intently, sighed imperceptibly. "I wasn't mistaken, then," she thought, and smiled to herself. She could have hugged Anne Champneys for her beautifully unconscious manner. Of course the girl didn't understand she was being signally honored and favored by Hayden's openly interested notice, but Marcia reflected amusedly that it wouldn't have made much difference if Anne had known. He didn't interest her, except casually and impersonally. She thought him a very good-looking man, in his way, but rather old: say all of thirty:--and Glenn Mitchell had been handsome, and romantic, and twenty. Young Mrs. Champneys, then, didn't respond to Mr. Berkeley Hayden's notice gratefully, pleasedly, flutteringly, as other young women--and many older ones--did. This one paid a more flattering attention to Mr. Jason Vandervelde than to him. But he had seen other women play that game; he wondered for a moment if this one were designing. But he was himself too clever not to understand that this was real indifference. Then he wondered if she might be--horrible thought!--stupid. He was forced to dismiss that suspicion, too. She wasn't stupid. The truth didn't occur to him--that he himself was spoiled. It provoked him, too, that he couldn't make her talk. Mrs. Vandervelde smiled to herself again. Berkeley was deliberately trying to make himself agreeable, something he did not often have to trouble himself to do. He was at his best only when he was really interested or amused, and he was at his best to-night. He aroused her admiration, drew the fire of her own wit and raillery, stung even quiet Jason into unwonted animation. Anne Champneys looked from one to the other, concealing the fact that at times their conversation was over her head. She didn't always understand them. The sense of their unreality in relation to herself came upon her. She turned to watch this strange man who was saying things that puzzled her, and he met her eyes, as Glenn Mitchell had once met them. She wasn't looking at him as she had looked at Glenn, but Berkeley Hayden's sophisticated, well-trained, wary heart gave an unprecedented, unmannerly jump when those green eyes sought to fathom him. Marcia spoke of their proposed stay abroad. She had gone to school in Florence, and she retained a passionate affection for the old city, and showed her delight at the prospect of revisiting it. "This will be your first visit to Italy, Mrs. Champneys?" asked Hayden. "Yes." "I envy you. But you mustn't allow yourself to be weaned away from your own country. You must come back to New York." He smiled into her eyes--Berkeley Hayden's famous smile. "Yes, I suppose I must," said Nancy, without enthusiasm. He felt puzzled. Was she unthinkably simple and natural, or was she immeasurably deep? Was her apparent utter unconsciousness of the effect she produced a superfine art? He couldn't decide. He usually knew exactly why any certain woman pleased him. He had usually demanded beauty; he had worshiped beauty all his life. But beauty must go hand in hand with intellectual qualities; he hated a fool. To-night he found himself puzzled. He couldn't tell exactly why Anne Champneys pleased him. Studying her critically, he decided that she was not beautiful. He could not even call her pretty. Perhaps it was her unusualness. But wherein was she so unusual? He had met women with red hair and white skin and gray-green eyes before--women far, far more seductive than Jason's ward. Yet not one of them all had so potently gripped his imagination. Mrs. Vandervelde was a brilliant pianist, and after dinner Hayden begged her to play. Under cover of the music, he watched Mrs. Champneys. She was sitting almost opposite him, and he could observe her changing countenance. Nancy was beginning to love and understand good music. Men create music; women receive and carry it as they receive and carry life. It is quite as much a part of themselves. Nancy's eyes shadowed. She leaned back in her chair, and the man watched the curve of her white cheek and throat, and the thick braids of her red hair. She had forgotten his presence. He was saying to himself, with something of wonder, "No, she's not beautiful: but, my God! how _real_ she is!" when, subtly drawn by the intensity of his gaze, she turned, looked at him with her clouded eyes, and smiled vaguely. Still smiling, she turned her head again and gave herself up to listening, unconscious that destiny had clapped her upon the shoulder. The man sat quite still. It had come to him with, the suddenness of a lightning stroke, and his first feeling was one of stunned amazement, and an almost incredulous resentment. He had gone to and fro in the earth and walked up and down in it, comfortably immune, an amused and ironic looker-on. And now, at thirty, without rhyme or reason he had fallen in love with a red-haired young woman of whom he knew absolutely nothing, beyond the bare fact that she was Jason Vandervelde's ward. A woman who didn't conform to any standard he had ever set for himself, whose mind was a closed book to him, of whose very existence he had been ignorant until to-night. Old Dame Destiny must have sniggered when she thrust Mrs. Peter Champneys, née Nancy Simms, into the exquisitely ordered life of Mr. Berkeley Hayden! He presently discovered from Jason all that the trustee of the Champneys estate knew of Mrs. Peter, which really wasn't very much, as the lawyer and his wife had never seen Nancy until the morning of her marriage. And he didn't have much to say about her as she was then. Hayden gathered that it was a marriage of convenience, for family reasons--to keep the money in the family. He asked a few questions about Peter, whom Vandervelde thought a likely young fellow enough, but whom Hayden fancied must be a poor sort--probably a freak with a pseudo-artistic temperament. There couldn't have been very much love lost between a husband and wife who had consented to so singular a separation. Hayden had a _very_ poor opinion of Mr. Peter Champneys! But he was fiercely glad it hadn't been a love-match, glad that that other man's claim upon Anne was at the best nominal, that theirs was a marriage in name only. He saw her several times before her departure, and came no nearer to understanding her. The night before they sailed, he gave a dinner in his apartment, an old aunt of his, more enchanting at sixty than at sixteen, being the only other guest. That apartment with its brocaded walls and its marvelous furniture was a revelation to Nancy. It was like an opened door to her. She looked at her host with a new interest. He appeared to greater advantage seen, as it were, against his proper and natural background. And that background had the glamour of things strange, exciting, and alluring, smacking somewhat of, say, an Arabian Night's entertainment. Over the dining-room mantel hung a curious and colorful landscape, in which two brown girls, naked to the waist and from thence to the knees wrapped in straight, bright-colored stuff, raised their angular arms to pluck queer fruit from exotic trees. He knew all that, she thought; he had seen that strange landscape and those brown women, and tasted the fruit they reached to pluck. Just as he knew those tiny terra-cotta figurines over there, and that pottery which must have been made out of ruby-dust. Just as he knew everything. All this had been in his world, always. A world full of things beautiful and strange. He had had everything that she had missed. It seemed to her that he incarnated in his proper and handsome person all the difference and the change that had come into her life. And quite suddenly she saw Nancy Simms dusting the Baxter parlor, pausing to stand admiringly before a picture on a white-and-gold easel, that cherished picture of a house with mother-of-pearl puddles in front of it. A derisive and impish amusement flickered like summer lightning across her face, and with an inscrutable smile she mocked the mother-of-pearl puddles and her old admiration of them. She lifted her eyes to the painting over Berkeley Hayden's mantel, and the smile deepened. "Perhaps it is her smile," thought he, watching her. "Yes, I am sure it must be her smile. I am rather glad Marcia is taking her abroad. I do not wish to make a fool of myself, and there'd be that danger if she remained." Yet the idea of her absence gave him an unaccustomed pang. He filled her quarters aboard ship with exquisite flowers. She was not yet used to graceful attentions, they had been for other women, not for her. She had no idea at all that she was of the slightest importance, if only because of the Champneys money; her comparative freedom was still too recent for her to have changed her estimate of herself. She thought it touchingly kind and thoughtful of this handsome, important man to have remembered just _her_, particularly when there wasn't anybody else to do so, and she looked at him with a pleased and appreciative friendliness for which he felt absurdly grateful. While Marcia was busied with the other friends who had come to see her off, he stood beside Mrs. Champneys, who seemed to know no one but himself, and this established a measure of intimacy between them. "It occurs to me," said he, tentatively, "that it has been some time since I saw Florence. All of two or three years." They stood together by the railing, and she leaned forward the better to watch a leggy little girl with a brickdust-red pigtail in a group on the pier. "Yes?" said she, absently. The leggy girl had just thrust out her tongue at an expostulating nurse. She seemed to be a highly unpleasant child; one of those children of whom aunts speak as "poor Mary" or whatever their name may be. Anne Champneys, watching her, put her hand up and touched her own hair, that gleamed under her close-fitting black hat. Her eyes darkened; she smiled, secretly, mysteriously, rememberingly. In that instant Berkeley Hayden made his decision. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. When she turned away from the railing, he said pleasantly: "You and Marcia have put me in the humor to see Florence again. If I come strolling in upon you some fine day, I hope you'll be glad to see me, Mrs. Champneys?" "Oh, yes!" said she, politely. And then Marcia and Vandervelde came up, and a few minutes later the two men went ashore. Hayden's face was the last thing Nancy saw as the steamer moved slowly outward. There were hails, laughter, waving of hand-kerchiefs. He alone looked at _her_. And so he remained in her memory, standing a little apart from all others. CHAPTER XV "I, TOO, IN ARCADIA" If Riverton was his mother's house and England his grandmother's, France was peculiarly his own. Peter Champneys felt that he had come home, and even the fact that he couldn't speak understandable French didn't spoil the illusion. Nobody laughed at his barbarous jargon; people were patient, polite, helpful. He thought the French the pleasantest people in the world, and this opinion he never changed. Later, when he learned to know them better, he concluded that they were very deliberately and very gallantly gay in order to conceal from themselves and from the world how mortally sad they were at heart. They eschewed those virtues which made one disagreeable, and they indulged only in such vices as really amused them, and in consequence they made being alive a fine art. The Hemingways knew Paris as they knew London, and they smoothed his path. In their drawing-room Peter met that dazzling inner circle of Parisian society which includes talent and genius as well as rank, beauty, and wealth. Then, Mrs. Hemingway having first seen to it that he met those whom she wished him to meet, Peter was permitted to meet those whom he himself wished to meet. He was introduced to two deceptively mild-mannered young Englishmen, first cousins named Checkleigh, students in one of the great ateliers, who were by way of being painters; and to a shock-headed young man from California, a sculptor, named Stocks. The Englishmen were closely related to a large-toothed, very important Lady Somethingorother, high up in the diplomatic sphere, and the Californian possessed a truly formidable aunt. Hence the three young men appeared in fashionable circles at decent intervals. Later, Peter learned to know their redoubtable relatives as "Rabbits" and "The Grampus," and he once saw a terrifyingly truthful portrait of "Rabbits" sketched on a skittish model's bare back, and a movingly realistic little figure of "The Grampus" modeled by her dutiful nephew in a moment of diabolical inspiration. It was explained to him that God, for some inscrutable purpose of his own, generally pleases himself by bestowing only the most limited human intelligence upon the wealthy relatives of poor but gifted artists; but that if properly approached, and at not too frequent intervals, they may be induced to loosen their tight purse-strings. Wherefore one must somehow manage to keep on good terms with them. Witness, Stocks said, his forgiving--nay, kindly--attitude toward The Grampus; see how he went to her house and drank her loathly tea and ate her beastly little cakes, even though she regarded a promising sculptor as a sort of unpromising stone-cutter who couldn't hold down a steady job, and had vehemently urged him to go in for building and contracting in Sacramento, California. "And yet that woman has got about all the money there is in our family!" finished Stocks, bitterly. "Rabbits takes you aside and talks to you heart to heart," said the younger Checkleigh, gloomily. The elder Checkleigh's face took on a look of martyrdom. "We have Immortal Souls," said he, in a tone of anguish and affliction. "I ask you, as man to man: Is it our fault?" It was these three Indians, then, who took Peter Champneys under their wing, helped him find the pleasantest rooms in the Quartier, helped him furnish them at about a third of what he would have paid if left to his own devices, and also helped him to shed his skin of a timid provincial by plunging him to the scalp in that bubbling cauldron in which seethes the creative brain of France. Serious and sad young men who were going to be poets; intense fellows who were going to rehabilitate the Drama, or write the Greatest Novel; illustrators, journalists, critics, painters, types in velvet coats, flowing ties, flowing locks, and astonishing hats, sculptors, makers of exquisite bits of craftsmanship, models, masters, singers of sorts, actors and actresses, sewing-girls, frightful old concièrges; students from the four corners of the earth driven hither by the four winds of heaven, came and went in the devil-may-care wake of Stocks and the Checkleighs and disported themselves before the reflective and appreciative eyes of Peter Champneys. These gay Bohemians laughed at him for what Stocks called his spinterishness, but ended by loving him as only youth can love a comrade. In six months he knew the Quartier to the core. He met men who were utter blackguards, whose selfish, cold-blooded brutality filled him with loathing; he met women with the soul of the cat. But the Quartier as a whole was sound-hearted; Peter himself was too sound-hearted not to know. He met Youth at work, his own kind of work. They were all going to do something great presently,--and presently many of them did. The very air he breathed stimulated him. Here were comrades, to whom, as to himself, art was the one supremely important thing in the universe. They, too, were climbers toward the purple heights. Shy young men who work like mules are as thick as hops in any art center; but shy young men who are immensely talented, who have a genius for steady labor, and who at the same time have not only the inclination but the opportunity to be generous, are not numerous anywhere. Peter Champneys never talked about himself, made no parade, was so simple in his tastes that he spent very little upon himself, and while he could say "No" to impudence, he had ever a quick, warm "Yes" for need. That he should be able to become an artist had been the top of his dream; that by a very little self-denial he could help others to remain artists, left him large-eyed at his own good fortune. He experienced the glowing happiness that only the generous can know. On Sundays he went to see Emma Campbell, for whom he had found a little house on the summit of Montmartre, on the very top of the Butte. It had a hillside garden, with a dove-cote in it, and a little kiosk in which Emma liked to sit, with the cat Satan on her lap, and projeck at the strange world in which she found herself. She shared the house with a scene-painter and his wife, and as the scene-painter was an Englishman, Emma could talk to somebody and be understood. Emma's idea of happiness was leisure to sew squares of patchwork together for quilts. She had brought her cut-out quilt scraps with her, and she sat in the kiosk and sewed little pieces of colored calico together, while the big cat scampered about the garden, or lay and blinked at her, and all Paris lay spread out far below, the spires of Notre Dame showing as through a mist. On Sundays she cooked for Peter,--old homely Riverton dishes,--and waited on him while he ate. Because she couldn't read, she looked forward to Peter's reading what she reverently called "de Book." Peter had been reading the Bible to old darkies all his life, and he accepted it as a matter of course that he should take the long climb, and give up a part of his Sundays, to save Emma Campbell from being disappointed now. Afterward, Emma spoke of his mother, and of old, familiar things they both remembered. Then he went back to the Quartier feeling as refreshed and rested as if he'd had a swim in the river "over home." At regular intervals he appeared at Mrs. Hemingway's, and kept up his acquaintance with her friends. When she told him to accept an invitation, he resignedly obeyed, looking, the elder of the Checkleigh boys told him, as if he were doing it for God's sake. He was beginning to speak French less villainously, and this made things easier for him. He could carry on a simple conversation, by going slowly; and he _almost_ understood about half of what strangers said to him. He interested one or two fine ladies greatly, and they were extremely gracious to him. Artists--that is, young and unknown artists in the Quartier--are more or less pleasant to read about in the pages of Mürger and others, but they are too often beggarly and quite impossible persons in real life. But this young American who lived in the Quartier was at the same time on a footing of intimacy in the exclusive home of those so charming Hemingways, who were, one knew, of the _grand monde_. Was it true that the American painter was very wealthy? Yes? Ah, _cièl_! That droll young man was then amusing himself by living in the Quartier? But what an original! His family approved? He was an _orphan_? With no relations save that old uncle whose heir he was? Ah, _mon Dieu_! That touched one's heart! One must try to be very pleasant to that so lonely young man! And that so lonely young man was extended mead and balm in the shape of invitations to very smart affairs. To some of which he found, at the last minute, he couldn't go, for the simple and cogent reason that Checkleigh or Stocks had appropriated his dress suit. "It's infernally unlucky, Rabbits having an affair on to-night. But you know how it is, Champ--she'd never forgive me if I didn't show up. Big-wigs from home, and all that, and she feels it's her duty to make me show 'em I haven't become an Apache. And my togs are out at interest--one has to pay one's rent _sometimes_, you understand," explained Checkleigh, who was dressing before Peter's mirror. "_You_ don't have to care: _you_ aren't compelled to keep in her good graces!" "Oh, all right. I don't mind. I only accepted to please Mrs. Hemingway." "Mrs. Hemingway is my very good friend. At the first opportunity I shall explain to her. She can readily understand that "One may go without relatives, cousins, and aunts-- But civilized man can_not_ go without pants. I wish you hadn't such deucedly long legs, Champ. Regular hop-poles!" grumbled Checkleigh, ungratefully. "They are poor things, but mine own," said Peter, mildly. "You will find a five-franc piece in the waistcoat pocket, Checkleigh, if you happen to want it. I keep it there for cab fare." "If I happen to want it!" shrieked Checkleigh. "Oh, bloated plutocrat, purse-proud millionaire, I always happen to want it!" He waved an eloquent hand to the circumambient air. "He has five-franc pieces in his waistcoat pocket--and no Rabbits in his family!" cried Checkleigh. "Now, have you a presentable pair of gloves, Croesus?--Oh, damn your legs, Champneys! Look at these beastly breeches of yours, will you? I've had to turn 'em up until you'd fancy I was wearing cuffs on the ankles, and still they're too long!" "You should have cut 'em off a bit--then you wouldn't look as though you were poulticing your shins. And they'd fit me, too," commented Stocks, who had sauntered in. Checkleigh looked at Peter's watch--his own was "out at interest" along with his dress suit--and shook his head dolefully. "If you'd just suggested it sooner, I could have done it--now it's too late." he lamented. "Your progeny will probably resemble herons, Champneys, and serve 'em right!--Are those _new_ gloves? I _am_ a credit to Rabbits!" And he rushed off. "What a friend we have in Champ-neys, All his gloves and pa-ants to wear!" Stocks sang in a voice like the scraping of a mattock over flint; one saw that he had been piously raised. Then he hooked his arm in Peter's and the two went forth to join the joyous hordes surging up the Boul' Miche, and to dine in their favorite restaurant, where the waiters were one's good friends, and Madame the proprietress addressed her Bohemians as "mes enfants." Having dined, one joined one's brother workers who waged the battle of Art with jaws and gestures. Bawling out the slang of the studios, they grimaced, sneered, shrugged, praised, demolished. Nothing was sacred to these young savages but the joy of the present. They had no past, and the future hadn't arrived. They lived in the moment, worked, laughed, loved, and, when they could, dined. When one had a handful of silver, how gay the world was! How one wished to pat it on the back and invite it to come and be merry with one! In the full stream of this turbulent tide, behold Peter Champneys; with a lock of his black hair falling across his forehead; his head cocked sidewise; and his big nose and clear golden eyes giving him the aspect of a benevolent hawk, like, say, Horus, Hawk of the Sun. Those golden eyes of his saw tolerantly as well as clearly. This quiet American worked like a fiend, yet had time to look on and laugh with you while you played. He was gravely gay at his best, but he didn't neglect the good things of his youth. And he had a genius for playing impromptu Providence when you were down on your luck and about all in. Maybe you hadn't dined for a couple of days, or maybe you were pretty nearly frozen in your room, as you had no fire; and you were wondering whether, after all, you weren't a fool to starve and freeze for art's sake, and whether, all things considered, life was worth living; and there'd be a gentle tap at your door, and Peter Champneys would stick his thin dark face in, smilingly. He'd tell you he'd been lonely all day, and would you, if you hadn't done so already, kindly come and dine with him? He spoke French with a South Carolina accent, in those days, but an archangel's voice could not then have sounded more dulcet in your ears than his. Presently, over your cigarettes, you found yourself telling him just how things were with you. Maybe you slept on a lounge in his studio that night, because it was warmer there. And next morning you could face life and work feeling that God's in his heaven, all's right with the world. That's what Peter Champneys meant to many a hard-pressed youngster. With his immense capacity for work, at the end of a year Peter Champneys had made great strides. But he was troubled. Like Millet, he couldn't take the ordered direction. He felt that he was merely marking time, that he wasn't on the right track. His robust and original talent demanded heartier food than was offered it. Reluctantly enough, Peter withdrew from the official studio to which he was attached, and went on his own. It was a momentous step. One Sunday afternoon he said to Emma Campbell, seriously: "You've never laid eyes on a goddess, Emma, have you? Or a nymph? Well, neither have I. And I can't paint what I don't know." He walked up and down the little graveled garden path. And he burst out: "That is not life. It is not truth. I don't want gods. I only see _men_! I don't want goddesses. I want _women_!" Emma Campbell said in a scandalized voice: "Dat ain't no kind o' way to talk! Leastwise," she compromised, "not on Sundays." Peter burst out laughing. Emma wore her usual Sunday cashmere, with a snowy apron and head-handkerchief. Satan lay upon the small table beside her, in the attitude of a sphinx, his black, velvety paws stretched in front of him, his inscrutable eyes watching the restless young man. Peter paused, and his eyes narrowed. Then he snapped his fingers, as he had done when he was a little boy back in Riverton and something had pleased him. "I've got it!" he shouted. "Emma, you're It!" No one ever had a more patient model. She couldn't exackly understan' why Mist' Peter should want to paint a ole nigger like her, but if Peter Champneys had wanted to bury her alive in the ground, with only her head sticking out, Emma would have known it had to be all right, somehow. So she sat for weary hours, while Peter made rough sketches, and tried out many theories, before he settled down to work in dead earnest. And presently Emma saw herself as it were alive on a square of canvas, so alive that she was more than a bit afraid. She said it looked like her own ha'nt, and Emma wasn't partial to ha'nts. There she sat in her plain black dress and her plain white apron and head-handkerchief, and her gold hoop ear-rings. On the table beside her were the vegetables she was to prepare. She had forgotten work for the time being. Emma projecked, one hand resting idly on the table, the other on the great black cat in her lap. She looked at you, with the wistfully animal look of a negro woman, who is loving, patient, kind, long-suffering, imbued with a terrible patience, and of a sound, sly, earthy humor; and who at the same time is childishly credulous, full of dark passions, and with the fires of savagery banked in her heart. There she sat, that sphinx that is Africa, who has seen the white races come, and who will probably see them go; you could almost sense the half-slumbrous brain of her throbbing under her head-handkerchief. She wasn't a mere colored woman; she was a symbol and a challenge. And her eyes that had seen so much and wept so much were as inscrutable as fate, as sphinx-like as the cat's who watched you from her knee. The whole picture breathed an amazingly bold and original power, and was so arrestingly vital that it gripped and held one. Down in one corner, painted with exquisite care and delicacy, was a Red Admiral. The Quartier came, squinted through the fingers, and praised and dispraised, after its wont. The Symbolists sneered and told Peter to his teeth he was a Philistine; they said you can't boot-lick Nature: you've got to bully her, demand her soul, _make_ her give you her Sign! Quieter men came and studied Emma Campbell and her cat, and clapped Peter on the back; the more exuberant Latins kissed him, noisy, hearty, hairy kisses on both cheeks. Undoubtedly, it would be accepted, they said! It was, and hung conspicuously. There were always small groups before it, for it created something like the uproar that Manet's "Olympia" had raised in its time. Peter learned from one critic that his technique was magnificent, his picture a masterpiece of psychology and of portraiture, and that if he kept on he'd soon be one of the Immortals. He learned from another that while he undoubtedly had technique, his posing was commonplace, his subject banal, his imagination hopelessly bourgeois; that he was a painter of the ugly and the ordinary, without inspiration or imagination; that the one pretty and delicate note in the whole canvas was the butterfly in the lower left-hand corner, and that _that_ was obviously reminiscent of Whistler, who on a time had used a butterfly signature! But on the whole the criticisms were highly favorable; it was admitted that a young painter of promise had arisen. Peter Champneys went about his business, indifferent to praise or blame. _He_ knew he was a way-faring man whose business it was to follow his own road, a road he had to hack out for himself; and somewhere on the horizon were the purple heights. The unbounded delight, the disinterested pride of the Hemingways, couldn't have been greater had he been their son. Mrs. Hemingway gave a brilliant entertainment in his honor, and he was fêted and made much of. Young ladies who danced divinely found his stork-like hopping pleasing, and his stammering French delightful. This charming Monsieur Champneys, you see, was not only invested with the glamour of art; he was the heir of an American millionaire! Ah, the dear young man! The picture was sold to a Spanish nobleman, who said it reminded him of Velasquez's "Æsop"; he was so delighted with the painter's power that he commissioned Peter to portray his own long, pale, melancholy visage. Whereupon the two Checkleighs and Stocks called loudly for a proper celebration, and Peter honored their clamorous demand. It was a memorable affair, graced by the Quartier's darlingest models, who had long since voted M'sieu Champnees a _bon garçon_. A Spanish student, in a velvet coat and with long black hair, insisted upon charcoaling mustachios and imperial upon his host's countenance, in honor of his countryman who had distinguished himself as a patron of art. Later, a laughing girl whose blue-black hair was banded Madonna-wise around a head considerably otherwise, washed it off with a table napkin dipped in wine. She sat on his knee to perform the operation, scanned his clean face with satisfaction, and taking him by the ears as by handles, kissed him gaily. Then she went back to her own _chèr ami_, who wasn't in the least disturbed. "It is like kissing thy maiden aunt, Jacques," she told him. "Now, with thee--" They looked at each other eloquently, and Peter Champneys, whose eyes had followed the girl, smiled crookedly. An unaccountable gloom descended upon him. All these lusty young men shouting and laughing around him, all these handsome, ardent young women, snatched what joy from life they could; they lived their hour, knowing how brief that hour must be. They ate to-day, starved to-morrow; but they were rich because they loved, because they laughed, because theirs was the passionate unforced comradeship, the intoxicating joy of youth. Peter Champneys, whose good luck was being celebrated, looked at his penniless, hilarious comrades, and twisted a smile of desperate gaiety to his lips. He had never in his life felt more utterly alone. The affair ended at six o'clock the next morning, in a last glad, mad romp up the Boul' Miche. Peter and Stocks waved good-by to the last revelers, looking somewhat jaded in the fresh morning air. The two young men, both rather tired, walked slowly. Venders in clacking sabots pushed their carts ahead of them, shouting their wares. Crowds of working-people poured through the streets. At a little restaurant they knew, they had coffee and rolls. While they were drinking, a girl came in. Peter looked up and saw Denise. His first thought was that she would have been lovely if she hadn't been so thin. Then he saw how shabby she was, and how neat. Nothing could have been more charming than her chestnut hair, or her blue eyes that had a look of innocence, or her fair and transparent complexion, though one could have wished she were rosier. She did not look around with the quick, alert, bright glance of the Parisienne whom everything interests and amuses; she had the abstracted and sad air of a child who suffers, and whom suffering bewilders. Stocks said, in a low voice, tinged with pity: "_L'amie de Dangeau_." Peter received that announcement with a shock of surprise and distaste. Dangeau was such an utter brute! Handsome in his way, without conscience or pity, Dangeau would have eaten his mother's heart to satisfy his own hunger, or wiped his feet upon his father's beard. The gifted, intellectual, and rapacious savage seized whatever came near him that pleased his fancy or aroused his curiosity, extracted the pith, and tossed aside what no longer amused or served him. There was no generosity in him, only an insatiable and ferocious demand that life should give him more, always more! Peter, who both admired and detested him, was sorry for this gentle creature fallen into his remorseless claws. And he wondered, as decent men must, at the fatal fascination animals like Dangeau seem to possess for women. He saw her occasionally after that, always alone. Plainly, things were not well with her. Her pale face grew paler and thinner; her dress shabbier. The look of bewilderment was now a look of pain. Her eyes were heavy, as if they wept too much. Peter watched her with a troubled heart. One day Henri, the garçon, murmured confidentially, as she left the café after a particularly slim meal: "These thin little blondes, they do not last long. That one was like a rose when I first saw her. _Pauvre enfant_!" And he looked after her with a compassionate glance. "She seems--different," said Peter. "It is not well with her?" "Alas, no! She is from the provinces, Monsieur, come to Paris to earn more. And so she wearied her _ami_. You know him, Monsieur; he is a restless man, quickly tiring--that sculptor! Also, he feared she would fall sick upon his hands--you see how frail she is, and he abhors all that is not robust." And Henri made an expressive gesture. He added: "_She_ is of the sort that love, Monsieur; and, you understand, that is fatal!" "And how does she manage now?" asked Peter. Henri shrugged significantly. Peter drummed on the table and scowled. A little girl, from the provinces! One understood now how she had fallen into Dangeau's hands, and how, inevitably, he had tired, and tossed her aside like a wilted flower. And now she was facing slow starvation--Oh, damn! Peter slipped some change into Henri's palm. "You are a man of sense, Henri. Also, I see that you have a good heart," said he. "Now we must see what we can do for this poor little Mademoiselle, you and I. You will place before her the best the house affords--I leave that to you. And when she protests you will say to her: 'Your venerable godfather has arranged for it, Mademoiselle. His orders are, that you come here, seat yourself, tap once with your forefinger upon the table,--and your orders will be obeyed.'" "And if she questions further, Monsieur?" "Explain that you obey orders, but do not know her godfather," said Peter, gravely. "Trust me, Monsieur!" cried the delighted Henri. And from that moment the kindly fellow adored Peter Champneys. The little game began the next day. Denise gave her tiny order; Henri came back with a loaded tray, whose savory contents he placed before her. Out of the corner of his eye Peter could see the girl's astonished face when Henri politely insisted that the meal was hers--that her venerable godfather had ordered it for her! She looked timidly and fearfully around; but nobody was paying the slightest attention to her, and after deftly arranging the dishes, Henri had whisked himself off. She waited for a few minutes; but Henri hadn't come back. And then, because she was almost famished, she ate what had been given her. Peter felt his eyes blur. Henri came back to her presently with wine. He dusted the bottle lovingly, and filled her glass with a flourish. She looked up with a tremulous smile: "My godfather's order, Henri?" "Your venerable godfather's order, Mademoiselle," he replied sedately. When she had finished her dinner, he glibly, and with an expressionless countenance repeated Peter's instructions: she was to come in, seat herself, tap with her forefinger, and give her orders, which would be instantly obeyed! No, he did not know her godfather. Nor did Monsieur le patron. No, he might not even take the sous she offered him: all, all, had been arranged, Mademoiselle! She hesitated. Then she called for pen and paper, and scribbled in violet ink: MONSIEUR MY GODFATHER, I see that the good God still permits miracles. You are one. Accept, then, a poor girl's thanks and prayers! Thy godchild, DENISE. She gave this to Henri, who received it respectfully. Then she went out, feeling very much better and brighter because of a sadly needed dinner. She was bewildered, and excited; but she wasn't afraid. She accepted her miracle, which had come just in the nick of time, gratefully, with a childlike simplicity. But she used her blue eyes, and one day they met Peter Champneys's, regarding her with a good and kind satisfaction; for indeed she looked much better and brighter, now that she was no longer half starved. Denise had encountered other eyes, men's eyes; but none had ever met hers with just such a look as she saw in these clear and golden ones. A flash of intuition came to her. Only one person in the world could have eyes like that--it must be, it was, he! And she watched him with an absorbed and breathless interest. In these small restaurants of the Quartier one sits so close to one's neighbors, in a busy hour, that conversation isn't difficult; it is, rather, inevitable. "Monsieur," said the young girl, bravely and yet timidly, on an occasion when they almost touched elbows, "Monsieur,--is it you who have a god-daughter?" "Mademoiselle," stammered Peter, who hadn't expected the question. "I do not know your godfather!" And then he turned red to his ears. Her face broke into a swift and flashing smile. She looked so like a happy child that Peter had to smile back at her, and presently they were chatting like old acquaintances. After that they always managed to dine together. They found each other delightful. That gloomy sense of loneliness which had oppressed Peter vanished in the girl's presence. As for Denise, no one had ever been so kind, so gentle, so generous to her as this wonderful Monsieur Champneys. She grew quite beautiful; her eyes were a child's eyes, her face like one of those little sweet pinkish-white roses one sees in old-fashioned gardens. She had no relations; neither had Peter. And so he took Denise into his life, just as he had once taken a lost kitten out of the dusk on the Riverton Road: there really was nothing else for him to do! He had for her something of the same whimsical and compassionate affection that had made him share his glass of milk with the little cat. She belonged to him; there was nobody else. She was rather a silent creature, Denise. She had none of that Latin vivacity which wearies the listener, but her love for him showed itself in a thousand gracious ways, in innumerable small services, in loving looks. Just to touch him was a never-failing joy to her. She delighted to stroke his face, to trace with her small fingers the outline of his features. "That is the pattern on the inside of my heart," she told him. She had a quick, light tread, pleasant to listen to, and her rare and lovely laughter was always a delicious surprise, as if one heard an unexpected chime of little bells. Her housewifely ways, her pretty anxiety about spending money, amused him tenderly. When she could perform some small service for him, she hummed little hymns to the Virgin. Her ministrations extended to Stocks and the Checkleighs, whose shirts she mended so expertly that they didn't have to borrow so many of Peter's. She was so happy that Peter Champneys grew happy watching her. It hadn't seemed possible to Denise that anybody like him could exist; yet here he was, and she belonged to him! Nobody had ever loved Peter Champneys in quite the same way. She had so real and true a genius for loving that she exhaled affection as a flower exhales perfume. Loving was an instinct with Denise. She would steal to his side, slip her arm around his neck, kiss him on the eyes--"thy beautiful eyes, Pierre!"--and cuddle her cheek against his, with so exquisite a tenderness in touch and look that the young man's kind heart melted in his breast. He couldn't speak. He could only gather her close, pressing his black head against her soft young bosom. Her cruel experience with Dangeau was not forgotten; but that had been capture by force, and she remembered it as a black background against which the bright colors of this present happiness showed with a heavenlier radiance. Peter himself didn't guess how wholly his little comrade loved him, though he did realize her utter selflessness. She never asked him troublesome questions, never annoyed him with irritating jealousy, made no demands upon him. Was he not himself? Very well, then: did not that suffice? Denise didn't think: she felt. She had the exquisite wisdom of the heart, and in her small hands the flower of Peter Champneys's youth opened and blossomed. He was young, he was loved, he was busy. Oh, but it was a good world to be alive in! He whistled while he worked. And how he worked! To this period belong those angelic heads, chestnut-haired, wistfully smiling, with blue eyes that look deep into one's heart. The airy butterfly that signs these canvases is not so much a symbol as a prescience. When was it he first noticed that for all his love and care he wasn't going to be able to keep Denise? How did he learn that the great last lover was wooing her away? She was not less happy. A deep and still joy radiated from her, her eyes had the clear and cloudless happiness of a child's. But he observed that on their pleasant excursions into the country she tired quickly. Her little light feet didn't run any more. She preferred to sit cuddled against his side, holding his hand in both hers, her head pressed against his shoulder. She didn't talk, but then, he was used to her silence; that was one of her sweetest charms. Her cheek grew thinner, but the rose in it deepened. Then the pretty dresses he loved to lavish upon her began to hang loosely upon her little body. It was a frightened young man who called in doctors and specialists. But, as Henri had once told him, they do not last long, these frail blondes. Also, she was of the sort that loves--and that, you understand, is fatal! Stocks, who had made a great pet of Peter's pretty sweetheart, blubbered when he learned the truth, and the younger Checkleigh, who delighted to sketch her, left off because his hand shook so, and he couldn't see clearly. The Spanish student in the velvet coat, who could sing lustily to a guitar, came and sang for her, not the ribald songs the Quartier heard from him, but the beautiful and soft love songs he had heard as a child in Andalusia--how love is an immortal rose one carries through the gates of the grave into the gates of paradise. And the Quartier, which knows so much sorrow as well as so much joy, came with its gayest gossip to make her smile. Peter himself lived in a sort of tormented daze.--It was Denise, his little Denise, who was going! Denise herself was the calmest and cheerfulest of them all. Her high destiny had been to love Peter Champneys, and she had fulfilled it. The good, the kind God had given her that which in her estimation outweighed everything else. She had lived, she had loved. Now she could go, and go content. "It is better so," she told him, with that piercing good sense of the French which is like a spiritual insight. "Very dear one, suppose _I_ had been called upon to let _thee_ go: how could I have endured that?" And she added, pressing his fingers, "Do not grieve, my adored Pierre. Observe that I am but a poor little one to whom in thy goodness of heart thou hast been kind: but thou art all my life--all of me, Pierre." He put his head against her side, and she stroked it, whispering, "I had but a little while to stay, beloved. Because of thee, that stay has been happy--oh, very, very happy!" "You have given me all I ever had of youth and love," said Peter. "Ah, but I am glad!" she said naïvely. "Because of _that_, I think you must remember!" She looked at him with her blue eyes suddenly full of tears. "It is only when I think you may forget that I am afraid, it is then as if the dark pressed upon me," she said in a whisper sharp with pain. "I lie still and dream how great you will become, how much beloved--for who could fail to love you, Pierre? And I am glad. It rests my heart, which is all yours. But when I begin to remember how I have been but a little, little part of your life, who have been all of mine, when I think you may forget, then I am afraid, I am afraid!" And she looked at him like a frightened child who is being left alone to go to sleep in the dark. Peter picked her up, wrapped in the bedquilt, and held her in his arms. She was very light. It was as if he held a little ghost. She shook her bright hair over his shoulders and breast, and he hid his quivering face in it, as in a veil. Presently, in a soft voice: "Godfather!" "Yes, my little sweetheart." "Very dear and precious godfather,--a long, long time from now, when _She_ comes, She whom you will love as I love you, tell her about me." "Denise, Denise!" cried poor Peter, straining her to him. "Tell her I had blue eyes, and a fair face, and bright, bright hair, Godfather. She will like to know. Say, 'Her whole wisdom lay in loving me with all her heart--that poor Denise!' Then tell her that she cannot love you more, my Pierre,--but that in my grave I shall despise her if she dares to love you less." "I--Oh, my God!" strangled Peter, and he felt as if his heart were being wrenched out of his breast. He was in his twenties, and the girl in his arms was all he knew of love. Some six weeks later Denise died as quietly as she had lived, her small cold hands clinging to Peter Champneys's, her blue eyes with their untroubled, loving gaze fixed upon his face. When that beloved face faded from her the world itself had faded from Denise. He hadn't dreamed one could suffer as he was called upon to suffer then. The going of little Denise seemed to have torn away a living and quivering part of his spirit. She had loved him absolutely, and Peter couldn't forget that. His gratitude was an anguish. It is not the duration but the depths of an experience which makes its ineffaceable impression upon the heart. Mrs. Hemingway saw his changed looks with concern. If she and her husband suspected anything, they did not torment him with questions; they didn't even appear to notice that he was silent and abstracted. "What on earth is the matter with the boy?" worried Mrs. Hemingway. "John, do you think it's a--" "Petticoat? What else should it be?" "I can't bear to think of Peter getting himself into some sort of scrape with possibly some miserable woman--who will prey upon him," murmured Mrs. Hemingway. "Peter's not the sort that falls for adventuresses. He might fall in love with some girl, and be cut up if she didn't reciprocate. That's what's the matter with him now, if I'm not mistaken." Hemingway took Peter fishing with him. It is a pleasant place, the Seine near Poissy. Hemingway let Peter sit in a boat all day, and didn't seem to observe that the line wasn't once drawn in. The river was rippling, the sky bright blue, the wind sweet. All around them were other boats, full of people who appeared to be happy. And Hemingway's silent companionship was strong and kind and serene. Insensibly Peter reacted to his surroundings, to the influence of the shining day. When they were returning to Paris that evening, he looked at his big compatriot gratefully. Then he told him. Hemingway listened in silence. Then: "I'm damned glad she had you," said he, and polished his eyeglasses, and put his hand on Peter's shoulder with a consoling and sympathetic touch. Hemingway understood. He was that sort. Youth departs, love perishes, faith faints; but that we may never be left hopeless, work remains and saves us. Peter's work came to his succor. Just at this crucial time his Eminence the Austrian Cardinal appeared, and Peter hadn't time to mope. The cardinal had seen the picture of Emma Campbell and her cat. He had seen an enchanting sketch of the Spanish student in the velvet coat, recently purchased by a friend of his. And now his own portrait must be painted. He was so great a cardinal, of so striking a personality, that his own noble family had an immense pride in him, and the Vatican, along with certain great temporal powers, took him very seriously. So the painting of the cardinal's portrait wouldn't be a light undertaking, to be given at random. This and that great painter was urged upon him. But the astonishing portrait of that old colored woman and her cat decided his Eminence, who had a will of his own. Here was his artist! Also, he insisted upon the cat. The anticlerical press of Paris was insisting that the cardinal's stay in the French capital was of sinister import. The cardinal smiled, and Peter Champneys besought his gods to let him get that smile on canvas. His Eminence was an ideal sitter. He spoke English beautifully, and it pleased him to converse with the lanky young American painter in his mother tongue. He felt drawn to the young man, and when the cardinal liked one, he was irresistible. Peter was so fascinated by this brilliant and versatile aristocrat, so deeply interested in the psychology of a great Roman prelate, a prince of the Church, that he forgot everything except that he was a creative artist--and a great sitter, a man worthy of his best, was to be portrayed. He gave his whole heart to his task, and he brought to it a new sense of values, born of suffering. When he had finished, you could see the cardinal's soul looking at you from the canvas. The smile Peter prayed to catch curves his lips, a smile that baffles and enchants. He wears his red robes, and one fine, aristocratic hand with the churchly ring on it rests upon the magnificent cat lying on the table beside him. That superb "Cardinal with the Cat" put the seal upon Peter Champneys's reputation as a great artist. He knew what he had achieved. Yet his lips quivered and his eyes were smileless when, down in the left-hand corner, he painted in the Red Admiral. CHAPTER XVI THE OTHER MAN In Florence the nascent swan-feathers of Anne Champneys grew into perfect plumage. She was like a spirit new-born to another world, with all the dun-colored ties of a darker existence swept away, and only a residue of thought and feeling left of its former experience. This bright and rosy world, enriched by nature and art, was so new, its values were so different, that at first she was dazed into dumbness by it. She came face to face with beauty and art made a part of daily life. She thought she had never seen color, or flowers, or even a real sky, until now. An existence unimaginably rich, vistas that receded into an almost fabled past, opened and spread before her glamourously. The vividness of her impressions, her reaction to this new phase of experience, the whole-souled ardor with which she flung herself into the study of Italian, her eagerness to know more, her delight in the fine old house in which they had set up their household gods, amused and charmed Mrs. Vandervelde. She felt as if she were teaching and training an unspoiled, delighted, and delightful child, and contact with this fresh and eager spirit stimulated her own. Many of her former school friends, girls belonging to fine Florentine families, some now noble matrons, mothers of families, one or two great conventual superioresses, still resided in the city, and these welcomed their beloved Marcia delightedly. There were, too, the American and English colonies, and a coterie of well-known artists. Marcia Vandervelde was a born hostess, a center around which the brightest and cleverest naturally revolved. She changed the large, drafty rooms of the old palace into charming reflections of her own personality. A woman of wide sympathies and cultivated tastes, she delighted in the clever cosmopolitan society that gathered in her drawing-room; and it was in this opalescent social sea that she launched young Mrs. Champneys. Mrs. Champneys was at first but a mild success, a sort of pale luminosity reflected from the more dominant Mrs. Vandervelde. But it so happened, that a gifted young Italian lost his heart at sight to her red hair and green eyes, and discovering that she had no heart of her own--at least, none for him--he wrote, in a sort of frenzy of inspiration, a very fine sonnet sequence narrating his hapless passion. The poet had been as extravagantly assertive as poets in love usually are, and the sonnets were really notable; so the young man was swept into a gust of fame; all Italy read his verse and sympathized with him. The object of a popular poet's romantic and unfortunate love is always the object of curiosity and interest, as Anne Champneys discovered to her surprise and annoyance. "He was such a little idiot!" she told Marcia Vandervelde, disgustedly. "Always sighing and rolling his eyes, and looking at one like a sick calf,--more than once I was tempted to catch him by the shoulders and shake him!" "He's a poet, my child," said Mrs. Vandervelde, mischievously, "and you're the lady in the case. It's been the making of him, and it hasn't done you any harm: you'll be a legend in your own lifetime." Marcia was quite right. The poet's love clung to Anne like an intangible perfume, and a halo of romance encircled her red head. The Florentines discovered that she was beautiful; the English and Americans, cooler in judgment, found her charming. And a noted German artist came along and declared that he had found in her his ideal Undine. Mrs. Peter remained unchanged and unimpressed. She shrugged indifferent shoulders; she wasn't particularly interested in herself as the object of poetic adoration. She was, however, immensely interested in the beauty and romance of Florence. The street crowds, so vivacious, so good-humored, the vivid Florentine faces, enchanted her. More astonishing than storied buildings, or even imperishable art, were the figures that moved across the red-and-gold background of the city's history,--figures like Dante, Lorenzo the Magnificent, and that great prior of San Marco whose "soul went out in fire." Curiously enough, it was Savonarola who made the most profound impression upon her. It seemed to her that the immortal monk still dominated Florence, and when she saw his old worn crucifix in his cell at San Marco, something awoke in her spirit,--a sense of religious values. Religion, then, was not a mere fixed convention, subscribed to as a sort of proof of conservatism and respectability; religion was really a fixed reality, an eternal power. She read everything that she could lay her hands on covering the history of Fra Girolamo. Then she bought a picture of his red Indian-like visage, and hung it up in her room. The titanic reformer remained, a shadowy but very deep power, in the background of her consciousness, and it was this long-dead preacher who taught her to pray. He won her profoundest reverence and faith, because he had been true, he had sealed his faith with his life; she felt that she could trust him. His honesty appealed to her own. It was such curious phases as this of the girl's unfolding character, that made her a never-failing source of interest to Marcia Vandervelde. Under her superimposed, surface indifference, Marcia reflected, Anne had a deep strain of pure unworldliness, vast possibilities. Give Anne an ideal, once arouse her enthusiasm, and she was capable of tossing aside the world for it. Marcia was vastly interested, too, in the serene detachment of the girl's attitude toward all those with whom she came in contact. One might evoke interest, sympathy, compassion, even a quiet friendliness, but her heart remained quiet, aloof, secure from invasion. Handsome young men who fell in love with her--and there were several such--seemed unable to stir any emotion in her, except perhaps, an impatient resentment. Marcia, of course, knew nothing of Glenn Mitchell. But Anne Champneys remembered him poignantly. She had learned her lesson. They had been some six or eight months in Florence when Mr. Berkeley Hayden put in his appearance, somewhat to Mrs. Vandervelde's surprise. She had not expected this! She studied her old friend speculatively. H'm! She remembered the pale face of the young Italian poet whose sad sonnets all Italy was reading with delight. Then she looked at the red-headed source of those sonnets,--and she had no doubt as to the cause of Mr. Hayden's appearance in Florence at this time,--and wondered a bit. The situation gave a fillip to her imagination; it was piquant. One wondered how it would end. Peter Champneys? Marcia scented disruption, where that impalpable relationship was concerned. She was ignorant as to Anne's real feelings and intentions in regard to her absentee husband. Anne never mentioned him. She bore his name, she held herself rigidly aloof from all lovers; herein one saw her sole concessions to the tie binding her. Marcia didn't see how it was possible that the two should avoid hating each other; the mere fact that they had been arbitrarily forced upon each other by the imperious will of old Chadwick, would inevitably militate against any hope of future affection between them. And now here was Berkeley Hayden, quite as imperious as Chadwick Champneys had ever been, and who was quite as successful in getting what he wanted. Anne had welcomed Mr. Hayden gladly. She was honestly delighted to see him. Florence had taught her, signally, the depths of her own lack of culture, and this biting knowledge increased her respect for Mr. Berkeley Hayden. Marcia was immensely clever, charmingly cultivated, a woman of the world in the best sense, but Anne's native shrewdness told her that Marcia's knowledge was not equal to Hayden's. His culture was surer and deeper. He was more than a mere amateur; he _knew_. He stood apart, in her mind, and just a little higher than anybody else. She turned to him eagerly, and there was established between them, almost unconsciously, the most potent, perfect, and dangerous of all relationships, because it is the most beautiful and natural,--that, in which the man is the teacher and the woman the pupil. Hayden saw her, too, to greater advantage, here under this Florentine sky, against the background of perhaps the most beautiful city in the world. She glowed, splendidly young and vivid. She did not laugh often, but when she did, it was like a peal of music; it came straight from her heart and went direct to yours. It was as catching as fire, as exhilarating as the chime of sleigh-bells on a frosty Thanksgiving morning, as clear and true as a redbird's whistle; and it had tucked away in it a funny, throaty chuckle so irresistibly infectious that suspicious old St. Anthony himself, would have joined in accord with it, had he heard its silver echo in his wilderness. Berkeley Hayden's immortal soul stood on the tiptoe of ecstasy when Anne Champneys laughed. She no longer thought of herself as Nancy Simms; she knew herself now as Anne Champneys, a newer and better personality dominating that old, unhappy, ignorant self. If at times the man glimpsed that other shadowy self of hers, it was part of her mysterious appeal, her enthralling, baffling charm. It invested her with a shade of inscrutable, prescient sorrow, as of old unhappy far-off things. He hadn't the faintest idea of Nancy Simms, a creature utterly foreign to his experience. And because she did not love him, Anne Champneys never spoke of that old self, never confided in him. He did not know her as she had been, he only knew her as she was now. That, however, fully satisfied his critical taste. The marvel of her alabaster skin, fleckless and flawless, the glory of her glittering red hair, the sea-depths of her cool, gray-green eyes, the reserve of her expression, the virginal curve of her lip, enchanted him. He liked the tall, slender strength of her, the lightness of her step, her grace when she danced, her spirited pose when she rode. Here was the woman, the one woman, to bear his name, to be the mistress of his house. She was the only woman he had ever really wished to marry. And she was nominally married to Peter Champneys. Hayden was honorable. Had hers been a real marriage, had she been a happy wife, he would have respected the tie that bound her, and gone his way. But the situation was exceptional. She wasn't really a wife at all, and like Mrs. Vandervelde, he could see in such a marriage nothing but a cause for mutual disgust and dislike. Well, then, if he loved her, and Peter Champneys didn't, he certainly was not working Peter Champneys any harm in winning away from him a wife he didn't want. Why should he stand aside and let her go, for such a shadow as that ceremony had been? The Champneys money? That meant nothing weighed in the balance with his desire. He could give her as much, and more, than she would forego. Mrs. Berkeley Hayden would eclipse Mrs. Peter Champneys. Deliberately, then, but delicately, after his fashion, Hayden set himself to win Anne Champneys. He felt that his passion for her gave him the right. He meant to make her happy. She could have her marriage annulled. Then she would become Mrs. Berkeley Hayden. Even the fact that he really knew very little about her did not trouble him. He coveted her, and he meant to have her. He read the young Italian's sonnets, which she had inspired, and they made him thoughtful. He could readily understand the depths of feeling such a woman could arouse. Had she no heart, as the Italian lamented? He wondered. It came to him that she was, in truth, detached, sufficient to herself, an ungregarious creature moving solitarily in a mysterious world all her own. What did she think? What did she feel? He didn't know. He was allowed to see certain aspects of her intelligence, and her quickness of perception, the delicacy of her fancy, her childlike and morning freshness, and a pungently shrewd Americanism that flashed out at odd and unexpected moments, never failed to delight him. But her deeper thoughts, her real feelings, her heart, remained sealed and closed to him. He saw half-pleasedly, half-jealously the interest she aroused in other men. Nothing but her almost unbelievable indifference held his jealousy in check. He reflected with satisfaction that she was on a friendlier footing with him than with any other man of her acquaintance, that she had a more instant welcome for him than for any other, and for which cause he was cordially hated by several otherwise amiable gentlemen. And then he waxed gloomy, remembering how emotionless, how impersonal, that friendship really was. At times he laughed at himself wryly, recalling the passionate friendship other women had lavished upon him, and how wearisome it had been to him, how he had wished to escape it. If but a modicum of that passion had been bestowed upon him by this girl, how changed the world would be for him! And in the meantime Anne Champneys liked him serenely, was grateful to him, aware that his intellect was as a key that was unlocking her own; welcomed him openly and was maddeningly respectful to him. This made him rage. What did she think he was, anyhow? An old professor, an antiquarian, an archæologist? She might as well consider him an antediluvian at once! "Marcia," he said to Mrs. Vandervelde one evening, "I want you to tell me all you know about this Champneys business. Just exactly how does the affair stand?" Anne had been carried off by some American friends, the smart throng that had filled Mrs. Vandervelde's rooms had gone, and Hayden and his hostess had the big, softly lighted drawing-room to themselves. At his query Mrs. Vandervelde turned in her chair, shading her eyes with her hand the better to observe him. "Why, you know as much as I do, Berkeley! You know how and why the marriage was contracted, and what hinges upon it," said she, cautiously. He made an impatient gesture. "I want to know what she's going to do. Surely she isn't going to allow herself to be bound by that old lunatic's will, is she?" "He wasn't an old lunatic; he was an old genius. Jason had an almost superstitious reverence for his judgment. Somehow, his plans always managed to come out all right,--in the end. Even when they seemed wild, they came out all right. They're still coming out all right." "And you think this insane marriage is likely to come out all right in the end, too?" he asked sharply. "I don't know. Stranger things have happened. Why shouldn't this?" "Why should it? That fellow Champneys--" "Is said to be a great painter. At least, he is certainly a very successful one. Whether or not he can make good as Anne Champneys's husband remains to be seen." Mrs. Vandervelde was not above the innate feminine cattiness. Hayden rose abruptly and began to pace the room. He was vaguely aware that he had been astrally scratched across the nose. "And you think a girl like Anne will be willing to play patient Griselda?" he asked, scornfully. "I don't know. You think she shouldn't?" "I think she shouldn't. I tell you frankly he doesn't deserve it." "Oh, as for that!" said Mrs. Vandervelde, airily. Hayden paused in his restless walk, and looked at her earnestly. "Berkeley," said she, changing her light tone, "am I to understand that you are--really in earnest?" "I am so much in earnest," he replied, deliberately, "that I do not mind telling you, Marcia, that I want this girl. More, I mean to have her, if I can make her care for me." She considered this carefully. He had never known what it meant to have his wishes thwarted, and now he would move heaven and earth to win Anne Champneys. Well, but!--She liked Hayden, and she didn't think, all things considered, that Anne Champneys could do better, if she wished to have her marriage to Peter annulled, than to marry Berkeley. But how would Jason consider such a move? Jason had been greatly attached to old Mr. Champneys. Indeed, his connection with that astute old wizard had just about doubled their income. Jason wouldn't be likely to look with friendly eyes upon this bringing to naught, what he knew had been Champneys's fondest scheme. She said, after a pause: "Does Anne know?" "Who knows what Anne knows? But on the face of it, I should say she doesn't. At least, she doesn't appear to. I have been very--circumspect," said he, moodily. And he added angrily: "She seems to regard me as a sort of cicerone, a perambulating, vocal Baedeker!" Mrs. Vandervelde smiled openly. "It is your surest hold upon her. I shouldn't cavil at it, if I were you. To Anne you are the sum total of human knowledge. Your dictum is the last word to be said about anything." But Berkeley still looked sulky. The idea of being what Sydney Smith said Macaulay was--_a book in breeches_--didn't appeal to him at all. "What would you advise me to do?" he asked, after a pause. She said reflectively: "Let her alone for a while, Berkeley. If her liking for you grows naturally into affection,--and it may, you know,--that would be best. If you try to force it, you may drive her from you altogether. I tell you frankly, she is not in the least interested in any man as a lover, so far as I can judge." He was forced to admit the truth of this. She wasn't. She seemed to dislike any faintest sign of loverliness from any man toward her. Hayden had observed her icy attitude toward the painter who had fancied he found in her his ideal Undine, and who showed too openly his desire to help her gain a soul for herself. The idea that she might look at him as she had looked at the painter was highly unpleasant to him. He asked again: "But what am I to do?" "Nothing," said Mrs. Vandervelde, succinctly. "But suppose she falls in love with somebody else." "She is more likely to fall in love with you, I should imagine, if you keep quiet for a while and allow her to do so. Just remain her guide, philosopher, and friend, can't you?" The clever, cosmopolitan Mr. Berkeley Hayden tugged at his short mustache and looked astonishingly like a sulky school-boy. "Well, if you think that's the best thing I can do--" he began. "I know it is," said she. And she reflected that even the cleverest man, when he is really in love, is something of a fool. Here Anne herself came in and the three dined together, a statuesque maid in a yellow bodice and a purple skirt waiting on them. Agata's "Si?" was like a flute-note, and the two women loved to see her moving about their rooms. It was like having Hebe wait on them. Anne turned to Hayden eagerly. She wished his opinion of a piece of tapestry an antiquarian in the Via Ricasoli wished to sell her. Would he go and look at it with her? And there was an old lamp she fancied but of the genuineness of which she wasn't sure. And she added, dropping her voice, that she'd gotten a copy of one of Fra Girolamo Savonarola's sermons, beautifully done on vellum, evidently by some loving monkish follower of his. Didn't he want to see it? She looked at him eagerly. Mrs. Vandervelde, catching his eye, smiled. Hayden played his part beautifully, concealing the tumult of his feelings under the polished surface of the serene manner that Anne so greatly admired. He made himself indispensable; he gave her his best, unstintedly, and Hayden at his best was inimitable. Marcia Vandervelde regarded him with new respect and admiration. Berkeley was really wonderful! When he took his departure, Anne Champneys felt that the glamour of Florence had departed with him. It was as if the sunshine had been withdrawn, along with that polished presence, that gem-like mind. She missed him to an extent that astonished her. She thought that even Giotto's Campanile looked bleak, the day Berkeley Hayden left. "I'm going to miss you hideously," she told him truthfully. "I hope so," he said guardedly. He did not wish to show too plainly how overjoyed he was at that admission. "And I'm going to hope you'll find me necessary in New York. I'm looking forward to seeing you in New York, you know. I have two new pictures I want you to see." Her face brightened. "Your being there will make me glad to go back to New York," she said happily. And Hayden had to resist a wild impulse to shout, to catch her in his arms. He went away with hope in his heart. But Mrs. Vandervelde, watching her closely, thought she was too open in her regret. N-no, Anne wasn't in love with Hayden--yet. She picked up her studies, to which he had given impetus, with too hearty a zest. And when he wrote her amusing, witty, delightful letters, she was too willing to have Marcia read them. They remained in Italy six months or so more; and then one day Anne returned from a picnic, and said to Marcia abruptly: "Would you mind if I asked you to leave Florence,--if I should want to go home?" Marcia said quietly: "No. If you wish to go, we will go. Are you tired of Italy?" Anne Champneys looked at her with wide eyes. For a moment she hesitated, then ran to Marcia, and clung to her with her head against her friend's shoulder. "You're so good to me--and I care so much for you,--I'll tell you the truth," she said in a whisper. "I--I heard something to-day, Marcia,--_he's_ coming to Rome--soon. And of course he'll come here, too." "He?--Who?" "Peter Champneys," said Peter's wife, and literally shook in her shoes. Her clasp tightened. Marcia put her arms around her, and felt, to her surprise, that Anne was frightened. "You are sure?" "Yes. I heard it accidentally, but I am sure. You know how pretty the Arno is at the spot where we picnicked. We strolled about, and I--didn't want to talk to anybody, so I slipped away by myself. There were a couple of English artists painting near by, and just as I came up I overheard what they were saying. Marcia,--they were talking about--_him_. They said he'd been called to Rome to paint somebody's picture,--the pope's, maybe,--and they'd probably see him here, later. They seemed to be--friends of his, from the way they spoke." She shivered. "Italy isn't big enough to hold us two!" she said, desperately. "Marcia, I can't--run the risk of meeting Peter Champneys. Not until I have to. I--I've got to get away!" Her voice broke. "All right, dear. We'll go," said Marcia, soothingly. "Jason's about finished his work in Brazil, and he'll be back in New York by this. Do you want to go directly home?" "Yes," said Anne Champneys. "Italy's a very little place compared with America. Let's go back to America, Marcia." Mrs. Vandervelde stroked the red head. It seemed to her that fate was playing into Mr. Berkeley Hayden's hands. CHAPTER XVII THE GUTTER-CANDLE Although the Champneys house was tightly closed, with the upper door and windows boarded up, the blonde person in shoddy fineries rang the area bell on the chance that there must be a caretaker somewhere about the premises. She felt that when one has come upon such an errand as hers, one mustn't leave any stone unturned; and she couldn't trust to a haphazard letter. An impassive and immaculate Japanese opened the door, and stood looking at her without any expression at all. Had the blonde person baldly stated her errand, the Japanese would probably have closed the door and that would have been the end of it. But she didn't speak; after a sharp glance at him she opened her gay hand-bag, extracted a slip of paper, handed it to him, and stood waiting. The Japanese read: "I wish you'd do what you can, for my sake," and saw that it was addressed to Mr. Chadwick Champneys and signed by Mr. Peter Champneys. It had evidently been carefully kept, and for a long time, as the creases showed. The Japanese stood reflecting for a few moments, then beckoned the blonde person inside the house, ushering her into a very neat basement sitting-room. "For you?" he asked, glancing at the slip of paper. "Me? No. I come for a lady friend o' mine. You might tell 'em she's awful sick an' scared,--just about all in, she is,--or she wouldn't of sent. But he said she was to come here an' hand in that slip I've just gave you. That's how I come to bring it." "All right. You wait," said the Japanese, and glided from the room. It was the first time Hoichi had received any message from the new master, as he knew Mr. Peter Champneys to be; if the message was genuine, he was sure that Mr. Chadwick Champneys, had he been alive, would have investigated it. Hoichi couldn't imagine how the blonde person had gotten hold of such a slip of paper, signed by Mr. Peter Champneys. If there was some trick behind it, some ulterior motive underlying it, then Hoichi proposed to have the trickster taught a needed lesson. He was a suspicious man and visions of clever robbers planning a raid on the premises rose before him. He would run no risks, take no chances. He rang up Mr. Jason Vandervelde, fortunately caught the lawyer at home, and faithfully repeated the blonde person's message. He insisted that the signature was genuine; he had seen many letters addressed to the late Mr. Champneys by his nephew, and he would recognize that writing anywhere. He asked to be instructed. "Tell her to wait half an hour and I'll be there," said the lawyer upon reflection. The blonde person was leaning back in a Morris chair, tiredly, when Vandervelde was ushered into the basement sitting-room. He recognized her type with something of a shock. She was what might be called--charitably--a peripatetic person, and she reeked of very strong perfume. The lawyer's eyes narrowed, while he explained briefly that he represented the Champneys interests. Would she explain as concisely as possible just why and for whom she had come? She explained ramblingly. Mr. Vandervelde gathered that a certain "lady friend" of hers, one Gracie Cantrell, now in the hospital, said her prayers to Mr. Peter Champneys, whom she had met on a time, and who had advised her if ever she needed help to apply to his uncle, and to tell him that he had sent her. Feeling herself _down and out_ now, she had done so. "Honest to Gawd, the poor little simp thinks this feller's a angel. Why,--when she gets out o' her head, she don't rave about nothin' but him, beggin' him to help her. Ain't it somethin' fierce, though?" The blonde person dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief. Mr. Vandervelde rubbed his nose thoughtfully. A girl down and out, a waif in a city ward, in her delirium calling upon Peter Champneys for help, didn't sound at all good to him. In connection with that penciled slip which seemed to imply that she had a right to expect help, it smacked of possible heart-interest--sob-stuff--so dear to enterprising special writers for a yellow press. He couldn't understand how or where Peter had met the girl; possibly some youthful foolishness back there in Carolina. Maybe she'd followed him north, to become what her friendship with such as the blonde person indicated. Vandervelde was a cautious man and he thought he had better investigate that message, written before Chadwick Champneys's death. "My car's outside," he told the blonde person briefly. "We'll see this Gracie at once and find out just what's to be done." It was past the hour for visitors, but Vandervelde's card procured them admittance to the ward where Gracie lay. At sight of the big-eyed, white-faced, wasted little creature who looked at him with such a frightened and beseeching stare, Vandervelde's suspicions of her died. No matter what she had been,--and the house-physician's brief comment on her case left him in no doubt,--this poor wrecked bit of humanity beached upon the bleak shore of a charity ward was harmless. He absolved her of all evil intent, of any desire to obtain anything under false pretenses. He even absolved the blonde person, who despite her brassy hair, her hectic face, had of a sudden become a kind, gentle, and soothing presence. "Well, dearie, you got a straight tip from that feller. All I had to do was to show that piece o' paper he give you, and this kind gent'man come right off to see you," said the blonde cheerfully. "An' now maybe he'll be wantin' to talk with you, so I'll leave you be. Good night, dearie," and she stepped away quietly, a trail of perfume in her wake, so that Vandervelde's nose involuntarily wrinkled. Gracie lay and looked at her visitor. "You ain't his uncle. You don't look nothin' at all like him," said she, disappointedly. "No. His uncle is dead. I'm the lawyer who has the estate in charge. So you can tell me just exactly what you know about Mr. Peter Champneys, and then tell me what I can do for you." He spoke so kindly that Gracie's spirits revived. She told him just exactly what she knew about Mr. Peter Champneys, which of course was very, very little. Yet this much was luminously clear: of all the men Gracie had ever encountered, of all her experiences, Peter Champneys and the hour he had sat and talked with her stood out clearest, clean, touched with a soft and pure light, a solitary sweet remembrance in a sodden and sordid existence. "Like a angel, he was. I never seen nobody with such a way o' lookin' at you. Never pretended he didn't understand, but treated me like a lady. I couldn't never forget him. I kep' the piece o' paper he give me, mostly because it was somethin' belongin' to him an' it sort o' proved I hadn't dreamed him. I never meant to ask for no help--but when I come here--an' there wasn't nothin' else to do, I kep' rememberin' he said I was to go to his uncle an' say he'd sent me. I--I'm scared! My Gawd!--I'm scared!" He remembered once seeing a trapped rabbit die of sheer terror. This girl, trapped by the inevitable, reminded him unpleasantly of the rabbit. His kind heart contracted. He asked gently: "What is it you are so afraid of, Gracie? Try to tell me just what you want me to do for you." Perspiration appeared upon her forehead. She clutched him with a skeleton hand. "I'm scared o' bein' cut up!" she whispered fearfully. "Oh, for Gawdsake, save me from bein' cut up!" Her eyes widened; in her thin breast you could see her laboring heart thumping. "I want you keep 'em from cuttin' me up!" she repeated feverishly. "Cutting you up!" Vandervelde looked at her wonderingly. "Yes. I heard 'em say I didn't have no chanst. They put you in the morgue--afterward--when you're folks like me, and then the doctors come and get you and cut you up. I don't want to be cut up! For Christ's sake, don't you let 'em cut me up!" Vandervelde felt a sort of sick horror. He couldn't quite understand Gracie's psychology; her unreasoning, ignorant terror. "Why, my poor girl, what a notion! You--" he stammered. "I been treated bad enough alive without bein' cut up when I'm dead," said she, interrupting him. "I get to thinkin' about it, wakin' up here in the night. He said his folks'd help me if I asked 'em." "Of course, of course! Certainly we'll help!" said Vandervelde hastily. "If I had any money saved up, 't wouldn't be so bad. But I ain't. We never do. I--I been sick a long time. What clothes I had they kep' against the rent I was owin', when they told me to get out. An' I walked an' walked,--an' then one o' them cops in Central Park, he seen me, an' next thing I knew I was here." She was getting hysterical, and he saw that it was quite useless to try to reason with her; the one way to allay her terror was to make the promise she implored. "Well, now that your message has reached us, Gracie, you need not be afraid any more, because what you fear won't happen; it can't happen. There!--Put it out of your mind." She stared at him intently, and decided that this large, fair man was one to be implicitly trusted. "You bein' one o' his people, if you say it won't happen, then it won't happen," she told him, and fetched a great sight of relief. "Oh! I was that scared I 'most died! I--I just naturally can't bear the idea o' bein' turned over to them doctors." And she shuddered. "Well, now that you're satisfied you won't be, suppose you tell me something more immediate that I can do for you. Isn't there something you'd like?" "I'd like it most of anything if you'd tell me somethin' about _him_," she said timidly. "I know I got no right to ast, me bein' what I am," she added, apologetically. "You see, nobody ever behaved to me like he did, an' I can't forget him." She looked so pathetically eager, her look was so humble, that Vandervelde couldn't find it in his heart to deny the request. He found himself telling her that Peter Champneys had become a great painter, that he had never returned to America, and that his wife also was abroad. "Is the lady he's married to as nice as him? I sure hope she's good enough for him," was Gracie's comment. Seeing how mortally weak she was, Vandervelde took his departure, promising to see her again. He had a further interview with the house-physician and the head nurse. Whatever could be done for her would be done, but they had handled too many Gracies to be optimistic about this particular one. They knew how quickly these gutter-candles flicker out. Commonplace as the girl was, she managed to win Vandervelde's interest and sympathy. That she had won young Peter Champneys's didn't surprise him. He was glad that she had had that one disinterested and kindly deed to look back to. The boy's quixotic behavior brought a smile to the lawyer's lips. Fancy his wishing to send such a girl to his uncle and being sure that old Chadwick wouldn't misunderstand! Gracie cast a new light upon Peter Champneys, and a very likable one. Vandervelde had seen in the uncle something of that same unworldliness that the nephew displayed, and it had established the human equation between Peter and the shrewd old man. Busy as he was, he managed to see Gracie again. She had refused to be put into a private room; she preferred the ward. "It's not fittin'," she said. "Anyhow, I don't want to stay by myself. When I wake up at night I want to feel people around me,--even sick people's better than nobody. It's sort o' comfortin' to have comp'ny," and she stayed in the ward, sharing with less fortunate ones the fruit and flowers Vandervelde had sent to her. Once the gripping fear that had obsessed her had been dispelled, once she was sure of a protecting kindness that might be relied upon, she proved a gay little body. As the blonde person said, Gracie wasn't a bad sort at all. As a matter of fact, neither was the blonde person. Vandervelde saw that, and it troubled his complacent satisfaction with things. He saw in the waste of these women an effect of that fatally unmoral energy ironically called modern civilization. He wondered how Marcia, or Peter's wife, would react to Gracie. Should he tell them about her? N-no, he rather thought not. Marcia had cabled that she and Anne were leaving Italy--were, in fact, on their way home. During his wife's absence he had had to make two or three South American trips, to safeguard certain valuable Champneys interests. The trips had been highly successful and interesting, and he hadn't disliked them, but Vandervelde was incurably domestic; he liked Marcia at the household helm. "I wanted to hire half a dozen brass-bands to meet you," he told his wife the morning of her arrival, and kissed her brazenly. "Marcia, you are prettier than ever! As for Anne--" At sight of Anne Champneys his eyes widened. "Why, Anne!--Why Anne!" He took off his glasses, polished them, and stared at his ward. Marcia smiled the pleased smile of the artist whose work is being appreciated by a competent critic. She was immensely proud of the tall fair girl, so poised, so serene, so decorative. "As a target for the human eye," said Vandervelde, fervently, "you're more than a success: you're a riot!" Anne slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "I'm glad you like me," said she, frankly. "It's so nice when the right people like one." Hayden was not in town. He didn't, as a matter of fact, know that they had left Italy, for Anne's last letter had said nothing of any intention to return to America shortly. Anne felt curiously disappointed that he wasn't at the pier with Jason to meet them. She was surprised at her own eagerness to see him. He pleased her more than any man she had ever met, and her impatience grew with his absence. Marcia, a born general, was already planning with masterly attention to details the social career of Mrs. Peter Champneys. With the forces that she could command, the immense power that Berkeley Hayden would swing in her favor, and the Champneys money, that career promised to be unusually brilliant, when one considered Anne herself. The Champneys house was to be reopened. In the main, as Chadwick Champneys had planned it, it pleased Marcia's critical taste. Anne herself appreciated as she had been unable to do when she first came to it. She liked its fine Aubusson carpets, its lovely old rosewood and mahogany furniture, its uncluttered stateliness. But there were certain changes and improvements she wished made, and she took a businesslike pleasure in supervising the carrying out of her orders. The portrait of Mr. Chadwick Champneys, painted the year before his death hung over the library mantel and seemed to watch her thoughtfully, critically, with its fine brown eyes. The girl he had snatched from obscure slavery liked to study the visage of the old monomaniac who had been the god in the machine of her existence. Her judgment of him now was clear-eyed but cold. He had been liberal because it fell in with his plans. He had never been loving. She was sitting in the library one morning, looking up at him rather somberly. Workmen came and went, and somewhere in the back regions a hammer kept up a steady tapping. "Mr. Hayden," said Hoichi, as he ushered that gentleman into the room. She turned her head and looked at him for a full moment, before rising to greet him: one of Anne Champneys's long, still, mysterious looks, that made his heart feel as if it were a candle, blown and shaken by the wind. Then she smiled and held out her hand. It was good to see him again! She was prouder of his friendship than of anything that had yet come to her. It gave her a sense of security, raised her in her own estimation. She explained, eagerly, the changes and improvements she was planning, and he went over the house with her. He liked it as Marcia liked it; once or twice he offered suggestions; the relationship of pupil and master was at once resumed,--but this time the pupil was more advanced. Then he took her out to lunch. It was with difficulty that he restrained the exuberant delight he felt; just to have her with him went to his head. "Marcia's advice was wise, but my behavior's going to be otherwise, if I don't keep a tight hold upon myself," he told himself. He jealously watched her social progress, and he contributed not a little toward it. He had a sense of proprietorship in her, and he did not mean that she should be just one among many; he wished her to be a great luminary around which lesser lights revolved. Under Marcia Vandervelde's wing, then, Mrs. Peter Champneys was launched, and from the very first she was a success. She played her part beautifully, though she was curiously apathetic about her triumphs. The incense of adulation did not make as sweet an odor in her nostrils as one might have supposed. Anne Champneys was oddly lacking in personal vanity, and she retained her sense of values, she was able to see things in their just proportions. That she had created a sensation didn't turn her red head. But she had a feeling that she had, in a sense, kept her word to Chadwick Champneys, discharged part of her debt. This was what he had wished her to accomplish. Very well, she had accomplished it. She was glad. But she sensed a certain hollowness under it all. Sometimes, alone in her room, she would stand and look long and earnestly at the red Indian face of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, brought from Florence and now hanging on her wall. That room had changed. It was plain and simple, almost austere; the "honest monk" who had died in the fire, and the wooden crucifix under him, seemed to dominate it. That treasure of a maid whom Marcia had secured for her, secretly sniffed at Mrs. Champneys's bed-chamber. She couldn't understand it. It wasn't in keeping with the rest of the house. For, it was a brilliant house, as the home of an exceedingly fashionable, wealthy, and handsome woman should be. Anne bore the name of Champneys like a conquering banner. What had happened on a smaller scale in Florence, happened on a large scale here at home. Something of the Champneys story had crept out,--the early marriage, which had kept all the wealth in the family; the departure of the bridegroom to become an artist, and the fact that he had really become a noted one. The halo of romance encircled her head. She was considered beautiful and clever, and the glamour of much money added to the impression she created; but she was also considered cold, inaccessible, and perhaps, as the Italian had said, without a heart. She became, as Marcia had laughingly predicted, a legend in her own lifetime. Jason Vandervelde watched her speculatively. He adored Anne, and he hoped she wasn't going to be spoiled by all the pother made over her. And he watched with a growing concern Berkeley Hayden's quiet, persistent, deliberate pursuit of her. Jason wasn't under any illusions about the Champneys marriage, but he had, as his wife said, an almost superstitious respect for Chadwick Champneys, and that marriage had been the old man's darling plan. It was upon that he had builded, and Vandervelde hated to see that plan brought to naught. Anne wouldn't really lose, of course,--Hayden could give her as much as she might forego,--but Vandervelde somehow didn't relish the idea. That girl Gracie, lingering on in the hospital ward, had brought the real Peter Champneys poignantly close to his trustee. He couldn't help thinking that if Anne could know that real Peter, there might be a hope that old Chadwick's judgment would be once more vindicated. At the same time, he cared a great deal for Berkeley Hayden, and the latter wanted Anne. And when Hayden wanted anything, he generally got it. What Anne herself thought, or what she might know, he couldn't determine. And Marcia, when he ventured to speak to her about the matter, said cryptically: "Why worry? What is to be, will be. Kismet, Jason, kismet!" * * * * * On a certain afternoon the house-physician telephoned Mr. Vandervelde that the girl Gracie was very low, and that she had asked for him. Vandervelde finished the letter he was dictating to his secretary, gave a few further instructions to that faithful animal, and had himself driven to the hospital. He couldn't explain his feelings where Gracie was concerned. There was something to blame, somewhere, for these Gracies. It made him feel a bit remorseful, as if he and his sort had left something undone. The house-physician said that Gracie's hold upon life was a mystery and a miracle; by all the laws she should have been gone some months since. She had certainly taken her time about dying! Her little, sharp, immature face had lost all earthliness; only the eyes were alive. They looked at Vandervelde gratefully. He had been very kind, and Gracie was trying to thank him. "Good-by," said Gracie. "You been white. Tell _him_--I couldn't never forget him." She put out a claw of a hand, and the big man took it. "Is there--anything else I can do for you, Gracie? Isn't there something you'd like?" The business of seeing Gracie go wasn't at all pleasant. Her eyes of a sudden sparkled. She smiled. "There's one thing I been wanting awful bad. But I ain't sure I ought to ask." "Tell me, my child, tell me." "I want to see _her_," said Gracie, unexpectedly. "Her?" "His wife. I got no right to ast, but I want somethin' awful to see his wife. Just once before I--I go, I want to see her." Vandervelde felt bewildered. He had never spoken of Gracie to Marcia, or to Anne. They were so far removed from this poor little derelict that he was not sure they would understand. He said after a moment's painful reflection: "My poor child, I will see what I can do. But if I--that is, if she--" He paused, not knowing exactly how to put his dilemma into words without wounding her. But Gracie understood. "You mean if she won't come? That's what I want to know," said she, enigmatically. So weak was she that with the words on her lips she dropped into sudden slumber. He stood looking down upon her irresolutely. Then he tiptoed away, meeting at the door the house-physician. "How long?" asked the lawyer, jerkily. "Probably until morning. Or at any minute," said the doctor, indifferently. He thought it the best thing Gracie could do. Vandervelde nodded. Then, moved by one of those impulses under the influence of which the most conservative and careful people do things that astonish nobody more than themselves, he got into his car and went after Anne Champneys. * * * * * Anne was for the moment alone. The spring dusk had just fallen, and she was glad to sit for a breathing-space in the shadowy room. Berkeley Hayden had just left. His visit had been momentous, and as a result she was shaken to the depths. She had come face to face with destiny, and she was called upon to make a decision. For the first time Hayden had broken the rigid rule of conduct he had set for himself. He felt that he could endure no more. He had to know. They had chatted pleasantly, idly. But of a sudden Berkeley had risen from his chair, gone to the window, looked out, turned and faced her. "Anne," said he, directly, "what are you going to do about Peter Champneys?" She started as if she had received an electric shock. After a moment, looking at him with a confused and startled stare, she stammered: "W-why do you ask!" "I have to know," said Hayden, and his voice trembled. "You must be aware, Anne, that I love you. I have loved you from the first moment of our meeting. You are the only woman I have ever really wished to marry. That is why I must ask you: What are you going to do about Peter Champneys?" "I--I don't know," said she, twisting her fingers. "Do you fancy you might be able to love him,--later?" "No," said she, violently. "No!" "Why, then, do you not have this abominable marriage annulled?" he demanded. "I know nothing of Champneys, except that he's an artist,--and, truth forces me to say, a great one. But if he doesn't love you, if you do not love him, do you think anything but misery is ahead for you both, if you decide to carry out the terms of that promise extorted from you?" She shrank back in her chair. She made no reply, and Hayden came and stood directly before her, looking down at her. "And I--am I nothing to you Anne? I love you. What of me, Anne?" "What can I say?" said she, falteringly. "I am not free." "If you were free, would you marry me? For that is what I am asking you to do,--free yourself, and marry me." She lifted her troubled eyes. "If I were free," she said, "if I were free--Berkeley, give me time to consider this. It isn't only the annulling of my marriage to a man I had never seen until the day I married him, and have never seen since,--it's the breaking of my promise to Uncle Chadwick--" They were in the library, and she looked up at the portrait above the mantel. Hayden's glance followed hers. "He had no right to extort any such promise from you!" he cried. "Anne, think it over! Weigh Peter Champneys and me in the balance. And,--let the best man win, Anne. Will you?" She regarded him steadfastly. "Yes," she said. "And when you have decided, you will let me know?" "I will let you know," said she, smiling faintly. Berkeley took her hand and kissed it. He looked deep into her eyes. Then he left her. He had been very quiet, but his passion for her glowed in his eyes, rang in his voice, and was in the lips that kissed her palm. She had not been in the least thrilled by it, but she was not displeased. She liked him. As for loving him, she didn't think it was really in her to love anybody. Looking back upon her youthful infatuation for Glenn Mitchell, she smiled at herself twistedly. She knew now that she had been in love with the bright shadow of love. But, she reflected, if she did not love Hayden, she respected him, she was proud of him; he represented all that was best and most desirable in her present life. Life with Berkeley Hayden wouldn't be empty. And life as she faced it now was as empty as a shell that has lost even the faintest echo of the sea. Despite its outward glitter, its mother-of-pearl sheen, she was beginning to be more and more aware of its innate hollowness. Her young and healthy nature cried out against its futility. She was in the May morning of her existence, and yet the joy of youth eluded her. She had, perhaps, one more year of freedom. Then,--Peter Champneys. Berkeley might well ask what she was going to do about it! Was she to accept as final that contract which would make her the unloved wife of an unloved husband? Now that she had grown somewhat older and considerably wiser, now that her horizon had widened, her sense of values broadened, she perceived that she owed to herself, to her sacredest instincts, the highest duty. She did not like to break her pledged word; but that pledge wronged Berkeley, wronged her, wronged Peter. Her feeling toward that unknown husband was one of stark terror, a sick dislike that had grown stronger with the years. In her mind he remained unchanged. She saw him as the gawky, shrinking boy, his lips apart, his eyes looking at her with uncontrollable aversion. Oh, no! Life with Peter Champneys was unthinkable! There remained, then, Berkeley Hayden. It wasn't unpleasant to think of Berkeley Hayden. It made one feel safe, and assured; there was a glamour of gratified pride about it,--Nancy Simms,--Mrs. Peter Champneys,--Mrs. Berkeley Hayden. A little smile touched her lips. Into these not unpleasant musings Mr. Jason Vandervelde irrupted himself, with the astounding request that she come with him now, immediately, to a hospital where a girl unknown to her prayed to see her. Hoichi had turned the lights on upon Mr. Vandervelde's entrance, and Anne looked at her visitor wonderingly. "I do sound wild," admitted Jason, "but if you could have seen the poor thing's face when she asked to see you--Anne, she'll be dead before morning." The big man's glance was full of entreaty. "But if she doesn't know me, why on earth should she wish to see me,--at such a time?" asked Anne, still more astonished. Flounderingly Vandervelde tried to tell her. A questionable girl, to whom Peter Champneys had been kind,--she couldn't exactly gather how. Dying in a hospital, and before she went wishing to see Peter Champneys's wife. Peter Champneys's wife, fortunately for herself, was still too near and close to the plain people to consider such a request an outrageous impertinence, to be refused as a matter of course. The terrible power of money had not come to her soon enough to make her consider herself of different and better clay than her fellow mortals. She wasn't haughty. The heart she was not supposed to possess stirred uncomfortably. She looked at Vandervelde questioningly. "You wish me to go?" "I leave that to you entirely," said he, uncomfortably. "But," he blurted, "I think it would be mighty decent of you." "I will go," she said. When they reached the hospital, the blonde person was with Gracie. The blonde person had been crying, and it had not improved her appearance. Her nose looked like a pink wedge driven into the white triangle of her face. Screens had been placed around the bed. A priest with a rosy, good-humored face was just leaving. Gracie turned her too-large eyes upon Peter Champneys's wife with a sort of unearthly intensity, and Anne Champneys looked down at her with a certain compassion. Anne had a bourgeois sense of respectability, and she had involuntarily stiffened at sight of the blonde drab sitting by the bedside, staring at her with sodden eyes. She hadn't expected the blonde. She ignored her and looked, instead, at Gracie. One could be decently sorry for Gracie. A faint frown puckered Gracie's brows. Her hand in the blonde person's tightened its grasp. After a moment she said gravely: "You came?" "Yes," said Anne, mechanically. "I came. You wished to see me?" Her tone was inquiring. "I wanted to see if you was good enough--for _him_," said the gutter-candle, as if she were throwing a light into the secret places of Anne Champneys's soul. "You ain't. But you could be." Vandervelde had the horrid sensation as of walking in a nightmare. He wished somebody in mercy would wake him up. Anne's brows came together. She bent upon Gracie one of her long, straight, searching looks. "Thank you--for comin'," murmured Gracie. "You got a heart." Her eyelids flickered. "I am glad I came, if it pleases you to see me," said Anne. "Is that all you wished to say to me!" "I wanted to see--if you was good enough for _him_," murmured Gracie again. "You ain't. But remember what I'm tellin' you: you could be." Her eyes closed. She fell into a light slumber, holding the blonde person's hand. Vandervelde touched Anne on the arm, and they went out. As they drove home Vandervelde told her, as well as he could, all that the little wrecked vessel which was now nearing its last harbor had told him. He was deeply moved. He said, patting her hand. "It was decent of you to come. You're a little sport, Anne." For a while she was silent. Peter Champneys, then, was capable of kindness. He could do a gentle and generous deed. And perhaps he also was finding the heavy chain of his promise to his uncle, of his marriage to herself, galling and wearisome. She reached a woman's swift decision. "I'm going to be a better sport," said she. "I'm going to reward Peter Champneys by setting him free. I shall have our marriage annulled." CHAPTER XVIII KISMET! Peter Champneys was packing up for a summer's work on the coast when he received Vandervelde's letter, advising him that Mrs. Champneys had instituted proceedings to have her marriage annulled. The attorney added that by this action on Anne's part the entire Champneys estate reverted to him, Peter Champneys, with the exception of fifty thousand dollars especially allotted to Anne by Chadwick Champneys's will. Vandervelde took it for granted there would be no opposition from Peter. He hoped his client would find it possible to visit America shortly, there being certain details he should see to in person. Opposition? Peter's sensation was one of overwhelming relief. This was lifting from his spirit the weight of an intolerable burden: he felt profoundly grateful to that red-haired woman who had had the courage to take her fate in her own hands, forego great wealth, and sever a bond that threatened to become an iron yoke. He couldn't but respect her for that; he determined that she shouldn't be too great a loser. He thought she should have half the estate, at the very least. He had never had the commercial mind. He had never asked that the allowance settled upon him by his uncle should be increased. As his own earnings far outstripped his modest needs, that allowance had been used to allay those desperate cases of want always confronting the kindly in a great city. The Champneys estate back there in America had bulked rather negligently in his mind, obscured and darkened by the formidable figure of the wife who went with it. She had loomed so hugely in the foreground that other considerations had been eclipsed. And now this ogress, moved thereto God knew why, had of a sudden opened her hand and set him free! That strenuous and struggling childhood of his, whose inner life and aspirations had been so secret and so isolated, had taken the edge off his gregariousness. He did not continuously feel the herd-necessity to rub shoulders with others. The creative mind is essentially isolated. Peter loved his fellows with a quiet, tolerant affection, but he remained as it were to himself, standing a little apart. His heart was like a deep, still, hidden pool, in which a few stars only have room to shine. A successful man, he had been romantically adored by many idle women and angled for by many an interested one. At times he had lightly lent himself to those amiable French arrangements of good comradeship which end naturally and without bitterness, leaving both parties with a satisfied sense of having received very good measure. He had never been able to deceive himself that he loved. He had loved Denise, but there had been in his affection for her more of compassion than passion, as Denise herself had known. She remained in his memory like a perfume. That had been his one serious liaison. But the woman he could really love with his fullest powers, and to whom he could give his best, had not yet appeared. Mrs. Hemingway had been troubled by his celibacy. She had persisted in her desire to have him marry young, his wife being some one of her girl friends. She wished to see Peter set up an establishment, which would presently center around a nursery full of adorable babies who would bring with them that tender and innocent happiness young children alone are able to confer. To dispel these pleasant day-dreams of hers, Peter had found it necessary to tell her of his American marriage. Mrs. Hemingway was astonished, a little chagrined, but not hopeless. He should bring his young wife to Paris. To make her understand _that_ marriage as it really was, to explain his own attitude toward it, Peter made a swift and frightfully accurate little sketch of Nancy Simms as she had appeared to him that memorable morning. His friend was appalled. It took Peter some time to explain his uncle to Mrs. Hemingway. At the best, she thought, he had been insane. Not even the fact that Peter was co-heir to the Champneys fortune consoled her for what she considered a block to his happiness, a blight upon his life. The more she thought about that marriage, the more she disliked it; and as the time approached for Peter literally to sacrifice himself upon the altar, Mrs. Hemingway grew more and more perturbed, though she wasn't so troubled about it as Emma Campbell was. Emma's terror of "dat gal" had grown with the years. Neither of them ventured to question Peter, but Emma Campbell began to have frequent spells of "wrastlin' wid de sperit," and her long, lugubrious "speretuals" were dismal enough to set one's teeth on edge. She would howl piercingly: "Befo' dis time anothuh yeah, I ma-ay be gone, Een some ole lone-some graveyahd, O Lawd, ho-ow long?" She had left the high Montmartre cottage and had come down to keep house for Peter, his being a very simple menage. Oddly, the denizens of the Quartier didn't faze her in the least. She chuckled over them, an old negro woman's sinful chuckle. She made no slightest attempt to conquer the French language, which she didn't in the least admire. She learned the equivalents for a few phrases of her own,--"I hongry," "How much?" "Gimme dat," and "Mistuh Peter gone out," and on this slight foundation she managed to keep a fairly firm footing. The frequenters of Peter's studio were delighted with Emma Campbell; they recognized her artistic availability, and she and her black cat were borrowed liberally. As a rule, she was willing to lend herself to art, and was a patient model, until one rash young man took it into his head, that he must have Emma Campbell as a favorite old attendant upon the _Queen of Sheba_ he proposed to paint. He was a very earnest young German, that painter, speaking fairly good English. Emma had liked him more than most; but her faith received a blow from which it never recovered. That young man wished to paint her _au naturel_--her, Emma Campbell, who had been a member in good standing of the Young Sons and Daughters of Zion, the Children of Mary Magdalen, and the Burying Society of the Sons and Daughters of the Rising Star in the Bonds of Love! In the altogether! Emma Campbell gasped like a hooked fish. She made a nozzle of her mouth and protruded her eyes. She said ominously: "I bawn nekked, but I ain't had nuttin' to do wid dat. Dat de fust en de last time I show up wid mah rind out o' doors. I been livin' in clo'es evuh sence, en I 'speck to die in clo'es." The artist, who wanted Emma in his picture, tried to make her understand. He reasoned with her manfully: "Ach, silly nigger-woman! Clothes, clothes! What are clothes! See, now: you are the Queen of Sheba's old slave. Your large black feet and legs are bare, a glittering amulet swings between your withered breasts of an old African, you wear heavy bracelets and anklets, around your lean flanks is a little, thin striped apron, and you hold in your hand the great fan of peacock feathers! Magnificent! You are the queen's old slave, imbecile!" "Is I? Boy, is you evuh hear tell o' Mistuh Abe Linkum? Aftuh Gin'ral Sherman bun down de big house smack en smoove, en tote off all de cow en mule en hawg en t'ing, en dem Yankees tief all de fowl, en we-all run lak rabbit, Mistuh Linkum done sen' word we 's free. En jus' lak Mistuh Linkum say, hit 's so; aftuh us git shet o' Gin'ral Sherman, we 's free. All dat time I been a-wearin' clo'es, en now you come en tarrygate me, sayin' I got to stan' up in de nekked rind en wave fedders 'cause I in slaveryment? You bes' ain't let Mistuh Peter Champneys hear you talkin' lak dat!" The bewildered and baffled young man raved in three languages, but Emma Campbell flatly refused either to be in "slaveryment" or in the "nekked rind." Visions of herself being caught and painted bare-legged, with a trifling little dab of an apron tied around her waist even as one ties a bit of ribbon around the cat's neck, and of this scandal being ferreted out by the deacons, sisters, and brethren, of the Mount Zion Baptist Church in Riverton, South Carolina, haunted her and made her projeck darkly. When she ventured to voice her opinion to Mist' Peter, he clapped her on the back and grinned. Emma Campbell began to look with a jaundiced eye upon art and the votaries of art. She was relieved when Peter decided to spend the summer on the coast; she was a coast woman herself, and she longed for the smell of the sea. And then, to add to her joy, had come this last, astonishing news: "dat gal" was going to divorce Mist' Peter! That incomprehensible marriage would be done away with, that grim, red-headed dragoness would go out of their lives! Emma's speretuals took a more hopeful trend; and Peter whistled while he worked. He had written Vandervelde that he couldn't forego his summer's work, but would probably be in New York that autumn. In the meantime, let Vandervelde look after his interests as usual and see to it that Mrs. Champneys was more adequately and liberally provided for. He forgot to inquire as to the real value of his possessions. He did say to himself soberly: "Jingo! This thing sounds like money--as if I were a mighty rich man! I'll have to do something about this!" But he wasn't overly upset, or even very greatly interested. His real concern had never been money; it had been, like Rousseau's and Millet's, to make the manifestation of life his first thought, to make a man really breathe, a tree really vegitate. And so he went to the coast, as happy as a school-boy on a holiday. The sea fascinated him, and the faces of the men who go down to the sea in ships. It was going to be the happiest and most fruitful summer he had known for years. He bade the Hemingways a gay farewell. Mrs. Hemingway, he noted, looked at him speculatively. Her matrimonial plans for him had revived. He worked gloriously. He ate like a school-boy, and slept like one, dreamlessly. What was happening in the outside world didn't interest him; what he had to do was to catch a little of the immortal and yet shifting loveliness of the world and imprison it on a piece of canvas. He didn't get any of the newspapers. When he smoked at night with his friend the curé, a gentle, philosophic old priest who had known a generation of painter-folk and loved this painter with a fatherly affection, he heard passing bits of world gossip. The priest took several papers, and liked to talk over with his artist friend what he had read. It was the priest, pale and perturbed, who told him that war was upon the world. Peter didn't believe it. In his heart he thought that the fear of war with her great neighbor had become a monomania with the French. "It will be a bad war, the worst war the world has ever known. We shall suffer frightfully: but in the end we shall win," said the curé, walking up and down before his cottage. He fingered his beads as he spoke. France began to mobilize. And then Peter Champneys realized that the French fear hadn't been so much a monomania as a foreknowledge. The thing stunned him. He wished to protest, to cry out against the monstrousness of what was happening. But his voice was a reed in a hurricane; he was a straw in a gigantic whirlpool. He felt his helplessness acutely. He couldn't work any more; he couldn't sleep; he couldn't eat. There is a France that artists love more than they may ever love any woman. Peter Champneys knew that France. Nobody hated and loathed war more than he, born and raised in a land, and among a people, stripped and darkened by it. And that had been but a drop in the bucket, compared with what was now threatening France. He couldn't idly stand by and see that happen! He thought of all that France had given him, all that France meant to him. The faces of all those comrades of the Quartier rose before him; and gently, wistfully appealing, the sweet face of little lost Denise. He packed his paintings finished and unfinished, and went to tell his friend the curé farewell, bending his pagan knees to receive the old man's blessing. The curé, too, was part of that which is the spirit of France. They were enlisting in the Quartier. Peter was one of very many. When the preliminaries were passed and he had put on the uniform of a private soldier of the republic, he felt rather a fool. He wasn't in the least enthusiastic. There was a thing to be done, and he meant to help in its accomplishment; but he wasn't going to shout over it or pretend that he liked doing it. When he went to tell Mrs. Hemingway good-by, just before his regiment left, she put her arms around him and kissed him. She was going to stay in Paris, and Emma Campbell would stay in her house. Emma Campbell had been very silent. She had acute and very unpleasant recollections of one war. She didn't understand what this one was about, but she didn't like it. And when she saw Peter in uniform, saying good-by, going away to get himself killed, maybe, she broke into a whimper: "Oh, Miss Maria! Oh, Miss Maria! Look at we-all chile! Oh, my Gawd, Miss Maria, we-all 's chile 's gwine to de war!" Peter put his arm around her shoulder. His face twitched. Emma said in a low voice: "I help Miss Maria wean 'im, en he bit me on de knuckles wid 'is fust toofs. Nevuh had no trouble wid 'im, 'cept to dust 'is britches wunst in a w'ile. Ah, Lawd! I sho did love dat chile! Use to rake chips for de wash-pot fire, en sit roun' en wait for ole Emma Campbell to fix 'is sweet 'taters for 'im. Me en Miss Maria's chile. En now he soldier en gwine to de war! Me en 'im far fum home, en he gwine to de war!" She threw her white apron over her head. Emma hated to have anybody see her cry. So Peter Champneys went to the war, along with the other artists of France, and was made use of in many curious ways. Presently he was taken out of his squad, and set at other work where the quick and sure eye, and deft, trained hand, of the painter were needed. He saw unbelievable, unimaginable things, things so unspeakable that his soul seemed to die within him. The word _glory_ made him shudder. There was a duty to do, and he did it to the best of his ability, without noise, without fear. Wherever he looked around him, other men were doing the same thing. Every now and then, after some particularly nightmarish experiences, he would be called out--he himself questioned why--and kissed on both cheeks, and a medal or so would be pinned upon him. He accepted it all politiely, apathetically; it was all a part of the game. And the game itself seemed never-ending. It went on and on, and on. It seemed to him that he wasn't Peter Champneys the artist any more, the lover of beauty, the man who was to rebuild the house of his forebears, and for whom a great fortune was waiting over there in America. He was just a soul in torment, living his bit of hell, hating it with a cold impatience, an incurable anger. One thing only kept him from losing all hope for mankind: at times he had piercing, blinding glimpses of the soul of plain men laid bare. With torment, a humanity larger even than his art was born in him. At the end of the third year a sniper got him. He was wounded so badly that at first it was thought a leg would have to be amputated. But even in that hideous welter of the nations, Peter Champneys wasn't unknown. Overburdened and busy as they were, doctors and nurses fought for the life of the American artist. He came to to hear a poilu in his ward praising the saints that it was _his_ hand and not the painter's that had gone, and another say philosophically that if one of two _had_ to be blinded, he was glad M. Champneys's eyes had been saved. "You will see for us, Monsieur," said he cheerfully. And in his heart Peter swore to himself that he would. He would see for the plain people, the common people of God. As soon as he was able to be moved, the Hemingways and Emma Campbell came and took him home. Now, a spirit like his cannot see and hear and know such things as Peter had been experiencing for three years, without showing signs of the conflict. Peter had changed physically as well as spiritually. His face had paled to an ivory tone, the features had a cameo sharpness and purity of outline; cheeks and chin were covered with a heavy, jet-black beard,--as if his countenance were in morning for its lost boyishness. And out of this thin, quiet, black-haired, black-bearded face looked a pair of golden eyes of an almost intolerable clarity. _Don Pedro_ Mrs. Hemingway called him laughingly, and _El Conquistador_. Secretly, she was immensely proud of him. Peter didn't recuperate as quickly and completely as had been hoped. He was weary with an almost hopeless weariness, and Mrs. Hemingway, who watched him with the affection of an older sister, was worried about his condition. She didn't like his apathy. He was as gentle, as considerate, and even more exquisitely sympathetic than of old. But in all things that concerned himself, he was quietly disinterested. She and Hemingway had several long talks. Then Hemingway began to get busy. Presently he suggested, that it might be a very good idea if Peter should go over to America for a while, and look after those interests to which he hadn't given a thought since he had put on a uniform. After all, Hemingway reminded him, his uncle had placed considerable trust in him. It was only fair now that Chadwick Champneys's wishes should come in for at least a little attention, wasn't it? Peter pondered this idea, and found it just. Besides, he wasn't unwilling to go back to America now that he didn't have to face that girl. He wondered, vaguely, what had become of her. Had she found happiness for herself? He hoped so. Yes, he'd rather like to see New York again. He couldn't be of any further use here now, and he couldn't do his own work, for all inspiration seemed to have left him. He felt empty, arid, useless. He might just as well act upon Hemingway's suggestion, and find out how things were over there. And after he'd seen Vandervelde, he'd go down south and visit that tiny brown house on the cove, and the River Swamp, and Neptune's old cabin, and the cemetery alongside the Riverton Road. It seemed to him that he smelled the warm, salt-water odors of the coast country again, saw the gray moss swaying in the river breeze, heard a mocking-bird break into sudden song. A homesick longing for Carolina came upon him. Oh, for the flat coast country, the marsh between blue water and blue sky, the swamp bays in flower, a Red Admiral fluttering above a thistle in a corner of an old worm-fence! Emma Campbell discovered this homesick longing in herself, too. Emma was hideously afraid of the passage across, but she was willing to risk it, just to get "over home" once more. She thought of herself sitting in her place in Mount Zion Church, with ole Br'er Shadrach Timmons liftin' up de tune, fat Sist' Mindy Sawyer fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan and swaying back and forth in time to the speretual, and busybody Deacon Williams rolling his eye to see that nobody took too long a swallow out of the communion cup he passed around. She thought of possum parties, with accompaniments of sweet 'taters and possum gravy. Her lip trembled, tears rolled down her black cheeks. She had been living in the midst of air raids, her ears had been stunned with the roar of _Big Bertha_. Now she nevuh wanted to hear nuttin' louder dan bull-frawg in de river so long as she lived. She was sorry to leave Mrs. Hemingway, for whom she had acquired a great affection. And she had one real grief: Satan had gone to the heaven of black cats, so she couldn't take him back to Carolina. She wouldn't replace the dear, funny, cuddly beastie with a French cat. French cats were amiable animals, very nice in their way, but they weren't, they couldn't be, "we-all's folks" as the Carolina cat had been. Hemingway arranged everything. And so one morning, Peter Champneys walking with a stick, and old Emma Campbell, stiffly erect and rustling in a black silk frock that Mrs. Hemingway had bought for her, turned their faces to America once more. Vandervelde, who met them in response to Hemingway's cable, knew Emma Campbell at sight, but failed to recognize in the tall, distinguished, very foreign-looking gentleman, the gangling Peter Champneys he had seen married to Nancy Simms. He kept staring at Peter, and the corners of his mouth curled more than usual. And he liked him, with the instantaneous liking of one large-natured man for another. Vandervelde had never approved of the annulment of the Champneys marriage, although Marcia did. Not even the fact that Anne was going to marry Berkeley Hayden, had been able to convince Vandervelde that the bringing to naught of Chadwick Champneys's plans could be right. And looking at Peter Champneys now, he was more than ever convinced that a mistake had been made. That little gutter-girl, Gracie, had been right about Peter Champneys; and Anne had been wrong. Vandervelde asked, presently, if Peter wished to see the reporters. Once they scented him, they would be clamoring at his heels. And then Peter learned to his surprise and annoyance that he was something of a hero and very much of a celebrity. His expression made Vandervelde chuckle. But, the attorney demanded, could a famous artist, a man who for distinguished and unusual service had been decorated by two governments, the heir to the Champneys millions, and one of the figures of a social romance, hope to hide his light under a bushel basket? Nothing doing! He was a figure of international importance, a lion whom the public wanted to hear roar. Peter shuddered. The thought of being interviewed by one of those New York super-reporters made him feel limp. Couldn't they understand he didn't want to talk? Didn't they understand that those who had really seen, those who knew, weren't doing any talking? Why,--they couldn't! As for himself, his nerves were rasped raw. Luckily, Vandervelde understood. He asked Vandervelde a few perfunctory questions, and learned that things were very much all right. He signed certain papers presented to him. Then he asked abruptly if Mrs. Champneys had been as liberally provided for as she should have been, and learned that Mrs. Champneys had flatly refused to accept a penny more than the actual amount given her by Chadwick Champneys's will. Vandervelde added, after a moment, that he thought Mrs. Champneys intended to remarry. At that Peter looked somewhat surprised. He thought him a bold man who of his own free will ordained to marry Nancy Simms Champneys! He murmured, politely, that he hoped she would be happy, but failed to ask the name of his successor. What was Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba? He was in Vandervelde's office, then, and the telephone began to ring. Three several times Vandervelde answered the questions where, when, how might the reporter at the other end of the wire get in touch with Mr. Peter Champneys. Had he really returned to New York? Been decorated several times, hadn't he? What was his latest picture? What were his present and future plans? Could Mr. Vandervelde give any information? In each case Mr. Vandervelde said he couldn't. He hung up the receiver and looked at the celebrity, who seemed gloomy. The lawyer was a tower of strength. He started Emma Campbell, who didn't want to linger in New York, on her way to Riverton. Emma wanted to get home as fast as the fastest train could carry her. But Peter didn't want to go back to Riverton--yet. And then Vandervelde made a suggestion which rather pleased Peter. Why not go to a little place he knew, a quiet and very beautiful place on the Maine coast? Very few people knew of its existence. Vandervelde had stumbled upon it on a motor trip a few years before, and he was rather jealous of his discovery. The people were sturdy, independent Maine folk, the climate and scenery unsurpassed; Peter would be well looked after by the old lady to whom Vandervelde would recommend him. And to make perfectly sure that he'd be undisturbed, to drop more completely out of the world and find the rest he needed, why not call himself, say, Mr. Jones, or Mr. Smith, letting Peter Champneys the artist hide for a while behind that homely disguise? Vandervelde almost stammered in his eagerness. His eyes shone, his face flushed. He leaned across his desk, watching Peter with a curious intensity. Peter liked the idea of the Maine coast. Sea and forest, open spaces, quietude; plain folk going about their own business, letting him go about his. Long days to loaf through, in which to reorganize his existence in accordance with his newer values. Isolation was the balm his spirit craved. Let him have that, let it help him to become his own man again, and he'd be ready to face life and work like a giant refreshed. "You'll go?" Vandervelde's voice was studiously restrained; he had lowered his lids to hide the eagerness of his eyes. "I think such a place as you describe is exactly what I need," said Peter. "I'm quite sure it is. And the sooner you go, the better." Peter got up and walked around the office. A typewriter was clacking monotonously, the telephone bell was constantly ringing. Peter turned his head restlessly. Vandervelde had made his suggestion at precisely the right moment. Peter felt grateful to him. Very nice man, Vandervelde. Kind as he could be, too! One liked and trusted him. Clever of him to have so instantly understood just what Peter most craved! "I quite agree with you," said Peter. "I'll start to-night." Vandervelde leaned back in his chair. His heart thumped. He drew a deep breath, the corners of his mouth curling noticeably, and beamed at Peter Champneys through his glasses. He said aloud, cheerfully, "Well, why not?" CHAPTER XIX THE POWER Grandma Baker's cottage formed the extreme right horn of the crescent that was the village. The middle of the crescent backed up against a hill, the horns dipped toward the shore-line and the water. Near Grandma Baker's front gate were currant bushes, and a path bordered with dahlias and gillyflowers led to the door, which had two stone slabs for steps, and on both sides of which were large lilac bushes,--she called them "lay-locks." Behind the house were apple-trees, and more currant bushes, as well as gooseberries and raspberries. A herb garden grew under her kitchen windows, so that her kitchen and pantry always smelled of thyme and wintergreen, and her bedrooms were fragrant with lavender. The quiet gentleman to whom she had given an upper room that looked out upon woods and waters, a bit of pasture, a stretch of coast, and a pale blue sky full of sudsy clouds, thought that Mr. Jason Vandervelde's fervent praises hadn't done justice to this bit of untouched Eden tucked away in a bend of the Maine coast. It gave him what his heart craved--beauty, fragrance, stillness. A few weather-beaten old men, digging clams, dragging lobster-pots, or handling a boat. A few quiet women, busy with household affairs. No one to have to talk to. No one to ask him questions. There was but one other visitor in the village, Grandma Baker told him, a young widow,--"a nice common sort of a woman," who was staying up the street with Mis' Thatcher. Mr. Johnston, as the gentleman called himself, hadn't seen the "nice common sort of a woman" yet, though he had been here a whole week, and he wasn't in the least curious about her. He didn't know that when you're a "nice common sort of a woman" to these Maine folk, you're receiving high praise from sturdy democrats. The phrase, to him, called up a good, homely creature, amiably innocuous, placidly cow-like. Mr. Johnston slept in a four-poster, under a patchwork quilt that aroused poignant memories. At his own request he ate in a corner of the big kitchen, near the window opening upon the herb garden. Already he had struck up a firm friendship with his brisk, strong old landlady. "Fit in the war, didn't ye?" asked the old lady, genially. Mr. Johnston's face took on a look of weariness and obstinacy. Grandma Baker smiled cheerfully. "Tell the truth and shame the devil," she chirped. "You fit, but you needn't be scared I'll ask you any questions about it. I mind Abner, my husband, comin' back from Virginia after he'd fit the hull dratted Civil War straight through and helped win it. And he wouldn't open his trap. Couldn't bear havin' to talk about it. Some men's like that. Ornery, o' course, but you got to humor 'em. You put me a hull lot in mind o' my Abner." And she looked with great kindliness upon the taciturn person known to her as Mr. Johnston. True to her word, she asked him no questions. She fed him, and let him alone. He was so weary, at first, that he didn't want to do anything but lie under a tree idly for long drowsy hours, as he had lain under the trees on the edge of the River Swamp years before. This Maine landscape, so rugged and yet so tender, had a brooding and introspective calm, as of a serene and strong old man who has lived a vigorous, simple, and pure life, and to the jangled nerves and tired mind of Peter Champneys it was like the touch of a healing hand. With every day he felt his strength of mind and body returning, and the restless perturbation that had tormented him receding, fading. These green and gracious trees, bathed in a lucent light, this sweet sea-wind, and the voice of the waters, a voice monotonously soothing, helped him to find himself,--and to find himself newer, fresher, a more vital personality. This newer Peter Champneys was not going to be, perhaps, so easy-going a chap. He was more insistent, he was sterner; to the art-conscience, in itself a troublesome possession, he was adding the race-conscience, which questions, demands, and will have nothing short of the truth. He had been forced to see things as they are, things stripped of pleasant trappings and made brutally bare; and his conscience and his courage now arose to face facts. Any misery, rather than be slave to shams! Any grief to bear, any price to pay, but let him possess his own soul, let him have the truth! He could not sit in judgment upon himself as an artist only; he had to take himself seriously as a very wealthy man in an hour when very wealthy men stood, so to speak, before the tribunal of the conscience of mankind. He could not afford to be crushed by the burden of much money. Neither could he ignore the stern question: what was he going to do with the Champneys wealth? He wished that that red-headed woman had taken half of it off his hands! The Champneys money made him very thoughtful this morning, walking with his hands behind his back, his head bare to the wind. The water rippled in the sunlight. Out on the horizon a solitary sail glimmered. The semicircle of village houses resembled the white beads of a broken necklace, lying exactly where they'd fallen. He turned a small headland, and the village vanished. He had a pleasant sense of being alone with this rocky coast, with its salty-sweet wind, its blue water, its limitless sky, from which poured a flood of clear, pale golden sunlight. And then, as if out of the heart of them all, came a figure immensely alive, the light focusing upon her as if she were the true meaning of the picture in which she appeared; as if this background were not accidental, but had been chosen and arranged for her with delicate and deliberate care. He thought he had never seen any woman's body so superbly free in its movement: she had the grace of a birch stirred by a spring wind. The poise of her shoulders, the sweep of her garments blown by the sea-breeze, the joyous and vigorous grace of her whole attitude, reminded him of the winged Victory. So might that splendid vision have walked upon the glad Greek coast in the bright light of the world's morning. The woman walked swiftly, lightly, her head held high, her long loose hair blown about her like flame. Where the rough path narrowed between two large boulders, he had paused to allow her to pass; and so they came face to face, he the taller by a head. She lifted her cool, gray-green eyes that had in them the silvery sparkle of the sea, and met his golden gaze. Her face framed in her flaming mane was warmly pale, the brow thoughtful, the mouth virginal. For a long moment they regarded each other steadily, wonderingly; and in that single moment the eternal miracle occurred by which life and the face of the world changed for them. That long, clear, grave gaze pierced her heart like a golden poniard. He was of a thin body and visage, but the effect was of virility, not weakness,--as if the soul of him, like a blade in a scabbard, had fretted the body fine. There was a quiet stateliness in his bearing, a simple and unaffected dignity, to which the thick, blue-black hair, the foreign beard, and the aquiline features lent an added touch of distinction. One was reminded of those dangerously mild and rather sad faces of Spanish soldiers which look at one from Velasquez's canvases. This man might wear a ruff and a velvet doublet, or, better yet, a coat of mail, she reflected, instead of the well-cut but rather worn gray tweeds that clothed him. She was not conscious of her flying hair, or the wind-blown disorder of her skirts. She was conscious, rather, that for the first time a man was looking at her as from a height, and she was filled with a beautiful astonishment, a sort of divine amazement, as if it were toward this that always, inevitably, she had been moving,--and now it was here! Her blood leaped to it, and went racing fierily through her veins, as if there had been poured into it the elixir of life. She was gloriously conscious of her youth and her womanhood. A quick and vivid rush of warm blood stained her, brow to bosom. Her every-day mind was saying, "It is the stranger who's staying at Grandma Baker's--the gentleman who's been ill." But beyond and behind her every-day mind, her heart was shouting, exultant, ecstatic, and very sure: "It is You! It is You!" In quick sympathy with that bright flush of hers the blood showed for an instant in his pale face. He had been staring at her! An agitation new to him, an emotion to which all others he had ever experienced were childishly mild, filled him as the resistless sweep of the sea at flood tide fills the shallows of the shores. Love did not come to him gently and insidiously, but as with the overwhelming rush of great waters. This, then, must be that "nice, common sort of a woman" staying with the Widow Thatcher, at the other end of the village--this woman clothed with the sun of her red hair, and with the sea in her eyes! A smile curved his lips. His kindling glance played over her like lightning, and said to her: "I know you. I have always known you. Do you not recognize me? I am I,--and you are You!" Had he obeyed his instincts, he would have flung himself before her and clasped her around the knees. Being a modern gentleman, he had to stand aside, bowing, and let her pass. She, too, bowed slightly. She went by with her quick and resilient tread, her cheek royally red. A wind roared in her ears, her heart beat thickly. When she had turned the little headland she paused, and mechanically braided her hair. Her fingers shook, and she breathed as if she had been running. The incredible, the unbelievable, had pounced upon her as from a clear sky, and the world was never again to be the same. She had been so sure, so safe, with her pleasant life all mapped out before her, like the raked and swept paths of an ordered and formal garden; a life in which reason and convention and culture and wealth should rule, and from which tumultuous and tormenting passions and disorderly emotions should be rigidly excluded. In that ordered existence, she would be, if not happy, at least satisfied and proud. And now! A strange man in passing had looked into her eyes; love had come, and the gates of her formal garden had been pulled down, wild nature threatened to invade and overrun her trimmed and clipped borders and her smooth lawns. The Widow Thatcher commented approvingly upon her fine color when she appeared at the house. "You just stay here a leetle mite longer, Mis' Riley, and you'll be that changed you won't know yourself," said the kindly woman, heartily. "I'm sure of that!" murmured her guest. The red-haired lady who called herself Mrs. Riley--Riley had been her mother's name--had been, up to this time, an altogether satisfying guest, simple, friendly, with a sound and healthy appetite, and well deserving that praiseful "nice, common sort of a woman" bestowed upon her. Now, mysteriously, she changed. She wasn't less friendly, but her appetite was capricious and she would fall into reveries, sudden fits of gravity, sitting beside the window, staring somberly out at the waters. She would snatch up her hat and go out, get as far as the gate, and return to the house. Mrs. Thatcher heard her pacing up and down her room, when she should have been sound asleep. She would laugh, and then sigh upon the heels of it, break into fitful singing, and fall into sudden silence in the midst of her song. "She's gettin' religion," the widow reflected. "The Spirit's workin' on her. 'T ain't nothin' I can do except pray for her." And the simple soul got on her knees and besought Heaven that the stranger under her roof might "escape whatever trouble 't is that's threatenin' her, O Lord, an' save her soul alive!" Although the widow didn't know it, her guest had come to the dividing of the ways. She had come to this quiet place to find peace, to rest, to escape from the world for a breathing-space. And in this quiet place that which had missed her in the great outside world had come to her, the most tremendous of all powers had seized upon her. The situation was not without a sly and ironical humor. She wondered what Marcia would say if she should write to her: "I have fallen in love at sight, hopelessly, irremediably, head over ears, with, a strange man who passed me on the shore. He wears gray tweeds. His name, I am told, is Johnston. That's all I know about him, except that I seem to have known him since the beginning of all things. He is as familiar to my heart as my blood is, and all he had to do to make me love him was to look at me. Yes! I love him as I could never love anybody but him. He's the one man." She could fancy Marcia's astonishment, her shocked "Oh, but Anne, there's Berkeley Hayden!" And indeed, there was Berkeley Hayden! When Anne had determined to have her marriage to Peter Champneys annulled, Marcia had upheld her, though Jason hadn't liked it at all. If he hadn't exactly opposed her course, he had tried to dissuade her from it. But she had persisted, and as the case was simple and quite clear her freedom was a foregone conclusion, though there were, of course, the usual formalities, the usual wearisome delays. She had closed the Champneys house, and gone to Marcia, who wanted her. Jason, too, had insisted that she should make her home with them for the time being. And then had come the war, and she and Marcia found themselves swept into the whirlpool of work it involved. But not even the tremendous news that filled all the newspapers had kept the Champneys romance from being featured. Her case received very much more notice than pleased her. She was weary of her own photographs, sick of the interest she aroused. Hayden kept discreetly in the background. He behaved beautifully. But he knew that Anne was going to marry him. Jason and Marcia knew it. Anne herself knew it. Now that the war was on, a good many of his plans would have to be postponed, but when Anne had secured her freedom, and things had righted themselves, they two would take up life as he wished to live it. All the women of his family had occupied prominent social positions: _his_ wife should surpass them all. She should be the acknowledged leader, the most brilliant figure of her day. Nothing less than this would satisfy him. For all his esthetic tastes, Hayden was an immensely able and capable man of business. He had not the warmth of heart that at times obscured Jason Vandervelde's judgment, nor the touch of unworldliness that marked the behavior of the Champneys men. His intellect had a cold, clear brilliancy, diamond-bright, diamond-hard; to this he added tact, and the power of organizing and directing and of getting results. In certain crises such men are invaluable. Hayden hated war. It was, so to speak, an uncouth and barbarous gesture, a bestial and bellowing voice. He felt constrained to offer his services, and even before America became actually involved he was able to render valuable aid. There were delicate and dangerous missions where his tact, his diplomacy, and his shrewd, cold, unimpassioned intelligence won the stakes for which he played. This in itself was good; but for the time being it took him away from Anne. He saw her only occasionally. She, like him, was immersed in work. Once or twice he was able to snatch her from the thick of things and carry her off with him to lunch or to dinner. She enjoyed these small oases in the desert of work. She liked to watch his clever, composed face, to listen to his modulated voice. The serene ease of his manner soothed her. She was tremendously proud of Hayden. She was glad he cared for her. This seemed to her an excellent foundation for their marriage. They would please and interest each other; neither would be bored! And when, leaning across the table one day at lunch, he looked at her with unwonted fire in his quiet eyes, and said in a low voice: "Just as soon as this business is finished, as soon as we've cleaned up the mess, I'm going to claim you, Anne. It's all I can do to wait!" Anne met his eyes, smiled slightly, and nodded. A faint flush rose to her cheek, and a deeper one rose to his. For a moment he touched her hand. "You understand you are promised to me," he said. "If I dared show you what I really feel, Anne--" and he glanced around the crowded dining-room, and smiled. She smiled in return, tranquilly. She was not stirred. His touch had no power to thrill her. She was comfortably content that things should be as they were, that was all. Yet her very lack of emotion added to her charm for him. He disliked emotional women. Excess of affection would have bored him. It smacked of crudeness, and he had an epicurean distaste for crudeness. Busy as he was, he found time to select the ring he wished her to wear. He was fastidious and hyper-critical to a degree, and he wished her ring to suit her, to be flawless. It was really a work of art, and Anne Champneys wondered at her own coolness when she received the exquisite jewel. She understood his feeling, she appreciated the beauty of the gem, yet it left her unmoved. It gratified her woman's vanity; it did not stir her to one heart-throb. She accepted it, not indifferently, but placidly. After a while she would accept a plain gold ring from him just as placidly. This was her fate. She did not quarrel with it. Marcia watched her pleasedly. She loved Anne Champneys, she admired Hayden exceedingly, and that they should marry each other seemed natural and inevitable. Hayden was just the man she would have chosen for Anne. Even the fact that Jason wasn't altogether happy about it couldn't dampen Marcia's delight in the affair. Jason would come around, in time. He was too fond of Anne not to. "Well, you're free," he had told Anne, the day that the Champneys marriage was declared null and void, and both parties had received the right to remarry, as a matter of course. "You are free. I'm sure I hope you won't regret it!" "Why should I regret it?" wondered Anne, good-humoredly. But the big man shook his head, remembering Chadwick Champneys. Hayden had become more and more involved in war work; he was in constant demand, he was sent hither and thither to attend to this and that troublesome affair. Twice he had to go abroad. At home, Anne's work called her into the homes of soldiers; she came in close contact with the families of the men who were fighting, and what she saw she was never able to forget. She got down to bed-rock. Her own early life made her acutely understanding. Where Marcia would have been blind, Anne saw; where the woman who had never known poverty and hardship would have remained deaf, the woman who had slaved in the Baxters' kitchen, who had been an overworked, unloved child in bondage, heard, and understood to the core of her soul what she was hearing. These voices from the depths were not inarticulate to Anne! When Berkeley came back from his second voyage abroad, he was more impatient than she had ever seen him. The end was in sight then, as he knew, and he saw no reason for further delay. He urged Anne to marry him. Why should they waste time? When he consulted Marcia, she agreed with him. Everybody, she said, was getting married. Why shouldn't he and Anne? Already the rumor of their engagement had crept out. There were hints of it in the social chatter of the papers. Why not announce it formally, and have the marriage follow immediately? But Anne Champneys found herself in a curious mood. The nervous strain of war work, perhaps, was accountable. She meant to marry Berkeley; but she didn't want to marry him at once. She did not object to having their engagement announced. He could shout it from the housetops if that pleased him. But in the meanwhile she wanted a little rest, a little freedom. She wished to be fetterless, free to come and go as she pleased. No work, no interviews, no photographers, no weary hours with dressmakers and tailors. No envy because Berkeley Hayden was going to marry her, no wearisome comments, idle flattery hiding spite, no gossip violating all privacies. A raging impatience against it all assailed her. It seemed to her that she had never been allowed really to think or to act for herself disinterestedly, that she had never been free. Always she had been in bondage! Oh, for just a little hour of freedom, in the open, to be just as ordinary and inconspicuous as in her heart of hearts she would have preferred to be, left to herself! Marcia said her nerves were unstrung, and no wonder, considering how she'd worked, and what she'd seen. Jason came vigorously to her rescue. He advised her to go off somewhere and get acquainted with herself. To drop out of things for a while, and treat herself to the rest she needed. Cut and run! Scuttle for cover! "You've been overdoing things, of course. You've been Lady Bountiful, and first-aider, and last-leaver. Like the Lord and a thumping good lie, you've been a very present help in time of trouble. But there's such a thing as being too steady on the job. You need a change of people, scene, and mind. Take it." This conversation occurred on a morning in his office, where she had gone on some slight business, and with concern he had noticed her tired eyes. At his advice she brightened. "Marcia thinks I should marry Berkeley, immediately, and let him take me away, but--" "But you aren't ready to rush into matrimony just yet?" Vandervelde growled. "I should think you wouldn't be! If Hadyen's managed to exist this long without a wife, I take it for granted he can exist unwed a little longer. You are certain you mean to marry him?" "Oh, yes, I am certain I mean to marry him," said Anne, flatly. "But I--that is, not so soon." "I think I understand, Anne," said the big man, kindly. "Look here, you just tell 'em all to wait! Tell 'em you're tired. Then you pick yourself up and light out for a while, by yourself. Chuck the madding throng and all that, Anne, and beat it for the open!" "Oh, how I wish I could!" she sighed. "You don't know how I long for a chance to be just me by myself! I want to stay with people who have never heard the name of Champneys or Hayden and who wouldn't care if my name happened to be Mudd! I want plain living and plain thinking and plain people. I--I'll come back to--everything I should come back to, afterward. But first I want to be free! Just for a little while I want to be free!" "But how could you manage it?" mused Vandervelde. "The lady who divorced Peter Champneys and is going to marry Berkeley Hayden can't pick herself up 'unbeknownst' and hope to get away with it. Not in these days of good reporting! You're copy, you understand." "But I don't want to be Mrs. Peter Champneys! I don't want to be the woman Berkeley Hayden's going to marry! I want to be just me!" she cried. "I want to go to some place where nobody's ever heard either of those names! Some little place where there are water and trees--and not much else. Like, say,--Jason! Do you remember that place you found, in Maine, I think? You _babbled_ about it. Said you were going to go there if ever you wanted to get out of the world. Said it was Eden before the serpent entered. Where's that place, Jason? Why can't I go there, just as myself--" she paused, and looked at him hopefully. "I don't see why you can't," said he, cheerfully. And so Anne, who didn't wish to be Mrs. Peter Champneys, or the woman whom Berkeley Hayden was to marry, or anybody but herself, came to the out-of-the-way nook on the Maine shore, and was welcomed by the Widow Thatcher. She found the place idyllic. She liked its skies unclouded by smoke, translucent skies in which silver mountains of clouds reared themselves out of airy continents that shifted and drifted before the wind. She liked its clean, pure, untainted air. And she liked contact with these simple souls, men who labored, women who knew birth and death and were not afraid of either. It came to her that her own contacts with and concepts of life--and death--had always, been more or less artificial. Perhaps these simple and laborious folk had the substance of things of which she and her sort had but the shadow. And then she asked herself: Well, but couldn't one, anywhere, in any circumstances, make life real for oneself, meet facts unafraid? Get at the truths, somehow? That's what she had to find out! And of a sudden she had been answered. The reality, the truth, the real meaning of life was made plain to her when a man she didn't know, and yet knew to the last fiber of her soul, had paused to look into her eyes. For two or three days she went no further than the rambling garden at the back of the house. She tried to read, and couldn't. From every page those eyes looked at her. There was more in that remembered glance than in any book ever written, and she was torn between the desire to meet it again and the fear of meeting it. On the night of the third day she sat with her elbows on her windowsill, looking out at the moonlight night. A sweet wind touched her face, like the breath of love. There arose the scent of quiet places, of trees and flowers and herbs, mingled with the vast breathing of the sea. And she thought the sea called to her, an imperious and yet caressing voice in the night. She stirred restlessly. Down there on the shore-line, where she had met him, the rocks would glint with silvery reflections, the water would come fawning to one's feet, the wind would pounce upon one like a rough lover. She stirred restlessly. The small bedroom seemed to hold her like a cage. And again the sea called, a wild and compelling voice. Her blood stirred to the magic of the night. Her eyes gleamed, her cheek reddened. She listened for a moment, intently. The Widow Thatcher slept the sleep of the good housekeeper. No one was stirring. She could have the night, the wind, the sea, to herself. Noiselessly she stole downstairs and let herself out. Out there, with the scent of the summer night greeting her, with bushes brushing her lightly with their green fingers, her heart leaped joyously. She flung her arms over her head and went running down the path to the water, a tall white figure with flying hair. Then she turned the small headland, and the village dropped behind her. Overhead the big gold lamp of the moon lighted shore and sea. And here came the sea-wind, bracing, strong, and sweet. At the rush of it she laughed aloud, and the wind seized upon her laughter and tossed it into the night like airy bells. She slackened her wild race when she neared the great boulders shutting in the little narrow path where she had met him, and stood flushed, panting, her shining glance uplifted, her bright hair framing the sweetness of her face. And even as she paused, he stepped out of the shadow and confronted her. As if he had been awaiting her. As if he had known she must come. He said, in a voice vibrant with fierce joy: "It is You!" She answered, in a shaking tone, like a child: "Yes, I had to come," and stood there looking at him, face uplifted, lips apart. He drew nearer. "Why?" said he, in a whisper. "Why?" She did not reply. For a long moment they regarded each other, passion-pale in the moonlight. "Was it because--you knew I must be here!" he asked. Her hands went to her leaping heart. She had no faintest notion of concealing the truth, for there was no coquetry in her. These two facing each other were as honest as the rocky coast, as unabashed as the wind. They had no more thought of subterfuges and conventions than the sea had. They were as real as nature itself. He bent upon her his compelling glance, which seemed to lift her as upon golden pinions. She was thrillingly conscious of his nearness. "You knew I would be here?" he repeated. She drew a deep breath. "Yes!" she sighed. And at that, inevitably, irresistibly, they rushed together. He caught her in a mighty embrace and she gave him back his kiss with a heavenly shamelessness, a glorious passion, naïve and pure. It was as if she were born anew in the fire of his lips. For she was sure, with a crystal clarity. This man whose heart beat against hers was her high destiny. Body and soul, she was his. His kiss was the chrism of life. And he, fallen into the same divine lunacy, was equally sure. He had been born a man to hold this strong sweet body in his arms, to meet this spirit that complemented his own. Not in high and lonely altitudes whose cold stillness chilled the heart, but by simple paths to peace, in a simple and passionate woman's love, could he gain the purple heights! CHAPTER XX AND THE GLORY He had said quietly: "You are going to marry me!" And she had replied, as if there could be no possible doubt about it: "Yes, I am going to marry you." "Because you love me better than anything or anybody else in all the world, even as I love you." "Because I love you better than anything or anybody else in all the world," she repeated. "So far, so good. When, Beloved Lady?" At that she hesitated for a space and fell silent. He pressed her head closer, and bending his tall head laid his cheek to hers. "When?" "Presently. But before that, dearest and best of men, there are so many, many things I wish to tell you, so many things I wish you to know! I wish you to know me. Everything about me! For once upon a time there was a sad, neglected child, a piteous child I must make you acquainted with. There was an ignorant and undisciplined young girl--" "You?" She nodded sorrowfully. His clasp tightened. He slipped a hand beneath her chin, tilted her face upward, and kissed her eyes that had suddenly filled with tears, her lips that quivered. "Beloved Lady, I understand: for there was once upon a time a sad, neglected child, an ugly little lad, barefooted and poverty-stricken after his mother's death. There was an ignorant and undisciplined boy--" "You?" Her arms went around him protectingly, in a mothering and tender clasp. "Who else? And being very ignorant indeed, he sold himself into bondage for a mess of pottage, and was thrall for weary years. He got exactly what he paid for. And life was ashes upon his head and wormwood in his mouth, and his heart was empty in his breast, because he snatched at shadows. And then one day the door of his prison was opened by the keeper, and he said, 'Now I am free!' But it was his fate to go down into hell for a season. There were times when he asked himself, 'Why don't I blow out my brains and escape?' Nothing but the simple faith and heroism of common men about him saved him from despair. One day a blinded soldier said, 'See for us!' So he began to see,--but still without hope, still without happiness, until he came here and found--_you_." His voice was melted gold. She had listened breathlessly. And after a pause she asked: "Who was--the keeper of his prison?" "The woman to whom he had been married." Her arms fell from him. She tried to draw herself away, but he held her all the closer. "Do not think unkindly of her. I don't think she really knew she was an ogress! After all, she did unlock the door and say, 'Go!' And--well, here I am, darling woman. And I'm going to marry _you_!" "Did you _never_ love her?" "Never. I was so frightfully unhappy that the best I could do was not to hate her. I'm afraid she hated me--poor ogress! Well! That's all over and done with. Like an evil dream. I'm here, and _you_'re going to marry me." Very gently he drew her arms around him again. "Ah, hold fast to me! Hold fast! I have waited for you so long, I need you so much!" he breathed. "I don't seem able to help myself!" she sighed. And she asked seriously: "What do the people who love you most call you when they speak to you?" The brown and bearded faces of comrades rose before him, their voices sounded in his ears. "Pierre." "Pierre," said she, bravely, as if to call him by his name emboldened her, "I too have been freed from a hateful marriage. Sometime I will tell you all about it. But--oh, do not let us talk about it now! I cannot bear to think of him! I cannot bear to have his shadow, even, fall upon me now, or come near _you_!" That gangling bridegroom in his ill-fitting suit, with his wincing mouth, his eyes full of disgust and aversion, his air of a man sentenced to death--or marriage with herself--came before her, and she shivered. Despite her words a horrible jealousy of that unknown man assailed him. He asked fiercely: "You loved him, once?" "Oh, no! Oh, no! Never! I--why, Pierre, until you came, I didn't even know what love meant! Once that ignorant, undisciplined girl I spoke of, thought she loved a boy. She didn't. She loved the idea of love. And once again, Pierre, because my life was so empty, and because I didn't know any better, I thought I should be willing to marry somebody else. I thought that somebody else could fill my life. But now I know that could never be. You are here." He looked at her with infinite tenderness. There were things he, too, would have to tell her, by and by. And he was sure that the woman whose coming little Denise had seemed to foreknow, would understand. He said gravely: "Yes, we have found each other. That is all that really matters. Nothing, nobody else, counts with you and me." And then, of a sudden, he laughed happily: "And, Beloved Lady, I do not know your name! I can't call you 'Mrs. Riley,' can I? By what name, then, shall the one who loves you most call you?" "Anne." And she asked eagerly: "Do you like it?" He started. Anne! Strange that the name that had been his chiefest unhappiness should now become his chiefest joy! Strange that he hadn't guessed Anne could be the most beautiful of all names for a woman! Like it? Of course he liked it! Wasn't it hers? "Anne, you haven't yet said when you will marry me." "Oh, but you are sure of _that_!" she parried. "I am so sure of it that I am quite capable of taking you by the hair and dragging you off to the parson's, if you try to make me wait. Anne! Remember that ever since I was that barefooted, lonely child I have been waiting for you. My dear, I need you so greatly!" She said passionately: "You cannot need me as I need you. You are yourself. You couldn't be anything else. You were you before you ever saw me. But I--I couldn't be my real self until you came and looked at me and kissed me." He felt humble, and reverent, and at the same time exultant. When she said presently, "I must go now," he released her reluctantly. They walked hand in hand, pausing at the small headland beyond which the village came in sight. She took both his hands and held them against her breast. "You are my one man. I love you so much that I am going to give my whole life into your hands, as fully and as freely as I shall some day give my spirit into the hands of God. But, Pierre, there are those who have been very, very kind to me, those to whom I owe--well, explanations. When I have made those explanations and--and settled my accounts,--then all the rest of my life is yours." "You are very, very sure, Anne?" His voice was wistful. "My love for you," she said proudly, "is the one great reality. I am surer of that than I have ever been of anything in this world." And she stood there looking at him with her heart in her eyes. Of a sudden, with a little cry, she pulled his head down to her, kissed him upon the mouth, pushed him from her, and fled. When she reached her room again, she couldn't sleep, but knelt by her window and watched the skies pale and then flush like a young girl's face, and the morning-star blaze and pale, and the sun come up over a bright and beautiful world in which she herself was, she felt, new-born. Far in the background of things, unreal as a dream, hovered the unlovely figure of Nancy Simms, and nearer, but still almost as unreal, the bright, cold figure of Anne Champneys, that Anne Champneys who had wished to marry Berkeley Hayden to gratify pride and ambition. The woman kneeling by the window, watching the glory of the morning, looked back upon those two as a winged butterfly might remember its caterpillar crawlings. All that glittering life Anne Champneys had planned for herself? Swept away as if it had been a bit of tinsel! Money? Position? She laughed low to herself. She didn't care whether her man had possessions or lacked them. All she asked was that he should be himself--and hers. All that Milly had been to Chadwick Champneys--the passionate lover, the perfect comrade, the friend nothing daunted, no wind of fortune could change--Anne could be, would be to Pierre. There was but one shadow upon her new happiness: she hated to disappoint Marcia. Marcia had set her heart upon the Hayden marriage. It was toward that consummation, so devoutly to be hoped, that Marcia had planned. And just when that plan was nearing perfection Anne was going to have to frustrate it. She hated to hurt Hayden himself, and the thought of his angry disappointment was painful to her. She _liked_ Hayden. She would always like him. But she couldn't marry him. To marry Hayden, loving Pierre, would have been to work them both an irremediable injury. A sort of horror of what she had been about to do came upon her. The bare thought of it made her recoil. Her native shrewdness told her that Hayden's immense pride would come to his aid. The fact that she had dared to desire somebody else, to prefer another to his lordly self would be enough to prove to Hayden that she wasn't worthy of his affections. He would feel that he had been deceived in her. She couldn't help hoping that he wouldn't altogether despise her. She hoped that Marcia wouldn't be too angry to forgive her. And then her thoughts merged into a prayer: Oh dear God, help her to make Pierre happy, to grow to his stature, to be worthy of him! * * * * * Back there on the beach he lay with his head in his arms, humble before the power and the glory that had come to him. This, this was the face he had always sought, the beauty that had so long eluded him! Beauty, mere physical beauty, appealed to him as it always appeals to an artist, but it had never had the power to hold him for any length of time. It had palled upon him. To satisfy his demand, beauty must have upon it the ineffable imprint of the soul. This woman's face was as baffling, as inexplicable, in its way, as was Mona Lisa's. One wasn't sure that she was beautiful; one was only sure that she was unforgetable, and that after other faces had faded from the memory, hers remained to haunt the heart. And that red hair of hers, like the hair of a Norse sun-goddess! He fell into pleasant dreams. He was going to take her down south with him; he wanted her to see that little brown house in South Carolina, to know the tide-water gurgling in the Riverton coves, and mocking-birds singing to the moonlit night, and the voice of the whippoorwill out of the thickets. She must know the marshes, and the live-oaks hung with moss. All the haunts of his childhood she should know, and old Emma Campbell would sit and talk to her about his mother. They would stay in the little house hallowed by his mother's mild spirit. And he would show her that first sketch of the Red Admiral. And afterward they two would plan how to make the best use of the Champneys money. He was very, very sure of her sympathy and her understanding. Why, you couldn't look into her eyes without knowing how exquisite her sympathy would be! He was so stirred, so thrilled, that the creative power that had seemed to fail him, that had left him so emptily alone these many bitter months, came to him with a rush. He got to his feet and went tramping up and down the strip of shore, his eyes clouded with visions. Before his mind's eye the picture he meant to paint took shape and form and color. And as he walked home he whistled like a happy boy. He had brought his materials along with him as a matter of habit. With his powers at high tide, in the first glamour of a great passion, he set himself to work next morning to portray her as his heart knew her. He worked steadily, stopping only when the light failed. He was so absorbed in his task that he forgot his body. But Grandma Baker was a wise old woman, and she came at intervals and forced food upon him. Then he slept, and awoke with the light to rush back to his work. His old rare gift of visualizing a face in its absence had grown with the years; and this was the face of all faces. There was not a shade or a line of that face he didn't know. And after a while she appeared upon his canvas, breathing, immensely alive, with the inmost spirit of her informing her gray-green eyes, her virginal mouth, her candid and thoughtful brow. There she stood, Anne as Peter Champneys knew and loved her. He had done great work in his time. But this was painted with the blood of his heart. This was his high-water mark. It would take its place with those immortal canvases that are the slow accretions of the ages, the perfectest flowerings of genius. He was swaying on his feet when he painted in the Red Admiral. Then he flung himself upon his bed and slept like a dead man. When he awoke, she seemed to be a living presence in his room. He gasped, and sat with his hands between his knees, staring at her almost unbelievingly. He looked at the Red Admiral above his signature, and fetched a great, sighing breath. "We've done it at last, by God!" said he, soberly. "Fairy, we've reached the heights!" But when he appeared at the breakfast-table Grandma Baker regarded him with deep concern. "My land o' love!" she exclaimed. "Why, you look like you been buried and dug up!" "Permit me," said he, politely, "to congratulate you upon your perspicacity. That is exactly what happened to me." "Eh!" said Grandma, setting her spectacles straight on her old nose. "And let me add: It's worth the price!" said the resurrected one, genially. "Grandma Baker, were _you_ very much in love?" "Abner tried his dumdest to find that out," said Grandma Baker. "He was the plaguedest man ever was for wantin' to know things, but somehow I sort o' didn't want him changed any. You got ways put me mightily in mind o' Abner." The old eyes were very sweet, and a wintry rose crept into her withered cheek. She added: "I know what's ailin' _you_, young man! Lord knows I hope you'll be happy as Abner and me was!" He went back to his room and communed with his picture. It was the sort that, if you stayed with it a little while, _liked_ to commune with you. It would divine your mood, and the eyes followed you with an uncanny understanding, the smile said more than any words could say. You almost saw her eyelids move, her breast rise and fall to her breathing. The man trembled before his masterpiece. His heart swelled. He exulted in his genius, a high gift to be laid at the feet of the beloved. All he had, all he could ever be, belonged to her. She had called forth his best. He said to her painted semblance: "You are my first love-gift. I am going to send you to her, and she'll know she hasn't given her love, her beauty, her youth, to an unworthy or an obscure lover. She's given herself to me, Peter Champneys, and because she loves me I'll give her a name she can wear like a crown: I'll set her upon the purple heights!" She was at the far end of the Thatcher garden, behind the house and hidden from it, when he arrived with the canvas, which he hadn't dared entrust to any other carrier--he was too jealously careful of it. No, he told Mrs. Thatcher, it wasn't necessary to disturb her guest. Just allow him to place the canvas in Mrs. Riley's sitting-room. She would find it there when she returned. Mrs. Thatcher complied willingly enough. She liked the tall, black-bearded man whom shrewd old Grandma Baker couldn't praise sufficiently. "Excuse me for not goin' up with you, on account of my hands bein' in the mixin'-bowl. It's a picture, ain't it? You just step right upstairs and set it on the mantel or anywheres you like. I'll tell her you been here." And so he placed it on the mantel, where the north light fell full upon it, waved his hand to it, and went away. It would tell her all that was in his heart for her. It would explain himself. The Red Admiral would assure that! Anne had been having rather a troublesome time. She had written to Marcia and to Berkeley Hayden the night before, and the letters had been posted only that morning. She had had to be very explicit, to make her position perfectly plain to them both, and the letters had not been easy to write. But when she had finally written them, she had really succeeded in explaining her true self. There was no doubt as to her entire truthfulness, or the finality of this decision of hers. When she posted those letters, she knew that a page of her life had been turned down, the word "Finis" written at the bottom of it. She had tossed aside a brilliant social career, a high position, a great fortune,--and counted it all well lost. Her one regret was to have to disappoint Marcia. She loved Marcia. And she hoped that Berkeley wouldn't despise her. She was agitated, perturbed, and yet rapturously happy. She wished to be alone to hug that happiness to her heart, and so she had gone out under the apple-trees at the far end of the Thatcher orchard, and lay there all her long length in the good green grass. The place was full of sweet and drowsy odors. Birds called and fluted. Butterflies and bees came and went. She had never felt so close to Mother Earth as she did to-day, never so keenly sensed the joy of being alive. After a while she arose, reluctantly, and went back to the house and her rooms. She was remembering that she hadn't yet written to Jason, and she wanted Jason to know. Inside her sitting-room door she stopped short, eyes widened, lips fallen apart. On the mantel, glowing, jewel-like in the clear, pure light, herself confronted her. Herself as a great artist saw and loved her. She stood transfixed. The sheer power and beauty of the work, that spell which falls upon one in the presence of all great art, held her entranced. Her own eyes looked, at her as if they challenged her; her own smile baffled her; there was that in the pictured face which brought a cry to her lips. Oh, was she so fair in his eyes? Only great love, as well as great genius, could have so portrayed her! This was herself as she might be, grown finer, and of a larger faith, a deeper and sweeter charity. A sort of awe touched her. This man who loved her, who had the power of showing her herself as she might pray to become, this wonderful lover of hers, was no mere amateur with a pretty gift. This was one of the few, one of the torch-bearers! And then she noticed the Red Admiral in the corner. She stared at it unbelievingly. That butterfly! Why--why--She had read of one who signed with a butterfly above his name pictures that were called great. A thought that made her brain swim and her heart beat suffocatingly crashed upon her like a clap of thunder. She walked toward the mantel like one in a daze, until she stood directly before the painting. And it was his butterfly. And under it was his name: _Peter Devereaux Champneys_. The room bobbed up and down. But she didn't faint, she didn't scream. She caught hold of the mantel to steady herself. She wondered how she hadn't known; she had the same sense of wild amazement that must fill one who has been brought face to face with a stupendous, a quite impossible miracle. Such a thing couldn't happen: and yet it is so! And oddly enough, out of this welter of her thoughts, there came to her memory a screened bed in a hospital ward, and a dying gutter-girl looking at her with unearthly eyes and telling her in a thin whisper: "I wanted to see if you was good enough for _him_. You ain't. But remember what I'm tellin' you--you could be." Pierre--Peter Champneys! She slipped to her knees and hid her face in her shaking hands. Peter Champneys! As in a lightning flash she saw him as that girl Gracie had seen him. Pierre--Pierre, with his eyes of an archangel, his lips that were the chrism of life--_this_ was Peter Champneys! And she had hated him, let him go, all unknowing, she had wished to put in _his_ place Berkeley Hayden. The handsome, worldly figure of Hayden seemed to dwindle and shrink. Pierre stood as on a height, looking at her steadfastly. Her head went lower. Tears trickled between her fingers. _You ain't good enough for him, but you could be_. "I can be, I can be! Oh, God, I can be! Only let him love me--when he knows!" She heard Mrs. Thatcher's voice downstairs, after a while. Then a deeper voice, a man's voice, with a note of impatience and eagerness in it. "No, don't call her. I'll go right on up," said the voice, over the feminine apologies and protests. "I have to see her--I must see her now. No, I can't wait." Somebody came flying up the steps. She hadn't closed her door, and his tall figure seemed to fill it. He stopped, with a gasp, at sight of the weeping woman kneeling before the picture on the mantel. "Anne!" he cried. "Anne!" And he would have raised her, but she clung to his knees, lifting her tear-stained face, her eyes full of an adoration that would never leave them until life left them. "Peter!" she cried. "Peter! That--that butterfly! I know now, Peter!" Again he tried to raise her, but she clasped his knees all the closer. "You mean you know my name is really Peter Champneys, dearest?" But she caught his hands. "Peter, Peter, don't you understand?" she cried, laughing and weeping. "I--I'm the ogress! I'm Nancy Simms! I'm Anne Champneys!" He looked from her to her portrait and back again. He gave a great ringing cry of, "My wife!" and lifted her in a mighty grip that swept her up and into his arms. "My wife!" he cried. "My wife!" Undoubtedly the Red Admiral was a fairy! * * * * * On a certain morning Mr. Jason Vandervelde was sitting at his desk, disconnectedly dictating a letter to his secretary. He was finding it very difficult to fix his mind upon his correspondence. What the mischief was happening up there in Maine, anyhow? She hadn't written for some time; and he hadn't had a word from Peter Champneys. And when Marcia came home and found out he'd been meddling--well, the meddler would have to pay the fiddler, that's all! The office boy came in with a telegram. Mr. Vandervelde paused in his dictation, tore open the envelop, and read the message. And then the horrified secretary saw an amazing and an awesome sight. Mr. Jason Vandervelde bounced to his feet as lightly as though he had been a rubber ball, and performed a solemnly joyful dance around his office. His eyeglasses jigged on his nose, a lock of his sleekly brushed hair fell upon his forehead. Meeting the fixed stare of the secretary, he winked! And with a sort of elephantine religiosity he finished his amazing measure, caught once more the glassy eye of the secretary, and panted: "King David danced before the ark--of the Lord. For which reason--your salary is raised--from to-day." He stopped then, snatched the telegram off his desk, and read it again: We have met and I have married my wife. Anne sends love. Thank you and God bless you, Vandervelde! PETER CHAMPNEYS. "Put up that note-book. Take a day off. Go and enjoy yourself. Be happy!" said Vandervelde to the secretary. Then he snatched up the desk telephone. "The florist's? Yes? How soon can you get six dozen bride roses up here, to Mr. Vandervelde's office? Yes, this is Mr. Vandervelde speaking. You can? Well, there's a thumping tip for somebody who knows how to rush! Half an hour? Thank you. I'll wait for 'em here." He hung up the receiver and turned his beaming countenance to the stunned secretary. His eyes twinkled like little blue stars, the corners of his mouth curled more than usual. "Anne and Peter Champneys have been and gone and married each other!" he chuckled. "I'm going to take a carful of bride roses around to the Champneys house and put 'em under old Chadwick Champneys's portrait!" THE END